TRAILING ARBUTUS.
IN spring, when branches of woodbine
Hung leafless over the rocks,
And the fleecy snow in the hollows
Lay in unshepherded flocks,
By the road where the dead leaves rustled,
Or damply matted the ground,
While over me gurgled the robin
His honeyed passion of sound,
I saw the trailing arbutus
Blooming in modesty sweet,
And gathered store of its richness
Offered and spread at my feet.
It grew under leaves, as if seeking
No hint of itself to disclose,
And out of its pink-white petals
A delicate perfume rose,
As faint as the fond remembrance
Of joy that was only dreamed;
And like a divine suggestion
The scent of the flower seemed.
I had sought for love on the highway,
For love unselfish and pure,
And had found it in good deeds blooming,
Though often in haunts obscure.
Often in leaves by the wayside,
But touched with a heavenly glow,
And with self-sacrifice fragrant,
The flowers of great love grow.
O lovely and lowly arbutus !
As year unto year succeeds,
Be thou the laurel and emblem
Of noble, unselfish deeds.
A FLOWER FROM THE CATSKILLS.
THE orchards that climb the hillsides,
That lie in the valley below,
Are white in the soft May sunshine,
And fragrant with May-day snow.
The violets wakened by April
Their watch in the meadow yet keep,
The golden spurs of the columbine
Are hung where the lichens creep.
Still gleams by the sluggish waters
Some loitering marigold,
Where ferns, late greeting the sunshine,
Their downy green plumes unfold.
And just by the wooded waysides
Faint glows the azalea's blush, —
The dawn of the coming summer,
The morning's awakening flush!
But there where the wind-rent rain-clouds
O'ershadow the Catskills' crest,
There blossoms one flower more precious,
Far sweeter than all the rest.
Where scarcely a leaf has opened,
The promise of summer to give,
Where the lingering winds of winter
For the sleet and the snow-drift grieve,
Where the trees grow scant and stunted,
And scarcely a shadow is cast,
There nestles the trailing arbutus
Close, close to the hill's cold breast.
The storm-winds give to it courage,
The skies give it power to bless,
And it giveth to all its loving
In its happy thankfulness.
Now pink as the lip of the sea-shell,
Now white as the breakers' foam,
It spreadeth its stainless treasure
To brighten its rugged home.
Low trailing amid the mosses
Its delicate blossoms lie, -
Giving the earth its beauty,
Its worship giving the sky.
Though bleak be the home that reared it,
And rough be its lullaby,
Gathering strength from the tempest,
And grace from the fair blue sky,
It waiteth with patient longing,
In the snow's embrace held fast,
Still trusting, with faith unbroken,
The sun to welcome at last, —
To welcome with loving greeting
The soft falling step of spring,
Scarce felt on the northern hill-slopes,
Where the lingering snow-drifts cling;
And faint on the winds up-sweeping
Is wafted its perfume rare,
Like the incense of worship ascending,
The mountains' low, unspoken prayer!
O brave little blossom! still teach us
Through love to be patient and strong,
Though the spring be laggard in coming,
And the days be dark and long.
Like thy bloom by the rude ways scattered,
Each day some life may we bless,
Till our souls, like thy fragrance ascending,
Reach heavenly perfectness.
WHILE o'er my life still hung the morning star,
Dreamy and soft in tender-lighted skies,
While care and sorrow held themselves afar,
And no sad mist of tears had dimmed my eyes,
I saw Love's roses blowing,
With scent and color glowing,
And so I wished for them with longing sighs.
The brightest hung so high, and held aloft
Their crimson faces, passionately bright;
The gay, rich, golden ones escaped me oft,
And hedged with sharpest thorns the lofty white;
From all my eager pleading
They turned away, unheeding;
'Among Love's roses none were mine of right.
Yet, of sweet things, those roses seemed most sweet
And most desirable, until a voice,
Soft as sad music, said, "Lo, at thy feet
A little flower shall make thy heart rejoice."
And so, the voice obeying,
I saw, in beauty straying,
A wealth of heart's-ease, waiting for my choice.
Great purple pansies, each with snowy heart,
And golden ones, with eyes of deepest blue;
Some "freaked with jet," some pure white ones apart,
But all so sweet and fresh with morning dew,
I could not bear to lose them,
I could not help but choose them,
For sweet Content sat singing where they grew.
So, now, Love's roses shake their scented leaves,
But tempt me not to their enchanted quest;
I gather "heart's-ease," set in dewy leaves,
And am content,- for me it is the best.
Be glad if, sweet and glowing,
You find Love's roses blowing-
I sing through life with heart's-ease at my breast.
How strong they are, those subtile spells
That lurk in leaves and flower-bells,
Rising from faint perfumes;
Or, mingling with some olden strain,
Strike through the music shafts of pain,
And people empty rooms.
They come upon us unaware,
In crowded halls and open air,
And in our chambers still;
A song, an odor, or a bird
Evokes the spell and strikes the chord,
And all our pulses thrill.
I wandered but an hour ago,
With lagging footsteps tired and slow,
Along the garden walk;
The summer twilight wrapped me round,
Through open windows came the sound
Of song and pleasant talk.
The odor-stealing dews lay wet
And heavy on the mignonette
That crept about my feet;
Upon the folded mossy vest
That clothed the ruby rose's breast
It fell in droppings sweet.
It fell on beds of purple bloom,
From whence arose the rare perfume
Of dainty heliotrope;
Which smote my heart with sudden power,
My favorite scent, my favorite flower,
In olden days of hope!
Ah, me! the years have come and gone,
Each with its melody or moan,
Since that sunshiny hour,
When, for the sake of hands that brought,
And for the lesson sweet it taught,
I chose it for my flower.
Faint-scented blossoms! Long ago
Your purple clusters came to show
My life had wider scope;
They spoke of love that day-to-night
I stand apart from love's delight,
And wear no heliotrope.
Between to-night and that far day
Lie life's bright noon and twilight gray,-
But I have lived through both;
And if before my paling face
The midnight shadows fall apace,
I see them, nothing loath.
Only to-night that faint perfume
Reminds me of the lonely gloom
Of life outliving hope;
I wish I had been far to-night
What time the dew fell, silver-white,
Upon the heliotrope!
SOME sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose,
And the pansies and pinks that the summer-time throws
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays
Blinkin' up at the skies through the sunshiny days;
But what is the lily and all of the rest
Of the flowers to a man with a heart in his breast
That has dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?
I never set eyes on a clover-field now,
Or fool round a stable, or climb in the mow,
But my childhood comes back, just as clear and as plain As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;
And I wander away in a barefooted dream,
Where I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam
With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love
Ere it wept o'er the graves that I'm weepin' above.
And so I love clover it seems like a part
Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my heart;
And wherever it blossoms, oh, there let me bow,
And thank the good God as I'm thankin' him now;
And I pray to him still for the strength, when I die,
To go out in the clover and tell it good-by,
And lovingly nestle my face in its bloom,
While my soul slips away on a breath of perfume.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
THE VIOLET'S GRAVE.
THE Woodland, and the golden wedge
Of sunshine slipping through;
And there, beside a bit of hedge,
A violet so blue!
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