Awake, wild rose, lift up your lovely face And smile a welcome sweet to one whose days Were spent of yore in rose-embowered ways, Where lovingly he marveled at your grace And found in music lore for you a place, Telling in tones the world heard with amaze, How fair you were to his inspiréd gaze. A grieving people lost him for a space, And 'round his darkened home there hung a band Of messengers, half-dreading, day by day, Lest they should bear sad tidings o'er the land. But now, as Nature wakes, joy hath full sway. MacDowell lives! Grim death could not withstand The tide of loving thought that flowed his way. THE SPIRIT CALL (_Celtic myth: "The ghosts of Fathers, they say, call away the souls of their race, while they behold them lonely in the midst of woe." "Erin's clouds are hung 'round with ghosts."_--OSSIAN.) I go: my father's spirit calls! From his gray cloud beholding, He sees how thickly sorrow falls, My lonely path enfolding. So near he comes: I see him well: He beckons, smiling, pleading! I cannot in this sad world dwell, When he is drawing, leading. My heart is sore, he loves me dear, My soul is weary, weary! Father, I come, naught holds me here: Thou lov'st, and life is dreary! Bend lower, cloud, his spirit's home, My helpless form to cover! A gasp, a sigh, one faint, low breath, And all life's woes are over. A DESERTED FARM Seeking a lodge remote from men, A place for rest and labor, Where I might inspiration gain, Dame Nature for close neighbor, I came on a deserted farm, By forest deep surrounded; 'Twas mine, by ev'ry subtle charm, I saw, with joy unbounded. I wandered through its empty halls, And 'mong its spreading acres, Where birds and bees and frisky squirrels Were undisturbed caretakers. What sturdy youth and maid demure Within that garden olden, Their vows of love and constancy Pledged in the sunset golden? What lady hands in lilac hedge Or tansy bed went gleaning? Who placed that rusty flintlock there, Against the stone fence leaning? The very nails within your walls Handwrought, with skill, proclaim you A relic of colonial days, And home of comfort name you. The spinning-wheels, in attic hid, Tell me of busy fingers; And 'round the farm, long tenantless, An air of home still lingers. Of bygone days you speak to me, With all your ling'ring treasures; You summon musings of the past, And promise future pleasures. My Sleeping Beauty, I'm your Prince, At my kiss you will waken To fuller life than e'er you knew, Before you were forsaken. The great of earth will gather here, 'Twill be the home of Muses; Thy beauty and thy peacefulness A wondrous charm diffuses. I have a dream that years ahead, From out your humble portals Will issue music, art and song, To bless aspiring mortals.