New England--Daughter of the Sun-- A laurel on your brow, The thrill of springtime in your heart, Yea, we are lovers now, And we shall wind a lover’s horn High on the hills of space, To echo far beyond the stars; I shall behold your face, With laughing eyes, when time is not; Your lifting vistas then, As now, will haunt and wake in me A chording great amen. HILLS O’ MY HEART. The bloom of night lay on the hills, Lay on the hills o’ my heart, When a white star came as on wings of light, And my soul grew warm, And my soul grew bright, With a wild-sweet wonder of yesterday, Mid a valley green, but it would not stay, For the bloom of night lay on the hills, Lay on the hills o’ my heart. MASCOTTE. Plymouth wears a dimple, Kingston wears a rose, Plympton wears a feather, Everybody knows. Search the groves of Arcady, ’Neath the azure sky, Carver, like a cherished dream, With a flag goes by. Like an old doxology, Glittering, a bugle-mouth, “_Keep to the right, and go ahead!_” Trumpets from the _South_. YE OLDEN TIME. A TRIBUTE. Written for Carver’s Old Home Day Celebration. A song to the brave of ye olden time, Who rest where the night hangs low, Where never a breeze of the morning stirs, And only the death-lamps glow. Where ever and ever, a-side by side, The prince and the pauper dwell, While the summer blooms and the autumn fades And the winter weaves its spell Through the leafless boughs, and the snow descends, And wraps them all as one, And the stars adore, and the still moon waits, While the hurrying world moves on. A song to the man of a courtly mien, With his buckles, and wig, and frill, And a song to the man with a horny palm, And the grip of an iron will, Who planted these fields with their living green, With the plough, and the hoe and pick; Who lighted his way by the Psalmist’s lay, And the glow of a tallowed wick. A song to the maid of the minuet, With a blush as of autumn fruit, Whose wheel was rife with such magic strains As the strings of a lover’s lute; Who caught with her shuttle the firelight glim, As she worked at her cloth of gold, And took up her task at the early dawn With the skillet and candle mould. A song to the dame with her green calash, Her curls and her pensive grace, Who gladdened the days with her homespun ways, And the charm of her tranquil face. A song to the woman who made the Home, Who hovered about the nest With the sheltering wings of a mother’s prayers, And the warmth of a mother’s breast. To _her_ be the chaplet of stars we bring! To _her_ be our gifts of myrrh! For heaven is heaven and God is God, For the goodness we found in her.