It is the year's high noon, The earth sweet incense yields, And o'er the fresh, green fields Bends the clear sky of June.
I leave the crowded streets, The hum of busy life, Its clamor and its strife, To breathe thy perfumed sweets.
O rare and golden hours!
The bird's melodious song, Wavelike, is borne along Upon a strand of flowers.
I wander far away, Where, through the forest trees, Sports the cool summer breeze, In wild and wanton play.
A patriarchal elm Its stately form uprears, Which twice a hundred years Has ruled this woodland realm.
I sit beneath its shade, And watch, with careless eye, The brook that babbles by, And cools the leafy glade.
In truth I wonder not, That in the ancient days The temples of God's praise Were grove and leafy grot.
The noblest ever planned, With quaint device and rare, By man, can ill compare With these from God's own hand.
Pilgrim with way-worn feet, Who, treading life's dull round, No true repose hast found, Come to this green retreat.
For bird, and flower, and tree, Green fields, and woodland wild, Shall bear, with voices mild, Sweet messages to thee.
JUNE.
Throw open wide your golden gates, O poet-landed month of June, And waft me, on your spicy breath, The melody of birds in tune.
O fairest palace of the three, Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway, I gaze upon your leafy courts From out the vestibule of May.
I fain would tread your garden walks, Or in your shady bowers recline;Then open wide your golden gates, And make them mine, and make them mine.
LITTLE CHARLIE.
A VIOLET grew by the river-side, And gladdened all hearts with its bloom;While over the fields, on the scented air, It breathed a rich perfume.
But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky, And its portals were opened wide;And the heavy rain beat down the flower That grew by the river-side.
Not far away in a pleasant home, There lived a little boy, Whose cheerful face and childish grace Filled every heart with joy.
He wandered one day to the river's verge, With no one near to save;And the heart that we loved with a boundless love Was stilled in the restless wave.
The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes, And we bade farewell to joy;For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie To the grave of the little boy.
The birds still sing in the leafy tree That shadows the open door;We heed them not, for we think of the voice That we shall hear no more.
We think of him at eventide, And gaze on his vacant chair With a longing heart that will scarce believe That Charlie is not there.
We seem to hear his ringing laugh, And his bounding step at the door;But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought, We shall never hear them more!
We shall walk sometimes to his little grave, In the pleasant summer hours;We will speak his name in a softened voice, And cover his grave with flowers;We will think of him in his heavenly home,--In his heavenly home so fair;
And we will trust with a hopeful trust That we shall meet him there.
THE WHIPPOORWILL AND I.
IN the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still, I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill, Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill, Of which the sole burden is still, "Whip-poor-Will."And why should I whip him? Strange visitant, Has he been playing truant this long summer day?
I listened a moment; more clear and more shrill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more;I'll whip him, don't fear, if you'll tell me what for.
I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day, And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away?
I paused for an answer; o'er valley and hill Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, "Whip-poor-Will."Well, well, I can hear you, don't have any fears, I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill, Still made but one answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain;I'm out of all patience, don't mock me again.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill, Still made the same answer, and that, "Whip-poor-Will."Well, have your own way, then; but if you won't tell, I'll shut down the window, and bid you farewell;But of one thing be sure, I won't whip him until You give me some reason for whipping poor Will.
I listened a moment, as if for reply, But nothing was heard but the bird's mocking cry.
I caught the faint echo from valley and hill;It breathed the same burden, that strange "Whip-poor-Will."CARVING A NAME.
I wrote my name upon the sand, And trusted it would stand for aye;But, soon, alas! the refluent sea Had washed my feeble lines away.
I carved my name upon the wood, And, after years, returned again;I missed the shadow of the tree That stretched of old upon the plain.
To solid marble next, my name I gave as a perpetual trust;An earthquake rent it to its base, And now it lies, o'erlaid with dust.
All these have failed. In wiser mood I turn and ask myself, "What then?"If I would have my name endure, I'll write it on the hearts of men, In characters of living light, Of kindly deeds and actions wrought.
And these, beyond the touch of time, Shall live immortal as my thought.
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IN TIME OF WAR.
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GONE TO THE WAR.
My Charlie has gone to the war, My Charlie so brave and tall;He left his plough in the furrow, And flew at his country's call.
May God in safety keep him,--
My precious boy--my all!
My heart is pining to see him;
I miss him every day;
My heart is weary with waiting, And sick of the long delay,--But I know his country needs him, And I could not bid him stay.
I remember how his face flushed, And how his color came, When the flash from the guns of Sumter Lit the whole land with flame, And darkened our country's banner With the crimson hue of shame.
"Mother," he said, then faltered,--
I felt his mute appeal;
I paused-- if you are a mother, You know what mothers feel, When called to yield their dear ones To the cruel bullet and steel.
