Class _^^LliM. 
 
 Book M^J 
 
 GopightN" 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSITS 
 
POEMS 
 
'U 
 

 FRONTISPIECE 
 
POEMS 
 
 /by 
 A. p. HOPE 
 
 NEW YORK AND WASHINGTON 
 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 1909 
 

 Copyright, 1909, by 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 ©CU253^S 
 
'i 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 .^ I dedicate this little book of poems unto the 
 
 • .^ memory of my wife. For nearly forty years we 
 
 ^ walked up and down the byways of all the places 
 
 we dwelt in. We were together as much as pos- 
 sible. In every place, whether in the mountains or 
 on the plams, by the streamlets of the hills or in 
 the valleys, or by the roar of mighty waters, we 
 were of one accord. We found blessings every- 
 where and our hearts and minds were attuned to 
 the clear, variable notes birds piped from the bushes 
 and grasses. The fragrance of flowers mingled 
 Itself with the dropping of incense from the beauti- 
 ful blue canopy which is the covering of His house 
 in the world. She lived a true, devoted Christian, 
 and on her life God placed the crown of His bless- 
 ing. On the 20th of June, 1907, at about the set- 
 ting of the sun. He called her from the long last 
 offering up of herself, a sacrifice that one, her 
 nephew, might live. From this there is no higher 
 offering and no severer suffering. God viewed her 
 life of Christlikeness and called her to Him. Her 
 offering was accepted and her nephew is living. 
 She sleeps her eternal sleep, sleeps well in seventy 
 yards of the home of flowers she loved so well, 
 amidst the bloom and fragrance of orchard sweet- 
 ness, and the most holy incense Earth ever offered 
 to God. 
 
 A. P. Hope. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To My Wife 7 
 
 A Legend of Caddo Lake 8 
 
 Sketches of the Southland ... 19 
 
 The Cottager^s Home 22 
 
 Robin and Dobin 24 
 
 Battle of Iuka 29 
 
 To Victor M. Rose 35 
 
 Ben's Two Steers 37 
 
 What the Waves Bring to Me . . 45 
 
 A Candidate's Soliloquy 46 
 
 A Letter to Sam McCarver .... 49 
 
 Too Much Talk 55 
 
 To My Friend 58 
 
 Sixty-Seven 59 
 
 Home Scene 60 
 
 The New Year 61 
 
 Spring 63 
 
 Winter's Lesson 66 
 
 Three Pictures 69 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In Memory 71 
 
 Death 74 
 
 God is Love 76 
 
 Life is More than Gold 77 
 
 There is Hope for You 78 
 
 Joaquin Miller 79 
 
 Ross' Texas Brigade 81 
 
 The Ring . 84 
 
 A Last Wooing 85 
 
 An Idyl 86 
 
 My Sweetheart 89 
 
 A Reminiscence 94 
 
 The Heights of Marion 98 
 
TO MY WIFE 
 
 J GIVE this ring to you, my wife, 
 
 Not for its costly value, 
 That you may know for all your life, 
 The true love that I bear you. 
 
 These clasp'd hands, these golden bands, 
 
 Devotion's truest token, 
 God grant it be, 'tween you and me, 
 
 The tie of life unbroken. 
 
 These hearts are twined, like vine with vine, 
 'Twould be their death to sever. 
 
 So mine with yours and yours with mine, 
 Forever and forever. 
 
 And, like this gold, love lives for aye, 
 
 'Tw^ill live e'en when I'm dust, 
 And be as pure as in that day 
 
 I sought your maiden trust. 
 
 And should I lie low in the grave, 
 
 And should you come anear. 
 This token of your love I crave — 
 
 A flower planted there. 
 
 A flower's e'en as purest gold, 
 
 'Twill ne'er from earth decay. 
 When time has grow^n prophetic old, 
 
 'Twill beautify that day. 
 
 7 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 It seems my heart again would wake. 
 
 If you were there above me, 
 That you had come for love's sweet sake, 
 
 Because you truly love me; 
 
 'Twould glad my lowly place of rest. 
 
 The winds more softly blow, 
 Your flowers blooming on my breast, 
 
 God willing, I would know. 
 
 A LEGEND OF CADDO LAKE 
 
 I 
 
 TT was a lovely day in June, 
 When, like a cockle shell. 
 My boat went drifting on at noon, 
 
 Upon the gentle swell 
 Of waves that heaved the jewelled breast 
 
 Of Caddo Lake,* and slipped 
 
 The verdant banks and softly pressed 
 
 The herbage silver tipped 
 With the cool spray; and birds beside 
 
 Caressing their young brood, 
 Were there, which piped and cried 
 
 Unceasingly for food. 
 
 * Caddo Lake, named from the Caddo Indians, who 
 at one time lived near the Lake, is the boundary between 
 Harrison County and Marion County on the East, and in 
 Northwestern Louisiana. 
 
 8 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 The fragrant breeze blew from the shore, 
 
 And the sweet breath of flowers 
 Came on, like incense rising o'er 
 
 The God-devoted hours. 
 The sky was deeply blue; thin clouds, 
 
 White as the salt seafoam. 
 Just flecked the azure; snowy crowds 
 
 Of cranes just skimmed the dome 
 Of virent cypresses; and far. 
 
 Far as my eyes could see. 
 Like Peri's going to some star 
 
 With gifts of charity. 
 Flew some, their white wings flashing through 
 
 The argent haze, and high 
 O'erhead the hills leaned 'gainst the blue 
 
 Of the soft turquoise sky. 
 And this — and more than this — while I 
 
 Was dreaming of the day 
 Of border life, when, suddenly, 
 
 Some boatmen crossed my way. 
 
 " Good morning, gentlemen." " Good day," 
 
 They promptly all replied; 
 " How's fishing? " " Well enough to pay 
 
 For work and some beside." 
 " I see you're wet, and here's the stuff 
 
 To make wet clothes seem dry — 
 'Tis Bourbon — take it — I've enough — 
 
 And here's some * Rock and Rye.' " 
 '* Yes, one gets wet o'erhauling nets, — 
 
 Must take whate'er is sent. 
 Your health. Sir! Thank you, Sir — Now let's 
 
 Return the compliment." 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And then they 'gan to pitch them in, 
 
 White perch and bass and trout, 
 Until I bade them hold, e'en then, 
 
 I'd t'put my boat about. 
 I then inquired if they'd relate 
 
 The Rose and Potter * feud, 
 But each appeared disposed to wait 
 
 A comrade's talking mood. 
 
 " I've often heard," the oarsman said, 
 
 " The legends. Now I mind 
 But scraps of them, but there's Old Ned 
 
 He's handy in that line. 
 He's nearly deaf, shot through the head, 
 
 Just in below the ear. 
 Was thought to be and left for dead 
 
 In feudal battle here." 
 (He raised his voice and called to him 
 
 Who sat behind to steer, 
 A staunch old man of brawn but thin, 
 
 Who poised his oar to hear.) 
 " Canst tell us, Ned, how Potter died, 
 
 Of Inez left alone. 
 Why he so many men defied. 
 
 And all his clansmen gone?" 
 
 An old gray-haired, gray-eyed man 
 Glanced keenly in my face, 
 
 * In the' Caddo Lake Country at this early day, from 
 about 1840 to 1844, there were two factions, the regulators 
 and moderators, who were at deadly enmity with each 
 other. One of these factions was led by Robert Potter, 
 at one time the Secretary of the Navy of the Republic of 
 Texas. 
 
 10 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Suspiciously; then, '* So I can, 
 
 As one upon the place. 
 The land was, in that distant day, 
 
 O'errun by men, as wild as deer, 
 Who came as eagles to their prey. 
 
 And fought like tigers here. 
 They drove the Indians first, and then 
 
 Disputed o'er the spoil ; 
 Vendettas fierce were sworn by men, 
 
 To vengeance true and loyal." 
 
 " Canst tell me. Sir, of Potter bold, 
 
 Of him betrayed and slain? 
 If so, the story please unfold. 
 
 And tell it o'er again." 
 " Ah, dark the night and dark the fate, 
 
 When 'fore his cabin door,* 
 For vengeance lay in silent wait. 
 
 Of men full half a score! 
 'Twas thus as common in that day, 
 
 For men to meet and fight, 
 And fair or not, it was their way 
 
 To kill by day or night. 
 
 " 'Twas Inez' list'ning, fearful ear 
 
 First heard the fateful sound 
 Of silent foemen, creeping near. 
 
 And others, ambushed 'round. 
 Of Inez I can tell you nought 
 
 Of lineage or name — 
 
 ♦Robert Potter's house was on a high bluff of a range 
 of rugged hills on the North side of Caddo Lake, com- 
 manding an extensive view. 
 
 II 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Only Inez — and that he brought 
 Her with him when he came. 
 
 " Her dark complexion and her eyes, 
 
 Her form of willowy grace, 
 Inferred her child of warmer skies — 
 
 Perhaps of Spanish race. 
 Her eyes were like the spotted fawn's, 
 
 So melting, large, and bright. 
 And like the bursting of the dawn 
 
 Through lingering mists of night. 
 Whate'er the rite, that made them one. 
 
 By priestly prayer and word, 
 Or judge or bond,* or whether none, 
 
 I never -knew or heard. 
 
 " She whispered In his drowsy ear, 
 
 And he awoke to know. 
 That 'round his cabin, ev'rywhere. 
 
 Was lurking now a foe. 
 He was a cool, brave, thoughtful man, 
 
 But passionate at times, 
 And even now was under ban 
 
 Of law for darkest crimes. 
 Death's sentence and a large reward, 
 
 Had long hung o'er his head, 
 But now his fame was all abroad. 
 
 And loudly heralded! 
 
 * At that day it was generally Impossible to be mar- 
 ried by officers, ministers or priests, consequently mar- 
 riage bonds were given for a proper marriage when the 
 opportunity should come. 
 
 12 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And out away and far from home, 
 
 He stood up with the great; 
 In name and fame he had become 
 
 A glory of the State; . ' 
 
 He'd sat in councils high, elate, 
 
 A Solon 'mid them all ! * 
 But, in these wilds, he was create 
 
 Of them who wrought his fall. 
 
 " He heard their bated, whispered breath, 
 
 And guessed their fell intent, 
 To fire the house, make sure his death, 
 
 In any last event. 
 You may conceive the wild surprise. 
 
 The dread that seized his wife, 
 As, border bred, she could surmise 
 
 Her husband's chance for life. 
 One kiss, a silent, close embrace. 
 
 Of heart pressed close to heart, 
 Then down from its accustomed place 
 
 He took his gun to start, — 
 Flung wide the door and dared the strife, 
 
 Of one against the ten — 
 For Inez' sake, their babe's, and life, 
 
 He met the half-score men. 
 
 '' Quick was the act and short the fight 
 
 Of half a score 'gainst one. 
 From barn and stable, left and right. 
 
 Rang out a foeman's gun. 
 
 * Robert Potter, besides being Secretary of the Navy of 
 the Republic of Texas, was with those who declared the 
 independence of Texas from Mexico, and a signer of 
 the Constitution. ( ? ) 
 
 13 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 His front turned to his foes, he made 
 
 His slow and dang'rous way 
 To gain the Lake's thick shelt'ring shade, 
 
 Which kindly near him lay. 
 He reached yon crags, where they do frown 
 
 And darkest shadows throw, 
 Then, like a stag, he bounded down 
 
 Into the Lake below. 
 A sharp report rang out just then, 
 
 That echo bandied, till 
 It seemed a volley of the ten — 
 
 Then all grew deathly still. 
 
 " Yea, swimming thus, I know it was. 
 
 At least I've heard 'twas so. 
 But one to ten! If any has 
 
 The why, I'd like to know?" 
 
 They shake their heads, then paddle on. 
 
 And flash the feath'ry oar. 
 As if they thought me troublesome, 
 
 To talk the murder o'er. 
 The years have come, the years have gone, 
 
 Since that traditional crime, 
 But yonder point, where it was done. 
 
 Perpetuates the time. 
 
 At night, beyond yon jutting clifif, 
 
 Yon cliff upon the border. 
 No fisherman will steer his skif¥ — 
 
 There's blood upon the water! 
 And there at night they sometimes see 
 
 A woman, clothed in white. 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Come down the steep declivity, 
 Who looks to left nor right, 
 
 And, when she has the Lake side gained, 
 The wave-w^ashed, ledgy strand. 
 
 She takes a boat from where 'tis chained. 
 And rows away from land. 
 
 The oars a-dipping make no noise, 
 
 No ripples in her wake. 
 And, graceful in her easy poise. 
 
 She glides out on the Lake. 
 They see her catch a floating form. 
 
 Then with the rudder oar 
 And with the other skilful arm. 
 
 She sculls the boat ashore; 
 She drags the body to the edge. 
 
 As if a life to save. 
 And lifts it to yon higher ledge, 
 
 Assisted by a wave. 
 
 Then, tenderly, they see her kneel 
 
 On that cliff's edge beside 
 A human form; she seems to feel 
 
 For life's now pulseless tide. 
 She takes his head upon her lap. 
 
 And smooths his tangled hair. 
 Kisses his face and tries to wrap 
 
 Him from the damp, rude air. 
 Alone remains she with her dead. 
 
 Until the dawn of day. 
 Then shadowy forms obey her lead 
 
 And bear the dead away — 
 
 15 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Away to yonder high plateau, 
 
 Beyond the fringed height, 
 From thence they see, in silent awe, 
 
 A burial scene by night. 
 
 Then all is hushed — hushed as the grave- 
 
 And silence seems to rest 
 On all the scene. The restless wave 
 
 Stops on its high curved crest; 
 The breathing of the panting breeze, 
 
 The restless leaves are still ; 
 There's silence in the tallest trees 
 
 Upon the highest hill. 
 E'en echo's cave is closed and bound, 
 
 And air vibrations cease 
 To tremble with the slightest sound 
 
 In all the concave space. 
 
 While Nature seems to hold her breath 
 
 On hills and trees and strand, 
 As sweet as flowers crushed beneath 
 
 Our feet in meadow land. 
 Or silvery chimes that thrill the air 
 
 With far sweet melodies. 
 Or, as the brooklet, crystal clear, 
 
 To echo's voice replies; 
 So, on the silence faintly beat 
 
 The wings of plaintive song, 
 Till rising clearer, they repeat 
 
 The tale of human wrong. 
 
 The hilly aisles ope wide their doors. 
 And echo weeps refrain, 
 i6 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 So softly clear, that sound implores 
 
 The last notes back again. 
 It sighs, it fails, but leaves behind 
 
 On all who've ever heard 
 The Spirit voice, though taxed the mind, 
 
 No mem'ry of a word. 
 It seems to come from and to go 
 
 To that neglected mound, 
 Just o'er the bluff, where briers grow. 
 
 And once a grave was found. 
 
 II 
 
 I heard this legend years ago, 
 
 When it was almost new; 
 'Twas told by one who said 'twas so, 
 
 And now I've told 't to you — 
 Except the part about the ghost, 
 
 And that, I'm bound to say. 
 Is rankest fiction (?) like the most 
 
 Of legends of to-day. 
 But you go now, where this takes place, 
 
 And tell me what you see, 
 And that your heart has yet no faith 
 
 In all this mystery! 
 
 And mind you now, you go at night. 
 At its most witching hour, 
 
 When spectres claim their lawful right 
 To make you feel their power. 
 
 I speak as one who knows his mind. 
 And there's poor Ben McCall, 
 
 17 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Who boasted much but ne'er could find 
 
 His way back home at all; 
 And there's the widow, fair and gay, 
 
 Who laughed at such a fake, 
 And, though it was her bridal day, 
 
 She jumped out in the Lake! 
 
 And there's the preacher — reverend man! 
 
 Who went there undismayed. 
 But never's told, and never can 
 
 Of this wild, weird parade; 
 And next a lawyer came to see 
 
 What he could see and hear, 
 Never doubting at all that he 
 
 Would make this myst'ry clear. 
 He went at midnight to make sure 
 
 He'd see the ghostly train. 
 And now no pay can him allure 
 
 Back to that place again! 
 
 He saw the spirit of Inez there, 
 
 He heard the funeral rite — 
 The ghostly train, the shrouded bier. 
 
 The burial scene at night! 
 And there is now one poor old man. 
 
 Who stays there, grim and gray, 
 Who gibbers of that border clan, 
 
 Which long since passed away; 
 And there, he says, they come at night 
 
 And walk their nightly round; 
 And yet he hears that burial rite. 
 
 From where that grave was found. 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 SKETCHES OF THE SOUTHLAND 
 
 npHERE are lands and lands, but the beautl- 
 -■■ ful Southland! 
 
 Ah! Hers is a grace and a beauty divine! 
 The hills and the dales and the air is so bland, 
 
 With the scent of the rose and the flowering vine ! 
 And the days are so bright, from sun to sun, 
 
 The beaming and gleaming, the shimmer and 
 shine ; 
 'Tis splendid by day, but its glory hath won 
 
 The heart's best love in its glowing decline; 
 And the night and the stars, so lovely up there, 
 
 So beautifully set in the heavenly blue, 
 That you look and you look at each wondrous 
 sphere, 
 And each seems a window, and God looking 
 through ! 
 
 There are birds that herald the breaking morn. 
 
 And vespers to sing to the setting sun; 
 There are bees that drone with mellow horn, 
 
 From early morn till the day is done ; 
 And oft in the night, to the shining stars. 
 
 The southern songster pours a flood of song. 
 And the charm'd silence, embracing the bars 
 
 Of its nocturn, sweet echoes the notes prolong. 
 
 Ah! Sw^eet is the day but sweeter the night, 
 So solemn and still and the bright stars beaming, 
 
 19 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 When this bird of song, from some lone tree's 
 height, 
 
 Awakes the soft slumber of nature dreaming. 
 And the mystery there ! May the stars not be 
 
 The mansions prepared, the abiding places 
 Of our loved ones, who are watching while we 
 
 Turn upward to them our questioning faces? 
 
 Where LeGrande Rio from afar comes down, 
 And cleaves like a bolt through mountains of 
 rock, 
 There niestles an old but a new thriving town, 
 Where the shepherds of Spain first gathered 
 their flock.* 
 
 The Aztec, the Caucasian, and Spaniard are there, 
 But differing as differ the lands of their birth. 
 
 Though united in love for this fair land. 
 
 In a union as strong as the strongest of earth. 
 
 In this sunny clime there are deeds to tell, 
 
 That show that the blood of the South's like 
 wine; 
 Here feuds have been fought and as brave men fell 
 As the steel clad Knights on the banks of the 
 Rhine. 
 
 By the side of this river that comes from the West 
 Are cities and people who work and who thrive. 
 
 Make fortunes, and homes of peace and of rest, 
 Where the vintage of Spain doth yet survive; 
 
 * EI Paso, Texas. 
 20 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And this valley's as rich as the far-famed Nile, 
 With melons and fruits, and gardens in bloom, 
 
 Inviting with laughter and winsome smile. 
 
 Where the heart-sore wanderer has welcome and 
 room. 
 
 There are mountains so vast, so rocky and tall. 
 
 That the heart beats fast as the eyes behold. 
 And the froth of the waters, their leaping and fall. 
 
 Bring sparkling and glinting fine millions of 
 gold. 
 The cabin and hut of the brave mountaineer, 
 
 Stands as toppling and tottering hard by the 
 stream, 
 And watching and gathering the gold drift there. 
 
 He pans out a fortune that once was a dream. 
 
 Now look as far as the eye can see, 
 
 To that far, dim line of sky and land. 
 And look as across a vast, shining sea. 
 
 At a scene as fair as the world can command ! 
 There are leagues and leagues of a rolling plane, 
 
 See the ranches and farms that are dotted there, 
 Slow, grazing herds and the fields of grain, 
 
 Yellowing and ripening for the harvest is near; 
 There are fields and fields of cotton and cord, 
 
 Or ripening or ripe for the harvest has come. 
 And the face of the toiler is uncareworn. 
 
 And he sings at his work in the harvest-home. 
 
 Can the mind or the heart of a man be bad ? 
 
 Can a land so lovely be other than blest? 
 No wonder her children behave like mad. 
 
 When the sword of a foe is aimed at her breast! 
 21 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 THE COTTAGER'S HOME 
 
 A S I was coming through the gloaming, 
 ^^^ Out of the woods where I'd been roaming, 
 Or chasing at times throughout the day, 
 The swift-footed stag and stag hounds bay, 
 Quiv'ring on the air to my ears was borne. 
 The retiring huntsman's distant horn ; 
 Winding long his horn, he now bade adieu 
 To fellow hunters and their yelping crew. 
 
 In answers back, the shrill sounds flew o'er 
 The hills, to the wild, haunted shore 
 Of Caddo Lake, where the dark waters reach, 
 And murm'ring roll on the sandy beach.* 
 
 While list'ning thus to the dying sounds 
 Of answ'ring horns and yelping hounds, 
 I slowly made my homeward way. 
 In the gloaming of the passing day. 
 
 I heard from the fields the laborer's song, 
 In distant melody, full and strong. 
 Softly soaring on the balmy air, 
 Like bells' sweet chimes for ev'ning prayer; 
 
 * Goose prairie and, for a mile or more, it was sandy 
 up and down, but the beach has mostly grown up in 
 thickets of haw and thorny brush. It is a large arm of 
 the Caddo Lake. 
 
 22 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 His tasks were done and the day was spent, 
 And singing blithely homeward he went; 
 From out the dell, the tinkling bell. 
 Added its charm to th' anthem's swell. 
 
 Onward I passed to an open space. 
 
 Where through the mist him I could trace; 
 
 I saw him to his cottage go, 
 
 And greet his children at the door; 
 
 The watchdog barked with all his might, 
 
 A hearty welcome with honest delight; 
 
 The faithful wife with joy and pride 
 
 Stood glad and happy by his side. 
 
 The blue smoke rose above his home, 
 And wrapped it round in an azure zone. 
 I'd long had looked on this bless'd scene, 
 But night closed round its dark'ning screen; 
 Their joy and glee still I could hear, 
 Which told of light hearts and good cheer. 
 I turned away and sighed that strife 
 And pride and ambition poison life — 
 
 Glad this poor man in his poor cot^ 
 Has a more bless'd and happy lot. 
 Than he with all his pomp and wealth, 
 Whose home's a tragedy of Death; 
 Before his time he's bent with care, 
 Curs'd by the load he's doomed to bear. 
 
 Poor man ! Your gold and princely home, 
 Your pond'rous show of wealth o'ergrown 
 
 23 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Can give you ne'er the blessedness 
 
 With which this poor man's lot is blest. 
 
 This way contrasting the rich and the poor, 
 
 I reach'd my own long-wish'd for door, 
 
 The sweetest word on human tongue 
 
 Is Home! God's Spirit's there in ev'ry one. 
 
 ROBIN AND DOBIN 
 
 "D OBIN and Dobin were both fighting men. 
 
 And together they sprang from old Ireland's 
 stem; 
 And when you find the true fruit of the tree, 
 You'll find ^ood liquor and revelry. 
 Together the two would often resort 
 To the taproom, " just for a bit of a sport," 
 And when they neared the ambrosial spot, 
 More friendly they were, like brothers they got. 
 
 One thing they never fell out about — 
 
 Which w^ay to the tap was the nearest route ; 
 
 It had the power to draw them afar, 
 
 And, going there, there was never a jar. 
 
 But more friendly they were, the nearer they got, 
 
 And thither they went in a sweeping trot. 
 
 One evening after a very raw day 
 Robin and Dobin were both on the way; 
 And as they drew near to the well-known door. 
 They felt happy to their very heart's core. 
 When through the door, the clinking chimes 
 Made them never think of hoarding the dimes: 
 24 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 (And who In a case like this with " tin " 
 In his breeches pockets would fail to go in ? 
 And Where's the man who has 'neath his jacket 
 A warm Irish heart but would *' join in the 
 racket?") 
 
 They drew up to the counter, side by side, 
 And the waiter's delay would hardly abide. 
 When the glasses were set, and each one filled, 
 They gulped them down, not a drop was spilled. 
 They drew in their breaths, and filled again, 
 ** To Erin, the fairest isle of the main." 
 They talked of the " bys " and of Erin's wrongs, 
 And sang to " Lang Syne " some tender songs. 
 They drank to their friends, damned their foes 
 
 and — drank on. 
 Till all their money and brains were quite gone. 
 
 Humanity's self could stand no more, 
 Each one now drunk, they sank to the floor, 
 Liquor 'n the mind takes such strange shapes. 
 They saw dancing monkeys, snakes and apes. 
 And after a while the Devil stepped in, 
 Drawn thither by the noise and din. 
 And, doubtless, meant to be very civil. 
 But Robin commanded, " Git out! Ye Divil! " 
 
 They made the cross, but their hair stood on end. 
 And each one prayed, '' the Houly Mither would 
 
 sind 
 Some good Saint " ; then, delivered from alarms. 
 Their '' saint-protected " souls arose in arms. 
 And at him they rushed with such reckless force, 
 That they fell down — as a matter of course. 
 
 25 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 They arose to their feet and were ready for fight — 
 Fear had given way to national delight, 
 The Devil was scared and out he flew, 
 And after him tumbled the other two. 
 On, mocking and jeering, the Devil went. 
 While his feet struck fire from many a flint; 
 His long claws stuck deep and tore up the ground, 
 And the earth fairly trembled at the sound. 
 Robin and Dobin their pace never slacked. 
 And followed close whenever he tacked ; 
 Up and down, on and on, across the fields. 
 While the fire flashed from the Devil's heels. 
 They followed after the light he shed, 
 But still the Devil the chasers led. 
 Robin and Dobin, who came close after. 
 Though both ran fast, the Devil ran faster; 
 He ran, he crawled, he wriggled, he flew. 
 And at every step the blacker he grew. 
 Quoth Robin: " The ould Divil's a flying! " 
 *' Indade! " quoth Dobin, *' or ye's a lying." 
 
 To give up the chase 'twould never do, 
 
 So both the chasers the Devil pursue. 
 
 He spread his pinions for a higher flight. 
 
 And from them flashed a lurid light. 
 
 "Ye's a coward, ye Divil!" said Robin, 
 
 "Ye's afther avading us," said Dobin. 
 
 "Ye spalpeen! Ye Divil! Why don't ye stand! 
 
 Be Jasus! we'll whip ye out of the land! " 
 
 'Twould be a stain on his reputation, 
 The Devil wouldn't bear the imputation ; 
 And he was cunning, for quite well he knew 
 That Irishmen all like a fighting crew; 
 26 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 With friends or with foes 'tis Paddy's delight 
 To see a man all spoiling for a fight. 
 This, at least, was the way the brave men thought 
 To threaten the Devil, and make him halt. 
 
 And that was the way in the olden time, 
 That is, when Saint Patrick was in his prime. 
 The Devil was sweating, gave out a smell. 
 Like the sulphurous fumes of direst Hell. 
 The quick lightning leaped from his red eyes, 
 He rattled his chains and smote his thighs; 
 His flaming tail he poised high in the air 
 And swept it round him in a circle there. 
 He howled a howl, like ten thousand fiends, 
 And from his wide nostrils the fire ascends; 
 His long, black arms he stretches before him, 
 And rakes back of them, and then before them, 
 He laughed and hissed in Plutonian rage. 
 But the grit of old Ireland he never could gage. 
 
 Robin and Dobin were used to blarney — 
 
 Were they not from the Lakes of Killarney, 
 
 Where Saint Patrick, after many hard knocks, 
 
 Beat the Devil and put him in a box? 
 
 If the blessed Saint whipped the Devil then. 
 
 They were now just as able to do it again. 
 
 So they squared themselves as best they knew how. 
 
 And then all prepared, they opened the row; 
 
 For he w^ho gets in the first heavy blow, 
 
 More frequently wins the battle, you know. 
 
 Robin and Dobin had but their good fists, 
 While the Devil hit hard and gave such twists, 
 27 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 That never in all their long lives before, 
 
 Had they been so beaten and made so sore. 
 
 They were struck on their heads and beaten down, 
 
 And weltered In gore from foot to crown. 
 
 Their faces were cut and great drops of blood 
 
 Ran down to the ground and In puddles stood. 
 
 Tin the earth grew sllpp'ry, stinking and wet; 
 
 But these sons of Erin fought on yet. 
 
 With true Irish hearts, they'd neither yield nor fly, 
 
 For Erin's honor they'd bleed and die. 
 
 The Devil spread his wings and took to flight. 
 And yielded to valor the hard-fought fight; 
 But they were so bloody they could not see, 
 And neither knew when the Devil did flee. 
 A long hour they continued to beat the air, 
 And thought their foeman still stood there. 
 Till at length, from sheer exhaustion, they fell 
 Unconscious there where they'd fought so well; 
 They fell like brave men, their feet to the foe. 
 Who may fall, but the fight ne'er give o'er. 
 
 A man, next day, while herding his cattle. 
 Found them snoring on the field of battle; 
 Where a huge dung-heap had been piled with care. 
 All smeared and stinking he found them there. 
 From head to foot the manure was spread, 
 While they were fighting and thought they bled ; 
 The dung-heap, that was there the day before, 
 Was now scattered round three rods or more; 
 And the cattle, that had ne'er broken fence, 
 Were not brought back 'till many days hence. 
 28 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Robin and Dobin would never give o'er 
 
 That 'twas dung they shed and not Irish gore; 
 
 Nor, that during the whole eventful night 
 
 They fought the Devil and put him to flight. 
 
 And though they were taken to the very spot 
 
 Where the dung-heap was — they swore it was not. 
 
 MORAL 
 
 Never go near where strong drink is sold ; 
 But Oh, weak man! Remember you're told. 
 Just take a little for " your stomach's sake " ; 
 But ne'er of your head a liquor-stand make. 
 Sure, if you feel chilly in the morning. 
 Remember, friend, 'tis a timely warning ; 
 And when you drink, sure, be thoughtful and kind, 
 Leave no brother Paddy wanting behind; 
 And — th' evening come, when the sun goes down. 
 When winds whistle, and, if Boreas frown, 
 Remember poor Paddy is all forlorn. 
 Wanting his great coat — a good " Irish horn." 
 And, when night runs on " the wee sma' hours," 
 Drink up the balance — (it sometimes sours). 
 
 BATTLE OF lUKA 
 
 "\T7E lay upon our arms and slept, 
 ^^ While softly from the deep, green Wildwood, 
 From leaf to leaf, the breezes crept, 
 A holy singing sisterhood, 
 29 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Wooing the ear with songs and sighs, 
 Till sleep crept o'er our closing eyes. 
 
 Silence and night brood o'er the scene, 
 
 So restless but a while ago. 
 That one might deem it all a dream, 
 
 But for the dark forms and the glow 
 Of steel that glimmers in the light, 
 And throws it back upon the sight. 
 
 Here, till Phoebus rolls up the steep 
 His glit'ring car, and night retires. 
 
 Our army seeks new strength in sleep, 
 And all the courage it inspires: 
 
 For ere another day has passed 
 
 To many there 'twill be the last. 
 
 Aurora peeps up o'er the hills. 
 
 And clouds in splendor brightly gleam — 
 The glad songster his m.atin trills — 
 
 Pale glows the face of night's fair Queen, 
 As she sails midst the ether blue 
 And glimmers on the pearly dew. 
 
 Ere steeps the sun the east in red 
 Or glows above the sombre hills. 
 
 The drummer boy starts from his bed. 
 
 Strikes his loud drum, whose thunder thrills 
 
 With its deep bass and startling sound 
 
 And makes each sense by slumber bound. 
 
 Before the drums have ceased to beat 
 Or wake the echoes on the heath, 
 30 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 The soldiers, rous'd, spring to their feet: 
 
 Their guns are near, they're ready for death, 
 Scorn all thought of pale-faced fear, 
 Nor heed the battle drawing near. 
 
 They laugh and jest In merry mood. 
 
 As though 'twas pleasure rul'd the hour, 
 
 And round the festal board they stood. 
 Or talked of love In beauty's bower; 
 
 So great has war the hard'ning power, 
 
 They laugh and jest when death clouds lower. 
 
 Hark, to the cannons' distant roar, 
 That comes like thunder from afar! 
 
 Hark, to the sounds of strife that soar 
 Upon the wind and strike and jar 
 
 And roll along the trembling plain, 
 
 Tin echo gives It back again! 
 
 Our columns now with double speed 
 
 Pour down the plain their living stream — 
 
 From left to right the orders heed. 
 
 From left to right the bayonets gleam. 
 
 Then into line they quickly wheel — 
 
 A wall of fire and bristling steel! 
 
 The death shots now are falling fast, 
 
 And many sink to rise no more; 
 Destruction rides upon the blast 
 
 And thunders loud upon life's shore. 
 Where pale and dim grows the wan light. 
 Then sinks forever Into night. 
 31 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 The streams of shot from cannon's mouth, 
 The volleys loud that sweep the dale, 
 
 Bring grief to many in the South, 
 
 And cause unblanch'd cheeks to grow pale, 
 
 Who that dread day unwav'ring stood 
 
 And honors won on that field of blood. 
 
 The brave Little, Missouri's pride. 
 The Army's boast, born to command, 
 
 Was caught by Death's red, flowing tide. 
 And, full of honors, borne to that strand — 
 
 To that dim land and silent shore. 
 
 Where battle shouts are heard no more. 
 
 Among the brave who dauntless fell, 
 Nor quailed in that deadly hour, 
 
 Was the Navarre of War, Odell, 
 Of Southern Chivalry the flower; 
 
 Among the bravest he was brave — 
 
 Undaunted w^ent he to his grave. 
 
 I'll ne'er forget thee, brave Odell, 
 Who saw one weak, about to yield. 
 
 And came to succor, ere he fell. 
 
 But dropped thyself upon the field: 
 
 Purer soldier the South ne'er knew — 
 
 No kinder friend, more brave and true. 
 
 We won the day, how I can't tell. 
 For friends mistook us for the foe. 
 
 And rain'd on us both shot and shell. 
 Till filled up seemed our cups of woe; 
 
 Amid the crash and battle smoke, 
 
 Friends dealt us near a deadly stroke. 
 32 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 The battle closes with the day, 
 
 When the stars creep back to the sky 
 
 And light up with their placid ray 
 The pallid brow and staring eye; 
 
 The carnage dread was half conceal'd 
 
 By shadows cast upon the field. 
 
 Whitfield, Mabry, men of high fame! 
 
 Of whom Texas will e'er be proud. 
 While charging through both death and flame, 
 
 Enveloped in the battle's cloud, 
 Were wounded; but they bravely met 
 The foe with the '' Charge Bayonet! " 
 
 No rude words wound the fall'n now; 
 
 Tender hands raise the drooping head 
 And lave the death drops from the brow 
 
 And hover o'er the gallant dead, 
 Who bravely fought with hearts of oak. 
 Yet fell beneath the Southern stroke. 
 
 The wounded writhe upon the ground, 
 And fill the ear with plaintive cries; 
 
 Groans and sighs and gasps around 
 
 Tell where some wounded soldier dies; 
 
 Unconscious some with curses die, 
 
 And some who wish a priest were by. 
 
 I ne'er before nor since have seen 
 
 Death ride so pitiless as here. 
 Where the whole ridge and hillside green 
 
 Seem'd but one vast and sick'ning bier. 
 Spread over with the battle's dead. 
 To fill one common, gory bed. 
 
 33 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Here lifeless lies a beardless boy, 
 Here gasping lies a father's pride, 
 
 Here stark and dead's a maiden's joy. 
 Here lies a father than all beside 
 
 Most dear, whom love cannot recall 
 
 From that profoundest trance of all. 
 
 Here's the cold lips a wife's have pressed, 
 Steep'd in the heart's congealing gore; 
 
 A head bent low, a hand caressed. 
 
 When her full heart seemed running o'er 
 
 With the sweets of maternal joy 
 
 And high hopes for her darling boy. 
 
 Love, hope, joy, pride, ambition, all 
 
 Lie dead — a sacrifice to war — 
 And what's been gained by their fall ? 
 
 A gilding to the victor's car! 
 And none hear, as it passes by 
 In pomp, the groan or dying sigh. 
 
 A thousand souls their bodies leave 
 And upward rise on viewless w^ngs; 
 
 One hundred thousand hearts yet grieve 
 Over the dead, now mouldering 
 
 Back to dust, in the silent grave, 
 
 Where luka entombs her brave. 
 
 The Southern Cross streams in the breeze. 
 Over this field of blood and glory; 
 
 It was by conflicts such as these. 
 We fixed our deeds in living story. 
 
 34 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Where we, outnumbered two to one 
 By brave true men, our vict'ries won. 
 
 Obscured by smoke " The Cross " on high 
 Waves o'er the dying and the dead. 
 
 Its last salute, the parting sigh, 
 Of those who fell and vainly bled. 
 
 Peace! Let the veil of mercy fall 
 
 And hide for aye the wrongs of all! 
 
 TO VICTOR M. ROSE 
 
 September 12, 1881 
 
 /^N swallow's wing the time has flown. 
 
 Nor stops its onward flight, 
 Careering on and ever on. 
 
 On wings of tireless might — 
 Since we went off to fight the wars 
 Of Dixie, 'neath the " Stars and Bars." 
 
 The first began in youthful age, 
 
 Called off by bugle blast 
 To war! and wrote the first red page 
 
 Of battle, blood, and rage — 
 Ah, little did we know, my friend, 
 What it would bring, before 'twould end! 
 
 In marches long and spent and dreary. 
 
 In camps on hill and dale. 
 In storms and cold and all aweary, 
 
 When heart and strength would fail 
 O'erburdened and sink down to rest. 
 On Mother Earth's inviting breast. 
 
 35 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Our comrades true who bravely fell 
 And won the victor's wreath, 
 
 No pen nor words can ever tell 
 Their sacrificial death, 
 
 Who gave up for their country all 
 
 And sealed their duty in their fall. 
 
 Some growing gray and grim, are left 
 Most marked by warlike scars. 
 
 When they bore on the battle crest 
 Their flag— the '' Stars and Bars "— 
 
 Sacred emblem of Southern Rights, 
 
 Glorious in a thousand fights! 
 
 Alas, that fallen Southern Flag! 
 
 To all our hearts 'tis dear, 
 And be it but a tattered rag, 
 
 With the old swelling cheer 
 We will hail it ours and embrace it — 
 It speaks to us! Nought can replace it! 
 
 'Tis deeply 'dyed in Southern blood 
 
 And rent by many shot, 
 'Twas kept aloft on field and flood, 
 
 And brave men by it dropped — 
 It fell — from the staff he tore it, 
 Priceless relic to him who bore it! 
 
 The smoke of battle on it dwells, 
 
 Its garish beauty's gone — 
 'Tis sullied o'er w^ith gore and smells 
 
 Of mould that's o'er it grown. 
 But still 'tis beautiful and fair 
 To those who saw't in battle's glare. 
 
 36 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 We'll keep it yet, fold It away 
 
 Back gently to its place; 
 It has a resurrection day 
 
 Of vict'ry, power and grace; 
 For human rights it stood and stands 
 In our own and all other lands. 
 
 Let North and South receive the praise 
 
 For honest service done, 
 And over our hosts both flags raise — 
 
 Forever free in one — 
 The '' Northern Stars " and " Southern Bars 
 O'er marching hosts and floating tars. 
 
 BEN'S TWO STEERS 
 
 A S through the woods I took my way, 
 
 Adown the breezy, sloping hill, 
 There glimmered broad the God of day, 
 
 Uprising, like a flame, until 
 It wheeled resplendent o'er the trees, 
 
 And glinted on their tossing tops, 
 As on the countless honey-bees. 
 
 That droned amid the sweet dew-drops. 
 
 Afar, from out the forest's heart, 
 
 A voice came echoing through the glen, 
 
 And echo with acoustic art 
 
 Repeated o'er itself, " Woa, Dem! " 
 
 I mused a little o'er the name. 
 
 That rose with shouts upon the air, 
 
 37 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And soared and rattled 'mid the flame 
 Of light, or climbed the forest stair, 
 
 Till right before me in the path 
 Appeared an old black single ox, 
 
 And there behind, with rope and lath, 
 Was old black Ben, gray as a fox. 
 
 At sight of Ben — no tongue can tell't — 
 
 My memory whirled, 'twas backward cast, 
 And twenty years to moments mielt, 
 
 Like snows to drops, until the past 
 Came back, and 'twas as real and true. 
 
 To sight and feeling's strongest power. 
 As artist e'er on canvas drew 
 
 In his most rapt and happy hour. 
 
 On Time's lee-shore the tides stood still. 
 
 As sometimes does the tideful main. 
 And thought drew from the past, until 
 
 It seemed we were but boys again. 
 We clasped as friends grasp welcome hands, 
 
 As warmly true as friends e'er met, 
 And, like exiles in foreign lands. 
 
 The Old Southland we'd ne'er forget. 
 
 A smile o'erspread his ebon face. 
 And wrinkled up his forehead low, 
 
 And, where his lips had been in place. 
 Appeared a perfect ivory show. 
 
 *' Is dat Mars George? Now sho', why, hi! 
 I's neber 'spect dat you 'ud be yere, 
 
 38 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 In dese ere woods a lookln' spry, 
 Ez long ago some twenty year!" 
 
 When he enough had questioned me, 
 To ease his eager, rattling mind, 
 
 I asked this question, ** Why had he 
 The other work-ox left behind? " 
 
 " Now, Mars George, I's gwine tell you true, 
 
 Dat udder steer ain't left behine: 
 He's dade en gone, shot thoo en thoo, — 
 
 En now I tells you 'bout it, mine. 
 My ole cowl's fus' two calves wuz pore, 
 
 En so I called one Dem-o-crat, 
 En t'ought he'ud die, now tooby sho'. 
 
 On scrappy tings, en name lak dat. 
 
 *' But mine, I buys anudder calf, 
 
 Dat come along sem 'ported breed; 
 Ah-hi! Mars George, you could but lafiF 
 
 Ter watch de buttin' dat I seed! 
 W'en winter come, one er um died — 
 
 W'ich? One er um my ole cow had — 
 But dish yer one^ he up and tried 
 
 Hisse'f, en growed on libin' bad. 
 De 'ported steer, I kept 'im stall'd, 
 
 En fed 'im corn and tater-strings, 
 En kase he wuz so fine, I called 
 
 'Im Rad-i-cal, en den I sings 
 Sem meetin' himes o'er dat good name. 
 
 En prayed dat he mought grow a heap; 
 But Dem, I cust 'im lak a shame. 
 
 En gib 'im nusin' moughty cheap! 
 
 39 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 '' Atter a w'ile, I made a yoke, 
 
 En undertook to break de two; 
 At fus' I seed dat Rad 'ud poke, 
 
 Dat Dem wuz allers peart en true; 
 But I t'ought nuffin' den er dat, 
 
 En allers gib ter Rad de peas, 
 Twel he done got so gosh-durn fat, 
 
 He t'ought he 'ud do des ez he pleas. 
 Den I showed Dem a kinder han'. 
 
 En den gits mad ez I kin be. 
 For he blowed 'roun' des lak a man. 
 
 En chawed he cud en horned at me! 
 A man fum up de Norf come 'roun', 
 
 En long wid 'im a tcoter brings. 
 En seemed so proud, I t'ought a crown 
 
 Belonged ter um en grander tings. 
 
 " Wal, he des seed my 'ported steer, 
 
 En tuck ter 'im right den en dar, 
 En tole me how 'twuz des ez clare. 
 
 He 'uz not fer work, but fer de Fair. 
 He 'suaded me ter let 'im go 
 
 Ter whar he'ud get mo' better feed; 
 Fer ef he wuz ter make a show. 
 
 En take de prize fum common breed, 
 He mus' be rubbed twel shinin' bright. 
 
 He horns scrip smofe, en tipp'd wid brass. 
 En covered up wid all de sight 
 
 Er fine tings; den he say, ' He'll pass.' 
 But, now you mine, I paid de bill, 
 
 Dat it tuck eve'y cent I had, 
 Bekaze de man he 'suaded twell 
 
 I t'ought I'd git it back on Rad. 
 40 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 " Now Rad wuz blazin' fine, en dat 
 
 Wuz whar he tuck de bigges' prize. 
 But Lan! De man he snatched de hat, 
 
 En stole de money 'fo' my eyes! 
 I went fer Rad, w'en all wuz gone, 
 
 En foun' 'im sho' nuff, all squar — 
 En 'im so fine! — I b'leeve I groan, 
 
 W'en he des kick me out er dar! 
 Wal, I wuz sorter circumfused, 
 
 En knowed it wuz a seus joke; 
 En w'en I t'ought how I'd bin used, 
 
 I 'clar', Mars George, I almos' choke. 
 Dat steer! I raised fum fus' ter las', 
 
 Now he done make me out a moke, 
 En all de turns I count so fas*, 
 
 Done vanished lak my cabin smoke! 
 
 " Wal, now I starve 'im sartin, sho'. 
 
 En lebe 'im ter hisse'f right den; — 
 I allers yeard, 'tud make a kyore 
 
 Er um de deepes died in sin. 
 Wal, w^al, — I stood it lak a w'ile. 
 
 Den 'roun' 'im come en tuck a peep, — 
 En den I feel mos' lak a chile, 
 
 W'en all my feelin's 'gin ter creep. 
 Dat steer! I lubbed 'im sho'. Mars George, 
 
 Ez ef he'd bin my younges' bawn, 
 Fer hadn't he bin my chiefes' charge, 
 
 En 'im I mos had doted on! 
 Now, atter w'ile, w'at does you tink? 
 
 I yeard a low, des 'hine de fens. 
 En dar dey wuz, a wink to wink. 
 
 En Dem en Rad a makin' frien's! 
 
 41 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 " Right den dat steer had sense I knowed, 
 
 But w'at wuz up, it puzzled me; 
 I low'd dat w'en Dem kinder lowed, 
 
 He t'ought 'im right, lak one, two, t'ree. 
 En den I santered 'roun' ter Rad, 
 
 Wile I wuz stung by eve'y wrong, 
 But w'en he seemed des right down glad, 
 
 I give 'im: — Dem mooed low en long. 
 I tuck de steers back home dat day, 
 
 En once aw'ile, I luck at Dem; 
 Fer now, I 'low'd, he mought gib 'way 
 
 De secret dat wuz rulin' 'im. 
 La no ! I mought ez well hab looked 
 
 Ter see de moon turn ter green cheese; 
 He tail hung down, en den it crooked. 
 
 Den lash he back lak dar wuz fleas. 
 
 '' W'en I got home, not va'y long, 
 
 De nabors 'gin to 'plain at me, 
 Dat Rad, he got so fat and strong, 
 
 Wuz despert in dishonesty. 
 Now old Brer Dave he had a patch, 
 
 En de corn in dar, it wuz mos' ripe. 
 En he now 'low'd, he ev'y ketch 
 
 My Rad in dar, he 'ud punch he tripe. 
 Wal, now. Mars George, dat's nearly all. 
 
 I yeard a shot, I miss de steer, 
 De rope wuz broke dar in de stall — 
 
 Den I found Rad, ^tone-dade down dar! 
 Dis, Mars George, is der steer, I tink — 
 
 I's t'ought along 'im ev'y sence 
 He come ter Rad, a wink ter wink. 
 
 En lowed so long behine de fens. 
 42 
 
POEMS BY A. P, HOPE 
 
 " Now at de fus' a t'ief wuz Rad, 
 
 But I wuz moughty sweet on 'im: — 
 I lose by 'im de all I had, 
 
 But now I trus' my Texas Dem. 
 Wat wuz he name — de one dat died? 
 
 Re-pub-li-can, I tink de name, 
 En, had he libb'd, he 'ud er tied 
 
 Ter Dem; deys mudder wuz de same. 
 
 " I laks de goose wid good fat stuffin', 
 
 Lakwise I likes a plenty goose, 
 But dish yer talk dat moun's ter nuffin', 
 
 Lacks all de stuffin's sweetes' juice. 
 Dat man, Mars George, w'at stole de hat 
 
 Widout de p'liteness er farewell, 
 Dat spilt my steer on libbin' fat, 
 
 I wish, I swar, he wuz in Hell ! 
 Tells you what is a startlin' fac' : 
 
 De way sum hum-raised steers go 'lon^ 
 It shows ez plain ez w'ite en black, 
 
 Dat sumt'n sum'rs turble wrong! 
 I 'specks mos' all our 'ported steers 
 
 Is only scrubby stock at bes', 
 'Kaze, when dey git low down it pears 
 
 Dey steal promiscus from de res' ; 
 
 Dey's lak de cat, wat libs in mud, 
 Des put 'im in de dares' spring, 
 
 En dar he'll show de common blood. 
 In suckin' eve'y dirty t'ing! 
 
 You take de turkle long er dat, 
 En he is lak de spilt hum steer, 
 
 Dey'll raise de mud ter make 'em fat 
 
 43 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 En spile de spring dat 'fo' wuz clare. 
 
 But now, you take de speckle trout, 
 Wat lis in strams er dares' sprangs, 
 
 En put um dar — he'll die widout 
 You clean de sprang er dirty tings. 
 
 But all de 'ported steers dat's yere, 
 Am not so mean as Rad, bekaze 
 
 Dey's peart at work, en at de Fair 
 Day zerves de highes' kind er praise. 
 
 ** I's neber 'specks ter see you mo', 
 I want sum 'backer 'fo' you go. 
 
 En please. Mars George, my cloze all tore, 
 I 'clar' I'm shamed you see me so." 
 
 From 'neath his old and ragged vest, 
 
 I heard the beatings of his heart, 
 As palm to palm our hands were pressed — 
 
 " Gaud keep us bofe w'ile we's apart." 
 Above the hill Ben took his way, 
 
 While I another course pursued. 
 And thought the story might display 
 
 To life, a strange similitude. 
 
 44 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 WHAT THE WAVES BRING TO ME * 
 
 /^N the calm sea the waves were sleeping; 
 ^^ From their deep caves the winds were creep- 
 ing, 
 And over the sea they quickly flew 
 And on the lips of wavelets blew; 
 Then far away the waves 'gan dancing, 
 And to the pebbly beach came prancing, 
 While swiftly came the zephyrs after. 
 With breathings, sweetly loud, and laughter; 
 Then they flew back to the sea again 
 To search and wander o'er the main, 
 And gather secrets from the deep 
 To give them up to those who weep 
 Beside the shore, e'er washed by waves. 
 While thinking of their loved-ones' graves. 
 While watching there the tireless flow 
 And ebb of sparkling waves below. 
 What said the waves and winds to me. 
 As they came on so merrily? 
 Do they bring news from yonder shore 
 Of one who crossed but came no more ; 
 Who in the sea's dark depths went down 
 Amid the billows of the storm? 
 Yes, 'tis thus comes back to me. 
 From coral-beds deep in the Sea, 
 
 * A young lady's fiance was drowned on his first 
 voyage across the ocean. She never recovered from the 
 shock, but suffered mentally, and had a morbid belief 
 that the tides brought intelligence of her drowned lover. 
 
 45 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 No, not when billows madly rave, 
 
 My love comes from his sea-girt grave; 
 
 When zephyrs o'er the waters sigh, 
 
 I know my lover's spirit is nigh, 
 
 And when the waves come to the beach, 
 
 I hold my hands for kisses from each; 
 
 When they go back to the deep, blue Sea, 
 
 They take my lover's greetings from me; 
 
 When whispers low the breath of zephyr, 
 
 I listen to my spirit lover; 
 
 So weaves and winds bring e'er to me, 
 
 Words from my Lover, drowned in the Sea. 
 
 A CANDIDATE'S SOLILOQUY 
 
 T'VE hung my office banner out, 
 
 Inscribed wi' words to please. 
 But 'twill not flaunt its folds, wi'out 
 
 I raise a fav'ring breeze. 
 These rustics, tanned like Indian boors, 
 
 Comprise the strength o' masses. 
 But give them hair, an' on all fours, 
 
 They'd not be known from asses. 
 
 " To run for office on such creatures 
 
 Aud then to have them bill us, 
 To keep the time to all their measures — 
 
 Disgust will surely kill us! 
 To make a race in either case 
 
 And keep them on the track 
 And keep the goal before your face. 
 
 Requires a Crichton's tact. 
 
 46 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 " Our prospect opens well away 
 
 That votes may yet fulfill; 
 But how that partial, fal'tring may 
 
 Slips in the place of will! 
 Uncertain now the future looks, 
 
 ' To be or not to be,' 
 Wi' spectres of defeat and spooks 
 
 In office twitting me. 
 
 " To be a candidate, and then 
 
 By custom bound to treat — 
 To call up crowds of loafing men, 
 
 And then, at last, get beat! 
 To treat or not! I can't debate 
 
 The troubles on my mind; 
 For now's the hour, strong as Fate, 
 
 When I must go it blind. 
 
 "Hold! WlU't elect me? There's the rub, 
 
 The goblin of the hour, 
 The voice that stills the wild hubbub, 
 
 And makes ambition cower. 
 Oh, Doubt, thou lump of Arctic ice ! 
 
 Thou dost my joy foredoom; ^ 
 When hope would ripen, in a trice, 
 
 Thou blasts its fruitful bloom! 
 
 '^ Avast! No Witch of Endor's here, 
 No cunning, cheating trick! 
 
 Fve found the Open Sesame— 
 ril go it through 'on tick!' 
 47 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 E'en from DEFEAT, I'll win SUCCESS, 
 ' On tick ' with crowds I'll revel, 
 
 And doubts that chilled me wi' distress 
 Have w^rought me good from evil. 
 
 " Whatever Fate to me may yield, 
 
 ' On tick ' all's going free, 
 And / will smile like Chesterfield, 
 
 While crowds shall drink wi' me. 
 Suppose I fail to win the race? 
 
 The bar must see my ' blind,' 
 And help me to some paying place 
 
 Or leave its bills behind." 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, 
 
 He hunted out some country men. 
 And, though his spirit struggled hard, 
 
 He asked them all to drink with him. 
 All hands now gather round the bar. 
 
 And spoons in glasses jingle, 
 Till like a dancing, wave-tossed star, 
 
 All things begin to mingle. 
 
 The rustics wink and stand a treat. 
 
 Then call the callow wight. 
 But he — alas! He can't repeat. 
 
 He's stag'ring, lordly tight! 
 He thought these rustics might compare 
 
 Wi' asses very well. 
 But, stretched upon his stomach there. 
 
 He looks the " De'il himself!" 
 
 48 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 You racing jockeys, warning heed, 
 
 And you may ride wl' pleasure; 
 These rustics are of noble breed. 
 
 Like racers kept at pasture; 
 You may them take, from pampered pride, 
 
 For common sluggish foals, 
 Then, fall the wildest breed astride, 
 
 That ever ruled the polls! 
 
 A LETTER TO SAM McCARVER 
 
 "P^EAR Friend: Yours came at length to hand, 
 '^ And found me well, but feebly picking 
 Some cotton intermixed with sand. 
 
 To buy some blankets and some ticking. 
 I get my board 'most ev'ry day. 
 
 And all deductions made for shirking, 
 Which is, I think, the poorest pay 
 
 For this, the hardest kind of working! 
 My letters got me rest this while, 
 
 And no discounting while I w^ite 'em. 
 At this, I think I see you smile. 
 
 And hear you say, " Ad infinitum." 
 
 You ask, " Is ' Jumbo ' going to move, 
 
 And, if he is, where is he going? " 
 Well, these are questions hard to prove, 
 
 But, I believe he's only blowing. 
 'Tis hard to keep his devious tracks. 
 
 For now and then, he merely passes. 
 But now, he is at old man Mack's, 
 
 Converting juice into molasses. 
 
 49 
 
POEMS BY A, P. HOPE 
 
 He sent me some, it is first rate, 
 
 And well my stomach appetizes. 
 I'll take a quart to liquidate 
 
 His debt to me, before it rises. 
 '' Four Bits " is there and in with him 
 
 In this most juicy institution. 
 A partner there! My head doth swim — 
 
 A quart would break his constitution! 
 
 We have a church, a man to preach, 
 
 One e'en so good the Lord won't crown him! 
 Who won't baptize beyond his reach, 
 
 For fear the sinful folks will drown him. 
 But that with Faith has nought to do; 
 
 No soul is saved by merely dipping. 
 For those who'd go the " straight gate " through, 
 
 Must guard and keep their feet from slipping. 
 
 Our Sunday School has ceased to breathe. 
 
 Has died the death of all the righteous ( ?) ; . 
 Its pious soul began to grieve. 
 
 Because the world must e'er delight us. 
 The teachers, too, have fall'n or fled. 
 
 Perhaps around his throne are hiding. 
 E'en there, unless the De'il be dead, 
 
 He'll have them brought up for backsliding! 
 But that, I think, would be unfair, 
 
 For pris'ners should be kindly treated. 
 And that he has them surely there 
 
 Shows that his claim to them's completed. 
 
 Perhaps, as w^ell admit the truth. 
 And let me here right plainly say it, 
 
 50 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 The School, itself, to say in sooth, 
 
 Owed too much there for them to pay it! 
 
 But now to quit this badinage. 
 
 Which makes less sense, though lighter reading, 
 
 And strip away all persiflage: 
 
 The De'll gets in the dough we're kneading. 
 
 If Truth's in ev'ry walk of life, 
 
 The love of God must light the way; 
 
 Faith be our strength throughout the strife 
 With sin, or we will go astray. 
 
 The preachers love each other's souls, 
 
 And children's too — how they caress 'em! 
 
 And Christmas come, their pipes and bowls, 
 And e'en the women too — God bless 'em! 
 
 If some have died, when they were dipped, 
 
 O'ercome by their intense emotion. 
 Or, if the parson's foot had slipped. 
 
 The accident or pious notion 
 Had made us debtors to the deed. 
 
 Beneath the stream of mystic power. 
 And death and rite had both decreed 
 
 The world a blessing from that hour. 
 
 However, now I'll not be nice 
 
 And seem to leer against immersion, 
 
 For, if I had to crack the ice, 
 
 I'd take the water with conversion. 
 
 Since first I heard of Dives' case, 
 
 How hot he felt in flames a-glowing, 
 
 51 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 How scarce It was in that hot place, 
 My love of water has been growing. 
 
 To quit this world I have a fear 
 
 That I'd not get the three acquittals, 
 
 And here with health, this lower sphere 
 
 Is still my choice, with clothes and victuals. 
 
 Well, Sam, the ducks in scores are here, 
 
 And now at noon the guns are firing, 
 And strong and loud, and sharp and clear. 
 
 They keep repeating, never tiring. 
 There're English, Starr, and many more, 
 
 Who keep all day a constant popping. 
 And had I not been there before, 
 
 I'd think the ducks were always dropping. 
 
 But, bless my soul! You know It too. 
 
 So what's the use the fact relating! 
 Now, sotto voce, 'twixt me 'nd you. 
 
 This part they'll e'er refrain from stating. 
 (You recollect one William Pope, 
 
 Who bought the ducks, when you had shot 'em, 
 And learned to answer all by rote. 
 
 When asked by townsmen how he got 'em?) 
 
 The Lake's the scene of wildest fun. 
 
 Or mad or glad or wildly swearing, 
 All laugh before the shooting's done. 
 
 Each man some lucky shot declaring. 
 When night forbids a longer stay. 
 
 And boats glide back to oars a-dipping. 
 You hear the hunters, all the way, 
 
 Bemean their luck — the truth a-nlpplng. 
 
 52 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Along the way they drink, " Here's luck! " 
 But drinking oft'ner than they ought to, 
 
 Some callow wight, just like a duck, 
 Must take a bath in Caddo's water. 
 
 If one declares his twenty score 
 
 But fails to count to top the others. 
 He tells of those and many more 
 
 He killed, '' Shot clean of all their feathers.' 
 He's rattled, he knows he is behind, 
 
 But rather'n show he is confounded, 
 He chimes in those he could not find, 
 
 And claims all those he thinks he wounded. 
 
 There're John and Jim who rivals are, 
 
 And they will be till they are dying. 
 Are claiming this or that unfair, 
 
 And good shots they — but best at lying. 
 While there are some, who saints would seem. 
 
 And never could be caught a-fibbing, 
 And who work well, a constant teain. 
 
 But masters they, in th' art of cribbing. 
 " Where's ' Pulldo,' Little ' Pull ' you know, 
 
 The one so fond of lawless fishing? " 
 He's there, but makes a laggard's show. 
 
 As when he had an office itching. 
 
 But now the parting hour has come, 
 
 Appealing all to honest candor. 
 No stone is thrown, some priests become — 
 
 And raise with truth the Devil's dander. 
 He does not talk who won the race. 
 
 And answers questions ever blandly, 
 
 53 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 His port sustains a conqueror's grace, 
 Which rises 'hove excitement calmly. 
 
 Away upon the Lake, there's Joe, 
 
 With boat and reels some fish is catching, 
 But, if I had a hen so slow, 
 
 The eggs I'd ne'er depend on hatching. 
 Old Time has marked him with his pen. 
 
 And brushed his locks with gray a little, 
 His vision's short, like other men. 
 
 Whose thread of life is wearing brittle; 
 But, when he's dead, his merry wraith 
 
 Will keep his mem'ry green among us; 
 His jokes and pranks, but more than both. 
 
 His tongue, though witty, never stung us. 
 If you were here, the ducks, I know. 
 
 Would fall before your aim so deadly. 
 And those who boast would have no show 
 
 Against your skill and — lying stead'ly. 
 
 I've quit the Lake, miy time is gone, 
 
 I know I'm down the hill a-gliding, 
 But oft, as to my ears is borne 
 
 The huntsm.an's gun, and sport betiding, 
 I feel the thrill of days gone by. 
 
 And hearken to the rapid firing. 
 Nor can repress the wishful sigh 
 
 For days anear, though fast retiring. 
 If I had boys, I know they'd love 
 
 The Lake and ducks — they'd surely rake 'em, 
 And by their skill, they'd doubtless prove — 
 
 The longest tongue could ne'er o'ertake 'em. 
 
 54 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Well, Sam, the plaguy tricks we played 
 
 Were oft as not against each other, 
 But what reflection ever stayed 
 
 The prank or laugh 'gainst e'en a brother? 
 No harm w^as meant, no wrath they wrought, 
 
 'Twas but our souls with fun o'erflowing, 
 And had not this our fancy caught. 
 
 The De'il would have a better showing. 
 I had some pranks and learned some more, 
 
 But you knew all by intuition; 
 And, when you're dead, no dev'lish lore 
 
 Will be a part of your tuition. 
 
 But sure! The De'il will have no heart 
 
 To make you suffer dreadful burning! 
 For, if he'll let you try your art, 
 
 He'll e'en submit himself to learning. 
 For love of hunting, fun and fish, 
 
 Precludes the fear that I shall bore you. 
 But lest I raise the natural wish, 
 
 I'll hold my tongue, ere it come o'er you. 
 
 The day is stealing on a pace, 
 
 My boss's temper is unruly, 
 And, while I have his kindly grace, 
 
 I'll end this letter here. Yours truly. 
 
 TOO MUCH TALK 
 
 COME people say, some people cry. 
 
 Six cents is cotton flat; 
 That debts and trouble, wet or dry, 
 Are bound to come of that. 
 
 55 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Perhaps 'tis so, but what'll you do 
 
 To make the trouble less, 
 If all you say is gospel true, 
 
 And things are in a mess? 
 
 Just open your mouth and live on air 
 
 And talk away the trouble; 
 Fix up a bill to make you stare 
 
 And each misfortune double? 
 
 You have a surplus to bestov^r, 
 
 And yet you're poor in heart. 
 Complaining that the whole's below 
 
 The value of a part. 
 
 You'd rather be just what you are 
 
 Though oh! so mighty poor, 
 Than worse and have the wolf and bear 
 
 Both hungry at your door. 
 
 Give thanks! Give thanks! And in the dust; 
 
 For, he who fails to see 
 The bounty of his God for lust 
 
 Should more than bend the knee. 
 
 When you ask God to give you all 
 
 The gifts he may bestow. 
 From cotton, corn, and wheat, the fall 
 
 To gold is mighty low. 
 
 Misers! Misers! Let it be told, 
 
 Than wine and corn and oil, 
 You think of nothing else but gold 
 
 As blessings on j^our toil. 
 
 56 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 You're sinking, placing very low 
 
 Your better part, your soul. 
 And stunting praise so it won't grow 
 
 To fill — an — auger — hole. 
 
 You might complain till crack of doom, 
 
 And never think it once, 
 But people with more elbow room 
 
 Just know you are a dunce. 
 
 No fight was ever won by talk, 
 Though some mayn't think it so, 
 
 But manly power must push the work 
 To make the matter go. 
 
 No blind man can discern the sun. 
 
 Nor talk it down to him; 
 No singer sweet can change the run 
 
 Of rivers by a hymn. 
 
 As sure's the sun, as sure's the river, 
 
 As sure's you are yourself, 
 These big crops prove the world's Wise Giver 
 
 Above the rage for pelf. 
 
 Change your way, sir, change your way. 
 
 Never just sit and talk; 
 Be up and doing and have your say. 
 
 While you are on the walk. 
 
 You've got two hands, as well's a head. 
 
 And both were made for use; 
 But hands without the head are dead 
 
 The head without's a goose. 
 
 57 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 But just combine the two, my man. 
 
 Ne'er was a better team, 
 Then will to do — presto ! you can, 
 
 Success Is sure and not a dream. 
 
 Success — Success — It Is so wide, 
 It comprehends all living. 
 
 And meaning this. It means beside, 
 The charity of giving. 
 
 TO MY FRIEND 
 
 AS In some hearts past mem'ries burn, 
 ^^ Pure as the Altar's vestal flame, 
 To which unchanging vows return 
 
 And consecrate to one sweet name, 
 So, may your home to God be made 
 
 The Altar, where your vows are paid. 
 
 The world's a sea, your home's your own. 
 Where life's endearments ever smile; 
 
 Your thoughts, as ships, seek every zone 
 For gems to deck your own sweet Isle ; 
 
 And may the world stretch wide Its doors. 
 And you may gather Kohlnoors. 
 
 Your children bright as pearly dews. 
 And charming as a morn In spring. 
 
 And gentle as the dove that coos 
 In dreams of song, sweet lingering. 
 
 Are worth the world to you and more — 
 
 For them, what fields your thoughts explore! 
 58 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Let vine, bud, and expanding flower, 
 
 Twine round your heart and bless your life 
 
 May death forbear to blight your bower 
 With his fell touch; and all the strife 
 
 Of storms from off the w^orld forbear 
 To w^ound the tend'rest flow'ret there. 
 
 May all your life be one bright day, 
 Which has from morn to peaceful eve, 
 
 No mists to gloom a single ray, 
 
 Nor winds that bluster, moan, or grieve; 
 
 And pleasant labor sweeten all. 
 Until the holy twilight fall. 
 
 SIXTY-SEVEN 
 
 T'M sixty-seven years old now — 
 
 No, just beginning sixty-seven; 
 But I am strong, too strong to bow 
 
 And suffer to be rushed and driven, 
 As one might be, who'd never done 
 God service for the vic'tries won. 
 
 I've learned that no man can do 
 
 His work well, who pleads not to God 
 
 To help him, guide him on, all through 
 His struggles; and to kiss the rod 
 
 That keeps him in th' appointed ways. 
 
 And crowns him with the victor's bays. 
 
 Then, when his work is safely o'er. 
 He counts that God for him hath done 
 
 59 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 It all; that he shall evermore 
 
 Count God's, not his, the labor'd store; 
 And that he'll walk as Christ had done, 
 
 Who scaled the heights he looks upon. 
 
 Then he will bear his head to one 
 Of God's most humble children here; 
 
 And hail him brother who has won 
 His way to God by grace and prayer; 
 
 Then, in God's name, bid him good speed 
 In ev'ry Christian word and deed. 
 
 HOME SCENE 
 
 T^OWN in the vale the mists are pale, 
 '^ And creep around the willows, 
 While they are still, so deathly still, 
 Amid these spectral shadows. 
 
 The sunlight glows, and now it flows 
 
 In golden currents down ; 
 The mists escape, the sunbeams make 
 
 And flash a jewelled crown. 
 
 Then upward go, as winds may blow, 
 
 These vapors of the vale. 
 And, as they rise and seek the skies. 
 
 They seem a wondrous sail. 
 
 Now, watch them go, first to and fro. 
 
 Until they're lost to view. 
 Yet on the sky, they'll by and by, 
 
 Fleck white the peaceful blue. 
 60 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 For years I've watched those willows grow, 
 
 Not now for long I fear, 
 But long's I live, 'twill pleasure give. 
 
 Nor they their charms forbear. 
 
 For years this scene, I've watched between 
 
 The dawn and rising sun. 
 And yet it seems, a lovely dream, 
 
 Unreal to look upon. 
 
 THE NEW YEAR 
 
 A SMILE on the lip and a light in the eye, 
 
 And blithe be the heart to welcome the year. 
 The stars shine brightest then in the sky, 
 
 And the soul o'erflows, when friends are near. 
 When friends are near, when friends are near. 
 And the soul o'erflows, when friends are near. 
 
 Our meetings and partings, like winter and spring, 
 Have the fullness of summer and autumn be- 
 tween. 
 When the jokes that we tell, and the stories that 
 bring 
 Back fresh to our minds the day that have been. 
 The days that have been, the days that have been, 
 Back fresh to our minds the days that have been. 
 
 Then our toughts fly quick o'er land, o'er sea, 
 
 Like coursers in speed, like ships in sail, 
 To scenes that are dear and ever shall be, 
 
 Whose lustre increases though the years they 
 may fail. 
 
 6i 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Though the years they may fail, though the years 
 they may fail, 
 Whose lustre increases though the years they 
 may fail. 
 
 Like the rainbow that arches the cloud-vlearing sky. 
 That emblem of hope born of tears and despair; 
 
 The friends from afar in spirit come nigh, 
 
 And gather around us, as they used to be there. 
 
 As they used to be there, as they used to be there. 
 And gather around us, as they used to be there. 
 
 The sadness of absence makes gloom in our hearts. 
 Like mirk in the lowlands, like mist on the hill, 
 
 For those who are absent, but not from our 
 thoughts, 
 Whose places are vacant, whose voices are still. 
 
 Whose voices are still, whose voices are still. 
 
 Whose places are vacant, whose voices are still. 
 
 When the cycle of days shall have finished the year, 
 And the new is the old, low lighting the west. 
 
 And the east as a star, refulgent and clear. 
 The star of the new as the old sinks to rest, 
 
 As the old sinks to rest, as the old sinks to rest, 
 The star of the new as the old sinks to rest. 
 
 How many, O friends, how many will remain? 
 
 We question the future that sphinx-like is dumb, 
 But the past, like our God, inspires us again 
 
 To hope for the best in the days to come. 
 62 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Hail to the New Year! Good-by to the Old! 
 May the New Year be better for the good that 
 we do; 
 From the old may we gather, better than gold, 
 The friendship of friends, the hearts that are 
 true, 
 The hearts that are true, the hearts that are true, 
 The friendship of friends, the hearts that are 
 true. 
 
 D 
 
 SPRING! 
 
 OWN in the woods a council was held. 
 And all the mystic, happy bands. 
 That were sacred in the days of Eld, 
 
 Were there with gifts from sunny lands ! 
 The end of winter having decreed. 
 They all as one 'gan to prepare, 
 And woodland, field, and mournful mead, 
 Behold them, hear them, in the air. 
 
 Behold ! The clouds are breaking away, ^ 
 
 While through the mists a rainbow shines. 
 And afar, there beams a dazzling ray, 
 
 That gilds the clouds with amber lines ! 
 The sun, aglow with quiver and shield. 
 
 Pours down his shafts like molten gold, 
 And cloudy mists uprising are wheeled, 
 
 Away, away, o'er field and wold! 
 
 A thrilling lute-like tone from the South, 
 Enchanting, breathes o'er field and brake, 
 
 63 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And lips of coral and od'rous mouth, 
 The tiding bring, Awake! Awake! 
 
 The aisles begin a melodious sound. 
 Then fill the symphony of song. 
 
 And thence ascending, round upon round, 
 The stirring notes the hills prolong. 
 
 The grass puts up its tiny green lance. 
 
 Beside the kneeling baby flowers, 
 Then o'er the fields they venture a glance. 
 
 Where birds await the budding bowers. 
 The wild woodbine from its sheltered nook, 
 
 Peeps out beneath the sturdy old oak, 
 Then reaching up its tender green hook. 
 
 Prepares to climb with bolder stroke. 
 
 The nectar cups of the fragrant sloe. 
 
 Are ports of busy, sailing bees, 
 That come and go, passing to and fro, 
 
 Like trading crafts along the seas. 
 The gossiping streamlet glints along. 
 
 Giving a smile to flower and tree. 
 And now and then a rollicking song. 
 
 Of what its fortunes yet may be. 
 
 Then pausing near the glittering sands, 
 
 It folds a spell the violets face — 
 A kiss, a smile, a clapping of hands. 
 
 And of¥ it bounds with laughing grace. 
 Like silv'ry chimes of a tinkling bell. 
 
 Distinct and clear, and never mute, 
 A tiny cascade, way down the dell. 
 
 Suggests to mind Apollo's lute. 
 
 64 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And you who applaud artists for skill, "^^ 
 
 Who coarse and rough the country deem, 
 Could you but hear't, e'en 'gainst your will. 
 
 You'd change your minds, as well as theme. 
 The most that's ever been done by art. 
 
 That's had from all deserved encore, 
 That has won the most upon the heart, 
 
 'Tw^as nature's picture — nothing more. 
 
 I can not paint with pencil or pen. 
 
 My powers reach not unto that sphere. 
 And words are poor, but a babel's din, 
 
 Unanswering to my list'ning ear; 
 See that little bird on yonder bough. 
 
 That swells with song its feath'ry throat — 
 Has painter e'er been instructed how 
 
 To paint the sweetness of its note? 
 
 See that wee bud, that's ready to bloom. 
 
 Has word an accent half so pure, 
 Or paint an essence, that its perfume. 
 
 The artist's skill can e'er secure? 
 Go see the orchestra of the birds, 
 
 Though vast, yet never seeming so. 
 Sweet, phonetic notes, instead of words, 
 
 Within the heart a rapture grow. 
 
 And trills that echo, like morning dews, 
 
 Impearl upon the song-laden air, 
 Flash back the notes in rainbow hues — 
 
 Each note ten thousand jewels there! 
 Have you a spirit that doth respond. 
 
 To Music's calling real and true? 
 
 65 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Learn in nature's school, nor go beyond, 
 'Twas made for all, — but most for you. 
 
 All hail to Spring! Though thou hast been thus, 
 
 In thy return unknown long years. 
 Yet this day is as lovely to us, 
 
 As when first it dawned amid the spheres! 
 The same sun, with all its wealth of light. 
 
 That shone then, shines the same to-day; 
 Or the stars, that now illume the night. 
 
 Have lost or dimmed a single ray! 
 
 Time and wars that crumble thrones to dust, 
 
 And Potter's Fields make of all lands. 
 Change thee not! Thou'rt as thou wert at first. 
 
 When thou flashed radiant from His hands! 
 Thou more than mortal, thou yet dost bring. 
 
 Beside the woodland, household mirth, 
 A reminder of Him, the promised King, 
 
 Whose reign of peace shall bless the earth! 
 
 WINTER'S LESSON 
 
 'T^HOU, gray Winter, piping through the 
 woods! 
 
 Thou fill'st the lowering clouds; 
 All the woodland brooks thou turn'st to floods 
 
 And wrap'st thyself in shrouds. 
 Darting through the wreathy clouds, sunlight 
 
 Gilds, quivers — then 'tis gone. 
 And where Winter's shadow woos the nighty 
 
 There comes so weird a tone. 
 66 
 
POEMS BY A, P. HOPE 
 
 Trembling gleam the rays, like threads of gold, 
 
 Then dark'ning, onward flee, 
 By shadows chased, that come onward roiled, 
 
 Like mists up from the lea. 
 
 Rising among the pines, far away, 
 
 The winds, like ocean roar— 
 Grand, sublime, as waves In their wild play, 
 
 Tiding toward the shore. 
 Down, like squadrons launched against a toe, 
 
 They plunge with thund'ring tread, 
 While, In silence, wait the woods below, 
 
 The banner'd clouds o'erhead. 
 In the valley-Hark! 'TIs Winter s shout 
 
 Among the forest's spears— 
 Clanging arms, hurrahing, now the rout. 
 
 And forest's dropping tears. 
 
 Flowers, like tender nurslings gone astray, 
 
 Fall stricken by his power. 
 That ethereal wraps the world in gray, 
 
 Nor spares the weakest flower. 
 Fauna flee his chilling, scowling face; 
 
 The streams he breathes upon ; 
 Dismal scenes usurp each smiling place; 
 
 He reigns supreme, alone. 
 Meads are sere, and blocked the frequent way, 
 
 And still and cold the stream. 
 That was wont to leap and sing alway. 
 Like music in a dream. 
 
 Heap'd In hollows of the shelt'ring dells. 
 The leaves of autumn lie, 
 67 
 
POEMS BY A, P. HOPE 
 
 Trophies of the blast, that o'er them swells, 
 
 With eldritch moan and cry. 
 Oh, ye dead leaves of the trees o'erhead. 
 
 Like hopes of the past ye seem. 
 Of a memory dear, of a love that's dead, 
 
 A never-forgotten dream! 
 
 All is changed: The morning vs^akes no more 
 
 The earth as to a feast — 
 Morn, that erst bestowed its golden store, 
 
 Has fled the sullen East. 
 All are gone! The vesper hymn and matin praise, 
 
 The sweet and balmy air, 
 Summer's brightness, Autumn's charming haze, 
 
 And skies so clear and fair. 
 Who can take the beauties of the Spring, 
 
 Bright Summer's jocund throng. 
 Autumn's lullabies, the joys they bring. 
 
 And weave them into song? 
 
 Where Aurora, shaking off the night, 
 
 In beauty 'gan the day. 
 Full-orbed radiance, verged with vestal light. 
 
 The clouds hang dull and gray. 
 Hanging dull and gray the murky clouds. 
 
 Morn is but night turned gray. 
 When the plaintive day night westward crowds, 
 
 E'en this will fade away. 
 
 There's a morn to come, no garnish needs. 
 
 That will in time descend. 
 And the curse, from which all change proceeds 
 
 Will have its final end. 
 68 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Lessons on change, God deigns us here, 
 
 Winter, Spring, night, and day, 
 Incorp'real life ev'ryw^here, 
 
 That triumphs o'er decay. 
 Floods and all living whence they came 
 
 By nature's primal laws. 
 Tribute pay, and clouds obey the same, 
 
 Man to the Great First Cause. 
 
 THREE PICTURES 
 
 ^T^HE brown Sierras, rock-ribbed, strong — 
 
 The glory of that Western race! 
 They once beheld, for aye belong 
 
 Our hearts to them, and flowers can trace. 
 Ah, withered flowers, but kept and prest. 
 
 Those guardians of the golden West. 
 
 'Twas there that I some scenes beheld — 
 Aye grand, for there all scenery's grand! 
 
 'Tis there, before the sun's dispelled 
 The mists that fill the spectral land 
 
 Of shadows, yellow clouds unfold, 
 Sun-painted, fleecy webs of gold. 
 
 Thence buoy'd up, they whirl and sport 
 On waves of air, an amber sea. 
 
 On which the crags, like islands, float, 
 Until their flying drapery 
 
 Is etched and crossed with golden bars. 
 And they, — fair truants of the stars. 
 
 69 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Again: The day is almost spent, 
 A soft red sky — the sun goes down — 
 
 The jutting crags a glory tint — 
 
 But — O, those heights' resplendent crown! 
 
 As those who saw their Savior go, 
 
 I've watched those fading peaks of snow. 
 
 One more: The deep profound is broken; 
 
 The nerves electric feel it first; 
 The prowlers know" what these betoken, 
 
 And burrow ere the c^^clone's burst; 
 A warning to the halting throng, 
 
 A wing'd courier flies along! 
 
 Grand, awful, come the dismal clouds, 
 The sheeted lightning's blaze before, 
 
 The winds tear through their murky shrouds- 
 And now a peal! An earthquake's roar! 
 
 Then, black as Sin's predicted doom 
 
 Descends the thick, Cimmerian gloom. 
 
 The elemental strife goes on ; 
 
 Sounds beat their echoes back again; 
 The Besom sweeps clean, — it alone 
 
 Beats 'gainst the rock-ribbed homes in vain ! 
 No wonder that the savage saw 
 
 God in the storm and knelt in awe. 
 
 70 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 IN MEMORY 
 
 Of Mrs. Cora Hill, who died near Grapevine, 
 Tarrant County, Texas, and was buried at home, 
 Harrison County. Her husband was almost crazed 
 by grief, and objected to the singing in the burial 
 service. 
 
 "yOUR lost ones, friends, are resting here, 
 
 And have you now the hearts to sing? 
 Can you restrain affection's tear, 
 
 That sparkles fresh from mem'ry's spring? 
 Friends, mourning friends, be silent now: 
 
 The awe and hush of Death are here. 
 His signet cold is on her brow, 
 
 His dusky trappings round this bier! 
 
 These silent tombs, this open grave. 
 
 This awe-inspiring moment show; 
 And now, my friends, your hearts I crave. 
 
 But not the song that mocks my woe. 
 This casket's polished lid beneath 
 
 In Death's cold pose my dear one lies; 
 It was her wish, that, after death. 
 
 To moulder 'neath her native skies. 
 
 I watched beside her on the way. 
 
 And now I grieve the vigils o'er; 
 'Twas like the drowning, when they say, 
 
 This straw may bear me to the shore. 
 'Twas sweet to cheat my heart like this, 
 
 To make believe she only slept, 
 For grief, my friends, is wild, amiss, 
 
 When reason's throne is feebly kept. 
 
 71 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 This casket's lid I'll now remove, 
 And you may view the placid grace, 
 
 Her parting spirit left to prove 
 
 Its fearless flight to realms of space. 
 
 That tiny curl upon her brow, 
 That's scaped the fold of wavy hair. 
 
 Was truant e'er as truant now. 
 
 And keeps its place so lifelike there. 
 
 Take hold and let this casket down. 
 
 But gently down, between these walls; 
 She chose this spot, and, like a crown, 
 
 These buds will wreathe its sacred halls. 
 A gem more fair ne'er sought thy breast, 
 
 But take, O Earth, thy treasured trust. 
 And with thy jewels let it rest. 
 
 Till spirit takes it from the dust! 
 
 Where'er my wandering steps may stray. 
 For cureless grief will ever roam. 
 
 Beneath this sod this link I lay 
 
 That binds me here and makes my home. 
 
 The oak that's felt the lightning's dart. 
 
 May yet put forth a leaf or so. 
 But, riven, already at its heart 
 
 Its living sap has ceased to flow. 
 
 Now, like that oak, my heart is cleft, 
 While I am tending near my fall, 
 
 Amid the wreck of life that's left. 
 And mem'ry's pang to feel it all. 
 72 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 The stream that has it fountain head 
 
 Amid the snows of mountain top, 
 May yet leave bare its pebbly bed, 
 
 When toppling rocks the fountains stop; 
 The ship may ride the stormy tides, 
 
 And bid defiance to the wave. 
 But take her anchors from her sides, 
 
 And soon she finds a wat'ry grave. 
 
 The blasted tree a scion's left. 
 
 By many ships the flag is flown, 
 The pent-up stream through rent or cleft, 
 
 Adown the mountainside is borne. 
 Though, like the oak, my heart is dead. 
 
 Yet scions none can grace my fall; 
 When 'neath the turf I lay my head, 
 
 In answer to the final call, 
 No lives from me will reach the sea 
 
 Of future years, or backward send, 
 Or point affection's thought to me. 
 
 While nature gives again the life 
 
 To all her wilds, and, as before. 
 They beam with lovely charms, my wife 
 
 Is gone to come again no more! 
 On hill and dale and spreading field 
 
 In royal pride return the flowers. 
 When spring, aglow with dazzling shield. 
 
 Unpeoples all the boreal towers; 
 But worse than winter's snow is this. 
 
 Unless it be some Alpine height, 
 Which, though the sunbeams daily kiss, 
 
 Yet ne'er has known from cold respite. 
 
 73 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 E'en there amid the snow, 'tis said, 
 
 The Alpine flowers bud and bloom, 
 And here, where lies my lovely dead, 
 
 A something points beyond the tomb. 
 Up there, where gleams eternal snow. 
 
 And here, where earthly comfort ends, 
 There, beautiful Alpine flowers blow. 
 
 And here, eternal life begins. 
 
 My nerves, dear friends, are all unstrung; 
 
 Perhaps my mind's so frail to-day. 
 It made the dirge you would have sung 
 
 Seem out of place, too festive, gay. 
 All other griefs you may combine. 
 
 Yet find In woe an ample zone, . 
 But It o'erflows In this one line: 
 
 My wife Is dead — I'm alone. 
 
 DEATH 
 
 T^HE old grim reaper. Death, 
 
 With his sharp scythe. 
 Cuts down the man of health, 
 As just alive. 
 
 He cares for none — nor spares 
 
 The babe just born, 
 Hale youth, nor silvery hairs — 
 
 He reaps with scorn! 
 
 Proud man may raise his head 
 And boast, "I'm strong!" 
 
 Death comes and strikes him dead 
 'Mid mirth and song. 
 
 74 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Yet tottering age may sigh, 
 " My days are cares." 
 
 Death comes and him goes by 
 And oddly spares; 
 
 Then turns with mortal trick 
 
 And backward flies 
 The deadly stroke so quick, 
 
 He falls and dies. 
 
 The mother's heart has bled 
 
 More than her tears 
 Have fallen o'er her dead 
 
 Of tender years. 
 
 And yet, the grim old reaper 
 His scythe keeps swinging, 
 
 Nor heeds the pious weeper, 
 Whose heart he's wringing. 
 
 Can he, this Death so feared, 
 
 His subject be 
 Who died, as all have heard, 
 
 On Calvary! 
 
 O, would that we were brave 
 
 With loving trust. 
 To view unmoved the grave 
 
 And lifeless dust! 
 
 'Twould give us peace of mind 
 
 And quiet hearts, 
 And stop this ceaseless grind 
 
 Of perjured arts. 
 
 75 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 GOD IS LOVE 
 
 /^OULDST rend the veil of future wears, 
 
 Behold the secrets it doth hide, 
 Each pleasure tasselate with cares, 
 
 What heart could all its woes abide? 
 
 Were't placed before us, like a scroll, 
 Inscribed with ev'ry thought and deed 
 
 From youth to age — contained the whole, 
 What punishment 'twould be to read! 
 
 Couldst see from birth sin's growing power, 
 Perchance, remorse might add its train 
 
 To retrospection's lightning hour, 
 And apparitions haunt the brain, — 
 
 'Twould prove the future with its veil. 
 Better subserves the fallen man ; 
 
 For were't exposed it would entail 
 Defeat of mercy's wiser plan. 
 
 He, knowing that the crushing weight 
 Of such a doom's corroding grief 
 
 Would tantalize, like barb'rous hate. 
 Withholding, added hope's relief. 
 
 Hope whispers in our listening ear, 
 " Come unto miC, ye heavy laden," 
 
 And, though we feel Adamic fear. 
 Yet, trusting, do as we are bidden. 
 
 76 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Dependence soothes the hopeful heart, 
 And hope to faith goes firmly on, 
 
 Faith in the full and perfect chart, 
 He built Redemption's plan upon. 
 
 All who have lived some wrongs have done, 
 In thought and speech and wilful deed. 
 
 And did we feel His ire alone, 
 
 Our life would be beyond remede! 
 
 And did we know, before 'twas given. 
 Nor hope to 'scape His chast'ning rod. 
 
 The doom withheld, 'twould darken Heaven- 
 Perspective of a hating God. 
 
 LIFE IS MORE THAN GOLD 
 
 T ONG, golden lances flash on high. 
 
 And cloudy hosts go marching by — 
 This lovely scene, though far, is fair. 
 Fine dust of gold shines in the air, 
 And fringed with gold the trees appear. 
 Clear, airy harps sound sweetly near. 
 The winds blow sweet, the west's aglow, 
 I vaguely feel and vaguely know, 
 I'm thinking of the long ago. 
 
 The day has passed, the hour has gone, 
 And twilight now is softly on. 
 But ling'ring where the sun has set. 
 There's noontide splendor shining yet, 
 
 77 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And richer far than eastern loom, 
 
 E'er wove for Stamboul's bride or groom! 
 
 I turn around, no burnished gold 
 
 Of sunlit hills do I behold — 
 
 The clouds have far to westward rolled. 
 
 The murmuring breeze, the evening's calm, 
 Are to my heated sense like balm, 
 And to my lab'ring, restless breast 
 They bring the peace of years and rest; 
 But all my life — the brightest day. 
 The wealth of years has slipped aw^ay. 
 I'm growing old, I'm growing old. 
 Full late I've learned life's more than gold. 
 Aye, more than mountains full of gold. 
 
 THERE IS HOPE FOR YOU 
 
 'HPIS vanity the mind persuades, 
 
 And makes the false seem true — 
 The future paints without the shades. 
 Which fright the humble view. 
 
 The present bright surroundings seem 
 
 Full of all life's demands — 
 Alas! 'Tis all a flitting dream, 
 
 Like scenes on desert sands. 
 
 Illusions come, we love them so, 
 
 A specious hope deceives, 
 And we, ourselves cheat by a show 
 
 Our fancy idly weaves. 
 
 78 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 We build in haste the " treach'rous stair,' 
 Or trust to " ropes of sand " ; 
 
 Beyond our ken the future's fair, 
 Beyond our sight 'tis grand! 
 
 O, mind deceived by a vain trust, 
 
 O, wand'rer lone and sad, 
 O, spirit bowed e'en in the dust, 
 
 Cheer up, return, be glad! 
 
 This life is good and full of truth, 
 Though falsehood has its day, 
 
 Yet here you may renew your youth, 
 You madly threw away; 
 
 Or, your lost youth may be a vision. 
 
 That you no more shall see; 
 A fallen star, that ne'er has risen 
 
 In Heaven, on land or sea. 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER 
 
 \X^E knew the times of '49, 
 
 When fifty men rushed for each mine, 
 And in their mad, relentless rush. 
 The weaker perished in the crush. 
 And he, unable to maintain 
 His own place there by might and main, 
 With pick and shovel, he used instead 
 The poet brain within his head. 
 And gathered more than grains of gold — 
 Grand, beautiful flowers of the soul! 
 
 79 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Upon the mountain top he stood, 
 Begirt with boiling clouds and storm, 
 Above the range, where grows the wood. 
 Where flashed the lightning red and warm, 
 And with the loudest thunder talked, 
 Amid the hissing lightning walked. 
 And while the storm in fury rolled 
 To him a song it gave and told 
 Of measures strange, unknown before, 
 He sang this song of spirit lore. 
 
 The Mexic Sea he sat beside. 
 Charmed by its roaring, restless tide — 
 Unceasing, mad, relentless, wild — 
 And by its strangeness was beguiled 
 To stay and learn its varied tongue. 
 And to construe the songs it sung 
 In tones and measure of strange time — 
 Ah, strange and weird, like this clime 
 Of swooning flowers and scented trees 
 Of seacows calling o'er the seas. 
 
 He sat beside the laughing streams. 
 Where pours the sun its brightest beams; 
 He heard the songs that they began; 
 He saw their faces as they ran — 
 Their tinkling footsteps down the hills. 
 Came back to him in silv'ry trills; 
 He heard the music of the breeze, 
 On harps Aeolian 'mid the trees; 
 He saw the violets 'mong the reeds, 
 Adrip with dewy, jewelled beads. 
 80 
 
POEMS BY A, P. HOPE 
 
 He saw the lilies bend their heads 
 So stately to their limpid beds — 
 The bright streams lift their smiling lips 
 To reach the queenly finger tips; 
 He saw the reaper, brown and strong, 
 Swing his keen scythe and heard his song. 
 While he cut through the golden grain. 
 That fell like summer's dancing rain; 
 And there, half-hidd'n, and girt with green, 
 The fairest picture of the scene, 
 He saw beside the streamlet clear. 
 The cottage of the mountaineer. 
 
 And there the stream's bright edge beside, 
 A wee, brown baby laughed and shied. 
 He heard, he saw, he tuned his lay. 
 And friends besought him there to stay; 
 Not so: but since he first began 
 He's sung the brotherhood of man! 
 
 ROSS' TEXAS BRIGADE 
 
 We live the days of long ago 
 Because — because — we love them so." * 
 
 np HOUGH buried long ago, they come again, 
 And pass by in one long, pathetic train — 
 Those scenes and ne'er-to-be-forgotten years. 
 That sank our Southland, drank her bitterest tears, 
 
 * Joaquin Miller. 
 
 8i 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 When faith shone like the sun. Then all grew 
 
 dark, 
 As night on ocean to the found'ring bark. 
 
 Though we regret the war, nor days would keep, 
 Yet, we all love the past, its guarded sleep, 
 Its careless rest, its reckless jest, our brave 
 Who moulder now where swept the fi'ry wave 
 Of battle. Yea, we love our honest past. 
 The South, our pride, still battling to the last. 
 
 We can't forget, for there the tides forever flow; 
 We hear the coursers neigh, the bugles blow; 
 We see the long gray columns marching on 
 To die. The glare of camp-fires upward thrown, 
 And eyes look into ours that always met 
 Ours with a friendly look we'll not forget. 
 
 Now take 5^our stand on Chustenalla's * height, 
 And look along the line where raged the fight 
 To Nashville — all along, behold our dead. 
 Few tribute gifts are brought, few tears are shed. 
 But o'er them Heaven drops its dewy tears. 
 And flowers are brought by the returning years. 
 
 Scores of our comrades rest yet where they fell. 
 In byways or on picket post, with nought to tell 
 The story of their fall, or where lie they, 
 In woodlands wild, the green above the gray — 
 Those quick encounters, when brave deeds were 
 
 done. 
 Brave as the deeds of Albion's bravest son. 
 
 * Also spelled " Chustenahlah " in V. M. Rose's 
 " Ross' Texas Brigade." 
 
 82 
 
POEM S BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And some we laid to rest on fields renowned, 
 While palely flashed the dubious lanterns round; 
 And, o'er some, Azriel's wings drooped cold and 
 
 low, 
 Where waved the yellow badge of helpless woe; 
 
 And some rest near, where some kind cottage 
 
 stands, 
 Whose woodland graves were dug by strangers' 
 
 hands. 
 'Twas oft your lot to guard the rear or front. 
 To bear the dang'rous weight — the battle's brunt— 
 We'll not say how — let boastful tongues be still— 
 You tried as soldiers who their stations fill; 
 And, when the army slept, your picket's shot 
 Upon the height, bespoke your trusted lot. 
 
 From Oak Hills' woody ridge, when rose the sun, 
 'Mid clouds, as signal to the foeman's gun, 
 To your last effort, when despair came down. 
 As, w^hen a pestilence infests a town, 
 You linked your name to warrior deeds for aye, 
 To lift the hearts of those who wore the gray. 
 
 Now, Comrades, see ! Our homes we've built again, 
 And thrift with sweet content's on hill and plain, 
 While from our land our welcome surplus pours, 
 To meet the stretched-out hands of other shores. 
 On ev'ry side the Old — New — South behold — 
 The splendor of the New, the glory of the Old! 
 
 83 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 We've entered an auspicious life and new, 
 And forward points our way, our efforts too. 
 Nor dims the prospect with our failing sight, 
 But seems to lead to some exalted height, 
 Of opulence, influence, and increase 
 Of all that make a people's joy and peace. 
 
 But ah, we can't forget, we of the Old! 
 'Tis but a vision now, but still we hold 
 It sacred, as a picture of the dead — 
 A host of dead and hopes forever fled ! 
 That crimson river and the setting sun! 
 We see it back of all the wealth that's won. 
 
 Ere long, tattoo will call to final rest — 
 Tattoo! How softly 'long the wooded crest, 
 And in the vale its notes hath wrought the air, 
 Till't waked a hundred clear-toned bugles there! 
 And we, ling'ring relics of our band. 
 Shall tent along the streams of th' other land ! 
 
 And reveille, which cheerily came on, 
 
 As 'twere the watchman of the regal dawn, 
 
 And called us up, while it was ringing shrill. 
 
 To answer to our names, our ranks to fill. 
 
 It, too, will sound again and on us fall, 
 
 O, sweetly may it, at the Great RoUcall. 
 
 THE RING 
 
 TX^ILL you accept from me this ring? 
 
 You, best of friends that live. 
 Should have gifts that a gallant king 
 Unto his queen would give. 
 
 84 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 It Is a gift too poor your hand 
 
 So faithful to adorn, 
 And priceless gems must ever stand 
 
 But debtors to your own. 
 
 If it but bring into your mind, 
 
 And serve no other part, 
 Some thought of me that you will find 
 
 Yet precious to your heart, 
 
 Then kings may give, and queens may live, 
 
 Rejoice in royal state, 
 But I shall be more blest than he 
 
 Who gives to queenly mate. 
 
 For what are gems and what is gold, 
 
 That they must off'rings be? 
 They are the coin where love is sold, 
 
 But not where love is free. 
 
 A LAST WOOING 
 
 17 OR years I've suffered and endured 
 
 The coldness of your way; 
 But hope, though vain, has yet allured 
 On to a brighter day. 
 
 By day, by night, aye, when I slept, 
 I dreamed of nought but you; 
 
 And nightlong vigil kept 
 Beneath the starry blue. 
 
 85 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Through all these years, I've only thought 
 
 To gain your love at last; 
 A hungry love within my heart, 
 
 Has, waiting, kept its fast. 
 
 But driven now by my despair, 
 
 I brave the sting of Fate! 
 Love has its pride and cannot bear 
 
 To grovel at your feet. 
 
 But proudly, for Love's own sweet sake, 
 
 I tell't again, I love you. 
 As truly as the stars that make 
 
 The shining Heavens above you. 
 
 AN IDYL 
 
 "]V4'Y mind goes back, I would not stop it. 
 
 With thought of her, I would not drop it. 
 And she appears so real, so plain, 
 I almost hear her voice again. 
 Almost see her lithe form once more. 
 So graceful, strong, bend to the oar — 
 Yea, see her as in that sweet hour. 
 With all a maiden's matchless dower! 
 Wert all the world but mine to give. 
 To ransom her that she might live — 
 Wert that my gift, I'd give it all, 
 For her sweet sake and think it small! 
 
 It 'minds me on the Lake I went. 
 The waters sparkling, oars a-glint, 
 86 
 
POEMS BY A, P. HOPE 
 
 The prow went fast and flung the spray 
 
 In mfsty drops, like pearls away, 
 
 And by my own dear lassie's side — 
 
 How bright her eyes! How leaped the tide! 
 
 The w^inds caressed the flow'ring trees, 
 
 And stole the nectar from the bees; 
 
 The Lake was like a looking glass 
 
 And held us there as we did pass ; 
 
 The Heav'n above was mirrored clear, 
 
 I saw not Heav'n, for she was there! 
 
 And oft we went, as weary, slow, 
 Soft, gliding shadows we would go, 
 Then, hand in hand, we would not speak. 
 The witching spell we would not break. 
 We looked for sprites and heard them talk. 
 Saw fairies on the wavelets walk; 
 We saw small harps of gold and silver, 
 Hung on the bushes, shake and quiver, 
 And all their beauty passes naming. 
 Like stars of night celestial flaming. 
 
 We heard sweet music in the air, 
 
 The hum of bees was everywhere; 
 
 From ev'ry tree, aspiring bush. 
 
 Along the grass and underbrush. 
 
 Small chords were stretched and glistening. 
 
 Like stars of night celestial flaming. 
 
 Each chord a hair-like silver string; 
 
 And woven strong and woven fair, 
 
 'Tween trees and bushes in the air, 
 
 Aeolus hung his harps of gold, 
 
 O'er which the wind-blown shadows rolled, 
 
 87 
 
POEMS BY A, P. HOPE 
 
 As by a wand some goddess swayed 
 This way and that for light and shade; 
 And ev'ry tiny blade of grass 
 Held fair its dewy magic glass. 
 
 'Twas like the steam of incense borne 
 From drooping buds and flowers blown. 
 Ten thousand notes, like silver bells, 
 Were swept in from the dewy dells, 
 Then back they came by Zephyr borne. 
 The playful Zephyr of the morn. 
 And their small notes, so bright and clear, 
 Were doubly so, for she was there! 
 
 The chestnut's brown was in her hair, 
 
 The gold of sunset glinted there; 
 
 Her eyes were of that changeful hue, 
 
 When blue is gray and gray is blue; 
 
 Her teeth were pearls in corals set. 
 
 Two pearly rows as ever met; 
 
 The rose's heart was on her lips, 
 
 The pink of shells her finger tipsj 
 
 Her thin small hands, though all so brown, 
 
 Were clean and pure as Seraph's own. 
 
 And she could sing as any bird 
 That e'er the heart of poet stirred , 
 It was a sweet impassioned voice 
 And cadenced like the strain 
 Of harps with silver strings and poised 
 To catch the wind's refrain. 
 Her form was like a bird's in spring, 
 When ev'ry feather's lustering, 
 88 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 So neat and strong, so trim and free, 
 She ran or rowed 'long side of me. 
 
 And would you like her name to know? 
 You need now to the graveyard go. 
 There you'll find it carved on a stone 
 Above her grave, as yet alone. 
 
 MY SWEETHEART 
 
 "V4^Y Love is as of a field of lilies, 
 
 Empearled with summer dew. 
 Like roses in Olympian valleys, 
 Where gods their nectar brew. 
 
 O, she is fairest of the fair, 
 The pinks for her do blush, 
 
 And, when she sings, the birds forbear 
 Their songs in every bush. 
 
 The paths are smoothly made that she 
 May wander in the woods. 
 
 And brooklets sing more merrily, 
 To charm their solitudes. 
 
 The night is listless, languid, till 
 
 She walks the stars to view. 
 Then, from the marsh, the whip-poor-will 
 
 Pours forth its song anew. 
 
 89 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And leans Its breast upon a thorn,* 
 
 To make its plaint more sad, 
 That she may feel that love forlorn 
 
 Is never truly glad. 
 
 My fondest dreams have been to w^in her. 
 
 But, Oh ! 'Tw^as all in vain ; 
 She answered, pity's self, more tender 
 
 Than Philomela's strain. 
 
 I'd oft'n wished for a mountain home 
 
 And streams as clear as light; 
 For her with me to dwell alone 
 
 And roam the valleys bright. 
 
 One eve as she and I were walking — 
 'Twas May, the sweetest of the year — 
 
 The birds and flowers helped on my talking 
 With incense, song and cheer. 
 
 She was so timid, distant, shy, 
 She sw^eetly spoke me, '' Nay " ; 
 
 But, in her azure beaming eye, 
 I thought she answered, " Yea." 
 
 Alas! I had no magic wand, 
 
 Nor yet could I inspire 
 The love responsive to the hand 
 
 That turned Apollo's lyre! 
 
 * From an old saying. 
 90 
 
POEMS BY A. P, HOPE 
 
 When I avowed, love's matchless bliss 
 My heart with transport thrilled — 
 
 Then, quickly stole the tempting kiss, 
 I knew she never willed. 
 
 She crimsoned; and bright, pearly tears 
 
 Stood in her bashful eyes — 
 Those sweet eyes, azure blue and dear's 
 
 The stars that light the skies! 
 
 I kissed her on her blushing cheek 
 And brushed away the tears — 
 
 O, venturous Love! No tongue can speak 
 Your bold, audacious fears! 
 
 As well to blame the bee that hies 
 
 It to the flowery plain. 
 And nature's law that still applies, 
 
 Though all the world complain, 
 
 As those who feel the mad impulse 
 Of Love's strong, wayward will, 
 
 And through each vein and beating pulse, 
 His wild, ecstatic thrill. 
 
 My head inclined again to hers. 
 
 And love the stronger grew; 
 I drank her breath, and oh, those tears — 
 
 Like roses sprent with dew! 
 
 Dost blame the humming-bird that sips 
 The flower, because 'tis fair? 
 
 Ah, blame me not — her rosebud lips 
 Were hearted cherries there. 
 
 91 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 As from a wound she shrank away, 
 
 As graceful as a fawn, 
 While in her eyes emotions play, 
 
 As light at golden dawn. 
 
 The crimson flushes came and went, 
 
 Like light upon a river 
 When wavelets play, and, almost spent, 
 
 They in the sunbeams quiver. 
 
 Minerva's sternness bent her brow, 
 
 With Juno's pride it flamed. 
 She said with scorn, '' Sir, leave me now! 
 
 You're gentleman misnamed ! " 
 
 In vain by ev'ry means I tried 
 
 To mend my fault in this; 
 To ev'ry word she but replied, 
 
 " Begone! " with scornful hiss. 
 
 I told her she was all alone. 
 That night was drawing near, 
 
 And that, below the forest's zone. 
 Wild beasts were prowling there. 
 
 Like arrows shot from bows full bent, 
 
 Her anger pierced my heart, 
 And, like a stream, gath'ring, pent. 
 
 It broke the fence of art. 
 
 With ling'ring steps, I turned away. 
 
 My life had lost its all, 
 And she, the angel guard to slay, 
 
 Or keep love's maiden wall. 
 92 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 I felt my heart with grief oppressed, 
 
 Most wretched in my woe; 
 E'en hope was dead within my breast, 
 
 No matter where I'd go. 
 
 She said, " The moon is rising up 
 
 Above the gloomy west. 
 And, streaming from her silv'ry cup. 
 
 Her beams the woods invest." 
 
 With hope revived, I raised my head 
 And felt love's bounding tide, 
 
 For, if she meant the east instead, 
 Love said the western side. 
 
 And, when I saw her blushing face, 
 Where pale the moonlight shone, 
 
 I clasped her in love's strong embrace, 
 "My own, at last, my own! " 
 
 Let Luna fair rise east or west, 
 
 'Tis now all one to me, 
 I'll hail her round, bright, gleaming crest, 
 
 With joy where'er she be. 
 
 Our home is on the mountain side, 
 
 A valley smiles below, 
 A laughing stream's e'er restless tide 
 
 Sings of " the long ago." 
 
 The roses bloom around our door. 
 There glints the pearling stream; 
 
 My wife's more lovely than before, — 
 My vision was no dream. 
 93 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Yet common sorrows have been ours, 
 And, like where others trod. 
 
 Behind us, thorns amid the flowers, 
 Before us, love beneath the sod. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE 
 
 T LAY beside my lone camp fire, 
 "*■ When something did my soul inspire. 
 A spirit came and by me stood — 
 The haunting spirit of this old wood. 
 A mad March wind blew from the east 
 And roared as any hungry beast. 
 For miles along the dinted shore, 
 The waves rolled in with sullen roar. 
 I knew full well, this clearing gale 
 Swept hard against both oar and sail; 
 I knew, alas, perhaps as well, 
 'Twould leave some dismal tale to tell! 
 
 Then, far across, 'round Dead Man's Bend, 
 I heard the strife 'tween waves and wind; 
 And plainer came the distant booming 
 Of whitecaps bursting, onward coming. 
 My boat rocked hard and strained her chain 
 As mad to be on th' waves again. 
 Ah, woe to him, abroad this night. 
 Tempest driven, no beacon light! 
 His friends may light the headland's fire, 
 And vainly pile the fagots higher! 
 So dense the darkness and the spray, 
 No help can save until the day; 
 
 94 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And happy all whose watchful eyes 
 First catch the light of clearing skies! 
 The mists began to break and lift, 
 The waves were spent, and high the swift 
 Clouds flew away ; and then a star 
 Shone large and bright o'er Catfish Bar. 
 Yet, far across, around the Bows, 
 The winds and waves still fought as foes. 
 But, like a battle's slack'ning fire, 
 The waves and wind 'gan to retire, 
 And fainter grew the waning strife, 
 Till 't moaned away its gasping life. 
 
 The sky was clear again ; the night, 
 Now bright with stars, was full of light. 
 The winds as happy children played. 
 When they're on festal day arrayed. 
 The wakeful birds heard others pass 
 From every island 'mong the grass, 
 And called in chorus all together. 
 Each gang in passing to the other. 
 From the dark shadows of a tree, 
 A big-eyed owl laughed gleefully. 
 And flew so near, its eyes a-spark — 
 A swish of wings into the dark! 
 
 A black cloud's spirit passing by 
 Took up his wild, unearthly cry. 
 From the recesses of the wood, 
 Beasts rav'ned madly o'er their food. 
 High up and seeming 'mid the things 
 Of spirit life, the beat of wings 
 95 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Throbbed on the air. I just could hear, 
 The sound waves dying on my ear; 
 But, somewhere, 'mid the starry light. 
 Droves of wild geese called in their flight. 
 Their honk, honk, honk, fell softly through 
 The air, as falls the dropping dew. 
 
 The waves crooned low their lulling song, 
 The winds breathed sweet and passed along; 
 The stars among the tree-tops dim. 
 In mists of silver seemed to swim; 
 And on the lair-like, darksome bush. 
 There came a gentle, soothing hush. 
 The angels passed and placed a crown 
 On ev'rything, as sleep came down. 
 
 The night was passed in dreamless sleep; 
 
 The morning star adorned the steep 
 
 Of Potter's Point ; and in its bed 
 
 Of fleecy vapors, blushing red, 
 
 A cloud reposed. Now, on the Lake's 
 
 Protean breast, the morning breaks ; 
 
 And, far away, I see the flash, 
 
 Like naked swords, where billows clash! 
 
 The sun brimmed o'er the cypress brake, 
 
 And poured its light upon the Lake. 
 
 Aeolus harped to the minstrel winds. 
 Fleet wand'rers from their magic dens, 
 Divinely sweet, to dance and play. 
 Where Phoebus led his court that day. 
 In golden sandals flew their feet. 
 As light their speed, but he more fleet, 
 96 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 As God of Light, led far ashore 
 And walked the hills like Midas o'er. 
 The billows mad, with outstretched hands, 
 Fell prone upon these crystal sands. 
 
 The long winged winds swept far away, 
 
 And shook the forest, where th' array 
 
 Of Phoebus shone, until the crown 
 
 Of ev'ry tree bent lowly down, 
 
 And offered up its golden store, 
 
 For all the wrecks that strewed the shore. 
 
 The wavelets knelt, as to adore 
 
 And say their Ave Maries o'er 
 
 In whispers low and count their beads 
 
 Among the grass and piping reeds; 
 
 And singing high and grand and slow, 
 
 The organ-toned winds come and go! 
 
 An eagle poised on level wings, 
 Almost directly overhead, 
 And buzzards, in concentric rings. 
 Suggested something near by dead. 
 Its pinions curved, the eagle rushed 
 Down through the air and perched upon 
 A drift of logs and tangled brush. 
 The waves and winds had there upthrown. 
 The buzzards circled round and round, 
 And nearer came, as is their way, 
 Until they light, as sure they've found 
 Their rotting prize, far-scented prey. 
 
 I went straightway to see this place. 
 An awful thought formed in my mind, 
 
 97 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And there I saw a human face 
 
 Half hidden by sand and foulest slime — 
 
 The broken gunnels of a boat, 
 
 And him half hidd'n in slime and sand, 
 
 Against my mind reflection smote; 
 
 " The sequel of the storm's at hand ! " 
 
 I found near by a board to use, 
 
 And scooped the dirt, as well's I could. 
 
 And heaped it o'er him and the ooze 
 
 And drift of tangled weeds and wood. 
 
 I covered up this poor unknown 
 
 From all these birds and beasts of prey, 
 
 And there, until the Easter morn 
 
 He'll rest as well as coffined clay. 
 
 THE HEIGHTS OF MARION 
 
 " Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 This is my oivn, my native land! " * 
 
 npO Marion, proud Marion If 
 
 Those hills just o'er the border, 
 Which first and last the sun shines on, 
 And royal's aye their color! 
 
 'Tween Caddo's dark and winding stream 
 
 And the Arkansas line. 
 No height so great as thy supreme. 
 
 No softness like to thine! 
 
 * Italics mine. 
 
 t The Heights of Marion are just across Caddo Lake in 
 Marion County, Texas. 
 
 98 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 Thy lifted tops, proud Marion, 
 
 In beauty veiled before. 
 Dost dominate from Harrison * 
 
 To Louisiana's shore! 
 
 The sky above their pillow is, 
 
 Around them makes repose. 
 And down the autumn draperies 
 
 Of purple them enclose. 
 
 Along the Lake, from east to west, 
 
 They hem the channel there, 
 And lift above each stalwart crest 
 
 To cloudy realms of air. 
 
 They point the way from far and near, 
 
 Their tops against the dome, 
 That wa5rworn boatmen still may steer 
 
 For life, — to wife and home.f 
 
 From Zenith high to zone below 
 
 The sky looks like a sea — 
 Its sweep of power, its even flow, 
 
 Its still, deep mystery! 
 
 The wide expanse of peaceful blue. 
 
 Inclining to the line 
 Of hills, is that evasive hue, 
 
 No language can define. 
 
 * Harrison County, Texas. 
 
 t There are many fishermen on the Lake, and they are 
 often caught in the darkness of cloudy, misty days and 
 nights and sometimes in stormy weather. 
 
 99 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 The hills and sky together blend, 
 Though through the gaps we see 
 
 The azure, stretching without end — 
 A vast eternity! 
 
 The ideal of infinite peace, 
 
 Unbounded by the sense, 
 Beyond our sight, O, what increase 
 
 Of landscape, sky, are thence! 
 
 O, Sky, so sea-like blue, we love! 
 O, Lake, of sunny beams! 
 
 O, sun-crowned Heights! O, clouds above- 
 Argosies of our dreams! 
 
 A multitude of pictures rise 
 
 To fancy, roving free. 
 And cognate to the lost emprise 
 
 Of days of Chivalry. 
 
 Old castles rear their rugged shapes — 
 Bright banners wave — high towers — 
 
 Strong walls — and ivy richly drapes 
 Some sweetly lonesome bowers. 
 
 In the dim twilight of the past. 
 
 Across the centuries, 
 I hear the long, loud clarion blast — 
 
 See armored cohorts rise. 
 
 The gloaming vistas of the years 
 
 In bright refulgence run. 
 And time in splendor disappears 
 
 As vapors flee the sun. 
 
 100 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 The present and the past unite — 
 
 The present fades away — 
 Castles, banners, towers, and heights, 
 
 Are realized to-day. 
 
 There's hardly now a vestige left, 
 
 A spot that once was clear, 
 A grave scarce known, a little cleft, 
 
 O'ergrown by brambles there. 
 
 The years have come, the years have gone, 
 
 Since that traditional crime. 
 But yonder point, where it was done. 
 
 Perpetuates the time. 
 
 Behold! An open, pond'rous gate, 
 
 Its posts of solid stone * 
 Through which the clouds in splendid state. 
 
 Sail out to lands unknown. 
 
 Sail forth but not before they pause, 
 
 Where these old castles rise, 
 And tribute pay that common laws 
 
 Demand on merchandise. 
 
 And this is rich! You should behold 
 
 The splendid things they pay-^ 
 All bright with pearls and rich with gold, 
 
 Before they sail away. 
 
 * A cleft in these high hills through which the clouds 
 seem to sail like ships. 
 
 lOI 
 
POEMS BY A. P. HOPE 
 
 And their full sails! The Cydnue never 
 
 Beheld a scene like this — 
 All sparkling opals, and aquiver 
 
 With gold and amethyst! 
 
 Their streamers from each burnished mast 
 Flash back and forth like bars 
 
 Of silver in the upward vast 
 And mistiness of stars; 
 
 And, weaving full against the sun 
 
 Their banners to and fro, 
 Like meteors gleam — the blue vi^aves run, 
 
 As out to sea they go. 
 
 They're outward bound — behold them now, 
 
 As they recede from view; — 
 O'er each near level gleaming prow, 
 
 Flow gently waves of blue — 
 
 O'er waves of blue, till twinkling lights 
 
 They shine, but sailing on 
 They cross the verge, and — sky and heights. 
 
 The Heights of Marion! 
 
 Finis 
 
 102 
 
DFC 1g tC5r)9 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
 DEC 18 1909 r 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 005 426 994 8 t^