Part 7

And -- "Merry, merry, merry!" Rang the bells of every hour, And -- "Happy, happy, happy!" In her valley laughed the flower.

There was not a sign of shadow, There was not a tear nor thorn, And the sweet voice of her laughter Filled with melody the morn.

* * * * *

Years passed -- 'twas long, long after, And I saw a face at prayer; There was not a sign of laughter, There was every sign of care.

For the sunshine all had faded From the valley and the flower, And the once fair face was shaded In life's lonely evening hour.

And the lips that smiled with laughter In the valley of the morn, In the valley of the evening They were pale and sorrow-worn.

And I read the old, old lesson In her face and in her tears, While she sighed amid the shadows Of the sunset of her years.

All the rippling streams of laughter From our hearts and lips that flow, Shall be frozen, cold years after, Into icicles of woe.

In Memory of My Brother

Young as the youngest who donned the Gray, True as the truest that wore it, Brave as the bravest he marched away, (Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay) Triumphant waved our flag one day -- He fell in the front before it.

Firm as the firmest, where duty led, He hurried without a falter; Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, And the day was won -- but the field was red -- And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed On his country's hallowed altar.

On the trampled breast of the battle plain Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain, (His mother dreams they will meet again) The fairest form amid all the slain, Like a child asleep he nestled.

In the solemn shades of the wood that swept The field where his comrades found him, They buried him there -- and the big tears crept Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept. (His mother -- God pity her -- smiled and slept, Dreaming her arms were around him.)

A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, A grave in the heart of his mother -- His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone; There is not a name, there is not a stone, And only the voice of the winds maketh moan O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn But -- his memory lives in the other.

"Out of the Depths"

Lost! Lost! Lost! The cry went up from a sea -- The waves were wild with an awful wrath, Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path; The clouds hung low: Lost! Lost! Lost! Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed.

Lost! Lost! Lost! The cry floated over the waves -- Far over the pitiless waves; It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds; The billows below them were weaving white shrouds Out of the foam of the surge, And the wind-voices chanted a dirge: Lost! Lost! Lost! Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed.

Lost! Lost! Lost! Not the sign of a hope was nigh, In the sea, in the air, or the sky; And the lifted faces were wan and white, There was nothing without them but storm and night And nothing within but fear. But far to a Father's ear: Lost! Lost! Lost! Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed.

Lost! Lost! Lost! Out of the depths of the sea -- Out of the night and the sea; And the waves and the winds of the storm were hushed, And the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed. Saved! Saved! Saved! And a calm and a joyous cry Floated up through the starry sky, In the dark -- in the storm -- "Our Father" is nigh.

A Thought

The summer rose the sun has flushed With crimson glory may be sweet; 'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed Beneath the wind's and tempest's feet.

The rose that waves upon its tree, In life sheds perfume all around; More sweet the perfume floats to me Of roses trampled on the ground.

The waving rose with every breath Scents carelessly the summer air; The wounded rose bleeds forth in death A sweetness far more rich and rare.

It is a truth beyond our ken -- And yet a truth that all may read -- It is with roses as with men, The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.

The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom Out of a heart all full of grace, Gave never forth its full perfume Until the cross became its vase.

March of the Deathless Dead

Gather the sacred dust Of the warriors tried and true, Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust And fell in a cause, though lost, still just, And died for me and you.

Gather them one and all, From the private to the chief; Come they from hovel or princely hall, They fell for us, and for them should fall The tears of a Nation's grief.