LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Chap. Copyright No. Shelf.,.l_MS/4l rt38 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. ci^it. or oa*, within My Dt»l. THt*CS HH't^TW Mt IN MORTAL. KtN IMoAt vTVV«T THfjN, IN TH^T 1S To Mfc, ^ UTTLt wmttTfc Mt*fcW* _S€ •-VJTH Pi Ft AND fi^. flJV'D flit THt Wo^fti «*FT«£ D^y •• FoRtCleStJReS, CONTRACTS', S in T.S IN tort. MflKfc Re^lt roRT*f0UC|HT.s ©F cqt>1tR S°RT. T^OSj OFT M5f PIPfc P»TI| Ct(\St ToBuRN 4*b.sjux wy TijouaHTi ac iacj ti/rn. To SRooO.tN MtL*NCH/>tV STRAIN, o-eR leNd-iew jays 4'tt isfc'tn. fcCillN YtT c Tte K-R Mt ^ PitflSf\NT WHY To CL°SC THt Mfl«R4 «'F T1« DM ©l^TCNreB T^tN l SIT AT CUtC, P<. IN If/JND l|VO 80°K * M'^ ft. TH*- VVH1LC, T^t PLtH^VRfcS ,f4b T^N TRtH I Httb KtfF TWH.H, p/)|»t OfHT^.TtT^tfc SlNCf: r^Tt JfUoyvS Mt HTTo fl^ : WtTH PIPS- R*f> ^oc(^ After Office Hours AND Other Poemj BY JOHN W. WILSON. Copyright 1898 by John W. Wilson. , Champlin Printing Co. Columbus, Ohio 1898. 1 |* i • *r sn^^r so^.v%fi% The Edition of this Book is limited to two hundred and fifty copies. Each copj is signed and numbered and this book is number \ gwliratad to tfce msmnrg nf mg matter. Contents. PAGE Introduction 7 After Office Hours 9 To St. Valentine 10 To 11 Friendship, Love and Truth 12 Buckeye Qirls 14 Hot Tamale Man 15 A Red Rose 16 Christmas Wishes 17 My Mother's Bible 18 Invocation 21 New Year's Day, 1898 22 Petrarch 23 To Amy 24 "The Boys" 25 Devotion 27 When Nellie and I Go Bowling 28 Columbia, The Gem of The Ocean 29 R. A. F. ( a baby) 31 At Dusk 32 Letter to G. N. B 34 Retrospection 36 To 39 Auld Lang Syne 40 The Fountain of Youth 43 The Way of The Transgressor 44 Letter to G. N. B., Pittsburg 47 "Kimmie" 51 Destruction of the Albemarle 52 Illustrations* Frontispiece My Mother's Bible 19 Retrospection 37 5 To The Reader: ' Tis not to win the golden prize Or poet's laurel bays, I've sought to place before your eyes These few and simple lays. They've often lightened heavy grief, Have solaced lonely hours And proved a source of great relief When grim misfortune lowers. And, hence, I wish that I might gain Your kindly judgment, friend, For these, my children of the brain, Who do such comfort lend. To Abraham, God pledged reprieve For Sodom's evil throng, If in it's midst he could perceive A few who hated wrong. So, if, amid the ruder strains Which here do meet your quest, You find some rarer song obtains, Let it redeem the rest. —J. W. W. Columbus, Ohio, September 20, 1898. After Office Hours* At close of day, within my den, There's nought for me in mortal ken More sweet than, in that quiet nook, To be alone with pipe and book. It boots not then what book I use, If Burns or Shakespeare I peruse; It matters not if pipe of clay Or one of meerschaum holds the sway. It is enough, it seems to me, A little while to merely be With pipe and book. At that fair time, cares pass away And all the worries of the day; Foreclosures, contracts, suits in tort Make room for thoughts of calmer sort. Though oft' my pipe doth cease to burn And back my thoughts do idly turn To brood, in melancholy strain, O'er long-lost joys I'll ne'er regain, Yet, 'tis, for me, a pleasant way To close the labors of the day, With pipe and book. Contented then, I sit at ease With pipe in hand and book on knees And seek the while the pleasures sage Of soothing pipe and storied page. Nor need I care if youthful prime Is yielding now to touch of time; Though wealth's elusive, friends are few And love itself is less than true, I need not turn, pale Death, to thee, Since fate allows me yet to be With pipe and book. To St Valentine, Thou cause of sweet thoughts and of anticipations That give to the cheeks of the maidens a tint To rival the hue of the reddest carnations, At sight of the missives that through thee are sent ! To thee do I offer my choicest libations, To thee and thy altar my off'rings I bring And, e'en with my best of poetic creations, Of thee and my sweetheart together I sing. 10 To The poets may sing of the heroes of story In words that are swelling, majestic and grand, The orator's theme be the ever bright glory Of him who hath died for his dear native land: But the lines of the poet, the orator's phrases Would feebly express the emotions divine Which hope in the breast of John W. raises. At thought that, perchance, he'll be thy valentine. The warrior's happiest when he is earning The laurels of fame 'mid the battle field's din; The scholar, in secret, forever is yearning The innermost secrets of nature to win ; While others both learning and fame are foregoing And seeking their pleasures in riot and wine; But the gods would fill my cup of bliss overflowing Should they make me, dear lady, thy true valentine. Oh! strewn be thy pathway through life with the flowers That brighten what else is a desert of life; May each single one of the swift fleeting hours Come to thee unburdened with care or with strife; May ever about thee be friends without number To whisper to thee all their blessings benign, If only, 'mid all they can say, will be treasured The earnest "God guard thee" of thy valentine. 11 Friendship, Love and Truth, The subjects most by bards extolled Are warfare, fame and glory, The wild excitement of the chase And heroes great of story. My muse ne'er loved such lofty flights, Contented it to dally Beside some wild-rose bordered brook, In some embowered valley: And better still it loves to sing Our noble lodge, in sooth, And best of all to hymn a song Of Friendship, Love and Truth. And though my muse ne'er soars aloft With proud, triumphant strain, It yet can sing fraternal ties With true, heart-felt refrain. Than Friendship holy, Love profound, And Truth like crystal sea. What theme more worthy poet's pen, What nobler could there be? Then, sound, Oh, Muse! thy sweetest strains To charm the hearts of youth And teach to all the blessings great Of Friendship, Love and Truth. 12 Oh, Friendship, praised since ancient days, Theme e'en of sacred pen! Too oft', alas, thou'rt but a name, A mirage false to men: For man, in search of place or pelf, This goal in view doth hold And passes pain unheeding by, E'en like the priest of old. Though Duty's voice doth bid him aid The trav'ler, in his ruth, He passes by, and all for lack, Of Friendship, Love and Truth. How different in our order great Appear these virtues three! Here rich and poor, here high and low, Do all in love agree: And oft' a brother in distress Has aid and comfort new, A helping hand, and words of cheer, From friends and brothers true, Until he lifts his streaming eyes In thanks to Him above Who plants, in human hearts, the flowers Of Friendship, Truth and Love. 13 Buckeye Girls* I sing of the maidens most worthy renown, The girls of Ohio, in country and town, And where can be found maids of beauty as great As that which we find in our own Buckeye state. Oh! sing, all who will, of Circassian dame And give the fair Georgian's beauty to fame : But there's never a one of them all who competes With the girls to be seen, any day, on our streets. The beauty of Cloris did Horace applaud And Tennyson sang of the glorious Maud; But, were they now living, their loveliest song To the Buckeye, the fairest of all, would belong. The famed Andalusian girls of old Spain, Lord Byron has praised in extravagant strain: But those amorous beauties, 'neath sunny skies grown, Lack the sweet modest charm that the Buckeye doth own. Kentucky's proud damsels long famous have been, The theme of her poets, the pride of her men, But Ohio has beauty in those whom I sing Outvying the fairest Kentucky can bring. Then, Hail, to Ohio, the pride of the earth! And Hail to her daughters, the acme of worth! And may they continue, as now, to excel. As models of virtue, and beauty, as well. 14 The Hot Ta.ma.le Man* When the icy winds of winter whistle all along the street, And the pavements all are coated with a glassy film of sleet, When the frost appears to pierce us to the marrow of our bones, Then this cry is borne in on us couched in wild stentorian tones: " Hot tamales, hot tamales, three for five and all are hot; Hot tamales, hot tamales, they're the best you ever got." You, perhaps, have been out calling and have done your very best Just to please a dainty maiden in her youth and beauty dressed And, returning, lost in rev'ry, while you walk as best you can, Find your pleasant thoughts are scattered by the hot tamale man. " Hot tamales, hot tamales, three for five and all are hot; Hot tamales, hot tamales, they're the best you ever got." You, perchance, have just been dreaming that your ship has crossed the main And have just begun a building airy castles, too, in Spain, When, alas, their walls are shattered and they tumble all about, While your ear drum's almost ruined by the hot tamale shout. "Hot tamales, hot tamales, three for five and all are hot; Hot tamales, hot tamales, they're the best you ever got." 15 A Red Rose* The flower thou gavest, I cherish it still. I'll cherish it ever through good and through ill. Though it wither and fade, as all earthly things must, Yet its relics I'll keep 'till I'm laid in the dust. Around it fond memories ever will cling: Though beauty desert it, it visions will bring, Recollections of thee it will e'er for me bear As sweet as the scent it once gave to the air. My hopes, which bloomed like it, like it may decay And the breast it adorned may from me turn for aye; The lips that caressed it — its rivals in hue — May refuse the sweet boon I desire from you; The head that bent o'er it, with shy maiden grace, May ne'er turn to me for its true resting place. Though thine eyes that have beamed on this flower and me May ne'er show the love-light in them I would see. Though the gold of my sky in a dull gray does merge And my heart, for its hopes, beat a low, solemn dirge, Yet "The heart that has truly loved loves to the close" And hence I will treasure my poor little rose. 'Tis a symbol, perchance, of a hope that has passed, A bright dream of joy far too lovely to last; But the mem'ries it brings are most precious to me, Since they call up an image of love and of thee. 16 Christmas Wishes* This is the chosen day throughout the whole of Christian earth To celebrate in fittest form the great Redeemer's birth; To illustrate the great good will that man to man should hold And so advance that "Peace on earth," as sung by them of old. This day, we, therefore, give our friends some tokens of our love, As symbols of the feelings pure enjoined by Him above. Let whoso will give gems of price, or treasures from the mine, The priceless products of the arts, or fabrics fair and fine, Or frank-incense and myrrh renowned, or pearls from out the sea— The fairest gifts the earth affords are none too fair for thee. But, as a gift 'bove things of earth, I venture here to send, In all heartfelt sincerity, the blessings of a friend. I trust this Christmas day will find thee healthy as can be, With naught of sorrow or of care to mar its festal glee; That friendship will its off'rings bring to lay at thy dear feet And that you may of nothing lack to make thy joy complete. I pray the Power who keeps this earth within its orbit great, Who counts the head's unnumbered hairs, who marks the spar- row's fate, May guard thee with His tender care from ev'ry rude alarm And, through a long and happy life, protect thee from all harm. And though wise Providence may dim thy bright eyes with a tear, May e'en thy tears be tears of joy and not of woe or fear. And, as the greatest blessing I can invoke for thee, I pray that He'll preserve for aye thy spotless purity. 17 My Mother's Bible. I have studied the works of the masters sublime And the books of the writers of old, But there's naught I have found in the annals of time. In the authors obscure or the writers sublime, Either written in prose or embalmed in a rhyme, That I love like this volume I hold. In this book, we see Christ by dark Gallilee pace Or stand by Samaria's well; How Jehovah with Job did converse, face to face; How the love of the father does all things embrace; Or the justice of God to'rds his creatures we trace, When we on its dread pages do dwell. There's a beauty and tenderness wholly benign In the lessons it ever does teach : In the hut of grim want, like a gem it doth shine; It doth lighten the labor in depth of the mine And to point out the way to the mercy divine, It even the convict may reach. But 'tis not for its beauties nor yet as a guide, That this time battered book I revere, 'Tis the volume my mother once cherished with pride, 'Tis the book that she ever did keep by her side And it held out a promise on which she relied When aught evil did threaten her here. And on memory's canvass, her picture's most fair As she traced out the promise it gave. I can see her quite plain as, with reverent air, She turned o'er its pages with tenderest care And gathered the promise she found for her there Of the peace that lay just past the grave. 18 ^ '" ;^| And on memory's canvass, her picture's most fair As she traced out the promise it gave. I can see her quite plain as, with reverent air, She turned o'er its pages with tenderest care And gathered the promise she found for her there Of the peace that lay just past the grave. 19 Invocation* Oh, Thou, Great Cause of all that was, Or is, or is to be! With heart oppressed and spirit crushed, I come for aid to thee. I'm sick of fate's unceasing blows, Of constant pangs and grief, And all my future seems to hold No promise of relief. In vain, to me, appeal the flowers That deck the field and lawn; In vain the rosy flush bespreads The eastern sky at dawn. The lisp of leaves by breezes moved, The fountains pleasant play, The diamond sparkle of the dews, The joyous song-birds' lay, The gentle murmur of the brooks, Meand'ring to the sea, Though all endowed with beauty rare, Afford small joy to me. From dawn of day till gloom of night, From night till day is born, I'm learning with the poet, Burns, "That man was made to mourn." Ye shades of the enduring brave, Who long have passed away, Be with me in adversity, My comfort and my stay. Beneath the burdens grim of life, Teach me with you to vie And, if I fall beneath the load, Then show me how to die. 21 New Year's Day, 1898. Another year has dropped from off the chain of ages vast To fall, for aye, in the abyss of all the ages past. Old Ninety-seven's days are o'er for sorrow or for glee And we have come, Oh, Ninety-eight, to pay respects to thee. Three hundred days and sixty-five, you've come with us to be: Though young, you have no guardian grim but are an agent free ; You've no next friend on whom to place the burden of your cause And so must bear the blame you earn as well as the applause. Hence, let us hope you'll not delight in many wars and woes And that you'll not so act to make of all mankind thy foes. Give not to us the pestilence or famine grim and dire But emulate, if not excell, the virtues of thy sire. What ills thy predecessor's days saw happen to myself, The cares endured, the sorrows borne, the hard'ning lack of pelf, And, worse than all the other ills, what loss of friends befell, It matters not, I've no complaints or tales of grief to tell. What though, for me as for the world, those days much ill have wrought, It's more than counterbalanced by the recompense they brought; Increase of business and of health, fair share of golden store, A friend more dear than all beside, what could I ask for more. Although the web and woof of life is never unmixed good, Yet, still, more friend than foe to me, has Ninety-seven stood; And, so, I say, young Ninety-eight, you do as well as he And, at thy end, I'll raise a hymn of praises unto thee. 22 Petrarch* Six hundred years have fled apace, Six hundred years of storm and sun, Since Petrarch first saw Laura's face, In St. Clair church, in Avignon. Their meeting was, in sober truth, A fateful one in their affairs; But though it wrought them pain and ruth, It gave the world its sweetest airs. It wrecked the poet's peace of mind, The while the poet's heart it fired; But by his hopeless love refined, He sang the songs the world admired. Though sweet appears the call of fame And sweet successful love appears, His sonnets to his lost one's name, He made more sweet to human ears. The tides of time have rolled, since then, O'er men and nations, tongues and creeds Aud buried from all mortal ken The records of men's mighty deeds. But his true song, with passion fraught, His hopeless off'ring at her shrine, The deathless wreaths of love he wrought Have won themselves a life divine. Oh, lover of Italian clime! Oh, singer of the deathless fame ! Though men and nations yield to time, Immortal thou made Laura's name. And would that I like skill could claim To wed my thoughts to noble verse, That I might write my sweetheart's name For fame immortal to rehearse. 23 To Amy* Come, list, my sweet Amy, come list to my lay, Come, lend me thine ear for a moment, I pray, For to sing of thy manifold charms is my aim And, eke, my delight in the sound of thy name. For e'en as the hart for the water-brook pants, My soul seeks the music that name ever grants ; And sweet as the favors true love ever gives, A feeling ecstatic within it e'er lives. Its syllables dulcet I've ever admired Far more than the hymns of the angels enchoired; Its harmony ever doth break on my ears Like the ravishing melody made by the spheres. Its sound is a well-spring of constant delight; It calls up a vision most fair to the sight, A vision of thee, in thy charms unsurpassed, Those charms which have made me thy slave to the last. Though the name has a beauty that's wholly its own, 'Tis the fairer because of thy charm to it grown. And though 'twere the fairest that ever might be That would tend but to make it more fitting for thee. 24 "The Boys" As down in the west Sinks the fiery sun And I rest myself After work well done, From the mist-clad hills Of the long gone past, Come the thronging thoughts, Oh, how quick and fast! And I seem once more But a boy in years, And to fill the air With my thoughtless cheers, And the times once more With joy seem to fill, As I roam with the boys Around old Zanesville. What a crowd we were In our thoughtless glee! A pack of young scamps We no doubt seemed to be. Yet my heart leaps up And my pulses thrill, At remembered sport With Arth or with Will, And I laugh as I think Of mischievous prank That I've often played Upon Ote or on Frank. 25 But soon in the mind The illusions made By the mirage of memory Grow fainter, then fade. In sweet balmy sleep Tired senses find, A Balm of Gilead For the weary mind. But the last clear thought Ere perception roams, Is to breathe the prayer Of the poet Holmes, That, at length, after life With its strange alloys, God will tenderly care for His children, the boys. 26 Devotion. Oh! Georgie, dear boy, to the South End, has gone And whistles and sings, as he hurries along. The words, "Annie Rooney," we hear as we pass; But th' name in his heart 's of a different lass, Not that of Miss Rooney, recorded in song And hummed by dear George, as he hastens along. 'Tis a different maiden, neat, modest and trim And not the fair Annie that interests him. Let Tennyson sing of the glorious Maud And Horace the beauties of Cloris applaud, But "The girl of all girls," says our George, with a laugh, "Is she of South High, one, nineteen and a half." Not rain, wind or storm can our Georgie delay, When he to this fair one his devoirs would pay. And his devoirs so great are to pay them aright Our Georgie must call on his girl ev'ry night. He leaves the gymnasium, departs with a whirl, In order to call on this beautiful girl. "For the glory of God," the religionists crv, Should the thoughts of us mortals be fixed upon high. But George has a plan of different kind, In order to keep his religion in mind, He knows that his faith in his God will not fade, While he worships so strongly what God so well made. And on Sunday, to keep his religion in tune, He calls on his girl morning, ev'ning and noon. 27 When Nellie and I Go Bowling. I've tried many pleasures — or pastimes so called — And my cash and my time thus I've spent, But in none have I found any joy so profound As when bowling with Nellie I went. Though Walton praised angling as excellent sport, Yet it wearies me e'en to the soul To sit still and wait — though I've plenty of "bait." I'd rather with Nellie go bowl. There's a barbarous pleasure in slaughter of game, Though you tramp through the cold and the wet, But it's minus the joy that I have sans annoy, When at bowling with Nellie I get. I enjoy a good play at the theatre, too, When the art's in the actor's control, But the very best play, I'd desert any day To go with sweet Nellie to bowl. 'Neath the warm, cosy shed, with its lights overhead, And the balls with their rythmical roll, There her sweet girlish grace makes an exquisite place When Nellie and I go to bowl. 23 " Columbia., The Gem Of The Ocean/' In the great world's youth, when it first 'gan to range, With bewild'ring haste, down the great groves of change, When the wood-god, Pan, and the Oreads fleet Peopled mountain and forest and shady retreat; When the voice of the speaker returned from beyond, Recalled the nymph, Echo, of Narcissus fond, When each crystal spring and loud babbling brook The beautiful form of a fair naiad took. In short, long before much learning had birth Or science or art had appeared upon earth, And all that religion comprised, in truth, Were these weird but lovely "illusions of youth." There belonged, it is said, to the wonderful train Of beings that dwelt in th' Olympic domain A youth by tradition and story renowned, Who, at birth, sprang at once from his crib to the ground, And in shell of a tortoise began to infuse The wild lyric strains of Euterpe, the muse, And then, ere the night the day 'gan to follow, Had stolen the herd of the sun-god, Apollo. 29 A patron of learning and a giver of joy Were qualities, too, of this wonderful boy, And a part he still takes, at times, though afar, Is that of a beautiful evening star. Many times in its orbit each great world appears To the sound of the wonderful "Music of spheres" Ere the gods send again a youth through their portal As worthy as Hermes of honors immortal; Till, at length, that from misery great he may free us, Columbia is sent by all-powerful Zeus. Like Hermes of old, she descends from the sky, 'Tis in 'j6 on the Fourth of July. As precocious as Hermes, she scarce reaches ground Ere blessings as great in her wake are found. With the spirit of liberty swelling each vein All tyranny ancient is ruthlessly slain. Moreover, our age, much more modern, by far, Than that of the light-fingered evening star, Has more thoroughly taught our Columbia divine The radical difference 'tween "Mine" and "Thine." And now she stands by her wide open door, With bountiful hand off'ring joy to the poor. Oh, may she remain in the national sky, A star of first magnitude, shining on high! And may she, our country, continue to shine, The pole-star of freedom for all coming time, 'Till long ages hence the whole world shall be, As Columbia now is, "The Home of the Free." 30 R. A. F. (A Baby J A health, a triple health, to thee, Thou new-born rose of Kankakee, Thou tender blossom of the love Sent to thy parents from above! Thy tiny, little hands, so weak, The faint, pink tinge upon thy cheek, Thy shell-like ear, do all proclaim Thee first in hearts as Furst in name. Thy subjects fain would round thee throng; Their loving thoughts to thee belong. Thy happiness is e'er the law Of grandma, aunts and grandpapa. God bless thee, babe, and keep thee far From all which thee might harm or mar, And may He give to thee the grace Of papa's nature, mamma's face. 31 At Dusk. I'm sitting in my office now; My toil this day is done And the soul no longer buoyed by work Sinks earthward with the sun. The shadows lengthen in the street, My spirits darken too And, be the cause whate'er it may, I'm feeling very blue. My work unsatisfact'ry is, My courage shirks the race, And, with the best of law and facts, I lose case after case. I had a cause to-day to try With right and law with me, But though as A, B, C, 'twas plain, The Justice would not see. I showered facts and law on him, I read like cases through ; He rode rough shod o'er law and facts And held against me too. So, now, to-night, I turn from work Disgusted with the bar And seek to find a solace in A pipe or good cigar. And as I watch the fleecy clouds Float slowly through the room, There quickly comes, with thoughts of thee, A light unto my gloom; I see within the smoke rings white A sight surpassing fair, A maiden sweet, with gracious mien And lovely dark brown hair. 32 The beatific vision has An aspect pure, serene, And eyes at once both dark and bright- No sweeter e'er were seen. I only wish those kindly eyes Might pierce my bosom's core, Lay bare the heart within my breast And con its secret o'er. 33 Letter To G. N. B. Friend George: — 'Tis an act that with pleasure is rife To write to yourself and your excellent wife; 'Tis a comfort near equal to that which I find In your hearty hand-clasp when hard fate is unkind. I know that your friendship for me makes you blind To my many defects, or of heart or of mind; That, by reason thereof, you my letters receive With a welcome their merits could never achieve. A book worm, as I am, ne'er gathers or sends The gossip that's spoken of all your old friends; Of the daily events of Ohio's chief town, I ever have noted but few of them down : But though all my letters of news show a dearth Concerning the dwellers on this part of the earth; Though their subjects each be, sui generis, apart, Yet, still, the said letters come warm from my heart And I feel, yea, I know, that each letter I write Will be hailed by you both with a friendly delight. Hence, one of the few pleasant things in my life Is to write to you both of my joys and my strife. With a confidence, born of the facts above shown, That your sympathy true is ever my own, I write to you freely what hardships I bear And I do so well knowing my sorrows you'll share. 'Tis relief to a man of my lonely estate To have some true friends, those to. whom he may state, All his joy and his triumph, his hope or his fear, And the griefs that befall him with each passing year. I know of no others I'd venture to trust With the hopes that my fate has oft laid in the dust : No others would show such a sympathy fine As you have displayed for those hardships of mine. 34 When my courage has yielded to trouble, 'twas then You graced, for a time, my poor bachelor den And spoke with a kindness so tender and true That my heart, in remembrance, still warms towards you. When I have been sinking in sloughs of despond, Could see naught to hope for nor wish for beyond; When my spirit was bruised and my heart stricken sore And my joy in this life seemed to me to be o'er, You came with kind words of such healing and calm They fell on my spirit like Gilead's balm. And I'm not ungrateful, believe me, although, At the time, I, perhaps, had few thoughts to bestow Except on those subjects which caused such distress As to scarce leave me power my thanks to express. But, George, be my days few or long in the land, You'll e'er have my services at your command. Your friend, J. W. W. 35 "Retrospection/* All hail to her whose lovely face The artist here has shown: No mortal art can show the grace Which her true soul doth own. That soul has, from no evil strife, An ugly taint received But has, 'mid storm and stress of life, Perfection fine achieved. No need has she remorse to feel For her remembered joys When, ev'ry glance, her eyes reveal Them free from base alloys. She may indulge herself at will In retrospection true, Since only those whose deeds are ill With dread their past review. 36 ORIGINAL COPYRIGHTED BY BAKER'S ART GALLER Retrospection. To Oh! lady fair, accept, I pray, This tribute of regard And turn thee not, in scorn, away From praises of thy bard. Tis true that my desert is slight, That rude my verse appears; Yet still, each line, I to thee write, The truest feeling bears. Since first thy form appeared to me, Thy sweet face met my sight, My thoughts by day are fixed on thee, I dream of thee at night. So rare thy form, so neat thy waist Appear unto my gaze, My muse e'en stumbles in its haste Thy beauties to appraise. The violet in a shady park Recalls thy modest mien: Like two empurpled pansies dark, Thy sparkling eyes are seen. But though the fairest far to view Of any in the land, 'Tis not alone thy beauty true That does my heart command. For while a maiden's fair to see, In loveliness arrayed, Yet innocence and modesty The best become a maid. These qualities I find in thee In measure most complete And, therefore, though in vain it be, I worship at thy feet. 39 Auld Lang Syne* In these burning days of summer, How my vivid fancy roams From my quiet, sober office, From my dry and dusty tomes ; From the many tedious questions, Or of contracts or of torts ; From the legal complications Of a thousand diff'rent sorts; From the constant contemplation Of the right by wrong oppressed; From the study, study, study How the wrong shall be redressed, Till once more the joys of boyhood Seem almost as truly mine As when life was still before me, In the days of auld lang syne. With store of health abundant, Bounding pulse and care-free breast, I live again those happy days, With all the old-time zest. Oh, the glory! Oh, the rapture! In the eager blood of youth, Ere the fairy tints of romance Yield to sober grays of truth; 40 When our acts owe less to reason Than to impulse of the heart And impressions have the sharpness Of the steel engraver's art; When great ambition dowers us With dreams of rich estate, Of gallant deeds of high emprise And guerdons wholly great; When the sunshine seems most golden And the sky is ever blue And our friends appear the truest That this old world ever knew; Then to love, and joy, and laughter, All our hours appear in tune And to pass away in beauty Like a perfect day in June: Then we pluck life's fairest flowers, Never dreaming thorns grow too, For the thorns are hid by flowers, Hidden deeply from our view. Ah, as pleasant as to flowers, Seems the early morning dew, So to me the recollections Of the days which I review. And what pure and wholesome pleasures Does the memory's scroll reveal When, from days of stern endeavor I an hour for rev'rie steal: Old friends' faces, half-forgotten, Peer up at me from the scroll; Merry scenes cause pleasant laughter To re-echo in the soul And I hear the admonitions And I feel the tender hand Of the gentle, angel mother, Long since in the better land. 41 I have clambered up a mountain, Very early in the morn, And turned to look beneath me On the fields of yellow corn That bordered on the river, Stretching on for league on league, And I've gazed upon a wondrous scene, Unconscious of fatigue; A mist, I scarce had noticed When I stood below the height, Now lay covering all before me With a mass of purest white, Save, where, here and there, a forest Bore a tree whose loftier height Pierced the white cloud resting on it As it soared towards the light. So I seem to be a-gazing From the heights of present time, On a vision spread before me Bringing thoughts almost sublime, On the hopes, the joys, the sorrows, On the anguish, on the tears, All enveloped, all enshrouded In the mist of parted years Save those stronger recollections Which, like trees the forest bore, Rend the veil which rests upon them And recall the days of yore. Lord Byron sings in queenly verse The joys of those who roam At seeing loved ones' eyes grow bright At their returning home. And equal joy awaits the soul, 'Neath temples lined and gray, Whene'er it leaves its days of toil For those of Life's green May. 42 The Fountain Of Youth* 'Way back in romantic days long- sped, The Spaniards, by Ponce De Leon led, Sought, in a land of which stories were rife, A fountain filled with elixer of life. For they, with their leader, conceived, in truth, That somewhere existed a fountain of youth And where would such spring more likely be found Than there in that wond'rous enchanted ground, Concerning which strange stories were told Of magnificent cities and streets of gold, Of populous empires and beautiful queens And the strangest, wildest, loveliest scenes, Unlimited forests and rivers long, With flowery banks and birds of song. And, better than all these things, forsooth, This wond'rous fount of perpetual youth. Thus they sang the praise of that unknown clime, With increasing fervor all the time, 'Till the Spaniard sought, in the "Land of Flowers", This means of prolonging his mortal hours. You've read and re-read this story old And know the fate of the cavalier bold, An Indian arrow cut short, to his ruth, His search for the magic fountain of youth. Were I, in these modern days, to renew The search of De Leon and followers true, I'd hasten to seek the alluring prize In the liquid depths of my sweetheart's eyes And delighted I'd gaze in those orbs so bright, While the fires of youth would again relight, E'en though I felt the arrowy dart Of the hidden archer piercing my heart. 43 The Way Of The Transgressor* "Imprisoned for life, what a terrible doom! I'd better, far better be dead in the tomb. Imprisoned for life, while, mid sorrow and woe, Will Time's leaden footsteps fall ever more slow, Until death, long delayed, brings the worn heart peace, 'Till the long prisoned soul gets a final release." And the convict's head bowed low on his chest, And a cry welled forth from his heaving breast; "I thank thee, Oh God, that by this unoppressed My mother has gone to eternal rest; That to her, ere I had a felon's name, The reward of the faithful servant came." And the face of the man, though hardened by sin, Showed plain that his conscience was stirred within. The fond word, "Mother," had brought up fast The ghosts of his long-since buried past; Its spell made the prison walls fade away Like morning mists 'fore the lord of day. And plain to the sight of his mental eyes, Doth the woodland home of his youth arise, And he seems to be living his youth anew, With its healthy pleasures, unfailing and true. He lingers again where the violets grow, Or brooklets babble, or wild winds blow; 44 Or, lying prone by some dark pool's brim, He admires the image it gives of him; He even scents the zephyrs mild, Laden with odors from flowers wild, Odors blended from columbines, From honeysuckle and balmy pines. Or he sleepily murmurs his evening prayer, While his mother kneels beside him there. Then soothed by the sound of the whisp'ring trees, Softly swayed by the gentle breeze, He sinks to rest as free from care, As beasts of the field or birds of the air. But these retrospective inward views Quickly assume more somber hues, As he traces o'er the course since run, As he sees once more the evils done; As he cons again the book of his past, Each page more blotted and blurred than the last. 'Twas a record of sin that well might make The hardest heart in that prison quake. In spite of his father's anxious cares, In spite of his mother's tearful prayers, He had hurried on with reckless curse, He had hastened downward from bad to worse. Until — a tremor his being shook, And he cast 'round his cell a fearful look — Till he'd dyed his hands in human blood And stained his soul in the awful flood; Till he'd wrought for himself irremediable ills Pronounced 'gainst him who another kills. And, at these thoughts, his restless tread Paced to and fro by his prison bed; Till wearied by thoughts of his bitter lot, He sank at length on his wretched cot. But e'en as in sleep he restless tossed, His grim lips muttered, "I'm lost, I'm lost." 45 But the ways of God, His wondrous powers, Are veiled from finite eyes like ours; And He who all our hearts can see, Who saved the thief e'en on the tree, Can cause the convict yet to know His scarlet sins are white as snow. For God hath said that e'en for such The righteous' prayer availeth much; And as the lily can spotless climb Out of the swamps of ooze and slime, May not the mother's prayers yet win The soul of her son from the sloughs of sin? 46 Letter To G. N. B., Pittsburg. June 3, 1898. Friend George: — Of friends, the very best Though I search north, south, east and west, When last I chatted here with you, You claimed a letter was your due. So, now, to pay my honest debt, To rhyme and writing I will get. And if the product of my pen Puts you among afflicted men, If it should silly, senseless seem Or product of an opium dream, Then place the blame where it should be Not cast the burden all on me. You love to read — or so you write — What I and my poor muse indite. You've heaped up praises, aught but mild, Like Pelion on Ossa piled, Until my cheeks with blushes burned And, eke, perchance, my head was turned. I'd sorry be to think you'd flatter What my poor muse to you might chatter; That when you her do praise and coax, Your praises all are but a hoax; Or that you have not truly read With all the pleasure that you said. And though your friendship you may cause To give, perhaps, unearned applause, Yet, since encouragement you've lent To her to write what I have sent, Then, of what blame there is to bear, Why, you, yourself, should take a share. I hoped, when we forgathered last, Before great many days were past, That I to visit you might come In your own Smoky-City home. In fact, I thought your town to see At the same time as Mrs. B. As she has doubtless said to you, My preparations all were through To make the trip (Now don't you laugh.) In comp'ny with your "better half". (This compliment'ry phrase I use For fear my letter she'll peruse.) I'd even donned my best black coat And Sunday trousers, too, you'll note, And other things I'll not record, To take her to her lawful lord. (I'm well aware I'm tempting fate When of a woman's "lord" I prate. Whoe'er calls women "weaker sex" But uses words that all perplex: As far back as my hist'ry goes, They've led their "masters" by the nose. And who'd live happy in the land Must do whatever they command.) 48 Then when I'd done whate'er I could To make my escort seem most good To your fair spouse, likewise to you, My plans and trip alike fell through. My client — who did often say That she the whole expense would pay— Although she knew 'twould make me frown, Did not turn up but turned me down. And thus my pleasing plan was marred By fortune, luckless, evil-starred: And so my visit I'll omit To your old town, named after Pitt. Your wife, on leaving, kindly took A copy of my Pipe and Book, And ventured in your name to say That you'd deliver it to Grey If you can do so, then believe That you'll my hearty thanks receive. The daily papers all do say That Thomas Keene has passed away. We'll ne'er again the hours put through, Entranced by his great "Richelieu", Nor be by Shakespere's genius swayed As when poor "Tom" old Shylock played. Of great tragedians we're bereft, With only Walker Whitesides left, And in their places buffoons prance And painted hussies smirk and dance And think, perhaps, they'll make a hit By use of smutty, would-be wit. 49 And now I pray the gods, my friend, That health and wealth to you they'll send And, to increase your joy the more, They'll send you babes, some half a score: That such-like joys for you be won Is e'er the prayer of Your friend, JOHN. 50 " Kimmie/ ' You're a man, Kimmie, dear, in the prime of your life, If we trust to the tale of your years; Indeed, of that fact, the grim evidence rife From your hair — or its absence — appears. But 'tis only of woman and not of her lord, That they say "She's as old as she looks"; "A man is as old as he feels," we record With the maxims of men in the books. Admit the mere years of your boyhood have flown, With the hair barber Time has removed, — As a liar the chronicler ever is known — That you're young cannot well be disproved. No "Boy" is your equal throughout our great state For a good story told or enjoyed, And the man, with impunity, challenges fate Who with laughter, like you, is employed. The medal presented you, made of pure gold, — The metal's a type of your worth — "To Kimmie — On general principles," told, — The inscription accounts for its birth. Then let all the envious cavil and cry 'Till they weary themselves with their strife, In spite of their sneers and the almanac's lie, Your youth will last long as your life. To W. B. K. 51 Destruction Of The Albemarle* You want a story, do you, boys, and want one of the wars? Well, Harry, kindly get a match and bring me my cigars: Then, while the smoke-wreaths intertwine, and white clouds rift the air, I'll tell you of heroic deed which few to do would dare, A deed of desp'rate daring in the days of gloom and woe When grim rebellion seemed about our nation to o'erthrow. •» The story's of an ironclad destroyed as was the Maine But not like it by treachery but 'midst the bullets' rain. And those who did the daring act which I do now relate Put life and limb in hazard of the soldier's deadly fate. They did not strike, assassin-like, an unsuspecting foe Nor seek a time of quiet peace to strike a deadly blow; But, in October, '64, the twenty seventh day, The while the rebel Albemarle in southern river lay, They sought the guarded foeman in the foeman's hostile land And dared whatever dire fate he had at his command. They staked their courage and their life against his greater might And trusted to the God of War the issue of the fight. No braver act the annals of the centuries reveal Than this one wrought by dishing and his comrades brave and leal. Leonidas and his command had scarce less room to hope When they with Persian Xerxes and his forces dared to cope; Horatius, at the Roman bridge, defending home and gods, Had not, with all his country's foes, to fight 'gainst greater odds; 52 No soldiers in the armies which Napoleon did command Did acts more brave than this one done by Cushing and his band. Six months the rebel Albemarle had held the southern seas; Six months her saucy rebel flag- had floated on the breeze. Her armor seemed invulner'ble to all the Union fleet; The greatest of our ships of war she forced to beat retreat; She stood unscathed by shot and shell before the cannon's mouth And moved, the terror of the seas, the champion of the south. Then brave Lieutenant Cushing and a dozen volunteers Prepared to rid those waters of this cause of Union fears. They fitted up a small steam launch scarce larger than a yawl — A cockle-shell to be destroyed by one small cannon ball — And on the prow they fixed a boom and on that, at its end, A dread torpedo which, 'twas hoped, beneath the waves would send This hated rebel ironclad and so remove the dread Which through the Union forces its destructive life had spread. All quietly they left the fleet, concealed by night's dark cloak, And swiftly as the racer speeds they reached the Roanoke. Here still more silently they moved, for 'long the rivers' banks Were scores and scores of pickets from the neighb'ring rebel ranks. As glides the Indian warrior when in pursuit of prey, So Cushing, through their picket lines, for eight miles held his way Until they came to where the ram lay anchored by the shore Protected by a pen of logs out thirty feet or more. Alarm was made, a bon-fire lit, the bullets 'gan to fly About the gallant little craft that glided swiftly by; Then, turning with a bird-like sweep, straight at the ram it went And struck the logs and forced them in, on its fell errand bent: And, while the rebel ironclad belched forth its shot and shell, Brave Cushing and his gallant men performed their duty well. Though bullets pierced his clothing thrice, mowed down his men like grain, Yet Cushing the torpedo placed despite this deadly rain. 53 There came a fierce volcanic blast, a mighty thund'rous roar; And sank the rebel Albemarle to rule the waves no more. And what about the fragile craft that served the State so true And what about the officer and others of its crew? The boat was riddled, crushed by shot, the waves above it broke, It lies beside the Albemarle beneath the Roanoke. And of the thirteen hearts of oak that manned that fragile craft But two escaped captivity and death's untimely shaft. Lieutenant Cushing and one more escaped the fate they'd braved And, after other dangers great, by Union fleet were saved. All honor to the officer! all honor to the men! Who put their limbs in jeopardy, who dared the prison pen; Who risked their lives on hostile stream, before the rifle ball, And to their country's altars came to sacrifice their all. And when, in after days, they tell about heroic deed, This rare exploit of Cushing's all others will precede. 54