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TOWN BALLADS AND 
 SONGS OF LIFE; BY 
 ROBERT KIDSON 
 
 PRICE FIFTY CENTS 
 
^ 
 
TOWN BALLADS AND ''^^ 
 SONGS OF LIFE; BY 
 ROBERT KIDSON 
 
 ^^ 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 39 FORT GREENE PLACE 
 
 BOROUGH OF BROOKLYN 
 
 190 1 
 
•fHF iJSRASY OF 
 Two Copies Receives 
 
 ^EC. 
 
 1901 
 
 12 
 
 CorvRIOHT ENTRY 
 
 CLASS ^^OCXo. NO 
 
 
 Copyright, 1901 
 By ROBERT KIDSON 
 
 : :•. ..: *..: : ; •;:•: ; 
 ; ;••. .• : '•.: *• 
 
'J 
 
 i TO 
 
 HAROLD DOUGLAS MacGREGOR 
 
 PRINCE OF GOOD FELLOWS, KINDEST 
 
 AND SEVEREST OF CRITICS, AND 
 
 BEST OF FRIENDS 
 
 THIS LITTLE BOOK IS LOYALLY 
 INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A VOICE FROM THE CROWD. page. 
 
 A Voice from the Crowd ii 
 
 The Battle of Manila Bay 12 
 
 The Old Folks' Choice 14 
 
 A Mother's Heart 17 
 
 The Land of Long Ago 18 
 
 The Carpet Layer's Rug 20 
 
 The Circus Passing By 23 
 
 Muriel 26 
 
 Love or Gold ? 27 
 
 The Outcast 28 
 
 " Let there be Light " 29 
 
 The Robin's Song 31 
 
 With a Child's Eyes 32 
 
 Loved at Last 33 
 
 The Heart's Return 35 
 
 Old Joe 36 
 
 Cast Out 39 
 
 A Black Butterfly 41 
 
 The Sacred Carpet ... 42 
 
 The Secular Carpet 44 
 
 Fancy 46 
 
 The Dead Canary 48 
 
 After Many Days 49 
 
 But what of Years ? 5 1 
 
 CITY-PENT. 
 
 City-Pent 55 
 
 The Tender-Hearted Young Postman 57 
 
 Nature and Human Nature. 59 
 
PAGE. 
 
 The Adventures of a Wilton Carpet 6i 
 
 By Hudson's Shores 64 
 
 The Young Laird 66 
 
 New Year's Chimes 67 
 
 The Open Street Car 68 
 
 Old Friends 69 
 
 Boz 70 
 
 Imprisoned for Life 71 
 
 In the Slums 73 
 
 After the Play 75 
 
 A Comrade of Nature 76 
 
 THE POET'S CORNER. 
 
 The Poet's Corner 83 
 
 The Humbler Poets 84 
 
 For Love Alone 85 
 
 The Troubadours of Song 86 
 
 The Wandering Song 87 
 
 The Common Inheritance 89 
 
 The Rival of the Muse 91 
 
 The Dying Youth 94 
 
 Strange Lights 98 
 
 Winds of Heaven loi 
 
 The Year's Goblet of Life 104 
 
 You and I 106 
 
 ECHOES OF OLD ENGLAND. 
 
 Columbia and Liberty 109 
 
 An Autumn Evening in Yorkshire •_"••• ^^^ 
 
 The Exile 7 113 
 
 Bawtry Church Bells 115 
 
 Yet Once Again 116 
 
 Native Rome 117 
 
 A Country Lane 118 
 
FAGK. 
 
 OTHER WORLDS THAN OURS. 
 
 Other Worlds than Ours 123 
 
 All is not Lost 125 
 
 The City of Destruction 126 
 
 The Inebriate's Prayer 128 
 
 The Harps Reserved 129 
 
 Real Estate 130 
 
 The Tree of Life 131 
 
 By Olive's Mount 133 
 
 MY FRIEND. 
 
 My Friend 139 
 
 Great Gain 140 
 
 His Last Words 143 
 
 By Heaven'.H Eternal Gate 144 
 
A VOICE FROM THE CROWD 
 
A VOICE FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Why should I write a weary poem 
 
 A hundred stanzas long, 
 When I can satisfy my soul 
 
 With little trills of song? 
 
 The lark and nightingale sustain 
 
 Their efforts of delight, 
 The Burns and Byron of their tribe, 
 
 They charm both day and night. 
 
 Piercing the fires of midday sun. 
 The lark, heaven-high sings he, 
 
 And in the impassioned summer night 
 We hear Love's minstrelsy. 
 
 Brown coated, humble and obscure, 
 Seek I my hawthorn bush, 
 
 Nor lark, nor nightingale can daunt 
 The singing of a thrush. 
 
THE BATTLE OF MANILA BAY. 
 
 We steamed into Manila Bay with lights all out 
 
 and dark. 
 The garrison on either side awoke and whispered, 
 
 "Hark!" 
 The throbbing of the engines was all the sound 
 
 we heard, 
 Save the beating of our eager hearts, which loud 
 
 within us stirred. 
 For ho ! to be a sailor lad upon that glorious night, 
 For the morrow was upon us and we hungered for 
 
 the fight. 
 
 We passed the forts on either side, with scarce a 
 
 shot or shell. 
 The enemy was treacherous, we knew his tactics 
 
 well; 
 The waters of Manila Bay were mined with deadly 
 
 care, 
 We knew not what the end would be, or how the 
 
 fleet would fare; 
 But on we steamed to meet the foe, reckless of 
 
 fort or mine; 
 Our coolness was American, the vengeance was 
 
 divine. 
 
 12 
 
Oh! retribution may be slow, and centuries en- 
 sue, 
 
 Ere years of cruelty will end, and tyrants get their 
 due; 
 
 For who shall say we craved a war? ^Twas that 
 the hour had struck ! 
 
 The hour of doom for cruel Spain! the rest ^as 
 Yankee pluck. 
 
 Lord! how the cannon roared and shrieked with 
 shot and angry shell, 
 
 And how we cheered "Old Glory"' in the very teeth 
 of hell! 
 
 At last the intrepid Dewey withdrew his little 
 fleet, 
 
 The cloud of smoke uplifted, and oh ! the air was 
 sweet ! 
 
 We looked to meet the foe once more, the dozen 
 ships of Spain, 
 
 But they had gone below, my boys, to join the gal- 
 lant Maine. 
 
 'Twas ho! to be a sailor lad upon that first of 
 May! 
 
 And live to fight again, my boys, and shout on 
 Dewey Day ! 
 
 13 
 
THE OLD FOLKS' CHOICE. 
 
 ^^Why, madam, you have seen the stock — 
 
 Every carpet I have shown — 
 I cannot treasures new unlock 
 
 From some old chest with rust o'ergrown; 
 I cannot likelier ones recall, 
 
 Nor show you what has not been made — 
 Besides, you seem well pleased with all, 
 
 And I have shown you every grade." 
 
 ''^Oh! I am pleased," she smiling said, 
 
 "And I shall soon decide, I know, 
 I'm sure I'm like some silly maid; 
 
 My husband, too, must quickly go; 
 He is so busy all the time. 
 
 You would not think him sixty-five; 
 His tastes and mine did always chime. 
 
 And always will while we're alive." 
 
 "Oh, sir, my wife is easy pleased, 
 
 And it seems strange she can't decide, 
 I'm always used to being teased. 
 
 But at my age she can't deride; 
 Because — (now, wife, do let me speak; 
 
 Come, now, you got me in this fix) — 
 Though I was sixty-five last week. 
 
 My sweetheart here is sixty-six." 
 
 14 
 
^'Welh wellj 1 do declare !'' she said, 
 
 "To tell my age! and I so old — 
 Forty-five years since we were wed, 
 
 Yet never knew him half so bold ; 
 Td take the carpet with the blue. 
 
 Old Scotland's bluebells all in bloom, 
 But it's too pretty, bright and new 
 
 To put upon a dining-room." 
 
 Then was the salesman much surprised, 
 
 "Too pretty ! goodness me !" said he, 
 And what she thought he ne'er surmised, 
 
 But treated it most jestingly; 
 "If it's too pretty when 'tis laid, 
 
 Eeturn it with that odd complaint. 
 The bill need never then be paid. 
 
 The loss we'll bear for fault so quaint/ 
 
 "JSTay, wife, you jest; it cannot be 
 
 You hesitate for cause so strange; 
 Naught is too beautiful for thee 
 
 From me, who see in thee no change; 
 Though I remember when I thought 
 
 Thy beauty placed thee far from me, 
 Yet my plain face thy favor caught, 
 
 And hand.s(>me men you did not see." 
 
 The salesman ventured not a word. 
 But thought the couple ^^'ondrous sweet, 
 
And listening, all the answer heard, 
 And plainly felt his own heart beat : 
 
 "Husband," she said, "this carpet new 
 Reminds me of my bridal room." 
 
 They took the carpet with the blue, 
 Old Scotland's bluebells all in bloom. 
 
 16 
 
A MOTHEE'S HEART. 
 
 All the children come to me, 
 
 Look up at me, and run to me; 
 
 Little babies peep at me, 
 
 First furtive and then knowingly, 
 
 And soon their wondering eyes will smile. 
 
 And for a moment they beguile 
 
 My care-worn soul to fairyland. 
 
 Oh ! how they come ! they know my loss ; 
 They draw the nails from out my cross. 
 Suffer them. Lord, to come, to come. 
 
 Once, children never noticed me, 
 For then I had a child at home; 
 But now they know the look in rae, 
 And they are sitting ou my knee. 
 Their little arms around my neck. 
 One, two or three, I little reck; 
 I want them all, where once but one 
 Was all I loved — but he is gone. 
 
 What gaze is mine their souls to move? 
 Tt is the hungry look of love; 
 The famine in my heart inspires 
 My weary eyes with restless fires; 
 Mine eyes the wide world sadly roam 
 For that I once beheld at home. 
 
THE LAND OF LONG AGO. 
 
 The hazy land, the misty land, the land of Long 
 
 Ago, 
 How big was I ? How old was I ? Fm sure I do 
 
 not know; 
 I had not learned my A, B, C, I could not spell a 
 
 word, 
 But then my ears were open wide, and what I 
 
 heard I heard. 
 
 My Father seemed like God to me, he was so good 
 and wise; 
 
 And when he spoke, I listened hard, and stared 
 with wondering eyes ; 
 
 Oh ! he knew everything there was, and more be- 
 sides as well. 
 
 And when he didn't speak a word, he knew, but 
 didn't tell. 
 
 My memory was always good, but daily now it 
 
 clears. 
 And brighter grows, as Time goes on, about those 
 
 early years; 
 Who then was all the world to me, both morning, 
 
 noon and night? 
 The sun may shine for grown-up folks, but she 
 
 was all my light. 
 
 18 
 
So, early in the morning, I would wake, but never 
 cry, 
 
 For who would fret when that sweet face was sleep- 
 ing gently by? 
 
 Heaven alone, again like that, can banish all my 
 fears ; 
 
 The memory of her sunny face makes rainbows of 
 my tears. 
 
 It's good for little boys and girls to have a Pa 
 
 like mine; 
 Because he knows so much, you know, and that 
 
 is awful fine; 
 But wouldn't it be awful if we didn't have a Ma ! 
 Well ! I don't know what we would do ; I'll go and 
 
 ask Papa! 
 
 I thought just now I was a child, a little toddling 
 
 tot. 
 Yet I have children of my own — 'tis strange how I 
 
 forgot ; 
 Sometimes we travel backwards, the Past o'er- 
 
 whelms us so — 
 The hazy land, the misty land, the land of Long 
 
 Ago! 
 
THE CARPET LAYER^S RUG. 
 
 A veteran layer sat in his room, 
 
 A third-story back, down town, 
 He minded not the gathering gloom, 
 
 As he smoked in a study brown ; 
 A few of his household gods were left. 
 
 Of his home which was once so neat, 
 And although of his house and wife bereft, 
 
 He still clung to the rug at his feet. 
 
 His wife had died, and he took to drink — 
 
 A thing that most carpet-men shun — 
 And the olden love-chains, link by link. 
 
 Had snapped while his course was run; 
 He had sold his cottage, for what cared he ! 
 
 And he lodged in a down-town street; 
 Though he'd sell his Bible to pay for a spree. 
 
 Yet he clung to the rug at his feet. 
 
 You have all seen many a crazy quilt. 
 But a crazy carpet never — 
 
 I think I can see some jobber wilt, 
 As he says, ^^ell, hardly ever" ; 
 
 20 
 
But I don't mean patterns of ancient Taps, 
 
 For queerness hard to beat^ 
 I refer to mosaics of various naps 
 
 Like the rug at the layer's feet. 
 
 When the veteran worked for people nice, 
 
 Who wanted no scraps left 'round, 
 He would gather the pieces small in size. 
 
 And hurry them off the ground ; 
 So once in a while a piece would come 
 
 In his pocket, in hurry and heat, 
 And then he would take the wee scrap home 
 
 To be patched in the rug at his feet. 
 
 So this was the crazy carpet rug, 
 
 Sewed amid tears and joy; 
 One piece was patched between kiss and hug 
 
 Of a sickly, death-doomed boy; 
 One little bit was Plain Black Filling, 
 
 For Willie, whose death was fleet, 
 And that little piece the layer was killing. 
 
 As he gazed on the rug at his feet. 
 
 Said he, "That carpet of green and gold 
 
 Was the one I laid last May; 
 'Twas the very last one Rogers sold 
 
 Before he dropped dead one day; 
 It was drink killed him — and there's another. 
 
 The roses and heads of wheat; 
 'Twas the leading style when I was a lover," — 
 
 And he knelt on the rug at his feet. 
 
 21 
 
Prom Mecca a prayer-rug need not come. 
 
 We have sacred carpets here— 
 The layer thought of his dear old home. 
 
 And he shed a manly tear; 
 To memory now he swore he owed 
 
 A life, fair, clean and sweet. 
 And he'd live to be worthy of her who sewed 
 
 The patchwork rug at his feet. 
 
THE CIRCUS PASSING BY. 
 
 "Listen! Billy! listen! what can them noises 
 
 ber 
 ("Aw! go to sleep agen. It's dark as thunder! 
 
 can't yer see?'') 
 "It ain't Joneses waggin, nor it ain't Maloney's 
 
 rig; 
 Let's get up and look, Billy, praps its sumthin' 
 
 big! 
 Listen ! Billy ! listen ! I heerd a lion roar ! 
 Maybe we can see sumthin' we never seen afore !" 
 
 n. 
 
 The snow was on the meadows, the snow was on 
 the hill, 
 
 Although the month was April, yet the Winter 
 lingered still; 
 
 The lonely farm-house clock had struck, it was the 
 midnight hour. 
 
 And by an attic window two little forms did cower ; 
 
 Shivering, shaking with the cold, without a mur- 
 muring sigh. 
 
 For great giraffes and elephants ! a circus was 
 going by ! 
 
III. 
 
 A circus never yet had gone along that turnpike 
 road; 
 
 A distant bridge made weak by floods had scared 
 them with their load; 
 
 And so they had to go around, and that's the rea- 
 son why 
 
 Two happy, wondering little boys saw wonders 
 trooping by ; 
 
 Elephants and dromedaries ! and wagons ! and 
 oh ! my ! 
 
 And all the folks a-sleeping, and the circus going 
 by! 
 
 IV. 
 
 •^Say, Billy, let's wake Mother, and she'll praps 
 
 wake Pop as well; 
 Oh ! Billy ! Billy ! let's wake Jack, and let's wake 
 
 Nance and Nell ! 
 Say ! look at that ! oh ! Billy, look ! It ain't a- 
 
 coming here? 
 Is it, Billy ? 00-00-00 ! It does look mighty 
 
 queer !" 
 ("Shut up, wot's teasing yer, be still; that's all 
 
 there is to see; 
 Thejr^ve all gone by. Git over there. Now let a 
 feller be.") 
 
Poor little Joey wished to talk, but Billy wished 
 to think, 
 
 And so they lay awake until their eyes began to 
 blink ; 
 
 The rooster didn't waken them, the donkey with 
 his bray 
 
 Could not disturb their slumbers, although 'twas 
 shining day ; 
 
 And Jack, he grinned like anything, and Nance 
 and Nell looked sly. 
 
 And Pop, he "guessed the kids had seen the cir- 
 cus going by." 
 
 2S 
 
MURIEL. 
 
 She has but lived on earth five years^, 
 
 Little maiden Muriel; 
 A volume small of hopes and fears. 
 Yet prodigal of smiles and tears, 
 
 Wistful, winsome Muriel; 
 And wild at times with joyful cheers. 
 
 Imperial, fair Muriel. 
 
 Coy as a maiden of sixteen, 
 
 Is Little maiden Muriel; 
 Jealous as Egypt's jeweled queen, 
 I swear her eyes are sometimes green, 
 
 The eyes of little Muriel; 
 A flirt in love I oft have been, 
 
 But now I'm tied to Muriel. 
 
 She marshals me with drum and fife, 
 My heart's field marshal, Muriel ; 
 
 She is the tyrant of my life. 
 
 And I am helpless in the strife, 
 Exacting, jealous Muriel; 
 
 She says she is my little wife. 
 Oh, Muriel, my Muriel. 
 
 No other courtier in her train 
 Will she permit, true Muriel; 
 
 No other love she cares to gain, 
 
 A slave she leads me by a chain 
 Of constant love, sweet Muriel; 
 
 Forever hers will I remain. 
 My little sweetheart, Muriel. 
 
LOVE OR GOLD? 
 
 TheyM have me marry Maud, my love. 
 
 The proud, disdainful Maud, 
 And she has gems and gold, my love, 
 
 And fertile acres broad; 
 But all the gold in all the world 
 
 No heart like thine outweighs, 
 And precious stones are dull and dead 
 
 Compared to thy fond gaze. 
 
 What care I for her wealth, my love. 
 
 With thee the world is mine; 
 Her face, they say, is Grecian, love. 
 
 Thy beauty is divine; 
 They tell me if I marry Maud, 
 
 That I am worldly-wise. 
 And gain Society; with thee 
 
 I enter Paradise. 
 
 37 
 
THE OUTCAST. 
 
 "My lady fine, and my sister poor. 
 
 Have shut the door on me, 
 x\nd I have wandered to this lone moor, 
 And here I lie on the earth's cold floor/' 
 
 And she wept so dolefully. 
 
 "Oh! Saviour, who came to die for love. 
 
 And was betrayed," cried she, 
 "Oh ! look on me from Thy throne above, 
 For I was betrayed, and all through love,'' 
 And she wept so dolefully. 
 
 "A sister thou hast in heaven, child, 
 
 And a door to enter in; 
 No longer thy name shall be reviled"; 
 And she heard a voice so sweet and mild ; 
 
 It was Mary Magdalen. 
 
"LET THERE BE LIGHT/' 
 
 Can you not see, my brothers, how great this na- 
 tion grows, 
 
 Emerging from its century of toil and martial 
 throes ? 
 
 How in the year of miracles, the fateful ninety- 
 eight. 
 
 With little effort it became the peer of any state ; 
 
 The equal of the greatest, with ample power to 
 grow? 
 
 Then cease your petty wranglings and let dissen- 
 sions go. 
 
 When this great century was young, with foes on 
 
 every hand. 
 We let not well enough alone, but needs must then 
 
 expand ; 
 To rest content with thirteen States was not our 
 
 lucky star. 
 We raised them up to forty-five, and, thank God ! 
 
 here we are ; 
 And here we mean to stay, my boys, right at the 
 
 same old stand, 
 And no American now lives who says we've too 
 
 much land. 
 
As we crossed the Rocky Mountains, now we breast 
 
 the surging waves. 
 For the islands God has given, sacred with our 
 
 heroes' graves; 
 As we fought to free ourselves, boys, now we fight 
 
 to free the world. 
 With the same old flag above us, by Providence 
 
 unfurled ; 
 For we are strong enough by now to help across 
 
 the sea. 
 And God intends it shall be done ; so, brother, let 
 
 it be. 
 
 There's anti-this and anti-that, but old Time rolls 
 along. 
 
 And Uncle Sam is marching to Expansion's glori- 
 ous song; 
 
 The nation's prosperous through Light, must hold 
 together fast. 
 
 Nor longer be divided by the hatreds of the past ; 
 
 The advocates of isolated selfishness are blind. 
 
 The more United States there are, the better for 
 mankind. 
 
THE KOBIN'S SONG. 
 
 Eedbreast in the cherry tree, 
 Sing a song of love for me ; 
 For my words are few and slow, 
 To delight a girl I know; 
 And, perchance, if she hear thee. 
 She will seek the cherry tree. 
 
 "Mistress Alice, fair and sweet. 
 Didst thou come myself to greet ?" 
 "Nay, good youth, I came to see 
 Wherefore all this melody ?" 
 "Would that I were yonder bird, 
 Then my love song would be heard. 
 
 "If thy love song is for me. 
 That were sweeter melody 
 Than the songs of all the grove. 
 Thee, and only thee, I love." 
 Thou hast won my suit for me, 
 Lucky robin, lucky tree. 
 
 31 
 
WITH A CHILD'S EYES. 
 
 river of my childhood's days ! 
 
 How thou did'st charm me with thy flow. 
 And how the boats in mimic bays 
 
 Came in and out, went to and fro; 
 The boats were walnut shells, the ship8 
 
 Were made of paper, deft and neat ; 
 
 Yet see them coming in the slips, 
 
 Or sailing out, the gallant fleet. 
 
 river of my childhood's days ! 
 
 Thy depths were full of mystery — 
 Monsters were there of fearful ways, 
 
 Thy slimy caverns none might see ; 
 Yet were thy whales but pretty perch. 
 
 Behemoth was a whiskered rat. 
 And Tragedy but mocked my search. 
 
 To show me only some drowned cat ! 
 
 river of my childhood's days ! 
 Thy broad expanse did fill my soul ; 
 
 1 gazed across thee with amaze, 
 
 To see thy proud wide waters roll; 
 To me thou wast the Amazon ! 
 To leave thee was my childhood's loss, 
 Yet once since then I chanced upon 
 Thy narrow stream, and jumped across. 
 
LOVED AT LAST. 
 
 His features were repulsive and his voice 
 
 Was harsh, discordant, full of strident tones; 
 
 It seemed as if, had Nature had her choice, 
 She had created him in other zones. 
 
 Where baboons grin with diabolic scowl. 
 
 And foul hyenas laugh, and jackals howl. 
 
 The two-score years that he had paced this earth 
 No man had dared to call this man his friend ; 
 
 His father passed away before his birth, 
 
 When first he breathed, his mother's life did 
 end; 
 
 His very parents thus were spared the sight 
 
 Of him who filled all others with affright. 
 
 Yet was his soul as beautiful as Truth, 
 
 And kindly actions he performed by stealth; 
 
 Bullied and badgered as a boy and youth. 
 
 As man he had amassed some hard-earned 
 wealth ; 
 
 Yet did men shun him, and fair women scorn 
 
 A man so meanly, so ignobly born. 
 
 33 
 
Once, saving life, he nearly lost his own; 
 
 They bore him midst the lame, and halt, and 
 blind, 
 The nurses passed him, though they heard him 
 moan. 
 They scarce believed that he was of their kind; 
 When a most gracious lady saw them flee. 
 And stayed to nurse him for sweet charity. 
 
 He was so patient in his agony. 
 
 That she divined his spirit's hidden grace; 
 Said she : "I'll stay by thee though others flee. 
 
 Until thou riseth I leave not this place ; 
 To be beside thee is a happy task; 
 I see the man, these others but the mask." 
 
 One day the doctors said that he must die ; 
 
 His noble nurse whispered within his ear: 
 "Live but for me, I love thee," and a cry 
 
 Broke from his soul which none but she might 
 hear; 
 Then bent she do^Ti, and as his spirit passed. 
 She heard him murmur, "I am loved at last !" 
 
 34 
 
THE HEAETS EETURN. 
 
 My little girl has been away ; 
 
 I never thought we'd part ; 
 Oh, where has she been wandering. 
 
 Far from her fathers heart? 
 She did not leave her happy home, 
 
 I saw her night and day; 
 But sad enough at heart was I, 
 
 While she was far away. 
 
 What countries did her soul explore, 
 
 Of curious doubt or fear ? 
 Or was it that her absent mind 
 
 Forgot the loved ones near? 
 We only knew that though our eyes 
 
 Beheld the little maid, 
 Her mind was absent, or her heart 
 
 Away from us had strayed. 
 
 Last night my little girl came back; 
 
 It cost her many a tear ; 
 She once more nestles in my heart, 
 
 Where she has naught to fear; 
 I did not ask her where she'd been. 
 
 What foes she'd had to fight ; 
 For I am satisfied to know 
 
 That she came back last night. 
 
 35 
 
OLD JOE. 
 
 I knew Old Joe as well as I know yon. 
 
 Ay, and far better, the poetic tramp ; 
 Although he^d ne'er a cent nor garments new, 
 
 He was no loafer, nor was he a scamp ; 
 Still was he vagrant in his onter guise, 
 
 A poor lone man you would not think to greet ; 
 Yet was there something in his curious eyes 
 
 Which made you notice him upon the street. 
 
 In Winter, when the streams were frozen o'er. 
 
 He quit the country for the genial town. 
 And always got a job around some store, 
 
 And was industrious, though called a clown; 
 But when the Spring first breathed her welcome 
 breath 
 
 Upon his cheek, his loyalty to prove. 
 Away fled Joe to greet her raised from death; 
 
 He was a tramp, yes, N'ature's Tramp of Love. 
 
 I was a boy when first I noticed Joe, 
 
 And it was Winter when we first did speak ; 
 
 Ah! how he told me what all poets know. 
 How Nature loves her lovers, how to seek 
 
 36 
 
To know her secrets. Strange to see me sit 
 In that old warehouse of a druggist's store, 
 
 And, while Joe worked the pestle, hear his wit. 
 And learn from him of Nature's varied lore. 
 
 Mortar and pestle one day silent v/ere ; 
 
 I asked for Joe and learned that he had fled ; 
 Fair Spring was calling, he had gone to her. 
 
 Nature would help him now to earn his bread; 
 In Spring he gathered watercress, and in the Fall 
 
 Mushrooms and nuts and herbs, and many a dish 
 Of scaly beauties made his Summer all 
 
 That Nature's humble lover e'er could wish. 
 
 Searching for ferns one golden Summer's daj^. 
 
 Amidst the shadows of old Swinnow Wood, 
 Crowned with the glory of a single ray 
 
 Of sunshine, rare old Joe transfigured stood; 
 Within his nut-brown hand my hand he held ; 
 
 What he was like to me my memory sees — 
 Like Druid poet, or seer of eldest eld. 
 
 My chosen priest of Nature's mysteries. 
 
 "I want," said Joe, "to die in Summer time, 
 
 Lying amongst the wheat in some hedge-side, 
 Near to a brook that ever runs to rhyme, 
 
 A brook whose babblings never seem to chide; 
 It's voice is Nature whispering to me. 
 
 There my forget-me-nots and lilies grow; 
 The birds will sing as I die peacefully. 
 
 And as I to a country-heaven go." 
 
 * * * * 5!s * * 
 
 37 
 
The reapers came into a field of wheat, 
 
 And mowing merrily they neared the brook, 
 When by the hedge-side they heard singing sweet, 
 
 Which made them in amazement stand and look ; 
 There were Joe's choristers ! From Nature here 
 
 To Nature's God his loyal soul had gone ; 
 Nature he loved; he craved no human tear. 
 
 Only the brook went weeping, babbling on. 
 
CAST OUT. 
 
 "Go out inio the highways and hedges, and com- 
 pel them to come in, that my house may be filled/' 
 — Luke xiv:23. 
 
 I. 
 
 His sin was low, his mind was great. 
 His sin had held him captive long ; 
 ^^tRLi?^ He lived with men of low estate, 
 
 ^^^^' And yet his soul was full of song; 
 
 h\montTtfe His youth was crosscd, his life was curst, 
 JhaiTneVer And ou hc grcvclcd iu the dark; 
 forgive him." ^^^ ^^ ^^^^ pardoned at the first, 
 
 He had not missed his life's great mark. 
 
 WHAT THE 
 
 WORD 
 
 SAYS. 
 
 " He that is 
 without sin 
 among you, let 
 him first cast a 
 stone. "—John 
 viii., 7- 
 
 II. 
 
 " It is to be 
 hoped he wiU 
 suffer all he 
 desei-ves." 
 
 Though herding in the lowest parts 
 
 Of the grim city, foul and dark. 
 His memory told of happy hearts. 
 
 His heart flew hovering 'round an ark; 
 The ark of home of years ago, 
 
 Of sisters once so dear to him. 
 Of brothers dead; and, thinking so, 
 
 Eemorse did tear the specter grim. 
 
 "Thy sins 
 are forgiven. 
 Go in peace." 
 —Luke vii., 48- 
 50. 
 
III. 
 
 "We hear 
 h e repented, 
 but he has dis- 
 graced us, and 
 we can never 
 visit him,'" 
 
 And so his life for him is marred. 
 
 His thoughts are only thoughts of dread 
 He sees black cliffs all burnt and charred, 
 
 He sees the rising of the dead ; 
 He sees the waste of waters heave. 
 
 He sees the rocks in chaos hurled; 
 He sees confusion — no reprieve — 
 
 A sinner still, a ruined world. 
 
 "For this 
 my son was 
 dead, and is 
 alive again; he 
 was lost, and 
 is found." — 
 Luke XV., 24. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And yet his soul is full of song, 
 His memory plays its merry lute; 
 " He asked Oh, he has been a sinner Ions:, 
 
 i to assist o(i n 1 1 1 -. 
 
 bhall he be always destitute? 
 
 us 
 
 him to recover 
 
 himself, but no i • i 
 
 penny of ours He sccs bris^ht picturcs in the fire, 
 
 shall ever help ° ^ ' 
 
 him." 
 
 Surely his life is at its worst; 
 His fate had never been so dire. 
 Had he been pardoned at the first. 
 
 "Bring forth 
 the best robe, 
 and put it on 
 hi m ."—Luke 
 XV., 22. 
 
 ^'^Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast 
 out."— John vi:37. 
 
 40 
 
A BLACK BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Others are decked in rainbow hues. 
 
 To match the sunbeam's track ; 
 Thou art disguised in robes of jet. 
 
 Thy very heart is black ; 
 Yet findest thou a mate as dark. 
 To flirt him as th y prize ; 
 Joyous enough, though ostracized 
 As two black butterflies. 
 
 What crawling worm, thy ancestor. 
 
 Bequeathed thee tainted blood. 
 As from the chrysalis of Time 
 
 Emerged thy maidenhood ? 
 The Summer sun seems out of place 
 
 To light thy giddy flight, 
 And Pleasure's myriad lamps of sin 
 
 Prove thee a moth by night. 
 
THE SACKED CARPET. 
 
 All things are worshipped in the lieu of God, 
 
 From suns, and solar systems, and the stars, 
 Down to the very flowers Grecian trod. 
 
 And even ghastly relics of mad wars; 
 The meek-eyed kine, with their sad, patient stare. 
 
 From whom the imprisoned lo's spirit shines. 
 And serpents charmed by some wild Asian air, 
 
 All have their worshippers, and all their shrines. 
 
 See from Cairo^s gates a pageant pass. 
 
 Pompous and proud, whose jewels in the sun 
 Reflect and scintillate like sea of glass, 
 
 And by whose side the ragged gamins run; 
 See in its train devoted followers walk — 
 
 A strange procession, fired by ardent zeal — 
 Hear how these earnest Turks and Arabs talk. 
 
 The firm, unreasoning faith the Moslems feel. 
 
 Now all have risen, and procession form. 
 
 And each in that strange pageant takes his part. 
 
 And they will go through sunshine or through 
 storm. 
 For on a distant shrine they set their heart ; 
 
The Sacred Carpet bear they tenderly, 
 
 Where once, long years ago, the Prophet knelt. 
 
 And until Mecca's walls they dimly see, 
 No toil is hard, nor any hardship felt. 
 
 Mnte relic of an old benighted faith. 
 
 What power hast thon, and wherefore eloquent? 
 The burning words thy priest so grandly saith 
 
 Are backed by lives abstemious, and in tent 
 Or tentless, 'neath hot suns or drenching rains, 
 
 Ever the same in prayer to Allah true ; 
 No wonder faith sincere, and glittering fanes, 
 
 Convince the stolid Turk and poor Hindoo ! 
 
 Carpets were never holy, only rare. 
 
 Whether from Western looms or from the East, 
 Or curious rugs picked up at Asian fair. 
 
 Or sanctified by some religious feast ; 
 Unworthy adoration, though we find 
 
 A carpet so unique, and so inwrought 
 With figures whose rare colors dazzling blind 
 
 The aesthetic fancy and minds culture-taught. 
 
 What then is sacred ? why, poor common straw. 
 
 On which the Saviour lay, and Mary trod. 
 And the green grass which earliest manhood saw, 
 
 And, wondering, admired as the Rug of God. 
 But luxury to favored races given, 
 
 Hath for the covering of its floors and walls, 
 Fabrics which make our homes an earthly heaven, 
 
 And modern parlors rival Caesar^s halls. 
 
 43 
 
THE SECULAR CARPET. 
 
 Of sacred carpets we have heard and read, 
 
 And many a Mecca prayer-rug we have seen. 
 And as we gazed upon its colors dead. 
 
 Have been enjoined to scrutinize its sheen; 
 And if we criticized its worn-out fringe, 
 
 We were informed the rug was most unique ; 
 And strange, unheard-of names would make us 
 cringe 
 
 And say, "We know how choice are rugs an- 
 tique." 
 
 Rugs from whose depths the desert sand would 
 
 fly- 
 
 A Persian powder that will make you sneeze; 
 And if worn through, the price would then be high, 
 
 Because worn through by Oriental knees; 
 And if Hwas crooked when it should be square, 
 
 A price would rest on its deformity, 
 "For His a gem picked up at Asian fair. 
 
 Its ugliness but shows its purity." 
 
 Romance may linger in the storied East, 
 
 And drain the dregs of many an ancient chalice, 
 
 And Poetry and History sit and feast 
 At gorgeous banquets in a ruined palace; 
 
 44 
 
Romance but lingers ! she is sick at heart ; 
 
 A rug is all that's left ! and sorrows warp it ; 
 For she is leaving every Asian mart 
 
 To find repose upon a Vfilton carpet. 
 
 "Westward the course of empire," and Romance — 
 
 The Nights Arabian are distant myths ; 
 The rugs that figure in the Houri's dance 
 
 Must now give way before a rug of Smith's ; 
 The banner "star-bespangled" we uphold, 
 
 New York is more to us than Daghestan, 
 And ancient flags and rugs and cloth of gold 
 
 Give place to modern art, American ! 
 
 Bokhara, bosh ! Agra, 'tis aggravating ! 
 
 Cashmere ! yes, there's the point, it is mere cash ; 
 The female heart was ever thus pulsating 
 
 With wild excitement for financial dash; 
 If names are wanted, we have one to boom, 
 
 Before which Kidderminster pales, and wealth- 
 ier 
 In limitless resources, and whose loom 
 
 Exalts a glorious Philadelphia ! 
 
 Sing we the Secular, the carpet modern — 
 
 The fabric of the West, the prairie flower ; 
 Away with mummies' prayer-rugs, fllth-ensodden. 
 
 Give us the fair new carpet of the hour ; 
 Woven with wool which lately roamed the hills, 
 
 Dyed with the colors of our latest blooms — 
 Give us the latest truths which Faith distills. 
 
 Nor bring us rugs from Superstition's tombs. 
 
 45 
 
FANCY. 
 
 A satyr with a weird look 
 
 And measured step, advancing slow. 
 Betook him to a shallow brook, 
 
 And on his reeds began to blow. 
 
 The sound made autumn woodlands ring, 
 And slender willows shook with glee, 
 
 And hazel trees their nuts did fling, 
 Oh, merrily ! oh, merrily ! 
 
 And brown-winged birds did burst their hearts 
 At sound of such strange symphonies. 
 
 For well the satyr knew his parts. 
 And all his secret melodies. 
 
 And pink-lined shells came down the brook 
 
 With fairy occupants within. 
 Entranced to hear and shyly look 
 
 At picture of melodious sin. 
 
 And bubbles rose and bubbles fell, 
 
 And brown leaves floated down the stream, 
 
 The satyr was the first to tell 
 
 The fairies that 'twas all a dream. 
 
For Monday morning came again, 
 And plowmen turned the humid soil. 
 
 And frogs leapt out mid lapse of rain; 
 So Fancy's naught, and man must toil. 
 
 II. ] 
 
 No satyr and no fairy lives. 
 
 But Fancy lives for evermore, 
 And so Imagination gives 
 
 To Fancy's sea a fabled shore; : 
 
 And so Imagination keeps " J 
 
 A merry ring of fairies still ; i 
 
 The satyr laughs, the fairy weeps, 
 At pleasure of the poet's will. 
 
 For in the mind all myths have place, 
 
 And there are skies of richer hue, ; 
 
 And there are forms of fairer grace, i 
 
 Than ever ancient Grecian knew. I 
 
 47 
 
THE DEAD CANARY. 
 
 Poor little warbler ! patient sufferer, 
 
 In kind confinement, yet a prisoner still; 
 
 Thy nervous, clear-toned voice is mute forever, 
 No more the early morn will hear thy trill. 
 
 We'll miss thee more than some whose voice is hu- 
 man, 
 
 Thine efforts always were to lighten care; 
 The only grief which ever made us mourn thee 
 
 Was when thy tiny death we had to bear. 
 
 It may be thou art now more beautiful. 
 And in a purer air thy notes arise. 
 
 Flitting from bough to bough 'midst song eternal, 
 A veritable bird of Paradise. 
 
 48 
 
AFTER MANY DAYS. 
 
 Where is my lover gone ? The ground 
 Ne'er captive held so bright a soul; 
 
 Oh ! spirits of th' ethereal bound. 
 Tell me as planets silent roll, 
 Tell me my lover's final goal. 
 
 Is yon bright star which clearly shines 
 Through all the brilliant realm of night 
 The place of my lost love's delight, 
 
 And does he know how my heart pines ? 
 
 I held him and he slipped my grasp. 
 
 And disappeared beneath the sod ; 
 How could he break so firm a clasp? 
 
 They said he had gone home to God ; 
 
 That I must kiss my Maker's rod. 
 My heart was never built to bear 
 
 The breaking of so strong a yoke ; 
 
 I could but rave, I bent, I broke. 
 For I had more than mortal's share. 
 
 Now I am old, and he is young. 
 Forever young 'mid spirits blest ; 
 
 Would that my grief had been unsung, 
 If it should mar his spirit's rest. 
 Time puts true love to surest test ; 
 
And though my hair is silvered o'er^, 
 And though my eyes have feeble grown, 
 So that I scarce can read this stone, 
 
 Yet do I love him more and more. 
 
 Are his fair angel comrades kind 
 
 To one a mortal so adored? 
 And will these eyes so nearly blind 
 
 Once more behold my earthly lord? 
 
 Will he relieve me of Love's hoard ? 
 Will he be waiting on the shore ? 
 
 How strange ! — Oh, take me by the hand, 
 
 For I am near the ^^pirit land 
 Where they shall never part us more. 
 
 50 
 
BUT WHAT OF YEAES? I 
 
 An accident of Time alone 
 
 Makes me too old for you, j 
 
 For you are only twenty-one, i 
 
 And I am forty-two. 
 
 ■j 
 
 Yet the discrepancy of age • 
 
 Each day will disappear ; I 
 
 For you will follow me so true, | 
 
 And I will linger near. ' 
 
 How soon a score of years will pass [ 
 
 With love like ours will be : 
 
 When you are forty-two yourself, ;■ 
 
 And I am sixty-three. J 
 
 But what of years ? Eternal Love ; 
 
 Counts not our date of birth ; ■ 
 
 We both commenced to live the day i 
 
 When first we met on earth. ' 
 
 51 
 
CITY-PENT. 
 
CITY-PEISTT. 
 
 Surrounded by the noisy strife 
 Of daily toil and city life, 
 I yet maintain my fancy free, 
 A recluse from the world to be. 
 
 At eventide I can retire, 
 Unvexed, beside my cosy fire, 
 And with my books I soon may be 
 Amidst a goodly company. 
 
 I know a place I can behold 
 The sunset with its wealth of gold. 
 And oft I see the sun arise. 
 Though all asleep the city lies. 
 
 Moon, planets, stars and varied clouds, 
 May be to some unseen as shrouds. 
 Yet I their glories still may greet 
 From out the city^s somber street. 
 
 The city's park, a wondrous realm. 
 May well a simple soul overwhelm. 
 With fairest flower, leaf and tree. 
 And hints of grander forestry. 
 
 55 
 
Birds, squirrels, butterflies, and all 
 The inirth of Nature^s carnival. 
 Within the city's park suffice 
 For nature's larger paradise. 
 
 So, as I tread the city's ways, 
 For love of Nature, God I praise. 
 And thank Him for this gracious leaven. 
 And seek a country-place in heaven. 
 
 56 
 
THE TENDEE-HEARTED YOUNG 
 POSTMAN. 
 
 I know I^m tender-hearted, 
 
 But how can I help that ; 
 And when I rap a rat-tat-tat 
 
 My heart goes pit-a-pat ; 
 For well I know the missive 
 
 Some dreadful news may hold, 
 Or else be filled with joy and peace, 
 
 And words as good as gold. 
 
 At Number IB, Jennie 
 
 Got letters once a week; . 
 I knew 'twas from her lover. 
 
 Her eyes would always speak ; 
 The postmark was from Texas ; 
 
 One day a paper came — 
 Now her mother takes the letters. 
 
 None come in Jennie^s name. 
 
 A widow lives at 30, 
 Her son is on the main, 
 
 The postmark once was Malta, 
 And then a port in Spain ; 
 
 57 
 
I think I^d give a dollar 
 If I could knock once more, 
 
 With hope for N^umber 30, 
 To say her lad's on shore. 
 
 I hate to take a letter 
 
 To poor old 43, 
 For what has come there lately 
 
 He doesn't care to see ; 
 He's got so many children 
 
 And tries to keep up style ; 
 His notes are all from tradesmen, 
 
 An agonizing pile. 
 
 But you should see the fellow 
 
 At Number 51 ; 
 His packages are bulky, 
 
 His looks are woe-begone ; 
 They say that he's a poet ; 
 
 To ring his bell I hate. 
 For only through the post-office 
 
 His verses circulate. 
 
 Oh, I could talk forever. 
 
 My bag is full of fate; 
 Some letters cheer a houseful. 
 
 And some they desolate ; 
 But why am I so tender ? 
 
 Because my heart would quail 
 If a letter for the postman 
 
 Were not in each week's mail ! 
 
 58 
 
NATUKE AND HUMAN NATUKE. 
 
 Once Nature only soothed my woes, 
 
 And stilled the heart's tumultuous throes ; 
 
 The little bird on hawthorn tree 
 
 Sang out life's plaintive elegy ; 
 
 And mountain torrents curbed my will. 
 
 And Nature whispered, "Peace, be still/" 
 
 Meek violets caught my fretful tear, 
 And daisies stared my woes to hear ; 
 Wild roses laughed to see me fume, 
 And offered me their sweet perfume ; 
 Lilies rebuked my senseless pride, 
 And bluebells rang for me a bride. 
 
 How well I loved the shady nook 
 Beside the rippling pebbly brook. 
 With ferns o'erhung and trailing vine; 
 How many welcomings were thine, 
 Nature ! Thy lovers' trysting place. 
 Where first I learned to love thy face. 
 
 But now I seek my city home, 
 A thousand instincts bid me come; 
 For I have learned to love the sight 
 Of crowded streets by day and night. 
 Since human nature fills the heart 
 Which once with Nature dwelt apart. 
 
Oh, loving hands I soon shall grasp, 
 And with endearing warmth enclasp; 
 Oh, eyes which look to me for mirth. 
 And watch and wait for Song's bright birth 
 No wonder Nature has no charms 
 When I am flying to your arms. 
 
THE ADVENTUEES OF A WILTON 
 CARPET. 
 
 In a city mansion there was laid 
 
 A Wilton^ firm and fair, 
 For its brilliant parlors newly made 
 
 To welcome a happy pair ; 
 For many a day no children passed 
 
 Across its handsome pile, 
 But they came rollicking round at last, 
 
 In the good old-fashioned style. 
 
 A parlor carpet it had been 
 
 For many a formal year. 
 When in a nursery 'twas seen, 
 
 With its flowers crushed and sere; 
 It seemed to brighten with children's mirth, 
 
 And was not so stiff and proud; 
 'Twas the happiest carpet on the earth, 
 
 So merry with laughter loud. 
 
 But children grow and wear carpets out. 
 So this product of Jacquard loom 
 
 In the cold world began to shift about, 
 And got in an auction room ; 
 
 61 
 
It gazed around with disdainful air. 
 Twenty years a rich man's guest. 
 
 Though humbled, its ancient pride was there, 
 'Twas thicker than all the rest ! 
 
 It went at last to a boarding house. 
 
 Whose parlors it made bright, 
 And the boarders gaily did carouse 
 
 One jolly Winter's night; 
 But the hostess raised the price of board. 
 
 Her parlors looked so gay; 
 And so, to help increase her hoard. 
 
 The handsome Wilton lay. 
 
 Again it was sold for "second hand,^' 
 
 For its pile was getting bare, 
 'Twas hard to believe it was ever grand. 
 
 But its backbone still was there; 
 It shrank from the touch of a grimy fist. 
 
 But welcomed an honest eye. 
 And left a world where it was not missed, 
 
 For a tenement next the sky. 
 
 We saw it once in a quiet street, 
 
 Made boisterous with mirth. 
 And our old-time friend we paused to greet 
 
 As it lay upon the earth ; 
 A drum and a flute made a noise forlorn, 
 
 A mountebank passed the hat, 
 For the Wilton, smaller, faded and worn. 
 
 Was the rug of an acrobat. 
 
Oh, seek not now in the city vast : 
 
 For the old patrician swell, 1 
 
 it has found a country home at last, i 
 
 And its end no man can tell; \ 
 
 It covers a poor man's pig-pen now, j 
 
 It has reached the lowest plane, ; 
 
 But a Wilton's spirit naught can cow, j 
 
 For it still keeps out the rain! .' 
 
BY HUDSON'S SHORES. 
 
 Whence Hows this noble river? 
 
 It flows from North to South; 
 Where flows so full a river, 
 
 There can be little drouth; 
 But I am still a-thirsting 
 
 To drink of other streams, 
 For I have seen a city, 
 
 Arising from my dreams ! 
 
 Manhattan ! Oh, Manhattan ! 
 
 I found thee by the mouth 
 Of this same noble river, 
 
 Which flows from North to South ; 
 And of thy streams and fountains 
 
 Have I not drunk my fill ? 
 Yet am I st^'^1 a seeker, 
 
 For I am thirsting still. 
 
 The fount of love was poisoned, 
 
 For by its side I fell ; 
 The stream of gold was molten 
 
 With fire of nether hell ; 
 The cup of fame I longed for, 
 
 That was my farthest goal ; 
 All else I freely paid for, — 
 
 That would have cost my soul. 
 
River of Life Eternal, J 
 
 I seek thy happy shore; ^ 
 
 When once I drink thy waters, ] 
 
 Then I shall thirst no more; j 
 
 I sought an earthly city, I 
 
 Where the proud waters roll ; ' 
 I knew not when I started, 
 
 The thirst was in my soul ! ' 
 
THE YOUNG LAIRD. 
 
 Nobler than all his brothers, he 
 
 In exile spends the weary years; 
 Yet is his soul forever free, 
 
 Nor bound by dull convention's fears ; 
 Lordly his lavish living once, 
 
 Now humbly he his living earns, 
 Expatriated for the nonce; 
 
 His faults were those of Robbie Burns. 
 
 His wealth, in trying to keep pace 
 
 With the swift current of his blood. 
 Languished in so unfair a race. 
 
 As any vanquished racer would; 
 He saw his wealth at last depart. 
 
 And now he waits till Fortune turns; 
 Contented with his wealth of heart. 
 
 The only wealth of Robbie Burns. 
 
 I met him, I an exile, too, 
 
 I met him on a foreign strand; 
 We looked each other through and through. 
 
 And quickly grasped each others hand; 
 No need each other's life to tell. 
 
 The sympathetic heart soon learns; 
 We both had erred; I loved him well, 
 
 For his own sake and Robbie Burns. 
 
 66 
 
NEW-YEAE'S CHIMES. 
 
 We are the latest heirs of Time; 
 
 The ancient squire silent lies, 
 Who, years agone, heard this same chime 
 
 Of village hells ; whose wistful eyes 
 Glanced eagerly across the plain, 
 
 And scanned with greed these snowy fields ; 
 Now they are ours — the garnered grain 
 
 For squires dead no pleasure yields. 
 
 Time ! what joyous heirs are thine ! 
 
 Whose child is this I call my bride? 
 Along the old ancestral line 
 
 What myriad shadowy lovers glide; 
 Procession formed to march to rhyme. 
 
 And lovers all, and old maids none ; 
 We are the latest heirs of Time, 
 
 We'll keep the pageant moving on. 
 
 We are the happy heirs in line 
 
 Of great republics long since dead, 
 Whilst tyrannies, old world, are thine ! 
 
 But here fair Freedom lifts her head — 
 America — par excellence ! 
 
 The bells of Heaven ring our chimes, 
 God's Love is our inheritance, 
 
 And heirs are we to better times. 
 
THE OPEN STREET CAR. 
 
 My neighbor owns a pair of bays. 
 
 And drives abroad in state; 
 His coachman awes the whole affair, 
 
 So pompous and sedate; 
 My drivers fill the city's vrays. 
 
 And watch for me afar ; 
 They laugh and nod and crack their whipt 
 
 As I jump on the car. 
 
 The open street car suits my mood, 
 
 As it goes rolling by, 
 I just as soon escape the crowd, 
 
 And greet the open sky ; 
 The urban and suburban air 
 
 Is just as sweet to me, 
 As if I drove a spanking team 
 
 For poorer folks to see. 
 
 Ten thousand horses prance for me, 
 
 What Caesar e'er had more; 
 I worry not to urge the groom 
 
 To lock the stable door ; 
 A nickle pays for each long drive, 
 
 I bless my free estate, 
 And I escape that coachman grand. 
 
 So pompous and sedate. 
 
OLD FKIENDS. 
 
 Ten thousand horse ! ten thousand horse ! 
 
 It seems a mighty host ; 
 Yet they were ever riderless. 
 
 Driven from post to post ; 
 They never trod, in martial pride. 
 
 The bloody fields of war; 
 Patient with toil they jogged along, 
 
 Dragging a Brooklyn car. 
 
 The trolley came, the horses went 
 
 Back to the fields again; 
 Ten thousand homesick toilers they, 
 
 Back to the Western plain ; 
 Glad to escape the city's strife 
 
 Where stoutest hearts oft fail, 
 They toss their manes in honest pride. 
 
 And sniff the scented gale. 
 
 We never bade our friends good-bye, 
 
 They vanished in the night ; 
 Ten thousand life-long friends, and yet 
 
 No word to mark their flight ; 
 Farewell ! wherever you may be. 
 
 Our old-time friends, farewell ! 
 And may you thrive and soon forget 
 
 The street car's tinkling bell. 
 
The motley crowd is passing by, 
 
 Along the busy street, 
 And midst the concourse we descry 
 
 Some faces which we greet; 
 We know them by a secret sign, 
 
 Eeal women and real men, 
 For they are friends of yours and mine 
 
 Through Dickens' faithful pen. 
 
 There, mounted on a tally-ho, 
 
 Goes Pickwick to the race. 
 And little Emily below. 
 
 Walks by with saddened grace; 
 Old Weller hastens on as well. 
 
 To find his son and see 
 That Sammy in the court shall spell 
 
 His surname with a "we/' 
 
 So human nature, in our heart. 
 
 Lives on, and thrives for aye. 
 While creatures of imagined art 
 
 Die in their little day; 
 We hear Micawber talking loud, 
 
 Nor has he ceased a minute; 
 And seldom have we seen a crowd 
 
 Without Charles Dickens in it. 
 
 70 
 
IMPRISONED FOR LIFE. 
 
 We found him in a vile retreat. 
 
 Reeking with fumes of gin; 
 It seemed the very last resort 
 
 Of those accurst of sin; 
 Yet did he gaily call for wine. 
 And gaze around with brow benign. 
 
 His clothes but ill became a man 
 Who clothed his thoughts so well 
 
 That they were welcome everywhere 
 Where reading mortals dwell; 
 
 For he had written words of note. 
 
 Which made men eloquent to quote. 
 
 We asked him for the love of heaven 
 To leave these human slums; 
 
 He looked reproachfully, and said — 
 "The lowest were his chums" — 
 
 The dregs of life made sweet his cup, 
 
 And none but he could drink it up. 
 
 He said ^Tie liked the shady class. 
 And cared not for his name; 
 
 Honest in their dishonesty. 
 They put the rich to shame ; 
 
 And Christ Himself preferred to save 
 
 Brave thieves, and sinners of the pave.^ 
 
 71 
 
And when he died we came again, 
 And found him all alone; 
 
 We buried him beneath the moon^ 
 And graved upon a stone : 
 
 ^^Here lies the body, left behind, 
 
 Once prison of a noble mind." 
 
 72 
 
IN THE SLUMS. 
 
 She is dying— a hag— at two-score years, 
 
 She is dying— good friend, come in ; 
 And where are the friendly words and tears, 
 
 And prayers for this wreck of sin 'f 
 She was once a girl, though never a child. 
 
 For vice made her childhood wise 
 With knowledge forbidden, and luster wild 
 
 Danced in her uncanny eyes. 
 
 Shriveled, repulsive, ugly and old. 
 
 Can it be she was ever fair. 
 With eyes of blue, and tresses of gold, 
 
 And her youth's mad scorn of care ? 
 Can it be that these eyeballs, lit of hell. 
 
 Ever mimicked the look of love ? 
 She is dying— a hag— let her die, 'tis well, 
 
 She may yet be saved above. 
 
 Why ? Why ! because in her wretched life 
 
 No ray of light has gleamed; 
 She was born in mud, she escaped in strife 
 
 To the one bad life she dreamed; 
 Her brain was of quality poor and low, 
 
 Only gin made her mad head dance, 
 She never got more than a crust, and so 
 
 She may have nnother chance. 
 
 78 
 
We have sinned more than she ever did. 
 
 Sinned against Light and Love, 
 And yet we trust that our sins are hid. 
 
 And hope to be saved above ; 
 Begrudge her not her penitence. 
 
 When so late she hears His Name; 
 The heathen are Christ^s inheritance. 
 
 But some are the Christian's shame. 
 
 74 
 
AFTER THE PLAY. 
 
 Turning from thee my lately ravished eyes, 
 
 I gaze on vacancy with wond'ring stare, 
 When from strange chaos there doth then arise 
 
 Visions of earth and sea, and of the air, 
 Sirens and fays and forms ethereal, 
 
 thou sweet feeder of my sensuous muse, 
 Love thou transfigurest ! nor could I tell 
 
 Of all thy witcheries the magic use. 
 Thine art hath led me to the classic brink 
 
 And thought-inspiring flow of Avon's stream. 
 Where I divine true poets ever drink 
 
 Of Truth and Beauty, and with Shakespeare 
 dream. 
 Without thee Rosalind had never sighed. 
 Or lived for me, nor Cleopatra died. 
 
 75 
 
A COMRADE OF NATURE. 
 
 I have a brother, chained to Trade, 
 
 A galley slave is he. 
 Yet oft he makes a glad escape, 
 
 Exulting to be free. 
 
 Indoors for long he cannot stay. 
 
 It breaks his buoyant heart; 
 Oft when the counter counts him safe, 
 
 He and the counter part. 
 
 The only place he ever kept 
 
 Without the least unrest. 
 Was when he nestled for awhile 
 
 Close to his mother's breast. 
 
 Alas ! a lass he never took 
 To cheer him when a man; 
 
 From such a loving mother's arms 
 To hers he never ran. 
 
 The journey of a man should be 
 
 Proudly to round his life. 
 From one breast to another fly, 
 
 His mother and his wife. 
 
 76 
 
It was not that he could not find i 
 
 A mate who knew his call ; i 
 
 He gazed with favor on the sex, , 
 
 And lo ! he loved them all. ' 
 
 A bachelor and growing gray, i 
 
 He has not saved a cent, | 
 
 For money is such sordid stuff, I 
 
 He spent it as he went. ; 
 
 Many a quaint old English town 
 
 Has held him for a spell ; 
 He'd give his situation up 
 
 If he did not feel well. 
 
 And 'Vell-a-day !" he never was 
 
 Well, when inside a store. 
 For of all trades the dry-goods trade 
 
 His very soul did bore. 
 
 Oh ! to escape and fly the town. 
 To keep fair Nature's tryst. 
 
 To tread on air, and feed on light, 
 A blackthorn in his fist. 
 
 Some thought he was a rolling stone 
 That never gathered moss, 
 
 But he had wealth within his soul 
 To which their wealth was dross. 
 
 77 
 
Some said he was a "ne"er-do-well/^ 
 Yet chose he the best part; 
 
 They had the gold within their purse, 
 And he within his heart. 
 
 Dogs, children, birds, and everything 
 That breathed, were all his pets ; 
 
 He gave himself to all, and so 
 He paid in full his debts. 
 
 His letters are like fairy lore. 
 
 His stories full of fun. 
 His repartee like lightning stroke. 
 
 His fancy prone to pun. 
 
 And old and young, and rich and poor. 
 Children and grave old men. 
 
 Would listen breathless to his voice. 
 Or hang upon his pen. 
 
 Heaven forgive this artless child. 
 
 For never takes he thought 
 Of the to-morrows of his life, 
 
 If to-day's supper's bought. 
 
 If God has made the earth so fair. 
 To make such souls rejoice. 
 
 If they neglect the sordid mart 
 In listening to His voice, 
 
 78 
 
Then like the lily, He will clothe, j 
 
 And like the ravens feed, j 
 
 And like the sparrows when they fall, | 
 He all their cares will heed. 
 
 For some there are who love the world, ; 
 
 And show their spirit's dearth, i 
 
 And some who do despise the world, : 
 
 But love the beauteous earth. 
 
 For some were never made to ken ; 
 
 The meaning of "per cent.,'' I 
 
 They were not made for worldly use, < 
 
 But for a season lent j 
 
 To us poor mercenary men, 
 
 A wholesome, Christ-like leaven. 
 
 Until they find their native air j 
 
 Upon the plains of heaven. . , 
 
 They may not know the God they love, , i 
 
 Or even breathe His name, i 
 
 But they are listening to His voice, ^ 
 
 And love Him all the same. i 
 
 They may not know whose voice it is 
 
 That fills their hearts with joy, 
 
 Ne'er dreaming of the God they feared J 
 
 And hated, when a boy. j 
 
 79 i 
 
For some there are of narrow minds 
 
 Who ask a child to see 
 Through some small peep-hole of their own 
 
 The glorious Deity. 
 
 So that the man, a poet grown, 
 
 Keeps his souFs organ mute. 
 And fills his heart with Nature's love, 
 
 As if forbidden fruit. 
 
 As if the love of all things fair. 
 
 And honor, kindness, love. 
 E'en mirth, could come from evil source. 
 
 And not from God above. , 
 
 The Father's face we cannot see 
 
 Until our life is done, 
 Let it suffice we may behold 
 
 His well-beloved Son. 
 
 Some in the temple seek the Lord, 
 
 To fear their spirit yields. 
 And some will walk with Christ, and pluck 
 
 "Ripe corn in sunny fields. 
 
 80 
 
THE POET'S CORNER, 
 
THE POErS COENEE. 
 
 A poet, songless yet, yet full of song, 
 
 Who for expression yearningly did long, 
 
 Became aware one wondrous morn in June, 
 
 That his whole being was at last in tune. 
 
 So to essay in song his soul did move. 
 
 He struck the key-note, and that note was Love. 
 
 He kept his poem from the vulgar crowd, 
 And would not even sing his song aloud; 
 At last he came to think it so sublime. 
 That he must have a fortune for his rhyme ; 
 Or it must wedded be to muaic grand ; 
 So it remained unknown in all the land. 
 
 No inspiration came to him again 
 While his first song unpublished did remain, 
 So that at last, his muse so coy to please, 
 He flung his verses to the public breeze ; 
 Then was he blest for love of Song alone. 
 Then did the muse come gladly to her own. 
 
THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Let critics sneer, as sneer they will — 
 Each year the birds the woodlands fill 
 With music from a million throats. 
 Each with their own consistent notes; 
 What though a nightingale is rare, 
 And skylarks cleave the upper air, 
 Yet bobolink and oriole 
 Delight full many a simple soul ; 
 And many an honest little thrush, 
 Whom none despise because of "gush/"' 
 
 The mocking birds the critics shock, 
 As they great singers gaily mock ; 
 The cuckoo hurts the critic's ear, 
 As it announces Summer near; 
 The corncrake saws his soul in two — 
 Who cares the critic's ear to woo? 
 The daylight dims his midnight eyes, 
 A million singers him surprise, 
 Singing for love of song alone. 
 The unpaid choir around the Throne. 
 
 Sir critic owl ! thou art at bay ! 
 We will excuse thee, so away ! 
 A million singers bid thee "Scoot !" 
 "For thou alone can'st only hoot !" 
 
 '84 
 
FOE LOVE ALONE. 
 
 Oh, ye who sing to gain the world's acclaim, 
 Unsatisfied with aught but present fame; 
 Cease your vain searching for a subject new, 
 And be to your own heart forever true ; 
 Sing on of Love, the old, old, song, and be 
 Contented with your heart's first minstrelsy. 
 
 Sparrows may twitter in the city park ; 
 Alone the nightingale sings in the dark; 
 Within a copse secluded and remote. 
 The rapture of delight wells from his throat ; 
 Sings he of Love alone, and Love's sweet bliss, 
 Heedless of fame, the whole world's heart is his. 
 
 Craving a listener, and there be none. 
 
 Be thou a harp for God to play upon ; 
 
 His hands such chords within thy soul can find 
 
 As shall suffice to satisfy thy mind; 
 
 So, like the lark, from Earth's ambition riven. 
 
 Thou shalt arise and sing thy song to Heaven. 
 
THE TROUBADOURS OF SONG. 
 
 Oh, see the foolish children, the troubadours of 
 
 song. 
 The prime of life is wasted, and they shall want 
 
 ere long; 
 And they shall have nor cheer, nor warmth, and 
 
 those will then deride. 
 Who sang their joyous songs of yore, when youth 
 
 was in its pride. 
 
 Oh, see the wiser children, who hoard the shining 
 gold. 
 
 They shall not want for earthly things, when they 
 so soon grow old; 
 
 Though some be eager for their death, yet thou- 
 sands call them great, 
 
 The gold is in their coffers, though leaden be their, 
 pate. 
 
 A golden city looms at last. Eternity is long — 
 "Come, children, bring your treasures forth," and 
 
 Heaven fills with song; 
 The widow is a princess then, who parted with her 
 
 mite. 
 And they who hoarded gold within, are precious 
 
 in His sight. 
 
THE WANDERING SONG. 
 
 "Newspaper poems, the tramps of literature ; if 
 successful they are wandering songs, copied from 
 one paper to another, going up and down in the 
 earth, and wandering to and fro in it. Few of 
 them ever have a permanent home/' — Recent Crit- 
 icism. 
 
 I. 
 
 Vagrant it went from door to door, 
 
 A vagabond of rhyme, 
 Cheering the simple-hearted poor, 
 
 Ringing an olden chime. 
 
 It claimed no place in classic lore, 
 
 Or niche of marbled fame ; 
 It simply went from door to door, 
 
 A lettered child of shame. 
 
 ragged verse, like wintry winds. 
 
 With music wild and weird. 
 Conned by a countryside of hinds. 
 
 Whose fireside it cheered. 
 
 Read by a ruddy lass o'Tweed, 
 Sung amidst Yorkshire dales. 
 
 Over the ocean yet to speed. 
 Weathering wintry gales. 
 
 87 
 
Wlio cares to know the poet's name? 
 
 The minstrel days are o'er; 
 The song without the singer came — 
 
 We see no troubadour. 
 
 On it goes, wandering round the earth. 
 
 Without the singer's name, 
 The local paper blessed its birth, 
 
 And handicapped its fame. 
 II. 
 Lavish of lavish gifts bestowed, 
 
 Elate with golden find. 
 They cast their w^ealth upon the road, 
 
 Poets like Homer blind. 
 
 Dear poet's corner of the press. 
 Where many a song is born. 
 
 Where singers carol laurelless. 
 Full often crowned with thorn. 
 
 A copse where thrush and linnet sing. 
 
 Seldom a nightingale; 
 Yet do they make the welkin ring, 
 
 And swell the evening gale. 
 
 A Burns sought consolation there, 
 
 A Chatterton found joy; 
 And chords accord in lyric air. 
 
 Where critics ne'er annoy. 
 
 A vagrant song may sadly roam. 
 
 With fortunes foul or fair. 
 With trumpet fame returning home. 
 
 Welcomed a wandering heir. 
 
THE COMMOISr INHERITANCE. 
 
 The dismal hour when neither sun nor moon 
 
 Cheer with their radiance my benighted path. 
 Would I could live in a perpetual noon. 
 
 Or else all night. This twilight hour hath 
 A nameless terror for my shrinking soul. 
 
 What Viking ancestor scanned well the sea ? 
 No sun, no moon, no star to point his goal ; 
 
 The twilight hour our common misery. 
 
 This hour is Godless homeless, outcast too ; 
 
 It seems the brand of Cain is on me now. 
 A moment since some little joy I knew, 
 
 An hour hence some mirth may crown my brow : 
 But in this twilight hour I grope about 
 
 'Mid statues gray which do to specters turn, 
 The forum shadowed and the arena out, 
 
 Alone and lost I mourn beside an urn. 
 
 Birds of uncanny wing and plumage weird. 
 
 With dreary screeches pierce my weary brain. 
 Birds of remorse are plucking at my beard. 
 
 From vultures I would shield my heart in vain ; 
 I see an eye with brooding anguish glazed, 
 
 I know a heart now long since laid at rest, 
 This hour a ghost from out the deep is raised, 
 
 1 drew this feeling from my mother's breast. 
 
 89 
 
Her life was full of peace and happiness. 
 
 But in her veins the blood of ages ran ; 
 That which did slumber in her gentleness, 
 
 In me again its deviltr}^ began; 
 How trace a pedigree ? There is no need. 
 
 The heraldry is blazoned on my heart; 
 The hoary sinners of an ancient breed 
 
 Still live in you and me and play their part. 
 
 Oh, sanguine stream of blood inherited, 
 
 Oh, centuried river flowing on in me. 
 How shall I leave thy course when I am dead. 
 
 How send thee flowing to eternity ? 
 I have not helped to curb thy turbid waves ; 
 
 Some ancient fury oft overcame my will; 
 Oh, torrent roaring over dead men's graves, 
 
 And freighted with my sins, onflowing still. 
 
 m 
 
THE RIVAL OF THE MUSE. 
 
 The warmth of love had fled his eye, 
 His former ardor was a dream, 
 
 In vain she listened for the sigh. 
 That cadence of a fervid stream. 
 
 His soul was now on Poesy staid, 
 
 His former mistress claimed his love ; 
 
 All vain are thy fair charms, sweet maid. 
 Thou art below, the Muse above. 
 
 Above the world of common thought 
 The poet woos his mistress bright. 
 
 And he, with passion rapt, hath caught 
 Some melody to charm the night. 
 
 The wind is hushed, the sea is still. 
 The mountain and the vale asleep. 
 
 The poet is awake, to fill 
 
 The measure of his love too deep. 
 
 See how the goblet of his lore 
 
 Is deep and sparkling as the Rhine, 
 
 His eyes are as sweet days of yore. 
 His soul is as the olden wine. 
 
 91 
 
His da3^s are ages massed in one, 
 In one short night he lives a life. 
 
 His joys exalt him on a throne. 
 
 His cheeks are wan with sorrow's strife. 
 
 One tear shall burn into his brain, 
 
 And his soft heart with death acquaint. 
 
 One joy shall make him young again, 
 And on his cheek the roses paint. 
 
 He yet shall turn to thee again, 
 Warm human heart of tender love, 
 
 But all his love to crave is vain. 
 Thou art below, his soul above. 
 
 Oh, chide him gently lest he die ; 
 
 They who ride fast soon reach the end ; 
 His soul would far too willing fly 
 
 To seek the Muses' veil to rend. 
 
 His brain on fire may dissolve, 
 
 His heart too heated, too, may melt. 
 
 And his enraptured soul resolve 
 To distance this dull planet's belt. 
 
 To make him human, strive, sweet maid. 
 
 He is already half divine. 
 And if his soul on thee is staid. 
 
 The recompense is wholly thine. 
 
The healthful blush of Love's delight 
 The hectic flame shall then replace. 
 
 And sleeping peaceful in the night 
 
 His frame shall gain his boyhood's grace. 
 
 And then, unmaddened by the wine 
 
 Which none but gods can drink and live. 
 
 His life shall be for thee and thine, 
 His life shall have a blest reprieve. 
 
 Tell him to cast his harp aside. 
 And listen to thy song of love, 
 
 And clasped within his arms, fair bride. 
 That thou art then sole mistress prove. 
 
THE DYING YOUTH. 
 
 A rivulet in yon sweet vale, 
 
 There was my childhood^s strange career, 
 I dreamed amid its shallows drear, 
 
 ^ Neath the dark pine and willow hale. 
 
 And as some ray of sunny bliss 
 
 Athwart its shallows leapt with glee, 
 And gemmed its pebbles merrily, 
 
 A joyous world of hope was this. 
 
 But there were times the stream ran dry, 
 Bleached as a desert, hot as hell. 
 And who the agony can tell 
 
 Of childhood with its unmoaned sigh ! 
 
 But showers come and waters glide 
 In the old course with olden speed. 
 And trembling kiss the broken reed. 
 
 And my heart hastens to its side. 
 
 And rainbow after rainbow springs. 
 A coronet for early tears. 
 And days were then as golden years, 
 
 A skeptic I to graver things. 
 
II. 
 
 Scaling the Mount of Mystery, ■] 
 
 Below the laughing fickle stream, 
 
 'Now but a sweet remembered dream, ■ 
 
 A thing I seldom turned to see. ' 
 
 Lost midst the brake of that hard hill, 
 
 Yet toiling upward for some prize, ] 
 
 And pressing on with eager eyes, 
 And wakeful when the world was still. 
 
 i 
 
 boyhood ! Never yet defined j 
 
 Have been thy strange delights and doubts, ^ 
 N"ow king among thy roughest routs, 
 
 And now disciple of the mind. ] 
 
 The hill of strange uncertainty ] 
 
 Ascended, and at last subdued, ! 
 
 Youth burst upon me, many-hued, \ 
 
 And unknown landscapes I did see. 
 
 And dawning manhood like a sun j 
 
 Gilded the peak ; I knew not then 
 
 A serpent had been in the glen, i 
 
 Born at my birth, had with me run ! 
 
 Its wily course, and up the hill 
 
 Had followed, growing with my growth, ' 
 
 And now to leave me was so loath 
 That it was by me, writhing still. 
 
And as I gazed in glee to find 
 
 Some rarest beauty bless my sight, 
 I turned, and through a sickly light 
 
 Saw that my grave was dug behind. 
 
 Dug on the summit of my hopes, 
 And in the morning of my life ; 
 Oh ! paralyzed for future strife 
 
 I see with dread the coffin ropes. 
 
 in. 
 
 Seas roll on sands of golden grain; 
 sailors, sing in bolder tones, 
 And cruise in warm or chilly zones, 
 
 And sport upon the heaving main, 
 
 And let your sails reflect the light 
 Of sunsets I have never seen, 
 And on the gunwale laughing lean. 
 
 And smoke down care into the night. 
 
 Beauties of village and of town. 
 Mine e3^es will never worship ye, 
 Nor sing your praises lovingly, 
 
 Alas ! my sun is going down. 
 
 Ye hawthorn lanes, the linnet's home. 
 And woods where God His garden keeps, 
 And where the hazel chastely weeps. 
 
 Adieu ! to you, I cannot come. 
 
 96 
 
I sink, decline is pale as death, 
 I cannot die, I hear the laugh 
 Of children; how I long to quaff 
 
 The dewdrop's wine, oh ! give me breath ! 
 
 That rose, its sweet perfume once more, 
 And now the primrose from the woods ; 
 Talk to me not of earthly goods. 
 
 Let the friends in, throw wide the door. 
 
 Oh, I am young, support me now ; 
 Too young to die ; Just one more kiss. 
 Then let me rest, for Christ is bliss. 
 
 And He will raise my marble brow. 
 
 Drop no more tears upon my face, 
 
 Nor with your sobs convulse my room. 
 Sufficient is its deadly gloom ; 
 
 Mercy, oh, Christ ! My God, Thy Grace ! 
 
 97 
 
STRANGE LIGHTS. 
 
 Last night I caught the inspiration blest, 
 
 Of other days, which now are of the past ; 
 My mind, all sunset-glowed, refused all rest, 
 
 And to my labor my whole heart I cast, 
 To strive to catch the expression of a truth. 
 
 Strange fancies, weird, fantastic, dark and 
 bright. 
 Which played and wreathed themselves about my 
 youth, 
 
 Benighting day and sunning weary night. 
 
 A windy night upon a northern hill, 
 
 Moors in the distance stretching to the sea. 
 Strange noises round the lake the echoes fill. 
 
 The sky, though looking cold, glows ruddily; 
 Though it is June, the night is cool and wild, 
 
 The sea-gull screams, the corncrake saws the air ; 
 Woe to the sailor near the shore beguiled. 
 
 Strange lights are here, and there, and every- 
 where. 
 
 A strange light flickers in thy bold, bright eye. 
 As if, fair woman, it were lit of hell ; 
 
 Licentious sounds from flaming halls near by. 
 Proclaim thy character, thy name as well; 
 
The sun for thee no longer beams with joy, 
 jSTefarious minion of the fevered night; 
 
 Thy life is the gay spendthrift's twice-damned toy, 
 Thy heart is lighted by forbidden light. 
 
 A noise awakes the weary sleeper's sense, 
 
 Eed, glaring red falls on his dazzled gaze, 
 Rough, hurried voices bid him quickly hence; 
 
 Confused and lost he stands in mute amaze ; 
 Red ruin wraps his couch in deadly flame. 
 
 And bids defiance to his worldly hopes, 
 When, maddened thus to die without a name, 
 
 With ghastly death by that strange light he 
 copes. 
 
 A ship is plowing through the restless deep. 
 
 And the waves glisten like a dragon's eye ; 
 Weird vigil on the ocean waste to keep. 
 
 The phosphorescent spray glides dancing by; 
 Who shall complain of dull monotony 
 
 Upon God's trackless highway, wondrous 
 strange ? 
 What lights fantastic color all the sea. 
 
 Whatever oceans boldest sailors range. 
 
 Oh, I remember a strange heavenly light 
 Which fell upon an orchard, long ago. 
 
 The Summer's sunshine sanctified the sight, 
 I^ature pulsated with Love's warmer throe; 
 
 L.ofC. 99 
 
An angel form beneath the trees did bend. 
 To gather apples which the sun made gold, 
 
 And memory now her misty light doth lend, 
 To make x4.rcadian that noon of old. 
 
 A light oft flooded childhood's Summer dreams, 
 
 Childhood's sweet fancy's realm of holiday ; 
 My feet sought banks of tiny fairy streams, 
 
 And I made love to many a sunny fay; 
 Birds caroled then which were too bright to live, 
 
 And blossoms perfume-laden softly fell; 
 Boldly I asked of Fancy's Queen to give 
 
 The illusive laurel, envy of the dell. 
 
 Strange lights which many a mortal cannot see. 
 
 Oft dance before the weary poet's eyes ; 
 His soul responds in sanguine ecstasy, 
 
 And mortal feeling midst the vision dies — 
 With an enchanter's wand the scene is changed. 
 
 The soul prophetic in the future peers. 
 And- then the quiet days of yore are ranged, 
 
 And light is thrown on long-forgotten years. 
 
 The poet, weary with his life's hard lot. 
 
 Is cheered by light of Beauty's loveliness ; 
 A heavenly sunshine floods his humble cot, 
 
 And in a fairy garb his life doth dress. 
 Light of Nature, Art and Love's delight, 
 
 Be ever fair, to glad mine heart and eyes, 
 And cheer my spirit through Life's common night. 
 
 Until my soul beholds a Paradise. 
 
 100 
 
WINDS OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Here am I, sighing like a Winter's wind. 
 
 Which moans about the hedge-rows on the plain, 
 Because my sky is clouded, and the main 
 
 Is tempest-tossed, and blissful hope behind. 
 
 Once I was like a zephyr born to stir 
 The mystic music of aeolian strings. 
 Poetic melody which ever brings 
 
 Joy to replace the grief life's cares incur. 
 
 Where am I roving ? Fickle as my theme, 
 What do I wish ? If wishing would create ; 
 A castle in the air, oh, fond estate, 
 
 A life indefinite, a Summer's dream. 
 
 To be a hurricane to urge the waves of mind, 
 A gale to fill the elements with joy, 
 Or fierce cyclone which rides above the buoy, 
 
 Leaving a seething gulf of wreck behind. 
 
 The South wind bears upon its amorous wing 
 A lover's note tied with a silken thread. 
 And on it flies, though torn with toil, and bled 
 
 For Love's sweet sake, with love-sighs quivering. 
 
 101 
 
Oh, East wind howling down the slopes of age, 
 Nipping the tender buds, which ne'er unfold. 
 Dishevelling snow-white locks, and curls of gold. 
 
 And like a drunken giant mad with rage. 
 
 Malicious blasts which make the avalanche 
 Of lies, to ruin peaceful valley homes ; 
 Cold-hearted hatred which of envy comes, 
 
 The guiltless cheek with pallid fear to blanch. 
 
 The breezes of bright Spring commence to race 
 Through village streets, and kiss the sparkling 
 
 spray 
 Of buoyant waves which dance around the bay, 
 
 And happy laughter fills fair Nature's face. 
 
 To be a breeze ! a healthful breeze of life. 
 
 Leaping from where the fir trees nod their 
 
 plumes. 
 Sweeping down hills of balsamous perfumes. 
 
 And with dry leaves and kittens making strife. 
 
 Seizing the snow-locks of the old by stealth, 
 And making him as merry as his child. 
 With blessed rapture driving Beauty wild, 
 
 And causing blushes full of bliss and health. 
 
 Piercing the gay boudoir of noble love. 
 Turning aside the curtain of Romance, 
 Moments of dreamy thought, not fevered dance, 
 
 Sweet thoughts of even, hallowed from above. 
 
And thence escaping, laden with delight, 
 And rich with echoes of chivalric song, 
 Bright Love which shall pervade the world ere 
 long, 
 
 Thence ! breeze of humor, thence into the night. 
 
 But before dying, doing one more deed — 
 Why are we not more eager to give joy? 
 Entering the lattice of the cottage boy 
 
 To cool the brow which Love hath placed in need. 
 
 Eddying mournful from the gabled cot 
 To die upon the lip of some fair stream. 
 
 * i¥ * * iH ^ ^ 
 
 When shall I die ? When start from this strange 
 dream ? 
 When will a lover say, "My bard is not" ? 
 
 los 
 
THE YEAE'S GOBLET OF LIFE. 
 
 Rude Boreas blows foam from Winter's cup ; 
 The snowdrifts tease Old Sol to drink them up, 
 He rises late and sinks before we sup, 
 
 Yet he will win at last his royal way ; 
 Wild Winter winds each other madly chase, 
 Nature beneath a veil hath hid her face, 
 But she will smile again with Spring's sweet grace, 
 
 And we shall drink her nectar some fair day. 
 
 Pipe, finch and linnet, on the pink-white thorn, 
 Life still breathes on this dewy April morn, 
 Last night much beauty died; as fair was born, 
 
 Fill the deep goblet with the wine of life ; 
 I know the place the fox was run to earth, 
 A windy, sandy reach of wild-love dearth. 
 The martins flew around in maddest mirth. 
 
 Drain dry the tankard cool of sylvan strife. 
 
 A fig for hips and haws and such like fare. 
 The year is ripening with the Summer^s care. 
 The gun is priming for the once wild hare, 
 
 And the rich goblet we again will prove; 
 The sun with royal stare hath made thee shy, 
 Maid Marian, amid the nodding rye; 
 Oh, the sweet influence of thy nights, July ! 
 
 To thee I drink the honey mead of love. 
 
 104 
 
Love's cottage hides beneath an apple tree, 
 The sunflower stares around him royally; 
 Brown Autumn, I will smoke a pipe with thee, 
 
 And by the hearthstone drink a manly cup ; 
 Old-fashioned flowers smell sweet behind the 
 
 hedge ; 
 And so afar does even the river's sedge ; 
 Thine old-time ways give appetite an edge. 
 
 The early evening makes it time to sup. 
 
 It seems but yesterday the Spring was here, 
 Each season brings its own peculiar cheer, 
 N'ow, 'tis the close of this same mellow year, 
 
 Then fill the goblet with the poet's wine; 
 A sprig of lavender lies on my clothes. 
 My mother gave it me one old year's close, 
 Still it is fresh as leaves of Memory's rose. 
 
 What years of memory, my heart, are thine. 
 
 105 
 
YOU AND I. 
 
 You boast of wealth. What is your life as yet ? 
 
 The stock exchange is where your wits unfold ; 
 
 You reverence only metal, sordid gold; 
 You cannot love a simple violet ; 
 At night your head is full of care and fret ; 
 
 Your children may be happy — not yet sold 
 
 To greedy Mammon, and your wife though old 
 May have a wealth of love, but you are set. 
 Hoarding dead stock and title deeds, you are 
 
 A mere care-taker, full of anxious fear — 
 Seldom can I afford a good cigar. 
 
 Yet is the whole world mine, afar and near; 
 My wealth I count unto the farthest star, 
 
 And hoard the sunsets of the golden year. 
 
 106 
 
ECHOES OF OLD ENGLAND 
 
COLUMBIA AND LIBEKTY. 
 
 Why do we leave Old England's fields 
 
 Where farms are gardens, and the rose 
 Is common as the grass, and yields 
 
 A thousand perfumes, and where glows 
 In every hedge-side old-world flowers, 
 
 And birds sing gaily on each tree. 
 Why do we leave her happy bowers ? 
 
 For love of thee, fair Liberty ! 
 
 Siberia cannot detain, 
 
 Nor Ireland's prisons keep us back. 
 An exodus is on the main, 
 
 Our brothers are on Freedom's track; 
 Why do we land so free from care, 
 
 Though seldom free from poverty? 
 We know that we shall somehow fare 
 
 In this blest land of Liberty ! 
 
 The European seeks this shore. 
 
 But ever boasts he of his home, 
 His mind is full of storied lore 
 
 Of home, wherever he may roam ; 
 The money he may quickly earn 
 
 Once more his glorious land to see. 
 But why does he so soon return? 
 
 He longs again for Liberty ! 
 
 109 
 
Oh, is the love of glory dead. 
 
 That men forsake the lands of war, 
 The countries where their fathers bled, 
 
 And gaze with longing eyes afar ? 
 Let the imperial eagles scream. 
 
 Teuton and Latin fight or flee, 
 The coming man hath had a dream, 
 
 And wakes to find it Liberty ! 
 
 I 
 
 110 
 
AN AUTUMN EVENING IN YORKSHIEE. 
 
 By striking the biggest of the old church bells 
 In dull and brassy tones the old clock tells 
 To all the village the hour o' dusky e'en, 
 Tis only seven, yet can naught be seen. 
 
 A dewy, foggy damp rests on the fields, 
 Making them rich, for moisture mushroom yields ; 
 The cattle low as they the meadows range, 
 Seeming to note with fear the chilly change. 
 
 The harvest gathered in, the farmers raise 
 In grateful accents cheerful songs of praise, 
 And from the towns their buxom partners hie. 
 Where they have been their Winter's stores to buy. 
 
 From the damp fields a tribe of folk return, 
 Who do a miserable pittance earn; 
 Potato-gatherers come trudging home 
 To get their supper in the darkening gloam. 
 
 The farmer lads o' nights draw up their chairs 
 To the roaring fire to discuss affairs ; 
 To hear some learned rustic read the news, 
 And to strange facts their credence to refuse. 
 
 Ill 
 
And so beguile they each cool Autumn night, 
 Chatting and joking in the flickering light 
 Of the farm kitchen, giggling at each joke. 
 Or staring vacant through the stew-pot's smoke. 
 
 The farmer lad must rise betimes to plow, 
 
 The housewife yet must knead her pan of dough; 
 
 And so she sees the country lions fed, 
 
 And when they snore she drives them all to bed. 
 
 i 
 
 112 
 
THE EXILE. 
 
 After twenty years of exile, my heart was beating 
 
 still 
 To see once more my childhood's home at Gring- 
 
 ley-on-the-hill ; 
 1 toiled along the highway as the sun was going 
 
 down, 
 And as the twilight setled round, I ventured in the 
 
 town, 
 I expected to be greeted by many a welcome face. 
 But not one who passed me knew me in the old 
 
 familiar place. 
 
 I saw the same old smithy, the same old noisy mill, 
 For things had changed far less than I, at Gring- 
 
 ley-on-the-hill ; 
 But when beyond the village green I reached the 
 
 market place, 
 And found no trader's name I knew, I journeyed 
 
 on apace; 
 No house held out a welcome for me to enter in, 
 So as a stranger I passed on to seek the village inn. 
 
 Oh, how mv heart with sadness began to quickly 
 
 fill ^ 
 To hear the tale cf twenty years at Gringley-on- 
 
 the-hill; 
 
 113 
 
The landlord did not ask my name, he seemed to 
 guess my quest, 
 
 For well he knew that those 1 loved were long since 
 laid at rest ; 
 
 I found them lying side by side at Gringley-on- 
 the-hiU, 
 
 I felt them looking down on me, an exiled wan- 
 derer still. 
 
 114 
 
BAWTKY CHURCH BELLS. 
 
 Ring, ancient bells ! 
 From out your belfry of Roche Abbey stone, 
 
 Your ringing tells 
 The hoary Christmastides you've held your own. 
 
 Old tower, tell ! 
 There was a time thou hadst no footing here ; 
 
 The waters swell, 
 Wave after wave, nor arctic seas more drear. 
 
 Bears white as snow. 
 And whales were sporting in the troubled main, 
 
 For aught I know 
 Behemoth and Leviathan gave pain. 
 
 The seas have fled. 
 And left these plains, and with them this small 
 stream, 
 
 Wherein are bred 
 Fish of a smaller fry, as trout and bream. 
 
 Where horrors dwelt. 
 Icebergs whose caverns held some torpid lump, 
 
 Fishing for smelt 
 A plowboy sits upon a willow's stump. 
 
 115 
 
YET ONCE AGAIN. 
 
 I'd like to take the yellow coach, 
 
 And ride again to Rotherwood; 
 Well I remember my first ride. 
 
 The country ways were deep in mud; 
 I was a little fellow then, 
 
 And I enjoyed it as I should; 
 It was a great event indeed. 
 
 To take the coach to Rotherwood. 
 
 A score of years, and once again 
 
 I took the coach to Rotherwood ; 
 The time before, my sister dear 
 
 Sat by my side, as sisters should; 
 That second time, a bonnie wife, 
 
 ( Oh, how it leaps ! my poor heart's 
 blood!) 
 She sat beside me as we rode 
 
 Inside the coach to Rotherwood. 
 
 The yellow coach is now no more. 
 
 The railroad goes to Rotherwood; 
 Between me and old Albion 
 
 Rolls the Atlantic's mighty flood; 
 In loving memory alone 
 
 The yellow coach rolls through the wood ; 
 If ever I go home to die, 
 
 I'll ride again to Rotherwood. 
 
 116 
 
 i 
 
NATIVE ROME. 
 
 (a YORKSHIRE VILLAGE.) 
 
 This little town, it is a Rome to me, 
 My Athens, yea, my sole metropolis ; 
 And though 'tis small, I do not love it less, 
 
 For I a miniature city see. 
 
 Its gray old Church is my Cathedral, 
 
 For in its graves there resteth mold'ring clay 
 That shall be greater at the judgment day 
 
 Than that of which some Abbey tablets tell. 
 
 And 'neath its cottage gables I see life 
 
 As noble, and as genuine in love. 
 
 As that which has four stories perched above. 
 And as magnanimous in honest strife. 
 
 And as for city beauty ! tell me, where 
 
 Are forms more nymph-like, and as ravishing? 
 Not all the galleries of gilded sin 
 
 With village innocency can compare. 
 
 I had my books, my sunsets and my friend, 
 Yes, friends as intimate, and loves as fair, 
 As he who breathes the purest city air 
 
 Of Piccadilly, and the gay West End. 
 
 117 
 
A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 Oh, I know the lane I love, 
 
 Rough and tumble, full of weeds ; 
 O'er the plain the cattle rove, 
 
 In all the world no finer breeds; 
 The lane is short, but full of flowers, 
 
 A hundred nests of noisy birds ; 
 How can I describe the hours. 
 
 Or put my boyhood's love in words. 
 
 None but rustics seek this lane, 
 
 Riding well-fed horse to plow; 
 And returning home again 
 
 Molly drives her dappled cow ; 
 Sweet the air and fair the showers, 
 
 I could die in such a spot; 
 Take, for me, your Shenstone^s bowers. 
 
 Gardens Dutch, and Pope's cold grot. 
 
 When the pale moon rests her cheek 
 
 Upon the Earth's enamored breast, 
 Rustic lovers then do seek 
 
 This lane above all others blest; 
 Words they whisper, honey-sweet. 
 
 Entranced are they by fairy spell, 
 Birds and flowers lovers greet. 
 
 Chimes are rung from bluest bell. 
 
 118 
 
Oh, I know the lane I love. 
 
 Miles and miles away, away ; 
 There my spirit oft doth rove, 
 
 Haunting many a bygone day; 
 Berries black and roses wild. 
 
 Thrushes sing and lasses laugh ; 
 Could I once more be a child, 
 
 Once more Nature's cup to quaff. 
 
 119 
 
1 
 
OTHER WORLDS THAN OURS. 
 
OTHER WORLDS THAN OURS. 
 
 "How often we hear it said, ^He lives in a world 
 of his own/ or, ^They live in a different world than 
 
 There are other worlds than ours, as distant as the 
 stars ; 
 We each within our orbit do revolve; 
 The world in which our neighbor lives may be as 
 far as Mars 
 From that which we inhabit, and try in vain to 
 solve ; 
 Oh, it is very, very true, and verily a fact, 
 You cannot always judge a man by any single act. 
 
 We look upon our intimates, and think we know 
 them well, 
 We think their lives are similar to ours ; 
 Yet one may be in Paradise, and one in lowest hell, 
 One soaring with the morning lark while his 
 poor brother cowers; 
 Oh, it is very, very true, and not at all absurd. 
 You cannot know where neighbors live by trusting 
 to their word. 
 
 How narrow is our little world, your world and 
 mine, my brother. 
 Can we enlarge it, broaden it, for good ? 
 
 123 
 
It may be we can leave it, and seek for good some 
 other? 
 If we can find a better world, surely we would, 
 and should; 
 
 There are other worlds than ours, where many a 
 glad soul fares, 
 
 We have sometimes met their occupants, like an- 
 gels unawares. 
 
 124 
 
ALL IS NOT LOST. ! 
 
 All is not lost ! Eternal Life ■ 
 
 Is still reserved for me ; ] 
 
 So that a few more years of strife ; 
 
 May yet pass joyfully. * 
 
 i 
 
 Living for self alone, my mind i 
 
 Found earthly pleasures drear; ' 
 Living for others I may find 
 
 The wealth of heaven near. ] 
 
 The sun now lights a happy earth, \ 
 
 JSTor shines alone for me; ■ 
 
 My heart is gladdened by the mirth ; 
 Which all around I see. 
 
 The children, whom I never saw, ,i 
 
 Come gladly to my side ; | 
 
 And with a joyous sense of awe, 1 
 
 I dig the grave of Pride. i 
 
 i 
 Soul ! in mystery concealed. 
 
 Awake ! nor silent be ; j 
 
 Life's stormy waves have now revealed ] 
 
 The Light of Galilee. j 
 
 l!i6 j 
 
THE CITY OF DESTEUCTION. 
 
 Where is the land I left^ 
 
 That strange, sad land ? 
 Nay, look not back bereft, 
 Nor halting stand, 
 For on the king's highway I tread. 
 And am by Christ my Saviour led. 
 
 What sighs are in that land, 
 
 What groans and tears. 
 And how they moaning stand, 
 Through all the years; 
 Though Christ the Saviour bids them fly, 
 Yet they stay on, and sinning, die. 
 
 The wages which are Death 
 
 Are being paid. 
 Sin's pestilential breath 
 Disease hath made ; 
 The stench of hell and sin is great, 
 It drives me from the city gate. 
 
 Sometimes I hear a shout 
 
 From that mad land. 
 Of murder, orgy, rout. 
 Of men unmanned, 
 Of drunken song and curses rude, 
 And women reckless grown and lewd. 
 
 126 
 
Sometimes I hear the moans 
 
 Of black despair, 
 Poor helpless sinners' groans 
 Die on the air; 
 Forsaken by their king at last; 
 Scorched by the heat of helFs hot blast. 
 
 Satan the king did strive 
 
 To keep me there, 
 And nice beliefs contrive, 
 And words most fair ; 
 And made me think I sinned so grand 
 I was a prince in that bad land. 
 
 I dream sometimes that I 
 
 Am back again ; 
 And waking, then I cry 
 With my heart's pain, 
 Saviour, hold me by the hand, 
 And keep me from that wicked land." 
 
 187 
 
THE INEBEIATE'S PRAYER. 
 
 Thou who didst thirst upon the Cross, 
 Destroy my soul-consuming thirst; 
 
 Let not my body cause the loss 
 Of my poor soul, by passion curst. 
 
 Thou who mad^st water taste as wine. 
 Perform the miracle again. 
 
 That I may drink from founts divine. 
 And childhood's innocence regain. 
 
 There is a stream which, if I drink, 
 I ne'er shall thirst again, but live ; 
 
 Lord, my poor soul is at the brink, 
 Water of life to me, oh give ! 
 
 I crave eternal life, dear Lord; 
 
 What I have been I do abhor : 
 Bring me, according to Thy Word, 
 
 Where I shall thirst again no more. 
 
 198 
 
THE HARPS RESERVED. j 
 
 i 
 
 How in the heart and soul and mind \ 
 
 Of many a man has stirred j 
 
 Songs that were never, never sung, ^ 
 
 And music never heard. j 
 How has the heart beat wildly, 
 
 And the soul attuned its choir, i 
 
 And the mind leapt up and seized the reins j 
 
 Of its chariot of fire. 1 
 
 1 
 
 Yet in the throes of love or grief, \ 
 
 Of joy or glad surprise, 1 
 
 The song may sing within the heart, j 
 
 But there it often dies; 
 The music may delight the brain, 
 
 As melodies unroll, j 
 
 Yet song and music lie at rest | 
 
 Within the human soul. 
 
 III. 
 
 The songs unsung will yet be heard, ^ 
 
 Man's grandest thoughts expressed; ; 
 The music in our souls released. 
 
 The wrongs of life redressed. ■ 
 
 To one grand harmony restored, i 
 
 Unfettered and unbound, • 
 The soul its hoarded songs shall sing 
 
 On heavenly ground. i 
 
REAL ESTATE. 
 
 Burdened with riches it is hard indeed 
 To realize the heavenly kingdom near. 
 
 And harder still to enter in, and read 
 The soul's inheritance and title clear. 
 
 But blessed with lack of wealth and worldly pride 
 The human mind is free to know its soul, 
 
 And gladly travels by its angel's side 
 To seek in such fair company its goal. 
 
 130 
 
THE TEEE OF LIFE. " 
 
 The friend, who was a brother of my soul, 
 Hath passed away beyond all mortal ken. 
 
 And here I mourn, though he hath reached a goal 
 Whose glories daze my grief-bewildered pen. 
 
 Think not beneath this mound he lies so still. 
 Though Nature hides his semblance in her 
 breast ; 
 
 His soul explores some far diviner hill. 
 And vales celestial now invite his rest. 
 
 On many a day now sanctified by death. 
 Have he and I fair Nature's pathways trod. 
 
 And he would leave me, eager, out of breath. 
 And he hath left me now for Nature's God. 
 
 Once, seeking a rare plant, we climbed a hill. 
 Where briars barred our way in sylvan strife. 
 
 But now Life's thorns are brushed aside, and still 
 His spirit seeks and finds the Tree of Life. 
 
 Rest, gentle soul, though thou hast made unrest 
 For those who loved thee, and who shared thy 
 mind; 
 
 Yet still they seek thy spirit 'midst the blest. 
 They whom thy soul hath left so far behind. 
 
 131 
 
What better life can be to mortals given, 
 
 Than so to live that when they reach Life's 
 bourne, 
 
 They draw their near ones nearer yet to heaven. 
 Such was the life and death of him I mourn. 
 
 Doubting all doubt, I welcome Faith, and give 
 My mind to now believe, and not to prove, 
 
 That after death we but commence to live, 
 
 And find beyond Life's doubt that God is Love. 
 
BY OLIVERS MOUNT. 1 
 
 ■! 
 
 TIME, A. D. 40. 
 
 i 
 
 She — I cannot give thee all my love, ] 
 ril love thee as a man; 
 
 And love thee more than ever maid : 
 
 Did love since Time began. I 
 
 He — And why, strange girl, can'st thou not give : 
 
 All of thy love to me? ; 
 
 And who is he that robs my heart, i 
 
 Who can my rival be ? i 
 
 ] 
 
 She — Press not for me the ruby grape, ! 
 
 The harp and cymbals leave, ' 
 
 And come with me to yonder hill, h 
 
 A crown of thorns to weave. I 
 
 He — Nay, Ehoda, here are roses red. 
 
 And lilies white as snow ; ; 
 
 And olive leaves thy brow to wreathe, 
 Before we homeward go. 
 
 She — More olive leaves on yonder hill 
 There are, than in this place ; 
 He was Himself fair Sharon's rose, ' 
 
 His words give lilies grace. 
 
 133 } 
 
He — Who is the man thou speakest of, 
 Greek, Roman, Hebrew he? 
 Ehoda, thine eyes are strange and bright, 
 Oh, say thou tauntest me ! 
 
 She — Before we tread fair Olive's Mount, 
 Come in Gethsemane ; 
 Here did He sweat great drops of blood 
 Before He died for thee. 
 
 He — Died ! then thou lovedst, and his death 
 Thou sayest it was for me; 
 For had he lived my loyal heart 
 Could claim no love of thee. 
 
 She — Nay, had He lived I still might wed 
 (And only thee I love 
 Of all the children of mankind), 
 Did He my love approve. 
 
 He — Tell me his name ! what right hath he. 
 Living or dead, with me ? 
 Caesar and all his host I dare, 
 I live or die for thee. 
 
 She — His name is Jesus, Son of God, 
 He died that we might live. 
 Wilt thou believe ? Lucullus, speak ! 
 Before mine hand I give. 
 
 134 
 
He — Yea, 1 believe, sweet Hebrew maid, 
 In Eome I heard His fame ; 
 Before I left old Tiber's banks 
 I learned to love His name. 
 
 The ancient mysteries I spurn, 
 
 A better faith to prove; 
 All that I know and care to know 
 
 Is simply "God is Love/^ 
 
 She — Then let us weave a wreath of flowers, 
 No crown of thorns need I ; 
 The Saviour wore it for us both. 
 And for us both did die. 
 
 And Olive's Mount in loving faith 
 With willing feet we'll tread ; 
 
 There is no barrier to our love. 
 Proud Kome may Zion wed. 
 
 185 
 
MY FRIEND. 
 
MY FKIEND. 
 
 He has taken the vow of poverty, 
 
 'Tis an ancient vow, yet new | 
 
 And strange to come from such as he, ; 
 
 I can scarcely believe it true; ' 
 
 He was anxious, ambitious, and strained each 
 nerve 
 
 To gain a place and name. 
 But now he says that less will serve, . 
 
 And he cares no more for fame. j 
 
 He says he no longer seeks for wealth, ■ 
 
 But that riches come to him. 
 All heaven is his, and his soul has health. 
 
 And he dwells with the seraphim; ; 
 
 The hills are his, and the flocks and herds. 
 
 The earth and the universe, j 
 
 The rhyme of streams, and the song of birds, ■ 
 
 And the poet's sweetest verse. I 
 
 He says that his life of care and moil 1 
 
 Is over, and past, and gone, ,j 
 
 And that now his soul delights in toil, | 
 
 For devotion leads him on; j 
 
 He has left the selfish crowd behind, \ 
 
 And his life is now serene ; 
 
 Shakespeare was once his master-mind. 
 
 But now 'tis the Nazarene. 
 
 .1 
 
 139 ] 
 
GEEAT GAIN. 
 
 (The supposed sentiments of a friend, whose life 
 was well known to the author.) 
 
 I want no mansion here, 
 
 Life's leasehold is too brief. 
 And real estate is dear, 
 
 Purchased with care and grief ; 
 And no estate is real 
 
 Which crumbles in decay; 
 I seek my soul's ideal, 
 
 And long to get awa}^, 
 To find a home not made with hands. 
 Which in a better country stands. 
 
 No plot of land I crave, 
 
 No site just suits my mind; 
 The world is one vast grave 
 
 'Twere well to leave behind. 
 Each acre here below 
 
 With graves is thickly laid ; 
 A better land I know 
 
 Where grave was never made; 
 There any site will suit my soul 
 Long as eternal ages roll. 
 
 140 
 
I want no raiment fine. 
 
 Most plain attire will do ; 
 My soul's robe is divine, 
 
 My flesh will last me through. 
 Clothes but to keep me warm, 
 
 And cleanly to be clad ; 
 No pride my soul to harm, 
 
 My heart serene and glad, 
 Content to live in humble state 
 And die with blissful joy elate. 
 
 Gold is not good to keep. 
 
 It burns the human heart ; 
 Some eyes would never weep 
 N'or hearts so sorely smart 
 With bitterness and dread 
 If they no gold had seen. 
 And many hearts half dead 
 Alive and warm had been 
 If they had known how gold can shine 
 In deeds of charity divine. 
 
 So I will keep no gold. 
 
 But give it all away, 
 For riches all untold 
 
 Are mine some brighter day; 
 With thought and skill and toil 
 
 I'll earn this sad world's wealth, 
 
 141 
 
And lest my soul it soil 
 1^11 part with it by stealth, 
 And give, as heaven gives to me, 
 And live to lessen misery. 
 
 Scorn not my low estate, 
 
 So low I fear no fall ; 
 From the bare ground, elate, 
 
 The lark scales heaven's wall. 
 In God's fair paradise 
 
 Let me seek heaven above, 
 And dying poor, arise 
 
 To realms of perfect love. 
 And like the lark, without a sigh. 
 Leave earth behind to sing on high. 
 
 142 
 
HIS LAST WORDS. ; 
 
 Think not when I at last in silence lie, i 
 
 That I am dead, for I can never die ; : 
 
 That which you thought was I was only clay, | 
 
 I shall have fled, and glad to fly away. | 
 
 j 
 
 IsTot glad to leave thee, friend of my brief day, j 
 
 Nor seek for light outshining Love's bright ray, j 
 
 Nor flee from thee to God, for God was here, ] 
 
 But to escape the body on my bier. j 
 
 Fair body, warm with love, yet hot with lust, . 
 
 Eyes to behold the stars, yet grope in dust, '. 
 
 Fingers to trace a poem, yet toil for pelf, i 
 
 Oh ! to escape the flesh, and be myself. ] 
 
 ■I 
 
 Mysterious mortal chrysalis am I, | 
 
 I feel Faith's wings, and know my time is nigh ; \ 
 
 As my breath stops, the breath of Heaven's Spring ,| 
 
 Breaks my earth-shell, and liberates each wing. \ 
 
 Upward and heavenward I search the sky, j 
 
 I go to meet immortal friends on high, i 
 
 I go to prove the Saviour lives, and wait i 
 
 For those I love by Heaven's eternal gate. ! 
 
 143 
 
BY HEAVEN'S ETEEJSTAL GATE. 
 
 I have been waiting for thee, darling. 
 
 Waiting years, mayhap, it be ; 
 This is the house we dreamed of, darling, 
 
 So long, so wearily ; 
 This is thy future home, my darling, 
 
 A mansion kept for thee. 
 
 Near us thy father lives, my darling, 
 
 Lives he for evermore; 
 With him thy mother lives, my darling, 
 
 As in the days of yore ; 
 And now thou hast arrived, my darling, 
 
 Upon the happy shore. 
 
 Come, let me lead thee in, my darling, 
 
 Why are thine eyes so strange ? 
 Perhaps in this fair home, my darling, i 
 
 The house thou would's arrange ; 
 Nay, does it strike thee dumb, my darling, i 
 
 Thine eyes in wonder range. 
 
 Open thy lips and speak, my darling. 
 
 Oh, only speak one word; 
 Nay, not of me, of Him, my darling, 
 
 He whom thou hast adored 
 Through a long lifetime true, my darling, 
 
 Jesus ! the Christ ! the Lord ! 
 
 144 
 

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