Envoy

Spring, summer and autumn have all sped by, (Ah, but the chill of a winter sky!) Yet love still calls to the tryst, and now ’Tis under the green of the holly bough!

Cosette’s Christmas

Cosette they called her; Cosette, that was all; Fragile she was and flower-like, slim and tall For her eleven years, wherein her heart Had known but little save the world’s sharp smart. Never her ear had heard a mother’s croon; Never for her, about the break of June, Had been outstretched a father’s shielding hand To guide her woodward through the smiling land. The streets oppressed her with their cruel roar; The birds she saw above her dart and soar, Theirs was the life she longed for, not to be Mewed within walls that were a gloom to see, And stung with taunts from a virago tongue That aged her spirit yearning to be young. Foundling,--a fate that brooked of no appeal Was hers by some inexorable seal.

Backward and forward oft she went and came From the grim spot, that was but home in name, On casual errandry. It chanced one day, As she passed swiftly on her timid way, (’Twas near the season of the Christ-child’s birth, The happy tide of peace and love on earth) A heedless hand struck from her feeble grasp The glass she strove so carefully to clasp, And she beheld it, with a plaintive cry, Shattered before her on the pavement lie. The throng swept by, and caught her in its swirl; There was no lip to soothe the sobbing girl, No kindliness to aid her. A great fear Clutched at her breast; she knew the stabbing jeer, The pitiless blows that waited her when she Told the ill outcome of her errandry. Then through her brain there flashed a sudden word That in the hive-like purlieus she had heard, And filled her mind with sunshine. No affright Touched her with chill at thought of death’s dim night, For she recalled how once the preacher said That in white lily-gardens walk the dead. So in she stole at the accustomed door, Sought out a room upon the lower floor Wherein the porter, sullen-visaged, slept; Toward a remembered drawer on tiptoe crept, Plucked, undetected, thence a shining thing, And gained again the street in triumphing. A ringing shot, a little piteous moan, And a child’s blood encrimsoning the stone! When Cosette oped her heavy-lidded eyes, Wonder assailed her, and a great surmise. Was this the lily-land of her delight? It shone so bare, and yet so very white! Long stainless walls and little cots in rows, And one whose smile invited to repose; She drowsed, her mind still dwelling on that face, And dreamed she’d found the angels’ sleeping-place. And when, next day, they told her where she lay, A tiny tear-drop found its mournful way Adown the death-like pallor of her cheek; She closed her eyes and sighed, but did not speak.

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.