INTO ^ ^ 
 THE ^ ^ 
 DEPTHS 
 
 SYMPATHY 
 
 
 JA$. CLOYD BOWMAN 
 
Class __iiiL^____ 
 Copyright W° 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS 
 
 ( A Story of Protecting Sympatky ) 
 Togetker Witk 
 
 Sixteen Miscellaneous Poems 
 
 By 
 
 JAS. CLOYD BOWMAN, 
 
 u 
 General Secretary Young Men s Cbristian 
 Association Valparaiso University 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 DEC 26 1905 
 
 Copyrieht Entry 
 CLASS (X. XXc, No. 
 
 / 3 3 9 7 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1905 
 
 BY 
 
 JAS. CliOYD BOWMAN 
 
 University Press, 
 Valparaiso, Ind. 
 
TO HER, WHO HAS BEEN THE TEACHER OP 
 <^ MY CHILDHOOD, THE GUIDE OF MY YOUTH, 
 ^ AND THE COMPANION OF MY MANHOOD,— 
 i MY LOVING SISTER, THIS VOLUME OF 
 i^- VERSE IS CHEERFULLY DEDICATED 
 
CHARACTERS REPRESENTED 
 
 MR. MASON ... - Town Resident 
 
 MRS. MASON His Wife 
 
 MARY MASON - - - - Their Daughter 
 
 MR. AYR - - The Village Saloon Keeper 
 
 MRS. AYR -^ His Wife 
 
 JOHN AYR Their S.on 
 
 I 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Sleep, my little one; sleep, my dear one; 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep! 
 The sun is slowly sinking in the boundless deep, 
 The evening star in sweet repose has just begun 
 
 to peep, 
 The eye of day grows heavy as the evening shadows 
 
 creep. 
 And silence loiters everywhere and lulls the world 
 to sleep; 
 Sleep, my little one; sleep, my dear one; 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep! 
 
 Sleep, my little one; sleep, my dear one; 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep! 
 The angels will with joy the nightly vigils keep; 
 With childhood's silken sails unfurled from out the 
 
 endless deep. 
 Will waft you to their sunny isles with balmy 
 
 buoyant sweep. 
 While mystic music mellows every murmur into 
 sleep ; 
 Sleep, my little one; sleep, my dear one; 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep! 
 
 The father tried to hide his thoughtful care. 
 As thus the anxious mother o'er and o'er 
 
6 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Crooned to her first-born babe this tender strain; 
 For baby pain had plucked away repose: 
 But song, the Orpheus soother of the soul, 
 At length o'ercame the weary careworn brain, 
 And stilled it into soothing peaceful dreams. 
 
 The spring was on with all its heavenly bliss. 
 The birds, the winged angels of the earth, 
 With their return, had drawn another thread 
 Across the woof of years. The flowers unveiled 
 Their fairy faces to the coaxing sun, 
 And held congealed the season's melodies. 
 That man might easier catch them e'er they fled; 
 The forests shed their gladness everywhere. 
 Till all the world was focused in a smile. 
 
 The baby silenced from its fretful care. 
 The mother raised her voice in accents soft: 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Yes, this is spring, — within the cradle 
 And without the door. We should indeed be glad; 
 'ihese beauteous cherubim of heavenly light 
 Would so enfold us that, though weak and blind, 
 No sin could evermore come near us, would 
 We but allow them. Look, my husband, here 
 Within this baby crib, this holy form. 
 This angel-molded house of clay, this face 
 That knows but sweetest innocence and peace: 
 We ought forevermore to keep it thus, 
 To guard it as a spotless Uly-bejl. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 7 
 
 Against the frosts and parasites of sin. — 
 
 And look beyond the cradle, where the sun, 
 
 The bridegroom of the day, with sweetest smiles, 
 
 Now lingers down the darkening aisles of night. 
 
 He sheds his parting perfumes everywhere. 
 
 Until the world is all aflood with joy. 
 
 Ought we not thus, in love, prolong our spring 
 
 Of married happiness; that this, the joy 
 
 And sunshine of our home, may find no blight 
 
 In the environment we've formed for her? 
 
 FATHER. 
 We ought, — not only ought, but will, dear wife. — 
 But wait a minute. — Here, this pledge from me, 
 A token that our constant aim and joy 
 Will be in happiness for her, ourselves, 
 And God. Take this, a new-blown nosegay, plucked 
 With loving care, — these roses, snowy-white; 
 Take these, and wheresoe'er you see again 
 Their likeness, think of them and this my vow. 
 
 The twilight lengthened; and the maid of night. 
 The moon, through all the etherial vaulted sky, 
 Relit the million tapers of the night. 
 And everything was peace and quiet cheer. 
 
 Only a few more years, 
 
 Only a little while, 
 Our darling daughter that's wrapped in dreams. 
 
 Will be in all a sunlit smile; 
 She'll be the fairest lily-bell 
 
 That blooms in many a milQ, 
 
8 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 II 
 
 When the cradle bed has flown, 
 And the baby feet have grown, 
 
 And the little steps have lengthened on the floor, 
 When the darling form goes bounding 
 To the school bell's call resounding, — 
 
 Then the world of fear and doubt peeps through 
 the door. 
 
 'Twas thus the mother sat and mused alone, — 
 
 The little girl's first day away at school. — 
 
 The sunny smile and laughter thus was hushed, 
 
 The noisome prattle stilled within the room. 
 
 The thousand little cares and joys were flown. 
 
 The playthings stowed away forevermore 
 
 In silent waiting for the vanished hand: 
 
 And mingled hopes and fears played hide and seek. 
 
 About the quietude within the room. 
 
 And raised forebodings in the mother's breast. 
 
 Throughout the long-drawn quiet restless day. 
 
 At length, the evening came, and with it came 
 
 The child, all radiant with sunny charms. 
 
 Bubbling with laughter, running o'er with joy 
 
 And elfish prattle. Soon the twilight fell 
 
 And silenced the wild wonder of the day. 
 
 And wrapped the wearied child in hushed repose, 
 
 But still the mother's mind was ill at ease; 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 9 
 
 A misty halo hid the evening star, 
 
 The star of peace and hope within her breast. 
 
 The fall had come in radiant rainbow gleams; 
 Had cast its hazy veil o'er all the land; 
 Its finger streaked the leaves with colored light, 
 And yet the fear of winter made them sigh 
 And shiver in the cooling autumn breeze. 
 
 They sat upon the porch, beneath the moon, 
 That shed its beams atween the parted clouds 
 That brushed its face. The wife at length began: 
 
 MOTHER. 
 My husband, I am sad and troubled much; 
 I fear our darling will go wrong. Our town 
 Is wicked, oh so wicked. How I wish 
 We lived far out in some fair wilderness 
 That Satan had not yet debased. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 That wish 
 Fits only heaven; for heaven's the only place 
 That's banished him. But why be anxious, dear. 
 You'll feel at ease when 'tis morning and the cares 
 Today has brought have slipped away in sleep. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 I wish I would: and still, I somehow fear 
 I shall not cease this longing till the years 
 Have ripened this fair bud to womanhood; 
 For, oh, how many snares lie but in wait 
 To blight the life that now is lily-pur^, 
 
10 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 That's why you should not fear; with soul so pure 
 And form so noble, she could stem the throne 
 Of Satan with no fear of harm. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 With form 
 So fair, — I wish that she was homely 
 As she's fair. Her beauty is the very worst 
 Of all her enemies. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 You'd have her 
 A mud fence, with brambles o'er it. But I'm glad 
 She's perfect as a sculptured angel. — 
 Were't not for you, I'd wish myself again 
 A boy, her age, that I might grow beside her 
 With but one thought, — to woo and win her. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 Who knows but the saloon man's son is now, 
 This minute, thinking o'er himself, the thought 
 You thus have counterfeited, who can tell? 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 I know you're ill, — to think of him, that's 
 
 Being reared as is a captive condor. 
 
 In a cage, where he can never raise and soar 
 
 Among the mountain peaks of his high thought. 
 
 Or live aright the instincts of his soul; — 
 
 To think that he should dream of her, is weak 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 11 
 
 And foolish. Better contrast heaven and hell; 
 For they would sooner woo and wed than these. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 You cannot tell; for he is wondrous fair; 
 As fair almost as she; the nearest 
 To be found within the limits of the town; 
 Besides, the strange and monstrous oftimes 
 
 happens: 
 Would it were as impossible as 'tis 
 Within your very thought. — Were I a man — 
 
 FATHER. 
 Were women men, they'd nevermore he angels; 
 But — 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Say what you will; were I a man, 
 I'd see the one saloon, one hive that swarms 
 With bees, that carry treasures in, and bear 
 Away the curse of hell upon their breath, — 
 I'd see it closed. 
 
 FATHER. 
 You'd furnish gossip then 
 For all the town. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Be as it would, I'd do it. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 It cannot harm us; furthermore, it needs 
 Must be, — it lightens taxes, AM U's }ike 
 
12 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Another place of business; you go in, 
 It takes you not. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 If that were only true? — 
 It may, in time, rob us of all our joy. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 No more! We'll neither be convinced. What use 
 Of being, now, thus drawn to useless quarrel? 
 
 The dark clouds thickened; and the moon blew out 
 
 The million tapers of the sky, and bivouacked 
 
 On the billowy bosom of the night. 
 
 And so the mother, half in anger, half 
 
 In fear and mingled hope, was lost in dreams. 
 
 Who can tell what the years will bring? 
 
 Who can tell? 
 What will become of our darling girl. 
 
 Who can tell? 
 Nobody knows but the father above; 
 Yet, we trust that God is only love; 
 But what will become of our little dove. 
 
 Who can tell? 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 13 
 
 III 
 
 Out of the way of the world 
 With its buffet and babble and scorn; 
 
 Out of the way of the world. 
 Of its wearied and wasting and worn; 
 To the hearts that in unity share 
 Every mingled pleasure and care, 
 To the sympathy no-where-else lent, 
 To the only true, lasting content, 
 To the cheer and the joy and the love. 
 To the sunshine strewn bright from above, — 
 
 Out of the way of the world, 
 Though however wide we may roam, — 
 
 This alone is home. 
 
 FATHER. 
 Yes, this is home, — the far-famed oasis 
 Within the parching desert world: the best 
 And truest shelter for our lives of storm: 
 The compass and the comfort of our souls: 
 God's illustration of his heavenly love. 
 Yes, this is home; for concord cheers our hearth. 
 And, too, our toil has yielded plenteous fruits 
 That we shall never want. And God has filled 
 Our cup to overflowing, in our child. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Yes, we at last are free from every care; 
 And comfort smiles upon our future path 
 All bright and radiant. Yes, my fears were foolish; 
 For she is as fair as any one 
 
14 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Could ask; as gentle, modest, and as good, 
 As could be dreamed of anywhere. Her tastes 
 Would fit her guardian angel's glad approval. 
 Truly, this is home. 
 
 FATHER. 
 List! there's her voice; 
 Let's in and hear her sing. — We'd have you sing 
 It o'er again, the song we love the best, 
 The song, of all, that is appropriate. 
 
 MARY. 
 What? "Home Sweet Home"? 
 MOTHER. 
 Yes, that's the one of all 
 We love to hear. 
 
 MARY. 
 Then 'tis of all, the one 
 I ought the most to sing. You are so good 
 To me, that I am ever pleased to do 
 Your bidding. But we all must sing together; 
 Then 'twill be of all the songs most 
 Beautiful, of all the most appropriate. 
 
 FATHER. 
 Come on, wife, this is comfort, this is home. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Yes, really, it is, with naught to mar. 
 " 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! 
 Home, home, sweet, sweet home! 
 Be it ever so humble, — 
 There's no place like home! " 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 15 
 
 IV 
 
 It was the time when wild flowers blow, 
 When perfumes pure and rare 
 Were floating out on every air, 
 
 It was the time when lilies grow 
 
 With all about atune to them. 
 With every thought the purest gem, 
 
 With naught of discord or of woe. 
 
 It was a day when Nature caught 
 
 A million years within an hour. 
 When one beyond himself might tower 
 
 E'en to the Infinite in thought. — 
 
 It was a day in Nature's reign 
 That never could return again. 
 
 Save in remembered fancy wrought. 
 
 It was an hour when every clod 
 
 Seemed focused in one perfect thought, 
 
 When Nature all atune was caught 
 Into reflected beams of God: 
 
 When life was poesy and song; 
 
 When self was held aloof from wrong; 
 For Love, triumphant, walked abroad! 
 
 MARY. 
 What shall I do? What shall I do?— 
 It matters not. — When it is through, 
 'Twill break two hearts, whate'er I do. 
 Thus thinking silently, alone she went; — 
 
16 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 The clover bowed its head as she passed by. 
 The roses drooped in meekness as she came, — 
 All nature stopped, entranced by her fair form. 
 As lightly, on the wings of morning air, 
 She softly tripped, the one flower wondrous fair 
 Of all the spring. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Come out to me, my love, 
 
 Come out, come out to me; 
 The world's a-May, do not delay. 
 
 But come, come out to me. 
 Life's in the spring, the birds awing. 
 And Love is king, and Love is king! 
 
 Oh come, come out to me. 
 My heart will break, unless you wake; 
 Unless you come, my soul is dumb, 
 
 Unless you come to me: 
 Come out! 
 
 'Twas thus the lover sat and mused alone. 
 Within the sheltering cover of the wood. 
 Sat thinking but of her that lingering came; — 
 That lingered long, half-wishing she had stayed. 
 And still she could not stay. Her heart was here, 
 Her home was there; her love was here, though 
 
 no one 
 Knew. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 She comes! my heart's aglow! oh, why- 
 Does she thus linger, when my every hope 
 
Is in her blushing smile? See, now she stops 
 
 And plucks a daisy from its nodding stem; — 
 
 But she is queen of every flower that blows. — 
 
 She comes again in artless grace. — O, love, 
 
 The minutes are long years when thus you linger. — 
 
 That's not a tear upon your cheek I see? — 
 
 You would be smiles did you but know this heart 
 
 Aright. — Do not thus pain me now, I die 
 
 To see your smile. 
 
 MARY. 
 Then, here's a smile for you. — 
 There, is your heart content? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Yes, love. 
 MARY. 
 
 Then I 
 Am glad I feigned it, though it pained me through. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Don't say it, love. " Feign " blights my hope. — 
 
 The sun 
 Is dark, the air is cold, the birds are hoarse, 
 For that one word. 
 
 MARY. 
 That word was not for you; 
 Could you but read my thoughts, then never maid 
 Were truer in her love than I. 
 JOHN. 
 
 Oh, now 
 The sun is bright, the air's surcharged with scent 
 
18 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Of clover meadows, and the birds are drunk 
 With honeyed song. — But why thus sad? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Sad is 
 Nor word to use; say throbbing pain. I can 
 Not move or some dear heart will break. — 
 My parents, if they even dreamed that you 
 Were here, would rather I was dead, than have 
 Me cast one coldest glance your way. — And I 
 Were I to now go back to them, two hearts. 
 Two loving hearts would thus be crushed. What 
 
 can 
 I do? Think you I ought to smile when hearts 
 Are breaking for that smile; think you that I 
 Should weep, when hearts are drowning in the 
 
 tears? 
 Would that my face were double as I force it; 
 That this might smile for you, and that for them, 
 
 JOHN. 
 Yes, this is hard, I cannot see why they 
 Thus envy me, who never did them wrong; 
 For though I smile on you, the smile is pure. — 
 I know they say I'm reared upon blood-money. 
 'Tis not true! my mother is a Christian, 
 Meek as any saint. She's daily urged 
 That father sell his business, his saloon, 
 For her sake and her son's. She is a Christian, 
 Though she's shunned by all her kin. The curse 
 Is on us for his business; and on me 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 19 
 
 Thus doubly; for at times, an unquenched thirst 
 Has come, — I've seldom yielded though. — But 
 
 since 
 1 first beheld you, blushing fairer than a rose, 
 Since first you smiled on me your smile of love. 
 The thirst is quenched; and all I ever crave 
 Is just your angel presence near. For you 
 Are in my thought a million times a day. 
 Are everywhere, in everything I see. — 
 But why this trembling like a captured dove? 
 
 MARY. 
 Methinks I see some form there, moving near. 
 Is it my father, who perchance mistrusts? — 
 No, it is but a listless, grazing cow. — 
 But we must farther out into the forest. 
 Where no one's eye save God's alone can see; 
 And as He knows our hearts. He will rejoice. 
 Nor spread the gossip on the winged air. — 
 We go. — Pluck there for me that glowing bunch 
 Of buttercups. 
 
 JOHN. 
 They do not glow. Could you 
 But contrast them with your bright sunny smile, 
 You, too, would say that they are naught but 
 
 common 
 Yellow. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 There, pluck that dainty Wind-Flower 
 Trembling e'en in this faint breeze, that waxen 
 Moon-beam, tucked away by night's forgetful hand. 
 
20 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 JOHN. 
 'Tis fair; but you are fairer far than this; 
 You are the waxen smile of heaven, that angels 
 Breathed o'er your birth hour, and then in awe 
 Of beauty, durst not claim again; for fear 
 Of robbing 6arth and me of all that's fair. 
 
 MARY. 
 Waste not, thus wild and lavishly, on me 
 These love perfumes, distilled from your true heart. 
 I'm not more fair as woman than you as man. 
 Heaven tried extravagance in both to mold 
 Such beauty, and in unity it formed 
 Us each the other's counterpart. And now 
 Rejoices e'en to see us thus. And yet, 
 But beauty in the form is naught unless 
 It's mantled o'er a lovely heart. But we 
 Most happily, are both thus wrought and nerved. 
 
 JOHN. 
 You're quite extravagant to paint us thus; 
 But I am sure that we were wed in heaven 
 The selfsame hour in which we both were born. — 
 But this is paradise! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Here, this Spring Beauty. 
 
 JOHN. 
 Yes, — It was named aright, 'tis beautiful; 
 'Tis even so: but you, my love, are Beauty; 
 And 'tis chaste, but you are Chastity. 
 Would they had named you sweet Angelica 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 21 
 
 Instead of Mary; still, that name profanes; 
 It should be simply " Angel," that's of all 
 The only name that fits you. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Nay. Mary! 
 She was e'en the nearest Angel earth has seen. 
 The Lord searched waiting centuries before 
 He found, in all the world, the woman 
 He dared trust to rear His Son. Say Mary always; 
 'Tis the grandest name 'neath heaven. But John, 
 Methinks is common. John? But John was e'en 
 The one beloved Disciple. That were name 
 Enough to fit a king. But anyway, 
 A common name is most uncommon 
 In a man of worth. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 But this is heaven to stand 
 Beneath your smile. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Yes, but it cannot last; 
 My little hour is spent. Would it might spin 
 Its silent thread out into long, long years. — 
 How can I back into my home again. 
 And leave you now. Would we might ever here 
 Be fixed in an eternal spring of love 
 Fanned e'en, as now, by breezes of perpetual joy. — ■ 
 I must not loiter or they may suspect 
 I'm long in gathering these few fading flowers. 
 And yet, how can I go. O cruel time, 
 
22 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 How can you part us thus, 'tis but a half-spent 
 Minute since I wandered here. But I 
 Must go. 
 
 JOHN. 
 Stay! Not so soon. 'Twill be long years 
 Till night again throws its protecting mantle 
 O'er us. 
 
 MARY. 
 But you will come! Come quickly, night! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I hope this longing soon will cease. It pains 
 Me we must meet like murderous thieves within 
 The midnight darkness. Is there not some way 
 We may break the secret? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Would there was; 
 But heaven is pleased to have us wait still longer. 
 Say not " good-bye ", say rather," welcome night ". 
 I go, — not singly, for you're ever near. 
 
 JOHN. 
 And I go doubly, too. 
 
 When will this waiting cease? 
 
 When the time be come? 
 For this fair angel to be my bride? 
 When we together can, side by side, 
 Fight out life's battles, whate'er betide? 
 
 When will the time be come? 
 Till then, my heart, be true as steel, 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 23 
 
 Till then let Love be e'en the seal 
 To bind our hearts for woe or weal. 
 E'en till the time shall come. 
 
 V 
 
 We weave in silence secretly 
 
 The fabric of our lives, 
 And no one knows what enters in, 
 
 What thought at last survives; 
 But when we feel the most secure 
 
 And safe in what is there, 
 Some force unwinds the mystic web, 
 
 And lays each woof thread bare. 
 
 As when the blind plant, groping wildly for light. 
 Finally bursts into bloom with the newness of day; 
 As when the young fledgeling first finds its lone 
 
 voice, 
 And the instinct within it sheds wildly its lay; 
 As when the meek lily, with head drooping low, 
 Holds aloft in its chalice a spherule of dew 
 That the sun in its radiance resplendent shines 
 
 through, 
 And illumes all its soul with a rare diamond hue: — 
 So Mary tripped homeward reborn from above. 
 With her whole soul aflame with the wild dream 
 
 of love; 
 Unknowing the gods from their seats in the sky 
 
24 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Flung her every known grace as she lightly 
 
 tripped by. 
 Unknowing the arrows that pierced her hid breast, 
 Protruded their points in her eyes' wild unrest. — 
 Ah strange, we can read in the uncovered eye 
 The thoughts of the mind, howe'er hidden they lie; 
 Ah strange, we can peep through their half-open 
 
 portal, 
 See the image that's stamped on the spirit 
 
 immortal ; 
 But we carry forever, and always reveal 
 Our souls in our eyes, though we would them 
 
 conceal. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 You're home again? 
 
 MARY. 
 Yes, Mother, I am home. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 I know not why, my daughter, but the hour 
 Seemed long and lonely. 
 
 MARY. 
 Oh, it seemed so short. 
 Scarce half as long as many minutes 
 I have passed. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 I do not understand you, daughter, 
 Hearts that love talk thus. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 25 
 
 MARY. 
 Yes, and I love, — 
 I love the flowers; methinks that I could spend 
 Long years without a wasted minute thus 
 Among the lovely blossoms of the wood. 
 I would have stayed another hour, and yet 
 Another and another till 'twas night, 
 Were it not for your anxious thought of me. 
 I know not why you thus should be afraid. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 I fear there's other love than simply flowers; 
 The love of flowers comes only when we love 
 Some person, e'en — 
 
 MARY. 
 I love you, mother dear. 
 And father, — every one and everything. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 That's why I fear you have a hidden lover. 
 One now concealed, we know not of. 
 
 • MARY. 
 
 But mother, 
 You have ever feared. — I know not why, 
 E'en when a little child, I heard you oft 
 Tell father, when you knew not that I heard, 
 That you oft feared for me. Why should you thus? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 You're ever in a dreamy lover's mood; 
 Listless you glide about; you leave your books; 
 
26 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Your music only adds its wings to these 
 
 Your dreams. I'm sure you dream of someone, 
 
 somewhere. 
 That we do not know. 
 
 MARY. 
 I cannot lie; 
 I will not say I do not dream, and oft: 
 Pray, what unmarried woman is there neath 
 The sun that does not dream of someone dearer 
 Far to her than all things else? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Then mother 
 Ought to know, to still this longing fear. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Not yet; enough it is to tell you, he 
 Deserves the love I give him^ but his name, 
 I cannot tell you that. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Could you, my daughter, 
 Know the joy you'd bring, by telling me, 
 You'd do it now. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 No, mother, if you cannot 
 Trust what I have told you e'en this far, 
 That he deserves my love; then you would not 
 Believe or cease to fear, were I to tell 
 The fuller secret. But you do me wrong 
 To rob the only hidden chamber 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 27 
 
 I have ever tried to keep concealed from you. 
 But time will quite unfold its unknown depths, 
 Much as the spring unfolds the lily's bell. 
 But for the present, you will have to trust, 
 And thus believe that he deserves my love. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 I would believe it, were it not for one — 
 
 MARY. 
 Press me no farther; this is far enough. 
 
 As when the blast of autumn comes unseen, 
 
 And drifts the chilling storm, unheralded, 
 
 O'er perfumed bowers, and hushes the glad songs 
 
 Of all the birds, and wakes within each breast 
 
 The instinct for a far-off summer clime; 
 
 As when the lightning breaks, unseen, unheard. 
 
 And tears the clinging ivy from the oak, 
 
 And flings it helpless with a thousand wounds. 
 
 Its hopes all crushed, its towering beauty gone; 
 
 As when a mountain torrent rushes wild 
 
 Across the blushing plain, and in its might. 
 
 Uproots a helpless lily, drooping poised. 
 
 And drops it dripping in a far off dell: — 
 
 So troubles come, unseen, unheralded. 
 
 And from the inmost heart of hearts uproot 
 
 The delicate and hidden springs of joy. 
 
 So, Mary, all her being flushed with pain. 
 
 Blushing in anguish, passed into her room; 
 
 Alone within her chamber mused and wept. 
 
28 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 MARY. 
 What will become of me? I could not tell 
 A lie, e'en pressed thus hard. — And now she knows; 
 At least within her mind; the secret's out! 
 Oh cruel hour that thus has robbed my life! 
 'Tis home no more: had mother only known, but 
 Guessed, the meaning of her awful words, 
 She would not thus have asked for all the world. 
 Kind angels, why did you not somehow tell her? — 
 Oh let me weep; for home is ended 
 Evermore; and yet how can it be? Must I 
 Break both the hearts that thus have reared my 
 
 life? 
 I cannot do it. Who had ever thought, 
 Though true, I must be false in this dark hour. 
 I dare not tell my parents; they would hedge 
 About me such a wall, that e'en the sun 
 Could find no crevice for his faintest beam; 
 A nunnery were freedom side of this. 
 I cannot tell them, though the one I choose 
 Is worthy; for society uplifts 
 Its warning finger in a scornful " no ": 
 A chasm's drawn between his home and mine 
 That I, with all my pleadings, cannot span. — 
 Still, he is mine! — But I am their's! — But not 
 For life! Oh let me drown my grief in tears. 
 
 Alone within her chamber thus she wrought 
 Her prayers and tears — there fought twixt home 
 and love. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 29 
 
 And listlessly, her fingers wove a wreath 
 Of wild flowers, nodding on their broken stems. 
 As from the silence of their hidden depths, 
 They smiled contentedly, though bruised and 
 
 crushed. 
 And in her soul she thought she heard them say: 
 " Be patient! Be contented with your lot! 
 For faith and hope and love are never crushed. 
 The smile that's mantled o'er with briny tears 
 Is worth a world of gay frivolity 
 And lack of feeling. Sorrow melts the soul. 
 Burns out the worthless dross, refines the gold." 
 And in her innocence, she kissed the flowers. 
 As one by one she saw each upturned smile. 
 And answered to their silent brave appeal: 
 " God's good. I'll ever love and hope and trust." 
 
 VI 
 
 There are joys in all our sorrows; 
 
 There are thistles through our flowers; 
 There are vales between our mountains; 
 
 There are tests for all our powers: — 
 Happy he that meets his trials 
 
 With a steadfast trustful eye; 
 Happy he that through life's darkness 
 
 Sees some star transfixed on high. 
 
 The matchless morn in May had quickly passed: 
 And minute after minute slipped in silence 
 Into the great unfinished record 
 
30 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Of the past; as listlessly and all alone, 
 Our youthful lover roamed the quiet wood. 
 And poured his tale of love into the upturned 
 Violet's bell, and hid it there within 
 The forest's deepest depth where none would find, 
 And then passed on to hear it babbling ever 
 At his side. And then he flung it deep 
 Into the sturdy oak's staunch, fearless heart; 
 And as it rustled all its brawny being. 
 Enkindled with the wild enraptured song. 
 He felt relieved, and gayly passed, as one 
 Who neath a cloudless sky runs from his shadow. 
 Still in reverie, he wandered here and there, 
 Until the shadows of the twilight came 
 And woke him, — then he hastened breathless 
 home. 
 
 MR. AYR. 
 John, where have you been lingering all the day? 
 You go about of late as though your only 
 Thought was on some day dream. But 'twill stop! 
 This is your birthday, is it not? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 It is. 
 
 MR. AYR. 
 Then you're at last a man in age, though not 
 In motive. I've a plan. 'Tis for your future. 
 You must choose; you're at the parting paths. 
 In brief, — you now must settle down with me, 
 Take share in my saloon; or else get out, 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 31 
 
 Leave home and all you love! I'll have no more 
 Of this, your worthless dreaming! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Must I leave? 
 Leave home and mother? 
 
 MR. AYR. 
 
 No! I did not say it. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 You same as said it; for of all things known, 
 I'll never work at such a business. Sir! 
 
 MR. AYR. 
 
 Then get you out! You have no share in me 
 And mine. Your mother's made a mealy-mouthed 
 And moral fool of you. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 No use of this. 
 I would not work to ruin other lives. 
 E'en though it paid a thousand dollars daily. 
 
 MR. AYR. 
 
 Then get you out and soil these tender palms! 
 You'll get this girlish silliness soon cured. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Think you I cannot work? I've never asked 
 You for a cent in all the years. I've made 
 My money always; and could you but know 
 What makes me idle now, you would not blame. 
 
32 INTO THfe DEPTHS. 
 
 MR. AYR. 
 Some sickly love affair again, that's it, — 
 I know you like a book! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Yet cannot read 
 Between the lines. — There's nothing you can share 
 With me; our natures are as opposite — 
 
 MR. AYR. 
 
 I'm mighty glad they are! But why these words? 
 
 I've had enough of your soft lily-fingers: 
 
 I'll to work. But mind for once and all, 
 
 You'll get you out, unless you do my bidding! — 
 
 But I will give you all the chance a boy 
 
 Can ask: I'll share the half of all I own 
 
 With you, if you'll accept. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Don't thus so tempt 
 Me; for I could not work as you have planned 
 E'en though you gave me all. 
 
 MR. AYR. 
 
 Then out! tonight's 
 The last you'll ever lounge upon a bed 
 Of mine! Your mother's stubborn silliness 
 Breeds this! Would you had senses that befit 
 A man! I'm gone; till I am back, decide. 
 And if you dare say " no ", I'll say it, too: 
 You'll never put your form within this home 
 Again, or I'll make jelley of your surly 
 Mouth! You hear! Decide till I return. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 33 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 He's gone, — I'm mighty glad lie is. Would I 
 
 Were gone e'er he returns. I fear this strain 
 
 Will set him drinking more: returned, he'll have 
 
 A fit of frenzy, thinking thus he'll force 
 
 Me into being what I will not choose. 
 
 But he can't do it! Firm I'll be as steel! — 
 
 But mother, can she stand this sudden shock? 
 
 Maybe I ought to take his offer now 
 
 For her dear sake. But she'd not have it so: 
 
 She'd rather her dear heart would break; than 
 
 this. — 
 And Mary; what, oh what of her? Tonight 
 May be our last. But 'twill not. — I'll not think. — 
 So I must go? I'll boldly go! — But where? 
 The world is all so large and cold; — I fear. — 
 But I can work; I've worked, and can again. 
 I can come back to mother oftentimes, 
 When he is gone. — But still, his threat is strong: 
 And he is blunted so by drink, he'd kill me. — 
 I'll have to leave the town and all I love; 
 But I had rather heed the call of right. 
 E'en though it bleeds my heart and makes my 
 
 world 
 A wasting desert, than to choose the wrong 
 And live in luxury on beds of ease. — 
 O mother, is it you? 
 
 MRS. AYR. 
 
 Yes, it is I. 
 I've listened from my room to all you've said. 
 
34 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 It pains me much to think that you must go: 
 But I'm rejoiced to know you are a man 
 That dares now choose the right. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 You are so good; 
 You are the guardian angel of my life. — 
 But I must go! 
 
 MRS. AYR. 
 Yes, John, e'en now, before 
 He comes again. Let's to your room at once. 
 
 JOHN. 
 Stay; not so soon! — I cannot go tonight. 
 
 MRS. AYR. 
 You must for my sake; he will soon return 
 In raving wickedness to force his will. 
 He's been determined many years to make 
 You partner in his business when you came 
 Of age. He would have had it sooner, 
 But for me; our bargain was to let you choose. — 
 I've strengthened my desires by prayer; and he 
 Has tried to force his plans by wicked threats. 
 I prayed all night you'd stand the test today. 
 I know he will accuse me of foul play, 
 Say I have been untrue, have forced you thus; 
 But I'm prepared e'en for the worst, if you 
 But haste away. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I cannot go tonight. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 36 
 
 MRS. AYR. 
 You must not be more tender hearted 
 Than your mother. 
 
 JOHN. 
 No, 'tis not that, but she — 
 
 MRS. AYR. 
 
 But who? 
 
 JOHN. 
 My love. 
 
 MRS. AYR. 
 Who is she, — but it matters not, 
 The world is full of " loves ". 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 No, there's but one. 
 But one in all the world for me. — Say but 
 Tomorrow; any other time. 
 
 MRS. AYR. 
 
 But haste; 
 The train will soon be due. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 But there's another 
 E're the day awakes. 
 
 MRS. AYR. 
 
 But you must go 
 On this, before he comes. Come to your room. — 
 I have these years kept faith in God and you. 
 
36 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Look, I have saved this thousand dollars 
 'Gainst this hour, if you but chose aright. Take 
 
 this, 
 A birthday present, saved in secrecy 
 From out the years. Be frugal in the spending, 
 E'en as I've been in the gathering. 
 
 JOHN. 
 Mother, how can I live without your love? 
 In all my life, I have not seen its equal. 
 But I must go! My treasures one and all 
 Are stowed away; — ah no! they're in your 
 
 hearts. 
 But I must go! must leave you both! But I 
 Will write you often, tell you my success! 
 Your welfare ever will be on my heart. 
 And if, perchance, he ever dies, then write; 
 And I will take you to my home and nurse 
 You in your age as tenderly as you 
 Have nursed my youth. — A kiss, a parting kiss. — 
 Wipe not the tear let fall upon your cheek 
 By me. Think as it dries, I'll nevermore 
 Forget your loving life of kindness. 
 I must go! The evening shades have darkened 
 Into night; and so my childhood happiness 
 To tears. 
 
 MRS. AYR. 
 May God be pleased to have us meet 
 Again; 'twill then be joyous as it's sad 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 37 
 
 Tonight. — Till then, " good-bye ". And may the 
 
 Lord 
 Be with us both! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Good-bye. 
 
 Who can measure a mother's love? 
 
 Who? 
 
 Nobody can but God above; 
 
 Nobody! 
 
 It's tried oft times 
 
 In petty rhymes; 
 
 But the ocean's too shallow to dare compare; 
 
 And the earth is too narrow e'en everywhere: 
 
 Who must measure a mother's love? 
 
 Who? 
 
 God! 
 
38 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 VII 
 
 When the baby bird's flown from its nest in the elm, 
 And the sunshine peeps in on an empty abode, 
 And the mother bird chirps to her mate at her side 
 As together they dream by the long lonesome 
 
 road; — 
 'mere is something too deep for a tear to express, 
 And a something too sacred for thought to explore. 
 There is something now gone that they sigh to 
 
 caress 
 As they sink in the thought they shall nevermore 
 
 bless, — 
 When the baby bird's flown from its nest in the elm. 
 
 When the baby bird's flown from its nest in the elm, 
 Has unknowingly broken its frail new-fledged wing. 
 And can nevermore raise from its far away flight 
 And return with the joy and the peace it would 
 
 bring; — 
 It is then that in heaven our God heaves a sigh. 
 And all nature is sad and in tears moaneth low. 
 It is then that the mother bird wisheth to die. 
 To be folded, unknowing, forever to lie, — 
 When the baby bird's flown from its nest in the elm. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Has't come to this? My God, has't come to this! 
 My husband, up! — My God, has't come to this! — 
 The morn shall nevermore awake the earth 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 39 
 
 As a sweet child from dreams. 'Twill evermore 
 Be but a parched-up desert. My God, my God! 
 Has't come to this! My husband! She has flown! 
 Is there no help! Can we not rescue her! 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 What, wife, why this wild dream? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Is't but a dream? 
 A frenzied nightmare? — Then, my God be 
 
 praised. — 
 But 'tis not! Read this tear-stained note she left 
 Within her chamber! Yes, 'tis true! She's flown! 
 Is there no help? Can we not rescue her? 
 Can we not telegraph? 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 What, is it true? 
 Ah, can it be? — We cannot rescue her. 
 I see it all, — they're married e'er the morn, 
 That pales his rosy cheek in tears to tell 
 Us this, could wake us. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Oh! is't even so! 
 The last hope gone! It can't be; God is Love! 
 It cannot be! 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 It's very hard to bear. 
 We cannot understand our God of Love; 
 For sometimes He must lead us even through 
 
40 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 The valley and the shadow e'er we 11 see 
 Our sins. I see it now! Would I had seen 
 It many years ago. I voted many times 
 To keep that one saloon to lighten tax. 
 Where are my petty taxes now! And think, 
 I once had in my hand the power to crush it, 
 Had I but risen then and struck the blow. 
 I saw no harm in it to me or mine: 
 That was my sin, and God has punished justly; 
 For I denied I was my brother's keeper. — 
 Oh, what have I done? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 You've sold her soul! 
 Would I had only made you see what I 
 Saw in a vision many years ago. — 
 Mine's half the sin; for I, with all my might, 
 Could have persuaded you. — Has't come to this? 
 
 FATHER. 
 You are too fair and honest in these words. 
 For mortal woman; yes, we both must share 
 The burden equally; for doubly we 
 Can bear the millstone that would break each heart. 
 If borne alone. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 My God, I know not 
 If 'twill last. My heart is almost broken now. 
 My hopes are fled! Shall we not somehow try 
 To rescue her and bring her safely home? 
 Could we not bear her husband round our hearth, 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 41 
 
 If she'd return? Let's bid them welcome home; 
 Perchance, they'll come. 
 
 FATHER. 
 No, wife, — She'll come " alone ", 
 If we but give her time. Do you not see 
 These tearstains here upon her parting note? 
 That drunkard's son that has beguiled her thus. 
 Will soon betray her; then she'll come alone. — 
 Too true, she'll bring a bleeding, broken heart, 
 And tears and taints of sin. 'Twill not be she. 
 The joyous angel, flitting fairy-like 
 Around, as once she did. — It can't be changed 
 By us; nor can we bear the viper that 
 Has thus so deadly bitten at our hearts. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 It would not be my way. But it may be 
 The best. — O time, come back to us again; 
 Come ravel out the stitches we have woven. 
 That we may now correct our sad mistakes. 
 And weave aright the fabric of our lives. — 
 Oh, would we had her back again! — Alas! 
 I know not but this broken heart must cease: 
 Its joy has fled; its hopes are vainly crushed! 
 
 FATHER. 
 Don't say it, wife. Bear up! You can for me! — 
 I know it's hard, almost beyond our wills. — 
 But look! the roses snowy-white still bloom! — 
 Here, take this nosegay, plucked with bleeding 
 
 heart. 
 It is my vow that God and you and her, 
 
42 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Are all the chords this soul shall ever strike. — 
 We'll stand together, though our wounds are deep; 
 We'll stand together, though our backs do bend; 
 We'll stand together, though our hearts are 
 crushed! 
 
 Standing together when joys overcome us. 
 Standing together when sorrows benumb us. 
 
 Standing together in sunshine and rain: 
 God is so good in his wonderful wisdom; 
 
 All that He gives us is infinite gain; 
 Sharing our joys they are evermore doubled, 
 
 Sharing our sorrows thus rends them in twain: 
 Loving is ever the law of our being: 
 
 Selfishness always our infinite pain. 
 
 VIII 
 In many a sorrow there's much of joy; 
 For many a wound there is healing balm; 
 Every shadow is skirted with sunshine serene; 
 Every tear mirrors back the glad warmth of some 
 
 joy. 
 But apart, in the silence, uncheered and alone, 
 With the chill of a sadness, deep-seated in pain; 
 Dwell those who wait late for a vanished face. 
 Long lost in the distance of fleeting years: 
 Neglecting their ninety and nine waiting 
 
 pleasures, 
 They grope in the depth of their one lengthening 
 
 shadow. 
 Apart and alone in their sickening sorrow. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 43 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Yes, husband, it is just a year today; 
 
 Oh such a long, long year, since John's old mother 
 
 mother 
 Died in sorrow. How it pains my heart 
 To think of her again. She was so good. 
 After her husband died, she ever waited 
 Patiently. Each day she slowly trudged 
 Down to the office for the long expected 
 Letter, ever saying, "It will come, 
 'Twill surely come today." And thus she ever 
 Said; and ever trudged along alone, — 
 Never, it seemed, lost faith that John would 
 
 write. 
 
 FATHER. 
 Yes, wife, I well remember the last time 
 She stopped to see if we had heard from them. 
 She told us o'er her parting scene with John; 
 How he had promised he would write each week; 
 About his tear let fall upon her cheek; — 
 She told it all again. — Her faith in John 
 Was ever strong. She always knew he'd write 
 If he but had the chance. — 'Twas thus she died. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 And e'en the last she spoke was in a prayer, 
 
 A prayer for him, her darling boy. — She's dead; 
 
 And so we soon will be, unless our long 
 
 Lost girl returns. Our time is not far distant. — 
 
 Many a time and oft, we've prayed in tears, 
 
 Praj^ed daily she might come again to cheer 
 
44 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Us in our age, if haply she were living, 
 And something always tells us that she is. 
 
 FATHER. 
 We've heard it in the crowing of the cock, 
 That many times stands boldly on the step, 
 And seems to say, she's coming, coming soon. 
 
 And many a time the birds seem to forecast 
 Her quick return. And many a time in dreams 
 And nightmares we have seen her, always 
 It seems is coming, still is held away. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 And thus we've prayed and waited long, long 
 
 years ; 
 Until Time's frosts have gilded us with age. 
 Have brought the haggard look of longing pain. 
 Have brought the quivering step and broken 
 
 voice 
 And withered form, — have brought almost des- 
 pair. 
 
 FATHER. 
 And still we've prayed and waited evermore: — 
 As for a much expected midnight guest. 
 The match is always ready on the chair 
 Beside our bed, if haply we may hear 
 Her longed for rap upon the waiting door. — 
 And many a time we've had it in our minds 
 To advertise for her; but something 
 Ever tells us she will come, come soon, before 
 Our advertisement's even printed. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 45 
 
 MOTHER. 
 And many a time we've had it in our minds 
 To give her up in deep despair and lay 
 Us down in anguish, lay us down in death. 
 
 FATHER. 
 But something ever tells us she will come. 
 Yes, think the signs we had but yesterday; 
 Signs that we think are never known to fail. 
 For everything I touched was sure to fall: 
 Her dish, the last that's left of all she had. 
 Slipped from my hand into a ruined heap. 
 All told that some one, e'en our darling girl, 
 Would come, would surely come, e'en yesterday. 
 And still, the day has slowly lingered past. 
 And still the night is gone in weary dreams. 
 Has brought naught but another waiting day. 
 
 FATHER. 
 But somehow, I believe she'll come "today:" 
 Signs should be good, methinks, at least two days. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Ah, so we've thought e'en many, many days. 
 If all the signs failed yesterday, she will 
 Not come today. 
 
 FATHER. 
 The morning church bells ring. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 We'll lock the door; although we seldom do; 
 But since she did not come home yesterday. 
 She surely will not come today. 
 
46 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 What if 
 Perchance she comes and finds it locked? — We 
 go. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Ah, we have waited all the years, — so long! 
 Our heads are drooped beneath their weight of 
 
 care. 
 Our hearts are mellowed by the frosts of sor- 
 row. — 
 Has God at last, you think, forsaken us? 
 We've prayed without cessation, prayed for years. 
 That we might see her darling face again, — 
 But once! Is God thus ever deaf and blind 
 To this, our earnest wish and heartfelt prayer? 
 
 FATHER. 
 Who knows but it is 'gainst His will? Who knows 
 But she is happier where she is, than we? — 
 Maybe her beauty and her purity 
 Have held him from his drunkenness, who knows? 
 I've always thought that hell itself would gape 
 A sober breath at sight of her. Who knows. 
 But they may own a happy home, and dwell 
 With children molded in her image, 
 Prattling ever in perpetual joy and mirth? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 It cannot be. Had she been ever happy, 
 We'd soon have known it. Wretchedness and sin 
 Is all that ever separates two souls 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. " 47 
 
 That once have loved. I have had many dreams 
 Of late. I've seemed to see a blot upon 
 The face of spring. A hideous monster 
 That scared the birds until they left our trees, 
 That even veiled the sunlight from our porch; — 
 It seemed 'twas ours. — If dreams are ever true. 
 She'll come! — And yet we've always thought 
 
 she'd come, — 
 The first year was a century through waiting. 
 How slow the time has poked and lagged. Me- 
 
 thinks 
 Eternities of bliss were not so long 
 As these expectant years. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 You've long borne up. 
 My faithful wife. Be not thus sad. Cheer up! 
 Our years of tears are nearly past. Cheer up! 
 She'll come; and then one minute will repay 
 For all these waiting years. And then in peace. 
 With her returned, we well can live and die. 
 She'll nurse our age as we have nursed her 
 
 youth. — 
 Cheer up! For see! the trees are all ajoy 
 With winged song! 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 I'm glad we're here at last; 
 The walk has tired me much. We'll ask e'en 
 strength 
 
48 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 To last another weary waiting week, 
 (music within) 
 There is joy for every sorrow, 
 There is rest for every care, 
 There is hope for every longing, 
 There is sunshine everywhere; 
 For our God is good, He loves us. 
 And each burden, rolls away; 
 With sweet peace, the gift of heaven, 
 Cheers us ever on our way. 
 
 IX 
 
 As a wreck that is tossed on a rock-riven shore; — 
 With its timbers all shattered, its cordage all tore. 
 With the compass wrenched loose from its place 
 
 at the bow. 
 With the pilot's eye closed in his death-stricken 
 
 brow. 
 When the engine has breathed its last life-giving 
 
 power, 
 And the captain lies dead at his post by the 
 
 tower: — 
 So sin, with its storms and its sickening waves. 
 With its mutterings and groanings and dark-hid- 
 den caves. 
 Blows us far from our course, into desolate 
 graves. 
 
 MARY. 
 Yes, I am coming, coming home at last, 
 Besmirched in sin, e'en to its farthest depths. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 49 
 
 This faded bonnet and this worn-out gown 
 Comes trailing down the darkest alley 
 From the depot, fearing lest someone may now 
 Trace out these fearful faded features, know 
 'Tis I. — Comes back at last; alas, too late! — 
 See how the pigeons turn and fly away: 
 Ah, once they used to coo upon my shoulder. 
 See the children run in fear and hide; 
 They used to run to meet me with a smile, 
 And have my latest story. See! the birds 
 Hush their glad songs and scream in fear at me. 
 And fly away. — Yes, here I come again, 
 Come knocking on the scarce remembered door; 
 Come knocking as a tramp at this back door. — • 
 I'm glad they are not here, the door is locked; 
 I almost wish tliat they were dead and gone. 
 But I will wait here on the porch a while, 
 And think it out again, the dream of youth. — 
 There in the old accustomed place, still stands 
 The rosary. There, with its pure white roses 
 Nodding in the breeze, shut off from all 
 The wide wild tumult of the wicked world. 
 In innocence and purity, it sheds 
 Its perfume, tinctured from the crystal dew. 
 Ah, beauteous rose, with pure and stainless hue, 
 Once I was pure and stainless, e'en as you; 
 Once I was fair and innocent, once wild 
 And free; once I was glad and happy. 
 Bubbling o'er with glee. My fingers used to train 
 You into wreathes for my fair sunny brow; 
 
50 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 I used to wear you on my snowy bosom: 
 
 I will be a child again e'en now; will pluck 
 
 A bunch of blossoms, wreathe them with my 
 
 smiles. 
 And crown my wearied brow. 
 
 Then dreamily. 
 
 She sorted out the fairest of the fair, 
 Returned and sat upon the porch to weave 
 The wreathe. — She woke; the roses woke her 
 From her dream: a thorn was in her finger 
 And her flesh. — O'ercome with wicked imagery 
 Of sin; her hopes all vanished now, she pulled 
 The placid petals from their thorny stems 
 And flung them stained and bleeding on the 
 ground. 
 
 MARY. 
 Oh horrors! I can never stand this strain; 
 This awful strain; this sickening strain; 
 This mottled mockery. 
 
 And thus she swooned. 
 
 The wages of sin is death; 
 
 And the wages of pleasure, pain: 
 The normal life is the life of right. 
 That toils for others with matchless might; 
 
 Its wages is endless gain. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 51 
 
 X 
 
 The spring was on again, with all its heavenly 
 
 bliss. 
 The birds, the winged angels of the earth, 
 With their return, had drawn another thread 
 Across the woof of years. The flowers unveiled 
 Their fairy faces to the coaxing sun. 
 And held congealed the season's melodies. 
 The world, in all, was e'en a focused smile, 
 In all, was just the same as it had been 
 So many many years before. But they. 
 So sad to think, were both so changed, that now, 
 They hardly knew the season of the year. — 
 Would it were winter! — But they came at last; 
 Locked-arms, came up the old front steps. 
 Stopped just a minute in the waiting room 
 To pray again that she might come, their long 
 Departed, darling, angel girl. The mother stepped 
 Into the kitchen, with her thoughts perplexed; 
 The porch door opened hard, as though it pitied 
 Her, and dreaded e'en this fearful shock, — 
 She saw. — Stood there transfixed as marble 
 As she raised the sunken eye, retouched 
 The lips with ruby, brushed away the furrows 
 From the forehead, plumped the wasted cheeks. 
 Replaced their roses and their smiles, recaught 
 Again the tangled sunbeams in the faded 
 Hair. — Then fully recognized, and shrieked. 
 
62 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Is't come to this! I did not see. — 'Twas but 
 A monstrous dream! — It cannot be! This! this!! 
 This once most perfect form! this golden hair! — 
 It cannot be! — Why did I live thus long? 
 Is this the prayer I prayed? — not this! — my 
 
 prayer? 
 My God, I did not pray! I never prayed 
 For this! 
 
 FATHER. 
 What now? Is this a frenzied fit? — 
 I do not see aright! 'Tis but the blot 
 You saw within your dream! — Are these the curls 
 Of that once sun-lit brow? Now faded thus? 
 Is this the forehead that once graced your breast? 
 Now stained with sin? Are these the lips? now 
 
 parched? 
 That once were rubies red? And these the cheeks. 
 That were in all Aurora's blush? Now thus, 
 Thus hollowed, creased, and marred with sin? 
 
 Come in! 
 We'll lock the door; nor claim this mottled clay! 
 She is no more our child, our darling girl! 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 There, husband, we have shut and locked the 
 
 door. — 
 Oh, death with all its rankling sorrows, would 
 Be peace to this worn wasted form, that once 
 So like an angel shed perfumes. — 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 53 
 
 Is't come to this! Must we in our old age 
 Deny a rescue to the wreck we've caused 
 In part, through our neglect to clear away 
 The hidden rocks? We must not thus so do. 
 Is not the Lord more merciful than we? 
 We neither one are fit to throw a stone. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 Have we not done the very best we knew? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 The best we knew; but not the best we should 
 Have known. 
 
 FATHER. 
 It's hard to cast her off thus, now, 
 When she's come back, a wounded bleeding lamb, 
 Beside the sheep-fold, but to die with those 
 She loves. — I cannot help to wound her worse. — 
 But shall we bring her in and nurse her now? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 She is our flesh and blood, let's bring her in; 
 The sun has parched too long her wasted form, 
 And fevered brow. 
 
 FATHER. 
 Let's bring her in: — God knows, 
 And God alone, the agony of this 
 Hard hour, of our life's disappointed hopes. — 
 The door is open: look you on these rags, 
 These features so defaced. — But see, she wakes: 
 Oh why does she not sleep, 
 
54 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Is this again 
 A drunken fever of debauchery? 
 It cannot be. The stanch of belching hell? 
 Hell never paints the likeness of this sight. — 
 Are these the only tattered remnants left? 
 These feebled parents? these who reared my life 
 In luxury in laps of ease? And this 
 The porch, in years agone that was my world? 
 Would it had ever been, and still could be 
 
 FATHER. 
 See how she brightens up. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 The old look comes 
 Again. She is our own, our darling girl. 
 
 MARY. 
 Undone am I! Alas! why have I thus 
 Subverted life, deserted friends and home! — 
 Speak, mother, father, can you ever take 
 This wasted, hell-wrecked form within your 
 
 door? — 
 I know I should not ask it. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Yes, daughter, 
 This has been our constant prayer through all 
 
 the years; 
 To see your angel face at home again, 
 Again before we slept in death. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 55 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Is this 
 The sound of mortal voice that now I hear? 
 Oh, no, it cannot be; this is too sweet. 
 I have not heard its like in all the years, 
 The slavish years of sin. How can I look 
 You in the face, I but deserve your scorn. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Come, father, let's into the house with her. 
 This is of all the burdens in the world 
 Most precious in our hands. Be careful lest 
 We pain her that we love. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Alack! alack! 
 You'll never see the answer to your prayers; 
 This face is mottled with the stains of sin! 
 
 FATHER. 
 Stop here within the kitchen. Bring them out, 
 Her clothes that in her bureau hang. Put on 
 The finest gown. Wash off the stain of years, — 
 And I'll into the other room and wait; 
 And only think that she is pure and fair, 
 Will think this but a mockery, a dream. 
 
 MARY (alone) 
 Has it come to this! It surely is not true. — 
 Down frightful devils from your slimy caves; 
 You cannot rob me this life's only bliss, 
 
56 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 To live again my childhood o'er. I'll live 
 It e'en though hell quakes to its farthermost 
 limits. 
 
 FATHER (alone in parlor) 
 It's all as 'twas the day she left us here 
 To weep, and wait her longed-for coming home. 
 What will she say, when this again she sees, 
 This room we've never changed? — Yet we're all 
 
 changed. — 
 Life's but a fraud, to think what might have been 
 Our joy and happiness through all these years. — 
 Life as it's lived, at best's but mockery; 
 A discord played upon a harp untuned, 
 Each string but catching up a tearful tone 
 Of some long-hoped-for joy that's crushed and 
 
 gone. — 
 We move forever twixt two worn-out words. 
 Surprise and disappointment: these are life. 
 Yet God is love: He tries to spare our pains, 
 He teaches us to know and live the truth, 
 To put aside the things that rob our lives. 
 He cannot fathom why we are so blind 
 And deaf to all the past has ever taught. 
 As thus to rear and foster in our midst 
 A hellish and polluted den of snakes. 
 That pierces to our vitals every day. 
 That strikes the first, the fairest and the best, 
 That makes an earthen hell in which to live. — 
 Thou Inconceivable in Patience, Hope 
 And Love; how long canst even Thou endure 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 57 
 
 The strain we thus must put Thee to? — The end 
 Must somewhere come to this in human thought 
 That nurtures hell and wantonness. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 She comes! 
 This is the answer to our prayer of years: 
 Her face, transfigured now in youthful form 
 And childish beauty; — This is home again. — 
 Here, take this easy chair. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Have I thus changed? 
 FATHER. 
 It saddens me! They say that e'er the spirit 
 Takes its flight, sweet angels hover near, 
 And kiss e'en fallen mortals back to youth 
 Again; retouch the image marred by age and sin. 
 That God may know the child, returning home. 
 
 MARY. 
 And this the room? It all is as it was! 
 
 FATHER. 
 Yes, we have kept it thus with careful hands 
 Throughout the longing years of pain, we've 
 
 waited 
 Ever ready your return, in prayer. 
 
 MARY. 
 Has sin thus so deceived me with the thought 
 Of banishment, if I returned to you? — 
 But wait, I'd sing again the old old song, 
 We sang together many years ago. 
 
58 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 " 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! 
 Home, home, sweet, sweet, home! 
 Be it ever so humble, — 
 There's no place like home! " 
 
 There, that will do. Alas! the frosts of time 
 Have quite undone us both: all's discord now. 
 These stings that once were fanned by melody. 
 Are harsh, — this throat is hoarse with sinful life. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 No, daughter, this was heavenly concord quite. 
 This old piano's waited long your touch; 
 For it has never sounded since you left. 
 
 MARY. 
 Nor has this soul struck on its finer chords, 
 Since fate has handed it unto the ways 
 Of sin; since I have left you here alone 
 And followed up my fiery appetites. 
 But all this mocks me! — Down, ye hellish 
 
 dreams! — 
 Is that my picture on the wall? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Yes, you, 
 It is the only thing we've added since 
 You left. We could not have you here, and so 
 We've had you there. It's ever been the angel 
 of our home. 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 59 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Ah, it is long since I 
 Have looked like that. — I fear, — down hellish 
 
 forms! — 
 You think I'll ever look like that again? 
 
 FATHER. 
 Yes, sweeter far than that; for there's in store 
 An heritage eternal, to ascend 
 The yawning abyss formed by sin's deceit. 
 
 MARY. 
 I know not; for I see strange fiery beasts. 
 And hellish forms, where'er I look. I fear, 
 I fear that this upon the wall is more 
 Than I can ever hope to be again. 
 My mind is blunted, and my soul is sick; 
 My feet are shackled; broken are my wings: — 
 Oh could I fly as once I flew, I'd fly — 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 But those that cannot fly must walk, and those 
 That cannot walk must crawl. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 How can I walk? 
 I cannot even crawl, — I dare not look 
 At God's most awful face, for fear He'll strike 
 Me dumb for such blasphemy. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Do you not know 
 The story of the maid, in Holy Writ, 
 
60 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 That men, in righteous wrath, would loathe have 
 
 stoned 
 But when the Savior heard, He sweetly said, 
 Let him that has not sinned, throw first his stone; 
 And then, when they were gone, He said to her. 
 Go too, in peace, and sin no more. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 A ray 
 Of hope, above my awful writhing sea of sin. — 
 That maid am I! Those self-same words I heard 
 This morn, — I had forgotten them till now. 
 That's how it comes I'm here. O, had I heard 
 Them many years ago. 'Tis hard for me, 
 Thus steeped in sin, to hear. The awful din 
 Of writhing spirits almost drives me wild. — 
 Down, down! ye hellish beasts! I dimly see 
 You vanquished. Yet you rise again to fight. — 
 Would there were mission ladies everywhere! 
 Would I could live again my life. I'd go 
 E'en to the darkest holes of hell, and draw 
 From out their sickening depths, lost angels, 
 Such as I have ever been. — But I am now 
 Aweary; will you lay me down to rest, 
 And turn the couch so I can see the face 
 I wore when I was but a peaceful child. — 
 There, that will do. — My head feels cooler now. — 
 Would I had not defaced the image there 
 Upon the wall. — 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Who comes? 
 
INTO TdE DEPTHS. 61 
 
 JOHN (in semblance, an old umbrella mender.) 
 
 I heard a voice; 
 The voice of all the stringed melodies 
 Most musical. 
 
 FATHER. 
 Stand back, you villain monster! 
 Speak what you are that dares thus come to rob 
 Us of the only hour we've had in years. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 I come to speak to her that was my wife. 
 
 FATHER. 
 Stand back, you heartless villain! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Cease, father, thus. — 
 Are those the hazel eyes that once looked out 
 Beneath a careless curl in mirth? 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Ah, so! 
 
 Those days, — alas, they're gone' those heavenly 
 
 days! 
 Who then would dare have prophesied me thus, 
 In semblance, an umbrella mender bowed 
 With grief? 
 
 FATHER. 
 Wife, here, did prophesy far worse; 
 The worst that's been; when years agone, you were 
 The hellish infant of your father's home. 
 Get out! j'ou scurvy villain, devilish thief, 
 
62 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 That robbed this household of its costliest pearl! — 
 Get out! before I strike! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Cease, father, thus. — 
 You rob me of the only joy that's left. 
 You shock my dizzy brain. It was not he, 
 That thus you now behold, who robbed your 
 
 hearth, — 
 It was not he that left the old home cold 
 And cheerless. No, not he! He was my lover. 
 We two were born but for each other's joy. 
 As giant timbers, brought from distant hills, 
 Are mated for the ship, so we were made 
 Each other's counterpart in heaven. Ah, say 
 It not. It was not he that robbed our home. — 
 'Twas licensed whisky! poison run! not he. 
 But why this waiting? I must know, e'en now. 
 Your years, since long ago we parted fair 
 To meet thus foul. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 The story's hard to tell. 
 I wish you had not asked it; I had rather 
 Trace the devil now through hell, than this 
 Sad sickening story of my years of pain. 
 But I will tell it through, and make it short. 
 Yet, I had rather you should never know 
 This wretched misery. — You know I killed 
 A villain — 
 
 FATHER. 
 Get you out! no murderer — 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 63 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Cease, father! 
 
 JOHN. 
 Who had drugged me for my money? 
 
 This was the only glass I ever thought 
 
 I'd drink. — The last and only glass I've drunk. — 
 
 You know I told you when I saw you last, 
 
 That he had pledged to help me get a job; 
 
 It was a friendly glass; 'twas drunk for you; 
 
 Drunk to secure his closer friendship, 
 
 And through that the work; to keep our treasure 
 
 Till the coming time when we'd return again 
 
 To this old town, as soon as we believed 
 
 Our parents' anger would admit. — That glass, 
 
 Deceitful "only glass"! see what it's wrought! — 
 
 You heard? 
 
 MARY. 
 Heard this? Why, no! Oh horrors! 
 But on! be quick! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 You had not heard it? 
 Then I wish I had it safe away behind 
 My closed lips again. But it is told. — 
 The villain's brother, then, a bribed police, 
 Accomplice to the bloody crime begun, — 
 It makes me crave his blood to think of him! — 
 Took me in haste to trial, and in his greed, 
 Divided with the court my every cent: — 
 Thus, I was sentenced to imprisonment 
 
64 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 For life. I had no friend but you. They said 
 
 You'd heard, had cursed the day you'd looked 
 
 on me, 
 Had flown in safety home. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Oh horrors! 
 Would that I had only heard! 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 We had not been 
 A week within the city, as you know. — 
 The rest's surmised. 'Tis toil and toil and toil 
 Through years of dull monotony. These hands 
 Behold these callused hands, if this you doubt, 
 And this the muscle of my sinewy arm: 
 They are the only testimony, now, 
 To this, the truth. — Years came and went in sick- 
 ening 
 Silence. I would have died, but for the thought 
 Of you, and of my angel mother. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 worthy husband, this but proves the trust 
 
 1 placed in you long years ago! — But on. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 At last, when long and weary years had robbed 
 The flush and glow of youth; when toil had bowed 
 This rugged back, had shatered all these nerves, 
 Had crushed this hopeful will; — then came my 
 
 time, 
 The one day of my life. A fire broke out 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 65 
 
 Within the prison, near my place of toil; 
 
 I worked with giant strength and fought it down; 
 
 See, here, the scars upon my face and hands. 
 
 And then, at length, the longed-for pardon came — 
 
 But e'er it came, 'twas just a year today, — 
 
 I felt, somehow, that mother died. A silent 
 
 Message told the very hour. When freed 
 
 A month ago, I hastened home again. 
 
 And trudged up yonder hill to drop a tear 
 
 And lay a bunch of flowers, upon her grave. 
 
 This done, I hastened here and hid myself 
 
 Where years agone, I waited you so oft, 
 
 I lay concealed a day and night to catch 
 
 A glimpse of you. I rose amazed at last 
 
 At what I heard; for in that morning prayer, 
 
 I heard this aged mother raise her voice 
 
 In hopeful pleading, asking she might live 
 
 Until her long-lost angel girl should come 
 
 Again safe home to her. The first desire 
 
 Of all my life was now to bring you home. 
 
 I hastened to the city that same day, 
 
 And scarce, since then, have slept three hours a 
 
 night. 
 I searched the city, scanning every face 
 In all the throbbing crowds. I stood at morn 
 And noon and night upon the street and 
 
 watched, — 
 
 Bach day a different street; accoutered thus. 
 And making low wierd tones to catch each eye, 
 Until I'd searched each street. At last, by chance, 
 
66 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 I happened past a mission of tlie slums. 
 
 I asked if they had seen or heard of you. 
 
 They told me but an hour before, they'd sent 
 
 You home. — I could not wait; I felt anew 
 
 The pulse of youth through all my being start. 
 
 I hastened to the depot, breathless paced 
 
 The floor, — I could not wait, — the hour seemed 
 
 years. 
 The train drove slowly, till at last I'm come 
 As thus I stand. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Oh horrors! is't come to this! 
 Most noble husband, has it come to this! 
 Would I could tell my story: but I see 
 More hellishness displayed, than can be told: 
 We simple village folk were food for sharks. 
 For gambling sharks, for men of shameful sin! 
 I see it all! They told me you had fled. 
 Had cruelly deserted me for drink. 
 I never half believed it; never! though. 
 They took me in as loving friends, they said; 
 Gave me protection in a time of need: 
 Then took advantage of my broken heart. 
 I was so pure that all my world was flowers; 
 1 knew not such a word as villain then. 
 They must have drugged my food: I'm certain now 
 They did; for 1 oft since have seen it done: 
 I was not half myself through hellish dreams. 
 They gave me liquor by degrees, to drown 
 My pain. Bad led to worse, till I became 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 67 
 
 A fallen woman. Then they mocked me 
 
 By the nickname, "Fallen Angel." Beauty did 
 
 It all. 'Twas all the same black villain's scheme. 
 
 JOHN. 
 Yes, it is even so! 
 
 FATHER and MOTHER. 
 
 Can this be true? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Hedged in by hell and shame, I lived long years 
 
 In deepest sin; nor dared return again 
 
 To this, my home. At last, my beauty gone, 
 
 A burned out crater, I was driven forth. 
 
 Too black for e'en the blackest hell to hide. 
 
 Thus driven forth, half drunk and poorly clothed 
 
 I wandered here and there, without an aim, 
 
 Without a hope or care, — a mummied devil. 
 
 'Twas early Sunday morning, e'en this morning. 
 
 The church bells pealed their lofty chimes; but not 
 
 For such as I. Had I but even tried 
 
 An entrance anywhere, they would have belched 
 
 Me forth in holy horror. — So I walked. 
 
 Or loitered rather, every door in all 
 
 The city barred against my frightful form; 
 
 No one in all the crowds to whom I dared 
 
 But speak. I know not how it came, I chanced 
 
 To loiter past a Mission, when I caught 
 
 A strain of music, an old song I'd sung 
 
 When but a child upon my mother's knee. 
 
 I know not how I came to see again 
 
68 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 The old home and be in my happy teens; 
 
 But e'er I knew, I stood within the door. 
 
 And then the music ceased, and I again 
 
 Was what you see. But e'er I could retreat, 
 
 A mission lady held me by the arm 
 
 And had my story, asked about my home; 
 
 Then told me o'er the Bible story, mother, 
 
 You retold a little while ago. 
 
 She begged me let her send me home; and so 
 
 My story ends, thus blotted, marred and stained. 
 
 I'm dying now: yet there's an awful debt; 
 
 And ours is not the only one. There are 
 
 Vast thousands thus ensnared. I see, alas! 
 
 A wail arise, so black it hides the sun. 
 
 Oh that the world might read again the tale 
 
 Of Cain and Abel, till its heart was thawed; 
 
 Oh that it might but read in us, the fallen, 
 
 The lesson that it is so slow to learn. 
 
 The lesson of protecting sympathy. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Yes, there is someone, sometime, somewhere, has 
 
 A debt that must be met. I curse e'en 
 
 To my latest breath, the government that dares 
 
 Both sell a man a glass that steals his brains 
 
 Away, and then turns round, and for the deed 
 
 Done when thus frenzied, that can never be 
 
 Undone again; dares sentence him for life: 
 
 I curse it to my very latest breath! 
 
 And am no anarch when I dare now say. 
 
 That this which robbed me of my wife and home, 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 69 
 
 My freedom and my time, which winked at justice 
 
 Honesty and right, is licensed greed; 
 
 And needs a cleansing to its inmost depths. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 And this in government that made me thus 
 That now you see, against existing law. 
 Is rotten to the core! 
 
 MARY. 
 
 And this that makes 
 A hell for man, will fall as sure as Lucifer 
 Did fall from heaven or I from right; 
 Unless it banishes existing wrongs. 
 No government can play the double faced 
 And bloody villain, though to pay its debts; 
 And live. There'll be a reckoning time with God! 
 Oh that I might but live to see the day 
 When this that made my life a hell, is gone; 
 When each man knows and does his little part 
 In lifting those that are debased and wrecked; 
 When selfishness has had its restless day; 
 When love of God and man, rules all the world! 
 
 MARY. 
 Oh that the world might read again the tale 
 Of Cain and Abel, till its heart did thaw: 
 Oh that it might but read in us the fallen, 
 The lesson that must some day e'en be learned; 
 The lesson of protecting sympathy. — 
 I'm dying now, so 'tis no time to talk 
 Of what must come as sure as God is God, 
 
70 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 I must prepare the future. Husband, out 
 
 A little while. I have a dying wish 
 
 That sears my very soul as coals of fire. 
 
 You shall come back to see me die. I'll have 
 
 Them call you. Think till then upon your future. — 
 
 He is gone! — Oh that we both were young again! — 
 
 But, father, mother, hear me in my last 
 
 Most earnest wish. When I was young, I could 
 
 Have had what'er I asked; but foolish then, 
 
 I did not ask the things I should. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 You are 
 Our darling angel yet: ask what you will. 
 We'll grant it. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Oh did I hear aright? 
 Then death is boundless joy! — I hesitate, 
 I'm now almost afraid to speak my last 
 Desire. I know you'll think it very hard 
 To grant. 
 
 PARENTS. 
 As parents we will hear. 
 MARY. 
 
 And grant? 
 
 PARENTS. 
 
 And grant! 
 
 MARY. 
 Then if 'tis granted, life will not 
 In all be wasted. Hear me now. How mucl? 
 In money, house and l^nd, have we? 
 
Oh is't so much! 
 
 You can't ask 
 
 INTO THE DEPTHS. 71 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 About 
 Ten thousand, daughter, why? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 I only wish 'twas twenty. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 We give it him out there? 
 
 MARY. 
 
 No, father far 
 From that.— But had I lived till you were dead, 
 And been obedient to you; then 1 
 Had been the only heir: you grant it so? 
 
 FATHER. 
 You, daughter, are the only heir 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Then 'tis well. 
 I ask you now, and God, Himself, I know. 
 Has prompted this my dying wish: I ask 
 You give your all, in money house and land, 
 To build a Mission in the city slums, 
 Next where I dogged my life away. 'Twill help 
 To raise, in time, so many straying girls, 
 And work a world of good. I'd have it named. 
 The "Fallen Angel." Not in pride; but that 
 The section of the city may recall 
 In it my wasted life? and thus be led 
 
72 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 To sympathy of it, through me. I'd like 
 You see it builded e'er you die; and have 
 E'en John to help you. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 'Tis difficult, this wish! 
 God knows, that all one's property is hard 
 To give. — How is it, wife? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Your will and God's 
 Be done! 
 
 FATHER. 
 Yes, daughter, your last dying wish 
 Is granted, and at length shall be fulfilled. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Then God be blessed; for in this dying hour, 
 
 I now can look Him in the face, and say; 
 
 My life, while 'twas a sacrifice upon 
 
 The Nation's altar, for the Nation's sin, 
 
 Has not been lived in vain. I see adown 
 
 The future years, that growing good shall come. 
 
 I would that I had many lives to thus 
 
 So give in death! — Now call my husband in. — 
 
 Your future? 
 
 JOHN. 
 I do not know, I cannot tell. 
 I am an outcast, hated everywhere. 
 The only friends I ever had in life 
 Are now both gone, with this your coming death. 
 The thought of murder is upon my soul, 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 73 
 
 And every one is gainst me. Oh that I, too. 
 Might die with you. But God seems pleased to 
 
 have 
 Me live to drink the bitterest dregs; — enough 
 For both our lives; for I was most to blame 
 In all this pain. I am the rankest weed 
 That e'er has grown upon this sin-cursed earth. 
 The callus on my soul is e'en as thick 
 As 'tis upon a turtle's back. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 'Tis not 
 So bad; we have it planned for you, e'en now. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Be quick and tell it; for I'm willing 
 
 To do anything, live anywhere, you say; 
 
 E'en back in prison, if you'll have it so. 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 You are to live with us; to take her place 
 Within our home. Together, we will live. 
 And spend our years in working out her wish, 
 Our all, our every dollar, goes to build 
 A Mission Chapel in the city, where 
 Perchance, some wasting life may be reclaimed. 
 
 JOHN. 
 
 Oh this is kindness, magnified a thousand 
 Times. How can I ever half repay it: 
 These hands are all that I can call my own. 
 
74 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 But I must go. The call has come. And as 
 
 I slowly go, get down again the Book, 
 
 The Book you gave me years ago. Give't John 
 
 To be his daily friend and guide. Now ope 
 
 It where a golden curl lays pressed. It's mine, 
 
 And grew when I was young and fair to see. 
 
 That Psalm was once most favored of them all. 
 
 I read it last the night I ran away: 
 
 See, there, the tear-stains that were made that 
 
 hour. — 
 You have the place, now read. 
 JOHN. 
 
 Wait yet a little while. 
 I want to pledge you I will meet you there 
 In death. I pledge it now, as by this Book 
 I swear my life, my all, my every deed 
 And thought. 
 
 FATHER. 
 Yet wait! the roses, snowy- white. 
 JOHN. 
 That land will be all joy. — But think! the debt, 
 The debt of our lost lives must yet be paid 
 By someone, sometime, somewhere. 
 FATHER. 
 
 Daughter, here 
 Upon your breast, these roses snowy-white; 
 They are my pledge that we will keep our vow. 
 They're plucked with longing heart, that's crushed 
 with pain, 
 
INTO THE DEPTHS. 75 
 
 With heart that waits and prays through coming 
 
 years, 
 The curse may be removed; that gives its all 
 In house and land to help displace the sin! 
 
 MARY. 
 Thanks, now I die in peace. — And John, make this 
 The solace of your future years. — Now read. 
 
 JOHN. 
 The Lord is my shepherd; 
 I shall not want. 
 
 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: 
 He leadeth me beside the still waters. 
 He restoreth my soul: 
 
 He guideth me in the paths of righteousness 
 for his name's sake. 
 
 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the 
 
 shadow of death, 
 I will fear no evil; 
 For thou art with me: 
 Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 
 
 Thou preparest a table before me 
 In the presence of mine enemies: 
 Thou hast anointed my head with oil; 
 My cup runneth over. 
 
 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the 
 
 days of my life: 
 And I wi|l dwell in the house of the Lord for ever, 
 
76 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 FATHER. 
 Our " Fallen Angel " is asleep, is safe! 
 Let's down upon our knees, before our God, 
 And ask His blessing on our future task. 
 
 Who will pay this debt. 
 That now is over due? 
 This pain, this misery, this suffering? 
 My brother, it rests with you 
 To crown each thorn with a rose. 
 That stands in your brother's way; 
 To strike off the shackles of sin, 
 That keep him in slavery each day: 
 My brothers, it rests with you. 
 Who are strong, to heed the call, 
 To give protecting sympathy 
 To those who are want to fall. — 
 God help us to stand for the right; 
 To fight for the brave and the true; 
 To pay this mortgage now. 
 That long is over due! 
 
 The End. 
 
AUTUMN. 77 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Behold the rainbow-tinted Autumn Queen, 
 As on the east wind she is seen; 
 Gliding as noiseless as a silken thistle-down; 
 Enrobed in dreamy, hazy, fluffy gown; 
 Kissed by the gentle cool refreshing breeze; 
 Smiling into her likeness all the million trees; 
 With horn of plenty, opened wide. 
 Scattering angelic symphonies on every side. 
 
 She glides adown the waking plain. 
 And cheers the ruddy toiling swain; 
 She lingers in the spacious field 
 And lavishes a plenteous yield; 
 She gathers up the whole year's sweet 
 And showers it at the orchard's feet. — 
 
 Behold her, rainbow-tinted Autumn Queen, 
 As on the east wind she is seen; 
 Gliding as noiseless as a silken thistle-down; 
 Enrobed in dreamy, hazy, fluffy gown; 
 Kissed by the gentle cool refreshing breeze; 
 Smiling into her likeness all the million trees; 
 With horn of plenty, opened wide, 
 Scattering angelic symphonies on every side. 
 
•78 THE OLD AND NEW. 
 
 THE OLD AND NEW. 
 
 'Tis gone; 
 
 The hand of Father Time has cut it off: 
 
 The Old Year is no more. 
 
 'Tis gone; 
 
 Its sunshine and its showers, 
 
 Its checkered thorns and flowers, 
 
 Its good deeds and its bad, 
 
 Its joyous and its sad, 
 
 Are gone; 
 
 They're gathered in. 
 
 They are no more. 
 
 Bound is the sheaf. 
 
 Turned is the leaf; 
 
 'Tis gone. 
 
 'Tis come, 
 
 With outstretched arms of hope. 
 
 The stainless fair New Year. 
 
 'Tis come, 
 
 In purest white it's decked, 
 
 With diamonds richly flecked. 
 
 Its soul contains good deeds. 
 
 Its hand strews heaven-born seeds. 
 
 'Tis come 
 
 With purer thoughts 
 
 And nobler deeds; 
 
 Clean is the leaf. 
 
 Unbound is the sheaf; 
 
 'Tis come. 
 
THE CHANGE. 79 
 
 THE CHANGE. 
 
 While you were here 
 The world o'erflowed with June: — 
 The roses caught the fragrance of your breath, 
 And mirrored back your smile of blushing health; 
 The birds were all atune, 
 
 And warbled ever morning, night and noon 
 To counterfeit the free, wild, airy lay, 
 You caroled in your blissful, buoyant way; 
 The sun was all aglow in cheery wealth. 
 
 As radiant as your face beneath the moon; 
 For everything shared in your perfect boon 
 While earth outpoured its rarest June, 
 And you were here. 
 
 Since you are gone 
 I sit inside the door. 
 And close the screen, and mutely muse alone: — 
 The fragrance of the roses, too, has flown. 
 They blush for me no more: 
 The lonely robin plaintive, o'er and o'er 
 Now sighs that you are gone, 
 And wakes me at the cold gray morning's dawn: 
 A cloud across the sun has blown: 
 
 And memory slowly ponders evermore 
 
 The silent power and friendship that you bore: 
 
 And so I sit inside the door 
 
 Since you are gone. 
 
go T'HE DANDELION LESSON. 
 
 THE DANDELION LESSON. 
 
 O dewy dandelion, 
 You, rarest radiance of sifted sunny beams. 
 You, smile of gladness, birth of Klondike dreams. 
 You, first to wake to early spring-time's faintest 
 
 call, 
 You, constant busy winner over all, 
 You, dripping with the rosy morning's diamond 
 
 dew, — 
 Are but a weed to all except a few. 
 And though but few smile on your earnest up- 
 turned face. 
 You are impelled to fight your hardy race, 
 To strive and force your own sure steady way. 
 To push aside whate'er you meet each day; 
 And though you're crushed by enemies till nearly 
 
 dead. 
 You bind your wounds and raise your bruised head 
 In triumph, ever pressing hard your forward tread. 
 
 O heaving heart, 
 You, ruler of earth's vast and strange variety, 
 You, harp atune for all eternity. 
 You, soul of all the broad unbounded Universe, 
 You, triumph of the cycles from your birth. 
 You, even you, are commonplace to all but few. 
 You toil and ache and quiver through and through. 
 And yet scarce half a score will note your humble 
 lot, 
 
THE DANDELION LESSON. 81 
 
 While all the throbbing millions heed you not. 
 You well may copy from the sturdy dandelion: — 
 No time to waste, no time to fret and pine. 
 No time to nurse the trivial pains and pleasures of 
 
 the hour; 
 For work must measure all your worth and power: 
 No room save for the brightest sunshine of the 
 
 sphere; 
 For dark discouragement has here no place, nor 
 
 fear. 
 And though you're crushed to earth while others 
 
 onward cope. 
 Arise impelled, if but to blindly grope; 
 And work, though bleeding, till you've launched 
 
 your highest hope. 
 
82 MY SONG. 
 
 MY SONG. 
 
 Could I but sing as angels sing, 
 
 Songs that could ne'er grow old; 
 Could I but sing like Israfel, 
 
 With radiant harp of purest gold, 
 With silver strings fanned into song 
 
 By gentle moonlight zephyr wands; 
 With voice as when a mountain stream 
 
 Goes rippling over diamond sands. 
 Without a minor measure heard, 
 
 A symphony of tender tone. 
 In all a dream of paradise. 
 
 On bed of lilies newly blown; — 
 Could I but sing as Israfel 
 
 Doth sing, I'd sing for you; 
 My song would glitter with my love, 
 
 As shines the sun lit dew: 
 And every word would e'en be true, 
 
 And I would sing it all for you, — 
 Could I but sing as Israfel. 
 
We said good bye. 83 
 
 WE SAID GOOD-BYE. 
 
 We said good-bye; 
 The time had come that we must part. 
 
 We said good-bye, 
 My very being hung upon your eye 
 And caught the billowy beating of your heart. 
 
 We said good bye, 
 And everything took wing, — 
 The fragrance of the flowers, 
 The glory of the priceless summer hours. 
 The merry murmur of the busy bees, 
 The carol of the birds among the trees. 
 
 We said good-bye; 
 The sunshine and the love of all I knew. 
 Of all you brought and shared was gone with you. 
 
 We said good-bye, 
 And I was lost, a million weary miles from home, 
 Upon an unknown journey 
 All alone. 
 
84 THE FUTURE. 
 
 THE FUTURE. 
 
 Could I have stood in childhood's morn 
 
 Where I stand today, 
 Have known as I know today, 
 
 I would have leveled the stony road 
 I've wended o'er with a borrowed load; 
 
 I would have left my mistakes undone, 
 Accomplished more than I've scarce begun, — 
 
 Could I have stood where I stand today. 
 
 Could I but fly to the mountain height 
 
 Of my highest hope, 
 A moment live that hope, 
 
 I'd scan the valleys and paths and eteeps 
 Below me strewn in their Sphinx-like heaps; 
 
 Supreme I'd stand with a ripened sight; 
 With broad perspective adjusted aright, 
 
 I'd keenly mark all the long hard road; 
 Then hastening down to my old abode, 
 
 I'd crowd each moment that passed me by 
 As I labored on with a knowing eye, — 
 
 Could I but fly to the mountain height. 
 
 But all I have is this point of time 
 
 That traces daily the lengthening line 
 Of memory, jagged and indistinct, 
 
THE FUTURE. 85 
 
 Half blurred and broken and loosely linked. 
 I cannot even but know or see 
 
 Where the morrow's sun will go down for me. 
 But faith is anxious to be my guide, 
 
 And hope is spurring on either side, 
 And love in gentleness goes before 
 
 And leads in earnestness evermore; 
 With these, I cannot mistake the way, 
 I cannot fall or blindly stray. 
 But whether it be o'er the mountain height 
 
 Of fame and glory or power and might, 
 Or down the valley unwept unsung, 
 
 'Twill be the same when the journey's done. 
 For when the twilight at last has come. 
 
 The sun has set and the day is done, 
 And evening shadows have flooded the sky, 
 
 And crowded memories have floated by. 
 When this little bubble of life has burst, 
 
 The spirit flown, the body dispersed; 
 If only then I've been true each day 
 
 To the visions given to guide life's way. 
 If only then I've but each day served 
 
 The end for which I was wrought and nerved, 
 Be it great or small, be it high or low. 
 
 Be the journey long roundabout or slow, 
 'Twill be my best. So I'll trusting go. 
 
 And crowd each moment that passes by 
 As I labor on 'neath God's knowing eye. 
 
86 THE PLOWMAN. 
 
 THE PLOW3IAN. 
 
 The light of ages beaming from his earnest eye, 
 With freedom's last and fullest breath upon his 
 
 face, 
 And all the cumulative force of centuries 
 Within his soul, — He follows in the furrow 
 Of his plow, with optimistic trust in God and right, 
 With manly independence of the sovereign soil. 
 
 He trods forever down benighted ignorance; 
 His freedom marks the everlasting wreck of Kings. 
 The wisdom of the sages all is at his feet; 
 The commerce of the world obeys his just com- 
 mand. 
 He is the one most favored creature known of God, 
 Within the farthest circle of the Universe, 
 E'en to the loftiest diamond of the vaulted sky. 
 
 Whence came this sinewy strength, this firm and 
 
 buoyant step? 
 This high and cultured forehead and this busy 
 
 brain? 
 What tuned these senses to the sifted symphonies 
 Of time's divinest melodies in light and sound? 
 What sculptured this, his Hereculean symmetry? 
 What chiseled in his face this forceful character? 
 
t 
 
 THE PLOWMAN. 87 
 
 This sturdy look? this simple downright excel- 
 lence? 
 
 Whence came this ever willing hand and honest 
 heart? 
 
 This unalloyed content, the highest dream of 
 Kings? — 
 
 The hand of freedom and the god of honest toil, 
 
 The education and religion of his hearth; 
 
 These, through the years, have shaped him to the 
 man he is. 
 
 The hand of freedom and the god of honest toil, 
 
 The education and religion of his hearth; 
 
 With these, — what? cares he for rebellions or for 
 
 wars? 
 His heart is ever with his earnest loving wife; 
 His joy is with his children and his many friends; 
 His prayer is for unending peace and righteous law. 
 He is the truest fountain source of government; 
 The handiwork of God's most finished depth of 
 
 thought; 
 The prophecy of visions now but faintly dreamed; 
 The optimistic type of all the teeming earth; — 
 This man that follows in the furrow of his plow. 
 
88 THE OLD APPLE TREE. 
 
 THE OLD APPLE TREE. 
 
 I 
 
 My dear child, do you know that the old apple tree 
 Has a story for you and a story for me? 
 
 When the zephyrs of spring lisp a call soft and 
 
 deep, 
 And awake all the buds from their cold wintry 
 
 sleep, 
 And call all the bees from their long silent hive, 
 To cheer every blossom that now is alive; 
 Each lone little flower of the million or more 
 To itself keeps a singing each hour o'er and o'er: 
 "Just wait till the autumn; my cheek plump with 
 
 joy, 
 I'll be a large apple for some happy boy." 
 But along with the sunshine, a blight finds its way. 
 That sends many blossoms to death and decay; 
 Which touches the heart of the breeze as it glides, 
 Till it drops in each chalice the tear that it hides. 
 But the tear of the breeze cannot cure what is done, 
 And soon the dead blossoms their short race have 
 
 run. 
 And so swift the thief works and so much does it 
 
 do, 
 That at length, when the days of the summer are 
 
 through. 
 And autumn comes tinging the old tree with pride 
 
THE OLD APPLE TREE. 89 
 
 And mellowing and sweetening the apples inside, 
 And calling the children, who wild in their glee. 
 Pour out their loud laughter with hearts light and 
 
 free; 
 From all of the million sweet blossoms or more. 
 There are only an hundred ripe apples in store. 
 
 II 
 
 Now this is the story the old apple tree 
 Is a telling for you and a telling for me: 
 
 In the spring-time of life, there's a million glad 
 
 boys, 
 And a million sweet girls running over with joys. 
 And the woods and the hills and the meadow-lands 
 
 too. 
 All mingle their beauty, the children to woo. 
 And out cross the meadow and over the hill. 
 The children dance lightly and blithe as the rill. 
 But when at the even the sun sinks so low, 
 When the wind in sweet reverence stands hushed 
 
 neath the glow. 
 And the splendor of loveliness softens the sheen. 
 And the curtains of evening portray the Unseen, 
 And the choirs of Nature with hearts all atune 
 Pour forth their sweet anthems; then soon, ah so 
 
 soon, 
 The children all home to their mothers must fly: 
 And as through the twilight the nigUt draweth 
 
 nigh, 
 
90 THE OLD APPLE TREE. 
 
 Each child by a mother's affection and love, 
 Is tucked snug in bed; while the angels above, 
 On the woof of the moonbeams, throughout the 
 
 long night. 
 Keep weaving sweet dreams in their soft rhythmic 
 
 flight. 
 And throughout their long wanderings, till late 
 
 in the night, 
 Each boy and each girl thinks and dreams in de- 
 light: 
 "I'll be a good man, that the children all love."; 
 ''I'll be a sweet woman, a blessing to prove," 
 But sickness by night steals a darling away; 
 And as the morn frets all the darkness with gray, 
 A coffin is placed at the trundle-bed's side, 
 And a mother is weeping, her loved one has died. 
 Yes, the silence of death slowly flutters and falls; 
 And e'en the lone robin in sadness now calls. 
 As perched by his nest through the long silent 
 
 hours 
 He sighs for the child mong the waiting wild 
 
 flowers. 
 Ah, well may the trees bow their heads, though 
 
 so tall, 
 And well may the hills still reecho the call; 
 They will never more hear the sweet joyous foot- 
 fall. 
 But what of the sadness that now with the years 
 All the woods and the hills and the meadowland 
 fills. 
 
THE OLD APPLE TREE. 91 
 
 The woods, clothed in emerald, sapphire and gold. 
 Waits the gay merry prattle that joy once made 
 
 bold; 
 And the hills lift their heads, and in silent surprise, 
 List long for the cheer of the children's wild cries; 
 And the meadowland, too, with its carpet of lace. 
 Feels no more the blithe footfall of childhood's 
 
 wild race: 
 For the children have wandered from Nature and 
 
 God, 
 To the tinklings and babblings and wiles of the 
 
 sod. 
 And now through the nightime, the vampire of 
 
 greed. 
 Unheard and unnoticed, works on in all speed. 
 Allures the young dreamers to fanciful joys. 
 And steals their best life-blood for pride's clumsy 
 
 toys. 
 And when the hills hear it, they echo the sigh 
 That is borne from the leaves as they shudder, 
 
 good-bye; 
 For winter to ease them of sadness and pain, 
 Softly covers them over on hillside and plain; 
 For sadder than death, yes, the saddest of earth, 
 Is the life that exists, dead to all life's true worth. 
 And sin, the sly thief, works so hard night and day. 
 That he leads the sweet children far, far, far, 
 
 astray ; 
 Till at length, down the years, when time steps 
 
 softly forth, 
 
 k 
 
92 THE OLD APPLE TREE. 
 
 And ripens the children to life's perfect growth, 
 From all of the million sweet children, — ah, then, 
 There are only an hundred sweet women and men. 
 
 Ill 
 My dear child, do you know that the old apple tree 
 Almost sobbed as it told this sad story to me. 
 But it added with hope, when the story was done. 
 That each boy and girl; yes, all, every one, 
 Can be a good man, scattering sunshine and love. 
 Or else a sweet woman, rich blessings to prove; 
 If only each day you'll be thoughtful and kind, 
 And obey God's great laws in soul body, and mind. 
 
DEATH. 93 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Death is the only certain fact of life: 
 
 We cannot tell what else may come to us. 
 
 But this we know. And though invisible, 
 
 It stands across our dark uncertain path, 
 
 A giant bold, with huge uplifted hand. 
 
 It stands, — and we as helpless driven lambs 
 
 Go forth to meet it, never knowing when or where. 
 
 How very near or far away we are, 
 
 Until it strikes us down. 
 
 And yet we prate 
 And mock at this that drives us forth. 
 Much as a scarce half-witted boy makes battle 
 With his pewter sword, against his fancies. 
 We even try to fly our petty kites 
 By counter currents in its awful face. 
 Were't not that God is Patience, Hope, and Love, 
 Annihilation would be just and right. 
 We live in childish apotheosis of toys: 
 And yet at last, a yard-stick's two short lengths 
 Quite vanquish these; for in that hour, where are 
 Our lands and houses, honor, wealth, or fame? 
 We leave them as a boy his outgrown playthings, 
 For the larger and more real things of life. 
 And nevermore return to them again. 
 
 Death is not monstrous or unnatural. 
 It is of all events the most to be 
 Expected, most harmonious of all 
 
94 DEAl^S. 
 
 We know in life; unless it be our birth. 
 And even this is swollowed up in death: 
 The purest lily blooms upon a thousand graves. 
 Why it is then we hover o'er our dead, 
 And smite our hearts with anguish and with pain? 
 Is it so sad, this parting, since the time 
 Is but a minute 'gainst eternities 
 Of reunited love and joy beyond? 
 We' d be all cheerfulness, were he to leave 
 For high preferment anywhere on earth. 
 And why these flowers? the time for flowers is past; 
 Earth now is o'er, with all its needs and pains 
 And struggling weaknesses for higher joy. 
 He heeds our lavish praises nevermore; 
 The opportunity is gone to cheer 
 Him thus, with honeyed words and earnest 
 smiles. — 
 
 But evermore the giant fearless stands,' 
 And strikes now right now left. For all we know. 
 The next stroke may be ours. But if it is, 
 'Twill fall in love and mercy, — let it fall 
 Whene'er it will. But hush, be still, it speaks! 
 From out the dreaded silence of the tomb: — 
 Fear not: for fear is ignorance and sin: 
 Love's bold and joyous, ever looks ahead, 
 Nor frets the coming changes, though unseen. 
 Live each day nobly as if 'twere your last: 
 And gather but the incorruptible; 
 For yours is an eternal heritage. 
 
A WALK WITH NATURE. 95 
 
 A WALK WITH NATURE. 
 
 When the winter hies him northward, 
 
 And the spring-time, blithe and gay. 
 Pelts with sunshine, showers, and gladness. 
 
 Warmth and welcome, all the day; 
 When the world awakes in beauty. 
 
 Throws aside its coat of mail. 
 For the dreamy verdure vestment. 
 
 That unfurls from hill and dale; — 
 Then put off your cares and study. 
 
 Put aside the crowded throng. 
 For the cheer and smile of goodness, 
 
 For the sunshine and the song, 
 Take a walk with Mother Nature, 
 
 She will help you to be strong. 
 
 Let her guide you through the meadow. 
 That in beckoning gladness waves. 
 
 With its million young blades bending 
 O'er a million stubble graves. 
 
 "Look," she says, "my book is open: 
 
 Nothing stands, for all is change. 
 
 Either growing or receding; 
 
96 A WALK WITH NATURE. 
 
 It is true, e'en though it's strange. 
 Thus is life, — a constant growing 
 
 Towards the noble or the base. 
 Towards a life of endless blessing 
 
 Or a death in sad disgrace: 
 So take in the heaven-born sunshine, 
 Grow to fill some honest place." 
 
 Let her lead you through the woodland; 
 
 View the monarchs here and there. 
 Standing tip-toe, stretching upward. 
 
 Ever upward everywhere; 
 See them as with utmost vigor 
 Each one lifts its top limbs high 
 To the sunshine warm and plenteous. 
 
 Leaving all beneath to die. 
 "See," she says, "my book is open: 
 
 Life if ever thus held high 
 To the warming ways of goodness. 
 
 To the sunshine of the sky. 
 All the lower things must perish, — 
 
 Love alone can live so high." 
 
 And before your walk is ended. 
 Stop an hour among the flowers; 
 
 They, the fairy angel faces. 
 Sent by God to gladden ours. 
 
 "Why so wonder at their beauty? 
 They each moment view the skies. 
 
 Ever taking on its beauty. 
 
TRUE GREATNESS. 97 
 
 Ever painting from its dies. 
 Why so wonder at their beauty? 
 It's a growth from hour to hour, 
 It's reflected from the beauty 
 
 Of of the God who made the flower: 
 Oh, look up, my child," says Nature, 
 
 "Open faced to God each hour." 
 
 TRUE GREATNESS. 
 
 I 
 
 Aflood with wonder, 
 
 Hid in tears and mingled smiles. 
 
 And gilded o'er with hopeful prayers. 
 
 Veiled in the radiant halo of a dream 
 
 That trails the rainbow of a passing storm. 
 
 The future stands supreme. 
 
 No one may touch it in its airy form; 
 
 For ever beckoning, it stands aloof, 
 
 And sphinx-like, is forever dumb. 
 
 II . 
 The common life makes scarce as great a change 
 Upon the world as does a flake of snow 
 That falls upon the bosom of the deep; 
 'Tis scarce more seen than is a drifting 
 Grain of sand upon the wasting desert: — 
 You would be different; would wield great power; 
 
98 TRUE GREATNESS. 
 
 Would cast your impress on the changing world 
 
 And mold its destiny. — Oh what a dream, 
 
 Wild and extravagant with empty hopes! — 
 
 And yet, there slumbers somewhere in each breast 
 
 An instinct, beckoning it to God-like deeds, 
 
 That makes it fragment of the Infinite; 
 
 Conceal it how so ever much we will: 
 
 And, too, the world is ever challenging 
 
 With Herculean tasks, and lack of men: 
 
 'Tis God's most earnest wish for each of us 
 
 To stand upon some towering mountain peak. 
 
 Par from the sickening tread and blinding tumult 
 
 Waged for daily bread and selfish gain. 
 
 And with a vision splendid, that reaches 
 
 To the farthest depths of life's realities, 
 
 Catch up some noble purpose for our life; 
 
 And then locked-arms with faith and hope and 
 
 love 
 Go ever forth to follow where He leads. 
 
 III. 
 
 You would be great? Then seek obscurity. 
 
 Ask not preferment. But know yourself, your God, 
 
 Your fellow men. — Gain safe retreat alone. 
 
 Beneath the eddies and the fitful ripples. 
 
 Within the quiet depths of thine own self; 
 
 And there apart in calm serenity. 
 
 In your best mood and with your clearest thought. 
 
 Gain mastery and sweet companionship 
 
 With thine own soul, — with all there is of worth 
 
t 
 
 TRUE GREATNESS. 99 
 
 Within your being. Turn then about — 
 
 With open face and soul laid bare — to God, 
 
 Who mindful of the sparrow's slightest pain 
 
 And loving unto every creature, 
 
 Will gladly hear your earnest cry for aid: 
 
 And, as a father, order your uncertain 
 
 Plans; and through life's blind unceasing toil. 
 
 Direct your voyage, helping here and there 
 
 When fiercest blow the storms and highest beat 
 
 The breaking billows, — when of yourself 
 
 You are undone. This willing waiting calm 
 
 Companionship comes not with selfishness. 
 
 For God is love; so live in charity. 
 
 And go each day among your fellow men, 
 
 Serenely calm with His assuring aid, 
 
 And be the ever needed Good Samaritan. 
 
 Then when your life is rounded to its close; 
 
 When centuries have had their little day. 
 
 And disappeared; when the cold marble 
 
 On your long lost grave has toppled into dust; 
 
 When all that wealth and learning could enshrine 
 
 Has been corrupted by the rust and wear 
 
 Of time; — there will roll on in ceaseless joy, 
 
 Anonymous to those who know it best. 
 
 And never ending, every growing in its course. 
 
 Vibrations of eternal character. 
 
 Set up in men, and passed along with time 
 
 To generation after generation 
 
 As they come and go, an endless train. — 
 
 This then will be your unseen monument, 
 
 L rH : 
 
100 THE GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 That you have builded lasting character; — 
 Enough to quench the most insatiate thirst 
 The culmulative greed of all the earth 
 Could frame did it but know life's grandest truths, 
 And measure time beside eternity. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 (A story of giving) 
 
 Out of the way in a dingy room, 
 Grandmother sat in her usual way. 
 Rocking and humming a bygone tune. 
 Thinking and dreaming, the livelong day, 
 Stopping her rocker now and then 
 To wipe a growing tear away. 
 
 Listless she sat to what was near; 
 For she heard the bygone voices again. 
 And she saw the faces of old once more. 
 And joined in their merry prattle and din: 
 She had raveled the stitches of seventy years 
 And had flung in time's face her bright smiles 
 
 again. 
 But the strike of the clock on the cupboard bare 
 Told her that time had but laughed at her dream. 
 And brought her again to her dingy room. 
 And shaded her eye with a saddened gleam; 
 For "Nobody cares," she said, " for me, 
 Only an outcast at best I seem." 
 
THE GRANDMOTHER. 101 
 
 "Even my boys are to busy to come 
 
 And visit their mother now withered and gray; 
 
 Death would be sweetness and joy to me, 
 
 Life's but a lingering pain each day." 
 
 And thus on the minor chords of her heart, 
 
 She hummed in her usual downcast way. 
 
 Then she thought of Christmas with all its joys. 
 And this painted a real smile on her face; 
 And she thought of the presents it used to bring, 
 And this added its sweeter and gladder grace; 
 And she thought of the presents she used to give, 
 And her heart o'erflowed in her blushing face. 
 
 "Life's not so sad as I thought it had been, 
 
 I'm younger by years than an hour ago:" 
 
 She said, as she searched in her bureau drawer 
 
 In quest of some present for Bill and Joe. 
 
 And she found at last what she knew they'd like; 
 
 And her features, with gladness, were all aglow. 
 
 She was seated again in her rocker old. 
 With two faded worn mufflers across her knee. 
 "Now, this is for Bill and this other's for Joe; 
 Yes, the boys will be glad for these presents from 
 
 me." 
 And thus on the major chords of her heart. 
 She hummed in the merriest oldfashioned glee. 
 
102 THE GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 And just as she struck on the highest strain, 
 
 A rap on the door brought her back again. 
 
 The room, though so bare, was transfigured and 
 
 bright; 
 For the joy in her heart had now frescoed each 
 
 stain. 
 And gladly she welcomed her little guest. 
 Her only grandchild, her little Ben. 
 
 "My mamma, she sent me to ask you to tea 
 When 't 's Christmas tomorrow and everything's 
 
 joy. — 
 My pay, w'y, he says that when Santa Claus comes, 
 There's nothin' but maybe he'll bring for his boy. 
 And we phoned the old fellow last night, and he 
 
 said. 
 He'll bring me just every nice kind of a toy." 
 
 " And pa says, you know, v/hen you hear the bells 
 
 ring, 
 And the stars blink their eyes so you can't see him 
 
 go. 
 And the moon slips behind a dark place in the 
 
 clouds 
 And shuts his eyes tight so that Santa, you know, 
 Will bring him nice things, like the rest of the 
 
 boys: — 
 Then's the time he'll be comin', pa says, — an' it's 
 so!' 
 
 1 
 
THE GRANDMOTHER. 103 
 
 "And pa bringed you with me, this warm muffaler, 
 
 too, 
 The nearest like what once his papa did wear; 
 So's you'll have no excuse, but'll be just as warm 
 As you would here a rockin' in this old arm 
 
 chair. — 
 Pa says joy's in givin' and sadness in not, 
 And that's why Old Santa's big smile's every- 
 where!" 
 
 The prattler was gone, and the Grandmother now 
 Shook out the three mufflers, one new and two old; 
 Her eye caught the glitter and freshness of youth. 
 Her features lit up with the radiance of gold. 
 "Joy lays in the sharing, though however small. 
 And sorrow in hoarding, though richness untold:" 
 She hummed the grand major chord of her heart, 
 As she lived o'er the truth time has ever retold. , 
 
 Christmas eve came at last, and she lighted her 
 
 lamp. 
 And sat in her bygone oldfashioned way. 
 Rocking and humming the sweetest of tunes, 
 Thus she sat in her joy till the breaking of day. 
 She heard but the anthems of heavenly song 
 As she drifted and drifted and drifted away. 
 A flickering gleam, and the lamp light had flown; 
 The hoarse gasping ceased, and her life winged its 
 
 way: — • 
 The angel's same breath changed both lights into 
 
 day. 
 
104 BAREFOOT JOYS. 
 
 BAREFOOT JOYS. 
 
 When you peel your boots and socks 
 
 And go barefooted the first day 
 That the weather's warm and pleasant, 
 
 And your mother says you may; 
 When the wild flowers robe the blushing spring 
 
 In ecstasies most rare, 
 And the birds atune with melody 
 
 Spread gladness everywhere. 
 And the bees from out their busy hives 
 
 Kiss every opening flower; 
 When you have ten thousand day-dreams 
 
 Crowded in each passing hour; 
 And the rooster's makin' music, 
 
 And the turkey-gobbler, he 
 Is a struttin' like he's landlord 
 
 Of all things there'll ever be; — 
 W'y, just everything is airin' off 
 
 And warmin' in the sun. 
 And a grinnin' and a growin' 
 
 And enjoyin' all the fun, — 
 Wnen you peel your boots and socks 
 
 And take your first barefooted run. 
 
 When you peel your boots and socks. 
 
 Oh, gee! what airy fun; 
 You throw away all earthly cares. 
 
 And run and run and run. 
 
BAREFOOT JOYS. 105 
 
 You are wilder than the birds are, 
 
 And you even sauce your dad 
 When he tells you to keep quiet, 
 
 You don't care if he is mad. 
 And your mother in the distance, too. 
 
 Calls till her throat is sore; 
 But she has to mind her errands herself. 
 
 Cause 't's not your day to chore; 
 For you are so wild and happy 
 
 You forget where you are at, 
 And you run and yell and tumble. 
 
 And near spoil your new straw hat. 
 W'y the magic winged slippers 
 
 Of the gods can't half compare 
 With your airy fairy feelings. 
 
 And the way you tread the air, 
 When you peel your boots and socks 
 
 And just go boundin' everywhere. 
 
 But this reverie of childhood 
 
 Has long flown and passed away, 
 With its barefoot joys and pleasures. 
 
 And its ever tireless play. 
 With the dreams and growing wonder 
 
 Of its wild glad sunny hours, 
 With its lack of borrowed sorrows. 
 
 And its path of crowded flowers. 
 It is gone and gone forever. 
 
 And its light and noiseless tread, 
 And liquid laugh, and wild wide ways, 
 
106 BAREFOOT JOYS. 
 
 Are cold and harsh instead. 
 But there is a deeper pleasure 
 
 And a wilder wider joy, 
 As much deeper wilder wider 
 
 As you're older than the boy; 
 Joy that lies uncomprehended 
 
 During childhood's roguish play, 
 Joy that years alone can measure, 
 
 Only yours at life's noon-day. 
 Pleasure nobler, richer, grander. 
 
 Than the first barefooted display. 
 
 Bare your head to truth and knowledge. 
 
 And life's deeper wisdom learn; 
 Bare your heart to love and kindness. 
 
 For the brightest sunshine yearn; 
 Bare your hand to deeds of mercy, 
 
 Strong and sturdy dare to do, 
 For some poorer weaker brother 
 
 What will cheer both him and you. 
 Then as through your mind a higher truth 
 
 Comes flashing every day. 
 As each new hour brings deeper love 
 
 And nobler deeds alway; 
 Then barefoot joys and pleasures all 
 
 Will vanish quite to naught. 
 And work and worth, will rise supreme. 
 
 Make real your best thought: 
 The boots of pride and selfishness, 
 
 Forever thrown aside; 
 
WHEN THE OLD HOT SUN'S A SINKIN'. 107 
 
 Bathed in the sunshine of your God, 
 
 Unshackled, strong, and tried, 
 Bare-headed, -hearted, -handed, 
 
 Dare to live, whate'er betide! 
 
 WHEN THE OLD HOT SUN'S A SINKIN'. 
 
 When the old hot sun's a sinkin' towards the tree- 
 tops far away. 
 An' it's been as hot as blixen ever since the break 
 
 o' day, 
 An' you're hoein' in the cornfield, an' you've lis- 
 
 ened, oh so long! 
 For the dear old bell to call you to your supper — 
 
 restin' song! 
 All at once you think you hear it, but it's only in 
 
 your ear, 
 An' you keep on steady hoein', cause your dad's a 
 
 hoverin' near, 
 An' your back's a achin' awful, for you've hoed 
 
 hard the whole day; 
 When the old hot sun's a sinkin' near the tree 
 
 tops far away. 
 
 Purty soon, the old bell calls you with its jinglin' 
 
 clear and loud: 
 Then your backache hap'ly leaves you quick as 
 
 lightnin' leaves a cloud; 
 
108 WHEN THE OLD HOT SUN'S A SINKIN'. 
 
 An' you scatter 'cross the cornfield towards the 
 
 house at your full speed, 
 With your heart a swellln' over with the thought, 
 
 "It's time for feed." 
 As you come up through the barn-yard, Towser 
 
 meets you with a bark; 
 But you can't take time to pet him, 'cause you're 
 
 hungry as a shark: 
 An' you set down to the table an' you eat your 
 
 level best; 
 When the old hot sun's a sinkin' 'mongst the tree 
 
 tops in the west. 
 
 Then you get up from your supper an' you saunter 
 
 to your chores; 
 'Cause you hate to fill the wood-box, but that 
 
 job's sure always yours. 
 An' you stop to play with Towser, an' to tease the 
 
 or "tom cat," 
 An' to kill a while at nothin', 'cause you know all 
 
 boys like that. 
 'Bout that time you hear a shrill voice hollerin' 
 
 from the kitchen door; 
 Then you feel that pesky backache creepin' up 
 
 your spine once more: 
 But you've got to fill the wood-box an' it's fearful 
 
 tiresome — say! 
 When the old hot sun's a sinkin' 'hind the tree 
 
 tops far away. 
 
WHEN THE OLD HOT SUN'S A SINKIN'. 109 
 
 Then you fill the worter buckets in a sort o' droUin' 
 
 way 
 An' you feed the muley red calf a big bucket full 
 
 o' whey. — 
 Then you whistle for old Towser, 'cause your even- 
 in' chores are done; 
 An' your backache quickly leaves you an' you have 
 
 a lot o' fun. 
 After while your daddy tells you that it's time 
 
 you're off to bed; 
 Then you rinse your feet off lightly, and after 
 
 prayer is said. 
 Twixt the straw-tick and the kivers, your tired 
 
 self you lay to rest, — 
 When the old hot sun's a sinkin' 'neath the tree 
 
 tops in the west. 
 
 'Twas but a dream; for here am I, an old man 
 
 livin' on a farm, 
 With low-bent back an' totterin' step an' pekid 
 
 voice an' quiverin' arm. 
 Oh, how I wished 'twas true that I was once again 
 
 a roguish boy. 
 And every day was summer, and no one was bout 
 
 to spoil my joy; 
 I'd jerk my shoes and stockin's, and I'd cool my 
 
 old tired brain. 
 As I strolled out 'cross the meader, and away 
 
 down through the lane 
 
II 
 
 110 WHEN THE OLD HOT SUN'S A SINKIN'. 
 
 To where the shade was coolest and the wild flowers 
 
 bade me rest; 
 When the old hot sun was sinkin' towards the tree 
 
 tops in the west. 
 But I'm not a boy, and so I guess it's better the 
 
 way it is; 
 For my life though mixed with sorrow, gleans 
 
 many sweets that boys all miss. 
 And I'm kind o' glad that I've been through with 
 
 the cares of childhood days, 
 For my life each day grows sweeter as the more 
 
 I use God's ways; 
 And the more of earth's forgotten, and the tenderer 
 
 my spirit grows. 
 And I feel His breath upon me sweeter than ever, 
 
 at life's close. 
 Oh, I don't know how to tell it; but life's sunset's 
 
 joy to me. 
 While my sweet old life's a sinkin' into the West, — 
 
 eternity. 
 
AT PARTING. Ill 
 
 AT PARTING. 
 
 Let's close the curtain down 
 
 And say good-bye; 
 And let the twilight shadows 
 
 Of forgetfulness 
 Close round the rainbow-fretted hopes 
 
 Of bygone days, 
 And blot each buoyant reverie 
 
 From out the memory, — 
 Let's close the curtain down 
 
 And say good-bye. 
 
 Let's close the curtain down 
 
 And say good-bye; 
 And let the lilied matron 
 
 Of the morn 
 Unveil the myriad pleasures 
 
 Of each passing hour, 
 And weave the deepest chords of life 
 
 Into the woof of joy. — 
 Let's close the curtain down 
 
 And say good-bye. 
 
112 AT PARTING. 
 
 Let's close the curtain down 
 
 And say good-bye; 
 And breast the untried future 
 
 With a steadfast smile, 
 And catch the honeyed sweetness 
 
 Of the coming years 
 Within the open chalice 
 
 Of our lives. — 
 Let's close the curtain down 
 
 And say good-bye.