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AND OTHER POEMS,
ll,ZUJ. (JOSEPH FJ^AZIER,
U. S. ARMY.
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....t^\JZS FpOM T|^E NOJE BOOK OF
A DILLEJANJF.
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AND OTHER POEMS,
BY--
Lieut. Josepl^ prazieF,
U. S. ARMY,
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STRAY LEAVES FROM THE NOTE BOOK
OF A DILLETANTE.
■\,
Copyrighted, 1893,
BY LIEUT. JOSEPH FRAZIER,
U. S. Army.
SAULTSTE. MARIE:
Presses of Burchard & Magbe,
1893.
PREFACE.
No apology will suffice for the infliction of the
following upon the public.
My thanks are due to Dr. Paul Clendenin, U. S.
Arm\% for valuable assistance in preparing this work
for press.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
~' """ PAGE
Sunset at Mackinac, -------- ^
Egypt, ---------- u
All Change, 13
Farewell to a Picture, 18
Andre, - - - - - -21
A Dream, - . . . . 3^
To AN Eagle, -----.--.. 38
The Last Dandelion, 40
What is Life, ---------- ^i
Pan, - . . . 42
Lines on Beginning a New Volume of My Diary, - - 43
Lines on Ending a Volume of My Diary, - - - 45
To A Spirit, - . . • . - 47
Love, - . . 4^
Life, 48
Sonnet — ^Estelle, 50
Sonnet— Mark Twain, 51
Sonnet — Easter in Heaven, ------ ^2
To Miss A. B. W. , 53
L'EqUESTRIENNE, .--.---. 54
§:itn^et at pliwUiiiac^
^J^I^HE Western clouds are rolling up in glory,
o-J^ But all too thin to blot the beauteous light
That warmth and color lends this scene so hoarj
With Winter's ice and snow. Indeed, so bright
The Sun shines thro' the rifts, one almost might
Be dazzled till he had to turn away
From this most lovelj, grand, and wondrous sight.
And doubiv dazzling is the ruddy raj
From lake and sky — both bright as sets the Sun today.
The ice is floating thro' the narrow straits,
And freezes as the waves beat on the shore.
And fast will soon be shut these Northern gates.
But e'en in Summer time the scenes are poor
Compared to this: the light, the snow, the roar
Of icy waves, so different now from those
That Summer brings! While gazing yet the lore
Of this old Isle comes up; its joys, its woes
Arise and with their wings around me seem to close.
10 SUXSET AT MACKINAC.
The scene is changing now, and redly dark
The Sun sends 'tween the rifts his farewell ra_y,
The world lies cold and still nnd stiff and stark
Around, the clouds become a thicker grav.
The air more chill becomes, and more the spray
Is seen to freeze as on the shore it falls.
The sky, the color — all have fled away;
And in the gath'ring gloom are heard the calls
Of those who cattle keep to bring them to their stalls.
6B0j3|?t.
I.
'ilf^^fHE mighty ones of Earth conspire today
<ij^ To rob thee of the traces of thj glorj.
Now foul and sacrilegious hands they lay
Upon thy spires; and soon thy sphinxes hoary
Will vanish too. At last, to tell thy story,
Xaught will upon thy maimed face remain.
Nor aught to mark those battlefields so gorj-
Where Frenchmen fought upon thy desert plain,
Nor aught to show how great thou wast before thy wane.
II.
For in this day a thousand thousand leagues
Are but as was an one in thy grand age;
And nations suffer many worser plagues
Than those that once put thee in such a rage,
And live. So if a nation now engage
To move thy pyramid-, it shall be done,
And that grand, ugh' sphinx that age on age
Has sat beside thy Nile so stern and lone
Shall from thy silent shores one day fore'er be gone.
12 EGYPT.
III.
This all were not so ill did they but take
Thy glories to a clime that would not waste
And wear away their form. But thus to make
Thy name a lost one in the Earth, disgraced
And trailed through thine own great dust, then placed
Upon a shelf to lie and die forgot:
'Tis this vile sacrilege that makes me haste
To plead that more of ihy grand works be not
Removed to some cold place whose atmosphere will rot.
IV.
'Tis well thy mighty works to show the Earth,
And it were well in ages yet to come
That men should realize thy once great worth;
' But that can never be in their own home,
For man, to understand thee, first must roam
Thy desert plain and for himself must see
Thy wastes of sand, thy Nile that leaves his loam.
Thy peasants and the rulers that now be
Upon thy throne, thus all who know thee well agree.
V.
A POET raised his mighty voice one time
Against the desecrator of fair Greece, —
Her treasures carried to a far-off clime
Shall live forever; her glory will not cease
Because her statutes have been piece by piece
From her fair bosom torn. But see the land
For sphinx and obelisk renowned release
The only things that make her name to stand!
For, taken to a foreign clime, her works are sand.
Written upon reading that another of Egypt's obelisks is to
be removed. '
Austria gets this one.
Jill ®l|tn00 QHjange.
1.
^^ PLANTED flower seeds in Spring's bright dajs,—
^ When Summer came they blossomed forth most fair
And pleasure gave, and I was wont to praise
The powers of life, the gods of Sun and Air.
But Winter came and all the world was bare,
The flowers dead, and I was sad and lone
With grief and pain, and felt more weight of care
Than if the flowers had never bloom'd. Not one
Was left to cheer me oh my wav — Earth Avas a stone.
11.
The flowers will bloom again, you kindly tell, —
I know and knew and of that fact am glad,
But all can ne'er, as once, again be well.
For I know now that they must die, and sad
Am I to think on that — yea, almost mad!
Why live at all.'' or w^hy not live forever.^
Perhaps to question Nature thus is bad.
But O, if I of Death had heard not ever,
If flowers lived on, then pain and grief had come, no never!
14 ALL, THINGS CHANGE.
III.
I planted trees, they li^•e year after year,
And oft extend their life beyond the span
Allotted man upon this little sphere;
But when I older grew and learned to scan
Aright the great and wondrous works of man,
I saw that trees by other men set ovit .
All held upon themselves Death's awful ban, —
Could naught unchanged live.^ I had a doul)t
Most sad as I now went mv daily life about.
IV.
Then I a palace built of carved stone,
And in a lovely form the blocks piled high:
And what a joy I felt that all my own
Was this vast, beauteous work; but heaved a sigh
To see that those who thought to time defy
By building thus in ages now long past
Had lived sometimes to see their works brought nigh
Decav; and none were standing firm and fast, —
All would by Time's strong hand be brought down low at last.
V.
What then endures, I cried, Time's awful power .^
The pyramid piled high, at last brought low,
The \ ery rocks are crumbling hour by hour,
The mountains stand awhile, then go,
The rivers die to rills then cease to flow, —
And all material things thus seem to stand
Beneath a ban that will not mercy show.
And all from solid rock to treacherous sand
Must fail beneath the mighty weight of Time's great hand.
ALL, THINGS CHANGE.
VI.
I wrote within a book a beauteous thought
And gave it to the world, and smiled for joy, —
Yes, it would live, for 'twas with love deep fraught,
And I was sure that naught could e'er destroy
A truly loving thought. What could decoy
And drag it down from its high flight 'bove Earth. ^
How sweet it was to ihus my mind employ
In gi\ ing life upon the Earth more worth, — -
In giving great and wondrous loving thoughts their birth
VII.
But when I saw that better words than mine.
And holding deeper, sweeter thovights, had died
And left no trace, nor even left a sign
That they had ever been, "What can abide.?
There's naught that's not by time destroA^ed!" I cried.
Then sate me down in bitterness and wept
That naught had Time successfully defied;
But soon I wearied fell and deeply slept,
And when I woke a sweet hope in my soul had crept.
VIII.
I woke to find a maid most sweet and fair
Was all my own — we loved each other well.
And never lived a truer, happier pair;
But e'en in love a sadness on us fell,
For we must part awhile, and who could tell
What sorrows^, pains, and cares to us might come!
But we should meet again, that was a well
Of jov in both our hearts that gladdened some,
But ah, there yet was grief enough to strike us dumb!
IX.
With Time the love of parted ones grew cold, —
Perhaps, like flowers, it may have died also, —
Then sorrow such as mine was never told:
What do? Where go? How live? — I did not know
But just let life a sluggish current flow
Until we met, and then love lived again.
Full happiness returned with love? — i\h no!
The former death of love had left a stain
That e'er must prove to fullest happiness a bane.
X.
I knew that when again I left my Love,
'Twould be, in little time, as 'twas before, —
That she would cold and almost faithless prove, —
'Twould be but the repeating o'er and o'er
The same sad tale, howe'er I might implore
Both her and Heaven to grant me just but this:
That I might think that love is true once more
And ne'er can die. I left her with a kiss,
But soon again, as I foresaw, her love did miss.
XI.
Then Time doth rule it all, and all things change!
•^ The world material, the mind of man.
And even GOD-given Love are in his range, —
He sets upon them all destruction's ban.
And smiles when mortals think they have a plan
His vigilance to 'scape and break him down;
And many men have said, 'T will, I can,"
But all their works are going or are g-one;
g And woman's love will ever prove a fleeting crown!
ALL THINGS CHANGB,
XII.
Whv live? I hear thee ask — A day wiH come
When change will be no longer sad, but sweet,
When wand'ring souls return unto their home,
When each lost half its mate shall meet.
And pain no longer be, for each shall greet
His Love as ne'er before. The toils of Earth,
The grief, the pain, the trials, and the heat
Of life will but increase the mighty worth
Of life eternal and supreme — the spirit's birth.
XIII.
Then live and hope and faithfully perform
Thy life's appointed duties, one by one;
The blast will come, the rock, the wave, the storm.
And all Nvill seem to fall and fail; but none
Of these will aught be deemed when once is won
The goal. If Fate forbids thy meeting here
Her who should be thy light of life — thy Sun —
The thought may cost thee many a bitter tear,
But know that ye shall meet some time and have no fear.
farewell to a ^ictnve^
I.
i»AREWELL, perhaps I ne'er shall see thee more,
iVnd that is sad; on every Sabbath morn
For five long years thou thus hast been before
My gaze; with joyful heart and heart forlorn
And every feeling in my soul from scorn
Of wrong to love of all that's good and right,
And with sometimes a mind mosr wrecked and torn,
I thus on thee have cast my wond'ring sight
And never hast thou failed to lend my life new light.
II.
When I did first thy glorious outlines see,
And marked, when first I saw, thy motto grand, **
It strengthened much mv firm resolve to be
A worker strong for good in my dear land,
And give vinto the right my heart and hand;
But I have often fallen and often yet
Do FALL, but thou dost form a strength'ning band
That holds me up 'bove Earth and will not let
Mv faith depart nor let mv star of hope to set.
* The great mural allegorical picture by Professor Wier in
ihe Cadet Chapel at West Point.
** Righteousness exalteth a nation, but sin is a reproach to
any people.— Prov. xiv. — 34.
FAREAVELL TO A PICTURE.
III.
And I have viewed thee in the hour of jo\-,
And in the depths of my glad heart I thought
Thou mingledst with my soul, nor could destroy,
Nor would, a thought that such a sweetness brought.
For 'tis a truest law that scarce worth aught
Is unshared joy, and we are sure to love ,
The thing that in (uir joys or woes has sought
A share — it is a way by which we prove
What's true and pure and good, and given from Above!
IV.
But most hast thou to me a pleasure given
When I was sad, when all the world was dark,
For then thou wast, as 'twere, a gift from Heaven,
A thought thrust in to press me to the mark
That I was born to reach. Thou wast a bark
All trimmed and rigged to bear me from a shore
Where if I let my thoughts remain, no spark
Of hope would soon be left to brighten more
Mv life— then is it strange that I do thee adore.?
V.
And is it strange that I am sad to go
And leave a work of art that has such good
Shed o'er mj^ life.? — 'Twere strange were I not so.
What we have long been with w^e always should
Be sad to leave, nor cannot if we would
Be otherwise. But when a thing has been
An inspiration to the soul, how could
We do but weep to leave.? — It were a sin
If we did not let honest worth upon us win.
L'd FAREWELL TO A PICTURE.
VI.
How much of all the good that's in mv life
I owe to thee alone I do not know,
But this I know that in the yveary strife
Of five long jears, when hope swaved to and fro
And oftentimes seemed gone or nearly so,
The inspiration thou didst give has made
Her waning star take on a brighter glow.
And made the doubts of life away to fade;
And thou hast helped me oft when I new plans have laid.
I.
IJj^y^^alS quiet night and 'long the Hudson's shore
<lJ(^ The moon's bright light is playing o'er a scen(
That pen could ne'er describe. And so before
You further read, 'twere well to know, I ween.
That 3^ou will find mj best attempt quite mean,
But 'tis bj trying we at last succeed,
And tho' at first we feel a failure keen,
Still if we give things proper care and heed,
To sink awav in dire despair we ne'er have need.
II.
'Tis said that once an ardent lover tried.
By every means accorded human power,
A thousand times before he won his bride.
Then shall I cease to write — and crouch and cower.
And hush the wish for fame that every hour
And every moment rises in my soul.^ —
To lie at ease beneath a shady bower
While others' works and songs the mind cajole
Might be enough for some: I seek a higher goal.
•>•> AN DEE.
III.
But to the Hudson's shore let us return —
Strange things are passing, things of interest too
To nations. Within a glen where grows the fern,
And bv thick firs most closely hid from view
There crouch two men. What thing is this they do.^
The place is lonelj-, dark, and far away
From human habitation, a place where few,
Yea, almost none, pass by, not e'en in day,
And overlapping boughs shut out the moon's bright ray.
IV.
They surely are no ordinary men,
For one wears sword and both the uniform
Of General. Both seem in such a den
Quite out of place; but they shall do no harm.
Their plot will be found out and but alarm
A sleeping world to fight for liberty.
And rouse up men to patriotism more warm —
'Twill make men feel what 'twould be to be free,
And make Great Britain see the crime of tyranny.
V.
They talk and argue long, but mvtch too low
For those down by the river's side to hear.
For tho' they two are 'lone we need not go
Far off to find the men who brought them there:
Down in a little boat with trembling fear
They crouch and curse. Long hours they watch, those eight,
And little dream what treachery is near.
And little dream that while they watch and Avait,
A plot is being hatched against their nation's fate.
ANDKE. 23
VI.
But longer still the two among the firs
Remain, while guides still more impatient grow,.
And breath of morn the Autumn foliage stirs.
At last, far in the East appears a glow
That warns these two that they must elsewhere go
Or close their schemes in light of open day;
And this they cannot do — that, well they know,
Would be unsafe to both — 'tis not the wa}^
That must be done by men engaged in plots like they.
VII.
So tremblingly from out the thicket dense
The traitor and the gallant soldier come.
The soldier trembling with the keenest sense
Of shame and scorn for one so false to home
And Native Land, as to consent to doom
To basest slavery the staunchest men
That e'er had fought thro' tyranny and gloom
For liberty. But Andre thought again,
'The scheme's to Albion's glory: should I tremble then?"
VIII.
And Arnold trembled most. What if the stones
Should prate! What if these horses near by tied
Should find, as Balaam's ^s of old, deep tones
To tell his treachery! What if a guide
Had heard their plot! O! could he ever hide
So vile a thing! Would Heaven not rise
In wrath and ere this wrong should be, decide
It should not be.'' Had he not been unwise
To do a thing that must be base in all men's eyes.''
2i ANDRE.
IX.
At old West Point upon the chapel wall
Are graved in golden words the names of those
Who glad obeyed their loved country's call
To lead her sons against that country's foes
In that great war. A grateful nation chose
In later years their names to honor so.
'Tis thus Columbia gratitude bestows
Upon the men who fought the foreign foe:
Thas to the Great doth she her love forever show!
X.
Were one left out, that list were incomplete,
And yet 'twere sacrilege a traitor's name
To put within that sacred place. " 'Tis meet,"
Said one, "to give his title and his fame;
For foes his blood did shed ar-.d body maim
For our grand cause on many a battle field
Before the cursed day when he became
What now we know him. Let vis his title shield.
And to the good he did its whole due honor yield."
XI.
And so the}' sculptured out upon the stone
His rank and title — "^lajor General" —
But placed no name beneath. J3ut it is known
For whom that stone was cut by one and all
Who look thereon. How great has been his fall!
By one foul deed he chiseled off his name
From 'mong the Great, and a worse than death-like pall
Threvv o'er his truth, his honor and his fame:
To all base traitors may Fate ever deal the same!
ANDRE,
XII.
Andre was not to blame; he but obeyed
His General; and he, no doubt, despised
And scorned the man who could consent to aid
His country's enemies. But it sufficed
That Clinton had for him the plan devised.
And so, without a moment's hesitation,
E'en had he been obliged to go disguised,
He would have gone. The curious combination
That rose placed him in a peculiar situation.
XIII.
The moon was much too light to trj to reach
The "Vulture," Ijing-to in Haverstraw bay ;
While to remain upon the open beach
Would soon attention draw — they must away,
x\nd hide the Briton till the close of day.
The guide and honest farmers wondered much
At this strict secrecy — What could they say
To satisfy the searching minds of such.'' —
And answer Arnold gave quite worthy the veriest wretch
XIV.
"You men go quickly to your homes," said he,
"And he who speaks a word of what he's seen,
Or tells a single thing that he may see.
Within the next four 'days, shall suffer keen —
On bread and water shall be fed till lean
As 'Hungrj'^ Cassius.' " And as he spoke
These threatening words, his eyes shone dark and green
With direst passion, and thus he sought to cloak
His foul and devilish scheme from these honest farmer folk.
26 ANDEE.
XV.
Then he and Andre mount and ride away
To Arnold's home, and there they two remain
Together closeted the livelong day.
That night they wish the guide to go again
And row the Briton back. But no man sane
Could dare to hope to reach the "Vulture" now,
For, fleeing Fort Montgomery's leaden rain
Her crew had anchor weighed and turned her prow,
F^ar down around the bend could just be seen her bow.
XVI.
And now besides all this, the guide was ill
And could not go — They knew not what to do,
Then Arnold said: "Tomorrow if you will,
When you are better, Guide,* can you not go
And take this man by land.^ — 'Twere better so,
And vou I do assure that 'tis our country's good
We both of us are seeking. — Then I shall know
That he has safely passed the dangerous wood —
Our plan is but to save the shedding of more blood."
XVII.
There Andre was in British uniform
x\nd bound to stay perhaps for several days
'Mong men he could not trust. The least alarm
Would be enough a thousand foes to raise.
And one short hour might sever all the ways
Of his escape. But he could nothing do
But wait — and this the spring of hope decays.
Is it a wonder that he restless grew.
And did most heartily his part the plot now rue.^"
*The guide had taken a chill and Arnold thought he would
l)e better next day, and he was.
ANDRE.
XVIII.
The hours dragged by and morn returned at last
A morn all calm and cleaj" and beautiful —
How glad he was those lagging hours were passed !-
Thej' were not only dreary, long and dull,
But full of danger; now there falls a lull
Upon his heart's deep hope — What if the guide
Should still be ill.'' — Then he must surely cull
His way alone far down the Hudson's side
To Gotham tOAvn — He'd here remain no longer tied.
XIX.
But Fortune seemed to favor him once more —
His guide was well, and early in the morn
They started on their journey; but Andre wore
A borrowed coat instead of uniform.
At first he was quite gloomy and forlorn,
But presently more free and easy grew
As hills and streams and fields of Indian corn
Along the Hudson's side passed back from yiew:
For danger is forgot 'mid scenes so fair and new.
XX.
The night drew on apace and they must halt,
For woods and mountains were by .thieves infested
By knaves of neither side who drank much malt
And held a roaring feast and sang and jested
Whene'er they had some traveler divested
Of gold enough. 'Twas thus the story ran
That ne'er a night man traveled unmolested.
'Twas night and they must halt — Andre began
To seem a sad, disconsolate, unhappy man.
.;> ANDRE.
XXI.
The guide declares that An-dre never slept
That night at all. Have men a premonition
Of what, in store for them, is being kept
Of good or evil.? — It seems that his condition
Would argue so. — -Perhaps it is Omniscion
Warns men sometimes what 'tis they may expect,
But Andre's strange and dangerous position
Was princip'ly the cause, as I suspect,
'] hat made him then all joy and gavety reject.
XXII.
He early rose and bade his guide make haste,
And restless was until the start was made —
Thej' must, he said, no single moment waste.
But as they passed o'er rock and hill and glade,
And listened to the joyful serenade
Of morning birds, his heart again grew light
And so remained. And they were not delayed
Again. At last the Croton came in sight
And Andre said, "See vou yon bridge down to the right. '-
XXIII.
"From'there I know my way quite well; and there
We part, for I shall h'ave no further need
Of guide. You've generous been and kind, so here,
This watch please take, be it but part your meed,
May Heaven bless and may the life jou lead
Be long and prosperous^-Here take the watch!" —
"Ah no!" the guide replied, "no hope of greed
Or gain or any kind of pay could match
My joy if I some good have done — just keep your watch.
ANDKE. 29
XXIV.
And thus they separate, Andre rides on
In the morning air; and he is happy now —
Is he not sure of having won renown? —
For this grand scheme will end the war; and how
Could then Honora's father do but allow
A warrior with so fair and brave a name —
One whom the gift of genius must endow —
To have his daughter's hand? Then too, his fame
Would shine thro' distant centuries — a liviuij flame!
XXV.
But ah! How little dreams he even then
That she he loves had died long months ago —
How little thinks his noble mind again*
That a few more days will see him dead also! —
And jet it is to be. How can he know
That ere two weeks are passed he will be hung —
A spy? — In his brave heart is found no echo
Of any such a thought — His soul is wrung
sVith no such fear, as in his saddle he's lightly swung.
XXVI.
He hastens on. Tonight he hopes to see
His play — a parodj^ on "Chevy Chase" —
Now for the first time played in New York City.
How swells his loving heart, how beams his face,
As from his breast he takes a tiny case
And gazes as he rides along the road
Upon the heavenly sweetness and the grace
Of brow of her he loves! There seems no load
Now on his heart — his mind no more sad things doth bod<
; i ANDRE.
XXVII.
Honora loves— he is very sure of that,
And now his name will soon be placed among
The Great; for when they fight this grand combat,
,And America shall conquered be, what tongue
Will tell the story o'ej- and do the wrong
Of leaving out his name? With fame like this.
His loved Honora's family not long
Could then his ardent suit for her hand resist: —
F^rom torture at beainnins: his ride became now bliss.
XXVIII.
Where King's Bridge crosses o'er the Croton River,
There stands today a huge and ag'd oak tree
That's pointed out by guides to the traveler ever
To mark the spot where that great noble three
Were playing cards when they first saw Andre,
Their names are Paulding, John — Van Wert, Isaac
And Williams, Dave — They were, yovi see,
Just ordinary men, bvit were not slack
Of patriotism, and love of coimtry did not lack.
XXIX.
One caught his horse, another leveled down
A musket at his breast: Now tell, said they,
Whether'you be in favor of the crown
Or if you wish the "rebs" may gain the day —
That word determined him just what to say —
No rebel, now he thought would e'trr speak so —
That word lost him and saved America.
He cried, "Belong you not, like me, below.?
Come mount voiar steeds and we will now together go.''
ANDRE.
XXX.
■ How glad he vva:-; at finding thus his friends!
But ah! See what thej now begin to do,
Thev take him from his horse and tie his hands
Behind, then search his pockets thro' and thro'-
He sees he Avas mistaken and now doth rue
His haste; but hopes that they will nothing find —
But see they now strip off his riding-shoe.
And there, behold! — It is with papers lined —
How Andre wishes now he'd left those things behind!
XXXI.
But still he hopes thej^'ll not find out the plot,
Or if they do, with the wealth at his command
That he will promise them, they may be bought.
And so he cries, "Here take this watch, my man-
I am an Officer and gold and land
Will give to you if ye will but obey."
He surely little knew what blood there ran
In patriot hearts like theirs — No Arnolds they —
•Why if you gave ten thousand crowns, you still must stay!'
' XXXII.
Was their reply, and then they took him on
With them to Colonel J "O how I fear,"
Thought Andre now, "all hope of 'scape is gone."
But he must haste to let base Arnold hear
That he is taken — He must, but how and where ?-
A line would be enough could it be sent —
He asks the commandant— Why, yes— and there
Was made the great mistake that e'er has lent
A taint of foul suspicion to that Commandant.
;i2 AXDKE.
XXXIII.
The world knows how when Arnold read that word,
"John Anderson is taken", he tied away
And left him to his fate. And how was heard
From Georgia's sunny clime to Boston's bay
All bitter things that honest men could say
Against the traitor. And how Great Washington
Feared that the cause was falling to decay
When such a brave and erstwhile glorious son
Mad fallen — He knew not who was false — He trusted none.
XXXIV.
And necessary then it surely was
For him to be- most strict and most severe.
And punish swift the breakers of the laws
Of Nations. But Mercy enters even here
In military law, and draws a tear
From e'en the warrior. But always duty first
And then with good and patient loving ear
He will to Mercy list. All fear the worst
For the prisoner as o'er the land the tidings burst.
XXXV.
In vain did Clinton argue and Arnold threaten —
The fourteen Generals their duty did
And ne'er a qualm of fear did thty let in
Their hearts; but for awhile their pity hid
And Justice gave these trying scenes amid.
Man never had a court more true and good,
Nor one that more admired the gallant '.'Cid"
But argue and reason whatever way they would,
A spy they found him — indeed they only could!
ANDEE.
XXXVI.
He died, a victim of cruel circumstances,
But bravely died as all good soldiers ought —
He died despite the loving, warm advances
Of those who had on either side well fought.
And yet no one should e'er have wished or sought
To lay his blood at fair Columbia's door, —
Himself and Fate his awful ruin wrought.
Then let the "British Lion cease to roar' —
And let us on his grave our tears together pour!
*
I.
^"If^^HE Sun is slowly sinking o'er the hills
cj^ SVith that fair golden grand jur only known
Far in the West— that land whose springs and rills
One hour are quiet streams, the next are grown
Until one little babbling brook alone
Seems huge enough to be the "Mississippe" —
The Sun is slowly sinking: now are flown
His last faint rays while yet the golden tip
Of one dark cloud doth still toward his setting dip.
II.
I drive the road-cart round and May gets in,
Then for a moment in the yard we stand
To have a parting word with Eve and Lynn.
Have you e'er had a drive in this fair land
In Summer-time, by full moonlight.^ 'Tis grand,
And grander still on such a night as this,
With clouds just thick enough to form a band
Around the silver Moon —Ah th^n 'twere bliss.
Just when the clouds were thickest, to give sweet May a kiss!
A DREAxM.
III.
For May and I, \mu know, are lovers still,
Tho' we have married been almost a year;
No jar has ever come, no thought of ill
From either to the other; and each is dear
As when that summer morn, with just a tear —
Brushed quickly from her bright and loving eye —
She left her childhood's home without one fear
To be my wife. How blest are those who try
orever thus each with the other in love to vie!
IV.
And May is modest; she will not let me kiss
If chance there be that someone else may see;
"I should not like," she whispers low, "to miss
A single kiss when we are 'lone and free,
But here, with houses near, it must not be,
Unless 'tis when the darkest clouds enclose
The moon." Of course to such a flimsy plea
I no attention paid, but when I chose,
kissed her lips till high within my heart love rose.
V.
The first great flood of love is naught, compared
To love that has been tried and proven long:
With love's first hope all things are quickly dared,
But love that has been tried is yet more strong —
With it all things are quickly dared — and done.
So 'tis with me, I will no longer wait, —
Not even when the flitting cloud has gone
Far from the moon, — to kiss. Our joy is great.
Far more than that of many who live in pomp and state!
:{6 A DKEAM.
VI.
Four miles — not far — and vet 'tis far enough
"To live and love and die in," as I shall find,
Alas, before I reach my home! How rough
To me the Fates have been, O how unkind!
It hurts my brain, it nearly racks my mind
To think, e'en now of this dread, awful night!
Can I have been or senseless, deaf, or blind.
That I should drive not on the bridge aright? —
O take awav from 'fore mine eves the dreadful sight!
VII.
A little stream that's usually so small
That stepping-stones in many places serve
For bridge — and that too, well enough for all —
Is swollen now flush with the banks. A curve
Aside upon that flimsy bridge, a swerve
Only, and down we go, — I know it well.
But I have driven much and trust my nerve —
Had I looked close upon that seething hell
Then I would ne'er have had this awful tale to tell!
VIII.
Right in the center of the longest span.
When boards are creaking, side rails shaking, and all
Is being borne that this frail bridge can stand,
While floods rush on below, he shies— we fall,
And I seize May around the waist and call
For help — O God, what awful thing is this!
Is there more danger still that must enthrall
Us two unfortunates? — With snort like a hiss.
The horse turns round and bites, and just my arm does miss.
A DREAM.
IX.
He misses once, but see, he conies again,
This time he seizes my right arm and — Oh! —
But then I do not mind so much the pain —
My arm he broke and I must let May go!
"Good bje, my Love," she gasps and sinks below-
I struggle to grasp her with my other hand —
In vain! The dark, swift waters o'er her flow.
She rises at last, but far away from land
And me — I sink unconscious, more I cannot stand!
X.
Great Scott! What awful thund'ring noise was that
Which shakes the hills and makes the blood to run
Cold in my veins. '*^ — And now, cu-flip, cu-spat,
Te-rattle, te-dip, cu-flap, cu-boom, cu-dun!
O now I see, it was the reveille gun!
Up quick, get on your clothes! Hear the scream
Of those shrill fifes; there will not be much fun
If you an absence get. . . .Lo, all — the stream.
And horse, and bridge, and drowning wife, have been a dream!
I.
*1XP ^^ there upon an artificial crag
^^f^iS Thou sittest chained — but jet the king of birds.
Shame, shame upon base man who thus could drag
Thj noble form so low. To cage the herds
Of beasts that roam the wilds were bad, but words
Can ne'er express how sad to thee must be
The cold and cank'ring iron band that girds
Thy prisoned foot that timid man may see
"VVhat else he dare not look upon — thy nest and thee.
II.
What mockery must seem that little pile
That they have made to imitate thy rocks:
And how to thee must seem far worse than ^ ile
That artificial nest they made! It mocks
So poor the one thou buildst where Nature blocks
The path from man! But thou with high disdain
Dost let it stay, although methinks it shocks
Th}' kingly heart: to find it there again,
On waking every morn, methinks must cause thee pain.
To an eagle that I saw chained in Central Park,
TO AN EAGLE.
III.
Thou art companionless amid the crowd,
Thou sittest, — royal even in thy c.iains, —
No one around with fitting traits endowed
To live with thee. The king of beasts remuns
Shut close in yonder cell, and he disdains
Companionship in misery, as thee:
Like thee he never of his lot complains,
But thinks of days when he was wild and free,
And stalks l;iis cage and roars whene'er he man doth see.
IV.
Proud bird, I think thy lot is like to that
Entailed upon the soul of man on Earth, —
Both royal are, both chained are, and at
One time methinks that both had far more worth
Than when, as now, chained to this clay of Earth.
By man, man fell. By man, thou too wast bound
E'en e'er thy mother's egg had giv'n thee birth,
And many other points are also found
Wherein alike — and both are girt with myst'ry round.
^he ga$t ^anbelxon
I.
^»T raised above the seared and browned turf,
J^ Upon a slender stem its golden head,
Like some fair shell cast by the beating surf
Upon a rocky, billowy, sandy bed, —
The fairest dandelion and the last,
Its time on Earth would surelj^ soon be past.
n.
A little thing it was, so weak and pure.
It seemed a shame that it should trampled be,
A-resting there so quiet and demure.
But yet it must: away it could not flee,
And we were marching, marching on in line
And must not turn aside for a dandelion.
III.
And so we trampled out its fair young life
And left it there besmirched and mudded o'er,
And all passed careless on, their minds were rife
With other things. But I resolved to store
This little flower in my memory
And try if I could a lesson learn thereby.
IV.
How often do we trample thoughtless down
The little blessings that by God are given
Until, when numbers of life's sweets are flown.
We wonder why 'tis so and blame high Heaven
For wrongs and sorrows we ourselves have caused,—
For pains that had not been had we but paused!
I.
JVpVsT^HAT are our little hopes, our petty joys
c|)|,e))(Jj) In this great mass of worlds? And what are mine
Amid humanitj^? — Mere trifling toys
That for a moment short may brightly shine
In Fortune's favor, then as quick decline
And be as though they had not ever been,
Or worser still leave me yet more supine,
And stronger bound within the clutch of sin.
What is our life? Why toil we here its thread to spin?
II.
I think I live because I do not die,
No reason else I know why I exist,
Perhaps I fear the other life to try
And hence from passing to that shore desist.
Perhaps also a thing that doth insist
On living on there is in every man.
But this remains, I wander on through mist
And seek to know the wondrous mighty plan
Of this vast universe — how little can I span!
«]|(^J^HE whole a myst'rv is, and none can know
■<lJ^ It all but God himself, and sortie do hold
That all is God — perhaps 'tis even so,
For we eternal are, so we are told,
And joined to Him, yet separate in mould
From Him. Our link'd yet separate life would seem
To argue either plan as true; and bold
Indeed were he who lightly dared to deem
That ALL ARE JOINED or EACH DISTINCT, is but a dream.
ON BEGINNING A NEW VOLUME OF MY DIARY
I.
^Vr^lJ^T^HY do I record keep of passing days?
^XvnP' Why write mj fancies and my follies down:
Is it the hope of gaining fame or praise,
Or fear that I'll forget some joy that's flown
Makes me this record keep? — Yes, I must own
The wish and hope for fame in me is strong;
And then I would also the fact make known
That write I must: I think 'twere surely wrong
To hush and bind the soul that would break forth in son^
II.
But even though the praise should ne'er be mine,
I still must write— my soul will over-flow
And must expression have, or it will pine
And die. I think that even should I know
My words would ne'er be read I still must sow
Them in these pages here: some things I write
Down here, — parts of my life, — I cannot show
The world; nor will I bring these things to light
In my life-time and hers,— I think that were not right.
44 LINES ON BEGINNING A NEW VOLUME OF MY DIAKl.
JII.
But should the lines I write some pleasure give
A wounded, sore and wearv heart some time,
Should aught of mine be e'er found fit to live,
Then I should be most glad I wrote in rhj^ne;
And though I were in Hea\en's glorious clime
Before, still pleasure would it give to me
To know some word of mine, some little chime,
Had made someone the way of love to see.
Or made life's rugged path to some more pleasant be.
IV.
He who does all he does for self alone
Does little good. He who for his fellow-man
Does all. may always. be quite sure that none
Does more for self than he Life's but a span,
But do some good, for if you will you can.
And do it now, e'en now, while time is yours,
While yet the glass doth still contain some sand.
While through thy veins the healthful life blood pour>
Or if life's nearly o'er, while yet a spark endures.
$me0.
WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF A VOLUME OF MV DIARY
I.
»|l^P(f>HIS book is full. With sad and wear}- heart
«.j(L^ I write and close it vip and lav it down,
For of my vevy life it seems a part,
And if, indeed, I ever win renown,
'Twill be by some such work as this. A frown
Comes o'er my brow whene'er I read and see
How much and jet how little I have shown
Of all that dwells within mj soul. The key
>f all my life I give, and keep — a mystery.
II.
Each day of life shows many a form and phase,
And many days have I recorded here.
But all of none. Some things the heart amaze.
And mine stands still in awe, perhaps in fear,
To think upon some things that are written here.
And Avill another hundred pages show,
pr rather show it not or not show clear.
As many faults as this? — I hope that no,—
ut where, oh where were I if that it should be so!
4(3 LINES WKITTEX AT THE CLOSE OF A VOLUME OF MY DIARY.
III.
() let the next succeeding volume find
Me truer, purer, better far than now,
And let the days recorded in it bind
Me more to her I love! And ne'er allow
That aught but truth and purity endow
My life or pen! Ah, what a glorious life
Were that — to show an erring Avorld just how
To live in peace and love and not in strife,
And live myself in happiness with my sweet wife!
®o a spirit;
<j/^pOULDST thou but feel Earth's stings one little hour,
l\3jf^ And then return to what thou art again,
Then wouldst thou know the blessing and the power
Of having dwelt among the sons of men ;
And many things now far beyond thy ken
Would be to thee a source of endless pleasure
Couldst thou but once Earth's teachings know; r.nd then
Thou tirst couldst comprehend the priceless treasvire
Of great Jehovah's love and life — given sans measvire.
goxte>
^y^j^HERE is a madness of the human brain
<QJ^ That men call Love and know not what they say
The. holy name of Love they oft profane
By calling Love what is but passion's sway.
Can that be Love w^hich lasts but for a day?
Can that be Love which wrongs the loved one? —
No, Love is pure and bringeth no decay
To truth and purity. Love stands alone,—
Its XAME abused sometimes, — but pure, and marred by none.
iife*
)^E strive and work and careful watch and pray,
^X*X^ And think, sometimes that we are near success,
But suddenly there comes an evil day
When there is brought upon our lives such stress
That we do fall; and Fate doth cease to bless,
And nought is left to hope or wish or do:
And then awhile Ave sit in idleness,
Then rise and strive again to yet be true;
And thus it seems our life we waste the whole wav throuirh.
II.
And is my life a waste? What then \^ ere I
If I had never striven? ah me! the thought
Of what it is doth make me wish to die! —
But what it were if I had never sought
To curb my passion's pow'rs nor ever fought
To win the right at all, is sadder far
Than all the human mind has e'er been taught
To think upon: as 'tis, each day a scar
Has left upon my life that doth life's beauty mar!
LIFE.
III.
But let me not give up, I must press on,
Nor cast a backward glance; the past is dark
And dark would be my hope— aye, hope were gone
If thro' the past again my little bark
Of life I had to steer — -no, not a spark
Of hope were left if only by the past
The future could be hoped; but there's a mark
We try to reach — we toil before the blast
\nd strive, how oft in vain! how oft are lost at last!
^W"
ittonii^t~®0teile.
ESTELLE, — that name shall ahvavs to me be »
\Mth sweetest thoughts and purest love entwined,
For one who that name bears is good and kind,
\nd, better still, 'tis she who loveth me;
And she alone it is who hath the key
To this my heart; and she it is can find
Sweet words to say that soothe my weary mind
When I, in this sad world, no longer see
Nor hope nor joy, but only deepest pain
And saddest thoughts that bend the soul down low, —
When all seems lost and "life not v.orth the living'
A word from her will e'er revive again
The precious hopes and joys of long ago,
To weary soul and brain new impulse giving
TO "mark twain"— the humorist.
«^«)7j^Y Song mav seem quite poor and flat and tame,
J)|Y^ 'Twill scarce be worth thy time to read, I'm sure,
But 'mong admirers, I know you'll find none truer
Nor one more willing and glad to tell thy fame.
And accord to thee what's due so great a name:
Thou who dost use the talent that's to thee given
To make our Earth a place that's more like Heaven,
Surely thy reward shall be the same
As tho' thou'dst used thy time and mind to tell
To men the way that always must be trod,
And that they always must do all things well
If they would view at last their Heaven and God;
For is not he who makes on Earth less pain
The greatest blessing to his fellow-men?
^onnci-^a^Uv tit heaven
[angels' song in heaven at the eesureection.]
S^pLAD tidings now we sing to all above!
\^/^ The Prince of Glory wakes and comes in love
To us who wept so sore and thought all lost.
'Tvvas He alone who bore the awful cost
Of Earth's great sin, and He it was did prove
The Mighty One who could from Earth remove
Her awful stain, and calm her seas when toss'd
And melt the hearts of men congealed by frost
Of sin and shame. The Royal Conqueror comes!
Ah, see the halo 'round His glorious brow!
For He has death o'ercome and won the prize
That none could win beside, and freed the homes
Of Earth from sorrow, pain and care; and now.
From this day forth, upon the Earth sin dies.
®0 Pli60 ^. §. pT-
I.
I cannot tell how much vour book I prize;- -
I just this morning finished reading it —
It has a double value in mine eves
Because to jou I know it must be dear,
And then its precepts too are good and wise;
Its teachings done would surelj "cast out fear"
And cause dead hope in anv soul to rise;
Its pathos draws from sjmpathv a tear,
And jet it points where comfort surely lies,
And what will make our life less sad and drear.
II.
I am your debtor and ever must be so,
And debtor too to her who wrote that book;
And you her worth much better than I must know,
To you a sister, good and true and fair.
Always most glad to help to lessen woe.
To heal the sick and for the poor to care;
Where Jesus called always most glad to go,
Or to the sick, or to the house of prayer.
A sweet, glad love on you and her I 'stow
And know this book will help me o'er many a snare.
*After reading the Red Wallflower.
$'®q^^ie^tr^^mni^
^ SAW him first before a block of stone
With chisel in his leather-bound left hand
And mallet in the other; and there were none
Who seemed their work so well to understand.
With shirt agape to let his breast expand,
His hat thrown back upon his forehead high,
And trousers held in place by a leathern band,
He to the granite did the chisel ply
L'litil the block a finished window-sill did lie.
II.
He was not one whom you would think to find
At Avork like that. His face was smooth and fair
And showed a sympathic turn of mind
Despite the sun and weather's waste and wear
And on his brow a few light lines of care.
Those lines of pain, howe'er, were very few,
And yet you felt that he had had his share
Of grief; for he was young and healthful too
Anci when he thoughtful seemed those lines much deeper grew
l'equestrienne.
III.
To him is given to cut the curving stones
That form our new gymnasium's window-sills,
And such nice work as flying-buttress cones.
I wander to the quarry 'mong the hills
To watch him oft: his skill with pleasure fills
My soul; he knows just where to give each stroke,
And each small chip breaks as it seems he wills.
I watched him long and oft — at last we spoke.
And many were the thoughts he in my bosom woke.
IV.
For I soon found that 'neath his coarse attire
There dwelt a pure, refined, and cultured soul.
I wondered much what circumstances dire
Had placed him in his present toilsome role,
And wondered what could be for him the goal
Of life. But of those things he did not speak.
And he was one whom you could not cajole
And find such secrets out. One Could not break
The ice that lav around his life — he was not weak.
V.
He talked of science, books, and poetry,
And e'en with lightness sometimes spoke of life,
But as he talked you could quite plainly see
There was within his breast some hidden strife.
One day I asked him if he had a wife,
And by his smile I knew, ere he replied,
No woman e'er had entered in his life:
He smiled, said, "no", then quickly glanced aside
To where Miss Dean was coming on her morning ride.
56 l'eql'esteienxe.
VI.
He laid his chisel down and stood and gazed
As though he ne'er had seen a maid before,
As though her fair and queenly beauty dazed
His mind. His face a deep expression wore
As though his heart down to the very core
Was pierced. As she passed by she spoke to me,
I raised my hat but could do nothing more, —
My eyes were fixed on John to try to see
What strange and mighty change that this in him might be.
VII.
She spoke and quickly, carelessly rode on
And passed around a turn. John kept his eyes
P'irm fixed upon her form till she was gone;
Then noticing my look of great surprise.
He blushed — made some remark upon the size
Or shape of stone that he was cutting, and then,
When I was about to speak, looked at the skies
And spoke about the weather — wondered when
That we should have a pleasant, cooling rain again.
VIII.
I knew those words were said but just to hide
Some secret thought that rose within his mind,
And which to me would quickly be denied
If spoken of. I could not feel vmkind,
Although I feared that he small joy would find
From admiration of a girl so high
In life above the station that the wind
Of Fate had blown to him. I thought how nigh
To him might be love's pain — and then I heard a sigh:
L EQrESTRIENNE.
IX.
But it was short and low and quick supprest,
And then awhile he worked in silence on:
I watched him close, but thought that then 'twere best
To speak of naught. When he was left alone,
Again he laid his heavy hammer down
And deep and long gazed out on vacancy,
And passing near, I heard a soft, low moan.
And he in some deep trouble seemed to be
When taking up his work — I thought I knew its key.
X.
I guessed that he had met Miss Dean before, '
And they had loved, perhaps, in former days;
For I would let imagination soar
To times when he had walked in other ways, —
When Fortune shed her sunny, golden rays
And strengthened friendship's binding chain for him,
When he was rich and beauty loved to gaze
Upon his manly form so neat and trim, —
When joy's gold cup ran full and overflowed the brim.
XL
But I guessed wrong; they ne'er had met before.
For when one day Miss Dean came riding by
Again, he asked her name. Again he wore
A look of settled pain — again his sigh
And steadfast gaze— again I wondered why,
If she had ne'er before come in his sight,
That thus her simple presence seemed to try
His soul; and long I tried with all my might
To solve the mystery, but ne'er did solve it 'right.
5H L, EQrESTRTEXXE.
XII.
Next day. when at a quite unvisual hour, —
tlis dinner hour, in fact, — again I went
To see the mason's work, I saw a shower
Of snow-white chips, as o'er his work he leant,
In almost every direction sent.
I was quite near before he saw me come.
But jusL as on his work my gaze I bent
He threw a blanket o'er it, then stood dumb,
Then looked confused and asked whv I was not at home.
XIII.
Then seeing what he'd said, he blushed more deep
And to the quizzing glance his work I gave
Replied, "As yet 'tis but a shapeless heap
Of stone; but come next Saturday at eve
And something good you'll see or I'm a knave".
I looked down al the alabaster chips
That lay around and thought that I could weave
His story now, as though from his own lips
He'd told it me, but 1 was wrong — we oft make slips.
XIV.
This guess, howe'er, was not entirely wrong:
I thought that he must be some sculptor great
Who, for some secret cause, was now among
These common workmen here. Perhaps stern Fate,
In doling out Earth's wealth, had been too late
In granting him his share, and thus left one
Whose proper place would be some grand estate,
With Genius making of his brain her throne.
And many nations bowing to his skill alone.
L EQUESTRIENNE.
XV.
For I have known men thus for want of wealth,
By stern necessity compelled to do
Low, menial work which did destroy the health
Of mind that otherwise wovdd tfhem imbue
With highest thjtights and aims and make them sue
Dame Fortune for her favors, grand and fair.
The great, through all, will yet remain full true
■And yield their lives and souls as free as air;
But few can do great works 'mid poverty and care.
XVI.
But I suspected his was nothing less
Than a bust of that fair girl — Miss Pauline Dean.
And my impatience, you may truly guess.
For Saturday to haste and come was keen:
At last it came, aad when his work was seen
A disappointment deep and sore I felt
To find 'twas but a horse, and not the queen
Whose beauteous form and face I knew had dealt
His aching heart so great a blow — and made it melt.
XVII.
'Twas but a little statue of a steed.
But O, how plain it showed the artist's skill:
The graceful limb and neck, and all indeed
About this little piece of work did fill
My soul with admiration. "And yet you still
Cut ordinary stone when you can make
Such works as this:" I cried, "A window-sill
You waste yourself upon when you might take
A rank 'bove kings did you but to your powers 'wake!"
60 ^'equestrienne.
XVIII.
His bright eye dropped: "But in this cold, hard world,"
He answered slow, "a man must gain his bread
Somehow;" and then I thought his firm lip curled
As though to emphasize some thought unsaid
That lurked within his mind. "Have you not read,'
He asked, now looking up into my face,
"How men are oft by fickle Fortune led
'Bout Earth, against their will, from place to place —
How many leave the truths of life and phantoms chase?
XIX.
"I would not thus be one who thankless throws
The great and glorious gift of life away
And leaves the true and grasps at magic glows
Of will-o-the-wisps that 'bout his path do play:
And would I not pursue the phantom ray
If I should leave my means of earning food
And turn me to such work as this each day
In hope of winning fame? Would that be good?
The winds of earth are to the infant artist rude!"
XX.
I scarce knew what reply I ought to make,
But felt that he was wrong in his reasoning.
"Is it not due," I asked, "that you should take
All honest means within your power to bring
Your mind unto a standard high, and fling
The evils that beset your path aside.
And try to mount alway upon the wing
Of gifts that Heaven has given, and try to ride
Above Earth's toils and let them not your genius hide?
L EQUESTUTEXXE.
XXI.
•'And is there not a debt that's due to art
Almost as great and binding as the one
Thai's due to life itself? And should a part
Of Heaven's gift be used and part alone? —
No, jou must give account of w^hat you've done
With all that is entrusted to \our care;
And yours, be sure, it is to see that none
Of Heaven's gifts so wondrous rich and rare
Are left unused — ^hence to be great I bid you dare."
XXII.
"You may be right; there surely was a time
When what you say expressed my very thought
And wish," he said, "but thoughts and aims sublime
By poverty and care are sooii distraught
And scattered to the winds: I long have fought
To keep those glorious aims and hopes, and now
Your words have to my sinking spirit brought
New hope and joy — ^I ne'er again will bow
Beneath Earth's cares, nor them my hopes to kill allow."
XXIII.
We talked awhile; then as I turned to go,
He took the little alabaster horse
And gave it me: "Keep this," he said, "and know
That I shall spend my future time and force
In proving to the world that I endorse
The principles we both have spoken here.
Hereafter it shall be my fixed course
To do the right and never doubt or fear
But I shall reach at last mine own and proper sphere."
62 L EQL'ESTEIENNE.
XXIV.
I left him then and bore awav his gift
With glad and bounding heart: I have it yet,
And oftentimes, my weary sovil to lift
•'Abov^e this sphere of earthliness", I set
That little figure by my side and get
From it, and from the words that were with it given,
An inspiration that is sure to let
My groveling soul a glimpse to catch of Heaven, —
It shows how easv doubts and fears away are driven.
XXV.
Sometimes in wandering o'er the rocky hills
I paused to gather some line specimen
Of granite or of quartz, or from the rills
Some pretty-colored pebble picked; and when
One day, while near John's work, he saw me bend
And gather thus a little shining stone,
He knew and quickly understood, and then
Drew from his pocket a much prettier one
And gave it me — and gave them oft from that time on.
XXVI.
The Autumn days passed by and John still worked.
Just as I oft had seen him work before,
At cutting window-sills. There often lurked
A wish within my heart to speak once more
Upon the subject we had talked of yore
About; but he of art seemed to refrain
From speaking much: so, fearing him to bore,
I thought 'twere best to let all things remain
Just as they were, — I knew his was no idle brain.
Ij'EQUliSTKIENNE. (>i
XXVII.
And my impatient patience soon received
Reward, and that quite unexpected too, —
'Tuas e\er so, we often are deceived
By false appearances, the good and true
Burst forth and often many wonders do
When least expected. I did almost despair
Of finding him one of the precious few
Who would Earth's monstrous difficulties dare
Until he'd reach the glorious top of Fame's great stair.
XXVIII.
But all niv fears were vain, as soon was shown.
One day the fair Miss Dean came riding by
As 'I was walking slowly up alone
To where John worked. I saw his flashing eye
New-lit as she approached, and then his sigh
Broke in once more upon my listening ear: —
A moment more, I heard a faint, "I'll try",
And then to Mr. Wilson, standing near,
He spoke in tones so low <that he alone might hear.
XXIX.
"You know Miss Dean", he said, "and she, I know,
Is fond of gath'ring specimens like those,
For I have often seen her doing so;"
And pointing to a bag that lay quite close,
"Please tell her one of sim'lar taste bestows
These poor on^s here upon her cabinet" —
'Twas done, Miss Dean sat in a lovely pose
While Mr. Wilson spoke — said she was glad to get.
Aye, oft had wished to find so rich and grand a set.
64 l'equestrienne.
XXX.
Then turned her gaze upon the giver's face
And gave him thanks; but he was busj now, —
Not with his usual Avork — I saw him trace
Line after line until he did endow
A page with her own image. I wondered how
She would have thanked if she the truth had known,
That he was sketching her — would she allow
It to be done.^ And would her silvery tone
Have offered thanks for that as well, or angry grown?
XXXI.
His sketch was not quite done, she turned to go:
"Here take her this and make her longer pause,
And make her horse and all remain just so —
Do this as you do love art's glorious cause".
And I obeyed as though his words were laws.
"But mind", said he, "that crystal is no gift.
But only meant to see if she the flaws
That it contains can find. 'Twas in a rift
Between two rocks and covered by a lot of drift".
XXXII.
I learned long afterwards the thought that came
Into the artist's mind that moment when
He said, "no gift". Long afterward the same
Clear, flawless crystal quartz I saw again.
Miss Pauline also knew the reason then
That he the finest one of all had kept;
And when he took his place among great men,
How diff'rent were our thoughts from those which crept
Into our hearts ere knowing where his thoughts had leapt.
l'equesteienne. 6f)
XXXIII.
When she was gone he finis-hed up the sketch
From memory. How great was my surprise
To find in him so grand and wondrous stretch
Of thought and artist's fancy. The great and wise
Were infants once and took their step- ward rise:
And so, of course, it was with him. I think
'Twas then he first did truly realize
His own vast power: he stood upon the brink,
The bound unto great w^orks — nor did he from it shrink.
XXIV.
The sketch that he had made was like to life, —
And 3'et the time he had was very small, —
Its every line was with her beauty rife.
Her hands, her face, her lips, her eyes and all
Were there. I asked him what he thought to call
This work when done, — "This work when done.' — why then,
Unless I chance below my hopes to fall,
I think it shall be called L'EQUESTRIENNE.
By it, if ever, I place my name among great men".
XXXV.
He laid his sketch-book down and then began
To chip away again upon the stone,
Then looking up again: "And if I can",
He said, "I hope to stand as one alone
In what I try to do; for there are none,
So far as I have heard, have e'er essayed
To sculp a work like this shall be when done.
It shall be she, just as she was arrayed,—
Her horse and all — l'equestrienne — a riding maid.
GG i: -EQUESTRJETSfKE.
XXXVI.
"And Life-size too, I mean that it shall be,
And marble of the pure, Italian white,
And then, my friend, I hope to let you see
A work that will be pleasing to the sight".
We parted then. His hopes so fair and bright
Lit up my soul and made^me wonder much
What work would come from his great fancy's flight.
I felt that he would add a lover's touch
To this his model srrand, as which there are few sucli.
XXXVII.
At last October came and I could ride
Upon the road one afternoon each week;
And often with Miss Pauline by my side
I spent those happy hours. Then I would seek
To take her near John's work. He felt no pique
At me for that, for long ere this he knew
My deepest secrets. To him I e'er could speak
Of Clare and all my hopes for the future too:
I ever felt he was a friend sincere and true.
XXXVIII.
And so I sought to be to him the same,
x\nd think I was — 'twas but that he might see
One who, unknowing, had so great a claim
Won o'er his heart, that led me thus to be
So careful in our rides to ne'er agree
To any route at all that did not lead
By where he worked. One day, however, he
Was gone away, and I could almost read
A disappointment in her eye, b.ut gave no heed.
L'E^ESTRnaSIIB. 67
XXXIX.
We passed the quarry bj and through the "Falls",
Then by a winding road down to the dock
We went — a road whose ruggedness appals,
And yet a pleasant place to ride. A rock
Hangs o'er and seems one place the way to block;
And just as we around its point had passed
We met a strange procession; and quite a shock
We had, for we were going much too fast:
■icore of horses hauled a block of marble vast.
XL.
And there, as overseeing all, was John;
He saw us, stood confused, and blushed deep red,
Then calling back his thoughts, was passing on
Quite carelessly when Miss Dean stopped and said,
Just as he tipped his hat, "Kind sir, I'm led
By the gift you gave to me the other day
To ask of you another boon instead
Of doing what were no doubt the proper way —
To render you some equal gift for that to pay.
XLI.
"I wish to know if that huge block of stone
Is for the new gymnasium.^" — "Oh no".
He said before he thought, then started on.
"And will you tell me where it is to go?"
She asked: "I — ah — hem— well, I scarcely know
Just to that little house up on the hill"
She saw how he had hesitated and so
Rode on. I knew she could not know, and ftill,
I thought she might have guessed the intents of his will.
68 L'EQrESTRTEXXE.
XLII.
F'rom that time forth he spent one-half each day
At work upon this block of stone. It grew
Beneath his master hand in such a way
I wondered oft what 'tw-as he could not do.
I could not often visit him, 'tis true,
But Avhen I could I loved to watch by hour
This skilled man at his work; it seemed he knew
And realized at last his own vast power,
And so produced a real artist's choicest flower.
XLIII.
November came, the weather grew so cold
The workmen stopped their work, and fair Miss Dean
Went back to her city home. I had not told
Her yet what that vast, marble block did mean,
Nor had she e'er within John's workshop seen.
1 made her promise to return next Spring
As soon as e'er the trees were clad in green.
I thought at present rate of chiseling
John's work would then be done — and he would be a king.
XLIV.
The coarser parts were chiseled ol^ with speed
And soon the statue took its general form,
But for the finer work there was a need
Of time and patience too. March came in storm
And rainy April passed, and May, so fresh and warm.
Was passing too when Miss Pauline returned
With eyes more deep and like the dark cairngorm
Than e'er before. O how my spirit burned
To show to her how John her praise and men's had earned!
L, EQUESTRIENNE.
XLV.
But he had made me faithful promise give
To never show his work to anyone.
He promised too that if 'twere fit to live,
As I was sure that it would be when done,
Then to the world of art it should be shown.
Another promise too he made to me —
That if 'twere good, then I, and I alone
Should let Miss Pauline Dean be first to see
How grand and fair she was — how great an artist he.
XLVI.
Impatiently I watched week after week
Of May go by, and still that statue grand,
And growing grander still and still more Greek,
Was not yet done. I could no longer stand
To wait at last, so much impatience fanned
My eager soul; for it was almost June, —
The time when I to leave West Point had planned,
For Clare and I were to be married soon ;
And so I begged of John, before I left, a boon:
XLVII.
I begged and plead that he would give me leave
To show Miss Dean his work before I went;
But he was firm and said me nay. Conceive,
An' if you can, how much that answer meant
To me — one thing alone a hope now lent
Unto my disappointment — I would return
And bring my wife along; that thought now sent
A thrill of joy and made my pulses burn.
For Clare and I Miss Pauline's thanks and John's would earn.
TO i/KQI'KSTRIF/NA'E.
XLVIII.
For in those days of our sweet honeymoon,
When life were full of Heaven's choicest dew.
We should reuirn to old West Point, and soon
Would make John's life and Pauline's happy too,
Yes, we should then to her the statue shew,
And there would be "a match". For her to see
Would be enough to make Miss Pauline true
Unto the love I knew e'en now must be
Within her heart — if she would onlv let it frej.
XLIX.
'Tis useless labor spent to try to tell
The happiness of those fine Summer days
-Succeeding graduation. The world went well
With me, and should I start to sing the praise,
I must through all m.y life my anthem raise
Ere I could give the least idea at all
Of that sweet lime when life took on the phase
Of wedded love for me; ne'er since man's fall
Has lived a pair more free than we from sorrow's thrall.
L.
But in my love and wondrous happiness
I did not once my former friends forget,
But soon returned with Clare to try to bless
Their love by being present when they met
And helping Aphrodite's son a net
To weave about their hearts. And so one eve
Just as the Sun o'er old Crow Nest did set,
My wife and I the West Shore train did leave, —
Yes, we had come John's finished statue to perceive.
LI.
Both he and Pauline met us at the train,
But they were not togetner, not did they speak.
Unto each other, that I saw, again
After a word of recognition, meek
And low from her, and word, — perhaps in Greek,
So soft it was I could not hear, — from him.
They give us hearty welcome; then I seek
A word with John in the twilight dim; — ■
To know if that grand statue's finished is my whim.
LII.
"Just yester' eve", he said: I grasped his hand
And looked into his deep blue eyes and read
What I before so oft had thought I scanned, —
He loved: T knew it now but nothing said.
He knew I saw, and so he turned and fled
Right up the hill and soon was out of sight.
My wife and Pauline up the hill I led
And Mabel asked, "What made him take such fright?
Was he the sculptor of whom you spoke the other night. ^"
LIII.
I think I never saw a look like that
Which, at these words, came over Pauline's face,
"An artist, did you say.^ Is he — ah— what — .?"
Then checking speech, her eagerness gave place
Unto her usual, careless, easy grace;
But I could see that she regained control
But by an act of will ; and for a space
We leisurely but silently did stroll
Along the path — both Clare and I could read her sonal.
72 L 'equestrienne.
LIV.
But I thought best that yet a little while
She think him but a chiseler of stone,
And so, at length, I answered with a smile,
As if amused, "Why yes, he may be one,
But if he is I think 'tis he alone
That knows the fact; and sure he scarcely knows,
For artists are, I think, not very prone
To take a common mason's toils and woes:
Just think, Miss Dean, how you might as his model pose I"
LV.
She spoke no answer to those words of mine.
But I could see that they had fallen deep
And harsh upon her sovil. And yet this line
I thought it best for her dear sake to keep
Awhile ; those who deep joy would know must weep
Before, or they can ne'er appreciate.
Nor e'er its sweetest fruits know how to reap
When to them comes a truly joyful state, —
Men, low at first, most pleasure take in being great.
LVI.
But I could scarcely find it in my heart
To keep her sad for long. I knew her mind
Was sore perplexed; and so ere we did part
I formed my plan, how I should be most kind
To her and John. It is not hard to find
A way to give another happiness —
If one will only always try — and bind
A soul to^thine. We cannot too much stress
Lay on attempts that we should make our friends to bles
l.'Kt^rESTKlENNE,
LVII.
And so I asked if she would take a walk
Tomorrow morning with my wife and me,
And said there were some things I wished to talk
To her about. To raise expectancy
Is a poor plan, I think, most gen'rallj,
But when jou know, unless 3 ou do, surprise
Will be most sure to gain the mastery
And overwhelm the mind, why then, 'tis wise;
For men do sometimes die when joys. too sudden rise.
LVIII.
And as I was resolved that she should see
Tomorrow morn that statue rich and grand,
I thought it best that she expectant be.
When we were 'lone I told what I had planned
To Mabel Clare and let her understand
That I had hopes these two w4io loved to bring-
More close unto each other and form a band
That would to them be an eternal spring
Of love and joy like to our own — without a sting.
LIX.
And Mabel, as she always does, agreed
To help me in whate'er I undertook;
Indeed 'twas she who henceforth took the lead
In this, nor would a thought of failure brook.
We must succeed, no matter how might look
The chance; for was not love upon our side.'
And though all otlier hope of success forsook,
We knew their love, if true, would stiU abide
And vict'ry win — and best is love that has been tried.
74 1/E(^VF.STK1KNNK.
LX.
We laid our plans and then I w ent to John
And begged that he would give to me his key
So that tomorrow I might gaze upon,
And also let my wife and Pauline see
His masterpiece. -'I do not wish", said he,
"To let them see it \ et; it is not fit,
The chips are lying round and they must be
All cleared away ere anyone see it, —
O, I mv word shall keep, but beg you wait a Int!"
LXI.
I listened to his manifold excuses.
And then declared they had no weight at all,
• And as an "infintesimal" reduces,
I them reduced to zero, one and all.
There was not now on this terrestrial ball
A reason why, so far as I could see.
These two should not be made in love to fall
In earnest and in truth: there then would be
Two l')eings more upon the Earth more glad and free.
LXII.
•So I obtain the key and go away,
And then next day in early morning light,
With Clare and Pauline, down the road I stray
To where John's workshop stands off to the right.
"Prepare vou now for a most wondrous sight,"
I say and then the oaken door unlock;
And there in all its beauty, power, and might,
L'Eque.strienne, hewn from the solid rock
Stands up^ — E'en to my sight it was an awful shock:
LXIII.
For so like her! — But words can ne'er describe! —
Nor can Miss Dean the whole at once now see,
But part by part her eve must first imbibe
Its likeness to herself, its grace and beauty;
Then seeing all, she bows upon her knee,
And raising up on high her clasped hands.
She says, "Great GOD, then this his work must be!"
And then with sighs and sobs her breast expands
And falls — her heart is hopelessly in love's strong bands.
LXIV.
At last she rises, stands, and gazes long.
Then rev'rently her little hand she lays
Upon his work and thus breaks forth in song:
" 'Tis waste of breath to try to sing the praise
Of one who works of art like this can raise;
But yet a tribute I must haste to bring
To one who must through all Earth's future davs
Have all who love true art delight to sing
His fame. Of sculptors he must surely be the king.
"And when I think that it to me is given
To be the one of all the Earth that's chosen
The model that must show his might and power,
'Tis just as sweet to me as though great Heaven
With Its own hand has portioned out my dower, —
Ah, surely this must be for me life's happiest hour!
"And when, in future ages, men shall view
This statue he has made, perhaps a few
Will take a little while the name to learn
Of her Avho could his artist's soul imbue
With such a thought. And when his light shall burn
For all, perhaps on me some honor will return.
7b L EQUESTRIENNE,
"And mine may coupled be with his great name,
And I may share a little of his fame, —
What more could woman wish or soul desire
Than to be sure, however low and tame
May be the things to which her mind aspire,
Bv one she loves she still is made a shining firel"
LXV.
She ceased and then upon her knees again
She fell: "And see." in joyous tones she cried,
"That hand doth hold that crystal I held when
He saw me first — that morning on my ride!
Ah, now I know why 'twas that he denied
To let me take that finest one away! —
Be still m}^ heart! And I must novv^ decide
To leave while yet all's well, — without delay, —
I must not trust myself another day to stay!"
LXVI.
She kissed the statue he had made, then turned
To us, and then it was she first did think
What 'twas that she had said; her fair cheeks burned,
And now were alternately white and pink;
And from our presence she did trembling shrink;
But soon she seemed to overmaster fear —
She had approached and turned her from love's brink
And now she begged, as we her love held dear.
That we her secret keep — aye, begged with sob and tear!
l'equestkienne.
LXVII.
Of course, we promised faithful that we would —
What could we do but that? And jet I felt
That all were better far if I but could
Let him her love to know^ — his heart would melt
Could he but e'en suspect how she had knelt
Before his work; or how her sweet, joung soul
Had wished on Earth no more extended belt
Than just to have the world her name enroll
Beside and jet beneath his own on Fame's great scroll.
LXVIII.
She knew her love's vast strength, and well she kept
The resolution she had made when first
She knew she loved; and so before she slept,
Herself had separated bj manj a verst
From old West Point, and I was left to burst
To John the news that she had taken flight.
And howso'er mj sovil to do so thirst,
I must not tell the cause, it were not right
Since I mj word had given— mine was a sad, sad plight!
LXIX.
John heard that she was gone without a sign
To mark the pain he telt. "And I suppose",
Said he, "that she was in a passion fine
Because that one so far beneath her chose
To make her highness as his model pose."
We all have bitter moments, I've no doubt.
And all, at times, I think, have thought life's woes
Were wrapped so close and firm our life about
'I'hat we could hope for naught — could pleasure onlj scout.
78 Lr"EQUE3TRTENNB.
LXX.
But when our life seems f^eepest filled with pain,
Reaction, then, is always sure to come;
TJie saddest soul will soon take heart again
And build anew life's high and castled dome,
Or with new hope begin again to roam
The Earth, or better still, begin a love
That leads them calmly, sweetly to a home
Whence they shall nevermore desire to rove.
Because 'tis ruled by one pure, heavenly dove.
LXXI.
John's fame and fortune were most surely made.
But he into the nethermost despair
Was fallen down; the charm had seemed to fade
From life, and naught was left but loads of care,-
To hope for better days how could he dare?
No wonder he was growing cynical,
And thought the world was not apportioned fair;
For look which way he would, there yet must fall
Upon his love and life a dark and heavy pall.
LXXII.
I tried to cheer him, but 'twas useless pains; «
He moved through all like one in some sad dream,
Or like to one whose life no more contains
Of hope's bewitching star a single beam.
He would not let his life a sluggish stream
Become, but worked away and soon prepared
His statue to be taken away. No gleam,
Howe'er, of hope was left; his life was jarred
Bv all that had occurred; I feared 'twas sadly marred.
l'equestrienne.
LXXIII.
And yet my promise bade me not disclose
Miss Pauline's secret, though I thought I knew
That 'twould lesuscitate for him life's rose
And his bowed soul with hope again imbue, —
How hard it was to keep my promise true! .
'Mong- art John's work was given a highest place,
And in society there are but few
Who win and wear its honors with such grace,
And vet he scorned and shamed its follies to its face.
LXXIV.
Some weeks he spent in viewing works of art
And answering to society's demands:
Xo fete was grand in which he took no part;
For all the world are glad to ope' their hands.
And every heart in ecstasy expands
To welcome him whose name is certain made, —
Who on Fame's awful mount with firm foot stands.
Who in the robes of glory is arrayed
And shall be so w hether or not they give their aid.
LXXV.
Yet I could see that all this weary time
His heart was sad. But he did not complain,
He treated it as some great pantomine
That must be acted through, though toil and pain
May make the actors faint time and again.
One day there came a certain Avealthy man
Who washed to purchase John's great work. Disdain
For wealth and love of art were stronger than
The rich man's argument, and so o'erthrew his plan.
8U L'EQrESTETEXNE.
LXXVI.
But still he begged that John a price would set
Until he did at last, but one so high
He had no fears that he would e'er regret
The act. The rich man left him Avith a sigh
Thniir told how near his heart his wealth did lie —
'J'he million he was asked had caused him
No luxury himself to e'er deny,
And yet he clung to it with clutch most grim, —
The chance that he would rob John of his work was slim.
LXXVII.
One morn a few days after this, however,
I found mj' friend more sad than e'er before;
He had the downcast air of one who never
Can dream that pleasure may be yet in store
For him. His eyes a sad expression bore.
And when he looked on me he drooped his head
And seemed 1o sink beneath his grief still more:
" 'Tis done — my statue's sold," at last he said, —
'There's naught to live for now. O would that I were dead!
LXXVIII.
"My heart to her in purest love was given.
And sir.ce her station was so far 'bove mine,
I carved her image out— 'twas sweet as Heaven
To trace upon that marble face each line
Of hers. But now I must in grief repine.
For even that one joy will be denied.
And naught is left for me but to resign
All hope that any joy will e'er abide
With me — ves, I must cast all thousfht but work aside!"
l'equestetenne.
LXXIX.
I tried to plead and reason with him long,
But he would understand no argument,
No matter if it were or weak or strong,
Until at last I think 'twas Heaven sent
One little thought into my mind that rent
The hopeless ban that in his heart was raised
And to his life e'er after that event
Gave hope and joj. He seemed somewhat amazed
At first — then for a moment calmly sat and gazed:
LXXX.
For I had said, "You are a millionaire
And have a name that any maid were proud
To call her own ; if you would only dare.
You yet might win herself; while if you bowed
To grief and naught of hope or happiness allowed
To enter in your mind, why then, of course.
You must expect those ugly thoughts to crowd
All better thoughts, all character and force
From out your life and choke life at its fountain's source.
LXXXI.
"Why do you not then sue for her herself.
And not despair and sit all day and say
That she were hard to catch as any elf.
Or, being caught, she would but say thee nay?
For I assure you that is not the way
To win the one you love. Then rise you up
And enter earnestly into life's play:
'Tis time enough to drink stern sorrow's cup
When all is lost— but now arise and love's draught sup.
^! l'equestrienne.
LXXXII.
He never was a man of many words,
And so he answered little to me now;
But I could see his thoughts, like light-winged birds
Were ranging high, the air of love to plough,
And his reviving soul with hope endow.
I left him then and soon was pleased to see
ThaL he, from that time forth, would ne'er allow
Himself at all disconsolate to be, —
From that time forth he mastered well himself — was free.
LXXXIII.
And soon, by a little help from Clare and me
(Of course, we did not let them know it though),
. He met Miss Dean. They blushed uneasily
Ai;d for a time we feared that all would go
Not well, but 'twas not destined to be so;
For soon the world knew that his prize was won, —
Just how 'twas done I really do not know, —
'Twas quite enough for us that it was done —
That John and fair Pauline were soon to be "made one".
LXXXIV.
But John had ne'er found out who 'twas had been
His statue's purchaser. It had been sold
And taken away, the money paid, all in
One morn while he was out of town. None told
Or seemed to know who 'twas had paid the gold.
But they were wed — how grand and glad they were!
And when the breakfast-hall they enter'd, behold,
'Twas she herself had been the purchaser! —
L'EQUESTRIENNE stands there; he has both it and her!
3 THE e;t<? 13.
L™ ''^ °^ CONGRESS
PHL
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