ILIBRARY OF CONGRESS. I 
 
 \ —^ ^- # 
 
 ^UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.} 
 

 'IV~'(' 
 
JOSEPHINE, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 i BY 
 
 / 
 
 S. TUCKER CLARK. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR, 
 
 BY GEO. C. RAND & AVERT. 
 
 1856. 
 
C 19^ 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, 
 
 By S. tucker CLARK, 
 in tlie Clerk's office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
mg parents, 
 
 Who wiped away the tears that they were weeping 
 
 Above their first horn's grave, 
 To smOe on me, then in my cradle sleeping, 
 
 And bless the God who gave; 
 To them I dedicate this little token, 
 
 A pledge sincere, 
 That as the golden strings of life are broken, 
 
 And death draws near, 
 Their only son, a staff to them shall prove, 
 And bear them gently in the arms of love. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 With many misgivings, I present this offering to those, 
 who, by chance, may be so fond of reading, as to read every 
 book that is published. 
 
 Those even who examine may disapprove ; and I may, 
 when I become a man, blush that I ever exposed my boyish 
 attempts at verse-making ; but be that as it may, if it is true 
 that " a great book is a great evil," my offence is but trifling. 
 
 Happy Allejj, July 8, 1856. S. T. C. 
 
JOSEPHINE: 
 
 A HISTORICAL POEM. 
 
PROEM. 
 
 Answer, oh, heartless pretender, 
 Deeming fair wonian can render 
 
 Only a service most menial ! 
 Where is the loving and caring, 
 Watching and praying, while sharing 
 
 Even thy life course so varying? 
 
10 POEMS. 
 
 Ushered in infantile weakness, 
 Into a world where true meekness, 
 
 Virtue and candor seem obsolete — 
 Man finds a home and a safe rest, 
 Pillows his head on a pure breast, 
 
 Tenderly bearing his helplessness. 
 
 Leaving the world, how his death throes, 
 Bodily anguish and soul woes 
 
 Yield to the breath of true sympathy. 
 Soothing the pain throbs so gently, 
 Pointing to heaven all intently, 
 
 Woman, thy mission angelic is. 
 
 Of such a being I write now; 
 
 Bring me fresh leaves and a lithe bough 
 
 Torn from the evergreen laurel tree; 
 Let them be dipped in the fountain 
 Plowing from Helicon mountain, 
 
 That I may crown her loved memory; 
 
PEOEM. 11 
 
 Crown, with a garland befitting 
 One, who was never forgetting 
 
 Kindness to all; but who womanly 
 Battled for right; and was sharing 
 Sorrow each loved one was bearing, 
 
 Bearing for her or her country's sake. 
 
12 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FIRST LOVE, PREDICTION, DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Isle in the midst of the sea foam, 
 Martinique, earliest, best home, 
 
 Of our fair heroine Josephine. 
 Tropical flowers were around her. 
 Love here with golden chains bound her, 
 
 Bound to a brave and a noble one. 
 
FIRST LOVE, PREDICTION, DISAPPOINTMENT. 13 
 
 Far from the home of his childhood 
 William departs ; and the wild wood 
 
 Josephine seeks in her loneliness. 
 Birds, in the branches above her. 
 Bring back the words of her lover, 
 
 Words that like music sweet ravish her. 
 
 Josephine meets with the dreamer 
 Skillful in magic ; and tremor 
 
 Seizes the sibyl Euphemia; 
 "Wildly she stares ; then declaring 
 Destiny changeful, preparing. 
 
 Changeful preparing for Josephine, 
 
 Tells her a bride she beholds her ; 
 And as her mantle enfolds her, 
 
 So will the clouds of adversity; 
 Widow bereft, and in dark weeds. 
 Mourning in sorrow o'er crushed reeds, 
 
 And o'er the mem'ry of absent ones. 
 
14 POEMS. 
 
 Skillful in lore of past ages, 
 Different fortune presages; 
 
 Now, as an empress sees Josephine ; 
 Then from the friends that should love her, 
 "When the thick clouds o'er her hover. 
 
 Forced far away from them, heartlessly. 
 
 Closely the Creole girl listened, 
 Mirthful her thoughtful eye glistened. 
 
 Blushing to hear such a fortune told; 
 Laughed at the sibyl's disclosure. 
 Looked on her life with composure, 
 
 Trusted, believed not the prophetess. 
 
 Still, when the curtain of night fell, 
 Fearful that all would not end well, 
 
 Josephine thought the prediction o'er. 
 Who of us mortals would fain know 
 Every change, as the waves flow, 
 
 Bearing us on to eternity ? 
 
FIRST LOVE, PREDICTION, DISAPPOINTMENT. 15 
 
 Spirits, like witches of Endor, 
 Haply, to mortals may render 
 
 Pages of future fate legible ; 
 But, since our fortune is hidden, 
 Why should its spectre be bidden 
 
 Up from the shades of futurity ? 
 
 Josephine's hours are now dreary; 
 Gone is her lover; and weary, 
 
 Weary she waits for his coming home : 
 But, as a looked for to-morrow. 
 Never that day came, and sorrow 
 
 Woke in the bosom of Josephine. 
 
 As the last notes of a sweet sang 
 Float on the ear, so her love, long 
 
 Lingered, embalmed in her memory ; 
 And when the ties that had bound her 
 Broken were, floating around her 
 
 Still, was the dream of her early love. 
 
16 POEMS. 
 
 'Round our first love is a charm thrown, 
 Never again to the soul known, 
 
 Never in subsequent loving known. 
 Every heartfelt and kind word 
 Brings back the voice that was first heard 
 
 Speaking the language of tenderness. 
 
 Youth is a season of pleasure, 
 Pleasure almost beyond measure, 
 
 Bouyant and bright, yet ephemeral. 
 Middle age comes with its care then, 
 Wond'ring, we ask to know where then 
 
 The spring of our lifetime has flown too. 
 
 Old age throws o'er us its death chill, 
 "Wond'ring, we question ourselves still, 
 
 Where are the dark locks of former days ? 
 Changing the raven, for hoar hair. 
 Trembling and weakness are now, where 
 
 Once was activity, usefulness. 
 
17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE WIFE, THE MOTHEE, THE EXILE. 
 
 Josephine, now in her full bloom, 
 Leans on the arm of a bridegroom; 
 
 Lists to her epithalamium. 
 Beauharnais, man of high bearing. 
 Worthy the duty of caring 
 
 For the sweet maiden of Martinique. 
 
18 POEkS. 
 
 Beauharnais, proud of the flower, 
 Bore from its fair western bower 
 
 Over the sea, to his princely home. 
 Josephine, now in a high sphere. 
 Lived, as though never a dark fear 
 
 Whispered to mind, of her coming fate. 
 
 Swiftly the happy hours glided. 
 Guardian angels that guided 
 
 Josephine on in her happiness. 
 Smiled, as they saw that her offspring, 
 Would to her future a joy bring. 
 
 Solace, and joy in her loneliness. 
 
 Mother of Hortense and Eugene, 
 Mother, a title that I ween. 
 
 Dearer by far was to Josephine, 
 Than appellation more sounding; 
 Mother, the word is abounding. 
 
 Carefulness, prayerfulness mingle here. 
 
THE WIFE, THE MOTHEE, THE EXILE. 19 
 
 Vain are our dreams of the present; 
 Thougli at the dawn it is pleasant, 
 
 Balmy air, sunshine and zephyr may, 
 Ere the god Phoebus has driven 
 The day car of gold, to mid heaven, 
 
 Change, for the lightning and hurricane. 
 
 So, though the morn may betoken 
 Gladness, ere noon may be broken 
 
 Every string of the human heart; 
 Man be borne over the dark tide, 
 Where the pale spirits and ghosts bide, 
 
 Into the land of the wonderful. 
 
 Josephine's life, once unclouded, 
 Now with a dark veil is shrouded, 
 
 That veil was woven by jealousy. 
 He who had promised to guide her. 
 Guard her whate'er should betide her, 
 
 Coldly refuses to shelter her. 
 
2(F POEMS. 
 
 Jealousy, fury with baned tongue, 
 Many a soul hath thy fangs stung. 
 
 Daughter of darkness and misery, 
 Worse than the Gorgon Medusa, 
 Thou of the change art producer. 
 
 Change, that to stone turns the spirit part. 
 
 Sent out as Hagar of old was; 
 Earth then to Josephine cold was. 
 
 All save the home-land, fair Martinique; 
 There where the waters and winds play. 
 Loved she to linger the long day, 
 
 Linger, and think of her hopelessness. 
 
 There was her refuge; and Hortense 
 Seemed to breathe o'er her an incense, 
 
 Soothing the pain of her solitude. 
 Eugene, the filial and kindly, 
 Still was with him, who had blindly. 
 
 Blindly, an exile made Josephine. 
 
THE WIFE, THE MOTHER, THE EXILE. 21 
 
 What is a promise of love worth 
 Where there is naught but a cold dearth, 
 
 Famine in soul, of true principle. 
 As the shed tears of a noon shower, 
 Cheering awhile the fair field flower. 
 
 Leaving it then to the summer's heat. 
 
 Ere night comes on, with its soft dew, 
 Blighted it stands where it once grew, 
 
 Emblem of human mortality. 
 So fades the love of the many; 
 Is it a strange thing if any 
 
 Doubt the existence of constancy? 
 
 Woe ! for the heart that's neglected ; 
 Crushed; let it bow down dejected; 
 
 Covered with sackcloth and ashes be- 
 Bitter herbs seem far more loathing, 
 After a sweet draught; and loving 
 
 Maketh neglect seem the bitterer. 
 
22 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE REUNITED. 
 
 As on tlie dark cloud the sun's glow 
 Paints, in bright colors, the rainbow, 
 
 Telling the storm has passed over us ; 
 So doth a message or love lay 
 Bring to the heart a fresh hope ray. 
 
 Sketching to mind scenes of happiness. 
 
THE REUNITED. 23 
 
 It was no want of affection, 
 Desert of soul; but subjection 
 
 To the invasion of jealousy, 
 That had made Beauharnais coldly 
 Send her away, whom he boldly 
 
 Now will implore to be reconciled. 
 
 Beauharnais calls o'er the sea wave, 
 Calls to the island that first gave. 
 
 Gave him the beautiful Josephine ; 
 Asking the daughter and mother, 
 Back to the husband and brother. 
 
 Back to their home, in the eastern land. 
 
 Joyful, believing each loved word. 
 Homeward she hies, as a glad bird 
 
 Flies to its nest and its waiting brood. 
 Glad, Alexander receives her, 
 Sad, when he thinks that it grieves her, 
 
 Grieves her to think how unkind he was. 
 
24 POEMS. 
 
 Josephine," being united 
 With Alexander, who slighted 
 
 Once both her love and companionship. 
 Feels, when resuming her station, 
 Joy, in forgiving vexation, 
 
 Anger and hatred and jealousy. 
 
 Happy, twice happy the home band 
 Where heart is joined with the right hand, 
 
 Here on the altar Hymenial, 
 Cupid, with torch, bids a flame burn 
 That to cold ashes will ne'er turn. 
 
 Though it may sometimes like waning 
 seem. 
 
 Love that endures not forever. 
 Merits no naming, for never 
 
 Was such a passion of heaven born. 
 When the fair Daphne of old fled. 
 Fled from Apollo, whose heart bled 
 
 Pierced by the archer with golden dart; 
 
THE REUNITED. 25 
 
 When as a tree he beheld her, 
 Not from his love he repelled her, 
 
 But the god wept, while embracing her; 
 'Neath the bark, felt the flesh quiver, 
 Cursed her sire, god of the river, 
 
 Peneus, whose power had transformed her. 
 
 Called the tree wife ; and a green branch 
 Bound to his lyre, that would soon launch 
 
 Out on the breeze a sad melody. 
 Singing of Daphne the fairest, 
 Fairest of mortals, and rarest 
 
 Love of the famed son of Jupiter. 
 
 Daphne was loved by Apollo ; 
 
 Though she loved not, he would follow 
 
 "Wooing the maid unrelentingly; 
 Loved her when changed to a bay tree; 
 Surely, then, love must for aye be 
 
 Lasting, when truly reciprocal. 
 
26 POEMS. 
 
 So reads the myth of the heathen; 
 
 If thus they thought, shall not we then 
 
 Place upon love as high estimate ? 
 Judge, then, whatever the change be, 
 Love once implanted will still be, 
 
 Still of the heart be inhabitant. 
 
 But oh, how little such love burns, 
 How for that blest day my soul yearns, 
 
 Man to be free from love's counterfeit. 
 War and all tumult shall then cease, 
 Earth be a garden of sweet peace. 
 
 On the brio;ht morn of millennium. 
 
27 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 As the tide's ebbing and flowing, 
 So is the coming and going, 
 
 Rising and falling of potentates. 
 Thrones and dominions have perished, 
 Only their names have been cherished, 
 
 Saved from the waves of oblivion. 
 
28 POEMS. 
 
 Nations, by civil commotion, 
 Tost like the ships of the ocean, 
 
 When the rude winds through the cordage 
 howl, 
 Outlive the storm, if a bold hand 
 Graspeth the helm, and the whole band 
 
 Prove to the ship of state, vigilant. 
 
 But, if the helmsman, affrighted. 
 When in the thick storm benighted. 
 
 Yields to the sea god the shattered bark; 
 Or, if like Trojan Mencetes, 
 Timid, in even the safe seas. 
 
 Let him be cast to the gaping waves. 
 
 France, in the midst of corruption, 
 Civil and moral destruction, 
 
 Cries for redress from her slavery; 
 Then is her mourning and sadness 
 Changed to contention and madness, 
 
 Shedding the blood of nobility. 
 
THE EEVOLUTION. 29 
 
 Carnage -with riot is wedded; 
 Monarch and courtier beheaded: 
 
 Blood through the streets like a river flows. 
 Wounded and bleeding and dying, 
 With the dead bodies are lying 
 
 Where they were left by their murderers. 
 
 Like wild beasts, goaded to raging, 
 Eave the French people, assuaging. 
 
 In their mad strife after liberty, 
 Wrongs of tyrannic oppression, 
 Shedding for every transgression, 
 
 Innocent blood, with the criminal. 
 
 Jacobin hurls the Girondist 
 
 Swift to his death; and the fondest. 
 
 Dearest of friends are now enemies. 
 Sparing not childhood, or grey hair, 
 Grandson and grandsire are slain, where 
 
 Eegal blood base earth has fertilized. 
 
30 POEMS. 
 
 Beautiful women were sharing, 
 Sharing the death, that the wearing 
 
 Of the cursed crown might no longer be 
 Through the whole breadth of the nation. 
 Was such a bloody libation 
 
 Due to the goddess of liberty? 
 
 Josephine taketh her share too. 
 And of the woe she was heir to — 
 
 "Who would not pause ere he told it all ? 
 But the Great Father is near her, 
 And though the test be severer, 
 
 Still will he strengthen her bearing it, 
 
 As in her former distresses, 
 While the braVe heroine presses 
 
 Close to the feet of Divinity. 
 Josephine's prayers now ascending; 
 Legions of angels, attending, 
 
 Come down from heaven to comfort her; 
 
THE REVOLUTION. 31 
 
 And, in bright phalanx, defending. 
 Guard her from dangers impending, 
 
 Threat'ning to fall and o'erpower her: 
 Bid her to still be brave hearted, 
 Though from her dearest ones parted, , 
 
 Giving her strength in calamity. 
 
 Beauharnais, only a loyal 
 Lover of freedom is, royal, 
 
 Princely blood flows through the Viscount's 
 veins ; 
 Will he escape, since the keen eye 
 Of the avenger has bid die 
 
 All, save the utter rebellionist ? 
 
 Josephine hears the sad message, 
 Which is to her a dread presage. 
 
 Omen of evil o'ershadowing, — 
 Filling her mind with vague horror. 
 Fears she each day that the morrow 
 
 May leave her hearthstone companionless. 
 
32 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE CONVICTION. 
 
 "When in the mind are prevailing 
 Hatred, distrust and vile railing, 
 
 Then, is the heart no fit dwelling place 
 For the Great Spirit most holy; 
 And it is weakness and folly, 
 
 Hoping in God without charity. 
 
THE CONVICTION. 33 
 
 Charity-; first of the graces ; 
 He who his piety bases 
 
 On a foundation less permanent. 
 Finds all is naught, though he speaketh 
 Tongues, and have faith; for God seeketh 
 
 Such as In spirit will worship him. 
 
 He that is innocent deemeth 
 Every man good that so seemeth, 
 
 Judging by self, the world's rectitude. 
 He that is base, is distrustful, 
 Thinking all are like him lustful. 
 
 Judging the whole by one profligate. 
 
 During the wild revolution, 
 
 'Mid the black scenes of pollution, 
 
 When all, who dared to own royal birth, 
 Might view the axe which would slay them, 
 See where the tyrants would lay them. 
 
 When they no longer were fearing them. 
 
34 poteMS. 
 
 Beauharnais trembled and feared not, 
 From his determined course veered not, 
 
 Knowing his heart sealed for liberty. 
 Fondly believed the mad faction, 
 Viewing his firmness in action, 
 
 Still would respect his wise cautiousness. 
 
 When he was summoned to meet them, 
 Boldly, he hastened to greet them, 
 
 Trusting his all to integrity. 
 Spoke of their reckless abusing 
 Power, that by prudently using. 
 
 Might have made freedom their heritage. 
 
 This, to the flame that was burning 
 Li their fierce breasts, was like turning 
 
 Oil in the midst of a raging fire ; 
 Or, like an atom phosphoric. 
 Freed from its latent caloric, 
 
 Drop'd in the midst of an arsenal; 
 
THE CONVICTION. 35 
 
 Bursting their souls, and exposing 
 Fiend forms, that there were reposing; 
 
 Scatt'ring the fragments of manliness. 
 Tyrants dared doom to a prison 
 One who had boldly arisen, 
 
 Pointing a safe path to liberty. 
 
 Doomed to a prison-house dreary, 
 There to spend days and nights weary. 
 
 As a forewarner that liberty 
 Soon would be his, for 't was saying, 
 "After a little delaying, 
 
 Thou shalt be free with the sleepers cast."' 
 
 Josephine, — how was her heart wrung! 
 When it was told by a strange tongue, 
 
 " Sire of thy darlings a pris'ner is ! " 
 O'ercome with sorrow she cares not. 
 Though she is doomed to the same lot, 
 
 Heedless she enters her gloomy cell. 
 
36 POEMS. 
 
 But "when alone, her swift thoughts flew 
 Back to the husband, she well knew 
 
 Soon would be launched to eternity. 
 Hortense and Eugene, she missed them, 
 Torn from them ere she had kissed them, 
 
 Blessed them, and bid them remember her. 
 
 Now comes a message ; how grateful ! 
 Once more is broken the hateful, 
 
 Cruel suspense she was suffering; 
 Happier, actual sorrow. 
 Than the dread feeling of horror. 
 
 Hung between hoping and hopelessness. 
 
 He is condemned ! — In the letter 
 Some of his hair — what could better 
 
 Serve as memento to Josephine ? 
 O'er it she weeps, full well knowing 
 How the dark stream in its flowing, 
 
 Will with its bitter waves cover her. 
 
37 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE EXECUTION. 
 
 As to the stroke of the woodman 
 Yields the brave oak, so the good man 
 
 Falls ; and as falling the forest tree 
 Shaketh the valley and mountain, 
 Filleth with ripples the fountain, 
 
 So his death moveth the multitude. 
 
38 POEMS. 
 
 While a man livcth, each failing 
 Magnified is ; the prevailing 
 
 Spirit of earth is base selfishness; 
 But let a mortal in earth sleep, 
 Enemies over his grave weep, 
 
 Since he no longer may rival them. 
 
 Many a sad soul has waded 
 Through seas of trouble, when laded 
 
 Deep with some burden most onerous; 
 Could he have had but the kind word 
 Spoken while here, that was soon heard 
 
 After he crossed to the spirit land, 
 
 Death might have come like a day-dream, 
 Or, as sweet sleep, when a wild stream 
 
 Lulls one to rest with its merry lay; 
 And a hope glimmer have lighted 
 Him through the valley benighted, 
 
 Over the flood, to the resting place. 
 
THE EXECUTION. 39 
 
 Hope, that the waves of time lightly 
 Laying his mark, would more brightly 
 
 Cause it to shine in the future time : 
 That when his form was to dust turned, 
 He might have what he so well earned, 
 
 Earth, to remember his having lived. 
 
 This was thy hope, Alexander, 
 And while the rivers meander, 
 
 And the winds shriek through the hollow air, 
 Man shall not cease to remember 
 Thee, as the friend and defender. 
 
 Friend both of freedom and Josephine. 
 
 Now comes the dread execution. 
 But it brings this retribution, 
 
 "Sweet 'tis to die for one's father-land." 
 Bring to the altar the victim; 
 Nor with the vile cords afflict him, 
 
 He will not shrink to be sacrificed. 
 
40 POEMS. 
 
 He has lain down on his rude bed, 
 
 On the red block rests his doomed head, 
 
 And his eyes ope' to death's mysteries. 
 Views he before him the new land; 
 And the bright crown at the right hand 
 
 Of the adorable Majesty? 
 
 Now the vile axe has descended, 
 Soul from the body ascended 
 
 Up to its first source, its origin. 
 Time with the martyr has ended, 
 Now with eternity blended. 
 
 As it was first, to forever be. 
 
 Little it matters when life ends 
 
 To the just man, since all strife ends 
 
 With the last breath, in the distant land, 
 Home of the spirits made perfect 
 All are as one, and the prospect 
 
 Looks to the throne of the Prince of Peace. 
 
THE EXECUTION. 41 
 
 It is a part of life's glory 
 
 Learning of God; and the story- 
 Only concludes with eternity; 
 
 Let mind be freed from this earth clod, 
 
 Then it may learn who the great God 
 Is, that inhabits immensity. 
 
 Shall not the soul that has wondered. 
 Gazing on bright worlds unnumbered. 
 
 Hung in the midst of the firmament, 
 Guided by those they adore then 
 Visit them all and explore them, 
 
 Learn how the Father created them? 
 
 Ne'er will be known to a mortal 
 
 Till he shall pass through death's portal, 
 
 What God reserves for those loving him. 
 Know that the highest conception 
 Falls far below the reflection 
 
 Even of one of his attributes. 
 
42 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 Often the dealings of Heaven 
 Seem in deep mystery hidden. 
 
 Why should God take those we love the 
 best? 
 Takes them because we are making 
 Idols of fleshj and forsaking 
 
 Him, to whom only is worship due. 
 
THE WIDOW. 43 
 
 There are those who may in part know, 
 Some of the wild grief and heart woe 
 
 Of one who truly a widow is; 
 But only those who are drinking 
 Now, or have drank, can be thinking 
 
 Even of half the cup's bitterness. 
 
 Oft have I watched a procession 
 Led by a hearse, deep depression 
 
 "Written on every countenance : 
 Ghastly the faces, the clothing 
 Darker than night ; but with loathing 
 
 I have turned back from the mockery ; 
 
 For I have seen there the pale face 
 Proud of its paleness, with hale grace 
 
 Striving to look most Madonna like; 
 Thinking their black garb becoming. 
 Is such a scene not benumbing, 
 
 Chilling to hearts of humanity ? 
 
44 POEMS. 
 
 I have seen those too who heedless, 
 Heedless of show and the needless 
 
 Pomp and parade of the funeral, 
 Bury their dead in some lone grove. 
 Where the buds bloom, and at eve rove 
 
 Silently there to weep over them. 
 
 Once, when the night winds were blowing, 
 As, through a grave-yard was going, 
 
 I heard there weeping and wailing sad. 
 Silent with cautious steps stealing 
 Near to the head-stone, saw kneeling, 
 
 Kneeling a widow, a broken heart, 
 
 Weeping her dead, that for long time 
 Sleeping had been. Was the wrong mine 
 
 That I prayed when earth should cover me, 
 Some one might weep o'er the green sod 
 Rich from my dust, and no mean clod 
 
 Should it appear to those loving me ? 
 
THE WIDOW. 45 
 
 Time comes to Josephine grief fraught, 
 Mourning the death of her consort ; 
 
 He is dead — she still a prisoner. 
 Could but the walls of her prison 
 Tell how her prayers have arisen, 
 
 Prayers that from earth went up heavenward ; 
 
 Or could the floor of her dark cell 
 Number how many hot tears fell 
 
 While she strove hard to be reconciled. 
 They would not tell of grief feigning, 
 But such a tale, as is paining 
 
 One to be even the listener. 
 
 But the great God has not left her, 
 Though of her husband bereft her, 
 
 Still he afflicteth not willingly. 
 In this sore grief there are lurking 
 Mercies benign; all is working 
 
 For her good now, and for evermore. 
 
46 POEMS. 
 
 All have tlieir dead; some are sleeping 
 Where the mad sea-waves are leaping; 
 
 Some where the yew tree and willows wave ; 
 Ever remember to cherish 
 Dead friends as living ; they perish 
 
 Not — all will meet once more — grieve them 
 not. 
 
47 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE RELEASE. 
 
 Hemmed in by huge blocks of rough stone, 
 Where, through the grate the fresh air blown 
 
 Mingles with damp breath and loathsome- 
 ness; 
 There may the vigilant turnkey 
 Prison the body, but still free, 
 
 Free as the sea the immortal mind. 
 
48 POEMS. 
 
 Ever the mind is in motion; 
 Ranging the islands of ocean; 
 
 Seeking the realms of the setting sun; 
 Leaving the scenes of the present; 
 Sporting where broods the gold pheasant, 
 
 Or the gazelle roams the mountains o'er. 
 
 Darting from thence, where the blue wave 
 Teems with the seal, and white bears rave, 
 
 And the whale spouts, 'mong those crystal 
 hills. 
 Icebergs, magnificent tow'ring, 
 Where the fierce cold is o'erpow'ring 
 
 Almost those northern inhabiters. 
 
 Chains cannot bind thought ; 't is flying 
 Swifter than light, and defying 
 
 Limits, from earth up to heaven goes. 
 Though in a prison the life breath 
 Fails, still the blasting of pale death 
 
 Harms not the reasoning, knowing part. 
 
THE RELEASE. 49 
 
 Josephine's home, though a damp cell, 
 Often was cheered by the strange spell 
 
 Thrown o'er her mind by Euphemia's 
 "Words, that years gone she had spoken: 
 Josephine, now so heart broken. 
 
 Finds herself trusting the sybil tale. 
 
 Why should she not, since the real. 
 Answered in form, the ideal 
 
 Fortune marked out by the sorceress ? 
 She did take heart while believing. 
 Watched for the wings of relieving 
 
 Angels, to bring to her liberty. 
 
 When she saw foes were preparing 
 Also for her to be sharing 
 
 Fate of those dear but unfortunate, 
 Felt not her courage to falter. 
 Knowing that man may not alter 
 
 What the Almighty predestinates. 
 
50 POEMS. 
 
 When asked if thoughts of soon dying- 
 Clouded her mind; her replying 
 
 Filled every ear with astonishment. 
 Answered she proudly while smiling, 
 Smiling on those then reviling, 
 
 "Know that I yet shall be Queen of France." 
 
 Josephine was not alone there 
 Prison bound ; but with another fair 
 
 Woman who hopelessly looked for death; 
 'Till one day through the rough grating 
 Saw, at her prison door waiting, 
 
 One who loved her as none other loved. 
 
 Quickly she pens a short message, 
 Telling her heart's darkest presage, 
 
 Begging that he would her dungeon ope. 
 From the close grate to the wide street, 
 Down the note falls at her love's feet. 
 
 Borne to the earth by a cabbage stalk. 
 
THE RELEASE. 51 
 
 That note was read; and the wild fire 
 Of the stern will, which will not tire 
 
 Till the great end is accomplished, 
 Burned in the eye of the reader; 
 And the brave lover that freed her 
 
 Who was his all, freed our Josephine. 
 
 Now, the pure fresh air of heaven 
 That by God freely was given, 
 
 Freely is breathed by a nation free. 
 Josephine now with her dear ones. 
 Smoothly the current of time runs ; 
 
 Josephine strives to bring others joy. 
 
 Seems as she moves to strew flowers; 
 And, on the mis'rable, showers 
 
 That which she pined for in solitude, 
 Love ; — and those who are oft near her. 
 When she knows not, sometimes hear her 
 
 Speaking the name Alexander. 
 
52 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 EUGENE 
 
 Into this world of temptation, 
 Luring to foul dissipation, 
 
 Where lurks the pit-fall insidious; 
 Man must go, braving the contest. 
 Buckling the shield to the broad breast, 
 
 Warding the darts of the evil one. 
 
EUGENE. 63 
 
 Varied the thought and the feeling, 
 When from the youth time is stealing 
 
 Studies and sports of his boyish days ; 
 Bringing him cares and stern duties, 
 Showing life's thorns, with its beauties. 
 
 Bidding him up and be doing now. 
 
 He who, in earliest boyhood. 
 
 Sees his sire strive for the great good 
 
 Of all his race, a philanthropist. 
 When he stands up in the wide world. 
 Stands as a man; and the flag furled, 
 
 Furled at the father's death, floats once more. 
 
 Look at the son of the outcast, 
 
 See him go down the same track, fast 
 
 Learning the lessons of wretchedness. 
 Can a child wanton and careless. 
 Profligate, reckless, and prayerless, 
 
 Lay the foundation for usefulness ? 
 
54 POEMS. 
 
 Train up a child in the right way, 
 When he is old he will not stray- 
 Far from the safe path of rectitude. 
 It is the earliest teaching, 
 That in the young heart is reaching 
 Passions that easy are moulded then ; 
 
 Giving mind bias, preparing 
 Pleasures of life to be sharing. 
 
 And life's woes bearing with manliness; 
 That when the changes have ended, 
 Angel, by angels attended, 
 
 May find a blessed inheritance. 
 
 Eugene, his sire Alexander, 
 Patterned in brav'ry and candor, 
 
 And his affections like Josephine's. 
 Ever was kind and forgiving,- 
 Cherishing always a living 
 
 Principle, based on integrity. 
 
EUGENE. 55 
 
 Who would ask monument higher, 
 Or to more glory aspire, 
 
 Than to bequeath the rich legacy 
 Of a wise son to a nation? 
 Who would ask longer probation 
 
 Here, than to train up one's children well ? 
 
 Ever did Eugene remember, ? 
 
 With a respect the most tender. 
 
 What his sage father had counselled him. 
 That he might show this respecting, 
 From Ms young mates was selecting 
 
 Those who of all were most virtuous ; 
 
 And with them, being united, 
 Forming a knighthood, delighted 
 
 In the high praise of their patron saint, 
 Beauharnais — every young knight 
 By his shade swearing to do right, — 
 
 Bound by the oath of their filial love. 
 
56 POEMS. 
 
 In the boudoir, a beholder 
 Josephine stood, — her heart told her 
 
 That on the son, the glad influence 
 Of the sire's life had descended, 
 And all his virtues were blended 
 
 In the love pledge he had left to her. 
 
 Covered with flowers, from the ceiling 
 Seeming to smile on those kneeling 
 
 Down by the altar, a picture hung; 
 It was the form of tliat hero, 
 Who, though by death was now laid low, 
 
 Still was alive in their memories. 
 
 Josephine, standing there weeping, 
 Felt that his spirit was reaping 
 
 Fast its reward from all suff'ering; 
 As he beheld the affection 
 Of the son, and the reflection 
 
 Of his own soul, in the filial child. 
 
57 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE NEW ERA. 
 
 As, when with rage unrelenting, 
 Cruel queen Juno, preventing 
 
 Pious ^Eneas from Latium, 
 Called on king ^olus, praying 
 That he, his sceptre once swaying, 
 
 Might bid the winds to the Tuscan sea. 
 
58 POEMS. 
 
 And the storm-king from his high rock 
 Whirling his spear-point, a huge shock 
 
 Gave to the cave in the mountain's side, 
 Cave, where the fierce winds are chain-bound, 
 Where they, complaining in vain, sound, 
 
 Filling the mountain with murmerings. 
 
 At the command, as if rushing 
 Formed in battalion, all gushing 
 
 Out from their vent the mad whirlwinds 
 came ; 
 And on the deep salt sea dashing. 
 Ploughed up great waves, that were lashing. 
 
 Rolling themselves to the beaten shore. 
 
 Neptune the god of the sea wave. 
 He to whom great Jove alone gave 
 
 Empire of water, and trident power, 
 Heard the loud noise and commotion, 
 Knew that the winds with the ocean 
 
 Warred; and high over the highest wave. 
 
THE NEW ERA. 59 
 
 Looked from the deep; and assuaging 
 "Water's -wrath; stormy winds raging, 
 
 Drove o'er the smooth wave his chariot; 
 Giving his wild steeds the loose reins, 
 Steeds with hoofs brazen, whose thick manes 
 
 Golden, they bathed in their ocean course. 
 
 So when the French revolution 
 Brought to entire dissolution 
 
 Law, in the wreck of the powerful; 
 "When the throne fell and the altar, 
 When the blood shedders did falter. 
 
 Seeing France shorn of her dignity; 
 
 And the French populace straying. 
 Open to national preying, 
 
 To the invasion of enemies, 
 Like a flock wanting its keeper, 
 Prey to the spoils of the reaper 
 
 "Wolf, that blood-thirsty might follow them; 
 
60 POEMS. 
 
 Bonaparte rose, and disorder 
 Order became; like a warder 
 
 He at his post stood and guarded o'er 
 France, as he raised her from thick night 
 Till she shone bright in the red light 
 
 Shed by his Ccesar-like conquerings. 
 
 And her wild wrath and commotion 
 Calmed, as did Neptune the ocean ; 
 
 And o'er France ruled as her Emperor; 
 Giving just law, that observing 
 Would be her welfare preserving, 
 
 Make her a pattern to sister states. 
 
 He raised the altar forsaken, 
 And, with a firmness unshaken, 
 
 Battled against infidelity; 
 Throwing a charm o'er the nation, 
 Forming a happy mutation 
 
 From the dark scenes of the Jacobins. 
 
THE NEW ERA. 61 
 
 Health and prosperity blended, 
 Now the French nation attended, 
 
 Ruled by Napoleon's craftiness ; 
 No other kingdom or empire 
 But he would crush, if thus higher 
 
 He might his own and France's honor raise. 
 
 And the whole nation, its praises, 
 High and triumphantly raises, 
 
 To the all powerful Sovereign; 
 And in 'each province or hamlet. 
 When old dame, peasant or lord met. 
 
 All spake a word of the Conqueror. 
 
 And all the people in concord. 
 Mingled their voices, the one word 
 
 Spoken by all but to eulogize. 
 Was that man's name who had risen, 
 As a vicegerent from heaven, 
 
 Bonaparte, Bonaparte, Bonaparte. 
 
62 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE DEUTEROGAMIST. 
 
 How can tlie memory blacken, 
 How can the holy ties slacken 
 
 That have bound hearts to each other once ? 
 Is there naught sacred or binding, 
 Worthy respecting or minding 
 
 In all the vowing hymenial? 
 
THE DEUTEROGAMIST. 63 
 
 Why should such vows through one's life long 
 Firmly be kept, if 't is not wrong 
 
 That they should end with ones leaving earth ? 
 If the soul died; it might well be, 
 That all the vows should be then free, 
 
 Free to be cast out of memory. 
 
 Though we are told that in heaven, 
 They are not wed, nor are given, 
 
 Given in marriage; as angels live, 
 Still will not those who are dearest 
 Here on the earth, seem the nearest 
 
 "When we arrive at our better home ? 
 
 If not so, why cheer the mourner, 
 Some poor disheartened sojourner. 
 
 Whom friends have left in this vale of tears ? 
 Bid him prepare for the meeting; 
 Hold himself ready for greeting 
 
 Friendly forms over deep Jordan's stream. 
 
64 POEMS. 
 
 In this life those who are twice wed, 
 Oftimes are jealous of those dead, 
 
 Feeling how firm a first love must be; 
 When in another world, knowing 
 Where their dear ones are bestowing 
 
 All their best love, will they happy be ? 
 
 Or will none meet up in heaven. 
 Only those, who have here striven 
 
 To be true, true to their early love ? 
 Or, will all be so forgiving. 
 That they can happy be living. 
 
 Knowing themselves with their rivals there ? 
 
 Or will there be no such scene there, 
 Meeting of friends, but will all wear 
 
 One form, like features and glory, all 
 The same name, nature and fortune ; 
 How then did Peter, the triune 
 
 Know, that he saw on the mountain top ? 
 
THE DEUTEROGAMIST. 65 
 
 Be as it may, I would rather 
 See the pale angel. Death, gather 
 
 Dearest friends into his garner, than 
 See them tear off their dark dresses, 
 Weaving among their bright tresses 
 
 Orange blooms meet for the bridal scene. 
 
 Long shall remember the shedding 
 Of tears, I saw at a wedding. 
 
 Tears that were shed by a widow bride; 
 Methoiight a spirit was guiding, 
 Guiding her thoughts and soft chiding. 
 
 Haply 't was not so ; for who shall judge. 
 
 Every day of our living 
 
 We may see those who are giving, 
 
 Giving their sanction to many loves; 
 It may be right for the world to, 
 Only for me it might not do j 
 
 Mine may be scruples 7iot grounded well.. 
 
66 POEMS. 
 
 And among those who are doing 
 Thus, "we are forced to be viewing 
 
 Josephine ; she weds again ; it is 
 Bonaparte now who is leading 
 Her to the shrine, and succeeding 
 
 To the third love of our heroine. 
 
 But she paid dear for the glory, 
 As we shall see when the story 
 
 Fully is told, and unravelled is 
 All the well-knit web of life time. 
 When we have rung out our last chime. 
 
 Sung our last song for fair Josephine. 
 
67 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE CORONATION. 
 
 What is a crown to its wearer? 
 Only a sign that the bearer 
 
 Bears with the jewel, the heavy load 
 Of the whole nation's repining; 
 And that with gold, is entwining 
 
 Care, like a serpent form hideous^ 
 
68 POEMS. 
 
 On the browj stealthy it presses, 
 Fawning, its clammy caresses 
 
 Fill the crowned head with a jealous fear. 
 Crowns, though they oft fit too tightly, 
 When they are jostled but lightly, 
 
 Fall, and where then is the regal power? 
 
 In all the great preparation, 
 Due to the grand coronation 
 
 Of the French Empress and Emperor, 
 Nothing was spared, that would render 
 Even the hardest heart tender 
 
 To the impressions of loyalty. 
 
 In the proud church of " 0^lr Lady,^^ 
 Under a canopy shady, 
 
 "Was a throne reared, and its drapery, 
 Crimson dyed velvet was flooded 
 With precious stones, and bestudded 
 
 With bright gold, fresh from the artisan. 
 
THE CORONATION. 69 
 
 Three hundred voices were raising 
 Melody sacred, thus praising 
 
 Him who had sent their deliverer ; 
 And to the chanting, responded 
 Bands, who in martial airs sounded 
 
 Praise, to their most worthy sovereign. 
 
 When music's echo had ended, 
 Bonaparte, being attended 
 
 By friends of rank and his holiness, 
 Pius the Seventh, arises. 
 Holding the Bible, apprises 
 
 France that she now has an Emperor. 
 
 Then, by the royal pledge swearing 
 That he will ever be sharing 
 
 National woe and prosperity. 
 With his own right hand he raises 
 The crown to his head, while praises 
 
 Loud throusfh the aisles and arches rins:. 
 
70 POEMS. 
 
 Josephine, dressed in the glory 
 Of the fair Houri, that story 
 
 Tells of, in realms of the Mussulmans, 
 Clad in a robe of white satin, 
 Mantle of crimson and ermine, 
 
 Girdle of pure gold with diamonds set; 
 
 Thus clad, and rev'rently kneeling. 
 Token how deep she was feeling 
 
 Weight of the burden, about to be 
 Placed on her head, now accepted 
 A crown, from one she expected 
 
 Ever would own her his Empress Queen. 
 
 And those who gazed on her beauty 
 As she arose to her duty. 
 
 Doubtless, now deemed her far happier 
 Than when with William she wandered 
 Martinique's shores, and there pondered, 
 
 In her young heart, thoughts of coming life. 
 
THE COEONATION. 71 
 
 " Coming life ! " how much of pleasure 
 Is there embraced in the treasure 
 
 Which the mind has in imagining? 
 Build a high castle of thin air, 
 Though it should fall, it will still wear, 
 
 Part of its fancied magnificence. 
 
 Happy is life, by well doing, 
 Happy the mind, in thrice viewing 
 
 Deeds that are looked at with honest pride. 
 Happy the future ; increasing 
 Happy the present; unceasing 
 
 Happy the past is with memories. 
 
 Pleasures we had in the last year, 
 Thought of to-day, seem far more dear 
 
 Than we supposed they were, at the time 
 "We were enjoying; to-day will. 
 When it forever is gone, still 
 
 Brighter grow, as we remember it. 
 
72 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE AMBITIOUS ONE. 
 
 BoNAPAETE, skillful in ruling, 
 Wanted the skill for well schooling 
 
 That good though dangerous principle 
 Which in his breast was ascendent, 
 Which made his powers all attendant 
 
 To its will. He was ambition^s slave. 
 
THE AMBITIOUS ONE. 73 
 
 He who his own spirit giiideth 
 Stronger is, than he who 'bideth 
 
 In a great city as conquerer. 
 He who has no rule, is spoken 
 Of as a city whose broken 
 
 Walls are with vile weeds and grasses grown. 
 
 Mars, the fierce god, to vain glory 
 Led him through battle fields gory: 
 
 How must his mind have in lonely hours, 
 Thronged with a valley of dry bones ; 
 And his ears filled with the deep groans, 
 
 Groans he had heard 'neath his horse's tread ? 
 
 When on the " lone isle " an outcast, 
 Did not the whistling winds' blast 
 
 Bring the dread shrieks to his memory, 
 Heard on the dark field of battle. 
 Shrieks that the wild din and rattle 
 
 Of his artillery smothered not ? 
 
74 POEMS. 
 
 Did not the rain drops at eve-tide, 
 Seem like the tears of some girl bride 
 
 Widowed, or those by some mother shed 
 Over a husband or son brave, 
 Hurried away to the still grave. 
 
 Slain in the wars of Ambition'' s dupe? 
 
 Did not the low murm'ring sea breeze, 
 Breath of the wild rolling salt seas, 
 
 Seem like the moans of the murdered one. 
 Whose heart he crushed by unkindness. 
 While his own soul was in blindness 
 
 Leagued, to the fiend form that governed him ? 
 
 France had become a great empire ; 
 Brighter, still brighter the wild fire 
 
 Burned in the breast of Napoleon. 
 Could his pride suffer that ever 
 She should be ruled by one never 
 
 Born to him who had established her? 
 
THE AMBITIOUS ONE. 75 
 
 He had no son, and the treasure 
 He had heaped up gave no pleasure, 
 
 Knowing if death came he left it all. 
 Loudly his pride and ambition 
 Called for a change of position, 
 
 Change that might bring him a royal heir. 
 
 Deeply was Josephine grieving, 
 When, by her skill in perceiving, 
 
 She saw how coldly the Emperor 
 Was to her day by day growing; 
 Bitter tears, frequently flowing. 
 
 Made her cheek paler and thinner grow. 
 
 Fate had forbidden her bearing 
 Offspring, to him who was caring 
 
 Nothing for love or for holiness, 
 Could his fame not be augmented; 
 Only one thing now prevented 
 
 Joining the Cassars and Bonapartes. 
 
76 POEMS. 
 
 Could his great mind to such folly 
 Stoop, or a thought so unholj 
 
 Cherish, as parting from Josephine ? 
 Only can those whom Ambition 
 Blindly has led to perdition, 
 
 Tell how the siren devours the soul. 
 
 What is Ambition? The moving 
 Force of the mind, the reproving 
 
 Spirit that breaks the world's lethargy. 
 What the abuse ? It is losing 
 Sway o'er the mind; and refusing 
 
 Even to listen to reasoning. 
 
 'T is a continual death weight 
 
 Bound to the soul : to be called great. 
 
 Constitutes then the whole happiness ; 
 Down falls the heart's best affection; 
 Truthfulness, honor, reflection. 
 
 Cast to the wind are as chaff is. 
 
77 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE RAY OF HOPE DARKENED. 
 
 It is an old, but good saying, 
 Worthy of carefully weighing, 
 
 " Many a slip 'twixt the cup and lip." 
 Many a flower at its blooming 
 Promises fruit, when consuming 
 
 Blast may be deep in its calix hid. 
 
78 POEMS. 
 
 Josephine saw the clouds lower 
 Round her, and knowing the power 
 
 Daily she lost o'er the Emperor, 
 Joyed, when her Hortense was mother, 
 Giving Napoleon's brother 
 
 Heir to his name and inheritance. 
 
 For she was hoping, by giving 
 To the child name of the living 
 
 Emperor, he might pursuaded be 
 To make the child his own lawful 
 Heir, and by this means her awful 
 
 Fate would most surely be warded off. 
 
 And as that bud was unfolding, 
 Bonaparte, in it beholding 
 
 Traits of his own warlike character. 
 Bade that the boy be respected, 
 As the one France now expected 
 
 Next to preside and rule over her. 
 
THE RAY OF HOPE DARKENED. 79 
 
 France, with a glad exclamation, 
 Welcomed the wise declaration, 
 
 Honored the second Napoleon. 
 Josephine, blessed by her grandchild, 
 Happy, because a kind fate smiled. 
 
 Looked on the world with untroubled eye. 
 
 Man is a shadow that fleeth 
 Ere one can say that he seeth; 
 
 Trusting in princes is vanity. 
 Death cuts us all to one bevel. 
 Earth is the great human level. 
 
 Nobles to dust turn like lowly born. 
 
 Death saw the child, and an arrow 
 Sped from his bow, for the narrow 
 
 Grave claimed the form of the little one ; 
 And the bright angels above him. 
 Wanted him where they could love him, 
 
 Not as an earth, but a heaven child. 
 
80 POEMS. 
 
 Josephine deeply affected 
 
 By what she had not expected 
 
 So soon would come to the royal born, 
 Wept not alone that he left her, 
 But that grim death had bereft her 
 
 In him, of all her remaining hope. 
 
 Not that the crown should be taken 
 Cared she, if love still unshaken 
 
 Might be her own; but it grieved her sore. 
 Thinking she who might be wearing 
 Her crown, and with it be sharing 
 
 Bonaparte's love, was an Austrian. 
 
 With this dark prospect before her. 
 Striving for aught to restore her 
 
 To the respect of her despot lord; 
 Fervently prayed him, while weeping, 
 That he his holy vow keeping, 
 
 Miffht make her Eugene his lawful heir. 
 
THE RAY OF HOPE DARKENED. 81 
 
 But in his mind there now floated 
 Beaatiful vision, he gloated 
 
 On in his dreams ; should there never be 
 Really, realization 
 Of all his anticipation, 
 
 Lover-like had of the Csesar born? 
 
 YeSj there must be ; but he told her 
 Not yet how cheap he had sold her 
 
 Who had so long been his ruling star. 
 Feigned to her that he accepted 
 Eugene as heir; this protected 
 
 Her from all feelings of bitterness. 
 
 But the time came when she well knew 
 That even she had become due 
 
 To the great gamester that Bonaparte 
 Played with : for losing the last stake 
 He had naught left that he could take 
 
 But her, to give to Ambition's hand. 
 
82 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 THE DIVORCE. 
 
 Dead, while yet living, for surely 
 It is not life to demurely 
 
 Sit down a being disconsolate; 
 Nor is it death; for in dying, 
 Though to a worse fate were flying. 
 
 We might be free from our present ills. 
 
THE DIVOECE. 83 
 
 Woman, hast thou not a nearer 
 Friend than a brother, and dearer 
 
 To thy own soul than thy being is ? 
 In whom are all thy best joys found ? 
 How to thy ear would such words sound 
 
 From him, as Josephine listened to ? 
 
 Bonaparte loved her (?) Oh ! heaven ! 
 Why was the power ever given. 
 
 Given to him over Josephine ? 
 Still he declared he would love her 
 Ever the same, nor above her 
 
 Prize his young beautiful Austrian. 
 
 Bonaparte loved her, but better 
 Loved his own fame ; to unfetter 
 
 Her from his soul, and thus higher rise. 
 Though it might cost him the heart-ache, 
 Fame, with its wreath, would in part make 
 
 Even that wrong right, the tempter said. 
 
84 POEMS. 
 
 Therefore he told her no longer 
 Could they be bound by aught stronger 
 
 Than by the ties that bound other friends. 
 She must depart; for Maria 
 Waited for her ; his desire 
 
 Was that she ever might happy live. 
 
 Josephine, hearing her doom told, 
 
 Fell to the floor, as though death's cold 
 
 Hand had deprived her of consciousness; 
 Fell, like the wounded dove "breathing 
 Out life 'mong the stars," when receiving 
 
 Shaft from the bow of Eurytion. 
 
 As in the dove's breast the arrow 
 Fell to the ground, so her sorrow 
 
 Fixed in her soul was, she bore it down 
 In the wound, even to death's door, 
 Being there, bearing it no more 
 
 Left the dart, laid at the archer's feet. 
 
THE DIVORCE. 85 
 
 In her deep sorrow she ever 
 Bonaparte loved, and would never 
 
 Call him unkind; but was deeming that 
 It was not him who commanded; 
 But it was France who demanded 
 
 That she should make the great sacrifice. 
 
 But in her own mind was knowing 
 That she would ne'er have been going 
 
 Far from her throne and the Emperor, 
 Had not Napoleon trusted 
 By it, to gain what he lusted 
 
 For, full swaj over a conquered world. 
 
 She did not curse as did Dido, 
 
 (When she, forewarned that her shadow 
 
 Should not in Hades be reconciled : 
 That, from the grim world appearing. 
 Should her pale ghost oft' be nearing 
 
 Him who had coldly forsaken her;) 
 
86 POEMS. 
 
 But, witli the gentlest submission, 
 Yielded her royal position; 
 
 Gave to Maria Louisa all. 
 Like a good child whom its mother 
 Careful, has taught how to smother 
 
 Every evil propensity. 
 
 Josephine thought when this blow came 
 Deeply again of the old dame, 
 
 Martinique's sybil, Eupheraia; 
 Her faith had now become stronger 
 In the tale told, and no longer 
 
 Doubted that destiny governed her. 
 
87 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MALMAISON AND NAVAREE. 
 
 Josephine from the French court sent, 
 To that loved mansion alone went, 
 
 Where, as the bride of Napoleon, 
 Twelve years before she had gladly 
 Entered. What contrast! now sadly. 
 
 More than a widow, she enters there. 
 
88 POEMS. 
 
 Bonaparte's room, as he left it 
 Still must remain; it was not fit 
 
 (So she deemed) that she should alter it; 
 There lay his chart, books, and clothing; 
 Here was her rest, when with loathing, 
 
 She would leave earth, to weep over love. 
 
 Several months of unbroken 
 Sorrow she passed here ; each token 
 
 That could remind of the Emperor, 
 Opened anew the deep heart-wound; 
 Too much of sorrow she here found, 
 
 So sought Navarre and its solitude. 
 
 Desolate all its fair grounds lay, 
 As a sad mark of that dark day 
 
 France saw — the dread Revolution. 
 Ev'rything sere and neglected. 
 Type of her heart so dejected. 
 
 Could she but love such a resting place? 
 
MALMAISON AND NAVAREE. 89 
 
 Here she was daily pursuing 
 Means to efface the sad ruin 
 
 Marks that were ev'ry where round her; 
 But, the proud hopes of her fond heart 
 Ruined, would no more to life start, 
 
 Or as the broken down gardens thrive. 
 
 Here, at Navarre, come the tidings 
 That to fair Josephine's heart brings 
 
 Joy, with its mingling of bitterness. 
 Lo ! there is born a Prince royal, 
 Loud cries each subject most loyal; 
 
 Echo the message reverberates. 
 
 Josephine's soul thrills with pleasure, 
 For she well knows beyond measure 
 
 Now is the joy of Napoleon; 
 After the pleasure-thrill, sadness 
 Comes, when she thinks to what madness 
 
 That child has driven great Bonaparte. 
 
90 POEMS. 
 
 And how that madness brought anguish, 
 Anguish to her, she must languish. 
 
 Pine for the love that was given now 
 To that boy's Austrian mother; 
 Would to the gods she could smother 
 
 Memories sad of her wretchedness. 
 
 Josephine deemed it a pleasure 
 Even to look on the treasure, 
 
 Which had cost her such a sacrifice. 
 Had not her heart-strings been broken ? 
 Troubles too great to be spoken 
 
 She bore — Maria, a royal babe. 
 
 Few were the pangs of the mother, 
 Many the pangs of the other 
 
 Suflf'rer : Maria Louisa knew 
 Naught of the anguish of soul woes, 
 How they surpassed even birth throes : 
 
 All was too well known to Josephine. 
 
MALMAISON AND NAVARRE. 91 
 
 Bonaparte brought her the young child; 
 When she beheld him, she wept, — smiled, 
 
 Smiled through a torrent of falling tears ; 
 As oft in nature the sun bright 
 Looks through a cloud, and its warm light 
 
 Shines on of rain drops a myriad. 
 
 Close to her bosom she presses 
 Bonaparte's child, and caresses 
 
 The son, as she oft had his royal sire; 
 Seeing the father's loved image. 
 Pays to the child the same homage 
 
 Carthage's queen did to Ascanius. 
 
 Could not such heartfelt devotion 
 Waken a tender emotion 
 
 In the cold heart of Napoleon? 
 He so well skilled in excusing 
 Wrongs, might have felt an accusing 
 
 Spirit, but quick he would smother it. 
 
92 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 THE FALLEN STAE. 
 
 There are, wlio tell us the stars guide 
 All of us over the time tide, 
 
 Down to the gulf of oblivion. 
 There are, who trust to the fable. 
 Deeming that He who was able 
 
 To make stars, might make them ominous. 
 
THE FALLEN STAE. 93 
 
 These, watch the signs of the burning 
 Orlbs of still night, and are learning 
 
 Thus, or pretend they learn, augury. 
 If the stars, changing positions 
 Alter the winds, dispositions 
 
 Human as well may be changed by stars. 
 
 It is a mind superstitious. 
 
 That would deem one star propitious, 
 
 While in the same constellation was, 
 'Neath the same cloud by chance hiding. 
 In the same blue home abiding, 
 
 Other stars, called most unfortunate. 
 
 Born of a marvellous nation, 
 In land of wild incantation. 
 
 Nature made Josephine marvellous ; 
 Even her mind had a blending 
 Of traits, betraying strong tending 
 
 To a belief in Astrology. 
 
94 POEMS. 
 
 This, slie was often betraying 
 When at her vitals were preying 
 
 Sorrows, as once the fierce vultures preyed 
 On his, who brought down from heaven 
 Fire, that its power might be given 
 
 To men, as to gods — old Prometheus. 
 
 When came the last and worse trial. 
 When the wrath angel's last vial 
 
 On her was poured ; when proud Bonaparte 
 Left her, she said 'twas her reigning 
 Star that ruled France, at its waning 
 
 He would be thrown from his eminence. 
 
 Truly she said ; if no guiding 
 Star ruled the fates, the abiding. 
 
 Provident justice of Deity 
 Could not forever afflict her; 
 But from her foes would protect her. 
 
 Bring down the high hands that troubled her. 
 
THE FALLEN STAE. 95 
 
 Bonaparte's warriors no longer 
 Were the invincible, stronger 
 
 Arms had repeatedly vanquished them ; 
 And his throne shook like the quaking 
 Of earth, and the nations were waking 
 
 Up to the conqueror's overthrow. 
 
 Long had they lain down supinely 
 In the dust; God had divinely 
 
 Given them strength ; they would use it now ; 
 Bonaparte no more should wander 
 With his proud legions, to squander 
 
 Happiness, life-blood and liberty. 
 
 Bonaparte's glory was fading; 
 Still he was hoping by wading 
 
 Through seas of blood, earth might tremble, as 
 In the wind, aspen leaves quiver. 
 When he should pour as a river. 
 
 Armies upon them, to devastate. 
 
96 POEMS. 
 
 Useless the strife ; it was striving 
 'Gainst the old "world, now reviving 
 
 From a deep, long, and refreshing sleep, 
 In all its youthfulness waking; 
 From its grey locks the world shaking 
 
 Age, warred as ancient Entellus, once 
 
 When he was dared to the contest, 
 Matched by young Dares and close pressed 
 
 By thick blows, conscious worth fired his 
 soul ; 
 As the thick showers on the house-top 
 Fell his strokes, quickly dealt, — no stop 
 
 Till o'er the plain he brave Dares drove. 
 
 So the world, armed as with Cestus, 
 Fell on the Corsican; he thus 
 
 Vanquished was, and like young Dares gave 
 Up the fierce contest, and yielding 
 To the gods, sought for the shielding 
 
 Refuge, which friendly hearts ofi"ered him. 
 
97 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A woman's love. 
 
 Bonaparte's bright days of glory 
 Gone, seem to him like a story 
 
 When it is told; a dark vision is 
 All that remains ; a Chimera 
 Soon to devour now draws nearer; 
 
 He, whom the nations feared, fearful is. 
 
 7 
 
98 POEMS. 
 
 And it comes — Bonaparte 's banished ! 
 Seeing liis earth hopes have vanished 
 
 Has he aught now that can comfort him? 
 Can that son, born to be cage-bound 
 Like a wild beast, heal the sore wound 
 
 Made in the Monarch's ambitious soul? 
 
 Bonaparte 's stripped of his power — 
 Wrenched from his grasp in an hour, 
 
 Is that for which he had labored years. 
 Island of Elba his home now ; 
 She who should soothe his care-worn brow, 
 
 Ease his pained heart, has deserted him^ 
 
 Gone to the home of her father. 
 Born of a King, she would rather 
 
 Not be deprived of a royal home. 
 Bonaparte's crown she respected: 
 Crownless, must she be expected 
 
 Now in his downfall to cherish him? 
 
A woman's love. 99 
 
 Who is it when blight has coldly 
 Fixed on man's name, that will boldly 
 
 Bleach the dark stains of tongues pestilent; 
 Solving the riddle, and clearing 
 All doubts away, that appearing 
 
 Pure and still noble, the loved may be? 
 
 'T is the true wife ; she will ever 
 Bless whom earth curses, and never 
 
 Cease to hide faults from the idle gaze. 
 Never desert; but will follow 
 Where famine stalks with its hollow 
 
 Cheek; and for love build its sepulchre. 
 
 Is there no mortal whose tender 
 Heart some assistance may render 
 
 To the unfortunate Bonaparte ? 
 Some one to cheer the lone outcast, 
 Wiping the marks of the dread past, 
 
 Quite from the Hero's pressed memory? 
 
100 POEMS. 
 
 Love with its halo might lighten 
 Some of his cares ; his hopes brighten ; 
 
 Bonaparte, even at Elba might, 
 Being loved, conquer the yearning 
 Spirit that in him was burning. 
 
 Burning to vanquish his vanquishers. 
 
 Yes there is one, (though Maria, 
 Has in her breast no desire 
 
 Now to commune with the Emperor), 
 Whose heart would fill full of gladness. 
 Could she cheer Bonaparte's sadness, 
 
 Josejjhine, Josephine, Josephine. 
 
 He whom she loved was afflicted; 
 With her star, (as she predicted,) 
 
 Had waned the fame of Napoleon : 
 Now she would fly to the outcast; 
 Freely forgive him the wrongs past, 
 
 Which had made her such a suJGferer. 
 
A woman's loye. 101 
 
 Could he refuse her the blessing 
 
 Of his now care-wreathed brow pressing, 
 
 Since there was none, save, to sympathize ? 
 She would fly over the ocean. 
 She might perchance the commotion 
 
 Soothe, in the breast of the troubled one. 
 
 Even this, which she had cherished 
 As her last hope, had now perished: 
 
 No more the goddess Hygeia 
 O'er her health watched, pale disease came 
 Sowing its seeds in her frail frame, 
 
 Destined to soon let the spirit free. 
 
102 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 DEATH 
 
 What is death? Is it a dreamless 
 Sleep? And the grave, is it gleamless? 
 
 Is there no ray of hope piercing it ? 
 What is death? Is it but losing 
 Forms we here wore, and then choosing 
 
 Other forms, demon or angel like? 
 
DEATH. 103 
 
 What is death? Utter destruction 
 Of this strange human construction, 
 
 And the soul, even more strangely formed ? 
 Is the grave only a flow'r bed, 
 Nourished by dust of those long dead; 
 
 Will that dust never immortal rise ? 
 
 Death is like sleep, one awaking 
 Always the same form is taking 
 
 That he bore, ere he was slumbering. 
 Only refreshed, and the death sleep 
 Has the same waking, 'tis then meet 
 
 That we prepare for our longest sleep. 
 
 When we awake, at the sounding 
 Of the last trump, the smTOunding 
 
 Clods of the valley shall yield their dead, 
 Many a turf of the hill-side, 
 Many a wave of the blue tide 
 
 Presses the dust of humanity. 
 
104 POEMS. 
 
 He that was holy will still be 
 Holy; the filthy still filthy; 
 
 Only changed as to mortality. 
 Bone will to bone be united; 
 Since out of chaos benighted, 
 
 Matter came, ne'er was an atom lost. 
 
 All must die, none are too youthful. 
 None too old, wayward or truthful, 
 
 Evil and good, young and old must die. 
 Death fears not summer's hot breezes ; 
 Winter's cold blast never freezes, 
 
 Darkness and night are no barrier. 
 
 At noon the pestilence stalketh 
 Through the proud city and walketh 
 
 Shapeless among the high mountain homes 
 Death enters cottage or palace. 
 Bearing in each hand a chalice 
 
 Poisoned, to press to his victim's lips. 
 
DEATH. 105 
 
 Josephine folded her pale hands, 
 While the death angel the life bands 
 
 Broke, which were binding her spirit in. 
 Upward it flew to the regions, 
 Where, with the sanctified legions, 
 
 She might be crowned through eternity. 
 
 Down went the star in its beauty: 
 Latest life care and last duty 
 
 Now was completed, the sorrow clouds 
 Crossing the star, left it shining. 
 And as it sank, its declining 
 
 Glories were spread o'er the universe. 
 
 Furled were the sails in port heaven, 
 Anchored at last, though oft driven 
 
 By the fierce winds of adversity. 
 Yielded the ship to its maker : 
 Jordan had rolled the last breaker 
 
 That would dash Josephine's shattered bark. 
 
106 POEMS. 
 
 Heaven, the blest land of no night : 
 Those who dwell there need no sunlight, 
 
 Nor the pale moon, or the twinkling stars. 
 He who from nothing a world brought, 
 Hung it in space, to revolve taught. 
 
 Lights his own throne with his glory beams. 
 
 Ending life's fitful commotion. 
 May I be worthy a portion 
 
 In that eternal inheritance; 
 Even as servant, attending 
 One of the throng who are bending 
 
 Down at the throne of the Holy One. 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 
 
109 
 
 THE LOVE OE THE HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Where the bright morning 
 Sun, in its rising 
 From its east chamber, 
 Gildeth the mountains. 
 On whose pale summits 
 Snow-drifts are lying, 
 On whose rough bosoms 
 Forests are growing; 
 
110 POEMS. 
 
 Where in the valley 
 Rushes the river; 
 And the buds bursting, 
 Change into flowers, 
 Filling with sweetness, 
 All the air 'round them; 
 Where the birds warble 
 Songs to their maker. 
 Songs full of pathos. 
 And their breasts quiver, 
 Like the soft lute-string 
 Struck by the skillful 
 Hand of the artist; 
 Where the lambs, roving, 
 Skipping and playing. 
 Close to their mothers, 
 Seem to be happy, 
 There is a cottage ; 
 And the fresh roses. 
 Of a June morning, 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. Ill 
 
 Cover the window, 
 "Window that westward, 
 Looks to the mountains ; 
 And the tall elm-trees, 
 At the four corners, 
 Throw their deep shadows 
 Over the low roof; 
 And the moss, growing 
 On the brown wood-work. 
 Covers with freckles. 
 Here in the evening, 
 Ere the moon coming, 
 Throws her pale splendor 
 On the blue lakelet; 
 Ere the first star-beam 
 Dares to be shining 
 In the broad heavens 
 After the sunset; 
 While there still lingers 
 'Round the high mountains, 
 
112 POEMS. 
 
 Some of the glory 
 Of the bright day king; 
 And all the clouds are 
 Tinged with the purple, 
 And the deep crimson 
 Of the sun's setting; 
 When the light golden 
 Seems to be fading 
 Into the azure, 
 Then from the pasture. 
 Where they the day long, 
 Happy have wandered 
 Cropping the herbage. 
 Drinking the water 
 Clear as the crystal. 
 Come the cows homeward; 
 And at the barnyard 
 Meeting the milkers, 
 Fill the pails brimming. 
 But when the clouds fade, 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 113 
 
 Losing their bright glow, 
 Growing more sombre, 
 Float in the star light; 
 And on the gray rock, 
 Down by the meadow, 
 Whipporwills singing 
 Songs of the night time. 
 Make one feel gloomy; 
 Then in the cottage. 
 In the old arm-chair, 
 Sits the good farmer 
 Reading the story 
 Of the blest infant 
 Born in a manger. 
 By him his good dame 
 Sits with her knitting; 
 And the granddaughter, 
 " Love of the Household,^^ 
 Stands by the arm-chair,. 
 Stroking the grey locks. 
 
114 POEMS. 
 
 Of her grandfather; 
 Now and then looking 
 At the old time-piece, 
 That in the corner 
 Fifty years standing 
 Never has failed them, 
 Giving its warning, 
 '^ Time fast was flying," 
 As it were bidding 
 Them to be ready. 
 For the last summons. 
 Now her eyes wand'ring, 
 Fall on a picture, 
 On the wall hanging; 
 Though it is dingy. 
 Still she discovers 
 There a fair maiden 
 Seated beside one. 
 Handsome and manly; 
 And her own bosom 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 115 
 
 Beating so wildly, 
 Tells but too plainly, 
 She has a lover. 
 But to the old clock 
 Sounding its eighth chime, 
 All eyes are turning, 
 For the retiring 
 Hour is approaching; 
 And the whole household 
 Kneel down together, 
 While the old farmer 
 Prays to the Father; 
 But the fair maiden, 
 Though she was kneeling. 
 Heard not a word said, 
 But when arising. 
 Lighting her candle, 
 Whispers a good night, 
 Hies to her chamber; 
 But not to slumber, 
 
116 POEMS. 
 
 Silently listens, 
 Listens till certain 
 Both her grandparents 
 Soundly are sleeping. 
 Then like a fairy 
 Kuns to her mirror, 
 Curling her dark locks, 
 That like a shower 
 Fall on a bosom 
 Whiter than snow is. 
 Holding the candle 
 Nearer the clear glass 
 In its antique frame, 
 What does she see there ? 
 Is it a picture ? 
 Never was living 
 Beauty so perfect. 
 From those eyes flashing, 
 Queenly expression; 
 And the brow pure and 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 117 
 
 Fair as the lily; 
 
 While on her cheek, bloom 
 
 Roses of health-glow. 
 
 Is it a wonder 
 
 If a faint smile played 
 
 Round those sweet lips, where 
 
 Kisses would soon be 
 
 Lavished profusely? 
 
 Back to the parlor, 
 
 Now she returning, 
 
 Looks at the old clock, 
 
 Counting the moments 
 
 Ere she may greet him, 
 
 Who the last evening, 
 
 As they were strolling 
 
 Down by the lake side, 
 
 Whispered his love words, 
 
 Gently beseeching. 
 
 That she might answer. 
 
 If a like passion 
 
118 POEMS. 
 
 Burned in her bosom ; 
 But she had left him, 
 Answering nothing, 
 When she was longing. 
 Longing to tell him 
 How she had loved him, 
 Hoping and fearing. 
 But the time passes, 
 When he had told her 
 He should he with her; 
 And the fair maiden 
 Sighs, and a tear starts : 
 Had he forsaken. 
 Who the last evening 
 Made her so happy ? 
 Then she remembered 
 How, when he left her, 
 Pale was his forehead. 
 And his hand trembled, 
 While he was pressing 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 119 
 
 Hers, that she coldly 
 Drew from his clasping. 
 What was the reason 
 That he should tarry? 
 Was he then mourning, 
 Thinking her heartless ? 
 Or was he scorning, 
 Seeking some other 
 Who would not trifle 
 With his devotion ? 
 Had she but told him. 
 When he was pleading. 
 Half her heart's worship. 
 He had been richer, 
 She none the poorer. 
 Far le^ unhappy. 
 Now she will listen, 
 He may be crossing 
 Over the stone bridge. 
 And she may hear him, 
 
120 POEMS. 
 
 Hear his quick footfall, 
 And must stop weeping, 
 Lest he should see her, 
 And thus discover 
 How she was loving; 
 Yet was half hoping, 
 There might one tear-drop 
 Hang on her lashes. 
 So he might ask her 
 Had she been weeping? 
 Hark ! he is coming • 
 That is his low tap, 
 Heard on the casement. 
 Lifts up the door latch 
 Slowly and gently, 
 Lest that grandmother 
 Should be awakened. 
 Harold has entered, 
 Smiling but sadly, 
 Welcoming Mary — 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 121 
 
 " Love of the Household.'^ 
 Takes the great arm-chair 
 Left by the farmer, 
 But the low cricket, 
 Standing beside it, 
 Where the fair Mary 
 
 Would have been seated, 
 
 Careless he moveth . 
 
 Into the corner. 
 
 Then begins chatting 
 
 Over the gossip 
 
 Of the whole village, 
 
 Tells of some sisters, 
 
 Over the mountains, 
 
 Lovers of nature, 
 
 Who have invited 
 
 Him on the morrow. 
 
 With them to ramble. 
 
 Where there are growing 
 
 Wonderful flowers, 
 
122 POEMS. 
 
 And to the ledges 
 "Where the red tourmaline 
 Is in abundance, 
 And the green beryl, 
 Felspar and mica, 
 Quartz and the garnet, 
 Yield to the student 
 Plentiful harvest. 
 Mary was silent. 
 What was the matter ? 
 Had he forgotten. 
 What the last evening 
 Was his whole story ? 
 No. He remembered 
 More — that she coldly 
 Answered him nothing; 
 And when they parted, 
 Heartlessly left him 
 Without a token 
 Of her affection. 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 123 
 
 Still he is chatting, 
 But not a word says 
 That she may answer; 
 And the big tears start. 
 Does he observe them? 
 Now he is talking 
 With the white kitten, 
 Whom its fair mistress 
 Sees is her rival. 
 On his knee sitting, 
 Quietly purring. 
 Now he arises, 
 Home must be going, 
 That on the morrow. 
 He may with vigor 
 Ramble the mountains ; 
 He does not linger 
 Long at the doorway; 
 Does not ask Mary 
 
124 POEMS. 
 
 If in the moonlight 
 She will go with him 
 Far as the stone bridge : 
 Leaves her abruptly, 
 With a faint " good night," 
 Not the sweet " good bye" 
 That he was wont to 
 Speak as he kissed her. 
 Now the door closes. 
 Wretched is Mary; 
 Let her remember 
 Harold was last night. 
 So is he now too. 
 Did she but know it, 
 As he stands looking 
 In through the window 
 Watching each motion. 
 Hoping the lesson 
 Will prove to Mary 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 125 
 
 That in flirtations, 
 Oft the beginner, 
 Finds that the victim 
 Also wears armor. 
 
126 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Feom the tall elm trees 
 Blue birds sweet singing, 
 And the tame red breast 
 On the old gate post 
 Cheruping, warbling; 
 And the swift swallow 
 Twittering, glancing, 
 Chanticleer loud his 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 127 
 
 Clarion sounding, 
 Make a full chorus, 
 Waken the household. 
 And first arising, 
 Mary commences 
 Breakfast preparing: 
 When it is ready. 
 Calls her grandparents ', 
 And they together, 
 While the sun rises, 
 Share in the bounty 
 Which the Great Giver 
 Has on them lavished. 
 And the meal ended, 
 Grandfather goeth 
 Out to his labor. 
 Turning the furrow 
 Smoothly and even. 
 That on the morrow 
 He may trust earth with 
 
128 POEMS. 
 
 Grains of gold seed corn, 
 Hoping a harvest. 
 Mary the dishes 
 Quietly washes, 
 And this completed 
 Goes to the churning; 
 While the grandmother 
 Works at the distaff, 
 Watching her Mary, 
 Whom she sees striving 
 Hard to be happy, 
 Now and then singing 
 Parts of old ballads ; 
 Then silent gazing 
 Out at the window 
 Noticing nothing. 
 Now the good granddame 
 Breaks the long silence. 
 Calls to her Mary, 
 " Luve of the Household," 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 129 
 
 Saying, " come Mary, 
 
 Sit thee down by me, 
 
 For I would tell thee. 
 
 Tell thee a story. 
 
 Let not the blushes 
 
 Come to thy fair cheek, 
 
 While I shall let thee 
 
 Know that I heard thee 
 
 Talking the last night, 
 
 With thine own spirit. 
 
 I was not sleeping 
 
 When thy guest entered; 
 
 Nay, do not weep, lovej 
 
 I am not chiding; 
 
 It is well for thee 
 
 That thy young heart should 
 
 Learn to be loving. 
 
 But, gentle Mary, 
 
 Thou hast not learned yet 
 
 All the heart's workings; 
 
130 POEMS. 
 
 And thy grandmotvier, 
 Though an old woman, 
 Has not forgotten 
 Days of her girlhood. 
 Mary, I'll show thee 
 What love's effects are 
 On hearts as timid, 
 Trusting as thine is; 
 Deeply implanted, 
 Part of the nature, 
 Ever enduring, 
 And if it crushed is, 
 Crushes all with it; 
 For in the heart's core 
 Lies the wound deepest; 
 There it will rankle. 
 Like a thorn piercing; 
 Fester, embitter 
 All the life's current; 
 And the cheek pale grows, 
 
THE LOYE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 131 
 
 As by sharp famine, 
 
 Till the soul tired, 
 
 Bursts its enclosure; 
 
 And all around ask, 
 
 'What was the death blow?' 
 
 But none can answer: 
 
 Deepest love never 
 
 Utters the story, 
 
 But with its secret 
 
 Hid in the darkness 
 
 Of its own prison, 
 
 Flies from this earth scene. 
 
 Not so a man loves, 
 
 Though he may never 
 
 Banish entirely 
 
 Dreams of his first love ; 
 
 But in the tumult 
 
 Of the world's moving, 
 
 Keeps his mind distant 
 
 From his own feelings. 
 
132 POEMS. 
 
 Only at twilight, 
 Or in still evening, 
 When he is lonely. 
 Or hears a voice sound 
 Like the loved lost one. 
 That a tear gushes 
 Up to his eye lidsj 
 Then his mind wanders 
 Back to the old scenes, 
 But he quick rallys, 
 Lets some wild fury 
 Seize on his heart-strings. 
 Man may grow desperate. 
 Sullen and heartless. 
 But rarely dies, by 
 Being neglected. 
 Many a stern man. 
 Cold and dejected. 
 Selfish appearing. 
 Has in his bosom, 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 133 
 
 Framed and hung up there, 
 Pictures of beauty; 
 And, where the rose bloomed, 
 Still there remaineth 
 Some of its fragrance. 
 Look at the picture 
 On the wall, Mary; 
 There is the artist. 
 Even the painter, 
 Skill of whose pencil 
 "Wrought the fair picture, 
 "Wrought his own form there; 
 "With his the maiden's. 
 Oh! I remember, 
 When in their beauty. 
 They have together 
 Roamed yonder mountains. 
 Gathering flowers. 
 And the bright berries. 
 Sometimes I noticed. 
 
134 POEMS. 
 
 When from their rambles 
 They had returned home, 
 Home to the cottage, 
 Mary coquettish, 
 (Her name was Mary,) 
 Strove to seem heartless. 
 I could see "Walter's 
 Brow was o'ershadowed. 
 And that the love-light 
 Fled from his dark eye; 
 But when the smile came 
 Back to our Mary, 
 He would be happy. 
 Thus it was often; 
 And I was chiding. 
 Saying, 'not so child, 
 Not so my daughter.' 
 But she replying. 
 Said, ' why he loves me. 
 Let me torment him; 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 135 
 
 I am good sometimes, 
 Shall be good always, 
 When I am older.' 
 But in the autumn 
 When the corn ripened, 
 And the fruit mellow, 
 Asked to be gathered; 
 When the first frost tinge, 
 On the bleak mountains. 
 Had turned the leaves pale, 
 Crimson and yellow; 
 When through the forest, 
 Happy the huntsman 
 Followed the red fox. 
 Season of sporting, 
 Walter was absent. 
 Missed at our fireside. 
 Missed in the evening. 
 When at the husking 
 All the young people 
 
136 POEMS. 
 
 Joyful assembled. 
 Still was our Mary 
 Blithsome and happy, 
 Eomped "with the peasants, 
 Sought for the ' red ears; ' 
 And when the lasses 
 Asked; where was Walter, 
 Said she knew nothing, 
 And was less caring, 
 Hoped he was happy, 
 Happy as she was ; 
 But when no eye saw 
 Only her mother's, 
 Then was the gloom cloud 
 Over her brow cast, 
 And the salt tear fell 
 When she was sleeping, 
 And the deep sigh came 
 Up from her bosom. 
 Many pale moons passed, 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 137 
 
 And the snow flakes fell, 
 And the broad stream was 
 Bound by an ice bridge; 
 Then Mary sought him, 
 Asked his forgivness. 
 Begged he would treat her 
 No more so coldly. 
 Once more receive her 
 Back to his love trust. 
 And he received her; 
 (At least he said so) 
 But he remembered. 
 How once his heart bled. 
 And one by watching, 
 Might see there lurking 
 Thoughts of revenging. 
 When spring once more came, 
 "We were preparing 
 Here at the cottage, 
 For the approaching 
 
138 POEMS. 
 
 Wedding of Mary. 
 Ev'rytliing pleasant, 
 Hearts all in concord, 
 Walter and Mary 
 Seemed to be striving, 
 Each that the other 
 Might be made happy. 
 But "when the day came 
 Fixed for the nuptials, 
 Walter appeared not. 
 And when the priest came 
 That he might bless them, 
 Mary as dead lay ; 
 And all the night long, 
 Here on my bosom, 
 Praying, I watched her; 
 But when the morning 
 Light fell upon her, 
 She to her duties 
 Went uncomplaining; 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 139 
 
 But all her joys fled, 
 Only smiled once more, 
 When she received you, 
 Mary, the first time 
 Into her pale arms. 
 Smiling she left us. 
 Walter's revenging, 
 Though it did murder 
 Our only daughter. 
 Left us not childless ; 
 For since then, Mary, 
 Hast thou been made ' The 
 Love of the Household J 
 Dost thou remember, 
 That a tall stranger, 
 Not many years gone 
 Came to our cottage ? 
 That was thy father. 
 He for forgiveness 
 Came, and we gave it; 
 
140 POEMS. 
 
 For I saw written 
 On his pale features, 
 That in his heart was 
 Reared a green grave mound. 
 Now a far distant 
 Land is his last home ; 
 For he is sleeping." 
 
141 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 When the tale ended, 
 Mary was weeping, 
 For she had learned now. 
 What had before been 
 Hid from her kenning. 
 Oft had she questioned. 
 Who were her parents? 
 And the reply was 
 
142 POEMS. 
 
 From her grandmother, 
 Always the same -words, 
 " Those who would love thee 
 Not more than we do." 
 Now, she no longer 
 Wondered, they told not. 
 For it had grieved her. 
 Learning the story, 
 Sad, yet so life like, 
 Full of the breaking 
 Of the young, trusting 
 Heart of her mother: 
 
 Yet, she saw something 
 Therein, which argued 
 
 That all the sorrow 
 
 Might have been warded, 
 
 Had not that mother 
 
 Woke in her lover. 
 
 Spirit revenging. 
 
 And now her own breast 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 143 
 
 Filled was with chiding: 
 Had she not trifled 
 With the affections 
 Of one she trusted? 
 Might not a fury 
 Now be at work there ? 
 Could she not fall too ? 
 Fall as her mother? 
 Well might she shudder. 
 Up to her chamber 
 Mary then hastened, 
 And at her bed side 
 Humbly she kneeled down, 
 Asking direction, 
 Asking the help of 
 "Him who is mighty," 
 Trusting her welfare 
 With the All Careful. 
 And when she rose up. 
 Strength had been gathered. 
 
144 POEMS. 
 
 And she determined 
 Ere the night dews fell, 
 That she would conquer 
 All the like spirit, 
 Spirit of trifling, 
 She might inherit 
 From her lost mother. 
 Then comes a sad thought. 
 Where now is Harold ? 
 Over the mountains. 
 With the fair sisters ? 
 Has he been thinking. 
 Once while he sported, 
 Thinking of Mary ? 
 And something whispers : 
 " Always is thinking. 
 Never forgetting." 
 
 What was it whispered ? 
 ***** 
 
 After the sun turned 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 145 
 
 From the high noon goal, 
 Eolling down westward, 
 Stretched to the north, lay- 
 Piles of clouds fleecy, 
 One from another 
 Rising like billows 
 Covered with white foam^ 
 But at their bases 
 Black and unbroken ; 
 And from the mountains 
 Rose a steam upward, 
 Earth to the clouds sent 
 Yapors sulphuric, 
 That soon returning 
 Would wake the echoes. 
 Now 'mong the elm trees, 
 Softly a breeze played, 
 And the dry, parched leaves 
 Noisily rustled, 
 And the deep, sultry 
 
 10 
 
146 POEMS. 
 
 Air of the cottage 
 Told the approaching 
 Tempest was coming. 
 Idle, boy anglers, 
 Who through the day long^ 
 In the blue lake, had 
 Patiently fished for 
 Nibblers, not worth the 
 Trouble of scaling, 
 Gave up their cruel 
 Sport, for they well knew 
 Fish would not bite when 
 Raged the wild tempest, 
 And the live thunder 
 Now was loud roaring, 
 Speaking with voice of 
 Ten thousand lions, 
 Caged in the pent cloud j 
 And the bright lightning 
 Seemed like the forked tongue 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 147 
 
 Of some huge serpent 
 Piercing the heavens. 
 In the green meadow 
 Feeding, the filly 
 Heard the loud clang of 
 Nature's war trumpet; 
 And like a wild steed 
 Snorting, the field o'er 
 Bounds in her wild fright. 
 Now comes the rain down, 
 And the sharp hail stones 
 On the roof clattering. 
 As the old farmer 
 Looks to the mountain, 
 Sees the brave oak tvee 
 Torn from its birth place j 
 And the tall pine, cleft 
 Into four-quarters, 
 Hurled to the valley. 
 Mary affrighted 
 
148 POEMS. 
 
 Knows not but Harold, 
 On the wild mountain, 
 Breathes out his life breath 
 To the wild tempest: 
 Silently prays that 
 God may preserve him. 
 But what is coming- 
 Over the stone bridge, 
 Swift as the lightning ? 
 It is the black steed 
 Harold is driving; 
 Now comes a loud clap 
 Of the harsh thunder, 
 And the fierce mettle 
 Of the swift courser 
 Fairly aroused is ; 
 Wildly he dashes 
 Saddle and rider, 
 'Gainst the rude railing 
 Of the old stone bridge. 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 149 
 
 Has the dark river, 
 Foaming and rushing, 
 Swelled by the torrent, 
 Poured down the mountain, 
 Caught on its bosom 
 Harold's dead body? 
 Wildly, the farmer, 
 Followed by Mary 
 And the grandmother. 
 Hastes to the wild scene ; 
 Though the rain drenches. 
 And the bolts threaten, 
 Yet will they seek to 
 Know if young Harold 
 Living or dead is, 
 Or, if the stream has 
 Borne from their viewing; 
 But they behold there 
 Not Harold lifeless. 
 But a pale stranger, 
 
150 POEMS. 
 
 Bleeding and dying. 
 Gently the farmer 
 Raises the cold form ; 
 Scarcely is able, 
 Now he has grown old, 
 To bear the strong man 
 Into the cottage. 
 This done they lay him 
 On a couch; Mary 
 Wipes off the red blood ; 
 And the good grand dame, 
 Like all old women, 
 Skillful in nursing, 
 Poundeth the bitter 
 Wormwood, and bindeth 
 On the deep flesh wound, 
 And the good grandsire 
 Mingles the cordial, 
 Lavender, strong wine, 
 Sweetened with honev. 
 
THE LOYE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 151 
 
 In their humane acts, 
 Mind not the tempest, 
 Till by chance, Mary 
 Sees the bow painted, 
 And the clouds broken. 
 # * * * 
 
 As the sun setting 
 Hides his bright visage, 
 Sinks the man dying. 
 Calls the old farmer. 
 Gives him a paper, 
 Looks on the picture 
 On the wall hanging, 
 Then from earth passes. 
 Mary feels lonely, 
 And the air cool and 
 Pure seems inviting 
 Her, so she strays down 
 By the rock in the 
 Meadow, where she knows 
 Harold is often 
 
152 POEMS. 
 
 Seated for study, 
 Or to contemplate 
 On nature's beauties. 
 As she approaches, 
 Sees him there seated; 
 Then she knows certain 
 He has not rambled 
 This day the mountains ; 
 And her quick nature 
 Prompts her to ask him. 
 How are those sisters ? 
 Show her the flowers. 
 Specimens rare, that 
 He has collected; 
 Ask, if it thundered 
 On the high mountain, 
 And if the maidens 
 Frighted hung round him^ 
 As hangs the ivy 
 Rotiud the old oak treej 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 153 
 
 If he protected ; 
 But she remembered 
 That she had sworn to 
 Conquer that spirit; 
 So she approaches 
 Careful, lest breaking 
 In on the student's 
 Dream philosophic, 
 She may disturb some 
 Thought worth preserving. 
 He is not mindful 
 That she is near him, 
 Till her hand presses 
 On his pale forehead; 
 For he was sitting 
 'Gainst a tree, leaning, 
 With his hat lying 
 On the rock by him ; 
 Closed were his dark eyes, 
 But when they opened, 
 
154 POEMS. 
 
 Mary was sitting 
 Closely beside him^ 
 Mary, his Mary ; 
 For so she told him 
 She would one day be, 
 Ere they were parting; 
 And there she told him 
 What was her anguish 
 In the wild tempest; 
 How she was fearing 
 That she might never 
 Tell him the story, 
 That she so longed to 
 Ere he first asked it. 
 Then of the stranger 
 Spoke, by whose coming 
 All were affrighted ; 
 How he had died there, 
 Left a strange paper, 
 No one was knowing 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 155 
 
 What 'twas containing. 
 Harold replying, 
 Says, "we will enter 
 Now the old cottage, 
 For the ground damp is 
 From the late shower ; 
 We should not linger 
 Long in the dampness." 
 Happy they enter, 
 Find the old farmer 
 Reading the paper. 
 It was no stranger 
 That they had sheltered, 
 But Mary's father, 
 Unhappy Walter, 
 Whom they supposed dead 
 In a land distant. 
 He had brought treasures, 
 Left them for Mary. 
 But why does Harold 
 
156 POEMS. 
 
 Enter the cottage 
 Now it is daylight, 
 When the last evening 
 He was so cautious ? 
 This is the reason: 
 " Mary no longer 
 Can keep her secret 
 Hid from grandmother, 
 Nor does she care to," 
 
157 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Time, the tomb builder," 
 Onward swift flying, 
 Passes us silent, 
 Whether we heed his 
 Coming or going. 
 Watch yonder hour-glass; 
 See the sands running ; 
 As one grain falleth, 
 
158 POEMS. 
 
 Follows another; 
 So precious moments 
 One by one, stealthy 
 Fly from our grasping, 
 Bringing the long years ; 
 Bearing the infant 
 Swift up to youth time, 
 Right on to manhood; 
 Sprinkling the grey hairs 
 As a sad token, 
 That frost of age is 
 Surely approaching; 
 Bringing the vision 
 Of the green curtained 
 Bed of the long home. 
 Man from reposing 
 In his soft cradle, 
 Lies in his coffin. 
 Old age approaching, 
 Rarely discovers 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 159 
 
 That the mirid falters, 
 Or that the body 
 Is not SO powerful 
 As it was younger; 
 Nor is it strange that 
 Man should deceived be. 
 Since every year grows 
 Shorter and shorter, 
 And one's whole lifetime 
 Is but the budding. 
 Blooming and dying 
 Of a field flower : 
 " Like grass our days are 
 And as the glory 
 Of grass we perish." 
 How in so short time, 
 Can man consider 
 All the strange changes ? 
 How become willing, 
 Even to own that 
 
160 POEMS. 
 
 So few short years have 
 Borne from him manhood, 
 Brought second childhood ? 
 Let a few years pass. 
 Look at the cottage, 
 Where, at our first view, 
 Grandfather hale was. 
 Although his locks then 
 Wanted their dark hue ; 
 Now those white locks gone; 
 Only a few stray 
 Hairs in the breeze play 
 Round his brow wrinkled. 
 Honor that bald head. 
 See his form bending; 
 He cannot follow 
 Now the straight furrow. 
 See, his steps totter; 
 You can scarce hear him 
 When he is coming, 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 161 
 
 So light his foot fall; 
 Only the slow thump 
 Of his stafF marks his 
 Wearisome progress. 
 Dim are his eyes, and 
 Words of affection 
 Must twice be spoken 
 Ere he can hear them. 
 He from whom neighbors 
 Used to ask counsel, 
 Now needs advising. 
 One hope remaineth 
 Firm and unshaken — 
 Hope of the country, 
 Where there is no change; 
 When there arriving. 
 Clad in the garb of 
 Youth everlasting. 
 He may forever 
 Dwell with the angels. 
 
 u 
 
162 POEMS. 
 
 And tlie old man's mind, 
 Feeble to reason, 
 Still is as strong as 
 Youth, when he prayeth. 
 Old age has drawn him 
 Down to the yawning 
 Grave, and he waiteth. 
 Now is the " silver 
 Cord" being "loosened," 
 " Golden bowl broken," 
 " And at the fountain. 
 Broken the pitcher, " 
 "And at the cistern 
 Broken the wheel is;" 
 "Dust" is returning 
 " To earth as it was," 
 And the blest " spirit 
 To God who gave it ; " 
 And the old man is 
 Numbered on earth, with 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 163 
 
 Those who are hidden; 
 But up m heaven 
 Known as an earth child, 
 Who, through the strife and 
 Cares of probation. 
 Answered his callino;. 
 And was made welcome 
 To the high portals. 
 Oh ! what a gloom was 
 Spread o'er the household. 
 When the grandfather's 
 Body was carried 
 Out from the parlor, 
 Under an elm tree — 
 One of those elm trees 
 At the four corners. 
 Which their broad shadows 
 Throw o'er the low roof, 
 And was there buried. 
 Here in the dusk might 
 
164 POEMS. 
 
 Have been seen seated, 
 Bowed down with anguish, 
 Grandmother, Mary, 
 Mourning together; 
 Though Mary's grief was 
 Deep, yet she mourned not 
 For the great centre 
 Of her affections, 
 As did grandmother; 
 For when the good dame 
 Saw that form buried. 
 Which she had loved for 
 Sixty-five long years, 
 Then was the fountain 
 Of her grief opened ; 
 And her deep mourning 
 Bore her on swiftly 
 To the same resting; 
 And all her prayer was, 
 " When it shall please thee, 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 165 
 
 Merciful Father, 
 Take me up to him." 
 Not long she lingered, 
 Ere the waves parted 
 That she might, dry shod, 
 Cross o'er the river, 
 Stream of death, shutting 
 Her from her loved ones — 
 Parting, yet meeting; 
 For on each bank stood 
 Friend forms ; on this side, 
 Harold and Mary 
 Bidding her " good bye ; " 
 On that side, greeting. 
 Husband and daughter; 
 These were made sadder. 
 Those were made gladder, 
 She was the gainer. 
 Now is our Mary 
 Almost heart-broken; 
 
166 POEMS. 
 
 For in the cottai^e 
 
 Echo her footsteps, 
 
 To her mind seeming 
 
 Like the returning 
 
 Footfalls of others; 
 
 Everything voiceless 
 
 Seems to be saying — 
 
 "Where are the lost ones?" 
 
 And the old arm-chair 
 
 Vacant, inquireth, 
 
 " Where is my master ? " 
 
 And the brown distaff — 
 
 That, she has hidden, 
 
 So she may see it 
 
 No more so silent. 
 
 But in the twilight 
 
 Ere Harold cometh. 
 
 Paying his evening 
 
 Visit to Mary, 
 
 While the old house-dose 
 
THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 167 
 
 Howls on the door step, 
 Then her own shadow 
 Frightens the maiden; 
 And Harold's visits, 
 Always so pleasant, 
 Now she is lonely. 
 Double their value ; 
 He the sole object 
 Of her affections ; 
 And every parting 
 Seems like the tearing 
 Of Mary's heart-strings. 
 Well Harold knows it; 
 And one bright evening, 
 When he was leaving, 
 Asked Mary, smiling, 
 If on the morrow 
 He might bring with him. 
 One who would bless them. 
 Joining their right hands ? 
 
168 POEMS. 
 
 And her reply was, 
 "Would he were here now." 
 Harold then stepping 
 Out at the doorway- 
 Calls to one waiting: 
 It is the black gowned 
 Worthy, whom Harold 
 Bid there be list'ning 
 For such a summons. 
 Quickly he steppeth 
 Into the kitchen, 
 Bids the two lovers. 
 Standing before him, 
 Swear they will ever 
 Live for each other; 
 Then bids the blessing 
 Of God be upon them. 
 And quickly leaves them. 
 But no more parting 
 Is at the cottage. 
 
THE LOVE OP THE HOlTSEHOLD. 169 
 
 Though the long hours pass, 
 And bright Aurora 
 Lights up the heavens; 
 For now is Harold 
 Happy with Mary, 
 She, with her husband. 
 And the grandparents 
 In their graves sleeping 
 Are not forgotten; 
 For should you enter 
 Now that old cottage, 
 You might hear Mary 
 Telling her "Mary," 
 " Love of the Household," 
 That, 'neath the elm trees 
 Sleep those whose lives were 
 Spent with the view that 
 Heaven is above us. 
 
PIC-KIC POEM 
 
173 
 
 PIC-NIC POEM. 
 
 LINES RECITED AT A GRAND PIC-NIC. 
 
 It was a summer day. 
 I sat me down beside the sounding sea, 
 To watch its billows as they rose and fell. 
 The ancient trees that shut the day-king out 
 Stood still; unshaken by the softest breeze. 
 While seated there, in that romantic spot, 
 I thought, as any other school boy would. 
 That I was quite sublime ; and oft I sighed — 
 
174 POEMS. 
 
 Would from my mind the muses snatch the 
 
 veil, 
 And breathe a dreamy spirit over me, 
 Give me a glimpse of Mount Parnassus high, 
 And bid my soul feed on ideal things. 
 Would I might tread some spot untrod by man : 
 Draw from its hiding place some secret thing : 
 Give birth to thoughts before unknown to me ; 
 And lose myself in dark immensity. 
 Could I but reach those fair Elysian fields 
 Where poets gather laurels for the brow, 
 Then would my fondest dreams appear, 
 
 portrayed 
 In real shades; then might I well exclaim, 
 Disturb me not; far better place me where 
 The waves of some Tantulian lake might lave 
 My breast; there bid me thirst; and when I 
 
 fain 
 Would sip its waters, bid them all recede; 
 Give me to hunger, while the tempting vine 
 
PIC-NIC POEM. 175 
 
 Hung o'er my head ; but should my eager hand 
 Be raised to pluck one cluster for my food, 
 Bid playful winds the branches bear away. 
 Do this ; aye more ; but steal not from my gaze 
 Poetic pictures which my fancies raise. 
 As thus I mused I slept, and sleeping, dreamed. 
 My dream I sing: Methinks I see e'en now 
 That cavern, hollowed from the mountain's 
 
 brow, 
 A wild recess, where winds are kept in store, 
 And where in chains unruly tempests roar. 
 Thrust headlong down into that dismal deep, 
 A chamber where the dead might fear to sleep, 
 "Was I; and who can tell the dreadful chill 
 Of terror, making every heart-string thrill, 
 That to my cheek froze every falling tear, 
 And filled my soul with an unearthly fear. 
 All, all was still; a strange sight met my 
 
 eye ; 
 One lone star only broke the cloudy sky, 
 
176 POEMS, 
 
 Which brighter grew, as slow it seemed to fall, 
 Leaving the heavens for this terrestrial ball. 
 Gently it came, as though some unseen hand 
 Half loosed, yet still retained its fettering 
 
 band ; 
 Above my head it staid, and by its light 
 Revealed the secrets of my cave of night : 
 On either hand, a ghastly skeleton; 
 And at my feet, a turbid streamlet run; 
 Behind by back, coiled in a hideous pile, 
 Foul toads and lizards, with the serpent vile ; 
 Before my face, a magic beryl hung. 
 In which I read, as to and fro it swung. 
 Scenes of this life, in sunshine and in shade, 
 Devoid of colors, truthfully displayed. 
 I saw a lawyer, with his client near. 
 For whom he knew no hope, yet offered cheer ; 
 He told him that he thought for still more 
 
 gold. 
 Next court he mio-ht some new device unfold. 
 
PIC-NIC POEM. 177 
 
 I looked again, the lawyer's conscience woke ; 
 He made a vow, and ne'er that vow he broke, 
 No more to plead a cause, unless the right 
 Was on his side, then plead with all his might. 
 Bv this, I knew one might, (though so few can) 
 Practice at law and live an honest man. 
 I saw two parsons ; one was called of God j 
 The other called, but by some other nod. 
 The last looked solemn in his suit of black. 
 Sins not his own seemed resting on his back, 
 And people thought, because he never smiled, 
 His heart was right, his garments undefiled; 
 But when they found he'd left in their array, 
 Their purses stole, they wished he'd staid away. 
 The man of God put on no extra airs. 
 Nor filled the highways with his lengthy 
 
 prayers ; 
 But when he saw the people led astray, 
 Proclaimed the threatening of the judgment 
 
 day ; 
 
 12 
 
178 POEMS. 
 
 And to the soul who from his sins would cease, 
 He pointed out the endless paths of peace. 
 Next viewed a doctor, whom the people said 
 Oft would not suffer that the sleeping dead 
 Should hold in peace their claim within the 
 
 ground, 
 But dug them up, to see what might be found ; 
 They called this horrid, yet thought he must 
 
 know 
 Where every bone and sinew ought to go ; 
 And if he chanced to make a slight mistake. 
 The poor man's life and honor were at stake. 
 They little thought what he must undergo 
 To learn what they thought he of course must 
 
 know. 
 And next a teacher — how unearthly white 
 His brow appeared, within that beryl bright; 
 His cheek was wan, his dark eye fierce and 
 
 wild, 
 His nerves unstrung, his disposition riled; 
 
PIC-NIC POEM. 179 
 
 His very look, with terror ought to strike 
 The hundred boys, where no two are alike ; 
 But no ; my father told me not to mind 
 Unless I pleased ; and I'm not much inclined, 
 Says one ; another, that his parents say 
 "When teachers scold 'tis time to run away. 
 Yes, even then within his trembling hands 
 He held a note ; the writer there demands 
 Redress ; his little son has been abused, 
 For trifling things which should have been 
 
 excused. 
 "What matter though he hid the master's hat ? 
 That man's a brute who would reprove for that ; 
 And should he not reform, will sure receive 
 A gentle hint that he had better leave. 
 Next came a student, with his books in hand, 
 Deep in the mysteries of some foreign land. 
 With brain half crazed, and pulses beating 
 
 sore. 
 Eager to drink in draughts of classic lorej 
 
180 POEMS. 
 
 The angles whicli he learned were less obtuse 
 Than his ideas of being fine and spruce ; 
 And the Greek verbs, though knotty, ill 
 
 compare 
 With what was knotted worse — his tangled 
 
 hair. 
 The people called him worthless ; and all said 
 Some day or other he would beg his bread. 
 "The youth is lazy," half the town exclaims; 
 As though it was not work to use one's brains. 
 " Oh ! what extravagance,^^ the neighbors say, 
 "A poor marl's son at school from day to day^ 
 And 't was observed, at last, by one old maid — 
 She wondered that he did not learn a trade. 
 The student heeded not; I saw him gain 
 The prize he long had striven to obtain; 
 And when his former foes beheld his fame, 
 Why then — they always knew he'd win a name. 
 Then came a man who by fair means had made 
 A fortune large, for well his plans had laid. 
 
PIC-NIC POEM. 181 
 
 He watched the signs to see who next would 
 
 fail, 
 And was secure before the auction sale. 
 This caused a murm'ring 'mong the financiers 
 Of talents less; and to the rich man's ears 
 Came strange reports; they wondered much 
 
 the more 
 That knavery had not shown its head before. 
 They called him " rascal," and still harder 
 
 names ; 
 " His wealth could ne'er have come by honest 
 
 gains." 
 The rabble turned away, and would not speak 
 Unless there was a favor they might seek; 
 But if they had some great plan to put 
 
 through. 
 Which well they knew themselves they could 
 
 not do. 
 This blackleg, then, became a saint of light, 
 And nothins: he could do but what was right. 
 
182 POEMS. 
 
 A man appeared^ poor both in purse and health, 
 And he was scorned by those who boasted 
 
 wealth. 
 His wife was called extravagant ; the cause 
 Was, that folks lie the fastest picking flaws ; 
 And then, perhaps, she had so fair a face. 
 That it might well a rich man's parlor grace ; 
 And all must own when envy's fire burns 
 
 bright, 
 'T will not expire for sake of doing right. 
 Another class, one of the kind who rise 
 For the same reason that another dies. 
 The only way that they can higher go, 
 Is treading down their neighbors next below; 
 Root out the schemes, the people once have 
 
 loved. 
 Bring in their own, and set them far above. 
 Next came a butcher, with his cart-top wliite ; 
 His saw and cleaver in their sheaths shone 
 
 bright J 
 
PIC-NIC POEM. 183 
 
 With joints and sirloins of most any weight, 
 The man of flesh could all accommodate ! 
 One would suppose, since mankind love to 
 
 eat, 
 They'd love the man who peddled out the 
 
 meat ; 
 But if, forsooth, his sausages were cheap, 
 The foul-tongued slanderer saw not fit to 
 
 sleep ; 
 But with a slur remarked, that sometimes dogs 
 In equal flesh, would cost far less that hogs. 
 I saw a woman, whose supreme delight 
 Was in a kind of linguadental fight; 
 And if she was not in some kind of row, 
 Would force you to combat her any how; 
 And if in manners you should chance to call 
 On her, she straightway would begin a brawl ; 
 No matter if you did not chance to know 
 When used polite, she would not let you 
 
 go. 
 
184 POEMS. 
 
 I saw her to a foolisli fellow speak; 
 
 He heard her through, most modestly and meek, 
 
 And wond'ring all the while how dogs could 
 
 eat 
 Old Jezebel, or putrefying meat. 
 I saw a maiden who was wond'rous fair, 
 Eyes heavenly blue, with wealth of raven hair, 
 And such a form as artist could not paint. 
 With mind and disposition of a saint. 
 And yet beside her stood a rival miss. 
 Who would not listen to a word like this. 
 Said she was plain, and most distressing proud, 
 As though she thought among the handsome 
 
 crowd 
 Of village girls, she was the only flower. 
 The very rose-bud of this earthly bower. 
 But what appeared most to her rival strange, 
 That any fellow who had power to range 
 'Mong all the girls, should show so little mind 
 As love this one and leave the rest behind. 
 
PIC-NIC POEM. 185 
 
 I saw a couple who for money wed; 
 Each wished the other or their own self dead ; 
 Parents that told their daughter whom to love, 
 Or whom to hate, as though some power 
 
 above 
 Had placed at their command their daughter's 
 
 mind, 
 Which at their pleasure they might loose or 
 
 bind. 
 They saw the tear-drop moisten oft her eye, 
 And heard her sighing for the time to die ; 
 And when they saw her going to the tomb, 
 They knew what frost had nipped the early 
 
 bloom. 
 And last, of all the sights that did appear. 
 Was a ^^ Grand Pic-Nic,^' and from far and near. 
 The people came, in different dress arrayed, 
 Of different minds, of every sort and shade; 
 Of this mixed throng, two classes seemed to be, 
 The stingy ones and those of money free ; 
 
186 POEMS. 
 
 The stingy ones at length, in rays I saw, 
 A sight so sad from any eye might draw 
 Tears, bitter tears, unless they were like mine 
 Directed to the lib'ral, gen'rous kind; 
 For in my vision did the magic stone 
 Burst, and its fragments one by one, 
 Transformed to diamonds, on the bosoms fall 
 Of those who money brought and spent it all. 
 
 Here ends my dream; for buzzing round me 
 
 thick. 
 Mosquitoes flew; I woke and seized a stick; 
 And when I drove the insects from my bed, 
 I found with them, my muse had also fled. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
189 
 
 JOHN ANDRE. 
 
 'T is evening hour : the moon's pale light 
 Falls on the Briton's paler brow, 
 
 Bright sunshine yields to stilly night, 
 The owl begins her night-song now. 
 
 Still mounted on his warlike steed, 
 Sits Andre, dreaming of the past, 
 
 And musing on that last dark deed. 
 He wishes nio;ht mig-ht ever last. 
 
190 POEMS. 
 
 No sleep for him who feels the dread 
 That guilt or danger always brings ; 
 
 Alas, the fatal words are said, 
 
 And " treason " on the night air rings. 
 
 That fatal paper, too, he bears; 
 
 That paper dyed in sin and shame ; 
 Traced on its darkened face it wears 
 
 The hateful, trait'rous Arnold's name. 
 
 The morning comes, he seeks a spring 
 Where he may slake his burning thirst; 
 
 Among the trees the linnets sing, 
 As happy as tliey sung when first 
 
 They saw the sun o'er Eden rise. 
 When earth was young, and time began. 
 
 And 'mid the flowers of Paradise 
 
 They hovered 'round the first-born man. 
 
JOHN ANDEE. 191 
 
 But hark ! the sound of coming feet, 
 And Andre's cheek becomes more pale ; 
 
 Now Briton haste thy fate to meet; 
 Let not a soldier's courage fail. 
 
 They ask his name. Will he deny 
 His flag, his country, and his king ? 
 
 Yes ; for base soldiers fear to die ; 
 Death to the good no harm can bring. 
 
 " That broad, pale forehead's look of pride," 
 Is hidden by the veil of shame j 
 
 Up to his brow the crimson tide 
 
 Mounts, as he feigns another's name. 
 
 Oh, Andre ! thou canst not deceive 
 The patriot gaze that falls on theej 
 
 'T were open madness to believe 
 Thyself from dread suspicion free. 
 
192 POEMS. 
 
 The blush, the voice, the downcast eye 
 Are volumes speaking thy disgrace ; 
 
 All hope is gone, and thou must die, 
 And cause thy sire to hide his face 
 
 In shame for thee; and bid the tears 
 
 Course down thy mother's withered cheek. 
 
 As once they did, when, free from fears. 
 You vowed a soldier's life to seek. 
 
 The guilt is known; for now behold 
 
 That scroll, bound by the traitor's seals. 
 
 Though archly hid, is found, unrolled; 
 Dismounting Andre humbly kneels, 
 
 And begs his captors to forgive ; 
 
 " Abroad let not the tale be told ; 
 I cannot die ! 0, let me live ! 
 
 I pledge the wealth of gems and gold." 
 
JOHN ANDRE. 193 
 
 " This diamond ring, this watch is thine, 
 My horse, proud, jBeeting as the deer: 
 
 This cursed paper I'll resign, 
 
 But tell them not who brought it here." 
 
 "Put up thy bribes, thou fallen man; 
 
 For judgment, death await thee now; 
 No more shall England's breezes fan, 
 
 Or zephyrs kiss thy sin-stained brow." 
 
 Again he prays ; he prays that he may die 
 Not as a dog, but as a soldier, lie 
 Pierced with the bullet or the shining blade, 
 And clad with martial dress, in dust be laid. 
 
 But no ! Death must embrace him on the tree, 
 A warning dire to soldiers such as he; 
 The rope make ready, and the noose prepare 
 Let strains of plaintive music rend the air, 
 
 13 
 
194 POEMS. 
 
 Once more he spoke, and to a comrade said, 
 "Tell England's sons that Andre now is dead. 
 Oh ! tell my father, though I stained his name, 
 I was unmoved when death and vengeance came. 
 
 " Oh ! tell my mother never more to weep, 
 Although her child so far away must sleep ; 
 I never more can grieve her gentle breast 
 When 'neath the cold and icy clods I rest. 
 
 " And there's another, whose bright eye will fill 
 When I am dead; tell her I loved her still; 
 And ever will, though sleeping in the grave, 
 Her guardian be, her feet from snares to save.^ 
 
 " Good by : my bed is ready, I must sleep : 
 Tell all the dear ones not for me to weep; 
 Now come, Death I My sins, Great God 
 
 forgive, 
 Pardon and cleanse, and fit with Thee to live." 
 
195 
 
 ELEGIAC LINES 
 
 (Jn the death op two young friends in p. 
 
 My heart is swelling with its flood of grief; 
 My eyes grow dim, and tears bedew the page ; 
 For gloomy thoughts break in upon the mind, 
 Thoughts of the loved who now in death 
 
 repose. 
 Borne from my sight, to rest within the grave, 
 Hid from the sunlight of the pleasant day, 
 Shut up alone beneath the cold, cold stone. 
 
196 POEMS. 
 
 I see thee, Mira, as I saw tliee when 
 
 Thy cheek was wan, thy pulses faint and few, 
 
 And when the tide of life was ebbing slow : 
 
 Faint, like a dove, when weary in its course, 
 
 Crushed like a flower 'neath a careless tread, 
 
 Or like a bud nipped by untimely frost. 
 
 Since then have come the angels to conduct 
 
 Thy spirit to its happy home above. 
 
 The vale of death before thee opened wide, 
 
 It was not dark to thee, for He who made 
 
 The sun, shone there so bright that all was 
 
 light. 
 To thee was given by faith to view the crown, 
 Held out to thee, among the radiant stars : 
 I know that thou art sleeping in the dustj 
 But, Howard, is it true that thou art gone ? 
 I never saw thee when disease had lain 
 His heavy hand upon thy manly form; 
 When last I saw, thy voice rang clear in song, 
 Bright was thine eye, and active ev'ry limb. 
 
ELEGIAC LINES. 197 
 
 They tell me thou art sleeping with the dead : 
 I weep, and cannot have it so : shall I 
 Ne'er clasp again, with thee, the friendly hand ? 
 Or join with thee to raise the. sacred hymn, 
 On earth ? No, ne'er again ; but in '' the realm 
 Where angels have their birth," there may we 
 
 sing. 
 Oh cruel Death ! 't is thy delight to mark 
 The fairest forms, and pluck them for thine 
 
 own J 
 The ones we fain would keep in chains of 
 
 love, 
 Pierced by thy darts, are hurried to the 
 
 grave, 
 Those shining marks that most proclaim thy 
 
 power, 
 Are stricken by thy ruthless, tyrant hand. 
 But God is in it : why should I repine ? 
 His hand directs afflictions for our good : 
 He bids us mourn that we may see how frail 
 
198 POEMS. 
 
 These bodies are, and bids us to prepare 
 When he shall call, with cheerful steps to 
 
 Trusting in Him "Wio doeth all things welL^' 
 
199 
 
 TECUMSEH. 
 
 Wlien Gen. Harrison was In council with this distin- 
 guished man, he thus addressed him : " Sit on yonder 
 seat, which your white father has prepared for you." Te- 
 cumseh, prompted by a spirit free as the wind, replied, 
 " You my father? No, the sun is my father, the, earth my 
 mother, and I will not rest till I repose on her hosoin. 
 
 W. R. 
 
 The war-whoop is hushed over forest and hill ; 
 The hum of thy council forever is still; 
 And now, lying dead in thy " mother^s embrace," 
 Thou mayest repose with the last of thy race. 
 
200 POEMS. 
 
 Thy vow -was •well kept, standing ready to take 
 The life of thy foe, a new conquest to make j 
 To add one more scalp to the badge of thy fame, 
 Was the hope of each hour, the labor and aim. 
 
 Thy heart beats no more, for the warrior has fled 
 To fair hunting grounds, in the realms of the 
 
 dead; 
 Where white man comes not, but sable sons 
 
 reign, 
 Reign monarchs supreme, in their ghostly 
 
 domain. 
 
 Rest on, brave Tecumseh ! thy battles are o'er, 
 The gleam of thy steel frights the pale face 
 
 no more. 
 And thy father, the sun, proudly views from 
 
 on high. 
 That, fighting for country and friends, thou 
 
 didst die. 
 
201 
 
 TO ROYER. 
 
 Rover, wlien a little boy, 
 I wa^ almost wild with joy, 
 As one pleasant summer night, 
 I received ijou, puppy white, 
 Marked with spots of shining black, 
 On your ears and on your back. 
 I remember how you cried, 
 Taken from your mother's side; 
 
202 POEMS. 
 
 Softly covered in my bed, 
 Hearing you, my young heart bled; 
 And I planned that you might be 
 Sleeping snug and warm with me ; 
 So to end the childish freak, 
 Rose, your little nest to seek; 
 Took you, trembling, to my bed, 
 On the pillow laid your head, 
 And at morn, your puppy nose 
 Woke me pulling off the clothes. 
 Then I learned you how to speak 
 "Bow-wow," for your food; and seek 
 For the ball the boys at play 
 Carelessly had thrown away ; 
 And I learned you how to catch 
 Woodchucks in the garden patch, 
 Where they often came to eat 
 Beans and three-leaved clover sweet. 
 Well I know thy doggish brain 
 Mem'ries may for years contain, 
 
TO ROVER. 203 
 
 And I wisli that thou couldst tell 
 All the thoughts that therein dwell. 
 To my questions your reply, 
 Wagging tail, and bright'ning eye, 
 Though I understand that -well, 
 Still thou hast no way to tell 
 If thou hast forgotten quite, 
 One who fed thee morn and night; 
 Grandmama, who loved me so 
 That she feared to let me go 
 From her sight, loved thee so well 
 That she bid me never sell. 
 For the love I bear the dead, 
 While I have a loaf of bread, 
 You shall ever share the crust, 
 And when dead, as die you must. 
 If on earth I then remain. 
 None shall ere thy dust profane; 
 But shall rest beneath the shade 
 Of the trees where we have played. 
 
204 POEMS. 
 
 Thou art now grown weak and old, 
 
 Faithful Eove ! and I am told 
 
 Often, since thou art so lame, 
 
 I deserve a deal of blame 
 
 That I do not have thee slain, 
 
 End thy sorrows and thy pain; 
 
 But would those who thus reprove, 
 
 So be changed to those they love ? 
 
 Would they kill an aged friend, 
 
 Who had no more strength to spend 
 
 In their service; or befriend. 
 
 Care for them, as I for thee ? 
 
 If not let them learn of me. 
 
 Rover ! I have penned for thee 
 
 " DoggWel rhyme ; " a " bone " would be 
 
 Doubtless to thy canine eye 
 
 Better gift, "not half so dry," 
 
 Bigger dogs than you reply. 
 
205 
 
 THE WITHERED BOUQUET. 
 
 Beautiful flowers I 
 Why should I love you so ? 
 
 In the green bowers 
 Lovlier, fairer grow; 
 Withered and colorless, 
 
 Faded and dead, 
 Why should I love you so ? 
 
206 POEMS. 
 
 Perishing flowers ! 
 Thou a memento art; 
 
 Speaking of hours 
 Dear to my throbbing heart f 
 Silently eloquent, 
 
 Speaking, though dead, 
 Thou a memento art. 
 
 Twice has the spring past 
 Since thou wert given me ; 
 
 Will thy perfume last 
 Long as I cherish thee ? 
 Thou hast been carefully 
 
 Treasured away. 
 Since thou wert given me. 
 
 Gift of a maiden, 
 All the whole world to me : 
 
 Art thou not laden 
 With the same parity? 
 
THE WITHERED BOUQUET. 207 
 
 Yes, for thy language is 
 
 Breathing the same, 
 All the whole world to me. 
 
208 
 
 THE POREST GRAVES. 
 
 Where the clear waters of a winding stream 
 Flow down to mingle with the salt sea foam, 
 
 There is a grove, which e'er to me will seem 
 A sacred spot, wherever I may roam. 
 
 A sacred place, for 'neath the oak tree's shade. 
 That like a curtain green is spread around, 
 
 The forest sons their resting place have made, 
 Aweary of this earthly hunting ground. 
 
THE FOREST GRAVES. 209 
 
 Their names forgotten are: no monument 
 Was reared to tell the careless passers by, 
 
 Above whose ashes they perchance have bent. 
 To cull the flowers that there profusely lie. 
 
 Oft have I wished, while wand'ring 'mong 
 those trees. 
 
 In summer evening's silent, starry hour, 
 The red man's spirit on the murm'ring breeze. 
 
 Might come to me, within that quiet bower, 
 
 And tell me who are sleeping there so still, 
 And what the fortunes were of those so brave ; 
 
 Though spectres come not, yet my fancy will 
 Call up a form from every moss-grown grave. 
 
 Beneath this mound the Chieftain takes his rest, 
 His sceptre rude is lying by his side. 
 
 His wampum belt is wound about his breast, 
 His bear-skin mantle on, as when he died. 
 
 14 
 
210 POEMS. 
 
 Around him sleep the warriors he had led, 
 To the avenging war with savage pride ; 
 
 A bow and quiver rots beneath each head, 
 A spear and battle-axe by every side. 
 
 Beneath that mound the Powow sleeps in death, 
 Magician, priest, the pride and nation's love, 
 
 Disclosed their future fate, returned his breath 
 To him who gave, the Powow great, above. 
 
 Perchance he saw, while looking through the veil 
 That hid the scene, a pale-faced stranger band 
 
 Give to the eastern breeze the snowy sail. 
 To seek a home within tliis Western laud; 
 
 But he was sleeping with his fathers, long 
 Before they came the red man's land to claim. 
 
 Hushed was the music of his fun'ral song, 
 And cold the ashes of his fun'ral flame. 
 
THE FOREST GRAVES. 211 
 
 The Chieftain, warrior and soothsayer bold 
 Have gone, "where now it grieves them not 
 to see 
 
 The white man rear his cottage, where of old 
 Their council fires and wigwams used to be. 
 
212 
 
 NOX INCUBAT MARI. 
 
 Night, like a bird of omen ill, 
 Is brooding o'er the deep; 
 
 The stars, subscrv'ent to the will 
 That bids them shine, still keep 
 
 Their silent watching over me, 
 
 A wand'rer on the foaming sea. 
 
NOX INCUBAT MARI. 213 
 
 The northern constellations wear 
 
 The impress of the hand, 
 That to the pole-star chained the " Bear," 
 
 And formed " Arcturus " grand; 
 And when no other power was nigh 
 Hung stars as bright in southern sky. 
 
 The same blue canopy above 
 
 O'erhangs the quiet home, 
 Where now repose the ones I love, 
 
 While far from them I roam; 
 Sweet sleep has closed each gentle eye, 
 But mine still watching sea and sky. 
 
 The light of yonder rising moon 
 
 Falls on the mossy seat, 
 Where I received this precious boon 
 
 From one who came to meet. 
 This raven curl, a boon of love 
 From one who now is crowned above. 
 
214 POEMS. 
 
 This silver light bedecks the stone 
 That marks her lowly bed; 
 
 She feared at eve if left alone, 
 And will she not though dead? 
 
 Soon will they lay me by the side 
 
 Of her who was to be my bride. 
 
 Blow, gentle breeze ; the snowy sail 
 
 Is ready set for thee; 
 Bear me along that I may hail 
 
 The only home for me ; 
 That friendly hands may make my bed, 
 And watch me sleeping with the dead. 
 
 The breezes listened to the song, 
 They bore the sailor's barque along; 
 But ere the wished for shore drew nigh, 
 The wand'rer pale in death did lie; 
 
NOX IN CUB AT MAEI. 215 
 
 And, buried in the foaming deep, 
 He takes his last and longest sleep ; 
 He resteth not beside his love. 
 Winds roar, and mad waves roll above. 
 
216 
 
 LENA MAY, 
 
 OR THE WRECK OF THE FISHER-BOY. 
 
 'T is midnight, and the restless wind 
 
 Shrieks like an eagle, when her young are torn 
 
 From out the eyrie, and the clouds 
 
 Seem from the horrid pit of darkness borne. 
 
 As rising o'er the mountain's top, 
 
 They hurl their contents on the world below ; 
 The thunder, lightning and the rain 
 
 Which louder, brighter, more terrific grow. 
 
LENA MAT. 217 
 
 The lake, whose surface was at noon 
 
 Unbroke, save when the swallows clipped 
 their wings, 
 Now like old ocean madly roars, 
 
 And far around its sheets of white foam 
 flings. 
 
 In such a war of elements, 
 
 Oh ! who would dare stand on that troubled 
 shore ? 
 When earth itself seemed terrified, 
 
 Should not a helpless maiden fear still 
 more ? 
 
 So would it seem ; but Lena May 
 
 Now strives to pierce the deep, the thick- 
 'ning gloom. 
 Although the waves that 'round her roll 
 
 Almost engulf her in a wat'ry tomb. 
 
218 POEMS. 
 
 She dares the blast; why does she so? 
 
 For what does fearless Lena's bosom yearn ? 
 Across the lake, her Fisher-boy 
 
 Has gone, and here she waits for his return. 
 
 And vainly too, for ne'er again 
 
 Will meet his gaze, return his fond caress, 
 Hear of his love, his whispered vows, 
 
 No more the Fisher-boy will Lena bless. 
 
 But now, at last, the storm has ceased, 
 
 The struggling moon looks through the 
 cloudy veil. 
 
 The thunder 's hushed, the winds are still. 
 No sound is heard. Fair Lena sees no sail. 
 
 She wanders o'er the pebbled shore — 
 
 Heavens ! is not this the form she wildly 
 sought ? 
 Ah yes ! her Fisher-boy is found. 
 
 What now is life to heart-broke Lena ? 
 Naudit ! 
 
LENA MAY. 
 
 219 
 
 She kneels before his lifeless clay, 
 
 Her words are wild, and wildly glares lier 
 eye, 
 She smooths the locks from off his brow, 
 
 Then bows her head upon him, there to die. 
 
220 
 
 THE VOYAGE OE LIEE. 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 On tlie winding stream of lifetime, 
 
 Youth begins his voyage romantic, 
 
 In a boat fantastic sailing, 
 
 With its pennon gaily flying, 
 
 With the breeze its white sail filling, 
 
 Breezes from the misty islands, 
 
 From the looked for isles of pleasure ; 
 
 As he floats he hears the ripple, 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 221 
 
 Dainty ripple of the wavelet, 
 And he thinks the shore draws nearer. 
 Sees a bubble on the surface, 
 And he grasps the air-born bubble, 
 Thinking he has found a treasure ; 
 When he opes his hand to view it, 
 Finds it only running water. 
 Sees a speck upon the blue sky, 
 Sees in air the sea-gull flying, 
 Hears the sea-gull loudly shrieking, 
 And he thinks it is an eagle, 
 A fierce eagle mad for plunder, 
 Or some bird of dreadful omen, 
 And the youth is terror stricken, 
 Frightened by a harmless sea-gull. 
 Sees a cloud rise from the westward, 
 Sees a dark cloud span the heavens, 
 Dark and thick, and fast arising, 
 And he thinks it is an angel 
 Coming swift to seize his frail bark, 
 
232 POEMS. 
 
 Leave him struggling with the water; 
 But when drops of rain are falling, 
 Holds his hands to catch the rain drops, 
 Thinks the cloud a jetty casket, 
 And the rain drops falling diamonds ; 
 But one dashing on his eyelid, 
 Thinks again it is an angel. 
 Thinks it is an angel weeping. 
 Thus the youth in boat fantastic. 
 Sailing down the stream of lifetime. 
 Spends the hours in castle building, 
 And in scenes of the ideal. 
 Vain as grasping floating bubbles. 
 Or as fearing screaming sea-gulls, 
 Making clouds appear like angels. 
 And the rain-drops falling diamonds, 
 Or like tears of weeping angels. 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE- 223 
 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 On the winding stream of lifetime, 
 Manhood sails in lofty frigate, 
 Guarded by the well- wrought cable, 
 "With the anchor and the life boat, 
 And he trusts not idle dreaming 
 But he studies well the compass, 
 "Watches for the hidden sand bar, 
 For the frowning rock and lee shore. 
 For the lee shore and the breakers, 
 Till he sees a galley floating, 
 With its oars of gold and silver, 
 And its oar-locks pearl and jasper, 
 And its awnings silk and purple, 
 And the galleijs name is beauty; 
 Woman is its fair commander. 
 Then the rudder bands are loosened, 
 
224 POEMS. 
 
 Of the frigate and each sail set, 
 Every sail with hope gales filling, 
 Till it uears the witching galley; 
 Then his ears are filled with music, 
 And his mind with idle dreaming, 
 And he studies not the compass. 
 Close pursues the galley, beauty. 
 Heedless quite of rocks and sand bars. 
 Till the galley close beside him. 
 Yields herself a willing pris'ner; 
 Then with cords and cables bound fast, 
 Down life's tide together sailing, 
 On all sides perchance surrounded 
 By those little boats fantastic. 
 Boats in wliich the young are sailing, 
 Down the winding stream of lifetime. 
 
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 225 
 
 OLD AGE. 
 
 On the wmding stream of lifetime, 
 Old age floats in ship well shattered, 
 Shattered by the howling winds' wrath, 
 By the blasts of disappointment, 
 By the rude gales of affliction. 
 Sails are hanging torn and tattered, 
 Broken masts are falling downward, 
 Anchors, chains, by rust are eaten, 
 And the hull once gaily painted, 
 Now has dingy grown by wearing. 
 By the ice of eighty winters. 
 By the suns of eighty summers; 
 And the rudder rudely brok'cn, 
 Turns not, though the feeble helmsman 
 Labors at the rotten tiller. 
 And the ship has ceased its sailing, 
 Only moves as by the waves borne, 
 
 14 
 
226 POEMS. 
 
 Only as the running stream flows ', 
 And at last the old ship founders, 
 And the rotten planks are floating; 
 Still the oaken ribs and keelson 
 Show that once a ship was builded, 
 And, perchance among the ruins, 
 Ruins of this earth production. 
 You may still discern the spirit 
 Of the ancient brave commander, 
 Ling'ring in this wreck of sea-craft, 
 'Mong the broken ribs and keelson. 
 Till the wreck shall sink forever 
 In the winding stream of lifetime. 
 
227 
 
 THE CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 The moimtains hide the sun from Galilee; 
 And Jewish maidens gazing on the sea, 
 Yiew mirrored stars in every babbling wave, 
 That onward rolls the pebbly bank to lave. 
 
 How sweetly still ! The winds are hushed to 
 
 rest, 
 And earth seems sleeping on its Maker's breast, 
 Secure beneath the watch-care of that God, 
 Who hung in space, and governs by his nod. 
 
228 POEMS. 
 
 The day has passed, and evening's solemn hour 
 That shuts the petals of the day-time flower, 
 Bids mortal eyes in balmy sleep to close, 
 And weary ones to court a night's repose. 
 
 But one there is whose soul is filled with grief, 
 Not joyous scene, nor sleep, may yield relief. 
 With chosen friends in the still garden strays, 
 There bids them watch, and to his Father prays. 
 
 Prays with a voice while prostrate on the sod. 
 That melts the heart, and bows the ear of God : 
 Gethsemane, where soft the moon-beams play. 
 Drinks up his tears, and hears the Saviour pray. 
 
 God, who from Teman came, will he not spare 
 The son, who holds with him an equal share 
 In all the beatific realms above. 
 Where angels dwell, and every thought is love ? 
 
I THE CRUCIFIXION. 229 
 
 Will he not dash the cup from him away? 
 Nor suffer longer to be bound in clay? 
 No ; deep must drink, the bitter dregs must drain 
 Ere he again his father's throne regains. 
 
 A crown of thorns be bound about the brow. 
 Of him, whose power might crush the world 
 
 e'en now; 
 A kiss betray, humanity must die 
 And rise again ere he ascends on high. 
 
 His hour has come; on sad Golgotha's height 
 In shame the sun withdraws its cheerful light, 
 While from their graves the ancient dead arise, 
 And nature quakes, for lo ! her Author dies. 
 
 Firm rocks are rent, and from their stations 
 
 hurled ; 
 Bright lightnings flash, and thunders shake the 
 
 world ; 
 The Saviour hangs, and in his pangs he cries : 
 •'Forgive them, Father !" bows his head and dies. 
 
230 POEMS. 
 
 Exult, thou mortal terror, gaping womb 
 Of earth, for ne'er again in thee, oh, tomb ! 
 Shall be inurned so holy dust ; for know 
 A God dwelt in that form while here below. 
 
 Nor shall blood-crested worms feed on such fare, 
 Or sacred mould turn from the ploughman's 
 
 share ; 
 Death, not corruption, on that form may rest ; 
 And death hath lost its power thus being blest. 
 
 Ascended now and ta'en the seat above, 
 No more on earth to agonize ; in love 
 The Saviour pleads, and pointing to his side. 
 Reminds the Father how he bled and died; 
 
 And for his sake beseeches God to spare 
 The wayward ones, whose sins he came to l)ear ; 
 Weeps when he sees the hardened sinner die, 
 Who will not turn to him a prayerful eye. 
 
THE CRUCIFIXION. 231 
 
 Sees Mm refuse the speaking blood, which saith, 
 " Mine is the power to save from second death ;" 
 'T is this that tears anew the wounded flesh, 
 And daily spills his precious blood afresh. 
 
 Shall I be one, anew to crucify, 
 
 By scorning Him who came from heaven to 
 
 die? 
 No ! let me yield to him that better part, 
 A contrite spirit and a broken heart. 
 
232 
 
 PLUTO AND PROSERPINE. 
 
 The heathen writers love to tell 
 
 How Jove, their chief god, used to dwell 
 
 On mount Olympus' giddy height, 
 
 And there ruled men, with supreme right. 
 
 Nor men alone, each lesser god 
 Obeyed his fiat and his nod ; 
 King Neptune, Mars, and old Pluto, 
 Who reigned in Hades, down below. 
 
PLUTO AND PEOSERPINE. 233 
 
 Mars was his son and should obey; 
 And so was Phoebus, god of day; 
 But Neptune, who o'er waters swayed, 
 His brother loved, and so obeyed. 
 
 Old Pluto, though to Saturn born. 
 Who helped to kick that god forlorn 
 From heaven to earth, obeyed Jove's sway, 
 Because he seldom crossed his way. 
 
 For Jove, with eagles at command, 
 Could nothing want in Pluto's land; 
 And it was seldom Pluto came 
 From out the sulphurous smell of flame. 
 
 And when he came to ask of Jove 
 Some gift, the goddesses all strove 
 That he might have his heart's desire ; 
 Nor longer with his presence tire. 
 
234 POEMS. 
 
 For lie "was horrid to behold; 
 And dead men were by him controlled. 
 The girls, of course, of him were shy; 
 Before they 'd marry him they 'd die. 
 
 It chanced that Pluto fell in love, 
 So straightway to the throne above 
 Of Jove he went, and being there. 
 He sought Miss Proserpine, the fair. 
 
 Jove told old Pluto not to fret, 
 Or hope the maiden e'er to get, 
 Ne'er would her mother let her go. 
 To Orcus' shade, that realm of woe. 
 
 But Jove, persuaded, by and by. 
 Said, Pluto, if by being sly 
 You'll steal the girl, why very well, 
 "Wed her and make her queen of h — 11. 
 
PLUTO AND PROSEEPINE. 235 
 
 One day as Pluto took a ride, 
 By Enna's forest fair and wide, 
 He saw the maiden gathering flowers. 
 Among the glens and dewy bowers. 
 
 He quickly seized her, though she cried, 
 And placed her safely by his side, 
 Then through a cavern dark and wild. 
 He bore the goddess Ceres' child. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Now all you girls that flirt about. 
 Mind you, old Pluto's on the scout; 
 If you coquette at such a rate. 
 You may be driven to his gate. 
 
236 
 
 VANITY AND CHANGE. 
 
 The gilded arrow 
 
 On the village steeple, 
 That 's always turning 
 
 As the breezes blow, 
 An emblem fit of 
 
 Parson and of people, 
 Is all vain (vane) show. 
 
VANITY AND CHANGE. 237 
 
 And very vainly, 
 
 The most holy liver, 
 That prays or praises 
 
 Lives, 't is very plain, 
 Since flows the blood, 
 
 Which is the great life giver, 
 Sometimes in vein (vain.) 
 
 And men in dying, 
 
 As they cross the river, 
 Are always whiter 
 
 Than they were before ; 
 More lie (lye) than die, (dye) and 
 
 Often is the liver 
 Sound as of yore ; 
 
 Unless they die of 
 
 Some disease hepatic, 
 An over boiling 
 
 Of the " boiling bile,'' 
 
238 POEMS. 
 
 Tlie liver then is 
 
 "■ Biled/' and that emphatic, 
 Though raw the while. 
 
 The farmer even, 
 
 Often though appearing 
 
 A stable man, is 
 Very fond of turns, 
 
 He turns the furrow, 
 
 From his course 7iot veering; 
 
 Thus change he earns. 
 
 The greatest changers 
 In the whole creation, 
 
 Are those who take the 
 Change for what we buy; 
 
 Unless it is the 
 
 Worm, by strange mutation, 
 
 Changed to a fly. 
 
VANITY AND CHANGE. 239 
 
 There is a chancre to 
 
 Fiddlers more annoying, 
 Than even clianse of 
 
 Flatting A to G — 
 Those bits of silver, 
 
 Brassy by alloying. 
 That count but three. 
 
 F INIS. 
 
iVi^n.'^^.y °'' CONGRESS 
 
 ni III III 1 1 II I II II. ill 
 
 016 211 700 2