Ah me, what woeful phantoms rise, With ice-cold hands and pitiless eyes, As stars grow out of the summer skies, Tangible things to mortal sight, Under the hands of the wizard Night!

Night! the mystical prophet, Night!

The haunted and awful Night!

With the trail of his garment's shadowy fall, Soundless and black as a funeral pall, Now enters his dread laboratory.

A wan, and faint, and wavering glory Shines from a veiled lamp somewhere hidden.

Like a lily in a grave: And things unholy, and things forbidden,-- Hands that have long been the earth-worm's prey, And shrouded faces out of the clay.

Rise and fill the enchanted cave With a pale and deathly light,-- The haunted and awful Night!

Night! the abhorred magician Night!

The black astrologer Night!

Night is the world!--I shiver with fright:-- The air is full of evil things, The coil and glitter of snaky rings, And, the tremor of vast invisible wings, That are not heard but felt: They touch my hair, my hand, my cheek, They mope and mouth, but they never speak To utter their awful history.

Oh, when will the darkness break and melt, Like blocks of ice on a golden reef, And little by little, as leaf by leaf, In light and color and form increased, The rose of morning blooms in the east,-- The old yet ever new mystery!

And I fall on my knees to worship the light That casts out the evil demon of Night, And hallows with blossoms, like prayers, the way Of another new day.

A MONODY

On the early and lamented death of George and Maggie Rosseaux, brother and sister, who died within one week of each other in the autumn of 1875. Young, beautiful and beloved, they were indeed lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided.

Pace slowly, black horses, step stately and solemn-- One by one--two by two--stretches out the long column; Pa.s.s on with your burden, the sound of our tears Will not reach the deaf ears.

Beneath the black shadow of funeral arches, Stepping slow to the rhythm of funeral marches; Pa.s.s on down the street where their steps were so gay, And so light, yesterday.

Where it seems if we turn we shall clasp them and hold them, Our hands shall embrace--and our eyes shall behold them,-- So near are the confines of hither, and yonder,-- So world-wide asunder!

Oh, lovers and friends! ye were youth and glad weather, And beauty and strength, and all bright things together, With the smile on your lips, and the flower at your breast Have ye gone to your rest.

The dull lives of others move on, while the splendid Beginnings of yours are all broken and ended, The high hopes, the bright dreams, and youth's confident trust, Gone down to the dust.

Step slowly, black steeds, at the head of the column, Breathe softly, dead marches, so mournfully solemn; Ye bear from our sight what no morn shall restore Nevermore, nevermore.

Oh, beloved--oh, wept for!--beyond the dark river Are the lives incomplete, there made perfect forever?

Oh, wave but a hand through the darkness, to tell It is well with ye--well.

Profound is the darkness--the silence unbroken-- No glimmer of pale hatreds comes back as a token: Yet still in our hearts we have heard the words spoken:-- "He hath overcome death--He hath pa.s.sed through the grave-- He is able to save."

MINNIE

"_And Jesu called a little child unto him_."

MATT. xviii. 2.

Oh, my blossom, my darling, whose dimpled hands are cold!

Oh, my baby, my treasure, laid under the green mould!

Earth pressed on thy closed eyelids, and on thy sunny hair, And folded hands, and smiling lips, so exquisitely fair.

Cold and dark are the night dews around thy gra.s.sy bed, Instead of warm and loving arms beneath thy sunny head; Oh, my blossom, my darling, the long nights through, awake, I stretch my empty arms for thee,--my heart--my heart will break.

The autumn leaves are falling ungathered on the hill, The soft October sun is bright, but the little hands are still; And the little feet that chased them as frolicksome and light, Have lain beneath them--can it be?--a whole day and a night.

The autumn winds will sigh and moan; the dreary, dreary rain Will drench thy lowly pillow, sweet, with tears like mine in vain; And weary, weary months drag on, and long years stretch before, Whilst thou to me, my beautiful, returnest nevermore.

Beyond our earthly vision--beyond the burial sod, Where the palm trees and the amaranths grow on the hills of G.o.d, Oh, golden gates, that stand within the holy, heavenly place, Open for me but a little, that I may behold her face.

Open for me but a little, that I may touch her hand, And hear her sing the hymn she loved about "The Promised Land."

Oh, my blossom! Oh, my darling! though it be but in a dream, Speak to me,--I watch--I listen,--speak to me across the stream.

Kneeling--praying at the threshold--day and night, and night and day, When I rise with heavy eyelids--when I kneel at night to pray-- Still I wait to catch the far-off music of they starry hymn, Till I hear the voice that called thee bid me rise and enter in.

THE GOLDEN WEDDING.

Inscribed to OUR FATHER AND MOTHER, and read on that Anniversary, FEBRUARY 15TH, 1876.

A half a century of time, The mingled pain and bliss That make the history of life Between that day and this; Two lives that in that morning light, Together were made one, Now standing where the shadows fall Athwart the setting sun.

How long it seems!--the devious way.

And full of toil and pain,-- Yet love and peace kept house with them, And love and peace remain.

Though youth and strength and youthful friends Were left upon the road Long since, an honest man is still The n.o.blest work of G.o.d.

No famous deeds, no acts achieved In battle or in state Make memorable this festal day, The day we celebrate: Divided from the common lot By neither tame nor pelf, Our hearts revere the man who loves His neighbour as himself.

The fragrance of the Christian's life, Though humble and unknown, Is a more precious heritage Than heirship to a throne.

That lowly roof--what memories Of blessings cl.u.s.ter there, Around the hearthstone consecrate By fifty years of prayer!

The shaded lamp, the cheerful fire, Our Mother's patient look, The firelight on her silver hair, And on the Holy Book;-- Where e'er our erring feet may stray, The welcome waits the same,-- That light, that look will follow still, And soften and reclaim.

Type of the Fatherhood of G.o.d, Whose love has kept us still, In all the changeful scenes of life Secure from every ill, And brought our long-divided band, Not one of us astray, Around our Father's board to keep This Golden Wedding Day.

Oh ye beloved and revered!

Our hearts make thankful prayer, That still around our household hearth There is no vacant chair.

G.o.d grant that we may be of those Who sing the heavenly psalm, And sit together at the feast, The marriage of the Lamb!

VERSES WRITTEN IN MARY'S ALb.u.m.

In your beautiful book, dear Mary, With pages so white and fair, I pause ere I trace the first sentence, And thoughtfully breathe a prayer:--

That in the dew of the morning, Ere the shadows begin to fall, You may turn with a child's devotion To the Book that is best of all:--