^BHII^ M:i)GOLM TyiLSO?] 
 
Class 
 
 BookX 
 
 3.^4.^ 
 
 Copyright ]J^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 POEMS 
 
 -BY- 
 
 IBBIE McCOLM WILSON 
 
 Copyright, 1909 
 By OLIVER H. MILLER 
 
 LEWIS-WALLACE PRINTING COMPANY 
 DES MOINES. IOWA 
 
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 V)^^ 
 
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 gCU253869 
 
Preface 
 
 As a memorial to the dear departed, more 
 enduring than a monument of stone, the poet's 
 pen-thoughts expressed in this miscellaneous 
 collection, are published for the benefit and 
 appreciation of the many friends and rela- 
 tives of the author and her sister. 
 
 Born of Scotch-Irish parentage and tracing 
 ancestry back to one Lord Burke, Ibbie McColm 
 Wilson first smiled upon this world on Feb- 
 ruary 18, 1834, in Baltimore, Maryland. Spend- 
 ing her childhood and young womanhood there, 
 she enjoyed the advantages of the educational 
 institutions of that city, becoming a proficient 
 English scholar and later a skilled student and 
 translator of German, Latin, Greek and Hebrew. 
 She spent several years teaching in the schools 
 of Maryland and Pennsylvania and in 1858 went 
 to Iowa, teaching several years in Johnson, 
 Iowa and Benton counties. The family remov- 
 ing to Cleveland, Ohio, in 1863, she remained 
 eight or nine years there, after which she spent 
 some time in Iowa with her sister, and in 
 1876, after returning to Baltimore, was married 
 to Col. Thomas J. Wilson. He was engaged in 
 the publishing business, and she became his 
 assistant. They lived very happily together 
 for nine or ten years, when their happiness was 
 
iv Preface 
 
 shattered by the death of Col. Wilson. Upon 
 the death of Col. Wilson, she took up the work 
 which he laid down. Besides being engaged in 
 the work of translating, Mrs. Wilson was em- 
 ployed by the Baltimore Sun and the Maryland 
 Journal and other newspapers, and also con- 
 tributed articles to the leading magazines. Most 
 of her work, however, has not been preservea, 
 though she published one book entitled ''The 
 Fate of the Leaf." In 1892, Mrs. Wilson went 
 to Europe where she spent about a year visit- 
 ing the principal cities and points of historical 
 interest in Great Britain and on the continent. 
 Returning to America, a couple of years were 
 spent in New York City engaged in the same 
 work as she had been in Baltimore, after which 
 she returned to the city of her birth, to which, 
 in 1905, she bid adieu and went to Iowa. At 
 the home of her only sister, Mrs. Mary Louise 
 Miller, in the village of Oxford, holding daily 
 communion with the birds and trees and flow- 
 ers and the other beauties of nature which she 
 so greatly loved, Ibbie McColm Wilson spent 
 the remaining days of her life, dying May 8, 
 1908. 
 
Index 
 
 Page 
 Address to Oratorio Society of Baltimore ... .119 
 
 All Hail 125 
 
 An Invitation 67 
 
 An Invitation to Thanksgiving Dinner 47 
 
 A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 134 
 
 A Valentine 89 
 
 Bachelor Girl, The 124 
 
 Beeing 173 
 
 Bereaved 71 
 
 Birthday Greeting 79 
 
 Bracket Bird's Carol, The 37 
 
 Burning the Slough 146 
 
 Castle Dorn 143 
 
 Charity of Beauty, The 164 
 
 Christmas Bells 40 
 
 Christ Is Born, The . 52 
 
 Coming King, The 110 
 
 Coming Men, The 75 
 
 Difference, The 58 
 
 Descent from the Cross, The 97 
 
 Fannie's Feelings 33 
 
 Farewell 129 
 
 Fresh Wine 96 
 
 Grandfather Monkey 68 
 
 Grape Unique, The 18 
 
 Hope Embalmed 74 
 
 If He Were He 50 
 
 "I'm a Cripple" 57 
 
 In the Manger 78 
 
 Judge's Case, The 69 
 
 Last Amen, The 77 
 
 Merry Christmas 35 
 
 Month s of the Year, The 83 
 
vi Index 
 
 Page 
 
 Mud-Sill Melodies — No. 1 87 
 
 Mud-Sill Melodies — No. 2 90 
 
 Naug-hty Newsboys 31 
 
 Night of Life, The 45 
 
 Numbers 130 
 
 Ode for the Laying of a Cornerstone 38 
 
 Ode to Ella 142 
 
 Once More 117 
 
 Old Year's Burial, The 98 
 
 Oysterman's Daughter, The 20 
 
 Paraphrase of a Portion of 42d Psalm 139 
 
 Peace on Earth 93 
 
 Pellegrina Pondinella 70 
 
 Phantom Foresters, The • 25 
 
 Plaint of the Corpse, The 28 
 
 "Please Help the Blind" 49 
 
 Prayer 68 
 
 Prayer Book, The 128 
 
 Resting River, The 43 
 
 River-King, The 72 
 
 Saint Brendan's Vision 1 
 
 Saint John Baptist 141 
 
 Sentinel of the Ages, The 60 
 
 Shadow Solo, The 42 
 
 Shema Yisrael 133 
 
 Ship of Fate, The 114 
 
 Sir Pilgrim 108 
 
 Spiritus Ignis 5 
 
 Tekos (The Tramp) 65 
 
 Temples of the Lord, The .131 
 
 The Bachelor Girl 124 
 
 The Bracket Bird's Carol 37 
 
 The Charity of Beauty 167 
 
 The Christ is Born 52 
 
 The Coming King 110 
 
 The Coming Men 75 
 
 The Difference ;...,....... 58 
 
 The Descent from the Cross. ..... '.*. .aijox., . . 97 
 
 The Grape Unique . ,'yt':;r;. . . . 18 
 
 The Judge's Case u v. :.';it. .;.. . .... 69 
 
Index 
 
 Vll 
 
 Pag-e 
 
 The Last Amen 77 
 
 The Months of the Year 83 
 
 The Night of Life 45 
 
 The Old Year's Burial 98 
 
 The Oysterman's Daughter 20 
 
 The Phantom Foresters 25 
 
 The Plaint of the Corpse 28 
 
 The Prayer Book 128 
 
 The Resting- River 43 
 
 The River-King 72 
 
 The Sentinel of the Ages 60 
 
 The Shadow^ Solo 42 
 
 The Ship of Fate 114 
 
 The Temples of the Lord 131 
 
 The Viking's Burial 80 
 
 Thorns 155 
 
 To Hattie 12 
 
 Tribute from His Pupil and Friend, A 134 
 
 Valentine, A 89 
 
 Viking's Burial, The 80 
 
 What Do They Think? 76 
 
 Who Knows Why? 79 
 
 Women Versus Men 54 
 
 irram iaya 
 
 Beeing 173 
 
 Burning the Slough 146 
 
 Castle Dorn 143 
 
 Charity of Beauty, The .164 
 
 Thorns 155 
 
The good Saint Brendan sailed away. 
 Before the wintry breeze, 
 To carry forth the Faith he loved, 
 Across the northern seas. 
 
 The wild waves beat upon kis boat; 
 
 Keen grew the winds, and shrill; 
 The long, long weary nights were dark; 
 
 Yet naught he feared of ill. 
 
 "For Angels seek these solemn seas. 
 
 At Christmastide," said he, 
 "To celebrate, on earth, with us. 
 
 Our Lord's Nativity. 
 
 "Then, through each iceberg's jewelled halls. 
 
 Their heavenly music rings; 
 And even now, descends the down 
 
 From their swift-gathering wings." 
 
 Yet, all in bitter storm and gloom. 
 
 Had passed the Festal Day; 
 And in the sobbing surge, at night. 
 
 Saint Brendan's vessel lay. 
 
Saint Brendan's Vision 
 
 Alone, he paced the icy deck, 
 
 Absorbed in thoughful prayer; 
 When, suddenly, a pallid light 
 
 Illumed the frosty air. 
 
 Saint Brendan lifted up his eyes, 
 
 To see what this might be; 
 And, high among the rifting clouds, 
 
 The Moon plunged, helplessly. 
 
 But as, at length, his gaze returned 
 
 From wandering in the skies, 
 A Vision strange, and full of dread. 
 
 Met his affrighted eyes. 
 
 For, close athwart his vessel's prow. 
 
 An Iceberg whitely gleamed, 
 While, dark, upon its towering crest, 
 
 A Human Form there seemed. 
 
 With steady stare Saint Brendan scanned 
 
 That fearful Figure o'er; 
 Then shrieked a Name, with such a shriek 
 
 As drowned the Ocean's roar. 
 
 "Yes! I am He — Iscariot! — 
 
 Whom all men justly scorn; 
 And I shall always curse the day 
 
 That ever I was born. 
 
 "Although — sometimes — when crazed by pain, 
 
 I say it must be true 
 That Christ will pardon gain for All 
 
 Who know not what they do." 
 
Saint Brendan's Vision 
 
 "But, Judas! is this Place thine own? 
 
 Declare, if thou mayst tell," — 
 Saint Brendan cried, "for men believe 
 
 That thou art doomed in Hell." 
 
 "Ah! — Men should know that Hell must be, 
 
 Wherever dwells Despair; — 
 Yes, — where Its fires most fiercely rage. 
 
 The Traitor's place is there." 
 
 "But canst thou wander thence, at will? 
 
 Or how didst thou escape?" 
 "My wondrous Story hear me tell," 
 
 Replied the shuddering Shape. 
 
 "One Christmas morning, as in drench 
 
 Of seething pitch I lay, 
 An Angel touched me on the arm, 
 
 And bore my Soul away. 
 
 "To cool, amid the Arctic seas, 
 
 The Fires my Form within, — 
 Though not to dim the quenchless Flame 
 
 Of my remembered Sin. 
 
 "When freezing winds had cooled my breath, 
 
 Some syllables to frame, 
 I, stammering, asKed my shining Guide, 
 
 Why unto me he came. 
 
 "What need to tell? The Lord declared,— 
 And, surely, thou must know, — 
 
 That no small Cup of Charity 
 Can unrewarded go. 
 
Saint Brendan's Vision 
 
 " 'A Leper, once, in Jot)pa's streets, 
 Was struggling with the blast, 
 
 And thou about his shoulders bare, 
 Thy sheltering mantle cast. 
 
 " "Twas I: and that thy kindly deed 
 
 Requital may obtain, 
 The Holy One, upon this Day, 
 
 Bids me assuage thy pain.' 
 
 "So, every Christmas morn, to me 
 This Spirit, hastening, hies — 
 
 I feel the cooling of his wings, 
 Before I meet his eyes, 
 
 "Filled with such sympathy as makes 
 Contempt of Fiends and Men 
 
 Less terrible for me to bear 
 Until he comes again." 
 
 'Twas Midnight — with a thundering crash 
 
 The Iceberg rent in twain; 
 And with the Traitor's weight of guilt, 
 
 Sank down beneath the Main. 
 
 Saint Brendan bowed his reverent head, 
 
 And fell on bended knee: 
 "Oh, Thanks be unto God," he said, 
 
 "For Blessed Charity." 
 
Spiritus Ignis ' 5 
 
 (The Spirit of the Fire) 
 
 Weary, I sat before my chamber fire, 
 Once when the gathering shades of evening fell; 
 Without, there raged the rain's incessant roar, 
 The surly tempest's angry, fitful swell. 
 
 Sadly I mused o'er all my futile plans. 
 Illusive hopes, and efforts only vain; 
 The ceaseless toil of dreary human life. 
 In certainty of loss, and doubt of gain. 
 
 "Wherefore," I said, "this weary, endless moil. 
 With early rising, and but tardy rest? 
 It mocks the soul with utter nothingness: — 
 If all were nothing, surely this were best." 
 
 "Mortal, forbear," an unknown voice replied, 
 "Thy hopeless doubt, thy bitter, baseless blame. 
 Betray alone thy hapless ignorance, 
 Or littleness, by far the greater shame." 
 
 Distant the sound, like toll of solemn bells 
 Across the depths of some vast, silent sea; 
 Yet sweet and clear its gentle cadence fell, 
 As mountain-bugle's echoed melody. 
 
 Parting the spires of ruddy, purple flame 
 A dusky Form arose; then bending, bowed; 
 With both hands resting on his staff he stood; 
 His ashen robes fell round him like a shroud. 
 
6 Spiritus Ignis 
 
 Hoary his scanty locks and flowing beard; 
 His broad, bare brow a fitting temple seemed 
 For wisdom, might, and majesty serene; 
 Like lightning-points his keen eyes glittering 
 gleamed. 
 
 "Spirit of primal Fire," — he said — "am I; 
 Of all created beings I was first; 
 First form of potent, universal Life 
 That ever on astonished chaos burst. 
 
 "Forth from the opened palm of Deity 
 Into the vast abysmal void I sprang; 
 I leaped, I plunged, I reeled, I whirled, I rolled; 
 And far through space my joyous birth-song 
 rang. 
 
 "Blazing, for ages on and on I sped. 
 Rejoicing in the glorious heat and light 
 I blindly thought eternal since, alas! 
 I've been the wretched thrall of cold, dark 
 Night. 
 
 "Slowly my radiant sphere grew chill and dim, 
 
 And through it elemental strife arose, 
 
 As quickened atoms claimed affinities, 
 
 And fought or fled, arrayed as deadly foes. 
 
 "Vapors ascend and, falling back in rains, 
 Hiss from the molten rocks in clouds of steam; 
 Storms fiercely rage, and horrid thunders roll; 
 Amid the gloom terrific lightnings gleam. 
 
Spiritus Ignis 7 
 
 "Shuddered the new-made Earth, asunder rent, 
 And I bemoaned creation all undone. 
 But, lo! the shoreless ocean rolled around; 
 Creation's work was scarcely yet begun. 
 
 "Dreary, and dull, and dense, and desolate, 
 The vacant waters idly swirled and swayed 
 Through sterile ages of monotony: — 
 I marvelled o'er a world so vainly made. 
 
 "Convulsed at length, the surges throb and 
 
 seethe; 
 The rocks beneath, in mighty fragments rent, 
 Rush quaking from their places, and amain, 
 Piling their masses, scale the firmament. 
 
 "Perching on lonely peaks of granite bare 
 I whiled the hours of many a cyclic day, 
 Watching the Land wrest empire from the Sea, 
 And each new gain by torrents swept away. 
 
 "Watching the phases of Silurian Life 
 Wherewith successively the waters teem, 
 Till Earth expands her rocky, fiery jaws. 
 And swift they vanish as a baseless dream. 
 
 "Building vast systems only to destroy 
 Seemed Nature's aim and object; — nothing 
 
 more: — 
 Until I late perceived that each new age 
 Ranked higher than the one that went before. 
 
 "Nobler its forms, their larger faculties, 
 Surely, though by gradations slow, ascend. 
 The growing Earth superior uses served: 
 Nature was working for some special end. 
 
8 Spiritus Ignis 
 
 "Basking extended on a torrid beach, 
 
 In languid torpor, idly then I lay: 
 
 In listless wonder what would next befall 
 
 I slowly dreamed the lengthened hours away. 
 
 "Sudden and swift a pulse of unknown life 
 Its ecstasy through all my being thrilled; 
 New forces to its depths my hature stirred, 
 With strange and untried powers my soul was 
 filled. 
 
 "Clutching the sands with frightened, frantic 
 
 grasp, 
 My lengthening limbs I firmly fastened there; 
 Then sprang aloft in lustrous verdure clothed, 
 And stood a giant forest in mid-air. 
 
 "Proudly I swelled each rugged, bulky bole, 
 And far abroad its branching arms outspread, 
 As through the sunshine and the shadowy mists, 
 Grandly upreared each lofty, verdant head. 
 
 "Breathing perennial airs of softest balm. 
 Once more resorbing heat and light devine, 
 I bathed my waving fronds in showers and dews, 
 I drank my fill of deadly carbcn-wine. 
 
 "Breezes sang softly; mad winds wildly raved; 
 Waves lapsed along the shores in melody; 
 With various life the tepid marshes swarmed; 
 Strange Saurian monsters came to claim the 
 
Spiritus Ignis 9 
 
 "Smiling above me stretched cerulean skies; 
 And back to them an answering smile I sent. 
 I now discerned the aim of Nature's plan, 
 And spent an aeon of supreme content. 
 
 "Worthy, I saw, this glorious result; 
 
 This grand expanse of ocean, earth, and air, 
 
 Of all the effort and delay required 
 
 To found a world so populous and fair. 
 
 "Planning for this, I saw, had Nature toiled; 
 For this her works destroyed and fashioned 
 
 o'er; 
 I saw — Alas! I saw the heavens depart; 
 Slowly I sank submerged, and saw no more. 
 
 "Buried in beds of mud, and silt, and slime, 
 With gasping, writhing myriads then I lay; 
 And hardening in stony, black despair, 
 Helpless, I moaned the hopeless years away. 
 
 "I heard the seas above me thundering roll; 
 I felt the solid rocks vibrate below. 
 And ice, relentless, grind Earth's growth away, 
 For ages more, what passed I could not know. 
 
 "Naught cared I now for what might else befall: 
 Whatever happened, this to me was plain: — 
 Though all of Nature's plans might not be 
 
 foiled, 
 I was a failure: I was made in vain. 
 
1 Spiritus Ignis 
 
 "Forces beneath me rising then once more 
 Restored me to the light of Heaven again, 
 To a fresh world of wondrous loveliness, 
 Peopled with mighty beasts, and lordly men. 
 
 "Roused from the slumbers of the dismal past. 
 Entranced, upon the scene I tireless gaze; 
 Each new display of Nature's fertile powers 
 Absorbs me with a new and glad amaze. 
 
 "Wiser I'd grown and waited calmly now 
 The coming of each subsequent event, 
 'inough cold, and dark, and seeming dead I lay, 
 I rested patient in assured content. 
 
 "Hammers and picks could give me no alarm ; 
 The blasting filled me with delirious joy, 
 Without a fear of what my fate might be 
 I yielded to the powers mankind employ. 
 
 "Wielding o'er earth the forces of the skies. 
 The delegated sway of Deity, 
 Man breaks the cruel spells of Night and Death, 
 And sets the Spirit of their captive free. 
 
 "Blindly he yet ignores his lofty powers, — 
 The greatness of his destined high estate, — 
 Sits and bewails his momentary ills, 
 And rails in impious haste against his fate. 
 
 "Timid, he quails before each mimic storm ; 
 Of every good deplores the needful cost; 
 And when his cherished hopes in ruins lie. 
 Thinks all the good of life forever lost. 
 
Spiritus Ignis 1 1 
 
 "Grateful to you for liberty regained, 
 A tribute back I fain would seek to bring: 
 My warmth and brightness gladly I diffuse, 
 And as a warning my strange story sing. 
 
 "Courage, despondent Man! and wisdom, too. 
 From my experience you at least may gain; 
 And if my blunders lead your steps aright, 
 I shall not then have blundered all in vain. 
 
 "Patient abide, through good or evil days; 
 Work willingly; serenely, calmly wait; 
 Sure that each ruined era but evolves 
 The basis of a higher, nobler state. 
 
 "Back to the stars again, I now must speed, 
 Another course of usefulness to run 
 What comes to me henceforth I'll trust is good. 
 Farewell! To-night my earthly work is done." 
 
 Snapping his golden girdle's jeweled clasp, 
 He dropped his dusky robe and mantle grey. 
 A blinding flash of flame shot up on high: 
 Around my hearth the scattered ashes lay. 
 
 Since, though my lot has often been severe, 
 I've better borne its weight of care and pain; 
 I, working, wait and trustful hope the while 
 That every loss will bring some better gain. 
 
 I see the Spirit's Form in every fire. 
 
 His lessons in my memory remain: 
 
 A cheering warmth my aching heart pervades; 
 
 A light still lingers in my weary brain. 
 
12 To Hattie 
 
 ®fl l^atti^ 
 
 I have r.ead the simple legend 
 
 Read the "Song of Hiawatha": — 
 
 Read of Hiawatha's prowess, 
 
 Of his wonderful achievements 
 
 In a cause so patriotic 
 
 As the progress of his people. 
 
 Read the story of his childhood, 
 
 Of his childhood wild and lonely. 
 
 With no friends but good Nokomis 
 
 And the boaster, old lagoo; 
 
 Or at least none that we read of 
 
 Though I think it not unlikely 
 
 That the children of the village 
 
 Sometimes shared his sports and pleasures. 
 
 Of his intercourse with Nature, 
 
 Very beautiful and touching 
 
 In simplicity and pathos. 
 
 Of his growing up to manhood 
 
 His mad visit to his father. 
 
 To the West Wind, Mudjekeewis; 
 
 Of his change of disposition 
 
 Consequent upon that visit. 
 
 Read of how he prayed and fasted 
 
 Seven whole days and nights successive; 
 
 Of his struggle with Mondamin, 
 
 With the lovely youth Mondamin, — 
 
 Never was a youth more charming 
 
 Than this green and gold Mondamin. 
 
 I have read too of his friendships. 
 
To Hattie 13 
 
 Frindships true, and strong, and lasting 
 
 Such as well deserved that title: — 
 
 And in this thing if no other 
 
 Let us hope that many people 
 
 More refined and more enlightened 
 
 May resemble Hiawatha 
 
 Imitate this noble savage. 
 
 I read also of his sailing 
 
 Of his sailing and his fishing. 
 
 And his conflict with Pearl-Father, 
 
 With the god of Wealth and Wampum: — 
 
 Wondrous tales, but very childish, 
 
 They remind me of the stories 
 
 That amused me in my childhood 
 
 Of the famed Sinbad the Sailor, 
 
 And of Jack the Giant Killer. 
 
 Then his expeditious wooing 
 
 Of the maiden Laughing Water, 
 
 And her very prompt acceptance 
 
 Of his gift and his addresses. 
 
 Then of Hiawatha's wedding 
 
 And the comical assemblage 
 
 Met to grace the grand occasion. 
 
 And the various expedients 
 
 That Nokomis had recourse to, 
 
 To "kill time" as we would have it 
 
 And to make her guests "contented:" 
 
 And I wondered as I read it 
 
 If it commonly requires 
 
 Such exertion of the hostess 
 
 That the guests may be — "contented:'' 
 
 But I fear that I will tire you 
 
14 To Haiti e 
 
 With my prosing and reflections, 
 
 Yet I can't forbear to mention 
 
 The queer story of lagoo, 
 
 To remind you of Osseo 
 
 Of the ugly old Osseo 
 
 Who though ugly and decrepit 
 
 Had a soul of fairest beauty 
 
 Had a soul of brightest lustre 
 
 Had a heart so pure and lovely 
 
 That it took my own a captive 
 
 Took my own a willing captive 
 
 And I thanked the old lagoo 
 
 For the story of Osseo. 
 
 But you asked for my opinion 
 
 On the merits of the legend, 
 
 On the merits of the author 
 
 Of the "Song of Hiawatha" 
 
 And I promised I would give it 
 
 So now that I have read it 
 
 Have read every chapter in it 
 
 I would fain redeem my promise 
 
 And would tell you that I like it: — 
 
 Like the wild and simple story 
 
 With the freshness of the morning 
 
 With the dewdrops bright upon it, 
 
 With the fragrance of sweet flowers. 
 
 With the shadow and the sunshine, 
 
 With the mellow notes of birdlings, 
 
 And the sighing through the branches 
 
 Of the gentle winds of summer. 
 
 Or the howling of the tempest 
 
 On the cold dark nights of winter; 
 
To Hattie 15 
 
 Or the majesty of thunder, 
 
 Or the dashing of the waters, 
 
 Or the glory of the sunset 
 
 Of the moon, the stars, the night-time, 
 
 With the beauties of all Nature 
 
 Shining on each page resplendent. 
 
 Yes, I like the childlike story 
 
 And I like the author of it; 
 
 No, I more than like the poet, 
 
 Who could write a "Hiawatha": 
 
 For the breathing of his music 
 
 As it floats along the heart-lyre 
 
 Finds an echo on the heart strings 
 
 That will linger wnile a heart string 
 
 Shall be left to thrill responsive: 
 
 For his sweet melodious numbers 
 
 In harmonious cadence swelling 
 
 Like the rushing of a river 
 
 Or the heave of mighty ocean 
 
 Stir up all the soul within me 
 
 Waken all my better feelings 
 
 Waken "longings, yearnings, strivings" 
 
 For the beautiful and holy 
 
 Of the "Here and the Hereafter," 
 
 He abounds in truthful feeling, 
 
 And in simile poetic, 
 
 Has a rich imagination 
 
 And a quick and keen perception 
 
 Of all beauties seen and hidden. 
 
 Points that always strike my fancy 
 
 And particularly charm me; 
 
 And it is in these things chiefly 
 
16 To Hattie 
 
 That I think our pleasing poet 
 Most excels and most delights us. 
 But my sad fault-finding nature 
 Ever whispers to my judgment 
 " 'Tis imperfect, 'tis imperfect, 
 Write on all things 'Imperfection.' " 
 Therefore do I find objections 
 Find some very strong objections 
 To this "Song of Hiawatha;" 
 And I marvel much that writers 
 Men of learning, men of talent, 
 Will not give us books whose contents 
 We may read aloud to others. 
 
 Do you ever long for freedom 
 Prom the shackles and the trammels 
 Of our life so cold and formal? 
 Long to be a child of Nature 
 And to live with Nature's children 
 ■ Live the wild life of the Indian? 
 Long to wander through the forest, 
 Long to climb the rugged mountain 
 Or descending to the valley 
 There to trace the shining river 
 And to float upon its waters 
 With a heart as free and happy ' 
 Free from care, and glad and joyous 
 As the wild-bird's song of pleasure; 
 As the gushing, leaping, dancing 
 Of the merry mountain streamlet? 
 I do sometimes, for a moment 
 But I very soon remember 
 That this life of careless roaming 
 
To Hattie 1? 
 
 That this life of idle dreaming 
 Would deprive me of my book-friends 
 Of the necessary presence 
 Of my wise and good companions 
 Who so kindly soothe and cheer me 
 When my heart is sad and lonely. 
 Then ashamed of my impatience 
 I confess myself an ingrate 
 And I still my heart's complaining 
 With the thought that soon at farthest 
 God will send the kind Death-Angel 
 To unbar my soul's dark prison, 
 To unbind its fettered pinions, 
 And to bid the trembling captive 
 Soar away into the regions 
 Of the glorious "Hereafter." 
 
 Asking many thousand pardons 
 Of yourself and of the poet — 
 Of the poet for the freedom 
 I have taken with his verses. 
 And for having played so poorly 
 Both the critic and the mimic: — 
 And of you for the intrusion 
 Of my worthless thoughts upon you — 
 Very humbly asking pardon 
 I will send you this, dear Hattie, 
 Laying the command upon you 
 That as soon as you have read it 
 Or before, if it so please you. 
 You will tear it up or burn it 
 Or some otherwise destroy it 
 That I may not be tormented 
 
18 The Grape Unique 
 
 As I always am by thinking 
 That my weak and rude productions, 
 These rough monuments unchisled 
 By the master hand of genius 
 Will perpetuate my follies. 
 
 Pray accept my warmest wishes 
 For your happiness and welfare 
 And believe that I am ever 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 — Ibbie. 
 
 Resplendent globe, 
 
 Whose purple robe 
 Thy royal rank declares, 
 
 With thy rich blood 
 
 In gracious flood 
 What other stream compares? 
 
 Fresh on the vine 
 
 Where tendrils twine 
 Thy perfect form around, 
 
 In bowers of green. 
 
 And silvery sheen, 
 Thy hidden charms are found. 
 
 And when mature, 
 
 Refined and pure, 
 With Nature's force replete, 
 
 For right and wrong 
 
 Thy powers are strong; 
 Thy potencies how sweet! 
 
The Grape Unique 19 
 
 For crimson stains 
 
 Of sins and pains 
 From thy mad pulses flow; 
 
 Thougli golden light, 
 
 Than stars more bright, 
 Beams from thy sacred glow. 
 
 When weak and worn, 
 
 Sad and forlorn, 
 By ruthless Fate distressed, 
 
 Thy festive cheer 
 
 Dispels man's fear. 
 And Hope dilates his breast. 
 
 Poetic fire 
 
 Thou canst inspire 
 To ecstasy sublime; 
 
 Or, to all ill. 
 
 Pervert man's will, 
 And nerve his hand for crime. 
 
 We also trace 
 
 Still higher grace 
 Mysterious One, in thee. 
 
 Channel divine. 
 
 And radiant shrine, 
 Of heavenly energy. 
 
 Potential Thou! 
 
 We know not how. 
 Nor why, thy frame should be 
 
 The chosen cell 
 
 Where deigns to dwell 
 Alminghty Deity. 
 
20 ~ The Oyster man's Daughter 
 
 All — Potency! 
 
 We search for Thee 
 Through Thy dominions wide; 
 
 Then, wondering see 
 
 Infinity 
 In this small sphere abide. 
 
 Yet, Fruit benign, 
 
 Earthborn; divine; 
 Herein lies mystery: 
 
 That foul fiends dare 
 
 Inhabit where 
 Reigns sole Supremacy. 
 
 One other cell 
 
 Exists as well 
 Which God and demons share: 
 
 Weak human Heart, 
 
 Thou, only, art 
 The arbitrator there. 
 
 Angels who fell. 
 
 From heaven to hell, 
 Were doomed, thenceforth, of yore; 
 
 But Man may choose, — 
 
 Regain, or lose, — 
 His Paradise once more. 
 
 Walls of blue steel grew up around 
 
 A floor of leaden sea; 
 A copper coping hung aloft, 
 
 Its baneful canopy; 
 While in the west, the great red sun 
 
 Was sinking heavily. 
 
The Oysterman's Daughter 21 
 
 Where to the southward, far and wide, 
 
 The vision sweeps away, 
 A fleet of oyster-boats, becalmed, 
 
 On the still waters lay; 
 Or, in the distance stood apart. 
 
 As gulls rest on the Bay. 
 
 Yet steadily the boatmen wrought, 
 
 Slow-singing, as they plied 
 The dredges, or tall oyster-tongs, 
 
 And with each other vied 
 In capturing, and lading up. 
 
 The treasures of the tide. 
 
 One little craft there was, alone. 
 
 Where idleness beguiled 
 The sultry hour. A Father, there, 
 
 Held in his arms his Child, 
 Who, in his heart, on darkest day. 
 
 Made sunshine when she smiled. 
 
 Rough and begrimed, externally, 
 
 The Oysterman might be, 
 Yet polished fine, by Nature's grace. 
 
 Inside the shell was he, — 
 Its whiteness flecked with gleaming glints 
 
 Of colors fair to see. 
 
 As for the child that to his heart 
 
 So tenderly he pressed. 
 She was the pearl that ever lay 
 
 Clasped closely on his breast; 
 The treasure by kind Heaven vouchsafed, 
 
 His life to render blest. 
 
22 The Oyster man's Daughter 
 
 They lived alone, among the pines, 
 And barrens wild and bleak, 
 
 Their home a cabin on the shore, 
 Beside a shining creek. 
 
 That, like a serpent, writhing, slid 
 Into the Chesapeake. 
 
 He was not young; and she was all 
 That Fate to him had spared; 
 
 And thought of severance from her 
 To think he never dared. 
 
 He lived to make her happiness, 
 Nor for aught else he cared. 
 
 So, when the brazen, burning glare 
 
 Spread over sky and sea. 
 The Oysterman sat down, and took 
 
 His daughter on his knee. 
 From sense of being motherless 
 
 To keep her spirit free. 
 
 Though gaunt and gray the Oysterman, 
 His voice and eye were mild, 
 
 As with his wonted tenderness 
 He soothed the weary Child, 
 
 With croon of gentle lullaby. 
 Or tale of wonder wild. 
 
 He told her of the gorgeous sights 
 
 In the city far away. 
 And said that she should see them soon, 
 
 When he sailed up the Bay; 
 And promised her abunda;pt store 
 
 Of toys, and fine array. 
 
The Oysterman's Daughter 25 
 
 He kissed the peach-bloom of her cheek; 
 
 He stroked her tawny hair; 
 And pressed her little dimpled hand 
 
 Against his bosom bare. 
 And all his soul with rapture thrilled 
 
 To hold her pillowed there. 
 
 And when her eyelids drooped upon 
 
 His heaven in her eyes, 
 He, dreaming, planned the future bright 
 
 That should her life surprise, 
 And crown him with the love of one 
 
 So good, and fair, and wase. 
 
 Meanwhile, the steeds from Neptune's stalls 
 
 Had left their ocean-play. 
 And in portentous, angry haste 
 
 Came racing up the Bay; 
 Foaming and champing at their bits, 
 
 With roar of muffled neigh. 
 
 With snowy mane, and lashing tail, 
 
 They leap exultingly. 
 And soon awake to tumult wild 
 
 The somber, sullen sea, 
 That all the silent afternoon 
 
 Had slept in treachery. 
 
 The pungy rocked, a curling wave 
 
 Broke over it in spray: 
 Swift, seeking safety for his child. 
 
 The Sailor sprang away, 
 To battle with the elements: 
 
 Nor did he fear the fray. 
 
24 The Oysterman's Daughter 
 
 The air grew black, the thunder crashed. 
 
 Fast blew the fearful gale: — 
 On, on, the little pungy sped 
 
 While yet half-reefed its sail; 
 But of a score of fearful storms 
 
 Its master knew the tale. 
 
 Then fell the night amid the squall; 
 
 Still madly raged the Bay; 
 Whirled by the winds from east and west. 
 
 The boat dashed on its way: — 
 Beaten by turns this way and that, 
 
 On each side half it lay. 
 
 Till, lifted finally, it rose. 
 
 And with successive shocks, 
 It pounded, lodged, and stranded lay 
 
 Among the reefing rocks. 
 With parting seams, and bottom 
 
 Fast moored in Nature's docks. 
 
 When, through each crevice of the deck 
 
 The waters rushed full fast, 
 About his Daughter's fragile form 
 
 His coat the Father cast. 
 And with a rope securely tied, 
 
 He bound her to the mast. 
 
 With thankful heart, the Oysterman 
 
 Prepared his watch to keep. 
 With arm about the Child outstretched 
 
 Standing submerged, knee-deep: 
 And on his shoulder laid her head, 
 
 That she, perchance, might sleep. 
 
The Phantom Foresters 25 
 
 He bade her trust his loving care, 
 
 And never feel a fear, 
 For Angels watched them from the sky, 
 
 And God himself was near, 
 Who would protect her from all harm, 
 
 Since she to Him was dear. 
 
 The tempest spent itself, at last. 
 
 Subsiding peacefully. 
 Half-sped the nignt; the stars came out. 
 
 And spangled all the sea: — 
 The Child was sleeping on the mast. 
 
 Her Father — how fared he? 
 
 Through long, dark hours he calmly stood, 
 Stunned by the wild waves roar; 
 
 Until a drifting log dashed by. 
 Sweeping him on before. — 
 
 A passing steamer carried him. 
 Unconscious, to the shore. 
 
 Swift, with the flush of earliest dawn, 
 
 Across the rippling wave, 
 The Father came, in eager haste. 
 
 His precious Child to save. — 
 Lashed to the fallen mast she lay: 
 
 The blue Bay was her grave. 
 
 Along the low and level shores 
 
 That stretch and curve away 
 
 From mainland, inland, cove, and point 
 
26 The Phantom Foresters 
 
 Adown the wide blue Bay, 
 
 Where sedges nod, and cornfields wave. 
 
 With curb of yellow sands, 
 
 Beneath tall elms and maple shades 
 
 Each neat, quaint homestead stands. 
 
 Amid its orchards spreading wide. 
 
 In bloom of beauteous robes. 
 
 Or slowly storing lucious wealth 
 
 In glowing, downy globes: 
 
 While reaching onward, north and south. 
 
 Across the changeful surge, 
 
 Dim purple glooms of forest bound 
 
 The far horizon's verge. 
 
 But sometimes to the foreground near 
 
 The stealthy \voodlands creep 
 
 As though in heedless moment caught 
 
 By the wild waters' sweep: 
 
 Or lured by music of the waves; 
 
 Or by their rage and roar; 
 
 Or by the cadenced swells that surge 
 
 Across from shore to shore. 
 
 These to the eyes of mariners 
 
 A secret strange unfold. 
 
 Which to the ears of mortal men 
 
 No sprite has ever told. 
 
 For there each voyager that sails 
 
 Across the mystic deep 
 
 Can see the Phantom Foresters 
 
 Their wonted revels keep. 
 
The Phantom Foresters 27 
 
 And where the pine trees' bare brown boles 
 
 The forest spaces show 
 
 The bands of festive Phantom Shades 
 
 Go whirling to and fro. 
 
 Waltzing in mazes slow or swift, 
 
 As ebbs or flows the sea, 
 
 They never for an instant pause 
 
 In their weird revelry. 
 
 To every beat of booming wave 
 
 That strikes the wearied shore 
 
 The lithe forms sway in willowy grace 
 
 Across the forest floor: 
 
 In measures true to wavelets play 
 
 Among the whispering sands, 
 
 Or to the rush of frantic tides 
 
 That desolate the lands. 
 
 They wait not for the dusky night, 
 Nor for the moon's dim ray, 
 But solemnly disport themselves 
 Throughout the sunlit day. 
 And every snowy sail that speeds 
 Before the urgent breeze 
 May sight the Phantom Foresters 
 Gliding among the trees. 
 
 Yet sail or steamer may not stop 
 
 The pinelands to explore 
 
 For them the Vision fades away, 
 
 And will return no more 
 
 Until the travlers, again. 
 
 Set sail upon the Bay, 
 
 When every sportive Forester 
 
 Resumes the dance, straightway. 
 
28 The Plaint of the Corpse 
 
 Then say not folk of fairy lore 
 On earth no longer dwell; 
 All voyagers adown the Bay 
 For other tales can tell. 
 Yet question not; Bay shores are fair 
 As fairy realms could be: — 
 With senses of his own to trust, 
 Who doubts may go and see. 
 
 With senses that can not be feeling, 
 
 Though like them in some sort of way, 
 I am able to see without vision, 
 
 To hear all the sounds of the day, 
 And to know what occurs to the Figure 
 
 Of frozen inanimate clay 
 Which once was Myself, and yet whether, 
 
 Though close to it somewhere I stay, 
 I now am without or within it, 
 
 I am not at all able to say. 
 
 I know that this Figure is lying, 
 
 Pent up in its close narrow bed. 
 With a very poor sort of a pillow 
 
 Beneath its indifferent head. 
 That it has not a pang left cf hunger, 
 
 Although it was never well fed, 
 Not an ache, nor a pain, nor discomfort 
 
 Despite the wild life it has led. 
 But while it jolts over the cobbles. 
 
The Plaint of the Corpse 29 
 
 As slowly the hearse horses tread, 
 I must be excused that I wonder 
 If this is the way to be dead. 
 
 I thought that the dead were unconscious: 
 
 That when my quick pulses should rest, 
 When my weak brain should cease its commo- 
 tion. 
 
 And the poor heart grow still in my breast, 
 There would be nothing left but my Body: 
 
 That not the most vigilant quest 
 From the poles to the burning equator. 
 
 Or round the wide world east and west. 
 Would reveal any trace of a mortal 
 
 Who never knew Life at its best. 
 
 But what do I mean by "My Body"? 
 
 And who is the still conscious I, 
 That owns it, and goes along with it. 
 
 Regardless that Bodies can die? 
 What am I? Where am I? How is it 
 
 That though I most earnestly try 
 I can not locate or discover 
 
 The thing that must surely be I! 
 The Self that contrives to elude me. 
 
 This Self that refuses to die! 
 
 That I am, and am going some whither. 
 Is as plain as to sense it could be, 
 
 But the what, and the where are the questions 
 That puzzle mysterious Me. 
 
 Like a ship with its pointed prow parting 
 The waves of a dark, unknown sea. 
 
30 The Plaint of the Corpse 
 
 My wedge of a coffin is cleaving, 
 
 Alike for my Body and Me, 
 A pathway through space to some region 
 
 Where that which has being must he. 
 
 Shall I enter the grave with my Body? — 
 
 Still mine though I use it no more! — 
 Having sown to the flesh, must corruption 
 
 Be all my futurity's store? 
 Shall I lie there while vile things are creeping 
 
 My mouldering carcass all o'er, 
 Till I enter the form of some reptile. 
 
 Myself quite as low and as poor? 
 
 would I might sleep without dreaming 
 Until even Time were no more! 
 
 Might sleep! But death seems only waking. 
 
 Such a waking as never before 
 Has quickened my dead-alive conscience: 
 
 And scanning my history o'er, 
 
 1 long for a just retribution, 
 A payment of penalty sore, 
 
 And will sink through the earth to perdition 
 
 My manifold sins to deplore. 
 For I would not dare walk into heaven 
 
 Though left at its unguarded door. 
 
 And yet — when my parents were wicked. 
 
 And taught me all law to defy. 
 For the nature and training they gave me 
 
 Pray who is responsible? I? 
 Oh no! I shall trust the Almighty 
 
 To give me a fair chance to try 
 
Naughty Newsboys 31 
 
 To do what is right, understanding 
 His law with its consequent Why; 
 
 Or else, blot Me quite out of being, 
 And let the whole Self of me die! 
 
 " 'Here's your World, sir; please to buy it, 
 
 For my mother's sick in bed; 
 Little sister's back is broken; 
 
 And my poor old father's dead.' 
 
 "Do you think that fetched him, fellows? 
 
 That he'd care if mother'd die? 
 No! he had to have the paper: 
 
 There's no pity in his eye! 
 
 "Come! you needn't think I'm hoaxing. 
 When I'm preaching gospel truth: — 
 
 Don't I learn, in school, on Sundays, 
 To be moral in my youth? 
 
 "Mother always says she's heartsick 
 Since her hopes in life have fled; 
 
 Jennie's crooked, and you know it; 
 And the old man's drunken-dead." 
 
 "Here's a lady; looks soft-hearted. 
 
 I can move her heart, perhaps; 
 But I'll try another racket, 
 
 For a lesson to these chaps. 
 
32 Naughty Newsboys 
 
 "Madam, could you spare a nickel 
 
 On a fellow's birthday, when 
 He has not a single penny? 
 
 Thank you! Wont you make it ten? 
 
 "None of your 'ha-has,' you kidlets. 
 If you don't want broken heads. 
 
 And if you've no eye for business. 
 Run home to your little beds. 
 
 "'Home and beds!' You think I'm joking. 
 
 But we'll have fine quarters soon, 
 When the Newsboys' Home is furnished, 
 
 Which it is to be in June." 
 
 "What is that you're saying, Jenkins? 
 
 That your mother thinks it wrong? 
 Cried about it when she heard it; 
 
 Groans about it all day long? 
 
 "Says these kindly souls a blunder 
 
 Of benevolence will make, 
 With their bait of bed and breakfast, 
 
 All the boys from home to take? 
 
 "That the children, now half vagrants, 
 
 Independent then will be, 
 And from all the cares and duties 
 
 Of a home life be quite free? 
 
 "Well; go tell your mother, Jenkins, 
 That I've known for quite a while. 
 
 That home-life is antiquated. 
 And is going out of style. 
 
Fannie' s Feelings 35 
 
 "Tell her that the modern mother 
 From her home must busy be, 
 
 Earning bread to feed her children 
 Or must run humanity." 
 
 iFantttr'a iF^^littgs* 
 
 When I read your verses, Clarence, 
 On the JournaVs foremost page, 
 
 For three-quarters of a minute 
 I was in a fearful rage. 
 
 For it surely was atrocious 
 
 Thus to blazon through the Press, 
 
 All our doings of last summer. 
 And your consequent distress. 
 
 I'd a mind not to forgive you; 
 
 I suppose, though, that I must. 
 Since of course you meant it kindly. 
 
 And I would not be unjust. 
 
 I am sorry all the country 
 
 Takes my absence so to heart. 
 Tell the woods, and streams and so forth. 
 
 That the best of friends must part. 
 
 If these birds are so unhappy. 
 
 Why not shoot the lovely things? 
 
 Take your gun and try, some morning; 
 
 I could utilize their wings. 
 
 ♦(This poem was written in answer to a poem 
 entitled "When the Birds Again Are Singing," 
 and signed "Clar," which appeared in the "Mary- 
 land Journal.") 
 
34 Fannie' s Feelings 
 
 I don't like to make things wretched; 
 
 But I had to leave, you know: 
 For as summer with one swallow, 
 
 Would be winter with one beau. 
 
 And I've had a charming season; 
 
 Gay and festive times, so far: 
 Parties, germans, two proposals! 
 
 How delightful such things are! 
 
 And there's more such fun awaiting 
 Us gay girls, on pleasure bent; 
 
 For we mean to make things lively 
 Till the coming in of Lent. 
 
 Now about your invitation 
 For next summer, I will try 
 
 To return to fields of clover, 
 
 When the wintry months roll by. 
 
 For I see, O Clarence, Clarence, 
 By the way you play the bard. 
 
 You unfortunate young fellow. 
 That you must be hit quite hard. 
 
 And the absolute devotion 
 Of a "case" so "gone" as this. 
 
 Though absurd, is quite delicious 
 And too rich a treat to miss. 
 
 In the meantime, fix your buggy; 
 
 And especially make sure 
 Of the harness; for I'm timid 
 
 If those straps are not secure. 
 
Merry Christmas 35 
 
 Don't forget about the chickens; 
 
 Have them set in time; for I, 
 To salt mackerel and bacon 
 
 Much prefer nice chicken-pie. 
 
 And a broil is nice for breakfast, 
 Ere those "dewey meads" we try; 
 
 While a long tramp by the streamlet 
 Makes good supper of 'a fry. 
 
 With these things to keep you busy, 
 The short days will pass, cil we, 
 
 After scouring half the country. 
 Rest beneath that willow tree. 
 
 So, when birds again are singing, — 
 Those you miss will sing on still,; — 
 
 You shall find your festive Fanny, 
 At the cot beside the hill. 
 
 iH^rrg QUirtHtmaa 
 
 Peal the bells! 'Tis Christmas morn, 
 
 Merry Christmas! 
 Hail the day the Christ was born. 
 
 Merry Christmas! 
 Angel choirs new anthems sing; 
 Sons of men your tribute bring; 
 All creation echoing, 
 
 Welcome merry Christmas. 
 
36 Merry Christmas 
 
 Peal the bells! This festive day, 
 
 Merry Christmas, 
 Must have greeting glad and gay, 
 
 Merry Christmas! 
 Let the joyous song resound, 
 All the spacious earth around 
 Nor one silent soul be found 
 
 On the merry Christmas. 
 
 Peal the bells! The -gladsome strain, 
 
 Merry Christmas, 
 Echoes in prolonged refrain. 
 
 Merry Christmas! 
 Yet there rings not joy alone; 
 Grief's inevitable moan 
 Lends its mournful undertone 
 
 To the merry Christmas. 
 
 Peal the bells! Through every clime 
 
 Merry Christmas, 
 Greets the nations with its chimes 
 
 Merry Christmas! 
 But full many a heart can tell 
 In the music's deepest swell. 
 Solemn sound of parting knell. 
 
 On the merry Christmas. 
 
 How can lonely mourners say 
 
 Merry Christmas? 
 How a sad soul call the day 
 
 Merry Christmas? 
 Can distress and pain and care. 
 Withered want and grim despair. 
 In the grace and glory share 
 
 Of the merry Christmas? 
 
The Bracket Bird's Carol 37 
 
 Can this sacred, happy time, 
 
 Merry Christmas, 
 Be to souls debased by crime 
 
 Merry Christmas? 
 Does this gracious holy-tide 
 For life's ills relief provide. 
 Bring a blessing to abide 
 
 After merry Christmas? 
 
 Peal the bells! 'Tis even so. 
 
 Merry Christmas, 
 Spans Life's clouds with Hope's bright bow; 
 
 Merry Christmas 
 Is to sad humanity 
 Pledge of happiness to be 
 Brought to its futurity 
 
 Through the merry Christmas. 
 
 This the prototype, blest Day! 
 
 Merry Christmas! 
 Of the joys that last for aye. 
 
 Merry Christmas 
 Is an earnest of the store 
 Of rich blessings God will pour 
 O'er the world for evermore. 
 
 Endless m^rrv Christmas. 
 
 ®I|0 Irark^t Itr&'a QIarol 
 
 How blest it is to be a bird, 
 And have a heart that sings! 
 
 January 7, 1901. Written for Miss Indiana 
 Comegys. 
 
38 Ode 
 
 To soar above earth's pleasant fields 
 On strong, unfettered wings! 
 
 He skims rough Difficulty's streams 
 With sweep of pinion bold; 
 
 And vested warm by Nature's care 
 Fears never storm nor cold. 
 
 Even when "driven to the wall", 
 
 Far from his native nest, 
 In calm content he ponders o'er 
 
 The blessedness of rest. 
 His downy bosom swells with peace; 
 
 He foldeth fast his wings; 
 His dreams are filled with silent songs: 
 
 Then waketh he, and sings. 
 
 For the laying of the corner-stone of the new 
 
 Temple of the First Baltimore Hebrew 
 
 congregation. 
 
 A firm and sure foundation stone 
 
 Beneath our walls we lay. 
 When we a sacred Temple rear. 
 
 Wherein to God we pray, 
 Where tuneful voices sing his praise. 
 And grateful hearts glad homage pay. 
 
 For we, like David's royal son. 
 With willing hands would frame 
 
 The hallowed shrine in which may dwell 
 Our God's most holy Name: 
 
 And where, as Lord of heaven and earth,^ 
 
 The God of Israel we proclaim. 
 
Ode 39 
 
 The stone which by the nations great. 
 
 And mightier far than we, 
 For ages long has been refused, 
 
 Our corner-stone shall be: 
 The Lord of hosts we worship here; 
 His Name is One, and One is He, 
 
 O Lord and Father, God alone, 
 
 Accept the gifts we bring, 
 And let thy gracious eyes respect 
 
 Our pious offering; 
 The tribute of thy children's love, 
 To Thee, their everlasting King. 
 
 When in this house we worship thee, 
 
 O Lord, thy people bless: 
 Blot out, and cover, all the sins 
 
 Which humbly we confess. 
 Look down from heaven, thy dwelling place, 
 And send us comfort in distress. 
 
 Nor for ourselves alone, do we 
 
 Thy blessings. Lord, implore: 
 But may the pious strangers, too, 
 
 Who here thy name adore. 
 Be heard by Thee in heaven, and share 
 With us, thy Peace, forevermore. 
 
 O Thou, whose mighty hand uath laid 
 
 The earth's foundations sure. 
 Whose own right hand spanned out, of old. 
 
 The heavens bright and pure. 
 Grant us thy mercies, and thy grace. 
 While earth shall last, and heaven endure. 
 
40 Christinas Bells 
 
 OIlinBtmas 2JpUfi 
 
 The world has sunk to its dreamful rest; 
 
 Soft lies the snow on the Earth's cold breast; 
 
 The stars in their courses, silently 
 
 Sweep on through the darkling midnight sky. 
 And Christmas bells solemnly ring 
 The Song of the Angels echoing. 
 
 The song that never again shall cease: 
 
 " 'To God in the highest be glory; and peace,' 
 
 Which erst from the world was mournfully 
 
 driven, 
 Back to mankind again be given." 
 
 Christmas Bells! hopefully ring; 
 
 Glad tidings of great joy you bring. 
 
 Joy to a world by its woes distressed; 
 By the grief and shame of its guilt oppressed; 
 For the Lord of Life has come from the skies, 
 That the vilest heart to His own may rise. 
 
 Christmas Bells! joyfully ring; 
 
 Hope to the hopeless soul you bring. 
 
 Your glad sounds usher the generous cheer. 
 The gathering throngs of friends most dear. 
 The festival gay, the music, the mirth. 
 That welcome the summons' to peace on earth. 
 
 Christmas Bells! merrily ring; 
 
 To happy hearts fresh gladness bring. 
 
 To eager childhood, what beside 
 Compares with the joys of Christmas-tide? 
 
Christmas Bells 41 
 
 How brightens the shining of innocent eyes 
 That wake to the season's glad surprise. 
 
 Christmas Bells! merrily ring; 
 
 Delights to youthful hosts you bring. 
 
 Rare pleasures even to the hapless poor, 
 The season brings, in its bounteous store: 
 For old, and for young, for the sad, and the gay, 
 There are blessings unwonted on Christmas Day. 
 
 Christmas Bells! cheerily ring; 
 
 Good gifts to all, you surely bring. 
 
 Ring, Bells! for the friends, who, far away, 
 
 Share not the mirth of our festal day. 
 
 Ring joy to them wherever they be; 
 
 And waft them our greeting, o'er land and o'er 
 sea. 
 And Christmas Bells! the while you ring. 
 Good tidings from the absent bring. 
 
 Dear Bells! how oft, in the olden time, 
 We listened to your gladsome chime. 
 With those who now deep-slumbering lie, 
 Beyond the reach of your melody. 
 
 Christmas Bells! tenderly ring; 
 
 Blest memories of the dead you bring. 
 
 A-las! old Bells, ye have rung for years. 
 Notes that were music in angels' ears. 
 Yet hearts there are where the songs you sing 
 Have found not the faintest echoing. 
 
 Christmas Bells! patiently ring; 
 
 Peace e'en to these, you yet may bring. 
 
 Sad soul, who hast naught that the soul re- 
 quires; 
 
42 The Shadow Solo 
 
 Dead heart, consumed in thine own fierce fires; 
 The Bells have a message, especial, for thee: 
 "Thou art not yet, what thou yet shall be." 
 Christmas Bells! lovingly ring. 
 And fresh, sweet life to the crushed heart 
 bring. 
 
 Shall a world, for its fashioning, eons need, 
 
 And a soul be moulded with greater speed? 
 
 First chaos; then fires; then floods; then gloom; 
 
 Then reptile vices: then virtues come. 
 
 So Christmas Bells, through the ages ring, 
 And the era of perfect manhood bring. 
 
 Then welcome the Day of the Saviours birth, 
 And His gift of Life to the death-doomed earth. 
 And let us all offer both life and love 
 To the below, and to Him above. 
 
 Christmas Bells! triumphantly ring; 
 
 To Christ, the Lord, your tribute bring. 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed to Professor Pache.) 
 
 O Master Mind carved solid notes 
 
 Of music fine and rare. 
 And set them where the sunshine fell 
 
 Upon the sculptures fair. 
 
 Another Master found their forms 
 
 Traced on the ambient air; 
 And softly as a spirit breathes 
 
 He sang the shadows there. 
 February 27, 1900. 
 
The Resting River 43 
 
 QH}t Sfattng Ster 
 
 "O River! rolling to the sea, 
 
 Thy restless floods restrain! 
 Indulgent curb thy ceaseless haste 
 
 To reach the raging main. 
 Stretched on thy bed of silver sands 
 
 And pillowing rocks, below, 
 Rest peacefully, and then refreshed. 
 
 Upon thy journey go." 
 The rushing River answered, "iNay; 
 I must be ever on my way." 
 
 "O Time! that through an endless course 
 
 Dost thy long flight pursue, 
 Are there not years enough in store 
 
 For all that thou wouldst do? 
 From circling suns and stars descend 
 
 To some tall mountain's crest. 
 And nested in its downy snows 
 
 Thy folded pinions rest." 
 Time would not pauee one word to say; 
 But grimly smiled, and sped away. 
 
 "O Life! along the city's streets 
 
 How wonderful thy flow, 
 As all day long the pulsing tides 
 
 At once both come and go! 
 And through the thunderous thoroughfares 
 
 What freights of joy and woe. 
 By mortals multitudinous, 
 
 Are carried to and fro! 
 What hope, love, hate, what grief and care 
 Thy swirling currents mingle there!" 
 
44 The Resting River 
 
 Morn's early waves bring servile shoals 
 
 To dash on reefs of toil; 
 And later streams bear slower drift 
 
 For daily grind and moil. 
 Then surges fill the marts of trade; 
 
 While, gorgeous in array, 
 The bride unto the altar sails; 
 
 The dead are borne away. 
 And crested o'er with varying light 
 Waves follow into lapsing night. 
 
 Then ebbs aw^ay the mighty flood, — 
 
 As when, in fevered dream. 
 The sands beneath it swallow up 
 
 The waters of a stream; — 
 Till from the roaring streets the throngs 
 
 That sw^ept through them by day, 
 In human and inhuman forms. 
 
 Have melted quite away; 
 And in the solemn midnignt air 
 The channels of the street lie bare. 
 
 Back to its sources in the deep 
 
 Day's river rolls its tide. 
 To rest by night in caves of isles 
 
 That stud Life's ocean wide: 
 Where for awhile some wavelets play 
 
 In halls with splendor bright. 
 While others shrink, in pain or shame, 
 
 From the dark face of Night, 
 Until, by weariness opprest, 
 They sink to fitful dreams of rest. 
 
The Night of Life 45 
 
 Then o'er the Resting River broods 
 
 Blest Night with sheltering wing, 
 Ihat sheds a thousand precious balms 
 
 Upon each living thing. 
 Rest, strength, forgetfulness, and peace 
 
 With dewy freshness fall 
 Upon the Souls which else would fail 
 
 To meet the morrow's call, 
 When comes its summons to the strife 
 And struggle of the Stream of Life. 
 
 One by one the stars are fading 
 
 From life's hemisphere of night; 
 And its latest moon, slow-waning. 
 
 Long since quenched its feeble light. 
 There, in silence of the darkness. 
 
 Sits the lonely Soul, in gloom. 
 Weary, longing, fearful, shrinking, 
 
 Waiting wonderingly its doom. 
 
 "Soul! one truth let Wisdom whisper, 
 
 While the sound thy sense can reach. 
 And thy numb perception ponder 
 
 All the lesson she would teach. 
 It will nerve tny heart's last pulses 
 
 Through this crucial, dire suspense, 
 And the thought, on trusty pinions, 
 
 Bear thy drooping spirit hence. 
 
46 The Night of Life 
 
 "Listen, Soul! No dawn of morning 
 
 Ever yet thy life has known. 
 Noontide ray, or day's declining 
 
 Never yet on thee has shone. 
 For, bethink thee, it was evening 
 
 When thou wast to being born, 
 Since in process of creation 
 
 Eventide precedes the morn. 
 
 "Yet, when first our eyes we open 
 
 Where the moonbeams blandly play, 
 Staring vaguely through the dimness, 
 
 We mistake their light for day. 
 Then through life we go pursuing 
 
 Shadows fleeting, visions vain; 
 Sorely pressed by apprehensions 
 
 Whicn the sunshine might explain. 
 
 "True, the cheerful stars, in piiy. 
 
 Far above our pathway rise; — 
 Hope, ambition, love, and honor 
 
 Bend on us celestial eyes. 
 These have brought thee inspiration 
 
 Joy from each thy heart has known; 
 Yet, sad Soul, they sank in silence. 
 
 And thou lingerest alone. 
 
 "Still, in death's extreme, remember 
 
 Through its bitterness and chill. 
 That not day now nears its ending. 
 
 But thy night of stress and ill: — 
 That the moment which thou fearest. 
 
 With its mystery and pain. 
 Brings the morrow of thy triumph; 
 
 Turns thy loss to countless gain. 
 
An Invitation to Tlianksgiving Dinner 47 
 
 "Think what glad surprise of waking 
 
 From life's evanescent dream 
 When its types shall find fulfillment 
 Realizing all they seem. 
 On the morning-star of duty 
 
 Fasten then thy steadfast gaze, 
 Till thy growing vision catches 
 
 Life's true day's resplendent rays." 
 
 An ilnuttattfltt tn SIiankBgiutng Sitttt? r 
 
 Come to our festal board today, 
 
 i.iuch valued Friend; 
 To scenes where all is bright and gay 
 
 Your presence lend. 
 
 The old, the young, the brave, the fair, 
 
 You there shall meet; 
 And each your welcome presence then 
 
 Will gladly greet. 
 
 In fact the absence of such guest 
 
 Would rob our cheer 
 Of much that makes this season blest 
 
 To us so dear,* 
 
 For all of those who love thee most 
 
 In this agree, 
 That this Day's greatest charm is lost 
 
 If it lack thee. 
 
 ♦Expensive. 
 
48 An Invitation to Thanksgiving Dinner 
 
 Then come, and at our joyous board, 
 
 With wonted grace,t 
 Accept what freely we accord — 
 
 An honored place. 
 
 Come, and though Fate in days of yore 
 
 Has been unkind. 
 Her malice shall disturb no more 
 
 Thy peace of mind. 
 
 Amidst: thy friends no foe shall dare 
 
 Again molest; 
 Nor fill with anxious fear and care 
 
 Thy tender breast. 
 
 Unto our bosoms we will take§ 
 
 Thee, chosen friend; 
 And of thy gobble-gobble make 
 
 An utter end. 
 
 And though the cook's well-sharpened darts 
 
 Despoiled thy youth 
 We'll take thee to our inmost hearts 
 In very truth. 
 
 There as** our life-blood thou shalt be 
 
 Most dearly prized; 
 Naught that would win our love from thee 
 
 Could be devised. 
 
 Then to my anxious, longing cry 
 
 Dear bird attend. 
 
 When in hot haste I bid thee fly 
 
 To servett thy friend. 
 
 tBy the clergyman. 
 tEncompassed by. §Literally. 
 **Being-. itBe served to. 
 
Please Help the Blind 49 
 
 So to our feast of thankfulness, 
 
 Gobbler, repair; 
 And we thy very bones will bless — 
 
 Till tixey are bare. 
 
 They stand on the thronging street corners; 
 They sit in the vacant store doors; 
 They linger about the church portals; 
 Or they wander, perchance, into stores, 
 Where a small boy may venture to lead them, 
 Benevolent people to find. 
 Who are moved by the pitiful legend. 
 That labels its bearer as "Blind." 
 
 Now to don a costume that is stylish. 
 Not even impostors would dare, 
 So the orthodox, wily, blind beggar 
 Must be mean and shabby in air. 
 With eyes that are doubly unsightly; 
 While symptoms of weak, witless mind. 
 Will hasten response to his pleading 
 That dumbly says: "Please help the Bling." 
 
 But ah! you disconsolate pauper. 
 You ask vastly more than you know, 
 When you call upon kind-hearted mortals 
 To lighten the burden of woe 
 That rests on the world's weary shoulders, 
 With pressure becoming intense. 
 Because of humanity's blindness, 
 In senses beyond those of sense. 
 
50 // He Were He 
 
 For, of the crowds roaming Earth's surface, 
 How surely Omniscience would find 
 That most, if not all, human beings. 
 In one eye, or both, are stone-blind. 
 Pride, passion, and ignorance, blending, 
 To blind mind and soul, all agree. 
 Until we lose Truth, in a darkness 
 Blinding most those who choose not to see. 
 
 And oh! what a spectacle startling 
 The wondering world would behold, 
 If all these deficient wayfarers 
 Were labeled in lettering bold! 
 To give a small alms to a beggar 
 Were easy; but what about these 
 Poor dwellers in darkness of spirit? 
 Pray, who will help them, if you please? 
 
 M i^t Hrrr i|f 
 
 If He whose coming, in the silent eve. 
 My soul doth dread, as in the gloom I lie, 
 Straining each sense to sieze the certainty 
 It shrinks to meet, yet does not dare to fly: — 
 
 Were He 
 At whose approach the purple eventide 
 Grows into gold; and on my soul's drear night 
 Ever the fresh, glad beam of morning dawns. 
 With dewey sweets, and music in its light. 
 Ah me! 
 If He were He! 
 
// He Were He 5 1 
 
 If He whose accents, like the dirge of hope, 
 Or like the trump of doom, fall on my ear, 
 That to escape them would all sounds forego, 
 Yet may not, must not, dare not choose but 
 hear:^- 
 
 Were He 
 Whose low, sweet tones my thirsty spirit drinks, 
 Like some rare song of wondrous melody. 
 Which the rapt soul that hears, no more would 
 
 bear, 
 But when it closes, murmurs, "Let me die." 
 Ah me! 
 If He were He! 
 
 If he whose touch is to my shrinking form. 
 Than serpent's fold more deadly and more chill, 
 Stirring my blood in angry agony. 
 While I must bid each trembling nerve be 
 still: — 
 
 Were He 
 Whose kisses melting on my burning brow, 
 Or cheek, or lips, with bliss my being thrill, 
 And my faint heart refresh, as silent dews 
 Their healing balms, o'er the parched earth 
 distil. 
 
 Ah me! 
 If He were He! 
 
 If He who is my being's blight; my bane; 
 Source of my heart's hot tears, and ceaseless 
 
 strife; 
 My fear; my bitterness; my fell despair; 
 My sum of all life's ills; my death in life: — 
 Were He 
 
52 The Christ Is Born 
 
 Whose love is all I know of peace, or rest, 
 Or hope that calms, or joy that comfortetn; 
 And all I ask to feel of blessedness: — 
 He who is my sole self; my life in death. 
 Oh God! 
 If He were He! 
 
 ®I|0 Ollinst 31a Inrn 
 
 "The Christ is born!" The glad, angelic strain 
 Cicled in music o'er Judea's plain; 
 And the still heart of starlit silence, stirred 
 By the momentum of that wondrous Word, 
 Thrilled to its center, trembled, and awoke, 
 And all the sacred seals that bound it broke, 
 To join the choir of shining seraphs, when 
 They sang of Peace on Earth, and Joy to Men. 
 
 "The Christ is born!" To-day the sacred sound 
 Has widened to the Earth's remotest bound: 
 Through glorious temples, through the courts of 
 
 kings, 
 Through homes, and hovels, the glad anthem 
 
 rings. 
 From centers bright with culture's raidant light, 
 To shades where souls grope through dim men- 
 tal night. 
 The sound spreads over that mysterious sea 
 Whose waves encompass all humanity. 
 
 "The Christ is born!" To simple shepherd-men 
 What meant the wonderful announcement then? 
 What was betokened to their glad surprise 
 By birth that needed heralds from the skies? 
 
The Christ Is Born 53 
 
 "Behold your Saviour, who is Christ the Lord!" 
 Unknown, they owned Him; worshiped and 
 
 adored. 
 Yet even the marvelling throngs of Galilee, 
 Saw not the mighty Saviour whom we see. 
 
 "The Christ is born!" What mean the words 
 
 today 
 To us who echo the exultant lay 
 Prom every nation, every land, and clime, 
 Back through the ages of advancing time? 
 We chant the anthem, carol the refrain, 
 Swell the grand chorus of the heaven-taught 
 
 strain, 
 And celebrate with festival the morn 
 When Christ the Saviour of mankind was born. 
 
 But is the Christ born unto us indeed? 
 A heavenly germ our earth born nature's need 
 To raise them — as the water turned to wine — 
 From Nature's death, to bliss of life divine. 
 Have we that Christ-sent spirit from above 
 Transfiguring life's gloom with joy and love? 
 That nature which the soul of Man allies 
 With the blest Natives of the glorious skies? 
 
 The Christ is born to us, indeed, if we 
 
 Partake of His divine humanity. 
 
 If we, for love of God and man, forego 
 
 The claims of Self, and bear each other's woe; 
 
 And, not content alone from earth to rise. 
 
 We help our feebler brethren to the skies. 
 
 Haste, Christmas suns, and bring the blessed 
 
 morn 
 When thus the Christ in all our hearts is born! 
 Christmas, 1879. 
 
54 Women Versus Men 
 
 Men, women, all humanity, attend! 
 
 No feeble voice a little woe complains: 
 The gathering sighs of many a suffering soul, 
 Down all the ages of oppression roll. 
 And to the heedless world a warning send. 
 
 In muttering-thunder strains. 
 
 For half a race, since first the world began. 
 Of selfish, cruel, fateful might possessed. 
 In forced subjection to despotic will, 
 A half a race has held; — is holding still: 
 This tyranous, usurping half is Man: 
 Woman, the "Sex suppressed." 
 
 Man rules the household; moulds..and sways the 
 State, 
 
 Enjoys its honors, offices, and pelf: 
 Though justice equal rights for each demands, 
 He grasps the scepter with his brawny hands; 
 Claims the sole right for both to legislate; 
 
 And sinks her in himself. 
 
 Down-trodden women, rise! your wrongs de- 
 clare; 
 Assert your rights; your equal claims main- 
 tain, 
 The proud, false monarch of your race dethrone; 
 No longer his unjust dominion own: 
 Submit no more his galling chains to wear; 
 Aspire, instead to reign. 
 
Women Versus Men 55 
 
 From city, village, mountain, valley, plain, 
 The whistling gale brings back the shrill re- 
 ply: 
 "We rise; we come; with tongue, and tooth, 
 
 and nail, 
 Our merciless oppressor to assail : 
 The cause of all our wrongs to ascertain ; 
 Some remedy to try." 
 
 Heroic souls, the cause— 'tis plain to see, — 
 
 Of man's assumptions, and your state forlorn. 
 Lies in ihe grizzled shag upon his face, 
 That lends the tyrant such majestic grace: 
 Bereft of this, creation's lord would be. 
 But a poor Samson shorn. 
 
 And with a beard, all else would woman gain. 
 
 Man's qualities, prerogatives, and place, 
 Would be her own, could she cheek, chin, and 
 
 lip, 
 With whiskers, beard, moustache, complete, 
 
 equip; 
 Could she by any miracle obtain 
 This glory on her face. 
 
 Ye can achieve it! Ye whose fertile skill. 
 
 Can on your heads such towering locks erect, 
 
 Can with the arts that to yourselves are known. 
 
 The ingenuity that's all your own. 
 
 And the great might of your resistless will. 
 Supply this slight defect. 
 
 But if ye fail in this, no hope remains; 
 
 No more is left for you to do, or dare; 
 For Nature's own immutable decree, 
 
56 Women Versus Men 
 
 Has made the right of government to be, 
 In beards inherent, not in muddled brains. 
 As sciolists declare. 
 
 Without a beard, of inward force the sign. 
 Conventions, projects, suffrage, too, were vain: 
 
 While this reproach remains your doom is 
 sealed ; 
 
 The ancient law will never be repealed. 
 
 Which gives to Man alone the right divine. 
 Lord over all to reign. 
 
 Perform this prodigy, or count it sin. 
 The righteous laws of Nature to despise; 
 
 Dismiss forever your rebellious plans; 
 
 Return to needles, dusters, brooms, and pans; 
 
 And be content in duty's path to win 
 The honors fame denies. 
 
 Content to hold o'er hearts your only sway; 
 
 To rear your race to serve their kind, and 
 God; 
 To cheer and help the weary and the weak; 
 Comforts around you to diffuse, and seek 
 To walk, with unobtrusive steps, the way 
 
 The perfect One once trod. 
 
 Like Him submission, humbly to obey; 
 
 Like Him to minister to helpless woe; 
 All sufferings with patience to endure; 
 Yourselves to purify as He is pure; 
 That, sacrificing all of self, you may 
 
 Like Him in all things grow. 
 
I'm a Cripple 57 
 
 She who man's bliss transformed to direst woe, 
 
 By the success of one ambitious plan, 
 
 That primal mischief now may best repair, 
 
 And best her consequent subjection bear, 
 
 By striving ever more and more to grow 
 
 True Woman, not mock Man. 
 
 Cleveland, November 20, 1869. Published in 
 the "Herald," during the session of the "National 
 TVoman's Rights Convention." 
 
 3l*m a Olnpipb' 
 
 You're a Cripple! So it seems; 
 Though within your eye there gleams 
 Some suspicion of a ray 
 On the game that "cripples" play, 
 When their pitiable plight 
 They obtrude upon our sight. 
 Tricky Cripples! 
 
 Are you crippled? Well suppose 
 You are really one of those 
 Who have been reduced by Fate 
 To this desperate estate. 
 What is there about your case. 
 Meriting especial grace, 
 Mr. Cripple? 
 
 You are crippled? So are we: — 
 Mentally, financially. 
 And, perhaps, the truth to tell. 
 Morally, sometimes, as well, 
 We have lost those higher powers, 
 That once rightfully were ours. 
 Worst of Cripples! 
 
58 The Difference 
 
 Look around you, Man, and see 
 All your crippled company: — 
 See the feet, that, fast or slow, 
 Will not lead where we would go; 
 And the hands that powerless fall, 
 When we seek to grasp our all: — 
 Hopeless Cripples! 
 
 Paralyzed by coward fears; 
 Bent beneath the weight of years; 
 Crippled by our weakling wills; 
 Maimed by Life's unnumbered ills; 
 Hand and foot, and heart and brain, 
 Join your pitiful refrain, 
 
 Beggared Cripple! 
 
 Let us, then, endure our fate: 
 Time will end it, soon or late. 
 Whether without cause for blame, 
 Or, as punishment, it came. 
 Let us, bearing loss and pains. 
 Make the most of what remains: — 
 Patient Cripples! 
 
 ®I|^ B\([nmtt 
 
 Twin Brothers, have been called the Sleeps of 
 Life 
 And Death: So like in seeming, form, and 
 
 guise. 
 That each of each is counterpart, and might 
 His absent Brother personate. And yet 
 So wide the difference between the Two — 
 
The Difference 59 
 
 Such their disparity of mein and state. 
 Their natures so opponent and diverse, — 
 That even real semblance they have none. 
 In Sleep, the Soul within its tenement 
 Of rudely-tempered or refined clay. 
 Apart retires. Closes each avenue, 
 Each gate, and door, and portal from without; 
 Calls in the very watch-dogs; and draws down 
 Each curtain that prevents a gaze within. 
 And all without is blank, and bare, and still; 
 With only breath ascending, — like the smoke 
 Of lonely farm-house, — to give any sign 
 Or token of an occupant within. 
 
 And yet, behind the walls the fires still burn. 
 And though the lamp of Reason dimly gleams. 
 The household duties in their due routine 
 Are all performed; and in their wonted course 
 The household servitors pursue their ways. 
 In dumb obedience to the laws of Life, 
 Until the Master once again comes forth, 
 And bids the halls be opened to the light. 
 And sends his powers abroad to meet the day. 
 Whereas, at Death the Mansion's Inmate 
 
 yieJds 
 A quit-claim of his right to the estate; 
 Relinguishes his lease of the domain: 
 By ways unseen, dismisses every guest. 
 And all the faithful servants of his will 
 Who lived to do his bidding. Then the fires 
 Are all extinguished, and the lights turned out; 
 And the mysterious Soul locks, bolts, and bars 
 The Dwelling's every entrance; renders to 
 
 Death this key — 
 
60 The Sentinel of the Ages 
 
 Forsakes the premises he once called "home," 
 And takes his journey whither no one knows. 
 
 Then all the chambers which the Living Self 
 Had once inhabited; wherein it roamed, 
 And wrought or rested as beseemed it best; 
 The brilliant halls where mirth and song had oft 
 Resounded, and grave Thought sometimes dis- 
 coursed 
 With eloquence resistless; and anon 
 Some passon or emotion ruled the hour. 
 Are desolate and silent: nothing stirs 
 Within their precincts; only dust and mould 
 Accumulate; the bloom and freshness fade 
 From scenes they once adorned; like the bright 
 
 hues 
 Of summer sunset clouds on mountain heights. 
 Their beauty vanishes. And all too soon 
 Crumble the solid walls, and in decay 
 And ruins the once glorious fabric falls. 
 
 Under shining, under shadow, 
 
 At the gates of every land, 
 All adown the lengthening ages. 
 
 Men have seen a Sentry stand; 
 Looming grandly on the beauty 
 
 Of the blue day's crystal light. 
 Then anon, in darkness blending 
 
 With the mystery of night; 
 While his meditations linger 
 
 Over glories that are past, 
 
The Sentinel of the Ages 61 
 
 And his keen prophetic vision 
 Sees the good to come, at last. 
 
 At the portals of some nations, 
 
 We behold him, as he stands 
 Pale and haggard, weak and weary, 
 
 With his grey head in his hands, 
 Bowed in retrospective sorrow, 
 
 For the infamy and scorn, 
 For the ages of oppression 
 
 By his people meekly borne; 
 Till his features are transfigured 
 
 In a blaze of wrath divine, 
 And his glassy eyes brim over 
 
 With their bitter burning wine. 
 
 At another gate we see him, 
 
 In the vigor of full prime 
 Mounted on a stalwart courser, 
 
 For some charge or quest sublime: 
 Be it to go forth to battle. 
 
 In a cause of righteous strife. 
 Winning liberty, or glory. 
 
 With the purchase of his life. 
 Or, at least, to gain his guerdon. 
 
 And be named among the great. 
 By the aid of wealth's distinction, 
 
 Or some service to the State. 
 
 Otherwhere, we see him, seated 
 
 Underneath the arches vast 
 Of some old arcade, surrounded 
 
 With the records of the past. 
 
62 The Sentinel of the Ages 
 
 Over ancient tomes he ponders, 
 
 Filled with figures rude and strange, 
 Yet their contents he deciphers 
 
 Through Time's labyrinthine range; 
 Then to poesy he turneth 
 
 And in numbers sweet recites; 
 Or he wakes the soul of music 
 
 In the harp whose chords he smites. 
 
 Once again we see him, crouching 
 
 On a devastated strand, 
 Silent as the Sphinx of Egypt 
 
 Billowed in its surging sand, 
 For the lash of persecution, 
 
 Heedless of all human right 
 Fell upon him, watching, waiting, 
 
 Till he sank beneath its might. 
 And he lies there, bruised and bleeding 
 
 But a brave old hero still, 
 Hoping for his destined future, 
 
 When his Fate has wrought its will. 
 
 Nations, do you know this Sentry, 
 
 Keeping guard, for ages long, 
 Over learning, arts, religion, 
 
 Through all cruelty and wrong? 
 Patient under dire oppression. 
 
 While the iron pierced his soul; 
 With no armor for protection; 
 
 With no weapon but a Scroll — 
 His one treasure; hear him crying, 
 
 "Though I die, let this be true!" 
 Is not his the voice of Jacob? 
 
 Yes! it is — it is — the Jew! 
 
The Sentinel of the Ages 63 
 
 Say you that his crime demanded 
 
 Punishment from God and men? 
 Nay! With God alone be vengeance: 
 
 He is merciful. But when 
 Man metes out his ruthless judgments, 
 
 With a mad presumption blind, 
 He wreaks cruelties of demons 
 
 On the weaker of his kind. 
 It is not for his defection 
 
 That the Jew has met the sword: 
 Christians slay their fellow-Christians, 
 
 In the name of their own Lord. 
 
 Has he sinned — this Jew immortal? 
 
 Ay; but he is not alone: 
 Christ is crucified forever 
 
 In the House He calls His own. 
 Multitudes bow down before Him 
 
 And profess to own his sway. 
 While their hearts are filled with idols. 
 
 And they, Judas-like, betray 
 Him who comes as their Messiah, 
 
 And their fealty would claim; 
 But they pierce His soul with sorrows, 
 
 Shouting praises to His name. 
 
 Sinned the Jew? Well; he has suffered. 
 
 When he saw his judgment come 
 He bowed meekly to his sentence 
 
 Like the shorn lamb, he was dumb: 
 Bearing shame, contempt, revilings. 
 
 Grief and anguish, pain and death; 
 Only saying: "God is holy: 
 
64 The Sentinel of the Ages 
 
 He is One," with latest breath. 
 Like to Christ, in his submission 
 
 He has met a martyr's fate; 
 But his resurrection cometh; 
 
 Though it can tarry, he can wait. 
 
 Yea! Already we perceive him, 
 
 Rising up on every hand; 
 Gliding into power and station, 
 
 With the world's wealth at command. 
 In the forum, in the senate, 
 
 Lo! he wins immortal fame. 
 Halls of learning, marts of commerce, 
 
 Ring with echoes of his name. 
 On each plane of high endeavor 
 
 He is foremost in the strife 
 Culling everlasting laurels 
 
 From the battlefields of Life. 
 
 So God's ancient, chosen people 
 
 As His Sentinel still stands 
 With the standard of Jehovah 
 
 In his strong, uplifted hands; 
 With his jewelled breastplate gleaming 
 
 On his proudly heaving chest; 
 And a lamp forever burning, 
 
 On his helmet's lofty crest: 
 While he welcomes the down-trodden 
 
 To his hospitable shores, 
 And in streams of richest bounty 
 
 Blessings on his breathren pours. 
 
Tekos—( The Tramp) 65 
 
 Standing thus, as great exemplar 
 
 To the world, the Jew appears: 
 Bringing hope, as well as warning. 
 
 To Humanity's late years. 
 Showing how, as King, God ruleth, 
 
 When mankind would test His sway, 
 Yet is tender as a Father, 
 
 When, as children, they obey. 
 Prophet, statesman, warrior, scholar, 
 
 Israel's glories shall increase, 
 When he claims his royal birthright; 
 
 Brother to the Prince of Peace. 
 
 0^ko0— (®I|? Qlramp) 
 
 Dig me a grave! 
 Go now! 
 In grassy shadows by some gentle stream 
 Whose cadenced voice shall soothe my endless 
 
 dream 
 And where the water-willow's golden bough 
 O'er it may wave, 
 Go, dig my grave. 
 
 And dig it deep; 
 That so 
 The weight of earth upon my heaving breast 
 Shall crush its throbbing pulse at last to rest; 
 Then to the blest retreat I'll gladly go; 
 
 Into it creep 
 
 And try to sleep. 
 
66 Tekos—(The Tramp) 
 
 Go quickly! Why 
 Delay? 
 When no more use upon the earth is found 
 For such as I, why cumber we the ground 
 Through the long hours of a single day? 
 
 Then such as I 
 
 Can only die. 
 
 Who owns this World? 
 Not God. 
 He made the lovely earth, 'tis said, and then 
 Bestowed the wondrous gift on mortal men. 
 But some men's portion dwindles to a sod : 
 
 The men by birth, — 
 
 And not in worth. 
 
 But this methinks 
 I must 
 Instinctively believe — though there can be 
 No spark of hope, in any faith, for me, — 
 That if he had not cast the earth away 
 
 Given up His right 
 
 To the dear light, 
 
 He would be kind 
 Nor so 
 For lack of food and shelter crowd me, weak. 
 And helpless, from the world, to seek 
 In the dark earth to hide and end my woe. 
 
 And refuge find 
 
 For my dark mind. 
 
An Invitation 67 
 
 Were I man's hound 
 Or horse 
 Not thus would I be left in wretchedness, 
 Full fed, well-tended, sheltered, valued, blest. 
 Exultant, I would run my happy course 
 
 Nor sink from sound 
 
 Into the ground. 
 
 Oh! but to be 
 A beast 
 A fierce, wild creature with courageous blood 
 Roaming the forest, stemming the dark flood 
 Daily at Nature's ample board to feast 
 
 And still to be 
 
 Wild, strong, and free. 
 
 "Once I had wealth?" . 
 Oh Yes! 
 And that I squandered it your blame 
 Writes an eternity of shame. 
 I grant you my whole life is senselessness 
 
 But whose the crime 
 
 I do not guess. 
 
 Att 31nuttatt0n 
 
 'Tis said by those who are inclined 
 
 To undervalue womankind 
 
 That no amount of wit and learning 
 
 Avails a Woman for discerning 
 
 The Spirit of a Joke; nor can she tell 
 
 Its story, though she knows it very well. 
 
68 Prayer 
 
 So, that we may this charge repel, 
 
 And prove that we good Jokes can tell, 
 
 You are respectfully invited 
 
 To come and see this great wrong righted; 
 
 In order whereunto, please bring with you 
 
 A Joke to tell, and prove the charge untrue. 
 
 My Master! My Master, pray come along with 
 
 me 
 Don't think thou art leading me 
 
 Tis I leading thee. 
 I get thee thy pennies, thou owest me thy pelf. 
 And besides and moreover, I have given thee 
 
 thyself. 
 
 For back in the ages, before Man became 
 I was his ancestor born without a name, 
 Monkeydom developed all the deeds that thou 
 
 hast done. 
 For I am Grandfather, and thou my grandson! 
 
 i^rapr 
 
 As the Musselman's Rug, while he sayeth his 
 
 prayer, 
 Is fabled to carry him off through the air. 
 So from our Church-carpet our prayers shall 
 
 arise. 
 And our heartfelt petition soar up to the skies. 
 
The "Judge's" Case 69 
 
 Maud Muller — so the story goes — 
 
 In a shabby hat, and ragged clothes, 
 
 For some old farmer raked the hay. 
 
 In the broiling sun, through the livelong day. 
 
 She would rather "work out" she often said 
 
 Than wash the dishes and bake the bread. 
 
 She sang as she worked, and she wondered 
 
 when 
 The farmer's "hand," "that awkward Ben, 
 Would sidle up again like a fool" 
 To walk with her home from singing school. 
 
 And a certain judge who lived in town — 
 So the story says — came riding down, 
 And seeing the girl beside the brook 
 Considered her worthy a second look; 
 And so without pausing a moment to think, 
 He drew in his bridle, and asked for a drink. 
 And Maud got the cup that was used by her Ben 
 And all the rest of the unwashed men. 
 
 Now the judge was as neat as neat couid be 
 For a most fastidious man was he, 
 His dress and person in all details 
 To the tips of his shapely finger nails 
 Were perfectly kept, and daintily graced 
 With the scrupulous care of a faultless taste. 
 Of course the judge thanked her — What else 
 
 could he do 
 Though he wished she had rinsed out the cup 
 
 it is true. 
 
70 Pellegrina Rondinella 
 
 (The following is a translation of a little- 
 Italian poem written by Tommaso Grossi.) 
 
 Wandering swallow, 
 Who in soft strain 
 Daily reneweth 
 
 Thy mournful refrain, 
 Wherefore, oh swallow 
 Dost thou camplain? 
 
 Art thou forsaken? 
 Has thy mate flown? 
 Like me, in sorrow 
 
 Art thou alone? 
 Weep on, then, swallow, 
 Desolate one! 
 
 Yet thou hast some solace; 
 The lake thou mayst skim; 
 Or, soaring, encircle 
 
 The mountain peaks dim; 
 All day long, swallow, 
 Calling to him. 
 
 In durance I languish; 
 These walls deny me 
 The sunlight, and even 
 
 The breath of the free: 
 Scarce my moan reaches. 
 Swallow, to thee. 
 
 Soon with the summer 
 Thou wilt take flight; 
 Distant lands greeting 
 
Bereaved 71 
 
 Whose waters of light, 
 And verdant hills, swallow, 
 Gladden the sight. 
 
 While I still awaking 
 To new tears each morn, 
 Shall hear on the bleak winds 
 
 Thy tender notes borne, 
 As 'mid the snows, swallow, 
 I linger forlorn. 
 
 A cross o'er my ashes 
 Will rise in the Spring; 
 On it at evening 
 
 Folding thy wing. 
 Sing to me, swallow, 
 Peace to me sing. 
 
 My Beautiful Boy? Oh no! 
 
 It is absolute madness to lose him so. 
 
 My son must stay. 
 
 Till the end of my day, 
 
 My Life's one joy, 
 
 My glorious Boy! 
 
 My heart could never be reconciled 
 
 To the final loss of my only child! 
 
 So often have I felt such blows before 
 
 That now my stricken spirit can endure no 
 
 more: 
 And yet this shaft has sped; 
 My Boy is dead! dead! dead! 
 
72 The River-King 
 
 Tempt not the mystic spell which lies 
 In waves that roll, swift-murmuring 
 To meet the sea; they softly sing 
 And to their fitful shadows bring 
 Whom e'er they will, nor heed those left 
 Forever, lonely and bereft. 
 
 Where flows the sunlit river by, 
 Grown weary with the day's demands 
 I bent, one evening, on the sands 
 To cool my brow and tired hands. 
 And watch the far-off ripples run 
 Where sea and river melt in one. 
 
 My little boy knelt by my side 
 And, baby-fashion, laughed to see 
 The wavelets curl about his knee, 
 That ringing laugh of childish glee! 
 In all sweet sounds it lives again, 
 And stirs my heart to deeper pain. 
 
 I wove a wreath of slender ferns 
 And laid it on his shining head. 
 "I crown thee River-King," I said. 
 (The gold that lights the ocean's bed 
 Is not more bright than was his hair — 
 Earth held no child than he more fair.) 
 
 And then along the level shore 
 
 I went, the boy upon my breast. 
 
 His dimpled cheek to mine close-pressed. 
 
 In long slant rays, from furthest west, 
 
The River-King 73 
 
 The great red sun, slow dropping down 
 With jewels lit the dewy crown. 
 
 And when the early twilight fell, 
 And landward from the shadowed sea 
 Its mighty voices came to me 
 Deep fraught with solemn mystery, 
 I wooed, with drowsy lullabies, 
 Soft slumber to his dreamful eyes. 
 
 The meaning of the whispered calls 
 And signals dim, or flashing white, 
 Was hidden from my clouded sight! 
 I saw the slumberous eyes grow bright 
 With sudden joy, and clear and wide 
 Look down upon the restless tide. 
 
 I saw, but could not read the signs! 
 The beckoning hands but seemed to me 
 Pale mists in-creeping from the sea; 
 Or laughing waves, that in their glee 
 Came dancing up the glistening sand 
 To toss their spray upon the land. 
 
 But never warning came that he 
 Whose light heart beat against my own. 
 Before the morrow would be gone 
 Forever from me; that, alone 
 And hopeless, I must pace the shore. 
 And, save in dreams, should feel no more 
 
 The tender touch of baby lips — 
 
 No thought that I must mourn the day 
 
 When on my boy's bright tresses lay 
 
74 Hope Embalmed 
 
 The fatal crown, and weeping say: 
 
 "The words I spake in idle jest 
 
 Have robbed my life of joy and rest!" 
 
 When summer days are clear and warm. 
 Par down, beneath the water's glare. 
 With love too faithful for despair, 
 I watch the gleam of shining hair 
 Swift glancing by, with golden light, 
 And passing ever from my sight. 
 
 I left him once with good-night kiss; 
 But now, when darkening waters swell 
 Upon the strand, I cry, "Farewell!" 
 And listening catch the far sweet knell 
 That sounds in faintest melody. 
 An answer from the distant sea. 
 
 i|op0 iEmbalttifb 
 
 Encased within the Amber's hold," 
 As though in pale, transparent gold, 
 
 A hapless insect died; 
 Beating, from pearly wings, the scales 
 Whose cloud-like stream beneath it trails, 
 Caught by the solid tide. 
 
 So, too, a Hope, once soared, elate, 
 And met by overwhelming Pate, 
 
 Died, struggling with Despair: 
 And Memory, when ceased its pain, — 
 With vain Regrets in dusky train, — 
 
 Embalmed it, changeless, there. 
 
 Respectfully dedicated to the New York Micro- 
 scopical Society. 
 July S, 1895. 
 
The Coming Men 7S 
 
 ®l|? ^nming Mm 
 
 Grave, and wise, and potent Seniors, 
 Busy with your plans and cares, 
 Pause, and listen to the echoes 
 Floating by you unawares. 
 Like the rush of mighty surges, 
 A.S on distant sands they beat, 
 Sounds the tramping, tramping, tramping. 
 Of the swift, unresting feet 
 Of the Nation's future Men: 
 Countless and resistless legions 
 Of the Coming Men. 
 
 Oh ye weary, toiling millions, 
 Ye shall lay your burdens down. 
 Ye must leave your priceless treasures 
 Who have won ambition's crown. 
 And the coming men will labor 
 With a new and matchless might. 
 Working never heard of wonders, 
 Gaining heights of glory bright 
 With the clear light shining then, 
 Strong, and brave, and fresh, and eager, 
 Are the Coming Men. 
 
 They will take your places, Soldiers, 
 Marching o'er the battle plain; 
 They will sail your ships, oh Sailors, 
 To and fro upon the main. 
 Rulers, statesmen, poets, heroes. 
 All your laurels they will claim, 
 And, alas, ye evil-doers, 
 
76 What Do They Think? 
 
 Some will also share your shame. 
 Hark! the echoes swell again; 
 Growing louder still as nearer 
 Press the Coming Men. 
 
 at §0 ®I|pg ®l|mk? 
 
 When the first sunbeams in summer, 
 
 Pour through every chink 
 Crack and crevice of the stable 
 Waking from their comfortable 
 Slumbers all the stout car horses 
 
 Pray what do they think? 
 
 Do they dread the dreary labors 
 
 Of the coming day? 
 Are they lost in computations 
 Of the numerous vexations 
 And the miles of toilsome travel 
 
 That before them lay? 
 
 And amid the wild commotion 
 
 Of the busy street, 
 Slaving through the din and bustle 
 Panting in each nerve and muscle 
 Stifled with the yellow dust cloud 
 
 Reeking with the heat. 
 
 Do they think with fruitless longings 
 
 Of the happy hours 
 When their view of life was bounded 
 By the fences that surrounded 
 Meadows where they cropped contented 
 
 Dewy grass and flowers? 
 
The Last Amen 77 
 
 ®I|f ffiast Atttftt 
 
 Ah! yes! There was music entrancing, 
 
 Full of echoes from heaven it seemed; 
 With incense like breathing of angels; 
 
 While as calm glowing stars softly beamed 
 The lights from the columns and arches 
 
 And the blossoming altar: and when 
 Fell the balm of the priest's benediction 
 
 There rolled back a full wave of "Amen!' 
 
 Then vanished the saintly procession, 
 
 In its splendor of red, white and gold; 
 And the dense, surging sea of the people 
 
 Ebbed away. And then silent and cold, 
 As the lights, one by one, were extinguished, 
 
 Slowly waving their wings on the air, 
 Crept the ghosts of man's sins and his sorrows, 
 
 Who are laid by no magic but prayer. 
 
 Yet there lingered one desolate figure, 
 
 Lowly kneeling before the great shrine, 
 Where the red taper ceaselessly burning 
 
 Points the soul to the life-spark divine: — 
 Alone with its pain or its penance, 
 
 And the shades of the pillars, in gloom 
 Like a forest, at midnight, in winter, 
 
 Keeping guard at the gates of a tomb. 
 
 So a Heart, in life's temple, remaineth, 
 All alone when life's service is o'er, 
 
 And the lights, and the incense, and music 
 Its weak pulses can quicken no more. 
 
78 In the Manger 
 
 But at last comes the peace of submission: — 
 "Now I go," says the Heart, "and what then?" 
 
 "Let us pray!" breathes a Voice, from the dark- 
 ness : 
 And the failing Heart falters — "Amen!" 
 
 3tt X\\^ manger 
 
 Old Egypt's priests to Apis bowed, 
 A sable beast, their type of God; 
 And Egypt's people, bruitsh crowd 
 At fast and feast 
 Worshipped the Beast, 
 And trembled at a bullock s nod. 
 For so did Memphian darkness shroud 
 That ancient land with baleful cloud. 
 
 Assyria, in monstrous guise. 
 
 The blendid shapes of beasts and men, 
 
 Reveals her gods to mortal eyes. 
 
 Chaldea's store 
 
 Of starry lore, 
 The wisdom of her wisest, then 
 Could find no fitter forms than these 
 To symbolize her deities. 
 
 In Bethlehem, one solemn night 
 
 The cattle in their stable stood, 
 
 Where morning's dawn disclosed to sight 
 
 A Babe divine 
 
 Of royal line. 
 The fruit of virgin motherhood, 
 That in the oxen's manger lay 
 On that our primal Christmas Day. 
 
Who Knows Why? 79 
 
 To Miss Bright 
 
 Bright though thy life has ever been, fair 
 Maiden 
 And though we trust that peace, and hope, 
 and light, 
 May cheer thy heart however sorrow-laden, 
 
 It travels onwards to life's peaceful night: 
 Yet it is doubtful, whether in our blindness, 
 
 It would be wise, considerate, or right. 
 Or showing you a particle of kindness 
 
 To wish that Fate may keep you — always — 
 "Bright." 
 
 1I1|0 IKnnma Wl^^? 
 
 Ned is nothing but a Baby: 
 Who can tell the reason why 
 Though his curly head is golden. 
 And he has a bright blue eye, 
 Ned has neither wit nor wisdom, 
 And can only laugh and cry. 
 
 Now a horse is strong, and carries 
 Heavy burdens, with all ease. 
 And the hound runs very swiftly. 
 While birds fly among the trees. 
 But if anybody knows it, 
 Let him tell us if you please, 
 Why Ned should not be able 
 To do such things as these. 
 
80 The Viking's Burial 
 
 J&\\t Hiking s lurtar 
 
 The ship of the Viking lay moored to the shore, 
 Awaiting the Master, whose prowess of yore. 
 Had carved with its keel his dread pathway of 
 
 war. 
 But the Viking, henceforth, shall command it 
 
 no more. 
 
 It rocked, all day long, on the swell of the tide; 
 Now dipping its prow, and now laving its side: 
 While men came and went, and strange tasks in 
 
 it plied; 
 Then left it alone, still at anchor to ride. 
 
 Meanwhile the pale sun through the heavens 
 
 slid down; 
 The craggy cliffs beetled, with ominous frown; 
 And, from the huge grave of a chief of renown, 
 Crept shadows, like ghosts which the sea could 
 
 not drown. 
 
 In a daring foray had this Chieftain been slain: 
 
 And a hollow was scooped in the sand of the 
 plain, 
 
 Where, packed in his vessel, this King of the 
 Main, 
 
 'Neath a vast mound of earth, had for cen- 
 turies lain. 
 
 *The funeral of a Viking cliief was a barbaric 
 ceremony. A slight excavation was made on the 
 coast, into which his ship was lowered. The 
 prow turned seaward. A sepulchral cabin was 
 prepared in the center, and the body, lying on 
 a sledge, decked in state attire, ornaments and 
 full panolpy of arms, was then introduced, and 
 the opening closed with layers of birch bark; 
 all other personal possessions were laid in other 
 parts of the gigantic cofRn, which was packed 
 
The Viking's Burial 81 
 
 The mists from the waters now shrouded the 
 
 sun; 
 And to the beach came, from afar, one by one, 
 A throng who awaited some deed to be done; 
 In awe, yet impatient to have it begun. 
 
 Then down the steep hillside a slow train drew 
 
 near, 
 With moanings and wailings, most grevious to 
 
 hear. 
 And foremost was carried a Form, on a Bier; 
 While well-loaded sledges brought up the long 
 
 rear. 
 
 The vessel was reached; the dead Viking ar- 
 rayed 
 
 In splendor barbaric, within it was laid; 
 
 In panoply full, for the fight to be made 
 
 With the ghosts that would drive from Valhalla 
 his Shade. 
 
 to the top with moss and blue clay, which is 
 said to be a peculiarly good preservative against 
 decay. His horses and dogs were killed and 
 placed against the sides, and finally earth piled 
 over all in form of a lofty mound. This was 
 done very near the shore, so that even after 
 death the shadow of the sea-rover might frown 
 upon his chosen element. Occassionally, how- 
 ever, the vessel and its owner were burned to- 
 gether to the water's edge. A tradition has 
 come down concerning one of those dauntless 
 warriors that when he felt the hand of death 
 upon him he ordered his ship to be filled with 
 combustible material and ignited, the sail set 
 seaward, and there, alone upon his funeral 
 pyre, the spray of ocean for his chrism, the 
 winds his ministers, his unconquered spirit fled 
 to the Valhalla of his faith. — "Norway Nights 
 and Prussian Days." by g. M. Henry Davis, 1887. 
 
82 The Viking's Burial 
 
 Around him thus lying in state, grimly graced, 
 His treasured possessions in order were placed: 
 His weapons of warfare; his shields rudely 
 
 traced; 
 And all the rare stores that his trophies em- 
 braced. 
 
 His dogs and his horses, though slaughtered 
 
 and stark, 
 Were shipped as aforetime the beasts in the 
 
 Ark. 
 Then the vessel was packed full of mosses and 
 
 bark, 
 And with sail setting seaward, swung round, in 
 
 the dark. 
 
 A thrill through it ran, for one moment of fear; 
 Then a breeze filled the sail, and without lurch 
 
 or veer, 
 It sprang on its course, with the leap of a deer: 
 Though with none to command it; nor pilot to 
 
 steer. 
 
 Then down through the air, from a rock's jut- 
 ting height, 
 
 Sped a burning torch, hurled by stern muscles 
 of might. 
 
 It fell on the deck; set the mosses alight; 
 
 And the pyre funeral flamed on the night. 
 
 For the last dying words the old Viking had 
 
 said. 
 Were to order that thus, when his bold spirit 
 
 fled, 
 In the depths of the sea, should be pillowed 
 
 his head, 
 And the ocean he loved, be forever his bed. 
 
The Months of the Year 83 
 
 ©If? iiiintl|a nf tl|? fear 
 
 January 
 
 Facing two ways alike, in doubt, I stand, 
 
 And in both ways, at once, I fain would go: 
 For Memory, with soft detaining hand. 
 
 Recalls me to the Past. But Hope cries, "No! 
 You may no longer linger. I command 
 
 The progress of the Future." Even so, 
 With longing gaze fixed on a fading land, 
 
 I follow Hope, with footsteps weak and slow. 
 
 3Fpbr«ary 
 
 Now February breaks the icy chains 
 Wherewith the Winter's tyranny had bound 
 him; 
 
 And with impetuous winds, and reckless 
 rains, 
 He rolls his devastating floods around him. 
 
 So, too, the Champions of Freedom's cause, 
 With wild reforms, and ill-advised lustrations, 
 
 May, by destroying good, with evil, laws. 
 Imperil the great destinies of Nations. 
 
 Marrli 
 
 Old March was a Savage, all grizzled and grim, 
 For stormy and bitter had Life been to him. 
 On the cold barren Earth, in his infancy cast. 
 He had struggled, alone, with each blustering 
 
 blast; 
 Until came the sunshine of Truth, from above. 
 And melted his Spirit to patience and love. 
 Then his leonine Soul became lamb-like and 
 
 mild, 
 And the reasoning Man had the heart of a Child. 
 
84 The Months of the Year 
 
 April 
 
 When April comes, the dormant Earth 
 Wakes to a new creation's birth, 
 She sends the green waves up the hills, 
 Whence silver streams roll down their rills,' 
 Her call brings beasts, and birds, and bees, 
 Swarming to life, from fields and trees. 
 Earth must the fabled Phoenix be 
 To yield this yearly Mystery. 
 
 A bright blue bird, from the bending skies, 
 
 May flutters on cloudy wings; 
 The light of the dawn in her shining eyes; 
 
 Her soul in the song she sings. 
 She scatters the dews from her outspread 
 wings; 
 
 And blossoms from heaven above. 
 Wide over the waiting world she flings. 
 
 For May is the Heart of Love. 
 Jfunt 
 A radiant Maid from Paradise, 
 
 Who earthward wills to stray. 
 Holds yearly court in woodland wilds. 
 
 Lured by the songs of May. 
 She brings us Beauty's very Self; 
 
 She sets our Souls atune; 
 And at her rose-gemmed Throne we fall 
 
 Entranced, and worship June. 
 
 JIulg 
 
 Mother of Bounties! Dame July! 
 Thy treasuries our wants supply. 
 
The Months of the Year 85 
 
 What harvests deck thy golden fields! 
 
 What gracious fruits thy culture yields! 
 What joyous days thy ministries provide, 
 To cheer Life's journeys, over hill and tide. 
 To render thee their grateful thanks for these. 
 Thy happy children cluster at thy knees. 
 
 August 
 
 The Months, as other Maidens do, 
 
 Sometimes don strange disguises: 
 So August to a Mermaid turned, 
 
 As one of her surprises. 
 She said the land would stifle her: 
 
 She loved the deep sea-reaches. 
 And then she dived and swam away: — 
 
 And now she haunts the Beaches! 
 
 Btpttmbtr 
 
 September pale, in hazy veil, 
 And misty mantle, dimly shrouded. 
 
 By winding rills, climbs terraced hills 
 With opal light half over-clouded ; 
 
 Where she explores her vineyards' stores. 
 With potent purple clusters gleaming. — 
 
 All day she sips the grapes' sweet lips; 
 And then beneath the stars lies dreaming. 
 
 Wttabtv 
 
 October, brilliant, mountain-born. 
 Cottage or Castle could adorn. 
 With buoyant steps the gladsome morn he 
 meets. 
 
 Each crag the music of his horn repeats. 
 
86 The Months of the Year 
 
 He hunts and fishes; scales the cliff's steep 
 
 sides. 
 And braves the dangers of the foaming tides. 
 Then, the day done, beneath the full-orbed 
 
 moon. 
 He strikes his lute, and softly sings — to June. 
 
 Tearful November wanders, shivering. 
 Before the storm, from out a dismal Past, 
 And sees, with every heartstring quivering. 
 Her treasures swept, like leaves, before the 
 
 blast. 
 Through time untold, the sport of adverse Fate, 
 She seeks Life's shores, where, spent and deso- 
 late. 
 She sinks upon the sands, at close of day; — 
 And breakers bear her lifeless Form away. 
 
 IBtttmbtr 
 
 His brow serene, crowned with a wreath of 
 snow, 
 December waits, to his long home to go. 
 In cheerful labqrs has his life been spent: — 
 
 Or, if he erred, he hastened to repent 
 Throughout the world, from east to glowing 
 west, 
 His festive gifts both great and small have 
 blest. 
 And when his gentle breath, on Earth, shall 
 cease. 
 Like a pure snow-flake, it will fall as Peace! 
 
Mud- Sill Melodies 82" 
 
 31)0 Mrttze from tl)e (Suttrr 
 
 Among the sad scenes of the city 
 
 Betokening misery dire, 
 None moves our disgust or our pity 
 
 Much more than the wretch in the mire. 
 What a picture for painter or poet; 
 
 What a text for the clergy to con; 
 What a point for the sapient statesman 
 
 To base legislation upon, 
 Is this product of civilization 
 Prophetic of worse degradation: 
 This outcast, in wretchedness utter, 
 Reposing, dead drunk in the gutter! 
 
 The small boy stands by, early learning 
 
 A lesson in life's wicked lore; 
 Some woman, with pause of sad yearning, 
 
 The form of lost manhood scans o'er. 
 Then gathers the rabble around him, 
 
 As ever blood particles run 
 To a wound or a bruise of the body 
 
 When physical mischief is done: 
 Such a crowd being but a congestion, 
 That proves beyond cavil or question, 
 How the pulse of Humanity flutters 
 Round the ulcerous souls in its gutters. 
 
 But the Priest and the Levite pass by him; 
 
 And no good Samaritan comes. 
 And then the policemen espy him. 
 
 For they are out gunning for bums. 
 
88 Mud-Sill Melodies 
 
 The whole of their scant ammunition, — 
 Which is quite insufficient, be sure, — 
 Not being great pounds of prevention. 
 
 But sundry small ounces of cure. 
 And they hustle him off, 'mid the laughing 
 Of hoodlums who goad him with chaffing, 
 Till the wretch incoherently mutters: 
 "Yesh! drunk on the breeze from the gutters!' 
 
 That he never had father or mother, 
 
 Of course common reason affirms; 
 Nor kindred to claim him as brother; — 
 
 In the ethical sense of the terms. 
 He is but the one sheep of a hundred. 
 
 That, perhaps, has been fleeced of its gold 
 A black one, all mangy, gone straying 
 
 Prom Reverend Somebody's fold. 
 But to be folded now at the Station, 
 In horrible, dark isolation, 
 Unless some kind angel shall flutter 
 White wings over mud from the gutter. 
 
 But ah! other gutters are teeming: 
 
 And some of the foul ones seem nice; 
 For perfumes delicious are streaming 
 
 From gay, gilded gutters of vice. 
 In halls of luxurious splendor 
 
 Pollution and pestilence breed: 
 And dissolute children begotten 
 
 Of deadly corruption and greed, 
 With the mists up the mountain ascending. 
 And the pure breath of ocean, are blending, 
 Under cover of Fashion's gay flutter, 
 The breezes that reek of the gutter. 
 
Mud- Sill Melodies 89 
 
 O Beauty, in satins and laces, 
 
 Sweet Siren, who lures to destroy, 
 O charmer, endowed with all graces. 
 
 What arts to ensnare you employ! 
 In the souls of your victims you fasten 
 
 Your cruelly venomous fangs. 
 And poison their lives with no pity 
 
 For any heart's consequent pangs. 
 You madden, intoxicate, deaden, 
 The creatures with consciences leaden. 
 Who quaff, to delirium utter, 
 The breezes that sweep from your gutter. 
 
 When faculties fine are degraded. 
 
 And talents thrown madly away 
 For basest of appetites jaded. 
 
 Who could lower levels essay? 
 And when sheep go astray in high places — 
 
 Society's mountains of Sin, 
 Whose sides are deep-seamed with the gullies 
 
 That torrents of vice have cut in — 
 Lost manhood, in such lofty station. 
 Needs more than the slum's condemnation; 
 For the one place of obloquy utter 
 Is the trough of Society's gutter. 
 
 A Ualrtttinr 
 
 Would you of Life the utmost make. 
 And those fine symphonies awake 
 Which mind and muscle well combine. 
 Then, for your "Understanding's" sake. 
 With cautious prudence, wisely take 
 Saint Crispin for your Valentine. 
 
90 Mud- Sill Melodies 
 
 Sl|r ^rij of lijr (Harbetane Sabjj 
 "O Mother, clear Mother, I'm frantic; 
 
 Your music has never beguiled 
 The hours of desperate anguish 
 
 That make up the life of your child. 
 But, contrariwise, it has deadened 
 
 The pulses of infancy gay, 
 And all the bright visions of childhood 
 
 It has chased from my fancy away. 
 
 "For here, covered close on your bosom. 
 
 From morning till nightfall I lie. 
 With scarcely a glimpse of the sunshine, 
 
 Or a glance at the crowd going by: 
 While you grind away at your organ, 
 
 And make the old fiend pent within 
 Add the shriek of his terrible tortures 
 
 To the streets unendurable din. 
 
 "With polkas and waltzes I'm giddy; 
 
 The schottisches make my head swim ; 
 And I feel unaccountably wicked 
 
 When I hear any pious old hymn. 
 In the Sweet Bye and Bye, if such music 
 
 Is played on the Beautiful Shore, 
 I'll not steer for the heavenly regions, 
 
 When the grinding of Life's tune is o'er 
 
 •'I hate the gay Star Spangled Banner, 
 Though I really can not say why: 
 
 And I wish the far-famed Swanee river 
 Would run itself utterly dry. 
 
Mud- Sill Melodies 91 
 
 While as for the maidens and lovers 
 
 Wliose cases are all so forlorn, 
 And that Jo, with his small Annie Rooney, 
 
 I wish they had never been born! 
 
 "Must Washington's March be eternal? 
 
 And Bonaparte's Alps ever rise 
 Till over their towering summits 
 
 He crosses them into the skies? 
 Will Grandfather's Clock be kept running, 
 
 Regardless of gladness or gloom, 
 Till the strains of the last Hail Columbia 
 
 Salute the dread hour of doom? 
 
 "There! Don't play Sweet Home, I beseech you! 
 
 It drives me ferociously wild, 
 When I am a poor curbstone baby, 
 
 A homeless, wee vagabond child. 
 Pray, Mother dear, how did it happen. 
 
 That we are not people at all, 
 But just clay like the bricks of the pavement, 
 
 Or stones, like the blocks in the wall? 
 
 "Look, Mother! Just look at the children. 
 
 In laces and ribbons so fine. 
 Like beautiful quaint little ladies: 
 
 Then, see the poor rags that are mine! 
 And there is that dear, dainty baby, 
 
 Rolled along, every day, by the maid; 
 While I, in your arm of cast-iron. 
 
 Shall smother to death, I'm afraid. 
 
 "Please, Mother, do get me a buggy, 
 And trundle me out to the Park; 
 
92 Mud- Sill Melodies 
 
 In the glorious sunshine, remember 
 Not when we go home, after dark. 
 
 Lay me down there 'mid grasses and flowers, 
 To roll about just as I will, 
 
 That my paralyzed limbs may recover 
 From lying, such ages, so still. 
 
 "Oh! if we but had a home proper, 
 
 Where you could do sewing, and cook, 
 And I have a precious doll-baby, 
 
 A cradle, and bright picture book, 
 How lovely would life be before us, 
 
 Though ever so humble our home: 
 And how much more seemly, and Christian, 
 
 Than thus, as poor vagrants, to roam! 
 
 "Why is it we can not be human? 
 
 Why must you sit grinding, all day. 
 Like a senseless mechanical figure. 
 
 Your wild, curbstone music, I pray? 
 While here in your lean, withered bosom. 
 
 Whose fountain has long been quite dry, 
 Close-swathed in your old, faded mantle, 
 
 A brown weasened mummy am I. 
 
 "Why mother! you seem. to be crying: 
 
 Your tears splash upon me like rain. 
 If my moanings make you so unhappy 
 
 Your baby no more shall complain. 
 As through my whole pitiful lifetime 
 
 I've been good and quiet before, 
 Hereafter stone-still as a statue, 
 
 I'll lie in your arms, evermore. 
 
Peace on Earth 93 
 
 " 'Tis not all for myself, though, nor chiefly 
 
 About my own fate, that I care, 
 While you sit here grinding your life out. 
 
 Benumbed in your silent despair. 
 And when I can see that your music 
 
 Makes you no less wretched than I, 
 I wish there were some tune invented 
 
 Sad enough to make both of us die. 
 
 "But I can not endure it much longer; 
 
 I'm growing so feeble and thin 
 That scarcely a pulse is left beating 
 
 My fluttering bosom within. 
 So — some day — there'll be a small inquest; 
 
 And then the wise coroner's art, 
 Will find that your maddening music 
 
 Has broken your poor Baby's heart." 
 
 P^ar? 0n iEarJi| 
 
 Then were the Angels glad, that blessed 
 night, — 
 To men most blessed of all nights whose stars 
 Have ever trembled o'er our fallen race, — 
 When, watching from their stations in the sky, 
 Over beloved Zion, and the town 
 Of Jesse's royal Son, the mandate came 
 From Him who ruleth the whole universe. 
 From central heart to last circumference: 
 "Ye Messengers of Mercy, haste away, 
 Glad tidings of great joy proclaim to Men; 
 Go to Judea's darkened plains, and cry 
 With 'Gloria in Excelsis,' 'Peace on Earth.' " 
 
94 Peace on Earth 
 
 Glad, though perchance amazed, the heavenly 
 Ones 
 Sped on .their mission to the war-worn world, 
 Now pausing midst its centuries of strife; 
 Nor stayed they in their course upon the heights 
 Of those fair mountains which like walls en- 
 closed 
 Holy Jerusalem, to shine, and shout 
 Their gladsome tidings through the silent night. 
 And stir the pulses of a slumbering world; 
 But, swift, descended to the lowly plains 
 Where fleecy flocks were folded, and their watch 
 The shepherds kept, amid the dewy gloom 
 And solemn calm of Ephrath's storied fields. 
 
 There blazed the splendors of the angelic 
 host. 
 Flooding with radiance all the night serene. 
 As in celestial symphony they sang. 
 Now soft, and swe'et, and low; now in a strain 
 Majestic and exultant,, full and strong, 
 And in harmonious cadence echoing. 
 The wondrous Anthem, written in the skies. 
 And breathing benison of Love divine; 
 Glory to God on high, and Peace to Men; 
 In highest Heaven now let God be praised. 
 For Peace, long exiled from terrestrial shores, 
 Shall find a home in human hearts again. 
 
 Peace! blessed word! In that auspicous hour 
 The tranquil Heavens echo with its tone. 
 Familiar there, and native to that sphere; 
 And Earth, reverberant, returns the sound 
 
95 Peace on Earth 
 
 111 wondering doubt, and awed astonishment. 
 So long have strife and anguish shared man's 
 
 soul, 
 Scarce in his dreams he heareth, Peace be still: 
 So long have hatred, war, and carnage ruled 
 Over the tribes of Earth, and steeped her fields 
 In blood of raging brethren, that the word 
 Commanding peace, stirs Heaven, and Earth, 
 
 and Hell, 
 And Satan trembles for his sovereignty. 
 
 Peace! for the Prince of Peace has come to 
 reign 
 Over His own; to bring His Peace to them; 
 To teach the way of Peace unto the meek; 
 To heal the broken-hearted, and distill 
 The dews of Peace, in arid souls of men: 
 To lead the nations into paths of Peace, 
 And in its bonds unite their brotherhood, 
 Not as the World, He giveth to his own; 
 His blessed benediction is the Peace 
 Which passeth understanding; yea. He keeps 
 In perfect Peace the soul that trusts in him. 
 
 Yet, where there is no Peace, and should be 
 
 none, 
 There say it not. Peace is for them alone 
 Who seek it. and pursue the paths thereof; 
 For those who prize the things which make for 
 
 Peace 
 And unto it belong. No peace is there. 
 Nor can there be. with Satan, and with wrong, 
 No peace is for the wicked; for the foe 
 
96 Fresh Wine 
 
 That lurks in Self and Sin, a sword instead. 
 Here must a Peace be conquered; only so, 
 The Victors shall depart in Peace, and rest 
 In it until at the Last day they rise 
 Spotless and blameless, and are found in Peace. 
 
 iFrFBti W\m 
 
 Oh the wine! The red, red, wine! 
 
 When the vino-leaves drip with dew. 
 And the grapes grow bright in the arrowy light 
 
 That pierces their sweetness through! 
 The Gods never quaffed more precious a draught 
 
 Than the pure, fresh, healthful wine. 
 Which a mortal sips from the musky lips 
 
 Of the moist blue cups on the vine. 
 
 Oh the wine! The sweet, sweet wine! 
 
 When the burning sun hangs high, 
 And the hills are white with a misty light, 
 
 In the shade of the vines I lie; 
 And idly think, and drink, and drink. 
 
 Mid the perfume round me shed. 
 While the low wind sings on golden strings 
 
 Through the grass that bends over my head. 
 
 Oh the wine! The bright, bright wine! 
 
 When the glowing western SKy, 
 And the brilliant trees, in shadowy ease 
 
 On the motionless river lie! 
 Storing the blaze of the life-giving rays 
 
 The full grapes swell on the vine; 
 Then gather their bloom in the twilight gloom. 
 
 While the young moon's faint beams shine. 
 
The Descent from the Cross 97 
 
 ®I)f ^tBtmt frcm tt|r (Ernsa 
 
 The Christ has suffered. After agonies 
 Too dread for knowledge or for naming, He 
 Has bowed His head, and breathed His spirit 
 
 forth ; 
 And not a nerve with anguish now vibrates; 
 Nor does a muscle quiver with a pang. 
 The throes that shook His mortal frame have 
 
 passed; 
 Endurance claims no more. The nails, the spear, 
 The thorns distilling blood, have all their force 
 And potencies expended. Nevermore 
 Can aught create another thrill of pain 
 In that still Form, now gently disengaged 
 Prom its last cruel cross, and borne, in peace, 
 
 away. 
 
 So, mortal Sufferer, whoe'er thou be. 
 Or what the tortures that thy lot entails, 
 Amid the stress that seeks thy Soul's despair. 
 Take, for thy comfort, the full certainty 
 That no intensity of pain demands 
 Endurance always. Surely comes the hour 
 That brings to thee, as to the Christ was 
 
 brought, 
 Release from crucifixion: when shall cease 
 Thy Passion's pangs unutterable, borne 
 To their last limit; and thou, too, shalt be 
 Unfettered from thine instrument of woe. 
 And find surcease of griefs whose stings can 
 
 wound no more. 
 
98 The Old Years Burial 
 
 ®tje (@li f rar'a lurtal 
 
 'Twas winter, and a sombre, gruesome night. 
 Tiie fierce winds in their caves lay slumbering 
 After a wild day's work, yet breathing forth 
 Their icy breath upon the heavy air. 
 The sky was overcast with fleecy flecks 
 Of mottled grey, or plied with sable drifts 
 Of sullen clouds, floating confused, as though 
 The Soul of Darkness in mad rage had torn 
 Her vaporous garments into shreds, and flung 
 The tattered fragments in the face of Heaven. 
 There, swimming in those upper depths, they 
 
 seemed 
 The dark debris of airy continents 
 Caught up and carried by the crystal bergs 
 That sail the vast aerial ocean's waste. 
 
 Within a forest, where the tallest trees 
 Stood closely serried in far-reaching lines. 
 Their mighty boles piercing the fields of snow 
 Like masts of some ill-fated squadron, lost 
 Long years ago, and half submerged, and now 
 Fast frozen in the night of Arctic Seas. 
 Or, like the naked skeletons they stood. 
 Those stalwart forms, of the Year's bravest 
 
 sons. 
 Death-stricken, at the sight of wintry Doom 
 Turning the Summer's beauty into dust. 
 While stretching jointless arms of vain despair 
 To shield their humbler brethren of the sod: — 
 
 Here, in the dense of wood there rose a fane, 
 An old Cathedral with time-darkened walls, 
 
The Old Year's Burial 99 
 
 And ruined arches, and a crumbling tower, 
 And mullioned windows with prismatic Saints 
 And fancied Angels in the shattered panes, 
 New martyrdoms enduring. Various shrines, 
 And altars manifold, were reared around. 
 And honored with unnumbered gifts and rites. 
 White-vested Choristers were there, and Priests 
 In black and white and gold and scarlet clad. 
 Here, through all ages, crowds of worshipers 
 Come, none know whence; tary awhile to pray, 
 Or sing their litanies, or tell their beads; 
 And when each several service is rehearsed. 
 They sink into the silent crypts beneath. 
 And others come, an endless flowing tide. 
 
 On this drear night a dismal dirge rang out 
 From broken bells in the Cathedral tower: 
 Bright beacons blazed before the entrance 
 
 doors; 
 And torches flared in sconces on the walls. 
 On the high Altar burned funeral lamps. 
 And low before it lay a ponderous Corpse, 
 The stately Form of the Departed Year, 
 Calmly reposing in the Sleep of Death, 
 With lighted candles ranged from head to foot, 
 And purple pall, and canopy, enriched 
 With silver fringes, and pale blooming flowers. 
 Sad psalms were chanted; 'De profundis rolled 
 Its solemn surges through the vaulted aisles; 
 In melting minor strains the organ moaned, 
 As though the heart of Melody were faint; 
 The Priests read fitting words from Holy Book, 
 
100 The Old Years Burial 
 
 And many a prayer intoned; and every pause 
 The people filled with dolorous Amens. 
 
 At last the Requiem ended, and the bier 
 Was slowly borne along the shadowy aisle 
 And out into the silence of the night. 
 The capped and cassocked Priests, and Chor- 
 isters 
 With tapers dimly burning, led the way: 
 And following the bier, with heads bowed down. 
 And dark robes trailing o'er the crusted snow. 
 The Mourners came, in sad procession formed. 
 
 Old Father Time, the Year's stern sire, was 
 
 first. 
 With tottering steps, and leaning on his scythe. 
 His hourglass hidden in the ample folds 
 Of his old mantle, grey and threadbare grown; 
 While on his visage was a look which said: 
 "What if, as Chronos, I my children slay, 
 Shall I not work my will upon mine own? 
 While I have power who shall hinder me? 
 They seek my life, ungrateful sons! Alas, 
 That One shall come who will not seek in 
 
 vain!" 
 Then sank his aged head upon his breast, 
 And bitter tears ran down his hoary beard. 
 He seems to mourn the dead Year carried forth 
 To burial, and yet his sordid grief 
 Is solely for himself; for well he knows 
 That his own days are numbered; that the 
 
 Book 
 Of changeless Destiny appoints the hour 
 When Time, decrepit now, shall be no more. 
 
The Old Year's Burial 101 
 
 Him following, came groups of sorrowing 
 
 Ones 
 Whose treasures the Old Year wrenched from 
 
 their hold, 
 And now clasps closely in his rigid arms: 
 Friends, honors, fortunes, hopes, and happiness, 
 He seized, and crushed in his relentless grasp: 
 'Twas these the losers followed to the tomb. 
 Next, came a throng of sullen, angry souls 
 Who hated the dead Year for all the ills, 
 A^lictioQS, sorrows, burdens, pain, and shame, 
 That he, through all his days, had brought to 
 
 them. 
 These seemed to mourn; and did; but not for 
 
 him. 
 In muttered words they cursed the cruelty 
 Of him upon the bier, and gaspingly 
 Hurled imprecations at his crownless head. 
 
 Then, were there none who truly mourned the 
 
 Dead? 
 Who sorrowed o'er the losing of a Friend, 
 And wept for him, the rather than themselves? 
 Who then are these, with slow, unwilling feet, 
 And muffled forms, and low, lamenting voice 
 Of those who wail in dreams? saying: "Old 
 
 Year, 
 Return; bring back to us thy precious days. 
 And let us be thy patient, faithful slaves. 
 Oh leave us not. Old Year! Come back, once 
 
 more!" 
 Ah, these are they, — nor is their number few. 
 
102 The Old Year's Burial 
 
 Though the dim darkness hides their sad 
 array, — 
 
 To whom the dead Year brought their Life's 
 last hopes, 
 
 Its latest opportunities for good; 
 
 And having scorned, and spurned, and squand- 
 ered these. 
 
 They know, too late, the worth of what is lost, 
 
 And smite their breasts in motion of despair. 
 
 Yet some there were, indeed, with tardy steps. 
 Slow-following in the rear; their eager glance 
 Turning to scan the gloom of eastern skies: 
 These paused, and whispering to each other, 
 
 said: 
 "Blessed forever be the memory 
 Of this propitious Year. He brought us peace. 
 And plenty, health, and hope, and joy; and took 
 No blessing from us. but has left a store 
 Of gracious promises, to be redeemed 
 By Him whose coming we await this hour: 
 The New Year. Let the Old Year rest in 
 
 peace!" 
 Thus said they; but they mourned not, nor 
 
 were sad; 
 Light were their hearts, their pulses beating 
 
 high; 
 They loved the dead Year for his benefits. 
 But better loved themselves: nor paid to him 
 The tribute of one grateful sigh or tear. 
 
 And if, in all that various multitude, 
 Any there were whose love for the dead Year, 
 
The Old Year's Burial 105 
 
 The vanquished, fallen, impotent old Year, 
 Was separate from. Self, and thought of gain; 
 Any amid that throng, — and surely some 
 There must have been; for still in human souls 
 Some attributes of Deity remain; — 
 Who loved the Old Year for his worth alone; 
 Who honored him, in spite of all his faults; 
 Who fondly pardoned weaknesses of will, 
 And blamed him not for what he took or 
 
 gave ; — 
 These kept their grief deep hidden in their 
 
 hearts; 
 Their tearful eyes none noticed in the gloom; 
 No murmurs left their lips; they made no sign. 
 
 On, toward the West, across a frozen Stream, 
 The funeral train pursued its winding way. 
 Until at noon of that grim night it reached 
 The Mausoleum where Dead Years repose, 
 And whence those Specters of the Past come 
 
 forth 
 That haunt the lives of miserable Men. 
 The weary Bearers rested here the bier. 
 And venerable Priests, in solemn tones, 
 Performed the last sad rites; -while choristers, 
 In ranks arranged, with tapers held aloft, 
 In chants antiphonal sang benisons. 
 Till echoes rang through all the frosty air. 
 
 Then, as the sacred music rose and fell 
 In strains unequal, like the beat of waves 
 Which dash and break upon a rocky shore. 
 The night-winds woke, and sighed among the 
 pines. 
 
104 The Old Year's Burial 
 
 And rustled the dry leaves on shivering oaks, 
 And sobbed and groaned, in weird pathetic 
 
 strains 
 Learned from the cries of restless, unblest 
 
 ghosts ; 
 And startled night-birds in the chorus joined. 
 Flapped their broad wings, and buttering, flew 
 
 around 
 With shrieks and screams of terrified affright. 
 Then, through a rifted cloud the pallid moon, 
 Rayless and dim, a feeble shadowy film. 
 Peered down upon the wide expanse of earth; 
 Gazed for awhile upon the fearful scene, 
 And then in sad amaze fled back again. 
 And hid bew^ildered in the depths of cloud. 
 
 For other sights beheld the wondering moon 
 
 Besides the burial of the dead Old Year. 
 
 She saw the land full-peopled everywhere, 
 
 With natives of all climes; of every race; 
 
 Of all conditions, stations, orders, ranks; 
 
 Barbarian, and courtier, saint, and sage; 
 
 In splendid garb arrayed, or clad in rags: — 
 
 And all their seyeral vocations plied; 
 
 The votaries of science and the arts 
 
 Pursued their tasks; the crafty statesman 
 planned ; 
 
 The patient farmer tilled the rugged soil; 
 
 Shrewd traders bartered everything for gold; 
 
 Brigand and beggar sought for wealth un- 
 earned; 
 
 And men were building cities on the plains, 
 
 And rushing to and fro with reckless speed: 
 
The Old Year's Burial 105 
 
 The brutish masses toiled like driven beasts, 
 Or idly skulked, and plotted desperate deeds: . 
 Weak, vacant souls, in aimless wanderings 
 Were sadly lost; and heroes, grandly great, 
 Climbed slowly up the steep ascents of Fame. 
 
 Nor were these scenes all that the pale Moon 
 saw. 
 Throughout the wood were groups of revellers, 
 Dancing to music, over sunken graves. 
 And reeling into them, no, more to rise. 
 Men quarrelled with each other; murderers 
 Dispatched their hapless victims; maniacs 
 
 raved ; 
 And felons gnashed their teeth and clanked 
 
 their chains. 
 Along the ground the dead and dying lay; 
 Some slew themselves, and many died of want, 
 Moaning in pain, or dumb with deeper woe, 
 While by the perishing knelt pitying friends. 
 With gentle ministries of small avail. 
 And some were digging graves for other dead, — 
 Dead hopes, dead hearts, death faiths, dead con- 
 sciences, 
 And burying them deep; too deep for chance 
 Of future resurrection. Battles raged; 
 Fire, earthquakes, winds, and waves, destruc- 
 tion spread; 
 Prayers, tears, and imprecations, jests, and 
 
 songs, 
 And laughter, in wild discords were confused: 
 A deafening din to stun the listening heavens. 
 
106 The Old Years Burial 
 
 These were the hideous, horrid, piteous sights- 
 That the dim Moon gazed down upon; for so 
 The world was busied at that dismal hour. 
 It was a scene to make an Angel sad, 
 And, if he knew no more than mortal men. 
 To make him wonder who made wretched man; 
 Or whether God his creatures could forget; 
 Or He himself were dead as the Old Year. 
 Nor was it strange that when the Moon beheld 
 The dire confusion and distress on earth, 
 She fled away in headlong haste, afraid 
 Lest she should swoon, and fall into the world. 
 
 Now were the last words uttered o'er the 
 Dead, 
 And the once mighty, honored, royal Year 
 Was lowered lifeless to the yawning depths 
 Of the deep vault in his imperial tomb; 
 And scarce had ruthless Father Time ap- 
 proached, 
 And barred the sepulcher's great door of stone,. 
 On rusty hinges hung, and silently 
 Affixed his dreadful Seal, when on the night 
 The bells rang out from the Cathedral tower 
 In merry chimes; a thousand trumpets blared; 
 A thousand sudden lights flashed on the scene; 
 Rockets went hissing up into the air, 
 Blazing in lines of light athwart the skies. 
 And fell in showers of burning stars around. 
 
 Then from the East a train of thunderous 
 cars 
 Came flying like a Dragon, breathing steam, 
 
The Old Year's Burial 107 
 
 And staring with fierce eyes of flame, as on 
 
 It rolled, bringing another Year to rule the 
 
 World. 
 Then cannon roared, and rent the air as though 
 The day of Doom, precipitate, had reached 
 The reckless Earth. And all its throats of 
 
 brass 
 The monstrous Serpent opened, with such 
 
 shrieks, 
 And harrowing screams, and dreadful yells, as 
 
 if 
 Through some vast chasm, cleft to earth's cen- 
 tral core. 
 The Lost in Hades had cried out in pain, 
 Their voices blending with the mock of fiends. 
 
 Then priests and people, all the funeral train, 
 Each with a torch set suddenly aflame. 
 Rushed shouting back, led on by Father Time, 
 To meet the Coming Year, and welcome him: 
 And in the old Cathedral, now adorned 
 And garlanded for festival, to hail 
 This unknown scion of an ancient house. 
 This Heir to all the Ages of the Past, 
 And seat him on the dead Year's royal throne. 
 And crown him as their heaven-appointed King,. 
 Bending before him the obsequious knee. 
 God took the Dead: long may the Living live! 
 
 December, 1883. 
 
108 Sir Pilgrim 
 
 Bit plgrtm 
 
 A stranger stood in my doorway, 
 
 His form I scarce could see, 
 For the night was dark and dreary, 
 
 And wrapped in his cloak was he. 
 
 "Come out of the storm, O stranger? 
 
 Come in to my fire," I cried; 
 But he stood in the darkened doorway, 
 
 And never a word replied. 
 
 "Who art thou?" I demanded; 
 
 "Whence comest thou to me? 
 And what is the quest, Sir Pilgrim, 
 
 That hither bringeth thee?" 
 
 "I am one of the long succession 
 Of passing Years," quoth he; 
 
 "I come from the nameless regions 
 Of the vast eternity; 
 
 "I bring' great store of treasure 
 For earth, by Heaven designed; 
 
 And I come to gather tribute 
 For Heaven of all I find." 
 
 "Alas! I have known thy brothers, 
 
 Thou fateful Pilgrim Year! 
 And they brought such store of sorrow 
 
 That thee I needs must fear. 
 
 "But come out of the stormy darkness, 
 Come under my low roof-tree; 
 
 And tell me, oh! tell me quickly, 
 The worst thou canst do to me!" 
 
Sir Pilgrim 109' 
 
 "Nay. nay; but tliou must be patient, 
 
 That I can not tell to thee; 
 Thou shall sit beside me daily, 
 
 And my stores unfolded see." 
 
 "Well, enter, good Sir Pilgrim, 
 
 Let it be as it must be." 
 But he lingered on the threshold 
 
 And cried. ''What guest is he 
 
 "Who sits beside thy hearthstone, 
 
 All wrinkled, wan and gray? 
 I can not brook his presence. 
 
 So send him hence, I pray." 
 
 The old man sighed and shuddered, 
 
 And wore such a face of woe, 
 I could not see him banished, 
 
 I would not bid him go. 
 
 "Oh, not a friend," I answered, 
 
 "Or kin of mine is he; 
 I welcomed him full kindly 
 
 When first he came to me; 
 
 "And my trust he hath requited 
 
 With many a treacherous blow ; 
 He hath robbed me of great treasure, 
 
 Brought me bane and brought me woe. 
 
 "But of late he groweth feeble. 
 
 Wanes his strength from hour to hour; 
 
 I no longer need distrust him, 
 I no longer fear his power. 
 
 "And I pray thee, unknown Pilgrim, 
 
 If thy coming unto me 
 Be to bring some new misfortune. 
 
 To the son of misery, ." 
 
1 1 The Coming King 
 
 "Tarry not with me, Sir Pilgrim; 
 
 Rest thee first, then go thy way; 
 Fare thee forth to other regions, 
 
 Let the old man with me stay." 
 
 "Not as thou wilt," said the Pilgrim, 
 
 "Not as he or I decree; 
 Years must go or years must linger. 
 
 As decreed by Destiny." 
 
 Then the old man turned him trembling, 
 Bowed his bald and hoary head; 
 
 Rose, and tottered to the doorway, 
 Then into the darkness fled. 
 
 Straightway then the Pilgrim entered, 
 
 At my fireside sitteth he, 
 With his cloak about him muffled, 
 
 Pausing ere he spoke to me. 
 
 And I stand before him silent — 
 
 Save for sound my heart-beats make — 
 
 Dreading much what he may give me, 
 Dreading more what he may take! 
 
 ®1|F Qlomtng King 
 
 Into the storm went riding 
 
 A youth, on a charger bold. 
 Out into the storm so dreary. 
 Out into the night so weary. 
 
 So dark, so dismal and cold. 
 Little recked he of the tempest. 
 For stalwart and brave was he; 
 
The Coming King 1 1 1 
 
 With his brazen armor gleaming. 
 And his princely plumes down-streaming — 
 A goodly sight to see, 
 
 By the fitful light of the torches 
 
 Which flared at the open gate 
 Of a city hidden dimly, 
 By black walls rising grimly, 
 
 In the distant realms of Fate. 
 He rode through the city's portal; 
 
 He left it far behind; 
 As over the course fast hieing, 
 As though from a demon flying. 
 
 His steed sped like the wind. 
 On, over many a mountain; 
 
 Over the valleys below; 
 On, through the wild woods crashing; 
 On, through the mad streams dashing; 
 
 On, ever on, they go. 
 Defying the gale, they galloped; 
 
 The earth beneath fled past, 
 'Till rocks, and chasms, and mountains, 
 'Till fields, and streams, and fountains 
 
 Had vanished all at last; 
 And they came to a plain, far-reaching, 
 
 The shore of a wide, deep sea. 
 Where mortals go ever a-sailing. 
 With laughter, and sighing, and wailing. 
 
 Out into eternity. 
 Here drew the youth his bridle, 
 
 And slackened his courser's speed; 
 With frozen fetlocks streaming. 
 With quivering nostrils streaming. 
 
 Panted the foaming steed. 
 
1 1 2 The Coming King 
 
 Then ended the storm its fury, 
 
 Its roar sank into a dirge; 
 But the sound of its restless sighing, 
 The moan of its mournful dying 
 
 Was drowned in the ocean's surge. 
 
 Then parted the clouds in the heavens, 
 And drifting their billows among, 
 
 The wreck of a moon careering 
 
 Came swimming, and plunging, and veering, 
 And wildly her weirdly light flung. 
 
 And there came another horseman; 
 
 Adown the plain rode he; 
 Wrinkled, and old, and weary, 
 Alone in the midnight dreary, 
 
 A piteous sight to see. 
 
 His head was bowed to his bosom; 
 
 His hands were clasped on his breast; 
 Through the wet sand trailed his bridle; 
 His sword in its sheath hung idle; 
 
 His trusty lance was at rest. 
 
 Yet the old man's form was noble. 
 
 With his white locks streaming down, 
 
 Though his purple robes were tattered, 
 
 And his rusty armor shattered: 
 And he wore a jeweled crowii. 
 
 He saw the youth come riding, 
 
 A fire flashed up in his eye; 
 His woful plight unheeded, 
 He never a challenge needed 
 
 The might of his arms to try. 
 
The Coming King 115 
 
 On rushed they both to the conflict; 
 
 Mad hoofs flung the sands around — 
 Each, sword and axe wide-swinging; 
 With clangor, and clash, and ringing 
 
 The terrible blows resound. 
 
 They quitted themselves like heroes. 
 For both were intrepid and brave; 
 
 And one had ambition of gaining 
 
 A kingdom, and over it reigning; 
 And one had a kingdom to save. 
 
 Fierce raged the battle and fiercer, 
 Each seeming the victor to each, 
 Until the stern veteran, gory. 
 In shame intermingled with glory, 
 At last rolled dead on the beach. 
 
 All grim, and stark, and staring. 
 
 On the cold, wet sands he lay, 
 'Till the tide came rising higher. 
 And the wild waves rushing nigher, 
 
 Bore the ghastly body away. 
 
 To his throne the youth went riding 
 
 Bearing the crown he had won; 
 And he added a gem 
 To the old diadem — 
 
 A tear that had turned to a stone: 
 
 A tear for the Old Year vanquished, 
 
 For the kindly soul just sped; 
 But he dared not delay. 
 And he hastened away 
 
 To reign in the Old Year's stead. 
 
114 The Ship of Fate 
 
 Along the reaches of that bending beach 
 
 Upon whose sands the waves of Life's wide sea, 
 
 Now gently lapse, now wildly thundering fall, 
 
 A throng of anxious mortals, wandering, waits. 
 
 Some, with high hopes and happy hearts 
 
 elate. 
 Pressed to the water's brink, nor seemed to feel 
 The cold night winds around them bleakly blow, 
 Nor served the thickening folds of misty spray 
 That hid them from the view, to quench or 
 
 damp 
 Their eager, longing ardor. Other some. 
 Back from the strand with trembling dread 
 
 withdrew 
 And fain into the distant wooded wilds. 
 With gloomy shades and unknown terrors filled, 
 Had fled, yet dared not brave the stern decree 
 Of potent destiny, that bid them stay. 
 
 Decrepit age, glad youth, and men mature — 
 The beggar and the prince, wise men and fools, 
 The mother with her babe and following troop 
 Of childhood riotous, in surging crowds 
 Jostled each other on the shore; yet all 
 Save a few silent ones, who sat apart 
 And sadly bent their eyes upon the ground, 
 And listened to the whispered counselings 
 Of lying, fell Despair; — all, save these few, 
 Strained eager eyes across the heaving dark 
 Of the mysterious main, that they might catch 
 The first faint glimmering of the purple light 
 
The Ship of Fate 115 
 
 Bound to the mastliead of that fateful barque 
 Which yearly, from ever-clouded shores 
 Of dread, inscrutable Futurity, sets sail. 
 Freighted with destinies of all mankind. 
 
 The midnight bells rang out, and suddenly 
 Upon the far horizon's verge appeared 
 A gleaming, star-like ray. On, on, it came; 
 To tear-dimmed eyes each moment lowering 
 More and more redly; while to eyes of hope 
 It beamed, and burned, and brightened steadily. 
 Until the morning's dawn revealed to view 
 The fair proportions of a stately ship, 
 Which grander grew, as in the perfect light 
 On toward the shore it loomed. Anon her keel 
 Slid grating through the shifting sands, and 
 
 sank 
 Imbedded and infixed. 
 
 The multitudes 
 Around her swarmed. And ever, day by day. 
 Through the whole year, by hands invisible, 
 Her wondrous cargo was distributed 
 Among the motley throng. Scepters and crowns, 
 Disgrace and honors, pleasures, pains, and 
 
 cares. 
 And poverty and riches, precious love. 
 Firm friendships, broken vows, deep enmities. 
 Hatreds implacable, and kindliness, 
 Joys, sorrows, bright new hopes, and deadly 
 
 fears. 
 Privations, disappointments, and a host 
 Of marvelous surprises, were bestowed 
 
1 1 6 The Ship of Fate 
 
 Upon the waiting people, with what seemed 
 A recklessness most indiscriminate. 
 
 And passengers from out her cabins came, 
 Amid the greetings of expectant ones: 
 Strangers to seek new homes; and friends be- 
 loved 
 Restored after long absence; maidens fair, 
 In bridal robes arrayed, were fondly claimed 
 By waiting lovers; bridegrooms went ashore 
 To find their brides; and little wailing babes 
 Were carried forth; and now and then a corpse 
 In sad procession borne. 
 
 Thus while the earth 
 Her circuit ran among the stars, the ship 
 Lay motionless amidst the lapping waves, 
 Until her cargo, vast and wonderful, 
 Was all unladen. And the multitudes 
 Bring day by day a store of good and ill 
 Whose uses now were ended: hopes and fears, 
 And blessedness and woes; things similar 
 To those brought from the Future, save in this. 
 That those were fresh and new, whereas all 
 
 these 
 Were withered, worn and faded. These they 
 
 stow 
 In every vacancy of hold and deck; 
 And, weeping, lead dear friends aboard, of 
 
 whom 
 They take sad leave; then with a lingering 
 
 gaze 
 Upon long, mournful lines of coffined forms, 
 
Once More 117 
 
 Flower-decked, and closely sealed, they turn 
 
 away 
 And disembark; then in the twilight watch 
 The laboring ship weigh anchor and set sail 
 Bearing its strange unprofitable freight 
 Away, away, to the dim, doleful shores — 
 The sad, forsaken regions of the Past! 
 
 And on the beach again the wandering crowd, 
 Through the long watches of the weary night. 
 Awaits the coming of another Year, 
 Laden with unknown stores. And in each heart 
 The question lies unsolved: "When the next 
 
 Ship 
 Sails from these sands of Time, shall I be in it, 
 A choiceless voyager, be carried hence 
 To that far region whence no traveller 
 Hath ever yet to mortal shores returned?" 
 
 Once more! 
 Among the shining stars the Earth has run 
 Her endless circuit round the glowing sun; 
 With seasons due of labor and of rest. 
 Of bloom and fruitage has the world been blest. 
 
 Once more. 
 
 Once more 
 The nations upon history's blessed page 
 Have stamped the annual record of their age, 
 And on our lives, through good or evil cheer. 
 Is left the impress of a fleeting year. 
 
 Once more. 
 
118 Once More 
 
 Once more 
 To thoughtful souls another New Year brings 
 Abundant store of anxious questionings; 
 The Spirit of the Ages reappears, 
 And points our view to past and future years, 
 
 Once more. 
 
 Once more 
 We ask ourselves if we this year have won 
 The welcome plaudit for each deed "well done," 
 And find with sorrow that the path we made 
 Prom duty's perfect orbit wide has strayed 
 
 Once more. 
 
 Once more. 
 With wondering gaze we turn our saddened eyes 
 To pierce the darkness that before us lies, 
 And ask what load of sorrow, pain and care 
 Our weary souls will be constrained to bear 
 
 Once more. 
 
 Once more, 
 With firm and high resolve we start anew; 
 Though blindly we our devious way pursue. 
 We can but work and hope, with fervent prayer, 
 That Heaven will deign to make our lives its 
 care Once more. 
 
 Once more 
 It may be ours to greet another year; 
 But should the present close our brief career, 
 May fadeless joys our future fate betide, 
 And for each new guest Heaven's Gate swing 
 wide, Once more. 
 
Address to Oratorio Society 119 
 
 KbhvtBB tn lip ©ralnrtn S^ctwt^ 
 
 of Saltimare 
 
 "When music, heavenly maid! was young," — 
 
 According to the poet's story, — 
 She dwelt in depths of solitude, 
 Within a cave of mountains rude, 
 
 Remote from haunts of fame and glory. 
 
 Yet often to her lonely cell. 
 
 Drawn by her melodies entrancing, 
 
 The Passions thronged, that each might feel 
 
 Her influence o'er him steal, — 
 
 His own peculiar mood enhancing. 
 
 Thus Joy exulted, Hope beamed bright, 
 
 And Love increased in her devotion; 
 Pear, Pity, Grief, wailed loud and long, 
 While Sorrow sang a plaintive song, 
 And Anger quivered with emotion. 
 
 They sang and moaned, they railed and raged, 
 
 In accents wild, or cadence cheerful; 
 Hate and Despair complaining sore, 
 While Rage and Vengeance raved and swore. 
 Until the dismal din grew fearful. 
 
 But Music now is Matron grown, 
 With tuneful children by the legion. 
 
 Her dreary mountain-cave of yore. 
 
 She has exchanged for Baltimore, 
 
 And brought her brood to this blest region. 
 
120 Address to Oratorio Society 
 
 A spacious hall is now her own ; 
 
 'Tis true she well deserves one greater; 
 But in proud Baltimore, you know, 
 Our dignity makes progress "slow:" — 
 
 She shall have better quarters "later." 
 
 In olden days she was content 
 
 Through shells and reeds to pour her num- 
 bers. 
 Now throats of brass, and tuneful strings 
 Blend lofty notes with those she sings, 
 
 Voicing the soul that in her slumbers. 
 
 Her "flowing tresses" now are bound; 
 
 Her robes are cut with fashion's graces; 
 Her "buskins gemmed with early dews," 
 Transformed to rubber overshoes, 
 
 Because our streets are mucksome places. 
 
 Of course, one naturally asks. 
 
 What has produced these great mutations? 
 Whose efforts put this "progress" through? 
 To whom, her gratitude, and ours, are due, 
 
 For these delightful transformations? 
 
 First, Mr. President, to thee. 
 
 Our grateful thanks we gladly tender. 
 For tireless energies displayed; 
 For courage ever undismayed; 
 
 Accept the tribute that we render. 
 
 For, what would be a ship's career, 
 With none to steer it, on the ocean? 
 
 What were a body without head. 
 
 But body only, stark and dead. 
 Without a pulse of life or motion? 
 
Address to Oratorio Society 121 
 
 Thus mute our songless city lay; 
 
 Thus drifted it across the ages; 
 Until this benefactor came, 
 Who proudly wrote its honored name, 
 
 On history's emblazoned pages. 
 
 He gathered Music's scattered bones, 
 And put a tuneful head upon them. 
 
 And, hence, forever dear to fame, 
 
 Be Mr. Otto Sutro's name: 
 
 Bring laurels to him; he has won them. 
 
 And close beside, on Honor's scroll, 
 Another name must be imprinted; 
 
 Another tribute still is due; 
 
 For brave Professor Pincke, too. 
 
 Deserves the meed of thanks unstinted. 
 
 Who else had ventured to subdue 
 
 Such throngs as raved round Music's dwell- 
 ing? 
 Who with such vim could chiding storm, 
 And for delinquents "make it warm," 
 
 While yet their fealty compelling? 
 
 Who so symetrical a whole, 
 
 Of "members" so diverse, could fashion? 
 Could guide each voice, and shade each tone. 
 Blending all feeling, till, alone, 
 
 Majestic stands the Soul of Passion? 
 
 So, may the Muses crown his brow. 
 
 Whose leadership is so potential: 
 Who with such judgment, taste, and skill,— 
 And such indomitable will, — 
 
 Wields a baton so influential. 
 
122 Address to Oratorio Society 
 
 Last, but by no means least, we bring 
 Our thankful tribute to the Chorus, 
 
 For those bright floods of song that roll 
 
 Refreshingly across the soul, 
 
 And sweep in soothing surges o'er us. 
 
 Such feasts of sweet, celestial sound, 
 Are foretastes of the bliss supernal. 
 
 Entranced with these, no joy we lack; 
 
 Nor would we wish our Eden back. 
 Could we but make these strains eternal. 
 
 'Tis true, good Choristers, that you, 
 
 To reach the height of your proud station, 
 
 Must bid defiance to catarrh, 
 
 And sundry other ills, that are 
 Peculiar to your grand vocation. 
 
 Since singing symphonies entails 
 
 The braving of all stress of weather. 
 Folks may pray solo prayers at home, 
 But to have concerts they must come 
 And make their melody together. 
 
 You practice early, practice late. 
 The masterpieces of the nations: 
 
 Great Handel's harmonies divine; 
 
 Bach, Mendelssohn, and Rubinstein; 
 And Hayden's glorious creations. 
 
 But surely you should not repine; 
 
 Or censure fate, as unpropitious. 
 Virtue its own reward bestows 
 By giving faultless ears to those 
 
 Who manufacture sounds delicious. 
 
Address to Oratorio Society 123 
 
 And think how fortunate you are, 
 
 To perfect, here, your education, 
 If, for the heavenly choirs, it prove 
 That civil service rules, above. 
 
 Exact a strict examination. 
 
 Think, too, what benedictions crown 
 Your efforts to enhance our pleasures: 
 
 What hearts, that silent were before. 
 
 Shall sing exultant, evermore. 
 The echoes of your charming measures. 
 
 Think of bright memories, secured. 
 
 As one result of your endeavor, 
 To those who sink beneath the tomb, 
 To regions of eternal gloom. 
 
 To know no more of heaven, forever. 
 
 So, pray, sing on; discordant notes. 
 
 And inharmonious dissensions. 
 Reserving for those jangled lyres. 
 Whereon you practice in church choirs: 
 
 The ancient scene of such contentions. 
 
 Sing on; but sing the same songs o'er, 
 Under the same astute direction. 
 
 Each former effort has the last. 
 
 Its brilliant prototype, surpassed: 
 Maintain your standard of perfection. 
 
 Nor seek that limit to exceed. 
 
 For Shakespeare says the man is silly, 
 Who, with a blind presumption, bold. 
 Attempts to gild refined gold, 
 
 Or paint the whiteness of the lily. 
 
124 The Bachelor Girl 
 
 Sing on! Sing on! In future days. 
 
 Bards shall rehearse your deathless story; 
 And tell to all applauding time, 
 How, with your melodies sublime, 
 
 You covered Baltimore with glory! 
 Baltimore. May, 1888. 
 
 Well! A Bachelor Girl why shouldn't I be?— 
 With my heart my own, and my fancy free 
 To order my life as it pleases Me, 
 And none to dispute my Liberty! 
 
 Is there any reason 
 
 That you can see? 
 
 A slave to some man would you have me be; 
 Or else with his Lordship to disagree. 
 Till it came to a dreadful divorce decree? — 
 Which would not be pleasant for him or me. 
 
 So the Bachelor Girl 
 
 Is wise, you see. 
 
 But if ever a time were to come — Ah me! — 
 When youth with its brightness should threaten 
 
 to flee, 
 And Some One — just charming — could prove 
 
 that he 
 Would make her as happy, as happy could be, 
 Would the Bachelor Girl 
 Hold out? We'll see! 
 
 New York, April, 189-1. 
 
Ah Hail 125 
 
 AUTj^ail! 
 
 "Mary, maiden, hail to thee! 
 
 Highly favored thou shalt be!^ 
 Spake the Angel from on high 
 To the maid of Galilee, 
 When the day of grace drew nigh 
 Which the ages longed to see. 
 
 "Hail! of women chosen one! 
 Thou Shalt bear God's Holy Son, 
 Who for men new life shall win 
 And His people save from sin. 
 He shall reign on David's throne 
 Which shall ever be His own. 
 Such is God's mysterious plan 
 For restoring fallen man. 
 Blessed thou shalt ever be, 
 Mary, maid of Galilee!" 
 
 Mary answered: "Let it be 
 As thou sayest unto me. 
 If such favor I have won 
 Let the will of God be done." 
 
 Mary, mother, hail to thee! 
 
 Ever blessed thou shalt be! 
 Though upon that starry morn 
 In thy meek humility 
 Christ was in a stable born. 
 Shrouded in obscurity; 
 
 Angels the glad tidings bring, 
 And celestial anthems sing; 
 Beaming splendors of a star 
 
126 Ah Hail 
 
 Make Him manifest afar; 
 Shepherds from their fleecy fold, 
 Magi bringing gifts of gold, 
 Babe and Mother wondering see, 
 For His light encircles thee. 
 And the saints of every clime 
 Since that most auspicious time 
 With harmonious accord 
 Bless the mother of their Lord, 
 That in thee God's will was done, 
 Blessed Mother of His Son! 
 
 Soul of Mortal, hail to thee! 
 
 Highly favored thou canst be! 
 For the message from on high 
 To the maid of Galilee, 
 Telling of salvation nigh, 
 Is repeated unto thee. 
 
 In the heart of God above 
 Dwells the all creative Love, 
 Waiting to o'ershadow thee 
 With His own divinity. 
 Mortal, though the gracious call 
 Is extended unto all, 
 Thou mayst be a chosen one 
 To receive His Holy Son, 
 Evermore to reign within. 
 And redeem thee from thy sin. 
 
 Heart of Motal, shall it be 
 That the Christ is formed in thee? 
 When thou hast such favor won 
 Dost thou say, "God's will be done?" 
 
AU Hail 127 
 
 Soul of Christian, hail to thee! 
 
 Ever blessed thou shalt be 
 If the image of thy Lord, 
 That divine humanity 
 Now in heaven and earth adored, 
 Shall be perfected in thee. 
 
 Life may bring thee toil and pain; 
 Care may bind thee with its chain; 
 Thine may be a bitter cup 
 Till its dregs are drunken up; 
 But when life's dark night is past, 
 And its morning comes at last, 
 Angels shall thy triumph sing 
 Till the heavenly arches ring. 
 And the pseans that arise 
 Scale the walls of Paradise 
 Countless ages as they roll 
 Shall bring honor to the Soul 
 Who the will of God has done 
 Through the power of His Son. 
 
 Sinful Mortal, hail to thee! 
 
 Christ can thy redemption be. 
 That He might thy ransom pay, 
 And from bondage set thee free, 
 He was born on Christmas Day 
 Of the maid of Galilee. 
 
 Vilest sinner, love divine 
 Seeketh in thy heart a shrine; 
 Streams of heavenly mercy flow 
 Into broken hearts below. 
 Though thy sins as scarlet be 
 
128 The Prayer Book 
 
 White as snow He cleanseth thee 
 Who has ever pardon sent 
 To the heart of penitent. 
 And a blessing waits for thee 
 On His own Nativity. 
 
 Highly favored sinner, say 
 That His love thou wilt obey. 
 Let the angels round His throne 
 Sing with joy, "God's will is done!' 
 
 ®I|? fra^^r look 
 
 This is not a bait 
 
 To lure fickle fate; 
 Nor is it even a bare hook. 
 
 'Tis an India cup, 
 
 From which you may sup 
 The memory of my prayer book. 
 
 For I feared that when 
 
 You had gone again, 
 Unless I some sort of care took. 
 
 Amid life's fret 
 
 You might forget 
 To send me my Hebrew prayer book. 
 
 So whenever you sip 
 
 From its curving lip, 
 Or even upon it you dare look, 
 
 Think of somebody's fate, — 
 
 Vide, Acts, five and eignt, — 
 lUiless you have sent me that prayer book. 
 
Farewell 129 
 
 Old Year, depart in peace! 
 Thy flying, creeping, strangely lighted days 
 Have waned to the last feeble, flickering rays 
 
 That bring thy life's release. 
 
 Old Year, thy work is done. 
 With vernal miracles of loveliness, 
 And autumn's stores the tribes of Earth to bless, 
 
 Well has thy course been run. 
 
 Old Year, we render thee 
 Thanks for thy many brave and kindly deeds; 
 For ceaseless ministries to countless needs 
 
 We thank thee gratefully. 
 
 Old Year, I love thee not! 
 Thou broughtest blessings with one potent 
 
 hand; 
 The other of our treasures didst demand: 
 
 The gain was thine, God wot. 
 
 Old Year, thou hast removed, 
 Despite our clinging, helpless hold, far more 
 Than coming years are equal to restore: — 
 
 Thou tookest our beloved. 
 
 Old Year, thou hast betrayed 
 The sacred trust our hearts reposed in thee: 
 Thy frozen, withered leaves drift heedlessly 
 
 O'er graves where hope is laid. 
 
 Old Year, I blame thee not! 
 Thy functions were ordained by higher powers 
 To bow to God's decrees is thine as ours, 
 
 Cr sad. or blest, the lot. 
 
130 Numbers 
 
 Old Year, thou canst not take 
 From our full hearts the love that they have 
 
 known; 
 The stature whereunto our souls have grown; 
 
 The thoughts that in us wake. 
 
 Old Year, go on thy way! 
 Sink to the depths of that deep, tranquil sea 
 Where ages of the past eternity 
 
 Dissolve in dark decay. 
 
 Old Year, one boon I crave: 
 The memory of wrongs that we have done, 
 The tale of triumphs o'er our weak souls won. 
 
 Take with thee to thy grave. 
 
 Old Year, now fare thee well! 
 Thy young and puissant successor waits 
 Impatient, at Time's leaden-hinged gates. 
 
 His deeds who may foretell! 
 
 Old Year, again farewell! 
 Would we could bury in the tomb with thee 
 The sins and sorrows of humanity! 
 
 Old Year, farewell! farewell! 
 
 Numh^ra 
 
 Howso versed in mathematics 
 
 Scientists may yet become, 
 Of the good contained in numbers 
 
 They will never find the sum. 
 It is even very doubtful 
 
 That the task can be begun 
 Since no certain constant value 
 
 Yet exists for Number One. 
 
The Temples of the Lord 131 
 
 (Respectfully inscribed to the Rev. Father 
 Matthew O'Keefe, in honor of his untiring la- 
 bors upon a new church.) 
 
 Great Solomon, the mighty King, 
 
 With wisdom vast inspired. 
 Whose willing heart, by flame of zeal, 
 
 Most piously was fired, 
 Builded a temple unto God, 
 
 With gorgeous grace endowed, 
 Where the Great Presence deigned to dwell. 
 
 In glory and in cloud; 
 Where all His worshippers might meet, 
 
 For blessings from the Mercy-seat. 
 
 But sacrifices there no more 
 
 On fiery altars bleed; 
 No more the stately solemn rites 
 
 In those grand courts proceed. 
 And that fair fane, the pride of Earth, 
 
 On earth no longer stands, 
 It's glorious beauty overthrown 
 
 By hostile, heathen hands. 
 For Israel, profundly blind, 
 
 Refused the Saviour of mankind. 
 
 So, to the lands all lying then 
 
 In depths of midnight gloom. 
 There came the light resplendent shed 
 
 From Christ's forsaken tomb. 
 And multitudes of sin-marred souls 
 
 Renounced their evil ways, 
 
132 The Temples of the Lord 
 
 With thankfulness of greatful hearts 
 That turned their scoffs to praise. 
 
 And countless temples rise today, 
 
 Where David's Greater Son holds sway. 
 
 And now great honor and acclaim, 
 
 To one wise Priest we bring. 
 Who half a century of life 
 
 To God makes offering, — 
 At the high altars of the Lord, 
 
 Serving with tireless zeal; 
 Shunning no ministry to ills 
 
 Within His power to heal; 
 Bestowing benedictions when 
 
 He ministers to fellow men. 
 
 He braved a pestilential death 
 
 Religion's balms to bear. 
 To sailors from a foreign shore, 
 
 Whose needs he made His care. 
 For Duty, to his fearless soul. 
 
 No terrors had to bring; 
 And graciously his valiant deed 
 
 Was honored by their King. 
 Though oft his deeds of pitying love 
 
 No record gain but that above. 
 
 Yet not this ministry benign 
 
 His ardent heart contents; 
 With faith, and hope, and charity 
 
 He rears rich monuments. — 
 Pit temples to the loving Lord, 
 
 Where everyone may rise. 
 With beautous reverential rites. 
 
 Each heart's pure sacrifice; 
 
She ma Yisreal 133 
 
 And future generations there 
 
 Blend glorious chant with humble prayer. 
 
 So, when beside these sacred walls 
 
 His body, resting, lies, 
 And angels his unfettered soul 
 
 Lead through the opening skies, 
 There, in God's many-mansioned House, 
 
 May some bright altar be. 
 Where joyfully he still may serve. 
 
 In blessed ministry; 
 And in his turn, through endless days, 
 
 Bring tribute to the ceaseless praise. 
 
 And when before God's awful throne. 
 
 At the Great Judgment Day, 
 The record of his work is shown, 
 
 Our Blessed Lord may say, 
 That of unchiseled human souls, 
 
 Committed to his care, 
 He fashioned polished stones to place 
 
 In God's own Temple fair; 
 And grant of him this verdict true: 
 
 "He builded better than he knew." 
 
 December 30, 1901. 
 
 'Shema Yisrael," is the lesson we learn 
 
 In the earliest days of our youth, 
 'Adonay Elohainu," the Lord is our God: 
 
134 A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 
 
 How precious and blessed this truth! 
 "It never can fail: 
 Shema Yisrael!" 
 "Adonay Elohainu," this is our God 
 
 And ours forever shall be. 
 Through life he will bless us, in death be our 
 guide, 
 Till "Shalom" — "Peace eternal" — we see. 
 Through Him we prevail: 
 "Shema Yisrael!" 
 
 "Shema Yisrael;" 'tis our mission alone, 
 
 "Adonay Echod" to proclaim; 
 The Lord everlasting shall reign o'er the earth, 
 And "One" be forever His name. 
 The future we hail: 
 "Shema Yisrael!" 
 
 A ®nbutF frnm Ifta Pupil mh ^x'xmh 
 
 (To the memory of Rev. Dr. A. S. Bettelheim, 
 who died and was buried at sea, August 21, 
 1890.) 
 
 ''Behold on Israelite indeed, in lohom there was 
 no guile.'' 
 
 'Tis midnight on the solemn sea: 
 Slow sails the stately ship along: 
 
 Pale moonlight silvers o'er the scene, 
 And wanly lights a trembling throng 
 
 Of strangers, gathered round the bier 
 
 Of One whom distant hearts hold dear; 
 
 Who wait his coming to their shore; 
 
 But shall behold his face no more! 
 
A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 135 
 
 Encircled by the saddened band, 
 A lifeless Form, the Rabbi lay; 
 
 Untended by those loving hands 
 Waiting to serve him, far away; 
 
 Yet swathed in cerements of such grave 
 
 As lies beneath the surging wave: 
 
 Its pall the banner of the free. 
 
 The stars and stripes of Liberty. 
 
 O, heart that beat for all mankind, 
 Is thy warm tide forever chilled? 
 
 O, hand that labored for thy race, 
 Why are tny potent pulses stilled? 
 
 Great mind to plan the good he wrought; 
 
 Teacher who practiced what he taught; 
 
 Brave champion of God's high laws. 
 
 Could he forsake Truth's holy cause? 
 
 He answers not: those lips are dumb, 
 That ear, though never dull before, 
 
 Heeds no appeal. His eyes are closed 
 On earthly sights forever more. 
 
 At last that teeming brain is still; 
 
 Nor hands nor foot obeys his will 
 
 Who, ever at the call of grief. 
 
 Hastened with comfort and relief. 
 
 Then, through the stillness of the night, 
 Rises the voice of fervent prayer. 
 
 In plaintive, cadenced Hebrew strains 
 That thrill upon the shuddering air. 
 
 Each head is bowed; all knees are bent, 
 
 Under the starry firmament, 
 
 As, reverently, there, is said 
 
 The solemn service for the dead. 
 
136 A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 
 
 "O Lord and Father, righteous Judge, 
 Blest be thy Name, and blest be Thou! 
 
 Sole King of all the Universe, 
 Before thy throne we meekly bow. 
 
 Thou givest life to sons of men. 
 
 'Tis thou that takest it again. 
 
 Thy mighty arm is strong to save: 
 
 Thy mercies reach beyond the grave. 
 
 "God of our Fathers, bend thine ear, 
 And hear our supplicating cries. 
 For this true son of Israel, 
 
 Who under Death's dominion lies. 
 With faith like Abraham's of old, 
 As Moses meek, as Daniel bold, 
 He sang to David's tuneful lyre, 
 And preached with great Isaiah's fire. 
 
 "Lord of the Spirits of all Flesh, 
 To thy sure mercies we commend 
 
 The soul that has departed hence. 
 Thy faithful servant, and our friend. 
 
 Thy Law was ever in his heart; 
 
 He lived its treasures to impart. 
 
 Grant him forever blest to be 
 
 In thy supreme felicity. 
 
 "And oh! for those who hold him dear. 
 Shield and Protector, hear us pray, 
 
 Those stricken but unconscious ones 
 Who wait the sorrows of this day. 
 
 Thy balm of Gilead bestow. 
 
 And heal the desolating woe 
 
 Of hearts that fondly round him twine, 
 
 And his dear memory enshrine." 
 
A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 137 
 
 Scarce died the mournful tones away 
 When one low whispered word was said. 
 
 Then, launched alone upon the sea, 
 Sank to its nameless, lowly bed 
 
 The body of so grand a man. 
 
 That, though his years filled not life's span, 
 
 In him, the world through which he trod, 
 
 Beheld the noblest work of God. 
 
 The heaving bosom of the deep 
 
 Received him to its close embrace. 
 And in old Ocean's tireless arms 
 
 This scion of a noble race 
 Will sleep until it shall be said: 
 "Remorseless Sea, give up thy Dead!" 
 So large a heart could scarce find room 
 In any narrower, shallower tomb. 
 
 There, with his canopy the skies. 
 The burning stars his tapers bright. 
 
 The winds and waves in symphonies 
 His ceaseless "Kadesh" shall recite. 
 
 But aching hearts must still weep on. 
 
 Mourning the joy forever gone, 
 
 And vainly moan the burden o'er: 
 
 "Alas! he can return no more!" 
 
 But has his spirit perished? "No!" 
 
 A thousand thundering waves reply. 
 The garb of flesh that robed his soul 
 Beneath the ocean's waste may lie; 
 But borne by angel hands away 
 From its frail tenement of clay, 
 His spirit mounts to realms above, 
 Where reign eternal peace and love. 
 
138 A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 
 
 Father divine, to fashion men, 
 Shalt thou omnipotence employ, 
 
 And Death be ever able, then, 
 Thy loving children to destroy? 
 
 Perish the thought that souls made pure 
 
 Shall not eternally endure; 
 
 That spirits grown devoutly wise 
 
 Live not forever in the skies. 
 
 And shall our narrow, biased bounds, 
 
 Or limits of mere human creeds. 
 Or the warped zealot's prejudice. 
 
 Annul a life of noble deeds? 
 Speak, Christian Priests, who by his bed, 
 Fraternal "Pater Nosters" said, 
 Would you deny this saintly soul 
 The guerdon of a heavenly goal? 
 
 Not your own Holy Writ declares, 
 That, as in Adam all have died, 
 So all mankind shall live again. 
 
 Through that slain Jew, the Crucified. 
 And who dare ban God's chosen race 
 Beyond the reach of boundless grace? 
 Or bar from his eternal rest 
 The people God himself hath blest? 
 
 So, Lord and Father, while we mourn, 
 
 Thy holy Name we still can bless 
 For thy departed servant's life 
 
 Of piety and righteousness: 
 And pray thee take his spirit rare 
 Under thine own almighty care, 
 While waits in peace his sacred dust 
 The resurrection of the just. 
 Baltimore, September, 1890. 
 
Paraphrase of Portion of 42d Psalm 139 
 
 Pl|ara]jl|ra0? of a f arttun nf tltp 
 42b f salm 
 
 (Gratefully inscribed to Rev. Dr. A. S. Bettel- 
 heim, by his pupil and friend.) 
 
 As the meek doe, climbing the mountain 
 steeps, 
 When burning suns have scorched the sultry- 
 air, 
 Longs for the cool and shady covert, where 
 Beneath thick-arching branches calmly sleeps 
 The clear, bright pool of waters, fresh and 
 
 sweet; 
 Which, scenting from afar, in eager haste 
 She mounts from crag to crag, with nimble feet. 
 Their life-restoring draughts again to taste. 
 
 Thus, O my God! climbing life's mountain 
 
 peaks. 
 And wandering, weary, o'er earth's arid wastes, 
 I long for Thee! Thus ever gladly hastes 
 My thirsty soul, to find the life she seeks, 
 In Thee, the living God. Thus joyously. 
 Though weak and faint, she seeks Thy gracious 
 
 face 
 Before Thy presence to appear, and be 
 Allowed to taste the sweetness of Thy grace. 
 January 4, 1889. 
 
140 To Prof. John H. Hewitt 
 
 In view of any kindly offering which might 
 have been made to him by his friend, T. J. W. 
 
 A chaplet fair, of verdant bays, 
 
 Is due the Poet, who hath sung 
 Melodious songs, through length of days, 
 And, though life's evening-shadows close 
 Arouncr him, wooing to repose, 
 
 Keeps his resounding harp still strung. 
 
 The snowy locks of hoary age 
 
 His honored temples long have graced: 
 
 His brow, for thought and counsel sage 
 
 The fitting dome, which these adorn, 
 
 This silver crown has proudly worn, 
 By Nature's hand upon it placed. 
 
 Thus doubly crowned, he prostrate lies. 
 By weight of weary years oppressed. 
 
 Nor mourns the blessings Fate denies. 
 
 But when relentless Time demands 
 
 His treasures, with his feeble hands 
 He clasps his lyre; and yields the rest. 
 
 Then, as a lark ensnared by guile, 
 And held by bars, imprisoned fast. 
 
 Though captive, still sings on the while; 
 
 So he, his melodies can pour. 
 
 And on the wings of music soar; 
 Still tuneful, like the swan, at last. 
 
 Master once more of music's might. 
 
 Before him generations rise; 
 The young and happy, gay and bright, 
 
St. John Baptist 141 
 
 Who through his skill achieved the art 
 Which brings pure solace to the heart, 
 
 When skies grow dark, and pleasure flies. 
 
 So, throned upon his couch in state, 
 Around him come, by Memory called. 
 
 Glad throngs of loving souls, who wait 
 
 To join the chorus of their lays 
 
 In one sweet symphony of praise 
 
 To him whose notes their hearts enthralled. 
 
 With these dear friends of days gone by. 
 
 Who gladdened all his life of yore: 
 Who now invisibly draw nigh, 
 The master's drooping heart to cheer, 
 And calm his trembling spirit's fear. 
 With hopes of peace forevermore: — 
 
 With these, let friends who still remain, 
 
 In unison their voices blend, 
 And supplicate in earnest strain. 
 That in the courts of heaven above. 
 Redeemed by everlasting love. 
 
 His blissful songs may never end. 
 
 ^t. 3)nl|n IBaipltst 
 
 The mission the Baptist came to till 
 Was to turn the hearts of men to the will 
 Of the Lord, and in them a way prepare. 
 For His love and truth to enter there. 
 And since the unknown we can not learn 
 Except by what we already discern; 
 Nor love the unseen divinity 
 
142 Ode to Ella 
 
 If we love no being whom we can see. — 
 If the bliss of Heaven we ever would know, 
 We must learn to love on the earth below. 
 And very truly Baptists are they 
 Who in our hearts prepare a way 
 For the unknown joys of the world above 
 By filling them now with an earnest love 
 For the good, and the true, and the pure, that so 
 The love of God in our souls may grow. 
 1864. 
 
 mt t0 EUa 
 
 Ella! 
 I love thee! While the light 
 Of youth rests on thy brow; 
 While peace, joy, hope unite 
 To bless thee. Fondly now 
 With a deep love 
 I love thee. 
 
 I love thee! And though care, 
 Dark sorrow, pale grief, all 
 The shades Earth's pilgrims share. 
 Around thy bow'd heart fall, 
 With fervent love 
 I'll love thee. 
 
 I love thee! Heavenly day. 
 Will soon on life's dark night 
 Dawn with unclouded ray; 
 And ever in its light 
 With holy love 
 I'll love thee. 
 
ir^am lap 
 
 (Caatb Sorn 
 
 A vision of two stately oaks, 
 Which once beside a common highway stood, 
 Guarding the entrance to a wooded lane. 
 Thick-boled and lofty, branching wide and full, 
 In massive strength and symmetry they rose. 
 And one shone in the sunlight, golden-green, 
 Swaying the fringes of its tassel-blooms; 
 While budding palely on each twig of both, 
 Was promise of the summer yet to come. 
 
 The lane led into an enchanted wood, 
 Plunging and climbing, winding in and out 
 Among moss-covered stumps, and underneath 
 The dark lines of reticulated boughs, 
 Until it ended at the gates of Dorn. 
 Here, amid towering oaks and basswood huge. 
 Maples, and cottonwoods of magic growth, 
 Thickets of thorn, and graceful curving elm, 
 With curious cabalistic carving scored. 
 Clumps of straight poplars, slender and white- 
 stemmed, 
 And trees of fruitage wild, beyond all count. 
 Appeared the vision strange of Castle Dorn, 
 Dark-frowning, blank, and windowless. 
 
 But all day long the birds around it sang: 
 Chiefly the mourning dove, who for a nest, 
 
144 Dream Days 
 
 Laid loosely a few careless sticks, then sat 
 And moaned, and moaned, and made her hapless 
 
 plaint; 
 And throngs of clamorous blackbirds, whose 
 
 bright wings. 
 In tireless motion, each prismatic hue 
 Reflected, and incessant music made 
 Like distant waters rushing over rocks; 
 And cheery robins; and small piping wrens; 
 Bluebirds; and perky bluejays; and sleek crows, 
 That circling sailed, in ravenous quest, or 
 
 swung 
 Idly athwart the heavens, and croaked and 
 
 cawed: 
 Myriads of squirrels, unmolested, frisked. 
 Glancing and chattering, in the ancient oaks; 
 And timid hares about the doorways played; 
 And in the warm, still sunshine, little swarms 
 Of insects whirled like clouds of sentient dusk. 
 
 Pale anemones; and violets blue 
 And purple; and the sorrel's dainty cup; 
 The lavish dandelion's discs of gold; 
 The tent-leafed mandrake, with its waxen 
 
 blooms; 
 And many nameless flowers, as pure and fair 
 As though they sprang from seeds by angels 
 
 sown, 
 Pranked gaily all the freshly verdant sod; 
 And drank the living light upon them poured, 
 Through tracery of emerald-set boughs. 
 And the soft air was perfumed with the breath 
 Of all the blossoming wild-fruit trees. The thorn, 
 Ungracious hid its clustering milk-white buds, 
 
Castle Dorn 145 
 
 Beneath the greenness of its dark-bright leaves; 
 The crab blushed deeply for the bitter tide 
 Rising to fill its aromatic fruit; 
 The cherry lifted fragrant, snowy spikes, 
 Which by no sign its treacherous gifts be- 
 trayed ; 
 And to the tender grapes the plum discoursed, 
 In whisper sweet, prophetic of its nectar. 
 While every lightest breeze that stirred the 
 
 boughs, 
 Sent showers of petals, mingled pink and white, 
 Among the green flakes drifting from the elms. 
 Thus was the wondrous yearly miracle 
 Of buried Life resurgent, now renewed; 
 And new creations of fresh loveliness. 
 And melody, and fragrance, doubting Earth 
 Once more assured that God was yet alive, 
 And mindful still of mundane happiness. 
 
 Such, with a bright blue sky above it bent, 
 Was Castle Dorn, encompassed by the May. 
 And here the worker dwelt; dwelt with a few 
 Of nearest kin, to whom he ministered 
 With grateful care, by welcome duty bound. 
 And here he worked; worked unremittingly; 
 Worked with the slow, sure methods of the 
 
 Fates: 
 Tilling the soil; and caring for dumb brutes; 
 Grubbing the barrens, and transforming them 
 To fruitful fields; felling the stubborn trees. 
 And shaping timbers to his various uses: 
 And here he built; not house and barn alone. 
 Nor stables, cribs, and pens; but built himself 
 A character; and built himself a Life. 
 
146 Dream Days 
 
 A dream at eventide. 
 The twilight deepened, and there was no moon, 
 "Come," said the Worker, "let us burn the 
 
 Slough. 
 The new grass grows apace, and we shall lack 
 Wild hay unless we burn the Slough." 
 
 Arming his men 
 With clubs and pail, and clouts to fight the fire. 
 They sallied forth, and southward bent their 
 
 steps 
 To a near wood, that in the darkness loomed 
 Still darker. Balmy airs around thein breathed 
 The sweet, fresh breath of the new life diffused 
 Through every growing thing. And a low 
 
 chant, — 
 Sad with melodious discords, — from hoarse 
 
 frogs, 
 Who in the sedges now rejoicing crooned, 
 Was Night's first vocal welcome to the Spring. 
 Threading the mazes of the silent wood, — 
 As men who were on some dark deed intent, 
 Rather than one of light, — they groped their 
 
 way. 
 Until, emerging through the hazel copse. 
 They reached the marshy meadow lying dark 
 Beneath the calm eyes of the changeless stars. 
 On, wading through the dews, the Worker led 
 The way to where the grasses rankest grew. 
 Upon the borders of a sluggish stream, 
 Which filled the ditch dug out to drain the 
 
 Slough. 
 
Burning the Slough 147 
 
 Gathering the long, dried grass, that all 
 around, 
 Thick-matted lay, they twisted it in wisps. 
 And deftly, then, the Worker struck a match 
 Upon his knee. But a light breath of air 
 Extinguished it. Another and another 
 Yet he tried; but they likewise expired, 
 Ere the damp grass ignited. Taking then 
 His hat, beneath its shelter broad, with care 
 He gained a flame, and set the grass ablaze. 
 On all sides now the fire quickly spread. 
 And the men came, and dipped their wisps in it. 
 And, walking, trailed them up and down the 
 
 Slough, 
 Revealing all their course by lines of fire. 
 To the clear eyes of Angels thus, perhaps. 
 The pathway of the good through life is marked 
 By lines of following light. 
 
 The living flames 
 Now ran about the Slough in reckless chase; 
 Here, flying in hot haste; there, coming on 
 In hotter still pursuit. With crackle, snap, 
 And muffled roar, the wild things rush and roll, 
 And rise, to revel and to fall again. 
 The while dense clouds of perfumed smoke 
 
 arose, 
 And with a pleasant, pungent odor filled 
 The air; and dimmed the brightness of the 
 stars. 
 
 At first a light breeze from the southwest 
 blew; 
 And as the fire burned its force increased; 
 And then the rising winds fresh impulse gave 
 
148 Dream Days 
 
 To the competing flames. The wilful fire, 
 
 Aroused to opposition, slowly strove 
 
 To climb the southern slope, against the wind; 
 
 And strove successfully, until the men. 
 
 Laying about with vigor, thrashed and stamped, 
 
 And crushed, and smothered it, to save from 
 
 loss 
 The growth of wheat and timothy beyond. 
 
 "How like the Spirit of ambitious Man," — 
 The Worker mused, meantime, — "is that which 
 
 seems 
 To animate these elements which we 
 Sagely pronounce unconscious. Even as we 
 They seem to stimulate and emulate 
 Each other. And they lack not courage, faith, 
 Nor zeal, to struggle against odds,: — and win. 
 It is no pleasing task to thwart their will." 
 
 But now the flames that sped before the wind. 
 His care demand. With flaunting banners wide 
 Unfurled head-long they rush; flapping red 
 
 wings, 
 Whose rapid sweep resistlessly destructive, 
 Approached the eastern limits of the Slough. 
 The men their efforts now alone direct 
 The fencing to preserve. Copiously, 
 Along the length of line exposed they dash 
 And pour the sludge and water from the ditch. 
 Until the fierce heat backward drives them all. 
 Then the hot, lapping tongues of ravenous 
 
 flame. 
 Upon the seasoned timbers freely feed; 
 And every post, and every rail, involved. 
 Burns redly, till they fall in blackened heaps. 
 
Burning the Slough 149 
 
 In the next field, lying to the northeast, 
 Where last year's grain had grown, and had 
 
 been thrashed. 
 Was a long straw-stack, crescent shaped, and 
 
 high; 
 Should the winds bear a burning brand to it, 
 The adjacent woods, and Castle Dorn might fall. 
 But happily, the grasses on the north 
 Had grown so sparsely, that small care sufficed. 
 To check the northward progress of the fire. 
 And leave the scathed sward smouldering be- 
 neath 
 Thin clouds of grey, the dying embers breath. 
 The west end of the Slough was not yet 
 burned, 
 And thither, to complete their work, the men 
 Proceeded. Soon they had it all alight, 
 And burning safely. Then upon a pail 
 Upturned, the weary Worker sat him down, 
 And bared his broad brow to the cooling breeze. 
 The full glare of the blaze, which on him fell, 
 To threads of lustrous amber turned his locks. 
 While fitful gleams with timid shadows played 
 Among the meshes of his tawny beard. 
 Resting, he sat awhile; and watched the flames 
 Climb spirally about the green, new grass, 
 And at its top, in crimson blossoms glow. 
 Or hang a moment, like some wondrous fruit: 
 Watched the blue lights, shoot up the tall, dry 
 
 grass. 
 Then leap into the air, and disappear 
 In curling, floating ghostly wreaths of smoke. 
 And saw, in the black distance, sudden flames 
 
150 Dream Days 
 
 Among the wind-fanned embers rise and die; 
 And saw the men at work among the fires, 
 Moving about in gloom and glare, restless, 
 Like spirits lost; and as some plied their prods, 
 And showers of sparks around them flew, they 
 
 seemed 
 Like demons torturing their hapless prey. 
 Or Fates at work upon Plutonian forges. 
 
 And One, — a Being from some sphere remote. 
 Perchance the Moon, who having lived on Earth 
 For ages, was accounted human now; — 
 Stood, leaning on a staff and viewed the scene. 
 Then said, "In dark barbaric ages, Man, 
 Light-seeking, on his altars offered fires. 
 Unto a God who answered him by fire. 
 Emblem and evidence of Deity: 
 And sacred fires lent their radiance 
 To dim-eyed searchers for the hidden bond. 
 Which links the human life to that divine. 
 Man the sole creature is upon this earth. 
 To whom the use of fire has been revealed. 
 And power to dominate this Power of Air 
 Been given. Only he kindles the brand. 
 Waking to life a spirit in dead matter; 
 That with the aid of this superior force 
 He may a thousand dull, base things transmute 
 To his own higher uses. In Man's hand 
 The lighted torch becomes a scepter: he 
 Who sways it best grows greatest. From the 
 
 first 
 Rude, charred canoe of the primeval savage. 
 To the "Great Eastern's" complicated bulk; 
 From the essaying forge of Tubal Cain, 
 
Burning the Siough 151 
 
 To the amazing marvels wrought by means 
 Of modern mechanisms, all the arts 
 Of useful human industry, depend 
 In some way upon fire." 
 
 "Truly, yes;" 
 The Worker interposed, bowing assent, 
 "Gunpowder, steam, and the electric spark 
 Attest the needful offices of fire 
 In civilizing Man." 
 
 "And even in 
 The world's beyond," added the Being, "life, 
 
 in all its forms of good or evil power, 
 Is manifest by fire. There goodness shines 
 With light celestial; while dark vices glow, 
 Unwilling, blazoned in infernal fires." 
 
 "Small wonder is it, then," the Worker said. 
 If untaught minds have sometimes bowed before 
 The shrine of this essential source, of light, 
 And heat, and force, and worshipped sucli a 
 
 Power. 
 Oft, it seems in deed a thing of conscious life, 
 With will, and purpose, as with powers endued; 
 The power, and will, and purpose of a Fiend. 
 In earlier years, when these broad lands were 
 
 wild. 
 Miles of unbroken prairie blazed at once. 
 And we ploughed fire-guards in vain. Like seas 
 Of molten brass, the fierce flame rolled and 
 
 surged. 
 And raged, and roared; and from the seething 
 
 mass, 
 Rose in tall spires; or on the howling winds 
 Hissing and shrieking went ; leaping the guards ; 
 
152 Dream Days 
 
 Mounting the trees that in its pathway stood; 
 
 Seeming to seek, exulting when it found. 
 
 The widow's corn-cribs, or the poor man's 
 
 stacks. 
 By day and night we fought it; often fought 
 It all night long; at one point beating it, 
 With great exertions back, only to see 
 Another by its cruel prowess gained. 
 With garments burned, and brows and lashes 
 
 singed, 
 With blistered hands; and nerves and muscles 
 
 strained. 
 Our utmost efforts scarce availed to save 
 Some remnant from the fell destroyer's grasp. 
 And the calm distant heavens, pitiless, 
 Serenely shining through the smoke and gloom. 
 Over the blackened desolation smiled." 
 He, pondering a moment, paused; and then 
 Half-musingly resumed: "The devotees 
 Of unknown gods, could scarcely but believe 
 That Powers of Evil ruled on earth ; for when 
 Have Elemental Forces ever shown 
 One gleam of ruth or sympathy for man?" 
 
 The Being heard, and turned to make reply; 
 But now the Worker's ever watchful eye 
 Saw creeping like a serpent stealthily. 
 Through the tall grass, a slender thread of fire; 
 And with deliberate haste, he strode away. 
 To check its wilful course, while yet he might. 
 The Slough had burned for hours and was 
 
 bare; 
 The wind had fallen; and a murky cloud 
 
Burning the Slough 153 
 
 Had overspread the sky, before, well-spent, 
 The Worker and his men turned their steps 
 
 homeward, 
 Through darkness, deeper for the recent glare, 
 And thickened by the heavy fragrant smoke. 
 When they had crossed the Slough, and reached 
 
 the copse. 
 Before they plunged again into the wood, 
 The Worker cast a careful glance behind. 
 None else could aught discern but a faint gleam 
 In the dim distance, flickering on the ground: 
 But his experienced eye saw more. He said. 
 "The stack is lost! The fire, burrowing 
 Among the roots close-matted in the earth, 
 Has nearly gained the stack; and it must burn." 
 Nor had he judged amiss; the treacherous fire. 
 Before they reached it, found a few stray straws 
 And gliding, lightning-like, along their track. 
 Vaulted upon the pile, and o'er it played 
 Along the crescent's curve, in countless jets. 
 Like a mad band of gleeful Imps escaped 
 Prom Pandemonium, holding orgies wild. 
 Red, purple, orange, blue, and pale white lights 
 Together reveled; climbing now; and now. 
 Commingled, rolling down in sheets of flame. 
 Meanwhile, the black skies lowered, and the 
 
 clouds. 
 Shook from their heavy, drooping wings, large 
 
 drops. 
 Premonitory of the coming shower. 
 "For once," the Worker said, "the elements, 
 So oft inimical, propitious seem. 
 This rain all danger will avert, before 
 
154 Dream Days 
 
 The sleeping winds awake." Then scattering 
 The surface straw, to give the rain ingress, 
 They watched the smoking pile, as here and 
 
 there 
 A bright flame from its burning depths shot 
 forth. 
 "Vainly the human soul strives to conceal, 
 To smother, or to quench, the fearful fires 
 Which glow within it, to refine the heart 
 Of gold, or that of dross consume." 
 
 It was 
 The Being spoke; but not for audience, 
 Nor for reply; in scarcely conscious thought. 
 Hereon the Worker said: "Is not this 
 strange? 
 Great Homer and the other mighty kings 
 And princes in the realms of poetry 
 And thought, compare great things with small; 
 
 depict 
 Their gods and men, in feeling, form, and ac- 
 tion 
 By the aid, illustrative, of beasts. 
 And things inanimate. Whereas, to us, 
 Degenerate, all lowly things point upward. 
 Through Nature's humblest forms, through all 
 
 her range 
 Of unobtrusive actioUj we may learn 
 Her lofty truths: — by nearness of extremes." 
 
 The copious rain percluded converse now; 
 And as it rendered needless further care, 
 They left the blasted plain, which being cleared 
 Of hindering growths, was now prepared, anew 
 To flourish, and a richer crop to yield: 
 
Thorns 155 
 
 As, sometimes, in what seems a blighted life, 
 With ripened joys and springing hopes laid 
 
 waste. 
 The ashes of the withered Past but serve 
 The Future to enrich and fertilize. 
 
 0l|0rtia 
 
 It seemed a waning day in early Spring: 
 No folded leaf appeared on shrub or tree. 
 The hazel blossoms, venturous in the copse. 
 Hung brown, scorched by indignant frosts; and 
 
 scarce 
 The rashest blades of grass had hardihood 
 To peer forth at the remnants of late snows, 
 That in the fence-corners unmelted lay. 
 Along the low and leaden sky there swept 
 A bleakly sullen wind, that trailed the clouds. 
 Unwilling, in its wake, and whirled the leaves 
 From their death beds, along the frosted 
 
 ground. 
 Yet two together wandered down the lane; 
 And passed beyond the mighty oaks which 
 
 stood 
 Before its entrance, like grim sentinels; 
 And by the upturned cornfield; and along 
 The field of sprouting rye; over broad hills. 
 Thick-wooded; and across the bottom bogs; 
 Until at length they reached a small, clear 
 
 creek, 
 And by its windings loiteringly strayed. 
 Nor walked they on in silence, or in gloom; 
 
156 Dream Days 
 
 Along their way the dauntless meadow lark 
 Poured out the sweetness of his liquid strain, 
 As with resistless eloquence he called 
 The tardy Spring to hasten from the South; 
 While here and there, in field of barren bare , 
 A prairie hen droned to the cheerless day, 
 Or, weary, whirred away in sudden flight, 
 To seek, 'mid untried stalks, the doubtful 
 
 grains : 
 And any ringed stump, or log decayed, 
 Or curious feather dropped from wild bird's 
 
 wing, 
 Or stone, or bleaching skull of horse or ox, 
 Would furnish food for thought, and themes 
 
 afford 
 For converse, and the interchange of thought. 
 
 Now on a tiny islet in the stream, 
 Sandy and bare, a single egg they see, 
 Without a nest, exposed upon the ground; 
 And One sprang lightly down the bank abrupt. 
 And waded out, the trophy to secure. 
 Then on a fallen tree they crossed the creek, 
 Where on its further bank a locust grew. 
 Whose limbs were set with interlacing thorns, 
 Long, sharp, and strong; and — wonderful to 
 
 see, — 
 With fruits of orient ripe upon their points. 
 Plucking the thorns with careful hands, to add 
 Such treasures to the Being's store, again 
 They wandered on; till, tired at length, they 
 
 sought 
 A resting place, by thoughful Nature formed 
 Among the gnarled roots of a giant oak 
 Convolved about the soil of the steep bluff 
 
Thorns 157 
 
 That jutted, as a wall into the stream. 
 Reposing here, they listened to the flow 
 Of the clear creek's subsiding waters; or 
 The dismal callings heard of fearless crows, 
 Who in the branches bare above them sat, 
 And of each other hopelessly inquired 
 If time for planting corn would never come; 
 And at rare intervals they faintly caught 
 A distant music in vibrations deep, 
 As some lone pheasant whirred about his nest, 
 Or in some hollow of the wooded glen, 
 The genius of the creek tuned. his bassoon. 
 "Pray, wherefore do thorns grow?" the Being 
 said: 
 This strange world puzzles me. Whether be- 
 cause 
 My vision is not clear; or mundane things. 
 Not focalized for foreign eyes, look dim." 
 
 "The dimness, mortal view affects, as well," 
 Replied the Worker, with a faint, grave smile: 
 "Terrestrial things are mysteries to men. 
 Though deep the search, all human thought 
 
 combined, 
 Through all the ages this old. earth has told. 
 The simple problems thickly round us strewn. 
 Has failed to solve. At every point in life. 
 We question why; yet neither earth nor heaven 
 Vouchsafes us means of finding a reply. 
 Thorns grow because they must, because the 
 Will 
 
 That formed the stem, the leaf, the flower, the 
 
 fruit. 
 Said to the thorn, "Be Thou," and it became. 
 But why He wanted it, though it may serve 
 
158 Dream Days 
 
 Some useful end, perhaps; or why He gave 
 The rose, and not the lily, this defence; 
 Or why he did not choose to make more thorns, 
 To prick the creatures subject to His will, 
 It does not seem His purpose to disclose. 
 But these poor spines," — he said and softly laid 
 A finger on their keenly slender points, — 
 "Are innocent, and harmless quite, compared 
 With those mysterious thorns which pierce and 
 
 rend 
 The souls of men, beyond their power to bear." 
 
 "Ah! friend, you mean the mystery of pain. 
 But is not pain the penalty of crime? 
 The forfeit by exacting Nature claimed 
 For the infraction of her needful laws?" 
 
 " 'Tis safe to grant that pains do often hedge 
 The pastures proper for the range of man. 
 Fencing him from the dangerous precipice; 
 And thus perforce his unknown good subserve. 
 Yet all pain serves not such an end as this: 
 The pains of infants who no laws could break, 
 Nor any wisdom learn by suffering; 
 The pangs which guilt on innocence inflicts; 
 The fearful tortures of the sense or soul. 
 That soften not the heart, nor bless the man. 
 But to a fatal desperation goad 
 Him on; these — and the sum of them is great 
 Beyond our utmost efforts to compute — 
 Can in your category find no place. 
 Wherefore such pains as these? Tell; if you 
 may." 
 
 The Being sighed, and sadly said, "Alas! 
 
Thorns 159 
 
 That right seems wrong, and can not be ex- 
 plained. 
 God is omnipotent, 'tis said; if so. 
 By one assertion of His sovereign will, 
 All pain could be destroyed. In one swift hour 
 He could this writhing, groaning earth trans- 
 form 
 Into a paradise, where pleasure reigned 
 Alone, and every creature breathed but bliss. 
 Whereas, the hungry cry to Him for food, 
 And starve to death, while His storehouse is 
 
 full: 
 With rivers in His hand, fierce thirst consumes 
 His creatures: and His hot sun strikes them 
 
 dead. 
 His cold who may abide? Its leaden clasp 
 Crushes the limb and life; nor would relax 
 Its cruel gripe although the best of men, 
 And tender infancy, and helpless brutes. 
 Alike should stiffen in its fatal folds. 
 Nor is this all. God filled man's frame with 
 
 nerves 
 Contrived with ecstasies of pain to thrill; 
 And daily sees them in unnumbered ways. 
 Beyond the limits of their tension strained. 
 And sees the souls of men with anguish 
 
 wrung, — 
 Tortures untold, and inexpressible, — 
 As far exceeding physical distress. 
 As thought transcends dull matter's senseless- 
 ness. 
 
 Sees all the hopes and joys crushed out of lives; 
 And hears their silent wail for treasures lost, 
 As bleeding hearts their hungry lives prolong. 
 
160 Dream Days 
 
 Sees suffering of every kind and form 
 
 That intellect of demons could devise 
 
 To wring a moan from Patience's smiling lips. 
 
 Sees — not at intervals alone — each pulse 
 
 Of this poor world has beaten pain intense. 
 
 Through all the ages; and its every breath 
 
 Has been a shuddering sigh. Yet God sits still, 
 
 In His own bright beatitude content, 
 
 And leaves the creatures He has made, to lack 
 
 Supplies which He could grant, for needs which 
 
 He 
 Has formed: and lets them in the darkness 
 
 grope, 
 Until they fall upon His thorns, and die. 
 God can, and does not, therefore will not, help; 
 And therefore He wills pain. Hence, pain is not 
 The evil that we think; or God is not 
 The Goodness that we hope. Pain must be good, 
 Or God His creatures can neglect, or else 
 He lacks the power or will to do them good; 
 And such a God were none, or worse than none." 
 
 The Worker had not inattentive been. 
 But silent sat, apparently absorbed 
 In watching the strange evolutions made 
 By a large spider, black and furry-legged, 
 Among the roots that overhung the stream. 
 But now, by some mischance, its poise it lost, 
 And fell, without a thread, into the creek. 
 The slow shore-current would have swept it off, 
 But with one hand the Worker grasped a root, 
 To hold him firmly as below he swung, 
 And with the other reached the Being's staff, 
 To the receding insect, just in time 
 To meet its clasping limbs, and land it safe. 
 
Thorns 161 
 
 "Why take such pains to save so mean a 
 thing?" 
 The Being questioned, in assumed surprise, 
 "And why not kill it now? The ugly brute 
 Is thief, and murderer, and villain quite: 
 What pretext for compassion could it plead?" 
 
 "I know no answer for so many whys," 
 In thoughful tone, the Worker made reply. 
 "My client insignificant may be, 
 Cruel, and treacherous, and wholly bad; 
 Yet he has life and feeling. And in me 
 Some instinct, taste, propensity, or whim, — 
 I scarce know which, — a satisfaction finds 
 In seeing comfort felt by aught that feels. 
 Whereby it follows, that if I relieve 
 Discomfort in another, to prevent 
 My own discomfort, my own pleasure, is 
 My motive ultimate. So paramount 
 Is self." 
 
 "But tell me, friend," the Being asked, 
 "Whence you this instinct have derived? Did 
 
 you 
 Create yourself? Or did your Maker make 
 You better than Himself? More tender, more 
 Compassionate and kind, and more benign?" 
 
 "If that were possible," the Worker said, 
 'Twould scarce be politic, I think, unless 
 A fiend were God, and wished to merit hate. 
 If I, supreme above the universe, 
 Sat regnant, I suppose my first decree 
 Would suffering annihilate, and roll 
 A flood of joy around the world, to drown 
 
162 Dream Days 
 
 The souls of men in ecstasy." 
 
 "And Self," 
 The Being added. "Nothing draws a man 
 Out of his ugly case of self, and melts 
 The icy hardness of his heart, so well 
 As sorrow for another's suffering." 
 
 "Ah! then must others suffer for our good? 
 Pleasing reflection! Just arrangements too!" 
 
 "Nay, friend, but for the sufferer himself, 
 Some pain is an essential good. The soul 
 Needs sorrow to mature its faculties. 
 As ripening mast the frost requires: and as 
 The same keen thrill turns all the bitterness 
 To sweetness, in the wild-grape's blood. No life 
 Is perfected, no character can be, 
 Without a painful crown of thorns, complete. 
 Not flowers, but thorns, Life's richest sweets 
 distil." 
 
 "It then remains for us to draw the line 
 Between injurious and useful pains; 
 Which, who of us is competent to do?" 
 
 "He only, who the true connection sees. 
 Between the cause and consequence; who knows 
 The means that will produce the best result; 
 And sees from the beginning to the end. 
 A sight and knowledge far beyond the scope 
 Of human faculties in this dim life." 
 
 Small rings upon the water warning them. 
 They rose, and with reluctance turned away 
 From the clear creek. And soon the rain fell 
 fast. 
 
 "If we no uses for the clouds could see, 
 
Thorns 163 
 
 Or were not skilled connecting links to trace 
 Between our crops and rain, we might suppose 
 That clouds and storms were evils. But we 
 
 know 
 That rain means bread, and meat, and all good 
 
 cheer. 
 And comfort, and abundance; and we smile 
 A welcome to the frowning clouds, and meet 
 The storms with exultation." 
 
 "Let us then, 
 Trust that the clouds which darken life will 
 
 bring 
 To poor humanity the good it needs, 
 Hereafter, if not here. Trust that the same 
 Kind scepter of beneficence is swayed 
 Above the moral world, that with so wise 
 And beautiful an order, rules in all 
 Material spheres of this terrestrial life." 
 
 Discoursing thus they walked; the while the 
 
 rain 
 Fell heavily, and the dim daylight died. 
 The winds with large drops pelted them, and 
 
 tossed 
 Their straying locks about; with little rills 
 Their clinging garments dripped; around their 
 
 path 
 The rain in slanting lances fell; and broke, 
 And at their feet in splintered brilliants lay. 
 Yet naught of this they heeded; cheerfully 
 Braving the reckless storm's increasing force, 
 With fresh, moist faces, and unhasting steps. 
 They wended back their way to Castle Dorn. 
 
164 Dream Days 
 
 "On! On! Still on, time rolls its tide; 
 And life is ceaseless action. From the stars 
 That spin through boundless space, to the small 
 
 heart 
 That pulsates in a mite, all nature moves; 
 Whether with lightning's instantaneous flash, 
 Or rush of foaming cataracts, or with 
 Slow process of disintegrating stone." 
 
 "Hence the successive seasons come and go. 
 Bringing and taking pleasures, griefs, and cares. 
 Now Winter, with its hardships and its cheer, 
 The genial season has again restored, 
 With its delights and labors. Thus these two 
 Opposing forces, for each other work, 
 And so between them mould, produce, sustain. 
 Material Nature's various lovely forms." 
 
 So two conversed, as slowly forth they fared 
 Together, in a not unwonted quest. 
 Of such additions to the noontide meal 
 As bounteous Nature offered them unasked. 
 Nor had they far to seek. About their path 
 The tonic dandelion's runcinate, 
 Long leaves were thickly spread; and with a 
 
 knife 
 Of graven copper. One, while with a nail, 
 Used as a lever to uproot the stalks, 
 The Other, for a salad gathered them. 
 To an old straw-stack's fertile site, in search 
 Of wholesome lambs-quarter they next repair; 
 And when they had their broken basket filled 
 
The Charity of Beauty 165 
 
 Above the brim, with these wild esculents, 
 Prom the ascending sun's increasing heat, 
 To welcome rest the cooling shades invite. 
 Just at the timber's verge, hard by, there 
 stood 
 A half-grown maple, shapely, and adorned 
 With ample foliage, whose vivid green 
 Was by the red-brown of new shoots relieved. 
 Thither they hied, and in its shelter kind, 
 One stretched his long length on the grass, su- 
 pine, 
 To talk or listen as it pleased him best, — 
 Rare privilege in late society, — 
 The while the Other sat against the tree. 
 Culling the greens to fit them for the fire. 
 Above them hung a sea of blue, serene. 
 Athwart whose depths a little downy fleet 
 With sails of purest white, or softest grey, 
 Went drifting slowly eastw^ard: while below, 
 Their timid shadows crept across broad fields 
 Of wheat and oats, whose tender verdure lay. 
 Like deep-piled velvet, spread around; and then 
 Among the billows of dark-tufted grass. 
 Now gently swelling o'er the late burned Slough, 
 Whence, — like the progeny of Night and Fear, 
 Restless and furtive, — on again they fled 
 Over the striped cornfield, till at length, 
 They hid in the recesses of a wood 
 In the far distance; where, — tradition said, — 
 A race superior to mortals dwelt, 
 Who once disdained not human intercourse. 
 Though now invisible; and their dark wood, 
 
166 Dream Days 
 
 Enchanted, inaccessible to man. 
 
 The moaning dove had hatched her brood, 
 and flown; 
 And all the birds that sang around were gay; 
 The jaunty woodpecker drilled cheerily; 
 And 'mid white clover blooms the brown bees 
 
 hummed 
 Their busy roundelays. Like fairy bells, 
 The cottonwoods their bursting catkins swung, 
 And freed the downy sprites imprisoned there; 
 Who flew away, each with a miracle 
 Enfolded in its breast. The glad leaves sang 
 In a low- whispered cadence: and across 
 One soul, at least, there surged a voiceless tide. 
 As Nature's sacred hand swept o'er the strings 
 Of her own harp invisible, and woke 
 A strain too keenly sweet, too sweetly sad 
 For outward sense of mortal to endure. 
 "On such a day, in such a spot as this, 
 We scarce our lost Lemuria need deplore: 
 The beaming skies; the fresh, fair earth; the 
 
 breeze; 
 The tuneful tribes; the fragrant, steamy mould. 
 In unison appeal: 'Insatiate Man, 
 Is not this Eden, paradise enough?' 
 And for this hour, soft echoes might be left 
 To make reply." 
 
 The Voice came from the Form, 
 Which still upon the sward extended lay, 
 Half-buried in tall weeds; while over It 
 The pointed shadows of the maple leaves 
 Trembled, and danced, and fluttered, and re- 
 posed. 
 
The Charity of Beauty 167 
 
 Then suddenly It cried, "A treasure trove!" 
 And bending down a hazel bush that grew 
 Almost within Its reach, disclosed to view 
 A beauteous little monster. Breaking off 
 The twig whereon it clung, together they 
 Sat down, the bright, repulsive thing to view. 
 A long, thick, pulpy mass of paly green, 
 With numerous feet; and horns; and globules 
 
 black, 
 Set in for eyes; and bristling crests of black 
 On head, and back, and sides; and bands of 
 
 gold, 
 Or white, opaque; and discs, and lines, and 
 
 points, 
 Of white, and gold, and black, over the whole 
 Green, polished surface, carefully disposed. 
 "How marvellous," said One, "that so much 
 
 care. 
 Such taste, and skill,, — and thought apparently — 
 By Nature's Architect should be employed 
 In so elaborating such a worm 
 As this! Who, seeing it, can fail to ask. 
 Why, and for whom. He works?" 
 
 "Both for Himself 
 And us," replied the Other; "God delights 
 In decoration. Witness the bright hosts 
 Of gorgeous clouds around His suns, which 
 
 rise. 
 And set, at once, in some place, every hour; 
 Witness a tender, cloud-flecked sky, like this, 
 Or this same blue, with silver stars besprent; 
 Witness fair Earth, whether in vernal robes, 
 Or ermine, or autumnal tints arrayed; 
 
168 Dream Days 
 
 And every pure, sweet flower, expression meet, 
 
 Of incommunicable thoughts divine; 
 
 And witness all the animated tribes 
 
 Of earth, and air, and sea, whose coloring 
 
 And grace words can not paint; each drop of 
 
 dew, 
 That holds an iris; and the marvels grand. 
 That hide their glories in each ray of light. 
 Ah! they do well, who building for Him 
 
 fanes. 
 Rear not poor, dreary barns, which scarce were 
 
 fit 
 To serve for use of wandering hippodrome; 
 But digging from His quarries choicest stone, 
 And bringing richest metals from His mines, 
 Finding His precious jewels, and with woods 
 Of rarest worth; all hewn, and carved, and 
 
 wrought 
 With the best taste and skill wherewith God's 
 
 grace 
 Has finite faculties of Man endowed; — 
 And with that faithful care which perfects not 
 Alone the lofty arch and column grand. 
 But each minute, unseen detail as well, — 
 A temple raise whose majesty and grace 
 Awe and delight alike inspire; and whose 
 Adorning,: — priceless products of high Art — 
 Resplendent with vermilion, gold, and blue, 
 Toned with relief of umbers, soft or grave, 
 Vie, not in vain, with Nature's polychrome. 
 Do they not well, who by such offerings, 
 Appreciation of His works evince. 
 And gratitude for His good gifts express?" 
 
The Charity of Beauty 169 
 
 "Yes; well, if this they do, and yet leave not 
 Undone, due ministration to the needs. 
 Unnumbered, of distressed humanity. 
 A tribute surely more acceptable 
 Than gifts to Him who needs them not ; because 
 A recognition of that love divine. 
 Which is best pleased when others are most 
 blest." 
 
 "Yet did not he mistake that love, who said 
 Of one such offering to the Lord of all, 
 'This should be sold, and given to the poor'? 
 And it is true that not by bread alone 
 Man lives; though bread he surely needs. He 
 
 eats 
 Material food, forgets it, and remains 
 Still the same man. Whereas, by proper use 
 Of spiritual nourishment, the Man 
 Not only eats and lives, but grows into 
 Another Self, superior to the first. 
 And therefore they who feast the souls of men 
 Upon the Beautiful, and thereby feed 
 The higher life, while ministering joy, 
 Are benefactors to humanity, 
 Not less than they who offer Man a crust. 
 
 No thought can estimate the final worth 
 Of even one stately cathedral's power 
 To teach, delight, refine, and elevate, 
 The countless multitudes of barbarous souls, 
 Who, through unnumbered generations, feel 
 Its sublimated beauty. Take away 
 The architecture of the world, and man 
 Less evidence of great abilities 
 Could furnish; and less hope could entertain. 
 
170 Dream Days 
 
 Of that high destiny which promises 
 The power to express, and to enjoy, 
 The Beautiful, hereafter, evermore." 
 
 "Beauty brings pleasure; true; yet there are 
 
 times 
 When pleasure is unwelcome. When the soul 
 The pangs of keenest grief is suffering; 
 And can not bear the cheerful light of day; 
 Nor any hope of happiness desires; 
 A thoughts of pleasure is a sacrilege, 
 And Beauty seems to make a mock of woe. 
 Nature herein shows lack of sympathy. 
 As in the sternness of her moods severe. 
 Grass grows upon the grave; and flowers 
 
 bloom 
 As gaily there, as though their roots drank not 
 The bitter lees of joy forever lost." 
 
 "Is then the mother heartless, when her lips 
 Press her loved child's bruised brow, and with 
 
 a smile 
 She comforts him, and charms away his pain? 
 Wise Nature, knowing that our keenest pains, 
 Although inevitable, yet must needs 
 Be transitory too, since limited 
 The power to endure; and kind as wise, 
 By slow degrees benumbs the suffering sense. 
 Till even Memory can scarce recall 
 The utter anguish; and Indifference 
 Looks dully back, almost incredulous. 
 The force of contrast may a shock produce. 
 When Beauty's soothing balm is first applied 
 To the sore, palpitating soul; yet soon 
 Its healing power is felt; and — marvel more 
 
The Charity of Beauty 171 
 
 Beneficient — ^from the old life, a new 
 
 And better, stronger, deeper life, it moulds. 
 
 The Beautiful which charms the sense or soul. 
 
 Pleasure alone was meant not to inspire: 
 
 By natural law, our plastic natures grow 
 
 Like what we most admire; and thus by love 
 
 Of beauty, loveliness in us is formed. 
 
 Man, in this world is ever incomplete; 
 
 Through all his mortal life he undergoes 
 
 The process of creation. And sharp pain. 
 
 And smoothing pleasures, both, in the sure 
 
 hand 
 Of the great Sculptor, shaping chisels are 
 Forming the Being for Futurity, 
 By His far-seeing eye, at first discerned." 
 
 "It were a cheering hope, that all, at last, 
 Should reach the stature of the perfect man. 
 Perhaps it may in some state come to pass: 
 But judging from the little that we see 
 Of human life; and from analogies 
 Which everywhere in lower spheres abound, 
 Comparatively few will ever reach 
 The bounds of seeming possibilities. 
 How many of May's blossoms set in fruit? 
 And of these giddy, whirling cotton-seeds, 
 Which sail they care not where, how very few 
 Will bourgeon into trees? Nature's vast stores 
 Are so exuberant, that though she guards 
 Each species with most jealous care, she seems 
 Indifferent to individuals. — 
 Which theory, this unctuous, sleek worm, 
 Might, if it could, be tempted to gainsay." 
 
172 Dream Days 
 
 Replacing it upon its native bush, 
 In courteous tone, the Creature he addressed: 
 "Thanks, hideous Beauty, for the pleasing text, 
 Which for our sage discourse, you have sup- 
 plied; 
 And pray your pardon grant, to the rude man, 
 Selfish enough to take you from your haunt, 
 And so detain you, at his own behest. 
 Without one thought of what you might desire." 
 He took the basket now, and through the 
 wood. 
 They started to return; but blooming things. 
 Wild-roses, spiderwort, and adder's-tongue. 
 With shining, threatening forks, their steps de- 
 layed. 
 And then they found ripe berries in the grass, 
 And in a dock-leaf basin gathered them; 
 Which broke beneath them, wasting time and 
 
 care. 
 Then One, versed in the ways of animals, 
 Fashioned a nest of long, fine grass, to hold 
 The luscious fruit; which, when it was well 
 
 filled. 
 The Other with a fragrant garland graced. 
 Of purple horsemint blooms, edged with a 
 
 fringe 
 Of delicate green leaves. One lifted then 
 The broken basket's weight; while in both 
 
 hands 
 The Other held the nest; and laden thus, 
 They hastened their return to Castle Dorn. 
 
Being 173 
 
 ln«0 
 
 Embowered in the peaceful, dreamy shade 
 Of its majestic oaks, and bending elms. 
 Its gracious vines, and generous wild-fruit trees, 
 And thickets dense of darkly-shining thorn, 
 Grey Castle Dorn in utter silence lay. 
 
 The hot air through its darkened chambers 
 
 stole, 
 Over closed eyelids; then, with slow ascent. 
 Above the stairway motionlessly hung: 
 While in the hall below. Two sat, apart. 
 With bowed heads dreaming over wise, old 
 
 books. 
 While yet they dreamed, together they arose, 
 And taking from its place the wander-staff, 
 Went slowly out through the wide-open door, — 
 The great, brown watch-dog, which half-sleeping 
 
 lay 
 Upon the threshold, following, — and passed 
 Beneath the trees, into the mid-day glare 
 Of the still yards, where lazy cattle stood 
 And dozed, unmindful of their cuds; and fowls, 
 Alternate wings extending, sunned themselves. 
 Half-burrowing in the earth. 
 
 Then on the Two 
 Into the darkness of the plum-grove strayed. 
 And marked the swelling of the half-grown 
 
 fruit; 
 And then among the vines whose tendrils 
 
 gleamed 
 Pale green and crimson, 'mid the clustering 
 
 leaves 
 
174 Dream Days 
 
 That hid the tender grapes. Thence on beneath 
 Green waxen spheres of spicy crab-apples, 
 And slowly-filling cherries, which e'en yet 
 Delayed their treacherous blushes. So along 
 The lane, where giant basswoods late displayed 
 The creamy blossoms that with odors sweet 
 And subtle filled the pulseless air, — they went, 
 Passing unchallenged by the Sentinels, 
 Which in the stateliness, and pride, and wealth, 
 And glory of full summerhood, were now 
 Grandly arrayed. 
 
 Then a broad field appeared. 
 And in the northern distance stretched away, 
 Level and wrinkled, like a darkling sea. 
 For now its green lines, widening,* had met. 
 And after many ploughings, the rank corn 
 Had been, at length, laid by. Along the field 
 The road led on, till through a skirting growth, 
 Half wood, half coppice, — where the sumach 
 
 bright 
 Lifted aloft its thyrsus, golden-green, 
 And hazels curled their clustered pericarps. 
 And fragrant horsemint wore its graceful crown, 
 It opened on a field of early rye. 
 Already flecked with foam of ripening heads 
 Floating and melting, as upon the breeze 
 Its undulations lightly rose and fell. 
 
 Here a fair prospect met the wandering eye; 
 Not bright with the unvaried emerald 
 Of Spring's soft, flowing robe; but with all hues 
 And shades of summer-green diversified, 
 The contrast heightening the charms of each. 
 Pale seas of headed wheat o'er levels swept 
 
Being 1 75 
 
 Or mounted in the rolling prairie's swells; 
 
 And here and there a field of tardy oats 
 
 Lay like a lake of beryl, islanding 
 
 A few unneeded trees. Upon two sides 
 
 The grain-fields cut the sky, as though they 
 
 were 
 The utmost limits of the fertile earth: 
 Whence the grey shadows, which, like fitful 
 
 thoughts, 
 Darkened, dissolved, and formed again, and 
 
 sped 
 Away in heedless flight, or wild pursuit, 
 Plunged headlong into the abyss of space. 
 The vision otherwhere was darkly closed 
 By dendral walls, in cloud-like masses piled. 
 With tender, pallid lights of fresh, new-green 
 Glinting from richer depths of earlier growths. 
 In the white sunshine's fiercely glittering 
 
 gleams. 
 But prospects more remote, or near, delayed 
 Not long the footsteps of the Wanderer; 
 Short space they gazed on fields and foliage, 
 With fences sunk in thrifty weeds between; 
 And pausing for a moment by the hedge, — 
 Where a large butterfly with swaying wings 
 Of downy velvet, painted gorgeously. 
 Sat dreamily upon a drooping rose; — 
 They watched the black, gold-banded bees at 
 
 Work 
 Among the purple clover-blossoms, whose sweets 
 Not without recompense they sought, but with 
 A store of fruitful pollen well repaid. 
 Then, seeking refuge from the burning rays 
 
176 Dream Days 
 
 Of the midsummer sun, beyond the rye 
 They hastened on, and found a hidden spring 
 Amid the tall grass of a billowy Slough, 
 Whose waters cool they gladly quaffed, although 
 They knew that frisking polliwogs, and things 
 Alive, in microscopic myriads 
 Of horrid forms, were mingled with the draught. 
 So thirsty souls, through life's exhaustive day. 
 Too often shake their eagerness at streams 
 Whose turgid waters in solution hold 
 Horrors too hideous for an open view. 
 
 On, over the new breaking, through the late 
 Plough-planted corn, they took their way; and 
 
 o'er 
 The wooded hills where fire-flowers glowed; 
 And through the snowy clover-drifts which lay 
 Upon the verdure of the bottom bog; 
 To the clear creek, that, cradled by the bluffs. 
 And curtained close with salvage greenery. 
 Sang softly its own lullaby, to chant 
 Of murmuring leaves fitly attuned. Again 
 They found a resting-place upon its banks; 
 And in the grateful shade, at ease disposed, 
 Resumed their books; and either read aloud 
 Aught that they wished to share; or following 
 Some leading thought, as was their wont, dis- 
 cussed 
 The problems of existence. 
 
 Shadow leaves 
 Fell on the thoughtful pages, for between 
 Them and the turquoise sky, suspended hung 
 Soft clouds of foliage that dimmed the day. 
 
Being U7 
 
 But here and there the clear creek's depths 
 
 were paved 
 With pale turquoise, and its smooth hyaline, 
 True as an echo, rendered its green shores 
 In softened repetition; and the trees 
 Upon its marge, grew double, hase to base. 
 Brown, lustrous weavers, on the water wove 
 Imaginary webs, in rapid gyres; 
 And brilliant dragon-flies, with wings of gauze 
 Above it darting sailed. The scarabs' shards 
 Plashed back the light; laborious emmets 
 
 raised 
 Their ridgy circles o'er the mellow soil; 
 Midges, and gnats, flyhawks, and all the scale 
 Of insect being, in unnumbered forms, 
 Down to the merest animated point. 
 And bright with every gorgeous hue embraced 
 In full prismatic chord, their birthright claimed 
 In the vast fields of ether, and among 
 The wastes and wilds of ample earth; for now 
 The blessed tide of happy summer-life 
 Rolled swelling o'er the land. — Happy, although 
 A hungry wasp, dark-shining, steely-blue, 
 Came by the Readers, with a frightened worm 
 In his exultant grasp, yet let it fall. 
 And the same moment, a small, ash-grey toad, 
 With round, black eyes, and palpitating throat. 
 Sprang from an old tree's roots, and swallowed 
 
 • it:— 
 Happy, although each life became the prey 
 And sustenance of other lives, because 
 Each life without demur fulfilled 
 The end for which it was designed: and naught 
 
178 Dream Days 
 
 But Goodness can create; or faith and hope 
 Are only empty names. 
 
 The day wore on; 
 And when at length the dusky shadow-leaves 
 Left the strange pages, and began to climb, 
 In social mood the neighboring eastern trees. 
 The stolen lore in whispers to relate. 
 The Worker and the Being turned away, 
 To leave their charmed retreat. But as they 
 
 rose 
 A gruesome vision met their startled gaze. 
 And held them motionless. Through the dim 
 
 wood 
 A fearful, nameless ghoul, with its dark train 
 Of imps attendant, to the stream came down; 
 Traversed its banks awhile, as though intent 
 Upon some fruitless quest, then turned again 
 Into the shadowy wood, and disappeared. 
 
 Spellbound the Two had stood, and the great 
 dog. 
 Courageous to attack his natural foes. 
 Now shrank instinctively away, and claimed 
 Protection from his master. Nature thus, 
 Even through brutes, proclaims Man's sover- 
 eignty. 
 Much marvelling upon the wondrous sight. 
 So seldom to the eyes of men vouchsafed. 
 They left the spot, and their wild way pursued 
 Through trackless wastes; winding through 
 
 deep ravines. 
 Where trickling streamlets ventured on their 
 
 way; 
 Climbing the hills, with ever ready aid 
 Of willing wanderstaff ; crossing rough sloughs, 
 
Being 179 
 
 Half-dry, on withered tussocks of old grass 
 And roots uncertain; wading then through ferns 
 Whose frouds were freighted with the magic 
 
 spores 
 Which render men invisible, and whose 
 Tall tops were closely rolled in curious coils 
 Of inliy blackness. So at length they came 
 Upon the wooded hills where numerous herds 
 Of restless cattle browsed; and 'mid the din 
 Of jangling bells, the Worker's practiced ear 
 His own distinguished; and with noisy aid 
 Of the great watch-dog, gathering his flocks, 
 He sent them scurrying home. 
 
 Through deepening shades. 
 And the wood's reverent silence, on the Two* 
 Proceeded. Presently a strain, low, soft. 
 Melodious, as a fairy's distant song. 
 Grew on the wondering sense. With a quick 
 
 tone 
 Expressing comprehension, suddenly 
 The Worker plunged into the wood, and soon 
 Revealed, near by, a darkly pendent cone, 
 Solid, but to its inmost core instinct 
 With clinging, crawling, buzzing troubled life. 
 
 Without delay the Two sped quickly back 
 To glooming Castle Dorn, where little time 
 Sufficed them to procure a welcome meal, 
 And needments for their enterprise; and then 
 Through darkness they were driving down the 
 
 lane, 
 In a farm-wagon, to secure the swarm. 
 Before they reached the place, the horses' heads 
 They turned into the wood; there fastening 
 
180 Dream Days 
 
 The team, they left the wain; and with a light, 
 A dark brown candle, in an ancient stick, — 
 They to the scene of action went. 
 
 The hough 
 That held the swarm hung low; and under it 
 Upon a bench, they placed an upturned hive: 
 The Worker then cut off the branch, and with 
 Slow care they lowered the dark murmuring 
 
 mass 
 Of restless, pain-and-sweetness-giving, life 
 Into the hive; then stepped aside, to wait 
 The further movements of the sapient throng. 
 Finding themselves disturbed by unknown cause 
 Alarm spread through the roused community; 
 Some over-ran the branch; and some the sides 
 Of the strange hive crept down; and other some 
 Wheeled wildly in uncertain flight, to find 
 What danger threatened them. When, finding 
 
 naught, 
 They settled quietly, though still dispersed. 
 The Worker ventured on a fresh assault. 
 Upon the ground near by, he spread a cloth, 
 Then took the teeming hive into his arms, 
 Keeping the swarm within, and on the cloth 
 Set it reversed, leaving the bough beneath. 
 
 The wrathful bees, supposing they at length 
 Had found a foe, the Worker now beset, 
 With angry buzz, and levin-pointed darts. 
 Whirling about his unprotected head. 
 And his bare hands uplifted in defense, 
 Until, confused by hissings on all sides, 
 And by fierce, sudden, unexpected thrusts 
 Of red-hot javelins, and envenomed spears. 
 
Being 181 
 
 Transported quite, he raging beat the air, 
 And with low, ululating groans, bemoaned 
 A broken skull, and limbs forever maimed. 
 Whereat the Being laughed; not from a lack 
 Of sympathy; but with amused surprise 
 To find a paltry insects sting possessed 
 Of potency to vanquish instantly 
 The quick valor which could meet unmoved 
 A roaring lion, or walk tranquilly 
 Up to the cannon's mouth. 
 
 Leaving the bees 
 Their own devices to pursue, the Two 
 Back to the wagon went; and there awhile 
 They rested from their task; One, seated on 
 The heaps of hay strewn in the wain; the while 
 With folded arms the Other standing leaned 
 Against the wagon-box, and much deplored 
 His ignominious conduct; and declared 
 That he could without flinching bear the pain; 
 And wished the bees would put him to the 
 
 proof; 
 And finally adventuring to the test. 
 Went back amidst the swarm. 
 
 Then left alone, 
 One silent sat, beneath the trembling stars. 
 And converse held with Heaven, or with self; 
 Until the Other came with a report 
 Of favorable progress. The white road 
 Cleft the dark wood, and down it, on the sand, 
 The candle burned, like a lost, fallen star. 
 Now toward it they went; its feeble rays 
 Not far diffused, shone upward on the leaves, 
 With blanching light, fantastical, and weird. 
 
182 Dream Days 
 
 The bees had settled chiefly in the hive, 
 Yet were its sides half covered, and about 
 The branch they clung, and on the bench or 
 
 ground 
 Wandered a few confused. A leafy twig. 
 The Worker for a besom served; with it 
 He gently brushed the bees into the hive 
 And if they stung him made no suffering sign. 
 
 When all but a few stragglers were safe 
 housed, 
 The Two gathered the ends of the great cloth 
 And folding them across the top, and down 
 The sides of the full hive, secured the whole 
 With a strong band of twisted hay, and then 
 The Worker in the wagon placed the hive, 
 Embedded in soft hay; then carefully 
 Extinguished the wasted candle's flame, 
 They climbed again into the rattling wain. 
 And through the moonlight, singing merrily. 
 Triumphant, they drove back to Castle Dorn. 
 
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