I LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 J UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. | 
 
 
 ^Jk 
 
■ 
 
 ■ 
 
 :'; : .»k 
 
 1 1 
 
 ■ 
 
 ■ 
 
 
7*' 
 
 I ili 
 
 A NO OTHER P E M S 
 
 BY 
 
 BTS/^PARKER 
 
 iiifU 
 
 f& 
 
 t 
 
 
 *•*&, 
 
 NEW CASTLE, IND. : PLEAS BROS. 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS: BO WEN, STEWART & CO. RICHMOND, IND.: 
 NICHOLSON & BRO. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
 
 B. S. PARKER, 
 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 TO MT FATHER AND MOTHER, 
 
 WHO, I TRUST, 
 
 AFTER YEARS OF SEPARATION, 
 
 ARE REUNITED IN THE BETTER LIFE, 
 
 AND WHOM. IN KINDLY THOUGHT, OR HALLOWED MEMORIES, 
 
 I CANNOT SEPARATE, NOR RECALL THE COMPASSIONATE 
 
 LOVE OF THE ONE, WITHOUT RENEWING THE 
 
 LONG SUFFERING, FAITH AND 
 
 HOPE OF THE OTHER; 
 
 THIS LITTLE BOOK 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY DrcICATED BY THEIR 
 
 SO N AND DEBTOR, 
 
 B. S. P. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Dear Reader, whoever you may be, I present you 
 these humble verses, the echoes of the nobler emotions 
 that have struggled for utterance in the midst of a life 
 of toil and anxiety, without apology. 
 
 If anything in this little volume shall induce or 
 strengthen good thoughts, kindly sympathies, and gen- 
 erous motives, among even that small circle of readers 
 of whose disinterested friendship I am already assured 
 I shall be content. B. S. P. 
 
 November 1, 1871. 
 
THE LESSON 
 
THE LESSON. 
 
 THE LESSON. 
 
 A tiny rill and a little cbild, 
 
 In a fair and lovely land, 
 And the child has heaped in the water's edge, 
 
 A pile of the yellow sand, - 
 Then tries to hold the current back 
 
 With a little dimpled hand. 
 
 But sunken like a rose leaf wet 
 
 With nectar sweet as dew, 
 The little hand beneath the tide, 
 
 Transparent meets the view, 
 And, with the mien of a thoughtful man 
 
 Who sees a wonder new, 
 
 He queries why "they will not stop — 
 These drops that laugh and sigh — 
 
 I cannot hold them in my grasp; 
 They still go rushing by; 
 
 They will not pause, they cannot rest, 
 Do the waters never die? 
 
10 THE LESSON". 
 
 "They murmur, murmur, as they go; 
 
 I know not what they say : 
 But yet I think they sing to me 
 
 Of a region far away, 
 Of cities, and domes, and palaces, 
 
 A river and a bay." 
 
 Sometimes I hear my robin's voice, 
 And then my sparrow's song; 
 
 And now the blue-jay's rolic call, 
 As the water skips along; 
 
 And now my drowned hand is numb, 
 And the current swift and strong. 
 
 I wonder if the waters think, 
 And know the things the}^ say; 
 
 And why they ripple, and run, and rush, 
 And journey night and day; 
 
 And if they know I watch them here, 
 As they tinkle on their way. 
 
 They whisper, whisper the prettiest things, 
 
 I wish I knew their talk; 
 It's like the wind when the maple leaves 
 
 Come pattering on the walk; 
 It's like the rain when it strikes the pads 
 
 On m}^ tiger-lily stalk. 
 
 It's like — I know not what it's like — 
 
 But it seems to speak to me 
 Of gliding keels, and sailing ships, 
 
 And things that are to be 
 When I am grown a man, and dwell 
 
 Beside the restless sea 
 
THE LESSON. 11 
 
 And then it sings, "I grow, I grow; 
 
 I'm here but a little rill; 
 In the orchard I'm fully a yard across; 
 
 In the meadow wider still; 
 And the children float their little boats 
 
 On my breast at William's mill." 
 
 And I hear no more the robin's song, 
 
 Nor the sparrow's treble call; 
 But a mighty river's rush and roar, 
 
 Where shadows of mountains fall; 
 And surges of a wonderful sea, 
 
 Whose cliffs are white and tall. 
 
 I cnnnot think of lesion or play, 
 
 But dream what I shall know 
 When, like the rill, I move along, 
 
 And better and larger grow; 
 And when I think of this happy day 
 
 It will seem so long ago. 
 
 And if I come in my noble strength 
 
 Again to this sunny rill, 
 I'll try to remember this little boy, 
 
 Who is sitting here so still, 
 And think 'twas me, and is me yet, 
 
 In purpose, and soul, and will. 
 
 n. 
 
 A little rill and a wrinkled man, 
 
 In a fair and lovely land, 
 And he has heaped in the water's edge 
 
 A pile of yellow sand; 
 
12 THELESSON, 
 
 Then tries to dam the tiny beck, 
 With a weak and trembling hand. 
 
 'T was twenty summers ago, he sighs, 
 
 In childish treble, I know 
 I came back here from my eastern voyage, 
 
 Yes, twent}^ summers ago, 
 In all the strength of fifty } r ears, 
 
 I stood by this rivulet's flow. 
 
 And then I thought of a little child, 
 
 Who, forty years before, 
 Beheld a vision of wealth and strength, 
 
 And wisdom, and love and more — 
 Aye, more than I had ever borne 
 
 From the great world's mighty store. 
 
 It seemed to me but yesterday — 
 It seems just so this noon — 
 
 That, full of childish hope, I heard 
 This brooklet's lightsome rune, 
 
 And, from the slender music, learned 
 Life's most exultant tune. 
 
 But I was only fifty then; 
 
 My thoughts were hot and wild 
 With finance, politics, and trade, 
 
 For love was long exiled 
 From active thought to silent life*, 
 
 I soon forgot the child. 
 
 But all the toil is over now; 
 
 My visions long withdrawn; 
 And so I sit beside the rill, 
 
THE LESSON. 
 
 And think upon the gone, 
 
 And feel myself a little child, 
 
 That, in the happy dawn, 
 
 Has wakened to the robin's song, 
 
 And to the sparrow's call, 
 And sought the brooklet's yielding verge, 
 
 To hear the measures fall 
 The tinkling, whispering waters make 
 
 Above the pebbles small. 
 
 A child again! this beck is like 
 
 The stream of time, I cry. 
 Time, like the waters, will not rest, 
 
 But still goes rushing by; 
 The moments flow like floating drops 
 
 Till time himself shall die. 
 
 The young grow old, the old grow weak: 
 
 Time's river flows along; 
 A tiny rill, a rushing stream, 
 
 It nears the mighty throng 
 Of waves eternal, beating high 
 
 The future's endless song. 
 
 And so beside the rill I sit 
 
 And feel the wonder still, 
 Through all the years I am the same, 
 
 In purpose and in will. 
 And dream another happy dream 
 
 The future may fulfill. 
 
 No more to passion love belongs, 
 Nor hope to golden gains. 
 
 13 
 
14 THE LESSON. 
 
 The under-current of my years 
 
 Fills all my life as rains, 
 In winter, fill the dwindled brooks, 
 
 And wake their old refrains* 
 
 The chords of love's immortal lyre 
 Are trembling on the keys, 
 
 And only wait a shadow hand 
 To rouse their melodies — 
 
 A hand that waits me where the stream 
 Shall meet th' eternal seas. 
 
 I dream of domes and palaces 
 Not reared bj r mortal hands; 
 
 Of cities by the summer "feea, 
 And far, unnumbered lands 
 
 That roll their wealth, in music, down 
 A million shining strands, 
 
 I greet the friends of other days, 
 Where endless joys distill 
 
 As freely as the dews that iall 
 Along this laughing rill, 
 
 And there, 'tis me, O! child! me yet, 
 In purpose, soul, and will. 
 
 in. 
 
 A new grave in the church-yard now; 
 
 The rill flows on and on; 
 Young hearts are beating on its verge; 
 
 Love waketh with the dawn ; 
 And never a robin nor sparrow 7 sings 
 
 A note about the gone. 
 
THE LESSON. 15 
 
 Lives flow, like waters to the sea, 
 
 With freights of good or ill; 
 And ever and ever the dear Lord holds 
 
 The strings of their being still. 
 And leads them down their devious ways 
 
 II is purpose to fulfill. 
 
 One cries, "O, sinner!" and one, "O, saint!" 
 
 And the river's banks recede; 
 Oil; grasps at the pebbles on the marge, 
 
 In the depth of his golden greed; 
 One chases a bubble, and one but floats, 
 
 As the rushing waves proceed. 
 
 But deep in the lives that rush, and toss, 
 
 And jostle and swirl, and flow, 
 Are childho >d's visions, hopes, and. prayers, 
 
 An. I th > lovi i of long ago, 
 To shrive the soul in its agony, 
 
 And to bless extremest woe. 
 
 And often the pallet of rags and straw, 
 
 And the rafters, brown and bare, 
 Are seen by age through the blissful lens 
 
 Of youth, long fresh, and fair, 
 Till they are sweet, like the summer skies; 
 
 And soft, like the summer air. 
 
 The prison wall and the scaffold plank 
 
 In memory cease to be; 
 But, children again, the convicts stand 
 
 On the brink of the "death-cold sea;" 
 "For except as little children ye come, 
 
 Ye cannot come to me." 
 
16 WANDERING. 
 
 Be rich, or poor, or high, or low; 
 
 Whenever the race is run, 
 God only knows His erring child 
 
 As a father his erring son ; 
 And so it is very sweet to say, 
 
 "Dear Lord! Thy will be done.' : 
 
 WANDERING. 
 
 i. 
 
 Winter rules the world without; 
 Gusts of snow-flakes whirl about ? 
 And the breeze is sharp and cold, 
 As it sweeps the barren wold. 
 Summer songsters, summer flowers, 
 Sing not, bloom not in the bowers; 
 Yet I'm dreaming all day long 
 Of a land of bloom and song — 
 Some fair island in the sea, 
 Clothed with green eternally — • 
 Where the birds of paradise 
 Build amid the bowers of spice; 
 And from thousand tiny throats 
 One harmonious ditty floats, 
 Through the seasons fair and long, 
 Sweetest tide of choral song. 
 
 ii. 
 
 There, through all the changing time, 
 Fruits are in their luscious prime, 
 
WANDERING. 17 
 
 And the seas of bloom outpour 
 
 Finest odors, and the shore 
 
 Lies beneath a reef of shells, 
 
 In whose corrugated cells, 
 
 Every fair and lovely dye 
 
 That paints the earth or tints the sky 
 
 Hides through all the ardent days 
 
 From the sun's intrusive gaze. 
 
 in. 
 
 Oft in fancy I retreat 
 To this paradisal seat, ' 
 And with one who, long ago, 
 Learned the song I cannot know, 
 Saw the glories that to me 
 Are a shadowed mystery — 
 Through that thought-created land 
 Wander onward hand in hand. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So we see through evening mist, 
 Domes and towers of amethyst, 
 Woods and mountains manifold; 
 Spacious temples wrought of gold; 
 Paradisal lands of rest 
 That no mortal foot has press'd; 
 New Jcrusalems that stand 
 Glorious in that wonder-land. 
 
 v. 
 
 Fades the day and fades the mist; 
 Sink the towers of amethyst; 
 
18 WANDERING. 
 
 And we learn what fruitful rays 
 Builded up those walls of praise. 
 When the sunlight quits the sky, 
 All the glorious visions die; 
 Yet, through ether clear and far, 
 Shines the mellow evening star. 
 So, when youth's warm tide is spent, 
 Fade the lustres that it lent 
 To the present and she gone, 
 And the future's happy dawn; 
 Yet the steadfast star of love 
 Shines forever up above. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Memory sketches, fancy paints, 
 Regions worthy of the saints; 
 Bears us thither, and* we meet, 
 Gliding on with noiseless feet, 
 Some enchanted friend who took 
 Life as but a summer book; 
 Read it on a pleasant day; 
 Bowed her head and passed away; 
 And our wandering fancies range 
 'Round this mystery of change, 
 What is death? we ask, and what 
 Is there real? What is not? 
 What is life, and what its end? 
 Whither do our journeyings tend? 
 Faded; absent; gone for aye; 
 Yet forever 'round our way 
 Are the dead. We see them still, 
 Be our days of joy or ill, 
 Shall we meet them, face to face, 
 
WANDERING. 19 
 
 In some more ethereal place; 
 Tread with them the pleasant shore, 
 Whither they have gone before; 
 Wander with them, hand in hand, 
 Through some flowery Eden land? 
 Shall we know the friends we love 
 In the better world above? 
 Ah! no answer! well, we wait 
 Hitherside the golden gate, 
 And in fancy oft retreat 
 To some paradisal seat, 
 Following some enchanted face, 
 Lovely with its morning grace. 
 Though the tides of youth be dead, 
 Still the light of love is shed 
 O'er us, till we fade and fall; 
 After that we shall know all, 
 Or know nothing — who shall tell? 
 Yet God dueth all things well. 
 Deathless soul, o.' moldering clay, 
 God has made a perfect way. 
 We shall reach the end designed 
 By the All-pervading Mind. 
 
 VIL 
 
 Call it error, if you will; 
 Yet I trust Jehovah's skill 
 Is not balked by any plan, 
 Laid by demon or by man, 
 And the ends He made us to 
 Ever present in His view, 
 Shall be filled at last b^y all; 
 Not a sparrow, even, shall fall, 
 
20 My ROBIN. 
 
 Unaccounted or unknown; 
 Not a seed that He has sown 
 Perish in the silent ground, 
 Till its uses shall be found. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O! we can but trust and wait, 
 Till death swingeth wide the gate, 
 Then we dream that we shall be 
 Given to life eternally, 
 And our spirits shall retreat 
 To some paradisal seat, 
 Or shall wander, I'vw and far, 
 Through the realms of sun and star. 
 But, however this shall be, 
 Faith this promise bears to me, 
 God will give me toil or rest, 
 Peace or turmoil to my breast, 
 Bliss or anguish, good or ill, 
 As shall best ni}- needs fulfill. 
 
 MY ROBIN. 
 
 Out in the cheery breath of morn, 
 Up from the meadow winging, 
 
 Before the day is fairly born, 
 I hear rny robin singing. 
 
 Last year before the maples' crown, 
 Received its purple glory, 
 
MY ROBIN. 21 
 
 This jolly fellow set the town 
 A ringing with his story. 
 
 And now, before the snow is gone, 
 
 His merry pipings greet us, 
 The soul of Spring's impending dawn, 
 
 In music come to meet us. 
 
 O ! robin in the cherry tree, 
 
 With heart so brave, yet tender, 
 Why singest thou so merrily, 
 
 In the morning's ruddy splendor? 
 
 Thou wakest thoughts of other years, 
 
 When being's sunny fountain 
 Seemed flowing onward through the spheres, 
 From some celestial mountain. 
 
 Old strains of music, wild and sweet, 
 
 Are in thy notes returning, 
 Old greetings, such as children meet, 
 
 Set all my spirit yearning. 
 
 And dreaming of the pleasant wood, 
 
 Where maple boughs were swinging, 
 And, children of the neighborhood, 
 We mocked the robin's singing. 
 
 The curly heads are by my side, 
 
 I hear the children's laughter, 
 And see the dreams that hope denied, 
 
 Bat cherished ever after. 
 
 And now, as in the swooning waves, 
 Of half-unconscious sadness, 
 
22 THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 I hear above the little graves, 
 The robin's song of gladness. 
 
 The little feet have silent grown, 
 Or seek the wood no longer, 
 
 But memory still retains her own 
 And love than death is stronger. 
 
 And childish ways and childish plays, 
 And children's voices ringing, 
 
 Float upward from departed days 
 Whene'er my robin's singing, 
 
 THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Die away, O! evening wonder, 
 From 3 r our glory in the west, 
 
 For the silent hours are coming 
 When the laborer shall rest. 
 
 Pleasant are the smiles of morning, 
 Gorgeous is the naming noon, 
 
 But the better fruit of being, 
 Ripens underneath the moon. 
 
 Round the merry fires of evening, 
 When the lamps are blazing bright, 
 
 Shine for us the kindly faces 
 Glorifying all the night. 
 
 Then the voice of song and laughter, 
 Echoes through the cheerful room, 
 
THE FIRESIDE. 23 
 
 And the glow within is warmer, 
 Deepening with the outer gioom. 
 
 We grow tender with the poets, 
 
 With the sages we are wise, 
 With Divinity we gamble 
 
 For the everlasting prize. 
 
 All the climes the traveler visits, 
 
 Add their treasures to our store, 
 Greek and Roman stand before us, 
 
 Peerless in their ancient lore. 
 
 All the sinewy thongs of iron, 
 
 All the quivering nerves of wire, 
 Binding sea and sea together, 
 
 Bless us round our evening fire. 
 
 Lo! the lightning from the heavens, 
 
 Flashing earthward in its play, 
 Bears the hourly thought of nation 
 
 Unto nation far away. 
 
 On its inky panorama, 
 
 Now the evening press repeats 
 What the morning voice of Europe 
 
 Uttered on a myriad streets. 
 
 And we feel the heart of peoples, 
 
 Wakened into newer life, 
 From the old historic ages, 
 
 Beating on to nobler strife. 
 
 Upward still, in mighty cycles, 
 Slowly moves the multitude, 
 
24 Til E FIRESIDE. 
 
 To the final culmination, 
 
 Each man's right is ail men's good. 
 
 Round our evening lamp we gather, 
 From the world's concentered thought, 
 
 What the pons of seers have written, 
 What the thinkers' toils have wrought, 
 
 What the dubious lights of history, 
 
 Cast upon the sickening show 
 Of misrule, and war and vengence, 
 Filling up "the earth's long woe." 
 
 Only as we deal with others, 
 
 Shall the ministers of fate 
 Deal with us, as men or nations, 
 
 By our meeds of love or hate. 
 
 But again tue thoughts are centered, 
 
 In the circle gathered round, 
 Let the groat world rave and struggle 
 Leave the depths of thought profound. 
 
 Here are gentle hearts that love us, 
 Love us round our evening lire, 
 
 Here are careful hands to guide us 
 Where our wayward thoughts aspire. 
 
 Let the passing hour be yielded 
 Unto friendship's sweet domain, 
 
 Let the social thought be cherished 
 Polished memories golden chain. 
 
 Hasten not, ()! fleeting moments, 
 When our souls are thus in tune, 
 
CLARIBELL. ^5 
 
 To the finest notes of being 
 Thrilling 'neath the silent moon. 
 
 O! through all our days of labor, 
 
 Strifes, and toilings, we aspire 
 To be happy in the evening, 
 
 With the circle round the fire. 
 
 CLARIBELL. 
 
 Claribell! 
 Through the morning calm and sweet 
 Comes the tramp of little feet, 
 Pattering at the open door, 
 Tinkering on the naked floor, 
 Where the merry sunbeams fell 
 Long ago, dear Claribell. 
 
 Claribell! 
 Now the robin and the jay 
 Chatter where the branches sway, 
 O'er the pathway, down the walk, 
 Hallowed by thy pleasant talk; 
 By thy talk and by thy song, 
 When the summer days were long, 
 And the tangled ivies meet, 
 Meet and blossom where thy feet 
 In our pleasant journeys fell, 
 Little darling Claribell. 
 
 Claribell! 
 Not the glory of the morn, 
 
20 OLA R I BELL. 
 
 Glimmering through the miles of e< 'n; 
 Not the polyphonian notes, 
 Fluting from the feathered throats; 
 Not a thousand happy hours 
 Nursed by summer in her flowers; 
 Nor the terraces of light 
 Fading from the path of night; 
 Sweet, emotions, soft desires, 
 
 Love with all her blissful lires, 
 
 Shall renew thee, as of old, 
 For ihv Little feet are mold, 
 Ami the summer breezes swell 
 o'er thj slumber, ClaribelL 
 
 * 
 Claribell! 
 We have wandered far and long 
 
 Sinoe we heard thy mominff soiiir; 
 We have tarried long and late, 
 
 Watching where the sunbeams wait, 
 
 For thy shadow that, no more 
 
 Glides along the cottage floor; 
 
 What are half a SCOre ol' years, 
 Months id agonv ami tears, 
 
 Days oi' darkness and distress, 
 Fleeting hours oi' happiness? 
 
 Through them all we raise the ery, 
 41 Com ) from out th> fields ol' sky, 
 From the silent realms ol' space, 
 Dimpled chin and sunny face, 
 
 Eyes with laughter brimming o'er, 
 
 Shine upon US here onee more; 
 Here Once more our pleasures swell. 
 
 Dearest angel, Claribell!" 
 
Til E DA R K E N 10 1) ROQ M . 21 
 
 Claribell! 
 Never more thy form we sec, 
 Clothed with our mortality, 
 Yet wre know thee very well, 
 Like some happy miracle, 
 Wrought by unseen hands to bless 
 Even paths <>f wretchedness; 
 Yet iliy presence pure and sweet, 
 Gliding on with noiseless feet, 
 Hovering viewless in the air, 
 Meets and greets as everywhere; — 
 Not, beyond some golden door, 
 
 Hidden from us evermore, 
 
 Not upon some far off straud, 
 Beckoning with .-i shadow hand, 
 Like the wise and great who die, 
 Ghostly templars of the sky, 
 Trumpeting from awful heights, 
 Warning through the solemn nights;— 
 lint about us pure and calm, 
 Constant blessing, constant psalm, 
 Growing with the growing years, 
 Heightening joy and sweetening tears; 
 
 So we love our darling well 
 
 Lost, but present Claribell! 
 
 Til E DA RKENED ROOM. 
 Out of the deepest sorrow, 
 
 Out of the darkest night, 
 Into the peaceful morrow, 
 
 Comes the purest light ' 
 
2* Til E SING E US. 
 
 Out from the troubled spirit,. 
 That toils and battles Long,. 
 
 Into the silence alter, 
 
 Plows the sweetest song. 
 
 God, who cares for the sparrows^ 
 Watches yon and me; 
 
 Somewhere in the endless ages,, 
 
 Oui heritage shall be. 
 
 Faithful in every anguisl 
 Trusting through the gloom,. 
 
 We shall be led, hereatte: 
 
 Out of the darkened room. 
 
 What if the dawn be hidden,. 
 
 Under the lids oi' night, 
 Till the eternal morning, 
 
 Bringeth supernal light; 
 
 Who shall mock our patience,. 
 
 Or call our faith in vain? 
 Cu>d, who has given us sorrow,. 
 
 Will give us joy again. 
 
 T II E s I x G E R S. 
 
 O! the beauty of the morning, 
 And the splen 1 »r of the dav, 
 
 In the purple mists o\' evening. 
 Melting, mingling, die away. 
 
THE SINGERS. 29 
 
 Softly then athwart the s'lence, 
 
 Comes the music of the gone, 
 Thrilling through the merry measures, 
 Of our being's happy dawn. 
 
 Sing, O! warblers of the morning. 
 
 Many an old remembered tune, 
 That your throats refused to utter 
 in the fiery tide of noon. 
 
 In the turmoil and the racing, 
 And the chasing after gold, 
 
 Men forget the kindly welcomes 
 Of the pleasant songs of old. 
 
 From the pathway to the altar, 
 Where the mammon lovers throng, 
 
 Fly away the merry singers, 
 Rolls away the tide of song. 
 
 Never comes a choral echo, 
 To the ears of him whose feet 
 
 Trample down the flowers of morning, 
 Scatter all things, lair and sweet. 
 
 Song and youth go on together, 
 And the singers reckon well, 
 
 In what spirits still the sunshine, 
 And the youthful sweetness dwell. 
 
 When the shadows of the even 
 Bid the fevered pulses rest, 
 
 And the golden gates of Heaven 
 Seem to open in the west. 
 
30 THE SINGERS. 
 
 Unto th x >e return the singers, 
 Mern singers of the morn, 
 
 Chanting yet about the future, 
 Of a future still unborn. 
 
 For the measures of the morning 
 And the evening are the same, 
 
 Only calling — ever calling, 
 
 Upward where the glories flame. 
 
 Through the vistas, o'er the mountains, 
 Where Aurora leads the day, 
 
 Through the vapor land of wonder, 
 Where the evening fades away, 
 
 Still they fly beyond our seeing, 
 Yet we hear them in the blue, 
 
 Singing in the far expanses, 
 " God is love, and love is true." 
 
 Never hand of scald nor harper 
 Bade such choral numbers rise; 
 
 Never seer nor saintly elder 
 
 Drew such wisdom from the skies. 
 
 Sweetly in the hour of sorrow, 
 Deftly through* the darkest gloom, 
 
 Soundeth far the peerless voices, 
 Singing of the morning's bloom. 
 
 Singing till the blossoms gather, 
 
 Even on the cruel grave, 
 Till we smile and go contented — 
 
 Go contented through the wave, 
 
THE TOILER'S DREAM. 31 
 
 Through the bitter wave that lieth 
 Bordering on the earthly strand, 
 Till we seek the happy silence 
 Of a strangely silent land. 
 
 THE TOILER'S DREAM. 
 
 The toiler slept a long, uneasy sleep, 
 
 And in the midst thereof, a vision rose — 
 
 A 'ream about a dream that filled his brain. 
 
 He thought he woke, and on his wife and boys 
 
 Gazed with a tender yearning at his heart, 
 
 But called them not; then through the uncurtained pane 
 
 Saw Venus glowing with a tremulous light 
 
 Upon the very margin of the dawn; 
 
 Then rose, and putting on his raiment, passed, 
 
 Beneath his humble door-tree, sped across 
 
 Great plains of red-top, shining in the dew 
 
 Like roses steeped in nectar, fields of wheat, 
 
 Whose slender lances in the crispy air 
 
 Tossed like the streamers which we see on ships 
 
 Sailing in favoring breezes from their ports; 
 
 Beneath the elm-trees, where the robins sang 
 
 Their joyous praises to the advancing sun; 
 
 Across the orchards, where the cat-bird's mirth, 
 
 In garrulous quavers, shook the infant fruit; 
 
 And over rocky hill and flowery dale; 
 
 And on, and on, and still the wonder grew — ■ 
 
 A sea of glory in the shining East — 
 
 Till all his soul, enamored of the scene, 
 
33 Til E T01 i.F.irs iw; EA M. 
 
 Shouted in unison with brooks and birds; 
 
 And fancy mounted in the glimmering base, 
 
 And eastwai I Mew. till many thousand suns 
 
 Gave each his light to systems vast as ours; 
 
 And ever} planet showed a million dawns; 
 
 And ever} dawn was breaking in the Bast; 
 
 And every dawn beheld a happy race — 
 
 A race of men where justice beld aloft 
 
 Her polished scales, that wavered with a breath, 
 
 And none .were found to cheat the balance; none 
 
 To wring the Bweat of blood from wearj brows, 
 
 And Done were beg ars, none were lords; but all 
 
 Bore burdens for each other; and the wealth 
 
 The\ made, outhieasuring individual needs. 
 
 Wrought works of art and towers for Learning's use, 
 
 Ami builded ain balls in pleasant parks 
 
 Wherein the people at their Leisure came 
 
 To read the masters of philosophy, 
 
 To search the Lettered scrolls of history through, 
 
 Or mark the unlettered Legends of the rocks, 
 
 With all their marvelous stories of the past, 
 
 That antedating continents and man 
 
 Recall the Life of the primordial Beas; 
 
 Turn amateurs in science ami produce 
 
 The wonders of the retort; analyze 
 
 All forms o( use or beauty into gas 
 As thin as rhymes for formal holidays; 
 
 Tarn the great telescopes to heaven ami count 
 
 The worlds on worlds ami weigh them one by one; 
 Took through the microscopes ami there behold 
 The infusorial wonders of the air 
 And earth and water, and all things therein; 
 
 Ami chasing science thus to suit the will. 
 
 Each following that which yielded most delight, 
 
TMK TOI LEB*8 I>R E A M . 83 
 
 The range.o&knowledge grew from more to more. 
 
 Some viewed the wonders on the chiseled stone, 
 
 Wrought by the A.ngelos of every town; 
 
 Or on the caiwas saw the raptures grown 
 
 Beneath thetoncb of Raphaels numbered not, 
 
 Except by needs ofithe communities 
 
 Of cultured souls thai filled the teeming world; 
 
 Or on a million pages trace I the flow 
 
 Of poesy, thai seraph language, used 
 
 To render thoughts, that in subiimesl heigl 
 
 Dwell nearesi Go l's unmeasure I excellent e. 
 
 Or, when of learning weary, they would cha* • 
 
 The flying bull across the park, or swim 
 
 In the luxurious mazes of the dance, 
 
 Or, in gymnasiums well appointed, train 
 
 Each nerve and muscle to the highest use, 
 
 Pitch the huge quoit, or toil npon the bars, 
 
 Or ply the o:irs upon the river's breast, 
 
 Or linger when; the heavenly strains out-pour 
 From instruments of perfect form an<l tone; 
 Or wander singing through the pleasant woods 
 
 Where myriad feathered warblers congregate. 
 And when returning frona a day of rest 
 To quiet homes that nestle i in the groves, 
 They met the household with a love that made 
 The very roof -trees blossom into joys, 
 And all the world a patadisc of peaee. 
 J low happily their thanks went forth to God; 
 How sweet they rested, and with morning rose 
 'To toil, and know that best results were sure 
 From every stroke of hammer on the steel, 
 'Or furrow cut across the pleasant fields, 
 •Or rush of throbbing engines, spread of sails 
 That catch the breezes on a thousand seas; 
 
34 THE TOILER'S DREAM. 
 
 The whir of spindles and the clank of looms. 
 The nervous strokes of telegraphs that bear 
 The thought of continent to continent, 
 The labors of the builders, and of all 
 Who build up cities, make the country smile, 
 Train nature up to uses best for man. 
 
 The sun awoke him, shining through the panes 
 On the bare wails and meagre couch of straw; 
 And so, the vision past, his toil began 
 Upon a stately pile of stone that grew 
 On labor poorly paid, from bounty wrung 
 From other toilers by the sharper's art 
 A mansion tit for princes of the mind, 
 Kings In the empire of triumphant souls; 
 Kut yet, a tribute raised by trembling hands 
 To lying impu lence and bra \ m cheek, 
 And vulgar meanness that but shuns the law's 
 Dire penalties, and keeps within the range 
 Of human deoencies, by that small breadth 
 That people always recognize between 
 A rogue convicted and a rogue at large. 
 
 So ran the dream, and so it faded out; 
 Yet all the world is beautiful and fair. 
 And all the souls are nearest Cod, that dream 
 Of happy futures when the earth shall move, 
 And all the universe of man revolve 
 Insphered in sunless orbits of delight, 
 And every man shall yield his brother man 
 The good he claims himself; and right shall be 
 The Loid and Master over all that live. 
 
RHYME OF THE WITHERED LEAVES. 35 
 
 RHYME OF THE WITHERED LEAVES. 
 
 GoM and scarlet, dry and brown, 
 Ripened leaves are quivering down; 
 See! the ground is covered o'er 
 With a many colored store; 
 All the paths along the wood, 
 All the forest solitude, 
 Every dear, sequestered nook, 
 Where I read my sum trier book, 
 Where the vernal violet, 
 In its modest fringe was set, 
 And the robin sang of love, 
 From the greening boughs above, 
 Are with fallen glories spread; 
 Crowns from many a kingly head, 
 Wreaths from many a noble brow 
 Lie amid these ruins now. 
 
 Every gust that hurries by, 
 Whirls the withered leaves on high, 
 And they sweep along the ground, 
 With a mournful, rustling sound, 
 Till the hillsides interpose, 
 Where they heap in deep long rows. 
 
 m. 
 
 O! it is a pleasure sweet, 
 
 Where our hills and vallevs meet 
 
86 RHYME OF THE WITHERED LEAVES. 
 
 TO iwliuo :imid t ho lo:i\ 68, 
 On theSQ Indian Summer eVCS, 
 
 Watching all the gates of day, 
 Closing on the lurid waj 
 Of the Sun, who wraps a shroud, 
 blade of gold and amber cloud, 
 Round his God Like form, and goes 
 Proudly to his night's repose, 
 
 IV. 
 
 All the springs of being move 
 
 To the finest notes of Love, 
 
 Bl iding with the sorrow Lng air 
 
 Like echoes from ■ distant prayer. 
 
 So aoft, un syllabled, and Low, 
 
 We weep, yet feel no cause for woo. 
 
 All tenderer toolings grow intense 
 And banish :ill ofgroveling sonso; 
 
 The past re wrought appears again, 
 
 And wuh the spirit's piercing ken 
 
 We Bee from out these mortal shells, 
 
 The brimming tide of soul that swells, 
 
 Expanding, till its Bow must be 
 
 As boundless as infinity : 
 
 Our future seems to reach and blend 
 
 With being that shall never end: 
 
 The loved, the Lost, the mourned and true, 
 
 Each form, each face, the same we know 
 
 Them Long ago, and each delight 
 
 And hope that sot in ray less night, 
 
A Ql B81 I '• 37 
 
 All fweet impr< 
 
 E?en vbout of bioo) of birds 
 
 Betui d to adden oi to cheer, 
 
 To nrake the smile, evoke the b 
 
 Then past, to blend irith that broad 
 
 Of life, that flows eteru 
 
 A QUE8TION. 
 
 Through the changing necromancy 
 
 Of a lif! i dream, 
 
 Oft ire question in the darknet 
 " Arc things brighter than the 
 
 Happ} 
 Thrilling throng K>m, 
 
 ing that the ro »e of moj ning 
 Trembles to the perfi ct bloom; 
 
 Singing of the fields of Eden, 
 
 earn, 
 Toll u.s. in the dreary 
 M Are things brighter than they seem?" 
 
 Does the clond that bears the sorrow 
 
 B • .»/■ the bow opoi 
 Are the days of storm and battle 
 
 J 1 1 jt preparin 
 
 fj the peace the father giveth 
 
 Only making from a dream, 
 
38 MORNING CLOUDS. 
 
 As a child wakes in the morning, 
 "Are things brighter than they seem? ; 
 
 MORNING CLOUDS, 
 
 Clouds of the morning, 
 
 Golden and gay, 
 Float from the portals 
 
 Of sunrise away. 
 
 Clouds of the morning, 
 
 In splendor unrolled, 
 You usher Aurora, 
 
 In curtains of gold. 
 
 Clouds of the morning, 
 Your beauties suggest 
 
 The home of the angels, 
 The isles of the blest. 
 
 As Mirza, in vision, 
 
 Beheld their array, 
 So I see them afloat, 
 
 Round the portals of day; 
 
 And my vision entranced 
 On your glory reclines, 
 Till it fades from the sun, 
 In your long wav'ring lines; 
 
MORNING. 39 
 
 Till your long wavering lines 
 
 Soften down in the day, 
 And you float from the presence 
 
 Of sunrise away. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 I had a dream of other days; 
 
 In golden luxury shone the wheat, 
 In tangled greenness shook the maize; 
 
 The squirrels ran with nimble feet, 
 And in and out among the trees, 
 
 The hang-bird darted like a flame; 
 The cat-bird piped her melodies, 
 
 Purloining every warbler's fame; 
 And then I heard triumphal song, 
 
 "'Tis morning, and the days are long." 
 
 They scattered roses, strewed the palms, 
 
 And shouted down the pleasant vales; 
 1 heard a thousand. happy psalms, 
 
 And laughing, wove a thousand tales 
 Of mimic revelry and joy; 
 
 They mocking well the worldly great — 
 Each tan-faced girl and bare-foot boy, 
 
 Dear shapers of my early fate — 
 And then again the iEolian song, 
 
 " 'Tis morning, and the days are long." 
 
 Far-winding past the storied town, 
 The river ran through bosky groves, 
 
*0 M RX1NG. 
 
 Its floods wo Bailed our vessels down, 
 Full freighted with a myriad loves; 
 
 Our souls went floating to the gales, 
 With every tiny shred of hark, 
 
 We christened cutters, schooners, sails, 
 Till lost within the shadowy dark; 
 
 Then down the waters tlowed the song, 
 " 'Tis morning, and the day is long." . 
 
 O! morning, when the days are long, 
 
 And youth and innocence are wed, 
 And every grove is full of song, 
 
 And every pathway void of dread; 
 Who rightly sings its rightful praise. 
 
 Or rightly dreams it o'er again, 
 When cold and narrow are the days, 
 
 ,A.nd shrunken all the hopes of men, 
 He shall rewaken with his song, 
 
 "'The morning when the days were long.' 
 
 There palpitations wild and sweet, 
 
 The thrills of many an old delight, 
 And dimpled hands that lightly meet, 
 
 And hearts that tremble to unite, 
 Arise upon the rosy morn, 
 
 Pass down the lovely vales and stand, 
 A picture of a memory born, 
 
 The mirage of a lotus land — 
 A land where once we trolled the song, 
 
 "'Tis morning, and the days are long.' 
 
m. J. w. 41 
 
 M. J. W. 
 
 DIED AT DAWN, FEB. 25, 1865. 
 
 And is she dead, the ever hopeful one, 
 The loving life that seemed but just begun, 
 So quickly past, and all its guerdons won? 
 
 And have we watched her feet, as day by day, 
 From childhood's sinless hours of sport and play, 
 To womanhood's more elevated way, 
 
 She trode with firm and ever new delight, 
 Along t! e paths of knowledge, gaining might 
 To wield in future battles for the right; 
 
 Alone to see them tremble, pause and fail 
 On the glad hills, and turn to walk the vale 
 Where night and gloom, decay and grief prevail? 
 
 The hopes we cherished for her future years 
 Are gone forever, through our dimming tears 
 All but the last and brightest disappears. 
 
 The last and brightest! in our doubt and gloom, 
 It throws to heaven the beauty of its bloom, 
 And drowns the death-smell under its perfume. 
 
 That blessed hope that teaches, in our pain, 
 That never noble life was lived in vain, 
 And even death dispenses greatest gain. 
 
42 n \ RO LIPS ?■ V M KNT. 
 
 Her feet no more enologged in earthly clay, 
 Mount upward now, in their oelestial way, 
 
 Swift as the young lark soars to meet tin' day. 
 
 Upward forever on those lulls of light, 
 Where love*s effulgence banishes the night, 
 Ami every step reveals some now delight; 
 
 Where knowledge oometh not through toil or pain, 
 But Bweetlj falleth like the summer rain, 
 
 Ami tills the spirit with a boundless gain. 
 
 Again expanding through the eternal years, 
 While to its never ending flow inheres 
 The multitudinous wonders oi % the spheres. 
 
 There faith establishes her paths, and there 
 
 Love looketh with hot- eye of gentle care, 
 
 Ami breathes through Christ, the merciful, a prayer; 
 
 When life shall pause ami drop the numbering glass, 
 Ami death pronounce the midnight's solemn mass, 
 Bidding our good or evil forward pass, 
 
 To enter, with no selfish fear nor dread, 
 
 The silent army o\' the happy dead. 
 
 And follow where her morning walk has led. 
 
 11 A ROLD'S LA M KNT. 
 
 0! the snow is sifting white. 
 Over plain and mountain height, 
 Like soft silver Bakes oi' light. 
 
II A ROLD'S LA M KNT. 43 
 
 And the wind are moaning by, 
 Oft with sad and solemn sigh; 
 Then with deepest anguish cry. 
 
 And, by memory's hallowed light, 
 See I one whose brow of white 
 Wa. like silver flakes of Light; 
 
 And my heart does moan and csry, 
 And, with many an anguish sigh, 
 Count the moments Long gone by 
 
 Twenty years ago to day. 
 They did hide my love away, 
 Under heaps of frozen clay. 
 
 Twenty weary years ago 
 
 They did hide my loved one low; 
 When shall I unto her go? 
 
 I was fifty on the day, 
 That my ange] pass'd away; 
 
 Now J 'in seventy, worn, and £ray. 
 
 lounger only by a year, 
 
 Lour/- in Lore's sweet atmosphere 
 
 She had dwelt beside me here. 
 
 Old folks cannot feel, they say, 
 Love as on the bridal day, 
 And grief holds but little sway. 
 
 May be this is true of some — 
 Husbands who are grave and f/runx, 
 And of Jove have searce a crurnb. 
 
44 HAKOLD'S LAMENT, 
 
 But for me, my dear old wife 
 Loved me truly through her life; 
 Through all days of toil or strife. 
 
 And I think that God would know 
 And would hate me, should I go 
 From the soul that loved me so. 
 
 Oft, in wondrous dreams, I take 
 Some dear burden for her sake, 
 With a will that cannot break 
 
 Bear it through the blazing noon, 
 For the evening cometh soon. 
 With th' inspiring stars and moon. 
 
 And they bring, at edge of night, 
 Her, whose faultless brow of white 
 Was like silvery flakes of light. 
 
 And at twilight calm and sweet, 
 When the light and darkness meet, 
 
 Then we walk with nimble feet, 
 
 * 
 
 Through the old house, room by room,. 
 And through many a casement's gloom,, 
 Catch the roses' sweet perfume, 
 
 As we glide along and peep 
 
 Where the play-worn children sleep, — *■ 
 
 At one empty cot we weep. — 
 
 Then we pass the open door, 
 Wander to the river shore, 
 Hear the fishers distant oar; 
 
I X I O N . 45 
 
 Listen to the night-hawk's call, 
 And the moaning waterfall, 
 Watch the great sky over all. 
 
 And T feel her hand in mine, 
 Feel a pulse of love divine, 
 Thrilling near this heart of mine. 
 
 And I sigh, ! heart, be bold, 
 Tell her all your love of old, 
 Tell her truths you never told. 
 
 With the sigh the dream goes by, 
 And with bitter anguish, cry, 
 Count I moments, long gone by. 
 
 Twenty weary years ago 
 
 They did hide my loved one low; 
 
 When unto her shall I go? 
 
 IXI N. 
 
 He cannot break the Ophidian thongs, 
 His direst struggles are in vain; 
 
 Swift flies the wheel, — the hissing throngs 
 Of writhing horrors mock his pain. 
 
 Grim Pluto views, with mad delight, 
 His boundless terror, hopeless grief; 
 
 What, though the opposing gods unite, 
 This is his victim, past reiief. 
 
46 IXION. 
 
 'Round his wild orbit let him ra<re; 
 
 Swoop round him, foul, tartaran breath; 
 Let these exquisite tortures wage 
 
 Continual death, but bring no death! 
 
 Fly from thyself, Txion, fly! 
 
 Fly from thy hell unto thy hell! 
 Thy serpents bind thee, vain thy cry, 
 
 Thy fiends about thy orbit yell! 
 
 But hark! a strange seraphic note 
 
 lias fallen upon lxion's ear, 
 Like the wild thrill that seems to float 
 Through love's enchanted atmosphere. 
 
 The Berpent sinks his hooded head, 
 The flying whee] has found a rest. 
 
 To lower depths the Bends have lied, 
 The air wafts odors from the blost 
 
 *Tis but a moment, yet his soul 
 Laves in the ocean of delight; 
 
 Heaven reigns; Apollo has control; 
 
 Day glances through the caves of night 
 
 O! faithful type of our humanity, 
 Bound to the flying wheel of time, 
 
 By sensuous cordons o[' insanity, 
 And serpent knots of unforgiven crime. 
 
 'Tis only echoes from the higher life, 
 
 The seraph music of the hotter spheres 
 
 Can still the raging hell of sin and strife, 
 And glorify the orbit of our years. 
 
A PRAYER. 47 
 
 God's voices, ever musical and sweet, 
 They round themselves in rhythmic altitudes; 
 
 In every strain a poem is complete 
 And blessings flow through all their interludes. 
 
 Let thy waked spirit, like the morning flowers, 
 That meet the benisons of light and dew, 
 
 But ope its petals to the heavenly powers, 
 
 And let the music thrill it through and through. 
 
 If orphic warblers intimate the songs, 
 Or if from natures book the lay is trilled, 
 
 Or, if unheard, unseen, unread, it throngs 
 The soul, till its avenues are filled 
 
 With the delights of heaven, the joy is thine; 
 
 Thou reckonest how the seraph notes that dwell, 
 Within the depths of intellect divine, 
 
 Can ostracise the powers of death and hell. 
 
 A PR A YER. 
 
 Behold ! we know not anything: 
 I can but trust that good shall fall, 
 At last— far off— at last to all 
 
 And every winter turn to spring. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Bending downward from thy throne, 
 Father, hear thy children cry! 
 
48 a PB a v ki; . 
 
 See the bear! break, list, the moan, 
 Change our hearts of clay or stone] 
 Take us, make us all thine own; 
 Father, hoar thy children cry. 
 
 Thou, who canst no anger know; 
 
 God of mere} . God of Love, 
 Let tin blessings outward How! 
 Lot thy children trom their woo 
 Leap with gladness, lot them know 
 
 Thou art mercy, thou art Love, 
 
 lu tho cities 1 gloom ami glare 
 
 Walk tho votaries of sin; 
 In tho hamlets young ami 
 In tho country^ pleasant air. 
 Spite of fasting, spite o\' prayer, 
 
 Walk tho votaries of sin. 
 
 Oil ! tho tinsel ami tho shame! 
 
 Father, see their nakedness! 
 Hoar their tongues that breathe thy name. 
 Only with some horrid aim, 
 Born o( alcoholic flame; 
 
 Father, Bee their nakedness, 
 
 Lot persuasive voices ring 
 
 Sweet as that from Calvary, 
 Till these Lost ones rise ami bring 
 Offerings unto thee, ami sing, 
 "GIoit to our Cod ami King, 
 
 And tho {Christ of Calvary.* 1 
 
A PRAY BR. 49 
 
 High and higher np the \<< 
 
 Up the bright supernal irav, 
 Lead the souls that seek the light, 
 Let them l< an on thee for might, 
 Day by ^ I .* « >' '' J,; d night by night, 
 
 Dp the bright supernal way. 
 
 In the silence soft and sweet, 
 
 Father, let thy presence 
 Where the night winds moan and he/<xt 
 'Bound the hovel, where the street 
 Bears its myriad erring feet; 
 
 Father, let thy presence be. 
 
 j'i, n us from our vrickedne 
 
 Unto peace and love and joy; 
 Let us learn to praise and b) 
 Jliru w\i<> gives us happiness; 
 Lift as from our wretchedness 
 .Unto peace and love and joy. 
 
 lie our talents great or small, 
 
 Let U-, in thy kingdom dwell; 
 Lift us up from every fall ; 
 Take the wormwood and the gall 
 From our lips, and be our all; 
 
 Let us in thy kingdom dwell . 
 
50 LIFE AND EFFORT. 
 
 LIFE AND EFFORT.. 
 
 And is the grief that haunts with endless moan^ 
 A slow, consuming fire that will not die y 
 But lifts its smoke and ashes to the sky, 
 Till ;Ul the spirits' fountains simmer dry, 
 
 Till love, and faith and heavenly hope have flown? 
 
 Not so, not so, each happy morn doth give 
 Some new incentive to the earnest soul, 
 
 To wrestle onward in the billowy roll 
 Of waves that thunder to a far-ofl goal, 
 Where cries a voice forever, "come and live!" 
 
 The dying grapple with the illusive waves 
 Thai seem to bear them to the happy shore, 
 They faint ami sink and grapple never more,. 
 Hut still the mirage rises just before, 
 
 And ever Hitting-, cheats us to our graves. 
 
 Is human effort thus in vain? is all 
 
 The struggles of our lives, our lofty deeds, 
 Our glorious conquests, our inflated creeds. 
 The grappling, striving of our boundless greeds* 
 
 More powerless than the dew of evening's fall? 
 
 "In vain, in vain!'" the preachers moan and cry; 
 Philosophy— that centers all in Cod, 
 From realms of worlds, to worms upon the sod y 
 That counts the life that thrills the unsightly clod^ 
 
 An emanation from the life on high, — • 
 
 Divine philosophy with healing wing. 
 
 That broods above us, soothes away our wo*v 
 
AUGUST. 51 
 
 And charms and thrills our lives' serenest flow, 
 Respondeth thus, "no labors end we know 
 We judge not well of an unfinished thing." 
 
 In the eternal present, which we hound 
 To suit desire and appetite, and mark 
 With the same pen that tallies up the cark 
 And care of living, from the light to dark, 
 
 And dark to light in ever varying round. 
 
 In this eternal present God will bring 
 To highest uses every noble thought, 
 And every work by love's dear fingers wrought; 
 We can but trust and wait; our fears are nought, 
 
 Life's work is ever an unfinished thins. 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 The tide of being nioveth now, 
 Like some broad river's onward flow, 
 With earnest murmur deep and low. 
 
 The woods are silent, save by spells 
 Some strain of insect music swells, 
 Or some lone bird her sorrow tells. 
 
 Too earnest for the laugh and shout, 
 That heralded the young spring out 
 From the long winter's gloom and doubt, 
 
 Life standeth on her middle way, 
 Between the birth of flowery May 
 And Winter's frost and sere decay, 
 
52 
 
 A UGUST. 
 
 And seems to listen, pleased and long, 
 To the low burden of a song 
 Unheard by any mortal throng. 
 
 The leaves turn upward to the light, 
 And like dim spectres robed in white, 
 The lazy elouds float out of sight. 
 
 Where late the hills were crowned with wheat, 
 
 The stubble glimmers in the heat. 
 
 And where the woods and meadows meet, 
 
 The herds enjoy the shadow deep, 
 
 And in his hollow house asleep, 
 
 The squirrel doth the long hours keep. 
 
 The humming-bird that glances bright, 
 
 A winged embodiment of light. 
 
 From flower to flower, flight after flight; 
 
 Serins an Intruder on the low, 
 
 Deep song and murmur that doth go 
 
 Along with life's intensest flow, 
 
 0, life intense! O, ardent time! 
 
 Like How of some great poet's rhyme, 
 
 Kesistless pours this luseious ehime. 
 
 It calms my brain, it soothes my soul, 
 Till o'er me, past all ill's control, 
 Sweet waves of ealni enjoyment roll. 
 
A SONG OF JUNE. 
 A SONG OF JUNE. 
 
 €ome, listen, dear Lilly, this morn, 
 
 What sounds are afloat on the air 
 And ove>- ihe, villages borne, 
 
 Are sweet, like the blessings of prayer; 
 What twitter, and warble and shout, 
 
 What silvery runlets of tune 
 Are echoing the woodlands about, 
 
 And pulsing away in the June; 
 The June that is speeding along, 
 
 With summery blessings replete, 
 While all of the ripples of song, 
 
 And harmonies simple and sweet, 
 Commingle in billowy swells. 
 
 And wildly sweep into our souls 
 As ocean sweeps into the shells 
 
 That lie on the sea-beaten shoals. 
 
 1 1. 
 
 Now over the meadow and hill, 
 
 And over the valleys afar, 
 The holiest blessings distil, 
 
 Like silvery rays from a star; 
 The oriole svvingeth her nest, 
 
 High up on the wind wavered spray, 
 The red bird is out in his best, 
 
 The swallow is chasing the day 
 Around the blue rim of the sky; 
 
 The brown robin sings to his mate; 
 
 53 
 
54 A SONG OF JUNE. 
 
 The blue bird flits cheerily by; 
 
 Like a globule of sunshine, elate 
 With life of intensest desires, 
 
 The humming bird flashes alonsr; 
 And 0! how the spirit aspires, 
 
 And floateth away in the song, 
 And blessing and beauty that fill 
 
 The June with such heavenly deligut, 
 Aspires to the glories that still 
 
 Are treasured afar in the height, 
 The boundless empj-rean of soul 
 
 The region where seraphs abide, 
 Where the waves of eternity roll; 
 
 Aspires to the glories that hide 
 Afar from material eyes 
 
 Except as they dimly are seen 
 Portrayed in the earth and the skies, 
 
 The flowers and the mantle of green 
 
 ii i. 
 
 Come, Lilly, forsaking awhile, 
 
 The needle, the pencil, the book, 
 And wearing thy pleasantest smile, 
 
 Come out in the meadows and look, 
 And look till thy spirit shall see 
 
 The wonders that poets behold; 
 Make friends to the bird and the bee, 
 
 From flower-cups gather the goids 
 And over the musical chime 
 
 That charmeth the delicate ear, 
 List those echoing voices sublime 
 
 That none but the past can hear. 
 
ASONG OF JUNE. 55 
 
 IV 
 
 O, Lilly! the father above 
 
 Has given these glorious days, 
 And hallows them with all his love — 
 
 Let us hallow them with his praise. 
 No beauty of nature can bless 
 
 The spirit that gropes in the dark; 
 That soul is a realm of distres 
 
 That love never lit with his spark. 
 All lavishing billows of tune, 
 
 All sunniest ripples of song. 
 And all the dear wonders of June, 
 
 That float in her presence along, 
 Are nought but a nois} 7 display, 
 
 Till love shall bequeath a delight 
 To bloom with the blossoms by day, 
 
 To shine with the heavens by night, 
 To mingle its voice with the chime 
 
 That warbles and shouts in the air, 
 To leap in unsyllabled rhyme 
 
 And clothe all the spirit in prayer. 
 
 Then, Lilly, forsaking awhne 
 
 The needle, the pencil, the book, 
 And wearing thy pleasantest smile, 
 
 Sweet soul of my soul, come and lock* 
 Aye, look on the rapture and hope, 
 
 That God has created for thee, 
 That brightens futurity's scope, 
 
 Enlightens eternity's sea. 
 
M ni E PI ONE Kit. 
 
 Then turn to thysell und thin* own, 
 
 GifS io\ e to the sjMi its i hat kn 8 
 
 And worship the Father alone, 
 That ruler who riwelU'lh above. 
 
 r U V V 1 N R E R, 
 
 His form is bent; his bond is grei j 
 His limbs are long and Blender. 
 
 But still beneath bis woolen rest, 
 The bear! is true and tender. 
 
 His comrades long are in the slay; 
 
 Their wooden bead boards rot ton; 
 And in ths modern neighborhood, 
 
 Their ver^ semes forgotten. 
 
 \\c walks soror.olv thr^' the fields; 
 
 d shadows seem to follow, 
 Again hs Bees ths tawn) deer 
 
 Qo don n ths hollow. 
 
 He hoars once more ths rifle's ring, 
 Ths hunters Bhouting gladl) ; 
 
 On yonder hill the wounded boar 
 \ gain gh i - battle mad j . 
 
 He hears the pheasant's booming drum; 
 Ho hears ths turkev calling: 
 
] ii I. i-i OS BEE. 
 
 The thudding maul; the ringing awj 
 'i be crash of tlmbei allii 
 
 if.. • 1 1 the little cabin borne; 
 
 'I be tiny patch of clearing, 
 Where once be dwelt irith wife and boj 
 
 No breath of eril teari 
 
 <i Ah, welir be sighs; "she's ileeping now; 
 
 'I n e eld< irith her, 
 
 j •. < liflll go fco them, 
 
 Since they maj not come hither,* 
 
 The teai that glietens In bia eye 
 
 Fall* down a moment afto 
 For, fib - oing np the lai 
 
 jj<; beai i bis grandchild's laughter. 
 
 The paet and pr< agely blend 
 
 Before bia mental rision ; 
 Yet love, that makea the dreary irolda 
 
 Appear like fields elysian, 
 
 Still painti along bii ays 
 
 The mire I cenei ol p i aeure« 
 An'! - ■ of bappy thought 
 
 No rhj thmic art can measure- 
 No words bespeak hie beart so warm 
 
 Ae did the backwoods greeting; 
 No preacher baa such power as be 
 
 Who held the backwooda meeting. 
 
 57 
 
5S T II E r I X E E R . 
 
 He knows of many a merry time 
 
 At reaping, rolling, raising, 
 Or, on the jolly busking nights, 
 
 With cheerful torches blazing-. 
 
 From many a good wife' 8 quilting bout 
 
 lie treasures home-spun blisses, 
 Where old folks talked, and young folks played 
 
 Their games of forfeit kisses. 
 
 The lazy Indian still ho soorns. 
 Their squaws and their papooses; 
 
 Ho thinks, God made thorn; but, no doubt, 
 For undiscovered uses. 
 
 Where now a dozen turnpikes stretch 
 Stiff linos between the meadows 
 
 He know a single Indian trail 
 
 That wound thro' forest shadows* 
 
 A dozen villages ho soos 
 
 Beside their railroad stations, 
 
 Where once a. single trading post 
 
 Supplied the settlors' rations. 
 
 A hundred rushing trains go by; 
 
 He hoars them scream and thunder. 
 And laughs to think how they would shake 
 
 His backwoods world with wonder. 
 
 How strange the ways they practice now, 
 
 This new time emphasizing. 
 He says, and with the uttered thought, 
 
 Grows loud soliloquizing. 
 
THE J' ION B EH. 50 
 
 "'With clattering instruments at church, 
 
 And dapper youngsters preaching, 
 And, for the congregations' hymn, 
 
 A dozen lassies screeching. 
 
 -"And then for all our social joys, 
 And good old fashioned greetings, 
 
 The sinners mask at fancy balls, 
 The saints at bible meetings. 
 
 "You rest at ease in fancy homes, 
 
 Your thoughts on high careering; 
 But give me hack my wife and boys, 
 
 And give me back my clearing. 
 
 "And give me back my rifle gun, 
 
 My forests, deer, and pheasants, 
 And I will prove you, any day, 
 
 As tame as British peasants. 
 
 "Your girls grow fine; your boys grow proud 
 
 And vain; O! more's the pity; 
 There's scarce a youth in all the land 
 
 But's crazy 'bout the city. 
 
 "It's true there's boys that grow up now — 
 
 Pale, sick, unlikely creatures, 
 With foreheads broad and dwindled limbs, 
 
 And strange, unnatural features. 
 
 "Who might be doctors, if they would, 
 
 Or preach without much harming, 
 But all the stoutest, brightest ones 
 
 Should steady stick to farming. 
 
CO Til K \'\ \ EBB. 
 
 "Give mo the lad with sinewy arm 
 
 For box or w rest les ready, 
 To lift bis share at hand Bpike end, 
 
 Or hold a rifle steady, 
 
 "Ami l will after show a man 
 
 Whose heart is tender human, 
 Ami brave in every hour of nood, 
 
 Ami true as slool to woman. 
 
 "Hut l, why should l moralise; 
 
 Tin but a dotard growing, 
 And doath outs now a reaper's swath 
 Beside his anoient mowing, 
 
 <k lt Beems bo strange, the forests gone; 
 
 The very stumps are rotten; 
 And half the fields I helped to clear 
 
 I'vo really now forgotten, 
 
 "The post horse, lagging with bis load, 
 Across th 1 nnbridged morasses, 
 
 He reached us onoe or twice a month 
 With letters for the lassos. 
 
 "But now they run on flying wheels, 
 
 Or fly on lighting [unions. 
 Ami in the twinkling of an eye 
 
 Arrive from far dominions. 
 
 w For church and school-house, onoe :i hut 
 
 Of logs did half the county, 
 But heaven as freely tbon as now 
 
 Dispensed her largest bounty. 
 
THE PIO X EBB. 61 
 
 "We flailed fch ■ wheat with twisted sticks, 
 
 By steam you thresh and clean it, 
 And rush your four- horse reapers where 
 
 Wc used to hook and glean it. 
 
 "But why go on this cat'logue style 
 
 With what we did, and you do; 
 We did the best we could and that's 
 
 The way in knowledge you grew. 
 
 '♦The old folk- labored Long and well 
 To build the rude foundation, 
 
 And you hare wro't no more than we 
 With all your cultivation. 
 
 "We conquered forests, cleared the land* 
 Our work, let no man scorn it; 
 
 But you who follow, follow well; 
 Complete; refine; adorn it. 
 
 "The olden music, olden songs, 
 
 The pioneer rejoicings, 
 Still linger on my listening ear 
 
 With myriad happy voicings. 
 
 "No wives are like our daur old wives, 
 
 No neighbors like our neighbors, 
 No boys are half as bold as ours, 
 So cheerful at their labors. 
 
 "No ladies In their rustling silks 
 And gimcracks half so winning, 
 
 As were our girls in linsey frocks 
 From yarn of their own spinning. 
 
<>- B 5CPER] E N C IBS. 
 
 u Full many a rough, unsooinly man 
 
 Who shared my earlv labor, 
 Looks noble through the mist of years, 
 For was he not my neighh 
 
 •• Lnd so when all your heads are white, 
 Aiul death comes creeping nearer, 
 
 You'll think theold ways, perfect ways, 
 Old friends mow hourly dearer." 
 
 A partridge whistled by the way, 
 A blackbird trilled above it, 
 
 A red bird sang lt O, sunnv day,' 
 The robin "How l love it!" 
 
 "Ho!" oried the pioneer, "you birds 
 
 Are bout on early pillage," 
 A-.i so, his musing spoiled, ho walked 
 Quito briskly toward the village, 
 
 E \ P E K l E N C E s. 
 
 i. 
 
 How sweet youth's rosy morning, 
 
 When the dream of life is now. 
 Ami witit its magic glories 
 
 Enchants the partial view ! 
 What bappv n e woven 
 
 Ot* t'aih'\ *s go] Ion threads! 
 "What crowns ot fadeless honor 
 
 Are made for youthful heads] 
 
J. S P E D E C :. r >- 
 
 j / . 
 
 [y all thy irild bii 
 Till the budd 
 
 And the bi - 
 I 
 
 d rhyme, 
 
 'Mil the p 
 Beat to mi 
 li'-.'it to m 
 
 Beat to ra usic vrild and glad, 
 go, 
 
 Ere my heai 
 
 !'•• f trander down 
 All tie: vrorn b and brown, 
 
 A od the ■ 
 
 STet through doubt i pall, 
 
 ashine (all — 
 
 .)- pel my fears — 
 Till from out the present gloom 
 i land i of ong and bloom, 
 
 far, 
 ■ the heavenly glorie i are, 
 Where celestial Aspbod 
 
 Bloom along Life ■■• rlTer, 
 
 'I hat irith bo being swells 
 
 irer to the throne i'<)r<ivcr. 
 
64 EXPERIENCES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O! may being's fragile bark, 
 Speeding onward through the dark, 
 
 Willi its white sails once dispel 
 
 All the gloom in which I dwell, 
 
 Let my fancy's picture be 
 
 To the blest reality, 
 
 As the poet's rhyming art 
 
 To the poem in his heart; 
 
 As the painter's (eeble dyes 
 
 To green fields and sunny skies; 
 
 As the lover's hailing prose 
 
 To the boundless love that Hows 
 
 Over all his beings' might; 
 
 As a song-bird's feeble flight 
 
 To the west winds's odorous play; 
 
 As the uight is to the day; 
 
 Let my visions reach before, 
 
 To the fair unclouded shore; 
 
 Let me see it once and know 
 
 Thither shall my being flow, 
 
 Onward from the hills of lime, 
 
 Mingling with the endless chime, 
 
 Echoing down Life's pulsing river 
 Flowing with its faultless rhyme 
 
 Nearer to the throne forever. 
 
 v. 
 
 "There, upon that pleasant shore. 
 Youthful dreams are dreams no more; 
 Youthful hopes no more deceive, 
 But the pleasant songs they weave — 
 
O R A L I E . 
 
 65 
 
 Songs of happiness and praise, 
 Sound through never ending days. 
 
 VI 
 
 Narrow dogmas I decline, 
 Only is this credo miner, 
 Youth that blossoms on to age, 
 Love that knows its heritage, * 
 Noble deed and gentle heart, 
 Friendly smile and tender art, 
 Fearless soul and manly might, 
 Battling ever for the right, 
 Bear us nearer heavenly weal, 
 Than a thousand bigots' zeal, 
 And through love's baptismal flood 
 Must we look lor future good. 
 
 ORALIE 
 
 Far over the regions of sorrow, 
 Across the dark river of sighs, 
 
 I know that the sunlight to-morrow, 
 Shall glorify Oralie's eyes. 
 
 But what if my Oralie perish, 
 As perished the rose, in a day, 
 
 And what if the beauty I cherish, 
 Should turn to be festering clay; 
 
 What balm could my spirit discover, 
 In homilies dismal as pain, 
 
66 OE.ALIE. 
 
 About the dark valley passed over r 
 And death being Oralie's gain? 
 
 Is it gain for the maid in her beauty,. 
 
 To fade and depart ere she knows 
 The measures of love and of dut}% 
 
 Of life, with its blisses and woes? 
 
 Ah, no! 'twould be loss for the morning; 
 
 To burst in a moment to noon, 
 The twilight with golden adorning, 
 
 Must preface the stars and the moon.. 
 
 Though morning in life be the sweetesfc r 
 The best ripened life must be long. 
 
 And the best ripened life is completes*,. 
 No matter how sorrows may throng. 
 
 We ripen in storms of affliction, 
 No sorrow nor toil is in vain, 
 
 We gather a sweet benediction, 
 From days of expressionless pain. 
 
 And O! when the spring-tide is flowing^ 
 And life is as buoyant as song, 
 
 And when the bright summer is glowing: 
 In rapturous billows along, 
 
 'Tis then that the spirit expanding, 
 Like blossoms that open at day, 
 
 Leaps up to the highest commanding-, 
 Of love that posesses its way. 
 
APPARITIONS. 07 
 
 So upward, thro' darkness and sorrow, 
 Through pleasures that halo the night, 
 
 We grow till we reach the to-morrow, 
 Expand, till we enter the light. 
 
 APPARITIONS. 
 
 When love is reigning in the heart, 
 And peace within the breast, 
 
 And evening's mellow silences 
 Have soothed our cares to rest, 
 
 Adown the skies of other years, 
 Where memory's light is shed 
 
 Upon their spirit pinions, 
 Return the gentle dead. 
 
 And haunting all the atmosphere, 
 
 They gather once again : 
 We meet the children's laughing eyes, 
 
 We greet the noble men. 
 
 They are not ghostly phantoms now, 
 
 Nor tenants of the sky, 
 lint glowing with emotions pure, 
 
 That were not made to die, . 
 
 Still in their human kindness, yet 
 
 The same we knew before, 
 They struggled through the icy stream 
 
 And gained the sinless shore. 
 
68 A P P A KITIONS. 
 
 And through the hours of sunshine, 
 
 That faded long ago. 
 We, hand in hand, with thorn retrace 
 
 The pat lis we used to know. 
 
 And hear tne same old songs again, 
 
 That died upon their ears, 
 Before the richer music 
 Of heaven's eternal spheres. 
 
 How lovely now each cool retreat 
 
 We sought in days of old, 
 And words that then seemed idle dross, 
 
 Are now the perfect gold. 
 
 The living may be dead to us, 
 
 The dead shall never die; 
 They haunt our memories everywhere, 
 
 They fill the spirits' sky. 
 
 And on their snow-white pinions, 
 
 They wait for us above, 
 For heaven would be devoid of bliss, 
 
 Without their patient love. 
 
THE CHILDREN. 69 
 
 THE CHILDREN. 
 
 The noisy voices of the babbling day, 
 Can never hush the echoes of our grief, 
 Nor little pleasures vanishing and brief 
 Nor formal strength of any cold belief, 
 
 For sorrow hath above them all her way. 
 
 But even sorrow bears a gentle heart, 
 
 Subdued and pensive in our thought she dwells, 
 Assuages mirth and boisterous joy dispels, 
 And drops into the Spit-it's deepest wells, 
 
 The anchors of her sure prevailing art. 
 
 And often in the hour of jo} T she comes, 
 And with the faces of the children calls 
 My soul away from all the festal halls, 
 The flickering lights, the rows of painted walls, 
 
 To the sweet country and its sweeter homes. 
 
 The little graves I know are by the wood, 
 The children's school is very near at hand, 
 And nearer still the little church doth stand 
 A mile away dear father owned some land, 
 
 And there the children grew so fair and good. 
 
 'Twas in the grove of maples, lovely trees, 
 The children chattered at their little plays, 
 And sported in their simple country ways, 
 And hours of love grew into lovely days, 
 
 And so they lived and grew in joyous ease. 
 
70 THE CHILD KEN. 
 
 But when there n eared a time of wild despair, 
 When death was curdling all the sister's blood, 
 She hade me take her gently as 1 could, 
 Into the shadows ol' that pleasant wood, 
 
 Once more, once more, to breathe its balmy air. 
 
 Her thankful eyes, her tailing, thankful voice, 
 1 see, 1 hear, I never shall forget, 
 The sad-eyed brother with his cheeks so wet, 
 What are twelve years? — a breath, I see them yet, 
 
 I see them yet, nor have i any choice, 
 
 But pour my soul in a melodious rain, 
 Hair tears and half a melancholy rune, 
 A roundelay tor those who died so soon, 
 A slender thread of son-- in saddest tune, 
 
 A rill of music from a fount of pain 
 
 They could not dwell apart, for flowed the tide 
 Of their sweel lives, as waters in one rill, 
 The sister died, the brother smiling still 
 Passed on, his little mission to fulfill 
 
 A few short days then rested at her side. 
 
 Where are the children? in what pleasant dawns 
 Do they arise to hear the morning bird, 
 To see the glittering dew drops lightly stirred 
 On pendant sprays, to call the bleating herd 
 
 From their green breaktast on the glimmering lawns? 
 
 Or when the sun goes down at shut of day, 
 To watch the wonder of the painted mist, — 
 Now waves of gold, now domes of amethyst, 
 Now bowers of rest where angels might keep tryst, 
 
 And shout with joy to see the bright array. 
 
THE CHILDREN. 71 
 
 Perhaps all seasons where the children roam, 
 In their ctliereal life, are times of praise, 
 And they forgetful of our little days, 
 Move on and on in ever widening ways 
 
 Of joy and bliss in their celestial home. 
 
 They are not out of God, they cannot be 
 
 Dissevered wholly from us though they tread 
 In unknown paths, but .yet we know them dead; 
 Their forms are dust, their little lusters lied 
 
 They are but ashes, ashes! what are we? 
 
 What they but ashes! Do we vainly trust, 
 That these poor bodies which so soon decay, 
 Are but the caskets, wrought of finest clay, 
 In which we hide each through his little day, 
 
 Then soar away and let them go to dust? 
 
 I cannot think of death as aught but change, 
 The eggs must break to let young eagles out, 
 The acorns burst before the oaks can sprout, 
 And thc3 worm body sink in gloom and doubt, 
 
 To give the spirit free to widest range. 
 
 The years we live are but a passing breath, 
 But one poor quaver in an endless song, 
 A ripple, where a million oceans throng; 
 And he who tarries longest, stays not long, 
 
 From the unknown results that follow death. 
 
 Whatever those results may be, we trust 
 
 That nothing harms the children, nothing ill 
 Befalls them on their journeys, love's sweet will 
 Is ever more the law that guides them, still 
 
 We cannot choose, but weep above their dust. 
 
72 DECORATION OF THE SOLDIERS' GRAVES, 
 
 Somewhere in this wide universe they dwell, 
 Somewhere they wander onward, as of old, 
 Prom joy tojoj in cycles manifold 
 As are the worlds on night's blue chart unrolled* 
 
 l tenon not where, God knows, and all is noli. 
 
 THE DECORATION OF THE SOLDIERS' GRAVES. 
 Mat, L869, 
 
 Above these graves, no fettered slaves 
 field forced obeisance to the dead, 
 
 l>ut ohildren oome like pleasant waves 
 
 Of sunshine, from the summer sky, 
 
 And like glad spirits floating by 
 Strew flowers above each Lowly head, 
 
 w.ivo banners, wave! above each grave) 
 
 O starry ensign] fairest, best, 
 Emblem o( all they died to save. 
 Thou oloud by day and Bre by night 
 To Lead the world to freedom's Light, 
 
 Shako all thy stars above their rest 
 
 STield, joyous spring, thy wealth that brings 
 The memory of their priceless Love, 
 Once more as on their viewless wings 
 Through all this goodly Land o( ours, 
 They moot us in this moifth o( flowers, 
 Like blessings wafted from above. 
 
DECORATION OP THE BOLDIER& OBAVEB. 7: * 
 
 Loud polled the drum, the Land cried come, 
 An'i creeping freedom led them forth, 
 
 The children stood with srhite llpi dumb 
 
 Wiih terror, when they beard the call, 
 
 An'l treason's sulphurous carnival 
 Went sweeping o'er the blinded earth 
 
 The thou ■ with burr) Lng feet, 
 
 Wit.li deathle zeal to 'J" or die, 
 
 Now in the ranks with life replete, 
 
 Now pierced by shot oj torn by shell, 
 
 Behold them in the battle's bell, 
 Now dying Hi the tents they lie. 
 
 The life blood parts from precious heart*, 
 
 And tender eyes above them weep, 
 Ami woman with hei trts 
 
 I!:, , toil* d and wept for them in pain, 
 An'l toiled and wept and tolled again, 
 
 But now how peaceful!) they sleep. 
 
 An'l from this sod, we pray, 0! God, 
 That freedom 1 i 
 
 Even from the dullest human clod 
 
 Till every lingering taint of death 
 
 Beq i athe ] b lav< • .' rt pgean breath 
 li<-_ pai ted bj . iflce. 
 
 Ami u>v the <• dead, who tolled ?yj'] bled, 
 And suffered for us let there be 
 
 The deathless flowers of memory spread 
 
 With more than childhood's tender grace, 
 
 In every heart, in every place 
 Where shines the sun of liberty. 
 
7i DECORATION OF CUE SOLDIERS' GRAVES. 
 
 0, mighty land ! united stand, 
 Nor let it be in vain they died, 
 
 0! North and South join heart and hand, 
 
 Forget tin* treason and the blight; 
 
 Remember only truth aud right, 
 Forgot all cruel hate and pride. 
 
 From gulf to hike, let all forsake, 
 Their ancient strife, no more be foes, 
 
 Join sea to sea with hands and make 
 The lightning on your errands run, 
 And for the country toil, as one, 
 'Till it shall blossom like the rose. 
 
 Bloom, blossoms, bloom and chase the gloom, 
 Shake, glorious banner, all thy stars, 
 
 Above each consecrated tomb; 
 
 Roll, drum, and bugle, sound the call] 
 
 They died for us, who of us all 
 Are ready for the future wars? 
 
 The war of right, 'gainst cruel might, 
 The war of God againsl the wrong; 
 
 Who, will maintain the moral light. 
 
 The same these heroes fought with >teel? 
 
 Who. battle for the common weal? 
 Who, face sin's hydra headed throng? 
 
 Strew sweetest dowers from vernal bowers; 
 But were we worthy we would be, 
 
 Brave warriors, 'gainst the evil powers, 
 With deathless courage, boundless faith, 
 Dare, even as they, unto the death, 
 And honor thus their chivalry. 
 
BKAPTER JOfcUL. 1783. 
 SKAPTEB JOK0L L783.* 
 
 Never had come such tenor 
 
 In tide of wind or war, 
 
 Never the old < S-o Is thundered 
 
 Sik-Ii fearful wrath afar. 
 Locked in his cave was Odin, 
 
 Dead was the sjbrongGod, Thor, 
 And over the peaks of [celand, 
 
 And over the Arctic 
 To the far-off coasts of Norway 
 
 The Christian faith was free. 
 
 1 1. 
 
 Dp from the rocky summits 
 
 Of the mountain hold and barn, 
 Leaps the molten wonder 
 
 High in the frozen air. 
 Dnder the eye of the North Star 
 
 Like a hundr*i cities on fire, 
 Writhes, and pone-, and bellows, 
 
 And roars, m\ h a ma 
 To reach the bended heavens, 
 
 *In 1783, Skapter Jokul, in [celand, sen! forth two streams of 
 lava which flowed in opposite directions. One of these streams 
 was fifty miles long and twelve broad, and tht> other forty miles 
 long and seven broad; each averaging one hundred feet deep, 
 and when pressed Into gorges* as waa the case in some parts of 
 the course, six hundred feet deep. The eruption continued for 
 two years, and destroyed twenty villages and nine thousand in- 
 habitants. — Sanborn Tenney's Geology, page 215. 
 
76 SKAPTER JOKUL,— 1783. 
 
 And set the stars on fire, 
 The fiery soul of Jokul, 
 
 Till the terrible flood rolls down, 
 And burning on to the ocean, 
 
 Over village, and farm, and town, 
 Molten metals, and earth and rock, 
 With storm, and thunder and earthquake shock, 
 Twelve miles wide and fifty long, 
 With many a radiant branch and prong, 
 Now hurtling; between the mountains steep, 
 The red flood surges six fathoms deep; 
 Now spreading over the icy plain, 
 Now pouring into the boiling main, 
 Ever and ever the tide of lire 
 Bolls and thunders in mad desire. 
 
 in. 
 
 The wing of the borean glory 
 
 Was fainter than sunset dye, 
 While the fiery soul of the Jokul 
 
 Went leaping into the sky. 
 Over his icy kingdom, 
 
 Glared the great white bear. 
 Upon the fiery torrent 
 
 High in the startled air, 
 Till a breath of silent terror 
 
 Entered his gloomy soul, 
 And he shambled oil in the darkness, 
 
 Away to the frozen pole. 
 The morse, and seal, and sea-cow, 
 
 And sea-lion saw the glow 
 Upon many a shining ice-berg, 
 
 And man}' a floating floe, 
 
SKAPTER JOKUL.— 1783. 77 
 
 And with dull, unreasoning wonder, 
 
 From out each icy laii, 
 They shook with fear at the brightness 
 
 And the strange heat in the air. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But Oh! the fires baptismal, — 
 
 A deluge of wrath and woe; — - 
 Over nine thousand people 
 
 Swept with resistless flow; 
 Nine thousand toilers and thinkers, 
 
 Husband, and wife, and child, 
 The lover, and his beloved, 
 
 Went down in the torrent wild, 
 Only to Christ a whisper, only to God a sigh, 
 
 Then a sinking down in the fiery mass, 
 That poured as from on high. 
 
 Not Odin from his wind caves, 
 
 Nor Thor with murderous ire, 
 Nor Encelades in far-off* JEUisl, 
 
 With his eternal fire, 
 Shook the form of the Jokul, 
 
 And gave the pent flames birth, 
 But the resistless fiery spirit, 
 
 In the molten heart of earth; 
 The spirit that like a fountain, 
 
 Heaves up the surging deep, 
 And lifts the pleasant islands 
 
 To bloom where the waters sleep, 
 That shakes with shiv'ring earthquake 
 
78 FBIENTDSHtP, LOVE VXD TRUTH. 
 
 The lofty mountains down, 
 And se^-s the blue waves laughing 
 
 Over sunken city and town: 
 To-day it raiseth a continent. 
 
 To-morrow it sinketh a state, 
 It openeth here an inland sea, 
 
 And there an ocean gate; 
 Resistless and remorseless, 
 
 It giveth life or death, 
 A smiling plain, or a mountain chain, 
 
 As with capricious breath; 
 Yet it worketh the will of the Master, 
 
 Through all of the countless years, 
 To fit and purify the earth, 
 
 Till the last dross disappears, 
 And our mother of the restless soul 
 
 Shines with the perfect spheres. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP, LOVE AND TRUTH. 
 
 I. — FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 O! my friend, I see you're falling, 
 
 Let me aid you while I can; 
 Yonder Love and Truth are calling, 
 
 Forward still, and be a man. 
 
 O! my Brother, wildly burning, 
 
 Is the fever in thy brain, — 
 Let me watch for health's returning, 
 
 Let me gently soothe thy pain. 
 
FRIENDSHIP, LOVE AND TRUTH. 79 
 
 Though you toil with ceasless labor, 
 
 Yet in poverty you sink, — 
 1 will lead yon, troubled neighbor, 
 
 Far away from ruin's brinK. 
 
 Sister, in thy house of sorrow, 
 I will enter like the sun, — 
 
 And its naked walls shall borrow 
 Beauty from m^ benison. 
 
 II. — LOVE. 
 
 O! I gather very near you, 
 I will press you to my heart; 
 
 Are you foul? I do not fear you, 
 I will heal you with my art. 
 
 Brother, in your lamentation, 
 Sister, in your darkest hour, 
 
 Orphan, in your desolation, 
 
 Know ye not my fruitful power? 
 
 How T make the desert places 
 Blossom like the morning rose? 
 
 Wipe the tears from haggard faces, 
 Bear the erring from their woes? 
 
 I am Life and Resurrection; 
 
 I am Charity and Peace; 
 He who voteth my rejection, 
 
 Wills that Life and Hope shall cease. 
 
80 FRIENDSHIP, LOVE AND TRUTH. 
 
 III. TRUTH. 
 
 Not an error stands before me^ 
 
 I will cleave you through and through; 
 
 Though you swear that you adore me, 
 All your falsehood springs to view* 
 
 No seductive adulation 
 
 Lures me with its rhythmic roll; 
 
 I will send with exultation, 
 Swift conviction to your soul. 
 
 Not a mercenary lieth, 
 
 But my soul grows hot and wroth; 
 And " destroy ! destroy ! " it crieth, 
 
 Tho' you reap a mower's swath. 
 
 And I scourge each hateful demon, 
 That the soul may yet be wise; 
 
 And each brother man, a freeman, 
 Fit for any paradise. 
 
DAYS OF BATTLE 
 
DAIS OF BATTLE. 
 
 PRELU D E . 
 
 Now, happily, the days of peace have come, 
 And to their homes the soldiers have returned, 
 All but the unreturning, they have passed 
 Heyond the boundaries of our earthly joys, 
 And we shall see their like do more. No more 
 Where the red hell of battle roars and raves, 
 Shall they he called to struggle with the foe, 
 To roll and welter in the ti$es that rush 
 From their own hearts, and feel the ebbing life 
 Grow fainter, fainter, till the s< o ies -.'.vim 
 And all the worl 1 spin i roun 1 and nil is night, 
 Is night, from whence no m->: n shall ever rise. 
 Bu1 we remember all the woeful times, 
 We che ish ev< ry noble heart that bled, 
 And every de< d that Bent ecstatic thrills 
 To run like lightning through the anxious land 
 And tremble in the souls thai Loved th ■ cause 
 Of freedom and the nation; none the Less 
 We honor all who did their duty well, 
 
84 INDIANA'S DEAD, 
 
 All patriots, soldiers, statesmen, all who wrought 
 Their best for freedom and the father's fia£, 
 And so in memory of the valiant days 
 Recall the unpruned measures of the time 
 The rough responses of an anxious soul, 
 To the wild martial echoes ringing round, 
 That like the slogan of the border Seots 
 Called all the clans to battle and as loud, 
 Called freedom's spirit to the stricken land. 
 
 INDIANA'S DEAD. 
 
 Oh! sing the funeral roundelay, 
 
 Let warmest tears be shed, 
 And rear the mighty monuments 
 
 For Indiana's dead. 
 
 On many a field of victory 
 
 .They slumber in their gore, 
 They rest beneath the shining sands 
 
 On ocean's sounding shore. 
 
 Where frown Virginia's mountain chains, 
 
 By Rappahannock's side, 
 Upon the heights of Maryland, 
 
 Her gallant sons have died. 
 
 The broken woods of Tennessee 
 
 Are hallowed by their blood, 
 It consecrates Missouri's plains 
 
 And Mississippi's flood. 
 
I NT) I A N A 'S I> EA D. 85 
 
 Kentucky's dark and bloody ground 
 
 Is furrowed by their graves, 
 They sleep in Alabama's soil, 
 
 By Pamlico's dark waves. 
 
 And Mississippi's poison swamps, 
 
 Arkansas river ways, 
 And Pennsylvania's pleasant towns, 
 
 Attest her heroes' praise. 
 
 They saw them in the ranks of war, , 
 
 Oh ! memory dark with woe ! 
 They saw them yield to death who ne'er 
 
 Had yielded to the foe. 
 
 Then weave the chaplets fair and well 
 
 To grace each noble name, 
 That grateful Indiana writes 
 
 Upon her scroll of fame. 
 
 Her sons have led the battle's van 
 
 Where many fought and fell, 
 With all th' immortal Gracchi's zeal, 
 
 The hero faith of Tell; 
 
 And from their fields of glory looked 
 
 Their last upon the skies, 
 And calmly met the honored death 
 
 The fallen hero dies. 
 
 And in the dreary doubt and gloom, 
 
 The sick ward's tainted breath 
 Have thousands met the harder fate, 
 
 The slow consuming death; 
 
86 ON B1C1MW1 A IMIOTCKJlfcAHL 
 
 Tim wr.-iiy l.url.mv <l:iy hy «l:iy, 
 
 Tim i'\«r :iinl Mm (min, 
 The \ c:ii iiiii":i over ill, I lie lirrirl,, 
 Tin* pici'iinr on I, Ihi bruin - y 
 
 The longing for the gentle roioe, 
 
 The Old iciiicinln'ird soli", 
 
 And .-ill the de&r delights of home 
 That tnemi >ry treasures i« >ng ( 
 
 Oh! [ndlana's noble dead, 
 
 w ii h fadelei >s w real bs enorowned, 
 
 Shall bless the places where they fell 
 A ml make them i reed< >m 's gri mndi 
 
 Then twine their praise with freedom's soda 
 Tholr names with freedom's name, 
 
 A ii'l 111:1 k 8 f :n'li lm:i Pt :i in 1 »ii ii nielli, 
 
 Of ail their deathles fame. 
 
 on SEEING \ PHOTOGRAPH OF RACKLEMAN. 
 
 01 Corlnl ii, i roets were red u Ith blood, 
 
 A nd many ••! noble soul that day, 
 ( last off ii b olo \ «'\ form 1 1 1 go 
 
 Again Into Its k Indred olay t 
 
 \ ii. i i bere am Id the true and brave, 
 
 ,\ mi leading in the battle's van, 
 w.i < >ne w boss dallj n fe bad earned 
 
 Por I) mi the m>l»lr:;| ii. imc II num. 
 
ON SEEING A PHOTOGRAPH. 87 
 
 He fell as heroes ever fall: 
 
 He died a more than hero death, 
 Content for freedom's holy cause, 
 
 To yield his latest flickering breath. 
 
 But gazing on his pictured face, 
 
 Warm witli its wealth of love and life, 
 
 I scarcely feel that Hackleman 
 Has fallen in the murderous strife. 
 
 I seem to read a prophecy, 
 
 Still hanging on those eloquent lips. 
 
 More sweet than all the neetared blooms, 
 From which at morn the wild bee sips. 
 
 A glory for the coming time, 
 
 A sure fulfillment of our hope, 
 A blessed ray of heavenly light, 
 
 To brighten all the future's scope. 
 
 And by its meaning men are taught, 
 Like him, to put their trust in God, 
 
 And yet believe, though days are dark, 
 And seas of blood are poured abroad, 
 
 That still our country shall remain, 
 
 That peace and freedom's angels stand, 
 
 Already on our trembling shores, 
 To bless for aye, the bleeding land. 
 
 Gold of the pen, and steel of sword, 
 
 And eagle wings of eloquence, 
 Strong, polished towers of argument, 
 
 And flowery wreaths of poet sense; 
 
88 THE PROCLAMATION. 
 
 We see them all within thy face. — 
 Not long ago we knew them all, — 
 
 Their influence liveth and shall live; 
 It did not perish in thy fall. 
 
 Then rest thou, soldier, patriot, friend; 
 
 Thy worth survives thee, and at last 
 When all the terrors of the war, 
 
 And its long agony are past; 
 
 When names are garnered up for fame, 
 Thine shall be bright amid the throng 
 
 That twined with fadeless wreaths of green,. 
 Shall claim the meed of deathless song. 
 
 THE PROCLAMATION. 
 
 All hail! the President, all hail! 
 
 The glorious work that he has done! 
 No prophecy of truth shall fail; 
 
 No darkness from the light be won; 
 His words are made ot truth and light; — 
 
 "All shall be free, our flag shall wave 
 No more for Slavery's vaunted might, 
 
 But bloom for aye above its grave." 
 The fiend that from the Nation's birth 
 
 Has on us cast its withering spell, 
 And sought to make the beauteous earth 
 
 A province of its native hell, 
 Shall die the death, the land be free. 
 Auspicious morn of Sixty-Three 
 
THE PROCLAMATION S0 
 
 Internal glory shall be thine, 
 
 A Sabbath sun forever shine, 
 Upon thy presence, thine shall bo 
 A time for thanks and jubilee. 
 
 What though the demon tear and rend 
 
 Us, with its dying throes to-day: 
 When all this bloody strife shall end, 
 
 These sulphurous clouds be rolled away, 
 Land of the free, then truly so, 
 
 What hallowed peace shall be thine own, 
 To recompense for all the woe 
 
 And bitter days that thou hast known. 
 
 Unto our God be thanks and praise! 
 
 Who guides us through the gloom and doubt. 
 And who, from all these grievous da}^, 
 
 Worketh his own good purpose out; 
 And from the graves of those who fall 
 
 And perish in the sickening strife. 
 With sweetest voice of love doth call 
 
 New hope, for sorrowing man, to life. 
 
 O ! holy freedom, clasp the land 
 
 In thy embrace from sea to sea 
 For it is thine — th}^ gentle hand 
 
 Shall guide its course eternally. 
 Thine are the vales, and thine the hills, 
 
 And thine our every sounding shore, 
 The mountains and the vocal rills, 
 
 The ocean with its deathless roar; 
 The corn fields of the North are thine, 
 
 The land of cotton calls thee there, 
 
90 THE PLAYMATE. 
 
 The cane-leaves in thy presence shine; 
 
 Blest spirit, welcome everywhere 
 The stars and stripes are cast abroad, 
 
 And prosper in the smiles of God. 
 
 THE PLAYMATE. 
 
 We romped in the woods together, 
 We swung on the apple-tree, 
 
 And chased in the sunny weather 
 The butterfly and bee. 
 
 His locks were a crown of splendor, 
 His heart was a fount of joy, 
 
 Gentle and brave and tender, 
 My darling playmate boy. 
 
 And now from the storm aad thunder, 
 And doubt and gloom to-day, 
 
 I go back in childish wonder 
 
 To the spots where we used to play. 
 
 The threads of our broken story, 
 
 Renewing line by line, 
 I sketch the shadowless glory, 
 
 That might have been his and mine 
 
 I paint him a goodly mansion 
 
 Down by the river side; 
 And a farm whose broad expansion, 
 
 Is green with meadows wide. 
 
THE PLAYMATE. 91 
 
 I paint me a little cottage 
 
 Hard by the beechen grove, 
 Where I sweeten my humble pottage 
 
 With the poet's wealth of love. 
 
 He walketh spirit laden 
 
 With the choicest truth of life 
 To greet the smij^ng maiden, 
 
 That is now my neighbor's wife. 
 
 And I — but I paint no longer; 
 
 Our hopes were doomed to die, 
 JFor the hand of fate was stronger, 
 
 Than either he or I. 
 
 The grass has grown above him, 
 
 For many and many } r ears, 
 And the maiden who used to love him 
 
 Forgotten her early tears. 
 
 The summer school was over, 
 
 The tanners had left their corn, 
 And the fields of wheat and clover 
 
 Of all their pride were shorn, 
 
 When the neighbors met together 
 
 And down thro' deepening gloom 
 Of the dreamy autumn weather, 
 
 They bore him to the tomb. 
 
 I still see the sorrowing faces 
 
 That haunted me many a day, 
 In each of the sunny places 
 
 Where we used to romp and play. 
 
92 LIBERTY. 
 
 Away in the life elysian, 
 
 Does he Lhink of his childish days? 
 Docs ever his spirit vision 
 
 Reach back to the pleasant ways,, 
 
 "We trode, ere the future s glory 
 
 Had faded line by line, 
 Into the sorrowful story 
 
 That now is his and mine? 
 
 Or does the calm investing 
 His spirit's serenest How, 
 Forbid it one moment resting 
 
 In the spots we used to know? 
 
 Life's way is dim with sorrow, 
 lint our childish hopes still twine 
 
 A wreath for that golden morrow 
 That may be his and mine. 
 
 L T B E R T Y 
 
 Liberty, O, Liberty! 
 
 He who truly loveth thee — 
 Soul of mercy, truth and love, 
 Essence of the life above, 
 
 Man's divinest heritage 
 
 Living on through every age,— 
 Walks upon the ear! hi \ so I, 
 Glorious in the smiles of God 
 
LIBERTY. 
 
 Liberty, O, Liberty' 
 Whoso dares to die for thee, 
 
 Though unhonored be his name, 
 
 On the fading scroll of fame, 
 Though his grave be green and low, 
 Where the tangled wild flowers grow,, 
 
 He shall fill a noble part, 
 
 In the universal heart. 
 
 Liberty, O, Liberty! 
 
 He who bendeth not the knee 
 
 At thy pure and holy shrine 
 
 Is not worthy thee or thine; 
 He's a craven hearted knave, 
 Born a despot or a slave, 
 
 And his best repose shall be 
 
 In the arms of tyranny. 
 
 Liberty, O, Liberty! 
 
 When the nations bow to thee, 
 Anarchy and sin shall die, 
 War shall close his vulture eye 
 
 And the day so long foretold, 
 
 By the mighty seers of old, I 
 Shall in peaceful splendor come, 
 With its glad millennium. 
 
 93 
 
94 NOVEMBER 8, 18 64, 
 
 NOVEMBER 8th, 1861. 
 
 Oh! my people! chosen people! 
 
 Raise aloud the glad acclaim, 
 To the glory of the nation, 
 
 And the traitors fear and shame. 
 Out of war's tremendous peril 
 
 And its desolating gloom, 
 Rises up the plant of freedom 
 
 Crowned with everlasting bloom. 
 
 Light the dull skies of November 
 
 With the flames of victory; 
 Let the land be gay with banncro, 
 
 And the earth hold jubilee. 
 Widow, in thy garb of sorrow, 
 
 Mother, weeping o'er thy slain, 
 Know ye that your fallen heroes, 
 
 Did not light and die in vain? 
 
 Lo! 'tis liberty's evangel 
 
 Entering in the land anew, 
 With thtj radiant stars of morning, 
 
 Constellating in the blue, 
 All the brighter for the sorrow, 
 
 More enduring for the pain 
 That has rebaptized the nation 
 
 Into freedom's love again. 
 
 Chosen people! Faithful people! 
 
 From your countless hills rejoice, 
 From your homes of peace and plenty 
 
 Raise aloud the thankful voice. 
 
LINCOLN. 95 
 
 From your fields of deathless glory, 
 
 Where your heroes slumber well, 
 Let the grand and mighty volume 
 
 Of triumphal chorus swell. 
 
 Lo! the shackles fall asunder, 
 
 And the lash has lost its power, 
 Masters quake and tyrants tremble 
 
 In the presence of the hour, 
 Glorious hour when freedom's chosen 
 
 Hold a nation's jubilee, 
 And the world takes up the chorus, 
 
 Men are equal, man is free! 
 
 Not to faction, not to party, 
 
 Does this triumph hour belong, 
 But to man in all the future, 
 
 To the right against the wrong, 
 It is freedom's, it is heaven's, 
 
 'Tis for every tribe and tongue; 
 Then in pagans high and holy, 
 
 Let the victory be sung. 
 
 LINCOLN. 
 Indianapolis, April 30, A. D. 18G5. 
 
 The voice is hushed, the heart is still, 
 The lids enclose the earnest eyes, 
 
 That only wake for Zion's hill, 
 And only beam for Paradise. 
 
96 LINCOLN. 
 
 We kindle brightly to thy praise, 
 We melt in sorrow at thy bier, 
 
 And wonder in the boundless days, 
 When God shall every truth insphcro 
 
 In sinless orbits of delight, 
 
 What crowns thy spirit brow shall wear. 
 When past the terror and the night, 
 
 Thou soarest into morning there. 
 
 O! choral lips of love and song; — 
 The world's harmonic multitude 
 
 That through the ages dim and long, 
 Have prophesied the coining good, 
 
 Philosopher and saint and seer, 
 Of every age, and race and clime, 
 
 Behold the promised days are near, 
 Auroral on the hills of time. 
 
 We read the blessed morrow's sign 
 That comes to hallow every place, 
 
 In every feature, every line 
 
 Of that upturned and calmest face. 
 
 From this dear sacrifice we learn 
 
 The future's full reality, 
 How freedom's flame shall mount and burn 
 
 Above the tomb of slavery. 
 
 How age on age shall pile its weight, 
 Yet through the twilight dim and far, 
 
 Among the wise and good and great, 
 Shall Lincoln shine, a morning star. 
 
LINCOLN. 97 
 
 The useless lash, the broken chain, 
 
 Black swarms of traffic turned to men, 
 
 War fruiting with eternal gain, 
 That ripens into peace again; 
 
 These glorify the places where 
 
 Thy paths have been, 0, true and brave! 
 
 And melodize the western air, 
 To sing of rest above thy grave. 
 
 Rest, patriot, martyr, saviour, friend, 
 
 Defender of the poor and weak ! 
 Thy glory shall not have an end 
 
 While history has a voice to speak. 
 
 In deathless harmonies of song, 
 
 In Alpine heights of eloquence, 
 Where hearts are tender, love is strong, 
 
 Shall live thy sweet beneficence, 
 
 And breathe its blessings evermore, 
 
 Through all the scope of coming years, > 
 
 While thou on freedom's wings shall soar 
 In love's celestial atmospheres, 
 
 In love's celestial atmospheres 
 
 That musical shall ever be 
 With this — that charms immortal ears — 
 
 "Through Christ the Lord, he made men fxee." 
 
98 NOVEMBER. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 November's cheerless skies of rain 
 Are ushering in the winter's gloom, 
 
 And orchard, forest, field, and plain, 
 
 Are shorn of greenness, song and bloom* 
 
 No more the sparrow in the bush, 
 
 Nor robin on the maple tree, 
 Awakes with song the summer huslx 
 
 Of nature's odorous melody. 
 
 All tuneless are the solemn groves, 
 Save that the brooklet murmurs on, 
 
 Repeating still its ancient loves, 
 
 As though love's seasons were not gone,. 
 
 The year, that once so free and bold, 
 Leaped down the glowing hills of life, 
 
 Dwarfs his bent form beneath the cold, 
 And shivers in the wild wind's strife- 
 
 On beating wings the raven flits, 
 A ghost of darkness and despair; 
 
 Far in the wood the great owl sits 
 And pours his horror on the air. 
 
 A mist obscures the dreary town, 
 The streets are silent lines of gloom, 
 
 And the lone footman's garb of brown,. 
 Seems woven in death's fated loom. 
 
NOVEMBER. 99 
 
 The wild war rages, doubt and grief 
 
 Are in the land from sea to sea, 
 Til peace seeins like some lost belief 
 
 We cherished in our infancy. 
 
 But even now, with healing wing, 
 
 Hope rides in battle's sulphurous car; 
 
 And melodies that angels sing, 
 Are heard in lapses of the war. 
 
 Spring comes, and summer follows soon; 
 
 Earth leaps from out the winter's thrall 
 Into the laps of May and June, 
 
 That spread their mantles over all. 
 
 So liberty and peace shall rise 
 From under desolation's hoof, 
 
 And even through the sodden skies, 
 Smiles grim November with the proof. 
 
 n. 
 
 When life goes trembling down the hill, 
 In some November far away, 
 
 And ebon clouds of boding ill 
 Obscure the shining light of day, 
 
 O! may the solemn scene command 
 Some blessing for the great unknown; 
 
 Some staff whereon the dying hand 
 May rest before its strength be gone. 
 
100 SONG OF TRIUMPH. 
 
 Some ray to penetrate the gloom, 
 To bathe the sombre hills in lights, 
 
 Shed its soft splendor on the tomb, 
 And glorify the awful night. 
 
 Some melody of melodies, 
 
 To sound across the dismal sea, 
 
 With soft and vibrant harmonies, 
 To blend with purer harmony. 
 
 "While loved ones that have gone before, 
 Lean downward in their robes of gold, 
 
 And give in love's seraphic lore 
 
 Their rapturous welcomes manifold! 
 
 Tbeir rapturous welcomes manifold, 
 Until the spirit spurns its clay; 
 
 Leaps upward from the cumbering, mold 
 Death yields to life, and night to day. 
 
 SONG OF TRIUMPH. 
 
 O! jubilant Nation, 
 Receive thy salvation ; 
 
 The days of thy bondage are done. 
 Leap, heart of the people! 
 Ring bells in the steeple! 
 
 Shout, waters, the joy as you run! 
 Roll, cannons, your thunder, 
 Rebellion goes under, 
 
 The victory of freedom is won! 
 
SONG OF LIBERTY. 101 
 
 The nation's great error, 
 
 The treason and terror, 
 It warmed into hatred and strife, 
 
 Lie prone in disaster, 
 
 No evil-eyed master 
 Shall ever recall them to life; 
 
 Jehovah has spoken, 
 
 The fetters are broken, 
 And peace smileth down on the strife. 
 
 Then gather, ye freemen, 
 
 Our landsmen and seamen, 
 Our boys in your infantry blue! 
 
 Set the welkin a ringing, 
 
 Set the islands a singing, 
 "With a joy that shall thrill thro' and thro* 
 
 The heart of the Nation, 
 
 Till its outward vibration 
 Sets other lands singing it too. 
 
 The father's ideal 
 
 Has grown to the real, 
 And wieldeth the scepter of might; 
 
 The old declaration 
 
 And the new proclamation, — . 
 The soul and the heart of the fight,^ 
 
 Triumph over the sorrow, 
 
 With their hope for the morrow 
 With their promise of Union and right. 
 
 O ! the bright lumination 
 Of the great proclamation, 
 It shall shine through the vista of time, 
 It shall flame down the ages, 
 
102 SONG OF TRIUMPH. 
 
 It shall burn on the pages 
 Of historian and poet sublime, 
 Till the world shall receive it, 
 Till the tyrants believe it, 
 A death shot to slavery and crime. 
 
 Then jubilant Nation, 
 Receive thy salvation, 
 
 The days of thy bondage are done; 
 Praise the heroes who fought for 
 The statesmen who sought for 
 
 The victory our armies have won; 
 And the glory be given; 
 To our Father in Heaven, 
 
 While the ages of freedom shall run, 
 
EARLIER POEMS 
 
EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 You asked me clear friend, in the fair month of roses, 
 
 To write you some verses in elegant rhyme, 
 All radiant with summer and cheerful with posies, 
 
 And delightfully sweet in their musical chime, 
 And I made for answer if you will remember, 
 
 That though summer glorified all with its blushes 
 Still deep in my soul was the grief of November, 
 
 And my sorrowful notes would not chord with 
 thrushes; 
 But said, I would gather the old songs together, 
 
 The rude rhymes 1 chattered in other sad days, 
 The notes that went trilling in all sorts of weather, 
 
 And sought only your never critical praise. 
 So here, I present them, unpruned, the old ditties 
 
 Ot sorrow and love, and the lyrical notions 
 Of freedom and labor; not lit for the cities, 
 
 But just the rude offspring of country emotions; 
 So take them dear friend, if they give any pleasure, 
 
 Or charm you one moment away from your pain, 
 My toil is repaid in that bountiful measure 
 
 That comes when we know that we've toiled not in vain 
 
106 A WINTER WALK. 
 
 A WINTER WALK. 
 
 Winter has glories summer may not boast, 
 Though, to the sordid, worldly-minded man, 
 
 Its wealth of brilliant pageantry is lost, 
 Nor has his mental eye the power to scan 
 
 The beauties that, like banners wide unfurled, 
 
 Float everywhere about the ice-bound world. 
 
 But to the child of nature these are fair 
 As are the riches of midsummer's bloom, 
 
 When gay birds chatter, and the mellow air 
 Is laden with the incense — like perfume 
 
 Of bud and blossom, whence the busy bee 
 
 Lays up her stores with ceaseless industry; 
 
 The snowy shroud that, draped about the hills 
 And lying level o'er th' expansive plain, 
 
 Has hushed the slender music of the rills, 
 Seems a just type of virtue with no stain 
 
 To blot its fair escutcheon and to be 
 
 An emblem of unspoiled simplicity. 
 
 O! I have wandered down this pathway when 
 Autumn had all her gorgeous glories on, 
 
 And the soft murmur of the breezes then 
 Seemed like a dying mother's benizon, 
 
 So sad so full of love it came to me 
 
 Like blessings murmured back from death's cold sea. 
 
 And when the mild air turned the mosses green 
 That grow along the silvery runnel's side 
 
A WINTER WAL K. 107 
 
 And timid quails were whistling loud and keen, 
 
 And over ravine deep and meadow wide, 
 The swallow sported on her airy wing, 
 I tarried here to watch the opening spring 
 
 All seasons move in beauty, all are rife 
 With lessons of that never-wearying love 
 
 That covers earth with ail her swarming life 
 And still upholds the planets as they move, 
 
 And winter does as precious blessings bring 
 
 As summer, autumn, or the flowery spring. 
 
 This walk in winter is as dear to me 
 
 As though the heavens had on their summer blue, 
 This snowy shroud that rests so silently 
 
 O'er hill and vale hail and love in lieu 
 Of th' soft grass and in the naked bowers 
 The frost-gems shine in place of leave» and flowers. 
 
 I sometimes dream of sunny southern lands, 
 Italian skies, and broad Arcadian vales, 
 
 Where sands of gold illume the shining strands, 
 And where the lazy seas are white with sails, 
 
 Where ardent summer reigns imperial queen 
 
 And clothes the world in robes of fadeless green. 
 
 But fancy tires and to its home returns, 
 Sick with the squalor of the tropic lands, 
 
 And where the flame of love or memory burns, 
 Beholds the vales of green, the jewelled sands, 
 
 And all the wealth of Southern climes combined 
 
 In the fair gardens of immortal mind. 
 
108 ANABEL. 
 
 No longer then I pine for sunny shores, 
 That sleep along the central seas of earth, 
 
 For in this northern clime are greater stores, 
 And beauties of more beatific birth, — 
 
 The wealth of thought that weaker, fainter grows 
 
 Where life her most voluptuous mantle throws. 
 
 And thou, my own dear land, I bring to thee 
 An humble offering, in my walk to-day, 
 
 The glories of all storied climes I see, 
 And half-forgetful of the icy sway 
 
 That rules thy hills and lords it o'er thy plains, 
 
 I dream that here eternal summer reigns. 
 
 And it may reign within each kindly heart; 
 
 If hope and patience are abiding there, 
 And love and faith and mercy fill their part, 
 
 'Twill be the home of Summer, sweet and fair 
 As it is known in those serenest isles 
 That bask in nature's most refulgent smiles. 
 
 1852. 
 
 AN ABEL 
 
 Comes my heart with grief o'erladen, 
 Bringing offerings to thee; 
 
 O! thou bright angelic maiden, 
 
 Who in far-off spirit aiden, 
 
 Sin and strife and sorrow free, 
 
 Dwelleth now in joy forever 
 
 Where the power of death is o'er, 
 
FREEDOM. 109 
 
 And no poisonous breath shall sever 
 Those who live and love forever, 
 On that undiscovered shore. 
 
 But grim sorrow sitteth, dwelling 
 
 In this weary heart for thee, 
 Whence affection came up welling 
 All its truth forever telling, 
 
 Telling its sincerity, 
 Truth we felt in days of olden 
 When our sun was shining golden, 
 
 And we thought us truly blest, 
 In those happy days of olden, 
 
 Ere thy spirit neared its rest, 
 
 But I'm thinking of a meeting, 
 
 Yet another one with thee, 
 When the years have ceased their fleeting; 
 And I'm thinking of the greeting 
 
 That thou then wilt give to me. 
 
 1854. 
 
 o> 
 
 FREEDOM. 
 
 Freedom singeth in the fountains, 
 Shouteth on the lofty mountains 
 
 Whence the avalanches roll, 
 Where the songs of birds are ringing, 
 Where the summer flowers are swinging 
 
 At the balmy air's control, 
 Where is freedom ever singing 
 
 In spirations to the soul. 
 
110 FREEDOM. 
 
 Freedom liveth, ever liveth, 
 
 And the laithful strength it giveth, 
 
 Will not, cannot fail nor die, 
 Till this world's great moving lever, 
 That is raising man forever, 
 
 Nearer to the world on high, 
 Shall all grievous chains dissever, 
 
 As the years go sweeping by. 
 
 Freedom is the child of heaven, 
 Mortals' priceless boon, God-given, 
 
 Deathless as the master sduI; 
 All the ministers of evil, 
 King nor pope, nor priest nor devil, 
 
 Despots that a space control, 
 Holding high war's bloody revel, 
 
 As the ages onward roll, — 
 
 Cannot make one slave contented 
 With the galling chains presented 
 
 For the limbs that God made free, 
 Not a people love the master 
 Who has given them but disaster, 
 
 Chains and tears and slavery, 
 Bnt the world shall move on faster, 
 
 Year by year, to liberty. 
 
 O! sing praise to God, the giver 
 Of this boon that lives forever, 
 
 Nature with thy perfect voice, 
 Sun that shineth in thy glory, 
 Shout aloud its wondrous story 
 
 Till the listening spheres rejoice, 
 Till the earth shall evermore be 
 
 Freedom's heritage and choice. 
 
FREEDOM. Ill 
 
 O! with marvelous sad yearning, 
 All the souls of men keep turning, 
 
 Turning, yearning for the light, 
 When from anarchy's long madness, 
 Rise the nations up in gladness, 
 
 To proclaim the people's right; 
 Then no more to bow in sadness 
 
 To th' oppressor's iron might. 
 
 Not a slave makes vain resistance 
 To the curse that gives existence 
 
 But a hell of sorrowing days, 
 Not a panting exile flieth 
 Bat his woe to heaven up-cricth, 
 
 And through all its devious Ways 
 "Wounded slavery crieth, dieth, 
 
 While the tyrants sing its praiso. 
 
 Hearken thou, O! fellow mortal, 
 Sitting at the future's portal, 
 
 To the voices as they flow, 
 How the starry beams that quiver, 
 And the swiftly flowing river 
 
 Shout for treedom as they go, 
 Then arise! thank God the giver, 
 
 And for Freedom strike the blow. 
 
 1S56. 
 
112 INDIAN GRAVES, 
 
 INDIAN GRAVES. 
 
 All along the winding river, 
 
 And adown the shady glen, 
 On the hill and in the valley, 
 
 Are the graves of dusky men. 
 
 We are garrulous intruders, 
 
 On the sacred burying grounds 
 Of the Manitou's red children, 
 
 And the builders of the mounds. 
 
 Here the powah and the sachem, 
 
 Here the warrior and the maid, 
 Sleeping in the dust we tread on, 
 
 In the forests we invade, 
 
 Rest as calmly and as sweetly 
 
 As the mummied kings of old, 
 Where Cyrenes' marble city 
 
 Guards their consecrated mold. 
 
 Through the woodland, through the meadow. 
 
 As in silence oft I walk, 
 Whispering on the passing breezes 
 
 Fancy hears the red man's talk. 
 
 Muttering low and very sweetly 
 Of the good Great Spirit's love, 
 
 That descends like dews of evening 
 On His children from above. 
 
INDIAN GRAVES. 113 
 
 Still repeating from the prophets 
 
 And the sachems grey and old, 
 Stories of the southwest aiden, 
 
 Curtained all around with gold, 
 
 Where the good and great So wanna 
 
 Calleth all his children home, 
 Through the hunting grounds eternal, 
 
 Free as summer winds to roam. 
 
 • 
 Singing wildest songs of wailing 
 
 For the dead upon their way 
 On the four days' journey homeward 
 
 To the realms of light and day, 
 
 Chanting soft and gentle measures, 
 
 Lays of hope and songs of love, 
 Now like shout of laughing waters, 
 
 Now like cooing of the dove. 
 
 Then anon his feet make echo 
 
 To the war song's fiendish howl, 
 And revenge upon his features 
 
 Sets the pandemonian scowl. 
 
 See ! again the smoke is curlin^ 
 
 From the friendly calumet, 
 And the club of war is buried, 
 
 And the star of slaughter set. 
 
 But, alas! imagination, 
 
 Ever weaving dream on dream, 
 Soon forgets the buried red men 
 
 For some more congenial theme. 
 
114. INDIAN GRAVES. 
 
 But although their race is ended, 
 
 And forever over here, 
 Let their virtues be remembered, 
 
 While we fervently revere 
 
 All their ancient burial places, 
 Hill and valley, plain and glen, 
 
 Honor every sacred relic 
 Of that fading race of men. 
 
 Gitclie Manitou has called them 
 From the chase and war path here, 
 
 To the mystic land of spirits 
 In some undiscovered sphere. 
 
 In a land of light and glory 
 
 That no sachem's eye hath seen, 
 
 Where the rivers flow forever, 
 And the woods are always green, 
 
 Where the winter sun, descending, 
 Burns the southwest sky to flame, 
 
 Shall the Indian race be gathered 
 In the great Sowanna's name. • 
 
 1856. 
 
EVER. 115 
 
 EVER 
 
 Ever strive and ever labor, 
 
 Fainting not at all! 
 Let endurance be thy watchword, 
 
 Though thy strength be small. 
 
 Small the strength to each that's given, 
 
 Yet sufficient still 
 To upbear the trusting spirit 
 
 Over every ill. 
 
 What though calumny traduce thee, 
 
 Scorn the idle jade; 
 Ever true to thy convictions, 
 
 Stand, nor be afraid. 
 
 Let the poor time-serving trembler 
 Vaunt his hollow creea, 
 
 He would, like the storied Levite, 
 Let the stranger bleed; 
 
 Or, with temporizing tactics, 
 
 Raise the Jewish cry 
 Of " Release to us Barabbas, 
 
 But let Jesus die." 
 
 Does thy heart beat high for freedom, 
 
 And for the opprest — 
 O! let not its warm pulsations 
 
 Slumber in thy breast. 
 
116 EVER. 
 
 Truth demands that thou shouldst utter 
 Every noble thought, 
 
 Though it hedge thy path with sorrow, 
 Bring thy name to naught. 
 
 There is nothing true and noble, 
 There is naught sublime, 
 
 But imparts a heavenly music 
 To the keys of time. 
 
 Through the ever-widening cycles 
 
 Of unending years, 
 Lives and grows the better influence 
 
 That was born in tears. 
 
 Hard it seems to work for others, 
 By the midnight oil, 
 
 And receive but jeers and curses 
 For your patient toil. 
 
 Hard to publish 1 ruths unwelcome 
 
 To the public mind, 
 And be left to feed in sorrow 
 
 On truth's bitter rind. 
 
 Did the old disciples falter, 
 
 When the offended kings 
 
 Cast them to the bowling lions 
 In their .teaming rings? 
 
 And shall he who dares to suffer 
 
 For the right to-day, 
 Not receive his mede of glory, 
 
 Just as well as they? 
 
EVER. 117 
 
 Truth has gospels unaccepted 
 
 Calvary s yet to climb, 
 Crosses to be borne whose shadows 
 
 Shall outmeasure time. 
 
 Strike for right with zeal, but never 
 
 Deal in random blows; 
 Being very sure 'tis evil 
 
 That thou dost oppose. 
 
 Then with arms like Scandinavian, 
 
 Thor, or Tubal Cain, 
 Ply the hammer on old Errors 
 
 Rough, unyielding grain. 
 
 Or if but an humble singer, 
 
 Tune thy slender songs; 
 They are drops whose small erosions 
 
 Wear the flinty wrongs. 
 
 Battle on ! and God's approval, 
 
 Nerving heart and will, 
 Shall upbear thy hero spirit, 
 
 Over every ill. 1857. 
 
118 MEGGY MAY 
 
 MEGGY MAY. 
 
 Playing on the parlor floor, 
 
 With her laughing eyes of blue, 
 And her dark locks curling o'er 
 Dimpled checks of rosy hue, 
 Is our little Meggy May, 
 
 Full of joy, with mischief rife, 
 Sporting through the sunny day, 
 Fearing nought of care and strife* 
 Meggy May! Meggy May! 
 Drive dull frowning care away, 
 While we sing of Meggy May. 
 
 By our darling's side at rest, 
 
 Purrs the kitten loud and gay, 
 He that in the happy hours, 
 Is the partner of her play; 
 Now our mischief-loving Meg, 
 
 Grasps him rudely by the ear, 
 Till Sir Kitt begins to beg, 
 And I have to interfere. 
 Meggy May! Meggy May! 
 Let the sunlight shine to-day, 
 While we sing ot Meggy May. 
 
 Now she rises from her place, 
 And comes skipping to my knee, 
 
 Gazes upward in my face, 
 
 Laughing in her childish glee, 
 
 Slily gives my nose a tweak, 
 Pleasure dancing in her eyes, 
 
 And before I've time to speak, 
 
MEGGY MAY. 119 
 
 Out into the yard she hies. 
 Meggy May! Meggy May' 
 Let our hearts be light to day, 
 While we sing of Meggy May. 
 
 Now she's chasing the first bee 
 
 I have seen this sunny spring, 
 Merry, romping, wild and free, 
 She's a happy joyous thing. 
 And I own a brother's love 
 
 From my heart doth proudly swell, 
 As my eyes incessant rove 
 
 With that little blue-eyed belle. 
 Meggy May ! Meggy May ! 
 Lovelier far than nymph or fay, 
 Is our little Meggy May. 
 
 Could her life thus ever be, 
 
 Free from sorrow, pain, and sin, 
 What a blest eternity 
 
 She'd be always dwelling in; 
 From an Eden here below 
 To a fairer land on high 
 Would her happy spirit go, 
 
 When her mortal frame should die. 
 Meggy May! Meggy May! 
 Let love fill our hearts to-day, 
 While we sing of Meggy May. 
 
 1857. 
 
120 THE CEMETEKY. 
 
 THE CEMETERY. 
 
 Amid the quiet bower of trees, 
 The ancient grave yard lies, 
 
 A silent hamlet on the road 
 That leads to paradise. 
 
 Here many weary souls have left 
 Their robes of mouldering clay, 
 
 And clad in more ethereal garbs, 
 Have journeyed on their way. 
 
 The man of forty summers gave, 
 In anguish deep and dread, 
 
 His stalwart form to moulder in 
 This village of the dead. 
 
 The matron came in sorrow's train, 
 
 And left her body here, 
 And viewless past to meet the Lord* 
 
 In love's eternal sphere. 
 
 The grandsire and the grandame left 
 
 Their ashes side by side, 
 To follow youth and hope again, 
 
 Where streams of pleasure glide. 
 
 Here gathered youth and beauty oft, 
 And trusting hearts were riven, 
 
 And mourned for them as <lead because 
 Thev had removed to heaven. 
 
A SUMMER POEM. 121 
 
 The little child with laughing eyes, 
 
 Here closed its morning dream, 
 To waken in the fuller life 
 
 Across the silent stream. 
 
 So shall we all go down to dust 
 
 And leave our toils and cares, 
 And if we live as well, our rest 
 
 Will be as sweet as theirs. 
 
 1858. 
 
 A SUMMER POEM. 
 
 The winter and the tardy spring are gone, 
 And summer follows in the steps of May, 
 
 And from the fervid heart of ardent June, 
 Creation's thankful voices rise to-day. 
 
 The warbling of the merry minstrel birds 
 And shout of brooks that wander to the sea 
 
 Are not so dear as thy remembered words, 
 Sweet maiden friend, that sang so well to me. 
 
 The echoes of that dear old song remain, 
 Like the soft music from an angel's lute, 
 
 To soothe and calm ray over labored brain, 
 When other sounds and voices all are mute. 
 
 If thou hast wandered mid the trees and flowery 
 Where Nature's angel from her radiant wings 
 
 Has cast her plumage on the fields and bowers, 
 Varied as are the forms of lovely things, 
 
122 A SUMMER POEM. 
 
 Thy soul has drank, in unison with mine, 
 Th' inspiring nectars of the flowery June, 
 
 And heavenly spirits, with a power divine, 
 
 Have kept the strings of thy young life in tune. 
 
 How sweetly in this balmy summer time, 
 The stream of life flows ever on and on, 
 
 Like the soft murmur of the poet's rhyme, 
 Or echoes of an endless benizon. 
 
 And if, amid the trees and flowers, to-day, 
 
 The friends I love were wandering by my side, 
 
 How sweetly would the moments pass away, 
 And gorgeous noon to hallowed evening glide. 
 
 And I would have the fair and lovely throng 
 To pause and rest by yonder brooklet's side, 
 
 Whilst thou shouldst sing again the mournful song 
 OfRobbin's Mary, that so early died. 
 
 But we, perchance, again may never meet, 
 
 Where summer beauties, floating wide unfurled, 
 
 Like banners, wrap the earth, yet very sweet 
 Our meetings are in fancy's summer world. 
 
 No change of seasons mars the loveliness 
 
 With which the world of mind is ever fraught, 
 
 And e'en the wildest whirlwinds of distress 
 But purify the atmosphere of thought. 
 
 There let us meet, sweet maiden friend, until, 
 Leaving behind these mouldering urns of clay, 
 
 Our spirits soar above each earthly ill, 
 And mind meets mind in everlasting day. 
 
/ 
 
 ISADORE. 123 
 
 IS A D RE. 
 
 Purest souls sometimes are given 
 Into forms of slightest mould, 
 
 Spirits that belong to heaven 
 As the lambkin to the fold, 
 
 That no earthly love can stay, 
 
 From their native shore away. 
 
 Spirits very meek and lowly, 
 Such as in the days to come, 
 
 Singing praises to the Holy 
 In some glad millennium; 
 
 Then shall tread the earth alone 
 
 Till a thousand years are gone. 
 
 Such a soul of rarest beauty 
 O! sweet Isadore was thine, 
 
 As along the path of duty 
 
 T.rode thy presence half divine, * 
 
 Till a shadow, dark and bold, 
 
 Smote thee, and thy heart grew cold. 
 
 And thou perished like the blossoms, 
 In the sad November rain, 
 
 And we carry in our bosoms 
 Evermore regret and pain, 
 
 Surging like the winds that rave, 
 
 Nightly o'er thy little grave. 
 
124 THE SPELLING SCHOOL. 
 
 THE SPELLING SCHOOL. 
 
 Level silence on the landscapes, 
 Silence shrouding all the hills, 
 
 Lies the white robe of the winter,. 
 Hushing all the laughing rills. 
 
 But a voice of song and laughter 
 Cheerier tar, than brooklets m.ike, 
 
 Echoes down the beaten high-way, 
 Scares the wild hare to the brake. 
 
 And the merry sleigh bells tinkle, 
 Chiming to a wordless rhyme, 
 
 While the voices of the sleighers 
 With the melody keep time. 
 
 It is by the country school house, 
 At the crossing of the roads, 
 
 That the drivers stop their horses, 
 And discharge their precious loads* 
 
 All the bells have ceased their music, 
 And the sleighs have censed to run, 
 
 But within the district school house, 
 All is jollity and fun. 
 
 Hark! the warning word is given, 
 " Silence all! " the teacher cries, 
 
 And the champions take their stations, 
 Followed by a hundred eyes. 
 
THE SPELLING SCHOOL. 125 
 
 One, a rosy little maiden 
 
 Just arrived at "sweet sixteen," 
 'Tother, lad of eighteen winters 
 
 Overgrown, and shy and green. 
 
 See! the saucy little lassie, 
 
 Throws the ferule in the air, 
 Whispering to her stout opposer, 
 
 " Catch it, Jemmy, if you dare." 
 
 Jemmy hears the words and blushes, 
 
 Blushes till his eyelids close, 
 Makes a pass to catch the ferule 
 
 Misses it and hits her nose. 
 
 Just as quick as thought can travel, 
 
 Runs a titter round the room, 
 And the choosers end their trial 
 
 With the handle of the broom. 
 
 " Choice is mine," cries Jem, elated, 
 Half forgetful of his shame, 
 Gazes round the room a moment, 
 Calls aloud the favored name. 
 
 Then the merry maiden chooses, 
 And thus round and round they go, 
 
 Till the spellers all are chosen, 
 Counting fifty in a row. 
 
 Now the war of words commences, 
 
 And the lettered soldiers stand 
 Forth to fight like ancient warriors, 
 
 One for each opposing band. 
 
126 THE SPELLING SCHOOL. 
 
 Lassie, in her seventh winter, 
 Eyes of blue and hair of brown, 
 
 Stands opposed to man with whiskers, 
 Bravely meets and spells him down. 
 
 Tiny boy, with lisping utterance, 
 Eight years old a week ago, 
 
 Reigns triumphant, till he conquers 
 Halt the long opposing row. 
 
 Lad with sandy hair defeats him, 
 Stands c\nd spoils and spells away, 
 
 Ah! the little maid is vanquished, 
 Awkward Jemmy's gained the day. 
 
 Little hands are clapped together, 
 Feet are stamped upon the floorj 
 Till the master orders silence 
 
 And the tight begins once more. 
 
 Cupid, roguish little fellow, 
 Now is busy round the room, 
 
 Whispering gently to the maiden, 
 Words that set her cheek abloom. 
 
 While he puts the hearts a bobbing 
 Under halt' the showy vests. 
 
 That are buttoned round and over, 
 Boyish forms and manly breasts. 
 
 Words of love uncouth are spoken. 
 Yet with meaning pure and chaste, 
 
 And the brawny arms encircle, 
 Many a little tapered waist. 
 
THE SPELLING SCHOOL. 127 
 
 But in vain the watchful tutor, 
 
 Seeks to find the lovers out, 
 Arms withdraw and tongues are silent, 
 
 When the teacher comes about. 
 
 O ! what happy dreams are woven, 
 
 For the future, fair and bright, 
 And what promises contracted 
 
 For the coming Sunday night. 
 
 Now the Spelling School is over, 
 
 And the sleighs are out of sight, 
 And the bells, the songs, the laughter, 
 
 Die away into the night. 
 
 I am left alone and dreaming, 
 
 Of the spelling schools of old, 
 And the maid whose smiles I valued 
 
 More than e'er my lips have told. 
 
 Here's to memory of the spellings 
 
 And their rounds of sinless joys, 
 For the merry homespun maidens 
 
 And the noble country boys. 
 
 1858. 
 
128 WHITTIER. 
 
 WHITTIER. 
 
 Too long our goodly Saxon tongue 
 
 Had played the pimp to rank and power, 
 
 The praise of tit!ed villains sung 
 Nor recked that every passing hour 
 
 Is laden with the woes and tears 
 
 That purchase all the pomp and state 
 
 Of tyrant kings and haughty peers, 
 Those sealers of the poor man's fate. 
 
 Too long the lash was unapplied 
 To priestly arrogance and sin, 
 While knaves adored and deitied 
 Thronged every holy place with in. 
 
 And Mammon with his shameless chock 
 
 And iron front had lorded long, 
 And chained and scourged and sold the weak, 
 
 Nor felt the lash of virtuous song. 
 
 But lo! the world begins to hope, 
 The pour no longer friendless, weep; 
 
 The eyes of slumbering genius ope, 
 And sympai iy awakes from sleep, 
 
 The voice of poetry is heard, 
 
 Its fiei}' bolts of scorn are hurled, 
 
 And despots into madness stirred 
 
 Eun furious, maddening round the world. 
 
WHITTIER. 129 
 
 * The pomp of heraldry and power " 
 
 No more protects the titled thief, 
 And love asserts her fruitful power 
 
 To bring the o'er-burdened slave relief^ 
 
 The word is given, and the lyre 
 
 Receives it with a joyous thrill, 
 And, touched as by prophetic lire, 
 
 The poet soul asserts her will. 
 
 All shall be free: the nations movo 
 
 To that sublimest era, when 
 The heaventy laws of peace and lovo 
 
 Shall be the laws that govern men, 
 
 All honor to the sons of song, 
 
 Whose fiery strains, or lays of love, 
 
 Have flamed about the tyrant throng 
 Or taught the slave to look above 1 
 
 To A3 r rshire's plowman bard, who saw 
 
 The man uprising over caste; 
 To Whittier, preaching higher law, 
 
 That glorious lesson from the past; 
 
 That mighty past in which there stood 
 A man; a God, where, fresh and cool, 
 
 The breeze was in the mountain's wood, 
 And taught mankind the Golden Rule. 
 
 Brave champion of the deathless right; 
 
 To thee, great Whittier, does belong 
 The honors of a moral knight, 
 
 Who wieldeth well hi3 biades of song. 
 
130 THE SUGAR MAPLE. 
 
 Who tempers every stroke with love, 
 With mercy sweetens every thrust, 
 
 Points every dying wretch above, 
 
 And lifts the trampled from the dust. 
 
 Such song as thine, so sweet so pure, 
 So warm with freedom's holy flame, 
 
 Must with the living things endure, 
 A spotless legacy to fame. 
 
 Beat on, great heart and pour thy tide 
 Of song along this stricken land, 
 
 Till avarice, lust, and despot pride 
 
 No more on bleeding hearts shall stand. 
 
 1853. 
 
 THE SUGAR MAPLE. 
 
 The bright magnolia spreads its bloom 
 And loads the air with sweet perfume, 
 And gives a thousand charms unknown 
 To any but its native zone; 
 The olive and the fig tree stand 
 Along the slopes of that fair land, 
 Wherein, of old, the Jewish maids 
 Were wooed and won, their ample shades 
 Have fallen round kings and prophets old, 
 With silent blessings manifold. 
 But though we yield the blisstul powers 
 Of olive shades, magnolia bowers, 
 And where the vine and fig tree grow, 
 See plenty smile on all below, 
 
THE SUGAR MAPLE. 131 
 
 No better fairer trees are they. 
 When decked in summers glad array, 
 And when the ripening autumn time 
 Bequeaths its wonders to the clime, 
 
 They ne'er present such canopy 
 Of waving leaves and brilliant dies, 
 In myriad optic harmonies, 
 To contrast with the sober skies. 
 
 As our own sugar maple tree. 
 
 What though for Afric's sons the palm 
 May yield its shade, the hermit's psalm, 
 Of old Armenian origin, 
 Ee heard its sunny bowers within, 
 Or birds of strange and gorgeous plume, 
 Fresh from the tropic lands that bloom 
 With countless flowers of loveliest dies, 
 Pipe from its crest their harmonies, 
 Yet no superior shall it be 
 To our own sugar maple tree, 
 Whereon the blackbird tunes his lay, 
 The mocking bird and speckled jay, 
 Grow garrulously loud and gay. 
 
 The rugged pine, the mountain fir, 
 The cypress sad, and juniper, 
 The orange, with its fruit of gold, 
 And the Libanian cedars old; 
 The Banian tree whose living dome, 
 And shaft, and pillar, form the home 
 Wherein, reclined at lazy ease, 
 The Asian views his summer seas; 
 All these are lovely, all are fair, 
 But none the coionet may wear. 
 
132 THE SUGAR MAPLE. 
 
 No stately monarch of the wood, 
 That lords it o'er the solitude; 
 No giant oak whose sinews form 
 The ship that rides the ocean storm, 
 No stately tulip waving high 
 His cups, against the summer sky, 
 Shall bear the crown or honored be 
 Beyond our sugar maple tree. 
 
 When first the sun begins to warm 
 
 The sleeping earth's long frozen form. 
 
 And bearing on his northern way, 
 
 To melt th' icicles by day, 
 
 Which winter, still with equal might, 
 
 Congeals and forms again at night; 
 
 O! who shall name in scornful mood; 
 
 That sweet, delicious, glorious flood, 
 
 That perfect sacharinean sea, 
 
 That floweth from the maple tree? 
 
 Not he, who nurtured in the west 
 
 Of memories that he deems the best, 
 
 Reveres the sweet unselfish joys 
 
 Of rustic girls and hardy boys, 
 
 Where fell in fleecy clouds, the damp 
 
 ^Evaporations from the camp, 
 
 And where the work was cheered along, 
 
 With mingled jollity and song, 
 
 And when the sugaring off was clone, 
 
 Such sweets were known and heights of fun 
 
 As are but rightly understood, 
 
 Bv him, who, in some western wood, 
 
 Has scooped the primal sugar trough, 
 
 Presided at the stirring off, 
 
 Known every labor, every joy 
 
THE SUGAR MAPLE. 133 
 
 That waited for the rustic boy, 
 
 Through all the year, till' March should bring 
 
 The sugar-making and the spring. 
 
 Let not the puny despot boast 
 His vaunted sweets, that are the cost 
 Of labor, driven by the lash, 
 Red with the gore from many a gash, 
 Where human chattels toil in pain 
 To rear the sugar-yielding cane; 
 When by the cheerful work of hands 
 That never felt the hissing brands 
 That mark the currency of hell, 
 Where planters buy and traders sell; 
 Here, in this northern bower is wrought 
 A more luxurious sweet than aught, 
 The world had ever known until — ■ 
 A good returns lor many an ill — 
 
 Tne Indian skilled in savage wa}^s 
 By rude example taught the free 
 
 Fore-fathers in the forest days, 
 While yet the May Flower sped the sea, 
 The merits of the maple tree. 
 
 To grace 4hy trunk as I have seen, 
 Glad children on the wooded green, 
 Around some fav'rite tree entwine 
 Flowers and grass, and bits of vine; 
 So with little skill I've wrought 
 This, my rhyming ^ift, and brought 
 It an offering unto thee, 
 Glorious Sugar Maple tree. 
 
134 THE BUCKEYE TREE. 
 
 THE BUCKEYE TREE. 
 
 'Mid a lovely grove of maples 
 Stands a little buckeye tree, 
 
 Worthless, in the eyes of others, 
 Yet, 'tis very dear to me 
 
 Not because its graceful branches 
 Catch the verdure of the Spring, 
 
 Spreading out a leafy shelter 
 For the merry birds that sing. 
 
 Welcome to the early blossoms, 
 Long before the neighboring trees, 
 
 Casting off' the spell of winter, 
 Hearken to the melodies 
 
 That are calling forth the beauty 
 And the glory of the year, 
 
 With delight obey the summons 
 And in shining robes appear. 
 
 t 
 
 Not because the wild flowers nestle 
 
 In the quiet of its shade. 
 But because two lovely children 
 
 Through the summer hours have played, 
 
 Underneath the swaying branches 
 
 Of the little buckeye tree, 
 That shall never more go thither 
 
 In their childish joy and glee. 
 
THE BUCKEYE TREE. 135 
 
 There are bits of broken dishes 
 
 Scattered in their latest pla}^ 
 There the rude seat that they fashioned, 
 
 Where the longest branches sway. 
 
 There, in song, their merry voices, 
 
 In the summer days were heard, 
 Mingling with the breeze's rustle 
 
 And the piping of the bird. 
 
 Happy were my little brother 
 And my sister, young and fair, 
 
 When beneath the buckeye's branches, 
 Love or sport was all their care. 
 
 Happy are my little brother 
 And my sister, young and fair, 
 
 While their spirit forms are growing 
 In a more celestial air: 
 
 While the buds that here were opening 
 Hasten to the perfect bloom, 
 
 In the land of life and glory 
 Lying just beyond the tomb. 
 
 Still the green leaves of the buckeye, 
 Through the quiet summer day, 
 
 Seem to whisper they are coming, 
 Only do their feet delay 
 
 'Mid the wild flowers and the roses; 
 
 The} 7 are culling them for me; 
 Culling them to twine a girdle 
 
 Round their fav'rite buckeye tree. 
 
136 RAIN IN JUNE. 
 
 'Tis the breeze alone that whispers 
 'Mid the shining buckeye leaves, 
 
 And love, memory and sorrow 
 Into words the sighing weaves. 
 
 Worthless in the eyes of others, 
 
 Is that little buckeye tree ; 
 . But the memories that surround it 
 Make it very dear to me. 
 
 KAIN IN JUNE. 
 
 The rain is falling, falling, 
 With a constant pattering sound, 
 
 As though it were deftly calling 
 New life from the fruitful ground. 
 
 The rain is falling, falling, 
 Like tears from beauties eyes, 
 
 And dull gray clouds are walling, 
 The fields from sun and skies. 
 
 The ciouds are flying, flying, 
 The Sun will soon be out, 
 
 And nature fresh from crjdng 
 Begin to laus-h and shout. 
 
 For June is like a maiden 
 Of few and joyous years, 
 
 Whose face with dimples laden, 
 Laughs ever through her tears. 
 
THE BROOK. 137 
 
 O! rain, what bounteous treasures 
 
 Thy cheerful drops shall yield, 
 To swell the goodly measures, 
 
 In barn and byre and Held. 
 
 The shining woods shall rustle, 
 And all the growing grain 
 
 Eise up with shimmer and bustle, 
 To greet the pleasant rain. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 Cheerful, sunny brooklet, 
 
 Laugh along thy way, 
 'Mid the wild sweet roses, 
 
 Neath the willow spray, 
 Singing to the lillies 
 
 Nodding on thy rim, 
 Little brook, I thank thee 
 
 For thy happy hymn. 
 
 Thus, upon life's journey 
 
 As I toil along, 
 May my griefs be lightened 
 
 By the gift of song, 
 And the soul-flowers blooming 
 
 By my onward way, 
 Yield their sweetest fragrance, 
 
 For each love-taught lay. 
 
138 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 Merry little brooklet, 
 
 Flowing to the sea, 
 I, too, seek the ocean 
 
 Named eternity. 
 Sinless and rejoicing 
 
 Would that I, like thee, 
 Might go singing onward 
 
 To my parent sea. 
 
 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 There's a glory in the tree and blossom, 
 A trill in the wild bird's tone, 
 
 And balm in the Summery breezes, 
 That love revealeth, alone. 
 
 The poet's friends are leaves and flowers 
 
 That wither, fade and die, 
 The bow whose transient splendor comes, 
 
 To deck a stormy sky. 
 
 In vain he weaves his lays of love 
 
 Few echoes they awake, 
 They fall back on his heart like snow, 
 
 Distilling flake by flake. 
 
 The cold world views him with a frown, 
 
 And passes on its way; 
 But little children in the streets 
 
 Shall greet him at their play. 
 
FRAGMENTS. 139 
 
 Better to rest beneath a cypress tree, 
 
 Than toil upon a sandy desert plain; 
 Better the flame be quenched with tears, than we 
 
 Should die of thirst where comes no genial rain; 
 Then cherish ye the tender buds of love 
 
 Until they spring into a matchless bloom, 
 'Tend ye its sparks until in flames above 
 
 They rise, dispelling shades of earthly gloom. 
 
 'Twas a glorious eve in Autumn, 
 
 All the sky was grand with clouds, 
 Here, like mounts of gold and amber, 
 Yonder rich vermillion curtains, 
 
 There like infant's snowy shrouds; 
 Like a dim lamp in a chamber 
 
 Of some mighty ancient palace, 
 Swung the red sun in the distance, 
 Low and lower down the west: 
 
 Twilight poured her mystic chalice, 
 Into all our longing spirits, 
 As he leaned his monarch forehead 
 
 On the night's ambrosial breast, 
 Closed the evening scene in splendor 
 
 And departed to his rest. 
 
 One soul mounts up on throbbing wings, 
 On throbbing wings of love and prayer, 
 
 Ohe cries "Our Father!" one bat sings, 
 "Thou God, in love, art everywhere !" 
 
 And, ronnd about them from on high, 
 
 Comes blessings like the murmurous tune 
 
 That underneath the ardent sky, 
 
 Pulsates through all the rapturous June. 
 
140 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 I. 
 
 The birds of morning rise and shake 
 The music from their souls again, 
 I hear them in the tangled brake, 
 
 They warble down the shadowy glen; 
 And still to me 
 They seem to be 
 Forever fluting out the call 
 "Come up! come up! 
 The royal feast 
 Is spread for man and bird and beast, 
 With peace on earth good will to all." 
 
 ii. 
 
 The larks fly to th' advancing sun, 
 
 The robins twitter on the tree, 
 And all the small birds raise, as one, 
 Their piping trebles of harmony. 
 And when the noisy day is done, 
 
 The whippowill's sadder melody, 
 From willowy thickets, far or near, 
 
 Resounds through garden, grove and hall; 
 And still to me 
 They seem to be 
 Forever fluting out the call 
 "Come up! come up! 
 The royal feast 
 Is spread for man and bird and beast, 
 With peace on earth good will to all." 
 
CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 
 
CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 
 
 I. THE BELLS. 
 
 I hear the ringing of the bells, the bells, 
 
 Announcing Christ has come, 
 I hear the cannon in the street, 
 
 And the rolling of the drum, 
 And the martial tread of a thousand feet, 
 
 And I ask if Christ has come. 
 
 I hear the ringing of the bells, the bells, 
 
 Proclaiming Christ is here; 
 And I see the children of want and sin, 
 
 Hovering far or near, 
 In the country's quiet, the city's din, 
 
 And I wonder if Christ is here. 
 
 I hear the ringing of the bells, the bells, 
 
 Echoing Christ is king; 
 And I see in a score of Christian lands 
 
 Oppression's brooding wing, 
 And murderous hearts, and bloody hands, 
 
 And I wonder if Christ is king. 
 
144 CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 
 
 I hear the ringing of the bells, the bells, 
 Resounding Christ is known; 
 
 And I see the treachery, know the hate, 
 And the bitter passions, grown 
 
 Alike in the hearts of humble or great, 
 And I wonder if Christ is known. 
 
 I hear the ringing of the bells, the bells, 
 
 Proclaiming Christ is here; 
 And I hear my baby's prattling glee, 
 
 And I bid adieu to fear, 
 For wherever a sinless child may be 
 
 The sweet Christ dwelleth near. 
 
 II. — THE WIDOW'S STORY. 
 
 You remember that poor old lady with the sad and 
 
 wrinkled face, 
 Who a year ago, come Christmas, *sat in this very place. 
 And you remember that good old man we buried a week 
 
 ago, 
 Who seemed to live and labor the will of the Lord to 
 
 know, 
 And whenever he saw before him the work for him to do 
 He strove with his best endeavor to be to the labor true, 
 The folks with the high flung notions, despised his sim- 
 ple ways, 
 And the aristocratic churchmen could never speak his 
 
 praise, 
 For he called them saintly Levites, who, in hours of 
 
 bitterest need 
 Would turn away from the sinner, or let the stranger 
 
 bleed, 
 
CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 145 
 
 Well it chanced one Christmas morning, a year or two 
 
 ago, 
 •This widow lady told him the following tale of woe: 
 "Thev tell me a christian woman, like I profess to be, 
 "Mil t drown the voice of her sorrow and make her heart 
 
 be still, 
 And if her children will leave the Lord for naughty 
 
 ways, then she 
 Mast cut them off forever, as heirs to endless ill, 
 And the elder came and scolded me because, as you 
 
 must know, 
 I went to see my daughter Jane, in a den of vice and woe, 
 Aiid said it was unseemly in a christian woman like me, 
 To enter in at the threshold of a den of infamy, 
 That natural love should all give way before the love of 
 
 the Lord, 
 And if our children are vile and mean that they are 
 
 more abhorred 
 By the dear God above us, and by us should a*lso be, 
 Than hca hen in their filth and crime, in lands beyond 
 
 th sea; 
 And then he ta'kecl of Jane, and said that I had trained 
 
 her well, 
 hit oiten the good Lord tries our faith with the very 
 
 imps from hell, 
 Pat into the forms of our children; and if we love them 
 
 still, 
 As they go in sinful ways, it shows that our carnal will 
 Is not subdued as it should be, and brought in sweet 
 
 accord 
 With the will of the church that worket.h the perfect 
 
 will of the Lord, 
 And so I sat and listened, till my heart was like to burst, 
 And my soul within me was yearning with a fiery burn- 
 ing thirst 
 
146 CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 
 
 That would not be abated nor satisfied at all, 
 
 Till I held Jane up in the arms of prayer once more, to 
 the Lord of all; 
 
 And when I had finished praying, I cannot tell you why, 
 
 It seemed like a peace was round me, from the very 
 courts on high; 
 
 And then I sat and wondered what James would say 
 and do, 
 
 If he could come back in health again, as he left me, in 
 sixty -two, 
 
 For you know he fell at Richmond, a fortnight after he 
 left, 
 
 There, qn the cupboard, you see his cap, that a rebel sa- 
 ber cleft, — 
 
 What would he say, should I tell him that Henry and Jo 
 were dead? 
 
 (Henry died in the Libby, and Josy was shot through 
 the head 
 
 When our boys met Hood at Franklin, — you well remem- 
 ber the time;) 
 
 And how Jane, our only daughter, was led to a life of 
 crime, 
 
 By a high born wretch, who won her, destroyed her, and 
 went his way 
 
 To meet the smiles of the ladies and bask in the cheer- 
 ful day 
 
 Of many a social circle ot wealth and high degree, 
 
 That would close its doors in horror against my girl 
 and me; 
 
 What would he say, should I tell him how the elders, wise 
 and nice, 
 
 Bade me drive Jane from under my roof, for I must not 
 sanction vice, 
 
 JSTor evil in any shape at all, if I would a christian be; 
 
CHRfSTMAS IDYLS. 147 
 
 And so my injured and weeping girl was driven away 
 from me; 
 
 Away from me, dear Lord, away, where could the poor 
 girl go, 
 
 To find a heart in sympathy with all her wrongs and 
 woe? 
 
 Would the pious take her in? Ah no! for even her slight- 
 est tftuch 
 
 Would soil the holy garments of the righteous over much. 
 
 Society, so nice without, so rotten and base within, 
 
 Held up its hands in horror at such a child of sin; 
 
 And the only place in all the world that was open to her 
 you see, 
 
 With a welcome that did not question, was a den of 
 infamy, 
 
 Where fallen women gather to ply their evil trade, 
 
 And receive the smiles of lofty men, where none do 
 make afraid, 
 
 Who would not dare with open hand in the light of open 
 
 day, 
 To meet their soiling touch or point their lives to a bet. 
 
 ter way, 
 Well, thus I questioned myself alone, for an hour or so 
 
 and then 
 I remembered that James, although, he was always the 
 
 best of men, 
 And I had often persuaded him to join the church and 
 
 stand, 
 A candidate elected for a home in Canaan's land, 
 Would ever turn away, and smile, and say with a friendly 
 
 sigh, 
 'My dear, you'll find that the better road lies another way, 
 
 by and by, 
 For they theorize and maunder, to make their own hea- 
 ven sure, 
 
148 CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 
 
 But they'd shut the doors of paradise in the face of the 
 
 struggling poor, 
 And the weary, heavy laden with burdens of care and 
 
 sin, 
 Can find in their priestly language no call to enter in, 
 The touch of their jeweled fingers and sweep of their 
 
 silken skirts, 
 Are not to be "oiled by mechanics, nor the* women who 
 
 make their shirts; 
 They talk of the Lord in the manger, and preach of 
 
 him on the cross, 
 But they melt down that calf of Aaron's, and quarrel 
 
 over the dross; 
 And that woman of Samaria would arouse their saintly 
 
 spleen, 
 And they'd turn up their perfect noses at Mary Magda- 
 lene,' "— 
 "Now hold !" responded the good man, "remember 'tis 
 
 Christmas day, 
 And we should lay all our bitter thoughts and memories 
 
 away. 
 The saints, you tell of, widow, are the leaders, who 
 
 blindly guess 
 That the Church of Christ is builded to the model of 
 
 selfishness, 
 Your James was right I grant it, and yet he was wrong 
 
 I see, 
 That he aimed a blow at the Christian, which should 
 
 fall on bigotry; 
 Go seek 3-our sorrowing daughter, and make her pure 
 
 again, 
 And heaven will guard you safely from the puny wrath 
 
 of men." 
 
CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 149 
 
 III. THE POET. 
 
 The poet rose and passed beneath the eves 
 Whence hung a thousand icy lances down 
 To glow and glitter in the morning beams; 
 And when he saw the sun of Christmas rise, 
 Wandered a-singing thro' the little town; 
 And all the good folks wondered at his songs, 
 And said, "Alas! his mind is lost, is lost; 
 Poor crazy wight, he'll perish in the cold." 
 •The rabble followed jeering as they went, 
 And pelting him with balls of gathered snow, 
 But still he smiled and shook his raven curls, 
 And sang the good old bongs of merry yule, 
 Sang of the infant Christ in manger laid, 
 And of the star that glorified the East 
 Upon the morn of his nativity, 
 Sang of the good St. Nicholas and his gifts 
 To all the happy children in the world. 
 But still they jeered and pelted, so he turned 
 Full face upon the idle vagabonds, 
 And cried aloud. in most discordant tones, 
 "Now here's for vice and sin and ignorance, 
 And boorish actions and brutalit}^! 
 A song that I shall sing for 3^011 and yours, 
 For I perceive 3<our drift and wish your praise 
 And your good will;" and so the song began, 
 The song that, echoed to the very life 
 The inspirations of the vulgar crowd. 
 They paused a moment, heard their meanness take 
 The form of words, and knew their very thoughts 
 In the harsh music; so they turned and fled, 
 Fled from themselves, and all the good folks cried, 
 "The poel is* most wise; a throne! a throne! 
 
150 CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 
 
 Build him a throne and let him sing for us 
 Through all the coming days," but he passed on 
 And umas time they think of him, 
 
 And drink his health at many a steaming board. 
 
 IV. — FROST ON THE PANE 
 
 Not Raphael nor Til 
 
 Nor any grand master, 
 Whose ideal vision 
 
 Was rarer and vaster 
 Than all of the Kaisers 
 
 And monarchs and warriors, 
 Those heapers of treasures 
 
 Those gilded destroyers, 
 Those lords of the world, ' 
 
 In the chivalric ages, 
 Whose deeds are impeaiied 
 
 On historical pages; 
 Not Rubens, the sainted, 
 
 Nor Reynolds, the glorh 
 Ever pictured or painted 
 
 Such .wreathings- victorious, 
 As the frost spirit pas 
 
 Has left on my window 
 In beauty surpassing- 
 All labors that men do 
 And so I am crying 
 
 There's a glory in sorrow, 
 To banish our sighing. 
 
 And whisper, ''To-morrow 
 The skies shall be brighter 
 
 The earth be more foir 
 And our hearts shall l> ■ lighter 
 
 To battle with care." 
 
CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 1.51 
 
 V. — THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 A shrunken form, a motley face, 
 
 Pressed close against the frosty pane, 
 And wistful eyes that peer in vain 
 
 Into the warm and smiling place; 
 
 The warm and smiling place within, 
 
 Where happy faces glow and greet; 
 
 But she, worn bedouin of the street, 
 Can never come, poor child of sin. 
 
 Poor child of sin, the night and storm 
 Shall wrap her in their cold embrace, 
 And icy lips shall kiss her face, 
 
 But we are safe, and we are warm. 
 
 Build high the yule fire, fill the bowl, 
 
 And sing the Christ has come again, 
 
 We celebrate his reign with men, 
 His saving presence in the soul. 
 
 Now spread the costly presents round 
 For those we love; who loves the bad? 
 Let all our hearts be free and glad, 
 
 And flutter to the music's sound. 
 
 But who shall see, or who shall know, 
 The sorrowing man with cross and crown, 
 Go wandering through the giddy town, 
 
 With that poor child of sin and woe? 
 
152 CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 
 
 Perhaps in some Bachante's den 
 
 She meets the kindness we withhold, 
 A shelter from the oiting cold, 
 
 With fallen women, ungodly men. 
 
 Perhaps — but why inquire her fate, 
 Who cares for her or where she rests, 
 Or what va^ue anguish tears her breast, 
 
 And taunts her with her vile estate? 
 
 j 
 
 Hail, happy Christmas ! hail again ! 
 The larger Christian faith that tends 
 To shape all things for happier ends, 
 
 Most serving God by serving men. 
 
 For who so sinful that his sin 
 Proclaims us wardens of his fate, 
 Or bids us shut the shining gate 
 
 And cry, he shall not enter in? 
 
 O ! most humane when most divine, 
 And most divine when most humane, 
 The old is still renewed ; the pain, 
 
 The anguish and the cross are thine! 
 
 Who sleek in satins, white in pearls, 
 
 Or rich with stocks and farms and goods, 
 Seeks out the starving multitudes, 
 
 Or whispers hope to fallen girls? 
 
 O! still as in the elder times, 
 
 Who follows Thee shall know the cross, 
 And count all hate ana pride as loss, 
 
 And vengeful thoughts as bitter crimes. 
 
CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 153 
 
 Build high the yule fire, why complain, 
 Of sorrow in the happy earth, 
 Give this sweet hour to sinless mirth; 
 
 But Oh! the face against the pane; 
 
 Its sad appeal, its mute appeal, 
 
 The wistful gaze, as though she caught, 
 With her weak powers, at better thought, 
 
 And fain would rise to heavenly weal, 
 
 O ! longing eyes and haggard face, 
 
 O ! rags that wrap the unwashed form, — 
 A slim protection from the storm, — 
 
 Begone ! nor haunt this cheerful place. 
 
 Now, at the Christmas would we raise 
 Full high our virtue, we would frowa 
 All sinful passions coldly down 
 
 And give to Christ the purest praise. 
 
 But somehow yet the crown of thorns, 
 
 The saddened features we behold, 
 
 Beyond the window in the cold; 
 And while we sing "A million morns 
 
 Shall glow to noon, then fade to night, 
 
 While the Redeemer's glory burns, 
 
 And every heathen nation turns 
 To join the cross in glad delight;' , 
 
 The sad eyes weeping, turn away, 
 
 And through the music sounds a voice, 
 "Beat on, glad hearts! while you rejoice, 
 
 And night flies swiftly from the day," 
 
154 CHRISTMAS IDYLS. 
 
 "I go to seek the wandering sheep 
 That tremble, just without your door, 
 And bear my Christmas to the poor, 
 
 My comfort to the souls that weep." 
 
 And so they pass into the night 
 
 But love has higher meaning caught, 
 And we are given to nobler thought, 
 
 And hence shall walk in clearer light. 
 
 Now we are happy, we are warm, 
 But could we have it back again, 
 That guilty face against the pane, 
 
 It should be sheltered from the storm. 
 
 So hail! sweet Christmas, hail! again 
 The larger, better faith that tends 
 To shape all things for happier ends, 
 
 Most serving God, by serving men. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THE LESSON.— The Lesson • 9 
 
 Wandering 16 
 
 My Robin 20 
 
 The Fireside 22 
 
 Claribell 25 
 
 The Darkened Room 27 
 
 The Singers 28 
 
 The Toiler's Dream 31 
 
 Rhyme of the Withered Leaves 35 
 
 A Question 37 
 
 Morning Clouds 38 
 
 Morning 39 
 
 M. J. W.— Died at Dawn 41 
 
 Harold's Lament 42 
 
 Ixion 45 
 
 A Prayer 47 
 
 Life and Effort 50 
 
 August 51 
 
 A Song of June 53 
 
 The Pioneer 56 
 
 Experiences 62 
 
 Oralie 65 
 
 Apparitions 67 
 
 The Children 69 
 
 Decoration of Soldiers' Graves 72 
 
 Skapter Jokul. — 1783 75 
 
 Friendship, Love, and Truth 78 
 
156 CONTENTS. 
 
 DAYS OF BATTLE.— Prelude 83 
 
 Indiana's Dead 84 
 
 On Seeing a Photograph op Hackleman 86 
 
 The Proclamation 88 
 
 The Playmate 90 
 
 Liberty 92 
 
 November 8th, 1864 94 
 
 Lincoln. 95 
 
 November 98 
 
 Song of Triumph 100 
 
 EARLIER POEMS. -Prelude 105 
 
 A Winter Walk 106 
 
 Anabel 108 
 
 Freedom 109 
 
 Indian Graves 113 
 
 Ever 115 
 
 Meggy May 118 
 
 The Cemetery 120 
 
 A Summer Poem 121 
 
 Isadore 123 
 
 The Spelling School 124 
 
 Whittier 128 
 
 The Sugar Maple 130 
 
 The Buckeye Tree 134 
 
 Rain in June 136 
 
 The Brook 137 
 
 Fragments 138 
 
 CHRISTMAS IDl'LS.— The Bells , . . . 143 
 
 The Widow's Story 144 
 
 The Poet 149 
 
 Frost on the Pane 150 
 
 The Face at the Window 151 
 
NOTE BY THE PRINTER, WITH ERRATA. 
 
 The author of these poems residing several miles away from 
 our office, and being of necessity very closely engaged in a 
 most arduous business, it has been impossible for him to oversee 
 the printing as closely as would have been best, both for him- 
 self and us, hence a few errors both in matter and punctuation 
 have crept into this first small edition which will be corrected 
 in the next. The critical reader will readily detect them and 
 refer them to their proper source. A few of the most glaring 
 of these errors are, however, noticed below. 
 
 Page 21, 2nd line, 5th stanza, for him read one. 
 
 Page 34, 5th line from bottom, for Sunless read Sinless. 
 ^ Page 42, 1st line of 4th stanza, for Again read A gain. 
 
 Page 47, last line of 4th stanza, for till its avenues are filled, 
 read till all its avenues are filled. 
 
 Page 5^, 7th line, third division, for golds read gold ; last 
 line of same, for past read poet. 
 
 Page 55, 4th line, insert too before with. 
 
 Page 71, 4th line of 4th stanza, for worm read worn. 
 

 J I 
 
 ■ Uli