Whose faith compelled the sun,
To yield their halos for my sake,
And saw through Time's obscuring bars
The Parmese master's glory break!
That year? Yes, doubtless I remember still,—
Though why take count of every wind that blows!
'Twas plain, men said, that Fortune used me ill
That year, the self-same year I met with Rose.
Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, treasure, land,
Slipped from my hold-thus Plenty comes and goes.
One friend I had, but he too loosed his hand
(Or was it I?) the year I met with Rose.
There was a war, methinks; some rumor, too,
Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows;
Things went awry. My rivals, straight in view,
Throve, spite of all; but I,-I met with Rose !
That year my white-faced Alma pined and died:
Some trouble vexed her quiet heart,-who knows?
Not I, who scarcely missed her from my side,
Or aught else gone, the year I met with Rose.
Was there no more? Yes, that year life began:
All life before a dream, false joys, light woes,—
All after-life compressed within the span
Of that one year, the year I met with Rose!
When the bright lamp is carried in,
The sunless hours again begin;
O'er all without, in field and lane,
The haunted night returns again.
Now we behold the embers flee
About the fire-lit hearth; and see
Our faces painted as we pass,
Like pictures, on the window-glass.
Must we to bed indeed? Well then,
Let us arise and go like men,
And face with an undaunted tread
The long black passage up to bed.
Farewell, O brother, sister, sire!
O pleasant party round the fire!
The songs you sing, the tales you tell,
Till far to-morrow, fare ye well!
All around the house is the jet-black night;
It stares through the window-pane;
It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light,
And it moves with the moving flame.
Now my heart goes a-beating like a drum,
With the breath of the Bogie in my hair;
And all around the candle the crooked shadows come, And go marching along up the stair.
The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp. The shadow of the child that goes to bed
All the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp, With the black night overhead.
Last, to the chamber where I lie
My fearful footsteps patter nigh,
And come from out the cold and gloom
Into my warm and cheerful room.
There, safe arrived, we turn about
To keep the coming shadows out,
And close the happy door at last
On all the perils that we past.
Then, when mamma goes by to bed,
She shall come in with tip-toe tread,
And see me lying warm and fast
And in the land of Nod at last.
Elizabeth Bale and
THE CHIMNEY-SWALLOW'S IDYL.
From where I built the nest for my first young
In the high chimney of this ancient house
I saw the household fires burn and go down,
And knew what was and is forever gone.
My dusky, swift-winged fledgelings, flying far
To seek their mates in clustered eaves or towers,
Would linger not to learn what I have learned,
Soaring through air or steering over sea.
These single, solitary walls must fade;
But I return, inhabiting my nest-
A little simple bird,—which still survives
The noble souls now banished from this hearth;
And none are here besides but she who shares
My life, and pensive vigil holds with me.
No longer does she mourn; she lives serene;
I see her mother's beauty in her face,
I see her father's quiet pride and power,
The linked traits and traces of her race;
Her brothers dying, like strong sapling trees
Hewn down by violent blows prone in dense woods,
Covered with aged boughs, decaying slow.
She muses thus: "Beauty once more abides;
"The rude alarm of death, its wild amaze
"Is over now. The chance of change has passed; "No doubtful hopes are mine, no restless dread,
"No last word to be spoken, kiss to give
"And take in passion's agony and end.
"They cannot come to me, but in good time
“I shall rejoin my silent company,
"And melt among them, as the sunset clouds
"Melt in gray spaces of the coming night."
So she holds dear as I this tranquil spot,
And all the flowers that blow, and maze of green,
The meadows daisy-full, or brown and sear;
The shore which bounds the waves I love to skim
And dash my purple wings against the breeze.
When breaks the day I twitter loud and long,
To make her rise and watch the vigorous sun
Come from his sea-bed in the weltering deep,
And smell the dewy grass, still rank with sleep.
I hover through the twilight round her eaves,
And dart above, before her, in her path,
Till, with a smile, she gives me all her mind;
And in the deep of night, lest she be sad
In sleepless thought, I stir me in my nest,
And murmur as I murmur to my young;
She makes no answer, but I know she hears;
And all the cherished pictures in her thoughts
Grow bright because of me, her swallow friend!
To you, my comrades, whether far or near,
I send this message. Let our past revive;
Come, sound reveillé to our hearts once more.
Expecting, I shall wait till at my door
I see you enter, each and every one
Tumultuous, eager all, with clamorous speech
To hide my stammering welcome and my tears.
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