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WILDWOOD CHIMES 
 
 EMMA WITHERS 
 
 Whom the gods love dwell with nature." 
 
 Helen Hunt Jackson. 
 
 Sep 7 1891 n > 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 ROBERT CLARKE & CO. 
 
 1891 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year i8yi, by 
 
 Emma Withers, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 
 
TO MY DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 J. S. WITHERS, 
 
 MEMORY OF OUR CHILDHOOD DAYS, WHEN I FOLLO^VED HIS FOOTSTEPS OVER 
 THE WEST VIRGINIA HILLS, THIS BOOK IS AFFEC- 
 TIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
 E. W. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Songs of Life, 
 
 A West Virginia Gra\'e 
 
 To-day, 
 
 The Lady-slipper, 
 
 Silent Cities, 
 
 At Swithin's Run, 
 
 Uncrowned, . 
 
 Nature, 
 
 The Broken Alphabet, 
 
 If, . 
 
 Because of his Love, 
 
 Castles of Hope, 
 
 Midsummer Days, 
 
 St. Valentine, 
 
 In Dreams, 
 
 Life, 
 
 In Camden Wood, . . 
 
 Christmas Bells, 
 
 A Brief Interview, 
 
 Life's Questionings, 
 
 Resurgam, 
 
 In October, 
 
 The Gossip, 
 
 7 
 
 9 
 
 II 
 
 12 
 
 . i6 
 
 i8 
 
 . 24 
 
 26 
 
 . 26 
 
 31 
 
 . 32 
 
 33 
 
 . 35 
 
 37 
 
 .. 38 
 
 . • 43 
 
 44 
 
 60 
 
 . 61 
 
 62 
 
 . 66 
 
 68 
 
 . 70 
 
Vi CONTENTS. 
 
 
 Poesy, ...••• 
 
 72 
 
 Memory, . . • • • 
 
 • 73 
 
 Lines, ...••■ 
 
 75 
 
 Dream-Haunted, 
 
 • 77 
 
 My Neighbors, . . • ■ • 
 
 79 
 
 Comrade Wind, . . • • 
 
 . 81 
 
 The Gospel Pioneer, . . . • 
 
 87 
 
 In the Firelight, .... 
 
 ■ 90 
 
 At the King's Gate, . . . • 
 
 92 
 
 The Blue Flower, . . . • 
 
 ■ 95 
 
 Sons of Cydippe, .... 
 
 97 
 
 Cricket Song, . . • - 
 
 . 100 
 
 Indian Pipes, . . • • • 
 
 lOI 
 
 As Memory Tells it O'er, 
 
 . 102 
 
 The Chieftain's Burial, 
 
 127 
 
 Hepatica, . . . • • 
 
 . 129 
 
 At the Spring, . . • • • 
 
 131 
 
 Hunting the Cows, . . . • 
 
 . 132 
 
WILDWOOD CHIMES 
 
WILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 THE SONGS OF LIFE. 
 
 OFTEN we heard, my heart and I, 
 The songs of Life, and oft did try- 
 To find the singer where she lay 
 In moonHt roses of the May, 
 
 Or 'mid the sheltered buds that lie 
 In sylvan haunts of Arcady. 
 
 We felt her silken tresses oft 
 Trail on the breezes, low and soft, 
 
 And heard her foot-falls, light and low, 
 Like honey-seekers, come and go. 
 
 But ever there the search did fail. 
 ■' Beyond the veil, beyond the veil,'" 
 
 Her haunting whisper seemed to say; 
 But never could we find the way. 
 
 (7) 
 
iVILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Still sad or gay, or far or near, 
 Her changeful melodies we hear. 
 
 Sometimes the plaintive notes are borne 
 Upon the wild bee's silver horn ; 
 
 Again, in numbers soft they sigh 
 Across the fields of yellow rye. 
 
 Upon the hum of growing things 
 The mystery forever rings, 
 
 Whose meaning all too deep doth lie. 
 Yet we have learned, my heart and I, 
 
 The minor chords of many a lay 
 The unseen singer of the May 
 
 Sung 'mid the roses long ago. 
 All incomplete and faint and low 
 
 The broken notes, fit for the ear 
 Of him alone who loves to hear 
 
 The hush of waves against a shore 
 That twilight shrouds forevermore. 
 
A WEST VIRGINIA GRAVE. 
 
 A WEST VIRGINIA GRAVE. 
 
 A BOVE the sheltered valley homes, far off 
 ^~^ Upon the mountain top there lies a grave, 
 And human eye looks not upon the lone, • 
 Still splendor of that sepulcher, save when 
 Some hunter stays his wandering steps to scan 
 With curious eye, the cairn, rude, coffin-shaped 
 And gray, o'ergrown with shrubs, and closely clasped 
 With twining ivies which the thoughtful years 
 Have wreathed among the stones. Above the name, 
 If ever name thereon was writ, moss waves 
 Long since have rolled. Yet some there are who still 
 The broken memories of his story keep. 
 A lad who at the first wild war-notes left 
 His home beyond, and crossed these rugged heights 
 To wear the gray most gallantly, in vain. 
 As year on year, the unequal conflict raged. 
 Thoughts of his home within the orchard bowers,* 
 And the dear faces, long unseen, within 
 His bosom grew to desperate resolve. 
 A week of journeying by lonely nights, 
 His only guides the faintly gleaming stars, 
 The whisthng bullet of the hidden foe. 
 And then — he passed from sight forevermore. 
 Yet lacks he not sweet ministries of love ; 
 Weird elegies in quaint, memorial lines 
 
IQ WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 The many-fingered lichens o'er him trace ; 
 
 Here, in this cleft, her blue eyes full of tears, 
 
 The iris waves; and in her trembling hand 
 
 The columbine holds out her rosy bells 
 
 Like lamps before a shrine ; while round him stand 
 
 In dark unbending pride, the druid trees. 
 
 Here in the twilight comes the whip-poor-will. 
 
 And 'neath the midnight moon the yellow owl 
 
 Pours out her melancholy wail. And here 
 
 Unharmed the lizard suns his emerald sides, 
 
 The mountain-cat leads forth her tawny young. 
 
 What better lot than his ? — to turn aside 
 
 With all life's possibilities untried. 
 
 In the full vigor of his youthful prime, 
 
 While fair Achievement waved her beckoning hand, 
 
 And on the crystal heights of fame, undimmed 
 
 Her radiant watch-lights shone, while 'round him sung 
 
 The silver-throated voices of the dawn, — 
 
 Within this grand cathedral hall, beneath 
 
 The pillared oaks, and ever-changing skies, 
 
 To lose existence ? Nay ; but to become 
 
 A part of bud and leaf, of wind and wave ; 
 
 To murmur in the pine tree's fragrant hair. 
 
 And through the veins of the primeval oaks 
 
 Into the sunshine warm again to creep. 
 
 To join the anthem of the solemn woods : 
 
 '' Fear not; lie down with us, O, child of Earth. 
 
 In this calm faith, all shall be well." 
 
TO-DA V. 
 
 II 
 
 TO-DAY. 
 
 OSOUL, why sitteth thou so long 
 J Beside a dead past making moan ? 
 Why wring thy pallid hands and cry : 
 " Too late ! " Is not to-day thine own ? 
 
 Thy harvest fields of life are bare, 
 
 No wealth of ripened grain thou hast. 
 
 Thine idle hands were folded close 
 Until the sowing-time was past. 
 
 But glean among another's sheaves, 
 And starve not for thine early sin — 
 
 A hired hand within his fields, 
 Another's harvest gather in. 
 
 Too late, indeed, for thee to build 
 The structure of thy visions sweet ; 
 
 Yet thou with helpful hands mayst toil 
 Another's labor to complete. 
 
 Too late ! Thy myrtle branches lie 
 All withered by the north wind's hate ; 
 
 Yet thou the nettles mayst destroy 
 Which grow within another's gate. 
 
12 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 The golden sun of hope fulfilled 
 Is hidden from thy sky away ; 
 
 Yet light serene and fair still lies 
 Upon the pathway of to-day. 
 
 THE LADY-SLIPPER. 
 
 'T'HE morning is before me as I write — 
 * A day in June within the school I taught 
 In Nomansland. The log-house, low and brown, 
 Stands in a woody hollow. Close behind 
 It climbs a hill, so close, the squirrels leap 
 From the low, birchen boughs upon the roof, 
 And chatter in the early dawn. In front 
 A streamlet where the water-fairies sing 
 Their wordless songs the livelong day. How oft 
 The haunting shadows of my life have fled 
 From the low music of that mountain rill. 
 And just beyond the stream, another height 
 Conglomerate, of rock and tree, of ferns. 
 And mossy greenness of the creeping plants 
 That cling about the base of sheltering cliffs. 
 Upon those cliffs the glossy laurel held 
 Its pink-rimmed cups o'erfilled with honey-dew; 
 While high above the sturdy oak-trees bore 
 A colony of nesting crows that seemed 
 With shrill, sarcastic laughter oft to mock 
 
THE LADY SL IP PER. I ^ 
 
 The dreamful hours which gUded by Hke strange 
 
 Sweet flowers that bloom and fade and bear no fruit. 
 
 A fit and chosen haunt it was for all 
 
 The shy, soft-footed children of the woods ; 
 
 And I, long careless grown of frown or smile — 
 
 The caprice of a moment rules them both — 
 
 Took rare delight in the bold confidence 
 
 That twinkled in the round, dark eyes of some 
 
 Brown-striped and furry creature of the hills 
 
 That claimed a morning greeting at my door. 
 
 Within, were benches most grotesquely planned; 
 
 A score of hardy lads and lassies — such 
 
 As all along the common walks of life 
 
 Spring up like ill-trained weeds that might have grown 
 
 Beneath propitious skies to fairest flowers. 
 
 A water-bucket filled with gold and green 
 
 Of ferns and wild azalias from the cliff; 
 
 A lizard basking on the window-sill ; 
 
 And I, presiding genius of the hour. 
 
 There came a splash within the rill, a pause, 
 
 A shadow on the step, and lo, beside 
 
 Me stood, with dripping feet and cheeks aglow, 
 
 A lint-haired urchin clad in home-spun blue. 
 
 Whose deep, capacious pockets yawned with rolls 
 
 Of sappy birch and tender wintergreen. 
 
 One grimy hand an open jack-knife clasped, 
 
 Still redolent with odors of the feast. 
 
 The other held a dewy blossom poised 
 
 Like a pink bird upon its slender stem. 
 
14 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 " I picked it for you, Teacher." Artful boy ! 
 With this magician's wand to turn the tide 
 Of a just chiding for his loiterings, 
 And 'scape in peace. 
 
 O, men of wisdom, still 
 A cumb'rous name of learned length attach 
 To this^most fragile blossom of the wild. 
 In heart of me, and verse of mine, it lives. 
 For aye, a lady-slipper, breathing yet 
 The subtile fragrance of enchanted woods. 
 Upon the odors of the cool, black mold 
 A fairy picture of the long ago 
 Arose, and loudly elfin voices called 
 My soul. Upon a slaty ridge I saw 
 A barefoot child, in rustic dress, with waves 
 Of sunburnt hair adrift upon the wind. 
 Alone with the calm beauty of the fresh-leaved June. 
 All in the yellow light the hilltops lay; 
 But 'round their base the purple shadows crept 
 And darkened, as she stood with bended head, 
 Still as the lichen on the rain-scarred rock 
 Beneath her feet, and listened to the sounds 
 That rose above the murmur of her heart. 
 Along deep hollows fled the haunted stream 
 Pursued by its wild longing for the sea ; 
 And with its plaintive purl, at intervals, 
 The tinkle of a bell, afar and faint. 
 Proclaimed her quest, the cows, flank-deep 
 In fragrant herbage of the fertile hills, 
 
THE LADY SLIPPER. j c 
 
 By slow-descending paths were winding down 
 
 The homeward way to the cool water-brooks, 
 
 To rest them there with meditative eyes, 
 
 And deep-breathed satisfaction, in the dusk. 
 
 Avoiding the worn ways of smooth descent, 
 
 From cliff to cliff the fearless seeker dropped; 
 
 For rock and shrub and vine were faithful each 
 
 To foot and hand. She heard the captive winds 
 
 In somber hemlocks faintly moan, and felt 
 
 Their od'rous fingers stir her loosened hair ; 
 
 And then waist-deep in ferns and clinging vines 
 
 Of the wild pea, she plunged, and knew no pause, 
 
 Save, now and then, to pluck from its deep bed 
 
 Of mold, this shyest beauty of the woods — 
 
 This scented slipper of the Elfin Queen, 
 
 Then homeward, in the gloaming hastened on. 
 
 O, prophecies, unread, how could I know — 
 
 For this was I — that evermore my heart 
 
 The brook's wild longing and the wind's unrest 
 
 Would echo still ? and all my treasures prove 
 
 But fairy gold dissolving at the touch 
 
 Of life's realities? How read the weird 
 
 Inscribed by destiny against my birth : 
 
 " Thou art a child of earth ; and deep within 
 
 Thy nature live the mysteries of all 
 
 Her sheen and shadows. Rock and wind and wave 
 
 Thyibrethren are ; and when to other sight 
 
 And sound, thine eyes are closed and lips are dumb. 
 
 These kindred voices of the Universe 
 
 Shall find an echo still within thy soul." 
 
J 5 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 SILENT CITIES. 
 
 T TPON gentle hills are lying 
 ^ Many cities, still and lone, 
 The swift birds above them flying, 
 
 Hear no voices save their own. 
 From them issues no one telling 
 
 The saa knockers, rich or poor. 
 
 Mistress waits within her dwelling, 
 
 Enter;" opening wide the door. 
 
 They have plats of grass and roses. 
 
 Myrtle leaves, forget-me-nots; 
 There, in lowly grace, reposes 
 
 Springtime, near the smallest cots ; 
 But no busy childish fingers 
 
 Press the tinted petals there, 
 Childish laughter never lingers 
 
 l>ike sweet incense on the air. 
 
 Yet, their faces turning thither. 
 
 Life's fair morning saw them pass 
 Ere the flowers began to wither, 
 
 Ere the dew had left the grass. 
 Saw them pass in silence dreary 
 
 Followed close by tears and sighs. 
 Folded were their hands, and weary 
 
 Shadows gathered in their eyes. 
 
SILENT CITIES. 
 
 There are harps of willows olden 
 
 Strung with shadows, soft and long, 
 But no voice awakes the golden 
 
 Echoes of the land of song. 
 Oft, when o'er the glad earth sighing 
 
 Come faint whispers of the spring 
 The sad ring-dove, swiftly flying. 
 
 Sweeps them with her silver wing. 
 
 Often when the time moves slowly. 
 
 Clogged and heavy with our fears, 
 To those cities, calm and holy, 
 
 Look we, through our blinding tears. 
 Ah, those cities ! faintly gleaming. 
 
 In the starlight clear and fair. 
 Broken was our peaceful dreaming. 
 
 When our loved ones journeyed there. 
 
 And, though we should call forever. 
 
 Never comes an answering tone, 
 Only sad winds murmur, " Never, " 
 
 Sweeping past with restless moan. 
 Never — never," we have heard it 
 
 When the days were long and bright. 
 And the sobbing rain has stirred it 
 
 Falling slowly in the night. 
 
 Have they left their crowded alleys 
 For the mountain heights sublime ? 
 
 For the breadth of peaceful valleys 
 Safe beyond the surge of time ? 
 
 17 
 
J 8 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Dipped their robes in crystal rivers, 
 Washing from them every stain ? 
 
 Do they rest where softly ([uivers 
 From each spray a golden strain ? 
 
 This we know not, can not reckon, 
 Yet when day grows dusk and chill, 
 
 Spirit, fingers seem to beckon 
 To those cities on the hill. 
 
 And we know a shadow lying 
 Down the life-road ever waits, 
 
 To each weary pilgrim crying : 
 
 " Enter; rest within their gates." 
 
 AT SWITHIN'S RUN. 
 I. 
 
 THE WALK. 
 
 T^HE work-day life lies far away, 
 ^ And in the dawning of the day 
 Along the pathway by the Run, 
 Whose course goes onward with the sun, 
 Is spread the web of fancy gay 
 Beneath the feet which pass that way. 
 
 Wild winds have swept the woodland clear 
 Of summer charms, yet life is here. 
 
19 
 
 AT SWI THIN' S R UN. 
 
 In beds of softest russet spread 
 
 The dry leaves rustle to the tread 
 
 Of shy, soft-footed things that love 
 The freedom of a mountain cove. 
 
 And close beside a hidden spring 
 
 Wherein the wate^pirits sing, 
 
 All sheltered warm beneath the hill 
 The maiden-hair is waving still. 
 
 And the brown earth beneath the feet 
 
 Resounds with echoes low and sweet. 
 
 From throbbing heart of life sublime 
 The currents well with rhythmic chime ; 
 
 They tune the wild bird's mellow glee, 
 
 And swell the veins of meanest tree. 
 And he who listens now may hear 
 The springtime whispers in his ear. 
 
 The work-day life lies far away, 
 
 And fancy rules the dawn of day. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE VISITORS. 
 
 The bell had rung ; and up the criss-cross logs 
 Which duty did for steps, a scrambHng host 
 Of urchins came whose variegated heads 
 Were busied soon o'er book and slate; and scarce 
 Had silence fallen when their came a rap 
 So deep, so loud, of such aggressive len^h 
 The very stones in the foundation heard. 
 And following it into the room there came 
 
20 
 
 iVTLDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 With heavy tread and features grimly set 
 
 With the importance of a mission high, 
 
 Three hardy followers of the plow, with locks 
 
 Unkempt and grizzly beard unshorn 
 
 And homespun wamus knotted at each waist. 
 
 With kindly greeting the schoolmistress bade 
 
 Them enter and be seated, wond'ring still 
 
 Why such scant courtesy her words repaid. 
 
 And what the purpose of the dismal three. 
 
 Too brief the problem long to vex her soul; 
 
 " Them's the trustees," the echo softly crept 
 
 Among the tilted benches, and a show 
 
 Of diligence fell on the knowing ones. 
 
 '' Yes, Sir! I heard Bill Underly tell Pap, 
 
 Las' night, they wuz a-comin' down to give 
 
 The teacher Hail Columby somethin' 'bout 
 
 Wastin' such lots o' chalk, and sparkin' of" — 
 
 Here sharply called the recitation bell. 
 
 And the stage whispers of the " Primers" ceased. 
 
 The hours fled and still the men of fate 
 
 Took silent cognizance of all that passed. 
 
 Followed the shifting classes in their work. 
 
 And hung upon each question and reply 
 
 In silence, till the mighty hill had thrown 
 
 Its shadow vast and deep across the wastes 
 
 Of fragrant pennyroyal ; then with brief 
 
 And grave-voiced conference among themselves. 
 
 Arose and still in silence gained the door 
 
 Where they a moment stood shuffling their feet 
 
 Uneasily, and then the eldest turned 
 
A T S IV I THIN' S R UN. 2 1 
 
 And combing out his beard with nervous hand, 
 
 Like one whose conscience pricks hnii to a task 
 
 Unwelcome most, looked down into the eyes 
 
 Of questioning laughter raised to his and said : 
 
 ' ' The law makes it our dooty to inspect 
 
 This- school ; an' havin' nothin' else to do, 
 
 Pertickiler, to-day, we've come to see 
 
 Ef you wuz goin' a'cordin' to the law. 
 
 The gal that kept last winter give a sight 
 
 More time to sparkin' than to spellin', so 
 
 We had not 'lowed to hire a gal agin; 
 
 But all the boys who are high I'arnt enough 
 
 To teach in town have got too big to come 
 
 So fur up on the Run ; an' so we done 
 
 The best we could by takin' you. W-e-U, n-o, — 
 
 There ain't ben no complaint, pertickiler. 
 
 Agin' the school, exceptin' there wuz talk 
 
 Down at the mill about that young town chap 
 
 Hitchin' his critter to the school-house steps 
 
 As much as twict sence Christmas. Brother, hey? 
 
 Now, Lizy Ann allowed you favored some. 
 
 So there's an end o' that. I 'm pow'ful glad. 
 
 Sparkin' '11 ruin any school alive. 
 
 W-e-11, y-e-s, some little talkin' has ben done 
 
 Concernin' your odd way o' teachin' chaps 
 
 To read an' write before they've I'arnt to spell 
 
 In double sittables ; an' some do say 
 
 That you don't teach the alphybet a-tall. 
 
 O' course we don't believe sech stuff as that, 
 
 For when I heard them little fellers there 
 
WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 A-readin' their Fu'st Readers right along — 
 An' po'try, too — an' never skip a word, 
 I reckoned that you know what you're about. 
 About that chalk ? O, that was jest some word 
 We had from the young man in Johnses store ; 
 He thought you must be wastin' lots o' chalk. 
 An' Squire Moss — he's Pres'dent o' the Board — 
 Said how, as guardeens o' the school, that we 
 Had better jest step in an' let you know 
 The deestrick only furnishes one box. 
 The regeler amount last winter wuz 
 Two sticks a week ; an' most of it wuz left 
 Kickin' about the house when school wuz out. 
 But when I see them little fellers go 
 Up to yan board an' chalk their lessons down 
 In real good writin' letters, sech as I 
 Wuz never I'arnt to make, as boy or man, 
 I see there is some good in usin' chalk ; 
 An' ef the deestrick jumps the bill, I'll pay. 
 We're not a-findin' any fault of you. 
 You're doin' purty well, considerin ; 
 An' we stand by the teacher when we kin. 
 vBut use the spellers jest a little more ; 
 An' ef you should have any difficult 
 Enforcin' discerpline, — for there be some 
 Real heady chaps upon the Run — or want 
 Advice about the runnin' of the school. 
 You kin depend on us. Jest call on us." 
 
AT SWITHIN'S RUN. 
 
 III. 
 
 AT NIGHT. 
 
 The weary day was with the past — 
 
 Down from the hill-tops swept the blast ; 
 It whistled through the branches bare 
 And tossed the pine tree's fragrant hair. 
 
 But to the watcher by the fire 
 
 The triumph of a strong desire 
 
 Through all its choral changes rung, 
 And ever through the songs it sung 
 
 An old sweet glamour seemed to thrill. 
 
 This was the world of fancy still ; 
 For gracious embers ne'er deny 
 The quest of wistful dreamer's eye, 
 
 Nor show the witching forms they raise 
 
 Unto another's mocking gaze. 
 And in the hollow land of flame 
 Uprose the royal towers of fame ; 
 
 And gallant hosts came marching by 
 
 On the fair plains of reverie. 
 
 No knight e'er graced the Table Round 
 As brave as he whose bugle sound 
 
 Awoke those lists with challenge free 
 
 To deeds of noblest chivalry. 
 
 Lancelot was he, but without stain ; 
 More courtly than the gay Gawain; 
 
 Than Galahad more pure and white 
 
 He stood, her dream-created knight ; 
 
 23 
 
24 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 And while the night-winds wrought their will, 
 Her thoughts went on to Camelot still. 
 
 Unheeding all the jar and fret 
 
 In fancy's world she lingered yet. 
 
 UNCROWNED. 
 
 V/'ES, i^ause where the heroes are sleeping 
 ^ And garland their graves with the best 
 The summer-time holds in her keeping; 
 
 Well-won are the wreaths on each breast — 
 Well-won are the song and the story 
 
 That honor the brave and the true ; 
 And long may the incense of glory 
 
 Encircle the Gray and the Blue. 
 
 But when with the battle-flags trailing, 
 
 With war's thrilling requiems said, 
 You pass with the drums' muffled wailing 
 
 From the myrtle-paved streets of the dead, 
 I know that in by-ways forsaken. 
 
 Where only the wind's hollow sound 
 The desolate silences waken 
 
 The bravest are lying uncrowned; 
 
UNCROWNED. 
 
 Who walked in the ways that were narrow, 
 
 Who trod the world's wine-press alone, 
 Who drank from the waters of Marah, 
 
 With anguish too deep for a moan. 
 But low in Gethsemane kneeling 
 
 The depths of their spirits were stirred 
 For the world, and the fountains of healing 
 
 Gushed forth like the song of a bird. 
 
 And weary ones, thirsting no longer 
 
 Their hearts on His promise did lean. 
 And the pulses of life grew stronger 
 
 At the touch of the Christ unseen. 
 But only the angels of pity 
 
 Heard ever the breath of a word. 
 As they wept by the Gates of the City : 
 
 ^'■Thoii knowcst, Thou knowcsf, OLord!^^ 
 
 Ah ! Fame, do thy laurel-wreathed pages 
 
 Know aught of the hallowed place 
 That softens the rime of the ages — 
 
 Though nameless forever its grace — 
 Where worn with the fever of living, 
 
 Yet true unto death to its trust. 
 And spent with the unreturned giving 
 
 A woman's heart crumbled to dust ? 
 
 25 
 
26 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Rondeau. 
 
 T SOUGHT within men's hollow creeds 
 ^ A healing for the sorest needs 
 That vexed my life. — They mocked my quest ; 
 The hidden fires within my breast 
 Burned on. I sought the sylvan meads, 
 I watched the flight of winged seeds, 
 I found the soul in meanest weeds, 
 
 I saw young birds from out the nest 
 On swift wings soar. 
 I follow Nature where she leads, 
 And naught to me are men and deeds ; 
 For in the pathway she hath pressed 
 I find the benison of rest — 
 And safe from life's tormenting greeds, 
 I seek no more. 
 
 THE BROKEN ALPHABET. 
 
 T i" you should care to follow me 
 
 ^ Along the lanes of memory, 
 I'd have you pause beside the spot 
 Where stood — though now it standeth not- 
 
THE BROKEN A LP H ABE T. 2 7 
 
 A log-house, little, brown and cool, 
 
 Which half a narrow space did fill 
 
 Between the road-side and the hill ; 
 
 And standing there, I'd show to you 
 
 A picture, homely, quaint and true — 
 
 The place where first I went to school. 
 
 The door on wooden hinges hung 
 
 That shrieked, however lightly swung; 
 
 The backless benches on four legs, 
 
 The narrow shelf upon its pegs. 
 
 On which the dinner baskets stood; 
 
 Six tiny panes of wizard glass 
 
 Through which we viewed strange monsters pass. 
 
 Distorted shapes of man and beast — 
 
 Each one a dozen, at the least, 
 
 Oft-time went glimmering through the wood. 
 
 How oft my errant eyes forsook 
 
 The ancient blue-backed spelling-book. 
 
 Where, like a hideous array 
 
 Of dragons, frowned the livelong day 
 
 The pond'rous names of nothingness. 
 
 Whose syllables I stumbled o'er 
 
 When called to stand upon the floor ; 
 
 The laughing-stock of all at once, 
 
 A yellow-headed little dunce. 
 
 Trembling with envious distress. 
 
 For they their " One /, one " could say. 
 
 And glibly name the long array 
 
 Of numeral letters, fair and good. 
 
 Till "J/, one thousand,'' proudly stood; 
 
28 
 
 WILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 While I, who loved all things alive, 
 
 Could count the sparrow's speckled eggs, 
 
 The rings upon the spider's legs, 
 
 How many straws the peewees laid 
 
 Each day upon the nest they made, 
 
 But could not see how Fwas five. 
 
 O, blessed power to forget 
 
 The ills of life, its jar and fret ! 
 
 For memory a golden haze 
 
 Has wrapped about those early days, 
 
 And clasped it with her jeweled hand. 
 
 Nameless, for aye, the games we played 
 
 At noon beneath the beech-tree's shade ; 
 
 The melody forever mute 
 
 We made upon each rustic flute 
 
 At rest upon the yellow sand. 
 
 The mold is deep upon the shore 
 
 Beneath the painted sycamore. 
 
 Above the clover-babies white 
 
 That in the mellow, checkered light 
 
 We hushed to sleep in robes of gold. 
 
 Merlin, himself, might search in vain 
 
 For echo of the merry train 
 
 That pierced the forest's secret core. 
 
 And feasted on its rifled store ; 
 
 Yet memory doth it all enfold. 
 
 Through many a lengthened afternoon 
 
 My drowsy senses learned the tune 
 
 Of blackbird in the willow tree. 
 
 Of cricket, and of droning bee. 
 
THE BROKEN ALPHABET. 
 
 I watched as in a tranquil dream, 
 Through open door, the muskrat sleek 
 Go paddling down the narrow creek. 
 And vanish in his chamber dank 
 And chill beneath the shelving bank, 
 Secure 'gainst school-boy's boldest schemt 
 Or, following the circling light 
 Above the hills' uneven height, 
 I planned to climb the highest rock, 
 And catch the cloud-man's fleecy flock 
 That swept across the pasture blue. 
 Ah, many a fancy's spangled train 
 Was netted in my childish brain ; 
 And though an idler's name I earned, 
 Thrice happy were the days I learned 
 The runes of nature, wise and true. 
 Invisible the teacher grand 
 Who led me with a gentle hand ; 
 Her alphabet was lettered o'er 
 Each blade and leaf, and precious lore 
 She wrote upon the wind and wave ; 
 Within my formless musingif crept, 
 And wrought in visions while I slept. 
 Thrice happy had I followed still 
 The mandate of her gracious will, 
 And claimed the promises she gave. 
 But in the after years, I turned 
 To other paths, and dimly burned 
 Her sacred lamp, and seemed to fail 
 Behind a swiftly-closing veil, 
 
 29 
 
3° 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 And to her lore I lost the clue ; 
 
 Yet, here and there the years still bring 
 
 The letters of a broken ring ; 
 
 I find them in the tempest wild, 
 
 And in the laughter of a child, 
 
 And in the wood notes clear and true ; 
 
 At dawn, beneath the frozen hill. 
 
 Above the waters of the rill, 
 
 Engraven on a page of ice 
 
 The characters of strange device 
 
 Half-hidden in the frost leaves shine; 
 
 While soft and low the waters tell 
 
 The syllables of some sweet spell, 
 
 Some mystery of secret power 
 
 Revealed to earth in that charmed hour. 
 
 Whose meaning I may half divine ; 
 
 And on a silvery birchen root. 
 
 The impress of a naked foot, 
 
 Or print of finger in the glow 
 
 The orchid's inner petals show, 
 
 My half-anointed eyes can trace. 
 
 Or, following the slanting ray 
 
 Of summer's fairest, longest day. 
 
 Through dim cathedral aisles of pine, 
 
 The incense from a viewless shrine 
 
 Enfolds me with a sacred grace. 
 
 Exquisite tones my pulses thrill : 
 
 '' Hail, happy mortal who dost still 
 
 With steadfast heart and vision true. 
 
 The promises of Life pursue — 
 
31 
 
 Lo, just beyond, her gates appear !" 
 And, somewhere, in a fairer land, 
 Within a clearer dawn I '11 stand 
 With all the letters, strange and sweet. 
 Of that lost alphabet complete — 
 Beyond the vapors rolling here. 
 
 IF. 
 
 T F, toiling in the dreary mine, 
 -■• I chanced to find a tiny stone, 
 And with its fitful sparkle pleased, 
 
 I clasped and called it all my own, 
 Would he who quenched the feeble spark, 
 Be richer now that it is dark ? 
 
 If in the desert sands I found . • 
 
 A simple, bloomless, little weed, 
 
 And in its homely leaves should find 
 A healing for my sorest need. 
 
 Would he be wiser who should say 
 
 I'd better cast that weed away ? 
 
 If in the mighty choir of life 
 
 My faint heart learned a little song, 
 
32 
 
 IVILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 And sung it softly, o'er and o'er, 
 
 Until its heated pulse grew strong, 
 Would he be greater who should say 
 My song is but an idle lay ? 
 
 BECAUSE OF HIS LOVE. 
 
 O WONDERFUL earth, in thy bosom so deep 
 The beautiful springtime lieth asleep 
 With her pulses of incense fluttering low 
 Under the drifts of the pitiless snow, 
 All sheltered and safe from the wild wind's sweep. 
 Because of His love, God hath willed it so. 
 
 O, merciful grave, in thy haven of rest 
 The weary ones lie, with their pale hands pressed 
 To bosoms too still for the passionate pain 
 Of living and loving to pierce them again ; 
 Because of His love — and he knoweth best — 
 The voices of longing entreat them in vain. 
 
CASTLES OF HOPE. 
 
 CASTLES OF HOPE. 
 
 33 
 
 THE last wave of sunlight has drifted away, 
 But a soft glory dawns over valley and slope, 
 A splendor unknown to the earth, air, or sea. 
 
 And it shines from the wonderful castles of Hope. 
 
 On the far-away isles of a magical sea 
 
 Their white towers float upon billows of gold ; 
 
 And the rainbows of promise around them are spread, 
 While the spirits of silence the portals unfold. 
 
 There are faces more fair than the pale silver light 
 That gleams from the bow of a fast-waning moon, 
 
 And the voices are softer than rain in the night 
 When it falls on the petals of roses in June. 
 
 There is music as sweet as the yellow-bird's song 
 In the islands where summer has folded her wings ; 
 
 For the harps are all strung with our heart-hidden dreams. 
 And a soul's immortality touches the strings. 
 
 Ah ! what does it matter? the night closing in 
 On a harvest of nothing but ruin and rust. 
 
 And the cry of a desolate past for the joys 
 That are buried forever in ashes and dust ? 
 
 For a shallop of lilies, far whiter than day. 
 Comes over the waves of the glittering sea ; 
 
^^ WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 And a sweet voice is singing somewhere in the night, 
 ''The wish that is dearest is coming to thee." 
 
 So in patience we wait, though the hours are long, 
 Their darkness is lost in the roseate flame 
 
 That hides the fair hope from our eyes, but each heart, 
 In its holy of holies, has whispered its name. 
 
 And, O, when we stand by the river so cold. 
 While the glorious sunlight is fading for aye, 
 
 And the shadowy wings of the Messenger sweep 
 The warm, living earth from our vision away ; 
 
 When the last thrilling tones of the voices we loved 
 
 In the days that were washed in the fountains of dawn, 
 
 Grow faint as the wail of a wind-stricken lute. 
 
 And the last tender touch from our faces is gone, — 
 
 When the trembling soul in its prison of clay 
 
 With the terrors of darkness despairing shall cope, 
 
 Ah, bright be the glow of the unfailing light 
 That shines from our beautiful castles of Hope. 
 
MIDSUMMER DA VS. ^ t 
 
 MIDSUMMER DAYS. 
 
 \ X /"HEN shining days grow warm and long 
 ' ^ And leaves in full-grown beauty glow, 
 I leave the care-tormented throng 
 And forth into the woodland go. 
 I lose the din of idle words 
 In soulful music of the birds, 
 And the wind's whispers soft and low. 
 
 Across the ring where fairies slept 
 
 The green moss creeps in shady dells ; 
 A diamond tear by darkness wept, 
 Within each jeweled chalice dwells. 
 A welcome-song attuned for me 
 In notes of sweetest minstrelsy, 
 Upon the wind harp softly swells. 
 
 Here on a rock, rain-scarred and gray. 
 
 For hours I watch the shadows sweep ; 
 They chase life's vain regrets aw^ay, 
 And soothe its weariness to sleep. 
 I hear the faint breeze in its lair 
 Amid the pine tree's spicy hair. 
 In the still gloaming wake and wxep. 
 
 Or seated in some python vine, 
 I swing beside a mountain stream, 
 
36 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 And freight the ships of fancy's hne 
 
 With flowers of many a cherished dream, 
 In silence, restful, sweet and lone, 
 Unstirred save by the wave's low tone, 
 And by the distant hawk's shrill scream. 
 
 While wafted by each swaying leaf, 
 
 A fitful breath of hidden flowers 
 
 Memorial brings of fragrance brief 
 
 That hung upon spring's opening hours ; 
 And somewhere near, I know full well, 
 A few wood-violets still dwell 
 Beneath the forest's coolest bowers. 
 
 O, summer days, celestial down 
 
 From Time's half-resting pinions shed, 
 W^ith all your royal splendor crown 
 
 The hour when with the dreamless dead. 
 Within some quiet vale at rest, 
 Beneath its fringed mantle pressed, 
 I lay with all my prayers said. 
 
 Where in the silence, dim, divine, 
 The timid children of the wood 
 Will break the shadows' drifting line 
 With antic freak and playful mood ; 
 
 Where whispered requiems will thrill 
 The sighing trees, and softly fill 
 The heart of that rapt solitude. 
 
ST. VALENTINE. 
 
 ST. VALENTINE. 
 
 37 
 
 IT comes to me as the winds chime — 
 A scrap of half-forgotten rhyme, 
 The fragment of a childish lore 
 Once caught, almost unconsciously, 
 
 From pages read by man no more, 
 Save by the light of memory — 
 
 The tale that claims this verse of mine, 
 This legend of St. Valentine. 
 
 At twilight in the harbor wide. 
 His ship was waiting for the tide, 
 
 The tide that all too swiftly came ; 
 For years, alas ! must roll between. 
 
 And changing seasons light their flame — 
 Long seasons with their clouds and sheen. 
 
 Across the dark, estranging brine 
 
 He went who was her Valentine. 
 
 A year. Still far beyond her port 
 
 The good ship sailed, of winds the sport ; 
 
 And to the watcher by the shore 
 There came but this, a simple line. 
 
 Her pulses sang it o'er and o'er. 
 It thrilled them like enchanted wme. 
 " Sweetheart," it said, " thy hope is mine, 
 
 And I am still thy Valentine." 
 
^8 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 But freighted still with hopes or gold, 
 With all the treasures that men hold, 
 
 Ships will go down, and hearts will break. 
 Well no ; still hear this legend's idle lay : 
 
 At twilight when the tides awake, 
 He called her and she could not stay ; 
 
 But passed beyond earth's harbor line 
 
 The evening of St. Valentine. 
 
 Who from the grape its bloom would l)rush, 
 Or rob the sunrise of its flush ? 
 
 Who pluck the mirage from the cloud, 
 Or from the morning take its dew ? 
 
 Then be this idle rhyme allowed, 
 Though it be neither great nor true. 
 *' Sweetheart," it says, "■ thy hope is mine. 
 
 And I am still thy Valentine." 
 
 IN DREAMS. 
 
 T AST night the pattering rain came down 
 ^ With gentle murmur on the roof, 
 And hushed to sleep in changeful dreams 
 Long years of checkered warp and woof. 
 
 I know not if within its voice 
 
 The ghost of soft remembrance crept ; 
 
IN DREAMS. 
 
 But some sweet spirit claimed the night, 
 And Ungered near me while I slept. 
 
 Methought I stood upon a knoll 
 That edged a flowing rivulet, 
 
 Within whose whispering waters all 
 The melodies of spring were met. 
 
 And there was all within that scene 
 To charm a poet's dreaming soul ; 
 
 An artist there might deem that he 
 Had reached his aspiration's goal. 
 
 On either side the mountain smiled 
 With bursting buds and tender sprays, 
 
 And from them many a silver voice 
 Trilled out its joy in gladsome lays. 
 
 There many a slender birch looked down 
 On blossoms strange as fancy's dream, 
 
 And spirit bells swayed noiselessly 
 From mossy rocks above the stream. 
 
 The wind crept in and opened wide 
 The windows of that living wall, 
 
 Through which the dying sunlight cast 
 Its golden pebbles over all. 
 
 The wind crept in and softly swayed 
 The scented grasses to and fro, 
 
 39 
 
40 
 
 WILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 And time seemed pausing by that stream 
 Lulled by its music sweet and low. 
 
 '' Here," said I to my weary soul, 
 
 Tempted and tried and sorely pressed, 
 
 "Safe from the ceaseless whirl of strife 
 In this dim solitude is rest. 
 
 No sordid care, no fevered thirst 
 To mar, to madden every hour. 
 
 But days which glide like tranquil dreams 
 Rife with the fragrance of each flower. 
 
 And here to find the utterance 
 In the sad voices of this stream. 
 
 Of that tumultuous tide of thought 
 
 That wears the heart, unheard, unseen. 
 
 To read with that mysterious sense 
 
 We call the vision of the soul, 
 Long pages of immortal truth 
 
 Inscribed on nature's living scroll." 
 
 Upon a drift of scented leaves 
 I sank, half-buried there to lie, 
 
 And thought — 't was but a dream, you know 
 I'd let the toiling world go by. 
 
 A soft narcotic fragrance wrought 
 
 Its subde spell upon my brain. 
 And life and its remembrance seemed 
 
 The echo of a lost refrain. 
 
IN DREAMS. 
 
 The murmur of the stream grew faint ; 
 
 The woodland seemed to drift away ; 
 And wrapped in misty realms of space, 
 
 Dreaming within a dream I lay. 
 
 Before me rolled a mighty stream, 
 And, borne upon its waveless breast, 
 
 A mystic branch of mistletoe 
 
 Went floating toward the dying West. 
 
 Upon it sat a scarlet bird, 
 
 A golden harp beneath its feet, 
 
 A harp whereon the zephyrs played 
 Low music, sad and soft and sweet. 
 
 From shining shore to shining shore, 
 The flitting rainbows flashed and played, 
 
 Flung from the plumage of the bird 
 
 That floated on through light and shade. 
 
 The bright bird sang, and with the harp 
 Its notes grew clearer, yet more low, 
 
 And finer, farther, fainter still, 
 Amid the river's gleam and glow. 
 
 But only he who dreams may hear 
 The haunting sweetness of the song 
 
 That fluted from its ruby throat 
 
 Like a life-current, swift and strong. 
 
 One thought within my being stirred 
 
 And scorched my veins like heated wine 
 
 41 
 
42 
 
 IVILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 I'll follow till the world be past, 
 Sweet singer, till I call thee mine." 
 
 But still that subtile fragrance wrought 
 
 Its mystery upon my brain, 
 I saw the mighty current bear 
 
 Its burden onward to the main. 
 
 And still like one bereft of life 
 Reclined on that enchanted bed ; 
 
 The song, the light, the stream rolled by ; 
 The dream within my dream was dead. 
 
 The woodland, too, was gone, and wreaths 
 Of asphodel, fresh-blown and white, 
 
 About me lay serene and fair 
 
 And gleaming in the starry night. 
 
 Above my burning eyes they lay, 
 
 By unseen fingers softly pressed, 
 And gentle whispers round me said : 
 *' The song was frenzy, this is rest." 
 
 Without, the tossing waves of life 
 Again were beating on the shore. 
 
 All turbulent with pain and strife. 
 
 The night was dead, my dream no more. 
 
LIFE. 43 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 A CHECKERED web of flying years 
 Of mingled doubting hopes and fears, 
 With here and there a golden thread, 
 Like sunshine through the darkness spread. 
 
 A pathway, rugged, steep, and drear, 
 Bestrewn with leaves all crisp and sere, 
 With here and there a smiling flower 
 That blooms to fade within an hour. 
 
 A journey through a pathless night, 
 A misty realm of gloom and blight 
 With here and there a starry ray 
 To show the dangers of the way. 
 
 A song arising, low and dread. 
 By tears and bitter murmurs fed, 
 With now and then a joyful strain, 
 That robs one cadence of its pain. 
 
 A longing, lingering, looking back 
 Upon the swift-receding track, 
 With now and then a trembling ga~ze 
 Into the future's mystic haze. 
 
44 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 A restless, fevered, vague unrest, 
 A glimmer on the river's breast 
 That widens, deepens with the stream, 
 Into Eternity's still dream. 
 
 IN CAMDEN WOOD. 
 I. 
 
 HE who would stay his fainting faith 
 Should breathe the hill's inspiring breath 
 And nerve his spirit for the strife 
 With echoes of the brown quail's fife. 
 If he would hide one summer day 
 From care's corroding touch away, 
 Let him go where beyond the town. 
 The woodland sits in silken gown, 
 And safe within her faithful hold 
 The secret shall remain untold. 
 
 Between the town and Camden Wood 
 The river runs ; and oft I've stood 
 Upon the bridge's painted beam 
 And followed in my fancy's dream 
 The sparkle of a tiny thread 
 Just creeping from its rocky bed 
 Amid the mountains dark and wild. 
 And playing like a gleeful child, 
 
IN CAMDEN WOOD. 
 
 With broken bits of sheen and shade, 
 Its way 'neath laurel thickets made ; 
 Then flashing forth with wild delight 
 In cataracts of green and white, 
 Came widening down into the glen, 
 A servant in the hands of men. 
 This was above the bridge ; below 
 A-shimmer in the sunset glow, 
 With steadier sweep and many a bend, 
 I saw the waters westward trend 
 To join the clear Ohio's shore, 
 The River of the Woods no more. 
 
 This is the forest free and wild, 
 
 Unkept of man, and undefiled 
 
 With ax and saw of lumberman, 
 
 Though oft his thrifty glances scan 
 
 The poplars fair and walnuts brown 
 
 Along their stems from root to crown, 
 
 With calculation swift and neat, 
 
 Of just how many cubic feet. 
 
 This is the forest free and grand. 
 
 As fashioned by creative hand ; 
 
 No knife has pruned the underbrush 
 
 Beneath whose tangled tresses blush 
 
 The fragile flowers of the shade 
 
 In dainty loveliness arrayed. 
 
 As if some spirit of the air 
 
 In careless mood had dropped them there. 
 
 The prying sunbeams never look 
 
 45 
 
46 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 On misty green of many a nook 
 Where odors strange and sweet arise 
 Like a stray breath from Paradise ; 
 For this is where the elfin crew 
 Their hidden revelries pursue, 
 And on the fern-seed cast the spell 
 Which makes a man invisible 
 Forevermore to mortal sight, 
 If gathered on the fateful night. 
 Never for me the place and hour 
 Together came ; but from the bower 
 I stole the secret of its shade ; 
 I learned how all the wood was made. 
 
 II. 
 
 HOW THE WOOD WAS MADE, 
 
 The artist, Nature, walked one day 
 Where knolls and valleys barren lay, 
 And naked rocks on every height 
 Were sweltering in the garish light, 
 And lingering there in musing mood 
 She planned and planted Camden Wood. 
 Here first she made the cooling breeze, 
 And then she set the leafy trees, 
 The hickory with his ragged cloak. 
 Erect and firm the sachem oak, 
 The birch-tree graceful as a maid, 
 And the bird-haunted beeches' shade ; 
 The fair bacchante sycamore 
 
/iV CAMDEN WOOD. .j 
 
 Her dappled fawn-skin 'round her wore, 
 
 And shook her golden-tasseled head 
 
 At all the coaxing breezes said. 
 
 A silent, swart, Egyptian band 
 
 Of gum-trees, weather-scarred and tanned, 
 
 Stood sentinel about the hoard 
 
 Of sweets within the maples stored. 
 
 The buckeye with its blossoms pied. 
 
 The service-tree veiled like a bride. 
 
 And walnuts 'neath whose tawny skin 
 
 The bitter blood was rioting, — 
 
 All, all, and many more she set, — 
 
 But all unfinished seemed it yet. 
 
 And then she flang from rock to tree 
 
 A robe of greenest tapestry ; 
 
 And all the forest-coverts caught 
 
 Some fringes her deft fingers wrought. 
 
 Insurgent host of ivies scaled 
 
 The castled rocks with fingers mailed ; 
 
 And twining, creeping, trailing things 
 
 Went softly fluttering into rings 
 
 Till every hardy sapling felt 
 
 The climbing fingers at his belt. 
 
 And then she bade the flowers spring ; • 
 
 And here and there a glancing wing 
 
 With rainbow tints she covered o'er — 
 
 A glancing wing forevermore, — 
 
 And some gray birds with mottled breast 
 
 She bade remain and build their nest 
 
 Within the dusky dingles near. 
 
48 
 
 WILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Where in the floodtide of the year, 
 
 The Uvelong day their voices swell 
 
 Clear-toned and ringing like a bell. 
 
 And myriads of shining things 
 
 Came floating down with noiseless wings 
 
 Upon the beams of golden light . 
 
 She sifted through the leafy height. 
 
 Then strung upon a silver thread 
 
 The wimpling waters onward sped ; 
 
 Or cinctured in the hollow stone 
 
 Like gems of clearest crystal shone. 
 
 AVhen all was done, at sunset close. 
 
 She stopped a moment to repose 
 
 Within the sheltered sloping land. 
 
 Upon the palette in her hand 
 
 The softest shades of colors lay, 
 
 Of brown, and green and silver-gray. 
 
 And iridescent hues that glow 
 
 Within the heaven's bended bow ; 
 
 She mixed them with a glamour sweet. 
 
 And dropped them idly at her feet. 
 
 The breezes caught them as they fell 
 
 And changed them with a whispered spell ; 
 
 And where they touched the mellow earth 
 
 A verdure new sprang into birth. 
 
 It wore the palm-tree's feathered crest, 
 
 In fringe and spangles it was dressed ; 
 
 O'er softest robes of green and gray 
 
 It wore the jewels of the May ; 
 
 And lighter than the clouds of spring, 
 
IN CAMDEN WOOD. 
 
 It crept about each crumbling thing. 
 It wrapped each dull, decaying form 
 In velvet mantle, soft and warm. 
 As if to fearing man it saith : 
 Behold how very fair is death ! " 
 And thus within the twihght shade 
 Were moss and ferns and lichens made ; 
 And thus beneath the twilight dew 
 The moss and ferns and lichens grew. 
 Before the artist left the place 
 She bade the lichen pencils trace 
 A legend on the page of stone ; 
 But he, beloved of her, alone 
 Can read the lines he may not speak. 
 Then in the ferns, with sudden freak 
 She folded softly from the day 
 Some tiny, brown-capped elves away. 
 But in the selvedge of the wood, 
 Ling'ring she seized — ah, cruel mood ! 
 A lovely Maenad singing there ; 
 And pinned her by the yeUow hair 
 Beneath the waters cold and deep. 
 Where you may hear her sob and weep. 
 
 Ah, mine is but an idle lay. 
 
 An idle hour to while away ; 
 
 But you within the secret dell 
 
 The lichens' lettered weird may spell, 
 
 And learn the legend if you seek, 
 
 Which you may never, never speak. 
 
 49 
 
50 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 III. 
 
 IN THE VALLEY OF DREAMS. 
 
 Here where the pink-lipped orchid died, a weed 
 
 Its gaudy clusters flaunts, and faithless bees, 
 
 Their springtime love forgot, their revels keep 
 
 Within its golden chambers. And lest Care 
 
 Should claim the hour, I 've hidden it beneath 
 
 The opal banners of the autumn wood. 
 
 Away with Care ! into the heart of man 
 
 He stealeth deep, and where his presence is 
 
 The verdure withers and the song is dead. 
 
 Better it is to rest upon this bank 
 
 Of jeweled moss, and let the woven light 
 
 And shade our fitful fancies snare 
 
 Within their shining meshes, than to bend 
 
 An aching brow above the yellow page 
 
 Of man's unsatisfying lore ; to lie 
 
 Enfolded by the autumn's mellow mood 
 
 As yonder cliff's gray wall in sunshine steeped ; 
 
 To breathe as languid zephyrs breathe. 
 
 To rest as rests the many-colored tranquil wood. 
 
 There is a pleasing mystery that steals 
 Upon the musing mind of man unsought. 
 And opening wide the windows of the soul, 
 Makes him contemporary with all time. 
 As once within the Autumn's painted bowers 
 I lay half-hidden from the noontide glow, 
 
IN CAMDEN WOOD. cj 
 
 Afar away did seem to float the hum 
 And whir of drowsy insects murmuring 
 Amid the golden-dusted blooms, and borne 
 Upon the viewless wings of reverie, 
 Through rounded centuries I drifted back 
 And drank the primal freshness of the world. 
 And thus I stood in ancient Britainy 
 With him, the great magician. Merlin named, 
 And her sung by all bards the beautiful, 
 Yet false, forsworn, and wily Vivien. 
 Old is the story told by many tongues 
 And heard by many ears ; but ever seems 
 False notes to mar its changeful melody, — 
 But will you hear it as I read it once 
 From their own faces in the autumn wood ? 
 
 In the dark glass of destiny the seer 
 
 Had seen the passing of white-souled kin'g 
 
 And the destruction of his peerless knights, 
 
 The overthrow of peace and harmony 
 
 And all the dismal time which was to come. 
 
 And half to hide his heavy countenance. 
 
 And half because a dreary purpose wrought 
 
 Within his mind, he fled from Arthur's court 
 
 And hid himself amid the deepest shades 
 
 Of the near wood. And Vivien followed him 
 
 Unasked, but still expected, for the power 
 
 Was his to do the thing he willed, and draw 
 
 The footsteps of the bidden one, as tides 
 
 By the round moon are drawn from farthest shores. 
 
52 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 They crossed the smooth, bright waters in a boat, 
 
 And came into a woody basin wide, 
 
 And ringed upon the north, the east, and south 
 
 With circled line of the blue hills. The west 
 
 An open gateway, golden in the light 
 
 Of slanting sunbeams, stood ; and you could see 
 
 Across the water and the open space, 
 
 Far off a solitary turret gleam. 
 
 The wizard, grand and awful in his gloom, 
 
 Unspeaking sat beneath a tree. He felt 
 
 The weight of his great age upon his soul 
 
 Press heavily; his life outran the span 
 
 Of many generations; deep was he 
 
 In magic steeped ; and all throughout the land 
 
 The saying dwelt that Merlin could not die. 
 
 But unto him was known a nameless spell. 
 
 Which, wrought upon the sleeping, he who slept 
 
 Awakened nevermore to sight and sound; 
 
 But lay entranced within a hollow land 
 
 Invisible forevermore, and dead 
 
 To all the voices of the calling years. 
 
 Few leaves had fallen, but a subtile flush 
 
 Upon the forest's emerald had crept. 
 
 And on the borders of the open paths 
 
 The wild grass hung its gray and scarlet fringe; 
 
 And slender bars of sunlight slanted through 
 
 The thin blue vapor of the wood and broke 
 
 In fretted rainbows upon Vivien's head. 
 
 Down to her sandaled feet in clinging curves 
 
 Her silken gown of softest primrose swept ; 
 
IN CAMDEN WOOD. c-i 
 
 About her waist a band of shining gold 
 
 Clasped with a green-eyed dragon's head, ensealed 
 
 And crusted o'er with gems of dazzling white, 
 
 With heart-red drops of rubies interspersed ; 
 
 Her brow, her cheeks, her softly rounded arms 
 
 And graceful throat, as ivory crucifix 
 
 Were colorless save for the sunset glow 
 
 And the warm flush of the red-tinted wood. 
 
 A jeweled dagger held her dusky hair, 
 
 But the escaping locks down to her waist 
 
 In gentle undulations fell, and hung 
 
 Like deepest hemlock shade above her brow. 
 
 Her eyes ? — Have you not looked into a pool 
 
 Of water which welled up from darkest depths 
 
 Of cold gray stone, and caught upon its breast 
 
 The warm brown of the fallen leaf, the deep 
 
 Clear emerald of the lichen, and the gloom 
 
 Of wind-clouds with the rifts of sunshine pierced ? 
 
 Thus Vivien's eyes the color of her mood 
 
 Took on ; to one man black, to one man blue. 
 
 To other softest hazel hue, and grave 
 
 Or gay as fancy taught, for each man found 
 
 Within their depths the soul his soul had sought. 
 
 The dainty grace of girlishness bespoke 
 
 The simple, tender, loving-hearted maid ; 
 
 The thin curve of her scarlet lips might well 
 
 Befit a serpent temptress ; the wide brow 
 
 A man's strong counselor and friend bespoke. 
 
 Which was she ? All, as the demand might be ; 
 
54 
 
 IVILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 For woman in all ages is the same, 
 
 She does but answer to the stronger voice. 
 
 So Vivien stood within the darkening wood, 
 Like some smooth bird of paradise with plumes 
 Of palest gold. And Merlin felt his hour 
 Draw near ; but will she answer to his will ? 
 Too curious Vivien ! Her eyes well matched 
 The dragon orbs upon her belt — when from 
 His loosened grasp she drew the serpent staff 
 And o'er the sleeping wizard cast the spell 
 No mortal power might break forevermore ; 
 And in the hollow land, invisible, 
 By her bereft of weariness and pain. 
 Lies Merlin dreamless still And Vivien? 
 Had you not marked the hand whose fibers lay 
 Banded like steel within their velvet case? 
 Could she forget? Ah, well I 1 only know 
 The voice that in the deepest forest lives 
 Is never merry ; laughs not ; sighs and grieves, 
 And going, comes again to grieve and sigh 
 Like one who tries and ever tries in vain 
 A sleeper's fettered spirit to unchain. 
 
IN CAMDEN IVOOD. ^^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 l'envoi. 
 
 How strange the slumb'rous fancies seem 
 That hover o'er a wakening dream. 
 Was yonder rock, bearded and gray, 
 Merhn, august and stern ? That spray 
 Of golden-rod beside it there. 
 The slender form of Vivien fair ? 
 This woody shore not Brittany 
 But the new land ? And this must be 
 Little Kanawha's rippling tide 
 And not the classic waters wide— 
 And that white spire upon the hill 
 The village church,- remote and still. 
 Ah, royal wood, I know thee well, 
 It needs no wizard old to spell 
 Thy written fate. The coming tread 
 Of iron courser shakes with dread 
 The bosom of thy calm retreat, 
 And low thy numbered pulses beat. 
 And oft upon the Sabbath morn. 
 Hands in his pockets,, beard unshorn, 
 The rustic Dives wanders by 
 And casts a calculating eye 
 Upon thy timber grand and old, 
 Upon thy depths of richest mold ; 
 And ever in his fancy's ear 
 
56 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 The chopper's ax rings loud and clear ; 
 And harvests of the golden corn 
 Are of his greedy visions born. 
 And I, too, hear the groaning sigh 
 With which thy charms lie down to die. 
 When tott'ring 'neath the steady stroke 
 With awful crash the mighty oak, 
 The monarch of the centuries. 
 Amid the cruel ruin lies, 
 Which his descending arm has hurled 
 Upon the hapless sylvan world. 
 
 1 follow still the fallen tree 
 
 Upon the wind of destiny, 
 
 Where deep, estranging waters meet 
 
 The alien skies. Beneath his feet 
 
 As iron firm the wanderer feels 
 
 The beams of oak, and through him steals 
 
 The (juiet of the pathless wood, 
 
 Its languor mingles with his blood, 
 
 And memory's gentle herald spoke 
 
 Its message through the heart of oak. 
 
 Or barred behind an iron door 
 Upon his cell's close-fibered floor, 
 Some fettered wretch penned up to die 
 May sleeping dream of liberty. 
 
 I see the gleaming mattock swung 
 
 Above thy fair, unsheltered young ; 
 
 And watch with mingled grief and shame, 
 
IN CAMDEN WOOD. 
 
 The swift, devouring tongues of flame 
 
 Lap thy life current rich and strong. — ■ 
 
 Forever still the gray bird's song ; 
 
 For patient oxen to and fro, 
 
 Across thy blackened acres go ; 
 
 And blistering 'neath shadeless sky 
 
 The orchids in the furrows lie, 
 
 With all their chaliced sweetness trod 
 
 Beneath the foot of living clod. 
 
 A quagmire reeking with the scum 
 
 Of stagnant waters, where the hum 
 
 Of marsh-bred insects and the cry 
 
 Abhorred by every passer-by. 
 
 Of the green-spotted, loathsome toad, 
 
 Alone shall be" the funeral ode 
 
 Of thy pure spring whose waters clear 
 
 Mirrored the antlers of the deer, 
 
 Or feathered crest of Indian chief 
 
 More swarthy than the fallen leaf, 
 
 Or dusky eyes of forest girl 
 
 Whose locks outshone the singing merle. 
 
 Vet it may be one passing by, 
 
 Amid the ruined waste may spy 
 
 A slender stem of ebony 
 
 Beneath its fringed canopy ; 
 
 While ferny odors cool and sweet, 
 
 His half-believing senses greet, 
 
 And marvel that a thing so fair 
 
 Should keep its dainty footing there ; 
 
 And if he be of Nature's lore 
 
 57 
 
58 
 
 IVILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 A lover true, he'll ponder o'er 
 
 Her lengthened scroll to find the key 
 
 Unto the fern's green mystery. 
 
 So frail and yet so strong they grow 
 
 Beneath the beds of drifted snow, 
 
 And in the rifts of barren rock 
 
 Beyond the shepherd's questing flock ; 
 
 They cluster in the darkest dell. 
 
 Climb down into the gray-walled well, 
 
 And the smooth water bending o'er 
 
 Narcissus-like, themselves adore. 
 
 O shade of Merlin, couldst ihou tell 
 
 To me the long-forgotten spell 
 
 Of waving hand and woven pace. 
 
 This wood with all its witching grace, 
 
 Encircled by the magic maze 
 
 Should vanish softly from the gaze 
 
 Of crafty eye forevermore. 
 
 But there should be a secret door 
 
 Whose noiseless hinge should inward swing 
 
 When in the mild delicious spring 
 
 The child who loves the violet 
 
 Her dainty footsteps hither set. 
 
 Who names the birdlings in "their nests 
 
 Yet leaves them with unfluttered breasts. 
 
 Here early in ambrosial June, 
 
 With all its harmonies in tune, 
 
 Unwittingly should lovers blind 
 
 Sometimes the mystic portal find, 
 
IN CAMDEN WOOD. ^g 
 
 And in their young hearts Avarm and strong 
 
 Should carry hence the thrushes' song 
 
 To cheer Hfe's dreary solitude, 
 
 When far from the enchanted wood 
 
 With all his witching glamour fled 
 
 Fond Love himself lies cold and dead. 
 
 Here should the haunted worldling come 
 
 When Flattery's fevered lips are dumb ; 
 
 Misled by Fortune's fickle flame 
 
 And broken on the wheel of fame, 
 
 From maddening whirl and senseless shout 
 
 Of the Circean, swinish rout, 
 
 He here should rest his dying head 
 
 Upon the woodland's leafy bed 
 
 Where in the silence cool and clear, 
 
 Spirits of mercy linger near. 
 
 Open that door should ever be 
 
 Unto the child of phantasy ; 
 
 He should not mingle with the herd 
 
 Who never felt their pulses stirred 
 
 With echoes of the hidden lyre 
 
 AVith flashes of the sacred fire. 
 
 The wind should teach him fancies fine, 
 
 The water, melodies divine ; 
 
 His heart should feed itself among 
 
 The idyls of the stars unsung ; 
 
 And the soft graces of the wood 
 
 Should mingle ever with his blood. 
 
 Until his earth-cleansed eyes could see 
 
 Beyond the soul's veiled mystery. 
 
6o 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Then to the weary world his song 
 
 Should come as heart throbs warm and strong ; 
 
 Within it there should ever ring 
 
 The laughter of the happy spring, 
 
 The forest's quiet scorn of ills, 
 
 The strength of the unshaken hills, 
 
 Faith, steadfast as the circling spheres, 
 
 And hope triumphant over fears. 
 
 Then with'ring doubt forever fled 
 
 Should hide in shame his serpent head ; 
 
 And the uplifted world should hail 
 
 Her sister spheres beyond the veil. — 
 
 A day-dream vain ! with ling'ring sigh 
 
 I read thy doom*, thou passeth by. 
 
 CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 Rondeau. 
 
 ACROSS the fields there wakes and swells 
 Afar the sound of Christmas bells; 
 And listening in the starry night, 
 My soul is stirred with strange delight. 
 As from the earth's remotest cells 
 A faint harmonious echo wells. 
 And softly, sweetly, gladly tells 
 
 The sleeping vale- and shrouded heights, 
 "77/^ Christ is born.'" 
 
A BRIEF INTER VIE IV. 5 j 
 
 O sing for joy, ye frozen fells ! 
 Rejoice aloud, ye hollow dells ! 
 
 His star ascendeth clear and bright, 
 
 His kingdom cometh in its might, 
 
 And peace with him forever dwells. — 
 
 T/ie Christ is born. 
 
 A BRIEF INTERVIEW. 
 
 IVTA'Y, come not nearer, comrade of the brake, 
 
 ^ ^ Whose scaly curves enfold the fallen branch 
 
 Like ghstening bands of polished ebony, 
 
 I seek no close companionship with thee. 
 
 I like not much thy forked darting tongue ; 
 
 And in thy scintillating orbs, methinks 
 
 I see red-handed murder's baleful gleam. 
 
 I am no Mother Eve to be beguiled 
 
 With all thy sleek, insinuating wiles ; 
 
 The blood of innocents is on thy head. 
 
 What, wilt thou not begone ? Why then must I 
 
 My footsteps backward trace with creepy chill, 
 
 As if some evil thing stole on my track ? 
 
 I. harm thee not; the wood is wide. Not mine 
 
 The guiltless hand to cast accusing stone. 
 
 With such uncanny feelings 1 have held 
 Converse with some in human form, whose wit 
 
62 
 
 IVTLDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 With swift electric touch transmuted oft 
 
 The leaden hours into moments fraught 
 
 \\"\{h the divinest fancy. When they went 
 
 Across my threshold, out into the night, 
 
 I 've glanced down at the sill with nervous thought 
 
 Of witch-charms ; and half-guiltily have wished 
 
 That it with holy water were besprent ; 
 
 With vague uneasiness have flared the lami)s 
 
 Up to their very brightest, and have urged 
 
 The fire into crackling flames ; the while 
 
 Have at my very foot-stool looked askance 
 
 Lest into a black poodle it should turn. 
 
 And still half-shivering to bed have crept 
 
 Feeling that I had been holding, as now. 
 
 An interview with Mephistopheles. 
 
 I 
 
 LIFE'S QUESTIONINGS. 
 
 AX/ HO that hath listened, hath not heard arise 
 ^' From hearts dis(piieted with thoughts of death, 
 Murmurs and anxious (juestionings like these — 
 And destiny makes answer to them all : 
 
 " When I am dead whose hand will bring 
 To my^low grave some trace of spring? 
 A token of remembrance brief 
 Expressed by one unfolding leaf. 
 
LIFE'S QUESTIONINGS. g^ 
 
 Will pluck for me the tinted flowers 
 Within the forests waking bowers, 
 Beneath whose shadows, faint and still, 
 They whisper to the purling rill — 
 Say, will no one to that lone spot 
 Bring one pale blue forget-me-not ? " 
 
 " Hush, restless heart, it can not be, 
 The spring-time comes no more for thee. 
 The woods with bursting buds are rife, 
 But they shall crown the brow of life, 
 And wave in garlands fresh and gay, 
 Around the blue-eyed Queen of May. 
 Yes, meet is spring-time's breezy mirth 
 For every laughing child of earth ; 
 And no sad memories may rise 
 'Neath her sweet voice and beaming eyes." 
 
 " When summer comes, shall not one rose 
 Of all the waving tree bestows. 
 By some true friend of days long fled 
 Be plucked in memory of the dead ? 
 One crimson rose, within whose breast 
 The scented dew-drops lightly rest ; 
 Or one spray of the trailing flower 
 That decks the maiden's favored bower ? 
 What hast thou for thine absent child, 
 Thou queen of seasons, warm and wild ? " 
 
 '' O, murmuring heart, why still lament ? 
 All of thy summer days are spent; 
 
64 
 
 IVILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 The roses blush 'neath Beauty's glance, 
 'Midst song and laugh and flying dance 
 They glow against her burnished hair ; 
 Their subtile fragrance fills the air 
 Where buoyant hearts, careless and firee, 
 Are thrilled with music's witchery ; 
 From scenes of mirth thou long hast fled — 
 What to the living are the dead?" 
 
 When the sweet summer sinks to rest 
 
 Within the autumn's glowing breast, 
 
 And dreamily the golden haze 
 
 Creeps through the woodland's winding maze : 
 
 When through the gloaming reapers come 
 
 Singing the joyous ' Harvest-Home,' 
 
 Will one regretful thought of me 
 
 Arise on its soft melody 
 
 And bid them cast a whispering wave 
 
 Of scarlet leaves upon my grave?" 
 
 'T is vain, sad heart ! Thinkest thou when 
 
 The russet leaves bestrew the glen. 
 
 When days are fair, and warm, and still, 
 
 And gladly murmurs every rill, 
 
 When round, bright moons through all the night 
 
 Bathe the calm earth in softest light, 
 
 That one full heart will less rejoice 
 
 For mem'ry of an absent voice ? 
 
 What have the radiant and gay 
 
 To do with darkness and decay ? " 
 
LIFE'S QUESTIONINGS. gg 
 
 '' When winter spreads his snowy pall 
 Over the brilliant robe of fall, 
 When all the grass is brown and sere 
 And hollow winds are sad and drear, 
 Whose hand for me a wreath will twine 
 Of holly leaves or sighing pine? 
 Of waving ferns, free and impressed, 
 Light fringes from the mountain's crest — 
 Blest season of the starry night, 
 Shall I not share thy treasures bright?" 
 
 " Still dost thou speak ? O, troubled heart, 
 Thou art a thing from life apart. 
 The banquet hall hath ferns and pine 
 Reflected in its sparkling wine ; 
 And holly berries glance in glee 
 Where lingers not a trace of thee. 
 Ah, who will quit the festal throng 
 And pause where thou hast slumbered long. 
 Leaving an ivy leaf to say : 
 ' I miss thee on this happy day'?" 
 
 " Still, if above thy dreamless sleep 
 The gray moss, even, should not creep, 
 Why shouldst thou grieve ? Earth is but dust ; 
 Her gems are clay, her gold is rust. 
 And, somewhere, for the striving soul. 
 There lies a fair, celestial goal. 
 Beyond the dark'ning hand of time, 
 'Midst choral symphonies sublime, 
 
55 IVILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Where angel hands shall c ull for thee 
 The flowers of Immortality." 
 
 RESURGAM. 
 
 T STOOD beside the ocean's broad expanse 
 
 ^ When silently the melancholy Night 
 
 Her legions led against the dying sun. 
 
 Far to the inland rose a lofty height, 
 
 Gray-walled, and summit-crowned with somber pines, 
 
 The incense of whose fragrant breathing crept 
 
 About the beach, and mingled with the moan 
 
 Of the sad waves, that evermore beat out 
 
 Their weary lives against the answering rocks : 
 
 And as I gazed a strange, magnetic thrill 
 
 Of sympathy with the departing king 
 
 Within my spirit rose. His face was cold ; 
 
 Around him forms impalpable and dread, 
 
 Were closing in ; and from the deep uprose 
 
 Unnumbered shadowy arms to drag him down. 
 
 He sank, but with his latest glance inscribed 
 
 Upon the granite mountain's living page 
 
 In burning letters : " I shall rise again." 
 
 I walked where fierce December winds had -swept 
 The forest bare of flowers, of leaves, and birds ; 
 And under heavy skies the tuneless earth 
 
RESURGAM. 5y 
 
 Lay scarred and blackened like a wasted life ; 
 But kneeling low upon her frozen breast, 
 I felt the strong, resistless tide of Life's 
 Electric current flowing far beneath. 
 I heard the warm hearts of the flowers beat 
 In unison divine, and their soft tones 
 Reverberating, low through nature's depths 
 The joyful ptean : "I shall rise again." 
 
 Within a shrouded chamber, in the chill, 
 
 Unanswering company of death, I sat, 
 
 Nor did I watch alone. Repulsive forms 
 
 Around me thronged, and wrought their subtle spells 
 
 Upon my soul ; and, like Laocoon 
 
 Struggling in vain against the tightening folds 
 
 Of the gigantic monsters of the sea. 
 
 My spirit writhed beneath those icy bonds ; 
 
 Beside me cold Annihilation raised 
 
 Her mocking face, and whispered, " Look the last 
 
 Upon yon soulless form — I claim my own." 
 
 I turned my troubled gaze, and lo ! the dawn 
 Of glorious Immortality had traced 
 Upon the chiseled features of the dead, 
 In joy and peace, ineffable : '• Although 
 The grave consume me, I shall rise again." 
 
^g WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 IN OCTOBER. 
 
 I SAID to my heart in October, 
 October the golden and rare, 
 When the glow of an Indian-summer 
 
 Had melted into the blue air : 
 O, low-beating heart, you are weary 
 
 Beneath the brown earth's mellow crest, 
 Asleep with a garland of lilies 
 
 Like new-fallen snow on her breast, 
 The sweet maiden, Summer, is lying, 
 
 With zephyrs and perfume o'ercast — 
 Not dead, O, not dead, but awaking 
 
 Again when the winter is past. 
 rU hide you away in her bosom 
 
 From the drip of the pitiless rain. 
 From the voice of the wind whose hoarse sobbing 
 
 Has thrilled you and filled you with pain.'' 
 So I wreathed its love-chambers with myrtle. 
 
 Cast from them the cypress and pine. 
 And filled them with orient roses, 
 
 With starlight and incense divine. 
 Ere I closed them there crept in, unbidden. 
 
 The sorrowful cry of a bird, 
 Low, thrilling with bitterest anguish 
 
 The echoes it yet scarcely stirred. 
 
IN OCTOBER. 
 
 But I said : " Let it be ; in the stillness, 
 
 And perfume of roses so deep, 
 Far down 'neath the wild winter riot, 
 
 It surely will rest, it will sleep." 
 From its white-bannered fane of Ambition 
 
 I banished the demons afar ; 
 I burnished the altar of Glory 
 
 Till it shone with the light of a star ; 
 But through the bare aisles there went wailin* 
 
 The voices of storm and unrest. 
 So old ! I had heard them forever 
 
 Complain in unsatisfied quest : 
 ' Deep, deep let them lie," then, I whispered, 
 "■ Those sounds of all tortures the worst. 
 
 And 1 shall be free, for a season. 
 From their turbulent voices accurst." 
 
 So I buried my heart with the Summer, 
 
 In her grave 'neath the sounding trees ; 
 And lightly I fled with the sunbeams. 
 
 Far away to the southern seas. 
 ' O, Life, let your tempest, unbridled, 
 
 Break now o'er the shuddering main," 
 I said, '' for my heart lies in quiet. 
 
 Remembering not its old pain." 
 
 69 
 
 In vain, O my heart, the wild voices 
 
 Of dreary December, to-night, 
 Call loudly of wreck and of ruin, 
 
70 
 
 IVILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Of tempest, of madness, and blight. 
 They wake and make answer — those voices 
 
 'Hiat vexed thee, of storm and unrest — 
 Far off, 'neath the dark forest lying 
 
 Clasped close to the Summer's still breast. 
 And faintly, above their wild clamor. 
 
 There wails the low cry of a bird. 
 The hemlocks have heard it and whisper, 
 
 The cypress-tree listened and stirred." 
 
 Is there rest from the pitiless beating. 
 The voices, the moan of the blast. 
 
 In the still summer-land of Hereafter, 
 When life's dreary winter is past ? 
 
 THE GOSSIP. 
 
 HER name is legion ; and her likeness — well, 
 'T is hard to find a fitting parallel. 
 For hke the unclean sprites of Spenser's rhyme, 
 Her changeful visage ever suits the time. 
 With features sanctified, and placid mien. 
 In holy sanctuaries she is seen. 
 The brow which bends before the sacred feast 
 Oft wears the hidden signet of the beast. 
 This blushing maiden, fair as a pink pearl. 
 Can any evil lurk in this sweet girl ? 
 
THE GOSSIP. -^ 
 
 O skeptic, from her curved lips as she sleeps 
 
 The red mouse of the Brocken softly creeps. 
 
 A vampire, battening in the warm life stream 
 
 From sleeping victims drawn she well might seem ; 
 
 But vampires haunt unhallowed night alone, 
 
 And she, all times and seasons are her own. 
 
 A ghoul at its foul feast in church-yard dread ? 
 
 O no; ghouls banquet only on the dead. 
 
 A viper hissing forth its poison sprays ? 
 
 Nay, vipers lurk not in familiar ways. 
 
 Vain search ! Of loathsome slimy things which creep 
 
 The earth, or in the felon's dungeon deep 
 
 On frightful dreams arise like sorcery, 
 
 There lives not aught abhorred and foul as she. 
 
 May she be known ? Ay, truly may she be. 
 
 Would you be warned the tests are fair and free ; 
 
 Place her amid the fairest flowers that bloom, 
 
 Mark how she sickens 'neath their rare perfume 
 
 And. seeks, with all a miser's anxious greed. 
 
 The fetid odors of the one rank weed. 
 
 When the wood-thrushes on a thousand hills 
 
 Are fluting out their soft, harmonious trills, 
 
 She will hear naught but echoes scarcely stirred 
 
 By one green-spotted toad you had not heard. 
 
 With changeful opal gems her pathway strew. 
 
 And see her still her eager search pursue 
 
 Amid their unseen splendor's ceaseless play. 
 
 Till she hath found the lump of common clay. 
 
 If in her hands a character you place. 
 
 Composed of gentle loveliness and grace. 
 
72 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Of Stainless truth and charity benign, 
 
 With cunning haste she '11 rend the structure fine 
 
 To find the leper-spot behind the screen, 
 
 The one small pit which you had never seen. 
 
 However fair, however richly dressed, 
 
 Once known, avoid her as you would the pest. 
 
 POESY. 
 
 ' Rondeau. 
 
 T ASKED a boon. The gods on high 
 
 ^ Were dumb, till Pity with a sigh, 
 Plucking a hollow reed, arose — 
 A hollow reed was all she chose 
 
 And gave. The gates were shut, and I 
 
 With rueful heart and lips all dry 
 
 Essayed the slender gift to try 
 
 And touched the charmed fount that flows 
 From Helicon. 
 
 I breathe the breath of gods. I lie 
 
 On golden shores of Arcady ; 
 And softly life forever goes, 
 The world forgotten and its woes, 
 
 AVhile I with all the gods may vie 
 On Helicon. 
 
MEMORY. w^ 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 T^HE realm of the Past ! It lies far away 
 ^ In silence, unbroken and dread. 
 Its shadowy light widens not into day ; 
 But moonshine and stars hold their mystical sway ; 
 And cold is the glist of each motionless ray 
 
 That lights the pale land of the dead — 
 That shrouds with a silvery mist-veil of tears 
 The crypt of the lost and beautiful years. 
 
 In vain do we reach our hand toward that shore, 
 
 Oblivion's wave rolls between. 
 It widens forever ; and still evermore 
 Flows silently over the legends of yore. 
 Lost jewels, the rarest of w^isdom's bright store. 
 
 Forgotten, unwept, and unseen. 
 Its desolate calm unstirred by the sweep 
 Of white-winged ships coming in from the deep. 
 
 Yet we freighted our ships with many a bale 
 - And saw them grow small to our sight. 
 And year after year, till the hours grow pale 
 We wearily watch for the gleam of a sail. 
 Our hearts rise and fall with each wavering gale ; 
 Our hopes fade alike with the light ; 
 
74 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Yet are they sailing to us is unknown. 
 
 On what nameless seas by the wild tempests blown. 
 
 Oft as we pause on the star-gilded strand 
 
 Awaiting the flush of the dawn, 
 A phantom steals slowly o'er driftwood and sand, 
 And gathers the shells with a trembling hand ; 
 Touching the waves with her magical wand 
 
 They murmur like streams that are gone — 
 And softly, sweet music floats o'er the shore, 
 Songs half-forgotten, yet missed evermore. 
 
 Sung by the voices long since unheard, 
 
 Dreamful as strains the gnome-bard sings ; 
 With the rhythm and rhyme of leaves that are stirred 
 By a half-breathed sigh, or a half-spoken word; 
 By the quivering trill of a distant bird, 
 
 Or the rustle of silken wings. 
 Ah, whence does it come — this melody ?• 
 Do our ships sail in from the unknown sea? 
 
 We listen ; the hopes in our bosoms surge high. 
 
 "At last I They are coming at last ! " 
 But the waves sink in silence, the sweet echoes die ; 
 The glimmering daylight steals on the eye ; 
 The shadowy form as a mist-wreath goes by ; 
 
 The dream of enchantment is past. 
 The shores resound with tumultuous tread. 
 For life is abroad, the night dream is dead. 
 
LINES. ^c 
 
 Yes, the world comes out with its scheming brain, 
 
 Its careless heart and bustling feet ; 
 And we follow the current of life again, 
 Holding the links of a broken chain 
 Scattered and crushed by the laboring wain, 
 
 Still warm with magic, old and sweet — 
 For 't was wrought by Memory's trembling hands 
 Out of treasures culled on the mystic sands. 
 
 Though all may smile, and many may sneer. 
 
 That we cherish a thing so sHght, 
 To us 't is the key of a happier sphere 
 Where again we shall meet with the all missed here, 
 Unfanned by a sigh and undimmed with a tear 
 
 On the shores of eternal light. 
 Where, safe in the beautiful havens, we 
 Shall meet with the ships we have lost at sea. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Suggested by the Grave of Roberta Edmiston. 
 
 ]\T0 transient guest is Sorrow. She doth move 
 ^ ^ With leaden footsteps, heavier day by day ; 
 And on their mournful echoes still arise 
 The tender mem'ries of our loved and lost. * 
 With falt'ring step of age and spent with toil ; 
 With manhood's strong ambitions yet undimmed ; 
 
76 
 
 WILD wo on CHIMES. 
 
 Or breathing still the tender grace of youth — 
 
 Even as a child turns from a broken toy, 
 
 They put aside this living warmth, and pass 
 
 Into the silence of Eternity. 
 
 And as we stand, with hot rebellious hearts, 
 
 Beside their sodden graves, 'tis hard to lay 
 
 Our selfishness aside, and say for them — 
 
 For the unnumbered dead — that it is well. 
 
 Life's fairest flowers are plucked from desert soil ; 
 
 Its lightest breeze is heavy with the weight 
 
 Of sighs and bitter tears ; and well we know 
 
 The key-note of its sweetest songs is pain. 
 
 Is there not comfort then, for those whose grief 
 
 Falls like a winter rain, in the dear words, 
 
 " Sheltered and safe from sorrow " are the dead ? 
 
 I look ujjon the monument — an urn 
 Half-veiled and with closed lid — which stands 
 Above this sweet, dead girl, and unto me 
 It seems an emblem of the life which is; 
 A prophecy of that which is to come. 
 Enclosed and shrouded from our mortal gaze 
 Are the deep mysteries of love and grief; 
 But in the still serenity that lies 
 Within the confines of the great Beyond, 
 AVhere all these changeful voices are at rest, 
 Shall we not find the pure white urn of Life, 
 Its crystal fullness then unveiled, for aye. 
 And from its peaceful bosom gather up 
 
DREAM-HA UNTED. 
 
 77 
 
 The ruined fragments of our broken hopes 
 Into one blest and pure reahty ? 
 
 DREAM-HAUNTED. 
 
 T^HE sky was wonderfully bright 
 ^ That shone upon his infant face ; 
 But o'er his head one brilliant star 
 Sadly withdrew her golden grace. 
 
 Within the northland, bleak and far, 
 The fierce wild winds were firmly tied ; 
 
 But one sad zephyr claimed the hour, 
 And ling'ring round his cradle sighed. 
 
 And from that hour his life was charmed 
 Beyond the power of word or deed ; 
 
 Ever he wandered forth alone. 
 
 Dream-haunted by each stream and mead, 
 
 And sometimes when the quiet tears 
 Of summer fell in gentle showers 
 
 And one sad zephyr shook them down 
 From the half-opened meadow-flowers, 
 
78 
 
 IV I L D IV O O D CHIMES. 
 
 Reclined amid the rushes green 
 
 That whispered by the gHding riv^, 
 
 His hollow-reed awoke sweet notes 
 Unheard before and lost forever. 
 
 The carol of each bird was hushed ; 
 
 The wond'ring river paused to see, 
 As back and forth the rushes swayed, 
 
 If Pan alive again might be. 
 
 He little recked the sons of strife 
 
 Passed by that way, nor stayed to hear ; 
 
 His music was the echoing 
 
 Of spirit whispers, soft and clear. 
 
 He loved his mother, Nature, well, 
 Nor cared he other friend to seek ; 
 
 She soothed him in her faithful arms 
 With tuneful numbers, pure and meek. 
 
 And when at length, asleep for aye, 
 
 He lay upon her gentle breast, 
 No one in passing paused to say : 
 
 ''Peace to thee; soul, take thou thy rest." 
 
 He knew it not ; but if a bird 
 
 Whose broken wing he bound, poured out 
 Her sorrow to the starless night. 
 
 If wandering the world about, 
 
MV NEfGHBORS. 
 
 79 
 
 That one sad zephyr sighed in vain 
 For trace of him on Ifind or sea, 
 
 Surely, in dreams it grieved him yet- 
 Forgotten they could never be. 
 
 MY -NEIGHBORS. 
 
 ^'T^IS little things that make or break our rest; 
 
 ■^ And darkest.hours reveal our strength or weakness. 
 So, when tjie petty darts my neighbors cast, 
 By malice winged, and in detraction steeped, 
 Had reached their mark, what wonder for an hour 
 My narrow walls- encompassed all the w^orld. 
 And that was, rue and wormwood unto me. 
 What wonder in the bitterness tliat sprang 
 From sense of wrong, and withering disgust 
 That womanhood could stoop so low, I said, 
 " The brazen armor that my neighbors wear 
 Is full of flaws which a true shaft might pierce ; 
 And why permit a poison reptile thus 
 To trail its slimy length across my way, 
 Nor hurl it back into the seething depths 
 Of envy whence it crept ? " Then tl^e low tones 
 Of those true friends of old, the wind and rain, 
 Outside my window, sang my wrath away, 
 Until upon their gentle numbers borne. 
 The spirit of the ages talked with me. 
 
8o 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 The ceaseless sweep of wide encircling seas ; 
 
 The lonely grandeur of enduring hills ; 
 
 Voices of subterranean depths profound ; 
 
 The rustling wings of myriad growing things ; 
 
 The gentle breathing of unfolding leaves — 
 
 All the low whispers of the living earth 
 
 Within my pulses made sweet melody. 
 
 And with the clearer vision which attends 
 
 On widening knowledge, I beheld the spheres 
 
 Rolling in harmony divine ; and heard 
 
 The wondrous anthem of the uni\ erse. 
 
 Then far beneath me seemed the troubled moan 
 
 Of a vexed world, where I beheld a mass 
 
 Of struggling beings — men, my brothers — each 
 
 With lep'rous sores in that clear light made bare, 
 
 Toiling with weary footsteps toward the abyss 
 
 That we call death. And in my heart the ti^es 
 
 Of pity and remorse surged like a sea. 
 
 "Is it thy hand," questioned my soul, " that still 
 
 Into another's cankered wounds would pour 
 
 The poison gall of passion and revenge ? 
 
 Only a little while and the swift winds 
 
 Shall search, and find no trace on land or sea, 
 
 Of all who hate or love. A tiny span, 
 
 And the frail barriers of time and space 
 
 And death, even as a foam-wreath shall dissolve ; 
 
 Then truth, and purity, and love, alone, 
 
 Shall find the immortality beyond." 
 
 Ah, nobler far than he who wins a world 
 
COMRADE WIND. 
 
 Is one, in conscious right impregnable, 
 
 Who hears, yet answers not, a sland'rous tongue. 
 
 COMRADE WIND. 
 
 /^^OMRADE wind, how fast you fly. 
 ^-^ Stay a moment, it is I 
 
 Calling to you from the gloom 
 Of a care-enshrouded room. 
 
 Where the shadows weave for me 
 Grayest web of destiny. 
 
 I would follow you once more 
 Through the vanished days of yore ; 
 
 Sing with you the olden rhymes. 
 Ring vith you the wildwood chimes ; 
 
 In the March-time rocking still 
 In hickory saplings on the hill, 
 
 Sometimes low and sometimes high. 
 Comrade wind, yourself and I 
 
82 
 
 Vy/LDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Tossing in tumultuous glee, 
 As the birds in summer free ; 
 
 While the lowing, speckled herd 
 The dry grass beneath, us stirred, 
 
 While the tinkle, tinkle still 
 Of a bell came from the hill 
 
 Where the bleating, fleecy flocks 
 Nibbled fern amid the rocks. 
 
 How we mocked them, you and 1, 
 Swinging low, and swinging high. 
 
 While I listen, to me sing 
 Softly of the happy spring, 
 
 When the child-year, full of glee. 
 Wakes his gladdest minstrelsy. 
 
 Does the broomsedg^e on the plain 
 Shake her yellow locks again 
 
 O'er the nest the partridge hid • 
 Deep the tangled grass amid ? 
 
 Are the dogwood twigs aglow 
 With the secret that we know ? 
 
COMRADE WIND. 
 
 Do the maple branches shine 
 Redder than the clearest wine ? 
 
 Is the spice-bud's slender crown 
 Turning to a golden brown ? 
 
 Are the willows varnished o'er 
 With the glory that they wore 
 
 When we roused the sleeping stream 
 From its chilly winter dream ? 
 
 Sail the cloud boats rapidly 
 As they did when you and I 
 
 O'er the meadows dawnmg green 
 Chased the flying shade and sheen ? 
 
 Ah, how fast you speed along ! 
 You are still so swift and strong. 
 
 Now I hear the -cadence free 
 Of the brown wren's minstrelsy 
 
 As he plasters 'neath the eaves 
 Mud and straw and silken leaves; 
 
 And the blue-bird's twittering 
 In the snag beside the spring, 
 
 83 
 
JVILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Where the dainty wind-flower wore 
 Ruffled cape and pinafore — 
 
 Elfin maiden, fair and good — 
 In the fringes of the wood. 
 
 Now the throbbing echoes come 
 Of the pheasant's muffled drum ; 
 
 And the speckled thrush's song. 
 Like a bell-note, clear and strong, 
 
 Rings above the sloping land 
 
 Where the smooth-limbed red-buds stand, 
 
 Dressed in jMnk from frock to snood. 
 Blushing in the leafless wood. 
 
 Onward, softly now we sweep 
 Through the orchard grasses deep, 
 
 Shaking down the tinted hair 
 Of the apple-blossoms there ; 
 
 Setting all the incense free 
 Of each flower-laden tree ; 
 
 Breaking every shining thread 
 Mischief-plotting spiders spread. 
 
COMRADE WIND. 
 
 Close the speckled eggs are pressed 
 'Neath the cat-bird's dusky breast ; 
 
 Filled with mirth and mocking glee, 
 Her glad mate sings ceaselessly. 
 
 While the swallows dip and rise 
 From the river to the skies — 
 
 Nothing half so free you sing, 
 As a swallow in the spring. 
 
 Are you weary ? Shall we stay 
 In this bower of the May, 
 
 Where the wild plum blossoms keep 
 In their white hearts buried deep, 
 
 vSomething — Ah, why do you sigh ? 
 Faster, faster let us fly. 
 
 Yet your voice seems hoarser grown ; 
 Something strange is in its tone ; 
 
 And your shouts no longer ring 
 With the gladness of the spring. 
 
 Comrade, comrade, is it I ? 
 So to others do you sigh ? 
 
 85 
 
gg IVILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Is the world still in its tune 
 Through the moonlit nights of June ? 
 
 What is it in you I hear ? 
 Cadences of many a tear ; 
 
 Muffled sighs that seem to creep 
 From the crypts where buried deep 
 
 Many a fair ambition lies 
 Under gray, unpitying skies. 
 
 It was you who wrapped me 'round 
 As I lay upon the ground 
 
 And in midnights dusky haze 
 Veiled my face from mortal gaze ; 
 
 It was you who stole the pain 
 From the voices crying " Vain I " 
 
 Easing all the secret smart 
 
 Of my young, untutored heart ; 
 
 It was you who brought the balm 
 From the starlit regions calm, 
 
 Tuned anew the harp of life 
 To the higher, nobler strife. 
 
THE GOSPEL PIONEER. gy 
 
 Comrade mine, your voice is low, 
 Whither, whither, must you go ? 
 
 In my heart your songs I keep ; 
 Oft I hear them in my sleep ; 
 
 Let your parting message be 
 Full of tenderness for me. 
 
 Thus you answer, '^1 shall come 
 When to others thou art dumb ; 
 
 I shall whisper low to thee — 
 
 And thou, dear heart, will answer me."' 
 
 THE GOSPEL PIONEER, 
 
 \ X /HERE lies the land that does not sepulcher 
 
 ' ^ Heroic dead ? Where desolation broods 
 O'er the white solitude of voiceless heights, 
 Deep in the rifted glacier's breast they lie 
 In changeless beauty Avhile the ages roll. 
 Above them drift the desert's burning sands ; 
 And ancient catacombs have shut them in ; 
 Their bones lie deep beneath the cold gray stone 
 Of frowning monuments in mighty lands; 
 And the dark sea their parting prayer has heard. 
 
gg H^ILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 There lies no spot obscure where they are not. 
 
 And rich are West Virginia's woody vales 
 
 With her forgotten heroes' scattered dust ; 
 
 Her verdure ripens and the tall grain waves 
 
 Above the mold of many a kingly heart. 
 
 And who have left more noble legacies 
 
 To any land than these have left to us ? 
 
 Redeemed the wilderness. Its roses bloom 
 
 In calm content by many a winding stream 
 
 Where templed cities raise their heavenward spires ; 
 
 And grateful thousands chant the songs of praise 
 
 Where once the war-whoop's fearful sound arose. 
 
 Then let historic page their record keep, . 
 
 The sculptor's art their deathless story tell ; 
 
 And their heroic deeds live in the songs 
 
 The poet sings. So, shall their memory live 
 
 Green in a nation's heart forevermore. 
 
 One- hundred years ago he went not forth — 
 
 This hero of my verse — with polished lance, 
 
 In knightly garb and pomp of heraldry. 
 
 To the great batde for his Lord and King. 
 
 Ill-dad, ill-fed, alone, his only guides 
 
 The trend of waters, the emblazoned pine 
 
 And living scrolls inscribed upon the stems 
 
 Of moss-grown trees, and the unchanging stars 
 
 By night. Beneath his feet the deadly coil 
 
 Of hidden reptiles lurked. The fierce-eyed wolves 
 
 Glared on him from the dusk ; and on his track 
 
 The crouching panther drew his sinuous length. 
 
THE GOSPEL PIONEER. gg 
 
 No matin song nor requiem the sun 
 
 Received from singing bird. Alone was heard 
 
 The soHtary eagle's scream, the croak 
 
 Of hoarse-voiced raven, the ill-boding moan 
 
 Of melancholy owl. Yet, it may be, 
 
 Prophetic murmurs from the snowy bloom 
 
 Of the wild service came where crooning bees 
 
 Revealed the secrets of the coming years. 
 
 The pine-capped heights were silent witnesses 
 
 Of the Eternal Power : and the deep voice 
 
 Of falling waters sang His majesty. 
 
 Here in these lonely wilds the soul of man 
 
 Attained the measure of the solemn wood ; 
 
 And he who bore Salvation's tidings wTought 
 
 With purpose strong as death. No needless care 
 
 For food and raiment came to vex his heart — 
 
 Were not the ravens fed ? the wild beasts housed ? 
 
 His feet were shod with safety, for the world 
 
 Had not its glittering meshes 'round them cast : 
 
 And souls to him were given for his hire. 
 
 The gloomy shadows of the pathless wood 
 
 Imbued his faith with their own somber hues ; 
 
 And crying in the wilderness, like one 
 
 Of old, his voice was heard proclaiming wrath 
 
 In Sinai's awful thunders unto man. 
 
 Not yet was heard the still small voice of love, 
 
 In the soft whispers of eternal peace. 
 
 And milder mercies of the later law. 
 
 Oppressed with secret fear his spirit still 
 
 Upon its onward journey marked the path 
 
90 
 
 IFILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 That grateful millions travel toward the light. 
 ''Servant of God," the herald angels sang, 
 '' Well done." Beneath his name a nation writes: 
 " Well done." 
 
 Woe to the watchman of to-day 
 Whose trumpet issues an uncertain sound; 
 Lest in the world's gay songs of revelry 
 The note be lost, or all too faintly come 
 l^nto the sleeping. Armed with mighty truth, 
 Still let his voice be heard throughout the land, 
 Crying both night and day ; and his reward 
 Shall be the glory of the Lord whose word 
 Shall stand when Heaven and earth have passed away 
 
 IN THE FIRELIGHT. 
 
 \ \ /"HEN the day has folded its cares away, 
 ^^ And out from the corners peeping, 
 The shadows muster tlieir (]uaint array, 
 
 And over the room come creeping; 
 When the dying coals into phantoms grow. 
 
 And the pale flame, lapping under, 
 Like a wizard mutters its fancies low, 
 
 With my hands at rest, I wonder : 
 
IN THE FIRELIGHT. ^ j 
 
 > 
 
 If the bards who lived when the world was young- 
 Heard only the white stars singing ; 
 
 If the chattering apes around them hung, 
 Or asps with their hiss and stinging ; 
 
 If they plucked their bays with a slavish hand, 
 To the world's will basely kneeling ; 
 
 Or sang as the reeds by the river sand, 
 The soul of a God revealing ; 
 
 If the argent shield of the oldeii time, 
 
 With its grand devices graven, 
 Was a mask for the foul, unknightly crime 
 
 Of a dastard heart and craven ; 
 And if honor pledged was a fitful jest. 
 
 If truth was ail idle seeming. 
 And faith but the shadowy thing, at best, 
 . It seems in our firelight dreaming. 
 
 Had they cleaner hands, those priests of old, 
 
 Who stood in the sacred places. 
 Than the ones we know, in their baseness bold, 
 
 With their smooth, deceitful faces? 
 Ah, I wonder if since the world began. 
 
 The angels have been no nigher ; 
 And if ever this curious life to man, 
 
 Meant half of his strong desire. 
 
 Over and over and over again, 
 Like an incantation weaving 
 
92 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 The fire-wraith mutters his fancies vain, 
 
 In tones of a fitful grieving ; 
 And my thought, Hke the flame, still ponders o'er 
 
 The problem of life's endeavor, 
 For a clue to the soul's unwritten lore, 
 
 But an answer findeth never. 
 
 AT THE KING'S GATE. 
 
 T^HERE lived a king who, weary of the strife 
 ^ That wins not, and the questionings that gain 
 An answer nevermore, sought out a vale 
 Embowered deep within the Orient ; 
 And there beneath its waving palm-groves built 
 Him chambered palaces wherein he quaffed 
 Life's changeful pleasures, warm as the deep glow 
 That lives within the rose's crimson heart. 
 There on the tuneful echoes of each day 
 The night flowed in with song and revelry ; • 
 While from the tamarinds the nightingales 
 Filled all the listening dusks with melody. 
 And weaving still amid the fleeting hours 
 Their subtle" ministries of soft delight, 
 Each in her changing beauty ever fair, 
 .With footfall echole&s around him came 
 The daughters light of music and of love. 
 But when the song was sweetest, and the wine 
 
AT THE KING'S GATE. 
 
 Quivered like flame within its crystal bowl, 
 
 The laugh died on his lips, and o'er his brow, 
 
 A sudden darkness as of inward pain 
 
 Its leaden shadows hung ; and starting up 
 
 Like one who hears a signal call, he sought 
 
 Afar the palm-grove's deepest solitude : 
 
 And prone in its perennial verdure sunk 
 
 He strove to grasp the haunting mysteries 
 
 That sapped the hidden fountain of his joys. 
 
 For, ever as he reveled to his ear 
 
 Low, wailing tones unheard of others came ; 
 
 And when he drank within the cup there gleamed, 
 
 In pallid mockery, a wondrous pearl 
 
 That vanished with the bubbles from his sight. 
 
 From the pomegranate bough he. plucked the fruit, 
 
 And on its golden circle traced strange words 
 
 That shook his heart with dread. Oft in the hush 
 
 Of night, through his unquiet slumber crept 
 
 The subtile presence of a thing divine. 
 
 Myrrh-wafting fragrance, breathing softest dews 
 
 Of healing o'er his fretted brain ; and on 
 
 His waking sight a moment shone a crown 
 
 Of purest immortelles, all luminous 
 
 With the white glory of the fadeless stars, 
 
 That evermore dissolved into the night, 
 
 And in his eager fingers left no trace. 
 
 Long in that melancholy calm which soothed 
 
 Him not, he lingered, while the fountain dropped 
 
 Its silver rain into the hollow leaves. 
 
 Led by the shining cross, the starry host 
 
94 
 
 IV J LD WOOD CHIMF.S. 
 
 In silence fled before the gleaming dawn. 
 
 From the far heights swept down the cooling winds 
 
 And through the lone acacia's yellow strands 
 
 Their waves of mournful music washed ; and once 
 
 Again the old, dark mystery arose. 
 
 But soft and clear the phantom voices said : 
 
 We are the voices of thy starving soul, 
 
 O, faithless, still to tarry. Lo, she waits 
 
 'Beyond the leper's gate. "• 
 
 Hie linted hands 
 Of morning twilight rose, and t*lie great bird 
 Of paradise his opal feathers preened 
 Beside the singing foimtain. Time sped on. 
 But nevermore beneath the drifting shade 
 Of wefted palm-trees passed the haunted king. * 
 
 A wasted form in tattered pilgrim garb 
 
 Alone in death lay on the desert sands : 
 
 His unshod feet upon the burning path 
 
 Had left their crimson mark ; and the foul breath 
 
 Of loathsome pestilence about him clung. 
 
 But on his leprous bosom gleamed a pearl 
 
 From out the sea immortal ; and a crown 
 
 Of purest immortelles, all luminous 
 
 With light divine, with fragrant glon^: crowned 
 
 That empty casket of a ransomed soul. 
 
THE BLUE FLOWER. q- 
 
 THE BLUE FLOWER. 
 
 T IKE the chiming of bells heard in dreams half-remem- 
 *— ' bered, 
 
 Their melodies float on the stillness of time, 
 Those voices of ceaseless, soul-seeking endeavor, 
 The hunger and pain and the thirsting forever 
 
 Of mortals who faint in the desert of life 
 For unfailing draughts from the fountain sublime. 
 
 Hence this legend that lives in the Orient golden — 
 The quest of the blue fairy flower that brings 
 
 To the brow^ that it blesses a surcease of aching, 
 
 And rest unto hearts that are weary to breaking ; 
 For the satisfied calm of the soul evermore 
 
 Within this fair blossom has folded its wings. 
 
 Hast thou found it ? O radiant child of the morning, 
 Thyself like the grace of a wild brier-rose ; 
 
 With the clear-seeing eyes of a spirit untainted. 
 
 With the warm dimpled mouth where the seraphs have 
 painted 
 No trace of the world's idle wisdom nor scorning, 
 
 By the reed-shadowed rill hast thou found where it grows ? 
 
96 
 
 WILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 O, woman, whose eyes love-anointed yet linger 
 
 On the fair shining heads of thy heart's rosary, 
 
 On the soft tender arms which around thee are clinging, 
 
 On the joy-birds of home which around thee are singing, 
 Their unwritten songs of delight evermore, 
 
 Hast thou found the blue flower? Does it blossom for 
 thee ? 
 
 Does it gleam 'midst the snows of the mist-shrouded 
 heights 
 
 Of wisdom, O man, where thou standest alone 
 By the unlettered graves of the seekers, thy brothers, 
 With thy pitying hands full of healing for others 
 
 Whose spirits are worn with the fever of living. 
 In its redolent balm hast thou strengthened thine own ? 
 
 Nay, ye seek it in vain where the shadows of death 
 Enshroud the far heights and embitter each slope ; 
 
 But its perfume is borne through the half-open portal 
 
 That shuts from our longing the city immortal ; 
 
 And pilgrims far down the deep valleys of sorrow. 
 
 Grow strong as they breathe the sweet fragrance of hope. 
 
SOA'-S OF CYDIPPE. 
 
 SONS OF CYDIPPE. 
 
 pROM a long-vanished town of ancient Greece, 
 
 -*■ Engirt with waving pahiis and oHve groves, 
 
 This record sprung; and the strong flood of time 
 
 Upon its tossing bosom bore to me 
 
 An echo of its mournful melody. 
 
 In Argos old, a city by the sea, 
 
 Within the full sound of its floAving tide, 
 
 A mighty temple reared its brazen towers 
 
 Against the sun ; and hither, with the glow 
 
 Of noon-tide came a throng of worshipers. 
 
 Slowly the vast procession rolled along 
 
 Resistless as the ocean billows' sweep ; 
 
 And as it neared the temple gate, anon, 
 
 A burst of joyous acclamation rose 
 
 Above its lofty arches to the skies. 
 
 And far away in thrilling echoes died 
 
 On the warm breeze that rocked the myrtle boughs. 
 
 Behold the cause ! Within a chariot, drawn 
 
 W^ith toil o'er weary miles, by her two sons, 
 
 Cydippe, daughter of an ancient house. 
 
 And Juno's favored Priestess, sat. 
 
 Her spotless drapery, and unbound hair. 
 
 Floated upon the incense-laden breeze ; 
 
 And the dark splendor of her steadfast eyes 
 
98 
 
 < ( ( 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Enwrapped the stalwart figures of her sons, 
 Biton and Cleobis ; those pious youths 
 Who, when no oxen could be found to draw 
 Their mother's chariot to the temple gates, 
 Themselves the service joyously performed. 
 For this the lofty domes of Argos rang 
 With acclamations of her populace. 
 
 The sacred rites were o'er. Cydippe knelt 
 
 Alone, before the altar's holy flame ; 
 
 And the still rapture on her perfect face 
 
 Shone like the moonlight on a far-off lake ; 
 
 While from her lips a sweet, awed whisper fell. 
 
 Ask what thou wilt.' Oh, blessed voice that spoke 
 
 Those gracious words to my beseeching soul I 
 
 Yet, how my full heart trembles with the weight 
 
 Of its great joy. What is the promised boon 
 
 That I shall claim for them — my pious sons ? 
 
 For Cleobis, whose gentle nature seeks 
 
 Its warmth in loving hearts, the household shrine, 
 
 And the calm current of a life beloved. 
 
 Were best. But what for him? — my gifted boy 
 
 Whose earnest eyes have kindled at the tale 
 
 Of conflict, and of glory from a child. 
 
 Have not the whispers of ambition thrilled 
 
 My feebler ])ulses with a strange delight ? 
 
 For- him — and yet — if my weak, mortal light 
 
 Should err. If I should bring upon my sons 
 
 A blight, instead of blessing — Gracious Power, 
 
 Thy feeble servant hath not light to choose. 
 
so ATS OF CVDirPE. 
 
 Thou knowest the gift for mortals best. Oh, grant 
 
 Thine own best guerdon unto these, my sons." 
 
 As sunbeams fall into the ocean's breast, 
 
 Fell on her heart the words: "Thy prayer is heard." 
 
 Softly the morning light on Argos dawned ; 
 And with its first pale gleam, Cydippe sought 
 The chamber of her sons. Ah, who was there ? 
 The shadow of an unseen Presence filled 
 That spacious room, and cast its nameless dread 
 Upon her soul. " Wearied they do but sleep. 
 Awake, my sons, it is your mother calls." 
 They answered not. Without lay Life, rocking 
 Upon the hollow seas. Within sat Death. 
 
 O, ye who stand upon the shores of Time, 
 And watch the cufrent of relentless Fate, 
 Bear your hope-freighted barks against the rocks, 
 Turn from the mournful wreck your yearning gaze, 
 And bending low above the grassy mounds, 
 Where in the deep serenity of death, 
 Lie hearts that nevermore shall throb and ache 
 With life's great burden of unceasing pain- 
 Exclaim with thankfulness, ''This is the best:' 
 
jQQ WILDU^OOD CHIMES. 
 
 CRICKET SONG. 
 
 SOMETIMES when the fire in the grate is low, 
 When the room lies dim in the crimson glow, 
 And the grandfather's dock ticks loud and strong. 
 There's a sound of mirth 
 On the clean-swept hearth ; 
 The crickets are singing their evening song. 
 
 And we sometimes hear through the chorus shrill 
 
 The echoing clack of a water-mill ; 
 
 And the whirring hum of a spinning-wheel 
 
 Like a soothing rhyme 
 
 Rings a drowsy chime 
 With the purling sound of a shadowy reel. 
 
 From the sunken graves on the hills afar. 
 Past each rusty bolt, and each crumbling bar 
 Of the silent land have the old folks come 
 
 Through the open door 
 
 Of the quaint folklore, 
 To sit by the fire in their sometime home. 
 
 But the firelight shines on no silvered head ; 
 No faltering feet o'er the carpet tread, 
 And no dim eyes gleam in the fading light, 
 
 But their voices strong 
 
 In the crickets' song. 
 We hear in the hush of the passing night. 
 
INDIAN PIPES. 
 
 Ah, welcome them back to the warm, sweet hfe- 
 Though pleasant is rest from its wearing strife— 
 In the form of the crickets brown they come, 
 When the fire is low, 
 And the night-winds blow, 
 To bask in the light of their old-time home. 
 
 INDIAN PIPES. 
 
 Rondeau. 
 
 DEYOND the fields of lowing kine, 
 '-^ Within a solitude divine, 
 
 Where drowsy Summer deftly weaves 
 Her fancies into beechen leaves. 
 These spirit flowers softly shine 
 Like waxen tapers on a shrine ; 
 Or vases filled with ^seeded wine 
 
 That some Circean revel grieves, — 
 In Camden Wood. 
 
 I drift across the shadow line 
 
 That lies between thy home and mine, 
 
 And wrapped in Fancy's silken sleeves, 
 I find within her charmed sheaves, 
 O, Fairyland, these elves of thine 
 
 In Camden Wood. •♦ 
 
U 'IL D J1 '00 D CHIMES. 
 
 AS MEMORY TELLS IT O'ER. 
 
 TT is December, and the winds rehearse 
 * The memories of long ago. They send 
 Their shrilly prophecies against the dread 
 Cold silences our coming feet shall wake. 
 On the near hills where fadeless beauty lives 
 The frozen snow-wreaths lie ; and icicles 
 Are hanging from the wild bird's empty nest 
 Wind-tossed upon the cral)-tree's withered bough. 
 And like the burden of a heart that bears 
 Its bitterness alone, the sullen clouds 
 Hang low and heavily above the earth. 
 The wood, all frozen to its sapless core, 
 With naked arms outstretched stands desolate. 
 No warmth of living heart within its l)Ound 
 Save in yon hedge where once the brier-rose 
 Her pink cheek laid against the long, long days, 
 The crouching rabbit in the shriveled leaves 
 Nestles his timid palpitating heart. 
 While from a knotted oak, at intervals, 
 A fitful knocking sounds muffled and low 
 And echoless as the sad voice of one 
 Who sobs and calls beside a sunken grave. 
 O, soul of mine, with secret care oppressed. 
 The never-lifting shadows ot to-day 
 
AS MEMO J? V TELLS IT O'ER. j^^ 
 
 Too heavily their arms about us close. 
 
 Then turn we gladly from the dreary pane 
 
 To these red embers glowing like the heart 
 
 Of an unfailing love; and close beside 
 
 With folded hands of idleness enforced, 
 
 We '11 sit and dream that we have never worn 
 
 The crown of thorns that womanhood bestows, 
 
 Nor drained the bitter cup her hand hath held. 
 
 But with the morning and the meadow grass. 
 
 The cool blue violets which grew therein, 
 
 The mellow hum of wild bees riflino- 
 
 The bloomy locusts of their perfumed sweets, 
 
 The twitter of bank-swallows on the wands 
 
 Of waving willows, and the wordless joy 
 
 Of rushing waters, we will breathe again 
 
 The airs of childhood's fair enchanted realm, 
 
 Long lost to view, to memory still most dear. 
 
 Thou art, for aye, .eternal, land divine ! 
 
 Thy verdure grows beside unfailing streams 
 
 Whose sources lie upon the happy hills 
 
 Sun-bathed forevermore. Euroclydon 
 
 Hath not the power to break the frailest link 
 
 Of thy white daisy-chains, nor toss adrift 
 
 One hovering butterfly or thistledown. 
 
 Thy skies are ever cloudless and serene ; 
 
 Thy joy-birds sing amid the fragrant leaves 
 
 In the green forests of perennial May ; 
 
 And faint and far the elfin voices ring 
 
 Of those — the shining ones — whose dimpled feet 
 
jQ^ IVILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Stand fast and sure amid the fadeless bloom 
 Of drifted springtimes on thy deathless shore. 
 
 Who does not love the hallowed soil whereon 
 His infant feet have trod ? his own dear lan.d, 
 His country and his home. Who has not felt 
 The bounding pulse of all her heroes thrill 
 Within his veins, and climbed on stepping-stones 
 Of their strong souls unto a loftier height ? 
 Who has not felt the wrongs of all her sons 
 Burn like a Hving flame within his breast, 
 And veiled his eyes before the memory 
 Of all her woes ? Whence is the subtle charm ? 
 Is it in vale or hill or rolling stream, 
 The skies that bend above us, or the waft 
 Of winged winds? Nay, question not; but know 
 There is a power whose potent spell outlasts 
 The fleeting years, a hidden cord that draws 
 Our wand'ring footsteps home from alien shore. 
 
 O West Virginia ! on thy oak-clad hills 
 How fair the summer sunlight falls, how swift 
 And clear the many streams whose music dwells 
 Within thy narrow vales, where calm content 
 Sits brooding o'er the humble joys of home ! 
 Thy boast is not thy gracious heritage ■ 
 Of Old Dominion pride and chivalry — 
 Though these are much ; but in the hardy hands 
 And lion hearts that won with blood and toil 
 The freedom of this mountain land beloved, 
 
AS MEMORY TELLS IT O'ER. jqj- 
 
 And to their children gave strong frames, strong minds, 
 Strong hearts, strong faith, and reverential souls. 
 He well may pause who from thy peaceful shores 
 His footsteps turn. Where shall the wanderer seek 
 Skies in their changeful beauty fair as thine ? 
 Where shall he find more tender hearts or true, 
 More helpful hands, or rest his weary form 
 Beside such hospitable warmth as lights 
 Thy humblest hearth ? O, heavily will rest 
 The mold of other clime upon his grave ! 
 
 My native hills, from childhood's earliest years 
 Thy many charms within my heart have fed 
 The fervent fires of deep, abiding love. 
 Rough are thy nursing arms, yet strong and true. 
 Harsh are thy cradle songs, yet he who hears, 
 To Nature's harmonies attunes his soul, 
 7^0 her full stature grows ; and unto him 
 Shall come the heritage of truth, of hope. 
 Of patience, and the scorn of meaner things. 
 
io6 
 
 IV I LD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 I. 
 
 The sloping valley, if indeed, a space. 
 So narrow could be called a vale, ran down 
 Between the ridges of uneven hills 
 Whose bristling crest of oak the lightning's brand. 
 And sport of wrecking winds alone had marred. 
 Not half-way up the woodman's ax had rung ; 
 Yet many a stretch of rich dark cornland lay 
 Around their base, and up each narrow cove 
 Had crept; while, in and out, green pasture fields 
 And meadow lands embraced the shining brook. 
 Whose stream of liquid silver filtered through 
 The beds of russet leaves on hill-sides spread, 
 As down from the gray-lichened rock it fell — 
 A thread of living light most musical — 
 With Its wild call for the beyond ; the cry 
 Which ever finds an echo in the strong, 
 Impatient heart of youth. And sofdier now 
 Along the dark ravine it quickly fled, 
 Where slender birches waved their graceful arms. 
 And hemlock whispers od'rous greeting sent ; 
 Against the convent walls of many a rock 
 Where pale wake-robins stood like pensive nuns 
 Nodding their vespers in the cloistered light ; 
 Around the knotted roots of storm-scarred trees 
 
AS MEMORY TELLS IT O'ER. jq- 
 
 That held the nestlings of the saiHng hawk ; 
 'Neath many a bridge the tossing winds had built, 
 Within whose hoUoA? arches sleek-soled feet 
 Of busy squirrels hastened to and fro, 
 
 — O, happy bridges, that have never borne 
 The heavier burden of the anxious soul, 
 Nor bent beneath the tread of grinding care. 
 Yet Sorrow's wings are long, their shadows fall 
 On every spot where throbs life's mystery. — 
 Last of her race, a trembling fugitive, 
 The brown doe stayed her flying feet, and hushed 
 Her panting sobs amid the listening ferns, 
 And cooled her steaming muzzle in the brook ; 
 While far below, and faint arose the cry 
 Of fierce hounds throttling her spotted faw^n. 
 Across the rushing tide the swift gray fox, 
 In the lone night has borne his gasping prey; 
 And there oft-times was heard the plaintive cry 
 Of downy infants strangled in their nests, 
 The wail of love bereft and comfortless. 
 
 — All this was pictured on the brook, and more ; 
 For one who learned its song, no matter how, 
 Has heard within its broken murmurs all 
 The love and longing of the human heart. 
 And in its lisping syllables has caught 
 The wail of an imprisoned soul ; and strange, 
 Bright visions of eternity has seen 
 Within its bubbles for an instant gleam. — 
 
IQg WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 On swept the singing brook, and where it checked 
 
 Its headlong course beside a hazel copse 
 
 Within a hollow where the shadows sat 
 
 Muffling their shapeless forms the livelong day, 
 
 A row of shallow basins held the cool 
 
 Translucent bath of the shy kings of song 
 
 Whose haunt is solitude. At twilight hour 
 
 This spot was ever still, save for the cry — 
 
 One oft-repeated note, low, soft, and long, 
 
 Whose ling'ring sweetness could not hide its pain. 
 
 Unseen that bird of twilight, and to me 
 
 A voice it must remain forevermore. 
 
 Then through the narrow meadows crept the brook 
 
 With half its music gone, but keeping still 
 
 The deep unquiet murmur of regret. 
 
 Now purling softly to its willowed shores. 
 
 And breaking into smiles on pebbly bars. 
 
 — Canst thou not learn, O soul of many cares, 
 The wisdom of the brook? What were this Hfe 
 Without the ripple on its shingly bars. 
 Beneath whose music failing hope grows young, 
 And timid hearts are bathed in secret strength. — 
 Then round the tufts of smooth green rushes borne, 
 The eddying waters glide with ^Vhispered sigh 
 Beneath the shadows of the '' daddy-tree." 
 A giant tree, so old ! with rough brown bark 
 Whose tortuous seams a dizzy highway made 
 For toiling caravans of busy ants. 
 
AS MEMORY TELLS IT O'ER. iqq 
 
 Three times the measure of my out-stretched arms 
 Around its stem a girdle scarcely made ; 
 And scores of merry children might rejoice 
 Within its circled shadow all day long. 
 And never mid-day sunshine found the bank 
 O'er which the twisted branches bent to catch 
 Their waving shadows in the stream below. 
 There all day long the jump-up-johnnies held 
 Their quaint blue aprons full of sparkling gems, 
 And mocked with subtile breath the questing bee. 
 
 — O, sweet blue violets, your long cool stems 
 
 Are fit alike for childhood's dimpled hand 
 
 To toss in garlands on the flashing wave, 
 
 And for the pillow placed by sorrowing love 
 
 With tenderest touch beneath undreaming heads — 
 
 The great tree loved the brook. Its heavy roots 
 
 Crept forth from the black mold, and twisting 'round 
 
 In many shapes, grotesque and fanciful, 
 
 Fell down in swinging curves into the stream, 
 
 A mass of serpents twining in and out 
 
 Among the polished stones whose smooth round heads 
 
 The shrunken tide at harvest time laid bare 
 
 To loitering feet which cross that stream no more. 
 
no WILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 11. 
 
 I ask, O mortal, did you ever stand 
 
 In the rose-gardens of the heart, and raise 
 
 The crystal vase of pleasure brimming o'er 
 
 With creaming liquor to your eager lips, 
 
 But that some drop whose potent alchemy 
 
 Not all that living sweetness could resist — 
 
 One tiny drop from unseen fingers flung 
 
 Into the rosy waters — quenched their light, 
 
 And left a cold, unpalatable draught 
 
 Which to the dregs your shrinking lips must quaff? 
 
 You question why. The riddle is as old 
 
 As life and love, and thev have solved it not. 
 
 One cloud alone o'erhung the summer day, 
 
 The shadow of a duty. Just beyond 
 
 The reaching fingers of the daddy-tree, 
 
 The fretted brook went swiftly swirling through 
 
 A long-toothed water-gate. To meet the gate, 
 
 On either side a heavy fence, secure, 
 
 With firm-set stake and lofty rider, stretched 
 
 Its zigzag length across from hill to hill. 
 
 On one side lav the meadow land, the fields 
 
AS MEMORY TELLS IT O'ER. 
 
 ill 
 
 Of yellow wheat, and waves of silver rye, 
 
 With many an emerald stripe of growing corn. 
 
 There was the orchard, too, whose ancient trees, 
 
 Knotted and gray and ringed about with holes, 
 
 Had long outlived the planter's hand, 
 
 Unpruned and moss-grown they, but bearing still 
 
 Each year a liberal crop of " early sweets," 
 
 On which the pale red streaks were dawning now, 
 
 And "mealies," scores of which lay whitening 
 
 And softening beneath the tangled grass. 
 
 The pasture fields lay on the thither side, 
 
 And from them many a wistful glance was cast 
 
 Upon the promised land of corn and rye — 
 
 The doom of Tantalus in modern guise, — 
 
 Two panels wide the gaping portals stood 
 
 Through which the creaking loads of grain and hay, 
 
 At intervals went lumbering toward the barn, 
 
 Followed apace by half the motley crew 
 
 Of supplicants, a score of Mordecais 
 
 That vexed me daily standing at the gate. 
 
 Where 1, the keeper of the keys, endowed 
 
 With brief authority enforced the law 
 
 With willow switches, or with tough, straight stalks 
 
 Of last year's ironweed. Unpleasing task 
 
 To break the bond of rare good comradeshij) 
 
 With hostile blow. The gentle cows, demure 
 
 And sleek, the cherry-sided calves, with round 
 
 Bright eyes and budding horns, the frisky colts 
 
 That bowed their willing heads in feigned repose 
 
113 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 While I the witch-knots in their manes untied, — 
 
 Were each and all the children of the same 
 
 Green, living earth that was my mother, too. 
 
 By twos and threes, then singly still they came 
 
 With lingering tread which furtive glance belied, 
 
 Cropping the short sweet grass and clover heads, 
 
 The tender shoots of shrubs, and spicy weeds 
 
 'Circling the open gap, where in a mesh 
 
 Of criss-cross shadows slanted from the fence, 
 
 A most unwilhng desi)Ot held her court. 
 
 Afar, from out the fields, the ringing clang 
 
 Of whetted scythes came mingled with the din 
 
 Of locusts rasping on their rusty files. 
 
 The clear, sweet calling of " bob-white" from out 
 
 His Eldorado of the scattered grain ; 
 
 And from a steep, rough hill, where 'neath a cairn 
 
 Of smooth gray stone, a local chronicle 
 
 Some Indian graves had placed, was heard the wail. 
 
 Uncertain, low, by mourning wood-doves made ; 
 
 While from the house, far off upon the bluff, 
 
 A singing voice I sometimes faintly heard. 
 
 — My sister, many years the turf has lain 
 Above thy gentle eyes ; and though my lips 
 May seldom speak thy name, yet thou art still 
 A living presence in my daily life. 
 It needs not much, a tone, a fancied touch 
 Like thine, a passing glint of sunny light 
 On soft, brown hair, a bird-note, or a line 
 
AS MEMOR V TELLS IT O'ER. j j ^ 
 
 Of some forgotten song — to bring again 
 
 The clover-bank, and hum of bees, the breath 
 
 Of milky bloom, the girlish form, too frail 
 
 To anchor long beside this storm-swept shore, 
 
 The cheek too pale, and the mild, steadfast light, — 
 
 That far-off look, as if the spirit's gaze 
 
 Entranced, dwelt evermore on things beyond 
 
 The reach of mortal vision. Thou wast young 
 
 And fair for death to claim. But the cold grave 
 
 No terrors opened to thy trusting feet 
 
 Which guided by the Lamp that failed them not, 
 
 Entered the silent land that holds thee yet. 
 
 Ah, life had never been for me the gnarled 
 
 And tangled skein it is beneath thy hand. 
 
 In the lone dusk and silences profound. 
 
 From out its wordless deeps of solitude. 
 
 My heart, uncomforted, still cries for thee. 
 
 And in my utter selfishness I 've longed 
 
 To call thee back from out the thither land, 
 
 To feel the touch of thy dear tender hands. 
 
 And hush the tumult of a nature wild 
 
 And turbulent upon thy gentle breast. 
 
 Still, when I strive to picture thee within 
 
 The daily walks of life that others tread, — 
 
 That thou hadst trod, beneficent and just. 
 
 Encircled with thy gracious womanhood, — 
 
 The forces fail; thou art so far apart 
 
 From all the jar of living, the heart wear. 
 
 And dreary sense of the unsatisfied 
 
114 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Which like a canker frets us, day by day. 
 Thou art the morning light of memory, 
 The rainbow promise of perpetual peace 
 Beyond the storms of time, where broken sails 
 Are furled within the harbor bar of home. 
 
 Til. 
 
 And so the long hours widened into bloom. 
 Like scarlet poppies nodding in the sun 
 They drowsed to afternoon ; and tenantless 
 The gap lay in the sweltering light. Besieged 
 And the besiegers both were gone. Content 
 Among the ashen willow stems, knee-deep 
 In clear, blue pools the latter stood with calm 
 Reflective mien ; or in the friendly shade 
 Of elder thickets, canopied and wreathed 
 With budding clematis and thick swamp vines. 
 They found a refuge from tormenting flies; 
 
 in the shadow of the big log barn 
 
 They stood and further depredations planned. 
 The latter ? On the lowest curving root 
 Of the old daddy-tree, just where the voice 
 Of the loved brook in softest whispers poured 
 The dole of its sad longing at my feet, 
 
 1 heard the chiming throbs of Nature's heart. 
 And learned her cradle-song, though knowing not. 
 
AS MEMOR V TELLS IT O'ER. j j ^ 
 
 Beneath my feet a school of minnows turned 
 Their silver sides aslant, and slowly fanned 
 Their striped fins, and through their rosy gills 
 The 'cool sweet waters drew ; or darted forth — 
 A pack of tiny, gray-backed water-wolves — 
 With gaping mouths to seize the clover head 
 Which a deceptive hand had tossed adrift. 
 Beneath them on a bed of tinted stones, 
 The shadowy crawfish took his backward way; 
 And water-lizards with their yellow throats 
 And freckled sides went flirting up and down. 
 A brave, undoubting Peter, on the waves 
 With hurried step the long-legged spider walked ; 
 Upon his eight gray feet he surely wore 
 The seven-league boots of old time fairy lore. 
 And in an eddy where the light drift lay 
 The dervish sunfish bugs were whirling 'round. 
 Adown the stream with coppery head erect, 
 His shining length in many a graceful curve. 
 The water-snake on frequent voyage sailed. 
 I watched him upward raise his slippery folds 
 From root to root, and glide into the grass 
 Unharmed. And hither came the dragon-fly 
 With burnished wings and all-beholding eyes, 
 A royal courier in green and gold 
 Who skimmed along the beds of peppermint 
 And pale pink bergamot, but tarried not. 
 — Are they not all the King's own messengers 
 Who fill the world with beauty, and delight 
 
ii6 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 The heart of man with loveHness and grace ? — 
 
 Upon a log which high spring tide had cast 
 
 Upon the bank, a blue-striped lizard baked 
 
 His iridescent sides in the hot sun ; * 
 
 While in and out beneath the broken bark 
 
 Crept shining beetles with their branching horns 
 
 And bead-like eyes ; and shrillest chirpings came 
 
 Unceasingly from the loose stone-heaps near, 
 
 Where colonies of black wood-crickets lived ; 
 
 Some steps beyond, the deft field-spider sat 
 
 Spinning her nets beneath a filmy tent. 
 
 Above her in the hot and quivering air 
 
 The tireless midges danced a dizzy jig. 
 
 Upon a hollow stump the flick-up spread 
 
 His golden wings, and shook his scarlet crest 
 
 With energetic raps — the passing bell 
 
 Of many a hapless worm. While o» the fence 
 
 In mock solemnity's ill-fitting garb, 
 
 Marauding crows a noisy council held. 
 
 And shook the rainbows from their glossy plumes, 
 
 And eyed with sidewise glance the tender corn. 
 
 All lazily the hawk his circles wheeled 
 
 At dizzy height in skies of cloudless blue, 
 
 So far away his fierce scream ruffled not 
 
 The calm of brooding birds within their nests ; 
 
 And where belated heads of elder-bloom 
 
 Above the shelving bank hung motionless. 
 
 There faintly rose the intermittent croon 
 
 Of resting bees that murmured drowsily 
 
AS MEMORY TELLS IT O'ER. j j- 
 
 And shook the gold of elfland from their wings. 
 Into the brook each loosened petal fell 
 And on the shining wave, like sweet Elaine, 
 All pale and fair to Camelot floated on. 
 
 — Ah, dear dream-city of the heart, beyond 
 Our searching gaze thy shining temples rise. 
 Our reaching hands, our calling voices vain ; 
 But some day, in the dim, uncertain light, 
 All cold and dumb we shall go floating down 
 To thy white gates. There royal fame, perchance. 
 And pitying love will come, and gazing long 
 The record of some tender grace may find, 
 And give us knightly greeting, at the last. — 
 
 Beneath the tree, upon the cool, soft grass 
 At ease reclined, I watched the onward flow 
 Of shining waters, till the stream asleep 
 Within its narrow bed did seem to lie, 
 And far away the droning voices grew, 
 As all the summer land and I fled on. 
 
 — Of Fairyland the skies are ever fair, 
 And softly all its fragrant breezes blow. 
 Within the oak-tree's ringed heart the hall 
 With rosy splendor shone. Waist-deep in waves 
 Of purple bloom the bold musicians stood ; 
 And from each jeweled heart and golden flute 
 The haunting melodies of Elfland rang. 
 
ii8 
 
 IVILDIVOOD CHIMES. 
 
 And like a cloud of airy thistle-down 
 
 All soft and light, the elfin dancers sped. 
 
 Then forth his witching bride Prince Charming led. 
 
 Her sandaled feet were white as cherry bloom. 
 
 A fretted rainbow clad her lissome form ; 
 
 And in her happy eyes that looked on him 
 
 The tender grace of love's bright morning shone. 
 
 The spirit of the sun was in her hair, 
 
 And music's mystery and dear delight 
 
 Like hidden nightingales sang in her voice. 
 
 While faint and far the listening echoes rang. 
 
 I watched — 
 
 But what is this ? In sudden whirl 
 Of glancing lights and din of swift, bright blades. 
 The revel sank; and gone were they, the hall, 
 The prince, the lady fair. Through surging waves 
 Of veiling mist a gleaming shape uprose, 
 And nearer came the tread of stealthy feet, 
 And — Could it be? It was. In frantic haste 
 A Devon heifer cropped the juicy corn; 
 And on her footsteps came a lawless rout. 
 The eaters of forbidden fruit, which 1 
 Must straightway banish with a willow wand. 
 All in good season, too, for yonder came 
 A groaning freight by patient oxen drawn, 
 Whose whistling driver slouched his bandless hat. 
 And showered epithets of ire and scorn 
 Upon the plodding creatures at his side. 
 Along his 1)ath the milkweeds headless grew ; 
 
AS ME MO J? V TELLS IT O'ER. j j g 
 
 The brooding sparrow chirped in dire distress, 
 
 And for his life the striped squirrel fled 
 
 Into the stone-heap near ; and knowing cows 
 
 About the gap, discreetly walked away. 
 
 But I half guiltily drew near and scanned 
 
 With calculating eyes the approaching form 
 
 Whose sagging pockets never empty were. 
 
 All things they held, from baby terrapins, 
 
 Kidnaped upon the hills, mud-turtles wee. 
 
 With scalloped shells, snake eggs and squirrel teeth, 
 
 Sweet-knots torn from the beech, and shining bits 
 
 Of phosphorescent wood, sharp arrow-heads, 
 
 Canoes of poplar bark, and whistles shrill 
 
 Of smooth white walnut made — to fairer freight 
 
 Of apples and red plums, hill grapes and nuts, 
 
 Adam-and-Eves with white and gluey bulbs, 
 
 And bluebell roots found on the way to mill. — 
 
 All these, in turn, found favor in my eyes. 
 
 But memory of a thousand teasing pranks 
 
 Some caution lent, and tempered the rephes 
 
 To autocratic questionings like these : 
 
 ''Where have you been?" ''Noplace." "Then, 
 
 where were you 
 When I came through the gap, two hours ago ?" 
 " Why — sitting in the shadow, over there." 
 " Then why did you not answer when I called ?" 
 " I — didn't hear. I wasn't listening." 
 " You've been asleep! " "I haven't ; no, indeed, 
 I was just thinking in the shade." " O, ho ! 
 
J20 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 You look like you'd been thinking pretty hard. 
 But not an apple have I for a girl 
 Who thinks too hard to answer when I call, 
 /think I shall just feed them to the calves." 
 '' Well, I don't really, for certain, know " — 
 '* Own up,. you were asleep." "-Maybe I was 
 Asleep for just a minute, but no more." 
 No further conference ; observant eyes 
 Afar had seen the loitering team, and clear 
 Admonitory words came o'er the field. 
 And startled by a swift vindictive jerk, 
 Against the creaking bows the oxen leaned 
 Their bulky weight, and with reluctant tread 
 Moved onward toward the bark ; nor unconsoled 
 Was left the greedy guardian of the gap. 
 
 — Minding the gaps of life's wide harvest field, 
 1 watch the reapers in the clear noon light 
 Binding the golden sheaves. No idler, there. 
 Art thou, my brother ; faithfully and well 
 Thy hands have toiled, and never heart more brave 
 And true the burden of the weary day 
 Unshrinkingly hath borne. 
 
 The hopes of youth 
 Like flocks of singing birds in summer lanes, 
 Through sheen and shade flit onward joyously. 
 On every side there shines a beacon light, 
 And every pathway leads to fairer heights. 
 
AS MEMORY TELLS IT O'ER. jgj 
 
 But Step by step, we find the hidden snares, 
 The sleeping lions rouse ; and soon our hearts 
 Have grown familiar to the touch of pain. 
 And her black garments shadow all our steps. 
 Then he alone is great who pausing not 
 To count the graves of his departed joys, 
 Moves onward in the bare, unlovely path 
 Where Duty beckons him, and looks not back, 
 O, thou veiled Spirit, though thy clasp is cold, 
 And thy voice stern and harsh, the way is firm 
 And safe beneath the feet where thou dost lead. 
 Within thy footprints hes a secret strength; 
 From thy white garments healing odors waft, 
 And he alone is blest who follows thee. — 
 
 IV. 
 
 The day grew old; and gentle silence laid 
 
 Her finger on die pulsing harp of Hfe. 
 
 Asleep within his den of polished stones 
 
 The darting craw-fish lay. The whirr and hum 
 
 Of busy insect life grew strangely still. 
 
 By twos and threes the solemn crows went home 
 
 To the deep woods, whence rose the waking sigh 
 
 Of night winds dreaming in their spicy lair ; 
 
 And fast the rising shadows chased the sun 
 
 From point to point, until the last red gleam 
 
WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 On tip-toe stood upon the highest rock. 
 
 And twilight soon o'er all the valley lay. 
 
 But still the creaking loads went lumbering by, 
 
 And still more wistful glances followed them. 
 
 Open the gap remained. And now strange sounds 
 
 From out the copse above the orchard field — 
 
 A low, foreboding cry, uncertain, sad, 
 
 And ghostly chatterings, and shivering moans, 
 
 Through every nerve uncanny crawlings sent. 
 
 An owl ? Why, yes ; of course, a harmless owl, 
 
 With speckled breast and soft fur-booted feet. 
 
 And yet — might it not be some gruesome thing 
 
 With fleshless limbs in winding garments wrapped ? 
 
 For sunken graves were on the narrow bluff 
 
 Where first the climbing hill sat down to rest. 
 
 And startled memory sped on rapid wing 
 
 To stories told beside the blazing fires 
 
 On winter nights, when from the clearings came 
 
 The hired men, and each with chair atilt, 
 
 And brimming over with the triple joy 
 
 Of rest and food and warmth, rehearsed each dark 
 
 And ghoulish mystery that "Pap" had seen, 
 
 That "Granny" dreampt, or "Uncle Dave" had 
 
 heard. 
 Ah, never silver tongue of saint or sage 
 Such breathless listener had. I speak for one 
 On clean-cleft logs of hickory and beech 
 Against the ample chimney-rock curled up, 
 A chubby Cinderella, dreaming not 
 
AS MEMORY TELLS IT O'ER. ^^-i 
 
 Of ball nor coming prince ; but with a great 
 
 Capacity for tales of yawning graves, 
 
 Of grinning bones, and pale, sulphuric lights, 
 
 Who listening sat with slowly rising hair. 
 
 The roasting apple on its wooden legs 
 
 Careened and fell unheeded to the hearth 
 
 And in the leaden ashes sputtering lay. 
 
 The tempting rivulets of sticky sweet 
 
 Untasted from the hickory forestick fell ; 
 
 And the forgotten crickets vainly chirped 
 
 Beside the jamb for the accustomed crumbs. 
 
 The crackling myriads of shining sparks 
 
 Up the wide-throated chimney swiftly flew, 
 
 And no one thought to wish that they were showers 
 
 Of golden dollars, all her very own. 
 
 And when the covered embers smoldered low 
 
 On the deserted hearth, with head beneath 
 
 The close-drawn counterpane, what horrid sights 
 
 The dreaming eyes still saw, of headless men 
 
 In bloody shrouds arrayed, who joined the throng 
 
 Of grinning skeletons in dizzy whirl ; 
 
 Of icy, strangling hands that ever strove 
 
 To drag the covers from the trundle-bed ; 
 
 Of fiendish revelries of witch and ghoul 
 
 Which scarce the welcome light of dawn dispelled. 
 
 How fast the shadows thicken, and how near, 
 O, dear ! how very near the ghostland lies. 
 For had not old Aunt Katy seen arise 
 
124 
 
 WILD WOOD CHIMES. 
 
 From yonder very spot a flaming ball 
 
 Whose baleful light turned midnight into day, 
 
 And heard a hollow rattle as of clods 
 
 Upon the lids of empty coffins cast, 
 
 While close beside the window howled the dog 
 
 Because he heard the unquiet dead astir ? 
 
 And why might not some dread unsightly thing 
 
 Whose bones no marrow hold, wand'ring in search 
 
 Of missing records or ill-gotten pelf 
 
 By some perverse, mistaken fate find me ? 
 
 But not alone, O, no ! With flying feet 
 
 Into the pasture, through the hated gap 
 
 I fled, where in the dusk the cattle stood. 
 
 Their sleek sides heaving with the placid sighs 
 
 Of restful rumination. Close beside 
 
 A speckled beauty crouching, O what joy 
 
 To feel the smooth sharp horns, and softly stroke 
 
 The tuft of curling hair between her eyes 
 
 To smell the rich-weed, and the late sweet growth 
 
 Of clover in her steamy breath, and feel 
 
 The friendly grating of her slender tongue 
 
 Around my fingers o'er and o'er again ; 
 
 And in this dumb companionship to lose 
 
 My useless terrors, and the dead forget. 
 
 — Ah, poor forgotten dead I For you there lives 
 An aching pity deep within my heart. 
 Your little world lay in the gentle bounds 
 Of those encircling hills. Your brawny arms 
 
AS MEMORY TELLS IT O'ER. j2r 
 
 From the unbroken wild those meadows w^on. 
 
 With patient labor, day by day, you wrought 
 
 The homely texture of your quiet lives, 
 
 Waiting the summons to the silent land. 
 
 Whether at dawn the golden bowl is rent^ 
 
 Or pitcher broken at the noon fount lies, 
 
 Or in the closing dusk the silver cord 
 
 Is gently loosened from its earthly stay — 
 
 The messenger is sure ; we must obey. 
 
 To sightless eye and palsied frame of age 
 
 Welcome the refuge of the friendly tomb ; 
 
 And childhood with one brief, regretful sigh 
 
 Its wondering eyes close in the dreamless sleep — 
 
 So slight the threads which bind it to the earth. 
 
 But weep for them — thy children, pitying earth, 
 
 Who in the royal ♦vigor of their days, 
 
 While sweet the million-throated ecstasies 
 
 Of living sang in every thrilling nerve, 
 
 The summons heard ; and with reluctant feet 
 
 Leaving the tender warmth of light and love 
 
 The dreary threshold of oblivion crossed. 
 
 For them on Fame's far height no watch-light shone, 
 
 Their humble names her clarion voice ne'er breathed, 
 
 Nor yet in song or story lives their tale ; 
 
 Yet these were theirs — the ministering hand 
 
 And watchful eye of love, the hope of life 
 
 Beyond the darkness with the risen Christ. 
 
 Not long, ye silent ones, the voice of love 
 
 Outside those dreary lodgings called to you. 
 
J 26 IVILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Forgotten are your very names. The roots 
 
 Of sturdy saplings feast upon your mold ; 
 
 So thick they stand, entwined with clasping vines 
 
 And thorny brambles, that the bounding hare 
 
 Beneath them seeks a covert from her foe. 
 
 Here, in the early spring the budding shoots 
 
 Of hickory unfold their scarlet sheaths, 
 
 The sassafras its yellow fringes shake, 
 
 And shy, sweet flowers bow their tinted heads. 
 
 Here in the autumn noon the sumac flaunts 
 
 Its fiery banner in the hazy light, 
 
 The golden-rod its lavish riches spread. 
 
 And palest asters hail the passing year. 
 
 And does it matter that no crumbling stone 
 
 Remains your brief memorial to bear ? 
 
 The earth lies in the hollow of His hand ; 
 
 The humblest dust its bosom can not hide 
 
 From quickening light of Resurrection morn. — 
 
 Beneath the soft wings of the starry night 
 The weary world had crept. Within the house' 
 The lights were out, and gentle shadows wove 
 Their subtle ministries above the lids 
 Of sleeping eyes. Outside upon the step 
 The watch-dog stretched his brindled length 
 In fitful slumberings. The whippoorwill 
 From the far hill his plaintive greeting sent, 
 And crooning voice of waters answered him ; 
 All else was still. 
 
THE CHI EFT A IN' S B URIAL. j ^ ^ 
 
 The dream is dead. Low in the western sky 
 
 The dark clouds lighten, and the sun looks forth. 
 
 Across the hills his rosy banners trail 
 
 The written promise of a fairer dawn. 
 
 No winding sheet is this soft covering 
 
 Beneath whose kindly cloak the hearts of bloom 
 
 Are throbbing warm and strong. The winds are dead . 
 
 And in the hush I seem to hear the voice 
 
 Of birds that shake their downy wings and call 
 
 Within the crab-tree's boughs of fragrant pink. 
 
 And deep within this frozen solitude 
 
 I know th^ veiled Life lies as if in sleep, 
 
 Her pale hands clasping close her silken vest, 
 
 Her lips all cold and motionless ; but soft 
 
 And warm her gende heart is beating yet ; 
 
 And through the closed lids her dreaming eyes 
 
 Look upward for the dawn. And shalt not thou, 
 
 O, doubting soul of man, look upward, too ? 
 
 THE CHIEFTAIN'S BURL\L. 
 
 Xl/HOSE silent forms beneath the dim 
 
 ' ^ Uncertain stars of midnight tread 
 The winding river's solemn shore. 
 Bearing the pale uncoffined dead ? 
 The primal forest's vaulted gloom 
 Receives within its purple breast 
 
128 
 
 IVILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 The cautious steps of those who bear 
 The chieftam to his dreamless rest 
 In that deep stream whose ceaseless surge 
 Alone shall be his funeral dirge. 
 
 No rolling mass nor requiem 
 
 In choral harmonies arise, 
 
 Nor measured beat of muffled drum 
 
 Upon the wakeful night wind sighs ; 
 
 Yet mournfully the heavy dew 
 
 Its murmur drops from leaf to leaf 
 
 And mingles with the bitter tears 
 
 Of deep and unavailing grief, 
 
 Expressed in many a stifled sigh 
 
 From man's unspoken agony. 
 
 From the wide, bannered halls afar 
 There comes no whisper of the home 
 Where loving hearts shall long await 
 The footsteps that shall never come. 
 Yet, swell thy harmonies, O Fame, 
 August achievement's fitting meed. 
 Who in the triumph of a world 
 Will reck of hearts that break or bleed ? 
 Who 'neath progression's blazing beam 
 Will mourn a woman's broken dream ? 
 
 A deeper shadow on the stream, 
 A circling wave that drifted wide, 
 A broken prayer, and then, alone 
 The sullen moaning of the tide. 
 
HEPATIC A. J 20 
 
 No mark to show where those who wept 
 Again may pause to drop a tear ; 
 Yet Glory sits with folded wings 
 Beside that hero's sepulcher 
 Whose mighty current's ceaseless song 
 Still rolls his memory along. 
 
 HEPATICA. 
 
 T 
 
 HROUGH changing time, year after year, 
 At the old tryst thou meet'st me here, 
 Sweetheart, thyself unchanged and fair 
 With brave true eyes and fringy hair. 
 And evanescent, strange perfume 
 Enwrapped within thy tinted bloom. 
 
 The kindly forests well did keep 
 The secret of thy winter sleep, 
 And russet coverlet it spread 
 With loving hand above thy head. 
 Through the long night this sturdy tree 
 A faithful watch kept over thee. 
 
 And ere the blue-bird's glancing wing 
 Announced the coming of the spring, 
 Again to fairer beauty born. 
 
130 
 
 WILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Thou art risen on this Easter morn 
 In the wild March when singing shrill 
 The storm-winds break against the hill. 
 
 But yesterday I brought to thee 
 
 A child's heart beating high and free, 
 
 A footstep swift as swallow's flight, 
 
 A child's unquestioning delight, 
 
 And all the strange bright hopes that rise 
 
 Like singing birds 'neath April skies. 
 
 But yesterday the shining rill 
 Came laughing from the craggy hill; 
 So near, so clear its voices seem 
 The hollow years are but a dream 
 That slowly weaves its shadowy bands 
 About the Springtime's flowery lands. 
 
 The weary brain, the heart of care 
 In thy graVe-clothes are buried there ; 
 And in the chill March Easter morn 
 Again, within my bosom born 
 The child-soul rises joyously, 
 Hepatica, to welcome thee. 
 
AT THE SPRING. j^j 
 
 AT THE SPRING. 
 
 a r^RINK, O drink and come again ! 
 ^^ Bending with the crystal cup 
 Where the Avater bubbled up 
 From its subterranean den, 
 
 In the spring-tide of the year*, 
 Yellow down on every thing, 
 Bursting bud and callow wing — 
 
 Friend of mine, your voice I hear, 
 
 Resting here beside the spring 
 While the merry-hearted rout 
 Wandering the wood about 
 
 Hither all their treasures bring. 
 
 Fringes of the maiden-hair, 
 
 Pale wood-lilies, dainty bells 
 
 Rifled from the secret dells, 
 Mosses, ferns and lichens rare. 
 
 Song and laughter every-where ; 
 
 Merry jest and quick reply. 
 
 Gentle greeting wafted by 
 On the blue-tinged mountain air. 
 
132 
 
 WILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 Come again ? Ah, nevermore 1 
 Still, maybe thine earnest eyes 
 Now look down from Paradise 
 
 On this spot beloved of yore. 
 
 HUNTING THE COWS. 
 
 A 1 /"E crossed the creek above the mill ; 
 ' ' And where the footpath climbed the hill 
 
 We turned to watch the water-wheel 
 Forever like a giant reel 
 
 Winding the silvery waters bright 
 In tangled skeins of broken light, 
 
 And listen to the whirring sound 
 
 With which the mighty burrs went 'round; 
 
 While powdered white from crown to sole 
 The honest miller took his toll. 
 
 Gone is the miller ; 'neath the hill 
 His kindly heart lies cold and still ; 
 
 His busy wife, so hale and fair, 
 In silence rests beside him there. 
 
HUNTING THE COWS. 
 
 We saw the martins dip and skim 
 Along the water's rippled brim, 
 
 And like a flash of purple light 
 Vanish in clouds of dazzling white. 
 
 We loitered in the steep ravine 
 On fragrant tufts of softest green ; 
 
 And plucked wild cherries in the shade 
 The wide, fruit-ladened branches made ; 
 
 Then paused upon the brushy slope 
 To cut a grapevine skipping-rope. 
 
 Low in the west the sinking sun 
 A million golden cobwebs spun, 
 
 As upward by the winding ways 
 We followed his ascending rays, 
 
 Still gathering treasures old and new 
 Till sagging pockets heavy grew. 
 
 Then weary with the boodess quest 
 We sat down on the hill to rest. 
 
 Upon a dark-ringed stump we spread 
 Our treasure-trove, and gayly said : 
 
 m 
 
,^, WILDWOOD CHIMES. 
 
 " We'll leave them here, to-night, and then 
 On some day soon, we'll come again." 
 
 Ah, sweet Some-day ! within it lies 
 Enshrouded from all mortal eyes 
 
 More riches than the world can hold, 
 The joys this life may not unfold. 
 
 It seems so near ; it lies so far, 
 Its dawn is golden as the star 
 
 That leads the martial host on high. 
 " Dear Fate, be merciful," we cry. 
 
 " Not yet — too soon," her voice replies. 
 A moment, then, "Too late," she sighs. 
 
 The katydids w^ere piping shrill, 
 
 And through the woodland crept a chill, 
 
 And spirit-fingers in the vales 
 Were weaving twilight's purple sails. 
 
 We heard the birches' whispered sigh. 
 The bird-of-evening's plaintive cry ; 
 
 And faintly from the darkest dell, 
 The welcome jingle of a bell. 
 
HUNTING THE COWS. 
 
 But frowning in the darkened wood 
 A host of giant shadows stood; 
 
 And silent now with secret dread 
 Adown thehill we swiftly sped, 
 
 While fast upon the stirring wind 
 The Erl-king followed close behind. 
 
 The Great Bear rolled his shining eyes 
 Upon us from the bended skies, 
 
 And from the west the crescent moon 
 O'er lucky shoulder cast her boon, 
 
 When weary with our wanderings late 
 We stood beside the milking-gate. 
 
 135 
 
 THE END. 
 

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