Class::p5e5a3_ 
 Book _a^0_J-i^ LS- 
 (x)pyiight}l«__L1^^_ 
 
 COFVRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 

 From .1 drawing by Henry Innian 
 
0f fSi^Alttt^ 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 S. WARD LOPER 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 Richard G. Badger 
 
 19C4 
 
Copyright 1904 by S. Wartl Loper 
 All Rights Reser'ved 
 
 LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 APR 19 1904 
 
 Copyrlsht Entry 
 
 2L^ss a^xxo. b 
 
 CLASS 
 
 COPY B 
 
 !. No. I 
 
 
 Printed at 
 
 The Gorham Press 
 
 Boston, U. S. A. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 To my dear wife, 
 
 the faithful sharer of all my joys and sorrows, 
 
 I dedicate this volume 
 
 in which are shrined the inspirations that have come 
 
 to me in some of my leisure hours. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 Part First 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Retrospection ..... 
 
 II 
 
 Menunkatuck ..... 
 
 12 
 
 The Old Stone House .... 
 
 22 
 
 The Building and the Builders . 
 
 • 25 
 
 The Stone House Wedding 
 
 . 26 
 
 On Menunkatuck's Shore 
 
 . 28 
 
 The Maidens of jMenunkatuck 
 
 30 
 
 Grandfather's House .... 
 
 31 
 
 No Home Like the Old Home . 
 
 35 
 
 My Boyhood Home .... 
 
 ■ 36 
 
 Halleck 
 
 37 
 
 Whitfield 
 
 39 
 
 William Leete ..... 
 
 40 
 
 Guilford Green ..... 
 
 42 
 
 On Guilford Green ..... 
 
 43 
 
 Training Day on Guilford Green 
 
 44 
 
 LaFayette on Guilford Green . 
 
 46 
 
 Reunion of Battery A. C. N. G. 
 
 47 
 
 Tom the Parson's Son .... 
 
 49 
 
 The Absent-Minded Squire 
 
 51 
 
 The Tragedy of Rock Rimmon . 
 
 53 
 
 Old Friends ...... 
 
 55 
 
 The Old Mill 
 
 56 
 
 The Blind Miller 
 
 58 
 
 Death of the Blind Miller . . . . 
 
 59 
 
 Guilford Centennial Poem 
 
 61 
 
 Lake Quonepaug ...... 
 
 72 
 
Part 
 
 Second 
 
 
 
 
 PA(iE 
 
 Ithuriel's Spear .... 
 In Memory of Minot A. Osborn 
 Modern Giants .... 
 
 
 
 77 
 
 95 
 96 
 
 The Editor 
 
 
 
 97 
 
 The Printer's Devil 
 
 
 
 98 
 
 Brother Jonathan ... 
 Children of the Brain 
 
 
 
 99 
 
 100 
 
 Hylas 
 
 That Awful Auto . 
 
 
 
 102 
 104 
 
 Election on the Planet Mars 
 
 
 
 106 
 
 Football .... 
 
 
 
 107 
 
 The Man with a Horn 
 
 
 
 109 
 
 The Shades of Mortimer . 
 
 
 
 no 
 
 You Must Not Tell 
 
 
 
 112 
 
 Slander .... 
 
 
 
 113 
 
 Dreamland Life 
 
 
 
 114 
 
 Ministering Spirits 
 From Shore to Shore 
 
 
 
 115 
 116 
 
 Frostwork .... 
 
 
 
 • 117 
 
 The Old Pine Tree 
 
 
 
 . 118 
 
 In Memory of W. C. Fowler 
 Burning of the Brooklyn Theatre 
 
 
 
 119 
 120 
 
 Young America 
 
 
 
 . 122 
 
 Victory . 
 
 A Castle in the Air . 
 
 
 
 
 • 123 
 . 124 
 
 It Is Best to Have Faith 
 
 
 
 
 . 125 
 
 No Life So Fair 
 
 
 
 
 . 126 
 
 Fugit Tempus 
 
 On Mountain Heights 
 
 
 
 
 . 127 
 . 128 
 
 Tourmaline . 
 
 
 
 
 129 
 
 The Agate 
 
 
 
 
 • 130 
 
PAGE 
 
 The Fossil Hunter 
 
 
 
 
 131 
 
 Memories of the Past 
 
 
 
 
 132 
 
 Which One of These Are You ? 
 
 
 
 
 133 
 
 Trouble on the Planet Mars 
 
 
 
 
 134 
 
 Satan's Syndicate . 
 
 
 
 
 135 
 
 The Poor Man's Club 
 
 
 
 
 137 
 
 TheRumseller 
 
 
 
 
 138 
 
 The Temperance Lever . 
 
 
 
 
 139 
 
 The Under Dog 
 
 
 
 
 140 
 
 The Man in the Box 
 
 
 
 
 141 
 
 Part Third 
 
 My Angel Mother 145 
 
 The Language of Love 
 
 
 
 
 146 
 
 She Reigns a Queen 
 
 
 
 
 147 
 
 The True Wife 
 
 
 
 
 . 148 
 
 The Tribute of Love 
 
 
 
 
 149 
 
 Impatient Love 
 
 
 
 
 150 
 
 Toujours 
 
 
 
 
 • 151 
 
 Wedding Bells 
 
 
 
 
 - 152 
 
 The Silver Wedding 
 
 
 
 
 - 153 
 
 Love Keeps us Young 
 
 
 
 
 - 154 
 
 The Sunshine of Love 
 
 
 
 
 - 155 
 
 Love by Post 
 
 
 
 
 - 156 
 
 Three Little Maidens 
 
 
 
 
 - 157 
 
 The Birthday 
 
 
 
 
 - 158 
 
 God Bless the Little Ones 
 
 
 
 
 - 159 
 
 Our Bonnie Lassie . 
 
 
 
 
 . 160 
 
 On the Campus 
 
 
 
 
 . 161 
 
 Lover's Lane . 
 
 
 
 
 162 
 
 Across the Bridges . 
 
 
 
 
 • 163 
 
PAGE 
 
 Evelvn . 164 
 
 Child Lore ....... 165 
 
 The Child's Story 166 
 
 At Rest 167 
 
 Let Thy Thoughts Be Gentle . . . .168 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Fitz Greene Halleck . . . Frontispiece 
 
 The Old Stone House . . . Facing page 22 
 
 Guilford Green . . . . " "42 
 
 Lake Quonepaug . . . . " "72 
 
PART FIRST 
 Echoes irom the Home of Halleck 
 
RETROSPECTION 
 
 "When long-forsaken hills and dales 
 
 We once again rejoicing view, 
 What fond associations rise 
 
 And make one live his life anew! 
 
 In thought one sees familiar forms, 
 Hears voices tender accents take, 
 
 That have the power to thrill the soul 
 And sleeping memories awake. 
 
 The heart throbs quick and warm again 
 When one can thus the mind engage. 
 
 And for a little while forget 
 The weakness and the gloom of age. 
 
 O sweet communion with the past 
 
 That brings back life and love once more, 
 
 With fragrant freshness of the hours 
 That cheered us in the days of yore. 
 
 II 
 
MENUNKATUCK 
 The Indian name of Guilford, Conn. 
 
 What is there in a name? Not much, 'tis true, 
 
 Without associations old or new, 
 
 Unless there be a rhythm to the word 
 
 That music makes whenever it is heard. 
 
 The name Menunkatuck, we freely own 
 
 Has very little of a silvery tone. 
 
 But it reminds us of the long ago, 
 
 Of much that history and tradition show. 
 
 It tells us of a people once native here 
 
 To whom this tongue-contorting word was clear. 
 
 As well as many others that we know 
 
 That quite as wild and strange construction show. 
 
 Perhaps to them this name was quite as dear 
 
 As Guilford is to those now dwelling here. 
 
 Here were their homes, they loved these hills and dales, 
 
 The sheltering forests and the meadow swales. 
 
 The unfettered streams and deep mysterious sea, 
 
 All life sustaining, bounteous and free. 
 
 Along those streams and in the forest shade 
 
 Their wigwam homes with little skill were made, 
 
 The rudest structures formed of bark or skin. 
 
 Nor noted for the comforts found within. 
 
 But all-sufhcient for their simple ways. 
 
 Devoid of all luxurious displays. 
 
 Here the red-skin squaws their children trained 
 
 Till they their notion of life's duties gained. 
 
 The boys to use the tomahawk and bow 
 
 And the hunter's and the trapper's skill to know; 
 
 The girls to follow in the mother's way 
 
 And all the ancient customs to obev. 
 
To those young Indians came that period, too, 
 
 All human kind delight in passing through. 
 
 For Cupid hunts for youth of every shade. 
 
 Nor makes the least exception in his trade. 
 
 So then, the same old tale was often told 
 
 To timid maidens by dusky lovers bold. 
 
 Sometimes by warriors tall and straight. 
 
 Painted and feathered, and of prideful gait. 
 
 Some forest dandies, too, there might have been, 
 
 And forest belles those dandies sought to win. 
 
 Or with them flirt, hke some of modern make 
 
 Who would not mind a maiden's heart to break. 
 
 Those woodland belles were not the made up kind 
 
 That sometimes in our modern life we find. 
 
 They nothing knew of all the wondrous ways 
 
 Through which fond woman now her charm displays. 
 
 No curious puffs or frizzles kinked their hair, 
 
 No toilet mysteries were cultured there, 
 
 No foolish lacing the throbbing heart confined, 
 
 Nor had they bustles sticking out behind. 
 
 No monstrous, gaudy hat then crowned the head, 
 
 Nor ever walked they with a mincing tread, 
 
 But nearer nature and most simply clad 
 
 Their graceful forms a charming witchery had. 
 
 No doubt those wigwam homes had fulsome share 
 
 Of anxious thought and wearisome care; 
 
 From thence along the smoothly trodden tracks — 
 
 With pappoose strapped upon their backs, 
 
 The squaws, upon the common needs intent. 
 
 Each day to all their stated duties went; 
 
 Some the cool, enshaded pathway took 
 
 To ever-flowing spring, or mountain brook. 
 
 And from the bounteous and most healthful store 
 
 13 
 
The sweet and thirst assuaging waters bore, 
 Or else, in all the art of angling skilled, 
 Their baskets with the speckled trout they filled. 
 Some tilled the famous crop of beans and maize 
 That every year it was their care to raise. 
 Sometimes they followed where the hunters led, 
 With watchful eyes and ever cautious tread. 
 Ready the game the hunters killed to bear, 
 And for the daily use that game prepare. 
 For the hardest labor, and the greatest care. 
 Was woman's constant portion then to bear. 
 And yet, perhaps, her cares were easier far 
 Than those of many modern women are. 
 At least much healthier, we may assume. 
 Than some that now the strength of life consume. 
 They had no ten-room house in shape to keep; 
 No stoves to black, nor dusty floors to sweep; 
 No garments fine of elaborate make 
 In weariness they made for fashion's sake; 
 Their wardrobes then were no extensive thing. 
 Nor did they change in make up fall and spring. 
 
 Such was hfe on Menunkatuck's shore 
 When first the white men came in days of yore; 
 "Pale faces"— as the red men called the race 
 That came their savage customs to efface. 
 And vantage gain, by greater skill and might. 
 And e'en supplant them in their ancient right. 
 But none may say but that this change was best; 
 All things to-day God's providence attest; 
 It was all a part of the wondrous plan 
 To bring to higher state the life of man; 
 Though slow the evoluting methods seem — 
 In progress of the vast eternal scheme, 
 
 14 
 
That very slowness brings a greater strength 
 
 And makes desired perfection sure at length. 
 
 Menunkatuck — the Guilford of to-day, 
 
 "My native place," with pride so many say; 
 
 Nor child for home and mother can bestow 
 
 A truer love than such for Guilford show. 
 
 No matter where a wanderer's footsteps stray 
 
 That love is kept within his heart alway, 
 
 Nor ever happier day in life he knows 
 
 Than that when to his native town he goes. 
 
 With joy he traverses the well-known streets. 
 
 With greater joy if old time friend he meets, 
 
 With warm hand clasp and hearty words of cheer 
 
 To them what visions of the past appear. 
 
 If many weary years have passed away 
 
 And these who chance to meet are old and gray 
 
 They find, perchance, some once accustomed seat 
 
 And there talk o'er their retrospections sweet; 
 
 Some hard experiences, too, they own. 
 
 And talk of many failures they have known, 
 
 With tales of those who sadly went astray 
 
 When fairest hopes of life before them lay. 
 
 Death, too, full oft performed its fateful part 
 
 And wronged sweet souls or broke some loving heart. 
 
 To these old friends, through all the years, 
 
 A constant change in everything appears, 
 
 And though they boast of things of earlier days, 
 
 And "good old times" in all their converse praise, 
 
 They would not check the rapid course of time 
 
 That they might hear some dear, melodious chime, 
 
 If, hearing that, they were compelled to yield 
 
 The rare conceptions the present has revealed, 
 
 And even as they thus their lives review 
 
 15 
 
The ways of the past, the friends they knew, 
 
 They grant, perforce, the great advancement shown, 
 
 And all the present as superior own; 
 
 In every home increasing comforts seen; 
 
 The well kept lawns, and streets so neat and clean; 
 
 The public works, the buildings well designed 
 
 To meet the needs that come to life refined, 
 
 All these attest approachment to the tone 
 
 That only to the higher life is known. 
 
 As a summer idler amid well-known scenes 
 How dear such homing to a wanderer seems; 
 From street to street with eagerness he goes 
 To find the places that so well he knows. 
 Though few, indeed, he finds are just the same, 
 Nor all the streets retain their olden name. 
 One that he knew in youth as ''Crooked Lane" 
 Does now a different appellation gain, 
 And, to become more dignified and great. 
 They give that thoroughfare the name of State. 
 The road to the "Sluice," or "Harbor Street," 
 As Whitfield is more historic and complete. 
 The "Old Turnpike" — on following up his searc b, 
 He finds is given the pious name of Church. 
 Quite an ancient landmark is missing here. 
 In modern progress bound to disappear. 
 The "Old Town Hall," a place of local fame, 
 Where all who wished could argue and declaim, 
 The scene of sturdy and stragetic fights 
 When laying taxes and defending rights; 
 The place for Fairs, Lectures, and Minstrel shows, 
 And all such things a country village knows; 
 Here the "Clionians," with forensic skill, 
 
 i6 
 
Were wont to meet in intellectual drill 
 
 When each ambitious spouter was proud to hear — 
 
 From those who listened, an approving cheer. 
 
 On straight-back benches sat the lassies fair 
 
 Who had, no doubt, especial interest there, 
 
 And, — later on, selected life-long mates 
 
 As sequence to those wonderful debates. 
 
 Each street some hallowed memory revives 
 
 Of times and strange events in many lives. 
 
 From Broad to Fair, to River Street he goes 
 
 To where the river to the meadow flows, — 
 
 Menunkatuck Stream — the silvery band 
 
 That beautifies more perfectly the land. 
 
 Across the bridges, out towards Moose Hill, 
 
 From thence to Birchen, then to the old Town Mill. 
 
 There on the massive arch, that spans the stream, 
 
 The wanderer sits awhile — o'er all the past to dream. 
 
 While round and round the forceful millwheels go. 
 
 And 'n,eath the arch the rippling waters flow 
 
 To keep sweet measure with the rumbling mill, 
 
 And all the air with droning music fill. 
 
 Just here the poet Halleck often found 
 
 A resting place when on his daily round. 
 
 And here some inspiration may have gained. 
 
 Some measure of his wondrous fame attained. 
 
 To the dusty miller his words were fraught, 
 
 With courtesy and considerate thought. 
 
 To him, as to all, his generous mind 
 
 Expressed itself in manner most refined. 
 
 And he who there recalled those favored days. 
 
 And thought of all the poet's genial ways, 
 
 Thought, too, how fast, since then, had sped the years, 
 
 And fufl of wonder all his life appears; 
 
 17 
 
And still his dream goes on, he scarcely hears 
 
 The splash of water and the rumbling gears; 
 
 His mind, absorbed, takes lengthened circuit round 
 
 From High Bluff Head unto Long Island Sound; 
 
 A swift reviewing mental power he gains; — 
 
 Leet's Island, Clapboard Hill and Nutplains 
 
 Sachem's Head, the Point, Quonepaug and Totoket, 
 
 To all in thought he goes, no place does he forget, 
 
 And everywhere the old time friends appear, 
 
 And their well-known voices he seems to hear. 
 
 Time is forgotten, life its broken links renew, 
 
 And keeps these visions of the past in view. 
 
 Once more in youth and with vigorous tread. 
 
 In warmth and love, and joy, his steps are led; 
 
 Sweet girlhood forms, with faces fresh and fair, 
 
 With little of their future showing there, 
 
 And lads who for the future had no fear 
 
 To whom the untried world seemed bright and clear, 
 
 With them, and as young, he starts in life once more. 
 
 Those happiest years of all is living o'er. 
 
 Then on to manhood, full of power and pride, 
 
 With man's ambitions reaching far and wide. 
 
 So on and on he dreams with quickening sense 
 That makes his interest more and more intense. 
 Now chiming bells rouse other memories, too, — 
 The weekly privilege that once he knew; 
 Of Sunday mornings when he took his way 
 Across the green, their summons to obey. 
 Good Doctor Bennet now he seems to see, 
 No man more fitted for his place could be, 
 Within that lofty pulpit there he stands 
 Enrobed in black, with cleric neck-tie bands, 
 
 i8 
 
A saintly man, whose every word was fraught 
 
 With perfect kindness and with holy thought. 
 
 And what a congregation then was there 
 
 Of noble men the church's work to share, 
 
 Who by their constant presence example set 
 
 So many at the present time forget. 
 
 There, too, was Halleck in his wonted place 
 
 To worship with a reverential grace, 
 
 And by his side the sister, always there, 
 
 The constant object of his loving care. 
 
 No sign in him of what he then could claim 
 
 Of worldly adulation and of fame; 
 
 With his fellow townsmen free from aught 
 
 That could suggest the least assumptive thought. 
 
 This vision of the poet brings to mind 
 
 Once more his daily habits so refined. 
 
 His form familiar as seen upon the street. 
 
 His care each one to ever kindly greet : — 
 
 In later years his form just slightly bowed, 
 
 His eyes cast down with inmost thought endowed, 
 
 And step that seemed to slowly measure time 
 
 To sweet conceptions and melodious rhyme, 
 
 His lips oft moving with some unuttered theme — 
 
 Unconscious murmurings of a poet's dream. 
 
 All the world could give him highest praise and fame 
 
 And round the earth his wondrous gift proclaim. 
 
 But in his native home to end his days 
 
 Was sweeter far than all of worldly praise, 
 
 The dear associations there renewed 
 
 With much of joy life's closing hours endued. 
 
 Round and round the rumbling millwheel goes, 
 And still with rapid rush the rippling water flows, 
 And still the aged dreamer keeps his seat 
 
 ^9 
 
These cherished memories of the past to greet; 
 On wafting wings they hasting come and go, 
 So much a long and busy Hfe must know; 
 Scene after scene, in panoramic view. 
 Full many phases of his life renew, 
 A life prolonged while others passed away 
 When oft it seemed they might still longer stay; 
 Young men so strong the strain of life to bear, 
 Happy maidens so lovable and fair, 
 The more mature rejoicing on their way. 
 All unconscious of what before them lay, — 
 The darksome shadows of disease and death, 
 So soon to poison every healthful breath, 
 So soon to turn their joys to grief and pain 
 And make their efforts and ambitions vain; 
 The favored, the beautiful to pass away. 
 The rich unable to prolong their stay, 
 How many, oh, how many he recalls 
 For whom, as yet, a tear regretful falls. 
 While he is left some purpose to fulfil — 
 Some hidden purpose of the Higher Will. 
 'Tis thus he dreams and reasons sitting there 
 Amid the scenes to him so dear, so fair. 
 
 The dead demand remembrance for their worth, 
 And honored mention in their place of birth. 
 For, with the living, they make up the fame 
 Their natal home from year to year may claim ; 
 And everywhere all human life has true accord 
 With all that nature's bounteous charms afford. 
 'Tis more than imagery of flowing thought 
 That thus this woof and warp of life has wrought, 
 No truer, fonder limning could there be 
 
 20 
 
Of what is dear to all humanity. 
 
 A charm there is to native hills and dales, 
 
 A charm magnetic that nowhere else prevails; 
 
 And most magnetic Guilford ever seems, 
 
 Its rocky ledges and its winding streams. 
 
 Its hills and vallies and its rock-bound shore; 
 
 Its grand reminders of the days of yore; 
 
 And over all there lies the wondrous glow 
 
 All human energy and love bestow. 
 
 On all these hills and dales the tokens still remain 
 
 That tells of those who did not live in vain ; 
 
 The men of old so full of zeal and prayer, 
 
 So ready in their hves to do and dare. 
 
 And still in many homes those names are known. 
 
 Still kept unsullied as the years have flown. 
 
 From sire to son, transmitted to this day, 
 
 The spirit of the past holds healthful sway. 
 
 Still rouses longing souls to high desire 
 
 And bids them to a worthy fame aspire. 
 
 Still keeps alive increasing pride of place. 
 
 That year by year develops added grace. 
 
 As all "good Guilford souls" some measures take 
 
 The dear old town to more attractive make. 
 
 21 
 
THE OLD STONE HOUSE, GUILFORD 
 
 This ancient building, by earliest settlers reared, 
 Should be to every patriotic heart endeared, 
 For every stone w^hich forms its massive walls 
 A sacred story of the past recalls 
 Of men and women brave to do and dare. 
 Upheld by simple faith, and love, and prayer. 
 These walls once echoed with their holy songs 
 Filled with the fervor which to such faith belongs. 
 And, in the love an earnest Christian knows. 
 Their heartfelt prayers here pleadingly arose. 
 Thankful for the scant comforts that they knew 
 They much enjoyment from those blessings drew. 
 Praising God for freedom — life's dearest gift, 
 And day by day gained cheerfulness and thrift. 
 How different then from what is seen to-day 
 Was all that round this ancient building lay, 
 Instead of pleasant homes on well-kept streets, 
 That now on every side the vision meets, 
 A few rough dwelHngs were scattered o'er the plains, 
 Each reached by well worn trails or grassy lanes. 
 Upon the plains the ploughman, as he turned the sod. 
 Oft felt some danger in each step he trod. 
 And, for the need a moment might demand, 
 He kept his trusty rifle close at hand. 
 And from these strong walls on every side, 
 A watchful sentinel for foes intrusive spied. 
 And loudly beaten drum, or signal gun. 
 The warnings gave unheeded then by none. 
 What strange experience of life was known 
 In those early days within this house of stone. 
 Within its walls how many things took place 
 That touched the future our fathers dared to face. 
 
 22 
 
o 
 
 Q 
 h 
 
 Z 
 
 
 '5 o 
 
 U 
 
But through all in God they placed their trust, 
 And felt that everything was right and just; 
 Felt that the hand that led them to this shore 
 Good purpose for the future held in store. 
 Fair was the landscape that around them lay, 
 More charming, even, than it is to-day. 
 Beautiful in its ever-varied scene 
 Of hill and dale, of stream and meadows clean. 
 Beyond the meadows Long Island Sound 
 In sparkling setting all that landscape bound, 
 Where rolling waves, by sunlight silvered o'er 
 IMade murmuring music on the rock-ribbed shore. 
 
 When sunset glory was flaming in the west — 
 
 On summer evenings, the people came to rest 
 
 Upon the grassy slope, before the open door. 
 
 And there they sat, and talked their prospects o'er, 
 
 Talked of the pleasant homes they all once knew 
 
 Before those hours of trial they passed through. 
 
 And there, perchance, stretched out upon the ground, 
 
 A savage from the forest might be found, 
 
 Silent, but hstening with sense intent. 
 
 Though only half divining what they meant. 
 
 Whitefield, the pastor, no doubt was often with them 
 
 there. 
 In all their social intercourse to share. 
 With all his happy conversational art 
 With the wittiest keeping up his part. 
 But if any of his flock in suffering lay 
 How quick his sympathies came in play. 
 How near he drew to help them all their troubles bear, 
 How comforting his words of love and prayer. 
 In the old stone house the day of rest 
 Was ever, then, of all the days, the best. 
 
 23 
 
From every home the people all drew near 
 Their pastor's pleading, kindly voice to hear. 
 Sweet were the hymns and earnest were the prayers 
 That voiced their needs, their hopes, their cares, 
 And from those prayers a full fruition grew 
 Whose blessings later generations knew. 
 
 Such was the life within and around these walls, 
 And such the memories the old stone house recalls. 
 And fitting it is that all should reverence show 
 And sure protection around it throw. 
 That it may stand for many centuries more, 
 An honored relic of those days of yore. 
 
 24 
 
THE BUILDING AND THE BUILDERS 
 
 1639. 
 
 Day by day the walls uprose; 
 
 Rock from craggy ledges torn; 
 
 Oak from primal forest borne; 
 All the b(;st the builders chose, 
 Good and firm and hewed with skill, 
 Each its proper place to fill; 
 Rock and oak for wall and frame, 
 Ne'er to bring the builders shame. 
 
 Red men came to labor there, 
 Burdens bearing day by day. 
 Toiling in the paleface way, 
 Wondering at the ceaseless care 
 As those massive walls were laid; 
 Walls for wear of centuries made. 
 Built for shelter and repose; 
 Built to check aggressive foes. 
 
 Side by side they labored long, 
 
 Men of the old world and the new; 
 Stone by stone the building grew. 
 All the courses, straight and strong. 
 Held the ponderous beams in place 
 Rafter and girder, and brace. 
 Till at last it stood concrete 
 Home and fortress all complete. 
 
 Home and fortress, temple, too. 
 Where sad souls to God in prayer 
 Would their needs and sorrows bear, 
 
 And the love of life renew, 
 
There, too, songs of grateful praise 
 Voices in accord would raise, 
 Thankful for the blessings known 
 In that hallowed house of stone. 
 
 THE STONE HOUSE WEDDING 
 About 1640. 
 
 There was a wedding long ago 
 
 On Menunkatuck's shore. 
 But who were wed no records show, 
 
 Or what they married for. 
 
 Some reason good they doubtless knew, 
 
 And, as is often said, 
 Perhaps they were "fond lovers true," 
 
 And that was why they wed. 
 
 It is called "The Stone House Wedding," 
 
 A rather rocky name, 
 But it is the usual heading 
 
 That all historians claim. 
 
 No one knows the exact year 
 
 This mystic couple chose. 
 Before the parson to appear, 
 
 Attired in wedding clothes. 
 
 But that it was in summer weather 
 
 Some centuries ago, 
 That thus they came together, 
 
 One record seems to show. 
 
 ^f, 
 
For there it is stated, at least, 
 When they were made as one. 
 
 They had a Uttle wedding feast 
 Soon as the deed was done. 
 
 And, for extra fare — the best they had: 
 The wedding guests to please, 
 
 A dish of — not so very bad, 
 A dish of pork and pease! 
 
 A summer dish until this day. 
 Throughout all Yankee land. 
 
 And we may very safely say 
 They never had them canned; 
 
 So that, beneath a summer sun, 
 
 Perhaps about July, 
 This matrimonial deed was done 
 
 No mortal dares deny. 
 
 Then thanks to pork and pease 
 
 For making so much sure. 
 The world will feel far more at ease 
 
 To have that fact secure. 
 
 27 
 
ON MENUNKATUCK'S SHORK 
 
 Oft I think of the dear old home 
 
 On Menunkatuck's shore, 
 And thick and fast the memories come 
 
 Of the happy days of yore. 
 
 The ever-winding silvery stream 
 
 Still flows as gently on, 
 But in life's ever-changing dream 
 
 New life has come, old life has gone. 
 
 Strange faces and new forms are there 
 
 On Menunkatuck's shore, 
 So memory strives with tender care 
 
 To old-time life restore. 
 
 They come with their remembered ways, 
 With friendship kind and true. 
 
 The old and young of those bright days, 
 The many that I knew. 
 
 In thought, along the river road I walk 
 
 To Charlie Miller's store, 
 Where neighbors nightly met to talk 
 
 Their common interests o'er. 
 
 The Spencers and Stones, I see them all. 
 The Cruttendens and Leetes, 
 
 Hotchkiss and Tyler, sure to call, 
 And fill accustomed seats. 
 
 The stories told, the way they joked. 
 The bantering and the fun, 
 
 2.8 
 
The grave discussions oft provoked 
 By something said or done. 
 
 It all comes back, that evening hour 
 Which wrought no sin or ill, 
 
 But ever served, with kindly power, 
 A social need to fill. 
 
 Above the bridge there stands the mill, 
 Whose archway spans the stream; 
 
 The old millstones are rumbling still 
 And like the old times seem. 
 
 But the toilers there are new, 
 There are strangers everywhere. 
 
 And the familiar forms are few 
 Who share life's duties there. 
 
 Beyond the bridge, upon the hill, lie 
 
 Full many seen no more 
 Of those well known in years gone by 
 
 On Menunkatuck's shore. 
 
 In that fair city of the dead 
 The missing names are seen, 
 
 And when the records there are read 
 How much those records mean. 
 
 Thus loves my mind often to roam 
 And think of friends of yore. 
 
 And dream of the ever dear old home 
 On Menunkatuck's shore. 
 
 39 
 
THE MAIDENS OF MENUNKATUCK 
 
 The lillies are fair 
 Which the waters bear 
 
 On Menunkatuck's stream; 
 And silvery white, 
 Their blossoms so bright 
 
 In the sunlight gleam. 
 
 And fair is the rose 
 That lovingly grows 
 
 On Menunkatuck's shore, 
 And the zephyrs haste 
 Its fragrance to taste, 
 
 So sweet evermore. 
 
 But O! more than fair 
 Are the maidens there, 
 
 On Menunkatuck's shore; 
 In their dear faces, 
 The loves and the graces. 
 
 Are seen evermore. 
 
 With blushes and smiles 
 Their beauty beguiles. 
 
 Like a summer night's dream; 
 And their glances bright 
 Are full of delight 
 
 In their sparkling gleam. 
 
 They banish all care, 
 Those maidens so fair 
 
 On Menunkatuck's shore, 
 
 30 
 
And seldom deceive, 
 In the spells they weave, 
 So sweet evermore. 
 
 GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE 
 
 We are going through the old house 
 
 With thoughtful minds and footsteps slow, 
 For we are told that very soon 
 
 This loved, ancestral home must go. 
 They will tear down these sacred walls— 
 
 The hallowed shelter of the past, 
 But all our memories of the place 
 
 Shall evermore and unchanged, last. 
 This was our grandmother's room, 
 
 And yonder stood her easy chair, 
 And it seems as if we must see 
 
 Her saintly form now sitting there. 
 Dear grandmother! What a kindly face, 
 
 And what a pleasant way she had. 
 And what words of comfort always gave 
 
 To all the weary and the sad. 
 And here we come to the kitchen, 
 
 Which always savored of good cheer. 
 For grandmother was a splendid cook, 
 
 And served a famous table here. 
 She always kept an open house, and ne'e-r 
 
 Against a stranger closed the door. 
 How neat she kept this quaint old room. 
 
 And how she scrubbed this oaken floor. 
 Up there are the hooks on the"|beam 
 
 Where the "Old King's Arm" always hung, 
 
 31 
 
And across those nails the shot pouch 
 
 And the powder horn were strung. 
 I always coveted that horn 
 
 All carved in curious designs, 
 And with great grandfather's name 
 
 And "1776" in fancy curving lines. 
 Beside the fireplace stood the "settle" 
 
 Where we sat evenings in the glare 
 Of burning birch and hickory wood, 
 
 And in the coals saw pictures fair. 
 In this corner stood the tall clock, 
 
 That wonder of our younger boyhood days, 
 When grandfather, at early bedtime, 
 
 So carefully the ponderous weights would raise. 
 And then, before we went to bed. 
 
 Grandfather the evening prayers read, 
 And then we climbed up these old stairs, 
 
 When each to each "good night" had said. 
 The chamber door has yet the wooden latch 
 
 By string of leather lifted. 
 And here is the stair which always creaked 
 
 As if with sense of anger gifted. 
 How upset the boys used to be 
 
 When they tried to get out at night 
 When, creeping down in stocking feet. 
 
 That creaking stair their plans would blight. 
 It always creaked the loudest then. 
 
 And grandfather was sure to wake 
 Did any racket in the house 
 
 The usual midnight stillness break. 
 Well! here we are, "upstairs" once more, 
 
 In the attic chamber, long and wide. 
 
 i|2 
 
Once filled with lots of ancient things, 
 
 Among which we used to play and hide. 
 Beneath these huge, axe-hewn rafters. 
 
 Full many a night we have lain, 
 And heard the rain upon the shingles. 
 
 Or dashing on the window pane. 
 And here, in springtime, we heard the twitter 
 
 Of the wrens and martins overhead, 
 And almost seemed to understand 
 
 The pretty, loving things they said. 
 Our bed was close beneath the eaves, 
 
 And between the rafters I can see 
 A ship — chalked out one lazy morning; 
 
 How plain it all comes back to me. 
 And we were all so happy then — 
 
 In the dear old house, in the dear old days, 
 When there was no foolish pride of life 
 
 In the good old-fashioned ways. 
 Some may say that we were young then, 
 
 And everything looked good and bright, 
 And that now, when old and harrassed, 
 
 We cannot make new ways seem right. 
 But I know that folks were better then. 
 
 And had more reverence for the good, 
 And Sunday was a sacred day then. 
 
 And people kept it as they should. 
 But — well, it does no good to talk, 
 
 We cannot check the flowing tide, 
 When so many now are reckless, 
 
 And good old ways are cast aside 
 Folks must have grander houses now. 
 
 And £0, grandfather's house must go, too. 
 
 23 
 
And give place to something modern — 
 
 A larger mansion, fine and new. 
 This may be best, but still 'tis sad; 
 
 It won't be grandfather's house at all, 
 Nor the dear associations 
 
 Of all the happy past recall. 
 But now we must take a look outside, 
 
 And down across the road we'll go, 
 And watch the summer sunset 
 
 O'er the house and hillside glow. 
 Here on the bench by the stone wall, 
 
 Beneath grandfather's maple tree, 
 We will sadly sit awhile. 
 
 And all the hallowed pictures see. 
 It is all like parting from one's friends; 
 
 And there comes from the heart a sigh, 
 As here we take our last farewell. 
 
 And say to the dear old place good-bye! 
 
 34 
 
NO HOME LIKE THE OLD HOME 
 
 No home like the old home — 
 
 The place of my birth; 
 Ever the happiest, 
 
 The dearest on earth; 
 The old home that I love 
 
 Down deep in my heart, 
 Home of sweet memories 
 
 Which never depart. 
 
 No home like the old home, 
 
 Wherever I rove! 
 In its freshness of life, 
 
 Its pureness of love; 
 Its pains and its sorrows 
 
 Are sacred to me, 
 Its cares and its labors 
 
 As blessings I see. 
 
 No home like the old home 
 
 With the loved ones there; 
 The home of my childhood. 
 
 When life was so fair. 
 All the wide world over — 
 
 Wherever I roam, 
 I ever shall love it, 
 
 That dearest old home. 
 
 35 
 
MY BOYHOOD HOME 
 
 I have been to the old place — 
 My boyhood home once more, 
 
 And in each familiar nook 
 
 Have dreamed of the "days of yore." 
 
 I dreamed of the "loved and lost," 
 Who once were gathered there, 
 
 To give each other greeting. 
 And all life's duties share. 
 
 The old house was much the same 
 In outward look of cheer. 
 
 That pleasant look of comfort 
 To "fondest mem'ry dear." 
 
 Within the yard and garden— 
 Where'er my footsteps strayed, 
 
 Each well- remembered spot 
 Some happy thought conveyed. 
 
 The vines my hands had planted, 
 Each thrifty shrub and tree, 
 
 Gave forth a fragrant welcome, 
 A welcome home to me. 
 
 Home? Ah no! I could not claim 
 Unquestioned entrance there. 
 
 No more within those sheltering walls 
 The love of kindred share. 
 
 36 
 
O, no! it was not all the same, 
 
 And never more can be, 
 For strangers keep my boyhood home. 
 
 That home so dear to me. 
 
 HALLECK 
 
 The flowing melody of thought, 
 
 That thrilled within his active brain. 
 
 In purest language he enwrought 
 Some noble purpose to attain. 
 
 There came to him exultant power 
 In every triumph of the right. 
 
 When patriots, in some salient hour, 
 Excelled in deeds of valorous might. 
 
 He heard the trumpet's clarion peal, 
 The tramp of men, the deafening roaj— 
 
 The shouts, the groans, the clash of steel, 
 The ever horrid din of war. 
 
 His soul went proudly forth to meet 
 The tireless champions of the free; 
 
 Their victory to him was sweet 
 As love of life and liberty. 
 
 He toned a requiem for the dead 
 In words the world will not forget; 
 
 The hero, who his life blood shed, 
 Such sacrifice could not regret. 
 
 17 
 
He touched the past with reverent pen; 
 
 He praised wherever praise was due; 
 Of places and of famous men 
 
 Word pictures he as famous drew. 
 
 All nature brought him sweet repose, 
 Like gentle dalliance of love, 
 
 And summer sky and fragrant rose 
 In wreaths of poesy he wove. 
 
 Even in daily toil and care 
 
 He sought with true and kindly art. 
 To find some inspiration there, 
 
 And constant charm to life impart. 
 
 Against the follies of the times. 
 Of fashion, or of foolish fad, 
 
 A wit sarcastic in his rhymes 
 He ever most effective had. 
 
 True poet of those earlier days — 
 The pride of all his native land. 
 
 The world gives him the meed of praise 
 His gifts superior should command. 
 
 38 
 
WHITFIELD 
 
 The story of his life we read, 
 And there the man distinctly see 
 
 As champion, in word and deed, 
 Against unrighteous tyranny. 
 
 We see him in his native land 
 
 Proscribed from high privilege there, 
 For godly truths unchecked to stand, 
 
 And longing souls for Heaven prepare. 
 
 He came across the ocean wave 
 
 A perfect freedom to attain. 
 For those who with him dared to brave 
 
 The chance of hardship and of pain. 
 
 Unyielding in his sense of right — 
 A man inspired by purest thought, 
 
 It was his holiest delight 
 To live the life he daily taught. 
 
 To all his people kind and true, 
 In all their strange unwonted lot, 
 
 He all their wants and troubles knew. 
 Nor ever one in need forgot. 
 
 As loving pastor and their guide, 
 Their perfect confidence he won, 
 
 And to their life himself allied 
 By constant acts of kindness done. 
 
 The red men, of the forest, too, 
 He ever strove to win and save; 
 
 39 
 
To help them every way he knew 
 He most untiring effort gave. 
 
 His influence will still remain 
 
 With those who all his history know, 
 
 Who from his hfe some courage gain, 
 And reverence for his memory show. 
 
 WILLIAM LEETE 
 
 1 660- 1. 
 
 The Regicides friend, a man 
 
 With mind to will and do. 
 Who knew the certain risk he ran 
 
 Yet stood most firm and true. 
 
 He dared to brave the tyrant power 
 
 Of a revengeful king, 
 And, in a great momentous hour, 
 
 He did a noble thing. 
 
 No hirelings from a foreign shore 
 Could rude advantage gain, 
 
 No matter what command they bore 
 Their purpose to attain. 
 
 He dared the refugees in need 
 
 To shelter and conceal, 
 No royal force by word or deed, 
 
 Could make him aught reveal. 
 
 Their liberty, and e'en their Hves, 
 Depended on him then, 
 
 40 
 
And most successfully he strove 
 To save these godly men. 
 
 Frustrated thus in their desire, 
 
 The Regicides to take, 
 The bloodhounds from their search retire, 
 
 And homeward journey make. 
 
 Back to their master they return 
 
 In disappointed state, 
 While angry thoughts within them burn 
 
 That such should be their fate. 
 
 From condemnation for their guile, 
 
 No one their names can free, 
 While he who checked their purpose vile 
 
 Will ever honored be. 
 
 41 
 
GUILFORD GREEN 
 
 Tell me not of Paphian groves 
 
 And rare enchantments there, 
 Where loitering ones could breathe 
 
 A lotus scented air; 
 To all good Guilford souls, 
 
 No place was ever seen 
 Like that enshaded space 
 
 They call the Guilford Green. 
 
 So fair to look upon, 
 
 With walks so broad and neat, 
 And grand old forest trees 
 
 Whose arching branches meet. 
 Sure none could ask for more 
 
 Than what is felt and seen, 
 By all those whose Mecca 
 
 Is found on Guilford Green. 
 
 On anniversary days 
 
 It is the pow-wow ground 
 Where all the natives 
 
 From far and near are found. 
 And, with voices united, 
 
 They every one will say 
 That no where else does time 
 
 So quickly pass away. 
 
 43 
 
w 
 w 
 
 o 
 
 Q 
 a: 
 O 
 
 s 
 
ON GUILFORD GREEN 
 
 For all the native born 
 The happiest time is seen, 
 
 When they can congregate 
 Upon the Guilford Green. 
 
 The greatest day of all 
 
 Is when they hold their Fair, 
 
 When the seeds of spring-time 
 An autumn harvest bear. 
 
 Then the toil-worn farmers 
 Their yearly notes compare, 
 
 And with prideful pleasure 
 The general interest share. 
 
 Then the farm's best products 
 Of valued kind and grade, 
 
 In varying exhibits 
 Are tastefully displayed. 
 
 Then strings of lowing cattle — 
 
 Looking fat and clean. 
 Have an annual outing 
 
 Around the Guilford Green. 
 
 Beneath the elms and maples 
 The joyous crowds parade, 
 
 And there the money-catchers. 
 Are tempting all to trade. 
 
 And the aunts and uncles, 
 And all the cousins, too, 
 
 43 
 
Are seeking out each other 
 And lots of talking do. 
 
 All the lads and lassies 
 
 Are full of life and fun, 
 And some little courting 
 
 Most properly is done. 
 
 For all, both old and young, 
 
 A happy time is seen. 
 When thus they congregate 
 
 Upon the Guilford Green. 
 
 TRAINING DAY ON GUILFORD GREEN 
 
 With a rub a dub — rub a dub, 
 
 It was a great display. 
 When the town militia drilled 
 
 On old time training day. 
 
 The farmers left their ploughs afield — 
 
 That Tuesday first in May, 
 They dropped their hoes and spades 
 
 And townward took their way. 
 
 They carried weapons old and new, 
 
 And some had dummies, too, 
 For those who had no gun or sword 
 
 A hickory stick would do. 
 
 A plate of tin upon each hat 
 
 Was most securely tied. 
 That bore the company letter 
 
 In which they took much pride. 
 
 H4 
 
Upon the green they formed in line, 
 
 And called it "dress parade" 
 When each one stretched his neck to see 
 
 If perfect line was made. 
 
 And when they wheeled to company rank 
 
 It was a sight to see, 
 For the crook of a letter S 
 
 Could not more crooked be. 
 
 And then they marched and counter-marched, 
 
 And shouldered arms with care, 
 And each one tried his very best 
 
 A martial look to wear. 
 
 And every youngster in the town 
 
 Tagged proudly on behind, 
 To them it was both fun and glory 
 
 In perfect bliss combined. 
 
 With roll of drums and fifings shrill, 
 
 And stars and stripes galore. 
 It was, indeed, a great display 
 
 That training day of yore. 
 
 45 
 
LAFAYETTE ON GUILFORD GREEN 
 
 It was a grand occasion, 
 
 When LaFayette was seen, 
 Reviewing veteran soldiers 
 
 Upon the Guilford Green. 
 
 It was in eighteen twenty-four, 
 
 When last he came to see 
 The well beloved people 
 
 He bravely helped to free. 
 
 From New Haven to New London 
 
 He then was on his way, 
 And stopped awhile in Guilford, 
 
 On that historic day. 
 
 And the "old Mihtia" turned out 
 
 And gave him honor due, 
 And on the Guilford Green 
 
 He held a brief review. 
 
 Kind words he gave, and praised 
 Those patriots tried and true, 
 
 Whose noble worth and valor 
 Through all the past he knew. 
 
 And when the artillery 
 
 Swept past in rapid runs, 
 And trained closed to the ground 
 
 The muzzles of the guns. 
 
 Those huge, old cannon 
 Gave forth a mighty roar, 
 
 46 
 
Which made the hills to echo, 
 And rattled every door. 
 
 And LaFayette cried "bravo!" 
 
 And said "it all was fine," 
 While all the troops saluted, 
 
 And cheers went down the line. 
 
 And for all who gathered there 
 
 It was a grand display, 
 When thus they gladly welcomed 
 
 The hero of the day — 
 
 A day to be remembered. 
 
 When LaFayette was seen 
 Reviewing veteran soldiers 
 
 Upon the Guilford Green. 
 
 REUNION OF BATTERY A. C. N. G. 
 Guilford, June 6th, 1900. 
 
 We are in camp once more to-night; 
 
 We hear the tattoo call; 
 Weary and worn in life's hard fight 
 
 This hour brings rest to all. 
 
 All? yes, for the dead are resting — too, 
 
 Their tiresome march is o'er, 
 One by one they have gained the heights 
 
 And rest forevermore. 
 
 They have gone to join the ranks above 
 Of comrades true and brave 
 
 47 
 
Who died upon the battlefield 
 The nation's Hfe to save. 
 
 War has its awful rush and roar, 
 
 Its crash of leaden rain, 
 Its crimson streams of human gore, 
 
 Its shrieking tones of pain. 
 
 But after battle perfect peace 
 And right may then prevail, 
 
 And all the wronged may find release, 
 Though all the cost bewail. 
 
 And so, 'tis fit that we rejoice 
 
 As thus we meet to-night. 
 And gratefully together voice 
 
 The triumph of the right. 
 
 For not in vain was all the past — 
 
 The horrid hell of war. 
 Nor vain the burden on him cast 
 
 Each patriot soldier bore. 
 
 For we, as comrades gathered here. 
 
 Grand consummations see, 
 And all unmarred our flag so dear 
 
 Shall freedom's emblem be. 
 
 Ay! one flag and one country still 
 
 Our lasting pride shall be, 
 A land whose fame the world shall thrill 
 
 The home of Liberty. 
 
TOM, THE PARSON'S SON 
 A Guilford Reminiscence. 
 
 Like lots of other jolly boys, 
 
 Tom, the parson's son. 
 Was always ready for a joke. 
 
 And brimming full of fun. 
 Were gates unhinged, or door bells rung, 
 
 As pranks mischievous played: — 
 If pistol shots, or noisy drums 
 
 A midnight racket made. 
 Whoever else must share the blame 
 
 It always was avowed 
 That Tom, the parson's son. 
 
 Was leader of the crowd. 
 
 The academy, in those days, 
 
 Was standing on the green. 
 And there, upon a Monday morning, 
 
 A curious sight was seen. 
 An old grey goose, securely tied. 
 
 Sat in the teacher's chair 
 With spectacles upon its nose. 
 
 Through which it seemed to stare 
 At an open dictionary 
 
 That there before it lay. 
 A very comic thing, indeed. 
 
 As any one would say. 
 Of course no scholar there could tell 
 
 By whom the deed was done, 
 But glances sly were given 
 
 To Tom, the parson's son. 
 
 49 
 
One Sunday, in his father's church, 
 
 Not a hymn book could be found. 
 Though everywhere, in all the pews. 
 
 With care they hunted round. 
 And not till years had passed away 
 
 Was the mystery explained. 
 Then, in taking down the "Sounding board," 
 
 The books were all regained. 
 For there in dusty piles they lay, 
 
 Where they were thrown long years before 
 In most mischievous way. 
 
 Some of the older people then 
 
 The days long past reviewed, 
 And, out of many memories, 
 
 A theory construed. 
 For they most readily recalled 
 
 The many things once done 
 By that irrepressible lad, 
 
 Tom, the parson's son. 
 But he was then to manhood grown. 
 
 His prankish days were o'er, 
 And he, also, was a parson. 
 
 And reverend titles bore. 
 In years, and thoughtful mind mature, — 
 
 A pious man was he, 
 But still retaining cheerful ways 
 
 Wherever he might be. 
 
 50 
 
THE ABSENT-MINDED SQUIRE 
 
 Squire Ruggles went to Mulberry, one day, 
 To bring from the meadows a load of hay. 
 From his home on Fair Street he took his course, 
 Well mounted, as usual, on his old gray horse. 
 
 The nag and the squire were mated quite well, 
 For of many long years they both could tell; 
 Yet both were vigorous, though gaunt of frame. 
 And still some comfort in life could claim. 
 
 Very little grooming the old horse had. 
 And the squire's toilet was generally bad; 
 But the squire and horse were honest and true. 
 And on life's journey pulled straight as they knew. 
 
 To ride on Old Gray was the squire's mode 
 Even when driving his team on the road. 
 With his whip held firm in his horny hand 
 He kept the oxen in perfect command. 
 
 Thus to Mulberry they went that day, 
 Slowly jogging along in the usual way, 
 The oxen lazily dragging the cart. 
 With the driver and team some distance apart. 
 
 But now and then the squire would stop and wait 
 And flourish his whip to hurry their gait. 
 Then man and horse to their dreaming returned — 
 A habit the oxen, as well, in perfection had learned. 
 
 At last, however, to the meadows they came. 
 And met the mosquitoes of Mulberry fame, 
 
 51 
 
And then they all some activity showed, 
 And there the old oxen needed no goad. 
 
 When the hay was loaded — a moderate jag — 
 The squire tied behind it the old gray nag, 
 And for a while, most unusual and strange. 
 By the side of his team he walked for a change. 
 
 Soon tiring of that he untied Old Gray 
 And mounted, and homeward they plodded away, 
 The squire, the horse, and the oxen all seeming 
 In a state of stupidity dreaming. 
 
 Suddenly the squire recalled to his mind 
 That in starting he tied the old horse on behind, 
 And, wheeling about to the rear of the cart, 
 On a tour of inspection did start. 
 
 No animal there Squire Ruggles could see! 
 Why ! where in the mischief could Old Gray be ? 
 He was gone, that was sure; it was strange indeed, 
 An unheard of thing for the honest steed. 
 
 He stopped the team and with an anxious look 
 The road straight back to Mulberry took. 
 No horse was there ! What in the world could it mean ? 
 The strangest thing he ever had seen. 
 
 He sat there wondering what he should do, 
 And chafing inwardly a little, too, 
 When a townsman came travelling that way 
 And stopped, a word of greeting to say. 
 
 52 
 
"Have you seen my old gray horse on the road?" 
 Said the squire. "I tied him behind my load 
 And, somehow or other, he's got loose 
 And where he has gone beats the deuce." 
 
 "Why, Squire, what do you mean? What are you rid- 
 ing on?" 
 "By gosh!" cried the squire, and off he was gone 
 While the dust flew 'neath the heels of Old Gray 
 As back up the road he cantered away. 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF ROCK RIMMON 
 
 Squire Ruggles went to Rock Rimmon 
 
 To chop some wood one day, 
 Up the turnpike, and past the sawmill, 
 
 He rode upon "Old Gray." 
 
 He had arranged that morning 
 
 To cut an hickory tree 
 That leaned a little o'er the cliff, 
 
 As one could plainly see. 
 
 By nature's law it sure would fall 
 
 Upon the rocks below, 
 But the squire had planned a way 
 
 To make it uphill go. 
 
 And on his saddle-horn he carried 
 
 A cart-rope, new and strong. 
 And breast-collar, and traces, too. 
 
 With whiffletree he took along. 
 
 53 
 
Rock Rimmon reached, he climbed the tree 
 
 And tied aloft with care 
 The rope that in his little plan 
 
 Would such important office bear. 
 
 Descending then, he harnessed up 
 His honest steed "Old Gray," 
 
 His comrade for so many years 
 Along hfe's toilsome way. 
 
 The rope's end, then, which hung 
 
 Suspended from the tree, 
 Around the whiffletree he rove, 
 
 Drawn taut as it could be. 
 
 Then the squire seized his keen- edged axe, 
 
 And swung it with a will. 
 To pierce the hickory's solid heart, 
 
 His purpose to fulfil. 
 
 At last a sudden tremor thrilled 
 Up through each quivering bough, 
 
 "Get up," the squire shouted to the horse, 
 As loud as he knew how. 
 
 But all too late! The drowsing steed 
 
 Feeling the backward strain 
 Yielded to that, nor pulled ahead, 
 
 Nor strove to foothold gain. 
 
 Over the cliff went horse and tree! 
 
 Crashing and plunging below. 
 Where poor "Old Gray" gave up his life 
 
 With an equine wail of woe. 
 
 54 
 
OLD FRIENDS 
 
 No friends like the old friends, go all the world through, 
 The dear friends of our youth so hearty and true. 
 Those loved ones that we miss and never more find — 
 As onward we journey, affection as kind. 
 
 No friends like the old friends ! we think of them all. 
 And often in fancy their presence recall, 
 Their voices in greeting seem often to hear 
 Breathing sweetness of love or accents of cheer. 
 
 The world may show kindness wherever we go, 
 And favors and honors most freely bestow. 
 But the joys of the present can never renew 
 The friendships of youth, so hearty and true. 
 
 From boyhood to manhood — in freshness of life. 
 E'er burdened with trouble, or wearied with strife, 
 Our faith made us happy, and bade us confide 
 In those friends of our youth so honest and tried. 
 
 And sweet was the converse and the counseUings wise 
 When we made of the future a longed-for prize, 
 And hope, all-sustaining, awakened a zeal 
 That age in its weariness seldom can feel. 
 
 Dear friendships of youth! we cling to them yet, 
 And all their fond pleasures can never forget, 
 Nor ne'er shall we find — go all the world through. 
 Such friends as the old friends, so hearty and true. 
 
 55 
 
THE OLD MILL 
 North Guilford 
 
 One of the pleasant places 
 
 We nevermore forget, 
 And one Time's ceaseless changes 
 
 Hath kindly spared as yet: 
 
 A quaint and ancient building, 
 Hid in a mountain glen, 
 
 Away from the restless world, — 
 The busy haunts of men. 
 
 Enshadowed by the hemlocks. 
 Whose pendant branches sway 
 
 Far o'er the rushing river, 
 It standeth grim and gray. — 
 
 Gray with age and lonely, 
 Yet full of interest dear. 
 
 With all the fair surroundings 
 By nature lavished here. 
 
 The road along the ledges, 
 The mountain stream and shore. 
 
 Still keep their rugged beauty. 
 As in the days of yore. 
 
 And still the plunging waters 
 The old time music wake, 
 
 As o'er the rough built dam 
 Their crystal torrents break. 
 
 S6 
 
And down on the trees below 
 Showers the diamond spray, 
 
 And round in the rock- worn pools 
 The circling eddies play. 
 
 The old mill still retains 
 
 Its ever famous nam; 
 Nor e'en in its age outlives 
 
 Its usefulness or fame. 
 
 The floating dust drifts lazily 
 
 Out of the open door, 
 And within it settles down, 
 
 Thick on the oaken floor. 
 
 The spider's webs are dusty 
 That hang along the wall, 
 
 And from the beams and rafters 
 In drooping festoons fall. 
 
 The toiling miller, ghost-like, 
 Moves on his faithful round, 
 
 Most watchful and attentive 
 To each familiar sound. 
 
 Into the spacious hopper 
 
 The grain comes rattling down- 
 A wealth of Hfe and health 
 
 Hid in the kernels brown; 
 
 And fast the various gearings 
 With rumbhng motion run; 
 
 With constant jolt and jarring 
 The skilful work is done. 
 
 57 
 
And so the old mill remains, 
 One haunt unchanged as yet — 
 
 One of the pleasant places 
 We nevermore forget. 
 
 THE BLIND MILLER 
 
 With cautious tread he finds his way 
 
 About the dusty mill, 
 As anxious as in earlier days 
 
 Its duties to fulfil. 
 
 With sense acute to hear and feel, 
 
 Without the gift of sight. 
 He still retains his wonted skill, 
 
 And does his work aright. 
 
 The waters o'er the rock built dam 
 
 In crystal torrents pour, 
 But their silv'ry sheen his darken'd eyes 
 
 Shall witness nevermore. 
 
 He cannot see the splashing wheel 
 Nor whirring stones go round. 
 
 But tells if they are moving right 
 Entirely by their sound. 
 
 And so, about the mill he goes, 
 
 With ever list'ning ear, 
 And careful, well-accustomed hand. 
 
 To tend the rattling gear. 
 
 And golden meal and snowy flour. 
 Each falleth in its place, 
 
 58 
 
Nor ever, through imperfectness, 
 His wondrous skill disgrace. 
 
 And no mistakes he ever makes 
 
 In "grists" of various kinds, 
 For though the bags are piled up high, 
 
 He sure the right one finds. 
 
 He knows the owner by his voice, 
 
 And all speak kind to him. 
 And often clearer eyes than his 
 
 Grow strangely moist and dim. 
 
 It is indeed a touching sight, 
 
 That sightless man to see 
 In constant gloom thus find his way, 
 
 Yet toil so cheerfully. 
 
 DEATH OF THE BLIND MILLER 
 
 Stem winter with a blighthig hand 
 Had touched the hills and plains. 
 
 And the fruitful life of all the land 
 Was chilled in all its veins. 
 
 The streams that coursed the mountain side 
 Long since had ceased to flew. 
 
 Save in a shallow, sluggish tide 
 Beneath the ice and snow. 
 
 There was no "grinding at the mill" — 
 
 The gate was shut alway, 
 \nd day by day the mill wheel still 
 
 In idle silence lay. 
 
 59 1 
 
But he who with a constant care 
 Had kept the rattling gear, 
 
 No more could heed the changes there, 
 Nor cold nor draught would fear. 
 
 The current of life had ceased to flow, 
 Chilled at its fountain head. 
 
 And in the old mill to and fro 
 No more his steps would tread. 
 
 With sightless eyes, yet perfect skill. 
 He long had labored there, 
 
 Anxious its duties to fulfil. 
 And all its burdens bear. 
 
 A man of cheerful words and ways, 
 Of patient heart and mind, 
 
 "None knew him but to praise," 
 As Christian true and kind. 
 
 In faith, wherever duty led, 
 His work on earth was done; 
 
 And of him it is rightly said, 
 "A truly good man gone." 
 
 The sun once more will warmly shine. 
 To melt the ice and snow, 
 
 And from the earth, by power divine, 
 A beauteous life will grow. 
 
 And so, out of the shadow here, 
 
 Is bom eternal light. 
 And to the sainted dead how dear 
 
 Will be immortal sight. 
 
 60 
 
GUILFORD CENTENNIAL POEM 
 
 Delivered on Guilford Green, July 4TH, 
 1876. 
 
 As swiftly through the quickening earth 
 
 Enthrills electric fire, 
 So proud, impulsive thoughts to-day 
 
 Our inmost souls inspire, 
 As we review the course of time, 
 
 And find how much we owe 
 For what was boldly dared and done 
 
 One hundred years ago. 
 
 A Nation's sweet Centennial bells ■ 
 
 Are chiming far and near, 
 And minghng melody of sound 
 
 On every side we hear. 
 From countless spires, from hills and dales — 
 
 Upward to the echoing skies. 
 In loud and tuneful harmony 
 
 The glad vibrations rise. 
 
 From north to south, from east to west, 
 
 O'er all the favored land, 
 One common, pulsing thought alone 
 
 Bids every heart and hand 
 With eager, patriotic zeal, 
 
 A fit thanksgiving show 
 For what was boldly dared and done 
 
 One hundred years ago. 
 
 The prosperous present gives honor 
 Unto the struggling past; 
 
 6i 
 
The prayers and sufferings of the few 
 
 Fruition finds at last, 
 When thus, miUions of freemen 
 
 In grateful measure raise — 
 To that heroic past, 
 
 These tributes of their praise; 
 Praise for what was dared and done! 
 
 Praise to our noble sires! 
 For the blows they struck to save 
 
 "Their altars and their fires." 
 Praise to the God who blessed those deeds 
 
 And sanctified the strife, 
 The pains, the passion, and the blood 
 
 Which gave the nation life. 
 
 Ay! praise and reverence to our God 
 
 This day we seek to show 
 For what was boldly dared and done 
 
 One hundred years ago. 
 
 Ring out, then, over hill and dale, 
 
 O, sweet Centennial bells! 
 For far and wide a glorious tale 
 
 Your gladsome chiming tells. 
 
 Ring out, O bells, your joyous peals! 
 
 Ring out a voiceful tone. 
 And make a nation's boundless weal, 
 
 Its strength and honor known. 
 
 Over the land and over the wave. 
 
 Ring out in freedom's name! 
 Over the homes of the free and the brave 
 
 The prideful truth proclaim. 
 
 62 
 
Tell of the deeds by patriots don«, 
 
 Tell of the debt we owe 
 For battles fought and victories won 
 
 One hundred years ago. 
 
 To keep this grand Centennial 
 
 In a patriotic way, 
 With joyful demonstrations, 
 
 We are gathered here to-day; 
 And 'mid these fair, familiar scenes 
 
 Each other gladly greet. 
 At home once more in this dear old place, 
 
 As friends and kindred meet. 
 In the "days that tried men's souls" 
 
 One hundred years ago, 
 Against the oppressions 
 
 Of an invading foe, 
 A band of our forefathers 
 
 In consciousness of right, *' 
 Went bravely forth, we are told, 
 
 In freedom's cause to fight. 
 And as a phrase of truthfulness. 
 
 To every comrade dear, 
 "H^g are all good Guilford souls!" 
 
 Was then their word of cheer. 
 And so, beneath our country's flag, 
 
 We, too, are proud to say 
 ''We are all good Guilford souls T 
 
 Who gather here to-day. 
 Whether by birth or adoption 
 
 This title we may claim. 
 In all it intimates of honor 
 
 Our interest is the same. 
 "FF# art all good Guilford souls l' 
 
And we glory in the name 
 Whose dear associations 
 
 Are not unknown to fame, 
 For Guilford has grand relics, 
 
 Relics of earlier days. 
 Telling of the olden times 
 
 And of the olden ways. 
 It has its legends, too, 
 
 "By the aged often told," 
 Tales of the early settlers — 
 
 The hardy men of old. 
 Tales of Indian craft; 
 
 Of wild and savage life; 
 Of deeds done at "Bloody Cove" — 
 
 In harsh, ensanguined strife, 
 When Uncas and his warriors 
 
 In fierceness fought and bled, 
 And a ghastly tragedy 
 
 Performed at "Sachem's Head." 
 And as Antiquarians 
 
 Bring their greatest treasures forth 
 On every grand occasion, 
 
 And tell their varied worth. 
 So we will hold proud converse 
 
 O'er what we have to show 
 For even more than twice 
 
 One hundred years ago. 
 
 Our old "Stone House" is a place 
 
 Of great historic fame. 
 Its story has an interest 
 
 No other place can claim, 
 And could that ancient building 
 
 All of its past unfold, 
 
 64 
 
How many incidents 
 
 Might readily be told 
 Of what has here transpired, 
 
 Of daily woe and weal, 
 Of labor and privations, 
 
 And early Christian zeal. 
 And, gazing upon those walls, 
 
 The mind in fancy strays, 
 And pictures those honest people. 
 
 And all their plainly ways. 
 We see the sturdy Saxons — 
 
 In bearing brave and true, 
 In everything unflinching 
 
 To boldly dare and do! 
 We see their wives and daughters. 
 
 In homespun garments dressed, 
 Fair matrons and fairer maidens, 
 
 In healthful beauty blest. 
 Fit sires and mothers of the men 
 
 Whose deeds this day we show — 
 The men who wrought our freedom 
 
 One hundred years ago. 
 And the blood of those old Saxons 
 
 Showed out from time to time, 
 And bred many an noble act 
 
 For history and rhyme. 
 And many an romance 
 
 Around those lives we weave — 
 Around those hearts so strong 
 
 Either to love or grieve. 
 And around those lives and loves 
 
 Another life we see — 
 The rude, untutored life 
 
 Of red men, wild and free. 
 
 65 
 
And on Agicomock's stream, 
 
 And Menunkatuck's shore, 
 And around fair Quonepaug 
 
 They seem to swarm once more, 
 And the curl of the wigwam's smoke 
 
 The poet dreamer sees, 
 While dusky forms are lurking 
 
 Amid the forest trees, 
 And 'neath the leafy arches 
 
 Rings out the war whoop shrill, 
 Awaking startling terrors 
 
 From every echoing hill. 
 But the dream soon vanishes. 
 
 For lo! a railroad train 
 With shrieking locomotive 
 
 Comes speeding o'er the plain! 
 
 Another place of interest 
 
 Is where the Regicides hid, 
 When British emissaries 
 
 For golden favors bid, 
 When good old Governor Leet 
 
 His strategy displayed. 
 And, with a tender conscience, 
 
 Did royal powers evade. 
 And whence, across "West Meadow," 
 
 John Meigs was sent by night, 
 A speedy post to Davenport, 
 
 In aid of human right. 
 
 And dovm through the gliding years 
 
 The old-time spirit came, 
 Inspiring many a soul to win 
 
 06 
 
At least an honest name. 
 And many with voice and pen, 
 
 Acquired a just renown, 
 Lawyers, doctors, and divines. 
 
 Who honored well the town. 
 But all these were lesser lights, 
 
 Out- dazzled by the Sun! 
 The great, immortal Halleck, 
 
 Whose life was here begun. 
 He walked these quiet streets. 
 
 With thoughtful, busy mind, 
 'The Poet and the gentleman, 
 
 Of feelings warm and kind. 
 Fond lover he, of nature, 
 
 And well her language knew. 
 And strength and dear delight 
 
 From all her teachings drew. 
 And with the birds and flowers, 
 
 The trees and babbling brook, 
 With drifting cloud and summer breeze, 
 
 He sweet communion took. 
 
 Illustrious bard ! No words of mine 
 
 Are fit to speak thy praise, 
 Yet reverently upon thy shrine 
 
 My heart this tribute pays. 
 
 And thought shall never cease to twine 
 Fresh laurel wreaths for thee; 
 
 Nor inspiration such as thine 
 Lack honored memory. 
 
 It is an heritage most rare 
 Thy natal place can claim, 
 
 67 
 
The sacred birthright cherished there 
 To thy "immortal name." 
 
 Though muse hke thine no place or time 
 
 Can e'er exclusive own, 
 Its music thrills through every clime, 
 
 In every land is known. 
 
 But meet it is that thou should'st sleep 
 Where kindred footsteps stray, 
 
 Thy native soil thy ashes keep, 
 A holy trust alway. 
 
 One more do we recall 
 
 That it were well to name, 
 Whose melody of thought, 
 
 Might lauding notice claim. 
 And his hfe, too, in memory, 
 
 A favored niche shall fill. 
 Nor soon will those who knew him well 
 
 Forget the poet Hill. 
 But we may not further choose 
 
 From all the many known 
 Of noble men, and women, too. 
 
 Whose merits might be shown. 
 And there are those here to-day. 
 
 Whose hearts are "true as steel," 
 And warm and sympathetic. 
 
 All human need to feel. 
 Men who have an influence 
 
 As yet scarce understood. 
 And working constantly 
 
 For all the common good. 
 And when their years are numbered 
 
 68 
 
And all their life work o'er, 
 They, too, shall well remembered be, 
 And honored evermore. 
 
 Your poet would be unjust 
 
 Did he omit to say 
 How much is due to woman. 
 
 For what Old Guilford is to-day; 
 And as minstrel bards of old 
 
 Did oftentimes rehearse 
 The virtues of the fair. 
 
 In laudatory verse. 
 So we would praise the ladies — 
 
 In words of chosen grace, 
 For all that they are doing 
 
 To beautify the place. 
 
 "United workers" are they, 
 
 And faithful workers, too, 
 And a charming taste display 
 
 In everything they do. 
 
 These fair scenes by nature blest. 
 Their hands have fairer made, 
 
 And their ambition knows no rest. 
 No cares would e'er evade. 
 
 Nor only this, they also show 
 
 That they can financier; 
 They "count the cost," and seldom owe. 
 
 Or find their pride too dear. 
 
 Their lamps are trimmed and burning 
 To show that they are wise 
 
 69 
 
And always most discerning 
 Where public interest lies. 
 
 When we who have wandered away, 
 
 "By fate or fortune led," 
 Back to the old hearthstones 
 
 With willing footsteps tread, 
 We note all these improvements — 
 
 These varied changes made, 
 Though sometimes, almost regretfully, 
 
 We see old landmarks fade. 
 Yet we feel that the place 
 
 Is kept with kindly care. 
 And that earnest, willing hands 
 
 Do constant service there. 
 And as pilgrims to their Mecca 
 
 We come back to celebrate, 
 With you who have kept the shrine. 
 
 Our country's prosperous state. 
 
 Although dark clouds at times 
 
 Have shadows o'er it cast. 
 Our land has all the fairer seemed 
 
 Whene'er the gloom has past. 
 And whatever darkens now 
 
 Our country's brightening fame. 
 We have the faith to feel these wrongs 
 
 Will bring no lasting shame, 
 But that the nation's glory. 
 
 Its honor and its power, 
 In time will have no stain to mar 
 
 Fair freedom's priceless dower. 
 And we have need to thank God to-day. 
 
 70 
 
One flag waves o'er the land, 
 And that beneath the stars and stripes 
 
 We still united stand. 
 Upon its field of azure blue 
 
 No star is missing there! 
 No severed constellation 
 
 Does freedom's banner bear. 
 And while, with eager hearts, 
 
 Our gratitude we show 
 For what was dared and done 
 
 One hundred years ago, 
 Let also thankful thoughts arise. 
 
 And reverent words be said 
 Over the flower-strewn graves ' 
 
 Of our heroic dead, 
 Who, in the nation's trial hour. 
 
 Their lives so freely gave 
 Our grand inheritance 
 
 In perfectness to save. 
 
 Although the wrongs of those days 
 
 We may not soon forget. 
 And though some stricken hearts 
 
 Be sadly grieving yet. 
 Still let all the enmity 
 
 And bitterness forgive. 
 And henceforth in brotherhood 
 
 And perfect concord live; 
 Then of this "Union of States," 
 
 Will greater things be told 
 When another century 
 
 Its records shall unfold. 
 
 71 
 
And as long as time shall last 
 
 May they united stand! 
 And Columbia's freemen ever say 
 
 "God bless our native land." 
 
 LAKE QUONEPAUG 
 
 A restful scene of beauty 
 
 Amid the rugged hills, 
 Where every touch of nature 
 
 With dream-hke interest thrills. 
 It also has its legend, 
 
 Now very seldom told. 
 Yet should be known and cherished 
 
 As in the days of old. 
 
 The daughter of a chieftain 
 
 For her true lover chose 
 A brave and noted warrior, 
 
 Among her father's foes. 
 From that father's wrath they fled 
 
 Toward the rising sun, 
 And at Menunkatuck 
 
 A fancied refuge won. 
 But not long in peace they lived; 
 
 The chieftain tracked them there, 
 And boldly stood before them 
 
 His vengeance to declare. 
 But, just then, an earthquake shock 
 
 Changed all his wrath to fear. 
 And voice of the Great Spirit 
 
 He, trembling, seemed to hear. 
 And the ledge on which they stood 
 
 With loud report was riven, 
 
o 
 < 
 
 z 
 
 O 
 D 
 
 < 
 
 -5 
 
And the chief from those he sought 
 
 With mighty force was driven. 
 Then came a rush of waters 
 
 The land to overflow, 
 But still, above their level. 
 
 The rifted rock doth show. 
 Two rough and solid masses — 
 
 By every traveller seen, 
 "Lover Rock," and "Chieftain Rock," 
 
 With chasm deep between. 
 
 Thus Lake Quonepaug was formed. 
 
 And this its legend old 
 That Indian tradition 
 
 For many years has told. 
 
 73 
 
PART SECOND 
 Ithuriel's Spear and Other Poems 
 
ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 "Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, 
 
 Assaying by his devilish art to reach 
 
 The organs of her fancy, and with them forge 
 
 Illusions as he list, 
 
 Vain thoughts, vain aims, inordinate desires, 
 Blovi^n up with high conceits engendering pride. 
 Him — thus intent, Ithuriel with his spear 
 Touched lightly; for no falsehood can endure 
 Touch of celestial temper, but returns 
 Of force to its own likeness." Paradise Lost. 
 
 Ithuriel, the angel guard of Eden's bower. 
 Was armed, 'tis said, with spear of wondrous power, 
 The lightest touch of whose celestial blade 
 All arts deceptive, and all wrong betrayed. 
 A weapon forged with an immortal skill. 
 And pregnant with an electric thrill. 
 No crafty wiles could e'er its test evade. 
 But free from all disguise each wrong was made. 
 Even Satan, in confusion, stood revealed. 
 Although with subtle care and skill concealed. 
 Arch-fiend of evil, in conceptions wise, 
 Illusions rare the tempter vainly tries. 
 And if, at last, he gained his purpose there 
 Ithuriel alone the blame must bear. 
 His slackness, not the weapon's lack of power, 
 Gave Satan vantage in life's fateful hour. 
 But bold deception then was new and rare. 
 Nor Ithuriel burdened with o'er-anxious care. 
 And so seldom in his accustomed round 
 Were influences evil or disturbing found, 
 
 77 
 
He all unconsciously too careless grew, 
 And failed to "give the devil all his due." 
 But could Ithuriel through our Modern Eden go, 
 Each lurking sin and uncouth thing to show, 
 No such excuse could ever now be made 
 As lack of chance to carry on his trade. 
 Could he expose the modern, hidden life, 
 Disclosing all the venom, all the strife, 
 But few would stand the test, but shrink dismayed, 
 To find their secret motives thus displayed. 
 Touched by the point of an Ithuriel Spear, 
 And made in their true likeness to appear, 
 More startling forms of deviltry would rise 
 Than ever slyly haunted Paradise. 
 Even careless eyes cannot help but see 
 That things are not as they should rightly be. 
 Near every virtue, and on every side. 
 Some subtle evils ever-tempting hide, 
 Through highways and byways of lust and greed 
 Each quickening sense and appetite to lead. 
 Till, by false reasoning and enticing art. 
 They captivate the longing eye and craving heart. 
 Even close to the paths we daily tread. 
 Where men may seem by proper motives led. 
 Apparent goodness might suddenly appear 
 The shield of Sin beneath Ithuriel's Spear, 
 And fair exteriors prove concealing guise 
 Beneath which wrongful thought or dealing lies. 
 For men and nations cloak their doubtful deeds 
 To suit their pleasures or their fancied needs, 
 And selfish actions and unlawful aims 
 Too oft are called by softly- sounding names, 
 
 78 
 
And ugly looking facts, to make them fair, 
 
 Are silver-plated with the utmost care, 
 
 And the man who the "lion's portion" takes 
 
 And sport of human desolation makes, 
 
 Proves the deed legal and his conscience frees 
 
 If he can only pay his lawyer's fees. 
 
 The world hath great progressive periods known, 
 
 The first was called "The age of Stone," 
 
 Next the "Bronze," and then "The age of Iron" came, 
 
 And to give the present a distinctive name — 
 
 With most significant, baptismal seal. 
 
 It should be called ^'The age 0} Steair 
 
 A name not used in an ambiguous way, 
 
 But always spelled distinctly with an a. 
 
 For far too many think that thieving pays. 
 
 And live by robbery in a thousand ways, 
 
 And seek with cunning and inventive brain 
 
 Some self- advantage rapidly to gain. 
 
 Though "wooden nutmegs" may be out of date 
 
 The cheats are quite as "Yankeefied and great. 
 
 A long-faced deacon in the days of old — 
 
 A country grocer as the tale is told, 
 
 With eye to profit, as well as trade, 
 
 These plain instructions to his clerk conveyed, 
 
 And bade him "sand the sugar and dilute the rum, 
 
 And then to morning prayers come." 
 
 With pious scruple and perceptions rare, 
 
 He eased his conscience in his daily prayer, 
 
 But the skilful swindlers of to-day 
 
 Ne'er stay their cheatings long enough to pray. 
 
 Nor their unlawful seekings after gain 
 
 To "rum and sugar" profits now restrain. 
 
 79 
 
In this "Age of Steal", the greatest knavery thrives, 
 
 And scientific cheating wrongs our lives, 
 
 And doubtful speculations too oft command 
 
 The highest powers and talents of the land, 
 
 Until all truly honest hearts exclaim. 
 
 With rising wrath, yet overwhelming shame, 
 
 "Upon what meat do these our Caesars eat" 
 
 That thus they dare to wrong and cheat, 
 
 And seek to find in private want and public need 
 
 Some chance to satisfy their vicious greed? 
 
 Some Parkhurst, with an Ithuriel's Spear, 
 
 At times will make the devil's form appear, 
 
 And blinded justice then, with courage brave. 
 
 Lays heavy hand on each convicted knave. 
 
 But still deceptions multiply and thrive. 
 
 And in new forms prove Satan still ahve. 
 
 Still working in his secretive way. 
 
 Each yielding heart and mind to sway. 
 
 What wild disturbance it would well create 
 
 In things domestic, and in affairs of state. 
 
 Could Ithuriel suddenly expose 
 
 What now so many hope that no one knows. 
 
 It would be awkward, yet amusing, too, 
 
 If thus the whole truth of everything we knew. 
 
 The cheats in word and deed, and e'en in dress, 
 
 The queer deceptions that we ne'er should guess. 
 
 The social frauds which often lead astray 
 
 In such surprising and seductive way — 
 
 The arts of love, the manufactured smiles. 
 
 The made up beauty which so oft beguiles. 
 
 These at a glance we should then discern 
 
 Where now it needs experience to learn. 
 
 80 
 
Ithuriel could show us all the tricks of trade 
 
 By which fortunes in these modern times are made, 
 
 And the "ways which are dark" would darker grow 
 
 Could Ithuriel's Spear their darkness show. 
 
 We should know then how Brokers their patrons break 
 
 When they their '%'ery small commissions^^ take. 
 
 We should know why bonds so often fail to bind, 
 
 And ^^cornered,^' "bulls and bears" such freedom find. 
 
 And why public stocks too often in these times 
 
 Are punishment to those who do no crimes. 
 
 And why he who gains may sometimes have the less, 
 
 While he who fails has really great success. 
 
 Could compensations and perquisites grand, 
 
 His spear's detective services command, 
 
 Ithuriel could now a full employment find, 
 
 Enough to keep him in suspicious mind, 
 
 And were it possible to create 
 
 Another office in affairs of State, 
 
 One for moral inspection would be wise 
 
 Could we allure Ithuriel from the skies. 
 
 If he would now detective duty do. 
 
 And on a percentage put all rascals through. 
 
 He would find it sure an easy thing 
 
 To quickly put a nabob's fortune 'neath his wing. 
 
 But, with a modern Ithuriel spear— 
 
 With earnest purpose, and devoid of fear. 
 
 We can traverse, in thought, life's devious ways, 
 
 And with searching touch some forms of evil raise. 
 
 No celestial temper thrills through the blade 
 
 To awake swift consciousness where'er 'tis laid. 
 
 And yet the submissive deference of men 
 
 Admits no weapon is mightier than the pen. 
 
 8i 
 
Pointed and polished, and of pliant make — 
 
 Fit to be wielded for fair honor's sake, 
 
 The mind's electric power can make it strong 
 
 To show the right and to denounce the wrong. 
 
 Pregnant with satire and with much of scorn 
 
 It may with perfect fearlessness be borne; 
 
 Even proudest sinners in their castles dare, 
 
 Nor rank, nor title, nor profession spare. 
 
 Wherever, Ithuriel-like, we wield this spear, 
 
 Unnumbered wrongs will there appear. 
 
 For the art deception is now a licensed trade. 
 
 And the world whirls on in wildest masquerade. 
 
 So that when we fain would grasp the right 
 
 We cannot judge by hasty touch or sight. 
 
 Our Mother Eve knew not the subtle power 
 
 That caused her ruin in life's fateful hour. 
 
 Nor dreamed she that things so fair concealed 
 
 A sting whose wound no mortal skill e'er healed. 
 
 Even in her midnight slumbers satanic art 
 
 Wrought in her brain, and touched her throbbing heart. 
 
 And all her sweetest gifts of sense and thought 
 
 Some mystic, damning influence caught. 
 
 Till loving touch, and taste, and beauteous hfe, 
 
 With lasting and o'erwhelming shame were rife. 
 
 And man still lives amid deceptive sights, 
 
 Nor always questions rightly his delights. 
 
 Even as of old, in unthought of guise, 
 
 Man to corrupt, the wily tempter tries, 
 
 And finds, as then, his toils are strong 
 
 With mystic influence to deceive and wrong. 
 
 Where'er the course of human life is led 
 
 There Satan follows with a stealthy tread, 
 
 S2 
 
As ready to assume his practised roll, 
 
 And snare some priceless and immortal soul. 
 
 Love, ambition, all worldly pride and joy, 
 
 To some bad end he striveth to employ. 
 
 He softly whispers in fond lover's ears 
 
 The ever longing thoughts wild passion hears, 
 
 And mars the perfect confidence of youth, 
 
 And stains its simple purity and truth. 
 
 Even with gloating fiendishness he tries 
 
 Too oft to wreck what is left of Paradise. 
 
 He tempts strong manhood in its noblest aim 
 
 And through ambition brings often shame. 
 
 He sits beside the student as he reads, 
 
 And his young, pliant mind seducing leads — 
 
 While poring o'er some wily-teaching leaf, 
 
 To various doubtings and to unbelief. 
 
 Even things that concern the Nation's weal 
 
 The touch of an Ithuriel Spear should feel, 
 
 For Satan is a politician shrewd 
 
 With greatest diplomatic skill endued. 
 
 And ever seeks to add some sulphurous clause. 
 
 Some evil influence to the Nation's laws. 
 
 "Our Country" is a pleasant sounding phrase, 
 
 And proud associations sure to raise. 
 
 Thoughts of the Nation's greatness and its power, 
 
 Its vast importance increasing every hour — 
 
 Thoughts of its freedom in Church and State, 
 
 With grand conceptions of its future fate. 
 
 "God and our Country" was the motto true — 
 
 The pious watchword that our fathers knew. 
 
 But now the men who make the country's laws. 
 
 Too often labor in a different cause. 
 
 83 
 
They loudly talk of services and deeds, 
 And of what are the people's greatest needs, 
 And yet are laboring for some selfish end, 
 And creeping terrors through the countiy send. 
 Gold gives the politician power and place, 
 And gold, too often, covers up disgrace. 
 And so the grasping Shylocks of the land 
 Are ever reaching with rapacious hand, 
 And statute laws to suit their purpose make 
 When they desire to great advantage take. 
 
 And so, by law, in freedom's name. 
 
 They breed a curse of taxes, poverty, and shame. 
 
 Our forefathers could never understand 
 
 The present patriotism of the land. 
 
 With honesty they battled for the right. 
 
 And truth and purity was their delight. 
 
 The common good was evermore their aim. 
 
 And for themselves, a fair, untarnished name. 
 
 The thoughts they uttered echoed through the earth 
 
 As words of wisdom and intellectual worth. 
 
 And, as rulers, they had dignity and will 
 
 Successfully their duty to fulfil. 
 
 But now it is a rueful shame to see 
 
 Much weakness where the greatest strength should be. 
 
 The people, too, have far too many ways 
 That were not proper in our fathers' days, 
 And few can claim, with much of truth, indeed, 
 That they are any better in the lives they lead. 
 Too many are fast, and presumptuous, too. 
 And with frantic zeal their hobbies they pursue. 
 From earliest dawn to latest set of sun 
 Even at the fullest head of steam they run, 
 
 *4 
 
Till daily custom seems to deaden sense, 
 
 And make a just perception less intense. 
 
 And constant habit and familiar sight 
 
 Makes some things really wrong seem almost right. 
 
 The way seems pleasant with the golden rays, 
 
 Whose bright effulgence o'er the surface plays. 
 
 And graceful movements, and delightful sound. 
 
 The swiftly onward course of life surround, 
 
 Till men pause not, or seem to know 
 
 Such course, at last, may all too reckless grow, 
 
 And it needs sharp probing with Ithuriel's Spear 
 
 To show the risk and make the danger clear. 
 
 Pride and extravagance — the nation's bane. 
 
 Scatters the bulk of honest labor's gain. 
 
 And far too many toil, with hand and head. 
 
 For much of vanity and a little bread. 
 
 Reckless of the future they gain and spend, 
 
 And for life's follies impatiently contend. 
 
 Ambitious of display and reputed wealth 
 
 Men sacrifice their honor and their health. 
 
 And even as they live, they die, nor think to save, 
 
 But waste life's blessings while standing o'er its grave. 
 
 And funeral pageant and pompous lust 
 
 Strews golden favors with the mingling dust, 
 
 Till common modern burial honors so much imply, 
 
 That poor humanity cannot afford to die! 
 
 Fashion was never more imperial than now. 
 Before its mandates all too humbly bow. 
 Full many things we use and wear to-day 
 Tomorrow fashion bids us throw away 
 
 85 
 
And take up something else, and we submit, 
 And wear the garment although an ugly fit. 
 Because 'tis something new, and made to sell. 
 And made to he paid for, as we learn too well. 
 For, with capacious maw, and constant greed, 
 All take advantage of each fancied need 
 Till those who are dancing in this modern day- 
 Must e'en a regiment of fiddlers pay. 
 
 A well-dressed woman is a beauteous sight — 
 A source of admiration and delight. 
 But the "human form divine" too often bears 
 Wild monstrosities in the clothes it wears, 
 And far too often, for the simple sake of change, 
 Sweet woman's aspirations have too wide a range. 
 Nor are they always sensible and plain. 
 But border on the ludicrous and vain. 
 
 To-day, she moves 'neath ponderous bulk and weight. 
 
 With puffs and flounces in profusion great. 
 
 E'en like a "ship of hne in fullest sail," 
 
 With colors flying and a monstrous trail. 
 
 Tomorrow, as though she feared some tempest near, 
 
 We see her in a scantier garb appear. 
 
 To-day she is gay with scarfs and ribbons bright — 
 
 A flashing form of brilliant life and light. 
 
 Tomorrow she comes forth in sombre hue. 
 
 Nor trace of all her gaiety we view. 
 
 To-day she wears upon her gracious head 
 
 A bobbing thing of monstrous height and spread, 
 
 Tom.orrow it may shrink to tenth the size 
 
 And next to nothing meets our wondering eyes. 
 
 While thus our "Angels" take them gaudy wings, 
 And mar their beauty with outlandish things, 
 
 86 
 
The modern man, in equal pride, 
 
 Does also in the steps of fashion stride, 
 
 And tricks himself up in conceited guise. 
 
 And oft his manly dignity belies, 
 
 Until a modern, full-fledged, strutting swell 
 
 As genus homo would be hard to tell. 
 
 Habits, as well as fashion, with exciting haste, 
 
 The precious periods of existence waste. 
 
 And our precocious youth are scarcely weaned 
 
 E'er their "wild oats" they've sowed, and reaped, and 
 
 gleaned. 
 And, in the feverish, rapid course they run, 
 They strive to live a dozen lives in one. 
 A smooth-faced, sharp-eyed master in his teens, 
 Knows fully everything "behind the scenes;" 
 In a few days he learns a trade, 
 In a few more his fortune is made. 
 And then he fails, or else to Congress goes 
 To show the many skilful tricks he knows. 
 In his love-life he liveth faster still, 
 And at love's fountain quickly drinks his fill. 
 Quickly courts and marries — man's proper course. 
 And then — as quickly applieth for divorce! 
 In this, at first, perhaps he may be green. 
 But constant practise makes him keen. 
 And relevant to this — a source of shame, 
 Connubial matters more attention claim. 
 The devil here consistently exults, 
 And figures up his great results. 
 The matrimonial links are far too frail 
 And break too easy, and in service fail. 
 
 «7 
 
The God Hymen hath lost much skill and care, 
 Or else of baser metal doth his bonds prepare. 
 For the Church finds her power almost in vain 
 To unite as one those whose lives are twain. 
 Matrimony is oft a bargain made, 
 One consummated with immense parade. 
 Too many now are pledged in royal state 
 To live together until — they separate. 
 For far too many fail to comprehend 
 Life's truest, noblest purposes and end, 
 Blindly and selfishly life's paths are trod 
 Unheeding duties owed to man and God. 
 Such life is the kind of life that is bred 
 In much of the literature now read — 
 Full of excitement and of gilded sin, 
 And with all life's deviltry crowded in. 
 But, there are some superior souls, indeed. 
 Who do not Sacred revelation need. 
 For, without the aid of Scriptural text, 
 They get their inspiration more direct. 
 And from departed spirits learn the way 
 That man should walk in this enlightened day. 
 And yet, it really seems, at times, forsooth. 
 As if they kept not closely to the truth. 
 And if, as it is most commonly said, 
 These are the immortal spirits of the dead. 
 They are, most surely, quite degenerate. 
 From what they were in mortal state. 
 For what can we really think of those 
 Who, as mortals, to dignity arose. 
 And showed the greatest power of thought and tact, 
 If such absurdities their spirits act? 
 
Well may we touch such spirits with an Ithuriel Spear 
 And make their rightful character appear. 
 We find lawyers, doctors and divines, 
 All talking nonsense by outlandish signs. 
 Think of the great and the illustrious few 
 Who here such intellectual vigor knew. 
 And whom it was natural to suppose would rise 
 To superior wisdom in the skies — 
 Think of their spirits coming back to show 
 Such stupidity to their friends below! 
 And why should they from heaven come down 
 To show the foolish antics of a clown ? 
 Or leave their "mansions in the skies" 
 To tell us such undoubted lies? 
 The wandering soul of Solomon, perhaps. 
 Makes known its presence by peculiar raps. 
 And, if we give good heed, will try to show 
 Almost anything we may desire to know, 
 Although we are sometimes shocked to learn 
 How very queerly spiritual matters turn. 
 And, above all, it is most passing strange 
 How greatly tastes and occupations change. 
 Washington, perchance, may be digging clams, 
 And Webster and proud Plato packing hams. 
 And, in some lower, secondary sphere. 
 The Great Napoleon retail cake and beer! 
 It scarcely needs an Ithuriel Spear 
 To show the certain mischief lurking here, 
 Sporting with human love which seeks to know 
 The world beyond, to which the dying go. 
 And, working on that love, disturbs the mind, 
 And makes it to life's duties unresigned. 
 
 89 
 
A viler monster creeps by night and day 
 Along every exposed, unguarded way, 
 And gloating sport of all humanity makes, 
 As everywhere it swift advantage takes. 
 Even as a right of conscience dares to claim 
 A legal sanction to its course of shame. 
 All other sin may have some scant disguise 
 To cloak its vileness from fair virtue's eyes, 
 But this with bold effrontery declares 
 The very name and character it bears, 
 And it needs no Ithuriel Spear to raise 
 The liquor devil and expose its ways. 
 Unshamed before the world it takes its stand 
 And claims the law's protection through the land. 
 The right to ruin both the body and the soul, 
 To put the human mind beyond control. 
 To lead men on to murder and rapine — 
 To every phase of inhumanity and sin. 
 Passions inflamed, widows and orphans made, 
 Happy homes in desolation laid, 
 Noblest natures to grovelling ways debased, 
 And the "image divine" forever erased. 
 All this for the love of a little gold 
 Through the few short years of this life to hold. 
 
 And now in lightsome tilt our spear again we bear 
 On woman's ways and mischief lurking there, 
 For woman "plays the mischief", as of old. 
 When Satan sought her with a purpose bold. 
 He ne'er forgets her failings or her yielding mind, 
 And ever tempts her to some fresh excitement find. 
 Keeps her uneasy, and curious yet, 
 And apt her sweetest influence to forget. 
 
 90 
 
Not all, but far too many thus he sways, 
 
 And leads them to enjoy new-fangled ways. 
 
 Against such we bear our satire-headed spear 
 
 To make the weakness of their lives appear. 
 
 By right man should rule with tender sway. 
 
 By right woman should lovingly obey. 
 
 But things are changing and woman lifts her head 
 
 And walks a wilful way with boldest tread, 
 
 Nor always keeps her home as loving wife, 
 
 Enguarded from the world's unending strife; 
 
 No longer is she absorbed in household cares, 
 
 Man's every aim unshrinkingly she shares. 
 
 She now can cut and carve the human frame 
 
 Without a twinge of feeling, or a blush of shame, 
 
 Although in pulsing man to cure an ache. 
 
 Before she heals him, his throbbing heart may break. 
 
 At least she sends a fever through his veins. 
 
 By touch and look, when talking of his pains. 
 
 And there are female parsons, too. 
 
 Who sweetly round poor sinners coo. 
 
 And man might well a full confession make 
 
 When fair confessors such an interest take. 
 
 The pulpit gained, she claims the rostrum, too, 
 
 And, as a politician, would wonders do. 
 
 So man has very little left to claim 
 
 When woman takes his duties, as well as takes his name. 
 
 And, if he yields to her the noblest rights he knows. 
 
 He might as well — at once, surrender up his clothes. 
 
 And, all submissive, by the fireside stay, 
 
 And tend the baby, while the woman goes her way 
 
 Amid the crowd to preach and rant, and rate 
 
 Upon the proper rule of Church and State. 
 
 91 
 
Eve of Adam a great advantage took, 
 
 And gave by every tone, and touch, and look, 
 
 A strong persuasion to the new desire 
 
 The forbidden fruit was fated to inspire, 
 
 Till Adam — unmindful of all other vows, 
 
 In judgment yielded to his beauteous spouse, 
 
 And, in consenting with her to take and eat, 
 
 Gave then to Satan a triumph most complete. 
 
 Well did the tempter here his cunning show, 
 
 And man's great failing seemed to know. 
 
 His non-resistance to the tears and smiles 
 
 With which fond woman evermore beguiles. 
 
 And woman has a wondrous power, indeed. 
 
 By her woman's ways the sterner sex to lead, 
 
 And by her witchery, at times, she brings 
 
 Man's ways to suit her own in doubtful things. 
 
 Yet not all provoke the rebuking word. 
 
 Nor should a general condemnation be inferred. 
 
 For, as when his heart-life of love began. 
 
 Woman is still "Heaven's best gift to man." 
 
 Best when to that heart-life she keepeth true 
 
 And beyond her love hath ambitions few — 
 
 The best — as man ever loves her best, 
 
 The pure recipient of affections blest. 
 
 Not the best when she leaves her loving sphere 
 
 And in man's duties seeks to interfere. 
 
 Not the best when, to gratify her pride. 
 
 Her fascinating arts are ill applied. 
 
 But, too often, she is the "power behind the throne"- 
 
 The secret influence to the world unknown. 
 
 By which rich bonus and sinecures great 
 
 Are filched from the treasury of State, 
 
 92 
 
And bedazzled statesmen readily swear 
 
 That all is right, and honest and fair. 
 
 Then "Flora McFlimsy" has ''something to wear," 
 
 Dresses of satin, and ornaments fair — 
 
 Diamonds and laces, all the possible things 
 
 That money to Flora McFlimsy brings. 
 
 Surely the times are sadly out "of joint" 
 
 When Satan can convicting finger point 
 
 To those in high places who examples set 
 
 Tempted and tempters will not soon forget. 
 
 And from such places the darksome currents tiow 
 
 Which swell the sickening tide of public woe. 
 
 The devil's note book bears many a name 
 
 Of those who oft his close attention claim 
 
 Among the higher ranks, the rich and great, 
 
 Nor all cashiers, or officers of State. 
 
 Trusts and monopolies are his delight, 
 
 All that mars life and tramples on the right. 
 
 Knowing the curse of wealth when'er misused, 
 
 The curse of power too readily abused, 
 
 He strives to help the rich to richer grow, 
 
 And makes the poor a poorness more oppressive know. 
 
 And to be faithful with our Ithuriel Spear, 
 
 We must give the poor a little prodding here. 
 
 For they too often try to imitate 
 
 The costly patterns of the rich and great. 
 
 With lack of judgment they their earnings spend 
 
 For things unneeded, and graspingly contend 
 
 To make their home life a useless show, 
 
 Where none can ever true contentment know. 
 
 For with these things they take a grievous care, 
 
 With constant struggle to all their obligations bear. 
 
 93 
 
And then they elsewhere ever lay the blame, 
 
 And their condition wrongfully defame. 
 
 So Satan sports with human life and human ways 
 
 And everywhere his damning art displays, 
 
 And still seeks by some foul, deceptive blow 
 
 All that is pure and good to overthrow. 
 
 As of old — in most insinuating ways, 
 
 His devilish wit continually displays. 
 
 And it would really need an Archangel's power 
 
 As manifested in fair Eden's bower, 
 
 And a perfectly celestial tempered blade, 
 
 To have life's evils undisguised displayed. 
 
 For our beloved country's future weal 
 
 We cannot but the deepest interest feel, 
 
 And in that future trust there lies 
 
 Rich store of blessings now hidden from our eyes. 
 
 The possibilities that we might claim 
 
 Of power and wealth, and undying fame — 
 
 Of the glory that ought to rest upon the land. 
 
 Are, beyond all conception, vast and grand. 
 
 But on the purity of Church and State 
 
 Depends entirely all its future fate. 
 
 And — Ithuriel-like, we should seek with care 
 
 Whatever has an evil influence there, 
 
 And from our Eden — with purpose strong. 
 
 Drive forth each lurking and corrupting wrong. 
 
 And then — at last, the time may come when none may 
 
 fear 
 The sharpest probings of an Ithuriel Spear. 
 
 94 
 
IN MEMORY OF MINOT A. OSBORN 
 
 (Editor of the New Haven Register) 
 
 Into the pleasant course of life 
 
 There comes, once more, the keenest pain, 
 For the dirge of Death is tolling 
 
 Into our lives a saddening strain. 
 
 For a true man has passed away: — 
 
 A noble and beloved one, 
 Whose steadfast, earnest course is o'er, 
 
 Whose earthly work is done. 
 
 He needs no lauding eulogy 
 
 To make his many virtues known. 
 
 For all, with sympathetic thought, 
 His ever kindly influence own. 
 
 And yet we fain would speak of him 
 
 "In words of chosen grace," 
 And a true expression of his worth 
 
 With loving interest trace. 
 
 A faithful friend and counsellor: — 
 
 A help to every one in need. 
 In affection and in charity 
 
 Most generous in word and deed. 
 
 The world in which he lived will miss 
 
 His bold and ever ready pen, 
 That scourged all treachery and wrong 
 
 And touched the hearts and minds of men 
 
 95 
 
The influence of that busy life 
 
 No touch of Death can fully Wight, 
 
 For what he taught will long inspire 
 Some soul to battle for the right. 
 
 MODERN GIANTS 
 
 Great giants lived in olden times 
 Who kept the world in fear; 
 
 By brutal force and monstrous crimes 
 They wrought their purpose drear. 
 
 And often men in modern days 
 
 Excite a fearful dread, 
 For they are giants in their ways, 
 
 By evil motives led. 
 
 And plots as deep they lay 
 To hold their victims fast. 
 
 And oft a greedier lust display 
 Than giants of the past. 
 
 Nor single-handed do they stand — 
 
 These giants of to-day; 
 But everywhere together band, 
 
 The people to dismay. 
 
 In Trusts and Syndicates combined, 
 
 They seek to gather gold, 
 In every need of man they find 
 
 Some way to wealth untold. 
 
 By power of gold the laws they make, 
 To suit their selfish aim, 
 
 96 
 
And then, with ease, advantage take, 
 And all as legal claim. 
 
 And so, the poor may suffer pain — 
 
 In hunger and in cold. 
 While everywhere these giants gain 
 
 Their bounteous store of gold. 
 
 THE EDITOR 
 
 His form is cast in humanity's mold, 
 
 And of common dimension, too, . 
 Yet he is always expected to hold 
 
 Talents uncommon, to will and to do. 
 
 Like the fabled fellows, who lived of old, 
 He piles up the mountains of thought, 
 
 And, tugging away, in labors untold, 
 His triumphs gigantic are wrought. 
 
 Unceasing he works, he's never at rest, 
 
 For the world, unsated with news, 
 Keeps asking for more, the latest and best, 
 
 And he cannot, he dare not refuse. 
 
 Big sermons and speeches, stories and rhymes. 
 With "items" both ancient and new. 
 
 Suiting the people and suiting the times, 
 He must faithful and constant review. 
 
 The "doings of Congress," the "fortunes of war," 
 With schemes financial, the losses and gains, 
 
 The movements commercial, with reasons thrrefor. 
 He always, and clearly explains. 
 
 97 
 
How much he must know! there's nothing on earth, 
 
 In science, in doctrines or art. 
 But he must search out its meaning and worth, 
 
 And all to the public impart. 
 
 Nor only deals he in subjects profound, 
 
 His reason must mingle with fun, 
 And the world will laugh and the joke go round. 
 
 When the editor scribbles a pun. 
 
 And last, but not least, year in and year out. 
 
 He duns his subscribers for pay, 
 And for the dollar you owe him, no doubt, 
 
 The poor fellow is suffering to-day. 
 
 THE PRINTER'S DEVIL 
 
 Of all impudent imps, there's none 
 
 To match the "printer's devil!" 
 So slyly is his mischief done. 
 
 So pregnant, too, with evil. 
 
 A great delight he often takes 
 
 In ruining reputation. 
 And at each author's shame he makes 
 
 A grin of exultation. 
 
 By words misplaced, sometimes left out. 
 
 And other words inserted, 
 A writer's sense is clothed in doubt — 
 
 To foolishness converted. 
 
 And when it's done, 'tis printed fast, 
 And thousands quickly read it, 
 
 98 
 
And though the truth comes out at last 
 The pubhc seldom heed it. 
 
 For things patched up, though almost new, 
 
 Look always old and rusty; 
 And gems of thought once fractured through, 
 
 Are always dark and dusty. 
 
 To seek redress, there's little use, 
 
 Experience and pride forbid it. 
 We always hear this one excuse, 
 
 ^^The printer'' s devil did it." 
 
 BROTHER JONATHAN AND INDEPEN- 
 DENCE DAY 
 
 Year after year the wheels of time have rolled. 
 And Brother Jonathan is growing old. 
 More than a hundred years is it since he 
 First had an earnest longing to be free, 
 And "guessed" that he would have his way, 
 And celebrate his Independence Day. 
 
 And Jonathan was full of grit and kept his word, 
 And quite a rumpus in the family stirred. 
 No "force of arms" could bring him back again 
 Nor swerve him from his purpose then, 
 When once he undertook to have his way. 
 And keep his Independence Day. 
 
 Mother England could not make him "come to tea," 
 Although she brought the choicest o'er the sea. 
 All stamped and sweetened with a rousing tax, 
 
 99 
 
Instead, he grabbed his battle axe, 
 
 And said he wanted nothing but his way, 
 
 And right to keep his Independence Day. 
 
 And — as in those early days of long ago. 
 Still does he his self-reliance show, 
 
 And bold progression in everything he makes, 
 Nor fears, nor fails, in what he undertakes. 
 And so, he still proudly has his way. 
 And yearly keeps his Independence Day. 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE BRAIN 
 
 Our thoughts are our children, 
 
 Offspring of the brain; 
 Bringing sometimes pleasure. 
 
 Sometimes bringing pain. 
 
 Some are wild and reckless, 
 
 Running oft astray, 
 Causing many heartaches, 
 
 "On life's devious way." 
 
 Some are good and gentle, 
 
 Born to help and cheer. 
 Thoughts we ever cling to, 
 
 "Thoughts to mem'ry dear." 
 
 Some are happy children, 
 With no sense of wrong, 
 
 Thoughts of joyous nature, 
 Full of mirth and song. 
 
 lOO 
 
Some are woful wicked, 
 
 Ugly thoughts are they, 
 Maddening, tempting, daring, 
 To a downward way. 
 
 Sad are some, and gloomy, 
 
 Seeing nothing bright. 
 Seeking sombre shadows, 
 
 Shrinking from the light. 
 
 Varied are the tempers. 
 
 Either true or vain. 
 Of the oft-neglected 
 
 Children of the brain. 
 
 Strive to watch them closely, 
 Train them hour by hour, 
 
 Till they come to honor, 
 Full of truth and power. 
 
 Thoughts that men will reverence. 
 
 Bringing joy and gain; 
 Noble, happy children, — 
 
 Children of the brain. 
 
 lOI 
 
HYLAS 
 
 Hylas, an orphan youth of old, 
 
 Was reared, as ancient bards have told, 
 
 By Hercules with tender care, 
 
 Who loved him for his beauty rare. 
 
 Stern warrior, with nerves like steel, 
 
 He yet could warm affection feel. 
 
 And, though oft swayed by scenes of strife. 
 
 He cherished well that young, fair life. 
 
 No woman's tender tempting smile 
 
 Could ever thus his soul beguile, 
 
 Or give the satisfying joy 
 
 Hercules found in that dear boy. 
 
 Close to his side he kept the youth. 
 
 In all his innocence and truth. 
 
 Seeking to guard him well with watchful skill 
 
 From e'en the slightest chance of ill. 
 
 But oft the closest, tenderest care 
 
 Neglects some well known, dangerous snare 
 
 So common to accustomed eyes 
 
 That few the danger realize. 
 
 And so, when through the Mysian shade, 
 
 Hercules and his Hylas strayed. 
 
 There came a moment of relaxing care, 
 
 Amid the fair surroundings there. 
 
 And wandering from Hercules' side — 
 
 His sturdy champion and guide. 
 
 Without one thought of peril near. 
 
 Young Hylas found the fountain clear — 
 
 The crystal spring of Mysian fame. 
 
 Out of whose depths the naiads came, 
 
 I02 
 
Then, thirsting in the summer heat, 
 He craved the water, cool and sweet. 
 And, kneehng at the fountain's brink, 
 Refreshing draughts began to drink. 
 And, as he bowed above the wave, 
 That thus such sweet refreshment gave. 
 The water nymphs who dweh below — 
 In all their charms that naiads know — 
 Soon spied his handsome face, 
 And lithesome form of matchless grace. 
 And, with one accordant thought — 
 To quickening act and feeling wrought. 
 At once desired to tempt the boy, 
 Their love and passion to enjoy. 
 Up through the waters then they rose, 
 Their charms delightful to expose. 
 And Hylas as he saw them rise 
 Did not discreetly close his eyes, 
 Nor from the voluptuous sight 
 His safety find in bashful flight. 
 Too long he gazed and then — he fell, 
 And weakly yielded to the naiads' spell, 
 And, yielding thus, no warrior brave, 
 Or arm of strength could Hylas save. 
 For down they bore him far below 
 To fate and fortune none might know. 
 
 Hercules hasting to the place — 
 His missing Hylas's steps to trace. 
 Heard from the fountain's depths arise 
 That well-known voice in echoing cries. 
 But all his efforts were in vain 
 His loved companion to regain. 
 
 103 
 
In fiercest wrath the warrior raged, 
 And all his utmost powers engaged. 
 No will of his could reach below, 
 Or powerful spell of nymphs o'erthrow, 
 And so, perforce, with anger great. 
 He left young Hylas to his fate. 
 
 So oft the loved and beauteous fall, 
 When charms of voice and form enthrall, 
 And strong desires, and passion bold, 
 The yielding soul in bondage hold, 
 While virtue mourns the lack of power 
 To rescue in temptation's hour. 
 
 THAT AWFUL AUTO 
 By Criticus and Co. 
 
 To own an auto was my aim — 
 My very great ambition, 
 
 Though quite a luxury to claim 
 For one in my position. 
 
 I checked expenses every way, 
 In methods most restraining. 
 
 Foregoing comforts day by day. 
 Without the least complaining. 
 
 In time, I had the cash in hand 
 To get the kind I needed, 
 
 Then every catalogue, I scanned, 
 And every "ad" I heeded. 
 
 104 
 
And soon I bought a number one — 
 A thing of strength and beauty, 
 
 That looked all right, and safe to run 
 For pleasure or for duty. 
 
 My mind was in exalted state 
 When thus my wish attaining; 
 
 Mine truly was a happy fate 
 In such an auto gaining. 
 
 And dow^n the street I grandly rode 
 In manner most unfearing. 
 
 I speeded on, and then I slowed, 
 And practised on the steering. 
 
 But, all at once, it gathered speed 
 And got beyond controlling, 
 
 And like a crazy thing indeed. 
 It down the street went rolling. 
 
 And soon it struck a baker's cart 
 And sent his biscuits flying, 
 
 Then took another furious start, 
 All obstacles defying. 
 
 Thus far I kept my seat, with will 
 
 To subjugate that auto. 
 But right to conquer and to kill 
 
 Now seemed to be its motto. 
 
 For just ahead, to my dismay, 
 
 I saw the foaming river. 
 And knew that in some hurried way 
 
 I must myself deliver. 
 
And so, in frantic haste I jumped,— 
 To save myself from slaughter. 
 
 As down the bank that auto bumped 
 Then blew up under water. 
 
 Then I awoke! It was a dream, 
 But oft it makes me shiver, 
 
 So realistic did it seem — 
 That auto — and — that river. 
 
 ELECTION ON THE PLANET MARS 
 
 They have just had an election 
 
 Upon the planet Mars, 
 And, by wireless connection, 
 
 They telegraphed the Stars. 
 
 The earth came in the Martian circuit 
 
 And caught the flying news. 
 And now we know how Martians work it 
 
 When they their rulers choose. 
 
 No man there can have position 
 
 In the affairs of state 
 Except on one condition. 
 
 On that he must be straight. 
 
 He must have a pile of money 
 
 And shell it out quite free, 
 Or — what seems as funny. 
 
 His friends must bankers be. 
 
 io6 
 
They must send the dollars flying 
 
 If he hasn't got the dough; 
 Pay for music and for lying, 
 
 And lots of foolish show. 
 
 For votes? — Oh! no! that's forbidden 
 Right there they shut the bars, 
 
 "All above board," nothing hidden 
 Upon the planet Mars. 
 
 After all the gush and blowing 
 Each swears how much he spent, 
 
 And if one has a meagre showing 
 There's surely discontent. 
 
 Poor men, good men, seldom stand alone. 
 
 The dollars win the fight, 
 Although the truth is plainly shown, 
 
 Good cash may down the right. 
 
 FOOTBALL^ 
 
 Examinations have commenced 
 
 For nineteen hundred and three; 
 
 Strong of nerve and perfect muscle 
 Every football man must be. 
 
 Through the coming months of practice 
 This must be the chiefest aim; 
 
 Little else can have attention 
 Or a greater interest claim. 
 
 107 
 
For the game means life and money; 
 
 Some must lose and some may gain; 
 And in ugly rush and struggle 
 
 There may be unmeasured pain. 
 
 Twenty killed and sixty crippled 
 
 Was the record of last year; 
 Such the wicked consummation 
 
 In this game they hold so dear. 
 
 Twenty strugghng for the pigskin 
 Got their first diploma sure, 
 
 But not engrossed on parchment 
 Long in honor to endure. 
 
 Sixty strong, impulsive fellows 
 
 Punted with a vigor great, 
 And with broken limbs and noses 
 
 They at last did graduate. 
 
 Gained their life-long marks of conflict- 
 Of their struggling in the mire, 
 
 Like a lot of bears and tigers. 
 Truly brutal in desire. 
 
 io8 
 
THE MAN WITH A HORN 
 
 He was very deaf and carried a horn, 
 
 As a "harking horn" it then was known, 
 It was made of tin, and was two feet long, 
 
 A primitive, uncouth thing to own. 
 But it always answered its purpose well 
 
 And helped him to gather the news; 
 It hung from his neck by a home-made string 
 
 That kept it convenient to use. 
 The most of his time he spent on the street, 
 
 And not a single soul would he spare, 
 But held up that horn to every one 
 
 And kept his victims shouting there. 
 But all those that he owed could never make 
 
 That shrewd old man their message hear, 
 And the fact that they were dunning him 
 
 Would never enter his deadened ear. 
 It was thus that he ignored his debts, 
 
 And made his sad infirmity pay, 
 By blufhng his anxious creditors off 
 
 In this simple and successful way. 
 
 109 
 
THE SHADES OF MORTIMER 
 
 It was a sultry summer night, 
 
 Too hot to think of sleeping; 
 The moon was shining clear and bright 
 
 Its usual vigil keeping. 
 
 The chimes of Wesleyan — on the hill, 
 The midnight hour were pealing. 
 
 And o'er the city — calm and still, 
 The cadence notes were stealing. 
 
 I dressed myself and wandered out 
 
 My course but little heeding, 
 My restless steps — no doubt. 
 
 Some canny influence leading. 
 
 For in old Mortimer, close by, 
 
 I found myself a roaming. 
 Amid the tombstones grim, and high, 
 
 And ghastly in the gloaming. 
 
 Through weeds and briars I made my way 
 And at my courage wondered. 
 
 'Twas bad enough to come by day, 
 But now I felt I'd blundered. 
 
 For all at once I voices heard 
 And knew that spooks were walking. 
 
 And soon I caught each murmuring word 
 And understood their talking. 
 
 no 
 
'Twas really sad to hear them rave; 
 
 One ghost great grief was showing 
 Because he could not find his grave, 
 
 So high the grass was growing. 
 
 They said it was a shameful sign 
 To have their graves neglected 
 
 When Riverside was kept so fine, 
 From vandals rude protected. 
 
 "That's so!" — by sudden impulse stirred, 
 I found myself then shouting; 
 
 They fled without another word, 
 It closed their nightly outing. 
 
 Ill 
 
"YOU MUST NOT TELL" 
 
 While passing slowly down the street, 
 I met old Scandal-Tongue one day, 
 
 Who grabbed me through the button-hole, 
 And made me hear his wondrous say. 
 
 With sanctimonious phiz drawn down 
 In troubled aspect grave and stem. 
 
 In confidence he told the tale, 
 He was so very sad to learn. 
 
 It was indeed a "sickening case;" 
 If true, most blighting to the fame 
 
 Of one who hitherto had borne 
 An honest and untarnished name. 
 
 And with many a deep drawn sigh. 
 
 And with eyes upturned, in horror, too, 
 
 Old Scandal fairly groaned, and said, 
 He ne'er such vile corruption knew. 
 
 But his story done, it seemed to me 
 His mind was rather more at ease: 
 
 In fact he had such a curious look, 
 
 I thought he would either laugh or sneeze. 
 
 Then all at once, in cautious mood, 
 
 With wisely twist he cocked his head, — 
 
 With hand upraised, in warning held, — ■ 
 In low concemful voice he said: 
 
 "You must not tell! No, not for the world," 
 "/ would not have su^h stories go. 
 
"I think so very ?nuch of him (?) 
 "And then it may not all be so." 
 
 I left him then in attitude — 
 Although in confidence discreet, 
 
 Nine times that day he button-holed 
 His helpless victims on the street. 
 
 SLANDER 
 
 It was first a jealous thought, 
 
 Or a lightly spoken word, 
 From which the vilest meaning 
 
 Was readily inferred. 
 
 One said he "should not wonder," 
 Or he "guessed that it was so," 
 
 And the next one who told it 
 Claimed it as a fact to know. 
 
 Then a hundred tongues were loosened, 
 And swift-winged the story flew. 
 
 And often as related 
 In its magnitude it grew. 
 
 And all through the gossip world 
 
 It was "confidential" told, 
 And all who heard it were pledged 
 
 The story never to unfold. 
 
 O no! they must not tell it, 
 
 For "perhaps it was not true," 
 Although each one intimated 
 
 He had "not told one half he knew. 
 
 "3 
 
And so these social vultures 
 
 Picked their victim bone by bone, 
 
 Still whining, as they gossipped. 
 
 That such vileness ne'er was known. 
 
 DREAMLAND LIFE 
 
 When sleep each outward, active sense, 
 In lightsome bondage holds, 
 
 The inward mystery of thought, 
 In dreamland life unfolds. 
 
 Strange fictitious life, that seems too true, 
 
 In all its joy and pain, 
 To be but the vain imaginings 
 
 Of a half-unconscious brain. 
 
 Far from the paths we daily tread. 
 
 The restless spirit strays, 
 Forgetful of realities. 
 
 In shadowy, dreamland ways. 
 
 Sometimes the deepest darkness lies 
 
 On dreamland hill and dale, 
 And ghostly shapes and nameless fears. 
 
 The wandering soul assail. 
 
 But oftener far sweet sights and sounds, 
 
 And joy and love are there. 
 And a golden sunset glor)' makes 
 
 All dreamland "bright and fair." 
 
 In dreamland, too, with fond delight. 
 Dear friends we sometimes meet; 
 
 114 
 
"Long lost, but ne'er forgotten ones," 
 With hallowed feelings greet. 
 
 With them we walk through dreamland scenes, 
 
 And pleasant converse hold, 
 With all the confidence of love, 
 
 And sympathy untold. 
 
 And then, too soon, we wake to know 
 
 The truth of life once more. 
 And sigh for what we leave behind 
 
 On dreamland's mystic shore. 
 
 MINISTERING SPIRITS 
 
 It must be true that they come back. 
 And that at times we feel them near. 
 
 Such peace, such sweetness do they bring, 
 So real their presence doth appear. 
 
 And when is there so fit a time 
 As in the stillness of the night. 
 
 When the wearied body is at rest. 
 And one forgets life's troubling fight. 
 
 The longing soul can sense them then 
 In freedom from the weight of care, 
 
 And so they come, so fair, so pure, 
 A ministration kind to bear. 
 
 Are we not truly happy then? 
 
 And when we wake we often hold 
 A little while the joy they bring 
 
 In the message they have told. 
 
 115 
 
FROM SHORE TO SHORE 
 
 Along the rugged shore of time 
 With weary steps we stray, — 
 
 Watching the ever-flowing tide, 
 Bearing our hopes away. 
 
 Close to our feet the waters roll — 
 
 The sullen, surging sea; 
 Beyond which lies the pleasant land 
 
 Where oft we long to be. 
 
 We long the wonders there to view. 
 
 On that delightful shore ; 
 Where perfect beauty, perfect life. 
 
 Endure forevermore. 
 
 Lov'd ones are passing o'er the wave, 
 In that bright home to dwell; 
 
 But none of them come back again, 
 Of that fair land to tell. 
 
 But we know 'tis a place of rest, 
 
 Where all are free from care- 
 Where none e'er suffer pain or grief, 
 Nor heavy burdens bear. 
 
 And so we, longing, watch and wait, 
 
 While others go before. 
 Until our summons, too, shall come. 
 
 To pass from shore to shore. 
 
 ii6 
 
FROSTWORK 
 
 On the windows a hand unseen 
 
 Through the winter night hath wrought, 
 
 Pencilhng a marvellous screen, 
 With mystic beauty fraught. 
 
 Light and shade in soft embracings, 
 Varied forms of grace impart: 
 
 Wavy lines and silv'ry chasings, 
 Far beyond all mortal art. 
 
 Through a foliage deftly growing 
 The morning sunlight streams, 
 
 Till with starry brightness glowing 
 All in jeweled splendor gleams. 
 
 O, rare and radiant tracing 
 
 Of branch, and leaf, and flower! 
 
 Pearly lightness interlacing 
 In fairy forest bower. 
 
 117 
 
THE OLD PINE TREE 
 
 In stately loneliness it stands; 
 
 A grand and ancient tree, 
 And tribute of respect demands 
 
 To grace its dignity. 
 
 Its towering form — as giant strong, 
 
 Clothed in a garb of green. 
 Has here for generations long, 
 
 Unnumbered changes seen. 
 
 And as one stands beneath its shade 
 
 There almost seems to be 
 A something human — half betrayed, 
 
 In this old monarch tree. 
 
 The winds, which sweep its branches through. 
 Have mournful, voice-like tone. 
 
 As though they would with speech endue 
 To make its story known. 
 
 New life has come, and life has gone, 
 
 With all life's hope and fear. 
 In strange procession passing on, 
 
 Since it has flourished here. 
 
 And still it stands — as giant strong, 
 
 A far off landmark seen, 
 And yet may stand for decades long. 
 
 Clothed in its garb of green. 
 
 n8 
 
IN MEMORY OF W. C. FOWLER 
 Professor of Geology, Amherst College 
 
 The end hath come, and we, who stood so near, 
 Are barred from the famihar sight of him 
 Who Hngered long upon hfe's outward threshold 
 Ready to depart, yet waiting for a few more kindly 
 words. 
 His form was slightly bowed, his hair was gray; 
 He was an old man, and yet there gleamed 
 Upon his countenance the cheering freshness 
 Of an undimmed intellect. 
 His still firmly modulated voice gave utterance 
 To language purely and correctly wrought. 
 With slight betrayal of hfe's waning powers, 
 Or weakening of the finely pohshed mind. 
 Along the corridors of time there came 
 The final summons to our aged friend. 
 We knew that he must leave us, and yet, 
 We could not bear to have him go. 
 
 In those last sad moments we thought of all 
 
 The pleasant hours that we had passed together. 
 
 He had ever led us on to noble thoughts; 
 
 We had heard him talk of the eventful scenes 
 
 Of his ever active and most earnest life. 
 
 He had painted, with most graceful art, word pictures 
 
 Of other days, until we, too, seemed to five in time 
 
 long past 
 And make acquaintance with world-famous men — 
 The patriots, statesmen, the poets and the scholars 
 Of an uncorrupted, brilhant age; 
 Many an hour had been spent with him in his quiet 
 study; 
 
 119 
 
With mutual interest we had read the thoughts of 
 
 giant minds, 
 Preserved in ancient tomes, where outward semblance 
 Seemed to tell of strong and sternest judgments, — 
 Of criticisms of all the elements and sophistries of 
 human life. 
 And now, he, too, must be numbered with those 
 Who had gone before, and we are left to read 
 The volumed treasures of his searching mind. 
 Not as we have read the thoughts of other men, 
 But with a constant, kindly memory 
 Of the courteous, hale old man. 
 
 BURNING OF THE BROOKLYN THEATRE 
 Dec. 28, 1876 
 
 Beauty and strength and manly pride 
 
 In gaiety were gathered there, 
 Life's daily duties laid aside 
 
 In glad forgetfulness of care. 
 
 Fair forms were there with hearts that beat 
 
 In confidence of thought elate. 
 Responsive to love's music sweet, 
 
 Unconscious of a fearful fate. 
 
 The passing pleasures of the hour 
 Were wrought with wonder-working skill, 
 
 Impassioned with exquisite power. 
 Each inmost consciousness to thrill. 
 
 All seemed well; no dreadsome thought 
 Awoke the slumbering sense of fear, 
 ^ Nor over- anxious spirit caught 
 Perception of the danger near. 
 
 120 
 
No thought there was of pain or woe, 
 
 But soul met soul; and eyes were bright, 
 
 And hearts were warm and cheeks aglow 
 With cherished dreams of dear delight. 
 
 But, ah, a flash! a cry! and lo! 
 
 A scene no soul had dreamed of came, 
 As swiftly burst in fiery glow 
 
 An avalanche of flame! 
 
 One single instant of suspense. 
 
 And then an agony of strife! 
 A struggling, awful and intense. 
 
 Embattling for a chance of life. 
 
 Alas, no hope! in vain the prayers. 
 
 In vain the terror stricken cry! 
 In horrifying, dire despair, 
 
 The doomed all crushed and helpless lie. 
 
 Into a hell of fire pitiless thrown! 
 
 O God! how torturing and strange, 
 From graceful movements and melodious tone, 
 
 How inconceivable the change. 
 
 One brief moment from joy to pain! 
 
 From visions beautiful and bright— 
 From cheerful thought to saddest strain, 
 
 From light and love to darkest night. 
 
YOUNG AMERICA 
 
 Young America slumbers not, nor dreams 
 
 The golden moments of his life away; 
 No "wayside bowers" where pleasure perfect seems, 
 
 Have power to woo his earnest steps astray. 
 
 Daring and doing, in his free-born might, 
 He presses forward, with a craving mind. 
 
 To tread the path of knowledge and of right; 
 Nor siren songs can tempt, nor passion bind. 
 
 Even as a school-boy — vigorous and gay, 
 
 He glories in his heritage of name, 
 And o'er the historic page, day by day, 
 
 Finds inspiration in his country's fame. 
 
 With a quickening pulse and a flashing eye 
 
 He reads and thinks, and, with ambition rife. 
 
 Chafes with impatience for the hours to fly 
 Which keep him from the honored lists of life. 
 
 It matters not how humble be his birth, 
 
 The highest aims are free to all; 
 To resolution and to honest worth 
 
 The noblest gifts of wealth and honor fall. 
 
 No tinselled, tilted rank restrains his mind; 
 
 No privileged class o'er him holds prideful sway; 
 From lowliest station he can find 
 
 Upward and onward an opening way. 
 
 122 
 
Where'er his zealous aspirations tend 
 Abundant means his native land affords, 
 
 Through which, at last, his dauntless hopes may end 
 In full fruition and in rich rewards. 
 
 VICTORY 
 
 Swift o'er the wire flies startling news, 
 A battle fought! A victory won! 
 
 Rebellion checked, a stronghold gained, 
 And mighty deeds of daring done. 
 
 How the heart of the nation throbs 
 
 As speeds the welcome word; 
 What sounds of joy come echoing back. 
 
 Where'er the tale is heard. 
 
 But hark! 'mid all the boisterous mirth, 
 
 And loud exultant tones. 
 The agony of war wails forth 
 
 In smothered shrieks and groans. 
 
 The voice of Death — a torturing strain, 
 Floats on with the conquering swell. 
 
 And the voice of Grief from a million homes 
 Where the stricken hearted dwell. 
 
 A battle fought! A victory won! 
 
 Glory and honor gained; 
 But the welcome words with the crimson blood 
 
 Of our ovra loved ones are stained. 
 
 123 
 
A CASTLE IN THE AIR 
 
 In early life when free from care 
 I built a castle in the air, 
 And filled it with enchantments rare 
 Of beauty and of melody. 
 
 But only for a summer sky 
 I kept that castle in the air, 
 Full soon I found it would not bear 
 
 The shock of tempests passing by. 
 
 E'er long those glamoured hours were o'er, 
 
 That castle fair in ruins lay, 
 
 Its treasures vanished in a day. 
 And all was lost forevermore. 
 
 And yet it was not all in vain, 
 
 I built that castle in the air, 
 
 Or dreamed those dreams that seemed so fair, 
 Which ended thus in bitter pain. 
 
 Life henceforth had many a care. 
 
 And it was long before regret was dead, 
 But all, at last, to better effort led 
 
 Than building castles in the air. 
 
 134 
 
IT IS BEST TO HAVE FAITH 
 
 It is best to have faith in all, 
 And sometimes be betrayed, 
 
 Than always fear to be deceived 
 And confidence evade. 
 
 Beneath the Ocean's rolling wave 
 Sad wrecks unnumbered lie, 
 
 Yet men still sail from shore to shore, 
 And fortunes gain thereby. 
 
 The songful birds heed not the wind, 
 Nor stay their joyous flight. 
 
 Though sometimes rudely borne afar 
 With fierce, impetuous might. 
 
 And so some hearts we dearly trust 
 May false and treacherous prove. 
 
 And yet 'tis better far to live 
 In constant faith and love. 
 
 And he who loves and trusts the most 
 Will greatest pleasure find, 
 
 And love and faith as trustful gain 
 To satisfy his mind. 
 
 "5 
 
NO LIFE SO FAIR 
 
 No life so fair but it must bear 
 
 Some disappointments here, 
 Its brightest dreams, its sunniest gleams, 
 
 May end in darkness drear. 
 
 Thought travels fast, yet hurries past 
 
 Realities in vain; 
 Each sense refined, of heart or mind, 
 
 May bring some grief or pain. 
 
 And friendly zeal may oft congeal, 
 
 As time and distance part. 
 For constant change, where'er we range. 
 
 Awaits the human heart. 
 
 E'en deepest bliss, love's fondest kiss. 
 Still longs for something more — 
 
 Some deeper thrill the soul to fill 
 With joy unknown before. 
 
 126 
 
FUGIT TEMPUS 
 
 The moments are flying, 
 
 Soon passing away, 
 For joy or for sighing, 
 
 They never delay. 
 
 On swift pinions fleeting 
 
 They hurry along; 
 For parting or greeting, 
 
 They never prolong. 
 
 Even moments of sorrow 
 Ever onward are pressing, 
 
 To-day and to-morrow, 
 Sure movement possessing. 
 
 The moments are going. 
 In peace or in strife, 
 
 No stay ever knowing, 
 As measures of hfe. 
 
 127 
 
ON MOUNTAIN HEIGHTS 
 
 Upon the lofty mountain heights 
 
 An all pervading grandeur lies, 
 Which thrills through every quickening sense 
 
 As crests on crests far upward rise. 
 
 Above the world's unceasing din — 
 Its ever wearying strife and care, 
 
 The work of ages stands revealed 
 In most impressive records there. 
 
 Height upon height, in massive piles — 
 
 Uplifted by titanic power. 
 The giant pinnacles of rock 
 
 O'er deep and rugged chasms tower. 
 
 There silence reigns, save when the clouds 
 Move earthward with a sullen roar, 
 
 And down the crumbling mountain side 
 In swift descending torrents pour. 
 
 Or when the eagle, proudly soaring 
 Towards the azure of the sky, 
 
 Circles awhile, then, downward sweeping, 
 Gives forth its shrill and wailing cry. 
 
 Silent, massive, grand and beautiful! 
 
 Bathed in sunlight, or wrapped in shade. 
 Snow-capped, or standing grim and gray, 
 
 A constant inspiration made. 
 
 Come up, then, to the mountain heights! 
 Up from the toiling world below, 
 
 128 
 
And more of God's great handiwork, 
 And nature's highest glory know. 
 
 Come where the breath of Hfe is pure, 
 Where souls expand with thoughts sublime, 
 
 And draw more closely to the truths 
 Of all eternity and time. 
 
 TOURMALINE 
 
 Whence thy beauty Tourmaline? 
 
 Tell me true I pray, 
 How didst thou thy colors win 
 
 Gleaming bright alway? 
 
 Do not this my prayer refuse. 
 
 Beauteous Tourmaline! 
 Whence were all thy varied hues 
 
 Gaily gathered in ? 
 
 Was it in some fairy glen 
 When the world was young? 
 
 Didst thou catch a sunbeam then 
 With thy colors strung? 
 
 Dear, delightful Tourmaline! 
 
 Charming to the eye, 
 In thy form, soft blended in, 
 
 Dainty tintings lie. 
 
 Though that form of beauty 
 
 Has no soul within, 
 I must ever love thee, 
 
 Precious Tourmaline. 
 
THE AGATE 
 
 Out of the roughness of the rocks 
 
 A marvel of dehght, 
 A wondrous story telHng 
 
 To all who read aright. 
 
 In all its varied tracings 
 
 It tells of long ago, 
 Of elemental strivings 
 
 A new-bom world must know. 
 
 In earth's deep and darksome caverns, 
 When secret forces blended, 
 
 Atom unto atom joining 
 On nature's will attended. 
 
 Thence there came this form of beauty 
 
 So wondrous in design, 
 So delicate and charming 
 
 In every graceful line. 
 
 We love the beautiful in life, 
 
 Nor love it there alone. 
 The agate, too, can thrill the soul 
 
 Although a lifeless stone. 
 
 No chance creation can it be. 
 
 So mystic and so fair. 
 In hfe's greater mystery 
 
 A part it has to bear. 
 
 It is a source of interest 
 To each observing mind, 
 
And in its lines of beauty 
 We constant pleasure find. 
 
 THE FOSSIL HUNTER 
 
 All inspiring is the stor}^ 
 
 The fossil hunter has in mind 
 
 As he delves in ancient strata 
 The secrets of the earth to find. 
 
 In the Great Creator's footsteps 
 Through the course of ages going, 
 
 In the rocks he reads a record 
 
 True and constant purpose showing. 
 
 What the fossil hunter seeth 
 
 Others cannot always see, 
 Life and scenes unlike the present 
 
 That last awhile then cease to be. 
 
 Rolling waves and crumbling mountains, 
 And God's eternal forging fires 
 
 Still building up new continents 
 Where life to better life aspires. 
 
 And still the work goes on, and on, 
 And God with purpose plans it all 
 
 Till, at last, a full perfection 
 He creation's work shall call. 
 
 131 
 
MEMORIES OF THE PAST 
 
 We all can find something pleasant 
 In looking back upon the past; 
 
 Some joyous and delightful hours 
 Whose interest will forever last. 
 
 And trifling things oft bring to mind 
 The pleasures and the hopes of old, 
 
 Some gentle word or kindly look, 
 Again the scroll of life unfold. 
 
 And though, perchance, they soon were lost- 
 Those happy hours of trust and truth, 
 
 We love to dream them o'er again — 
 Those dear enjoyments of youth. 
 
 And mid the din, the toil and strife — 
 The world's continual work and wear, 
 
 These memories will ever charm 
 To sweet forgetfulness of care. 
 
 Yes, pleasant memories are those 
 Which bring again, in swift review, 
 
 The dear enjoyments of our youth, 
 So fond, so tender, and so true. 
 
WHICH ONE OF THESE ARE YOU? 
 
 There is a certain difference in mankind 
 
 That one can readily define; 
 But not between the rich and poor we find 
 
 The ever-separating fine. 
 Some rich men are ever generous seen, 
 
 Are whole-souled men in all their ways; 
 Are never guilty of an action mean, 
 
 Or think that adulation pays. 
 Such men take great comfort in their wealth; 
 
 True friends they make where'er they go. 
 And if they ride for pleasure or for health 
 
 No one will ever envy show. 
 Other rich men think that they are made 
 
 Of better flesh than poorer men; 
 With lordly airs their scornful role is played 
 
 And few seem worthy of their ken. 
 They walk the streets with cold and haughty stare. 
 
 And when they ride they do so for display; 
 And every action does the impress bear 
 
 Of a selfish and conceited way. 
 Again, poor men as noblemen may be. 
 
 And poverty with courage bear. 
 Each day some blessing in their portion see 
 
 That makes all life a cheerful aspect wear. 
 Such love their homes and love their fellowmen; 
 
 A healthful goodness is their constant aim. 
 And the love they give comes back to them again 
 
 In honest reverence and acclaim. 
 Other poor men think that all is wrong — 
 
 Are cross and crabbed in their ways; 
 They only sing a melancholy song, 
 
 Nor ever strike a note of praise. 
 
 ^33 
 
Such never have quite half a chance to live, 
 For other men the best have got. 
 
 Instead of prizing what their lives can give 
 They evermore bewail their lot. 
 
 Rich or poor, such is the difference true. 
 
 And which of these in daily hfe are you ? 
 
 TROUBLE ON THE PLANET MARS 
 
 There was trouble on the planet Mars, 
 Great disturbance and commotion, 
 
 Some fearful influence spreading 
 Over continent and ocean. 
 
 All the Martians were excited 
 And wildly hurrying to and fro, 
 
 Looking anxious and despairing 
 O'er some overwhelming woe. 
 
 Odor awful and mephitic 
 
 Was penetrating everywhere, 
 Worse than any combination 
 u, The skill of chemists can prepare. 
 
 What could be this stifling odor — 
 So unaccountable and strange, 
 
 Coming thus upon the planet 
 With such an universal range? 
 
 Learned Martians, men of science — 
 Seeking the source of all this woe, 
 
 Through all space exploring 
 Came at last, the truth to know. 
 
 134 
 
From the earth came all this trouble, 
 From a beauteous world disgraced; 
 
 To the habits of its people 
 
 They this curse mephitic traced. 
 
 Nauseous fumes from pipe and bowl — 
 
 In varied forms of usage known, 
 Through long centuries uprising, 
 
 To space-pervading power had grown. 
 
 Stench of liquor and narcotics. 
 Worse than all bi-sulphides known, 
 
 And foully tainting everything 
 On the planet Mars was thrown. 
 
 Odor awful and mephitic — 
 
 Spreading horror and despair. 
 Naught could save the strangling Martians 
 
 Or neutralize that deadly air. 
 
 SATAN'S SYNDICATE 
 
 What awful fiendish work is done 
 
 Through Satan's active Syndicate, 
 In every land, in every zone. 
 
 Its power through all the earth is great. 
 Alcohol, tobacco, and the love of gold, 
 
 Have horrid and debasing power, 
 And fearful miseries, untold. 
 
 Are multiplying every hour. 
 The agents of the Syndicate 
 
 Are found wherever one may go, 
 On every side they watch and wait, 
 
 Nor ever shame or mercy know. ^ 
 
 135 
 
With hardened hearts they never heed 
 
 The widows' or the orphans' cry, 
 Nor aught of suffering or of need 
 
 Awakes in them a pitying sigh. 
 If they can gain a store of gold 
 
 They care not what may be the cost, 
 Nor seem themselves guilty to hold, 
 
 Though hearts may break, and souls are lost, 
 And through the world men drain the glass 
 
 Which wrecks the body and the mind. 
 To deepest degradation pass, — 
 
 To all life's sad examples blind. 
 And ruined homes and aching hearts. 
 
 Disease, crime, poverty and shame, 
 And all the pain remorse imparts 
 
 Is all a drunkard's life can claim. 
 Is there no hope? No chance to break 
 
 Temptation's bonds of power so great? 
 Does God his creatures now forsake 
 
 To Satan's evil Syndicate? 
 O no ! nor is it now too late 
 
 For honest work, and earnest prayer. 
 And all the truly good and great 
 
 Should yet most bravely do and dare. 
 More bravely stand to help the right. 
 
 To save the erring and the weak, 
 And rise in all their power and might 
 
 The greatest good for all to seek. 
 If all would thus their interest show, 
 
 The "gates of hell — " which open stand 
 Wherever human footsteps go. 
 
 Would soon be closed in every land, 
 
 136 
 
And life would be more true and fair, 
 And peace and love would banish hate, 
 
 And all be free from this great snare 
 Of crafty Satan's Syndicate. 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S CLUB 
 
 O make it more cheerful and bright — 
 The place where the beer drinkers go, 
 
 And fill it with every delight. 
 
 For the times demand it you know, 
 
 'Tis ^Hhe poor man's club^' to-day, 
 
 A more respectable name, 
 And seems much nicer to say, 
 
 And less suggestive of shame. 
 
 The Bishop has given it blessing, 
 The Rector believes it the way; 
 
 The saloon is surely progressing 
 With everything else to-day. 
 
 All it wants now is a "trust" 
 
 To make its object secure. 
 To make it strong in the lust 
 
 That would more victims allure. 
 
 The beer seller smiles o'er his bar — 
 So bright his prospects appear, 
 
 There is nothing his comfort to mar, 
 The way before him seems clear. 
 
 With the church and the state on his side 
 He certainly has nothing to fear, 
 
 The "poor man's club" will be his pride 
 The poor man's ruin his cheer. 
 
 137 
 
THE RUMSELLER 
 
 He stands behind his bar, 
 
 Waiting day by day 
 For the weak and careless 
 
 To become his prey. 
 Ever cool and watchful — 
 
 In his sordid aim, 
 Ruining souls and bodies 
 
 Without fear or shame. 
 Right hand man of Satan, 
 
 In his lust for gain, 
 Staying not for sorrow, 
 
 Caring not for pain. 
 Blighted homes are nothing, 
 
 Nor the hearts that bleed, 
 Naught of pity has he 
 
 In his sinful greed. 
 Every sense of honor 
 
 From his life has fled, 
 Every word of pleading 
 
 Finds his conscience dead. 
 Starving wives and children 
 
 Pray to him in vain. 
 From his soul so reckless 
 
 They no mercy gain. 
 His the horrid traffic. 
 
 Theirs the shame untold, 
 Though they weep and suffer 
 
 He must have his gold. 
 
 138 
 
THE TEMPERANCE LEVER 
 
 Take right hold upon "The Lever," 
 
 All honest men and true, 
 And with all your strength endeavor 
 
 A royal work to do. 
 We have a sure and solid purchase 
 
 Across the base of right, 
 And every man should take his place 
 
 And pull with all his might. 
 
 And none should e'er faint-hearted be, 
 
 Or think the effort vain, 
 But pull away right lustily 
 
 More leverage to gain. 
 Then saloons must surely go — 
 
 Those awful dens of sin, 
 United force their power o'erthrow, 
 
 And perfect victory win. 
 
 Then take hold the Temperance Lever! 
 
 All honest men and true, 
 For the duty of endeavor 
 
 Most surely rests with you. 
 You should not wait, or hesitate, 
 
 Temptation to remove. 
 For in that lies a peril great 
 
 For many that we love. 
 
 For the men who deal out rum and beer, 
 Are prompt a chance to seek 
 
 To tempt all those who may appear 
 In strength of purpose weak. 
 
 139 
 
And every one they would persuade 
 
 The fearful stuff to take, 
 And care not for the ruin made 
 
 If they their profit make. 
 
 But they could not do such wrong 
 
 If temperance men were true, 
 And always stood out firm and strong, 
 
 And did the best they knew. 
 Then take hold the Temperance Lever! 
 
 All honest men and true, 
 For the duty of endeavor 
 
 Most surely rests with you. 
 
 THE UNDER DOG 
 
 Sometimes the suffering under dog 
 Deserves just what he gets, 
 
 When a peaceful minded dog 
 In snarling mood he frets. 
 
 Dog forbearance has its limits — 
 
 As in the human brain. 
 And low, canine comprehension 
 
 Does not this fact retain. 
 
 So, when a mean aggressive cur 
 
 A nobler beast attacks, 
 All sense of right and honor 
 
 That dog entirely lacks. 
 
 And who can blame the better dog 
 If he at last should turn, 
 
 140 
 
And try to make the other dog 
 Some decent manners learn? 
 
 Then do not punch the upper dog 
 When he asserts his rights, 
 
 And do not pity the under dog 
 Who started all the fight. 
 
 THE MAN IN THE BOX 
 
 The studious scientists of to-day 
 In methods new, and rather queer, 
 
 Their skill most marvellous display 
 Until results as marvellous appear. 
 
 They shut a genus homo in a box 
 Built up with multitudinous traps. 
 
 To guard from atmospheric shocks, 
 And other troublesome mishaps. 
 
 With pumps and guages, quite galore, 
 They kept him well supplied with air, 
 
 A rightful quantity, no more 
 
 Than what his heart and lungs could bear. 
 
 They fed him on everything but oats and hay, 
 And carefully observed results, 
 
 Tabulating every day 
 The tally of his heart and pulse. 
 
 They guaged the action of his brain. 
 The sHghtest twitching of a nerve, 
 
 His hours of restlessness and pain, 
 His strength potential in reserve 
 
 141 
 
At last they gave him all this treatment 
 With alcohol for food and drink, 
 
 And telephonic message sent 
 To tell him how to work and think. 
 
 And day by day the fiery test 
 
 On nerve and muscle they applied, 
 
 In doses such as they thought best 
 The liquid stimulant they tried. 
 
 The plucky fellow Hved it through, 
 And did all right his given stent, 
 
 And from the tabulations true 
 Reports world-wide were sent. 
 
 He lived it through, is living yet, 
 So alcohol as food they claim, 
 
 Though suffering souls cannot forget 
 It brought them poverty and shame. 
 
 140 
 
PART THIRD 
 Songs of Love 
 
MY ANGEL MOTHER 
 
 I saw my mother dear last night; 
 
 In a sweet dream she came to me, 
 All clad in raiment pure and white 
 
 Such as an angel's guise must be. 
 
 And she was radiant and fair, 
 
 All glowing with a heavenly grace, 
 
 Without one trace of worldly care 
 Upon her happy, angel face. 
 
 And the old look of love was there — 
 The unforgotten mother's gaze, 
 
 The pleasant smile she used to wear. 
 With all her tender thoughtful ways. 
 
 She pressed upon my lips a kiss — 
 That angel mother of my dreams. 
 
 And in that gentle touch of bliss 
 
 Most precious did her presence seem. 
 
 Without one earthly thought or fear 
 To mar the hallowedness of love 
 
 I breathed a sainted atmosphere 
 Expressive of the world above. 
 
 Too soon that vision passed away — 
 All softly fading from my sight, 
 
 Yet still retains its blissful sway, — 
 In oft remembered, dear delight. 
 
 145 
 
THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE 
 
 The warmest feelings of an earnest heart 
 Are oft the hardest to confess, 
 
 And words oft lack the ready art 
 Their depth and value to express. 
 
 But when upon life's devious way, 
 Two kindred souls may chance to meet. 
 
 Love finds fit language to convey — 
 From each to each its message sweet. 
 
 From heart to heart a mystic thrill 
 New consciousness of life awakes. 
 
 And dear delights the moments fill, 
 As soul with soul communion takes. 
 
 Love speaks through timid-glancing eyes; 
 
 It flashes o'er the blushing face, 
 Upon whose purity there lies 
 
 A new-born tenderness and grace. 
 
 In man 'tis shown in kindly care, 
 In quick response to every need, 
 
 In looks of love which ever bear 
 A gentleness of thought and deed. 
 
 Love's language o'er all the world is known, 
 In lands of every clime and name, 
 
 Near cottage hearth, or near a throne 
 Its sweet expression is the same. 
 
 146 
 
SHE REIGNS A QUEEN 
 
 She reigns a queen with dignity and grace 
 And yet true mother in her household sphere, 
 
 With loving look upon her earnest face, 
 
 And voice whose tones are ever sweet to hear. 
 
 Her dominion is in her quiet home — 
 A peerless queen of love and beauty she, 
 
 And from her rule none ever wish to roam, 
 Or seek from their allegiance to be free. 
 
 She reigns a queen with tender, kindly sway, 
 In all the pride of her fond woman's soul, 
 
 And loving ones most cheerfully obey 
 
 Her gentle mandates and her just control. 
 
 Her steadfast throne is in their trusting hearts, 
 Her joy is in the beauty of their lives, 
 
 To which her own dear self some grace imparts, 
 As for their constant happiness she strives. 
 
 A queenly mother and a queenly wife! 
 
 In all her daily duties pure and true, 
 She fills with goodness every hour of life, 
 
 And wins sweet love, and reverence, too. 
 
 147 
 
THE TRUE WIFE 
 
 The times were hard, and honest John was poor, 
 'Twas all the worthy man could do 
 
 To keep the hungry wolf without the door, 
 And clothe his many children, too. 
 
 And though his trust in God was always strong, 
 His weary heart was sometimes sad; 
 
 The path he trod seemed very rough and long, 
 And few the comforts that he had. 
 
 One night he sat in thinking, dreary mood. 
 
 After his evening meal was o'er, 
 While by his side his wife as thoughtful stood, 
 
 Watching the care-worn look he wore. 
 
 At last said she, — true wifely words to hear. 
 And spoken in her own sweet way. 
 
 Striving his all-enburdened soul to cheer. 
 And all his anxious fears allay, 
 
 ''We have so many ways for money, John, 
 
 And you are earning little, too, 
 I've been thinking to-day, while you were gone, 
 
 Of something more that I might do." 
 
 He waited for no more. With look of pride, 
 His arm was quickly around her thrown; 
 
 Such wife, such love, was worth all else besides. 
 No greater fortune could be known. 
 
 "My darhng, noble wife! thy trusting heart 
 Is always full of loving care, 
 148 
 
And always striving with thy woman's art 
 To ease the burdens that we bear. 
 
 ^^ God's blessings on thee, wife, so good, so true. 
 So faithful in thy cheering power, 
 
 In all our troubles never shrinking through 
 The darkest or the saddest hour, 
 
 "And with thee and the little ones in health, 
 
 I will not sorrow or complain. 
 For ye are better far than countless wealth, 
 
 Or everything that wealth can gain." 
 
 . THE TRIBUTE OF LOVE 
 
 There is one whose word is worth far more 
 
 Than all the critics say; 
 One whose loving praise I ever crave, 
 
 And seek to win alway. 
 
 With tender heart and careful eye, 
 She reads the lines I write, 
 
 And studies well the slightest thing 
 I happen to indite. 
 
 And I have sometimes seen her smile 
 At jovial thoughts of mine, 
 
 And follow on with eager glance 
 The measure of each line. 
 
 And once — and better far than praise, 
 
 Or all the wealth of fame, 
 I saw her drop a pearly tear, 
 
 My humble muse could claim. 
 
 149 
 
IMPATIENT LOVE 
 
 The time drags slowly, Love, away from thee, 
 And never coming, ever distant seems 
 
 The hour which brings most welcome back to me, 
 The angel of my life, my hopes, my dreams. 
 
 'Tis vain to strive to make the moments speed; 
 
 In vain to seek diversions here. 
 Thy longed-for presence is my greatest need; 
 
 All else around seems cold, and dark, and drear. 
 
 I miss thy form, thy gentle, loving smile, 
 And all love's sweet caressing ways, 
 
 The only charms which perfectly beguile 
 And fullest comfort to this life conveys. 
 
 I fain would look into thy eyes to-night, 
 The fondness of thy tender heart to see. 
 
 Time then would speed on wings of rosy light. 
 And hfe, indeed, be full of melody. 
 
 ISP 
 
TOUJOURS 
 
 As the weary hours of day 
 In life's duties pass away, 
 Far from all, my mind will stray, 
 And, loved one, think of thee. 
 
 When the "stilly hour of eve" 
 Comes the weary to relieve. 
 Then all care I'll gladly leave 
 And give that hour to thee. 
 
 When I kneel in humble prayer. 
 Heavenward on the evening air 
 Angelic forms shall bear 
 A sacred thought for thee. 
 
 When I take my nightly rest, 
 And in lightsome slumber blest 
 Greet the forms I love the best, 
 I will dream of thee. 
 
 i$i 
 
WEDDING BELLS 
 
 Like far off music, sweetly toned, 
 There comes the sound of wedding belle 
 
 Whose cadence to the listening ear 
 A happy, happy story tells. 
 
 joyous bells! voiceful of love, 
 And tremulous with pure delight, 
 
 To earnest and to kindred hearts, 
 A blissful chime ye ring to-night. 
 
 O joyous bells! love's wedding bells! 
 
 No sweeter music e'er can be. 
 Ring out once more exultantly, 
 
 Your chiming notes of melody. 
 
 Chime on, O bells! this favored hour 
 Is full of all that's bright and fair, 
 
 A.nd in its joys true love shall find 
 A glad forgetfulness of care. 
 
 God bless those well-beloved ones. 
 And day by day their bliss renew. 
 
 Guard them along hfe's devious way. 
 And ever keep them fond and true. 
 
 Yes, forever and forever, 
 
 For them chime on sweet wedding bells 
 Whose far off music sweetly toned, 
 
 A happy, happy story tells. 
 
 152 
 
THE SILVER WEDDING 
 
 (Mr. and Mrs. E. Woodruff.) 
 
 Sweet wedding bells we hear to-night, 
 
 In silvery chimes they ring, 
 And memories of dear delight 
 
 To loving hearts they bring. 
 
 Out of the past they call once more — 
 With soft constraining pow'r, 
 
 The fondest thoughts love lingers o'er, 
 In life's entrancing hour. 
 
 With thankful hearts these chimes we hear- 
 
 These silv'ry wedding bells, 
 Whose happy music — sweet and clear, 
 
 A pleasant story tells. 
 
 They tell of all that time has brought, 
 
 Of comfort and of cheer; 
 Of "wreaths of blessing" love has wrought 
 
 To crown each passing year. 
 
 They chime of what the future brings 
 
 To earnest, true desire; 
 Of hopes that rise on soaring wings, 
 
 And upward still aspire. 
 
 Chime on, then, O ye silver bells! 
 
 And gladly speed this hour; 
 For clear and sweet your music tells 
 
 Of love's entrancing power. 
 
 153 
 
LOVE KEEPS US YOUNG 
 
 Love keeps the heart from growing old, 
 And gives to life a firmer hold 
 When all its joys in age renew, 
 And soul to soul keeps fond and true. 
 
 Nature may oft her power display 
 To wear the form of strength away; 
 But love, with sweet reviving art, 
 Sustains the mind and cheers the heart. 
 
 The tender and affectionate ways — 
 So cheering in more youthful days, 
 As years go on still bring delight 
 And make all life seem warm and bright. 
 
 The love that bears the strain of years 
 More pure and beautiful appears. 
 And as the end of life draws near 
 Such love has less of doubt and fear. 
 
 154 
 
THE SUNSHINE OF LOVE 
 
 To love and be beloved is vi^orth 
 This toilsome journey on the earth; 
 To know that love is all thine ovi^n, 
 Reserved in faith for thee alone, 
 That hand in hand, and hearts as one. 
 Unchanging and true love's course shall run. 
 Is bliss enough for man to know, 
 Enough to lighten every woe. 
 
 To know no other form will share 
 The fond caress and tender care, 
 The loving words and gentle smile 
 That life's most weary hours beguile, 
 That these are kept alone for thee 
 And oft bestowed most lavishly, 
 Is bliss enough for man to know, 
 Enough to lighten every woe. 
 
 To read thy loved one's earnest mind 
 And find it thrilled with thoughts refined, 
 At times expressed in accents low, 
 With sparkling eyes and cheeks aglow, 
 Which tell that thus, to thee alone, 
 Her sweetest confidence is shown, 
 Is bliss enough for man to know, 
 Enough to lighten every woe. 
 
 155 
 
LOVE BY POST 
 
 O welcome, dear letter, 
 Which comes to impart 
 
 The sweetest of comfort 
 To my longing heart. 
 
 O welcome, most welcome. 
 For love lies within; 
 
 The purest and holiest 
 Man ever may win. 
 
 No words of affection 
 More tender could be 
 
 Than these that my loved one 
 Thus sendeth to me. 
 
 Then welcome, dear letter, 
 Which tells me of this — 
 
 That my love still loves me, 
 And sends me a kiss. 
 
 156 
 
THREE LITTLE MAIDENS 
 
 I must confess I am in love, 
 
 And very deeply, too. 
 For more than one my heart can claim, 
 
 As I am glad to have them do. 
 
 Three sweet, young maidens have my love, 
 
 And I have told them so. 
 And they are all delighted 
 
 This positive fact to know. 
 
 I must tell the truth about them, 
 
 And why they captured me, 
 And filled my life with rosy dreams, 
 
 And sweetest melody. 
 
 Two are pretty Gypsy girls. 
 With black and sparkling eyes, 
 
 Within whose clear and liquid depths 
 A look of goodness lies. 
 
 The other is a blue-eyed lass, 
 
 More quiet in her ways; 
 In everything as lovable, 
 
 As worthy, too, of praise. 
 
 Three darling little maidens 
 
 As one could wish to know, 
 And the truth is — / am Grandpa ! 
 
 And that is v.'hy I love them so. 
 
 IS7 
 
THE BIRTHDAY 
 
 Annie is nine years old to-day; 
 
 The thought is hke a lightsome dream, 
 So fast the time has passed away 
 
 It most impossible does seem. 
 Yet here she is, so tall, so fair, 
 
 Almost a little lady grown we find, 
 With looks and ways that seem to wear 
 
 A conscious dignity of mind. 
 The pretty miss begins to feel 
 
 That she has duties to fulfil; 
 That something of life's woe and weal 
 
 Depends upon her mind and will. 
 It seems but yesterday since she came — 
 
 With all her dainty baby ways, 
 Our love and tenderest care to claim 
 
 And fill with sunshine all our days. 
 And now she is a bonnie lass, 
 
 And we are counting up her years — 
 Which ever seem to quickly pass, 
 
 As dearer still her life appears. 
 It is a dream within a dream — 
 
 This other life within our lives. 
 Whose joys so ever precious seem 
 
 Whose trust such perfect pleasure gives. 
 
 158 
 
GOD BLESS THE LITTLE ONES 
 
 God bless the little ones! they are as pearls 
 
 Which strew the rugged path of life; 
 Sparkling with untutored loveliness, 
 
 And with exuberant freshness rife. 
 
 God bless the little ones, and homeward, heavenward, 
 Guard them from every blighting storm, 
 
 'Tis but the roughness of the world's fretful rush 
 Which shapes and warps them out of form. 
 
 Then care for the little ones tenderly. 
 
 Ay! treasure them close to the heart; 
 The richness of love they will richly repay, 
 
 And purest of pleasure impart. 
 
 Ever deal with them gently and truly, 
 Let their minds with wisdom be stored, 
 
 To fit them for a kingdom and a throne. 
 As precious jewels of the Lord. 
 
 159 
 
OUR BONNIE LASSIE 
 
 Her life is like a beauteous flower 
 So pure, so sweet to see, 
 
 Unfolding goodness every hour, 
 Our dear, our bonnie lassie. 
 
 Her smile is as the sunlight 
 So cheering and so free. 
 
 She keeps us all so heart-bright, 
 The dear, the bonnie lassie. 
 
 Her ways are full of blessing;— 
 
 A winsome girl is she, 
 A depth of love possessing, 
 
 Our sweet, our bonnie lassie. 
 
 A daily pride and treasure: — 
 
 A holy trust to be. 
 She makes of life a pleasure, 
 
 Our dear, our bonnie lassie. 
 
 That life how drear without her,— 
 Her lightsomeness and glee, 
 
 She comforts all about her, 
 Our dear, our bonnie lassie. 
 
 1 60 
 
ON THE CAMPUS 
 
 They are walking on the campus 
 
 With heads bowed down and footsteps slow, 
 And apparently unconscious 
 
 How swift their precious moments go. 
 
 They nothing care for Greek or Latin, 
 
 Or any scientific lore, 
 The lesson they are sweetly learning 
 
 Is surely worth to them far more. 
 
 And so they walk, with heads bowed down. 
 Absorbed in life's entrancing dream. 
 
 The happy hours of new-born love. 
 Which so supremely blissful seem. 
 
 Too soon for them the college bell 
 Will bring them back to care again. 
 
 Reminding of the lecture hour 
 And all the trials coming then. 
 
 And far too soon life's ringing tones 
 
 Will echo on their onward way, 
 And lead them on to toil and care 
 
 By calls they cannot but obey. 
 
 Then let them have their happy stroll, 
 Their present rosy-colored dream. 
 
 The sweetest they will ever know. 
 And which will ever heaven-like seem. 
 
 J6i 
 
LOVER'S LANE 
 
 Roses red and violets blue 
 In fragrance blossom there, 
 
 Where lovers fond their vows renew, 
 And life seems bright and fair. 
 
 Dreams of bliss beyond compare 
 Prevail in Lover's Lane, 
 
 And every whispering zephyr there 
 Breathes lover-like refrain. 
 
 The wild-wood life along the way — 
 In tree top and hedge row. 
 
 Holds chattering gossip day by day 
 As sweethearts come and go. 
 
 Beyond the hedge bold bobolink 
 Sings o'er the stalks of rye, 
 
 And gives his lady love a wink 
 Mischievously and sly. 
 
 'Bobolink! wink, wink, bobolink, 
 
 Mrs. B. don't you see, 
 They are just like us, I think, 
 As happy as can be." 
 
 And so it was long, long ago. 
 
 E'en as it is to-day. 
 And time to come it will be so 
 
 And love will have its way. 
 
 162 
 
Then make its route all straight and plain 
 
 And modern skill display, 
 And let love have to Lover's Lane 
 
 An automobile v^ay. 
 
 ACROSS THE BRIDGES 
 
 At the parting of the vv^aters 
 On Menunkatuck's stream, 
 
 Cupid takes a slight advantage 
 Of all that lovers dream. 
 
 When happy couples v^alk tliat way 
 On tempting moonlight nights. 
 
 Then Cupid evermore suggests 
 
 That lovers, there, have special rights. 
 
 For they should never cross a bridge 
 
 Without a loving kiss. 
 And here two well-knov^^n bridges make 
 
 A duplicated bliss. 
 
 O happy lovers v^ho can claim 
 
 Such blissful right of way! 
 And every such suggestion 
 
 All unrebuked obey. 
 
 t63 
 
EVELYN 
 
 A wee, bonnie girl 
 In life's happy bower; 
 
 A rosebud of beauty 
 Unfolding each hour. 
 
 A wee, bonnie girl 
 That rests in our arms; 
 
 A blessing from heaven 
 In her sweetness and charms. 
 
 A wee, bonnie girl 
 
 A sunbeam of light, 
 Our darling, our treasure, 
 
 Our purest delight. 
 
 ^^ 
 
CHILD LORE 
 
 What is this little mystery 
 
 That sits upon my knee, 
 And chatters so unceasingly 
 
 Her baby talk to me? 
 
 How does the darling know so much? 
 
 It seems so very strange 
 That thus her budding mind can have 
 
 Such wide and thoughtful range. 
 
 She nothing knows of this world's sin; 
 
 Of all its pain and care, 
 The world she knows is different far, 
 
 With skies most bright and fair. 
 
 Sweet are the stories that she tells, 
 
 So innocent and pure, 
 And that they are true she feels 
 
 Most absolutely sure. 
 
 Are they but misty memories — 
 
 Still lingering in her brain, 
 Of some earlier phase of life 
 
 She sweetly struggles to retain? 
 
 The dear one brings us nearer heaven, 
 
 So full of love is she, 
 This little, prattling darling 
 
 Who sits upon my knee. 
 
 i6= 
 
THE CHILD'S STORY 
 
 Her tiny arms are round my neck; 
 
 Fast and close she holds me; 
 "I love you so much, papa dear, 
 
 And your good girl I'll be." 
 
 I kiss the little darling; 
 
 I gaze into her eyes 
 Where all the holiness of love 
 
 In sweet expression lies. 
 
 "Do you know where I came from, papa? 
 
 And why I came to you? 
 I haven't lived here always, you know, 
 
 God knew what I should do." 
 
 "I have such pretty dreams, papa, 
 
 When in my little bed. 
 And I see bright angels round me. 
 
 And sometimes hear what's said." 
 
 "That was where I lived I think 
 
 Before I came to you, 
 And they must be the angels there, 
 
 The angels bright I knew." 
 
 "But I am glad to be your girl 
 
 And to grow up right here. 
 And be yours and mamma's lady, 
 
 And love you both so dear." 
 
AT REST 
 
 She sleeps at last, the dear one sleeps, 
 
 A longed-for, happy rest; 
 Such as a weary child might take 
 
 Upon a mother's breast. 
 
 She sleeps, she sleeps! The work of life 
 Was too much for her to bear; 
 
 Too great the anguish of its pain, 
 Its sorrows and its care. 
 
 She prayed for rest; it gently came, 
 
 "A calm and sweet repose," 
 Whose quiet, dreamless slumbering 
 
 No sad awakening knows. 
 
 Mysterious sleep! we cannot tell — 
 
 When it shall pass away. 
 What visions on her sight will rise 
 
 As dawns her Heavenly day. 
 
 Perchance the first glad sound she hears 
 
 May be the voice of love; 
 The welcome of the dear ones there 
 
 Her wondering spirit move. 
 
 O, the glory of that new-born life! 
 
 What music in its song! 
 And how the dear one's soul will joy 
 
 Its measures to prolong. 
 
 167 
 
LET THY THOUGHTS BE GENTLE 
 
 Let thy thoughts be gentle, 
 
 Loving, kind and true ; 
 When to anger tempted 
 
 Let thy words be few. 
 
 Then thy life will never 
 
 Hasty actions know, 
 Such as bring but sorrow, 
 
 And all peace o'erthrow. 
 
 Gentle thoughts are God-like, 
 
 Coming from above, 
 Giving one forever 
 
 Restfulness and love. 
 
 Yielding unto passion 
 
 Brings to pain and grief, 
 Angry thoughts if cherished, 
 
 Never bring relief. 
 
 Gentle be in all things, 
 
 Ever kind and true. 
 Life will then be happier, 
 
 And thy sorrows few. 
 
APR 19 1904 
 
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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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