To lissome hands and soft lips enthralling,

To smiles now stained by the teardrops falling.

Till the view from my vision dies,
To it backward I send my eyes;
All that was becomes new and near,

The forgotten grows warm and dear;

Mem'ries wander,

While this I ponder,

And from the springtime all love's sweet dreaming Forward and back in my soul is streaming.

Joyous that time and joyous now,

Sorrow that time and sorrow now.

Sun on meadows bedewed appears,

Soul in mem'ries of smiles and tears.

When they waking

Their bounds are breaking,

When streams their ebbing with sinking power, The soul bears poetry's bud and flower.

THOSE WITH ME

As on I drive, in my heart joy dwells

Of Sabbath silence with sound of bells.
The sun lifts all that is living, growing,
God's love itself in its symbol showing.
To church pass people from near and far,
Soon psalms ascend from the door ajar.

-Good cheer! Your greeting hailed more than me, But that in hastening you failed to see.

Here's goodly company with me riding,
Though oft they cunningly keep in hiding;
But when you saw me so Sunday-glad,
It was because of the mates I had.

And when you heard me so softly singing,
The tones attuned to their hearts were ringing.

One soul is here of such priceless worth,
For me she offered her all on earth;
Yes, she who smiled in my boat storm-driven,
And blanched not, braving the waves wind-riven,
In whose white arms that in love caressed me
Full warmth of life and of faith possessed me.

The snail in this I am like when faring,-
My home I ever am with me bearing;
And who believes it is burdensome,

He ought to learn how it's good to come
And creep in under the roof thereafter,
Where she gives light amid children's laughter.

No poet paints nor can thinker tell
So vast a vault or so deep a well,
As where the glory of God's own love
On cradle-mirror falls from above.

Your soul is brighter, your heart more tender,

When by the cradle your thanks you render.

Who knows not love in the small and near,
The many in memory hold not dear.

Who cannot build him a house his own,

What towers he builds will be soon o'erthrown.
From Moscow victor to Carthagena,

He vanquished dies on his Saint Helena.

When such a stronghold you've reared with labor, It often safely protects your neighbor;

Though work of woman's and children's hands, Your soul finds strength where that fortress stands, You go hence braver to battle-dangers,

Can courage give unto countless strangers.

One home bore often a whole land's fate,
And sent the hero who saved the state;
Thousands of homes, when the war was o'er,
The land delivered in safety bore.
So bear it onward in peace and beauty
The hearts of homes beating true to duty.

Though foreign perfumes be fine and rare,
Still pure alone is the home's sweet air.
Naught meets you there but the childlike, truthful,
And sin is kissed from your forehead ruthful.
To heaven's home leads its door ajar,

For thence it came and it lies not far.

Good cheer, to church on your way not staying!

For those we love we shall both be praying;

In prayer together the way we wander

That leads from this to the home up yonder.

You enter in; I must journey far,

While follow psalms from the door ajar.

Good cheer! Your greeting hailed more than me, But that in hastening you failed to see.

TO MY FATHER

(UPON HIS RETIREMENT)

In all the land our race was once excelling.

In richer regions it e'en now possesses

Broad seats and fruitful; but by fate's hard stresses Our branch was bent and bowed to blows compelling.

Now toward the light again it lifts aloft

Its top, and fresh buds crown it, fair and soft.
The flowing fountain of your faith has laved it,

To life's late evening thus your strength has saved it.

As rests the race in time of chill and rigor,
And from the deeps that lie within its being
Draws to it what alone can nourish, freeing
Its powers to full prophecy of vigor,—
So I divined the unseen stir in you

Of nature's might that you could not subdue;
It was so strong, from sire to son surviving,
In mystery mute descends this power's striving.

Upon this poured its radiant warmth pervading
My mother's soul; of wedded joy the glory
Crowns not alone your aged heads and hoary;
But it shall death outlive in light unfading.
And if my people ever truly prize

The pictured home that in my writings lies,
Honor of love and faith serene, unbroken,—
Of father, mother, both, shall praise be spoken.

If men remember the Norwegian peasant,
As from the field of toil or saga fateful

I conjured him; to you they shall be grateful,
Father, in whom love let me find him present.
And if the woman whom I made them view
In sun-like splendid faith and spirit true,
By women is approved, it is the other

Who has their homage, my sweet-natured mother.

And now you'll rest the evening long and cheery
From the day's work in fair or troubled weather,
And of the by-gone time you'll talk together,
Of many a mile you trod with footsteps weary,-
Now will as sunlight on the winter's snow,
A warmth of thanks in through the window glow,
Harsh memories mellow with its golden shining,
Your life in faith complete find its refining.

But none gives thanks as now that son in glad

ness,

For whom you lived in anxious fear unceasing,