Class _/=*^v2d:2?.d 
 Book i7^i^ 2lY . / 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
A WREATH 
 OF SONG 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANKLIN F. BUCKNER 
 
 A verse may find hi in who a sermon files. 
 — Geors;e Herbert. 
 
 LocKPORT, N. Y.: 
 
 Press of Roberts Brothers Company 
 
 1908 
 
^5 
 
 3^ ^7' 
 
 LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 JAN 1 1909 
 
 CLASS (^ XXc, No. 
 COPY tt. 
 
 Copyright, 1908 
 
 BY 
 
 Franklin F Buckner 
 
TO MY WIFE. 
 
 THIS wreath of song was first for thee, 
 Who praised it with sincerity. 
 Thy life so true, so free from wrong, 
 Is sweeter than the sweetest song. 
 Thongh years have passed, I count divine 
 The day that h"nked thy life with mine; 
 And try such fortune to deserve, 
 By seeking daily how to serve. 
 'Tis summer yet for you and me 
 Who ne'er have known adversity. 
 And should we see the winter's snows, 
 May love still bloom a fragrant rose, 
 And wisdom come in hand with truth, 
 And age reflect the heart of youth. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Beatrice ii 
 
 Confessional 2r 
 
 Sonnets: 
 
 To One Dead 31 
 
 A Comparison 2^ 
 
 The Deathless Soul 3.3 
 
 The Higher Faith 34 
 
 The Weakness of Consolation 3S 
 
 Milton 36 
 
 My Attitude 37 
 
 The Prophet 3S 
 
 Heaven 39 
 
 The Eventide 40 
 
 Day of Vivid Recollections of Childhood, 41 
 
 Tennyson's Jubilee Ode ^2 
 
 The Death Smile 43 
 
 The Crucifixion 44 
 
 Protecting a Name 45 
 
 Our Mother Tongue 46 
 
 Heaven in a Dream 47 
 
 Misfortunate 48 
 
 To My Mother's Spirit 49 
 
 Swarthy Men with Pick and Spade 53 
 
 9 
 
CONTENTS— Continued. 
 
 Poems: 
 
 The Mother and Idiot Boy 58 
 
 Mother Love 60 
 
 Marriage ('■2 
 
 Individualism 63 
 
 The Comprehensive Rehitionship 64 
 
 Old John Brown 65 
 
 The Musical Lyric t)6 
 
 The Silent Hours 68 
 
 The Soul 70 
 
 A Wreath of Roses /i 
 
 The Unrealized 73 
 
 Our Fears 74 
 
 Vision 75 
 
 Roy Philleo 7^ 
 
 Dorothy Drew 77 
 
 Robert Burns 79 
 
 The Brook 80 
 
 Song 81 
 
 Who Loveth ^luch 82 
 
 Bath Kol 8,:; 
 
 When I Am Dead 84 
 
 A Legend of Issa 85 
 
 Doubt and Dogma 86 
 
 My Neighbor and 1 87 
 
 Could I 88 
 
 I Cannot 89 
 
 True Men 00 
 
 At San Juan Qi 
 
 The First Inspiration 92 
 
 Failures Recompense 93 
 
 Tommy 9^ 
 
BEATRICE. 
 
BEATRICE. 
 
 WE loved each other to the last, 
 Locked each to each by fatal clasp, 
 Nor had we either will or power. 
 O'er destiny from the first hour, 
 We met beside the Arno's stream, 
 Made golden by the full moonbeam. 
 We looked into each other's eyes, 
 And read the will of Paradise, 
 And felt our souls melt into one. 
 As streams unite and onward run. 
 We could not help it, she nor I, 
 Nor had more power o'er destiny, 
 To change our course when once begun, 
 Than earth has power to quit the sun, 
 And seek an orbit 'round a star. 
 That shines a billion miles afar. 
 
 We knew each other from the start, 
 As each soul knows its counterpart; 
 And on my bended knee I'd swear 
 We'd met before, sometime, somewhere, 
 In ages past or in a dream, 
 So natural did our meeting seem. 
 Our love was born so instantly, 
 We knew it had a right to be, 
 To fill our souls in that first hour. 
 As fragrance fills the opening flower: 
 So free we were from beastly sense, 
 13 
 
14 A WREAIH Of SONG. 
 
 So fresh with youthful innocence, 
 
 So full of pulsing happiness, 
 
 That tongue is powerless to express 
 
 The rapture of the magic birth, 
 
 Which broke our fetters with the earth. 
 
 'Tis wondrous how the heart can change: 
 To what extent our feelings range; 
 And how the earth, and sky, and sea 
 Are changed in hours of ecstacy. 
 To-day is old, to-morrow new, 
 According to the point of view; 
 Or sorrows come, or joys enhance, 
 According to the circumstance. 
 Did I on higher summits live? 
 The wrongs against me all forgive? 
 Where thistles grew, did roses grow? 
 My heart go out to friend and foe? 
 Was life no longer servitude? 
 Was prayer a hymn of gratitude? 
 Love had transformed me in a day. 
 And swept my former self away. 
 
 Our joy so innocent and pure. 
 We somehow felt could not endure; 
 It may be instinct told us so. 
 At any rate we seemed to know, 
 And suffered greatly from our fears, 
 And Beatrice gave herself to tears, 
 Grew pale and thin from loss of sleep. 
 I could not bear to see her weep — 
 It gave me such a sense of guilt. 
 
A IVREA TH OF SONG. 
 
 That flower so young and fair sliouhl wilt; 
 
 For. truly did it seem that I 
 
 Was author of her malady, 
 
 That unseen powers had chosen me 
 
 To fill their wretched agency, 
 
 And blight as fair a thing. as birth 
 
 }Iad ever given to grace the earth. 
 
 'Twas plain to see that in her heart. 
 Was something she would not impart; 
 We'd never spoken of the past; 
 It fearful gates were bolted fast, 
 And it seemed better to be blind, 
 Than read the fate that lurked behind: 
 P'or she was born of quality, 
 While I had sprung from less degree, 
 From loins of rugged honesty. 
 From men of gallant bravery. 
 Who ne'er had reached the high commands. 
 Nor lived from wealth of fertile lands. 
 
 Love in an ardent enterprise. 
 Was never known to recognize 
 The barriers (5f blood or birth, 
 Or any artificial worth. 
 Then why should she and I begin. 
 Because our love was counted sin? 
 
 She pined, and I resolved to know 
 The cause, but dreaded still the blow; 
 For though the heart with grief will burst. 
 It will demand and know the worst. 
 I drew her kindly to my breast, 
 
 15 
 
1 6 A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 And firmly, but as kindly pressed 
 
 Her to unfold her mind and tell 
 
 Her secret though 'twere horrible. 
 
 She trembled strangely as she heard 
 
 My plea, but uttered not a word, 
 
 But with composure in her face, 
 
 Released herself from my embrace. 
 
 And drew a dagger from its sheath, 
 
 Whose blade flashed like a silver wreath, 
 
 And swifter than the flying dart. 
 
 She sank it in her quivering heart, 
 
 So deep that there was nothing left, 
 
 Except the polished ivorjA^heft; 
 
 Then with a look of awful fear, 
 
 She bounded like a wounded deer. 
 
 And falling forward on her face. 
 
 She tore the dagger from its place. 
 
 And life and blood with gurgling sound, 
 
 Escaped from out the ragged wound. 
 
 It froze me fast; I could not stir, 
 
 But fixed as stone I gazed on her. 
 
 So gently breathing, dying there, 
 
 Her face half-hidden in her hair. 
 
 God of mortals! Could it be, 
 A dream, or bare reality! 
 
 My soul was with such misery fraught, 
 
 1 had no longer power for thought. 
 The stars grew pale in their retreat; 
 
 The whole earth trembled "neath my feet; 
 A roaring sea consumed my breath. 
 And overwhelmed me as in death. 
 
A IVREA TH OF SOXC. 
 
 When slumber o'er the eyelids creep, 
 Where strays the soul in hours of sleep? 
 With all the senses safely furled, 
 It rears itself another world, 
 Of mountains, valleys, seas and streams, 
 Made perfect by its golden dreams. 
 But awful is that fearful sea 
 That drowns the mind, insanity. 
 When sense and consciousness have fled, 
 And man yet lives, but lives as dead, 
 With demons glaring in his eyes, 
 All bent on fearful enterprise. 
 
 I saw her fall, and I fell too: 
 The blade that killed her, ran me through; 
 y\nd reason vanished at a stroke. 
 But to return. When I awoke, 
 The night had passed and sullen day 
 Was draped in gloom by clouds of gray. 
 I sat before my own hearthstone, 
 Where 1 was wont to live alone; 
 The fire was out, the doors were barred. 
 And all things seemed confused and hard; 
 The breath of flowers was in the rooms, 
 Not as from gardens, but from tombs — 
 The flowers whose tender perfumes spread 
 A parting opiate o'er the dead. 
 And there were banks of withered flowers 
 And others fresh as summer showers; 
 And there half-hidden was the face 
 Of mv beloved Beatrice: 
 
J 8 A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 And o'er it spread the same sweet smile 
 Of gentle worth it bore erstwhile. 
 
 I gazed on her with tearless eyes; 
 No horror felt, not e'en surprise. 
 As if I had been made of steel, 
 I had no longer power to feel. 
 As cyclones sweep the valleys fair. 
 And lay the fields and forests bare, 
 The tempest in my helpless brain, 
 Had wrought depletion in its train. 
 The half my former self was gone, 
 Which left a mere automaton. 
 'Twas plain that I had wrecked a tomb, 
 And borne its burden to my room. 
 That only maniac could engage, 
 In worse than pagan sacrilege, 
 And yet with this intelligence, 
 I could not reck the consequence. 
 In all the world did ever one. 
 Such ghastly deed since time begun? 
 
 So day by day beside the dead, 
 I lived alone and felt no dread, 
 No sense of wrong, no pang of grief, 
 But with the cunning of a thief, 
 I hid the corpse where none could see, 
 And found delight in secrecy. 
 But now as time wore further on. 
 My mind again began to dawn, 
 And sleepless sorrow to encroach. 
 Which brought a sense of self-reproach, 
 
A WREA TH OF SONG. 
 
 And wretched fear and agony. 
 I prayed a thousand times to die, 
 Or vowed her body should resume, 
 Its holy place within the tomb. 
 Though vowed again, and yet again, 
 My vows were weak and all in vain. 
 I had no force of mind to free, 
 My hand of its infirmity; 
 And as my pain grew more acute. 
 My will grew more irresolute. 
 Till the pale Beatrice came to be, 
 At last, a sad necessity. 
 
 But now I'll tell a thing most strange: 
 It is that Beatrice did not change. 
 Like marble statue there she lay, 
 Too fair and holy to decay; 
 And e'en the roses dyed each cheek, 
 Till one would think that she must speak, 
 Or grant the heart a glad surprise, 
 By opening her lustrous eyes. 
 Her spirit lingered everywhere. 
 Like incense filled the solemn air; 
 She sat with me the fire beside. 
 In the long winter eventide; 
 She kneeled beside me when I prayed; 
 And when I wept my grief allayed; 
 And in the light of pale moonbeams. 
 She walked beside me in my dreams; 
 Nor morn, nor eve, nor night, nor day, 
 Would she consent to go away. 
 
20 ^^ WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 At last she irade me understand, 
 T must !)bey the Lord's C(Mnmand; 
 That there could be no rest for her. 
 Until the blackened sepulchre 
 Should have her body as the toll, 
 Of cruel earth, and God her soul; 
 For if I loved her then I must, 
 Earth give to earth and dust to dust. 
 That she might leave and take her place, 
 Among the fair angelic race. 
 
 I knew the word had come from her, 
 And needed no interpreter. 
 'Twas joy to think I could obey; 
 So when the shadows closed the day, 
 I bore the body to its place, 
 And bade farewell to Beatrice. 
 
 March 9th, '08. 
 
CONFESSIONAL. 
 
 21 
 
CONFESSIONAL. 
 
 HE pray'd to God all day; 
 With heart pain did he pray; 
 But if his prayer was heard, 
 Heaven returned no word, 
 Nor pity did display: 
 
 But left him stray 
 Alone till ev'ning gray. 
 
 The stars came out at night, 
 
 And shone with hazy light; 
 The while the penitent 
 Outward his pleadings sent 
 
 To Him beyond our sight. 
 With heart a-fright. 
 
 Night pass'd to morning bright. 
 
 "There is no power to free 
 
 My soul from agony; 
 
 Oh, had I ne'er been born," 
 
 He cried, "than breast the stonr 
 
 Of merciless decree; 
 Life is fatality, 
 
 An overwhelming sea. 
 
 "God is no longer now 
 A power to whom I'll bow; 
 The heavens are unfair. 
 And laugh at our despair; 
 A flower beneath the plow, 
 
 O man art thou 
 Sav'd by thine upturned brow? 
 23 
 
24 A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 "The gods are deaf and dumb, 
 While pain our souls benumb; 
 
 But when our hearts are gay, 
 
 As on a holiday, 
 'Tis said they grant a crumb; 
 
 Then shadows come 
 Again to make us glum. 
 
 "If days are foul or fair, 
 
 Or if the soul despair, 
 Or glad or sad we must. 
 In spite retain our trust. 
 
 For me, I've ceased to care; 
 I beat the air — 
 
 God is not here nor there. 
 
 "With hope and fear I cried; 
 With ev'ry tongue beside; 
 
 From anguish I was mad. 
 
 Yet all I felt forbade 
 That I in man confide: 
 I sought His side. 
 To have my pray'r denied. 
 
 ""Tis human to endure; 
 "Tis false that we inure 
 
 The life to pain and sorrow; 
 
 Some surcease we must borrow 
 A little rest secure; 
 This to insure, 
 I'll seek a soul that's pure. 
 
.1 WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 "For some pure heart I yearn; 
 
 Elsewhere I dare not turn; 
 I must, I must confess 
 My crime and wretchedness; 
 
 For hells within me burn; 
 God's deaf; I'll learn 
 
 If purity can spurn. 
 
 "O, pure one on a time 
 
 I did an awful crime; 
 
 My soul before was white, 
 But now is black as night; 
 
 My heart once pure as thine, 
 And sweet as thyme, 
 
 Is foul as foulest grime. 
 
 "How could such crime succeed! 
 For 'twas a treacherous deed; 
 
 A friend was sacrificed. 
 
 And I was brutalized; 
 I stood and watch'd him bleed 
 
 With envious greed. 
 While shivering like a reed . 
 
 "We liv'd beside, we three; 
 The man and I and she 
 
 Who call'd herself his wife; 
 
 Between them was no strife. 
 But true felicity. 
 
 And what of me? 
 I lov'd her secretly. 
 
 25 
 
26 ^^ WREAIH Of SONG 
 
 "1 should have gone away; 
 
 But somethiug made me stay; 
 I saw their love and then 
 My heart became a den 
 
 Of serpents day by bay: 
 At last 'twas May, 
 
 And I had ceas'd to pray. 
 
 "One night I stay'd behind, 
 And broke to her my mind 
 
 Which I would not conceal; 
 
 'Twas stupid over-zeal; 
 To hear me she declin'd; 
 
 'Though love is blind, 
 She said I was unkind, 
 
 "To tempt her soul with wrong; 
 
 For she did not belong 
 To those of evil fame. 
 Who shudder at no shame. 
 
 And ne'er would jojn their thronj 
 To leave her long, 
 
 She pray'd me, and be strong, 
 
 "A man, her good prefer, 
 And let my love deter 
 
 The impulse of the beast. 
 
 That on her heart would feast; 
 Or else she must infer, 
 
 She could no err, 
 I lov'd myself, not her. 
 
A WREATH OF SONC. 27 
 
 "My face with shame first red, 
 To anger paled instead; 
 
 And yet I spoke no word; 
 
 For had I spoke or stir'd, 
 I must have struck her dead. 
 
 She would have fled, 
 But fell from terror dread. 
 
 "I left her lying there, 
 
 Pass'd down the darkened stair. 
 
 Then out upon the street 
 
 I drag'd my sullen feet. 
 A sweetness fill'd the air. 
 
 The night was fair. 
 The world reposed from care. 
 
 "Mercy can never blot 
 The foul and lurid spot, 
 
 In all the years of time; 
 
 Nor mem'ry hide the crime - 
 'Twas just one fatal shot. 
 
 My soul may rot, 
 Perish the crime cannot. 
 
 " 'O God!' he gasped, and fell; 
 And I sank down to hell; 
 
 For 'neath the poplar tree, 
 
 He turn'd his eyes on me. 
 And look'd a sad farewell, — 
 
 He could not tell 
 I was the criminal. 
 
28 ^4 IVREA TH OF SONG. 
 
 "Oh, pure one, tell me why 
 
 The heavens hear not my cry, 
 And yet unto thy ear, 
 I pour my pain and fear; 
 
 Thou dost not turn and fly. 
 Thy purity 
 
 Will save me by and by. 
 
 "And so it needs that we, 
 To find sweet sympathy, 
 
 Must seek confessional; 
 
 For there it will be well. 
 The dear society, 
 
 Of pure hearts free, 
 Is earth's divinity. 
 
 "At last I understand. 
 
 My pain was God's command. 
 To feel and find Him here, 
 In human atmosphere. 
 
 Not in the sky or land. 
 When hearts expand. 
 
 They speak His Presence Grand. 
 
 "Confession makes me free, 
 From worse than misery 
 
 That weigh'd upon my heart; 
 
 While love my tears upstart; 
 'Tis all a mystery, 
 
 That's hid in Thee, 
 Soul of Humanity! " 
 
SONNKTS. 
 
 29 
 
> 
 
A WREAIH OF SONG. 31 
 
 TO ONE DEAD. 
 
 INTO the silence thou hast gone before me, 
 And I am left upon earth's restless shore, 
 Thy voice to hear, th}^ smile to see no more. 
 With resignation to endure without thee. 
 PVom thy great height it may be thou can'st see 
 Me plodding on oft weary and footsore. 
 Under the galling burdens that we bore. 
 As comrades on our march to destiny. 
 
 Thou'st pass'd me, and the earth is not the same, 
 Strive as I may to fill the void with duty; 
 And I have fears, they may be groundless fears, 
 
 Which press my heart when'er I sound thy name, 
 That I may lag behind a thousand years, 
 
 So great may be thy gains in love and beauty. 
 
32 
 
 .-:/ WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 A COMPARISON, 
 
 A song bird rose and flew across the sky, 
 The sun reflecting from its glossy wing; 
 It sang its song, bnt no one heard it sing. 
 Fell to the earth, and no one saw it die; 
 But beetles in the night hours, silently 
 
 Prepared its grave, and hid the beauteous thing. 
 The while its helpless young were perishing, 
 And its lone mate kept up a piteous cry. 
 
 Its life and death are typical of men 
 Who live and labor in the world unfamed; 
 
 Who bravely strive unto the last, and then 
 Pass out of sight unnoticed and unnamed; 
 
 But leave behind them as they go to rest. 
 
 The breaking hearts (jf those that knew them best. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 THE DEATHLESS SOUL. 
 
 GOD said let there be light, and there was light; 
 Worlds rose from darkness to return again: 
 And burning suns unlike the course of men, 
 Ran eons "stead of years, then sank from sight: 
 But He who bade them rise by His great might, 
 Call'd greater worlds into existence, when 
 He gave to life His wonderous love, and then 
 Made spirit victor over death and night. 
 
 The soul of Plato and the Son of Man, 
 
 Shakespeare, a' Kempis, Milton, or the star 
 
 Potential in the great Creator's plan 
 
 Who hangs beneath the dim horizon bar. 
 
 Or he of humblest mind wln) bows to these. 
 
 Shall live when time has dim'ed the Pleiades. 
 
34 -^ WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 THE HIGHER FAITH. 
 
 HE is not wise who dreams of recompense, 
 Or seeks approval from the multitude; 
 But who would serve must serve in solitude, 
 And fortify his heart 'gainst pride and sense, 
 And make integrity his main defense. 
 Because I love the universal good, 
 I toil in patience when misunderstood, 
 And scorn the man who stoops to small pretense. 
 
 Who loves the truth, his future is secure; 
 
 The farthest star beams on his lonely way; 
 
 No foe can pierce the armor of his soul; 
 
 No thought can live within him that's impure; 
 
 No cloud can dim the sun that lights his day; 
 
 No power can keep him from his destined 
 
 goal. 
 
 April 19th, '08. 
 
A WREAIH OF SONG. 35 
 
 THE WEAKNESS OF CONSOLATION. 
 
 THERE is no death! But see what death has 
 done, 
 In all its sudden, sad reality; 
 Its hand has utterly deprived me, 
 And I do wish my woeful heart were numb. 
 I did not know the face of that pale one, 
 Held all earth's light, or shone so steadily; 
 Or from the heart's divine society 
 Came all the joy that to my life had come. 
 
 Would God would let me die, I am so lone. 
 My faith so weak, my heart so unresigned; 
 
 So answer not my deep and wretched moan, 
 You mean me well, but silence is more kind; 
 
 Then teach me not, I cannot understand: 
 
 Just come and lead me gently by the hand. 
 
36 ^ WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 I READ thee, Milton, with a voice suppress'd. 
 Lost in wonder and in awe of thee; 
 Thou seemest not a man, but deity, 
 So great the rapturous music of thy breast. 
 Thou art as one whose soul has found a rest. 
 Thy mind so burdened with sublimity, 
 Pass'd out of time into eternity. 
 To deal with themes most perfectly express'd. 
 
 What wonder that our Wordsworth call'd the star. 
 And thought thy voice was as the sounding sea! 
 
 To sojourn here did'st leave some world afar, 
 To bring to this thy marvelous melody? 
 
 Divinely given to earth, thy lofty mind. 
 
 So pure reveals the debth of humankind. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 MY ATTITUDE. 
 
 COMPLACENTLY,the world, I stand and 
 view, ' 
 
 Nor stoop to scorn the man of base degree. 
 Nor yield to him my equanimity, 
 I live a man in this old world, yet new. 
 Let others babble, quarrel, and pursue 
 
 Theirs hates. I'll find content in being free 
 From little factions and barbarity — 
 None can enlist or tempt me from the true. 
 
 Let equals fight, if they would waste their life, 
 With tiger's tooth and tiger's thirst for blood. 
 I stand a neutral, preaching peace and love. 
 
 'Tis the unequal fight, the unjust strife, 
 The cry of innocence, oppression's flood, 
 
 That fires my heart with passion from above. 
 
38 
 
 A WREAIH OF SONG. 
 
 THE PROPHET. 
 
 YOU stone the prophet, and the priest reward; 
 So did your fathers in the days of old; 
 Your hearts like theirs are crusted o'er, and cold 
 As theirs low-lying 'neath the fair greensward. 
 The messenger of God has no accord 
 
 With those he'd help, with those he would 
 
 infold. 
 From tender love and not from lust of gold, 
 But lives for duty, toiling when abhor'd. 
 
 'Tis best; God grant it always may be so; 
 For love gains glory by its martyrdom, 
 And truth is worth a brave heroic stand. 
 The prophet owes you nothing, hence you know, 
 He is no hireling if to you he come, 
 
 When ways are dark and takes you by the 
 hand. 
 
A WREA TH OF SONC. 39 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 IF heav'n be such a place as mortals dream, 
 High-walled, with pearly gates and golden 
 streets, 
 Where many a white-robed spirit waits and greets 
 The last new-comer over death's dark stream; 
 \i to be blest we must forget, or seem 
 
 To lose our hearts for men in their defeats, 
 Low-lingering in the hells and black retreats, 
 All hope bereft, no light, of love on gleam — 
 Then may I perish, body, spirit, all 
 
 And pass like clouds that fade at close of day, 
 Calm after hours of battle, storm and gloom. 
 Heav'n were not heav'n, nor God the all in all. 
 Could not the hand perform the prayer we pray, 
 And guide the lost ones to His ample room. 
 
 May 20th, '08. 
 
40 
 
 A WREA'IH OF SONG. 
 
 THE EVENTIDE. 
 
 I LOVE the morning, yes, I love it well; 
 I love the face of childhood and its joy; 
 I love the grovv'ing girl, the growing boy; 
 I love them better than my tongue can tell. 
 I love maturing life and the heart's swell. 
 
 When sonl is on the ere st. though cares annoy. 
 But lose their power when evils fail to cloy 
 The streams f)f truth which bear us and propel. 
 
 But ev'ning 1 love better than the morn, 
 Its triumph, its serene philosophy. 
 
 I stand at noonday, and I hail the hours 
 To come, prophetic, full of hope, and scorn 
 The man al jne who fears and fails to see 
 
 That age is best and bears the sweetest 
 flowers. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 41 
 
 DAY OI' VIVID RECOLLECTIONS O 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 FROM dawn till dark unconscious have I been 
 Of friend or foe, of love or transient fears; 
 Of skies of stainless blue, or heavens tears, 
 Or summers odors from the pastures green; 
 The birds have till'd the day with songs and I 
 Dream-like my 'custom'd haunts and paths pur- 
 sued, 
 Through orchard, field, through dank and path- 
 less wood. 
 Nor heeded not dear nature's harmony; 
 For retrospection did the past regain; 
 
 And memory, steadfast, took me by the hand, 
 And said, "Back to those stainless days again, 
 Bright as the waters 'bove the golden sand." 
 Their innocence I breathed with fondest breath; 
 Assured that mind surviveth time and death. 
 
42 
 
 A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 TENNYSON'S JUBILEE ODE. 
 
 THANK God for her. Good queen she was 
 they say. 
 Take not one jewel from her righteous crown, 
 Nor utter words to cloud her fair renown. 
 May her successors be as good, we pray. 
 Our larger prayer is, May God speed the day 
 When royalty shall pass beneath the frown 
 Of those long-time pursued and hunted down, 
 By human hounds who hold them still at bay. 
 
 Old England, mother of (jur common blood, 
 Thy annals have a charm for us, afar; 
 
 Thy songs awake our hearts, thy deeds inspire, 
 But man sinks still beneath oppression's flood. 
 Thy glorious past lays bare the present scar. 
 Hearts smoulder which should glow with 
 sacred fire. 
 
A WREA TH OF SONG. 43 
 
 THE DEATH SAIILE. 
 
 THE marks of pain and sickness all have fled. 
 And thou art lying there in thy calm rest, 
 While only thy cold brow and pulseless breast. 
 The indications give that thou art dead. 
 The parting dirge is sung, the service read, 
 Love's sacred offering to hearts oppress'd; 
 Who think of thee translated to the blest, 
 Yet weeping, dew the roses o'er the spread; 
 While I with reverence contemplate the smile 
 Which beautifies thy great serenity. 
 
 Did'st give that smile for those who weep 
 behind. 
 And plod alone in pain a little while? 
 Or to the dear ones in eternity, 
 Redeem'd long since from woes of humankind? 
 
44 
 
 A WREAIH Of SONG. 
 
 THE CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 THREE crosses on Golgotha mark'd tlie scene, 
 Three hateful crosses with their toll of 
 blood. 
 
 Symbolic of the age in which they stood, 
 Offenders on each side, the Lord between. 
 Both loved and hated, with a soul supreme, 
 He met his fate in silent ft^rtitude; 
 One rail'd to please the fickle multitude; 
 One sought admission to the courts unseen. 
 
 And there were broken hearts and bitter tears. 
 
 And tongues too mute to utter words of pray'r 
 And there were scornful hate and cruel jeers, 
 
 And all that mocks the soul in its despair; 
 But there unheard was still a silent power. 
 That turned the tide of centuries in an hour. 
 
A WREAIH OF SONG. 45 
 
 PROTECTING A NAME. 
 
 AT birth the world received me with a frown; 
 My mother pressed me to her heart with 
 tears, 
 
 Too sad to smile through all my tender years; 
 For we received the bnlTfets of the town. 
 Our blood, now base, before enjoyed renown; 
 
 My name, I will not speak it, oft appears 
 
 In chronicle and song of former years, 
 Was never borne b}' criminal or clown; 
 Nor do I bear it in my own disgrace: 
 
 'Twould be a witness to my great descent. 
 And tell the world the distance that I fell. 
 Low as I am the proud blood of my race. 
 
 Will keep my secret sacred and prevent 
 An honored name from sinking down to hell. 
 
46 
 
 A WREAIH Ob SONG. 
 
 OUR MOTHER TONGUE. 
 
 WHEN we are sad it mingles with our tears; 
 When light it is the language of our mirth: 
 Upon its wings, thoughts soar beyond the 
 
 earth; 
 Its reassuring notes allay our fears; 
 'Tis conservator of a thousand years 
 
 Of truth and song, and truth that ere had birth: 
 
 Before the century shall fade 'twill girth 
 The world where deadly evil yet appears; 
 The poet and the prophet it shall speak, 
 
 To feed the heart on song and truth divine, 
 To heal the sick and strengthen all the weak 
 
 Beneath the stars which shine on ev'ry clime; 
 'Twill raise the slave above the tyrant's rod. 
 And make of earth an Eden of our God. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 HEAVEN IN A DREAM. 
 
 47 
 
 O HEAVEN within the highest Heaven above! 
 Could this sad world th}^ joys and mysteries 
 know, 
 
 "Twould leave in sorrowing hearts no room 
 for woe, 
 And hearts of hate would be transformed to love; 
 For I in dreams have tried the starry way; 
 With dizzy venture my unsteady feet 
 Did falter and the pulses in me beat 
 Excitedly at 'proach of heavenly dajs 
 Whose gates shone with the splendor of the morn 
 
 Mirrored ten-thousand times in crystal seas; 
 W^hose only light is love forever born, 
 
 Forever like the music of the breeze. 
 No fear is there, no hate, no pride, no boast; 
 No tongue that has the speech to utter " Lost." 
 
48 A WREA TH OF SONG. 
 
 MISFORTUNE. 
 
 MISFORTUNE came and I went forth to 
 meet her. 
 With calmness on my face and resolution, 
 
 To meet my fate, or banish the illusion, 
 But not to yield my heart to grim disaster. 
 She sped at my approach. I followed after, 
 And overtook her to her own confusion. 
 "I bullet fate," I cried, "her name's delusion; 
 I will not yield t:) her, but be the master." 
 
 Then as the clouds which overspread the sky, 
 Dissolve before the radiance of the day. 
 
 The shadows o'er my life began to die. 
 
 And Hope shone steadfast with its beauteous 
 ray. 
 
 So trusting in myself, O God, and Thee, 
 
 In life or death I shall the victor be. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 49 
 
 TO AIY AIOTHER'S SPIRIT. 
 
 TRANSLATED to the Islands of the Blest, 
 Thy image fair is fadeless as my thought, 
 
 And I, in raptured silence, oft have caught 
 Faint echoes of thy voice, to me the best. 
 I feel thy hand once more and am caress'd; 
 
 And by thy deathless goodness yet am taught. 
 
 O may thy goodness be in me inwrought, 
 Ere my life's star grows dim far down the west. 
 O Mother, boundless was thy mother heart! 
 
 So deep thy love, so tender and sincere! 
 
 So tireless were thy hands which toil'd in love, 
 That as I write this line my tears upstart. 
 To think that I must live from year to year, 
 
 ^Vhilst thou art far beyond me and above. 
 
 November, 8th, 1908. 
 
SWARTHY MEN WITH 
 PICK AND SPADE. 
 
 51 
 
SWARTHY AIEN WITH PICK AND SPADE. 
 
 SWARTHY men with pick and spade. 
 By the Maker you were made. 
 Is it to his glory then, 
 You are little swarthy men? 
 Short of limb and low of brow. 
 Do you please the Maker now? 
 1 oiling on with spade and pick, 
 Like the Hebrews making brick, 
 For this did you cross the sea. 
 From your sunny Italy? 
 Have we opened wide the door, 
 Slaves to gain, and nothing more? 
 Dig and call it liberty. 
 Call it opportunity. 
 
 Swarthy men with pick and spade. 
 By your brothers you were made. 
 Is it to their glory then. 
 That you're little swarthy men? 
 Twice a thousand years of creed, 
 Leaves the multitude to bleed. 
 Twice three thousand years of rule. 
 And such the product of the school! 
 When we count the swarthy host. 
 Have we any cause to boast? 
 Think you God hath given consent. 
 To our stupid government? 
 More of justice rule us when 
 Charged with little swarthy men. 
 53 
 
54 A WREAIH OF SONG 
 
 Swarthy men with pick and spade. 
 Stretch you in the noontide shade; 
 Eat your morsel of hard bread, 
 Thankful that you're even fed. 
 If your heart within you bleeds. 
 Turn you to your hut of reeds, 
 Sleep, forget, awake and pray, 
 Then rise and slave another day. 
 If a thought, or high desire 
 Kindles in your heart a fire, 
 Quench it with your own red blood, 
 And be content with servitude. 
 \\>ary limbs will keep you tame; 
 And thriving, we will feel no shame. 
 
 Swarthy men with pick and spade, 
 Ask not for your brothers aid. 
 Toil, and bleed, and pray alone— 
 They are busy with their own; 
 They are round and fat and sleek; 
 You are weary, poor and weak; 
 They are strong and ought to thrive — 
 'Tis the fittest who survive; 
 They have much; the law is fair. 
 If they drag it to their lair. 
 From the first the laws provide: 
 He ma}^ waste, who won't divide. 
 Is it truth, or is it joke, 
 That he can feel, who wears the yoke? 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 55 
 
 Swarthy men with pick and spade,. 
 For something better you were made. 
 Do we please the Maker then, 
 If we keep you swarthy men? 
 Labor is a discipline; 
 But slavery dwarfs the soul within. 
 Heaven frowns on caste, and class; 
 Man moves onward with the mass. 
 Simple truth none can disguise — 
 Only brutes can brutalize. 
 By lifting others to the sky, 
 We gain our immortality. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 57 
 
58 A WREA'IH OF SONG. 
 
 THE MOTHER AND IDIOT BOY. 
 
 I 
 
 AM his mother sir, that is the reason why, 
 I cling to him so fondly and shall until I die. 
 
 He does not know that I love him, Robert will 
 
 never know; 
 He does not know his name, sir, nor hope, nor 
 joy, nor woe. 
 
 I was eighteen when I bore him; he was my 
 
 second child; 
 E'en then my heart was broken, my brain frcmi 
 grief was wild: 
 
 For my first-born died in autumn, six months ere 
 
 this one came. 
 And the earth hid his sunny face under the sleet 
 
 and the rain. 
 
 I was a widow then; I should have told you that 
 
 before; 
 But 'twould seem I had forgotten all I ever knew 
 
 and more. 
 
 OI such trouble sir, and sorrow! Yet every one 
 
 was kind; 
 And that, and a broken heart were all that saved 
 
 my mind. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 59 
 
 How long ago, sir? An age if told in grief and 
 
 tears; 
 I am thirty-two, now; so 'twas only fourteen 
 
 years. 
 
 Fourteen years, Robert and I have endured as one; 
 For who will abide with a child like this but a 
 mother alone? 
 
 A burden, sir, to do it? Then you can't under- 
 stand 
 
 What a heart half dead can feel, or the strength 
 of a withered hand. 
 
 Unutterable sorrow? Well, there, you have said 
 
 it now. 
 Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, in form, in soul, on brow. 
 
 We walk in the early day, sir, just for the morn- 
 ing air; 
 
 And then again at sunset, if the hour is cool 
 and fair. 
 
 And I pray, and pray, and pray, the Great God 
 
 out of sight. 
 To pierce the soul of my boy with a single ray 
 
 of light; 
 
 And to give him the power of thought, if but for 
 
 a little while, 
 That he may know his name, and return my love 
 
 with a smile. 
 
6o ^ li/REA IH OF SONG. 
 
 MOTHER LOVE. 
 
 I AM his mother sir, that is the reason why, 
 I cling to him so fondly, and shall until I die. 
 
 I know that others hate him. I know that he 
 
 deserves, 
 Not e'en a mite from the hand, that ne'er from its 
 
 duty swerves. 
 
 That he has sinned, I know, sir, against God, and 
 
 man and me, 
 But it makes no odds, I cling to him from the 
 
 heart's necessity. 
 
 I know that he will scorn me as soon as his 
 trouble is past, 
 
 But love less than ingratitude, is a love that can- 
 not last. 
 
 And a love that cannot last, sir, bears falsely that 
 
 great name; 
 Fore love is love and falters not for sin and crime 
 
 and shame. 
 
 You cannot comprehend, sir? 'Twere a wonder 
 
 if you could 
 Fathom the mother-heart, or feel the bound of 
 
 her blood. 
 
.^ WREATH OP SONG. 6i 
 
 Were it not for her great love, sir, as she warms 
 
 her own to rest, 
 Not even a thought of God, would come to the 
 
 human breast. 
 
 When I know not what is best, sir, when I know 
 
 not what is best, 
 I trust my heart, not my head, and put my soul to 
 
 the test. 
 
 And I take my bo}'- in his sin, with an infinite 
 
 caress, 
 My love is the love of God, although my wisdom 
 
 is less. 
 
 My heart is the heart of God, but the hand of the 
 
 flesh is weak. 
 So that which I sufifer in heart, is more than the 
 tongue can speak. 
 
 But the heart in its love looks up, by day and by 
 
 night in prayer. 
 And it hopes, and it prays and it hopes, and saves 
 
 the mind from despair. 
 
 Since my heart is the heart of God, and the hand 
 
 of the flesh is weak, 
 I trust the Hand that is strong, with a faith that 
 
 T cannot speak. 
 
62 A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 THE man and woman seek each other in 
 Obedience to an impulse of the heart. 
 They yield unto the power and know not why. 
 They know that love has God's approval though 
 The whole world frown on them and cast them 
 
 out. 
 True marriage is not form or sacrament. 
 No mouthing priest can make a vile thing pure. 
 No civil law can force two souls to wed, 
 Or make a union of repellent parts. 
 We need no law to bind what God unites, 
 No courts to sever that which nature scorns. 
 Laws civil and ecclesiastical 
 Oft evil work and wreck the human heart; 
 They aggravate the ills they seek to cure, 
 Or kill the sufiferer whom they seek to save. 
 The power that weds two hearts and makes them 
 
 one, 
 That power alone doth hold and keep them pure. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 63 
 
 INDIVIDUALISM. 
 
 WHO has a mind, and yet conceals his 
 thoughts 
 Is like a flower that blights and never blooms. 
 The church, the law, society conspire 
 Against the man. I'm of the church, and yet 
 I stand for what the church forbids. Fm of 
 The law, and yet I wash my hands of it. 
 And rest my heart in law above the law. 
 I'm of the social pact by accident 
 Of birth, and hence I stand apart. I will 
 Not be submerged. I will be true to self, 
 ril love, forgive, an individual be 
 None shall impose upon my reason, nor 
 Will I with others interfere. I'll move 
 Among the mass and not collide. I will 
 Not strive with little men. Who's wise, strives not 
 But uses life to serve the Eternal Cause, 
 
64 A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 THE COMPREHENSIVE RELATIONSHIP. 
 
 1'AI not a patriot. I shun the word. 
 It is restrictive and requires that I 
 Do service for one little tribe alone. 
 I'll serve the part by serving well the whole. 
 I know no black, no white; I know the race. 
 The race's strifes and fears and hopes are mine. 
 I cannot serve my brother, if I join 
 With him and turn upon his foe. 'Tis best 
 To reconcile them if I can. Thus, would 
 I serve them both. If they persist and fight 
 Like beasts, the fate of beasts must be their end. 
 I will not sacrifice unto the god 
 Of force. 'Tis viler than idolatry. 
 'Twill end sometime. Meanwhile, I'll teach .md 
 pray. 
 
A IVREA'I H OF SONG. 
 
 OLD JOHN BROWN. 
 
 65 
 
 FANATIC more dehided never lived. 
 He drew the sword against the Master's 
 word, 
 
 In spired by Gideon and rough warriors dead. 
 He had no faith in God and moral law, 
 But trusted force and rude barbaric war. 
 To such as glory in red violence, 
 He tow'rs a patriot, hero, martyr, saint; 
 To such as love and walk the paths of peace, 
 His visage stern sends shudders through the 
 
 blood. 
 He would not wait on G )d and destiny, 
 Love's spirit and the calm eternal law 
 To n:ove the cruel heart, the people's hand, 
 But would avenger be, and play the role 
 Of hatred, breeding malice and revenge. 
 Call not his action good. Who loves as Christ 
 Will love both master and afflicted slave 
 Who loves as God, will also tyrants love, 
 For tyrants, too, are men, alas! God's own, 
 Whose feet have wandered farthest from the way. 
 
66 A WREA TH OF SONG. 
 
 THE MUSICAL LYRIC. 
 
 GIVE me the musical lyric. 
 Which throbs with the human heart 
 Which laughs with me in my laughter, 
 And weeps when my tears upstart. 
 
 I love the drama and epic. 
 
 But when I am weary instead, 
 Give me the lines of the lyric, 
 
 Like the bird-notes over-head. 
 
 Give me the musical lyric. 
 
 In the dear old Saxon tongue, 
 Which I learned on my mother's bosom, 
 
 Ere my wandering life begun. 
 
 Give me the lines of the lyric. 
 
 When the days are calm and bright; 
 
 And the pulses bound w^ithin me, 
 And the heart shouts with delight. 
 
 Give me the musical lyric. 
 
 When the soul is burdened with care; 
 And give me the musical lyric, 
 
 To utter my deepest prayer. 
 
 Give me the lines of the lyric. 
 
 Some old and familiar song. 
 When I have gathered about me. 
 
 The friends I have loved so long. 
 
A WREAIH OF SONG. (j 
 
 Give me the musical lyric, 
 
 When my soul is sinking to rest; 
 And the sun of life is setting. 
 
 Away in the silver west. 
 
 And give me the musical lyric, 
 
 To awake me from my sleep, 
 In the wonderful land of music, 
 
 Where none awake to weep. 
 
68 ^ WREA'IH OF SONG. 
 
 THE SILENT HOURS. 
 
 WIlEM the weary daA^s are over, 
 And autumn airs begin to chill; 
 When the streets are all deserted. 
 And the village all is still; 
 
 Or tlie wintry snows besiege us 
 
 Through the cold and fearful night, 
 
 I del-ght to play the hermit, 
 B}' my study fireside bright. 
 
 There I live with many volumes, 
 .\ncient wisdom, rarest song, 
 
 Truth which brightens as the shadows, 
 Of the ages creep along. 
 
 Spirits of the past come to me, 
 With their faces calm and fair, 
 
 And with voices of such sweetness, 
 That no speech can e'en compare; 
 
 Others who had walked beside me, 
 Till they pass'd me on the way; 
 
 Others wdio had wrought beside me, 
 Through the night and through the day 
 
 Press upon me with their presence, 
 
 Till I feel their finger tips, 
 And my being thrills within me, 
 
 As their warm lips touch my lips. 
 
A WREATH OP SONG, 69 
 
 Then my spirit seems transported, 
 
 From this realm of toil and tears, 
 To a life that is eternal, 
 
 Free from evil^ free from fears. 
 
 And this converse with the silence, 
 
 Fits me for the larger life; 
 Gives me patience for my trials, 
 
 Courage for the future strife. 
 
yo A WREA TH OF SONG. 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 WERE the soul a golden vapor, 
 Hanging on the mountain's brow, 
 'Twould reflect the light of heaven, 
 As that cloud is doing now. 
 
 Were the soul a star at ev'ning, 
 
 Shining through the gathering night. 
 
 It would cheer the worlds beneath it, 
 With its constant quivering light. 
 
 Were the soul a rose in summer, 
 
 Sheltered by the garden wall, 
 It would fill the air with fragrance, 
 
 Till its petals fade and fall. 
 
 Were the soul the shimmering water, 
 
 Of the great and purple sea, 
 It would mirror worlds unnumbered, 
 
 Shining through immensity. 
 
 Were the soul a bird at twilight. 
 
 Ignorant of right and wrong. 
 It would join the feathered chorus, 
 
 And awake the world with song. 
 
 Were the soul as many fancies, 
 
 As are born in poet's brain, 
 'Twould be less than God has made it, 
 
 And as transient as the rain. 
 
4 WREAIH OF SONG. yi 
 
 A WREATH OF ROSES. 
 
 TIS only a wreath of roses, 
 But I place them on her grave. 
 With a bosom full of heart-ache, 
 And the conscience of a knave. 
 
 'Tis a tribute of repentance, 
 
 For the wrongs of many years; 
 
 For the pains which she has suffered, 
 And her many lonely tears. 
 
 It seems almost a sacrilege, 
 
 That my unfaithful hand. 
 Should o'er her cast an offering, 
 
 E'en at the heart's command. 
 
 1 know my gift is feeble, 
 Since she has suffer'd long, 
 
 But a power within impels me, 
 And it cannot do her wrong. 
 
 For her sufferings all are ended, 
 In this world of cloud and sun; 
 
 They were patiently borne and ended, 
 But mine have only begun. 
 
 Oh, look not angrily on me. 
 
 You have no pity I know; 
 Tycave it to God and conscience: 
 
 For we reap the things we sow. 
 
72 
 
 A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 'Till now I did not believe it, 
 
 I was so false and blind; 
 And it makes my burden harder. 
 
 That she was so true and kind. 
 
 Ah, this tribute of repentance. 
 
 Seems a thing so poor and weak, 
 
 As I think of her while living, 
 Without a rose in her cheek. 
 
 Yes, she loved me, loved insanely; 
 
 Had I pinned a rose on her breast, 
 A single rose from the garden, 
 
 Or have kiss'd her or caress'd, 
 
 With the man's heart and the lover. 
 Or saved her a single tear. 
 
 It would fill the roses with fragrance 
 As I lay them on her bier. 
 
.-^ ]] REA7T1 OF SOXC. 73 
 
 THE UNREALIZED. 
 
 LIKE the transient winds on the mountain's 
 brow, 
 Sweet heavenly thoughts blow over my brain, 
 Then die away like the glory of day 
 When night embraces the watery main. 
 
 I sail on a sea where the wrecks of years, 
 Are cast on the islands fair and green. 
 
 But the notes low sung their palms among, 
 The wild waves swallow which intervene. 
 
 And love and joy ofttimes arise, 
 
 And to press their lips my heart I strain; 
 
 But they pale and die as suddenly 
 As snow-flakes vanish in April's rain. 
 
 Compassion! Compassion! I cry, I cry; 
 
 My burden is greater than I can bear; 
 For my hopes all seem like a far-off dream, 
 
 But the pain I suffer is not despair. 
 
A WREA 7H OF SONG. 
 
 OUR FEARS. 
 
 IT is not death we fear, we fear existence. 
 And that uncertain world which men call 
 heaven; 
 We shudder when we name Omnipotence, 
 
 That shoreless sea o'er which our crafts are 
 driven. 
 
 'Tis not to-day we fear, we fear to-morrow, 
 The future wedded to the fatal past, 
 
 Love interlaced with hate and joy with sorrow, 
 Half-god, half-demon from the first to last. 
 
 'Tis not the known we fear, we fear the mystery, 
 That faith and hope and love cannot dispel, 
 
 The clouds and darkness 'round all human history. 
 Which fills the heart with pathos none can tell. 
 
 We fear the soul is like a straying comet. 
 Without a sun "round which it may revolve; 
 
 Or like a silver cloud upon the summit, 
 
 Form'd to reflect the light and then dissolve. 
 
A WREA'IH OF SOXG. 
 
 VISION. 
 
 75 
 
 BECAUSE the vision is not realized, 
 My splendid hopes shall falter not nor fail; 
 Misunderstood, I may be and despised, 
 Yet will I lead my life though foes assail. 
 
 I know I shall be dust ere right succeeds; 
 
 And time breeds in my heart a discontent; 
 'Twill ne'er be mine to live and share the deeds 
 
 I long for, pray for with a sad lament. 
 
 And yet I thank my God who lets me see 
 Into the future with a prophet's eyes. 
 
 And wrests my heart from present slavery, 
 By dreams transporting me to holier skies. 
 
76 ^i II A' E A IH OF SONG. 
 
 ROY PHILLEO. 
 
 ROY PHILLEO, does your spirit fair, 
 Peer through the rent of the clouds which 
 hide, 
 The heavens above, from the earth below, 
 To pity the ones who on earth abide? 
 
 Can you from your height look down on us, 
 
 On us who cannot be reconciled? 
 If you can, then smile a smile on us. 
 The smile which on earth you were wont to smile. 
 
 Not soon shall we who must live down here, 
 Till promotion comes from the Lord on High, 
 
 Forget the night that the stars grew dim. 
 That one so unblemished, and pure should die. 
 
 We did not measure our love for you, 
 
 Till the void you left grew deep and black. 
 
 And we knew that the days of all the years, 
 Our earth was never to have thee back. 
 
 The decree was written, but it seemed not right. 
 
 Nor yet have we power to understand. 
 Why the Lord so gracious should call for thee, 
 
 And lay on us the stroke of His hand. 
 
A WREATH Oh SOyC. 
 
 DOROTHY DREW. 
 
 // 
 
 DOROTHY DREW, the fair is dearL 
 And her lace is as white as the lily flower; 
 She died on the day she was to have wed, 
 
 On the very morn, at the very hour. 
 ■ A silken pillow supports her head, 
 With its wealth of golden hair; 
 And a peaceful smile on the face of the dead, 
 That death could not banisli lingers there. 
 
 Dorothy Drew is dead, did I say? 
 
 The words seem idle and like a dream — 
 She v.as to have wed but yesterday 
 
 A.nd dead to-day! Ah, 'tis no dream! 
 Vox the house is draped in a thick twilight; 
 
 And the air is dense with the breath of flowers: 
 And a sadness broods like the hush of night, 
 
 Over these lonely h.earts of ours. 
 
 Died Dorothy Drew of a broken heart. 
 
 Oh, it was a crime of mean degree, 
 That cruelly forced two souls apart, 
 
 And plotted this fatal destiny. 
 They did it for gold and for nothing more, 
 
 All for the world, in a heartless way. 
 Plundered a soul like others before. 
 
 And where love was not life would not stay. 
 
78 A WREAIH OF SONCi: 
 
 For love was the life of Dorothy Drew; 
 
 Denied it this flower must droop and fall; 
 It was all so plain to me and you — 
 
 They could not perceive it, that was all. 
 They prescribed her a voyage and mountain air; 
 
 They gave her drugs and the richest food — 
 Fools without eyes! I've said it. There! 
 
 Had they been human, they had understood. 
 
 For Dorothy Drew. I'm glad, I'm glad; 
 
 The world no longer to her is black; 
 Since she bears a heart no longer sad, 
 
 It would be fiendish to wish her back. 
 They plundered her soul, and she went away. 
 
 From a world she graced for a little while; 
 Though wronged, as she rose to a better day, 
 
 The vanishing earth received her smile. 
 
A WREA TH - OF SOSG. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 O ROBERT BURNS, if thou wert here. 
 With thy great eyes, and tender heart, 
 The world to thee would yet appear, 
 
 God's own, and heaven's counterpart. 
 
 Thy soul would note the transient wrong; 
 
 But more of goodness would approve; 
 Thy tongue entrance the world with song, 
 
 And all our hearts to pity move. 
 
 The things we count the commonplace, 
 Thy art would raise to heights divine; 
 
 For none the veins of gold could trace. 
 With hands of finer skill than thine. 
 
 Though crushed by man's ingratitude. 
 Resentment never filled thy breast; 
 
 Nor changed thy sweet, harmonious mood, 
 The years that earth refused thee rest. 
 
 O. Robert Burns of noble cast! 
 
 With all thy pain life was a boon, 
 A soul-enchantment to the last, 
 
 A Sun that set, too soon, too soon. 
 
eo ^ WRKATH OF SOM,. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL streamlet, calm and clear, 
 Murmuring- ever in accents sweet. 
 This happiest day of all the j'ear, 
 
 As I press the mosses beneath my feet, 
 
 What art thon saying, little brook, 
 
 In the rippling music thou do'st impart, 
 
 Which fills with gladness the leafy nook, 
 And deepens the rapture within my heart? 
 
 "Forever I wind by my mossy wa3^ 
 Forever I sing from year to year; 
 
 'Forever, forever," you hear me sa3^ — 
 Forever love, but never fear." 
 
A WREAIH OF SONG. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SLEEP has settled on her weary eyes, 
 After a day of sorrow; 
 Murmur a song, soft and low, 
 Fall sweet notes like the fall of snow, 
 Out of the clouds of moonlit skies; 
 Or flowers from the trees of Paradise; 
 Nor wake her till the morrow. 
 
 Died her warrior the waves above; 
 
 Her heart died with her hero; 
 The portion now that she hath left, 
 Is memory's sting and hope bereft. 
 And love. Ah, love! What a curse is love 
 Which fills the breast of the widowed dove, 
 
 And bitters her cup of woe. 
 
 Unseen hands their opiates spread. 
 
 To give the weary sleep. 
 Then murmur a song, soft and low; 
 Fall sweet notes like the fall of snow; 
 She is dreamnig now of her lover dead; 
 For smiles her pale, sweet face o'erspread. 
 
 Then sleep oh, fair one, sleep. 
 
82 A WREATH OF SONG 
 
 WHO LOVETH MUCH. 
 
 44! JE doeth much who loveth much.' 
 X 1 The good aKempis said. 
 
 Then love alone doth consecrate 
 The work of hand and head. 
 
 Who lives for love, lives not in vain, 
 Nor barren grows with age ; 
 
 But makes the world's wide desert path, 
 A holy pilgrimage. 
 
 His life new beauties will reveal, 
 And raptures swell his breast. 
 
 And love shall be his recompense, 
 And God shall be his rest. 
 
A WREAIH OF SO.\'(i. 
 
 BATH KOL. 
 
 TO the ancient seer and prophet, 
 Of the dreary long ago, 
 Came the voice of inspiration, 
 Softly as the fall of snow, 
 As the echo of a whisper, 
 
 And it made their hearts rejoice; 
 So they called the silent oracle, 
 "The Daughter of a Voice. " 
 
 Seer, and prophet both have perish'd. 
 
 Both have mingled with the dust; 
 Creed, and system too have vanished; 
 
 What seemed gold was only rust; 
 Smoke and incense from the altar, 
 
 Faded in the silent air; 
 Fallen are the walls of temple, 
 
 Lost the ritual and the prayer. 
 
 What is left? I see thou art doubting, 
 And thy mind is sore distress'd; 
 
 Truth is left, and the Great Spirit; 
 
 So have faith, and so find rest; 
 
 Truth remains, and God remains 
 Everlasting; make thy choice, 
 
 'Twixt the ritual and it's letter. 
 And "The Daughter of a Voice." 
 
84 __ _ A'WREA'IH OF SONG. 
 
 WHEN I AM DEAD. 
 
 WHEN I am dead, Oh let me sleep, 
 [n some secluded spot, 
 Where toil and strife are never heard; 
 Bnt I would not be forgot. 
 
 T love the hill-side where the sun, 
 Of spring first melts the snow. 
 
 And 'neath its friendly turf would sleep 
 Where the earliest violets blow. 
 
 And if ye mourn, and seek my grave;, 
 Come with the twilight hours. 
 
 While dew-drops sparkle on the grass. 
 And deck it fair with flowers. 
 
A WREATH Of SONG. 85 
 
 A LEGEND OF ISSA. 
 
 THE Temple of old to the ground was raz'd. 
 And its golden vessels borne away, 
 So a legend runs; and those who prais'd 
 
 Their God therein had ceas'd to pray. 
 To the Holy Issa, therefore, they came, 
 
 And begged him to tell them how or where. 
 They might call upon the Father's name, 
 And gain His pity in their despair. 
 
 The prophet heard and calmly spoke: — 
 
 "The heart is the temple of our God, 
 And naught to Him is the altar's smoke, 
 
 Or the ground where the chanting priest hath 
 trod. 
 He see!:s the incense of holy thought. 
 
 The service of hands and feet and eyes, 
 Nor hides His face whenever sought, 
 
 In the humble spirit of sacrifice.'' 
 
86 A MREAIH OF SONG 
 
 DOUBT AND DOGMA. 
 
 OFT we're driven by onr passions, 
 Wounded time and time again 
 But the blight of doubt and dogma, 
 Kills the little life of men. 
 
.'/ WKEAIH OF SONG. 87 
 
 MY NEIGHBOR AND I. 
 
 MY neighbor sees not as I see, 
 Nor as I think, thinks he; 
 Had he my eye, had he my thought. 
 We'd act in unity. 
 
 My neighbor lives not as I live; 
 
 I blame him, he blames me; 
 It would become us both to have 
 
 More love and charity. 
 
 If I were he, and he were I 
 The world would be the same; 
 
 If both of us were better men. 
 The world's would be the gain. 
 
 If both of us were just as like 
 
 As two peas in a pod, 
 We would offend each other more 
 
 Than both offend our God. 
 
 'Tis well, perhaps, we differ then, 
 
 In creed and piety; 
 One of a kind is sure enough, 
 
 And makes variety. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 COULD I. 
 
 COULD I but rule the fearful fates, 
 My dear, you would not sigh; 
 A joy would spread your pensive face, 
 New lustre light your eye. 
 
 Could I to thee a word impart. 
 So low that none could hear, 
 
 The sky's red tint at early dawn 
 Would in your face appear. 
 
 Could I a single kiss imprint, 
 
 Upon your lips so rare. 
 The gods might curse me for the deed, 
 
 But still I would not care. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. 89 
 
 I CANNOT. 
 
 I cannot dream of thee by niglit, 
 Nor think of thee by day; 
 
 Nor feel thy absence in my breast, 
 When thou art far away. 
 
 I cannot see thy many charms, 
 Though others praise thee much; 
 
 I see no light within thy eye, 
 Nor thrill at thy soft touch. 
 
 I cannot pity thy sad fate, 
 That thou must walk alone; 
 
 Thy path and mine lie wide apart. 
 And I would keep my own. 
 
^o ^^ WREAIH OF SONG. 
 
 TRUE MEN. 
 
 THERE are true men, and false men, 
 The humble and the high; 
 There are timid men, and brave men, 
 
 And men we magnify. 
 There are little men. and great men, 
 
 And men beyond our praise — 
 Bloody men, barbaric men 
 
 Disguised in Christian waj^s; 
 But of all the men, the true men, 
 
 Our eyes delight to scan. 
 For true men are always men 
 Who honor do to MAN. 
 
A W RE AIM OF SONG. 
 
 AT SAN JUAN 
 
 91 
 
 AT San Juan young Capron fell, 
 As R(3osevelt led his Riders bold; 
 The line press'd forward toward the foe, 
 And the hero's heart grew cold. 
 
 Up San Juan the Regulars came; 
 
 They came with zeal and fire and joy; 
 The father saw young Capron's face, 
 
 And he said, "Well done, my boy!"' 
 
92 A WREA'IH OF SONG. 
 
 THE FIRST INSPIRATION. 
 
 AT some hour in the distant time, 
 There cross'd the precincts of our kind, 
 A vision of the heavenly clime, 
 
 Which rapture chain'd the brutish mind, 
 And raised the race from savage state, 
 
 And led man to the paths of love, 
 That he in deeds might imitate 
 The deeds of angels up above. 
 
A WREATH OF SONG. ^3 
 
 FAILURE'S RECOMPENSE. 
 
 HE had victory after victory, 
 Success upon success, 
 And flatterers and flattery. 
 And envy to excess. 
 
 At last he was defeated, 
 
 Which none could comprehend. 
 Then the flatterers retreated. 
 
 But he found the faithful friend. 
 
TOMMY. 
 
 95 
 
96 A WREATH OF SONG. 
 
 TOMMY 
 
 YONDER is Tommy out in the street, 
 His home is a hell that's his retreat. 
 His face is dirty, his toes are out, 
 And his elbows peek through his roundabout. 
 He gnaws an apple like a dog a bone, 
 While his little right hand contains a stone; 
 His big brown eyes are bent askance. 
 For Tommy's a brick in the street parlance. 
 There's a battle on and Tommy's alert 
 For a sight of the boy in a crimson shirt, — 
 He's hid in the alley behind the fence. 
 Firing his volleys of impudence. 
 It is four o'clock and still I ween, 
 He is fighting battle seventeen, 
 And ere the curfew rings him in 
 He'll have forty bruises from brow to sh'n. 
 Such is his life from day to day, 
 Fun and frolic, but many a fray; 
 For harder is youth than after life, — 
 E'en its play is labor, its pastime strife. 
 In Tommy's world there is no law, 
 But force and fist and tongue and claw. 
 The savage and the barbaric blood, 
 Pour through his veins with a restless floid, 
 Through brain and sinew and heart and limb, 
 For the kingdom of God is not in him. 
 
A WREAIH OF SONG. 97 
 
 See him standing so dauntless there, 
 With his head erect and his savage air, — 
 I admire him more deeply in my heart 
 Than I do a Caesar or Bonaparte; 
 For manhood's cares would not annoy, 
 Had I the strong heart of this boy, 
 Or half of his native hardihood, 
 Or the splendid iron of his blood. 
 
 As I watch this urchin he moves my heart, 
 
 And I feel a silent tear upstart. 
 
 As I think of his lot, how hard it is. 
 
 And that mine was once as hard as his; 
 
 For in Tommy's world there is no law, 
 
 But force and fist and tongue and claw. 
 
 But the years our fancies oft expand. 
 
 To picture our youth a fairy-land. 
 
 But our backward, backward turn again. 
 
 Is only a foolish prayer of men; 
 
 For of all times youth has the greatest care, 
 
 Which youth alone has the strength to bear. 
 
 This lad is a brick, and the whole of the town, 
 
 Use force and passion to keep him down. 
 
 He is kicked from vineyard and apple tree 
 
 To teach him the rights of property. 
 
 "Move along quickly and out of the way, 
 
 You little scoundrel," I hear them say. 
 
 "Out of the street with your ball and bat, 
 
 Mrs. has headache," or this, or that. 
 
 "Come big Blue Coat and run him in, 
 
 He has stolen an orange, that is his sin." 
 
98 A WJ^EA TH OF SONG. 
 
 "Send him to prison, that is our wish, — 
 Our nets were woven for little fish." 
 
 Both cuffed and kicked my little man, 
 They'll make you a criminal if they can. 
 They were never children, never boys. 
 And that is the reason your life annoys. 
 May. God pity them, and pity me, 
 In the day that I lack sympathy. 
 For this friendless boy in his roundabout, 
 With his dirty face and his elbows out. 
 
JAN "' ^SU9 
 
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