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 MACKINAC ^ 
 
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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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SuiAset at j^ackirxac 
 
 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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