LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 11^. ._ Snjnjrigl Shelf ...^.Com budding maple bough. So eager, shall I wait thy note, For down the vale of years The tones of echoing memory float And fill my eyes with tears. 86 ECHOES FROM DREAM-LAND. Those days are gone, and now they build The school- house grand and high, With every new equipment filled. With towers that pierce the sky. But what avail or brick or stone. Or books or new device ? The spirit of the school alone Is what is worth the price. And what though starry banners flout The circumambient air. If aliens crowd the Bible out, And shght the Lord's own prayer? Our fathers builded on a rock. Why choose the sons the sand? Shall we who come of Pilgrim stock Disown the Pilgrim band ? Rise, fair Columbia, from the shore Of thine Atlantic deep, Proclaim the word forevermore From wooded steep to steep : "A^(? alien law shall rule my land; The Pilgrim siirs were right: For God and Liberty L stand. Regnant throi/gh gloom and light.'' And, answering from Pacific's waves, The glad refrain shall ring : ^'■Columbia is no land for slaves., God is Columbia's King."' ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. 87 Soutliern Berksliire. To M. I. Van B. TF thou dost love old Nature, old yet young, And long to find her in her home of homes, Go to the Berkshire Hills ; there shalt thou find A sea of mountains high on every side No whit abashed to gaze on heaven itself. Cloud-watched, beloved of the royal bird That Jove did joy to make his minister ; There shalt thou find forests still, mazy, wild, Pathless as woods primeval, where the sound Of acorns pattering down the shaggy oaks Is interruption, where thy weary brain Forgets the din and meanness of the town. And where thy heart is filled with the wild joy Of coming home. Oh, there are lovely spots ! I mind me now of a tremendous hill. Shaggy with brisding trees, impenetrable. Guarded from near approach by ways too steep For fair-day travellers, an imperial hill ; Out from its heart there welleth forth a stream Well shaded, cold and pleasant to the taste, — The spring is all hemmed in by crowding trees, And silent creeps, until it cometh on Unto a rough, gray rock green with the moss That the departing years have left as gifts, Down this old rock the water plashes fast With lulling murmur ; one might fall asleep And dream of Virgil's sweet Sicilian bloom That fed fair Hybla's drowsy, humming bees. 88 ECHOES FROM DREAM-LAND. Perpetually fresh and cool and green That rock stands in the silent forest wild, Sweet contrast to the hurry and the change Of human habitations ; years have passed Since first that stream came rippling through the leaves, Dead leaves, once living, like the throngs that soon Shall glow with Autumn splendors. Years have flown, Yet doth the cold, chaste stream flow murmuring down. I walked the woods alone, for Nature hates The crush of thoughtless and unfeeling crowds, Nor will she bring her treasuries to light Save to the faithful, to the souls whose stars Have marked them Nature's lovers from the first. I walked the woods alone, and joyous found The pale and graceful bellwort, found the flower Whose name bears record of a vanished race, — Pink pied with white the flower of Moccason. In Spring the yellow violets greeted me. The violet yellow which our poet seer. The Nature -loving Bryant, fondly praised, — And frail hepaticas pale blue, and white, And fair Spring-beauty haunter of the woods, Windflowers too tender to endure the storm Of passionate love, when comes the roistering wind, Bloodroot, that loves the rocky hillsides, grew For me among the mountains ; best of all. The trailing arbutus, its blossoms hid. More sweet for being hidden, since to man The difficult to leach, the coy, seems best. Dear heart, dost thou remember that one day Upon the mountain side amid the rain? ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. Dost thou recall the flowers we sought to find And found but sparely ? Ah, that arbutus, The little that we gathered, blooms again Before mine eyes, and incense-like its breath Steals through the air, — the sun-shower falls again Like a baptism of propitious heaven. Few flowers we found, but all for us alone Came blooming up a flower of perfect love, Whereof the blossoms shall eternal be, Since age but makes them fairer ever fair. Sweet dew of falling years makes them more fair, Oh, love, Oh, love ! Thy power o'er human hearts Is mightier than the sway of passions fierce. Thy thralls, that often seize the soul of man. As when the master of some castle proud Returneth from his journeys over sea, And awes to silence all the yelping packs Of dogs that soon will do his bidding firm ; So, when Lord Love comes to the human heart. Ambition, Avarice, and Fear and Pride, And cankering Envy, and the scorn of good, And all the passions that erst vexed the soul, Crouch down and own their master, deathless love. Oh, Berkshire Hills, if man could ever love. Here must he love most fondly, for abroad O'er hill and vale and forest-loving lakes There is an atmosphere, a sense of home. Hills, ye have ever nurtured with your charms Poets and lovers of the good and true. Here dwelt in summer days Old Harvard's pride, The poet-humorist whose gladsome songs go ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. Have been the joy of banquets ; Holmes, dear Holmes, In thine own heart hast thou found welling up The fount of ageless youth ; I see thine eyes, Thy firm, quick step, thy merry, genial smile, I hear the laugh that ripples down the board At thy keen, kindly jest ; magician thou, Who hast the key to ope the treasury Of smiles or tears, inimitable Holmes ! And hither came that shy, half ghostly man. Who had he lived in old, colonial days. Had held belief in witches, devil's marks, Elf-children, changelings, and the ghastly brood Of ghouls and sprites that vex the innocent ; He would have gone at dead of murky night. Warned by some sign in heaven, or omen dark, To join the revels of the devil's own ; The Black Man's mark upon him had he found. To hear the wind moan restless had he joyed. And sigh of trees toward evening's duskiness Had been to him sweet music, sweeter far Than half-prosaic sounds of city life. And living when he lived, he walked and wrote. As one who liveth in a vivid dream. Divine somnambulist ! They dulcet prose Hath all the strength of bleak New England rocks Of wave -beat cliffs unheedful of the waves ; Yet is there sweetness of the Mayflower bloom, And mellowness of rich Italian skies. And through thy words there ever shrewdly breathes The wit that comes from keen, New England air. There was another bard whose home was here, ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. gi A man who needed ->ot to cross the sea To gather themes for song, his native hills, Rich in romance, with charms beyond compare, Wooed him to sing their praises that shall live ; The legends of the red men who had lived And died within the shadows of these hills, Found him a true interpreter ; the brooks, The hills, the forest and the changeful sky, All Nature, aye were dear unto his heart. The mountains gave him of their majesty. The forests whispered deep, poetic thoughts, The flowers sent breezy kisses to his soul. And gave him grace and sweetness for all time. Oh, mighty soul, how must thy heart have throbbed. When here among the hills thou foundest her. Thy Genevieve, thy life, thy love, thine all !— Sweet Genevieve the flower of mountain flowers ! Here, too, before the Indians passed away, Lived Edwards, mightiest thinker of the land. Before whose heaven-enlightened mental powers Dark questions grew as clear as purest gems. Here from the rugged home, among the hills, Like river flowing from some hidden source, Rushed on the current of his splendid thoughts Out to the sea of thought that aye doth surge. He could not wander on the mountain tops And gaze at will on beauty matchless, rare. And not believe the will of man is free. Like Byron "standing on the Persian's grave He could not deem himself a slave," — he felt Dear Freedom's breezes blowing round his head, ga ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. He saw the wild birds fly from tree to tree, * Or poised in mid air, burst into a song, Whereof the ecstasy did bear them up. He knew that he could cast himself adown That crag stupendous o'er whose silent brow The dusky maiden leaped, because she loved Her kinsman, one too near to be so dear. And so he taught the world that man is free, And man became more manly for his words. Living a life far nobler than the Turk's, Who murmurs "Kismet" ere he dares to will. I mind me now of two memorial stones, \ One, fair, of polished granite, with the name Of Edwards on its face ; where two roads meet It stands clear brilliant, like the dead one's mind ; Stands in a fresh, green plot, where men may see And be more manly for the dead one's thought, I say "the dead one" using but the words As men are wont to use them — well I know That mind is deathless as the law of right. The other stone stands in a shaded place Where willows ever wave, and stately elms Keep out the glare of day ; a rugged base Of rough stones in a rounded heap supports A single stone like those which Druids raised In far off Britain, or 'tis wondrous like Unto the obelisks of Egypt's sands. The woodbine clusters round the rugged base. The woodbine clambers up the tall, dark stone And strives to hide the words that simply say That here in bygone days the Stockbridge tribe Of Indians had their "Ancient Burial Place," And that these dusky hunters of the wilds Were friends unto our fathers, — there I mused One more than perfect day, beneath the trees, And dreamed of bygone races passed away, ECHOES FROM DREAM-LAND. Of Indian lovers, for their loves they had, And dusky hues oft faithful hearts conceal : Their wars, their festivals, their wild, free life. Their simple and unquestioning belief In the Great Spirit and the Happy Grounds, Where, freed from earth, the spirit roams at will. Who ever heard of Indian atheist ? Man shuts himself within his house of wood. Broods o'er his fancied wrongs and wonders why Cxod does not rule the universe as man. Then doubts and questions, if there be a God, Then makes a bestial deity of self — Not so the roamer of the hills and dales. Who knows their phases doth of storm and shine, Who sees the mists rise slowly to the heavens, And feels the beauty of the falling rain ; Who watches mass on mass of floating cloud Warming with gladsome hues what time the sun Comes from his loving sea or sinks adown. There is a (lod for one whose eyes hath seen A tempest mid the mountains, who hath felt The speechless joy that perfect beauty brings : There is a God for every man who loves A loving woman — chance, blind accident. Or brutish matter, can they give us love ? Why e'en Rousseau, they tell us, used to go To hold communion with the spirit high That ordered Nature ; man is not yet man Until he trusts in God and heeds his law. There is another spot that legend old Hath made romantic ; Laurel Hill 'tis called ; The narrow path goes slowly winding up Past chestnut trees and fair-leaved laurel shrubs. Turning and turning, till the top is gained. The day I climbed -that gentle, little hill A good old man of more than eighty years Served me as guide ; the harvest of dead leaves Rustled beneath our feet, the laurel-flowers 93 g4 ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. White, pure, symmetrical, like blooms of wax, Scarce nodded to the breezes; up we went And reached the cleared space at the hillock's top. Thick woods around. — no broad inclusive view, But quiet deep and peace, and sough of wind. A rock at one side of the open space Stands hard and gray, fringed with the wildwood moss,- A rock most like an altar — here, they say. An Indian maid was offered to the gods, x\nd from this offering the rock was called The Rock of Sacrifice — why did she die. This dark Iphigeneia? Did some plague Oppress the people ? Did a warrior make Like Jephtha, some irrevocable vow? I see her now, "the beautiful, the young," Walk proudly up the path my feet have trod. Mid wailing dirges and the music rude Of comrades mourning for a cureless woe. Here, at this rock, her long hair streaming down, Her thoughts on earth more than on heavenly things. She meets unflinching the atoning knife. And spills her blood that all the tribe may live. Oh, hills, dear hills, such storied haunts are yours I And lakes are yours, pure, silent, deep aud cool. Fit for a soul that would philosphize, — I see Lake Averic, its bordering trees Are mirrowed in the waters, joyous notes Of laughter echo, and the plash of oars Tells of the nearing boats with precious load Of maidens beautiful as nereids. Such are thy scenes Oh, Berkshire I I have told Barely a tithe of stories that men tell Of thy divine retreats ; thou art a land Of legends and of charms that pen might strive To picture but in vain, no poet yet Hath done thee justice ; thou art what thou art I My darling, take these lines, poor though they be For love hath been my guide and whispers aye, "How fair is she, how noble, good and true," And with love ever urging me to write I cannot sit with languid, idle pen. But write my thoughts perforce, with burning hope That they may please thee in thv Berkshire home. ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. gj The Pilgrims. A DASHING sea, a barren shore. Black woods, the haunts of ruthless foes. Starvation peering through the door. And sickness with its cureless woes. Loud rings the Indians' yell of hate. Loud screams the north wind's cutting blast. While many a heart succumbs to fate, And many a hero breathes his last. Dash, sea, with thine unceasing surge. Howl, storm, and fly, thou white-winged snow ! Through tempest, cold, and dear ones' dirge, God tests his heroes here below. 1 o threats of war that dauntless band An answer full of spirit made ; What though averse were sea and land. They stoutly built the palisade. And 'mid the darkest of their days. Their fast they kept, their prayers they said- They lifted high the hymn of praise, And only whispered of the dead. They stood the crucial test of God Who blest their patience and their toil : Now sacred is the very sod (^f dear New England's rocky soil. g6 ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. Tlie Reluctant Muse. VV/'HERE art thou lingering, Muse of my love, Oldentime favorite, sprite from above? Eagerly longing thy beauty to see Wanders disconsolate thy devotee. Many and many a long year ago Songs free as rivulets eager did flow, Blossoms and breezes and joyous birds' glee Wakened the echoinsj heart throbs in me. Now, though the rivulets rush to the sea, Now, though the hyacinths gladden the lea. Though oftentimes comes a hint of the past. Round it a phantom-like vapor is cast. Is then the present the ghost of the past ? Were my first pleasures more real than the last? Lingering Muse of the oldentime days, Bring me thy answer, dispel the thick haze. List ! Is she coming? A presence is felt — Softlier cadence in cadences melt. Bluer the azure sky than erst it seemed, Fair blooom the flowers as in old days they beamed ^^ Manhood liatJi duties tJiat yoiitJi knowcfJi ?iof, Sterner and sterner doth gro7a mortaPs lot; Yet will the man who is wisest in truth Cling undismayed to the instinets of youth. ^' ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. gy Tlie Dying Cliilcl and tlie Angel. "I must give them up," said the dying child, ''The sunshine and the flowers. The lovely rose and the lily-cup That grew by the woodland wild ; And the sweet blue sky I love so well, With the big white clouds in splendor piled. And the crimson and gold and violet hues That come at the ope and shut of day, As they always came when I used to play 'Mid morning and evening dews. *T must give them up" said the dying child, ''Rut oh, how I love them, none can tell." "I must give them up," said the dying child, "The rainbow and the flowers, The lovely arch, like a garden fair, Of violets, roses yellow and red. Nestling 'mid green leaves, Cxentians taking their place between, With orange jewel-weed. And sky of violets all around, — Sky of flowers or a sea, A great blue sea of flowers. I must give them them up," said the dying child, "But oh, how I love them, none can tell." "I must give them up," said the dying child, "The song of the brook at play. Music of birds at morn and eve, Robins singing their vesper hymns Or saying a good-night prayer, Songs from the to]) of the waving elm From oriole's throbbing orange breast, Phoebe's crv so sad and sweet, g8 ECHOES FROM DREAM-LAND. Whip-poor-will's strange cry, Meadow-lark with his flood of song, And whistle of the quail. I must give them up," said the dying child, "But oh, how I love them, none can tell." "I must give them up," said the dying child, ''My beautiful butterflies ; From flower to flower they lightly flit Beneath the summer skies, When the wind sings love songs all day long, And the roses blush with joy. And the sunshine comes in a flood of gold, And the air is amber wine, And the breath of strawberries fills the air As the breath of brine the sea. I must give them up," said the dying child, ''But oh, how I love them, none can tell." "I must give them up," said the dying child, "The friends I love so well ; Their smiles are sweeter than wildwood flowers, Their voices gentler than summer breeze When it comes from a bank of bloom. No more the touch cf a fair, white hand. No more the gift of a blushing rose, No more the nameless light of love In the splendor of love-lit eyes, No more that smile so dear to me. I must give them up," said the dying child, "But oh, how I love them, none can tefl." A hush : there came from the spirit land \ voice soft as evening breeze, — A gentle touch from an angel hand Brought hope and dreamy ease, ECHOES EROM DREAM-LAND. gg And a sweet voice said, as one may hear Sweet words in a wordless song. When the choirs of God seem very near And ''the Hfe that is" seems long : "O, darhng child, there are flowers more fair Than the fairest flowers of earth ; I'here are skies and seas more beautiful, There are gems of greater worth ; There are evening hues and eastern skies I'hat glow with a gladder light ; There are morning dews with brighter flash, There are fairer charms of night ; There are rainbow huesmore brightly rich Than the rainbow hues below, And the songs of heaven far surpass All music that you know ; For the song of the angels free from sin, Of angels filled with joy. Is a song that will make the heart keep young, — 'Tis beauty without alloy. The vesper hymns of the birds you love Are only a hint and a sign Of the vesper hymns of the birds of heaven And their harmony divine. *'x\ softer breeze, with its perfumed breath, Blows through the cloud-wrapped land ; Its lulling murmur is far more sweet I'han the distant sound of a summer sea, — A summer sea with its rhythmic beat, With its distant music grandly free, On the summer shore of a sea-washed strand. O, darling child, your golden flood Of sunshine, radiant, rare. With the mellow light of (iod's own home. Never could I compare ; ]00 ECHOES FROM DREAM-LAND. And the amber wine of the summer air Less fair, dear child, O far less fair. Than the breath of the cloud wrapped land. The breath that giveth immortal life Is worth all pain of mortal strife, — The breath of the cloud-wrapped strand. O, darling child, the time shall come When all the friends you love, With the old-time smiles, shall be with you In the happy land above, — Again the nameless light of love In the splendor of love-lit eyes, The splendor of love that never dies 'Mid the beauty of God's eternal skies." The child was still, but a radiant smile Stole o'er that visage fair. And I knew that the loveliest soul on earth Was free from pain and care. "Sweet child," I said, "thou art now at rest : Great God of Heaven, Thou knowest best."