Strict to himself, of other men no spy, He made his own no circuit-judge to try The freer conscience of his neighbors by.

With love rebuking, by his life alone, Gracious and sweet, the better way was shown,

The joy of one, who, seeking not his

own,

And faithful to all scruples, finds at last The thorns and shards of duty overpast,

And daily life, beyond his hope's forecast,

Pleasant and beautiful with sight and sound,

And flowers upspringing in its narrow round,

And all his days with quiet gladness crowned.

He sang not; but, if sometimes tempted strong,

He hummed what seemed like Altorf's Burschen-song,

His good wife smiled, and did not count it wrong.

For well he loved his boyhood's brother band;

His Memory, while he trod the New World's strand,

A double-ganger walked the Fatherland!

If, when on frosty Christmas eves the light

Shone on his quiet hearth, he missed the sight

Of Yule-log, Tree, and Christ-child all in white;

And closed his eyes, and listened to the

sweet

Old wait-songs sounding down his native street,

And watched again the dancers' mingling feet;

Yet not the less, when once the vision passed,

451

THE PAGEANT.

A SOUND as if from bells of silver,
Or elfin cymbals smitten clear,
Through the frost-pictured panes I
hear.

A brightness which outshines the morning,

A splendor brooking no delay,
Beckons and tempts my feet away.

I leave the trodden village highway For virgin snow-paths glimmering through

A jewelled elm-tree avenue;

Where, keen against the walls of sapphire,

The gleaming tree-bolis, ice-embossed,

Hold up their chandeliers of frost.

I tread in Orient halls enchanted,

I dream the Saga's dream of caves Gem-lit beneath the North Sea waves!

1 walk the land of Eldorado,

I touch its mimic garden bowers,
Its silver leaves and diamond

flowers!

The flora of the mystic mine-wond Around me lifts on crystal stems The petals of its clustered gems!

What miracle of weird transforming

Is this wild work of frost and light,
This glimpse of glory infinite!

This foregleam of the Holy City

Like that to him of Patmos given, The white bride coming down from heaven!

How flash the ranked and mail-clad alders, Through

what sharp glancing spears of reeds The brook its muffled water leads!

453

And, as in some enchanted forest

The lost knight hears his comrades sing,

And, near at hand, their bridles ring,

So welcome I these sounds and voices, These airs from far-off summer blown,

This life that leaves me not alone.

For the white glory overawes me;

The crystal terror of the seer

Of Chebar's vision blinds me here.

Rebuke me not, O sapphire heaven!
Thou stainless earth, lay not on me
Thy keen reproach of purity,

If, in this august presence-chamber,
I sigh for summer's leaf-green gloom
And warm airs thick with odorous
bloom!

Let the strange frost-work sink and crumble,

And let the loosened tree-boughs swing,

Till all their bells of silver ring.

Shine warmly down, thou sun of noontime,

On this chill pageant, melt and

move

The winter's frozen heart with love.

And, soft and low, thou wind southblowing,

Breathe through a veil of tenderest haze

Thy prophecy of summer days.

Come with thy green relief of promise, And to this dead, cold splendor bring

The living jewels of the spring!

THE SINGER.

YEARS since (but names to me before), Two sisters sought at eve my door; Two song-birds wandering from their nest,

A gray old farm-house in the West.

How fresh of life the younger one,
Half smiles, half tears, like rain in sun!
Her gravest mood could scarce displace
The dimples of her nut-brown face.

Wit sparkled on her lips not less
For quick and tremulous tenderness:
And, following close her merriest
glance,
Dreamed through her eyes the heart's

romance.

Timid and still, the elder had
Even then a smile too sweetly sad;
The crown of pain that all must wear
Too early pressed her midnight hair.

Yet ere the summer eve grew long,
Her modest lips were sweet with song.
A memory haunted all her words
Of clover-fields and singing birds.

Her dark, dilating eyes expressed
The broad horizons of the west;
Her speech dropped prairie flowers;
the gold

Of harvest wheat about her rolled.
Fore-doomed to song she seemed to

me:

I queried not with destiny:
I knew the trial and the need,
Yet, all the more, I said, God speed!

What could I other than I did?
Could I a singing-bird forbid?
Deny the wind-stirred leaf? Rebuke
The music of the forest brook?

She went with morning from my door, But left me richer than before: Thenceforth I knew her voice of cheer, The welcome of her partial ear.

Years passed through all the land her

name

A pleasant household word became :
All felt behind the singer stood
A sweet and gracious womanhood.
Her life was earnest work, not play;
Her tired feet climbed a weary way;
And even through her lightest strain
We heard an undertone of pain.