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POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCIS BROWNING. 
 
 (p. B. OWEN.) 
 
 A HOLIDAY BOOK. 
 
 DETROIT: 
 
 FREE PRESS PRESTTLNG HOTTSE. 
 
 1874. 
 
 '^' 
 
 <?^ Or 
 
 -^ copy; 
 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1874, 
 
 Br FEANOIS BROWNING OWEN, 
 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
 
TO 
 
 ALONZO G. SHAFER, 
 
 A 
 
 FRIEND OP LARGE HEART 
 
 AND LIBERAL MIND, WHO WILL NOT CONDEMN WITHOUT 
 
 CAUSE, NOR VENTURE A CRITICISM UNPREPARED, 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS MOST RESPECTFULLY 
 
 DEDICATED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
READER! 
 
 || iko touch the heart, to move the finer feelings to acts ; to chord 
 
 (g; (rj in sympathy witli the sorrowing ; to cheer ; to sweeten the 
 
 V bitter draught ; these thoughts prompt the writer's pen. Yet 
 
 "Little crafts keep near shore, 
 While larger vessels venture more." 
 
 Somewhere this sage rhyme is found. It expresses the case of the 
 
 writer quite happily. His little crafts have kept near shore ; that is, 
 
 the shorter poems have seen the light through the medium of the 
 
 kintlly press, a few enconiums from which find place at the close of 
 
 the volume. 
 
 Having, by request, written a rather lengthy poem — which will 
 
 be found herein in the society of the little crafts that, with one or 
 
 two more ambitious productions, accompany it — the whole has been 
 
 freighted upon one bark of blue and gold, on which the author's hopes 
 
 center, and thus goes out to sea, with a trust that it will be kindly 
 
 wafted on its voyage by the breeze of popular favor, and which will 
 
 ever be appreciated by 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 MiLFORD, Mich., November, 1874. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 November 9 
 
 The Children 11 
 
 Drifting Toavards the Sea 13 
 
 Ode to Poesy 14 
 
 Time — Past and Present 18 
 
 MlCPCCGAN 44 
 
 My Old Army Chum 49 
 
 Unporgotten 51 
 
 The Old Year and the JSTew 53 
 
 Woman Suffrage 56 
 
 Stanzas 58 
 
 The Monument 60 
 
 The Dead of Twenty Years 63 
 
 Horace Greeley 66 
 
 A Song for Temperance 69 
 
 Open the Doors 73 
 
 Winter Night Thoughts 74 
 
 The Poor 75 
 
 Crow's Nest 80 
 
 The Beautiful Rain 89 
 
mw,w- 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 Fruitless of blossoms and flowers, 
 
 In leaves of russet and gold, 
 November comes with its lonely hours. 
 
 And its days soon growing old ; 
 Born of the storm and the rain. 
 
 Snow-flakes of cold and damp. 
 The weeping winds, in sad refrain. 
 
 Sing round its dying lamp- 
 Soon will our summer have gone — 
 
 Soon the November of life 
 AVill come to us, chilly, on breezes borne, 
 
 To winter this toilsome strife ; 
 White-winged and cold and still, 
 
 Leafless and empty of flowers. 
 The autumn of life our years to fill, 
 
 And number the lost — lost hours. 
 
10 (Browning's ^oems. 
 
 THE CHILDREN. 
 
 Why do I love the children so ? 
 
 Good faith, the world ought all to know, 
 
 I have such stores of reasons ; 
 Were I to tell the half I feel, 
 When round their bed they softly kneel, 
 
 'Twould fill the circling seasons. 
 
 Because their hearts are tender, true. 
 Their tears as sweet as morning dew. 
 
 That waters earth and heaven ; 
 Oh, may such showers of blessings fall, 
 On rich and poor, on all, on all. 
 
 The bread of life to leaven. 
 
 Because their lips, with kisses sweet, 
 So warm and jDure our own to greet — 
 
 So innocent and playful — 
 He that can boast of so much wealth, 
 May covet naught but earthly health. 
 
 His life must be so joyful. 
 
browning's (Poems. ii 
 
 Because their eyes are dyed in blue, 
 Their cheeks are dimpled, and their hue 
 
 Is painted from the roses ; 
 Their laugh as joyous as the bird. 
 Such music I before ne'er heard, 
 
 Such violets and posies. 
 
 Because the trample of their feet, 
 With hop and skip they run to meet, 
 
 When on my way returning ; 
 Who would not wish a dozen more, 
 To greet him as he reached the door 
 
 Of his own fireside burning. 
 
 Heaven give us children, girls and boys, 
 A foretaste of our heavenly joys, 
 
 When we that bright realm enter ; 
 Oh, memory sweet of days gone by, 
 The merry laugh or saddened cry 
 
 All round my heart doth center. 
 
12 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 DRIFTING TOWARDS THE SEA. 
 
 Over ripple, eddy and fall, 
 
 Dashing and dancing in glee, 
 Roll the rivers along, in their joyous song, 
 
 To their home in the deep, blue sea. 
 
 Through meadows, fragrant with flowers, 
 They linger in morning's bright beams, 
 
 And catch of their breath, ere they fade into death, 
 Sweet zephyrs that float o'er the streams. 
 
 Then, freighted with perfume and joy. 
 Thanking God for the meadow and lea. 
 
 Pass the rivers away, at breaking of day. 
 To their home in the deep, blue sea. 
 
 Man's life is a river of time. 
 
 Alternate of pleasure and pain ; 
 We're drifting away, a moment — a day, 
 
 Our barque will be sailing the main. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 75 
 
 Ah ! this beautiful river of time, 
 
 In the morning of life so fair ; 
 Its magical isle we pass with a smile, 
 
 With no visions of sorrow or care. 
 
 But soon the loud cataract's roar 
 
 Of manhood falls harsh on our ears ; 
 We pause on the brink, lest our vessel will sink, 
 
 Then pull with the strength of our years. 
 
 Each man to the oar for his life — 
 
 Guide the helm in this perilous hour ; 
 Would our boat e'er outride both the wind and the tide. 
 
 Seize the time at meridian's power. 
 
 Now tossed by the tempest's rough blast. 
 
 Life's breakers how plainly we see ; 
 We pause and look back on the watery track, 
 
 While drifting adown to the sea. 
 
 The eddy of life in full view ! 
 
 All the breakers and cataracts passed, 
 We calmly abide and pray for the tide 
 
 That anchors in heaven at last. 
 
14 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 ODE TO POESY. 
 
 Apollo guide my pen whilst I ordain 
 To sing with matchless skill in praise again. 
 Lead me in ilow'ry paths through Alpine dell, 
 Where running streams with music sweetly swell ! 
 Where dashing waterfalls, with misty spray, 
 Sing to thy praise in one melodious lay ! 
 Where birds repose at vesper's twilight hour, 
 And chant their matins in poetic bower ! 
 That I thy beauties, I thy charms may sing, 
 And at thy altar all thy graces fling. 
 
 Thee I invoke ! Awake my tuneful theme 
 
 To sweetest chords ; the soul's bright running stream 
 
 O'erflows its banks, whilst up the mount I climb 
 
 To reach the hill of poesy sublime. 
 
 My rugged path I scan, tho' not in vain 
 
 I courage take to mount the hill of fame ; 
 
 I toil, I pray, that I the summit reach — 
 
 Help, lest I fall by some unguarded speech. 
 
(Browning^s (Poems. i^ 
 
 Fair poesy ! my soul oft takes delight 
 In sweet communiou ; as the shades of night 
 Fall gently o'er my head, I muse of thee, 
 Who deign'st to hover o'er a soul like me ; 
 Who deign'st to linger o'er a black, cold earth ; 
 Who in the realms of glory had a birth ; 
 Whose sacred temple, Vesta-like, tho' higher, 
 In bright effulgence glows by sacred fire. 
 
 Thousands would gain thy blissful temple high ; 
 Thousands have fell, tho' not without a sigh ; 
 Thousands unknown to human genius here, 
 Will sing thy praise in happier, holier sphere. 
 Then why should I in silence still remain, 
 Whilst open is the gate that leads to fame ? 
 I'll wing my flight to reach the summit high, 
 And dare to voyage the ocean of the sky. 
 
 I love thee, poesy ! my soul still thirsts 
 
 To drink from out thy fountain ; thou who first 
 
 I fain would cherish, love, caress, embrace ; 
 
 In dreams I oft behold thy smiling face. 
 
 Through flow'ry vales I wander by thy side, 
 
 O'er rugged steeps and oceans calm and wide ; 
 
 I follow wheresoe'er thy footsteps go, 
 
 And o'er thy head rich blessings would bestow. 
 
i6 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 Thou art a rock, I a weak wave of sea 
 Driven by winds ; I break and die on thee. 
 O ! man, how transient is thy life-bud here, 
 If but to bloom and die in one short year. 
 A few short steps from cradle to the grave, 
 An ebb and flow, a fleeting ocean wave, 
 Is all we have ; 'tis little here below 
 We wish or want ; the rest we little know. 
 
 But deadlier pangs than those of death dart through 
 
 My fevered brow ; my pulse beats warm and true 
 
 From a big heart o'erloaded by its weight 
 
 Of poverty ; my feeble hands abate 
 
 To do the work my heart would gladly do 
 
 For thee, sweet poesy, immortal, true ! 
 
 Than sit me down to melancholy fate, 
 
 And sigh for honor, riches, fame, estate. 
 
 There is a fountain fed by living streams, 
 Whereof we long to drink, so sweet the dreams. 
 Yet sweeter still than dreams and visions bright, 
 Of sordid gold illumed by diamond's light. 
 Is it to taste of thee — to slake the thirst 
 From a pure fountain, by no sin accurst ! 
 To drink and live — to live and drink of thee. 
 Is but to taste of immortality. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. ij 
 
 Alas for man ! few know thy grand estate, 
 And care but little only to be great ; 
 And little care for that, unless it be 
 Their fellows can behold — there all agree. 
 Whilst thou would'st guide us heavenward in our flight, 
 Inspire our songs with virtue, truth, and right ! 
 He sordid wealth and lustful haunts obtain, 
 And spurns a fellow chosen of thy name. 
 September 15, 1873. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written by request of a Mend, to be placed within a wreath of flowers 
 
 The works of art oft cheer the heart, 
 
 And please our mortal eyes, 
 But when we look in Nature's book, 
 
 There all the beauty lies. 
 The trees, the flowers, the storms and showers, 
 
 Her beauty all foretells ; 
 In sun or shade, in forest glade, 
 
 Queen-like she reigns and dwells. 
 
(Browning's ^oems. 
 
 TIME— PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 To Prof. J. A. Corbin, A, M., Superintendent Instruction.! Pontiac, Mich.: 
 
 When I last saw you and received your invitation to recite a poem before the 
 
 Teachers' Institute, I little thought, when you named the subject, "Time— Past and 
 
 Present," that so soon I should comply with your wishes. In dedicating this poem 
 
 to you, allow me the remark that it is the longest and most ambitious of my efforts. 
 
 Though faulty, I know that in the kindness of j'^our heart you will overlook the 
 
 imperfections, and do me the .justice to descant only on its merits. During the very 
 
 many years that you have acted as instructor, it is safe to say that you have not 
 
 found perfection in one of the many that have been under your guidance ; you will 
 
 look in vain for it on earth. I have endeavored to make this poem of sufficient 
 
 interest to warrant its perusal. That you may not consider the time so employed 
 
 entirely squandered, is the wish of your friend, as always, 
 
 BEOWNING. 
 
 I. 
 
 Of time we sing, of tide, the present, past, 
 
 Ages and epochs, days and years soon run, 
 And moments, too, with varied scenes, fly fast ; 
 
 How short the distance, ere our journey's done ! 
 By calculation 'tis an easy sum 
 
 To reckon all the moments and the years, 
 To count the settings of the western sun, 
 
 And all of life, its troubles, hardships, fears, 
 
 'Tis but a simple task — 'tis what one daily hears. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. ig 
 
 II. 
 
 O ! glory of our youth, spring-tide of hope, 
 When first we wake to happiness and love ; 
 
 Would that those days could last, the hours mope 
 That bring us age and toil ; the, stars above 
 
 Are fixed and still, but time flies like the dove. 
 Nor waits for this or that, nor plea, nor plan. 
 
 Scaling the mountain peak and rocky clove, 
 
 With pinions spread, deigns not to pause for man, 
 But flies, we know not where, nor when it first began. 
 
 III. 
 Youth grasps for shadows, but it holds them not ; 
 
 The bubble bursts — 'twere naught but empty air ; 
 The phantom, which the growing brain begot. 
 
 Has flown and left us in delusion's snare. 
 To mourn for what was not, tho' unaware ; 
 
 We heed not disappointment's warning voice, 
 But chase some other object, false tho' fair ; 
 
 'Twixt gold and sounding brass there's little choice ; 
 
 Mourn not the lost ; look forward and rejoice. 
 
20 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 IV. 
 Here virtue holds her careless livery firm ; 
 
 With reins of truth she guides the foaming steed. 
 While love doth ever at her altar burn ; 
 
 Vice shuns the road — his footsteps oft take heed 
 To wander not in paths that always lead 
 
 Where youth sits smiling at the gates, of morn, 
 Whose tender heart at times, perchance, will bleed ; 
 
 The beauty of her life, her soul adorn ; 
 
 Cease, time, thy coming years — do not my youth deform. 
 
 V. 
 As blooms the rose, when summer draweth nigh, 
 
 Drinking the dews that fall at dawn of day, 
 So youth, fair bud of promise, from on high. 
 
 Was given to earth by Him whom stars obey ; 
 Sun, moon, and worlds, their revolutions play 
 
 Around and through all space at His command. 
 And changing seasons follow, day by day, 
 
 Held in their orbits by His powerful hand ; 
 
 With wonder and with awe we view a work so grand. 
 
browning's (Boems. 21 
 
 VI. 
 'Twere not for us to grasp this mighty plan, 
 
 Nor soar with wings beyond our earthly home ; 
 'Tis God alone who reigns supreme, not man, 
 
 Whose dwelling is above, whose palace dome 
 Looks out upon all worlds, e'en tho' alone 
 
 They fly through space ; his ever watchful eye 
 Guides and directs their course — they are his own ; 
 
 And though thro' ages on their course they fly. 
 
 He shapes their ends, and rules their destiny. 
 
 VII. 
 Weak, feeble man, from birth a babe remains 
 
 In knowledge, tho' he labors on through years ; 
 His songs are empty sounds ; his sad refrains 
 
 Touch but the key-note of his wants ; his fears 
 But multiply while on his journey ; hears 
 
 Strange sounds, beholds strange sights, he shuns the light, 
 And seeks the darkness ; Avhat to him appears 
 
 Is but a phantom, and, with all his might, 
 
 He cowers at the sound, and trembles at the sight. 
 
22 browning's (Poems. 
 
 VIII. 
 His selfish pride, tho' never on the wane, 
 
 Prompts him to build a theory of his own ; 
 His speculations, fancies, although vain, 
 
 To him are weaknesses but little known, 
 And, like a barren fell of rock and stone, 
 
 Where no good seed doth germinate and grow, 
 He pictures for himself an airy throne. 
 
 Where he may sit — look down with scorn below, 
 
 And view a world untaught — of wretchedness and woe. 
 
 IX. 
 He armies musters, panoplied for war. 
 
 Slaves do his will, hirelings his command ; 
 The bugle's note is sounded near and far ; 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! is heard o'er all the land ; 
 Friend, foe and brother meet in phalanx grand. 
 
 Thirsting for blood like hounds that scent the track, 
 Maddened to freuzy ; e'en brother's hand 
 
 Is raised 'gainst brother ; let the tide set back ; 
 
 Great God of truth, we pray, wilt thou not counteract ? 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 23 
 
 X. 
 
 Will war ne'er cease, dire scourge of all the earth, 
 
 'Till oceans fill with crimson human gore? 
 Will murder, rapine, hell still have a birth. 
 
 And peace and love prove barren evermore. 
 And death and darkness reign from shore to shore ? 
 
 Hail, white-robed Angel, spread thy peaceful wing. 
 Fly to this wretched earth, from door to door, 
 
 And ever let thy loud hosannas ring 
 
 In peaceful harmony, that all the world may sing. 
 
 XI. 
 All bloody conflicts end where they began, 
 
 Save death and desolation, which are fruits 
 Of that most poisonous upas, and, for man 
 
 To strive in deadly combat, worse than brutes. 
 For naught but empty fame, he brings his suits 
 
 Before the bar of death in strifes of blood. 
 Deep, dark and damnable — unjust pursuits — 
 
 Illicit oiFsprings of a hydra brood. 
 
 Deceitful, venomous, dissemblance of all good. 
 
24 browning's (Poems. 
 
 XII. 
 Who hath not seen such conflicts, such carnage, 
 
 Slaughter and massacre o'er all the earth ? 
 Pride, envy, fame will not their grasp assuage. 
 
 While man's conceived in appetites from birth, 
 His education firecely drives him forth 
 
 To slay and rob his brother — 'tis his zeal 
 To reign a tyrant, tho' of little worth ; 
 
 He summons all his power for woe or weal. 
 
 And would that all the world should at his footstool kneel. 
 
 XIII. 
 I well remember, when a child, I thought 
 
 How slowly ran the years, each day an age. 
 Each moment like a book, with fancies fraught 
 
 Of future years ; and on its title page 
 Were pictured Wealth and Fame. I did engage 
 
 To study every leaf; methought that life 
 Was all it seemed to be. Unlike the sage, 
 
 I neither paused nor reasoned in the strife, 
 
 But plucked such flowers each day as seemed with pleasure 
 rife. 
 
(Browning's ^oems. 2^ 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I thirsted first for wealth, the glittering charms 
 
 Of gold caressed my sleep ; my frequent dreams 
 Cradled me softly in the sunbeam's arms, 
 
 Where, to the music of the purling streams, 
 I sweetly did repose. My memory teems 
 
 Of childhood's happy hours ; I would it were 
 That all of life was love, a sun whose beams 
 
 Expel all hatred, malice — I forbear 
 
 To dwell upon the past, but muse on things that are. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oft, when I've stood upon the ocean's beach 
 And watched the ebbing of the watery tide, 
 
 And seen far out thereon, beyond my reach. 
 Tall masts with flowing sails so smoothly glide, 
 
 Fanned by a gentle breeze, so proudly ride, 
 I've cast a longing look and wish that I 
 
 Could sail o'er life's rough sea, however wide. 
 And pass its breakers smoothly, safely by, 
 My journey's end to reach without a tear or sigh. 
 
26 browning's (Poems. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 I've stood beside the dying couch of one 
 Whose life was ebbing out — far out to sea, 
 
 The burden of my prayer, " Thy will be done ; " 
 But canst thou. Lord, restore this child to me? 
 
 My supplication grant. I bend the knee 
 To thy omniscient power ; my life, my all 
 
 Is clustered round my boy. I would that he 
 Might tarry still on earth, and that withal 
 To guide my feeble way, lest I should faint and fall. 
 
 XVII. 
 'Twere not for me ordained — my earnest prayer, 
 
 Tho' oft repeated, was from me withheld, 
 And in my blindness what God's dealings were 
 
 I knew not, but I know I did rebel, 
 And in my solitude (to me a hell), 
 
 I cursed the day that even gave me birth, 
 And in my frenzy recked not what befel ; 
 
 All things this side of heaven — things of earth 
 
 By me were little sought, appeared of little worth. 
 
browning's (Poems. 2'] 
 
 XVIII. 
 Fame, Wealth and Power then were empty sounds ; 
 
 Ambition, Pride and Hope had taken wing, 
 And left all desolate ; in all my rounds. 
 
 My beaten track, unlike the gushing spring, 
 Ne'er sparkled in the light — the only thing 
 
 That gave sweet consolation was the thought 
 That death would follow soon ; I then could sing 
 
 Of rest and peace at last — by angels taught, 
 
 In never-ending strains, of happiness full fraught. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I said if this is life, 'twere little Avorth 
 
 The labor we bestow — where is our meed 
 Of yraise? Our recompense, is it of enrth? 
 
 Fame, Power, Ambition, take but little heed. 
 Nor pause to bind the wounded hearts that bleed, 
 
 But strive to gain the loftiest heights above, 
 And feast on human sacrifice — their greed 
 
 Is never satisfied. I would that Love 
 
 Could reign and soar supreme, with pinions like the dove. 
 
28 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 XX. 
 
 O spirit of the dying captive, speak, 
 
 And tell a tale deep-dyed in blood and pain. 
 
 When on the rack chained, bleeding, aged and meek 
 You suffered torture for another's gain ; 
 
 Your death groans only helped to bind the chain 
 That held you fast. Speak now from out the sky 
 
 To mortals still below — repeat again 
 
 The story of that hour. Your dying cry 
 Ne'er shamed Parrhasius — Ambition's perfidy. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 O false Ambition ! with what greedy maw 
 
 You prey upon your victims, 'gainst all right ; 
 Thou seek'st thine own vainglory 'gainst all law 
 
 Of reason ; Justice, while in strength and might 
 Thy system doth increase, and in thy flight 
 
 Deign'st not to pause for sorrow, misery, woe, 
 Scorning the lowly ; if thou shouldst alight 
 
 And dwell an equal on the world below. 
 
 What gushing rills would start with crystals all aglow. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 2g 
 
 XXII. 
 Fed on the blood of countless numbers slain, 
 
 It hungers still for more, and weeps that earth 
 Should be so small ; it would that e'en the main 
 
 Was one grand battle-field ; that a new birth 
 Would usher in new worlds of greater girth. 
 
 Where it might slake its thirst, its fond desire 
 On dying empires, thrones, and then go forth. 
 
 Clad in its coat of mail, with deadly fire, 
 
 To victory and death, in blood and carnage dire. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Thy lusts are never quenched — thy mad desire 
 
 Is like a rushing torrent, sweeping on 
 And down in frenzied zeal ; volcanic fire 
 
 From out the crater's mouth, ever, anon. 
 The liquid lava vents its hate upon 
 
 The teeming cities lying in its way, 
 Destruction, devastation follow on. 
 
 O vain Ambition, wilt thou longer sway 
 
 The nations of the earth, to reign but for a day ? 
 
^0 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 XXIV. 
 Where is thy glory, France ; thy former clays 
 
 Of pride aud beauty, with thy vine-clad hills ? 
 Thy nation's song, the " Marseillaise," in praise 
 
 Is heard no more ; its music ne'er distills 
 Sweet accents on the ear. My bosom thrills 
 
 Of thy bright days ; but now thy songs are tame, 
 Thy skies are thick and dark, thy running rills 
 
 Are red with human gore, thy once fair name 
 
 Has flown to brighter climes — bartered for lust and fame. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Thy bane has been vainglory and self-pride — 
 
 Food for the young — but babes soon grow in years 
 To men ; and such should always aim to hide 
 
 Their childish foibles, and while the tears 
 Of youth so freely shed flow for vain fears. 
 
 In age are dried and few. We look beyond 
 The phantoms of our youth — our life adheres 
 
 To immortality ; our souls respond 
 
 And drink from sweetest springs — of such the pure are 
 fond. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. ji 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Napoleon ! the name still lives in story ; 
 
 Though he has passed away, the records stand. 
 Fame was his all-absorbing passion — glory 
 
 To him was rule and conquer all the land, 
 Sparing not e'en the lowly with his hand, 
 
 But spreading desolation far and near. 
 Until the world could scarce his rule withstand. 
 
 The nations trembled in great awe and fear 
 
 Of that inhuman tyrant, ever without a peer. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 He did ordain that o'er this rolling earth 
 From pole to pole his cruel scepter's reign ; 
 
 And, in his madness, nursed e'en from his birth. 
 He little recked of misery and pain, 
 
 But drew the sword, the better to obtain 
 
 Control and rule ; a one great sovereign king 
 
 O'er all the earth, a monarch o'er the main, 
 And at his feet the world its trophies bring. 
 Then kneel to his commands and of his greatness sing. 
 
^2 (Browning's ^oems. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 The Roman (Sylla) when his heart was slaked with blood 
 
 Of Rome, threw down the dagger ; but unlike 
 All others in his greed, his lack of good 
 
 Formed the full base of all his appetite, 
 Which never was appeased. Ambition's flight 
 
 Soared over all ; unsatisfied, he led 
 His slaves to Moscow's giddy height. 
 
 Amid the storms of winter, all unfed, 
 
 Though numberless the slain who on that field lay dead. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Shades of departed dead, arise ! awake ! 
 
 Clad in immortal garments, view thy dust. 
 Mortality put off; thou canst partake 
 
 And feast on better joys. Canker and rust. 
 Pride, Fame and Station, joined with human lust, 
 
 Are all unknown to thee ; a brighter morn 
 Lights up thy Eastern sky, and that thou must 
 
 Forever reign o'er nations still unborn 
 
 Thou'lt come in peaceful flight, of all those follies shorn. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 55 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Weighed in the balance, what is hero dust 
 More than vile clay ? Mortality the same ; 
 
 And, tho' unsparing, still its scales are just, 
 And measures not to one a poisonous bane, 
 
 While to anather pomp and glittering fame. 
 King, prince and potentate, whate'er thy state, 
 
 Condition, rank or power, whatever name, 
 Meet on a common level, as their fate, 
 The grave, the end of earth, of all of life's estate. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 To reign a king for this short life of ours. 
 To lead vast armies o'er the battle plain, 
 
 To gather sweetness from ephemeral flowers, 
 That turn to gall of bitterness and pain 
 
 In one dark hour, just for a moment's gain 
 Is little worth its cost ! 'Tvvere better far 
 
 That life should glow a purer, holy flame, 
 Twinkling in beauty, like the evening star, 
 That sets in brightness full o'er western slopes afar. 
 
^4 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 O Freedom ! 'tis a joy to lisp thy name ; 
 
 Tho' foes assail thee, thou wilt sure prevail. 
 In every clime there's left a spark — a flame 
 
 To kindle and to fire the heart, all hail ! 
 Thy transit to a peaceful shore — spread sail 
 
 O'er oceans deep and wide ; thy guiding star 
 To northward leads thy way ; the evening gale 
 
 Blows gently o'er thy path, sent from afar 
 
 To speed thee on thy course — thy coming is not far. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Arise ! O nations of the earth, arise ! 
 
 Put off the yoke of bondage — seize the hour. 
 To break the chains that bind you down — be wise, 
 
 Freedom must reign in majesty and power ! 
 Refreshing heaven and earth, like April's shower, 
 
 Watering the thirsty soil o'er hill and plain. 
 To bud and blossom as the morning flower 
 
 That drinks of evening dews— heaven's gentle rain 
 
 That falls at twilight's hour, and gives new life again. 
 
browning's (Poems. ^^ 
 
 XXXIV. 
 What art thou, Freedom f give the slaves their voice 
 
 From living graves to answer this demand. 
 All tyrants banished — let the world rejoice 
 
 At such a holy judgment, high command! 
 Peace, Justice, Love, bear sway o'er all the land ; 
 
 Mankind are equal in the sight of Him 
 Who holds the circling world within His hand. 
 
 And tho' He rules as sovereign Lord and King, 
 
 Mercy and Truth abound, fed from a living spring. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Thrones must soon fall, and those who sit thereon 
 Must take their seat with men of less estate ; 
 
 Their sculpture, gildings, powers, rest upon 
 A base that cannot long endure — their fate 
 
 Is sealed ; nations have groaned beneath the weight 
 Of monarch's rule ; the hour draws near at hand, 
 
 A brighter dawn of better days await 
 
 The millions yet unborn ; o'er all the land 
 
 The echo still rebounds in chorus loud and grand. 
 
(Brcmmit'i^s Q^oems. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Hail I Xiiberry I thou goddess fair and bright. 
 
 Thy scepter wave o'er all the fruitful earth ; 
 Transcendent glory marks thy winged flight ; 
 
 God ! everlasting God ! gave thee thy birth ; 
 Heaven and its angels all proclaim thy worth ; 
 
 All hail I resplendent with thy mission crowned. 
 Glad tidings to the world in joy and mirth, 
 
 Peace, love and goodness, all in one abound — 
 
 All hail ! all hail I all hail I thrice welcome the glad 
 sound. 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 2^0 more let abject slaves, in chains that clank. 
 Be bound to earth by man, iohuman man. 
 
 Burst open prison doore and eeEs made dank 
 With blood that once its course as smoothly ran 
 
 As tho' it flowed throxigh tyrant's veius. life's siism 
 Is measured by its rounds — ^the heart's quick beat 
 
 Soon numbers all life's pulse, when once began, 
 Zfe'er ceases in its work — seeks no retreat, 
 But labors on through life, nor rests in slumbere sweet. 
 
(Browning's CPoetns. 57 
 
 xxxvni. 
 
 Freedom I thy banner torn, yet proudly flying ; 
 
 Still streams amid the storm of wind and hail ; — 
 " Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying," 
 
 Is heard above the tempest's sounding gale, 
 And will withstand its fiiry — will prevail. 
 
 Conquer and wave triumphant over all 
 Oppression, tyranny and lust ; thy sail 
 
 Is spread, bear on, whatever may befall, 
 
 Thou'lt ride above the billows, however great or small. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 The sighs, the groans of all the chained and dying ; 
 
 The burning tears of thousands now bound down ! 
 Upon thee call to end this pain and crying ; 
 
 To face oppression with an earnest frown — 
 The Cross must yet become the victor's crown ; 
 
 The agonizing look from out the eye 
 Of slaves in dungeons damp, cries out — sinks down 
 
 Into thy heart of hearts ; oh. Freedom, fly ! 
 
 O'er aU. this dark, dark earth, and light its eastern sky. 
 
^8 • (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 XL. 
 Ten thousand columns wait thy glorious coming ; 
 
 Ten thousand horsemen clad in armor bright, 
 With glit'ring sabres, all in line are forming, 
 
 While trumpet's blast and bugle's sound at night, 
 Proclaim thy near approach — the dawning light, 
 
 Joy fills the ranks, its soul is unconfined ; 
 Justice and Truth ! twin sisters of the right ! 
 
 Are born to bless the world, their love's entwined 
 
 Around the human heart — there let it be enshrined. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Too long within the tomb has liberty hovered ; 
 
 It now must burst its bonds — send forth its flame ; 
 Nations are trembling that have kept it covered, 
 
 Thinking to hide its brightness and its name ! 
 Volcanoes ne'er are quenched — they still remain 
 
 Deep down within the bosom of the earth, 
 A pent up cauldron to break forth again , 
 
 In greater madness, with a newer birth 
 
 It breaks its prison cell, in sulphurous fire springs forth. 
 
browning's (Poems. ^g 
 
 XLII. 
 So liberty ! tho' smothered oft and long, 
 
 Lives on and smoulders in the human breast ; 
 Its fires keep burning, tho' its funeral song 
 
 Is chanted o'er the land from east to west ; 
 It breathes the breath of life in quiet rest. 
 
 To rise in splendor as its dawn appears. 
 Giving to nations, its divine behests, 
 
 All doubts expelling — putting off of fears. 
 
 Of a misjudged state, ripe in her pent up years. 
 
 XLIII. 
 When first the living blood through all these veins, 
 
 Kindled my sense of thought, I loved the sound, 
 Sweet solace to my ear ; its heavenly strains 
 
 Thrilled the life current as it swept around ! 
 I sought its presence ; here a balm is found 
 
 Where weary man may rest secure and free. 
 Instead of chains to bind him firmly down. 
 
 Knowledge and Station, Power are given, these three 
 
 Combine to raise mankind from depths of misery. 
 
40 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 XLIV. 
 Shall man continue always in his madness ? 
 
 I said ; if so, where is the living God ? 
 Shall seasons come and go with varied hues of gladness, 
 
 Bringing no joy to him who tills the sod ; 
 Nor hope, nor cheer, but that to shun the rod ? 
 
 I wept with tears fast streaming down in sorrow ; 
 I prayed in earnest faith — there is a God ! 
 
 He rules to-day and lives in the to-morrow ; 
 
 Faint not, be of good cheer — of doubts thou need'st not 
 borrow. 
 
 XLV. 
 I saw a cloud high in the western sky, 
 
 Deep, black and large ; I knew a storm 
 Was near, and as I watched its course, the eye 
 
 Drank in the history of years. 'Twas morn, 
 And as the day wore on, I sat forlorn, 
 
 Half hoping, half despairing, when a light 
 Broke in upon my soul ! Four millions horn 
 
 To liberty ! John Brown was right ; 
 
 That day's sun never set in an eternal night. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. ' 41 
 
 XLVI. 
 Hark ! 'tis the sound of cannon — Sumter falls, 
 
 And liberty's assail ed-r-arise ! defend ! 
 The hope of millions, like her battered walls, 
 
 Is trembling in the breeze — evils portend ! 
 God only knows how this* dread strife will end. 
 
 ! that it e'er should come : Arise ! the hour 
 Demands thy courage — wilt thou humbly bend 
 
 The knee to slavery's yoke, illicit power ! 
 
 That seeks to bind thee down, in this thy darkest hour ? 
 
 XLVII 
 Great God, protect us through this fiery storm ; 
 
 Lead us in battle with thine own right arm. 
 In all the conflict we beheld thy form 
 
 O'ershadowing doubt and fears ; tho' false alarm 
 Bore down our souls, thou shielded us from harm 
 
 While passing through the storm. " Praise to thy name.' 
 Justice and Truth prevail ; thy foes disarm ! 
 
 Freedom triumphant — now its blazing flame 
 
 Lights up the world with joy, let nations all proclaim ! 
 
42 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 No more let conflicts rage, no more shall strife 
 
 Be known throughout the land — let right prevail ; 
 Victory has crowned our efforts ; Freedom's life 
 
 Must never by base tyrants be assailed ! 
 Forever may she live. All hail ! all hail ! 
 
 She comes in peace o'er all the earth to reign, 
 O'er foaming billows spreads her whitened sail, 
 
 Mankind to elevate, and in God's name, 
 
 The low, the high, the poor, with her are all the same. 
 
 XLIX. 
 Hail, Liberty ! thou goddess fair and bright, 
 
 Thy scepter wave o'er all the rolling earth ; 
 Transcendent glory marks thy winged flight : 
 
 God, everlasting God, gave thee thy birth, 
 Heaven and its angels all proclaim thy worth. 
 
 All hail ! resplendent with thy mission crowned, 
 Glad tidings to the world, great joy and mirth. 
 
 Peace, Love and Goodness all in one abound ; 
 
 All hail! all hail ! all hail ! thrice welcome the glad sound. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 
 
 43 
 
 L. 
 
 Thus have I sung of time, of tide, aud now 
 
 I cease my toil. The world may hear my song ; 
 
 Sharp pain has oft laid hold upon my brow, 
 
 My nights have been full sleepless, weary, long ; 
 
 I pause the while, no more the strain prolong. 
 I've cast my bread upon the oceans wide, 
 
 And wait a glad return ; 'twill not be long 
 Before the world will bear it on its tide 
 To me, for which I wait, and patiently abide. 
 
 August 25, 1874. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 
 
 MICHIGAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 No rock -bound coast nor desert land 
 Mark out the weary traveler's chart, 
 
 But fertile vale and dewy mead, 
 
 And rippling stream and hills apart, 
 
 To emerald groves his footsteps lead. 
 And point with pride to Michigan. 
 
 II. 
 
 No rock-wrecked vessels on the strand, 
 To bring dismay and sorrow near. 
 
 But smaller crafts, by steady arm, 
 
 Glide smoothly o'er our lakes each year. 
 
 With pleasant winds our lives to charm, 
 And speak in praise of Michigan. 
 
 III. 
 No tori*id sun nor frigid band, 
 
 Nor frozen icebergs come this way. 
 But temperate zones and sunny sky. 
 
 Shine o'er our pathway all the day ; 
 And yellow fields to greet the eye, 
 
 All point with pride to Michigan. 
 
^Browning's (Poems. 43 
 
 IV. 
 
 No braver men, with steady hand, 
 
 E'er grasped the helm of Church or State, 
 
 Nor truer heroes ever bled, 
 
 Or marched to battle and their fate. 
 
 Than those who from their country sped 
 To save the flag to Michigan. 
 
 V. 
 No richer blood throughout the land 
 
 Was shed than that of each brave son; 
 No stronger arms nor better bred 
 
 Was ever mustered one by one, 
 Nor on a battle-field was led, 
 
 Than those who marched from Michigan. 
 
 VI. 
 If foes invade, who'll lead the van 
 
 To save our country and her name ? 
 If there's a wretch who would not rise 
 
 And fight for liberty and fame. 
 To win the victory and the prize. 
 
 He'd not be worthy Michigan. 
 
46 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Our favored clime and sunny land 
 Rear men of nerve and heart of oak, 
 
 Who at a moment's warning given, 
 Would rise and break a tyrant's yoke ; 
 
 Who 'gainst oppression long have striven, 
 Tuned freedom's harps in Michigan. 
 
 VIII. 
 In war a foe, in peace a band 
 
 Of brothers of a common sire ; 
 In north or south, in east or west. 
 
 Or where the sun in rays of fire 
 Sinks down behind the clouds to rest, 
 
 Far, far beyond Lake Michigan. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The wisest heads and trustiest hands 
 Are found among our sons of toil ; 
 
 No better bred, for those so young. 
 Are ever found on nature's soil, 
 
 Nor patriots truer, by poets sung. 
 Than those who hail from Michigan. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 4J 
 
 X. 
 
 The wealthiest spot on sea or land, 
 In gold or silver from the mines, 
 
 Or golden fruits ripe from the stem, 
 Or hang in clusters on the vines. 
 
 Form nowhere nature's diadem. 
 Like that you'll find in Michigan. 
 
 XI. 
 When pilgrims on New England's strand. 
 
 Knelt down and oiFered praise to God, 
 That he from tyrant's yoke had freed, 
 
 And placed their feet on better sod, 
 And saved them from old England's creed, 
 
 They nothing knew of Michigan. 
 
 XII. 
 Their sons are here, and nobly stand 
 
 Like beacons on a rock-bound shore, 
 To fight for liberty and right, 
 
 Amid the din and clash of war; 
 They rise majestic in their might. 
 
 To guard the peace of Michigan. 
 
^8 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 XIII. 
 "We love our God and fellow man, 
 
 We love the land that gave us birth, 
 "We would not, if we had the power, 
 
 Debase the humblest born of earth, 
 Or chain in dungeons for an hour, 
 
 A child of God's in Michigan, 
 
 XIV. 
 The exile, howe'er poor the man. 
 
 Who seeks our shores their wealth to gain ; 
 The homeless orphan without friends 
 
 "Will find a shelter from the rain ; 
 However much on us depends. 
 
 We'll raise the flag of Michigan. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Then praise the Lord of Hosts, O man, 
 He placed your feet in this fair clime ; 
 
 And songs and anthems upward, then. 
 In one thanksgiving chorus chime. 
 
 And shout the glorious, loud "Amen !" 
 Praise God, praise God, in Michigan, 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 4g 
 
 MY OLD ARMY CHUM. 
 
 Written on the occasion of the reunion of the Twenty-second Michigan Infantry 
 and Eighth Cavalry, held at Milford, August 28, 1873. 
 
 There are times when the heart is lonely and sad, 
 
 There are times when 'tis sorrowfully dumb ; 
 But the time when it leapeth for joy and is glad, 
 Is the time when we meet the brave soldier lad. 
 
 One who marched to the fife and the drum. 
 With a thrill of delight and eyes beaming bright, 
 We grasp once again on a peaceful domain, 
 The hand of our old army chum. 
 
 'Mid the havoc of war and death groans so near, 
 There we stood by each other so true ; 
 
 Not a falter, brave comrade — to victory ! cheer ! 
 
 Bear forward the Red, White and Blue, 
 We will follow the fife and the drum. 
 
 With a thrill of delight and eyes beaming bright, 
 
 We grasp once again on a peaceful domain, 
 The hand of our old army chum. 
 
^0 browning's ^oems. 
 
 When in prison we lay, half famished and dead, 
 
 Half hoping that death would soon come, 
 I remember the time, as I raised up your head, 
 You grasped for that trusty old gun — 
 
 " Boys, follow the fife and the drum !" 
 With a thrill of delight and eyes beaming bright, 
 We shake once again on a peaceful domain, 
 The hand of our old prison chum, 
 
 Now the thunder of cannon and bursting of shell 
 
 Are all hushed in the quiet of peace. 
 And the spot where our comrades so manfully fell. 
 Has grown over with olive and sweet asphodel — 
 
 Those who followed the fife and the drum. 
 With a thrill of delight and eyes beaming bright. 
 We shake once again on a peaceful domain. 
 The hand of our old army chum. 
 
 Let the years run their course, but never with life 
 
 Shall the memory of one of those boys 
 Be plucked from the record of that deadly strife. 
 Who when fortitude, bravery and honor were rife. 
 
 Bravely marched with the fife and the drum. 
 With a thrill of delight and eyes beaming bright, 
 We grasp once again on a peaceful domain. 
 The hand of our old army chum. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 52 
 
 UNFORGOTTEN. 
 
 I'll ne'er forget the long ago 
 
 (Sweet memory of the past, I love it), 
 Spring-tide of hope and love, whose flow 
 
 Brought joy and sunshine safely with it. 
 Those sunny days and starlit skies 
 
 Are still around my memory twining ; 
 Thy youthful laugh and loving eyes 
 
 Are still around my heart combining. 
 
 Those golden hours of youth have fled, 
 
 Like visions shortened by our waking ; 
 The woof of time, ah ! brittle thread ! 
 
 Dark pall that shades a heart still aching. 
 The flight of years, the set of sun, 
 
 And fleeting seasons without number, 
 May pause whene'er their journey's done — 
 
 Thou'lt never in my memory slumber. 
 
^2 (Brownings (Poems. 
 
 I turn life's pages o'er and o'er, 
 
 Checkered of sunshine, tiresome, weary, 
 And sigh to live those days once naore, 
 
 Tho' life ofttimes is dark and dreary. 
 The memory of those happy hours 
 
 Of youth and love and earnest longing, 
 Live fresh within my soul, like flowers 
 
 That bloom to drink the dews of morning. 
 
 Oh ! wondrous book of life, soon read. 
 
 Of ruined hope and vain endeavor — 
 Frail flower at morn, at twilight dead 
 
 And buried — treasures lost forever. 
 Morning will break o'er death's dark gloom, 
 
 A day whose sunshine has no ending — 
 Immortal spirits burst the tomb, 
 
 In one eternal anthem blending. 
 
 May 27, 1874. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 55 
 
 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 AN ELEGIAC POEM. 
 
 Light in the eastern horizon, it cometh, hail, all hail ! 
 Bringing the joys of the New Year, and the tidings on the gale. 
 That the Old Year, once so happy, in its infancy and birth. 
 Is passing forever away — forever done with earth. 
 
 Clouds are all breaking away, the orient sky is bright ; 
 All disappearing forever, and soon will be lost from sight ; 
 Shine will the New Year in joys, as it did but a twelve-month ago ; 
 Breathing its last is the Old — its joys are under the snow. 
 
 Go, I must, weeps the Old Year, alone, alone to my grave ; 
 Help not a soul on the road, alone I must cross the dark wave; 
 No one on earth to depend on, to help me along on my way, 
 Burdens of sorrow to lighten, to close my toilsome day. 
 
 Friends once I had in my noon-day, lovely, pleasant and fair, 
 Promising over and over — building high up in the air 
 Castles of riches and hope, wisdom and honor and fame, 
 Happiness, goodness and love, heaven at last to gain. 
 
^4 browning's (Poems. 
 
 Now, as my days are passing, where shall I look for aid ? 
 Cries the Old Year, in his troubles, soon in his grave to be laid ; 
 Did I not bring you all gladness, whether in sunshine or snow ? 
 Is it because I am old now, wherefore you bid me go ? 
 
 Did I not scatter riches and plenty all over the beautiful land? 
 Did I not give to the humble with a large and liberal hand ? 
 Or did I withhold in my bounty, while yet I was young and fair, 
 Crumbs from my bundle of blessings ? Each of you had a share. 
 
 If so, why now am I driven away from those that I love ? 
 Not again to behold a morning, nor ever to meet them above — 
 Never join in the chorus of angels, as once we did in tune — 
 Never pluck from the stem red roses, that bloom so sweetly in June. 
 
 'Tis sad to think of the past ; I wish I had never been born. 
 Only to breathe for a moment, then pass like the dew of the morn ; 
 Like Job, I'll not murmur nor curse, but submit to my fate,tho' it be 
 Crowns of sharp thorns and a cross, prepared and fitted for me. 
 
 Will come the New Year all greeting, flooded with pride and joy? 
 Hands full of gold, and his treasure he will tell you has no alloy ; 
 Mark me, before e'en a twelve month, before, yea, the half is told. 
 Deceptive and subtle he'll prove, nothing but dross for gold. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. ■ 55 
 
 Doubt not he'll promise to bring you full many a golden prize — 
 Riches and honor to you all, and blessings from out of the skies ; 
 Children and parents, full many — yea, seed time and harvest for all, 
 He'll give from his bounteous store, ere the leaves of the autumn fall. 
 
 Good may his promises be, tho' uncertainty dwells upon earth — 
 Brightly the morning sky shineth, and fair as a child at its birth ; 
 Noon clouds may lower and darken, lightnings asunder may part. 
 Gone are the joys of earth, leaving a broken heart. 
 
 Tremblingly, faintingly dying, passing away, away, 
 Weeping, sorrowfully trying to live but another day ; 
 What would I give for a moment — just for a moment of time! 
 I'm going, I'm going alone — gone to another clime. 
 
 December 20, 1871. 
 
^6 (Browning's (Boems. 
 
 WOMAN SUFFRAGE. 
 
 Have you heard the news from Michigan ? 
 
 Michigan, our Michigan ! 
 Where women are human as well as man, 
 
 In Michigan, our Michigan ! 
 They are going to vote at the polls some day, 
 Not very distant, either, they say. 
 Ring out the old, hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 And welcome the glorious incoming day, 
 When woman will vote as well as man 
 In the banner State of Michigan. 
 
 Have you heard the news from Michigan ? 
 
 Michigan, our Michigan ! 
 Where woman is equally smart as man, 
 
 In Michigan, our Michigan. 
 They are just beginning to find it out 
 In college, on rostrum, indoors and out ; 
 From various sources which leave no doubt 
 That woman knows well what she's about, 
 And ought to vote as well as man 
 In the banner State of Michigan. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 57 
 
 Have you heard the news from Michigan ? 
 
 Michigan, our Michigan ! 
 Where women work and women plan, 
 
 In Michigan, our Michigan ! 
 The news will spread with a mighty roar, 
 All over the world from shore to shore ; 
 Tho' never in all the time before 
 (Nor in all the books of ancient lore). 
 Was it said that woman is equal with man, 
 But they're finding it out in Michigan ! 
 
 Have you heard the news from Michigan ? 
 
 Michigan, our Michigan ! 
 That woman is first to lead the van 
 
 In Michigan, our Michigan ! 
 Cross over the strait to our sunny land. 
 You'll find them a generous, noble band. 
 Battling the wrong with an iron hand 
 And arm not easy to withstand ; 
 Find them in earnest, as well as man, 
 When you enter the ranks in Michigan. 
 
^8 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 We'll hoist the flag in Michigan, 
 Michigan, our Michigan ! 
 That woman shall vote as well as man 
 
 In Michigan, our Michigan ! 
 The sails unfurled, the breezes bore, 
 With an ebbing tide to a welcome shore, 
 , Our ship which sails, when the storm is o'er, 
 
 Far better than ever she did before, 
 With a larger crew, on a better plan. 
 When women shall vote in Michigan. 
 
 April 21. 1874. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 I would not weep when Summer dies. 
 When Autumn leaves are old. 
 
 But joy at the wise Providence 
 That tints the foliage gold. 
 
 I would not sigh when Winter winds 
 Come sighing round my door, 
 
 But fire my heart with holy zeal. 
 And crave for blessings more. 
 
(Browning's 'Poem.s. ^g 
 
 I would not weep in Spring time's bloom 
 
 When daisies deck the sod, 
 But vernal flowers cull from the stems 
 
 That bloom in praise to God. 
 
 I will not weep if Autumn frosts 
 
 Turn all my joy to grief, 
 But rather bless my God for all, 
 
 Who sends us sure relief. 
 
 I will not weep if fortune's smiles 
 
 Pass coldly by my door. 
 But nerve my arm for sturdy toil, 
 
 Whei'e lies the hidden ore. 
 
 I will not weep at death's dark hour, 
 
 I'll joy to kiss the rod ; 
 On wings of love I'll press the flight, 
 
 That brings me nearer God. 
 
6o (Browning's ^oems. 
 
 THE MONUMENT. 
 
 Lines upon witnessing the unveiling of the Soldiers and Sailors' Monument, at 
 Detroit, April 9, 1872. Inscribed to Governor H. P. Baldwin. 
 
 Blow loud the trumpet's key-note, ring loud the city's bell, 
 Fliug out the stars and stripes once more, break the solemn, silent 
 
 spell ; 
 Let Michigan's two hundred thousand voices all unite. 
 And dedicate this monument to Justice, Truth and Right. 
 
 High raise the glad hosaunas, in chorus long and loud, 
 
 To Him who governs on the earth, who rides the lightning's cloud ; 
 
 Sing we to Him in gratitude, who bore us safely through 
 
 A sea of blood, drawn from the veins of brave men and of true. 
 
 To-day we meet together, around this altar fair, 
 
 Reared to the memory of the men who fell, but once did dare 
 
 To face the foe on every field beneath a Southern sun. 
 
 And fight those traitors, till in death they yielded sword and gun. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 61 
 
 Proud monument of glory, Ave know thy power to stand, 
 Till nations after nations shall be dashed like ocean's sand; 
 Till suns shall dim beneath the weight of ages in their flight, 
 And moon's pale beams have ceased to throw a lustre o'er the 
 night. 
 
 Stand forth in all thy grandeur, and speak to those of earth 
 How fifteen thousand braver boys than ours ne'er had birth 
 Fell in the foremost of the fight, or starved in prisons damp. 
 Or perished 'neath a burning sun, while on their battle tramp. 
 
 Look ! Burnside, Custer, Sheridan, behold this granite tower ! 
 See round its base the sires of those who fell in that dark hour ; 
 Their locks, as with the years ; their hearts, tho' strong and young, 
 To battle for their country's right, they'd grasp the sword and gun. 
 
 Brave men of Michigan's fair clime, you've done your duty well, 
 You gave your sons to save the flag, let time the story tell ; 
 Let future generations bless your children in their graves, 
 And this noble granite monument record their deeds of praise. 
 
62 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 How, like Leonidas, the brave, a noble Spartan bold, 
 Was ordered to Thermopylse to guard the pass and hold — 
 So fought your sons for Liberty, for Justice, Truth and Right, 
 To win the victory and the day, or perish in the fight. 
 
 But somewhei-e in the flight of years, no human eye can ken, 
 This noble monument will fall ; no human mind knows when 
 Its bronzed coronet will fall and crumble to the earth ; 
 Slowly but surely 'twill go back to where it had its birth. 
 
 But those who fell in Freedom's cause, fell battling for the right, 
 A record far more lasting have — a day that knows no night ; 
 A life above the storms of earth, one pure and free from strife, 
 And, as eternal as the years, of Him who gave us life. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 6^ 
 
 THE DEAD OF TWENTY YEARS. 
 
 The bells keep tolling as the years fly on ; 
 
 How transient man, great only for a day ! 
 
 He yields to death, as flowers that bloom and fade 
 
 In one short summer hour — the end of earth. 
 
 Roll on, ye stars, and thou, O moon, swing round 
 
 In radiant glee ; you, too, must yield and wane 
 
 Like man who treads the flowery fields below. 
 
 Cycles of years are but a day with Him 
 
 Who placed you on your watch ; roll on your course, 
 
 Your hour will near its close when time is young. 
 
 The years of human life are marked upon 
 A dial of small compass ; and while in life 
 Aspiring still we thirst for nobler fame. 
 We fall like withered leaves, in our full age. 
 Sumner is dead, with Webster and Fillmore, 
 Greeley and Seward, Douglas, Lincoln, too. 
 Who, martyred for his country — good and true — 
 Fell by the fierce assassin's shot, as if 
 The life of man was far too long and smooth 
 To run its natural course. Weej) for the soul 
 That would cut short the brittle thread of life. 
 
64 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 Earth's greedy man is being satisfied 
 With human flesh ; each day gives up its dead 
 Of young and old — from infancy to age. 
 To-day the brightness of the setting sun 
 May fall on death ; the hopes of him who rose 
 Flushed with the vigor of the morning breeze, 
 Have vanished like the dew — ephemeral. 
 When wilt thou loose thy hold on mortal man, 
 And cry enough ? Oh ! Earth, be satisfied 
 With all the burning tears that have been shed. 
 
 Why covet more so soon ? 'Twere but a day 
 
 A treasure rich we gave — one good and pure. 
 
 Honest to human rights, and boldly firm 
 
 To do his duty, though his life must yield 
 
 To such good deeds. Onward he rose 
 
 And upward through all jarring strife. 
 
 To bless humanity. The nation mourned. 
 
 As now she weeps another noble soul. 
 
 Will tears ne'er cease to flow ? such scenes ne'er end ? 
 
 Oh ! Earth, art thou our foe ? or thou our friend ? 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 6^ 
 
 Oh, dead of twenty years, immortal men. 
 
 Your names, your deeds, shall live when time is old'; 
 
 The record of your days, so short on earth, 
 
 Is marked upon the dial. Eternity. 
 
 Earth must receive your dust, but God the soul — 
 
 Here oft the chain is broken ; there 'tis whole. 
 
 Tho' nations mourn the loss of their great men, 
 
 There is a clime where they shall live again. 
 
 Heaven is never full. Oh, earth, put off thy fears. 
 
 And weep no more the dead of twenty years. 
 
 April 4, 1874. 
 
66 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 HORACE GREELEY. 
 
 Born February 3, 1811. Died November 29, 1872. 
 
 I. 
 
 Muffle the drums, the nation is weeping, 
 
 Mournfully bear the dead hero along ; 
 On wires of lightning the sad news repeating, 
 
 Greeley has fallen, so great and so strong ! 
 Yes, Greeley is dead, his weapon lies idle. 
 
 Mourn for the loss of a soldier so true. 
 Fast fall the tears of a nation unbridled. 
 
 And mantle the earth like fresh fallen dew. 
 
 11. 
 Lower the flags at half-mast -on sea. 
 
 Close up the shutters throughout all the land, 
 For him that hath toiled for you and for me, 
 
 So bravely, so truly, so noble and grand. 
 Mourn for a hero far greater in battle 
 
 With j)en than with sword, in love than in hate, 
 Who would not encourage a single shell's rattle. 
 
 But rather calm reason, and bide by its fate. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 6j 
 
 III. 
 Weep, ye oppressed on sea and on land ; 
 
 Weep, ye down-trodden, in anguish and tears ; 
 Weep for the man who with fearless right hand, 
 
 Toiled early and late during forty long years ; 
 Weep all ye orphans who barefoot and cold. 
 
 Pleaded your cause at the door of his heart. 
 Weep for the man who with charity's gold, 
 
 Would take from his bounty and give you a part. 
 
 IV. 
 Weep, ye poor soldiers— when hungry and chill. 
 
 You asked him for favors, how flashed his keen eye. 
 How quickly he drank in your sorrows and ills, 
 
 And never for once passed you cruelly by ; 
 But mourn that he's fallen, oh weep that he's gone, 
 
 Muffle the drums, and march slowly away. 
 Keeping step to the dirge, while passing along, 
 
 That tells of a hero that's fallen to-day. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 
 
 V. 
 
 Weep, all ye toilers on earth's fair domain, 
 
 Weep for yovir chieftain, shed tears for him now ; 
 He leveled the forest, he traversed the plain. 
 
 And urged on the people to honor the plow. 
 He toiled with his hands, he toiled with his brain, 
 
 In spring time or winter no idler was he ; 
 He has gone, but has left us the greatest of names. 
 
 He left us all peaceful and prosperous and free. 
 
 VI. 
 Weave garlands of roses to cover his bier ; 
 
 Shed tears of deep sorrow through city and State, 
 For him who has fallen in fullness of years, 
 
 Who left us a record so noble and great. 
 Bow all the nations on sea and on land. 
 
 Muffle the drums and march slowly away — 
 In coldness of death rests that fearless right hand, 
 
 The world is in mourning for Greeley to-day. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 6g 
 
 A SONG FOR TEMPERANCE. 
 
 Up, men of the North, to battle — up, men ! 
 
 Keep, keep the black demon at bay ! 
 Why cower and falter, why longer withstand ? 
 'Till his hosts have encompassed the sea and the land, 
 
 'Till ruin and death bear sway. 
 No ! rise in your courage and armor of might. 
 You who have been tried in a deadlier fight, 
 
 And help put this monster away. 
 
 Up, men of the South, to duty — up, men ! 
 
 Strike, strike down this giant of wrong. 
 With bayonets sharp, with cimeters bright. 
 His ranks will be broken, his leaders affright — 
 
 While women, with prayer and song. 
 Will rid the whole earth of so deadly a foe. 
 Will close up the haunts of misery and woe, 
 
 Ere the battle rages long. 
 
JO (Brownings (Poems. 
 
 Up, men of the East, to our columns — up, men ! 
 
 Fall into this conflict foi- right ; 
 Watch ! forward ! the foe with his banner unfurled, 
 Is sending broadcast all over the world 
 
 His agents of darkness and night. 
 They carry destruction wherever they go, 
 Bring ruin and poverty — wretchedness — woe 
 
 And death, our homes to blight. 
 
 Up, men of the Occident — up, men of the West ! 
 
 Your sires are leading the van ; 
 Tho' long in the struggle for justice and right, 
 Their day-star ne'er sets, tho' the gloom of the night 
 
 May shadow their glorious plan. 
 Their watchword is " Victory," on to the end — 
 Vile curse of intemperance, who would stoop to defend 
 
 While he bore the proud image of man ? 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 
 
 7^ 
 
 The world is aroused ! to arms for the fight ! 
 
 Make room for this battle array ! 
 With banners outflying, with music and song, 
 With all to help forward, the battle's not long, 
 
 It ought to be done in a day. 
 With firesides happy and plenty in store 
 (No heart-broken mother to be turned out of door), 
 
 For such let the whole nation pray. 
 
']2 browning's (Boems. 
 
 OPEN THE DOORS. 
 
 Open the doors of the churches wide, 
 
 Heat the furnaces red ! 
 For the poor are hungry and shiver outside, 
 
 Yea, starve for want of bread ! 
 Turn not a key 'gainst one of the poor, 
 
 Close not your hearts at this hour ; 
 Burst asunder the bars of the gilded church door. 
 
 Would you rise in the might of your power! 
 
 Open the doors of your parlors wide. 
 
 Give from your bounteous store ! 
 Shelter and food, and counsel to guide 
 
 The steps of the erring and poor. 
 God will look down from heaven and bless 
 
 Your efforts as well as your store. 
 And give you abundance and heavenly rest 
 
 If you will but open the door. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 75 
 
 Open the book and read within 
 
 Words of the crucified one I 
 " I was a stranger, ye took me not in," 
 
 "An hungered," and suffering alone ! 
 Christianity speaks still clearer to-day 
 
 For the sufiering poor of the land ; 
 Her voice still is heard in melodious lay, 
 
 Withhold, oh ! withhold not your hand. 
 
 Winter and storm are here once more. 
 
 Suffering and want and woe ! 
 If heaven was never felt before, 
 
 Give freely and taste it below. 
 Then heaven above will be more bright 
 
 When earth is cold and dead. 
 And the storm and the snow of winter's night 
 
 Blows over your lifeless head. 
 
 February, 1874. 
 
 10 
 
7^ (Browning's fPoems. 
 
 WINTER NIGHT THOUGHTS. 
 
 The roses of summer have perished, 
 The song birds are with us no more, 
 
 And loved ones so fondly we cherished, 
 Have gone to the evergreen shore. 
 
 The friends of our noon-day forsake us, 
 When winter comes cold at our door. 
 
 Unfaithful they prove to befriend us. 
 When assistance is needed the more. 
 
 How cruel and cold is the winter ! 
 
 How cruel the friendship of man ! 
 But, by and by in the hereafter, 
 
 We'll be judged by the motive and plan. 
 
 Yea, the summer time surely will come. 
 The wail of^the winter winds die ; 
 
 When we hear the glad welcome " well done,' 
 'Twill be in the sweet by-and-by. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 75 
 
 THE POOR. 
 
 From crowded streets of cities, in hot haste, 
 Amid the pomp and revelry of gold, 
 
 The beggar meets you — female, too, and chaste. 
 Whose form and beauty, lovely to behold ! 
 
 Sought you a moment and her story told : 
 " Grant me a penny, God hath truly said. 
 Give me, ' lend Him,' I'm hungering for bread. 
 
 Fast falls the snow-flake on the slippery flag, 
 Fierce blows the wind, a rude December's blast ; 
 
 And hurrying steeds with desperation mad, 
 And troopers double quick are passing fast 
 
 To gain their barracks, and their knapsacks cast ; 
 But where to lay my weary aching head, 
 None knows but God — I'm hungering for bread ! 
 
'j6 (Browning s (Poems. 
 
 " Keen^blows the wind, but my keen appetite 
 Is more to me than winds or stormy hail ; 
 
 KoYember frost the leaves no surer blight, 
 Nor trusty seamen, when on ocean's gale, 
 
 To make for port and reef the tattered sail, 
 Than that this raging passion, hungry fire. 
 Must be subdued by bread — ^thus my desire. 
 
 " The night is coming on ; oh ! that its past 
 Might greet jne in a better world than this ; 
 
 Instead of snow and icy walks at last, 
 
 Awake in Eden bowers, where all is bliss ; 
 
 So warm and beautiful compared with this I" 
 Thus, with her pure appeal, she tries the heart 
 Which oft denied — ^takes on the worser part. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 77 
 
 If you would know why thus I beg for bread, 
 My story heed — a moment will suffice ; 
 
 My father, once so brave, an army led. 
 But fell for country — noble sacrifice! 
 
 Martyred for you and me, on battle ground he lies ; 
 Flesh of that sire, bone of that self same steel, 
 Upon my cheek nor shame nor sorrow feel. 
 
 " When I a prattling babe, he mustered in. 
 And left my mother waiting his return ; 
 
 Next day he stood in front the battle's din, 
 The next upon a stretcher home was borne ; 
 
 Pierced to the heart — from wife and babe was torn. 
 Thus, left to battle life's tempestuous sea, 
 A beggar's doom seems all that's left to me. 
 
j8 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 " Yon lonely garret, dark and cold and drear, 
 Is all the home or place to lay our head ; 
 Nor light, nor warmth, my mother's heart to cheer ; 
 
 A bed of straw — to-morrow she'll be dead ! 
 Turned from a cruel parent's house, unfed, 
 True to a woman's love, she waits her fate — 
 With joy she'll join her soldier at the gate. 
 
 " When gone, I'll ask no more ; I'll earn my bread ; 
 
 No honest toil my hands will spurn to do ; 
 Pleasant shall be the night, with needle, thread, 
 
 I'll labor on and on the dark hours through ; 
 In virtue's path, alone, I'll walk — be true ; 
 
 Spurning the wrong, with virtue for my bow, 
 
 And deadly aim, prostrate shall lie my foe. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. jg 
 
 " This legacy my mother leaves to me, 
 
 And I to keep to be traasmitted down ; 
 
 'Tis all she has — 'tis everything to be 
 
 Possessed of such rare jewels — such a crown — 
 
 Whether a beggar, or a prince renowned ; 
 Give me a mantle, pure as snow flakes white, 
 To toil for which I'll pass the live-long night. 
 
 " My story told— give haste, my mother sleeps ; 
 
 To-morrow's dawn will wake her on that shore ; 
 In all this world, alone I'm left to weep. 
 
 And cherish all her virtues evermore. 
 And, tho' a beggar, passed from door to door. 
 
 This sacred legacy of hers must be 
 
 Preserved through time — throughout eternity." 
 
8o (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 "CROW'S NEST. 
 
 SCENE I. — Sunset on tJie Hudson. 
 
 Behold the King of Day ! Yellow of gold, 
 
 Fast sinking out of sight. Behold the stream ! 
 
 Its golden ripples painted by the rays 
 
 Of one eternal sunshine. View yon monarch, 
 
 Laden with foliage blazing like a star 
 
 From out the zenith of a fiery canopy, 
 
 Or like a meteor bursting o'er the earth ! 
 
 In dizziness of distance its track we see, 
 
 Then follow back its course where nought remains 
 
 But dimness. Once its golden trail the heavens lit- 
 
 So fired the soul with wonder and with awe. 
 
 To wish its repetition. Here I stand, 
 
 "Within the walls of palisades, and gaze upon 
 
 The beauty of an autumn sunset. Here, 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 81 
 
 Upon the bosom of this placid stream, I view 
 The closing day. The winds are hushed to rest, 
 And tranquil is all nature, whilst the sheen 
 Of golden sunset lights up mount and stream ! 
 I stand as one enraptured. 
 The music of the birds and rippling stream 
 Dies sweetly on my ear. And visions bright 
 Of golden scenes beyond yon craggy mount, 
 Wake every note, strike every golden chord 
 Within my inmost soul. Fixed are my eyes — 
 The world is lost — all lost to me. Hark ! hark ! 
 'Tis but a dream of earth — the vision's flown. 
 Once more the sound of music fills my ear. 
 Once more the hum of happy voices sweet, 
 Make merry all the scene. Each tree and shrub 
 Upon this lofty peak are spreading wing 
 To catch the golden rays. How beautiful ! 
 How beautiful is all this visible earth. 
 
 u 
 
82 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 The dashing cataracts, the misty spray, 
 The heaving billows o'er the ocean borne ; 
 
 The fields, the meadows, and the new-mown hay, 
 And autumn with its ripe and yellow corn. 
 
 The lowing herds, the sheep upon the hills. 
 The voice of birds, the humming of the bees, 
 
 And laughing waters, each my bosom thrills. 
 
 Whilst mountains shade the scene with golden trees. 
 
 Each tree and shrub, each bird, each man and child. 
 Are parts of this sublime, stupendous whole ; 
 
 Each thought, each wish, each deed however mild, 
 May slake the thirst of some poor dying soul. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 8j 
 
 SCENE II. — A voice is heard in the incantation which follows. 
 
 Once upon these placid waters 
 Sailed a maiden, bravely, truly ! 
 Loved by all the tribes around her, 
 Loved by one who loved none other ! 
 Loved she him in bonds much stronger. 
 Loved him till in death she lost him. 
 
 When the sun was on the mountain, 
 
 When the tide was at its ebbing ! 
 
 Went they forth to cross the river, 
 
 Went they forth to pledge forever. 
 Soon the shadows and the darkness 
 Came upon them, and they drifted ! 
 Drifted swiftly down the current. 
 
 In their birch canoe they struggled ! 
 
 Struggled hard to gain a landing. 
 
 While the ebbing tidal waters 
 
 Carried them beyond the eddy. 
 Shun the rocks, brave maiden, bravely— 
 Hark ! we strike ! Oh, spirit, save ! 
 Leap ! our birch canoe is broken — 
 Leap for life ! Oh, spirit, save. 
 
84 browning's (Poems. 
 
 Pray they now to the Great Spirit ! 
 Pray the tide to bury both them. 
 Arm in arm they sink together, 
 Strongly sets the ebbing waters, 
 Stronger far than maidens' arms are. 
 When the morning sun was shining. 
 And the birds were singing sweetly, 
 And the tide was flowing smoothly, 
 Woke to consciousness the maiden. 
 Gazed she on the scenes around her, 
 " Where's my lover? where's my true one? 
 Where's my birch canoe and paddles?" 
 Was her cry of lamentation. 
 Then she cast her sad eyes heavenward, 
 To the summit of the " Crow's Nest," 
 Where the sun in beauty shining. 
 As upon that day's declining. 
 " Tell me not that I've been dreaming ; 
 Tell me not my love is sleeping; 
 Or, that underneath the current, 
 Lies my true love — sleeps my lover." 
 
(Browning's (Poeryis. 8^ 
 
 • Bring my boat and bring my paddles — 
 Haste, my true love, come with me ; 
 Never shall the summit darken 
 Till we cross and pledge forever." 
 
 'Tis a legend of a maiden, 
 
 Of a bright-eyed Indian maiden. 
 
 Told by all the tribes of red men. 
 When the sun was on the mountain, 
 The canoe upon the river, 
 And the birds were singing sweetly, 
 Went they forth to pledge forever. 
 
 Never did they cross the river, 
 
 Never danced the war-dance over, 
 
 Buried 'neath the rollinof river. 
 
 To appease the maiden's sorrow 
 (As a legend it is told me). 
 Never after should the sunset 
 Darken on the mountain's summit, 
 Never darken on the " Crow's Nest." 
 
86 (Browning's (Poems. 
 
 SCENE III. — Song of the Mountain Sprite. 
 
 Out from beneath the Hudson I rose in the lapse of time ; 
 Rock of primeval ages, standing the last of my line, 
 Viewing the flashes of sunrise, watching the closing day, 
 Breasting the storms of winter, blooming of beauty in May. , 
 I playfully sport with the lightnings nor quail at the thunder's 
 
 voice, 
 I heed not the elements warring, I only look on and rejoice. 
 With the tumult of war at its highest, when the battle rages 
 
 long. 
 Unconcerned I stand and look on — my pillars are firm and 
 
 strong. 
 
 Tho' epochs have passed me by and eras of promise have come, 
 I've watched them in glory and power, and welcomed the age as 
 
 well done. 
 And hailed with delight a great nation untrammeled, unfettiered 
 
 and free. 
 While their ships passing by me in beauty, are hurrying down to 
 
 the sea. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 8y 
 
 I look back as 'twere but a day when the Hudson was silent and 
 
 still- 
 Not a sail on its bosom was seen, nor sound of the whistle's loud 
 
 shrill ; 
 Not a boat, save the red man's canoe, neither sound of the bugle 
 
 nor drum. 
 With the war-whoop and dance of the tribes, in quiet the Hudson 
 
 then run. 
 
 Far back on the ocean of time, on the billows of long ago, 
 
 Ere the light of the sun caused the day, or the moon cast its 
 
 shades below, 
 I stood like a sentinel firm — I've watched at my post till this 
 
 hour ; 
 I pine not nor curse at my fate, but yield to the spirit of power. 
 
 When God's spirit moved over the deep and said let the darkness 
 
 be light, 
 Burst forth ye dry land into form and divided the day from the 
 
 night, 
 I rose in my beauty and pride, I saw the first rising of sun. 
 And shall stand in my pride till the day the cycles of ages are run. 
 
(Browning's (Poems. 
 
 Let the Hudson flow on at my feet, let the eras of promise come 
 
 near; 
 Let the tides ebb and flow in their course, and peace follow year 
 
 after yeai* ; 
 Let man learn his duty to man, and more of his duty to God, 
 That when the Archangel appears, with joy we'll pass under the 
 
 rod. 
 
 As we cross the dark river of death, hail the sunlight of heaven's 
 
 high mount, 
 Guide our barque o'er the rapids and reefs, drink deep of that 
 
 heavenly fount ; 
 Drink draughts from that fountain of light, sing songs of that 
 
 heavenly strand, 
 Till we anchor our barque on the shores of a happier, holier land. 
 
 January 1, 1874. 
 
^Browning's (Poems. 8g 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL RAIN. 
 
 As I rest from my toil at mid-day, 
 The clouds are beginning to lower, 
 
 'Till I see by the rustling tree tops, 
 Approaching, the beautiful shower. 
 
 All earth is vocal with music — 
 The ocean, the brook and the plain- 
 
 The sun shining forth in its beauty. 
 Is greeting the beautiful rain. 
 
 God will send us beautiful showers, 
 And dew-drops again and again ; 
 
 Then praise we the bountiful giver 
 Who sends us the beautiful rain. 
 
NOTES, 
 
 DRIFTING TOWARDS THE SEA. 
 
 Suggested while sailing down the beautiful Hudson, especially when 
 nearing the harbor of New York, watching the egress of its waters to their 
 home in the a;reat Atlantic. 
 
 TIME, PAST AND PRESENT.— Vekse xii. 
 The author attributes the passions of man in a great degree to his 
 mode of living : after having partaken of almost all the animal world as 
 food for his stomach, he then, as it were, attempts to pickle them by the 
 addition of all the spices of India and Arabia, alike unfit for an abode in 
 the human stomach, and by so doing he becomes fit for murder, stratagem 
 and spoils. 
 
 Verse xx. 
 
 Reference is here made to an Olynthian captive, tortured to death, the 
 better that Parrhasius might portray his dying expressions on Prometheus, 
 whom he was then about to paint. Vide "Burton's Anatomy of Melan- 
 choly." 
 
 Verse xxxviii. 
 "Tliy trumpet voice, tho' broken now and dying." 
 This line, or one nearly like it, I remember having read in Byron's 
 " Childe Harold." 
 
 THE MONUMENT. 
 "Look! Burnside, Custer, Sheridan," etc. 
 The three Generals above named occupied the grand stand. 
 
 "How like Leonidas," etc. 
 Leonidas, a Spartan king, because of his coolness and courage, was 
 ordered to guard the pass of Thermopylae against Xerxes and his army, 
 and when ordered to surrender and lay down his arms, replied: "Let 
 them come." 
 
NOTICES FROM THE PRESS. 
 
 The lecture by Francis Browning (F. B. Owen) last Friday evening was 
 very fully attended for an entertainment of that kind. The lecturer gave 
 an interesting discourse upon " Trae Poetry," its nature and uses, show- 
 ing the difference between the stuff tJiat is sometimes called poetry and 
 the pure article. After the lecture, the speaker proceeded to read several 
 of his own compositions, among which we may mention " Michigan" and 
 " Childhood," which stiTick a responsive chord in many a breast. " The 
 Old Liberty Bell " is a fine poem, which needs more time than can be 
 given by one simple hearing to appreciate its beauties, and the ' ' Out- 
 cast" appealed to the finer feelings of all present with a force that 
 could not be resisted. Mr. Owen deserves liberal support wherever he 
 may go. — Httbbardstown {Ionia) Advertiser. 
 
 On the first page of this issue will be found the first of three parts of a 
 poem, by F. B. Owen, of Milford, entitled " The Old Liberty Bell." Mr. 
 O. has written many poems, but this is considered his best. He has 
 evidently spent a large amount of time and given the subject deep thought. 
 Next week will appear part second, which, in our judgment, is even bet- 
 ter than the first. — Pontiac Bill Poster. 
 
 Francis Browning, the nam de plume of a new poetic writer, favors us 
 this week with an elegiac that will not suffer by thorough scanning. Per- 
 haps the close rule and rigid combination of the pentameter of five feet 
 with the hexameter of six, and the careful commencement of each verse 
 with 9, purely dactylic foot, may seem somewhat stately in rhythm for the 
 popular heart and merry occasion, but the scholarly critic will, we think, 
 pronounce it a most creditable poem. — SJiiawassee American, Hon. Jno. N. 
 Ingersoll, Editor. 
 
E. B. SMITH & CO., 
 
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