Poems

Front matter

author's edition. University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., Cambridge.

TO

HENRY BLACKETT, Esq.,

Philip my King

POEMS.

tpp|PHILIP MY KING.| {smaller} Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty." >><< OOK at me with thy large brown eyes,

Philip my king,

Round whom the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities: Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible sceptre laden; I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden,

Philip my king.

O the day when thou goest a wooing,

Philip my king!

When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing |end=follow

Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, Philip my king.

Up from thy sweet mouth,—up to thy brow, Philip my king! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers: My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer Let me behold thee in future years;— Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip my king.

—A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip my king, Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny and cruel and cold and gray: Rebels within thee and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch: till angels shout As thou sit'st at the feet of God victorious, "Philip the king!"

Thoughts in a Wheat-Field

tpp|THOUGHTS IN A WHEAT-FIELD.| {smaller} "The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are the angels." >><< N his wide fields walks the Master, In his fair fields, ripe for harvest, Where the evening sun shines slant-wise On the rich ears heavy bending;

Saith the Master: "It is time."

Though no leaf shows brown decadence, And September's nightly frost-bite Only reddens the horizon, "It is full time," saith the Master,

The wise Master, "It is time."

Lo, he looks. That look compelling Brings his laborers to the harvest; Quick they gather, as in autumn Passage-birds in cloudy eddies

Drop upon the seaside fields;

White wings have they, and white raiment, White feet shod with swift obedience, Each lays down his golden palm-branch, And uprears his sickle shining,

"Speak, Master,—is it time?"

|end=stanza

O'er the field the servants hasten, Where the fall-stored ears droop downwards, Humble with their weight of harvest: Where the empty ears wave upward, And the gay tares flaunt in rows: But the sickles, the sharp sickles, Flash new dawn at their appearing, Songs arc heard in earth and heaven, For the reapers are the angels, And it is the harvest time.

O Great Master, are thy footsteps Even now upon the mountains? Art thou walking in thy wheat-field? Are the snowy-winged reapers Gathering in the silent air? Are thy signs abroad, the glowing Of the distant sky, blood-reddened,— And the near fields trodden, blighted, Choked by gaudy tares triumphant,— Sure, it must be harvest time?

Who shall know the Master's coming? Whether it be at dawn or sunset, When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears, Or while noon rides high in heaven, Sleeping lies the yellow field? Only, may thy voice, Good Master,

Peal above the reapers' chorus, And dull sound of sheaves slow falling,— "Gather all into My garner, For it is My harvest time."

Four Years

At the midsummer, when the hay was clown, Stood she by the streamlet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair,— Hair that drooped like birch-boughs,—all in her simple gown. For it was midsummer,—and the hay was down.

At the midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she, a willing bride, close into my breast: Low piled the thunder-clouds had drifted to the west,— Red-eyed out glared the sun, like knight from leaguered town, That eve in high midsummer, when the hay was down.

It is midsummer,—all the hay is down; Close to her bosom press I dying eyes, Praying, "God shield thee till we meet in Paradise!" Bless her in Love's name who was my brief life's crown,— And I go at midsummer, when the hay is down.

The Dead Czar

Lying so straightly in an icy calm Grander than sovereignty, was but as ye,— No better and no worse;—Heaven mend us all!

Carry him forth and bury him. Death's peace Rest on his memory! Mercy by his bier Sits silent, or says only these few words,— "Let him who is without sin 'mongst ye all Cast the first stone."

The Wind at Night

Floating among the shadows of the room With eyes light-darting,

Bringing faint airs of balm that seem to rouse Thoughts of a Far Land, Then binding softly upon weary brows Death's poppy-garland?

O fearful blast, I shudder at thy sound, Like heathen mortal Who saw the Three that mark life's doomed bound Sit at his portal.

Thou mightst be laden with sad, shrieking souls, Carried unwilling From their known earth to the unknown stream that rolls All anguish stilling.

Fierce wind, will the Death-angel come like thee, Soon, soon to bear me —Whither? what mysteries may unfold to me, What terrors scare me?

Shall I go wand'ring on through empty space As on earth, lonely? Or seek through myriad spirit-ranks one face, And miss that only?

Shall I not then drop down from sphere to sphere Palsied and aimless? Or will my being change so, that both fear And grief die nameless?

Rather I pray Him who Himself is Love, Out of whose essence We all do spring, and towards Him tending, move Back to His presence,

That even His brightness may not quite efface The soul's earth-features, That the dear human likeness each may trace Glorified creatures;

That we may not cease loving, only taught Holier desiring; More faith, more patience; with more wisdom fraught, Higher aspiring.

That we may do all work we left undone Here—though unmeetness; From height to height celestial passing on Towards full completeness.

Then, strong Azrael, be thy supreme call Soft as spring-breezes,

Or like this blast, whose loud fiend-festival My heart's blood freezes,

I will not fear thee. If thou safely keep My soul, God's giving, And my soul's soul, I, wakening from death-sleep, Shall first know living.

A Fable

Eagerly, too eagerly We followed after,—Youth and I,— Till suddenly he slipped the tether: (Well-a -day, well-a-day!) "Where art thou, Youth?" I cried. In vain; He never more came back again.

Yet onward through the devious way In rain or shine, I recked not whether, Like many another maddened boy I tracked my Psyche-winged Joy; Till, curving round the bowery lane, Lo,—in the pathway stood pale Pain, And we met face to face together: (Well-a -day, well-a-day!) "Whence comest thou?"—and I writhed in vain— "Unloose thy cruel grasp, O Pain!"

But he would not. Since, day by day He has ta'en up Youth's silken tether And changed it into iron bands. So through rich vales and barren lands Solemnly, all solemnly, March we united, he and I; And we have grown such friends together (Well-a-day, well-a-day!) I and this my brother Pain, I think we'll never part again.

Labor is Prayer

Who the world's incessant battle Cannot understand at all , All the mysteries of the churches, All the troubles of the state,— Whom child-smiles teach "God is loving," And child-coffins, "God is great ": Laborare est orare:— We too at His footstool wait.

Laborare est orare; Hear it, ye of spirit poor, Who sit crouching at the threshold While your brethren force the door; Ye whose ignorance stands wringing Rough hands, seamed with toil, nor dares Lift so much as eyes to heaven,— Lo! all life this truth declares, Laborare est orare; And the whole earth rings with prayers.

In Memoriam

Heaven keep thee: Nevermore above the ground Be one relic of thee found: Lay the turf so smooth, we crave, None would guess it was a grave, Save for grass that greener grows, Or for wind that gentlier blows All the earth o'er, from this spot Where thou wert—and thou art not. Heaven keep thee!

An Honest Valentine

Could you e'er forgive it, Pretty Valentine'?

Honey-moon quite over, If I less should scan You with eye of lover Than of mortal man? Seeing my fair charmer Curl hair spire on spire, All in paper armor, By the parlor fire; Gown that wants a stitch in Hid by apron fine, Scolding in her kitchen,— O fie, Valentine!

Should I come home surly Vexed with fortune's frown, Find a hurly-burly, House turned upside down, Servants all a-snarl, or Cleaning steps or stair: Breakfast still in parlor, Dinner—anywhere: Shall I to cold bacon Meekly fall and dine? No,—or I 'm mistaken Much, my Valentine.

What if we should quarrel? —Bless you, all folks do:— Will you take the war ill Yet half like it too? When I storm and jangle, Obstinate, absurd, Will you sit and wrangle Just for the last word,— Or, while poor Love, crying, Upon tiptoe stands, Heady plumed for flying,— Will you smile, shake hands, And the truth beholding, With a kiss divine Stop my rough mouth's scolding?— Bless you, Valentine!

If, should times grow harder, We have lack of pelf, Little in the larder, Less upon the shelf; Will you, never tearful, Make your old gowns do, Mend my stockings, cheerful, And pay visits few? Crave nor gift nor donor, Old days ne'er regret,

Seek no friend save Honor, Dread no foe but Debt; Meet ill-fortune steady, Hand to hand with mine, Like a gallant lady,— Will you, Valentine?

Then, whatever weather Come, or shine, or shade, We'll set out together, Not a whit afraid. Age is ne'er alarming,— I shall find, I ween, You at sixty charming As at sweet sixteen: Let 's pray, nothing loath, dear, That our funeral may Make one date serve both, dear, As our marriage day. Then, come joy or sorrow, Thou art mine,—I thine. So we'll wed to-morrow, Dearest Valentine.

By the Alma River

Willie, listen to the bells Ringing through the town to-day. That 's for victory. Ah, no knells For the many swept away,— Hundreds—thousands! Let us weep, We who need not,—just to keep Reason steady in my brain Till the morning comes again, Till the third dread morning tell Who they were that fought and fell By the Alma river.

Come, we 'll lay us down, my child, Poor the bed is, poor and hard; Yet thy father, far exiled, Sleeps upon the open sward, Dreaming of us two at home: Or beneath the starry dome Digs out trenches in the dark, Where he buries—Willie, mark— Where he buries those who died Fighting bravely at his side By the Alma river.

Willie, Willie, go to sleep, God will keep us, my boy; He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy,

When I need not shrink to meet Those dread placards in the street, Which for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes—Child, say thy prayer Once again; a different one: Say, "O God, Thy will be done By the Alma river."

Rothesay Bay

I sit my lane amang the rigs Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay.

It 's a bonnie bay at morning, And bonnier at the noon, But it 's bonniest when the sun draps And red comes up the moon: When the mist creeps o'er the Cumbrays, And Arran peaks are gray, And the great black hills, like sleepin' kings, Sit grand roun' Rothesay Bay,

Then a bit sigh stirs my bosom, And a wee tear blin's my e'e,— And I think o' that far Countrie What I wad like to be! But I rise content i' the morning To wark while wark I may I' the yellow harst field of Ardbeg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay.

Living

O live! And I, methinks, can let all clear rights go, Fond duties melt away like April snow, And sweet, sweet hopes, that took a life to weave, Vanish like gossamers of autumn eve. Nay, sometimes seems it I could even bear To lay down humbly this love-crown I wear, Steal from my palace, helpless, hopeless, poor, And see another queen it at the door,— If only that the king had done no wrong, If this my palace, where I dwelt so long, Were not defiled by falsehood entering in:— There is no loss but change, no death but sin, No parting, save the slow corrupting pain Of murdered faith that never lives again.

O live! (So endeth faint the low pathetic cry Of love, whom death has taught love cannot die,) And I can stand above the daisy bed, The only pillow for thy dearest head, There cover up forever from my sight My own, my earthly all of earth delight; And enter the sea-cave of widowed years, Where far, far off the trembling gleam appears Through which thy heavenly image slipped away, And waits to meet me at the open day.

Only to me, my love, only to me. This cavern underneath the moaning sea; This long, long life that I alone must tread, To whom the living seem most like the dead,— Thou wilt be safe out on the happy shore: He who in God lives, liveth evermore.

In our Boat

While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not,—there 's peace on the deep.

Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us, All whom we love in thy tenderness keep! While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not,—there 's peace on the deep.

The River Shore

All forgiving, all believing, Not one lost we loved before, Looking towards the hills of heaven Calmly from the eternal shore.

A Flower of a Day

I 'll pluck thee—smiling too. Not one salt drop Shall stain thee:—if these foolish eyes are dim, 'T is only with a wondering thankfulness That they behold such beauty and such peace, Such wisdom and such sweetness, in God's world.

The Night before the Mowing

Sharp steel, inevitable hand, Cut keen, cut kind! Our field We know full well must be laid low Before its wealth it yield: Labor and mirth and plenty blest Its blameless death bestowing: And yet we weep, and yet we weep, The night before the mowing.

Passion Past

Would I pour my life like wine on her floor? No, no, never: never, never! Never any more.

Gray and withered, wrinkled and marred, I have gone through the fire and come out unscarred, With the image of manhood upon me yet, No shame to remember, no wish to forget: But could she rekindle the pangs I bore?— O no, never! thank God, never! Never any more.

Old and wrinkled, withered and gray,— And yet if her light step passed to-day, I should see her face all faces among, And say,—"Heaven love thee, whom I loved long! Thou hast lost the key of my heart's door, Lost it ever, and forever, Ay, forevermore."

October

Asks no more for the pleasure draught, But for the cup of balm, And all its storms and sunshine bursts Controls to one brave calm,— Then step by step walks Autumn, With steady eyes that show Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year, While the equinoctials blow

A Stream's Singing

O how glorious is Noon-clay! With the cool large shadows lying Underneath the giant forest, The far hill-tops towering dimly O'er the conquered plains below;— I am conquering—I shall conquer In life's battle-field impetuous: And I lie and listen dreamy To a double-voiced, low music,— Tender beech-trees sheeny shiver Mingled with the diapason Of the strong, deep, joyful stream, Like a man's love and a woman's; So it runs—the happy stream!

O how grandly cometh Even, Sitting on the mountain summit, Purple-vestured, grave, and silent, Watching o'er the dewy valleys, Like a good king near his end:— I have labored, I have governed; Now I feel the gathering shadows Of the night that closes all things: And the fair earth fades before me, And the stars leap out in heaven, While into the infinite darkness Solemn runs the steadfast stream— Onward, onward, ceaseless, fearless, Singing runs the eternal stream.

A Rejected Lover

"It might have been!"—Ada, I will be true Unto myself—the self that so loved thine: May all life's pain, like these few tears that spring For me, glance off as rain-drops from my white dove's wing!

May you live long, some good man's bosom- flower, And gather children round your matron knees: So, when all this is past, and you and I Remember each our youth-days as an hour Of joy—or anguish, one, serene, at ease, May come to meet the other's steadfast eye, Thinking, "He loved me well!" clasp hands, and so pass by.

A Living Picture

Come, dawn of happy wifehood, motherhood, Ripening to perfect noon! Come, peaceful round Of simple joys, fond duties, gladsome cares, When each full hour drops bliss with liberal hand, Yet leaves to-morrow richer than to-day.

Will you sit here? the grass is summer-warm. Look at those children making daisy-chains, So did we too, do you mind? That eldest lad, He has your very mouth. Yet, you will have 't His eyes are like his father's? Perhaps so: They could not be more dark and deep and kind. Do you know, this hour I have been fancying you A poet's dream, and almost sighed to think There was no poet to praise you— >>Why, you 're flown After those mad elves in the flower-beds there, Ha—ha—you're no dream now. >>Well, well—so best! My eyelids droop content o'er moistened eyes; I would not have you other than you are.

Leonora

All the leaves are budding, sure, All the primroses are springing, All the birds begin their singing— 'T is your spring-time, Leonora, May it long endure.

But it will pass, Leonora: And the silent days must fall When a change comes over all: When the last leaf downward flitters, And the last, last sunbeam glitters On the terraced hillside cool, On the peacocks by the pool: When you 'll walk along these alleys With no lightsome foot that dallies With the violets and the moss,— But with quiet steps and slow, And grave eyes that earthward grow, And a matron-heart inured To all women have endured,— Must endure and ever will, All the joy and all the ill, All the gain and all the loss— Can you cheerfully lay down Careless girlhood's flowery crown, And thus take up, Leonora, Womanhood's meek cross?

Ay! your eyes shine, Leonora, Warm, and true, and brave, and kind: And although I nothing know Of the maiden heart below, I in them good omens find. Go, enjoy your present hours Like the birds and bees and flowers: And may summer days bestow On you just so much of rain, Blessed baptism of pain! As will make your blossoms grow. May you walk, as through life's road Every noble woman can,— With a pure heart before God, And a true heart unto man: Till with this same smile you wait For the opening of the Gate That shuts earth from mortal eyes; Till at last, with peaceful heart, All contented to depart, Leaving children's children playing In these woods you used to stray in, You may enter, Leonora, Into Paradise.

Plighted

Many may love thee—I 'll love them too; But thy heart of hearts, pure, faithful, and true, Must be mine, mine wholly, and only mine.

Mine!—God, I thank Thee that Thou hast given Something all mine on this side heaven: Something as much myself to be As this my soul which I lift to Thee: Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, Life of my life, whom Thou dost make Two to the world for the world's work's sake— But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one.

Mortality

If we, God's conscious creatures, knew But half your faith in our decay, We should not tremble as we do When summoned clay to clay.

But with an equal patience sweet We should put off this mortal gear, In whatsoe'er new form is meet Content to reappear.

Knowing each germ of life He gives Must have in Him its source and rise, Being that of His being lives May change, but never dies.

Ye dead leaves, dropping soft and slow, Ye mosses green and lichens fair, Go to your graves, as I will go, For God is also there.

Life Returning

By love's divinest laws Heart unto heart, and all hearts upwards, draws.

O life, O love, your diverse tones bewildering Make silence, like two meeting waves of sound; I dream of wifely white arms, lisp of children— Never of ended wars, Save kisses sealing honorable scars.

No more of battles! save the combat glorious To which all earth and heaven may witness stand; The sword of the Spirit taking in my hand I shall go forth, since in new fields victorious The King yet grants that I His servant live, or His good soldier die.

My Friend

And as long as I keep true to him, Why, he 'll keep true to me.

When the wind blows high and the snow falls fast And we hear the wassailers' roar— My Friend and I, with a right good-will We bolt the chamber door: I smile at him and he smiles at me In a dreamy calm profound, Till his heart leaps up in the midst of him With a comfortable sound.

His warm breath kisses my thin gray hair And reddens my ashen cheeks; He knows me better than you all know, Though never a word he speaks:— Knows me as well as some had known Were things—not as things be. But hey, what matters? my Friend and I Are capital company.

At dead of night, when the house is still, He opens his pictures fair: Faces that are, that used to be, And faces that never were: My wife sits sewing beside my hearth, My little ones frolic wild, Though—Lillian 's married these twenty years, And I never had a child.

But hey, what matters? when those who laugh May weep to-morrow, and they Who weep be as those that wept not—all Their tears long wiped away. I shall burn out, like you, my Friend, With a bright warm heart and bold, That flickers up to the last—then drops Into quiet ashes cold.

And when you flicker on me, old Friend, In the old man's elbow-chair, Or—something easier still, where we Lie down, to arise up fair And young, and happy—why then, my Friend, Should other friends ask of me, Tell them I lived and loved and died In the best of all company.

A Valentine

He's a douce wiselike callant—Jim: Of wit aye ready. Cuts aff ane's sentence, 't ither's limb, An' whiles he 's daft and whiles he 's grim, But brains?—wha 's got the like o' him In 's wee bit heidie?

Dear laddie wi' the curlin' hair, Gentlest of ony: That gies kind looks an' speeches fair To dour auld wives as lassies rare,— I ken a score o' lads an' mair, But nane like Johnnie!

And gin ye learn the way to woo, Hae sweethear's mony, O laddie, never say ye loe An' gie fause coin for siller true; A lassie's sair heart 's naething new,— Mind o' that, Johnnie.

An' dinna change your luve sac fast For ilk face bonnie, Lest waefu' want track wilfu' waste, And a' your youthfn' years lang past, Ye get the crookit stick at last, Ochone, puir Johnnie!

But callants baith, tak tent, and when Bright e'en hae won ye, Tak each your jo—and keep her—then Be faithful' as ye 're fond, ye ken, Or—gang your gate like honest men, Young Jim and Johnnie.

Sae when auld Time his crookit claw Sail lay upon ye, When, Jim, your feet that dance sae braw Are no the lightest in the ha', An' a' your curly haffets fa', My winsome Johnnie,—

May each his ain warm ingle view, Cosie as ony: A gudewife sonsie, leal and true, 0' bonnie dochters not a few, An' lads—sic lads as ye're the noo— Dear Jim and Johnnie!

Grace of Clydeside

And sometimes when in the twilight balm The hills grow purple along the Clyde, The waves flow softly and very calm, I hear all nature sing this one psalm, That " heaven's gate ever stands open wide."

So, happy Grace, with your spirit free, Laugh on! life is sweet on the banks of Clyde; This is no blame unto thee or me; Only God saw it could not be, Therefore His heaven stands open wide.

To a Beautiful Woman

tpp|TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.| {smaller} "A daughter of the gods: divinely tall,

And most divinely fair."

>><< URELY, dame Nature made you in some dream Of old-world women—Chriemhild, or bright Aslauga, or Boadicea fierce and fair, Or Berengaria as she rose, her lips Yet ruddy from the poison that anoints Her memory still, the queen of queenly wives.|end=stanza

I marvel, who will crown you wife, you grand And goodly creature! who will mount supreme The empty chariot of your maiden heart, Curb the strong will that leaps and foams and chafes Still masterless, and guide you safely home Unto the golden gate, where quiet sits Grave Matronhood, with gracious, loving eyes.

What eyes you have, you wild gazelle o' the plain, You fierce hind of the forest! now they flash, Now glow, now in their own dark down-dropt shade Conceal themselves a moment, as some thought, Too brief to be a feeling, flits across The April cloudland of your careless soul— There—that light laugh—and 't is full sun—full day. Would I could paint you, line by line, ere Time Touches the gorgeous picture! your ripe mouth,

Your white arched throat, your stature like to Saul's Among his brethren, yet so fitly framed In such harmonious symmetry, we say As of a cedar among common trees Never "How tall!" but only "O how fair!"

Who made you fair? moulded you in the shape That poets dream of; sent you forth to men His caligraph inscribed on every curve Of your brave form?

Mary's Wedding

Your bridemaids—they were our playmates: Those known rooms, every wall, Could speak of our childish frolics, Loves, jealousies, great and small: Do you mind how pansies changed we And smiled at the word "forget"?— 'T was a girl's romance: yet somehow I have kept my pansy yet.

Do you mind our poems written Together? our dreams of fame— And of love—how we 'd share all secrets When that sweet mystery came? It is no mystery now, Mary; It was unveiled, year by year, Till—this is your marriage morning; And I rest quiet here.

I cannot call up your face, Mary, The face of the bride to-day: You have outgrown my knowledge, The years have so slipped away. I see but your girlish likeness, Brown eyes and brown falling hair;— God knows, I did love you dearly, And was proud that you were fair.

Many speak my name, Mary, While yours in home's silence lies:

The future I read in toil's guerdon, You will read in your children's eyes: The past—the same past with either— Is to you a delightsome scene, But I cannot trace it clearly For the graves that rise between.

I am glad you are happy, Mary! These tears, could you see them fall, Would show, though you have forgotten, I have remembered all. And though my cup may be empty While yours is all running o'er, Heaven keep you its sweetness, Mary, Brimming for evermore.

Between Two Worlds

Together as to-night In our light, love, in our light Of reunited joy appears no shade: From this our hope's reached height All things are possible and level made.

Therefore we sit and view— I and you, love, I and you— That wondrous valley o'er southern seas, Where in a country new You will make for me a sweet nest of ease;

Where I, your poor tired bird, (Nothing stirred? Love, nothing stirred?) May fold her wings and be no more distrest: Where troubles may be heard Like outside winds at night which deepen rest.

Where in green pastures wide We 'll abide, love, we 'll abide, And keep content our patriarchal flocks, Till at our aged side Leap our young brown-faced shepherds of the rocks.

Ah, tale that 's easy told! (Hold my hand, love, tighter hold.) What if this face of mine, which you think fair— If it should ne'er grow old, Nor matron cap cover this maiden hair?

What if this silver ring (Loose it clings, love, yet does cling:) Should ne'er be changed for any other? nay, This very hand I fling About your neck should—Hush! to-day's to- day:

To-morrow is—ah, whose? You 'll not lose, love, you 'll not lose This hand I pledged, if never a wife's hand For tender household use Led by yours fearless into a far, far land.

Kiss me and do not grieve; I believe, love, I believe That He who holds the measure of our days, And did thus strangely weave Our opposite lives together, to His praise—

He never will divide Us so wide, love, us so wide: But will, whatever befalls us, clearly show That those in Him allied In life or death are nearer than they know.

Cousin Robert

That name, however wide it rings, I oft think, when alone, I rather would have seen it graved Upon a churchyard stone—

Upon the white sunshining stone Where cousin Alick lies: Ah, sometimes, woe to him that lives! Happy is he that dies!

O Robert, Robert, many a tear— Though not the tears of old— Drops, thinking of your face last night Your hand's remembered fold;

A young man's face, so like, so like Our mothers' faces fair: A young man's hand, so firm to clasp, So resolute to dare.

I thought you good—I wished you great; You were my hope, my pride: To know you good, to make you great I once had happy died.

To tear the plague-spot from your heart, Place honor on your brow, See old age come in crowned peace— I almost would die now!

Would give—all that 's now mine to give— To have you sitting there, The cousin Robert of my youth— Though beggar'd, with gray hair.