THE OLD STORY.

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THE OLD STORY.

THE waiting-women wait at her feet,
And the day is fading into the night,
And close at her pillow, and round and sweet,
The red rose burns like a lamp a-light,
And under and over the gray mists fold;

And down and down from the mossy eaves,
And down from the sycamore's long wild leaves
The slow rain droppeth so cold, so cold.

Ah! never had sleeper a sleep so fair;

And the waiting-women that weep around, Have taken the combs from her golden hair, And it slideth over her face to the ground. They have hidden the light from her lovely eyes ; And down from the eaves where the mosses grow The rain is dripping so slow, so slow,

And the night wind cries and cries and cries.

From her hand they have taken the shining ring,

They have brought the linen her shroud to make :

O, the lark she was never so loath to sing,

And the morn she was never so loath to awake!
And at their sewing they hear the rain,

Drip-drop, drip-drop over the eaves,
And drip-drop over the sycamore leaves,
As if there would never be sunshine again.

The mourning train to the grave have gone,

And the waiting women are here and are there, With birds at the windows, and gleams of the sun, Making the chamber of death to be fair.

And under and over the mist unlaps,

And ruby and amethyst burn through the gray, And driest bushes grow green with spray, And the dimpled water its glad hands claps.

The leaves of the sycamore dance and wave,
And the mourners put off the mourning shows;
And over the pathway down to the grave

The long grass blows and blows and blows.
And every drip-drop rounds to a flower,

And love in the heart of the young man springs, And the hands of the maidens shine with rings, As if all life were a festival hour.

BALDER'S WIFE.

HER casement like a watchful eye

From the face of the wall looks down,

Lashed round with ivy vines so dry,

And with ivy leaves so brown.

Her golden head in her lily hand

Like a star in the spray o' th' sea,

And wearily rocking to and fro,
She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.

But let her sing what tune she may,

Never so light and never so gay,

It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

BALDER'S WIFE.

Like some bright honey-hearted rose

That the wild wind rudely mocks,

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She blooms from the dawn to the day's sweet close Hemmed in with a world of rocks.

The livelong night she doth not stir,

But keeps at her casement lorn,

And the skirts of the darkness shine with her

As they shine with the light o' the morn

And all who pass may hear her lay,
But let it be what tune it may,

It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

And there, within that one-eyed tower,
Lashed round with the ivy brown,
She droops like some unpitied flower

That the rain-fall washes down :
The damp o' th' dew in her golden hair,
Her cheek like the spray o' th' sea,

And wearily rocking to and fro

She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.

But let her sing what tune she may,

Never so glad and never so gay,

It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

POEMS OF THOUGHT.

UNDER THE SHADOW.

My sorrowing friend, arise and go
About thy house with patient care ;
The hand that bows thy head so low
Will bear the ills thou canst not bear.

Arise, and all thy tasks fulfill,

And as thy day thy strength shall be ; Were there no power beyond the ill,

The ill could not have come to thee.

Though cloud and storm encompass thee,
Be not afflicted nor afraid ;

Thou knowest the shadow could not be
Were there no sun beyond the shade.

For thy beloved, dead and gone,

Let sweet, not bitter, tears be shed;

Nor "open thy dark saying on

The harp," as though thy faith were dead.

Couldst thou even have them reappear

In bodies plain to mortal sense,

How were the miracle more clear

To bring them than to take them hence?

UNDER THE SHADOW.

Then let thy soul cry in thee thus

No more, nor let thine eyes thus weep; Nothing can be withdrawn from us

That we have any need to keep.

Arise, and seek some height to gain
From life's dark lesson day by day,
Nor just rehearse its peace and pain —
A wearied actor at the play.

Nor grieve that will so much transcends
Thy feeble powers, but in content
Do what thou canst, and leave the ends
And issues with the Omnipotent.

Dust as thou art, and born to woe,
Seeing darkly, and as through a glass,
He made thee thus to be, for lo!

He made the grass, and flower of grass.

The tempest's cry, the thunder's moan,
The waste of waters, wild and dim,
The still small voice thou hear'st alone
All, all alike interpret Him.

Arise, my friend, and go about

Thy darkened house with cheerful feet;

Yield not one jot to fear nor doubt,
But, baffled, broken, still repeat:

""Tis mine to work, and not to win ;

The soul must wait to have her wings;

Even time is but a landmark in

The great eternity of things.

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