Lily! lady of the garden! Let me press my lip to thine! Love must tell its story, Lily! Listen thou to mine. Two I choose to know the secret— Thee, and yonder wordless flute; Dragons watch me, tender Lily, And thou must be mute. There's a maiden, and her name is... Hist! was that a rose-leaf fell? See, the rose is listening, Lily, And the rose may tell. Lily-browed and lily-hearted, She is very dear to me; Lovely? yes, if being lovely Is—resembling thee. Six to half a score of summers Make the sweetest of the "teens"— Not too young to guess, dear Lily, What a lover means. Laughing girl, and thoughtful woman, I am puzzled how to woo— Shall I praise, or pique her, Lily? Tell me what to do. "Silly lover, if thy Lily Like her sister lilies be, Thou must woo, if thou wouldst wear her, With a simple plea. "Love's the lover's only magic, Truth the very subtlest art; Love that feigns, and lips that flatter, Win no modest heart. "Like the dewdrop in my bosom, Be thy guileless language, youth; Falsehood buyeth falsehood only, Truth must purchase truth. "As thou talkest at the fireside, With the little children by— As thou prayest in the darkness, When thy God is nigh— "With a speech as chaste and gentle, And such meanings as become Ear of child, or ear of angel, Speak, or be thou dumb. "Woo her thus, and she shall give thee Of her heart the sinless whole, All the girl within her bosom, And her woman's soul." The Stream is Flowing from the West The stream is flowing from the west; As if it poured from yonder skies, It wears upon its rippling breast The sunset's golden dyes; And bearing onward to the sea, 'T will clasp the isle that holdeth thee. I dip my hand within the wave; Ah! how impressionless and cold! I touch it with my lip, and lave My forehead in the gold. It is a trivial thought, but sweet, Perhaps the wave will kiss thy feet. Alas! I leave no trace behind— As little on the senseless stream As on thy heart, or on thy mind; Which was the simpler dream, To win that warm, wild love of thine, Or make the water whisper mine? Dear stream! some moons must wax and wane Ere I again shall cross thy tide, And then, perhaps, a viewless chain Will drag me to her side, To love with all my spirit's scope, To wish, do everything but—hope. Vox et Præterea Nihil I've been haunted all night, I've been haunted all day, By the ghost of a song, by the shade of a lay, That with meaningless words and profusion of rhyme, To a dreamy and musical rhythm keeps time. A simple, but still a most magical strain, Its dim monotones have bewildered my brain With a specious and cunning appearance of thought, I seem to be catching but never have caught. I know it embodies some very sweet things, And can almost divine the low burden it sings; But again, and again, and still ever again, It has died on my ear at the touch of my pen. And so it keeps courting and shunning my quest, As a bird that has just been aroused from her nest, Too fond to depart, and too frightened to stay, Now circles about you, now flutters away. Oh! give me fit words for that exquisite song, And thou couldst not, proud beauty! be obdurate long; It would come like the voice of a saint from above, And win thee to kindness, and melt thee to love. Not gilded with fancy, nor frigid with art, But simple as feeling, and warm as the heart, It would murmur my name with so charming a tone, As would almost persuade thee to wish it thine own. Madeline O lady! if, until this hour, I've gazed in those bewildering eyes, Yet never owned their touching power, But when thou couldst not hear my sighs; It has not been that love has slept One single moment in my soul, Or that on lip or look I kept A stern and stoical control; But that I saw, but that I felt, In every tone and glance of thine, Whate'er they spoke, where'er they dwelt, How small, how poor a part was mine; And that I deeply, dearly knew, THAT hidden, hopeless love confessed, The fatal words would lose me, too, Even the weak friendship I possessed. And so, I masked my secret well; The very love within my breast Became the strange, but potent spell By which I forced it into rest. Yet there were times—I scarce know how These eager lips refrained to speak,— Some kindly smile would light thy brow, And I grew passionate and weak; The secret sparkled at my eyes, And love but half repressed its sighs,— Then had I gazed an instant more, Or dwelt one moment on that brow, I might have changed the smile it wore, To what perhaps it weareth now, And spite of all I feared to meet, Confessed that passion at thy feet. To save my heart, to spare thine own, There was one remedy alone. I fled, I shunned thy very touch,— It cost me much, O God! how much! But if some burning tears were shed, Lady! I let them freely flow; At least, they left unbreathed, unsaid, A worse and wilder woe. But now,— NOW that we part indeed, And that I may not think as then, That as I wish, or as I need, I may return again,— Now that for months, perhaps for years— I see no limit in my fears— My home shall be some distant spot, Where thou—where even thy name is not, And since I shall not see the frown, Such wild, mad language must bring down, Could I—albeit I may not sue In hope to bend thy steadfast will— Could I have breathed this word, adieu, And kept my secret still? Doubtless thou know'st the Hebrew story— The tale 's with me a favorite one— How Raphael left the Courts of Glory, And walked with Judah's honored Son; And how the twain together dwelt, And how they talked upon the road, How often too they must have knelt As equals to the same kind God; And still the mortal never guessed, How much and deeply he was blessed, Till when—the Angel's mission done— The spell which drew him earthwards, riven— The lover saved—the maiden won— He plumed again his wings for Heaven; O Madeline! as unaware Thou hast been followed everywhere, And girt and guarded by a love, As warm, as tender in its care, As pure, ay, powerful in prayer, As any saint above! Like the bright inmate of the skies, It only looked with friendly eyes, And still had worn the illusive guise, And thus at least been half concealed; But at this parting, painful hour, It spreads its wings, unfolds its power, And stands, like Raphael, revealed. More, Lady! I would wish to speak,— But it were vain, and words are weak, And now that I have bared my breast, Perchance thou wilt infer the rest. So, so, farewell! I need not say I look, I ask for no reply, The cold and scarcely pitying "nay" I read in that unmelted eye; Yet one dear favor, let me pray! Days, months, however slow to me, Must drag at last their length away, And I return—if not to thee— At least to breathe the same sweet air That wooes thy lips and waves thy hair. Oh, then!—these daring lines forgot— Look, speak, as thou hadst read them not. So, Lady, may I still retain A right I would not lose again, For all that gold or guilt can buy, Or all that Heaven itself deny, A right such love may justly claim, Of seeing thee in friendship's name. Give me but this, and still at whiles, A portion of thy faintest smiles, It were enough to bless; I may not, dare not ask for more Than boon so rich, and yet so poor, But I should die with less. A Dedication To K. S. G. Fair Saxon, in my lover's creed, My love were smaller than your meed, And you might justly deem it slight, As wanting truth as well as sight, If, in that image which is shrined Where thoughts are sacred, you could find A single charm, or more or less, Than you to all kind eyes possess. To me, even in the happiest dreams, Where, flushed with love's just dawning gleams, My hopes their radiant wings unfurl, You're but a simple English girl, No fairer, grace for grace arrayed, Than many a simple Southern maid; With faults enough to make the good Seem sweeter far than else it would; Frank in your anger and your glee, And true as English natures be, Yet not without some maiden art Which hides a loving English heart. Still there are moments, brief and bright, When fancy, by a poet's light, Beholds you clothed with loftier charms Than love e'er gave to mortal arms. A spell is woven on the air From your brown eyes and golden hair, And all at once you seem to stand Before me as your native land, With all her greatness in your guise, And all her glory in your eyes; And sometimes, as if angels sung, I hear her poets on your tongue. And, therefore, I, who from a boy Have felt an almost English joy In England's undecaying might, And England's love of truth and right, Next to my own young country's fame Holding her honor and her name, I—who, though born where not a vale Hath ever nursed a nightingale, Have fed my muse with English song Until her feeble wing grew strong— Feel, while with all the reverence meet I lay this volume at your feet, As if through your dear self I pay, For many a deep and deathless lay, For noble lessons nobly taught, For tears, for laughter, and for thought, A portion of the mighty debt We owe to Shakespeare's England yet! Katie It may be through some foreign grace, And unfamiliar charm of face; It may be that across the foam Which bore her from her childhood's home, By some strange spell, my Katie brought, Along with English creeds and thought— Entangled in her golden hair— Some English sunshine, warmth, and air! I cannot tell—but here to-day, A thousand billowy leagues away From that green isle whose twilight skies No darker are than Katie's eyes, She seems to me, go where she will, An English girl in England still! I meet her on the dusty street, And daisies spring about her feet; Or, touched to life beneath her tread, An English cowslip lifts its head; And, as to do her grace, rise up The primrose and the buttercup! I roam with her through fields of cane, And seem to stroll an English lane, Which, white with blossoms of the May, Spreads its green carpet in her way! As fancy wills, the path beneath Is golden gorse, or purple heath: And now we hear in woodlands dim Their unarticulated hymn, Now walk through rippling waves of wheat, Now sink in mats of clover sweet, Or see before us from the lawn The lark go up to greet the dawn! All birds that love the English sky Throng round my path when she is by: The blackbird from a neighboring thorn With music brims the cup of morn, And in a thick, melodious rain The mavis pours her mellow strain! But only when my Katie's voice Makes all the listening woods rejoice I hear—with cheeks that flush and pale— The passion of the nightingale! Anon the pictures round her change, And through an ancient town we range, Whereto the shadowy memory clings Of one of England's Saxon kings, And which to shrine his fading fame Still keeps his ashes and his name. Quaint houses rise on either hand, But still the airs are fresh and bland, As if their gentle wings caressed Some new-born village of the West. A moment by the Norman tower We pause; it is the Sabbath hour! And o'er the city sinks and swells The chime of old St. Mary's bells, Which still resound in Katie's ears As sweet as when in distant years She heard them peal with jocund din A merry English Christmas in! We pass the abbey's ruined arch, And statelier grows my Katie's march, As round her, wearied with the taint Of Transatlantic pine and paint, She sees a thousand tokens cast Of England's venerable Past! Our reverent footsteps lastly claims The younger chapel of St. James, Which, though, as English records run, Not old, had seen full many a sun, Ere to the cold December gale The thoughtful Pilgrim spread his sail. There Katie in her childish days Spelt out her prayers and lisped her praise, And doubtless, as her beauty grew, Did much as other maidens do— Across the pews and down the aisle Sent many a beau-bewildering smile, And to subserve her spirit's need Learned other things beside the creed! There, too, to-day her knee she bows, And by her one whose darker brows Betray the Southern heart that burns Beside her, and which only turns Its thoughts to Heaven in one request, Not all unworthy to be blest, But rising from an earthlier pain Than might beseem a Christian fane. Ah! can the guileless maiden share The wish that lifts that passionate prayer? Is all at peace that breast within? Good angels! warn her of the sin! Alas! what boots it? who can save A willing victim of the wave? Who cleanse a soul that loves its guilt? Or gather wine when wine is spilt? We quit the holy house and gain The open air; then, happy twain, Adown familiar streets we go, And now and then she turns to show, With fears that all is changing fast, Some spot that's sacred to her Past. Here by this way, through shadows cool, A little maid, she tripped to school; And there each morning used to stop Before a wonder of a shop Where, built of apples and of pears, Rose pyramids of golden spheres; While, dangling in her dazzled sight, Ripe cherries cast a crimson light, And made her think of elfin lamps, And feast and sport in fairy camps, Whereat, upon her royal throne (Most richly carved in cherry-stone), Titania ruled, in queenly state, The boisterous revels of the fête! 'T was yonder, with their "horrid" noise, Dismissed from books, she met the boys, Who, with a barbarous scorn of girls, Glanced slightly at her sunny curls, And laughed and leaped as reckless by As though no pretty face were nigh! But—here the maiden grows demure— Indeed she's not so VERY sure, That in a year, or haply twain, Who looked e'er failed to look again, And sooth to say, I little doubt (Some azure day, the truth will out!) That certain baits in certain eyes Caught many an unsuspecting prize; And somewhere underneath these eaves A budding flirt put forth its leaves! Has not the sky a deeper blue, Have not the trees a greener hue, And bend they not with lordlier grace And nobler shapes above the place Where on one cloudless winter morn My Katie to this life was born? Ah, folly! long hath fled the hour When love to sight gave keener power, And lovers looked for special boons In brighter flowers and larger moons. But wave the foliage as it may, And let the sky be ashen gray, Thus much at least a manly youth May hold—and yet not blush—as truth: If near that blessed spot of earth Which saw the cherished maiden's birth No softer dews than usual rise, And life there keeps its wonted guise, Yet not the less that spot may seem As lovely as a poet's dream; And should a fervid faith incline To make thereof a sainted shrine, Who may deny that round us throng A hundred earthly creeds as wrong, But meaner far, which yet unblamed Stalk by us and are not ashamed? So, therefore, Katie, as our stroll Ends at this portal, while you roll Those lustrous eyes to catch each ray That may recall some vanished day, I—let them jeer and laugh who will— Stoop down and kiss the sacred sill! So strongly sometimes on the sense These fancies hold their influence, That in long well-known streets I stray Like one who fears to lose his way. The stranger, I, the native, she, Myself, not Kate, had crossed the sea; And changing place, and mixing times, I walk in unfamiliar climes! These houses, free to every breeze That blows from warm Floridian seas, Assume a massive English air, And close around an English square; While, if I issue from the town, An English hill looks greenly down, Or round me rolls an English park, And in the Broad I hear the Larke! Thus when, where woodland violets hide, I rove with Katie at my side, It scarce would seem amiss to say: "Katie! my home lies far away, Beyond the pathless waste of brine, In a young land of palm and pine! There, by the tropic heats, the soul Is touched as if with living coal, And glows with such a fire as none Can feel beneath a Northern sun, Unless—my Katie's heart attest!— 'T is kindled in an English breast! Such is the land in which I live, And, Katie! such the soul I give. Come! ere another morning beam, We'll cleave the sea with wings of steam; And soon, despite of storm or calm, Beneath my native groves of palm, Kind friends shall greet, with joy and pride, The Southron and his English bride!" Why Silent? Why am I silent from year to year? Needs must I sing on these blue March days? What will you say, when I tell you here, That already, I think, for a little praise, I have paid too dear? For, I know not why, when I tell my thought, It seems as though I fling it away; And the charm wherewith a fancy is fraught, When secret, dies with the fleeting lay Into which it is wrought. So my butterfly-dreams their golden wings But seldom unfurl from their chrysalis; And thus I retain my loveliest things, While the world, in its worldliness, does not miss What a poet sings. Two Portraits I You say, as one who shapes a life, That you will never be a wife, And, laughing lightly, ask my aid To paint your future as a maid. This is the portrait; and I take The softest colors for your sake: The springtime of your soul is dead, And forty years have bent your head; The lines are firmer round your mouth, But still its smile is like the South. Your eyes, grown deeper, are not sad, Yet never more than gravely glad; And the old charm still lurks within The cloven dimple of your chin. Some share, perhaps, of youthful gloss Your cheek hath shed; but still across The delicate ear are folded down Those silken locks of chestnut brown; Though here and there a thread of gray Steals through them like a lunar ray. One might suppose your life had passed Unvexed by any troubling blast; And such—for all that I foreknow— May be the truth! The deeper woe! A loveless heart is seldom stirred; And sorrow shuns the mateless bird; But ah! through cares alone we reach The happiness which mocketh speech; In the white courts beyond the stars The noblest brow is seamed with scars; And they on earth who've wept the most Sit highest of the heavenly host. Grant that your maiden life hath sped In music o'er a golden bed, With rocks, and winds, and storms at truce, And not without a noble use; Yet are you happy? In your air I see a nameless want appear, And a faint shadow on your cheek Tells what the lips refuse to speak. You have had all a maid could hope In the most cloudless horoscope: The strength that cometh from above; A Christian mother's holy love; And always at your soul's demand A brother's, sister's heart and hand. Small need your heart hath had to roam Beyond the circle of your home; And yet upon your wish attends A loving throng of genial friends. What, in a lot so sweet as this, Is wanting to complete your bliss? And to what secret shall I trace The clouds that sometimes cross your face, And that sad look which now and then Comes, disappears, and comes again, And dies reluctantly away In those clear eyes of azure gray? At best, and after all, the place You fill with such a serious grace, Hath much to try a woman's heart, And you but play a painful part. The world around, with little ruth, Still laughs at maids who have not youth, And, right or wrong, the old maid rests The victim of its paltry jests, And still is doomed to meet and bear Its pitying smile or furtive sneer. These are indeed but petty things, And yet they touch some hearts like stings. But I acquit you of the shame Of being unresisting game; For you are of such tempered clay As turns far stronger shafts away, And all that foes or fools could guide Would only curl that lip of pride. How then, O weary one! explain The sources of that hidden pain? Alas! you have divined at length How little you have used your strength, Which, with who knows what human good, Lies buried in that maidenhood, Where, as amid a field of flowers, You have but played with April showers. Ah! we would wish the world less fair, If Spring alone adorned the year, And Autumn came not with its fruit, And Autumn hymns were ever mute. So I remark without surprise That, as the unvarying season flies, From day to night and night to day, You sicken of your endless May. In this poor life we may not cross One virtuous instinct without loss, And the soul grows not to its height Till love calls forth its utmost might. Not blind to all you might have been, And with some consciousness of sin— Because with love you sometimes played, And choice, not fate, hath kept you maid— You feel that you must pass from earth But half-acquainted with its worth, And that within your heart are deeps In which a nobler woman sleeps; That not the maiden, but the wife Grasps the whole lesson of a life, While such as you but sit and dream Along the surface of its stream. And doubtless sometimes, all unsought, There comes upon your hour of thought, Despite the struggles of your will, A sense of something absent still; And then you cannot help but yearn To love and be beloved in turn, As they are loved, and love, who live As love were all that life could give; And in a transient clasp or kiss Crowd an eternity of bliss; They who of every mortal joy Taste always twice, nor feel them cloy, Or, if woes come, in Sorrow's hour Are strengthened by a double power. II Here ends my feeble sketch of what Might, but will never be your lot; And I foresee how oft these rhymes Shall make you smile in after-times. If I have read your nature right, It only waits a spark of light; And when that comes, as come it must, It will not fall on arid dust, Nor yet on that which breaks to flame In the first blush of maiden shame; But on a heart which, even at rest, Is warmer than an April nest, Where, settling soft, that spark shall creep About as gently as a sleep; Still stealing on with pace so slow Yourself will scarcely feel the glow, Till after many and many a day, Although no gleam its course betray, It shall attain the inmost shrine, And wrap it in a fire divine! I know not when or whence indeed Shall fall and burst the burning seed, But oh! once kindled, it will blaze, I know, forever! By its rays You will perceive, with subtler eyes, The meaning in the earth and skies, Which, with their animated chain Of grass and flowers, and sun and rain, Of green below, and blue above, Are but a type of married love. You will perceive that in the breast The germs of many virtues rest, Which, ere they feel a lover's breath, Lie in a temporary death; And till the heart is wooed and won It is an earth without a sun. III But now, stand forth as sweet as life! And let me paint you as a wife. I note some changes in your face, And in your mien a graver grace; Yet the calm forehead lightly bears Its weight of twice a score of years; And that one love which on this earth Can wake the heart to all its worth, And to their height can lift and bind The powers of soul, and sense, and mind, Hath not allowed a charm to fade— And the wife's lovelier than the maid. An air of still, though bright repose Tells that a tender hand bestows All that a generous manhood may To make your life one bridal day, While the kind eyes betray no less, In their blue depths of tenderness, That you have learned the truths which lie Behind that holy mystery, Which, with its blisses and its woes, Nor man nor maiden ever knows. If now, as to the eyes of one Whose glance not even thought can shun, Your soul lay open to my view, I, looking all its nature through, Could see no incompleted part, For the whole woman warms your heart. I cannot tell how many dead You number in the cycles fled, And you but look the more serene For all the griefs you may have seen, As you had gathered from the dust The flowers of Peace, and Hope, and Trust. Your smile is even sweeter now Than when it lit your maiden brow, And that which wakes this gentler charm Coos at this moment on your arm. Your voice was always soft in youth, And had the very sound of truth, But never were its tones so mild Until you blessed your earliest child; And when to soothe some little wrong It melts into a mother's song, The same strange sweetness which in years Long vanished filled the eyes with tears, And (even when mirthful) gave always A pathos to your girlish lays, Falls, with perchance a deeper thrill, Upon the breathless listener still. I cannot guess in what fair spot The chance of Time hath fixed your lot, Nor can I name what manly breast Gives to that head a welcome rest; I cannot tell if partial Fate Hath made you poor, or rich, or great; But oh! whatever be your place, I never saw a form or face To which more plainly hath been lent The blessing of a full content! La Belle Juive Is it because your sable hair Is folded over brows that wear At times a too imperial air; Or is it that the thoughts which rise In those dark orbs do seek disguise Beneath the lids of Eastern eyes; That choose whatever pose or place May chance to please, in you I trace The noblest woman of your race? The crowd is sauntering at its ease, And humming like a hive of bees— You take your seat and touch the keys: I do not hear the giddy throng; The sea avenges Israel's wrong, And on the wind floats Miriam's song! You join me with a stately grace; Music to Poesy gives place; Some grand emotion lights your face: At once I stand by Mizpeh's walls: With smiles the martyred daughter falls, And desolate are Mizpeh's halls! Intrusive babblers come between; With calm, pale brow and lofty mien, You thread the circle like a queen! Then sweeps the royal Esther by; The deep devotion in her eye Is looking "If I die, I die!" You stroll the garden's flowery walks; The plants to me are grainless stalks, And Ruth to old Naomi talks. Adopted child of Judah's creed, Like Judah's daughters, true at need, I see you mid the alien seed. I watch afar the gleaner sweet; I wake like Boaz in the wheat, And find you lying at my feet! My feet! Oh! if the spell that lures My heart through all these dreams endures, How soon shall I be stretched at yours! An Exotic Not in a climate near the sun Did the cloud with its trailing fringes float, Whence, white as the down of an angel's plume, Fell the snow of her brow and throat. And the ground had been rich for a thousand years With the blood of heroes, and sages, and kings, Where the rose that blooms in her exquisite cheek Unfolded the flush of its wings. On a land where the faces are fair, though pale As a moonlit mist when the winds are still, She breaks like a morning in Paradise Through the palms of an orient hill. Her beauty, perhaps, were all too bright, But about her there broods some delicate spell, Whence the wondrous charm of the girl grows soft As the light in an English dell. There is not a story of faith and truth On the starry scroll of her country's fame, But has helped to shape her stately mien, And to touch her soul with flame. I sometimes forget, as she sweeps me a bow, That I gaze on a simple English maid, And I bend my head, as if to a queen Who is courting my lance and blade. Once, as we read, in a curtained niche, A poet who sang of her sea-throned isle, There was something of Albion's mighty Bess In the flash of her haughty smile. She seemed to gather from every age All the greatness of England about her there, And my fancy wove a royal crown Of the dusky gold of her hair. But it was no queen to whom that day, In the dim green shade of a trellised vine, I whispered a hope that had somewhat to do With a small white hand in mine. The Tudor had vanished, and, as I spoke, 'T was herself looked out of her frank brown eye, And an answer was burning upon her face, Ere I caught the low reply. What was it! Nothing the world need know— The stars saw our parting! Enough, that then I walked from the porch with the tread of a king, And she was a queen again! The Rosebuds Yes, in that dainty ivory shrine, With those three pallid buds, I twine And fold away a dream divine! One night they lay upon a breast Where Love hath made his fragrant nest, And throned me as a life-long guest. Near that chaste heart they seemed to me Types of far fairer flowers to be— The rosebuds of a human tree! Buds that shall bloom beside my hearth, And there be held of richer worth Than all the kingliest gems of earth. Ah me! the pathos of the thought! I had not deemed she wanted aught; Yet what a tenderer charm it wrought! I know not if she marked the flame That lit my cheek, but not from shame, When one sweet image dimly came. There was a murmur soft and low; White folds of cambric, parted slow; And little fingers played with snow! How far my fancy dared to stray, A lover's reverence needs not say— Enough—the vision passed away! Passed in a mist of happy tears, While something in my trancèd ears Hummed like the future in a seer's! A Mother's Wail My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe! My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns! My lamp that in that narrow hut of life, Whence I looked forth upon a night of storm! Burned with the lustre of the moon and stars! My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe! Behold the bud is gone! the thorns remain! My lamp hath fallen from its niche—ah, me! Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left Forever and forever in the dark! My babe! my babe! my own and only babe! Where art thou now? If somewhere in the sky An angel hold thee in his radiant arms, I challenge him to clasp thy tender form With half the fervor of a mother's love! Forgive me, Lord! forgive my reckless grief! Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart Would almost make me jealous for my child, Though thy own lap enthroned him. Lord, thou hast So many such! I have—ah! had but one! O yet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry! O yet once more, my babe, to see thy smile! O yet once more to feel against my breast Those cool, soft hands, that warm, wet, eager mouth, With the sweet sharpness of its budding pearls! But it must never, never more be mine To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes, To watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf, Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy, Thy dawning recognitions of the world. Three different shadows of thyself, my babe, Change with each other while I weep. The first, The sweetest, yet the not least fraught with pain, Clings like my living boy around my neck, Or purrs and murmurs softly at my feet! Another is a little mound of earth; That comes the oftenest, darling! In my dreams, I see it beaten by the midnight rain, Or chilled beneath the moon. Ah! what a couch For that which I have shielded from a breath That would not stir the violets on thy grave! The third, my precious babe! the third, O Lord! Is a fair cherub face beyond the stars, Wearing the roses of a mystic bliss, Yet sometimes not unsaddened by a glance Turned earthward on a mother in her woe! This is the vision, Lord, that I would keep Before me always. But, alas! as yet, It is the dimmest and the rarest, too! O touch my sight, or break the cloudy bars That hide it, lest I madden where I kneel! Our Willie 'T was merry Christmas when he came, Our little boy beneath the sod; And brighter burned the Christmas flame, And merrier sped the Christmas game, Because within the house there lay A shape as tiny as a fay— The Christmas gift of God! In wreaths and garlands on the walls The holly hung its ruby balls, The mistletoe its pearls; And a Christmas tree's fantastic fruits Woke laughter like a choir of flutes From happy boys and girls. For the mirth, which else had swelled as shrill As a school let loose to its errant will, Was softened by the thought, That in a dim hushed room above A mother's pains in a mother's love Were only just forgot. The jest, the tale, the toast, the glee, All took a sober tone; We spoke of the babe upstairs, as we Held festival for him alone. When the bells rang in the Christmas morn, It scarcely seemed a sin to say That they rang because that babe was born, Not less than for the sacred day. Ah! Christ forgive us for the crime Which drowned the memories of the time In a merely mortal bliss! We owned the error when the mirth Of another Christmas lit the hearth Of every home but this. When, in that lonely burial-ground, With every Christmas sight and sound Removed or shunned, we kept A mournful Christmas by the mound Where little Willie slept! Ah, hapless mother! darling wife! I might say nothing more, And the dull cold world would hold The story of that precious life As amply told! Shall we, shall you and I, before That world's unsympathetic eyes Lay other relics from our store Of tender memories? What could it know of the joy and love That throbbed and smiled and wept above An unresponsive thing? And who could share the ecstatic thrill With which we watched the upturned bill Of our bird at its living spring? Shall we tell how in the time gone by, Beneath all changes of the sky, And in an ordinary home Amid the city's din, Life was to us a crystal dome, Our babe the flame therein? Ah! this were jargon on the mart; And though some gentle friend, And many and many a suffering heart, Would weep and comprehend, Yet even these might fail to see What we saw daily in the child— Not the mere creature undefiled, But the winged cherub soon to be. That wandering hand which seemed to reach At angel finger-tips, And that murmur like a mystic speech Upon the rosy lips, That something in the serious face Holier than even its infant grace, And that rapt gaze on empty space, Which made us, half believing, say, "Ah, little wide-eyed seer! who knows But that for you this chamber glows With stately shapes and solemn shows?" Which touched us, too, with vague alarms, Lest in the circle of our arms We held a being less akin To his parents in a world of sin Than to beings not of clay: How could we speak in human phrase, Of such scarce earthly traits and ways, What would not seem A doting dream, In the creed of these sordid days? No! let us keep Deep, deep, In sorrowing heart and aching brain, This story hidden with the pain, Which since that blue October night When Willie vanished from our sight, Must haunt us even in our sleep. In the gloom of the chamber where he died, And by that grave which, through our care, From Yule to Yule of every year, Is made like Spring to bloom; And where, at times, we catch the sigh As of an angel floating nigh, Who longs but has not power to tell That in that violet-shrouded cell Lies nothing better than the shell Which he had cast aside— By that sweet grave, in that dark room, We may weave at will for each other's ear, Of that life, and that love, and that early doom, The tale which is shadowed here: To us alone it will always be As fresh as our own misery; But enough, alas! for the world is said, In the brief "Here lieth" of the dead!