Rhymes in Many Moods

I.

April.

(TO A VERY YOUNG GIRL.)

“ In their bloomless bud
And full of unknown life.” SHE smiles, an April violet,
Amid her clustering sisters blue ;
Their heads with pearly rain are wet,
Their modest heads hide shyly, yet Drop perfumed dew.

No glow of summer tints their days,
But brooding moisture fills the sky. Hope glides above their veilèd ways ;
The world doth neither blame nor praise
Their April eyes.

I long not for their rosy prime,
Their tender coolness seems so sweet;
Though winds blow soft through flowerless lime,
A prophecy of summer time
Floats round their feet.

Perfected beauty brings regret ;
Fulfillment shortens its sweet breath ;
The winds the blossoming roses fret, —
June lily, April violet,
Fall dim in death.

But when each blooms a summer rose
And wears her queenly diadem,
And lovers tell her of their woes,
And shaken by each wind that blows
Trembles each stem,

Then will I think on this fair day,
And their young beauty shyly set,
Yet full of promise, and I may
Say gently, “Farewell, April day,
Farewell, dear violet.”

Emily E. Ford.

II.

Avril.

LA neige fond partout; plus de sombre avalanche !
Le soleil se prodigue en traits plus éclatants ;
La sève perce I’arbre en bourgeons palpitants,
Qui feront sous les fruits, plus tard, plier la branche.

Un vent plus doux succède aux farouches autans;
L’hirondelle est encor là-bas; mais en revanche,
Des milliers d’oiseaux blancs couvrent la plaine blanche
Et de leurs cris aigus appellent le printemps.

Sous sa féconde effluve il faut que tout renaisse!
Avril c’est le réveil; avril c’est la jenuesse !
Mais quand la poésie ajoute : mois des fleurs,

Avouez avec moi, — vous que trempe l’averse,
Qu’eutraîne la débâcle, ou qu’un glacon renverse, —
Que les poëtes sont d’aimables persifleurs.

Louis H. Fréchette.

III.

Daisy’s Fortune-Telling.

“ ONE, I love,” — yes, daisy, love him well. “ Two, I love,” — a love too deep to tell;
“ Three,” and a thousand times I whisper o’er
The dearest name fond lips may utter ; — “ Four.”

Five is another, — “ five, I cast away; ”
Tell me of one, —but one, O daisy, pray. “ Six, he loves.” He loves ? then why not speak it ?
“ Seven, she loves,” — a fond love, will he
seek it ?
“ Eight,” both. Ah, daisy, flatterer, human-wise,
You read your sweet foretelling in my
eyes!
“ Nine, he comes.” I hear a footstep now;
I drop the daisy, while my heart beats low,
Lest it should drown the music of his
tread. I ’ll wear a daisy wreath upon my head
For “ ten, eleven, twelve,” and then we wed.

E. M. Bacon.

IV.

Presentiment.

WITH the morning light,
With the noontide bright,
There cometh a sense of ill;
In the dead'of night,
In the moonlight white,
It haunts like a spectre still.

Through the doors of the heart,
By some unknown art,
It steals with a noiseless tread;
And a nameless fear,
With its visage drear,
Peers after the spectre dread.

V.

Loves.

“ Now tell me, dear, of all the loves
Have lived within your breast,
Of all the loves of your whole life,
Which have you loved the best ?

“ The first, that came when the young heart
Was strong with youth’s desire,
The passion that was pain in part,
Quick change of frost and fire ;
Or the swift fancy somewhere caught
In crowded city’s street;
In land of palm or pine, inwrought
With dreams both great and sweet;
A face that followed, went before
In misty light,
Haunting the heart forevermore
By day and night ?

“ Or do you hold as best the love
Which Fate for healing brings,
The quiet folding of the dove
After the restless wings, — The love far sought, that yet was near,
A home of peace and rest ?
Of all your loves, now tell me, dear,
Which have you loved the best ?”

He looked into the wasting west,
Across a purple field of sea ;
“ Of all my loves, I’ve loved the best
The one that — loved not me —
Ah me ! ”

Juliet C. Marsh.

VI.

Fleeting Youth.

WITH my senses still keen to all pleasures and pains,
With a life-gladdening tide flowing full in my veins,
I call unto youth ere’t is fled,
Implore ere I mourn it as dead :
Life’s morning, I fain would detain thee ;
Detaining, forever retain thee !

For I know that the years will yet bring unto me
A time when all bliss shall in memory be,—
When I yearn for the days that are fled,
When I sigh for the youth that is dead. O Life, should there be no hereafter,
Thou wert vain as an echo of laughter!

Sylvester Baxter,

VII.

Good-Morrow and Good-Night.

As I go to dream of thee,
Thou, ten thousand miles away,
Wak’st from dreams — perchance of me —
To another day. May that day be fair and bright!
Love, good-morrow and good-night!

John Boit.

VIII.

Betrothal.

MY life, till these rich hours of precious gage,
Was like that drowsy palace, vine-o’er-grown,
Where down long shadowy corridors lay strown
The slumbering shapes of seneschal or page ;
Where griffin-crested oriels, dim with age,
Viewed briery terraces and lawns unmown ;
And where, from solemn towers of massive stone,
Drooped the dull silks of moldering bannerage!

But now the enchanted halls break sleep’s control,
With murmurous change, at fate’s predestined stroke. . . .
And while my fluttering pulses throb or fail,
I feel, in some deep silence of my soul,
New, strange delight awakening, as awoke
The princess in the immortal fairytale !

Edgar Fawcett.

IX.

Archery

WHEN evening’s banner, fringed with gold,
Droops wide and cool its shadowy fold,
Young men and maidens fair to see
Come trooping round the gray beech-tree. The sun’s last arrows, vainly spent,
Are lost beneath this leafy tent;
The pale young moon hangs dim and low,
Her fading gleam a silver bow ;
And slowly up the southern skies
The hunter rides, whose starry eyes
Have watched love roses come and go
Many a thousand years ago, —
His glittering shaft drawn keen and bright
Against the gloomy wall of night.

The true cord holds the how it bends,
And graceful yields to strength it lends,
And hums a soft æolian air. The orange bough, though sapless, bare,
Yet thrills to thoughts of bridal booms,
And loving eyes in festal rooms,
And wedding bells heard high and free
Above the slow song of the sea.

0 happy feet, that lightly came
Within the magic of this game. The tender glance, the glowing cheek,
Are signs of hopes he dares not speak,
And knotted tresses, backward flung,
Are tangling nets when hearts are young.

0 maiden! sighting shining rings,
About thee flits, on airy wings,
An unseen archer, crowned with flowers
That hold the dew of morning hours !
Take care, take care ! his dimpled hands
Hide fetters strong as brazen bands ;
And the shining rings he holds up to thee
Are the golden links of thy destiny.

Susan E. Wallace.

X.

Two Views of It.

BEFOUE the daybreak, in the murky night,
My chanticleer, half dreaming, sees the light
Stream from my window on his perch below,
And, taking it for dawn, he needs must crow.

Wakeful and sad I shut my book, and smile
To think my lonely vigil should beguile
The silly fowl. Alas, I find no ray
Within my lamp or heart of dawning day.

C. P. Cranch.

XI.

Be like the Sun.

BE like the sun, that pours it ray
To glad and glorify the day.

Be like the moon, that sheds its light
To bless and beautify the night.

Be like the stars, that sparkle on,
Although the sun and moon be gone.

Bo like the skies, that steadfast are,
Though absent sun and moon and star.

Caroline A. Mason.