EI^BHEUlrilH ■l^^jfp' "''*'•* -'% MHRPPHilill H^^f^^i •1 H^H^^P^^ f^^^^H ^Hn-- HH^' :,%^tiE ^^HM'"' ml WL umm aassI&S_i35A / 1931 TO MY WIFE ^TTHISfell to me, to strike the strings Of mine own harp with strenuous hand, Refreshed to tell the joy that rings Thro2igh all the course of common things. Believing sofne would understand. No tale is here of those old days When warriors went in armor drest ; Melodious words and honeyed lays Seem all too smooth to fitly phrase The making of the mighty West, No eagle's sweeps as, rozmd and round, He climbs the amplitude of air On fearless wing, will here be found; The warbling white-throafs low, clear sound And wavering flight is all I dare. PROEM Here winds the woodbine^ wet with deWy And here the canes of cat-tails grow ; Here lift the bells of larkspurs blucy And morning-glories such as grew From out the loam of lo7ig ago. Here doth the swallow write her runes 071 the palimpsest of the pool ; The chevroned blackbird fifes his tunes ; The crocks of cream, like golden moons. Make twilight in the dairy cool. Here blows the sce7it by sweetbrier made ; Here cameo acorns strike the sod; The glow-worm^ s lantern lights the glade'. The smile of stars on snow-fields laid. Where earth, asleep, doth dreaTn of God. One heaped-up harvest now is mine; Fari7ig so far with 7iature hath Healed mi7ie own heart ; a7id if one li7ie Shall win me fellowship with thine, The7i co77ieth 171 my aftermath. CONTENTS PAOB Proem, _ Knee Deep, 9 When the GoIvD is on the Wii,i,ow, - - - - 12 The Sugar Camp, 16 The Country Road, 20 His Sweetheart's Throat, 23 "Stand By," 26 He Leadeth Me, 28 Where the Oak Log Crossed the Stream, - - - 33 O Christmas Day, 36 "His Mark," 38 Mirror Lake, 39 "AT Eari,y Candi^e Light," 41 "Dead in Khartoum," 43 The Oi,d Traii,, 45 O Christmas Tree, 48 Easter Morning, tq ''Logan of Ii^unois," 53 Our White Ladye, ---..•-.. 55 The Breadwinners' Bai,i,ad, 57 On the Timber-Line, 61 Sassafras, 63 "Four Feet on the Fender," 65 "The River of Lost Soui.s," 68 Th« Whisti^ing Boy, 71 7 8 CONTENTS PAGE "The LiI/ACS," 74 "What You Did Not Say," 77 ♦• Hardscrabbi^e and Highstkepi^e," - - - - 79 — Comrade Hayes, 81 *' The 01.D Cider Press," 83 *«— " The Boy Who Never Returned," 85 James Newton Matthews, 87 "Joseph," 88 " IvOVE Is Enough," 90 "Ai,i<'s WE1.1,," 92 " Pretty Soon," 94 "What Is Your Life?" 96 "The Day We Seined the Dam," . . - . 98 " The O1.D Zion Church," 100 — "Right On," 102 The Back Log's Bi.aze, 107 "Ta\%or of Africa," 109 The Boy We Never Saw, iii "Mary," 114 The BI.UFFS OF KiCKAPOO, 116 Victor Hugo, - - - 120 The Last Sermon, 122 Something in the Summer, 125 Where the Cork Goes Down, 131 Where Are the Heroes? 134 "Jim's Meeting," - - - 136 The Brook, 140 The Dogwood Tree, 144 God's Manuscript, 146 The Unknown, 147 On Christmas Eve, 149 Common Things, 151 Pictures op the Past, 153 The Red Dog 1887, Robert McIntyre Thus quoth the quaint old Moslem saint : Keep thy toncrue in chains, What time the fire of wrathful ire Alake blood boil in thy veins. , Let not thy wit be lost in it, ,; Like salt lost in a strec-"^. Though speaking soft beseemeth oft But laving coals in cream. When ""in thy tent dark brows are bent, And mocking mouths deride, And every claim of love's sweet name, Is gainsaid and denied, O, keep the Red Dog tied! When thou dost take, for others' sake, The ingrate's black abuse,' Then is the hour to show thy power. Let not the Red Dog loose. Calmly abate thy soul and mate . Thy lips to Allah's law When slanders brood with clamors crude In clots about thee caw; Learn but to wait and, soon or late, Joy from afar will ride *f)n swiftest pace to seek thy face And in thy shelter hide, So, keep the Red Dog tied ! 'The porcelain cup thine hand holds up Shall from its jeweled brim Rich nectar drip and thou shalt sip The bubbles at its brim. Fountains across shall lightly toss Cool opals through the heat J Where oases and spicy breeze j The weary traveler greet. ^:Thy friends shall be a wall round thee; Like palms by a well side. And o'er thy home shall bend the dome ] Of skies with iris dyed, ' Then keep the Red Dog tied ! Rose-scented air shall whisper where. In nests above thy thatch. Mid almond leaves that fringe the eaves. The ringed dovc-wive ^ hatch. . Bright gems fhall be tl". 'broidery Of all thy t hastened speech. And proverbs Tair, like rubies rare. Their ripest wisdom teach. To thee shall grief fly for relief Wherever thou dost hide. And misery more hapless be The dav that thou hast died, That kept the Red Dog tied ! had had a voice. Man> apparently did not live up to 1 iiternational brotherhood. The fa IS not been told. The proletariat ence of the few on top who made of the Socialists, according to Pro Lippressed as soon as the crash seer rations in certain of the countries y with which diplomatic negotiation »ossible to get at the real facts. On another with almost unbelievable r; ople were tonvened in their vari to decide whether there shall be p mats had decided for them. No, Dte the war credits. Can you wc eked to its respective national stanc ; the native land was being invade ^thing in press censorship that com] en at this time the British White irly in Germany, nor the German "V •uld the people be expected to lets and armor are not made ••mps and books and laboratories zation and of peace; they are ma ne of those who are particularl /ho is in the last instance to b< ar of fear was the inevitable rej .naments which we have witnesse Every nation forgot that, howe-v additional defenses merely as i nething to be used in the event oi -and rather naturally so — with nations. Granted that France d °rvice period to tJiree years mei 'any saw in it a challenge to nposed her huge war tax me France, remembering Alsace s a scheme for German agg those in our own country vy for purely defensive one nation only. They "KNEE DEEP" call " Knee deep, knee deep," to-night in the marsh below, Down by the bank where the rank sword-grasses and calamus grow ; They are the toilers who make the bells for the winter sprites. All keeping time to a rhyme they work thro' the summer nights, While up from the swampy forge the sparks of the fire- flies rise O'er the pool where wading lilies make love, thro' half- shut eyes, To the whippoorwill, who scolds like a shrew at the fluffy owl. While the night-hawk shuffles by, like a monk in a velvet cowl, 9 lo "KNEE DEEP" And the bat weaves inky weft thro' the white star-beams that peep Down thro' the cypress boughs, where the frogs all sing " Knee deep." Strange that the spell of a song should summon a man like me Back thro' the bygone years to the scenes that used to be, When earth was hid from heaven by one rose-hedge, and through This bourne the blessed angels looked, and asphodel odors blew; Strange the invisible choir, deep hid in the swaying sedge, Should woo my mind to wander again down to the water's edge; But whenever I hear that carol clear, across the wide morass, All the evening calm and the twilight balm into my being pass; From off my soul the sorrows roll, and I feel my spirit leap With exultant joy as when, a boy, I shouted back, ''Knee deep!" Knee deep I wade in the winding brook with buttercups o'erblown — The gold upon its rippled breast half hidden and half shown ; KNEE DEEP' II Knee deep in the billows of marigolds, across the mead- ows fair, That dance upon the wanton winds and toss their yellow hair; Knee deep where the bubbles of clover break upon the summer sea, As thick as the stars that shine upon the breast of eternity ; Knee deep in litter of autumn leaves I rustle toward the place Where the rabbit unafifrighted sits, and washes her inno- cent face; Song of the quivering culms and osiers, I am wading again, in truth. Knee deep in the stream of Memory, that flows from the land of Youth. WHEN THE GOLD IS ON THE WILLOW HEN the gold is on the willow, aud the purple on the brier, Not hoary hair or heavy care can still my wild desire To race across the uplands, over Memory's tender turf, And dive out of my sorrows in the dogwood's bloomy surf. O blue were violets in our youth, and blue were April skies, And blue the early song-bird's wings, but bluer were the eyes That, in that land of long ago, looked thro' the window pane, And saw the tulips nod to us amid the slanting rain, WHEN THE GOLD 15 ON THE WILLOW 13 Where all the dusk was glowing with our ruddy cottage fire, When the gold was on the willow, and the purple on the brier. When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier, The ducats of the dandelions have paid old Winter's hire. And sent him shuffling northward in garb of tattered snow; White-tasseled birches after him their balmy odors throw. Carousing in the bramble brake the brown bees, booz- ing, sip, And up the river's cataracts the shining salmon slip. The schoolboy's spirit leaveth him upon the weary seat. And over loamy furrows leaps, with lightsome heart, to greet The chipmunk on the mossy wall, the bullfrog in the mire, When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier. When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier, He whistles the cantata of the blackbird's noisy choir, 14 WHEN THE GOLD IS ON THE WILLOW And all the murmurous music of a manumitted stream Sings soft around his naked feet, where shallow ripples gleam, As if the loops of crystal wherein the lad doth wade Had threaded through the lilies of some Paradise arcade, And little laughing angels had tucked their tunics high, To plash across its limpid shoals before it left the sky ; And still it lilts the melody of lute, and harp, and lyre, When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier. When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier. It my be sin to say it, but I fear that I shall tire Of heaven's eternal summer, and sometimes I will yearn To see, across the greening swale, a budding maple burn. My soul can ne'er be satisfied where sweet Spring never hath Her way along the mountain side or by the meadow path, Where kingcups never catch the sun, or bluebells mock the sky. Or trout beneath the foam-wreaths hide, or bass jump at the fly. WHEN THE GOLD 15 ON THE WILLOW 15 And, in some homesick moment, for a furlough I '11 inquire, When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier. THE SUGAR CAMP HEN you want a treat, delicious to eat, pass by the poor old bees ; l^ Slip out and go, thro' a late March snow, to a bush of sugar-trees ; Step down the hill, when all is still, and soft blue smoke is curled In the frosty haze, where ice-gems blaze, when sundown takes the world. No honey of flowers in this world of ours, no sap of the Southern cane. Melts on the lip like the sweets that drip from a wounded maple's grain ; And if you take up a gourd or a cup of the plain old- fashioned stamp, And sip some juice, you will then turn loose and shout in the sugar camp. The giants there have strength to spare; their seed no man has sown ; But the Lord, who willed our good, has tilled and tended them alone. i6 THE SUGAR CT^MP 17 One hundred years of smiles and tears — of the sunshine and the dew — Have gone to build the tree that spilled its blood to- day for you. O to wander free, as I used to be, through that grand primeval grove. Meandering slow, as I used to go, with the sled and the team I drove ! Do n't talk to me of the barley-bree, that steeps in a still- house damp; There never was wine came out of the vine like the sap of a sugar camp. What are stately palms in the Syrian calms, or gardens of olives dim, To one who goes where the mighty rows of the maples make way for him, When the sap runs free as the melody of the robin above the shed, With the whole white earth beneath him and the whole blue sky o'erhead? For the happy man looks into the pan where the amber sweetness swirls. And sees the face and lightsome grace of the best of the country girls. And he seems to see that home to be, where, under the well-trimmed lamp. His wife doth wait, when he comes home late from work in the sugar camp. i8 THE SUGAR CAMP So he drives his sleigh down a winding way, along the moonlit lanes, To where the light of a farmhouse, bright, shines from the window-panes; Then, cuddled snug in the ample rug, o'er the snowy roads they whirr. While his sweetheart eats the spicy sweets he made that day for her. With tinkle of bells and song that swells, how gleaming miles unroll; And he tastes, so plain, the flavor again as he takes his lover's toll ; For the sleigh is narrow, and one swift arrow from Cupid, the rosy scamp, Strikes man and maid from his ambuscade as they circle the sugar camp. How he smiles next day, as he toils away stirring the bubbling trough ; For he must wait to know his fate till the night of the sugaring-ofi". Cupid makes his bows of wood that grows in the sugar- thicket's shade, And dips each shaft, clear down to the haft, in the syrup when 't is made. So all ends right, and I say to-night, though we have suffered and toiled, THE SUQKQ CAHP 19 We could both forget our sorrows yet in a dipper of sap half-boiled. When we get to heaven we '11 kiss our folks, then start for a happy tramp Up toward the headwaters of Paradise, just to work in the sugar camp. THE COUNTRY ROAD ''^ lyD meandering country road, to thy track I turn to-day, Where the carven beeches spread, and the runnel slips away, To glint across the shallows and gleam around the stones. And to croon among the cresses in caressing undertones That answer to the thrushes hid within the maple shade. Toward the town the wagons creep, along the dusty grade. Where the old covered bridge, with catalpa blossoms snowed, lyike an old-fashioned brooch, clasps the old country road. I see the brood of butterflies that border every pool Beneath the spreading elms, where the shadows are so cool; 20 THE COUNTRY R07\D 21 And the rivulets of sheep, flowing slowly past the farms; The ballad-singing shepherds bearing lambs in their arms; And the tawny tiger-lilies, their bells all spider-spun, Each with bumble-bee for clapper, ringing matins to the sun, As I rode from the har^^est-field upon the swaying load. Brushed by the locust boughs on that old country road. There is the little village, so old-fashioned and so snug, With the highway's arm around it in the fatherliest hug, Where each cottage wears at evening a smoky purple dress. With a selvedge of the sunset to set off its loveliness. Above the door the roses bloom and hide the lintel high, And along the fence the pansies make a pasture for the eye. While the open dressers preach all the hospitable code Of the friendly ethics common on that old country road. if that weaver's lassie, rinsing linen white as snow, Could whiten out my soul again as it was long ago ; O, perhaps, if I could press again that meadow with my face, 1 could cool my weary heart with the turf of that old place; 22 THE COUNTRY QOKD And at the end of life, in that ancient burial-plot, How sweet would be my slumber — all uncrowded and forgot ; And I think sometimes my spirit, from its heavenly abode, Would come down and walk, at twilight, up that old country road. HIS SWEETHEART'S THROAT THAT reminds me — I reckon I never told This camp how *'Wes." won a medal of gold. I can hear, to-night, the Chancellor say, In the southern school down Georgia way, "Whoever" — These beans are about the stuff, But this bull-beef is so awful tough, I can scarcely chew the gravy ; and This coffee is hot as a Texas brand, — " Whoever is first on the final vote Will hang his prize at his sweetheart's throat." Well, I kept the tally, and I tell you He roped that crowd as clever, and threw It as clean as a steer that hits the sky, In just two minutes from stirrup to tie. I can see, in this crackling mesquite blaze. The scene as it was in those old days ; 23 24 HIS SWEETHEART'S THPOTTT The handsome girls, high-born and rich, Who beamed on the orators, wondering which Would gain the glory, and then devote His prize to hang at his sweetheart's throat. He is not a saint — he can bite a word Into blazing brimstone when his herd Is mavericked, and he told " Kid's " breed That the timber-wolves on them would feed If they lifted his — but I wish you all Had seen that classic college hall With fine old jewels, and fine new frocks, And the boys in buckles and bushy locks, When " Wes." came out, in his home-made coat, To win the prize for his sweetheart's throat. When he cleared the corral and took the track, We all stood up, and shook the shack With shouts for " Wes.," with his curly hair. And his eye like the eye of a Pinto mare For fire, and as slim as a yucca stem. Stars ! how he turned and swept at them, With voice as sweet as the tinkling bell On a Brazos spur, and a speech that fell Ivike a silver riata, coiled to tote Away that prize for his sweetheart's throat. He pulled up the picket-pins, took the lead Of that beautiful bunch in a wild stampede HIS SWEETHEART'S THROAT 25 Up the coulee to heaven and back again. Well, I have seen women weep, and men, But I say now, when " Wes." marched down To his mother, in her linsey gown, Who stood there waiting for a kiss, And just took her weary hands in his, We cried, and cheered, and howled, to note — He hung his prize at his sweetheart's throat. mm if" HE swing of the sea, the billow's long beat, Flow thro* this tale that floats out of the fog. A rude hearse was rattled along an old street; No mourner was near it — not even a dog. A wandering sailor, blown in from the wave, Went up to the wagon that carried the dead, Kept close behind till it came to the grave Of the stranger, and stood with his uncovered head Till the cofi&n was covered, heaved a deep sigh, And said, " I thought some one should just * stand by.' " Hear the moan of the blast, the rain on the beach. Curlew's cry thro' the spray, in this man's gentle deed. Did the wail of his weanlings, who wait for him, teach This sun-browned old saint such a heavenly creed ? Did some fell affliction his own life had felt Scud o'er his sad soul as the pauper went past ? 26 "STAND BY" 27 Did unspeakable loss make his sympathy melt For a poor, friendless mortal, forsaken at last? Did a sob sag his breast, or a tear wet his eye ? I know not, and care not, because he ** stood by." "Stood by" all alone on that wide village road; "Stood by" in the bonds of the great brotherhood; " Stood by " in the grand old Samaritan code That 't is fine to be friendly, 't is good to do good. Heaven bless him, and bear him with favoring gales To his far-away home. Should the wild tempest smite, When waves take his deck and winds take his sails, Surely One will walk near in the watch of the night. Who will say to him softly, " Fear not, it is I. I saw thee that day and have come to * stand by.' " "HE LKDCTH NE" N the Rocky Mountains, the engineers say, Wherever the water dares to come down, A railway dares to go up ; and they Coil around the loftiest Titan's crown The loops of the lasso of winding track ; And up this Romeo ladder they glide, To smirch with the murk of the smoky stack The stainless hue of the clouds that hide The brow of old Blanco, scarred with age, Where we rode that night on the "narrow gauge." Startled, we heard the shrill whistle scream, And flocks of echoes, scared by its breath, Fluttered and flew thro* the hissing steam. Near was the summit, but nearer Death "HE lEADETH ME" 29 Stood beckoning us. We felt the lurch, And heard the brave engine wrench and strain, Then backward, down from the eagle perch To the far-off valley reeled the train. Fear blanched our faces, when one outspoke : " Leap for your lives ! the coupling 's broke." " The brakes are useless," another one cried, As into the gorge, with a cosmic whirr, We fell. Let the poets tell the night-ride Of Paul Revere, with his red-wet spur ; Or Sheridan, when the long race was done, Smiting Defeat on his boastful face ; Of the three who started when only one Brought the good news from Ghent to Aix ; But the thrill of them all was 'in our veins, Swept from the peak to the distant plains. We followed the foamy stream, and swerved Where white stars lay in emerald deeps ; Roared through snow-sheds ; leaned and curved ; Hung pendulous over the crumbling steeps ; Like a meteor burning the midnight air Swayed inward, scouring the granite bank ; While, crashing amid the cries of prayer. Torn from its moorings, the water-tank Was hurled and tossed in the clanging car That bore us away to the judgment-bar. 30 "HE LEADETH HE" One slip or stumble would surely fling Us all through the gate of eternity, When a white-haired woman began to sing That ancient lyric, " He Leadeth Me." No wavering air, but clear and full It rose and fell on that fearsome din. Triumphant as swims a gleaming gull Through the ocean storm she revels in. Our cradle rocking, the I^ord beat time, And we were swinging to that old rhyme. Her faith laid hold on the Father's arm ; We joined the chorus, and cast our fears To the howling winds ; there could be no harm. With the seas, and suns, and choiring spheres, We swung harmonious, rhythmic sweet. In the heavenly temple vague and vast ; We clung, like little ones, to His feet Till safely stopped on the plain at last. As the train descended our souls had trod Up the ladder of song to the throne of God. sfr=W^^^;2^'" WHERE THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE STREAM 32 WHERE THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE STREAM EMORY is busy with the old folks. Like that Bible brother's wife, We are fond of glancing backward o'er the scenes of early life ; And to-night, while sitting musing, when the dusk was coming down, I forgot the children playing, and the murmur of the town. When you called me I was driving, thro' the bars and down the lane, That faithful cow of father's, walking by her once again. With my sun-tanned arm caressing her neck's soft vel- vet skin, And telling her the secrets and the sorrows hid within The deep heart of a laddie, when she turned and licked my hand, And breathed clover-scented comfort any boy could understand. 3 33 34 WHERE THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE STRE7\n O a whiff of mint and pennyroyal upon the air did seem To blow from Brindle's pasture, where the oak log crossed the stream. She would meditate a moment, then the coolest place would seek, Where swaying willow branches trailed their fringes in the creek, And then set her agate hoofs in the gravel's polished gold. To dip her dappled muzzle where the violet ripples rolled ; And such long, delicious drinking, such a thankful up- ward look, As she plashed, with dripping nostrils, to the margin of the brook ; Then a cloud of mist upblown, and a low, deep-chested moan, A kind of humble dumb thanksgiving and returning God his own ; Then along the road together we meandered, slow and still, Where katydid was calling figures for the fire-flies' quadrille. And I was wandering in haunted lands of legend and of dream, While coming thro' the shadows where the oak log crossed the stream. WHERE THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE STRE?\n 35 I am thinking much this season of the glad old long ago; Perhaps I am failing, Helen, dear old wife, I hardly know, And there may be sin in looking back; that Scripture sister went Thro' a lot of trouble by it — had a dreadful punishment— But if she was as happy and half as full of high delight While looking o'er her shoulder as I am this blessed night, Perhaps the end was peaceful. If I was sure I had to die, And never see another sun arise across the eastern sky, I would like to meet the river — the darksome flood of death — Beside that twilight village road, and, with my parting breath, Say good-bye to all my loved ones, with the other shore agleam, And wade out from earth forever where the oak log crossed the stream. ^^ CHRISTMAS Day, w/a O Christmas Day ! O Babe, who in the manger lay, Once more thy star its splendor spills Across the sleeping Syrian hills, Once more the strange old story thrills The mind of man, till, sweet and clear, Our songs run round the board, whose cheer Makes laughing children leap, and say, "O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day!" O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day ! How selfishness doth melt away ! All eyes with kindly joy do shine. All lips say "yours," instead of "mine;' All hearts receive the Child divine, O CHRISTHAS D/W 37 Whose dimpled hands do now caress This sad old world in tenderness ; Blue breaks through the skies of gray, O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day ! O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! How every year doth spread the sway Of that dear King whose humble birth Awoke the anthem " Peace on earth," And taught the weary world the worth That in the lowly soul may dwell Where rules the Prince Immanuel, When lyOve has had his wondrous way, O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! All hate and envy thou dost slay ; Buried deep beneath the snow, Hid by holly and mistletoe, O'er them advent angels go. Hark to the choir of chiming bells ! This is the story the steeple tells : God has come to this world to stay, O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! "HIS NARK'' IT is told of Angelo, that once lie came Into the lowly cottage of a friend, And found it empty ; yet he left no name, But one great curve did swiftly bend On the blank canvas near. When, on return, his comrade did ex- claim, " Behold, the Buonarotti hath been here ! " I saw a splendid rainbow span the sky With its mysterious and mighty arch ; In stately grandeur sweeping heaven high, O'er which a tempest, with majestic march, In thunderous music trod. "Lo, this small studio, our world," said I, '* Hath this day had a visit from our God." "MIRROR LAKE" ^HEN Day cometh over the dim mountain tops, She seeth, far down in the en- chanted copse, Her fair face reflected in that magic glass Laid on the lawn where the Merced doth doth pass. 1^0, the vale hangs inverted, enfolded in firs, Thro' fathoms of crystal the soaring lark whirrs, And seemeth to sink into eternity In the marvelous mirror of Yosemite. She lingereth there, o'er the sky lintel bent, And seeth beneath her the blue firmament. Watching the mists of the morning that scale The path of the winding and perilous trail, The steeps of the Sierra's gray monochrome, The storm-smitten summit of awful South Dome, When by the great portal of red porphyry The sun drives his car into Yosemite. 39 40 "niRROR LAKE" Below, in clear water, the tall turrets swing, The bold cedar-trees to the terraces cling, The sevenfold rainbow is flinging its span From Bridal Veil Falls unto Bl Capitan. As spun by the sun from the foamy cascade. When arching across the aerial glade, It looks like the girder of God's balcony. From which He looks down into Yosemite. Sometimes in the dawning the clouds seem to stand On a far-away ledge, like an angelic band That pauses in flight, on the opaline verge Where the sky and the snow into mj^stery merge; Then Day to the seraphs shouts o'er the abyss, **0 shining and sinless ones, answer me this: Can aught in your heaven of heavens e'er be As sublime as this splendor of Yosemite?" I?A^^ "AT EARLY CANDLE-LIGHT" •^'^^^^HERE is no night in heaven," so the circuit-rider said ; Now, blessings on his saintly heart, and on his silver head, He little knew how I had dreamed, when all my work was done. Of meeting, in my Father's house my long-lost little one. O how my yearning soul shall miss — if heaven has no night — That hour of all hours the best, *' the early candle-light!" I know the dawn is lovely when the rosy wreaths of cloud Fall into purple furrows which the sun has newly plowed; The prairie, like an open hearth, on which the day doth kneel To blow the coals of morning into splendors that reveal The colors that are curled within the woven mists of white. But 't is not so hushed and holy as " the early candle- light." 41 42 TVr CT^RLY CANDLE-LIGHT' And sweet the noon in summer, when thro' the lattice blows The wind that softly whispers where the cool clematis grows ; The wheat within the valley bending in the breeze, And drowsy cattle wading the tarn among the trees. The eagle o'er them sailing thro' the sky of lazulite, But it can not bring the comfort of " the early candle- light." Oft I picture eve in heaven, where not a leaf doth stir. When every harp grows silent, hushed each lute and dulcimer ; Where, thro' the quiet twilight, down a path of Paradise, Toward the gate comes baby Kate, with gladness in her eyes. And on the paneled pearl lifts the latch of jasper bright, To greet me there when home I fare "at early candle- light." " DEAD IN KHARTOUn " ^4 O, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! The oak of England is prone ; The crape on her banners is black, The step of her legions is slack; Upholding her banner alone He has gone to his glorious doom. Lo, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! lyO, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! The damp of the Nile on his brow. Great Britain, the fateful eclipse That lies on his eyes and his lips Tells thee how he kept his vow. Death came as a bride to a groom. 1^0, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! 43 44 " DEAD IN KHARTOUH " Lo, Gordon is dead in Khartoum! His toil is all over and past. O Albion, could'st thou but fold His form with thy warriors old ! Thou kept the best till the last; Now afar he goes into the gloom. Lo, Gordon is dead in Khartoum! Lo, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! But our children shall wear his name. Egypt, take him to hold and keep; In thy pyramid let him sleep With thy worthies of ancient fame — For him will thy gods make room. lyO, Gordon is dead in Khartoum! ^^^^^^^^M THE OLD TRAIL & (^^HRO' columns of cedars begirt with i^7; ferns, Over peaks where the piiions climb together In the crimson glow where the sunset burns, And the purple fringe of the moun- tain heather ; Where the otter's pelt, in the emerald pool, 'Mid dancing foam-bells dives and glistens, And the ousel flutes in the aspens cool, Where the dappled deer, affrighted listens, When she hears our hoof-beats, far away, Runs the famous old trail to Santa Fe. A highway to heaven. The bearded and strong Left white-topped wagons and weary cattle, And, bidding this sad old world " So long," Their souls went out in the Indian battle, 45 46 THE OLD TRAIL Set free by the red Apache spears. In clumps of cactus their bones are sleeping, Strewn with the skeletons of their steers, And a rattlesnake in the white ribs creeping Makes a gruesome epitaph, Mate, I say, For a freighter who fought on the Santa Fe. Those tunicked old settlers were clear grit, And I reckon their w^omen even stancher Of soul, if a fellow will cipher it. You mind that home of the murdered rancher ; In the crumbling corner the rifle stands. With a rotten strap and a rusty buckle; But where is the wife, whose loving hands Trained over the porch that honeysuckle? And where are the babes who used to play 'Neath its scented shade on the Santa Fe? You have not forgotten the ford, I know ; That wagon-corral, and the log-fires in it; "Old Baldy," lifting his brow of snow, As white as your honest head this minute. O the yarns we spun, the songs we sung Of "home, sweet home" and blue Juniata, While up in the pines the new moon hung, And — pshaw, old partner, what 's the matter? Does it hurt you yet, when your hair is gray, What she said that night on the Santa Fe? THE OLD TRAIL 47 Well, he went down at your elbow, Dave, In that midnight fracas across the carry; You helped us heap up the lonely grave In the Cottonwood grove, over handsome Harry. We found him dead underneath his steed, With his empty sixes and stained serape, Just as he fell when the mad stampede Flung far from him these two unhappy Old chums, who tell of that red affray With tears, as they think of the Santa Fe. Gone, stirrup, riata, and rowel-bell; The bellowing herd, in its wild commotion; The breathless rush, from the chaparrel, Over the sweep of that grassy ocean. But yet, my comrade, the road is etched On the flowery prairie, fresh and vernal; And, dear old friend, when we are fetched, By Death, beyond the white range eternal, We will wind to the realms of endless day Up the shining trail of the Santa Fe. O CHRISTMAS TREE 'HE Palm is the king of the lands of the sun, And his touseled plumes are tossed Where the wild gazelles the winds outrun, On the marge of the mirage lost. He stands as straight as a temple shaft. And his laughing leafage green Flings fragrant shade on the fountain, quaffed By the wandering Bedoueen. But no palm-fruit, when peeled, can be As sweet as the fruit of the Christmas Tree. The Oak is the king of the lands of the corn ; When the tempest clouds the skies. And walks the world in splendid scorn, How its wrath the oak defies! He stands serene, elect, apart, And he drinks, from a dewy knoll, 48 O CHRISTHAS TREE 49 The sap that sings in his shaggy heart And strengthens his stout old soul. Tho' he boasts of the proudest pedigree, He doffs his crown to the Christmas Tree. The Pine is the king of the lands of snow, Sole lord of the leagues of hills Where the stars in shining clusters grow. And the moon its splendor spills On the edge of the earth's gray parapet, Where he taketh the dawn's red torch To rekindle the east. This warder, set By the pillars of God's white porch, Thro' the gates ajar can often see. In the Father's house, the Christmas Tree. As the kings of old, on their bended knees, Bowed down to the Babe divine. To-day behold these high-born trees — The Palm, the Oak, and the Pine— Come over the hills to Bethlehem, With their gifts of spicery, Lo, while the star that guide th them Its refulgence throws on thee. The Christmas bells fling, wild and free, Thy " Peace on earth," O Christmas Tree ! 4 EASTER MORNING THE dawn of Easter morning ! O the sad, sweet day, 'When thro' the laughing lilies loving Mary went her way To the place where He was buried, to weep beside His tomb, Where the cedar and the willow tree were waving in the gloom, And the myrtle and the almond tree were budding into bloom. Upon her wistful forehead all the waking wonder shone When she saw the gracious angel sitting on the guarded stone, When she heard him softly say, " I/O, your Master is not dead ; He is risen, as He said," In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! O the dawn of Easter morning ! O the sad, sweet day ! When Jesus conquered Death alone, and ended all his sway, lyist! how Magdalene is calling all the weary world to her, 50 CASTER HORN I NO 51 Where she holds the bruised cassia, the balsam and the myrrh, And stands with gaze enraptured by the open sepulcher. See the snowy linen folded, which he nevermore will need, Hear the happy woman telling that " The lyord is risen indeed." Now the shouting Christian may Stand within that vault and sing, " O Death, where is thy sting?" In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! O the dawn of Easter morning ! O the sad, sweet day ! When we were all delivered from dominion of the clay. Within that burial-garden how the heart grows calm ; How the bough of cypress changes into the branch of palm ; How the wailing requiem rises into the wedding psalm. Because our great Emmanuel, the grave could not con- tain. Comes back to be a comrade with his own elect again. In the dusky sunrise gray Looks and speech are just the same, calling Mary by her name In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! O the dawn of Easter morning ! O the sad, sweet day ! When the resurrection glory on the urn doth play. 52 CT^STER nORNING " Let not your heart be troubled, your place I will pre- pare; For you must be beside Me now, wherever I may fare. Henceforward all My blessedness My bride will surely share." O Savior, there is nothing in Thy happy heaven above That we desire a portion in so much as in Thy love. Often hast Thou heard us pray, "Eloi, when all the race is run, welcome us with Thy 'Well done,'" In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! "LOGAN or ILLINOIS" y^ALIyANT brother to Bayard, and Vl^ Siduey, and they Who galloped in glory so long ago, Like them, without fear or reproach, I say, With as steady a soul, and as stout a blow, And as loyal in love which he gave to her Whose prayers were the pinions of faith, to poise — 'Mid the smoke, and the din, and the death- bolt's whirr — " Logan of Illinois." O how bright was his sword when he broke a path Where the bristling bayonets slivered the sun Into splinters of gold, as he rode in wrath And never drew rein till the field was won. 53 54 "LCXjAN or ILLINOIS" Like a snow-suckled stream from a crag-crest flung, One sudden precipitate shaft of turquoise, Born of a breed that old Homer has sung, "Logan of Illinois." It was splendid to see him sweep into the fight. With his dominant figure and dauntless air, To speed his flight and to cheer the right When the shout of his soldiers shook the air, As he plowed his way to the perilous place At the battery's breast with his Western boys, His great soul lighting his glorious face, " Logan of Illinois." O thou Prairie State, he is dear to you — This knightly one who has lately gone To sit in the temple beside the two Who sleep by the Hudson and Sangamon. In the Hall of the Heroes thy children meet; High fame the proud mother enjoys, Who has Lincoln to welcome and Grant to greet " Logan of Illinois." OUR WHITE LADYE 3In Mtmotf of gtantet 4Elisabstb WWata— 1839-1898 fb*^ ^"i m C^v 0PAI,K she lies, in sweet repose ! Not whitelier lie the winter snows On this sad earth. From her cold brow Unloose the braided myrtles nov/, And bind the wreath of cypress there. Put lilies in her hands and hair; Come, gather round her, ye who stand ** For God, and home, and native land." Doth thine anointed vision see, Brave daughter of democracy, How Church and State together bow Above thy casket, weeping now? They loved thee so, best of our best. Thou Miriam of the mighty West, 55 56 OUR WHITE LADYC Who dauntless led thy deathless band *' For God, and home, and native land." No woman cried, ** O Lord, how long?" But thou fared forth to right her wrong; No man went, shackled, down to hell But on his gyves thy hot tears fell. Thou this old world in ribbons white Didst lift, as loops of cosmic light — Upbear it in the Almighty Hand *' For God, and home, and native land." White Ladye, though before thine eyes The portals fair of Paradise Unfold on thine enraptured view The heaven that shone thy white soul thro*, Though high the victor's anthem swells Where thou dost walk the asphodels, Still shalt thou lead us, still command "For God, and home, and native land." THE BREADWINNERS' BALLAD PT the break of day and the set of sun we hear their heavy tread, God's old brigade, all undis- mayed, they battle for daily And they laugh to know that, long ago, the I,ord of life and Fared forth at dawn, and home at dusk, with them in Nazareth. Foreheads w^hite for lack of light, or brows all brown with grime, Their garments black with soot and slack, or gray with mason's lime, They ring the trowel, push the plane, they travel the stormy deep, They click the type and clang the press when loved ones are asleep ; Thro' the city street and the country lane their lusty voices ring, By the roaring forge in the mountain gorge this cheery song they sing: 57 58 THE I5READWINNEPS* BALLAD O we march away in the early morUy As we did since the world began. Don't nuizzle the ox that treadeth the corn, Leave a share for the working-man. Some are workmen coarse and strong, and some are craftsmen fine; They set the plow, they steer the raft, they sweat in sunless mine, They lift the sledge and drive the wedge, they hide with cunning art The powder where the spark can tear the mountain's stubborn heart, They reap the fields of ripened grain and fill the lands with bread. They make the ore give up its gold beneath the stamp- mill's tread, They spread the snowy sail aloft, they sweep the drip- ping seine, They waft the wife a fond farewell, and ne'er come home again. But they march away in the early morn^ As they did sitice the world began. Don't muzzle the ox that treadeth the corn; Leave a share for the working-man. THE BREADWINNERS' B7\LLAD 59 They make the fiery furnace flow in streams of spout- ing steel, They bend the planks and brace the ribs along the oaken keel, They fold the flock, they feed the herd, they in the for- est hew. And with the whetstone on the scythe beat labor's sweet tattoo, They climb the coping, swing the crane, and set the capstone high, They stretch the heavy bridge that hangs a roadway in the sky. They speed the shuttle, spin the thread, and weave the silken weft. Or, crushed to death amid the wreck, they leave the home bereft. But they march away in the early morii^ As they did sirice the world began, DonH rmizzle the ox that treadeth the corn; Leave a share for the working-man. In ancient days they were but serfs, and by the storied Nile- Unhappy hordes ! — they drew the cords around the hea- then pile; Where Karnak, Tyre, and Carthage stood, where rolls Euphrates' wave, 6o THE BRETXDWINNERS' B7\LL7\D Grim gods looked down, with stony frown, upon the hapless slave. That day is past, thank Heaven ! No more does Man the Toiler bow His mighty head with fear and dread ; for he is master now. His hand is strong, his patience long, his wholesome blood is calm, Within his soul sits peace enthroned, and on his lips this psalm: O we march away in the early morUy As we did since the world began ; Do7i't muzzle the ox that treadeth the corn; Leave a share for the working-man. THE mountain rose on the summit grows, Many flowerets are far more fair, But the fearless thing doth climb and cling Far aloft in the shivering air, Where it lifts its bloom and spills per- fume On the feet of the foremost pine, Who leads the van of the forest clan, Where the snow-slide sets its awful ban, On the edge of the Timber-line. Lo, a maid doth dwell on the rim of hell, In the end of a sin-cursed street, Where the sneers are sped about her head And the snares set for her feet ; 62 ON THE TiriBCR-LINE Tho' lust may lower, no sweeter flower Ever grew on an avenue fine, And her heart doth ache to heal and make Their souls all white for His dear sake On the edge of the timber-line. Lo, a man doth stand in the borderland, Where he battles for daily bread For his children's sake, and doth calmly stake His all on his God o'erhead. Be strong, my brother, some day or other His saints will the stars outshine; We shall with Him sup, He will fill the cup, And His own right hand shall lift us up From the edge of the timber-line. SSSSAPRAS AINT as the sighing winds which fret With sweet and subtle harmonies The silken strands seolian, set In mullions old, come memories That thrill and pass, wild bole, which warder stood bygone bournes. Our sandal-wood, Slim sassafras. Like that green tree of life thou sprang From out the turf of Paradise, The heaven of boyhood, but thy tang Of bark and root among the wise Tall trees, alas ! With leafy laughter did infect The woods at thy quaint dialect, Rude sassafras. Thy spicy root had virtue rare The blood to purge and purify; But now, amid my toil and care. My mind hath medicine, for I 63 64 S7^557XrRAS Feel all the crass And evil humors of my soul Cast off, and thou hast made me whole, Rare sassafras. If, some blest day, when I shall rove By God's great river, all alone, Thy breath, from out the healing grove, Across the hills is softly blown. And o'er the grass. The tears that blur my sight shall be Love's tribute then to youth and thee, O sassafras. "POUR PCCT OH THE rCNDCR" OUR pictures I see, in a frame quaint and olden, Aglow in the twilight, half-gloomy, half- golden, Where big beechen logs, all the fireplace filling, From out their rude caskets their rubies are spilling, To roll o'er the hearth in a river of glory. The wind in the chimney is crooning a story; On walls and on ceiling the shadows are shifting, And down the wide flue a few snowflakes are sifting, Where brother and sister sit, winsome and slender, And face answers face, with "four feet on the fender." 5 65 66 "rOUR rEET ON THE TENDER" Then later I see a young man and young maiden, Whose low, wooing language with fervor is laden. I hear his fond question, in fear and in trembling, Her gracious reply, without guile or dissembling; Then every blithe robin that ever had nested Within the brave beech-tree, or ever had rested Inside its green tent, when it stood in the thicket. Seemed singing again with the shrill little cricket. O sweet was their song when the lass did surrender, And hand answered hand, with "four feet on the fender!" Once more I can see the same happy pair mated, Enclosed in the Paradise love has created. Around them the children, with riotous laughter, Flood all the old room, from the rug to the rafter. They play in the splendor the fire is flinging Across the broad floor, and the kettle is singing Its cheery defi to the storm that is piling The gables with snow, and the wee baby, smiling In dear mother's arms, makes the father's face tender, And heart answers heart, with " four feet on the fender." We sing of the Paradise where we are going ; O fair are its gardens, with pure waters flowing. The amaranths blooming, the azure skies arching Above the white host of the ransomed ones marching ! But I, sitting here, in my loneliness yearning For one who has gone whence there is no returning. rOUR rCET ON THE TENDER' 67 Oft picture that place as my own Father's dwelling, Where she whom I love to the angels is telling That kindly old Death soon her sweetheart will send her, And heaven will begin with "four feet on the fender. ^ "THE RIVEP OF LOST SOULS" CANON of Las Animas ! Within thy porphyry portals dim, I tread thy gloomy gorge; I pass Where writhen waters roaring swim, Foam-shredded, down the dark abyss, To gnaw thy gnarly granite roots, And, round thy boulders curling, kiss The sandals of the lordly buttes That gaze upon thee, with the glow Of sunset on their scalps of snow, Grim warders of thy grand crevasse, O Rio de las Perdidas ! Wild Canon of Las Animas! O Canon of Las Animas! Cut saber-wise clean to the core, Sword-keen thy skyey cataract has Cleft all thy cloudy ledges hoar, In one fell sweep, from frost to flower. Aloft, old Winter surpliced sits; Alow, the wolf-cubs crouch and cower When thro' the reek the raven flits; 68 "THE RIVER or LOST SOUL5" 69 From where, on thy sheer parapet, The white stars nightly walk vidette To the green pools wherein they glass Their glory in I^as Perdidas — Wild Canon of I^as Animas ! O Canon of Las Animas! Thro' shambles of the slaughtered souls Thy river of the lost, alas ! Scuds swiftly o'er skuU-paven shoals, Where tethered shades eternally Scroll all thy sagging, sunless clififs With God's name, whom they can not see In Hades' hopeless hieroglyphs, Looking, all dumb and nettle-crowned. Upon the blue face of the drowned, Gyved hand and foot with graveyard grass By Rio de las Perdidas — Wild Canon of Las Animas ! O Caiion of Las Animas ! Now is this lying legend peeled From thy great fame forever, as A ripe fig-skin, and thou revealed Sublimest Nature's holiest shrine, Where spirits, free from sinful dross, Look up, to see above them shine The '• Mountain of the Holy Cross," 70 "THE RIVER or LOST SOULS' Linteled with heaven and silver-silled, Thy templed dome forever filled With songs whose cadences surpass The strong voice of Las Perdidas Wild Canon of Las Animas! THE WHISTLING BOY BEDOUIN lithe, bare- footed and blithe, the rollicking melody Which through thy lips so lightsome slips is the ballad of " Rosalie, The Prairie Flower," and gracious power within the ancient tune Brings back the day when I rode away, in the buxom month of June, When the slender stalks of the hollyhocks lifted the blooms so high Above the wall that they shouted all, "Good-bye, my lover, good-bye ! " And in tunic yellow a wild bird, mellow and mad with tipsy joy, Tilted the rhyme of his tuneful chime to the lilt of a whistling boy. 71 72 THE WHISTLING BOY No meadow-lark in the misty dark, when winging her upward way From cloud to cloud, and caroling loud to waken the sleeping day; No whippoorwill in the twilight still, lamenting in lonely shade, Where fireflies seek for her and peek into every glim- mering glade; No slave refrain, with a warp of pain and a weft of psalm between; No aria, trilled to audience thrilled by the art of the opera queen ; No shepherd's hail in a hawthorn vale ; no mariner's "Home ahoy!" Wets my eyes like thoughts that rise with the lilt of a whistling boy. Thro' happy tears, across the years, on the lowland farm I see. Driving his line of lowing kine, the laddie that once was me, Whistling clear, to the thrushes near, that cheery, quaint old strain. Loitering slow, in the long ago, with the herd along the lane. They say that some, when death has come, and all life's toil is o'er, THE WHISTLING BOY 73 On the river brim have heard a hymn float up from the farther shore; But at the ford one low, sweet chord will all my fear destroy If, over the tide from the other side, comes the lilt of a whistling boy. "THE LILACS" NE day in the city, where people were pouring Along the wide street, with their tumult and din, Where all the great center of com- merce was roaring With fashion and traffic, with folly and sin, Where, in the May morning, the wide world was waking To life, from the slumber of cold winter's spell, I saw on the corner a small merchant, shaking The plumes of the lilacs that grew by the well. 74 "THE LIU\CS" 75 The tall purple lilacs, the sweet-scented lilacs, The old-fashioned lilacs that grew by the well. I looked, and behold the high buildings all faded To far-away hills where the firmament bent, And the avenue changed to a river-road shaded By elms, in whose shadows my naked feet went. A thrush in the thicket was singing a sonnet ; Adrift on the breezes, I caught the faint smell That came from the bush with the dew diamonds on it, Which lifted its blossoms beside the old well. The tall purple lilacs, the sweet-scented lilacs. The old-fashioned lilacs that grew by the well. My weary old spirit waxed younger each minute, I flung forty years from my soul when I laughed, For there was the well, and the face that was in it When over the curbing I gazed in the shaft. The squeaky old windlass the same thing was thinking; The opal drops into the deep crystal fell; While I, from a dipper deliciously drinking, Looked up at the lilacs that grew by the well. The tall purple lilacs, the sweet-scented lilacs, The old-fashioned lilacs that grew by the well. And then I saw mother, just as she was leaving This sorrowful world for the land of the blest, There in her room, where we children were grieving. And saying farewell to our first friend and best; 76 "THE LILACS" When wistful she gazed where the summer sun slanted, And, whispering softly, she told us to tell Good-bye to the roses her patient hands planted, Good-bye to the lilacs that grew by the well. The tall purple lilacs, the sweet-scented lilacs, The old-fashioned lilacs that grew by the well. "WHAT YOU DID NOT SAY" ^HHRE is many a word that a man may rue, And the memory of it will make him weep. Mayhap some heart that is kind and true, Like a red pomegranate is rent in two, When out of the soul the passions leap. Storming the portals of speech they rush Into cruel words that condemn and crush ; But the pang that you never may know, I pray, Is the woe of the word that you did not say. The word that you ought to have said to him Who put up his pleading face to ask For a father's smile, and whose eyes went dim With tears at your answer, stern and grim : " O let me alone till I end my task." 77 78 "WHAT YOU DID NOT 57W" Now lie vexes no more; yet you often go To the grave of the lad you slighted so, And call thro' the grass to the quiet clay, And sob out the word that you did not say. The word you ought to have said to her Whom, long ago, you did lovingly woo With gifts and graces ; but tears now blur The sight of the bloom of the lavender, That brings old summers again, and you. How she lists and longs for the tender tone Of the days gone by! When you stand alone. Your face in her lilies you then will lay, And \vail out the word that you did not say. The word you ought to have said — the dear Old pair by the fireside need it so ! It is better to speak, more blessed to hear, Your word of praise while they both are near. How free would your filial afiection flow, If you knew how we, who without them trod All the way of life, are entreating God, Who took them from us, that some time they In heaven may hear what we did not say. "HARD5CR3BBLC AND HIGH5TEEPLC" HOUIyD archangel Gabriel, nearest the throne — The resplendent clasp of that glittering zone Which girdeth forever the glory above With angelic anthems and lyrics of love, The leader of all the great legions who wait On the will and the word of the Uncreate — Come flying to-morrow with tidings again Of peace upon earth and good will unto men, Seeking the shepherds would he, in his search, Try Hardscrabble Chapel or Highsteeple Church? From harmonious surges of that choral sea Emerging, and glowing with rapture, would he Look for fisherman Peter, tunicked and tanned. Or publican Matthew, branded and banned; 79 8o "HARD5CRABBLE AND^HIOHSTCEPLE" The harlot whose tears, on the feet of her Lord, Flowed like the oil the Samaritan poured; Or that weary mother whose eloquence won Her daughter to health; or the prodigal son; Or Zaccheus, leaving his sycamore perch, — In Hardscrabble Chapel or Highsteeple Church? Would he see those who sought the Master of old ; The lost sheep He carried from far to the fold; The sinner whom bloodthirsty Pharisees claimed ; The blind and the halt, the withered and maimed; The lepers who dwelt in the caverns forgot ; The sisters who sobbed in that Bethany cot ; The woman that stood by the palms at the well ; The penitent thief, who was halfway in hell ; Sad souls whom this world had cast into the lurch, — In Hardscrabble Chapel or Highsteeple Church? Should he but walk, in his white vestiture, 'Mid the worshipers there, the rich and the poor; See one lapping lambs in its warm woolen plaid, One sitting in purple and fine linen clad, One breaking its bread to those in distress. One hoarding the honey of God's bounteousness, One deep in His love as the wheel in the stream. One craving to skim gay society's cream, — His glorious robes would gather less smirch In Hardscrabble Chapel than Highsteeple Church. COMRADE HAYES E marched with us,— September's sun Was bright on bannered Washington; From the forum, factory, and farm. The East and West went arm-in-arm ; Ten thousand shouts on loyal lips. Ten thousand streamers made eclipse Above that veteran host of blue That walked the white-walled avenue ; But loudest rose the roar to greet The statesman from the highest seat, Who came, amid their wondering gaze. To march with us,— our Comrade Hayes. He fought with us. His glory is A part of ours, and ours of his. We followed when his charging line Swept up South Mountain's red incline; Heard his deep voice, above the din Of battle, cheer his "Buckeyes" in; We saw him, 'mid the missiles' whirr, Wade that morass at Winchester. See ! how our eyes shine as we speak Of that wild day at Cedar Creek, 82 COMRADE H7WES When, cinched with deadly musket-blaze, We fought with him, — our Comrade Hayes. He sleeps with us, for we are one, Beneath the sod, beneath the sun ; We guard the rear while those who died Are bivouacked on the other side ; Some, in the springtime, deck the mounds, In Paradise some pace their rounds ; But all are one, and aye shall be Bound in eternal comradery. You have no part or lot in this, Who gave him sneer, or stab, or hiss ; He heeds not now your blame or praise. He sleeps with us, — our Comrade Hayes. Columbia, thou who hast, at need, Hearts of this high Homeric breed. Thy gray-haired legions weep to-day ; The flags are draped, the dirges play, The while each soul in sorrow bends ; This thrilling summons heaven sends : Lift up thy tear-stained face and hear, Blown o'er the river, sweet and clear. The bugle-call that faints and swells Across the fadeless asphodels : " Turn out ! " it sings ; ** each trump upraise ! Turn out to welcome Comrade Hayes! " THE OLD CIDER PRESS" THE old Cider Press, how its thin yellow thread Runs backward to-night to the days that are dead, When it fell from the mill with mellifluous sound, Where the apples went in, and the oxen went round ! O the great honest eyes of the slow-moving steers Seem to look at me now, like my own full of tears, As I smell the sweet odor, which must be, I guess, A breath of the past from the old Cider Press. O the old Cider Press on the old orchard hill ! The brook was the hem and the forest the frill Of that outskirt of Eden we called the " old farm," Where all knew the Lord and took hold of his arm. Mellow Bellflower and Pippin, red Baldwin and Blush, All pressed into pulp, as the great cities crush The sad human hearts with shame and distress, And Satan drinks the brew from the big Cider Press. 83 84 "THE OLD CIDER PRESS' O my boy, dreaming there by the dim pasture bars, With fields full of flowers and skies full of stars, Go not to the town, with its smoke and its grime ; Dabble not in its dirt ; do not die ere your time. O bide where the wind wimples wide o'er the wheat, Where the birds, and the bees, and the blossoms repeat Your laugh when the lass of your heart answers " Yes," And you both sip the juice of the old Cider Press. THE BOY WHO NEVER RETURNED" N the glitter and glow of a day like this — When the women are lifting their babes to kiss The hero who wades thro' the tides of cheers Of the multitudes looking thro' mists of tears, As he breasted the batteries' iron hiss In the deathless days — when high in the sun "Old Glory" is riding the smil- ing sky On the trumpet's blast, O I miss the one Who tossed to us all the fond ''good-bye" From his youthful soul, that burned With exultant ardor to share the strife, Saying that love was more than life. Roll slow, O drum! Wail low, O fife! For the boy who never returned. 85 86 "THE BOV WHO NEVER RETURNED" This morning his mother bright chaplets made, Baptizing with tears each bloomy braid; While her wistful eyes were gazing South, She whispered the name, with quivering mouth, Of that warrior lad by the strangers laid To sleep where the waves of a lone lagoon Break round the grave of her boy in blue, And the winds in the cypress thickets croon His dirge on the bank of the dark bayou. " O my soldier son ! " she yearned; " O to feel the clasp of thine empty sleeve ! O bitterest sweet on earth to grieve Above thy dust, and a wreath to leave O'er my boy who never returned ! " List, thou loyal woman, he is not there; Did not thy child with his comrades fare In spectral battalions along the street? We heard no tread of their phantom feet, But shadowy banners swept the air, And our stormy shouting was meant, in part, For the white host, hid from our mortal eyes, Who came to comfort their country's heart From their tents in the meadows of Paradise. Yea, clad in the fame he earned. He came from his camp on the crystal rim Of the River of Life, as he came in the dim Old days when the nation had need of him, The boy who never returned. JANES NEWTON MATTHEWS HE name which fell baptismal on thy brow Of that apostle, brother of our Lord, Surnamed " the Just," blameless in deed and word, Fell from a prophet's lips, for "just" art thou. And his, surnamed "the Wise," who once did bow Above the apple 'neath his garden tree, When lo, beside it lay the golden key With which we fare thro' all God's mansions now; Yea, both of these in thee do meetly blend. Themis and Pallas thro' thy spacious verse Go gracefully, enamored of thine art ; Pushing thy fancy's 'broidered tapestry apart. They peer where Love doth laughingly rehearse Songs which thou singest us, Poet and Poet's Friend. "JOSEPH" EYOND the farthest bourne of Dan O'er lands where Heaven has laid its ban, Like a spent snake the caravan Toward Egypt creeps ; And oft the wistful Jewish slave Looks westward, where the cedars lave With murmurous shade his moth- er's grave, Where Rachel sleeps, Till his bright eyes, because of mist. See not the chain upon his wrist. From out the loftiest linteled pile, That mingled in the mirrored Nile The lotus on its peristyle With that mid-stream. He looks again, thro' orbs that swim In tears, where Jacob, old and dim Of sight, comes chanting Israel's hymn Of God supreme, "JOSEPH " And sobs the purple can not check Heave the bright chain about his neck. Whoe'er for God hath iron worn, Jehovah's gold shall yet adorn. 89 "LOVE IS ENOUGH" HKY told of our Savior's pain, The thorns and the thrilling cry, His sorrow when scourged and slain. While, over and over again, From out my heart I was fain, As the Son of Man I did see, lyifted high on lone Calvary, To sob out this sad refrain: "O what does he want from me?" He has angels who sing alway His praise, and with glory shine, While I in my cottage with mine Can only chant day by day The sweet stanza, " When I survey The cross," and in wonder say, " He has choirs by the crystal sea. Who, with shawm and sweet psaltery, From worship and work ne'er stray; Then what does he want from me?" When my Walter, our crippled one, Who all thro' his life must be 90 "LOVE IS ENOUGH' 91 My own burden, said, tenderly, "O mother, for all thou hast done, What is the reward thou hast won? lyO, spirit and strength I have none Like the others who circle thee." Thro' tears I said, '' Love is my fee,'* And lo, I had learned from my son "What my Master doth want from me.'* "ALL'S WELL' I.I.'S WEl.Iy!" calls the sailor. In the phosphorescent Path of our prow all the planets are still. Thro' this prairie of stars we plow, as the peasant And poet of Scotland his white-daisied hill. Some looking backward up- on the sad severance Thro' mists of old mem- ories, trying to quell The hurt of the heart with the holiest reverence ; And some looking forward. On all the cry fell: "All's well!" "All is well." lyO, every soul's sorrow was lost in the swell Of that cheery watchword, "All 's well ! " "All is well." "All 's well ! " calls the patriot, clothed in his purity, Faithful 'mid those who are fain to betray; Dim thro' the marge of the murk and obscurity He sees the dawn of a far better day. 92 "ALL '5 WELL" 93 Declaring our banner to be but the flowering Of the centuries' cactus, the last miracle, Born of the travail of ages, and towering Aloft like the shout of this brave sentinel. "All's well!" "All is well." And a great "Amen" falls from the high citadel Of our nation's Valhalla. "All 's well ! " "All is well." "All's well!" calls the Christian. Like an anemone Blooming 'mid nettles, his faith seems to be; He hath no fear, for the Christ of Gethsemane Holdeth his heaven and his future in fee. He knoweth that love at last will annihilate Hate, and for thistle will plant asphodel, To make of old earth an Eden inviolate. O toss out from the turret the tones of the bell, "All 's well ! " "All is well." Let no lamentation lift up its sad knell ; Sing "Glory to God," for "All 's well!" "All is well" "PRETTY SOON" RETTY SOON!" "Pretty soon!" How the soft phrase slips, With limpid, laughing cadence, thro' the languid lips. Where the plumage of the palms, by the south wind swayed, Flings on the fragrant terraces its filigree of shade ; When the almond and the myrtle have taken in their net The doves that tread the measure of the tender minuet, And the nestlings of the nightingale cuddle low and croon, To the laughter of the laurel, ** Pretty soon ! " ** Pretty soon I " " PRETTY SOON " 95 " * Pretty soon ! ' ' Pretty soon ! '" cries Youth, " I shall make My home beyond the happy hills for her dear sake ; There I will lead my darling, as Dawn doth lead the Day When God is making morning, to sit with her and say : ' Yon river to its ocean troth will never be more true ; The best of life is mine to-day, because of love and you.' And heart shall rhyme to heart as unto the summer moon The swinging sea doth sing, ' Pretty soon ! ' * Pretty soon ! ' " " ' Pretty soon ! ' ' Pretty soon ! '" sighs Age, " I shall see That happy home above us, where the many mansions be. To pluck the never-fading flowers that make it ever sweet. And hear the pleasant paces of the silver-sandaled feet, When beneath the healing trees they fill the crystal urns ; O how the soul within me for their blessed welcome yearns ! But the band of shining spirits, with lips and lutes in tune, Bid me wait, and bide their coming ' Pretty soon ! ' •Pretty soon!"* SAITH the Scripture saint, "This life is a cloud, Which appeareth awhile and vanisheth soon." Not the cyclone stalking the summer noon, And shadowing earth with his inky shroud, May thy life be, my friend; Where the frighted cities, beneath his frown. Are caught in the twist of his whirling skein. All strewed and spilled on the sodden plain. The while the pitiless floods beat down. And prayers for help ascend. " WHTTT 15 YOUR LirE ? " 97 Not the mocking cloud that is moored in air, Upblown from the sea thro' the brazen sky, When the swooning world is like to die ; And the blinding sun but a baleful glare And maddening fervor hath; Which seems so happy up there in heaven, While men are watching, with choking grief. Their harvests wither — bud, bloom, and leaf — For lack of the help that it might have given. And curse it in their wrath. But the rosy cloud with the ripple of rain, The lisp and laughter of dripping leaves, That sings to the farmer the song of sheaves, And patters the tune on the window-pane Till the radiant bow doth shine In bands of glory around its brow ; Till the vine-robed valley, the corn-clad hill, The bird and bloom, which have drunk their fill. Break into canticles, telling how Man's life may be divine. m'Ay^,y Tw^ •^"'-";r,sa THE D7W WE SEINED THE DAN HE day we seined the dam, the light Gleamed on the mullet's golden scales, When, arching in his arrowy flight, He cuffed the glinting jewels bright About the boy who held the brails, And lit the lake with shining scrolls Of radiant rings that roughed its calm, As heavenly raptures stir the souls Of saints, — the day we seined the dam. The day we seined the dam, the brim Held all the hamlet's boisterous brood ; Each tossed his tunic far from him, Waded knee-deep, sun-tanned and slim, And stood there unashamed and nude ; The tamaracks shook when they laughed, And rhythmic strophes, like a psalm, 98 "THE DAY WC SEINED THE DAH " 99 Broke on the shore, as from the raft They dived — the day we seined the dam. The day we seined the dam, a bird Told but one tale from birchen boughs Wherein the sleeping south wind stirred; And down rose-hidden aisles the herd Came tinkling to the brink to browse, And in tall reeds, all satisfied, They stood where billows shook the balm From lilies tilted on the tide That rolled — the day we seined the dam. The day we seined the dam, how slipped The stream, in slopes of rainbow spray, Down to the depths where alders dipped Their beads, like monks who, in a crypt For peace, unto the Highest pray. O could I plunge in that deep pool. With all my woes, just as I am. And rise again as clean and cool As then, the day we seined the dam ! •'THE OLD ZION CHURCH" THE old Zion Church, on the old country road, Encircled with wagons when each brought a load Of the farmers, who came when the calm Sabbath-day Put the plow and the reaper and planter away. I can hear "Coronation" flow out from the choir, Bubbling over the building and up to the spire, Where one pair of bluebirds on Sundaj^ did perch Just to join in the hymns of the old Zion Church. O the old Zion Church, down its unpainted aisles How the river of song broke in ripples of smiles As the bride drew her robes from the altar to door Thro' sunshine that sweetened the old oaken floor. And tears often flowed ; for the whole village wept When the bonnie wee babe in its white coffin slept, While the good pastor told how Death, in his search For the good Shepherd's lambs, came to old Zion Church. " THE OLD ZION CHURCH " loi O the old Zion Church — I can see it in spring, When the orchards enfold it in sweet blossoming; And thro' the long summer it basks in the heat Where swift swallows swim the waves of the wheat ; To the tone of its bell, on the still Autumn morn, The quail whistles alto far off in the corn ; And in Winter the snow wraps the cedar and birch Keeping watch o'er the graves by the old Zion Church. the old Zion Church, — where the oak ever waves Its mantle of gloom o'er my ancestors' graves, Where my father and mother were long ago laid, And whippoorwill mourns in the murmurous shade. When my time comes to say a farewell to the earth, 1 would like to return to the scenes of my birth, Shake off the old life, leave the world in the lurch, For heaven is not far from the old Zion Church. "RIGHT ON!" "I kept right ony— Grant's Memoirs. IGHT ON ! in the years of war, of clamor, and rumor, and woe ; Right on ! when tyrants of Europe said softly, " God orders it so;" Right out of the heart of the West, when all the land was dumb, Came Grant, and the nation said, ''At last the mighty man has come." Right on ! Against his belted braves old Shiloh's bat- teries boomed. Right on ! Across this hero's path the bluflfs of Vicks- burg loomed. Over Mission Ridge and I^ookout Mount serene and strong he trod, And the loyal North leaned hard on him as he leaned hard on God. Right on! when, beside the Rapidan, Lee stood across his path, And, overwhelmed, laid down his sword to bide the vic- tor's wrath; " RIGHT ON ! " 103 But behold how kindly greetings banish every sharp regret, As hand in hand the chieftains stand, and both are brothers yet. Magnanimous, unassuming soul, his stern and martial face lyooked soft as to the boys in gray he said, with courtly grace, " Go home again in peace, my friends," and then the warrior calm Came back when all his task was done to wear the wreath of palm. Right on ! when cowards behind him cheapened his kingly fame; Right on ! when the paltry enemies pecked at his lustrous name ; When the kings of Europe applauded him, all courteous and mild. He kept the soldier's equipoise and the candor of a child. Right on ! as ruler, the ship of state with steady hand he steered, And never a hairbreadth, right or left, in any place he veered id4 " RIGHT ON ! " Best of the West, thou sturdy type of the sterling, rare antique ; As soldier, more than a Roman bold ; as a patriot, more than a Greek. Right on ! from his agonized body the spirit has now gone forth. Pile palm upon his grave, O South, and pine, thou weeping North ; For, safe in America's Pantheon, our great soldier's shade we see. With one hand outreached to Lincoln and the other to Robert Lee. THE BACK LOG'S BLAZE lo6 THE BACK LOG'S BLAZE THE back log's blaze — ^where the wide arch showed The gloom above the hearth, where the red coals glowed; How it made the dusky shadows on the white walls lurch When the wind around the eaves the crevices did search. How the cheery cricket chirruped at every childish jest, Keeping time in crispy rhyme to the tune he loved the best; When the curly king of home, with all his cunning ways, Was cooed and crooned to slumber by the back log's blaze. O the back log's blaze, — when the lovers softly laughed, Then the silence heard the whiz of Cupid's winged shaft. And swarming sparkles flew up the open chimney-throat To the boughs of bloomy stars in the firmament afloat ; The sun of ninety summers split the oaken log, and laid A pathway down to Paradise for lover and for maid, And paved a golden plaza where, amid the kindly rays, The romping children rolled by the back log's blaze. io8 THE B7\CK LOG'S BLAZE O the back log's blaze, — then the world was fair to me, Far whiter than the outer snow the inner purity. When winter hounds were baying the cold December moon, The wooers, hand in hand, went along the lanes of June; The while the tempest roared, the mother rocked her child, Then bending o'er the cradle, how wistfully she smiled ! What visions of his future rose before her loving gaze As she stooped to kiss him gently, by the back log's blaze ! O the back log's blaze ! I can see it rise and fall. Lighting up that happy circle when the family was all Gathered near it in the evening in the dear, old place. O, I fancy it would smooth again the wrinkles from my face, — Every tear would disappear like the snowflakes in the flue. As they fell into the flames that my heart is turning to, Could those whom God has taken forget their hymns of praise And just come and sit together, by the back log's blaze. "TAYLOR or AmiCA" "AYLOR of Africa, tried and true, The eyes of the world are bent on you. Bearing your torch in the moral murk, Where the awful shapes forever lurk ; Proud are we of the dauntless pith, Of the glorious heart you front them with. Canst thou, old Egypt, match that pair? One lying low, one battling there, One dead on the Nile with broken blade, One erect on the Congo, undismayed. Britain gave Gordon, and we gave you, Taylor of Africa, tried and true. 109 no "TAYLOR Or ArRICA" Taylor of Africa, come and rest A night and a day in the mighty west; Bring thy face with visions plowed, Thy splendid soul that ne'er was cowed, Thy mind which spills through smiling lips What thy large eyes see in Apocalypse. O your quenchless hope, your manly grain Maketh Paul of Tarsus to live again ! In shallow forms our souls are fast ; As a canon rings to a bugle blast, Blow your trumpet our slumbers through, Taylor of Africa, tried and true. Taylor of Africa, heart of oak, Hew Christ a path with sturdy stroke. The owls may hoot, the weaklings pule, The gilded gewgaws call thee fool ; God speed thee in that far-off clime And give thy spirit strength to rhyme, ■ With the gospel message as it rolls The shout of a million ransomed souls ! Thou wilt come some day unto the throne With troops of her children as thine own. Saying, " Lord, hast thou more work to do r" Taylor of Africa, tried and true. "THE BOY WC NEVER SW" B potters work in common clay, are common clay ourselves, Just as humble and as homely as the jugs upon our shelves ; But this child was alabaster fair, without a fleck or flaw, Sit down here, until I tell you, sir, of the boy we never saw. One day last fall a likel}^ ball lay on the molding rim, And in the shed, at his wheel head, stood this stranger Jim. He tied his apron on and tossed a nod across to me, Then struck his treadle softly as a master strikes a key. He held the mass a moment, then so coaxingly and slow, With every turn the shapely urn in beauty seemed to grow. And when the wire cut the work from off" his heavy wheel, We knew he was a craftsman true, from head to flying heel. 112 "THE BOY WE NEVER SAW" Jim had a younkit, four years old, just coming down to die, A sickly lad who suffered so that the women had to cry. Telling how the little tyke, soon as the pain would stop, Called for the little kickshaws we sent him from the shop. We made the queerest cups, and then we made the oddest jars. With many a dip of smoothest slip, and many curious stars. We chinked them in the hottest kiln, farthest from the blaze, Then took our turns to fire them, and took our turns to glaze. The foreman, in a Bible, found some pictured cups and bowls, Lovingly we shaped them, sir, with all their ancient scrolls. He filled them overflowing with the love he sent, to say That he wanted to come and see us all, but he had to go away. We all knocked off the day he died. The Chapel preacher told That shepherds take a lamb to lead a flock into the fold, THE BOY WC NEVER S7W" "3 And how the singing seraphs stood around the throne, — but la ! There is not an angel there to match the boy we never saw. We potters work in common clay, are common clay ourselves, Just as humble and as homely as the jugs upon our shelves ; O we mean to see him some day, sir! But my old eyelids — pshaw ! — Begin to leak whene'er I speak of that boy we never saw. TTTHRO' the garden at morn, in cool emerald gloom, Wends the sad woman, leaving her lost Sav- ior's tomb, Swerving on with no look to the skies purple flushed, Thro' lithe lilies leaning, expectant and hushed. Her unhooded brow with the dawn pallor shone, Faring wofully back from the grave and its stone ; When, before the believer, who wept for the dead, Rose the Master, and just the word " Mary," he said. Lo ! there in the dusk of the w^hispering palm, Her raiment all sweet with the spikenard and balm. The myrtle tops burning with sunlight above Hung over the sinner, redeemed by His love, Purer far than the dewdrops upon her dark hair. Shaken down by the pink-footed doves cooing there, When the laurel's low Litany suddenly stilled, At the ringing " Rabboni " her happy heart spilled. 114 HARY" "5 Easter cometh, and Magdalene calls us with her, Thro' gray olive shade, to the Lord's sepulcher, Where angelic words at the cypress-hid prison, Linked like dulcimers, say unto us, "He is risen.' Unsandaled and still, with souls all aglow, Drawing near we see Death, our discomfited foe, Folding all the fine linen Christ never will need, With face strangely soft, saying, "Risen, indeed." THE BLurrs or kickapoo The bluflfs of Kickapoo!— the bluffs of Kickapoo ! Forever on their foreheads fair gleams the morning dew. Oft have I seen the king of day upon the summit stand, 7 And pour a flood of glory over all the prairie land, And then beheld him bending unto the river's side, Like one who cometh gallantly to claim a comely bride; And fling her veil of shining mist far up into the blue, To float in fleecy clouds above the bluffs of Kickapoo. the bluffs of Kickapoo !— the bluffs of Kickapoo ! 1 see the bridge beyond the ridge, I see the shallows, too ; Beneath the alder bushes, how shines the sparkling ring, Made by the leap of croppie, or the dip of swallow's wing! ii6 THE BLUFFS OF KICKAPOO 117 THE BLurrs or kickt^poo 119 The blossoms of the tangled plum are full of sweet per- fume, The flight of startled redbird lights up the spicy gloom. No summer day was long enough when it was spent with you, And night was never welcome on the bluffs of Kickapoo. O the blufi"s of Kickapoo ! — the bluffs of Kickapoo ! Though far away, my soul to-day doth bring them into view ; Amid the trees, around their knees, my boyish heart is hid, Where gossips tell, thro' all the dell, what little Katy did. And here, among the city streets, how oft my spirit yearns To hear thy ripples rhyme again, amid the fringe of ferns, O for one hour of that old joy, when all my life w^as new. To climb the path to heaven up the bluffs of Kickapoo ! VICTOR HUGO is dead, you say ! that dauntless king who loomed Like a snowy mountain, above the pines of France. So now he clambers sunward, with spirit all illumed. And leaves his weary frame in the grave's deep trance. While all his loyal comrades, beside the leader's tomb. Grope, baffled and bewildered, thro' the cold, gray gloom. Dead, with his ^tna heart all burned to ashes now ; The eloquent, resistless lips silent in the dust; That pen which wrote the doom upon Napoleon's brow, And jarred his rotten throne, is laid away to rust. VICTOR HUGO 121 Loved by God and little children, O honey-hearted man, How shall the world go onward, with no Hugo in the van? The last of the immortals, latest of the lofty strain, All suckled in adversity, who tugged our sinking race Out of miry shamelessness. To keep thee we were fain, But lo, the Lord hath called thee to thy exalted place, Where the others all await thee, crowned and battle- scarred, To greet thee at thy coming to receive thy rich reward. A prophet named thee Victor, thou who hast never failed ; When God had need of man, singer, seer, and sage, all three, Thou righteously didst smite, never doubted, drooped, nor quailed; For fifty glorious years led the hosts of Liberty. When the Future says to France, "O name thy noblest soul,'» She will show, with radiant face, thy name upon her scroll ! ORTY, and straight as a Norway fir, and yet I clean gave way To-night, dear wife; to save my life, I knew not what to say. Back came hurrying memories, like doves that homeward fly; How they gave us cheer for every year! O swiftly they went by, Freely as God spilled streams of suns to sweeten the abyss, When the clump of chaos blossomed into worlds like unto this. I spake for you, and the wee ones too, but O my eyes were blurred, When all was done for every one, and I came to the parting word; With all my soul, like the open scroll of the stainless heaven, I Said, " Old Bible and old pulpit, and old Shiloh Church, good-bye ! " THE LAST SERMON 123 Silence, like the spaces vast, and feeling, profound as the sea, Came o'er them when I fondly told what they had done for me. Thro' loving smiles along the aisles I went to take my stand ; And manfully I tried to say, as I grasped each friendly hand, **God fold you fast!" but failed at last when up came Abner Smith, His face lit with the great big heart he loves his chil- dren with, And, when they brought him forward there, he stam- mered, and began, '* I was only a drunkard when you came, and now I am a man;" And then his wife so sadly said, *"T is hard to hear j^ou tell The old Bible, and old pulpit, and old Shiloh Church farewell!" When to-morrow, at the break of day, that harvester, the sun, Shall husk the early shadows from the hill-tops, one by one. And by the winds of morning the shreds are swept, and whirled, And piled upon the porphyry plain that rims the wak- ing world, 124 THE LAST SERMON When the torch of dawn among them makes all the east to glow, Then, with our babes around us, we will both arise and go Back to the humble building, and, with all our hearts and minds, Sing the song we 've loved so long, — ** Blest be the tie that binds," And with a sigh say fond "Good-bj^e," till Shiloh Church we greet Thro' other eyes in Paradise, childlike round Shiloh's feet. SOMETHING IN THE SUMNER 5iE«" m/'m^^- L .MhrMffi QSl^ HEN the mower cuts the clover, and the swallow skims the corn, And the cockerel is telling he is glad that he was born ; When the dawn is rich with robins, piping in the poplar trees, And, deep within the hollyhocks, you hear the honey bees; When the quail calls up his covey, by the whistle of his name, In the plaited old fence corner, with its Indian pinks aflame, O something in the summer seems to say, Sip the sweetness of the morning, while you may^ For Love will soon be winging on his way — Something in the summer seems to say. 125 126 SOnCTHING IN THE SUPinER When the wheat upon the hillside, in bending billows rolled, Is tossing scarlet poppies high upon its waves of gold ; When by the tree the baby, whose father binds the sheaves, Is laughing at the squirrels hid among the lisping leaves ; When reapers rest at noon within the ample leafy shade. Where the oriole is swinging in his emerald ambuscade, O something in the simtmer seems to say, Sip the sweetness of the morning, while you may^ For Love will soon be winging on his way — Something in the summer seems to say. When the blackbird, in the tree-top, is tangled in his song, And the catbird gives him challenge, whether right or wrong ; When the speckled hawk is sweeping across the distant sky. And friendly sheep are grazing all about you, as you lie Looking down some river bend where a bit of blue doth shine. So vaguely thro' the curtain of the trumpet creeper vine, SOHETHINO IN THE SUMMER 127 O somethi7ig iJi the siwifner see7ns to say. Sip the sweetness of the morning , while yon may, For Love will soon be wi7igi?ig 071 his way — So77iethi7ig 171 the summer seems to say. When all the hills are hazy, and the heated hollows make An echo to the pheasant, drumming deep within the brake , When you loaf, and look and listen, where honey- suckles sway Their lamps in dim savannas, dreaming back a happy day ; When you drift with sleepy lids, by sheer laziness op- pressed, Thro' the languor of the spirit, when you only think of rest, O so77iethi7ig 171 the su77imer seems to say, Sip the sweet7iess of the 77ior7ii7ig, while you may, For Love will soon be wi7igi7ig 07t his way — Somethi7ig in the summer seems to say. When nature doth entice you with a hundred soothing charms, And you feel yourself enfolded in her strong maternal arms; 128 SOHETHING IN THE SUMHEP And peace comes down, so soft, upon the weary- heart and brain. You break the heavy shackles and the soul doth see again, All the visions of the future, long forgotten, drawing near, All your hopes and your ideals calling unto you so clear, O sometki7ig in the stimmer seems to say^ Sip the sweetness of the morning, while you may^ For Love will soon be wijiging on his way — Something in the summer see^ns to say. WHERE THE CORK GOES DOWN "WHERE THE CORK GOES DOWN" HKN your wife has gone to visit where mother dear resides, And 3^ou could not win a battle, / if you owned both sides, When you become so weary that you can not turn a wheel, And drag yourself to labor with a weight at either heel, And quarrel with your shadow and give the folks the ''blues," There is an ancient medicine that every man should use. And its name is "go a-fishing." Get a long and limber pole, With some tackle and a can of bait, and start toward the hole Out beyond the river bend, about a mile or two from town, Just to loaf and lounge at leisure where the cork goes down. 131 132 "WHERE THE CORK GOES DOWN" Some meander to the mountains cool, and some toward the sea, But I will take my chances underneath the chestnut tree That lays upon the sloping bank its shadows deep and wide, And flings its raveled blossoms down upon the lazy tide. There all my troubles tumble with the turtles out of sight, When from the yellow stubble comes the yodel of *' Bob White;" And there I speculate in futures just as freely as I like, For I may pull out a muscalonge, a pickerel, or a pike; But the hope upon my features fades away into a frown When a ''pumpkin-seed" deceives me where the cork goes down. Some say, "Work your muscle if you want to rest your mind," I say, " Let them both relax when health you want to find. Take a dose of doing nothing; take it on some river shore, Where a flicker far above you raps upon a sycamore. And a devil's darning-needle gads around you just as glad And contended as the poUywog upon the lily pad." O when your hook is fastened in a lusty, leaping bass, And at the battle's ending you can lay him on the grass, "WHERE THE CORK GOES DOWN" 133 You feel so full of spirit from your shoes up to your crown That your life will be worth living where the cork goes down. A chap who studies eating, says that fish is good for brain : I think it is the fishing, not the fish, that gives the gain ; For I have noticed that the fellows let imagination play Round the wonderful dimensions of the one that got away ; And the stories chase each other, just as chipper and as free As the squirrels winding streaks of red around the elm- tree. O when the sun is near to setting, your soul begins to sing As you purchase from a country boy a dozen on a string. And you march home in the evening a romancer of re- nown. Telling how you missed the big one where the cork goes down. "WHERE ARE THE HEROES?" HERE are the heroes of old days?" He asks, and lifts his lyre, and chants. In sounding psalm, the meed of praise Due to the dead itinerants ; The men who, fearless, trod the maze Of unpathed forests, sailed the sea. Preached, prayed, and rode with Asbury, That Christ might have sole empery. "Where are the heroes of old days?" The while beside him men say this: " Send us where souls in sorrow die ; Where heathenism's brood will hiss In hell's dread dialect, when high The cross of Calvary we raise ; To serve where Satan has his seat; To warm them with our own heart's heat ; And, when 't is done, say death is sweet." ''Where are the heroes of old days?" Their hymns are heard in canons cold, By blight or blizzard undismayed; WHERE ARC THE HEROES? 135 The frontier's farthest farm they fold In Jesus' love, and with Him wade The Siddim's slime of city ways ; Thro' crying want and crushing debt Give one their tears and one their sweat, And, dying, ask of God to get — " Where are the heroes of old days." " IIM? JIN'5 NECTING UR dear old pastor used to preach, as natural as a bird, Just the cheery kind of sermons that a bobo- link can pour Upon you from a cherry bough, whenever he was stirred; His wooing talk would almost win the fishes to the shore. But he wandered off one day. In a curious sort of way, And got badly "in the brush," as the circuit-riders say. Down at Kbenezer Chapel there was meeting; every night The parson pleaded tenderly, though he was weak and worn, "jin'S HEETING" 137 Saying, '* Come, my neighbors, come ! O come into the light, To stand with us together in the dawning of the morn ! " And when he stopped to cough Not a sinner dared to scoflf, From the graybeards in the corner to the lovers far- thest o£f. Then his voice went to a whisper — he could not speak at all ; And next evening I saw Jim, the ragged child of cobbler Wood, Shivering at the crowded entrance, close against the outer wall. Till he called the preacher over in the corner where he stood, And he said, " I heard them pray, At our home, for you, to-day, And I went out and dug some medicine to drive that pain away." " God bless you ! " said the preacher to the boy so thin and cold, And unwrapped the little parcel with his gentle, patient smile; 138 "Jin'5 nCCTING" 'Twas a stringy root of calamus, in brownish paper rolled, But I saw his face was beaming as he elbowed up the aisle. Then he read a tender hymn, And in prayer my eyes were dim As he knelt there, reaching up for God and down for little Jim. When he rose and read a Scripture like a dripping honeycomb, O I saw the gift had cured him, for, my friend, he fairly took That crowd, and led them captive all into the Father's home; Beneath his melting pathos stoutest sinners swayed and shook; As a river deep and wide Shoulders at a dam, he cried, " Come, lyord ! " and when it tottered all the town was in the tide. All around the mourners' benches people gathered with a rush, And amid the praying penitents disciples worked and wept; "JIM'S MEETING" 139 But he could say no more — he had strayed into the brush; Lost in some Eden thicket, while the stream of mercy swept All about the young and old, And a hymn of jo}^ was rolled From the lips of shouting converts, coming safe into the fold. When Wood, who was converted, went singing down the road, The preacher walked beside him, just to tell his faithful wife. And they filled the lowly cottage full of melody that flowed Until midnight, for a man redeemed and started new in life. And often I have cried, As he has told, with pride, Of ''Jim's Meeting," as he called it to the very day he died. "THE BROOK" OW it bubbles clear in the cool, damp room, Where the pans of milk light up the gloom, All sweet with breath of the summer bloom On the swaying locust boughs, Where the cobweb lace doth the walls adorn, When the passionate sun at the peep of morn. Breaks into the nook where the brook is born. In the lowly old spring-house. Down beechen bluffs to the blue-grass plain, It winds the thread of its silvery skein On the old mill-wheel again and again, Where the jocund miller sings ; Mid briery mazes, thro' blossomy meads, Where trout leap up at the drifting seeds, And the cat-bird dips the alder's beads In broken ripples and rings. How it shimmers and shines across the sand To the winey tarn, where cattle stand, 140 THE BROOK "THE BROOK" i43 When the heat is heavy on all the land, Deep in the shady pond, And from all the hives the buskined bees Fly out to the orchard to rifle and tease Their sweets from the spreading apple-trees On yellowing hills beyond. And when all oblivious it hath flowed, By the pasture-field and the winding road, To the doorway of many a cot, and showed Its cheery, laughing face ; And reluctant, slow, it comes to the sea. How I wonder if ever it turns like me, To the ancient room and the locust tree. And thinks of its old birthplace. THE DOGWOOD TREE jRIDE of the woodland wide, dainty and unde- filed, Bright is the blessing thy beauty doth bring ! When April leadeth thee, with thy white garments free, Up from the South, in the front of the Spring, Shaking the snow of thy bridal robes sweet, Flowing, in foamy surf, down to thy feet. Bride of the woodland wild, dainty and undefiled, Thee we are waiting to greet. Winter has lingered long ; O how we miss the song That always welcomes thee over the hill. The bold chee-wink, chee-wink, of the gay bobolink. And the low call of the coy whippoorwill, For thee doth the morning lark scatter the night ; For thee doth the tanager flash in his flight, Bride of the woodland wild, dainty and undefiled, Haste thee to dawn on our sight ! How thou wilt miss the one, who was the first to run, I^aughing, to meet thee along the lone glen ! 144 THE DOGWOOD TRCC 145 Swallows are making search, and from the graceful birch Kingfisher calls her again and again. Long will the wren wait to show her small nest, And the brown fledgelings beneath her proud breast, Bride of the woodland wild, dainty and undefiled. Darling has gone to her rest. GOD'S MANUSCRIPT PON the hallowed ground of Galilee, O John, Thy Master writeth, while the wolfish crowd Bends lowering looks upon the woman bowed, Cursing her lovely face, so tearful and so wan; Still asks the deep heart of mankind, which sees Her streaming eyes fixed on the brow divine, " What was the import of that single line Writ by the gracious Christ amid the Pharisees?" Saying, ** O to have seen upon the favored sod Those jewels from the forefinger of our God ! Go forth this morn in May, where, all unrolled. The daisied meadow lies, signed o'er with gold ; In flowery text he writes his gospel as of old ! " 146 THE UNKNOWN ACK swings on the mast; his heart ne'er quakes When Kuroclydon tumbles the sea, and takes His ship, like a harp, in his hands, and wakes From every rope a wail. He has weathered a hundred storms before ; And his faith will weather a hundred more, But the roaring stress of a street ashore Makes him cower and quail. Dick plays his part in the mart's mad rush. As calm in the din of its deafening crush As a fawn at dawn, in the purple hush Of the palms of Paradise. He dreads the deep, where the wild waves comb Their crests on the breasts of gulls that roam Thro' the spray, as gray as the flying foam That flecks the lurid skies. Each wonders at each, for both can bide The known, but fear what they have not tried, 147 148 THE UNKNOWN So man doth shrink from the echoless tide Where waits the boatman pale ; Kindly Death doth smile at his freight afraid, And strips the mist with his oar's swift blade From the strand where the band, in white arrayed. Shouts, "Welcome, and all hail!" ON CHRISTMAS EVE ^N Christmas Kve, in this dim room, There drifts across the deepening gloom The faint, old-fashioned, spicy scent Of mistletoe and holly blent; And while the cheery wood-fire burns, She whom I loved and lost returns To sit beside me, — soft and low, I hear the voice which, long ago, Around my heart a spell did weave, When life was young on Christmas Kve. On Christmas Eve I see the pond. And from the hollow woods beyond, Comes echoing back the skaters' glee, 149 ISO ON CHRISTHT^S EVE As happy sweethearts swinging free, In rhythmic stroke and graceful curve Across the crystal surface swerve. O eyes of blue ! O curls of brown ! O streaming scarf ! O fluttering gown ! How doth your lover lonely grieve When all are glad on Christmas Eve ! On Christmas Eve, along the street The people pass on eager feet, With gifts to greet the gladsome morn Of that blest day when Christ was born. Each to his own will cry, " Take this ! " And each will share the smile, the kiss. While I alone shall try, thro' tears. To count the sad and sombre years Since that dark day when thou didst leave This world all cold, on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve I envy not The laughing ones, whose happier lot It is to join the scenes of mirth, And cry, rejoicing, ** Peace on earth!" Some day I feel I too shall win My Father's house, and enter in; For by the portal she doth bide, Robed and expectant as a bride; Then all her love I will receive, In God's good time on Christmas Eve. . COMMON THINGS |^^(!v. HAVEN send us a prophet with wit to WiirJ: teach dW/Jff Our race, which to folly so fondly Y/^^ clings, KiF That all that is good is within our reach, IQ The cream of life is the common ^ things. We may have no turreted palaces piled In high colonnade and pillar and cope, But forever the mountains undefiled For us thro' the roseate azure slope. There never was park like the prairie lawn, Nor symphonies like the ocean's song, Nor picture to match the amethyst dawn, — These blessings to all of our kind belong ! No wine gives the fillip of frosty air; No satin e'er came from a foreign loom As white as the sheen of the lilies fair, Wan acolytes lighting the woodland gloom. 151 152 COnnON THINGS Because the bright river is free to all, To man and beast, to flower and tree, And on every sinner the sunbeams fall, The sun and the stream are dear to me. We have winds that silver the dusky rill ; The forest of pines, with healing breath ; And friends and home, and love, and still The best of all, our old neighbor Death. PICTURES or THE PAST OD is good to let us keep in mind the pictures of the past; And sometimes in the sum- mer, when the seething city's clack Flings sorrow on my fevered soul, I take the outward track, And from off my weary spirit all the slavish burdens cast. O leaving work half-done, Far away from care I run To where a brook winds thro' a wood and wimples in the sun. I saunter in the tousled grass that tangles round my feet; High above my lifted head, where the tulip-trees are crossed, 153 154 PICTURES or THE PA5T In her cool and airy cradle, the cardinal-bird is tossed ; While the emerald grove is girt with the gold of wavy wheat, And the rivulet is traced By a thread of silver, laced Thro' ferns and fair white lilies wading in it to the waist. Far away I hear the murmur by the dripping mill-wheel made; Dewy roses light the thickets, where ring-doves coo and croon ; From the levels comes the music of the mowers' harvest tune. All rejoicing in a cadence to the swish of sharpened blade. While the quail in coveys rise. Whirring from the gleaming scythes, And the frightened rabbit leaps at the harvester's loud cries. The unwithered bloom of bramble winds the fences in its wreath ; Where the squirrel sits and chats with the reiterat- ing jay ; And the honey-burdened bee doth halt, upon her homeward way. Where sumach spreads its branches over partridge-eggs beneath : PICTURES or THE PT^T 155 On distant slopes the sheep, In long shadows lie asleep, And across the winding path I watch the tortoise slowly creep. Far down the lane the oxen strain against the polished yoke. As they draw the creaking wagon up toward the traveled road ; And the laughter of the boys that ride upon the fragrant load Has scared the speckled hawk from his perch upon the oak; For, with a sudden cry, He mounteth up on high. And wheels in burnished curves upon the dappled summer sky. The anise and the spice-bush have brewed a rare perfume. Along the woodland edge, where the workers rest from toil. Floats the smell of meadow-sorrel, the scent of penny- royal, Mingled with the breath of balsam and the wild grape bloom. Once more I sit and sing, Within the forest swing, Where, enamored of the murmurous tree, the vine doth cling. 156 PICTURES or THE P7\ST Thro' the Babel of the town, high above the whistle's scream, I hear the modulated chirring of the shrill cicada's voice, And oblivious of my labor, make again my youthful choice Of the berries from the brier, or the pebbles from the stream ; A glow of love is cast Over all my life at last. As Fancy turns the pages of the pictures of the past. Date Due 1 1 ! 1 ! 1 015 762 733 8 •