Dawn followed dawn, and still the little one
Went not to that dim bourn beyond the sun,
But ever seemed about to pass thereto;
Nearer and nearer now the Yule-tide drew,
And to the hospital one morn there strayed
A kindly man who made the news his trade,
And learned the piteous story of the maid.
“Cosette,” he said, with a strange catch of tone,
His sight grown dim, remembering his own,
“Have you no wish?” and she, with him at ease,
Cried,—“Two red roses and an orange, please!”
Just two red roses and an orange! So
He wrote next day that all the town might know;
Then Christmas morning broke above the snow.
The morn of Christmas broke; bell spoke to bell
The loving message of “good-will” to tell;
The postmen bustled on their burdened round;
And happy greetings rang with cordial sound.
Then, at the hospital, a summons came,
Another and another, and the name
The answering nurse with every message met
Was still “Cosette,” and evermore “Cosette,”
For all had read the story of the child.
Roses upon her bed were strewn and piled,
And breathed their June about her everywhere,
Gleamed on the table, glistened on the chair,
From the soft loveliness of the pale tea-rose
To the deep splendor of the Jacqueminots.
And oranges! forsooth, it was as though
The palm-set lands where the long trade-winds blow,
Fair Florida and the Lucayan shores,
Had here unbosomed their most precious stores!
Both rich and poor had sought to ease the smart
Of her whose tale had touched the city’s heart.
And she—Cosette—through kindness’ golden dower,
Smiled upon life, and mended from that hour.
Pilgrims
Their path who shall unravel,
Their purpose who unroll?
From out the past they travel,
The future is their goal.
Theirs are the forward faces,
The spring’s Arcadian airs;
The old eternal graces
Of youngling Time are theirs.
Or gold the sky or ashen,
There broods within their breast
The sleepless pilgrim passion,
The sweet divine unrest.
They neither flag nor falter,
They tarry not nor tire;
Their aim they will not alter
Although a king desire.
They fear nor frost nor fever,
Nor fire nor famine they;
They follow Fate, the weaver,
For ever and a day.
Now tell their eyes the story
Of more than mortal tears,
Now gleam with starry glory,
The passing pilgrim Years.