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RANDOM RHYMES 
 
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 WASHINGTON, D. ('. 
 
 1882. 
 
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 Copyright, 1882, 
 
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 By ARTHUR WOORSTER. ^~- 
 
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PREFACE. 
 
 Should you ask me why Fve written lines like these, 
 
 bereft of beauty ; — 
 Utterly devoid of wisdom, and of cleverness and 
 
 genius ; 
 Naught herein to interest you, to amuse or entertain 
 
 you — 
 I should answer, I should tell you : Just because it 
 
 pleased my fancy ! 
 Just because "I had a mind to !" 
 Should you then wax warm and "huffy" at the curt- 
 
 ness of my answer, 
 At my reply, curt and churlish ; and should ask in 
 
 accents frigid, 
 In a vein denoting satire: — Do you deem such 
 
 doggerel poetry t 
 I should calmly make rejoinder: — Was your grand- 
 mamma a monkey ? 
 Or voire pere a Gila-monster, that you thus parade 
 
 unaided such a doleful lack of sabe? 
 
 Having courteously responded — to your possible 
 
 inquiries — 
 I— most humbly and sincerely, write the name 
 
 bequeathed unto me. 
 
 "Poet Lariat." 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To the Wild West i 
 
 Cleopatra's Protest .. .. 7 
 
 A Prophecy ,. 12 
 
 An Episode , 20 
 
 In Memoriam 24 
 
 Custer's Funeral 26 
 
 A Victim of Fate ..^ 28 
 
 'Twas Au Revoir $6 
 
 Jeanette's Answer $8 
 
 Alone at the Springs . , 40 
 
 J 1 ** U« 43 
 
 Charity 5 3 
 
 At the Grave of C. W. D 55 
 
 Memorial Verses 57 
 
 To M. I). G 59 
 
 Retribution .< 61 
 
 Introspection , 67 
 
 To N. D 69 
 
 R. M 72 
 
 W. H. B ■ 73 
 
 Dissolution 74 
 
CONTENTS, vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Doomed Stag 76 
 
 A Blossom 81 
 
 A Scene in a Cemetery 84 
 
 Retrospection 87 
 
 To B. B 89 
 
 Jimjam Ike on Reformation 91 
 
 To B. 97 
 
 Poverty 1 o i 
 
 The Debutante 103 
 
 To M. C. F 106 
 
 A Quandary 109 
 
 A Life drama in 
 
 "Comf In;" or the Six Seasons 113 
 
 The Meadow-Lark 115 
 
 PARODIES. 
 
 Preface 121 
 
 Prologue to Slim Buttes 123 
 
 Slim Buttes 133 
 
 Antony 135 
 
 Car-ma-nee 141 
 
 To M. C. W. 145 
 
 The Iron-Hound Bucker 147 
 
 An Idle , 150 
 
 "It was the Cat" 151 
 
 Peace Policy \^$ 
 
RANDOM RHYMES. 
 
 TO THE WILD WEST. 
 
 Take me back to my love, to my glorious West ! 
 
 Where the sun sinks down in its flame-lit skies; 
 
 Where he bids good night to the toil and sighs 
 Of the laboring world, and sinks to rest 
 In his cradle of gold he loves the best, 
 
 Beyond the scope of the East's cold eyes. 
 
 Take me back to my West ] to my early love, 
 With her reaching plains and mountains of gold, 
 That guard her borders like sentinels bold ; 
 That loom in their grandeur beyond, above 
 The clouds that flit like a snow-white dove, 
 And wrap their heights in their vapory fold. 
 
 Take me back again to her reaching plains, 
 Whose limits are lost in the sky's fond kiss, 
 As it stoops with blushes to drink the bliss 
 That flows with a flood through her wild warm veins, 
 Which are free from the fulsome taints and stains 
 That are born in the blood of a clime like this! 
 
TO THE WILD WEST. 
 
 Take me back to her plains where the cactus flowers. 
 In colors which none save God can paint — 
 With blossoms so perfect and never a taint ! 
 To her sable hills where the pine-tree towers, 
 To her Rosebud Vale and her wild-formed bowers, 
 To that Eden where never was heard complaint ! 
 
 Take me back again to her canons, so deep 
 You wonder if even your God can tell 
 If they reach to Heaven or sink to Hell, 
 
 As silent they lie in their endless sleep ! 
 
 While in rapture and terror you bend and weep, 
 And hide your thought in its innermost cell. 
 
 Take me back to the life that beats in the breast 
 Of her rivers that flow o'er their beds of gold ! 
 To their babble and laughter, as on they roll 
 To the great calm sea that fringes the West — 
 From its Southern edge to its Northern crest, 
 Where their secrets are hid 'neath its bosom's fold. 
 
 Take me back to the rest, to those kingly dreams 
 That lived in my sleep when my head was laid 
 On my saddle seat, 'neath the spreading shade 
 Of the cottonwood boughs that arch her streams, 
 While the moon through her lattice of stars shed beams 
 That lent to my vision her mystic aid ! 
 
 Take me back again to ray playmates wild! 
 
 To the tender fawn and the graceful doe — 
 
 To the lordling elk, and the buffalo, 
 That fed from my hand like a trustful child, 
 And seemed to speak with their eyes so mild 
 
 They would soften the. heart of a savage foe ! 
 
TO THE WILD WEST. ,3 
 
 To the turkey-wild, and the plumed quail, 
 
 To the plover, and pheasant and burnished dove, 
 That whistled and called and cooed their love, 
 
 When the day would dawn, or the night would pale ; 
 
 To the lark, whose carol would never fail 
 To tell me the sun in the East did move ! 
 
 Take me back to her monarchs, her mighty men, 
 Her moulds of the noblest work of God, 
 Who pressed the turf of her virgin sod 
 When she was unborn to the East, and when 
 Her wonders and riches were hid from its ken, 
 And barred from its sight by a dazzling rod ! 
 
 Her rugged frontiersmen with hearts as great 
 As that which throbbed in the land they sought ; 
 Those heroes who struggled and battled and fought 
 Their path to her heart, undeterred by the fate 
 That frowned on their daring and bade them wait ; 
 But onward they pressed for the West, or naught ! 
 
 Take me back to the comrades and scouts I knew 
 In her dear old land in the cycles dead, 
 When into the depths of her soul we led, 
 And journeyed together her full length through — 
 Nor grief, nor sorrow, nor trouble knew, 
 Save the rightful shot of the foeman red ! 
 
 I know you are crude, but I love you West 
 In your own wild way as I saw you first, 
 When my youthful heart was for love athirst ! 
 
 And then God made you, and who knows best? 
 
 What mortal dare say which is best or worst, 
 The man-made East, or the God-made West? 
 
TO THE WILD WEST. 
 
 But my love, my love! I fear you will wed 
 
 With the cold, proud East who is wrinkled and old ; 
 You will give him your freshness and beauty and gold, 
 
 And get but his science and art instead ; 
 
 And your velvety breast where I've pillowed my head; 
 Will be torn by the ploughshare, and staked and sold ! 
 
 Your mountains and hills shall be tunneled through, 
 So the smoking horse that is fed by steam 
 Can dash through their centre with frightful scream, 
 
 And fill them with terror — so strange and new ; 
 
 And shafts shall be sunk in their sides, and you 
 Will awake too late from your fair, false dream. 
 
 He'll not spare your rivers ! their bosom must part 
 To the keel, and the wheel of the noisy mill; 
 They'll be spanned by bridges, and dammed until 
 
 A sudden pain is felt in your heart, 
 
 And you turn from the scene of this murderous Art — 
 But what can you do? 'Tis your master's will ! 
 
 Your plains will be crushed by the ponderous weight 
 Of the structures and wonders he'll plan and build ! 
 Your sun-clad vales will be torn and tilled, 
 
 Should you with this wrinkled lover mate ; 
 
 Nor would all that you have his craving sate, 
 Till the last of your herds is driven and killed ! 
 
 And temples he'll rear on your honest wold ; 
 
 And above their doors will Justice stand, 
 
 With her balanced scales in her stainless hand ; 
 
 While Injustice within shall his scales uphold, 
 
 Which yield to the weight of the perjuring gold, 
 
 That triumphs o'er Justice in all his land ! 
 
TO THE WILD WEST. 5 
 
 Your moon and stars will be shadowed and crossed 
 By a net-work of wire, that shall bridge the air ! 
 And lights will flash with a frightful glare — 
 
 As the funeral pyre of the world you have lost ! 
 
 And you on a rack, shall be tortured and tossed, 
 As you meet the gaze of its skeleton stare. 
 
 Your cottonwood groves neath the axe will fall ! 
 
 Your roses and blossoms will meet the flame ! 
 
 And you, with a face that is dyed with shame, 
 Will shrink too late — -for he will have all — 
 From the touch of the dreaded death-like pail, 
 
 That folds you for. aye, and wreathes him with fame. 
 
 Those monarchs, your fathers, who came to your side. 
 Through danger and darkness so long ago, 
 Will bow their heads in uttermost woe, 
 
 Should they see you robed as the cold East's bride ! 
 
 And they'd seek them a home on the sea's broad tide ;- 
 And by bidding him come, you bid them go. 
 
 Those comrades of mine who still with you stay, 
 Will scabbard their sabres, and loose their steeds ! 
 Would you give those friends, for the swaying reeds, 
 
 That lean to you now with each coming day? 
 
 As the new advances, the old recedes ! 
 
 Do you feel you can part with them this way ? 
 
 Would you sell your birth-right, my noble West, 
 For a love that is born of a base desire? 
 Would you bring destruction and death and ire 
 
 To those who have loved you longest and best? 
 
 I tell you the love that the East confessed 
 Will blaeken your soul like a satan-sent fire! 
 
TO THE WILD WEST 
 
 But love was never nor shall be swayed ! 
 
 'Tis the strongest passion that rules the breast; 
 
 And if you are doomed for his bride, my West, 
 The bitterest debt of my life is paid ! 
 Tho' I'll cherish you still as the comeliest maid, 
 
 That ever by nature wild, was dressed. 
 
 And down in my heart I will rear me a shrine, 
 To the pure wild maid I have loved so long ; 
 And I'll bring to its altar my tears and song — 
 
 My passionate tears, and my doubtful rhyme ! 
 
 And in fancy at least I will dwell in the clime, 
 Whose air I breathed, till my star set wrong ! 
 
CLEOPATRA'S PROTEST. 
 
 Come nearer my spotted leopard, and cool with your 
 
 tongue my hand, 
 I am faint with a fitful fever, and filled with a fancy 
 
 grand, 
 Lie close to my side, and lend me your passion that 
 
 poison taints, 
 While I ponder the perjured picture the world of your 
 
 mistress paints ; 
 The features and life it has painted, and chiseled and 
 
 moulded and sung, 
 Of Egypt's Cleopatra in every land and tongue; 
 On canvas, crystal, china, in bronze and brass and 
 
 gold ; 
 In malachite and marble, on coins and medals old 
 In mosaic and murrhine, in coral, copper, clay ; 
 On ivory and in ebon, in Scotia's granite grey; 
 In opal, ophite, onyx, in sapphire, chrysolite; . 
 In topaz, turquoise, jasper; in alabaster white; 
 In verse and prose and ballad, in history manifold, 
 The face and life of Egypt's queen is drawn and carved 
 
 and told. 
 In this galaxy of artists, in this gallery of art, 
 Where chisel, brush and pen have vied to do their 
 
 perjured part, 
 
g CLEOPATRA'S PROTEST, 
 
 I see no shade nor shadow, no sign nor semblance see, 
 Of her who stood at Actium with Roman Antony! 
 I fail to find the features, the force or spirit bold, 
 Of her who sailed the Cydnus in her galley wrought 
 
 in gold ; 
 In the character they give me I trace no sign nor mood 
 Of hers, who chose destruction to a life of servitude ; 
 Who bared her bosom proudly and perished like a 
 
 Queen, 
 Preferring death to Caesar, and the grave to Roman 
 
 spleen ! 
 But I see the spiteful venom that guided steel and hand, 
 That tarnished as it tinted, and poisoned as it planned. 
 I see the jealous envy that shaped each curve and turn, 
 Of chisel, brush and pencil ; but naught of truth discern ; 
 Ard I see what they have made me, I cannot help 
 
 but see, 
 For what the senseless store omits, is found in history. 
 The seal they set upon me of sumptuous sin and shame, 
 They stole from frail Aspasia's brow, and Grecian 
 
 Phryne's name. 
 I see the perjured picture ! I see the wanton vile, 
 They show for Cleopatra — "the Serpent of the Nile;" 
 And the eager world in earnest the counterfeit accepts, 
 And down through coming ages the truthful type 
 
 rejects ; 
 But I scorn to see the semblance in the picture that 
 
 they draw, 
 Of her who held Rome captive, and whose wish was 
 
 Egypt's law ! 
 I would bid them go remember that she whom they revile, 
 
CLEOPATRA'S PROTEST. 9 
 
 Spurned the love of laureled Caesar, when he sought her 
 
 by the Nile 
 And offered fame and station, and the sovereignty of 
 
 Rome, 
 If she would yield the conquest, and say she was his 
 
 own! 
 That she sent him back, with others, in their regal 
 
 robes unmanned, 
 Who had come as hopeful suitors for Cleopatra's hand. 
 And bid them lay their treasures at the feet ofon£ 
 
 more free, 
 Than the spouse of Rome's Triumvir — the God-like 
 
 Antony ! 
 I would tell them that the pious prude, Octavia, whom 
 
 they raise 
 Upon the highest pinnacle of purity and praise, 
 Is not worthy of the worship they offer at her shrine, 
 For she was never Antony's ; he always had been mine ! 
 He took her from her regal home to carry out his part, 
 But never to his bosom, and never to his heart; 
 And all, all, all of Antony this haughty dame can 
 
 claim, 
 Is the sacrifice he offered when he gave to her his name ] 
 He has sworn to me by Eros, beneath the Libyan 
 
 moon, 
 That he never held her nearer than that peerless 
 
 plenilune ; 
 He has sworn it o'er and over that their hands have 
 
 never met, 
 And that his star in Egypt rose, when her's in Rome 
 
 had set ! 
 
eo CLEOPATRA'S PROTEST. 
 
 I would tell them that Octavia knew his spirit and his 
 
 heart, 
 His life, his soul, his destiny, his mind, his every part 
 Was moored upon the Nilus, together with mine own, 
 Before he ever sought her — by Caesar's wish alone. 
 And she knew the god's of Egypt had smiled serenely 
 
 down 
 On the union of Rome's consul, with Egypt's starry 
 
 crown 1 
 I would tell them she they blemished with the brand 
 
 of sin and shame, 
 Would have scorned to call him husband who gave 
 
 alone his name ! 
 And had that haughty Roman dame the spirit of a 
 
 dove, 
 She'd have sent him back to Egypt, to her who owned 
 
 his love. 
 
 I am weary ; leave me leopard ! you cannot change 
 
 your skin, 
 Nor I the haughty spirit I showed to all save him. 
 And I thank the gods of Egypt for their mercy, which 
 
 was shone 
 In giving me Mark Antony for all, all, all mine own! 
 And I thank the god of waters for yielding me the tide, 
 That flooded old Nile's bosom, where we rode side, by 
 
 side ; 
 And to those who called me "Sorceress," and "Serpent 
 
 of the Nile," 
 And to those who dubbed me "Tigress," and every 
 
 thing that's vile, 
 
CLEOPATRA'S PROTEST. *i 
 
 1 would say, your shafts fell harmless, for we were 
 
 wholly one, 
 And when the pulse of one did cease, the other's life 
 
 had run. 
 So I banish bitter feelings for all who did malign, 
 For 'twas but human nature to envy bliss like mine j 
 And I rain forgiveness on them in pearly perfumed 
 
 showers; 
 And tell them thai; the western world knew naught of 
 
 love like ours. 
 
A PROPHECY. 
 
 Down the meadow one day in the morning of May,. 
 
 Tripped a maiden both tender and fair ; 
 The sun in its joy with her features did toy, 
 
 And played with her amber gold hair : 
 He gamboled in glee on her lips which were free 
 
 From the pressure of covetous man, 
 And his scintillant streak o'er her rose-tinted cheek, 
 
 In freedom and ecstasy ran. 
 
 The maiden soon stooped where some daisies were grouped) 
 
 And gathered the best from the fold, 
 And unto them said, "Tell me which I shall wed, 
 
 Whether beauty, or station or gold ? ' ' 
 She repeated them slow, as the petals like snow 
 
 Wavered airily down to their bed ; 
 But the prophet soon spoke, and the last that she broke 
 
 Proclaimed it was gold she would wed. 
 
 Three times then essayed the credulous maid 
 
 To alter the fortune foretold ; 
 But the prophet maintained that it could not be changed, 
 
 And thrice reasserted 'twas "gold! " 
 Then she questioned if Fate had decreed she must wait 
 
 A day, or a month or a year, 
 Ere her lover confessed that 'twas she he loved best, 
 
 And he sought her with feelings sincere; 
 
i$ A PROPHECY. 
 
 Then the petals so white in their wavering flight, 
 
 Fell again to their soft tufted bed, 
 And the daisy once more told the fortune in store, 
 
 And "day" was the word that it said. 
 Then she said, "Fairy dear, little wizard I fear 
 
 The future you falsely, rerat'e, 
 For though you say "day" in your positive way, 
 
 I know it is years I must wait. " 
 
 Down the meadow, one .day in tthe morning of May, 
 
 Strolled a guardsman. of : elegant mieit, "■ 
 His figure and face both betokened his race, 
 
 And his features were haughty and keen : 
 : On History's fold was his valor enrolled, 
 
 Recounting brave deeds he had done ! 
 And the name which he bore, down through ages of yore., 
 
 Was as pure and unstained as the sun. 
 
 The soldier soon stooped where some daisies were grouped, 
 
 And gathered the best from the fold, 
 And unto them said, "Tell nle which I shall wed. 
 
 Whether beauty, or culture or gold ? * ' 
 The petals so white in their wavering flight, 
 
 Fell airily down to their bed; 
 But the prophet soon spoke, and the last that he broke 
 
 Proclaimed it was "gold! " he would wed. 
 
 Then he cried, "Gypsy queen, you, the future have seen 
 Through clouds that have shadowed your sight. 
 
 For I know years must wane ere my heart can be lain 
 At the feet of a maiden so bright ! 
 
 No, no, little flower! no maid in her bower 
 
* A PROPHECY. 
 
 Awaits now the sound of my tread ; 
 For my heart is as cold as the stone which was rolled 
 To its tomb in a year that is dead ! M 
 
 Down the meadow he strolled with his cavalry swing, 
 
 Ard his lips "Sweetest Eyes" did repeat; 
 But his song quickly died as the maid he espied, 
 
 With the daisies all strown at her feet. 
 As he drew near her side her fair cheek was dyed, 
 
 With the color of modesty born, 
 But it gracefully fled when their greetings were said, 
 
 Ard they spoke of the glorious morn. 
 
 Then he told her, her face was the same he had seer* 
 
 At his side, when of Heaven he dreamed ; 
 That her eyes were as bright as the meteor light, 
 
 Which forth from that vision had gleamed ; 
 That the lark's silvery tone was less sweet than her owtt ; 
 
 That her form was as perfect and rare 
 As her dear little mouth, which was warm as the South* 
 
 And as sweet as the blossoms culled there. 
 
 He told her a prophet predicted his fate 
 
 Would be met ere the day sunk in night, 
 And when first they did meet, his heart's rapid beat 
 
 Convinced him the prophet was right ; — 
 That his love was as deep as the billows that leap 
 
 And rush to embrace the warm shore; — 
 That his heart was as true as the sabre he drew, 
 
 When it won him the honors he wore. 
 
 Then he spoke of his race with dignified grace, 
 
A PROPHECY. 15 
 
 And assured her his lineage was pure ; 
 That the gems on his breast were a nation's bequest, 
 
 And he felt not unworthy to woo her; — 
 That his spurs had been won 'neath an India sun, 
 
 When Death held his carnival grim, 
 And he knew of no stain on his honor or name, 
 
 That the future's fair prospect could dim. 
 
 Then he told her his heart of herself was a part, 
 
 And 'twas hers that he hoped to obtain; 
 And he said, " Little dear, should you doubt I'm sincere, 
 
 The words of my prophet prove vain ; 
 And the rest of my life will be one endless strife 
 
 In pursuit of contentment and rest, 
 For my heart ever true will still cling unto you, 
 
 And refuse to be torn from your breast. ' ' 
 
 The voice of the maid slight emotion betrayed 
 
 As she answered, "I too had a dream, 
 And yours is the face which that vision did grace, 
 
 And made it a Paradise seem ; 
 Your hand is the same in which mine was then lain, 
 
 And I'm sure you are noble and true, 
 For all I held bright in my ideal knight, 
 
 I behold now embodied in you. " 
 
 She told him a fairy had whispered her heart 
 Would be won ere the sun sank from view, 
 
 And though lightly she dwelt on the presage, she felt 
 The words of her prophet were true ; 
 
 For she knew that the thrill which her being did fill. 
 Was the prelude to Love's golden chime; 
 
1 6 A PROPHECY. 
 
 And she knew the heart-beat, in her breast did repeat 
 The strain of his own ringing rhyme. 
 
 She told him she came of a race that held fame 
 
 And honor as needful as breath, 
 And that all of her line were as true as the vine 
 
 That closely will cling, e'en in death. 
 She said that her past by no cloud was o'er cast; 
 
 That her life was as pure as the air ; — 
 That her heart was as free as the fetterless sea, 
 
 Till he came as its conqueror there. 
 
 Then she turned to his face with exquisite grace, 
 
 And said, "Now my dream is fulfilled, 
 For the Paradise seen in the flights of a dream, 
 
 Is the future that Destiny willed ! 
 And besides, could I choose this bright future to lose, 
 
 The fortune our prophets fore- told, 
 Would convince me that Fate had decreed for each mate 
 
 The heart that the other would hold. " 
 
 Then they laughed at the dower, which their wizard the flower 
 
 Had told them they surely would wed ; 
 For neither had gold, and their love had been told, 
 
 And the whispers that pledged them were said. 
 They felt that no power could darken the hour 
 
 They looked to with pleasure and pride, 
 And the future should prove the great strength of their love, 
 
 Which would flow with unchangeable tide. 
 
 Two years have passed by since the guardsman drew nigh 
 
 To that maid of the meadow, in May ; 
 Tho' she still may be seen on its cushion of green, 
 
A PROPHECY. 17 
 
 With a daisy to which she doth say : 
 "II m'aime, un peu, passionnement, beaucoup ; 
 
 O marguerite, I pray you say not point du tout /". 
 And the marguerite obeyed the sweet voice of the maid, 
 
 And the petal remaining, but "passionnement" said. 
 
 In a land far removed from the one that he loved, 
 
 The guardsman is calling to day 
 On the daisies, to learn if the maid doth return 
 
 The love which he gave her in May. 
 "Rile m'aime. un peu, passionnement , beaucoup," 
 
 He says, fi O my marguerite, say not point du tout /" 
 And the flower ever true kept his wishes in view, 
 
 And the petal that lingered said "passionnement" too. 
 
 Another year dawns, and the maiden now mourns 
 
 The loss of her lover so dear ; 
 The cruel news came that her hero was slain 
 
 While striving the colors to rear. 
 That was all that it said, and the heart-striken maid 
 
 Murmured not at Fate's merciless tread ; 
 Tho' she knew that her life on that field of red strife, 
 
 By the side of her lover lay dead. 
 
 -f ' 
 
 Years pass as they bring tender blossoms of Spring, 
 
 And Winter's cold shrouding of snow ; 
 And the maiden is wed by her father's death bed. 
 
 While her heart is still numb in its woe. 
 She is wedded with "GOLD" as the daisy foretold ! 
 
 But her heart and her hopes lie entombed 
 
i« A PROPHECY. 
 
 In that far foreign land where he fell With his band, 
 When her future forever was doomed. 
 
 The war now is o'er, and from shore unto shore 
 
 Rings the echoing chorus of peace : 
 The guardsman, with those who were held by their foes, 
 
 Receives his long looked-for release. 
 All the suffering and fears he had borne the long years 
 
 He was held in the enemy's power, 
 Seemed a dream of the past, which with joy was o'er cast 
 
 As he felt the approach of the hour. 
 
 Let us lower a veil o'er his grief, when the tale 
 
 That the maiden was wed reached his ears ; 
 Let us banish from view the torture she knew, 
 
 When they met after all those long years. 
 She told him her heart in that strife took a part, 
 
 Till dead by his side it was lain ; 
 And the vows which she said by her father's death bed, 
 
 W 7 ere spoken to lighten his pain : 
 
 That she never had known aught of love, save his own, 
 
 That her heart to his life she did yield ; 
 And that now when too late, by the weaving of Fate, 
 
 It comes with the dead from that field ; 
 That its passion so old could now never be told, 
 
 For God's law like a conquering sea, 
 Reaches out to enfold the sands where once rolled 
 
 Their river of Love, deep and free. 
 
 He told her he knew that her heart had been true, 
 That Fate had their destiny sealed ; 
 
A PROPHECY. i 9 
 
 And he would that the foe who that day laid him low. 
 
 Had ended his life on that field. . . 
 So they parted in tears, that had smothered for years 
 
 The flood of their passionate tide, 
 And the pulse in each breast all the anguish expressed, 
 
 Their dumb trembling lips sought to hide. 
 
 Years blossom and wane ere the lovers again 
 
 To that meadow together repair ; 
 But they sought it with pride, for she went as his bride, 
 
 After cycles of sorrow and care : 
 She had brought him the "gold" that the daisies fore-told, 
 
 With the heart that had ever been true ; 
 And the ecstasy seen in the flights of a dream. 
 
 After anguish and torture they knew. 
 
 A grave now is seen in that meadow so green. 
 
 And the slab leaning low by its side, 
 Shows that death could not part the soldier's warm heart 
 
 From the life of his long cherished bride : 
 And the daisies that bloom on their blossoming tomb 
 
 Tell the lovers and maids of to-day 
 The workings of Fate, but they scorn till too late 
 
 To heed what the prophets do say. 
 
AN EPISODE. 
 
 Where the brook like a bridge spans the highway, 
 
 Where the willow and locust lean low, 
 Where the vines form an arch to a by-way 
 
 O'er shadowed with clumped mistletoe, 
 And the air with fresh perfume is laden, 
 They met long ago ; 
 And the sun sinking slow 
 Shed its scintillant glow 
 On the face of a man and a maiden, 
 Who met by that brook long ago. 
 
 They met all unknown and unbidden, 
 
 And paused in the brook side by side, 
 But their eyes were cast downward and hidden, 
 
 As their horses bent low to the tide 
 And uttered a monotone neigh : 
 
 Then the circles ebbed wide, 
 Rippling on in their pride, 
 Babbling on to confide 
 The love that they bore in their way ; 
 
 While the maiden and man watched the tide. 
 
AN EPISODE. *i 
 
 Side by side, though a world rose between them 
 
 They sat, and a stillness profound 
 Stole down with the sunlight to screen them, 
 
 Stole down with the gloaming around ; 
 Yet still to the ripples they listed : 
 
 Then her hair came unbound, 
 And it slowly unwound 
 From its coil golden crowned ; 
 From its coil that was braided and twisted, 
 From its coil that with beauty was crowned. 
 
 His glance for an instant detected 
 
 Her face through that lattice of hair ; 
 His glance for an instant inspected 
 
 The modest confusion flushed there ; 
 Then the maid he addresses: 
 u O maiden so fair ! 
 O maiden so rare ! 
 O golden brown hair ! 
 You have woven my heart in your tressea, 
 O would 'twere forever bound there *!" 
 
 Had she heard? Was that side glance a token 
 
 Responsive to love he had told ? 
 Then why not have lingered and spoken ? 
 
 Why leave him so cruelly cold? 
 Why leave him this pitiful guerdon ? 
 u O story so old ! 
 O lover so bold ! 
 
 world stern and cold ! 
 
 I dare not my poor heart unburden, 
 
 1 dare not its secret unfold I" 
 
22 AN EPISODE. 
 
 What was it she shrouded in sable ? 
 What secret she dreaded to tell? 
 What story, Love's anguishing fable? 
 
 What vision feared she to dispel? 
 What spectre had caused her to start? 
 Who can say? Who can tell? 
 Who can say if the bell 
 Pealed a chime, tolled a knell, 
 As it rang in the tower of her heart, 
 Who can say, rang it wildly or well? 
 
 And he, what strange spirit inspired him 
 
 To utter that passionate prayer? 
 Had her beauty, so marvellous, fired him 
 
 With courage disdaining despair? 
 Did her eyes speak her soul? 
 
 Did the wealth of her hair, 
 And her modesty rare 
 Bespeak her so fair, 
 Bespeak her so perfect a whole — 
 
 Or temptingly said they ''beware?" 
 
 Who shall say? we cannot who come after, 
 Nor can they who are long gone before ; 
 Sad thought, but grief quails before laughter ! 
 
 Let us banish the thought evermore; 
 Let us fly as she fled from disaster, 
 Striving not to explore, 
 Lest we praise and adore, 
 Lest we beg and implore ; 
 O Love thou unconquerable master ! 
 We fear thee, yet seek and adore. 
 
AN EPISODE. 23 
 
 So they met in the brook and so parted : 
 
 As strangers they met all unknown ; 
 As lovers they left, broken-hearted. 
 
 As lovers from Love they had flown, 
 And divided they nurtured their sorrow, 
 
 Divided they stilled their heart's moan; 
 His — ' 'Alone ! all alone ! ' ' 
 Hers— "Atone? I atone ! 
 But too late, there could dawn no to-morrow! 
 There could brighten no happier zone. 
 
 A grave rears its mound 'neath the willow 
 
 That bends to the brooks babbling tide ; 
 A grave spreads its dank, mossy pillow 
 
 'Neath the locust that leans at its side ; 
 Thither led by a ghost, I repair ; 
 With a ghost for a guide, 
 With a ghost for a bride, 
 With a ghost of a love at my side ! 
 And I muse, lies she there with the golden 
 brown hair? 
 Lies he there, who sat here by her side? 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 [CWond Geo, A. Gordon, Ik 8, A. Dud Nov, z®k, r.87*.] 
 
 Why is it the arms of the Fifth to-day bear 
 
 A badge that is sombre in hue? 
 Why is it the hilts of its sabres so fair 
 
 Are shrouded with crape from our view? 
 Why falls the old flag from its eminence high, 
 
 And droops at the half mast so still ? 
 Why shrieks the old eagle with pitiful cry 
 
 As he soars o'er the Western hill? 
 
 Oh ! does not yon riderless steed draped in black,, 
 
 Hung in housing of sable and gloom, 
 And the old dragoon boots, hanging empty and slack 
 
 From the saddle where Death has made room. 
 Denote that a chieftain his station has changed, 
 
 And moved in advance of his band. 
 To those fields where the seraphs in glory are ranged, 
 
 To welcome him home to their land ? 
 
 The Fifth's veteran roster to-day shows a blank 
 
 Which the loved name of Gordon long filled ; 
 And the glittering leaves — those bright emblems of rank, 
 
 Lie withered and faded and chilled. 
 The flag 'neath whose folds his bright laurels were won 
 
 Is now draping his motionless form, 
 For the Fifth's truest hero and noblest son, 
 
 Was mustered in Heaven this morn. 
 
IN MEMO RI AM. 25 
 
 Never more will the reveille bugle awake 
 
 Its hero at dawning of day , 
 Never more on his ear will the sweet music break 
 
 Of his steed's old familiar neigh; 
 Never more will the " charge " light with pleasure his face 
 
 As of old in the days that are gone ; 
 He has answered the "recall" with soldier-like grace, 
 
 Which from Heaven was plaintively borne. 
 
 Once again must the Fifth place another loved name 
 
 On that tablet to Memory reared, 
 Where the names of her sons shine in glorious fame. 
 
 When from roster and roll they are cleared ; 
 So, high where the names of "Bache," "Crittenden," 
 '•Brown," 
 "Burns/' "Almy," and "Rodgers" are seen, 
 She must place that of Gordon beneath her proud crown, 
 And see that 'tis ever kept green. 
 
CUSTER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Genl. Geo. A . Custer, U. S. A . Killed at the battle of the 
 
 Little Big Harn % Man. Ter. June 2$th, 1876. 
 
 Re-interred at West Point, N. Y. Oct. 1877 
 
 With arms reversed, 
 Solemnly, solemnly tread ! 
 Column move mournfully 
 
 Home with your dead ! 
 Autumn lends leaves of red, 
 Heaven her tears has shed, 
 Softening your solemn tread 
 
 Down to the grave. 
 
 "Rest on Arms !" 
 Silently, silently bow; 
 God's is the service 
 
 You're serving in now. 
 Crushed is the Army's pride, 
 Craped are her colors wide, 
 Palled is her heart beside 
 
 The coffined brave. 
 
 Load and Fire ! 
 "Steadily, steadily men! 7 ' 
 Such was the caution 
 He gave to you, when 
 
OUSTERS FUNERAL, 27 
 
 Far on Montana's plain, 
 Seeing all hope was vain, 
 Charging through leaden rain, 
 Boldly he led ! 
 
 Lower him down tenderly, 
 
 Tenderly lower ; 
 
 Gaze on your color-draped 
 
 Chieftain once more. 
 Hide not that tear-dimmed eye, 
 Hush not that sobbing sigh ; 
 Did not a Nation cry 
 
 "Custer is dead \". 
 
 Sound the "Taps" mournfully, 
 Mournfully sound: 
 Disturb not the sleepers 
 
 Encamped on this ground ; 
 Here where a youth he staid, 
 Here where the man was made, 
 Here is the warrior laid 
 
 Wreathed in his fame. 
 
 Hudson roll onward, 
 Roll rapidly on ! 
 Bear on thy bosom 
 
 This burden of song — 
 Custer, thy name shall be 
 Honored in history ! 
 Valor and bravery, 
 Down to posterity 
 
 Cling to thy name r 
 
A VICTIM OF FATE. 
 
 I was drifted last night by the driving snow 
 
 To the glimmering sheen of a window bright ;, 
 The laces drooped, and the curtains were low, 
 
 But the light flashed out on the dismal night. 
 The strain of a soul-stirring waltz of Strauss 
 
 Was borne to my ears on the wavering snow, 
 As I pressed my form to the sheltering house, 
 
 And mused on the Fate that had wrought my woe. 
 
 And above my thoughts I seemed to hear 
 
 The shimmering slide of the satiny feet, 
 As they moved in time to the music clear, 
 
 And chimed with the rhythm their glad hearts beat ; 
 And the whispered word, and the low reply 
 
 That was breathed in the tiny jeweled ear — 
 The smothered response, and the stifled sigh, 
 
 And the silvery laugh — all seemed so near. 
 
 My sensitive soul 'neath the weather-worn coat 
 
 That hung to my wasted and shivering form, 
 Again on the bosom of bliss did float, 
 
 Beyond the scope of the pitiless storm ; 
 I felt the sweep of a silken dress, 
 
 And the rose-leaf touch of a tender hand ; 
 I toyed once more with an amber tress. 
 
 That was coiled with a blossom and golden band. 
 
A VICTIM OF FATE. 29 
 
 I gazed in the eyes, where Love enthroned 
 
 On the mirrored soul his kingdom held— - 
 The eyes I had cherished, and loved and owned, 
 
 Ere conquering Fate had my life-tree felled ! 
 I felt the perfumed breath as it stole 
 
 So warm o'er my beaten and frosted face ; 
 I felt the thrill in my hopeless soul 
 
 Of the nectared kiss, and the fond embrace. 
 
 I lived again in the buried Past — 
 
 The Past on whose grave the flowers yet bloom ; 
 Few Winters can boast that their chilling blast 
 
 Has beat at the door of its desolate tomb : 
 I lived again in that Past so dead, 
 
 When the very doors where I then leaned cold, 
 Were opened wide to my welcomed tread, 
 
 As my liveried brougham o'er the pavement rolled. 
 
 The petted, privileged, idolized beau 
 
 Of Fashion's queens, in her gilded halls, 
 Now beats from his breast the driving snow, 
 
 And begs his bread at the market stalls. 
 Yes, I who leaned by the portal rods 
 
 Where beauty and fashion and wealth were clanned, 
 Once held the power of those worshiped gods 
 
 In the hollow palm of this bony hand ! 
 
 Ah, Retrospect! thou art Satan's tool, 
 Coached by thy master his cause to win ; 
 
 Thy pupils are trained in a tinseled school, 
 And graduate in the temple of Sin ! 
 
 1 see the fire on thy altar bright, 
 
 Where greater and purer than I have kneeled ; 
 
3 o A VICTIM OF FATE. 
 
 But I'll bow at the shrine long dead to light, 
 Where Honor deserted, its life did yield. 
 
 Yes, I the penniless, shelterless tramp, 
 
 With a desolate heart and a burdened soul, 
 Will turn from the flame of thy baneful lamp 
 
 Which would lure me on to its tempting goal ! 
 Forgotten by God, and to man obscure, 
 
 Loathed by woman, and shunned by maid, 
 1*11 cling to my honor unsullied and pure, 
 
 Till the heart's throbs cease, and the life doth fade ! 
 
 I hear your mocking, incredulous tone 
 
 As you say : "Presumptuous ! how very droll ! 
 Doubtless a villian from justice flown ; 
 
 What nonsense ! 'honor/ and 'heart' and 'soul' !" 
 But I tell you since Adam by God was planned, 
 
 Since the world was soiled by Satan's breath, 
 Honor and poverty, hand in hand, 
 
 Together have marched to the doors of death ! 
 
 Honor and poverty, hunger and truth, 
 
 Hand in hand, with reverent tread, 
 A-down through ages unknown to ruth, 
 
 Have crossed the chasm where sleep the dead. 
 You may scoff till the earth its course has run, 
 
 You may cite "Statistics/' and "Pauper Acts ;" 
 But all the arguments under the sun 
 
 Will fail to alter the pitiful facts ! 
 
 Ay ! pitiful, merciless, shameful facts, 
 That will blot forever the Christian page, 
 
 While Poverty's print and Crime's base acts 
 Are reckoned akin by the hoary sage ! 
 
A VICTIM OF FATE. 3 r 
 
 The matron of Charity's homes and wards, 
 
 In racking torture is equally learned 
 With the warder grim, who the culprit guards, 
 
 Where the window is barred and the key is turned. 
 
 And I, whose life is as free from crime, 
 
 Dishonor, falsehood, deceit and spleen, 
 As the lark's who carols his matin chime, 
 
 Am stamped by the world, "Unclean!" "Unclean!" 
 (I, who by coaxing my conscience to sleep, 
 
 By bidding my honor one jot to yield, 
 Might the golden grains of the harvest reap 
 
 That I left for dead in a blighted field !) 
 
 But 1 heed it not, and forever I'll stand 
 
 A Victim of Fate, till my pulse is stilled ! 
 Though bony and cold, mine's an honest hand, 
 
 And would scorn the purse that dishonoT filled ! 
 Though tattered and torn are the garments I wear, 
 
 Heavy both heart and soul with pain, 
 A plentiful past — and a future bare, 
 
 I would not yield conscience the past to gain ! 
 
 The Past, whose threshold I crossed in youth 
 
 With a guiltless soul, and a trustful heart, 
 Believing that Honor, Virtue and Truth 
 
 Were the staple goods of the worldly mart ; 
 Believing that Honor, Virtue and Truth, 
 
 Were the beacons thatburned in the wake of Fame. 
 Believing — as taught to believe in youth, 
 
 That they were Humanity's pride and aim. 
 
 My race was old and my lineage pure, 
 My acres broad and my culture fair ; 
 
32 A VICTIM OF FATE. 
 
 The future, in fancy seemed bright and sure, 
 And the past was unclouded by sorrow or care. 
 
 While youth was yet in its chrysalis state, 
 Awaiting its second birth as man, 
 
 I passed through the glittering golden gate 
 Where the river of fashion and splendor ran. 
 
 On the billowy breast of that fragrant flood 
 
 A bubble I floated to Pleasured sea, 
 Where a god I arose, and sun-crowned stood, 
 
 And the river was hushed in idolatry. 
 I was worshiped and praised by that passionate tide 
 
 Which bore its pearls to my gilded shrine, 
 And every ebb of its current so wide 
 
 Was guided and governed by will of mine. 
 
 I was copied and quoted, toasted and sung, 
 
 By lord and lady, by great and learned ! 
 And over me ever a censer swung, 
 
 Where the perfume of Power like incense burned. 
 I learned each pulse of that feverish stream, 
 
 The throb of each heart which its bosom veiled , 
 1 traversed the course of its fair, false gleam 
 
 To the great dark sea, where its current paled. 
 
 Did I find what my fancy had pictured there — 
 
 Honor and Virtue stainless and pure ? 
 Did I find the real, as the idfeal fair — 
 
 Barred from the contact of vice secure ? 
 I found but a babbling, glittering stream 
 
 Flowing madly on in its fierde desire, 
 Beneath whose bosom, beyond the gleam, 
 
 Lay the serpent's slime and the poisonous mire ! 
 
A VICTIM OF FATE. 33 
 
 I found that truth and conscience were naught, 
 
 If they barred the passage that led to Fame ! 
 That honor and virtue were sold and bought 
 
 For an idle whim, as a passing game ! 
 That the crime of sin was a burden light, 
 
 Which was borne on its bosom in babbling song ; 
 That detection in sin was a withering blight — 
 
 And that in detection lay all the wrong ! 
 
 I followed its course from its fountain birth 
 
 To its tomb where it sinks in the surging sea ; 
 Its reaching branches which spanned the earth 
 
 From land to land, were known to me. 
 Its flow in the North 'neath its bosom of ice, 
 
 Its Southern course with its sun-kissed breast, 
 Was over the same veiled sloughs of vice 
 
 That lay 'neath its tides from East to West. 
 
 I had drunk of the life of that treacherous stream, 
 
 I had bathed in its azureline fitful flood. 
 Ere I woke to life from the mocking dream, 
 
 And found 'twas the Styx where a god I stood. 
 I stepped from my throne with its gilded shrine, 
 
 I washed from my garments and soul each stain 
 Of that fulsome stream, whose poisonous slime 
 
 Should never defile my life again ! 
 
 ' Twas a dreary dawn I was destined to see, 
 With threatening clouds that gloomily hung 
 
 O'er the dreams that had pictured life to me, 
 Ere that subtle stream had their requiem sung. 
 
 My life seemed wrecked, and my purpose gone ; 
 My friends seemed false, and the world impure ; 
 
34 A VICTIM OF FATE. 
 
 My soul was shamed, and my hopes forlorn, 
 For triumphing Sin did success insure ! 
 
 The struggle was great, but at length I awoke 
 
 From the chaos of gloom that enveloped my life ; 
 I freed myself from its burdensome yoke, 
 
 And laid the siege to a fruitless strife. 
 I labored and lectured, I wrote and read. 
 
 1 lavished my fortune and wearied my brain ; 
 I preached and practised, I counseled and plead 
 
 In Honor's cause, against Satan's reign. 
 
 The siege was just, and the conflict long ! 
 
 But Fate compelled me perforce to yield, 
 And with health and fortune forever gone, 
 
 Deserted I stood on a vanquished field. 
 My effort was vain ! for my purpose grand 
 
 No impression left, not a vestige more 
 Than the curlew leaves in the shifting sand 
 
 That is washed by the waves on a barren shore ! 
 
 The stream flowed on with its breast laid bare, 
 
 Which temptingly swelled 'neath the sun's warm light, 
 And thousands thronged to its banks so fair, 
 
 Who longed to be borne on its bosom bright. 
 Nor a bubble was swayed, nor a ripple was turned 
 
 By my labor of years, which no harvest did yield ; 
 On the altar of Satan its fire still burned, 
 
 Where woman and maiden and manhood kneeled. 
 
 Yes ; thousands on thousands that fair stream sought, 
 And strove to dip in its current so grand ; 
 
 While I, who with hunger and poverty fought, 
 Would wash its trace from my friendless hand ! 
 
A VICTIM OF FATE. 35 
 
 And I who once was its chosen god, 
 
 Ere I fathomed the depths where its soul was hid, 
 Would bear the scourge of the tyrant's rod, 
 
 Could I bury that thought 'neath the coffin lid ! 
 
 I would lengthen this life of hunger and pain 
 
 Without complaint, to the end of time, 
 Could I banish that thought from my weary brain, 
 
 Which maddens my soul like poisonous wine ! 
 Could I but forget that the goddess of Grace 
 
 Who now sweeps by with a glance of scorn, 
 Has pillowed her cheek on this furrowed face, 
 
 And fretfully wept at the severing dawn. 
 
 But it must not be ; for with every breath 
 
 Come zephyrs that waft me against my will ! 
 They sway my helm from the port of Death, 
 
 And quicken the pulse I strive to still. 
 But perhaps with the light of the Judgment morn, 
 
 When God is the Justice who reigns supreme, 
 This Victim of Fate, now a creature forlorn, 
 
 May appear to His vision not quite "Unclean." 
 
'TWAS AU REVOIR. 
 
 Her hand was in his as they stood by the gate 
 
 'Neath the light of the mellow moon, 
 And their thoughts were absorbed by the pitiless fate 
 
 That severed their lives so soon : 
 'Twas a pleading, passionate face that he saw 
 
 As her lips to his own -he drew, 
 And sighed, "Let it, darling, be au revoir, 
 
 But never till death, adieu' 1 
 
 Heart beat against heart as they silently stood, 
 
 And the mellow moon hung above ; 
 But their lips could not speak what their spirits would 
 
 Tho' their eyes beamed with languor and love. 
 Then her hand from his clasp she did tenderly draw, 
 
 And her arms round his neck she threw, 
 As she sobbed, "Yes, my darling, 'tis au revoir, 
 
 But never till death, adieu." 
 
'TWAS AU REVOIH. 37 
 
 Lip clung to lip as they stammered and swayed, 
 
 While the moon with a vapory cloud 
 Veiled its face from the anguish the scene portrayed, 
 
 And wept 'neath its misty shroud. 
 So they hopefully parted ; and he to the war 
 
 Sped onward, its horrors to view, 
 His lips still repeating, "'Twas au revoir /" 
 
 And hers, "Not till death adieu." 
 
 Again by the lichened gate she stands, 
 
 And her pale face seeks the moon, 
 As she raises to Heaven her suppliant hands, 
 
 And sobs, "Ah ! 'twas selfishly soon." 
 And tho' with fresh laurels he came from the war, 
 
 The flag hid his form from her view ; 
 And the stone where they lie bears, " 'twas au revoir," 
 
 And — "NOT EVEN IN DEATH ADIEU." 
 
JEANETTE'S (hypothetical) ANSWER. 
 
 I have loosened the snood that I wear, my love, 
 
 As Vd loosen the stars in the skies above, 
 
 If 'twould bring to my darling one hour's delight, 
 
 Or banish the day and hasten the night, 
 
 That is filled with sweet thoughts of my love, my love ! 
 
 I know that my eyes tell the tale, my love, 
 And the pulse of my heart doth its ardor prove ! 
 But how can I screen what my soul lays bare — 
 What flows in my blood, and gleams in my hair, 
 When I feel the warm touch of thy hand, my love ? 
 
 My lips, which thou sayest are fresh, my love, 
 As the twitter of birds, and the coo of the dove, 
 Are filled with the nectar they drunk in thine, 
 Which filled me and thrilled me like olden wine, 
 As I quaffed the rich sweets of thy lips, my love ! 
 
JEANETTES ANSWER 39 
 
 If I've tangled thy life in my hair, my love, 
 May Cupid lean down from his Eden above, 
 And weave them so closely they never shall part — 
 Thy life with my tresses, my heart with thy heart, 
 That we're one till the end of time, my love. 
 
 Ah ! do not speak so of thine arms, my love ! , 
 For they circle my world and my heaven above ; 
 And when lovingly clasped round thine own little "Pet ' 
 All the sorrows and cares of my life I forget ; 
 And I'd nestle for aye in those arms, my love ! 
 
 So mourn nevermore for thy "Pet," my love, 
 
 For she's ever thine own Jeanette, my love ! 
 
 And all that thou holdest so sweet and so fair — 
 
 Her "grey swimming eyes," and her lips and her hair, 
 
 Are thine to the grave and beyond, my love! 
 
ALONE AT THE SPRINGS. 
 
 Alone at the Springs ! All alone at the Springs ! 
 
 What a harvest of gloom such retrospect brings 
 To those who were there ere the summer did wane. 
 
 When the courted queen Fashion triumphant did reigu : 
 When the parlors and porches were thronged with her clan. 
 
 And the river of Pleasure in ecstasy ran ; 
 When the rustic retreats and each vine-trellised grove, 
 
 Were filled with the incense and whispers of love. 
 
 It would seem to them drear, as it does to the one 
 
 Who lingers behind when the season is done ; 
 And with senses unsealed to the weirdness and gloom 
 
 Wanders aimlessly oft through each vacant old room. 
 To the ball-room, where oft he hath turned to the strain 
 
 Of the sweetest of Strauss', his steps tend again ; 
 And the parlors he seeks, but there lingers no tone 
 
 Of the voice or the ballad she said was his own. 
 
 With a copy of Story he strolls to the springs, 
 
 But the poem is lost in the thoughts that it brings ; 
 
 For his mind, 'gainst his will, strays again to the one 
 Who sat with him there when the summer was young. 
 
ALONE AT THE SPRINGS. 41 
 
 He leans 'gainst the tree where he cut her dear name, 
 But even the sturdy old oak's not the same ; 
 
 Its vestment of verdure no longer is worn, 
 
 The sereness of Autumn has Summer's garb shorn. 
 
 He broods in his loneness on days that are fled, 
 
 And gathers this spoil from the field of the dead ; — 
 A head of rare beauty with exquisite grace 
 
 Lightly throned on his shoulder, and raising a face 
 More dazzling and perfect than ever was seen 
 
 When angels of Paradise brightened the dream ; 
 With love-swimming eyes melting sweetly to his, 
 
 And dewy red lips slightly cleft for his kiss. 
 
 An arm — nor less fair than the soft snowy lawn 
 
 That in delicate folds o'er her bosom was drawn — 
 Encircling his neck, while a hand soft and fair, 
 
 With a lily-like touch from his brow smooths the hair : 
 A smothered, "You love me?" a stifled, "As true 
 
 As the stars that are fixed in the firmament blue ! M 
 A mingling of lips — a delectable thrill, 
 
 And the death harvest's gathered; the reaper is still. 
 
 O why should one summon these wraiths from their tomb? 
 
 Have they power to dispel the oppression of gloom ! 
 Is it pleasure or anguish, or comfort or pain, 
 
 That beats in our breast as they rise up again ? 
 Is it nectar we sip, or Dead Sea fruit we taste, 
 
 As we muse on the bounty, and witness the waste ? 
 Js it ecstasy's thrill, or despair's bitter pang, 
 
 The sweets of the rose, or the snake's venomed fang. 
 
42 ALONE AT THE SPRINGS. 
 
 That tingles our veins when the reverie's gone, 
 
 And we wake to encounter the present, forlorn ? 
 'Tis .the triumph of torture ! the glory of grief ! 
 
 The demon of anguish ! that comes, like a thief, 
 Stealing all of the Past that is blissful and dear, 
 
 And leaving to us but the palsied and sere ! 
 'Tis the stern god of sorrow, depriving of peace 
 
 The poor wearied soul that but seeks its surcease ! 
 
 Then why doth he pause on this grave of the Past? 
 
 Why cling to the spot where their lips met the last? 
 Why in fancy live over the blisses so dead, 
 
 When the light that/Ire se.^ks nevermore can be shed? 
 Because, should he part from the scenes of old days — 
 
 Which he feels in a measure yet breathe of her ways, 
 It would seem unto him as if he cleft in twain, 
 
 The tie which he fancies may bind them again. 
 
JIM LEE. 
 
 So yer want to see my papers, and hear my right 
 
 to the claim 
 Of the mine that's known as "Lydia," and yer 
 
 want to learn my name? 
 Well, picfcet yerselves round the embers, and listen 
 
 to what I tell, 
 And yer'll find my claim to the "Lydia's/' as 
 
 good as the Devil's to Hell ! 
 'Twas back in the States in '50 that my heart 
 
 began to buck, 
 And as curb and spur wouldn't answer, I thought 
 
 as I'd try my luck ; 
 So I slipped to her ranch, and told her that I 
 
 loved her with all my sand, 
 And that I'd go blind with this heart here, if she'd 
 
 chip along with her hand. 
 We played the game "pat," and then quitted ; I 
 
 came out a little ahead, 
 Then started to find her Guv'ner, to tell him his 
 
 girl I'd wed. 
 Yer may have seen short-horns in Texas, and 
 
 bronchos in Angeles bred, 
 
44 JIM LEE. 
 
 But strangers the first class in bucking, had always 
 
 Lyd's guv. at the head ! 
 He rared, and screamed and snorted, and asked me 
 
 the weight of my dust ; 
 And when I told him "prospecting.*' he freshened 
 
 again and cussed ; 
 But those days in the States were quiet like, men 
 
 didn't resort to the "drop," 
 So the guv'ner shuffled the pasteboards, and dealt 
 
 them square from the top. 
 He told me when five Decembers had into five 
 
 Aprils rolled. 
 I again could come to his dwelling, and lay at his 
 
 feet my gold ; 
 And that if the heap should suit him, •and Lyd. 
 
 hadn't changed her mind, 
 He'd see if he then could swallow the thought of 
 
 our getting jined. 
 I felt kind o' side-lined and hobbled as I read unto 
 
 Lydia the law, 
 And showed her the hand he had dealt me, to l4 /iB" 
 
 in a five card draw ; 
 But Lyd. — flood that cup there, stranger, that name 
 
 kind o' chokes me now ; 
 But I'm always saying it over, and over and over, 
 
 "How!" 
 Well, Lyd. she tumbled the sentence over a bit in 
 
 her mind, 
 Then she promised to wait till her hair was gray, 
 
 or till I my stake should find ; 
 So we — but I reckon I'll skip the parting. 'Tis 
 
 enough if I explain, 
 
JIM LEE. 45 
 
 I saw her kissing her hand to me, 'way back in 
 
 the shady lane. 
 She had sworn on her heart, and my honor, and 
 
 I on her hand and my life, 
 That I, only I was her husband, and that she only 
 
 she was my wife. 
 The "outfit" I had in '50 was a different kind of 
 
 a kit, 
 From the one you see on my burro, but 1 traded 
 
 it off, and lit 
 To the mountains just back of "Frisco," and there 
 
 with a pan and a pick, 
 I started down into the gulches, where I heard 
 
 that the dust was thick. 
 Yer know what it is in the diggins, yerknow how 
 
 yer pan and pan, 
 And treasure yer dust, and starve yerself, and 
 
 every new comer scan ; 
 Well, I lived in the mines for nigh two years, and 
 
 was getting a little ahead, 
 When a letter, it came to me from Lyd., saying 
 
 how the guv. were dead ; 
 And that how he'd made her promise, beside his 
 
 dying bed, 
 That she'd stick to the end of the old five years 
 
 before she sought to wed. 
 That letter it rankled me somewhat, and kind o' 
 
 brought Lyd. to my view, 
 And seeing her off there alone in the States, it 
 
 made me a trifle blue ; 
 So I thought if I just could double the pile I had 
 
 stowed away, 
 
46 JIM LEE. 
 
 I could pack a few pounds of her trouble, and 
 
 cheer the girl up for a day : 
 So I took my dust down to a shanty, and bet my 
 
 bag '-'straight" on the queen ; 
 I'd a "pre" that by backing the woman, I nearer 
 
 to Lydia would seem. 
 Well, she lost ! and the swallow of whiskey they 
 
 handed me back for my pile, 
 Was all that I had towards helping Lyd., or calm- 
 ing my rising bile. 
 Next morning I left for Sonora; this hole in my 
 
 arm's all I got ! 
 Then I prospected through Arizona, till Apaches 
 
 made panning too hot ; 
 Then I anchored at last on these Hills here, that's 
 
 back in July '54, 
 And I'll chew the fringe of my buckskin shirt if 
 
 a white man was here before ! 
 Well, I panned in these hills and gulches, and 
 
 took out a power of dust ; 
 But for hash, and sleep and such lux'ries, to my 
 
 rifle I had to trust. 
 I often think now of those old nights, when I in 
 
 my dug-out was laid, 
 A dreaming of bliss I was nearing, till I got kind 
 
 o' coward like, and prayed 
 That my brain might turn off the Sioux bullets, that 
 
 my heart might prove stone to their knife, 
 Till my eyes should again feast on Lydia, and 
 
 claim her my own precious wife. 
 ' Twas along in the Spring, I was panning near 
 
 the spot where Hill City now stands, 
 
JIM LEE. 47 
 
 When I saw a thing come down the mountain no 
 
 larger than both of my hands ; 
 But as it came nearer and nearer, I saw 'twas a 
 
 cub of a boy, 
 So I put down the rifle I'd leveled, lest its mouth 
 
 might his features destroy. 
 He sprung like a wounded black-tail to my side, 
 
 when I shouted "hullo!" 
 And clung with his arms to my withers, till I 
 
 thought he would never let go. 
 Then he told me how he was an orphan, with only 
 
 one friend to his name, 
 And learning that he was a miner, he out to this 
 
 country had came ; 
 That he'd reckoned on finding his friend here, 
 
 and panning along with him, 
 But he'd been on the trail for nigh six months, 
 
 and the chances were getting slim. 
 Then I offered to give him a "shake-down" in the 
 
 dug-out along with me, 
 And if ever a white boy came to these hills, 'twJs 
 
 that same white boy, Jim Lee ! 
 His hands were as small as Lydia's, and as white 
 
 as hers were too, 
 But I've seen him pan out his pound of dust, and 
 
 knock from his horse the Sioux ! 
 J tell yer, strangers, this Jimmie was a boss from 
 
 the very start, 
 And could yer have seen him ride and shoot, yer'd 
 
 have rented him out yer heart. 
 He was Cap. in all professions, and he tidied the 
 
 hut so neat, 
 
4 8 JIM LEE. 
 
 That often I've stopped on the homeward trail, 
 and kicked the clay from my feet. 
 
 He was flush with a heap of savey, and of book- 
 learning had no end, 
 
 And from the moment I spied his phiz, I elected 
 myself his friend. 
 
 He'd set by the week and listen to the tales I 
 would spin him of Lyd., 
 
 And of how I was going home to her, with the 
 dust that these gulches hid ; 
 
 And often I've seen him a-wiping the brine from 
 his honest eyes. 
 
 As I'd tell him the chances I'd taken, and my 
 "pre" that I'd win the prize. 
 
 Then he'd tell me how he had staked out his heart 
 on another's claim, 
 
 But he'd only say, "he's a miner," whenever I 
 asked his name; 
 
 if he'd only have given the slip to the name of 
 
 his looked-for pard, 
 
 1 reckon as how these twenty years would have 
 
 ground by, not so hard ! 
 What with panning, and trapping and yarning, 
 
 the days flew by like mad, 
 So I laid my plans to scout for home, on the day 
 
 fixed by Lyd's dad ; 
 And I promised to take Jim with me, and if sign 
 
 of his mate w'r'n't seen, 
 I told him as how that Lydia and I, on the firm 
 
 would allow him a lien. 
 ' I was just two days to the morning we'd set to 
 
 pull up stakes, 
 
JIM LEE. 4 9 
 
 When I found myself hitched in the dug-out with 
 
 a rankling fit of the shakes ; 
 So Jim just anchored beside me, and we put in 
 
 the time in talk, 
 Till along towards the shank of evening, when Jim 
 
 started out for a walk. 
 'Twa'n't more than thirty minutes till I spied Jim 
 
 running back, 
 And he never broke till he reached my side, and 
 
 dropped at my feet his sack ; 
 Then he told me how he had located a claim on 
 
 the mountain side, 
 And had fetched them "croppings" along in his 
 
 bag, to show me the shade of their hide. 
 Well Grangers, them stones Jim brought me would 
 
 have yielded one half to the ton ! 
 Here, fill up that cup again, stranger ; my eyes 
 
 are beginning to run. 
 Then Jim told me how he had found it, and how 
 
 he'd located his claim, 
 And how he was staking its boundaries, when I 
 
 thought him hunting for game; 
 Then he sharpened a stick, and cleared him a 
 
 place on the dug-out floor, 
 Arid wrote out a transfer to me of the mine, that 
 
 yielded them croppings of or'-. 
 So there is rny title, strangers! — but wait, I'm 
 
 ahead of time : 
 I started right off with Jimrnie, and shook all the 
 
 way to the mine ; 
 Then he showed me the stones he \)Ad piled up, 
 
 and a monument bearing my name, — 
 
5 o JIM LEE. 
 
 4 
 
 Then I saw the bright flash of a rifle, and Jim by 
 
 the monument lain. 
 Yes, strangers, a Sioux dog had shot him ! but [ 
 
 sampled his heart to the core, 
 Ere I turned to my poor little Jimmie to see where 
 
 the bullet had tore : 
 Well strangers, yerall may be parsons, and I don't 
 
 give a damn if yer be , 
 I reckon yer'd cussed at yer Maker, if yer'd stood 
 
 in my place by Jim Lee ! 
 I jerked off his little skin jacket, and there on his 
 
 neck was the chain, 
 And the locket I'd given to Lydia, when I bid 
 
 her good-bye in the lane ; 
 Yet even then strangers, I tell yer the truth from 
 
 my senses was hid, 
 But a glance at the wound in his heart here, just 
 
 told me that Jimmie — was Lyd ! 
 The rest — hand the cup, is too sacred to retail out 
 
 here as a yarn, 
 And I tell yer there's only a little left for any of 
 
 you to larn. 
 Yer vow know my claim to the ''Lydia," the mine 
 
 Jimmie transferred to me ; 
 And when knocking around to find my name just 
 
 halt when yer reach "Jim Lee." 
 That's the brand I've carried since '55, and 1 
 
 reckon 1 will not change ! 
 1 can always be found at the "Lydia," I've corraled 
 
 it within my range : 
 The door of my ranch just opens where Jimmie 
 
 had piled his stones, 
 
JIM LEE. 5 1 
 
 And the men who have come my claim to dispute, 
 
 have left to my dogs their bones ! 
 Those robes yer see on the ground there, yer took 
 
 for mountain cat, 
 Are only the scalps of Injuns just trimmed down 
 
 kind o' flat ; 
 I swore by the grave of Lydia I'd settle her claim 
 
 in full, 
 And those, with a couple more at the ranch, show 
 
 the kind o' trigger I pull. 
 And all of the gold that's been taken from the 
 
 spot where Lyd. laid her claim, 
 Is the pile I beat to a kind of a cross, and cut in 
 
 the bar her name ; 
 And it leans just where I put it — by the grave that 
 
 is home to me, 
 And those who try to disturb it, swap lead with 
 
 old Jim Lee ! 
 
 I reckon yer think 'tis time my chips were handed 
 
 into the bank ; 
 But I've two things left to live for yet, and nobody 
 
 here to thank : 
 One is to see that Jimmie's claim to the <4 Lydia'' 
 
 isn't jumped, 
 And the other's to guard the little mound where 
 
 wild flowers are kind o' clumped ! 
 And strangers, 1 pack a paper in this locket around 
 
 my neck, 
 A willing the title to ranch and mine to him who 
 
 shall show respeck 
 
S 2 JIM LEE. 
 
 To the carcass of Lee the miner, and plants him 
 
 with his own hands, 
 Aside of the mound where the flowers are clumped 
 
 where the golden cross still stands : 
 And the fellow who fills that contract can give 
 
 to his soul a rest, 
 For if there's a choice in the worlds to come, he's 
 
 certain to pull the best. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 Have you studied that man or that woman ? 
 
 Have you learned every phase of their life ? 
 Have you felt each temptation that met them? 
 
 Have you joined in their struggle and strife ? 
 Have you probed every pulse of each bosom ? 
 
 Have you measured the throb of each heart? 
 Have you fathomed their prayers and their passions. 
 
 And the evil from good set apart? 
 
 Till you've borne what perhaps they have suffered ; 
 
 Till you've found what perchance they have lost ; 
 Till you've seen all of life that is fairest 
 
 With bloodless hands patiently crossed j 
 Till you've drunk of the chalice, unconscious 
 
 That its lees from deceit are distilled ; 
 Till you've seen every soul you have nurtured 
 
 With crime and corruption instilled, 
 
54 CHARITY. 
 
 O refrain from this sitting in judgment 
 
 In causes where all is not known, 
 And remember Christ said but the stainless 
 
 Shall cast at his brother a stone ! 
 Reflect, ere the cruel word's uttered ; 
 
 Desist, ere the action you do; 
 And ask your own heart in communion, 
 
 If both are not suited to you ! 
 
 And perchance you n ay wake to discover 
 
 That the act which in terror you've flown, 
 Has sown in your own callous bosom 
 
 A virtue it never had known ; 
 And you'll pause, when again you are tempted 
 
 Some merciless tribute to pay, 
 And ask of your soul's new disciple, 
 
 Wherein am I better than they ? 
 
AT THE GRAVE OF C. W. D. 
 
 Six moons have lent their lustre to the sod 
 
 That roofs thy resting place — a statesman's tomb; 
 
 Six moons have waned since thou to meet thy God, 
 Passed from this earth in fullness of thy bloom. 
 
 Thy bird-like notes now mid an angel choir 
 Doth chant the praises of thy Heavenly King ; 
 
 Hushed is thine earthly voice and mute the lyre, 
 That through long years such happiness did bring. 
 
 1 kneel upon thy hallowed mound of earth, 
 And on my heart, as 'twere a tablet stone, 
 
 J write — Here lies a woman of great worth; 
 It was a gift this woman to have known. 
 
 1 knew her, loved her, mmirn her as a friend — 
 
 The dearest on my rosary of years; 
 Upon her grave in reverence I bend, 
 
 Nor seek to check my manhood's heart-wrung tears. 
 
5 6 AT THE GRAVE OF G W. D. 
 
 A star from out our universe has passed, 
 To shine effulgent in a purer sphere ; 
 
 We see its light — from Heaven'' s kingdom cast, 
 And from its height it sees our sorrow here- 
 
 The shadows fall; reluctantly I rise; 
 
 My duty calls me to a land afar : 
 I raise to Heaven my wQary, tear-dimmed eyes, 
 
 And lo, the sheen ! it is our missing star. 
 
 Marshfield, Mass. 
 Feb. 1882. 
 
> 
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT. ALFRED B. BACHE, U. S. A. 
 
 Another detail has been made from old "F" troop to-day ! 
 Another hero has been called down that mysterous way ! 
 Nor clash of arms, nor ring of steel, nor marshaling of men ; 
 A grey steed, riderless and houssed, escorts him down the glen. 
 
 And close behind, with arms reversed, and slow and measured tread, 
 The old troop that he loved so well move onward with their dead. 
 A volley ; "Taps;" and all is o'er ; the orphaned troopers wheel ; 
 Their leader has but gone before : blow bugles ! clash the steel ! 
 
 Ah, comrades ! little did you think when last you heard him sing 
 "My Gallant Will," "The Drinking Song," "The Bridge," and 
 
 "Tent. . .ing," 
 That he, so full of verve and dash, so wedded to his corps, 
 Would be the one the order named for duty on before ! 
 
5 8 MEMORIAL VERSES. 
 
 But even so ; and if within that world that is, to come, 
 The shrill note of the bugle-call, the roll and tap of drum 
 < -Assembly" sound, O let us hope to find him ready there, 
 On "Jeff," as we remember him, with sabre raised in air ! 
 
 And should assignment there be made to fort, or camp, or field, 
 And we be called to guard the flag which now his features shield, 
 O comrades, may it be our fate to wear the "5" again, 
 And in the charge beside old " Jeff" let loose the bridle rein ! 
 
 Camp McPherson, Neb. 
 November, 1876. 
 
TO M. D. G. 
 
 How I longed to lean over and kiss her 
 
 As she lay in the hammock alone, 
 With a delicate fabric of Shetland, 
 
 In exquisite neglige thrown 
 O'er a bosom that swelled in sweet measure 
 
 To the pulse of her passionate heart, 
 While her lips, with their subtle power pregnant. 
 
 Neither closed, nor compressed nor apart. 
 
 Like the cleft you have seen in carnations 
 
 Ere their petals in perfume unclose ; 
 Like the crevice you've seen while inhaling 
 
 The delicate breath of the rose, 
 They lay all upturned and unshadowed, 
 
 Unconscious that covetous eyes 
 Were watching their vapor-like tremor — 
 
 Faint whispers of Paradise. 
 
 I envied the sweet woodland zephyrs 
 
 That toyed with her features and hair ! 
 I envied the grass-netted hammock 
 
 Its burden, so wonderously fair! 
 And the moon for its boldness I hated, 
 
 In daring to pause in its flight, 
 To linger in languor above her, 
 
 And kiss her warm lips with its light ! 
 
Go TO M. D. G. 
 
 My soul was the field where was waging 
 
 A conflict 'twixt Envy and Love ! 
 My heart was the tenantless arbor 
 
 Opened wide for that innocent dove, 
 As I longed to lean over and kiss her, 
 
 As she lay in delicious repose, 
 With a soul pure and white as a lily, 
 
 And lips sweet and red as the rose. 
 
 What mortal dare say he is fitted 
 
 To govern a kingdom like this ? 
 What man dare assert he is worthy 
 
 To taste her immaculate kiss? — 
 Were the thoughts that absorbed me while leaning 
 
 In anguish and bliss where she lay, 
 While the stars hung in rapture above her, 
 
 And the moon, spell -bound, paused on its way. 
 
 To-night in that hammock I'm lying, 
 
 Where I leaned in those dear by-gone days ; 
 No stars light the muttering heavens, 
 
 No moon sheds its lustrous rays ; 
 But the longing, the spell and the passion, 
 
 That held me in thrall in the past, 
 Still beat in my heart's wild pulsation, 
 
 Still flow in its current so fast. 
 
/ 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 He said I was shallow and heartless ; that I courted 
 
 attention and praise ; 
 That I showed myself a thorough coquette in all my 
 
 studied ways ; 
 That I cared for naught, save the homage men paid 
 
 at my selfish shrine ; 
 That a generous act and a noble love would shrink 
 
 from a soul like mine. 
 He told me this in the '•German" I led at the "Point" 
 
 that Fall, 
 And it turned all the sweets that were lisped on that 
 
 night, to the bitterest wormwood and gall ; 
 And I vowed — as I gave him my favor to show I was 
 
 free from pique — 
 To devote my life to the toilsome task of making 
 
 his proud heart speak ! 
 I vowed, as I pressed my pillow that was wet with 
 
 my angry tears, 
 To humble his haughty spirit, and silence his scoffing 
 
 jeers ! 
 That on bended knee, with Heaven-raised head, 
 
 clasped hands and yearning heart, 
 
62 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 He should swear his love for this ' 'heartless coquette," 
 
 of his life was its noblest part ! 
 He should swear that before all others, and above all 
 
 on earth below, 
 Beyond all his wildest visions, avont all his fancy's 
 
 flow, 
 That he held me most pure and worthy, most noble, 
 
 perfect and fair, 
 That I was the queen of his honest heart. — that I sat 
 
 enthroned there ! 
 Then I'd turn in my mocking laughter (a habit he'd 
 
 always reprove) 
 And tell him "a shallow, heartless coquette" was hardly 
 
 the thing to love ! 
 And I'd seem surprised he should venture to bow at my 
 
 selfish shrine, 
 And remind him he'd said that a noble love would shrink 
 
 from a soul like mine ! 
 His cup to the brim and over with a poisonous draught 
 
 I'd fill, 
 And show him tho' shallow and heartless, I was queen 
 
 of an iron will ! 
 1 knew that my task was heavy ; I knew that my old- 
 time wiles 
 Would win reproof, as they had before, and now, I 
 
 would gain his smiles. 
 I knew by his chilling manner, his haughty, triumphant 
 
 air, 
 That to finish the task I had set me, would require all 
 
 my caution and care ! 
 For he was a dainty subject— fastidious to the 
 
 core ! 
 
RETRIBUTION. 63 
 
 And I knew it would tax my 'store of finesse, and my 
 
 wealth of artful lore. 
 He has stopped me at times when singing some song 
 
 that he held as dear, 
 If one false note of ray voice or lute was borne to his 
 
 perfect ear ! 
 And often when dancing, or riding, his critical eye 
 
 would detect 
 Some trifle that jarred on his senses, and seemed a 
 
 decided defect ! 
 And he ever some fault was finding, and seizing a 
 
 chance to reprove, 
 And I knew, possessing so many faults, I could not 
 
 inspire his love ; 
 But the barriers reared against me, and the breakers 
 
 I'd have to dare, 
 Should be razed and crossed by my solemn vow, which 
 
 should bide with me everywhere 1 
 
 Years have passed, and fulfilled to the letter is the vow 
 
 that I made on that night ! 
 I framed, forged, and fitted the fetter, 1 fancied my 
 
 wrongs should requite. 
 Do you deem it has brought me pleasure to witness 
 
 my task complete ? 
 Do you think 'tis a joyful measure that throbs in my 
 
 heart's wild beat? 
 Do you think that these eyelids bursting in torrents 
 
 of torturing tears, 
 Or this soul with a passion thirsting, that is quenchless 
 
 through all the years, 
 
64 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Or this brain that is brimmed with madness, or this 
 
 face that is flushed with shame, 
 Are symbols that signal my gladness, and joy that I 
 
 won the game? 
 O God ! what a prize you sent me, had I but the 
 
 sooner learned ! 
 O God ! what a light you lent me, had I not to 
 
 darkness turned ! 
 But all Thy blessings were wasted, they have left me 
 
 forever now ; 
 The sweets that my life should have tasted, were 
 
 drugged by that passionate vow! 
 The graft I so carefully cherished, beyond my imagin- 
 ing bore ; 
 Its perfume and fruit quickly perished, and to me it 
 
 but yielded the core. 
 My heart, soul and brain were freighted with the 
 
 struggle that filled my life, 
 Though I saw, ere the conflict abated, 'twas a self- 
 destructive strife. 
 And that is the thought that will harrow my soul till 
 
 its knell is rung, 
 For I knew that each poisoned arrow that shot from 
 
 my venomed tongue 
 Was piercing the brain that fashioned its barb and 
 
 deadly aim, 
 Was piercing the soul impassioned, that strove but to 
 
 win the game : 
 And I saw, ere too late, I was waging a war with the 
 
 one most dear ; — 
 That the enemy I was engaging was loved with a 
 
 love sincere ; — 
 
RETRIBUTION. 65 
 
 That the task I was then completing would embitter 
 
 my life to the end ; — 
 That I was myself defeating, by forbidding my pride 
 
 to bend. 
 But my senses for action were burning, with the train- 
 ing of patient years ; 
 To the Past they were madly turning, and mocking 
 
 my qualms and fears ; 
 And within me a conquering devil that I was powerless 
 
 to sway, 
 And within me a maddening revel whose tumult I could 
 
 not stay, 
 Pressed on to the boonless duel, to my suicidal 
 
 doom, 
 To the siege unjust and cruel, to the door of my 
 
 living tomb ! 
 For those shafts with their fatal mission, that bow with 
 
 its treacherous bend, 
 Brought death to the fond fruition I saw in my 
 
 triumphing end ; 
 They had silenced forever and ever the heart where 
 
 my being was held, 
 And 4:he pride which our lives did dissever, had the 
 
 dirge of my happiness knelled ! 
 And that vow, which was born of resentment uncurbed 
 
 by my girlish years, 
 Had left for my life's contentment, but sorrow and 
 
 shame and tears ! 
 
 And now in my cell-like dwelling, by the prison world 
 enclosed, 
 
66 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 The ghost of the Past is telling the joys that my pride 
 
 opposed ; 
 It mocks me with hideous laughter, as its skeleton 
 
 jaws unfold, 
 And shows the Before and after — the dross and the 
 
 precious gold : 
 It parts with its bony fingers the mist that had veiled 
 
 my eyes, 
 And with demoniac glee it lingers, as it catches my 
 
 soul-wrung sighs. 
 It tells me over and over of the blessings my rash 
 
 vow killed ; 
 It tells me he'll never discover his death had my 
 
 heart's throb stilled ! 
 O that is the king of anguish ! the god of torture 
 
 and pain ! 
 O Death ! am I doomed to languish for aye 'neath 
 
 this galling chain ? 
 Are the fires of Hell so cheerful that I am denied 
 
 their light? 
 Is the cold grave shamed and fearful to fold me away 
 
 from sight ? 
 Is Lucifer's rack so painless that I am forbidden to ride ? 
 Is Hades so pure and sinless that I must remain out side ? 
 Is there not some place I wonder, above, beyond or 
 
 before, 
 Below, beneath or under, that can hide me forever 
 
 more? 
 And silence that Past of horror with a dumbness 
 
 forever mute, 
 And banish the dreaded morrow, with its burdensome 
 
 Dead Sea fruit ? 
 
INTROSPECTION. 
 
 When life with grief is freighted, 
 When hopes and fears are dead, 
 When the word for which we've waited 
 
 Can nevermore be said, 
 We muse on days of gladness 
 Till our thoughts are filled with sadness, 
 And our brain is brimmed with madness, 
 
 For joys forever dead ! 
 
 When life seems not worth living, 
 When doubts and dreams have ceased, 
 When from giving and forgiving 
 
 We feel we are released ; 
 We hear our sad soul sighing, 
 We feel our life-blood drying, 
 We watch our senses dying, 
 
 We live — yet life has ceased. 
 
 When nights bereft of slumber, 
 When days devoid of rest 
 Unfold their ceasless number 
 
 As if our strength to test ; 
 We spurn the watched-for warning 
 That comes with night and dawning, 
 Till the past and future scorning, 
 
 We turn to death unblest. 
 
68- INTROSPECTION. 
 
 So do we live regretting 
 The death that doth delay; 
 So do we live forgetting 
 
 The God to whom we pray ! 
 But ere too late, remember, 
 Those days of love so tender 
 May return in all their splendor, 
 
 To brighten all our way ! 
 
 So should we live unfettered 
 By Memory's galling chain, 
 So should we live unlettered 
 
 In bliss akin to pain, 
 That the kiss we sip to-morrow 
 Should naught of rapture borrow 
 From the Past of golden sorrow, 
 
 From the Past of bliss and bane. 
 
 Mar not the bud just blooming 
 With the core of fruit decayed ! 
 Prevent the Past consuming 
 
 The sweets before us laid ! 
 And like a bee, then hover 
 Where sweets their breath uncover, 
 And fold us, as a lover, 
 
 While we their hearts invade. 
 
TO N. D. 
 
 The East like a young blushing maiden, 
 
 Is robing herself for the day; 
 The lark with spread wings music laden . 
 
 Is piping his matin so gay; 
 The roses from rest are unfolding, 
 
 And blending their sweets with the air; 
 While sun, song and splendor are holding 
 
 A feast on this morning so fair. 
 
 But a cloudlet swings loose from its mooring, 
 
 And pilots itself from the shore, 
 Till it crosses my vision, obscuring 
 
 The light that can dawn never more. 
 No eye save mine own can perceive it, 
 
 As its anchor sinks into my soul ; 
 No soul save mine own could receive it, 
 
 As it tremblingly sinks to its goal. 
 
7 o TO N. D. 
 
 So, clothed in this cloud do I wander 
 
 Unto lands that have never been trod, 
 Leaving all far behind that is fonder 
 
 .Than rapture or glory or God ! 
 My heart 'neath thy bosom is lying 
 
 Awake in its animate grave: 
 My soul from its exile is crying 
 
 For rest from life's turbulent wave. 
 
 Though I knew I could never possess thee, 
 
 Yet my soul would not wholly despair ; 
 I refused to entice or distress thee, 
 
 By unfolding my future so bare. 
 God's law like a gulf, yawned unfeeling 
 
 Between us, obstructing our way; 
 While our thoughts crossed the chasm, revealing 
 
 The dangers that deep in it lay. 
 
 And though Hope now deserts me forever, 
 
 And Fate has my destiny sealed, 
 I would not this barren life sever 
 
 Since thou hast thy true heart revealed : 
 For 'tis comfort that cannot be shaken, 
 
 To know that thy heart is mine own ! 
 And that mine — beyond billows forsaken — 
 
 Is crowned on thy bosom's white throne 
 
 So in exile I shall not be lonely; 
 
 I will dwell in that realm of bliss 
 That can come to a life but once only. 
 
 As it came to mine fresh with thy kiss: 
 
TO N. D. 71 
 
 The thought of that bliss in brief trances, 
 
 Now fills with elixir my veins ; 
 Till I'm blind to the world's cruel glances, 
 
 And dead to its merciless pains. 
 
 From the sands of my desert I'll raise me 
 
 An altar to God and thine eyes! 
 And no mortal shall censure or praise me, 
 
 As my prayers from the ashes arise: 
 And when God in His mercy shall call me, 
 
 And I hasten to meet His command, 
 May I feel — what ere else shall befall me — 
 
 The fond touch of thy heavenly hand ! 
 
 May it lie, as I kneel in confession 
 
 At the bar where our sins are laid bare, 
 So lightly in mine, that Transgression 
 
 Will partially portion its share. 
 And may I then seek reparation 
 
 For the life made so barren and lone, 
 By crossing the gulfs separation, 
 
 And claiming thee there for mine own. 
 
R. M. 
 
 [major u. s. army.] 
 
 ''Sic Volo!" 
 
 The youngest, truest, dearest of his corps ! 
 
 The Staff's fresh bud, the Army's fairest flower, 
 
 Robbing our lives the grim king Death to dower. 
 
 To bloom above in Heaven's trellised bower; 
 Leaving us lone, forever ever more. 
 Lover of Poesy, Life and Light and Song, 
 
 Reach out thy hand, as maiden's pure and white* 
 
 Bend down thy head through clouds of silvery light ; 
 
 Drop us a star from thine immortal height, 
 And show to us this parting is not long ! 
 Give us some sign, some proof more sure than hope, 
 
 That thou now dwellest where the angels dwell ; 
 
 Send us some signal saying all is well, 
 And that our eyes on those same scenes shall ope. 
 
 Arizona, 1873. 
 
W. H. B. 
 
 [brevet major u. . s. army.] 
 "Stat Pro Raiione Voluntas!" 
 
 What mortal dare say why? It is the fate 
 
 Of those who yet live on to know his heart is still, 
 His spirit fled ! Why seek the cause or will ? 
 
 Why strive the greed of grief to gorge and sate 
 
 With speculations, born perforce too late? 
 
 "Be satisfied! 1 ' It is our doom to know that he., 
 
 The brightest, bravest sabreur of us all, 
 
 In slumber lies beneath the sombre pall ! 
 
 Hi* deeds and fame remain ; 'twere well should we 
 Make them our goal, and curb perplexity ! 
 
 'Twere well to follow in the path he led — 
 Lighted for aye by his undying smile — • 
 And then if Faith but lingers for awhile, 
 
 We'll meet beyond, above, where Death lies dead. 
 
 » 
 
 New Mexico, 1875. 
 
DISSOLUTION. 
 
 1 wake mid the ruins of dreams ; 
 To a scene most weird and bare ; 
 Before, stretch the sands of once beautiful 
 
 streams ; 
 Beside, hover ghosts of once Eden-lent 
 gleams ; 
 Below, smoulder castles of air. 
 
 Through long weary years I had planned 
 
 This realm for a maiden so fair : 
 By sentries of roses its ramparts were 
 
 manned j 
 From nightingale's throats were its light 
 zephyrs fanned, 
 And she was to dwell with me there. 
 
 'Twas an elf-land of beauty and love ! 
 
 'Twas a realm beyond earthly compare I 
 It was blessed by the angels who winged 
 
 from above, 
 And infused their sweet breath in the 
 garlands they wove 
 For my bride, in my castle of air. 
 
 Its moon was a planet that swelled 
 / Each night to a plenilune rare ; 
 And often in fancy her dear hand I held, 
 As thoughts of the future triumphantly 
 welled, 
 And bore me to castles in air. 
 
DISSOLUTION. 75 
 
 Every vale of that realm was sweet ! 
 
 Each nook had been fashioned with care I 
 And now when I fancied my bliss was 
 
 complete, 
 I behold in the ashes that circle my feet., 
 
 The task of my life lying there. 
 
 I bend in these ashes of waste ; 
 
 I bow at the shrine of Despair : 
 My soul on its altar is hopefully placed, 
 That again I be granted a glimpse and 
 a taste 
 Of my bride, and my castle in air. 
 
 The vultures but answer my call ! 
 
 The clouds flash a merciless glare ! 
 And back in the ashes I helplessly fall, 
 My dream for my requiem, my bride for 
 my pall, 
 
 My tomb, my wrecked castle of air. 
 
THE DOOMED STAG. 
 
 As I am to be married to-morrow, 
 
 I think it is well I should go 
 Through my traps, lest the fair one's fond fancy 
 
 Should tend towards inspection also : 
 Though I've nothing whatever to cover, 
 
 Nor hide, nor destroy, nor conceal, 
 Still it may save no end of odd answers, 
 
 And make me security feel. 
 
 Here's a box filled with old scraps of ribbon, 
 
 All labeled and dated with care ; 
 They were cut from the end of the "streamers,' ' 
 
 That the girls long ago used to wear ; 
 Here is one of black velvet marked "Carrie;" 
 
 Another of pink, bearing "Rose;" 
 And a delicate blue, labeled "Marie," 
 
 And a purple, I know 'twas poor Flo's. 
 
 Then come the bright scarlets of Sallie's, 
 
 And the orange and yellow of Belle's, 
 With the old blue and pink christened "Alice," 
 
 And the claret chenille of Adele's. 
 Here are hundreds of dried, withered rosebuds, 
 
 And ringlets of black, brown and gold ; 
 And mouchoirs of delicate light duds, 
 
 Embroidered with monograms old. 
 
THE DOOMED STAG. 77 
 
 And here in this old velvet pocket 
 
 Are six fans, and three ear-rings, all odd; 
 Five sleeve-links, four rings and a locket, 
 
 And a little gold pea in the pod : 
 Eight bangles, ten veils and some trimming ; 
 
 Twelve gloves, and no two the same size — 
 Would the fair one. suspect me of sinning 
 
 If these trophies should meet her fond eyes? 
 
 Here's a box of old photographs showing 
 
 The way that we looked at the Springs., 
 And others at Rye, taken going 
 
 To the beach with our old bathing things ; 
 And some are in costume, denoting 
 
 Our part in some gay fancy ball ; 
 And others that represent floating 
 
 At the pier, in the Captain's old yawl. 
 
 Here's a slipper of dear little Mina's; 
 
 I filled it one night at a ball 
 With Heidsieck, and drank philopena's 
 
 Regardless of matrons and all. 
 Here's a glove filled with scraps of a letter 
 
 That Daisy's old guardian once penned, 
 Declaring he thought it far better 
 
 Our marked morning meetings should end. 
 
 Souvetrirs, valued trinkets, together 
 We've traveled these many long years. 
 
 Through sunshine and pitiless weather. 
 In laughter and sorrow and tears ; 
 
78 THE DOOMED STAG. 
 
 But to-night we must certainly sever. 
 The last sad farewell must be said, 
 
 And the scenes you recall must forever 
 Lie buried with loves that are dead. 
 
 Notwithstanding this strange fascination 
 
 To cherish you, still you must go; 
 And I'll practice the art of cremation, 
 
 And treasure the ashes, you know. 
 Here goes then ! On Love's sacred altar 
 
 I'll have a burnt offering of old. 
 And grief shall not tempt me to falter 
 
 In this sacrifice, dearer than gold. 
 
 Here goes the black velvet of Carrie's, 
 
 Dear girl ! crape is now what she wears, 
 And she's settled down somewhere in Paris, 
 
 Alone with her children and cares. 
 Here, Rose, goes the little pink streamer 
 
 You gave me that night on the stairs; 
 Had you thought then, romantic young dreamer, 
 
 Of titles and foreign affairs ? 
 
 Could I think, my Marie, when I saw you 
 
 In this little knot of pale blue, 
 That the boards and the foot-lights would draw you, 
 
 And cads would applaud your debut? 
 And your purple too, Flora, must perish ; 
 
 Poor girl, what a life you have led 
 Since he vowed to "love, honor and cherish;" 
 
 Now he and the children are dead. 
 
THE DOOMED STAG. 79 
 
 And Sallied bright colors were fated, 
 
 They captured a fossil D. D. — 
 Now she has a document dated, 
 
 To capture the children and flee. 
 And Belle's brilliant orange and yellow 
 
 Were destined her colors to be, 
 For she fancied a shoulder-strapped fellow, 
 
 Who belonged to the gay cavalry. 
 
 Gentle Alice, the veil you have taken 
 
 Forbids you these colors to wear, 
 Far away in a convent forsaken 
 
 By all save remorse and despair. 
 It was there on the deck of the steamer 
 
 Poor Adele gave me this in adieu, 
 Ah ! how plainly this faded old streamer 
 
 Brings the loss of the "Havre" to view. 
 
 And you too must perish, old pocket, 
 
 With your bangles, and mouchoirs and fans ; 
 Your ear-rings, and sleeve-links, and locket, 
 
 And gloves, musjt give way to the banns. 
 These pictures are faded and yellow, 
 
 And I fancy they'll have to go too, 
 They can be of no use to a fellow 
 
 Who to bachelor days bids adieu. 
 
 I can't burn this slipper of Mina's; 
 
 I will give it to some one to throw 
 At the brougham, when the last they have seen us. 
 
 For it prophesies luck, don't you know? 
 
So THE DOOMED STA\ 
 
 While the dear little foot that once wore it 
 
 Is pressing the soil of old Spain, 
 And the meetings with Daisy — deplore it, 
 
 Can never be managed again. 
 
 It is done ! as cremator I've finished 
 
 The task I was doomed to perform ; 
 The fire has ray treasure diminished. 
 
 And left me depressed and forlorn. 
 It would be an odd joke if the fair one 
 
 Was engaged in a similar task ; 
 And the thought is sufficient to dare one 
 
 To quickly run over and ask. 
 
 But no : I will not trouble borrow ; 
 
 I will fancy her thinking of me. 
 And counting the hours till to-morrow. 
 
 When forever together we'll be. 
 So I'm off to the little stag dinner 
 
 The boys have arranged at the club; 
 And I solemnly swear as a sinner 
 
 : Tis the last — and, by Jove ! there's the rub. 
 
 'Tis the last, that is morally certain. 
 
 And the dinner's expressly to me; 
 So o'er sleep I must drop the green curtain, 
 
 For we'll not reach our coffee till three. 
 If I look rough and ' 'rocky" to-morrow, 
 
 And the fair one is led to inquire, 
 I shall say it is owing to sorrow 
 
 Felt for friends lost last night at a fire. 
 
A BLOSSOM. 
 
 I am thinking again of the time I first met her, 
 
 (That beautiful Blossom which buds did surround ;) 
 I am saying once more, I can never forget her! 
 
 (Though silent she lies 'neath the snow-covered mound.) 
 I am tracing again those dear features, now holy, 
 
 (I know not if ever she glanced at mine ovrn ;) 
 1 am kneeling where ever in prayer bend I lowly, 
 
 (Before the "Hie Jacet" cut deep in her stone.) 
 
 The sound of my voice was ne'er borne to her hearing; 
 
 (Nor accent of hers ever fell on my ear;) 
 My heart beat the measure of hoping and fearing, 
 
 (Her own pulsed a strain Fate forbade me to hear:) 
 On the throne of my lips lay her dear name engraven ; 
 
 (On the altar of hers all my being was laid ;) 
 My tempest-tossed heart made her bosom its haven; 
 
 (Her breast was unconscious that port had been made.) 
 
g 2 A BLOSSOM. 
 
 But thrice, only thrice did mine eyes drink her beauty, 
 
 (At a ball ; at a fete ; in her casket of snow ;) 
 Each time my wild heart robbed my tongue of its duty ! 
 
 (But then we were strangers ! Could I let her know?) 
 I loved her and made her in secret my idol ! 
 
 (She knew not the worship I paid at that shrine y) 
 And the thoughts, hopes and fears I was powerless to bridle, 
 
 (But how should she know that such longings were mine ?) 
 
 At night when all nature was silently sleeping, 
 
 (The last ere that casket forever was closed) 
 By all — save her spirit— unseen, came I creeping, 
 
 (Her spirit, then Death had my secret disclosed!) 
 I kissed her cold hands that lay clasped on her bosom, 
 
 (Those hands which in life were untouched by my own ;) 
 I laid on her breast the one flower she'd have chosen, 
 
 (But how could she choose when her spirit was flown ?) 
 
 I mourned many months for that Blossom which perished ! 
 
 (Ah, Death ! you were cruel to harvest that bloom !) 
 My heart, soul and thoughts her dear memory cherished ! 
 
 (But could she know that, in her echoless tomb ?) 
 Then tell me. why left she this comforting stanza? 
 
 (Found after the daisies had bloomed on her dust) 
 Ah ! where find a Merlin to read me that answer ? 
 
 (Her spirit alone with the answer I trust !) 
 
A BLOSSOM. 8 3 
 
 "When I am dead and all the house is stilled, 
 
 When tear-tired eyelids shall be closed in rest, 
 Then shall the Unknown, whom my heart has filled, 
 
 Lay one white blossom on my pulseless breast: 
 His kingly lips shall press my bloodless hands, 
 
 And I shall lie unconscious and unmoved; 
 But tell him — ere have run the golden sands — 
 
 His kiss is felt ! and he alone beloved /' ' 
 
 Death, bear me on to my Blossom, my bride ! 
 (Come quickly! 1 care not what form you assume!) 
 
 1 will mount you unfearing, and recklessly ride! 
 (She awaits my approach at the door of her tomb:) 
 
 My passion shall guide you ! press forward ! press on 1 
 (Ah, Death, you are slow when your presence is sought !) 
 
 I feel you ! thrice welcome ! now let us be gone ! 
 
 (Through Death the destroyer, my healer is brought !) 
 
A SCENE IN A CEMETERY. 
 
 A body from which the spirit had fled 
 
 Was being lowered to its grave ; 
 Parents and friends with eyelids red 
 From the scalding tears they dropped for the dead, 
 Were grouped where the willow and cypress spread 
 
 Their shade o'er the fallen brave. 
 
 Apart from the throng kneels a maiden fair 
 
 Enveloped in sombre folds ; 
 A veiling of gloom hides her features rare, 
 But her heart-wrung sobs speak a keen despair, 
 And an anguish of soul beyond compare 
 
 For the dead, whom the earth now holds. 
 
 In a torrent of tears the maiden kneels. 
 As the throng from the grave defile; 
 Many a glance to that mourner steals — 
 But she alone knows what that knell reveals, 
 And the dreadful doom that the Death king seals, 
 And the Fate that stamps her "vile." 
 
A SCENE IN A CEMETERY. 85 
 
 'Tis the same old story of trust betrayed, 
 
 That story of Faith and Shame ; 
 Where to stronger man yields the weaker maid, 
 (A trustful soul, to a heart decayed) 
 Where a life's the price of the debt that's paid 
 
 By the weak, who must bear the blame ! 
 
 The throng that follows his flower-decked bier, 
 
 And wreathes his immortal name, 
 Would deem it a crime she should venture here, 
 To the sacred ground of their honored dear, 
 To pollute his dust with her shameless tear — 
 
 If they knew his sin and her shame ! 
 
 And yet she was pure as the lily white 
 
 Asleep in a woodland dim, 
 When her idol came in his selfish might, 
 With his subtle creed of his views of right, 
 And his vows that his life should her love requite- 
 And she yielded through love for him. 
 
 'Twas a sin to seek, and a sin to yield ! 
 
 A sin that we all should fear ; 
 But to guard the strong with a saintly shield. 
 And banish the weak to a blighted field, 
 Is one of the laws that the Lord repealed. 
 
 When He told us to "Judge not" here. 
 
86 A SCENK IN A CEMETERY. 
 
 But Sin is condoned and Love is condemned 
 
 By this merciless world of ours ! 
 By credulous Faith is the current stemmed 
 Of that cruel stream, that the soul doth rend ; 
 While laurel-crowned Sin from his throne doth send 
 
 Fresh blights to the blooming flowers ! 
 
 Virginia, 1881. 
 
RETROSPECTION. 
 
 O tell me not that when the heart 
 
 Is filled with grief and pain. 
 And yearnings for the dear dead days 
 
 Which ne'er can come again, 
 That Retrospection is replete 
 
 With each enchanting phase, 
 And brings to you once more the sweet 
 
 Delights of other days ! 
 
 Ah, no; the Past forever's gone*! 
 
 'Tis buried with the dead, 
 And Retrospection is the ghost 
 
 Of raptures that are fled ; 
 It haunts you with the memory 
 
 Of hours absorbed in bliss, 
 But does it bring again the sigh, 
 
 The glance, the touch, the kiss? 
 
8$ RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Does it recall the love-lit eye, 
 
 The tender trembling tone, 
 The thrilling touch, the honeyed lips 
 
 That once were all your own ? 
 Does it re- fill your vacant arms 
 
 With that fond form again. 
 And make you see once more those charms — 
 
 Or change to bliss thy pain ? 
 
 Alas, it tends to change alone 
 
 Your grief to agony ! 
 It makes you feel how wholly gone 
 
 Is all save memory. 
 The eyes you view are closed in rest ; 
 
 The lips are pale and chill ; 
 The form is cold and motionless ; 
 
 The hands are crossed and still. 
 
TO B. . B. . 
 
 Drifting, steadily drifting, 
 
 Drifting slowly apart, 
 We who so lately were lifting 
 
 The veil that o'er-shadowed each heart ; 
 We who were drunk with a passion 
 
 That frenzied our blood and brain, 
 Are drifting, steadily drifting 
 
 Apart on the' world's cold plain. 
 
 Drifting, steadily drifting 
 
 Wider and wider apart, 
 Stifling, and starving and sifting 
 
 The life from a soul and a heart ; 
 Leaving us barren of pleasure, 
 
 Leaving us barren of pain, 
 Drifting our passionless corses 
 
 Apart on the world's cold plain. 
 
9 o 
 
 To B . . B. . 
 
 Drifting, steadily drifting 
 
 Farther and farther away, 
 Borne down the channel of anguish, 
 
 Chilled by its woeful spray; 
 We. who with veins filled to bursting 
 
 With the blood of a passionate heart, 
 Are drifting, steadily drifting 
 
 Farther and farther apart. 
 
 Drifting, steadily drifting — 
 
 Apart, to the world we appear : 
 But our hearts and our souls know the secret — 
 
 We are drifting so dear and so near, 
 That the longings and yearnings they smother, 
 
 And the i 'raptures and roses" they hide 
 Will burst with triumphant to-morrow, 
 
 When we drift on Love's isle side by side ! 
 
JIM J AM IKE ON REFORMATION. 
 
 I tell yer boys, thar's a mine of rot in all this temperance 
 
 chin ! 
 And I will show how I jumped the claim, if yer' 11 anchor 
 
 while I chip in : 
 Yer must not think that steel pen coats and entrance fee' 
 
 was my plan, 
 For that is a blind where the boys stay out to sample the! 
 
 "Valley Tan." 
 I rasselled with rum for the champion belt that Nick the 
 
 distiller wore, 
 And when the jedges hove up the sponge, I'd sandwiched 
 
 him with the floor ! 
 For I tell yer boys, it's all in the draw, and that anti- 
 temperance plan, 
 Will bring yer a chowder brimmed up with broth, but 
 
 nary a sign of clam. 
 I was raised on the jug in the Sour-Mash State, back in 
 
 the olden times, 
 When a feller was jedged by his heft of heart, and the 
 
 yield of his cobwebbed wines ; 
 When ore was plenty, and four of a kind was reckon 1 d as 
 
 safe to "stand," 
 
92 JIMJAM IKE ON REFORMATION. 
 
 When a 30 gait was considered fleet* and bull's-eyes made 
 
 off-hand ! 
 To college I went with the other blocds, whar I worked 
 
 on the Latin ledge, 
 And picked in the Greek and German lodes, till I thought 
 
 it war time to hedge. 
 Then I swelled it awhile in a steel pen coat, and kids that 
 
 war soft and white, 
 And warbled gush to the bong tong girls, till I slipped on 
 
 their taffy — tight. 
 Then the guv'ner said it war time I quit, and prospected 
 
 round for a claim, 
 That I ought to draw to some toney profesh, that would 
 
 handle my ancient name, 
 Well, I drew to the law and caught a Jedge, and I might 
 
 have scooped the pot, 
 Had I only bet on the cards I held, instead of drawing to 
 
 "rot!" 
 Yes, fellers ; J. Barleycorn got me, and we struggled for 
 
 many a year — 
 But he tumbled at last to his favorite holt, and threw me 
 
 without a tear; 
 He used me then as a kind o" bait to gather the blue 
 
 fish in, 
 And his day-book gave me a credit by pain, and his ledger 
 
 a debit to gin ! 
 I took a whirl at "freeze-out" then with a lot of blue-pill 
 
 beats, 
 And of all the croppings I ever had seen, they took the 
 
 chromo for cheats ! 
 They'd ante up with a chloral chip, and a swallow of 
 
 bromide tea. 
 
JIMJAM IKE ON REFORMATION. 93 
 
 And "blind" with a stack of morphine pills, that would 
 
 cost yer a "V M to see ! 
 They froze me out, and I struck a trail that led to a big 
 
 stockade, 
 Whar the swells retreat to "taper" and "brace," when 
 
 rum has the mischief played ; 
 But I found that bracing produced a thirst exceeding the 
 
 former spree — 
 And ring-tailed monkeys and white-winged rats war the 
 
 commonest things to see ! 
 I about got even with monkeys and rats, and was going to 
 
 ask them to shake, 
 When they changed into wasps with corkscrew tails, and 
 
 began to bore for my wake : 
 Still I tapered and tapered, and braced and braced, but 
 
 before I left that ranch 
 I'd had the jimjams fourteen times, and missed a bonanza 
 
 chance ! 
 I rung in then on a pauper claim that was worked by the 
 
 State on shares, 
 And lived for a year on herring soup, and the record of 
 
 bygone "tears." 
 Old R E Morse just tackled me then with the collar and 
 
 elbow grip, 
 And 1 saw that 1 either must reef my sails, or scuttle the 
 
 straining ship ; 
 So 1 struck a vein whar the color showed, and stuck till 
 
 the bed-rock gleamed, 
 And from the wealth of its blessed yield, 1 never can now 
 
 be weaned ! 
 I got my health and viger back, and said to the States, 
 
 I'm done ! — 
 
94 JTMJAM IKE ON REFORMATION. 
 
 And started in on the Greeley trail to the land of the 
 
 setting sun. 
 I flung myself in a buckskin shirt, and let my hair grow 
 
 wild, 
 And rigged my top with a brim of felt that would reach 
 
 for a Yuma mile ! 
 I rented my waist for arsenal grounds, whar Bowies and 
 
 Colts were hung, 
 And grafted on that border air, denoting a "son of a 
 
 gun r 
 I found my Greek and Latin lore were cards they could 
 
 not draw, 
 So I jammed it down in my boots with my pants, and 
 
 tackled their wild patwar. 
 1 put up this ranch, and here I have lived since the 
 
 Spring of '49, 
 And many a rummy has anchored here, but never a drop 
 
 of wine. 
 'Tis here that I grind out the Requiem Mass for the comfort 
 
 of Whiskey's soul, 
 And buckskin shirts prove a surer draw than steel pen coats 
 
 and toll. 
 Those nails druv into that upper beam just stand for the 
 
 men I've cured, 
 And I rekon yer'll find thar's a trifle more than yer steel 
 
 pen coats have lured ! 
 I tell yer boys, to fetch the Turks yer must do as the 
 
 turkeys do ; 
 And when fighting the devil yer lose yer grip if yer bite 
 
 off too large a chew ! 
 Ver should not draw out yer "Green Seal" pouch and 
 
 ask for a cuspadore, 
 
JIMJAM IKE ON REFORMATION. 95 
 
 When the next man bites from his Navy plug, and aims at 
 
 the knots in the floor ! 
 The claw-hammer coat and ticket plan does well enough 
 
 for the girls ; 
 But temperance talk in a style like that, is suggestive of 
 
 swines and pearls ! 
 A rummy who's pawning his undershirt to buy him a flask 
 
 of gin, 
 Wont bar the drink and spout the shirt for a ticket to 
 
 hear one chin ! 
 Yer may spring yer pledge, and get him to sign when so 
 
 full he can scarcely write, 
 But binding him thus from the power to drink, is bidding 
 
 him go get tight : 
 To tell a rummy he cannot drink when he feels a strong 
 
 desire, 
 Is like telling a hero he cannot fight when you call him 
 
 a sneaking liar ! 
 And to tell the sage of a thousand drunks that a badge in 
 
 his button-hole 
 Denoting Temperance, is worth the world, just strikes him 
 
 a trifle droll. 
 Yer must break them in as yer would a colt that never 
 
 has felt the curb, 
 With a bright loose box and plenty of feed, till they come 
 
 and go at a word ; 
 And yer' 11 find the cinch they'd have bucked to hell had 
 
 yer buckled it on before, 
 Will fit like the ball in the rifle's throat, or the ace in the 
 
 faro "door." 
 Yer must play them awhile as yer would a trout, and 
 
 learn the strength of their hand, 
 
9 6 JIMJAM IKE ON REFORM A TION. 
 
 For yer'll lose yer hook and yer rod to boot, if yer yank 
 
 'em too quick to land. 
 Yer must go to them in their dens and holes, and treat 
 
 'em as pals and pards. 
 Or yer' 11 find yer' re fresh to the game they play, and 
 
 lost on their style of cards. 
 If a cuss chips into this temperance pool for the purpose 
 
 of working weal, 
 And follows the ' 'system" I'm giving away, he can "call 
 
 the turn" each deal ; 
 But if he goes in for the women's sake, in style, with the 
 
 entrance plan, 
 He'll pull to a pair till his liver is white, hut he never 
 
 will "catch his man ;" 
 And yer'll find the bulk of the feller's heart who follows 
 
 that kind of game, 
 Is about the size of a flea's eye-tooth, and the heft of a 
 
 lizard's brain ; 
 And I tell yer, boys, yer may bet your "stack," when we 
 
 climb the Golden Stair, 
 Old Jimjam Ike in his buckskin shirt will lead them fellers 
 
 there ! 
 
 I'll own that back in my younger days I kind o' flew the 
 
 track, 
 But when I savey'd the race was foul, I waltzed to another 
 
 tack ! 
 And I rekon them nails in that upper beam — thar's two 
 
 hundred and fifty four, 
 Will go a piece with that Merciful Jedge, towards barring 
 
 out that score. 
 
To B. 
 
 I would not have thee grieve nor mourn, 
 Nor have one tear-drop dim thine eye, 
 
 When tidings of my fate are borne 
 To ears that now in slumber lie. 
 
 I would not have thee think or dream 
 That any act or word of thine, 
 
 Swayed the swift current of life's stream, 
 Or urged or caused this act of mine. 
 
 I would not have thee sit and brood 
 On hours forever gone and past, 
 
 Nor when in a desponding mood 
 
 Recall the hours which were our last. 
 
 I would not have thee, when the tone 
 Of some old long forgotten song 
 
 Refills thine ear, sigh "'Twas mine own, 
 Sung by his lips, now mute so long." 
 
9 8 TO B. 
 
 I would not, should the love which now 
 Protects thee change, and lie as dead, 
 
 Have thee recall an old time vow, 
 
 And muse, " Would his so soon have fled/ 
 
 I would not have thee, should the ties 
 Which now enfold thee, rend and part, 
 
 To retrospection turn thine eyes, 
 
 And say, "His was the truest heart!" 
 
 For thoughts like these alone have power 
 To make thy sorrow doubly sad ; 
 
 They'd make more dark thy darkest hour, 
 And I would have thee ever glad. 
 
 But if some time a thought of me, 
 
 Might bring one half the wild delight 
 
 1 felt while lingering near to thee, 
 Td bid thee not forget me quite: 
 
 And if perchance in gloaming hours 
 
 Some tender spirit in thy feet 
 Should lead thee on through sylvan bowers, 
 
 Adown the forest's dim retreat, 
 
 And guide thee to the shaded mound 
 Beneath the tree that marks the spot 
 
 Where I lie sleeping in the ground — 
 So sound thy step awakes me not ; 
 
TO B. 99 
 
 Should'st thou, whilst briefly pausing there, 
 Shut out the future from thine eyes, 
 
 And muse on days more clear and fair, 
 And nights of brighter moonlit skies ; 
 
 And murmur, "O again to press 
 
 My lips to those I loved so well ! 
 Again to feel his warm caress, 
 
 Again to hear him say, 'Dear Belle'!" 
 
 If thou should'st see a daisy droop 
 
 Its head, as by a zephyr blown, 
 Then raise its head above the group, 
 
 And bow again to thee alone, 
 
 Thou' It know my spirit is the flower, 
 And that it sways by breath of mine, 
 
 And that it strives with all its power, 
 To rise again and mix with thine. 
 
 Ope then thine eyes — be worldly wise, 
 
 Cut "Coward" and "Fool" upon my stone ! 
 
 These words can never break the ties 
 That hold me, even dead, thine own. 
 
 I am not happy from thy side, 
 
 And naught save Death can bring me peace ; 
 'Twould not be Life if severed wide, 
 
 Nor Death if robbed of its surcease. 
 
ioo TO B. 
 
 Remember that I happy die, 
 
 For thoughts of thee my being fill ; 
 
 Thy name upon my lips shall lie 
 
 When all is calm, and cold, and still. 
 
 Do as I bid, nor grieve nor mourn, 
 
 Nor have one tear-drop dim thine eye, 
 
 When tidings of my fate are borne 
 To ears that now in slumber lie. 
 
 And then perchance, in other lands, 
 Where souls and spirits are at rest, 
 
 We'll meet again with out-stretched hands. 
 And dwell together, blest. 
 
 Maryland, 1880. 
 
POVERTY. 
 
 'Tis bitter to see them passing away, 
 
 Those dear ones I've cherished so long, 
 When the sun shines so bright and the world is so gay, 
 
 And the birds fill the air with their song ; 
 But as leaves which in Spring-time are tenderly born, 
 
 In the Autumn must wither and fall, 
 So they one by one from this bosom are torn, 
 
 Till but one now remains of them all. 
 
 And here as I sit in the gloaming to-night, 
 
 With my hand on this little one laid, 
 I wonder if those that are lost to my sight 
 
 Would return, if I ceaselessly prayed : 
 I think, could they gaze on this desolate home 
 
 Which once was so joyous and bright, 
 They'd return to the old one from whom they have flown. 
 
 If only to cheer him to-night. 
 
io2 POVERTY. 
 
 I should not complain, for one dear one is left 
 
 To brighten my desolate way ; 
 And though limbs may be shattered, if all are not cleft, 
 
 The trunk should not totter or sway. 
 Weep not, lest your sorrow should blend with mine own, 
 
 And make me more wretched and weak ; 
 You may dry your moist eyelids, and stifle that moan — 
 
 'Tis of dollars, not beings, I speak. 
 
THE DEBUTANTE. 
 
 I met her at the "German," 
 
 The fairest of the fair, 
 With diamonds trembling at her ear, 
 
 And sparkling in her hair. 
 I said, "I'd like this 'break' with you, 
 
 If really you don't mind?" 
 She answered, "Many, many thanks; 
 * You're quite too awfully kind." 
 
 Her dancing was perfection, 
 
 Her motion was a dream ; 
 I waltzed her to the supper-room, 
 
 And handed her a cream. 
 She said, "O thanks, so awfully much ! 
 
 I'll have some water-ice; 
 Cream, I never, 'hardly ever' touch ; 
 
 ThanHs, you're quite too awfully nice ! M 
 
io4 THE DEBUTANTE. 
 
 She said, "To loll in supper-rooms 
 
 Is really quite too cad ! 
 To lounge upon the stair-way, 
 
 Is not quite half so bad ; 
 And really if you do not mind, 
 
 I think upon the whole 
 We better find a place there, 
 
 For this is quite too awfully droll !" 
 
 She said, "Though I'm a debutante, 
 
 I know no end of life ! 
 You need not fear to talk to me 
 
 As though I were your wife. ' ' 
 
 I said, "If I might dare to hope"— 
 But here the creature laughed. 
 
 And said, "I think you really are 
 Just quite too awfully daft !" 
 
 I intimated that the strains 
 
 Which filled the ambient air, 
 Were far too sweet to waste in talk 
 
 Upon the crowded stair. 
 She answered, "Yes, 'tis from the 'Chimes, 
 
 I think it quite too grand ! 
 Suppose we dance, just idling here, 
 
 Is quite too awfully bland!" 
 
 I pinned my favor to her, 
 
 And her fair face flushed with joy, 
 
 She said, "I really think you are 
 Not quite half bad a boy ! 
 
THE DEBUTANTE. 105 
 
 And I dote upon your calling !" 
 
 I answered that I would. 
 And then she said, "You really are 
 
 Just quite too awfully good V * 
 
 s|e ;jc :£ ;jc %: 
 
 As I wandered along in the moonlight, 
 
 I pondered the hours just flown, 
 And my thoughts strayed back to the dear old girls, 
 
 That I in the Past had known. 
 Then I entered my club and ordered 
 
 A spiced Jamaica, hot ; 
 And voted the present debutante, 
 
 Just quite too awfully rot ! 
 
 Washington, 1877. 
 
TO M. C. F. 
 
 'Twas midnight, I think, when I heard it ; 
 
 It came with a grunt and a wheeze, 
 Like a mixture of anger and envy 
 
 Rolled up in a sneeze ; 
 With an ugh ! and a bulge and a burble, 
 
 And a sort of a kind of a goff ! 
 And a horrible hideous gurgle, 
 
 As if straining to cough. 
 
 Just think for a moment of noises — 
 
 Indescribable noises I mean, 
 Like those you have heard in the pauses, 
 
 When aroused by some sound from a dream ; 
 And of those you have plainly detected 
 
 At night, after going to bed 
 With a brain by a novel affected — 
 
 A ghost one, just read. 
 
 Think of sounds, every kind, hard and soppy ; 
 
 Only those though you cannot explain, 
 Or describe, or illustrate or copy> 
 
 Like tearing de laine; 
 
TO M. C. F. 109 
 
 Or that made by the swell minus palate, 
 When hailed in the street for a cad ; 
 
 Or like cracking an egg with a mallet, 
 But the egg must be bad. 
 
 When two millions of these you've collected— 
 
 The vilest that ever was heard, 
 Dove-tail and veneer them together 
 
 In one mammoth word ; 
 Then get forty four lantern-jawed vestals, 
 
 And thirty three alley felines, 
 And a dozen slab-sided Celestials 
 
 From tropical climes, 
 
 And make them, at once and together 
 
 In the shrilliest, chilliest tone, 
 Give vent in the foggiest weather 
 
 To this word of your own, 
 And 'twill sound like the sweetest sonata, 
 
 Or a symphony— Mozart's in "C," 
 To the tomb-like and gollyglup starter, 
 
 That thrilled me while dreaming of thee ! 
 
 How well t remember the horror, 
 
 The agony, torture and pain 
 1 endured, as I prayed for the morrow, 
 
 And framed firm resolves to abstain 
 From all sin, and unholy devices, 
 
 Such as poker, and going on * 'tears," 
 And from time thrown away eating ices 
 
 At "Germans,' 1 with girls on the stairs. 
 
,68 TO M. a F. 
 
 ye gads, what relief! day is dawning ! 
 Now I feel more like perishing game ; 
 
 1 will meet it, alone, in the morning 1 
 
 If I kill it, what blame? 
 But where is it? the room is deserted ! 
 
 Still I cannot believe 'twas a dream- 
 Neither was it ! the fiend has just spirted ! 
 
 The fiend is the steam ! . , 
 
 How I hate, how I loathe and detest it !. 
 
 How I writhe as I gaze on its coil ! 
 How I long frQ.m my chamber to wrest it — • 
 
 Its nerve to despoil, 
 And fling it, this vile apparatus, 
 
 So far from its altar supreme, 
 That its grunts and its spirts should not part us, 
 
 When of thee I dream. 
 
 So I go, thanking God in my going, 
 
 That Fulton and Watt are both dead, 
 And in Hades are steadily glowing 
 
 O'er furnaces red. 
 Though that heat to their taste may be dryer . 
 
 Than their favorite method of steam, 
 'Tis a quieter and steadier fire, 
 
 And perchance they may dream ! 
 
A QUANDARY. 
 
 I know not how I can win my love, 
 
 For she's wedded with one much older ; 
 
 I know not how I can cage my dove, 
 Against all the world to hold her. 
 
 For if in triumph I bear her away, 
 
 The world — well, we know what the world would say, 
 
 And that those who dance must the piper pay, 
 Yet these arms so long to fold her ! 
 
 She's a wonderful love, this love of mine, 
 
 Who is wedded with age and sorrow ; 
 Her presence inspires like a draught of wine, 
 
 And her eyes do the sun's light borrow. 
 Her — but 'tis needless for me to proclaim her charms, 
 Or confess the longing that thrills these arms, 
 Or tell of the tempest her warm breath calms, 
 That's born of thoughts of the morrow. 
 
 I told her last night, as together we sat 
 
 On a sofa with splendor covered, 
 While I toyed content with her raven plait. 
 
 And the moon at the lattice hovered, 
 
lit? A QUANDARY. 
 
 That — but it matters not what to her I said. 
 Nor the language I used as my cause I plead, 
 For you know I told you my love is wed ! 
 So think of my words as smothered. 
 
 Her hand — but no ! no ! — to her arm was bound 
 
 By a band that with gems was glowing ; 
 Her words which chimed with a silvery sound, 
 
 All her wealth of mind were showing, 
 As she— but I doubt if 'tis right to tell, 
 How her soothing words like a prelude fell 
 To the symphony grand that my fears did quell, 
 So this must be all your knowing. 
 
 Then — but you will not mind if I leave her here, 
 
 And tell you of how we parted ; 
 How that aged spouse like a ghost did appear, 
 
 As from under the curtain he darted, 
 And said, * 'Though I 'would not be impolite, 
 I think the last car is just coming in sight, 
 And unless you intend to remain all night, 
 
 Perhaps 'twere as well if you started !" 
 
 So how can I win this love of mine 
 
 When her doors are barred 'gainst my coming? 
 Ah ! how can these arms my love entwine, 
 
 Is the strain my poor heart keeps drumming. 
 But I think I will try an original plan, 
 Which I fear to tell, lest that aged man 
 Should "drop" on my patent with visage wan, 
 And leave her my requiem humming, 
 
A LIFE DRAMA. 
 
 She found the sleeve of his morning coat 
 
 Entwined with an amber hair ; 
 And as her own was a dingy brown, 
 And he had none on his rink-like crown, 
 
 She wondered how it came there. 
 
 But her wonderment ceased when the girl came in, 
 
 To see what she'd have for tea; 
 For she noticed the girl was young and fair ; 
 She also noticed her amber hair, 
 
 And she mentally said, "I see!" 
 
 Though she never has ceased his coat to scan 
 
 For a mate to that amber hair, 
 Nor trace, nor a sign to her doth appear ; 
 But then that isn't so awfully queer, 
 
 For the girl is no longer there ! 
 
ji» A LIFE DRAMA. 
 
 And now when you mount those marble steps, 
 
 And give to the bell a pull, 
 You behold a fiend of enormous size, 
 With a boneless nose, and telescoped eyes, 
 
 Whose caput is topped with wool ! 
 
 And you'll find, when next with this dame you converse, 
 
 Should your topic be ' 'Races and Rights," 
 That ere you have seized on your ulster to go, 
 The shots she has fired were intended to show 
 That the Blacks are far better than Whites!. 
 
"COME IN;" OR THE SIX SEASONS. 
 
 Long years have gone by since the time when a boy 
 
 I stood in our garden below, 
 Entranced with delight and enraptured with joy, 
 
 As I viewed my first vision of snow; 
 As the flakes wavered down iri their flickering fall 
 
 As noiseless as that of a pin, 
 The fond voice of my mother I heard faintly call, 
 "Come child, you'll catch cold dear; come in." 
 
 Long years have gone by since 1 stood in our yard 
 
 With a "shinny" stick held in my hand, 
 Looking on at a fight that was raging quite hard 
 
 'Twixt our boys and a mixed village band. 
 The stones flew like bullets, the bats and the blows, 
 
 And the screams made a deafening din, 
 Still the voice of Jack Austin distinctly arose, 
 
 Saying, "Skeesicks, peel off and come in." 
 
 Long years have gone by since the time when I tapped 
 
 At the door of her boudoir of blue, 
 And my heart beat with joy as I fervently rapped — 
 
 In the manner that loving hearts do; 
 
ii 4 "COME IN;" OR THE SIX SEASONS. 
 
 When the door quietly swayed, by a motion unheard, 
 
 And an angel — ah I dream not of sin — 
 In a voice sweet as notes of a twittering bird, 
 
 Said, "Why, Skeesicks, my darling, come in." 
 
 Long years have gone by since in Julesburg I strayed 
 
 Through a portal of darkness and vice, 
 Where a gang, of rough men at a bar were arrayed, 
 
 Apparently playing with dice; 
 The scene was not tempting; I turned to withdraw, 
 
 When a scout said, "We're tossing for gin !" 
 Then turned, and advancing said, "Stranger, yer paw ; 
 
 You've sixes to beat ; but come in." 
 
 Long years have gone by since the time when I sat 
 
 In a tent on the Laramie plains. 
 Playing "draw" with the boys, who with rhino were fat, 
 
 Having come from the "Hills" with their gains. 
 We were playing jack-pots, and no one drew a pair 
 
 Till the pool grew a fortune to win, 
 When Jim softly murmured, "I'll open it square ! 
 And Skeesicks, old pardy, come in." 
 
 Long years have gone, by and my sight's getting dim, 
 
 I am nearing what cometh to all ! 
 Wrap me up in my blankets and warble the hymn 
 
 Beginning, "He came at each call." 
 I'm going ! What is that ? 'Tis a banner of fire, 
 
 And on it in blood written "SIN !" 
 Tis Old Nick himself bears it ! who says, "We'll retire ; 
 
 What, Skeesicks ! old victim, come in." 
 
THE MEADOW-LARK. 
 
 A little lark lit by a bung while dry, 
 
 And he twittered a cry, -I'll try, I'll try !" 
 
 Then he jumped in the hole, 
 
 And swallowed the whole 
 Contained in that barrel marked "Rye," rye, rye, 
 Contained in that barrel marked, "Rye." 
 
 Then the little lark up through the hole rose he, 
 And he twittered a cry, "Drunk-y, drunk-y ! 
 
 I will brace me and fly 
 
 To a field of this rye, 
 And there shall my little nest be, be, be, 
 And there shall my little nest be." 
 
 So the little lark braced, and endeavored to fly 
 To a field that was blooming with beautiful rye; 
 
 But the liquor he'd drunk 
 
 Made the little lark funk, 
 And he fell in a meadow near by, by, by^ 
 Fell drunk in a meadow near by. 
 
1 1 6 THE ME A DO W-LA RK. 
 
 The raven — made famous by Edgar A. Poe — - 
 On that very same eve essayed "bumming" to go, 
 
 But he gasped in surprise, 
 
 When the sight met his eyes 
 Of a lark in a meadow laid low, low, low, 
 Of a lark in a meadow laid low. 
 
 A crane — 'twas a sand-hill one — cantering by, 
 The intemperate lark in the meadow did spy ; 
 
 The crane shrieked in pain, 
 
 "Gad ! I've got 'em again, 
 For a lark in a meadow is lain, lain, lain, 
 For a lark in a meadow- is lain ! ' ' 
 
 At a caucus of birds held that eve at a wake, 
 The raven and crane both arose and bespake 
 
 The astonishing view 
 
 Of a lark bathed in dew 
 In a meadow with nothing to take, take, take, 
 In a meadow with nothing to take. 
 
 The caucus invoked all the winged fiends of night 
 To aid in explaining this marvellous sight : 
 
 Then stilled was each tongue, 
 
 When an old crow here sprung 
 The remark, that the beggar was tight, tight, tight, 
 The remark that the beggar was tight. 
 
THE ME ADO W-LA RK. 1 1 7 
 
 This happened in ages of floods, Noahs and arks ; 
 But down to this day have these same meadow-larks 
 
 Continued to "Go," 
 
 And the words of the crow 
 Head the list of clairvoyant remarks, 'marks, 'marks, 
 Head the list of clairvoyant remarks. 
 
 Should you deem this a fable or day dream or lie, 
 I besceech thee at dawn seek some meadow and try 
 
 And you'll find that sweet note 
 
 On which girls and bards dote, 
 Is simply, "O Rye-y, rye, rye, rye, rye !" 
 Is simply, "O Rye-y, rye, rye !" 
 
PARODIES. 
 I 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 It is a common grievance to hear persons complain of 
 having their favorite poems parodied. They assert that it 
 robs the original of its beauty, and that the travesty occupies 
 the place in their thoughts which the poem once held. 
 
 I am unable to comprehend this prejudice ; were I not, 
 I should not have selected such poems as Story's "Cleopatra/* 
 Poe's 'Annabel Lee," nor General Ly tie's "I Am Dying 
 Egypt ! " to parody ; for, in my opinion, they . are gems in 
 the tiara of Poesy. I could as soon understand a chromo 
 after Angelo or Raphael robbing their work of its beauty and 
 strength, as I could comprehend burlesques of these poems 
 diminishing in any way their immortal loveliness. To me a 
 parody only adds to the merit of the original, for the worth- 
 lessness of the former brings into greater prominence the merit 
 of the latter; and while holding such opinion, I should n<>: 
 be expected to apologize for what, if I held different views, 
 would appear not unlike sacrilege. 
 
 P. L. 
 
 121 
 
123 
 
 PROLOGUE TO "SLIM BUT FES." 
 
 Lest the bright eye of graduating "sub.," 
 
 Fresh from the classic shades of famed West Point, 
 
 Should fall upon the ode yclept "Slim Buttes" 
 
 And fail therein its meaning to discern, 
 
 I fain would bid him ponder well this proem, 
 
 And learn from one who sniffed the battle's smoke, 
 
 How that great field was fought and won. 
 
 As one, when peeping in his partner's hand 
 
 Beholds three kings, will glibly "pass," 
 
 So I must pass o'er scenes forever dead, 
 
 And tell you only of that gory day. 
 
 1 long to linger and describe the scene 
 
 Wyoming witnessed on the sunny morn 
 
 Its troopers gathered on the vacant plain — 
 
 Clad in their scouting gear, with saddles packed — 
 
 And passed, with well dressed ranks, 
 
 In bold review before their dazed Inspector ! 
 
 "Not much to see," you say. Well, no, not much ; 
 
 But still so much, that had I but the power 
 
 Of that great bard, who carols forth so sweetly 
 
 Of the deeds of Arthur and his Table Round, 
 
 I'd picture here a scene 'twould wither you ! 
 
 For when the column's head had gained the point 
 
 From whence it started, the bugle-note commanded 
 
 "Tr.ot ;" and once again before the dazed Inspector 
 
1^4 PROLOGUE TO "SLIM BUTTES." 
 
 Passed that gallant band. Again the column's 
 Head had reached its starting point ; again the 
 Bugle sounds ; this time the ' 'charge !" and by the 
 Dazed Inspector, troopers dashed with reckless fury ; 
 Their sabre arm was raised above the head, and 
 Each hand grapsed with deadly grip that weapon 
 Known as Colt's new "45 ;" and as they neared 
 The crazed and dazed Inspector, each Colt was 
 Brought unto the felt hat's peak, and then the 
 Arm was lowered in proud salute ! Such was the 
 Order of the Commandant, who improvised new 
 Tactics for the field, and put them into practice 
 On the morn he sallied forth to meet the hostile* foe. 
 
 I pass, pass, pass ; but fain would linger still, 
 And tell you of the scenes that Hat Creek viewed 
 When news of Custer's fate was borne to camp. 
 I fain would linger, but must needs proceed ; 
 For should 1 picture here how one, at dawn, 
 (A dragoon sub.) essayed to clear the stream 
 From bank to bank, and landing in its centre 
 Slowly sank, until his bloodshot eyes alone 
 Were visible ; while "dough -boys" on the other 
 Side ran wild, and from his slumbers roused the 
 Commandant, to tell him what the daylight had 
 Revealed — "A dhragoon /ootenant, mired in the 
 Muddy strame !" Or should 1 tell how Jack and 
 I at midnight's height meandered slowly forth 
 From "Beauty's" tent, beneath a moon — the 
 Moon that night was full — and saw, strung loosely 
 O'er a wicker chair which stood before the Colonel's 
 Guarded tent, a canteen of the quartermaster's mold ; 
 Whereat we paused to slake our fevered thirst : 
 
PROLOGUE TO 'SLIM BUTTES." 125 
 
 Jack raised the chalice to his eager lips, then grimly 
 Smiled, and said : 'Ye gads ! 'tis ram!" And rum it 
 Was ; but when the slumbering Colonel rose at dawn, 
 And sought to brace his nerves, he found a 
 Ministering angel had his beaker kissed, and changed 
 Its contents into Adam's ale ! — For should I picture 
 Here such scenes, the saintly subs, of these our later 
 Days, would close their ears in disciplined accord, 
 And shriek in shrill falsetto "Crucify!" So now 
 I pass ; but where the band a junction formed 
 
 With C , on Goose Creek near the mountains 
 
 Where it heads, Til raise the blind and play the 
 Cards I hold. 
 
 From there, a column formed of foot and horse. 
 And guides and scouts and friendly bucks, and 
 Numbering in the thousands unto two, and in the 
 Hundreds unto quarter score, moved out in grand 
 Array, with one intent ; to butcher Squatting Taurus, 
 Known to fame as Sitting Bull, the chieftain of 
 The plains; the same who murdered Custer and 
 His braves. This expedition, by its Commandant, 
 Was dubbed at once the great "B. H. & Y." 
 And in its midst full many a"cit" was seen, 
 Sent thither by our country's guardian the a free press," 
 In quest of news the world to edify. Guided by 
 Half-breed Frank (who was by marriage ties joined 
 To the tribe of Taurus) that expedition moved from 
 Day to day. At length the creek was reached 
 Where rosebuds blooming on its either bank give 
 To the neighboring vale its fragrant name, and there 
 The trail of Taurus was descried so broad and plain, 
 
i26 PROLOGUE TO ''SLIM BUTTESr 
 
 That blind men on an inky night conld follow it. 
 Through endless rain, with rations so reduced that 
 What was once deemed but a trooper's share, then 
 Had to serve for four or even five, the column day 
 By day moved on the beaten trail which led it to 
 The broken, fretted banks of Yellowstone's dark, 
 Muddy, turbid stream ; and there the trail was lost 
 Beneath the wave. (Or so said Frank the half-breed 
 Guide, who was, remember, wed to Taurus' tribe.) 
 
 June was just budding when we left our posts ; 
 August was blown when we that point did reach. 
 That spot, oasis like, rose on the desert of that drearv 
 Scout ; for there another column on errand similar 
 To ours (and there ceased similarity) was also camped. 
 Their tents were pitched ; their blankets dry ; their 
 Food was nourishing : and from that brave and 
 Gallant band we begged and borrowed life's necessities. 
 A steamer plied upon that turbid stream, and those 
 Worn out by hunger and fatigue were placed thereon 
 And shipped as baggage home. Among that crowd 
 Were plainly visible the wizened features of those 
 Scriveners — those heroes of the -'Independent Press" — 
 Who there upon the steamer's crowded deck waived 
 Their adieux, and said : "Farewell my boys ! Your 
 Country's ears shall ring with knowledge of your 
 Hardships! We're orT; adieu! adieu !" From there 
 That prince of scouts, that monarch of the plains, 
 "Buffalo Bill," departed too. 'Twas not fatigue nor 
 Fear that prompted him to leave ; but pure disgust 
 
 With C s' mismanagement, and wrath at being 
 
 Led thus fruitlessly by half-breed Frank; who was. 
 Remember, wed to Taurus' tribe. 
 
PROLOGUE TO "SLIM BUTTES." 127 
 
 Think not my adolescent sub. our country's ears 
 Were doomed to ring with knowledge of our sufferings ; 
 For when those mighty monarchs of the quill had 
 Reached their homes, and donned their dressing-gowns, 
 And slipped their feet in slippers lined with down, 
 They penned their letters to the world at large, 
 Omitting reference to our hardships and condition, 
 And praising him whom they so lately damned ! 
 They all had fled with two exceptions ; those 
 Remained and saw us to the end ; but even they 
 Refrained from whispering in our country's ears 
 The farce enacted on those Western plains. 
 
 Again the column moved. Its destination was the 
 Fort named after him, that mighty chief, who fell 
 By murderous hands in Washington. But when 
 The point was reached where we our course should 
 Change to reach the fort, our leader, that benighted 
 Commandant, conceived a plan, which for stupidity 
 Exceeded all the blunders made before. 'Twas this : 
 To cross the Bad Lands to the ''Hills," and lend 
 Protection to the miners there ! — His obvious reason 
 Was to win the praise of those frontiersmen, who 
 Would laud his name. And so our course was changed ; 
 The fort abandoned for the Black Hills' aid. 
 Rain, rain, increasing, endless rain ! Day after day, 
 And night succeeding night, we plodded on through 
 Mud that reached our knees, and slept in pools 
 Of water, cold and chilled. No tents had we , 
 No covering save the solitary blanket which the 
 Order licensed us to bear, and that weighed down 
 With mud and rain and filth. No rations save one 
 
i28 PROLOGUE TO "SLIM BUTTKSr 
 
 Hardtack now and then, and slices cut from our poor 
 Worn out steeds, as day by day we butchered them 
 For food. No fuel but the damp grass fanned to blaze, 
 To cook this loathsome steak, and which we had to 
 Salt with powder from our belts. Coffee and tobacco 
 Gone ! And so we moved ; we, whom the politicians call 
 "The Nation's Pets," and whom the papers dub "The 
 Epauletted Aristocracy," moved day by day, over the 
 Bad Lands to the distant "Hills ;" guided by half-breed 
 Frank, who was, remember, wed to Taurus' tribe. 
 
 At length a point was reached where the benighted 
 Commandant and half-breed guide a consultation held, 
 Which terminated in the mild intelligence that we, 
 "The Nation's Pets" were lost! 
 
 Then from the Third some sixty men were picked, 
 And officered by hvQ as gallant men as ever buckled 
 Spur or drew the blade, and sent in quest of frontier 
 Settlement, known to exist somewhere within the "Hills." 
 That very night that little band beheld the towering 
 Lodges of the hostile Sioux. At early dawn the 
 Village was attacked ; the inmates all were routed, 
 Captured, slain. The pony herd (I think two 
 Hundred head) was also counted in as blessed spoils. 
 That was Slim Buttes ! and to that little band alone 
 Belongs the glory of that day ! 
 
 By noon we all had reached the scene ; the fight 
 Was o'er; the field was won. No Indians could be 
 Seen ; but in a ditch, or rather crooked ravine, some 
 Few were hid, and from that place they fired at intervals. 
 
 'Twas there that "Buffalo Chipps," that trusty 
 "Pard" of Cody's, fell ; and several troopers shared 
 Alike his fate. Then moved the mighty brain of 
 
PROLOG UE TO i 'SUM B UTTES " j 29 
 
 That great Commandant : another plan was laid : 
 'Twas grand ! Ay ! even Napoleonic. 'Twas this ; 
 To fill two saddles full of dry lodge-poles ; to then 
 Invert two saddles over these ; then bind the whole 
 As if one solid log ; to then ignite each end, and 
 Throw this patent hell into the ditch where foe men 
 Lay concealed. His object simply this ; to smoke 
 Them out. Sublime ! Sublime ! But who the 
 Luckless wight to pack this burning brand across 
 The open plain until the ditch was reached, — a 
 Splendid bull's-eye for the hidden foe? And what 
 Should force the smoke to linger in the confines of the 
 Ditch when Heaven's blue sky remained its only roof? 
 Conundrums like to these, propounded audibly by 
 Bugler boys, convinced the Commandant it would not 
 Work. He then essayed to charge the ditch ! and for 
 That service picked his chosen few, viz. A pay- 
 Master, some packers, scouts and aides ! they 
 Soon discovered that was not their forte. 
 
 While lost in thought, a squaw arose from out 
 The ravine's depths, and boldly headed for the 
 Commandant. He sieved her hand and said, "Now 
 If you'll yield, the Government again will succor you." 
 She yielded; and the day was won. 
 
 The sun showed signs of sinking to its rest, 
 When from the neighboring bluffs some shots were 
 Fired, aimed at our herd, which hobbled, grazed 
 Below 5 but they were soon corraled ; and then till 
 Darkness fell upon the scene, a scattering interchange 
 Of shots was sent up from our camp, and down 
 From adjacent bluffs. With what result ? you ask ; 
 Well, seek the Commandant's "Report," and there 
 
i 3 o PROLOGUE TO "SLIM BUTTES." 
 
 You'll find his number of the slain. We who did the 
 Firing say thirteen! But then, perhaps the Commandant 
 Included canines in his estimate ; if so, his figures 
 Might be multiplied. 
 
 Next day the ponies' lives were sacrificed : we closed 
 Our eyes, and fancied we ate veai. 
 
 Again the column was in motion— straight for the "Hills." 
 But ere the rearmost file had moved four hundred yards 
 From where we camped the previous night, three 
 Hundred warriors daubed with their war paint, 
 Armed to the teeth, and eager for a fight, poured 
 Volley after volley in our midst ; but vje pressed 
 Onward to "protect the Hills." 
 
 There was a chance to fight ! There moved two 
 Thousand men with backs to foe, while in each 
 Bosom pulsed a heart that beat with hope to hear the 
 Buglers sound the "charge;" but no ; our gallant 
 Commandant decreed no shot from out our ranks 
 Should backward go ! So, guided by half-breed 
 Frank, who was, you know, a relative of Taurus' 
 Through his squaw, we reached the "Hills," a starved, 
 Disgusted crowd. Such was the scout our great 
 Centennial year was doomed to witness on our 
 Western plains. Such was the gallant fight yclept 
 u Slim Buttes," which brought fresh laurels to the 
 Commandant. Such is the chief whom now the papers 
 Praise, and dub, "Intrepid slayer of the Sioux !" 
 But you will notice when the — d. and — th. and — d. horse, 
 ^ n d — th. and — teentrh foot together meet, they always 
 Speak of this affair in undertone, and mention it as 
 
 <*C s retreat from Slim Buttes to the Hills!" 
 
 June was just budding when we left our posts; 
 
PROLOGUE TO "SLIM BUTTES." 131 
 
 November bloomed when we our quarters gained. 
 
 Now novice, should you live when I am gone, 
 And when that Commandant has ceased to breathe. 
 And when a grateful country seeks to rear a fitting 
 Shaft above his sacred dust ; I bid thee gather 
 From those barren plains, and from the dreary 
 Canons of those ' 'Hills,' ' the bones of the poor 
 Men we buried there; the bones of those starved 
 Men who strayed from camp, and never more were 
 Seen save by the wolves ; the bones of those worn 
 Steeds we killed for food, and throw them on the 
 Grave of that great chief, as -fitting token of 
 His warlike deeds. Then raise the head-board of 
 A bedstead old (a neat, suggestive form of monument) 
 And paint thereon this glorious epitaph : 
 
 'Twas in the crimson ides of '64, upon the 
 Anniversary of the day that's honored for the birth 
 Of Washington, that he who sleepeth here, was 
 Slumbering in his bed at Cumberland. Surrounded 
 By ten thousand boys in blue — eager and anxious 
 For the coming fray — he slumbered ! And when 
 Morning dawned that band was headless ! He, its 
 Chief, the one who sleepeth here, was captured by 
 Some thirty of the foe, and taken from his couch- 
 es shameful sight! — and mounted with a ••Grey-back , ' 
 On a horse, and driven mutely through his guarded 
 Lines away to Richmond. The "kiotes" pausing at 
 This motley pile will spare the frame of this departed 
 
 G ,as rigidly as they would the bones of the 
 
 Immortal one ;— but for reasons quite dissimilar. 
 
i 3 2 PROLOGUE TO 'SLIM BUTTES. 1 ' 
 
 Now turn to "Slim Buttes," and if failing there 
 To find a faithful picture of the siege, reproach 
 Me not, for I that ode revere ! It won for me the 
 Title "Lariat." 'Twas scrawled upon the cover of 
 A box, while seated in a canon of those "Hills," 
 And two centurions of the — d. and — th. gave me 
 The name to which I fondly cling. 
 
 If memory failed me not, I'd reproduce that princely 
 Idyl, penned by a gallant hero of the — d. and based 
 Upon the glories of that siege ; but you will doubtless 
 Stumble on it soon, for horsemen keep it in their 
 Quarters, framed. And I have read how Navy men — 
 Those warriors of the sea — have oft been heard to 
 Lisp it to the Night, while Lurlei-maids poised lightly 
 On the yards to hear. 
 
SLIM BUTTES. 
 
 At Slim Buttes neath the noonday suo, 
 After the 3d. the fight had won, 
 
 Came C and pack-train on the run, 
 
 To jump the captured property. 
 
 But Slim Buttes viewed another scene ; 
 For close by, in a deep ravine, 
 Three bucks and several squaws had been 
 Firing with great rapidity. 
 
 'Twas then each crow-bait charger neighed, 
 
 And said, "I'm d <1 if I'm not played !" 
 
 And G C like a burro brayed, 
 
 Portraying his identity. 
 
 Then several faint attempts were made 
 
 To charge with C 's blood-red brigade ; 
 
 Hut pay corps, packer, scout and aide, 
 Fell back with great agility ! 
 
i 3 4 SLIM BUTTES. 
 
 'Twas then a squaw drew near the band, 
 
 And C advanced and siezed her hand. 
 
 And said : "Now yield to my* command, 
 And I will go security." 
 
 The squaw confessed that she was beat, 
 And that it was a great defeat ; 
 
 This nobly aided C 's conceit, 
 
 And proved his capability. 
 
 Tis o'er ! The squaw surrendered flat ; 
 
 C penned despatches neat and "pat;" 
 
 While half-breed Frank and petit Batt 
 Sought scalps with great cupidity. 
 
 'Tis morn : the ration fight is o'er. 
 Two hundred pups lie sick and sore ; 
 The ponies' flanks are gushing gore, 
 To stimulate humanity. 
 
 Few, few are left who care to tell 
 How starved men cussed and ponies fell ; 
 "Old C— — is right !" the papers yell, 
 To G — — e's great felicity. 
 
ANTONY. 
 
 [After Story's "Cleopatra."] 
 
 Here, Fonteus, fill my meerschaum, 
 
 The one that I won at pool ; 
 And bring me some absinthe and seltzer, 
 
 And see that they both are cool: 
 Open the window wider, 
 
 And raise me a trifle, so 
 I can breathe the delicious aroma 
 
 From my garden of mint below. 
 
 I dreamed I sat with my Cleo., 
 
 On a sofa of silk and gold ; 
 But I woke when the vision was sweetest, 
 
 And the secret can never be told ; 
 It has gone from my mind like some stupid 
 
 Engagement I purposely broke, 
 And the sofa and Cleo. have vanished 
 
 Jn a cloud of perfumed smoke. 
 
 Squirt on me attar of roses 
 
 From that tube on the bracket there, 
 And pour a few drops of the "Duchess" 
 
 On my face and ntOUBtache and hair; 
 
i 3 6 ANTONY. 
 
 Go get your comb, and play me 
 
 A suicidal tune, 
 .To rhyme with the dream that departed, 
 
 And awoke me, alas! too soon. 
 
 There, drowsing upon the afghan, 
 
 Stretches my deer-hound "Fan," 
 And rests her neck on the shoulder 
 
 Of my sleeping setter "Dan." 
 The mouser yawns on the divan, 
 
 And opens his mouth to enfold 
 A fly that is dead with slumber, 
 
 As into his mouth 'tis rolled , 
 The air is too hot and sultry 
 
 To venture to move or stir, 
 And the clouds are as still and motionless 
 
 As the frame of a strychnined cur. 
 
 Ye gads ! this endless ennui 
 
 Is wearing my life away ! 
 O for a row and ruction, 
 
 With bullets and slugs to slay ! 
 Throw down that comb — I loathe it ! 
 
 Take your silver trumpet instead, 
 And sound out the "Stable Call Waltzes" 
 
 To awaken this world so dead. 
 
 Hark ! to my broncho beauty — 
 My burro, yellow and white, 
 
 With ears like a trowel-bayonet, 
 As they stand on parade at night. 
 
ANTONY. 137 
 
 Look * listen ! as higher and higher 
 
 His head in the air he rears, 
 How he reaches, with neck uplifted, 
 
 And brays as he flaps his ears ! 
 
 burro, bray for Cleo ! 
 
 Bray, "Come to me, love, awhile !" 
 Bray, "Cleo ! Cleo! Cleo!" 
 
 Till she hears you down by the Nile. 
 
 There — leave me, and take from my chamber 
 
 That stupid pet of a lamb, 
 She drives me half distracted 
 
 As she bleats for her distant dam ! 
 Take her, — she makes me nervous — 
 
 And fling her into the street, 
 Or, by the ghost of Octavia's cat, 
 
 I'll can her for potted meat ! 
 
 Leave me to gaze on the fashions 
 
 Thronging the streets and squares. 
 Where the Summer sun shines sweetly 
 
 On the world with all its cares } 
 Till an ominous cloud in the westward 
 
 Hursts in a torrent of rain, 
 And absorbs, as a sponge in a basin, 
 
 Each new grenadine and gros grain ; 
 And the skeleton frame of the bustle 
 
 Has lost its haughty mien, 
 As it droops like a last year's lily, 
 
 Distorting each gore and seam. 
 
 1 will lie and muse on the old times, 
 
i 3 8 AMoyr. 
 
 That have passed like a dream away, 
 And with chloral, absinthe and hasheesh 
 
 Madden my fancy to play ; 
 When, a grey and yellowish :i kiote," 
 
 Mixed with a little dun, 
 Softly and swiftly footed 
 
 I wandered, where never the son 
 Of a white man nor Greaser nor Indian 
 
 Had planted his mighty heel, 
 And, wild in a reckless freedom, 
 
 I started some grub to steal. 
 The gopher dug like lightning, 
 
 So dreadful was his fear, 
 And the vultures left their carcass 
 
 When they spied me creeping neaF. 
 I gulped down the choicest portion 
 
 I found upon the plain, 
 Then screaming, barking and yelling. 
 
 Jumped in delight again. 
 Till I heard my wild bride wailing 
 
 In the depths of a cafion near. 
 Which meant, in the language of kiotes, 
 
 "Come love; you have nothing to fear ;" 
 Then I screamed, and yelled in answer, 
 
 And shook my coat in pride, 
 And off like a rocket started 
 
 To fondle my wild young bride. 
 We spooned in that dismal cafion 
 
 Beneath a mesqvite tree, 
 And snapped at each other our lantern jaws- 
 
 'Twas a jaw-yous sight to see ! 
 Her white eyes looked like snow-balls 
 
ANTONY. 139 
 
 As she sat and winked at me, 
 
 And her bushy tail, like a fly-brush, 
 Fanned the sage bush nervously. 
 
 Then like a trap she grabbed me, 
 With a fierce unearthly groan, 
 
 And we met, as two cats in an alley 
 When a boot -jack at each has been thrown. 
 
 We snapped and snarled at each other, 
 For her love like her lungs was strong 
 
 And her teeth from the nape of my scrawny neck 
 Had often the claret drawn. 
 
 Often another she-wolf — 
 For I was thought quite swell — 
 
 Would sit on her haunches winking, 
 And longing her love to tell ; 
 
 But Cleo'd appoint her funeral 
 At the hour we had set to dine, 
 
 And at furnishing rival's corses, 
 Her light was the first to shine. 
 
 Then down to the creek we wandered, 
 Where the prairie-dogs came to stroll ; 
 
 Like a hurricane we jumped them, 
 Ere they'd time to reach their hole. 
 
 We drank their blood and crushed them. 
 And picked them clean to the bone, 
 
 And six of the bravest decided 
 That Cleo. could whip them alone. 
 
 Those were the clothes-pins we were ! 
 None of your common kind, 
 
i 4 o ANTONY. 
 
 With their puny, petty passions, 
 And ''mimsy, ,, maudlin mind ! 
 
 No nonsense about the future, 
 
 Nor the thought of what folks might say, 
 
 Disturbed in the least the glorious life 
 We lived in our rollicking way. 
 
 Come to me, Queen, I'm longing, 
 
 The sun in the West is gone; 
 And the kiote's old time fury 
 
 Through my veins runs quick and warm. 
 Come not sneaking to steal me ! 
 
 Take me with sand and shell, 
 As dredgers do the oyster ! 
 
 I will not scream nor yell. 
 Come as you came in that caSon, 
 
 Ere we to humans were turned, 
 When the kiote's fury was in us, 
 
 And love in your optics burned ! 
 
CAR-MA-NEE. 143 
 
 As soon as I coppered the three and the nine, 
 
 In that hot Ter-ri-to-ree, 
 A pile of new bills was thrown dn mine, 
 
 Bet "open" to win, you see ! 
 And I wondered what youth had a nerve so fine 
 
 As to buck at this game 'gainst me ; 
 So I turned to see, and flushed with wine 
 
 By my side stood Car-ma-nee — 
 
 My little brown Car-ma-nee ! 
 And the pile of new bills that on mine were laid, 
 
 Iri that hot Ter-ri- to-ree, 
 Were the very same bills that to me were paid 
 
 By the U. S. yes-ter-dee— 
 Paid by the U. S. for scouts I had made 
 
 In pursuit of such raiders as she ! 
 
 I "savey'd" sufficient to plainly see, 
 
 In that hot Ter-ri-to-ree, 
 That a fearful job was put up on me 
 
 By the dealer and Car-ma-nee ; 
 And though I played "low and crafty,' ' 
 
 (Like the Watsons I seemed to be,) 
 They left me the wreck in reality 
 
 That I in prospective did see ! 
 
 O for the strength and the "sand" Poe gave 
 To that kinsman of "Annabel Lee," 
 
 To aid me in bearing her off to the wave 
 And dropping her into the sea ! 
 
 Not any white sepulcher in mine 
 At the planting of Car-ma-nee ! 
 
i 4 4 CAR-MA- NEE. 
 
 A bag with stones to the number of nine, 
 Is a swell enough send-off for me. 
 
 Now the moon never shines 
 
 But I see threes and nines' 
 Gazing down in derision on me, 
 
 And the Night does not pass 
 Without murmuring -'ass/' 
 
 In the lingo of Car-ma-nee ; 
 And the star never shoots, but I swear the galoots 
 Who put up that job shall yet die in their boots ; 
 
 The dealer and Car-ma-nee ! 
 
 Deplorable Car-ma-nee ! 
 That she should cry "Bueno /" when viewing the wreck 
 
 Her Greaser job made of me ! 
 
CAR-MA-NEE. 
 
 'Twas years, but how many I now forget — 
 
 In a hot Ter-ri-to-ree — 
 That a Greaser lived ; and you can bet 
 
 That her name was Car-ma-nee ; 
 And this girl pretended her only wish 
 
 Was to spoon, and be spooned by me. 
 
 I was as wild, and she was as wild 
 
 As a parentless hawk might be ; 
 But we spooned with a spoon, by the big-horn spoon, 
 
 I and my Car-ma- nee — 
 With a spoon that the great spoon king, Butler, 
 
 Coveted her and me, 
 
 So this was the reason I called one day 
 
 At the ranch of my Car-ma-nee, 
 Where her madre greeted me with, "Usted 
 
 Buenos dias, si-en-te-se ;" 
 And said : "Senorita, she gone take walk 
 
 With her pet pup 'Skim-ma-zee, ' 
 In hopes of meeting and having a talk 
 
 With her dear Ten-e-an-te." 
 
1 42 CAR-MA- NEE. 
 
 The fellows, not half so happy in camp, 
 
 Went envying her and me ; 
 And this was the reason she took that tramp, 
 
 In that hot Ter-ri-to-ree, 
 Simply to show them her vestal lamp 
 
 Was burning alone for me; 
 At least, in this manner I put the thing up, 
 
 (For conceit had the better of me,) 
 As I strolled along through old Tucson, 
 
 In quest of my Car-ma-nee. 
 
 For our love it was stronger than Limburger cheese, 
 
 Or the love of folks greener than we — ■ 
 
 And of many far slower than we — 
 But neither the ghost of old loves gone before, 
 
 Nor of those in prospective I see, 
 Can ever induce me to trust any more 
 
 In my little brown Car-ma-nee ! 
 For there on the plaza I found her engaged 
 
 In that villainous game, mon-te! 
 She was bucking the ducats I gave her for clothes 
 
 Away at that game, mon-te, 
 And betting her alse and my pesos 
 
 Away on some Greaser "pre." 
 
 I saw if this Greaser continued to play 
 
 A financial wreck I would be ; 
 So I slid to a booth, in a priestly way, 
 
 And coppered the nine and three, — 
 Bent only on making a "stand-off ' 
 
 With the loss of my Car-ma-nee. 
 
TO M. C. W. 
 
 I am dying, Army, dying ! 
 
 Freely ebbs the crimson gore ; 
 And some other "sub." will glory 
 
 When he learns I am no more. 
 Let thine arms, O "Judge," support me! 
 
 Close thy commissary jaws ; 
 Listen to the things I tell thee, 
 
 And too soon thou' It learn the cause. 
 
 Though my chief, the Nan-tan-in-cha, 
 
 Dared to say I played it ill, 
 When I drew to two small targies 
 
 On a "pre" that I should "fill;" 
 Seek him. say old Hoyle hath sent thee 
 
 To applaud that master stroke ; 
 That my cheek with science mingled, 
 
 Never more should see me broke. 
 
 Though my raw, untutored "C" troop 
 Wear their felt hats never more ; 
 
 Though my vouchers for September 
 Still have sunk a little lower; 
 
i 4 6 TO M. a w. 
 
 Though no nad-a-lins surround me, 
 
 With coon can to lure me on, 
 I shall perish with the comfort 
 
 That my ' 'Guard-mount" work is done. 
 
 Should the troop, when I'm departed, 
 
 Mock the sub. that's laid so low, 
 'Twas no Tonto's arm that felled me, 
 
 'Twas a buiro aimed the blow ! 
 He, when Tar-tig-y had left me 
 
 That I flew to in despair ; 
 He, when Zuni had bereft me, 
 
 Sent me beyond need of care. 
 
 And for thee., my blear-eyed Loco ! 
 
 Don-judah ! outcast of the band ; 
 Come again beseeching pesos 
 
 With thy mescal-tinted hand. 
 Give the indays frequent chances 
 
 To efface that Grecian nose, 
 And in peace I'll hish-hash mucho, 
 
 Trusting thee to bore my foes. 
 
 I am dying, Army, dying ! 
 
 Hun-she ! hear old Pedro's band ! 
 They are coming — quick, my sabre ! 
 
 Let me feel it in my hand. 
 Ah ! no more when sol's chiquito 
 
 Shalt thou don the female garb ; 
 Councils, Boards and Courts shall guard thee- 
 
 Tudle-ki-a ! Fatal barb ! 
 
THE IRON-BOUND BUCKER. 
 
 How fresh in my mind is my old Texas broncho, 
 
 Though long years have vanished since last he was seen ; 
 That pert, pinto pony my didce named "Poaco" 
 
 Which cost me great pesos way out in Tom Green : 
 How patient he'd stand while you "cinched" up the saddle, 
 
 Never moving a muscle for fear of ill luck ; 
 How blandly he'd turn to make sure you were straddle, 
 And then, O Caramba ! how vilely he'd buck ! 
 That old Texas broncho 
 My duke named ^Ponco" 
 And I christened "Donko" — 
 Ye gads ! how he'd buck ! 
 
 How well I remember the day I neared Austin 
 
 To witness a mammoth militia parade ; N 
 
 I paused to scrape off the red mud I'd been tossed in, 
 
 And bandage the bruises my broncho had made. 
 How proudly he paced down the desolate by-way, 
 
 Such thorough-bred action 3 such proof of good "chuck !" 
 Till he joined with the throng in the banner-hung highway, 
 
 And-then, O carajo ! but didn't he buck ! 
 
1 48 THE IRON-BOUND BUCKER. 
 
 How vividly clear in my mind is the morning 
 
 We passed through the portals where Santa Fe gleamed ; 
 The brown senoritas in white robes were thronging, 
 
 And on towards the plaza the fair column streamed. 
 I learned 'twas the great Corpus Christi procession — 
 
 I might have learned more had I met with good luck — 
 But just as it neared me in solemn succession, 
 
 That infidel broncho in ecstasy bucked ! 
 
 How well I remember the motion that thrilled me, 
 
 As over his withers I shot like a ball ; 
 How well I remember the target that stilled, 
 
 Reared high by those virgins to lighten my fall. 
 How vivid and bright gleams that routed procession ; 
 
 How ghastly pellucid, my horrible luck ; 
 But O what gleams brightest, — I'll make the confesson, 
 
 Is the jiynamite motion attending that buck ! 
 
 I am certain the beast was enchanted by witches; 
 
 For during the Summer I claimed him my own, 
 He bucked me clear out of my corduroy breeches, 
 
 And jostled the teeth in my upper jaw-bone ! 
 He would shut his four legs like a fan close together, 
 
 Then arch his short back, like a moon that had struck ; 
 Then draw down his head to the cactus-crowned heather, 
 
 And centre his energies all in that buck ! 
 
 It would come with a swiftness that down through all ages 
 
 Will rankle with envy the scientist sage; 
 It would come with a force that no wizard presages, 
 
 And with a precision no power could assuage. 
 
THE IROX-BOURD BUCKER. 149 
 
 Should the telephone sharp, or the cable inventor, 
 
 Desire to engirdle the earth, a la Puck, 
 They need only decide to make "Ponco" their mentor, 
 
 And blast all their batteries off on his buck. 
 
 I swapped him at last to a withered sefiora, 
 
 For a mammoth-eared burro, whose habits were known ; 
 But he bucked her from Vegas way down to Sonora, 
 
 And he didn't half try, as his record has shown ! 
 I know not if Fate to that old pinto pony 
 
 Has brought dire misfortune, or borne him good luck ; 
 But all that I own, 'gainst a cracked cascarone, 
 I'll bet that this instant he's bent in a buck] 
 That iron-bound bucker ; 
 That copper-rimmed bucker ; 
 That steel-plated bucker 3 
 Ye gods ! how he'd buck ! 
 
AN IDLE. 
 
 He sat on his steps at the midnight hour, 
 
 Silent he sat, with his head bent low ; 
 The rain came down in a terrible shower, 
 The lightning flashed with appalling power, 
 And struck and shattered the old church tower ; 
 Still he sat on the steps, just so. 
 
 A watchman, hid 'neath an awning near, 
 
 Did mentally say : "Why sits he there?" 
 The awning responded: "Well, not through fear;" 
 The pavement answered : "He's out of gear ; M 
 The cobble-stones said ; "It is certainly queer ; M 
 But the man moved never a hair. 
 
 Perhaps he was waiting for some one to call ; 
 
 Perhaps he was waiting for some one to pass ; 
 Perhaps he was waiting the meteor's fall ; 
 Perhaps he was waiting a tunnel-cloud squall ; 
 Perhaps he was waiting for nothing at all, 
 
 Perhaps he was only an ass. 
 
"IT WAS THE CAT." 
 
 A Jay-bird of the Army lay dying in his bunk ; 
 
 No other Jays were conscious, they had sought their nests while drunk ; 
 
 But a Meadow-lark perched near him, with a rum-besotted eye, 
 
 And gazed with palsied glances on that wretched wreck of rye. 
 
 The dying Jay-bird chippered as he stroked the Lark's fond wing, 
 
 And said : "I never more shall call for 'straight/ or 'tod,' or 'sling ;' 
 
 Take these jimjams as a warning to other Larks and Jays, 
 
 For Nick has called me down to him, to help him tend the blaze. 
 
 ''Tell the Larks and Jays who gather at my planting on the morn 
 To shed no tears, but fill the cup with amber juice of corn, 
 And drain it to the memory of one who early fell, 
 And with his chips prepared to cash, skipped with a 'How !' to hell. 
 Say I struggled with the enemy through long successive years, 
 Unmindful of the warnings that came with frenzied fears, 
 And when at last my hand was called, the devil could not 'faze' 
 The nerve 1 showed, as down with him I skipped to tend the blaze. 
 
 ''Tell my sister not to weep for me when Jays go reeling by, 
 With swollen beaks and broken wings, and blue and blackened e\ 
 But to look upon them proudly, with haughtiness and pride. 
 For her brother was a Jay-bird, too, and he a Jay-bird died. 
 
i 5 a "IT WAS THE CAT." 
 
 °And say that when the Jews came down, my traps to gather up, 
 I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my old tin cup ; 
 And in dragoon style I drained it to the memory of old days, 
 Before I skipped below with Nick, to help him tend the blaze. 
 
 "There's another — not a sister — you will know her by her style, 
 By the neatness of her fetlock, by the beauty of her smile ; 
 Just say to her when other Larks and Jays were laid away, 
 You stood beside the bedside of her dear, devoted Jay ; — 
 That when the sound of Gabriel's horn fell tinkling on his ear, 
 He said he was prepared to go, and showed no sign of fear; 
 But never let her think or dream I ended thus my days, 
 By skipping down below with Nick, to help him tend the blaze. 
 
 "Another favor, dear old Lark, 1 ask before I go, 
 
 And that is that you'll have me stuffed, and kept in statu que, 
 
 And placed above the mirror behind some West End bar, 
 
 So I can glower on Larks and Jays, when they around it draw. 
 
 Just give me for a pedestal a dried-up pretzel crust, 
 
 And there I'll perch, as did the bird upon old Pallas' bust ; 
 
 So when the birds come in to drink they'll meet the steady gaze 
 
 Of him who skipped below with Nick, to help him tend the blaze." 
 
 His twitter ceased, his eyelids closed ; his cup fell to the floor ; 
 
 The spirit of that Jay was lost — it had not gone before. 
 
 The Lark bent o'er his stiffened form, while fragrant beads of rye 
 
 Fell with the fury of a storm from out his bloodshot eye. 
 
 The stricken Lark perched mournfully, and viewed the solemn scene, 
 
 Recalling vividly the sprees on which they both had been ; 
 
 But never, never'll be it known how long he might have sat, 
 
 Had he not heard a sound that caused his flight— 'it was the cat!" 
 
PEACE PpLICt. 
 
 Not a sound was heard, not a face turned back, 
 
 As through the canon we hurried, 
 In search of the red-skins whose nightly attack 
 
 On the settlers, our slumbers had worried. 
 
 We reached the spot where the rancheria stood, 
 And quickly the place we surrounded ; 
 
 Then our rifles converted bad Indians to good, 
 As they from their wickeupps bounded. 
 
 No useless garments did they parade, 
 
 But their breech-clouts still clung round them ; 
 
 And only the hole that the bullet made, 
 
 Changed the fiends from the way we found them. 
 
 Few, and short, were the screams they gave, 
 For the bullet soon ended their sorrow ; 
 
 And they knew the "kiotes" would find them a grave, 
 When we marched away on the morrow. 
 
1 54 PEACE POLICY. 
 
 Lightly we talked of the "killing" just made, 
 As we gazed on the wickeupps burning ; 
 
 But their spirits joined not in the joy we displayed, 
 For to hunting grounds they were returning. 
 
 But half of our endless task was done, 
 When we orders received for retiring ; 
 
 And we heard the mammoth political gun 
 That the Quakers were steadily firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we marched to our post, 
 
 But no symptoms were shown of complaining ; 
 
 We wrote not a line, and we made not a boast,. 
 But we saw where the beggars were aiming. 
 
 And now as we witness this terrible drought, 
 
 And muse on the woeful pageant, 
 We know that each Quaker who "shot off his mouth/ 
 
 Is a bond-holding Indian Agent ! 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 page 17 — heart-striken, should read heart-stricken. 
 
 page 88 — thy, should read your. 
 
 page 124 — grapsed, should read grasped. 
 
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