Class jmM^J- Book JX±±E2 OopiglrtW- 1112- COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. Evening Bells By GEORGE ALBERT SMITH With Life Pictures Selected by his Daughter Maralene ^ 5 3 ) } '-, I ' ' 3 5 ' I ) , , , > ) J )),:» CINCINNATI Printed for the Author by Jennings and Pye E / °i ?_ I THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Two Copies Received APR 13 1 903 Copyright Entry CLASS a/ XXc No COPY i. .AHt E CoFYRIGHTj 1902, BY George Albert Smith. All Rights Reserved. • • • ■ « • .& Tit nig irar warn Whose Patient Ministry has Made this Work Possible, the Volume is Affectionately Inscribed. — The Author. PREFACE. 7HB following pages, gentle reader, are wholly a work of love. From childhood the realm of the Beautiful and True has been for us an en- chanted land, and the spirit's zving-beats against the cage of earthly limitations have been constantly pleading for an open door to come and speak with you; and when kind fortune gave us the leisure we entered upon it with all the joy of a deferred birth- right. In this book we have touched life's golden morn- ing, its stern mid- day, and its pensive evening as best we could. And now, as we write "Finis" upon the last white leaf sitting here in this quiet home where kindred spirits and a magnetic nourishing silence have so helped us in making our report to kindred souls, there comes to us an inexpressible loneliness at the thought of going from it to the critical judgments of men. *But we know the Amer- ican public is generous to beginners, hoping some- thing better may come with the chastenings of ex- perience. We can not brace our courage by reference to previous authorship, for this is our first offering. 7 8 Preface. We wish, of coarse, the little waif might live; but should the bufferings of Time prove too severe, our . own compensation is already quite complete in the enlargement of soul that has come from the writ- ing, and human life will henceforth have for us a deeper meaning for our rambles here through its troubled realm. The Author. CONTENTS. Page Address to the Ocean, in behalf of a sick child, 101 Acknowledging a Gift, 112 Anna L,ee, 176 A Father Gone, 67 An Order for a Picture, 204 A Song for Young People, 18 r A Child Again, 226 A November Birthday, 71 A Varied Ministry, 68 A Misconception, 187 Answered, 157 A Daughter's Wedding Anniversary, 221 Answer to a Child's Wish, 54 A Caution, 166 A Woman is a World Unknown, in Alone in the World, 178 Bride Roses, 148 Baby Dead, 162 Burning IyOve Letters, 116 Birds, 45 Clearer Vision, 98 Childless, 82 Closed Byes, 38 Dreams, 94 Daisies, 56 Dorcas, 158 9 io Contents. Page Ennui, • • • 22 7 Eva McConnell, - 215 Friendship, 120 Fifty Sweet Years with Jesus, 219 Furnace Fires, 223 Grandmother, 231 Good Times, 179 George Albert Smith, 230 Her Reasons, 134 Heart Telegraphy, 220 Hail and Farewell to the Centuries Parting, 232 I Would Come Nearer Thee, 189 Life Its Own Reporter, 188 IvOSS, 113 Light, 32 Lonesome, 124 Love Not the World, 70 Little Paul, 169 Liberty, i.53 Love Asleep, 147 Lies, 150 Lessons of the Flowers, " 123 My Little Playmate, 65 My Faithful Bruno, 154 Mothered, 137 Monument Mountain, 139 My Hymn, • 242 Moses the Man of God, . 59 My Country, 7 6 My Soul's Evening Hymn, 104 Nature's Plan, 103 Nature, • 17 Our Twenty-fifth Wedding Anniversary, 193 Our Desire to See Power Exerted, 196 Contents. u Page On the Mountain, 81 Poet of Childhood, 163 Photograph of a Beautiful Child, 210 Roses in a Sick-room, 115 Reflection, 184 Snow, 24 Smiles, 14° Stars, 157 Silent, " 125 Sunset, 236 Shadows, :. 209 Since She Died, '. 237 Sons of Freemen, 171 To Abraham Lincoln, 200 The First Born, . 214 To Alene, 203 That Player I Heard, 20 To a Failing Sense, 213 To an Absent Daughter, 132 To Our Boy upon Leaving Us for the West, 37 To Our Boy upon Leaving Us for Heaven, 37 To My Sister, 96 Those Beautiful Eyes, 90 To My Wife on her Fifty-seventh Birthday, 172 To Jenny Lind, 121 The Peace Conference, 58 The Weak Man, 84 The New Songs, 197 Tides, 44 The Angels, 19 Trouble and Night, 69 The Old Man, 143 The Silent Guide, 170 Truth, . . 167 12 Contents. Page Two, 174 The Wreck, " 228 The Flowers' Queen, 190 The High Resolve, 241 Timidity, 89 The Narrow Man, 224 The Storm King, 126 Tears, 114 The Meeting, 26 The Cold Man, 176 The Grave of Self, in That Cave, 85 The Way of Trust, 43 Then I 'm Thinking of Home, 93 The Sweet, Sad Years, 66 The High-born Soul, 175 The Parley in Eden, 5 2 To My Son on his Twenty-first Birthday, 118 Unsaid, 161 Utility, • • 183 Unrest, • • • I77 Upon the Marriage of a Daughter, 164 Understood, 198 "Vive, Bspania," 34 Woman's Power, 229 When, 108 Winter, 89 Why Do the Noblest Die? 75 Your Gift, 183 Zephyrs, 180 ILLUSTRATIONS. Page Author, Frontispiece With Some Calm Dell for my Retreat, 16 I Met Her on a New- Year's Eve, 27 " Singing Betimes, 45 Cooing and Wooing, • 46 Made for the Skies, 47 Sing in the Rain, 47 Sessions for Counsel, 47 In Downy Nest, 48 Children of Snow, . 49 Into those Arms of L/Ove, 5 1 Daisies, 56 I Sadly Know, . . . . ' 57 Chloe and I, 65 Redeeming the Time, 73 Those Beautiful Byes, 9 1 Love's Halo, 99 When, 109V Warm Carnations Cooled by Ferns, 112 l/ove L/etters, 116 The Ashes of All my Early Dreams, 117 The Storm King, 127 Charms his Generous Love Created, 135 Ivooking Toward the Home of Kindred, I4 jV My Faithful Bruno, 155 The Old Story, 161 13 14 Illustrations. Page A Sacred Drawer, • . « ...... - 162 Little Paul, 169 A Sainted Face, 185 And there were Roses in the World, 191 Personality's Subtle Charm, 207 Photograph of a Beautiful Child, 211 Her Home was on a Lonely Moor, 215 She Wrought Such Fancies on her Hems, 217 A Shaft of Granite, 218 Heart Telegraphy, 220 The Wreck, 228 The Aimless Arrows, 229 Sunset, 236 And I Went On Alone, 238 To Music She had Set my Soul, 239 His Grave, 241 Evening Bells NATURE. Nature, I love thee; since a child Thou hast my weary hours beguiled, And through their shadows often smiled. I Ve wished I were a child of thine ; Thy gentle ways would fashion mine, Till wayward life to good incline. With some calm dell for my retreat, Where thou and I could often meet, How might I learn at thy dear feet ! If to thy generous bosom pressed, Or by thy gentle winds caressed, How could my weary spirit rest ! I come not to thee as a spy ; I offer love as reason why I seek thy treasured mystery. i7 18 Evening Bells. Lovers speak not the loved one's name, Alone they tend the sacred flame, Perfecting titles to their claim. So Nature never names her own ; But from her beauty builds a throne Where God may sit, but He alone. O God ! the infinite in me, And outward, are alike from Thee; 'T is mine to make their harmony. THE ANGELS. I wonder if the Angels dream, Who never feel the need of sleeping : Or if they miss the power of tears, And sometimes crave our gift of weeping ? I wonder if the Angels mate, And know the joy of consecration : Or if they 're gone too much from home, To know the bliss of such relation ? I wonder if Angelic bliss Can cloy, and make them wish to borrow The thrills that human hearts receive From contrasts in the realm of sorrow ? I wonder if the Angels camp The other side of silence nightly, And give us care while wrapt in sleep, We never know, they step so lightly ? 19 THAT PLAYER I HEARD. DEDICATED TO MISS ALICE MARIE SHEPARD, VIOLINISTE. Sparkles dance in eyes of dew, The heralds of her keenest blisses, Frolic lurks in silent lips — Those sweet petitioners for kisses. Rhythm sways a fragile form To and fro in pleasing motion, Fingers catch the slightest breeze That ripples on the inward ocean. Nerves of gauze, embossed with bloom ; When feeling weds with intuition — Outer harp, so finely strung, The impulse leaps to glad fruition. Heaven strung with nerves of steel, And fired this little baffling wonder. Daring frailty rides with joy The ocean billows, mocked by thunder. Streams are loosened in the hills, Winds and torrents both are coming, Desolation's chill within, Authentic chaos in the gloaming. 20 . That Player I Heard. 21 Fires are kindled on the rocks, And while the witch's broth is boiling Snaps her spite on single strings, That leave the timid soul recoiling. All the fashions of the world Are having a composite picture. All the flavors tongue can taste Are being stirred in one wild mixture. Tears are dripping from her tones, While nature, knelt in prayer, is weeping. Evening, with its eyelids wet, Seems watching o'er our sorrows sleeping. Level beauty now serene, While hushed is every human calling, Mildly gentle Venus shines, The fruit thro' scented silence falling. All about you now so still You hear the hearts of squirrels beating, Hear the grass grow 'neath your feet, Hear the coming Autumn's greeting, Hear the Artist paint the leaves, You hear the voice of spirits praying, Hear the sap climb up the trees — So still she makes it seem while playing. Why should language ever speak Of all we wish to hear you saying? Music breathes your soul so well, We '11 wait and listen to the playing. 22 Evening Bells. Weight of years we then forget — And join again in childhood's pleasure, Once more move to music's glee, Nor miss the step or mar the measure. If she take some minor strain, The sweet, sad days of autumn waking, Leaned against the withered years, We rest a tired heart that 's aching. While with music's magic spell The weary hours of age beguiling, Sweet, dead faces, dear to me, Look backward, and again are smiling. Breezes now returning sweet With blossoms of life's dewy morning, While we breathe their airs afresh, Forget the snow-bloom's tender warning. Blackboards then for puzzled heads, But sounding-boards for heart's revealing. Strings across the viol's bridge Will lead us to the world of feeling. Thus I read your thrilling notes, Revealing inward life the clearer. Souls are greater than their songs, And noble friendships always dearer. Lovely soul, thou art so far Beyond the purest mind creation, Candor gives all merit now To you, who gave the inspiration. That Player I Heard. 23 Messenger to future years — Since time invites me not to tarry, Take for me some greeting, please, That years forbid me now to carry. Gifts and graces crowned by grace — Great means appointed ends assuring — Are promised Heaven's showers and dews And endless Summer for maturing. Lend your birdlike cheer to all, And make their heavy burdens lighter, Sharing girlhood's sunny Spring Will make your Autumn days the brighter. SNOW. Bewildering the tempest, the snow-gods begin A tropic tornado, with crystals stirred in ; Through snow-haze that 's falling, Light loses its way, In the white night bewildered, man soon goes astray. Do snow-flakes in forming take musical laws, And follow its strains, without knowing the cause? Is crystallized harmony, music in snow ? And Winter a tune, like some others we know ? Are these frozen tears that the Winter has shed O'er the frail, fallen children of Summer now dead? The flowers could not drink from a cold, Winter cloud, But accepted the gift as their shimmering shroud. The colder the night, the more lovely the form ; The higher in air, the more glorious the storm : The pale infant tints on the drifts down below Would brilliantly shine from those turrets of snow. In cold, white simplicity soft silence reigns, Now hushing all life by the chill in its veins, No mischief in clouds so exhausted and low, While all forms of life are deep buried in snow. 24 Snow. 25 The sun's arrows flew at the opening of dawn, And scattered the shadows that fled like a fawn, And away in the distance these wanderers were seen, No trace of their footprints were lying between. O'er miles of white silence what terrible thrust ! Where sunbeams fought crystals and beat them to dust, So soon to ascend as a vapor in air, Then descend in a rain for the roses to share. THE MEETING. I met her on a New- Year's eve, 'Mid mirth and motion's wild delight; She wore a robe of shimmering mist, And snow and roses lured the sight. The jewels in her raven hair Bespoke the wearer's wondrous price, And in her gracious smile she brought Authentic news from Paradise. Kind Nature waived her right to wear The quiet beauty she possessed. To woman she resigns it all, Saying, "Take it ; it becomes you best." A golden willow in the wind, A swallow's easy poise in air, The floating drapery of dreams, Are emblems of a grace so rare. t> j Bewitching glances of those eyes, As thoughtlessly their arrows fly, You wish would smile approval next, Or pierce you deep enough to die. 26 The Meeting. 29 I saw in beauty's power to sway, How nature's axioms often slip And strong convictions melt away, When sunned in such warm fellowship. Light gambols in her crystal flesh, And this her blushing blood attests : That on the fount from which it came No hidden shadow ever rests. The crimson that suffused the snow So tenderly in this fair face Gave bonds for childish innocence, And pledged her to the noblest race. I felt unspeakable content, A calm I could not well define, Not even burthened by a hope That such a being could be mine. I saw her as I saw a star That lights the evil and the good ; Too far removed from human hearts, To ever feel their changing mood. Such dignity and self-repose, Such anchorage in the temperate zone, Of conscious triumph all at rest, Gave her perspective all her own. Those bright ideals souls pursue, And think till heaven they must defer, About which poets dream and sing, Seemed now, to me, fulfilled in her. 30 Evening Bells. Her pure sweet ways might bring reproof, Yet man would take it as a boon ; That came like fragrance from a flower; He 'd blame his conscience just as soon. You say that beauty made so rare No other eyes would ever see ; Yet do n't say I exaggerate, I show it as it came to me. As light of the rebuking morn Gave warning of approaching day ; I wondered why from scenes so bright I took such heavy thoughts away. The soul of music set afloat, Now my belated hours redeems ; And passing the sealed gates of sense, Still echoes in the land of dreams. They say that music is not heard In hours of sleep, and so it seems Sweet harmony does not become The incoherent world of dreams ; But when along with sleep there came That face that seemed so near divine, It altered all the laws of sleep, And changed all former dreams of mine. How strange this woman's paradox ! Her scorn that turns your hopes to dust Will pierce you, while it captivates And draws you nearer by its thrust ! The Meeting. 31 How versatile such powers must be To still maintain their ancient reign, And use such weapons in their turn, As winning smiles and cold disdain. You ask why one should linger thus And range so very far and wide — There 's ocean impulse in the theme That bears me on its time and tide. There 's not a little bird that sings, No star of all those worlds above, No breeze that goes so softly by, But speaks to me of her I love. I know not whether other worlds Confirm at last the hopes of this, And souls so dear to us below, We there may meet again in bliss ; But this sweet hope will still allure The same as in the days of yore, That Paradise now holds the one That Heaven and I have called "Lenore." LIGHT. The sand-blast on the window-pane, Raining its noisy granite showers, While shielding from the glare of day, Weaves sunbeams into crystal flowers. Mysterious light ! thou God ,of day Must take the path that man proposes, Greet him through banks of green and gold Or through the lilies and the roses. Thou little traveler from the sun, That came through realms of deepest night, And shivered with intensest cold — How could you keep your way aright? I wonder how you ever pass The frowning bastions tempests rear, That stand confronting day with night, Cloud-pickets on the world's frontier? O little newsboy from the sun, With records of your fatherland, How could you write in words so plain That other worlds could understand? 3 2 Light. 33 What wizard art do you possess ? How are your little pockets fixed That you brought all the rainbow tints And never got the colors mixed? How did you first braid up that beam With rays that show you where to go, And those that warm you when you 're cold, And those that make the pansies grow ? "VIVE, ESPANIA!" 1898. "Vive, Espania \" is your war-cry still. The questioning ages are asking why? If nothing to show for the wasted years, Is it not nobler for you to die? You 've claimed men's homes without consent, Then made them your subservient slaves, And when they asked to share your good, You 've rilled their land with nameless graves. Were each to wear his sorrow's weeds, Dark clouds of sackcloth soon would surge And drown earth's music everywhere, In wailings of death's mournful dirge. Strange foster-mother you have been ! On leaving your delusive charms, Your children give their last life's blood, To tear themselves from out your arms. You 're out of time with Nature's psalm ; And must pull up those slackened strings, Till heaven's minstrelsy accords, Or cease to play with him who sings. 34 ( i Vive, Espania!" 35 To approach God on the challenge side, To mortals means consuming fire ; A victory won for evil ends Means desolation still more dire. You 're running on God's thunder roads, Where angry lightnings clear His way; Where stars may fall, and stubble burn, And nations perish in a day. Sad memories gladly let you die. Such records were not made to last; Untimely graves are not the urns, Where men preserve their hallowed past. God's unoffending creatures, made And kept alone for human good, Tortured to death in cruel ways, To stimulate your thirst for blood. Young children brought from mother's smiles, To harden in the sports of Spain, See beasts of burden gored to death, And bellowing bulls enraged with pain. Like mad men hurling thunderbolts. Convulsion fits, with reason lost, That sow the whirlwinds as they pass, And reap their harvests brown with frost. The Pagan taught us scorn of death; The Christian love of noble life, Strait gates and narrow ways laid out The only sanctioned fields of strife. 36 Evening Bells. Blue flashes of derisive flame Should often make you stop and think How near you Ve run delusion's dream To national ruin's yawning brink. Will you now pause and change your aims For nobler ones designed to save, Or must this train of funeral grief Move onward to a nation's grave? TO OUR BOY UPON LEAVING US FOR THE WEST. Out of the quiet harbor of home Into the open sea, To grasp the helm with your own right hand, And steer away to Fancy's land, And the good that 's yet to be. Joy to the barque with shimmering sail, And captain brave and true ! Lights may go out that were once your guide, Channels fill with the drifting tide, But the port will be free to you. TO OUR BOY UPON LEAVING US FOR HEAVEN. That beautiful barque I wished so well Sank in a distant sea. Lights from the ship, instead of the shore, Are now gone out for evermore ; Yet it is not dark to me. The sails were furled, but the barque went down Ere the wane of a single moon. God's chariot kind swung low that day, Rescued the soul from claims of clay, And landed it in the noon. 37 CLOSED EYES. WRITTEN FOR MISS ALMEDA C. ADAMS, OF CLEVELAND, OHIO. DEDICATED ©o all raijo roatt At "fftfe's strut gate." When unseen hands on inward bells, Have rung the close of Nature's feast, And gentle fingers, lifting lids, Show light's dim pencilings in the east, And when my helmless barque again Has touched the shores of conscious mind, And I behold earth's loveliness — I grieve, dear one, that thou art blind. I 've seen in heaven's restful blue Such depths as painters never gave, Stars bright enough for ancient gods — Obedient as an Eastern slave. And when the lightning holds its torch Before the gloomy face of night, Or sunset's burning cities glow — I 've wished your eyes might know the light. 38 Closed Eyes. 39 I Ve watched the evening's transient blush, The chaste flash from the diamond's eyes, The shadows pale on drifting snows, And heaven's blue made from all her dyes, The stealthy warmth in the lily's bell, The cautious dawn of early light, The jewels drip from the boatman's oar — And longed for you to grasp the sight. But O, the city's nether night ! While glow the stars in night's blue urn, The fallen throng the dens of shame, Sick life blasphemes till the morn's return, Gaunt hunger cowers in lairs of straw, Thick curtained round by dismal night, The banquet mad leaves reason fled — 'T is well you never saw that sight. The rosy bloom of maidenhood Is struck with death! the eye's love-light Reflecting seas of nether fire, Without a blush for the direful blight. Of all the grief of this sad life On which my thought has ever dwelt, The one I 'd wish to keep from you, Is one the sufferer never felt. In an alley foul I saw a child So pale and pinched the little face, But sweet content in the hazel eyes Looked out at me, and he smiled with grace As he turned again to play with straws, And toss foul dust on the poisoned wind, And I saw his playful, unconscious want — For once I was glad that you were blind. 40 Evening Bells. A little shell-dweller in wind-roiled sea Was tossed with the shingle about the strand. As he watched the commotion from doors ajar, There drifted in one grain of sand. It chafed his life to constant pain, No help could be found in all the deep, So he covered the wound with a lovely pearl ; And then he could rest and went to sleep. When the light went out of your young eyes, And fountains where you drank so much Were parched glebes in memory's waste, And you only knew what hands could touch. Through your Gethsemane of tears, ' You covered the wound with so rare a gem, That we who see the farthest here Would fain exchange for your diadem. I sometimes ask does conscious loss In life's lone hours still make you weep, Or have you soothed the pain so long It 's quite worn out and gone to sleep ? Do blinded eyes, like palsied lips, Still yearn forever to possess, As love prompts them to speak to us Of what they never can express? O ! what a resurrection day, The day of death will be to you ! Dead firmaments and buried suns, As if created, come to view. The face, long kissed, but never seen, Will glow in heavenly vision clear, While glances interpenetrate, And make the union doubly dear. Closed Eyes. 41 If some similitude comes to you, Through perfume's breath or taste or sound, Of many hues that nature wears, As seasons go their happy round, And the mind records whate'er it saw Through the kindly aid of a kindred sense ; Does it stay just as it 's written down, And speak in the same old mode and tense ? Has morning's dawn its glory still? Is it the same it used to be, Or is there something sadder now, Just as there is with us who see? Is something gone from hill and wood, You used to see in days gone by, That never comes to greet you now, And never stopped to say good-bye? I can not now tell just the time When spring grew old and looked effete, And the sun that gave it blush and bloom Began to look cold and obsolete. But while I gazed its beauty fled, And in the place came nothing new, The sun appeared a weary jade, I wonder, is it so with you? If life's experience could but tell Of many a broken and useless link, You 'd know the time of vision here To be much shorter than you think. You 'd know that long — O, very long — Before the spirit takes its flight, The last connecting link is snapped Between the longing soul and sight. 42 Evening Bells. You 'd know the spirit's flattening lens But calls for distance more and more, Till nothing focalizes well This side the far, eternal shore. At last when Hope the night-watch takes, And seeks what Heaven pronounces best, She soon invests it with a charm That far eclipses all the rest. And if, at portals of the light, You never may be welcomed here, And weary and heart hungry still, You offer up your silent prayer, If nights be long and dreary yet That never pledge a coming morn, And latent powers restless lie, Like spirits waiting to be born ; If this bright way must be denied, And yet another one be left, If that 's a warm and sunny one Your heart will not be quite bereft ; For though we never see so far As looking through a human tear, The resting place of agony Is by a loved one's listening ear. If hearts may reach their tendrils out, And clasp the objects they desire, And thoughts, like sun-bent eagles, soar On their celestial wings of fire, I pray that you be grateful still For all the thorny way you Ve trod, While loss has human sympathy, And the pure in heart see God. THE WAY OF TRUST. DEDICATED TO MISS ELIZA W. WALKDEN. How OFT I 've said the next glad year Will bring relief. The hopeful seasons went and came, I trusted in their Author's Name, But at the end found just the same, Abiding grief. Such pain would never go beyond Another year. I trusted still the times would change, Or I should get beyond the range Of needed discipline so strange, Without a cheer. But when the next New- Year had found The burden there ; Such strange misgivings o'er me crept, Sad dreams disturbed me while I slept, So oft I laid awake and wept, Or offered prayer. Wearied I asked, "Can this be night Without a morn ?" "Deficient grace," the tempter said ; "Efficient grace," my spirit plead ; "Sufficient grace," Christ wrote instead; And left the thorn. 43 44 Evening Bells. "In weakness comes your perfect strength And then alone. This weakness is your richest dower, For I reserve my greater power, To help you in the dying hour, Then will I come." Now all on which I ever leaned Seemed turned to dust. But through a sorrow, once accepted, Relief unasked, and none expected, At last I learned, as I reflected, The way of trust. 6223 TIDES. The: gentle goddess of the night Draws oceans o'er the barring beach ; In vivid beauty and to heights The wildest storms could never reach. So seas of inward passion rise As gently as the dew distills ; And covering wastes of barren sand, Make new shore-lines against the hills. BIRDS. AN IDYL. DEDICATED TO MISS GRETNA WESTERVELT, DENVER, COLORADO. Dear little nightingale, poised on the wing ; Houseless and homeless, I wonder you sing ! Have you no care for the Winter to come? Can you make any place seem like a home ? 45 46 Evening Bells. Passionless, penniless, bubbling with joy, Aimless and blameless your life can not cloy. Resting or nesting on some little bough, Making no plans, for your future is now. Weaving or coloring never vex you, Under your old dress you 've always a new. Fitting all seasons and fashioned with grace, Worn in all lands as a badge of your race. Down on your bosom, and cushioned on air, Swiftly you fly, and the tempest you dare. Singing the songs that you sang long ago, Cheerfully giving us all that you know. Dipping your wings in the foam of the sea, Folding them up in the shade of a tree ; Calling up nations for doing their best, Singing the drowsy ones softly to rest. Wittily, prettily chatting all day, Cooing and wooing your own pleasant way: Darting and flirting and singing be- times Musical rhythms without any rhymes. Wondrously made are those bright, little eyes, Watching a sparrow-hawk 'way in the skies ; Close to your feet see the tiniest seed Taking for food or health just what you need. Birds. 47 Slenderly fashioned and made for the skies, Tenderly tinted with so many dyes; Traveling at leisure thro' so many springs, Gladdening the weary with songs upon wings. Arrowy flying, and such liquid notes, Graces of wing, and such musical throats ; Are you not conscious that you are observed, Audiences keeping you ever thus nerved ? Portable ecstasies always on hand, Ready for use at the slightest de- mand; Though you do n't usually sing in the rain, Little else dampens your musical vein. Jolly young sailor boys, owning your boat, The lightest and fleetest of any afloat ; Brief bills of lading your voyages afford, Rations all furnished and music on board. Sessions for counsel you hold in the trees, Perfect your plans, and you 're off on the breeze ; No one with heartaches, and no one with scars, No one is wounded by family jars. 48 Evening Bells. Fortune's chance guests, without shelter or home, No one to claim you and call you his own ; Liberal grants in the regions above, Give to your warbling world tokens of love. Coming with verdure means coming with song, Joys of the springtime we Ve waited for long ; Dresses for nature are all of them new, Birdlings in downy nests waiting for you. THE TRIBES. Mocking bird, joyously wandering the blue, Miles of lone silence made vocal by you ; Whip-poor-will, warbling your praise to the King, Vacancy pulsing with life on the wing ; Nightingale, pressing your warm, brooding heart On lifeless blue eggs to give pinions a start; Storms flying ever on wild, broken wings, Find you still sheltering your dear little things. Birds. 49 O snow birds ! can you be the children of snow ? You come with the storms, and depart as they go ; Is something peculiar in set of your sail, You feel so at home in a cold, winter gale ? Is nature volcanic and covering so warm, You spend your vacations by sporting in storm ? Hopping and flying, you sing as you go, Shaking out music right into the snow. Carrier bird for emergencies made, Taking to air in an earthly blockade ; Folded so softly beneath your frail wings, Tidings you brought of the contraband things. Tiniest humming-bird, loneliest of all, Eagles that venture the farthest from call ; Mysteries dwelling between these extremes Compass your singing and all of its themes. 50 Evening Bells. YOUR MISSION. Winter is conquered, the long journey past. Lonely from absence, you greet us at last; Outbursts of verdure and outbursts of song, Bring their relief for a Winter so long. April, the season of smiles and of tears, Budding and singing, has cheered us for years : Gone is the Summer, and Nature now grieves For snatches of song, that are faded like leaves. Winter and silence — save birds of the snow, Meeting and parting our story below ; Better for seeing you, sad when you 're gone, Always rejoice at your early return.