Part 1 (1/2)

Songs Ysame.

by Annie Fellows Johnston and Albion Fellows Bacon.

PRELUDE.

_WE cannot sing of life, whose years are brief, Nor sad heart-stories tell, who know no grief, Nor write of s.h.i.+pwrecks on the seas of Fate, Whose s.h.i.+p from out the harbor sailed but late.

But we may sing of fair and sunny days, Of Love that walks in peace through quiet ways; And unto him who turns the page to see Our simple story, haply it may be As when in some mild day in early spring, One through the budding woods goes wandering; And finds, where late the snow has blown across, Beneath the leaves, a violet in the moss._ _1887._ _A. F. B._

_NOW I can sing of life, whose days are brief, For I have walked close hand in hand with grief.

And I may tell of s.h.i.+pwrecked hopes, since mine Sank just outside the happy harbor line.

But still my song is of those sunny days When Love was with me in those quiet ways.

And unto him who turns the page to see That day's short story, haply it may be, The joy of those old memories he feels: As one who through the wintry twilight steals, And sees, across the chilly wastes of snow, The darkened sunset's rosy afterglow._ _1892._ _A. F. J._

PART I.

SONGS YSAME

The Lighting of the Candles.

WHENCE came the ember That touched our young souls' candles first with light; In shadowy years, too distant to remember, Where childhood merges backward into night?

I know not, but the halo of those tapers Has ever since around all nature shone; And we have looked at life through golden vapors Because of that one ember touch alone.

At Early Candle-Lighting.

THOSE, who have heard the whispered breath Of Nature's secret ”s.h.i.+bboleth,”

And learned the pa.s.s-word to unroll The veil that hides her inmost soul, May follow; but this by-path leads Through mullein stalks and jimson-weeds.

And he who scorning treads them down Would deem but poor and common-place Those whom he'll meet in homespun gown.

But they who lovingly retrace Their steps to scenes I dream about, Will find the latch-string hanging out.

With them I claim companions.h.i.+p, And for them burn my tallow-dip, At early candle-lighting.

To these low hills, around which cling My fondest thoughts, I would not bring An alien eye long used to sights Among the snow-crowned Alpine heights.

An eagle does not bend its wing To low-built nests where robins sing.

Between the fence's zigzag rails, The stranger sees the road that trails Its winding way into the dark, Fern-scented woods. He does not mark The old log cabin at the end As I, or hail it as a friend, Or catch, when daylight's last rays wane, The glimmer through its narrow pane Of early candle-lighting.

As anglers sit and half in dream Dip lazy lines into the stream, And watch the swimming life below, So I watch pictures come and go.

And in the flame, Alladin-wise, See genii of the past arise.

If it be so that common things Can fledge your fancy with fast wings; If you the language can translate Of lowly life, and make it great, And can the beauty understand That dignifies a toil-worn hand, Look in this halo, and see how The homely seems transfigured now At early candle-lighting.

A fire-place where the great logs roar And s.h.i.+ne across the puncheon floor, And through the c.h.i.n.ked walls, here and there, The snow steals, and the frosty air.

Meager and bare the furnis.h.i.+ngs, But hospitality that kings Might well dispense, trans.m.u.tes to gold, The welcome given young and old.

Plain and uncouth in speech and dress, But richly clad in kindliness, The neighbors gather, one by one, At rustic rout when day is done.