All 'round de little farm I wander'd When I was young; Den many happy days I squander'd,Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder, Happy was I; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, One little hut among de bushes,— Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes, No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming All de world am sad and dreary Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, SONGS OF SEVEN. SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. THERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven: I've said my "seven times" over and over, I am old, so old, I can write a letter; The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one. I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powder'd your legs with gold! O columbine, open your folded wrapper, I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, I am seven times one to-day. SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listen'd alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. O moon! in the night I have seen you. Poor bells! I forgive you; your good sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright! ah bright! but your fight is failing, You are nothing now but a bow. days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me. You moon, have you done something The foxglove shoots out of the green mat wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face? ted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny You glow-worms, shine out, and the path weather: Oh, children take long to grow. I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head; "The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said." I wait for my story-the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it! Such as I wish it to be. SEVEN TIMES THREE. I LEAN'D out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; *Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover Hush nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters glow, And cross quickly to me. “You night-moths that hover where honey brims over way discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, "Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore pass'd he, and through the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight; But I'll love him more, more SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. HEIGH-HO! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all. Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedgesparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide, though the house be but narrow,” Sing once, and sing it again. Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now! From sycamore blossoms, or settle or Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, sleep; Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all! SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOW HOOD. I SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake; "Let me bleed! oh let me alone, Since I must not break!" For children wake, though fathers sleep I lift mine eyes, and what to see I have not wish'd it to mourn with me- Oh, what anear but golden brooms, I shall not die, but live forlorn ; Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more! No more to hear, no more to see; Oh, that an echo might wake, And waft one note of thy psalm to me I should know it how faint soe'er, I could be content! Or once between the gates of gold, SEVEN TIMES SIX. To bear, to nurse, to rear, To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose: This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose. To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy Lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed; Will let no longer smart; To hear, to heed, to wed, This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give ME thy child." Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, To God I gave with tears; But when a man like grace would find. My soul put by her fears. Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, God guards in happier spheres ; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years. To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views; Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in naught accuse; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love, and then to lose. SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. A SONG of a boat : There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rock'd to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bow'd when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow. I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtseying over the billow, I mark'd her course till a dancing mote She faded out on the moonlit foam, And I stay'd behind in the dear loved home; And my thoughts all day were about the boat And my dreams upon the pillow. I pray you hear my song of a boat, For it is but short: My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I look'd out for the lad she bore, On the desolate open sea, And I think he sail'd to the heavenly shore, For he came not back to me- Ah me! THE QUAKER WIDOW. THEE finds me in the garden, Hannah,— come in! 'Tis kind of thee To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to comfort me. The still and quiet company a peace may give, indeed, But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. A song of a nest: There was once a nest in a hollow: Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit Down in the mosses and knot-grass press'd, On the First-day afternoons in spring, and Soft and warm, and full to the brim. Vetches lean'd over it purple and dim, With buttercup buds to follow. were grown They spread out their wings to fly. Far up to the heavenly blue, I pray you, what is the nest to me, And what is the shore where I stood to see Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sail'd? Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath fail'd? Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be,There is the home where my thoughts are sent, The only home for me Ah me! watch the swallows flit; He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple trees. I think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flowers; most men Think such things foolishness, but we were first acquainted then, One spring: the next he spoke his mind; the third I was his wife, And in the spring (it happen'd so) our children enter'd life. He was but seventy-five: I did not think to lay him yet In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met. The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better I should be Pick'd out to bear the heavy cross-alone in age-than he. We've lived together fifty years: it seems but one long day, One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was call'd away; And as we bring from Meeting-time & sweet contentment home, So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come. I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know If I had heard the Spirit right, that told me I should go; For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father And Abner Jones with Benjamin,—and Orthodox. I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost: Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her cross'd. She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life's a happy one, at least. Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I, now they're gone, all three! It is not right to wish for death; the Lord disposes best. His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest; And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see: For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with me. Eusebius never cared to farm,-'twas not his call, in truth, Would thee believe it, Hannah? once I And I must rent the dear old place, and felt temptation nigh! go to daughter Ruth. My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too Thee'll say her ways are not like mine, simple for my taste: I wanted lace around the neck, and a rib bon at the waist. young people now-a-days Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways. How strange it seem'd to sit with him But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she upon the women's side! keeps the simple tongue, I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more The fear than pride, cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young; Till, "in the presence of the Lord," he And it was brought upon my mind, remem said, and then there came bering her, of late, A holy strength upon my heart, and I That we on dress and outward things percould say the same. haps lay too much weight. I used to blush when he came near, but I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit then I show'd no sign; clothed with grace, With all the meeting looking on, I held And pure, almost, as angels are, may have Thee knows the feeling, Hannah,--thee, The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin. As home we rode, I saw no fields look Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth; she's anxious I should go, The woods were coming into leaf, the And she will do her duty as a daughter half so green as ours; meadows full of flowers; should, I know. |