I see not a step before me, For perhaps the dreaded future Has less bitter than I think; He will stand beside its brink. It may be he keeps waiting Till the coming of my feet Some gift of such rare blessedness, Some joy so strangely sweet, That my lips shall only tremble With the thanks they cannot speak. O restful, blissful ignorance! 'T is blessed not to know, On the bosom which loves me so! So I go on not knowing; I would not if I might; As tired of sin as any child When just for very weariness And looking upward to thy face, I pray thee turn me not away, And yet the spirit in my heart Says, Wherefore should I pray That thou shouldst seek me with thy love, Since thou dost seek alway; And dost not even wait until I urge my steps to thee; But in the darkness of my life Art coming still to me? I would rather walk in the dark with I pray not, then, because I would; God, pray because I must; There is no meaning in my prayer But thankfulness and trust. I would not have thee otherwise But still thy love will beckon me, And bring me to my home. And thou wilt hear the thought I mean, And not the words I say; Wilt hear the thanks among the words As if thou wert not always good, For, if I ever doubted thee, How could I any more! And the great sky, the royal heaven | There came no murmur from the streams, Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, and Quair. above, Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love; While far remote, Just where the sunlight smites the woods with fire, Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir; Their innocent love's desire The days hold on their wonted pace, While women keep the House of Quair. And one is clad in widow's weeds, Poured in a rill of song from each har-And day by day they seek the paths monious throat. Shakespeare consoles My heart with true philosophies; a balm Of spiritual dews from humbler song or psalm Fills me with tender calm, Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep thunder rolls! And more than all, o'er shattered wrecks of Fate, The relics of a happier time and state, My nobler life Shines on unquenched! O deathless love that lies In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes! Joy waneth! Fortune flies! What then? Thou still art here, soul of my soul, my Wife! ISA CRAIG KNOX. BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR. A STILLNESS crept about the house, The peacock on the terrace screamed; Browsed on the lawn the timid hare; The great trees grew i' the avenue, Calm by the sheltered House of Quair. The pool was still; around its brim The alders sickened all the air; About the lonely fields of Quair. The maiden loves in pensive dreams To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. Within, in pall-black velvet clad, Sits stately in her oaken chair Her daughter broiders by her side, "Ill fare the brides that come to Quai "For more than one hath lived in pine, And more than one hath died of care, And more than one hath sorely sinned, Left lonely in the House of Quair. "Alas! and ere thy father died I had not in his heart a share, And now-may God forfend her illThy brother brings his bride to Quair.” She came; they kissed her in the hall, They kissed her on the winding stair, They led her to the chamber high, The fairest in the House of Quair. SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the At times a fragrant breeze comes floating air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns In the deep heart of every forest tree And there's a look about the leafless As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Save where the maple reddens on the Flushed by the season's dawn; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The brown of autumn corn. by, And brings, you know not why, Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce If from a beech's heart, A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, "Behold me! I am May!" WALTER F. MITCHELL. [U. s. A.] TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. THE weather-leech of the topsail shivers, slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squallcloud blacken. The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, Open one point on the weather-bow, As yet the turf is dark, although you There's a shade of doubt on the captain's know brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead. I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye The ship bends lower before the breeze, It is silence all, as each in his place, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, And the light on Fire Island Head draws | What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? I steady the helm for the open sea; The first mate clamors, "Belay there, all!" And the captain's breath once more comes free. And so off shore let the good ship fly; Little care I how the gusts may blow, my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, Eight bells have struck, and my watch is In below. HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. [U. s. A.] HEREAFTER. LOVE, when all these years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast, When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us, And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed, Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth, Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth; Fragrance fanning off from flowers, Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn hearth. melody of summer showers, That's our love. But you and I, dear, -shall we linger with it yet, Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net, On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the blossom, Stream on sunset winds and be the haze with which some hill is wet? Or, beloved, if ascending, when we have endowed the world With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be whirled, Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful holy places, With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled? |