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350 
 
 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 / 
 
 BY CELE SEALY. 
 
 ROCHESTEfeV" 
 
 CURTIS, BUTTS <b CO., PRINTEES, UNION AND ADVERTISER OFFICE, 
 1862. 
 
 m 
 
75 ^n'fl 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1861, 
 
 BY CELE SEALY, 
 
 In the Clerk's OfRce of the Xorthern District of New York. 
 
 
 Stereotyped by jAJfifS LkNrox,. :«iurbestei;, JC Y'* 
 
TO 
 
 TKCE FXJBLIO, 
 
 THESE POEMS 
 
 ARE TRUSTFULLY DEDICATED. 
 
 "Wk 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A Poem,. 48 
 
 Anna, 128 
 
 A Fantasy, 18 
 
 Cousin Ed, 18 
 
 Cooning, .■ 40 
 
 Cora Earle, 75 
 
 Disappointment, 35 
 
 Emma, 50 
 
 Faithless, .* 32 
 
 Haunted, 27 
 
 Harvest Hymn, 34 
 
 Invocation, 55 
 
 In Memoriam, 67 
 
 Introduction, 9 
 
 Janie, 15 
 
 Julia, 57 
 
 Joey, 63 
 
 Legend of Buttermilk Falls, 81 
 
 Love, 96 
 
 Maggie, 107 
 
 Morning, , , , 59 
 
 Mother's Wild Boy...... ,...116 
 
VIU CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Mumford, 97 
 
 My Two Good Friends, 13 
 
 Oise, .....131 
 
 Our ViUage, 109 
 
 Parody, 101 
 
 Respice Finem, 119 
 
 Euth, 102 
 
 Slave Girl, 87 
 
 Too Late, 43 
 
 To Fanny Fern, 30 
 
 The Child of the Waves, 62 
 
 The Haunted House of Geddes, 70 
 
 There is a place in Memory, 65 
 
 The Old Brown House, 45 
 
 The Bard of Oise, 61 
 
 The Midnight Dirge, 47 
 
 The Unloved Child's Request, 117 
 
 The Volunteer, 20 
 
 The Mountain Maid, 105 
 
 To the Robin, 99 
 
 The Sachem's Farewell, 76 
 
 The Sin-Blighted, 114 
 
 The Old Butternut Tree, 121 
 
 The Name, 104 
 
 The Divorced, 1 26 
 
 To Archie, 123 
 
 Violets, 125 
 
IKTEODUCTION. 
 
 The good house- wife lier butter sells, 
 Although perchance it rather " smells," , 
 And often warrants eggs, in heaps, 
 "When in each shell a chicken peeps. 
 The milliner, toward you shoves 
 Her hats, and calls them " perfect loves ! " 
 Dress-makers too, claim praises warm, 
 For bettering the human form. 
 And even cooks and chambermaids 
 Are wont to glorify their trades. 
 
 When the mechanic offers wares. 
 He in their praise no logic spares. 
 And often people buy things new. 
 To see if what he says be true. 
 
INTEODUCTION. 
 
 The tHrifty farmer has been known, 
 To sell his wheat when it was " grown." 
 The merchant, addles women's brains, 
 By offering satins, silks, delaines, 
 French-collars, muslins, plain or cross'd. 
 And other things below their cost ; 
 They take his goods, he takes their gold ; 
 (I marvel if they feel inclined 
 To laugh, when afterward, they find 
 That with the goods themselves were sold.) 
 But this is by the way, and doubt 
 Not, but they would such fancies flout. 
 Each branch of labor, pufts its skill. 
 In order to "increase the bill," 
 And when I note the vast success. 
 Attendant on the puffing stress, 
 I sometimes think that gain alone 
 Depends upon the " Blarney-stone," 
 And for a space am fiercely took 
 With a desire to puff my book. 
 But common-sense — best friend to man — 
 Is ever by to scout the plan, 
 
INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 And for tliat reason, when you find 
 This book, oh Critic! pray be kind, 
 And unto its defects be bhnd. 
 Thou knowest well I do not aim. 
 To place my lowly, unknown name, 
 By that of gifted knight and dame, 
 Within the temple proud of fame ; 
 Nor word of praise do I desire. 
 Save that to which each may aspire, 
 Who honestly, with hand, or brain, 
 An independence strives to gain. 
 And keep his course, though adverse gales, 
 Strain mast and spar, and rend his sails, 
 And who, no degradation feels, 
 Like that which o'er his spirit steals, 
 And bows his very soul to dust. 
 When the dependant's stinted crust 
 lie's forced to either eat or starve: 
 To such, how pleasant 'tis to carve 
 A road, themselves, somewhere in life, 
 No matter how beset with strife I 
 And day by day, as on they wend. 
 
XU INTRODUCTION. 
 
 They bless as benefactor — ^friend, 
 All those who kindly lend one ray, 
 To cheer them on their pilgrim-way I 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET 
 
 MY TWO GOOD FEIENDS, 
 
 I HAVE two friends, the truest and the best ; 
 
 So true indeed, that oft I ask my heart. 
 
 If I be worthy e'en to say, " my friends ! " 
 
 Through them I've learned how rare a thing, is true 
 
 Benevolence ; that benefits conferred 
 
 May fail to burden the recipient. 
 
 When life was dark — a lonely, starless night, 
 
 I went to them in my despair, and cheer'd 
 
 They me ; and not with pleasant-sounding words 
 
 Alone ; but they with generous impulse, gave 
 
14 ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Me freely of their store, besides, a trust. 
 
 At once so dear, and grateful to my proud. 
 
 Proud heart, that since, I've only thought how best 
 
 I may deserve it. And, as now disperse 
 
 The clouds, that erst were wont to dim my. sky, 
 
 And I step forth in glad sunshine, while Life 
 
 Once more grows fair with purpose, grateful thoughts 
 
 In my heart move, to force its brine from out 
 
 Mine eyes ! 
 
 The free-born spirit oft rebels 
 Against commands that gentleness subdues : 
 'Tis not the bids, and threats, of Holy Writ 
 That move to contrite thought, and waken us 
 To penitence — and Ye, whose mission 'tis 
 To teach, do Ye not realize how prone 
 Is frail humanity to rise against 
 The voice of admonition, when its tone 
 Proclaims, " Thank God, I'm not as others are ? " 
 Oh Teacher I but a few words rightly spoken. 
 May bring the wandering to the fold : one deed 
 Of gentle charity, an erring soul 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 15 
 
 Eeclaim ; and sure thou hast reward, as with 
 That deed, Th' Eecording Angel from thy page 
 Expunges multitudes of minor faults I 
 
 JANIE. 
 
 Pale lilies wake. 
 
 By tangled brake, 
 And to zephyrs bow, Janie ; 
 
 But the robe they wear. 
 
 Was never so fair 
 As thy beautiful brow, Janie. 
 
 By fen and lea, 
 
 And mossy tree. 
 The violet lies, Janie ; 
 
 But its bohnie blue. 
 
 Was never so true, 
 As thy innocent eyes, Janie, 
 
16 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 The lips of shells, 
 
 ' Keath ocean-swells, 
 Lie gleaming in streaks, Janie ; 
 
 But their rosy shine. 
 
 Was never so fine. 
 As the bloom on thy cheeks, Jania 
 
 On ling and brae, 
 
 The sun-beams play, 
 And a woof make rare, Janie ! 
 
 But their braided light. 
 
 Was never so bright. 
 As the waves of thy hair, Janie. 
 
 The beck glides o'er 
 
 A nippled floor, 
 Of spherical stone, Janie ; 
 
 But its joyous laugh. 
 
 Was never one-half 
 So beloved, as thine own, Janie, 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. VI 
 
 The lotus-bloom, 
 
 Now flecks the gloom 
 Where Oise's ripples sleep, Janie ; 
 
 But the mourning-dove, 
 
 Sadly calls its love. 
 While for thee, lone, I weep, Janie. 
 
 Fond thoughts go back. 
 
 O'er life's wan track, 
 To show me its buhl, Janie ; 
 
 But its front is mirk. 
 
 For the fancy-work. 
 Went like white rime of Yule, Janie. 
 
 We dream in youth, 
 
 Of love and truth, 
 And a joy life wears, Janie ; 
 
 But maturer years. 
 
 Bring sorrowful tears, 
 Witb regrets and sad cares, Janie. 
 
18 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 COUSIN ED. 
 
 I HAVE missed thee, missed tliee badly, 
 
 Cousin Ed ; 
 
 And I wait, and listen sadly 
 
 For thy tread. 
 
 Apple blossoms blancli tlie clover, 
 
 Cousin Ed ; 
 
 Wert thou here, I'd fling them over 
 
 Thy proud head. 
 
 Orioles are sweetly singing, 
 
 Cousin Ed ; 
 Where the lofty elm tree's swinging 
 
 Branches spread. 
 
 Would that thou hadst left a sprinkling, 
 
 Cousin Ed ; 
 
 Of thy vim; for mine is sinking 
 
 Like the lead. 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 19 
 
 Thus contrast the real and seeming, 
 
 Cousin Ed ; 
 
 While thou'rt working, I am dreaming 
 
 On instead. 
 
 In the pleasant summer weather, 
 
 Cousin Ed ; 
 
 Side by side, we have together 
 
 Talked and read. 
 
 I would hear that old cremona. 
 
 Cousin Ed ; 
 
 O'er " Boy's wife " and " Desdemona," 
 
 Tears IVe shed. 
 
 Thee I miss when flowers are blowing, 
 
 Cousin Ed ; 
 
 Miss thee still when Yule-log's glowing 
 
 Fierce and red. 
 
 Miss thee, in the pleasant gloaming, 
 
 Cousin Ed : 
 
20 ECHOES FEOM THE GAERET. 
 
 When abroad the bat is roaming 
 
 For its bread. 
 
 All my thongbts of thee are " manna," 
 
 Cousin Ed ; 
 
 Cease to miss tbee, sure I " canna' " 
 
 Till I'm dead. 
 
 THE YOLUNTEEE 
 
 Oh ! wbere's my black-eyed boy, 
 
 Of whom I was so proud. 
 With cheery, boisterous ways, 
 
 And laughter wild and loud ? 
 Aye I whore's my black-eyed boy, 
 
 Who left me here in tears 
 When our proud nation's chief. 
 
 Made call for Volunteers ? 
 
ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 21 
 
 We parted by the gate, 
 
 Where I am sitting now, 
 And, as I held his hand, 
 
 He kissed his mother's brow, 
 While, from the arch above. 
 
 He pulled the ivy down, 
 And with artistic taste. 
 
 Did weave a vernal crown. 
 
 And then in sportive mood, 
 
 He laid it on my hair. 
 And vow'd no maiden with 
 
 His mother could compare. 
 He praised my eyes, the while. 
 
 The fond, the flatt'ring boy, 
 Said if for him I wept. 
 
 Their beauty 'twould destroy. 
 
 And from this very spot, 
 
 I waved a last adieu. 
 Until the winding road. 
 
 Quite hid him from my view ; 
 
22 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Then enter'd I our home, 
 
 But all seem'd strangely chill, 
 As though death had been there 
 And left it, cold, and still. 
 
 A wearj, weary while ! 
 
 To me, 'tis not quite plain 
 How long — for grief has made 
 
 Sad havoc with my brain — 
 I stood each day beside 
 
 The gate, with ivied arch, 
 And dream'd of tented field. 
 
 And fray, and midnight march. 
 
 I saw my boy among 
 
 The brave, the bravest there ; 
 And pray'd to God aloud, 
 
 My only son to spare, — 
 To send him back to me. 
 
 E'en as he went away. 
 
 With warm and loving heart, 
 And disposition gay. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 23 
 
 One eve as thus I stood, 
 
 I heard, far down the street, 
 The village band begin 
 
 To play a measure sweet ; 
 Near, and more near, it came, — 
 
 That low, and solemn strain — 
 And yet, no voice within. 
 
 Warned me of coming pain. 
 
 It nearer came — it ceased — 
 
 The village band fell back — 
 Six men came through the gate. 
 
 And with them — something black / 
 They sat their burden down. 
 
 The sable pall upraised, 
 And then, with tearless eyes, 
 
 Upon my boy I gazed. 
 
 There lay my black-eyed boy. 
 
 Of whom I was so proud, 
 Not strong in hfe and health. 
 
 But stiffen'd in his shroud. 
 
24 ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 
 
 I gave no sign ; my grief 
 Was far too deep for tears ; 
 
 But then and there I bow'd 
 As if with weight of years. 
 
 I questioned not a soul, 
 
 How this thing came about, 
 But heard as in a dream — 
 
 " Took sick upon the route." 
 Thus, thus, my boy had died, 
 
 His glad, black eyes grew dim. 
 And no fond mother near. 
 
 To breathe a prayer with him. 
 
 Had I been by his side, 
 
 Or held him on my breast. 
 Had wiped his fever' d brow, 
 
 My lips to his had press'd. 
 My heart would not have broke : 
 
 But now — ah well ! — I know 
 That in those lonely nights, 
 
 He miss'd his mother so. 
 
 ♦ 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 25 
 
 Oh, Politicians I this 
 
 And worse, is your vile work ; 
 Scarce better 'tis, than that 
 
 Of poison, or of dirk. 
 To satisfy your greed 
 
 We pay a horrid price — 
 The gains are all for you. 
 
 And ours^ the sacrifice. 
 
 If Heav'n is Heav'n, oneTiay 
 
 A reck'ning will be made, 
 And dire will be the fate of those 
 
 Who such a part have play'd ; 
 Who have, for greed or lust. 
 
 Aroused to deadly strife, 
 Fell passions, which would else, 
 
 Have slumbered on thro' life. 
 
 The North, the South, to me, 
 *A11 places are the same ! 
 My mother-tears have quench'd 
 The patriotic flame. 
 
26 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Thej saj that I am crazed, 
 And that my speech is wild, 
 
 They err ; I only grieve. 
 For my young victim-child. 
 
 They talk of Spartan dames — 
 
 Of their endurance prate, 
 Their stern, heroic deeds, 
 
 They bid me emulate. 
 But Oh ! I'm only strong 
 
 To love ! And all I had 
 To love, in this wide world. 
 
 Was my dear, black-eyed lad. 
 
 T miss my black-eyed boy. 
 
 Of whom I was so proud, 
 With cheery, boisterous ways, 
 
 And laughter, wild and loud. 
 Throughout the weary day, 
 
 I sit me by the gate, 
 But for my black-eyed boy. 
 
 In vain, in vain, I wait ! 
 
ilCHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 27 
 
 HAUNTED. - 
 
 A VOICE resounds from mystic depths, 
 
 With solemn calls, 
 And sighs from viewless throngs vibrate 
 
 Within my walls. 
 
 Eyes through the ebon darkness, peer 
 
 With rubric glow ; 
 And chill the air, as charnel mist, 
 
 Or graves below. 
 
 A fleshless finger cleaves apart 
 
 The mystic gloom, 
 And 'graves in lurid characters 
 
 The words of doom. 
 
 Plain, on the tablet of the night 
 
 The lines appear ; 
 I read, I understand, and thrill 
 
 With awful fear. 
 
28 ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 
 
 The fiat tells — my soul is doomed 
 
 To roam through space ; 
 To know throughout Eternity 
 
 Ko rest — no place. 
 
 That fitful, through the awful void, 
 
 In lonely woe, 
 Will wander, my lamenting voice, ' 
 
 And none to know. 
 
 But thou well knowest, Heber, why 
 
 I'm thus exiled ; 
 'Tis not that thou art keeping 
 
 My death- white child — 
 
 Not that thy grave is dripping o'er, 
 
 With wild, wet sleet — 
 Not that a broken marble shaft 
 ♦ Lies at thy feet — 
 
 But, from thy sepulchre I sought 
 To roll the stone ; 
 
 To press thee with a warm embrace- 
 Once more, mine own. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 29 
 
 Bj moonlight's weird and pallid gleam 
 
 I came to thee, 
 And night-birds from the cypress bough 
 
 Did welcome me. 
 
 I broke the slender, gleaming sliaft 
 
 Above thy bead, 
 And tore the vernal covering 
 
 From thy low bed. 
 
 I threw aside, with bleeding bands, 
 
 The cold, damp mould. 
 And joyed to think my treasures soon 
 
 I should behold. 
 
 Bebold my winsome Heber, there, 
 
 Low, quiet bid. 
 Beside my wee, wan baby, 'neatb 
 
 The coffin-lid. 
 
 But in alarm the night-bird shrieked. 
 
 And thro' the gloom 
 A shadowy throng assembled 
 
 Around the tomb. 
 
80 ECHOES FROM TILE GARRET. 
 
 And quick they filled the hollow up 
 My hands had scooped, 
 
 Then piled the broken marble, where 
 The cypress drooped. 
 
 And then they brought me here, to list 
 
 To haunting sighs ; 
 To see for e'er the fitful gleam 
 
 Of wild, weird eyes ; 
 
 To watch with fearful wonder, while 
 
 The fleshless hand 
 Engraves upon the front of night 
 
 Its lurid brand. 
 
 TO FANNY FEEN 
 
 Though I never saw thee, Fanny, 
 And I know not whether thou, 
 
 Sunmiers few hast seen, or many. 
 To thy genius, low I bow. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 31 
 
 I have wonder'd if thy tresses 
 
 Were of dark, or flaxen hue, 
 If thy aspect prepossesses, 
 
 As thy vig'rous lessons do. 
 
 I have wished to ken the color, 
 
 Of thy e'er-observant eyes, 
 But should love them, were they duller 
 
 Than the hue of polar skies. 
 
 I would ask no greater blessing, 
 In this world of woe and care, 
 
 Than to know myself possessing. 
 Of thy earnest love a, share. 
 
 Often when oppressed with sorrow. 
 
 To thy thoughts I gladly turn. 
 And much consolation borrow 
 
 From the words of Fanny Fern. 
 
 #■ 
 
 May thy life, while earth thou graceth, 
 
 Evermore be fair and bright. 
 And friends bless thee, till God placeth 
 
 On thy brow a crown of light. 
 
82 • ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 FAITHLESS. 
 
 I HAD a friend, so dear to me, I^gave 
 Her all mj heart, nor kept so mucli as one 
 Small room, wherein to harbor other loves. 
 Her grace and goodness, were the theme of all 
 My thoughts ; the matin and the vesper of 
 My ev'ry day. And Oh, how beautiful 
 My Ada was ! In motion, free and glad 
 As are the curves of murm'ring Oise ; to look 
 Upon, as fine and fragile as the stem 
 Of white pond-lily ; while her eyes were like 
 The midnight skies, so solemn in their depths, 
 That oft, as I within them look'd, my heart 
 Grew chill, as if some spirit ministrant, 
 Erom realms of the Invisible, did seek 
 With mystic awe, to make my mind surcease 
 Its bootless quest for lore forbidden. O'er 
 Her brow, were heavy braids of silken hair, 
 Not ebon-black, but dusky as the wild 
 Moor-pigeon's wing ; and sweeter was her breath 
 Than inner leaves of oleander bloom. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 33 
 
 My heart still grieves for Ada lost. And yet 
 She hves ; no mound the ashes of my friend 
 Innrns ; no weeping- willow waves above 
 Her final resting-place ; no wild- wood bird 
 Her requiem sings ; but ah, sh^ died to me ! 
 I call'd when waves of sorrow compass'd round 
 On ev'ry side, but she was deaf to all 
 My sadden'd wail. Misfortune's crucible, 
 Had proved my valued gem a bauble, void 
 Of worth. 
 
 Ko resurrection-promise lights 
 The tomb of buried love ; and yet, 'tis not 
 Unheeded, for we place around and o'er 
 It, all the blooms that mem'ry loves so well 
 To store, and with enjoyment of their sweets, 
 We lethe oft the fetid spring that gave 
 Them nutriment. 
 
34 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 HAKYEST HYMN. 
 
 The pleasant harvest time l^^s come, 
 
 The wheat is bowing low, 
 I hear the reapers' busy hum 
 
 As through the fields I go, 
 And thoughts of thankfulness arise, 
 
 As I look on the grain. 
 To God, who dwells beyond the skies. 
 
 Who gives the summer rain, 
 The frosts, and gentle dews of night, 
 
 The bleak November storm, 
 The drifts of snow, so pure and white. 
 
 And sun-beams bright and warm ; 
 Yes, thankful thoughts, arise to Heaven, 
 
 As nature's works I scan. 
 And think of all the blessings given. 
 
 Unsparingly to man. 
 To me it doth the lesson teach, 
 
 That when to chaos hurl'd 
 Is earth, my soul will farther reach, 
 
 Than harvest of the world ! 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 85 
 
 Oh ! may my life be such while here, 
 
 That when that day comes round, 
 I'll leave my grave without a fear, 
 
 And not be " wanting " found ; 
 And may my songs of praise arise 
 
 Above the crash of thunders, 
 As I ascend beyond the skies. 
 
 To bUssful land of wonders. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 "Why are we forever yearning, 
 
 Why to eerie dreams inclin'd ; 
 Why for ever — ever turning 
 
 Over plans, with hope to find 
 Something that may smooth the creases, 
 
 Time hath left upon the heart — - 
 Something pain to ease — that ceases 
 
 Nevermore its sullen smart ? 
 
B6 ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Why is thought for ever straying, 
 
 Back to former scenes of bliss ? 
 Why the past for ever weighing, 
 
 With our present happiness ? 
 Is it that our hearts are purer. 
 
 Ere we pass the porch of life, 
 That our joys are sweeter, surer, 
 
 Ere they're marr'd by worldly strife ? 
 
 Is it that we vainly listen* 
 
 For a well remember'd voice, 
 That has passed from earth to heaven, 
 
 With the angels to rejoice ? 
 Is it that each promise cherish'd 
 
 In our youth, has passed away. 
 That our early hopes have perish'd 
 
 Like the blossoms of a day ? 
 
 Disappointment dire and grievous, 
 Ever will our hopes erase, 
 
 Who are dearest, will deceive us. 
 Like the phantoms that we chase ; 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 87 
 
 And the lofty aspirations, 
 
 That we nursed in early youth, 
 
 Prove to be fair, false creations. 
 Too well clothed to be the truth. 
 
 THE SLAVE GIEL. 
 
 Millie stood in the moon-light. 
 
 Beside her cabin door, 
 And looks of desolation. 
 
 Her darkened features wore. . 
 
 Her sable brethren slumbered 
 
 Upon their pallets rude, 
 And in bright dreams of home-land 
 
 Their wasted strength renew'd. 
 
 But why from Millie's eye-lids. 
 Hath balmy slumber flown ? 
 
 Why stands she in the moon-light. 
 By her cabin door alone ? 
 
38 ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 
 
 She's fair, as mid-night starry : 
 The silken tresses wave, 
 
 Upon a brow and bosom, 
 Too lovely for a slave. 
 
 The master loves the slave girl, 
 But loves and woos by stealth : 
 
 How vast are his possessions ! 
 And she is of his wealth. 
 
 He must not wed poor Millie, 
 'Twould stain his ancient name, 
 
 But he will love and cherish, 
 Forever, just the same. 
 
 Oh Master ! proud and wealthy ; 
 
 Oh Master ! bold and free ! 
 Your love is for a season, 
 
 Her's for Eternity. 
 
 And Millie sees the issue — 
 Desertion, woe and gloom ; 
 
 And there resolves to open. 
 The portal of the tomb. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 89 
 
 She lifts her eyes to Heaven, 
 
 And lowly breathes a prayer, 
 That strength to her be given, 
 
 The pangs of death to dare. 
 
 She'll meet him once — once only, 
 
 By glassy Leman's shore ; — 
 Meet him beneath the willow. 
 
 Where they have met before. 
 
 Away to silvery Leman, 
 
 She hastes with noiseless feet, 
 But in the stead of lover, 
 
 Low, spirit- voices greet. 
 
 The master sought for Millie, 
 
 His gentle star-eyed slave. 
 Far o'er the woods and meadows, 
 
 And down by Leman's wave. 
 
 He found her by the water. 
 
 All cold, in death's embrace. 
 And made her grave by moon-light, 
 
 Close by tiie trysting place. 
 
40 ECHOES EEOM THE GAREET. 
 
 "COOISriNG." 
 
 It was a sultry harvest day, 
 
 The leaves scarce moved upon the trees, 
 ^ And " Bold " and " Watch," the coon-dogs lay, 
 
 Within the shadows, biting fleas ; 
 Instead of bird-song sweet and bhthe. 
 
 Was heard the locust's sleepy note, 
 And clang of reaper's whetted scythe. 
 
 Upon the still air seem'd to float. 
 I then was young — but in my teens — 
 
 And sat beside aunt Betty Skinner, 
 As she was looking over " greens," 
 
 And shelling " marrowfats " for dinner ; 
 Between- whiles telling me, in tone 
 
 Made husky, by the intense heat. 
 How many coons her " Ike " alone. 
 
 Had safely chased to their retreat ; 
 And " how to dry, last year " said " Ike, 
 
 Nail'd skins upon the barn about, 
 Until it look'd to her just like 
 
 Some mighty beast turn'd inside out ; " 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 41 
 
 And I'd began to nod with sleep, 
 
 While Betty's voice narrated still, 
 When with a baying loud and deep, 
 
 The coon-dogs ran below the hill. 
 (Now Ike had coon-distemper bad, 
 
 And both of us, ere we suspected, 
 By. frequent converse with the lad, 
 
 Became, in short, somewhat " infected " — ) 
 "A coon ! a coon ! " aunt Betty cried, 
 
 " Put down that dish, child, come with me, 
 A monster coon the dogs have spied, * 
 
 And soon they'll run him up a tree." 
 I sprang, the peas fell from my lap 
 
 To disappear thro' holes and cracks, 
 But while she frowned at my mishap, 
 
 "Bet " seized a quilt-frame, I the axe. 
 And down the hill, we thus equipped. 
 
 Made haste to meet the yelping dogs. 
 When my two feet beneath me slipped, 
 
 And I fell prone between the logs. 
 " The goose-nest's there, you little wretch ! " 
 
 Aunt Betty screamed as by she rushed, 
 
42 ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Alas ! tlie ^^rutli she did not stretch, 
 
 For ev'ry egg within was crush'd. 
 But after her, with merry bound, 
 
 Toward the tall, slim, hollow stump, 
 I hasted, as each deep-voiced hound 
 
 Grew frantic quite, with howl and jump. 
 *' 'Tis not worth while to cut this down," . 
 
 Aunt Betty said, " until we know 
 The coon's inside : Tuck up your gown 
 
 And climb, while I watch here below." 
 I glanced down at my feet ; the feat 
 
 Of climbing I did well : and ere 
 Fair spoken were the words, took seat 
 
 Atop the stump, and 'gan to peer 
 Down through the hollow tube, when far 
 
 From out the darkness shone two eyes, 
 Both round and bright as any star 
 
 That sails athwart the midnight skies. 
 " He's here," I cried, '' and here I'll stay 
 
 While there below with axe you thwack, 
 And if he moves to come this way, 
 
 I'll raise a din to send him back." 
 
ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Thus, like old Warsaw's champion, I 
 
 Survey'd a ruin from my height, 
 'Nor when the chips began to fly 
 
 Did Betty see my dang'rous plight^ 
 And soon the old stump, half decay'd. 
 
 Bent o'er one side beneath my weight, 
 Then suddenly, still farther sway'd, 
 
 And with me 'gan to gravitate ; 
 But as I whizz'd down through air, 
 
 And in the sticky bog fell pat, 
 I heard aunt Betty's " do declare ! 
 
 'Tis nothing but our old black cat." 
 Since then, I've met and pass'd my prime, 
 
 O'er disappointment learn'd to croon, 
 For that is not the only time, 
 
 That I have hunted cat for coon. 
 
 TOO LATE 
 
 On a grassy knoll, 
 I found, when a child. 
 
4A ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 A beautiful bud 
 
 Alone, growing wild. 
 Through the rich, dark green 
 
 Profasely o'erspread, 
 I caught a bright gleam 
 
 Of its petals red. 
 I'll see it, I thought, 
 
 When its leaves ope wide : 
 I went, but gone by 
 
 Was its hour of pride ; 
 And essay'd its leaves 
 
 To the stem to mate. 
 As with tearful voice 
 
 I murmur'd, too late I 
 
 And later in years, 
 A treasure complete, 
 
 The gift of a heart 
 Was laid at my feet ; 
 
 But mine had grown old 
 With the world's sad strife, 
 
 And its cares had brush'd 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 All the bloom from life. 
 I could not exchange 
 
 For a gem unused, 
 But a worthless thing, 
 
 All time-worn, and bruised, 
 So I put one side 
 
 The boon, all too great, 
 And wail'd in my heart, 
 
 Too late, ah ! too late ! 
 
 THE OLD BROWK HOUSE^ 
 
 I AM thinking to-night of the old brown house, 
 
 Where the days of my youth were spent. 
 Of the time when forth from its sheltering roof, 
 
 A light-hearted maiden, I went : 
 I am thinking with tears, of the days gone by ; 
 
 I sigh for the hopes that are o'er. 
 And yearn like an exile, to press to my lips, 
 
 One flower from the vine o'er the door. 
 
46 ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 
 
 I once look'd with contempt on the old brown house 
 
 And wish'd it more loftj and grand, 
 But 'twould now be more dear than a stately home 
 
 By architect skillfully plann'd ; 
 E'en its storm-beaten windows, so plain, I'd prize 
 
 Where lovers and friends have oft sat, 
 While the broad circled face of the moon look'd in, 
 
 And approved of the gleesome chat. 
 
 And the blossoms that grew by the old brown house, 
 
 O'er walls, and the fences between. 
 Seem more beautiful now than th' rarest display, 
 
 Of exotics, I ever have seen. 
 The dear old brown house is still there in its place, 
 
 But strangers have long call'd it home ; 
 While a voice in my heart hymns a sad refrain, 
 
 Like shells from the briny sea-foam. 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 47 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT DIKGE. 
 
 I SUDDENLY from slumber started, 
 
 And ev'ry nerve was strained to -hear, 
 A sound the midnight silence parted, 
 
 And filled my heart with quick' ning fear. 
 What was it, o'er the hush prevailing ? 
 
 I knew it erst— a solemn dirge, 
 Throughout the aisles of night, its wailing 
 
 Arose and fell like ocean-surge. ^ 
 
 Why, why, upon the midnight hoary, 
 
 Have ye that solemn anthem flung ? 
 Were it but strain of martial glory, 
 
 A mother's heart would not be wrung. 
 Oh ye ! who through this war's commotion, 
 
 Have for a son or brother pray'd, 
 Can tell how deep it stirs emotion,* 
 
 To hear a dirge at midnight play'd. 
 
 Ah ! if doubt rends in this dread fashion, 
 Eeality would seal despair ; 
 
48 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 But, Father, God ! thou hast compassion 
 And know'st how much the heart can bear ; 
 
 Protect my boy from climate rigor. 
 
 From whistling balls through battle's rage ; 
 
 Eeturn him safe in health and vigor, 
 The stajff and stay of my old age. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 We're wont to wreathe our lips in smQes, 
 
 Although the heart within is drear ; 
 To speak in careless, jesting tones, 
 
 E'en while the bitter, pent-up tear 
 Is driven back within its source, 
 
 To bum, and press upon the brain. 
 While simulation vainly strives 
 
 To hide the ruthless, gnawing pain. 
 
 The heart will shrink mimosa-like 
 From touch of coarse or callous hand, 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GAKRET. 49 
 
 But wounds arc quick at healing when 
 Probed by affection's gentle wand. 
 
 'Tis sweet to lean the weary head 
 Upon a kind, confiding breast ; 
 
 To speak our griefs in loving ears 
 And sob our cares to peaceful rest. 
 
 The true, true friends are few indeed, 
 
 Who gladden us while here on earth, 
 But far away in brighter spheres, 
 
 "Where ransom'd spirits claim new birth, 
 Man learns to judge his brother man, 
 
 Not by his gold and tinsel show. 
 But by his noble, gen'rous heart, 
 
 And feeling's sympathetic glow. 
 
 Ephemeral are all our joys. 
 
 As summer's idly-passing breeze ; 
 I'ew grasp the sparkles on life's cup, 
 
 But many, many quaff its lees. 
 Yet oft delicious dreams of rest. 
 
 Steal o'er our souls before they're call'd, 
 Renewing youth, as do the gales. 
 
 On breezy heights of Bohmerwald. 
 
50 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Have jou seen my sister Emma, 
 
 With her little doggie " Prince ? " 
 They went out one morn together, 
 
 And we ne'er have seen them since — 
 Where the tasseled corn was nodding, 
 
 And the pumpkin vines were green, 
 Picking off the yellow blossoms. 
 
 Little Emma last was seen. 
 
 Bobolinks are filling ether, 
 
 With a happy, rhythmic talk. 
 And the yellow-bird is swinging 
 
 On the tufted muUen -stalk. 
 Bumblebees amid the clover. 
 
 Drone and toil with vast pretence, 
 And the rubric-crested wood-bird, 
 
 Drums upon the old rail-fence. 
 
 But my little sister Emma, 
 
 She, who loved the wild-birds so, 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 51 
 
 Went away one summer morning, 
 
 Where, alas! we do not know. 
 Mother's roses were in blossom. 
 
 Forest trees in darkest prime. 
 When we miss'd her — when she left us 
 
 In the pleasant summer time. 
 
 Will you look for sister Emma 
 
 In the city's crowded street ? 
 Will you sometimes try to trace her 
 
 Weary, little, wandering feet ? 
 You may know her by the doggie, . 
 
 By her laughter blithe and sweet. 
 By her tresses that were golden 
 
 As the ready-ripened wheat. 
 
 When I hear the watch-dog howling, 
 And the death-watch by my bed ; 
 
 When I hear the rain-drops falling 
 On the roof above my head ; 
 
52 ECHOES FEOM THE GAKRET. 
 
 When I hear the cricket singing, 
 By the embers on my hearth ; 
 
 Then I think of little Emma, 
 And my heart for her has dearth. 
 
 THE CHILD OF THE WAVES, 
 
 Far away on the stormy coast, 
 
 Of bleak Labrador, 
 Where the northern Atlantic wails 
 
 A dirge evermore, 
 Tells the seaman of phantom maid, 
 
 More fair than the light. 
 That alone o'er the wave glides by, 
 
 In ne'er-ceasing flight. 
 
 But the weird, lonely wraith tells him, 
 
 That clanger is nigh ; 
 And he crosses his brow in awe, 
 
 As fast it flits by. 
 
EGSGES FROM THE GARRET. 68 
 
 Then the sun sinks beneath the main, 
 
 In rubric garb dress' d, 
 Casting lurid and wan lights o'er 
 
 Old ocean's dark breast. 
 
 Afar off, sullen moans are heard, 
 
 Then follow shrieks high, 
 While the clouds, big with coming storm, 
 
 Make dark sea and sky. 
 But thanks, thanks, to the wand'ring child, 
 
 The white little waif. 
 The prepared ship outrides the gale, 
 
 The mariner's safe. 
 
 On, on, on, flies the sea-foam maid, 
 
 But rest cannot find — 
 And the shadowy robes, cloud-like. 
 
 Stream forth on the wind. 
 From the pale, gleaming brow, the light, 
 
 Wavy tresses are thrown, 
 As she speeds to a bourne unseen. 
 
 Forever alone. 
 
64 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 When the rage of the tempest breaks, 
 
 She waves to and fro, 
 Spraj-wash'd branches of ocean-weed, 
 
 From caverns below ; 
 Then with speed of a sea-gull, steps 
 
 O'er mountainoTis waves, 
 But no echo the deep gives back — 
 
 'Tis still, as are graves. 
 
 Was the home of this death-white maid, 
 
 Where nightingales sing ? 
 Where the seasons unite to form 
 
 A summer and spring ? 
 Tell me whence came she, mariner — 
 
 " Marie, as God saves! 
 The green earth never claim'd her ; she's 
 
 The child of the waves." 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 55 
 
 INYOCATION. 
 
 Come hence to the forest, 
 
 Where wild birds are singing ; 
 Come hence to the forest, 
 
 Its monarchs are flinging 
 Their shadows o'er blossoms 
 
 Too pure for the day : 
 Come hence to the forest, 
 
 With ine, come away. 
 
 Come hence to the forest, 
 
 Where silence is reigning, 
 Except when the voice 
 
 Of the wind is complaining ; 
 Or, we are saluted 
 
 By bird- warbles sweet. 
 Or grasshopper's burr, 
 
 'Mid brake at our feet. 
 
 Come hence to the forest. 
 And sit in the shade, 
 
66 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Of ven'rable oaks 
 With, moss overlaid, 
 
 The cloud-rift is liigh, 
 And heaven as blae 
 
 As eyes of a maiden, 
 I long ago knew. 
 
 Come hetice to the forest, 
 
 Yes, come with me there — 
 The thistle-down floats, 
 
 Like breath thro' the air, 
 The mandrake's umbrella, 
 
 Is spread green and wide. 
 As cunningly trying 
 
 Its treasure to hide. 
 
 Come hence to the forest, 
 
 Its deep-tinted bloom. 
 Is rarer than fabric 
 
 Of famed Persian loom. 
 Come hence to the forest, 
 
 Jehovah seems nearer, 
 And mem'ry of those 
 
 Who've gone to Him, dearer. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 67 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 'Tis the hour of nudnight, Julia, 
 
 Belfry chimes proclaim its birth, 
 But my wakeful watch will lengthen, 
 
 Till the shadows flee from earth. 
 Oft I fancy that I plainly 
 
 Hear the heart of nature throb. 
 As the ever-roaming night winds. 
 
 Fitful through the branches sob. 
 
 I am from thee severed widely, 
 
 But I rest my faith in thee ; 
 Didst thou fail me, where for comfort. 
 
 In the wide world, could I flee ? 
 Still I feel the gentle pressure. 
 
 Of thy hand upon my head, 
 When the phantoms of weird fancy. 
 
 Mock me with a presence dread. 
 
 Dearest, man's regard is ever 
 Insecure as crater-crust. 
 
58 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Yet;, I rest on thy affection, 
 With a perfect love and trust. 
 
 Oh ! how sweet, to feel that one heart 
 Throbs responsive to our own — 
 
 Comforted with such assurance, 
 One can ne'er feel qnite alone. 
 
 How we mourn our shivered idols, 
 
 And our lost faith in the world. 
 When we see the fondly worshipped. 
 
 From their proud pedestals hurled. 
 Oh, those idols ! How the woman 
 
 In us loves to homage pay : 
 How we grieve when nature proves them, 
 
 After all but sordid clay. 
 
 Let the stoic and the skeptic 
 
 Speak with proud impatient scorn. 
 
 Still the inner heart of woman 
 Knows that love is Heaven-born. 
 
 To adorn her habitation. 
 
 Taste and wealth may lend their charms, 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 59 
 
 But lier truest home, forever, ^ 
 
 Is tlie clasp of loving arms. 
 
 May upon thy young head lightly 
 
 Eest the crown of womanhood, 
 And thy pathway be profusely 
 
 Strewn with all things bright and good. 
 May thy tender, brown eyes, dearest, 
 
 Ne'er be dimmed with burning tears, 
 But a fond appreciation 
 
 Bless thee in thy coming years. 
 
 MORNINa 
 
 How fair, the morning smile of earth, 
 How pure and bright its beams. 
 
 When lighting up with joyousness. 
 The valleys, hills, and streams ; 
 
 Nor courtly robe was ever deck'd 
 With jewels half so fair, 
 
60 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 As those that sparkhng, shining lie, 
 On nature's em'rald hair. 
 
 It seems as though each mom we hail 
 
 A new creation's dawn, 
 So fragrant is the air we breathe 
 
 Ere early mists have gone. 
 'Tis sweet as breath of wild moor-bee, 
 
 Just waken'd from repose. 
 When all the long, long night it steals 
 
 The honey from the rose. 
 
 Harmonious are nature's works. 
 
 Complete in all their parts. 
 While we, her children, view the same 
 
 With discord in our hearts. 
 We try to smile when gladness reigns 
 
 O'er water, sky and earth. 
 But ah I we feel that ours is but 
 
 A cold, fictitious mirth. 
 
 A strange, strange thing, the human heart, 
 How finely strung its chords ; 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 61 
 
 To send forth music, sad or sweet, 
 
 As tuned by acts and words. 
 The brightest sky a cloud will dim, 
 
 A frown the heart make sad, 
 But like the sun when not obscured, 
 
 Smiles bless and make us glad. 
 
 Though now we vainly look for rest. 
 
 It waits us in the grave, 
 Beyond the borders of the world. 
 
 Beside the silent wave. 
 The fetters there will be cast off, 
 
 That bind the spirit here ; 
 The right and wrong no more conflict, 
 
 But both distinct appear. 
 
 THE BARD OF OISE. 
 
 Though thou in distant land doth roam, 
 And dark waves roll between, 
 
62 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Thou wilt not soon forget thj home, 
 
 Nor early Mends, I ween ; 
 For well I know thy faithful heart, 
 
 Will youthful mem'ries cherish. 
 Amid the mines and busy mart : 
 
 With bard they never perish. 
 
 Did gentle hope to southern clime. 
 
 Its pleasant smile transmit ? 
 Doth peace o'er thee with vesper chime 
 
 Steal pure as Holy Writ ? 
 Although thou art far hence from here, 
 
 New friends thy heart rejoice — 
 Home's fond, fond scenes, will e'er be dear 
 
 To thee — the Bard of Oise, 
 
 My childhood's friend, thou sure must ken, 
 Thy mother's heart with joy 
 
 Will beat in happy moment, when 
 She welcomes home her boy. 
 
 A brighter home thou ne'er wilt find 
 Than that on Oise's green shore, 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 6B 
 
 Then hasten to thy mother kind, 
 And cheer her heart once more. 
 
 When forest leaves begin to wither, * 
 
 And autumn's flowers are gone, 
 Oh, then my friend, pray hasten hither, 
 
 And comfort her so lone. 
 No longer now for golden sand 
 
 In California linger. 
 For school-day friends would grasp the hand 
 
 Of dark Oise's sweetest singer. 
 
 JOEY 
 
 Aye, Joey, dost thou love me, Joe ? 
 
 Sometimes I marvel whether 
 The fond, fond flatt'ry you bestow 
 
 Ls even worth a feather ; 
 For any man would praise my hair, 
 
 My cheeks fine peach-bloom glow, 
 
64 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Or love the sweet of lips so rare — 
 Aye, Joey, wouldn't he, Joe ? 
 
 Aye, Joey, thou wilt love me, Joe, 
 
 While gay my voice with laughter, 
 And fresh the bloom that men praise so, 
 
 But how in the hereafter ? 
 When coming care my brow shall shade, 
 
 Turn white my locks like snow, 
 And all the glowing, warm tints fade, 
 
 Then, Joey, How then, Joe ? 
 
 Aye, Joey, dost thou love me, Joe ? 
 
 Thin clouds above are forming, 
 And though the morn is fair, you know 
 
 Ere night it may be storming. 
 E'en thus it is with human life, 
 
 Kone are exempt from woe, 
 And when my season comes of strife, 
 
 Then, Joey, love me, Joe ! 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 65 
 
 THERE IS A PLACE IN MEMORY. 
 
 There is a place in memory, 
 
 Mj heart keeps ever warm, 
 'Tis pleasant in tlie summer-time. 
 
 Or 'mid the winter's storm. 
 'Tis there where first I learned to love. 
 
 And its bright dreams to chase : 
 You 've viewed it oft with careless eyes, 
 
 Do you think you know the place ? 
 
 There is a time in memory 
 
 I never can forget, 
 For often in my midnight dreams 
 
 I live it over yet : 
 Ah ! then methinks my heart did find 
 
 A brighter, warmer clime 
 Than that which fostered early years : 
 
 Do you think you know the time ? 
 
 There is a name in memory, 
 That trembles on my lips, 
 
66 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 'Tis precious thougli as summer flowers 
 Whence th' wild-bee honey sips ; 
 
 Speak it quick, and truant blood 
 Groes dancing through my frame : 
 
 I love it more than hoasehold words — 
 Do you think you know the name ? 
 
 There is a form in memory, 
 
 A brave, a noble one, 
 And to it still I fondly turn 
 
 As sun-flower to the sun. 
 And oh, that form enwraps a heart 
 
 All loving, true and warm ! 
 I'd not forget it if I could — 
 
 Do you think you know the form ? 
 
 And there are words in memory. 
 
 That make me strong and brave, 
 Thrilling my heart with rapture wild, 
 
 Like music on the wave. 
 They're soft and gentle as the morn, 
 
 As sweet as song of birds, 
 And deep in centre of my heart — 
 
 Do you think you know the words? 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. • 67 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Death touclied me witli his wing, dear Ben, 
 
 The fount of life grows chill, 
 And soon they'll lay me down to sleep, 
 
 'Neath maples on the hill. 
 You know the blue-bird used to come 
 
 To those old maples first, 
 And sweetest blooms we gathered, Ben, 
 
 On that hill's side were nursed. 
 
 From dreary scenes of exile, Ben, 
 
 I crossed the heaving seas, 
 That I might wander once again 
 
 'Neath those wide-spreading trees. 
 And as the past comes back to me, 
 
 On wings of golden hue. 
 It almost seems to me as if 
 
 I had come back to you. 
 
 Is the old roof forgotten, Ben, 
 The river's quiet flow ; 
 
68 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Do you not sometimes see them, Ben, 
 
 As you did long ago ? 
 Do pleasures half so sweet, dear Ben, 
 
 Within your castle wait, 
 As those we shared together once 
 
 'JSTeath th' lilacs by the gate ? 
 
 I^m glad that I am dying, Ben, 
 
 I've mourned for you so long ; 
 And I grieve not the less, to know 
 
 My grief for you is wrong. 
 But life has never smiled, dear Ben, 
 
 Since strangers praised your bride. 
 And pleasure cannot brood for me 
 
 When exiled from your side. 
 
 'Tis just nine years ago, dear Ben, 
 Since you went o'er the main ; 
 
 Then little thought I ne'er to see. 
 Your bonnie face again. 
 
 My eyes were blue as June skies, Ben, 
 My tresses brown all over ; 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 And you said oft my cheeks were red 
 As blossoms on the clover. 
 
 But now they're like the snow-wreath, Ben, 
 
 My hair is streak d with gray. 
 And th' bright blue of my eyes, dear Ben, 
 
 Grows dusker day by day. 
 Yet katy-dids are singing now 
 
 As in that olden time ; 
 Ere thou went forth to dwell in land 
 
 Of orange, fig, and lime. 
 
 Moon-beams rest on the vine-wreath'd home, 
 
 And play upon its sill ; 
 I hear the susurous rhythm, B^en, 
 
 Of the maples on the hill. 
 The old, old pain has left my heart, 
 
 I thrill with strange delight, 
 Because thy spirit keeps with me 
 
 The watches of to-night. 
 
70 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 THE HAUNTED HOUSE OF GEDDES. 
 
 Not far from Onondaga's strand, 
 
 The ruins of a farm-house stand : 
 
 The chimneys gone — the roof broke in, 
 
 And oifv^l and bat make nightly din. 
 
 As though disputing for the spoil 
 
 When flit they through the ivy's coil. 
 
 And yet I felt, when I surveyed 
 
 Its massive front but half decayed, 
 
 The high well-sweep still poising near, 
 
 And fragrant orchard in the rear, 
 
 With grounds well blanched with blossom-drift, 
 
 That it was erst the home of thrift. 
 
 And once, beside the broken gate, 
 
 I heard a friendly voice narrate 
 
 A tale, explaining why thus fate 
 
 Had left the old house desolate. 
 
 One Christmas eve Helena Wild, 
 The wealthy farmer's only child. 
 With all the " pomp and circumstance " 
 
ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 71 
 
 Those early times could well advance, 
 Was wedded to a city knight, 
 Who came to claim a husband's right, 
 Forevermore to have and hold 
 The " ewe-lamb " of the farmer's fold. 
 His mettled steed stood in the stall. 
 The wolf-robes hung upon the wall, 
 For soon as e'er the dancing ceased, 
 And disappeared the surpliced priest. 
 The knight intended with his bride. 
 Across the frozen lake to ride, 
 And on his homeward route be far. 
 Ere vanished quite the morning star. 
 
 The old roof rang with song and mirth. 
 The blaze leaped high upon the hearth. 
 From unscreened panes its breadth of light 
 Gleamed out upon the Christmas night. 
 While over-head the mistletoe 
 Keflected back its ruddy glow. 
 And th' holly -branches gently swayed. 
 In th' fitful breeze the dancers made. 
 
72 ECHOES FKOM THE GAKRET. 
 
 Among the blithe, the blithest there, 
 
 Was aje the bride, Helena fair — 
 
 Bright, bright her eje, with happy glance, 
 
 Her feet the JQleetest in the dance. 
 
 And proudly the young husband smiled, 
 
 As watched he how she hearts beguiled : 
 
 But as she moved a jest to speak, 
 
 Grew white and wan with fear her cheek, 
 
 Her step was stay'd, eyes opened wide, 
 
 As though some strange, strange thing they spied, 
 
 And then in ringing tones, and clear. 
 
 Hush ! hush ! fell on each startled ear. 
 
 The guests in silence waited round. 
 
 Unconscious of weird sight or sound. 
 
 While on her ear arose and fell, 
 
 The cadence of a funeral knell, 
 
 And 'tween its pauses strains more sweet 
 
 Than mortal ears are wont to greet, 
 
 Until at last it died away. 
 
 And consciousness resumed its sway. 
 
 " Oh ! husband," fair Helena said, 
 
 *' It was a warning from the dead, 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 73 
 
 Await thou here until the night 
 
 Gives place once more to morning light." 
 
 But, as he kissed away her tears, 
 
 And chided her for silly fears, 
 
 He led her to the jaunty sleigh, 
 
 And fleetly drove from thence away. 
 
 The frost-work shone like crystal bright, 
 Beneath the full moon's solemn light, 
 And th' prancing steed sped on its way, 
 "With jingling bells — impatient neigh. 
 As nestling to her husband's breast. 
 The young wife softly sank to rest, 
 Forgetting in the fond embrace, 
 The fears his words could not efface. 
 Oh wak'ning dire ! With sudden break 
 In caved the ice. Within the lake. 
 The noble beast with effort vain, 
 Strived long a footing firm to gain. 
 Then sank beneath a watery tomb. 
 With fair young bride and gallant groom. 
 
 4 
 
74 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Throughout that winter, by the fire, 
 
 The comely matron and the sire 
 
 Bemoaned, because their "little girl" 
 
 Forgot, amid the city's whirl, 
 
 To send one message back to bless 
 
 The old hearts in their loneliness. 
 
 But when the spring with pleasant grace, 
 
 Breathed kisses on old Winter's face, 
 
 And "■ Sol " came forth with ardent beams 
 
 To loose the bands that held the streams, 
 
 A small trunk floated on the wave, 
 
 To tell where slept the fair and brave. 
 
 The frost a mystic charm had spread, 
 
 To save the beauty of the dead. 
 
 And when they brought them forth, all cold, 
 
 The bridegroom looked as glad and bold, 
 
 As in that fatal, fatal hour, 
 
 "When scoffed he at the warning power ; 
 
 And on the cheek of the young wife 
 
 A bloom still rested as in life. 
 
 When afterward death came to free 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GAERET. 75 
 
 The hearts beneath the old roof-tree, 
 'Twas left to gather damp and dust, 
 And fall beneath decay and rust ; 
 For folk oft say on Christmas night, 
 The old rooms gleam with solemn light. 
 And that the air around is filled 
 With notes no earthly voice e'er trilled. 
 
 COEA EAELE 
 
 A SWEET little girl is fair Cora Earle, 
 
 With bloom like the " flower o'er the peach*" 
 With teeth pure as shells that eddying swells 
 
 Cast forth from the surf to the beach ; 
 With brow gleaming white, as snow from a height, 
 
 Around which her dark tresses curl, 
 And you may look far but ne'er find a star, 
 
 To compare with my sweet Cora Earle. 
 
76 ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Like bird of the spring, she's e'er on the wing, 
 
 But lowly her flight, although fleet, 
 For all the day long, with glad, happy song, 
 
 Glide swiftly the two little feet. 
 More joyous by half, is her light-hearted laugh 
 
 Than even the brooklet's low purl, 
 And sure if I live, some day I shall give 
 
 My heart to the fair Cora Earle. 
 
 THE SACHEM'S FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, dark Oise, farewell hill-side, 
 Farewell, ye meadows, spreading wide ; 
 Farewell, tall monarchs, plumy crested. 
 Beneath your shade I oft have rested ; 
 Ye have beheld my boyhood's plays. 
 And watched my steps to manhood's days ; 
 Have seen in sacred burial-grounds. 
 The tall wheat wave o'er rifled mounds ; 
 
ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 77 
 
 Have seen my scattered tribe depart 
 
 With spirit bowed and breaking heart ; 
 
 Passing away with noiseless tread, 
 
 From ancient homes and buried dead, * 
 
 To find a spot whereon to rest. 
 
 Till white men drive them farther west. 
 
 Opecchee, too, must bid farewell. 
 
 To spot where sleeps his " wild Gazelle," 
 
 No more, alas ! thy Sachem's head 
 
 Will rest upon thy grassy bed ; 
 
 One thought alone exults my heart, 
 
 As thus I'm called from thee to part. 
 
 I've dug thy grave down deep ! deep 1 deep ! 
 
 Where white man's plow can never creep : 
 
 Thy bones wiU never meet his eye, 
 
 Nor all unburied bleaching lie. 
 
 When I am far in distant clime. 
 
 Opecchee mourns ; 'tis the last time 
 
 Beneath these shades, the breeze so mild. 
 
 Will fan the brow of the forest child. 
 
78 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 I kiss the spot — a last farewell ! 
 
 My love — my bride — my "wild Grazelle!" 
 
 A FANTASY. 
 
 I SAVED my Bold 
 
 From waters cold, 
 And me doth lie love, ha ! ha ! 
 
 For together we howl 
 
 When the thunders growl. 
 And the fork'd light' nings play above, ha ! ha I 
 
 Beside the shore. 
 
 Where breakers roar, 
 I wandered alone, ha ! ha ! 
 
 And a mermaid with comb 
 
 Uprose from the foam, 
 And to me spake with silvery tone, ha I ha I 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GABRET. 79 
 
 List! list! rUtell 
 
 What then befell, 
 As black grew the sk j, ha ! ha ! 
 
 And the mermaiden dove, 
 
 To a coral grove, 
 And the winds tossed the waves on high, ha ! ha 1 
 
 'Twas there my "Bold" 
 
 A ring of gold 
 Gave me on that day, ha ! ha ! 
 
 And it shone like a gem 
 
 From a diadem — 
 A beautiful gift from the spray, ha ! ha ! 
 
 And ah! dog Bold, 
 
 That ring of gold, 
 Kigh cost thee a bed, ha ! ha I 
 
 "Where the mermaiden's sing 
 
 And gleefully swing, 
 On the reefs of the coral red, ha ! ha I 
 
80 ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Poor Bold — ^poor boy ! 
 
 The waves destroy. 
 But tliee did I wrest, ha ! ha 1 
 
 By thy long shaggy mane 
 
 From th' billowy plain, 
 And warm'd thee to life on my breast, ha ! ha I 
 
 Yet wayward Bold, 
 Thou ne'er hast told, 
 
 From whence came that hand, ha ! ha ! 
 That wee thing, severed, cold. 
 That fell from thy hold, 
 
 As lifted I thee to the strand, ha ! ha ! 
 
 How wee and fair, 
 
 With fingers bare. 
 
 Save one little ring, ha 1 ha ! 
 
 And its mystical twist, 
 Had the salt wave kissed, 
 
 Till it seemed to the hand to cling, ha ! ha ! 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 81 
 
 But fateful Bold, 
 
 That ring of gold, 
 We took from the hand, ha ! ha ! 
 
 Then we laid it bereft, 
 
 In a sea-shell's cleft. 
 And buried it deep in the sand, ha ! ha I 
 
 LEGEND OF BUTTERMILK FALLS. 
 
 'TwAS years ago, when Genesee, 
 
 And Livingston, and old Monroe, 
 Knew nought of any sov'reignty, 
 
 Save that of tomahawk and bow ; 
 "When Caledonia, and Le Roy, 
 
 And Geneseo — then Big Tree, 
 Were play-ground for an Indian boy, 
 
 (Or sev'ral, as the case might be ;) 
 When tangled growth, and forest oak, 
 
 Grew where fine orchards since have smiled, 
 
82 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 And wolf and catamount awoke 
 The echoes of the gloomy wild ; 
 
 That from the borders of Champlain, 
 One Isaac Schanck, a " well-do" man, 
 
 Came westward with the hope of gain, 
 And with him brought his daughter Ann. 
 
 Now Ann was of a specimen. 
 
 Indigenous to old " Yarmount ;" 
 Within her shoes stood " five-feet-ten," 
 
 And on her courage all might count. 
 Though huge, like fair Diana moulded. 
 
 With cheeks like winter apples dyed. 
 Dark hair, like bands of satin folded, 
 
 And step like Scottish chieftain's stride, 
 Could wield with equal grace and sense, 
 
 Pickaxe or pen, as case required, 
 Could throw a heifer o'er the fence. 
 
 Or spank an urchin if desired ; 
 Could whistle " Poll" and " Monie-Musk," 
 
 Sing son'rous bass ; like " Turpin" ride, 
 
ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 83 
 
 Than all her swains more corn could husk, 
 And dance a jig for them beside. 
 
 But sooth to say, Ann had no heart, 
 
 For just twelve months unto a day. 
 Before they westward made a start, 
 
 She that appendage gave away. 
 And it was on one winter's night, 
 
 "When in her father's kitchen sitting, . 
 The " tallow dip" a burning bright. 
 
 And she had just put down her knitting — 
 When all without was murky gloom, 
 
 And angry gusts oft shook the door; 
 When plainly from th' adjoining room. 
 
 Was heard her father's lusty snore ; 
 When in the corner slept the cat. 
 
 The embers on the hearth grown dull, 
 And 'gan to cloy the cider that 
 
 Ann plighted troth with Moses Tull. 
 
 'Tis now an old and trite remark, 
 
 That "love will go just where 'tis sent," 
 
84 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 But you'd have sworn that in the dark, 
 His bow Dan Cupid must have bent, 
 
 (And took withal a devious aim) 
 When from its string the arrow rose. 
 
 Predestined to ignite a flame. 
 Within the heart of Ann and Mose. 
 
 Of pigmy stature, Mr. Tull, 
 
 With Ann compared but poorly : Why a 
 King-fisher and an ocean-gull, 
 
 Or better, David and Goliah, 
 Had guaged as those two lovers did. 
 
 So far as bone and muscle grace ; 
 But then ! what then ? a gem lies hid 
 
 Sometimes within a narrow space. 
 
 Though Mose could neither read nor write, 
 And mathematics proved a riddle, 
 
 He courted like a Spanish Knight, 
 And played expertly on the fiddle. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 85 
 
 For singing lays he was renown'd, 
 
 Beneath the windows of the fair, 
 And was the only beau around 
 
 Who black'd his boots and curl'd his hair. 
 Sincere regard for Ann had he, 
 
 And much of wholesome admiration ; 
 And when one evening after tea. 
 
 Her father^s plan of emigration 
 She hesitatingly announced, 
 
 And said with tearful eyes, " dear Mose !" 
 He from the wooden settee bounced, 
 
 And sturdily replied, " I goes !" 
 
 In these, our modern days of steam, 
 
 *Tis no great feat to emigrate — 
 In floating palaces we dream. 
 
 While numerous servants on us wait ; 
 Or sitting on a cushion'd seat. 
 
 We either eat, or doze, or read. 
 As village, town, and city street 
 
 Go gliding by with light'ning speed. 
 
ECHOES FKOM THE GAREET. 
 
 But in the days of whicli I write, 
 'Twas quite a different affair, 
 
 And thought of morning, noon and night, 
 For many days with fev'rish care. 
 
 Although the forest trees were green. 
 
 And Ann's front yard with bloom look'd smart, 
 When last near old Champlain was seen 
 
 The farmer's stout, white cover'd cart. 
 His oxen's hoofs were oft at fault, 
 
 In consequence of snowy balls, 
 Ere they at last came to a halt, 
 
 A little way above the '' Falls !" 
 
 " The Falls of Buttermilk." Those kind 
 And gentle readers, who've abstain'd 
 
 From queries 'bout the name, will find 
 Its etymology explained. 
 
 Ere I have done ! I own the name 
 Is neither classical nor grand ; 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 87 
 
 But rouglier ones are known to fame, 
 Within the Grerman's father-land. 
 
 «' The Falls of Buttermilk," each one 
 
 That seeks for them on maps will fail 
 To find them down ; but there was spun 
 
 The tragic tissue of this tale. 
 The winding Oise for many miles 
 
 Glides peacefully upon its way, 
 Now calm and still where no sun smiles, 
 
 Now rippling as with laughter gay, 
 Until at last it dashes o'er, 
 
 Of native masonry, a wall. 
 And down some sixty feet or more 
 
 Its seeming angry waters fall. 
 But during August's heat and calm, 
 
 The waves sometimes suspend their flow, 
 And tiny blossoms then spring from 
 
 The rocky crevices below ; 
 And often in the heat of day 
 
 I've sat upon the cool, stone bed, 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 While girlish friends above in play 
 Dropp'd pebbles down upon my head. 
 
 But to return to farmer Scanck, 
 
 Whom left we some few stanzas back, 
 The snow around each dull ox's shank, 
 
 And filling up the wagon track. 
 He, with the help of Mose and Ann, 
 
 Soon built him a substantial home, 
 When breathed there ne'er a prouder man 
 
 Than he, beneath a palace dome ; 
 Prosperity soon smiled upon 
 
 His efforts, and the pioneer, 
 Before two years had come and gone, 
 
 Of future want felt little fear. 
 
 Though more of ornament than use 
 Was Mose, he could not well dispense 
 
 With him ; and Ann had some excuse 
 E'er ready for his negligence ; 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 89 
 
 But still " unspliced " were they, for Scanck 
 
 Eefu3ed to let his daughter wed 
 Until he ceil'd his hut with plank, 
 
 And with rare cheer his board could spread. 
 But they were both content ; and love 
 
 Thrived well between those lowly walls, 
 As Ann's fond fancies rose above 
 
 The booming echoes of the falls. 
 
 But ah ! the snake to Eden went, 
 
 And there beguiled our mother, Eve, 
 And her descendants since seem bent 
 
 On learning deftly to deceive. 
 The home that was so happy erst, 
 
 Became the scene of discord vile. 
 While rage and jealousy accurs'd, 
 
 Soon banish'd sweet contentment's smile. 
 In an astounding book I one 
 
 Day read a sketch more fierce than knowing. 
 In which 'twas proved all mischief done 
 
 On earth was to the women owing. 
 
90 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Be that as't may, I'm bound to state 
 
 That that joung person who, between 
 Ann and her lover did create 
 
 A difference, was never seen 
 By those of high or low degree 
 
 To sport a Macintosh or hat, 
 And e'en the little throat was free 
 
 From either st<5ck or silk cravat. 
 
 As Ann was on the front stoop churning 
 
 One morning in the early summer, 
 She heard a metal tramp, and turning, 
 
 Saw pass her door the braw " new-comer.'* 
 Bereft of father and of mother, 
 
 From far beyond the Chesapeake, 
 The said " new-comer " with her brother, 
 
 Came westward a new home to seek. 
 Oft briskly by Ann's door she'd trot, 
 
 Close folio w'd by her good dog " Dasher," 
 While day by day Mose thought her what 
 
 In *' Billingsgate " is termed a " Slasher." 
 
ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 91 
 
 How she and Mose became acquaint 
 
 I cannot even now suspect, 
 But it is said Ann made complaint 
 
 To her small lover of neglect 
 Within a short time after she 
 
 First saw the " Slasher " by her prance. 
 With loosely flowing " toggery," 
 
 And waving curl and sparkling glance. 
 To Ann's reproach Mose would not bow, 
 
 But in defence exclaimed, " I'd thank 
 You not to scold ! You know as how 
 
 That I alone love you Ann Scanck ! " 
 But Ann was far from satisfied : 
 
 He did not love her as of yore, 
 When sat he evenings by her side, 
 
 Or play'd the fiddle by the door. 
 
 One evening, after Ann on foot 
 
 Had toil'd throughout the summer day. 
 
 She on a clean check'd apron put. 
 And took towards the falls her way. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Her heart was " sair " and fill'd with ruth, 
 
 -As mused she on the "now and then," 
 And felt that there was Httle truth, 
 
 In protestations made by men. 
 To singing bird and sighing breeze 
 
 She paid but little, little heed, 
 Tracing the path between the trees. 
 
 Oblivious of flower and weed, 
 And stood she soon beside the " Fall," 
 
 Though summer's heat had quench'd its spray, 
 Save where, through fissures in the wall, 
 
 A few drops trickled from half way. 
 
 But list ! what murmuring is that 
 
 She hears ? Her heart its beating stops — 
 'Tis not the whirring wing of bat, 
 
 Nor tinkling of the water-drops — 
 A hasty glance below she cast. 
 
 And there beneath her very nose, 
 With little hand in his held fast, 
 
 Sat " Slasher " and the truant Mose. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 93 
 
 She started back in deep amaze, 
 
 As consternation shook her soul ; 
 Her heart seem'd scorch'd with jealous blaze, 
 
 While wrath o'er reason held control. 
 And back, back home again she sped, 
 
 (Dire force no faster might impel,) 
 And as the mast shook 'neath her tread, 
 
 Her eyes flash'd glances fierce and fell. 
 Up to the churn she quickly stepp'd, 
 
 (Left standing on the stoop, that ilk 
 One, if inclined, before he slept. 
 
 Might help himself to buttermilk,) 
 And raised it as if fill'd with yeast, 
 
 (Although she had but churn' d that day. 
 And the huge thing contain'd at least 
 
 Full twenty gallons of the whey,) 
 Then with it quickly onward fled 
 
 To where the lovers whispered still. 
 And down on each devoted head 
 
 Did she the snowy liquid spill. 
 I know not if 'twas fear or hurt ; 
 
 But when Mose sprang upon his feet, 
 
94 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 And shook himself with angry flirt, 
 The little Slasher kept her seat. 
 
 He spake to her — but no reply, 
 
 Then stooping down, he raised her head ; 
 
 A vacant look was in her eye, 
 
 And still her heart, for she was — dead. 
 
 Beneath an oak they made her grave. 
 
 The first upon that virgin soil, 
 That sturdy boughs might o'er it wave. 
 
 And wood-bines wild about it coil. 
 Then Mose began to pine away. 
 
 And when his eye could grow no dimmer, 
 They brought him to the oak one day. 
 
 And laid him down beside the kimmer. 
 The while, fair Ann had disappeared. 
 
 And not a soul knew how nor where : 
 I do not think her sire e'er spered, 
 
 And there was no one else to care. 
 But Kumor intimated that 
 
 A being of Ann's size and shape, 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Within a painted wigwam sat, 
 
 A bride of the Leni Lenape ; 
 That she, against all Indian law. 
 
 Persisted in their " Councils " sharing, 
 And e'en fierce warriors kept in awe 
 
 By reckless feats of strength and daring. 
 'Tis certain that she ne'er returned, 
 
 To those dire scenes of love and blame, 
 And when the hut soon after burn'd. 
 
 The farmer perish'd in its flame. 
 Since then long years away have glided. 
 
 And e'en tradition fails to trace 
 The spot exact where Scanck resided. 
 
 Or any token of the place. 
 And oft I've roam'd the woods around, 
 
 Have stood where ev'ry oak tree waves, 
 But strange to say, have never found 
 
 Those two unlucky suitor's graves. 
 But those who view the " Falls " may see. 
 
 On any sunny summer's day. 
 Two phantoms sitting silently. 
 
 Astride the rain-bow of the spray. 
 
96 ECHOES FKOM THE GAKEET. 
 
 LOYE. 
 
 Ah ! what a glorious thing is love ! 
 It beautifies earth and heaven above, 
 It smiles on the lips of little flowers, 
 And weeps in the drops of April showers. 
 Its voice is heard in the summer streams, 
 Its presence felt in the moon's pale beams. 
 And it colors life with lines all bright, 
 Or robes the spirit in blackest night. 
 
 What is love ? Go ask woman's heart ! 
 The tears will quick to her eyelids start ; 
 A flush will mantle both cheek and brow, 
 But her voice will murmur clear and low, 
 " The language of earth has not the power. 
 To fitly speak of so fair a flower." 
 She only knows 'tis what she feels. 
 For the one to whom her spirit kneels — 
 She beholds a form of nobler mould, 
 Than could boast the sons of Athens old, 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 97 
 
 She hears a voice, and it has the power 
 To gild the wings of the passing hour, 
 Encounters a glance with feeling fraught, 
 And pays it homage with every thought. 
 A child of the heart — ^love's home is there 
 Though often it wanders far elsewhere ; 
 Yet sere as a fire-swept desert seems 
 The lonely life where it lends no beams. 
 
 MUMFORD. 
 
 I'd be content to spend my days 
 
 Within my native ville, 
 Nor from it turn with weary gaze. 
 
 If there those friends were still, 
 Who trod with me the flowery way. 
 
 That led to woman's years — 
 Who laughed with me when I was gay. 
 
 And with me shed their tears. 
 
98 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 I'd long to view no classic tide, 
 
 Nor ancient forest green, 
 But Oise should ever be my pride, 
 
 Its groves mj wild-wood scene. 
 No far-famed ruins of the past, 
 
 Should lure me thence away, 
 While relics of the old " Inn " cast 
 
 Their shadows to the day. 
 
 No lofty mount I'd wish to scale. 
 
 With '' Deacon's Hill" in sight ; 
 For that old spot did never fail 
 
 To bring my heart delight. 
 No sweeter grapes have ever grown, 
 
 Than those by dark Oise's tide ; 
 Nor brighter flowers have never blown, 
 
 Than on that old hill-side. 
 
 The well-remembered stone school-house, 
 With walls of blackened gray. 
 
 Was just the place for glad carouse 
 When " Master " was away. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 99 
 
 But stranger-youths in all old places 
 
 !N"ow sit there side by side, 
 While all the dear, familiar faces, 
 
 Are scattered far and wide. 
 
 Some lowly lie in yon church-yard, 
 
 With naught to mark their rest ; 
 Some from me are by pride debarred, 
 
 And some have gone far West. 
 But early scenes and sympathies 
 
 Form life's far dearest part — ■ 
 The antepast of paradise — 
 
 The " Fezzan " of my heart. 
 
 TO THE EOBIK, 
 
 Eobin, with the brown-hued wing, 
 Sing the song you used to sing, 
 In the days when a laughing child, 
 I went picking berries wild. 
 
 LofC. 
 
100 ECHOES FROU THE GARRET. 
 
 Eobin, with the breast of red, 
 Sing that song while here I shed 
 Tears, that I shall never more, 
 See those happy days of yore. 
 
 Eobin, though I shed these tears, 
 To the memory of past years. 
 
 Think not that I'm always sad — 
 That my heart is never glad. 
 
 Though to youth I've bade adieu, 
 I'll remember I have you ; 
 And when for those days I sigh, 
 Sing, and tears will quickly drj^ 
 
 Eobin, with the breast of red 
 (Blessings on thy little head !) 
 Sing once more the wood-note wild, 
 I so loved when but a child. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 101 
 
 PAEODY. 
 
 I've a poor lonely lieartli and no beverage to cheer it, 
 
 Ko rum, wine, nor ale, have I tasted for long, 
 Oh ! would that some kindly — ^some ministrant spirit, 
 
 Might bear me a glass of the good mixture strong. 
 Although my lips parch and my limbs are all trembling. 
 
 They heed not, they see not, they care not, alas ! 
 The Templars in crowds in the streets are assembling, 
 
 And hurrah for the Maine law ! they shout as they 
 
 Oh, shade Alcoholic, where now are the dram-shops. 
 That furnished good liquor for friend and for foe ? 
 
 Alas I they have vanished, and cold on my heart, drops 
 The knowledge that rum hath received a death-blow. 
 
 Though bottles are broken and wine-casks are drying, 
 » They heed not, they see not, they care not, alas ! 
 
 E'en unthinking childhood's exultingly crying, 
 " Hurrah for the Maine law," as by me they pass. 
 
102 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Yet spirit, vile spirit, thou mad'st me to squander 
 
 A fortune once ample in riot and strife 
 For thee do I now, a poor lonely wretch wander. 
 
 For thee I have sacrificed children and wife. 
 'Neath clods of the valley they've long, long been 
 sleeping, 
 
 No tie upon earth has my poor heart — alas ! 
 But maidens and wives are the jubilee keeping, 
 
 And blessing the Maine law, as by me they pass. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 There is mourning by the hearth-side, 
 
 There is rcouming deep and wild, 
 For a mother there is grieving 
 
 OW her first — her darling child. 
 Twilight brings the band together. 
 
 But the ewe-lamb is not there, 
 And the tearful eyes are resting 
 
 Sadly on her vacant chair. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 103 
 
 They have laid her, lowly laid her, 
 
 Where the Onondaga wends, 
 And the hymning of the waters, 
 * With the sob of mourner blends. ^ 
 When the sky is dark and sullen. 
 
 Then I watch its solemn gauge, 
 And it tells me why she left us. 
 
 Plainer than could saint, or sage. 
 
 She has gone in all her beauty. 
 
 She will bless our sight no more : 
 And the trees with braided shadows, 
 
 Her repose are waving o'er. 
 Tearfully we plant the wild-rose 
 
 In the mould upon her breast. 
 But we know our gentle sisterj 
 
 With the Saviour finds a rest. 
 
104 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 THE NAME. 
 
 What shall we call him, dear ? 
 Why, give him his father's name ! 
 Dear name ! To my child the same 
 
 I give without a fear. 
 
 A finer name you'd give ? 
 Oh friend, it to me has worth, 
 Beyond all the names of earth, 
 
 And 'twill have while I live. 
 
 Dear child, of sire more dear, 
 My fond mother-heart with bliss 
 O'erflows, when as thee I kiss. 
 
 Thy father seems more near. 
 
 I bless my dear lord's name. 
 And should he but say, " my wife 
 Did honor me through her life," 
 
 His praise will be my fame. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 105 
 
 My little son, my boy, 
 Be like to thy sire, — wee thing, 
 Would'st thou to thy mother bring 
 
 A never-ceasing joy. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN MAID 
 
 Farewell, my brother, thou art leaving, 
 
 Perhaps fore'er, thy mountain cot, 
 To seek alone and unattended. 
 
 The chances of a soldier's lot. 
 Though I am weeping, think not, brother, 
 
 That I could wish to keep thee here. 
 When war's loud note of preparation 
 
 Eesounds o'er hills and valleys, clear. 
 
 Though woman's nerves are weak and tender, 
 Her heart at least is brave and true. 
 
 And she resents her country's insults, 
 As deeply as her brothers do. 
 
106 ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Ah, how the hot blood like a torrent 
 Doth course along her every vein, 
 
 When tries, some dastard-hearted traitor, 
 To bring upon our flag a stain. 
 
 We two are now the only branches 
 
 Eemaining of the parent-tree, 
 And I shall be alone and lonely, 
 
 When thou art gone, far hence, from me. 
 But still, I yield thee to my country — 
 
 And yield thee, too, with fondest pride, 
 Regretting only, that I may not 
 
 Go forth to battle by thy side. 
 
 Right nobly formed art thou, as should be 
 
 The scion of a noble stock. 
 Thy epaulettes will more become thee. 
 
 Than doth thy coarse- webbed farmer's smock. 
 And long, it may be, in the furrow. 
 
 Thy well-used plow will idly stand. 
 But yonder silver-mounted sword-hilt. 
 
 Is better fitted to thy hand. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 107 
 
 Soon, soon again, my gallant brother, 
 
 May smiling peace our country cheer. 
 And from the dreaded cannon's rattle, 
 Send safely back my mountaineer. 
 Upon the tented field and bivouac, 
 
 ' Let not thy sister be forgot, 
 For wearisome will pass the monients. 
 When thou art from the mountain cot. 
 
 «^ 
 
 MAGGIE. 
 
 • 
 
 Play " Kinlock of Kinlock," Maggie- 
 
 The dearest song you know, 
 And play it thine own way, Maggie — 
 
 With cadence sad and low. 
 As oil calms the toss'd wave, Maggie, 
 
 It quiets ev'ry fear, 
 And hence are my cares gone, Maggie, 
 
 When I its music hear. 
 
108 ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Play " Kinlock of Kinlock," Maggie, 
 
 While I a garland twine ; 
 Though once t'was a charnel, Maggie, 
 
 My heart is now a shrine. 
 It steals o'er its chords oft, Maggie, 
 
 E'en like a glad sun-beam. 
 And I " dream a dream " too, Maggie, 
 
 " That is not all a dream." 
 
 Play "Kinlock of Kinlock," Maggie, 
 
 And I will think I hear. 
 The voice of a spirit, Maggie, 
 
 In numbers low and clear, 
 'Tis sweetest at twilight, Maggie, 
 
 When fervid heat of day, 
 Gives place to the shadows, Maggie, 
 
 That slant across the way. 
 
 Play " Kinlock of Kinlock," Maggie, 
 When carping cares annoy, 
 
 Sick fear, it will banish, Maggie, 
 And dismal doubts destroy. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 109 
 
 'T will bring me a vision, Maggie, 
 
 Of pleasant dell and slope, 
 When life was a gladness, Maggie, 
 
 And its bright beacon, Hope. 
 
 OUE VILLAGE. 
 
 Its praises I will sing — shall I ? 
 
 It will not take me long, 
 And those who do not like it, need 
 
 Wot listen to my song. 
 It is a pleasant village, when 
 
 The sun with gentle ray 
 Peeps o'er the top of Guthrie's woods. 
 
 To let us know 'tis day ; 
 When like a veteran soldier, he. 
 
 With blank ' pickwickian' grin, 
 Sends forth detachments of his beams 
 
 To bring the dew-drops in ; 
 
110 ECHOES FROM THE GAERET. 
 
 When nature looks np lovingly, 
 
 As westward slow he moves, 
 (E'en as a woman's heart, looks up 
 
 To him she fondly loves ;) 
 When with a hue, far, far more rare. 
 
 Than that of poet's dream, 
 The rosy flush of sunset tints 
 
 Oise's dark but placid stream : 
 When willows bend above the wave. 
 
 In richest colors dress'd, 
 And leaps, the'shining, speckled trout 
 
 For food upon its breast. 
 
 Our ville is patriotic too. 
 
 And "Independence day," 
 Beholds our citizens come forth 
 
 In festival array ; 
 You hear a martial spirit ring 
 
 In ev'ry warlike shout. 
 And know they only wait events, 
 
 To bring their valor out. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. Ill 
 
 They feel a manly throb within 
 
 At name of " Bunker Hill," 
 And ever hold in reverence 
 
 Their brave fore-fathers' skill, 
 While thoughts that germ*d in those brave hearts, 
 
 And bloom'd to noble deeds, 
 They feel still live within their own. 
 
 Though rather chohed hy weeds. 
 They ne'er would pause — (although I think 
 
 Would sigh at the expense,) 
 To turn plow-shares and pruning hooks 
 
 To weapons of defence. 
 Should foreign foes come o'er the brine, 
 
 To claim this land of ours, 
 So prodigal in orchards fine. 
 
 In harvest fields and flowers. 
 But in the thickest of the fight, 
 
 Would boldly take their stand. 
 While their good wives turn out en masse. 
 
 To cultivate the land : 
 And I am sure the spirit staunch 
 
 Of " Seventy -six " they taste, 
 
112 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Who come here on the " Fourth," to see 
 
 How we gunpowder waste ; 
 For though no speeches do we have, 
 
 In either groves or halls, 
 The " Great unwash'd," come thronging round, 
 
 To throw the flaming balls, 
 While brimless hatted urchins think 
 
 It would be "jolly fun," 
 To have a war wdth England "just 
 
 To see the Johnies run." 
 
 And fashion here triumphant is, 
 
 A monarch absolute ; 
 For if not made in newest style 
 
 Nobody's clothes will suit. 
 Young men are not young men, until 
 
 They look like Alpine goats. 
 While little boys, six years of age. 
 
 Are sporting long-tail'd coats : 
 Girls infantine in groups are seen, 
 
 With feet both bare and dirty. 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 113 
 
 Encased in hoops, quite big enough, 
 For any Miss of thirty. 
 
 And now my song i^ almost o'er, 
 
 I've 'bout used up my quill, 
 But think I have immortalized 
 
 My dear, my native ville : 
 And though mayhap, I've sung its praise. 
 
 In numbers pretty tall. 
 That I have not burlesqued the place, 
 
 I would impress you all. 
 Its ev'ry nook is dear to me^ 
 
 Its valleys, hills and streams, 
 For 'mong them long, long years ago, 
 
 I dream'd my early dreams. 
 Since time has taught the lesson well, 
 
 That bliss is incomplete. 
 That we must calmly learn to take 
 
 The bitter with the sweet. 
 But, did no dark, and angry clouds 
 
 Upon our pathway rise, 
 
114 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 We could not half appreciate 
 The blue and sunny skies. 
 
 And did no blossoms blighted lie, 
 In cold, and wintry tomb, 
 
 Unnoticed and unheeded quite, 
 Would be the summer's bloom. 
 
 THE SIN-BLIGHTED, 
 
 Behold the maid, ere sin had left 
 
 Its impress on her brow — 
 A rose of ev'ry thorn bereft. 
 
 The fairest of the bough. 
 And life was e'er a joy to her — 
 
 A smoothly running stream, 
 Till sin and sorrow came to stir. 
 
 The quiet of its dream. 
 
 Its sweet romance but just begun. 
 The past, the present, gay. 
 
ECHOES FBOM THE GARRET. 115 
 
 She deemed the future would be one 
 
 Long, gladsome holiday ; 
 And Satan ne'er spun subtler web, 
 
 To snare his victims in, 
 Than was the fair false one that led, 
 
 That guileless heart to sin. 
 
 The tempter came, the pure one fell ; 
 
 Where now her future bright ? 
 The glad in heart can never tell 
 
 How dark is misery's night. 
 Deep are the furrows now where tears 
 
 Adown her cheeks have roll'd ; 
 Alas ! that one so young in years 
 
 In sorrow should be old. 
 
116 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET 
 
 MOTHEE'S WILD BOY. 
 
 Far, far from Le Boy, 
 
 From his home and friends dear, 
 
 Ere Kecruiter had come 
 "With his bugle-note clear, 
 
 And the beating of drum, 
 With the flag's starry float. 
 
 And the gay dancing feather, 
 With the gilt-bordered coat, 
 
 And the knap-sack of leather. 
 Went mother's wild boy. 
 
 No more he'll annoy, 
 With the bold, boyish way, 
 
 And the venturesome feat ; 
 For 'tis many a day 
 
 Since his heart ceased to beat. 
 And zo more him we'll spoil ; 
 
 For afar, with the brave, 
 'Neath Virginia's proud soil. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 117 
 
 In a lone soldier-grave, 
 Sleeps mother's wild boy. 
 
 THE UNLOVED CHILD'S BEQUEST. 
 
 Oh, mother, let me lie up there, 
 
 Where little brother lies ,; 
 I'll fold my hands together, so, 
 
 And softly close my eyes. 
 Then mother gently lift him down, 
 
 And let him run about ; 
 'Twill bring your old smile back again, 
 
 To hear his gleesome shout. 
 
 You've cut the tresses from his brow. 
 
 Which clustered there so late ; 
 He has such golden hair you know, 
 
 While mine is dark and straight. 
 Why do you cry so, mother, dear, 
 
 And sobbing, hold your breath ? 
 
118 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 Good Bessie says our Charlie's dead — 
 I wonder what is death ? 
 
 She says he's gone, dear mother, where 
 
 Grief never can come near ; 
 You always loved him, mother, and 
 
 He never cried much here. 
 Why does he lie so still up there, 
 
 And never speak to you ? 
 I do not like the robe he wears, 
 
 Although 'tis white and new. 
 
 I'll bring his cap with sable plume, 
 
 The coat he loves to wear, 
 And while you take him out to walk, 
 
 m quickly climb up there — 
 And fold my hands together, so. 
 
 And softly close my eyes, 
 And when I open them again, 
 
 I'll be beyond the skies. 
 
 Then God will call dear Charlie's name, 
 And look around to see ; 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 119^ 
 
 Bat I will tell him, mother dear, 
 
 That it is " only me ;" 
 And that you could not — could not spare, 
 
 Your only, darling boy — 
 That he is all you have on earth, 
 
 To bring you future joy. 
 
 Although he'll see how plain I am— 
 
 How black and straight my hair ; 
 And sure he would much rather have 
 
 Our little Charlie there, 
 Yet, will I tell him, mother dear, 
 
 You never did love me, 
 But that my brother's golden curls, 
 
 Are all the world to thee. 
 
 EESPICE FINEM 
 
 Tell not of battle-fields and camps, 
 Nor of the fame that comes. 
 
.120 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 With cannon-roar and bugle-blast, 
 
 And stirring beat of drums — ■ 
 Tell not of banners waving o'er 
 
 Th3 high heroic deed, 
 Of polished sword and bayonet, 
 
 And mettled, prancing steed. 
 
 Fame fascinates and nerves the heart, 
 
 To dare the battle's brunt, 
 And gorgeous trappings war assumes. 
 
 To hide its ghastly front. 
 Has death less dread when blossom-crowned. 
 
 Can gilt and satin fold 
 Keep noisome worm from narrow bourne, 
 
 And feast of coffin mould ? 
 
 I think of young men good and brave. 
 
 With pulses beating high, 
 Who leave their friends and love-girt homes, 
 
 On gory fields to die. 
 'Bove trumpet-bray and bugle-clang, 
 
 I hear the dying wail, 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 121 
 
 And in tlie stead of uniforms, 
 I see shapes stark and pale. 
 
 OH war ! thou wouldst thy horrors hide, 
 
 Beneath a witching glamour ; 
 Wouldst drown with music wild and sweet, 
 
 All thy discordant clamor. 
 But I can see on banner-folds, 
 
 A death-head grim and gaunt, 
 And blending with thy strains I hear 
 
 A low and mournful chant. 
 
 THE OLD BUTTERNUT TREE. 
 
 Long, long ago, in summer hours, 
 
 I sat beneath that tree. 
 My goodly company, the flowers. 
 
 And droning humble-bee. 
 
 Quite all around the dear old spot. 
 Grew thistles rank and high, 
 
 6 
 
122 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 With milk- weed and forget-me-not, 
 And violets nodding nigh. 
 
 There many times the drowsy God 
 My eye-lids closed in sleep : 
 
 For couch I had the verdant sod, 
 And birds a watch would keep. 
 
 Above my head from every bough, 
 Some warbling note would trill ; 
 
 The mavis and the pee-wee now, 
 Anon, the whippoorwill. 
 
 Ah ! sad the day when grasping man 
 
 Thy giant form laid low : 
 Forget thy loss I never can, 
 
 For 'twas a grievous woe. 
 
 The little land on which ye stood 
 
 Exciting his desire. 
 He cut thee down, and piled thy wood 
 
 To feed his winter fire. 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GAREET. 123 
 
 And now I scarcely know the place : 
 
 Where once together grew 
 Bright butter-cups with yellow face, 
 
 And violets meekly blue, 
 
 The farmer's thrifty crops are seen 
 
 On every side around, 
 While not a thistle-top, I ween, 
 
 Could any where be found. 
 
 And though I grieve o'er each plow-rut. 
 
 My mind it most disturbs. 
 To miss that dear old butternut. 
 
 With all its wealth of birds. 
 
 TO ARCHIE. 
 
 I LOVED thee well when but a boy, 
 
 I love thee now, a man. 
 And I will strew thy earthly path 
 
 With all the flowers I can. 
 
124 ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Thy manliood never will belie 
 The promise of thy youth, 
 
 But thou wilt ever onward reach, 
 In search of hidden truth. 
 
 I know thy deep inquiring mind, 
 
 I know thy truthful heart, 
 And mind and heart will ever choose 
 
 The wise and better part. 
 
 Within our mother's heart and home, 
 Thou wert a sun-beam fair ; 
 
 And when the wide world claimed thee, 
 A darkness settled there. 
 
 Thy dear, dear smile alone can lift 
 The shadow from the hearth, 
 
 And fill the hearts that love thee well 
 Again with joy and mirth. 
 
 Oh, may it ne'er be thine to choose 
 Ambition's thorny way, 
 
ECHOES FEOM THE GARRET. 125 
 
 For we must ever see entwined 
 The cypress with the bay. 
 
 VIOLETS 
 
 She gave me violets in the mom — . 
 
 These tufted violets wild ; 
 And look they young, and glad, and free, 
 
 As when I, too, was a child. 
 In meadow-fields they grew to life, 
 
 Were gently nursed by the shower, 
 And tears, the spirit of the night 
 
 Has left on each little flower. 
 
 They 'mind me of the old brown house, 
 The house that stands by the river ; 
 
 And while in their blue " een " I gaze, 
 I'm thanking oft the wee giver. 
 
126 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 A rude, rude home, was that brown house, 
 
 But still 'tis dear unto me, 
 And mem'ry oft goes back to rest — 
 
 Beside the dark Genesee. 
 
 I seem to see in summer breeze 
 
 The poplars quietly shiver, 
 And hear the song of katy-dids 
 
 'Mong willows down by the river ; 
 To see the shadows softly play, 
 
 The lonely bat by me flitting, 
 And hear the creak of mother's chair 
 
 As sits she silently knitting. 
 
 THE DIVOKCED. 
 
 On his heart another's sleeping — 
 Is it strange my eyes grow dim ? 
 
 While I lonely watch am keeping, 
 She is nestling close to him. 
 
ECHOES FKOMTHE GAERET. 127 
 
 Gently, gently she is lying 
 
 In my place — aye, there's the smart— 
 My place — mine ! Oh, tears, be drying. 
 
 Since ye cannot ease my heart. 
 
 Tenderly his arms entwine her. 
 
 Lovingly he speaks her name, 
 While an ecstasy diviner 
 
 Than a poet's thrills her frame. 
 Lightly, lightly he is pressing 
 
 Kisses on lips, brow, and eyes. 
 While I sit here wondering, guessing, 
 
 Till the stars fade from the skies. 
 
 Can it be that I am wrestliDg 
 
 *Neath the moonlight wan and dim, 
 While another's fondly nestling 
 
 In my place so close to him ? 
 I could bear it were we parted 
 
 By some accident of life. 
 But it makes me broken-hearted 
 
 When he proudly speaks " my wife.'' 
 
128 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 God I how deep the curse of woman 
 
 When she learns to love too well ; 
 Ev'ry feeling that is human 
 
 Joins to make her life a hell. 
 Better far for her to perish 
 
 By the vilest fang that rends, 
 Than to live a love to cherish, 
 
 Till it with her being blends. 
 
 ANNA 
 
 How often, dear Anna, I've wandered with thee 
 When school-hours were o'er to that old elm tree, 
 Whose wide-spreading branches afforded retreat 
 To many a warbler of note wild and sweet ; 
 Where Oise's sparkling wavelets appeared to rejoice, 
 As onward they glided with low murm'ring voice. 
 Oh dearly-loved stream ! when all others take wing, 
 Fond memories of thee will around my heart cling. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 129 
 
 How gaily we danced on the carpet of green, 
 And snatcli'd at the blossoms where'er they were seen. 
 With hats thrown aside, we would grape-trees ascend 
 To gather the fruit for some favorite friend, 
 While oft with flush'd faces and aprons much torn 
 We hied to the elm to conveniently mourn. 
 And expertly devise how we best could evade 
 The penance for rending a ruffle or braid. 
 
 Eemember how oft in those frolicsome hours 
 
 We pilfer'd the rods from those brothers of ours ; 
 
 Elate with success we ne'er stopped to rejoice, 
 
 Till seated at ease on the margin of Oise, 
 
 With pieces of wood then we baited the hook. 
 
 Suspended a moment the rod o'er the brook. 
 
 And then with vast energy drew up the line. 
 
 But lo I nought was there but the bark and the twiner 
 
 Ah ! often I think of the last time we roved 
 O'er every old spot that in childhood we loved ; 
 
130 ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 
 
 The wild winds of autumn went mournfully by, 
 And Oise as it murmur'd seem'd heaving a sigh, 
 As if in regret that friends truthful in heart 
 Should ever be called in this bleak world to part. 
 Glad, glad is the thought, that when this life is o'er, 
 We meet in a land to be parted no more. 
 
 And dear, winding Oise, should it e'er be my lot 
 
 To wander from thee and my own native cot, 
 
 I ne'er will forget the one friend that with me 
 
 So often has sat 'neath the old elm tree. 
 
 Each grove and each green mossy islet endears 
 
 To me my companion of earlier years. 
 
 And may the wild rose deck thy banks never more, 
 
 When for my lost Anna I cease to deplore. 
 
ECHOES FROM THE GARRET. 181 
 
 OISE. 
 
 I WOULD rove on thy banks, dear Oise, 
 
 And list to thy murmuring song, 
 For 'tis long since my steps have roved, 
 
 Thy groves and thy bowers among. 
 In the shade the blue grape now thrives, 
 
 Unheeded, uncared for by me, 
 And the rude rustic seat is vacant, 
 
 'Neath the shade of the old elm tree. 
 
 I would gaze in thy depths, dear Oise, 
 
 And dream o'er the days of " lang syne," 
 'Till I fancied* old faces smiling. 
 
 Where sigh-weed and river-moss twine. 
 Many friends thee have left, dear Oise, 
 
 Thy Bard is afar o'er the sea. 
 But oft light on the south breeze lingers, 
 
 The sigh he has breathed out to thee. 
 
 I would haunt thy fair groves, dear Oise, 
 So dear is thy low dreamy song, 
 
132 ECHOES FKOM THE GARRET. 
 
 Until gone were tlie griefs and woes, 
 That around my life's pathway throng. 
 
 I would sleep by thy side, dear Oise, 
 When " life's fitful fever " is o'er, 
 
 Where the aster and blue-bell bloom — 
 I e'er would repose on thy shore. 
 
 

 
 
 
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