THE SUNDIAL. IS an old dial, dark with many a stain; TIS In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And white in winter like a marble tomb; And round about its gray, time-eaten brow I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe? Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head; The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,— O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; She, as if listless with a lonely love, Straying among the alleys with a book,— Herrick or Herbert,-watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook. Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half-accounted true,— She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head; Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove ; Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun ; Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge ; And standing somewhat widely, like to one More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, Took out the note; held it as one who feared The fragile thing he held would slip and fall ; Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast ; The shade crept forward through the dying glow; There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show A small gray spot-the record of a tear. AN UNFINISHED SONG. "Cantat Deo qui vivit Deo." VES, he was well-nigh gone and near his rest, YES, The year could not renew him; nor the cry Of building nightingales about the nest ; Nor that soft freshness of the May-wind's sigh, That fell before the garden scents, and died But death not yet. Outside a woman talkedHis wife she was-whose clicking needles sped To faded phrases of complaint that balked Overhead, My rising words of comfort. A cage that hung amid the jasmine stars Then notes came pouring through the wicker bars, "Is it a thrush ?" I asked. "A thrush," she said. "That was Will's tune. Will taught him that before He left the doorway settle for his bed, Sick as you see, and could n't teach him more. "He'd bring his Bible here o' nights, would Will, "Jack! Jack!" A joyous flutter stirred the cage, How clear the song was! Musing as I heard, The broken song, the uncompleted life, That seemed a broken song; and of the two, My thought a moment deemed the bird more blest, That, when the sun shone, sang the notes it knew, Without desire or knowledge of the rest. Nay, happier man. For him futurity Still hides a hope that this his earthly praise Finds heavenly end, for surely will not He, Solver of all, above his Flower of Days, |