LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 iiptp. Gnjujrig^t ^o 
 
 UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 
 
THE HAPPY ISLES, 
 
 AND 
 
 Other Poems. 
 
 
 i 
 
 s. h^m/byers. 
 
 +++ 
 
 
 OCT 9 
 3 
 
 kiSU: V 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO. 
 1891. 
 

 Copyright, 1891, 
 By CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO. 
 
 {All rights reserved.) 
 
 Press of 
 
 Jenkins & McCowan, 
 
 224 Centre St., N. Y. 
 
A few of the poems in this volume were 
 first printed in magazines, and some were 
 contained in a previous volume, but many 
 appear now for the first time. 
 
TO MY WIFE 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS LOVINGLY 
 IXSCKIBED. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Happy Isles, 
 Sherman's March to the Sea, 
 The Ballad of Columbus, 
 The First Kiss, . 
 
 Philip, 
 
 Margery Brown, . 
 
 News at the White House, 
 
 The Reveille, 
 
 Satd a Song-Bird, 
 
 The Guard on the Volga, . 
 
 The Sea, 
 
 Auf Wiedersehen ! . • . 
 The Tramp op Sherman's Army, 
 The Ballad of Quintin Massy, 
 Baby Helene, .... 
 The Dwarf of Mitylene, 
 
 Echo, 
 
 The Kiss of Jupiter, . 
 On a Fair Dead Girl, 
 My White Bose and Bed, 
 The Marriage of the Flowers, 
 Boom for the Angels, 
 
 PAGE 
 11 
 
 24 
 27 
 42 
 44 
 54 
 56 
 61 
 63 
 65 
 68 
 70 
 72 
 77 
 86 
 90 
 94 
 98 
 103 
 105 
 107 
 113 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 
 If You Want a Kiss, Why. Take It, 
 
 I'AUE 
 
 . 115 
 
 The Mowing, 
 
 117 
 
 Jamie's Coming o'ek the Mook, 
 
 . 119 
 
 Maid and Butterfly, 
 
 121 
 
 0, How Shall I Sing to My Fair One ? . 
 
 . 122 
 
 Under the Eose, 
 
 124 
 
 Maiden, so Slender and Fair, 
 
 . 127 
 
 In Llbby, 
 
 130 
 
 My Violet, 
 
 
 There is a Maiden Whom I Know, 
 
 133 
 
 In a Vineyard, 
 
 . 135 
 
 Song, 
 
 136 
 
 IONE, 
 
 . 137 
 
 A Centennial Idyl, 
 
 139 
 
 Gypsy Gipl's Song, 
 
 . 151 
 
 The Nation's Dead, 
 
 152 
 
 Ariadne, ....... 
 
 . 156 
 
 Notes, . 
 
 1G0 
 
THE HAPPY ISLES. 
 
 Once on a time, in beauteous Paradise, 
 Two angels wandered at the even-tide, 
 Beneath a splendor of celestial skies, 
 With banks of violets on every side. 
 And to their ears, came ever far and wide, 
 Soft notes of flutes, voluptuous melodies, 
 That mortals, hearing, had in rapture died. 
 So soft they came, the murmuring of the seas 
 Was stilled, to listen to their ecstasies. 
 
 And while they wandered, all their senses 
 
 filled 
 
 With the sweet thought to be forever young, 
 
 All things a joy, and every longing stilled, 
 
 With not a heart by any sorrow wrung, 
 
 And life a song to be forever sung, — 
 
 A thought came o'er them like a sacred spell, 
 
 Of loved and left, far other scenes among, 
 11 
 
12 THE HAPPY ISLES. 
 
 Where no dear heart might ever go, to tell 
 How sweet is death, and how all things are 
 well. 
 
 Then one did ask what loveliest thing there 
 
 was, 
 That was most fair of anything on earth, 
 Of lovely flower, or eglantine, or rose, 
 Or tree, or thing of most surpassing worth, 
 
 And beauteous even from its very birth, 
 
 Be it of groves, or seas, of human kind, or 
 
 skies, 
 Or songs of winds, of sadness, or of mirth, — 
 What loveliest thing of all that ever dies, 
 Were fittest first to be in Paradise. 
 
 One said a nightingale, and one the gleam 
 
 Of summer sunset by some constant sea, 
 
 And one, sweet apple-blooms that fall and 
 
 seem 
 Wind-kissed, and lulled into an ecstasy 
 Of odorous death, if such a thing there be. 
 And others said, for many hastened near, 
 The loveliest thing in all the world to see, 
 
THE HAPPY ISLES. 13 
 
 Surpassing all, to heaven and earth most dear, 
 By angels welcomed, is a sorrowing tear. 
 
 One said the fragrance of a summer rose, 
 And one the melody of flutes at eve, 
 Or else the music of a brook that flows, 
 Murmuring farewell, and yet doth never 
 
 leave, — 
 And some said moonlight nights that weave 
 In every soul sweet phantasies so deep 
 That mortals may of immortality conceive, 
 Nor longer wish their little lives to keep 
 From that sweet death which some of them 
 
 call sleep. 
 
 But one there came, of others all the first, 
 And laid his hand upon a little child, 
 And quick there seemed a radiance to burst 
 About his face, ineffable and mild. 
 " This is the loveliest," he said, and smiled. 
 " Surpassing this, or lovelier, there is none, — 
 Rose-leaf of beauty, mortal undefiled. 
 The pearly gates no soul hath ever won, 
 That was not like unto this little one." 
 
14 THE HAPPY ISLES. 
 
 Then children came, and laid sweet baskets 
 
 down, 
 Rose-leaf and violet, and every flower of 
 
 worth, 
 And odorous herbs, and many a wreath and 
 
 crown, 
 While in their midst stood one of mortal 
 
 birth, 
 Herself more fair than any flower of earth. 
 Oh ! beauteous one, — oh ! face more perfect 
 
 grown. 
 Though all unchanged, more beautiful thou 
 
 art, — 
 E'en in thy angelhood, we still had known 
 Our heart-sweet lost — our loved, our very 
 
 own. 
 
 Was it a vision that I saw her there, 
 
 Her face all gleaming in the light of I lis. 
 The sunlight shining on her sweet, brown 
 
 hair, 
 That ever had been my delight to ki>-. 
 In the old days, when seeing her was bliss'/ 
 It must have been — and if such tilings there 
 
 be, 
 
THE HAPPY ISLES. 15 
 
 Iii fleeting visions of an hour like this, 
 What an Elysium the soul must see 
 In the sweet joys of an eternity ! 
 
 'Tis but a year — but little more, since she 
 And I were laughing by this beauteous lake; 
 There is the path, and there the little tree 
 I used to bend close to the ground, and make 
 A springing seat — 't was easy for her sake. 
 There, too, the grove, of Nidelbad the pearl, 
 The beechen trees no winds could ever break, 
 The cedars, bending like some plumed earl 
 To her I loved, the little, laughing girl. 
 
 There are the Alps — there they will ever 
 
 be, — 
 A thousand years will make no change in 
 
 them, 
 Though rivers fail, and all the mighty sea, 
 Still they will wear their gracious diadem, 
 Storm and the clouds their snowy mantles 
 
 hem, 
 And they will shine as they have shone of 
 
 old — 
 
16 THE HAPPY ISLES. 
 
 Their tops aflame, as on some evening, when 
 We watched the sun their palaces unfold, — 
 The sapphire roofs — the colonnades of gold. 
 
 And Zurich lake ! thy waters ever will 
 Be dearer far than other scenes to me, 
 For I have wandered by thy shores until 
 My very being seemed akin to thee. 
 Each bank I knew, and every brook and 
 
 tree, 
 Each vine-clad hill, and every hamlet fair. 
 And more I loved thee every day, that si a- 
 Was born to us amid a scene so rare, — 
 My heart will be forever turning there. 
 
 Forever turning to that beauteous scene, 
 Where she and I, the happy years agone, 
 Looked on the hills and the blue lake be- 
 tween, 
 The blushing mountains in the dim beyond, 
 The ice-built palaces, and rocks whereon 
 A thousand years the frost-king travelleth, 
 Where the red sun, at evening and at dawn. 
 
THE HAPPY ISLES. 17 
 
 Spreads all in gold, as with a fairy's breath. 
 We looked and dreamed, but never dreamed 
 of death. 
 
 And it is done ! One morn, the little bird 
 
 That waited ever at her window-pane 
 
 For some dear crumb, or for some dearer 
 
 word, 
 Plumed its sweet breast, and waited there in 
 
 vain. 
 Sweet heart ! dear soul ! she without any 
 
 stain, 
 Too pure for earth, born of far fairer skies, 
 Thoughtless of death, of darkness, or of pain, 
 Looking on us as if with other eyes, 
 Let go our hands and passed to Paradise. 
 
 With gentle hands, and gentle prayers, we 
 
 laid 
 Her body where the violets do blow ; 
 And if sometimes they should be thought to 
 
 fade, 
 With our warm tears we '11 water them, and so 
 For love of her, they will forever grow. 
 
]_g THE HAPPY ISLES. 
 
 And many days, with broken hearts, we said, 
 " Conld one return, or could we only know 
 She liveth yet, whom we have thus called 
 
 dead, 
 Our souls in this might still be comforted." 
 
 And days and nights, we waited for a sign, 
 Praying and hoping slit- might linger there, 
 That word or look might lessen death's re- 
 pine, 
 One single word might lighten our despair — 
 Might make the yoke more possible to bear. 
 We sought of silence — there was answer 
 
 none, 
 We sought of moonlight, and of earth and 
 
 air, — 
 There was no answer. Would she never e<> me 
 One moment back, and strike all doubting 
 
 dumb ? 
 
 And longing thus, as once I wept alone, 
 With heart bowed down, and faee all wet 
 
 with tears, 
 I felt her presence —felt my very own,— 
 
THE HAPPY ISLES. 19 
 
 And in that moment was the bliss of years. 
 Gone were my doubts, and gone were all my 
 
 fears. 
 No dream was it — no phantasy could be 
 So like to her — the very thought endears. 
 It was no dream, that vision sweet — I see 
 Her dear form yet, and feel her kissing me. 
 
 One moment only, and one sweet embrace — 
 I felt her warm arms resting on my breast — 
 Her soft, warm cheek I felt against my face. 
 A thousand times I 'd put that head to rest, 
 Those little hands a thousand times caressed. 
 Dear eyes, sweet eyes ! I know their tender 
 
 gleam, 
 How oft their look some sorrowing heart hath 
 
 blessed — 
 Dearer this night, than they did ever seem, 
 Dear one I love, I know it was no dream. 
 
 'T was but a moment, but that moment was 
 Rich in significance of things that are : 
 As some faint light behind the hill-top shows 
 The comino; moon and her attendant star, 
 
20 THE HAPPY ISLES. 
 
 So with new eyes I saw, and from afar 
 Heard sweetest tones, and in the rosy West 
 Where they had left the golden gates ajar. 
 That she might come to give my spirit rest, 
 I looked and saw the Islands of the Blest. 
 
 Or dream, or waking, T may never know, 
 Alike the joy, no words may ever tell, — 
 I saw the isles where roses ever blow, 
 
 I saw the slioivs where bright seas ever 
 
 swell — 
 Jt was the land where the hirst spirits dwell. 
 I saw fair harks, by angels piloted 
 ()\r roseate seas that only rose and fell 
 To notes of flutes, that thus were hallowed. 
 While silver moons shed soft light overhead. 
 
 I saw the gardens of the happy Blest, — 
 The lotns-blooms, and golden asphodel, 
 And flowering shrubs angelic hands had 
 
 dressed, 
 Red-berried ash, and the sweet mountain bell, 
 And thornless rose that doth forever smell, 
 And lilies fair, and waters all in tune 
 
THE HAPPY ISLES. 21 
 
 With odorous winds that came like fairy spell 
 Out of the night, to cool the parched noon, 
 And make the year a never-ending June. 
 
 I saw the fields that are forever green, 
 
 And purple hills that melt into the sea, 
 
 The thousand brooks that sing their way 
 
 between, 
 One and a part of His great minstrelsy. 
 Not far away that happy sea may be, 
 Not far those sails by rapturous breezes bent, 
 With mortal eyes, at times, we almost see, 
 So near they are to our own firmament — 
 The Blessed Isles, where all men are content. 
 
 Gone is the vision of that blessed hour, 
 Like to some dream that with the morn is 
 
 flown. 
 I saw the Isles, and every tree and flower 
 Melt and grow dim, as when a cloud is blown 
 Across a moon that had that moment shone. 
 But as that moon and all her star-lit train, 
 Will still shine on, when the dark cloud is 
 
 gone, 
 
22 THE HAPPY ISLES. 
 
 So will the clouds that hide my vision wane, 
 And I shall see the Blessed Isles again. 
 
 Shall ever think how very thin the veil 
 That floats at times betwixt myself and her, 
 Like mist of morn, or like some dewy sail, — 
 Ethereal cloud — so vapor-like, as 't were 
 A touch of wind, a gentle breath, might stir 
 Its shining folds — and I again should see, 
 Spread out like gold, as in my vision fair. 
 The Happy Isles, the far-off shining sea. 
 And her I loved, waiting to welcome me. 
 
 So I shall walk as now the earth along, 
 Dearer to me for one that has been here, 
 Nor shall the way seem very dark or long 
 To those Blest Isles whose confines do ap- 
 pear. 
 And if, sometimes, in fancy I should hear 
 A dear, soft voice, or some light footstep's 
 
 tread, 
 I shall he sure that she is very near, 
 And, thinking so, be gently comforted, 
 And live and love, as by her spirit led. 
 
THE HAPPY ISLE 8. 23 
 
 And many times my hand in hers will be, 
 And we will walk by pleasant ways alone, 
 And I shall look into her face, and see 
 The dearest eyes that ever yet have shone — 
 And cheeks more sweet than any roses 
 
 blown. 
 And when, sometimes, light song and pleas- 
 antry 
 Fill every heart but mine, to silence grown, 
 They will not know that, at that moment, she 
 Sits by my side and keeps me company. 
 
SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA. 
 
 Our camp-fires shone bright on the mount- 
 ains, 
 
 That frowned on the river below. 
 While we stood by our guns in the morning, 
 
 And eagerly watched for the foe ; 
 When a rider came out from the darkness 
 
 That hung over mountain and tree, 
 And shouted "Boys, up and be ready ! 
 
 For Sherman will march to the sea ! " 
 
 Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman 
 
 Went up from each valley and glen, 
 And the bugles re-echoed the music 
 
 That came from the lips of the men ; 
 For we knew that the stars in our banner 
 
 More bright in their splendor would be. 
 And that blessings from Northland would 
 greet us, 
 
 When Sherman marched down to the sea. 
 
SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA. 25 
 
 Then forward, boys ! forward to battle ! 
 
 We marched on our perilous way, 
 And we stormed the wild hills of Besaca— 
 
 God bless those who fell on that day ! 
 Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, 
 
 Frowned down on the flag of the free ; 
 But the East and the West bore our standards 
 
 And Sherman marched on to the sea. 
 
 Still onward we pressed, till our banners 
 
 Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, 
 And the blood of the patriot dampened 
 
 The soil where the rebel flag falls. 
 Yet we paused not to weep for the fallen, 
 
 Who sleep by each river and tree, 
 But we twined them a wreath of the laurel, 
 
 And Sherman marched on to the sea. 
 
 O ! proud was our army that morning, 
 That stood where the pine darkly towers, 
 
 When Sherman said, " Boys, you are weary ; 
 To-day fair Savannah is ours." 
 
26 SHERMAN' 8 MARCH TO THE SEA. 
 
 Then sang we a song for our chieftain, 
 That echoed o'er river and lea, 
 
 And the stars in our banner shone brighter, 
 When Sherman marched down to the seal 
 
THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 It was fourteen hundred and ninety-two, 
 
 The close of the New Year's day, 
 When the armies of Catholic Ferdinand, 
 The flower of all the Spanish land, 
 At the siege of Granada lay. 
 
 Ten thousand foot and ten thousand horse 
 
 And ten thousand men with bows 
 Were on the left, and as many more 
 Had stormed close up to the city's door, 
 Where the Darro Eiver flows. 
 
 And the king held levee, for on that day 
 
 Great news had come to court — 
 How on the morrow the town would yield, 
 And the flag of Spain, with the yellow field, 
 Would float from the Moorish fort. 
 
 There were princely nobles and high grandees 
 That night in the royal tent ; 
 
 27 
 
28 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 And the beautiful queen with the golden hair 
 And shining armor and sword was there — 
 On the king's right arm she leant. 
 
 It was nine, and the old Alhambra bells 
 
 Tolled out on the moonlit air ; 
 And over the battlements far there came 
 The murmuring sound of Allah's name, 
 
 And the Moorish trooj^s at prayer. 
 
 "Hark!" said the king, as he heard the 
 sound, 
 
 " Hark, hark ! to yon bell's refrain — 
 Five hundred years it has called the Moor ; 
 This night, and 'twill call him nevermore — 
 
 To-morrow 'twill ring for Spain !" 
 
 Then spake a guest at the king's right hand : 
 
 " To-morrow the end will be ; 
 Hast thou not said, when the war is done 
 And the Christ flag floats o'er the Moslem 
 one, 
 
 Thou wouldst keep th}- promise to me ? 
 
THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 29 
 
 " Thou wouldst give me ships, and wouldst 
 give me men 
 
 Who would dare to follow me ? 
 Help thou this night with thy royal hand, 
 And I'll make thee king of a new-found land 
 
 And king of a new-found sea. 
 
 " For the world is round, and a ship may sail 
 
 Straight on with the setting sun, 
 Beyond Atlantis a thousand miles, 
 Beyond the peaks of the golden isles, 
 To the Ophir of Solomon. 
 
 " So I'll find new roads to the golden isles, 
 
 To the gardens that bloom alway, 
 To the treasure-quarries of Ispahan, 
 The sunlit hills of the mighty Khan, 
 And the wonders of far Cathajr. 
 
 " And gold I'll bring from the islands fair, 
 
 And riches of palm and fir 
 Thou shalt have, my king ; and the lords of 
 
 Spain 
 Shall march with the Christ flag once again, 
 
 And rescue the Sepulchre." 
 
30 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 But the nobles smiled and the prelates 
 sneered, 
 
 With many a scornful fling ; 
 " Had not the wisest already said 
 It was but the scheme of an empty head, 
 
 And no fit thing for a king ? 
 
 " And were it true that the world is round, 
 
 And not like an endless plain, 
 Were our good king's vessels the seas to ride 
 Adown the slope of the world's great side, 
 
 How would they get up again?' 
 
 "And the land of the fabled antipodes 
 
 Was a wonderful land to see, 
 Where people stand with their heads on the 
 
 ground, 
 And their feet in the air, while the world 
 
 spins round " — 
 And they all laughed merrily. 
 
 But the king laughed not, though he scarce 
 believed 
 The things that his ears had heard ; 
 
THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 31 
 
 And lie thought full long of the promise fair, 
 And he knew that the day and the hour were 
 there, 
 If a king were to keep his word. 
 
 So he said, " For a while, for a little while, 
 
 Let it bide, for the cost is great ; " 
 But the guest replied : "Nay, seven years 
 I have waited on with my hopes and fears ; 
 And soon it will be too late." 
 
 Then spake the queen, " Be it done for me. 
 
 Here are jewels for woe or weal ; " 
 And she took the gems from her shining hair, 
 And the priceless pearls she was wont to 
 wear, 
 
 And she said, "For my own Castile." 
 
 # * * * * -3f * 
 
 There were three ships sailing from Palos 
 town, 
 
 Ere the noon of a summer's day, 
 And the people looked at the ships and said, 
 " God pity their souls, for they all are dead ;" 
 
 But the ships went down the bay. 
 
32 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 And an east wind blew, and the convent bells 
 
 Bang out in sweet accord, 
 And the master stood on the deck and cried, 
 11 We sail in the name of the Crucified, 
 
 With the flag of Christ our Lord !" 
 
 They were ten days out when a storm wind 
 blew — 
 
 Ten days from the coast of Spain — 
 And the sailors shrived each other and said, 
 "God help us now, or Ave all are dead ! 
 
 We shall never see land again." 
 
 They were twelve days out when an ocean 
 rock 
 
 Burst forth in a sea of fire, 
 As if each peak and each lava cliff 
 Of the red-hot sides of Teneriffe, 
 
 Were a sea-king's funeral pyre. 
 
 And the sailors crossed themselves and said, 
 
 "Alas, for the day we swore 
 To follow a reckless adventurer — 
 Though it be at last to the Sepulchre — 
 
 In search of an unknown shore." 
 
THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 33 
 
 And they spoke of the terror that lay be- 
 tween, 
 Of the hurricanes born of hell, 
 Of the sunless seas that forever roar, 
 Where the moon had perished long years 
 before, 
 When an evil spirit fell. 
 
 And ever the winds blew west, blew west, 
 
 And the ships blew over the main. 
 " They are cursed winds," the mariners said, 
 " That blow us forever ahead — ahead ; 
 They will never blow back to Spain." 
 
 But the master cited the Holy Writ ; 
 
 And he told of a vision fair, 
 How a shining angel would show the way 
 To the Indus isles and the sweet Cathay, 
 
 And he "knew they were almost there." 
 
 But a sea-calm came, and the ships stood still, 
 
 And the sails drooped idle and low, 
 And a seaweed covered the vasty deep 
 As darkness covers a world in sleep, 
 And they feared for the rocks below. 
 
34 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 It was twelve that uiglit when a breeze 
 sprang fresh, 
 
 As if from a land close by, 
 And the sailors whispered each other and said, 
 " God only knows what next is ahead — 
 
 Or if to-morrow we die." 
 
 It was two by the clock on the ship next 
 morn, 
 
 And breathless the sailors stand, 
 With eyes strained into the starless night, 
 When, lo! there's a cry of " A light, a light!" 
 
 And a shout of " The land, the land !" 
 
 There were weeping eyes, there were press- 
 ing hands, 
 
 Till the dawn of that blessed day ; 
 When the admiral, followed by all his train, 
 With the flag of Christ and the flag of Spain, 
 
 Eode proudly up the bay. 
 
 In robes of scarlet and princely gold, 
 On the New World's land they kneel ; 
 
TEE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 35 
 
 In the name of Christ, whom all adore, 
 They christened the island San Salvador, 
 For the crown of their own Castile. 
 
 And the simple islanders gazed in awe 
 On the " gods from another sphere ;" 
 
 And they brought them gifts of the Yuca 
 bread, 
 
 And golden trinkets, and parrots red, 
 And showed them the islands near. 
 
 They told of the lords of a golden house, 
 
 Of the mountains of Cibao, 
 The cavern where once the moon was born, 
 The hills that waken the sun at morn, 
 
 And the isles where the spices grow. 
 
 From isle to island the ships flew on, 
 
 Like white birds on the main, 
 Till the master said, "With my flags unfurled, 
 I have opened the gates of another world — 
 
 I will carry the news to Spain." 
 
 It was seven months since at Palos town, 
 Ere the noon of that summer's day, 
 
36 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 The good ships sailed, with their flags un- 
 furled, 
 In search of another and far-off world — 
 And again they are in the bay. 
 
 Twelve months have passed, and the king 
 again 
 
 Holds levee with all his train, 
 And Columbus sits at the king's right hand, 
 And, whether on sea or upon the land, 
 
 Is the greatest man in Spain. 
 
 And the queen has honored him most of all — 
 She has taken him by the hand : 
 
 " Don Christopher thou shalt be called 
 ahvay ;" 
 
 And a golden cross on his heart there lay, 
 And over his breast a band. 
 
 And ships she gave, and a thousand men, 
 
 With nobles and knights in train ; 
 And again the convent bells they rung, 
 And the praise of his name was on every 
 tongue, 
 As he sailed for the West again — 
 
THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 37 
 
 To the hundred islands and far away 
 
 In the heats of the torrid zone, 
 To gardens as fair as Hesperides, 
 To spice-grown forests, and scented seas 
 Where no sails had ever blown ; 
 
 And up and down by the New World's coast, 
 
 And over the western main, 
 With but the arms of his own true word, 
 He lifted the flag of the blessed Lord 
 
 And the flag of the land of Spain. 
 
 And he gave them all to the king and queen, 
 
 And riches of things untold ; 
 And never a ship that crossed the sea 
 But brought them tokens from fruit and 
 tree, 
 
 And gems from the land of gold. 
 
 Three times he had sailed to his new-found 
 world, 
 
 Five times he had crossed the main, 
 When, walking once by the sea, he heard, 
 By secret letter or secret word, 
 
 Of a murderous plot in Spain — 
 
38 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 How that envious persons about the court 
 Had poisoned the mind of the king 
 
 By many a letter of false report, 
 
 By base suspicion of evil sort, 
 
 And words with a traitorous sting. 
 
 And the king, half eager to hear the worst, 
 
 For he never had been a friend, 
 Believed it all, and he rued the hour 
 He gave to the master rank and power, 
 And resolved it should have an end. 
 
 So with cold pretence of the truth to hear, 
 
 And with heart that was false as base, 
 A ship was hurried across the main, 
 With Bobadilla, false knight of Spain, 
 To take the admiral's place. 
 
 that kings should ever unkingly be ! 
 
 O that men should ever forget ! 
 For that fatal hour the false knight came, 
 To the king's disgrace and the great world's 
 shame, 
 
 The star of Columbus set. 
 
THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 39 
 
 They took the queen's cross from off his 
 breast, 
 
 And chains they gave him instead ; 
 And iron gyves on his wrists they put, 
 Yile fetters framed for each hand and foot — 
 
 " 'Twere better they left him dead." 
 
 For he who was first of the new-found world, 
 
 And bravest upon the main, 
 Who had found the isles of the fabled gold, 
 And the far-off lands that his faith foretold, 
 
 Was dragged like a felon to Spain. 
 
 But the whole world heard the clank of his 
 chains, 
 
 When he landed in Cadiz bay ; 
 And fearing the taunt and the curse and scoff, 
 The false king hurried to take them off, 
 
 At the pier where the old ship lay. 
 
 But little it helped, or the kiug's false smile, 
 
 As he sat in his robes of state ; 
 For wrong is wrong, if in hut or hall, 
 And the right were as well not done at all, 
 If done, alas ! too late. 
 
40 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 And little it helped if, here and there, 
 
 The mantle of favor stole 
 Across his shoulders, to hide the stain 
 Of a broken heart or a broken chain — 
 
 They had burned too deep in his soul. 
 
 So the years crept by, and the cold neglect 
 
 Of kiugs, that will come the while ; 
 Forever and ever 'tis still the same — 
 Short-lived's the glory of him whose fame 
 Depends on a prince's smile. 
 
 And long he thought, could he see the queen, 
 Could he speak with her face to fai 
 
 She would know the truth and would be again 
 What once she was, ere his hopes were slain ; 
 And he sighed in his lonely place. 
 
 And on a day when he seemed forgot, 
 
 And darker the fates, and grim, 
 A letter came, 'twas the queen's command, 
 "Come straight to court," in her own fair hand, 
 And she would be true to him. 
 
 But alas for man, and alas for queen, 
 And alas for hopes so sped ! 
 
THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 41 
 
 He had only come to the castle gate, 
 When the warder said, " It is late — too late, 
 For the queen, she is lying dead." 
 
 And the king forgot what the fair, good queen 
 
 With her dying lips had said ; 
 And he who had given a world to Spain 
 Had never a roof for himself again, 
 
 And he wished that he, too, were dead. 
 
 Slow tolled the bells of old Seville town, 
 
 At noon of a summer's day ; 
 For up in a chamber of yonder inn, 
 Close by the street, with its noise and din, 
 
 The heart of the New World lay. 
 
 Perhaps the king, on his throne close by, 
 
 No thought to the tolling gave ; 
 But over a world, far up and down, 
 They heard the bells of Seville town, 
 And they stood by an open grave. 
 
 And the Seville bells, they are ringing still. 
 
 Through the centuries far and dim ; 
 And though it is but the common lot 
 Of men to die, and to be forgot, 
 
 They will ring forever of him. 
 
THE FIRST KISS. 
 
 Can you tell roe what a kiss is, 
 
 Lady mine ? 
 Stands there writ among the pages 
 Of the poets and the sages 
 
 Any sign ? 
 
 What a kiss is, sweet, then listen 
 
 Once to me : 
 When the fairies first made lovers, 
 Such as you and I and others — 
 
 In their glee, 
 
 They forgot to make a sign-word 
 
 And a seal — 
 Something that should be a token 
 Of a something still unspoken, 
 
 That we feel. 
 
 Till one day a man and maiden, 
 
 Sweet as morn, 
 Touched their lips just so, together, 
 And out there, among the heather, 
 
 It was born. 
 
 42 
 
THE FIRST KISS. 43 
 
 Oh ! the fairies laughed and cried so, 
 
 In the morn, 
 Just to think, in two lips meeting, 
 And in two eyes fondly greeting, 
 
 It was born. 
 
 And they laughed, and said together, 
 
 We will make 
 Out of human lips a treasure, 
 Loved and deep beyond all measure, 
 
 For their sake. 
 
 And with fairy wands they touched them, 
 
 And the thrill 
 Of the two first lips together, 
 On that sweet morn in the heather, 
 
 Liveth still. 
 
 And from that morn unto this morn 
 
 Of our bliss, 
 There hath never been a lover 
 But the sign-word could discover 
 
 In a kiss. 
 
PHILIP. 
 
 Ah! many and many a year ago it was 
 
 And yet, but yesterday it might have been. 
 So little changed are fields and olive rows, 
 And Prato's lulls, and orchards gold and 
 
 green, 
 And hearts of men and women too, I ween. 
 Some things there are that never do grow old. 
 Or, growing old. age is not felt nor seen ; 
 As faces of the ones we love — they hold 
 A truce with time, — and lovers' tales, though 
 
 oft retold. 
 
 Ah! many a year within a cloister's walls, 
 A friar-painter brooded all the day : 
 For even prayer sometimes a little palls 
 On honest hearts who count their beads alway, 
 And most with those who work, as well as 
 
 pray. 
 And so with Philip, young and fair, and one 
 Whom cities honored; and men loved to sav 
 
p&ilip. 45 
 
 That Friar Philip painted Christ as none 
 In all his far-famed Italy had ever done. 
 
 Still was he not content, for he would trace 
 
 The Holy Virgin, with a face so fair, 
 
 Men should not say, " How sweet it is, what 
 
 grace, 
 What depth of color and what beauty rare, 
 And still, no face of any woman there." 
 He would have flesh, and human blood and 
 
 bone; 
 Christ was a woman's son, the priests declare : 
 It was a maid, on whom the starlight shone 
 That night, that sweetest night, God's world 
 
 has ever known. 
 
 " If I could find in all fair Italy, 
 
 One face to help me to my face divine, 
 
 It should be riches, joy enough, for me, 
 
 Alas ! there is not any face so fine 
 
 As this I see, this virgin face of mine. 
 
 If Heaven were gracious — no — it cannot 
 
 be, 
 That which my soul for ever doth enshrine, 
 
46 PHILIP. 
 
 Which even in sleep comes tenderly to me, 
 I cannot paint because no form or body can I 
 
 see." 
 
 One day, blessed day, within St. Margaret, 
 A sisters' cloister of old Prato town, 
 The pious abbess thought to pay some debt 
 To some dead saint or other, of renown, 
 And prayed that Philip might himself come 
 
 down 
 And paint a virgin, with a mother's Pace, 
 And Christ, the child, her glory and her crown, 
 
 A picture fitted for such holy place, 
 
 Thus would the sisters find some special last- 
 ing grace. 
 
 Long up and down the arched room he went, 
 With folded hands, and eyes bent down alway; 
 His unused easel on the altar leant. 
 The unstained pallet on the marble lav. 
 His thoughts, with her, had wandered far 
 
 away. 
 "Cursed fate" — he cried — « but, no, I do 
 
 forget — 
 
PHILIP. 47 
 
 I will not curse, and yet I cannot pray." 
 Thus murmured ever till his dark eyes met 
 The nearing, list'ning abbess of St. Margaret. 
 
 " What is it, Philip ? list — I heard you here ; 
 He is more gracious than your words allow — 
 The sweetest face of Italy is near, 
 I hear her singing in the vespers now — 
 A month ago, she took our novice vow. 
 It is not seeming, and perhaps not meant, 
 And holy fathers they would frown, I trow, 
 To see a novice to a brother lent, 
 E'en were 't to paint a picture of the sacra- 
 ment. 
 
 " But you I know and your good heart ah, well, 
 Take her till prayers, and paint her as you 
 
 can, 
 Above that altar, that we long may tell 
 We have a picture by the famous man ; 
 It is not every convent here in Prato can. 
 Bar well the door, and let the censer swing, 
 It adds a glamour to this room — a spell, 
 Perhaps 't will aid in your imagining, 
 It is like her, so fair, so beautiful a thing." 
 
48 PHILIP. 
 
 Herself she crossed, and left him at the noon — 
 The great drops stand in Philip's dark, deep 
 
 eyes; 
 It is too much to be so blest so soon, 
 But he who falters at this moment, dies. 
 He laughs anon, and then anon he sighs. 
 The curtains part — along the altar stair 
 A rustling gown, to where his pallet lies — 
 His prayed-for virgin — see, she waits him 
 
 there. 
 Even in his dreams she was not half so fair. 
 
 Abashed, and blushing like a rose she stood. 
 Her dark eves resting on the marble floor; 
 v * Was this not Philip, whom the sisterhood 
 Had praised a thousand, thousand times. 
 
 before, 
 Till she herself was ready to adore?" 
 He took her hand and gently led to where 
 The sunbeams bent, embracing, from a stained 
 
 door, 
 Casting their shadows on an oaken chair, 
 High-backed and carved, that was standing 
 
 there. 
 
PHILIP. 49 
 
 High-backed and carved and of form antique, 
 And half way covered with a cloth of gold, 
 So bright, the very sunbeams even seemed 
 
 to seek 
 Some new warmth lurking in its secret fold — 
 As if when she were there, even marble could 
 
 be cold — 
 She was herself so warm, and beautiful, and 
 
 rare, — 
 Not half her beauty had the abbess told. 
 Heaven ! 't is no wonder Philip can but 
 
 stare, 
 How could mere mortal paint a face so fair? 
 
 Her novice kerchief she has laid aside, 
 And loosed the girdle from her simple gown, 
 And her sweet bodice she has half untied, 
 And half the abandon of her hair is down, 
 Her hair, so soft, and beautiful, and brown. 
 He looked and sighed as in a soothed bliss, 
 Saw his ideal — of all maids, the crown, 
 The throat, the bosom, fit for cherub's kiss, 
 Alas ! he was not living who could paint like 
 this. 
 
50 PHILIP. 
 
 He was not living who could paint a sigh, 
 Or the soft heaving of a loving breast, 
 Nor the warm lustre of a woman's eye 
 When he she loves is ling'ring to be prest — 
 Could one so paint, he were divinely blest. 
 He tried and tried, then laid the pallet 
 
 down, — 
 The chapel bells were calling her to prayer, 
 Her beads she took, and, folding her sweet 
 
 gown, 
 She left him longing like a spirit then'. 
 In sad, yet sweet and beautiful despair. 
 
 But on that night, when olive-eovered hills 
 Lay sweet and silvered with a summer moon. 
 When all was silence, save the whippoorwiUs 
 Who tired not chanting in the sad old roon 
 To the grim watchdog that had waked too 
 
 soon. 
 Soft whisp'ring lips halt' touched a maiden's 
 
 ear : 
 "Arise, arise, it is the long night's noon. 
 And here are kisses for thee, sweet, and here. 
 And softly rose she without shame or fear. 
 
PHILIP. 51 
 
 And softly stepped she on the oaken stair, 
 And softly stepped she in that chapel old, 
 The silver censer still was swinging there, 
 As if a moonbeam did its weight uphold, 
 It was so light, and beautiful of mould. 
 It was not mockery that she did kneel, 
 Though round her waist she felt an arm 
 
 enfold, 
 Beneath that censer it was good to feel 
 The old time blessing guilt could not conceal. 
 
 And out through fields, and olive groves 
 
 they went, 
 Through cypress alleys, and by forests green, 
 And purpled vines, with luscious fruits all 
 
 bent, 
 And high stone walls, with narrow lanes 
 
 between, — 
 And over all the moonlight's mellow sheen. 
 Still on they wandered till the coming day 
 Changed into purple the enchanted scene ; 
 And when the sisters met that morn, to 
 
 pray, 
 They did not dream how far she was away. 
 
52 PHILIP. 
 
 Oh woe ! oh woe ! the sisters cried that 
 
 morn, 
 And woe ! swift neighbors, as they mounted 
 
 steed ; 
 And all the hills re-echo to the horn, 
 And horses' hoofs, as quickly on they speed 
 By brook, and bridge, and olive grove and 
 
 mead. 
 In vain, in vain, not one of them may tell 
 Where he hath hid her in this hour of need, 
 If in some cave of mountain, or some secret 
 
 dell — 
 Little, but little, recks he, that they ride so 
 
 well. 
 
 Vain was demand, and vain was bishop's 
 
 frown, 
 Vain as swift mounting, and the swifter 
 
 chase — 
 But once, when Philip came to Prato town, 
 Men saw him painting, in the market-place, 
 The immortal picture of his lady's face — 
 A face so fair — a sorrow without pain, 
 An angel's look, and yet a woman's grace — 
 
PHILIP. 53 
 
 As if a rose upon a frost had lain, 
 And blushed to see itself a rose again. 
 
 Long dead is he who painted there that day, 
 And she whose face did so his soul inspire, 
 And all those sisters, aye, long dead are they ; 
 And other hands now light that altar-fire, 
 And that sweet censer 's like a broken lyre. 
 But through the ages, still men love to trace 
 An art new born to Philip, king and sire, 
 And lives like song the beauty of that face 
 That Philip Lippi painted in the market-place. 
 
MAKGEEY BEOWN. 
 
 Margery Brown is ever so fair, 
 
 There is none like lier, not one in the town. 
 Brown are her soft eyes, and browner her hair, 
 Queenly her footstep, and queenly her air — 
 
 No, there's no other like Margery Brown. 
 
 Margery Brown is not young as she seems, 
 Fair as she is from her foot to her crown, 
 
 Lips archly bent, cheeks with dimples and 
 gleams, 
 
 Eyes full of summer and beautiful dreams — 
 She is just sixty — sweet Margery Brown. 
 
 Years ago, many, sweet Margery Brown 
 
 Loved as a woman can only know how ; 
 
 That was the year of the plague in the town, 
 
 And people all wondered that Margery 
 
 Brown 
 
 Kept her sweet dimples and beautiful brow. 
 
 " I am still beautiful," Margery said, 
 Bowing her face to the form they laid down. 
 
 54 
 
MARGER Y BRO WN. 55 
 
 "He will come back when the poppies are red. 
 See! howhesmiles,tho'he'slyingtheredead;" 
 And the neighbors all pitied mad Margery 
 Brown. 
 
 Years did not reckon with Margery more ; 
 
 Time brought no dimness to eyes that 
 were brown — 
 Fountains of youth kept her beauty in store. 
 " I am yet young," she still said, "as before," 
 
 And fair as an angel was Margery Brown. 
 
 Margery lives in a world of her own. 
 
 What to her if the sun goes down ? 
 Night hath stars that never have shone, 
 And she has hopes none other has known. 
 
 And they keep her young, sweet Margery 
 Brown. 
 
 She forgets that the years pass by, 
 
 Margery fair, with the quaint- cut gown, 
 
 Lips of roses and sunlit eye, 
 
 Cheeks where blushes and dimples vie ; 
 But all hearts love her — sweet Margery 
 Brown. 
 
NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 All the night the President sat, 
 
 Waiting the telegraph's click, click, click ; 
 Waiting the news that should tell him that 
 
 Grant had crossed at the little creek ; 
 Waiting to hear that before the light 
 
 Sherman's troops were beyond the bridge; 
 That over the river, from left to right, 
 
 All was ready to charge the Ridge. 
 
 Chickamauga was lost ; our dead 
 
 Lay in heaps on the sodden plain ; 
 What if the rebel, with lifted head, 
 
 Strike, as he struck, to our hearts again ! 
 Over the North, as a pall of night, 
 
 Sorrow hung, and the summons came : 
 " Win a victory — win us a fight ; 
 
 Wipe away from our flag the shame." 
 
 All the night, in his room alone — 
 All the night till the dawn was by, 
 
 56 
 
NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 57 
 
 And over the broad Potomac shone 
 Eed the sun in the eastern sky — 
 
 Watched the President, grave and sad — 
 Came no tick on the mystic line ; 
 
 What if the daring rebel had 
 
 Tapped the wire and read the sign — 
 
 Sign of battle, or sign of gloom ? 
 
 Hark ! the lightning's messenger ! 
 No ! Silence only is in the room — 
 
 Silence only, and breath of prayer. 
 Listen ! Yes, 'tis the tick, tick, tick — 
 
 " Clear the lines " are the first words sent, 
 " Up to Washington, men, be quick ! 
 
 Grant will talk with the President." 
 
 Click, click, click, went the instrument — 
 
 " Sherman's army has crossed the stream;" 
 Nearer the table the grave face leant, 
 
 Lips half parted and eyes agleam. 
 " Hooker's soldiers but yesterday 
 
 Stormed up Lookout in mist and rain ; 
 They are holding the dangerous way, 
 
 They will fight at our right again. 
 
58 NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 "On the left is our storming line, 
 
 Sherman's legions are bending on ;" 
 Click, click, click: " On the Kidge there shine 
 
 Kows of cannon since early dawn — 
 Rows of cannon and men in gray, 
 
 Shining columns of burnished steel ; 
 They are holding our men at bay, 
 
 They are waiting the cannon's peal. 
 
 " Look ! our soldiers have climbed the Ridge; 
 
 Sherman's gallants have stormed the line 
 Forty cannon are at the bridge — 
 
 Brave these soldiers of his and mine !" 
 Click, click, click : " The centre moves, 
 
 Thomas, Sheridan, all abreast, 
 Bayonets fixed — in troops and droves 
 
 Charging clear to the mountain's crest. 
 
 "Battle's thunder from left to right, 
 Belching cannon and musket's crash." 
 
 Click, click, click : " Lo ! on every height 
 Flames of sulphur and lightnings flash." 
 
 Closer still to the breathing wire 
 Bends the face of the President — 
 
NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 59 
 
 Does he hear it, the battle's fire, 
 Half-way over a continent ? 
 
 Does he hear it, the bugle's call, 
 
 Sounding " Forward," the whole long line ? 
 Sees he blue-coat and gray-coat fall ? 
 
 Hears he cannon and splintering pine ? 
 Click, click, click : " And a thousand men 
 
 Climb the works on the highest hill — 
 Wait ! they are driving us back again ! 
 
 No ! our banner is waving still ! 
 
 " See ! we're storming the whole long line, 
 
 Waiting never a leader's cry ; 
 Over the rocks and splintering pine — 
 
 We will capture the Eidge or die ! 
 Hand to hand on the very crest " — 
 
 Click, click, click — " with the naked steel ; 
 Only a moment, and, east to west, 
 
 Flags are falling and columns reel. 
 
 " Shouts and cheers on the Eidge are heard — 
 Shouts and cheers till the skies are rent ; 
 
 Back to the river, they've got the word — 
 Won is the battle, our President ! " 
 
60 NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 Quick as thought, and the answer flies — 
 " Bless our soldiers ! God bless each one !" 
 
 And up to the loyal Northern skies 
 Hymns ascend for the battle won. 
 
 Kind, good President — brave, strong men, 
 
 Sounds of battle you'll hear no more — 
 Calls of bugle to charge again, 
 
 Crash of muskets or cannon's roar. 
 But, while Mountain and Ridge shall stand, 
 
 They are one with your deathless fame ; 
 Men shall tell to a rescued land 
 
 How the news to the White House came. 
 
THE EEVEILLE. 
 
 Foe the one last reveille 
 
 They are waiting as they fell — 
 
 Arm to arm, and knee to knee ; 
 They are sleeping — it is well — 
 
 Till the one last reveille. 
 
 They are sleeping — let them rest — 
 In the sod they died to save ; 
 
 Fame shall write above their breast, 
 " They are mine, though in the grave," 
 
 And their spirits shall have rest. 
 
 Feet of loved ones shall come near 
 When the May is in her bloom, 
 
 And with garlands every year 
 Deck their unforgotten tomb, 
 
 For, though dead, they are so dear. 
 
 When, with fife and muffled drum, 
 And with steady step, and slow, 
 
 61 
 
62 THE REVEILLE. 
 
 They shall hear their comrades come, 
 They will hear the step and know — 
 They will hear them when they come. 
 
 They will smell the fragrance sweet 
 Of the blossoms that you bring ; 
 
 They will hear the treading feet ; 
 They will hear the songs you sing ; 
 
 They will hear the drummers beat. 
 
 They will hear the jubilee, 
 
 And the bells that ring release — 
 
 They will fold their arms and be 
 All at rest in hope and peace, 
 
 Whilo thov wait the reveille. 
 
SAID A SONG-BIBD. 
 
 Said a song-bird cnce to me, 
 
 " Listen to my roundelay ; 
 Man nor maid shall hinder me — 
 
 I shall sing my song to-day." 
 
 Said a song-bird once to me, 
 " I have sung my song to-day ; 
 
 Hadst thou listened, it may be 
 
 I have said what thou wouldst say." 
 
 I have only said and sung 
 
 Things that in thy heart have dwelt ; 
 Though thy harp was never strung, 
 
 Thou hast felt what I have felt. 
 
 All are poets in their time — 
 God's whole world is harmony : 
 
 Lo ! in one majestic rhyme 
 Sweep the rivers to the sea. 
 
 63 
 
64 SAID A SONG-BIRD. 
 
 All are poets when they feel 
 Nature's rhythms rise and fall ; 
 
 Nature's heart-beats are the seal 
 Maketh poets of us all. 
 
 If, perchance, these songs of miDe 
 Waken some responsive strain, 
 
 Silent though the countersign, 
 I shall not have sung in vain. 
 
THE GUARD ON THE VOLGA. 
 
 What is it you 're watching, good soldier, 
 
 In the forest so dark and lone ? 
 I have heard of no Turkish cannon, 
 
 And our Czar is at peace at home. 
 Why stand on the Volga River, 
 
 When the night is so cold and drear ? 
 My Christ ! must a soldier shiver, 
 
 When never a foeman is near ? 
 
 Hark ! peasant, across there, an army 
 
 Lies hid in the brushwood and moss, 
 And the sergeant said : " Watch by the ferry, 
 
 And see that no picket shall cross." 
 I charged the red ditches at Plevna, 
 
 And knew the foes' sabres by sight. 
 It was fierce ! it was death ! but I never 
 
 Knew fear in my life till to-night. 
 
 By Heavens! I tremble. What is it? 
 What is it, this army so near ? 
 
 65 
 
66 THE GUABD ON THE VOLGA. 
 
 Why don't the drums beat to the rescue ? 
 
 Why is not our Skobeleff here ? 
 Are hordes of the desert upon us, 
 
 Are China's fierce legions at war, 
 And we hut one guard on the Volga? 
 
 God save our good land and the Czar ! 
 
 A fiercer foe, far, than the Tartar, — 
 
 And armies of China are small 
 When counted beside the battalions 
 
 That muster to conquer them all. 
 'T is the Pestilence marching in silence, 
 
 That hides in the brushwood and m< 
 But the sergeant said : "Stick to the ferry, 
 
 And see that no picket shall cross." 
 
 Great God! Do they think that a picket 
 
 Can stop what the Heavens command? 
 That bullets may wrestle with angels, 
 
 To keep the Plague out of the land? 
 Oh! soldier, I'm but a poor peasant, 
 
 Yet know that God has but one way. 
 Trust sabre, nor rifle, nor picket. 
 
 But kneel by the Volga and pray. 
 
THE GUARD ON THE VOLGA. 67 
 
 And peasant and soldier together 
 
 Knelt down in the forest alone, 
 And prayed that that night on the Volga 
 
 The hand of the Lord should be shown. 
 And though the Plague lurks on the border, 
 
 And hides 'mid the brushwood and moss, 
 God's angels keep watch o'er the ferry, 
 
 And see that no picket shall cross. 
 
THE SEA. 
 
 A CHARM there is about the dang'rous sea 
 That draws man to its rugged arms, as draws 
 The polar star the compass to the North. 
 Let him but taste the briny ocean once, — 
 Friends, home, nor gold, can stay his wild 
 
 desire 
 To breast again its waves, to breathe its air, 
 To brave its tempests, and to share its calm. 
 To him, the deep, with all its heartless wreck 
 And ruin, is a thing to love. Its storms 
 Are playthings to his daring heart. He 
 
 sleeps 
 Amid its foaming rage, as sleeps a child 
 Upon some mossy bank, nor dreams of harm 
 To happen, ere his day has come. 
 
 To be 
 Upon its billow}^ breast, sweetheart and wife. 
 Mother and child, are left to weep and wait 
 Through weary days, weeks, months, and 
 years ; and when 
 
 68 
 
THE SEA. 69 
 
 At last the longed-for sailor comes, 't is but 
 To snatch one kiss of love, a wife's embrace, 
 A mother's .tear — then yield himself again 
 To that strange spell which binds him to the 
 
 sea. 
 Again he tramps the vessel's deck ; climbs 
 
 high 
 Among its shrouds and sails, and feels again 
 The white sea-foam leap up to greet him with 
 Its rude embrace. His heart is strangely full, 
 And all he has he gives to his best love, 
 The sea — his youth, his manhood, and at last 
 Himself; then sweetly sleeps the long strange 
 
 sleep 
 Of Death in the old Ocean's arms. 
 
AUF WIEDEKSEHEN! 
 
 There are no words in our cold English 
 
 tongue 
 
 Where hope and joy are kin alike to pain ; 
 
 "Farewell," we say, and the sad heart is 
 
 wrung : 
 
 Only farewell — there is no " wiedersehen;" 
 
 No wish expressed, no joyous hope, that 
 when, — 
 
 The voyage ended o'er the dang'rous main, 
 The desert crossed, the trial done, — that then 
 
 We, who have parted thus, may meet again. 
 
 Not so farewell the German sailor cries, 
 Not sogood-by, sad sweetheart unto swain. 
 
 I go to come — he is not dead who dies ; 
 Good-by, sweet love, — but, till we meet 
 again. 
 
 70 
 
AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 71 
 
 '•Auf wiederselien" — a hundred thoughts in 
 one — 
 The double joy that recompenses pain : 
 There is a rising as a setting sun ; 
 
 Good-by, sweet love, good-by — " auf wie- 
 dersehen." 
 
 "Auf wiedersehen" — good-by, but not for 
 aye; 
 Thou still shalt be my one sweet song's 
 refrain. 
 Though thou dost go, thus ever shalt thou 
 stay,— 
 Good-by, sweet love, good-by — " auf wie- 
 dersehen." 
 
 " Auf wiedersehen" — good-by, good-by, and 
 when 
 Hope hath, in trust, the wicked absence 
 slain, 
 I will be with you every hour ; till then 
 Good-by, sweet love, good-by — " auf wie- 
 dersehen." 
 
THE TKAMP OF SHERMAN'S ARMY. 
 
 List, comrades, I hear the old bugle ; 
 
 It's sounding the same reveille 
 That wakened the armies of Sherman 
 
 One morn by the swift Tennessee. 
 A thousand old memories crowd on me ; 
 
 My tired feet are marching along, 
 Keeping steps with the notes of yon bugle, 
 
 Or the words of some old army song. 
 
 I see Hooker's lines climbing Lookout, 
 
 The storming of Sherman's brave men, 
 The "Ridge," and the Centre, and Thomas, 
 
 The flag floating up there again ; 
 And Grant standing there like a statue, 
 
 Unmoved till the battle is done ; 
 And the words of great Lincoln, I hear them — 
 
 " God bless you, brave men, every one." 
 
 And the fields fiercely fought for Atlanta, 
 Once more to my vision they rise — 
 
TEE TRAMP OF SHERMAN'S ARMY. 73 
 
 A hundred long day s, each a battle, 
 And nights full of dread and surprise. 
 
 Each mountain and hill grows historic ; 
 Each stream from some battle is red ; 
 
 Each field is swift mown with war's sickle ; 
 Each hillock's some grave of our dead. 
 
 I see the flag float o'er Atlanta — 
 
 The tattered old flag that we bore 
 At Shiloh and Yicksburg and Corinth, 
 
 And a score of red battles before. 
 With a cheer on the ramparts we raise it, 
 
 A cheer, and a sigh for our men 
 Who sleep in the woods over yonder, 
 
 Who'll never see battle again. 
 
 ******* 
 Again the old bugle is sounding ; 
 
 There's a tramping of thousands of men ; 
 The mountains repeat the wild music ; 
 
 The forests re-echo again. 
 And around every camp-fire's the story 
 
 Of fame and of glory to be, 
 And a shout of blue-coated battalions, 
 
 For Sherman will march to the sea. 
 
74 THE TRAMP OF SHERMAN'S ARMY. 
 
 And look ! the great columns are moving 
 
 To music of bugle and drum ; 
 Their blood-colored flags pointing south- 
 ward, 
 
 Like tempests the blue columns come, 
 While millions stand breathlessly waiting 
 
 The boom of a far signal-gun, 
 For the blaze of that cannon shall tell them 
 
 How bravely Savannah was won. 
 
 Oh ! where are the men who took Lookout, 
 
 Or stormed up the "Kidge" on that day? 
 Who held the hot lines at the " Tunnel," 
 
 Or drove the fierce foeman to bay ? 
 Oh! where are the legions of Sherman? 
 
 God bless them, wherever they be, 
 Who fought with him all that war-summer, 
 
 Or marched with him down to the sea. 
 
 "Where, where are the heroes who wakened 
 That morn by the swift Tennessee, 
 
 When the bugles of Sherman said " For- 
 ward," 
 Or sounded their loud reveille ? 
 
THE TRAMP OF SHERMAN'S ARMY. 75 
 
 Where, where are the men of Kesaca, 
 Of Dallas, of Kenesaw — where ? 
 
 Fame writ their names up in her temple, 
 And Freedom stands guarding them there. 
 
 Oh patriots ! oh comrades ! we know you ; 
 
 Your hands are still touching our own ; 
 The flag that we saved there together — 
 
 No star from its glory has flown. 
 Again we touch elbows ; your spirits 
 
 Are with us to-night in this room ; 
 There's Logan, I know by his bearing, 
 
 McPherson I see by his plume. 
 
 There's Sheridan riding his charger, 
 
 And Thomas, so brave and serene, 
 And Hooker, and Grant, the great captain, 
 
 His eye resting still on the scene ; 
 And spirits of blue-coated soldiers 
 
 Are wheeling from column to line ; 
 They see the great chief and salute him, 
 
 And give him the new countersign. 
 
 Fill up again, comrades, your glasses ; 
 Let's drink to these spirits, and be 
 
76 THE TRAMP OF SHERMAN'S AliMY. 
 
 Once more the old army of Sherman, 
 That stood by the blue Tennessee. 
 
 Let's keep the old camp-fires a-burning, 
 The songs and the memories bright, 
 
 Till the bugle shall sound by yon river — 
 All hail ! and forever — good-night ! 
 
THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 
 
 Who goes to the city of Antwerp, that fa- 
 mous old Flemish town, 
 
 Will see, in the square of the Miinster, a 
 fountain of great renown. 
 
 It stands by the grand Cathedral, the church 
 
 with the wondrous chimes, 
 And the maidens go there for water, as they 
 
 went in the olden times ; 
 
 And they meet and talk of their lovers, till 
 
 their pitchers are running o'er, 
 And wonder if Flemish lovers will be what 
 
 they were, once more, — 
 
 Will be what they were when Quintin, as 
 
 famous in art as in love, 
 Wrought out from the heated iron the 
 
 Roland that stands above. 
 
 As gallant a youth was Quintin as any in 
 Antwerp town, 
 
 77 
 
78 THE BALLAD OF qUINTIN MASSY. 
 
 And never a better blacksmith made bellows 
 go up and down ; 
 
 And never a Flanders lover had maiden more 
 
 richly fair, 
 Than the daughter of proud Franz Floris, 
 
 renowned of the painters there. 
 
 But the haughty, the proud Franz Floris 
 looked up from his easel, and said : 
 
 "The world it has got but one Floris, with 
 only one child to wed. 
 
 And he who will WOO and win her. must first 
 be a painter, and paint 
 
 This fairest of faces in Flanders, — knight- 
 errant, or king, or saint. 
 
 I note that you are a blacksmith, and a 
 
 clever one, too, they say — 
 There are many fair girls in Antwerp would 
 
 marry you any day. 
 
 But the daughter of old Franz Floris can 
 
 never give heart nor hand 
 To one who is not the equal of any in all the 
 
 land." 
 
THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 79 
 
 " Now, good Franz Floris, listen — I '11 tell 
 
 you what I will do — 
 There is not in the whole of Flanders a 
 
 painter so great as you ; 
 
 But if, within five short summers, I paint on 
 
 a canvas clear, 
 A picture better than any of all you have 
 
 painted here, — 
 
 Do you promise upon your honor, do you 
 
 promise your own good name, 
 That she shall be mine forever ? be one in 
 
 my love — my fame ? " 
 
 Loud laughed the great Franz Floris : " Too 
 
 modest, young man, by far. 
 Art is not won like a maiden, nor maidens 
 
 as some things are. 
 
 I grant that to be a blacksmith, to hammer 
 
 a nail or a ring, 
 Is an easy task for a young man, but art 
 
 is another thing. 
 
 And whether my daughter is willing to wait 
 five summers for you ? 
 
80 THE BALLAD OF QUIXTIN MASSY. 
 
 There are enough of Antwerp's gallants who 
 wait but my leave to woo." 
 
 "I'll wait!" cried Floris' daughter; "I'll 
 
 wait, good Quintin, nor wed ; 
 Five summers will find me faithful, or else 
 
 they will find me dead/" 
 
 So he buckled his sword about him, and with 
 
 pilgrim's staff in hand, 
 He wandered along fair rivers, he journeyed 
 
 through many a land ; 
 
 And an image was ever before him: "Could 
 
 I paint what my soul doth see. 
 There is not a painter in Flanders, who would 
 
 not be envying me." 
 
 So out from the fields of Holland, and over 
 
 cold fields of snow, 
 By many an Alpine torrent, by many a gorge 
 
 below, 
 
 The feet of the pilgrim wandered, far into 
 
 that favored clime, 
 Where art is a child of nature, and nature 
 
 a thing sublime. 
 
THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 81 
 
 Then he tarried and sought a master, in 
 
 color, and form, and line, 
 And watched the summer sunsets go out in 
 
 a sea of wine. 
 
 And the days went by, and the summers 
 
 in splendor their cycles ran, 
 And the smith became a scholar, and the 
 
 scholar the fullgrown man. 
 
 Five years to a day had vanished, five years 
 
 and a month had flown, 
 And the autumn had brought no message to 
 
 her who was left alone. 
 
 " He is dead," she cried, " my lover, for faith- 
 less he could not be ; " 
 
 " He is dead," the false winds whispered, 
 " he is dead, but not for thee." 
 
 One day, when the great Franz Floris stood 
 
 leaning on Quintin's well, 
 A pecller unloosed his bundle, with curious 
 
 things to sell : 
 
 " For the love of God, buy something ! I 
 have nothing to eat or wear ! 
 
82 THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 
 
 I am told you are fond of pictures, and here 
 I have one that 's rare : 
 
 It has neither frame nor stretcher — but the 
 
 colors remain as clear " — 
 " What is that ? good heaven ! " cried Floris, 
 
 " 't is my child that is painted here. 
 
 Who — where is the master painter? how 
 
 much is the price you seek ? 
 There is not a man in Flanders can paint such 
 
 a brow and cheek." 
 
 " Thank God ! " the stranger answered, 
 "thank God that yon think it tine. 
 
 For that picture is Quintin Massy's, who 
 claims your daughter of you." 
 
 "If you arc Quintin Massy, and if this is 
 
 the work of your hand, 
 There is not such another painter in all of 
 
 this Flemish land. 
 
 There's not such another painter, but I've 
 
 news that is sad for you, 
 And if you are Quintin Massy, you 11 know 
 
 what I say is true : — 
 
THE BALLAD OF quINTIN MASSY. 83 
 
 Five summers my child had waited, five 
 
 summers their autumns wed, 
 And the winter brought no message, and the 
 
 poor child thought thee dead. 
 
 4 He is dead,' she cried, ' my lover, for faith- 
 less he could not be ; ' 
 
 'He is dead,' the false winds whispered, 'he 
 is dead, but not for thee.' 
 
 This morning, this very morning, when the 
 
 cloister bells strike nine, 
 There will be another sister at the cloister 
 
 of Isoline ; 
 
 When- the bell strikes nine and a quarter, 
 she will kneel for the one last vow, — 
 
 'T is a mile from here, good Quintin, and the 
 bells are ringing now." 
 
 " Horse — horse ! " cries Quintin Massy, and 
 
 his cloak is cast afar, 
 And he rides with sword and buckler, as a 
 
 soldier would ride to war. 
 
 The bell strikes five already — the bell strikes 
 six — and eight, 
 
84 THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 
 
 But Quintin's sword has rattled the bars of 
 the cloister gate. 
 
 " Who comes ? " cries the angered abbess, 
 " who storms at the cloister door ? 
 
 I tell you that Moris' daughter is a child of 
 the world no more. 
 
 For the solemn mass is chanting, and she 
 
 kneels at the altar rail, 
 And pious nuns attend her, and bring her 
 
 the sisters' veil." 
 
 "Stop, stop your prayers," cries Quintin, . 
 
 "for I swear by Antwerp town, 
 You '11 bring me Floris' daughter, or I '11 
 
 burn your cloister down." 
 
 And the pale, poor nuns grew whiter, as 
 
 white as the bands they wore, 
 And they led a maiden fainting, and veiled, 
 
 to the cloister door. 
 
 "It is done!" cried Quintin Massy, "the 
 
 picture I saw, is done ! 
 And as you are Floris' daughter, so I am 
 
 to be his son." 
 
THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 85 
 
 And the chimes of the famous Miinster rang 
 
 out in a joyous tune, 
 As the bride and her blacksmith painter rode 
 
 by on that afternoon. 
 
BABY HELENE. 
 
 She was only a child of the May-day, 
 That came when the sweet blossoms fell, 
 
 But rarer than any fair lady 
 
 Of whom the old poets may tell. 
 
 Then the days brought us everything sweeter 
 Of sunshine and love in their train. 
 
 But better than all and completer, 
 Was Baby Ilelene. 
 
 With a kiss and a smile she came to us, 
 The sunshine of God in her hair, 
 
 Ah ! never a sweet wind that blew us 
 A blossom so tender and rare. 
 
 We sang a new May-song together, 
 New-found and of jubilant strain. 
 
 Ah ! our hearts they were light as a feather, 
 With Baby Heldne. 
 
 Would she stay with us, love us ? We bid her 
 Unloosen the notes of her song — 
 
BABY HELENE. 87 
 
 And tell where the sweet angels hid her, 
 And why had we waited so long. 
 
 Would they sorrow in Heaven to miss her ? 
 Would they wait for her, weary to pain ? 
 
 Would they anger to see us but kiss her, 
 Our Baby Helene ? 
 
 And all the day long, like new lovers, 
 Like words that are ever in tune, 
 
 Like songs the fresh May-wind discovers, 
 Like birds that are mating in June, — 
 
 Together we loved and we wandered, 
 Forgetting of sorrow or pain, 
 
 Forgetting the sweets that we squandered, 
 With Baby Helene. 
 
 Oh ! lips running over to kisses, 
 
 Red cheeks kissed to brown by the sun, 
 
 Shall we ever again know what bliss is, 
 When the song and the kisses are done ? 
 
 Oh ! baby, brown-haired, on thy tresses 
 The hands of the angels had lain, 
 
 And joy laughed new-born in caresses 
 Of Baby Helene. 
 
8 8 BAB Y HELENE. 
 
 Years went — seven years with their story 
 
 More bright than Aladdin's of old, 
 To love and be loved was our glory, 
 
 Our hearts Avere our castles of gold. 
 But broken our castles, and falling, 
 
 Hope crushed — true hearts bleeding and 
 slain, 
 God's angels in Heaven were calling 
 Our Baby Hele'ne. 
 
 Dim-eyed, and heart-broken, we waited 
 
 The sounds of invisible things, 
 While the soul of our sou] was ruinated, 
 
 Borne off on invisible wings. 
 In the far-away, purple and golden, 
 
 Went up an ineffable strain. 
 And the far-away gates were unfolden 
 To Baby Heldne. 
 
 One moment, God's earth and its brightness 
 Seemed darkened and turned into dross. 
 
 And the manifold stars and their lightness 
 Were dimmed and as nothing to us. 
 
 For the bowl that was golden was broken, 
 The hearts that were one heart, were twain. 
 
BAB Y HELENE. 8 9 
 
 And the last words of love had been spoken 
 By Baby Helene. 
 
 Ah ! seven years gone as the dream goes, 
 
 Oh ! baby-love, lost to our ken, — 
 Will the brooklet still flow where the stream 
 flows ? 
 Will the lilies still blossom as then ? 
 Will the sweet tongues of birds be unloosed 
 to 
 The songs of our love and its pain ? 
 Will the violets bloom as they used to 
 For Baby Helene ? 
 
 Oh ! baby-love, heart-sweet, the sunlight 
 That fell on the way that you went, 
 
 Shall be to our feet as the one light, 
 The lamp the sweet angels have lent. 
 
 And the nights and the days shall be lighter, 
 And the ways that were dark ways be plain, 
 
 And the stars where thou art shall be brighter 
 For Baby Helene. 
 
THE DWARF OF MYTILENE. 
 
 There dwelt in Mytilene once, 
 
 By the iEgsean sea, 
 A little wrinkled, dwarfish man, 
 
 No uglier could there be ; 
 But a very prince of ferrymen, 
 
 And stout of limb was lie. 
 
 No man had ever vainly dared, 
 
 No woman feared to go, 
 To any island in that sea, 
 
 Whatever winds might blow, 
 If only Phaon's boat were there, 
 
 And Phaon's self, to row. 
 
 For men have seen him when the waves 
 
 Grew loud and thick apace, 
 When wild winds blew from Asia's sides, 
 
 And storms came down from Thrace, 
 Sail out as if to dare their rage, 
 
 And fight them face to face. 
 
THE DWABF OF MYTILENE. 91 
 
 And yet a life of woe was his, 
 
 On land or stormy main ; 
 No bright eyes ever on him smiled, 
 
 No sweet voice called his name ; 
 In snn, or shade, or storm, or calm, 
 
 His days were all the same. 
 
 Proud maidens of the Lesbian Isle, 
 
 Proud men of high degree, 
 Curled their cold lips, and passed him by, 
 
 As one unfit to be ; 
 And children shouted, "See, he comes, 
 
 The old man of the sea." 
 
 One day in the sweet summer-time, 
 
 There came across the hills 
 The kindly lowing of the herds, 
 
 The songs of many rills, 
 And the old man leaned him on his oar, 
 
 And thought upon his ills. 
 
 He thought of those proud Lesbian dames, 
 And those proud-hearted men — 
 
 He cursed his bitterness of fate, 
 He cursed the gods, and then 
 
92 THE DWAMF OF MYTILENE. 
 
 Wished that the sun that saw him born 
 Had never shone again. 
 
 He dropped his oar, he crossed his arms, 
 
 When o'er the sands apace 
 A step drew near. He turned and saw 
 
 A fair young woman's face — 
 No maiden was there like to her 
 
 In all the Lesbian race. 
 
 " O, who art thou, thou queenly maid ? 
 
 From whence now mav'st thou be?" 
 "I am the Queen of Love," she said: 
 
 " Wilt bear me o'er the sea? 
 For yonder, on that island fair, 
 
 Adonis waits for me." 
 
 O, never yet had ferryman 
 
 A passenger so fair, — 
 O, never had the sun shone on 
 
 So strangely matched a pair, 
 As wrinkled Phaon at the oars, 
 
 And Venus smiling there. 
 
 The boat went up, the boat went down, 
 Forward and forward still, 
 
THE DWARF OF MYTILENE. 93 
 
 While Phaon stood behind the oars, 
 
 And worked with mighty will. 
 And Mytilene's lights grew dim, 
 
 On every tower and hill. 
 
 The land was reached, the harbor passed, 
 
 The goddess sprang on shore. 
 " What shall I pay, good ferryman, 
 
 Since thou hast brought me o'er ? " 
 And Phaon, bowing, answered her, 
 
 " Thy smiles, and nothing more." 
 
 " A woman's smiles," the goddess said, 
 
 " May come or go at will, 
 They slay as often as they bless, 
 
 Nor pity when they kill. 
 But thou shalt have a richer fate, 
 
 A dowry better still." 
 
 She touched the girdle at her side, — 
 Transformed, the old man stood, 
 
 The fairest mortal ever seen 
 On the iEgeean flood — 
 
 A dwarf, in one sweet moment made 
 The equal of a god. 
 
ECHO. 
 
 There was a young nymph Echo, once, 
 Employed by thundering Jove, 
 To entertain his queen at home, 
 Whene'er he wished to rove ; 
 
 To talk, and talk, and talk with her, 
 
 And keep her mind away, 
 
 Whilst he with nymphs and goddesses 
 
 Went sporting many a day. 
 
 Thus hours and days, the legends tell, 
 Good Juno's king was gone, 
 And little did the queen suspect 
 What errands he was on : 
 
 For by her side, incessantly, 
 
 In court or pleasant walk. 
 
 Fair Echo laughed and gave no time 
 
 For anything but talk. 
 
 She talked poor Juno mad almost, 
 Until by her 't was seen 
 
 94 
 
ECHO. 95 
 
 It was a ruse of Jupiter 
 
 To blind an injured queen : 
 
 When turning on the nymph, she cried, 
 " Far shall my vengeance reach, — 
 Behold ! false maid, from this time forth 
 Thou shalt be robbed of speech." 
 
 She touched her with, her wand, and lo ! 
 
 The sweet nymph's tongue was fast — 
 
 Of others' words she still had voice 
 
 To echo back the last ; 
 
 But from her own sad, swelling heart, 
 No word might ever come, — 
 In burning pain, or thrilling joy, 
 Still were her own lips dumb. 
 
 Through field, and grove, and silent wood, 
 She wandered here and there, 
 And meeting with Narcissus once, 
 She loved the stripling fair. 
 
 But what is love unspoken worth, 
 
 Or lips to silence wed ? — 
 
 Though she was young, and fair as 
 young, 
 
 Narcissus saw and fled. 
 
96 ECHO. 
 
 Grieving, she wept, and turned her face, - 
 
 She heard the ring-dove moan, 
 
 Oh ! pity, pity, pity love 
 
 Forsaken by its own. 
 
 And up and down, and far and wide, 
 She walked, and sadly wept, 
 And she was like some lily fair 
 Whereon the frost had slept. 
 
 Oh ! never, never such a maid 
 In the wide world was seen, 
 As Echo, sorrowing up and down, 
 By wood and meadow green ; 
 
 And her fair body pined, and grew 
 
 Like to the air, so thin — 
 
 The sunshine found no cheek to kiss. 
 
 No heart to enter in. 
 
 Like to the mem'ry of a dream 
 
 She grew, and faded, till 
 
 Nought but her echoing voice was left, 
 
 To gladden wood and hill ; 
 
 And half ashamed, and half afraid, 
 
 Like to some naiad queen 
 
ECHO. 97 
 
 She hid herself among the rocks, 
 And nevermore was seen. 
 
 The wild birds sought her on the hill, 
 The huntsman on the plain — 
 She laughed, and mocked, and cried, but still 
 Was never seen again, — 
 
 But summer evenings, schoolboys "hear, 
 
 In woods and valleys fair, 
 
 The nymph, whom Juno's vengeance 
 turned 
 
 Into an echo there. 
 
THE KISS OF JUPITER. 
 
 In ages past, when Jupiter 
 
 Was wandering here and there, 
 
 He peeping in a temple saw 
 Sweet Io bent in prayer, 
 
 And quite forgetful of his wife, 
 He kissed the maiden fair. 
 
 A rousing kiss it must have been, 
 
 Resounding far and near. 
 For Juno on Olympus heard, 
 
 And hurrying through the air, 
 Threw wide the temple doors and stood 
 
 Before the guilty pair. 
 
 One look on Jupiter she cast, 
 One on the maid, — and lo ! 
 
 She turned her with her wand into 
 A heifer white as snow — 
 
 With Argus, hundred-eyed, to watch 
 Wherever she might go. 
 
THE KISS OF JUPITEB. 99 
 
 And up and down, and far and wide, 
 
 Go where the poor cow will, 
 That curs&d herdsman follows her 
 
 By field, and wood, and hill : 
 By day, by night, his hundred eyes 
 
 Are burning on her still. 
 
 One day, in pity, Jupiter 
 
 Bade Mercury repair 
 And find the herdsman in the woods, 
 
 Who kept the heifer fair, 
 And, though he had a thousand eyes, 
 
 To slay him then and there. 
 
 With flute and lyre flies the god 
 
 Through woods and tangled ways — 
 
 The herdsman sees him by the brook 
 And listens while he plays ; 
 
 For every song the sweet boy sings 
 Is in the herdman's praise. 
 
 Enchanted music fills his ear : 
 
 By flattery's strains misled, 
 He sleeps upon the dewy grass, 
 
 Nor cunning foe doth dread, — 
 
100 THE KISS OF JUPITER. 
 
 The god beholds the drooping eyes, 
 And strikes the herdsman dead. 
 
 Rejoiced, the heifer sprang away, 
 
 Released from Argus' eye, 
 And hoped in wider fields to range, 
 
 And greener grass to try — 
 But lo ! beside her, day and night, 
 
 There buzzed a mighty fly. 
 
 Enraged, the wife of Jupiter 
 Had seen her herdsman slain, 
 
 And sent the gad-fly to the cow, 
 To sting her into pain, 
 
 And bade it ever follow her, 
 
 Through wood, and held, and plain. 
 
 Through many fields the poor cow ran, 
 Through weary forests wide, 
 
 O'er many straggling brooks she leaped, 
 And plunged through many a tide ; 
 
 Yet was that cursed dragon-fly 
 Still buzzing at her side. 
 
 It followed her through Macedon, 
 It followed her through Thrace ; 
 
THE KISS OF JUPITEB. 101 
 
 It buzzed in many distant lands ; 
 
 It stung in many a place ; 
 And north or south, or east or west, 
 
 That fly was on the chase. 
 
 She swam the bounding Bosporus, 
 It stung and buzzed the while, 
 
 On right and left, behind and front, 
 For many a weary mile, 
 
 Till, wretched with the horrid race, 
 She plunged into the Nile. 
 
 While struggling with the flood, behold ! 
 
 Eternal Jove was there, 
 And with his wand transformed his love, 
 
 Into a maiden fair ; 
 The same whom he had kissed one morn. 
 
 In temple nave at prayer. 
 
 And lo ! a king was waiting her. 
 
 By Jupiter's command, 
 He sprang into the flood and took 
 
 The sweet maid by the hand, 
 And made her mistress of his heart 
 
 And queen of all the land. 
 
102 THE KISS OF JUPITER. 
 
 And ever, when the new moon rose, 
 
 It was a fancy there, 
 The snow-white cow's two horns were seen, 
 
 And Io, young and fair ; 
 And maidens loved to hear how Jove 
 
 Once kissed her, when at prayer. 
 
ON A FAIR DEAD GIRL, 
 
 How beautiful to die as does the rose, 
 Sweet fragrance casting on the am'rous air I 
 What if too lovely seemed life's way to close, 
 When death still leaves us with a scene so 
 fair. 
 
 Like to the rose thy life was one sweet 
 
 bloom, 
 Till Fate undid thee from the fair young 
 
 stem ; 
 It is not fit, this silent pall and plume, 
 These weeping maidens, and these sorrowing 
 
 men. 
 
 Thou hadst fair youth, and life's sweet things 
 
 the best, 
 Knew naught of Sorrow, or its lonely consort 
 
 Pain; 
 Thou hadst the joys of life — leave us the 
 
 rest, 
 Who well have known how much of life is 
 
 vain. 
 
104 ON A FAIB DEAD GIBL. 
 
 Thy cup, half finished, flushed with joyous 
 
 wine, 
 The sad dregs at its bottom thou didst never 
 
 reach ; 
 Thy night of revels had no morn's repine, 
 No aching heart, no long-regretted speech. 
 
 Thou didst not live the ignomy to own 
 
 Of beauty faded, or of roses fled ; 
 
 Thy cheeks, they paled not, ere the buds 
 
 were blown, 
 Thou wert not fairer when thou lived, than 
 
 dead. 
 
 Death is no victor thus — we will not weep ! 
 Thou walk'st in other paths of beauty now, 
 
 more strange ; 
 It is not Death we eall this thing, but Sleep ; 
 No parting this, but Beauty's secret change. 
 
MY WHITE ROSE AND RED. 
 
 So you've come from the South, have you, 
 darlings ? 
 
 And slept snug as mice all the way ? 
 And was n't it cold on the mountains, 
 
 For rosebud, and myrtle, and bay ? 
 And she packed you up so together, 
 
 And blessed you, and kissed you, and said, 
 u Keep sweet as my memory for him is, 
 
 My darlings, my white rose and red." 
 And what did she tell you at parting ? 
 
 Some message for me, I know well ; 
 Some praise of our boy, there, God bless him ! 
 
 Some words of our sweet little Nell. 
 And the dear tiny hands of the children, 
 
 Have they touched your petals so fair ? 
 O, rosebuds, you 're happy if Helen 
 
 But kissed you one moment, when there ! 
 This white rose shall bloom in the study, 
 
 This red one I '11 wear on my breast, 
 
106 MY WHITE ROSE AXD BED. 
 
 O, I wonder if she will be thinking 
 
 How often your petals are pressed ? 
 Did she tell you how long we 've been 
 married ? 
 
 Ten years — 't is another year, soon, — 
 And though we 've had snow in December, 
 
 We 've always had roses in June. 
 How far it is here from San Ilemo, 
 
 The gem of the beautiful sea ! 
 But you've come with your petals all Ira- 
 grant 
 
 With incense, from her unto me. 
 How strange it all is; and her letter — 
 
 This much and this only it said : 
 " The children are well here, and happy, 
 
 And my love's like the white rose and 
 red." 
 I '11 write her no letter to-morrow, 
 
 But something I '11 send her instead — 
 Two rose leaves, — she '11 guess at their 
 meaning, 
 
 One each from the white rose and red. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 "It is six," the swallows twittered, "and 
 you're very late in rising, 
 If you really think of rising on this lovely 
 morn at all; 
 For the great red sun is peeping over wood 
 and hill and meadow, 
 And the unmilked cows are lowing in the 
 dimly lighted stall." 
 
 O, ye robins and ye swallows, thought I, 
 throwing back the lattice, 
 Ye are noisy, joyous fellows, and you 
 waken when you will; 
 Then I saw a dainty letter, bound in ribbon- 
 grass and clover, 
 That the swallows had left swinging by 
 the narrow window-sill. 
 
108 THE MARRIAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 O, the dainty, dainty letter, on an orange 
 leaf, or lemon, 
 Signed, " Yonr friend, the Queen of Roses," 
 writ in characters of dew, 
 " You 're invited to the garden, there 's a good 
 time there at seven, 
 And a place beside the apple-tree has been 
 reserved for you. 
 
 " There '11 be matings there, and marriages, 
 of every flower and blossom : 
 Cross the brook behind the arbor, and 
 come early, if you can." 
 O, my thoughts, they all went bounding, 
 and my heart leaped in my bosom, 
 "And how sweetly she composes," I re- 
 flected as I ran. 
 
 There she sat, the Queen of Roses, with her 
 virgins all about her, 
 While the lilacs and the apple-blooms 
 seemed waiting her command. 
 O how lovely, O how gracious, she did smile 
 on each new-comer ! 
 O how sweet she kissed the lilies as she 
 took them by the hand ! 
 
THE MABBIAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 109 
 
 Never had I seen her fairer than she was this 
 happy morning, 
 Never knew her breath delicious, half so 
 boundless, half so rare ; 
 Oh ! she seemed a thing of heaven, with the 
 dew upon her bosom, 
 And I wished I were some daffodil, that I 
 might kiss it there. 
 
 All at once the grass rows parted, and the 
 sweetest notes were sounded, — 
 There was music, there was odor, there was 
 loving, in the air ; 
 And a hundred joyous gallants, robed in 
 holiday apparel, 
 Danced beneath the lilac-bushes with a 
 hundred maidens fair. 
 
 There were tulips, proud and yellow, with 
 their great green spears beside them ; 
 There were lilies grandly bowing to the 
 Rose Queen as they came ; 
 There were daffodils so stately, scenting all 
 the air of heaven, 
 Joyous buds, and sleepy poppies, with 
 their banners all aflame. 
 
110 THE MABBIAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 There were pansies robed in purple, marching 
 o'er the apple-blossoms, 
 And the foxgloves with their pages tripped 
 coquettishly along ; 
 And the violets and the daisies, in their 
 bonnets blue and yellow, 
 Joined the marching and parading of th' 
 innumerable throng. 
 
 All at once the dandelion blew three notes 
 upon his trumpet : 
 "Choose ye partners for the dancing, gal- 
 lant knights and ladies fair ! " 
 And the honeysuckle curtsied to the }'Oung 
 sweet-breathed clematis, 
 And remarked upon the sweetness of the 
 blossoms in her hair. 
 
 " We 're the tallest," said the tuberose to the 
 iris standing nearest, 
 "And suppose that now, for instance, I 
 should offer you my heart ? " 
 " O, how sudden ! " cried the sly thing ; 
 " I 'm really quite embarrassed, — 
 Unexpected, but pray do it, just to give 
 the rest a start." 
 
THE MABBIAGE OF THE FLO WEBS. Ill 
 
 Then a daisy kissed a pansy, with its jacket 
 brown and yellow, 
 And a crocns led a thistle to a seat beside 
 the rose ; 
 And the Maybells grouped together, close 
 beside the lady-slipper, 
 And commented on her beauty, and the 
 splendor of her clothes. 
 
 " O, a market this for beauty ! " said a 
 jasmine, gently clinging 
 To the strong arm of an orange, as a glance 
 on him she threw ; 
 "Why, you scarcely would believe it, but 
 I ve had this very morning 
 Twenty offers, and declined them just to 
 promenade with you." 
 
 So, in groupings, or in couples, led each 
 knight some gentle lady, 
 Led some fair companion blushing, past 
 the windows fresh and green, 
 And the Sweet Rose gave her blessing, and 
 a kiss at times, it may be, 
 To the fairest brides and sweetest mortals 
 eye hath ever seen. 
 
112 THE MABBIAGE OF THE FLO WEBS. 
 
 Then again the grass it parted, and the 
 sunshine it grew brighter, 
 Till it seemed as if the curtains of high 
 heaven were withdrawn, 
 And each flower and bud and blossom pressed 
 some fair one to its bosom, 
 As the bannered train danced gayly *twixl 
 the windows on the lawn. 
 
 O, the muskrose was so stately ! and so 
 stately was the Queen Rose ! 
 And how sweetly smiled she on me, as she 
 whispered in my ear : 
 •"Come again! you know you're welcome! 
 come again, dear, for, it may be 
 That our baby buda and blossoms will be 
 christened here next year.'' 
 
ROOM FOR THE ANGELS. 
 
 Far away by the Indus River, 
 
 Where the mornings are gold and red, 
 
 The mourners walk together, 
 
 And bury their silent dead, 
 
 In couples and in silence, — 
 
 But ever a place ahead 
 
 Is left unfilled and honored, 
 
 As that where the angels tread. 
 
 'T is a fancy, old as their river, 
 That, whenever they bury their dead, 
 The noise of wings is near them, 
 And light forms marching ahead, — 
 So ever before the mourners, 
 And close to the pall and plume, 
 'T is a beautiful heathen custom 
 To make for the angels room. 
 
 113 
 
114 BOOM FOB THE ANGELS. 
 
 I 've thought if some, not heathen, 
 Would make, in their worldly care, 
 Just room in their hearts for angels, 
 They would sometimes find them there. 
 If but in some nook or corner, 
 Filled up with the smallest things, 
 'T were a joy to be sometimes hearing 
 The rustle of angels' wings. 
 
IF YOU WANT A KISS, WHY, TAKE IT. 
 
 There 's a jolly Saxon proverb, 
 
 That is pretty much like this — 
 A man is half in heaven, 
 
 When he has a woman's kiss. 
 But there 's danger in delaying, 
 
 And the sweetness may forsake it ; 
 So I tell you, bashful lover, 
 
 If you want a kiss, why, take it. 
 
 Never let another fellow 
 
 Steal a march on you in this, 
 Never let a laughing maiden 
 
 See you spoiling for a kiss : 
 There 's a royal way to kissing, 
 
 And the jolly ones who make it, 
 Have a motto that is winning — 
 
 If you want a kiss, why, take it. 
 
 Any fool may face a cannon, 
 Any booby wear a crown ; 
 
116 IF YOU WANT A KISS, WHY, TAKE IT. 
 
 But a man must win a woman, 
 If he 'd have her for his own. — 
 
 Would you have the golden apple, 
 You must find the tree and shake it ; 
 
 If the thing is worth the having, 
 And you want a kiss, why, take it. 
 
 Who would burn upon a desert, 
 
 With a forest smiling by ? 
 Who would give his sunny summer 
 
 For a bleak and wintry sky ? 
 O, I tell you there 's a magic, 
 
 And you cannot, cannot break it, 
 For the sweetest part of loving 
 
 Is to want a kiss and take it. 
 
THE MOWING. 
 
 The clock has struck six, 
 
 And the morning is fair, 
 While the east in red splendor is glowing ; 
 There is dew on the grass, and a song in the air, 
 
 Let us up and be off to the mowing. 
 
 Wouldst know why I wait, 
 
 Ere the sunlight has crept 
 O'er the fields where the daisies are growing? 
 Why all night I 've kept my own vigils, nor 
 slept ? 
 
 'T is to-day is the day of the mowing. 
 
 This day and this hour 
 Maud has promised to tell 
 What the blush on her cheek was half show- 
 ing,— 
 If she wait at the lane, I 'm to know all is 
 well, 
 And there '11 be a good time at the 
 mowing. 
 
 117 
 
118 THE MOWING. 
 
 Maud's mother has said, 
 
 And I '11 never deny, 
 That a girl's heart there can be no knowing — 
 Oh ! I care not to live, and I rather would 
 die, 
 
 If Maud does not come to the mowing. 
 
 What is it I see ? 
 'T is a sheen of brown hair, 
 In the lane where the poppies are blowing. 
 Thank God! it is Maud — she is waiting me 
 there, 
 And there '11 be a good time at the 
 mowing. 
 
 Six years have passed by, 
 
 And I freely declare 
 That I scarcely have noticed their going ; 
 Sweet Maud is my wife, with her sheen of 
 brown hair — 
 
 And we had a good time at the mowing. 
 
JAMIE'S COMING O'ER THE MOOR. 
 
 Jamie 's coming o'er the moor, 
 
 Heaven smile, and good betide him ! 
 
 I am rich and Jamie 's poor, 
 But I love no one beside him. 
 
 Jamie, Jamie, all the day, — 
 
 I am thinking only of him ; 
 June would not be June alway, 
 
 If I did not see and love him. 
 
 Twelve sweet months ago we met. 
 
 Twelve sweet moons have been the token, 
 Break, my heart, or else forget 
 
 Jamie yet no word hath spoken. 
 
 List ! 't is Jamie's voice I hear, 
 One sweet voice of all the many. 
 
 I shall have no longer fear, — 
 
 Jamie cries, " I love you, Jeannie ! " 
 no 
 
120 JAMIE'S COMING O'EB THE 210 OB. 
 
 Jamie comes across the moor, 
 
 Heaven smile, and love betide him ; 
 
 Neither I nor Jamie 's poor, 
 
 When I love no one beside him. 
 
MAID AND BUTTERFLY. 
 
 {From the German.) 
 
 A maiden idly wandered 
 
 Through wood and cool retreat, 
 And as she stopped to gather 
 
 A nosegay from the heather, 
 A butterfly passed by her, 
 
 And kissed her lips so sweet. 
 
 " O ! pardon," said the rover, 
 " O ! pardon, maiden fair, 
 
 I sought amid the flowers 
 The honey that is ours, 
 
 And took your red lips blooming 
 For roses growing there." 
 
 " For this time said the maiden, 
 
 Forgiveness — it is by ; 
 But I must beg to mention, 
 
 And press to your attention, 
 These roses are not blooming, 
 
 For every butterfly." 
 
O, HOW SHALL I SING TO MY 
 FAIR ONE? 
 
 O, how shall I sing to my fair one ? 
 
 O, how tune my harp to the best? 
 Sweet south-winds, ye breathed on the rarest ; 
 
 Ye knew not your treasure, O West, 
 Wake, wake, ye red roses, half sleeping — 
 
 Know ye that a fairer is there ? 
 O primroses, primroses weeping ! 
 
 Hast seen her — my own one, so fair ? 
 
 O morning, rejoice in my gladness ! 
 
 And breathe on my song but a tone : 
 She will hear — she will hear it — and answer, 
 
 And think the sweet music my own. 
 O sunlight, that gladdens the hillside, 
 
 O rainbows, that die in the sea — 
 Thou lendest the robes of thy beauty, 
 
 But think not thou 'rt fairer than she. 
 
 122 
 
O, HOW SHALL I SING? 123 
 
 O seas ! be ye glad in my gladness ! 
 
 And hills, let me never in vain 
 Call out to thy heart for an echo, 
 
 Some sound that resembles her name. 
 Stars brightly shine, bright on my treasure, 
 
 And tell what ye dare not conceal — 
 O winds, help my harp to some measure, 
 
 To words that shall speak what I feel. 
 
UNDEE THE KOSE. 
 
 She is not dead we love, 
 
 She still is here ; 
 Cross her white hands above 
 
 Heart true and dear. 
 With her new senses born, 
 
 All things are fair ; 
 Brighter the stars at morn, 
 
 Sweeter the air. 
 
 Bloom, rose, yellow rose, 
 
 White rose, for her ; 
 Scent every air that blows, 
 
 Sweet balm and fir. 
 Song-birds, singing still, 
 
 Sing the old song ; 
 Thrush, lark, and whippoorwill, 
 
 Sweet notes prolong. 
 
 Shine, mornings, sweet and fair — 
 Shine as ye shone ; 
 
 124 
 
UNDER THE ROSE. 125 
 
 She breathes your scented air, 
 
 Though she be gone. 
 She sees the roses born 
 
 With her new eyes ; 
 She sees the light of morn 
 
 Burst in the skies. 
 
 Speak, friends, in love of her — 
 
 Speak, she is near ; 
 What though no cloud may stir? 
 
 Still she will hear ; 
 Speak as ye spake before, 
 
 Kindly and true ; 
 There's but an open door 
 
 'Twixt her and you. 
 
 What though her body rest 
 
 Under the sod ? 
 He knoweth what is best — 
 
 Trust her to God. 
 Under the roses there, 
 
 White rose and red, 
 She breathes the sweeter air ; 
 
 She is not dead. 
 
126 UNDER THE ROSE. 
 
 She is not dead we love, 
 
 She still is here ; 
 Cross her white hands above 
 
 Heart true and dear. 
 Pray, friends, that when for you 
 
 Life, too, shall close, 
 You seem as kind and true, 
 
 Under the rose. 
 
O MAIDEN, SO SLENDER AND FAIR. 
 
 maiden, so slender and fair, 
 
 And straight as the reeds by the sea : 
 
 The rose in thy beautiful hair 
 Is more than a rose unto me. 
 
 Last night, when the stars were aglow, 
 We walked on the terrace, and then 
 
 You whispered this night I should know 
 If I were most blessed of men. 
 
 How queenly you look, and how rare ! 
 
 My heart is ill-trained, and I can 
 But look at that rose in your hair, 
 
 And curse every daughter of man. 
 
 Walk down the bright aisles of the hall, 
 So tall and so stately, — perchance 
 
 Your eyes may not meet mine at all, 
 But I shall see you in the dance. 
 
 127 
 
128 MAIDEN, SO SLENDEB AND FAIB. 
 
 And if, when he touches your hand, 
 My dagger shall leap from my side, 
 
 Ah ! better the rage of the damned 
 Than the wrath of a lover denied. 
 
 Oh ! never you dreamed I was near, 
 To-day, when you met at the train — 
 
 'T was little, I grant, I could hear, 
 But that little 's undoing my brain. 
 
 I saw him reach over and break 
 
 This very same rose that you wear, — 
 
 " Tonight, at the ball, for my sake," 
 
 Were the words that he uttered, I swear. 
 
 What? waited to see would lie kiss 
 
 The lips I had dreamed would be mine, - 
 
 Enough ! there is murder in this ! 
 
 And the rose in your hair is the sign. 
 
 Yes, maiden, walk down the bright aisle, 
 'T is gay here and light as the moon, 
 
 His eyes will keep time with your smile, 
 And his feet with the flute and bassoon. 
 
MAIDEN, SO SLENDER AND FAIR. 129 
 
 By Heaven ! they 're coming this way ; 
 
 And dares she to smile on me still? 
 Your brother I — - what is it you say ? 
 
 Your brother — just back from Brazil ! 
 
 Your pardon ! this room has no air — 
 Come, walk on the terrace and then — 
 
 Ah ! sweet is that rose in your hair, 
 And I 'm the most blessed of men. 
 
IN LIBBY. 
 
 I HEAR the music of the bells 
 Float out upon the summer air — 
 
 Now, like the sea their chorus swells, 
 Now, faintly, as the breath of prayer ; 
 
 Yet lingering still as if to bless 
 My heart within its loneliness. 
 
 The tide comes up from out the bay, 
 
 The sails ride to and fro ; 
 I stand and watch them all the day. 
 
 Out on the stream below ; 
 But bending sail, nor flowing sea, 
 
 Brings one sweet word of joy to me. 
 
 130 
 
MY VIOLET. 
 
 She is not here, my violet, 
 My Maybell sweet, my mignonette, 
 And so my eyes are often wet, — 
 She is not here, my violet. 
 
 But over there, where ever swells 
 Each bud and bloom in heavenly dells, 
 Like nightingale she sings and tells 
 Our love to the sweet asphodels. 
 
 And where the sweet stars ever shine 
 On jasper seas and hills divine, 
 I '11 know her by love's constant sign, 
 And see her still and call her mine. 
 
 I hear her to the blossoms hum : 
 
 " In the bright days, he, too, will come ; " 
 
 And so with eager lips, half dumb, 
 
 I only wait that I may come. 
 
 131 
 
132 MY VIOLET. 
 
 It little matters where I be 
 
 For a few years, on lake or lea, 
 
 For through the gates ajar I see 
 
 My brown-haired maid still waiting me. 
 
 And sometimes when the stars are set, 
 And sweet Maybells with dews are wet, 
 I '11 close my eyes and go and get 
 My brown-haired love, my violet. 
 
THERE IS A MAIDEN WHOM I 
 KNOW. 
 
 There is a maiden whom I know, 
 Some sweet six summers old or so ; 
 And to my chair she climbs to throw 
 Her soft arms round me lovingly. 
 
 There is no maiden in the town . 
 With lips so red, or hair so brown, 
 Or cheeks so like the thistle's down, 
 Nor one who is so loving me. 
 
 Her eyes — bright eyes — I know I dare 
 To say they are more sweetly rare 
 Than any others ever were — 
 And shine on me so lovingly. 
 
 Bright eyes, brown hair, and red lips say 
 A thousand sweet things every day, 
 But most, in her dear childish way, 
 How very much she 's loving me. 
 
134 THERE IS A MAIDEN. 
 
 Perhape you know some little miss, 
 So very sweet and like to this, 
 Whom every day you fondly kiss 
 And press to you so lovingly ? 
 
 It little matters what her name — 
 If Helen, Kate, or Maud, or Maine, 
 Sweet child — dear one — *t is all the same, 
 Press her and kiss her lovingly. 
 
IN A VINEYARD. 
 
 When lads shall clamber 'mid the vines, 
 And press the purple vintage down, 
 And maids more rare than Rhenish wines 
 Shall braid each rustic youth a crown, — 
 O happy youth ! O happy maid J 
 Who dance to Labor's music chime, — 
 Well has your poet sweetly said : 
 " God bless us in the vintage time." 
 
SONG. 
 
 The sea hath its pearls so rare, 
 The sky hath its stars so bright, 
 
 The river is ever so fair, 
 
 But I have my lover, my light. 
 
 Oh ! truer than pearls and sea, 
 And fairer than stars of night, — 
 
 Oh ! better than all is he, 
 
 My lover, my dream, my light. 
 
 He 's coming ! I hear, I hear 
 
 The voice of my brave, my knight ! 
 There's joy when his step is near, 
 My lover, my dream, my light. 
 
 136 
 
IONE. 
 
 Old Surrey's hills are dear to me, 
 
 And Richmond's fields are fair, 
 And many a bud unfolds its flower 
 
 And leaves a sweetness there, — 
 But fairest flowers that ever grew, 
 
 Or sweetest bud that 's blown 
 On Surrey hills will not compare 
 
 With our sweet rose lone. 
 
 The sun was bright the morn she came, 
 
 At least we thought it shone, 
 And all the birds they seemed to sing 
 
 A welcome to lone. 
 The dews that kissed the rose's breast 
 
 The whole sweet night before, 
 Still lingered for one look at her — 
 
 What could they wish for more ? 
 
138 ione. 
 
 lone, Ione, our sweet Ione ! 
 
 Our youth renews in thee, 
 While Surrey's hills and Richmond's fields 
 
 Are very fair to see ; 
 And Heaven's own doors are opened wide, 
 
 The road has shorter grown ; 
 Thou bring'st us one step nearer Him, 
 
 Ione, our sweet lone. 
 
A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 
 
 Six days and nights our gallant ship 
 Sped o'er a lone and trackless sea ; 
 And we had watched the sea-gulls skip 
 Like arrows o'er the wave, and dip 
 Their wings into its foam, while we 
 Found in their freaks some company. 
 
 We were a hundred there, and more 
 From many lands, yet loved but one ; 
 And we had longed to see the shore, 
 The first faint mists of Labrador — 
 To hear some far-off evening gun 
 Proclaim the day, — the voyage done. 
 
 It was so quiet there — at last, 
 One bolder than the others led : 
 " Why is this silence ? Let the past 
 Be of the things that cannot last , — 
 We are the living — not the dead." 
 " Give us a song," the captain said. 
 
140 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 
 
 " Is there none here, not one, not one, 
 With the divine Promethean fire, 
 Can sing of deeds most nobly done : 
 Of sieges lost, of battles won, 
 Of knightly sons of knightlier sire, 
 And wake to life the sleeping lyre ? 
 
 "I do bethink me now, a man 
 
 Sat amid the forward decks to-day — 
 
 I do not think there ever can 
 
 Be one again so old and wan. 
 
 As he Avhose harp beside him lav." 
 
 "Bring him," the others said, "to play." 
 
 And soon an old man tottered in 
 To where the lamps were all aglow ; 
 The boatswain bore his harp for him — 
 For he had thought it well a sin 
 That one so old should helpless go ; 
 'Tis good we treat our aged so. 
 
 " Good friends," the boatswain said, "] bring 
 The poet of the ship to you. 
 Well he can play, and sweetly sing 
 To this, his harp, whose every string 
 
A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 141 
 
 Though tuned oft, yet, tuned anew, 
 May cheer you for an hour or two." 
 
 "Give me the harp," the singer said, 
 And touched his weird hand to the lyre — 
 And, lo ! the eye that seemed so dead, 
 The form, whence life had almost fled, 
 Brightened aneiv with living fire ; 
 Forgot was age — forgot was pain — 
 The old man lived the boy again. 
 
 He swept the chords through many a strain, 
 And sung of youth and love, till Ave, 
 Like followers in his knightly train, 
 Wept o'er his touching minstrelsy. 
 Is it not true that men may be 
 Made angels by some melody ? 
 
 Have we not lived, at times, above 
 The grov'ling earth and its complaints, 
 On hearing some sweet tale of love, 
 Some seraph-song of dying saints ? 
 Has not some poet said that we 
 Are chords in God's great harmony? 
 
142 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 
 
 " Enough — enough ! " the harpist said : 
 
 " I sing no more of love's young dream, 
 
 Of knightly deeds, of lovers wed, 
 
 Of hours, of days, too quickly sped, — 
 
 Mine is another, nobler theme — 
 
 My Country — born midst blood and tears. 
 
 Grown sacred by its hundred years. 
 
 'T is not so long ago, that men — 
 
 Brave men, who feared not storm or sea — 
 
 Crossed to the new-born land of Penn, 
 
 Without one thought but to be free : 
 
 Brave men, good men as well, were they 
 
 Who fearless sought the dang'rous way 
 
 To Plymouth Rock, to Florida — 
 
 Men who could fight, as well as pray, 
 
 Nor asked what else their fate might be 
 
 In that fair land beyond the sea, 
 
 So that it brought them liberty. 
 
 " They came — and soon their axes rung 
 By many a lake and tangled wood ; 
 And midst their labors, lo ! they sung, 
 For God was in their solitude. 
 Their struggles none but He may tell, 
 
A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 143 
 
 Who watched them on their dang'rous way; 
 How by the lurking foe they fell, 
 Yet trusted him, and said : ' 'T is well, 
 He leads us to the coming day.' 
 
 " The panther slunk into his lair, 
 The she-wolf hid within her den, 
 And there was peace and plenty there, 
 For God had blessed the hands of men. 
 Lo ! Towns, and States, and Cities rose, 
 And flocks were fed in every glen, — 
 It was the bloss'ming of the rose, 
 For God had blessed the hands of men. 
 
 " O, would that Peace might ever rest 
 Her blessed wings on every shore ! 
 Then were mankind divinely blest, 
 And men should learn of war no more. 
 Pray, pray, for that good hour in store, 
 When men shall learn of war no more. 
 
 " O England ! England ! tell us where, 
 Where had we wronged thee? how? or 
 when ? 
 
144 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 
 
 Hadst thou forgot thy children there, 
 Although thy children, yet were men ? 
 Hadst thou forgot that clime and sea. 
 And growing years, bring wider range , — 
 A larger hope, a destiny 
 That laws or wars can never change ? 
 
 "Thy armies came — thy navies flung 
 Their flag o'er many an inland sea — 
 And soon the hills of England rung 
 With shouts and thanks for victory : 
 With shouts and thanks, but echoing there, 
 The answer came from swamp and glen, 
 'You've driven the tiger to his lair — 
 God help you when he comes again !' 
 
 "Towns, cities blazed ; barefooted men 
 Tramped where our Western rivers flow; 
 They left their marks behind them, then, 
 In bloody lines on frozen snow. 
 'T was death — aye, more to them, but know 
 Men oft'nest earn their freedom so. 
 
 " Orphans and widows wept in vain, 
 And armies sank for want of bread; 
 
A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 145 
 
 Death stalked through every wood and plain, 
 And fields were left unharvested. 
 Still would they yield not — No, beware ! 
 God's will is worked through man's despair. 
 
 " Days, months, and years, they wavered not, 
 
 Nor asked the number of their foe ; 
 
 By wounds, by death, they cheaply bought 
 
 The rights that tyrants would not know, — 
 
 The fairest right — to die to be 
 
 The fathers of men's liberty. 
 
 " They conquered, and a nation sprung 
 To life, to greatness, in the West ; 
 And the wide world her praises sung, 
 She was the freest and the best ; 
 She was the freest, and the one 
 Whose soil no tryant dared to tread — 
 For, lo ! above, about her, shone 
 The mystery of her sacred dead. 
 Fate chose but one — that one was she — 
 To lead mankind to liberty. 
 
 " It is a century since then — 
 A hundred years to-day, and men 
 
146 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 
 
 Tell all the old tales o'er again ; 
 How she was born, our land, how bred, 
 And how the life her children led, 
 By faith and peace was hallowed ; 
 How well she kept her promised vow 
 To lead the way — to help the oppressed 
 Of every land and clime, and how 
 Men worshiped her, and she was blest : 
 How commerce came, and all that Fate 
 Ordains to glorify a State 
 Waited on her, and she was great ; 
 Each wind thai blew, cadi sail thai bent. 
 Seemed like some gift divinely sent 
 To help enrich a continent. 
 The world was envious, too — but, no! 
 Kings could not stop what Fate had told ; 
 Hills, rocks, unbound themselves, and lo ! 
 Their breasts are filled with oil and gold. 
 
 " What more ? The land was blest and grew 
 
 Like Eden, fair — but never knew 
 
 Like it, she nursed a tempter, too. 
 
 A tempter — black, fit child of hell — 
 
 He came — and half the nation fell. 
 
A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 147 
 
 They fell, and where the daisies grew, 
 
 Lo ! cannon belched their poisonous breath — 
 
 And war her red-mouthed trumpet blew, 
 
 And wedding morns saw nights of death. 
 
 The hand of Fate lay heavy then, 
 
 For God had cursed the ways of men. 
 
 "Dark months and years the storm-cloud 
 
 swept 
 Her course across a widowed land — 
 But lo ! the God of battles kept 
 The nation in his pitying hand. 
 At last, at last, the burning smoke 
 Faded before her silent guns, 
 But louder than her cannon spoke 
 The shroudless bodies of her sons. 
 Weep, fading clouds — speak, silent guns, 
 And honor these her fallen ones ! 
 Dead was the tempter — dead the past, 
 And men forgot their burning hate, 
 For hates and angers cannot last 
 With men whose foes were good, or great. 
 Sleep on, ye braves, ye shroudless ones ! 
 Men may not ask which side ye stood; 
 
148 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 
 
 Enough, ye were the nation's sons, 
 And ye are dead, and God is good. 
 It little recks where men have stood, 
 When Heav n forgives, and God is good. 
 
 "Again the peaceful lilies bloom, 
 
 And kiss the graves of friend and foe; 
 
 Again, again, the busy loom 
 
 Sends its dear music to and fro ; 
 
 Again the hills are gold and red. 
 
 With shocks and sheaves on every hand, 
 
 For all the fields are harvested. 
 
 And there is plenty in the land, — 
 
 Plenty and peace, for God again 
 
 Has smiled and blessed the hands of men. 
 
 "And now, where once the wigwam stood 
 Upon the Schuylkill's banks of green, 
 Where redd'ning vines and tangled wood 
 Hemmed in the fair but dang'rous scene — 
 Behold ! a palace fit for kings 
 Lifts its fair head unto the skies. 
 And all the land her tribute brings, 
 And shouts aloud : ' Friends all, arise, ! 
 
A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 149 
 
 This day, this hour, this place must be 
 Made sacred to men's liberty.' 
 
 " And here, where all have met to see 
 
 The earth's united rivalry 
 
 In all that is, or yet may be, 
 
 They reached their hands to each, and said : 
 
 4 This is the tribute to our dead — 
 
 This is the ring with which we wed 
 
 The twice-born bride, Columbia — 
 
 And this the oath, new-sworn, to thee, 
 
 Land of our hopes and destiny.' 
 
 Again the old, time-honored scroll, 
 
 Whereon the New World's faith was writ, 
 
 Was shown to men, and every soul 
 
 Thanked God, and wept at sight of it, — 
 
 Thanked God, and wept — it was a sight 
 
 Such as men see but once in life. 
 
 I saw it then — I saw its birth — 
 
 What more can one then want on earth ? " 
 
 All night our ship sped on its way, 
 
 Along a moonlit, starlit sea, 
 
 And when the red sun brought the day, 
 
150 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 
 
 The sailors shouted " Land ! " — and we 
 Looked to the West, and smiling there 
 Lay the low hills of Delaware ; 
 Loud fired the guns — the ship-bells rung 
 It was the land the poet sung. 
 
 Land of the West — our Fatherland ! 
 
 We bow and greet thee here at sea ; 
 We bare our heads, and meekly stand, 
 And pray that God in his right hand 
 May ever keep thee great and free, — 
 May ever keep thee great, and when, 
 Tli' oppressed shall cry for liberty, 
 Thy Stars and Stripes shall answer them: 
 Lo ! here, all men, all men are free. 
 
GYPSY GIRL'S SONG. 
 
 They 're waiting for me in the forest, 
 To lead the first reel on the grass : 
 
 The hare-bells will spring at my coming, 
 The lilies will how as I pass. 
 
 I care not for palace or city, 
 
 My home is th$ home of the free — 
 
 The birds are my playmates in summer, 
 My music 's the song of the sea. 
 
 All day with my arrows and quiver, 
 I Avander by meadow and spring ; 
 
 And the birds are repeating forever, 
 The words of the song that I sing. 
 
 151 
 
THE NATION'S DEAD. 
 
 Hail to the dead — the nation's dead — 
 
 Who sleep by wood and field and shore ! 
 To them we come with loyal tread 
 
 And kneel beside their graves once more. 
 With notes of bugle-song and drum, 
 
 With flying flags and sweet Mayflowers, 
 And grateful hearts, again we come 
 
 To deck these soldier graves of ours. 
 
 With hopes undimmed by flying years, 
 
 And faith renewed by the great past, 
 We see amidst our funeral tears 
 
 The glory that was born to last. 
 Once more beside each verdant grave 
 
 We gather, and with pride recall 
 How heroes' blood alone could save, 
 
 How heroes' sons alone could fall. 
 
THE NA TION ' S DEAD. 153 
 
 And lifting up the veil of years, 
 
 We hear again the nation's cry — 
 Its dark distress, its anguished fears, 
 
 Its wail for help — for men to die. 
 We se"e the tramping thousands come, 
 
 Their tents shine white on every field ; 
 The nation's heart, it is not dumb, 
 
 It cannot fail, it will not yield. 
 
 No longer spears and battle-blades 
 
 To pruning-hooks and staves are bent ; 
 From farms and hills and far-off glades 
 
 The dreadful news is quickly sent ; 
 And sounds of drams and clanging steel 
 
 And braying horns are in the air, 
 And quick the pulse of men who feel 
 
 Their own heart's blood is flowing there. 
 
 And there are partings none may tell, 
 And faces paled and lips all dumb, 
 
 And broken hearts in one farewell 
 To those who go, but never come. 
 
 Like to the torrent bounding down 
 From some tall mountain to' the sea. 
 
154 THE NATION'S DEAD. 
 
 From shop and village, farm and town, 
 Comes the young nation's chivalry. 
 
 And once again is heard the cry 
 
 Of squadrons charging to the death, 
 And bombs and shells go shrieking by, 
 
 Borne on the red-hot cannon's breath : 
 And fierce and far o'er Southern fields, 
 
 Like the dread sea to terror blown. 
 Comes the fierce foe that never yields. 
 
 Or yields to death, and death alone. 
 
 On ! on ! we hear the battle's din, 
 
 " On ! on ! " we hear our leader's erv ; 
 "There is no way but Death's to win " — 
 
 "On! on!" the bugles make reply, — 
 With Farragut among the shrouds. 
 
 Wherever Danger's signals be, 
 With Hooker fighting in the clouds, 
 
 With Sherman marching to the sea. 
 
 " On ! on ! " — we hear them once again 
 Shout back the fierce old rebel yell ; 
 
 And though from ships and ramparts rain 
 The sulphurous smoke, the fire of hell, 
 
THE NATION'S DEAD. 155 
 
 Still on, until the withering blast 
 Is silenced like the trampled dead, 
 
 And fair as morning shines at last 
 
 The Stars and Stripes above their head. 
 
 They sleep to-day in silent lines, — 
 
 Heroic men, whom Fame hath lent 
 The glory that forever shines, 
 
 To be their lasting monument. 
 And years and men may pass, but they, 
 
 Shrined in their country's bosom, live 
 In fairer forms than flesh or clay : 
 
 The fitter forms that Fame can give. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, heroic dead, 
 
 It little recks what we may say, 
 For there, beyond your narrow bed, 
 
 Shines the new light, your better day ; 
 And midst the music of the spheres 
 
 That sounds the soldier's reveille, 
 Where march and countermarch the years, 
 
 Ye wait the Peace that is to be. 
 
AKIADNE. 
 
 I walked by the yellow Tiber, 
 
 Last night, when the sun was low, 
 While all in the silent distance 
 
 Grew soft with a purple glow ; 
 And an odor of new-crushed poppies, 
 
 And the smell of the lilies, crept 
 Deep into ni}- veins, till, weary, 
 
 I lay by the stream and slept. 
 
 And stronger the odors pressed me, 
 
 And a dream in my dream there came- 
 The joy of a love's new greeting, 
 
 Of lips that pronounced my name — 
 Of a love that was more than mortal, 
 
 Of cheeks that were godly fair ; 
 And I knew that my Dionysius 
 
 Was standing beside me there — 
 
 Was standing, his eyes upon me, 
 As once, on that other day, 
 
ARIADNE 157 
 
 He touched with his wand, and loved me, 
 
 And bore me with him away. 
 My leopard sprang up to greet him, 
 
 As I waked from the drowsy dream, 
 With the arms of my new love round me, 
 
 By the side of the Tiber stream. 
 
 Oh ! come to me, Dionysius — 
 
 I dreamed of the evils by, 
 When Theseus, false and cursed, 
 
 Had left me alone to die. 
 ? Twas the poppies that made me dream so, 
 
 And the lilies you love the best — 
 Oh ! kiss me, Dionysius, 
 
 And hold me upon your breast. 
 
 And deeper, still deeper, kiss me, 
 
 Nor lessen your warm embrace, 
 Till our love and our lips commingle, 
 
 Like the blushes upon my face. 
 Oh ! dream of my dream, I have you ; 
 
 Look out from your coal-black eyes, 
 For the light and the love they give me 
 
 Were born of a Paradise. 
 
158 ARIADNE. 
 
 Push back the curls from your forehead, 
 
 And your cheek, be it close to mine, 
 Till our hearts beat warm together, 
 
 As our arms each other entwine. 
 There, breathe in my soul one moment, 
 
 For the touch of thy lips is worth 
 A thousand of mortal's kisses — 
 
 An age of the loves of earth. 
 
 Oh ! life of my life, come near mo, 
 
 Look into my eyes again, 
 And closer, oh ! closer press me, 
 
 For the love that is born of pain ; 
 T swoon, but my eyes are open — 
 
 I faint, but I see thy face — 
 Oh ! happiness, born to woman, 
 
 To be in a god's embrace. 
 
 Come on to the sweet flute's playing, 
 The feet that are drunk with dance. 
 
 The loves, and the bacchant women, 
 Who die, if without thy glance ; 
 
 Lead on by the gardens blowing, 
 By the meadows of sweet perfume, 
 
ARIADNK 159 
 
 For where thy light breath toucheth, 
 The beautiful roses bloom. 
 
 Look ! look at the dancers coming, 
 
 The train and the festal wine, 
 The pans and the satyrs leading, 
 
 The buds and the blossomed vine. 
 Thus, thus, I will be immortal, 
 
 My name in the bright stars set, 
 With the marriage-crown you gave me 
 
 The day that our kisses met. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Sherman's March to the Sea. 
 
 This song, which has the honor of giving its name to 
 the most picturesque campaign of the War, "The March 
 to the Sea/' and was characterized by General Sherman 
 himself as the shortest complete history of the same, 
 was written one chilly morning in a little wedge tent at 
 the rebel prison camp of Columbia, S. C, where Adju- 
 tant Byers had the hard fate to be quartered, with some 
 hundreds of fellow-prisoners. Meagre reports of Sher- 
 man's leaving Atlanta had come through a daily rebel 
 paper, which a kindly disposed negro stuffed into the 
 loaf of bread furnished to a mess of the Union prisoners 
 who were fortunate enough to have a little money to pay 
 for it. Through its troubled lines the eager ears and 
 eyes of the starved men read hope and coming freedom. 
 
 Another prisoner, Lieutenant Rockwell, heard the 
 poem and under the floor of the hospital building, 
 where a number of musical prisoners quartered them- 
 selves on mother earth, wrote the music. It was first 
 sung by the prison glee club, led by Major Isett, where, 
 intermingled with the strains of "Dixie " and kindred 
 airs, to adapt it to rebel hearers, it was heard with ap- 
 plause. By the fortune of war, the entry of General 
 Sherman's victorious army into Columbia released Ad- 
 jutant Byers from a fifteen months' captivity. General 
 Sherman gave him a temporary position on his staff, 
 and, later, sent him as the bearer of the first despatches 
 North to General Grant and President Lincoln, announc- 
 ing the victorious progress of his army through the Car- 
 olinas. 
 
 160 
 
NOTES, 161 
 
 On reaching the North, Adjutant Byers was astonished 
 to hear that his verses had preceded him, and had be- 
 come popular as a song all over the country. The song- 
 assumes the march to have commenced at Chattanooga, 
 not Atlanta, and it is now well known that Sherman's 
 hard-fought Atlanta campaign was by him intended as 
 the first step for the ocean. 
 
 The Ballad of Columbus. 
 
 The fates seem to have conspired in making the life of 
 Columbus romantic as well as great. There is not an in- 
 cident mentioned in the ballad that does not find its au- 
 thority in sober history. From the sudden eruption of 
 the volcano on Teneriff e to the death scene in a little un- 
 known Seville inn, each step of the voyager's life was as 
 if done in a drama. 
 
 The dearest wish of Columbus had been to secure 
 great sums of money in the New World, to be used in 
 equipping an army for the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre. 
 
 Margery Brown. 
 
 The London Lancet relates how a young girl, losing her 
 lover, became insane, and lost all calculation of time. 
 She never knew that she was growing older, and, believ- 
 ing herself always young, remained so in appearance, 
 and at seventy was as blooming as a girl of twenty. Her 
 case was a psychological marvel, cited to prove the influ- 
 ence of the mind over the body. 
 
 Xeics atihe White House. 
 
 During the battle of Chattanooga President Lincoln 
 sat alone at a telegraph instrument listening to the great 
 news as it was wired up to Washington. The assault, in 
 which the writer took part, commenced as soon as Sher- 
 man's troops had crossed the Tennessee River at Chick- 
 amauga Creek. 
 
162 NOTES. 
 
 The Guard on the Volga. 
 
 Some years since, when the terrible plague was devas- 
 tating parts of Asia, the Russians established a line of 
 pickets along the Volga River to incercept travel, and 
 thus check the march of the disease into their country. 
 
 The Tramp of Sherman's Army. 
 
 Recited at the reunion of the Army of the Tennessee 
 in Cincinnati, September 26, 1889. General Sherman 
 presided. All the then living generals of the great Army 
 of the Tennessee were on the stage, and participated. 
 The toasts for the occasion were printed on beautiful 
 satin maps representing Sherman's greatest campaign, 
 and their sentiments consisted of extracts and parts of 
 verses from the Lyric of "Sherman's March to the Sea." 
 
 It was General Sherman's last public appearance as 
 President of the Society that comprised nearly all the of- 
 ficers who had marched and fought "with him from Chat- 
 tanooga to the ocean. 
 
 The Nation's Dead. 
 
 Written for, and recited at, the Decoration Day Ser- 
 vices in Washington City, 1881. 
 
 President Garfield was one of the participants. 
 
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