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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 MOODS AND EMOTIONS IN RHYME, i2mo, pp. i8o, ili.oo. 
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ODD SPELL VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 H7\r^1lOLLEY. 
 
 BUFFALO 
 
 Charles Wells Moulton 
 1891 
 
 '^ t!^"^- 
 

 Copyright 1890, 
 By H. W. HoLLEY. 
 
 FRBSS OF 
 
 PBTER PAUL A BRO., 
 
 BUFFALO, N. V. 
 
TO 
 
 THE SACRED MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME OF VERSE WRITTEN AT ODD SPELLS 
 DURING AN ACTIVE BUSINESS LIFE 
 
 IS REVERENTLY DEDICATED. 
 
I. 
 
 Can I think wicked thoughts, 
 
 Can I dream wicked dreams, 
 
 With thy purity over me beaming? 
 
 With thy motherly eyes 
 
 Watching over my schemes, 
 
 May their faults not have something redeeming ? 
 
 II. 
 
 As an angel to guide, 
 
 Like the light of a star, 
 
 Thy dear image is ever before me ; 
 
 And my heart without guile 
 
 Sendeth worship afar, 
 
 And my spirit bows down to adore thee ! 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SENTIMENT AND FANCY, 
 
 In Memoriamy ------- i 
 
 Inspiration, ------- 4 
 
 Dreafnland, -------*- 6 
 
 Confidence, ------- g 
 
 Home Charity, - - - - - - - 11 
 
 A Day Dream, - - - - - 13 
 
 Conscience, - - - - - - - - 15 
 
 Unwritten Lyrics ^ ■- - - - - - 16 
 
 love's Labor, - - - - - - - 18 
 
 A Poet's Dream, ------ 20 
 
 Then a7id Now, ------- 22 
 
 Only a Flower, - - - - - - 23 
 
 Consolation, - - - - - - - - 24 
 
 To My Wife, ------- 26 
 
 With Nature, ------- 27 
 
 A Fruitless Search, - - - - - - 28 
 
 Child Griefs, ------- ^o 
 
 A71 Answer, ------- 31 
 
 A Reverie, -------- 32 
 
 Hope, -------- 33 
 
 Remorse, -------- 34 
 
 The Doubter, ------- 35 
 
 The Linnet's Wooing, ------ 36 
 
vn CONTENTS. 
 
 To- Morrow J - - - - - - - 37 
 
 /n the Clouds. ------- ^8 
 
 The £>uenna, ------- 39 
 
 Song is Sweety ------- 41 
 
 Too Late, .-.-.-- 43 
 
 I am Weary of Life ^ ------ 45 
 
 Recalled, ------- 47 
 
 Change, -------- 48 
 
 -^ Lament, ------- 49 
 
 To Fate, - - - ' - - - - -51 
 
 Unsatisfied, - - - - - - - 52 
 
 Despair, -------- 53 
 
 All is Vanity, ------- 55 
 
 7%^ Shadow, ------- ^6 
 
 A Sinner's Flea, - - - - - - 57 
 
 Does the Veil Conceal? - - - - - 59 
 
 Whose? -------- 60 
 
 ^ ^/W ^f^r^, ------- 62 
 
 is>«//F, -------- 63 
 
 Madness, -------- 64 
 
 y4 Memory, ------- 66 
 
 Weary, -------- 68 
 
 Z*^/, -------- 70 
 
 7}^<? Unbroken Chain, - - - - - - 72 
 
 December Days, - - - - - - 74 
 
 Hotne, ------ - 76 
 
 Good-Bye, Old Year, 78 
 
 The Omen, -------- So 
 
 ^/M^? Gate, ------- 82 
 
 ^y?<fr //^<? Storm, - ----- 83 
 
CONTENTS. IX 
 
 Siwiming Up, ------- g^ 
 
 Naturf, -------- 85 
 
 77;,? Mountai7is' Invitation, - - - - 87 
 
 E.J. H., - - - - - - - - 89 
 
 To Fame, ....... gj 
 
 Anticipation vs. Participation, " " " ' 93 
 
 Night Lingers, ------- q^ 
 
 A Lover's Leisure, - - - - - - 96 
 
 The Massacre of the Des Moines, - - - g8 
 
 A State snian! s Funeral, - - - - - 103 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 An Invitation to ^'Josiah Allen's Wife,*' - - 107 
 
 To My Sister, - - - - - - -114 
 
 A Book Mark, - - - - - - - 117 
 
 An Autograph, - - - - - - -119 
 
 The Bumble-Bee' s Nest, - - - - - 121 
 
 To a Friend, - - - - - - - 124 
 
 Enclosing a FictU7'e, - - - - - - 125 
 
 Retrospect, - - - - - - - -127 
 
 Friends and Ff'i ends, - - - - - 128 
 
 A Rhymed Postscript, - - - - - -130 
 
 To a Sister's Portrait, - - - - - 131 
 
 An Excuse from the Prairie, - - - - -132 
 
 Friendship' s Test, - - - - - - 135 
 
 Estranged, -------- 137 
 
 A Funeral Wreath, - - - - - - 140 
 
 TEMPERANCE RHYMES. 
 
 Patrick' s Perplexity, - - - - - -145 
 
 Don't You? 147 
 
X CONTEl^TS. 
 
 The Pointy -------- 149 
 
 Unpartisan Work, - - - - - - 151 
 
 Bigsby' s Experiment, - - - - - - 154 
 
 SATIRE AND HUMOR. 
 
 Scattering Shot, - - - - - - 161 
 
 The Picture, - - - - - - - 177 
 
 To Croesus, - - - - - - - 179 
 
 Old Letters, - - - - - - - 181 
 
 Accepted, - - - - - - - - 184 
 
 Fudge' s Fanning Mill, - - - - - - 185 
 
SENTIMENT AND FANCY. 
 
IN MEMORIAM, 
 
 All all of my life underlying, 
 
 Is still the sweet memory of thee ! 
 More hallowed by time, never dying, 
 
 Growing hourly more sacred to me ; 
 A memory unsullied, untainted, 
 
 A remembrance devoid of regret ; 
 A picture of one truly sainted. 
 
 In my heart's inmost recesses set. 
 
 Not the grief that succumbs to Time's healing, 
 
 Or the memory its change can destroy, 
 Not an old man's exhaustion of feeling. 
 
 Or the fickle heart-sobs of a boy 
 Are mine, but, like zealot untiring. 
 
 Whose altars are ever aflame. 
 Each act, word, thought, deed or desiring 
 
 Of life is inwrought with thy name. 
 
 What thou hopedst I might be, I endeavor 
 
 With all my best efforts to be ; 
 Death claimed thee, yet death does not sever 
 
 Thy guardian spirit from me ; 
 I hear still thy Mother' s-lips saying, 
 
 ^' Look up where the brighter stars shine. '^ 
 Thus oft, from the cold grave's decaying. 
 
 Thy soul, as of old, speaks to mine. 
 
IN ME MORI AM. 
 
 Thus ever above me are shining 
 
 Thy precepts with spiritual light ; 
 To the cloud o'er my soul, silver lining ; 
 
 On my dark'ning path, radiance bright ; 
 From the skies, a soul-ray that will never 
 
 To the boy, whom thou worshipedst, grow dim ; 
 From the dead past a Mother's endeavor 
 
 To smooth life's rough journey for him. 
 
 With my motives of action grown clearer, 
 
 This thought brings me fiercest regret. 
 That life's labor hath brought me no nearer 
 
 To the ideal mark by thee set ; 
 If my heart over failure is fretting, 
 
 Ah Mother the most which I rue. 
 The pang that leaves deepest regretting. 
 
 Is that I to thy hopes am untrue ; 
 
 is that I in this conflict have lost them, 
 
 The wreaths which thy fond heart believed 
 Would crown me at last ; or have tossed them 
 
 Away with neglect while thou grieved ; 
 Still drifting on pitiless ocean, 
 
 Though the voyage now so nearly is o'er ; 
 Ere it ends, let me voice my devotion. 
 
 My love for thee. Mother, once more : 
 
 Let me breathe to the winds my confession, 
 
 This thought that so eases my pain. 
 That ever upon my transgression 
 
 Has the soft touch of Memory lain. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Still hoping, and blessing, and guiding, 
 Is the gleam of thy love from afar 
 
 In the heart that so loved thee abiding, 
 To his darkness the light of a star. 
 
INSPIRATION. 
 
 Down in a valley where Nature reposes, 
 
 Lately there wandered one seeking content ; 
 Plucking 'mong briars that clambered there roses, 
 
 Breathing sweet fragrance wherever he went. 
 Mosses and ferns and most beautiful grasses. 
 
 Nature's own carpet, lay under his feet ; 
 Beauty in tangles, in clumps and in masses. 
 
 Bloom without culture, yet wondrously sweet. 
 Over his head limbs of forest trees bending, 
 
 Fancy a canopied tapestry weaves; 
 Sunshine and shadow alternately blending. 
 
 Silence of worship and rustle of leaves ; 
 River that silently ever is flowing. 
 
 Bearing its burdens, wherever they be. 
 Onward, and onward, and onward still going, 
 
 Till they are buried and lost in the sea. 
 Here in his search did the dreamer betake him ; 
 
 Here, as he searched, he was hoping to find 
 Genii to comfort, to cheer, or to make him 
 
 Unto the ills that surrounded him blind. 
 Here did he breathe without list'ner his story. 
 
 Voice a regret that had never been told, 
 Plaint of a life that had fought without glory. 
 
 Legend of sadness and madness unrolled ; 
 Here did he voice his regret over failure. 
 
 Over the high aims his youth-time did crave ; 
 
INSPIRATION. 5 
 
 Over the wreck and the ruin of labor, 
 
 Waiting, — mere debris, — the shroud of the grave. 
 Nothing for him left from struggle so dreary 
 
 To speak to some other this life was not vain, 
 To solace none grieving, encourage none weary. 
 
 Take the load from no shoulder, the sting from no pain. 
 Oh, desolate thought ! was he coward or craven 
 
 To stand thus appalled at this destiny thrust 
 On soul that had yearned so, a tombstone engraven 
 
 With birth, name and age, nothing else left but dust ? 
 Was it so ? In his bosom the impulse came welling, 
 
 The passionate impulse, the eager desire. 
 The strong inspiration for truthfully telling 
 
 The pitiful story of wallow and mire. 
 The pitiful story of human compassion. 
 
 Of women by means of starvation betrayed, 
 Of merit that's tested by fortune or fashion. 
 
 Of scales where an honest pound never is weighed. 
 So now, as he wandered where Nature in beauty 
 
 Mixed up with her roses the briar and thorn. 
 He met, not content, but the genii of Duty, 
 
 Who told him to speak and the poet was born. 
 
DREAMLAND. 
 
 Into the Summer sky listlessly gazing, 
 
 Dreaming by daylight a beautiful dream, 
 Turreted castles from fleecy clouds raising. 
 
 Where I betake me, a monarch supreme ; 
 On the rapt soul no trace of a sorrow. 
 
 Over the vision no shadows are flung ; 
 No gloomy fears of disaster to-morrow. 
 
 Linger these glories of dreamland among. 
 
 Hushed is the wild din of life's busy clangor ; 
 
 Quiet is brooding o'er earth, air and sea; 
 Life's dreary routine, work, restlessness, anger, 
 
 Comes not to harass or disquiet me. 
 Glorious to breathe the sweet breath of immortals, 
 
 Freed of life's attributes, sorrow and pain ; 
 Ah ! they who enter these ideal portals 
 
 Never come back to the real again. 
 
 O ! the great world in its wonderful splendor. 
 
 With these bright day dreams has naught to compare ; 
 Nothing to give like the ecstacy tender. 
 
 Which the rapt dreamers in fairyland share. 
 Fie on the hunt for a name and its glory ! 
 
 Fie on success and its answering bliss ! 
 You take the years which shape heroic story. 
 
 Give me the rapture of moments like this ? 
 
DREAMLAND. 7 
 
 Here among clouds, if you choose to deride me, 
 
 Fool-like I may be but happy I sit ; 
 Angels above me, below me, beside me, 
 
 In the warm love-light, of memory flit ! 
 Scoff, if you choose, me thus listlessly dreaming. 
 
 Riding the sky in my chariot of gold ; 
 To your heart seared by life's every-day scheming, 
 
 Never has been such enchantment unrolled. 
 
 Scoffer, forsooth ! your sneer of derision, 
 
 Proudly accepted, I wear as a crown ; 
 Scoffer, forsooth ! when pleasures Elysian, 
 
 Lavishly on my day-dreamings come down ; 
 Scorn, if you choose, me, with glance, lip and finger. 
 
 Yet I must float down the beautiful stream \ 
 Still 'mong its castles enchanted I linger, 
 
 Still 'neath the blue sky delighted I dream. 
 
 Fie on the race for the gold-bearing mountains. 
 
 The years of unrest for the glittering spoil, 
 The head's cruel schemes, and the hearts dried-up fountains, 
 
 The nights of unrest, and the long days of toil, 
 The conscience all seared to the sweet call of duty. 
 
 The usurer's coffers, the conqueror's crown ! 
 O ! dreamland, one glimpse of thy wonderful beauty 
 
 Hath torn from my altars these base idols down. 
 
CONFIDENCE. 
 
 It brings to us both bliss and pride, 
 
 When fortune's smilings leave us, 
 To know there's nestling at our side, 
 
 One who will not deceive us, 
 To know, however bleak the sky. 
 
 However dark and chilling. 
 Sharing our grief, one still is nigh. 
 
 With cheerful heart and willing ; 
 
 To know there is an anxious care 
 
 In one breast ever glowing. 
 Chasing our footsteps everywhere 
 
 In this wide world they're going ; 
 Courage that whatever ill 
 
 O'er us may frown will dare it, 
 Till we are rescued, or until 
 
 It lifts the load to share it ; 
 
 To know, no matter how the storm 
 
 Of life may beat above us, 
 One breast there is, with feelings warm, 
 
 That does not cease to love us ; 
 A willing hand to soothe our pain. 
 
 That tries our grief to lighten, 
 When every effort seems in vain 
 
 To break the bonds that tighten. 
 
CONFIDENCE. 
 
 To know that, when towards our home 
 
 Our truent feet are turning, 
 Eyes that watch to see us come 
 
 With joy are truly burning ; 
 To know, in absence, one fond brain 
 
 With prayer is ever teeming. 
 And sends us o'er and o'er again 
 
 Caresses in its dreaming ; 
 
 To know the viper's slanderous hiss 
 
 In one ear finds no hearing ; 
 To know that we a Judas kiss 
 
 From one need not be fearing ; 
 To know that words of love and truth 
 
 By one are frankly spoken, 
 And that the sweetest dream of youth 
 
 Remains to us unbroken ; 
 
 To know, despite of change or chance, 
 
 One star retains its splendor ; 
 The love-light of our youth's romance 
 
 Still shining pure and tender ; 
 One soul among the false still true, 
 
 With old devotion keeping 
 Its watch, o'er all that's dear to you, 
 
 With vigilance unsleeping. 
 
 What purer bliss than thus to feel 
 That truth and love together 
 
 In one breast constant guard our weal. 
 In storm or pleasant weather ? 
 
10 CONFIDENCE. 
 
 What man, world-worn, that docs not fling 
 His homage true before her, 
 
 And come with zealot offering 
 To worship and adore her? 
 
 Indeed that man a fool must be 
 
 Who finds the sweet tie galling ; 
 Who pines for greater liberty. 
 
 Or deems home ties enthralling ; 
 Who can the bond of love forget. 
 
 And crush life's best emotion. 
 Or think there's something dearer yet, 
 
 Than a true wife's devotion. 
 
HOME CHARITY. 
 
 Why go o'er the ocean, giving 
 Foreign beggars needed alms, 
 
 With so many paupers living 
 
 At our doors with outstretched palms ? 
 
 There are thirsty deserts nearer 
 
 Than Sahara's wilderness. 
 And o'er them our way is clearer. 
 
 Yet our duty none the less. 
 
 There is many a bitter grieving 
 
 In the hovel o'er the way ; 
 Many a pang for our relieving 
 
 Cometh to us day by day. 
 
 Hungry want our feet embraces. 
 And before our doorways stand 
 
 Neighbors, with beseeching faces, 
 Asking pittance from our hand. 
 
 There are thousands sick and weary 
 Near us whom the heathen might 
 
 Pity for their fortune dreary. 
 In this land of Christian light. 
 
 Every day before us presses 
 Crowd deserving precious gift ; 
 
 Why go seeking far distresses 
 
 When such burdens we might lift? 
 
12 HOME CHARITY. 
 
 Unto duty's call replying, 
 Need we go beyond the sea ? 
 
 Why not first let hands be trying 
 To help nearest misery ? 
 
 Why not first let heart be beating 
 For our neighbor, ere we roam ? 
 
 Why abroad send warmth and greeting, 
 And our coldness keep at home ? 
 
A DAY DREAM. 
 
 All the fancy, all the feeling 
 
 Of the heart or of the brain, 
 Purest wealth of mind revealing. 
 
 Would my lyric might contain ; 
 Utterance sad o'er buried pleasures. 
 
 Youth and beauty for a theme. 
 Sweet recall in poet measures 
 
 Of a long since vanished dream. 
 
 Ah ! how bright the links that bound us 
 
 Of affections magic chain ; 
 Ah ! how dear the bonds that found us, 
 
 Willing servants of their reign ; 
 And how sweet again to bring thee 
 
 Trivial thoughts in careless rhyme, 
 And as boyish lover sing thee, 
 
 Poems as in olden time ! 
 
 To walk again beside the river, 
 
 Or sit beneath the orchard tree, 
 Doubting not that God the Giver 
 
 Would be kind to you and me ; 
 Thinking that the dream was real 
 
 Which with flowers our path did strew ; 
 Following blindly Youth's ideal. 
 
 Having faith that love was true. 
 
14 A DAY DREAM. 
 
 In the summer-yacht of Leisure 
 
 Floating idly down Life's stream, 
 Hearts brimful of childish pleasure, 
 
 Present bliss and future scheme. 
 Useless jest and idle singing, 
 
 Though old age and wisdom sneer. 
 Yet, despite them, still are ringing 
 
 The old echoes in my ear. 
 
 Echoes of the old, old story, 
 
 Happy faces all aglow, 
 Flooding woodland paths with glory. 
 
 Arching skies with radiant bow ; 
 Echoes of young voices blended 
 
 With the sounds of rippling stream ; 
 Youth, by innocence attended. 
 
 Basking in Love's brightest beam. 
 
 And though vain is all regretting 
 
 That long since those hours have flown. 
 Still for me 'tis sweet resetting 
 
 'Mong mind pictures still thine own ; 
 Sweet to summon fancy, feeling. 
 
 Of the heart and of the brain. 
 Till to me the past revealing. 
 
 They restore thyself again. 
 
CONSCIENCE. 
 
 Come up to duty ! Conscience is shaking me, 
 Close by the heart-strings familiarly taking me, 
 In my ear whispering, perfectly audible, 
 *'Thou must do something at last that is laudable." 
 
 How she persists, I defer it no longer. 
 Speaking insistent like as if the stronger, 
 Threatningly hinting me how I'll be treated. 
 If her design by my action is cheated. 
 
 Towards the fulfillment of threats she now hinges ; 
 Light though they be, these are certainly twinges ; 
 Memory, too, seemeth bent on inspecting. 
 Under her eye, what I've long been neglecting. 
 
 Eyes that have heterfore been so unheeding. 
 
 Suddenly moisten to plaint of the needing ; 
 
 Pity goes straight, though she might have done worse things 
 
 Into my pocket and opens my purse-strings. 
 
 So while the tears and the money are flowing. 
 This is the truth which I learn worth the knowing. 
 Whenever Conscience in earnest is teasing her, 
 Pity the trick has of yielding and pleasing her. 
 
UNWRITTEN LYRICS. 
 
 There are lyrics by scores in my heart, 
 
 Unrepeated, unspoken, unsung, 
 Crude lyrics unfashioned by Art, 
 
 Borne hourly life's duties among. 
 Though they find no expression in voice, 
 
 They crowd through the portals of thought, 
 While my senses delighted rejoice 
 
 And bask in the happiness brought. 
 
 The unwritten songs of the birds, 
 
 Translated in lyrical speech, 
 More potent than eloquent words, 
 
 My soul's inmost recesses reach ; 
 And the rippling voices of streams, 
 
 As swiftly their currents flow by, 
 Send lyrics to people my dreams 
 
 In rosy-hued tints of the sky. 
 
 Though fruitful the world is of ill. 
 
 Of madness, and passion, and blood, 
 These lyrics, thus haunting me still. 
 
 My soul with sweet harmonies flood ; 
 In their intonations I hear. 
 
 Not the crash and the jar of the wrong. 
 But melody soothing and clear. 
 
 Deserving acts mirrored in song. 
 
UNWRITTEN L YRICS. 
 
 And many a better desire 
 
 In these unspoken lyrics has birth, 
 Purifying the soul as with fire 
 
 From the rust of its contact with earth ; 
 Warm hopes in the cold heart replacing, 
 
 Fresh life where dull weariness lay. 
 New lines on worn tablets retracing, 
 
 Soul-beams for the dullness of clay. 
 
 So, too, in these lyrics I meet. 
 
 Like whispering zephyrs of June, 
 The patter of innocent feet. 
 
 Word-lisping and racket in tune. 
 Dear children ! The musical strain. 
 
 Flows clear in the lyrics you share. 
 Love whispered again and again. 
 
 Song blended with blessing and prayer. 
 
 So these lyrics by scores in my heart, 
 
 Unrepeated, unspoken, unsung, 
 Have become of my being a part. 
 
 Though never they fall from my tongue. 
 Though idle it be the endeavor 
 
 In words what they are to reveal. 
 Still thought holds them sacred forever. 
 
 These lyrics unspoken I feel. 
 
 17 
 
LOVE'S LABOR, 
 
 Over the sea in a tossing canoe, 
 Hunting an island afar, go two ; 
 Island that to their philosophy seems 
 Filled with the wonderful beauty of dreams, 
 Where all alone they may wander at will, 
 Drinking of happiness perfect their fill. 
 Eager their eyes look atar to discover 
 Land that to them shall be haven for lover, 
 Into the web of youth's eagerness weaving 
 Little regret for the land they are leaving ; 
 
 What unto them are the ties left behind them ? 
 ^Broken have been all the bonds which did bind them ! 
 Into new seas each adventurous lover 
 ;Sails in the hope a new world to discover. 
 JNever look back with a shade of regretting, 
 Never let heart feel a spasm of fretting ; 
 All the small danger which vexes unminding, 
 Never let hope have a doubt of the finding, 
 That when the voyage so adventurous closes, 
 You will have reached it, the island of roses. 
 
 And when at last a few tempests may gather. 
 And the sea roughens, and darkens the weather. 
 When you have found that the island so rosy 
 Is like the mainland most wonderful prosy. 
 When the enchantment of moonlight and sailing 
 
LOVE'S LABOR. I9 
 
 Gets to the hard work of rowing and bailing, 
 Then don't forget tho' the sea may be heaving, 
 Mountain-high billows; 'tis best the believing 
 That surely love's labor, sneered often as duty, 
 Will bring you at last to the island of beauty. 
 
A POET'S DREAM, 
 
 It was as late as twelve o'clock, 
 
 When sitting in my room alone, 
 I fancied that I heard a knock 
 
 Which sounded very like her own. 
 And to my question : " Who is there? " 
 
 Replied the rustle of a dress. 
 And right beside my study chair 
 
 She stood in all her loveliness. 
 ''I've come," the witching creature said, 
 
 '* To bring what you have long desired, 
 To fill with ecstacy your head, 
 
 And make the words you speak inspired. 
 I've come to show you how to touch 
 
 The strings that make divinest song ; 
 I've come to tell you, O how much 
 
 I've planned for you to do so long ! " 
 The storm was raging fierce without ; 
 
 Who cared ? My heaven was in sight. 
 A laurel with any doubt 
 
 Would soon my aching brow delight. 
 No more should chill these words so cold, 
 
 ''Your lines, though worthy, are declined." 
 All which I wrote should bring me gold, 
 
 Or what is better, praises kind. 
 How could I help but love the dear 
 
 I 
 
A POET'S DREAM. 21 
 
 Sweet creature bringing hope like this ? 
 Why should my vows not be sincere ? 
 
 And why not seal them with a kiss ? 
 So there our lover life began, 
 
 Two mated souls beyond a doubt. 
 Why can't invention somehow plan 
 
 So Hymen's torch will not go out? 
 Ah, that a dream might ever stay ! 
 
 At last the sun of morning rose, 
 And there, stretched out before me, lay 
 
 The old rough path, Life's dusty prose. 
 
THEN AND NOW, 
 
 These pleasant pictures fresh recall 
 
 The past almost forgotten ; 
 Again its trials, pleasures all, 
 
 Life's modern stage are brought on. 
 
 I dream again, Hope's sweetest dreams. 
 
 Re-read the witching story. 
 While through the rifts of cloud there streams 
 
 Once more the blue sky's glory. 
 
 Ah ! dear friend, vainly do we seek 
 
 Oblivion's fateful cover; 
 We can not build a gravestone bleak 
 
 Life's brightest memories over. 
 
. ONLY A FLOWER, 
 
 Only a flower, a little wild flower, 
 
 Coming from far away over the sea, 
 Fruit of the tropical sunshine and shower, 
 
 Bringing the fragrance of summer to me. 
 ^' Only a flower," this sneering expression 
 
 Takes not a whit of its beauty and bloom. 
 Breath of the Southland, it cometh to freshen 
 
 Air of the Northland with fragrant perfume. 
 '' Only a flower," what gift could be dearer? 
 
 Better than this gift what other could be ? 
 One that brings Paradise, coveted, nearer, 
 
 Lotus-land springing from out of the sea. 
 
CONSOLATION. 
 
 Cease, O heart, thy lamentation ! 
 
 Why should tears of anguish flow ? 
 Soul bereaved, this consolation 
 
 Should assuage thy bitter woe ; 
 Ills can her afflict no longer, 
 
 Pangs her bosom pierce no more. 
 Enemies no more may wrong her, 
 
 Should we grieve that this is o'er? 
 
 On her sight a dawn is beaming. 
 
 Radiant with joy untold. 
 Would I her with grief unseeming 
 
 To this sphere of sorrow hold? 
 From the day that has no morrow. 
 
 From the joy that has no end, 
 If I could with tears of sorrow. 
 
 Would I wish to bring my friend ? 
 
 From the sphere of angel singing. 
 
 Where the words of seraphs fall. 
 Had I back the power of bringing, 
 
 Would her footsteps I recall ? 
 From where life is peace forever, 
 
 And where Death hath lost its pain. 
 Unto this world's mad endeavor 
 
 Would I bring her back again ? 
 
consolation: 
 
 While she watches o'er me kindly, 
 
 From her home in yonder skies, 
 'Mong earth's trials groping blindly, 
 
 Need I fill the air with sighs ? 
 Should my stupid heart be fretting 
 
 That to her hath come release ? 
 Do I prove my love, regretting 
 
 That to her at last is peace ? 
 
 25 
 
TO MY WIFE. 
 
 All thine own ! It comes to cheer me, 
 
 Blessed, blessed, blessed word ! 
 When in dreams of night I hear thee. 
 
 Every latent pulse is stirred. 
 Leaps my heart away from sadness. 
 
 Light streams o'er my darkened path. 
 Joy, and hope, and trust, and gladness, 
 
 This sweet sentence spoken hath. 
 
 What care I for ills that haunt me. 
 
 Griefs of life, or freaks of fate ? 
 Trouble powerless is to daunt me. 
 
 While I bear this shield elate. 
 Over all the cold world's scorning, 
 
 Jeering look, or sneering tone. 
 Shines for me this star of morning. 
 
 ' ' Dearest I am all thine own ! ' ' 
 
WITH NATURE, 
 
 With cautious steps and watchful eye, 
 
 And zeal which would discover 
 Her secret haunts when none are nigh, 
 
 That Paradise for lover, 
 He comes, and as through woodland aisle 
 
 His rambling quest advances. 
 The very air seems charged the while, 
 
 With passion's sweet romances. 
 
 The woodland paths are filled with light, 
 
 A glow of bloom collected, 
 A radiance more purely bright 
 
 Than glint of stars reflected. 
 The leaves, the flowers, the forest trees. 
 
 The brook through coverts winding, 
 The mountain peaks, the sky, the breeze, 
 
 Are guides to help the finding. 
 
 Nor should we wonder at the spell. 
 
 Which crowns this rapt endeavor. 
 This ecstacy unspeakable. 
 
 Which waits on nature ever. 
 Ah ! they who rightly understand 
 
 The secret of exploring. 
 Find always, in her poppied land. 
 
 True idols for adoring. 
 
A FRUITLESS SEARCH. 
 
 By the river let us roam, 
 Winding through the glade, 
 
 Where the forest's leafy dome 
 Spreads its genial shade ; 
 
 Where the haunts of old invite 
 Us, once more, to share 
 
 Many a rapturous delight, 
 While we wander there. 
 
 Let us roam, our hearts as one. 
 
 By affection led. 
 Where no clouds obscure the sun 
 
 Shining overhead ; 
 
 Fling from each saddened breast 
 
 All our cares away, 
 Feeling feelings long repressed. 
 
 Let us go, I pray. 
 
 Where the shadows deepest be, 
 
 On the river's brink. 
 Lost in thought, let you and me 
 
 If we choose to, think 
 
 Of the dreams that gladdened life. 
 
 In the years ago. 
 Ere its cruel crush and strife 
 
 Seared our feelings so. 
 
A FRUITLESS SEARCH. 29 
 
 Thus two fools, whose hearts did yearn 
 
 For the sunshine bright, 
 Thought perhaps they might return 
 
 To the old delight, 
 
 But they wandered to and fro, 
 
 And their quest was vain. 
 For content, lost long ago, 
 
 Cometh not again. 
 
CHILD GRIEFS. 
 
 Two little maids somehow contrived, 
 
 One day to get together. 
 Said one : ** I've been so much deprived 
 
 Of comforts, I would rather 
 Sit here beside you, (juiet, still, 
 
 Than aught else I could mention ; 
 Your sympathetic kindness will, 
 
 I'm sure, remove griefs tension." 
 
 To this the other one replied : 
 
 '* I'm glad to hear you speak so ; 
 I too have been of toys denied ; 
 
 *Tis this that wets my cheek so ! " 
 And so they lay down, then and there. 
 
 Without a blanket round them, 
 Pressed face to face, a sleepy pair, 
 
 And thus their mothers found them. 
 
AN ANSWER. 
 
 " Where shall we land you, sv/t^i}'' — Swinburne. 
 
 Land me where the roses bending 
 
 Lowly kiss the stream ; 
 Where sunlight and shadow blending, 
 Through the fragrant buds descending, 
 Kiss and quiver, while attending 
 
 Eyes of fairies gleam. 
 
 Land me where a bank of mosses 
 
 Woos my tired feet ; 
 Where escaping all my losses. 
 All life's bitter pains and crosses. 
 Hands that strike and horn that tosses, 
 
 I may clasp thee, sweet. 
 
A REYERIE. 
 
 A summer sky, a radiant sun, 
 
 Upon my pathway shining ; 
 Beside me dreamland streamlets run. 
 
 Behind me lies repining. 
 And from this life, so cold and drear, 
 
 My weary spirit turning, 
 Goes back to greet with love sincere 
 
 The objects of its yearning. 
 I see the old familiar look. 
 
 The face with friendship beaming, 
 And read, as I would read a book. 
 
 Thy heart with kindness teeming. 
 I feel the warm clasp of thy hand, 
 
 I hear the kind word spoken. 
 The subtle tie, the mystic band. 
 
 That memory keeps unbroken. 
 The spell that still unites our minds, 
 
 The memories dear that hover. 
 The ecstasy that reason finds 
 
 In living old days over. 
 Ah ! dear friend of the golden past. 
 
 Beneath this sky of summer. 
 My heart its thralldom breaks, at last. 
 
 And greets thee, welcome comer. 
 
HOPE. 
 
 Flinging its musical mantle around me, 
 Filling my senses with harmonies sweet. 
 
 Ah ! with what fetters of silk it hath bound me, 
 Out of captivity leading my feet ! 
 
 Ah ! so persistent did wing of Fate hover, 
 Life seemed at best but Cimmerian night, 
 
 Yet through the darkness at last I discover 
 Suddenly breaking the splendor of light. 
 
 Yes, it envelopes me, tenderly flinging 
 
 Over my sorrows a mantle of song, 
 Musical melodies to my soul bringing, 
 
 Rescue from anguish that tortured so long. 
 
 Who shall the value attach to my dreaming ? 
 
 Who shall call worthless these visions unknown ? 
 May not my soul, compensation redeeming. 
 
 Find for its grief in this hope of its own ? 
 
 Over Life's struggle, and trial, and sorrow, 
 
 Over its seemingly desperate fray. 
 Still, as a star, shines the hope that to-morrow 
 
 Brings to me waiting a fortunate day. 
 
REMORSE. 
 
 The stifled accents of an earnest voice, 
 That speaks within the chambers of the heart 
 In language audible to him alone ; 
 The finger ever pointing to the deed 
 In memory fixed ne'ermore to be erased ; 
 The sleepless eye that, turn what way he will. 
 Still meets his own, so calm, so cold, so stern ; 
 The phantom shape that sits beside his hearth. 
 Unseen by all the circle gathered there 
 Save him ; the partner of his daily walks. 
 That haunts and haunts his steps, until he bears 
 Upon his brow the self-inflicted brand of Cain. 
 
THE DOUBTER, 
 
 A SHADOW. 
 
 On the sunshine falls a shadow, 
 
 The dark shadow of a fear, 
 Which the future has in keeping, 
 
 For my happinesses here ; 
 An impending blow to shiver 
 
 The shrewd temple I have built. 
 Where I go to worship reason. 
 
 Can such worshiping be guilt ? 
 
 In the dreamy sky of fancy 
 
 Floats a tiny speck of cloud ; 
 To the danger which it threatens 
 
 Is my troubled spirit bowed ; 
 From the veil that shrouds the future 
 
 Peers a terror to affright ; 
 And upon the paths of day-time 
 
 Stalk the phantoms of the night. 
 
THE LINNET'S WOOING. 
 
 Darling, come ! The nest is waiting 
 We have been so long creating ; 
 Come, and make me happy, linnet. 
 Singing your sweet songs within it. 
 Humming bird, the thrush, the swallow, 
 Wren and robin, they all follow 
 In the ranks of envy, dearest, 
 Just because your voice is clearest. 
 Who can help it if your singing 
 Is the wreath of laurel bringing ? 
 Who can blame if without labor 
 You surpass your tuneful neighbor ? 
 Nature's self your crown is wreathing, 
 'Tis her words your lips are breathing. 
 Fate decrees, her lips declare it, 
 Take the crown of song and wear it ! 
 But all this is idle prating ; 
 While I woo, the nest is waiting. 
 Come, then, make me happy, linnet, 
 Singing your sweet songs within it ! 
 
TO-MORROW. 
 
 " Chance and Change, 
 Dark children of to-morrow." — Shelley. 
 
 Unto to-morrow weary eyes 
 
 From to-day's sorrows ever turn. 
 
 Within the unknown future lies 
 
 For all the promised Paradise, 
 
 Upon its distant smiling skies 
 
 Success and pleasure, twin-stars, burn. 
 
 The disappointments of to-day 
 
 Are lost amid the waves of hope. 
 Men brood not over griefs alway, 
 Perchance a tear, or sob, and they 
 Uprise to catch the sunnier ray 
 
 That gleams from fancy's horoscope. 
 
 To-morrow, with its promised freight 
 For hoping millions, comes at last, 
 And to the crowd with hearts elate 
 Who've watched its coming, as of Fate, 
 It whispers hopeful, cheerful, ** Wait 
 Till one more brief to-day has passed." 
 
 And thus is fed our fierce desire 
 
 For something that may never be. 
 Of this wild chase we never tire, 
 Forget the past, and still aspire, 
 Though each to-morrow brings us nigher 
 Naught but eternity. 
 
IN THE CLOUDS. 
 
 Oh, sweet imaginary life, 
 
 That fills my soul completely ! 
 Unstained by cold and worldly strife, 
 
 Or gross desire, how sweetly 
 This blest enchantment hangs above 
 
 My night and day-time dreaming, 
 A sky of splendor bright with love, 
 
 An earth with rapture teeming ! 
 
 Is it absurd ? Shall I, ashamed 
 
 Of my best thoughts, repress them ? 
 Shall one who speaks the truth be blamed ? 
 
 Need envious hearts distress them ? 
 Because, forsooth ! I find delight 
 
 In dreams that come to cheer me ? 
 Because Hope lifts the gloom of night. 
 
 And thought brings Heaven near me ? 
 
THE DUENNA. 
 
 OR 
 
 birdie's example. 
 
 Why will you keep foolishly flinging 
 Your watchful protection o'er me? 
 
 Does my darling canary stop singing, 
 Because of my stupid decree ? 
 
 Though its wings 'gainst prison -bars flutter, 
 There ceases my tyrant control ; 
 
 No wild-bird more freely can utter 
 The melody born of its soul. 
 
 So, Duenna, the law that you set me, 
 
 Thus far and no farther to go, 
 I obey, yet your manacles let me 
 
 My heart's sweetest impulses show. 
 
 As the cage my birdie's sweet trilling 
 
 Can never restrain or suppress, 
 So custom with decalogue chilling, 
 
 Can not my love make for him less. 
 
 Though you keep me. Duenna, here hidden. 
 From him whom I love so remote. 
 
 The songs can be never forbidden. 
 On which my devotion may float. 
 
40 THE DUENNA. 
 
 These beautiful songs I am humming, 
 O do you not hear them confess, 
 
 *' O'er valley and mountain I'm coming 
 To share with thee loving caress ' ' ? 
 
 And thus with romantic devotion. 
 The sweetest that love can create, 
 
 My soul with ecstatic emotion. 
 Despite you, embraces its mate. 
 
SONG IS SWEET. 
 
 Song is sweet, O, gifted singer, 
 
 Every heart-chord it doth wake. 
 At its shrine we workers linger. 
 
 Bound by chains we cannot break. 
 Beauty fades, the radiant vision 
 
 Loses soon its potent sway. 
 But a voice from realm Elysian 
 
 Memory guards from Time's decay. 
 
 Song is sweet ; for workers weary 
 
 Life is very bleak and cold. 
 But when sunshine breaks the dreary 
 
 Cloud of fate, 'tis fringed with gold. 
 Blest are tones that make life brighter. 
 
 Lifting gloom which shrouds like pall. 
 Making hearts o'erburdened lighter, 
 
 Spreading gladness over all. 
 
 Song is sweet, its notes endearing 
 
 Have for all a wizard's spell ; 
 Lift its wand, and lo ! appearing 
 
 Visions throng unspeakable. 
 In the sky new stars are beaming, 
 
 Song leads captive listening will. 
 And away from earth's gross scheming 
 
 Soul flits heavenward on a trill. 
 
42 SONG IS SWEET, 
 
 Song is sweet, from earth iipleading, 
 
 Rises, soars on angel wing. 
 Life's dark shadows are receding. 
 
 While round distant summits cling 
 The brilliant hues of glow surprising ; 
 
 The heart once more beats warm and strong ; 
 The dawn is on a new day rising. 
 
 And grief and darkness yield to song. 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 Time seemed so long, I once believed 
 Wealth could be won and then a name ; 
 
 But ah ! I find the first achieved 
 
 Has quite destroyed the hope of fame. 
 
 For time is short instead of long, 
 And he who once to Mammon kneels 
 
 Has lost the power to break the thong 
 That binds him to its chariot wheels. 
 
 Once chained, adieu to poet dreams ! 
 
 Life's best desires are crushed and stilled, 
 Until with restless, grasping schemes 
 
 Each cell of heart and brain is filled. 
 
 And so, when pierced by vague regret 
 That life to me is death, I come 
 
 By stealth to vow allegiance yet, 
 
 I find the muse, once worshipped, dumb. 
 
 I find too late that she has fled. 
 Veiling from me her sacred fire. 
 
 And in my heart is left instead 
 Only a miser's gross desire. 
 
44 TOO LATE. 
 
 A gross desire from day to day 
 To add more dollars to the pile ; 
 
 A business habit I obey 
 
 With heart protesting all the while. 
 
 Only a miser's gross desire 
 
 To live and grow in wealth, ah Fate ! 
 That I should have no motive higher, 
 
 Or, having it, should have too late ! 
 
I AM WEARY OF LIFE. 
 
 I am weary of life ! Hope's banners are furled, 
 
 And no longer I strive in the strife of the world. 
 
 Over-laden the hours drag wearily on, 
 
 And the rapture of struggle and battle is gone. 
 
 Desolation of heart, with its withering blight. 
 
 Veils the hopes of my youth in the shadows of night. 
 
 The stars of my Heaven are all in eclipse. 
 
 And joys I express are but lies on my lips. 
 
 My life-boat is stranded, a wreck on the shore, 
 
 Where wild winds and waters will dash evermore. 
 
 I am weary of life ! Why mourn to go hence. 
 From all of this fustian and silly pretence, 
 From the sunshine of passion which lures to betray, 
 From falsehood and anger, despair and decay, 
 From unceasing struggle, from arrogant anger. 
 From the many we hate, from the few that are dear, 
 From heart-rending sorrow, from anguish and pain, 
 From cowardly taunt, from bravado, disdain ? 
 'Tis the fool in his heart, ah ! believe me, would say, 
 I regret from all this I am passing away ! 
 
 I am weary of life ! What motive to cling 
 
 To existence that only such miseries bring ? 
 
 Does the gold-hoarded store, does the glare of success. 
 
 Make this fever called ' ' Living ' ' have power to bless ? 
 
 Have you seen, in some fortunate skeleton's grin. 
 
46 / AM WEAR Y OF LIFE. 
 
 The proof that it paid him to live and to win ? 
 Ah, drowning soul ! why should you clutch at the straws 
 That float on the surface, — place, fortune, applause ? 
 And the drowning soul answered me : ' ' Weary of life, 
 I bid without sorrow farewell to its strife." 
 
 " Thank Heaven : the crisis — 
 
 The danger is past, 
 And the hngering illness 
 
 Is over at last, 
 And the fever called * Living ' 
 
 Is conquered at last." — Foe. 
 
RECALLED. 
 
 I sit and hold the flaxen tress, 
 
 I coil it round my finger. 
 The ecstasy of happiness 
 
 About it seems to linger. 
 
 Foreshortened are the weary miles 
 For me, the heart-sick rover. 
 
 This precious lock old Time beguiles, 
 And bridges distance over. 
 
 As I would do, were she but here. 
 With all her wealth of tresses, 
 
 So with both heart and hand sincere 
 I give this lock caresses. 
 
 Among the sweets that fancy sips, 
 How near to nectar this is, 
 
 To cover with my eager lips 
 This golden lock with kisses. 
 
 Ah ! sneer at my loving zeal. 
 Age doth not love disable, 
 
 When golden locks like these reveal 
 The head of baby Mabel. 
 
CHANGE, 
 
 The forest walk is just the same, 
 
 The streamlet yet is flowing, 
 As when long years ago I came 
 
 With heart elate and glowing. 
 And wandered, dreaming golden dreams. 
 
 The branches spreading o'er me, 
 And planned to fill with wondrous schemes 
 
 The life that lay before me. 
 
 But now, with my life's journey done, 
 
 My dreaming, scheming over, 
 I backward come, a wiser one. 
 
 Some change here to discover. 
 In vain ! the streamlet flows here still. 
 
 The same old path delights me. 
 But ah ! I find, despite my will. 
 
 My own heart's change affrights me ! 
 
A LAMENT, 
 
 Thy words of hope no more I hear, 
 That filled my soul with courage true ; 
 
 Thy gentle hand no more is near 
 To pilot me life's darkness through. 
 
 A seal upon thy lips is set, 
 
 Thine eyes will never more awake ; 
 The tears with which my own are wet 
 
 Their fearful slumbers can not break. 
 
 The silken chord of love that bound 
 Our souls as one, is torn apart, 
 
 And through the depth of grief profound 
 Alone I journey with my heart. 
 
 Yet sweet remembrance comes to cheer 
 M y sad soul with those visions bright ; 
 
 Thy loving smile and words sincere 
 Come back to thrill me with delight. 
 
 I treasure up each trifling link, 
 I try to mend the broken chain. 
 
 And lost in thought I sit and think, 
 And live the dead past o'er again. 
 
 In vain ! the joy will not come back, 
 The first sweet joys of those old days. 
 
 Upon my sad soul's weary track 
 No more will fall those golden rays. 
 
50 A LAMENT. 
 
 But yet, thank God ! the vow was kept, 
 Whate'er the storm to cling together; 
 
 Ah ! why could not the wave that swept 
 One overboard have ta'en the other? 
 
 But no ! They come in such disguise, 
 Though many joys they separate, 
 
 These blessings meted from the skies, 
 And we must learn to bear our fate. 
 
 O heart, be still ! Extract the good. 
 The useful grains from bitter mass. 
 
 And trust, O ! that my sorrow could. 
 Thy promise that the cup shall pass. 
 
TO FATE 
 
 AN INVOCATION. 
 
 Come in spirit, come to meet me, 
 Come with pleasant smiles to greet me, 
 Come with loving words to bless me, 
 Lighten cares that so distress me ! 
 Bring the heart that aching misses 
 What it has so longed for, blisses. 
 Let no longer hate deprive me 
 Of the joys that should revive me. 
 
 On life's desert bleak and barren 
 Plant for me the rose of Sharon. 
 Hopes decayed and withered fancies, 
 Brighten with old time romances. 
 Thus the heart is ever beating, 
 Thus is ever soul entreating, 
 Thus a luckless victim suing 
 Asks from Fate her web's undoing. 
 
 Vain the hope, for Fate has never 
 Changed her mind to man's endeavor ! 
 What is wrong, pray, who can right it ? 
 As the war is planned we fight it. 
 Boast we may, and think we win it, 
 Still it ends when we begin it 
 As designed, the Power Supreme 
 Leads to the goal. Act, hope and dream. 
 
UNSATISFIED. 
 
 Tis nature to be longing ; dull or witty, 
 
 Or wise or stupid, all desire to range 
 Forth to the country, back into the city, 
 
 Admiring either only for the change. 
 
 Weary of noise, my heart is often aching 
 To 'scape the clatter in the city pent ; 
 
 And so each Summer I, my grip-sack taking, 
 Start out to get away from discontent. 
 
 I say to business, *' Satan, get behind me, 
 
 I'm going off among the happy folk, 
 Where your blue-devils surely can not find me 
 
 To roil my soul with everlasting croak. 
 
 "I'm going to snooze beneath the spreading beeches. 
 And ride at ease in nature's palace-car ; 
 
 I'm going to hear the sermons that she preaches 
 From simple wild flower up to wondrous star. 
 
 *' From slavish toil thus briefly manumitted, 
 
 I'll sniff the odor of the piny woods, 
 And quite unmindful of the world I've quitted, 
 
 Enjoy the rapture of these solitudes." 
 
 Thus year on year this false delusion blinds me. 
 And leads me wandering after country joys ; 
 
 But one short month of vain pursuing finds me 
 With face turned eager toward the city's noise. 
 
DESPAIR. 
 
 Despair, you have come to the wrong place to-day 
 To barter your products of sadness and gloom ; 
 And knock at my heart's door as hard as you may, 
 From within to your knock shall the answer be nay, 
 I open not now since I know unto whom. 
 
 You may stand in the rain till it drenches your skin, 
 
 And plead for a shelter you never will get ; 
 Compassion yields not to your clamorous din, 
 For memory warns me to bar from within 
 The demon whose footsteps are unerased yet. 
 
 I yielded one time, and you entered my heart, 
 
 And, pirate-like, robbed me of all of its peace. 
 Made the world seem a desert, the sunshine depart. 
 Made God seem unjust with your devilish art, 
 Till I, in my madness, prayed Death for release. 
 
 You hissed in my ear, until charity fled, 
 
 " God loves not his creatures, they live but to die " ; 
 You hissed until conscience and reason were dead, 
 And mangled my sensitive heart till it bled 
 
 With anguish, that none were so wretched as I. 
 
 You stood between me and the friends who were dear ; 
 
 My wife and my children were lost in the gloom ; 
 I grew blind as you scoffed, 'till you made it appear 
 That even their love was to me insincere. 
 
 And happiness only could come with the tomb. 
 
54 DESPAIR, 
 
 And now you return, and have knocked to regain 
 
 The place in my heart which you darkened before j 
 But your pleading for shelter this time will be vain, 
 For your shadow uplifted hath banished my pain, 
 And the sunshine of hope is now bright on the floor. 
 
 I heed not your counsels. Away, wretch, and bear 
 From the door shut against you, your venomous sting! 
 
 The horror you bring me I seek not to share ; 
 
 I see through the guise that you villainous wear. 
 And give you your deserts, detestable thing ! 
 
ALL IS VANITY. 
 
 What boots this bitter, burning strife, 
 This never-ending fight with pain, 
 
 We, stubborn, wage through all our life 
 To find at last our efforts vain?* 
 
 The earnest chase, in boyish years, 
 Of phantoms pictured by desire ; 
 
 But, when at last success appears 
 In sight, to have its glow expire ? 
 
 And when around our brow success 
 Reluctant wreathes her laurel crown, 
 
 To find we've won, no more, no less, 
 Than willinmess life's cares to drown ? 
 
 To find the glittering gold we thought 
 Would smooth and brighten all our way, 
 
 Hath failed to bring the boon we sought. 
 Or grief assuage, or pain allay ? 
 
 To find when looking sadly back 
 Along the weary path we've passed, 
 
 Wrecks thickly strewn along the track 
 Are all that's left our souls at last ? 
 
 To say when ends our seventy years 
 Of life, this, this, is all we bring, 
 
 Great God, to Thee ; sighs, groanings, tears, 
 A shameless, useless offering ? 
 
THE SHADOW. 
 
 Upon my mind's horizon 
 
 In the morning light it lay, 
 On the very verge of fancy 
 
 In the distance far away ; 
 And as it lay there floating 
 
 Mid visions new and warm, 
 I had no thought the tiny thing 
 
 Would ever bring me harm. 
 
 A speck upon my dreaming, 
 
 A cloudlet in the sky. 
 The briefest note of warning 
 
 That something wrong was nigh ; 
 A germ of pain unfolding 
 
 Its leaves of grief and doubt ; 
 A hateful terror coming near 
 
 To blot my comfort out. 
 
 A hand-breadth's width of shadow. 
 
 That slowly did expand. 
 Till storm and darkness from it spread 
 
 O'er sky, and sea, and land ; 
 A fear that grew to terror, 
 
 A germ of mind-distress. 
 Expanding till my aching head 
 
 Was filled with wretchedness. 
 
A SINNER'S PLEA. 
 
 I did wrong, and the good world, soon finding 
 
 My error, set up hue and cry ; 
 In vain flowed my tears hot and blinding, 
 
 For mercy in vain did I sigh. 
 
 On each brow bitter hatred sat scowling, 
 Every eye flashed me ruthless contempt, 
 
 Every one seemed a Pharisee howling, 
 
 *' Thank God, from such fault I'm exempt 1 " 
 
 And friends who to me were the dearest, 
 
 Were palsied at once by the cry ; 
 And love which I deemed the sincerest. 
 
 Was first from my bosom to fly. 
 
 With taunting, and gibing, and sneering, 
 The bright earth was made like a hell. 
 
 Not a shadow of kindness appearing 
 To bridge o'er the ditch where I fell ! 
 
 So unlike others' faults was my error. 
 So few had such weakness e'er shown, 
 
 It seemed meet the anathemas of terror 
 Should over my poor soul be thrown. 
 
 So the good world moved on in its mission. 
 To the duties engrossing it much. 
 
 Keeping guard at the gates of Elysian, 
 With its garments unstained by my touch. 
 
58 A SINNER'S FLEA. 
 
 So the good world still rolls on its mission, 
 Though the wheel it calls justice may press 
 
 The life-blood from hearts whose contrition 
 Is born of despair and distress, 
 
 Lending never a hand in its splendor 
 To those who repentant might rise, 
 
 While charity meek- eyed and tender 
 From its cold-hearted equity flies. 
 
 So, World growing colder and colder, 
 While pretending lost souls to uplift. 
 
 Cold glances, cold word and cold shoulder, 
 Is it strange that I scoff at your gift ? 
 
DOES THE VEIL CONCEAL? 
 
 Do spirits of the dead look down 
 
 Upon this world's contracted sphere? 
 
 Can their sight pierce the darkness thrown 
 Around the deeds transacted here ? 
 
 Are schemes of mind and freaks of mood, 
 Which we conceal with coward pride, 
 
 By those we loved most understood, 
 Despite our weak attempts to hide ? 
 
 Is every secret impulse known ? 
 
 Is every secret thought laid bare ? 
 Do these dead friends we call our own 
 
 Know just the hypocrites we are ? 
 
 Do they see through the flimsy sham 
 Which stamps us here as good or bad ? 
 
 See you are right, that wrong I am. 
 Because of chances each has had ? 
 
 See through the selfish braggart veil 
 We shrewdly over motives spread. 
 
 And read the sad, disgraceful tale. 
 How on mere husks our fame is fed ? 
 
 If so, who would not blush to do 
 An act unworthy, though concealed. 
 
 Knowing that to the chosen few 
 Gone before 'twill be revealed? 
 
WHOSE? 
 
 A little mound of earth alone, 
 
 With stunted, matted grass o'ergrown, 
 
 Lonely haunt in graveyard plot, 
 
 By all the busy world forgot. 
 
 Yet frequently my footsteps choose 
 
 To seek this grave, not knowing whose. 
 
 No need of sculptured stone to tell 
 Who sleeps beneath is sleeping well ; 
 No need to know the sleeper's name, 
 I read life's story just the same ; 
 The old, sad story, I peruse 
 Beside this grave, not knowing whose. 
 
 '' Dust to dust," the end of earth. 
 
 The end of dreams that life gives birth ; 
 
 The summing up of all our fame 
 
 Is here, a mound without a name ; 
 
 A matted sod, a lonely spot. 
 
 By grieving friends at last forgot. 
 
 Not knowing whose, what worth to me 
 His age, or name, or history ? 
 Did earth resound once with his crime. 
 Or mayhap with his deeds sublime ? 
 What boots, since o'er him hangs the pall 
 Oblivion weaves and spreads for all ? 
 
WHOSE ? 6i 
 
 One of the millions gone before 
 Who've left no footprints on the shore ; 
 This matted sod, these tangled weeds 
 The only record of his deeds, 
 For one like me who comes to muse 
 Beside his grave, not knowing whose. 
 
A KIND WORD. 
 
 A little gem from fricndshi])'s mine, 
 This gift above all else I prize ; 
 
 And ever since it came from thine, 
 Within my own heart safe it lies. 
 
 There, valued for the motive pure 
 That prompted it, a gift unsought, 
 
 It shall forever live secure, 
 
 Protected by endearing thought, 
 
 The echo of a heavenly voice 
 That came when trials sore beset. 
 
 And bade my grieving soul rejoice, 
 Because for me was comfort yet. 
 
 O ! welcome word from earnest friend. 
 That o'er my soul's despairing cry 
 
 Did its bright wings of love extend. 
 And filled with rainbow hues the sky ; 
 
 That came, when those I loved forsook 
 And vied with foes my soul to wring, 
 
 With loving tone, that kindly took 
 From aching heart a poisoned sting. 
 
 Ah, little word, so true and kind. 
 
 How could my sad heart prize thee less? 
 
 O ! why should not my grateful mind 
 Give thanks to thee for happiness? 
 
EQUITY. 
 
 Cold-hearted world, that calls accursed 
 The deed squared not by usual rules, 
 
 That holds her very bad who durst 
 Rebel against the reign of fools. 
 
 She erred, and from your throne there came 
 The virtuous edict, ''sinner, die ! " 
 
 Her sobbing heart, which knew its blame, 
 For your forgiveness dared not try. 
 
 With self-complacent pride you stood 
 By the strict letter of your law. 
 
 So died she, as all sinners should 
 In whose indictments are no flaw. 
 
 And yet, cold-hearted world, you know 
 
 Your justice is a cruel curse. 
 That while you punish hundreds so. 
 
 Your ermine shields a million worse ! 
 
MADNESS. 
 
 Thinking, thinking, ever thinking 
 
 Thoughts that rack the seething brain, 
 
 From no threatened danger shrinking. 
 Hugging as a pleasure, pain, 
 
 Voiceless, heedless, bends a weeper 
 
 O'er a clod-bound senseless sleeper. 
 
 Glaring at the gentle moonbeam. 
 Scoffing at earth's gladdest mood. 
 
 Laughing when the lightnings far gleam. 
 And the tempest fiends intrude. 
 
 Eyes so watchful, restless, sunken. 
 
 Brain with brimming frenzy drunken. 
 
 Sorrow all the thin face bleaching, 
 Anguish on each feature traced. 
 
 Hatred blent with sad beseeching, 
 Prayer and curses interlaced. 
 
 Each a sad and mystic token 
 
 That the fragile vase is broken. 
 
 Idol, who was once so peerless, 
 Lying prostrate, overthrown ; 
 
 Pleasant home deserted, cheerless, 
 Garden with rank weeds o'ergrown ; 
 
 Heart bereft of human feeling, 
 
 111 beyond all human healing. 
 
MADNESS. 
 
 Darkness struggling with creation, 
 Proserpine in realms of Dis, 
 
 Haunt us, yet such desolation 
 Hath no gloomier path than this. 
 
 Reason from its throne descending 
 Into chaos never ending. 
 
 65 
 
A MEMORY. 
 
 " Far around the gray mist of the twilight was stealing, 
 And the tints of the landscape had faded in blue, 
 
 Ere my pale lips could murmur the accents of feeling. 
 As it bade the fond scenes of my childhood adieu. 
 
 — Halieck. 
 
 The new house is built, while the old one, grown hoary 
 And shattered by time, has been all torn away ; 
 
 Yet still with me lingers the spell of that glory 
 Which hallowed its halls ere they went to decay. 
 
 No new-fashioned structure, no matter how splendid, 
 Can e'er to my heart the old pleasure restore 
 
 It has felt in the old house, whose life is now ended. 
 In the dear days departed, the dear days of yore. 
 
 Though gold deck the new with so much that is charming, 
 And art at its bidding her treasures unfold. 
 
 Still powerless both are my cold heart in warming, 
 For the dear spell is lacking that clung to the old. 
 
 Still lacking the spell, for memory's finger 
 
 Points back, in its past, to no hours that were dear, 
 
 Recalls not a scene where I once loved to linger. 
 Not a grief or a joy that has been hallowed here. 
 
 In vain do I people this house newly builded 
 
 With memories of those who once lived in the old ; 
 
 Out of place seem their forms in its halls brightly gilded, 
 In its parlors sound strangely the stories they told. 
 
A MEMORY, 67 
 
 Thank God for misfortune, if fortune must ever 
 
 Bring desire to exchange the old landmarks for new ! 
 
 Let gloomy disaster crown every endeavor, 
 
 If success means supplanting what formerly grew. 
 
 In the glare of success, with heart proudly beating, 
 
 And hands grasping prizes alluringly set. 
 How my soul often aches for the homelier greeting 
 
 Which beneath the old roof-tree I long ago met. 
 
 And so, as I knew the old house, I rebuild it, 
 In fancy its small rooms and low I restore, 
 
 With a mother's dear presence to lovingly gild it, 
 And flush me with joy as I enter its door. 
 
 How often, forsooth, is memory turning 
 From the noisy charm of the present away. 
 
 How loyal at last is my heart in its yearning 
 For the quiet delights of that happier day. 
 
 When the world seemed a dream, with flowery walks 
 teeming. 
 
 Full of wonderful prizes I hoped to attain ; 
 Ah ! indeed the old house where I did my boy dreaming 
 
 In manhood's remembrance must ever remain. 
 
 Let it stand as it is, scarred, withered and blighted, 
 Though it be but a ruin of happiness sweet. 
 
 Still a memory sacred where Thought is delighted 
 To turn often back from life's struggle her feet. 
 
WEARY. 
 
 Weary of this ceaseless striving 
 
 For earth's happiness; 
 Weary of this vain contriving, 
 Heartless plot and shrewd conniving, 
 Seeking, and yet ne'er arriving, 
 
 At the goal, success. 
 
 Weary of this slavish fawning 
 
 At god Mammon's feet ; 
 Weary waiting for the dawning 
 Of the promised brighter morning ; 
 Weary of the jeer and scorning 
 
 That our efforts greet. 
 
 Weary of this patient waiting 
 
 For successful schemes ; 
 Schemes that have so long been sating 
 Faith and hope, the heart elating, 
 Till the brain goes mad creating 
 
 Sophistries from dreams. 
 
 Weary of this mournful sighing 
 
 O'er the vanished past ; 
 Chanting dirges o'er the dying 
 Flowers upon our pathway lying ; 
 Weary of this childish trying 
 
 To appease the blast. 
 
WEAR V. 69 
 
 Weary of this daily gamble 
 
 For the prizes set ; 
 Weary of the wretched scramble, 
 Of the piercing thorn and bramble. 
 That where'er our footsteps ramble 
 
 In our paths are met. 
 
 Weary of the strife heart-rending, 
 
 Merciless and cold ; 
 Weary of the falsehood blending 
 With our life, each act attending ; 
 Weary of ambition ending 
 
 In the lust for gold. 
 
 Weary of forever facing 
 
 Ills for love of fame ; 
 Weary of this fruitless chasing 
 Hopes, and with our fingers tracing. 
 For the idle wind's erasing, 
 
 On the sands our name. 
 
 Cease, O silly heart ! repining. 
 
 Beneath trials bowed ; 
 Failures, sorrows, plots combining. 
 Bar no rays of sunlight shining ; 
 Still remains the silver lining 
 
 To o'erhanging cloud. 
 
 With life's work, or with life's dreaming, 
 
 Sweet rewards are blent ; 
 Loss its offsets hath redeeming ; 
 Though our lives are failures seeming. 
 Duty done, like bright star beaming. 
 
 Brings at last content. 
 
PET, 
 
 Who she is, or where she is, 
 
 Known is to but few ; 
 Tiniest bit of innocence 
 
 Childhood ever knew. 
 Since no doubt your eyes and hers 
 
 Never may have met, 
 Listen, and I'll tell you why 
 
 We have named her Pet. 
 
 There may be in other nests 
 
 Eyes of birds as bright. 
 But, I know they cannot shine 
 
 With a purer light. 
 If you could but see them once. 
 
 You would ne'er forget, 
 And could then the reason guess 
 
 Why we call her Pet. 
 
 Down her neck in waving curls 
 
 Hangs her golden hair, 
 Clustering round an open brow 
 
 As the lilies fair. 
 While her cheek in blooming tinge 
 
 Doth the rose eclipse, 
 And her teeth the purest pearls. 
 
 Rubies seem her lips. 
 
PET. 71 
 
 She is neither old nor wise 
 
 In the rules of art ; 
 Wisdom does not guide her tongue, 
 
 Nor deceit her heart ; 
 On the threshold of her life 
 
 Standing without guile, 
 Lighting up our darkened souls 
 
 With her sunny smile. 
 
 Innocence is in her air, 
 
 Truth is on her tongue ; 
 Sweeter lyric on this earth 
 
 Poet never sung ; 
 Envy that with poisoned sting 
 
 Older maidens fret. 
 Never yet hath cast a shade 
 
 On the brow of Pet. 
 
 Who can blame us, we who know 
 
 All her witch' ries well. 
 That we feel with hearts aglow, 
 
 Love unspeakable, 
 That we often breathe the prayer 
 
 That our God will let 
 Never any bleak despair 
 
 Cloud the life of Pet? 
 
THE UNBROKEN CHAIN. 
 
 Her love and her nature were blended 
 
 And joined by so perfect a tie, 
 The chain which they formed seemed intended 
 
 Each trial of life to defy. 
 Its links were so welded together, 
 
 Their strength I could certainly trust, 
 A chain that no change of the weather 
 
 Could weaken or ruin with rust. 
 I know not the hour when she bound me ; 
 
 I surely was lovingly fast 
 As a boy, and in manhood around me 
 
 Still lingers this bond of the past. 
 Still perfect the bond, and forever, 
 
 So long as life lingers, the chain 
 Of true love and earnest endeavor 
 
 Shall round me unbroken remain. 
 As the darkness of night draweth nearer, 
 
 And shadows more heavily fall. 
 Ah ! I see now this truth shining clearer. 
 
 She ^'deserved to be dearest of all." 
 How low seem my daily desirings. 
 
 This scramble for place or for gold. 
 Compared with the noble aspirings, 
 
 She taught me to worship of old ! 
 
THE UNBROKEN CHAIN 73 
 
 And though by repeated transgression, 
 
 Her precepts seem taught me in vain, 
 Still my stubborn heart makes this confession, 
 
 Thank God for the trace of the chain, 
 For the tie that can never be broken, 
 
 For the memory assuaging my loss, 
 For the spiritual comfort unspoken 
 
 That the grave's shadow reaches across ! 
 
DECEMBER DAYS. 
 
 The days are dark, and short, and cold, 
 
 The earth is robed in snow, 
 And over hill, and plain, and fold. 
 
 The winds of winter blow. 
 
 The snow-birds light upon my path, 
 
 They seem to fear no harm. 
 As though the ills that winter hath 
 
 Unkindness doth disarm. 
 
 The icicles upon the eaves 
 
 Have now no drops to drip ; 
 The frost-king upon all things leaves 
 
 The coldness of his grip. 
 
 Across the winding brooks and creeks 
 He breathes his chilling breath. 
 
 And on their sparkling waters wreaks 
 His vengeance, which is death. 
 
 Death unto all earth's living things, 
 
 Is pictured in his face. 
 The leaves, the trees, the vine that clings 
 
 To their strong arms embrace. 
 
 The green grass of the meadow-lands 
 
 Is withered by his touch, 
 And flowers cultured by our hands. 
 
 That we have loved so much. 
 
DECEMBER DA YS. 75 
 
 And yet, though desolation is 
 
 Attendant on his look, 
 Though all things shiver at his kiss, 
 
 In every clift and nook, 
 
 'Tis but a semblance, and his face 
 
 And his all-chilling breath 
 But mirror to our stubborn race 
 
 The dark, dark angel, death. 
 
HOME. 
 
 With so many memories thronging, 
 Thronging through my weary brain, 
 
 Is it strange that I am longing, 
 Longing to go back again ? • 
 
 Back unto the homestead olden, 
 ■ To the farm-house old and gray, 
 In pursuit of phantoms golden, 
 From which I was lured away ? 
 
 Is it strange that I am yearning 
 For that dearest spot on earth, 
 
 I, who have been dearly learning 
 In strange lands its real worth ? 
 
 "tj" 
 
 Is it strange I love to linger 
 
 In the haunts my boyhood knew, 
 
 Heedless of the warning finger 
 
 That would daunt a backward view ? 
 
 Is it strange the harness galls me, 
 
 That ambition girded on ? 
 And that e'en success appalls me. 
 
 Now that old-time friends are gone ? 
 
 Is it strange that the enslaving 
 
 Thirst for fame, and power, and gold, 
 
 Yields unto the earnest craving 
 For the humble home of old ? 
 
HOME. 77 
 
 Is it strange that they come to me, 
 
 All of those who loved me so ? 
 And as phantom friends pursue me 
 
 Wheresoever I may go ? 
 
 Is it strange I can not look them, 
 
 Tearless, voiceless, in the face, 
 I, who heedless once forsook them. 
 
 Searching for a better place ? 
 
 Is it strange that I am thinking. 
 
 Blinded though I be with tears, 
 Of that chain of mystic linking 
 
 Broken in my early years ? 
 
 Is it strange, while fortune smiling 
 
 Leads me o'er life's onward track. 
 That the dream is more beguiling 
 
 Which in sadness leads me back. 
 
 Back along the pathway dreary. 
 
 Where my wandering footsteps roam, 
 
 Back to feel once more the cheery, 
 
 Blaze, and warmth, and love of Home ? 
 
GOOD-BYE, OLD YEAR. 
 
 The parting hour again draws nigh ; 
 Once more we say, old Year, good-bye ! 
 Unto the worn-out old, adieu, 
 And grateful welcome to the new. 
 We bear the dead to waiting tomb ; 
 Its struggles fierce, its grief and gloom ; 
 And hope renewed lifts eager eyes 
 To catch the glow of brighter skies : 
 The glow and warmth of radiant beams 
 That fill with rapture Fancy's dreams. 
 
 How tired we were of these months past, 
 How glad that sunshine comes at last ! 
 How blest the dear illusions seem 
 With which our hopeful fancies teem 
 That comes to bless us, comes to crown, 
 To bring us comfort, wealth, renown. 
 The largess which with vows sincere. 
 It seems to promise this new year. 
 Ambitious threads of purpose weaving, 
 The warp and w©of of great achieving ! 
 
 But, ah ! how very few of us. 
 Who gave her welcome coming thus. 
 Will have the joys we hope to feel 
 Brought round on Life's revolving wheel. 
 We all i::o forth with hearts elate. 
 
GOOD-BYE OLD YEAR. 79 
 
 To hear the story told by Fate. 
 Though ev'ry year 'tis told in vain, 
 We all gd forth to hear again 
 This truth, that all these promised joys, 
 Before we reach them, Time destroys. 
 
 But hastening on the hour draws near 
 When there shall come the last New Year j 
 When hope no more shall thrill the soul 
 With visions bright of promised goal. 
 When Life's delights, for which we've schemed. 
 When Life's success, of which we've dreamed. 
 No longer lure, when from this heart 
 These vain delusions all depart, 
 And we, without regret or sigh 
 For old or new, say glad good-bye. 
 
THE OMEN, 
 
 She bent above the murmuring stream, 
 
 The gentle breezes fanned her cheek ; 
 Her heart was full of blissful dream 
 
 That hardly yet she dared to speak. 
 She seemed to feel his kisses still, 
 
 Soft lingering on her rosy lips, 
 And to herself she murmured, '^ Will 
 
 Life bring to this sweet joy eclipse ? ' ' 
 She whispered shyly to the stream, 
 
 '' This secret keep within thy breast ; 
 I love him with a love supreme ; 
 
 My soul is ready for the test ; 
 And yet I tremble ! Will he be 
 
 To me as true as I to him ? 
 Or will time early set him free. 
 
 And leave me wrecked, an idler's whim, 
 A woman scorned, forsaken, lost, 
 
 With but a memory faint and dim 
 Of what I worshipped ? I am tossed, 
 
 O stream, upon the sea of doubt ! 
 I would that some kind fairy might 
 
 From your sweet bosom now come out 
 To guide my wavering soul aright." 
 
 She ceased, and o'er her upturned face 
 Fell shadows of o'erhanging vines. 
 
 That might be warning, could she trace 
 
THE OMEN. 8 1 
 
 The real omen in such signs. 
 
 But then right through the shadows streamed 
 The brilHant radiance of the sun, 
 
 And, as her heart desired, she deemed 
 This omen truest. Love had won ! 
 
 She clapped her hands and cried to Fear, 
 '' Begone ! to me no more come nigh ! 
 
 At last I see my duty clear. 
 Sweet stream, to every doubt, good-bye ! 
 
AT THE GATE. 
 
 The joy-bells in her heart are stilled, 
 
 That she may better listen 
 To catch the tuneful tremors trilled 
 
 From aspen leaves that glisten. 
 She stands within the moonlight clear, 
 
 The bright stars o'er her beaming, 
 When lo ! a footstep drawing near 
 
 Awakens her from dreaming. 
 
 She's lingered long and lingered late 
 
 To greet him at his coming, 
 And, lonely though it's been to wait, 
 
 Her lips have kept on humming 
 One little song, so old, so new. 
 
 That tune which tires never, 
 A heart-beat whispered music through, 
 
 A pledge of love forever. 
 
 Still nearer comes the footstep heard, 
 
 Her cheeks like flames are burning ; 
 Her voice no more in tuneful word 
 
 Conceals her fond heart's yearning ; 
 For there before her stands at last. 
 
 Her longing eyes discover, 
 With all life's weary waiting passed, 
 
 Within her gates the lover. 
 
AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 Through rifts of cloud shine bright the stars ; 
 
 The storm-lashed waves are lulled to rest ; 
 By floating cordage, broken spars, 
 
 The fate of once proud ship is guessed. 
 Upon a gloomy, barren shore, 
 
 Rock barrier of the cruel sea, 
 'Mid crash, apd wail, and prayer, once more 
 
 Old ocean plays its tragedy. 
 
SUMMING UP. 
 
 O greed that is ever desirous 
 
 To have what is seldom our due, 
 Will telling our wants never tire us ? 
 
 Will never our longing be through ? 
 Disappointed must never our faces 
 
 Turn back from the wearisome road ? 
 Shall never hope reach the green places 
 
 Where help is for troublesome load ? 
 
 Time fast on swift pinion is fleeting ; 
 
 'Tis useless to pine or regret, 
 Though canker our hearts may be eating, 
 
 And eyes are with sorrowing wet. 
 Still we, with our souls all a-quiver. 
 
 Can not from the struggle desist, 
 But must hope that life will deliver 
 
 In time all the pleasure we've missed. 
 
 In vain is this wearisome hoping ? 
 
 Must living be nothing but pain ? 
 Must struggle, and sorrow, and groping, 
 
 Be all in this life we attain ? 
 O world with your wonderful learning. 
 
 Your daring that soars to the sun, 
 Is sad disappointment and yearning 
 
 The sum of it all when 'tis done? 
 
NATURE. 
 
 Yes, I hear her voice of melody amid the wood's aisles 
 ringing, 
 
 With earnest sweet entreaty calling unto me to come, 
 
 And unto witching fancies of what might be mine is cling- 
 ing, 
 
 And so 'mid rapturous dreaming is my restless spirit dumb. 
 
 Yes, "restless spirit" is the phrase to voice the heart's 
 revealing, 
 
 That fills my soul with rapture as her winning tones I hear, 
 
 Sitting lone within the gloaming, hugging close loves 
 tender feeling. 
 
 As the echo of her music brings her precious spirit near. 
 
 To my sadness how refreshing is her kind appreciation ! 
 
 How my veins all thrill and tingle to the magic of her tone ! 
 
 How her, '' Do you understand me?" seems of love anew 
 creation ! 
 
 How I grasp its tender meaning and would clasp her as 
 my own ! 
 
 In my passionate devotion, how her blooming form I 
 held it. 
 
 Within my arms outstretching as to draw her to my breast ! 
 
 How above the tow' ring mountain crags the shining stars 
 beheld it. 
 
 And heard the pledge, "I love thee," that made aspira- 
 tion blest ! 
 
86 NA TURE. 
 
 How my passionate devotion grasped and clasped her in 
 
 such fashion, 
 That my heart seemed beating *' Welcome" to the dear 
 
 incoming guest ! 
 Every whispered protestation was a pleading cry of passion, 
 That might bend her from her grandeur to the love that 
 
 gave me rest ; 
 The Tchibai Mountain hoary was first kissed by light in 
 
 story, 
 Ah, here 'mid crags less famous was sweet pressure on my 
 
 lips. 
 And the stars of Heaven, shining far above me in their 
 
 glory. 
 Did enhallow my mad passion and the mountain's kiss 
 
 eclipse. 
 Then and there on Nature's bosom learned I what is Love's 
 
 own proving, 
 As through my veins flowed rapidly a rapture wondrous 
 
 sweet. 
 Then and there my soul discovered that in human hearts 
 
 the grooving 
 Must match with Natures promptings to make happiness 
 
 complete. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS' INVITATION. 
 
 O Dreamer, I welcome you gladly. 
 
 Come, sit 'neath my shadow and look ! 
 Earth's trials that fret you so sadly, 
 
 'Tis certainly time you forsook. 
 
 Right here, 'mid the grandeur and glory 
 Of woodland, of valley and stream, 
 
 Lies rapture untold of in story, 
 Lie visions unseen in a dream. 
 
 Far off, upon wings ever lifting, 
 The soul over troubles and bars. 
 
 Shall thought, the dear comforter drifting, 
 Go up to her heaven of stars. 
 
 Right her in this cosy nook sitting. 
 While o'er you these rocky cliffs lean. 
 
 Shall shadows and light blent be flitting. 
 As seldom by dreamers are seen. 
 
 Look there, see, far off there, appearing 
 In haze of the cloudland, those peaks ! 
 
 What ear is too dull for the hearing 
 Of words their magnificence speaks ? 
 
 And there lie before you sweet valleys. 
 Gay net-works of culture and bloom. 
 
 Where hard-working fool toils and tallies 
 His scores on his way to the tomb. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN'S INVITATION. 
 
 He scores them as brilliant successes, 
 A farm earned, or herds, or some fame. 
 
 Ah Dreamer ! How little he guesses 
 The worthless result of his aim ! 
 
 Then come, though the prizes I offer 
 
 Are but coins cast in Nature's rough mold. 
 
 You'll discover, when she fills the coffer. 
 Her gifts are more precious then gold. 
 
E, J, H. . 
 
 If wine is improved by the keeping, 
 Why not love, if 'tis really true? 
 
 Should passion go yawning and sleeping 
 Because it is not fresh and new ? 
 
 Must age the sweet dream of the lover 
 With a ruthless awaking destroy. 
 
 And the man be so proud to get over 
 What made him so happy a boy ? 
 
 Does there grow less ecstatic enjoyment 
 As we go towards the foot of the hill ? 
 
 Does this galley-slave business employment 
 The heart's best desires fulfill ? 
 
 Shall we yield to the youngster love's glory 
 
 Its halo, its passion, its flame. 
 Of this life all the best of the story, 
 
 And we take mere money and fame ? 
 
 Away with such nonsense, for truly, 
 Love is, as it should be, like wine, 
 
 Though at first just a little unruly, 
 The older the nearer divine. 
 
 We can look, we old codgers, so chilly, 
 That none but our own wives would dream 
 
 That we can be, and are, just as silly 
 As ever when love is the theme ! 
 
90 E. J. H. 
 
 Is the dream to the boy of his treasure, 
 
 When her hand and her heart have been won, 
 
 A greater delight than the measure 
 
 To the man of her worth when 'tis done? 
 
 Does the hope of the boy, that she'll prove him 
 A good and true wife, bring more bliss 
 
 Than the sunshine the man has above him 
 Who knows that his wife is just this ? 
 
 Is the grace of the maid more enchanting, 
 More enchanting the words of the bride, 
 
 Than the wife found in all things not wanting. 
 Whose virtues are tested and tried ? 
 
 Then away with the fanciful notion 
 
 That to youth should belong all love's zeal, 
 
 All the zest of its truest devotion. 
 
 Or that age should its passion conceal ! 
 
 Away with such nonsense, for truly 
 Love is, as it should be, like wine. 
 
 Though at first just a little unruly. 
 The older the nearer divine. 
 
TO FAME. 
 
 A leaf of laurel ! Ah, my friend, 
 
 Come you not late to brighten 
 A weary life ? Can green leaves lend 
 
 Much charm to hairs that whiten ? 
 Can I forget the long, long stress 
 
 Of life's unclement weather, 
 When I and so-called happiness 
 
 Were soldom found together ? 
 
 A leaf of laurel ! Can it hide 
 
 The wrinkles made by toiling? 
 Or can it soothe the wounded pride 
 
 That fate was always foiling ? 
 Though now your crown with skillful art 
 
 A bald, bare forehead presses, 
 I fear that still an aching heart 
 
 Must roam earth's wildernesses. 
 
 Why could you not as well have come 
 
 When life was in its morning? 
 I'm certain when I think of some 
 
 Young heads of your adorning, 
 'Tis honest anger vexes me, 
 
 And mixes with my grieving, 
 Because I can not help but see 
 
 How partial was your weaving. 
 
92 TO FAME. 
 
 No matter ! In this bonnet gift 
 
 The bee of pride is humming, 
 And though at first a little miffed, 
 
 So slow you were in coming, 
 I frankly must confess to you, 
 
 (The adage still is clever,) 
 That balances long overdue 
 
 Are better late than never. 
 
ANTICIPATION VS. PARTICIPATION. 
 
 I once believed possession brought 
 
 Life's purest joy and tender, 
 And that the hues from fancy caught 
 
 Were hues of fickle splendor, 
 Until one day, to my surprise, 
 
 I found this wisdom real. 
 Life's truest, purest pleasure lies 
 
 Within the realm ideal. 
 
 I had believed this precept taught. 
 
 That getting brought the pleasure. 
 That winning what one long had sought, 
 
 Or love, or fame, or treasure. 
 Was key to bliss, but when the goal 
 
 I'd reach through years of scheming, 
 I found that after all my soul 
 
 Had happiest been when dreaming. 
 
 The conquest which I thought would bring 
 
 So much of joy with glory, 
 I found it but a paltry thing, 
 
 A plain and prosy story. 
 For from the summit of success. 
 
 This ray of truth is shining. 
 The threads of perfect happiness 
 
 Hope holds the art of twining. 
 
94 ANTICIPATION vs. PARTICIPATION. 
 
 The long dull years have taught me true 
 
 How many husks we gather, 
 Have taught that comforts we pursue 
 
 Are ghosts of comfort rather. 
 The will-o-wisps' alluring glow 
 
 Across our vision flashes, 
 We madly follow, grasp, when lo ! 
 
 Its promise turns to ashes. 
 
NIGHT LINGERS. 
 
 "What a strange sympathy there is between the night and the mind. 
 
 Night lingers ! In the silent gloom 
 
 Thought magnifies my woe. 
 Within this little sleeping-room 
 
 Move giants to and fro, 
 Giants of care that banish sleep 
 
 And fill my eyes with tears, 
 Making my throbbing pulses keek 
 
 Accord with ghastly fears. 
 
 A streak of gray from the eastern sky 
 
 Into my window streams ; 
 These shapes of terror turn and fly 
 
 Before its gladsome beams. 
 Morn drives Night's phantom ills away 
 
 That on my heart had lain. 
 And in God's precious light of day 
 
 My soul is strong again. 
 
A LOVER'S LEISURE, 
 
 You ask me how I spend my leisure, 
 I answer with the greatest pleasure : 
 I spend it in the old-time fashion, 
 When Love was a romantic passion, 
 When Avarice did not guard the portal 
 That leads the heart to bliss immortal ; 
 When Love v/as not an art, or money 
 The test of Hybla's sacred honey; 
 The only proof of it's completeness 
 In those days was, you know, its sweetness, 
 Its words, its hopes, its glances tender. 
 Its dreams, its witching dreams of splendor. 
 Where e'er I go, o'er mead or mountain. 
 Through shadowy woods, by lake or fountain, 
 In lawn, or park, or valley pleasant. 
 Love's old-time dreams are ever present. 
 In lawns I wander 'neath the shadow 
 Of arching elms, an El Dorado. 
 Through all the realms of fancy ranging, 
 With one my purest thoughts exchanging. 
 By fountain ? Lo ! the spray that blesses 
 My lips seems kisses and caresses ! 
 O'er mountain ? On I climb till nearer 
 The stars of Heaven seem and clearer. 
 Until afar, above earth's creatures, 
 
A LOVER'S LEISURE 
 
 My eyes behold diviner features 
 In distant realm of ether floating, 
 A white- robed angel fond and doting ! 
 In vale ? On mossy banks reposing, 
 I lie in dreams when day is closing; 
 On mossy banks, the lips of river, 
 Where violets bloom and grasses quiver ; 
 There lie, with no cares to molest me, 
 To scape the toil of life and rest me ; 
 There lie and dream in lone recesses 
 That bending boughs are glossy tresses. 
 That all the sweet-voiced leaves above me 
 Are whispering ''I love, I love thee !', 
 
 97 
 
THE MASSACRE ON THE DESMOINES. 
 
 A MINNESOTA STORY. 
 
 In his cabin by the river, on that sultry August day, 
 Ole happily was dreaming of the old home far away. 
 Back within his native village, hid among the Northern 
 
 pines, 
 He was planning emigration and unfolding its designs ; 
 For rumors that had floated there long time upon the 
 
 breeze. 
 Of acres free to working men that lay beyond the seas. 
 Were no longer idle rumors, but facts that all did know, 
 And the villagers were gathering and packing up to go. 
 
 Once more he felt the pleasure, tho' alloyed with bitter 
 
 pain, 
 Of looking for the last time on childish haunts again. 
 And from neighbors heard the pledges, should the 
 
 promised letters bring 
 The proof that all was real, they would follow in the 
 
 spring. 
 And then, once more, he stood in tears upon the vessel's 
 
 deck. 
 While in the distance Fatherland was fading to a speck, 
 And saw the waving signals from the fast-receding shore. 
 The last good-bye from that old home which he would see 
 
 no more. 
 
THE MASSACRE ON THE DESMOINES, 99 
 
 And then as darkness closed around his vessel's onward 
 
 path, 
 Such power of restoration man's drooping spirit hath. 
 His heart exultant bounded to the schemes it had in view, 
 Exchanging Old World memories for the promise of the 
 
 New. 
 
 Mapped upon his eager vision, lay the fertile prairies wide; 
 Gardens waiting but for dwellers, stretching far on every 
 
 side, 
 With long waving belts of timber fringing many a quiet 
 
 stream. 
 Ah ! no wonder to the Northman seemed a paradise the 
 
 dream ! 
 There no fetters clung to labor, all were equal, all were 
 
 free, 
 And the votes of all decided what the law for all should be. 
 No ban of caste forever barred advancement to the poor. 
 And Fortune nursed no special class but opened wide her 
 
 door. 
 This was so unlike Europe with its law of caste supreme, 
 Ah ! no wonder to the Northman seemed a paradise, the 
 
 dream ! 
 
 Then the home he had selected before the dreamer came ; 
 Cabin, spring and clump of timber, reach of river just 
 
 the same, 
 Stretching Westward, Northward, Southward, like billows 
 
 of the sea. 
 Rolled the prairie ridges beautiful with undulations free. 
 Over all the sun was shining, 'twas the summer of the year, 
 
loo THE MASSACRE OA THE DESMOINES. 
 
 And its rays of yellow splendor filled the hazy atmosphere. 
 In the sunny arch of heaven not a single cloudlet curled ; 
 Every signal flag of tempest in the tranquil sky was furled j 
 All the gentle face of Nature beamed with rapturous 
 
 delight ', 
 Of any haunting terror not a tremor to affright. 
 On the ripened charms of summer-time hung Beauty's 
 
 ling'ring look, 
 Ere she her haunts of forest, stream and meadow-land 
 
 forsook, 
 Her last look along the valleys, her last look along the 
 
 hills, 
 On the meadow's waving grasses, on the mountain's danc- 
 ing rills. 
 All the air was full of stillness, save the warble of a bird 
 In its cage above the sleeper, not a single sound was heard. 
 From the open window near him sweet fragrance filled the 
 
 room. 
 Floating inward from the prairie flowers just bursting into 
 
 bloom. 
 In the garden mused Katrina, Katrina, happy wife ! 
 O'er this home of simple beauty which with joy had 
 
 crowned her life. 
 Thinking, ah ! how happy we shall be to greet our kindred 
 
 dear, 
 In this our pleasant prairie home if they shall come next 
 
 year. 
 She'd written home one week before, '' Too late to sail 
 
 this fall. 
 But next Spring early, surely come, here's room enough 
 
 for all." 
 
THE MASSACRE ON THE DESMOINES. loi 
 
 And Ole still lay dreaming, while down beside the spring 
 His children played a Norway play how Olaf became 
 
 King. 
 Two little boys, two little girls, the youngest only four, 
 And one, the fifth, a babe asleep, beside the play-house 
 
 door ! 
 Not a single thought of danger, no shadow of the frown 
 That Fate suspended o'er him on the sleeper's dream fell 
 
 down. 
 When suddenly Katrina in the garden gave a scream ; 
 Oh God ! to happy Northman what a waking for his 
 
 dream ! 
 
 Wakened from his dream of pleasure by Katrina' s pierc- 
 ing scream. 
 He hears the yell of savages and sees the horrid gleam 
 Of knives above his children's curls, whose large blue eyes 
 
 appeal 
 In vain for mercy to the brutes at whose base feet they 
 
 kneel. 
 From out his dream of pleasure Ole bravely springs to 
 
 save, 
 And grapples in the doorway with a stalwart painted brave 
 The first of half a dozen crowding in the narrow door. 
 And hurls the brutal demon like a pygmy to the floor, 
 And closes with another. Oh ! for an equal strife. 
 And gallant Ole yet might save those dearer than his life ! 
 In vain he copes with numbers, the fatal blow is sped, 
 And there he lies within his home, among his idols, dead ! 
 
102 THE MASSACRE ON THE DESMOINES. 
 
 Weeks pass, at last relief has come, to find them lying 
 
 there. 
 The children five beside the spring, so mangled yet so fair, 
 And in the garden whence in vain she gave that warning 
 
 cry, 
 Katrina, wife and mother, with her pale face to the sky. 
 And in a heap of ashes, where the house stood charred 
 
 and stained 
 Some blackened bones were all that now of Ole that 
 
 remained. 
 They gathered all and laid them down as one in final rest, 
 Their grave, the garden of their home, their new home in 
 
 the West ! 
 And strangers now the homestead own, no tablet marks the 
 
 place, 
 A mound of earth their monument, that time will soon 
 
 erase. 
 The tragic spot was pointed out to me by settler old. 
 And as he told the tale to me, so I the tale have told. 
 
A STATESMAN'S FUNERAL. 
 
 He was dead, and it seemed that, his life being ended. 
 
 Appropriate now was a funeral splendid 
 
 On a day set apart for a sorrowing nation, 
 
 With music and dirge, laurel-wreath and oration. 
 
 To mourn him departed, whom, while he was living. 
 
 So many pursued with a hate unforgiving ; 
 
 But nov/ he was dead, all were ready to cover 
 
 The faults and mistakes of his public life over. 
 
 No matter how much in his life they'd abused him, 
 
 Pale death from the clutches of Libel had loosed him. 
 
 And vultures of hate crack no longer their lashes. 
 
 Or croak their ill-natured contempt o'er his ashes. 
 
 In death how his virtues are wondrously shining ! 
 
 On the brow that was cold how the laurel was twining I 
 
 How hands, that once struck, were now tenderly raising 
 
 And lips that were dumb were now earnestly praising ! 
 
 At last all admit, as death closes the portal, 
 
 And memory 's all that is left of the mortal, 
 
 How absurd it all is, this practice that never 
 
 Does justice till life hath departed forever ! 
 
 Do words o'er the clay that has stiffened endear it ! 
 
 How useless applause when unable to hear it ! 
 
 When the heart that has ached for affectionate greeting 
 
 Has ceased in life's desperate struggle its beating. 
 
 Do you think that the soul on the road it is going 
 
I04 A STATESMAN'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Heeds the grief that is false, at the grave you are showing ? 
 Ah, Mourner ! if true, if you've been unforgiving. 
 If you've had for him no cordial greeting while living, 
 For his virtues no cheer, for his faults no compassion. 
 Do not come when he's dead, even tho' it be fashion, 
 And speak in his praise ! Leave it rather unspoken. 
 Let the custom you've practiced in life be unbroken. 
 If your practice was wrong, 'tis too late now to mend it; 
 If your friendship was false, 'tis too late to pretend it; 
 Do not try to unravel these webs of life's weaving ; 
 Let the dead rest in peace ; cease false hearted grieving. 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 
 
AN INVITATION 
 
 TO '^josiAH Allen's wife." 
 
 Dear Samantha, will you never 
 
 Pack your trunk and come ? 
 
 Must I write in vain forever, 
 
 Using artifices clever, 
 
 And all sorts of shrewd endeavor, 
 
 To entice you, to induce you. 
 
 From the bonds that bind to loose you ? 
 
 Is there no amount of teasing, 
 
 Artful, subtle, open, pleasing. 
 
 That my earnest heart can send you. 
 
 Which shall to my purpose bend you ? 
 
 Are you tied so to Josiah, 
 
 You no longer have desire 
 
 To acquaintance make with cousins. 
 
 Who are numbered here by dozens ? 
 
 Why not Greeley's maxim follow. 
 
 Over hill, and over hollow, 
 
 Over lake, and over river, 
 
 To that State where God the Giver 
 
 Spreads like mystic web of fairy. 
 
 Far as eye can reach, the prairie, 
 
 Bloom and beauty distant stretching. 
 
 Picture sweet of Nature's etching? 
 
lo8 AN INVITATION. 
 
 Every way to far horizon 
 Landscapes sweeter ne'er set e3'es on ! 
 Waves advancing, waves retreating, 
 On the shores of vision beating, 
 So the mind can't help the notion 
 It is on a dreamer's ocean. 
 Where the restless wave discloses 
 Waving grass and blooming roses. 
 
 Come ! I can not tell the story. 
 Come yourself and see the glory ! 
 'Tis a task that needs not daunt you ; 
 Take the risk some morning, can't you? 
 Surely, sober, staid, Samantha 
 Might a little '' quaff Hepenthe," 
 Leave the making books for treasure 
 And start west to hunt for pleasure ! 
 Now, the red-man 's gone, the danger 
 Is mere nothing for a stranger. 
 All those old tales, sad and touching, 
 Of some brutal demons clutching 
 At a woman's hair, delighted, 
 Are no longer copyrighted. 
 They have had their day and season. 
 They have lied beyond all reason. 
 And for proof this point to bear on. 
 Ladies' heads, out West, have hair on ! 
 
 Come ! Although I may be prosy 
 In portraying journey rosy, 
 Fact is fact, this is not banter, 
 
AN INVITA TION. 109 
 
 The '^ wild West " is still enchanter. 
 Still behind it's rough concealing 
 Lies a heart crammed full of feeling. 
 Though our home is but a thatch thing, 
 On the outside hangs the latch-string. 
 Come ! And welcoming shall greet you, 
 Honest measure, too, we'll mete you. 
 Friendly arms shall clasp around you, 
 You shall think the fates have bound you. 
 Me and Lizzie, cousins real, 
 Blood and wedlock, no ideal. 
 First, then, fast as feet can carry, 
 Maud, Kate, Lib and also Harry, 
 If, by dint of strong persuasion. 
 Furlough 's got for this occasion ; 
 Lastly, Mabel ! You who named her 
 And by proxy sort of claimed her, 
 Can't expect she will be missing, 
 And not do her share of kissing. 
 Lastly? That's misnomer rather ; 
 Other generations gather, 
 Boy of Lib and girl of Kate 
 Shouting welcome at the gate. 
 Girl of Kate and boy of Lib 
 Hardly out of tuck and bib. 
 They too gather with the rest, 
 Clap and crow about our guest 
 By their actions it is shown 
 That their Aunt is famous grown. 
 That her glory clearly shines 
 
no AN INVITATION. 
 
 All along related lines. 
 
 You can see it in their looks 
 
 They believe in writing-books. 
 
 Bees inside their bonnets buzz, 
 
 Bees that tell how Aunty does. 
 
 I'm inclined to think that you 
 
 Will think these a noisy two. 
 
 Their expressions of delight, 
 
 Though they may not frame them right, 
 
 Still are real, and express 
 
 Babies' views of happiness. 
 
 Babies' views of what to do 
 
 When they 're glad from head to shoe; 
 
 So we'll let each little heart 
 
 Have in this reception part. 
 
 On our threshold such caressing 
 Must convince one good at guessing. 
 That from pole to pole exploring 
 Woman ne'er had such adoring. 
 Ransack earth from mount to ocean, 
 Where is found a like devotion ? 
 True as truth of Gospel is it. 
 As you'll find when us you visit. 
 
 Then with the first greetings over. 
 
 To the brave advent' rous rover 
 
 Who has dared thus to unravel 
 
 All the tangled skeins of travel, 
 
 Who, the railway danger risking. 
 
 And the howling "blizzard's" frisking. 
 
AN INVITA TION. 1 1 1 
 
 Hath come through, with pluck persistent, 
 Bringing us from old home distant 
 This dear peg to hang one's thought on, 
 We have not yet been forgotten. 
 Bringing this, we'll try to win her 
 Heart from sadness with a dinner, 
 For the truth is, every meeting 
 Of true friends begins with eating. 
 
 After dinner, then the strolling 
 On the lawn to do some trolling 
 In the pool of memory, trying 
 To bring up what has been lying 
 Long forgotten, dreams that thrilled us 
 Ere Life's colder currents chilled us ; 
 In the realm of memory ranging. 
 We will ramble, thoughts exchanging ; 
 'Neath the birches' shadows walking. 
 Of the old days bygone talking. 
 Living o'er our lives till nearer 
 Seems the vanished past and dearer, 
 Till our present sorrows lighten. 
 As the rays of memory brighten. 
 Till the heaven above us seeming 
 Bends to bless our mutual dreaming, 
 Till each heart the ecstatic vision 
 Fills of far-off world Elysian. 
 
 Time says plainly that the gift he 
 Next shall give me 's labeled fifty ! 
 Would you think it ? Half a hundred ? 
 
112 AN JNVITA TION. 
 
 Can it be old Time has blundered 
 In the count ? Ah ! here the proof is, 
 In my face the warp and woof is ; 
 Proof enough are these hairs hoary ; 
 Wrinkles tell the self-same story; 
 Health and mind in ceaseless schism, 
 Soul combating rheumatism ; 
 Fancy sketching pictures pleasing 
 With my windpipe hoarsely wheezing; 
 Grooves of thought, which sorrow forces, 
 Running down my cheeks in courses ; 
 Withered, wilted, warped and stunted, 
 Aspirations chilled and blunted ; 
 Wearing spec's to improve eye-glances. 
 How it spoils youth-time romances ! 
 Thus the hateful pack are yelling, 
 All one dismal story telling ! 
 Struggle as I may to hide it, 
 'Tis in vain, — these signs decide it ! 
 
 Ere life growing dim and dimmer 
 Flickers down to just a glimmer. 
 Ere fond memory may have parted 
 With the freight with which she started, 
 Come ! For though you may not know it. 
 Still statistics clearly show it. 
 There's a time now fast approaching, 
 On our heedless steps encroaching. 
 When too late for sparkling wit, or 
 Worse for visiting unfit for, 
 Fate, that has so long bereft us. 
 
AN IN VITA TION. 
 
 Takes the last small comfort left us ; 
 Shrouds our hearts in melancholy, 
 Making visits seem a folly. 
 
 So I beg you, isn't it reason. 
 If you're coming, come in season ? 
 Ere the ills I herein mention 
 Render worthless your intention. 
 While your cousin's health-rate such is. 
 He, as yet, can scoff at crutches. 
 Still can laugh at Time's slow robbing 
 Heart of its old-fashioned throbbing, 
 While ambition onward spurs him. 
 And life's ardent impulse stirs him. 
 Ere upon his best endeavor 
 Fate has turned the key forever. 
 Come ! And do not let, I pray you, 
 Any reason long delay you. 
 
 "3 
 
TO MY SISTER. 
 
 While I ramble to-day in the wildwood, 
 
 I dream, as I ramble, a dream 
 From the far-distant land of our childhood, 
 
 Of sunshine and brightness a gleam. 
 
 When we, at the feet of our mother. 
 
 Sat hearing the stories she told, 
 Or hand in hand romped with each other, 
 
 Not thinking that we could grow old. 
 
 When earth was in every way pleasant, 
 And sunshine our skies did illume. 
 
 When storms were at most evanescent. 
 And fleeting their darkness and gloom ! 
 
 How well I remember the meadow. 
 Oft crossed by our wandering feet. 
 
 Where 'neath the old butternut's shadow 
 We 'd fashioned a truant's retreat ! 
 
 How down the long lane we went racing 
 To the wood's pasture fragrant and cool 
 
 For berries, or butterflies chasing 
 Untrammeled by precept or rule ! 
 
 Or strayed where a log made the crossing 
 Of creek, when the dull school was out, 
 
 Catching chubs on our pin-hooks, while tossing 
 Our lines, like young Walton's, for trout ! 
 
TO MY SISTER. 115 
 
 And now, sister, ah ! am I dreaming? 
 
 Our girls, well, the youngest is ten. 
 While our boys' brains are restlessly scheming 
 
 With the aspirations of men. 
 
 Up the toilsome ascent they have started, 
 
 Full of earnest endeavor and hope, 
 While we, from its summit departed, 
 
 Are far down the afternoon slope. 
 
 For us no more dreaming and rapture, 
 Life's race we have won, or have lost ; 
 
 No matter, 'tis too late to capture 
 Success when the summit is crossed. 
 
 We burden the air with regretting 
 
 At what seems ill-usage by Fate, 
 Yet turns she deaf ear to our fretting 
 
 And whispers for comfort '^ Too late !" 
 
 Still, as to the depths of the valley 
 
 Our steps move reluctant and slow, 
 Is it childish to loiter and dally 
 
 Around a past memory so ? 
 
 Is it joy of life's business so real, 
 
 That 'tis of true wisdom a sign 
 To scoff at these star-rays ideal 
 
 That from a lost Paradise shine ? 
 
 Should age in its wise worldly scheming 
 
 The windows of memory bar. 
 And shut out the radiance beaming 
 
 On us in such dreams from afar ? 
 
ii6 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 Ah ! who is the ready-tongued scoffer, 
 Dear sister, because we, forsooth ! 
 
 Think time has no solace to offer 
 To age like these glimpses of youth ? 
 
 Who casts the first stone at our folly. 
 Because we delightedly cling 
 
 In moments of deep melancholy, 
 To fading remembrance of Spring ? 
 
 That memory of brightness and gladness, 
 Which comes like an angel to cheer, 
 
 Dispelling the darkness and sadness 
 Oft clouding our pilgrimage here. 
 
 So while I to-day in the wildwood 
 Idly ramble, dear sister, I dream 
 
 About the dear days of our childhood, 
 And catch of their brightness a gleam ! 
 
A BOOK MARK. 
 
 I'd troubled been to keep the place 
 
 Where I'd left off in reading, 
 So that I might resume and trace 
 
 The plot wherever leading, 
 When one day spoke a little Miss, 
 
 Who'd watched the whole proceeding 
 ** Perhaps, sir, something now like this 
 
 Might help if you are needing." 
 
 The tress thus given Time did hide 
 
 Between that old book's covers, 
 Which long ago was thrown aside 
 
 As silly tale for lovers, 
 Till accident one evening led 
 
 My hand to where I'd slipped it, 
 And set me thinking of the head 
 
 From which the scissors clipped it. 
 
 I tried to read, the words ran wild 
 
 In spite of pebbled glasses. 
 Before me stood an artless child 
 
 That poet's dream surpasses; 
 Her face brimful of happiness, 
 
 Her eyes with rapture glowing. 
 And in her little hand the tress 
 
 She was on me bestowing ! 
 
ii8 A BOOK MARK. 
 
 I stop and lay the book aside, 
 
 My fingers gently smoothing 
 The golden tress. I could not hide 
 
 The tears that were so soothing, 
 For in this little lock of hair, 
 
 Across the years so dreary, 
 My childish friend, so sweet and fair. 
 
 Had come with prattle cheery. 
 
 No one needs wonder that my hand 
 
 Did touch this lock caressing, 
 As if it well might understand 
 
 What heart was half confessing. 
 That I, grown gray with care and pain, 
 
 My wreath of Fortune's making, 
 Had in this book-mark found again 
 
 Relief from sad heart's aching. 
 
 So as I smoothed the golden tress, 
 
 On wings my soul was flitting ; 
 Her innocence and loveliness. 
 
 This book-mark was transmitting. 
 Long years ago, untouched by sin. 
 
 We mourned her, foolish mortals ! 
 Whose curly head was welcome in 
 
 The blessed Heavenly portals ! 
 
AN AUTOGRAPH. 
 
 
 Upon his grave for twenty years 
 
 The grass has grown uncut, untended, 
 Unwatered by my fallen tears, 
 
 Or pressed by footsteps thither bended. 
 Without a pilgrimage or sigh, 
 
 I've kept away, as if declaring 
 That for his sterling friendship, I 
 
 Had never had much real caring. 
 
 By merest chance I oped to-day 
 
 A faded, worn, old-fashioned letter, 
 Among things useless filed away, 
 
 To make me room for something better, 
 When lo ! there stood before my eyes 
 
 His words, his thoughts, each sentence blazing 
 With flame of reason deep and wise. 
 
 Yet blent with tenderness amazing. 
 
 O foolish ear ! that long had sought 
 
 For tongue more witching to address me ! 
 
 O foolish head ! which harbored thought 
 That sometime truer love would bless me ! 
 
1 20 AN A UTO GRAPH. 
 
 O soul ! that dreamed of purer bliss, 
 Of sunshine brighter, warmer, clearer I 
 
 A faded letter proves me this. 
 
 Life hath not found me friend sincerer. 
 
 ^^ Yours truly !" Yes, it all comes back, 
 
 The dear old time when I was starting, 
 With heart elate, upon the track 
 
 That leads so far ! I hear at parting 
 His earnest, cordial, frank ** Good-bye," 
 
 His warning words not false or hollow, 
 And with life lived, I now know why 
 
 His was the best advice to follow. 
 
 ** Yours truly !" Yes, on wing of thought 
 
 My heart goes back to make confession. 
 To thank him for the precepts taught, 
 
 To thank him for Love's best expression ; 
 The laurel he deserved to wear, 
 
 Oh ! would my hand might fitly wreathe it ! 
 The praise, his due for virtues rare 
 
 Oh ! would my little verse might breathe it ! 
 
 Is it in sooth a weak regret. 
 
 Is it false weakness heart exposes, 
 When I confess my eyes are wet, 
 
 As hand once more the letter closes, 
 As I once more put all away ? 
 
 Can it be strange my soul confesses 
 That memory sweet recalled to-day 
 
 My harassed spirit soothes and blesses ? 
 
THE BUMBLE-BEE'S NEST. 
 
 (an epistle to FRED W. RUSSELL.) 
 
 Pray tell me, Fred, hath memory set 
 On the pleasant hours of boyhood yet ? 
 Are these wrinkled brows and grizzled hair, 
 This ceaseless round of corroding care, 
 
 The outward signs that the mind its door 
 Will ope to those pleasant hours no more ? 
 Those pleasant hours when we were boys 
 And made our share of childish noise ? 
 
 Just why, who knows? but to-day there streamed 
 Through memory's casement rays that seemed 
 Reflected back from that distant shore, 
 And you and I were boys once more. 
 
 The school was dismissed, and just we two 
 In the meadow, which Deer Creek ran through, 
 Were roaming around in eager quest 
 To find somewhere a bumble-bee's nest. 
 
 There were heaps of stones in the meadows then. 
 And with our feet we would stamp them, when, 
 If a nest was there, to the listening ear 
 The "buzz " would come that proved *' 'tis here !" 
 
122 THE BUMBLE-BEE'S NEST. 
 
 The tactics were, when a nest was found, 
 To discreetly stand as pickets round, 
 Outside the circle of angry bees, 
 To let them '* settle " before we seize. 
 
 When the angry scouts to the nest return. 
 Our brave hearts then for the conflict burn. 
 And we arm ourselves with wisps of hay 
 And bravely march to the coming fray. 
 
 First, careful sappers, we one by one 
 From the heaped up pile remove each stone, 
 Till the sought-for nest is brought to light, 
 Ready to sack, nor a bee in sight. 
 
 The approaches made and the nest all bare. 
 And courage set by the gage ' ' To dare, ' ' 
 Armed with our wisps we both close in, 
 And with shout and cheer the fight begin. 
 
 We thresh the nest with our wisps of hay, 
 We vow not a bee shall rise to-day ; 
 As they struggle out from their little town. 
 Our blows fast falling beat them down. 
 
 A moment's pause our success to see, 
 To glut our eyes upon victory ; 
 That moment's enough to dash our cup 
 Of brief success, for the bees are up ! 
 
 One, two, how many ? Ah, who can tell ? 
 They roar in our ears like an ocean swell ! 
 Their sortie is earnest, without pretense, 
 And we get some practice in self-defense. 
 
THE BUMBLE-BEE'S NEST. 123 
 
 The air seems full of their whirring wings ! 
 Our fancy is fuller of possible stings ! 
 'Twixt danger and fun, exitement and fears, 
 The *' wisps " are needed to guard our ears. 
 
 And you ? pursued by a squad more close, 
 A sort of bumble-bee overdose, 
 Switch **wisp " in vain, the bee is in luck, 
 Your cry admits one stinger has "stuck." 
 
 While I (the motto is true alway, 
 The runner may fight another day !) 
 Take to my heels, but am saved, alas ! 
 By diving my head in thistly grass. 
 
 'Tis ours at last, the nest is won ! 
 We rob it there in the summer sun, 
 Spread out the honey in boyish pride. 
 Like mightier chiefs our prey divide. 
 
 'Tis silly, perhaps you think, for me, 
 A staid old fogy of sixty-three. 
 To thus recall with such real zest 
 The breaking of bumble-bee's nest. 
 
 But the fact is, Fred, as you must know. 
 We must confess as older we grow. 
 That the purest fun, the sweetest joys 
 Of life were had when we were boys. 
 
TO A FRIEND. 
 
 With a copy of '^The Heggensville Papers," Christmas, 
 
 1888. 
 
 With days growing shorter, is Life growing wearier ? 
 
 Are skies covered more or less thickly with cloud ? 
 Do roads that we travel grow smoother or drearier ? 
 
 Doth Night with less gloomier shadows enshroud ? 
 Doth Soul less relief find from turbulent aching, 
 
 As nearer we come to the Stygian shore ? 
 Is it truth, or a lie, we rejoice Time is taking 
 
 This *' fever called Living " to torture no more ? 
 
 Is it vain the regret, this passionate yearning 
 
 To have captured the flags of contentment while here? 
 From defeat and despair cold philosophy turning 
 
 Should make o'er such farewells rejoicing sincere. 
 And yet, my dear Coz, is it silly the notion 
 
 To cling to remembrances early and far. 
 To the memories sweet of a friendly devotion 
 
 That over Life's pathway hath shone like a star? 
 
ENCLOSING A PICTURE. 
 
 Old friend, I beg you do not let 
 My features scare you ; they are set 
 In wrinkles, as you will discover, 
 And are not first-class for a lover ; 
 But that I've put the best face on it, 
 You really may depend upon it. 
 The artist did not spare expense 
 To make it what I wanted, hence 
 He can't its homeliness be blamed for, 
 Nor strictly speaking, I ashamed for. 
 Time in his so-called line of duty 
 Is raising hob with all my beauty. 
 That I'll be shorn before I know it. 
 These pictured features surely show it ! 
 Old friend, perhaps I should remind you, 
 Lest your too friendly eyes may blind you, 
 That I've grown older since we parted. 
 And lost some things with which I started. 
 Some things perhaps I thought too much of, 
 My hair, my teeth, and just a touch of 
 That egotism youngsters start with. 
 And which it seems so hard to part with ! 
 Just think how long I've been sojourning 
 On these wild western prairies, turning 
 My wits always to be a winner, 
 
126 ENCLOSING A PICTURE. 
 
 And then don't wonder I've grown thinner. 
 Just think up here how blizzards flay ye, 
 And wonder not, my friend, I pray ye. 
 My head hath grown, above the blow line, 
 Bare as Mont Blanc above the snow line ! 
 Old friend, I've no excuse to offer; 
 What's left of me I kindly proffer, 
 Memento that I don't forget you, 
 Though many years 'tis since I met you. 
 May be you'll kindly try to trace 
 The outlines of the boyish face. 
 Which once you knew, among the wrinkles ; 
 Perhaps you'll see youth's plumper crinkles. 
 I know you'll try with might and main 
 To bring your boy-friend back again, 
 To see crop out, amid the ravage 
 Which Time has made with temper savage, 
 Some sign that shall the dreams recall, 
 When you and I believed them all. 
 When you and I were planning, scheming, 
 And doing lots of pleasant dreaming. 
 When life was new and seemed so long. 
 With all its language set to song. 
 So, friend, I send it ; if it bring 
 A memory round which may cling 
 Some tendril of the realm of thought 
 From out the Past, long buried, brought, 
 I'll care not for the shock to thee. 
 When you these battered features see, 
 And learn that they belong to me. 
 
REPROSPECT. 
 
 The years are speeding ; very soon 
 
 The friendly links that bind us 
 Will broken be. The pleasant June 
 
 Of life-time lies behind us, 
 And yet the weary paths we tread 
 
 Are not all dark repining, 
 So long as brightly overhead 
 
 Sweet memory keeps on shining. 
 
 We see more plain as years go by 
 
 What idle hopes we follow, 
 That joys for which we toil and sigh 
 
 Are worthless, false and hollow ; 
 And so, as out of gathering night 
 
 Fall shadows darker, longer, 
 No wonder to this backward flight 
 
 Doth yearning mind cleave stronger. 
 
 To catch once more those brilliant rays 
 
 Before they fade forever, 
 That shone upon our golden days, 
 
 When romance and endeavor 
 Went hand in hand, ambitious zeal 
 
 A zest to labor giving. 
 When full of hope the heart did feel 
 
 That life was worth the living. 
 
FRIENDS AND FRIENDS, 
 
 *' Friends there are, and there are friends,' 
 And between is distance wide, 
 
 And our patient searching ends 
 Oft in effort missapplied. 
 
 Of the number crowned as royal. 
 
 Ah ! how many prove disloyal ! 
 
 One, I need not speak the name. 
 Enters hourly my heart's door, 
 
 Comes without pretentious claim, 
 Balm upon my wounds to pour. 
 
 And without ado is bearing 
 
 Comfort for my secret sharing. 
 
 Smiles are in this true friend's eyes. 
 Truth is in this true friend's words. 
 
 In each thought that 's uttered lies 
 Hope that my best purpose girds, 
 
 Points me, leads me, guides me ever. 
 
 On and up to high endeavor. 
 
 Smiling, talking, criticizing, 
 Prompting the best things I do. 
 
 Is it now the least surprising 
 That I love a friend so true ? 
 
 Is it strange that this receiving 
 
 Of such gifts brings true believing ? 
 
FRIENDS AND FRIENDS. 129 
 
 If you doubt what I am saying, 
 
 You have never had such friend, 
 So, your disbelief allaying, 
 
 I must what I've told defend ; 
 Witnesses I'll summon showing 
 Some things of my friend's bestowing. 
 
 Stand forth. Kindness ! Who when need 
 
 Hung above my head its cloud, 
 Came with ministering deed. 
 
 Lifting up my spirit bowed ; 
 Came, and made those gloomy hours 
 Fragrant with the bloom of flowers ! 
 
 Stand forth, Hope ! Who, when despair, 
 Every nerve of heart was wringing. 
 
 Came and whispered, '' all this care 
 But foreshadows joy upspringing, 
 
 Certainly shall dawn a morrow 
 
 That shall not be black with sorrow"! 
 
 Stand forth. Faith ! Who did not sneer 
 
 Calling all my strivings vain ! 
 Who did not with brow severe 
 
 Brand my efforts with disdain. 
 But instead with skilful art 
 Failure kept from fainting heart ! 
 
 Ah ! I need not summon more ! 
 
 Witnesses for this dear friend 
 Questioned tell the story o'er, 
 
 How the words with actions blend ; 
 Thus, so many gifts receiving, 
 Strange if I were unbelieving. 
 
A RHYMED POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 I have so much to write, it must wait for to-morrow, 
 Though this blank page that's left here my soul fills with 
 
 sorrow, 
 As I think of the room there is in it gone fallow, 
 Where Genius might sow so much seed, deep or shallow, 
 And hope, as it ever does hope, that the sprouting 
 Of what it has sown will prove genius undoubting; 
 That spark of the flame which, in palace or hovel, 
 Though high we may soar or though low we may grovel, 
 Will kindle and blaze more or less in the bosom, 
 Till we write down our thoughts just for fear we may lose 
 
 *em. 
 Ah ! friend of my heart ! let me tell you, no clearer 
 Sunshine can be found, or a happiness dearer. 
 Than to sit pen in hand and a clean sheet before you, 
 With memory shedding her sunny rays o'er you. 
 And scribble and scribble, your sentences breathing 
 The fragrant aroma of wreath you are wreathing 
 To bind a friend's brow with. O laurel ideal. 
 How often I've wished that thy roses were real ! 
 
TO A SISTER'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 I sit alone and fondly retrace 
 
 The faithful type of thy girlish face; 
 
 Thy sparkling eyes are upon me bent, 
 
 As of old brimful of merriment ; 
 
 Ah ! how from the truthful canvass speak 
 
 The smiling lips and the dimpled cheek, 
 
 The waving curls of thy golden hair 
 
 Tossed careless back from thy forehead fair ; 
 
 These are all portrayed so true and clear, 
 
 Is it strange I dream thou'rt with me here? 
 
 A bustling crowd in the street below 
 
 My window are passing to and fro ; 
 
 But I seek not, with my eye nor ear, 
 
 To catch one look or a sound to hear ; 
 
 Far back to the past hath memory flown 
 
 To the pleasant hours once all our own ; 
 
 And many a joy of that sweet time. 
 
 When our budding hopes were in their prime. 
 
 On the fleeting wing of memory brought. 
 
 Are mine again in this lapse of thought. 
 
 Though never again may the bliss be mine 
 To gaze on the real face of thine, 
 Should our paths diverge to never meet. 
 This thought to my brooding mind is sweet, 
 
132 TO A SISTER'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 That with laughing eye and rosy cheek, 
 And lips that the old-time language speak, 
 Words to lighten, encourage and cheer 
 Whenever the shadow of grief draws near, 
 In dreams by night, and in thoughts by day, 
 Thy gentle spirit will with me stay. 
 
AN EXCUSE FROM THE PRAIRIE, 
 
 (An answer to an invitation to attend a Wooden Wedding.) 
 
 From out on the prairie, how can you expect 
 Me to send to this wedding a present of wood? 
 
 Not a tree, through my spectacles, can I detect 
 For practical axe to work up as it should. 
 
 Not a tree, but, as far as the vision goes, grass ! 
 
 A wonderful place for a poet to thrive ! 
 But in wooden inventions for presents, alas ! 
 
 No spot for mechanic to plan and contrive. 
 
 Just think of it, now, and imagine how vexed 
 
 I am, because I can't do as I would. 
 Go straight to a saw-mill, and there unperplexed 
 
 Find all sorts of lumber to match with my mood. 
 
 Ah ! Martha, it grieves me to tell you the truth. 
 It shames me to lay our grim skeleton bare, 
 
 That from warm Winnebago to polar Duluth 
 We have not a stick of wood really to spare ! 
 
 My heart-strings are strained by this truth on my lip, 
 And yet you should know why your cousins here fail 
 
 To respond to the call ; not so much as a chip 
 Was I able to find in this letter to mail. 
 
134 AN EXCUSE FROM THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 No wood is here known of the kind grown in trees ; 
 
 Our bread roUing-pins that are twisted from straw 
 Are fair imitations, but one never sees 
 
 The genuine wooden ware fresh from the saw. 
 
 So, Martha, forgive that I bring you no ware ; 
 
 Had my heart had its way I'd have brought you a bowl, 
 Or wash-tub, or skimmer, or cradle, or chair, 
 
 But will can not natural causes control. 
 
 And so empty-handed by letter I come. 
 
 My gift a collection of wishes sincere, 
 That on your life's tree shall hang gold-tinted plum, 
 
 And skies matrimonial ever be clear. 
 
FRIENDSHIP'S TEST. 
 
 You prate of pure friendship ; pray give me a sample 
 Of what you call friendship so sterling and true. 
 
 I am tired of words, so give an example 
 
 In deeds of the love-bond between me and you. 
 
 I doubt you ? ah ! blame not this honest confession. 
 
 O why should you ask me mere words to believe ? 
 When so many prove false in despite of expression, 
 
 Pray tell me, how know I but yours will deceive ? 
 
 Do you blame me for putting your heart upon trial, 
 
 While your lips speak so glibly, ''I'm truly thy friend "? 
 
 *Tis my head, not my heart, to your love gives denial ; 
 'Tis reason that sneers at the pledges you send. 
 
 Did you ever reflect on the chances and changes 
 That time hath for us most undoubted in store ? 
 
 Do you fear not for us the cold bitter estranges 
 So many have felt when first passion is o'er ? 
 
 So long as now smoothly flows life's mystic river, 
 Our barks may together float, held by Love's chain ; 
 
 But I fear the first blast of the tempest will shiver 
 Its links, and we part thus to ne'er meet again. 
 
 Ah ! the test, after all, of thy uttered devotion 
 Is not sunny words in the pleasant daylight. 
 
 But deeds, when life's sorrows are all in commotion. 
 And over my head sweep the shadows of night. 
 
136 FRIENDSHIP'S TEST. 
 
 Though my heart yearns for love, 'twould rather be lonely, 
 And remain unbefriended for ever, as now, 
 
 Than to find, when misfortune has encompassed me, only 
 The memory left of thy fair-weather vow. 
 
 Dare you promise me this : when sorrows may thicken, 
 Will you still have the courage to stand by your friend ? 
 
 In the hour of his gloom, of health and wealth stricken, 
 Will thy loyalty last and endure to the end ? 
 
 Why smile, as you do, at my staunch disbelieving 
 In much of the friendship that's offered us here ? 
 
 Strip off the disguises black falsehood is weaving. 
 And blush for thy species, O friend insincere ! 
 
 So long as success spreads its golden fleece o'er me. 
 So long I am sure, and no longer in sooth, 
 
 That this masquerade of affection before me 
 Is real, and not a mere semblance of truth. 
 
 Unless thou can'st act what thou say'st to perfection. 
 And show by thy deeds what thy heart thus intends, 
 
 Do not blame me for thinking there is no election 
 For me, and that you and I ne'er can be friends. 
 
 Can I ask this of thee ? O ! can thy heart offer 
 Affection like this up at true friendship's shrine? 
 
 If so, thou hast won, and can'st lead back the scoffer 
 From the dark hell of doubt into sunlight divine. 
 
ESTRANGED. 
 
 We frequent the old haunts no more. 
 
 As often once together, 
 And mutual joys, so dear of yore, 
 
 Have broke restraining tether. 
 The hours that once were glad and fleet 
 
 Are now no longer cheery, 
 And every forest walk and seat 
 
 To me seems cold and dreary. 
 
 The autumn moon that once so bright 
 
 Shone o'er each hill and hollow. 
 Where we, in chase of heart delight. 
 
 True friendship's lead did follow, 
 Still shines, but ah ! so pale and cold 
 
 Is every beam it glances. 
 It seems no more the moon of old 
 
 That thrilled my youthful fancies. 
 
 In other climes where you now roam. 
 
 With stranger faces round you. 
 Perhaps remembrance does not come 
 
 With vague regrets to wound you ; 
 But unto me, who here remain. 
 
 By thought companioned only. 
 Remembrance o'er and o'er again 
 
 Reminds to make me lonely. 
 
138 ESTRANGED. 
 
 To you the active present brings 
 
 A solace for all sorrow ; 
 To me the sluggish past still clings 
 
 And clouds each coming morrow. 
 You bask in sunshine of to-day, 
 
 Or climb its clouds victorious ; 
 I idly seek to catch a ray 
 
 Which yesterday seemed glorious. 
 
 You drink from Life's joy-giving springs ; 
 
 This world to you is real ; 
 While my heart spite of reason clings 
 
 To pleasures all ideal. 
 You've learned the trick of winning fame. 
 
 And fortune crowns your scheming ; 
 While I nor gold or glory claim 
 
 As a reward for dreaming. 
 
 Upon the solid ground you stand, 
 
 And deal in fact, not fiction ; 
 The poet-phrases I deem grand 
 
 To you seem wordy diction. 
 And while to some exalted thought 
 
 My brooding mind is clinging, 
 You act, and lo ! the deed is wrought. 
 
 About which I've been singing. 
 
 Success upon you smiles serene 
 
 And wreaths your brow with glory ; 
 
 No bleak disasters intervene 
 To dim your future story. 
 
ESTRANGED. 139 
 
 You win what here men covet most, 
 
 Position, honor, splendor ; 
 I live to little purpose, lost 
 
 In m.usings vague or tender. 
 
 And thus we two, who were such friends 
 
 When on life's voyage we started. 
 Have grown as strangers ; hopes, aims, ends, 
 
 Of both our lives have parted. 
 I from my dreamland-palace sneer 
 
 At your cold, worldly scheming. 
 While you fling back, with taunt and jeer, 
 
 Contempt on all my dreaming. 
 
 But when 'tis o'er, and both have passed 
 
 The mystic future's portals. 
 And to us is revealed at last 
 
 The idle aims of mortals ; 
 May not the joy revive again 
 
 That bound us with its tether, 
 And souls that seem so coldly twain 
 
 Have haunts once more together ? 
 
 Or are the hope and longing vain 
 
 That haunt me in my dreaming ? 
 And shall I never see again 
 
 Thy face with friendship beaming ? 
 But sailing o'er the unknown sea, 
 
 Shall we thus drift and sever, — 
 I naught to you or you to me. 
 
 But strangers cold forever ? 
 
A FUNERAL WREATH, 
 
 She is dead, though it seems but a day 
 Since as children together we played ; 
 
 And weak seems the tribute I pay, 
 To stand by this grave newly made 
 
 And speak of her worth. She is dead ! 
 Best friend of my happiest years ; 
 
 And my grief finds expression unsaid 
 In tears. 
 
 I think of the time when to each 
 Success seemed a fortunate thing ; 
 
 A delight that either could reach 
 And home like a conqueror bring. 
 
 I think of it all, the long race, 
 The struggle, the trials, the fears. 
 
 As 'I stand looking on her dead face 
 In tears. 
 
 I think of the brave words of cheer 
 I've heard from her ambitious lips. 
 
 That told me, ** doubt not, persevere. 
 Our stars will emerge from eclipse." 
 
 I think how her life did reveal 
 
 The love which so greatly endears. 
 
 As here, at her grave now, I kneel 
 In tears. 
 
A FUNERAL WREATH. 141 
 
 I think of it all, the kind tone, 
 
 The earnest, the welcoming greet, 
 The frankness, the tenderness shown 
 
 When we for the last time did meet. 
 I think of it all, how she spoke 
 
 Of other such meetings ; the years 
 Have brought death, and I bow to the stroke 
 In tears. 
 
 She is dead, though it seems but a day 
 Since as children together we played, 
 
 And I, in life struggle grown gray, 
 Can not let her memory fade. 
 
 I build her a monument high 
 
 In thought ; love the marble uprears. 
 
 And affection engraves there *' Good-bye " 
 In tears. 
 
TEMPERANCE RHYMES. 
 
PATRICK'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 I'm sorely perplexed how the deuce it is done, 
 
 How men kin ride two hosses azy as one ! 
 
 An' yit 'tis a fact ; there is one in our town 
 
 Who plays this hoss act and he duz it up brown. 
 
 He's wonderful pious, an' yit on the back 
 
 Of License he rides all the week round the track ; 
 
 But Sundays he solemly mounts on the horse 
 
 Called '' Sabbath Day Closing," an' jogs round the 
 
 course 
 All solemn and sober, as if he did say, 
 " Look out, see a saint ride a horse the right Avay ! " 
 
 It's a mystery to me how sich riders desave 
 The crowd who in moighty foine ridin' belave. 
 It perplexes me much how one can pretend, 
 Ridin' six days wild License, to be sich a friend 
 To the soberly trot of a Sabbath Day Nag. 
 How kin he of one day of ridin' him brag, 
 An' thin, prompt at midnight, back into the stall 
 Put him up, bit, bridle, check, saddle and all. 
 An' mountin' on License, an' givin' him rein. 
 Cry ''Look, see how nate I this divil restrain !" 
 
146 PATRICK'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 Dare a sinner like me sich a character smirch ? 
 
 He awes me becoz he belongs to the church. 
 
 Whin piety licenses whisky shops, thin 
 
 The sellin' the stuff has been stripped of its sin. 
 
 Whin the frown of the saints over wrong is relaxed, 
 
 Becoz of the thriflin' amount it is taxed, 
 
 Then tiplin* made azy takes purity's gloss, 
 
 An* gets a false standin' beside of the cross. 
 
 But for this sort of saints, howe'er gifted they pray, 
 
 It is best to ' ' look out ' ' whin they travels your way 
 
DON'T YOU? 
 
 If a i)atient should partake 
 
 Of a poison berry, 
 Were a Doctor called, he'd make 
 
 A weak statement, very, 
 If he claimed that taking in 
 
 That which made one spew, 
 Was the best way to begin 
 
 Finding health. Don't you? 
 
 If one in a harlot's arms 
 
 Lies in shame's embrace. 
 Could he honest boast of charms 
 
 Virtue has of face? 
 If he, growing bold, a])plaud 
 
 What he calls the true, 
 I believe he is a fraud, 
 
 Say now, friend, don't you? 
 
 If one brags about his zeal 
 
 In the cause of right, 
 How he for the common weal 
 
 Doth determined fight. 
 Yet will for a price let Rum 
 
 Its pursuits pursue, 
 I believe the time has come 
 
 To cry Fudge ! Don't you ? 
 
148 DON'T YOU! 
 
 When you hear a preacher preach 
 
 'Gainst the whiskey curse, 
 When you hear a teacher teach 
 
 Nothing can be worse 
 Than the crimes that laws defy, 
 
 And yet men are who 
 Go and vote for license, I 
 
 Call them shams ! Don't you? 
 
THE POINT. 
 
 (Shown by a party man.) 
 
 Now look at this, my honest friend, 
 
 And see the point I show you : 
 Our party practices all tend 
 
 To virtuous aims. I know you 
 Have much at heart the common weal, 
 
 Although a '* crank " your name is, 
 Still I am sure you ought to feel 
 
 That not with us the blame is 
 For all this vice, and filth, and crime, 
 
 Which makes one lose heart nearly. 
 So give me, friend, one moment's time. 
 
 And I'll explain it clearly. 
 You see, wise statesman are compelled 
 
 To manage crimes discreetly, 
 And thus the monster vice is held 
 
 In leash of fetters neatly. 
 If you would hold Vice in restraint, 
 
 Don't whack it hard, but rather 
 Be towards it a forgiving saint, 
 
 A sort of indulgent father. 
 Our doctrine is, avoid extremes. 
 
 An average course pursuing ; 
 If you can't carry perfect schemes. 
 
150 THE POINT. 
 
 What use in senseless stewing ? 
 Get what you can, and be content \ 
 
 The world wasn't made in one day ; 
 And preaching of the best intent 
 
 That seems just right on Sunday, 
 On week-days loses all its force, 
 
 When butted square 'gainst evil. 
 So, statesman find, the wiser course 
 
 To circumvent the devil 
 Is not prohibiting his whims 
 
 By fierce fanatic whackings. 
 But trimming off his outer limbs 
 
 By temp'^red hatchet hackings. 
 And thus, my friend, now don't you see, 
 
 Such party work as this is. 
 Hath back of it philosophy 
 
 And wisdom of Ulysses ? 
 The whiskey sirens can't seduce 
 
 A pilot who is steering 
 With tympanum all out of use. 
 
 And ears bereft of hearing ! 
 
UNPARTISAN WORK. 
 
 (As explained by Mike Goff in a letter to the Hon. Jedediah Bunkem.) 
 
 My dear Mister Bunkem I think it is right 
 
 Not to let party lines be drawn overtight 
 
 Or these public matters will fuddle us quite. 
 
 The quistion's in doubt what's the besht way to go. 
 
 An therefore men make up their minds very slow. 
 
 If we can not by arguments proper persuade, 
 
 Thin I'm not the mon to abuse an upbraid. 
 
 I will no voter push if he can not plain see, 
 
 On the tariff at least, that we ought to agree ; 
 
 The way to discuss it is havin the ear 
 
 Ov the voter thin make it jist perfectly clear. 
 
 Don't fog him with figgers, ad-valorems an such, 
 
 But, jist like a sinsible arguer, touch 
 
 The pints that are vital ; thin give him a drink. 
 
 An lave him to reason, jist lave him to think 
 
 It all over, both on the inside an out, 
 
 An there he is, sound on the tariff, no doubt ! 
 
 So to help the cause on an be patriot like, 
 
 I am going to make this unpartisan strike 
 
 For the party's success; an I hope you will find 
 
 In me a supporter that plases your mind : 
 
 I despise to wire-work or on opponent loose 
 
 That blackguard of politics, dhirty abuse. 
 
152 UNPARTISAN WORK, 
 
 I belave that our side shud with candor upset 
 
 All [sophistry difficult wherever met. 
 
 I belave that the truest, besht way to beguile 
 
 An intilligent voter is give him a '^ smile." 
 
 Now the help I can furnish I'll brafely recite : 
 
 I run the saloon called the Bower of Light. 
 
 It sthands on the north side of Liberty Square, 
 
 An a mighty good stand it is too, I declare ! 
 
 Hard by on the South is the Sailor's Retreat, 
 
 Where the tars when they land go for something to eat, 
 
 But first, ere they put a warm pratee to lip, 
 
 They sthop at the Bower for a comforting nip ; 
 
 So plainly you see what a chance I have got 
 
 To set up the pins for you right on the spot ; 
 
 Have tickets all reddy, and whin they come in, 
 
 An call out for whiskey, or brandy, or gin, 
 
 Jist stand there an say, ^* By's, 'tis all free to you, 
 
 If only ye' 11 jist help a gintleman through ; 
 
 A rale nice gintleman, one of me friends. 
 
 His compliments, By's, to the laborer sends ! " 
 
 Don't you see, Mr. Bunkem, how asy 'twill be 
 
 To get ivery voter, who drinks there, to see 
 
 Where his interest lies ? No eloquent speech 
 
 Sent under a frank has such wonderful reach. 
 
 As a little brafe practical practice like this, 
 
 That with men of the people comes niver amiss. 
 
 Too many great men think that spaches convince ; 
 
 I've hild to a different view iver since 
 
 That canvass when Blodget was beaten by Bluff. 
 
 'Twas sinse agin folly, tinderloin agin tough, 
 
UNPARTISAN WORK. 153 
 
 Mister Blodget made spaches, while ould Bluff and I 
 
 Kept trating the voters with rale ould rye 
 
 Mixed discrately with wather, and when it was done, 
 
 Bluff had all of the votes in the boxes but one. 
 
 Blodget voted, of coorse, for himself, as he should ! 
 
 Had we trated him too, I've me doubts if he would. 
 
 This practice good sinse with good feeling combines, 
 
 The voters ain't split up on Know-Nothing lines. 
 
 Beside of the Irish stands friendly the Dutch ; 
 
 The elbows of Yankees with Norwagens touch ; 
 
 The English, Italians, the Frenchmen an' Swiss, 
 
 With the Nayger, too, swallow a platform like this. 
 
 An that day a hay then, a chap with a cue, 
 
 Took a drink, and for Bluff cast his virgin vote, too. 
 
 Ivery man of them all did swately unite. 
 
 So convinced were their doubts, in the Bower of Light. 
 
 So you see, Mister Bunkem, iv'ry voter I'll get, 
 
 Except the fanatics, that pestilent set. 
 
 Who always are strivin to sittle the doubt. 
 
 Whether sin is the besht in the Nation or out ! 
 
 These cranks are so cranky they take for a text, 
 
 "■ Good morals cums first, an the tariff cums next ! " 
 
 Such partisan stuff, Mister Bunkem, as that 
 
 Would knock every statesmanlike principle flat, 
 
 But, as a non-partisan, nevertheless, 
 
 I shall sthick to the work an belave in success. 
 
BIGSBY'S EXPERIMENT. 
 
 At Bigsby they tried it, to see if 'twould do, 
 
 The making one devil do duty for two ; 
 
 The making one devil give bonds that his deeds 
 
 Should be just exactly what temperance needs ; 
 
 The making one devil a sort of a friend 
 
 On which the best wisdom could safely depend. 
 
 Having but one, 'twould be easy to watch. 
 
 And see if his virtues were real or botch. 
 
 By the bonds which he gave and license he paid, 
 
 'Twas hoped that the blind pigs would be made afraid 
 
 And keep in their holes ; for one devil would be 
 
 The czar of a moral Monopoly ! 
 
 So they piled on the tax till low dives obscure 
 
 Went out of the business and shut up shop sure. 
 
 But one who had money was left to do biz. 
 
 The proper restraint being put upon his. 
 
 So tight was he guarded, so hampered and tied, 
 
 That only one door could be opened right wide 
 
 To let suckers in. All Bigsby was glad 
 
 To know what a capital practice it had 
 
 To handle bad demons, all bottled but one. 
 
 And he under bonds that good deeds should be done ! 
 
 It seemed there in Bigsby that heaven was found, 
 
 Where only one hell resort cumbered the ground, 
 
BIGSBY'S EXPERIMENT. 155 
 
 And fathers and mothers rejoiced that the low 
 Resorts to tempt boys had met v/ise overthrow. 
 For in Bigsby, as elsewhere, all hated the dive, 
 That place where the lowest of infamies thrive, 
 And so they were happy when Bigsby law shut 
 All dirty low places and in their stead put 
 One palace, '*The Boreham," Avhere nothing was done 
 Outside of Propriety's practice not one ! 
 
 The effort seemed worthy, and Bigsby was hot 
 
 O'er new-fangled notion that surely 'twas not 
 
 The stuff that one drank, but the place where he drank it 
 
 That showed with disgrace or with honor we rank it. 
 
 So Bigsbian mothers they waited and watched 
 
 To see if the viper they feared could be scotched 
 
 In a palace of light, in one so restrained, 
 
 So hampered, so taxed high, so guarded and chained. 
 
 That all it could do was to do it up brown. 
 
 All the work in its line in that nice little town ! 
 
 That's all, but to do it additions were built. 
 
 Enlarging this palace of marble and gilt. 
 
 (And spell the last word with a "u " if thou wilt). 
 
 'Twas a beautiful place with tiles for a floor, 
 
 Nice pictures on walls, and mahogany door 
 
 Where crowds without jostling could come and go. 
 
 At all times and hours, save Sundays, you know. 
 
 Without and doubt over Bigsby was blown 
 
 A breath that seemed truth ; ' ' The Boreham ' ' had tone ; 
 
 In which it can't be that His Majesty sits 
 
 'Mong the popping of corks and flashing of wits 
 
156 BIGSBTS EXPERIMENT. 
 
 To allure bright boys, to allure and betray, 
 
 And lead them to sulphurous regions some day. 
 
 Oh, no ! not a Bigsbian mother but felt 
 
 That blows of that sort were by savage cranks dealt. 
 
 So they waited and watched for a year to go by, 
 
 That the wonderful arch might be seen in the sky 
 
 As rainbow of promise, which surely foretold 
 
 That Rum's hateful ravage at last was controlled 
 
 By this simple device : give only the job 
 
 To those who pay high for the license to rob ! 
 
 But the mothers that year, before it was through, 
 
 Discovered this truth that in Bigsby was new. 
 
 That even "The Boreham," with all of its style 
 
 Kept demons to ruin with practices vile. 
 
 O'er sad brows of many clouds gathered of grief. 
 
 And hearts that were broken found little relief 
 
 In knowing a so-called respectable place 
 
 Had brought to their homes and their loved ones disgrace. 
 
 The wives of the drunkards found little to cheer 
 
 In the fact that wines of " The Boreham " were dear ; 
 
 For boys that were ruined, these mothers so fond 
 
 Found nothing for comfort in strength of the bond 
 
 "The Boreham " had given ; that could not restore 
 
 The souls that were lost since they entered its door ! 
 
 So sentiment changed, and from Bigsby at last 
 
 This silly delusion, this sophistry passed. 
 
 This famous device of political hacks 
 
 A humbag was proved by the Bigsbian facts : 
 
 Though license be high, though some dives it suppress, 
 
 So long as the quantity sold is no less, 
 
BIG SB Y'S EXPERIMENT. 157 
 
 One mixer of drams to whom all acquiesce 
 
 Can for a whole town furnish plenty distress. 
 
 " The Boreham " was run by supply and demand. 
 
 With all of its gilding it was not so grand 
 
 That tony bartenders turned any away 
 
 Who did for the whiskey they guzzled there pay. 
 
 Stripped clear of its guilding and shorn of its brass, 
 
 This '' Boreham," this place of such exalted class, 
 
 Was merely a dive, whose proprietors hid 
 
 'Neath whitewash and varnish the deeds which they did. 
 
 If wreckers of ships are angels of light ; 
 
 If devotion to wrong is worship of right ; 
 
 If fire that consumes is the maker of wealth ; 
 
 If breath of contagion is bringer of health ; 
 
 If the harlot's red paint is innocent tinge ; 
 
 If doorway of shame hath respectable hinge ; 
 
 If a lie on the lips is an emblem of truth ; 
 
 If he who corrupts is a savior of youth, 
 
 Then this shrewd assassin, crouched ready to spring 
 
 On weakness, may be a respectable thing ! 
 
 This Bigsby found out when high license she tried, 
 
 And this is the reason she flung it aside. 
 
SATIRE AND HUMOR. 
 
SCATTERING SHOT. 
 
 A LECTURE. 
 
 My friends, I greet you with a threadbare theme, 
 
 Our age of progress, enterprise and steam, 
 
 When men no longer innocently plod 
 
 Upon mud highways by forefathers trod, 
 
 But by express their little journeys go. 
 
 And think that lightning is becoming slow ; 
 
 When men no longer bow unto the sway 
 
 Of idols, be they made of wood or clay, 
 
 But, in the place of emperors and kings. 
 
 Set up for worship quite as useless things. 
 
 Tyrannic despots that are known as '' Rings " ; 
 
 When Custom is considered an old bore. 
 
 All out of fashion with its styles of yore ; 
 
 When all things new are patented as nice, 
 
 And Virtue's label advertises Vice; 
 
 When men declare, by resolutions strong, 
 
 They are the sworn antagonists of wrong. 
 
 And that their daily acts and deeds are leaven 
 
 Which will ere long make this old earth a heaven ; 
 
 When incidents and accidents are rife. 
 
 The very breath of so called active life ; 
 
 When all things subject to man's talent seem 
 
1 62 SCATTERING SHOT. 
 
 Or real problem or ideal dream ! 
 
 Ah, age so wondrous, it might well inspire 
 
 A writer's fancy with poetic fire ! 
 
 But if it fail to bear me high along 
 
 The rolling tide of a successful song, 
 
 Pray be your judgments by true kindness led. 
 
 Nor blame me, friends, if in my verse is wed. 
 
 With some things good, itmch better left unsaid. 
 
 Some salient points I tenderly will touch, 
 
 Some topics talked of, may be, over much, 
 
 And yet that have in all this crush and strife 
 
 Become attendants of our daily life. 
 
 With so called faults, of course, I shall begin, 
 
 Because 'tis easy to pitch in to sin. 
 
 Interpret this whichever way you please. 
 
 With your experience doubtless it agrees. 
 
 One great fault is, the age too many creeds 
 
 Nourishes and fosters, cherishes and feeds. 
 
 When one were ample, if that one were true, 
 
 To teach all men the right course to pursue. 
 
 But with so many, each man has his pet, 
 
 On which his faith devotedly is set, — 
 
 Religion's hobby which he loves to ride, 
 
 To show the world, with a becoming pride. 
 
 How his religion is the surest guide. 
 
 O, gift of grandads ! Glorious boon, to choose 
 
 As we may wish ; this take, or that refuse ! 
 
 And yet this worship, which we freedom call, 
 
 How oft excuses us for none at all ! 
 
 For none at all ? Please pardon what I say, 
 
SCATTERING SHOT. 163 
 
 There is one God omnipotent to-day; 
 
 One God all worship with a love sincere ; 
 
 One God at whom no Ingersoll doth sneer ; 
 
 One God whose Bible, with its moral rules, 
 
 Is not excluded from the public schools ; 
 
 One God whom all Sectarians support, 
 
 Despite the judgement of Wisconsin court ; 
 
 One church not split by theologic strife, 
 
 No ancient dogmas tearing at its life. 
 
 Mason and Dixon run no boundary line 
 
 'Twixt it and heresy; lovingly combine 
 
 Its North and South ; they could fight to free 
 
 Or chain the black folks, but on him agree. 
 
 No starchy precepts do its morals bind, 
 
 Just as the wind its members are confined. 
 
 Upon their counters shoddy stands as cloth ; 
 
 For Trafiic's conscience never has been loth 
 
 To try to show a lucky balance sheet, 
 
 By what is termed *' legitimate deceit." 
 
 Whenever fortunes can be quickly made. 
 
 Meanness of every form, or style, or grade. 
 
 Is christened holy by all Boards of Trade. 
 
 Gold, glittering gold, thou hast most potent sway, 
 
 A wondrous power that all mankind obey ! 
 
 Before thy throne thy slavish subjects bow, 
 
 And with all God-like virtues thee endow. 
 
 By thy base worship is all conscience stilled ; 
 
 The soul that loves thee, with base love is filled ; 
 
 Thou settest up by thy all potent must 
 
 The rich man wicked o'er the poor man just, 
 
1 64 SCATTERING SHOT. 
 
 And even here, in freedoms boasted clime, 
 Canst buy protection for committed crime. 
 There is no place within thy costly church 
 Where pure Benevolence can find a perch. 
 From cushioned pulpit down to cushioned pew, 
 Preachers and laymen all belong to you ! 
 Preachers and laymen, deacons, elders all 
 Crowd round thy altars and Hosannahs bawl. 
 The Alpha and Omega of thy creed 
 Is selfishness in every act and deed ! 
 
 This is thy worship, this its darker side. 
 
 But still thy virtues I'll not try to hide. 
 
 Loud as we all of us are apt to prate 
 
 About the regulation standard hate 
 
 Of all that savors of this golden calf. 
 
 Still, I believe, this world's successful half 
 
 Do not desire to read its epitaph. 
 
 With all the failings, follies, faults it brings, 
 
 Strifes, vices, crimes, and endless bickerings, 
 
 It has its virtues, has a cheerful look. 
 
 And speaks this language like a printed book : 
 
 " 'Tis not my fault if people will not learn 
 
 The way that honest people me should earn ; 
 
 Nor mine the fault if they will not befriend 
 
 Their suffering brothers, learning how to spend ; 
 
 The good I could do lieth all about. 
 
 And why this secret do they not find out ? 
 
 Yet were I asked, and, could my thought give speech. 
 
 With pennies for a text I thus might preach ; 
 
SCATTERING SHOT. 165 
 
 *' ' Gather them up and scatter them kindly, 
 
 Many a beggar will thank the for one ; 
 Many a fortune ye're seeking so blindly 
 
 From sources as trivial as this was begun. 
 Gather them up, but not for the rusting 
 
 Of the pile safely guarded by padlock and chain, 
 But gather and give them, and wisely be trusting 
 
 That treasure so scattered will come back again. 
 
 ' Gather them up, though the world call thee miser, 
 
 To see thee so careful to find every cent ; 
 Gather and give them, and it will grow wiser 
 
 And better we hope ere you have all them spent. 
 Gather them up wherever they offer. 
 
 By plough or by anvil, in desk, or in stall ; 
 Gather and give them, despite of the scoffer, 
 
 And time will repay thee for each and for all. 
 
 ' Kindness to those who may chance to need any, 
 
 In the smoothest of coppers may be shown by you; 
 Gather them then, no matter how many. 
 
 For the more that you have the more you may do. 
 Mites though they are in the bucket of treasure. 
 
 Scorn not the trifles, but bless them, for aye. 
 Much they can win thee of Heaven's own pleasure. 
 
 If only you get them and give them away." ' 
 
 Thus can I fancy gold's good spirit could 
 Preach to the world a sermon if it would ; 
 And more, it might, with a deserving pride 
 Point to its better deeds on every side, 
 The far extended interlacing bands. 
 
1 66 SCATTERING SHOT. 
 
 Making as one a multitude of lands, 
 
 The sails of ships that whiten every sea, 
 
 Bearing the products of man's industry. 
 
 The many comforts that we little heed, 
 
 The bread it buys for those who are in need, — 
 
 These and a million charities untold 
 
 Should hallow somewhat all this lust for gold. 
 
 useful trio, learned professions three. 
 Of law, of physic and divinity. 
 Perhaps deservedly a word or too, 
 
 Of harmless satire might be said to you ! 
 The preachers first, a very motley throng, 
 Come crowding through the avenues of song. 
 Upon their charts so many routes are given, 
 O, who can guess the surest one to Heaven ? 
 Each one is advertised as perfect guide, 
 A soul-preserver, if believed and tried. 
 That can buoy up the firm believing soul 
 And float it safely to the destined goal. 
 
 1 do not doubt. I am afraid of doubt, 
 It leaves so little while it rubs faith out, 
 And though it finds in much a seeming lie. 
 It fails with truth the vacuum to supply. 
 
 And yet, 'tis honest frankness prompts my speech, 
 
 I can not help distrusting some who preach. 
 
 With all this eloquence that fills the land, 
 
 I must confess I can not understand 
 
 Why, what Christ taught His followers to do, 
 
 Must be in words and not in practice too. 
 
 Thus I confound the wicked with the good. 
 
SCATTERING SHOT. 167 
 
 And mix them up in common brotherhood. 
 
 Thus watching works, by which saint-souls are known. 
 
 Sometimes I think I'm risking much my own. 
 
 Is this my fault ? Am I in this alone ? 
 
 Speak out dear deacon, let the truth be known ; 
 
 Have you not often, sort of on the sly, 
 
 Just let black venom at your pastor fly ? 
 
 Just let your tattling, lying, meddling tongue 
 
 Pour on him libel till his heart was wrung. 
 
 Until he had to, driven to the wall 
 
 As you had planned it, seek another call? 
 
 Ah, Deacon, Deacon ! when I hear you prate 
 
 About some wretched sinner's awful fate, 
 
 I can not help but doubt if even you 
 
 Are really safe when judged by what you do ! 
 
 With mind so eager to detect a flaw. 
 
 And track transgressions of the moral law, 
 
 Who has so many proverbs learned by rote. 
 
 And can on all occasions Bible quote. 
 
 And yet, whose conduct ; — well, I must not judge, 
 
 But, Deacon, kindly let me lightly nudge 
 
 Your understanding ; may be over there 
 
 You too will find that deeds must match with prayer ! 
 
 We ask too much of preachers, that's a fact. 
 And weigh their virtues, wisdom too exact. 
 Woe be to one who gives a nasal twang 
 On Sabbath day to psalm, hymn, or harrangue ! 
 Woe be to one who shrewdly hunts for call 
 To preach where salary is not so small ! 
 
168 SCATTERING SHOT. 
 
 Thus act the churches ; save the noted few, 
 
 Who pay for preaching as they ought to do ; 
 
 Who keep in view this utterance to inspire, 
 
 " The laborer is worthy of his hire." 
 
 I do not think this pinched and doled out tax 
 
 Has ever broken many pious backs ; 
 
 And yet you'll find in almost every town 
 
 The churches' fiscal agents paring down 
 
 The paltry pittance to the preacher paid, 
 
 As if they were, for love of God, afraid 
 
 That he would dodge his duty to exhort. 
 
 No matter though his groceries fall short ! 
 
 Their model preacher must despise all pelf, 
 
 And though he preach for nothing, — board himself. 
 
 A jealous mistress of a jealous crowd. 
 
 With wondrous attributes specially endowed, 
 
 To keep all rogues in safety or in awe. 
 
 Comes learning's hand-maid, world-embracing Law ! 
 
 Beneath her broad and wide extended wing 
 
 She'll brood, for a retainer, anything. 
 
 She'll champion nobly innocence that bleeds. 
 
 Or stand a bulwark for crime's sinful deeds. 
 
 To champion right should be her special care. 
 
 And yet injustice never needs despair. 
 
 For she can make a jury disagree. 
 
 And let the guilty, if she wills, go free. 
 
 By dint of cash, or an attorney's tongue. 
 
 The world is full of murderers unhung ; 
 
 If law and proof are wanting in the case, 
 
 The lawyer dons his made-to-order face. 
 
SCATTERING SHOT. 169 
 
 Puts on at least a well-affected zeal, 
 
 And as he's paid to, thus he feigns to feel. 
 
 Justice with him is measured by a fee, 
 
 Its size denoting what it ought to be. 
 
 For a set price, ah ! must I speak it out ? 
 
 He'll find in books the precedents no doubt 
 
 Which prove that murder is an awful crime, 
 
 Or something that is really sublime. 
 
 His fees denote how earnestly he tries 
 
 To lift the scales from troubled jurors' eyes ; 
 
 With words pathetic, eloquent, or rash. 
 
 He makes the Court House rafters ring — for cash ! 
 
 The last profession of the glorious three, 
 
 Is that which tinkers — human misery. 
 
 Mending his fractures, healing wounds and pains, 
 
 Man's lasting love the Doctor shrewd retains. 
 
 All sorts of practice ! Let the sick rejoice ! 
 
 From 'mong so many wisely make a choice, 
 
 And do not doubt but any choice will do. 
 
 If the disease is one that can pull through ; 
 
 But if you get, as sometime be assured 
 
 You will, a malady that can't be cured. 
 
 In that case, then, I speak with bated breath, 
 
 In the grim presence of impending Death, 
 
 In that case, shall I tell you, as a friend, 
 
 Which school to tie to as you near the end ? 
 
 Well, since you ask it, modest wisdom hath 
 
 Some doubt, e'en then, which is the surest " path." 
 
170 SCATTERING SHOT. 
 
 But now to realm of Books ! A broader field 
 
 Spreads out its treasures in abundant yield, 
 
 A yield as plentiful as common dirt, 
 
 And in the main as stupid and inert, 
 
 But yet crammed full of nuggets, prose and rhyme, 
 
 Some worth ten dollars and some not a dime. 
 
 Herculean task to be a guide-board here. 
 
 To try to make the proper highway clear, 
 
 To try to tell which rhymster will succeed, 
 
 Or which last novel is the one to read ! 
 
 No hand would dare to single out a name. 
 
 And say, ** here's one was never booked for fame,** 
 
 But yet, perhaps it may be safe to say. 
 
 This fact to readers patent is to-day. 
 
 That writers ought to interest us more. 
 
 Or else prompt give their *'nack o' writing" o'er. 
 
 And first the Poet, is there reason why 
 
 His thoughts persistently should rhyme with sigh ? 
 
 Great as his own grief to himself may seem. 
 
 To all save him it is a trifling theme. 
 
 His wild devotion to some pretty girl. 
 
 That puts his love-struck senses in a whirl. 
 
 Although 'tis well, perhaps, that she should hear. 
 
 Is quite insipid to anothers ear. 
 
 O, let him love, but do it with less fuss, 
 
 For it is not such awful thing to us 
 
 Who've lived and loved, perhaps, as well as he. 
 
 And in due season married happily. 
 
 Why should his love-griefs overshadow quite 
 
 All that the earth presents him that is bright? 
 
SCATTERING SHOT. Oi 
 
 Poems of passion that have rapture's glint 
 Should not be colored with such gruesome tint. 
 Should not a real Sally, Kate or Jane 
 These rhymes of passion regulate, restrain ? 
 Is there no great elixir that can cheer 
 And cure such madness, tho' it be sincere ? 
 O, dear young writers, can you not beguile 
 Fate's stern decrees, and learn to jest and smile? 
 Do you not see that Nasby, Ward and Nye 
 Can open hearts with humor for a pry ? 
 Do you not know that Nature does not groan, 
 And that a laugh is better than a moan ? 
 Do you not know the sentiment that wets 
 Your callow eyes stupidity begets ? 
 
 Need I repeat, what probably you know. 
 
 In making books the best rule is — go slow ? 
 
 Be not too hasty to appear in print ; 
 
 This, budding author, is a useful hint ; 
 
 'Twill save you from those bitter pangs untold. 
 
 An empty pocket and a book unsold. 
 
 Remember this, no publisher will try 
 
 To sell what he's not fool enough to buy; 
 
 And when an author at his own expense 
 
 Brings out his book, the trade says '' lack of sense ! " 
 
 Wanted, a Poet ! One that can go o'er 
 Some other track than that well trod before ; 
 An independent thinker, who dares look 
 With honest eyes into dame Nature's book ; 
 Who is no abject slave to foreign rules ; 
 
172 SCATTERING SHOT. 
 
 Who apes no practice of established schools ; 
 
 Who studies not so much the standard books, 
 
 As his own country's mountains, lakes and brooks ; 
 
 Whose song is not an echo, but a peal 
 
 Fresh, clear and ringing which our hearts can feel. 
 
 Wanted, much wanted, who's the lucky man? 
 
 The chance stands open, fill it if you can. 
 
 Where will it stop, and echo answers, where ? 
 
 This book-miasma that infects the air, 
 
 So very like a western ague chill. 
 
 Though it be checked, 'tis in the system still, 
 
 And will come back, despite the dose we take, 
 
 Sooner or later to renew the shake. 
 
 And like this Russian pestilence '*La Grippe," 
 
 Make bitterer havoc on its second trip. 
 
 Although the public stubbornly express 
 
 Its stern contempt for printed silliness. 
 
 There is no let-up to the ceaseless flow 
 
 Of useless waters ; on and on they go 
 
 Toward the maelstrom which engulfs at last 
 
 The hopes, ambitions of armada vast. 
 
 That steering critics, whether pro or con, 
 
 Can't keep from landing in oblivion. 
 
 But may I not in candor now advise 
 
 The earnest worker where the treasure lies ? 
 
 Explain and tell him when, and where, and how, 
 
 In soil prolific he should set his plow? 
 
 Here's a recipe ; 'tis surely short and terse : 
 
 Take grim Monopoly, that awful curse, 
 
SCATTERING SHOT. 173 
 
 That sinful thing the demagogue depicts, 
 For the main plot, the lumber and the bricks ; 
 With such foundation upon which to build, 
 Then let the plot, the inside work, be filled 
 With wrongs of workingmen, all false, but, well, 
 What matters that, we're making books to sell ! 
 
 But why be captious ? Why be finding fault ? 
 Why lead on Duncedom so forlorn assault ? 
 Suppose pens write now not for fame, but pay. 
 Should you find fault, you willing victims, say ? 
 Is it not true that as the public craves 
 The feast is spread? Are writers not its slaves? 
 Is cash the motive power that drives along 
 The slow prose wagon and the car of song ? 
 Well, what of that ? O readers, are you blind ? 
 Don't writers do their best to fit your mind? 
 Weak though perhaps the stuff may be you read, 
 'Tis after all, my friends, the sort of feed 
 Which you love best, and upon which you thrive, 
 And keep your love of literature alive. 
 Suppose the book is flashy, flimsy, low. 
 Dear reader, tell me frankly, don't you know 
 That these objections, which at first may strike, 
 Your mind absorbs and rather seems to like ? 
 Books are like buoys, mere signals o'er a whim 
 Some readers have ; just neck-and-neck they swim ; 
 Instead of boldly trying to direct 
 The public mind, or teach it to reflect. 
 They pet its errors, cater to its crimes. 
 Then boast exultant of aesthetic times ! 
 
174 SCATTERING SHOT. 
 
 And yet the fact remains that real worth 
 
 Has never been a drug upon the earth ; 
 
 But though deserving fortune's best rewards, 
 
 Is often paid with commonest regards. 
 
 The popular applaud doth seldom last ; 
 
 It rises rapidly, flows fierce and fast, 
 
 Fills every sluiceway, every mental flume, 
 
 And yet at last runs out, a ' ' busted boom ! ' ' 
 
 The book that feeds to-day its prejudice, 
 
 To-morrow may receive its loudest hiss. 
 
 So long as to its foibles you bend, 
 
 This mighty public is a generous friend. 
 
 And spares nor gifts nor words nor great parade. 
 
 To prove your trust will never be betrayed. 
 
 But if it needs, speak chidings in its ear, 
 
 And you will quickly find 'tis not sincere. 
 
 But that, remorseless evermore as fate, 
 
 It can in place of friendship offer hate. 
 
 When will the time come when our authors dare 
 Their true convictions honestly declare ? 
 When in this trade of making books will they 
 Speak out because they something have to say? 
 When shall they seek like students for the truth. 
 And when they print care not for public ruth ? 
 When in their workshops shall the frames be wrought. 
 The pure ideals of true, sterling, thought ? 
 Why ask how long the follies of to-day 
 Shall bear the flags of victory away ? 
 Frivolity is now enthroned in state. 
 And old-time wisdom makes a plagiarist great. 
 
SCATTERING SHOT. 175 
 
 Steal ? Yes, no matter, Fame excuses it. 
 The fellow stolen from had not the wit 
 To work his mine, so Darwin harpies give, 
 This plea for plunder ; let the fittest live ! 
 Genius like beauty is at best skin-deep, 
 On surface sparkle, but at heart asleep. 
 Talent is politic and shrewdly swims 
 In-shore, long-side of Nature's minnie whims ; 
 The deeper waters it doth seldom reach ; 
 It gathers pebbles on a shallow beach, 
 And, dreading billows that it fears to stem. 
 It finds no pearls by diving after them. 
 
 And yet 'tis promised us in '^ Looking Back," 
 
 That soon, in place of all this weary wrack, 
 
 Will come a time when everybody's cares 
 
 And even pleasures shall be held on shares, 
 
 A movement national of wisdom keen. 
 
 Making each one a part of the machine. 
 
 Which gives each brow at least its share of wreath, 
 
 And pensions all who've once been born and breathe. 
 
 Adjusting wants by overseeing care. 
 
 Land, stock and houses all put in with air ; 
 
 No matter what, or clothing, boarding, gold, 
 
 Health, marriage, brains and even courage bold. 
 
 Contentment, happiness, or gift of song, 
 
 Fresh summer suits, or chains to hamper wrong, 
 
 First class physicians kept in stock for pains, 
 
 And silk umbrellas ready when it rains. 
 
 Sermons or speeches, opera or dance. 
 
 Essays on culture. Haggard's last romance, 
 
176 SCATTERING SHOT. 
 
 All furnished gratis by this social Trust, 
 The best of sweetcake made from moldy crust, 
 Infant perfection by a statute fixed, 
 So, if perchance the midgets should get mixed, 
 They'll be so like, by dint of social fads, 
 There'll be no end of hunting up their dads. 
 Just like a clock the dear old world will go. 
 The time kept perfect, not too fast or slow. 
 When by these social architects 'tis wound 
 Up tight, 'twill run forever, round and round, 
 Making all happy, bringing unto all 
 The precious fruitage lost in Adam's fall, 
 When every sting extracted is from work, 
 When good back-aching none will try to shirk. 
 When from each homestead shall extend the wires 
 That reach to bins chock-full of hearts' desires, 
 Which each can have, exclusively his own. 
 By sending orders up by telephone. 
 No matter what is wanted, all, or one, 
 Just touch a button and the thing is done ! 
 
 Thus, friends, I've hinted along various lines 
 
 How Humbug chemically with sense combines, « 
 
 And leads us willing votaries by the nose. 
 
 Wherever labeled as " Reform " it goes. 
 
 This much seems certain, Fourier or Fate 
 
 Is getting ready fast to ope the gate 
 
 Of the Millenium ; may that gladsome day 
 
 Be quick in coming and, when once here, stay ! 
 
THE PICTURE. 
 
 Was the picture a good one? We took it and scanned it. 
 
 We examined it closely, each feature and line, 
 And from one to the other we critically hand it, 
 
 And the judgement of all was, ^' a picture divine." 
 
 No fault could be found ; not a flaw Avas detected ; 
 
 The features were perfect, complexion was clear ; 
 A great soul within had the skilled brush reflected, 
 
 A soul that was earnest, devoted, sincere. 
 
 Not firm was the mouth set, but seemed to be smiling, 
 As if it might do something more than to eat, 
 
 As if it might open in wondrous beguiling. 
 
 And speak unto hungry souls words that were sweet. 
 
 But, as 'tis well known, these are difficult guesses. 
 From a portrait to tell what may character be ; 
 
 And though it seem noble, truth meekly confesses 
 The face with good action don't always agree. 
 
 So we, thus admiring, as blind as a lover, 
 
 Perfect eyes, perfect face, perfect head as a whole. 
 
 Recalled past acquaintance when we did discover 
 How much she was lacking perfectness of soul. 
 
 One could hardly believe, with features so smiling 
 Which seemed to show clearly outcropping of gold 
 
 That this was but semblance, a surface beguiling. 
 With all underneath it proud, heartless and cold. 
 
178 THE PICTURE, 
 
 No vestige of love or of human compassion, 
 
 For suffering sisters not even a tear ; 
 Mere selfishness glazed with the burnish of fashion, 
 
 Rank heartlessness hid 'neath a rosy veneer. 
 
 So why should' we love it, admire it, or frame it, 
 Why give it 'mong paintings desirable room? 
 
 A face without soul, they who know it may name it, 
 A flower without beauty despite of its bloom. 
 
TO CROESUS. 
 
 Ah! indeed 'twould seem like Heaven, 
 
 If into your life the leaven 
 
 Of kind act was thrown, 
 
 If your mind would show it ever 
 
 Made one earnest grand endeavor 
 
 Not for self alone. 
 
 But for others ! How delighted, 
 
 Though perhaps a bit affrighted 
 
 At this change of self, 
 
 Would be all your many neighbors, 
 
 Could they see that all your labors, 
 
 Were not just for pelf; 
 
 If you should some day, suspending 
 
 Tricks of trade, be wisely lending 
 
 Thought to nobler end ! 
 
 'Tis a fact ; no one can doubt it ; 
 
 There's no question. Sir, about it, 
 
 Should your habits mend, 
 
 Should you cease to wear the collar, 
 
 Of the all-absorbing Dollar, 
 
 It would sure portend 
 
 Yet another sign from Heaven, 
 
 That the last plague of the Seven 
 
 Hastened to its end ; 
 
i8o TO CROESUS^ 
 
 That world sorceries were ending ; 
 That old Time the graves was rending ; 
 That the Hour had come \ 
 Sign to be denied by no men ; 
 In the business sky an omen, 
 Of Millennium ! 
 
 " And the sea gave up the dead which were in it ; and death and 
 hell delivered up the dead which were in them." — Rev. XX^ ij. 
 
OLD LETTERS. 
 
 Read them, if only to bring back the past 
 
 Once more, with its friends and friendships to view, 
 From out of the shadow which old Time has cast 
 
 O'er first dreams of happiness, earnest and true. 
 Read them, though age may have wrinkled your brow, 
 
 And sprinkled your hair with its ribbons of gray, 
 Though broken the promise of happiness now, 
 
 Links that are left of it surely are they. 
 
 Read them, your heart must be terribly cold 
 
 And hardened withal, if it feels not a thrill 
 Of regret for a love so tenderly told, 
 
 And whose place in your breast another may fill. 
 Read them, though much of their passionate feeling 
 
 May seem to you now very much overdone. 
 Think how they once weekly reached you, revealing 
 
 What seemed then the sweetest thing under the sun. 
 
 Read them while memory, lifting the veil. 
 
 Shows you the past in their pages of yellow. 
 Trace in the fading lines laughable tale. 
 
 How in those days you were quite an Othello, 
 Jealous of her who you thought was so dear, 
 
 Jealous of John if he slyly looked at her. 
 Ah ! from your standpoint of sixty how clear 
 
 Now you can see just what then was the matter. 
 
1 82 OLD LETTERS, 
 
 Read them, heart records of tenderness past, 
 
 Ere your young heart became sullen and crusted, 
 When you thought comfort was something would last, 
 
 And human pledges and banks could be trusted. 
 Ere you had learned by experience sore 
 
 How all things human are given to lying, 
 When the dear being you'd vowed to adore 
 
 Seemed not a girl, but a goddess undying. 
 
 Read them, your heart it indeed must have grown 
 
 Stupidly dull, or as iceberg as chilling, 
 If the remembrance of joys it hath known 
 
 In the old days of your cooing and billing 
 Does not return to enchant as you read. 
 
 How your cold heart will expand to the comer. 
 Giving to sentiment rapttire indeed. 
 
 Breathing on winter time breath of the summer. 
 
 What though the halo hath lifted that hung 
 
 Over the head of your youth's adoration. 
 What though the music that fell from her tongue. 
 
 Turned into ashes in life's hot cremation. 
 What though she jilted you finally, and 
 
 Married that coarse fellow, John, for his money, 
 Why did you not, as strict customs demand. 
 
 Give back her letters? Now isn't it funny? 
 
 But as you go down the mountain of life. 
 As to the foot you come nearer and nearer. 
 
 Even at risk of a sneer from your wife. 
 
 Read them all over, that clearer and clearer 
 
OLD LETTERS. 183 
 
 It may appear to you, ere you depart 
 
 Over the Styx with the ferryman Charon, 
 How nicely Time patches rents of the heart 
 
 That once made your life seem so worthless and barren. 
 
 Ah ! there he stands in his tossing canoe ! 
 
 Just a few moments more, then you'll be going, — 
 Going to take up a residence new. 
 
 Over the dark river steadily flowing ! 
 Going ! but ere you have steped from the shore, 
 Mem'ry, that sticks to one close as a brother. 
 Prompts you, and lo ! in these letters once more, 
 
 Flashes the flame that no deluge can smother. 
 
 Is it not strange that, when stripped of them all. 
 
 All the mere baubles of life we've been stringing. 
 Some little echo, some musical call, 
 
 Out of some long-buried memory is springing? 
 Is it not strange that, as sadly we go. 
 
 Grasping the ferryman's hand with a shiver, 
 Words from old letters should shed such a glow 
 
 Over the gloom of that desolate river ? 
 
"ACCEPTED." 
 
 Before him lay the wondrous pile ; 
 
 His was the Critic's mill to grind it; 
 He had stood guard for Taste long while, 
 
 And if there was good grain could find it. 
 All sorts of poems there did wait 
 
 To get his candid wise opinion, 
 Poems of war, of anger, hate, 
 
 And of love's old but sweet dominion, 
 On spring, on youth, on friendship too, 
 
 On every thing from A to Izzard, 
 From Noah's flood down through and through 
 
 All sorts of storm to latest blizzard. 
 Ah ! how his pencil young hopes dashed, 
 
 As on each one he sentence uttered ! 
 How he, a fiendish goblin, smashed 
 
 Ambitious dreams that flamed and fluttered ! 
 And was there nothing really good. 
 
 No sober sense, no key to laughter ? 
 When once he damned, 'twas understood. 
 
 That poem never peeped thereafter. 
 And so down through the wondrous pile 
 
 He goes, the bottom slowly nearing, 
 Till an appreciative smile 
 
 At last is on his face appearing ; 
 The merit, that his fingers touch, 
 
 Is that which now is all the fashion, 
 Which hungry readers crave so much, 
 
 Lust posing as a virtuous passion ! 
 
FUDGE'S FANNING MILL. 
 
 Misther Editur, Sur, I musth tell ye, be Jabers, 
 
 Wun Statesmen there is whom no nonsinse kin budge ; 
 Wun Statesmen whose shining beats kerosene tapers, 
 
 An' if ye asks, '' Who " ? I must tell ye, 'tis Fudge ! 
 He's the mon for us all in these momunts of tightness, 
 
 Whin the dhrouth is upon all our pasthures and fields. 
 Whin there's divil a bit in the sky of pure brightness, 
 
 An anguish and sorrer mosht iv'ry thing yields. 
 Tis divartin, indade, but, of coorse, more surprisin', 
 
 That a Statesmen kin promise sich wonderful things, 
 A Statesmen who, jist like a yeast-cake, is risin'. 
 
 Or dacent fresh eagle jist tryin his wings ; 
 But he did it himself, he wrote every letther 
 
 Ov the platform he stands on so proudly this fall ; 
 Life and liberty pledged us, and, faith, what is betther, 
 
 Sum property, too, unto each and to all ! 
 What more cud we ask than these three things united ? 
 
 Life, liberty, property, these are enuff 
 To make iviry vother, who lacks them, delighted ; 
 
 Ould Gladstone himself couldn't pledge betther stuff! 
 An more, he declares if an emmegrant broother, 
 
 Or cousin fresh over an jist a bit raw, 
 Shud offer in market sum hair with his boother, 
 
 He'd prep such industry by high tariff law. 
 
i86 FUDGE'S FANNING MILL. 
 
 He says, so discrately, tis right to be cruel 
 
 To villains who mix up pure suet and lard 
 An sell it for boother, but boording-house gruel 
 
 He thinks that no statoot cud legally guard. 
 The rich he wud larrup ; to reach 'em he'd bust things ; 
 
 The poor he'd protect, not the wearers of silk; 
 He'd hang on a gibbet all members of trust rings, 
 
 But coddle the milkman who wathers his milk. 
 Jist right, he belaves that the rich are all vices, 
 
 Jist right, he belaves that the poor are all saints, 
 That money a pest is that always entices, 
 
 An saps the foundation of Virtue, an taints. 
 He'd throttle the tyrants that long have enchained us, 
 
 The ralerodes that crush all true happiness out ; 
 From Congressional clouds such showers shall be rained us 
 
 That every seed that is planted shall sprout. 
 He'd put all the taxes on land by the acre, 
 
 Thus tweaking the noses of insolent i^yN 
 Who've gobbled the soil which was made by the Maker 
 
 To be jist as free as the air or the dew. 
 Though he can't tell exactly jist how he will do it, 
 
 By the square rule of George he has faith 'twill be done, 
 An' thin ** Looking Backward" all fools will see through it, 
 
 An' marvel such deeds were not sooner begun. 
 First blow on the anvil of Bellamy's forgin*. 
 
 In statesmonlike grandeur how little it lacks ! 
 Makin Capital see by this rueful disgorgin 
 
 How plunder's made righteous by means of a tax. 
 He'd straighten by law ivery crooked intintion 
 
 To make a hired mon earn as much as he's paid, 
 
FUDGE'S FANNING MILL. i8y 
 
 An fix it by means of the law's intervintion, 
 
 So nayther side gets the best holt in a trade. 
 Not a single distress is, by gor, he don't tackle, 
 
 At nothing his statesmon philanthropy stops ; 
 He seems born a purpose all chains to unshackle. 
 
 To git us high prices an wonderful crops ! 
 Last night at the club on the corner he spake it : 
 
 *' The time is fast coming so sinful 'twill be 
 To have a red sint, that the law will say ' Take it ! ' 
 
 Yes, take an divide, tis the public decree ! " 
 Whin the laborer has it so none kin gain-say him 
 
 Six hours is long enough work-day for men ; — 
 But binding his godless employers to pay him 
 
 A price to be fixed on a basis of ten. 
 Thus out of earth's robbers comes help to the needy.. 
 
 Division of wealth is a card that will draw, 
 An all the waste places kin never get weedy 
 
 Whin hoed an kept clane by a partnership law." 
 Lord thin, with hats off, how the listeners shouted ! 
 
 It seemed by the noise they had Dives by the throat ; 
 In a crowd that worked never this fact seemed undoubted. 
 
 Not one but knew jist how true labor shud vote. 
 Not one but talked loud about wrongs of his neighbor, 
 
 Not one but by tyrants seemed sorely oppressed. 
 To hear them so glibly apostrophize Labor, 
 
 This fact by their accents cud never be guessed, 
 That divil a one of them worked for a living, 
 
 Their chief occupation bein loafin about 
 Attindin sum corcus, or windily givin 
 
 Free counsel to statesmen perplexed or in doubt. 
 
i88 FUDGE'S FANNING MILL. 
 
 Mighty foine is the glow in me heart for belavin 
 
 That niver before did a candidate guess 
 How sthrong, in the stomach of man, is the cravin 
 
 For dose homeopathic to aise its distress. 
 We've suffered so long from distempers distressin, 
 
 The dose which he offers seems wonderful swate ; 
 Saint Pathrick himself niver fashioned a blessin 
 
 More soothin for colic an gripings of State. 
 Och ! the beautiful day that so swately is dawnin, 
 
 So full of clear light an so burdened with aise, 
 Whin backs will not bent be from workin or fawnin, 
 
 Whin wealth that is hoarded the fiddlin pays, 
 Whin the gates shall be opened that leads to contintment, 
 
 Whin wages go on though the laborer sits ! 
 Thin surely must cease all disturbin resintment, 
 
 An* the lions an lambs be as social as nits ; 
 Indade ! it will be cause for grand jubilation. 
 
 Whin the winds shall by statoot be ordered to trudge, 
 Whin all sorts of chaff shall be blown from the Nation 
 
 By Fanning-mill framed by the wisdom of Fudge ! 
 
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