THE 
 
 Earlier Poems 
 
 ANNA M. M0RRIS0N>:^C. 
 
 REVISED AND ARRANGED BY HERSELF. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO: 
 
 A. L. BANCROFT & CO., PUBLISHERS, 
 
 721 Market Street. 
 1880. 
 
 rr 
 
7S 
 
 2-6 <? 2. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, 
 By Mrs. A. M. REED. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 To My Husband, 
 JOHN S. REED, 
 
 With love and esteem, I dedicate this volume. 
 
 ANNA M, MORRISON. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 Page 
 
 After Sunset 10 
 
 A Page from Life 8 
 
 A Picture 15 
 
 At the School-House Pine 15 
 
 At Twilight — Summer Time 5 
 
 Dreaming among the Flowers I 
 
 Hannah 13 
 
 Jesse's Grave 4 
 
 " Lead us Not into Temptation" , 11 
 
 Lines, composed in the authoress' eleventh year 3 
 
 Lost : 6 
 
 Musings in the Wane of Summer 16 
 
 Out in the Wind and the Rain 7 
 
 Resurrection 6 
 
 Song 14 
 
 The Nation's Prayer 2 
 
 ''The Tender Grace of a Day that is Dead" 4 
 
 To a Friend 12 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 After Death 41 
 
 After the Storm 38 
 
 At Last 35 
 
 Cottage by the Great House, The. 20 
 
 Dead , 52 
 
 Dying Boy, The 45 
 
 Dying Gambler, The 25 
 
 Elmer Keller 31 
 
 Fragments '. 41, 44, 47 
 
 In Memory of L. L. W. : To Lizzie 42 
 
 In my Album 28 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Intemperance 43 
 
 Isabel 29 
 
 June '..... 30 
 
 Life 50 
 
 Mendocino \ . . 49 
 
 My Idea! : 30 
 
 Oroville, 1868 24 
 
 Remember Me 47 
 
 Songs 33, 37 
 
 Sonoma. 44 
 
 Stranded. .-.- 54 
 
 Tired 36 
 
 To Amy . . . t 47 
 
 To M. M. S 38 
 
 To Mother when Little Elmore Died 34 
 
 Too Late 19 
 
 Tuberoses 32 
 
 Unsatisfied 22 
 
 Valleyrest . . . . 39 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 Alas! - 67 
 
 Amador 6j 
 
 A Reverie: To Little Annie 70 
 
 At Sawyer's. Bar 64 
 
 Centennial Poem: July 4, 1876 , 75 
 
 Convent Bells 62 
 
 Disappointed ! • 61 
 
 Faith, v 66 
 
 Humboldt 57 
 
 If.. 59 
 
 In the Watches of the Night 72 
 
 Lines 5^ 
 
 Lines, suggested by reading a poerh by Hector A. Stuart 60 
 
 Mayday in Mendocino 79 
 
 One July Night-: Klamath 63 
 
 To a Lady 69 
 
 To Friendship. 7 1 
 
 Woman 74 
 
REQUISITION. 
 
 Ukiah, Mendocino Co., Cal., 
 
 November n, 1878. 
 Mrs. Anna M. Reed, 
 
 Dear Madam : 
 
 We scarcely need to apologize for the 
 request we are about to make. We watched your course with much 
 pleasure during your girlhood, at the time when you were edifying 
 and enlightening the public with your pleasing and able lectures, 
 for which the people always expressed their highest appreciation, 
 both publicly and privately. 
 
 And now, having learned that you are about to prepare another 
 treat for us, in the nature of a volume of poems : 
 
 We earnestly request, that you publish it at an early day, feeling 
 certain that the appearance of the volume — the production of one of 
 California's own — will receive the hearty approbation of, and be 
 welcomed by, the public. 
 
 With great esteem, 
 
 We are yours very truly, 
 
 R. McGARVEY, 
 
 THOMAS L. CAROTHERS, 
 
 J. H. DONOHOE, 
 
 SAM. WHEELER, 
 
 J. H. SEAWELL, 
 
 ALEX. MONTGOMERY. 
 
 J. L. WILSON, 
 
 JAMES FOWZER, 
 
 W. W. CUNNINGHAM, 
 
 G. B. MATHERS, 
 
 Rev. J. D. SHERIDAN, 
 
 E. W. KING. 
 
 A. O. CARPENTER. 
 
 SANTA ROSA: 
 BARCLAY HENLY, 
 J. K. LUTTRELL. 
 
 SACRAMENTO: 
 WILLIAM IRWIN, 
 WM. H. MILLS, 
 N. GREENE CURTIS, 
 S. C. DENSON. 
 
 BERKELEY: 
 Very Rev. P. M. COMERFORD, 
 M. C. O'TOOLE, M. D. 
 
Vlll 
 
 REQUISITION. 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO: 
 4«J. S. ALEMANY, 
 
 Archbishop, S. F. 
 Bro. JUSTIN, 
 
 President Christian Brothers. 
 GEO. PEN. JOHNSTON, 
 OGDEN HOFFMAN, 
 WILLIAM ALVORD, , 
 J. P. HOGE, 
 WM. T. WALLACE, 
 P. J. THOMAS, 
 JAS. R. KELLY, 
 ROBERT F. MORRISON, 
 WM. H. L. BARNES, 
 HALL MCALLISTER, 
 S. M. WILSON, 
 GEORGE C. PERKINS, 
 H. F. PAGE. 
 
 MARYSVILLE : 
 Right Rev. EUGENE O'CONNELL, 
 Rev. T. GRACE, 
 Rev. T. NUGENT, 
 Rev. T. KIRLEY, 
 NICHOLAS GAFFORD, 
 
 J. SMYTHE, 
 
 M. E. CASEY, 
 
 W. FITZGERALD, 
 
 P. CORCORAN, 
 
 SISTERS OF NOTRE DAME, 
 
 P. L. BUNCE, 
 
 D. KERTCHEM, 
 T. O'REILLEY, 
 G. HARNEY, 
 
 J. BROGAN, 
 T. POWERS, 
 
 E. CARMODY, 
 M. KERNS, 
 
 P. McGINNIS, 
 P. C. SLATTERY, 
 Father BUHOLZER, 
 M. Mc ADAMS. 
 
 SMARTSVILLE : 
 Rev. M. COLEMAN, 
 ANNIE COLEMAN, 
 JOSIE O'BRIEN, 
 AGNES COLEMAN. 
 
 CHICO: 
 JOHN BIDWELL. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In the foregoing invitation the reader will find my best 
 excuse for publishing this collection of writings. With 
 the exception of a very few, the signers have known me 
 and my history since childhood. 
 
 The poems included in the volume, with the exception 
 of perhaps a dozen, were composed between the ages of 
 ten and twenty. 
 
 And of those passing judgment upon my work I ask 
 but this — to remember the circumstances under which it was 
 done. 
 
 For zvriting, I make no apology. The good, the true, 
 the beautiful have spoken to my heart, and shown me 
 some of the divine things in God's grand creation ; the 
 wondrous light from those sources of inspiration has fallen 
 o'er me, and I have paused within its radiance, my soul so 
 filled with sunshine that, with eyes dazzled and downcast, 
 I have dared to sing my simple songs about them, not 
 knowing why I sang. 
 
 If the themes be old, perhaps the melodies are sweet. 
 The lark's song is a most familiar thing, yet words have 
 never told its burden of glad meaning. A winged voice, 
 it rises from the dull earth to the brilliant sky. We listen 
 with an upturned face and eager heart. And with its echo 
 comes the spell of long-lost springs, the dreams of faded 
 summers, and the reveries of vanished autumns. It is 
 ever new, ever sweet in its suggestive melody, and yet the 
 notes are old — unchanged since time began. 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 So a pure thought happily spoken — a truth sweetly and 
 gracefully expressed — though it has been spoken or written 
 a thousand times, may suggest a hope, a recollection, or a 
 better thought, and lift a once-despairing face toward a 
 fairer sky. 
 
 The best we can expect in music, art, or literature is the 
 suggestion of something better. The artist, when he looks 
 upon his handiwork, dreams of something nearer his 
 ideal, that his busy brain may yet conceive and his obedi- 
 ent fingers execute. The composer, with the notes of his 
 masterpiece ringing in his ears, hears in fancy the grander 
 theme this melody suggests. The author, excelling in 
 verse and brilliant periods, sees still beyond him his best 
 and purest inspiration. Not here is found perfection, nor 
 until upon the troubled soul of each child of genius, Divin- 
 ity has written peace. Then why should I, in bringing 
 this, the first offering of my early years, crave pardon for 
 its many deficiencies? 
 
 To those who have invited this publication I do return 
 my heartfelt gratitude; because among them are numbered 
 those whose encouragement and appreciation have long 
 brightened and blest my life. And for their sake, and in 
 consideration of the compliment they have paid me, I 
 hope that my book will not fall below the expectation of 
 the public. 
 
 And since its sale will effect, in a measure, the welfare 
 of some near and dear to me, and the completion of my 
 efforts in their behalf (though its financial fate is immate- 
 rial to myself), I pray for its success, and, with the faith 
 that has ever sustained me, cast my bread upon the waters, 
 knowing that it will return to me "after many days." 
 
 A. M. M. 
 
NOTE BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 The following life sketch was written by the late John 
 C. McPherson. Its truth, brevity, and literary excellence 
 will commend it to the readers of this volume. 
 
 Its gifted but eccentric author was well known to the 
 newspaper fraternity and literary people of this coast. 
 And despite his peculiarities, in his death our world of let- 
 ters has met with an irreparable loss, as has also the State; 
 for few men in California were as well acquainted with her 
 history and the biography of her early pioneers. 
 
 There are many to-day in the State who have been ben- 
 efited by the labor of his brain and pen; and I herewith 
 subscribe twenty-five dollars toward securing a fitting mon- 
 ument.to place above him, where he lies in his unmarked 
 grave in Stanislaus. I appeal to the editors and private 
 individuals who have known him and his writings, asking 
 that they also contribute something to his memory, and 
 trust that my suggestion may meet with a just response. 
 
 All wishing to communicate with me upon the subject 
 will address me at Ukiah, Mendocino county, Cal. 
 
 Anna M. Reed. 
 Febj'uary, 1880. 
 
ANNA M. MORRISON. 
 
 In recent peregrinations through a portion of Yuba 
 County, we had the great pleasure of forming the acquaint- 
 ance of the beautiful and gifted young lady whose name 
 stands above, and also the gratification of hearing her 
 lecture in the theater at Timbuctoo, her subject being, 
 " Woman, her Rights and Proper Spheres of Action." Be- 
 fore speaking of her lecture we trust that a brief biographical 
 sketch of her young life may not be deemed uninteresting. 
 
 Miss Morrison was born in the city of Dubuque, in the 
 State of Iowa, and is the eldest living child of Guy B! and 
 Mary E. Morrison. At the time of her birth her father 
 was engaged in merchandising, and was in affluent circum- 
 stances; but meeting with reverses, he came at an early 
 day to California, and engaged in mining in Butte County. 
 He had left his wife and Anna, the latter then an infant, 
 in the care of Mr. S. B. Preston, her grandfather on the 
 maternal side. This gentleman was a member of the 
 Society of Friends, of fine intellect, and one of the best 
 chemists in the United States at the time. Mr. Preston 
 was a native, we believe, of Baltimore, from which city, 
 and some time after he had completed his education, he 
 went west, and resided some time in Illinois, also in Wis- 
 consin, and at last died at Dubuque, leaving behind him 
 a character of unsullied purity, of private worth, and in- 
 flexible integrity. 
 
 The grandfather of Miss Anna, on the paternal side, is 
 the venerable Mr. Jesse Morrison, at one time of Kaskas- 
 
XIV ANNA M. MORRISON. 
 
 kia, subsequently, and for many years, and still, a resident 
 of Galena, Illinois. This gentleman is now in his eighty- 
 fifth year, and, from recent advices, is hale and hearty, and 
 in full possession of his mental faculties, always said to be 
 of a high order, and is honored and esteemed by the com- 
 munity where he resides. His long life has been char- 
 acterized by a disinterested devotion to the interests of 
 noble and humane objects, and when he will go to the 
 grave, he will be accompanied by the regret and lamenta- 
 tions of thousands. (This aged good man was the uncle 
 of your distinguished fellow-citizen, Hon. Robert F. Mor- 
 rison, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of this State; 
 also, of the gallant soldier, farmer, and statesman of the 
 west, Gen. William R. Morrison.) 
 
 In 1854, when but a mere child, the subject of our 
 sketch, accompanied by her mother, came to California, 
 by way of Panama, and found her father at Oregon City, 
 a small mining camp, six miles north of Oroville, in Butte 
 County. 
 
 There for ten years she resided with her parents, her 
 father being engaged in mining. Without the advantage 
 of schools or society, and with no companions, save those 
 which home and books afforded, the early years of Anna's 
 life passed away. At the young age of ten, her taste for 
 writing displayed itself. In 1864, the family moved to a 
 farm in the vicinity of Wyandotte, another small mining 
 town, six or seven east of Oroville. 
 
 The first of her productions which appeared in print, 
 and which she transmitted, doubtless with fear and trem- 
 bling, to the San Francisco press, was a poem entitled 
 "Our Nation's Prayer." This was in the fall of 1S64, 
 when she was yet but a little girl. 
 
 In January, 1868, Anna, with her parents, three little 
 brothers, and sister, moved to Dunham Farm, Oroville. 
 
ANNA M. MORRISON. XV 
 
 Always thirsty for knowledge, the heroic young girl at 
 last, partly through her own exertions, and partly through 
 the influence of two respected gentlemen, Dr. C. S. Has- 
 well, and his son-in-law, Mr. Wm. H. Mills, of Sacra- 
 mento, secured admittance, in July, 1868, to Mrs. Perry's 
 Seminary, in Sacramento City, and attended that excellent 
 institution, in company with Miss Emma Haswell, as a day 
 scholar, and boarded in the family of the worthy doctor. 
 
 She assiduously applied herself to her studies, but un- 
 fortunately, in a little over two months, received a dis- 
 patch, calling her home to Oroville on account of sickness 
 in her father's family. 
 
 She immediately returned on the first of October, fol- 
 lowing the July she had entered school, to find her people 
 sick and helpless, utterly worn down by chills and fever- 
 Anna was the only member of the family strong and in 
 good health. 
 
 Her father was out of money and in debt, and imme- 
 diately following the instincts of her nature, she exerted 
 herself for the relief of those so near and dear to her. She 
 prepared some essays, and on the evening of the twentieth 
 of October, 1868, delivered he first lecture to a crowded 
 house, at Tehama, in Tehama County. 
 
 Since the commencement of her public career, she has 
 always, and most deservedly, been financially and other- 
 wise successful. 
 
 The mother of this " child of nature," this " Butte 
 County girl," as the Butte Record and hundreds of both 
 sexes in that county delight to call her, was reared in ease 
 and refinement, and received a first-class education in the 
 city of Baltimore. When convalescing from sickness, and 
 the whole family was steeped in drear adversity, she would 
 take a pan, pick, and shovel, and, accompanied by her 
 little, eldest boy, extract some gold from auriferous earth, 
 
XVI ANNA M. MORRISON. 
 
 and thus, by her exertions, this lady of culture and educa- 
 tion was enabled to keep the " wolf from the door." 
 
 But her devoted daughter was soon enabled to afford 
 relief. 
 
 The receipts attending her lectures were, after paying 
 personal expenses, always remitted to her parents, and at 
 length, on the twelfth day of March, 1869, she removed 
 the whole family, yet weak and worn from sickness, from 
 the scenes of their sorrows and misfortunes to a place in 
 the vicinity of Timbuctoo, in Yuba County, which she had 
 secured for them, and formerly belonging to Judge O. F. 
 Redfield. 
 
 Since moving to this place, Anna has traveled and lec- 
 tured, always accompanied by one of her brothers, 
 younger than herself, in the counties of Nevada, Placer, 
 El Dorado, Amador, Calaveras, Colusa, Tehama, Shasta, 
 Trinity, Siskiyou, Klamath, Butte, Plumas, Sierra, and 
 Yuba. And everywhere meeting with great success. 
 
 The press, that great lever of public opinion, has been 
 loud in its commendation of her ability as a lecturer. 
 
 Such, then, is a brief sketch of the young life of Miss 
 Anna M. Morrison, and true to the letter, and we con- 
 fidently hope that no one who has not an adamantine 
 heart, will read our simple relation of the story of her 
 youthful years, her sufferings and privations, the disad- 
 vantages she labored under from the want of a scholastic 
 education and culture, her filial devotion, her exertions 
 for the relief of her kindred when she was but a little girl, 
 the nobility and heroism of her soul, the untarnished pur- 
 ity of her worth, pure as the snow-flakes now falling on 
 the glistening peaks of the Sierra Nevadas — we say that 
 no one, surely, but with the most obdurate, adamantine 
 heart, will fail to appreciate this good young girl, and say 
 earnestly: "God speed her." 
 
ANNA M. MORRISON. XV11 
 
 Altogether, she has never been to school more than 
 twelve months, and remembering this, with other early 
 disadvantages, this gifted child of nature, as is often said, 
 is an honor to her sex. 
 
 Her lecture, referred to in the first part of this sketch, 
 was an able one, not only in our estimation, but of every 
 one who heard it. She is opposed to woman's " right of 
 suffrage," but pointed out in forcible language, and, as we 
 thought, by incontrovertible argument, numerous avenues 
 leading to distinction, for women to walk, which would not 
 interfere with high and holy duties pertaining to domestic 
 life, which the right to vote would by no means contribute 
 to improve, but detract from the sacredness of woman's 
 true sphere on earth, which is to make home happy, and to 
 the best of her ability ameliorate the condition of suffer- 
 ing humanity. 
 
 Without expressing an opinion on the propriety or im- 
 propriety of the right of woman to vote, we can only say 
 that Miss Morrison is sincere and earnest in her convic- 
 tions, and sustains them with great ability. She must be 
 heard to be appreciated. 
 
 To those who have not seen her, we can only describe 
 her as a beautiful young lady, with cheeks like the petals 
 of a rose, with a sparkling, loving, dark-brown eye, beam- 
 ing with intelligence, and rich, dark-brown hair. Her 
 enunciation is clear, distinct, and melodious; her language 
 elegant and forcible; her smile winning and fascinating; 
 and her whole life characterized by a noble devotion and 
 true morality. 
 
 We predict for Miss Anna M. Morrison a bright and 
 prosperous future, and a just appreciation of her intellect- 
 ual ability and true character. 
 
 JOHN C. McPHERSON. 
 
I have been happy, and the light 
 
 From vanished days falls gently through 
 The rifts between the darker ones 
 
 That cloud my heaven's glorious blue. 
 I have been happy, and apart, 
 
 To-day, from that familiar time, 
 The bird- songs echo in my heart, 
 
 And sweet the "bells of mem'ry " chime. 
 
 Happy I am, though faded fields 
 
 Lie where the spring flowers used to bloom ; 
 Happy I am, although my feet 
 
 Have paused by many a loved one's tomb. 
 The promise of life's early morn 
 
 Old Time has kept right well for me, 
 And in the passing years I read 
 
 Fulfillment of that prophecy. 
 
 I will be happy when the past 
 
 Upon the future shuts the gate, 
 When all my transient hopes are o'er, 
 
 And I can only "stand and wait," 
 Singing, my soul will bow before 
 
 The chastening of the mystic rod, 
 And on the wings of gladness go 
 
 Forth to the summons of its God. 
 
PART FIRST 
 
 POEMS COMPOSED BETWEEN THE AGES OF TEN AND 
 FIFTEEN YEARS. 
 
 DREAMING AMONG THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Gathering wild flowers from the hillside, 
 How each modest gem I prize, 
 
 Wondering, will I ever gather 
 Flowers from fields in Paradise ? 
 
 Wondering, will I pass o'er safely 
 The narrow path my Savior trod ? 
 
 And across the silent river 
 Dwell forever with my God. 
 
 As from my heart that hope is stealing, 
 Upward through the summer air, 
 
 I think the angels surely hear it, 
 Though it forms no worded prayer. 
 
 They always know the soul's devotion, 
 Patient suff'ring makes more pure, 
 
 And oftentimes our lives are better 
 For the trials we endure. 
 
 This dreaming day-dreams in the sunshine 
 Grows still dearer to my heart, 
 
 Although it seems to others childish, 
 Of my life it is a part. 
 
THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 Oh, will I ever quite forget it? 
 
 Or this love for gath'ring flowers ? 
 While thinking can they be much fairer, 
 
 Those that bloom in heaven's bowers ? 
 
 Flowers with eyes of blue and amber, 
 Blooming in the fields of green; 
 
 Where the murmuring streams of crystal 
 Gleam like bands of silver sheen; 
 
 I wonder, will I taste those waters ? 
 
 And find rest the world denies, 
 Gathering white and fragrant lilies 
 
 In the fields of Paradise ? 
 
 THE NATION'S PRAYER. 
 
 God of the true, the brave and free, 
 A prayer ascends from earth to thee, 
 It comes from the north far, far away; 
 'Tis heard where southern brooklets play. 
 
 It is one united, wailing cry, 
 Suing for mercy from on high. 
 Wilt thou not pity, hear, and heed 
 A nation's prayer, in this great need ? 
 
 Can aught appease or stay thy wrath ? 
 O Jesus! plead in our behalf; 
 In pity turn a listening ear, 
 Our agony's petition hear. 
 
 Free our land from this scourge of sin, 
 And let it be what it has been; 
 Lift thou the cloud from our country's fame, 
 Let dove-eyed Peace be queen again. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 
 
 Oh ! surely 'twill thy pity move 
 To grant us mercy from above; 
 To see, deluged with blood and pain, 
 Our glorious Union cleft in twain. 
 
 LINES 
 
 COMPOSED WHEN THE AUTHORESS WAS IN HER ELEVENTH YEAR. 
 
 Little flower so pure and sweet, 
 
 Lowly bending at my feet, 
 
 I will listen for a while 
 
 To thy teachings free from guile. 
 
 Little flower with starry eye 
 Looking upward to the sky, 
 Softly thou doth seem to say: 
 "Look, like me, from earth away." 
 
 Little flower of brightest blue, 
 I take thee, wet with sparkling dew, 
 From the breast of Mother Earth, 
 To adorn my lonely hearth. 
 
 Little flower so dear to me, 
 A lesson I have learned from thee 
 To give my all, and humbly find 
 The task Christ, has to me assigned. 
 
 Little flower, I bless the day 
 That led my wand'ring feet this way; 
 An angel in disguise thou art, 
 Whispering to my lonely heart. 
 
4 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 " THE TENDER GRACE OF A DAY THAT IS DEAD. 
 I dream of the summer lost and dead, 
 
 Of the charm of the words then spoken, 
 Before the "silver cord" was loosed, 
 
 And the "golden bowl " was broken. 
 
 Each dreary day, at the window low, 
 
 I list to the restless winds sighing, 
 Watching the faded leaves whirl to rest; 
 
 Beneath them I wish I was lying. 
 
 Wond'ring, they ask why, these autumn days, 
 I watch the dead leaves while they're falling — 
 
 Like my summer hopes they seem to me, 
 To the peace of the grave seem calling. 
 
 The silver cord of love is loosed, 
 
 And faith's golden bowl at last broken; 
 
 The charms of life are forever gone, 
 
 Like the fond words that once were spoken. 
 
 And 'twere better if my days were spent 
 With the summer mournfully ended; 
 
 For the autumn winds, and falling leaves, 
 And my life, seem strangely blended. 
 
 JESSE'S GRAVE. 
 
 Out on the hillside, where the last lingering ray 
 Of sunlight falls at the close of day, 
 They have laid him to rest, and left us to weep, 
 In the morning of life he has fallen asleep. 
 
 As onward we journey, amidst care and sin, 
 When the present is dark, and the future is dim, 
 How our hearts will turn fondly in silence and tears, 
 To the grave on the hillside, as year succeeds years. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 
 
 But sorrow not those who in youth depart, 
 Whispers a voice in our inmost heart; 
 For after the day comes the night with its gloom, 
 And the pathways of life all lead to the tomb. 
 
 So we pray, when this pilgrimage is at last done, 
 We also may rest where the rays of the sun 
 So tenderly fall at the close of the day, 
 While our spirits, with his, rejoice far away. 
 
 AT TWILIGHT— SUMMERTIME. 
 
 Winds so gently stealing round my woodland bower, 
 Hush me to oblivion of life one little hour. 
 Busy brain, cease toiling, striving e'er to gaze 
 From the present darkness through the future's haze. 
 
 Why this tearful waiting, why not be at rest, 
 Free from care and sorrow, on dear nature's breast? 
 Do not chide my longing thus to lie asleep, 
 Where, at least, the blossoms over me would weep. 
 
 Grows my heart so weary, what have I to cheer ? 
 Is it strange that often falls the burning tear ? 
 And my young life, saddened by its weight of care, 
 Learns to love the twilight's tender hour of prayer? 
 
 Then winds, so gently sighing, linger in your stay, 
 With your soft caresses steal my life away; 
 Father of all, in mercy, pity one so lone, 
 Angels in the twilight, bear my spirit home. 
 
THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 LOST. 
 
 Pure no more, and no more true, 
 
 Thou art a ruined heart, poor Angeline ! 
 
 What to me is earthly love ? 
 
 Thine for me did not endure, Angeline. 
 
 The glance of thy winning eye 
 
 Held me once in bondage sweet, Angeline; 
 And still, though that power is past, 
 
 My worn heart grieves over thee, Angeline. 
 
 So gladly I'd see thee lie 
 
 Down to thy last long sleep, loved Angeline, 
 If thou couldst but wake again 
 
 Pure in another world — O, Angeline ! 
 
 Lost to heaven, perchance, and me, 
 
 False as thy false vows, tempted Angeline, 
 
 I pray now that nevermore 
 
 Thy fair face I'll see, fallen Angeline. 
 
 True no more, and no more pure, 
 
 Thou art a ruined heart, lost Angeline; 
 
 Love, I know, can not endure, 
 
 Thine was_/a/^, and mine betrayed, Angeline. 
 
 RESURRECTION. 
 
 Under the snow lies the lily and rose, 
 Far to the south the swallow has flown, 
 
 Summer's asleep with her beautiful flowers, 
 In a grave where the winter winds moan. 
 
 Cold in the tomb lie the ones we have loved. 
 Gone are the dreams of vanishing youth, 
 
 The winter of care is chilling our hearts, 
 Blitrhtintf the flowers of love and of truth. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 
 
 Wait — spring will come with her sunshine and warmth, 
 Soon back o'er the wave the swallow will fly, 
 
 Summer will waken to music and bloom, 
 To be wooed by the zephyr's soft sigh. 
 
 Hope — from the tomb the souls we have loved 
 
 Fly to some beautiful harbor of rest, 
 Real are the dreams we have cherished so long, 
 
 Winter and sorrow, unknown to the blest. 
 
 OUT IN THE WIND AND THE RAIN. 
 
 The night's dark and wild, and its voices to me 
 Seem wailing a weird and mystic refrain; 
 
 My heart throbs with woe as I start from my rest, 
 For my darling lies out in the wind and the rain. 
 
 I wept yester eve till I sank to my sleep, 
 
 And dreamed you were living, and loved me again; 
 
 But the wrath of the storm is chilling my soul, 
 For I know you are cold in the wind and the rain. 
 
 You went to your rest in the beautiful May; 
 
 I knew. you were safe from all trial and pain; 
 I could bear that you slept 'neath the blossoms of spring, 
 
 But oh! not alone, in the wind and the rain. 
 
 'Neath the tree where you sleep, through the long summer 
 day, 
 
 Pond'ring over the past, on the grass I have lain — 
 But now / am sheltered away from the storm, 
 
 While you'll never come in from the wind and the rain. 
 But there will come an hour, when the last trump shall wail 
 
 O'er the graves of the dead, to awake them again; 
 Then no more will the tomb hold the form that I love, 
 
 JNo more will I weep at the wind and the rain. 
 
THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 A PAGE FROM LIFE. 
 
 The sky is dark, with wind and storm 
 The branches drip against the wall, 
 
 But not in keeping with the night 
 The brilliance of the banquet-hall. 
 
 Above the sighing of the rain, 
 Swell sounds of flute and violin 
 
 That time to mazes of the waltz 
 The tread of feet that stray in sin. 
 
 Here haste the heedless human throng, 
 
 To grasp the follies as they go, 
 Forgetting that in songs of earth 
 
 There wakes an undertone of woe. 
 
 Here smiles the maid, as to her lips 
 
 Mad Pleasure holds her sparkling bowl; 
 
 She does not see the dregs below, 
 Where waits the ruin of her soul. 
 
 Here comes the man who, proud and young, 
 Yet drinks from out the baleful cup, 
 
 Nor heeds the serpent coiled beneath 
 The beaded wine that fills it up. 
 
 He tramples o'er a fond wife's trust, 
 
 Who weeps to see his downward course; 
 
 Her fresh young heart he idly won 
 To fill her life with love's remorse. 
 
 But still with him, in merry throngs, 
 She seeks in vain her grief to hide; 
 
 But wounded to the death is love, 
 And dying is her hope and pride. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 
 
 In scenes like this, in other days, 
 Contentment sang her songs to me: 
 
 But hushed her voice of quiet joy, 
 And now they seem a mockery. 
 
 Perhaps my eyes are wiser now, 
 And pierce the vail of poor deceit 
 
 That once could hide the weariness 
 Of hearts that followed noisy feet. 
 
 But hush ! they play a tune I've loved ; 
 
 It wakes my soul to wild desire 
 To live the life I once have lived — 
 
 The music thrills like liquid fire. 
 
 I seem to stand within a room, 
 Upon an eve that long since fled; 
 
 I hear the hum, I see the glare, 
 
 Of voice and light now still and dead. 
 
 I turn to greet your tender eyes, 
 For on these waves of melody 
 
 Comes back again the only voice 
 That spoke but loving words to me. 
 
 Death! that voice is still beneath 
 Your chilling breath — and oh ! so cold 
 
 Have grown the hands that folded lie 
 Beneath the graveyard's dreadful mold. 
 
 1 am alone — I find no more 
 
 Such love as blessed my early youth — 
 Light rest the sod above the heart, 
 That was all purity and truth. 
 
10 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 The banquet o'er, into the night 
 
 The human tide ebbs from the hall, 
 
 The lights have almost faded out, 
 And darkness deepens like a pall. 
 
 As wearied dancers seek their homes, 
 I follow slowly their retreat — 
 
 The storm still lingers o'er the town, 
 And pools of water fill the street. 
 
 I sit within my room and dream 
 
 Of all the strange wants of my life — 
 
 My sorrow is so sad and deep, 
 And crueler than pain or strife. 
 
 My place is not in joyful throngs, 
 
 That with their songs and merry scenes 
 
 Recall to me the vanished past, 
 
 And that lost face that haunts my dreams. 
 
 AFTER SUNSET. 
 
 Softly falls upon the hills, 
 
 The sable shade of evening's win<: 
 And the bright star in the west 
 
 Proves the night is closing in. 
 
 As the amber of the clouds 
 
 Faded into silver-gray, 
 So the light of every life 
 
 Fades at last from earth away. 
 
 So must sink the sun of life, 
 So the night of Death must fall, 
 
 And the shadow of his wing 
 Soon or late must rest on all. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. II 
 
 Hushed the cooing of the dove 
 
 Seeking in the pine repose, 
 And the south wind's gentle breath 
 
 Folds the petals of the rose. 
 
 So the petals of our trust 
 
 Fold around the heart we love, 
 Though the chill of sorrow's breath 
 
 Makes us silent like the dove. 
 
 "LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION." 
 
 Sweet with the sweetness of noxious fruit — 
 
 Fair with the charm of a siren's smile, 
 Sin ever holds but remorse in store, 
 
 But not the less does its spell beguile. 
 
 It steals like perfume from a poison flower, 
 To lull the sense and to chill the heart; 
 
 It shines beyond, like the miraged bourne, 
 That, as we follow, does still depart. 
 
 Its memory comes like a spice wind, blown 
 Through a dread sirocco, that blasts and sears 
 
 Till the spirit faints in the laden heat 
 That dries, too oft, the repentant's tears. 
 
 Shun, O my heart! the wildering ways, 
 
 Where the flower and smile prove the wanderer's 
 bane; 
 For the "gathered rose" is a gathered thorn, 
 
 And the "stolen sweet" but a stolen pain. 
 
12 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Out in the balmy sunlight 
 To utter a last "good-by," 
 
 On a morning long ago, 
 
 We were standing, you and I. 
 
 And as bright as the sunshine 
 
 Were the hopes of my young life ; 
 
 I knew not then of sorrow, 
 
 Or the world's rude wear and strife. 
 
 The spot where we stood that summer 
 Does not look the same to-day, 
 
 Each year has brought it changes, 
 The old tree is cut away. 
 
 Yet dear is the place as ever, 
 
 And while tracing life's lone track 
 
 I shut my eyes and wonder 
 
 If that time will not come back. 
 
 But no; on life's broad ocean 
 You have drifted far from me, 
 
 Perhaps you have forgotten 
 The hillside and the tree. 
 
 But you I never can forget, 
 
 And as the years go by, 
 Upon the sloping hillside 
 
 They will lay me when I die. 
 
 And when I there am sleeping 
 On some future summer day, 
 
 Fate some time may bring you back, 
 To the hillside you may stray. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 1 3 
 
 As you linger on the by-path, 
 
 May your wandering feet be led 
 To the spot where I am resting 
 
 In my quiet, lowly bed. 
 
 Then stoop for me and gather 
 
 One little flower of blue, 
 And keep it in remembrance 
 
 Of the heart to friendship true. 
 
 HANNAH. 
 
 Down where the willows sweep 
 
 Their trailing branches to the summer air, 
 Where tender blossoms weep, 
 
 They laid my little friend, so young and fair. 
 
 Where gentle breezes bring 
 
 The sweetest perfume from the flowering hill, 
 Where birds incessant sing, 
 
 She sleeps, her loving voice forever still. 
 
 There the water-lily trails 
 
 Its waxen leaves upon the crystal tide, 
 And there my heart bewails 
 
 That years ago my little playmate died. 
 
 And often now I dream 
 
 Of Hannah, with the eyes so sad and brown; 
 The w r hile from some bright world, 
 
 Perhaps upon me she is looking down. 
 
J4 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 SONG. 
 
 You may not miss me, darling, 
 While the tide of life is strong, 
 
 While your world holds yet its pleasure 
 In a round of dance and song. 
 
 And I know you will not miss me 
 When the loving gather round, 
 
 And by soft, impassioned glances, 
 Your truant heart is bound. 
 
 But when the world is fading, 
 
 And time has marked your brow, 
 
 You will sadly, sadly miss me, 
 Although you do not now. 
 
 Too well will you remember 
 The hand that once caressed, 
 
 And eyes whose lingering glances 
 Love's tenderness confessed. 
 
 Perhaps in some far country, 
 
 In life's sad afternoon, 
 You'll dream about its morning 
 
 That passed away so soon. 
 
 And there among the shadows, 
 There will come a gentle tread, 
 
 And some voice we knew together 
 Will tell you I am dead. 
 
 And with your retrospection 
 
 Will come a wild regret, 
 For all our past, my darling, 
 
 You never can forget. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 
 
 AT THE SCHOOL-HOUSE PINE. 
 
 I have wandered to-day to the old pine tree, 
 Where we used to laugh together; 
 
 The pleasures of life seem over for me, 
 And their charm is lost forever. 
 
 And sitting beneath the grieving boughs, 
 
 I think of the days departed, 
 And smile through tears to remember the cause 
 
 That's making me broken-hearted; 
 
 And I say, though you know not what it is, 
 
 Of the world I'm sadly weary; 
 For my childhood's faith in life is lost, 
 
 And the future looks so dreary. 
 
 So I can not help but grieve to day, 
 Where we used to laugh together; 
 
 For the pleasures of life are over for me, 
 And their charm seems lost forever. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 The night-winds moan across the barren moor, 
 The pale moon struggles through a misty vail, 
 
 And smoky vapors rolling from the sea, 
 
 Come burdened with the ground-owl's mournful wail. 
 
 Upon the drearest spot of all the waste 
 
 Stands a lone tree, whose branches, gnarled and old, 
 Wind-rocked and mutt'ring, seem to ever grieve 
 
 O'er burden of some mystery they hold. 
 
 No pen can paint the scene, so desolate, 
 
 The weird, unearthly bearing of the night — 
 
 Fit place it seems for tragedy and death, 
 
 The heart shrinks, shuddering, at the ghostly sight. 
 
1 6 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 East from the tree, across the pallid waste, 
 Upon a spot that forms almost a knoll, 
 
 Stands an old house in ruin and decay, 
 
 Fit haunt it seems for some poor, wandering soul. 
 
 And sure 'tis said, by those who know the place, 
 On Indian summer nights are heard and seen 
 
 Strange voices and strange sights, that flit around 
 Like the fantastic phantoms of a dream. 
 
 Near by the house, upon the eastern slope, 
 
 Unmarked, save by a cross, two graves were found ; 
 
 No mourner ever comes to tend or care, 
 Or drop a tear upon the lonely mound. 
 
 Oft have I wandered o'er the haunted moor, 
 And puzzled o'er the mystery it holds, 
 
 While sadly rose the killdees' weeping cry 
 
 From marshy flats that edge the dry, bare Wolds. 
 
 But still unanswered may I ever roam, 
 
 While over all the bleak winds sigh and rave; 
 
 For nevermore to mortal ear will come 
 A voice from out the portals of the grave. 
 
 MUSINGS IN THE WANE OF SUMMER. 
 I. 
 
 The summer droops to autumn's arms, 
 Our Californian hills are bright 
 With gorgeous dyes and purple light — 
 
 Our land seems free from all alarms. 
 
 The farms that nestle 'mong the hills 
 Are fully fraught with fruit and grain, 
 Of kine there comes a low refrain, 
 
 In harmony chime birds and rills. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. \J 
 
 Across the fields of ripened wheat 
 The speckled quail in gladness pipe; 
 The larks their swelling joys recite, 
 
 And, full-mouthed, fly their young to meet. 
 
 It seems all nature stops to thank, 
 In melody, the master hand 
 That strews with blessings all the land, 
 
 From human life to herbage rank. 
 
 I gaze with smiling eyes across 
 
 The landscape to the earth's blue rim — 
 There comes a thought — my eyes are dim 
 
 With consciousness of one great loss. 
 
 Still, should I damp this joy with tears, 
 And make a discord with my moan, 
 Because my trust in life has flown, 
 
 And left me sad, with trembling fears ? 
 
 No, let them sing their carols sweet, 
 
 Until the harvest-moon is dead, 
 
 And silent all the song and tread 
 Of thankful voice and hurried feet. 
 
 Then, when the autumn days grow dark, 
 
 And all the land's awatch for rain, 
 
 I low will chant my grieving strain, 
 Without reproof from man or lark. 
 
 ii. 
 The day is drawing to its close; 
 
 The shadows lengthen down the hill; 
 
 The sounds of joy are growing still; 
 The western sky wears tints of rose. 
 
 I drink the beauties of the scene, 
 
 While mingling thoughts of joy and woe — 
 Oh ! who can all the secret know 
 
 Of restless heart and quiet mien ? 
 
1 8 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 The world may count me as content; 
 
 Deceit I see, and give deceit; 
 
 Yet wish for one true heart to greet 
 With trust for trust, forever blent. 
 
 Oh ! is the world so wrapt in sin 
 That all pure confidence and trust 
 Lies lost and hidden in the dust 
 
 That fell from years that once have been ? 
 
 I rise, as night comes creeping on, 
 And ramble down the hillside slope; 
 In realms of shadow is my hope; 
 
 I cherish most that which is gone. 
 
 hi. 
 
 So disconnected runs my theme 
 
 That those who read may, smiling, say: 
 " 'Tis all a waste — time mused away 
 In idling through a gloomy dream." 
 
 But hours like this may cheer the heart, 
 
 And soothe the mind, though trouble-tossed, 
 While dwelling on some blessing lost 
 
 That once has been of life a part. 
 
 A quiet time, in which we view 
 
 The world that seems all peace and joy; 
 Then calmly scan the base alloy 
 
 That intermixes with the true. 
 
 So, as the dark is closing in, 
 In from the world I go to rest, 
 And deem my life, though little blest, 
 
 At least removed from crime and sin. 
 
PART SECOND 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FIFTEEN 
 AND TWENTY. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Just here, beside the stile, 
 
 We will stop and rest awhile. 
 
 And we'll talk of the times that are o'er, Ned. 
 
 I like to watch your face, 
 
 Though it lacks the boyish grace 
 
 That made it once so bright and fair, Ned. 
 
 You say you've come to see 
 
 If there is a change in me — 
 
 In my heart as well as in my face, Ned. 
 
 Well, don't say that I forget, 
 
 Or call me cold and set, 
 
 When I say that all is past — all past, Ned. 
 
 In the early morn of life, 
 
 I'd fain have been your wife; 
 
 But not now — it is over now, Ned; 
 
 Too long we've walked apart, 
 
 The summer of the heart 
 
 Blooms but once for every life, Ned. 
 
20 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 The friends we loved are dead, 
 
 And with their presence fled 
 
 The flower and freshness of our lives, Ned ; 
 
 The noon of life is past, 
 
 And the time is coming fast 
 
 When the world will know us nevermore, Ned. 
 
 Though the mem'ry of the spring 
 
 Will make the wild bird sing 
 
 'Midst the gloom of winter days, Ned; 
 
 The words of love you speak, 
 
 But make the gloom more bleak, 
 
 In the winter of my lonely heart, Ned. 
 
 They can but give me pain, 
 
 For my heart has dormant lain 
 
 These many long and weary years, Ned ; 
 
 And nothing change can make, 
 
 Though I've suffered for your sake, 
 
 And you once were all the world to me, Ned. 
 
 I can grant no boon you crave, 
 
 For only in the grave 
 
 I look for quiet from the world, Ned. 
 
 Perhaps it is but right, 
 
 That our lives have proved a blight, 
 
 And I ask not who's to blame, you or I. Ned? 
 
 THE COTTAGE BY THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 The light from a crimson sunset 
 Gleams o'er his lordship's lands, 
 
 O'er gardens, fair and blooming, 
 Near where the great house stands. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 2 1 
 
 I look on the shining window, 
 
 Where madam sits and dreams, 
 While the rich, old velvet curtains, 
 
 Grow bright in the day-god's beams. 
 
 Ah ! madam is rich and haughty, 
 
 The lord is proud and cold, 
 But they dote on their son so handsome, 
 
 Brave Cleon, fair and bold. 
 
 The world has said that Cleon 
 
 Cares not for gold or fame, 
 He loves his dogs and hunting-horn. 
 
 The cup and the social game. 
 
 They say he has no heart for love, 
 
 No praise for beauty's shrine, 
 That the only pleasures of his life 
 
 Are the chase and the sparkling wine. 
 
 But little do they know of him, 
 
 Who prate this o'er and o'er, 
 I read his secret long ago, 
 
 As I sat at my cottage door. 
 
 He loves a lady, fair and good, 
 
 Across the feathery tide, 
 And the greatest pleasure of his life 
 
 He finds when by her side. 
 
 Though many maids may sigh and rave 
 
 About his golden hair, 
 And say it is a shame to have 
 
 No heart with form so fair. 
 
 But little he will reck that they 
 
 Are dying for a glance, 
 As at the banquet or the rout 
 
 He joins in play or dance. 
 
22 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 So still we ponder, day by day, 
 This secret o'er and o'er, 
 
 He at the great house window, 
 And / at the cottage door. 
 
 UNSATISFIED. 
 
 Across the weary lapse of years, 
 *That made my heart so strangely cold, 
 O'er days that lie 'twixt then and now, 
 Through which I've borne a grief untold, 
 Last night, while earth was wrapped in sleep, 
 And all was still upon the sea — 
 Sweet Fancy wove a dream and brought 
 My girlhood's idol back to me. 
 
 I felt his touch upon my curls — 
 I felt his kind eyes read my face; 
 I looked once more upon that form — 
 So perfect in its manly grace. 
 He told 'me how his soul had been 
 So true to me, and then he smiled 
 And said that he had come to claim 
 The heart I gave him when a child. 
 
 He stooped and took me in his arms, 
 
 And pressed upon my lips the kiss 
 
 That I had hungered for, for years, 
 
 And asked of fate no boon but this — 
 
 To live again that vanished hour, 
 
 To hear him say his love was mine, 
 
 To feel that kiss upon my lips, 
 
 To have his arms around me twine, 
 
 To look into his tender eyes, 
 
 And hear his words so fond and low, . 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 23 
 
 I'd barter all the rest of life, 
 It's poorer triumphs all forego. 
 
 God ! let those whose youth has gone, 
 Wasted in sordid strife for gain, 
 Whose hearts have never quickened yet, 
 But to some selfish hope attain; 
 Whose spirits scarcely soar above 
 
 The leaden clods they plow and till, 
 Scorn love like this — I but despise 
 Each grinning, mawkish imbecile. 
 The thoughts that glow with endless life, 
 The voice whose music charms away, 
 All taint of earthly care, is still 
 And cold, to eyes and ears of clay. 
 But since we've faith that all is well, 
 Subservient to a ruling power, 
 Their being t then, is not in vain; 
 So, let them live their little hour, 
 Within a narrow, cheerless round, 
 Monotonous, with selfish strife, 
 To stir their sluggish blood enough 
 To keep ablaze the lamp of life; 
 Perchance in realms of love and light 
 Their feeble spirits will expand, 
 Their dark and meager souls at last 
 Illumined in another land. 
 
 The morning sunlight kissed the hills — 
 
 1 woke from sleep in trembling tears — 
 Woke from the dream that gave to me 
 More joy than I had known for years. 
 The world looks very fair to-day — 
 
 Our hills are sweet with flowers of spring; 
 White clouds are drifting o'er the sky, 
 And in the trees the wild birds sing. 
 
24 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 But in my soul there is a gloom 
 That I had thought was passed away, 
 And it will shadow all my life, 
 Till breaks the great Eternal Day. 
 The love that, if not dead, I hoped 
 Had found a long and lasting sleep, 
 Still burns within my spirit's depths — 
 I kneel before its shrine and weep. 
 
 My soul has known but one ideal — 
 But one sweet mem'ry fills my heart — 
 I have not seen his face for years, 
 And we are drifting far apart. 
 And though my life seems strangely blest, 
 My early dream grows dearer yet — 
 While life and thought are still my own, 
 My idol I can not forget. 
 
 OROYILLE, 1868. 
 
 The clouds of poverty are all about me, 
 My young heart sad, my sky without one ray, 
 But I know that God looks on me in the darkness, 
 And he sees and listens while I work and pray. 
 
 The way is strange, my life's path steep and rugged, 
 And envious foes are near me to defame, 
 But the mighty hand of God can guide me upward, 
 And on the scroll of worth inscribe my name. 
 
 No human power can long prevail against me, 
 Nor change the upward tendence of my way, 
 For that All-seeing Eye has sought and found me, 
 And safe from wrong is leading me to-day. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 25 
 
 God bless the few true ones who are around me, 
 And bless each thoughtless and unfeeling churl; 
 I pity all who blame, and in their blindness 
 Would deem so weak a poor and friendless girl. 
 
 In hearts far, far above their own so craven, 
 
 My acts shall build a long-enduring shrine 
 
 Where age and youth shall bring alike their blessings, 
 
 And lay them there, to be forever mine. 
 
 THE DYING GAMBLER. 
 
 Come here, beside me, Nellie, 
 
 That fearful delirium is past, 
 There are things I'd like to say, 
 
 The words that I know will be my last. 
 
 For, Nellie, I am dying, 
 
 All the work of the demons is done, 
 I've bartered my life for vice, 
 
 And its rule, and my own race, is run. 
 
 I want to tell you, Nellie, 
 
 That I'm sorry for all that has been, 
 And the thought is hard to bear, 
 
 That I've broken your heart with my sin. 
 
 For, Nellie, I have loved you, 
 
 In spite of my love for cards and wine, 
 And I always saw your eyes 
 
 Watching from out its devilish shine. 
 
 You've been a good wife, Nellie, 
 
 Too good for a thankless wretch like me. 
 
 Raise up my head a little, 
 
 There — my breath does not come very free. 
 
26 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 You remember, I promised 
 
 To cherish you all the rest of life, 
 
 On that morn so long ago, 
 
 When we were first called man and wife. 
 
 How bright the future looked, 
 
 Full of good resolves; I meant them all. 
 It seems the worst of curses, 
 
 On a drunken wretch, like me, should fall. 
 
 But you are weeping, Nellie, 
 For a miserable brute, like me ? 
 
 Stoop down once more and kiss me, 
 It grows dark soon, I can scarcely see. 
 
 And you have loved me well, 
 
 You do yet, in face of wrong and shame ; 
 Nellie, if I get better, 
 
 I will try to deserve it again. 
 
 But no, it's no use, Nellie; 
 
 But I do repent of all my sin; 
 Pray — I'm your husband, Nellie, 
 
 It's no matter what else I have been. 
 
 Pray that my soul be ransomed, 
 
 When I'm put away under the sod; 
 
 You said once that 'twas written, 
 
 No drunkards enter the kingdom of God. 
 
 Well, I've gambled, and drank too, 
 
 With the worst; and many sprees I've seen, 
 
 But 'twas playing the " deuce " though, 
 All the time, and misusing my " queen." 
 
 And you, the prettiest card. 
 
 By far, Nellie, that I ever struck, 
 
 I never half deserved you, 
 
 But "helped my hand" in a run o' luck. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 2J 
 
 There are many more, Nellie, 
 
 Making a " flowery play " and high, 
 But the risk won't seem too great, 
 
 Till at last, like me, they come to die, 
 
 They'll always hang to the cards, 
 
 Till at last they draw the " ace of spades," 
 
 And find the game "played out," 
 
 As every hope of "a winning" fades. 
 
 You've seen the worst of the game, 
 
 Your " draw " was nothing but tears and woe, 
 
 But you hold the " pat hand " now 
 Of the two, were you "called" to go. 
 
 Mine's a poor one to "show down," 
 
 And if I could, I would "pass" or "bluff," 
 
 But that wouldn't win anyhow, 
 
 I "went blind," so I " stand," but it's rough. 
 
 You have half your chances left, 
 
 I can't "back in," for I've "gone clean through." 
 
 God ! must I leave the game ? 
 
 Life a l! dead loss" to myself and you. 
 
 There's nothing hurts a loser 
 
 Like to sum up, too late, all his loss; 
 
 1 threw a man's best chance away, 
 
 For industry and honesty's "boss." 
 
 Life's been a "misdeal," Nellie; 
 
 But may be, though dark the way I've trod, 
 A soul as lost as my own, 
 
 At the last can make its peace with God. 
 
28 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 IN MY ALBUM. 
 
 When I look on those two faces, 
 While remembrance sweetly traces, 
 O'er the features fair and perfect, 
 
 Each expression they have worn; 
 When I note the proud lips molded 
 Like a rose leaf, curved and folded, 
 Comes a dream divine, untarnished 
 
 By the world's cold pride and scorn. 
 
 When I watch the dreamy languor, 
 And the deep and soulful splendor 
 Of the eyes, that, dark-impassioned, 
 
 Still are frank and true and pure, 
 All my soul grows fond and fonder, 
 As I sit and muse and wonder 
 When will come that day of rapture, 
 
 That will all their joy insure. 
 
 Well I know the wealth of feeling 
 Those bright faces are revealing, 
 And I read the guarded secret, 
 
 Why they lie there, side by side; 
 Yes, I read the old, old story: 
 In the strength of life's young glory, 
 He is all her hope and sunlight, 
 
 And she is his promised bride. 
 
 Oh ! I pray no gloom of sorrow, 
 Waiting in some far to-morrow, 
 May come o'er those lives so faithful, 
 
 All their peace and trust to blast; 
 For I know on this dream's ending, 
 All their happiness is pending, 
 And upon one turn of fortune, 
 
 All their destiny is cast. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 2g 
 
 Rather than distrust should ever 
 Wide and cruelly dissever 
 Those two beings, always kindred 
 
 In each thought and word and look, 
 Better death should o'er them hover, 
 And their forms now darkly cover — 
 Take them to the life eternal, 
 
 Face to face, as in this book. 
 
 ISABEL. 
 
 If all the sheep in the fold were white — 
 If all the days in the year were fair — 
 If never a note of sadness woke 
 From boughs that sway in the summer air— 
 
 If the paths where wander tiny feet 
 Were never filled with thorns and snares — 
 If all the flowers in the field were fresh, 
 And never bloomed among the tares — 
 
 If all in the world was pure and good — 
 If life was forever free from pain — 
 If the heart could know no weariness, 
 I would wish my darling back again. 
 
 But o'er the threshold of time and care, 
 Her fair young soul has safely crossed, 
 And never in this world will she grieve 
 O'er a blighted hope or a purpose lost. 
 
 And in the scenes of the after-land, 
 Where streams of silvery brightness flow, 
 Where flowers are sweet in lasting bloom, 
 Where the weary soul oft longs to go — 
 
30 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 She wanders, blessed for' evermore, 
 With a spirit bright and pure and free, 
 And I do not wish her back again, 
 For I know she waits to welcome me. 
 
 MY IDEAL. 
 
 When and how shall I meet my darling ? 
 What are the things our hearts will say ? 
 How will the years that perhaps dissever 
 Our kindred beings be swept away ? 
 
 Perhaps, o'er the hills of our golden country, 
 Wanders the spirit that waits for me — 
 Perchance, till I cross the dim, dark valley, 
 My Ideal's face I ne'er shall see! 
 
 Whether his hair is black or golden, 
 Whether his eyes are dark or blue, 
 I care not, so that his soul be perfect, 
 To pride and honor leal and true. 
 
 When and how shall I meet my darling ? 
 What are the words which our troth will seal ? 
 Where, in this world of sin and sorrow, 
 Will I meet and welcome — my soul's Ideal ? 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 O June, fair June ! O month of bloom ! 
 When on the air so slumb'rously 
 Floats subtile perfumes rare and sweet, 
 Red roses glow upon thy breast, 
 And berries gleam beneath thy feet. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 3 1 
 
 O month of songs! to thee belongs 
 The best of earth's intensity; 
 Thy fields are bright with yellow wheat, 
 That finds new beauty 'neath thy smile, 
 And shimmers in thy golden heat. 
 
 O month of dreams ! there ever seems 
 A tint of splendor in thy air; 
 Oh ! bring to me again those hours 
 When summer reigned, and my sad heart 
 Was blest, within thy fragrant bowers. 
 
 month of rest! thy hours so blest 
 Brought to my life its lasting crown ; 
 
 1 love thy sunset's red'ning glow, 
 
 Thy birds and flowers, that bring to me 
 The dream I dreamed one year ago. 
 
 O month of bloom ! when in the tomb 
 The sun of life sinks down for me, 
 Then let my cold, still face be hid 
 By sweet June roses, rich and rare, 
 Strewn 'neath my somber coffin's lid. 
 
 ELMER KELLER. 
 
 I dream of gentle winds that play, 
 
 And flowers that to their wanderings wave, 
 Upon the hillside slope to-day 
 
 Around my little Elmer's grave. 
 
 The wild dove's plaintive note will come, 
 And o'er his rest will hum the bee; 
 
 Each season brings its changing charms — 
 But he will never come to me. 
 
32 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 Oh ! let the gentle tear-drop flow — 
 Though sad, my grief to me is sweet, 
 
 For paths of sin will never know 
 The wanderings of his little feet. 
 
 He knows a fairer world than this, 
 And fairer flowers that never die — 
 
 He once has known a mother's kiss — 
 He ne'er will know a mother's sigh. 
 
 But still I cannot help but weep — 
 The weakness of all earth is mine, 
 
 I long for little arms in sleep 
 
 That round my neck were wont to twine. 
 
 But oh ! I know, some future day, 
 - When I am laid beneath the sod, 
 I'll find my darling far away 
 
 Among the blooming fields of God. 
 
 TUBEROSES. 
 
 DUNHAM FARM, MARCH 10, l868. 
 
 They put them into the hands of the dead, 
 They wreathe them about the face, 
 When the soul has fled beyond returning, 
 And the loving heart has lost its yearning, 
 Beneath death's chilling trace. 
 
 I have gathered these — O darling ! — darling — 
 Let not your eyes reproachful seem to be, 
 Pity the heart that in unspoken anguish, 
 Far from their light, for evermore must languish- 
 You must be as dead to me. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 33 
 
 Into your strong hands, from mine, weak, trembling 
 I put them. Round your worshiped face, 
 In my fond fancy I will see them lying, 
 While pure, within me, is my spirit dying, 
 I will shun my heart's disgrace. 
 
 Oh ! forget not — when you see them blooming, 
 
 Think they spring above my grave, 
 
 Where wild temptation can assail no longer, 
 
 I go, while yet my soul is stronger, 
 
 And the grace of God can save. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When I am with thee, the cold world forgetting, 
 Happy, contented, I live but for thee; 
 But when we are parted, I'm half broken-hearted, 
 And weary and sad are the hours that I see. 
 
 Oft when I meet thee in scenes of pleasure, 
 With those that love thee gathering near, 
 If, 'mid joys beguiling, I see thee smiling, 
 My foolish heart trembles with unspoken fear. 
 
 If they should take thee from me forever, 
 No other could waken the love of my heart; 
 No bright eyes in glancing, by sweetly entrancing, 
 Could make me forget that we were apart. 
 
 My thoughts would still linger around thee forever, 
 Though smiles might allure, and flattery delude, 
 No ceasing of sorrow, by time could I borrow, 
 Since thy smiles had won me, and thy voice had sued. 
 
34 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 TO MOTHER, WHEN LITTLE ELMORE DIED. 
 
 Parted by death — are we parted forever ? 
 
 Till we meet on the shore of the beautiful river, 
 
 Baby has gone in his innocent beauty; 
 
 I weep; while they tell me submission is duty. 
 
 If he had lived through the years of his childhood, 
 Reaching the pride of a beautiful manhood, 
 The hour would have come when we must dissever, 
 May be for long years, and may be forever. 
 
 Then better it is that in death he is sleeping, 
 Though it leaves me the pain, the grief, and the weeping, 
 Than to have him away, in forbidden paths straying, 
 My heart worn by suspense, and his by delaying. 
 
 He never will stand at that threshold of sorrow — 
 The place where a mother shakes hands with her dar- 
 ling - 
 And say, when I ask, " how long must we sever ? " 
 "May be for years, mother; may be forever." 
 
 No, he is safe from trouble and danger, 
 Unconscious of crime — to sinning a stranger; 
 I can sit by his grave and say, 'midst my weeping, 
 "God make me worthy of Baby's next greeting." 
 
 Though parted by death, not parted forever, 
 We will meet on the shore of the beautiful river; 
 This world is the portal we pass to another, 
 And my Baby '11 be first to welcome his mother. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 35 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 When the last sad sigh is o'er, 
 When the heart is stilled forever, 
 
 When the spirit seeks the shore, 
 
 Leading: down to death's dark river; 
 
 A o 
 
 O'er eternity's great wave, 
 Then at last is found fruition; 
 
 For each hope we fondly crave, 
 For the wildest heart's petition. 
 
 Broken then the barriers down, 
 Here that kindred lives dissever, 
 
 Fate's decree or fortune's frown 
 Comes to part or pain us never. 
 
 Midst the rose and lilies bloom, 
 On the isles of sweet contentment, 
 
 Lost the darkness of the tomb, 
 
 Lost the pang of fierce resentment. 
 
 Envy with malignant hand 
 
 Ne'er shall wake a tone discordant, 
 Spirits in that after-land 
 
 Beam with loveliness transcendent. 
 
 Love, not hate, will reign supreme, 
 Free from dross and earth's pollution, 
 
 Then we realize the dream 
 
 Springing from the soul's ambition. 
 
 When the book of life is closed, 
 
 Clasped by death's remorseless fingers, 
 
 O'er the records there reposed 
 Then the eye of justice lingers. 
 
3^ THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 And what proves our trials here, 
 Is by mercy's hand arighted, 
 
 No temptations then allure, 
 
 Then no cherished hope is blighted, 
 
 When the last sad sigh is o'er, 
 
 When life's day has closed forever, 
 
 Pure and free for- evermore, 
 
 Sin shall part and pain us never. 
 
 TIRED. 
 
 Out upon life's ocean sailing 
 
 In my frail life barque, 
 I have watched the storm-clouds gather 
 
 Till my sky is dark. 
 
 Though the waves for some are smiling, 
 
 I hear but their roar, 
 While the rest are onward steering, 
 
 I would drop the oar. 
 
 I could shun the rocks of danger, 
 
 And the breakers brave, 
 Till the only heart that loved me 
 
 Sank beneath the wave. 
 
 I heed not the craft around me; 
 
 In the distant west 
 Lie the isles where I am going, 
 
 To the port of rest. 
 
 But I can not wait the voyage 
 
 That will take me o'er; 
 Like the sea-bird, in the twilight, 
 
 I will seek the shore. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 37 
 
 Like the swallows southward flying 
 
 From a stormy clime, 
 I, when warned of coming danger, 
 
 Take my flight in time. 
 
 For the storms I can not weather, 
 
 In my fair, frail boat, 
 Sin's dark waters will o'ercome me, 
 
 If I onward float. 
 
 And I fear, on hidden shallows, 
 
 That my barque will strand; 
 Where the bars of dread temptation 
 
 Wash their glittering sand. 
 
 So, while still the fleet is sailing 
 
 To the far-off shore, 
 I, while rocked in troubled waters, 
 
 Drop my silent oar. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I have spoken the words that must sever, 
 
 I have sundered every tie; 
 The charms of our lost love never 
 
 Will gladden you and I. 
 
 I have sealed the vow that has parted, 
 And I stoop to wear the chain, 
 
 That is making me broken-hearted, 
 Since we never must meet again. 
 
 The years are like midnight seeming, 
 That lie 'twixt me and the grave; 
 
 We have been so long at our dreaming, 
 That nothing our peace can save. 
 

 38 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 I have spoken the words that must sever, 
 
 I have sundered every tie, 
 The charms of our lost love never 
 
 Will gladden you. and I. 
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 Over the world the clouds wept to-day, 
 But the wind and the rain are passing - away; 
 Gone is the gloom that drooped like a pall, 
 And the wealth of God's sunshine is over it all. 
 
 I think of the clouds that far in the past, 
 The beautiful day of my childhood o'ercast, 
 Of the tears that in sorrow and silence I shed, 
 When the blossoms of hope seemed faded and dead. 
 
 And I feel in my heart, how much this bright hour, 
 Where the splendor of sunshine follows the shower, 
 Resembles the life, once gloomy and sad, 
 But at last, like to-day, is resplendent and glad. 
 
 Then let the clouds weep, the storms sigh and rave, 
 The rains dress the turf o'er the loneliest grave; 
 Although clouds of sorrow droop like a pall, 
 The light of God's mercy is over us all. 
 
 TO M. M. S. 
 
 O Mattie ! come back from the shadowy shore, 
 And lay your fair hand on my head, 
 
 And tell me, my darling, I only have dreamed 
 That they number your name with the dead. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 39 
 
 Ah ! when the soft sunshine of spring- comes once more, 
 And the flowers wave and smile in the breeze, 
 
 When the fields are so fresh, and the world looks so bright, 
 And the birds sing so sweet through the trees, 
 
 One life will be cheerless, no sunshine can come 
 To my soul, from the landscape or wave; 
 
 For they've laid you away from my sight, and my heart 
 Has gone down, with its pride, to the grave. 
 
 No more can I hear the soft tone of your voice, 
 Or watch the blush ebb from your cheek, 
 
 As your fringed eyelids drooped, with a shy, modest grace, 
 O'er those blue orbs, so tenderly meek. 
 
 For now the true heart that was mine — only mine, 
 
 Lies still in the hush of the tomb, 
 And the delicate hands are folded so close, 
 
 And your lips have grown cold in its gloom. 
 
 O Mattie! I pray, from the dim afterland, 
 
 That your spirit may smile upon me, 
 And guide me aright till I sit at your feet, 
 
 From this pain and this sorrowing free. 
 
 VALLEYREST. 
 
 I love the little valley, amid the Wyandotte hills; 
 
 When I found the sweet retreat, May was blooming o'er 
 its green, 
 And no friends so dear to me as those who loved me there, 
 Though the bridal, and the tomb, and the years, have 
 come between. 
 
40 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 And that stream of crystal water, where the broad, green 
 rushes grow, 
 How many a summer noontide, beside its restless sheen, 
 I laughed, beneath the drooping oaks, the summer hours 
 away, 
 With Emmaline and Sallie, or Cal and Josephine. 
 
 But time has made sad changes, as it touched each sepa- 
 rate heart, 
 
 And many a day of sorrow since then we all have seen, 
 And one has proved a traitor to the friendship fond of old, 
 
 And as dead to me and mine is poor, faithless Josephine. 
 
 Still, looking back to-day, I see a picture fair, 
 
 The valley and the streamlet, the flowers, and birds, 
 and bees; 
 A happy lot we were, within the quiet bounds 
 
 Of the hillsides rising upward, from beyond the grand 
 old trees. 
 
 But as I dream of Valleyrest, one winsome face I see, 
 With a white brow framed in beauty, by a wealth of 
 rippling hair, 
 The rose of youth and health aglow, upon the rounded 
 cheek, 
 And lips that seemed to have always, but tender smiles 
 to wear. 
 
 And of all the things I loved, among the Wyandotte hills, 
 The truest was your heart, through a hyacinthine shine, 
 
 It looked from out your eyes, unchanged — unchanging still, 
 As mine will ever beat for you, my darling Emmaline. 
 
 So I love the little valley that nestles in the hills; 
 
 'Twas a place of rest to me, and its spell will not depart, 
 Nor the memory of that summer I lived there long ago, 
 
 When I learned the first sweet lessons that woke my 
 girlish heart. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 4 1 
 
 AFTER DEATH. 
 
 Sweet flowers strew over my quiet heart, 
 Scatter them round my bier, . 
 I, who have loved them so well in life, 
 In death would have them near. 
 
 By a window low, in a western room, 
 Lay me at day's decline, 
 And lift the lace from the glistening pane, 
 Just where the last rays shine. 
 
 And let the blessed sunlight fall 
 Aslant my poor, pale face, 
 Where nevermore the hand of Time 
 The lines of care will trace. 
 
 The late sunshine among the flowers 
 I've loved since childhood's days, 
 And through the fields at sunset ran 
 Amid the golden haze. 
 
 And when the eyes, that loved the light so well. 
 Grown dim, have looked their last, 
 And turned their gaze beyond this world, 
 And closed on all the past, 
 
 I'd have the sunshine and the rose 
 
 Blend o'er my pulseless breast. 
 
 Where day's last beam smiles o'er my grave, 
 
 Oh ! leave me to my rest. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Like the bird, with tender song, 
 Singing all the long day through, 
 So art thou, O heart of mine ! 
 But a trembling minstrel, too. 
 
42 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 And as birdie sings farewell 
 To the nest that was her home, 
 Plumes her wings to cross the wave, 
 In an unknown clime to roam; 
 
 So my soul some day will pour 
 All its wealth in grieving songs, 
 As it takes uncertain flight 
 To the realm where it belongs. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF L. L. W. 
 
 TO LIZZIE. 
 
 The sunlight gleams across the palings white and still, 
 On the tombstones and the graves, out upon the slanting 
 
 hill, 
 Where, through the lonesome day, my darling and my hope 
 Lies so quietly asleep, on the hillside's sunny slope. 
 
 I sit and watch the graves, and dream of days gone by, 
 Till my heart grows cold and sad, and I wish that I could 
 
 die, 
 Exchanging all the world — its wealth, its joy, and pride — 
 For a sweet and quiet slumber near to my darling's side. 
 
 They come and speak kind words, and tell me I'll forget 
 That life is long, and still must hold much gladness for me 
 
 yet. 
 Oh! could they see his presence is the only thing I crave, 
 They'd leave me, knowing all my hope was buried in his 
 
 grave. 
 
 So long, day after day, I wait and dream apart, 
 
 While our baby's life is throbbing, beneath my throbbing 
 
 heart, 
 I weep, and fondly pray that I may sometime trace 
 The features of its father in its little angel face. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 43 
 
 But I feel within my soul that the palings white and still, 
 And the little mound of earth out upon the slanting hill, 
 Hold all the best this world and life's young promise gave, 
 And I know my heart is buried within my husband's grave. 
 
 INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 There walks a fiend o'er our beautiful earth, 
 His wiles are crafty and strong, 
 Wherever he stalks in his terrible might 
 He hushes the sweet voice of song. 
 
 He quenches the smile of the trusting young bride; 
 He brings the poor mother's despair; 
 He blights the fair lives of the good and the true, 
 With the weight of wearisome care. 
 
 He withers the flowers of friendship and love 
 With the breath of his poisonous flame; 
 He robs the pure young of their promising hopes, 
 And the good of a virtuous name. 
 
 Incarnate this demon of woe and of want, 
 He comes with a soft, subtle tread, 
 And leads the unwary adown to the gloom 
 That shadows the poor drunkard's head. 
 
 His task is to lurk in the glittering bowl, 
 And smile from the red, sparkling wine; 
 To hate and defy him with tongue and with pen, 
 And thwart him through life, will be mine. 
 
 The young, tender hand of an innocent child 
 Once saved a great city of old, 
 
 And the flood that crept on to o'er whelm and destroy, 
 By that brave touch was stayed and controlled. 
 
44 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 So the frail hand of woman, if clutched on the throat 
 Of this demon, will crush out his breath, 
 And take from the face of our beautiful earth 
 This foul emissary of death. 
 
 SONOMA. 
 
 A picture lives within my memory, 
 Of one sweet smile upon our State's fair face, 
 That shone upon my heart awhile, and left 
 Forever there the impress of its grace. 
 
 A glimpse of generous autumn's quiet fields, 
 Whose broad expanse then bore the harvest-track, 
 Through which the cruel blade had found its way, 
 And marked its traces with the golden stack. 
 
 And vineyards laden, while the setting sun 
 Distilled the wine, within their purple wealth, 
 And peaceful homes, where sheltered kindly hearts, 
 And children rosy with the glow of health. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 'Tis well that you lie in your lonely grave, 
 Where the stars of the winter night look down 
 On the varied scenes of the distant town; 
 But my heart goes back, and pauses there, 
 In the tender hush of muttered prayer, 
 As I dream of the words that you used to crave. 
 
 The sullen waves of the ebbing years 
 
 Have borne me back to a seeming rest; 
 
 But some of the things that were blest and best 
 
 Lie in the distance; and songs will die 
 
 On my lips, sometimes, when joy seems nigh, 
 
 And I turn away in blinding tears. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 45 
 
 THE DYING BOY. 
 
 My little hands are weary, 
 My heart beats strangely slow, 
 And my mamma is crying, 
 While they whisper: " He must go." 
 
 The fever, it has left me 
 So thin, so pale, and weak, 
 I think I'll never move again, 
 And I do not care to speak. 
 
 I am going o'er the river, 
 Where, I've heard my aunty say, 
 All the little children gather 
 In a bright, eternal day; 
 
 Where flowers are always blooming 
 In a radiance rare and sweet; 
 Where no paths of sin are waiting 
 The tread of little feet. 
 
 I wish papa could show me 
 The way to find that shore; 
 But oh! he can't go with me, 
 For he can not leave his store. 
 
 He must stay, and get some dollars, 
 He's not an hour to lose; 
 He don't get time to go to church, 
 Or even read the news; 
 
 He works all day, and Sunday, too, 
 He has to buy nice clothes 
 For sister Madge — my big sister — 
 She has so many beaux, 
 
4-0 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 And goes out to the theater, 
 And to parties, every night; 
 And once she left me all alone 
 In my room, without a light. 
 
 I wasn't much afraid, but cried, 
 Not from the fear of harm; 
 But she never stayed one evening 
 With me since I was born. 
 
 And mamma has so much to do, 
 With company all day; 
 And nurse is always cross and mean, 
 Because I'm in the way. 
 
 I don't know why they make a fuss, 
 Look sorry so, and cry; 
 Nobody'll have to tend to me, 
 And scold me, if I die. 
 
 I never seemed o' much account, 
 And always broke my toys — 
 There did n't seem no place, at all, 
 A' purpose for little boys. 
 
 So I will try and not be 'fraid, 
 And let my papa stay; 
 And maybe God will send some one 
 To meet me on the way. 
 
 He sent me to this awful place, 
 So full of tears and pain; 
 And surely, if I want to go, 
 He'il take me home ayrain. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 47 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 In the days that have flown 
 
 We have drifted apart, 
 
 And my voice o'er the waves, 
 
 Can not reach to your heart; 
 Unbroken the silence that came with the years, 
 And the spell undissolved by the magic of tears. 
 
 TO AMY. 
 
 May thy blue eyes never dim with sorrow; 
 May thy young heart beat for ever free from care ; 
 And the years, for thee, my little sister, 
 Their brightest smiles and blessings ever wear. 
 
 May thy joyous feet go safely onward 
 Through the morning flowers that strew thy happy way, 
 While the promise fair that greets thy spring-time, 
 But ushers in the glad and perfect day. 
 
 In its golden heat, oh! never falter; 
 Let thy soul, above its splendor, ever soar 
 To a future w r here the flowers fade not, 
 And daytime ends in darkness nevermore. 
 
 "REMEMBER ME." 
 
 A little band of purest gold, 
 That bears those two words, sad, yet sweet, 
 Gleams on my hand ; I watch its sheen, 
 And ask when we again shall meet. 
 
 Remem'bring you, what do I see ? 
 A boyish face, and curling hair,v 
 Brown eyes that greet with truth my own, 
 A forehead white, and broad, and fair. 
 
48 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 Remember — oh! could I forget 
 
 Those days of bright and transient bloom ? 
 
 Not till my requiem be sung, 
 
 And mourners bear me to the tomb. 
 
 Those days — my heart grows faint and cold, 
 As over them I think and weep; 
 Ah ! then my life was blest with hopes 
 That now, alas ! forever sleep. 
 
 And memory does beside recall 
 So much that I would fain forget — 
 So much of misery and pain — 
 Such dreams of stars forever set. 
 
 My life has been so full of care, 
 And never from its burden free, 
 My heart is old before its time — 
 I've left you far away from me. 
 
 And though the morning of our lives 
 Dawned almost on the self-same day, 
 Fve lived long yearsjyou have not known, 
 And left- you, oh! so far away. 
 
 Yes, far away, in youth's proud hope, 
 So far from what my life must be; 
 I often wonder why you find 
 A friend congenial in me. 
 
 You tell me that my eyes are bright, 
 That roses bloom upon my cheek — 
 I would that you could read to-day 
 The story I will never speak. 
 
 A record traced in cruel lines 
 
 By destiny, and never told; 
 
 Then would you know all I have borne, 
 
 And why my heart has grown so old. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 49 
 
 I would not say these plaintive things, 
 Dear friend of mine; but then, you see 
 My heart is moved — this tiny gift 
 Bears on its face: " Remember me." 
 
 MENDOCINO. 
 
 A willing, fair, and perfect child, 
 In joyous eagerness to-day she stands 
 To meet her mother's smile, and bear 
 The fruitful training of her gentle hands. 
 
 Her redwood groves, they sing a living song; 
 Her rivers to the sea rich greeting bear; 
 Her farms are nestled in the vales, 
 Her hills a smiling prospect wear. 
 
 Within her bounds dwell sons of noble toil, 
 Whose lives in usefulness seem half divine, 
 Within their hearts the echoed truth 
 Of words thus offered at their county's shrine. 
 
 There is no place for apes of fashion here; 
 
 No painted dolls, or votaries of pride; 
 
 An honest name and undented, 
 
 This do they prize more than the world beside. 
 
 God bless the earnest, peaceful hearts that know 
 The quiet joys that fill the farmer's life; 
 And bless the ones who share their lot, 
 The careful mother, and the faithful wife. 
 
50 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 What's life ? To live is but to love, 
 Then see the loved upon the bier, 
 And drop the mourner's bitter tear. 
 
 Thus, as we strive to fill with ease 
 The last days of a mother's life, 
 She falters — droops amid the strife. 
 
 Her dear form fills the winding-sheet 
 Beneath the dark and somber pall 
 That folds in gloom our hope — our all. 
 
 We stand beside the yawning grave, 
 While clods sound on the coffin-lid 
 'Neath which our precious dead lies hid. 
 
 Our hearts are dumb with silent woe; 
 The star that led our steps aright 
 Hath set in mystery's awful night. 
 
 As years roll on, some spark of hope 
 Burns in the once despairing breast — 
 Again we dream of earthly rest. 
 
 Some one is left to love and guide — 
 
 A brother or a sister dear 
 
 Still dries the sad, desponding tear. 
 
 When, lo! the angel's wing is spread, 
 White hands are folded o'er the breast 
 That has, for aye, found peace and rest. 
 
 The light that burned in soul-lit eyes 
 Is darkly quenched forevermore, 
 No years can e'er the loss restore. 
 
 We take one lock of silken hair, 
 Press down the eyelids still and cold, 
 And lay the form beneath the mold. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 5 I 
 
 Once more the gloom has chilled the soul — 
 A longer time is wrapt in woe 
 The heart, as seasons come and go. 
 
 Again we love, and court the spell; 
 The glances of some tender eye 
 Have bound once more the silken tie. 
 
 A love by which all else seems cold 
 We find, to bless ns on our way; 
 In paths of bliss our footsteps stray. 
 
 But as we wander, hand in hand, 
 Adown life's autumn-day hillside, 
 Why do we start and turn aside ? 
 
 There sits "the shadow feared by man;" 
 Shedding a still more blighting frost — 
 At last all earthly hope is lost. 
 
 For, sundered is the last dear tie — 
 No more we seek, no more we find 
 A sympathy among our kind. 
 
 Still down the hill of life we go, 
 Around whose base dark shadows crowd, 
 While falls a roaring deep and loud, 
 
 Where breakers in their thunder hoarse 
 Wake music thrillingly sublime 
 Upon the rugged shores of Time. 
 
 At last we find that sunset's glow 
 Has brought to us the phantom bark 
 Which bears us o'er the waters dark. 
 
 As life has been a troubled dream, 
 We meet the change with wearied soul, 
 And gladly seek the promised goal. 
 
52 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 Earth knows us once, but will no more — 
 Perchance the islands of the blest 
 Will yield to us a port of rest. 
 
 At least, we know a gracious God 
 Will guard us with a watchful eye, 
 Though only mystery we descry. 
 
 That Power, which marks the sparrow's fall, 
 Will make disposal of each soul 
 That soars beyond this world's control. 
 
 DEAD. 
 
 All day the grasses move and play 
 
 Upon the slanting, flowery hill, 
 While wild doves mourn, and brown bees hum. 
 And larks with joyous warbling come 
 
 Where I am lying still. 
 
 They say that I'm at rest at last, 
 
 As mute, enchained by death, I lie, 
 And hear them talk of rest profound, 
 Found only 'neath some solemn mound, 
 With face turned to the sky. 
 
 Thus, day by day, they come, they go, 
 While winds first murmur, sob, then sigh; 
 
 The grass grows yellow on the hill, 
 
 But yet I'm lying cold and still, 
 While seasons bloom and die. 
 
 Sometimes upon the lettered stone 
 That stands above my fallen head 
 
 A lonely songster sits and sings; 
 
 It brings a dream of vanished springs, 
 And I forget I'm dead. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 53 
 
 One day he came — his well-known step 
 
 In any clime or world I'd know; 
 And death is not a dreamless sleep, 
 'Tis oft oblivious, but not deep, 
 
 Though all may deem it so. 
 
 I knew the old, familiar touch, 
 
 He stroked the grass above my breast; 
 
 I thrilled beneath the coffin lid — 
 
 Thank God ! the secret lay well hid, 
 He thought I was at rest. 
 
 I love the flowers and sunshine well, 
 
 I love the voice of singing bird — 
 But oh ! I loved his presence more ; 
 I'd never longed to move before, 
 
 Or make my feelings heard. 
 
 He laid his head upon my grave, 
 
 He wept as man alone can weep, 
 The tears came o'er his dark blue eyes, 
 Like rain aslant fair summer skies — 
 
 He said : " Why must you sleep ? " 
 
 What agony to be so near, 
 
 And yet so far — so far apart, 
 To hear him weeping 'midst the flowers, 
 Those fair, brown curls I've toyed for hours, 
 
 Above my pulseless heart. 
 
 O God ! how much I craved the power 
 
 To lay my hand upon his head, 
 E'en to forego all heavenly bliss, 
 For just one more caress or kiss; 
 
 But then you know I'm dead. 
 
54 T HE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 No touch of cheek, or hand, or lip, 
 
 Is left in life for us to know; 
 For, though our love was true and fond, 
 My being drifted far beyond — 
 But oh! I loved him so. 
 
 How lone I felt when he had gone; 
 
 And, listening to his rapid tread 
 Go echoing faint and fainter down 
 The narrow path that leads to town, 
 
 Recalled the words he said : 
 
 " Why must you sleep ? " I do not sleep, 
 Although my heart is turned to dust, 
 Some spell has fallen o'er my eyes, 
 Which breaks when all the dead arise; 
 Till then, be dumb, I must. 
 
 So let the grasses creep above 
 My prison walls so desolate; 
 
 It must be right — so let it be; 
 
 I wait — in future I may see 
 The higher aim of fate. 
 
 STRANDED. 
 
 I stand upon the rugged shore 
 That bounds the western sea; 
 The restless waves, on wings of foam, 
 Bear kisses to the lea. 
 
 The March winds sweep the grasses green, 
 That tremble 'neath my feet; 
 The few wild flowers, just newly born, 
 Look up with faces sweet. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 55 
 
 By voices sad of wind and wave, 
 In duets strange and wild, 
 And bars of thrilling melody, 
 My fancy is beguiled. 
 
 Beneath the wild and barren cliff, 
 Where breakers moan and roar, 
 A bark amidst the cruel rocks 
 Lies moored for evermore. 
 
 Like some lone bird with weary wing 
 She flew before the storm; 
 And, rocked upon the ruthless waves, 
 Seemed trembling with alarm* 
 
 In sunny splendor of to-day 
 I find no shade of gloom 
 That wrapt the ocean as a pall, 
 And brought her to her doom. 
 
 But though the sky is blue — serene, 
 And winds blow soft and free, 
 Her sails will ne'er unfurl again, 
 To sweep the restless sea. 
 
 By isles of bloom and pleasant lands, 
 Where smiles a sunny shore; 
 Where spice winds kiss the orange groves, 
 In pride she'll sail no more. 
 
 Upon the sullen sea of life, 
 
 Float many barks to-day; 
 
 We launch them with a precious freight, 
 
 And watch them drift away. 
 
 Some, borne by breezes swift and strong 
 To isles so fair and bright, 
 Find harbor and again return 
 With speed and wings of light. 
 
56 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 While others, full of hope and love, 
 Fade from our anxious gaze; 
 We pace with aching heart the shore 
 Through long and weary days. 
 
 We look where waves and waters meet, 
 Longing to greet the sail, 
 'Till the heart is sick with yearning, 
 And the lips grow cold and pale; 
 
 Then, as we stand in silent woe, 
 With anxious, outstretched hands, 
 Brought by the waves that touch our feet, 
 A waif lies on the sands. 
 
 We stoop — and lo! 'tis a relic — 
 All that is left to tell 
 Of the fated ship now stranded, 
 That we had loved so well. 
 
 There are barks that sailed away 
 
 In the dim and distant years, 
 
 Fraught with treasures of heart and soul, 
 
 Laden with hopes and fears. 
 
 We pace the shore, and listen long 
 In wild unease and pain; 
 We mourn and weep our lives away, 
 They never return again. 
 
 O Power! that bids the wave be still, 
 Pity each breaking heart 
 That has trusted and lost its all 
 On some ship that it saw depart; 
 
 And teach us, as they drift away, 
 Sailing early or late, 
 We will find them safely moored inside 
 The beautiful Goldeji Gale. 
 
PART THIRD. 
 
 LATER POEMS. 
 
 HUMBOLDT. 
 
 The mem'ry of thy sunny vales 
 
 Sleeps in my heart; 
 Where berries gleamed in golden heat 
 Beneath June's softly ling'ring feet; 
 Where, on the summer's slumb'rous breast, 
 The winds the yielding days caressed. 
 
 Thy blossoms, wet with fragrant dew, 
 
 Have brushed my cheek; 
 While wandering in thy woods along, 
 I heard the birds' exquisite song, 
 And marveled not that life should seem 
 So like a sweet, delicious dream. 
 
 From streams of water cold and pure, 
 
 My lips have quaffed; 
 Where, in thy forests dark and deep, 
 The somber shadows seem to sleep; 
 Where pallid lilies bloom and die, 
 Denied the radiance of the sky. 
 
58 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 My wand'ring feet went o'er thy hills 
 
 In sweet content; 
 That destiny to me assigned 
 A pleasant task of heart and mind; 
 And led me, for a little while, 
 Beneath the blessing of thy smile. 
 
 The glorious promise of thy years 
 
 Spoke to my soul; 
 And in the future thou shalt meet 
 A grand fruition, proud and sweet; 
 And bloom, untouched by blight or ban, 
 A country blessed by God and man. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 In the halls of recollection — on their magic stair, 
 
 I have paused with look uplifted 
 
 To a picture there. 
 
 Tenderly, from out the framing of the vanished past, 
 
 Smiles a face whose eyes upon me 
 
 Long have looked their last. 
 
 Eyes that gave in sweetest off ring all that lips could say 
 
 Of a love that lives; though living, 
 
 Now has passed away; 
 
 For that heart that once so fondly beat with hope and truth, 
 
 While its crimson tide was glowing 
 
 With the warmth of youth. 
 
 And I pause within the quiet that we only reach 
 
 When the years have brought a sorrow 
 
 Too intense for speech. 
 
 When the soul bows down in anguish at some altar-stone, 
 
 Whence the worshipers have vanished, 
 
 Till we kneel alone. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 59 
 
 When the world's cold rays have chilled us, 
 
 And the tears that start 
 
 In an anguished pride are banished 
 
 Backward to the heart, 
 
 There to fall in bitter weeping, drop by drop, and day by 
 
 day, 
 Till its happy songs are silenced, 
 And its gladness worn away. 
 
 Here I lift my hands up meekly, and I kneel and pray, 
 Here within the mystic splendor, shining from that distant 
 
 day, 
 That this sad — this last petition, 
 May yet meet thy tender grace, 
 While those eyes give out their blessing 
 On my upturned face. 
 
 That within the great hereafter I may meet them once again, 
 When my soul has left behind it all this weary pain, 
 That the pathway still before me I may follow swift and 
 
 brave, 
 Till I find my past restored me, 
 O'er the threshold of the grave. 
 
 IF. 
 
 TO J. S. R. 
 
 If we had parted then — ah me ! 
 When on that summer day you first beheld me, 
 Each would have walked, through life, a separate way, 
 You caring not, whate'er befell me. 
 
 If, in that morning's radiance, 
 
 When first I saw your manhood's strength and glory. 
 Your eyes had not sought for my inmost spirit, 
 And told to me the old-time story. 
 
60 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 If God had made you not so true, 
 If I had lived long years before your being, 
 Each would have claimed of peace a quiet share, 
 No dream of happiness believing. 
 
 But meeting, heart to kindred heart 
 Revealed too soon the mutual yearning, 
 And nevermore can other souls with ours 
 Thrill in that wild, delicious learning. 
 
 Learned once, but learned no more, 
 The truths that bring our lives a blest fruition, 
 And in the past we watch the fading hours 
 That brought to us the sweet transition. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY READING A POEM BY HECTOR A. STUART. 
 
 Oh ! for a woman, perfect, pure, and true, 
 A bard has sung; and pictured her so sweet, 
 My heart had listened to his magic words, 
 And worshiped at her feet. 
 
 Cruel the power that M'ould a being call, 
 So fair, so blest, from out her native clime 
 To wander forth, unmated and alone, 
 Throughout the bounds of time; 
 
 Her white feet wounded, and her pure soul grieved, 
 To tread the haunts of selfishness and death, 
 Where woman's fame is lightly held, and oft 
 Is tarnished by a breath. 
 
 Where daughters, loved, and reared with tenderest care 
 Endowed with every charm of maiden grace, 
 With mind well stored, with thoughts the most refined, 
 To crown a beauteous face — 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 6 1 
 
 Are, in the glory of their blushing youth, 
 With soul unspotted as this world has seen, 
 Yielded at last to grace the proffered home 
 Owned by some libertine. 
 
 So are our hearts' best idols sacrificed, 
 Life's promise ended in a fate like this; 
 Their innocence defiled by lips that oft 
 Have met the wanton's kiss. 
 
 O God ! thy hand has smote impurity 
 In the past ages of forgotten years — 
 Is there no answer to the sad appeal 
 That speaks in woman's tears ? 
 
 Must each fond dream of honor fade away, 
 Our laughter choke in trembling sobs, and must 
 Precious ideals of truth but crumble down 
 To very sordid dust ? 
 
 Oh, for a man whose heart is undefiled, 
 Whose daily acts have made his record fair, 
 And him our equal — then the Bard may dream, 
 And offer up his prayer. 
 
 DISAPPOINTED. 
 
 Of my life they were a part, 
 But I hold them in my heart 
 
 Only as a memory. 
 For my bright hopes, one by one, 
 For their future, all have flown 
 
 From my life so silently. 
 
62 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 Through the strife of many years 
 Did I toil with patient tears, 
 
 While my young heart earnestly 
 Beat for them without the stain 
 Of one selfish wish for gain, 
 
 Beat for them so faithfully. 
 
 But the ones so dear to me 
 Are not what I hoped to see, 
 
 And my heart breaks quietly; 
 None can see beneath my smile, 
 How my soul grieves all the while, 
 
 Wounded, oh! so cruelly. 
 
 Now the faces loved the best 
 That were in my faithful breast 
 
 Pictured, oh! so tenderly, 
 At a deep and bitter cost, 
 Have their loving interest lost, 
 
 And look up so icily 
 
 Into eyes that nevermore, 
 Till this life of pain is o'er, 
 
 Can look back as happily 
 As they did in other days, 
 E'er the cold world and its ways 
 
 Dimmed their light so utterly. 
 
 CONVENT BELLS. 
 
 O Convent Bells! whose early chime 
 Falls sweetly on the morning air, 
 
 You summon, with your brazen rhyme, 
 Young hearts to study, blest by prayer. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 63 
 
 I pause without the frowning wall, 
 
 Your voices seem a dread decree, 
 For thus no more, with hallowed call, 
 
 Will Convent Bells ring out for me. 
 
 Cursed seem the poor in every clime — 
 
 I heard your summons years ago, 
 And to the sound my heart beat time 
 
 In glad responses, deep and low. 
 
 Since you were calling, what to me 
 
 Was work ? The wave that bore me on — 
 
 I faltered but at fate's decree, 
 
 And now — my early youth is gone. 
 
 Glad would I seek the safe retreat 
 
 Where truth and knowledge pure are seen, 
 
 Had not the years, with silent feet 
 And pallid faces, come between. 
 
 Ring out, O Bells! at early morn, 
 And let your evening song be sweet, 
 
 While one poor heart, bereft, forlorn, 
 Finds solace at her Savior's feet. 
 
 ONE JULY NIGHT: KLAMATH. 
 
 No more in the waning summer, 
 When over the fading grass, 
 The first faint sighs of autumn 
 In trembling whispers pass, 
 
 Shall we stand at the evening's threshold 
 While the harvest moon hangs red 
 O'er mountains that seemed to listen, 
 In silence, to all we said. 
 
64 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 No more can that magic night-time, 
 Or the faint and rare perfume 
 That came from the breath of the roses, 
 With the river's murmured tune, 
 
 Come to us in the mystic glory 
 Of that hour- forever fled, 
 For the days of that radiant summer, 
 With its roses, are lying dead. 
 
 But that hour, so fraught with feeling, 
 It lives, like an endless dream 
 Whose charm has blest, and brought us 
 A gladness and peace supreme. 
 
 When the roses of youth lie faded, 
 And life's autumn coming on. 
 With its moaning requiems sighing 
 Over years forever gone, 
 
 We will wait at death's chilling threshold, 
 While over the hills of Time, 
 Undimmed in their sacred splendor, 
 The stars of memory shine. 
 
 AT SAWYER'S BAR. 
 
 The summer day was growing late, 
 The night-gloom coming on apace, 
 
 As leaned a woman o'er her gate, 
 
 With weary, pale, and sin-stamped face. 
 
 The record of the many years 
 
 That she had passed in wrong and sin, 
 Was written, with the trace of tears, 
 
 Where lines of beauty might have been. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 65 
 
 Oh! who can read the bitter grief, 
 
 And words that will translate it find, 
 Of musing o'er her unblest fate, 
 
 By one so cursed by all her kind. 
 
 Two ramblers coming down the hill, 
 Their white hands filled with roses rare, 
 
 Looked on the creature, standing still, 
 With face so marked by haunting care. 
 
 Her wild eyes seemed to bid them wait, 
 Her lips were moved, as though to speak; 
 
 She reached her worn hands o'er the gate, 
 While tears were trickling down her cheek. 
 
 O, give me one — just one," she said; 
 
 "Not often kindness comes to me;" 
 And paled her lips, as pale the dead, 
 
 As waked some silent memory. 
 
 If ever, in the human face, 
 
 My eyes have read repentance yet, 
 A real regret could there be traced 
 
 Upon those features, blanched and set. 
 
 And though the world extends her shame 
 Through days that bring her to the grave, 
 
 And clogs with vile, dishonored name, 
 The soul that none have tried to save, 
 
 Yet, standing on the last great day 
 
 Before the walls of Paradise, 
 If she prays Mercy, thus, to stay, 
 
 That same wild anguish in her eyes — 
 
 That same heart-broken look of woe — 
 That same remorse for self and sin — 
 
 No angel there will bid her go, 
 I think; but surely let her in. 
 
66 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 In the gray of the dawn, 
 
 When the stars seem at rest, 
 
 I shall wait on the hills 
 
 That His footsteps have blessed, 
 
 For the messenger sent 
 
 By a merciful God 
 
 To the souls that have tired 
 
 Of the paths they have trod. 
 
 On the down of his wings 
 The red light will lay, 
 That heralds approach, 
 Of eternity's day; 
 And reflect on my face, 
 Till the mark of the tomb 
 Fades out in the glow 
 That my features illume. 
 
 I know not how soon 
 I shall wait with the dead 
 On those hills that have smiled 
 With that presence long fled; 
 But His footsteps before 
 Shall yet guide me to rest, 
 Through that beautiful dawn 
 Where our lives are confessed. 
 
 From earth, that my spirit 
 Oft sorely has tried, 
 To the realm where the blest 
 In their goodness abide, 
 My soul, like a flower, 
 Shall arise from the sod, 
 To bloom evermore 
 In the sunlight of God. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 67 
 
 ALAS! 
 
 Gone is the dream, and fled the inspiration, 
 That to my life I thought would still belong, 
 
 Lost is the theme, and lost the sweet vocation, 
 And silent now the lips once glad with song. 
 
 Quiet the heart that used to beat so fondly, 
 And thrill with hopes I never dared to speak, 
 
 Roses once red, and passionately burning, 
 Faded to ashes on my pallid cheek. 
 
 Cold is the heart I learned to love so blindly, 
 Wasted the bloom that crowned my early years; 
 
 No coming time can touch my life more kindly, 
 Nor smooth the traces of my bitter tears. 
 
 Now to the portal of a nameless sorrow 
 
 My feet have fled and left the world no trace, 
 
 While in the future waits no glad to-morrow, 
 Wearing the old-time smiles upon its face. 
 
 AMADOR. 
 
 Yet I see thy yellow fields, 
 As they lay in years before, 
 Spread beneath an autumn sky, 
 Fair and fruitful Amador. 
 
 In thy canyons and ravines 
 Miners sought the precious ore, 
 When I, careless, wandered on, 
 Through thy pathways, Amador. 
 
 But though still thy smiling face 
 Turns to heaven as before, 
 Tears are on my own to-day, 
 As I greet thee ; Amador. 
 
68 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 Where is now the proud young head, 
 Yellow as thy golden ore ? 
 In thy dust it lieth low, 
 And you heed not, Amador. 
 
 What are all thy pleasant fields ? 
 What the treasure of thy ore ? 
 Can they bring one pulse of life 
 To a dead heart, Amador ? 
 
 Stilled the voice of melody, 
 I will hear it nevermore; 
 Silent, like that heart, it lies 
 Hushed forever, Amador. 
 
 Hope once twined the fairest flowers, 
 Bright the future seemed before; 
 But they withered and lie dead 
 On thy bosom, Amador. 
 
 Friendship seems an idle name, 
 But 'twas real in times of yore, 
 When we sang our songs beneath 
 Thy tamaracks, O Amador! 
 
 O'er the waves of Silver Lake, 
 Or upon its tranquil shore, 
 Never will our voices blend 
 In thy moonlight, Amador. 
 
 So, while still thy smiling face 
 Turns to heaven as before, 
 Tears are on my own to-day, 
 As I greet thee, Amador. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 69 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 Some day that waits in coming years, 
 When our two paths lie far apart, 
 When Time has marked the careless brow, 
 And carved his record on the heart, 
 
 My smile has faded to a dream, 
 My presence gone, my words forgot, 
 My name unspoken, and no voice 
 To bless by prayer my stranger lot, 
 
 Not thinking of the time gone by, 
 In heedless mood your hand may stray 
 Toward this book, whose silent leaves 
 Bear record of a distant day. 
 
 Traced by a hand that vanished soon, 
 Words that had long forgotten lain, 
 Then from the past so dead and dim, 
 Call up my absent face again. 
 
 And know that though a long "good-by," 
 Has slept between us, like a spell 
 Of silence sad, and left no word 
 To break that first and last farewell; 
 
 That though the merry voice is hushed, 
 The hand grown nerveless, and the bloom 
 Chilled into white upon my cheek, 
 And turned my heart cold in the tomb; 
 
 Yet, in a common sisterhood, 
 We both have known life's pain and joy, 
 Which makes us kindred, and the years, 
 This tie, at least, can not destroy. 
 
70 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 TO LITTLE ANNIE. 
 
 rest! my darling, rest 
 Safe on my sheltering breast, 
 
 So free from care and pain; 
 When from my arms you go, 
 Then never will you know 
 
 Unselfish love again. 
 
 1 would these tears that fall 
 Through life were last and all, 
 
 To bathe your worshiped face; 
 That on your pure, white brow — 
 Your heart, so guileless now — 
 
 No grief could leave its trace. 
 
 Oh ! that within my arms, 
 Safe from all dread alarms, 
 
 My child might ever stay; 
 Nor learn that woman's fate 
 Is often desolate — 
 
 Her idols — only clay. 
 
 Her innocence and trust 
 Oft humbled to the dust — 
 
 Her worth oft spurned; 
 When, at unworthy feet, 
 Her life's devotion sweet 
 
 Is laid, and not returned. 
 
 But Time will all too soon 
 Take back his precious boon, 
 
 And passing silently, 
 The years will soon depart, 
 And wean this little heart 
 
 From its great love for 
 
 me. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 7 1 
 
 But though change Time shall bring, 
 There is one changeless thing 
 
 From which will not depart 
 The love that grows more deep, 
 When age its vigils keep — 
 
 A mother s faithful heart. 
 
 TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 This ceaseless march leads surely to the grave, 
 And friendship's offices are all that save 
 From deep despair the suffering heart of man, 
 Who, anguished, works out God's mysterious plan. 
 So dark does look the portal of the tomb — 
 So shrinks the spirit from before its gloom; 
 That hard indeed would be the bed of death, 
 And filled with moans be every dying breath, 
 If friendship's voice should fail for dying eyes 
 To paint the visions of a paradise, 
 To point the parting soul to its reward, 
 To vow so faithfully and well to guard, 
 In solemn promises most true and kind, 
 The loved and cherished that we leave behind. 
 
 When health and beauty bloom upon the cheek, 
 
 When eyes are bright, and glad the words we speak, 
 
 When sweet Prosperity in shining hours 
 
 Has smiled, and strewn our happy way with flowers; 
 
 'Tis easy then, as speed our careless days, 
 
 To hear the voice that seems sincere in praise, 
 
 And oft for favors or for gold we buy 
 
 The friends whose flatteries with our fortunes die. 
 
 Twice only can we count our friends sincere, 
 
 When by our cradle, and beside our bier. 
 
72 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 Kind is the heart that does its vigils keep 
 
 Unselfishly above our infant sleep; 
 
 Still, future years, through hope's fruition fair, 
 
 May bring return for all that watchful care; 
 
 So, kinder yet, when life's brief day is o'er, 
 
 When all its promises delude no more, 
 
 When pale the cheek and faint the labored breath, 
 
 The one who watches by the bed of death, 
 
 And bends above us with a pitying care, 
 
 To catch the last sad broken words of prayer 
 
 From lips that nevermore may thank or bless 
 
 The one who grants this act of tenderness. 
 
 To-day we bask in love and love's belief, 
 Nor deem its day as changing, or as brief; 
 To-morrow, from it, with unbeating heart, 
 In long farewell and silently we part, 
 And those who love us, even in their woe, 
 May from our open grave be first to go; 
 While strangers heap between us and the sun 
 The solemn mound, that tells the end has come. 
 Kinder than all whom we have known and blessed, 
 The friend who gives us to our final rest, 
 While sorrow fills our place, and looks upon 
 Those we have left when all our work is done. 
 
 IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 While Night, from out her native sky, 
 Looks down with many a starry eye, 
 Where all Earth's children seem at rest 
 Upon their mother's kindly breast; 
 Why, while the whole world seems to sleep, 
 Dost thou thy watchful vigils keep, 
 Astronomer? What thy reward, 
 The journeys of the stars to guard ? 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 73 
 
 / wake — the dotard and the brute 
 
 May lie in sleep enchained and mute; 
 
 But writ upon that trackless sky 
 
 The fate of ages I descry; 
 
 / can not lose the hours of time 
 
 That with such glorious mysteries shine. 
 
 / watch — that future man may read 
 
 The revelations of my creed. 
 
 mother, bending o'er thy child 
 With heart of love, so true and mild; 
 Why, till the distant day has dawned, 
 Do thy petitions pure' and fond 
 Reach to the Author of all light, 
 Throughout the watches of the night ? 
 And why such ward, unselfish, keep 
 Above thy baby's peaceful sleep ? 
 
 Why do I thus, with patience, bear 
 The task confided to my care ? 
 'Forbid them not" (He said), because 
 Of such his very kingdom was; 
 And be it peasant, be it king, 
 A child is still a precious thing; 
 He holds, if fated to command, 
 The good of nations in his hand. 
 
 And if to humble lot he's born, 
 
 1 yet will guard him night and morn; 
 No matter what things / endure, 
 
 If I can make him wise and pure, 
 And keep through youth, within his eyes, 
 The light they brought from Paradise, 
 The task is grand, in God's great plan, 
 To rear a good and honest man. 
 
74 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 When thousands he in rest profound 
 By slumber's sluggish chain enwound, 
 With thankless lip, and sin-stamped brow. 
 For them, O priest! why pray est thou ? 
 " My child, this life is but a span, 
 Too short to intercede for man; 
 And, while the sin-fraught ages roll, 
 I pray for his undying soul." 
 
 Up, sluggard ! think and watch and pray, 
 Beforeyour time has passed away, 
 There comes at last unbroken rest, 
 When rains beat o'er the quiet breast, 
 Before we hear the sounding horn 
 That ushers Resurrection's morn — 
 When life no more is warm and bright, 
 Then sleep through watches of the night. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 In all the history of the world, that name, 
 
 In love and honor, has remained the same. 
 
 A mediatress she was chosen, when 
 
 She interposed between her God and men, 
 
 And in her pure arms held in fond embrace 
 
 The Infant Savior of our fallen race; 
 
 First at the tomb, and last beside the cross, 
 
 No plan of mercy can sustain her loss; 
 
 Like to the dove, who folds her patient wings, 
 
 And mourns her sorrow, yet in mourning sings, 
 
 The while her course could reach beyond the stars, 
 
 She stays her flight in narrow prison bars, 
 
 Far from the world and where its evils lurk, 
 
 She fain would turn to seek some chosen work. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 75 
 
 Yet shrinks not from the ways of death and sin, 
 When through their paths a loved one enters in; 
 She leaves to none, beside her God confessed, 
 The wrongs that burn in her defenseless breast; 
 To hands that wound she yet will kiss and cling, 
 And for the erring her petitions bring, 
 While tears but fall beneath the chastening rod, 
 A current bearing her toward her God, 
 And on that tide which bears her surely on, 
 Have many sinners to forgiveness gone, 
 That but for prayers and tears so freely given, 
 Had never passed beyond the gate of heaven. 
 Without her, incomplete this wondrous plan, 
 This great creation, and its triumph, man. 
 
 CENTENNIAL POEM— JULY 4, 1876. 
 
 Not to his greatness does my muse aspire, 
 And yet, like Virgil, I shall sing of arms, 
 Of strifes and heroes; though the goddess Peace 
 Has smiled, and banished all of war's alarms. 
 
 Here in our first, our fair Centennial's noon, 
 We meet beneath the glorious Tree of State, 
 So gather all Columbia's children in, 
 To-day, with gladness, every heart elate; 
 
 Remembering, while its branches spread and han< 
 Full-fruited through the toil of other years, 
 The source that gave it life and strength has been 
 The grand baptism of a Nation's tears. 
 
 This freedom that we boast, how was it won ? 
 How made so sure the liberty we claim ? 
 Go read your answer from the scroll of time, 
 Recorded there, in lines of blood and pain. 
 
J6 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 Think of the little band of fearless men 
 Who framed the words that first proclaimed us free; 
 Who held their hearts within their willing hands, 
 Their lives an offering for you and me. 
 
 Think of the blighted hopes and ruined homes, 
 The widow's nameless loss, the orphan's tears — 
 The sowing that no harvest-time could bring, 
 Till life had ended in the distant years. 
 
 Think of our soldiers, who, in want, half-clad, 
 With weary feet trod through the blood-stained snow, 
 In patient, suffering, undying hope, 
 At Valley Forge, one hundred years ago; 
 
 Or hearts that broke in British prison hulks, 
 Where scenes excelled all torments at their worse; 
 With freedom found but through the gates of death, 
 Their souls fled, shrinking, from the Hessian's curse. 
 
 Go to Mount Vernon, where the pond'rous tomb 
 That generous heart holds turned to dust; 
 Whose pulses beat for liberty alone, 
 Leal to his country and his country's trust; 
 
 And ask if ever sentiment was found 
 Untrue to him, within your traitorous thought; 
 If sOj kneel down in tearful penitence, 
 O'erwhelmed by all his lifelong service brought; 
 
 And thank the Power that gave to us the one, 
 Against whose name the world can find no ban, 
 And blest our country in her darkest hour, 
 With that most perfect work: an honest man. 
 
 And since through sacrifice and pain and death 
 Did we our boon of liberty attain, 
 Let every true and earnest heart invoke 
 The ceaseless blessing of her endless reign; 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. J J 
 
 And thank to-day the Providence that kept, 
 Through that long scourge that came to us but late, 
 Our rights intact; and made us one once more, 
 Although our sky so long was dark with hate. 
 
 For now Peace smiles in gladness from her throne, 
 There comes no clash of arms, no battle sounds — 
 Thank God ! our land is free from dread alarms, 
 Silent the fife; no bugle-call resounds; 
 
 No drummer shrilly beats the fierce tattoo, 
 Nor sounds the reveille, or long roll's call; 
 No more in conflict foe with foe shall meet, 
 While gallant men by kindred hands shall fall. 
 
 On southern plains no hostile banner waves, 
 No cannon's roaring rends the trembling hours, 
 The track of war has left but heroes' graves 
 Beneath the tribute of our fairest flowers. 
 
 All honor to those brave and fallen men, 
 Whose lives went out for right or erring cause, 
 Borne by the roll of drums and bugle's wail, 
 Where comes no war, to blanch a nation's laws. 
 
 Though many hearts have said good-by to hope, 
 When marched their best, away from sight and life, 
 And homes have lost their darlings, age its stay, 
 God grant we may forget the bitter strife. 
 
 Since sin into this glorious, perfect world 
 First entered through the gates of Paradise, 
 God, in his wisdom, no boon has given 
 To man, unheralded by sacrifice. 
 
 Ages ago in agony there hung 
 
 Upon the cross on Calvary's dark crest, 
 
 A Savior dying for a world of sin, 
 
 The blood slow trickling from his sacred breast* 
 
7& THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 With sounds of mourning all the world was full; 
 
 For, as those drops touched earth, her great heart broke: 
 
 All nature trembled, and in anguished pain, 
 
 The sun grew dark, the rocks and mountains spoke, 
 
 And as that life so pure — a God's — went out, 
 It oped a refuge through his sacred tomb, 
 And by that narrow track, the hosts of sin 
 Alone have found a sure escape from doom. 
 
 So, then, forget not, that though pain and death 
 Our fetters broke, when freedom was begun; 
 Yet God, to rend the chains of vice and sin, 
 Gave to the sacrifice His only Son. 
 
 And since, o'er graves of all our best and great, 
 Have we strode onward to this time of peace; 
 Perchance, throughout our land in His good time, 
 All cruel wrong and bitter strife may cease. 
 
 Of all the lands that smile beneath the sun, 
 Our own most blest; her banner waves afar, 
 From tropic heat to arctic seas of ice, 
 Shines out the radiance of Columbia's star. 
 
 Our ships of commerce ply from shore to shore, 
 And bear our products o'er earth's farthest main, 
 And nations gaze with envious, startled eyes, 
 Upon the limits of our wide domain. 
 
 The wearied slaves of cruel foreign rule 
 Fly to the refuge that our shores afford, 
 And bless the country where they find indeed 
 Manhood their own, and manhood's rights restored. 
 
 Cursed be the laws that keep a cringing slave, 
 That being born in image of his God, 
 Which warp and bind man's proud, ambitious will, 
 Subservient to the tyrant's petty rod. 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 79 
 
 Sons of America, prize full well 
 
 The liberty that is your boast and pride; 
 
 Sacredly keep the great inheritance 
 
 For which our fathers' fathers fought and died. 
 
 Within the precious city of our hope 
 Guard well the watchtowers, and the ent7-ance gate, 
 That ruthless hands may not defile her worth, 
 Or traitors change the tendence of her fate; 
 
 That when, within the lapse of changing years, 
 
 Another centenary greets the hours, 
 
 Its horoscope may all be written fair, 
 
 While not one cloud above its brightness lowers; 
 
 While we, long since, have journeyed safely on 
 Toward the promised, smiling after-lands, 
 Where, with the authors of our liberty, 
 We hope to greet, with eager hearts and hands. 
 
 MAY-DAY IN MENDOCINO. 
 1. 
 April, once more surprised by smiling May, 
 In her fair arms has wept herself away; 
 Onward she speeds, another clime to seek, 
 Leaving her tears upon her sister's cheek. 
 Over the fields the verdant pathways spread, 
 Tell where the Spring has gone with gentle tread; 
 We at her shrine with thankful hearts appear, 
 Laden with flowers of another year; 
 With no sweeter tribute could we her adore 
 Than the blossoms lavished from her beauteous store. 
 
 11. 
 Here the little children come with laugh and song, 
 Come to gather May-flowers all the whole day long, 
 
80 THE EARLIER POEMS 
 
 And each mother, looking, o'er the radiant sod, 
 Praying for her darlings, lifts her soul to God, 
 Asking that the roses still may keep their bloom, 
 Though the way they border leads but to the tomb, 
 Saying: "Through the future — through all coming 
 
 morns — 
 Give to us the trials, save them from the thorns;" 
 Till through paths of honor willing feet have made, 
 Go the little travelers where no blossoms fade. 
 
 in. 
 Here the youths and maidens seek each wildwood gem, 
 Fair the world is seeming, crowned with hope for them — 
 Is it always roses that the young men seek ? 
 Yes, but they are blooming on some maiden's cheek; 
 Sweet the charms, and many, that the spring adorns, 
 Full of happy bird-songs, full of golden morns; 
 But I tell you truly, that the gladdest time 
 Is when young affection first is in its prime; 
 Sad it is that ever Time should steal away 
 All the happy dreaming, blessing it to-day; 
 Sad that disappointment should with bitter tears 
 Dim the bright eyes watching for the coming years. 
 Could we buy the freshness only youth can hold, 
 How would every miser squander forth his gold; 
 And no gloomy weather would our hearts o'ercast 
 If the spring of life-time could but only last. 
 Then go forth and gather in the world your part, 
 Take some modest blossom, wear it on your heart; 
 Do not let it languish for the lack of care, 
 It is yours to cherish. Keep it always fair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Many to-day, with heads as white as snow, 
 Dream of the Mays that blest the long ago, 
 
OF ANNA M. MORRISON. 8 1 
 
 Though in their hearts sweet memory shall sing 3 
 When earth puts on the garb of early spring, 
 Still, not again can time to them restore 
 The faces hidden in the great no more. 
 Oh ! where are they — the joys that, known and lost, 
 Make up the sum of living's bitter cost ? 
 The fair, sweet face, the dear companionship, 
 The winning smile that wreathed the tender lip, 
 The child you held so close upon your breast 
 When death, relentless, called it to its rest, 
 The loving presence, and the clinging hand, 
 That beckons now toward the unknown land, 
 The bright eye's luster, and familiar voice ? 
 When mourning these, the heart can not rejoice; 
 A sweet reflection from these glad young eyes 
 May shine like rainbows over wintry skies; 
 But May has left, for them, her wealth of bloom 
 Along some path that ended in the tomb. 
 
 But though our own fond hopes be sadly o'er, 
 Though life's fair spring-time it can come no more. 
 We hear, while e'er we wander o'er the sod, 
 A thankful voice that sings its praise to God; 
 Within our soul its grateful numbers speak, 
 That still the winds of heaven kiss our cheek; 
 For charms that still belong to every spring; 
 For flowers that blow, and happy birds that sing; 
 Praise it returns, and praising still, is blest, 
 Though lone it goes toward its final rest. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Here in the valley of our favored choice, 
 Well may we all with laugh and song rejoice, 
 Far from tearful want, and the blighting drouth, 
 
82 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 Over our sisters fainting in the south, 
 
 Fields where but late the fruitful seed was sown, 
 
 Promise us soon a plenteous harvest-home; 
 
 Our redwood forests wave their noble crest 
 
 O'er rivers flowing on toward the west; 
 
 Lambs are straying over Mount San Hed rim's slope, 
 
 And blessed seems, for us, each future hope. 
 
 Looking to the east, in her pride appears 
 
 Lake, with her blue eyes filled with happy tears; 
 
 Yellow-haired Sonoma, lying in the south, 
 
 With the kiss of summer waiting on her mouth; 
 
 Humboldt on the north, in her youth divine; 
 
 To the west the ocean, with its songs sublime; 
 
 Fair Mendocino, of them all the queen, 
 
 Smiles upon us sweetly, in her robe of green. 
 
PREDICTIONS AND APPROBATIONS 
 OF THE PRESS. 
 
 As a poetess of rare merit, as a lecturer second to no 
 woman I have heard speak, as a daughter brave and filial, 
 Miss Anna M. Morrison, of California, is respected and 
 honored all over the Golden State, for talent, modesty, and 
 worth. Her future promise is that of winning a proud 
 position on the hill of fame and fortune. — Correspondence 
 of the New York Weekly. 
 
 California Literature. — At the request of a number 
 of well-known gentlemen, Mrs. Anna M. Reed, of Ukiah, 
 Mendocino county, formerly Miss Anna Morrison, of 
 Butte county, will issue during the holidays, or soon there- 
 after, a volume of poems, several of which from time to 
 time we have been pleased to publish in the Examiner. 
 While Miss Morrison, the young lady had recourse to lec- 
 turing for the purpose of obtaining means to assist in sup- 
 porting her father's family, and to complete her own 
 education. As a lecturess she was an eminent success 
 the journals of the different places where she delivered 
 her discourses declaring her to be brilliant and entertain- 
 ing. As a poetess, we are confident she will prove to be 
 successful, such of her productions in that direction as 
 have come under our observation being possessed of de- 
 cided merit. — San Francisco Examiner. 
 
84 PRESS NOTICES. 
 
 During - the holidays, or soon after, Mrs. Anna M. Reed, 
 nee Miss Morrison, of Ukiah, will, at the request of nearly 
 one hundred of the leading literary men of the State, pub- 
 lish a volume of her poems. Some years ago, when Mrs. 
 Reed was struggling in the lecture field to assist her father's 
 family, and to secure means to complete her education, the 
 Golden Era said of her: " We regard Miss Morrison as the 
 most promising poetical genius of this coast, and, if her 
 prose is equal to her verse, she will gain fame as a lec- 
 turer." We shall look earnestly for the coming of Mrs. 
 Reed's volume. — Golden Era. 
 
 Mrs. Anna M. Reed (Miss Morrison), of Ukiah, Men- 
 docino county, California, will issue, about the holidays, a 
 volume of her own poems. We have had the pleasure of 
 reading many beautiful little gems from the pen of Anna 
 Morrison, and it is with pleasure we learn that we will 
 soon have the little stray leaves put into a neat book. The 
 price of the book will be three dollars, and we have no 
 doubt her thousands of admirers in California will try to 
 secure the volume. — Santa Ana Herald. 
 
 Miss Morrison, who is a California lady, has written a 
 number of exquisite poetical contributions for the Golden 
 Era of this city.-— Figaro. 
 
 A Volume Worth Haviz^g.— Mrs. Anna M. Reed, 
 the author here referred to, will be remembered by the 
 people of Humboldt as the talented and eloquent young 
 lady who, in 1872, paid a visit to this section of the State 
 in the capacity of a lecturess — then Anna M. Morrison. 
 At that time she was a poor girl, having only the help of 
 her own intellectual endowments, bravely buffeting with 
 the world for the means with which to support the family 
 of her aged father and complete her own education. Na- 
 ture had highly favored her, however, in the bestowment 
 
PRESS NOTICES. 85 
 
 of her choicest intellectual gifts, and during those dark 
 days many touching and beautiful poems were born to the 
 world through the inspiration of her pen. And now that 
 brighter days have come, she has been persuaded by 
 friends, both old and new, to collect into one volume 
 those poetical gems of her girlhood, and present them to 
 the public in book form. — Areata Leader. 
 
 Anna M. Morrison is a name of which California will 
 one day be proud ; for she has ability, energy, high pur- 
 pose, and purity of mind and heart, which will win suc- 
 cess. She has written much for the papers, and has 
 attracted the attention and praise of many of the literary 
 men of the coast. — Grass Valley Union. 
 
 Miss Morrison has had recourse to lecturing for the 
 purpose of obtaining means to assist in supporting her 
 father's family, and to complete her own education. 
 She is a young lady of talent and commendable ambition. 
 Yreka Union. 
 
 Miss Morrison met with great success and encourage- 
 ment during her tour up north, and Shasta was not behind 
 her sister towns in lending generous aid to this noble and 
 self-reliant California girl. — Shasta Courier. 
 
 We predict for this talented young lady a bright and 
 glorious future.— Butte Record. 
 
 Lecture.— Miss Anna M. Morrison, Butte county's 
 young and talented authoress, has been giving a series of 
 lectures at Colusa, Princeton, Red Bluff, and other places 
 in Tehama county. She has been highly successful every- 
 where, and will soon deliver a lecture in Oroville. Her 
 many friends here will be pleased to learn of her success, 
 and to know that her extraordinary talent is employed for 
 the noble and filial object of supporting an invalid father, 
 
86 PRESS NOTICES. 
 
 and a family of young and helpless brothers and sisters. 
 She is a noble girl, and Butte county is proud of her. — 
 Oroville Record. 
 
 The lecture on Wednesday evening was one of the most 
 brilliant and entertaining ever delivered in our town; and 
 all who heard the lady attest the superior power she pos- 
 sesses as a speaker. Miss Morrison is well aware of the 
 prejudice prevailing against lady lecturers, yet, for the sake 
 of the object she has in view, she is prepared to brave the 
 displeasure of the world. Her aim is a laudable one, and 
 all men should look at the noble girl as she heroically strug- 
 gles with adversity, and help her on to the consummation 
 of her purpose. — Chico Enterprise. 
 
 She is the peer of Miss Dickinson in intellect, and of 
 the twain, her lectures will best bear criticism. — Sacra- 
 mento Union. 
 
 Mrs. John S. [Reed (Miss Anna M. Morrison) is that 
 lady who, for remarkable energy and native talent, has 
 gained a place in the history of California, as one who has 
 been able to stem the current, and keep ahead of circum- 
 stances, and make a life compatible to noble ambition. — 
 Ukiah City Press, 
 
 Mrs. Reed has a fertile imagination, a cultured mind, 
 and a devotion to the muses, which give to her produc- 
 tions a charm and a sweetness which never tire. — Ukiah 
 Dispatch. 
 
 Without straying from the even tenor of her themes, she 
 weaves around them fancies that show that her imagina- 
 tion is the handmaid of her genius, ever ready to spread 
 the canvas and present the pencil. — Democratic Dispatch.