English

A REFUGE for life's burdened ones,
A beautiful and calm retreat,
Where toil may fold her weary hands
And labor ease her aching feet.

Oh, noble purpose—born of grief
And loss—that planned this place of rest!
That wrought through patient years, till now
Its glad fulfilment stands confessed!

Dear Lord, accept the gift, and make
This Home the fair abode of peace,
Where loving ministries shall dwell
And care and toil find glad surcease.

Here may the burdened seek repose,

Let her not lift a feeble voice and cry,
“What is my work?” and fret at bars and bands,
While all about her life's plain duties lie,
Waiting undone beneath her idle hands,
The noblest life oft hath, for warp and woof,
Small, steady-running threads of daily care;
Where patient love, beneath some lowly roof,
Its poem sweet is weaving unaware,

And soft and rich and rare the web shall be.
O wife, and mother, tender brave and true,
Rejoice, be glad! and bend a thankful knee
To God, who giveth thee thy work to do.

I know her well,—a thing that few can say—
So far within the shade her quiet life,
So softly flow its tides from day to day,
So gently do its hidden fountains play.
And she—she is a mother and a wife.

What is she like? Ah, that I do not know.
I scarce can tell the color of her eyes,
So changeful are the lights that come and go—
Now a quick sparkle, now a thoughtful glow—
But always tender sweetness in them lies.

Beautiful?—why, yes, if beauty is a thing
That one can feel and lean one's heart upon:

C'est toujours la pitié qui rassemble les femmes;
C'est toujours le malheur qui réveille leurs âmes;
Quand les petits enfants bénis dansent entre eux,
Elles tendent l'oreille aux récits douloureux,
Et les mains sur leur cœur plein de saintes alarmes,
Inventent des secours aux plus lointaines larmes.
Elles n'ont jamais dit: «Qu'importe? c'est là-bas!»
Voilà pourquoi la mort ne les éteindra pas;
Voilà pourquoi Dieu veut que des anges fidèles,
Pour les lui ramener les prennent dans leurs ailes
Femmes! je vous salue au nom des malheureux:

Stay ! traveller, through the mountain pass;
Rest thee within this flowery nook;
Here listen to the thrush's song,
And the sweet sound of Nancy's brook.

Traveller, I will a story tell,
From tradition's living book,
Of how this gentle streamlet here
Received the name of Nancy's brook.

Within this mountain's giant arms,
In days gone by, two lovers dwelt;
And all love knows of truth and joy,
These faithful cottage lovers felt.

Nancy was pure as yon blue sky,
And sweet and fresh as this wild flower;

Ondine! enfant joyeux qui bondis sur la terre,
Mobile comme l'eau qui t'a donné son nom,
Es-tu d'un séraphin le miroir solitaire?
Sous ta grâce mortelle orne-t-il ma maison?

Quand je t'y vois glisser dansante et gracieuse,
Je sens flotter mon âme errante autour de toi,
Je me regarde vivre, ombre silencieuse!
Mes jours purs, sous tes traits, repassent devant moi!

Car toujours ramenés vers nos jeunes annales,
Nous retrempons nos yeux dans leurs fraîches couleurs;
Midi n'a plus le goût des heures matinales

Droops thy bough, oh Cedar tree,
Like yon dear, yon aged form,—
Droops thy bough in sympathy,
For the wreck of life's sad storm!
Sad, indeed, his weary age,—
Lonely, now, his princely home,—
And the thoughts his soul engage,
Are of winter and the tomb!

'Twas for this, oh Cedar tree,
Verdant midst the wintry strife,
'Twas for this he planted thee,
Type of an immortal life,—
That when round his grave in tears
Brothers in their Art combine,
From the store thy foliage bears
Each may cast a portion in!

If I could e'er have thought that after-times
Would hold the music of my sighs so dear
I might perhaps have framed more idle rhymes
And striven to make them sweeter to the ear:
But she is gone forever who should hear
The mistress of my love, and lyre, and heart
Who made my crude harsh numbers smooth and clear,
And I in losing her have lost the art.
She was my inspiration, and I strove
To pour my soul and sorrows out to her,
For then it was not fame I sought, but love,
And now alas! it is too late to stir

Stitch by stitch and row on row,
This is the way the stocking must grow.
Clickety, clickety, day by day
The slender, glittering needles say.
Hush-a-bye, Baby, Grandmother sings;
Hither and thither the cradle swings.

Pearl and plain and plain and pearl,
Be it for boy or be it for girl;
Two and two is a neat device;
Learn to shift the thread in a trice.
Hush-a-bye, Baby, Grandmother sings;
Hither and thither the cradle swings.

Inch by inch the long leg grows,
Straight and narrow for fitting close;

Here lies New Critic who would fox us
With his poetic paradoxes.
Though he lies here rigid and quiet,
If he could speak he would deny it.