Footprints, that perhaps another, THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O no! from that blue tent above, And earnest thoughts within me rise, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, Within my breast there is no light, I give the first watch of the night The star of the unconquered will, Serene, and resolute, and still, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, O fear not in a world like this, THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. "Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints, upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, She knew she should find them all again O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, Wake the better soul, that slumbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished By the road-side fell and perished, They, the holy ones and weakly With those deep and tender eyes, O, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth,-these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green emblazoned field, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, Proclaimed the morning prayer, Down the broad valley, fast and far, Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave. And when the solemn and deep church bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! |