Mary Baldwin College - Bluestocking Yearbook (Staunton, VA)

Page 26 text:

We know not when : ' et 1 am sure Tliat souls like thine Bring with them that which shall endure, And I divine That the whole world, more tender, wise, Catching the look in thy great eyes, Draws near to God. We hear the line, Faint music of the chariot wheels As we peer upward ; who but feels Through human, the divine? I see her now ! Prayer on her lips doth move : Children are at her feet ; she seems to rise More womanly than woman, with the love Which is her woman ' s glory, in her eyes. And on her brow faith, like an aureole. In the world ' s heart, held dearly as its soul: Held tenderly, as any mother holds Her year-old baby, white, with ruddy lips. On which the first, sweet utterance trips ; Or as a wee bird, which the hand enfolds, Grimy and small, that found it in the grass. And trembling owns it, half afraid to pass. And half afraid to hold so strange a thing. Lest haply (world ' s delight !) the bird should sing ! Oh! as we treasure ringlets, ringlets which the years Have dulled, or letters full of tears, So the world holds all reverently apart The flower of perfect girlhood to its heart; And with such care and beauty and delight, She held the flower of girlhood on her breast; She turned the face of girlhood to the light, That so the sun might ripen fruitage blest. And, by the growth of something wise and good, Persuade the world of perfect womanhood. As mute as yon bird, by the window-sill (A golden roundelay, and all is still), So ends her life ' s unbroken harmony In stillness, and the rest for which men long ; So to her life shall death ' s pure radiance be The dew of silence, in the flower of song. ViiuiixiA Lucas. i6

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©be to nDi88 flDar Julia Balbwin. O stately Muse! from thy celestial place, Who, in the ancient days, Didst lend to mortals grace To compass life with song : to praise Deeds which o ' ermaster fate, Which make men great. And sanctify the race! To thee, in love with beauty, lo ! we come ! Not to the tumult of the rolling drum, Nor to the stirring music of the mart. Nor to the ancient Orphic melody, From high Olympus sprung. But to the beating of the human heart, Be this, our measure, sung. O, woman with the crowned brow, What chaplet shall thou wear? Shall we From our low earthly shrine, Bring ivy, or the laurel-tree For brow of thine? For other laurels wearest thou Than those we twine. Star-life ! The shadows gather round, And we in semi-darkness bound. Look for some ray Which in the night ' s abyss profound Foretells the day. Thy life is as an augury Of the divine. Serene Christ-kingdom, which shall be Bright with such stars as thine ! God comes — we know not when, nor how — Nor what faint flush Shall blush across the morning ' s brow — What matin hush Shall prelude the strange melody Of angels ' choral symphony. 15

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