Poems

Front matter

by

BOSTON: FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO., successors to ticknor and fields. 1869.

University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., Cambridge.

Hilary

SEASIDE AND HILLSIDE.

Hilary, What strange world has sheltered thee? Here the soil beneath thy feet Rang with songs, and blossomed sweet Still the blue skies ask of Earth, Blind and dumb without thy mirth, Where she hides thy heart of glee, Hilary!

Hilary, All things shape a sigh for thee! O'er the waves, among the flowers, Through the lapse of odorous hours, Breathes a lonely, longing sound, As of something sought, unfound: Lorn are all things, lorn are we, Hilary!

Hilary! Oh, to sail in quest of thee, On the trade-wind's steady tune, On the hurrying monsoon, Far through torrid seas, that lave Dry, hot sands,—a breathless grave. Sad as vain the search would be, Hilary!

Hilary, Chase the sorrow from the sea! Summer-heart, bring summer near, Warm, and fresh, and airy-clear! Dead thou art not! dead is pain; Now Earth sees and sings again; Death, to hold thee, Life must be, Hilary!

On the Beach

And glimmering beach, and plover's flight, And that long surge that rolls Through bands of green and purple light, Are fairer to our human sight, Because of human souls.

Seest thou yon fleet of anchored isles Upon the sea-line gray? My thoughts o'erfloat these murmurous miles, To land where bygone summer smiles On gorge and sheltering bay.

I wander with a spirit there, Along the enchanted shore: We breathe the soft, sea-scented air, And think no isle is half so fair As rocky Appledore.

She turns to me her large, dark eyes:— Were ever eyes so true?— The twilight flushes, fades, and dies; The beacon flames; the white stars rise Across pale gulfs of blue.

Those eyes on earth no longer shine; And yet it seems to me I see their light, O friend, in thine; They add a tenderness divine Unto this tremulous sea.

Seen and unseen are interblent; The waves that hither roll In whiter curves of foam are spent, And deeper seems the green content Of shore, for her sweet soul.

Can love be hid in funeral urn, Or shut within the grave? Life passes, only to return, In tints that glow, and stars that burn Upon the refluent wave.

The land is dearer for the sea, The ocean for the shore: These sands of time too drear would be, If heaven's unguessed eternity Rolled not our feet before.

A Sea Glimpse

Tar-grimed and weather-stained, The sailors shout from her deck: Naught of the sky blue-veined, Or the dreamy waves they reck.

And the sunburnt girl, who stands Where her feet on the wet wrack slip, Eyes shaded with lithe, brown hands,— She sees but the coming ship.

Hannah Binding Shoes

Fair young Hannah, Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos: Hale and clever, For a willing heart and hand he sues. May-day skies are all aglow, And the waves are laughing so! For her wedding Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing: Mid the apple boughs a pigeon coos. Hannah shudders, For the mild southwester mischief brews. Round the rocks of Marblehead, Outward bound, a schooner sped: Silent, lonesome, Hannah 's at the window, binding shoes.

'T is November, Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews. From Newfoundland Not a sail returning will she lose,

Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen, Have you, have you heard of Ben?" Old with watching, Hannah 's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty winters Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views. Twenty seasons:— Never one has brought her any news. Still her dim eyes silently Chase the white sails o'er the sea: Hopeless, faithful, Hannah 's at the window, binding shoes.

Skipper Ben

Yo-heave-yo! Here 's the Bank where the fishermen go. Over the schooner's sides they throw Tackle and bait to the deeps below. And Skipper Ben in the water sees, When its ripples curl to the light land breeze, Something that stirs like his apple trees; And two soft eyes that beneath them swim, Lifted to him.

Hear the wind roar, And the rain through the slit sails tear and pour! "Steady! we'll scud by the Cape Ann shore, Then hark to the Beverly bells once more!" And each man worked with the will of ten; While up in the rigging, now and then, The lightning glared in the face of Ben, Turned to the black horizon's rim, Scowling on him.

Into his brain Burned with the iron of hopeless pain, Into thoughts that grapple, and eyes that strain, Pierces the memory, cruel and vain!

Never again shall he walk at ease, Under his blossoming apple trees, That whisper and sway to the sunset breeze, While the soft eyes float where the sea-gulls skim, Gazing with him.

How they went down Never was known in the still old town. Nobody guessed how the fisherman brown, With the look of despair that was half a frown, Faced his fate in the furious night,— Faced the mad billows with hunger white, Just within hail of the beacon-light That shone on a woman sweet and trim, Waiting for him.

Beverly bells, Ring to the tide as it ebbs and swells! His was the anguish a moment tells,— The passionate sorrow death quickly knells. But the wearing wash of a lifelong woe Is left for the desolate heart to know, Whose tides with the dull years come and go, Till hope drifts dead to its stagnant brim, Thinking of him.

The Light-Houses

Sentinels of hope they be, Drenched with sleet, and dashed with foam, Standing there in loneliness, Fireside joys for men to keep; Through the midnight slumberless That the quiet shore may sleep.

Two bright eyes awake all night To the fierce moods of the sea; Eyes that only close when light Dawns on lonely hill and tree. O kind watchers! teach us, too, Steadfast courage, sufferance long! Where an eye is turned to you, Should a human heart grow strong.

Bittersweet Shadows

Then, the crystal channel won, In its deep the shallop shone, Sails of silver, prow of pearl: Hidden ledges brake that dream, Sucking down the flash and gleam Underneath their high-tide swirl.

Free again, broad sunshine found, Slid the boat on, greenly wound With its veil of bittersweet, Tangling round the sunk rock's edge, Catching streamers of sea-sedge From the sheen beneath our feet.

Anchored in the dusk, a spell From the folds of twilight fell On the bay's black, star-strewn floor. Awe with that weird glitter crept Shuddering through our thoughts; we stept Gladly on firm land once more,

Trailing home the bittersweet. Such dim ending was but meet For an afternoon so rare.

Was the date of yesterday? Years since then have slipt away; Few such memories they bare.

No to-days like that remain: Joy is flavored now with pain; For the best of all our crew,— Helmsman, gentlest passenger,— Lie so still they will not stir, Though the sea should drench them through.

So our shallop floats no more Where the low, vine-tangled shore Dips its orange-golden fruit To the plashing of the wave: Only white flowers for a grave, Now our serious hands will suit.

Still the sun shines, and we drift Homeward on the current swift, Those who went before to meet. All things beautiful grow sad: Yet even grief is sometimes glad;— Shade us, Life, with bittersweet!

Diver and Voyager

"Light voyager, 't is of humanity That I tell my tale." "Pale diver, that is the same bright sea Over which I sail."

The Legend of Skadi

And Njörd could but listen, and go with his bride; But there for his sea-haunts he drearily sighed.

"O Skadi, come back to the warm, sunny surf! The beach-sand is smoother than frost-bitten turf; I like not, at midnight, the wolf's hungry howl, The bear's stealthy footstep, the shriek of the owl.

"Nine sunsets, my Skadi, from sole love of thee, I will give to the mountains, if only for three With me thou wilt linger the blue wave beside; The billows shall lull thee, my wild one, my bride!"

Then down the steep gorges went Skadi and Njörd; Like wind through the pine-woods they swept to the fiord, And back in three mornings they hurried again, Bearing up to the hill-tops the sigh of the main.

So hither and thither awhile swayed the pair: But Njörd sickened soon of the fresh inland air, And once, as he scented afar the salt sea, "No more of the mountains," he shouted, "for me!"

"I am nine times too weary of cavern and cliff; All the pine-groves of Norway I 'd give for my skiff. The twilight, that buries the white, solemn hills, My blood like the coming of Ragnarök chills."

"Three days and three nights are too many for me To waste on the ocean, O dull Njörd, and thee!"— And Skadi has buckled her snow-sandals on, And back to her mountains alone she has gone.

The red, climbing sunrise, the rosy-fringed mist, Stealing up from the valley, her clear cheek have kissed; And over the hill-tops the frosty blue sky With the joy of its welcome rekindles her eye.

She tightens her bowstring, she bounds from the rock; The elves in their caverns her merry voice mock; The waterfall's rush to the tarn by the crag, And the leap of the reindeer, behind her both lag.

But still, as she chases the wolf and the boar, By sounds she is startled, like surf on the shore,

That surge through the forest, and whisper, and rave;— 'T is Njörd, who is calling her back to the wave.

And Njörd hears a hill-note borne in on the tide, When soft through the sunset the lazy waves glide, Or tranced in the moonlight the weird water shines;— 'T is Skadi, whose singing floats down from her pines.

He calls, but she leaves not her rock-ranges free; She chants from her woodlands; he stays by the sea: A wail thrills the harp-strings of heart lost to heart, Neither happy together, nor joyous apart.

Of sea-god and hill-maid remains not a sign, Save the marriage of music in billow and pine. Still sound the Norse mountains, the tide in the fiord With the singing of Skadi, the echo of Njörd.

The Old School-House

For I was full of visions vain,— The boy's romantic hunger. You were the whole school's darling, Jane, And many summers younger. Your head a cherub's used to look, With sunbeams on it lying, Bent downward to your spelling-book, For long and hard words prying.

The mountains through the window-pane Showered over you their glory. The awkward farm-boy loved you, Jane: You know the old, old story. I never watch the sunset now Upon those misty ranges, But your bright lips, and cheek, and brow, Gleam out of all its changes.

I wonder if you see that chain On memory's dim horizon; There 's not a lovelier picture, Jane, To rest even your sweet eyes on. The Haystacks each an airy tent, The Notch a gate of splendor;

And river, sky, and mountains blent In twilight radiance tender.

I wonder,—with a flitting pain,— If thoughts of me returning, Are mingled with the mountains, Jane: I stifle down that yearning.— A rich man's wife, on you no claim Have I, lost dreams to rally; Yet Pemigewasset sings your name Along its winding valley:

And once I hoped that for us twain Might fall one calm life-closing; That Campton hills might guard us, Jane, In one green grave reposing. They say the old man's heart is rock: You never thought so, never! And, loving you alone, I lock The school-house door forever!

Elsie in Illinois

Lakes on lakes, a crystal chain, Give the clear heaven back again; Wampum strung by Manitou, Lightly as the beaded dew.

Is it wave, or is it shore?— Greener gleams the prairie-floor, West and south, one emerald; Earth untenanted, unwalled. There, a thread of silent joy, Winds the grass-hid Illinois.

Bringing comfort unawares Out of little daily cares, Here has Elsie lived a year, Learning well that home is dear, By the green breadth measureless Of the outside wilderness, So unshadowed, so immense! Garden without path or fence, Rolling up its billowy bloom To her low, one-windowed room.

Breath of prairie-flowers is sweet; But the baby at her feet

Is the sweetest bud to her, Keeping such a pleasant stir, On the cabin hearth at play, While his father turns the hay, Loads the grain, or binds the stack, Until sunset brings him back.

Elsie's thoughts awake must keep, While the baby lies asleep. Far Niagara haunts her ears; Mississippi's rush she hears; Ancient nurses twain, that croon For her babe their mighty tune, Lapped upon the prairies wild: He will be a wondrous child! Ah! but Elsie's thoughts will stray Where, a child, she used to play In the shadow of the pines: Moss and scarlet-berried vines Carpeted the granite ledge, Sloping to the brooklet's edge, Sweet with violets, blue and white; While the dandelions, bright

As if Night had spilt her stars, Shone beneath the meadow-bars.

Could she hold her babe, to look In that merry, babbling brook,— See it picturing his eye As the violet's blue and shy,— See his dimpled fingers creep Where the sweet-breathed May-flowers peep With pale pink anemones, Out among the budding trees!— On his soft cheek falls a tear For the hillside home so dear.

At her household work she dreams; And the endless prairie seems Like a broad, unmeaning face Read through in a moment's space, Where the smile so fixed is grown, Better you would like a frown.

Elsie sighs, "We learn too late, Little things are more than great.

Hearts like ours must daily be Fed with some kind mystery, Hidden in a rocky nook,. Whispered from a wayside brook, Flashed on unexpecting eyes, In a winged, swift surprise: Small the pleasure is to trace Boundlessness of commonplace."

But the south wind, stealing in, Her to happier moods will win. In and out the little gate Creep wild roses delicate: Fragrant grasses hint a tale Of the blossomed intervale Left behind, among the hills. Every flower-cup mystery fills; Every idle breeze goes by, Burdened with life's blissful sigh.

Elsie hums a thoughtful air; Spreads the table, sets a chair Where her husband first shall see

Baby laughing on her knee; While she watches him afar, Coming with the evening star Through the prairie, through the sky, Each as from eternity.

My Mountain

All night, from the cottage-window I can hear the river's tune; But the hushed air gives no answer Save the hemlocks' sullen rune.

A lamb's bleat breaks through the stillness, And into the heart of night.— Afar and around, the mountains, Veiled watchers, expect the light.

Then up comes the radiant morning To smile on their vigils grand. Still muffled in cloudy mantles Do their stately ranges stand?

It is not the lofty Haystacks Piled up by the great Notch-Gate, Nor the glow of the Cannon Mountain, That the Dawn and I await,

To loom out of northern vapors; But a shadow, a pencilled line, That grows to an edge of opal Where earth-light and heaven-light shine.

Now rose-tints bloom from the purple; Now the blue climbs over the green; Now, bright in its bath of sunshine, The whole grand Shape is seen.

Is it one, or unnumbered summits,— The Vision so high, so fair, Hanging over the singing River In the magical depths of air?

Ask not the name of my mountain! Let it rise in its grandeur lone; Be it one of a mighty thousand, Or a thousand blent in one.

Would a name evoke new splendor From its wrapping and folds of light, Or a line of the weird rock-writing Make plainer to mortal sight?

You have lived and learnt this marvel: That the holiest joy that came From its beautiful heaven to bless you, ([' Nor needed nor found a name.

Enough, on the brink of the river Looking up and away, to know That the Hill loves the Pemigewasset, And broods o'er its murmurous flow.

Perhaps, if the Campton meadows Should attract your pilgrim feet Up the summer road to the mountains, You may chance my dream to meet:—

Either mine, or one more wondrous. Or perhaps you will look, and say You behold only rocks and sunshine, Be it dying or birth of day.

Though you find but the stones that build it, I shall see through the snow-fall still, Hanging over the Pemigewasset, My glorified, dream-crowned Hill.

At Winnipesaukee

Here, the great hollows of the hills, The glamour of the June day fills. Along the climbing path, the brier, In rose-bloom beauty beckoning higher, Breathes sweetly the warm uplands over; And, gay with buttercups and clover, The slopes of meadowy freshness make A green foil to the sparkling lake.

So is it with yon hills that swim Upon the horizon, blue and dim: For all the summer is not ours; On other shores familiar flowers Find blossoming as fresh as these, In shade and shine and eddying breeze; And scented slopes as cool and green To kiss of lisping ripples lean.

So is it with the land beyond This earth we press with step so fond. Upon those faintly-outlined hills God's sunshine sleeps, His dew distils: The dear beatitudes of home Within the heavenly boundaries come: The hearts that made life's fragrance here

To Eden-haunts bring added cheer; And all the beauty, all the good, Lost to our lower altitude, Transfigured, yet the same, are given Upon the mountain-heights of heaven.

O cloud-swathed hills the flood across, Ye hide the mystery of our loss, Yet hide it but a little while: Past sunlit shore and shadowy isle, Out to the still Lake's farther brim, Erelong our bark the wave shall skim. And what the vigor and the glow Our earthly-torpid souls shall know, When, grounding on the silver sands, We feel the clasp of loving hands, And see the walls of sapphire gleam, Nor tongue can tell, nor heart can dream.

But in your rifts of wondrous light Wherewith these lower fields are bright, In every strengthening breeze that brings The mountain-health upon its wings, We own the gift of Pentecost, And not one hint of heaven is lost.

Little Nannie

CHILD AND WOMAN.

Listening Nannie, What did you hear? "Heard the rain asking A rose to appear; Heard the woods tell When the wind whistled wrong; Heard the stream flow Where the bird drinks his song."

Nannie, dear Nannie, O take me with you, To run and to listen, And see as you do! "Nay, nay! you must borrow My ear and my eye, Or the beauty will vanish, The music will die."

Swinging in the Barn

One, two, three! Quick! the round red sun, Hid behind yon twisted tree, Means to end the fun.

Swing away, Over husks and grain! Shall we ever be as gay, If we swing again?

Watching the Snow

Up softly I sidle From where I sit idle,— I snatch, as it flies, at the gossamer bridle,— I am mounted, I rise!

Away we are bounding, No hoof-note resounding, Still as light is our flight through the armies surrounding; No murmur, no rustling, Though millions are jostling; A host is in camp, but you heard neither bustling Nor bugle, nor tramp.

Yet the truce-flag is lifted; Unfurled it lies drifted Over hill, over rill, where its snow could be sifted; And now I'm returning To parley concerning The beautiful cause that awakened my yearning,— The trouble that was.

Ho!ho! a swift fairy,— A pearl-shallop airy! I am caught, quick as thought! fleece-muffled and hairy,

Her grim boatman tightens His rough grasp, and frightens Me sore, as we sail to the east, where it lightens, On waves of the gale.

White, dimpled, and winning, The fairy sits spinning, From her hair, floating fair, coils of cable beginning, Her shallop to tether In stress of bleak weather, While the boatman and I, wrapped in ermine together, Drift on through the sky.

Stay! the boat is upsetting! My fairy, forgetting Her coil and her toil, to escape from a wetting, Has now the one notion: Below boils the ocean! I scream,—I am heard,—up, in arrowy motion, I am borne by a bird;—

A gray eagle!—over The seas flies the rover; And I ride as his guide, a new world to discover.

He bears me on, steady, Through whirlwind and eddy; I cling to his neck, and he ever is ready To pause at my beck.

White doves through the ether Come flocking together: How they crowd to me, proud if I smooth one soft feather! O what is the matter? They startle,—they scatter! On the wet window-pane hear my eagle’s claws clatter!— The snow’s turned to rain!

Prudence

Is there more than work in living? Yes; a child must go to school, And to meeting every Sunday; Not a heathen be, or fool.

Something more has haunted Prudence In the song of bird and bee, In the low wind's dreamy whisper Through the light-leaved poplar-tree.

Something lingers, bends above her, Leaning at the mossy well; Some sweet murmur from the meadows; On the air some gentle spell.

But she will not stop to listen:— Maybe there are witches yet! So she runs away from beauty; Tries its presence to forget.

T is the way her mother taught her; Prudence is not much to blame. Work is good for child or woman; Childhood's jailer,—'tis a shame!

Gravely at the romping children Their gray heads the gossips shake; Saying, with a smile for Prudence, "What a good wife she will make!"

Blue-eyed Grace

"Fast to the slippery precipice I see the nodding harebell cling: In that blue eye no fear there is; Its hold is firm,—the frail, free thing! The harebell's Guardian cares for me, So I am in safe company."

The woodbine clambers up the cliff, And seems to murmur, 'Little Grace, The sunshine were less welcome, if It brought not every day your face.' Red leaves slip down from maples high, And touch my cheek as they flit by."

I feel at home with everything That has its dwelling in the wood; With flowers that laugh, and birds that sing; Companions beautiful and good, Brothers and sisters everywhere; And over all our Father's care.

"In rose-time or in berry-time; When ripe seeds fall, or buds peep out;

When green the turf, or white the rime, There 's something to be glad about. It makes my heart bound just to pass The sunbeams dancing on the grass.

"And when the bare rocks shut me in Where not a blade of grass will grow, My happy fancies soon begin To warble music rich and low, And paint what eyes could never see: My thoughts are company for me.

"What does it mean to be alone? And how is any one afraid Who feels the dear God on his throne, Sending his sunshine through the shade, Warming the damp sod into bloom, And smiling off the thicket's gloom?

"At morning, down the woodpath cool, The fluttering leaves make cheerful talk. After the stifled day at school, I hear, along my homeward walk,

The airy wisdom of the wood, Far easiest to be understood!

"I whisper to the winds; I kiss The rough old oak, and clasp his bark; No farewell of the thrush I miss; I lift the soft veil of the dark, And say to bird, and breeze, and tree, 'Good night! good friends you are to me!"

Rock and Rill

And still he will not let her go: But she may chide and sing, And o'er him liquid freshness throw, Amid her murmuring.

The harebell sees herself no more In waters clear at play; Yet never she such azure wore, Till wept on by the spray.

And many a woodland violet Stays charmed upon the bank; Her thoughtful blue eye brimming wet, The rock and rill to thank.

The rill is blessing in her talk What half she held a wrong,— The happy trouble of the rock That makes her life a song.

In the Rain

And the warm light faded out of her eyes, While she paced, and gazed on the restless skies, While she tried to keep her wild heart asleep, Waiting alone in the rain.

It streamed and poured from the shelving bank, It sprinkled mire on the sedges rank; It beat on the springing grain. "Come home!" called the horn from behind the hill: She heard, but she lingered and listened still, Still, gazing back down the iron track, Waited alone in the rain.

The hours dragged by; it was dark and late; The cars rushed on with their throbbing freight, Screaming a laugh at her pain. But the west uncurtained a wide, clear space, And the sunset lighted a laggard face, And the wild, wet day stole in smiles away, While two hurried home in the rain.

The Schoolmistress

"Can I but be cheerful While I bid them look, Through the sunny pages Of each opening book?— Showing tracks of angels, On the footworn sod; Listening to the music Nature makes to God."

"Have you then no sorrow, Smiling Edith Lane? Where the barberry's coral Rattles on the pane, Where, in endless yellow, Autumn flowers I see, Working for a living Were a woe to me."

"Sorrow! I—a woman, And in years not young? Of the common chalice, Drops are on my tongue. What of that? No whisper To my heart is lost,

From the barberry-clusters, Sweetened by the frost;

"From the rooted sunshine,— Golden-rod in bloom, Lighting up the hillsides, For November's gloom. Shall I blot with weeping Nature's joy and grace? Rather be her gladness Mirrored in my face.

"'Working for a living'? May no worse befall! Love is always busy; God works, over all. Life is worth the earning, For its daily cheer, Shared with those who love me, In yon cottage dear.

"If you can, fair lady, Go and be a drone!

Leave me with the children, Dear as if my own. Leave me to the humming Of my little hive, Glad to earn a living, Glad to be alive!"

Getting Along

He shoots the gay rogues I would pay for their song;— We 're different, sure; still, we 're getting along.

He seems not to know what I eat, drink, or wear; He 's trim and he 's hearty, so why should I care? No harsh word from him my poor heart ever shocks: I would n't mind scolding,—so seldom he talks.

Ah, well! 't is too much that we women expect: He only has promised to love and protect. See, I lean on my husband, so silent and strong; I 'm sure there 's no trouble;—we 're getting along.

Life isn't so bright as it was long ago, When he visited me amid tempest and snow; And would bring me a ribbon or jewel to wear, And sometimes a rosebud to twist in my hair:

But when we are girls, we can all laugh and sing; Of course, growing old, life 's a different thing; My good man and I have forgot our May song, But still we are quietly getting along.

'T is true I was rich; I had treasures and land; But all that he asked was my heart and my hand: Though people do say it, 't is what they can't prove,— "He married for money; she,—poor thing! for love."

My fortune is his, and he saves me its care; To make his home cheerful 's enough for my share. He seems always happy our broad fields among; And so I 'm contented:—we 're getting along.

With stocks to look after, investments to find, It 's not very strange that I 'm seldom in mind: He can't stop to see how my time 's dragging on,— And oh! would he miss me, if I should be gone?

Should he be called first, I must follow him fast, For all that's worth living for then will be past. But I'll not think of losing him; fretting is wrong, While we are so pleasantly getting along.

Unwedded

Doubtless she had her romantic dream, Like other maidens, in May-time sweet, That flushes the air with a lingering gleam, And goldens the grass beneath her feet:—

A dream unmoulded to visible form, That keeps the world rosy with mists of youth, And holds her in loyalty close and warm, To her fine ideal of manly truth.

"But is she happy, a woman, alone?" Gossip, alone in this crowded earth, With a voice to quiet its hourly moan, And a smile to heighten its rarer mirth?

There are ends more worthy than happiness: Who seeks it, is digging joy's grave, we know. The blessed are they who but live to bless; She found out that mystery, long ago.

To her motherly, sheltering atmosphere, The children hasten from icy homes: The outcast is welcome to share her cheer; And the saint with a fervent benison comes.

For the heart of woman is large as man's; God gave her his orphaned world to hold, And whispered through her His deeper plans To save it alive from the outer cold.

And here is a woman who understood Herself, her work, and God's will with her, To gather and scatter His sheaves of good, And was meekly thankful, though men demur.

Would she have walked more nobly, think, With a man beside her, to point the way, Hand joining hand in the marriage-link? Possibly, Yes: it is likelier, Nay.

For all men have not wisdom and might: Love's eyes are tender, and blur the map; And a wife will follow by faith, not sight, In the chosen footprint, at any hap.

In the comfort of home who is gladder than she? Yet, stirred by no murmur of "might have been," Her heart as a carolling bird soars free, With the song of each nest she has glanced within.

Having the whole, she covets no part: Hers is the bliss of all blessed things. The tears that unto her eyelids start, Are those which a generous pity brings;

Or the sympathy of heroic faith With a holy purpose, achieved or lost. To stifle the truth is to stop her breath, For she rates a lie at its deadly cost.