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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 il^p» lop^n^l^l !f 0, 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
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/ 
 
 ELLEN P. ALLERTON'S 
 
 WALLS OF CORN 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 COLLECTED AXD PUBLISHED WITH 
 :kIEMORIAL SKETCH BY 
 
 EVA RYAN. 
 
 OCT iC^ 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. -^"^^ ^7- 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 THE HARRINGTON PRINTING CO 
 
 HIAWATHA, KANSAS. 
 
 \X 
 
 ^^ 
 
 V. 
 
Copyrighted, 1894, 
 
 BY 
 
 Eva Ryan. 
 
To Col. E. A. CalkiNs, the friei^d and admirer of 
 Mrs. Allertox and her poems, avho has so kindly 
 aided i5y advice and suggestions in its preparatiod, 
 
 this LITTLE VOLUME IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. 
 
i:OMEMS. 
 
 A 
 
 Atiilabelle 4 
 
 A Sweet Woman 34 
 
 An Autumn Picture 64 
 
 A Hcusekeeper's Question (o 
 
 A Storm on the Frontier 77 
 
 At the Falls xl 
 
 A Wayside Tree 114 
 
 A Sontr of Peace 115 
 
 A Kansas Prairie and Its People .. ., lid 
 
 Acceptance 117 
 
 A Lesson for the New Year ILs 
 
 A Morning- Call 147 
 
 A Messajj-e 157 
 
 At the Garden Gate ISS 
 
 A Little Lonj:rer 161 
 
 A Home Out West 165 
 
 A Dirg-e 171 
 
 An^azzis 181 
 
 An Eveninij Monolofrue 182 
 
 A Country Home 185 
 
 ABrideofaUay 188 
 
 A Dream 189 
 
 A Race for Life 200 
 
 A Dedicatory Hy mn 22" 
 
 A Summer Niffht 238 
 
 After the Weddin^r 248 
 
 B 
 
 Becalmed 98 
 
 Bubbles 120 
 
 Beyond the River 132 
 
 Blackbirds 140 
 
 Beautiful Things Ui6 
 
 Birthday Greeting 176 
 
 C 
 
 Choice 40 
 
 Cominy Home ..» <'3 
 
 Confidence 121 
 
 Carrier's Address 127 
 
 Carrier's Address ( Mni.xxvJ 150 
 
 Crazy Nell l"-** 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 R 
 
 Rescue the Perishing- 7t 
 
 S 
 
 Summer 53. 
 
 Smiles 55 
 
 Seeing- the Editors 81 
 
 Shadows 123 
 
 Spring- 226 
 
 Strug-g-le 228 
 
 September 234 
 
 Spinning Tow 237 
 
 T 
 
 The Mortgaffe — A Christmas Tale 21 
 
 The Stepmother 25 
 
 -The Fields of Corn 27 
 
 To Mary 28 
 
 The Tower of Silence 30 
 
 The Summer's Tale Is Told ^ 36 
 
 The Renter's Exodus .'. 49 
 
 The Man for the Hour 62 
 
 Two Farewells 69 
 
 The Thread of Gray 70 
 
 'I he Snow Blockade 74 
 
 To the Memory of a Young Friend 78 
 
 The Old Soldier ■ 80 
 
 'I'aught by a Bird 83 
 
 Tar-and-Feather Reform 8+ 
 
 The Whip-po-wil 101 
 
 The Sod House on the Prairie 103 
 
 The First Breath of Spring 105 
 
 Ths Wavside Trough 106 
 
 The Talking- Fiend 108 
 
 The First Bird 125 
 
 'i' railing Clouds 137 
 
 The Trail of Fortj-Nine 144 
 
 The Fate of a Genius 153 
 
 The Night Light 150 
 
 The Old Butternut Tree 162 
 
 The Pity of It 163 
 
 The Sleeping Village 169 
 
 The Old Stone Quarry 172 
 
 Trouble 183 
 
 Then and Now 184 
 
 The Old Farmhouse . 192 
 
 The Nation's Patient 198 
 
 The Wild Rose .'. 205 
 
 To Mrs. C. H.Phillips 2l)(> 
 
 Tragedy and Farce 208 
 
 The Last Hour of the Year 211 
 
 Thanksgiving Night 212 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. John Young 214 
 
 Two Christmas Guests 216 
 
 The Last Hour 218 
 
 TheStorm 221 
 
 The Farther Shore 250 
 
 To Emma, On Her Wedding- Day 251 
 
 U 
 
 Unbelief 156 
 
 W 
 
 Walls of Corn 2 Why 138 
 
 Wants 44 Weighing the World 189 
 
 Westward 46 Who Knows 220 
 
 WillHeCome I'o-Night? 104 When Days Grow Dark 223 
 
 Woman's Work ...109 Wooing- 252 
 
IN MEMORIAVI, 
 
 ]\Irs. Ellen P. Allertou was born in 1S35 near 
 Centerville, New York. Being the only girl in 
 the famil)', and having seven older brothers, she 
 early became the " qneen of the household." 
 
 When about fifteen years of age she attended 
 school at an academy in Hamilton, New York. 
 At the end of two years she returned to Center- 
 ville where she was a successful teacher in the 
 district school. It was about this time she began 
 writing poetry. 
 
 In the summer of 1862, while on a visit to 
 Wisconsin, she met A. B. Allerton, and tliey were 
 married the following fall, and settled on a farm. 
 
 The Wisconsin home of Mrs. .Vllerton was a 
 modern farm cottage near Lake Mills, a village in 
 the central southern portion of the state, away 
 from the railroads and from the noise and bustle 
 of busy life. Some of the earliest settlers had lo- 
 cated in the neighborhood, Mr. Allerton' s farm 
 was on the west slope of the Rock River valle\\ 
 with hills rising still farther to the westward. It 
 was historic ground. The marches, retreats, and 
 pursuits of the Black Hawk war had left their 
 lines across the country. A few miles away was 
 Fort Atkinson, now a thriving little railroad town. 
 
 Passing the door of the farm house was a broad 
 country road which Mrs. Allerton once described 
 
IN MEkORIAM. 
 
 in its sunimer aspect as '^a ribbon of gray with a 
 border of green." At a short distance the road 
 crossed a clear babbling brook which flowed under 
 a rustic bridge, away through a grove of oaks, 
 down beside the meadows and wheat fields, bi- 
 secting other roads toward the Rock River, of 
 which it is a tributary. There was an orchard 
 protected by a belt of willows. Some rods away 
 was a spring, the overflow of which formed a rill 
 leading to the creek. Across the road on the side 
 of the hill to the westward was the abandoned 
 stone quarry described in one of her most charm- 
 ing and characteristic poems. 
 
 This delightful home in which Mrs. Allerton 
 led her quiet life for several years, she has de- 
 scribed in the following poem: 
 
 A nook among the hills, .little farm,; 
 
 Whose fertile acres yield us daily bread: 
 A homely, low browed dwelling, snug and warm, 
 
 With wide blue country skies hung overhead. 
 
 No costly splendor here, no guilded glow, 
 No dear bouglit pictures hang upon the walls; 
 
 But bright and bappy fa(;es come and go, 
 And througli the windows God's sweet sunshine falls. 
 
 We are not rich in heaps of hoarded gold; 
 
 We are not poor, for we can keep at bay 
 The poor man's haunting spectres, want and cold, 
 
 Can keep from owing debts we cannot pay. 
 
 We hear the great world surging like a sea, 
 But the loud roar of winds and waves at war. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Subdued by distance, comes melodiously, 
 A soft and yentle murmur, faint and far. 
 
 We see the small go up. the great come down, 
 
 And liless the peaceful safety of our lot, 
 The broken scejiterand the toppling crown, 
 
 And crash of falling thrones, these shake us not. 
 
 We have some weary toil to struggle through. 
 Some trials, tliat we bravely strive to meet; 
 
 We have our sorrows, as all mortals do; 
 We liave our joys, too, pure, and calm, and sweet. 
 
 Is such a life too even in its flow? 
 
 Too silent, calm, too barren of event? 
 Its very joys to still? I do not know: 
 
 I think he conquers all, wlio wins content. 
 
 "The Old Stone Quarry" describes a rude 
 scene in nature, which she adorned with the col- 
 oring that only a poet's fancy can supply. There 
 are but few lessons in poetry and philosophy more 
 instructive or pathetic than that which she drew 
 from the piles of rough rocks, which remained at 
 the place where enterprise and industry had failed 
 to gather a harvest of profit. These lines are 
 beautiful both in rythm and poetic thought: 
 
 •• There are human souls that seem to me 
 Like this unwrought stone— for all you see — 
 Is a shapeless quarry of what might be. 
 Lying idle and overgrown 
 
 With tangled weeds, like tliis beautiful stone — 
 Jr'ossible work left all undone, 
 Possil)le victories left unwon." 
 
 Glimpses of description and illusions to her 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Wisconsin home life appear constantly in her po- 
 ems. "The Hickory Tree," the subject of one 
 of her poems, stood in front of the door beside the 
 pathway leading to the gate. It was a monster 
 in height and in the spread of its branches. She 
 portrays it as " tall and royal, and grand to see." 
 It was so indeed. It stood alone, a monarch of 
 its kind. She associated it with her friendships, 
 in these lines: 
 
 " And here with friends on suinmer eves. 
 We sit in tlie sunsets mellow glow- 
 Sit till the night winds toss tlie leaves, 
 And the moonbeams sift to the sward below." 
 
 The whip-po-wil's mnsic described as floating 
 on the air " when the twilight drops its curtain 
 down " was the identical bird that sang its mo- 
 notonous notes in an adjacent thicket, as she and 
 her friends sat at her door, or she sat there alone 
 in fellowship with her own romantic fancies. 
 
 The description of "The Sleeping Village" 
 relates to Lake Milks, and in perusing its lines one 
 cannot but wonder how she would have described 
 a great city asleep, as in contrast with its noisy 
 daytime. 
 
 The " Morning View of Lake Alichigan " was 
 written after one of her visits to Milwaukee. 
 
 The attentive reader will detect in her other 
 poems hints and remembrances which relate to 
 her old home and its surroundings, and the dear 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 delights of which she bore in her uiiiici as souve- 
 nirs to her grave. The house, the landscape 
 around, the niurnuiring brook, the clear spring, 
 the winding country road, its " border of green," 
 the hillsides, the fruit-laden trees, the rural path, 
 associated always in her mind with reflections on 
 human life and its vicissitudes, with friends whose 
 communion she had enjoyed in their midst, and 
 with which their images were inseparably blended, 
 
 "Beautiful Things" has especially received 
 recognition throughout the United States, and is 
 unsurpassed by any American author. It had 
 been reprinted in all the principal newspapers be- 
 fore she left Wisconsin, and its classical beauty 
 recognized by its insertion in an American An- 
 thology. 
 
 Admirable, suggestive, full of native philoso- 
 phy, inspired by genius as these poems are, they 
 are surpassed in vigor, in wealth of imagery and 
 ripened thought by her Kansas poems. She had 
 passed middle life when she came to Kansas. But 
 her poetic mind was late in bearing its best fruits. 
 She alvauced in poetic growth as she advanced 
 in years. The poems written under the new 
 skies of the farther west, under new influences, 
 with the inspiration of new phases which nature 
 presented, studying a different line of tradition, 
 with, perhaps, a more extended circle of admiring 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 and appreciative friends, are her best titles to 
 fame. "Walls of Corn " and "The Trail of For- 
 ty-Nine " are the finest productions of her genius. 
 "Walls of Corn" was written in 1884. A 
 short distance from her home was a belt of timber 
 which was her favorite resort, more, probably, be- 
 cause it reminded her of Wisconsin surroundings. 
 In the spring the field across the road was plant- 
 ed in corn. Often in the evening she watched 
 this field of corn from the door, and heard the 
 broad blades as they rustled and clashed like sol- 
 diers' weapons when in close conflict, and admired 
 it all. Little did she think this field of corn 
 would hide her from that dearer spot, that "wood- 
 ed dell" that lay at the foot of the " billowy 
 swell " and that 
 
 " All tlie world would be narrowed down 
 To walls of corn, when sear and brown." 
 
 But thus it came to pass, and as the cornfield ob- 
 structed her vision, that beautiful poem, which 
 gave her more fame than any other, was written. 
 Mrs. Allerton was loved and appreciated 
 not alone for the productions of her pen, but for 
 her social qualities, and for the active and ready 
 interest taken in benevolent and charitable enter- 
 prises. Indeed charity was her crowning virtue. 
 Not the charity that makes "swift feet" to re- 
 lieve material want, but that broader charity that 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 hides defects and covers imperfections. This trait 
 was shown conspicuonsly in her generons treat- 
 ment of the literary efforts of those who might be 
 called her rivals. She saw and freely acknowl- 
 edged their merit, pointing ont their beauties, and 
 ignoring or touching lightly their blemishes. The 
 lowest was not beneath her kindly notice, and 
 the highest did not awe her soul into blind wor- 
 ship. 
 
 Her modest, unobtrusive nature, and acute 
 sensitiveness would always have kept her in the 
 background but for her large heart, her broad 
 sympathies, and her fertile intellect. Her poems 
 were Ijut the reflex of herself. Their purity of 
 thought and diction was but the outflow of such a 
 heart. Her enthusiastic defense of right was but 
 the harmony of her soul, and her castigation of 
 wrong, the protestation of her nature. There is, 
 perhaps, not so much variety of style in her writ- 
 ings as in those who write only by virtue of intel- 
 lectual force — by brain power — as Byron wrote, 
 
 She seldom indulged in sarcasm. It was only 
 when the wrong could not be reached by argu- 
 ment, when reason thrown against it fell flat like 
 a bullet from "A IMan-of-War. " and dynamite 
 only was available, then her projectiles of sarcasm 
 struck home. The bitter irony and sarcasm in 
 the little poem "Tar and Feather Reform," 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 showed her indignation at the wrongs perpetrat- 
 ed under the hypocritical pretense of outraged 
 virtue (a crime infinitely greater than the sin it 
 sought to punish,) how in her heart she detested 
 "cant hypocracy," and the clamorous throngs 
 that cry "Stone her! Slone her!" and then cower 
 and shrink away when the search light is thrown 
 upon them. Uncharitable vengeance, and un- 
 christian revenge, weie not in her creed. 
 
 She had no children of her own, but her 
 mother heart won the love of those placed under 
 her care. No one could be in her home long 
 without discovering the marked respect and lov- 
 ing regard they had tor her. She was wifely, wo- 
 manly and motherly, what more need be said? 
 
 She has laid aside the work of wife, friend 
 and writer, leaving us the serene satisfaction that 
 it was well and conscientiously done. Such a wo- 
 man and her life is a cheering stimulus to all lel- 
 low life. Her memory will ever remain a warm 
 and radiant token to those who knew her best. 
 
 Mrs. Hattie Peeler pays a beautiful tribute to 
 her memory in the following lines: 
 
 "September reigns o'er hills and plains 
 
 A radiant smiling (ineen, 
 With beauteous face and regal grace, 
 
 And robe of gold and green; 
 The sunflowers gay bedeck her way, 
 
 And in the breezes nod, 
 Like plumed knights with tassels bright. 
 
 The yellow golden rod. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 The wild bird's song is blytlie and long- 
 As here and there they roam. 
 
 Gay bntterrty sails idly by 
 Nor recks of storms to come. 
 
 The fruit Lrees hold a vvealtli of gold, 
 Plum, apple, peach and pear; 
 
 A mellow haze tills all the days, 
 A calm and tranciuil air. 
 
 On fertile plain, where sun and rain 
 
 Their equal parts have borne. 
 Stand side by side, in stately pride, 
 
 Tall ranks of ripening corn. 
 Golden and green, the colors are seen, 
 
 Shading downward to amber pale. 
 As the '-Walls of Corn"' in the sun of moi'ii 
 
 Fling their banners green. 
 
 There is a voice at morn from ''Walls of Corn," 
 
 Telling of comfort, of plenty, of cheei'. 
 Of toil never spurned, of wealth fairly earned, 
 
 In the harvest which draweth so near: 
 And again soft and low, comes a sound sad and slow 
 
 Like a sob to mine ears is borne. 
 Or the breath of a sigh as tlie wind passes by 
 
 O'er the tall golden ranks of the corn. 
 
 It tells of a lute tliat is silent, or mute. 
 
 Of a singer whose earth songs are o'er; 
 Of a sweet kindly life, free from envy or strife, 
 
 Of a parting to meet liere no more: 
 Of hearts sad and lone since the loved one has gone. 
 
 Of a grave where they linger to mourn. 
 Of a life work complete, of a rest calm and sweet 
 
 For the singer who sang of the corn. 
 
 The bright sunlight falls on stately green walls 
 
 And they change into anil)er and gold. 
 iUit the song, it is done, the singer is gone, 
 
 And her story on earth has been told. 
 Beyond tlie borders of time, in that beautiful clime 
 
 Where none sicken, or sorrow, or mourn, 
 'Mid a glorified liand in that I)right summer land 
 
 Dwells the singer that sang of the corn."' 
 
IN MEMORTAM. 
 
 Ellen Palmer Allerton. 
 
 Died August 31, 1893. 
 
 There's the sound of a sob in the "Walls of Corn, 
 Whose banners toss on the breeze of morn," 
 
 And a threnoby throbs through the tlelds to-day. 
 For the voice of their singer has passed away. 
 
 Yet fields are fair thougli hearts are bare, 
 And deatii has gatliered a harvest there. 
 
 * * * * -;•:- * 
 
 Slie toiled and sang— and "lieaven's dome 
 Smiled softly over lier prairie liome." 
 
 While the "Walls of Corn" througli tlie summer days 
 Sluit out the world from her wistful gaze. 
 
 And she sang of those walls that liid from view 
 Tlie dearest spot that her vision knew, 
 
 .^nd, later, of walls that sliutaway 
 
 Her dimming eyes from tlie light of daj' — 
 
 And then, in the dark, sang on and on 
 Of hope, and rest, and the coming dawn. 
 
 * «- » * * * 
 
 Crisping and ripening stands tlie corn 
 "With banners flung to tlie breeze of morn," 
 
 While the sunflowers nod— and the golden rod- 
 Over a home of Kansas sod. 
 
 — Albert Bigelow Paine. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 A Tribute to Mrs. Ellen P. Allerton. 
 
 O! sweet are the songs of the muses, 
 
 Like breath from tlie roses in .lime, 
 To the soul that aspires and uses 
 
 With a lieart that's awal<e and in tune. 
 For the beauty of earth has no sweetness 
 
 The soul may not gather and own; 
 And the worth of true hearts have more greatness 
 
 Than power encircling a throne. 
 
 Thy life was fair truth's best adorning, 
 
 Thy smile lil^e tlie roses in June 
 Gathering sweetness and joy with the morning 
 
 And spreading them far with the noon. 
 Thy iieart was a blossom of sunlight 
 
 With the spirit to conquer and rise 
 And brighten the azure of midnight 
 
 With stars that are noblest and wise. 
 
 Thy poems are sweet and enchanting 
 
 As music that floats o'er the sea 
 From isles where bright sunbeams are slanting 
 
 Their gold over hill top and tree. 
 Their worth to true womanhood bringing 
 
 A wreath from the garlands of time 
 Where Fame thy sweet praises are singing 
 
 In anthems of beauty suljlirne. 
 
 For all life is a poem of glory 
 
 Neitlier reason or senses can gras[) 
 Till we read every verse in the story 
 
 And the hand of the author we clasp. 
 And thy songs were like Sapho's of olden. 
 
 With visions of soul-land that shine 
 Till the harp of the earthly was golden 
 
 From the hand of tlie Author Divine. 
 
 — Geokge VV. Waudkk 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 To the Memory of Ellen P. AUerton. 
 
 Before the gates of morning: 
 
 A singer, sweet and strong, 
 f ourecl out in measured cadence 
 
 A tender, soulful song — 
 And many weary toilers 
 
 'Mid labor's clash and clang, 
 Took lieart, and hope, and courage; 
 
 From til' message which sang; 
 
 A message full of promise 
 
 Of better things to come, 
 The promise of a morning 
 
 Where hate, and greed, and rum, 
 Sliall liave no place or standing, 
 
 Sliall liave no right to be 
 Betwixt the gates of morning 
 
 On tlie purple sundown sea. 
 
 Not they alone who labor 
 
 In the sunny fields or mart. 
 But they wiiose brains are wedded 
 
 To busy hand and heart, 
 Have heard the singer's message, 
 
 ITave heard her songs divine. 
 Have felt her inspiration. 
 
 And bow them at her shrine. 
 
 -H. W. ROBY. 
 
MY AMBITION. 
 
 HAVE my own ambition — it is not 
 ^ To mount on eagle wings and soar away 
 "^^^ Beyond the palings of the common lot, 
 
 Scorning the griefs and joys of every day: 
 I would be human — toiling, like the rest 
 
 With tender human heart-beats in my breast. 
 
 Not on cold, lonely heights, above the ken 
 
 Of common mortals would I build my fame, 
 
 But in the kindly liearts of living men, 
 
 There, if permitted, would I write my name; 
 
 Who builds above the clouds must dwell alone; 
 I count good fellowship above a throne. 
 
 And so, beside my door I sit and sing 
 
 My simple strains— now sad, now light and gay, 
 Happy, if this or that but wake one string, 
 
 Wliose low, sweet echoes give me back the lay — 
 And happier still, if girded by my song. 
 
 Some strained and tempted soul stands firm and 
 
 strong. 
 
 Humanity is much the same; if I 
 
 Can give my neighbors' pent-up thought a tongue, 
 And can give voice to his unspoken cry 
 
 Of bitter pain, wlien my own heart is wrung. 
 Then we two meet upon a commf)n land, 
 
 And hencefortli stand together, liand in hand. 
 
 I send my thouglit its kindred thought to greet, 
 Out to the far frontier, through crowded town. 
 
 Friendsliip is precious, sympathy is sweet; 
 So tliese be mine, I ask no laurel-crown. 
 
 Sucli my ambition, which I liere unfold, 
 So it be granted — mine is wealth untold. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER FOEMS, 
 
 Walls of Com. 
 
 Smiling and beautifal, heaven's dome, 
 Bends softly over our prairie home, 
 
 But the v^^ide, wide lands that stretclied away, 
 Before my eyes in the days of May, 
 
 The rolling prairies billowy swell, 
 Breezes uplands and the timbered dell, 
 
 Stately mansion and hufc forlorn, 
 All are hidden by walls of corn. 
 
 All wide the world is narrowed down. 
 To walls of corn, now sear and brown. 
 
 What do they hold — these walls of corn, 
 Whose banners toss on the breeze of morn? 
 
 He who questions may soon be told, 
 
 A great state's wealth these walls enfold. 
 
 No sentinels guard these walls of corn, 
 Never a sound the of warder's horn. 
 
 Yet the pillars are hung with gleaming gold, 
 Left all unbarred, thougli thieves are bold. 
 
 Clothes and food for the toiling poor, 
 Wealth to heap at the rich man's door; 
 
 Meat for the healthy, and balm for him 
 Who moans and tosses in cliamber dim; 
 
 Shoes for the barefooted, pearls to twine, 
 In the scented tresses of ladies tine; 
 
 Things of use for tlie lowly cot, 
 
 Where (bless the corn) want cometh not; 
 
. : , ^i^^ 1 I 
 
 No sentinels yuard these walls of cdi-n. 
 Never is sounded the warder's horn. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Luxuries rare for the munsiou grand, 
 Gifts of a rich atid fertile land; 
 
 All these things, and so many more, 
 It would till a book to name them o'er. 
 
 Are hid and held in these walls of corn, 
 Whose banners toss on the breeze of morn. 
 
 Where do they stand, these walls of corn, 
 Whose banners toss on the breeze of mornV 
 
 Open the alas, conned by rule, 
 
 In the olden days of the district school. 
 
 Point to the rich and bounteous land. 
 That yields such fruits to the toiler's hand. 
 
 'Treeless desert " they called.it then, 
 Haunted by beasts and forsook by men. 
 
 Little they knew what wealth untold. 
 Lay hid where the desolate prairies rolled. 
 
 Who would have dared, with brush or pen 
 As this land is now, to paint it then? 
 
 And how would the wise ones have laughed in scorn, 
 Had prophets foretold these walls of corn, 
 Whose banners toss on the breeze of mornV 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 ANNABELLE. 
 
 A Poem of the Heart. 
 
 Look there, my frieucl, through yonder chimp of trees. 
 You see yon lofty, weather-beaten waH? 
 You hear the hum of wlieels, the broken fall 
 Of pent-up waters borne along the breeze? 
 That is the old brown mill. Its walls have stood 
 While children's children have grown old and gray, 
 While ruthless axes have hewn down the wood, 
 And yonder town lias grown, rood after rood, 
 The mill has stood there as it stands today. 
 
 You wonder why I point it out to you? 
 
 Well, listen. You shall hear a simple tale — 
 
 Simple in homely truth— which cannot fail 
 
 To wake your tender pity: which must sue 
 
 Sue your— you have a heart?— to charity. 
 
 Only a story of a child's mistake; 
 
 Of blindness lifted when too late to see; 
 
 Of woman's waking when too late to wake; 
 
 Of man's strong passion hardly kept in check, 
 
 And the strange ending — if things end at all— 
 
 I sometimes fancy they do not, but break and break 
 
 In ceaseless ripples, such as crimp the lake 
 
 When in its depths one lets a pebi^le fall. 
 
 Come up the stream a little way, and look 
 Behind those drooping elms. You see 
 A low, white cottage by the roaring brook. 
 With tangled garden, to its weeds forsook. 
 And broken panes, where rains beat dismally. 
 Almost within the shadow of the mill, 
 O'erhung and sheltered by yon craggy hill, 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The cottage stands. And here, at eventide, 
 After a glorious, golden da\- of June, 
 Just as the sunset paled and rose the moon, 
 John Dent, the miller, brought liis girlish bride. 
 
 Across the valley had a marriage bell 
 
 Pealed joyfully at morn. A child had stood 
 
 (She was but little more) — j'oung Annabelle — 
 
 And uttered vows which only womanhood. 
 
 Full-grown and earnest, knowing well itself, 
 
 Should dare to utter. It was not for pelf — 
 
 No scheming child of sordid need was she. 
 
 Her fresh young heart all meanness was above; 
 
 And when young John had wooed her tenderly 
 
 And gently as the south wind woos the sea, 
 
 She gave him what, in truth, .she thought was love. 
 
 Had she but lived and died and never known, 
 As many women do; had she not learned 
 What else she had to give — what slow fires burned. 
 Smouldered and hid, fed by themselves alone; 
 Had no hand stirred them to a quenchless blaze. 
 All had gone well — no, loveless is not well- 
 But had not gone so ill. Sad, sad to tell 
 How woke into a wail the silent tone; 
 How evil stole into her quiet days; 
 How throbbed her heart strings like a tolling bell. 
 
 For years her life was calm. Sweetly slie went 
 
 Calm household ways, and kept the hearthstone bright. 
 
 Light was her heart at noon, serene at night, 
 
 In simple kindliness was well content. 
 
 Yet oft she wondered why the tenderness 
 
 That closely clasped her in its folding arm. 
 
 Could wake no passion-throb of happiness, 
 
 Why loving words, so earnest and so warm, 
 
 Sliould have .so little potency to charm. 
 
 Chided herself, and blamed her girlish heart 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Because it gave so little — so mucli less 
 Than what was given her— so kept apart, 
 And would not leap and thrill at love's caress. 
 
 And when her first-born laughed upon her knee, 
 
 And looked up with its father's eyes 
 
 Into her own, with innocent surprise, 
 
 She wondered why a baby's careless glee, 
 
 Its clasping Angers and its aimless kiss, 
 
 Should wake within her heart such throbbing bliss, 
 
 Wliere all before had been so calm and still. 
 
 Yet more she blamed herself— resolved to be 
 
 A loving wife hencefortli — but then, ah me! 
 
 Slie had to learn that love comes not at will. 
 
 But grows— if grown at all— spontaneously; 
 
 Its clasping tendrills oft refuse to twine. 
 
 Nor unto careful pressure flows its wine. 
 
 Thus ran the days: at morn her houseliold toil. 
 
 Then needlework or books, both new and old; 
 
 And whatsoever poets sang or told. 
 
 Found in her hungry lieart a fertile soil: 
 
 The mighty master's strains were liousehold words, 
 
 So often had she conned them o'er and o'er 
 
 And humbler poets' songs and lays of birds, 
 
 Blended their music round her cottage door. 
 
 She trained her flowers, sang her cradle song, 
 
 And taught her babe to lisp its fathers name 
 
 First of all words: and softly went and came, 
 
 And neither talked nor thought of "woman's wrongs." 
 
 In afternoons of sunny summer days. 
 Along the path that runs beside the hill — 
 Now overgrown witli weeds — to yonder mill 
 She turned her feet: and where the sunlight plays 
 There in the doorway through those giant trees, 
 The child beside her, and the toying breeze 
 Lifting the ringlets of her dusky hair, 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 She sat. the while her husband plied his toil, 
 Oft noting, as lie passed, the picture fair 
 Of child and mother — often pausing there 
 To touch her brow, or lift a ringlet's coil. 
 
 So passed the days. The brook went down the glen 
 After its labor, singing on its way, 
 Like task-bound school-boy just let out to play; 
 The great trees rustled— there were many then — 
 As summer winds, flapping their lazy wings. 
 Came down among them from the breezy hill; 
 The vale was fresh and green with growing things, 
 And peace, such peace as only duty brings. 
 Sat there within the doorway of the mill. 
 
 ^Meanwhile the child-wife grew to womanhood, 
 Unfolding with her life but lialf complete, 
 Althongh she knew it not — her willing feet. 
 And iKinds as willing, doing nauglit but good. 
 And was slie beautiful? 'Tis woman-like 
 To ask the question. Yes; yet none could tell 
 Wherein her beauty lay. I could not strike 
 Her picture, liad I all the thousand dyes 
 That paint the air. Black were her eyes — 
 This I remember — with softly gleaming lights 
 Trembling within their depths, as in a well 
 You catch the gleam of stars on summer nights. 
 
 You grow impatient, and you wonder why 
 
 I do not tell my story, and have done. 
 
 I pray your patience — 'tis so sad a one, 
 
 I linger at its borders tremblingly. 
 
 But liere it is: On one ill-fated morn, 
 
 A senseless form was laid beneatli lier roof. 
 
 Bleeding and bruised, with garments smeared and torn, 
 
 And clotted hair, all red with gliastly gore. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 "Here, Annabelle," said John, and said no more; 
 He knew her tender heart — it was enough. 
 
 Asking no questions, with her gentle hands 
 
 She washed the blood from the pale, swollen face. 
 
 And from the matted hair, and sought apace 
 
 To win him back to life. The loosened bands 
 
 Tightened at last; the silent, pulseless wheel 
 
 Of life turned slowly round: he opened his eyes — 
 
 Blue eyes they were — and looked with blank surprise 
 
 On the kind faces bent beside the bed; 
 
 Asked where he was, and how he came to feel 
 
 So bruised and battered — and what ailed his head? 
 
 " We picked you up," said John, " by yonder cliff — 
 A broken limb, bruised head— if that is all. 
 I saw your horse take fright, and shy and fall, 
 Wrenching a sapling from its rocky bed. 
 She fell beneath you— so did save your life, • 
 We hope and trust— the noble beast is dead." 
 
 "Poor Nan!" the stranger sighed, "I loved her well; 
 The graceful creature was my truest friend; 
 And I could weep that thus should be her end. 
 What frighted her I'm sure I cannot tell; 
 She never once her foothold lost before, 
 And we have traversed half a continent. 
 I do remember that she shied— no more. 
 Poor Nan! Ah well! I ought to be content. 
 And bless the fates that brought me to your door." 
 
 The surgeon came and set the broken limb. 
 
 And Annabelle looked on with pitying eye 
 
 The while her tender tears fell silently; 
 
 And thought him brave— admired the courage grim 
 
 That bore the wrench and strain unflinchingly. 
 
 He never winced; the weakness of a groan 
 
 Parted not once the pallor of his lips. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 So still he lay, but for clenched flnger-tips, 
 
 You might have tliought hiiu senseless as a stone. 
 
 A woman's pity is a dangerous things 
 Most when its softness is all mixed and blent 
 With woman's admiration. Such content 
 It hath of passion and of tenderness, 
 Which from its tearful dew luxuriant spring, 
 That she who feels needs double guardedness 
 O'er her heart's citadel; and none the less 
 AVlien in that heart lie mines of untold wealth 
 Unwrought by human hand. Its great largess 
 Unlocked, unguarded, yields to subtle stealth. 
 
 For weeks the stranger lay, fevered and ill, 
 Tossing at times in wild delirium. 
 At others, lying faint, and pale, and dumb. 
 In limp exhaustion, without speech or will. 
 Oft in his fevered ravings he would talk 
 Of distant scenes— a spry-washed seaside home; 
 Of his young sisters— then lie seemed to walk 
 By forest streams, or mountain passes clomb; 
 He raved of the Sierras; tossed a rock 
 Over the crags toward the Western Sea, 
 Marked its reboundings with a ghastly glee, 
 And laughed at each reverberating shock. 
 
 At last the rires burned out. Life seemed to stand 
 Poised on a balance. Breathless days he lay. 
 With his pale brow by chill, damp breezes fanned 
 From otf another shore. Within the shadows dim 
 That fringe tlie skirts of that uncertain land 
 From whence no traveler o'er the misty rim 
 Comes with returning feet, day after day 
 He lingered at the borders, as if Death, 
 Putting his hot sword back into its sheath- 
 Having won fairly— scorned to take his prey. 
 
10 WALLS OP CORN AND OTHBR POEMS. 
 
 Meanwhile young Annabelle, watching his lightest sigh, 
 
 Witli sleepless eyes above his pillow hung; 
 
 And when the folded portals backward swung, 
 
 And the ebbed tides came faintly flowing in, 
 
 She bowed her stately head, and silently— 
 
 So glad was she that Life at last should win— 
 
 Wept tears of joy— such tears are soonest dry! 
 
 Then came the days, so slow and yet so swift, 
 
 Of convalescence— days when vanquished pain 
 
 Flees back among the shadows — when again 
 
 Tlie prostrate forces slowly, feebly lift, 
 
 Like the bowed spears of tempest-beaten grain. 
 
 When Robert Lome, with puzzled, pleased surprise, 
 
 Did first discover what a lovely nurse 
 
 He had, marked — what I've told you in my verse— 
 
 Her dusky ringlets and her starry eyes; 
 
 And then he wondered, thought, and wondered still. 
 
 What freak of fortune, what mistake of fate, 
 
 Had planted such a regal flower as that 
 
 Within the shadow of a dusty mill. 
 
 Such thoughts were dangerous^ike her pity. Time 
 Wore on, and as he chafed and restless grew, 
 Impatient of his weakness — 'tis his due 
 To say he had been patient in his pain- 
 She brought her books, and tried to soothe the chime 
 Of flowing measures and of tender rhyme; 
 And read to him, in cadence clear and sweet. 
 That seemed to him. in its low rythmic beat. 
 Like the soft footfalls of the summer rain. 
 
 They talked togetlier, and he wondered more. 
 How had she gathered in that quiet vale. 
 Where pompous Learning had ne'er swept its trail, 
 Of wit and wisdom such a wondrous store? 
 He drew her on, and sounded hidden wells, 
 Tliat into sparkling streamlets bubbled o'er, 
 
WALLS or CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 As pure, sweet springs that never flowed before 
 
 Start at a touch along the basky dells. 
 
 Her inner life— Its strange, sweet mysteries — 
 
 Lay all unrolled before his eager eyes; 
 
 So frankly talked she— to her own surprise— 
 
 And oft lier laugh rang out like tinkling bells. 
 
 Swift were those days, without a thought of wrong- 
 Days that on swift and gilded pinions sped — 
 Ere Conscience had tolled out her stern alarm, 
 And pointed to the rocks that loomed ahead. 
 Would that no others came into my song! 
 You see what baleful shadow, dire and dim. 
 Hovered about the sick-room; stole apace 
 Into the unbarred door, and held the place? 
 It came to this— he loved her, she loved him. 
 
 There came an hour when but a little thing — 
 A tlioughtless act, and innocent, because 
 It held no guilty thought of broken laws — 
 Revealed it to them both. He was asleep — 
 At least, she thought he was — the fanning wing 
 Of a stray breeze tossing the cliestnut hair 
 That lay about his brow; and Annabelle 
 Rising to leave the room, just stooped her there, 
 Softly put back the clusters, and then— well, 
 She laid her cheek upon it. Then the bell 
 Of warning sounded— but it rang too late. 
 She felt a tlirill that never once before 
 Had stirred her heart— that never, nevermore 
 Must stir it thus again. Alas, the fate 
 That had withheld such sweetness till too late! 
 
 Then knew he that she loved him — raised his arms. 
 And would have clasped her, but she turned. 
 While all her face with i)ainful blushes burned. 
 And left him— with a thousand vague alarms 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Tossing the heart, whiqh, at that mute caress 
 Had, for oneimoraent, leaped with happhiess. 
 
 Thenceforth her manner changed. She silent grew, 
 
 And often met with an averted eye 
 
 His questioning look; and well and faithfully 
 
 Strove with her foe, determined to subdue. 
 
 Meanwhile the man grew strong. His hurts were well. 
 
 And the soft tints of health began to come 
 
 Across the sunken pallor of his cheek. 
 
 He took slow walks— still further cure to seek— 
 
 Adown the brook, and through the grassy dell, 
 
 And soon began to talk of going home. 
 
 '"Tis a long journey," said the miller, "wait 
 Awhile; be not in haste to go, I pray. 
 You had best tarry and submit to fate," 
 Laughed he, "till you have strength to shut the gate— 
 (He just had left it wide) you've not to-day." 
 Poor man! he little knew what meaning fell 
 From out his careless banter, on the ears 
 Of guest and wife. No truant, tell-tale tears 
 Sprang to her eyes; she kept her bosom's strife 
 On its own battle-fleld, and marshalled well 
 Her gathered forces, even while a knell, 
 Struck on her heartstrings, sent its hollow toll 
 In sobbing shudders through her inmost soul. 
 There lay her dead — a scathed and blighted life. 
 
 " If go you must," said honest John, "Good bye. 
 
 The mill awaits me with its silent wheels; 
 
 The summer morn with quiet footstep steals 
 
 Quickly away, and so, perforce, must I." 
 "Farewell," said Robert Lome, "My thanks accept 
 
 For all your kindness. I shall hold it well, 
 
 With grateful care, among my treasures kept." • 
 "Small thanks to me," said John, "the praise is due 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 To yonder tireless nurse who tended you; 
 With her I leave you— talk to Annabelle.' 
 
 So briskly toward the mill he walked away, 
 Humming a tune in careless, happy tone, 
 Leaving the two, and so they stood alone. 
 Wliat could they do? and what could either say? 
 Only good bye? Had they but said no more, 
 Love might have died a silent, smothered death, 
 Like smouldering embers where there stirs no breath. 
 But words are rtame; once given vent and space. 
 The tlery tide fast overleaps its shore, 
 And seldom ebbs again into its place. 
 
 One silent moment— save the throbbing beat 
 With which two hearts kept time— and then he came 
 And stood beside her, trembling. "I can tame," 
 Slid he, "the wild mustang, though strong and fleet, 
 But cannot tame my heart. Turn not away. 
 That sad, pale face. Hear me this once, I pray. 
 For I must speak or die, though years too late. 
 John Dent spoke truly, though he little knew 
 How what he said was doubly, direly true; 
 I have not strength enough to shut the gate." 
 
 I know you love me— nay, liide not your fv.ce. 
 
 Drop not your eye— 'tis veiled e'en now with tears. 
 
 Let me look deep into its starry glow 
 
 Once more— it is the last, last time you know! 
 
 I knew you loved me, when, with tender grace, 
 
 You stooped and touched me witn your cheek. The years, 
 
 >rany or few, that slowly come and go, 
 
 One thing they cannot take with them. I shall keep, 
 
 Hidden with my lone heart's deepest deep. 
 
 The memory of one moment's happiness, 
 
 When thrilled my whole soul to that soft caress." 
 
 • You should not say such things to me I" she said. 
 Entreaty and reproach were in her look; 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Her face was deadly pale, her whole frame shook. 
 " You see my weakness, which I seek to tread 
 With all my gathered strength beneath my feet; 
 The task is hard enough — why will you add 
 Strength to my enemy, and steal my own? 
 Leave me, I pray, and let me tight alone 
 The weary battle— I am sick and sad." 
 
 "Poor little one!" he said. "I pity you 
 From my heart's core — but do myself as well. 
 How it shall fare with me I cannot tell; 
 But you will be to every duty true. 
 And go your daily ways like some sweet saint; 
 With feet that never falter, though you faint. 
 You, but a weak woman, will a foe subdue 
 That conquers me— I cannot be like you." 
 
 " 'Tis only to endure," she said. "The pain 
 Will soon be over. We must take 
 The sequence of our folly. Those that make, 
 As we have made, shipwreck of happiness. 
 Must fare without it. Life is not so long— 
 What signifies a heartache more or less? 
 A few wild throbs that wrench the breast and brain, 
 Then— if we conquer — coraeth the calm of peace, 
 Next, that of death, and then— all struggles cease." 
 
 " 'Tis a sad end that only comes with death I 
 I think the saddest thing that mortals know 
 Is such a love, that only endeth so. 
 O Annabelle! down to my latest breath 
 Must I endure this wrong — the perfect mate 
 After long years of waiting found too late? 
 Matches, they say, are made in Heaven above. 
 Where hearts are wed. If marriage is but love, 
 All other marriage, then, must spurious be. 
 And you, before high Heaven, belong to me!" 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 " Forbearl"' the woman cried, ""Twas hard before: 
 'Tis cruel that you add such agotiy, 
 Heaping it liigli upon my misery. 
 O cease, and leave me — I can bear no morel" 
 
 "I go, but once, just once your heart shall throb, 
 Where it should always throb, close up to mine." 
 He clasped her close, and while sob after sob 
 Shook her from head to foot, on brow and neck. 
 On tear-wet cheek, and pale and quivering lip, 
 Pressed passionate kisses. Little did he reck 
 In tliat mad moment of the bitter drip 
 So sure to follow that one drop of wine! 
 
 You blame such madness? so do I, but then 
 
 Poor human nature, wrenched and passion-tossed, 
 
 At best intent too often goes astray. 
 
 We little know how much own, so crgssed, 
 
 Could bear— whether the strength, which in our day 
 
 Of sunny peace seems so secure, could stand 
 
 Amid the sweeping storm, and hold at bay 
 
 The rush of whirlwinds, tempest-driven rain. 
 
 And the forked lightning, with its flery hand. 
 
 We know not, until tried, I say again. 
 
 What we can bear — we all have need to pray. 
 
 At last he whispered hoarsely, "Fare thee well. 
 Earth holds no parting half so sad as this. 
 Would it had i:)een but death I no tolling bell 
 Did ever utter forth such wretchedness! 
 You will find peace— such peace as waits to bless 
 Enduring patience; but, oh Annabelle! 
 Sometimes when, in your saintly purity, 
 At the still evening hour you kneel to pray. 
 Remember and ask pity, too, for me." 
 He loosed his arms, then turned and rushed away. 
 She stood and watched him from the open door — 
 Once stretched her hands ('twas well he did not see) 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 As if to call him back— cried, ''Woe is mel 
 
 I never, never shall behold him more!" 
 
 Then she caught up iier boy, and held him pressed, 
 
 While she wept wildlj', to her aching breast. 
 
 ******** 
 
 A 3'ear had flown on slow and quiet wing 
 
 Above the vine-wreathed cottage b}' the mill: 
 
 Again the wild rose all along the hill 
 
 Hung out its lavish blossoms. All the ground 
 
 Was spread with summer's richness; on the wing 
 
 The wild bird sang— and still the wheels went round. 
 
 It was a fragrant morning; every breath of air 
 
 Was laden with the breezy scents of pine. 
 
 From out the open casement a low tune 
 
 Came softly floating, like a tender prayer — 
 
 The wife was singing at her daily care. 
 
 Just shadowed was her brow with pensive thought, 
 
 Yet was it calm and smooth and purely fair — 
 
 'Twas plain had come to her the peace she sought. 
 
 But how fared Robert Dome? Not quite so well, 
 With restless foot that never ceased to roam. 
 He wandered widely, and no chosen home 
 Found anywhere. The ocean's heaving swell 
 Best suited him; and mountain heights 
 Swept by wild tempests; stormy nights, 
 When shook and jarred the everlasting hills 
 Beneath the tread of thunders, when the glare 
 Of the red lightnings lit the midnight air, 
 And sweeping torrents tore the mountain side— 
 These chimed with his dark mood. But peaceful vales, 
 And silent rivers with their gentle glide, 
 And sleeping lakes, flecked with snowy sails 
 Of floating ships; the calm of eventide- 
 All scenes of quiet — in his feverish soul 
 But stirred the demon of unrest. The bowl 
 Of fierce excitehient, with a restless thirst. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Deeply lie quafT'ed. yet still, as at tlic first. 
 He thirsted. At last, heart sick and sore, 
 When utter weariness had dctne its worst. 
 He turned iiis face toward his native shore. 
 
 "Once more." lie thouijht, "to look upon her f.ice 
 Unseen by her. I will not break the calm 
 Which she. mayhap, hath found. Her tender palm 
 She need not lift to warn me from the ])lace. 
 But once to watch her in her gentle grace, 
 Twining, percliaace. the roses at her door. 
 It shall be only once — I'll dare no more." 
 
 And so it chanced, that breezy morn of June. 
 Crouching within the copse that crowned the hill, 
 He listened to the low and pensive tune 
 Tliat floated through the casement. Waiting still. 
 He saw not, though he lieard her. Finally 
 She come within the doorway — raised her hand 
 To shade her eyes, and, with a startled look. 
 Gazed down the beaten pathway by the brctok. 
 He wondered at her air. What did she see? 
 Following her eye with liis. lie saw a man 
 With wild, excited mien, and hurried tread, 
 Approach to where she stood — heard wliat he said: 
 ••Your husband, madam! (|uickly as you can 
 Come to the mill. He"s liuit. and well nigh dead." 
 
 .Swiftly she Hew. as if her feet had wings. 
 
 To where lie lay. He saw. looked up, and smiled: 
 
 Whispered "God keep my wife and childl ' 
 
 Then clo.sed his eyes upon all earthly things. 
 
 Then swept across her soul a grief so wild 
 
 That reason neaily reelerl. Regret, remorse. 
 
 rttered accusing voices. Had slie been 
 
 Within her secret lieart a loyal wife. 
 
 She had not felt tlie pain, so swift and keen. 
 
 Tliat cut her conscience like a two-edged knilV. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The sight, the sound, were pitiful I ;i low moan 
 Came from the set, white lips; no tears slie shed, 
 Jiut gazed with stony look upon the dead. 
 At last a voice, in low and husky tone: 
 Take her away. Do you not see," it said, 
 That this is killing her?"' She raised her eyes 
 with one quick glaiic? of sudden, shocked surprise; . 
 Saw it was he, and fainted on the corse. 
 
 He came not near her in her grief, but when 
 
 The day of burial come, he watclied afar, 
 
 With strange emotions hi his heart at war. 
 
 He saw lier, sable-clad and drooping, stand 
 
 iJeside the open grave, clasping the liad 
 
 Of her lialf-orphaned boy, and pitied her — 
 
 So sad, so droopinj, did slie seem— but then 
 
 There crossed his pity a wild wave of joy, 
 
 (Albeit remorse cams in with its alloy), 
 
 Tliat howsoever stricken, she was free. 
 
 Sure none may claim her now," he thought, " but me! 
 
 A month went by, and then a letter came. 
 
 Telling her that when the year was done. 
 
 Its last day faded, its last setting sun 
 
 Gone out of sight with its last lines of flame. 
 
 She might expect him at her cottage door. 
 
 Fail not," it said, " to look for me at even: 
 
 If living, you will see me — not before. 
 I well can wait a year without complaint. 
 With hope to lighten with its joyous leaven — 
 I who did think to wait forever more! 
 Though love is haste, it still hath self-restraint; 
 And not a slander, not a breath of taint, 
 Must soil the plumage of my bird of heaven!" 
 
 ******* 
 The year at last had fled. The scents of June 
 Once more went floating softly down the dell; 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Once more (lir tall ^rass i-(»ckc(l heiicalii the swell 
 
 Of suiiimer winds; in noisy habblinu' tune. 
 
 The brook came singing from the creaking mill: 
 
 And once again, along the beetling hill. 
 
 The wild rose hung its pennons. Kvening tell; 
 
 Tlie sunset faded, and the summer moon 
 
 Rose calmly, and hung out her silver shield 
 
 Athwart tlie dusky bosom of the night. 
 
 One star, and then anotlier, in the (ii'ld 
 
 Of heaven came out and blossomed into light. 
 
 Silence unbroken hung about the door 
 
 Of the lone cottage, only and o'er and o'er 
 
 From out the lone shadows one sad whippowil 
 
 Sang- his night-song, so plaintive, yet so shrill; 
 
 And the brook babied to its sedgy shore. 
 
 Within sits Aimabelle, and counts tlie ticks 
 Tiiat measure of tlie travel, step by step. 
 Of the slow laggard, Time. In rosy sleep 
 Her play-tired darling lies. A silence deep — 
 The silence of hushed waiting wrap.-; her round, 
 vSlie listens for a footstep, for a sound beside: 
 I>oth come at last. The low gate clicks: 
 
 Tpon the gravelled walk a manly tread. 
 
 Firm, eager, tlien a ([Uick rai) at the door: 
 
 Then, " Robert!" *• Annabelle! "— and then no more 
 
 In those tlrst moments is iiy either said. 
 
 What need of words V Ih-r head is on his bi'cast. 
 
 His arms about her. and Ixitli hearts at rest. 
 
 What need, when each knew all that each c(tuld say! 
 
 Thus, deep emotion with its fetters flung 
 
 About the speecii, hath oft '* t ied fast the tongue." 
 
 Love, like a brook, starts singing on its wa\ . 
 
 Ripples and murmurs in its shallow play: 
 
 Like a deep river when it niet'ts the sea. 
 
 It rolls into its ocean silent I v. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Again the wedding bells, above the town 
 And througli the valley, where a year ago 
 Sobbed fortli a funeral knell so sad and slow. 
 Pealed out in throbs of joy. Love wore its crown 
 In solemn awe; for well did those two know 
 How in its hunger it had wronged the dead. 
 Yet both had souglit to quench it; both had tried 
 To kill a deathless thing which had not died. 
 Their joy was born of sorrow. Solemnly 
 They hold in close embrace their child of tears. 
 Tlie bride is pale though lovely. Shadows lie 
 Within her glorious eyes, she trembles, fears, 
 Amid her joy half shivers as witli dread; 
 And yet the words she utters now are true. 
 It is lier heart that speaks— this time she knew 
 The full, sweet meaning of the words she said. 
 
 They went away; and now in foreign lands, 
 Tiirough storied scenes they wander at their will. 
 They hear no more the clatter of the mill, 
 Although it still grinds on. The cottage stands 
 Lonely and desolate, and no one heeds 
 The smotliered Howers tluit choke amid the weeds. 
 Will they come Ijack again '? I cannot say. 
 I fancy tiiat they dread, not love, the spot. 
 My story ends — a strange one, is it notV 
 
 The twilight falls. The moon hangs o'er the hill: 
 The brook goes darkly down its winding way; 
 Ceased for the day is the clatter of the mill; 
 Along the valley stretch -the shadows gray; 
 And you, I see, are weeping. Come away. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 'I"hc Mortgage — A Christmas Tale. 
 
 A Clii'istiuas eve. The white stars glow 
 
 Afar hi tlie deep, dark sky; 
 The moonbeams sparkle on the frozen snow, 
 
 And the merry bells go by. 
 
 Love scatters gifts, and voices gay 
 
 Iving ont in langhter sweet, 
 Amid the scampor of children's play, 
 
 And the tread of dancing feet. 
 
 While happy childhood hngs its toy, 
 
 And the windows blaze with light, 
 And the little town goes wild with joy — 
 
 Is any one sad to-night '? 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 A fai'm house, where the village street 
 
 Turns to a country road, 
 Where sleighs go skimming, smooth and fleet, 
 
 Each with its merry load. 
 
 Within, no sound of festal mirth — 
 
 No lights rtasli out on tlie snow, 
 Two old folks cower above the hearth— 
 
 Their two gi'ay heads bowed low. 
 
 Why sit they so, beside the tire, 
 
 Speaking but words of grief y 
 Trouble is on them, dark and dire— 
 
 A mortgage — and grace is l)rief. 
 
 And that not all, tlial not the worst. 
 •' (), .lohnl our .lolml " cries she. 
 Had we but the boy I l)ore and nursed. 
 We never sliould iKimcless i)i'. 
 
 Di'ad in tlie mountains, bleak and cold — 
 rnburied for aught we know — 
 
22 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Alas, and alas for the quest of gold. 
 And the cruel cold and snow I " 
 * * * * * 
 
 Up ill a town a mone^^ed man, 
 In his mansion tall and grand. 
 
 Knits his brow as he stoops to scan 
 A paper in his hand. 
 
 ■' I'll do it, I'll do it," he softly said. 
 " Their grief shall be touched with joy. 
 'Twill pluck one thorn from my dying bed- 
 And Winnie— she loved the boy." 
 
 He knew the sorrow she did not tell; 
 
 He knew, and it grieved him sore. 
 ( The old man loved his ducats well, 
 
 But he loved his daughter more.) 
 
 " Winnie, Winnie!" he called, "come here." 
 The daughter came slowly in. 
 Pale as a lily on the mere. 
 Her wan cheeks hollow and thin. 
 
 " Your Christmas gift, my little maid; 
 See — do you understand V 
 'Tis all your own," he said, and laid 
 The paper in her hand. 
 
 A glance, a flush of grand surprise, 
 
 A word of thanks — but one. 
 The tears were streaming from her eyes. 
 
 Her arms about liim thrown. 
 
 " Go, love," he said, " the streets are light.'' 
 
 And led her to the door. 
 " You know whose hearts are sad to-niglit — 
 I need not tell you more." 
 
 ***** 
 Still sat, before the dull red Ha me, 
 Those two, so bowed and gniy: 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 23 
 
 And ere they lieardOr saw who came. 
 At their feet a paper hiy. 
 
 Dear friends, I bring my Christmas gift — 
 
 The mortgage— tliere it lies." 
 She seized it — " See the mortgage iifti 
 
 'Tis burnt before our eyes." 
 
 Such blessings as in sliowers fell 
 
 On that sobbing maiden's liead 
 Xot tongue or pen of mine can tell, 
 
 Nor the loving things they said. 
 
 And now (this is a wondrous night!) 
 
 At the door a step is heard. 
 The three spring upright, still and wiiitc 
 
 And gaze, but speak no word. 
 
 So gaunt, so pale his visage shows — 
 
 "Tis John, and yet not he— 
 Till close he comes, and, laughing, throws 
 
 His arms around the three. 
 
 And so you thought me dead"' — (at last)— 
 •' "Twas fever, and not tlie cold, 
 That laid me low and iield me fast. 
 In the far-oil" land of gold. 
 
 The mortgage y It went U]) in llame":' 
 
 Sorry for that,"" he said. 
 Xo matter, though; "tis all the same — 
 
 To-morrow it shall i)e paid."' 
 
 The curtain falls. No need to tell 
 
 Of the joyous feast tliat night; 
 Of the thankful hynms tliat rose and fell: 
 
 Of the maiden's shy delight: 
 Or how, ere closed anotlier day. 
 
 The rich man was paid in gold: 
 Or how he gave Ills daughter away 
 
 To a bridegroom frank and bold. 
 
24 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Good Night. 
 
 Come nearer; I would feel your loving presence: 
 While closer, closer drops a shadowy wing 
 Not to be lifted more. Loop up the curtain, ' 
 So; for I would look once more upon the spring. 
 And catch her warm, bright smile before I go. 
 And 'tis the last, last time you know. 
 
 See, love, how softly gleams the golden sunset — 
 How gently doth the day resign its throne I 
 It seems like faith! As if a gleam of morning 
 Athwart the night's advancing darkness shone. 
 And yonder soars a bird; hark! how he sings, 
 E'en while the cold dews gather on his wings! 
 
 So would I sing; as nearer yet and nearer 
 
 This last night gathers, and the sun goes down; 
 
 But oh, my strength is gone! Sing for me, dearest, 
 
 A song about the Day Star and a Crown, 
 
 And the near dawn, with its transcendaut glow: 
 
 It is not far beyond the night, I know. 
 
 You cannot sing? and yet you are not weeping: 
 
 Your calm is dreadful— like a beaten sea 
 
 When first the storm scoops down! the wild recoiling 
 
 Of gathered waves will come, and fiercer be 
 
 For tills dread hush, this anguish still and deep. 
 
 There's healing comes of tears— would you could weep! 
 
 Grieve not so terribly; this bitter parting 
 
 That bows you so Is only for a night, 
 
 Beyond it lies the radiant To-morrow, 
 
 With sweet, clear skies, foi-ever calm and bright. 
 
 Then wait in patience: grief is short, and pain. 
 
 But joy is long — we shall not part again. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 1 need not ask that you will not forget me, 
 While the world whelms you with its tide of care 
 Your empty arms, I iviiow, will reach to fold me 
 Oft in your dreams, and clasp but empty air. 
 
 I cannot see you now: fast fades the light — 
 Still hold mv hand— now kiss me— so. good night. 
 
 The Stcpiiiotlicr. 
 
 Bride of a week, my arms, unused to holtling. 
 
 Clasp a bright l)oy tluit sits upon my knee: 
 And to my ne<-k a brown-haired girl is clinging. 
 
 Calling me mamma— strange it seems to niel 
 
 The boy's brown eyes look up to none in wonder 
 To see the tears fall softly, one by one. 
 
 Tpon his shining curls. I fold him clo.ser. 
 And ponder well my work, just begun. 
 
 Oh, what am I, that 1 have undertaken 
 
 Tliis thing so great, and that so few can do — 
 
 Always to act tlie mother true and tender. 
 Without the throbbing bliss that motliei's know! 
 
 And this is why I sit here .softly weeping, 
 One clinging to my neck, one to my knee: 
 
 Trembling lest luiman weakness shrink and falter, 
 Thiidving they have no mother now but mel 
 
 Another twilight. Springs liave bloomed and faded. 
 
 Long summers trailed their glory o'er the land: 
 Again I sit and think. A tall young strii)ling 
 
 Kneels at my side and closely clasjis my hand. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The same brown eyes, alight with loving glances, 
 The same bright curls that decked the babj' boy- 
 
 And fair eighteen, with merry, teasing Ivisses, 
 Toys with my hair, and laughs in girlish joy. 
 
 Tiiey say that I have been a faithful mother, 
 They say that I have done my duty well. 
 
 And yet I know — which they do not— the failures, 
 Tlie staggering weakness that no tongue can tell! 
 
 Adown the backward years so many errors 
 Start up to view before my searching eyes! 
 
 I know that I have not been always tender, 
 Always unselfish, nor yet always wise. 
 
 Lut one has stood, a tower of strength beside me- 
 He for whose sake I took my work to do. 
 
 When for an hour I have failed and faltered, 
 His arm upbore, his love sustained me through. 
 
 And now, e'en knowing, as 1 know the failures, 
 The war with self, the faith oft faint and dim; 
 
 Could all these years be blotted— were I standing 
 Unfettered, free, still would I dare — for him. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The I'iclds of (^orn. 
 
 The liarvest ends, and tli(f son^- of llic reaper 
 
 Dies away to its closing strain. 
 Skies of the midsummer, hotter and deeper. 
 
 Bend over shorn fields and sliocks of g-nijri. 
 
 Fierce is the breath of Uie July weatlier: 
 Tropic heats on the wind are borne: 
 
 Tlie grass and the clover are dying togetlier: 
 Yet brave and green stand/ the fields of coi-n. 
 
 Brave and green, and with banners streaming. 
 
 Wooing tlie lireezes at hottest noon: 
 \Yider tiling wlien tlie world is dreaming. 
 
 Spreading broadly beneath the moon. 
 
 The days are cloudless, the air aiiuiver. 
 
 Palpatant, pulsing witli waves of heat ; 
 Crispy the aspen leaves ([Uike and shiver. 
 
 The cracked earth scorches unwary feet. 
 
 The brown thrush, silent, tlits through tiie hedge 
 Mute in their coverts the wood-birds hide: 
 
 Farther the creek shrinks back from its edges. 
 Thf springs cease tlowing. t he wells are dried. 
 
 Still, while the grass and clover are dying. 
 With strong roots deep in tlio prairie's l)reast. 
 
 Plunjed and tassled witli banners tl\ ing. 
 Tlie tall corn tttsses eacli lordly cresl. 
 
 Enter the tield. a forest hangs over: 
 Seen from al)ove, "tis a dark green sea. 
 
 Gleaming witii lights where the sun. like a lovei-. 
 Showers his kisses so lierce and so fi-ee. 
 
 Lo. through tlie cornfields a miracle passes, 
 Vainly attempted iiy magic (»f old. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Siuiliglit and salts and invisible gasses 
 ilere are transmitted to bars of gold. 
 
 Triumpli of alchemy; daily and nigbtly 
 Wrought on the silence before our eyes, 
 
 INIiracle, yet do we note it lightly; 
 Wonders familiar wake no surprise. 
 
 Sole dependence of many a toiler, 
 Watching the night, noon and morn skies, 
 
 Fearing, trembling, lest tlie drouth, the spoiler, 
 Sear with iiot fingers the fields of corn. 
 
 Still, as yet, wliile the clover is dying. 
 While tlie buds fall dead e'er tlie flowers arc Ix 
 
 With life intact, and with banners flying, 
 Green and beautiful stands the corn. 
 
 To Mary. 
 
 My heart is back in the past, to-niglit. 
 As I sit in the twilight dim and pale; 
 
 The wide, brown prairie is vanished quite. 
 
 And another land steals on my sight. 
 
 With wooded liill-top and sheltered vale. 
 
 Down in the hollow a village lies. 
 
 With its peaceful dwellings white and brown; 
 And I see, as I scan it with loving eyes- 
 Save liere and there some slight surprise — 
 
 But little change in the dear old town. 
 
 Yet some dear faces 1 see not there — 
 
 Faces of friends tliat I used to know — 
 
 Some that were dark and some tliat were fair. 
 
 1 miss them sore, and I question where 
 Are those tliat I loved, long, long ago. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Up on a hillside, near the town, 
 
 In a silent city, with portals low, 
 ITnder creeping grasses, now sear and brown. 
 Under soft, gray mosses, that long have grown,— 
 
 Here lie some that 1 used to know. 
 
 And you— O, friend, whom I loved so well, 
 
 Whom still I liave loved, through all these years! 
 Your heart has bled, while a sorrowful knell 
 Slowly throbbed from the old church bell, 
 You have shed in loneliness bitter tears. 
 
 And how fare you nowV Is life still sweet? 
 
 When the sun set did the stars ariseV 
 Are the paths made smooth for your willing feetV 
 Are you strong the allotted task to meet? 
 
 Has the smile returned' to your lips and eyes? 
 
 Would I could see you, and clasp yoiw hand, 
 And look in your face as I used to dol 
 
 lUit swollen rivers, mighty and grand. 
 
 And many and many a league of land, 
 Between us lie, while I question you. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Tower of Silence. 
 
 High on the cool, green summit of a liill 
 
 Tliat crowns a footspur of the Western Ghauts, 
 
 Tliere stands a lonely tower. A grove of palms 
 
 Clusters about its foot, and far below 
 
 Tlie warm waves lap the gorgeous tropic shore 
 
 Of rich Bombay. Strong, close-clamped iron bars, 
 
 Netted and intersected, crown its top. 
 
 And deep and dark beneath there sleeps a well. 
 
 This strange, weird tiling — this high and silent tower, 
 
 That looks down on the city and the sea — 
 
 Is not a temple, nor a monument, 
 
 Nor yet is it a seat where telescopes 
 
 Are pointed skyward. 'Tis a common tombi 
 
 Here, while the fetid flame of Hindoo pyres 
 Blaze on the plains below, and while the sea 
 Utters its solemn dirges by the shore, 
 The Parsees bring their dead. No graves are dug; 
 No cool, fresh turf, in its soft tenderness. 
 About the sleeper flings its garments green. 
 Here, higli in the air, beneath the solemn stars, 
 With faces smiling ghastly to the moon- 
 Now bathed in night dews, now in noontide heats- 
 Lie in grim state the devotees of Are. 
 Glowing upon the reeking forms, the sun 
 Shines fiercely down— the god, before whose shrine, 
 In life they bowed, in death are offered up. 
 
 But hungry ghouls swoop down upon tlie dead, 
 
 And, fiercely screaming, claim a ghastly share. 
 
 Vultures and eagles, every bird of prey 
 
 That haunts the crags of the wild Ghautian hills, 
 
 Here feed and fatten on the dreadful feast. 
 
 And when the sun, the dews and mountain winds. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Have ended the dnsad work the birds began, 
 When the slow-working fingers of decay 
 Have crumbled up the Ijleaclied and naked bones, 
 Tliere Is the well below: and, piece by piece, 
 They drop into its bosom, dark and deep; 
 This is tlie secret of the Silent Tower: — 
 
 Ajalee was a Parsee bi'ide, beloved 
 
 And beautiful. Her husl)and clung to her 
 
 Wltli passionate devotion— yet she died. 
 
 So had he loved her that tlie awful tliouglit 
 
 Of giving up the form his arms had clasped 
 
 To the fierce talons of the screaming birds 
 
 Seemed horrible to him. So, wlien he laid 
 
 His lovely sleeper on the Silent Tower 
 
 With a last kiss, love formed its skillful plan. 
 
 He built about her a close netted screen, 
 
 At which the hungry claws might tear in vain; 
 
 Then left her to the moon and midnight stars; 
 
 To the soft washings of the tropic rain; 
 
 The mountain winds, and the sweet, sacred sun. 
 
WALLS- OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Good Luck. — A Christmas Ballad. 
 
 What! marry my daughter '?— you, sir?— 
 A clerk, with only your pay '? 
 
 Your cheek is something amazing! 
 Enough. I've no more to say." 
 
 One moment— your daughter loves me, 
 I am strong, and v^illing to work. 
 
 Wealth may be won, and honor — 
 And I'm not the one to shirk." 
 
 The banker rose up in anger 
 " No more of this folly, I say! 
 
 Be gone! but another word, sir, 
 And you lose your place to-day." 
 
 Tlie vault of tlie bank at midnight, 
 
 At midnight dark and cold; 
 The cashier hastily filling 
 
 A grip with the bags of gold. 
 
 A deep voice close beside him — 
 " Throw up your hands or die !" 
 
 He turned, faced a pistol's muzzle. 
 And a stern, commanding eye. 
 
 Friglited, pallid, and nerveless, 
 No strength to resist had he. 
 
 While his limbs were bound and fettered 
 As firmly as firm could be. 
 
 The news flew through the city- 
 Men said, " 'Twas a brave night's work 
 
 A man had grown suddenly famous — 
 Young Oscar, the banker's clerk. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 WalkiiiK the streets at miduiglit, 
 Restless with love's despair, 
 
 He had seen the sly thief enter — 
 Had followed, and caught him there. 
 
 « « s; * * * * 
 
 In the banker's sumptuous dwelling 
 The Christmas feast was spread. 
 
 Beside the host stood Oscar, 
 The taller by half a head. 
 
 The banker turned, and, taking 
 The young man's trembling hand, 
 
 Through the great rooms he led him— 
 Through doors by arches spanned— 
 
 To where his dark eyed daughter 
 By her white-haired mother stood; 
 
 And smiled as the lovers' faces 
 Flushed red with warm young blood. 
 
 Then said he to young Oscar, 
 As he joined then- throbbhig hands, 
 " Choice is the gift I give you, 
 
 Yet my deljt uncancelknl stands. 
 
 " Therefore, besides my daughter, 
 I give you a post of trust. 
 The cashier's place left vacant 
 Is yours— it is but just." 
 
 A silence deep had fallen 
 O'er all that brilliant throng, 
 
 But now the hush was broken 
 By cheers both loud and long. 
 
 Astonished at the honors 
 Thus showered on his head. 
 
 Stood Oscar, modest, blushing, — 
 " 'Twas just good luck," he said. 
 
34 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 " My Darling." 
 
 " M}^ darling,'' sweetest name that ever fell, 
 Laden with tenderness from human lips, 
 No other can so stir the heart's deep well, 
 So send the warm blood to the flnger-tips. 
 
 Love's deepest speech is short, its words are few; 
 
 When most there is to say, oft least is said. 
 A clasp, a silent look that thrills one through, 
 
 A kiss, " my darling "—-thus two hearts are wed. 
 
 " My darling " — spoken oft with tender tears 
 Under the soft hush of a summer night, 
 Forgotten oft, alas! in after years 
 
 When beauty dims and rosy cheeks grow white. 
 
 But sometimes love grows brighter for its wear. 
 
 Like unmixed gold—gaining a deeper glow 
 For the slow friction of life's toil and care, 
 
 I know that God, who made us, meant it so. 
 
 " My darling "—when the locks are thin and gray, 
 And when life's sun hangs low— is well-nigh set, 
 And youth, with all its dreams, is far away, 
 Then blest are they who heai- and say it yet. 
 
 A Sweet Woman. 
 
 I know her well,— a thing that few can say— 
 vSo far within tlie shade her quiet life. 
 
 So softly flow its tides from day to day. 
 
 So gently do its hidden fountains play. 
 And she— she is a mother and a wife. 
 
 What is she like ? Ah, that I do not know. 
 
 I scarce can tell the color of her eyes. 
 So changeful are the lights that come and go— 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Now a quick sparkle, now a tliouglitful glow — 
 . But always tender sweetness in them lies. 
 
 Beautiful?— why, \'es, if beauty is a thing 
 
 That one can feel and lean one's lieart upon; 
 
 Beauty of form and hue not now I sing. 
 
 Her loeauty is that which soon takes wing, 
 
 And leaves but ugliness wlien youth is gone. 
 
 Her hands are lovely, j^et they are not white, 
 Nor even small. Their beauty each one sees 
 
 Who feels tlieir ministrations deft and light. 
 
 I think they are the fairest in the night, 
 
 Cooling some hot brow, sootliing pain to ease. 
 
 She is a queen: and yet no jewelled crown 
 
 Enfolds the soft bands of her shining hair. 
 
 Love is her coronet. Hands liard and brown. 
 
 And tiny baby fingers, clasp it down. 
 
 Methinks that is tlie holiest crown to wear. 
 
 Silent lier work, and all unknown to fame. 
 
 Of loud, for sounding praise slie never dreams. 
 Tlie world's great trumpeter's know not her name. 
 Her steady liglit is no wide-flaring flame: 
 
 'Tis but a flreside lamp, that softly gleams. 
 
 I do not know— I think her way is best. 
 
 Her liusi^and trusts her, and her children rise 
 With sweetly smiling lips, and call lier blest. 
 Slie does her duty, leaves to God tlie rest. 
 
 She is not great, but, surely she is wise. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Suinnier's Tale Is Told. 
 
 The twiliglit ends; the last faint crimson stain 
 
 Has faded from the west; tlie deep blue sky, 
 Deeper and darker grows, and once again 
 
 Grod's lamps are lighted in the dome on high. 
 Above yon distant swell, where trailing clouds 
 
 Hung low and black at noon, 
 Now, round and red, from out their torn white shrouds. 
 
 Steps forth the harvest moon. 
 
 Thus she came forth last niglit, thus will she come 
 
 The next night and the next. Oh, magic time ! 
 The full moon wanes not at the harvest home, 
 
 And night's grand poem flows in even rhyme. 
 Silent the thresher stands, where hills of gold. 
 
 Heaped tiigh on earth's shorn breast, 
 Loom in the moonlight. Summer's tale is told; 
 
 The sickle lies in rest. 
 
 Tlie night lias wondrous voices. At my door 
 
 I sit and listen to its many tones. 
 The wind comes through the trees witli muttled roar. 
 
 And round the moonlit gables sadly moans. 
 The raccoon scouts among the stricken corn 
 
 With disappointed cry; 
 A dismal owl sends out his note forlorn; 
 
 One whippowij sings nigh. 
 
 And there is other music. All the grass 
 
 Is peopled with a crowd of tiny things; 
 We see them not, yet crush them as we pass. 
 
 These sing all niglit, and clap their puny wings; 
 Beneath my very feet calls clear and strong 
 
 A cricket, slyly liid, 
 While at my elbow— well I know his song — 
 
 Rattles a katydid. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Poor, puny thiiigsl your gala ucars its cud. 
 
 A subtle cliange steals over vale and lilll; 
 There conies a hint of autumn in the wind 
 
 That moans about the roof; the nights arc chil 
 Short and yet shorter grows each passing day: — 
 
 The year is waxing old. 
 The frost waits in the north, not far away — 
 
 The summer's tale is told. 
 
 Kansas, the Prairie Queen. 
 
 In the heart of the country we love so well, 
 Two mighty oceans midway between, 
 
 On grassy plain and on billowy swell. 
 Sits in her beauty the Prairie Queen. 
 
 Slie hears not the song of the solemn sea, 
 Nor the roar of eataracts mountain-born: 
 
 No lofty peaks, rock-ribbed has she, 
 
 With white hoods piercing the clouds of morn. 
 
 No white sails glide over lakes asleep: 
 She boasts no placers of golden sands. 
 
 Her ships are the " schooners'" that westward creep, 
 And her richest mines are her fertile lands. 
 
 For aught she lacketh— this Prairie Queen- 
 Aught of mountain, or lake or sea, — 
 
 There are wide, wine plains and billows green — 
 Room for uncounted hosts lias she. 
 
 Her soil is deep and her winds blow free; 
 
 Thei-e are belts of timber and ([uiet creeks: 
 And rivers at brow, at breast, and knee, 
 
 Fed Ijy the snows on western peaks. 
 
 God made tlie latid, and man makes the State. 
 As the hand of the Maker has made her fair. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 So honest labor lias made her great, 
 And wrought tlie robss she was born to wear. 
 
 Tliere was onee a time— not so long ago — 
 
 When all this land was a grassy sea^ 
 Shook by the tramp of the buffalo, 
 
 Trod on by savage? fierca and free. 
 
 Another time. On the winds was born 
 
 A cry for help— when the settlers stood 
 Battling for freedom— when, rent and torn. 
 
 She was christened with fire and biptized in blood. 
 
 Flame, and rope, and bullet, and knife 
 
 Did their work, wliile the world locked on: 
 
 But the fair young State came out of the strife 
 Fam)us. glorious— for Fraedom wo.i. 
 
 There wei'e heroes then; and we see to-day 
 
 What a rich growth sprang where their blood w,is sown 
 Why slavery trembled— for these were they 
 
 Who drove the wedge that toppled her throne. 
 
 Dark days and stern! remembered still 
 
 By pleasant fireside, by peaceful stream, 
 As one remembers with shuddering thrill 
 
 The horror and fright of some evil dream. 
 
 With ■' Bleeding Kansas" how fares it now? 
 
 Her cup of jjlenty, her smile serene, 
 She sits at peace with untroubled brow. 
 
 She is rich, she is great, slie is crowned a Queen! 
 
 Her prairies are decked with peaceful homes, 
 Nestled, like dove-cotes, in clumps of green; 
 
 Fair cities rise with their spires and domes, 
 And reaches of railway streched between. 
 
 The cattle by thousands that dot her plains, 
 The stacks, like tents, on her bosom borne: 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Tlif ij^rain sacks, heaped on the loaded wains; 
 Iler stately forests of ripening corn; 
 
 Iler quarries, where palaces, towers and spires 
 Wait but the hands and the skill to form; 
 
 Tlie masses of coali which feed the fires 
 That drives her engines and keeps tier warm: — 
 
 All these are wealth: yet a greater wealth 
 Slie iiolds in her children— her boys and girls— 
 
 Their faces bright with tlie tints of health. 
 
 With their laughing eyes and their tossing curls. 
 
 The country boy with the bare, l)rown feet, 
 Tripping to school with his l)ooks and slate, 
 
 May climb some day to the highest seat — 
 In some great crisis may save the state. 
 
 Little he thinks, at his books or play, 
 
 While tlie warm blood mantles iiis "clieek of tan, 
 Of the work of the 3'ears that stretch away: 
 
 Vet the careless boy is the coming man. 
 
 And the little girl, with her dimples sweet, 
 Her red lips fresh as the morning dew, 
 
 Her silvery laugh, and lier dancing feet. 
 Is the coming woman, tender and true. 
 
 The boy, the girl, in their childish grace 
 Conning tlieir school tasks, day by day — 
 
 These are they who shall take our place. 
 When we are at rest and laid away. 
 
 We are proud of Kansas, the beautiful Queen. 
 
 And proud are we of her rlelds of corn: 
 r.ut a nobler pride than these, I ween, 
 
 Is our pride in her children. Kansas born.' 
 
43 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Choice. 
 
 l-"air and sweet is the face of a child, 
 
 Where sin his left no trace; 
 Lovely tlie brow uncovered by care, 
 
 And the fresh lips" smiling grace; 
 Sweet as the dawn are the clear young eyes. 
 
 VVliere trouble has found no place. 
 
 Yet 'tis a world of troubh; and care, 
 Where tlie child has entered in; 
 
 A world of toil and of ea'^er strife, 
 Whi;re only Uvi brave miy win: 
 
 A world wliere the wicked watch for prey: 
 A world that is d irk with sin. 
 
 O childrcMi, innocent onesi 
 
 Life is not what it seems 
 To you— at play on its border land, 
 
 Or smiling in rosy dreams — 
 'Tis no soft vale, where the lotus rocks 
 
 On bo.soms of silent streams. 
 
 Life is a battle and all must fight. 
 
 Who would sing the victor's song: 
 Life is a race and the goal is far — 
 
 If happen that life be long- 
 Yet is the race not all to the swift, 
 
 And the battle is not to tlie strong. 
 
 Wlio, then, shall win in the rac ;, in th" ti^lit: 
 
 He who is steady and true;: 
 Who gives the best of his heart and soul 
 
 To the good that he finds to do; 
 Hy naught dismayed and by naught seduced 
 
 Constant his whole life through. 
 
 Steadfastly treading the old, old way 
 That the faithful have trod before; 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Patiently scaliiij^ the; same rough stcp-^, 
 Bearing tlie cross you bore;— 
 
 Ever witli face set toward tlie gates 
 Tliat gleam on tlie sliining slic)re. 
 
 Steadfastly battle without 
 
 And steadfastly ff)es within— 
 Kor never human hearts, but feel 
 
 Some taint of its origin- 
 Triumphant now. now weeping sore, 
 And crying, "forgive my sin." 
 
 Soldier is he with no bannered pride;, 
 
 Xor in gorgeous trappings dressed, 
 No boom of cannon, no trumpet blast. 
 
 No tossing plumed crest- 
 Are heard or seen or the field of sti'ife 
 That lies in his throbbing breast. 
 
 Such is he, and such is the life 
 
 Of many a striving one — 
 Hunted, Vniffeted, snare beset; 
 
 Wounded, yet pressing on; — 
 Little he knows of peace or rest, 
 
 Till the war is over and done 
 
 Kvcr for model the pcM'fect Christ — 
 Tliougli br but half attain:— 
 
 IN.'rfect iK^vcr, yet, scanned beside 
 A life of need and gain. 
 
 A selfish i)l<'asure, of slijthful case, — 
 How grand his toil and pain; 
 
 ^'ou are ycjuiig. and can^less, and gay- 
 Standing where two roads m(;et — 
 
 Choose, ere tin; evil days draw nigh. 
 Whither shall land your feetl 
 
 Time has wings, and the years sweep on 
 And life is but frail and fleet. 
 
WALLS OF CORX AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Choose! Will yoii take for guide or friend 
 
 The teacher of Gallilee— 
 Loving, forgiving, denying self. 
 
 Bidding the Tempter flee; 
 Treading the billows when passion is liigh, 
 
 As Jesus trod on the sea? 
 
 Can j^ou? and will j'ou? oh, but try. 
 
 Falling, yet try again. 
 On the wreck of to-day's defeat, 
 
 Build for to-morrow's gain, 
 Effort is noble;— vStriving still. 
 
 Ye shall not strive in vain. 
 
 Out West. 
 
 '■Westward ho! "'comes ringing from the throat of " Tlie 
 
 Pioneer "' — 
 A paper run by the railroads out on the great frontier. 
 Wanted, a mighty army to settle the i-olling flat, 
 That lies, like a garden of Eden, along the beautiful Platte. 
 
 Wanted, women and children, bearded and stalwart men. 
 From stern New England hillside, from rugged and locky 
 
 glen: 
 From steeps of the Alleghanies. where bleak winds fiercely 
 
 blow. 
 And down whose slopes of hard-pan roll storms of sleet and 
 
 snow. 
 
 Wanted— to settle the prairiesl and still the call is lieard — 
 Irisli, Norwegian, German — but Yankee blood preferred. 
 Wanted — and who would linger on patches stony and steep. 
 AVhen a wide realm lies before him, witli soil both rich and 
 deep? 
 
 Good Pioneer, Sir Railroad, all that you say is true. 
 And wondrous fair the picture that you are holding up to 
 view; 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 lUit is it straiglit and iioiicst. and is it fair and riKlit, 
 Tiiat only the good is sliovvii us. and t lie bad left out of 
 sight? 
 
 "Fis tme. a careless nientiou of the ■• liopper"' here is made, 
 As sometliiug rare and seldom, like tire, or Indian raid: 
 But naught of the summer droughts, and not the faintest 
 
 breatli 
 Concerning the western '■ blizzard." that awful blast of 
 
 death. 
 
 No record how the farnier. amid the rush and roar, 
 All blinded and Ijewildered. sinks down b(.'side his door; 
 .Sinks freezing at his threshold witli unavailing moan — 
 For the voices of the tempest outsix-ak his dying groan^ 
 
 If the l)ulf we are to credit of i\u) shuddering settler's tale, 
 Of the tempest swift and sudden, of the icy, blinding veil. 
 Then, to a western l)lizzard. with its rush and its deadly 
 
 sti ng, 
 A storm of the Allegiianies is tlie tlaj) of a pigeon's wing. 
 
 A spectre stalks the praiiies. a sjjectre gaunt and grim. 
 Scattering woe and famine, and waste of cheek and limb. 
 There is freezing, there is starving, wliile rings the cheerv 
 
 call. 
 •• Wanted — five hundred t housand 1 "'-— Do they think us id- 
 
 i(ilsally 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Wants. 
 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 jSTor wants that little long." 
 
 A gentle, genial bard was he 
 Who put that in his song. 
 
 It should have been some Anchorite, 
 Wlio, bound his flesh to slaughter, 
 
 Employed his days in counting beads, 
 And lived on roots and water. 
 
 He must have had, it seems to me, 
 
 A most contented mind, 
 And must have known but little of 
 
 That genus called mankind. 
 
 Who little wants, nor wants that long, 
 
 Is only lialf a human. 
 Man's wants are many, and, I own, 
 
 'Tis mucli the same with woniau. 
 
 For instance I— and I suppose 
 
 That I am like the rest — 
 Have many wants that stir and fret 
 
 In my unquiet breast. 
 
 So many minus quantities 
 
 Come into my equation. 
 To name them all would go beyond 
 
 The scope of numeration. 
 
 I want my daily bread — and that 
 
 Includes a bill of fare 
 That, for its comprehensiveness, 
 
 Would make our poet stare. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Not all the fruits of every clime 
 Were I content with having; 
 
 Xot all the cooks of all the world 
 Could satisfy my craving. 
 
 I want the strongest kinds of meats 
 
 To fill my larder lean; 
 I want the words of all the wise 
 
 That are or aye have been. 
 
 And then I want tlie power to choose 
 From out the vast collation; 
 
 I want to know, where now I toss 
 In doubt and speculation. 
 
 I want, beside, such solid fare, 
 All tender household words, 
 
 I want the lays of poets and 
 The songs of summer birds. 
 
 And then I want my friends— a few 
 Who know me well, yet love me, 
 
 And who, should swift disaster come, 
 Would not be sure to shove me. 
 
 I want both will and strength to rise 
 
 Above all hurtful things; 
 I want to be an angel — but 
 
 I was not born with wings. 
 
 I w.mt— but it occurs to ma 
 That space and type are finite. 
 
 Should 1 go on, the printer would 
 " Respectfully decline"" it. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Westward. 
 
 When eastern snows are melting and the sonth wind softly 
 
 blows, 
 The old hives swarm, and westward tlie Star of Empire goes. 
 " Westward ho! " is ever the watchword of the spring: 
 As sure as birds fly noi'thward, is this a settled thing. 
 
 'Tis heard again in autumn, when crops are gathered in — 
 When the corn is in the barn and the wheat is in the bin. 
 Westward, and ever westward, the long, white wagons creep, 
 Through towns and open country, and forests dark and deep. 
 
 Westward — women and children, bearded and stalwart 
 
 men — 
 From stern New England hillside, from wild and rocky glen; 
 From steeps of the Alleghanies, where bleak winds fiercely 
 
 blow; 
 And down whose crags of granite roll storms of sleet and 
 
 snow. 
 
 Westward— from o'er the ocean a crowd comes pressing on, 
 Russian, Norwegian, German— all bloods under the sun 
 Here meet and mingle kindly. As all the world doth know, 
 When other lands are full, hither rolls the overflow. 
 
 Westward, and ever westward, the peaceful army comes— 
 Workmen for better wages, the homeless seeking homes; 
 Young men- life all before them, with all that life endears— 
 And old men, faint and weary, with the bootless toil of 
 years. 
 
 Still they come, and still we greet them with the clasp of 
 
 friendly hand; 
 Still they flood and swell our cities, still they spread across 
 
 the land; 
 Westward, westward — led or followed by the headlight's 
 
 ghostly gleam. 
 While lonely wilds are startled by the engine's eerie scream. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 On bare, wide slopes the dug-outyieldsslielter safe and sure. 
 And from its tireside altar floats incense sweet and pure. 
 Beside the lowly door sits the grands! re old and gray, 
 While round him, tamied and merry, the barefoot children 
 play. 
 
 The sod, upturned, wooes surely the sunshine and the rain: 
 Anou the swells are golden with seas of waving grain. 
 AVhere all was bare and barren, thick stand the clustered 
 
 sheaves; 
 Where all was bare and treeless, winds whisper through the 
 
 leaves. 
 
 Towns spring as by enchantment along the great frontier; 
 Where the owl dwelt silent, solemn, with the prairie dog 
 
 last year, 
 Now stands the store and school house, and church with 
 
 steeple white. 
 In a city reared by magic, like the gourd that grew in a 
 
 night. 
 
 Farmer Jones On Inflation. 
 
 So the law is jjassed. 1 suppose it's no use to talk, 
 And I'm not a public man— 1 travel a private walk. 
 But, all the same, I should like to say my say, 
 Although my way of speaking is a homely way. 
 
 Slowly I follow my plow, and think and think. 
 And it seems to me tliere's somewhere a missing link. 
 I read the papers and speeches tliat come to hand. 
 But something looks dark: I cannot ([Uite understand. 
 
 Softly the lawyers talked on tlie capitol Moor, 
 (How tender-hearted they were!) of the suffering poor. 
 Money! to pay the workingmen, starving for bread! 
 Money! to save the dying and bury the dead! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 To the farmer was promised a new and a dawning day; 
 Fair prices for produce, where now he but gives awaj^: 
 More he should get for his wheat, his corn and rye, 
 But nothing tliey said of things he would have to buy. 
 
 If wheat goes up, but little's tlie good to me, 
 If up with a jerk goes sugar, and coffee and tea; 
 I have to pay more for a reaper, a horse, or a hand. 
 And, if I am homeless, more for a house and land. 
 
 " Inflation is sparkling wine," some one has said. 
 " If It starts up the pulse and blood of sluggish trade," 
 But wine is a mocker; we dream we are rich and great; 
 Then comes the drunken panic; then— why, we re-inflate. 
 
 Inflation is gas! and up and away, to the tune 
 Of forty-four millions, soars Uncle Sam's balloon. 
 But a storm is ahead; the dark skies scowl and frown, 
 And, stripped and riddled, the thing has got to come down. 
 
 Such are my thoughts, as I toil for my daily bread. 
 
 And follow the clean-cut furrow with steady tread. 
 
 I am not skilled in the hidden tricks of the law, 
 
 But I've learned to trace a current by the course of a straw. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Tlic Renter's Exodus. 
 
 It was near the end of winter and mild as mild coiUd be, 
 When a renter started westward with wife and children 
 
 three, 
 Going forth to seek a homestead on the prairies l)are and 
 
 lone — 
 For the poor man hungered sorel}' for a place to call his 
 
 own. 
 
 The wind blew soft and balmy, the day was bright and 
 
 fair; 
 The spring was stealing nortliward and her breath was in 
 
 the air. 
 Like starting on a picnic— so high their spirits rose- 
 Seemed that journey's fair beginning— could they have 
 
 seen its close! 
 
 Slow crept the wagon westward. A week of pleasant days, 
 Then came one dark gray mf)rning. A strangely brooding 
 
 haze 
 Hung o'er the lonely country, its curtain vague and dim, 
 And hid the palid sunlight and liid the prairie's rim. 
 
 "Best stay in cover stranger, 1 in sure you're welcome 
 
 quite." 
 Tliu-; sp'jke the kind oldfarm'r wh^ra they had spent the 
 
 night. 
 "That gray film over yonder, that (lueer look in tlie sky — 
 I know the signs: then tarry, and let the storm go by." 
 
 With thanks for protfcred kindness, they still must needs 
 
 be gone. 
 'Twas '"not so bad a morning, when all was said and done. 
 Alas for rash impatience; it can not brook to wait. 
 Hut shuts its eyes all blindly and rushes on its fate. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Slow crept the wagon westward: and still that fllmy veil 
 Hung o'er the red-brown prairie, so ghastly, dim and pale. 
 A sound like rushing pinions— a moment, and no more— 
 Tiien came the freezing norther, with savage shrielv and 
 roar. 
 
 Cold blew the wind, and culder, lil<e bits of sharpened 
 
 stone, 
 Tlie fine snow pierced their garments and chilled them to 
 
 the bone. 
 Oat on the lonely prairie, that seemed of life bereft— 
 Alack! and O! alack tor the shelter they had left. 
 
 The early twilight fell and night was closing fast, 
 
 When through the swirling tempest they spied a light at 
 
 last. 
 The children tried to shout with their numb and stiffened 
 
 lips, 
 And clapped their little hands with the freezing finger tips. 
 
 'Twas the dwelling snug and warm of a farmer well-to-do. 
 "Can we stop here for the nighr,, and till the storm i^ 
 
 through?" 
 In the doorway stood the speaker, a vision wild and weird, 
 With white frost on liis eyebrows, and ice liuag on his 
 
 beard. 
 
 As he spoke he glanced within at the warm and lamplit 
 
 room. 
 At the young and comely woman, at the ciiildren in their 
 
 bloom. 
 Never doubting of the answer, full trusting— more the 
 
 shame— 
 To him, the stony hearted, from whom the answer came. 
 
 "I don't keep tavern, stranger, and spare room have we 
 
 none; 
 You'll find a place, I reckon, some three miles further on." 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 No other word was spoken; tlie poor man turned away 
 With pale lips tense and set, and with face of ashen gra\'. 
 
 No time was there for parley, and no use had there been; 
 lie saw no ray of pity in the gaze so cold and keen. 
 He rushed back to the wagon; said, "three miles yet to gol" 
 He had found that human hearts could be colder than the 
 snow. 
 
 The children huddled closer, the shivering mother pressed 
 Beneath her shawl the youngest still closer to her breast. 
 One sad, resentful look towards the warm and glowing 
 
 light. 
 And the man whipped up iiis horses, so they passed into the 
 
 night. 
 
 Through the storm and drift and darkness did the swaying 
 
 w'agon reel. 
 While the farmer asked a l)lessing on the smoking evening 
 
 meal. 
 Later, he read his bible (the cruel hypocritl) 
 And prayed for preservation from tlie dangers of the 
 
 night. 
 
 On hard drifts, pure and sparkling, the sun shone calmly 
 
 down. 
 When a chilling, startling item was wired from town to 
 
 town, 
 •'A family found frccen." Then, later, it was told 
 How a farmer had refused them a shelter from the cold. 
 
 Tlie farmer— now how fares he? Afayhap he prospers still, 
 With corn heaped in hiscribs, and with money in his till; 
 But I wonder if his pulses do always calmly beet, 
 And if his food is pleasant, and if his sleep is sweet. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 In JVIemoriain. 
 
 Fast falls the night. The bleak December wind 
 III fitful gusts sweeps o'er a lowly bed 
 
 Made but to-day. A true heart and a kind 
 Lies still and pulseless, she, our friend, is dead. 
 
 A few hours since, I stood, with tear-wet eyes, 
 And looked upon her, placid in her sleep, 
 
 Longing to whisper to her, loving-wise, 
 But silence wrapped her, I could only weep. 
 
 I loved her well, and never let her know, 
 Nor sought her side to soothe the pain she bore, 
 
 By word or touch, or aught that friend could do. 
 Now 'tis too late— and oh! it grieves me sore. 
 
 friend, had I but known that on thy brow 
 Death had its signet set, and marked his own! 
 
 But bitter tears are unavailing now, 
 In vain regret. O friend, had I but known! 
 
 We speak of what she was, how tender, true, 
 How loving, loyal, to her friends, how dear, 
 
 Tell to each other her sweet story through. 
 In voices low— alas! she cannot hear. 
 
 The night grows darker; still the cold winds moan. 
 For me repeating but one sad refrain, 
 
 1 seem to liear, in every mournful tone 
 Only the bitter wail—" In vain, in vain." 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Summer, 
 
 The trailing skirts of the summer 
 Have swept away to the south— 
 
 A blast came down from the northland 
 And kissed her on the mouth. 
 
 She fled from the kiss that chilled her, 
 From the touch of a frosty hand; 
 
 But the work of her busy fingers 
 Is strewn all over the land. 
 
 Wrought she well in the sunshine. 
 
 And wrought she well in the rain; 
 For the corn hangs thick and heavy, 
 
 And the garners are filled with grain. 
 
 Busy was she in the- orchards— 
 Tiie rich fruit swings o'erhead, 
 
 While the low Vx)ughs. overladen, 
 Lie prone on the paths we tread. 
 
 Peaches with coats of velvet; 
 
 Api)Ies in satin fine: 
 Purple grapes by the river. 
 
 Where the great coils twist and twine, 
 
 For these do we bless the summer, 
 So fervid, and strong, and sweet; 
 
 Autumn but touches and ripens 
 As he follows her flying feet. 
 
 Then sing, ohi sing lier praises. 
 Ye singers with throats in tune; 
 
 While the fruit and corn hang heavy. 
 All under the harvest moon. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 '• Poetic Pies." 
 
 From tlie oven hot and steaming, 
 
 With the ruby bubbles gleaming, 
 As they boil up tlirougli the craters in little puffs and sighs, 
 
 There's resistless invitation 
 
 To the palate's delectation 
 In the odor and the look of those " poetic " cherry pies. 
 
 Oh, their juice than wine is richer! 
 
 It is poured from out the pitcher 
 Where is stored the luscious nectar distilled at summei^'s 
 prime. 
 
 Show these pies to Doctor Tanner, 
 
 He would forthwith strike his banner 
 And put off the fasting racket to a more convenient time. 
 
 At the long day's slow expiring. 
 
 At the still hour of retiring. 
 Would you woo such sleip as com'tli with dr^am, of lurid 
 'dye'? 
 
 Then eat a " heavenly doughnut," 
 
 Looped up in a double bow-knot, 
 A slice of bread "angelic," and a piece of cherry pie. 
 
 But if, instead of dreaming. 
 
 Your brain with thought is teeming, 
 And you wish to mike a strike in the paragraphic line, 
 
 Then avoid the heavenly doughnut, 
 
 Looped up in a double bow-knot, 
 And likewise the pie poetic, O dear Del Valentinel 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Smiles. 
 
 Some monstrous moralist lays down this rule 
 Among the maxims: "Always wear a smile. 
 
 Tie nmst have learned it in some Jesuit school, 
 Where deepest wisdom is but deepest guile. 
 
 Who would obey must set himself the task — 
 
 A hateful one— to always wear a mask. 
 
 Your constant smiler is a liypocrite, 
 'Tis evil that must hide, not honesty. 
 
 lie whose expression always wears a bit, 
 
 A very prince in wickedness may be. 
 ' A man may smile and be a villain still: " 
 
 And he who always smiles, be sure he will. 
 
 A smile is lovely when, through lip and eye, 
 The sunny sweetness of a soul shines out. 
 
 Like a quick glimi^^e of glory; 'tis a lie 
 When inner darkness it but wraps about. 
 
 Night rules us all at times: shall we, the wliile, 
 
 Hide our sad mi(hiight with a morning smileV 
 
 Our faces are our windows. Is it nieet 
 That one should always keep his curtains down" 
 
 When smiles are but the draping of deceit, 
 Hetter, far better, were an honest frown. 
 
 I>y semblance falsely sweet sin iiides its art — 
 
 ()iil\ from men — (Jod looketii on the heart. 
 
 Only One. 
 
 <)iii.\ iiM(? heart to l)eat willi mine — 
 
 Tiiat heart to be loving, and warm, and t lue, 
 Shedding its tenderness, rich as wine 
 Pre.ssed from grapes of the lliienish vine, 
 Yet delicate, pure, as morning dew. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Only one arm to lean upon, 
 
 As I thread the gorges, or mount the steeps — 
 To steady me when the heights are won. 
 To pillow my head when the day is done. 
 
 And over my eyes the darkness creeps. 
 
 Only one love, told o'er and o'er— 
 
 That love to be quenchless— a deathless tlame- 
 Yet, like the ocean that laps the shore 
 In a thousand forms and ten thousand more. 
 
 To be ever changing, yet ever the same! 
 
 Only one love— do I smile or weep, 
 
 Do I float with the current, or bravely swim 
 Against wind and tide— still let me keep, 
 While the years drift by in their onward sweep, 
 
 But this, when life and its hopes grow dim. 
 
 One other love! To its breadth is this 
 
 As a rift in a cloud to the boundless blue- 
 As a passionate, transient throb of bliss 
 To infinite billows of happiness— 
 To boundless seas as a drop of dew! 
 
 Keep Your Temper. 
 
 It never did, and never will. 
 
 Put tilings in better fashion, 
 Though rough the road, and steep the hill, 
 
 To fly into a passion. 
 
 And never yet did fume or fret 
 Mend any broken bubble; 
 
 The direst evil, bravely met. 
 Is but a conquered trouble. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Our Li-ials— did we onl\' know — 
 Arc often what we make them; 
 
 And mole-hills into mountains grow, 
 Just l)y the way we take them. 
 
 Who keeps his temper, calm and cool, 
 Will find his wits in season; 
 
 But rage is weak, a foaming fool, 
 With neither strength nor reason. 
 
 And if a thing be hard to bear 
 When nerve and brain are steady, 
 
 If fiery passions rave and tear, 
 It finds us mained already. 
 
 Who yields to anger conquered lies— 
 
 A captive none can pity; 
 AVho rules his spirit, greater is 
 
 Than he who takes a city. 
 
 A hero he, though drums are mute. 
 And no gay banners flaunted; 
 
 He treads his passions under foot, 
 And meets the world undaunted. 
 
 Oh, then, to bravely do our best, 
 Howeer the winds are blowing; 
 
 And meekly leave to God the rest. 
 Is wisdom worth the knowing! 
 
 Littlii Things. 
 
 We call him strong who stands unmoved- 
 Calm as some tempest-beaten rock — 
 When some great trouble hurls its shock: 
 We say of him, his strength is proved: 
 Hut, when the spent storm folds its wings, 
 How bears he then Life's little thingsy 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 About his brow we twine our wreath 
 Who seeks the battle's thiclcest smolve, 
 Braves flashing gun and sabre-strolce, 
 And scoflfs at danger, laughs at death; 
 We praise him till the whole land rings; 
 But- is he brave in little things? 
 
 We call him great who does some deed 
 That echo bears from shore to shore, ^ 
 Does that, and then does nothing more: 
 Yet would this work earn richer meed, 
 When brought before the King of kings, 
 Were he but great in little things. 
 We closely guard our castle-gates 
 When great temptations loudly knock, 
 Draw every bolt, clinch every lock, 
 And sternly fold our bars and gates: 
 Yet some small door wide open swings 
 At the sly touch of little things! 
 I can forgive — 'tis worth my while— 
 The treacherous blow, the cruel thrust; 
 Can bless my foe, as Christians must. 
 While Patience smiles her royal smile: 
 Yet quick resentment fiercely slings 
 Its shots of ire at little things. 
 And I can tread beneath my feet 
 The hills of Passion's heaving sea. 
 When wind-tossed waves roll stormily: 
 Yet scarce resist the siren sweet 
 That at my heart's door softly sings 
 "Forget, forget Life's little things." 
 But what is Life? Drops make the sea; 
 And petty cares and small events. 
 Small causes and small consequents. 
 Make up the sum for you and me: 
 Then, O for strength to meet the stings 
 That arm the points of little thingsl 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 x\Iv Wild Rose. 
 
 I had a garden, which I kept 
 With busy hands and tender care; 
 
 And once, while carelessly I slept. 
 Fanned softly by the drowsy air, 
 
 A wild rose to my garden crept, 
 And blossomed there. 
 
 O, sweet surprise. It seemed to me, 
 Some fair hand, my heart to bless. 
 
 Had brought it tliere, from wood or lee. 
 It came unsought — 'twas loved no less; 
 
 I stooped and touched it tenderly. 
 With soft caress. 
 
 I grew to love it passing well: 
 Wliile strange exotics, rich and rare, 
 
 Witli lieart of gold and crimson bell, 
 Paid grudgingly for constant care, 
 
 My wild rose, as in a woodland dell, 
 Bloomed fresh and fair. 
 
 I watered not, I did not prune. 
 
 I tied it not with cord or thong; 
 Yet, morn by morn and noon ijy noon. 
 
 Through days of summer, hot and long, 
 And underneatli the midnight moon. 
 From branches strong — 
 
 Hung clustered l)loss()ms sweet and red: 
 And day by day and week by week, 
 
 I trod the patli which toward it lead. 
 Whate'er my mood, I did not speak, 
 
 But close against bowed my head 
 And pressed my cheek. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 I think of it with sudden thrill. 
 
 Now wide lands lie, deep water flows, 
 Smiles manj^ a vale, looms many a hill 
 
 Between me and the garden-close; 
 Yet fondly I remember still 
 My sweet wild rose. 
 
 Love. 
 
 Fret not if fateful bar 
 
 Cause Love's delay, 
 Nor it some baleful star 
 
 Cross love alway. 
 Love crossed is better far 
 
 Than Love's decay. 
 
 Love hidden in the breast 
 
 Is hoarded gold ; 
 By brooding thought caressed. 
 
 It ne'er grows old. 
 Love satisfied, at rest, 
 
 Oft waxes eold. 
 
 We pity those who part 
 
 To meet no more; 
 We sorrow for the smart. 
 
 The aching sore; 
 The joined, yet twain of heart, 
 
 Need pity more. 
 
 Two sit at table, where 
 
 Love once said grace: 
 A bond yet holds them there, 
 
 Still face to face; 
 Love, jostled out by Care, 
 
 Has fled the place. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 There live whose wedding day 
 Was wreathed in gold; 
 
 Who saw time stretch away 
 With joys untold: 
 
 Then- lives creep on to-day, 
 Gray, sad, and cold. 
 
 Love, set in daily groove. 
 Drops its highest mission. 
 
 The lives of thousands prove 
 This hard condition: 
 
 The sorest test of Love 
 Is Love's fruition. 
 
 O thou who through long years 
 
 Tlast dwelt alone, 
 Whose love, enshrined in tears, 
 
 Holds secret throne. 
 Til is thought its comfort bears: 
 
 "Tis still thine own. 
 
 Ye wedded who remain, 
 
 (But ye are few) 
 Through all life's toil and pain, 
 
 Warm, tender, true. 
 Earth liolds, on hill or i)lain. 
 
 None blest like you. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Man for the Hour. 
 
 Where shall we seek him? Where well-leagued corruption 
 Welds its dark compacts in some secret ring; 
 
 Wliere hungr\' traitors feed upon disruption; 
 Wliere Falsehood brews his schemes, and Gold is King? 
 
 Xot there I The man we want scorns clique and cabal; 
 
 On thievish trickery looks sternly down; 
 Hating a lie, dupe of no specious fable, 
 
 Truth is his breastplate, honor is his crown. 
 
 He loves iiis country, — serves her for affection; 
 
 Her loaves and fishes enter not his plan; 
 Firm as a rock, he meets the tides of faction; 
 
 Tool of no clique, he fears no party -ban. 
 
 He loves his country; so, when tempests lower, 
 
 And the ship tosses on a lieaving sea; 
 His be tlie watch,— his be the gloomy hour,— 
 
 For none sliall keep the post so well as he. 
 
 Trust not the hireling when disasters thicken; 
 
 He only cares to cut his loaf of bread, 
 And coolly sits him down his pay to reckon, 
 
 While growling thunders menace overhead. 
 
 If great his wisdom, greater still the evil: 
 A clear, cool head, a gift men's hearts to ruin; 
 
 A giant's strength, all bartered to the devil. 
 Is a great sale, with much, alas! thrown in. 
 
 "No man but has his pricel" said Charles the Second, — 
 'Twas thus the Royal scoffer sneered his sneer; 
 
 But tlien, no doubt, 'twas by himself he reckoned; 
 He had his price— or several— that is clear. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Svme men luive not. Truth is not dead, noi' honor. 
 
 Let them come forward, boldly take the front, 
 Ilurl their indignant scorn at bribe and donor, 
 
 And take, a.s patriots should, the battle's brunt. 
 
 The man we want is brave, is wise, is witty, 
 With strength to push Corruption to tlie wall; 
 
 Must have for high-bred thieves no breast of pity; 
 And must himself he honest — first of all. 
 
 (fuming Home. 
 
 Home to my mother's door. Push back the lock, 
 She will not open it— no use to knock. 
 A weight is on my breast; oh I never yet 
 Daughter at mother's door such welcome met! 
 
 No kiss upon my lips; no word, no sound, 
 No loving arms reach out to clasp me round, 
 I cross the tlireshold to a solenni room. 
 Peopled with sliadows, silent as the tomb. 
 
 The heavy air is chill no tire, no liglit: 
 Only pale sunshine, streaming thin and white 
 Tiirough the bare panes upon the naked floor. 
 I shrink and shiver—do not shut the door! 
 
 Tread liglitly on the creaking boirds, speak low; 
 Start not tlie liollow echoes; well I know 
 They sleep in every corner. Do not call. 
 Lest they should answer loudly, one and all. 
 
 Her voice is still. 'Twas here I heard it last — 
 Here by the door. The tears fell tliick and fast 
 From both our eyes; to-day the drops run o'er 
 From only mine: and slie— she weeps no more. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 This was her bed- room; it was here, you say, 
 She laid in silence all that summer day, 
 With roses (how she loved them!) at her head, 
 Wreathed on the wall and strewn upon her bed. 
 
 Nowslie lies yonder, and a sombre pall 
 The dead leaves weave above her as they fall; 
 The rains that beat, the autumn winds that blow, 
 Are making ready heavy shrouds of snow. 
 
 Whatever covers her, she still sleeps well; 
 But oh! these silent rooms! I can not tell 
 Why their cold emptiness should move me so; 
 I can not bear it longer — let us go. 
 
 An Autumn Picture, 
 
 Tlie mill turns by the waterfall; 
 
 The loaded wagons go and come; 
 All day I hear the teamster's call, 
 
 All day I hear tlie thresher's lium; 
 And many a shout and many a laugh 
 Come breaking through tlie clouds of chaff. 
 
 Tlie brook glides toward the sleeping lake, 
 Now bubbling over shining stones 
 
 Now under clumps of brush and brake. 
 Flushing its brawls to murmuring tones, 
 
 And now it takes its winding path 
 
 Through maadows green with aftermath. 
 
 The frosly twilight early falls, 
 
 But household flres burn warm and red. 
 The cold m ly creep without tlie walls, 
 
 And growing things be stark and dead- 
 No matter, so tlie heartli be bright 
 When household faces meet at night. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A Housekeeper's Question. 
 
 While autumn tints fleck yonder wood. 
 
 And lazy winds are sleeping, 
 I feel a speculative mood 
 
 Come slowly o'er me creeping. 
 A strong desire within me stirs, 
 
 To see some questions settled, 
 On which the great philosophers 
 
 Have long and Hercely battled. 
 Calm reason now shall have its say, — 
 
 (Dear nie: my bread is burning; 
 And I am wanted right away. 
 
 To see about that churning.) 
 
 I sit me down again to think. 
 
 Commencing at creation. 
 1 fain would follow, link by link. 
 
 The long stretch of graduation. 
 But that's the trouble— where to find 
 
 The Hrst stitch of beginning. 
 The tangled thread who can unwind 
 
 To where commenced the spinning? 
 What laid first that primordial egg? 
 
 From whence came life unendingy 
 (Do. some one, answer this, I beg, 
 
 While I— do up my mending.) 
 
 Philosophy, that swayed and bent. 
 
 Through many a revolution. 
 Now, calmly settled, spreads its tent, 
 
 And rests at Evolution. 
 But Doubt stands gravely at the door 
 
 And puts its puzzling queries. 
 This question asks (and many more): 
 
 What did commence the series? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Did soiuetliing out of nothing grow"? — 
 
 (That soup is boiling overl 
 On soup depends the peace of home— 
 
 I'll just take off the cover.) 
 
 Things are; and on this world, we know, 
 
 Dwells quite a population; 
 But how came mice and men to grow — 
 
 I give up that equation. 
 Some other problems stagger me. 
 
 Yon graceless scamp is growing 
 To just what he was born to be; 
 
 His father set him going; 
 How far is he to blame if Fate 
 
 Has botched liis constitution? — 
 (There comes a beggar at the gate, 
 
 And wants my contribution.) 
 
 Still other things I want to know; 
 
 Why evil tongues are longest, 
 Why deeds of darkness prosper so; 
 
 Why wicked men are strongest. 
 And why must life, e'en witli the best, 
 
 Be but a constant battle. 
 With secret foes that never rest 
 
 Until the last death rattle'? 
 Why are the good so sore beset'? 
 
 Why is man born a sinner"? 
 (But there's a nearer question yet: 
 
 What shall I get for dinner"?) 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Foreboding. 
 
 I will not look for storms wlien skies are glowing, 
 With hues of summer sunsets painted o'er; 
 
 When all my tides of life are softly flowing, 
 I will not listen for the breaker's roar. 
 
 I will not search the future for its .sorrows, 
 Nor peer ahead for lions in the way, 
 
 I will not weep o'er possible to-morrows — 
 Sufficient is the evil of to-dav. 
 
 Leave Me Alone. 
 
 Leave me alone. I would not see thee more. 
 The storm is hushed, the agony is o'er. 
 
 I would not feel again 
 
 The passion and the pain. 
 Do not again come knocking at my door. 
 
 Leave me alone. Put tiot into my liand 
 
 A broken cup, though bound with golden band, 
 
 Lest I with thirsty lip 
 
 Once more its passions sip. 
 Still let it lie, all shattered on the sand. 
 
 Leave me alone. I followed, long ago, 
 Toy to its tomb, with tolling marches slow. 
 
 Wake not my buried slain. 
 
 Only to die again. 
 Leave me to peace— 'tis all I hope to know. 
 
 Leave me alone. I may not ([Uite forget 
 
 The buried love, wliose sweetness thrills me 3'et; 
 
 But let the willow wave: 
 
 Tlake not a grass-grown grave: 
 Break not the turf, ff)r fresh-rung tears to wet. 
 
WALLS OF CORX AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Moods of Marcli. 
 
 Wild i.s tlie dance abroad to-nigbt, 
 
 As the drifts wliirl to and fro: 
 Loud is the voice of the rag^in^ storm: 
 
 As the fierce gusts come and go; 
 Black are the panes where the black night leans 
 
 Like a homeless ghost in the snow. 
 
 Black are tiie panes where the black night leans 
 
 Within, it is warm and light. 
 The flre purrs low and the kettle sings, 
 
 And the lamps shine soft and bright. 
 Little care we for the wind and cold. 
 
 And little care we for the night. 
 
 What is that cry, out-voicing the storm. 
 
 That sounds on the drifted plain? 
 What is that throbbing, thunderous roar? 
 
 It is only the midnight train, 
 Screaming and thu:idering through the night, 
 
 Like a monster mad witli piin. 
 
 Silent as sleep is the wintry m »rn: 
 
 All spotless the snowdrifts lie: 
 Pillars of smoke from household fires 
 
 Mount straight to the cold, blue sky. 
 Yonder a "freight" creeps heavy, and slow, 
 
 Where the night train thunderedby. 
 
 Wild was the night, and cjld the morn: 
 It is noon, and the warm wind blows: 
 
 The eaves run streams, anJ under our feet 
 Is the slush of the melting snow. 
 
 Birds are singing, the air is like Ma\\ 
 And the wild geese north-ward go. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Poets, writing your odes to spring — 
 
 Your poems of stanzas ten- 
 Haste to tinisli, for moods of Marcli 
 Are changeful as moods of men. 
 I tried it once, but tlie wind veered nortli, 
 And tlie ink froze on my pen. 
 
 Two Farewells. 
 
 I have bidden two of my neighbors 
 
 A long farewell to-day. 
 Both were going on a journey, 
 
 And both were going to stay. 
 
 One, with eyes that were misty. 
 Like skies all heavy with rain. 
 
 Said, "In the years that are coming, 
 We may somewhere meet again." 
 
 She was bound for Dakotah: 
 
 And watching tlie wagons g(»— 
 
 White-covered, heavily laden, 
 Clogged with the early snow. 
 
 I thought of the bleak, cold prairies, 
 Of the toil for many a day. 
 
 With the storms of wild November 
 Elowiing along tlic way. 
 
 The other lay cold and sil<;nt: 
 
 Said naught, nor clasjjed my liand; 
 
 And we were friends— ah, speechless 
 Men go to the silent land I 
 
 Mute, and pale, and speechless 
 
 This wild October day, 
 He passed down into the shadows — 
 
 Into the shadows gray. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And he lias flnislied his journey; 
 
 The pain and the toil are o'er; 
 IXobly he wrought his life-work, 
 
 Bravely his burdens bore. 
 
 To-night the winds are raving; 
 
 The snow falls over his head; 
 Yet he turns not on his pillow, 
 
 Stirs not in his lowly bed. 
 
 So gone are two of my neighbors; 
 
 Empty their places stand. 
 One has gone to Dakotah, 
 
 And one to the silent land. 
 
 The Thread of Gray. 
 
 I have woven a braid, with patient toil. 
 
 'Tis the work of many a day, 
 There are colors bright, but through them all 
 
 Runs a thread of sober gray. 
 
 Blue and golden and green and red 
 
 I have blended as best I may; 
 But through them ail, and binding them all 
 
 Runs the thread of sober gray. 
 
 The blue and the gold twine out and in, 
 
 Like rainbow tints astray; 
 Then brilliant strands of green and red— 
 
 But always the thread of gray. 
 
 And I think how like to an earnest life. 
 
 With its pleasures by the way. 
 While through them all runs a steady aim, 
 
 Like a thread of sober gray. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 There are lights and laughter and feast and song, 
 
 For labor must have its play- 
 But over and under and through them all 
 
 Runs the thread of sober gray. 
 
 The mirth shall fail and the lights grow dim, 
 
 And the song shall die away: 
 But the worker's crowMi shall be his who keeps 
 
 To his thread of sober gray. 
 
 Alas for him who into his braid 
 
 Weaves only the colors gay! 
 And alas for the close of the human life, 
 
 That loses its thread of gray! 
 
 Rescue the Perishing. 
 
 (Read before a session of the Temple of Honor, in Jefferson 
 County, Wisconsin.) 
 
 Who hath the trembling hand, 
 
 And ej^es that are rheumy and red"/ 
 Who, amid darkness that knows no morn. 
 
 Mourns over hopes that are dead? 
 And who goes staggering by 
 
 With weak and tottering feet. 
 With rags on his back and cheeks aflame. 
 And hot lips foul with words of shame — 
 
 The scoff of the pitiless street? 
 
 And who sits, sad and pale, 
 
 Beside her desolate hearth — 
 A wailing babe on her patient knee, 
 
 Sick and sad from its birthy 
 While the heavy hours drag by, 
 
 Of what does this watcher think"? 
 Why harks she so as steps go past? 
 And why, when one step comes at last, 
 
 Does she start, and shiver, and shrink? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And one comes tottering in, 
 
 With reeking and poisoned breath, 
 She well may fear, for slie Ivnows the worlc 
 
 Of the flery cup of deatli. 
 More than my pen can paint, 
 
 This sorrowful woman knows 
 Of want, of woes like mountains piled, 
 Of oaths, and curses, and ravings wild, 
 
 And the weight of heavy blows. 
 
 Eeared in a delicate home. 
 
 She remembers a liappy time, 
 When days were leaves of a pleasant book 
 
 All written in dainty rhyme. 
 She remembers peaceful nights, 
 
 That were blessed with radiant dreams; 
 And rosy morns, and fleecy skies, 
 And the tender light in a mother's eyes — 
 
 How long ago it seems. 
 
 She remembers one day of joy. 
 
 When she stood, a whit3-rob3d bride. 
 By the side of one who was more to her 
 
 Than all the great world's pride. 
 She stands beside him nuw. 
 
 Pale with a mortal fear. 
 Her pinched, wan cheeks grow whiter yet. 
 Her great wild eyes are fixed and set 
 
 On his face so marred and blear. 
 
 It has come— that awful scourge, 
 
 Whose terrors none can speak — 
 And the lips that cursed as he crossed the door 
 
 Now utter shriek on shriek. 
 He sees all fearful things! 
 
 A serpent crawls at his feet; 
 Tlie dark panes glow with fierce green eyes, 
 And in yon dusky corner lies 
 
 A corpse in winding-sheet. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 73 
 
 He feels on his shrinking clieelc 
 
 The flapping of goblin wings, 
 And ovjer his flesh the slimy touch 
 
 Of horrible creeping things. 
 He writhes in the grip of fiends. 
 
 That drag him down to hell. 
 Can naught redeem from a hell lilce this? 
 Could an angel's hand or au angel's kiss? 
 
 Hark to the tale I tell. 
 
 There came to that dread abode— 
 As come to many another — 
 
 Men of a tried and faithful band, 
 Who look upon man as a brother — 
 
 Who look on man as a brother- 
 Howe ver low he may sink; 
 
 Who stretch forth pitying liands to save 
 
 The fallen from his self-dug grave, 
 Though he stand at the very brink. 
 
 They came with soothing tones, 
 
 With fuel, and food, and care; 
 And strong, brave words of cheerful hope, 
 
 For the drunkard's dire despair. 
 They bore him up in their arms, 
 
 They lifted him out of the pit— 
 And now, in a home of calm content. 
 Where cheerful lalxjr and rest are blent. 
 
 Do peace and plenty sit. 
 
 The wife's wan cheek grows red, 
 
 And her smile is fair to see; 
 And a rosy boy, witli golden hair, 
 
 Climbs to his father's knee. 
 Brothers! such work as this 
 
 Deserves a laurel crown! 
 For the solemn joy such deeds must bring, 
 The loftiest genius, the proudest king. 
 
 Might well on his knees go down. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER P0EM3. 
 
 Oh, fathers with drunken sons! 
 
 Oh, sons with drunlcen sires! 
 Would that the bitter tears ye shed 
 
 Miglit quench these hellish flres! 
 Oh, people, grand and strong! 
 
 Arise in your kingly might. 
 Put from your midst the accursed thing:— 
 And the dove of peace, with brooding wing, 
 
 Shall on your homes alight. 
 
 The Snow Blockade. 
 
 Blocked is our castle, — sudden sLege 
 We did not count on. All our doors 
 Are barricaded: loudly roars 
 
 The savage wind, and tries its wedge^ 
 
 Its wedge of ice, with sharpened edge — 
 Seeking to pierce some open crack. 
 
 But, storm our fortress as you may. 
 And heap the snow with tlngers black, 
 
 Ye denion-i,^'tis but idle play. 
 Gather your forces, fierce and strong: 
 We toss you back dettant song. 
 
 You cannot enter here — nor yet 
 Can we get out. You've got m there! 
 No human things to-night would dare 
 
 To pass the bounds the storm has set. 
 And yet, beleagured as we ai'e, 
 
 This lamp-lit room serene and still. 
 Seems like some green and peaceful isle, 
 
 Set in a wild and heaving sea. 
 
 Strong are our bolts: our oaic-wood Are 
 Beats back the cold. The night is dire 
 
 With the black storm, but what care we. 
 
 Fenced in our calm security? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AMD OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Two days and nights: — the storm is done. 
 
 The wearied winds have sunk to rest, 
 
 Spent with tlieir strife. Earth's frozen breast 
 Lies heaped with hills beneath the dawn, 
 The demons of tlie blast are gone — 
 
 Their worlc remains. Tlie rising sun 
 Pours forth its ligiit— pale, cold and chill — 
 Across a waste all dead and still. 
 No moving thing, no tinkling bells 
 
 Forewarn of coming steed and sleigh. 
 No sign of life, save smoke that swells 
 
 From chimney-tops then floats away 
 Still gripes the cold, with grasp so chill, 
 
 We shiver, liug the fire and say, 
 
 "No mortal can break njads to-day.'' 
 
 The cars are blocked as well as we, 
 
 No distant roar of passing train 
 
 Comes to our ears across the plain. 
 Silence unbroken! Can it be 
 
 That all the world has gone to sleep? 
 Xo news— and shut in four sc^uare wallsl 
 
 We wonder how the fight goes on 
 In yonder ligislative hills. 
 
 And what they do at Washington. 
 We woader wliat new taxes, steep. 
 
 It is decreed that we must pay, 
 
 Who earn their bread from day to day. 
 
 At length th-j seige is raised. 
 
 Past rural palace, past the hovel. 
 The way is cleared. His name be praised' 
 
 Who made that blessed thing a shroud" 
 Here comes the mail— a l)asket full. 
 Now we shall know what wires they pull; 
 What party rebels bolt the track. 
 Who smiles with hope, whose brow is black. 
 
76 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Ah, liere is what we hoped to see; 
 
 Reform has risen, pure and strong, 
 And tossed her weight upon the scales 
 
 Where Right was weighed against the wrong 
 
 And lo, another victor}! 
 Send out, send out exultant song 
 
 Across Wisconsin's hills and vales. 
 Sing out the sordid Regency; 
 
 Sing out Back Pay and Press Gag Law; 
 
 Sing in the pure— hurah. hurah. 
 
 God Knows. 
 
 God only knows what fate the coming morrow 
 
 Holds in its close shut hand— 
 What wave of joy, what whelming tide of sorrow, 
 
 May flood my heart's dry land. 
 
 But whether laughter, with its bounding billow, 
 
 Rolls up in joyous swell, 
 Or sorrow darkly flows beneath the willow, 
 
 I still will say, 'tis well. 
 
 And I will strew my seed upon the waters, — 
 
 The sweet soil lies below, — 
 .Whether with smiles or tears it little matters, 
 
 So it may spring and grow. 
 
 I know my hand may never reap its sowing; 
 
 And yet some other may. 
 And I may never even see it growing — 
 
 So short is my little day! 
 
 Still must I sow. Though I may go forth weeping, 
 
 I cannot, dare not stay. 
 God grant a harvest! though I may be sleeping 
 
 Under the shadows gray. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 I know not but the ruthless frosts may witlier, 
 
 Tlie worms may eat my rose; 
 Tliere may not be one flower or slieaf to gather. 
 
 Hlindly I wait—God knows. 
 
 A Storm on the Frontier. 
 
 Hark to the storm. It is a fearful iiiglit;— 
 
 A night of piercing cold and whirling snow, 
 
 And drifts tliat loom like ghosts in sheeted white, 
 
 Heaped by the tempest in its mad delight, 
 
 But, flercely as tlie ice winds may blow, 
 
 Sweep as they may across these open lands, — 
 
 Low is our cabin and so safely stands. 
 
 Come, leave your work, and sit beside the Are, 
 The storm may roar and beat the frosted pane, 
 And at tlie bolted door may tug and strain; 
 Safe is our shelter though tlie strife be dire. 
 And warm as if but dropjjed the summer rain, 
 The lam]) burns brightly, and this quiet room 
 Seems like a heaven— if such a thing could be— 
 Besieged by tempests, wrapped in midnight gloom. 
 Encompassed by a wild and lieaving sea. 
 While round us howl the denions of the night. 
 How passing sweet this calm, and warmth, and light. 
 
 What ails you. Love? Why is your cheek so white? 
 How start and shiver— what is it you feel? 
 Sure we are safe, and naught can harm us here. 
 You have a groati? Why, that but goes to show 
 What tricks a woman's pity loves to ])lay 
 I'poii lier fears, lie calm, I pray. 
 'Twas but a wilder gust, and you should know, 
 No living thing would venture out to-night. 
 
78 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A winter morn. Tlie fierce, wild night is gone; 
 The mad winds, overspent, have sunlc to rest: 
 Their work remains. Tlie prairie's frozen breast 
 Lies lieaped witli hills beneatli the splendid dawn. 
 Come out and look, it is a goodly sight— 
 These spotless ranges sparkling in the sun; 
 The still, white world created into night. 
 
 The patlis are blocked. A pity 'tis to soil 
 
 These spotless drifts; yet, what tlie night wind rears 
 
 Must man destroy at morn. The spade must 
 
 Spoil our Alpine scenery — but, oli! what's here? 
 
 A something harder than the wind-packed snow 
 
 Resists the blade. 'Tis mine to shudder now. 
 
 And shrink and shiver with a sickening fear. 
 
 A still white face the fresh piled drift below, 
 
 A frozen form wrapped in a sliroud of white 
 
 Flung round it by the black hands of night. 
 
 The dead, white face, the form, too well I know, 
 
 Had I but heeded wliat you said last night I 
 
 You heard a cry through all the gusty roar; 
 
 I laughed and said 'twas but the wind, and so 
 
 Here lies my neighbor, frozen at my door. 
 
 To the Memory of a Young Friend. 
 
 Sing a song with sorrow laden, 
 Sing a requiem sad and slow. 
 
 For the pure and gentle maiden 
 Lying witli her head so low. 
 
 Loving was slie, sweet and mild, 
 
 Half a woman, half a child. 
 
 Hands so helpful, past the telling. 
 Ah, how soon your work is done! 
 
 Feet so light, so fleet, so willing, 
 Ah, how soon your race is runl 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Bright her morning rose, and yet 
 Ere its prime her sun is set. 
 
 In the great world's swelling surges- 
 Ceaseless strife of loss and gain — 
 
 Drowned are sorrow's m:)urnful dirges, 
 Sobs of anguish, cries of pain. 
 
 Wh}' for her such tears should flow, 
 
 Only we who loved her know. 
 
 Keen the wind that sweeps the prairie; 
 
 Keener yet the bitter breath 
 lilown from off the borders dreary 
 
 Of the silent realm of Death. 
 And we shiver— shrink with dread. 
 As we cover up our dead. 
 
 Hard is jjarting- hard to sever 
 Ties that bleed at every strand; 
 
 And the gap shall close, ah, never, 
 In that broken houseliold band. 
 
 Yet, while we perforce must weep, 
 
 Sleep, O maideni sweetly sleep. 
 
 O'er the snows, descending lightly. 
 Softly fold their ermine screen; 
 
 Clioicest flowers shall blossom brightly; 
 Grasses wave their banners green. 
 
 Summer breezes, stealing nigli, 
 
 These shall breathe thy lullaby. 
 
 Tender is our common mother. 
 Shielding from the storm and strife, 
 
 While Hope whispers of another, 
 And a brighter, better life. 
 
 Even amid our blinding tears, 
 
 Faith serene consoles and cheers. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Old Soldier. 
 
 (A Birthday Tribute Inscribed to General M. Brayman.) 
 
 The stress of the day is over, 
 
 And calm is the evening time; 
 Behind are the heights that manhood 
 
 Has scaled in its pride and prime. 
 
 At noon was the smoke of battle 
 
 Its tumult, its crash and roar: 
 But the boom and the musket's rattle 
 
 The veteran hears no more. 
 
 In the peace of the quiet evening, 
 
 The warfare over and done 
 Is the old soldier dreaming 
 
 Of victories nobly won. 
 
 Dreams he of tierce, wild charge, 
 The screaming of shot and shell, 
 
 The roll of drums and the shoutingV 
 It may be— but who can tellV 
 
 Feels he the cold come creeping 
 With the sun so low in the west? 
 
 Nay! though his locks are frosted 
 The heart is warm in his breast. 
 
 Soft is the glow of the sunset, 
 
 And it touches him tenderly; 
 Bright was the day that is setting, 
 
 And long may the twilight be. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 81 
 
 At tlic Falls. 
 
 In tliis deep solitude, ;iniid IIk; roar 
 Of falling waters, and soft folds of spray, 
 
 I sit upon the green and sedgy shore- 
 Sit silent, while the river rolls away. 
 
 What heed I here the lioUow inas(juerade 
 'J'hat men call lifeV It surely heeds not me; 
 
 I am not missed from the gay cavalcade — 
 
 None whisper, "This was her place, where is she? " 
 
 Little I reckl The page upon my knee 
 Talks honestly, and yon white waterfall 
 
 Pours a deep voice of truth unceasingly. 
 While the gay world is but a mas(juer's l^all. 
 
 Scuiiig the Editors. 
 
 I went to see the Editors, in great Milwaukee town. 
 
 And some wereold, with hoary hair, some young, with locks 
 
 of brown, 
 Hut, old or young, or tall or sliort, when all was said and 
 
 done, 
 They seemed a goodly set of man as e'er the sun sIioik; on. 
 
 They liad come from north and south. th«!y had (;om(! fnjm 
 
 east and west, 
 I)own from the northern pine lands, up from the prairie's 
 
 breast. 
 Men of the L<iading Journals, men of the Local Sheet, 
 Came flocking in together, and I watched tliem meet and 
 
 greet. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 At this I greatly wondered; I saw each meet the other, 
 With a smile and a clasping hand, as if he were his brother. 
 P^air words and kindly cheer were the order of the day; 
 The pipe of peace went round, and the sword was laid away. 
 
 "Are the-ie friends or enemies?" I questioned silently; 
 
 I recalled the odious names they have called each otherby,— 
 
 ''Idiot,'' ''knave," and "sorehead"— all these, and many 
 
 more, 
 They have used to pelt each other— is their rancor spent 
 
 and o'er? 
 
 They talked of their position, of the duty of the press: 
 How opponents should be treated — with honest friendli- 
 ness. 
 A fair and lovely theory! tlie practice seems to be 
 To call each man a rascal, who don't agree with me. 
 
 What do they mean, I wonder, by tlie "freedom of the 
 
 press?" 
 Is it this,— that each man is free to vent his "cussedness?" 
 Free to ban and blacken whoever may chance to be 
 On the otlier side of the fence?- O glorious liberty! 
 
 But liere they were— these warriors who have oft each otlier 
 
 fiayed, — 
 Talking in tones fraternal as they drank their lemonade; 
 And I wondered if the time, so long foretold, had come, — 
 The day of peace and brotherhood— the great Millennium. 
 
 I have read the papers since, and I see my liope was vain; 
 For the hatchet that was buried, they have dug it up 
 
 again; 
 Tiie sword has left its scabbard, the spiked guns roar away, 
 And he who was a '•sorehead," is a "soreiiead" to-day. 
 Each man is at his desk; he has grasped the wires again. 
 And is pulling for his party, with all his miglit and main 
 Opponents tliresh each other, wlu) shook hands the otlier 
 
 day; 
 And I question, — do they mean one -half ol wliat they say? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Taiijiht hy a Hird. 
 
 All April cliiy: the cold wind blew, 
 The dark clouds lo\yered, the thick snow Hew, 
 And where the springing grasses lay green, 
 IJagged patches of wliite were seen. 
 
 Snow everywhere! I gazed with a sigh. 
 As tlie big flakes fell from tlkc gloomy sky: 
 Loading the limbs of the budding trees, 
 Filling the hollows about tlieir knees. 
 
 Had winter come back— the vanquished king 
 And rudely tiirottled the maiden, spring? 
 Rut lol from amid the storm I lieard 
 The sweet, glad song of a tiny bird. 
 
 On a tufted twig, its feet in the snow, 
 Swung by the cold wind to and fro. 
 It sat and sang— that wee brown bird — 
 Putting to shame my petulant word. 
 
 The darkness lifted, the storm was done: 
 Through the; broken cloud-rifts shone the sun: 
 A breatli came up from the south, and the snow 
 Melted away in genial glow. 
 
 Spring reigned again: and again I heard 
 The joyous song of that dear brown bird. 
 With quickened pulses, and heart aglow, 
 I caught the refrain, " I told you so." 
 
 Ah. little bird, had I faith like you. 
 When life and the world are dark to view! 
 When lowering skies are al)0ve me bent. 
 Could I feel your trust and your sweet content! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 You sang, your tender feet in the snow, 
 Swung by the cold wind to and fro. 
 Your faitli was sure, and now I repeat 
 Over and over the lesson so sweet. 
 
 Tar-aiid-Feather Reform. 
 
 Pour the tar on, pour it thick; 
 Bring the feathers, make them stick 
 On her temples smooth and fair, 
 In the meshes of her hair; 
 There, now, shameless courtesen, 
 Charm your lovers if you can. 
 
 But the lovers— where are they? 
 Silently they slink away. 
 Boys must sow wild oats, you know; 
 Scold them well and let them go. 
 Boys are boys; to err is human — 
 Tar and feathers for the woman. 
 
 Woman? She is but a child. 
 Well, no matter; drive her wild. 
 Young and fair? So much the worse. 
 Brand her deeper, let the curse 
 On her young head weighing down, 
 Crush her, force her on tlie town. 
 
 She is fallen, that's enough, 
 
 Give her, henceforth, kick and cuff. 
 
 While we work and pray and weep 
 
 For the heathen o'er the deep, 
 
 We are saints of purity — 
 
 We are Christians— don't you see? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 When we women have our way. 
 VVlieii it comes — that glorious day 
 When we sit in honor great, 
 Piloting the ship of state, 
 All sliall (hen, as well as we, 
 Practice tliis our tlieory: 
 
 Never right a sinking boat. 
 
 When a woman is afloat: 
 
 If her record holds a flaw, 
 
 Do not throw her e'en a straw: 
 
 Kick her roughly, push her dciwn: 
 
 Hold her under, let her drown I 
 
 Died of Want. 
 
 Tread lightly on the creaking Moors; 
 
 Speak softly— so; 
 With careful fingers ope and sliut the doors: 
 Calk up that crack through which the night rain pour: 
 
 These rafters low 
 liend o'er a traveler to unseen shores, 
 
 Wliere all must go. 
 
 A scanty bed, a drear, unfurnished room; 
 
 Dire noxious air, 
 Wliere pent-up Fever breathes its hot simoon, 
 And poverty has piled its brush and broom, 
 
 Till all is bare; 
 A pale, pinched face amid tlie midnight gloom, 
 
 And damp, white hair, 
 
 'Tis the last chapter of a story old 
 
 One period more, 
 To tinish all. and the sad tale is told. 
 Too late comes Charity, with generous gold 
 
 And pity sore; 
 Too long since Famine and Disease and Cold 
 
 Entered the door. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A glimmer of gray dawn through sleet and rahi, 
 
 Tliat beat and beat 
 With icy hands upon the dingy pane. 
 Within, a solemn hush. Fold smooth and plain 
 
 The winding sheet. 
 But see! the poor lips wear a smile again, 
 
 Serene and sweet. 
 
 Softly, good driver! scour not quite so fast 
 
 The stony pave. 
 You know not how your final lot is cast; 
 Some dire disaster, some unlooked-for blast 
 
 Or whelming wave. 
 May land you, like this poor old man. at last, 
 
 In pauper's grave. 
 
 Replace the sod. He sleeps on pillow low, 
 
 Like other dead. 
 His deep and pulseless rest no dreams shall know — 
 No shivering pangs, though freezing winds shall blow 
 
 Across his bed. 
 But, softly fall, O rain, and winter snow, 
 
 Above his head. 
 
 My Mother's Wheel. 
 
 Broken, dismantled! would that it were mine; 
 
 I would not keep it in that dusty nook, 
 Where tangled cobwebs cross and intertwine, 
 
 And old, grim spiders from their corners look. 
 
 From distaff, band, and polished rim, are hung 
 The dusty meshes. Black the spindle is. 
 
 Crooked, and rusty— a dead, silent tongue. 
 
 Tint fTc:^ r.^r-fV wM-'-'r'^ t^it^Ic— tl^rro it lio'^, 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 All, dear to me is tlio forsaken thing! 
 
 I gaze upon it and my eyes grow dim: 
 For I can see my mother, liear lier sing, 
 
 As winds the shining thread, and wiiirls the rim. 
 
 So sweet she sang— her youngest on her knee — 
 Now a low warble, now some grand old iiymn, 
 
 Sublime, exultant, full of victory, 
 Triumphant as tlie songs of seraphim. 
 
 Sweet toiler! througli her life of crowded care, 
 While grief came oft, and pain, and weariness, 
 
 Still swelled the anthem, still was breathed tlie prayer, 
 Till death came clasping with its cold caress. 
 
 She sings no more; beside the cliimney wide 
 No more she spins. Years come and go: 
 
 Above her grave on the lone hillside, 
 The snow drifts lie, the summer grasses grow. 
 
 Dick and I. 
 
 I bad a lover once— "twas long ago — 
 I must have been some eiglit or nine, or so. 
 And he perhaps was ten. He had blue eyes. 
 And hair like cotton- weed, that Moats and flies. 
 Or— better, like like a hand of bleachen flax. 
 He was not handsome— but, I'm telling "fax," 
 And must be acurate. A "poets lie" 
 May always be aesthetic— reason why — 
 The poet paints from out liis own invention; 
 While I — I've only facts to mention. 
 
 I loved him. if all else were homely prose, 
 There's poetry in that. A bright red rose 
 Creeps through a cranny in a naked wall. 
 And blossoms there;— it is a rose for all. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 M3' rose bloomed early and its growth was ([uick — 
 Miicli like a niusU room's. All, wliite-headed Dick I 
 If this should meet your eye. 3'ou will remember 
 One rainy day— 'twas in the gray November. 
 
 A monstrous kettle hanging from the cran8, 
 With steam clouds rolling up to meet the i-ain; 
 A great old tireplace, with open maw: 
 Two children sucking cider through a straw: 
 Such was the tableau; as the night closed in, 
 The firelight with th3 dirktidis fought to win, 
 Pushing tlie shadows back against tlie walls. 
 Where bacon hung, dried apples, coats and sliawls. 
 
 Tlie night grew darker. Still the autumn rain 
 lieat with its wet on the window pane; 
 But we two liked it well. We put together 
 Our two small heads, and sagely on the weather 
 Exchanged congratulations. No moonlight. 
 The steady rain— sure, Dick must stay all niglit. 
 
 We had it settled, and we went to play. 
 
 •'Blindfold," "I spy," and even "Pull away," 
 
 Came on in turn, The evening was near spent, 
 
 And nought had troubled our complete content, 
 
 But perfect happiness— we grasp it, fold it. 
 
 Thinking it ours, alas! we never hold it 
 
 For any length of time. It slips and quivers. 
 
 And st>mething hits and knocks it into shivers. 
 
 And this is what hit ours— this the shock 
 
 That fell upon our peace at nine o'clock. 
 
 Fate lifted up its hand so hard and grim, 
 
 And struck this blow: Dick's mother sent for him! 
 
 He cried, and so did I. Ah well. 
 
 It is a simple story that I tell. 
 
 And you may laugh, perchance— yet it is real. 
 
 And serves to show the griefs that children feel, 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Which grown folks do not count on. I have seen 
 
 Since then some sorrow, some pangs sharp and keen; 
 
 Have even dreamed I stood at Heaven's door, 
 
 And saw it shut on me forever more. 
 
 Yet that one night, so gloomy and so wet, 
 
 With rain and tears, I've not forgotten yet. 
 
 My Hickory Tree. 
 
 Towering close at my cottage door, 
 
 Tall and royal, and grand to see. 
 VVitli broad arms reacliing tlie greensward o'er — 
 
 O, a mighty ICing is my hickory tree! 
 
 Ciianging its guise witli tlie clianging scene, 
 As tlie wheels of the year are onward rolled; 
 
 (^'lad all the summer in deepest green. 
 Now resplendent in robes of gold. 
 
 Here gather the earliest birds of spring, 
 Wlien the e.irtli awakes from its frozen rest— 
 
 The tiny bluebird with sappliire wing. 
 The robin sweet with its glowing breast. 
 
 VV^hen vines are green at the window frame. 
 The brown thrush sings and the dove coos low. 
 
 And the oriole comes like a tlasli of flame. 
 And hangs its nest from tiit; outmost bow. 
 
 On the velvet grass, in the gi'atcful shade, 
 The workmen lie as they rest at noon. 
 
 Cheered by tlie i)ird songs overhead. 
 Lulled by the honey bee's drowsy tune. 
 
 And here, with friends, on summer eves, 
 
 We sit in the sunset's mellow glow — 
 Sit till the night winds toss tlie leaves, 
 
 And moonbeams sift to the sward below. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 O happy scenes! But now no more 
 We seek the shade; the wind blows cold; 
 
 The frost comes creeping about the door; 
 The dead flowers rot on the sodden mold. 
 
 Splendid yet is ray hickory tree, 
 
 As the gorgeous leaves come fluttering down 
 Like flakes of gold; but soon I shall see 
 
 Only siglitless heaps, all sere and brown. 
 
 Shook by the winds that go hurrying by, 
 Down to the turf the ripe nuts fall; 
 
 And the boughs shall soon stretch toward the sky. 
 Stripped of their nuts and leaves and all. 
 
 When deep drifts lie on the frozen farms. 
 
 The naked giant, in scornful glee, 
 Shall toss in the storm his strong, bare arms— 
 
 O, a mighty King is my hickory tree l" 
 
 Our Friendship. 
 
 Tliey say true friendship cliangeth not, 
 
 But grows and grows; 
 Through chance, and time, and treacherous plot, 
 Through change of scene and change of lot. 
 
 Still changeless shows. 
 
 If this be true, sure here is seen 
 
 Some great mistake! 
 The friend of years no friend hath been. 
 Else naught on earth could come between, 
 
 The bond to break. 
 
 Am I, then, false? I meant no lie; 
 
 Yet nevermore 
 With friendship on my lip, can I, 
 As oft aforetime, seek thine eye. 
 
 Or cross thy door! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Dost marvel wliyV 'Tis quickly told. 
 
 Here at thy feet 
 1 tliii^ away our friendship old, 
 liecau.se henceforth our two liearts hold 
 
 A tie more sweet! 
 
 I love thee! therefore can we be 
 
 Xo longer friends. 
 Thou takest what I offer thee— 
 Thy whole heart's sweetness givest me. 
 
 So friendship ends. 
 
 Over Niagara. 
 
 Harken, friends, while I tell you — 
 I will be as brief as I may — 
 
 How, while the drums were beating. 
 And the great guns boomed away, 
 
 A pair of blithe young lovers 
 Kept Independence Day. 
 
 I was passing the bridge up yonder. 
 That crosses the creek, you know, 
 
 Near where it enters the river. 
 That tiows witli a mighty flow 
 
 Toward where the cataract thnndcrs. 
 Only tliree miles below. 
 
 1 lieard sweet peals of laughter 
 
 Ring over the river wide. 
 And looked where a boat went tossing 
 
 Out toward tlie rapid tide, 
 And saw the prow was headed 
 
 Toward the American side. 
 
 I watched the boy tliat was rowing, 
 .And the girl tint sat in the stern. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And I saw that the two were lovers — 
 It took bat a glance to learn— 
 They were taking their trip of pleasure — 
 Would they ever, ever return? 
 
 I saw that he rowed but badly, 
 
 And nay heart sank at the sight; 
 It is only the skillful oarsman, 
 
 With a touch both firm and light, 
 Tliat here rows across the river 
 
 And ever returns at night. 
 
 I watched the frail craft tossing, 
 
 In a tremor of dead suspense; 
 And I held my breath in terror 
 
 That swept over every sense. 
 As I saw the boat was heading 
 
 Outside of the " river fence." 
 
 They have passed it now! In the rapids, 
 
 Where never a boat crossed o'er, 
 They were swinging nearer and nearer 
 
 The cataract's thundering roar. 
 They will never come back to the Queen's land, 
 
 Nor reach the American shore! 
 
 There are flecks of foam on tlie water; 
 
 There are wliite-caps on tlie tide; 
 And swifter, and even swifter 
 
 Down to their doom they glide. 
 Not tluis in the joyful morning 
 
 Did the youth think to wed his bride 1 
 
 I liear the girl sliriek wildly, 
 
 As she points to the rocks before; 
 I see the boy's mad effort 
 
 To turn tlie boat to the shore; 
 Then I watch him look for something — 
 
 Great God! lie liad dropped an oar! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 93 
 
 My old knees they smote together; 
 
 I could feel my cheeks grow pale, 
 As I heard above all the roaring, 
 
 The sound of that maiden's wail; 
 And I clutched as if I were drowning, 
 
 My hands to the wooden rail. 
 
 Still I gazed, in my frozen terror, 
 
 For I could not turn away; 
 And I saw them clinging together, 
 
 As down in the boat tliey lay: 
 And tlie sight my midnight pillow 
 
 Will haunt till my dying day. 
 
 I saw the boat swing over 
 
 The crests of the first descent; 
 It was lost to sight for a moment 
 
 Where the lioUowed waters bent; 
 The next, on a rock, foam-covered, 
 
 It poised, then downward went. 
 
 I saw no more; but others 
 
 Standing beside the fall, 
 Watching the beautiful rainbow 
 
 That spans the eternal wall, 
 lieheld a few black fragments 
 
 Of a boat— and that was all. 
 
 Down Stream. 
 
 I see a boat drift lightly by, 
 
 The stream is wide, the current slow; 
 
 No ripples break the sunbeam's glow; 
 Yet well I know that, ceaselessly, 
 
 The great fall thunders down below. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 I see the boatman idly leaa. 
 
 With listless hand upon his oar, 
 Unheeding that the summer shore, 
 
 With safe, still coves and banks of green, 
 Recedes behind him more and more. 
 
 The sunliglit gilds the golden hair 
 
 That clusters round his stately head; 
 
 A lurid flush, youth's rose instead, 
 Dyes rounded cheek and forehead fair, 
 
 Caught from the wine cup's ruby-red. 
 
 I watch him, and I hold my breathi 
 He seems like one wrapped in adream; 
 While swiftly rolls the narrowed stream. 
 
 And, bending o'er yon gulf of death, 
 I see the baleful iris gleam. 
 
 Why floats he so, like one asleep, 
 While nearer sounds that awful roar? 
 Awake, O friend! take up thine oar, 
 
 And stem the rapid's fatal sweep, 
 Turn liither, hither, I implore. 
 
 I stretch my arms and loudly, cry; 
 
 I call until-the welkin rings, 
 
 At last he hears— the frail boat springs, 
 Trembles a moment doubtfully. 
 
 Then slowly, landward swings. 
 
 Saved, saved at last! Adrip with spray, 
 I see him stand upon the shore; 
 And then my senses swim; the roar 
 
 Sounds like a murmur far away: — 
 Would I might hear it never more! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Magic Stones. 
 
 Three oviil stones, worn by the lappni^ water-; 
 
 Of wide Lake Michitfan. Assniootli are they 
 As if some lapidary's patient lingers 
 
 Had wroughi their polished disks of mottled gray. 
 
 Long have I kept tliem: and I well remember, 
 When, where I picked them nj). A summer's day 
 
 Drew near its close: tlie sunset glory 
 Flooded the land and on the water lay. 
 
 l>ut not alone the sunset's gold and crimson, 
 The sparkling waves, the white sails moving slow. 
 
 These stones recall. Dear friends were there beside me, 
 Witli faces radiant in the evening glow. 
 
 \Vliat liapi)iness it was to talk and listen, 
 To say with confidence the tilings we thought! 
 
 To look straight into the eyes whose open shining 
 Itself was speecli. frank, full, concealing nauglitl 
 
 The city, with its restless, fevered pulses, 
 Was near, yet not in liearing, not in siglit, 
 
 No smoke of furnaces nor roar of trattic, 
 Marred the still beauty of the evening light. 
 
 Alone, we few. beside tlie blue-green watei-. 
 To us, for one brief liour, the world was not. 
 
 Its wild ambitions, and its throes of passion, 
 Its tierce and selfish struggles all forgot. 
 
 And while we stood and talked, the glory faded, 
 The shores grew dimmer in the failing light; 
 
 The sliadows deepened and the lake grew darker, 
 The white sails vanished in the gathering night. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 'Twas years ago, and time liatli wrought its clianges; 
 
 Yet have tliese magic stones the power to wake 
 A throbbing memory of friendly voices, 
 
 Heard in the twilight, by the darkening lake. 
 
 Dreams. 
 
 When the sun is shining o'er us, 
 
 And our duties lie before us. 
 We lay our wishes by on secret slielves: 
 
 In their napkins, wrapped securely, 
 
 We enfold tliem, tliinking surely 
 Tliey are hidden botli from otliers and ourselves. 
 
 But when slumber sweetly liolds us. 
 
 And in velvet arms enfold us, 
 And the moonlight through the curtain faintly streams; 
 
 Then from out their hiding places, 
 
 Clad in soft, bewitching graces, 
 Come our wislies to inspire and rule our dreams. 
 
 How they haunt tlie midnight pillow! 
 
 How the pulse swells, like a billow, 
 As the dreamer clasps the thing he most desires! 
 
 And his tlirobbing heart rejoices 
 
 As he hears enchanting voices 
 Singing, keeping rythmic time to golden lyres. 
 
 Wants he riches? power? honor? 
 
 Fancy is a lavisli donor. 
 All he craves bestowing on his longing soul. 
 
 Oh, the ripe, delicious sweetness! 
 
 Oil, the rare and rich completeness, 
 As he quaffs with tliirsty lips tlie brimming bowl! 
 
 But alas! the sudden waking. 
 When above tlie hill tops breaking, 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 With its weary burdens bringing, comes tlic day 
 Then the dreamer grasps the real, 
 Puts aside his sweet ideal, 
 
 Deftlv hides liis dream within its nool< awav. 
 
 October Days. 
 
 Push baclv the curtains and tling wide tlie door; 
 
 Shut not away the liglit nor the sweet air, 
 Let the checked sunbeams play upon the Hoor, 
 
 And on my head low bowed, and on my liair. 
 
 Would 1 could sing, in words of melody, 
 The hazy sweetness of tliis wondrous timel 
 
 Low would I pitch my voice: Tlie so!ig should be 
 A soft, low chant, set to a dreamy rhyme. 
 
 No loud, high notes for tender days like thesel 
 No trumpet tones, no swelling words of pride, 
 
 Beneath these skies, so like dim summer seas, 
 Where hazy ships of clouds at anchor ride. 
 
 At peace are earth and sky, while softly fall 
 The brown leaves at my feet. A holy palm 
 
 Hests in a benediction over all. 
 O silent peace! O days of silent calm! 
 
 And passion, like the winds, lies hushed and still; 
 
 A throng of gentle thoughts, sweet, calm and pure. 
 Knock at my door and lightly cross tlie sill. 
 
 Would that their fair feet might stay, their reign endure 
 
 But storms will come. The haze upon t he hills 
 Will yield to blinding gusts of sleet and snow; 
 
 And, for this peace that all my being tills, 
 Tlie tides of battle shall surge to and fro. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Life is a struggle: and 'tis better so. 
 
 Wlio treads its stormy steeps, its stony ways, 
 And breasts its wintry blasts, must battling go. 
 
 And yet — it hath its Indian summer days. 
 
 Becalmed. 
 
 Adrift in my little boat, 
 
 Becalmed on the cold, gray sea — 
 And chill mists lazily float 
 
 All over my boat and me. 
 
 The breezes lie dead asleep— 
 Not a breath in the idle sails! 
 
 And I wearily watch and weep, 
 And listen for distant gales. 
 
 Shall I still drop useless tears. 
 And sit here and wait and wait, 
 
 Till my head grows gray with years. 
 For the wind that may come too late? 
 
 To be idle is shame to the strong! 
 
 I will lay my hand to the oar; 
 And the craft that has waited long, 
 
 Shall wait for the wind no more! 
 
 Is Marriage a Failure? 
 
 When we were young, and Love was young, 
 And life was bright with morning dew. 
 
 And Hoije sang sweet with silver tongue. 
 I did not think so then -did you? 
 
 Tlie years went by. Up stony roads 
 We toiled, still hand in hand, we two, 
 
 While dear love lightened heaviest loads — 
 I did not think so then— did you? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER P0P:MS. 
 
 Sore trou')le c.itn^; ami gi-icfs and fears 
 Sat at our lirratli the sad days tliroiiKli: 
 
 And while eaeli dried the other's tears, 
 I did not tiiijitc so liieri— did yoiiy 
 
 While iieneeforth throiij^h tlie shadows |e;id 
 Dim down-hill piths before us twf», 
 
 And each of us liad greatest needs, 
 I do not think so now— dr) you? 
 
 When throngli the dark vale all must tread 
 One passes, and on i3')som true. 
 Leans at lasi. a dying head— 
 I will not think so then, will von? 
 
 Laura. 
 
 A village street, a cottage-home. 
 
 A summer night, a starry sky. 
 A moon-lit porch where woodbine climb, 
 
 A sound of late feet hurrying ijy. 
 
 Two lovers, underneath the vines, 
 
 Witli warm hands clasi)ed, look out on life- 
 
 A glowing scene, all sunny lines- 
 No tears, no clouds, no storujy strife. 
 
 A sweet perspective stretched afar. 
 With rippling streams and vales of green, 
 
 And love the steafly guiding star: 
 Could aiiglit. aught be thrust between? 
 
 How fair they were,— clK.'ek pressed to cheek, 
 (rold locks and brown in mingled strands,— 
 
 A fairer i)icture one; might seek 
 In vain through all Earth's sunny lands. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Tlie summer waned : the nights grew chill; 
 
 With stealthy Angers Autumn came, 
 And clad the copse and wooded hill 
 
 In gorgeous garments, splashed with flame. 
 
 At eve, returning homeward late, 
 
 Just as th3 frosty twilight fell, 
 I found young Laura at the gate, 
 
 Counting the tolling of the bell. 
 
 The last stroke fell. Against her heart 
 She passed her liand. '"Tis he!" she said; 
 
 No other sign of present smart. 
 Would she had moaned, or wept, or prayed! 
 
 A grave upon a lone hlU-side, 
 
 Where Autumn leaves lay sere and dead. 
 Here oft, at the cold even-tide, 
 
 Came silent Laura, bride unwed. 
 
 One morn they found her, still and cold. 
 With white lips pressed against the stone, 
 
 While in her mantle's crease and fold. 
 And on her hair, the hoar-frost shone. 
 
 United. Round their lowly bed 
 The fierce winds howl in wild delight. 
 
 Not thus, not thus they thought to wed; 
 Not so they planned, that summer-night. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Whip-po-wil. 
 
 When softly over field and town, 
 And over yonder vvoad-crowned liill. 
 
 The twilight drops its curtain down, 
 'Tis then we hear the whip-pc-wil. 
 
 From the near shadows sounds a call, 
 Clear in its accents, loud and shrill. 
 
 And from the orcliard's willow wail 
 Comes the faint answer, " Whip-po-wil." 
 
 The night creeps on; the summer morn 
 Whitens the roof and lights the sill; 
 
 And still the bird repeats his tune. 
 His one refrain of '' VVIiip-p;)-wil." 
 
 We hear him not at morn or noon: 
 Where hides he then so dumb and still? 
 
 Where lurks lie. waiting for the moon? 
 Who ever saw a whip-po-wiiV 
 
 Where plies his mate her liousehold care? 
 
 In what veiled nook, secure from ill, 
 I^uilds she the tiny cradle, where 
 
 Nestles the baby whip-po-wil? 
 
 I cannot tell, yet prize tlie more 
 Tlie unseen bird, whose wild notes thrill 
 
 The evening gloom about my door, — 
 Still sweetly calling, " Wliip-po-wil." 
 
 Asleep through all the strong daylight, 
 While other birds so gayly trill: 
 
 Waking to cheer the lonely night, ^ 
 We love thee well, O whip-po-wil I 
 
102 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Deep Waters. 
 
 Laughing and shouting its rocks among, 
 
 The brook threads the upland lea: 
 But, for all its song so loudly sung, 
 And the small uproar of its babbling tongue, 
 'Tis a shallow tiling in its glee. 
 
 Solemn and still doth the river go, 
 
 As it winds through its vale of rest: 
 Calm is its mien and its tide is slow, 
 Smooth is its face and its voice is low — 
 Yet fleets may ride on its breast. 
 
 Oh! the river is great in its silent might, 
 
 As it rolleth eternally: 
 But, with all its calm, so still, so bright, 
 In a passionate longing day and night. 
 
 It stretches its hands to the sea. 
 
 The brook and the river are each alike; 
 
 And the one all men may know; 
 For its fretful current with noises rife, 
 And its grief and joy, and its petty strife, 
 
 Are seen in its shallow flow. 
 
 The other so peaceful seems, 
 
 So still; and we fancy a soul at rest: 
 But, little we know what strength of will. 
 What mighty pulses that throb and thrill, 
 Are hid in the silent breast. 
 
 A clear, cool eye. with a changeless glow. 
 
 The clasp of a steady palm, 
 May cover the tide that sweeps below, 
 In a strong and resistless undertow. 
 
 Yet we say, "how cool and calm!" 
 
Here on this iiiiif^ed hliitr I slaiid alone, 
 And loi)k oni on the waters. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Sod House on the Prairie. 
 
 A low sod house, a broad green prairie, 
 And stately ranks of bannered corn: — 
 
 'Twas there I took my dark-eyed Mary, 
 And there our darling boy was born. 
 
 The walls were low, the place was homely, 
 But Mary sang from morn till night. 
 
 The place beneatli her touch grew comely: 
 Her cheerful presence made it bright. 
 
 Oh, life was sweet bej^ond all measure! 
 
 No hour was dull, no day was long; 
 Each task was easy, toil was pleasure. 
 
 For love and hope were fresh and strong. 
 
 How oft we sat at eve, foretelling 
 The glories of that wide, new land! 
 
 And gayly planned our future dwelling— 
 For low sod house, a mansion grand. 
 
 Alas! we little know how fleeting 
 The joy that falls to human lot. 
 
 Wliile unseen hands were dirges beating, 
 We smiled secure and heard them not. 
 
 One day Death came and took my Mary; 
 
 Another, and tlie baby died. 
 And near the sod liouse on the prairie 
 
 I laid my darlings, side by side. 
 
 I could not stay. My heart was weary, 
 And life a load too hard to bear. 
 
 That low sod houjpe was dreary, dreary. 
 For love and hope lay buried there. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Will He Come To-Night? 
 
 Will he come to-night? There is rain in the sky; 
 Yonder great clouds like mountains lie; 
 And a leaden fold liangs over the town, 
 Coming slowly up where the sun went down. 
 
 About its edges the lightnings play 
 
 In sheeted flashes, and far away 
 
 The thunder utters its sullen roar 
 
 In a tone of menanee— I'll shut the door. 
 
 The swell of the wind in the forest trees 
 Sounds like the surging of distant seas. 
 The lightning, the tliunder, the surging roar, 
 And the dark'ning sky— I'll watch no more. 
 
 He will not come, for the waj^ is long; 
 Yet tiie kettle is singing its cheery song, 
 And the firelight dances, red and bright — 
 And the meal is spread but what a night! 
 
 Were you here, Love, we should like the storm— 
 We two, by the firelight, bright and warm — 
 But I'm lonesome, sad. The fiash and roar 
 Startle me, frighten me, more and more. 
 
 What a terrible wind. It has burst the door. 
 Full into tlie room the waters pour. 
 I can only shut it with might and main — 
 So strong is the pusli of the gnsty rain. 
 
 The thunder is distant, now, but the rain 
 Beats steadily yet on the window pane. 
 It falls from the eves on the cold door-stone 
 With its drip, and drip— what a lonesome tone. 
 
i^-»" 
 
 -.*. 
 
 
 Watching tlie buttertiies, chasing tlie bees, 
 Wading in clover np to her Icnees. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 It is over at last. I will go to bed; 
 
 I'.ut there is something missing beneath my head. 
 
 Wliat loving simpletons girls must be 
 
 To go and get married, and be— like me. 
 
 Tlie Fir.st Breath of Spring. 
 
 The drifts lie deep, the ice bound stream 
 Wrestles in vain witli its wedded chain: 
 
 The lake still sleeps, still dreams its dream, 
 Under its bright, cold counterpane. 
 
 The wojds are mute, save the mournful tune 
 Sung by the wind in last year's leaves. 
 
 Still that cracked and dolorous tune 
 Sobs and shudders and frets and grieves. 
 
 Winter is king:— yet, soft and sweet, 
 
 Comes a wliisper, a fair, faint tone 
 Of distant music in muffled beat, 
 
 Only a breatli, yet it shakes his throne! 
 
 Only a breath! and so faint and low. 
 
 That I lean to listen, and bare my head- 
 Lean to listen — till over the snow 
 Comes the .sound of a velvet tread. 
 
 Who breathes so lowy who comes apace. 
 
 Treading softly, with feet unseen, 
 With muffled form, and with covered face? 
 
 It is Spring that comes.— Long live the Queen! 
 
 Welcome! all hail to the reign so near! 
 
 Tliine hour is not yet come, we know; 
 We shall wait through days that are gray and drear. 
 
 Through howling tempest and driving snow. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 But we well can wait: the fields, the lake, 
 
 Silent lie, like a realm of death; 
 Yet thou art near and the dead shall wake. 
 
 We have heard thy voice, we have felt thy breath I 
 
 ITastel oh haste! In this hour of calm 
 We have heard thee, but oh to feel thy kiss! 
 
 Oh for the touch of thy lips of l)alm! 
 And oh! to be drunk with tliy draughts 
 
 The Wayside Trough. 
 
 On the velvet hem of grasses green 
 That borders the edge of the dusty way, 
 
 Under a maple's glossy screen, 
 Is a rough hewn trough, all battered and gray. 
 
 All through the summer, wet or dry. 
 
 AVith dripping crystal the brim o'erflows, 
 Pure as the rain that falls from the sky, 
 
 Free as the air that comes and goes. 
 
 Into the trough falls a tiny stream^ 
 Steadily falls, both day and night — 
 
 In the noontide's glow, in the moon's pale beam. 
 Sparkling always— a thread of light. 
 
 This battered trough and this tiny stream 
 Are known for many and many a mile. 
 
 'Tis here that the wagoner rests his team; 
 For this he waits— it is worth his while. 
 
 'Tis here that the footman, faint and sore. 
 Lured by the streamlet's silver tone, 
 
 Rests till the midday heats are o'er, 
 Then cheered, refreshed, presses bravely on. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And cliilclren. loitering home fioni school, 
 Willi hot, tlushed faces, and bare, l)iowii feet, 
 
 Dip their brows in the waters cool, 
 With iinging shouts and vvilii hiughter sweet. 
 
 Wlience does it come —this stream so bright, 
 That falls in the trough l)y the dusty way- 
 
 This sparkling, nnisical thread of light. 
 That tinkles and sings, by night and day? 
 
 liack in the fields, at a meadow's edge, 
 
 Under a bank, by trees oerhung, 
 'Mid sweet-flag clumps and grassy sedge, ' 
 
 Is born the stieam with the silver tongue. 
 
 A deep, clear spring, with a household name — 
 Through fiercest drouth it still o'erflows. 
 
 As pure and as cold as if it came 
 From rifted bosoms of melting snow. 
 
 'Twas a dear old man (bless his memory! 
 
 It should live forever, fresli atid sweet!) 
 Who hewed the trough from a linden tree. 
 
 And set it down l)y the dusty street. 
 
 He caught and harnessed the tiny stream; 
 
 It tilled the trough and tills it yet. 
 In the old man's heart was a simple dream 
 
 Of blessing his kind — but men forget. 
 
 He sleeps on the hillside, peacefully, 
 
 Whether zephyrs sigh or storm winds blow — 
 
 The liands that hollowed the linden tree 
 Were mutely folded, oh! long ago! 
 
 Still weary wayfarers stoop to drink. 
 
 Where tinkles the stream like a silver Ixill. 
 
 Of the old, kind man few ever think: 
 But I know he would say—" It is just as well. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Talking Fiend. 
 
 Sad is his fate, we may well suppose, 
 To whose pillow at dead of night, 
 
 Comes a ghost in diaphanous clothes, 
 And stands there, still and white. 
 
 It wouldn't be pleasant for you or me— 
 The ghost tliat in silence stalks;— 
 
 But worse than a silent ghost can be, 
 Is the flend who always talks. 
 
 As to spiteful spirits, black or gray. 
 If you keep your conscience clear. 
 
 And a liorsesiioe over the door, tliey say, 
 Not one will venture near. 
 
 But there's notliing yet, as I've heard tell. 
 
 That can lay this tiling of evil. 
 Not saintly purity, charm, or spell. 
 
 Can banish the talking devil. 
 
 There are bolts and bars for midnight crime. 
 Which in darkness prowls about; 
 
 But the thief who filches your precious time. 
 There's nothing to keep liim out. 
 
 Of all life's miseries dread and dire. 
 
 Have sorrowful poets sung; 
 But worse than famine, or flood, or fire. 
 
 Is the flend with the ceaseless tongue. 
 
 You know him; he calls himself your friend; 
 
 But your deadliest enemy, 
 Wlio presses hate to the bitter end, 
 
 Is more of a friend than he. 
 
WALLS OP CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 100 
 
 Does he (Ivvt'll with youV At your table sit"? 
 
 Then pack up your traps and tlyl 
 Or be talked to death— and I've heai-d that "it 
 
 Is a terrible death to die." 
 
 Should the (lend read this, he'll not look grim, 
 
 Jiut a smile shall his visage mellow. 
 He'll never dream it is meant for him, 
 
 PiUt he'll think of some other fellow. 
 
 Woman's Wt)rk. 
 
 Let her not lift a feeble voice and cry, 
 
 ••What is my work':"' and fret at bars and l):iml- 
 While all about her life's plain duties lie, 
 
 Waiting undone beneath her idle hands. 
 The noblest life oft hath, for warp and woof. 
 
 Small, steady-running threads of daily care; 
 Where patient love, beneath some lowly roof. 
 
 Its poem sweet is weaving unaware. 
 
 And soft and rich and rare the web shall be. 
 
 O wife, and mother, tender i)rave and true, 
 Rejoice, be glad! and bend a thankful knee 
 
 To God, who giveth thee thy work to do. 
 
 Graiidmotlicr. 
 
 Busy and quiet, and sweet and wise. 
 
 With a long life's thought in her gentle eyes- 
 
 The hoarding of many a year — 
 Nearer drawing, from sun to sun. 
 To the peaceful goal of a race well run, 
 Waiting her record of work well done 
 
 In the hearts that hold her dear. 
 
110 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Grandmother's locks, all silvery white, 
 Seem to ray fancy like bands of light. 
 
 Crowning lier sweet pale face. 
 Grandmother's voice is tender and low; 
 And the fall of her footsteps soft and slow, 
 As hither and yonder,and to and fro, 
 
 She glides with a saintly grace. 
 
 Grandmother's mission, for every day. 
 Is to do the duty that comes her way. 
 
 Whatever tliat duty may be. 
 To think of otiiers, her self forgot. 
 To dry sad tears when her own are wet, 
 Is Grand motlier's plan— and the best one yet,— 
 
 'Twere a good one for you and me. 
 
 She has her griefs, though she hides them well, 
 Her heart still throbs when a tolling bell 
 
 Utters its mournful tone. 
 For she thinks of a knell rung long ago. 
 Of a far off grave underneath the snow. 
 And a silent sleeper on pillow low. 
 
 Whose lips once pressed her own. 
 
 Thirty years— 'tis a lonely wliile! 
 
 Yet Grandmother's face wears a peaceful smile 
 As she sits in tlie sunset glow. 
 
 She is busy still, as evening light 
 
 Falls on her hair, so silvery white: 
 
 And she softly speaks of the coming night- 
 She is biding her time to go. 
 
 Indian Summer. 
 
 Again the leaves come fluttering down, 
 
 Slowly, silently, one by one,— 
 Scarlet, and crimson, and gold, and brown, - 
 
 Willing to fall, for their work is done. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And once a^fiiiii comes the dreamy haze, 
 Drapiiio- the hills with its tilmy blue, 
 
 And veiling the sun, whose tender rays. 
 
 With mellowetl light come shimmering through. 
 
 Softly it rests on the sleeping lake — 
 This filmy veil — and the distant shore, 
 
 Fringed with tangles of brush and brake, 
 Shows a dim blue line and nothing more. 
 
 The winds are asleep, save now and then 
 Some wandering breeze comes stealing by, 
 
 Softly rises, then sinks again, 
 And dies away like an infant's sigh. 
 
 You feel the spell of those dreamy days 
 I know— -for your soul is in tune with mine. 
 
 You love the stillness, the tender haze; 
 I know— for your thoughts with my own entwine. 
 
 Hut this dreamy calm, this solemn hush. 
 The sleeping wind.s, and the mellow glow, 
 
 Only foretell the tempest's rush, 
 The icy blast, and whirling snow. 
 
 We— you and I— must bow to tlie frost, 
 When our locks are white with hoary kiss; 
 
 Our last rose scattered, its petals lost, 
 May our indian summer be calm— like this. 
 
112 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Lovt 
 
 Some men there are, called lioly, who retire 
 
 To dreary deserts from the world away, 
 
 Who scourge the flesh, and meditate and pray. 
 
 And for each earthly thought do penance dire 
 
 Until all human sympathies expire: 
 
 Who sacrifice God's precious gifts and say 
 
 That from the bitter ashes, dead and gray, 
 
 Shall spring the glowing flames of sacred fire. 
 
 But cold the ashes are, no flames arise. 
 
 When hearts are dead no fervent pulse can beat, 
 
 J^o warm blood flow. Oh, fools are they, and blind, 
 
 Who, scorning earth, think thus to scale the skies! 
 
 Such scorn (would they could know!) but weights the feet. 
 
 He loves God best who best doth love his kind. 
 
 High and Low. 
 
 Down in tlie valley, a peaceful scene — 
 Streamlets winding through meadows green, 
 Rippling, smiling, their banks between. 
 
 Up on the heights, the torrents flash, 
 Rush and tumble, and roar and dash. 
 Seaming the soil with many a gash. 
 
 Down in the valley, the summer rain 
 Gently falls on the growing grain, 
 Softly taps at the window-pane. 
 
 Up on the heights, the tempests beat. 
 
 Hurling volleys of pelting sleet, 
 
 When winds and clouds like armies meet. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Down in tlie valley, tlirough growing corn. 
 The warm wind steals, and the Ijreeze of morn, 
 Kisses the buds, and tlie flowers are born. 
 
 Up on tlie heights, the wind blows chill, 
 Smiting the heart with its icy thrill, 
 Shrieking at midnight, sliarp and shrill. 
 
 Down in the valley, a level street, 
 vShaded liy trees whose branches meet, 
 Trodden lightly by triijping feet. 
 
 I'p to the heights, the way is steei), 
 The stones are sharp, the chasms deep. 
 And oft the pilgrims pause to weep. 
 
 Down in the valley, a vine-wreathed cot, 
 A happy liouseltold where strife is not, 
 Each content in a simple lot. 
 
 Up on the lieights, one dwells apart, 
 A mark for many an envious dart, 
 Lofty, but lonely, and starved in lieart. 
 
 Oil. would there were less of strife to gain, 
 With bleeding feet, with tug and strain, 
 Far. rocky heights, that are lieights of ])ain. 
 
 The brightest wreaths of fame may rest 
 On throl)l)ing brows, and royal vest 
 Oft lias covered an acliing breast. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A Waj'side Tree. 
 
 I passed to-clay through a forest 
 
 In somberest sombre drest; 
 Furled were the blood-red banners, 
 
 Quenched was each flaming crest. 
 
 Tlie wind swept through the branches; 
 
 The clouds hung low and gray, 
 Bearing storms in their bosoms, 
 
 Stealing the sun away. 
 
 The roar far baclv in the forest, 
 Tlie crackling above my head, 
 
 As the crisp leaves shook and quivered, 
 Filled me with nameless dread. 
 
 Like the leaves, I shook and shivered 
 As the cold wind colder blew, 
 
 And the tread of advancing tempests 
 Sounded the deep woods through. 
 
 Was there nothing left of the summery 
 Naught of the autumn show? 
 
 Nothing bright for the winter 
 To fold ill its slieets of snow? 
 
 Behold! by the dreary roadside, 
 
 Towering fair and green 
 In the midst of its sombre sisters, 
 
 A single oak is seen. 
 
 Touched with spatters of crimson, 
 
 Bordered with flery bands. 
 Across its resplendent garments 
 
 The sun and the frost clasp hands. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 I look at the tree in wonder! 
 
 It seems like some ancient sage, 
 Wearing his youthful freshness 
 
 Along with the frosts of age. 
 
 Oh! the life must be pure and noble 
 That can keep, as the seasons go, 
 
 Its .June and its rich October 
 Till falleth the winter snow! 
 
 A Song of l*eact;. 
 
 Sing me a song to-niglit, 
 
 Not sad, nor yet keyed to mirth; 
 Hut a household lay, in a soothing voice, 
 
 As the cricket sings on the hearth. 
 
 Xo lond high-soaring strains, 
 VVlien body and brain are spent; 
 
 But I long to listen, with half-shut lids. 
 To a song of sweet content. 
 
 Let the notes drop from your lips 
 Like summer rain from the eaves. 
 
 Or the dreamy tinkle of far-off bells 
 That comes tlirough whispering leaves. 
 
 Let me liold your hand a wliile — 
 
 Your hand so firm and tine; 
 Its soft, warm clasp is a toucli of peace. 
 
 And its pulses shall quiet mine. 
 
 Sing on, so soft and low; 
 
 Dispelled by the soothing strain, 
 Gone the heat from my throbbing brow, 
 
 And the ache from heart and brain. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Sing on: your breath at my elieek. 
 
 Your hands still clasping mine: 
 Your voice and your touch, my household bird. 
 
 Are sweeter and better than mine. 
 
 A Kansas Prairie and Its People- 
 How grandly vast the prairie seems, 
 
 Beneatla tlte pfale winter's glow— 
 A wide, white world, in death-like sleep, 
 
 under its shroud of snow. 
 
 Yet there are signs of life: the Iane.s. 
 
 Are trod by heavy teams; 
 A liorseman, on the yon distant swells 
 
 A moving atom seem*. 
 
 Tlie wide, wliite lands that stretch away 
 
 Are dotted everywliere 
 WitVi orchard clumps, and farmers' liome* 
 
 Are snugly nestled there. 
 
 The people of this great new world 
 Have come from every quarter: 
 
 Some faced each other long ago. 
 On red fields bjithed in .slaughter. 
 
 In frosty dawns of winter morns, 
 
 Tlie white smoke curls away 
 From homes of men who wore the blue. 
 
 And men who wore the gray. 
 
 Here, brotliers all; they Iiang their gifts 
 
 On tiie same Cliristmas tree; 
 Our kindly neighbors, cordial friends,, 
 
 Are as brotliers ought to Ix?. 
 
WALLS OF CORX AND OTHER POEMS. 117 
 
 And crowds of children. Kansas born,— 
 Our young state's hope und pride, — 
 
 With rosy clieeks and sparkling eyes, 
 Learn lessons side l)y side. 
 
 Naught reck they of the battle Held, 
 
 Of sad, dark years of slaughter; 
 The Northmen's son some day shall wear 
 
 The Southron's gentle daughter. 
 
 Acccptcincc. 
 
 That man is wisest who accepteth his lot 
 Yet mends it where hccan— glad if there grows 
 
 >Some lowly flower beside his lonely cot. 
 
 E'en while he plants and tends his Ali)iiit' ro^ie. 
 
 Some good comes to us all. No poverty 
 Mut has some precious gift laid at its door. 
 
 We scorn it, call it small, what fools are we. 
 To spurn the less because it is not more! 
 
 There are some thirsty souls, all sick and faint 
 With longing for thi' cup that is denied. 
 
 Would they but stoop and drink, without complaint, 
 From the near stream, and so Ik' satisticd. 
 
 There are some hungry iiearts that well nigh break 
 With the dull soreness of mere emptiness. 
 
 To fill the void and sooth the weary ache 
 
 Let them but strive some other hearts to bless. 
 
 There are some idle hands that reach afar 
 For wilder mission, some great work of fame. 
 
 Would they but grapple life's daily wai'. 
 Reward awaits them, nobler than a name. 
 
V.ALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Oil, tliirsty souls! Oh, hungry hearts and hands, 
 Weary witli idleness! Take what you may 
 
 Of proffered good: accept life as it stands. 
 And make tlie most of its swift, fleeting day. 
 
 A Lesson for the New Year. 
 
 Tlie last night of the year, I sat alone 
 
 Beside the dying fire. Tlie whole house slept. 
 
 Naught stirred the silence, save the wind's low nioan, 
 As sadly through the naked streets it crept. 
 
 The fall f>f embers and the clock's low l>eat, 
 
 Tliat mark the passing years with tiring feet. 
 
 I am weary; and the coming year 
 
 Seemed but an added load that pressed me sore. 
 Tlie morrow would bring friends, and I should hear 
 
 The tread of many feet upon the floor. 
 1 longerl for quiet: I was vexed with care; 
 Just then my burden seemed too great to liear. 
 
 I thought of my unopened book, my pen, 
 
 Lying long idle, rusting- in its place. 
 Could I but take them to some lonely glen 
 
 Where toil were not, nor any human face! 
 ""Twere joj)" cried I, so fretful was my mood 
 "To dwell one year in utter solitude." 
 
 "Jlave then thy wish!" Was uttered sad and low: 
 I turned, and one stood by me, fair and tall. 
 
 And from his countenance with ligiit aglow, 
 A look of pitying grief on me did fall. 
 
 "Have thentliy wish!" He stooped and touched mine eyes' 
 
 And I stood dumb, overwhelmed witlt strange surprise. 
 
 The silent room had vanished and the wood. 
 
 Peopled with birds, that tilled its aisles with song 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Oonii)asse(l me round with sweet yrecii solitude; 
 
 A clear stream trailed its silvery thread along: 
 And close beside it stood a rustic cot. 
 Piled iiiyh with volume-;, and lu're toil was not. 
 
 l<'ruits for my food fell liglitly at my feet; 
 
 I was alone; tlirougli all that lovely place 
 I knew that 1 might wander, and not meet, 
 
 III hill or hollow, any human face. 
 Within my books, all wit and wisdom blent. 
 1 had my wish: was I therewith cDutentV 
 
 Nay, verily. A sliarp grief pierced me through. 
 My spirit sank, oppressed with midnight gloom. 
 
 While trees hung o'er me wet with heaven's dew. 
 1 felt as one walled up witliin a tomb. 
 
 1 sought my Iwoks: l(»cked were their stores from me; 
 
 The lK>t tears dimmed my siglit. I could not see. 
 
 1 ( i-jrd my pen -in vain. No words would come. 
 
 Thought was an arid desert, wide and gray. 
 From which no streams would flow. My soul wa-< dumb 
 
 With utter loneliness; but could I pray? 
 I cast me on the fi'agrant. dewy sod, 
 ^ly face [tressed in the gr,i>-;— and cried to(Jo;I. 
 
 "Oh: (Jive me back," 1 prayed, ''The dear days gone — 
 The toilsome days, so full of crowded care— 
 
 The hands I clasped, the lips that pi-essed my own. 
 For tliese, l'(»r these, could I all burdens i)earl" 
 
 I started, for a rustling robe trailed near; 
 
 And ■•Have again thy wishi" fell on my ear. 
 
 Again 1 fell s(tft. gentle lingers piess 
 
 Mine eyelids down; and lo! Tlie dear old room, 
 The smiling lamp light home's blessed homliness! 
 
 Tiie lonely wood was gone, its grief, its gloom: 
 And close within my call my dear ones slept. 
 For very joy I bowed my head and wept. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AXD OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The tire was dead, the mooti shone on the snow, 
 The wailing wintry wind blew bitter sold, 
 
 And yet I laid me down with lieart aglow, 
 
 For all life's leaden care seemed turned to gold. 
 
 I slept the sleep of peace; I rose at morn, 
 
 Strong in tiie glad New Year— as one new born. 
 
 Bubbles. 
 
 I saw an urcliin with a pipe of clay 
 
 Held to his rosy lips; a rippling brook 
 Kissed his bare feet, tlien, singing, sped away. 
 
 His cheek was dimpled, mirth was in his look. 
 
 Tlie child was blowing bubbles. One by one 
 Tlie tiny globes of rainbow, frail and fair. 
 
 Sailed upward, glittered in the morning sun, 
 Trembled and swung upon the summer air. 
 
 Then one by one I saw them burst. Some fell 
 Upon the stream that gurgled swiftly past. 
 
 Broke, and were gone forever. Balanced vVell, 
 Some stayed a moment, but all burst at last. 
 
 I saw tliem vanish, and I sadly thought, 
 Witli tear-wet eyelid and witli quivering lip, 
 
 That such was liistory— tluis frailly wrouglit. 
 Men's lives are Ixibbles, Fortune blows the pipe. 
 
 A drop, a breath— no more— Is place and power. 
 
 The crowd that cries to-day, '"Long live the Iving I 
 To-morrow spurns its creature of an liour, 
 
 And lays him low— a scorned and hated thing. 
 
 1 see how men go up and men go down; 
 
 I see the liigh and nol^le sink to shame; 
 I see the high exile's ban succeed tlie crown; 
 
 I see vile Slander dog the steps of Fame. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 So must it be; the brightest bubbles burst; 
 
 To grasp them is to chitch at empty air. 
 Is naught, then, certain^ is all good accurst? 
 
 Is this life all? Proclaim it, ye who dare! 
 
 God's Truth abides. We turn and veer about; 
 We clasp our idols, and they fall to dust; 
 
 Our faitli is weak— we plunge in seas of doubt- 
 Yet tliere is still the Rock; and God is just. 
 
 Confidence, 
 
 Is it better never to hope, than to hope in vain? 
 Is it better never to strive, lest we never attain? 
 Is it better to cling to tlie shore and leave untried 
 Life's wide, deep sea, for dread of its storm and tide? 
 
 Who ventures nauglit, he surely shall never win; 
 lie naught shall finish, who never doth aught liegin: 
 Tiie sun may shine and the heavens may shed its rain, 
 lint only the sower may harvest his golden grain. 
 
 Tu-moi'row, we know, is dark with its misty veil; 
 The light on the patli to-day is but dim and pale; 
 mindly we grope our way— but 'tis better so — 
 What God hath hidden 'tis better we should not know. 
 
 Nobler and braver is he wlio stakes his all. 
 And takes his loss or gain as the chances may fall, 
 Tlian he who folds his hands and idly waits, 
 Till the sliadows gather darkly about his gates. 
 
 Shall we turn our ear away from a sweet refrain. 
 Lest the pleasant song may turn to a dirge of pain? 
 Shall we close our eyes to the ray in tlie midnight gloom. 
 Lest it prove a lure that leads to the door of a tomb? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Is it better never to love, lest love niistakeV 
 The passionate heart may quiver and ache and break-- 
 Yet give us the warm, ricli wine, tliough well we know 
 That dregs as bitter as death may lie below. 
 
 We sigh for the joys that were coming, and never came; 
 We sit in tiie dark and weep, with our hearts aflame; 
 We feel the crush and grind of the silent mill- 
 Feel the crush and grind, while our lips are still. 
 
 What, then! sliall we spurn our life as a broken thing"/ 
 Sliall we fling a curse in the face of Heaven's King'? 
 riappy is he who keepeth his trust through all: 
 lie may slirink and shiver, and falter, but sliall not tall. 
 
 Noveinher Rain. 
 
 November rain! November rain.' 
 Fitfully beating the window pane: 
 Creeping in pools across the street: 
 Glinghig in slush to dainty feet; 
 Shrouding in black the sun at noon; 
 Wrapping a pall about the moon. 
 
 Out in ttie darkness, sobbing, sighing, 
 Yonder, where the dead are lying. 
 Over mounds with lieadstones gray. 
 And new ones made but yesterday- 
 Weeps the rain above the mould. 
 Weeps the night-rain, sad and cold. 
 
 Tlie low wind wails— a voice of pain. 
 Fit to cliime with the weeping rain. 
 Dirge-like, solemn, it sinks and swells. 
 Till I start and listen for tolling bells. 
 And let them toll— the summer fled. 
 Wild winds and rain bewail the dead. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 13 
 
 Atid yet not dead. A prophesy 
 
 Over wintry wastes comes down to me, 
 
 Strong, exultant, floating down 
 
 Over frozen fields and forests brown, 
 
 Clear and sweet it peals and swells, 
 
 Like Xew Year chimes from midniglit bells. 
 
 It tells of a heart with life aglow. 
 Throbbing under the shrouding snow, 
 Heating, beating with pulses warm, 
 While roars above it the gusty storm. 
 Asleep— not dead— your grief is vain, 
 Wnid, wailing winds, November rain. 
 
 Shadows. 
 
 (Jray, cold and gray 
 
 Is the desolate wintry sky. 
 As the colorless daylight fades away 
 
 And the starless night draws nigli, 
 I sit in my darkened room 
 
 By tlie ttre, — it is burning low, 
 While fancy weaves in her pauseless loom, 
 And swift and silent, amid the gloom. 
 
 Her sliuttle glides to and fro. 
 
 Sad, sombre and sad 
 
 Is the web that she weaves to-night; 
 And it wraps n)y soul as the world is clad 
 
 In the desolate evening light. 
 Strange is tliis nameless sorrow I 
 
 I weep, and I scarce know why 
 It is the frown of some dark to-morow 
 That looms above me, and I must borrow 
 
 (Jrief from by and by? 
 
WALLS OF CORM AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Why, fancy wliy 
 
 Hast done so ill tliy task? 
 Instead of a gloom like the starless sky, 
 
 Oh, give me the thing I ask, 
 It is just as easy to rear 
 
 A smmy castle in Spain 
 As to conjure up some faith or fear, 
 Some shadowy grief that Ijrings a tear 
 
 From the ache of a nameless pain. 
 
 Over the Hill. 
 
 We met on the hillside — we both were young— 
 Where countless thousands liave met iDefore: 
 
 And read together the tender book 
 That youth in all time cons o'er and o'er. 
 
 How sweet the rhymes! How brightly down 
 Shone on our faces the golden morn! 
 
 Far up the path sweet roses clung. 
 Soft blew the wind of the Summer's born. 
 
 " Our path shall lie one,'' he tenderly said. 
 "Up the hill, down the other side: 
 Whether heavy or light the burden be, 
 Only as one shall our strength be tried."' 
 
 So we climbed together, young and strongs 
 For no toil is lieavy to Love and Youth — 
 
 And plucked the flowers thut fringed the way 
 Flowers that blossom for Trust and Truth. 
 
 How sweet the morn! How the hours sped I 
 And dancing beside us came little feet, 
 
 Sweet, tiny voices and little hands. 
 Clinging softly, with clasping sweet. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 125 
 
 All. the louder sadness wiLli which one tells 
 ( )f joys that are dead! The inoriiing g'oiie, 
 
 I'louyli yrew the way and hard the toil, 
 As the weary heat of the noon came on. 
 
 And then lie was stricken I falling down 
 In the rugofed way at the hot noontide; 
 
 And cold hands bore him away from me, 
 Over the stream to the other side. 
 
 OI weary, weary, the way I have trod I 
 'riu'ijattering feet beside my own 
 
 No more keep time, and the little hands 
 Clasp mine no more. Old, and alonel 
 
 I liave jiassed the summit long ago — 
 Slowly, painfully, creeping down 1 
 
 (Jray locks are straying my temples o"er. 
 Where clustered brightly the curls of brown. 
 
 At the foot of the hill rolls tlie sullen stream; 
 
 I am nearing it now, at the eventide; 
 I shall enter it when the sun goes down, 
 
 And meet nivlove on the other side! 
 
 Ihc First Hiid. 
 
 The south wind IjIows with a hint of spring — 
 
 A prophecy — it can be nothing more; 
 But tliere sits a bird with wee brown wing, 
 
 Vi) in the hickory, over the door. 
 
 On a naked twig he sits and sings; 
 
 And the March sun shines, and the warm winds blow 
 And his frail perch trembles and sways and swings, 
 
 Over great masses of melting snow. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Oh I his song is sweet! and almost I think 
 Tluit the spring is come; and a conjured scene 
 
 Of the planting of corn and tlie bobolink, 
 Dreamily rises my thoughts between. 
 
 But heavy and deep lies tlie winter drift! — 
 Ah, little bird, you're ahead of your time! 
 
 The wind will change witli a sudden shift; 
 You will shiver and chill in our northern clime. 
 
 Vou had better liave stayed in the orange trees 
 For some days yet— for where will you go 
 
 When the icy raindrops fall and freeze? 
 And where will you hid from the sleet and snow? 
 
 Little bird, would you only come to my door; 
 
 I would take you into my kitchen warm- 
 Where strangers a welcome have found before— 
 
 And keep you safe from the driving" storm. 
 
 Will you come?— But you still believe in the spring; 
 
 You slight the offer I make, and me. 
 You are off ! with your song and your glancing wing, 
 
 And silent and bare is my hickory tree. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 (^ai-i*icr's Address. 
 
 T Wish you IT<i])py New Year, kind friends and patrons all, 
 On you may fleaven's blessing, lilvc summer showers fall: 
 Mav vonr joys be great and lasting, your sorrows short and 
 small. 
 
 With the New Year at the threshold, and the Old Year 
 
 laid away 
 Iteneath the shrouds of winter, of the winter hoar and gray, 
 I come to pray your patience while I sing my simjile lay. 
 
 Dill you iiear the bells a-rinying in the middle (if llic nighty 
 I )i(l you sec atiiwarl I lie darkness, a ratliance clear and 
 
 bright, 
 .\> the strong hands of tlie New ^'cai' folded back the gates 
 
 of lighty 
 
 It is come— the joyful morning; let all words be words of 
 
 cheer; 
 Let sorrow cease its warning and forget to drop its tear: 
 Let the croaker cea.se his croaking, for once in all the vear. 
 
 There is ample cause for liiunipli. amjile cause for liopeful 
 
 song. 
 For tiie l\iglit has learned tc» coiuiuei- in its coiiliict with 
 
 till' Wrong. 
 And Corruption fears and trembles, for the arm of Truth is 
 
 strong. 
 
 ^'ou have watched the tides of battle, from your firesides 
 
 bright and warm; 
 Yttu have marked the people's l)aiuier. the broad bannt'r of 
 
 Reform: 
 ^'ou have seen it waving proudly aI)ove the surging storm. 
 
128 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 You liave heard the victor's peans floating up from distant 
 
 shores, 
 From the beaches of the Bay state, where the wild Atlantic 
 
 roars, 
 And from sunny southern gardens, where the Mississippi 
 
 pours. 
 
 Where Ohio rolls its waters, where sweeps the Tennessee, 
 From the shoi'es of bleak Ontario, from the vales of Genesee, 
 You have heardthe thunderous echoes of the guns of victory. 
 
 What means the glad rejoicingy What do we hope to win 
 When the Old is going out, and the New is coming in"? 
 B'or a change that betters nothing, is a cliange not worth a 
 pin. 
 
 We hope for better rulers— men who earnestly desire 
 The good of all the country, and who honestly aspire 
 To wash away the traces of tlie days of blood and Are. 
 
 The war is long since over, and it is not brave we Icnow, 
 
 To keep relentless foot upon the neck of fallen foe; 
 
 Let us bridge the "bloody chasm," o'er the graves let grasses 
 
 grow: 
 Across old fields of battle let the breath of kindness blow. 
 
 Send out the cleansing besom, sweep away tlie rot and rust 
 From the courts our fathers founded I Brush away the gath- 
 ered dust 
 Where righteous laws lie hurried— should not judgement 
 aye be just"? 
 
 "Down with the Carpet Baggers," comes with the glad 
 imrrah: 
 
 "Down with the Salary Grabbers," and "down the Press 
 Gag Law," 
 
 While we snatch the good old CTnion from destruction's rav- 
 ening jaw. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Ho. for tlie good time coming!— even now its on the way. 
 Wlien the rascals shall be punished, and the patriots win 
 
 the day; 
 When only faithful servants sliall receive the people's pay. 
 
 'Tis true our own Wisconsin fell partly away from grace, 
 She was seized with sudden panic, and backward turned her 
 
 face, 
 But she even now repenteth, and is mourning her disgrace. 
 
 She was caught by a wily lawyer, who went out to hunt for 
 
 votes. 
 Courting the sturdy farmer, praising his wheat and oats, 
 And damning the railroad system as the rottenest ship 
 
 that floats. 
 
 He tilled his hair with hay seed, as he grasped the farmer's 
 
 hand. 
 And he sang this pious anthem, so lofty and so grand, 
 ■"I want to be a Granger, and with the noble (rrangers stand." 
 
 So the Jiadgers were bamboozled, for the trap was deftly set, 
 But now their eyes are opened and they see the silken net^ 
 And from the woods and prairies come the tones of deep 
 regret. 
 
 Tliis is the wholesome Gospel, clean work, unspotted hands, 
 Tlie public mill must take Svquare toll, honest taxes on our 
 
 lands. 
 Which The News is ever preaching- the platform where it 
 
 stands. 
 
 It tells the people truth, denounces Regency and Ring, 
 For its argus eye is watchful, it hates and .scorns the thing 
 Wliich men miscall republic, where secret gold is king. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 While the years swing round their circle, and the seasons 
 
 come and go 
 In calm, soft, summer mornings, in dawns still dim wiLli 
 
 snow, 
 It lays the world before you, its doings, higli and low. 
 
 And as the great world changes, keeping step with Time, 
 It marks the wheels of Progress, as they roll o'er every 
 
 clime. 
 And paints you sliifting pictures, now grotesque, now sub- 
 
 1 i me. 
 
 Now a strain for our fair Cream City — but, you know, 
 
 with too mucli to say, 
 One often stammers, and falters, and utterance dies away; 
 'Twill be thus if my song goes halting, gets tangled, loses 
 
 its way. 
 
 So fair, so fresh, so stately, the Gemof the wide, wide West, 
 Do you see how her arms she stretches, and fold to her 
 
 throbbing breast 
 The circling farms and woodlands'? IIow slie widens her 
 
 place of rest? 
 
 Lapped by the pale l^lue waters of yonder inland Sea, 
 Spreading along its margin swiftly and steadily: 
 Wlio sliall look down her future and tell wliere lier iDounds 
 shall be? 
 
 Tliere's no end of things she does, with lier busy hands and 
 
 brain; 
 She makes the finest Hour, and tlie mills tliat grind the 
 
 grain; 
 Organs, i^ooks, steam engines, and verses thick as rain. 
 
 Under the sun at noonday, under the midnight stars, 
 With the brawny fist of a Vulcan, she forges her iron iDars, 
 And her pavements throb and tremble under lier loaded 
 cars. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 So she eats the l)roa(l (tT labor, and lays it, up in store, 
 And she always lias a slice for the sick and sutfering poor: 
 In tlie face of lielpless Want, she lias never closed her door. 
 
 We are proud of oui' beautiful city, proud of iiei- spreading 
 
 fame, 
 Proud of her growing greatness, — and who shall chide or 
 
 blame? 
 It rests with us, hei' children, stainless to keep hei' name. 
 
 Tlie seasons are swiftly Hying, and the years— how tliey 
 slip away! 
 
 We are ncaring a mighty landmark, — Freedom's Centenni- 
 al Day. 
 Heryeai'.- are almost a hiuidred, and iier locks are not yet 
 
 gi";iy, 
 
 And the stain that was on her garments, thank (!od, it is 
 washed away. 
 
 She was born in the midst of danger, and a King sent forth 
 
 his slaves 
 To strangle her in her cradle. They came, and she dug 
 
 their graves: 
 Tint the sod was soaked and watered with the bkiod of her 
 
 faithful braves. 
 
 .She passed through seas of sorrow, througli many an evil 
 
 day. 
 She has worn lier garl) of mourning her sackcloth drear 
 
 and gray, 
 Yet she bore aloft lier banner, and her foes were swept 
 
 away. 
 
 On the birthday that is coming, may her children, brave 
 
 and free. 
 From all her distant l)orders, come and gather at her knee, 
 Clasping liands like loving brothers, in peace and harmony, 
 While tlie sword, forgot in its scabbard, is rusting silentl3\ 
 
132 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 'Tis well the Future's hidden— well we cannot tear away, 
 The dark and silent curtain 'fcwixt to-morrow and to-day; 
 He who borrows future trouble, has a weary debt to pay. 
 
 Let us drop our sins and errors in the grave of 'Seventy-four, 
 Let us roll a stone above them, that they resurrect no more: 
 Let us not return to take them, though tempted hard and 
 sore. 
 
 This is the noblest wisdom ever clasped to mortal breast — 
 Wheresoever one is working, just to do his level best; 
 To accept the present duty, and leave to God the rest. 
 
 My lay is ended. Kindly think sometimes 
 Amid your pleasures, of the carrier boy, 
 
 Who on this day, in simple, cheerful rhymes. 
 Sang you a New Year Song, and wislied you joy. 
 
 Beyond the River. 
 
 The time mu-;t come, I know, when we shall part- 
 All ties must sever: 
 
 This golden zone, enclasping heart to heart. 
 Must snap and shiver. 
 
 But doth yon deep, dark stream, part evermore? 
 
 Or shall we meet and greet on that far shore, 
 Beyond the river"? 
 
 If we shall meet— oh! would that I knew how! 
 
 In saintly blessing? 
 Or shall we stand as we are standing now — 
 
 Mutely caressing? 
 Is yonder life but this grown rich and grand? 
 Or is humanity left on the strand — 
 
 Dropped in undressing? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Oh would I knew! Tlic misty clouds that lie 
 
 Those waters over 
 vStill darkly droop, still mock my straining eye, 
 
 Still thickly liover. 
 I call and question. Silence hatli no tone. 
 In vain I ask how shall I meet my own — 
 
 As friend or lover'? 
 
 Love is so precious, life so frail and fleetl 
 
 Hearts bleed and quiver: 
 Tears wet the prints of dear departing feet, 
 
 Gone lience forevei'. 
 Parting is bitter. If I could but know 
 That thou wilt be to me tlie same as now-, 
 
 Beyond the river! 
 
 Is ktve eternaly Still yon sullen cloud 
 
 Answers me never. 
 In vain I plead; it folds its sable shroud. 
 
 Silent forever. 
 Bui I shall know. ' Tis useless to contend 
 With shadows; yet all doubt shall have an end 
 
 Bevond the river. 
 
 Harvest- Home. 
 
 Again the Uarvest-irome. Night after night, 
 Tiie full, round moon climbs up the dusky east, 
 
 Ere yet the day quite yields its throne to-night, 
 Ere yet tlie sunset's glow has wholly ceased. 
 
 Niglit follows night in glorious, stately marcli. 
 
 Tlie same round moon, the same far, dusky stars, 
 In solemn splendor, from the vaulted arch 
 
 Shed their soft light in pale and misty bars. 
 
 Do you remember one sweet summer's prime- 
 Much nights as these, such dim and dusky glow— 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 When first our two lives met in blended rhyme? 
 We both were young— and it was long ago. 
 
 What hope was ours, as, standing hand in hand, 
 Amid the summer moon's soft, tender light. 
 
 We wove oui- plans together, sti-and by strand, 
 In fearless faith? How is it, Love, to-night? 
 
 As then, tiie whispering winds steal through the corn; 
 
 As then, we hear the owl's weird, solemn cry; 
 As then, the tawny fields, but newly sliorn. 
 
 Wet witli tlie niglit dews, bare and silent lie. 
 
 As tlien, the bark of dogs sounds faint and far; 
 
 As then, tlie grasses hide an insect throng; 
 As then, the glowworm shows its tiny star; 
 
 As then, rings sharp and clear tlie cricket's song. 
 
 As then, tlie solemn moonlight, shining down. 
 Blent with the twilight's last departing ray. 
 
 Then seems but now— and yet your locks were brown. 
 And now I see them thickly strewn witli gray. 
 
 Then seems but now. 1 feel the same dear arm 
 Tliat then I leaned upon, about me tlirown: 
 
 The voice that swayed me with its subtle charm 
 Still keeps for me the old caressing tone. 
 
 Tlien seems but now— and yet your steps are slow; 
 
 Your brow sliows prints of pain, and toil, and care; 
 And I have seen my youtli's last roses blow. 
 
 I, too, am growing old — wliy should 1 care? 
 
 What matters it? In counting off our life 
 By harvest moons, the checkered, toilsome years 
 
 Show in their record more of peace than strife. 
 More joy than sorrow, more of smiles than tears. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Time flies apace. Spi-jiiy tlowers. and Wiiiter-rinie, 
 And sweet June roses, swiftly y'o iind come: 
 
 Yet the full richness of our youthful prime 
 Still crowns us both anew at Harvest Home. 
 
 Morning \'ic\v of Lake iMichigan. 
 
 Here on this ruiij^ed blulf 1 stand alone 
 
 And look out on the waters. Could I tell — 
 
 Which I cannot— all tliat I see and feel: 
 
 Could 1 but give the swelling thougiits a tone 
 
 That press up to my lips— a song so sweet, 
 
 So thrilling in its tuneful harmonies, 
 
 Sliould send out on the air its rythmic beat, 
 
 Tliat heedless wights sliould pause amid the street, 
 
 And listen with bowed heads and tearful eyes. 
 
 My eyes are wet Tiie beauty of the lake 
 At this still morning hour, draped in its veil 
 Of dreamy mist so soft, transiuscent, pale; 
 Its music, as the blue waves gently break. 
 Move me to tears. Yet am I all alone; 
 No sympathetic glances kindle mine, 
 No answering eye. where kindred feelings shine. 
 Another heart interprets to my own. 
 
 Ah, Weill Here are the softly gleaming waves, 
 Here are the gold-fringed clouds, above, below, 
 Wliich from yon heaven and from the waters glow; 
 Here is sunshine, which my forehead laves. 
 And there the white-winged ships go sailing by: 
 The cool wind blows, and lightly lifts my hair. 
 Can there be solitude amid a scene so fair? 
 Can one be lonely with such company? 
 
136 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Behind me lies the city, fast asleep, 
 
 Save early worlvmen going to their toil 
 
 With sounding tread. The long day's dusty moil 
 
 Clanks not along the streets. The convent bell, 
 
 Whose tones above the dreamers softly sv^^ell, 
 
 Unheeded, troubles not their slumber deep. 
 
 The sleeping city and pale blue lake. 
 
 The convent bell, the low waves' ceaseless break, 
 
 The morning mists— all these shall memory keep. 
 
 One Hour. 
 
 Only to rest an hour! to loose the strain 
 Of feverish toil— with quiet pulse to lie 
 
 And watch with folded hands tlie upper main, 
 Wliere ships of soft, white cloud go rtoating by. 
 
 Neither to work nor tbink! to-morrow's care 
 Folded and wrapped, and closely laid away; 
 
 To make no effort, just to drink the air. 
 Whose warm, sweet kisses round my temples play. 
 
 Some viewless sorrow may be stealing nigh: 
 1 will not weep for grief I do not know. 
 
 I will not shrink beneath this April sky, 
 And shiver at the thought of April snow. 
 
 A bird sings yonder on a leafless tree; 
 
 His songs are merry— would they be so gay 
 Did he sit pondering on storms to be — 
 
 On sleety rain to come another day? 
 
 You tell me that the world is going wrong — 
 What then? I cannot stay the surging tide; 
 
 Its many waters have a flow too strong; 
 I cannot turn a stream so deep and wide. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 137 
 
 Then let nie rest; enough, just now, is life: 
 
 Let labor and ambition wliolly cease — 
 All loads laid down, hushed every thought of strife; 
 
 For this one hour I crave but perfect peace. 
 
 Trailing Clouds. 
 
 The trailing clouds hang low; 
 Their misty folds drag slow 
 
 O'er the ground; 
 And the rain makes, as it falls 
 On the roof and on the walls. 
 
 Scarce a sound . 
 
 I sit and idly dream, 
 
 While the rain-drops drip and stream 
 
 From the eaves; 
 And memory's folded book 
 Slowly opens, and I look 
 
 Through tlie leaves. 
 
 I cannot see the town, 
 
 Nor the prairies, yellow-brown. 
 
 Through the mist; 
 Mut these pages, blurred with years, 
 I can read them through my tears, 
 
 When I list. 
 
 I see here as I look 
 
 Througli the pages of the book, — 
 
 Flinching not, — 
 Gray shadows, glints of sun; 
 Lost battles, battles won; 
 
 Woman's lot. 
 
 Green paths, with sunshine sweet; 
 Rough steeps, to aid my feet; 
 Broken staves; 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Love's rapture, wildly throbbing 
 The grief, as wildly sobbing 
 Over s^raves. 
 
 Over graves 
 
 Must ill all good alloy? 
 Will sorrow, chasing joy, 
 
 Never rest? 
 Ah, why the bitter-sweet? 
 And why the bleeding feet? 
 
 God knows best. 
 
 Listen! A tolling bell 
 Sobs out its mournful knell 
 
 Over there; 
 And I know that hearts are aching- 
 Perhaps some heart is breaking- 
 Over there. 
 
 At last the clouds are lifted, 
 And sunset gold is sifted 
 
 To the plain. 
 Oh, peace for those who grieve I 
 May it come like light at eve 
 
 After rain. 
 
 Why? 
 
 I tell you how 1 feel on this or that, 
 
 As simply as a child confesses at 
 
 His mother's knee. You tease and ask me why, 
 
 Smiling down on me with quizzing eye. 
 
 I do not answei-, or I say, " because ", 
 Which is a woman's way and alwaj^s was. 
 I state a truth— a fact I know full weli: 
 The cau ;e, the " why ", I don't attempt to tell. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 IMiilosopliy ex'ijlains, vvliat t'rc I tliiiik, 
 I can resolve to causes, link by link — 
 Not what I feel. Emotion is a king 
 Tyranical. who l>ears no (luestioning. 
 
 I lay mute reason by upon the shelf, 
 Feel so and so, and cannot help myself. 
 Then, when I tell you, do not put your " Why ?" 
 Smiling down on me with your quizzing eye. 
 
 Don't You Tell. 
 
 If you have a cherished secret, 
 
 Don't you tell:— 
 Not your friend — for his tympanum 
 
 Is a bell. 
 With its echoes, wide rebounding, 
 Multiplied and far resounding, — 
 
 Don't you tell. 
 
 If, yonrself, you caiuiot keep it, 
 
 Tlien, who can? 
 Could you more expect of any other man? 
 Yet you put him, if lie tells it, 
 If he gives away or sells it, under l);ui. 
 
 Sell your gems to any buyer 
 
 In the mart: 
 Of your wealth, to feed tlie liungry. 
 
 Spare a part. 
 Blessings on tlie open pocket I 
 But your secret— keep it, lock it 
 
 In your heart. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Blackbirds. 
 
 Day after day the blackbirds came 
 And perched hi flocks on my hickory tree, 
 
 While the leaves, at first just touched witli flame. 
 Grew golden, then brown as brown could be, 
 
 And still they came in a sable shower — 
 A flittering, chattering, noisy crowd— 
 
 And I wondered, watching them hour by hour. 
 What they said when they talked so loud. 
 
 Sadly the leaves fell, one by one, 
 
 Floating, fluttering slowly down- 
 Leaves so green in the summer sun. 
 
 Now so withered, and sere, and bi-own. 
 
 The tree grew bare: I watclied one day 
 In vain— the blackbirds came no more; 
 
 And then I knew they had fled away. 
 And my sorrowful thought this burden bore: 
 
 The winds shall blow through my hickory-tree. 
 The sifting snow, and the sleety rain; 
 
 But, little I know what awaiteth me 
 Ere the leaves and the blackbirds come again' 
 
 Down Below. 
 
 They say that under the ocean waves. 
 At the feet of the rocks where ships go down. 
 
 There are halls of silence — peaceful caves, 
 Where lie the sailors whom tempests drown, 
 
 Where monsters sleep, and mermaids fair 
 
 Coml) forever their pale green hair. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER FOEMS. 
 
 Tliere is surf and I'o un when tierce winds blow, 
 Tliere is rush of billows and tluinderous roar, 
 
 Still in those chambers down below, 
 There is calm forever and evermore. 
 
 No wind, no wave; the sunk ship's mast 
 
 Is out of the tempest's reach at last. 
 
 Life is a sea — so the poet sa}^s — 
 And yet the deepest of human souls 
 
 Shows smoothest surface in stormiest days. 
 Far underneatli the wild tide rolls 
 
 Through hidden caverns in surging flow, 
 
 As the gusts of the tempest come and go. 
 
 Underneatli, perchance, a careless smile. 
 The sorest heartache lies fathoms down; 
 
 And laughter is oft but a trick of guile 
 To hide the pricks of a thorny crown, 
 
 In direst conflict no sound is heard, 
 
 And the deepest grief hath never a word. 
 
 So, a great, strong soul — wlien truth is said— 
 Is a sea whose heavings are out of sight; 
 
 It buries deepest its bestlove(^ dead, 
 And sends out bravely its "song in the night." 
 
 There are throbs of anguish, terrible throes, 
 
 Veiled bv a surface of calm repose. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Hours of Pain, 
 
 With the hot blood rushing, swelling', 
 Surging through my throbbing bniin, 
 
 Worn and weary, past the telling, 
 Nerveless in the grasp of pain. 
 
 Lean on my thorny pillow, 
 
 Strewn with torments o'er and o'er; 
 Every pulse a bursting billow, 
 
 Breaking on a tortured shore. 
 
 But there come, in soft caressing, 
 Gentle touches, loving hands; 
 
 As the soft rain drops its blessing 
 On the scorched and thirsty lands. 
 
 Tender voices, softly falling, 
 
 Drop their pity in my ear. 
 Sweet as tinkling waters, calling 
 
 O'er a desert parched and sere. 
 
 Bless youi- music, sweet young voicas— 
 Dear young hands, your soft caress 1 
 
 Pain is fierce, but love rejoices 
 In its conquering tenderness. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Harvest. 
 
 Green are tlie cornrields, the wheat is golden; 
 
 Fresh are the footprhits of radiant June; 
 Fair is tiie Eartii, with all of its olden 
 
 Noontide splendor, its midnight moon. 
 
 Night coma's slowly, witli soft hues blended, 
 Purple of twilight, and cloud-wrack dun; 
 
 Sounds and sights of the day are ended, 
 Clatter of reaper and glare of sun. 
 
 Shocks of grain in the nigiit siiow dimly, 
 Dotting tlie swells of the prairie's breast; 
 
 Down where yon headlight goes gliding grimly. 
 Courses the steed that knows no rest. 
 
 Whistle of engine, and jar of thunder, 
 Startle the silence and then are gone; 
 
 Still as before, is the valley yonder; 
 Softly as ever the stream flows on. 
 
 I tiiink. as I sit here, idly dreaming— 
 Tlie wind on my temples, the dew on my hair, 
 
 And the radiant moonbeams o'er me streaming— 
 ( )f another summer, as sweet and fair. 
 
 Then, as now, stood close together 
 Clustering slieaves on fields new shorn: 
 
 Soft, sweet winds of tlie summer weather 
 Stole through tlic ranks of dark green corn. 
 
 1 think of a night— the moonslione brightly; 
 
 I stood bare-browed at the garden gate — 
 I think of a hand on my head laid lightly. 
 
 And a voice— to me 'twas the voice of fate. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Life's sweet summer has bloomed and faded; 
 
 Sheaves have followed the red June rose: 
 Flecks of the frost in my locks are braided; 
 
 Wait I now for tlie winter snows. 
 
 Yet, oh, yet, while life shall linger— 
 Let its tides swell high, or ebb and fall— 
 
 Never shall ruthless, defacing finger 
 Touch that picture on memory's wall. 
 
 The Trail of '49. 
 
 Across the prairie where I dwell, 
 Stretches away, from swell to swell, 
 A road tiiat might a story tell. 
 
 Tlie track is wide and deeply cut 
 
 By wiieels of heavy wagons, but 
 
 The rank grass grows in seam and rut. 
 
 'Tis the old trail of "Forty-Nine ;" — 
 Thus history, in graven line, 
 
 Has stamped this prairie home of mine. 
 
 Tlie years have passed witli snow and rain-f 
 And mighty fi'ost^ upheaved— in vain — 
 For still this track shows clear and plain. 
 
 Tracing it wliere it winds away, 
 Tiiere comes to me at twilight gray, 
 A vision of another day. 
 
 I see the covered wagons go, 
 
 Across the prairie tolling slow, 
 
 Tlirough the dreary storm, through summer glow< 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 I see tliem with tlieii- human freight — 
 Hearts tlirobbinj? high witli hope elate — 
 Pass onward to a doubtful fate. 
 
 Months pass: a weary, jaded train. 
 Worn with fatigue, disease and pain. 
 Creeps slowlj' o'er a desert plain. 
 
 Above, a cloudless, burning skj^: 
 Below, naught greets the weary eye. 
 Save wastes of sand and alkali. 
 
 No rain descends, no water flows; 
 
 No copl trees bend, no green thing grows; 
 
 Yet still that sad train onward goes. 
 
 Fatigue and thirst! No tongue can tell 
 Tlie victim's anguish, fierce and fell— 
 His fondest dream a bul)bling well. 
 
 And some go mad and wildly rave: 
 Some And what, at the last, they crav(\ 
 The silence of a desert grave. 
 
 Tlie living speak in husky tones: 
 
 The poor brutes drop with piteous moans: 
 
 The track is paved willi bleaching bones. 
 
 Still onward — slower and more slow — 
 
 Dogged nightly by a stealthy foe, 
 
 Toward mountain passes chocked with snow. 
 
 One sleeps, to dream of home and wife: 
 He wakes, at call to midnight strife 
 With tomahawk and scalping knife. 
 
 Past perils, miseries untold. 
 
 Past desert heat, past mountains cold, 
 
 What waits them in the land of gokr:* 
 
146 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Go, search a checkered history 
 Of soon-g'ot hoards, as soon to flee, 
 Of prhicely wealth and poverty. 
 
 Dark tales of crime, of murders fell, 
 Of drunken brawl, of gambling liell — 
 Good chroniclers have told them well. 
 
 Go, search them all, through evei-y line- 
 Yet deign to read tliis tale of mine, 
 Of the old trail of " Forty-ISIine." 
 
 Hazard. 
 
 A strange and a wonderful thing is our mortal life! 
 Strange in its troubled joy, in its secret strife; 
 Strange in its helpless groping for hidden light. 
 With each step forward only a step in the night. 
 
 FTope is a siren that lures with a deceitful smile, 
 Warbles bewitching strains witli lier lips of guile, 
 Sings of to-morrow's pleasure, to-morrow's gain; 
 But the gain oft proves but loss, and the pleasure pain, 
 
 Caught is many a foot in a silken snare; 
 Ploughed is m uiy a heart by a golden share; 
 Many a harvest of pain is in pleasure sown. 
 Watered by secret tears and in silence mown. 
 
 A curse may lurk in the palm of a soft white hand; 
 Many a life is wrecked on a gleaming strand. 
 Fair is the Danger Isle, with her emerald shore; 
 But tlie ship tliat treads her rocks returns no more. 
 
 Fair is the sail tliat floats o'er a rippling sea; 
 Sweet is love's thrilling strain, sung tenderly; 
 But dire the wreck that parts on tlie pitiless wave, 
 And the sad song tliat is sung at an open grave. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Bright is many a morn that soon clouds o'er; 
 Dark is tlie sullen noun, with its angry roar: 
 Dark is the sullen noon, and the night is black: 
 And our stricken trea-;ures lie in the lightning's track 
 
 Vainly we seek to pierce the dark Unknown: 
 Vainly implore of Silence an answering tone: 
 A^ainly we ask of Fate her scroll to lend; 
 One thing only is sure— that death is not the end. 
 
 A Morning Call. 
 
 Come in and welcome, tiny thing, 
 With snowy breast and soft brown wing, 
 
 And beak of tawny line. 
 But why, I pray, this wild alarmV 
 I will not let you come to harm: 
 
 I'm fond of such as you. 
 
 Stop, little bird! you foolish thingi 
 Why will you beat your tender wing 
 
 Again.st the cruel pane? 
 I do the same myself; I fret 
 Against the bonds about me set, 
 
 And tlnd it all in vain. 
 
 I cannot make you understand. 
 Wait -I will take you in my hand, 
 
 And put you through tlie door. 
 You precious, panting little mite! 
 The cat would eat you at a l)ite 
 
 And lick his jaws for more. 
 
 He shall not have you, nor will I. 
 Keep you from yonder clear blue sky. 
 There! soar where 'er you list. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 To cage a bird breaks Nature's laws; 
 And then I am and always was 
 An abolitionist. 
 
 Go, find your mate; she waits for you 
 Somewliere in yonder fields of blue, 
 
 Or on some swaying bough. 
 Tell her you got into a scrape, 
 But made a fortunate escape — 
 
 And please just tell her how. 
 
 You might have met a prisoner's doom, 
 Wlien you c.une blundering to my room; 
 
 Yet I have set you free. 
 Then, sometimes fold your wee brown wing 
 Upon my hickory tree, and sing 
 
 Your sweetest songs to me. 
 
 Love, and Hate. 
 
 Althougli a thousand leagues two hearts divide, 
 Tliat love has joined, the gulf is not so great 
 
 As that twixt two, who, dwelling side by side 
 Behold between, the black abyss of Hate. 
 
 Indiana. 
 
 On the death of Mrs. Indiana Demerritt, of Aztalaa, 
 Wisconsin. 
 
 Underfoot the grass is springing, 
 
 All the earth is smiling sweet; 
 Overhead the birds are singing 
 
 Joyful things each other greet: 
 While they lay thee down to rest 
 With thy babe upon thy breast, 
 
 Indiana. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 149 
 
 Softly murmurs yoiiflei- river, 
 
 irazel-bordcred. down the dell, 
 While, with mournful sob and quiver, 
 
 Slowly, slowly, tolls the bell, 
 Voice of bird, or bLdl, or stream 
 Shall not break thy i)eac8ful dream, 
 
 Indiana. 
 
 Aching hearts are throbbing, swelling. 
 
 With a deep and heavy pain: 
 Dreasts are heaving, tears are welling, 
 
 Falling on tlie sod, like rain. 
 S.idly tolls the village bell - 
 Tolls each aching heart as well. 
 
 Indiana. 
 
 Quiet lives have most of beauty, 
 
 XoLseless goodne.ss most endears. 
 Mother-love and wifely duty 
 
 Leave behind them saddest tears; 
 And the world can never know 
 Why thy dear ones miss thee so, 
 
 Indiana. 
 
 Drear the room-; that late did iiold thee. 
 
 Where thy footsteps went and came: 
 Arm? are empty that did fold thee. 
 
 Lips are white tliat spoke thy name. 
 Gone tliy smile, tliy gentle grace — 
 All, thy liome's an empty place, 
 
 Indiana. 
 
 Wliere thy silent form reposes. 
 
 Creeping mos.ses, eglantine, 
 Glossy vines and summer roses, 
 
 Loving luinds sliall .sadly twine. 
 Yet the fragrant blooms shall fall 
 O'er a sweeter flower tlian all — 
 
 Indiana. 
 
150 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Still and deep shall be thy slumber, 
 Lying witli thy head so low; 
 
 Nauglit shall fret, no care shall cumber, 
 While the seasons come and go. 
 
 Fallen flower, with severed stem, 
 
 Tlius I sing thy requiem, 
 
 Indiana. 
 
 Carrier's Address. 
 
 MDLXXV. 
 
 Hearken, kind friends. Upon this New Year's day, 
 
 While hand gra-ips hand with warm and friendly grip. 
 
 And joyful greetings leap from lip to lip, 
 
 Scorn not to hear the little 1 shall say; 
 
 For, call it what you will - a speech or song — 
 
 I promise one thing: it shall not be long. 
 
 To hold before you the historic roll 
 Of seventy-four I don't pretend to try, 
 (You know the record quite as well as I) 
 Nor yet to open up the sealed scroll 
 Of seventy-five. I could not if I would. 
 And, what is more, I would not if I could. 
 
 Evil, catastrophe, may loom ahead. 
 
 Close wrapped in shadows. What would be the gain, 
 
 If one could strip them naked? Naught but pain. 
 
 We bear an evil twice which once we dread; 
 
 And as to good, to be most full, complete. 
 
 There must be some surprise to spice the sweer. 
 
 Some things have happened, and some others will, 
 
 No doubt. I ofl'er you these sage reflections. 
 
 Instead of going over the elections, 
 
 xVnd wailing over past and future ill. 
 
 The old year buried, vain regrets should cease, 
 
 While welcome we the New with songs of peace. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 ■^riit' world moves on: barred is the liackward track 
 With debris of the ages. Time sweeps by, — 
 The months, the days, the moments,— noiselessly: 
 And always, always onward, never back. 
 Time hath no ebbs; its tides tlow steadily, 
 Ever, forever, toward a slioreles.s sea. 
 
 The past is buried; rake not up tlie sod 
 
 For mouldering bones, nor water it with tears. 
 
 Along with buried hopes let buried fears 
 
 Rest in darkness. Merciful the clod 
 
 Whicli hides what it were pain to look upon— 
 
 The " might have beeiis", the good deeds left uiiilone. 
 
 Let the dead sleep: the present lives, we know: 
 To grapple tliat is all. None ever may 
 Do aught of good or evil yesterday. 
 Its tale is told and ended— let it go. 
 And, for to-morrow, nt)t yet need we bear 
 (Perchance we never need) its grief and care. 
 
 The days go by,— how swift their living feet! 
 The year just born will soon be old and gray. 
 And down the swallowing past be swept away. 
 And this poor life— so dear, so frail and lleet— 
 Is made but of such quickly vanished years, 
 Knds with a pall, a grave, and mourners' tears. 
 
 The days go by; we cannot stay their flight. 
 But he who fills them fullest as they fly, 
 His year is longest — since 'tis measured by 
 What it contains. Fourscore were but a night. 
 Live in a dungeon; and scarce more it seems. 
 Wasted \n trifling, or in emi)ty dreams. 
 
152 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Fourscore. 
 
 Sire with the silver hair, 
 Shrunlven wliose features are, 
 
 Wliy dost thou weep? 
 Sad art thou, weary one, 
 Nearing tlie set of sun, 
 Tliat thy work nobly done, 
 
 Ends with a sleep! 
 
 Clieer tliese; thy hands are worn, 
 Bleeding tliy feet and torn; — 
 
 Wouldst thou not rest? 
 On yonder Silent Shore 
 Soundeth no battle-roar; 
 Tliere sliall fierce storms no more 
 
 Beat on thy breast. 
 
 Struggle and toil and cai-e, 
 Sure thou hast borne thy sliare; 
 
 Strength is but let. 
 Young limbs are strong and free, 
 Young slioulders take from thee 
 Loads tliat weigh heavily.— 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 Under cool grasses sweet, 
 Creeping at head and feet, 
 
 Tluis Shalt thou sleep. 
 Under the autumn glow, 
 Under the winter snow. 
 Never a pang to know — 
 
 Why dost thou weep? 
 
 After the peaceful night 
 Cometh the fadeless lights 
 (Hope of the just). 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 After the sword and shield, 
 Palms shall the victor wield. 
 Count it, then, gain to yield 
 Dust unto dust. 
 
 Fame. 
 
 Thou who canst rouse, by power of song, 
 
 The heart of the throng. 
 
 See thou stir not its lowest deep. 
 
 Wake not the chords that are best asleep, 
 Lest echoes fell 
 
 Shall vex thine ear and atfriglit thy soul. 
 
 Lest the praise which is blame — which shall work the dole- 
 Shall around thee swell. 
 
 Fame is like wine— a cup to sip 
 
 With temperate lip. 
 Taste the sparkles that bead the rim, 
 It shall quicken the blood through brain and limb; 
 
 But, drain it dry, 
 Thou shall age in heart while young in years; 
 Thou slialt learn what heartaches, sighs and tears 
 
 In the bottom lie. 
 
 The Fate of a (ieniiis. 
 
 Among the Xew York hills, in a land of snow and sleet, 
 ^Vhere the folks plow down to hard-pan to sow their rye and 
 
 wheat. 
 Where the children ciimlj the steeps as they trudge away to 
 
 school, 
 There dwelt a toiling genius, whom his neighbors called a 
 
 fool. 
 
154 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The puzzle and the wonder of all the country town, 
 
 His name was— well, nomatter— suppose we call him Brown. 
 
 His form was bowed and shaky, he talked with hollow 
 
 sound; 
 And when he walked he always kept his eyes upon the 
 
 ground. 
 
 He had daughters, he had sons, and to them did this befall: 
 
 From the good folks in the Bible he named them, one and 
 all. 
 
 They were Abraham and Jacob, Matthew, Mark and Jere- 
 miah, 
 
 Tliere were Rachel and Rebecca, Peter, Job and Hezekiah. 
 
 Tliey lived and grew in spite of the an'jient names they 
 
 bore; 
 They ate — when they could get it— and swarmed about the 
 
 door, 
 Like other people's children; yet shadows o'er them hung, 
 And oft were they assailed by the scorn of taunting tongue. 
 
 I have told you liow the neighbors said their father was a 
 
 fool, 
 And thus on their young heads fell the shafts of ridicule. 
 They wei-e ragged and neglected, their days were glum and 
 
 drear. 
 With their mother always sad, and their father was always 
 
 poor. 
 
 And this was wluit did ail him: he had a settled notion 
 That he was called and sent to invent perpetual motion. 
 This was his one idea; and so it came to pass, 
 That his children oft went hungry and his farming went — 
 to grass. 
 
 He shut himself apart, witli bolts and bars and screens, 
 In a dingy little den, where he built his droll machines. 
 Unearthly combinations beneath his hands did grow; 
 But one tiling always ailed them— 'twas this, they wouldn't 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 155 
 
 The wife (poor woman I) died. She had l3ome the load of 
 
 two; 
 But her weary work was over, her cheerless journey through. 
 Tlie children, one by one, left the ancestral door, 
 With their odd and ancient names for their only stock and 
 
 store. 
 
 Still the old man toiled and pondered. His hair grew thin 
 
 and gray; 
 Lower lie stooped and lower, as the years they slipped away; 
 lie poorer grew and poorer, till not a cent he liad; 
 And his eye grew mildand milder; — at last old Brown went 
 
 mad. 
 
 lUit his madness had its method. And his darkened brain 
 Still groped the one idea that had been his curse and bane. 
 In a dazed and absent fashion he talked of wheels and 
 
 bands. 
 And whittled wooden pulleys with his long and bony hands. 
 
 The poor old man lay dying;— 'twas a stormy winter night; 
 0"er his forehead, cold and damp, strayed his locks so thin 
 
 and white. 
 As his feet slipped down the Ijaiik where the silent river 
 
 flows. 
 He smiled and faintly whispered,— "I've got it— now it 
 
 goes ! " 
 
WALLS OF CORX AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Unbelief, 
 
 O ye who stand aloft oa Pisgah's mountain, 
 And view witli kindling gaze far fields of bliss, 
 
 Condemn not him who sits at Marah's fountain. 
 Or wanders blindl\' through the wilderness. 
 
 And ye who sail, calm hands of faith uplifting. 
 
 By chart and compass, witli your port in sight, 
 Olpity him who floats, bewildered, drifting. 
 
 Upon an unknown sea, amid tlie night. 
 
 A glorious thing is faith— that scales the mountain: 
 That rides secure where unbelief must sink. 
 
 Ye say tliere pours for all a ceaseless fountain: 
 Yet— pity him that thirsts and cannot drink. 
 
 Ye offer him your creed; he asks -'Whence is it^ 
 From heaven, or of men?'" and to your grief, 
 
 He doubts and questions, and at last denies it. 
 Is he to blame? Can one compel belief? 
 
 Condemn him not. His feet are bruised and weary 
 With wandering to and fro: his aching breast. 
 
 So sore with longing: in the darkness dreary 
 He gropes for light, and prays in vain for rest. 
 
 But, if he say: I will stop here, and hither 
 AVill I bring all my lilocks and build my tower. 
 
 And will not, henceforth, wander auy-wliither — 
 He rests — but ceases thinking from that hour. 
 
 Better to wander, still, a little season — 
 Better to drift at night on unknown seas — 
 
 Tlian rest in creeds untried by test of reason- 
 Better the doubter's pain than stagnant ease. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 157 
 
 A 3Iessage. 
 
 I sit in the twilight, thinking; 
 
 The full round moon ride.s high, 
 And a single .star its silvery lamp 
 
 Hangs out in the tinted si^y 
 
 The loud, wild winds are sleeping, 
 But a breeze on the highlands born, 
 
 Just stirs tlie stalks of the withered grass, 
 Just rustles the hoary corn. 
 
 The silent frost comes creeping 
 
 Over the prairie's breast, 
 And the deepening night, with dusky wing, 
 
 Broods over a land at lest. 
 
 Still I sit here, sadly tliinking, 
 
 Oh! dear ones, kind and true! 
 From out the hush of the silent night 
 
 My heart would speak to you. 
 
 I call across the darkness, 
 
 In eager, passionate tone: 
 I reach out longingly to touch 
 
 Tiie hands tliat have clasped my own. 
 
 P.ut alas! two mighty rivers 
 Mock at my outstretched hand; 
 
 Two mighty rivers lie between, 
 And many a league of land. 
 
 Vainly I call; and the distance 
 
 Vainly I seek to span: 
 You lieed not, hear not, my eager words. 
 
 And they neither bless nor ban. 
 
158 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Lo! a bit of snow-white paperl 
 Some magic shall give it wings; — 
 
 I trow such messages as this 
 Have shaken thrones of kings. 
 
 It shall cleave the night and the silence, 
 It shall flutter clown to your feet; 
 
 Ye shall know the love in my heart of hearts- 
 Thus sundered souls do greet. 
 
 At the Garden Gate. 
 
 A summer night, and late, 
 In the full splendor of a harvest moon. 
 
 They stood at the garden gate — 
 Two, singing the old, old tune! 
 
 They sang it low. 
 With voices falling oft to whispers sweet— 
 
 The notes all know. 
 
 Ah, life — mere life— was sweet 
 To those two, leaning on the garden gatel 
 
 There did their two roads meet, 
 Thenceforth but one— one hope, one fate. 
 
 No shadow lies 
 Amid the moonbeams on her golden hair, 
 
 Nor in her lifted eyes. 
 
 Sweet love and trust! 
 So fresh, so beautiful when life is young, 
 
 So often crushed ! 
 How sped the low, sweet song on that niglit sung? 
 
 Swift flew the years. 
 Bringing life's burdens on their pauseless wings, 
 
 Its smiles and tears. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 159 
 
 But the same love, through all, 
 Burned on ni steady trust, in fadeless ray. 
 
 Now crept along the wall 
 Sliadows tiiat told the waning of the day. 
 
 Harvests had come and gone, 
 One after one, in cycles ever new — 
 
 Old age crept on. 
 
 Once more, in the summer weather, 
 They leaned upon the same old garden gate — 
 
 Leaned, as of old, together— 
 The harvest moon resplendent, night, and late. 
 
 The old eyes met, 
 As in that other moonlight, long ago — 
 
 Witli sweet tears wet. 
 
 '' My love," lie faltered, 
 Laying his hand upon her whitened hair: 
 
 The voice was altered, 
 With little breaks and quavers, here and there — 
 
 " My love, 'twas long ago ! 
 I did believe thee loving, pure and sweet, 
 
 l^>ut now I know. 
 
 '• My sweet wife, you and I 
 Have shared much grief, and many precious boons: 
 
 But lo. tlie end is nigli! 
 We shall not watch through liiany harvest moons 
 
 The pale light quiver; 
 Pray, darling, that we clasp immortal hands 
 
 Beyond the river." 
 
160 AVALLS OF CORM AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Night Lamp. 
 
 It is a summer midnight— silent hour! 
 
 The stars loolc down upon a world at rest; 
 Closed are bright eyes, and closed the morning flower; 
 
 Night holds to earth her dewy forehead prest. 
 
 The village sleeps— upon the painted walls, 
 And on the graveled walks and roofs of brown, 
 
 Through old and hoary trees ttie moonlight falls, 
 In tangled, trembling net-work creeping down. 
 
 The village sleeps— yet yonder gleams a liglit, 
 Prom out a narrow door, wide open flung. 
 
 Sickly and wan, it sends into the night 
 A tale of woe upon its mournful tongue. 
 
 What is it that it tells? The village sleeps- 
 Sweet childhood smiles to bright dreams flitting o er; 
 
 Love nestles in soft arms, but sorrow weeps! 
 Death stands relentless in that open door. 
 
 A woman kneels beside a lowly bed — 
 A woman humbly clad, and old and gray; 
 
 Here lies her own, her ail. and he is dead I 
 To midnight such as this, when comes the day? 
 
 Not in this world! The touch of dewy morn 
 Shall wake from its soft sleep the silent town; 
 
 But till the day that never sets is born. 
 On this old heart is midnight folded down! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A Little Longer. 
 
 A little longerthe winds shall blow 
 From tlie still white billows of frozen seas,-- 
 Sliall shriek through the branches of naked trees, 
 
 And heap tlie valleys with liills of snow. 
 
 A little longerthe land shall lie, 
 Corpse-like, silent, wrapped in a shroud, 
 Wliile storms hold wake like a drunken crowd, 
 
 A tierce, wild rout— but the end is nigli. 
 
 A deatliless heart in a frozen breast, 
 Far out of the reach of frost or storm. 
 Throbs with a beat as soft and warm 
 
 As the pulse of a babe in its rosy rest. 
 
 A little longer the vvintei'-night — 
 The silent sleeper shall wake at morn, — 
 Shall wake and sing, with joy new-born, 
 
 Wreatlied witli violets, crowned witli light. 
 
 Looking out over wastes of snow. 
 Vast and boundless, — a realm of death. — 
 We long for the south-wind's gentle breath, 
 
 For carol of birds, and for water's flow. 
 
 A little longer to feel the sting 
 Of the creeping frost, and against the blast 
 To close our doors and bolt tliem fast- 
 Then to fling them wide at the touch of .Spring! 
 
 O days of sorrow I O Storms of Fate! 
 Could we see the end, when clouds hang low, 
 As we see tlie Spring through the Winter's snow. 
 
 And know it would come— we well could wait! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Old Butternut Tree. 
 
 It stood by the old front ^ate— oh, long ago. — 
 Braving the summer storm and the winter snow; 
 And fresh among memory's treasures, so dear to me, 
 Stands in peri^etual greenness that ancient tree. 
 
 Ont on the roadside green, where passing feet 
 Turned to its wide-spread shiide from the dusty street, 
 And laughing children, loitering home from scliool. 
 Sought, witli their cheeks atlame, its sliadows cool. 
 
 Here gathered the early birds, and built and sung; 
 The oriole's cunning nest from the branches swung; 
 Its broad arms sheltered from the noontide's l)laze; 
 And tlie nuts dropped on the turf in the autumn days. 
 
 In summer eves, when wori<: was laid away. 
 And rest and coolness ended the sultry day, 
 When up the west tlie sunset unrolled its gold. 
 Like billows of gorgeous sea, fold over fold, 
 
 Tlien gathered the hou-;ehold band about the knee 
 
 Of the old Butternut, the homestead tree 
 
 They watched till the glow went out and dews came down, 
 
 And the moon wore up the east her silver crown. 
 
 All were togather then:wliere are they now? 
 The world is wide, as the sundered dear ones know; 
 And children, cradled on one mother's breast. 
 Scattered, like eaglets from their mountain nest. 
 
 The brothers are bearded men, and threads of gray 
 Whiten the clustering locks from day to day. 
 Each lights his household tire— so must it be — 
 While strangers sit in thesliade of the dear old tree. 
 
 Bu<^;one sleeps on the hill, one far away. 
 
 And the gray-haired sire has lain, this many a day, 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Hy llieside of the moMier who sang sweet lullabies, 
 And followed our childish feet with her oentle eyes. 
 
 A t>eueratiou has passed and been laid away; 
 
 But tin? dear old roadside tree stands there to-day. 
 
 Hoary, iopiod, and scared by many a storm. 
 
 Yet the summers still veil with leaves its battered form. 
 
 Still sti-v'am^ throu.:.,'h the broken boughs the sunset rays; 
 Still drop the nuts on the turf in the autumn days; 
 But the olden joys can never comeback to me, 
 And tli.» household go^l-^ have flawn the homestead tree. 
 
 The Pitv of it. 
 
 It seems so strange to watch the crowd 
 That gathers on some festal day, 
 
 To mark tiie lowly and the proud. 
 Aglow with mirth, and think th.it they 
 Are but a throng of ni;is(iuers gay. 
 
 'Tis true that some show signs of grief; 
 Yon sad-eyed widow wears her weeds: 
 
 Yon mother mourns her fallen leaf, 
 And tells you how her bo>om bleeds. 
 
 Yon soldier, battered in the wars, 
 Moving with painful step, a;id slow, 
 
 Limp^ proudly, proudly weari his scars:— 
 Such liurts as these all men may know. 
 
 But deeper sorrow, keener throes, 
 Are hidden by a careless smile, 
 And laughter on the lips the while 
 
 The heart is torn and no one knows. 
 
 The pity of this earthly life 
 Is, that the deepest heartaciies lie 
 Beyond the reach of sympathy; 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Tlie sorest wounds are got in strife 
 
 Waged in tlie dark, where none may see, 
 
 Oft hiding still the rankling knife 
 That tortures with slow misery, 
 
 I see my neiglibor come and go 
 With airy speech and smiling lip; 
 
 I call him gay— I little know 
 
 What unseen hand, with deadly grip 
 
 Clutches liis heart, wliat tortures slow 
 Wears out his life, while borne alone, 
 As ceaseless dropping wears a stone. 
 
 If floods destroy, if flres consume, 
 Full hands reach out in charity; 
 
 Across misfortune's darkest gloom 
 Shine kindly rays of sympathy: 
 
 If a friend dies a tolling bell 
 
 May to the world the story tell. 
 
 But deeper griefs than these there be— 
 
 Tlie deatli's head in the closet hid 
 Is ghastlier than the still white face. 
 Or the cold hands, in waxen grace 
 
 Lying beneath the cottin lid. 
 
 A living woe from mortal eyes 
 Is curtained close; the direst strife 
 
 Is in tlie breast — And herein lies 
 The pity of tliis earthly life. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 165 
 
 A Home out West. 
 
 I 
 A '"rrairie .schocuer."' creeping slow; 
 Away-worn, jaded household band, 
 In eager voices speaking low- 
 Thus enter we the "Promised land." 
 Behind us now the river's tide, 
 Rolls dai'k and murk, deep and wide. 
 ***** 
 
 II 
 
 A warm May day; a sweet soft rain 
 
 On a green prairie falling fast; 
 A stopping of tl»e creeping wa<ie. 
 
 And the glad cry, "we are home at last," 
 After long weeks of travel sore, 
 The goal is won; we ask no more. 
 
 Ilomel With our roof the dripping sky, 
 Our rtoor the rainsoaked prairie's breast I 
 
 Through all tlie wastes that round us lie, 
 In wild, luxuriant verdure dressed, 
 
 No tree extends its friendly bough. 
 
 We seek no track of spade or plow. 
 
 * « * * * 
 
 III 
 
 A year lias tied. What wondrous change 
 Has passed this way? Wliat sorcery, 
 
 What silent magic, swift and strange, 
 Has wrought such wonders'? Come and see! 
 
 Where are the green wastes, soaked with rain? 
 You seek them? You shall seek in vain. 
 
 Spring smiles again: the sunbeams play 
 On gabled roof and crystal pane. 
 
WALLrS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Spring smiles again; and skies of May 
 
 Bend o'er broad fields of waving grain. 
 Here are young orchards; and the breeze 
 Bends the lithe limbs of forest trees. 
 
 The spring rains beat on snowy walls, 
 Comely, though plain, snug built and strong; 
 
 Through vine wreathed windows sunshine falls, 
 With cheerful smile, the whole day long; 
 
 And happy faces, fresh and bright, 
 Are gathered around the lamps at night. 
 
 Our prairie home is sweet and dear; 
 
 The deep rich soil holds honest wealth, 
 The airs we breathe are pure and clear; 
 
 The free, stroag winds w.ift life and health. 
 Here dwells content from day to day; 
 So— let the great world go its way 
 
 BtaLitifuI Things. 
 
 Beautiful faces are those tliat wear — 
 It matters little if dark or fair — 
 Whole-souled honesty printed there. 
 
 Beautiful eyes are those that show, 
 
 Like crystal panes where hearth flres glow, 
 
 Beautiful thoughts that burn below. 
 
 Beautiful lips are those whose words 
 Leap from the heart like songs of birds, 
 Yet whose utterances prudence girds. 
 
 Beautiful hands are those that do 
 Work that is earnest, brave and true, 
 Moment by moment the long day through. 
 
Beautiful lives are those that bless— 
 
 Silent rivers and happiness, 
 
 Whose hidden fountains few may guess. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 167 
 
 Beautiful feet are those that go 
 On timely ministries to and fro — 
 Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so. 
 
 Beautiful shoulders are those that bear 
 
 Ceaseless burdens of homely care 
 
 With patient grace and witii daily prayer. 
 
 Beautiful lives are those that bless 
 
 Silent rivers and happiness, 
 
 Whose hidden fountains but few may guess. 
 
 Beautiful twilight, at set of sun, 
 Beautiful goal with race well run, 
 Beautiful rest, with work well done. 
 
 Beautiful graves, where grasses creep, 
 Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep 
 Over worn out liaud-;— oh, beautiful sleep. 
 
 Discontent. 
 
 Ilei'ein is human nature most perverse: 
 We spurn the gifts that lie about our door, 
 
 Tread on them in our scorn, and madly nurse 
 A gnawing hunger that still cries for more. 
 
 And this for mortals all life's blessing mars, 
 Turning to bitterness its offered sweet. 
 
 We climb up dizzy crags to grasp the stars, 
 While unplucked roses bloom about our feet. 
 
 The stars are out of reacli: the slippery steeps 
 Prove treacherous footholds, and we trip and fall. 
 
 Crushed are the roses; disappointment weeps 
 O'er bleeding bruises: and that ends it all. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 We stretch our empty arms with longhig sore, 
 To clasp the mocking pliantom of a dream: 
 
 We paat with thirst while standi ag on a shore 
 Kissed by the ripples of a living stream. 
 
 From sweet, pure waters do we turn aside. 
 
 Lured by false fountains in the desert gray: 
 We chase a vision o'er expanses wide 
 
 To find it grow more distant, day by day. 
 
 Why do we so? (Jauld we but learn to take, 
 With thankful hearts, the blessings at our hand. 
 
 To drink near springs, nor chase the phantom lake 
 That swiftly vanishes along the sand! 
 
 Suppose we gain our quest; suppose we taste — 
 
 Aye, even drink our fill, with lips afire- 
 Repentant leisure treads the heels of haste: 
 In sad, remorseful tears ends fierce desire. 
 
 Life is to short to waste in vain pursuit 
 
 Of swift deliglit that through the linger slips, 
 Or, caught and Iield, oft proves a l^ead Sea fruit, 
 That turns to bitter ashes on the lips. 
 
 (icjitle Spring. 
 
 These are signs of gentle spring: 
 Flocks of wild geese on the wing. 
 Flying in a brolcen string; 
 
 Brooks that tumble, roar and rush, 
 Sinking drifts, and piles of slush, 
 And a universal mush. 
 
 Woman with a draggled dress. 
 Puddles tluit seem bottomless, 
 Roads all ditto— such a mess! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 169 
 
 Horses floaader, loaded down; 
 Swearing- driver— been to town — 
 Curses, plunges -overthrown! 
 
 Fancy sleighs for sale at cost, 
 Balmy breezes, nipping frost, 
 Wild march mornings, tempest-tossed. 
 
 Robins, bluebirds, sleet and snow, 
 Icy winds, and sunny glow— 
 What comes next you never know. 
 
 Sounds of coughs and choking wheezes. 
 And of loud, spasmodic sneezes, 
 Mingle with the straying breezes. 
 
 Handkerchiefs are bought and sold 
 
 By the dozen, I am told. 
 
 Question — '■ Have you had your cold V " 
 
 Come, ye singers, rise and sing! 
 Poets, tune your eveiy string 
 For an ode to gentle spring. 
 
 The Sleeping Village. 
 
 Tlie village sleeps; the maonb.'ams fall. 
 Pale, still, and cold, on roof and wall, 
 
 And flood the empty street. 
 How still! The dust lies all unstirred; 
 No sound of rolling wheels is heard, 
 
 No tread of pas.ung feet. 
 
 Wliere traftic hurried to and fro. 
 Only the night-winds come and go. 
 
 Whirling the dead leaves by. 
 The cold lake laps its pebbled shore; 
 And round each closely bolted door 
 
 The frost creeps silently. 
 
170 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The village sleeps — O blessed rest! 
 With hard hands folded on its breast, 
 
 Lies overburdened Toil; 
 Grief smiles in dreams, its woe forgot; 
 Pale want forgets its dreary lot; 
 
 The springs of Care uncoil. 
 
 The fevers that infest the day 
 Yield to the night, and sink away 
 
 To pulse soft and even. 
 E'en Joy is still; Love nestles deep 
 In clasping arms, whose touch makes sleep 
 
 A calm as sweet as heaven. 
 
 The night grows deeper; colder falls 
 The moonlight on the silent walls; 
 
 Still creeps the stealthy frost; 
 And deeper grows the calm of rest 
 In throbbing brain and troubled breast 
 
 By day so passion-tost. 
 
 O blessings priceless, Night and SleepI 
 Did never close the eyes that weep: 
 
 Did struggle never cease; 
 Did ne'er the balm of Rest come down 
 Upon the weary, toiling town — 
 
 Then death were sole release. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER FOEMS. 
 
 A Dirge. 
 
 The wind of autuiiiii blows, 
 
 So cold, so cold ; 
 
 The wind of autumn blows, 
 
 Dead is the summer rose, 
 
 And the withered ^rass lies rotting on the mould. 
 
 The trost creeps round the door. 
 
 So still, so still; 
 
 Tlie frost creeps round the door, 
 
 The cricket sings no more, 
 
 No more at twilight pleads the whip-po-wil. 
 
 But 1 hear the owlet's cry, 
 
 Forlorn, forlorn; 
 
 I hear the owlet's cry, 
 
 When the waning moon is high, 
 
 And tlie raccoon's greedy call among the corn. 
 
 I mourn the summer dead. 
 
 So soon, so soon; 
 
 I mourn the summer dead, 
 
 With all its glory lied, 
 
 As I stand beneath the frosty waning moon. 
 
 And I think how life is going — 
 
 So fast, so fast. 
 
 I think how life is going. 
 
 How swift its tides are tlowing, 
 
 How we scarcely liail our summsr, ere '^is past. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Old Stone Quarry. 
 
 Grown with grass and with tangled weeds, 
 Where the bMnd mole hides and the rabbit feeds, 
 And, unmolested, the serpent breeds. 
 
 Edged with underwood, newly grown, 
 
 Draped with the cloak that the years have thrown 
 
 Eound the broken gaps in the jagged stone. 
 
 It was oi>ened — I know not how long ago — 
 
 Opened, and left half-worked, and so 
 
 In this ragged hollow the rank weeds grow. 
 
 Why lies it idle, tliis beautiful stone? 
 
 Ho, for the pickaxe! One by one 
 
 Hew out these blocks— here is work undone. 
 
 There are po.>sibIe towers in this serpent's den- 
 Possible homes for homeless men. 
 Who shall build tliem? and where? and when? 
 
 Must they lie here still, unmarked, unsought- 
 Turrets and temples, uncarved, uiiwrought. 
 Till the end of time? 'Tis a sorrowful thought! 
 
 All through the heats of the summer hours. 
 The wild bee hums in the unplucked flowers 
 That creep and bloom over unbuilt towers. 
 
 As I sit here, perched on the grass-grown wall, 
 Down to the hollow the brown leaves fall, 
 Little by little covering all. 
 
 So month after month, and year after year, 
 The rank weeds creep and the leaves turn sere. 
 And a thicker mantle is weaving here. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 173 
 
 And ;i day may come when the passer-by, 
 Tlireadiiig the underwood, then grown liigh, 
 Sliall see l)ut a htjUovv, wliere dead leaves lie. 
 
 There are human souls that seem to me 
 Like this unwrought stone — for all you see — 
 Is a shapeless quarry of what might be, 
 
 Lying idle, and overgrown 
 
 With tangled weeds, lilve this beautiful stone — 
 
 Possible worlc left undone. 
 
 Possible victories left unwon. 
 
 And that is a waste that is worse than this; 
 SharpiM- the edge of the hidden abyss, 
 Deadlier serpents crawl and hiss. 
 
 And a day shall come when tlie desolate scene, 
 Though scanned by eyes that are close and keen, 
 Shall show no trace of its " might have been." 
 
 Departed. 
 
 I sat one day at the door of a tomb. 
 
 In from the stir of the busy street, 
 I entered a house, in whose every room 
 
 Were viewless prints of departed feet. 
 
 All was familiar: the light shone througli 
 On books and tables, on pictured wall; 
 
 They were well known objects that met my view. 
 Yet a shadowy change was over them all. 
 
 With aching heart and with starting tear, 
 
 I longed for glances I did not meet. 
 For a woman's voice that I did not liear, 
 
 Kor a loving hand-clasp, warm and sweet. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Radiant eyes where the true lieart shone; 
 
 Light feet speeding at duty's call; 
 Hands so busy: — (their worl<: is done) 
 
 Tongue cannot tell how I miss them all. 
 
 I miss them all; and I miss as well 
 Tlie household darling, the maiden mild; 
 
 Her music that charmed with its magic spell; 
 The winsome ways of a happy child. 
 
 O earnest matron! O maiden sweet. 
 
 My heart would ache and the tears would come, 
 As I turned again to the busy street, 
 
 Saying but little— for grief is dumb. 
 
 Niglit and Sleep. 
 
 The night is long, fori cannot sleep. 
 
 No midnight sorrow maizes me weep, 
 
 But I "count a hundred" and tlien "count two," 
 
 And no sort of use— for its wild tattoo 
 
 My pulse Iceeps beating. There must be 
 
 Something uncommon that's ailing nie. 
 
 There's a rush and a tramp through my throbbing brain; 
 Such wonderful thoughts— in endless train- 
 Come in crowds, and, link into link, 
 They tangle so, wliile I think and think! 
 Now they marcli to some doleful rhyme, 
 And then witli dizzying step keep time. 
 
 How loud tlie clock goes ! tick, and tick. 
 With a little ring after every click; 
 And now it strikes — the hour is one— 
 Ah me, what a dolefully solemn tone! 
 Strange as it seems, I truly say 
 That I haven't heard it before, to-day. 
 
WALLS OP CORN AXD OTHER POEMS. 
 
 There's a cricket singing shrill and long- 
 Was ever a cricket with voice so strong? 
 Without, the night is deep and still; 
 Tlie owl is not hooting on the hill, 
 No low of kine, no bleat of flock, 
 Only the cricket, and ti:;kingclockI 
 
 The moon pours in with a cold white gleam 
 Through the window panes, a steady stream; 
 Slowly, slowly, it crosses the floor, 
 And lies in white at tlie fartherdoor, 
 I fancy a gliost with silent feet 
 Crossing the room in a winding sheet! 
 
 Oil, blessings priceless, Night and Sleep! 
 Did never close the eyes that weep- 
 In the weary brain, where thoughts are ground, 
 Did a ceaseless wheel go round and round 
 Witli never a pause for sleep— Ah me, 
 IIow wearily long one's life would be! 
 
 The clock strikes three, and then ticks lower; 
 Tlie feverish tlioughts come slow, and slower; 
 My pulses fall to temperate time; 
 Drowsily floats tlie lazy rhyme; 
 Sootliing visions my senses steep— 
 I think— I think— I'm going to sleep. 
 
176 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Birthday Greeting. 
 
 To General M. Brej'man, on His Birthday. 
 Anotlier year, and still another May; 
 
 Think not, O friend, that ever I forget — 
 Though doubtful oft of my own onward way — 
 Where ai'e tliy mile stones set. 
 
 Not many more, you say. The day declines; 
 
 Tlie long, eventful journey nears its close, 
 The misty sunbeams fall in slanting lines 
 Thougli seas of gold and rose. 
 
 Gentle tliedown-liill slope. Love walks beside, 
 
 Witli tender words and with caresses sweet, 
 Folds thee in clasping arms, lest ill betide. 
 Supports thy falling feet. 
 
 The eve draws on; the setting sun hangs low; 
 
 Cometh the peaceful twilight, dim and gray: 
 Yet hope is thine, and Faith in whisper low. 
 Tells of a brighter day. 
 
 Some token of true friendship would I bring, 
 
 But neither gold nor silver sliall it be. 
 Accept, dear friend, the little song I sing^ 
 My birthday gift to thee. 
 
, WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Ill tlic C'.aboose 
 
 '•Triiiii (lelaytHlV ami what's tusay?"* 
 
 •"Blufkcd by last.iiit^lifs snow they say."' 
 
 Seven liours or so to wait; 
 
 Well, that's pleasant! but there's the freight. 
 
 Depot loafing no one fancies, 
 
 We'll try the caboose and take our chances. 
 
 Cool tliis morning in Watertowu, 
 
 Somewhat frosty— mercury down: 
 
 Pinter caboose — roaring fire, 
 
 Witli never an air-hole; heat so dire 
 
 That weslirivel and pant; weare roasted through 
 
 Outside, thermometer thirty-two. 
 
 We start with a jerk and suddenly stop. 
 ''What's broke?"' says one; another "Wluit's up";'", 
 "Oh, notlung,"' they answer, "That's our way: 
 You must st;ind tlie jerking, sorry to say."' 
 We "stand it" with oft tliis painful thought: 
 Are our heads on yet. or are they nof;* 
 
 Comrades in misery — let me see; 
 Ciirl like a statue opposite me; 
 Back and forth tlie others jostle- 
 She never winks, nor moves a muscle: 
 See lier, as slie sits there now: 
 Hhe's "well balanced.'' anyhow. 
 
 Woman in trouble, tearful eyes. 
 
 Sits by the window, softly cries, 
 
 Pity— for griefs we may not know, 
 
 Vov breasts tluit ache, for tears that flow, 
 
 Though we know not why. Her eyelids red 
 
 Tell a sorrowful tale— some hope is dead. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Man wlio follows the Golden Rule, 
 And lends bis papers— a pocket full, 
 Has a blank book— once in a minute 
 Has an idea, and writes it in it. 
 Guess him? Yes, of course lean, 
 He's a— well — a newspaper man. 
 
 Blue-ejed fairy, wrapped in fur; 
 Sweet j'oung- mother tending her. 
 Fairy thinks it's "awful far," 
 Wants to get off this "naughty car." 
 So do we, young golden-hair; 
 All this crowd are witli you there! 
 
 Crazy Nell. 
 
 A bent and stooping spine. 
 A broken staff, with twine 
 
 Mended well: 
 A bundle on a crook, 
 A mild, yet gentle look. 
 And a nose so sharp and thin 
 That it almost pierced the skin- 
 Crazy Nell I 
 
 Coming often to our door. 
 Twenty years ago, or more. 
 
 Crazy Nell, 
 With lier bundle and her staff, 
 And her melancholy laugh. 
 Begged a humble place to lie — 
 Soft or hard— low or high. 
 
 It was well. 
 
 How we shuddered— how we cried- 
 And in corners shrank to hide. 
 In our fear. 
 
WALLS OP CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 For the til in and tattered vugs, 
 As they liung- in shreds and tags, 
 And the bundle and Uw staff, 
 And the sad and bi'ol<en laugh, 
 Were, so ([ueer. 
 
 But as we older grew, 
 AVe learned to pity, too, 
 
 Crazy Nell; 
 For, in tender voice and low, 
 Did our motlier tell us how 
 
 Ere slie fell 
 Into overtaking sin 
 This ghostly wreck had been 
 
 A beauty and a belle. 
 
 A face so fair and sweet. 
 Was not seen upon the street, 
 
 Anywhere, 
 And her blue eyes smiled for all, 
 From between a i)arted tall 
 
 Of golden hair, 
 Where now the gray locks thin 
 Straggled to the wrinkled chin, 
 
 Sharp and spare. 
 
 'Twas tlie tale so often told 
 In the ears of young and old - 
 
 For she fell, 
 But, amid her suffering, 
 And with reason tottering. 
 
 Gentle Nell, 
 Who beguiled with foul (h'ceit. 
 And who trii)ped lier careless feet, 
 
 Would never tell. 
 
 So she bore it all altine. 
 Until reason from her throne 
 Crumbled down: 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And her bundle and lier staff 
 Were the cruel sport and laugh 
 
 Of the clown. 
 As she wandered, bent and old, 
 And sought the pity cold 
 
 Of the town . 
 
 But one cold November day, 
 She was found beside the way- 
 Crazy Nell: 
 With her head upon the sand, 
 And her staff within her hand, 
 
 And the bell, 
 In the steeple by the river, 
 With its mournful sob and quiver, 
 Tolled her knell. 
 
 And they laid her down below. 
 Where the summer grasses grow. 
 
 In the dell, 
 Wlio shall judge her so and so. 
 Lying there, with head so lowy 
 
 Who shall tell 
 That the play is ended so"? 
 Only 'tis tlie last we know 
 
 Of Crazy Nell. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 181 
 
 Agassi/.. 
 
 Let tlie e:U'Ui mourn. A. lover and a child 
 Of tlie great mother sleeps his last long sleep, 
 
 Let her winds w:iil in voices wierd and wild: 
 Let sobs disturb the bosom of the deep. 
 
 Nature's interpreter — who now shall lind 
 And bring to light the meaning of her speech? 
 
 Who now shall stand with mien serene and kind, 
 And hold her lore within our easy reach? 
 
 He sought through sunless cares on mountains hoar. 
 The foot prints of the ages, blurred and dim; 
 
 And ocean chambers, deep beneath the roar 
 Of wind and wave, unrolled their scroll to him. 
 
 He saw and read the records, then he turned 
 And spoke to us with cheek and lips aglow. 
 
 We heard with awe, our hearts within us burned — 
 Such wonders had God written long agol 
 
 The earth is His. lie made it: and its leaves 
 Wlio so by patient scanning clearly reads. 
 
 Gathers to Wisdom's store-house golden sheaves. 
 Shall we not own him [)ropiietof our needs? 
 
 Philosopher, such prophet, then, wast thou ! 
 
 Yet is thy mantle fallen; who shall dare 
 Take up the radiant garment ? Who shall now 
 
 Alike thy honors and thy burdens V)ear ? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 All Evening Monologue. 
 
 Friend of my soul, sit by me 
 
 In tliis evening calm, with the sun gone down. 
 Wliile the wide west glows like a crimson sea, 
 
 Flooding with splendor the fields and the town. 
 
 Talk if you will, or idly dream, 
 
 With your gaze on the track of the vanished sun. 
 Our thoughts shall blend though silent the stream; 
 
 Speech and silence to us are one. 
 
 Up from the south comes a bi'eath of spring; 
 
 It flutters your beard and lifts your hair; 
 Yonder a robin, with folded wing. 
 
 Sits and sings in the branches bare. 
 
 Sweet hour of peace I On the prairies brown, 
 On the quiet homestead's dun-gray walls, 
 
 On the silent lanes, on the distant town. 
 Like a benediction the twilight falls. 
 
 Slowly, softly, the roseate glow 
 
 Pales, yet lingers; the robin's tune 
 Is hushed to silence; a silver bow 
 
 Hangs on high— 'tis the new white moon. 
 
 The moments pass. See that moving gleam I 
 Nearer it comes, swift, weirdly bright; 
 
 And a train, life-laden, witii eerie scream, 
 Sweeps down the valley into the night. 
 
 The moments pass. We are wrapped about 
 With thickening shadows; one by one. 
 
 In the deep, dark blue, the stars sliine out. 
 Night and silence— the day is done. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Oft have we watched tlie daylight fade, 
 Rut a time must come we know — the last. 
 
 And the sweep of years will not be stayed; 
 Tlie ori-comiug night is hastening fast. 
 
 Once, then, to watch wliile the darkness creeps, 
 And you or I— oh! which shall it be?— 
 
 Must wake and weep while the other sleeps. 
 Old and alone— ah, me! ah, me! 
 
 Trtmble. 
 
 If an evil can be cured, 
 
 Set thyself to cure it; 
 
 If 'tis but to be endured, 
 
 Bravely, tlien, endure it. 
 
 Weak complaint and peevish fret 
 
 Never banished trouble yet: — 
 
 They do but insure it. 
 
 Grief hast thou, full hardly borne- 
 Time hatli touch of healing. 
 Patience, yet may rays of morn 
 Through the night come stealing. 
 Trouble yet may prove a friend. 
 Stern, yet faitliful, in the end. 
 Highest use revealing. 
 
 Dost thou, sad-eyed passer-by, 
 Bear a living sorrow- 
 Secret pain that may not cry — 
 May no pity borrow? 
 Wliile thy tears in darkness flow, 
 Seest tliou no gleams that show 
 Glimpse of briglit to-morrow? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Patience yet; tliou hopeless one I 
 
 With tliy best eadeavor 
 
 Give thy life. 'Tis lightly spun — 
 
 Lightest touch may sever. 
 
 At the last are rest and peace, 
 
 Serest trouble's calm surcease — 
 
 Grief is not forever. 
 
 Then and Now. 
 
 Bleak, rugged, hills, o'er which the winter snow 
 
 In wild gusts swept; 
 A sweet, green vale, a calm lake, lying low. 
 
 Where osiers dipt; 
 A clear, cool spring, whose trickling overflow, 
 
 Through tall grass crept. 
 
 There were some liearts that love me. Till my own 
 
 Shall cease to beat. 
 Whether I tread smooth ways, or jagged stone 
 
 With bleeding feet, 
 I still shall hold them precious (love alone 
 
 Can make life sweet.) 
 
 Long years have fled. Still stand, deep scarred and hoar, 
 
 The wind swept heights; 
 Still flows the spring, where parclied lips, thirsting soi'e. 
 
 Quaff deep delights: 
 Still sleeps the lake, by moonbeams silvered o'er 
 
 On summer nigiits. 
 
 All tliese remain: scarce chatiged tiie peaceful scene, 
 
 Yet men grow old. 
 Locks that were dark are touched with frosty sheen; 
 
 Have hearts grown cold? 
 To know some few have kept the old love green — 
 
 'Twere joy untold. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A (]«)iintry Ilonic. 
 
 A nook ainotig- the hills, a little farm. 
 
 Wliose fertile acres yield us daily bread: 
 A hooiely, low-browed dwelling, snug and warm. 
 
 With wide blue skies hung overhead. 
 
 No costly splendor here no gilded glow; 
 
 No dear bought pictui'es hang upon the walls; 
 But bright and hapi)y faces come and go. 
 
 And through the windows God's sweet sunshine falls. 
 
 We are not rich in heaps of hoarded gold: 
 
 We are not poor, for we can keep at bay 
 The poor man's hunting spectres, want and cold, 
 
 Can keep from owing debts we cannot ])ay. 
 
 With wholesome plenty is our taljle spread. 
 With genial comfort glows our evening tire; 
 
 'J'lie fierce night winds may battle overhead — 
 Safe in our shelter, though strife be dire. 
 
 When days grow long, and winter's storms are o'er, 
 Here come the first birds of the early spring. 
 
 And build their cunning nests beside the door, 
 Teaching sweet lessons as they work and sing. 
 
 Here come our frientls— a flcar and cherished few- 
 Dearer, perchance, tiian if they numbered more: 
 
 We greet them with a luiud-clasp warm and true, 
 And give them of the best we have in store. 
 
 What though the rooms be small, and low the roof? 
 
 Wliat though we can but offer simple fareV 
 It matters not: so friendships war]) and woof 
 
 Are spun of gold, for these we need not care 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 We hear the great world surging like a sea, 
 l^ut the loud roar of winds and waves at war, 
 
 Subdued by distance, conies melodiouslj% 
 A soft and gentle murmur, faint and far. 
 
 We see the small go up, the great crime down, 
 And bless the peaceful safety of our lot. 
 
 The broken scepter and the toppling crown, 
 And crash of falling thrones— these shake us not. 
 
 We have some weary toil to strugg'le through, 
 Some trials, that we bravely strive to meet: 
 
 We have our sorrows, as all mortals do: 
 We have our joys, too, pure, and calm, and sweet. 
 
 Is such a life too even in Its flow? 
 
 T(X) silent, calm, too barren of event? 
 Its very joys to still? I do not know: 
 
 I think he cc)n(iuers all who wins content. 
 
 Found — Not Too Late. 
 
 From yonder church a wedding 
 Came forth one day, 
 Only in this particular- 
 it was laie in the day: 
 For the lock's of the bride and brideg-roam 
 Were streaked with gray. 
 
 Their youth lay far behind them; 
 
 Alone had tried 
 
 The ui>gnides of life's mountain. 
 
 This gixx)m and bride. 
 
 Tliey now clasp hands together 
 
 (,)n the downliill side. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Broadly the stupid wondered; 
 
 Yet, still and calm, 
 
 Sweet peace held close above them 
 
 tier boughs of palm. 
 
 And touched the wounds of did battles 
 
 With healing- balm. 
 
 A year had passed. At nightfall 
 I saw them stand 
 
 At the door of a vine-wreathed cottage- 
 Hand held in hand- 
 While the tides of a crimson sunset 
 O'errtowed the land. 
 
 The crimson ebbed; the shadows 
 
 Stole down the dell; 
 
 With its peaceful benediction, 
 
 The twilight fell. 
 
 And the faint, sweet tone came floating 
 
 Of a far-off bell. 
 
 I listened, and heard a sentence 
 
 Witli meaning great. 
 
 The wife was wliispering softly, 
 
 " Tiie perfect mate, 
 
 After long years of waiting. 
 
 Found — not too late." 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A Bride of a Day. 
 
 Oil I sing a song"; in low, soft notes. 
 
 Tender, and sweet, in sad— 
 For her who lies all pallid, still. 
 
 In her last garments clad. 
 
 A fair young liride of but a day — 
 
 (Sing low, sing soft and low) — 
 And yet, and yet her bed must be 
 
 Under the drifting snow. 
 
 Under the drifting snow — ah, mel- 
 
 To lie in her frozen sleep, 
 While love, bereft, with empty arms, 
 
 Is left to wake and weep. 
 
 But yestermoru. huw bright lier smile! 
 
 H(jw so''t the biusli that rose, 
 Mantling the white of neck and brow, 
 
 As sunset tints tlie snows. 
 
 With tender liglit her dark eyes slione; 
 
 Sweet was the roseate glow; 
 Alas! how little thought we tben. 
 
 Her sun liad dipped so low. 
 
 Througli all the hours one mourner sits, 
 
 Watching her pulseless rest, 
 Witli dumb, wliite lips and hopeless look. 
 
 And liead bowed on his breast. 
 
 Ah, death I tliy ways are dark and strange- 
 Passing age and sorrow by, 
 
 While youtli and joy along tliy track 
 All scatlied and blasted lie. 
 
WALLS OF CORN' AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Weighiiifj the World. 
 
 I weij^Mied the world to-cluy— its golden treasure, 
 Its gleam and glitter, all its splendid show. 
 
 Its pride, its fame— in most unstinted measure — 
 All its allurements that do tempt me so. 
 
 I jjut them in a balance, all together, 
 Against one heart— but one, yet surely mine. 
 
 I wished for once to know for certahi whether 
 Tills way, or that way, would the scales incline 
 
 Then slowly rose the piled-up. shining masses. 
 As slowly, surely, did that one tiling fall. 
 
 So I have weighed; and thus the verdict passes: 
 I find that one true heart is worth them all. 
 
 A Di'caiii. 
 
 1 dreamed a dream in a winter night, 
 When sullen winds blew about the door. 
 
 And over the snow fields, cold and white. 
 And through the forest with muflled roar. 
 
 Through all the wintry sounds. I heard 
 
 The rustle of a tiny wing: 
 And wildly carrolled a dear brown bird — 
 
 The bird that sings at the gates of s[)ring. 
 
 My pulses leaped with a sudden tiirilll 
 
 Was the winter gone":* I thought in my sleej) — 
 
 Had spring come in witli that silvery trill? 
 Would storms no longer their wassails kee))";' 
 
 1 woke — and there came, in frosty bars. 
 
 The light of a pale and gloomy moon. 
 And the far. faint twinkle of the misty stars: 
 
 And the cold vviiuls chanted theii- midnight tune 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Gone was tlie rustle of tiny wing: 
 Silent the song of the dear brown bird; 
 
 Closely barred stood the gates of spring, 
 And the cliant of the wind was all 1 heard. 
 
 So the pilgrim dreams; and he hears afar 
 The harps of gold; and the radiant gleam 
 
 Comes flashing through the gates ajar 
 Of the sea of glass, and the crystal stream. 
 
 But he wakes: and closed are the pearly gates; 
 
 Gone is the music, the flash and gleam; 
 But he goes his way, and in patience waits — 
 
 Pie goes his way, but keeps his dream I 
 
 Days We Remember. 
 
 Days that glide in an eveo rhyme 
 
 To which our feet keep steady time — 
 
 Be they in May or December;— 
 
 Days when life is a summer sea, 
 
 Whereon lie ships rocked dreamily; 
 
 Days when an easy round of care. 
 
 Is all the load that our shoulders bear; 
 
 Days that a calm succession keep 
 
 Of peaceful labor and peaceful sleep; 
 
 Days that serenely slip away, 
 
 With little of sorrow, yet scarcely gay; — 
 
 Are not the days that we remember. 
 
 Days that are fraught with throbs of bliss. 
 With love's caress, with love's close kiss- 
 Be they in May or December; — , 
 Days when rush through our wilderness 
 Whelming torrents of happiness; 
 Days when the heart, in its joyous swell. 
 Beats and throbs like a festive bell; 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And days, oh I days when we sit alone 
 With dumb, wliite lips tliat make no moan, 
 By close-sealed vaults, whose chambers cold 
 Our lovliest, dearest treasures hold; 
 When, as the lieavy hours drag by, 
 We long— and long in vain— to die: — 
 These are the days that we remember. 
 
 On the Prairie. 
 
 Out on the prairie— a slirieking storm! 
 
 How tiie pitiless cold, driven from homes and firesides warm. 
 
 In its teri'ible hold, 
 
 Here grapples and grips with strength untoldl 
 
 Miles and miles, and nothing in sight, 
 Only sweeps of snow- 
 That under the dust of the gatliering night, 
 Kovv dimmer grow -breasting the winds that fiercely lilow. 
 
 Not a friendly liglit, not a siieltering tree, 
 
 On the prairie's iDreast, 
 
 And my failing feet slirink under mel 
 
 I am lieavy —oppressed 
 
 With a drowsy weight; I must stop and rest. 
 
 No, I can not go on I Here 1 lay me down, 
 
 While tile storm sweeps by: 
 
 Press on, if you can, to the sheltering town: 
 
 In peace let me lie. 
 
 I am not cold . . . only sleepy . . . good-ljv. 
 
192 WALLS OF CORN AXD OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Tlie Old Farmhouse. 
 
 A crystal spring, a sunny hill, 
 A gray old liouse with mossy sill, 
 
 Hemmed in by orchard trees, 
 With massive trunlcs of age untold. 
 Whose luscious fruits, like mounds of gold 
 When autumn nights grow crisp and cold. 
 
 Lay heaped about their knees. 
 
 And when the trees, Iwre, gaunt and grim. 
 Tossing aloft each naked limb, 
 
 Breasted the sleety rain: 
 When the summer sounds were heard no mare. 
 When birds had sought a southern shore. 
 When flowers lay dead about the door, 
 
 And winter reigned again: 
 
 Then met the household band beside 
 A clean swept hearth, a chimney wide, 
 
 Where roared a maple tire. 
 When all the streams were fettered fast. 
 When fiercely blew the wintry blast, 
 And clouds of snow went whirling past. 
 
 The logs were piled the higher. f 
 
 S 
 How fondly memory recalls (, 
 
 The cheer within those old gray walls. 
 
 Beside that shining hearth. 
 
 peaceful scene of calm content! 
 Where happy faces came and went. 
 And heart with heai't was closely blent, 
 
 In sadness as in mirth I 
 
 1 see them all: the aged sire 
 Deep in some book: the glowing fire 
 
 Gleams on his silver hair. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AXD OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The mother knits; her loving eye 
 Smiles on the children flitting by; 
 Her needles, clicking as they fly, 
 Tell of her household care. 
 
 A group of stalwart boys I see, 
 Jirimful of mirth— as boys will be — 
 
 When evening tasks were done: 
 And— least of all — a little maid, 
 Her small head crowned with auburn braid, 
 Who, when the merry games were played, 
 
 Was foremost in the fun. 
 
 How gay we were! what songs we sang, 
 Till the old walls with echoes rang. 
 
 While the wind roared without. 
 Again we sat, wild-eyed and pale, 
 And listened to some ancient tale- 
 How witches rode upon the gale, 
 
 Or white ghosts roamed about. 
 
 'Twas long ago; those days are o'er: 
 I hear those songs no more, no more, 
 
 Yet listen while I weep. 
 Time rules us all. No joys abide. 
 That household band is scattered wide, 
 And some lie on the green hillside. 
 
 Wrapped in a dreamless sleep. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Friends that I Used to Know. 
 
 The storm of the day is past; 
 
 The rain has a fainter sound, 
 Yet low-hung clouds their misty skirts 
 
 Trail over the sodden ground. 
 
 Tlie heavy twilight falls; 
 
 The clouds trail more and more, 
 And the early darkness stealthily creeps 
 
 Up to the farmhouse door. 
 
 I sit, in tlie gathering night. 
 
 By the fire— it is burning low- 
 And think, with a longing akin to pain, 
 
 Of the friends that I used to know. 
 
 And a thrilling vision sweeps 
 Through the cliambers of my brain: 
 
 Gone are the mist, the darkening room, 
 And the prairiessoaked with rain. 
 
 1 see tlie friends I love, 
 
 (I shall love them evermore ) 
 And I look in their eyes and clasp their hands, 
 
 Beneath a vine-wreathed door. 
 
 Yonder are tlie wood-crowned hills, 
 
 Flaming with gold and red; 
 I hear the brawl of a fretting brook, 
 
 Swollen high in its rocky bed. 
 
 The orchard, the willow hedge, 
 Tlie pasture with cows, and the well. 
 
 The giant liickory near the gate, 
 On guard, like a sentinel. 
 
 I 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 I see all these, as I stand 
 
 In the autumn's sunset glow. 
 And talk and listen, with throbbing heart, 
 
 To tlie friends I used to know. 
 
 I start— and the vision fades. 
 
 The fire is dead, and the light 
 Is gone from the dripping and darkened panes: 
 
 I sit alone in the night. 
 
 No Such Thing As Love. 
 
 *' There's no such thing as love." So said 
 
 A flippant sneerer wlioni 1 met one day;— 
 And j'et a cliild sat at lier feet and played, 
 And a sweet babe upon her bosom lay. 
 
 Greatly I wondered. '* No such thing as love ? 
 Tiien what are these ? " Her thin lip curled. 
 " TheseV These are incidents. Your words but prove 
 Your ignorance. You do not know the world. 
 
 " You wonder why I wed ? " Still curled her lip; 
 
 Still flushed her dark eye with a bitter scorn; — 
 " Wliy, 1 am a woman— so obey the whip 
 
 That swings it lash above all women born. 
 
 *' It is our fate. Let on(! dare disobey. 
 
 The whole world shun her. Let lier dare to tread 
 In her own right, her independent way. 
 Men pelt her with this word of scorn,- old maid. 
 
 " Speak common sense. Don't talk of love to me. 
 'Tis sickening— this stulf that poets sing. 
 You marry, you have filled your destiny; 
 JBut love — I tell you there is no such thing." 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Sadly I left her, sadly I went my way; 
 
 And then I met another— it was you. 
 Had I believed her? Well, I cannot say; 
 
 But now 1 know she did not tell me true. 
 
 My Stalk of Corn. 
 
 Just a single stalk of corn, 
 
 jS^otliing more; 
 Was there ever a stalk of corn 
 
 Cherished so before? 
 
 On the window, where tlie suo 
 
 Shines at noon, 
 And at eve, the tender light 
 
 Of tlie moon. 
 
 Half a pint or so of soil- 
 Hardly that, 
 
 Half enougli to till the crown 
 Of baby's hat. 
 
 This it has to feed its life; 
 
 This is all. 
 Yet I love this stalk of corn 
 
 Best of all. 
 
 Best of all my pets in green 
 
 Thou a vine. 
 By geraniums scented sweet. 
 
 Doth entwine. 
 
 And I ijet it tenderly, 
 
 This stalk of corn — 
 Turn it kindly toward the pane 
 
 Everv morn. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 IIow it thanks me for its life, 
 
 How it grows I 
 In sucli tlirift, its gratitude 
 
 IIow it shows. 
 
 Still I watcli and water it, 
 
 Tliough I know. 
 The slender store of food it has 
 
 Is wasting slow. 
 
 Never shall the l)reezes wane 
 
 Its j^ellow hair: 
 Never tassle crown its top, 
 
 Nor golden ear. 
 
 Just so much it has to feed, 
 
 Then must die; 
 Who knows but tiiat it may be so 
 
 With you or IV 
 
 We know not our stock of life. 
 
 Great or small: 
 But the one who keepeth us 
 
 Knoweth all. 
 
 We live on, a careless life. 
 
 Or fiercely toil. 
 While our only store may be 
 
 Half a pint of soil. 
 
 Let us, like this stalk of corn, 
 
 Do our best, 
 And to him who loveth us 
 
 Leave the rest. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Nation's Patient. 
 
 " Out of danger,'' the doctors say; 
 
 The battle with Death is won. 
 So millions of hearts are glad to-day, 
 And millions of lips tliank God as they pray, 
 
 At tlie going down of tlie sun. 
 
 Tlirough terrible days of doubt and gloom, 
 
 Tlirough nights of fear and dread, 
 All hearts were turned toward that silent room, 
 Wliere Destiny wrought in lier pauseless loom, 
 
 By one brave sutferei-'s bed. 
 
 A nation's fate was the net she wove, 
 
 With shuttle stained bloody red; 
 And a nation waited in trembling love — 
 Some turu of the beam the strength should prove 
 
 Of one nigh severed thread. 
 
 It will not breaki Speed the tidings forth! 
 
 Thougli siiken, 'tis wondrous strong. 
 It has drawn together the South and the North — 
 So much to the Land one life is worth; 
 
 May that life be happy and long. 
 
 They have grieved together, they join to-day 
 
 In a glad thanksgiving hymn. 
 Who have met erewhile in the deadly fray — 
 And oh! may the fellowship live for aye. 
 
 That was born in that chamber dim. 
 
 We prize the prompt, full sympathy 
 
 Which from other lands comes in; 
 Our grief has waked beyond the sea, 
 Great throbs of that humanity 
 
 Wliich '"makes the whole world kin." 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 We prize the symputliy none the less 
 
 Tliat is rtnshed from every shore, 
 Because, with reverent tliankfulness, 
 And with tender tears, we prize and bless 
 That of our brothers the more. 
 
 Then ring, ye l)ellsl Ye organs, sound. 
 
 In anthems deep and grand I 
 Let joyful cannon sliaUe the ground: 
 Let feasts be spread, let joy abound— 
 
 Love reigns throughout the land. 
 
 Machine Poetry. 
 
 I sit me down to make a batch of rhymes; 
 I've nothing in particular to say; 
 
 'Tis just to turn a crank and count the times- 
 Such poetry is ground out every day. 
 
 The papers teem with it, why shouldn't 1 
 Help swell this tone that current poets sing? 
 
 'Tis neither soft and sweet, nor grand and high, 
 And lias no meaning— just an empty ring. 
 
 I till my hoppei's with tlie lightest trash. 
 Not tlirowing in one grain of thought or passion. 
 
 No bright idea, lest its suddeji flash 
 Should startle— for ideas are out of fashion. 
 
 I talk of love, of course, but in such style 
 That anyone can see there's nothing in it: 
 
 I turn off love-sick stanzas wliile 1 smile, 
 And wonder if some fool will think I mean it. 
 
 I screech, high-keyed, in wild and mournful tones, 
 A wail for some one false or long departed; 
 
 I rake the past, and over dead, dry bones 
 
 Utter a dirge that sounds (|uite broken-hearted- 
 
WALLS OP COR3SJ AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Meanwhile, but few are ever taken in 
 By all this stuff: most people know too well 
 
 The spurious tricks of rhyme, its crying sin; 
 Its make-believe, its hollow, sounding sliell. 
 
 I tell my "poet's lie" without offense, 
 
 For tis a sort of sickly-solemn joke 
 That none believes in who has common sense; 
 
 It takes so little Are to make a smoke. 
 
 Long-suffering public, take my grist of cliatt'— 
 At your own price— we surely shall not (luarrel. 
 
 It will not make you weep or laugh; 
 But then, you know, 'twill help fill up the "barrel 
 
 A Race For Life. 
 
 Somebody must probe that hidden vein^ 
 
 Somebody must clear that under-ground way 
 For the choked-up stream- and so the twain 
 
 Whose story 1 tell, went down that day. 
 
 Were tliey heroes? Only two working men, 
 With mud-stained clothes, and rough-shod feet; 
 
 But somebody loved ihem—Ufe was, then. 
 Something to cling to, dear and sweet. 
 
 Overhead the beautiful sunshine lay, « 
 
 Yet they toiled in darkness, save tlie beam *' 
 
 Of one dim lantern, that showed the way. 
 And flashed on the walls its gliostly gleam. 
 
 Far from the entrance an awful sound 
 
 Arose behind them— the horrible roar 
 Of the pent-up waters, just unbound, 
 
 Surging, swelling, like tides on tlie shore. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Quick, to the eiitfance! the stream sweeps oul 
 Fear lends them wings— a misstep, a fall; 
 
 Tlieii pitchy darkness— the light is gone! 
 They must feel the way by the slimy wall. 
 
 With cold, numb hands, and careful feet. 
 They have threaded the passage and stand below 
 
 Tlie vaulted entrance; iiere liorrors njeet — 
 Tiie ladder is gone in the surge and flow! 
 
 Up to the armpits tiu' water lies, 
 And now to tiie neck; tlie lips, the brow 
 
 Well go under next, as th3 black tides rise; 
 Cm anything, ani/thing save them now? 
 
 Something comes floating. A shout, a cry, 
 
 '•Tlie ladderl Here, comrade, make steady feet; 
 
 I hold it — j'ou mount, and then will I—" 
 'Thank God! was ever dayliglit so sweef?" 
 
 Ever Day Work. 
 
 (ireat deeds are trumpeted; loud bells are rung, 
 
 And men turn round to see 
 'J'he high peaks echo to the peans sung 
 
 O'er some great victory. 
 And yet great deeds are few. Tlie mightiest men 
 Find opportunities but now and then. 
 
 Shall one sit idle thiough long (hiysof peace, 
 
 Waiting for walls to scale y 
 Or lie in port until some "Golden Fleece" 
 
 Lures him to face the gale? 
 'JMiere's work enough: why idly, then, delay? 
 His work counts most who laljors every day. 
 
202 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A torrent sweeps clown the mouiit;un"s brow, 
 
 With foam and flash and roar. 
 Anon its strength is spent — wliere is it now '? 
 
 Its one sliort day is o'er. 
 But the clear stream that througli the meadow flows 
 All the long summer on its mission goes. 
 
 Better the steady flow; the torrent's dasli 
 
 Soon leaves its rent track dry. 
 The light we love is not aliglitning flash 
 
 From out a midnight sli;y. 
 But the sweet sunsliine, whose unfailing ray, 
 From its calm tlirone of bUie lights every day. 
 
 The sweetest lives are those to duty wed — 
 Whose deeds both great and small, 
 
 Are close-knit strands of one unbroken tiiread. 
 Where love ennobles all. 
 
 The world may sound no trumpets, i-ing no bells— 
 
 The Book of Life the shining I'ecord tells. 
 
 FariHtr John. 
 
 ''If I'd nothing to do,'' said l^'armer John, 
 
 "To fret or to bother me— 
 Were I but rid of this mountain of work, 
 
 What a good man I could be." 
 
 I 
 
 "The pigs get out, and the cows get in 
 
 Where they have no right to be: y 
 
 And the weeds in the garden and in the corn — J 
 
 Why, they fairly frigliten me." ■)• 
 
 A' 
 
 "It worries me out of temper quite, I. 
 
 And well nigh out of my head. J 
 
 What a curse it is that a man must toil * 
 
 Like this for his daily bread." 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Hut Fanner John broke his leg, 
 
 And was kept lor many a week 
 ^ lielpless and an idle man; — 
 
 Was he therefore mild and meek? 
 
 Nay: what with the pain, and what with the fret 
 
 Of sitting with nothing to do — 
 And the farm work blotched by a shiftless hand, 
 
 fie got very cross and blue, 
 
 lie scolded tlie children and cuffed the dog 
 
 That. fawned aljout his knee: 
 And snarled at his wife, though she was kind 
 
 And patient as a wife could be. 
 
 He grumbled and whined and fretted and fumed, 
 
 Tlie whole long day tli rough. 
 ■'"Twill ruin me quite," cried Farmer John, 
 
 "To sit here with notliing to dol" 
 
 P.ut the time wore on, and he tlioughtful grew, 
 
 As he watched his patient wife, 
 And he vowed one morn with a tear in his eye, 
 
 He would lead a different life. 
 
 His hurt got well, and he went to work; 
 
 And a busier man than he, 
 A happier man, or a pleasanter man. 
 
 You never would wish to see. 
 
 The pigs got out, and he drove them back, 
 
 Wliistling right merrily; 
 He mended the fence, and kept the cows 
 
 Just where tiiey ought to be. 
 
 Weeding tlie garden was jolly fun, 
 
 And ditto hoeing the corn. 
 '•I'm happier far," said Farmer John, 
 
 ••Than I have been since I was Itorn."' 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 He learned a lesson tliat lasted him well; 
 
 'Twill last him his whole life through. 
 He frets but seldom, and never because 
 
 He has plenty of work to do. 
 
 " I tell you what," says Farmer Jolin. 
 
 "They are either knaves or fools 
 Wlio long to be idle, for idle hands 
 
 Are the Devil's chosen tools!" 
 
 Labor. 
 
 Welcome, life's toil! I thank the gracious Giver 
 Who find my lieart and hands their work to do; 
 
 That labor done still multiplies forever, 
 And each swift hour and momentclaims its due. 
 
 I pity him who sits him down repining, 
 
 Bound in his idleness— a silken thong; 
 He hates the sun and wearies of its shining; 
 
 His moments creep— for empty days are long. 
 
 My days are full, I have no far off "mission:" 
 
 My work is near; 'tis only mine to stand 
 Accepting tasks that spring from my condition — 
 
 Doing, as best I may, the work at hand. 
 
 It may be small: yet, drop by drop is added 
 
 To make the gentle flow, the steady stream: 
 The smallest needle, if 'tis often threaded 
 
 By patient liand, may sew the longest seam. 
 
 The finest strands may twist into a cable; 
 
 Small stones be piled till looms a pyramid, 1 
 
 Slow, patient thought may break the crust of fable, | 
 
 Beneath which golden mines of truth be hid. ', 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER i'OEMS. 
 
 I camiot always see my cable growing; 
 
 Nor always see my pile of stones increase; 
 Yet, wliile I toil— tlie still years swiftly going — 
 
 This fruit of labor bears; Itbringeth peace. 
 
 The Wild-Rose. 
 
 Peeping from out tiie hedges, 
 
 Bending above the brim 
 or tiie stream that threads the meadows, 
 
 {■"ringing the forest dim. 
 
 Stealing into my garden 
 
 Waiting not my call; 
 Scaling the ancient gateway, 
 
 Creeping nnder tlie wall. 
 
 Climbing the mossed enclosure 
 Yonder, where willows wave, 
 
 Xestling against the tombstone, 
 Clustered on every grave. 
 
 Ciiristened by name, yet blooming 
 
 Silently everywhere; 
 Asking for naught' yet giving. 
 
 Lavish as summer air, 
 
 I love thee, rose of the hedges. 
 Rose of the streamlet's rim; 
 
 Meek adorner of tombstones. 
 Prince of the forest dim. 
 
206 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 To Mrs. C. H. Phillips. 
 
 Brave woman, treading with unfaltering feet, 
 A path of sorrow, wet with many a tear, 
 
 Sustaining, with a courage rare and sweet, 
 Your heavy weight of grief, so hard to bear; 
 
 A sister greets you. Could my lips but speak 
 In language sweet and tender, strong and true, 
 
 All the full sympathies that utterance seek. 
 Some crumb of comfort it might bring to you. 
 
 I know you well. I mark your sunny face. 
 Your bright and kindly smile, your cheerful tone; 
 
 Yet, hidden close within its sacred place, 
 I know that patient grief still holds its throne. 
 
 All that your friends can give you gladly take; 
 
 You bid them welcome to your lovely home; 
 And yet your lieart still holds its weary ache, 
 
 Its darkened chambers where no friend can come. 
 
 The lonely night, with dreams of pleasure past, 
 The waking but to feel they are no more; 
 
 The long, long days (they once did fly so fast!) 
 Tlie sense of dreary loss, the longing sore. 
 
 I know all these; and yet I know that Time- 
 Time, the dread spoiler — hath a touch of healing; 
 
 O'er cherished graves snow falls, and winter rime 
 Cool grasses creep, and moss comes softly stealings. 
 
 Earth hath a tender clasp. In slumder deep 
 Folds she our dear ones to her peaceful breast. 
 
 For them all trial ends; so. let us weep 
 Few bitter tears o'er their untroubled rest. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 No need that we forget; let grief pass by, 
 Wliile we live o'er the tender precious hours, . 
 
 The toucli, the kiss — so dear to memory. 
 Tiiese are our own— sweet, never-fading flowers. 
 
 Sad are our partings, dark the night of sorrow. 
 Yet blest are we, if liope descry the dawn; 
 
 If faith reach forward to a sweet to-morrow. 
 Whose joys await us when tlie night is gone. 
 
 Peace After War. 
 
 Rest for the dead. No more, for marches dreary. 
 
 They stretch their stiffened limbs when bugles sound; 
 No more at night they lie down, wet and weary, 
 Upon the sodden ground. 
 
 No more the gallant cliarge, amid the screaming 
 
 Of murderous iron ball and bursting shell. 
 Up steep and slippery slopes — with warm blood streaming- 
 "Into the mouth of hell." 
 
 No more the dreadful search, the battle over, 
 
 While up the placid sky the white moon climbs; 
 No more the mournful truce, while both sides cover 
 Torn breasts and shattered limbs. 
 
 Not truce to-day, but peace. Soft grass is creeping. 
 
 Year after year, above the broken sod, 
 Where gallant foemen— foes no more— are sleeping. 
 Blossoms the golden rod. 
 
 Where passed the armies, when the shock of meeting, 
 Deep Assures were, and fields all tramped and torn, 
 Now happy birds, the same old song repeating. 
 Flit through the growing corn. 
 
208 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Thus Nature speaks to all, with luute appealin<j;-. 
 
 Wrapping- in tender green each gaping scar. 
 Shall man alone resist her touch of healing, 
 And still remain at warV 
 
 No, no. If any lurking hate yet lingers 
 
 In any heart, oh fling it-far away! 
 While fragrant flowers are strewed by loving Anger.- 
 Above both blue and gray. 
 
 Tragedj' and Farce. 
 
 Sweetly the summer-sun is shining 
 Out from the dome of the sapphire sky; 
 
 Green are the pastures, the wheat-flelds golden: 
 Calmly the river goes rolling by. 
 
 Peace at the center and on the border — 
 Hum of industry everywhere— 
 
 Teams afield— the clatter of reapers- 
 Songs of harvesters on the air. 
 
 Blithe are the sounds of the summer-morning: 
 But stay -the songs cease suddenly: 
 
 The lift of a iiand— the crack of a pistol— 
 And cheeks turn pallid from sea to sea. 
 
 A dim, hushed room -a sick man lying 
 I^'ainting with weakness, racked with p;iin: 
 
 I\o-;y bulletins, morning and evening. 
 Raising our hopes to be dashed again; 
 
 Week af oer week of weary waiting: 
 Trembling millions on bended knee; 
 
 Later, a still fcirm, pallid, pulseless, 
 There in the cottage by the sea. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Thus it is ended — the lonf?, slow torture; 
 
 Elided our hopes, our doubts, our fears. 
 Towns and cities are draped in sable — 
 
 A mighty nation sits drowned in tears. 
 
 * * * s- * 
 
 Crowded court-room, Judge and jury: 
 Ghastly farce, where the high and low, 
 
 Master and servant, maid and mistress, 
 Come together to see the show. 
 
 Blood-stahied wretch, as leading actor, 
 Blusters and rants in his brutal way; 
 
 Pirowbeats witnesses and lawyers, 
 .lust as he wills it to run the play, 
 
 lieautiful ladies, plumed and jeweled 
 
 (They wept for his victim), calmly sit, 
 Soft cliseks dimpling with covert laughter; 
 Judges smile at his insolent wit. 
 
 How long, how long, shall these scenes continue, 
 While the whole world looks on in scorn? 
 
 How m;i ny pages must stain our annals, 
 For children to l)lusli at, yet unborn. 
 
 Sadly we watched o'er a good man dying. 
 And shed our tears o'er the murdered dead: 
 
 With cheeks scarce dry, sliall we speak no piotest 
 While the murderer stars it where he bled? 
 
 For very shame, cut short, O Justice! 
 
 Drop the curtain! put out the liglit! 
 Thi'ough all the land we are weary — weary; 
 
 ■Hide this monstiM- away from sight! 
 
210 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 If I >vere You. 
 
 Would you have your name to echo. 
 
 Generations through? 
 I would make it worth repeating 
 If I were you. 
 
 Do you wish to win disciples? 
 
 Reason and then no, 
 I would follow my own preaching 
 If I were you. 
 
 Do you blow a public trumpet?' 
 
 Lst its tone be true. 
 I would never pitch it falsely 
 If 1 were you. 
 
 Would you fill a post of honor? 
 
 Earn it ere you sue. 
 I would merit ere I begged it 
 If I were you. 
 
 Are you set to serve your country? 
 
 To your trust be true. 
 I'd not steal my master's silver 
 If I were you. 
 
 Are you fickle— prone to changing: 
 
 Old friends for tlie new? 
 I would keep the old and tried ones 
 If I were you. 
 
 Have you won a loving woman? 
 
 To your love be true. 
 I'd not win a heart to break it 
 If I were you. 
 
The last night of tlie year, 
 
 I sat alone 
 Beside the dying tire. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Would you leave a written record 
 
 Clear as heaven's blue? 
 I would keep each page unspotted 
 If I were you. 
 
 Do you preach a day wlien judgement 
 
 Gives each man his due? 
 I would be what 1 pretended 
 If I were you. 
 
 The Last Hour of the Year. 
 
 I sit me down to watch with thee, Old Year, 
 E'en to thy last throe, for I liave loved thee well; 
 
 And fain would at thy parting drop my tear, 
 Though I may chant no requiem, toll no bell. 
 
 In thy soft spring time, in tlie summer glory, 
 And when in autumn days each wooded hill 
 
 %Stood crowned with tlame, I've loved thee — old and hoary: 
 With thy last moment's going, I love tliee still! 
 
 Yes, I will watch with thee, while silence deep 
 
 Reigns all around me, only tick by tick 
 The clock tells otf the seconds, and the sweep 
 
 Of tills last hour is told by each low click. 
 
 I trim my midnigljt lamp, and sit and think. 
 
 One questions Conscience at a deathbed, so liere 
 I question mine, and ravel, link by link, 
 
 My chain of words and deeds, that spans the year. 
 
 Would it were woven better I but in vain 
 
 Are all regrets unless one gird the life, 
 Amid the sackclotliof repentant pain. 
 
 With strength to conquer in a braver strife? 
 
212 WALLS OF CORM AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 But while I cast a sober, backward eye, 
 Above my low-bowed head the clock ticks on; 
 
 One moment only! swiftly, silently, 
 Tills one moment goes— and now 'tis gone. 
 
 Twelve ringing, thrilliiig strokesi and now, I know. 
 The chimes peal out from many a midnight bell; 
 
 Here but the night wind sighs above the snow, 
 I've watched with thee — thou diest— so farewell! 
 
 Thanksj^iving Night. 
 
 Blow and blow, November storm, 
 Frost my windows, beat at my door! 
 
 But you cannot come to my lireside warm. 
 Where I sit and hark to your gusty roar. 
 
 You beard the trees with your frosty breath: 
 You grasp the stream in your icy hand, 
 
 And the sleeping lake lies still as death, 
 Waveless, mute, by the frozen land. 
 
 The leaves scarce fallen, the birds scarce flown, 
 Y^ou grasp full soon with your pitiless hold 
 
 Upon sod and stream, upon tield and town — 
 Hasty and fierce is your griping cold. 
 
 I pity the poor in your hand, to-night— 
 In shaking garrets, in cellars damp, 
 
 >Shrinking, shivering, thin and white! 
 Death is abroad on his stealthy tramp! 
 
 Yet this wild night is Tlianksgiving night. 
 And some give thanks, some feast and play; 
 
 Some shiver and freeze, while soft and bright 
 The festal lami>s shine over the way. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 O, ye who feast in happy homes, 
 Thankful for much, expectnig more, 
 
 While joy along with tlianksgiving comes- 
 To-night, to-night remember the poorl 
 
 Our Chart. 
 
 From clay to day we float upon a sea, 
 
 Now softly rippling to a summer wind, 
 Now plowed by gales and tossing stormily. 
 
 With rocks before and gulfing waves behind, 
 And sails all torn and flapping uselessly. 
 
 But whether on the ever-changing sea 
 Sweet summer sheds it calm or winter wails: 
 
 Whether in safe, still harbors we may be. 
 Or driven onward by relentless gales. 
 
 Or close by battling crags creep cautiously— 
 
 We have a chart to guide us on through all! 
 
 Past treacherous quicksands— past the ijreakers' roar- 
 Past rocky capes, where storms forever fall. 
 
 Through narrow passes, where rocks huge and hoar, 
 Lock out the sunlight with a frowning wall. 
 
 Our guide to safety and an open sea, 
 
 Whei-e any winds shall wrangle nevermore — 
 
 If we but heed its reckonings carefully— 
 The sea without a storm, without a shore: 
 
 A calm and peaceful deep— Eternity! 
 
WALtS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. John Young. 
 
 We give you heartfelt greeting,— you two, who hand lu 
 
 hand 
 Have toiled up stony places, and now together stand 
 Surrounded by the plenty and the fatness of the land. 
 
 You have helped to build the country, as early pioneers; 
 You have shared ea^h other's pleasures, you have wept each 
 
 other's tears; 
 And have cut your loaf together— for live and twenty years. 
 
 You have shared your toil anfi trouble, with willing hearts 
 
 and true; 
 You have bravely pulled together — and a load, to me or you, 
 Is only half as lieavy for Ijeing borne by two. 
 
 All praise to honest labor! and to the patient skill 
 
 That has helped you over ditches, and so far up the hill;— 
 
 To the cheerful perseverance that keeps you climbing still. 
 
 You have liad your days of sadness, of shadows dark and 
 
 deep; 
 Y''ou have grown footsore and lieavy when the way was hard 
 
 and steep; 
 And sometimes, over weary, have sat you down to weep. 
 
 You have had your bitter losses— stretching liands in vain 
 
 to save; 
 You have seen your blossoms dropping, each to a tiny grave, 
 Where the winter drifts lie heavy, where the summer 
 
 grasses wave. 
 
 But your arms are not left empty; one hears, from out the 
 
 street, 
 The sound of children's voices, the fall of little feet; 
 And sees, beside you standing, young daughters fair and 
 
 sweet. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 vSo blessings cover losses, so kindly old hurts heal. 
 
 'Tis well for all that sorrow gives place to pleasant weal, 
 
 That we need not feel forever the priclc of cruel steel. 
 
 Sufficient each day's evil— sufficient to alloy, 
 
 With its dash of pungent bitter, tlie sweet of passing joy. 
 
 Tlien let us not reach bade ward for something to annoy. 
 
 So iiere's a merry greeting. We wake no silent knells, 
 No stir the choking damps in your dark and sunken wells. 
 We come as friends and neighbors, to ring your wedding 
 bells. 
 
 We come with l^est good wislies— -for this my song is sung— 
 With friendship in eacli liand-clasp, good will on cvery^ 
 
 tongue, 
 Long may you live and prosper— m;iy you be always Young. 
 
 May you see increasing fullness in basket and in store: 
 3Iay you barns with bursting plenty be full and running o'er: 
 May your roots strike deep and deeper, like the poplar at 
 your door. 
 
 May Time steal gentle marclies, and touch you tenderly; 
 May you clasp your childr<Mi's ciiildren, and may you live to 
 
 see 
 The day of your golden wedding— and won't you please ask 
 
 me? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Mrs. Hattie Tyng Griswold. 
 
 I cast me not down to worship — 
 
 She is human as well as I; 
 And the same sun lights the valleys 
 
 That kisses the hill-tops high. 
 
 No words of wild adulation 
 
 Have I for the pet of fame; 
 She hath no need of incense 
 
 Such as goetli up to a name. 
 
 But something lovelier, dearer, 
 Than crowds ever rise and crown, 
 
 Calletli on me for telling — 
 Calleth the sweet tears down. 
 
 I have seen lier — the wife and mother— 
 Little feet all a)30ut her played, 
 
 And the babes that slept in the twilight 
 Rollicking music made. 
 
 I know not why. but it touched me, 
 And quickened my pulse's -beat — 
 
 I had found the iwet a woman, 
 Tender and true and sweet. 
 
 Two C^hristinas Guests. 
 
 'Tis Christmas eve. All silent lies the prairie bi'own and 
 
 sere, 
 And amid the voiceless shadows the midnight hours draw 
 
 near. 
 
 As I sit here musing, dreaming, and turning memory's 
 
 leaves. 
 Tliere pass in long procession, so many Christmas eves! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And one, of all the many, to-niglit stands out alone 
 
 In its joy and its tender sorrow, with a pathos all its own. 
 
 There were feasting and rejoicing, and the village streets 
 
 were gay, 
 I>ut the lights burned low and dimly in the house across 
 
 the way. 
 
 Full well I knew the inmates— the household numbered 
 
 three — 
 A husband, a dear old father, and a young wife fair to see. 
 
 Kindly they dwelt together, 'twas said none ever heard 
 In that house a tone of anger, nor any unkind word. 
 
 But Life and Deatli togetlier that night had crossed the sill; 
 The good old man lay dying, and the fair young wife was ill. 
 
 Without the merry sleighbells rang up and down the street, 
 Within, were low-hushed voices, and the tread of noiseless 
 feet. 
 
 A sound arose at midnight— the first cry of a child. 
 
 The dying grandsire heard it, looked up, and faintly smiled. 
 
 A son is born"? I tliank thee. O Father, for thy grace. 
 I go, but this one cometh, and lie shall take my place. 
 
 1 pray you bring him hither— go, bring the boy to me, 
 
 I fain would once behold him, while yet these eyes can see, 
 
 Tlie babe was brought, and smiling, the old man softly said. 
 As he laid his pallid Angers on the tiny baby head: 
 
 I have no wealth to leave him, in houses or in lands,— 
 For e'en as I came hither, I go with empty hands: 
 
 But tell him for his grandsire- tell him as child and youth— 
 To be loyal, kind and loving, and always »peak the truth. 
 
21S WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 But little more was spoken, a solemn silence fell, 
 Save but the sound of weeping, and the whisper, "All is 
 well." 
 
 When Christmas morn rose brightly from out the shadows 
 
 gray, 
 A strip of crape was floating from the door across the way. 
 
 Amid the still night watches, thus calmly, peacefully. 
 Had the good old man departed — yet the household num- 
 bered three. 
 
 Though Life and Death come surely into the homes of men, 
 Tiiey come not oft together, and so peacefully as then. 
 
 And that is why, in my musings, that night stands out 
 
 alone. 
 In its joy and its tender sorrow, with a pathos all its own. 
 
 The Last Houi 
 
 Only another hour. The nigiit creeps by 
 Tlie same as other nights. No dying moans 
 
 Disturb the darkness; only mournfully 
 The winter rain drips slowly o'er the stones. 
 
 The whole house sleeps, I only watch and wait, 
 Tlirough the last hour of the hoary year, 
 
 To con the last line of this leaf of fate,— 
 This record, blotched and blurred by many a tear- 
 
 The leaf shall turn at midnight; nevermore 
 Shall human deed or passion mark its face. 
 
 And none m/iy change it, though repenting sore, 
 We write at will— ah, would we might erase 1 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Come, good resolves. This hour is left to make 
 Strong promises to cast out every siii, 
 
 And solemn vows great things to undertake; — 
 But there's the year ahead to lireak them in. 
 
 We all are weak; yet, counting on our strength, 
 We lay our plans like Titans,— we, so small I 
 
 We seek to execute, and find at length, 
 We do but pigmies' work— or none at all. 
 
 Well, be it so. Better to strive in vain 
 
 Tlian to sit idle; better that we fall 
 In liidden pitfalls, time and time again, 
 
 Than cling like cowards to some sheltering wall. 
 
 The years grow shorter; youth slips fast away; 
 
 I see upon my brow the prints of care; 
 My step is growing sober, and to-day 
 
 I plucked some threads of silver from my hair. 
 
 We all are growing old — like time. 'Tis well 
 If we gain wisdom as our locks turn gray. 
 
 No room for pride; only a slab shall tell— 
 And that shall crumble— of our little day. 
 
 The o'clock strike. So the old year dies, 
 And so the new is born. I list in vain 
 
 For sound or speech— for groans or natal cries; 
 I hear only the dripping of the rain. 
 
220 WALIyS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Who Knows? 
 
 Philosophy assumes to tell 
 
 How happened this, how happened that; 
 Reasons of sequence passing well, 
 
 B\' process none may cavil at. 
 
 If this be true, then that must be; 
 
 And so on, which seems very plain: 
 But what rules human destiny 
 
 We ask and cannot ascertain. 
 
 The deeds we do, the words we say, 
 May serve our purpose, or may not; 
 
 Some soul may be a wreclc to-day 
 Through some sliglit word, long since forgot. 
 
 Mistakes," says Science; yet the wise. 
 Whose far gaze tracks the rolling spheres, 
 
 Grope blindly through life's mysteries, 
 And weep, with others, human tears. 
 
 Philosophy cannot forecast 
 The workings of one human breast: 
 
 Nor trace the springs of actions past: 
 Life is a riddle at the best. 
 
 We plan what we shall be and do. 
 While bars of fate around us close. 
 
 That strain or stroke may not break through; 
 We plan and purpose, but— who knows? 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 221 
 
 The Storm. 
 
 A summer day. A bank of cloud, 
 
 Low in the tar northwest, 
 Which, dim and liazy, sullen l)rowed, 
 It hides as yet, with misty shroud, 
 
 Tlie passion in its breast. 
 
 The lazy hours slowly creep; 
 
 All breathless is tlie noon; 
 And still in solemn, stately sweep, 
 UproUs th3 cloud, with j^'rowlings deep 
 
 '•Th3 storm iscoming soon."' 
 
 Another hour. Tiiick darkness falls, 
 
 And rosy clieeks grow pale. 
 The fearful roar all liearts appalls. 
 And gre3n are tliose advancinj^' walls. 
 
 Warning of wnid and hail. 
 
 Louder, yet louder; crash and roar, 
 
 And blinding sheets of lire— 
 While forks and chains go streaking o'er 
 That livid green; wliich, more and more, 
 Bodetli of tempest dire. 
 
 The awful storm bursts forth at last, 
 
 In wind, and hail and rain. 
 Like jagged stones from cannon cast, 
 The blocks of ice come crashing fast 
 
 Through many a shivered pane. 
 
 The jagged ice, the flood tliat pours. 
 
 The flash, and roar, and hiss: 
 Tae flying glass, the rattling doors. 
 The dripping walls, tlie streaming lloors- 
 A fearful scene is tliis! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 At last the storm is spsnt and o"er; 
 
 The cloud has rolled away. 
 At shattered window, battered door, 
 We stand and look abroad once more, 
 
 With faces of dismay. 
 
 The teeming earth that smiled at morn, 
 
 Her fair face fresh from sleep; 
 Now lies with garments frayed and torn. 
 Here strewn witli wrecks the floods have borne, 
 
 There furrowed wide and deep. 
 
 Through leafeless trees an hour ago 
 
 Fruit-laden, glossy green; 
 Tlie damp wind passes, sighing low; 
 The fruit lies heapad like winter suow. 
 
 With dead birds wedged betweaa. 
 
 Gardens, with flowers rich and rare. 
 
 Of leaf and stalk are reft. 
 As if some giant, passing there, 
 HsL(^ wielded broom and swept them Ijare, 
 
 And ne'er a green thing left. 
 
 The saddest yet is still untold. 
 
 For, more than all, we mourn — 
 More than bare trees or flowers of gold, 
 Of green fruit crushed in sodden mould — 
 
 Tlie ruined ttelds of corn. 
 
 At noon in solid ranks they stood, 
 
 With plumes and pennons gay: 
 All close and thick as jungle wood. 
 Each great ear wrapped in bright green liood, 
 
 A brave and rich array. 
 
 But now, Oh now! the plumes are shorn;. 
 The bruised stalks leafless stand, 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Tilt' nrissive ears with hoods all toi'ii, 
 Hang drooping, battered and foi-loi'ii, 
 Or strew the sodden land. 
 
 When Days Grow Dark. 
 
 Tlie world grows dim, so far I see your face, 
 Your dear, kind face, so often bent on me 
 
 In tender pity, and I fondly trace 
 Tlie well known features while I yet can see. 
 
 Ere fades such twilight as is left me yet, 
 
 Lest in the coming darkness I forget. 
 
 Forget 1 Oil, no, not that! Although I may 
 Forget the roundness of the robin's breast. 
 
 The spreading crimson of the new born day, 
 Or sunset gold upou the mountain's crest, 
 
 Your face shall clinging memory hold fast 
 
 And never older than I see it last. 
 
 I read no more: above the tempting book 
 Gathers a mist impalpable and pale, 
 
 Baffling, relentless; wheresoe'er 1 look. 
 The page is hidden by a filmy veil. 
 
 Alas! I cry with slow and bitter tears, 
 
 Must it be thus through all the coming years? 
 
 You take the book and pour into my ear 
 In accents sweet the words I cannot see; 
 
 I listen, charmed, forget my hauuting fear 
 And think with you as with your eyes I see. 
 
 In tlie world's tliought, so your dear voice be left, 
 
 I still have part, I am not all bereft. 
 
 And if this darkness deepens, when for me 
 The new moon bends no more her silver rim, 
 
 Wlien stars go out and over land and sea 
 
 Black midnight falls where now is twilight dim, 
 
 Oh, then may I be patient, sweet and mild, 
 
 While your hand leads me like a little child. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 How Two Knights Rode to London. 
 
 All ye who press and liurry along life's stony way, 
 Spurred onw.ird by ambition tluit rest? n;)t, night or day; 
 Coins, listen to a legend in plain and homely rhyme, 
 All of two gallant horsemen, two knights of olden time. 
 
 Tliese knights had pledged each otlier aljove the flowing 
 
 bowl, 
 To ride a race to-morrow, with London for the goal. 
 So they met at early morn, and both were brave to view; 
 One bore a scarlet bannei' and one a flag of blue. 
 
 One fiercely spurred his charger and madly tore away. 
 Waving his scarlet banner to meet the rising day; 
 And ere the dews of morning were drunk up by the sun. 
 He gaily sang, "The wager is just as good as won." 
 
 But the knight wliu wore the blue took such an easy pace, 
 You never would luive dreamed he was riding for a race. 
 With banner softly floating, he sang, "To win at last 
 In a long and weai'y contest, one must not ride too fast." 
 
 Still tore away the other, on hill and .sunny plain; 
 
 Wild flew the scarlet banner, back st reamed the charger's 
 
 mane, 
 His breath came quick and hot, Ihere was foam on flank 
 
 and breast; 
 Yet the fierce and fiery rider gave not a moment's rest. 
 
 The day grew hot and hotter, the summer sun rode high; 
 Noon came; there stood an inn, but the fierce knight passed 
 
 i t by . 
 Still onward — but the charger was faint and weary grown; 
 His splendid liead was drooping, his strength was spent 
 
 and gone, 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The spurs were buried deeper, blood mingled witli the foam, 
 But spur and wliip were bootless— the beast was overcome. 
 He turned a sad ej'e backward, witli plaiutive, piteous 
 
 moan, 
 Yet his master steeled to pity, still souglit to spur him on. 
 
 But lol the angry horseman heard hoof-beats close abreast, 
 'Twas a brave and gallant charger refreshed by food and 
 
 rest. 
 A blue flag gaily floating, just brushed against his cheek; 
 But not a word he uttered— he was too wrotli to speak. 
 
 Away sped horse and rider, and ere the sun went down 
 
 They swept into a court yard of mighty London town. 
 
 But tlie evening fogs liung brooding o'er the city's lessened 
 din. 
 
 When a steed all spent and halting came faintly stagger- 
 ing in. 
 
 Limp hung the scarlet banner, all trailing dismally; 
 Oh! that jaded horse and rider were a sorry siglit to see! 
 Not once for rest had paused lie— that fierce and fiery 
 
 kniglit — 
 And now was lost his wager and his steed was ruined quite. 
 
 Thus ends tlie ancient tale with its moral clear and strong. 
 And tlie moral, not tlie tale, is the burden of my song. 
 It is but this: lie loses who presses on too fast, 
 And patient moderation is winner at the last. 
 
 The rougher are the steeps and the longer is the road, 
 
 More fatal to success are impatient spur and goad. 
 
 Great things are works of time— for true growth must have 
 
 its way; 
 No structure that remaineth was builded in a day. 
 
 That pale, misguided youth who burns the midnight oil, 
 Gains little in reward for his tense and wearying toil. 
 
226 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Save features pinched and hollow, locks prematurely white, 
 Save broken health and spirits, save dimned and failing 
 si^lit. 
 
 Along life's rugged hillside lies many a shattered hope. 
 Wrecked in the flery struggle up the steep and stony slope. 
 And oh! the pain of weeping above a broken life! 
 Oh! the agony of falling, defeated in the strife! 
 
 To rest as well as labor, God made both brawn and brain, 
 And strongest brain and muscle endure not ceaseless strain, 
 Let once the strings be broken, the loss is great indeed- 
 Work, then, but labor wisely — and thine be labor's meed. 
 
 Spring. 
 
 Oil, Spring is coming, coming, treading softly on the snow. 
 And the drifts are slowly melting witli the pressure and 
 
 the glow. 
 There's a waking and a thrilling in the heart with life 
 
 aglow 
 That has tlirobbed through all the winter, underneath the 
 
 frozen snow. 
 
 Let others sing of summer, with its wavy, grassy seas. 
 
 Or of glorious, gorgeous autumn, with her crimson, flaming 
 
 trees, 
 Or of hoary bearded winter, witli its days of glassy calm, 
 But I will sing the springtime with its tenderness and balm. 
 
 I stretch my arms to greet her, and my lips return her kiss, 
 I accept tlie joy she offers and I drink her cup of bliss. 
 Oh, my heart is throbbing, thrilling with a joy I cannot 
 
 tell. 
 As I wave my hand to winter in a jubilant farewell. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A Dedicatory Hjinn. 
 
 Written by request, and sung at the dedication of the Bap- 
 tist Churcli in Horton. 
 
 Tliougli liighest heaven is thy throne, 
 And earth and suns and stars tiiine own. 
 Yet to thy feet, our Lord and King, 
 Our clioicest gifts we gladly bring. 
 
 Wilt thou accept, we liunibly pray, 
 The offering we bring to-day; 
 For tiiee this house our hands have made; 
 In love are its foundations laid. 
 
 May nothing sordid enter liere; 
 No strife provolce tlie sinner's sneer. 
 With concert sweet and worship pure, 
 May peace remain and love endure. 
 
 As sunshine falls, and dews of night. 
 May blessings on these walls alight. 
 May all who here shall bow the knee 
 With contrite hearts, ttnd rest in thee. 
 
 May souls afflicted, tempest-tossed, 
 By floods o'erwhelmed in darkness lost, 
 Find here a light for 'wildered feet. 
 For sorest trouble comfort sweet. 
 
 We all as leaves must fade away,— 
 Tills house shall crumble and decay;— 
 But yonder — yonder stands 
 A better house not made with hands. 
 
228 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Struggle. 
 
 Great streng-tli is brought with pain, 
 
 From out the strife, 
 
 From out tlie storms that sweep 
 
 Tlie liuman soul— 
 
 Tliose hidden tempests 
 
 Of tlie inner life — 
 
 Comes forth the lofty calm 
 
 Of self-control. 
 
 Peace after war. Although 
 
 The heart may be trampled 
 
 And plowed like a torn battle field, 
 
 Rich are the fruits that follow victory. 
 
 And the battle grounds 
 
 The fullest harvests yield. 
 
 Strong grows his arm wlio breasts 
 
 A downward stream, 
 
 And stems with steady stroke 
 
 The mighty tide 
 
 Of his own passions. Sore 
 
 The wrench may seem, 
 
 But only he is strong 
 
 Whose strength is tried. 
 
 To toil is hard, to lay 
 Aside the oar, 
 To softly rise and fall 
 With passion's swell. 
 Is easier far. But when 
 The dream is o'er 
 The bitterness of waking 
 None can tell. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 To float at ease, by sleepy 
 
 Zephyrs fanned, 
 
 Is but to grow more feeble 
 
 Day by day; 
 
 While slips life's little hour 
 
 Out, sand by sand, 
 
 And strength and hope together 
 
 Waste away. 
 
 He only wins who sets 
 His thews of Steele 
 With tighter tensions for 
 The prick of pain; 
 Wlio wearies, yet stands fast; 
 Whose patient zeal 
 Welcomes the present loss 
 For future gain. 
 
 Toil before ease; the crosp. 
 Before the crown. 
 Wlio covets rest, he tirst 
 Must earn the boom. 
 He who at night in peace 
 Would lay him down. 
 Must bear his load amid 
 The heats of noon. 
 
 Oil the Farm. 
 
 How sweet to lean on Nature's arm, 
 
 And jog through life upon the farm! 
 
 Merchants and brokers spread and dash 
 
 A little while, then go to smash; 
 
 But we can keep from day to day. 
 
 The even tenor of our way. 
 
 (There go those horses! Quick. John! catch 'em! 
 
 They'll break their necks! You didn't hitch 'em!) 
 
230 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 How clear and shrill the plougliboy's song, 
 
 As merrily lie jogs along! 
 
 The playful breeze about him whirls, 
 
 And tosses wide his yellow curls. 
 
 His hands are brown, his cheeks are red — 
 
 An ever blooming flower bed. 
 
 Unspoiled by crowds, unvexed by care — 
 
 (Goodness, do hear the urchin swear!) 
 
 How soft the summer showers fall 
 On field and garden, cheering all; 
 How bright, in woods, the diamond sheen 
 Of rain-drops strung on tli reads of green — 
 Each oak a King, with jewelled crown. 
 (The wind has blown the liaystack down I 
 I knew 'twould hail, it got so warm. 
 That fence is flat— my! what a storm! 
 
 Plow soft the hazy summer night! 
 On dewy grass the xBoon's pale liglit 
 Rests dreamily. It falls in town, 
 On smoky roofs and pavements brown. 
 How tenderly, when uigbt is gone, 
 Breaks o'er the fields the summer dawn! 
 How sweet and pure the scented morn— 
 (Get up! Old Molly's in the corn!) 
 
 Far from the city's dust and broil, 
 We women sing at household toil, 
 Nor scorn to woi*k with hardened hands. 
 We laugh at fashion's bars and bands, 
 And on our cheeks wear Nature's rose — 
 (That calf is nibbling at my clothes! 
 Ofl' she goes at double shuttle, 
 Chewing down my finest ruffle!) 
 
 We workers, in our loom of life. 
 Far from the city's din and strife, 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 231 
 
 Weave many a soft, poetic rose, 
 With patient hand, thi-ouoh warp oC prose. 
 We love our hibor more and more, 
 (John! here! these pigs are at the door! 
 They've burst the sty, and scaled tlie wall- 
 There goes my kettle, soap and all!) 
 
 Pity Her. 
 
 No sleep, no rest! the night drags slowly by: 
 Tlie peaceful moonbeams fall athwart tiie floor; 
 
 Tlie cool wind steals in softly, and tiie sky 
 Curtains soft sleep, but she— she sleeps no more! 
 
 She sleeps no more. A tossing sea of pain 
 Lashed into madness, rolls its swollen tide 
 
 Like red-hot lava, through her heart and brain; 
 And at her feet a dark gulf opens wide. 
 
 O sisters pity! Other, lower deeps 
 Yawn to engulf her- will ye thrust her down 
 
 Into their seething depths? Look how she weeps, 
 And will ye drive her mad with your sold frown? 
 
 O woman, take thy foot from off her neck! 
 
 Uncurl thy lip of scorn! Drop but one tear 
 Of sweet compassion for the mournful wreck 
 
 Of the youth and loveliness tliat crouches here! 
 
 Knew ye what writhing serpents of remorse 
 
 Twist their sharp fangs amid her tangled hair- 
 Knew ye her agony beneath the curse 
 That rests on her young head, so hard to bear— 
 
 Ye could not to the tempter turn and smile: 
 And with a cruel foot the tempted spurn! 
 
 Ye could not kiss the liand that struck, the while 
 Ye scathe the victim with your heartless scorn! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Once, long ago, in a self-righteous crowd, 
 Far backward, manj' a long-lapsed century, 
 
 Stood One who pitied and forgave— ye, proud 
 In untired strength, are ye more pure than He? 
 
 Day by Day. 
 
 Thou askest wliat may my mission be. 
 And what great work am I bound to do; 
 
 Alas! I cannot unfold to thee 
 The work of a day till that day be through. 
 
 I know not at night what awaits at morn; 
 
 I know not at morn what the noon shall bring; 
 Nor know, till the eve its fruit has borne. 
 
 What the twilight folds in its dusky wing. 
 
 I purpose and plan, but cannot dispose; 
 
 The work I would do slips through my bands; 
 I am given a task that I never chose: 
 
 And my strengtli is fettered by bars and bands. 
 
 1 purpose and plan, yet blindly go. 
 Doubtful whither; to reach my end 
 
 I sturdily toil, yet well I know 
 To the will of events my will must bend. 
 
 I would build me a tower, with lordly walls, 
 On a lofty rock that o'ertops the lands; 
 
 But, ere it is finished, my structure falls, 
 For the rock has crumbled to shifting sands. 
 
 I have woven a web with the toil of years; 
 
 I have laid it by, forgetting the moth: 
 And I thread my needle and sharpen my shears; 
 
 But lo! the worms have eaten the cloth. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Still I then do uauglit; sliall I sit iti sloth, 
 Because has tumbled my lordly tower? 
 
 And because the worms have eaten my cloth- 
 Scorning the calls of the present hour? 
 
 If, day by day. while keen desire 
 
 Pants for the work that is great and grand, 
 Some small, sweet task by the household-lire 
 
 Mutely appeals to my brain and hand, 
 
 Shall I then complain? Shall I turn away. 
 Closing my heart to the tender call? 
 
 And leave undone the work of to-day, 
 Because it is humble, unseen, and small? 
 
 Nay; for, better than sounding name. 
 And better than riches, that rot and rust. 
 
 And better than glistening wreathes of fame. 
 That wither, and crumble, and fall to dust. 
 
 Are the blessings that come to me, one by one. 
 The peaceful joys that enter my gate. 
 
 If I do my duty from sun to sun, 
 Be it lowly or high, be it small or great. 
 
 The sweet, glad smile in a loved one's eye, 
 The tender cadence of household-tones. 
 
 Are better than ci'owns of the great and high;- 
 For to live on pride is to feed on stones. 
 
234 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER FOEMS. 
 
 September. 
 
 'Tis autumn in our northern land. • 
 The summer walks a queen no more; 
 Her sceptre drops from out her hand; 
 Her strength is spent, her passion o'er. 
 On lake and stream, on field and town, 
 Tlie placid sun smiles calmly down. 
 
 The teeming earth its fruit has borne; 
 The grain fields lie all shorn and bare; 
 And where the serried ranks of corn 
 Wave proudly in tlie summer air, 
 And bravely tossed their yellow locks, 
 Now thickly stands the bristling shocks. 
 
 On sunny slope, on crannied wall 
 The grapes hang purpling in the sun; 
 Down to the turf the brown nuts fall, 
 And golden apples, one by one. 
 Our bins run o'er witli ample store — 
 Thus autumn reaps what summer bore. 
 
 The mill turns by the waterfall; 
 
 The loaded wagons go and come; 
 
 All day I hear the teamster's call, 
 
 All day I hear the threshers hum; 
 
 And many a shout and many a laugh 
 
 Comes breaking tlirough the clouds of ciiaff. 
 
 Gay, careless sounds of homely toiU 
 
 With mirth and labor closely bent 
 
 The weary tiller of the soil 
 
 Wins seldom wealth, but oft content. 
 
 'Tis better still if he but knows 
 
 What sweety wild beauty round him glows. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The brook glides toward the sleeping- lake- 
 Now babbling over shining stones; 
 Now under clumps of bush and brake, 
 Hushing its brawl to murmuring tones; 
 And now it takes its winding path 
 Through meadows green with aftermath. 
 
 The frosty twilight early falls, 
 But household fires burn warm and red. 
 The cold may creep without the walls, 
 And growing things lie stark and dead — 
 No matter, so the hearth be bright 
 When household faces meet to-night. 
 
 Probably Not. 
 
 ^ry ships may come in from the sea, 
 Laden with wealth untold, 
 And bringing it all to me— 
 Spices, and pearls, and gold. 
 
 In many a rich ingot — 
 
 But— probably not. 
 
 The castles I build in Spain, 
 That a breath so topples o'er. 
 And which daily Irear again, 
 May stand, and fall no more— 
 
 By destroying winds forgot— 
 
 But — probably not. 
 
 I may And the shackles of care 
 That fetter my aching wing, 
 While I long to cleave the air, 
 And wildly to soar and sing, 
 Lifted from off my lot — 
 * But — probably not. 
 
236 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The heights to which I aspire— ^ 
 I may reach them by and by; 
 And that which I most desire— 
 I may clasp it before I die, 
 
 With the longing and pain forgot— 
 
 But— probably not. 
 
 I may find on life's battle field, 
 Ere the going down of the sun, 
 A place to lay down my sliield, 
 With the struggle over and done — 
 
 Some peaceful and sheltered spot- 
 But— probably not. 
 
 I may find how, without loss, 
 I can lay my burdens down ; 
 Some way to elude the cross, 
 And yet to deserve the crown 
 
 Which falls to the conqueror's lot- 
 But — probably not. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 237 
 
 Spinning Tow. 
 
 A little maiden with bruided hair 
 
 Walks to and fro 
 Before a wlieel. What does slie there? 
 
 The child is spinning tow. 
 
 In through the open window comes 
 
 The scented breeze; 
 With drowsy wing the wild bee hums 
 
 Out in the orchard trees. 
 
 The blue sky bends, the rtowers are sweet, 
 
 As children know; 
 Yet with deft hands and steady feet, 
 
 This child keeps spinning tow. 
 
 Still works slie; steady mounts tiie sun 
 Through the skies of May, — 
 
 The small task ends; tlie skein is spun; 
 Tlie girl bounds out to play. 
 
 She learns life's lesson young you say? 
 
 'Tis better so. 
 That life is toil as well as play, 
 
 She learns here spinning tow. 
 
 Years pass. Beside lierown hearthstone 
 
 A woman stands 
 With steady eye and cheerful tone. 
 
 Brave lieart and willing liands. 
 
 Tills matron, who on household ways 
 
 Glides to and fro, 
 Learned when a child, on soft spring days, 
 
 Life's lesson, spinning tow. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A Suninier Night. 
 
 The twilight end.-;; the last faint crimson stain 
 
 Has faded from the west; the deep blue sky 
 Deeper and darker grows; and once again 
 
 God's lamps are lighted in the dome on high. 
 Above yon oak-crowned hill, whose trailing clouds 
 
 Hung low and slack at noon, 
 Now, round and red, from out their torn white shrouds, 
 Steps forth the harvest moon. 
 
 Thus she cimj fortli hiit ni.?ht; thu? will she coma, 
 
 The next night and the next. Oh, magic time! 
 The full moon wanes not at the harvest home. 
 And night's grand poem flows in even rhyme, 
 Tlie grain is gathered; hills of tawny gold 
 
 Begem the earth's shorn breast. 
 Flard hands are folded; summer's tale is told; 
 The sickle lies in rest. 
 
 The night has wondrous voices. At my door, 
 
 I sit and listen to its many tones. 
 The wind comes through the woods with muffled roar, 
 
 The brook goes rippling on its bedded stones. 
 I hear the raccoons call among the corn. 
 
 The night-hawk's lonely cry; 
 A dismal owl sends out his note forlorn, 
 One whip-po-will sings nigh. 
 
 And tliere are other voices; all the grass 
 
 Is peopled with a crowd of tiny things, 
 We see them not, yet crush them as we pass; 
 
 These sing all night, and clap their puny wings. 
 Beneath my very feet, calls clear and strong, 
 
 A cricket, slyly hid; 
 While at my elbow— well I know his song- 
 Rattles a katydid. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 239 
 
 Poor, puny tliingsl your gabi nears its end — 
 
 Tliere comes a hint of Aatuniti in the wind 
 Tliat bend^ the tassled corn; the uight grows chill; 
 Short, and yet shorter, grows each passing day; 
 The year is waxing old. 
 The frost waits in the north, not far away; — 
 The summer's tale is told. 
 
 Knitting. 
 
 An old-time kitclien. an open door, 
 
 Sunsliine lying across the floor; 
 
 A little maid, feet bare and brown, 
 
 Cheeks like roses, a cotton gown. 
 
 Rippling masses of shining hair. 
 
 And a childish forehead smooth and fair. 
 
 The child is knitting. The open door 
 Wooes her, tempts her, more and more. 
 The sky is cloudless, the air is sweet 
 And sadly restless the bare brown feet. 
 Still, as she wishes her task were done. 
 She counts the rounds off, oae by one. 
 
 Higher yet mounts the sun of June; 
 But one round more!— a joyous tune 
 Ripples out from the childish lips, 
 Wliile swift and swifter tiie tinger-tips 
 Play out and in, till I hear her say, 
 "Twenty rounds! I'm going to play!" 
 
 Up to the hedge where the sweet-brier blows, 
 Down to the banlc where the brooklet flows, 
 Chasing the butterflies, watching the bees. 
 Wading in clover up to lier knees. 
 Mocking the bobolinks; oil, wliat fun 
 It is to be free when the task is done! 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Years and years have glided away. 
 
 The child is a woman, and threads of gray 
 
 One by one creep into her hair, 
 
 And I see the prints of the feet of care. 
 
 Yet I lilfe to watch her. To-night she sits 
 
 By lier household Are, and as then she knits. 
 
 Swiftly the needles glance, and the thread 
 Glides through her fingers, white and red. 
 'Tis a baby's stocking. To and fro 
 And out and in as the needles go, 
 Slie sings as she sang tliat day in June, 
 But tlie low, soft strain is a nursery tune. 
 
 Closely beside her the baby lies, 
 Slowly closing his sleepy eyes. 
 Forward, backward, the cradle swings, 
 Touched by her foot as she softly sings. 
 And now i.i sileace her watch she keeps; 
 The song is iiushed, for tlie baby sleeps. 
 
 Up from the green, through the twilight gray. 
 Comes the shouts of a troop at play. 
 Blue eyes, black eyes, golden curls - 
 These are all hers — her boys and girls. 
 Then wonder not at the prints of care, 
 Or tlie silver threads ui her braided hair. 
 
 Does she ever pine for the meadow brook. 
 The sweet-brier hedge, the clover nook? 
 When sweet winds wo:), when smiles the sun. 
 Does she ever wisii that her task was doneV 
 Would you know? Then watch hur where she sits- 
 Smiling dreamily, while she knits. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Old Letters. 
 
 Maiden at her window sitting, 
 
 Witli her long forgotten Ivnitting 
 Lying idle when it fell upon the floor; 
 
 She is thinking, slie is dreaming, 
 
 And her ej'es with tears are streaming, 
 As she reads a pile of letters o'er and o'er. 
 
 Every sheet is closely written. 
 
 And each page illumed, love litten, 
 Breathing passion, hope and air of nolile deeds; 
 
 Every line is manly, tender. 
 
 Wherefore then tliese sobs that rend her? 
 Why tliese bitter tears tliat blind lier as she reads? 
 
 Why? Alas! the pen is rusted, 
 
 Lying useless, damp, encrusted, 
 Where it fell from pallid hands that write no more; 
 
 And the postman, passing daily, 
 
 Sees no more the maiden gayly, 
 Smiling, waiting for her letter ai the door. 
 
 He is dead, tliat manly lover, 
 
 And the snows of winter cover 
 Pallid brow and pulseless breast as cold as they; 
 
 And she thinks, that stricken maiden— 
 
 With her youth thus sorrow-laden. 
 That her heart is dead and withered in its May. 
 
 She has learned to love another — 
 
 More than friend and more than brother— 
 (All those letters have turned yellow long ago); 
 
 There's a baby's laughter ringing. 
 
 As slie clasps him, smiling, singing;— 
 She has learned the throbbing bliss that mothers know. 
 
242 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER JeOEMS. 
 
 Yet she keep-; those letters hidden, 
 
 And her heart still throbs unchidden 
 If she chance to touch the casket where they lie; 
 
 And she enters all undaunted, 
 
 To a chamber shadow-haunted, 
 Which no other, now or ever, coaieth nigh. 
 
 She is happy now, and sweeter 
 
 Are the smiles that daily greet her, 
 Than was ever aught that haunted chamber keeps; 
 
 But let once her peace be broken, 
 
 And let bitter words be spoken — 
 She will read those yellow letters while she weeps. 
 
 (irceiilcaf. 
 
 'Twas midniglit in a country town, 
 Through old, dim trees the moon's cold light 
 
 On sloping eaves and roofs of brown 
 Dropped trembling bare of silver white. 
 
 The village slept. Love nestled close 
 
 In clasping arms, and on the breast 
 Of weary cai-e, in deep repose, 
 
 Tired hands lay folded and at rest. 
 
 The village slept, and sleeping, dreamed; 
 
 But one low roof, with moss grown wall, 
 Through whose bare panes the moonlight streamed. 
 
 Field one who slept nor di'eamed at all. 
 
 A hermit, on a village street, 
 
 Long had he dwelt, unloved, alone; 
 Closed was his door to passing feet; 
 
 Only a dog to share his bone. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And while that night the village slept, 
 
 A colder and a deeper sleep 
 At midnight to his pillow crept; 
 
 With none to watch and none to weep. 
 
 Morn same, and noon, and passers by 
 Began to wonder more and more; 
 
 Wliat ailed the dog — so piteously 
 He moaned and howled beside the door. 
 
 They forced the lock at last, and then 
 The sunlight streamed across the dead. 
 
 Brown cheeks grew pale, and stalwart men 
 Walked homeward with a heavy tread. 
 
 Greenleat is dead!"— the whisper went 
 From street to street. A solemn knell 
 
 Peals mournfully; all stand attent. 
 But no one weeps, wliile sobs the bell. 
 
 No sister, wife, no child, no friend! 
 
 No eyes with tender tears grow dim. 
 A lonely life — a lonely end; 
 
 What matter? It is naught to him. 
 
 Again the village sleeps — the bell 
 Hangs speechless as the breathless night: 
 
 Yet awe-struck watchers, whispering, tell 
 Weird tales beside a form in white. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Only a Woman. 
 
 Only a woman, shriveled and old, 
 
 The prey of the winds, and the prey of the cold I 
 
 Cheeks that are shrunken, 
 
 Eyes that are sunken, 
 
 Lips that were never o'erbold; 
 Only a woman; forsalcen and poor, 
 Asking an alms at the bronze chnrch-donr. 
 
 ITark to the organ! roll upon roll 
 
 Tlie waves o'" its music go over the soul ! 
 
 Silks rustle past her 
 
 Thickei' and faster; 
 
 The great bell ceases its toll. 
 Fain would she enter, but not for the jjoor 
 Swingeth wide open the bronze churcli dooi". 
 
 Only a woman- waiting alone. 
 Icily cold on an ice-cold throne. 
 
 What do tliey care for her, 
 
 Mumbling a prayer for her, 
 
 Giving not bread but a stone. 
 Under gold laces their haughty liearts beat, 
 Mocking the wue> of their kin in the street. 
 
 Only a woman I In the older days 
 Hope carroled to her in happiest lays; 
 
 Somebody mis.>ed her, 
 
 Somebody kissed her, 
 
 Somebody crowned her with praise; 
 Somebody faced up tlie battles of life. 
 Strong for her sake who was mother or wife. 
 
 Somebody lies with a tress C't her hair 
 
 Light on his heart where the death-shadows are; 
 
-s^^*'' 
 
 — i3*W- 
 
 \. 'k , 
 
 ~ ~ 
 
 
 '?^.w. 
 
 
 
 w-'' 
 
 
 
 tm:/,/,. 
 
 
 
 V/A--' 
 
 
 
 "Treeless Desert,"' they called it then, 
 Haunted bv beasts and forsook bv men. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 245 
 
 Somebody waits for her, 
 
 Opening the gates for lier, 
 
 Giving delight for despair. 
 Onlj' a woman— nevermore poor — 
 Dead in the snow at the bronze church-door. 
 
 Haunted. 
 
 There stood a goodly house— I knew it well, — 
 Huilt like a palace, with fair, stately halls, 
 Where all things pure and beautiful did dwell, 
 
 And sat at peace within its lovely walls. 
 And oft a voice, tuned like a sweet-toned bell. 
 In strains of throbbing music ro.se and fell. 
 
 A home of harmonies— a gentle throng! 
 A home of rest and peace; and yet there came — 
 Sudden and swift and dark— a day of shame. 
 
 Henceforth an end of peace, an end of song. 
 Henceforth a crowd of demons come and go. 
 And range all the chambers, high and low. 
 
 The house isliaunted. Shadows dark as night, 
 With ghostly footfalls stalk from room to room: 
 And voices doleful as the cries of doom. 
 
 Shriek in the darkness, then anon a light 
 Flashes athwart the windows, fierce and fell, 
 And red and lurid as the flames of hell. 
 
 AlasI the wreck, the ruin tliat befalls! 
 
 Alas! the shaking, cruml)ling, and decay! 
 The very vines let go the tottering walls: 
 
 The very dogs take flight and flee away. 
 Appalled by sounds and sights so strange and dire- 
 The shrieks, the laughter, and the lurid fire. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 An awful thing of terror, weird and wild; 
 A thing to gaze upon in speechless fear, 
 And yet to wring perforce the pitying tear. 
 
 This stately palace, ruined and defiled. 
 
 Waxing more foul and ghastly year by year 
 
 Where peace and purity lie prone and slain:— 
 
 This haunted house~?'s but a crazed brain. 
 
 Farmer Jones on Corn. 
 
 How's corn to-day ma'am? And why should you wish to 
 
 know? 
 Do such things bother a woman? Wall, it is low. 
 I'm posted -ycju see 1 have been with a load to town. 
 It is weak, as they say in reports, and it's going down. 
 
 Hard times for farmers like me— and with rent so high! 
 The chinch bugi coma like an army, tlie summer was dry; 
 It was scorching drouth and the chinch bug, and now it is 
 
 the bears: 
 And that takes ma down to h ird pan, but— who dares? 
 
 \' Hold on to your corn,"' say the p'lpers, I would if I could. 
 For those who can take this advice, the advice is good. 
 But I've got to sell for there is the rent to pay. 
 And other debts falling due— I've been dunned to-day. 
 
 I promise to pay, I find is a master stern. 
 And it's not tor me to wait for the tide to rise. 
 To sell at the ebb, when so little there is to sell, 
 Seems rather rough, but the buyers- they like it well. 
 
 The rich grow richer, the poor man grows poorer still, 
 For if things get to going wrong it's all down lull. 
 He must sell for whatever the buyer may choose to pay. 
 And of prices of things he buys has nothing to say. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 It is hard to b3 poor. Would the greedy rich but think 
 Of the sweat and toil that earned the gold they chink. 
 I fancy that pins would be stuck in their beds of down, 
 And their ill-gotten wealth would prick likea thorny crown. 
 
 It is hard to be poor; but I'd rather be poor than own 
 The wealth that some men squeeze out of blood and bone. 
 If the bed is hard where I gathei- my weary feet, 
 X® specters haunt my pillow and my sleep is sweet. 
 
 I am growing old and my hair is growing gray: 
 
 I liave done a deal of work for but little pay; 
 
 But I hope for the best— there are some vvhct see tliese 
 
 things. 
 And who speak for the farmers in spite of moneyed kings. 
 
 I've made a good deal of talk, ma"am -but tliat's my way — 
 To answer your simple question, "How's corn to-dayV" 
 I wisli tliat the great might hear and understand 
 That the good of the working man is the good of the land. 
 
 Old Fhiiu. 
 
 We labor and live in tlje same old town. 
 
 We traverse tlie same, same street; 
 We seldom smile, and never frown 
 
 As perchance our footsteps meet:— 
 A gentle nod — a wave of the hand — 
 
 Is our greeting, quite properand neat. 
 
 Yet once, my life of life was she, 
 
 Her ideal of a man seemed I, 
 As together we pictured a destiny 
 
 Whose dawn was the bright l)y-and-by;- 
 Tlie bright by-and-by, nf)w far in our rear. 
 
 Stretclied out between Inerz and I. 
 
248 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Time clianged us both in a single year, — 
 
 And we do no^ regret it now; 
 We clianged, but why? 'tis as yet unclear— 
 
 We clianged, and scarcely know how. 
 Forgotten were all the dreams we dreamt, 
 
 Our hopes our plighted vow. 
 
 Sombre and matter of fact we look, 
 As we follow our duties about; 
 
 Covers, we seem, of an old, old book 
 Whose pages are lost and torn out; — 
 
 The leaves have twirled away in the wind, 
 All tattered and sadly worn out. 
 
 Thus we labor and live in the same old town, 
 And traverse the same, .same street; 
 
 Hardly a smile, but never a frown, 
 As perchance our footsteps meet;— 
 
 A kindly nod— a wave of the hand— 
 'Tis our greeting all proper and neat. 
 
 After the Wedding. 
 
 The guests are gone, — the pageantry 
 
 Has vanished like some brilliant dream; 
 The lamps are out— on tliee and me 
 
 Only the moonlight sheds its gleam. 
 In this sweet hour— all else forgot 
 Save love — for us the world is not; 
 
 Naught reck we of its praise or curse. 
 Thou art, and I; and we two stand 
 Within a sweet enchantment land, 
 
 Alone amid the Universe. 
 
 All will come back,— the busy throng, 
 Discordant voices, jostling feet, — 
 
 And waves of trouble, swift and strong-, 
 Against our walls shall break and beat. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 But not to-iiiglit,— no, not to-night I 
 As sleeps yon lake, so calm, so briglit, 
 
 No rippling' on its shining breast, 
 So sleeps all thought of future ill; 
 We only feel the throb and thrill 
 
 That stirs two hearts when fully blest. 
 
 I give thee all, dear love, and so 
 
 I learn the rarest bliss of living, 
 Tiie purest rapture mortals know, — 
 
 The joy ineffable of giving. 
 'Tis thine for aye; a stream so deep 
 Can never flow with backward sweep; 
 
 No drought can shrink its living tide,— 
 Unless, unless thine eye grow cold, 
 And tliy strong arm its tender fold 
 
 Unclasp, to spurn me from thy side. 
 
 That cannot be. Thy tenderness, 
 
 Tliy thrilling glance, thy gentle tone, 
 Thy watchful care, thy dear caress,— 
 
 These are— they will be— all my own. 
 They say that love's a torrent's dash, 
 A sudden fire, a meteor-flash. 
 
 That blazes and then dies away. 
 Believe it not. True love's a sun. 
 That steadily, till life is done, 
 
 Shines on and on. witli quenchless ray. 
 
250 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Farther Shore. 
 
 The night is long and lonely, and we wait 
 With silent watclifulness, with sleepless fears, 
 
 For One who shall unlock the shining gate, 
 And end the darkness of tliis night of tears. 
 
 Before us, through the gloom, a river runs. 
 With silent tide, forever dark and chill; 
 
 Reflecting no white moons or golden suns. 
 Tossed by no waves— so ghastly, calm and still! 
 
 No murmuring ripple and no friendly roar 
 Warns, in the darkness, of the dangerous iDrink. 
 
 We know not, ever, whither lies the shore, 
 Nor at what moment we may slip and sink. 
 
 Close at our feet may be these waters wide — 
 So we grope darkly, and one footfall more 
 
 May be a leap into the swallowing tide, 
 
 Where countless thousands have gone down before. 
 
 A chilling plunge— an end of life's swift dream — 
 And still the river shall flow calmly on. 
 
 As silent as before. Oh, ruthless stream I 
 So cold and pitiless thy waters run! 
 
 Yet this dark river has anotlier shore, 
 And yonder, yonder is the golden gate! 
 
 A flood of light shall break these waters o'er, 
 When He unlocks it— He, for whom we wait. 
 
 Then shall the sleepers wake. The hungry tide, 
 His dead shall gather to his arms no more. 
 
 The glad and glorious throng, clean.sed, purifled, 
 Shall stand in white upon the farther shore. 
 
WALLS OP CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 To Emma, On Her Wedding Day. 
 
 Dear friend, I will not wisli you perfect joy; 
 
 That conies not on this earth. No mortal drinlcs 
 An unmixed cup; all good has much alloy; 
 
 And life's long cliain must have some iron links, 
 
 I wish, instead, that you may know the peace— 
 The steady calm— that comes of duty done. 
 
 The best springs feed, not torrents, soon to cease. 
 But summer rills, that through dry weather run. 
 
 Life hath its poetry, run how it may; — 
 I need not tell you that it hath its prose. 
 
 Your feet may bleed,— for thorns grow in the way— 
 But every thorn, remember, bi'ars its rose. 
 
 Shut not your eyes, but turn them toward the light, 
 E'en when it struggles down in cloudy bars. 
 
 Dark days may come, and deepen into night;— 
 Oh, then look up, and you shall see the stars! 
 
 Thus, he wliose hand you take to climb life's hill. 
 Shall find you at his side a presence sweet. 
 
 Giving, when needed, firmness to his will, 
 Strength to his arm, and fleetness to his feet. 
 
 Would you do more? no need t(j scoui' the land 
 For work to do; work of your own will come. 
 
 She who wants labor, rinds it at her hand; 
 She who hath aught to say, need not be duml). 
 
 I think you will be strong— I know you well;— 
 I think tliat you will seek to do the best 
 
 You ttnd to do— yet what, I cannot tell. 
 Do it, be true, and leave to God the rest. 
 
252 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Wooing. 
 
 A COUNTRY BALLAD. 
 
 There is a worthy widower, one of our "solid men", 
 And he was born and bred— I can't tell where or when:— 
 But he lives near by the "Ancient City," Aztalan, 
 Which has stood beside the Crawfish since tlie memory of 
 man. 
 
 He has built himself a castle with many a point and stee- 
 ple. 
 
 Which, through all the country round, is the wonder of the 
 people: 
 
 He has built himself a barn with a lofty "cupalo"', 
 
 Where painted beasts look down on the living ones below. 
 
 But this dweller by the Crawfish, in the town of Aztalan, 
 For all his Gotliic Castle, is a very lonely man; 
 For a house without a mistress is a hive without a queen, 
 And he sighs with discontent as he views ills acres green. 
 
 He wants a wife; but all in vain for him the widow smiles; 
 In vain the well-kept spinster may try her sweetest wiles; 
 He looks among the maidens with rosy cheeks, and curls, 
 And seeks to find his queen from among the village girls. 
 
 And now begins my story, which is too good to keep; 
 I've heard it here so often that I hear it in my sleep; 
 What all the gossips know, it can't be wrong to tell, 
 So here is what did happen, and this is what befell; 
 
 This solid, landed man, who wants a better half. 
 
 One day had been somewhere and bought a blooded calf; 
 
 He had it in his wagon, likewise his hired man. 
 
 And he had his horses headed for the town of Aztalan. 
 
WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 But. alas for side attractions! They were passing through 
 
 the town 
 That sits by yonder lalve, with its houses white and brown, 
 When he reigned aside his team at a pretty village gate; 
 He wished to "call a minute," and told his man to wait. 
 
 But dark eyes shown within, and lie found himself en- 
 chanted; 
 And, swift and unaware, the enchanted evening waned. 
 Till he started on a sudden, exclaiming, "By the powers!" 
 For Time, that waits for no man, had passed the smallest 
 hours. 
 
 It was time to seek his cattle, in the town of Aztalan! 
 He remembered now his team and the waiting hired man; 
 Where were they? Hans had waited, how long I cannot 
 
 say; 
 But the night was gray and chill, and his patience oozed 
 
 away. 
 
 Then he drove along a piece, hitched the horses to the 
 
 fence, 
 And made tracks for home, like a man of common sense; 
 He left the hungry horses, the wagon and the calf; 
 But for him to wait all night, it was too much, by half! 
 
 When at last the man came out, he didn't see his team. 
 For the clouded morning moon gave but a feeble gleam; 
 He looked about, and, seeing neither man nor brute. 
 Supposed that all were gone, and posted off afoot. 
 
 He laid him down and slept, — 'tis thus the story goes; 
 Whether his dreams were sad or sweet, nobody knows; 
 He rose at early dawn and to his stable sped. 
 But lo! the stalls were empty: and his heart it sutdi like 
 lead . 
 
254 WALLS OF CORN AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 He called to Hans: "See here; where are those horses, sir?"' 
 "Why, in the stable, aren,t they'? I supposed of course they 
 
 were; 
 "I left them waiting, sir, for you. Pray do not fret; 
 "I tied them well; I thinlc tliey must be waiting yet!" 
 
 Tlie honest fellow didn't see the ghastly joke. 
 But his angry master did, and then in thunder spoke: 
 Here, sir! Post off! Be quick, and get that team away, 
 Before the pesky villagers are stirring for the day! 
 
 But all too late! tlie folks were up, and loud the laugh 
 That greeted that poor Dutchman, those horses and that 
 
 calf; 
 They questioned Hans, who straightway all the story told. 
 Which same the villagers repeat to young and old. 
 
 Here is the wholesome moral, wliicli tliis tale doth plainly 
 
 teach, 
 And this the printed sermon such experience doth preach: 
 That solid landed men who are seeking better halves. 
 Shouldn't try to do their wooing wlien they go a buying 
 
 calves. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 864 180 A