And with thine eyes shall I pursue
Yon shower-veils from the sunset flying,
Blown mid clouds white and lurid-blue
That crowd the rainbow's arch, defying
Him who in red death shoots them through.
Look with me; in this pageant see
My love all glowing up to thee.
See what I see, hear what I hear,
I too am with thee by the wave—
One all the day, the hour, the year:
Our trust of love shall be so brave,
We shall deny that death is here
Or any power in the grave.
I know thee; thou canst love like this;
Be ours the endless spirit-kiss.
Dusk falls. How purely shines that star,
Concealed while day was in the sky;
Life, love and thou not mortal are,
Though atheist noon your world deny.
Dusk falls:—though in the west a bar
Of bloom on evening's pure cheek be;
In beauty thy love cries to me.
THE CHICKIEBIDS.
The chickiebids are in their nest
Overhead,—
Dimpled shapes of rosy rest
Curled a-bed.
Night has sung her spell, and thrown
Her dark net round
Their heads; their pearly ears have grown
Deaf to all other sound.
O of me how you are part,
Babies mine!
Your hearts are children of my heart.
The inner sign
Of my eyes lurks in your eyes,
And your soul,
That so brims with Paradise,
Stirs what wonders roll
Unsuspected in myself,
Who had thought
Life half death, till childhood's elf—
Sign of angels men shall be—
Came and taught
A youth eterne within futurity.
THE CAUGHNAWAGA BEADWORK SELLER.
Kanawâki—"By the Rapid,"—
Low the sunset midst thee lies;
And from the wild Reservation
Evening's breeze begins to rise.
Faint the Kônoronkwa chorus
Drifts across the current strong;
Spirit-like the parish steeple
Stands thy ancient walls among.
Kanawâki—"By the Rapid,"—
How the sun amidst thee burns!
Village of the Praying Nation,
Thy dark child to thee returns.
All day through the pale-face city,
Silent, selling beaded wares,
I have wandered with my basket,
Lone, excepting for their stares!
They are white men; we are Indians;
What a gulf their stares proclaim!
They are mounting; we are dying;
All our heritage they claim.
We are dying, dwindling, dying,
Strait and smaller grows our bound;
They are mounting up to heaven
And are pressing all around.