POEMS

by

"Josiah Allen's Wife," (Marietta Holley)

DEDICATION.

When I wrote many of these verses I was much younger than I am now, and the "sweetest eyes in the world" would brighten over them, through the reader's love for me. I dedicate them to her memory —the memory of MY MOTHER.

Contents

WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER? THE BROTHERS A RICH MAN'S REVERIE GLORIA THE TRUE THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER SONGS OF THE SWALLOW THE COQUETTE LITTLE NELL THE FISHER'S WIFE THE LAND OF LONG AGO LEMOINE SLEEP THE LADY MAUD THE HAUNTED CASTLE THE STORY OF GLADYS FAREWELL THE KNIGHT OF NORMANDY SOMETIME MOTIVES NIGHTFALL HIS PLACE A DREAM OF SPRING WAITING A SONG FOR TWILIGHT THE FLIGHT COMFORT JENNY ALLEN THE UNSEEN CITY THE WAGES OF SIN ISABELLE AND I GOOD-BY THE SEA-CAPTAIN'S WOOING IONE SUMMER DAYS THE LADY CECILE HOME STEPS WE CLIMB SQUIRE PERCY'S PRIDE ROSES OF JUNE MAGDALENA MY ANGEL GRIEF WILD OATS AUTUMN THE FAIREST LAND THE MESSENGER SLEEP THE SONG OF THE SIREN EIGHTEEN SIXTY-TWO AWEARY TOO LOW AT LAST TWILIGHT THE SEWING-GIRL HARRY THE FIRST THE CRIMINAL'S BETROTHED GONE BEFORE A WOMAN'S HEART WARNING GENIEVE TO HER LOVER THE WILD ROSE OUR BIRD THE TIME THAT IS TO BE

PREFACE.

All through my busy years of prose writing I have occasionally jotted down idle thoughts in rhyme. Imagining ideal scenes, ideal characters, and then, as is the way, I suppose, with more ambitious poets, trying to put myself inside the personalities I have invoked, trying to feel as they would be likely to, speak the words I fancied they would say.

The many faults of my verses I can see only too well; their merits, if they have any, I leave with the public—which has always been so kind to me—to discover.

And half-hopefully, half-fearfully, I send out the little craft on the wide sea strewn with so many wrecks. But thinking it must be safer from adverse winds because it carries so low a sail, and will cruise along so close to the shore and not try to sail out in the deep waters.

And so I bid the dear little wanderer (dear to me), God-speed, and bon voyage.

Marietta Holley.

New York, June, 1887.

WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?

It is not the lark's clear tone Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry, Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night— Not these alone Make the sweet sounds of summer; But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight— These help to make the summer.

Not roses redly blown, Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads, Nor proud imperial pansies, nor queen-cups quaint and rare— Not these alone Make the sweet sights of summer But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds And slender grasses, springing up everywhere— These help to make the summer.

One heaven bends above; The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest; O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low, Is the same love, it is all God's summer; Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best, So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow, You help to make the summer.

THE BROTHERS.

High on a rocky cliff did once a gray old castle stand, From whence rough-bearded chieftains led their vassals—ruled the land. For centuries had dwelt here sire and son, till it befell, Last of their ancient line, two brothers here alone did dwell.

The eldest was stern-visaged, but the youngest smooth and fair Of countenance; both zealous, men who bent the knee in prayer To God alone; loved much, read much His holy word, And prayed above all gifts desired, that they might see their Lord.

For this the elder brother carved a silent cell of stone, And in its deep and dreary depths he entered, dwelt alone, And strove with scourgings, vigils, fasts, to purify his gaze, And sought amidst these shadows to behold the Master's face.

And from the love of God that smiles on us from bright lipped flowers, And from the smile of God that falls in sunlight's golden showers, That thrills earth's slumbering heart so, where its warm rays fall That it laughs out in beauty, turned he as from tempters all.

From bird-song running morn's sweet-scented chalice o'er with cheer, The child's light laughter, lifting lowliest souls heaven near, From tears and glad smiles, linked light and gloom of the golden day, He counting these temptations all, austerely turned away.

And thus he lived alone, unblest, and died unblest, alone, Save for a brother monk, who held the carved cross of stone In his cold, rigid clasp, the while his dying eyes did wear A look of mortal striving, mortal agony, and prayer.

Though at the very last, as his stiff fingers dropped the cross, A gleam as from some distant city swept his face across, The clay lips settled into calm—thus did the monk attest, A look of one who through much peril enters into rest.

Not thus did he, the younger brother, seek the Master's face; But in earth's lowly places did he strive his steps to trace, Wherever want and grief besought with clamorous complaint, There he beheld his Lord—naked, athirst, and faint.

And when his hand was wet with tears, wrung with a grateful grasp, He lightly felt upon his palm the Elder Brother's clasp; And when above the loathsome couch of woe and want bent he, A low voice thrilled his soul, "So have ye done it unto Me."

Despised he not the mystic ties of blood, yet did he claim The broader, wider brotherhood, with every race and name; To his own kin he kind and loyal was in truth, yet still, His mother and his brethren were all who did God's will

All little ones were dear to him, for light from Paradise Seemed falling on him through their pure and innocent eyes; The very flowers that fringed cool streams, and gemmed the dewy sod, To his rapt vision seemed like the visible smiles of God.