Willis Boyd Allen

“ As it scourged the night with a hissing rain—
But the Poet wrote never a word.
Then came a burst of martial mirth,
And mighty cannon roared
Till they shook the beams of the steadfast earth—
’Twas not the voice of the Lord. [16]
In the Poet’s heart a memory rose
Of love’s first passionate thrill
That, kindling, grows as the red fire glows—
But the pen was idle, still;
When lo, a timid voice at the door,
And a child, with sweet delight,
Called “Father!” and “Father!” over and o’er—
The poem was written that night. ”

“ O’er the lambs, asleep with their shepherds by night,
On the hillside, long ago.
Christmas Eve—and the golden light
Of the Star in the East was aglow
O’er a Baby’s brow, in the holy night,
In a manger, long ago. [123]
Christmas Eve—and the blessèd light
Of the Star in the East is aglow,
As it shone of old, through the sweet, still night,
O’er Bethlehem, long ago.
[124]
“LICHT, MEHR LICHT!”
Sob, cold wind of the sky,
For the rest that never shall come!
The stars have gathered on high,
The moon’s white lips are dumb,
And over her face like a shroud
Lies the wrack of the drifting cloud. ”

“ Now skyward, now earthward, storm-drifted, but never
A wing-beat nearer to me.
With eye soft as death or the mist-wreaths above her
She timidly gazes below;
Oh, never had sea-bird a man for her lover,
And little recks she of his woe.
One sweet, startled note of amazement she utters,
One white plume floats downward to me;
Far over the billows a snowy wing flutters—
Night—darkness—alone with the sea. ”

“ While from the far-off, shadowy hills of Galilee
Their cool breath gently fans the weary twelve, as rests
A loving hand upon a fevered, aching brow.
Deserted lies the quiet, moon-lit shore, but all [149]
The air is heavy with the perfume of the grass,
Crushed into fragrance by the waiting multitude
Whom Jesus fed. The Giver of the bread of life
Has gone apart upon the mountain-side to pray,
Alone.
The night is dark, the Master is not come;
The sea arises, and on every side the waves
Gigantic, black, and topped with lurid crests of foam,
Leap madly through the gloom. ”

“ In her eyes shines the light of the glad day, new-born,—
The pure, gentle Spirit of Morn.
A Vision of Night,—the silvery stars
Alight in the East, ere its golden bars [53]
Have imprisoned the slumberous sun;
The sea hoarsely breathing, the wind all astir,
The sparrow crouched low in the boughs of the fir,
But she, the Beautiful One,
Is awake, oh, awake, with her glorious eyes
Star-lighted and deep as the shadowy skies,
O’er the mist of her draperies, fleecy and white,
The radiant Spirit of Night.
[54]
MY CREED.
What is my creed, you ask, dear? ”

“ Are the thoughts and the hearts of His chosen,
As crystals the North Wind hath frozen.
Strong—strong—strong—
Underneath are the arms everlasting;
On them our cares we are casting. [79]
Long—long—long—
Have we sung of the life He doth give us—
His mercy and love shall outlive us. VII. At Last.
Far from its mountain home the fern
Has found a resting-place;
A maiden has begun to learn
To love its winsome face.
But when at night the north winds smite
Against the frosty pane,
The fern is listening with delight
To hear their voice again. ”

“ We give in our letters more self than in talking.
Perhaps when our Father looks lovingly down [101]
On our wandering footsteps in country and town,
Our burdens, our hindrances all, He can see,
And read in His wisdom more surely than we.
Far more than when kneeling by altar or crypt,
Our deeds make the record, in broad, cursive script.
Thank God that the Reader and Father are one,
That the poor, blotted copy-book, hardly begun,
Is read by Him only who wrote on the sand,
And the torn covers folded at last by His hand.
Hark! Christmas bells ring for the birth of the Son—
Good-night! ”

“ With the sunshine of her eyes.
Then the valley, too, shall waken
From the pale trance of her night;
Breezes soft shall kiss her forehead,
Radiant in the morning light.
Years may come and go, but ever
Shall the valley rest among
Mountain mists and golden moonbeams;
While the hills, with myriad tongue, [70]
Lullabys shall croon above it,
Streamlets laugh, and harebells chime,
Fir-trees murmur, cloud-lambs wander,
Storms chant harmonies sublime.
And for those who love the valley
Peace and rest are waiting there,
With the seasons onward moving,
Each more gladsome, each more fair. ”

“ Swifter and swifter, till over the crest
Of the hill, and down to the valley below,
Through the murk of the mist and the white of the snow—
Now my steed falters, as, breathless and slow,
Up the steep hillside he labors and grinds,
Grinds—Grinds—Grinds—Grinds—
Across and across he turns and winds, [106]
Sand-clogged and rock-hindered, without hope or faith,
No longer a soul, but a sin-burdened wraith—
Till, reaching the summit, he spurns the dark hill,
And onward he plunges, for good or for ill,
Over and onward, and onward and over,
He reels and he spins like a jolly old rover. ”

“ A mighty world is hushed to-night
In sweet expectancy;
O’er snowy field and wood the stainless light
Of the clear moon
Shines broad and free;
While peacefully the earth—
A great white throne
Prepared for One who soon
Shall rise and claim it for His own—
Awaits His birth.
The hearts of all mankind are turned
Toward lowly Bethlehem ”

“ The budding tree, the tender grass, with all
Its tiny hands uplifted to the sun,
Who reaches down and clasps them, one by one;
The mayflower sleeping on her snowy bed,
And while the night winds murmur, “She is dead!”
Her shy sweet eyes unclosing joyfully
As if she heard the “Talitha, cumi!”
The stream, escaping from the winter’s wrath,
And leaping swiftly down its rocky path, [66]
Or pausing in some shadowy, foam-flecked pool,
Among the nodding ferns and mosses cool ”

“ What says the star of the twilight?
What is the song of the flower?
A cloud has covered the star-beam;
The blossom lived but an hour.
Nay, ’tis the infinite heaven,
The depth beyond, that speak;
’Tis the heart that throbs ’neath the blossom,
Not the lip nor the fair white cheek. [40]
The voice of the heavens is tender,
Its whisper is fond and low;
But the voice of the heart that is throbbing—
Its message I cannot know.
[41]
MY CROSS.
Only a tiny cross ”

“ How often we laugh when we’d fain hide a tear!
The ripples are bright on the waves of mid-ocean;
Eyes dance and smiles play over depths of emotion;
Oh, dear Alma Mater, be patient to-night,
Our hearts, misconstrued, thou canst translate aright!
How memory pictures bright scenes to us all!—
The old, shaky building, the school-room, the hall,
The way the grim doctor read Greek verbs and Latin,
The desk where he wrote and the chair that he sat in,
His upraised forefingers and forehead portentous, [86]
The terror we felt when we found that he meant us ”

“ And far beyond storm-mist and sunshine,
Beyond weary days and long years,
I hope—in a Love that is waiting
With infinite tenderness there
To comfort us both, you and me, dear,
For the burden He gives us to bear.
[55]
AGAIN?
Side by side, from their misty home,
Fell two bright drops of rain;
The storm-wind hurled them far apart,
Never to meet again.
Hand in hand stood two dear friends,
Hearts wrung with sudden pain ”

“ WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER. TO W. B. W.
Once more ’tis the night before Christmas; once more
The Christ-child is entering each open door;
The holly-bough glistens, the earth is all white,
In the jubilant heavens the Star is a-light. ”

“ That hid His face. The waves of Galilee,
Gleaming far distant in the misty east,
Cast off the shroud of night. The air is full
Of waking glory. But of all who feel [145]
The gladness and the freshness of the morn,
Those only who have passed through deepest gloom
Receive the fulness of that new, sweet peace
His words have given,—and they are comforted!
[146]
A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL.
The shepherds were keeping their watch by night,
In the field with their flock abiding;
And soft on the fleece of the lambs fell the light
Of a new-risen star,
From deserts afar
The wise ones to Bethlehem guiding. ”

“ Fall thickly on his knotted, sunburnt hands,
And still he listens to that strange, sweet voice.
“Blessed are they that mourn.” What aching hearts
Among the eager, silent multitude
Cry out in bitter anguish that His words
Are vain and mocking! ”

“ Nay, we must admit, if perchance you should ask us,
’Twas forged in the States, and not at Damascus.
Too slim for a trinket, too large for a charm,
Too small for a weapon, too dull to do harm;
Too blunt for a bodkin, of life to deplete us,
’Twould not even serve for Hamlet’s quietus. ”

“ A Boston girl prefers a set of volumes that are uniform,
In Syriac, Chaldaic, Sanskrit, Arabic, or Cuneiform,
For these will test her paleontological ability,
And not insult her culture by superfluous facility.
She loves a scientific pedant, or, to use a synonyme,
A specimen, with printed name and label fair to pin on him.
Alas! I fear she will despise a book without a mystery,
That never once alludes to Art, or Mediæval History ”

“ What startles the watchers? A rustle of wings,
And a radiant figure above them.
The lambs are afraid, and the white, woolly things,
With tremulous bleat,
Nestle close to the feet
Of the faithful shepherds who love them. [147]
“Fear not!” ”

“ In root and bough.
[61]
MOSSES.
Children of lowly birth,
Pitifully weak;
Humblest creatures of the wood,
To your peaceful brotherhood
Sweet the promise that was given
Like the dew from heaven:
“Blessed are the meek,
They shall inherit the earth.” ”

“ Nor have to fly up in the trees, sir.”
“Sea-weed, poor creature! you’re left high and dry,
The tide has gone out; you are dying!”
“Ah, no, I am sure ’twill come back by and by.
I shall live, never fear; I’ll keep trying.” ”

“ But a little more quiet, more dignified, grown,
Still fighting from morning till set of the sun,
Each day new defeats or fresh victories won,
Pressing onward, undaunted still, shoulder to shoulder,
With our hearts growing young as our muskets grow older,
Let us take for our motto, emblazoned in light,
That stern old command of Forward—Guide Right!
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Presiding at the Dinner.
[90]
DANDELION.
A dandelion in a meadow grew
Among the waving grass and cowslips yellow;
Dining on sunshine, breakfasting on dew,
He was a right contented little fellow. ”

“ When the wassail was drunk, brave stories were told, [84]
While the mirth of the feasters grew louder and higher,
And the bard struck the quivering chords of the lyre,
Without an apology, blush, or evasion,
Or stammering reference to—“this occasion,”
As raising his voice o’er the tumult and din,
He recounted in song all the fights they’d been in.
Let bygones be bygones, the past be the past;
We live in the world of to-day, and at last
Society calls for less noise, more decorum,
Remarks less akin to the street than the forum ”