My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; I will not enter there, She comes, she's here,- she's past; But suffer me to pace May heaven go with her! Kneel undisturbed, fair saint, Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; Round the forbidden place, Like outcast spirits who wait, CELIA THAXTER. FAREWELL. THE crimson sunset faded into gray; Upon the murmurous sea the twi light fell; The last warm breath of the delicious day Passed with a mute farewell. Above my head, in the soft purple sky, A wild note sounded like a shrillvoiced bell; Three gulls met, wheeled, and parted with a cry That seemed to say, "Farewell!" I watched them; one sailed east, and one soared west, And one went floating south; while like a knell That mournful cry the empty sky possessed, "Farewell, farewell, farewell!" "Farewell!" I thought, it is the earth's one speech; All human voices the sad chorus swell; Though mighty love to heaven's high gate may reach, Yet must he say, "Farewell!" The rolling world is girdled with the sound, Perpetually breathed from all who dwell Upon its bosom, for no place is found Where is not heard, "Farewell!" Think you I find no bitterness at all? No burden to be borne, like Christian's pack? Think you there are no ready tears to fall Because I keep them back? Why should I hug life's ills with cold reserve, To curse myself and all who love me? Nay! A thousand times more good than I deserve God gives me every day. And in each one of these rebellious tears Kept bravely back, He makes a rainbow shine; Grateful I take His slightest gift, no fears COURAGE. BECAUSE I hold it sinful to despond, And will not let the bitterness of life Blind me with burning tears, but look beyond Its tumult and its strife; Because I lift my head above the mist, Where the sun shines and the broad breezes blow, By every ray and every rain-drop kissed That God's love doth bestow; IN KITTERY CHURCHYARD. CRUSHING the scarlet strawberries in the grass, I kneel to read the slanting stone. Alas! How sharp a sorrow speaks! A hundred years And more have vanished, with their smiles and tears, Since here was laid, upon an April dav, Sweet Mary Chauncy in the grave away, A hundred years since here her lover His only hope! But when slow time stood had dealt Beside her grave in such despairing | Firmly with him and kindly, and he mood, And yet from out the vanished past I hear His cry of anguish sounding deep and clear, And all my heart with pity melts, as though To-day's bright sun were looking on his woe. "Of such a wife, O righteous heaven! bereft, What joy for me, what joy on earth is left? Still from my inmost soul the groans arise, Still flow the sorrows ceaseless from mine eyes." Alas, poor tortured soul! I look away From the dark stone,- how brilliant shines the day! A low wall, over which the roses shed Their perfumed petals, shuts the quiet dead Apart a little, and the tiny square Stands in the broad and laughing| field so fair, And gay green vines climb o'er the rough stone wall, And all about the wild-birds flit and call, And but a stone's-throw southward, the blue sea Rolls sparkling in and sings incessantly. Lovely as any dream the peaceful place, And scarcely changed since on her gentle face For the last time on that sad April day He gazed, and felt, for him, all beauty lay [him Buried with her forever. Dull to Looked the bright world through eyes with tears so dim! "I soon shall follow the same dreary way That leads and opens to the coasts of day." felt |