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TEMPE VALE 
 
 Other Poems 
 
 JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS 
 
 33 
 
 The song's of dead seasons, that wander 
 
 On -wings of articulate "words ; 
 Lost leaves that the shore-Tvitid may squander. 
 
 Light flocks of untamable birds ; 
 Some sang to me dreaming in class-time. 
 
 And truant in hand as in tongue ; 
 For the youngest -were born of boy's pastime. 
 
 The eldest are young. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY 
 
 17s Dearborn Street 
 
 iSSS 
 
x.-i'-l'^ 
 
 -f6 
 
 Copyright, i8SS 
 By James N. Matthews 
 
DEDICA TION. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OF MY FATHER ^ MOTHER, 
 
 AND TO 
 
 My Fairest Critic, My Wife, 
 
 This little book is lovingly inscribed. 
 
 J. N. M. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Proem — The Spirit of Poetry, .... 9 
 
 Tempe Vale, 11 
 
 A Legend Beautiful, 15 
 
 The City of Snow, 16 
 
 A Dream of Beauty, 17 
 
 The Death of the Baby, 19 
 
 November Down the Wabash, .... 21 
 
 The Old Mill, 23 
 
 Alone at the Farm, 26 
 
 Her Knitting Needles, 28 
 
 To the March Moon, 30 
 
 A Dream, 32 
 
 A Sea-weed, 33 
 
 There is no Luck about the House ... 35 
 
 Genius, 37 
 
 A Nocturne, 38 
 
 My Guest, 40 
 
 A Vision, . . . . «... 44 
 
 The First Gray Hair, 45 
 
 Edison, 47 
 
 The Vale of Gold, 49 
 
 The Crime, 51 
 
 March, 53 
 
 She Sleeps, ... . . •, , 54 
 
 'Way Down in Spice Valley, 57* 
 
 A Fragment, 60 
 
 (5) 
 
6 CONTENTS. ' 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Old House-fly, . • 61 
 
 Insomnia, 66 
 
 They had no Poet and so They Died, . . .67 
 
 At Waterloo, 69 
 
 Gaun Hame, 70 
 
 A Ballad of Tears, 71 
 
 July in the "West. 73 
 
 Illinois, . 75 
 
 The Eyes of Eleanor a, 78 
 
 O, Bleak is the Night, 80 
 
 A Burden of Babylon, 83 
 
 Behind the Veil, 83 
 
 Day and Night, 86 
 
 One Golden Hair, 87 
 
 In Summer Woods, 89 
 
 Severed Friendship, 91 
 
 My Lady Beautiful, 93 
 
 In Soudan, 94 
 
 Out on the Farm, 95 
 
 The Old Fire-place, 90 
 
 Joukydaddles, 100 
 
 To a Terrapin, 103 
 
 A Profile of Fall, 104 
 
 A Valentine, 107 
 
 'Tis Always Sunday in the Woods, . . . 108 
 
 Lines in an Album, 110 
 
 When Your Father went to War, . . . .111 
 
 An Invocation, 118 
 
 A Ballade of Busy Doctors, 120 
 
 Goodnight and Joj be with you All, . . 133 
 
 Shakespeare, 134 
 
 The Soldier of Castile, .... 126 
 
 Her Feet on the Fender, . . , . . 131 
 
 The Old Village Depot, 133 
 
 Indian Summer 136 
 
 Lady Laura in the North, 139 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Meadows of Gold, 142 
 
 At Uncle Reuben Ragan's, .... 144 
 
 The Night you Quoted Burns to Me, . . . 148 
 
 The Mystery of Harrington Meadows, . . 150 
 
 When I am Old, 154 
 
 The Passing of the Old Year, .... 156 
 
 An Extravagant Simile, .... 157 
 
 The Pioneers, 159 
 
 Taking in the Hammock 169 
 
 At Christmas Eve, ...... 170 
 
 The Old Major Speaks 171 
 
 A Garland for the Dead, . .- . . 174 
 
 The Foolish Mariners, 177 
 
 BONNETS AND RONDEAUX. 
 
 To a Sleeping Boy, 183 
 
 A Night in June, 184 
 
 When I Come Home, 185 
 
 At Milking Time, 186 
 
 October, 187 
 
 November, . 188 
 
 Where Willie Was, 189 
 
 In Days to Come, 190 
 
 Christmas Morning, 191 
 
 Doom, ........ 192 
 
 Rondeaux of Remembrance, . . . 193 
 
 John A. Warder, 195 
 
 A Bluebird in January, 196 
 
 Could She but Know, 197 
 
 Could Love do More, 198 
 
 My Favorite Poem, 199 
 
 What is Death, 200 
 
TEE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 
 
 She steers the stars through Heaven's azure 
 deep; 
 She lifts the leaden eyelids of the morn; 
 On distant hills she winds the hunter'^s 
 horn^ 
 And wakes the lonely shepherd from his sleep; 
 She scales the dizzy ledge where torrents leap, 
 And hangs the hloom upon the bristling 
 
 thorn; 
 She sits for hours ^7^/ solitudes forlorn^ 
 With downcast eyes, where hapless lovers 
 
 weep. 
 When Spring comes up the vale in Winter'^s 
 
 trace, 
 She plucks the blossom from the bud's em- 
 brace; 
 She binds the golden girdle round the bee. 
 And lends the lily's luster to the pea; 
 She curves the swallow's wing, and guides its 
 
 flight. 
 And tips the dewy meads with twinkling light. 
 
 (9) 
 
10 THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 
 
 She rides, she revels on the rushing storm, 
 She suns her pinions on the 7'ainbow^s rim — 
 She laves in mountain jpools her snowy 
 limb. 
 
 As sweetly chaste as Dian and as warm,' 
 
 In summer fields she bares her blushing arm, 
 And sings among the reapers. By the dim 
 Light of autumnal moons,her tresses sioim 
 
 On gales Lethean, with assuasive charm. 
 
 Into the chamber of the alchemist 
 
 She jpeers, or, through some half-closed 
 lattice, sees 
 
 Her lover by the xcanton night wind kissed. 
 Anon, she walks the dim Hesperides, 
 
 Or, mingling with the spirits of the mist, 
 Dances at will along the darkling seas. 
 
IN TEMPE VALE. 
 
 In Tempe vale the sun shines fair, 
 
 O'er crystal streams forever flowing, — 
 On Tempe's rainbow-girdled air 
 
 The velvet-breasted flowers are blowing 
 And up the valley, everywhere, 
 
 The golden orange groves are glowing: — 
 And violets uplift their eyes. 
 Bewildered, to the stooping skies. 
 Dreaming all day of Paradise; 
 
 And blue-bells from the tufted sod, 
 When darkness down Olympus dies, 
 
 Out-stretch their pearly palms to God, 
 And pour their fragrant sacrifice. 
 And all the world is in a trance 
 Along Peneus' blue expanse, 
 
 In Tempe vale. 
 
 In Tempe vale, no sound of wars 
 
 Goes ever to the mild-eyed stars ; 
 
 No lily's breast is tinged with blood. 
 
 No dreamer from his rest is driven. 
 
 But ever from the drowsy wood, 
 
 There floateth to the jeweled heaven 
 (11) 
 
13 /JV TBMPB VALE. 
 
 Eternal lullabies, like those 
 That murmur in the crimson rose; 
 Or like the symphonies that break 
 From out some lone enchanted lake; 
 Or like the rhapsodies that quiver, 
 By night, along some sacred river, — 
 Ah, only holiest things of earth, 
 Spring into beauty, and to birth 
 In Tempe vale. 
 
 In Tempe vale no bough is stirred. 
 
 No winds are in the conscious tree; 
 The only melodies there heard — 
 Exce23t the trill of some wild bird. 
 Or tumult of the tippling bee — 
 Are those dim strains of minstrelsy 
 That tingle to the twilight stars, 
 From laughing lutes and low guitars, 
 
 On many a Grecian lover's knee; 
 And dark-eyed maids, with lips of wine. 
 And limbs of snow, their tresses twine. 
 By fountains flashing from the hills, 
 And all the golden ether spills 
 A summer splendor'round the vine. 
 In Tempe vale. 
 
IN TEMPE VALE. 13 
 
 In Tempe vale, in Tempe's bowers, 
 
 The soul, intoxicate with bliss. 
 Goes reeling through a world of flowers 
 
 That hath no counterpart in this; 
 And far beneath the lote-tree's shade, 
 
 Where glow-worms glimmer in the grass, 
 Is heard the lonely serenade 
 Of some heart-broken nightingale; 
 
 And dew-drops, like a sea of glass. 
 Their love-lights up the valley trail, 
 
 Until the night-tide shadows pass, 
 And dajdight dawns o'er Tempe vale. 
 O'er Tempe vale. 
 
 In Tempe vale, they weave the dance. 
 Along its lone, star-lighted river. 
 
 By those wild grottos of romance 
 
 O'er which the mellow citrons quiver. 
 And laughing love lives on forever! 
 
 Ah, nightly to the cithern's sigh, 
 
 The Muses, from their haunts on high, 
 Come tripping hither, every one, — 
 And Pan, and young Endymion, 
 
 And Dian, with her dapper crew, 
 The piping shepherd-lads, and all 
 
14 IN TEMPE VALE. 
 
 The Dryads o'er the mountain wall, 
 Come thronging to the revel, too, 
 In Tempe vale. 
 
 To Tempe vale, along good-night! 
 
 The glamour of my idle dream 
 Is over-past. My waking sight, 
 
 Alas ! is blinded to the gleam 
 And beauty of that valley bright. 
 Its blissful bowers no more I see, 
 
 Its peaceful paths have passed from view. 
 Yet down to the JEgean Sea, 
 
 Still fall its winding waters blue. 
 Still sings the bird, and hums the bee 
 
 In every nook the dreamer knew. 
 No summer-poet's fickle thought. 
 On Fancy's pinions ever sought 
 A spot with sweeter raptures fraught. 
 Than Tempe vale. 
 
A LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 'Twas thus the Dervish spake: "Upon our 
 right, 
 There stands, unseen, an angel with a pen, 
 Who notes down each good deed of ours, 
 and then 
 Seals it with kisses in the Master's sight. 
 Upon our left a sister-angel sweet 
 
 Keeps daily record of each evil act. 
 But, great with love, folds not the mournful 
 sheet 
 Till deepest midnight, when, if conscience- 
 racked. 
 We lift to Allah our repentant hands. 
 She smiles and blots the record where she 
 
 stands ; 
 But if we seek not pardon for our sin. 
 She seals it with a tear, and hands it in." 
 
 (15) 
 
THE CITY OF SNOW. 
 
 Silently, silently, all the night, 
 
 Out in the fields, where the north winds blow, 
 A shimmering army, robed in white, 
 
 Is building the City of Snow. 
 
 Hour after hour, their task they ply, 
 Down where the roses used to grow. 
 
 Piling the battlements steep and high 
 Of the silent City of Snow. 
 
 Out in the dark in the driving storm, 
 To and fro, they glimmer and glow. 
 
 All night, as their deft hands frame and form 
 The mystic City of Snow. 
 
 Never the sound of a hammer smites 
 The milk-white silence, above or below, 
 
 And dumber than dreams are the dapper 
 sprites, 
 That build the City of Snow. 
 
 'Tis morn! and the labor is all complete, 
 And the cold north wind has ceased to blow. 
 
 And Vandal feet are abroad in the street 
 Of the sinless City of Snow. 
 
 (16) 
 
A DREAM OF BEAUTY. 
 
 I muse on her dark eyes, and see the gloss 
 Of dewy grapes that purple in the gloom 
 
 Of amorous gardens, where the faint winds 
 toss 
 O'er violet reaches, panting with perfume ; 
 
 A dream of fawns! peering with passionate 
 glance 
 Between the lindens, at mid-summer dawn, 
 When love awakens, and desire is on, 
 
 And piping robins hold the world in trance. 
 
 II 
 
 I dream of her dark hair, and feel the dusk 
 
 Of cooling myrtles, in the twilight vales 
 Of Tempe, when no mellowing moonbeams 
 husk 
 
 The shadows from the shifting nightingales; 
 A vision of swift ravens, heading south 
 
 Between pomegranate bonghs, amidst the 
 hills 
 
 Of Arcady, what time the summer spills 
 Its kindling kisses on the lily's mouth. 
 
 3 (17) 
 
18 A BREAM OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I sing of lier white hands — two dimpled 
 sprites 
 More tremulous, and stainless, and more 
 soft 
 Than rose-leaves opening in mid-snmmer 
 nights, 
 By moon-dawns, in the deepest woodland 
 croft ; 
 A vision of vain hopes ! a shimmering mist 
 Of swan-down, cincturing each lovely limb 
 Of Mab's hand-maidens, when the warm 
 stars trim 
 Their dewy tresses with pale amethyst. 
 
 lY 
 Then, fancying her love, I hear the coo 
 
 Of doves, far-hidden in the citron groves 
 Of Hellas, where the high gods came to woo, 
 And change for mortal, their immortal 
 loves ; 
 A vision of the ripening south — a dream 
 Of loveliness and passion, song and wine, 
 And Greek girls lolling where the Bacchanal 
 vine 
 Tipples and sips the summer's amber beam. 
 
THE DEATH OF THE BABY. 
 
 I 
 
 Like a bird fljing out of its prison, 
 
 Light-winged and alone. 
 The soul of wee Robbie is risen, 
 
 And heavenward flown. 
 
 II 
 
 Flown heavenward out of its anguish, 
 
 Sweet motherless one ! 
 Flown heavenward never to languish, 
 
 As time weareth on. 
 
 Ill 
 
 As out of a lily's pale chalice 
 
 The odor is blown. 
 So, forth from the soul's snowy palace. 
 
 The life-light is gone. 
 
 IV 
 
 As soft as the tinges of twilight 
 
 Out-fade from the west. 
 The baby sank into the skylight 
 
 Of infinite rest. 
 
 (19) 
 
20 THE DEATB OP TBE BABT. 
 Y 
 
 No longer his pink baby -fingers 
 
 Outrival the flowers, 
 No longer his baby -laugh lingers, 
 
 And melts into ours. 
 
 VI 
 
 The cradle is empty and hollow, 
 
 Forever and aye, 
 The flight of wee Hobbie we'll follow, 
 
 When beckoned away. 
 
NOVEMBER DOWN THE WABASH. 
 
 Upon the Wabash hills, and down 
 
 The lonesome glens, the leaves are brown 
 
 With early frost, and gray birds skim 
 
 The cooling waters, and the slim 
 
 Ungartered willows stand, knee-deep 
 
 Along the river's edge, and weep 
 
 To see the Summer's parting gleam 
 
 Pass, like a shadow, down the stream, 
 
 Or like the memory of one 
 
 We loved in youth, and doted on. 
 
 Silence is on the Wabash hills, 
 Save where a lonely blue-bird trills 
 Upon the windy oak, or where 
 The nuts drip from the branches bare. 
 Or squirrels chatter in the sun ; — 
 A hush, as if all life were done, 
 Keigns thro' the woods ; the waters lie 
 So dead and motionless, the sky 
 Leans dolorously down, as though 
 To meet its mirrored self below. 
 
 (21) 
 
23 NOVEMBER DOWN THE WABASH. 
 
 No boyish laughter pours along- 
 The "Wabash hills. — no lover's song 
 Re-echoes up the tangled ways, 
 As in the long, glad summer days; 
 No bare-foot lads, with hook and rod, 
 Beside the shadowy waters plod, — 
 No maids come down to twine and strew 
 With valley-flowers, the old canoe, — 
 Only a blind owl floating by, 
 And far clouds driving up the sky. 
 
 Thus, like a sombre shadow, broods 
 . November, o'er the Wabash woods ; 
 Far to the south, the slanting sun 
 Has gone, and Winter soon will run 
 His sledges up the frozen heights, — 
 And grates will glow, and long dark nights 
 Will trance the drowsy brain with dreams 
 Of other days, — and fitful gleams 
 Of Beauty will dissolve the gloom 
 In seas of summer warmth and bloom. 
 
THE OLD MILL. 
 
 The morning rose bright on the clover-clad 
 hill, 
 And lightly the breezes went by, 
 As I took the old path leading down to the 
 mill, 
 That stood where the bluffs beetle hiffh; 
 The path leading down by the steep to the 
 strand. 
 Where I loitered a lad in my mirth, 
 When life was a beautiful rainbow that 
 spanned 
 The loveliest valley of earth. 
 
 The blue-bird still swung on the sycamore 
 boughs, 
 
 The sand- piper rode on the wave, 
 And still to the pebble-paved ford came the 
 cows, 
 
 At the noonday, to drink and to lave ; 
 The dam was nigh down, yet the cataract fell 
 
 O'er the ledge, with a plunge and a roar. 
 That seemed to my heart, in its tumult, to tell 
 
 Of the halcyon summers of yore. 
 
 (23) 
 
24 THE OLD MILL. 
 
 The rock was still there, where we dived in 
 the tide, 
 And the sands where we stretched in the 
 sun. 
 But the many gaj fellows that played at our 
 side, 
 Had gone from the valley, each one ; 
 The old fishing-log it had floated away, 
 
 And over the crumbling canoe. 
 The paddles were locked, in a dream of decay 
 Where the mold and the rank mosses grew. 
 
 By the dust-girdled doorway, where gabbled 
 the geese. 
 
 And the pilfering swine used to stray, 
 The grass had grown up in an emerald fleece, 
 
 That lovingly mantled the way ; 
 I saw not the brown little bare-footed maid 
 
 Trip down the long path to the spring, 
 I heard not the sound of her song in the glade, 
 
 Nor the light-hearted laugh at the swing. 
 
 The mill was as mute as the miller who lies 
 In his green- curtained cot on the hill, — 
 
THE OLD MILL. 25 
 
 And I thought, as the tears gathered into ray- 
 eyes, 
 That the dead had come back to the mill ; 
 That I saw the old wagons roll up with their 
 grist, 
 And again heard the rumble and roar 
 Of the wheels, — but, alas ! it was only a mist 
 Falling over my senses, — no more! 
 
 Ah, the dust-covered miller! near twenty long 
 years 
 Have flown, since he took his last toll; 
 His heart, when he died, was as sound as his 
 burrs, 
 And as white as his flour, was his soul ; 
 Still the wraith of him stands at the low 
 batten-door. 
 And his laughter comes back from the past; 
 Still the sound of his footstep is heard on the 
 floor, 
 Tho' the mill's but a wreck in the blast. 
 
ALONE AT THE FARM. 
 
 {Easter.) 
 
 As I sit alone in the twilight gray, 
 
 Under the sound of the April rain, 
 Mj thoughts go back to an Easter day 
 Of the long-ago, and I listen again, 
 (But listen in vain!) 
 For the shouts of the boys who used to 
 swarm 
 Out of the neighboring town, like plagues, 
 To spend a glorious day at the farm. 
 
 With the boys of the country, coloring 
 eggs. 
 
 And I, poor fool ! was as gruff as a bear. 
 For I never could stand their noise — but 
 Jane, 
 Sweet soul! she always welcomed them there. 
 With a love that her dear heart could not 
 feign — 
 
 (And the boys loved Jane !) 
 
 (26) 
 
ALONE AT THE FARM. 37 
 
 And many a time I heard her say 
 
 (In the after-years ere she paled and died) 
 
 That, God permitting, on Easter Day, 
 She would clasp their hands on the other 
 side. 
 
 So the years went by, and the boys were 
 grown. 
 And the grass waved high in the orchard 
 lane, — 
 And down where the sounds of war were 
 blown, 
 The lads of the Easter-time lay slain ; 
 And oh, the pain! 
 And oh, the sobbing — the ceaseless moan — 
 
 The long sad nights, and the vigils vain, 
 Of an old man drooping and dreaming alone, 
 Of days that never come back again ! 
 
nER KNITTING NEEDLES. 
 
 In the bureau's bottom drawer, as I rum- 
 maged there to-day, 
 With the memory of other times aglow ; 
 I found the knitting needles that my mother 
 tucked away, 
 In the twilight of a winter long ago,^ 
 They were tangled in the fingers of a wee, un- 
 finished glove, 
 And when I stooped and touched them, it 
 did seem, 
 I could see the vanished features of the one 
 I used to love, 
 In the cheery chimney-corner of my dream. 
 
 O, the little shining lances! how they glittered 
 in the light, 
 Of the cabin where my mother used to sit, 
 In her cosy, cushioned rocker, till the middle 
 of the night, 
 A-crooning tender ditties as she knit; 
 
 (28) 
 
HER KNITTING NEEDLES. 29 
 
 And I feel my feet grow warmer, as I plod 
 across the past, 
 In the stockings that her white and holy 
 hands 
 In their feebleness had fashioned, ere she fell 
 asleep at last, 
 And was borne into the summer-litten lands. 
 
 No trophies ever dangled in a mediseval hall 
 
 More sacred for the memories they hold, 
 Than these, the lowly relics of the saint that I 
 recall. 
 Thro' the twilight of the tender days of old: 
 Each needle is a talisman, a token, a delight, 
 
 A wand that hn^es my fancy unaware. 
 From the prison of the present, and its shadow 
 infinite, 
 To my cabin home, and mother knitting 
 there. 
 
TO THE MARCH MOOK. 
 
 O moon of March! what seest thou 
 
 But dead leaves, still? No bursting bud 
 Breaks into bloom on anj bough, 
 
 In all the bare, unbreathing wood. 
 O sweet March moon ! 
 Canst thou not woo the bloomy brood 
 
 To don their kirtles, pink and w^hite, 
 And, in the upland solitude. 
 
 Come out to-night, come out to-night? 
 
 O moon of March! come down, come down, 
 
 Perchance a new Endymion lies 
 On yonder hill, by yonder town. 
 
 With peerless lips, and perfect eyes. 
 O fair March moon! 
 Forsake the dull eternal skies. 
 
 For just a hasty swallow-flight, 
 In answer to a lover's cries, — 
 
 Come down to-night, come down to-night. 
 
 O moon of March ! O lady moon. 
 
 High-throned above the wreathing mist! 
 
 (30) 
 
TO TEE MARCH MOON. 31 
 
 Come down, in silver silken shoon, 
 
 Come down with starlight round thy wrist, 
 O pale March moon ! 
 
 What tho' no shepherd keep his tryst, 
 Like that sweet lad on Latmos' height, 
 
 Yet there be "lips that should be kissed," 
 Then come to-night, then come to-night. 
 
 moon of March! so proud, so cold, 
 If thus thou heedest not my prayer, 
 
 1 dare to brand thee as a bold, 
 Night-walking wanton of the air ; — 
 
 O vain March moon! 
 Henceforth, I hate thy frozen glare, 
 
 Thy loveless and illusive light. 
 And so I plead in my despair. 
 
 Come not to-night, come not to-night. 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Have you forgotten me ? " she said, 
 
 As I, lier old-time worshiper, 
 
 Stood blanched and bloodless as the dead, 
 
 And gazed upon the face of her. 
 
 As soon may yon poor bird (thought I) 
 Left mangled by the hedge to die, 
 Forget the shaft that festers yet 
 Within its breast, — as I forget. 
 
 II. 
 
 But, oh! each old remembered wrong 
 
 Died, in an instant, when I traced 
 
 The lines of agony that laced 
 
 The face of her I loved so long. 
 
 I read, within her channelled cheek, 
 
 A wretchedness no tongue could speak, — 
 
 And so, bent with the pain of years, 
 
 I wept, — and kissed her thro' my tears. 
 
 (82) 
 
A SEA-WEED. 
 
 A seaman's bride knelt low beside the sea, 
 Her hands uplifted in dumb agony. 
 
 The ]*ack drave in against the ragged coast, 
 And on the downs the raging ocean tossed. 
 
 "Give back," she cried, "O heaven, give back 
 
 to me, 
 One ship, of all the ships that sail the sea." 
 
 A hurrying sea-gull, and a hungry shark 
 Made answer, — and the dark grew doubly 
 dark. 
 
 That night, a sailor pale with outstretched 
 
 hand, 
 Knelt on the deck and prayed for grace to land. 
 
 " Almighty God! let me but clasp once more, 
 Ere death, my waiting one, on yonder shore," 
 
 He said, — and fell upon the shattered deck, 
 A lifeless mass amidst a hopeless wreck. 
 
 3 (33) 
 
34 A SEA-WEED. 
 
 The boiling waters murmured a reply, 
 
 As the last bolt came rushing down the sky. 
 
 And o'er the sunken ship the sea-gulls iiew, 
 And on the crags the night-winds blew and 
 blew. 
 
THERE IS NO LUCK ABOUT THE 
 HOUSE. 
 
 No more the swallows dart and dip 
 
 About my cottage-eaves ; no more 
 The tops of my catalpas drip 
 
 "With bird-songs, as in days of yore; 
 My grapes are mildewed on the vine, 
 
 My apples blighted on the boughs, 
 A curse has come to me and mine, 
 
 There is no luck about the house. 
 
 The grass has withered from my lawn, 
 
 And blasted are my chestnut trees, 
 From whose green domes in days agone, 
 
 The dawn-birds poured their melodies ; 
 Tlie stream that vanished down the vale, 
 
 With cups of comfort for my cows, 
 Has failed, at last, as all things fail — 
 
 There is no luck about the house. 
 
 My garden now can scarce be seen. 
 Gone are its beds and winding walks, 
 
 And caterpillars, lank and lean. 
 Climb down the sapless hollyhocks ; 
 
 (35) 
 
36 THERE IS NO LUCK. 
 
 My meadows of their flocks are shorn, 
 The hay is moldering in my mows, 
 
 And death-worms wander in my corn — 
 There is no luck about the house. 
 
 My horses and my hounds are gone, 
 
 Nor any household pet remains, — 
 An owl hoots on the chimney lone, 
 
 And bats whirl darkling thro' the panes; 
 Only a cricket's dreary moan. 
 
 Or dreamy nibbling of a mouse, 
 Reminds me of the summers flown, — 
 
 There is no luck about the house. 
 
 At midnight when the autumn rains 
 
 Are chill upon the dismal flats, 
 I hear a sound, like clanking chains, 
 
 Upstairs among the garret rats ; 
 And then the ghosts of other times 
 
 Reel round me in a mad carouse, 
 With all their follies and their crimes, — 
 
 There is no luck about the house. 
 
GENIUS. 
 
 Not those alone, who, lapped in eider down, 
 
 And shrined in templed cities, can lay claim 
 To Nature's purple — to the poet's crown. 
 And the proud prestige of the minstrel's 
 
 fame ; 
 Genius is even-handed! the rapt Dame 
 Alike salutes the beggar and the king. 
 
 With her warm touches and her lips of 
 flame ; 
 Bids potentates be mute and peasants sing. 
 And o'er the lowliest roof outspreads her dewy 
 wing. 
 
 With her desires ye may dispute in vain, 
 
 Ye pampered sons of pleasure, — ye will find, 
 Where least expected, her supreme disdain, 
 
 For she is fickle, and her ways are blind ; 
 
 Think not to woo her with a thoughtless 
 mind, 
 Nor win her with the witcheries of art, — 
 
 Beneath the tatters of the trampled hind, 
 She's quite as apt to lodge the envious dart, 
 As 'neath the royal robe that hides an empty 
 heart. 
 
 (37) 
 
A NOCTUENE. 
 
 All things that we can hear or see, 
 
 To-nic^ht, seem happy. Every tree 
 Is palpitant with voice and wing, 
 And vibrant with the breathing spring. 
 
 The very grass is tremulous 
 
 With music, floating up to us, 
 So softly, spiritu'lly clear, 
 We seem to feel it — not to hear. 
 
 The moonlight's luster leaking through 
 The bending blossoms, pearled with dew. 
 Is so delicious, so divine. 
 We quaff its splendor like a wine. 
 Only the faintest wind is curled 
 About the pale, enamored world. 
 And drowsy perfumes slip and drip 
 From every pansy's pouting lip. 
 
 Starlight, and melody and dreams! 
 
 The lover's and the poet's themes, — 
 The same that once entranced and won 
 The listening maids of Babylon — 
 
 (38) 
 
A NOCTURNE. 39 
 
 That charm 'd the ear, and caught the smiles 
 Of Beauty in the Grecian Isles, — 
 That lulled in old Italian dells 
 The Roman lads and damosels. 
 
 On such enchanting nights as these, 
 Our spirits, for a moment, seize 
 
 The ravishment of life that runs, 
 
 Exuberant, thro' stars and suns ; 
 And as we catch the whirl and whir. 
 The planetary pulse and stir, 
 
 We break the seals of sense, and scan 
 
 The majesty of God and man. 
 
MY GUEST. 
 
 There is a guest that I detest, forever at my 
 
 side, 
 Who clings to me as fondly as a bridegroom 
 
 to his bride; 
 Who leers at me, and jeers at me, and when I 
 
 cross his will. 
 Who only smiles sardonic'ly, and hugs me 
 
 closer still; 
 I hate him, and berate him, yet he trudges at 
 
 my heels. 
 And reaches in my pockets, and revels at my 
 
 meals ; 
 I defy him, and would fly him, but he only 
 
 presses closer. 
 And whispers to each wish of mine an ever- 
 lasting, " No, sir." 
 I have chided and derided, till I'm almost out 
 
 of heart, 
 I've abused him, and misused him, but he 
 
 never will depart ; — 
 He squeezes me, and freezes me, and well-nigh 
 
 drives me mad, 
 
 (40) 
 
MT QUEST. 41 
 
 He tortures and he teases me, and growls 
 when I am glad; 
 
 He glares at me, and stares at me, as any 
 ghoul might do, 
 
 He has shattered every promise that my soul 
 was anchored to; 
 
 He has wrecked me, and bedecked me with 
 the tattered garbs of woe, 
 
 He has crossed my happy threshold, and has 
 laid my loved ones low; 
 
 He's as wary as a beagle, and he grins in such 
 a style. 
 
 That the cunning of a serpent is apparent in 
 his smile; 
 
 He is lank, he is lean, and his fingers are un- 
 clean, 
 
 He is ragged, he is haggard, he is spiteful and 
 he's mean ; 
 
 Than Adam he is older, than Satan he is bolder. 
 
 He's as ghastly as a skeleton, and uglier and 
 colder; 
 
 When the winter- winds are dire, he sits crouch- 
 ing at my fire, 
 
 And glowering at my beggary with eyes that 
 never tire; 
 
43 MY GUEST. 
 
 He's the parent of all crime, in each country, 
 
 and each clime, 
 And has tramped the wide world over, hand in 
 
 hand, with Father Time; 
 His record all may read, in the hearts that 
 
 break and bleed, 
 On the lips of little children that forever pine 
 
 and plead; 
 And his deeds are further written, over sleep- 
 less eyes red-litten, 
 Over cold and empty cradles, over roofs by 
 
 sorrow smitten ; 
 Over shattered hopes once cherished, over 
 
 pleasures that have perished, 
 Over broken dreams of glory, that a better 
 
 manhood nourished; 
 In the byways, and the highways, he goes 
 
 onward unmolested, 
 And wakes the world to labor ere its weary 
 
 hands are rested; 
 He's a beggar, and a ranger, and was present, 
 
 not a stranger, 
 At the birth of the Messiah, in the cold 
 
 Judean manger; 
 He has trailed along the path of the tempest 
 
 in its wrath, 
 
MY QUEST. 43 
 
 And has gloated o'er the rains of the mouldered 
 
 aftermath ; 
 He's the Prince of Empty Pockets, out at 
 
 elbow and at knee, 
 He's a knight without a copper, whom we 
 
 nickname — Poverty. 
 
A VISION. 
 
 And in my dream of beauty, I beheld 
 
 A being rapt and radiant as a star, 
 Beneath whose kindling light my spirit swelled 
 
 To melody — and, streaming from afar, 
 I saw the specters of the dawn unbar 
 
 The gates of morning; and on ever}'^ gale, 
 That blew around Aurora's bannered car, 
 I saw the Summer's censer-swingers trail 
 
 Their odorous incense over hill and dale. 
 
 And on my sight uprose a golden mist, 
 
 Peopled with many a floating form and 
 fair, — 
 A Paradise of wandering souls, I wist. 
 
 Chained to the shifting Eden of the air, 
 In snowy cavalcades of sweet despair; 
 
 And some had harps and sang, and some 
 had flowers. 
 And others crowns, — and all were debonair', 
 And everywhere were grottos, glades, and 
 
 bowers, 
 And purling fountains, vistas, shrines, and 
 towers. 
 
 (44) 
 
THE FIEST GEAY HAIR. 
 
 And thou hast come at last, 
 Thou baleful issue of the buried years — 
 
 Sad fruitage of the past, — 
 Root-nurtured in a loam of hopes and fears ; 
 I hail thee, but I hate thee, lurking there, 
 Thou first gray hair. 
 
 Thou soft and silken coil, 
 Thou milk-white blossom in a midnight 
 tress ! 
 Out from the alien soil, 
 I'll pluck thee in thine infant tenderness, 
 As the rude husbandman uproots the tare, 
 Thou first gray hair. 
 
 Of all the fleecy flock, 
 Thou art the one to loathe and to despise ; 
 
 The cheat within the shock, 
 The mould that on the early harvest lies, 
 The mildew on the blossoms of the pear — 
 Thou first gray liair. 
 
 (45) 
 
46 THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 
 
 And thou the Judas art, 
 The tattler of old Time, who doth betray 
 
 The weary worn-out heart, 
 Ere yet we dare to dream of its decay ; 
 Thou art a hint of wreck beyond repair, 
 Thou first gray hair. 
 
EDISOK. 
 
 Upon a time at Meiilo Park, 
 
 A merry genius wrought, 
 Day after day, from dawn to dark, 
 
 The cunning webs of thought; 
 And as his nimble fancy drew 
 
 The threads of doubt apart. 
 Strange fabrics 'neath his fingers grew, 
 
 To wondrous forms of art. 
 
 To words articulate he gave 
 
 The wings of wider flight ; 
 He made the human voice his slave. 
 
 And robbed the earth of night; 
 Of speech he caught the subtle sound, 
 
 And treasured it so clear, 
 That dead men, lying underground, 
 
 May still be talking here. 
 
 The wizards of the elder age 
 Have dwindled into naught. 
 
 Beside this later heritage, 
 This Heracles of thought 
 
 (47) 
 
48 EDISON 
 
 Witli spider-energj lie weaves 
 
 The gossamers that bind, 
 Through every land, in richer sheaves, 
 
 The hearts of all mankind. 
 
THE YALE OF GOLD. 
 
 (They tell of a wonderful valley in the Sierra Madre, which 
 glistens with gold and is resplendent with bright waters and 
 beautiful flowers. Connected with it are many fascinating leg- 
 ends of Indian origin, the prettiest of which is the belief of the 
 natives that Montezuma will some day return and free them from 
 the dominion of the descendants of the Conquestodores.) 
 
 Far to the south and west there lies, 
 
 Away in the sun-set land, 
 Where the weird Sierra lifts to the skies 
 
 The wealth of her jeweled hand — 
 There lies deep hid in the mountain range. 
 
 As old as the world is old, 
 A fabulous valley, dim and strange, 
 
 That is known as the Yale of Gold. 
 
 Kever a white man's foot has crossed 
 
 An Eden as fair as this, 
 Since bidding adieu to the one he lost, 
 
 On the brim of the world, I wis ; 
 There are flowers as bright as the orbs of 
 night, 
 
 And birds of radiant wing — 
 And streams that quiver and dance forever, 
 
 In time to the tunes they sing. 
 
 4 (49) 
 
50 THE VALE OF GOLD. 
 
 There's a golden grot, and a golden ledge, 
 
 And blooms of gold, and golden bees, — 
 Gold in the grass, and the sighing sedge, 
 
 And gold in the orange trees ; 
 There's gold in the stars, and gold in the 
 stream. 
 
 And gold in the skin of the snake — 
 Gold in the moon when the dreamers dream, 
 
 And gold in the morn, when they wake. 
 
 And a seer hath writ on a golden stone. 
 
 In a golden time of the past. 
 How the Montezuinas will mount their 
 throne 
 
 Again in the valley vast ; 
 And the fires of the Aztec priests will burn 
 
 Once more on the altars cold, 
 And the gods of the vanquished race return, 
 
 To reifirn in the Yale of Gold. 
 
THE CRIME. 
 
 Here lived the slayer, and there the slain, 
 
 With barely an acre of ground between ; 
 
 'Twas night! they stood in the wind and rain. 
 
 And quarrelled, — next morning a ghastly stain 
 
 Of blood on the meadow-grass was seen. 
 
 And one was dead, and one had fled, 
 
 And all night long the mourners wept ; 
 The widow wailed in the dusk by the dead, 
 And the wife of the slayer shook with dread, 
 And the north-wind over the chimney swept. 
 
 And these were farmers, and these were friends, 
 
 Friends, I say, till that night in the Fall; 
 Too proud was the one to make amends 
 For a foolish wrong, and the bloody ends 
 Of passion followed, with grief and gall. 
 
 Then a gibbet loomed in the dusky sky, 
 
 And a blue-eyed orphan pierced the night 
 With desolate sobs, and a mother's cry 
 Outrang the blast, as it whistled by. 
 In its wild, unbridled flight. 
 
 (51) 
 
52 TEE CRIME. 
 
 They laid the slayer not far from the slain, 
 In the village church-yard, under the hill, 
 
 And the meadows of death were dearth of 
 grain, 
 
 And the winds blew over the iinplowed plain. 
 For the hands of the husbandmen were still. 
 
 I passed by the crumblinsj huts, to-day. 
 
 And birds were out, and the land was green ; 
 Two women withered, and bent, and gray. 
 Sat, each in the shade of her own doorway. 
 And children played on the ground between. 
 
MAKCH. 
 
 Tlie gables of the farm-house groan, 
 And down the orchard's barren rows, 
 Beyond the hills, a cloud of crows 
 
 Against the windy west is blown. 
 
 The falling sun is fringed with mist, 
 And east-ward like an Indian queen, 
 The moon at intervals is seen, 
 
 Thro' dripping rifts of amethyst. 
 
 A few stray flakes of snow — and then, 
 The all-night pattering on the pane 
 Of slumber-wooing sleet and rain — 
 
 Then morning — and the winds again ! 
 
 (53) 
 
SHE SLEEPS. 
 
 'Twas summer's noon! One I had known 
 
 Lay stark upon her lily bed; 
 And one I knew not, wept alone, 
 
 Beside the lady lying dead ; — 
 The lady with the long brown hair, 
 
 And lucent eyes of Heaven's own blue, — 
 A lady fair and debonaire^ 
 
 As e'er was given man to woo. 
 
 He wept for eyes that ne'er again 
 
 . Would lift their love-light to his own — 
 
 His tears fell like the autumn rain, 
 
 O'er days of joy forever flown ; 
 He wept as one might weep who stands 
 
 Outside the pale of Paradise, 
 When some sweet saint with pleading hands 
 
 Eloats, dream-like, o'er his tranced eyes. 
 
 He wept the tender heart and true, 
 That fell to dust before his eye — 
 
 He wept as knightly spirits do. 
 O'er all the beauty that can die; 
 
 (54) 
 
SHE SLEEPS. 55 
 
 He wept to hear his orphans cry, 
 
 Amid the gloom, the long night through, — 
 
 He wept until his soul was dry 
 Then slept — and woke to weep anew. 
 
 And in and out the people drew. 
 
 And much they marveled — much they 
 praised 
 The lady's loveliness, whereto 
 
 Death's awful signet had been placed; 
 And. kinsmen from the fair land round 
 
 Came in with weeping lids and lips. 
 And round the marble mother bound 
 
 Their garlands, — love's Apocalypse! 
 
 She's gone into the silent land, 
 
 She's faded from this world of ours, — 
 Where summer's golden skies expand. 
 
 She's folded in a realm of flowers; 
 She sleeps — the fair young mother sleeps, — 
 
 No words of ours, no cries, no tears. 
 Can pierce the dull grave's gloomy deeps. 
 
 Thro' all the intervital years. 
 
 She sleeps, — nor any dreams hath she, — 
 The tides may ebb, the tides may flow; 
 
66 SHE SLEEPS. 
 
 Where once she was, she ne'er can be, 
 While round the world the wild winds 
 blow ; 
 
 She sleeps — God rest her where she lies ! 
 Until the gates of dawn unbar, 
 
 Then give her spirit strength to rise 
 To life in some sublimer star! 
 
'WAY DOWN IN SPICE VALLEY. 
 
 'Way down in Spice Yalley I'm drifting 
 
 to-night, 
 On a river of dreams, with a heart that is light 
 As the lilt of the woodlark, a-tilt on the tree, 
 By the spot where my cot in that vale used 
 
 to be — 
 When life was a lily just opening its eye. 
 To the dew of the dawn, and the blue of 
 
 the sky, 
 
 'Way down in Spice Yalley. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Way down in Spice Yalley, in fancy, I see 
 The bloom of the clover still beck'ning the bee — 
 The low-leaning orchards, the herds on the hill, 
 And the road, like a ribbon unspooled, to the 
 
 mill; 
 Still, still, in my dream, I can see the old 
 
 stream, 
 
 (57) 
 
58 'WAY DOWN IN SPIOE VALLEY. 
 
 And the ford, where the farmer drove over his 
 team, 
 
 '"Way down in Spice Yalley. 
 
 III. 
 
 'Way down in Spice Yalley, Old Time falls 
 
 asleep, 
 "With his head on the sward, in a slumber so 
 
 deep 
 That the birds cannot wake him, with melodies 
 
 blithe, 
 And the long valley -grasses grow over his 
 
 scythe, — 
 And Summer kneels down, in her long golden 
 
 gown. 
 On a carpet of green, where the skies never 
 
 frown, 
 
 'Way down in Spice Valley. 
 
 lY. 
 
 '"Way down in Spice Yalley, my memory goes, 
 "With a sigh, like the sob of the river that flows 
 In that far-away vale, — and I pray in my 
 dream. 
 
'WAY DOWN IN SPIGE VALLEY. 59 
 
 To "be borne, when I die, to tliat beautiful 
 
 stream. 
 And tenderly laid in the welcoming shade 
 Of the wide-spreading woods, where I wandered 
 
 and played, 
 
 '"Way down in Spice Yalley. 
 
A FEAGMENT. 
 
 There is no panacea known 
 To soothe the soul when hope is flown — 
 There is no bahn the wound to heal, 
 When Love withdraws his dripping steel. 
 
 The mangled heart may still beat on, 
 When everything it prized is gone — 
 Throb on, without one pleasing pain. 
 To indicate if life remain. 
 
 God pity him who cannot die, 
 When all his dreams in ashes lie, 
 And through his soul's dismantled hall 
 The spectral past holds carnival. 
 
 (60j 
 
THE OLD HOUSE-FLY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Go throw the shutters open wide, and lift the 
 
 windows high, 
 Let out the silence and the gloom, let in the 
 
 jolly %; 
 I'm weary of this stale repose, and long to 
 
 hear again. 
 The sweetest sound of all the year, the fly 
 
 upon the pane; — 
 I long to see him bobbing up and down the 
 
 sill and sash, 
 I long to feel his tickling tread upon my soft 
 
 mustache ; 
 I love to see him tilting on his slender, tender 
 
 toes, 
 I love to watch him bump, and buzz, and 
 
 balance on his nose; 
 In all the universe, to-day, of merry song and 
 
 glee, 
 O, tell me where's another that is happier 
 
 than he; 
 
 (61) 
 
63- THE OLD BOUSE -FLY. 
 
 Then throw the shutters open wide, and lift 
 
 the windows high, 
 Let out the gloom and silence, and let in the 
 
 jolly fly- 
 
 11. 
 
 O, the old house-flj! O, the brave house-fly! 
 A straddling o'er the butter-dish, a sprawling 
 
 o'er the pie, — 
 A jogging thro' the jell and jam, and jouncing 
 
 round the cream, 
 As prone to risk a summer sail upon the milky 
 
 stream ; 
 A roving life the rascal leads thro' all the rosy 
 
 hours, 
 A sipping only of the sweets, and skipping all 
 
 the sours; 
 A button-headed roustabout, a lover light and 
 
 bold. 
 Who revels on the ripest lips that mortal eyes 
 
 behold; 
 Who clambers up the softest_ cheek, and up 
 
 the whitest arm. 
 And loiters on the fairest breast that ever love 
 
 made warm ; 
 
THE OLD ROUSE-FLY. 63 
 
 Then throw the shutters open wide, and lift 
 
 the windows high, 
 Let out the silence and the gloom, let in the 
 
 jolly %. 
 
 III. 
 
 O, the old house-fly ! O, the jolly house-fly ! 
 He was present at our coming, he'll be with 
 
 us when we die ; 
 From Turkestan to Mexico, his broad dominion 
 
 runs, 
 And his nature never changes with the 
 
 "process of the suns; " 
 From the days of dusky Cheops, down thro' 
 
 centuries of dirt, 
 'Tis a matter of conjecture, if he ever washed 
 
 his shirt; 
 He has dined with every poet from the 
 
 patriarchal Chaucer, 
 He has often taken pleasure-trips in Billy 
 
 Shakespeare's saucer; 
 He dipped his saucy noddle into Cleopatra's 
 
 cup, 
 When the amorous Antonius his kingdom 
 
 offered up; 
 
64 THE OLD HOUSE FLY. 
 
 Then throw the shutters open wide, and lift 
 
 the windows high, 
 Let out the silence and the gloom, let in the 
 jolly fly. 
 
 IV 
 
 O, the old house-fly ! O, the naughty house- 
 
 fly! 
 He dances on the baby's lip, and on the dead 
 
 man's eye; 
 He's first to taste the tawny wine within the 
 
 tippler's glass, 
 He prances on the prelate's nose whene'er he 
 
 goes to mass; 
 He's found within the skipper's hut, and in 
 
 the gilded hall, 
 A giddy gambolier, who pays his compliments 
 
 to all; 
 "When our mothers rocked the cradles, in the 
 
 cabins of our birth. 
 His happy chorus blended with the cricket 
 
 on the hearth, — 
 And I love the recollection of the hours I've 
 
 seen him crawl, 
 
THE OLD HOVSE-FLT. 65 
 
 In the summer-time of childhood, up and down 
 
 the whitened wall; 
 Then throw the shutters open wide, and lift 
 
 the windows high. 
 Let out the gloom and silence, and let in the 
 
 jolly fly. 
 
INSOMNIA. 
 
 Into the dark and chambered deep, 
 
 I wearily cast my eye, 
 And cry to the echoing night for sleep, 
 
 But ever in vain I cry. 
 
 II 
 
 For the wheels of memory turn, 
 
 And passions old arise. 
 And the wasted years come back and burn 
 
 The slumber out of my eyes. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And I sob like a child in pain, 
 For the rest that comes not nigh, 
 
 And out in the dark I hear the rain, 
 Where my shattered idols lie. 
 
 (66) 
 
" THEY HAD NO POET AND SO 
 THEY DIED." 
 
 In the dim waste lands of the Orient stands 
 
 The wreck of a race so old and vast, 
 That the grayest legend can not lay hands 
 
 On a single fact of its tongueless past; 
 Not even the red gold crown of a king, 
 
 Nor a warrior's shield, nor aught beside, 
 Can history out of the ruins wring, — 
 
 They had no poet and so they died. 
 
 Babel and Nineveh, what are they. 
 
 But feeble hints of a passing power 
 That over the populous East held sway. 
 
 In a dream of pomp for a paltry hour? 
 A toppled tower, and a shattered stone, 
 
 Where the satyrs dance, and the dragons 
 hide, 
 Is all that is known of the glory flown, — 
 
 They had no poet and so they died. 
 
 Down where the dolorous Congo slips, 
 Like a tawny snake, thro' the torrid clime, 
 
 (67) 
 
68 THET HAD NO POET. 
 
 Man's soul has slept in a cold eclipse, 
 
 On the world's dark rim, since the dawn of 
 time ; 
 
 And if ever the ancient Nubians wrought 
 A work of beauty, or strength, or pride, 
 
 It was unrecorded, and goes for naught, — 
 They had no poet and so they died. 
 
 And even here, in the sun- crowned West, 
 
 In the land we love, in the vales we've trod, 
 Where the bleeding palms of the world find 
 rest 
 
 On Freedom's lap, at the feet of God, — 
 Even here, I say, ere the earth waxed old, 
 
 A race Titanic did once abide, 
 But, ah! their story is left untold, — 
 
 They had no poet and so they died. 
 
 The same old tale ! and so it will be, 
 
 As long as the heavens feed the stars, — 
 As lonsr as the tribes of men shall see 
 
 A lesser glory in arts than wars ; 
 And so let us live, and labor, and pray. 
 
 As down we glide with the darkling tide. 
 That never a singer of us may say. 
 
 They had no poet and so they died. 
 
AT WATERLOO. 
 
 "Stand firm!" said the Duke, as a courier 
 
 came 
 Thro' the battery's breath, with his bare brow 
 
 aflame; 
 "Stand firm!"— "But we perish"— " Stand 
 
 firm !" cried the Duke, 
 And the officer flushed as he felt the rebuke. 
 But he coolly replied, 'mid the roar of the 
 
 gun, 
 " You'll find lis all here when the battle is 
 
 done." 
 
 Death's carnival followed. O'er field and o'er 
 
 trench, 
 In billows of doom, dashed the waves of the 
 
 French ; 
 As firm as a sea-battered wall stood the rank 
 Of that fated brigade, — not an English heart 
 
 shrank, — 
 Together they perished, but Wellington won. 
 He found them all there when the hattle was 
 
 done. 
 
 (69) 
 
«GAUN HAME." 
 
 "Fareweel!" she said, and she waved her 
 
 hand 
 From the stately ship, as it left the land 
 For a far-off shore. 
 
 " Fareweel!" said she, 
 " I am gaun awa' to my ain countree, 
 "Where the gowans grow^ and my laddie lies 
 Cauld in his grave, where the Ochils rise, — 
 To the land o' the leal, where my mither dear, 
 Has slumbered for mony a lang, lang year. 
 Ghaist-like, I've wandered the warldsae wide, 
 A wae-worn lassie — an unlo'ed bride, — 
 An' now, as the simmer grows sad and sere. 
 An' my days draw doun to the last dim year, 
 I am driftin' awa' frae a frien'less shore, 
 To the hame o' the happy, ance more, ance 
 
 more." 
 
 The ship went down in the roaring sea, 
 
 But the lady— she reached her " ain countree." 
 
 (70) 
 
A BALLAD OF TEARS. 
 
 " The tears I shed must ev^er fall," 
 
 Low moaned a mother, as she kept 
 A nightly vigil over all 
 
 Iler household idols, as they slept ; 
 The storm came down against the pane, 
 
 She heard, far off, strange voices call, 
 As still she sobbed, in drear refrain, 
 
 " The tears I shed must ever fall." 
 
 II 
 
 " The tears I shed must ever fall," 
 
 Sighed one — an aged man — who stood 
 Beside a tablet, gray and tall, 
 
 Far in a churchyard's solitude; 
 The past burned back upon his brain, 
 
 "With dreams of bliss beyond recall, — 
 Poor soul! he whispered thro' his pain, 
 
 " The tears I shed must ever fall." 
 
 (71) 
 
73 A BALLAD OF TEARS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " The tears I shed must ever fall," 
 
 A hungry, houseless exile wailed, 
 As o'er him, from a festal-hall, 
 
 The lights of joy and splendor trailed. 
 He wept, — his weeping was in vain. 
 
 For death itself could not forestall 
 The anguish of his cold refrain, 
 
 " The tears I shed must ever fall." 
 
 IV 
 
 " The tears I shed must ever fall," 
 
 A lone girl sang, and singing, heard 
 The waves beat on the dim sea-wall, 
 
 In mournful melody and weird; 
 The night caught up the plaintive strain, 
 
 As, folding round her, like a pall, 
 It rustled to the dull refrain, 
 
 " The tears I shed must ever fall." 
 
JULY IN THE WEST. 
 
 DAY. 
 
 A rhy tlim of reapers ; a flashing 
 Of steels in the meadows ; a lashing 
 Of sheaves in the wheatlands; a glitter 
 Of grain-builded streets, and a twitter 
 Of birds in a motionless sky, — 
 And that is July ! 
 
 A rustle of corn -leaves ; a tinkle 
 Of bells on the hills; a twinkle 
 Of sheep in the lowlands; a bevy 
 Of bees where the clover is heavy; 
 A butterfly blundering by, — 
 And that is July! 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 A moon-flood prairie ; a straying 
 Of light-hearted lovers; a baying 
 Of far-away watch dogs; a dreaming 
 Of brown -fisted farmers; a gleaming 
 Of fire-flies eddying nigh, — 
 And that is July ! 
 
 (73) 
 
74 JULY IN THE WEST. 
 
 A babble of brooks that deliver 
 Their flower- purfled waves to the river; 
 A moan in the marshes ; in thickets, 
 A dolorous droning of crickets, 
 Attuned to a whippoorwill's cry, — 
 And that is July ! 
 
ILLINOIS. 
 
 I sing not of the summer-lands, 
 That lie beyond the rolling seas — 
 Nor of the famed Hesperides, 
 
 Nor any tropic isles nor strands. 
 
 I sing a land of peace and light. 
 Of labor, love and liberty — 
 A land wherein the prophets see 
 
 The dawn of progress infinite. 
 
 No dreaming poet ever drew 
 Upon the tablet of his thought, 
 A land with fairer promise fraught, 
 
 Than this that opens on my view. 
 
 The maiden empire of the "West, 
 
 Gold-sheened, gold-sandalled, and gold- 
 crowned, 
 
 Her brows with yellow harvests bound, 
 Her ample bosom blossom-drest. 
 
 Here rhythmic rivers flash and flow, 
 Thro' meadows measureless, and here, 
 
 (75) 
 
76 ILLINOIS. 
 
 On banks of roses, cities rear 
 Their temples in tlie sunset's glow. 
 
 Here birds of every tongue and tinge 
 Fly up and down the laughing lands, 
 From Michigan's surf -whitened sands, 
 
 To where Ohio's floods infringe. 
 
 The skies of Italy are ours, 
 
 And ours the Lydian airs that blow 
 
 So lightly, lullingly, and low. 
 
 At night-tide, o'er the sleeping flowers. 
 
 No ghostly ruins fret the wind, 
 
 No shattered shrines, no toppling towers, 
 But, ah! this peaceful realm embowers 
 
 The wealth of Ormus and of Ind. 
 
 Nor is the soul of romance flown. 
 For here the poet's eye can trace 
 The vestige of a vanished race, 
 
 In field and forest, stream and stone. 
 
 And here a grander Rome will rise, 
 A Rome without a slave or king. 
 Round which a nobler race will spring. 
 
 With patriotic souls and wise; — 
 
Illinois. ni 
 
 A free-born people, proud and great, 
 With heart and hand to do and dare, — 
 With strength to fashion firm and fair 
 
 The fabric of the growing State. 
 
 And Greece, beneath these western skies. 
 Will leap to life again, and breathe 
 Her spirit into stone, and wreathe 
 
 The land with deathless melodies. 
 
 I trow no fancy can forecast 
 
 The fame, the splendor yet to be 
 Unscrolled before the world, when we 
 
 Are drawn into the dreamless past. 
 
"THE EYES OF ELEANOEA." 
 
 I. 
 
 As the light of a star is found. 
 By day, in the sunless ground, 
 
 Where the river of silence lies, — 
 So the spirit of beauty dwells, 
 O love, in the mimic wells 
 
 Of thy large, thy luminous eyes. 
 
 II 
 
 As out of a turbulent night, 
 A lost bird turns to the light 
 
 Of a desolate dreamer's room, — 
 So, forth from the storm of thine eyes, 
 A passionate splendor flies 
 
 To my soul, through the inter -gloom. 
 
 Ill 
 
 As a lily quivers and gleams. 
 
 All night, by the darkling streams, 
 
 That dream in the underlands, — 
 So, up from the haunted lakes 
 Of thy shadowy eyes. Love shakes 
 
 The snows of her beck'ning hands. 
 
 (78) 
 
''THE EYES OF ELBANOBAr 79 
 
 IV 
 
 As clusters of new worlds dawn, 
 When the infinite night comes on, 
 
 In the measureless, moonless skies — 
 So the planet of love burns high, 
 O sweet, when the day sweeps by, 
 
 In the dusk of thy orient eyes. 
 
O, BLEAK IS THE NIGHT. 
 {Song.) 
 O bleak is the night 
 
 That is shorn of its stars, 
 And cold is the heart 
 
 Tliat is chastened with scars; 
 But bleaker and colder 
 
 Than everything yet, 
 Is the love-plundered bosom, 
 
 That cannot forget. 
 
 The bright crystal dews 
 
 That o'er-sprinkle the lawn, 
 Slip back into mist 
 
 At the touch of the dawn, — 
 But the lover low-chained 
 
 To the rack of regret. 
 Must languish in pain, 
 
 For he cannot forget. 
 
 White sails of the ocean 
 Grow dingy on shore. 
 
 But brighten again 
 
 As they sweep the seas o'er ; 
 
 (80) 
 
0, BLEAK IS THE NIGHT. 81 
 
 Not so the fond eyes 
 
 With love's hopelessness wet — 
 The heart never lightens 
 
 That cannot forget. 
 
 The visions of terror 
 
 That haunt lis by night, 
 Like shadows take wing 
 
 At the first flush of light; 
 But the breast of despair 
 
 Still in anguish must fret, 
 For the curse is upon it — 
 
 It cannot forget. 
 
THE BURDEN OF BABYLON. 
 
 O Babylon, O Babylon, 
 The Lord hath made His purpose known; 
 His anger, like a seething sea. 
 Swells at th}^ gate, 
 And Sodom's fate 
 Alas, proud city, is reserved for thee. 
 
 O Babylon, O Babylon, 
 Soon, soon, thy glory shall be gone; 
 Beneath thy godless roofs shall run 
 E'en the warm blood 
 Of motherhood, [one! 
 
 And none escape His vengeance — nay, not 
 
 O Babylon, O Babylon, 
 Never again as years go on. 
 Shall shepherds fold their flocks by thee ; 
 Nor Arab pitch 
 His tent, nor hitch 
 His camel by thy cool pomegranate tree. 
 
 O Babylon, O Babylon, 
 The winds shall o'er thy ruins moan; 
 Within thy desolated halls, 
 Shall flit the owl, 
 And wild beasts prowl. 
 And dancing satyrs hold their carnivals. 
 
 (82) 
 
BEHIND THE VEIL. 
 
 I 
 
 As a painter walked forth in the dawn, half- 
 adream, 
 He saw the green splendor of sumptuous 
 trees 
 Waving under the winds, and his eyes drank 
 the gleam 
 Of the blue vagues above him like pendu- 
 lous seas; 
 The world was a picture, so fair and so fine, 
 That the artist beheld it with marvelling 
 eyes,— 
 But he saw not the hand of the Painter divine, 
 Who stood at his easel, just back of the 
 skies. 
 
 II 
 
 A sculptor once strolled mid' the mountains, 
 entranced, 
 Untongued, in a tremulous transport of 
 Art, 
 
 (83) 
 
84 ^ ^^IIIND THE VEIL. 
 
 As he scanned the grim turrets of granite that 
 glanced 
 On the rim. of the sun, standing stark and 
 apart ; 
 His soul sipped the scene till it reeled with 
 despair, 
 Till his chisel fell dulled on the stones at 
 his feet, — 
 But he saw not the Sculptor, half -hid on the 
 stair, 
 And he heard not the mallet of God as it 
 beat. 
 
 Ill 
 
 In fancy, I saw a musician enchained 
 
 In a tangle of melodies, tremblingly twirled 
 From the throats of the throstles, like sym- 
 phonies strained 
 
 From the harps of old minstrels, and blown 
 down the world ; 
 He stood in the dawning, delirously dazed, 
 
 And as still as a bronze, — but he saw not all, 
 The swinging batoon that the Master upraised 
 
 At the Fount of all music, just over the wall. 
 
BEHIND THE VEIL. 85 
 
 IV 
 
 1 saw, ill my vision, a poet who wrote 
 1 With a pencil of light, from a heart that 
 was fraught 
 With the fervor of passion,— whose soul was 
 afloat 
 On a palpitant ocean of fancy and thought; 
 His lays by the lips of all lands were rehearsed, 
 Till they set the slow pulse of the peoples 
 a-quiver, — 
 But he saw not the face of the Poet, who first 
 Gave the song to the sea, and the rhyme to 
 the river. 
 
DAY AND JMIGHT. 
 
 I 
 
 When drowsy Day draws round his downy 
 
 bed 
 The Tyrian tapestries of gold and red, 
 And, weary of his flight, 
 Puts out the palace light, — 
 'Tis night! 
 
 II 
 
 "When languid Night, awakening with a yawn. 
 Leaps down the moon -washed stairway of the 
 dawn, 
 In trailing disarray. 
 Sweeping the dews away, — 
 'Tis day! 
 
 (86) 
 
ONE GOLDEN HAIK. 
 
 {Found in an old volume of Burns^ 
 
 A woman's liair ! a single strand ! 
 And yet a most fantastic thought 
 Flashed o'er me, as my fingers caught 
 
 And drew it forth across my hand. 
 
 Like to some living thing that turns, 
 Instinctive, from the spoiler's touch, 
 The hair curled upward from my clutch, 
 
 And sought again the page of Burns, — 
 
 A page whereon the bard had told 
 A woman's charms, in verse divine: — 
 
 " Her hair was like the links o' gold, 
 Her cheeks like lilies dipped in wine." 
 
 A woman's hair ! a single shred ! 
 
 A golden fibre gently torn 
 
 From some proud beauty to adorn 
 The book of love, wherein she read, — 
 Wherein she caught the flash and fire 
 
 Of purest passion ever given. 
 To sanctify a poet's l}Te, 
 
 And lure a panting heart to heaven. 
 
 (87) 
 
t ONE GOLDEN HAIR. 
 
 A golden hair! a slender thing! 
 
 A soft and silken coil ! And yet, 
 
 In death, it still would pay a debt 
 Of love unto the poet-king. 
 This single hair — this twining hair, 
 
 A sweeter, nobler tribute pays 
 To him who sang beside the Ayr, 
 
 Than any human lip can phrase. 
 
IN SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 How sweet amidst the melancholy hills 
 To lie, a lazy dreamer, in the lap 
 Of flush mid-siimmer, drowsy with the lull 
 Of lapping waters and light winds that pipe 
 In murmurous monotones, along the dim, 
 Sun-litten arcades of the spectral woods, — 
 To hear, remotely, in the lonesome lands. 
 The drony resonance of dreamy bells, 
 Where, 'mid cool shadows, lurk the browsing 
 
 herds. 
 In dimpled hollows, soft with summer sward — 
 To list the sullen rasp of insect wings, 
 And, in a silken indolence of soul, 
 To note the bluster of the tippling bee, 
 Home-reeling from the pillaged palaces 
 Of Flora's shining empire. 
 
 Every tuft 
 Is populous with panting life and toil — 
 Each tree is tremulous with melody, 
 Each dainty leaf, each dewy blade of grass. 
 Stirs into music at the gentlest touch 
 Of every passing wind. 
 
 Ye who would hear 
 The primal symphonies by Adam heard, 
 
 (89) 
 
90 IN SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 Amid the velvet vales of Paradise, 
 
 Go down, go down, to the embowering woods. 
 
 Go down into the pulsing, summer woods. 
 
 Forgetful and forgotten of the world, 
 
 And in a rosy rhapsody of rest, 
 
 Throw wide the spirit's portals to the fresh. 
 
 Out-flowing voices of the universe, — 
 
 The voices of the everlasting hills, 
 
 The voices of the rivers and the rocks, 
 
 The rivulets, the rushes, and the reeds, 
 
 And all the wizard -rhythm of the shades. 
 
 Let the light spirit, loosened from the thrall 
 Of every-day distraction, wan'der free. 
 And quaff the nectar of a nobler hope, 
 The sweeter incense of a higher sphere, 
 And, on the star crowned summits of the 
 
 mind, 
 Model ambitions of sublimer mould. 
 
SEYEKED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Shall we never meet again? 
 
 Is it fated that we twain 
 
 Shall know no more the clasping 
 Of each other's arms — the grasping 
 
 Of each other's hands, and tingling 
 
 Of the old-time's intermingling? 
 
 Is it written — is it known, 
 
 In the doom -book at the Throne, 
 
 That you and I, forever, 
 
 Shall never, never, never. 
 Be united — be twin-hearted, 
 As in days long since departed? 
 
 May we never backward creep. 
 Thro' the shadows, vague and deep. 
 To the melancholy borders 
 Of our strifes and our disorders, 
 And restore the fetters golden 
 Of the happy days and olden ? 
 
 Is it fated that we twain 
 
 Must forevermore remain 
 Asunder, but still yearning 
 For a love that's unreturning — 
 
 For a friendship rashly riven. 
 
 In the sight of Earth and Heaven? 
 
 (91) 
 
MY LADY BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 Could I, in two sweet sonnets, here condense 
 The honied praise and compliments of all 
 The poets of the earth since Adam's fall, — 
 Or could my light-winged fancy, flying thence. 
 Beyond the girdling barricades of sense, 
 The subtle strength of future song forestall — 
 Were such my gifts, I'd build a temple tall 
 Of royal homage, walled with eloquence. 
 Within whose purple court, upon a throne 
 
 Of silken despotism, I would place 
 The snowy empress of my soul's desire; — 
 Her dynasty should be my heart, alone. 
 
 Her passions be to mine as food and fire. 
 And pasture for mine eyes her body's grace. 
 
 And twinkling Cupids nightly to her sleep, 
 In clouds of riant rivalry would throng, — 
 And in the meshes of her ringlets long, 
 A breathless vigil o'er the dreamer keep; 
 Nor ever should a tell-tale teardrop peep 
 From out her dewy lids, — nor from her 
 
 tongue 
 Should aught escape but laughter and sweet 
 song, 
 
 (92) 
 
MY LADY BEAUTIFUL. 93 
 
 And discourse dreamfully devout and deep. 
 No pirate winds — no prowling plagues should 
 creep, 
 By night or day, within her wreathen 
 shrine, — 
 The stairway to her heart should be so steep, 
 
 That it would echo to no tread but mine, — 
 And I, through all the dear Idalian days, 
 Would lull the princess with love's roundelays. 
 
IN SOUDAN. 
 
 Ended that strange career, 
 
 Long so victorious, 
 Slain by an Arab's spear, 
 
 Gordon, the glorious; 
 Stark under torrid skies. 
 
 Girdled with gloom, 
 Britain's best soldier lies 
 
 Dead in Khartoum. 
 
 Stewart falls bleeding, and 
 
 Earle is in glory, — 
 Steady, now ! hand to hand. 
 
 Sweep all before ye ! 
 Close up the shattered square, 
 
 Stand fast, who can ! 
 Strike ! while a hope is there 
 
 Left in Soudan. 
 
 Mothers of England,, weep! 
 
 Weep, sons and daughters! 
 Weep for the brave who sleep, 
 
 Hard by Nile's waters ! 
 Weep for your Burnaby 
 
 Dead in the van, — 
 Weep ye, for all who lie 
 
 Cold in Soudan. 
 
 (94) 
 
OUT ON THE FABM. 
 
 A home in the country ! what care I 
 
 For the tossing town, with its madd'ning din, 
 Where the grinding wheels of the world go by, 
 
 And the soul grows sick, as the crowds crush 
 in; 
 Better the lanes where the linnets be, 
 
 And the brown bees drone in the dewy thyme ; 
 "Where the wild bird flutes on the tulip-tree. 
 
 And the garnet bells of the pawpaws chime. 
 
 A home in the country ! Never for me 
 The flash of fashion, and feverish beat 
 
 Of the trampling masses my sad eyes see 
 Pulsing forever from street to street; — 
 
 Better the woods where the waters meet, 
 And the grass gi'ows cool by the shelvy 
 shore, — 
 
 Where the wild-flowers blush in their dim 
 retreat. 
 
 And the clamor of town is heard no more. 
 
 A home in the country, blessed and sweet. 
 From the hand of God, where the shade and 
 shine 
 
 (95) 
 
96 OUT ON TUB FARM. 
 
 Play all day long in the rippling wheat, 
 And the berries glow in the grass, like wine; 
 
 Never a home in the town be mine, 
 
 Mid' the stir and whir, and the gaud and 
 glare, — 
 
 Give me the farm where the clovered kine 
 Are heard on the hill, — and the world is fair. 
 
THE OLD FIREPLACE. 
 
 The blessed old fireplace ! how bright it appears, 
 
 As back to my boyhood I gaze, 
 O'er the desolate waste of the vanishing years, 
 
 From the gloom of these lone latter-days; 
 Its lips are as ruddy, its heart is as warm 
 
 To my fancy, to-night, as of yore. 
 When we cuddled around it, and smiled at the 
 storm. 
 
 As it showed its white teeth at the door. 
 
 I remember the apple that wooed the red 
 flame. 
 Till the blood bubbled out of its cheek, — 
 And the passionate popcorn that smothered 
 its shame. 
 Till its heart split apart with a shriek; 
 I remember the Greeks and the Trojans who 
 fought. 
 In their shadowy shapes on the wall, 
 And the yarn, in thick tangles, my fingers held 
 taut 
 While my mother was winding the ball. 
 
 I remember the cat that lay cozy and curled 
 By the jamb, where the flame flickered high, 
 
 1 (97) 
 
98 THE OLD FIBBPLAGE. 
 
 And the sparkles, — the fire-flies of winter, — 
 that whirled 
 Up the flue, as the wind whistled by; 
 I remember the bald-headed, bandy-legg'd 
 tongs. 
 That frowned like a fiend in my face. 
 In a fury of passion, repeating the wrongs 
 They had borne in the old fireplace. 
 
 I remember the steam from the kettle that 
 breathed, 
 
 As soft as the flight of a soul, — 
 The long-handled skillet that spluttered and 
 seethed 
 
 With the batter that burthened its bowl ; 
 I remember the rusty, identical nail. 
 
 Where the criminal pot-hooks were hung, — 
 The dragon-faced andirons, the old cedar pail. 
 
 The gourd, and the peg where it swung. 
 
 But the fire has died out on the old cabin 
 hearth. 
 The wind clatters loud thro' the pane. 
 And the dwellers, — they're flown to the ends 
 of the earth. 
 And will gaze on it never again; 
 
THE OLD FIRE-PLACE. 99 
 
 A forget-me-not grows in the mouldering wall, 
 
 The last as it were of its race, 
 And the shadows of night settle down like a 
 pall, 
 
 On the stones of the old fireplace. 
 
" JOUKYD ADDLES." 
 
 O, where is Jouky daddies, 
 
 O, where, where, where — 
 The little chubby codger 
 
 That was toddlin' here and there. 
 With the jelly on his chin, 
 
 And the butter on his cheeks, 
 And his lubber little legs 
 
 With their piiddle-muck streaks ? 
 
 O, where is Joukydaddles, 
 
 O, where, where, where — 
 "With the bonnie breezes blowin' 
 
 In his curly brown hair; 
 The little busy-body 
 
 In his berry-stained shirt, 
 A-dabblin' with his wee. 
 
 Tawny lingers in the dirt? 
 
 O, where is Joukydaddles, 
 O, where, where, where — 
 
 "Who daily used to tumble 
 Down the old cellar- stair; 
 
 (100) 
 
" JOVE TD ADDLES.'' 101 
 
 The burly little bandit, 
 
 With the big jewelled eyes, — 
 
 The bloody buccaneer 
 
 'Mong the bugs and butterflies ? 
 
 O, where is Joukydaddles, 
 
 O, where, where, where, — 
 We nev^er see him here, 
 
 And we never hear him there; 
 There's a shadow at the threshold, 
 
 A silence on the floor. 
 And a dusty little roundabout 
 
 Is danglin' on the door; 
 We call — but Joukydaddles 
 
 Never answers any more. 
 
LINES TO A TEERAPIiq'. 
 
 O, terrapin, terrapin, whither away. 
 
 Thou slow-moving, evil-eyed tramp; 
 What destiny tempts thee, old pilgrim, to 
 stray 
 So far from the terrapin camp? 
 "Why prowl at my garden, thou sauntering 
 crust 
 Of inscrutable cunning, — why sneak 
 And recoil, like a snake, with an air of dis- 
 trust, 
 When a gentleman deigneth to speak? 
 
 Thou toothless, old triple-lashed rover, what 
 news 
 
 Bringest thou from the terrapin isles, — 
 And what of thy trip thro' the dusks and the 
 dews. 
 
 O'er the pathless and perilous miles? 
 What bloody banditti beleaguer thy way, 
 
 And where does thy lone journey trend, — 
 O, prince of the turtles, make answer, I pray. 
 
 To the querulous poet, thy friend! 
 
 (102) 
 
LINES TO A TERRAPIN. 103 
 
 Thou Wandering Jew of the terrapin race, 
 
 What marvelous mysteries lie 
 Tormentingly locked in thy taciturn face, 
 
 And forever unsealed in thine eye; 
 For thee doth some terrapin mistress await 
 
 In her portable j)alace, I wot, — 
 For thee sits she niij-ht after night at the 2;ate, 
 
 And sadly complains of her lot, 
 
 O, terrapin, terrapin, whither away. 
 
 Thro' the dews and the dazzle of dawn? 
 No longer, poor gypsy, thy steps I will stay, 
 
 But will think of thee often, when gone; 
 Thy road is as rugged no doubt as my own. 
 
 Thy heart is as sunless and sore, — 
 So I wish thee good-morning, thou terrapin 
 lone. 
 
 And bid thee godspeed from my door. 
 
A PKOFILE OF FALL. 
 
 Under the tree the ladder leans 
 On the branches gray and old, — 
 
 And, balanced above, the gleaner gleans 
 The glittering spheres of gold ; 
 
 While pyramids brighter than maiden's eyes, 
 
 In the leafy aisles of the orchard rise. 
 
 Rambo, Pippin, and Limbertwig, 
 Belleflower, Kusset, and Romanite, 
 
 Dangling high on the slender sprig, 
 
 Gleam with a quivering rainbow light, — 
 
 And the old man nodding beneath the trees. 
 
 Dreams of the times when he planted these. 
 
 When a blue-eyed bride was at his side. 
 
 In the merry summer weather. 
 And life was fair as the apples there, 
 
 That cling to the bough together; — 
 But a score of springs have showered their 
 bloom 
 
 Where the sunlight lies on the good wife's 
 tomb. 
 
 (104) 
 
A PROFILE OF FALL. 105 
 
 With a greedy mouth the cider-mill 
 Is craimching away in the grove, — 
 
 Its lips adrip with an amber rill 
 As pure as the wine of Jove; 
 
 And the bees and the nut-brown boys are 
 there, 
 
 To sip the sweets and the sport to share. 
 
 The cliestnut brown in a sheath of spears 
 
 On the fading hillside lies. 
 And sleeps till the sunlight bursts its burrs 
 
 And shakes the night from its eyes; 
 And the walnut cloaked in Lincoln-green, 
 Dreams of a winter night, I ween. 
 
 Up in the old oak's airy hall, 
 
 The squirrel heaps his store, 
 In spite of the deadly rifle-ball 
 
 That rings at his chamber door, — 
 A merry fellow and full of glee. 
 Is the fur-clad knight of the hollow tree. 
 
 All day long in his lampless log. 
 
 The lonesome rabbit lies, 
 Peeking at every passing dog 
 
 With big sardonic eyes, — 
 
106 A PROFILE OF FALL. 
 
 And wondering to himself, no doubt, 
 If ever the dog will find him out. 
 
 The feathered bards have sheathed their quills, 
 
 And closed each tuneful mouth, 
 And flown like sunshine out of the hills 
 
 To summer lands of the South ; 
 And we who sit in the shade and write, 
 Sigh to them all, as they wing their flight. 
 
A YALENTINE. 
 
 Tho' hill and vale with music ring, 
 And mating birds be on the wing, 
 To-day I have no heart to sing, — 
 My Margerie no longer hears, 
 She smiles not now, nor heeds my tears, 
 She wakes not with the waking spring. 
 She comes not with returning years. 
 
 As sink the snow-flakes in the sea, 
 
 Loved Margerie, lost Margerie, 
 
 My thoughts concenter all in thee ; 
 To-day the softest, subtlest note 
 That trembles from the throstle's throat, 
 
 Stirs not the slightest pulse in me, — 
 My dreams are of a day remote. 
 
 The lute lies silent on my knee, 
 I touch no more the trembling key, 
 That thrilled the heart of Margerie; 
 
 Those eyes where truth and passion met. 
 Love's planets, in the grave have set. 
 And left this heritage to me, 
 A memory — a fond regret. 
 
 (107) 
 
'TIS ALWAYS SUNDAY IN THE 
 WOODS. 
 
 " 'Tis always Simdaj in the woods," 
 
 She said — the boiinie wife of mine — 
 As thro' the leaf -walled solitudes, 
 
 We j)assed beneath tlie arching vine ; 
 We saw the sunbeams slant and shine, 
 
 Like tongues of flame at Pentecost, — 
 We sipped the sacramental wine. 
 
 From many a chalice gold-emboss'd. 
 
 Outlined against the templed hills, 
 
 Tlie living symbols of the Lord, 
 We saw, — and down a thousand rills 
 
 The praises of His name w^ere poured; 
 Above us mighty organs roared. 
 
 And hidden pipers blew and blew 
 Such strains of heavenly accord. 
 
 As never art attaineth to. 
 
 The aisles were carpeted with flowers, 
 The pews with emerald were plushed, 
 
 And from a hundred wreathen towers. 
 The silver chimes of morning gushed; 
 
 (108) 
 
'TIS ALWAYS SUNDAY. , 109 
 
 Anon, and all the space was hushed, 
 As when, within cathedrals dim. 
 
 The body of the Christ is crushed. 
 
 And Christians quaff the blood of Him. 
 
 'Tis always Sunday in the woods! 
 
 The cattle down the valley pass, 
 In lazy-moving multitudes, 
 
 To where the river gleams like glass ; 
 The birds, in one symphonic mass 
 
 Of benedictions, flood the airs, 
 And all the insect-haunted grass 
 
 Is sibilant with whispered prayers. 
 
 Around the rock-built altars crowd 
 
 The patient oaks, as prone to pour 
 Their poeans to the bannered cloud 
 
 In golden glory floating o'er; 
 Green-robed, they stand forevermore, 
 
 Within their dreamy vastitudes. 
 Devout as Druids to the core — 
 
 'Tis always Sunday in the woods. 
 
FOB AN ALBUM. 
 
 We shall meet, we shall greet, 
 
 Where the bright lights quiver 
 Over yonder, on the heights 
 
 Of the interflowing river, — 
 Over yonder where the moon 
 
 With the shepherd-boy dallies, 
 And the goat-foot Pan 
 
 Goes piping down the valleys, — 
 We shall meet, we shall greet, 
 
 Where the warm sky showers 
 The pearls of the planets 
 
 On the fountains and the flowers,- 
 Where the summer lies asleep 
 
 On the wings of the swallows, 
 And the nightingale sings 
 
 In the dream-haunted hollows ; 
 We shall meet, over there, 
 
 On the sunny hills seven. 
 In the Rome of the soul. 
 
 In the Italy of Heaven. 
 
 (110) 
 
WHEN YOUR FATHER WENT TO 
 WAR. 
 
 I. 
 
 When your father went to war, Jennie, you 
 
 were but a child, 
 A romping little rowdy, running riotous and 
 
 wild 
 In the maple-shaded pasture, where our cot- 
 tage used to stand. 
 And we owned a timbered forty of the richest 
 
 river land, — 
 Y"es, owned it — every inch of it — by labor's 
 
 hard decree. 
 And none we thought, in all the world were 
 
 happier than we. 
 Our cattle browsed the summer hills, amid 
 
 the blue-grass deep. 
 And all the shady bottom-lands were snowy 
 
 with our sheep; 
 
 'Twas like a tale of fairy lore, the life that we 
 
 lived then, 
 
 (111) 
 
113 WHEN TOUR FATE EM WENT TO WAR. 
 
 When I M'as barely twenty-six, and you were 
 
 only ten; 
 Love brought us peace and comfort, till there 
 
 rose an evil star, 
 In the summertime of plenty, when your 
 
 father went to war. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah, Jennie, I remember well the day, — 'twas 
 
 late in June, 
 Your father he came ridinof home from town 
 
 one afternoon, 
 And his face was pale and haggard as he 
 
 reached the door, and threw 
 One arm around me, daughter, while he laid 
 
 one hand on you ; 
 And as my senses faltered, and I reeled in his 
 
 embrace, 
 I read the fearful meaning that was written in 
 
 his face, — 
 I felt it in the bounding blood that beat 
 
 against my breast, 
 I needed not a spoken word, — too well I knew 
 
 the rest: 
 
WHEN YOUR FATHER WENT TO WAR. 113 
 
 And all that niglit in dreams I heard the 
 tramp of marching feet, 
 
 And far away I saw the flags grow dimmer 
 down the street; 
 
 'Twas long ago ! but O, my heart has not out- 
 grown the scar 
 
 God's finger put upon it, when your father 
 went to war. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then you and I were left alone. "We tried a 
 
 year or so, 
 By hiring help, to scrimp along, but couldn't 
 
 make it go; 
 The Spring-floods swept away the corn, the 
 
 drouth of Summer dried 
 The grasses on the uplands, and we had no 
 
 crops beside; 
 So we parted with the cattle that we could no 
 
 longer keep, 
 "We sold the only team we had, and traded off 
 
 the sheep; 
 , And when the winds of Autumn shook the 
 
 pipes about the eaves. 
 
114 WSEir TOXTR FATHER WENT TO WAR. 
 
 And in the woodland hollows piled the brown 
 
 October leaves, 
 When the hazel-nuts were ripening in the old 
 
 familiar copse, 
 And the wild geese wedging southward, far 
 
 above the maple-tops, 
 We locked the dear old farm-house up, and 
 
 closed the pasture bar, 
 And moved into the village, when your father 
 
 went to war. 
 
 lY. 
 
 Then Winter came — a dreary time — a night 
 
 of hopes and fears, 
 On every hand the widows wept, and fell the 
 
 mothers' tears — 
 A reign of blood and ruin! Every day some 
 
 passing train 
 Brought back a load of mangled men— brought 
 
 back the coffined slain ; 
 And Jennie, O, my Jennie, ere the snows of 
 
 Winter passed, 
 They bore your father back to us, — they 
 
 brought him home at last; 
 
WHEN YOUR FATHER WENT TO WAR. 115 
 
 They sent him from the frozen hills, beside 
 
 the Tennessee, 
 Borne down amidst the battle, where the 
 
 bravest love to be ; 
 They sent him back a mined man for life, 
 
 alas, my child! 
 I turned away in agony, I raved as one grown 
 
 wild. 
 But why recall the story now? The years 
 
 have drifted far. 
 And we've got used to trouble, since your 
 
 father went to war. 
 
 V. 
 
 The times have changed. "We, too, have 
 
 changed. To-night the blue and gray 
 Sit round their fires with lighted pipes, and 
 
 pufE their hates away, — 
 Sit spinning yarns about their camps, until 
 
 the drowsy stars 
 Put out their light and wave " good night " 
 
 across the twilight's bars. 
 Although my heart be broken, and although 
 
 my hair be white, 
 
116 WHEN TOUR FATHER WENT TO WAU. 
 
 And 'though the years have brought me but 
 disaster in their flight, 
 
 I am wicked in my weakness, I am cruel to 
 complain, 
 
 When yonder patient sufferer sits smiling at 
 his pain,— 
 
 Sits crooning in the Autumn moon the bal- 
 lads made to praise 
 
 The luster of his daring in the old heroic 
 days, — 
 
 Sits dreaming, Jennie, dreaming, of the battle- 
 fields that are 
 
 The glory of the ages, since your father went 
 to war. 
 
 YI. 
 
 A little while — it won't be long, until the sol- 
 diers come 
 
 And bear away their comrade to the dead- 
 march of a drum. 
 
 To the green hills over yonder, where eternal 
 tents are spread. 
 
 And no pensions are rejected in the domains 
 of the dead ; 
 
WHEN TOUR FATHER WENT TO WAR. 117 
 
 Where justice is no jester, and where glory- 
 countersigns 
 
 The muster-rolls of freedom as the century 
 declines ; 
 
 Yes, child, to that Republic where no partisan 
 is found, 
 
 Where the private is promoted and the poten- 
 tate discrowned, 
 
 Our loved one now is journeying; and as for 
 you and me. 
 
 It matters not, — the pottersfield our heritage 
 may be; . 
 
 The future frowns and threatens, but thank 
 God it cannot mar 
 
 The glory that we garnered when your father 
 went to war. 
 
AN IN VOCATION. 
 
 Spirit of Mercy ! draw near me, draw near me, 
 Lean to me lovingly, comfort, and cheer me,- 
 Hope have I none, if thou deign not to hear 
 me. 
 
 Spirit of Mercy ! encompass me, bless me, 
 Close to thy bosom warm, clasp me, and press 
 
 me, 
 Clothe me with meekness — of sin dispossess 
 
 me. 
 
 Spirit of Mercy ! I reacli to thee, cling to thee. 
 All my transgressions I prayerfully bring to 
 
 thee; — 
 Humbly my hands, in my weakness, I wring 
 
 to thee. 
 
 Spirit of Mercy ! uplift and uplead me, 
 Up-tear from my pathway the snares that im- 
 pede me, 
 Sustain and support me, whenever the need be. 
 
 (118) 
 
AW invocation: 119 
 
 Spirit of Mercy ! of doubt disarray me, 
 Dismantle my life of the lusts that dismay me, 
 And strengthen my soul, when temptations 
 waylay me. 
 
 Spirit of Mercy! be nigh to me ever, 
 Assist me — inspire me to higher endeavor — 
 Forsake me, and frown on me, never — Oh 
 never ! 
 
 Spirit of Mercy ! I kneel to thee, kneel to thee. 
 Trusting thro' darkness and discord, my weal 
 
 to thee, — 
 Queen of the Angels! thy sweetness unseal to 
 
 me. 
 
A BALLADE OF BUSY DOCTORS. 
 
 When winter pipes in the ]3oplar-tree, 
 
 And soles are shod with the snow and 
 sleet — 
 "When sick-room doors close noiselessly, 
 
 And doctors hurry along the street; 
 "When the bleak north winds at the erables 
 beat, 
 
 And the flaky noon of the night is nigh, 
 And the reveler's laugh grows obsolete, 
 
 Then Death, white Death, is a-driving by. 
 
 When the cowering sinner crooks his knee, 
 
 At the cradle-side, in suppliance sweet. 
 And friends converse in a minor key. 
 
 And doctors hnrry along the street; 
 When Croesus flies to his country seat, 
 
 And castaways in the garrets cry. 
 And in each house is a " shape and a sheet," 
 
 Then Death, white Death, is a-driving by. 
 
 (120) 
 
A BALLADE. 121 
 
 WTien the blast of the autumn blinds the 
 
 bee, 
 And the long rains fall on the ruined 
 
 wheat, 
 When a glimmer of green on the pools we 
 
 see, 
 
 And doctors hurry along the street ; 
 When every fellow we chance to meet 
 
 Has a fulvous glitter in either eye, 
 And a weary wobble in both his feet, 
 
 Then Death, white Death, is a-driving by. 
 
 £^nvoy. 
 
 When farmers ride at a furious heat, 
 And doctors hurry along the street. 
 
 With brave hearts under a scowling sky^ 
 Then Death, white Death, is a-driving by. 
 
GOOD-NIGHT, AND JOY BE WITH 
 YOU ALL. 
 
 The wind blows east, the wind blows west, 
 
 The last dead leaf is on the tree, — 
 Farewell the merry wine and jest. 
 
 And all good fellows dear to me; 
 Those raptnr'd hours with feathered feet. 
 
 My aching heart would fain recall, — 
 But, ah! 'tis ours no more to meet, 
 
 Good-night, and joy be with you all 
 
 The weary world sjsins 'round and 'round. 
 
 And friends must part as friends have met; 
 There is no spot of hallowed ground. 
 
 If not where friendship's board is set; 
 The wind blows west, the wind blows east, 
 
 Our last bright cup is mixed with gall, — 
 A death-head glimmers at the feast, 
 
 Good-night, and joy be with you all. 
 
 To-morrow comes, to-morrow goes, 
 
 But yesterday returns no more; 
 "We meet with these, we part with those, 
 
 And eyes are dim, and hearts are sore; 
 
 (122) 
 
OOOD-NIOHT AND JOT. 123 
 
 A blinding mist obscures mj sight, 
 My senses with their burden pall, — 
 
 Time halts not in his rapid flight, 
 Good-night, and joy be with you all. 
 
SHAKESPEAKE. 
 
 His soul was like a palace wronght of glass, 
 Star-stained and many-sided, and full- 
 fraught 
 "With all the fairest flowers of human 
 thought, 
 Outspread in one immeasurable mass, — 
 A garden of cnravishments, where pass 
 The rapt creations that his fancy caught 
 From realms of being hitherto unsought, 
 Or feebly sought, or fruitlessly, alas ! 
 He peered through nature with a prophet's 
 ken. 
 He pierced her secrets with a poet's eye, — 
 With passion, power, and high philosophy. 
 He set the spirit's inner gates apart; 
 He stripped the shackles from the souls of 
 men, 
 And sacked the fortress of the human 
 heart. 
 
 (124) 
 
SHAKESPEARE. 125 
 
 The perfect model of the perfect mind ! 
 
 Within the splicric fuHness of his sense, 
 
 Within his kinglv sonl's circumference, 
 The image of the universe was shrined; 
 In lofty utterance his tongue outlined 
 
 The golden orb of all intelligence ; 
 
 He touched the circle of omnij)otence, 
 Defining things no other ere defined. 
 God made but one! the rack of centuries, 
 
 The rolling chariot of resistless years, 
 
 Leaves unbedimmed the amaranth he wears. 
 His fame is co-eternal with the skies, 
 His words are fadeless as our memories, 
 
 His influence as deathless as our tears. 
 
THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 
 I 
 
 It was afternoon in Madrid, during Isabella's 
 
 reign, 
 When Ristori was playing in the caj)ital of 
 
 Spain, 
 That Nicholas Chapado, a Castilian soldier, 
 
 lay 
 "Within a dungeon doomed to die, at breaking 
 
 of the day ; — 
 A beardless boy and beautiful, with gentle 
 
 voice and eye. 
 For some offence of discipline, a felon's death 
 
 must die; 
 No pleading sister's upturned face — no 
 
 mother's fond appeal, 
 No sweetheart's eloquence could save the 
 
 soldier of Castile, — 
 And so a black-robed bellman, as the custom 
 
 was, went down 
 Collecting alms in all the streets and by-ways 
 
 of the town, 
 
 (136) 
 
THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 127 
 
 Collecting alms to pay the priest to lift bis 
 
 voice on high, 
 In supplication for the soul of him who had 
 
 to die. 
 
 II 
 
 The great Italian actress, standing at her 
 
 window high, 
 Saw the ghostly bellman ringing, and she 
 
 turned and questioned " Why ?" 
 And when a Spanish cavalier responded with 
 
 the tale, 
 The listening woman shuddered, and her 
 
 cheeks grew chill and pale, 
 Then, turning from the casement, where the 
 
 sunlight softly fell, 
 She saw no more the bellman, and she heard 
 
 no more the bell; 
 She only saw in fancy from a dungeon bare 
 
 and gray, 
 A lad led forth to slaughter, at the breaking 
 
 of the day — 
 A brave boy rudely ushered from a prison's 
 
 rime and rot, 
 
128 THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 
 
 To the sunshine of the citj, for an instant, to 
 
 be shot; 
 And her great heart sank within her, and her 
 
 soul in sobs escaped, 
 As she thought — the mimic empress — of the 
 
 tragedies she aped. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And now 'twas night in Madrid, and the 
 
 Zarzuela shone 
 With oriental opulence, and splendor all its 
 
 own; 
 The bended balconies above, blazed like a 
 
 triple chain. 
 That belted in the beauty and the chivalry of 
 
 Spain ; 
 Proud Isabella from her box looked out with 
 
 haughty grace. 
 While the passions of a race of kings were 
 
 pulsing in her face; 
 Anon, amidst a clash of bells, and 'midst the 
 
 crowd's acclaim. 
 The pale Italian sorceress before the foot- 
 lights came; 
 
THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 139 
 
 A glory fell about lier, as her tragic spirit 
 
 played 
 On the passions of the Spaniards, in their 
 
 royal pomp arrayed; 
 She tranced them with her tenderness — she 
 
 touched them as with steel — 
 She broke a pathway to the coldest heart in 
 
 old Castile. 
 
 ly. 
 
 'Twas midnight, and the play was done — the 
 
 closing curtain fell, 
 And Itistori was kneeling at the feet of 
 
 Isabelle — 
 Lo ! the mimic queen was pleading with an 
 
 eloquence unknown. 
 For Nicholas Chapado, to the queen upon the 
 
 throne ; 
 All motionless and silent stood the swarthy 
 
 cavaliers. 
 Their bosoms wrung with pity, as they leaned 
 
 upon their spears ; 
 'Twas the picture of a passion — 'twas a 
 
 priestess of her art, 
 
130 THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 
 
 At the feet of Mercy kneeling, with her 
 
 pleading lips aj^art ; 
 'Twas a woman's heart appealing — 'twas 
 
 resistless as the seas, 
 Or the rushing North that hurtles down the 
 
 snowy Pyrenees; 
 The haughty Queen was conquered — and that 
 
 night the links of steel 
 Fell, broken at her bidding, from the soldier 
 
 of Castile. 
 
HER FEET ON THE FENDER. 
 
 I. 
 
 The winter blew chill, but the night it 
 was white 
 As the satiny sheen of the hand that I 
 crushed, 
 As we sat where the bright chandelier shed its ' 
 light 
 On her billowy curtains and ottoman 
 ])lushed ; 
 It was middle December outside, but I swear, 
 I could hear the birds sing, and could feel 
 the Spring's splendor 
 Blown into my blood, from her tropical hair. 
 As she teetered her tender white feet on the 
 fender. 
 
 II. 
 
 "We are wed, — and the days they have sped 
 overhead 
 Like the half-finished dreams of a lover, 
 who lies 
 
 (131) 
 
133 HBB t'EET ON THE EBNDEB. 
 
 In the cool summer night, when the planets 
 burn red 
 Thro' the lattice that shadows his slumber- 
 less eyes; — 
 It is middle December, — the chandelier glows? 
 And I fall to the floor in most servile sur- 
 render, — 
 And shel — "Well, I tickle her baby's pink toes, 
 As she smilingly sews, with her feet on the 
 fender. 
 
THE OLD VILLAGE DEPOT. 
 
 There stands the old station-house, out in the 
 rain, 
 A stone's throw away from my door, 
 With its wind-shaken wall, and its weather- 
 racked pane. 
 And its rickety, rat-haunted floor ; 
 Its sashes are seamed, and its lintels are 
 gashed, 
 "With the jack-knives of twenty long years; 
 And the eaves, wliere the wings of the swal- 
 lows once flashed. 
 Seem touched with a kinship of tears. 
 
 Old house! it looms up like a ghost in the 
 gale, 
 
 And gibbers and groans in the blast. 
 And speaks with a weird and a weariless M'ail, 
 
 Of the dim, irretrievable past; 
 
 On the old dingy platform that girdles it 
 
 'round. 
 The wealth of the prairie once poured, 
 
 (133) 
 
134 THE OLD VILLAGE DEPOT. 
 
 And daily the carriage of commerce came 
 down 
 With the wares of the stranger aboard. 
 
 'Twas here, when our brothers went off to the 
 wars, 
 "\Ve blessed them and bade them adieu ; 
 And we welcomed them, here, 'neath a banner 
 of stars. 
 When the terrible conflict was through; 
 And here where the bare-footed boys are at 
 
 play> 
 
 The war trumpets thundered of yore, — 
 And here came the coffins in ghastly array, 
 Of the dear soldier-dead to our door. 
 
 'Twas here the young bride in her beauty and 
 bloom. 
 To her cheek felt the parting kiss press'd, 
 And here beat with rapture the heart of the 
 groom, 
 As he cradled her form on his breast; 
 And here in his squalor the beggar has crept, 
 To shelter himself from the blast, 
 
TEE OLD VILLAGE DEPOT. 135 
 
 In the merciless midnight, and dreamed as he 
 slept, 
 Of the happier days of the past. 
 
 And here came the message more fleet than 
 the dove, 
 O'er the wavering, wandering wire. 
 That filled us with grief, or that thrilled us 
 with love, 
 As we peacefully sat by the fire ; 
 Ah, the old station-house! it will soon tum- 
 ble down, 
 Its timbers are crumbling away; 
 But its record is writ on tha heart of the 
 town. 
 And its glory abideth for aye. 
 
INDIAN" SUMMEK. 
 
 Upon the bleak November hills ' 
 A solitary bluebird trills 
 His latest sono;, — and far alone: 
 The russet upland loudly rings 
 The lay the sturdy woodman sings. 
 
 Beyond the pasture's hazel edge, 
 From out the hollow's tangled sedge, 
 The quail upsprings, on whirring wings, 
 And down the stubble flutters fast. 
 Before the hunter's heartless blast. 
 
 From ont a moss-grown sugar-trough, 
 A lonesome rabbit gallops olf 
 Across the woods and solitudes. 
 That rustle to the slightest stir 
 Of dropping leaf and acorn-burr. 
 
 In lazy aldermanic guise 
 The yellow-breasted pawpaw lies. 
 So snugly hid the leaves amid, 
 That scarce a schoolboy's eager eye 
 Can find it as he saunters by. 
 
 (136) 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 137 
 
 In lines that waver and converge, 
 The puzzled wild-ducks southward surge 
 The live-long day, — while far away, 
 A circling hawk is seen to swim 
 Along the twilight's amber rim. 
 
 The blue-jays on the windy oak 
 Hold joyless jabber thro' the smoke 
 Of these dim days; — while faintly strays 
 From orchard haunts, and leafless groves. 
 The murmur of the patient doves. 
 
 Beyond the river's fringe of mist 
 The wild vines climb and intertwist 
 Their amorous shoots, rich-hung with 
 
 fruits 
 That froth with wine so ripe and fair 
 The fairies fill their flagons there. 
 
 Within the forest brown and seared, 
 To-day no harsher sound is heard 
 Than lisps of rills, and timorous trills 
 Of birds that seek a shelter from 
 The surly winter soon to come. 
 
138 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 It were as if some sudden shock 
 
 Had stopped the wheels of Nature's 
 
 clock 
 An instant, ere the flying year 
 Sent forth his trumpeters to blow 
 The signals of approaching snow. 
 
 O glorious Indian Summer time! 
 "Where is the country, where the clime, 
 To match with this? O, land of bliss, — 
 O, land of love, and light and flowers ! 
 God made it last, and made it ours. 
 
LADY LAURA IN THE NORTH. 
 
 Lady Laura, in the North, 
 
 Leaning at her lattice high, 
 Lingeringly looking forth. 
 
 Saw the wild swan southward fly, — 
 Heard afar the clanging cranes. 
 
 Sweeping from the fields of snow. 
 To the sun-lit, summer plains, 
 
 Where the warm magnolias blow. 
 
 II 
 
 Lady Laura, looking south, 
 
 Trembled like an aspen leaf, 
 While around her perfect mouth, 
 
 Crept the early curves of grief; 
 All her life seemed but a ring 
 
 Of remembrance, and regret, 
 As she stood there quivering 
 
 Like a wind-swayed violet, 
 
 (139) 
 
140 LADY LAURA IN THE NORTH. 
 Ill 
 
 Lady Laura, lily-tall, 
 
 Standing at her casement high, 
 Saw the evening shadows fall, 
 
 Saw the wild-birds homeward fly ; 
 But she spake not any word. 
 
 Staring hard against the sky, — 
 Never any sound she heard 
 
 Of the loud world rolling by. 
 
 lY 
 
 Lady Laura, leaning there. 
 
 Lonely, in a land forlorn. 
 Saw a child with sunny hair. 
 
 Rise beyond the clouded corn ; — 
 Fell her tears, like autumn rain, 
 
 As she thought of one dark day. 
 And a warrior lying slain. 
 
 On the banks of Mobile Bay. 
 
 Lady Laura — she is gone! 
 
 Lonely is that lattice high, — 
 Still forever flies the swan, 
 
 Still the clanging cranes go by; 
 
LADT LAURA IN THE NORTH. 141 
 
 In the North, a wanderer 
 
 Chitches for a vanished hand ; 
 
 Desolate idolater, — 
 
 He can never understand. 
 
MEADOWS OF GOLD. 
 
 Meadows of gold, — 
 
 Rolling and reeling a-west! 
 Ye clasp and hold 
 
 The milk of the world in your breast. 
 Ye are the nurses who clutch 
 The ladies of life, and touch 
 The lips that famish and burn, 
 In agony cruel and stern. 
 
 Meadows of gold, — 
 
 Reaching and running away! 
 Shod with the mold. 
 
 And crowned with the light of the 
 day. 
 Ye are the chemists of earth, 
 The wizards who waken to birth 
 The violets blue, and butter-cups, too, 
 Under the dark and the dew. 
 
 Meadows of gold, — 
 
 Winding and wending along, 
 Fair to behold. 
 
 And merry and mellow with song. 
 
 (142) 
 
MEADOWS OF GOLD. 143 
 
 Ye are the poets whose chimes 
 Are rung by the reapers-whose rhymes 
 Are written in windrows of grass, 
 By musical sickles that pass ! 
 
 Meadows of gold, — 
 
 Laughing and leaping afar! 
 Fast in your fold. 
 
 Forever the beautiful are. 
 Ye are the Hebes who dip, 
 And lift from the loam to the lip, 
 The nectar, whose plethoric flood 
 Is tinted and turned into blood. 
 
AT UITCLE KEUBEN KAGAN'S. 
 
 At Uncle Reubel Ragan's ! — why, the present 
 is forgot 
 
 At the very faintest mention of the old 
 enchanted spot; 
 
 And swifter than a swallow skimming down 
 the dewy corn, 
 
 My memory goes laughing back to boyhood's 
 mellow morn, — 
 
 And again I feel the breezes of the beech- 
 woods on my cheek, 
 
 As I pass with bow and arrow by the spring- 
 house and the creek. 
 
 And merrily wend onward to the Mecca of 
 my joys, 
 
 To spend a day in Paradise, with Uncle 
 Keuben's boys. 
 
 At Uncle Reuben Ragan's everything was 
 fair and sweet. 
 
 From the blue sky bending over, to the blue 
 grass at our feet, — 
 
 From the lisp and trill and twitter of the cat- 
 bird and the lark, 
 
 (144) 
 
AT UNCLE REUBEN RAGAN'8. 145 
 
 To the wbippoorwill that whistled from the 
 
 dingle thro' the dark; 
 The days were full of riot, and the nights 
 
 were full of rest 
 As balmy as the moonlight on the squirrel's 
 
 breezy nest: — 
 As I plod the dim past over, and recount its 
 
 keenest joys. 
 My bare-foot fancy wanders off with Uncle 
 
 Eeuben's boys. 
 
 I can hear the walnuts dropping in the 
 
 pasture, as of old, 
 I can see the russets rounding into solid 
 
 globes of gold ; 
 I can see the bearded chestnuts clinging to the 
 
 browning boughs, 
 In the corner of the orchard, just beyond the 
 
 saddle-house ; 
 I can hear the cider gushing from the mill, 
 
 just over there, 
 On the slope, across the hollow, in the cool 
 
 October air: — 
 O, I live the old life over, in my fancy, as my 
 
 mind 
 
146 AT UNO LB REUBEN BAOAN'8. 
 
 Re-pictures and re-peoples every scene it left 
 behind. 
 
 The little stream that toddled down the yard, 
 
 and slipped away 
 Thro' the pasture, still is tinkling in my 
 
 memory to-day, 
 And the barn that stood beyond it, seems to 
 
 beckon to me still, 
 "With its ever-greedy rat-traps, and its old 
 
 red fanning mill; 
 And the plum-patch in the garden, and the 
 
 tall mulberry tree, 
 That grew beside the milk-house, are a-calUng 
 
 back to me, — 
 And again the maple sugar is a-trickling off 
 
 my tongue, 
 Into streams of sweeter music than my lips 
 
 have ever sung. 
 
 Count my fingers three times over, and they 
 
 scarce make up the years 
 That have vanished, like a vision, in the 
 
 torrent of my tears. 
 Since the happy days of boyhood, ere the 
 
 green earth claimed its own, 
 
AT UNCLE REUBEN HAGAN'S. 147 
 
 And Uncle sank to slumber in the shadow of 
 the stone : — 
 
 Gone the many forms and faces — but a scat- 
 tered few remain, 
 
 To meet us, and to greet us, at the old home- 
 stead again; 
 
 And I — well, here I'm sitting 'neath my 
 pines in Illinois, 
 
 And drinking cider — in my dreams — "with 
 Uncle Eeuben's boys. 
 
THE NIGHT YOU QUOTED BURKS 
 TO ME. 
 
 The winds of early autumn blew 
 Across the midnight. Overhead 
 A wild moon np the heavens fled, 
 
 And cut the sable vault in two; 
 
 We heard the river lap and flow, 
 We turned our poet-fancies free — 
 
 My heart did all its cares forego, 
 The night you quoted Burns to me. 
 
 A gray owl from a blasted limb, 
 
 Dropped down the dark, and blundered by, 
 
 As if a fiend with flaming eye 
 Fast-followed in pursuit of him; 
 Ah, then you crooned beneath the moon, 
 
 A ditty weird as weird could be — 
 And Tam O'Shanter crossed the Doon, 
 
 The night you quoted Burns to me. 
 
 We praised the " Lass o' Ballochmyle," 
 We talked of Mary, loved and lost, 
 Until our spirits touched and crossed. 
 
 And melted into tears, the while ; 
 
 (148) 
 
THE NIOHT TOU QUOTED BURNS. 149 
 
 We drank to " Nell," and " Bonnie Jean," 
 To " Chloris," and the " Banks o' Cree,"— 
 
 Blest hour! I keep its memory green, 
 The night you quoted Burns to me. 
 
 The "Wabash hills their heads low hung, 
 As floating up their winding ways 
 They caught the sound of " Logan Braes," 
 
 And heard "Sweet Af ton's" glory sung; 
 
 And loud the "Wabash did deplore 
 That no brave poet-voice had she. 
 
 To lend her fame, forevermore, 
 
 The night you quoted Burns to me. 
 
 O dear, delightful autumn night, 
 
 Forever gone beyond recall ! 
 
 Comrade, the clouds are over all, 
 And you — you've vanished from my sight; 
 Still flows the river as of yore, 
 
 The owl still haunts the lonely tree. 
 And I'll forget, ah, nevermore, 
 
 The night you quoted Burns to me. 
 
THE MYSTERY OF BARRINGTON 
 MEADOWS. 
 
 Over the Barrington meadows a riderless 
 steed, 
 
 Whiter than moon -down mist, and swifter of 
 speed 
 
 Than a skirring swallow, cleaves the shim- 
 mering light, 
 
 Ghost-like, galloping ever and on thro' the 
 night. 
 
 Up from the Barrington meadows a cold face 
 
 peers 
 For aye, at the stars, and the winds, and the 
 
 shifting years. 
 While the low, perpetual sobs of a woman 
 
 rim 
 The night with an agony vague as a dream 
 
 and dim. 
 
 Over the Barrington meadows, and on to the 
 
 morn 
 Go reeling the Bacchanal bats thro' the 
 
 blasted corn, 
 
 (150) 
 
THE MT8TEBT. 151 
 
 While a blood-red poppy bends in tlie moon 
 
 and pleads, 
 All night, for the soul of one lying stark in 
 
 the reeds. 
 
 Down in the Barrington meadows a dolorous 
 rune 
 
 Climbs up thro' the curling mist to the 
 marble moon, 
 
 And ever the girdling clouds and the curdling 
 airs 
 
 Are pale with the gibbering ghosts of un- 
 heard prayers. 
 
 Down in the Barrington meadows a death- 
 bird rings 
 
 The ominous sky with the rush of invisible 
 wings, — 
 
 And sibilant sighs from the shuddering 
 grasses rise 
 
 Like shrieks of the doomed, at the bars of 
 Paradise. 
 
 Down in the Barrington meadows the flowers 
 
 are nursed 
 In the poisonous blood-wet loam of a land 
 
 accursed, 
 
153 THE MYSTERY. 
 
 And rank as death is the pool at the root of 
 
 the reed, 
 "Where drinks each night the wraith of the 
 
 flying steed. 
 
 Down in the Barrington meadows the snake's 
 
 swift eyes 
 Are hot in the tangled sedge where the dead 
 
 man lies; 
 And beetles black as the slayer's soul, 
 
 disport 
 Over the crumbling palace where Life held 
 
 court ! 
 
 Down in the Barrington meadows a swart 
 
 lagoon 
 Chafes under the guilty scowl of the pallid 
 
 moon, 
 And penitent lilies, drugged with the dew 
 
 and slime, 
 Quake with the conscious dread of a nameless 
 
 crime. 
 
 But the spectral steed flies on, and the night- 
 rains beat 
 
THE MYSTERY, 153 
 
 Down on the crumpled heads of the ruined 
 
 wheat, — 
 And strong men start, aghast, with a stifled 
 
 cry, 
 When the wraith-like, horrible hoofs of the 
 
 horse go by. 
 
WHEK I AM OLD. 
 
 "When I am old, 
 And pass into my dimmer days, 
 
 To wither and repine, — 
 Will ever minstrel wake my praise. 
 
 Or lisp one lay of mine, — 
 When my proud spirit's fires are cold, 
 And I am old? 
 
 When 1 am old, 
 A rivelled, wrinkled mass of mould. 
 
 And on my cheerless hearth, 
 I heed no more my prattling fold, 
 
 Nor any sound of mirth, — 
 Shall I to dust go unconsoled, 
 When I am old? 
 
 When I am old. 
 And seek no more to garner gold, 
 
 And o'er my sightless eyes. 
 The lilies of the grave unfold 
 Their petals to the skies, — 
 Shall I be slighted, scorned, cajoled, 
 When I am old? 
 
 (154) 
 
WHEN I AM OLD. 155 
 
 "When I am old, 
 And, like a sear leaf on the wold, 
 
 Tremble at every gale, 
 My deeds, — will they be unextoUed, 
 
 My loss, will none bewail, — 
 AVill Peace her just rewards withhold, 
 "When I am old ? 
 
THE PASSING OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 I. 
 
 With stormy glances backward bent, 
 And rivalled lips and wrinkled hands, 
 
 He steps at midnight from his tent, 
 And hobbles down the frozen lands. 
 
 II. 
 
 Lear-like, he stands against the storm, 
 His tattered raiments blown apart, — 
 
 His withered form no fire can warm, 
 Nor thaw the life-blood at his heart. 
 
 IIL 
 
 Like some grim Yiking of the North 
 Retreating from a plundered ship, 
 
 The gray-beard pilgrim presses forth, 
 With scowling brow, and scornful lip. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In moody silence moving on, 
 
 He melts into the moonless night, 
 
 And ere the bells ring up the dawn. 
 His struggling spirit wings its flight. 
 
 (156) 
 
AN EXTRAYAGANT SIMILE. 
 
 The prairie, like a paper, lies unfolded at my 
 feet — 
 
 'Tis the Autumn's last edition — 'tis her illus- 
 trated sheet — 
 
 "Nature's Quarterly!" I whisper, as my rov- 
 ing fancy reads 
 
 The " gossip " of the golden-rods, the " chit- 
 chat" of the weeds; — 
 
 The " poems " of the meadows, lying scattered 
 here and there, 
 
 The " stories " of the stubble, in full column 
 everywhere, — 
 
 The "advertising " acres, and the " editorial" 
 plots. 
 
 And the " parenthetic" fences round the "par- 
 agraphic " lots. 
 
 Each page is highly colored, and around the 
 
 margin runs 
 A forest, like a ribbon, stained with many 
 
 summer suns ; — 
 
 (157) 
 
158 AN EXTRAVAGANT SIMILE. 
 
 The " picture " of a village in the middle col- 
 umn lies, 
 
 "Whose tinted houses glimmer with at least a 
 dozen djes ; 
 
 And sprinkled o'er the pages, everywhere, in 
 gold and green, 
 
 The dwellings of the farmers, with their 
 strawstacks in between; — 
 
 'Tis a holiday edition, and I cannot help but 
 think 
 
 It was stereotj^ped in Heaven, and God put on 
 the ink. 
 
THE PIONEERS. 
 
 Here where the bannered corn and bristling 
 wheat 
 Toss their proud tresses to the rustling 
 breeze ; 
 Here where the arteries of commerce beat, 
 
 Thro' laughing lands of luxury and ease, — 
 Where lazy cattle crop the summer leas. 
 
 And singing rivers woo the golden sand ; 
 Here where the poor man for his labor sees 
 
 Perennial plenty rise on every hand, 
 We dwell — the youngest heirs of Freedom's 
 holy land. 
 
 II 
 
 Where yonder marble city tops the plain. 
 
 And shining temples in the sunset glow, 
 Where wealth and beauty hold perpetual 
 reign. 
 And busy hands the seeds of progress 
 sow, — 
 In that same spot, a few short years ago, 
 
 (159) 
 
160 THE PIONEERS. 
 
 The cabin of the swarthy pioneer, 
 In cheerless solitude, surpassing show. 
 
 Nurtured beneath its roof the hearts that 
 were 
 To build the Empire of the western hemi- 
 sphere. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The giants of the infant world, who slew 
 
 The dragons of the wilderness, were they ; 
 Along the lakes and by the mountains blue, 
 
 They burned the stubborn barriers away. 
 And blazed a passage for the brighter day, 
 
 With ringing axes in the forest deep ; 
 Their glory is our own ! and I would pay 
 
 The feeble tribute of my verse, to keep 
 Their hardships unforgot, while we their 
 blessings reap. 
 
 IV 
 
 They dammed the rivers, and they built the 
 
 mills, 
 Tliey trapped the beaver, and they tracked 
 
 the bee; 
 They harvested the wild grapes on the hills, 
 
THE PIONEERS. 161 
 
 And steeped the fragrant sassafras for tea, 
 Stealing their sugar from the maple tree ; 
 The bloodroot, mandrake, and the bitter- 
 sweet, 
 All precious herbs, and bountiful and free, 
 Outspread their healing virtues at their 
 feet, — 
 Nature's apothecaries in her rude retreat. 
 
 For them the plum tree shed its purple fruit. 
 
 In gleaming nuggets, 'midst the thicket's 
 shade ; 
 In Spring, the wild strawberry's tender shoot, 
 
 Bediamonded with crimson jewels, made 
 The hollows glitter like a masquerade; 
 
 Then Autumn with her brown nuts came 
 at last. 
 Pouring her cornucopia in the glade. 
 
 Ere surly winter blew his chilly blast 
 
 Upon the naked flats and sealed his larder 
 
 fast. 
 11 
 
162 TEE PIONEERS. 
 
 YI 
 
 And then the snows came, and the squirrel 
 slept 
 Within the upper chambers of the oak; 
 And thro' the night the watchful rabbit leapt, 
 
 And the wild fox within his den awoke. 
 The darkness buttoned 'round him like a 
 cloak, 
 And pausing, listened for the crowing cock; 
 Afar the wolf's howl thro' the forest broke, 
 And the brusque owl sat hooting on the 
 rock, 
 And preening the feathers of his antique 
 frock. 
 
 YII 
 
 And Summer carpeted with shining flowers 
 The old primeval temples, and the song 
 
 Of wild birds pierced the uninvaded bowers. 
 With endless melody, when days were long. 
 
 And hearts were innocent, and hands were 
 strong, 
 And love as guileless as the feet were free ; 
 
 And Eden streams, the Eden fields among, 
 
THE PIONEERS. 163 
 
 Ran dimpling to the lakes and to the sea, 
 Like unwatched children in their idle revelry. 
 
 YIII 
 
 But those were troublous times, and fell 
 disease 
 Lurked like a demon in the stagnant 
 swamp, 
 Amidst the shadows of the cypress trees, 
 
 "Where the dull fire-fly lit his chilly lamp, 
 And the sleek lizard slumbered in the damp. 
 
 Beside the reeking serpent and the newt; 
 Contagion strode with no unsteady tramp, 
 Beneath the roof, and plucked the heart's 
 best fruit, 
 And draped the lonesome soul with agony 
 acute. 
 
 IX 
 
 Anon, upon the sloping upland shone 
 
 Kew billows of brown earth, unseen 
 before, — 
 "With, here and there, a strangely-shapen 
 stone, 
 "Wraith-like, uprising from the tufted floor, 
 
164 THE PIONEERS. 
 
 With reeling lines of grief engraven o'er 
 Its ghastly facets, by some finger rude ; 
 (Death laughs to scorn the legends on his 
 door, 
 Whether within the dim wood's solitude, 
 Or in the gilded shrines, where giddy crowds 
 intrude.) 
 
 X 
 
 Ah! there were dangers, — there were acci- 
 dents 
 
 By flood and field of which we little wot ; 
 The tempest pitched its melancholy tents 
 
 Above the forest, and the lightning hot 
 Flashed thro' the roaring, reeling oaks, and shot 
 
 Its flaming bolts along each toppling height; 
 Trailing its terrors o'er the settler's cot, 
 
 And marking in the fury of its flight. 
 Forsooth, a smoking track of ruin, wreck and 
 blight. 
 
 XI 
 
 Death came in many forms, — the vengeful 
 snake 
 Unloosed its venom with unerring aim; 
 
THE PIONEERS. 165 
 
 The burly black bear loitered in the brake, 
 
 And nightly to the hill the panther came, 
 And stealthily outstretched its agile frame, 
 To watch and seize the unresisting prey; 
 Aye, there were perils more than tongue can 
 name, 
 That compassed those old foresters, — yet 
 they 
 With souls of flint, toiled on, thro' all that 
 twilight grey. 
 
 XII 
 
 Around their huts the wily Indian crept. 
 
 His shaft as sudden as the serpent's sting, 
 And many a weary mother, as she slept, 
 Was startled by the war-whoop's dismal 
 ring, 
 The hiss of arrow and the twang of string, 
 Or the fierce tumult of the savage horde. 
 Beneath the wood, in their wild jargoning; 
 And many a cabin by the torch was low- 
 ered. 
 And many a father's blood around his altar 
 poured. 
 
166 THE PIONEERS. 
 
 XIII 
 
 And prattling boys the rifle learned to wield, 
 
 "With fatal skill, — the pioneers' first trade, — 
 To them the bounding buck was forced to 
 yield 
 His life blood, in the leafy ambuscade, 
 Where, all unharmed, for ages he had strayed; 
 
 Heroic boyhood ! never belted knight 
 With dangling plume, more hardihood dis- 
 played 
 In civil conflict, or in foreign fight. 
 Than daily marked the lives of those of whom 
 I write. 
 
 XIV 
 
 All night within the clearing gleamed their 
 fires, 
 The dawn-lights of the splendor yet to 
 come; 
 The wilderness reeled back before our sires, 
 And Sharon's rose, deep-rooted in the 
 gloom. 
 In virgin beauty bursted into bloom, 
 
 And shook its fragrant petals o'er the sod ; 
 
TEE PIONEEES. 167 
 
 Swift fingers sped the shuttle thro' the loom, 
 
 And Titan forms amid the dark hills trod, 
 In nigged splendor they, true oracles of God. 
 
 XV 
 
 With hands inured to toil, and hearts to love, 
 The border prophets taught the Word 
 divine ; 
 In lowly chapel and sequestered grove, 
 
 Their eloquence burned thro' the soul like 
 wine. 
 And drew the evil-doer to the shrine 
 
 Of wholesome virtue, rectitude, and grace ; 
 They tamed the recreant with words benign. 
 
 And brightened every hope-abandoned face. 
 With blessed comfortings — these Cartwrights 
 of the race. 
 
 XYI 
 
 But they are gone, — the old plantocracy, — 
 They've withered from the green-wood, one 
 and all ; 
 Above their dust the wind howls dolefully, 
 And the last coon-skin moulders on the 
 wall; 
 
168 THE PIONEERS. 
 
 All, all, are gone, — and darkness like a pall, 
 
 Steals o'er the mem'ry of the pioneers; 
 We drink the honey, where they quaffed the 
 gall, 
 "We reap the fruitage of their bitter years. 
 And o'er their slumbers deep, outpour the 
 meed of tears. 
 
 XYII 
 
 Soft be their pillow in the forest old. 
 
 And sweet the psalmody of bird and bee! 
 Their deeds by distant ages shall be told. 
 
 Their virtues be transplanted o'er the sea; 
 Their valor built the newer heraldry. 
 
 And shook the despot on his ancient 
 throne. 
 And brought imperial armies to their knee; 
 
 They were our sires, their glory is our own, 
 From sainted Washington, to brave old 
 Daniel Boone. 
 
TAKING IN THE HAMMOCK. 
 
 O, relic sweet of summer rest, 
 
 What fond mementoes are you keeping 
 Of lier, the beautiful, who pressed 
 
 Her pretty cheek to you, while sleeping? 
 
 I see a withered rose-leaf, there. 
 Among your tangles intertwisted — 
 
 And here a tress of golden hair, 
 That many a patient plea resisted. 
 
 This faded ribbon round yonr throat. 
 Is one that I had given to her, — 
 
 And here I lind a crumpled note. 
 The relic of a rival wooer. 
 
 Ah, Hammock, 'pon my soul, I say. 
 You're like a naughty, tattling lover, 
 
 Who, when his mistress is away, 
 Keeps wearilessly prating of her. 
 
 Next summer, when I hang you out 
 Between the pine-tree and the maple, 
 
 You'd best be cautious, thereabout. 
 And less familiar with my Mabel. 
 
 (169) 
 
AT CHKISTMAS EYE. 
 
 I. 
 
 O wind of December! 
 
 Blow high! blow low! 
 Blow out of the north — blow over the snow! 
 
 Blow! Blow! 
 Blow out of the east — blow out of the west — 
 Blow over the hills by the cuckoo's nest! 
 Blow, O wind, as j^ou used to blow, 
 
 In the wild, white night 
 
 Of a boy's delight. 
 In the Christmas time of the Long Ago. 
 
 II. 
 O fire of December, 
 Glimmer and glow! 
 Burn like the heart of a boy I know — 
 
 Burn! burn! 
 Burn till the pippins burst, and then 
 Burn till the pop-corn fills the pan ! 
 Burn, O fire, till the midnight chime 
 Shall beckon to bed 
 Each golden head. 
 To dream the dreams of the Christmas time. 
 
 (170) 
 
THE OLD MAJOR SPEAKS. 
 I. 
 
 Long, long, has been the journey, but the end 
 
 is drawing near, 
 We started out at dawn, good wife, and now 
 
 the dusk is here ; 
 Long, long, has been the journey that our 
 
 weary feet have made, 
 And the hopes we held the dearest, at the 
 
 dawning, have decayed; 
 A storm came up the valley, as we crossed the 
 
 Great Divide, 
 And two who traveled with us, then, fell 
 
 stricken at our side, — 
 Fell, shivered in the blast of death, that round 
 
 us blew and beat, — 
 Fell, where their bleeding bodies paved the 
 
 path for Freedom's feet — 
 And when at last the storm was past, and all 
 
 the sky grew fair, 
 "We found the channels on our cheeks, the 
 
 silver in our hair. 
 
 (171) 
 
172 TEE OLD MAJOR SPEAKS. 
 
 II. 
 
 But dry your tears, my own good wife! loop 
 
 up your locks of gray, 
 And slip the glasses off your eyes, and cheat 
 
 the years, to-day, — 
 For tlio' the snow be on the roof, the frost be 
 
 on the pane, 
 Some blossoms of the early spring within our 
 
 hearts remain; 
 Still on these bleak December boughs, fast 
 
 falling to decay. 
 In fancy I can see, to-night, again the blooms 
 
 of May,— 
 Can hear the robin fluting on the old familiar 
 
 tree. 
 The babble of the brook below — the bluster 
 
 of the bee — 
 Can see the lilac blushing still, beside the gar- 
 den walk. 
 And hear the jewelled humming-bird upon the 
 
 hollyhock. 
 
 III. 
 
 Tho' long has been the journey, wife, that we 
 have had to go. 
 
THE OLD MAJOR SPEAKS- 173 
 
 The skies are bright above us, noio — the winds 
 
 no longer blow, — 
 Across the valley, yonder, I can see the open 
 
 sea. 
 Where the ships are sailing outward to our 
 
 " ain countree," — 
 I can hear the sailors singing — I can see the 
 
 crowded shore. 
 Where the signal lights are burning, and the 
 
 banners blowing o'er; 
 We are listed for the voyage, — soon we'll 
 
 reach the harbor- gate, 
 Where the boats come up to anchor, and we 
 
 wont have long to wait, — 
 And when the Captain calls us, be it dark, or 
 
 be it light, 
 We'll climb aboard the stately ship, and bid 
 
 the world, " Good-night^ 
 
A GARLAND FOE THE DEAD. 
 
 Dumb be the bugle and the drum, 
 
 And light the footstejDS o'er the brave; 
 
 'Tis not in festal throng we come, 
 
 With lips that laugh, and plumes that 
 wave; 
 
 Nay ! nay ! a holier task is ours, 
 
 Love writes his elegy with flowers. 
 
 When May drops down the rolling year, 
 And lightly leads her choral train. 
 
 We turn with loving homage here. 
 To strew these tokens o'er the slain — 
 
 O'er those who perished when the tide 
 
 Of wild war swept the country wide. 
 
 Each rounded fortress at our feet 
 Enwraps a hero's patriot fire, — 
 
 Long since that heart has ceased to beat. 
 That valiant spirit to aspire ; 
 
 Nor sabre's clang, nor cannon's roar. 
 
 Shall break the warrior's slumber more. 
 
 (174) 
 
A GARLAND FOR THE DEAD. 175 
 
 Among the tombs we idly stray, 
 
 Our souls with mournful memories rife, 
 
 Till almost in the glare of day, 
 
 Those wasted comrades spring to life; 
 
 And here, amidst the fields and flowers, 
 
 "We seem to clasp dead hands in ours. 
 
 Nor here alone does memory trace 
 Her sable lines of dumb despair, — 
 
 On many a distant battle-place. 
 Their eyeless sockets upward stare, 
 
 Where never weeping kindred come. 
 
 With bended head and muffled drum. 
 
 They sleep beside the Tennessee, 
 By Donelson's old ruined fort; 
 
 In Sherman's pathway to the sea 
 The pale battalions hold their court; 
 
 From Franklin, Shiloh, Malvern Hill, 
 
 They answer to the death-roll still. 
 
 On Mission Kidge the wild birds chant 
 Above the gray blouse and the blue. 
 
 And where the gallant hosts of Grant 
 Stormed Vicksburg, there the dead are, 
 too; 
 
176 A GARLAND FOB THE DEAD. 
 
 Their records, writ with shot and shell, 
 Show how thej fought, and how they fell. 
 
 They rest by Libby's ruined pile, 
 
 From Georgia's hell their wraiths arise; 
 
 They sleep beside the dark Belle Isle, 
 And 'neath the Carolina skies, — 
 
 A shadowy band and desolate, 
 
 Whose graves no hand may decorate. 
 
 By dim lagoons where serpents trail, 
 And seldom human footsteps pass; 
 
 Their bones are whitening in the gale, 
 And glistening in the tangled grass; 
 
 Their guns still mould'ring in their grasp, 
 
 The friends that felt their parting clasp. 
 
 The pyramids by Cheops built 
 
 At length shall crumble and decay, 
 
 But never blood for Freedom spilt 
 The tears of heaven shall wash away; 
 
 A sacred symbol shall it be 
 
 Of those who died for liberty. 
 
THE FOOLISH MAEINERS. 
 
 {Fo7' the Children.) 
 
 They set us afloat in a willow boat, 
 
 Upon a northern sea, 
 And we drifted on thro' dusk and dawn, 
 
 As merry as men could be ; 
 The air was white to left and right, 
 
 And white was the air before. 
 But behind our bark tlie world was dark. 
 
 And we heard the kraken roar. 
 
 As we passed the lair of the Polar bear, 
 
 We called aloud to him, 
 And he came to the door, and sniffed and 
 swore. 
 
 And stroked his eyebrows grim, — 
 Then buttoned his coat about his throat. 
 
 And galloped along in our train, 
 So far and fast, that he froze at last, 
 
 And never got home again. 
 
 We shook our fist at the fog and mist. 
 All under the Arctic Zone, 
 
 1 3 (1'7) 
 
178 THE FOOLISH MARINERS. 
 
 And sailed away, from day to day, 
 So jolly, and cold, and lone, — 
 
 So jolly and cold, so free and bold, 
 A curious sight were we, 
 
 A- sailing away from day to day. 
 Upon the northern sea. 
 
 And round about and in and out, 
 
 Wherever the breeze up-blew. 
 With shout and song we swept along, 
 
 An hundred summers through ; 
 Yet day by day we all turned gray. 
 
 And skinny, and grim, and wild, — 
 But the captain he, and the mate and me, 
 
 We sat, and smiled, and smiled. 
 
 I smiled at the mate, and the captain, 
 straight, 
 
 He grinned at the mate and me, 
 And to lessen the weight we killed and ate 
 
 The rest of the crew, you see; 
 Then the captain he grew fond of me, 
 
 And 1 grew fond of the mate, 
 And all together we killed each other. 
 
 And ate, and ate, and ate. 
 
THE FOOLISH MARINERS. 179 
 
 Now, harken here, my children dear, 
 
 If ever you put to sea, 
 Kemember the mate, and the captain's fate. 
 
 And the end that came to me; 
 Bad luck to the day we sailed away, 
 
 In search of the Northern Pole, — 
 My skeleton lies under Arctic skies, 
 
 And the good Lord has my soul. 
 
SONNETS AND RONDEAUX 
 
TO A SLEEPING BOY. 
 
 Ah, little dreamer! stealing from the day, 
 The golden keystone of the arching hours, 
 To lay thy drowsy head among the flowers, 
 
 And down Lethean waters sail away! 
 
 Tlie wind is in thy ringlets, boy, and they, 
 In flossy tumult, fall in fairy showers 
 Around thy cheek, and all thy childish 
 powers 
 
 Are chained in sleep, beneath the sun's 
 bright ray. 
 
 The beetle, droning in the apple tree. 
 Thy mate is, and the whistling bobolink 
 
 Pipes half his sweetest roundelays to thee ; 
 
 Sleep, little truant, in the singing grass ! 
 The days will wither, and the years will 
 shrink, 
 
 And all too soon thy rosy dreams will pass. 
 
 (183) 
 
A NIGHT m JUKE. 
 
 Upon the cooling summer grass the dark 
 Falls lightly, and the panting violet 
 Uplifts its purple lip and lash of jet, 
 
 To sip the slow-descending dews. The lark 
 
 Is softly sleeping, pillowed in an ark 
 Of sighing grasses, like some old regret 
 Couched in the bosom of an anchoret. 
 
 Amid dead loves that rattle stiff and stark. 
 
 The crooked moon is peering thro' the pines, 
 And checkering the lawn with leaves of 
 light, 
 
 And belting all the dim fields with broad 
 lines, 
 That stretch like silver ribbons throuerh 
 the night; 
 
 Stars on the grass, and fire-flies on the vines, 
 And sorrow in the breast of every wight. 
 
 (184) 
 
WHEN I COME HOME. 
 
 When I come home, my labors ihrough, 
 
 Between the day-fall and the dew, 
 There comes a sound of nimble feet 
 Swift-flying down the path to meet 
 
 My own — with laughter and halloo. 
 
 The cares that day by day accrue, 
 Turn backward and no more pursue, — 
 
 Turn back from this, my welcome sweet, 
 When I come home. 
 
 If I, beyond the welkin blue, 
 Shall e'er go thither to renew 
 
 My life so frail and incomplete — 
 
 I only hope some boy will greet 
 Me there — ^just as my own boys do, 
 When I come home. 
 
 (185) 
 
AT MILKING TIME. 
 
 At milking time, when shadows climb 
 The pasture-bars, and sheep bells chime 
 High up along the sunset hill, — 
 'Tis sweet to wander where we will, 
 And take no thought of care or time. 
 
 The heart of boyhood in its prime 
 Lights up with joy the cheek of grime, 
 "When katydids come out and trill, 
 At milking time. 
 
 There's not in any land or clime, 
 An hour so sacred, so sublime, 
 As that when patient kine distill 
 The wines of life, in many a rill 
 Of rippling and resilient rhyme, 
 At milking time. 
 
 (186) 
 
OCTOBEK. 
 
 Upon the dreamy upland aureoled, 
 
 I saw the sombre artist, Autumn, stand, 
 Ghostlike, against the dim and shadowy 
 land. 
 Limning the hills with purple and with gold ; 
 And while I gazed a mighty mist uprolled, 
 As at the touch of some enchanter's wand, — 
 And all the woods by sudden winds were 
 fanned. 
 And darkness fell upon the amber wold. 
 Out of the frosty north, like Indian arrows, 
 In never-falt'ring flight, the wild ducks 
 flew; 
 And from the- windy fields the summer 
 sparrows 
 Reluctantly their feathery tribes with- 
 drew, — 
 As from the heart the hopes of manhood fly, 
 "When the sad winter of old age draws nigh. 
 
 (187) 
 
KOYEMBER. 
 
 Deep lie the shadows on the russet slopes, 
 Loud blows the wind and shrilly falls the 
 
 hail ; 
 The tangled sedge-grass closes o'er the 
 quail, 
 And on the withered hill the woodchuck 
 
 mopes, 
 A dusky image of disastered hopes, 
 
 Against whose roof the ruthless storms 
 
 prevail ; — 
 November! and the farmer hunts the flail, 
 And puny Autumn poets seek for tropes. 
 Alack-a-day ! that Nature e'er should robe her 
 Glorious form in gloomy garbs like these; 
 Alas! the faded splendor of October, 
 
 The summer gone, and its Arcadian ease; 
 The lengthened year is glimmering to its 
 
 close, 
 Mid piping tempests, and descending snows. 
 
 (188) 
 
WHEKE WILLIE WAS. 
 
 Where Willie was, the daylight dies, 
 
 And deathlike silence overlies 
 
 The greensward and the garden, where 
 His baby feet, once brown and bare, 
 
 Went pattering under summer skies. 
 
 Now stilled for aye the childish cries, 
 And hushed the tender lullabies 
 A mother sang, at twilight, there. 
 Where Willie was. 
 
 And I — I marvel if those eyes. 
 
 Unsealed in 3'onder Paradise, 
 
 Look, ever, down the shining stair 
 Upon the little empty chair. 
 
 And scattered playthings that we prize. 
 Where Willie was. 
 
 (189) 
 
IK DAYS TO COME. 
 
 (to j. av. k.) 
 
 In days to come, when you and I 
 "Wax faint and frail, and heartiires die, 
 
 And tinkling rhymes no more obey 
 
 The wooing lips of yesterday, 
 How slowly will the hours go by. 
 
 When we have drained oiir song-cups dry, 
 My comrade, shall we sit and sigh. 
 Childlike, o'er joys too sweet to stay. 
 In days to come? 
 
 Nay! nay! we'll give old time the lie. 
 
 And, thatched with three score years, we'll try 
 
 A rondeau or a roundelay, 
 
 As long as any lute-string may. 
 
 To our light touches, make reply — 
 
 In days to come. 
 
 (190) 
 
CHRISTMAS MORNING. 
 
 And now the good St. Nick is come and gone, 
 And many a fluffy head bursts into flower, 
 Above the blanket, at the twilight hour, 
 
 With darting eyes that dip into the dawn, 
 
 Seeking the cheery chimney -jamb, whereon 
 Tlie pouting stocking, like some toppling 
 
 tower, 
 Breaks with its weight, and splits into a 
 shower 
 
 Of broken rainbows, round a tropic zone. 
 
 The sun climbs up and on ! the merry chime 
 Of mellow sleigh-bells tinkle o'er the snow; 
 
 Each crimpled shrub is rimpled up with rime, 
 And from the eaves the long icicles grow. 
 
 Till night steals on, and moonbeams through^ 
 the trees 
 
 Kiss down our lids to pleasant memories. 
 
 (191) 
 
DOOM. 
 
 There is a legend by the Norsemen told, 
 How Odin to each field of battle sends 
 His priestess, Yalkjr, at whose finger-ends 
 The spools of destiny are all unrolled; 
 Pallid as Parian marble and as cold, 
 
 She passes where the thickest carnage 
 
 trends, 
 Ambassadress of doom to foes and friends. 
 Marking for speedy death the strong and 
 
 bold. 
 So, in the silent nnderlands of life, 
 
 Concealed amidst the sunshine, airy forms 
 And subtle, sit perpetually and spin 
 The tangled toils that trip us in the strife, — 
 They braid the lightning and unbind the 
 storms, 
 And ope the gates for death to enter in. 
 
 (192) 
 
KONDEAUX OF EEMEMBRANCE. 
 
 In airy halls they dwell, to day, 
 These friends of ours! — On every spray, 
 Again the blooms of summer cling. 
 Again the bonnie blue-birds sing, 
 But they come not, for aye and aye. 
 
 We hear their voices far away. 
 Beyond the night, beyond the day. 
 Beyond the sound of sorrowing. 
 In airy halls. 
 
 They lived — they loved — the Blue and Gray, 
 They fought as brave men fight, alway, — 
 
 They fell — God knows their suffering! 
 
 God knows we wept when Death's fell sting 
 First set their stormy souls astray, 
 In airy halls. 
 
 They're now at rest! 'No bugle's bray, 
 No sound of flute, no virelay, 
 
 No murmur of returning spring, 
 
 Nor any wild-bird's caroling. 
 Can wake them more — ah, well-a-day ! 
 
 1 3 (193) 
 
194 RONDBAUX OF REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Beneath the loving light of May, 
 Where we our tender tributes pay, 
 In tears of sweet remembering, 
 They're now at rest. 
 
 "We sigh — we sing in strains that say, 
 To them whose brows are bound with bay, 
 "God bless you !" while we wreathe and ring 
 Their tombs with amaranth. A king 
 For such a death might pray, but they — 
 They're now at rest. 
 
DR. JOHN A. WARDER. 
 
 (aeboeicultukist.) 
 
 His was the gentle spirit of the woods, 
 The genius of the tongueless mysteries, 
 Eternally that dwell within the trees, 
 
 The flowers, the grasses, and the bursting 
 buds; 
 
 A member of their secret brotherhoods. 
 He caught the everlasting symphonies 
 Of all the lute-lipped leaves. He held the 
 keys 
 
 Of Nature's variant moods and solitudes. 
 
 A Druid gray, his loving life-blood leapt 
 In transport tremulous, beneath the power 
 
 Of beauty and of symmetry that slept 
 "Within the petals of the frailest flower ; 
 
 Sweetest of all the songless bards ! he kept 
 His great soul stainless in his Eden-bower. 
 
 (195) 
 
A BLUEBIRD IN JANUARY. 
 
 A ballet-dancer in a church yard, thou, — 
 A jester in a charnel-house — a gleam 
 Of sunlight falling on a frozen stream — 
 A sapphire shining on an Ethiop's brow I 
 O, bluebird lone, perched on that withered 
 bough, 
 Come whistle round our doorway, till we 
 
 dream 
 That winter days are over, and the beam 
 Of jocund summer glitters on the plow. 
 The mellow ditties of thy dapper throat 
 Fill all the icy air with phantom Springs, — 
 And plumaged pipers with a rush of 
 wings, 
 Seem swarming hither at thy venturous note; 
 But, ah, brave minstrel, bleaker days 
 
 must be 
 Ere blooms the buttercup and hums the bee. 
 
 (196) 
 
COULD SHE BUT KNOW ? 
 
 Could she but know the love that stings 
 My panting heart, and beats its wings 
 
 Against my lips, in dire distress, 
 
 I wonder if the sorceress 
 Would deign to soothe its claraorings ? 
 
 Could she but know the secret springs 
 That feed my soul with sufferings. 
 
 Would she the bitter pangs make less,- 
 Could she but know? 
 
 Could she but know the doubt that flings 
 Its shadow o'er my heart, and brings 
 Destroying nights of sleeplessness, — 
 O would her pitying lips express 
 One word, — and end my torturings. 
 Could she but know? 
 
 (19V) 
 
COULD LOYE DO MOKE. 
 
 Could love do more? He laid his hand 
 
 Upon the battle-axe and brand, 
 
 And through the conflict's tire and smoke, 
 Flashed swift and keen his sabre stroke. 
 
 At her imperious command. 
 
 He won renown in all the land, 
 Eor her sweet sake, — that he might stand. 
 Triumphant, and her love invoke — 
 Could love do more? 
 
 Alas ! she scorned him. Pale and blandj 
 He turned away. Upon the strand. 
 
 They found him when the morning broke. 
 With blood upon his brow and cloak. 
 And only sAe could understand: — 
 Could love do more ? 
 
 (198) 
 
MY FAYORITE POEM. 
 
 It is a little volume, velvet-faced, 
 
 Lettered with blue, and flecked with pink 
 
 and white, 
 With flowers of fancy daintily bedight, 
 On leaves of lilied purity, and graced 
 With quaint designs, inwrought and inter- 
 laced, 
 That touch the critic sense with keen 
 
 delight, — 
 And on the first page. Love's own copy- 
 right. 
 In lines of beauty delicately traced. 
 A miracle of poetry ! Each day 
 
 I re-peruse it, for within it lies 
 A dream of joy that charms my cares away, 
 
 And opes for me the gates of Paradise ; 
 'Nor can I from its sweet enchantment stray, 
 The wondrous epic of my haby^s eyes, 
 
 (199> 
 
DEATH,— WHAT IS IT ? 
 
 It is a peaceful end of all desire, 
 
 An end of dreaming, and an end of song, — 
 A liappy winding-up of right and wrong, 
 
 A quiet quenching of the vital fire; 
 
 A shadow lying on a broken lyre, — 
 A beggar's holiday, — a twilight long, — 
 A landing-place where weary pilgrims 
 throng, 
 
 A tranquil terminus of w^ays that tire. 
 
 Death is a respite from each vain regret. 
 It drops the curtain, it concludes the play, 
 It turns the lights out, and it leads the way, 
 
 "When o'er the house-tops all the stars have 
 set; 
 Death is the epilogue to which we list, 
 Just as the tired audience is dismissed. 
 
 (200) 
 
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