With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now, And softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette, While heliotropes, with meekly lifted brow, Say to me, “Go not yet.”
So for awhile I linger, but not long. High in the heavens rideth fiery Mars, Careering proudly ’mid the glorious throng, Brightest of all the stars.
But softly gleaming through the curtain’s fold, The home-star beams with more alluring ray, And, as a star led sage and seer of old, So it directs my way;
And leads me in where my young children lie, Rosy and beautiful in tranquil rest; The seal of sleep is on each fast-shut eye, Heaven’s peace within each breast.
I bring them gifts. Not frankincense nor myrrh— Gifts the adoring Magi humbly brought The young child, cradled in the arms of her Blest beyond mortal thought;
But love—the love that fills my mother-heart With a sweet rapture oft akin to pain; Such yearning love as bids the tear-drops start And fall like summer rain.
And faith—that dares, for their dear sakes, to climb Boldly, where once it would have feared to go, And calmly standing upon heights sublime, Fears not the storm below.
And prayer! O God! unto thy throne I come, Bringing my darlings—but I cannot speak. With love and awe oppressed, my lips are dumb: Grant what my heart would seek!
VASHTI’S SCROLL
Dethroned and crownless, I so late a queen! Forsaken, poor and lonely, I who wore The crown of Persia with such stately grace! But yesterday a royal wife; but now From my estate cast down, and fallen so low That beggars scoff at me! Men toss my name Backward and forward on their mocking tongues. In all the king’s broad realm there is not one To do poor Vashti homage. Even the dog My hand had fondled, in the palace walls Fawns on my rival. When I left the court, Weeping and sore distressed, he followed me, Licking my fingers, leaping in my face, And frisking round me till I reached the gates. Then with long pauses, as of one perplexed, And frequent lookings backward, and low whines Of puzzled wonder—that had made me smile If I had been less lorn—with drooping ears, Dropt eyes, and downcast forehead he went back, Leaving me desolate. So went they all Who, when Ahasuerus on my brow Set his own royal crown and called me queen, Made the air ring with plaudits! Loud they cried, “Long live Queen Vashti, Persia’s fairest Rose, Mother of Princes, and the nation’s Hope!” The rose is withered now; the queen’s no more. To these lorn breasts no princely boy shall cling Or now, or ever. Yet on this poor scroll I will rehearse the story of my woes, And bid them lay it in the grave with me When I depart to join the unnumbered dead.