I feel the earth move sunward, I join the great march onward, And take, by faith, while living, My freehold of thanksgiving.
1870.
IN SCHOOL-DAYS.
Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sleeping; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry-vines are creeping.
Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial;
The charcoal frescos on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing!
Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting.
It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving.
For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled: His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled.
Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered;-- As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered.
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing.
"I 'm sorry that I spelt the word I hate to go above you, Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,-- "Because you see, I love you!"
Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing!
He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her,--because they love him.
MY BIRTHDAY.
Beneath the moonlight and the snow Lies dead my latest year; The winter winds are wailing low Its dirges in my ear.
I grieve not with the moaning wind As if a loss befell; Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well!
His light shines on me from above, His low voice speaks within,-- The patience of immortal love Outwearying mortal sin.
Not mindless of the growing years Of care and loss and pain, My eyes are wet with thankful tears For blessings which remain.
If dim the gold of life has grown, I will not count it dross, Nor turn from treasures still my own To sigh for lack and loss.
The years no charm from Nature take; As sweet her voices call, As beautiful her mornings break, As fair her evenings fall.
Love watches o'er my quiet ways, Kind voices speak my name, And lips that find it hard to praise Are slow, at least, to blame.
How softly ebb the tides of will!
How fields, once lost or won, Now lie behind me green and still Beneath a level sun.
How hushed the hiss of party hate, The clamor of the throng!
How old, harsh voices of debate Flow into rhythmic song!
Methinks the spirit's temper grows Too soft in this still air; Somewhat the restful heart foregoes Of needed watch and prayer.
The bark by tempest vainly tossed May founder in the calm, And he who braved the polar frost Faint by the isles of balm.
Better than self-indulgent years The outflung heart of youth, Than pleasant songs in idle ears The tumult of the truth.
Rest for the weary hands is good, And love for hearts that pine, But let the manly habitude Of upright souls be mine.
Let winds that blow from heaven refresh, Dear Lord, the languid air; And let the weakness of the flesh Thy strength of spirit share.
And, if the eye must fail of light, The ear forget to hear, Make clearer still the spirit's sight, More fine the inward ear!
Be near me in mine hours of need To soothe, or cheer, or warn, And down these slopes of sunset lead As up the hills of morn!
1871.
RED RIDING-HOOD.
On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap; The wind that through the pine-trees sung The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung; While, through the window, frosty-starred, Against the sunset purple barred, We saw the sombre crow flap by, The hawk's gray fleck along the sky, The crested blue-jay flitting swift, The squirrel poising on the drift, Erect, alert, his broad gray tail Set to the north wind like a sail.
It came to pass, our little lass, With flattened face against the glass, And eyes in which the tender dew Of pity shone, stood gazing through The narrow space her rosy lips Had melted from the frost's eclipse "Oh, see," she cried, "the poor blue-jays!
What is it that the black crow says?
The squirrel lifts his little legs Because he has no hands, and begs; He's asking for my nuts, I know May I not feed them on the snow?"
Half lost within her boots, her head Warm-sheltered in her hood of red, Her plaid skirt close about her drawn, She floundered down the wintry lawn; Now struggling through the misty veil Blown round her by the shrieking gale; Now sinking in a drift so low Her scarlet hood could scarcely show Its dash of color on the snow.
She dropped for bird and beast forlorn Her little store of nuts and corn, And thus her timid guests bespoke "Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak,-- Come, black old crow,--come, poor blue-jay, Before your supper's blown away Don't be afraid, we all are good; And I'm mamma's Red Riding-Hood!"
O Thou whose care is over all, Who heedest even the sparrow's fall, Keep in the little maiden's breast The pity which is now its guest!
Let not her cultured years make less The childhood charm of tenderness, But let her feel as well as know, Nor harder with her polish grow!
Unmoved by sentimental grief That wails along some printed leaf, But, prompt with kindly word and deed To own the claims of all who need, Let the grown woman's self make good The promise of Red Riding-Hood.
1877.
RESPONSE.