UNDER WESTERN SKIES POEMS PS 3539 .E16 U5 1899 Copy 1 ERANK aPLETON TCCK UNDER WESTERN SKIES UNDER WESTERN SKIES POEMS BY V FRANK CARLETON TECK NEW WHATCOM, WASHINGTON BLADE PUBLISHING CO. 1S99 Copyright, 1899, By Frank C. Teck. T.V/0 COPIES RECEIVED, ,\ /? •^- r} r- /f /^Kg.!?% SECOND COPY, ^pv B_ f\ f^^ Cy\ Ok FVe55 of Cald'well and Calveri MOONLIGHT Like a great gull with silver wings Stretched, quivering, o'er the sea, The moon her glistening plumage brings. And hovers silently. DAY The silver spears of Morning, pointing high Up from the East, deploy against the Night, And as we look, aflame with pearly light, The snowclad sentinels of ages vie With the effulgent glories of the sky In shifting splendors — then the ravished sight Beholds \he God of Day in mystic might Rise regally above the mists — a sigh Of fog-veils lifting — then the thrilling sweep Of gladsome voices freights the bracing air With Joy, — till Sunset, when with reddened spear The weary Chieftain o'er the Western deep, In livid rage, retreats, the while a flare Of scarlet volleys taunts the hosts a-rear! NIGHT Now on the field the starry hordes appear And sow the glooming vault with crystal sprays, Far diamond treasures hung belike in praise Of some fair astral goddess drawing near. High in the opal north, as if in fear. The polar sentinel's pale face displays The signal of the night, and all ablaze With brilliant dyes the Evening Star stands clear. And now a beryl blush o'erspreads the East, A cheering glow adorns the twinkling crowds, The myriad eyes seem symbols of Delight — Like some fair queen parading to the feast, Slow gliding up among the jeweled clouds. Triumphant rides the Mistress of the Night! A CATHEDRAL OF THE AGES My skiflf is pillowed on a sunless sea In a lone hollow of the emerald shore, Far from the town, far from the ceasless roar And fevered hum of trade and industrj". The wild, majestic Ba}' of Myster}-, Rock-walled, fir-pillared shrine of eerie lore, Mute witness of the ages evermore — Sublime reminder of what used to be ! I feel my view of Time grow wondrous wide: I see the world of old, and, overawed, note the magic of the swelling tide. Instinct with pow'r transcending human laud — All while wind-heralds through the forests ride And fill the solitudes with songs of God ! CHARITY I dreamt I died last night and that no rest Came to my soul : The angel Memory laid His burning palm upon my brow ; a shade Upset Temptation's vitriol on my breast — Whereat Mephisto grinned and called me blest \ A god of Gossip told how I had strayed From lovely lawns where Virtue's children played, And notes of jeer and scorn rang East and West. My tortured soul grew sick with anguish — then, As if some heavenly host had cleared the sky, An angel chorus made the Impians cease, And all the shades, save Memory, vanished when God's Charity sang a tender lullaby And bade my weary spirit rest in peace. THE BLUEJAY Deep iu the roomy wild of noble trees And waxdng dogwood and syringa blooms, There is a nook walled in by dreamy glooms And regal fern, and hung with luxuries Of honeysuckle, fondled by the breeze That robs the tall, sweet-breath spiraea plumes Upon its murmuring voyage from the tombs — The cooling bosom of the tragic seas. Ivist ! Hear that weird voice strike the solemn hill And pierce the sullen forest with its shrill, Exultant melody ! — the cedar stirs ! — A bold bird, mockish, through the stillness whirrs, And poised on limb above a babbling rill. Laughs loud — the impish soldier of the firs ! EVENING Long, lurid lines of crimson trace the sky And brighten tow'rd the glor5'-visaged West ; The waning of the glow upon the crest Of yonder hill entreats the weary sigh: "Another day is going — Night is nigh." The sun dips in the Ocean's shimmering breast And smiles a warm farewell as if he guessed, Alas! it were for us fore'er "Goodbye !" — Light falls the dew; the fog of fleecy gold Droops, gracefully, to kiss the languid bay, — Then swells and weaves its eerie fingers o'er The trees, the flowers — all it may enfold ; The air breathes echoes of the dying day. And Evening trills the siren songs of yore. THE WATCHERS SLEPT The guardsmen slumbered while the fight was on — Their thousands five and thirty reckoned not Their idle pow'r, nor how their comrades fought, Outnumbered, till the sorry day was done, And all surrendered with the setting sun. They slept! — as if the trumpet tones had brought No ringing call to arms — as if they sought Defense no more but feared the awful gun ! How the trained legions of the foemen swept Like tidal waves along the listless shore. Scaled the high wall and, ere the day was o'er, Full-plumed to glory and the ramparts leapt ! — And — oh ! the sting of shame forevermore ! — 'T were never done but that our soldiers slept ! WHEN APRIL COMES When April comes, the hollow sky Grows wide, and radiant, and high. As if the theater of man Were set to show some nobler plan Of Nature's variant mystery ; — As if the audience, bye-and-bye, Should hear some holier minstrelsy — Some higher art of God should scan- When April comes. The snow-mist's dream-inspiring sigh Seems like some far-off prophet-cry Above the siren pipes of Pan — A ghost of Winter's broken ban, Upon the ambient air to die — When April comes. QUO VADIS As one begloonied and lost far out a-sea, O life, I grope in thine old mystery ! As some poor star, foredoomed, falls endlessly, O death, must I too lose myself in thee? MY VALENTINE My Valentine is sweet and fair, As merry as the wimpling air, And long I 've loved and longed to see Again her wonted smile for me Beneath her brown, wild wavy hair. She'd toss a kiss from Cupid's lair, And if to pay the debt I 'd dare, She 'd coyly cry, "You cannot be My Valentine!" Ah, may she never know a care. But joyous music be her share, Ungloomed with dirge or threnody — A girl so gentle, blithe and free, To know her is a privilege rare — My Valentine ! THE RIVER The clouds lay low in the heavens And the dim, weird night came on, And the cold, pulsive river was sullen With a ghost of the light long gone. And the trees sighed gruesome dirges, And the waves bore grimy foam, — But the star-eyes mellowed the river, The turbulent river at home. The bats flapped drowsily o'er me In the air that was thick and chill, And the owls made dulcet music. And all save these were still. And, though in these shadows of Nature No song birds sought to roam. The stars shone bright in the river. The ruminant river at home. And so in the dismal darkness The rivers of hearts e'er flow : THE RIVER Some foaming with worldly poison, The lowliest of the low ; Some deep in crime's dark whirlpool. Or rude as the current's wrath ; Some gliding o'er new-found courses, Some holding the sure old path ; And, though the grim trees murmur The ruinous, rumored tale, And the wise owl seem to jeer him And the bat the searcher rail, — When the passion-clouds have scurried Away from the mystic Whole The stars illumine the river That pictures the human soul. THE AFTERMATH *'Ha ha !— what fools !" the raven said, Tilting his glossy, sheeny head, Rolling his roguish, roving eye Over the field from sky to sky Strewn with the carnage drear and dread ; Laughed at the wounded, stained so red. Laughed as he flapped from dead to dead— "Men are such gifted fools, say I ! — Ha ha !— what fools ! "Passion unchained and blood is shed : Desire unhaltered maketh its bed Out where the night-winds sob and sigh. Out where the warriors useless die — And I flap on from dead to dead — Ha ha !— what fools I >) QUIIvSHANE (Name of an Indian chief; Indian name of Mount Baker.) Far in the dim days of the past, Beside the fir-fringed sunset seas, There dwelt a storied tribal host Of brown-browed aborigines. Close by the yielding, shell-strewn shore Their barken habitations stood, And in the forest waste around Reposed a noble solitude. They knew no world beyond the hem That girt the shore — the fronded trees That sentineled and sheltered graves Of ancient aborigines. Their bread the pregnant ocean brought, Their feast grew in the tide-lapped sands ; The treasure-laden, wooded shore Supplied their simple arts' demands. QUILSHANE Full-charged with soothing kisses came The soft winds of the Japanese, And warmed this garden of the gods For sunset aborigines, — For seldom in this laughing clime The rime of winter's wrath appeared, And strangely on the vision gleamed The white crowns of the mountains weird. Their chief, a brown god of the braves, Was loved and feared — the mystic seas Were deemed the children of his whims By lowlier aborigines — And so, upon the wave of Fame, The name of Quilshane, the tyee Lay pillowed, like a child of Fate, A shibboleth of Destiny. Lo ! on the snow wall of the East The lights of stranger camps appear ! And rings above the sob of tides The voice of the bold pioneer. Anon the holy men of God The white hearts of the red men won, And tought the brotherhood of man, And smoothed the white tide coming on. QUILSHANE The silent moiiarchs of the wood Bowed to the arms of other lands ; The mirror-sea in reflex told How revolutionary hands Smoothed the rough brow of savagery, Like magic made the rude sublime And waked the fairest flower of all That cheer the corridors of Time. O'er Tyee Quilshane's favored shore The voice of young Ambition rang, And from the ashes of the wild Strange miracles of man upsprang. Like giants of some spirit realm The engines of the white man sped Within the royal parks of him Whose name marks eras dim and dead. So, in this brimming dip of Time, Beside the opal Puget Sea, Fair cities stud the noble realm Where reigned the aborigine ; Up from the new scene, as of old. The sky-kissed, jeweled mountains rear. And tireless, restless, on and on, Push Progress and the Pioneer. THE PHILOSOPHY OF SOLITUDE THE FOREST I dreamed beneath a canopy of fir, Beneath a godly bower — a mesh of green, Whose mystic murmuring and mellow sheen Engulfed the trilling of the birds. The whir Of feathery forms upon the hazy blur Of dreamy quiet spirited the mein Of Fancy's airy blendings in the scene — The dear, remembered child-ideals that were ! A breeze sighed solace to my troubled soul And whispered through the wilderness of wood. Alone ! away from fellows of the whole Grief-laden, striving world, the drunken mood, Untrammeled, gained the self-consuming goal. And knew the luxury of Solitude. THE PRAIRIE I stood amid an endless wold of grass, Amid the prairie's undulating weave, And near and far toward the shimmering heave Of mirage in the distances — alas ! The distances unbroken through the glass, Unstudded by a soul to know, to leave !— The billowy seas of odorous grasses grieve On mounding curves and laugh in the morass ; And o'er and o'er the restless, wandering air Breathes scurrying dapples on the pliant plain ; And dreamily and languidly the glare And aweing glamour of the verdured main In soughing whispers seems to say : "How fair These masterpieces of unlovely rain !" WHAT IS THE NEWS Joseph Medill, editor of the Chicago Tribune, died at San Antonio, Texas, March i6, 1899. It is said his last words were : "What is the news?" "What is the news?" — he turned his head And, waiting, innocent of dread, Looked forward to the mystic way Whereon no eye of living clay Hath gazed since word of man was said ; — Aye, at the gateway of the dead, Between the unread and the read. He breathes the query of the day : "What is the news?" O Soul, here nobly tenanted. From questioner to witness fled. Tell us the gloried news that may Else be denied a world for aye — Tell us, O Soul, whence thou hast sped "What is the news ?" AvS IT MAY BE The clouds have lifted from the recent row ; The wounds are open that should have been healed ; Laid low, but handy, gleams the frowning shield, And battle-pallor marks the sweating brow : Alone to Fate the vanquished, muttering, bow — Resign the arms that they were wont to wield, And, sullenly returning to the field, Rejoin to mock defeat that marks them now. A smold'ring rage upheaves anon the strong, Ungovernable hosts ; the thick turmoil Grows on, and on ! misguided rags rebel ; A devasting war of wrong 'gainst wrong Floods the grim land and taints the virgin soil— And Progress drives the trained steeds of Hell ! COMMUNION I fled from a throne of sorrow, Where Hope lay white and still, For I dreaded the grim, long morrow That stretched over Life's high hill. It was night, and coldly above me. Far distant, the starry dome Spoke only of those who love me In the veiled and unknown home. I paused beside the ocean, For my heart was crushed with care. And I felt the wide vault of emotion Thrilled through with the kinship there. For the great waves seemed to mutter The grief I could not speak, And the voice of the breeze to utter My prayer as it kisvsed my cheek. COMMUNION I seemed to feel infinite sorrows Of millions who watched ashore And waited and wept for tomorrows To bring home their Hopes once more. And the thought of their grief— ah, madness !- That sobbed in the waves' long roll Filled my heart with a tender sadness, For the sea had touched my soul. Oh mourner, go thou to the ocean — There is peace in its lonely roar, For it sings the deep dirge of devotion, Of grief that was borne before. Its voice, like the sayings of sages, The measure of time hath fled. And its song is a child of the ages— A soul-song from the dead. I A WAR-HERO There was magic in his presence as he dashed upon the field Bringing promise to his comrades that the enemy must yield. When his charger bore him forward to the serried ranks of foes There was wild hurrah of triumph and the cloud of carnage rose — As the shock of battle sounded, as the ruinous rush began, As the horsemen broke the columns and the beaten foeman ran. — But what of the heroes falling In the ranks of the fell defeat? — And what of bereaved ones calling For the "missing" of the retreat? There was bay upon his forehead as he rode to reap his fame; There were flowers in his pathway, nations cheered his noble name ; A WAR HERO Poets sang his praises grandly, courtiers wined and dined him well ; Wreaths paraded by sweet children in the hero's presence fell; Art, bribed from its mission, sought to fathom his desire And the nation's altar offered all to which he deigned aspire. — But what of the charger, battered ? Peace gave him ingratitude rare ! And what of the veteran, tattered ? He wears a white crown of care. THE UTOPIAN PIONEER Oh, give me the throb of solitude And the kind, S3mipathic tear ; And the breath and the sigh of the kinship mood Of the Utopian pioneer ! Oh, give me a heart that is kind and true. And a hand that is free from wrong, And a soul that mourns with a conscious rue For the ills of the great, sad throng. — Oh lift me out of the cynical vale Where the stern realities war, And place me up where the evils pale In the lights of the goods that are ! Oh, take me out of the selfish rut — From the glums' and the gluttons' gloom — And raise me up where the heart is shut FVom the feel of the golden plume : There is never a kind word gone astray And never a smile's light lost ; There is ever a joy in the mildest way. And a sting from the rude, rough host. Oh, give me the joy of solicitude And the kind, sympathetic tear, — And the breath and the sigh of the kinship mood Of the Utopian pioneer. JUST A LITTLE SYMPATHY Just a little fellow, Foreigner to joy ; No one to say "hello ! Merry Christmas, boy!" Just some yuletide laughter Of a luckier throng. Raising roof and rafter With the joyous song. Just a ragged, little chap, Peeping in to see. Met with childish pleasantry — Thoughtless raillery. Just a little broken heart Feeling more alone — Though the tears refuse to start, From the soul a moan. Just a small, caressing hand Of a passerby, Just a smiling, happy land To the poor child's eye. Just a little brotherhood Moving hearts and hands- Just a little motherhood In bereaved lands. SONG OF THE OLD MARINER Oh, lads, I am dying for love of the sea ! I would I could borrow its woe, Its riotous power and rapturous glee. And down countless fathoms could go. Oh the sea, the restless sea ! — The billowy boisterous sea ! — Oh, laddies, that I might mirror the sky And be free as the merry old sea ! I would cuddle the earth in my measureless arms And swell in the breast of the gales ; I would weary the winds, I would roll the alarms, I would live for the life of the sails ! Oh make me the jolly old sea ! The fathomless soul of the sea ! So deep I would creep in the unknown that sleep Would be rocked in earth's cradle with me ! Oh, a skim o'er the waves in the teeth of a breeze Brings echoes of strangeling desire To flee from the leas, from the hills and the trees, And 'neath the weird waves to expire. Oh the sea, the turbulent sea ! — The solemn, impassionate sea ! — Oh, lads, when I die let my humble dust lie In the luminous tombs of the sea ! MY LADY Far away in the dim, blue sky, Up, up, in the attic of air O'er the wings of the winds, so high Is the home of My Lady fair ! And she smiles in my loitering eye, In the depths of a saddened soul ; And the bells of Eternity toll Through the veil of the distance there. She is lingering over the sea In the breath of the radiant day. As the clouds from my heart, set free, Lift, softly, and wander away : She is pleading her love for me To her image still breathing here— But away in the wail of the year Of the past is My Lady gray. WHEN THE COWS COME HOME When the cows come home o'er the silent lea, And the leaves are a-rustling soft and free, And a twilight blending the sun doth shed On the earth below and the clouds blush red And the turkeys roost in a friendlj' tree — Then my thoughts go back to my childish glee In the pastures green, and the "Good night" tea That my mother made fairly turns my head — When the cows come home ! Sweet thoughts of love are all naught to me When home comes in with its gentle plea Of mother and father, now long since dead, And my heart to those fond scenes seems led At eve when the sun's last rays I see — When the cows come home. THE PRODIGAL I would I were a boy again, back in the dear, old place, Made radiant by a father's love, and mother's cheering face ; Again beneath the glossy oaks I would that I might roam, A reckless, restless, pranksome boy — the care and joy of home ! I would that I might know as now the luxury of such joy — Might preconceive the epitome of pleasures of a boy — And fill the hollow head of youth with wisdom-weighted mirth. With which to tone the rime of age — the woes of manly birth ! What joy to jar the old plum tree, and dodge the tumbling fruit ! To ramble through the leafy dells and dig the ginseng root ;— THE PRODIGAL What thrilling sport to roll the rocks into the deep blue ctream And watch the vStartled minnows dart and the pickerel's gilt dots gleam ! How soothing in the twilight are the frogs' orchestral strains ! And how musical the clatter of the milk pans when it rains ! And how gloriously the robins and the swallows greet the day Ere the dews, the gems of shadow, and the fog veils fade away! Vaguely memoried pass before me all the cattle, one by one, Browsing out amid the hazel in the cheery blush of dawn ; — How the tiny sheep bells tinkled and the rest went "linkum lang,"— Aud how full of glad bird-voices the rejoicing woodland rang. Ah, how dear those dimming voices murmuring in the thoughts of yore, Breathing in the saddened autumn of the springtime gone before ! Oh, how full of sweet emotion are the pictures of the past ! — THE PRODIGAL When the heart's foud reminiscence holds the reins of memory fast ! I would I were a boy again, back in the dear old place, Made radiant by a father's love and mother's cheering face ! Forever 'neath the dreamy oaks I would that I might roam, A careless, airy, happy boy, — the pride and joy of home. TO SEATTLE up o'er the Cascades' hoods of gray Resplendent rides the god of day, Like some illuming angel, driven, Pearl-laden, from the gates of heaven And slowly gliding high to view The glories of a realm so new That as the fog-veils fade for him A wide, vague sigh, so soft, so dim, Breathes from the drowsy, waking land 'Round Puget Sound as if the hand Of God — to stay man's greed-born strife- But now had shrined the mystery, Life, In holy harmony. For thou, Fair Queen, art blessed indeed With welling founts for human need. With jeweled hills and monarch trees That thrill the soul and fill the breeze With youth-inspiring luxuries Aasd sir^n melody ; TO SEATTLE With leaping streams of laughing gold From thy New West ; and here, unrolled, About thee linger yet of old The masterweaves of Nature's loom, Aroused from immemorial gloom ; While by thy side the dimpling arm Of our Pacific, far from harm, Is gentle, like the touch of Love, Safe from the warring winds above, And wave-wild tragedy. Here Neptune's wearied myrmidons, Unarmed, reflect the gonfalons Of Foresthood, forevermore The marvel of this magic shore Of wonder-industry ! And, like the silvery, living wealth That loves our sealing's joyous health And braves new perils o'er and o'er To swim in ideal home once more, So are the sons of Sunsetland Soul- welded all, unpartisan'd, For home, for Justice, not for Might— In heaven born — to awe the Right That weaned Columbia from the crown TO SEATTLE And gave to Freedom's fair renown Its immortality! My Washington ! from sod to sod Thy swords, inspired of good and God, Flash e'er for Liberty ! While from this throbbing mart deploy White heralds of the New World's joy (Torn from Atlantic's iron hands) To flood engloomed Pacific lands With gleaming Hope and radiant Right, Commingled in triumphant Light Across Balboa's sea ! DOWN THE VALLEY "We are glMing tow'rd the setting of the sun—" So the song is softly breaking o'er my heart: "We are going down the valley one by one — " And the melody refuses to depart; And it wafts me out to sea, Wrapped in solemn mystery, To the realm of varied fancy's "great unknown." There is loneliness and silence o'er the whole, Softly whispered in the music to my soul; All the fears of dissolution one by one Vanish gently through the spirit of the tune, And I hear the balmy air Murmur sweetly everywhere: "We are gliding tow'rd the setting of the sun." Every heart has buried treasures, loved and dear. Every being sacred pictures all its own ; In the shrine of every heart the ghosts appear— And the veil is only drawn when we're alone ! Then how fatal the refrain To the jealous tinge of pain — "We are gliding tow'rd the setting of the sun." AFTER DEATH When I am gone will "someone" sadly cling To something I have said — some heart be sad Because a dear, dear friend hath taken wing ? — And can my work of good veil that of bad ? Ah, when I die will someone gently sing Some sad refrain that once I doted on? — Will there be tears of tender sorrowing As if I had been loved — when I am gone ? Ah, tell me now that I may feel the sting. Or know the joying of the li\nng love ! Lift up thine eyes and let their glories bring The truth that maybe death knows nothing of. When I am gone will worldly "mourners" fling Their musty cloaks about them — lay upon My bier a trade-extolling offering, And then fore'er depart — when I am gone? SPOKANE Here at the Inland Empire's heart, Amid this verdured prairie, 'T is fit that men of brawn and brain And thought-creation tarry: Here, like a strong young giant waked To guard and keep his flock, This noble city stands between Yon border heights of rock ; And, like a tireless god of life Caressing the soul of man. Quenching the thirst of the pregnant land Glides the cool-waved Spokane. For here the tools of genius are An inspiration rare For minds as broad as the prairies wide, And free as the highland air ; For aims akin to the towering peaks That rise in the rear and van. For hearts and souls and wills that yield Like the glorious old Spokane. THE CAROLISTS Here they come a-trooping, whooping, Laughing, chaffing, jackadaws, Heterogeneous jumping, bumping, Boisterous hosts of Santa Claus ! Charging in from every door, Full of candy, lugging more. Loaded with many a toyshop store, Woolly doggies and dollies galore — Merry golarkins of Santa Claus ! Here they come a-trooping, whooping — Baby land, without its laws ; Musical lilliputs, dabbling, babbling- Beautiful army of Santa Claus ! Now they are trilling the carols o'er, All of them thrilled by the curious lore— "Hark! was that Santa?" (the log fire's roar) All knees come with a thud to the floor And the little hands rise and big eyes implore — Dimpled defenders of Santa Claus ! THE DEAR OLD CAROLS Bring out the sweet old carols and brush off the dust of the years ; Let me turn over the pages, yellowed and blotted by tears. Ah, how the fairy-like faces of dear ones revive with the songs ! How thrillingly near is the prattle of playmates long lost in the throngs ! How iV.e firelight recalls the old fancies from exile to action again, And the crystal-like icicled maple and the frost-etching window pane ! Bless the dear dream-laden carols, the fond recollections of yore, The songs sung so lightly in childhood, the music of souls evermore. PLEASURE There is no elixir of Life divine More eloquent than that we call the wine- Blest with more scope to tempt mankind to taste- To sip, to drink, and, as some will, to waste. Within its bead the smile of welcome glows, And down the ruby depths no sorrow shows. But deep and far, w^hence siren sweetness raced— Tho' all the hosts of Hope and Health oppose— Remorse rides down who dares behold her shrine. IF I COULD DIE If I could die tonight, and so forget The self-deplorings of a weary heart: If I could fall asleep, and sleeping let Fore'er each load of consciousness depart; If from my soul the stain of life were taken And every weak desire were fully fled. And in my heart no earthly wish could waken — Were I not blessed to be so gently dead ! No gloomy veil of morrows hung before me, Nor phantom scenes of deep regrets behind; Nor yet the pall of grim mischance thrown o'er me, Nor smiles, nor tears, nor masking of mankind; But only these: Oblivion and Time — Time greater than all ages gone before, Oblivion all idle yet sublime — And both unchanging so foreverraore. ON BELLINGHAM BAY When Vesper stars with jewel wings The stole of Night array, The moon her shimmering reflex flings Athwart the trail of day. Her white face glows with spectral pride, As if the dewy eve Had brought some Cynthian victory-tide Her splendors to retrieve. A noble peace enfolds the scene — A splash of silver spra}^ A phosphorus rush and sport of sheen, A lone wild bird's last lay, And then a low, sweet lullaby Of brooks and lyre-like rills — The while that radiant face on high Illumes a world of ills ! LIKE SHIPS Like ships on an unknown ocean Men cruise o'er the waves of life, Each laden with silent sorrows, Each racked in the swells of strife. Some sink 'neath the sobbing billows. Some, lost from the harbor light. Drift out in the fatal channel Of dark and endless night. But over the mystic ocean The balms of promises flow, Bearing away the sadness, Feeding new hopes that glow Out on the gloomy ocean, Out on the sea of souls, Out where Fate is pilot, Out where the life-wave rolls. THE DEAD DEFENDER To no Columbian sacred memory Belong the nation's thoughts so tender. Or gratitude so soulful, as to thee, O silent son! O dead defender! LINCOLN His life was like a wave of light: O'erflowing hearts with glory, And then dissolving in the night- A sad, bright, sacred story. THE INFALLIBLE TRINITY May joy attend thy birth, New Year! And happy hearts thy death, Old Year — For why Should we sit and sigh When you die? * ^ * Nay, Birth is a trinity goddess here. And death, her sister, as dear, Old Year — And far above — But with and of Them — God crowned Love. THE EVENING OF THE YEAR The red sun sinks in gold, the drowsy air Toys softly with the crimson-dappled leaves; The calm old ocean's beryled bosom heaves And sighs; the clean-limbed, noisy gulls repair To sweet repose, — and Evening's magic weaves And siren lullabies to eye and ear Bring a great peace to seal the dear old year. NOV 4 1899 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 018 483 362 1 4^