LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf.:...£35H5 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. THE MISSIONARY. THE MISSIONARY THE BANDIT CHIEF AND OTHER POEMS. BY CHARLES H. FREER, Illustrated with Full-page Engravings. CHICAGO: ^Jf,MV»iS^^^^ f American Publishers' Association. /y /, icks up apple, pushes finger through core, and holds it up to sight-they cheer CHIEF: 'Twas a splendid c^iiot ! for it pierced the core And it spared the maid from the loss of gore ; Pass 'round the wine with its ruddy shade And we'll drink a toast to the nervy maid. All lift glasses, about to drink. SI: Hold ! Captain, hold ! 'twas a boastless deed, Lets push the test to a finer bede; I'll wager gold from the very start I could ring a bell at the lady's heart. CHIEF: You could ring a bell, it is plain to see You could ring a bell, — B. E. L. L. E. ; But its ten to one you could shoot a curve With the steady aid of your drunken nerve. THE MISSIONARY. 27 SI— pulling purse: You doubt my skill ! and you term me sot ! But I earned the name of the Fatal Shot, And I'll wager this to a hope in hell That I'll sound the tap of this tiny bell. Tapping bell with finger— call bell. CHIEF: Then pile your gold, I'll cover that. And I'll top the pile with a Chieftain's hat; And I'll wager all with a single whirl That you miss the bell and you kill the girl, SI— looking at target: Aside. I will lose the name of the Fatal Shot If the white breast shows with a crimson spot. But the deed be hers, and the fault shall rest With the faithless move of the bleeding breast. Business of shooting is awfully unsteady — sights several times. CHIEF: Still ! be still ! for a swaying hair Would stop the heart that is beating there, And the slightest stir as the missile flies Would seal the gaze of those trusting eyes. Business shooting — bell rings — cheers. BANDITS- Hurrah! hurrah! he has struck the bell! 1 — And has won the gold! 2 — and a hope in hell! 3 — And a Chieftain's hat ! 4 — and a title hot That hails him'still as the Fatal Shot. 28 THE MISSIONARY. SI: You call it brave, but the test was there With the tiger nerve of the lady fair ! And the target lay like a dream of light In the silver noon of a summer^s night. And I pressed it twice ! and I pressed it thrice And my reedy hand was a thing of ice, Till the heart was sure of the deadly rest Of the target there on the dauntless breast. And I pressed the spring, and I won the prize! And I proved the sham of your taunting lies ! And never a stain nor a crimson spot To steal the fame of the Fatal Shot. Pushing' gold and hat to the Chief. Here Chieftain, here I 'twas a friendly tilt, Nor sin is borrowed, nor blood is spilt; But all grows dark in the Devil's Den When I think me over what might have been. I'd a sister once, just a tiny maid With a trusting heart and a nerve as staid As the woman there with the dauntless breast, That stood to-day in the target test. She comes down front. LEL AH— aside: God ! My God ! can it be our Si ! 1 trusted him tho' I knew not why; And I lived to-day in the days now dead When he shot the fruit from my sunny head. THE MISSIONARY. 29 SI: Pass 'round the wine to every one ! Lefs warm the blood, for the deed is done; Drink lady! drink! for the drink is hot, And you owe your life to the Fatal Shot. LELAH— taking- glass, holding- higli, looking at it: Could you read the words that are written fine On the foamy crest of the treacherous wine; And the pages sank in the purple waste, I do not think you would ask me taste. I read a tale of a broken home In the spiteful burst of the billowy foam; And I read a tale of a settled woe In the purple seas that lurk below. And I read a tale of a bitter gall In the dregs that lie at the base of all; For they tell to me from their lips of slime Of the final rest of a soul in crime. O the cursed wine ; for the pages read Of the blighted hope and the crimson deed; Of the broken heart and the lover's sigh, And the grief-born tear of a mother's eye. No, take the wine, for it brings me pain, And it leads me back to a home affain That has lost a star from its cluster there, To the night of sin — God knows the where. SI — taking glass : Ah ! she tells of home and a fallen star, Of a missing soul that is dark and far; 30 THE MISSIONARY. But she never dreams of the stars that trace, Of the skies of home on her woman face. O gracious God ! have I gone so low ! Why do I ask when I know 'tis so ? And must these hands, that have touched the flood, Be redder still with a sister's blood Should it fall to me, at the final vote, To draw the steel to her snowy throat; Could I face the glow of her kindly eye, Could I stand, O God ! but she must not die. CHIEF: To the council men ! for the breaking day Climbs skyward there on her wings of gray; The night is gone with its idle sport. And we've work to do in our sooty court. Bring on the spoils of the plundered night, The jewels bright and the garments light; . And the broidered hems that are deep with gold. To the auction all, for they must be sold. Kings auction bell. LELAH: "To the auction here for they must be sold," What volumes lie in the words just told; For they pi'ove at once of a wrathful lust. And the thieving faith of a thief's distrust. CHIEF— rings bell again — goods being brought: Attention all ! I've a bankrupt stock To offer here from the auction block ! THE MISSIONARY. 31 The firm is fractured and gone to — well The goods are here and I've got to sell. Laughs and cheers. How much ? how much ? how much for this ? A necklace snatched from the throat of a Miss — Well never mind ! for the Miss is cold ! Ten dollars ! once — twice — thrice — and sold ! LEL AH — shuddering: "The maid is cold but it matters not," Was it a test by the Fatal Shot ? My brother ? no ! tho' his sins are rife I will not believe he has taken life. CHIEF— rings bell: Well here we go ! here's a jewel case ! And a photograph of a monkey's face ! Who bids ? who bids ? ten dollars ! no I Say twenty-five ! right ! that's a go ! Crowd — ho ho ! I ho ho ! I Well this-ere business hangs the court, I'll make this auction quick and short: Rings, diamonds, lockets, watches, all, All going at one final call. One hundred ! fifty ! that won't do ! Two hundred ! fifty ! are you through? Three hundred ! yes ! three hundred ! gold ! Fair warning gents ! three hundred ! sold I LEL AH — looking at brother sitting near: O could I speak to him, but vain To court hopes pale and distant train; 32 THE MISSIONARY. One little word, one passing breath, May haste him to a hurried death. SI — rises; comes down front, opposite sides She knows me ! yes, I heard her sigh, And I read the truth in her eager eye; I cannot smother love's old flame, And still I dare not breathe her name. That heartless court will soon decide. And that decision must abide; Their motto — none will ever fly, " Who enters here must surely die." CHIEF — sternly: Attention all ! come Fatal Shot, Each member, be he king or sot. Must fill his all important place In trial on so grave a case. Council gathers in circle. My friends: the trial here in store A stranger's entry at our door. What does her presence signify ? All answer — pointing motto: "Who enters here must surely die." Go Captains, go and lead her forth, A jewel true of matchless worth. Ah ! cruel was that fateful road That led her to this dread abode. And is there one would vote her free ? All shake heads — groan. (The court decides her penalty). THE MISSIONARY. 33 You answer no! a union's choice, I hear not one dissenting voice. And is there no unguarded gape By which the fair one may escape In honor ? and with honor due The judgment of our bandit crew ? All answer: No! No! No! No! Then be it so ! and cry the word ! Say must she die by shot or sword ? All lift swords. Enough ! enough ! the verdict said And lifted is each trusty blade. And who among this daring row Will volunteer to strike the blow ? I see you tremble ! cowards all ! I issue an impartial call. A color draft of red and black, And each in turn must draw his check; Plain sighted, square to every eye The winner then must do or die. So place the rack, a double hue In colors perfect, rich and new; The crimson boons a lease of breath, The sable strikes the blow of death. Forming n single file they draw tags in order; each passing to the opposite side after drawing, holding his tag up In full sight. Chief — after each draw keeps crying: Not yet ! not yet ! not yet ! not yet ! Go, draftsman go, the die is set! 34 THE MISSIONAKT. Go, draftsman go, the die is set ! Not yet ! not y^t ! not yet ! not yet ! SI —draws black tag: Great God ! great God ! it was my lot ! ALL CRY: The Fatal Shot! the Fatal Shot! See ! see ! the cold black banner ! so The Fatal Shot, he strikes the blow ? CHIEF: Then bring the victim ! place her there ' Hand-pinioned in that heavy chair; Now lady would you pray or sing, Then hasten with your offering, LELAH: No special word, contented still To do my Master's holy will; And trust the arm that ruled the wave, That arm is mighty still to save. CHIEF: Then bandage well the lady's eyes, And heaven soon shall have the prize. TO SI. Your station here, it is your lot, And may you prove a fatal shot. A beat of drum ! and be you slow. Death, staring from that silent row, Will speak from out her fiery heart And snuff you with a leaden dart. One moment ! and the ticking time Will count it out in solemn rhyme; a »4 H O Z o THE MISSIONARY. 35 Each clucking note will dash a part And fall across your beating heart. One moment passes, still enough to hear clock tick — drum sounds. Si springs forward with lifted sword, grabs bandage with his left hand and pulls it off — turns, drops sword. SI: My God ! it is my sister ! no ! Don't ask me strike the fatal blow ! Take my poor life and let her live ! God knows I have not more to give I CHIEF: Then you refuse? thus challenge fate! And sir! you'll not have long to wait ! Your lease of life is duly sold ! Ready ! aim ! one, two, hold ! hold ! Lelah has risen and stands before him to shield him. LELAH: You shall not kill him ! draw your line , And shatter this poor heart of mine ! But spare ! O spare my brother's life For sister's sake ! for child and wife ! CHIEF: Undaunted still ! and sweet as brave ! Full trusting in that power to save; I bow me with revering head And name thee Chieftain in my stead. My noble band have followed me O'er troubles dark and stormy sea, Like faithful kings to do my will. And they will grant to do it still. Bandits all kneel on one kne^and lift hats to Chief. 36 THE MISSIONARY. Then be it so! I do prefer That each and all shall follow her, And from this hour, this very night, March onward to the fields of light. Lead, noble Chieftain ! lead the way ! Our hearts are burning to obey; And where thou lead, to left or right, We'll follow thee in every fight. LELAH: Then will I lead them, one and all, To charge on Zion's lofty wall. With wreathed spears and shields of light, We cannot fail to win the fight? Fall in ! fall in ! I'll lead you through, Your armor shall be light and new; It is the armor love would bring, And marching onward we will sing: We're marching onward toZion, Zion, Zion, We're marching onward to Zion, City of our Lord Continue in song and march till curtain falls I BAY BESSIE.-P. 37. THE MISSIONARY. 37 BAY BESSIE. Yes, indeed ! there's no doubt all you fellows can tell So much better than I and my jolly old pal, What to do best, providing a tempest should come And lay its white grip on the poor miner's home; You would do many things, to be sure I (in your minds). When the great king of clouds in its wandering finds You have drifted to sea, it is that, nothing more. You are helpless as tho' you were there without oar. How well I remember an instance, not old. When JeflF and Old Rog and myself, digging gold. Were surprised by a visit from one of those things Termed "tempests of terror with turbulent wings;" We had labored all day in our alleys of dust And had chiselled quite far in the old mountain's bust. The dim light of candles yet pointing the way, And dirt had washed well all tliat beautiful day. And now as the sun was just shadowing down O'er the one lonely hut in that far mountain town. We had stood sledge and drill by the rock-wall, and sought Quiet rest on the "dump" that our labors had bought. And expectant of naught, half in dreams of the past, We were back with old friends in the distance at last; 38 THE MISSIONARY. (It is strange how the heart will lean back to the old, E'en amid the wild fevers, and fighting for gold. ) But hark ! what is that that so nimble-like springs Down the rock-carpet lain, till the old canon rings? It is Frank! Spanish Frank! and the lightning mare rules — To the light Loriette, he is searching for mules. Had we seen them? ah no, not a thing for a week, lie must go farther down God's great pasture to seek, Farther down through the rust of the old canon's mouth, To the springs where the trail stumbles in from the south. With a touch of the spur he is gone, and again. Iron echoes come back up the steeps of the glen. And the long shadows cross on the valley at will. Or like ghosts slowly climb up the opposite hill; And the pines on the peaks, where the gold fringes lay, Chant a requiem now for the dying of day. The coyote crawls forth from his cavernous home And howls a glad welcome that darkness is come. Ah behold ! said old Rog, there's a mist on the moon, No surprise if a storm should be breaking o'er soon. Wouldn't care to be now where that rider has come With a prospect like this, and that distance from home. Mighty lucky, indeed, if he makes it at all. Even now I can hear the old monitor call. THE MISSIONAKT. 39 Ah ! there goes the Spaniard mare running at will, They will meet just about at the top of the hill. Said Jeff, if he makes it the chances to run, Will sum square against him a hundred to one, And I doubt if the mare can be forced in the face Of a tempest that runs such a terrible race; And Wheeler ! old chum, very neat I declare If he slip from the mesh of this venomous snare. To-night he had promised returning with food, He will run heavy chances to make his words good Put a light in the mouth of the tunnel I said, A man might as well call aloud to the dead, As to waste his poor breath in a hope we would hear, Or advance the least sound to attract a man near: Go cry to the tempest and listen it gloat As it crams the faint sound down your own very throat. Go grasp at the tempest whose passions are stirred To speed that out-wings the most willing of birds. But hold ! here is Wheeler! poor man, what a sight. His hands tliey are frozen, his cheeks are as white As the drifts that lay deep on the brow of the night. And he says (as the tears melt adown through the frost) God must know how I prayed, for I thought myself lost. And but for that light w'fh its timmersome stain I ne'er had seen Mary and baby again. 40 THE. MISSIONARY. All night the wild shrieks of the tempest were sown, All night the torn pines, sneing mercy, made moan. All night the grim rocks, that like sentinels stood, Were piled with the creams of that quivering flood; All night through the casement of window and door It sowed its white sands on the the miner's rough floor; All night with the darkness, and yet with the dawn, It piled its cold touches of death on the lawn. Ah! what of the rider whose courage must dare To face such a fury, and what of the mare. Behold ! up the canon's sown levels they come Like children shut out from love's beautiful home; Slow breasting the storm in its half-broken flight Like souls straying up from the valley of night; Kind welcome to rider with ample of cheer. But God in His mercy must care for the mare. Poor creature of fate to this desolate home, O why did the advent of chances say come; No food can we offer, no shelter from storm, No whispers of hope that may keep the heart warm. To gather from sages and throw at your feet That only starvation might force you to eat. Would not rule to comfort, poor creature, at all. Would only be feeding life's bitters with gall. But say! (to the Spaniard,) now how did you fail To get the bay beauty safe home o'er the trail ? You see ! (said the Spaniard,) poor Bessy is young. And when the storm gathered and thickened and stung, THE MISSIONARY. 41 And poured like a tide through the gates of a sea, It crowded so hard on poor Bessy and me That the mare, I suppose, kind of shied from the track, And the footing all soft she could not feel it back. Some will blame the poor Filly, aud others will say It were easy to stay on the trail in this way, Just dismount from the mare, bow your head to the sleet. And trace the trail easy at touch of the feet; Now this is fine reason as any may know, Consider that this is the first fall of snow, The trail quite as level as rest of the ground, And snow equal softness and depth all around. That's folly, in earnest chum Rogers replied. In cases like that take the wind for a guide; Yes indeed ! take the wind, I'd have ran a queer race. For however we turned it was square in the face; It swept us for yards from the reach of the track. It whirled ns and trailed us and crowded us back; It howled from the northward, it screamed from the south, And it forced us back down the black canon's great mouth. Poor Bessy was faithful as any I know. But how could she go where no creature could go, I can't blame you, Bessy, I don't blame you, no! You did all you could in that ocean of snow; 42 THE MISSIONARY. You were quick to respond, jou were faithful my dear, You were brave, (never mind, boys, its only "a tear), Just a womanly moment, no more and no less. Out of sympathy born for my beautiful Bess. Don't mind, boys, I know you consider it weak. But mj throat gets so full when attempting to speak. And my heart is so crammed with a weight of dis- tress "When I think of you Bessy, poor beautiful Bess: I can't blame you Bessy, (don't mind, boys, the tears,) My faithful companion three wearisome years, It comes kind o' hard after that, boys, you know. To see Bessy buried out here in the snow. Three days did the tempest scream terror and strife, And reach its cold hands to rob Bessy of life; Three days, from the crest of those mountains, the snow Was sifted like down on the valley below; Three days, on the reach of that valley to roam, It piled its cold walls around Bessy's wild home; Three days, that like years must have flown to poor Bess, In that anguish of hunger and frozen distress. But lo ! as a passion spends fury at last. That tempest itself 'came a thing of the past; And so its sown furies all trackless and mild Lay quiet and pure as the sleep of a child. No voice of contention, no murmur of ill, THE MISSIONARY. 43 No charge of wild legions on valley and hill; One grand reach of silence, and softness of light Arrayed in God's great grasping garment of white. Fine day for adventure, said Rogers, and yet Hard feature to go from this valley "you bet," Six feet on the level that carpet and more, Each pass will be doubled a dozen times o'er; I know, said the Spaniard, the passes are piled, I know too my parents are troubled and wild. Three days have they watched for my coming in vain, Three days have they prayed for my coming again. But Bessy, poor Bess, I must leave to her fate. She can't make the pass at the valleys great gate; No more can you make it, said Rogers, no more, You both have been sanded along the same shore. What use for those petty vexations and tears, Those mountains of snow are your masterly peers; To scale them indeed, if assistance be thrown. You might on the morrow, you cannot alone. Again on the morrow, determined to go. Two stalwarts press forth through the pitiless snow, And by the exertion of muscle and mind, And double assistance of kind unto kind; A pride of progression, a purpose of will. They just seem to move on the merciless hill; The great effort conquers, the sun hardly dies Ere they wave their brown hands in the face of the skies. 44 THE MISSIONARY. Now the days roll along with their troubles in store, We bang hard at the mine, we can do little more Save to pause on the dump and to look in despair. And conjecture the fate of that spirited mare. She has swam the white surf and is pulling at will, From the low nearlie shrubs on the steep of the hill Where the snow has blown thin, and the rocks are half bare, She can cull just the faintest of substances there. So we watch every day her progression, and know Thai" each day settles down, and slow hardens the snow As she climbs, faithful child of misfortune, and still Gains a reach every day up the run of the hill. She will win, said Old Rog, as he gazed from the dump. She could make the top now, it appears, at a jump, She will make, she has made it! hurrah, never die! See, she stands just a speck twixt the base and the sky. Well, we just gave our old dirty hats the best swing, And we yelled till we made that old canon just ring. For we knew, or at least we just thought that we knew As the mare was on toD she would surely pull through. But the rider, indeed ! and for shame to declare, Once at home, nevermore sympathized with the mare. GO LEAD THEM.— P. 45. THE MISSIONARY. 45 And the fraud of a heart that pretended to bleed, Never held the least right o'er the heart of the steed. All ambitious to gain from a charity sown, He had grieved unto tears and had termed her his own; He had played the thing well, (for his own blessed part) And won sympathy too for a carbonate heart; For we trusted the rhune of that adderous tongue, And by the deceit of its murmurs were stung ; His "can't blame you Bessy," with tears falling hot Was a charity push for a double Jack-pot. GO LEAD THEM. O call the pinioned eagle down And loose the quiet dove, Fling out the banners of the town On chords of yielding love; Stuff hard the cannon's rusty throat. The musket's mouth of blaze, And bid a million voices float The eloquence of praise. So let the bells with silvered tone Ring through the jeweled morn, And double depth of volume thrown. Breathe from the drinking horn; 46 THE MISSIONAKT. Till like an echo sweet and long Or anthem grand to soar, The mingled sound of praise and song Shall spread from shore to shore. And North and South and East and West, Howe'er the lines may run, The hearts that warm a nation's breast, O let them beat as one; And hand to hand, as link to link Our nation's circuit round, There let the lips of reason drink, And name it holy ground. Ring up the lines of faded blue! Of sere and fading gray ! Equip them with an armor new Torn, from the fields of May; With royal rose and mignonette And pansies gemmed with dew, What matters it that cheeks are wet When hearts are doubly true ? Go lead them down the aisle of green, And where the pines are tall, Where Ivy weaves its velvet screen O'er many a fortress wall; Where gaping trenches long and deep Spake loud from lips of stain, And haughty soldiers dared to weep Above the silent slain. THE MISSIONARY. 47 Go lead them where the hillsides shone With ranks of burnished steel, And clouds of trouping thunders thrown Gave answer peal for peal; While lightning played its dazzling flame Around the hearts of men, And blow for blow, and claim for claim Was answered back again. Go lead them where the red drops fell And where the stained tides ran, Deep-plowed with many a hissing shell, Swift claiming man for man; And blue and gray commingled lay. And night and day were one, The while the storm-cloud dared to play Between the earth and sun. Go lead them where the soft dews weep As in the days gone by. Where quiet reigns, and comrades sleep Who dared to do and die; Go lead them there, each veteran king With bowed and reverent head,! Will dare some dainty gift to fling Above the silent dead. Go lead them down the long lone way So peopled yet so still. Soft be the martial notes that stray Each shadow-bending hill; 48 THE MISSIONARY. And soft the beat of muffled drum Slow rolling on to rest, The while life's troubled pendulum Swings hard against the breast. Go lead them there, and leading say: God's praise ! Thy will be done ! While comrades snow the sweets of May O'er many a sleeping one; Till piled above the common lawn The love of life is told, From lips that pray the brighter dawn. And hearts of shining gold. Here let the cold black envj die The long black shadows sleep, Nor let the lips of scorn decry The heart that dares to weep; For all the troubled past is done, And all the future new, Be faith by love's true purpose won To crown the Gray and Blue. The Ivy climbs the fortress wall And hides the dark decay, The voice of reason speaks to all From floral lips of May; And whip-poor-will with notes of ease Pipes down the setting sun, While o'er the reach of troubled seas The Gray and Blue are one. THE MISSIONARY. 49 Then build love's floral arches high And lead the brave hearts through. And while the long-stilled voices crj? The " roll-call " of the Blue; Let some familiar tongue of old King out across the v^ay, And tell, as other days have told, The "roll-call " of the Gray. The missing ones are many now, The bugle calls in vain ; They answer not from mountain brow, Nor answer from the plain. Nor yet from out the valley's deep. Nor by the rolling stream; They sleep that sweet befitting sleep That knows no troubled dream. Thej' met us when the cannon rolled Its dark wreaths over-head, They met us when its lips were cold And counted dead for dead; They met us at the burial tide, And in one tender way, We laid our comrades side by side. The Blue beside the Gray. Some loved the brave unyielding Blue, And fought the flag with tears; That flag their fathers carried through The mists of stormy years. 50 THE MISSIONARY That flag that waved at Bunker's height, A father's chosen gem, Leaned out across the stormy night And beckoned unto them. They come ! they come ! from field and town ! By sylvan wood and stream ! The scourge of envy trampled down Like love's unmeasured dream. They come! they mingle! Blue and Gray ! That old flag overhead ! * And soldiers tread the flowery way To crown the noble dead. SUSANNAH. Do I love her ? Mortal man 1 Can you for one moment scan Face like hers and idly say, Do you love her ? Is she gay ? Sweet to me as smiles of heaven ! It is seldom such are given, And it puzzles me to see How God gave that face to me. Not so stylish, that I'll own, As my wayward life has known; Not so handsome ? maybe not. Here you touch a tender spot. Let me tell you, that to me She is beauty's garden tree, THE MISSIONARY. ^^] Tho' her splendors be not laid Under paint and powder shade. Not the tickle "Goddess " art, Beauty dwells around the heart; And her beauty is a flood, Warm and gushing in the blood. And a touch of paradise Ever lingers in her eyes; Handsome? I shall term her so, Tho' a world should answer no. Do 1 love her ? do I start ? Well, you crossed my beating heart With a question that would sire Any honest heart afire. Yes sir! she is life to me, Grand and gracious as a sea! And her noble womanhood Is an ocean vast and good. Christened in the silver spray. Love has scattered day by day. And the thousand comforts planned By her sweet and helpful hand; Can you wonder I should feel Keenly as a touch of steel, Tenure of your question knife Pointing to the throne of life. Do I love her ? and how well ? Did you dream that I could tell ? Is there method yet to prove V 52 THE MI8SI0NAKT. Proper ties that measure love ? Deeper than the deepest sea ! Higher than the skies may be ! Farther than the border wall ! Well I love her ! that is all. Yes, the hands are brown and tan, Toil has made them so, my man; Labor that has lifted woe, That it was ! that made them so. And her brow is over-rnn By the rambles of the sun, Pearl in bronze, and mingled true. Sunbeams kissing eyes of blue. When the shadows lean and stray. And the cares of life would lay, Mortgage on the tired soul Drifting where the billows roll. And the last redeeming hour Purples like a frosted flower, Then her presence glimmers through, Morning-glory steeped in dew. Do I love her ? Mortal man ! Can you for one moment scan Face like hers and idly say: Do you love her ? Is she gay ? Sweet Susannah! blessed wife! I shall love her all my life ! Handsome ? I shall term her so, Tho' a world should answer no. SHREDDED BLUE.-P. 53, THE MISSIONARY. 53 SHREDDED BLUE. OR THEY COUNTED ME ONE OF THE MEN. I'm only a wandering tramp, Spending night after night on the street; All alone with the dark and the damp, And my thoughts more of bitter than sweet. For they croon to me day after day As I stalk through the streets of the town, How the young and the fair and the gay. With the frost-biting years may go down. How the pangs of misfortune will come Like a blight where the bright laurels grow, And ghouls make invasions of home Till its idols are shattered with woe. But I'm only, I'm only a tramp, Why conjecture of themes such as these, All alone with the dark and the damp, Chilly words of the whispering breeze. Chilly words of the whispering breeze ? How they moan through the boughs of the trees, How they groan and they moan as they say: "You are only a tramp in the way, But a poor ragged tramp in the way." How they clatter the rags at my side ! How they scream through these locks turning gray! As tho' pain unto them were a pride, '.' You're a poor ragged tramp in the way. But a poor ragged tramp in the way." 54 THE MISSIONARY. How they press their cold hands to my breast ! How they feel through these rags to my heart ! This poor raiment that once was a vest, Scarce a vistage of warmth can impart. And my coat, ah ! reminded of you Takes me back to the front once again, How you filled in the lines of the blue ! And they counted me one of the men ! Yes, they counted me one of the men ! There was plenty of room for us then ! In the lines to be filled with the blue There was room both for me and for you ! Well we filled it, old pard. Yes, we filled all the room that we could; And it seems they are treating us hard, I'm sure we did something of good ! When I see the old flag floating out From casement and pillar and dome, It seems as tho' somewhere about, They might find us poor creatures a home. Well, you're only a remnant of shade, I'm only a remnant of man. But we stood at the front when the wild music played. And did all that anyone can. At Shiloh's grim paintings of hell We fought like two kings for a throne. These scars from the burst of a shell You never have fully outgrown; And bless me ! how faded you are, I've heard of things overly ripe, THE MISSIONARY. 55 But (barring each honorous scar) You're some of the vagabond type. You really are fading away, And I tell you, old friend, that to-night, It would trouble the devil to say You were ever trimmed up with the bright. Or were black or were blue or were gray, You've come to so dreadful a plight. By the Gods of all wars I will say, I'll not don these black tatters again ! No ! I'll hurl the poor fragments away ! They counted me one of the men ! Yes, they counted me one of the men When cannon boomed firey and hot. When chances were seven to ten The poor soldier be slain on the spot. When clatter of saber and shield Kang loud with their challenging stroke. And chargers, wild neighing, were wheeled Like thunders in circles of smoke. . * * * They counted me one of the men When all this wild clamor was still, When peace like an angel, again, Settled down upon valley and hill. When sabers were hung to the wall. And love sought the absent of years, Till favor had answered the call And dewed them with valleys of tears. They counted me one of the men, » 56 THE MISSIONARY. As we marched through the throng-bordered street. They cheer'd us, again and again , And blossoms were strewn at our feet. And welcome, glad welcome, was told From eyes beaming over with bliss. While lips that were richer than gold Gave love back her own honeyed kiss. But oh ! there was tidings for me, That stung, O, they stung me so deep. Can eyes, burning eyes, ever see ? Can eyes, burning eyes, ever weep? Ah no ! not a flame-quenching tear To soothe the wild pain at my heart, And no ! not a zephyr was there, To fend the warm ashes apart. To fend the warm ashes apart. And give back the light of my heart, And give back the light of my home. White arms that had ever said "come." lips that were sweeter than June, Brown eyes that were limpid and deep. Brown locks, where the wind's silken tune Oft cradled its numbers to sleep. Yes ! there in the ashes they lay ! Nor whiter-born ashes than they ! The light of that beautiful home, And all that had bidden me come. 1 bowed down my head, and was still, And the lingering winds, seemed to say, — THE MISSIONARY. 57 "She has flown, to that beautiful hill, Go away, go away, go away." I'm only, I'm only a tramp ; They counted me one of the men. There's a cloud hanging over the camp, I'll go back to my hovel again, The night is so cold, and so damp. I'll go back to the friend that is true, To the friend that is better than men, Tho' it be but a shred of the blue, I will say I am with you again ! Old acquaintance should ever be tied. But I — somehow I feel a chagrin Stealing down o'er a passion of pride, And I wonder can flattery win Back the friend I have hurled from my side? And I wonder, if won by its song. Will it be the same friend as of yore. Will its love for my love be as strong As the love that had known it before ? How you filled in the lines of the blue As the ranks circled valley and glen ! How we stormed the dark woods through and through — And they counted me one of the men. Yes, they counted me one of the men As the lines circled valley and glen ! Well ! we parted for many a year. When the thunders of battle were o'er, Until tortures that poverty's fear 58 THE MISSIONARY. Drove me back to your wide-open door. You were scarred and disfigured and old, I was scarred and be-wrinkled and gray, But you gathered me in from the cold. And you crowded the tempest away. Have I shown thee a gratitude then? Ah indeed ! the false pride of the eyes, How they steal from the reasons of men The charms of a heart's grandest prize. But, I'm only,* I'm only a tramp. Gazing out at the cold silver moon. The dews they are heavy and damp. And the winds strike a sorrowful tune. As the morn leads the stars into camp, Do the winds strike a sorrowful tune? They will play for my march, through the day ! They will waft me the roses of June As they brought me the blossoms of May. They have played the wild medley of joys. As they trailed o'er the camps in the south. And, they crooned lullaby for the boys Going down at the cannon's black mouth. They have whispered of love and of tears. And of hours that were heavy, and light, And they breath of the long vanished years, With a voice half exultant to-night, As they bring back the forms of the true. As they paint the wild battles again, Where you filled in the lines of the blue. And they counted me one of the men. THE MARBLE WAY.-P. 59. THE MISSIONARY. 59 THE MAKBLE WAY. I passed along each quiet lane, The earth was cold and still, For winter drew her crystal chain. Above each quiet hill. The leaning marble, lifted long. Held high its page of art, Or crooned a hiy of parting song. That quivered through the heart. A tiny lambkin nestled here. And there, a silent rose, Drew from the soul a gleaming tear, That trembled while it froze. Still on and on my rambles led. From chiseled stone to stone. Till query crossed me at the bed Of one that I had known. Did'st read the name that art had dewed On that imposing spire ? 'Tis sweet to all, O, "Ericshrud !" Than soul of love and fire. Thou king ! among a kingly few. Who walked time's wayward sand. And golden deeds of niercy threw From heart and soul and hand. 60 THE MISSIONARY. No shriveled sketch of life was tliinc, No meanness to the poor, A star of trust in love to shine, At sorrow's darkest door. As birdlings seek the cliffy shade When tempests shake the air, Sweet children flew to thee for aid. And found a father there. And manhood with its miglity care, Sought council day by day, Till reason drew its circle there, And drove the grief away. Long may thy ashes rest in peace ! And thy dear, sacred name Be chiseled in an endless lease, On shining page of fame. Rest, noble heart ! yon sunbeam hurled. High blazing from its throne. Like thee at death will leave the world The brighter that it shone. SISTER FRANKrE.-P. 61. THE MISSIONARY. 61 SISTER FRANKIE. IN SPRING. My sister, I kissed lier, When buds were a start, With fashion Of passion That tempered the heart, And lifted, And drifted. And circled and drew, A storv Of glory From diamonds of dew. A vendor Of splendor That sank to repose, On breast of the lily And heart of the rose. IN SUMMER. My sister, I kissed her. And guided her feet, Through shadows, And meadows, And tangles of wheat. By river 62 THE MISSIONAKY. A quiver In zephyrs of noon, And pilfer Of silver Spilt down from the moon. Through valleys, And alleys, And ways that were fair, With birds pouring music From circles of air. IN AUTUMN. My sister, I kissed her. When autumn was red. With dotage Of fruitage That hung overhead. When pleasure, With measure. Like opals and gold. Shone over The clover That billowed and rolled. An ocean, In motion, Unceasing and long, With charm of devotion And cypher of song. THE MISSIONARY. 63 IN WINTER. My sister, I kissed her, When lakelet and land, Lay cold In the fold Of a great jeweled hand, And tost Of a frost With its glitter and glow, Found rest On the breast Of the blast-beaten snow, And bright Was the light Of the stars' silver course, Where bells gurgled music To master and horse. IN MEMORY. My sister, 1 kissed her. The kiss of a child. A tender Surrender Impulsive and mild. Devotion ! Devotion ! Indeed ! it was this ! That fed me, 64 THE MISSIONARY. And led me, To oflfer that kiss. Now older, And bolder. To meet her — what then? I'd kiss her— my sister, I'd kiss her again. A POET'S CONSTANCY. The morn was fresh, with odors sweet, The dews and roses met and kissed. How strange a human should insist. To break the spell with noisy feet. Well, who shall blame the human taste, Or stay the restless ways of man ? 'Twas so since first the world began. And he its smiling features graced. Yet, never mind, the morn was fair. As I had said to thee at first— On every side the blue-bells burst, And bow'd above the maiden hair. But hush ! I've something sweet to own ; Don't breathe it to a soul around ; A secret you must hold profound — But surely, are we quite alone ! THE MISSIONARY. 65 We are? Then listen: Just one year Since little Madge and I had met, Yes, met and parted, don't forget, We parted, too, with many a tear. O, how I loved the sweet, shy queen ! Parting, we could not speak a word. She was my bosom's singing-bird. And separation's pangs were keen. But O, how quick a year has fled ! To-day our happy spirits met, Her dewy lips jet warm and wet. As in the days that now are dead. Ah ! few, how few, can understand. The depth of hearts' true passion lent, When soul meets soul in pure content, And lingers, loving, hand in hand. See! yonder where those myrtles hide Their globules red 'neath laurel bows; To-day again renewed the vows. That bind her to become my bride. But, Jenny ! child! how pale you've grown ! Why, bless you dear ! what makes you start, As tho' each sentence scorched your heart? Your little hands are cold as stone. Dissemble, child, I'm dazed to know Your love for me is so intense;— 66 THE MISSIONARY. What ! that your father on the fence ! It's late ! 1 guess I'd better go. BATTLE OF CHICKAMAUGA. All night, in anxious waiting lay, The long steel lines of rebel gray, And vainly pierced the darkness through, To view the moving lines of blue ; As on to left, and on to right. Like misty minions of the night, They led their grand battalions forth, The pride of all the shining North. Line after line, their legions gave, To stand by forest, nook and nave, And, muffled mists of moving feet. Trailed past the climbing bitter-sweet. And faster still, and closer drew. The brave, unflinching fields of blue The while, like waiting tigers lay, The long unyielding lines of gray. And who shall tell the wrong, or right, Or winner of this waiting fight? Each foe has tried the foeman's steel, Each fevered heart been made to feel, That, though the fight be lost or found, Each sacred inch of bloody ground. THE MISSIONARY. 67 Would cry above the soldier's grave Where sleeps the ashes of the brave. Now, while the brave heart dares to fret, The morning breaks all warm and wet. And suntides shoot their fringe of gold Along each banner's opal fold. Hark ! was it a random shot? No ! no ! the fight ! the fight ! and hot ! See how the deep lines meet and dare ! And not one coward soul is there. "Stand for your rights and home, I say," Rang down the long deep lines of gray ! "Stand for the Union, stanch and true!" Rolled down the waiting lines of blue. Then went their bronzen hands on high, And hard lips hurled this quick reply: "God helping us, we stand, we stand For Union, home and sunny land." Yain, vain, those awful volleys sound. For neither gains one inch of ground, What though the leaden missile dark, Has gone unerring to its mark. And all that stormy field is red. And covered with the dual dead. No feature of the fight is lost ! And neither counts the awful cost. But hold ! that gray sea's tidal sweep, Now gains a footing on the steep. 68 THE MISSIONARY. With teeth hard set, and nerves of steel, They urge the fight, the blue lines reel. They break, they fly, they whirl, they stand ! They meet the foeman, hand to hand ! And thick and fast as falling snows. They rein the volleys and the blows. God's mercy on each blazing wall, How fast the fighting columns fall, How like the mighty thunders meet, The volleys and the howling sleet. A king, a king, each mighty man. Who dares to face that battle's van. To face the squadron, charge and wheel, With blades ablaze from foeman'a steel. Ah, that such lion hearts should meet. Hearts that have never known defeat. Advance, recede, and break for break, They crowd the fight, they give, tliey take, With eyes ablaze and bating breath, They face the lines of volleyed death. And meet the steel, the leaden dart. With no accusing word at heart. Now, close behind the lifted blade. And e'er the booming cannonade, High-breasted like an ocean swell, Defiant rings the rebel yell. They charge, they charge, they break it thro'. They sweep the mighty lines of blue^ THE MISSIONARY. 69 Like dew before the morning sun, They fly, they fly, the field is won. Ah ! who has won, and who has lost? Let reason count each awful cost. The gray may hold that bloody field, The cunning conquered blue have wheeled In shrewd retreat all deftly planned. With Chattanooga safe in hand. So when this bloody fight is done, Both, both have lost and both have won, Take roses where the sweetest grow, And crown the dead, no more a foe. Let Northern mothers come with tears, And sow them on these Southern biers. Let Southern sisters dare to weep, Above the blue-braves, quiet sleep. The while God's tenderness shall move. And chain them in the bonds of love. MY BROTHER'S PICTURE. The same sweet eyes that smiled of yore. Are smiling up at me once more. With many a studied thought I trace The features of a brother's face; Indeed ! the same, yet changed in mold — A change from youth to manhood bold ; 70 THE MISSIONARY. Yet sacred truth ne'er born to die^ Gleams sweetly from the large blue eye. I gaze and gaze in glad surprise I feast the mind, I feast the eyes, The eyes upon the picture fair, The mind on tlioughts that revel where Old winds of winter in their wrath, Piled high, the snows upon our path. While side by side we laughed to tread The downy meadows where they led. And hark ! the sleighs, the silver bells ! The trolling music as it swells ! And by the pulsing wind is tossed Amid the glitters of the frost. How sweet they touch the waiting ear. Light, lightly now, then loud and clear, With throbbing hearts they gaily tell A tale of love, each tuneful bell. Ring on, sweet bells, forever more ! That gladsome song, sing o'er and o'er. While gazing here on brother's face, I'm with you there in every place. And friends of old are gathered round, Their voices cross your cheery sound, And happy songs and faces bright Are with us there again to-night. Long years have flown since last we met, To tread the snow-sown parapet. ONE YEAR AGO.-P. Tl. THE MISSIONARY. 71 The downy gardens deep to plow, And pile above each jeweled brow, The creamy foam like hills of sky Above the glazier's dancing eye, Or bury deep as brothers would Each other in the ermin flood. Yes brother, yes, the years have flown, Each walks in duty's ways alone. I tread the mountains high and far And hold you as my hopeful star, Wliile you in valleys far away Still have me with you there to-day, And what is distance dim and blue. It cannot crowd between us two. ONE YEAR AGO. One year ago we sat together, 'Mid fields of clover, all blooming sweet, You fresh and fair, as summer weather, And I adoring at your feet. Beyond a reach the clouds were lifting, I had not seen their shadows rise. Away, away, my soul was drifting, Lost in the glory of thine eyes. Trailed on the green, red roses blushing, A pure full conscious fragrance flung. 72 THE MISSIONARY. While all around seemed hushing, hushing, Chained in a dream this stammering tongue. Could heart be filled with pure devotion Then mine, indeed, was brimming o'er, With swell on swell, like lofty ocean, That lifts and lingers along the shore. But oh, alas ! those clouds prevailing, A nearer circle in silence drew, And hour by hour I saw thee failing As melts the pearl-born summer's dew. Till O, forever, that fatal hour ! That comes to any with ebon tread,' With subtle wooing had won my flower, And left me lonely, for thou wert dead. And still I lingered above thy pillow, As once a lover, and loth to go, But change had woven for me the willow, And touched thy bosom with hands of snow. And now from over thy grave I gather The crimson clover of sweetest stain, And 'mid the blessings of summer weather, In fancy linger with thee again. And thou art all to me as ever, Your little fingers, I hold them so, And pray it over, that naught may sever That hope had welded one year ago. THE MISSIONARY. MY MOTHER. You speak of "saintly women," sir, And I shall not oppose, For there is one, I think of her, And God in heaven knows, That she is pure as any pearl, That dreams beside the sea, Or trembles where the fountains curl Their bows of chastity. The modest lily's bosom friend, And fragile too as they, Reticent ways that never lend Conventions of display. She leans above the fuchsia now, As one intent to speak. And pleasure paints the shining brow And pillows on the cheek. Yes, mother loves the shining flowers, The "sable pencil" too, And she can draw the tangled bowers, And paint the diamond dew, And she can weave the color lace Of mountain, vale and glen. Or reproduce the form and face Of well remembered men. The pansies knew her tender hands. In summers h)ng ago; 74 THE MISSIONARY. And from its bed of cultured sands, She taught the rose to grow; And from the furrow's finger-rift, That crossed the dusky sod, She taught a thousand plants to lift, Their blooming souls to God. Those dewy morns that came and went. When mother dear was young. Were not in idle comfort spent, Nor wayward circles flung. And it was labor's youthful beau. That made the royal dare. With honor's jeweled hands to sow, The silver in her hair. Did ever monarch wear a crown More royal and more grand? Ah, none were ever handed down. Not by the Father's hand. And not the coff of pompous king, In sober truth compares With that divine-sent offering — The crown my mother wears. • O soul of love, how vast and deep, And how divinely sweet; That watched the hours of infant sleep. And trained my little feet; That led me with the hand of love, So tender, yet so strong, THE MISSIONAET. 75 That life became a cooing dove, And time an endless song. My mother, these are sacred words, And nothing reigns above, The luscious songs of crooning birds. Have not a note of love. That lists the lean of charmed ear, Or binds us to another, Like words of love when souls revere And gently call my mother. JEALOUSY. O, jealousy ! Thou sullen watch-dog of the human heart. Ungainly ghost of a most sick offense; Through jeweled portals of the soul you dart, Slay truth and lap the blood gf innocence; Dethroning reason in your putrid ire, Kindling kind nature with malicious fire. King brute of brutal passions most severe. Lank, lurking devil of most devilish mien. Pause thou and gaze each victim's falling tear, And the wild ravage where thy strength hath been, A wail of oceans, in their sombre times. But fitful moanings for thy monster crimes. 76 THE MISSIONARY. Glass-faced and grim as winters stormy skies, More cold to pity than the hand of death ;j You tear the glory from proud human eyes, You ash ripe beauty with your blighting breath. You forge the bosoms where our well-springs sleep And mock at sorrow while your victims weep. Thou thief of pleasure and thou fiend of pain, Grim, dire assassin of most holy joys, 1 would yfeld my being, but to see thee slain From the fold that fondles thine human toys. And I hold the proffer of sacrifice But just to nature in reason's eyes. Then tongues that prattle might prate in vain; The voice of slander could wake no jar; Such green-brake berries could never stain The tranquil features of life's new star, And the gall that tortures a hopeful bliss. Could never mix with a lover's kiss. EDGAR ALLAN POE. He had launched his boat on the channels of fame ! He had swung on the golden bar; He had known the meed of an honored name Tho' he fell as a falling star; THE MISSIONARY. ■; And the luminous rays that followed his track, Still gleam as they gleamed of yore, — Still throwing their tints of memory back To the days of his lost " Lenore." Poor plaintive heart, for his doom was sealed, And the sorrowing tears he shed' Spoke loud of the worth of love congealed In that anguishing bosom's bed; And the dark plumed raven of grief and pain, In the sight of his mind would soar. And crying, shriek her cries again, Lenore, Lenore, Lenore! Then frenzy fell o'er poet's dreams. And conquer'd his mighty muse. That broke be-times from its bonds, it seems. To glow like the morning dews. And the magical flow of his blazing thought Will glitter forever more. Through the luminous lines his pen lias wrought Of the "Bells" and his " Lost Lenore." O tortured heart, that had loved so well, That had tuned love's golden lyre — That had felt the pulse of affection swell, And its fount of love leap higher ; That had dreamed and drank as a lover dare At the cup still brimming o'er, And cried the name to the nuns of air-- Lenore, Lenore, Lenore ! 78 THE MISSIONARY. O faint the scroll of a jealous world, And weak are the lies of men, Who deign to steal of the laurels curled O'er thy heart and hand and pen ; To check the river that runs of truth Through valleys of shining ore. And dye the lily of love and youth— Lenore, Lenore, Lenore ! 'Tis vain, and false as vain, dear Poe, The truth they cannot disguise; A spirit-whisper "No, oh no!" Comes down from the starry skies, And a seraph form in robes of white Leans down from the golden shore. And leads you over the fields of night — Your beautiful, lost Lenore*. AT SIOUX FALLS. I stood by tlie side of a wandering stream, In the land of the beautiful west, And I saw the glow of a sunset beam Creep over the water's crest. As down tlie river the sunlight played, And danced o'er the rocky wild ; To the opposite bank there careless strayrd An Indian wife and child. AT SIOUX FALLS.-P. 78, THE MISSIONARY. 79 The mother was dark of a dusky brown, And her lon^ dishevelled hair In masses trailed from her forehead down O'er a brow deep ridged with care; They strayed to the brink of that bubbling tide, Then silent awhile they stood As the mother gazed on the water's glide, And then on the silent wood. She knew not then that the hated form Of a pale-face stood so near, She only dreamed of the sunset warm, And the days of elk and deer; Of the red man's chase, through the leafy wood, Of the smoke of the wigwam low And the light canoe that scaled the flood In pursuit of the wounded doe. While thus she stood with a dreamy air, And gazed on the verdant lands. That angel child, so sweet and fair, Knelt down to the golden sands. It gathered the pebbles with tiny hand, And then with a child's delight It threw them far on the gleaming strand To clamor and sink from sight. As the pebbles broke through the ether tide. With a rhythmic sound all clear. The mother turned her head aside, As tho' she were pained to hear. 80 THE MISSIONARY. Then, with a sigh, she quickly turned Her face from the child away, Ah, well I know: this mind discerned, What that Indian wife would say. She thought of the days when a warrior bold, Had strayed by that self-same tide. She thought of the place where his love was told, Just, just, on the other side; Yes, just across on the other shore. In the shade of that mighty tree; Her eyes were turned to the spot once more. When lo ! they fell on me. Her dark eye lit with a demon light, Her mien gr^w fierce and wild. Her face was all of a stormy night As she quickly grasped the child ; And away, away, through the bending brush That child and mother flew. And I saw no more of the angry flush That painted the tortured Sioux. THE TEMPEST. Heard ye not the tempest moan? Far winds murmur monotone? And the hissing splendors thrown, From the mighty hand of love? LORD TENNYSON. THE MISSIONARY. 81 Heard ye not the blazing line, Reach and kiss the mountain pine ? Was it from the hand divine, To the monarch of the grove? Lo ! the stately head is bowed, And the giant-winged cloud Flaps its banners, long and loud, Round the torn and bleeding stem. Falling to a whisper low, Lingering as if loth to go. Weeping o'er that fatal blow. Hark ! the chanted requiem. Sleep, O sleep, thou forest king. Funned no more by tempest wing. Lowly where the blossoms spring. And the chirping crickets call. Lowly, 'tis the monarch's fate, With the meek of earth to mate. Brothers of one common state. Pride must surely have its fall. TO LORD TENNYSON. "To sleep, to sleep," far o'er the deep, From hands divine that dare to sweep, Ihe deep rich chords of human souls, And lift anew, red seas, a roll. 82 THE MISSIONARY. Kepljal to each deft drawn swing, With music grand as angels bring* When vespers call — to sleep, to Bleep. Yea, these the notes that wing to me, P'rom o'er the vast blue rolling sea. To sleep, to sleep ! To sleep, to sleep ! and dost thou dream ? Night shall not drink one golden beam. Of that true light that like the sun, Moves grandly on till time is done; And all the chords thy hands have given, Are still on earth, tho' sweet in heaven. Beyond the night whose vigils keep These echoes locked — to sleep, to sleep. No, no, great heart, this shall not stay. One gleam of thine immortal day, To sleep, to sleep ! CHRISTMAS. Ten thousand times ten thousand -- With accumulations sweet. The bells in tune, Ring out a rune, Far down each winding street. And kling, klang, kling and klang, kling, kling. Each silvery note — A bird afloat THE MISSIONARY. 83 On doubly silvered wing, Till all the air, Is made declare. The truth that Christ is king, King, king, king, king, king; It rides the air. And everywhere — The blessed Christ is king. Ten thousand times ten thousand. The trumpet horns are blown, And far along, a world of song. The blessed news is sown. With toot, toot, toot and klang, klirg, kling, In dual tone the sounds are thrown, And this their oflfering — To wind and wave, And starry cave, — Too-ling, too-ling, too-ling, kling, kling. With bell and horn, We greet the morn That gave the gracious king. King, king, king, too-ling, king, too-ling. Each breaking tone, Is swift to own — The blessed royal king. Ten thousand times ten thousand, Glad hearts are swelling high, And tongues have rang, 84 THE MISSIONARY. And lips have sang, Their anthems to the sky, Till o'er the distant valley And far across the plain Their happy hallelujahs Return to them again. Ring on sweet bells your story — Koling, kolang, koling. For Christ is come in glory To tell us he is king, [king, king King, king, king, too-ling, king, too-ling, king. Yea, Christ has come in glory — The blessed royal king. &» FLIRTATIONS. I wrote my love (?) for a lock of her hair. My strange love — truly strange; Yet loved of course, beyond compare. My strange love answered and sent the hair, Like a golden glance of a glory rare, Arranged in a sweet arrange. I grabbed the gift, as a glad reward Were ta'en by a child at school, And my heart beat high with a glad concord Of musical praise for the sweet reward. FLIRTATIONS.-P. 81 THE MISSIONARY. 85 A mutual blend, with the every word From the lips of a "love-sick fool." I kissed the treasure, then lightly laid The golden bow on my breast, Then, vowing a love for the valiant maid, The tress, where many another had laid, Was hidden away in the hollow shade That hungered beneath my vest. The splendor hid, I laughing said, 'Tis only one of a score, That lived in glory but now are dead, 'Twill soon be lost with the rest I said This golden curl from a sunny head, A trinket, and nothing more. AN IMMOKTAL. There was a time in ages gone When reason's rich and starry dawn Lay helpless in the lap of sin. When dotard-devils dared to win. And shaped their dam'd and darkened ways In slimy trails athwart the blaze Of that grand star that lends an eye, To glitter from love's royal sky. There was a time when kings could dare Lift high their jeweled hands in air, 86 THE MISSIONARY. And to the brave cry — Pompey, down ! Surveillance sir, to king and crown ! And tower'ing manhood falling prone, Paid tribute to the pompous throne. And like the whining cur new beat Crept up and kissed the monarch's feet. There was a time when labor lay A countless mass of miry clay, And noble deeds like trodden flowers, Gave footing for the toppish powers. When lords alone in vicious sway. Dared trump the words fraternity. And vulture dread and vengeance stood Defiant of true brotherhood. But lo, where crept the deepest gloom. There blossoms bright above the tomb, Of buried sin and deeds of hell, A glorious flower, an "immortal," As sweet and fresh as ever stood In Eden's gardened brotherhood Of passion's stain, and status given To weave amid the winds of heaven. Torn from the fields of yonder light. Borne earthward by that plumed knight, J. Rathbone — (Yea, with reverence true, We turn our thankful hearts to you.) That mediator chose of God THE MISSIONARY. 87 To plant our trouble's leaden sod, And garland all the human race. True as the vine that sturdy grows, To lift the new-born tendril rose, This vine of love will lift and trace, And crown anew the care-worn face, Till like the broad expanse of sea The soul-winged waves of equity Shall lift and sway and sweetly dart Their joys electric to the heart. Then forward, forward, to the fight. The battle on, each lofty kniglit Does double effort all for good. And proves the wealth of knightly blood; And as our dashing armies meet Tread Satan's hosts, with fiery feet. The while our motto ever be J. Rathbone and humanity. A BLESSED SURRENDER I see the great, strong soldier stand Confessing Christ, with lifted hand, His bronzen cheek a brighter glow. As, fanned by some diviner throe. Sent skyward from a heart of steel. A heart too proud, too proud, to fee] 88 THE MISSIONARY. A mastery in aught that fell Amid the flaming charge — the hell That spake in tongues of molten fire, And circled in its deadly ire, The bravest of the brave and true. The mighty royal ranks of blue. And now, with all his battles done. Life leaning toward the setting sun. He who has bled in battles wild. Comes as a meek and trusting child, Submissive to the Master's call, (The great, grand Brigadier of all) And, laying all his armor past. Says proudly, " O, at last, at last ! My labors done, my country free. Lord, I surrender unto Thee." CONSOLATION. Shed not a tear, there is weakness in weeping, Those that are gone are not dead, only sleeping. Let not a chill, o'er thy lonely heart creeping. Waver its pulse to the winds of despair. Bow with a smile to the wants of creation, Flowers newly bloom o'er the breasts of a nation, Spirits move upward, from station to station. Look for thy loved on the loftier stair. HOME.-P. THE MISSIONAKY. 89 Chill are the hours, ere the morn's rosy breaking, Dark are the dews, ere the light's tender taking. Hope, like a dove from a drear bondage breaking. Wings its glad flight to the Edens of bliss. Pale are the pearls of a life-shadowed even, Cold are the rays of a soul-hungered heaven, Yet, doubly sweet, when the clouds all are riven. Bathing the Hds with God's merciful kiss. Live for the right, in all duty prevailing. Heed not the shadows that round thee are sailing, Life hath no pleasure to borrow from wailing, Hope hath no halo, in haunts of despair. Life is too brief, all too brief for repining, Kose unto rose, be its moments reclining. Love, all the loved and the lovely entwining, Sweet to the home of their birth must repair. HOME. That house wherein no mother's voice is heard, No precious lisp of childhood's rambling tongue. No joyous trill from flute-throat fluttering bird. Nor gracious swell from grand old organ flung. Is not a home. E'en tho' its walls through deep-dyed laces smile, And gauzy curtains, fancy-flowered with gold, 90 THE MISSIONARY. Fantastic shades of grandeur drop the while. As looping low fold lingers upon fold, Neath archen dome. O children ! ye jet sweeter than the birds, What tongue can tell the depth that we appraise? What picturing pen could paint the glorious words, That one may read from thine illuming eyes ? Ah, there is none. The heart alone in grateful silence feels The perfect truth, the magnitude of love, Which no proud lip to mortal dream reveals, Save through the voice of him who rules above, The only One. What tho' the rites of dim, far-distant lore Lie, volumes deep, gilt-tinged and floral pages, And changing lights flash o'er the sandal floor. From chandeliers that wear the mark of ages, 'Tis cold and bare. Not painted glass nor fossils from afar. Not glitters lent, from spangles of the sea. Can fill the void or swell themselves to par With tliose grand idols of mm-tality, — Love is not there. LIFE'S LITTLE DAY. THE MISSIONARY. 91 'LIFERS LITTLE DAY. Life's little day, O how briefly it lingers, Crowned with its darkness and falling of tears, Few sown, the sun. spots by fancy's fair fingers, O'er the deep hollow cognomen of years. Yet there is that, that is ever persuading, Moving to deeds that are truly divine, So like a great royal bloom that is fading Sweet in its death as the days of its prime. Dress the sweet lips with the nectars that hover Rich ill the breath of the tide-winds of love; Lay the soft hand where the heart-throbs may cover Deeds duly meet for that dear home above. Then be the day like the dart of a story, Strange and unlearned in the quick of its sweet. Still like a glance of the sun's burning glory Own a bright fringe where the cloud armies meet. SISTER SARAH. Full many a dark and cloudy sky, Has dawned above us, deary, And many a day of hope gone by, Gallanting light and cheery; 92 THE MISSION AKY. And many a bright and cheering scene, Has touched our hearts with flora, And many a sorrow urged between The leaves of light and glory. A road without a turn is long, And some are turning ever. And love may wea^ve a jolly song That sorrow dares to sever, And still the mossy lanes of time Will bare the echoes over, That lifted in the early prime, Above the fields of clover. And so, to-night from alleys grand. And beechen copse a-growing, I reach and take a tender hand, A tender youth bestowing, And lead adown the olden ways. That hemmed among the bowers, And danced the light of other days Adown the fields of flowers. And you were there at every move, To test the subtle weather. And wind the heart with wreaths of love. We always were together. And hot or cold, in shade or shine, The gods were still forgiving. And thine was mine and mine was thine. And life was worth the living. SISTER SAEAH. THE MISSIONARY. 93 We romped the forest sweet and wild, My little form was airy, And you were half a slender child. And half a summer fairy. And when you sang your tlirilling song Across the windy ocean, I saw the little linnets throng Their proffers of devotion. We trod the morning's dewy sweet, And on the shady mire We trailed the prints of little feet, With hearts and souls afire. Or danced the butterfly adown The reach of shining hours, And watched the buzzing little brown Steal pollen from the flowers. And still the moments sped us by. With light and shade a-quiver, We watched their winged vessels fly The great eternal river. And still their tiny freights were due. And some were heavy laden. And half for me and half for you, A proud and handsome maiden. They call me " mister" now, at times, And thus I am a straying, Betwixt the grace of harvest primes And hours of mellow Maying, 94 THE MISSIONART. And here and there a silver thread, A shrewdness may discover, And time may dye the raven head, But cannot change the lover. And you — well, you are "Misses Green," It beats the devil ! Sarah, And chances were as good, I ween, That they have styled you "Ara;" And yet, it matters little, dear, The cognomen as given. If we shall find the waters here That wander into heaven. And so I take your bronzed hand. As in the days gone over, And lead you o'er the shining sands. And through the fields of clover, And past the mile-posts of the hill, That griefs may dare to vary, The while that I am Charlie, still, And you are sister Sarah. TO ELLA WHEELEK WILCOX. You dipped your pen in passion dew. And drew the lines so sweet and true. That half a world with beamers wide Stood wondering and electrified. THE MISSIONARY. 95 Each subtle word, like break of day, That shoots its airy lights astray, Went swift and sure, a shining dart. And lodged across some beating heart; Or lanced anew some hidden well, That hurled its currents high to tell, In crimson jet or pearly play. How deep the wells of passion lay. Then silvery age and sunny youth. Sought for this diamonding of truth, And starry eyes with hurried glance. Pushed forth to meet its sweet expanse While eager waiting eyes of age Went slower down the glowing page. And lingered till the sight was dim And blurred above its golden brim. And "it were good — O grand and good," Came from glad lips of womanhood; And "it were worth a shining ten," Came proudly from the lips of men. And so the critic, knowing thing. Reached forth to clip its golden wing. But ah, the prince, (intent to teach) The bird had flown beyond his reach. 96 THE MISSIONARY. THE NEW YEAR. Let the sorrowful past be past, Let the future break blooming and gay, Let the sunlight of joy gather fast. To shine o'er life's troublesome way. Let the tears of the widow be dried, Warm the heart of the orphan with cheer, Make merry whatever betide. And welcome the happy new year. Go ye down to the dungeons of woe, Go ye forth to the homes of despair. Bear ye comfort wherever you go And your joys with the comfortless share, Let the needy have taste of your store, Wash the fallen with pity's own tear, Bow before thy loved Lord and adore. And welcome the happy new year. Take the angel of love by the hand, And welcome her courteous train, A balm for life's ills; she will stand 'Twixt patients and demons of pain. Gem portal of doom with a dew That falleth like pity's soft tear. Sing anthems of glory anew. And welcome the happy new year. Leave no couch-ridden patient alone To battle life's sorrows uncared, THE NEW YEAR.— P. 98. THE MISSIONAKY. 97 No seeds of pure kindness unsown, Nor boon of affliction impaired ; Take the pitiless poor by the hand, Dry cheeks from the touch of a tear, Draw around an ajffectionate band And welcome the happy new year. Sow pleasures wherever you go, A balm of sweet roses in air, Unchained in its beautiful flow, That flow being everywhere ; The sweetness it makes never ends, But on to the heart with a cheer That comes like the voice of a friend To welcome the happy new year. Let hope sing her anthems of love. Enshrined in the heart's glad abode, Her fo'jntains gush proudly above, The joys that the past has bestowed ; O angels of mercy abound With songs that are sweet and of cheer, With songs that are glad and profound, To usher the happy new year. 98 THE MISSIONARY. THE MINEE'S GRAVE. In a lone defile of the mountain pass, Where never an hour of the daj the sun, Kneels down to drink of the tides that run Like silvery threads to a dark morass. They had fashioned a grave so long ago, That even the oldest did not know, Who planned the chalice or piled the stone, And left the sleeper alone, alone. Here tardy morning with heavy sighs. Stole slowly downward with weeping eyes. And night with tenderest hush of tread, Threw early mantle around the dead; And here the trickle of tiny stream. And coo of turtle and sands a-gleam. And wave of myrtle and winds a-moan. Made murmur ever, alone, alone. And where the mother that waited long. The hunted treasure, the heart of song. And where the father with eyes of tears, A-lean and listen for years and years ; And where the lover that stole a-part. To hide the sorrow, that crushed her heart. The hollow murmur the winds have sown. Makes answer ever, alone, alone. KIND SISTERS. THE MISSIONARY. 99 KIND SISTERS. MRS. OTTO KAUPP. MRS. FRANK COLE. What words so sweet that they may tell, The tenderness that dares to dwell In those dear hearts? Like snow-birds dressed in robes of white, They throw their darts of hope and light. And grief departs. Some tale is told of wrong or woe. And do they hesitate to go? I answer plain. Like angels sweet from God's deep sky. On willing feet they fairly fly, To silence pain. It matters not the weight of creed. If that a saddened soul shall bleed In deep distress. With lifted hands in haste they move, To labor in the rights of love And righteousness. Great God ! from lowly bended knees. We thank thee for such gifts as these. And weeping say — When gathered at the Master's feet. E'en heaven's self will be more sweet, With such as they. 100 THE MISSION AET. HO ! LAND OF THE WEST. Ho ! land of the bounteous west, Of prairies wide and wild, Thy rambling winds, once sweetly dressed The brow of a laughing child. Blue-linked are thy lakelets spread. All bordered with sands of gold. And still more blue the heaven's o'er head, Where gossamere glories fold. Ho ! land of the glorious west. No other land so fair; An emerald charm on nature's breast. Luring and lingering there. Land where the wild rose sways, A glory to childhood's eyes; Seemingly fair as a meteor's blaze When wandering down the skies. Land of my childhood's home — The dearest still and best. Hand in hand with love to roam We trained on thy velvet breast. Soft, soft are thy skies, O land, Thy sunbeams doubly bright. And the friendly clasp of many a hand Still lingers with me to-night. HO! LAND OF THE WEST.— P. lOo! THE MISSIONARY. 10] Dear land, I have wandered away, From thy garland of glories rare. Thy bounteotis morn, thy brighter day And the kiss of thy amber air. I have drank of the change of clime, I have sailed the darksome sea But, land of my heart ! thou art ever sublime, And dearest of all to me. SLEEPING. Lay him gently down to rest, Never more Will a torture haunt his breast. Life is o'er. Place above his manly form, Flower and leaf. Wet with teardrops falling warm. Tears of grief. Mark the spot with tender care. And the cross. Let it stand a guardian there Of our loss. Let the stranger lightly tread, Here profound Rests the pure and noble dead. Hallowed ground. 102 THE MISSIONARY. Let the living bear in trust, Neath this sod, Lies the body's humble dus*, Not the spirit gone to God. SYMPATHY. Dear dove, I hear thy plaintive coo, And fiercely, fondly fly to you. Old love now lit with new-found zeal. Deep quivers through iny heart-strings steal, And once again, just as of yore, I love thee, claim thee, and adore. O, how could you through all these years. Choke that incessant rise of tears ? How hide those signs of silent truth. That burned upon thy brow in youth ? How silent sit in grief each day, And let me wander thus away ? How much of joy and happy hours. We might have spent mid birds and flowers. Is swept with time's incessant flow. Away, because you lingered so. For shame ! indeed, we can't recall Those moments lost at all, at all. Yet, loved one, thou shouldst not complain. Thy Charlie comes to thee again; THE MISSIONARY. 103 So darling, thou so long distressed. Smile up again for thou art blessed. Aye, blessed, for now he loves thee more Than ever mortal dared before. O, angel thou ! in future years. Strive not to hide love's tell-tale tears. Nay ! let them flow,— nor deem it weak, I'd gladly wipe them from thy cheek, Nor deem those scarlet floods arise, Less lovely than the sunset skies. Now darling, take this kind advice. Thou bright-plumed bird of paradise, O grieve again no more, no more. O'er mournful past of " mystic lore," Nay, choke thy conscience ne'er again With bitter longing's lonesome pain. Nay, never more again allow A blush of love that tints thy brow To pale unseen, or in disguise To hide from thy dear Charlie's eyes; You've but to spread your lavish charms, And fold him in your snowy arms. 104 THE MISSIONAET. A CALIFOKNIA FOUilTH. The night had dropped her dewy wings in slumber- ing silence down, And pulsing zephyrs calmly kissed the corners of the town, When lo ! along the corridors of time-tides uncon- trolled, A tidal rush of melodies, .^olean wavelets, rolled. While yet the sweet vibrations hang and tremble on the air, A lurid bonfire paints the sky with crimson-tinted glare, And troubled drums and loud hurrahs and anvil clash and roar. Are echoed with the ocean waves that break along the shore. Hurrah, hurrah, for liberty ! for glory and for state ! And freedom breathes her balmy breath up through the "golden gate," While cannon toss their thunder notes across the ether tide. To roll away along the bay and up the mountain side. Day breaks, and waves her gilded plume out o'er the world afar, And brushes from the ether dome the fading morn- ing star. THE MISSIONARY. 105 Light zephyrs wave the spangled grass and diadems a crown, Their slender stems in silence slip in silver trickles down. I see the starry flag unfurl above each gilded spire, I hear the martial music roll its echoes higher, higher ! And freedom , echoes freedom, across the land of gold, By wayward notes of music in double answers told. O land of pride and pleasure, beside the rolling sea. May freedom, like these opal waves, forever roll to thee, And all thy pearly borders, the waters washing Be freedom's everlasting goal — a nation's proud delight. MOONLIGHT. When vesper bells are chiming low. And dimpled daisies blooming. And night comes stealing soft and slow. To fling around its glooming; I love to wander in the groves. And pluck the dewy flowers. Or trace the streamlet where it roves Through wavy woodland bowers. Or when the moonbeam sweet and fair, Its floods of glory throwing, 106 THE MISSIONARY. Steps liglitly on the maiden-hair, In silken tresses flowing ; Or trips with feet of deeper light, Upon the placid waters I love to linger in the night With Deacon Jones' daughters. And when the moon has touched the hill, And from the sight is darting, And dear Miss Jones turns up her bill, For kisses e'er the parting ; I love to have the moon go slow — To linger in its travel, Until the kisses cease to iiow, And I am scratching gravel. THE SWEETEST GIFT. By the gracious hand of woman was the banner given thee, From the gracious heart of woman emulation of her love, Pure in perfect sense of splendor, golden symbol of the free ! Kissed in modesty of purpose and the image of the dove. From the garden of her feelings and the glories of her mind, oouD-iii'E.— p. lu; THE MISSIONARY. 107 She has garnered all the grandeur that discern- ment well may hold, Woven 'mid a woof of tinsel, all the splendors of her kind, And has given thee the record on an ample page of gold. Drifting with the breath of morning, by the noon- tide zephyrs fann'd. On the silken air of evening light those banner spangles shift, O, the honor of receiving from a woman's blessed hand, For the sweetest gift of giving is a woman's gra- cious gift. GOOD-BY. And must we say good-by, good-by, With touch of hand and dewy eye. And heart-throb heaving hot and high. Alas, alas ! those sad, low words, So like the plaintive notes of birds Storm-tossed amid the winds that move^ And hungered for the bread of love. We come to thee with hearts a-swell With that our lips can never tell, In silence hold your hand in ours. 108 THE MISSIONARY. As one would hold love's dying flowers. And searching tlirough our tears we trace Each grand regret that paints the face, And lifts the broad heart higli and free In throbs of soul-felt sympathy. And mirthless, meek attempts of cheers, That mingled with our hopeless tears Some crystal dews, divine distilled From heart of thine, so overfilled With God's great gushing tenderness, That bowed above our deep distress. You lift love's livid lips and cry — God help us all ! good-by, good-by ! I GO TO-MOKROW. TO MISS CONRAD. "I go to-morrow," this you said, With steady eyes and lifted head. And as I viewed you standing there, A feeling, something of despair, Shot homeward like an arrow dart And lodged across my beating lieart. Strange coincident ! we've rarely met, I hardly dare to know you yet. And yet (excuse my weak defense) I feel to grant you confidence ; THE MISSIONARY. 109 For in those eyes' deep lakes I see A glance of great soul-syinpathy. A word, you took my heart by storm, And led me down the valleys warm Past evergreens and shining bays, And brooklets mouthing sweet with praise, A hand-reach of the "Golden Stair," You led me — and you left me there. And now to-morrow you must go. Ah, sad that I have known you so ; To suffer now that silent pain That comes with friendship's parted chain, And still these hard lips break apart — God bless thee ! wheresoe'er thou art. Ah, that to-morrow ! friends will say — To-morrow is a speedy day; One little moon, ah, sad 'tis so. One little moon and you will go. Ah, could I change time's dial-face, I'd steal to-morrow from its place. Yet such is life, a fleeting breath, A sunbeam on the brow of death, A spangle on time's borders sown, 'Twixt that we know and the unknown, O how we miss life's truant good. Your going makes this understood. 110 THE MISSIONARY. You may not grieve, nor feel the loss, The gold is yours — ours is the dross, That dross of time that seems to tend The advent of our loss — a friend — And here a double loss betide. Thou wert to us a friend and guide. FRIENDS IN POESY. We stand in the doorway of doubt; Hark ! the whirlwind of time sweeps by — Half frightened we gaze on the mystical out, The shadows and sunshine all scattered about. Over-hung by the blue-vaulted sky. Shall we make an advance to the world, That shall shatter the clouds as they fly? Or sit with our flags calmly furled, Seeing all that is beautiful hurled With the tempest, and fear to reply? Lend an arm to the poets of old. Seize the past by its shadowy hand, Let our challenges ring till the city of gold, Echoes back the sweet songs that our forefathers told. As around the bright altar we stand. THE MISSIONARY. 11 J DOES HE? Does the grasshopper sing that same old song? Does he cling just as close to the vine? Does he gather his friends in a magical throng, More ravenous far than swine? Does he sap the shoots of the emerald wheat That tower o'er the verdant slope? Does he cling as ever, a pure dead-beat, To feed on the flowers of hope ? Does he thrill the air with his breezy wings? Does he laugh on the odorous wind. While his neighbor's wife sits bj and sings Of the ruin that's left behind? And after all is the bug to blame? His morals are dreadfully low ; But other people have done the same And never been asked to go. They jumped the bounty in sixty-three, And clambered the garden wall. And now they circle the country free, The hopper must shoulder all. To jump the bounty and jump a claim. Is glory and heaps of fun. But if a hopper shall do the same Why he! he's a "son of a gun." THE MISSIONARY. 112 MISFORTUNE. O fortune is fickle and friends thej are few, When once you have nothing to pay, Your neighbors will cut you and bid you adieu, And pass from your presence away. It matters but little the cause of your fall, Misfortune is counted a crime. You ask for a twenty, they say " you have gall," And falter at giving a dime. You visit their places — your clothes they are poor. Your face is all furrows and tan — They'll question your mission outside of the door Nor ask you come in, like a man. They fail to remember the days that are gone. When life held its measures of sweet. Before the dark shadows crept over the dawn, And scattered the 'thorns for your feet. Through fields of blown roses in summers gone by. Ah, they were your lovers of old. But shameful misfortune made reason to fly And hide in its coffin of gold. GLOKIOUS.-P. 113. THE MISSIONARY. '113 GLORIOUS. There's a glorious beam in the eve of the morn, As its rays shoot across the sweet heather, And dew-spangles rain from the tall tasseled corn. At touch of the soft autumn weather. There's a glorious song in the soft amber air. As it throbs o'er the bronze-barren meadows, Or trails in the forest till branches are bare, Where leaves rain their gold-dappled shadows. There's a glorious voice in the whispering stream, Half akin to a prayer of devotion, As it glides on and on like an unbroken dream, Until lost in the terrible ocean. There's a glorious stain in the soft garden aisles, That, pale in its beauty, discloses, To dreamy-eyed maidens of questioning smiles. Where slumbers the ashes of roses. There's a glorious charm in the voice of the eyes. When ruled by love's passionate flutter, It learns from the heart with its ready reply, That proudest of lips could not utter. There's a glorious fountain of joy in the heart. And it whirls to an ocean of bliss; When eyes gleam aloof as the coral lips part To drink of our sweet autumn kisses. 114 THE MISSIONARY. There's a glorious spell when the curtains of night, Are rich with the moon's trailing splendor, And sleep treads the breast in her garments of light. And sows it with dreams that are tender. A CROWN OF LOVE. Our neighbors have woven a costlier crown Than circles the brow of a queen. With hands that were golden and hands that were brown, And hands tliat wore colors between — The rose-pink of morning, the amber of noon, The daffodil-dun, and the break. And orange of autumn that fades over-soon With lilies that laugh on the lake. With fingers all taper and fingers all tan, And fingers rich circled and plain, Each brought forth a jewel to weave in the plan, Quite royal in polish and stain. The crystal of pathos, the carmine of love. The ruby of hope burning high. And patience, sweet patience, that comes from above As starlight falls down from the sky. So, circle on circle the coronet rose. Each weaver swift placing her part. Each jewel displacing some fragment of woes, That lingered to torture the heart. THE MISSIONARY. 115 Till bright in its consummate splendors it lay, Like summer sown seasons of rest, A new benediction of beautiful day That shone like a star in the breast. Of coral, of amber, of sapphire and gold. The crown of a queen may have birth; Compared with affection, how ragged and cold. How helpless, how lacking of worth. The hands that are helpful are holy and dear. And warm with ambition's glad fire. And lips that breathe comfort are sweeter to hear Than tabor or cimbal or lyre. And so we accepted this jewelous plan, And wreathed it with fame's sweetest flowers. As gift of all giving, most gracious to man. Most helpful in darkest of hours. And far through the weaving we cautiously trace, Like jewel with jewel to blend, The sunshine of heaven that touches the face. Of helper and neighbor and friend. God prosper the weavers wherever they go, O lead them with tenderest care, Through valleys wide sheltered from seasons of woe, And far from the walks of despair. And when the great trumpet shall sound from the throne, With echoes that wander and quiver. Let none meet the dark, troubled waters alone, God pilot them over the river. 116 THE MISSIONARY. NEW WREATHS. Say, have you woven a wreath to-day To drop on the grave of the slumbering "gray?'' Have you searched the valleys and brought anew A royal crown for the silent "blue?" Have you sought with fervor the hill and plain That sweet from the gardeYis of God be ta'en — The calla lily, the queen of bloom, A crown befitting a dual tomb? Have you placed the hand as a signet, so, On the great pure heart with its steady throe? Have you raised the eyes with a tender care. And the soul-filled voice with an earnest prayer ? Did you call the name of the Master, King, As you doled the wealth of your offering? O God, forever thy will be done. To crown in glory the twain, as one. The great dark days and the shadows sleep In the vast expanse of a nameless deep. And the sunbeams play with a golden flood Where the lichens blushed with the stain of blood, And the night steals on and the moonbeams meet On the quiet field, till the glowing feet Of the rushing day, with its banners red. Returns its watch to the waiting dead. Do the sunbeams dream in a colder way, On the stillness there that has crowned the gray? NEW WKEATHS.-P. U6. THE MISSIONARY. 117 Do thej dance adown with a lesser hue To the sleeping couch of the valiant blue? Do thej darken half with a strange divide, Where the dauntless kings sleep side by side? God grant it not, is the motto true, That rings to-day from the remnant blue. And so forever the bravest stand In god's great presence with open hand, And so, forever, the bravest hold To lips of valor love's cup of gold; And so forever from north and south, It goes a glimmer from mouth to mouth ; God grant it so, 'tis the bugle play, Blown from the lips of the remnant gray. And this, O this, is the crucial test, That calls the soul to its highest, best. And this the eflPbrt that carried through, Will test the diamond as false or true, So from storms and their bitter swell. Out from the jaws of a very hell, Cleansed and sweet as the breath of May, Comes the armies of blue and gray. Northern laurel and Southern pine, Weave themever with hands divine. Weave them ever that fame may vow, Each befitting the crowned brow; Weave them under and wave them through, Jeweled deep with affection's dew; 118 THE MISSIONARY. Tears that glimmer as words would hold Souls of honor in drops of gold. Bring the bugle and sound the call, Sound the rally to one and all; Not a summons to dress parade, Not the council of one brigade, Not the capture of army corps, Lent to linger along the shore, Kingly gray and the kingly blue Sound the bugle for grand review. O the silence, the fall of tears, Where to-day are the mighty cheers? Where the banners that swayed and curled? Martial travail that shook the world; Stately tremble of falling feet, Kolling ever as oceans meet, Rolling ever as oceans roll Stearn and steady from pole to pole. Right oblique there ! close the lines ! Once again are the howling pines Steaming hot with the molten lead; Once again are the fields of dead Drenched and deep with the crimson tide, Hope deferring and death defied ! Once again ! but the storm is still. Peace, sweet peace is the Master's will. Peace, sweet peace, and the bugles play Love's sweet measures to crown the day, THE MISSIONARY. 119 Peace, sweet peace, and the flowers rest Deep as love on the silent breast. Peace, sweet peace, and its blessings fall Rich as love on the hearts of all. Peace, sweet peace, and its comforts are, Hope's sweet path to the morning star. SALLY CAHOON. They called her "Sally" just for short, But in that grand and higher court, Where God's best chosen meet and move. And mingle through the mists of love, And harp-strings dawn their sweet acclaim, They'll know her by some better name. Unselfish soul ! not brighter star Shines from the great high seas afar, Nor better bloom examples bring From love-sown fields of blossoming; As tower-light gleams across the flood. So did she gleam and glow for good. Ah, blessed life, that souls may stand And testify thine helping hand, And lips may tell when shadows dart Above the deep and silent heart. She sleeps, the while her chapter reads Of naught but brave and noble deeds. 120 THE MISSIONARY. THE HORSEMAN'S IDEAL. An eagle scream and the mighty steed Had braced his muscles and given heed, And the lever slid and the racer sped With a vengeful snort from his iron bed; And he called aloud to the waiting night, To heed the speed of his wayward flight. For his lungs were new and his courage bold. And his blazing eye in a fury told That his heart was light and his soul aflame, For a record new to the page of fame. And, O my ! Did'nt he fly ! Speak of a glance of the human eye, Bless your body ! it doesn't bare Any sort of a true compare ! Mercy, no ! O, its too slow ! May seem funny and yet 'tis so ! Down the valley ! And round the curve ! Never the sign of a single swerve, Old aunt Sally ! But wasn't he Just a screamin' the key of C. Touch the throttle and choke him down; Pause a moment to greet the town. Brace the furnace and pull the belU THE MISSION A KT, 121 Look at the dial and note it well. Mind the lever a moment, hold ! Hope is heavy and life is gold, Chance is cunning and freedom sweet, Take the shackles off the feet. Slide the lever and loose the rein, Not the burden of winding chain, Not the mettle of woven thong, Stands disputing the way too long. Give the muscles a chance to play, Olden records will melt away. Full of ire. Spitting fire. Reaching out for the end of space, Tell no more of the speed of light; Not a messenger born to flight Ever need. Speak of speed. Fully neck and a nose the lead. Boiling babbitt, and blazing flue, See him gather and reach and climb. Dead in earnest to scoop the time. O Jerusalem ! Jonathan ! John ! Down brakes ! goodness sakes ! Eecord beaten? why of course? Speed enough for a trotting horse I 122 THE MISSIONARY. MEDITATION. I dream in tlie shadows, I dream alone, And the night is dark and chill, Save low winds murmur in monotone And mutter their mournful will. I dream the moment's away, alack ! And night moves on apace, As I dream the long still voices back, And many a sweet gone face. The ivy rustles, the church-yard gate Swings wearily to and fro, While the heart calls hard for its olden mate Of the sweet, lost long ago. A mist has gathered and dims the eyes, And the heart seems faint and weak. As memory paints of the pallid dyes That lay on the lost one's cheek. O, winds of winter, your icy breath Falls hard on this fevered heart, You sound the tremor of soulless death From over the tomb's dark mart. I close the shutters, 1 drink my wine, And the moonbeams tip the pane. And hope is breathing "the last of thine Will come, like flowers, again." THE MISSIONARY. 123 NATURE'S CAST. How gently doth the bosom burn. When sweet the muse that lingers. To draw her cast from nature's urn With fancy fairy fingers. The morning is breaking, fresh beauties awaking, And dew-pearls are shaking, in Summer's soft breeze, Where flowerets bespangle, the woods wearied tan- gle, And red-rosies dangle o'er emerald seas. Now tall, stately shadows, stretch over the meadows. And drop their rich haloes o'er valley and glen. Where wildly are swinging, the sweet songster sing- ing, And orioles clinging sweet over the fen. Low bends the green willow, above the blue billow, Where sea lilies pillow their bosoms of snow. And gold-fish are darting, the blue waters parting, Nowstopping, now starting, their shadows below. The blue-bells a-quiver, beside the dark river, They tremble, and shiver, and dance on its brink. Then bending all lowly, so perfect, so holy. They lean, O so slowly, and gracefully drink. No dream could ensplendor, a vision more tender. No fancy could render a scene more divine, 124 THE MISSIONARY. The blue heavens bending, the sunlight descending And flow'rets attending each trail of the vine. O then let us tarry with nature, the fairy. So queenly, so airy, so grand in repose, Her dear form reclining, where myrtles are twining. Her fair cheek enshrining the blush of the rose- POESY. Sweet silent visitor, consoling comfort of my idle hours. What depths of lOve, unsullied, thee I owe ! Deep fraught each page with wisdom's glorious flowers, Soft voiceless whispers unto me you throw, All richly deep those silent sounds, down through the mind-aisles flung, Pure melodies of golden voice-set seemings, Like silvery notes of Sabbath bells light rung, So deep, so soft, so pure, thy tones to me. O welcome guest, I love to chat with thee. Away, loud-voiced and hideous revelries by night! Demoniac dances at the festal board ! Ye bring but sorrow, ye but blear the sight, Ye teach the soul no sweet consoling word. Ye grieve the breast with direful misery ! Ye are no joy, no comforter to me; My chosen friend — sweet-hearted poesy. THE MISSIONARY. 125 JOIN HANDS. Join hands! the marble-natured past, oh, let it sleep, Lo, flowery-featured May's most tender tears are falling ; And o'er the hill and vale and the far-reaching deep I hear a voice, it nears me now, and nearing yet is calling, Out across the green-veiled solitudes ; hear me, hear me ! Ye saddened hearts draw near, listen and moan no more; I hail from courts that lie beyond your ken and this to thee, My mission? joy to thee. Lo, I am Peace, knee., gently and adore. Join hands! and in the sight of God and all that's goodness say The night has past, and with it borne away the last of clouds. All hail the morn ! that jewelled hour of roseate bursting day Whose blooming vales lie far and fair to view, nor mist enshrouds, Nor shadow flaunts the way, Man, thine aspiring nature now Should teach the subtle mystery of its power; this very hour; 126 THE MISSIONARY. Before the shrine of Justice thou shouldst calrajj bo\\> And bowing crj "Obeisance to thy will, Justice we love thy power ! " Join hands ! O ye of brave intelligence lead on, go forth beneath the stars! Go flaunt love's chosen ensign square upon tlie breast-works of your foe; The sweet-songed seraphs bid you go, the harp ^o. lean jars. And far and near and all around I hear sweet music flow. Tis harmony's glad choir ! Go, child of soft blue eyes and golden hair. Go forth and drink thy heart's content of melody; and you Proud maidens, born of years more ripe, and lips more rare And red than roses are, go forth and bathe in love's allaying dew. Join hands! ^from every sweet-tongued bell ring forth incentive notes, And when the debonarian groves are filled with music, say — Go forth, ye wandering winds, and from your silken throats Breathe them unto the sea, and to the isles that linger far away, THE MISSIONARY. 127 Let morning drink the sounds, and in the day's high noon, Or wlien the sun leans gently o'er the holy twi light hours, O let them still ring on, and like the wind-harp's tune Disturb the light-winged dews that sleep on red- eyed flowers. Join hands! and while the poet chants a heart-felt praise, Lead on from grove and hill and the far-reaching plain, One phalanx deep and wide, come ye from all the ways. Come like the bloom of May, one love-linked, endless chain. Keep time to pattering feet, with song and solace sweet. And like an endless rhyme of blue-eyed summer time. Fill all the gracious land with hope and joys com- lete. IMPUNITY. Impunity ever breeds courage As truly example has shown; The longer offense goes unpunished, The wider her acres are sown. 128 THE MI8SI0NAKT. SOLID DIAMOND. I see my little boy at play Among the blossoms wild, A wingless bee, that dares to stray The gardens nndefiled. And watch the eager sunbeams lay A carpet for the child. I see the little fingers reach The roses in their bower, A loveliness that might beseech A love from fairer flower, Tip-toeing there in turn to teach The sweetness of its dower. I watch the dimples come and throw A kiss to cheeks of tan. As eddies in the waters show And circle in their plan, So do these whirling dimples sow My handsome little man. The morning leans an angel down, With tender hands and true, Lays on the head a golden crown. And lights the eyes of blue. Then paints the cheek of sunny brown A more enchanting hue. Where is the hand of cunning now, The artist's boasted grace. SOLID DIAMOND.-P. 128, CAUTEL.-P, THE MI88IONAKT. 129 Could pain the splendors of that brow, Or pencil such a face, Or grasp the sweet conception how To weave the color lace? Not all the artists ever grew Could paint a scene like this, And penciird splendor never knew The key to royal bliss. For tho' its aim be ever true Its arrows go amiss. The poet doffs the laurel crown And folds the soaring wing, The while he lays the pencil down And owns the master king; For hands of art and poesy Have no such offering. No, this is not a fancy scene, Soliloquized and new, And not a fairy hand to glean The roses sweet with dew, But solid diamond set between The blossoms where they grew. CAUTEL. Ah ! my sweet and winsome lady, Wander where the walks are shady, 130 THE MISSIONAEY. Wander where the wine is hid, Neath the blossom's tender lid. Wander where the waiting feet, Crush the bloom that waits to greet you, Wander where the tempests meet. In the heart that waits to meet you. Watch the little stars that rise. Through the distance, leaning over. Where the moonbeam drips and dies. Golden — on the fields of clover; Where the silent bee has flown, Nimble, dusky, thieving rover; Wander lightly and alone. There to meet your silent lover. Truly, eager watchful eyes, Will be ever searching steady. Prying for that paradise. That awaits you, wily lady. Not for mischief ? Mercy, no ! Else the mischief be repeating. Softly watching, only so — Joy may learn the bliss of meeting. Place your little fingers there, On the heart so wildly swaying. Curb the flaunting golden hair. Lest its banner be betraying, Lift the little foot with care. Lean a moment, lean and listen ! THE MISSIONARY. 131 Danger ! is it lurking where Yonder clovers bend and glisten ? Ah ! the moments are as death, And the stillness, it is cruel. Save, indeed ! this heavy breath — That is waging heart a duel, And, (for shame) these falling tears. Feeding all my fears with fuel, Each succeeding step appears. Gleaming with a lusty jewel. Love thou art a wonder flame ! (Woman-weighed) above the level, Thou could'st even tempt the same; Brave the night or dare the devil, Not delinquent, sweet Roland? Kiss me love, the storm is over. Heart to heart, and hand to hand; What were life without a lover ! FREEDOM'S SONG. Where the harp ^olian jars, And aurora drops her splendor, Round a zone of blazing stars. Silvery soft and sweetly tender, Let us wander and adore Shouting freedom evermore. 132 THE MISSIONARY. Where the dimpled waters glide, And bright rainbow beauties hover, O'er the blue wave's crested tide, Like a silver-pinioned plover, Let us rove through freedom's glare, Lisping soft a silent prayer. Where the pearl upon the sands. Washed by each surrounding sea, Sings of freedom's holy lands, Sings forever of the free; Let us gently kneel and crave Strength of Him who rules the wave. Where the silver queen of night, Veils the flower-bespangled meadows, Weaving 'neath her velvet light, Fancy worlds of fairy shadows; Let us wander neath her dyes Praising Him who rules the skies. Where the blue-eyed angel wings Through the star gemmed ether o'er us, Where the sunbeam ever flings Glory on the path before us; Let us, wandering, gaze above, Thanking God for freedom's love. Where the daisies taint the air, And our starry flag discloses. Kissing freedom's golden glare, THE MI8SI0NAEY. 133 O'er a dewy land of roses, Let us ramble o'er the sod Singing praises to our God. Where a rhythmic ecno swells, Lingering on the viewless air, Echo of our evening bells, Softly calling unto prayer; Let us wander there and sing, Praises to our God and king. Where in characters of gold. Fame's celestial star is set, And the laurel wreaths enfold Washington and Lafayette, Let us knell and lift a prayer, God will surely meet us there. THE LAST WATCH. The night is deep and still and dark. How slow the chill hours creep; The low winds sob around, a bark — Lies trembling on life's deep. The dark waves creep in silence round, I hush my painful breath ; Ah, lonesome anguish deep thy wound ! Oh! tell me — is this death? l34 THE MISSIONARY. I kneel and kiss a marble brow, I press a thin white hand ; Low o'er the slumbering clay I bow, I cannot understand. Another sweep of time's swift wings, Night doflfs her sable dyes; Lo ! morning, no new glory brings To light those dim blue eyes. I turn my gaze to meet the east. Then back to this cold clay; How still she lies, the soul released Has flown before the day. TO MRS. ANDREW ANDERSON. THE LILIES THAT TOU GAVE. The lilies that you gave us to lay beside our dead, Were sweeter in their language, than lips have ever said, And bright with royal splendor, beyond a starry gem. And pure and analytic of the heart that offered them. Yea, love can weigh the measure that walks with little feet ! And death has sure dominion o'er hearts that cease to beat; THE MISSIONARY. 135 Yet through the fog chaotic of dread and darksome hours, [ers. A blessed bow of promise, the hand that offers flow- So, when you gave the lilies, that dreamed amid the light, You swept a chord immortal, that slept amid the blight, [deep — And love across the silence made answer soft and Love will be love forever, tho' sorrow dares to weep. And so each tender proffer will meet its sure reward. Each blessed act a lily that waves above the sword. And little hands will carry the deed across the wave And lift them to the Master— the lilies that you gave. GIMPY'S NERVE. There were hard dark eager faces amid the crowd that night. There in that hell of splendor and mixed with the town's elite, Were great coarse forms and brutal, and full of a devil's stare Were green-blue eyes of players watching with hun- gry glare— The soft white hands of women, pulling their win nings down, Or placing a new replenish of single or double crown. 136 THE MISSIONARY. At face with the "rojal tiger " that stood like a god of old, And pulled to his purring bosom the plenteous piles of gold. Here was a stack of fifties, there was the chip of a ten, Lost to the hungry demon, doubled and lost again. Quadrupled, trebled and doubled, for thus did the dealer command — [hand, "Never a limit but ceiling, pile with a plenteous Long have you clamored and waited, calling the requisite tame. Claiming the nerve has grown feeble, running a "limited" game. So for to-night (and that only) pile your bright shekels and well. Twenty good feet to the ceiling, there's where the limit shall dwell." Cheer upon cheer, approbative, drove the red lights to a SAvim, Glasses and gleaming decanters long gurgled loud at the brim; Hands that were tireless and bony lent a new strength with their grip, Passing the soul-burning fury onto the feverish lip. So, for the dealer had uttered, "Full the flood-gates all ajar. Not one condition of limit either at business or bar; THE MISSIONARX". 137 Not one condition of limit — pile the rieh dust of your wares, Pile till the heart shall grow dizzy, topping the gold of your stairs ! " Down for the deal ! all ready ! then in the stillness of death. Save of wild heart's fever-beating and of hard pull- ing for breath, Slid the soft cliords from their places, still as the stealth of a sin, And the great hands of the dealer drew the rich ■ monuments in. Stack after stack of bright silver, many a green bundle rolled. Many a ten-times-a-twenty tinged with a shimmer of gold, Paying the few that were lucky, missing the blight of the frost. Out from the great rolling bounty loving compan- ions had lost. Smiles lit the face of the dealer. Yes the "old ti- ger" was true. Down with your chips and be ready, fifty must go on the blue. Crimsons are calling for twenty, whites must go over for ten, Down with your dust and be ready, come to the ante like men. 138 THE MISSIONARY. Then with a clamorous rustle, crowding like demons ablaze, Faces are jostled together, fingers are touching the baize, And the smooth "ivories" settle deep in their cir- cles of rest, There in the face of the dealer, down on the old tiger's breast. All down, all readj, stillness has gathered again — Hush ! the deep breath of the bettors, ah, but the moments are pain. See how the faces are bleaching, lips have grown pallid and cold, Yea, for the clutch of the demon circles their treas- ures of gold. Only the dealer is steady, only the dealer? oh,hold ! Yonder the face of a woman bright as the summers of old ; [strung. See, not a shadow of trouble, see, not a nerve is un- Nerve like the nerve of a tiger, tenderly handsome and young. Ah, but the woman is winning, swiftly the many.go down. Only a few are left playing, far through the dusk of the town, Slowly, unsteadily, going, tramping and dreaming, they go, " had I placed it, a copper, this way or that way, and so, THE MISSIONARY. 139 Deuce to the ace, taking seven, then could I helo but have won ? Well am I worse than the many, most of the play- ers were done; Blamed little good in the glory, sewing the savings of years. Well it is weakness to simper, times, there is com- fort in tears. " Lost, but the woman is winning, winning the wom- an is lost. Ah, could she see to the future, counting the ter- rible cost. Then would the white fingers tremble, pushing the "blues" to their place, And the proud smiles that are winning, die from that beautiful face. Hold ! but the woman is losing, stack after stack of the blues Sweep from her grasp like a fury, place them how- e'er she may choose. Swiftly and steadily going, does the hand tremble the while? No, but the eyes seem to brighten, meeting each loss with a smile. Piling the chances together,hush ! the red lights dim- mer burn. Something uncommon is coming, see, she is casing the turn; 140 THE MISSIONARY. "Five for the one, if I chatter straight on the turn grad-'ng down ! " Yes ! and the dealer had nodded, ah, it was worlds for a crown, "Worlds to a crown," (said the woman) chances so many to one Take if you win, and be clever! lost, I will smile and be done; Folding her arms in composure, waiting her fate like a queen, Long in the frolics of fortune — "queen of the baize" she had been. Nine-spot in sight, that is easy, under it, ace fol- lows tray; (Stooping, she wrote of the chances plainly to read in that way) "Nine-spot in sight, that is easy,underit ace fellows tray. Yes, I will chance the blue volley, played in that mystical way." All but the dealer is steady, now there are only the two; Well has he thought of the winning should it go down on the blue. Slowly the cards are slid over, quietly too it is done — Gods, but the chances are heavy, ah, but the wom- an has won ! Lost, but the woman is winning, winning the wom^ an is lost; THE MISSIONARY. Ill O could she see to the future, counting the terrible cost, Then would the white lingers tremble, pushing the blues to their place, And the proud smiles that are winning fade from that beautiful face. There in the gold she has gathered, buried the summers of years, There in the ring of the silver, voices of trials and tears; There in the crushed legal-tender crimped in so many a fold. Lies the lost hope of a brother, dearer than diamonds or gold. Close the great doors that are swinging, hide the dread siglit from the sun; Lost ! tho' the woman was winning, yes the great battle is done; And the red lights burning lowly, symbol the wrecks that are gone; Pale in a glow that was glory, dead in the light of the dawn. Kneel wily queen with your booty, kneel, for your palace is cold ! Love has gone out like the glimmer, arched in yon circles of gold. Love has gone out, and that honor, grand for a woman to wear. Lies like a bloom that is trambled black with the feet of despair. 142 THE MISSIONARY. BUGLE CALLS, OR HIGH POKER. Ho ! sound the bugle, brother man, and gather in the crew. There's not so many of us now, as once have worn the blue ; Our ranks are thinning, year by year, old Time will clear the decks, And ask the last one tumbles in his remnant of the " checks." But we have played the ' ' ante " high, and we have had our time, And proud to say they never called the place we didn't climb. Old Dixie's sons were true as steel, and loyal to their cause, But missed some splendid ruling points in war's ' high poker laws. They sometimes played us pretty hard, and stood our biggest "raise," And sometimes bluffed us squarely out, with nothing up but trays. They pushed the issue day and night, and Anted up like men. But then we had them on the draw, and took it down again. They made some splendid deals at first, and nearly won the cup ; THE MISSIONARY. 143 For Lee and Jackson at the head were two grand aces up. But Grant had got the deck at last, and wher aC made a stand, They found fixed with three big kings in every sol- dier's hand. God knows, they thought their cause was just ; we knew our cause was right; This conflict of opinions then, forced on that fever- ed light. We have no war at issue now, and this is blessed May; Throw wide the portals of your heart and welcome in the gray. We swapped tobacco at the front, on picket lines, before ; How shall we turn the shoulder now, and close the common door? We might forgive to each the past, as each would be forgiven. And join one common circle where the boys look down — from heaven. Then sound your bugle, brother man, and call the men this way ; And, if the ranks of blue be thin and sprinkled with the gray, 'Twill weave the realistic in, with visions of the past,' And help to fill the little lines that dwindle down so fast. 144 THE MISSIONARY. Though we have faced them fierce and fast, and fought them hand to hand, With ranks that cried, Columbia! while they ans- wered, Maryland ! We'll lay the hard old grudges down, and welcome soldiers true, To mingle with our fading ranks — to deck the gray and blue. Then sound your bugle, sound it loud ! Push forth the quivering strain ! 'Till all the hosts that flood the wood and scour the distant plain. Shall come with garlands fresh and sweet and ling ering scent of bloom. And build their floral wreaths of love on every sol- dier's tomb. For where the tall, green southern pines, in all their splendors sway. They pile the blossoms equal height above the blue and gray. They go from out their shattered homes, with tears that long are wet. And teach that sweet forgiveness but a coward could forget. Soft sound the bugle, brother man, and let the ban- ners play, We'll have to leave the dress-parade to younger men to-day. THE MISSIONARY. 146 This stumping round on wooden legs and striving for a show, Would only grieve the boys that watched our mo- tions years ago. That double-quick would get us now, rheumatics linger here, And every effort to comply would force a double tear ; For not alone the soldier weeps this opportune decay, The heart that loves the soldier feels and weeps as well as they. Ho ! Shoulder arms ! Ah now, indeed, how too that order grieves. Dear hearts, it's hard to handle guns with limp and empty sleeves ; And see, along the shattered line that erst was straight and grand, A coat that holds an empty sleeve, an arm without a hand ; And crippled limbs and bending forms that once were grand and tall, And God, there are some places where we see no forms at all. Close up the line, close up the line ! Sound out the bugle still ! Till every living comrade hears the call from Zion's hill. . Well, sound your bugle once again, and call the comrades in. 146 THE MISSIONARY. The cards were cut and shuffled well ; the game was played to win. The stakes were high, yes, dreadful high, the world will understand, It cost a thousand lives at times to see a single hand. There were no limits to the game, they never asked a sight. But stood the raise like little men, and fought it out with might. They held the flushes straight and clean, and stood them out a pat. We drew and caught a world of kings, and beat them after that. We have no war at issue now, and this is velvet May, And God's impartial hand has crowned, alike the blue and gray. So from the ample fields we seek, we'll cull the sweet- est flowers, And pile the graves of theirs as deep as they shall cover ours. Then sound the bugle, loud and shrill, push forth the quivering blast. Till its receding echoes touch the valleys of the past ; Till echo wakes its echo on, beyond the vales of care And every soldier hears the sound and gathers with us there. THE MISSIONARY. 147 MY PHANTOM BRIDE. The hours go by, and cold and pale, I watch the white moon's wayward sail, And, watching, wonder of the fate That brings my tardy bride so late. Did slie not vow that eventide Should find her fortressed at my side? Did she not vow, when evening stars Should dance above horizon bars. These ready lips again should prove The subtle touch of heart's true love. Did she not swear, by lake and land And lofty lift of jewelled hand, That tlio' the sun-tides missed the noon. And sea-tides wandered over-soon, Tiue as the changing moons to sea. Her presence would come back to me? O how these laggard moments move. Like musty age in waiting groove. Their hollow tramp and haughty mien, Tell not a word of her, my queen. Oft have I dreamt of doubt and shade, Yet, like glad stars that never fade, Or diamond touch of morning dew, Her promises were ever true. And she will come, my phantom bride, Whate'er the fates by time betide. 148 THE MISSIONARY. With airy sweep of paddle bright, To sail the currents of the night, Would prove her soul's enchanting will, And waiting love will trust her still. Yes, they have cried her false — and when? Those whispered words of lying men. They drive a dagger to my heart ! Or worse, they tear its throbs apart, And charge its quivering pulse of stain, With anguish that is more than pain, Yet I do swear by yonder blue, Her promises were ever true. True as yon westward moon a guide — My light, my life, my phantom bride ! And she will come, I wait her long. Whippoorwill. Hark I 'tis the night-bird's plaintive song, Sweet,wayward notes, hold, birdie, hold! I hear her dripping oar of gold. Was it the pine tree's dropping dart, Or sound of this lone beating heart? Whippoorwill. I hear the kissing waters meet And dance around her dimpled feet. Whippoorwill. But no, those trooping sounds are stayed, 'Twas but the night wind's dress parade. O but I thought at last, at last. Fulfilled that promise of the past ! THE MISSIONARY. 149 I almost had her in my arms, Oh, how love's bounding current warms! But disappointment, fatal word — As eagle strikes the singing bird. You drive your sharp beak's ebon dart Far down the summer of my heart, And leave me lone and waiting still, Companion of poor whippoorwill. Whippoorwill. Strange bird, so singing to the moon ! What woes awoke your plaintive tune? Has fate's decree to thee betide A waiting for some tardy bride? Whippoorwill. Don't grieve, don't grieve, sweet bird, no, no, But tell me truly of your woe. Your silence weighs my heart with fears— Whippoorwill. Your singing fills mine eyes with tears. So lone, so lone, so desolate I Like thee, sweet bird, without a mate Pheasant drums. But hark I what new departures come ? 'Tis but the pheasant's drowsy drum. What weariness these sounds awake ! Yet love could die for love's sweet sake, And 'mid its storms of prayers and tears, Of cancelled hopes and groundless fears, Be buried quite, all unawares. Like blossoms over-choked with tares 150 THE MISSIONARY. Breathe out their last faint, parting breath, And fall asleep, so light is death. Whippoorwill. Lo ! I must rest these watchful eyes, As one to enter paradise. With eager heart I yet will wait. Beside hope's towering jewelled gate. For she will come, my phantom bride. In dreams forever at my side. So lightly and so sweetly dressed. With bloom at brow and bloom at breast. And tempting song that ever will Trade notes with song of whippoorwill. Whippoorwill. Ah, dreadful war to battle sleep. With eyes that ever wake to weep. Poor eyes, poor eyes, how dim your gaze, From searching of your silent ways. By cove and lake and sanded beach. No form arrests your straining reach. But on, still on ! as if to be Led fairly through eternity. From moving moon, to ocean's crest Still wandering, still wishing rest, And thou shalt sleep, tho' all my heart Should walk in wakefulness apart ; And thou shalt rest one long, sweet rest, Tho' flaming daggers pierce this breast. THE MIS8I0NAKT. 151 For with this silken kerchief white, I'll bind the wanders of your flight Binds eyes. Thus bring restriction to the gaze That drives mv wakeful brain a-craze. So shalt thou rest as thou art tied, And wait the coming of my bride. * Pretends sleep. WhippoorwiU. Wliippoorwill pauses. Low, sweet song is heard.woman's voice. She comes, she comes! ah, true to me; That same sweet song ! I cannot see ! For I am blind, am blind, am blind ! O Father, hast thou thus designed To hide from these long-tortured eyes, This one bright gleam of paradise? Ah no, no, no ! I mind me now. This bandage placed upon my brow. Strange addlings of a troubled mind, In faith, I thought me surely blind. Was it a dream? ah, strange indeed! What wondrous tales the night winds read. All blown from those enchanted isles, So sweet with hope, so dressed in smiles, A touch of faith, a balm of rose, Light wafted to the heart's repose. A solace from the sounds of pain. That gives us back our loved again. On pity's wings, oh, tender tide. Bring back, bring back, my phantom bride. 152 THE MISSIONARY. Whippoorwill. she will come, I know her true ! Her boat glides in upon the blue, Like some faint touch of fairy wand, A beckon from the far beyond. With shining reach of shapely oar. She drives the laughing waves ashore, The while, her trailing mantles sweep. The merry dimples of the deep. Or, linger in their starry fold Around the sliining keel of gold. I'll send the waves a random shot, To mind her of the tristing spot. Shoots. Loon. Was it a scream? O God, this heart Will rend its shattered cell apart! Loon. Again, again, that awful breath! 1 heard the gutteral sounds of death. I dare not gaze, I know the flood Is crimsoned with her holy blood. Loon. Hold, heavens hold ! I hear the break^ Of laughing loon go down the lake. • Loon. Indeed, indeed, the loon's wild cries I So may I trust these anxious eyes. And if the waves are free from stain, My poor heart gains relief from pain. THE MISSIONARY. 153 Why did she deign me no reply ? The soul creeps up and answers, why? So half in hope, yet half afraid, I stand between the sun and shade, And wonder-waiting vigil keep. With sad eyes thrown across the deep. Sweet horn, I'll throw your clarion note In search of that frail golden boat. And may your silvery footsteps learn Companions of a sweet return. Thus will your searching notes be thrown, Sounds horn. But echo answers far and lone, Loon. And o'er the lake the laughing loon Makes music to the night's high noon. And shattered moonbeams lift and ride Like shining spectres on the tide. Sad, sad the watch that waits in vain, And loneliness is life of pain. Poor eyes, poor eyes ! I bid you rest. Sleep wooes the circles of my breast. Here will I place love's beacon light, Places lig:ht. So, like a star to pierce the night, That it may prove love's faithful guide, Alluring to my phantom bride, So will she come from faint and far, Lured by this love-watch blazing star. 154 THE MISSIONARY. Here with this green mound for my bed, And green boughs waving overhead, All trailed with rose-light steeped in dew. And woodbine splendors running through, And balm to dress the weary soul Await where silvered currents roll, And tinkling music falls, a dream Wooed from the mountain's tinsel'd stream, The night-bird's song, the waiting rose, The waving winds will bring repose. Falls asleep. Tinkle of stream. Whippoorwill. Faint horn. Loon laughs. , Wliip- poorwill. Horn nearer. Faint song. Sound of oars striking boat. SONG — MY WILLIE. My Willie lies sleeping beneath the green tree, Blue eyes have grown weary in watching for nie. The fates that undo him did bind me to mourn. Yet true to my promise, again I return. Chorus.— My Willie has waited, is waiting me still. Where love drinks the music of sweet whippoorwill. As breath of the summer that comes all unseen. With garlands of roses, love brings you your queen. An angel's glad visit from Eden's sweet side. To watch o'er your slumbers, your sweet phantom bride. And now, gentle Willie, I bid you adieu. This wreath will bring faith that my promise was true. And when at God's calling you cross the dark tide. You'll meet at the ferry your own phantom bride. Was it a dream? a dream, no, no! Did she not stand with cheek aglow 'And bright eyes flaming sweet and far, And like the new born morning star. Shine on me with her warmth of love, And tenderness, well meant to move, THE MISSIONARY. 155 This laggard blood, that coursing slow, Drags onward through its fields of snow. A dream? It must have been a dream ! stars, how cold and far you seem ! And you, sweet moon, how can yon hold A brightness in these rays so cold ? 1 shiver at the thought, and still. You sail above the silent hill, And pour your cold effulgence wide Along the great night's ebbing tide. Ah, what is this? My God, 'twas true ! Fresh in the night's new fall of dew The imprint of her hand, 'tis here ! And she is gone, is gone, is gone ! And not the wanders of the dawn Will bring her back to me, to me ! My eyes, my eyes! I cannot see, I cannot see! I hear the great, dark waters roar — I'll meet her on the other shore. Falls dead. Curtain. Curtain rises again on tableau of their meeting:, he stepping from the dark waters to her embrace. Golden City in the background. NECESSITY. Necessity breeds an infallible law. Let all to her statutes resign, 'Tis only to fodder the way of a jaw That we toil for the wealth of a mine. 156 THE MISSIONARY. UNKNOWN. Tread lightly, tis a hallowed spot, for here, beneath this mound, The bosom of a soldier brave, lies mingling with the ground. And yonder, see ! the stars and stripes, the flag for which he fell, Waves proudly from you loftly dome, above the village bell. No more, he hears the evening gun, plow echoes through the air. Nor hears the knell, of village bell, softly calling unto prayer. Or deeply toll, departed soul, in tones of wild despair. Who was the soldier? did yor say ? didst know from whence he came 'i I see no chisled structure here, on which, to read his name. Ah there behold ! and half decayed, that crumbling board alone. Approach and read, and read, alas, that weird word unknown. Unknown he sleeps that earnest sleep, that last deep, deep, repose. Regardless quite of storm or night, of passing joys or woes, Of folly's frown, or fancy's smile, of kindred, friends or foes. THE MISSIONARY. 157 When cannon mouthed their thunders loud, and hurled their wreathed smoke, And all the land was quaking 'neath a famous sturdy stroke, And gallant hearts rushed forth to meet the haughty challenge thrown, 'Twas then the sleeper signed the call, and he was not unknown. No more he'll list the sweet tattoo nor reveille at morn, No more he'll tread to beat of drum, or pipe of martial horn. Nor deal a stroke, amid the smoke, where battle blaze is born. When torrent darts of crimson gore rushed wildly down the rill, That very hill where yonder gun dark-browed, is rusting still — Mid sabre flash and battle glare and deadly missis thrown. This sleeping hero too, was there, and he was not unknown. No more he'll face the battle-blaze, nor drink the smoke of war. No more he'll tread the purpled earth, where booming cannons jar Nor join the race, inhaste to chase a f oeman flying far. When yonder cannon groaned aloud, and lent her poison breath. 168 THE MISSIONARY. Sending her burning messengers, singing the song of death, He was the first to lend a hand to check that monotone, But oh, too late, her future fate, was sealed unto his own. No more his willing arm is lent to tear the blushing brand, From out the fervid battle-grasp of foeman's firy hand, Nor check a breath, that's sealing death, athwart a sunny land. If yonder tattered flag could speak ; 'twould tell the tale, I ween. The tale that we woul d ask of him, thus stilled in sleep serene. Then, this half-rotted board, no more, in broken speech should own, This sad reply, to questions asked, in this sad, way — unknown. No more he'll feast his manly eyes upon that banner there, No more unfurl her gorgeous dyes to freedom's holy air, While half a nation kneels around, and lifts to God a prayer. That cannon yonder on the hill, is stilled forever more, And gush of song and music swell, take place of battle roar. THE MISSIONARY. 159 Peace smiles, her sunny beams to day on cottage walls are thrown, But, he who died to wake that smile lies sleeping here, unknown. Alone, indeed, and left unknown, in death's cold grasp alone — Not e'en the honors of a name cut on the coldest stone, Hark ! o'er his grave, the winds complain, unknown ! unknown ! unknown ! But hush ! the winds that lately moaned have ceased their grievous cries, And yonder comes the village belle, and tears are in her eyes. Her hands are lain with wreathed flowers, that on the grave, are strewn, Thank God ! the sleeper's not forgot e'en tho' he be unknown. Ah, see beside the lowly mound, the maiden kneels in prayer ; And lo, a hundred more draw round, their proffered love to share; I fancy now, that sleeper dreams of angels ci'*cling there. Ah ! ne'er again will I deplore the noble soldier's lot; I'll mourn their lonely fates no more — they never are forgot, E'en tho' they sleep unnumbered by the letters of a name, 160 THE MISSIONARY. Their burning history never dies, 'tis wreathed in flowers of a fame. We read it in the peaceful breeze that whisper o'er the vale, We read it on the rolling seas where bends the bellied sail, And oh, it is a work to please, a nobly-written tale. The village maiden whispers it to valliant village beau, • And little children tell the tale while wandering to and fro, And when the heavy frost of years have marked our honored sires, They lay the cherished pipe aside, and tell it round their fires. And so, the tender story stands a theme of endless thought. And freedom waves her gentle hands above the glories bought, While soldiers sleep beneath the sands, unknown, tho' not forgot. DISAPPOINTMENT. Alas ! how vain our hallowed hopes, How wasted time's sweet flowers. The march of change just telescopes Our fairest build of bowers. THE MISSIONARY. 161 DANA'S DRIVE. ORLANDO. Hold hard thy reins, yes driver, hold. And thou shalt have this fee of gold. Ten shining twenties, bright and new, And this green bundle goes to you, If that thine elj&n steeds shall move To win a hard, far race for love. DANA. If moved to win ? And who shall dare Match steed to steed, with speed compare? From wild Arabia's arid plain These supple queens were deftly ta'en. And not the fabled steeds of Mars Can match my bonny Shooting Stars. ORLANDO. Hold, driver, hold ! Be not too fast, (Blue pigeons may outspeed the blast,) A good span lead of tempest wild The Graylocks flew, the driver smiled. And sowed the way with challenge loud, And still the steeds outsped the cloud. Then do not boast of better blood. Of course, 'tis plainly understood. At viewing shoulders long, oblique, And tendons strong, and coat as sleek As glossy silk from India's strand. There lies uncommon speed at hand. 162 THE MISSIONARY. But match is match and chase is chase, And chance alone can test a race Where two unwilling bandies meet, In this wild-wedded, vain conceit. Declaring oft, from beaten breast, Yet fearing to approach the test. Doncaspan's claims are verified. And yours, as yet, remain untried, Unrighteous, sir, and indiscreet. To boast your chosen steeds as fleet As those gray kings, whose airy forms Played lead before the worst of storms. DANA. If that thou sayest I have lied, Then, too, let this be verified. Doncaspan's claims are false, as yet. In this that we have never met. Which sayest thou, then thou hast lied, And thou and he shall stand defied. ORLANDO, Be calm, be calm, I sought the test That proves an honest faith the best. Because of this, my life must go A forfeit to impassioned foe. If that miscarriage should attend That speed alone could dare defend. DANA. Then be it so. In proof of trust Graylocks and Lords shall eat the dust THE MISSIONARY. 163 Up-thrown from each clean hoof like hail, Shot downward from high clouds a-sail. But tell me, friend, what goes amiss To force the search of speed like this. OKLANDO. Ah, truly, friend, but first thine hand. 'Tis meet that thou shouldst understand The import of this fearful task. Kneel, kneel with me and blessings ask. And kneeling, swear with hand on high, In faith of trust to do or die. DANA. 'Tis well, my friend, and I accede. Lord, dost Thou know our waiting need, And wilt Thou bless, O Lord, the right This effort leads unto Thy sight. With lifted hands, O Lord, we wait. Sworn friends, whatever be our fate. ORLANDO. So shalt thou hear, and this the tale: Where yonder sea-gulls lift and sail On wings of white, above the shore That trembles where the waters roar, Doncaspan's bronze and marble home Lifts lofty battlements and dome. There, by dark jealousies controlled, A birdling in a cage of gold, Luena Doncaspan must dwell An angel in an outer hell. 164 I'HE MISSIONARY. Far from love's altar-home apart So far, so far, poor breaking heart ! DANA. You love. Does she reciprocate That love, and yet not dare to mate That fading heart with the support That hails from love's almighty court? Go to thine fading flower and say Light shines adown love's dewy way. Say that my Arab steeds are fleet, The lightning of their flying feet Would quickly dare an intercede Conveyant to love's prisoned need. Once safe behind my Shooting Stars Then could she laugh at prison bars. ORLANDO. Ah, but I fear the Graylocks' pace, Mad, mad must be that mighty race. For like an arrow skyward tossed. The oval downs they shoot across, And woe and death would surely hide Within each mighty monster stride. DANA. To win is life, to lose is death. And thou couldst choose it at a breath, Didst thou but know all hope were dead, And each availing help had fled. So stake thy trust to win it all, Or, losing, to abide the fall. THE MISSIONARY. 165 • ORLANDO. 'Tis done, 'tis done ! thy hand, thy plan, — Yes, I will meet it, yes, my man. Thy word shall be my law to win Or lose, the effort is no sin. And life is death without compare Enshrouded in this black despair. DANA. Go to thine haughty peer and read, One dares to doubt the Graylock's speed; And further says his ringing purse Invites him to some chosen course, On hilly down or dustless square. At any time and anywhere. Say that his pride has reached a stress Of wagers offered limitless. Say that his taunting tongue has said Were wagers laid, both gold and bread. Thou must go penniless, a knave. Undone and hungered to thy grave. And if to him this arrogance Shall lift its stinging poisoned lance, Swift as the rush of ocean's tide Shall crowd the armies of his pride, And eagle-like, in passion stirred. Lay wagers to your suited word. Say quickly "For Luena's sake. This daring proffer will I make. 166 THE MISSIONARY. A test of speed shall sure decide A forfeit head or fondling bride. If Gray locks win this head be thine; Lose, and Luena must be mine." ORLANDO. 'Tis done ! thy hand. I do abide This ruling whatsoe'er betide. And when the white moon lifts her sail Above the level of this vale, I too, in shining robe will wait Beside the star-arched marble gate. There lightly lift above the wall Love's light-toned, airy, legal call, That ever brings with speedy tread, Soft on the star-grass jewelled bed. That lithesome form so rare, so rare. My bonny, bright Luena fair. Yes, she will come, poor waiting bird. Like aspen sweet, by breezes stirred. All tremblingly, yet all demure. In confidence both sweet and sure, I'll breathe it to her trusting ear And lock the bargain, tear for tear. DANA. Farewell till then, a sweet adieu, God's tender mercies follow you. And may the goddess of your love In glad adoption quick approve THE MISSIONARY. 167 A purpose lain in mercy's mood, And sure avoid of spilling blood. For by yon stars, now lent to crown The shadows of this dewy down, One eager call will show thee pace Defiant in the fleetest race. One eager call, — away, away ! Prepare thee ere the break of day. SCENE SECOND. Castle on seashore, surrounded by massive high walls. Massive star- arched g-ates, green lawn and shell-road driveways, boat at shore bordering lawn and light swells rolling in the moonlight, ORLANDO. Here at this hugh unfriendly gate. All eager and alone I wait. Scarce daring lift one little note. That trustless winds may drive afloat To some unsought, unkindly ear, Disclosure of my presence here. How still the night, I fairly start At sound of my own beating heart, Unsteady in its wild unrest, It treads the chambers of the breast. As some lost child, misunderstood. Wood walk the mazes of the wood. Yet, there is need of haste, and so, However falls the final blow, 168 THE MIS8I0NAKT. Th3 battle is before us still ; And through tlie courage of a will, Unbending in its strength of pride, Can reason's claims be justified. Luena, here I send the call High o'er this dark impregnant wall, And for thine blessed answer wait The swinging of this massive gate, Thy presence, O thou child of light, Queen jewel of Time's fairest night. Sounds horn. LUENA at window. Ah, did I hear Orlando's call. Some wayward note has climbed the wall. Some wayward note has rode the tide Of breezes from the outer side. Ah, there again, and light and free Love's tender notes are calling me. Climbing: from window on ladder of rope which she throws; standing on rope steps with hand on window-sill she listens/ Horn sounds. Luena listens smilingly, then sings, sweet and low, I hear the horn, I hear the horn. From gardens green, where dews adorn, 'Tis sweet to me,'tis sweet to me, I hear the horn, I come to thee. ORLANDO. Yes thou art come, but say, my dear. How shall it please thine waiting ear. This proffered plan that pending fate Prevaileth that I must relate, Well dost thou know, Luena fair, To win thee, death were naught to dare. THE MISSIONAKT. 169 LUENA. A dare at death ! O love, sweet love ! Sure as yon shining stars above, My heart would break, oh, surely break. If that thou darest for my poor sake. That ebon king whose nightly eyes Rob earth of love's dear paradise. ORLANDO. Have patience, love, I beg the boon. Let judgment come not over-soon, Weigh every word and weigh it well, 'Tis not that I have much to tell. But that an import deep is stirred And crowned with each succeeding word. LUENA. You spoke of death, of daring death! O love, my love, my life, ray breath ! All, all to me; and yet so light You speak of it, O love, to-night. With lifted hands I do complain. Breathe not those awful words again. ORLANDO. Have courage love, this flighty mood. Tells lightly of brave womanhood. Well dost thou know that life to me, Tied in this shame-bound slavery, Doles double sin, and double shame, Death's portion to a living name. 170 THE MISSIONAET. LUENA. 'Tis plain, 'tis plain, dear love, 'tis so. But couldst thou deal more drops of woe? One added grain methinks could part This ready strained and bleeding heart -, Yet is it thine, and for thy sake E'en would I suffer it to break, ORLANDO. Nay, darling, nay, I would not call Your life to taste one bitter gall, But that I feel, beyond the cross Of this commix of gold and dross. There shines supreme, a brighter gem, Life's free-born love-lit diadem. LUENA. Then be it so, mv heart shall move To meet true liberty of love. And sayest thou, I too will try, E'en tho' it stand to death's defy. To reach that new-born outer gate Where loving hearts unbridled mate. ORLANDO. Then be it plain, thou givest heed. Thy parent dotes the Graylocks' speed. And banters oft, with purse a-gleam. To match, for speed, that kingly team 'Gainst all the world of flyers bold For pride or place or pelf of gold. THE MISSIONARY. 171 LUENA. Aye, true indeed, but sad the breast That meets that proffer with a test. No swifter does the eagle chase The flying dove to. death's embrace. Nor lighter does the great gazelle, Spring forward at the panther's yell. ORLANDO. Brave, noble steeds, indeed 'tis so. And yet, alas their pace is slow Compared with Dana's hold in hands, Led from Arabia's shining sands. Led from that field no limit binds. And reared among the sporting winds. To-day their lifted muzzles stood Expansive to the proof of blood ; And from their eyes all deep and bright, There shone a sweet, translucent light, That told in language fair as love. An airyness in every move. And to thy parent, Doncaspan, I dare propose this daring plan: Five sunny leagues my head to pay, If that the Graylocks win the day; If that they fail thus fairly tried, Then shall Luena be my bride. LUENA. Orlando, no ! my poor heart's cry. Then surely art thou doomed to die. 172 THE MISSIONARY. For like the whirlwind's awful speed I see the Graylocks easy lead, Nor urgent word nor whip can save My darling from the gaping grave. ORLANDO. But thou hast said thou wouldst abide The test, tho' death should stand defied. And this the test, my sweet, my brave. Yet know you that no gaping grave, Shall ever hold Orlando's breast In payment of this subtle test. LUENA. Then be it so, your brave content Lifts hope a shining monument. And tho' my heart a double throws. No longer shall my lips oppose. But yielding all, your wish abide, And win or perish at your side. ORLANDO. O brave resolve, with naught amiss, Love, let us seal it with a kiss ! Once, twice and thrice ! and now away ! See, yonder creeps the breaking day ! The banners of the night half-diawn In honor of the blushing dawn. Go tender love, the hour of ten Shall find me at the gate again, With loud proclaim and vaunting mien, THE MISSIONARY. 173 And banner on whose page is seen In flaming type that all may read "One dares to doubt the Graylocks' speed." Adieu, adieu, till then good-bye. And dost thou hear the rabble cry, Be not disposed to harbor fear, But rather court content and cheer. One long embrace and thou must go, Love, love, why dost thou linger so? LUENA. One sweet embrace, the night is past. Orlando, this may be our last. Last fond embrace ! O love, I fear, Chide not the sob, the falling tear, The grief, the grief, so darkly dres't And crowned against my heaving breast. But no ! I scorn the bitter sting. By yonder stars yet left to swing Like diamonds in the fading blue, I will be brave ! I will be true ! God helping me — God helping you, Alway, alway, fond love, adieu. ORLANDO. Gone, she is gone as sweet stars die, In the blazing reach of the morning sky, And the ghostly tread of the solitude. Steals like a gloom to the heart imbued With a holy love and a holy will, That cannot die till the heart is still. 174 THE MISSIONARY. Sings. Love will not die, The shadows fly, As vultures sail the dreamy sky; But brave and true. Forever new. Love sails on high, love will not die. Love will not die, nor is it meet That love should cringe and own defeat. And not the claim of better blood Shall lift to me a scaleless flood ; And not defense of lofty tower Persuade me from my chosen flower. Not vain conceit and arrogance Shall stay love's keen and glittering lance And soon this shameful court shall learn How bravely true love's altars burn. Doncaspan stand in shame defied Or prove the mettle of his pride. SCENE THIRD. Large gate swung open exposing interior of courtyard ; fl ne cou rt f ron t high porch; circle roadway in front. Orlando on horseback at gate, ORLANDO. A passing proof — a lucky star, This massive gate swung wide ajar; And not one halting guard is near To challenge rights or interfere. This taunting flag I'll carry o'er, Waves flag. And flaunt it squarely at the door. THE MISSIONARY. 175 This trespass horn shall call the court, That all may figure in the sport. Sounds horn. All honor, sir, and due respect, I hope your highness don't object The reading this, a trifle thing Stamped on the banner that I bring. Crowd gathering, each reading, then all in concert loudly: •• One dares to doubt the G raylocks' speed. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" DONCASPAN. Thou art a cur to thus report Before Doncaspan's royal court. Avaunt, I say ! avaunt,avaunt ! Nor dare again this dastard taunt. Thou bigot of untitled blood, Misguided and misunderstood. ORLANDO. No idle words ! my purse is long. And dangled where your courtants throng. Look ! here I swing the shining prize Plain-viewed before your jealous eyes, And laugh ha ha ! with flag a-sail To see your mighty lordship quail. DONCASPAN. Uncanny cur! that lying tongue Is longer than the purse you swung. And think you one would saddle horse For that slim, lean, lackworthy purse. Not e'en the poorest of my court Would cavil to such meagre sport. 176 THE MISSIONARY. Crowd : No, no, no ! ho, ho 1 ORLANDO. Then thou wouldst shun the proffered dust? And perched above pride's hollow bust Seek comfort in this childish claim, Supported by chagrin and shame. Ah, troubled heart, this frail devise Tells plainly of your cowardice. DONCASPAN. Horse, horse, I say ! let there be lain Some wager worthy of the pain. And by St. Martin's lofty throne. This dancing braggart soon shall own Doncaspan's claims well qualified, And ample in support of pride. Name, name thy wager, silly dude, And no imposing after-lude Shall stand in flippant banter dressed, Delayal of an unrighteous test. Thy choice, I say ! the banter done ! From furrow's length to falling sun. Court: Aye, aye, aye! from furrow's length to falling sun. Hurrah! ORLANDO. Five sunny leagues I do indite. And thou thyself shall choose the sight. On oval down or level plain. Or where the woodland's break and train. With light and shade alternate blent On rolling hill, or deep descent. THE MISSIONARY. 177 DONCASPAN. In woodland ? O ho, ho ! to hide The shamyness of shapeless stride. Enough ! the broad plains beaten breast, Shall own the honor of the test. That each invited guest shall see How Graylocks' spurn their company. And now, in presence of this court, Name, fool, the wager for the sport. Assured in aught thy lips may prate, There is no bond of rich estate. Or pile of gold or silver plied That unto thee shall be denied. ORLANDO. Enough ! let each surrounding guest, Place quiet hand upon the breast, And all thine grand courtieriau train Bear witness of the wager lain. And silent sacredness approve A wager unto death for love. Five sunny leagues, the falling bars To drop before proud Dana's Stars, This proffered head must surely go A forfeit to a winning foe — Be they the first to cross the line, Doncaspan's daughter must be mine. DONCASPAN. 'Tis done, 'tis done ! and very good, At sundown dogs shall lick thy blood. 178 THE MISSIONARY. Poor fishy knave, no more thou'lt stand, In cavil for my daughter's hand; No more disgrace your doubty peers With mimicry of love-lorn tears. ORLANDO. Hold ! rein thy steeds and to the test. Who laughs the last he laughs the best. And let not braggart tongue decide Ere half the test be verified. Proud Dana's Stars will play thee haste Ere thou hast seen the barway past. DONCASPAN. One circuit league, returning five, 'Tis but the Graylocks' warming drive. Horse ! horse, I say ! See Dana's rein Comes westward on the waiting plain. And I am ready, lead the way, And let the dancing bugles play. Curtain. Sbund of bugles and cheers. LDENA. Already at the rein they stand, And lifted cheers on every hand Break from the lusty rabble glee, In concourse- of mad haste to see This romance of a law, decide Death's dusky fate, or dewy bride. O sad indeed ! love brings to me This soul-felt sense of agony, This deep untamed and tireless brood THE MISSIONARY. 179 Of tortures and that darker mood, With swift wings waving everywhere Their great black banners of despair. O could I dash this cup aside, And shall that dusky hand divide My love and I ? God grant it not ! Love, love is sweet, and lowly lot Or lofty line 'tis yet the same In spite of pride or purse or name. ORLANDO. Luena haste, e'en now await, Before the undrawn barrier gate. Fierce eyeing and fierce eyed they stand In waiting for the wished command. Both eager for the testive pace, Both sanguine of the day and race. One moment and the gong will sound. Come let us gain some lofty ground, Some place where anxious eyes may learn. At viewing each successive turn, If that the fates shall weave us bloom Or win Orlando for the tomb. SCENE FOURTH. At the coarse horn music, at rise of curtain, music stops, crowd cheers, teams are in waiting before draw-gate. Judge speaks. JUDGE. Rein your chargers here and wait Close before the barrier gate. 180 THE MISSIONARY. Once it makes the hurried slide, Other trials are denied. Take the warning, heed it well. Lest you tarry, grief to tell. Steady there ! at tap of gong Let the barrier, quick be sprung, Not a waver waits in this. Not a shade of aught amiss. Are you ready ? Signal ho ! Graylocks lead — I knew it so. LDENA. Orlando, it is done, O fly ! Love cannot yield thee up to die. No, no, indeed — that awful pace — Vain, vain were Dana's bootless chase. See how they come with necks a-bow. Swift as the darting glazier throw. RABBLE. They come, they come, O mighty speed ! And see, the Graylocks easy lead. See, see them fly — that maddened pace! Aye, surely this the Graylocks' race ! Hurrah, hurrah ! for Doncaspan ! Hurrah, hurrah ! for horse and man ! ORLANDO. I see them, yes, and they are gone Like shadows on the dappled dawn. And tho' the Graylocks steady lead. THE MISSIONARY. 181 I know there lies reserve of speed, And that the race, will not be won Until each travailed inch is done. RABBLE. Ah, here again, O mighty run ! Already have the Graylocks won, Full half a furlong leading now. See Caspan lift his hat and bow ! Hurrah, hurrah, for Dan caspan ! Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man 1 LUENA. More speedy than wild pigeons fly. And will that awful pace not die? No, no sweet love, it cannot be ! Fly darling, you are all to me ! And surely, flight alone can save Orlando from the gaping grave. RABBLE. They come, they come, stand, stand away 1 See how their flaming nostrils play. Light urging now, they run at will. And Dana trailing farther still. Hurrah, hurrah, for Doncaspan ! Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man 1 ORLANDO. Then be it so, and dust to dust, Orlando will not fly his trust. No, not for gold ! and not for fear, And not for love, no, no, my dear, 182 THE MISSIONAKY. For love would die degraded so Naj darling, do not ask me go. RABBLE. Hail, hail, they come, they come! And leading still, are n earing home; One lingering league, the game is sure. See how the mighty kings endure. Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man ! Hurrah, hurrah, for Doncaspan! LUENA, Ah, what is this ? the rabble scream, Orlando, can it be a dream ? See! Dana calls with lifting rein, And as the lightening speeds the plain They shoot along the oval crest And reach the Graylocks, breast to breast ORLANDO. Doncaspan calls each noble son. But no, alas, their race is done. Is done, for sooth, they went amiss In matching such a pace as this. Now Dana calls, and like a star, They shoot electrical and far. Well art thou named, O Shooting Stars. Full well beyond the draw-gate bars. And all the court full satisfied To yield Orlando's chosen bride. Hear how the changeful rabble cries, Orlando wins a prize, a prize! THE MISSIONARY. 183 RABBLE. Hurrah, hurrah, he wins tlie day I Orlando wins the Queen of May ! And Dana with his subtle plan, Wins laurels for both horse and man. Hurrah, hurrah, for Dana's plan ! Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man! DONCASPAN. Ring out the bells, and call a feast, And sound the tocsin west and east, For here to all the court I say, To-morrow be their wedding day, And duly in that hour of pride, Doncaspan first shall kiss the bride. Go deck the court with trappings well, And hang the sweet-tongued floral bell; Bring buds of May, and berries red. To hang above each cherished head. And lay with carpets fresh and meet, Reposure for the wayward feet. Bring harpers too, and shining horn. And let the notes of love be borne Till each succeeding breeze shall sing All hail to love ! that loyal king. And every heart shall lift and move, And mingle with the mists of love. RABBLE. Hurrah, hurrah, for Doncaspan ! The loser is the winning man, 164 THE MISSIONARY. Long may he live and long approve, The nuptial rites of holy love ! SCENE FIFTH. Interior palace hall, beautifully festooned with flowers. Large floral- bell hangs over center circled seats, court oflBcials and so each offl cer holds beautiful scepter wreathed with flowers, and so minister with open Bible standing near, as if just having performed mar- riage ceremony, of Luena and Orlando who stand under floral bell, Doncaspan steps up and puts their hands together then lay a hand on each head and bids welcome, DONCASPAN. So, hand in hand, the work is done. And welcome thou nij daughter, son, Well hast thou earned the prize, my boy, Take thy reward, 'twill bi'ing thee joy. Doncaspan's home is thine, and thou His legal son by marriage vow. Oo valet, go, and Dana bring! And these shall crown him "•driver king;" For, by his shrewd unerring way, Orlando won the fateful day. So is he crowned, so all report, To this assembly of the court. Glasses are served for a toast. 1st Toast — All honor to Doncaspan's son! 2nd Toast— All honor to the bride new won I 3rd Toast — All honor to proud Dana's rein! 4th Toast — Doncaspan leading all the train I Court — lifting glasses — hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! To finish with song by the court or a dance as best suits players. THE MISSIONARY. 185 BEADED WINE. O beads of the wine, ye are fabulous fine, Like a morn in its rosiest hours ; And ye spring to my wish, like a spirit divine, And ye dance on the brow of the rubicund wine. Like the queen of a dew upon flowers. And I bathe my hot lids, in the amber that dips, To a mouth duly studded with pearl ; And I dream of the rose where the honey-bee sips, And I dream of the bloom of the peach upon lips As I drink to the health of my girl. O sweet, nectar sweet! and I drink, and repeat, 'Tis a draught that I duly prefer; Then I pause and repeat — 'tis deceit, all deceit ; And I ween my true-love would not deem it were meet Did I love the wine better than her. NEW STARS. See yonder banner lift and play above the latticed dome And stars new found but yesterday, have made it's field their home. The soft winds sigh around it's mast, and through its folds is run. 186 THE MISSIONARY. In 'crostic charm, of tender cast, the name of Washington. Not woven of one tinseled thread , to glimmer through the light, And die at eve, as day is dead, mcurtained by the night ; But woven of that fadeless fame, that shineth high and far, In memories that view the name in every shining star. Our Washington, we breathe it loud, and quick the heart replies, As thunder trolls the waiting cloud that wings the the summer s^ies. O bless the flag ! our father stil 1, for centuries to come, On every crowning height and hill in freedom's spacious home. We hear the trouble-dins of war sweep down the ages long, Then from the tented fields afar we hear the freedom song. And from the distance leading forth from summit high, and crag. From Mexico to mystic north we meet the starry flag. How like an angel winging fair to all the winds that rise; The depth of ocean-blue is there — the baldric's of the skies, THE MISSIONARY. 187 The crimson of the bhishing morn, and in its folding net, Among the shining stars is born — the name of Lafayette. Go bring the child of tender years, and tune the harp anew, And warp of song, and woof of tears, be mingled with the blue; Till, tender hearts, for freedom's sake, shall reach and play their part; Such stainless hands are fit to take that banner to the heart. Yes, lead the little children there, close by oui country's pride, And tell them how and when and where— its brave defenders died. For it is meet that these should know the golden reasons why — A nation's loving hands should throw that banner to the sky. ■God bless the flag ! a nation's trust grows stronger, day by day, And long above the sleeping dust of ages yet to play. Still may our children's children come, with steps that never lug. And wave around love's shininghome — our country's starry flag. 188 THE MISSIONARY. Long may she wave ! O, blessed boon from love to valor given, Till all the weaving winds shall croon thanksgiving unto heaven; Till each celestial star shall shine like those in summer skies, And weave above the rocking brine like joys of paradise. Lord, unto thee our faces turn, with tender praises sown. And while each faithful heart shall burn beside thine altar-stone, Do thou, O Father, bless us still, for thou alone can bless — And hold a nation's fevered will in ways of righteousness. DAVE. Many times has the author of this little sketch, when a boy, sat by the trood old grandmother (the own mother of Dave) and heard her tell of incidents happening in time of the Old Revolutionary War, and of which she was an eye witness. The old lady was •• Mohawk Dutch," and alwaj s appeared quite proud of her ancestry. She died at the ripe old age of one hundred years and twelve days. Dave, the one spoken of in this little sketch, was one of the early settlers of Wisconsin. He located north of Milwaukee in the heavy timber, and was widely known throughout that section as the best rifle shot in the state, and one of the most charitable men living. Being of a very sociable disposition he was familiarly dubbed Dave by both old and young, a manner of greeting that always pleased him best, and is continued in even to this very time, when he has reached the age of seventy-one years. He is yet > THE MISSIONAKY. 18d hearty and more than a match for many of the younger men of thf time. They called him Dave, and who is Dave? A queer conundrum, that you gave, Why, nearly every one knows Dave ! Do you an introduction crave? Then you shall have it — this is Dave, Dave who? Dave who? no, no! how queer! And you don't know him ? why, Dave Freer ! Good stuff? well yes, I guess he's good. Descendant of Old Mohawk blood, And handy with the rifle too. Square toed whatever he strives to do. Trusty and sure, a dead sure shot. Hot tempered ? yes, sometimes he's hot; No patience with a sot or knave. Yet tender as a child, that's Dave. Yon should have seen him, long ago. Course, Dave was younger then, you know, And had an eye, now you just wait. He scooped, the whole great "Badger State'' At target work, "Dan Moon" and all ; Square up and up, Dave won the call, Why Sir ! he'd drive a common nail. Offhand, five rods, and never fail. Well, people knew him, far and near ; Most every one — knew Dave — Dave Freer. The smallest "kid" God ever gave, Would greet hitn with a— "Hello, Dave!" 190 THE MISSIONARY. Unless it was a kid so small, It couldn't peep the name, at all, And not a child that knew him save It thought its little life of Dave. He had a heart, well understood, Some said, "too much for his own good." Still he would scratch, and dig, and give, His motto — "Live, let others live." "'Twill all come right, some day, some day," He told them, when they couldn't pay. He never thought to scrimp or save, And pile up wealth — that wasn't Dave. Full eighty miles I've known him go. Through drifts, and frost, and driving snow, And work his way, from door to door, To feed and clothe the starving poor. Haul grain, from his own scanty bin. And throw his time and labor in. "Some effort, some poor soul may save," He thought of that — yes, that was Dave. How old ? how old? you'll call it pun. Why bless your heart, he's seventy-one ! Don't lord up so, and scowl your brow. He'll handle you, I'll wager, now ; You can't believe it? no, of course ; He hails from a long-lived source. One hundred — twelve, they dig her grave. The mother of this wonder — Dave. THE MISSIONARY. 191 Well, in that great sweet time to come, When God shall call his children home, And, from the anvil, forge and plow, The forest home, the mountain brow, The valleys and the waters wild. Shall wake each glad and blessed child, If deeds of good shall count to save, There'll be no rank above our Dave. THAT COQUETTISH RIDER. Like a snowflake light-sailing, from ashen cloud trailing. When low winds are wailing across the wild moor, My love she goes flying, o'er dew-spangles dying, That lightly are lying in front of my door. All lonely I listen, where dew diamonds glisten. With splendors that christen her luminous eyes, Lo ! lightly appearing, my angel is nearing — Her presence endearing as charms from the skies. As sunlight all glowing, with golden glints flowing, Its brilliancy throwing, at break of the dawn. She still draweth nearer, and still seemeth dearer, And sweeter and clearer affection doth fawn. I cry ! Doth she hear me ? or doth the dove fear me? Or would she not cheer me? She still flyeth on ; 192 THE MISSIONARY. And lo ! she is darting, as quickly departing, And tear-drops are starting ! Mj idol is gone. O, why doth she flying, thus feign no descrying? She knows I am dying to tell her a tale. Oh! how I resemble the poplar leaf s tremble; I cannot dissemble — I sicken and pale. My breast she is thrilling, my eyes she is filling — With crystal distilling from depth of my soul. All lonely I wander, all pronely I ponder — Still doth she meander beyond my control. All lonely left lying, with sorrow and sighing, Where humming-birds, flying, are sipping the rose, In vain would I borrow some surcease of sorrow, To brighten the morrow and conquer my woes. Oh ! that her coquetting should cause me such fret- ting - Such solemn regretting and torture and pain. Oh ! that it is keeping my spirit from sleeping Through nights of lone weeping my eyelids to stain. And still she will dash on, sweet flow'ret of fashion, And show no compassion in any respect — Her steed proudly prancing her hazel eyes dancing, With merriment glancing, my proffers reject. Yet, changes of weather bring changes of feather, Cold dews on the heather are drank by the sun. With none to defend her, she, too, may grow tender, And kindly surrender her passion for fun. THE MlfeSlONAKY. 193 Then I may grow bolder, and shrug a cold shoulder, And coaxingly scold her for that she hath said ; Then kindly caress her, with cautiousness bless her, And try to possess her. I think she would wed ! LES MAJESTE. O, say ! give me a quarter there, some of you chaps Any one, don't all ante ter wonct, yet p'raps You might think I could use a whole pot. Sot, sot ! did I hear ? did I hear it ? a sot ? Well now boys, 'taint right, no it aint. Course I don't go fur ter say I'm a saint. But I aint any sot, none the less, an' I guess If I am kind er poor in my manners an dress, I ken tell when a man gits ter playin the smart. Aint yer got any sand ? ner the sign of a heart? See here boys, see here, now yer might think it queer. But I've been with just as high up as any one here, Yes, I've been with the best, in the big ' 'upper ten," And been counted a man, right along with the men, Had a pew in the church, and a seat in the car. What yer blinken about? yer big chump, over thar. Do yer doubt what I say ? don't yer give me the lie, Er I'm derned if I don't put a tag ter yer eye ; Have a drink ? have a drink ? well yes —I don't mind. Well, I guess arter all, boys, yer mean to be kind. Pretty good, pretty good, that's the real old "Ken- tuck," 194 THE MISSIONARY. That's the stuff fur the nerve, an' it's good fur the pluck, But I aint any sot, no 1 aint boys, an' say — Taint the right thing ter do, fur ter talk in that way. No harm done, no, course it's all right boys, with me. But some folks can't stand very much, don't yer see. Kinder touchy, yer know, at the least little tart. But I don't ever take any sich ter the heart. Kinder thin skinned, yer see, as the boys used ter say. But I don't take a joke fur ter mean in that way. An' I aint any sot, take a nip? take a nip? Well I reckon, yes, yes, just a shy little sip. But yer maint go too far with the red devil, no. That ar thing, in my youth it wur mother's great foe; An' I kinder look back, through the long vanished years. To me old mother's face all a streamin' with tears, An' she used fur ter say — "Let er be John, me boy ; 'Taint at all good for thee, taint the thing fur a toy ;" An' I'd just put me arm around the old lady's waist. An' say — here, look a here, it's a thing I can taste, Ur can leave it alone, an' you maint be afraid Of the red bugger takin' yer boy ter the shade ; Nary a time, fur yer know — I've a wiil like a stone. An' can drink when I choose, or can leave it alone. Well, yes, I don't care if I do have a taste; Let me see, had me arm round the old mother's waist An' looked straight in her eyes, while I lifted her high THE MISSIONARY. 195 An' kissed off the tears, fur mother would cry, Tho' I told her and proved to her, time and again, That I wa'n't the least mite like the most of the men. Poor old girl, poor old girl, well, they've laid her away. In the field where I used ter go makin' the hay. Mighty good woman she, old mamma, O so fine! Boys I guess yer aint got any mother, like mine. Like she used fur ter be, but she's gone boys, she's gone. Yes, they laid her ter rest in the old orchard lawn. But she lived fur ter learn that her John warn't a drone, An' could drink if he choose, an' could leave it alone. No I aint any sot, mother dear, no I aint ; But I think on the past, an' I feel kinder faint, An' this lump comin' up, kinder sticks in my throat. Pass'er round boys, yer know just a bit on the float, That's the stuff, that's the stuff, that's the real old Kentuck'! An' it's good fur the nerve, and it's sure fur the luck . But yer maint go too far with the red devil, no, Fur she'll down yer fur sure, if you give her a show. Well I aint on the brag, never cared fur ter boast, But I'll just take a draw, then I'll give yer a toast. That's the stuff, that's the stuff! that's as fine as can be, Purty good, but yer can't get the better nor me ; Then hurrah ! fur the man with a will like a stone Who can drink when he wants, or can leave it alone. 196 THE MISSIONARY. MY AUTUMN LEAF. I saw a fallen autumn leaf And raised it from the ground; Across its face a trace of grief Was written all profound, And on its crimson heart relief Of autumn's awful wound. Its texture wore a touch of green, A faint and distant stain, A fading glory urged between The shades of dying pain, Or, like a rainbow's waning sheen. So were the colors lain. A carbon chain its border drew, In fringes lightly rolled, And hemmed along a sweeter hue Of crimson turned to gold; Close where the wayward artist drew His pencil manifold. So like a dream that love had fanned The silent charmer lay. Respondent to that stern command That names the dying day. And lays the cold and dewy hand Where living fountains play. I know some genteel folk would say- Ah, this were dumb and dearth, THE MISSIONARY. 197 Man only treads the flowery way, The blessed of all the earth, Who live beyond the little day That nature giveth birth. I wonder then, the touch of woe, So fair and fully drawn, I wonder, does the knowing know The doubt that dares to fawn, And lift along the shining row, Of reason's starry dawn. Dear little leaf, your ample page Outspreading fair and lone, Tells more to me, than knighted sage Has ever dared to own; And nearer leads the golden age — That waits before the throne. Yea! time, the gray and dusky thief, Will steal the fairest given; And here we learn, how life is brief, And sweet and swiftly riven. Yet, I believe this dying leaf Will live again — in heaven. J9Q THE MISSIONARY. AUTUMN. How richly dyed the wine of morn, At rest on autumn's ruddy lips. When gently sways the tasseled corn, As gold beneath the green is born, While distant sounds the drinking horn Through all the valley slips. Come poets, feast each fancy muse. That loud their mellow lutes may sing, Through days that bring contending hues. True seasons of most holy dews, In heraldings of happy news O let them gaily ring. Sing welcome to th3 wings of change, Those crimson wings that autumn waves, For down the fading heath we range To garner from the faint and strange. To pluck, arrange and re-arrange The gift on summer's graves. O, autumn ! sweet with moon and stars ! With purpled skies and crimsoned wood, With coral reef on harbor bars, That sound the sea of time's guitars, While harvest rolls her golden stars In one grand sisterhood. AUTUMN.-P. 198. LIBRARY OF CONGRF«!c mmmiS 018 597 264 1