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 Entered according to Act of Congiesb, in the year iSSi, 
 
 By John Cuilek, 
 
 In tlie Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 The author of this little book will say 
 He writes it, not for praise^ nor yet for pay. 
 The one he finds hath often been denied, 
 Till after the deserving long hath died : 
 The other is beyond him, I am told, 
 As not a book when printed will be sold. 
 
 But.though while writing he must starve for bread, 
 He writes while Hving as he'll rot when dead : 
 Some say 'twill be from force of Nature ; some, 
 'Tis the will of God that man to this should come. 
 
 Moreover, he perceives a semblance just 
 'Tween this production and decaying dust : 
 P'or as the last is cask of something higher, 
 The former is the same to his desire 
 To that produce that may outlive himself, 
 More worthy life than either praise or pelf. 
 
 But whether Immortality doth dwell 
 Within these pages. Time alone can tell. 
 Or no ! there are who even now do say 
 This work will ne'er behold the light of day. » 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 That he hath sought for patronage is true : 
 The aid received he now reveals to you. 
 And, as 'tis not his purpose to deceive, 
 He here inserts, [nor even asketh leave, 
 Since as an honest, earnest criticism. 
 He owes it him to let it here be given,] 
 This letter which the Reverend Doctor sent 
 To move him from so foolish an intent 
 As publishing a non-connected rhyme, 
 Unworthy his endeavor, thought or time. 
 
 Mr. J. E. Cutler : 
 
 Dear Sir: — I have looked over these lines and find so 
 much to critizise in detail as well as such a lack of con- 
 nected thought and definite object, that I cannot advise 
 you to try to publish them. You seem to have been mis- 
 led by facility in finding rhyming words. This is not 
 enough to make poetry. 
 
 I should not care, therefore, to submit what you have sent 
 to our Faculty, Cr even to the committee on steam-heating 
 apparatus. It would be impossible to get subscribers as 
 you wish, or even purchasers if your lines were printed. 
 And it would be unfortunate for you, I must add, if you 
 found readers. You can give your time and thought to 
 something better than finishing what you have begun. I 
 ought to say this to you as a former student here, and one 
 in whose character and good intentions we learned to place 
 confidence. Your desire to finish your education is most 
 "laudable, but you can never get means for it in this way, 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 nor acquire the respect of others for your mental powers, 
 which you need and I hope you may have. 
 
 Wishing you well, but begging you as your sincere friend, 
 to desist from attempts of this kind, I am 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Geo. F. Magoun 
 Iowa College, Grinnell, Iowa, 
 May 27th, 1881. 
 
 The author wants its plainly understood 
 That he inserts this in no churlish mood. 
 From Geo. Magoun, D. D., of loved Grinnell, 
 Its worth and weight he understands too well 
 To think 'twill lose its force if given place. 
 Nor is he so ungrateful for the grace 
 Of such advice, to worth and truth allied, 
 As thus to act impelled by wounded pride. 
 
 Then why not take his learned friend's advice ? 
 Forsooth, too great doth seem to him the price. 
 To cast the magnet of his life aside. 
 And think in after time his course to guide 
 Without its aid, would be that life to wreck. 
 Nor will he change his course at any beck 
 Save that of his Creator. Can the vine 
 Mistake its sort, and grow a sturdy pine ? 
 
 Then, as a vine, O let me strive to climb 
 The Pinnacle of Thought to heights sublime ! 
 To lift mine art, perchance, a trifle higher 
 Than others who to poesy aspire ! 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 And though unmusical and dull I seem 
 
 On starting, I may realize my dream 
 
 Of decorating, with poetic art, 
 
 That pinnacle e'en to sublimest part ; 
 
 Or may, at least, when dying, die content 
 
 That I through Hfe have followed Nature's bent. 
 
 If none were by my musings edified. 
 If all the beauty of my thought denied, 
 I still should feel that I had done my part. 
 Approved of God who reads the human heart. 
 
 J. E. Cutler. 
 Waverly, Iowa, October, t88i. 
 
PSYCHE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 NYX. 
 
 Out through the darkness gleam a myriad eyes 
 Of stars that, gem like, ornament the skies; 
 Or, sentinel like, unbroken watch do keep 
 O'er pendent Nature, bathed in liquid sleep. 
 
 Signs of life are nowhere seen : 
 
 Silence reigns upon the green : 
 
 Shouting children are at rest : 
 
 Shadows dark the woods invest. 
 While within, Tbe owlet's cry, 
 
 What a din ! The wood's reply, 
 
 Whispering breeze, The babbling rill 
 
 Whimpering trees. That 's never still — 
 
 Such the sounds that greet the ear, 
 
 Sending little thrills of fear 
 
 Shuddering through the timid mind : 
 
 Sounds that, taken all combined, 
 O'er all the scene a shade of Nature throws 
 Of such a cast as makes the deep repose, 
 Or shade-wrought sleep d( Nature, even more 
 Of realistic seeming still, by presence of a snore. 
 
BOOK FIRST. 
 
 But hark! there sounds from out the gloam, 
 Dark mantling all the woods around, 
 
 A noise that 's not the oak-tree's moan, 
 Nor yet the owlet's sound. 
 
 Softly floating out in waves of melody sublime, 
 
 Listening ears are held entranced till ends the mystic rhyme 
 
 Mystic in its origin, and in the depths untold 
 
 Of pathos, trust and charity, its trembling words unfold. 
 
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 " Jamie ! Jamie I luhere are you roaming ? 
 Come to my side i7i the soft starlight gloaming ! 
 
 I J - ^ J — 
 
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 Still am I waiting in tryst for you , dear, 
 Sure you 7uill come — will come : 
 
 ^g^ 
 
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 Knowing that soon I shall tvelcojtie you here, 
 Welcome you home — you home!^^ 
 
 While yet the charmed air resounds 
 
 With faith and love, the sweetest sounds 
 
 That ever formed the warp and woof 
 
 Of music, woven for reproof 
 
 Of broken vows, or cold neglect 
 
 Of those whose love doth claim respect, 
 
NYX. 
 
 Shriek on shriek the sound-waves bear, 
 Surging through the panting air : 
 Shrieks that tell of maddening fear 
 Mingled with despair ! 
 
 Now it sinks to muffled sobs : 
 Then it swells to borrowing screams. 
 Till the forest wildly throbs 
 
 'Neath its wait of dreams ! 
 
 All is still, for a time, 
 Save the rill's merry chime, 
 Followed by the owlet's cry, 
 And the low, depressing sigh 
 
 Of the breeze 
 *Mid the branches of the trees. 
 
 Soon a low, sweet laugh we hear ; 
 
 Then a shadowy form is seen, 
 Issuing from the forest near, 
 
 Flitting o'er the village green. 
 
 Now it vanishes from sight 
 
 With a last, despairing cry ; 
 
 As the phantoms of the night. 
 
 In our dreams do fade and die. 
 
 While yet the woods and hills around 
 The echo of that cry resound, 
 A distant, rumbling noise we hear. 
 Now scarcely heard, then loud and clear 
 
lo BOOK FIRST. 
 
 It nearer comes, and nearer still : 
 It louder sounds, till wood and hill 
 Reverberate with constant grumble 
 To its continued, ceaseless rumble. 
 
 And now, a sudden break is made. 
 E'en as the rumbling sounds invade 
 The precincts of the village green ; 
 And by the starlight dim is seen 
 A shadowy monster, 'twould appear, 
 Recoiling as with seeming fear. 
 
 " Whoa ! Ringer, whoa ! what scares you so ? 
 Ho, boy ! go easy^— easy — whoa ! 
 Here, Jim, you hold the strings, till I 
 See what it is makes Ringer shy." 
 
 In the hollow on the right, 
 
 As you journey toward the town, 
 May be seen a flickering light 
 
 In a cottage, old and brown. 
 
 Here dwell William Roy and wife, 
 Better known as " Honest Bill :" 
 
 Both are well advanced in life. 
 Yet each loves the other still : 
 
 Not the passionate love of youth ; 
 That hath ripened with the years : 
 
NYX. II 
 
 They have felt its steady growth — 
 Watered it with mingled tears: 
 
 'to' 
 
 Tears that they together shed 
 
 Over little, senseless forms 
 Snatched by Thanatos, the dread, 
 
 From their weak, unwilling arms. 
 
 But in answer to their prayers, 
 God hath spared to them a son ; 
 
 Now a youth from whom the cares. 
 Yea and joys, of childhood 's flown. 
 
 Robert Roy, for such his name. 
 
 Promises to some day be 
 Found upon the Roll of Fame, 
 
 Spite of grinding poverty. 
 
 On this pleasant, starlight night 
 Bill is coming home from town : 
 
 Light of step, with features bright, 
 Nears he that old cottage brown. 
 
 In his pocket rests a note 
 
 That will doubtless bring a joy, 
 
 As 'tis one that Robert wrote 
 To his mother, — Robert Roy. 
 
 Stating, too, that he intends 
 
 To be with them passing soon ; 
 
 As his life in college ends 
 
 On, or near, the last of June. 
 
12 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 As his humble home he nears. 
 
 What is Bill's surprise to see, 
 At his threshold, what appears, 
 
 In the starlight gloaai, to be 
 Only deepened shades of night, 
 
 Or two restless souls from Hades, 
 Shadow-land, whose only light 
 
 Comes of its contrasting shades. 
 
 Quickened motion brings him there, 
 
 And reveals to him two men 
 Who a helpless burden bear. 
 
 Open swings the door, and then, 
 By the lamp-light's dazzling glare, 
 
 Shining on her upward face, 
 He beholds the features rare 
 
 Of a maiden full of grace. 
 
 After briefest salutations, 
 
 They're admitted, and are shown 
 
 Where to place her : explanations — 
 Brief arrangements — they are gone. 
 
 Hours elapse. The waif 's at rest. 
 
 Now and then a stifled scream 
 Tells how recent scenes infest 
 
 Dream-land, haunting e'en her dream. 
 
 Village doctor had been there — 
 Had already come and gone. 
 
 Stating that she might, with care, 
 Her removal bear ere long. 
 
jvrx. 
 
 The excitement having waned, 
 
 Bill is listening to the note 
 Which, forsooth, the mother claimed, 
 
 And which we in full will quote. 
 
 Grinnell, Iowa, June j, ^8§. 
 My Beloved and Loving Parents : 
 
 ^ Tis with pleasure 
 That I find myself enabled to employ 
 Some few moments of a chance a7id fleeting leisure 
 In a ?nanner that insures a mutual Joy . 
 
 I rejoice that??iy return is drawi7ig 7iigh ; 
 
 That my college life will end commencetnent day 
 Which, you know, will date the first of next July : 
 Yet, as far as pleasure goes, I'd rather stay. 
 
 But I feel a restless longi?tg to be free : 
 
 Free to tuork and toil beyond the college ivalls : 
 
 Free to use the powers that God hath given me 
 In whatever field to which the Alaster calls. 
 
 As to where my future course of action tends, 
 
 Though I have my cherished hopes and fond desires. 
 
 That, as I have often said before, depends : 
 
 Yet III try for that toward which my soul aspires. 
 
 But we'' II talk these niatters over at our leisure : 
 For the present, though I''ve ma?iy things to say, 
 
 I must not make Duty tvaiting-maid to Fleasure, 
 So r II leave them till a inore convenient day. 
 
14 BOOK I^IRST. 
 
 Let me know if you'' re inte?idmg to be here, 
 
 That I ??iay with speed all honest jneans employ, 
 
 To secure you pleasant board and lodgi?ig near. 
 From your loving son and faithful, 
 
 Robert Roy. 
 
 P. S. 
 
 Mother dear, Tm very sorry. 
 But the ring you gave fve lost : 
 
 I so prized it as a keepsake. 
 Saying 710 thing of its cost. 
 
 I have hunted high and low. 
 Advertised, and still employ 
 
 Every means, but find 7io trace. 
 Your regretful 
 
 Robert Roy . 
 
 The softly flowing, sweetly murmuring rill 
 That separates the home of" Honest Bill " 
 From village noise and gossip and commotion 
 Deserves a mention of its marked devotion 
 To scripture precept ; as it washes still, 
 In humble port, the foot of yonder hill : 
 
 Upon the brow of which there stands 
 A mansion large, that proudly lifts 
 
 Its stately walls in midst of lands 
 
 Where nature spreads her rarest gifts. 
 
JVYX. ' 
 
 Without, the stars are softly beamuig ; 
 Within, the hghts are brightly gleaming; 
 While, through the open windows, come 
 The winsome notes of "Welcome Home." 
 
 A smiling face, A voice divine 
 
 A charming grace, That sings in time 
 
 With the dancing finger-ends, 
 While their owner slyly sends 
 Witching glances, full of meaning, 
 From the manly figure leaning 
 
 O'er her form, 
 
 To the billetdoux above her, 
 Written by her absent lover, 
 Which, her father doth discover, 
 
 Is a charm 
 
 Whose hidden power can thus prolong 
 The singing of his favorite song. 
 
 Now the final note she sounds : 
 From her seat the maiden bounds. 
 Claims the prize her song has won. 
 Gets it, smiles her thanks, is gone. 
 
 Soon a sudden flood of light, 
 From an upper window, shows 
 
 The direction of her flight — 
 Doth her private room disclose. 
 
 And now, while o'er her features play 
 The dimpling smiles which, writers say, 
 Unbidden come at such a time ; 
 
 15 
 
r6 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 And while each neatly worded line 
 She scans with bright, expectant eye, 
 A closet-door we chance to spy : 
 It moves ; and peering through the crack- 
 The roguish face of cousin Jack ! 
 
 When she entering locked the door, 
 Jack could scarce restrain a roar : 
 Knowing, though, 'twould spoil the fun 
 He this wondrous feat had done. 
 
 But he could not long abide 
 Quiet in his hiding place : 
 Now the door is opened wide, 
 And, with one prodigious stride, 
 Jack confronts his cousin Grace. 
 
 " Hello, Gracie ! seems to me 
 
 You're becoming quite exclusive. 
 Is your door locked? Better see : 
 Some one might be too obtrusive." 
 
 " Why, Jack ! is it really you ? 
 
 Don't you think it rather rude, 
 Thus to hide yourself from view 
 In my private rooms ? Intrude — " 
 
 " There now, Gracie, that'll do ! 
 I might also lecture you. 
 Do you think it quite poHte 
 To condemn_one, thus, at sight ? " 
 
 *4 
 
JVVX. 
 
 " But, Jack,—" 
 
 " Wait, till I explain. 
 Let us just suppose a case. 
 'Spose that, although not to blame, 
 I should chance to break a vase. 
 
 " Aunty's hands are in the dough : 
 So she tells me I must go 
 Off up stairs, and wait till she 
 Has the time to square with me. 
 
 " I, of course, at once obey : 
 But as aunty didn't say 
 Where to wait, and, as she might 
 
 Mistake a birch stick for a square, 
 Seems to me 'twould be but right 
 
 That I should wait for her in there." 
 
 " But, Jack, you know it isn't right, 
 To hide yourself from mother's sight. 
 Intent on keeping out of reach. 
 But, if you'll go now, I'll beseech 
 That mother overlook the past. 
 
 Besides I " 
 
 " Hold there ! not so fast ! 
 I guess that you've forgotten, Grace, 
 That we have but supposed a case. 
 
 " I never said that it was true : 
 In fact, I came here with a view 
 Of helping read that billetdoux 
 From Robert dear to deary you ! " 
 
 n 
 
i8 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 '* O, Jack ! how can you be so rude ! 
 O, please let go ! you'll tear it! 
 ril have to tell how you intrude 
 
 On Stop now : I'll not bear it ! " 
 
 " O well, you needn't be so sputchy ! 
 You're always so most awful touchy 
 A fellow can't have any fun ! 
 My stars ! I'm in for 't now : she 's gone !" 
 
 Removed a score of miles, or more. 
 
 From where our opening scene 
 Was situated, as related. 
 
 On the village green, 
 A scene occurred of which a word 
 
 Had better now be said : 
 The time is night : the stars are bright : 
 
 O'er all a shadowy light is shed. 
 
 Upon a gently sloping hill doth stand 
 A country residence, supremely grand. 
 A graveled drive goes winding in and out 
 
 Among the elms and stately evergreens ; 
 And walks, flag-bordered, twist and wind about 
 
 In search of all the prettiest, sweetest scenes. 
 
 Here, arbors, clad with grape, do arch it over, 
 With rustic seats arranged for grace and ease ; 
 
 There, tempting plots of fresh, sweet-scented clover 
 On either side, lie 'neath the shading trees. 
 
NYX. 
 
 Along the fore-ground runs a sparkling river, 
 Whose rippling face reflects the glinting stars : 
 
 Whose restless current, ever and forever, 
 Is shifting, grain by grain, the hidden bars. 
 
 While in the back-ground, stands a noble manse : 
 Its walls of stone are crowned with turrets high, 
 
 That point, with tireless fingers, toward the expanse 
 Of azure-grounded, star-bejeweled sky. 
 
 The hour is late : and not a Hght is seen 
 
 Throughout the manse ; while o'er its silent walls, 
 
 That loom up cold and gray, the silver sheen 
 Of starlight, an enshrouding mantle, falls. 
 
 But while we gaze in quiet thought 
 Upon the scene, a change is wrought: 
 A curtain moves and shows within 
 A shadowy hght obscure and dim. 
 
 A face is pressed against the pane ; 
 Then suddenly removed again, 
 As from a couch on which doth He 
 A suffering form, tftere comes a sigh, 
 So full of pathos as to show 
 - The sufferer conscious of his woe. 
 
 He hears the quiet, gentle tread 
 ^That nears his couch, and turn his head 
 To meet the look of sympathy 
 That dims with tears her hazel eye. 
 
 19 
 
ao BOOK FIRST. 
 
 " Ah sister, gentle sister Kate, 
 How kind of you to watch and wait 
 I ne'er can do enough to prove 
 My depth of gratitude and love.' 
 
 She stands beside him, bends to press 
 
 A sister's kiss upon his brow. 
 And asks, in tones of marked distress 
 " My brother, are you better now? " 
 
 " In body, yes : but not in mind. 
 Oh Kate, how can I feel resigned ! 
 Be seated, please : you know full well, 
 Dear Kate, what 'tis I'd have you tell." 
 
 " First, brother, you must promise me 
 That you will listen quietly 
 To what I have to say." 
 "I will, I will! please state it, Kate; 
 And end suspense : I cannot wait! 
 You saw Louise to-day?" 
 
 " No, brother. — Let me first arrange 
 Your pillow : there. — 'Tis passing strange, 
 
 But she had left the place. 
 And when I through the burg had gone, 
 And questioned closely every one, 
 
 I still could find no trace. 
 
 •' Returning, then, as far as D- 
 
 I called at her old home to see 
 If she had not returned : 
 
NYX. 21 
 
 But when I made my errand known, 
 McPharsan's brow put on a frown: 
 My questionings he spurned." 
 
BOOK II 
 
 HEMERA. 
 
 On sombre pinions, flecked with golden beams, 
 Old Night hath fled : while Helios' liquid streams 
 Of fiery light, by Eos' chariot led. 
 O'er earth and sky in radiant grandeur spread. 
 
 Signs of life are everywhere : 
 
 Sight and sounds alike declare 
 " Sleep removes her silken bands. 
 
 Speeds her course to other lands." 
 While with day, The babbling rill, 
 
 What a lay • The rumbling mill, 
 
 Worldly strife The rattling cart, 
 
 Wakes to life ! The bustling mart, 
 
 Shouts of pleasure, screams of fear. 
 
 Such the sounds we often hear, 
 
 Such the sights we often see : 
 
 Sounds and sights that seem to be 
 One strangely woven web of joy and pain. 
 Of sinewy toil the needs of life to gain, 
 Of Nature's forces utilized by man. 
 Or running wild in keeping with the noble 
 redman's plan. 
 
HEMERA. 
 
 23 
 
 Through vine-embowered windows, come 
 
 The piercing rays by Helios shed 
 Upon the modest cottage home 
 
 Of " Honest Bill ; " of which 'tis said : 
 
 *' Nothing ever seems to mar the pleasures of that home : 
 There no jangling words are heard, no discords ever come." 
 Even now through open windows floats a sweet refrain, 
 Telling as how fellow-ship in love can lessen pain. 
 
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 "Whene'er the joys of life are few, 
 
 When pain and sorrow 'gainst me press, 
 And irksome duties crowd to view, 
 O then thy love alone can bless ! 
 
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 'The knowledge, that thy love I share. 
 That I'm the object of thy care, 
 Makes duty pleasure, lessens pain 
 And floods my soul with joys again » 
 
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24 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 " Uh ! why, how you startle one ! 
 Jack Manfre, will you never know 
 That what to you may seem but fun, 
 For me results in pain and woe ? " 
 
 " Excuse me, aunty ; I forgot. 
 It shall not be repeated soon. 
 You seemed so happy that I thought 
 
 'Twould be such fun to change the tune! " 
 
 " I've seen the day, Jack, when I, too, 
 Enjoyed a jest as well as you : 
 But late years any little start ** 
 
 Will bring a pain to aunty's heart. 
 
 " I 'spose it's ^cause I'm growing old. 
 But never mind : since you've been told 
 Just how it is, I'm sure you'll be 
 More careful how you startle me. 
 
 " But what '' 
 
 " H'sh, aunty, here is Grace ! 
 And I must seek a hiding place. 
 Now please don't tell her I am here: 
 I'll go in " 
 
 *' No, no ! not in there ! " 
 *' H'sh, here she comes ! " And heeding not. 
 Jack flashed from view as quick as thought. 
 
 But he no sooner stands within 
 His covert, than 'tis plain to him 
 Why aunty Rachel had demurred. 
 And also whence the noise he heard. 
 
HEMERA. 25 
 
 For before him stands a maiden in a spotless 
 
 robe of white : 
 Robe, whose snowy folds resemble, in their 
 
 purity, the light 
 Streaming through the open window, playing 
 
 'mid the wealth 0/ hair 
 Which, in golden ripples, flows adown her 
 
 shoulders white and bare. 
 
 By the light encircling her he sees her brow 
 
 of classic mold, 
 Sees the clear-cut Grecian features, and, although 
 
 by nature bold, 
 Quails before the sad, reproachful look, so full 
 
 of feigned surprise. 
 That is seen within the liquid depths of 
 
 Psyche's dark-blue eyes. 
 
 For a moment stand they thus ; then Jack, a- 
 bashed, essays to leave : 
 
 But a hand — a little hand — is gently laid 
 upon his sleeve ; 
 
 While the look of sad reproach to an inquir- 
 ing glance gi'es way, 
 
 Mingled with an odd expression, trembling 'tween 
 a " go " and " stay." 
 
 " Please tell to me, my pretty boy, 
 What palace walls do us surround. 
 Is't here that Venus doth employ 
 
 Her leisure hours ? and where is found 
 
26 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 Sweet Eros who of late, in cruel guise, 
 
 Did win the love he knew not how to prize ? " 
 
 Before bewildered Jack can make reply. 
 
 Aunt Rachel ope's the door ; he longs to fly. 
 
 But stands as though entranced, till pulled away 
 
 By Rachel's trembling hand. " What would you say? " 
 
 Aunt Rachel asks, as Psyche lingers still, 
 
 While dewy tears are seen her eyes to fill. 
 
 ' O, cruel goddess ! why remove 
 
 From me my only source of joy ? 
 I pray you to restore my love, 
 'Or leave with me this winsome boy. 
 O let me not be desolate entire ; 
 But grant to me what I so much desire ! " 
 
 Aunt Rachel quite bewildered stands 
 Nor sees the bent of her demands. 
 At length she seems to comprehend 
 
 The clouded state of Psyche's mind. 
 And while her loving arms extend 
 
 Her face looks strangely kind. 
 
 " Dear child, think not that I desire 
 To make you desolate entire : 
 I long to have you find relief 
 From all your sorrow, pain and grief." 
 
 One moment, and a joyous cry 
 From Psyche was her first reply. 
 
HEMERA. 27 
 
 Then on Rachel's loving breast she leaned 
 
 her pretty head, 
 Twined her loving arms about her neck 
 
 and sweetly said : 
 
 " I thank you, goddess, for the love 
 And sympathy you proffer me ; 
 And will endeavor e'er to prove 
 The gratitude I owe to thee. 
 But will you tell me where my love hath flown, 
 My Eros who of late so cold hath grown ? " 
 
 As Psyche ended this appeal. 
 Aunt Rachel could not help but feel 
 The pleading of the dark-blue eyes. 
 
 Uplifted as she ceased to speak. 
 And of the little hand ^at lies 
 
 Caressingly against her cheek. 
 
 Moved by mingled love and pity for this 
 heart-sick child, 
 
 Rachel kissed the fevered brow and spoke 
 in accents mild : 
 
 Spoke in hopeful tones that seemed the ach- 
 ing heart to ease ; 
 
 While with pliant words she sought the cloud- 
 ed mind to please. 
 
 To her couch she gently leads her, soothing 
 her to rest 
 
 With the golden ringlets pillowed on her 
 loving breast. 
 
28 BOOK SECOND 
 
 Grace, in silence, waits and listens 
 Till the maiden sinks to rest : 
 
 In her eye the tear-drop glistens : 
 All the story she has guessed. 
 
 Cousin Jack has slipped away : 
 Now he 's on the green at play : 
 But he fails to banish quite 
 Psyche in her robe of white. 
 
 Golden ringlets, dark-blue eyes, 
 Now an index of surprise, 
 Then reproach, and, at the last. 
 Filled with tears, before him passed. 
 
 " Aunty," finally queries Grace, 
 When, at length, the golden head 
 Finds its proper resting-place 
 On the downy pillowed bed, 
 " Aren't you going to tell me now 
 Whence this maiden came, and how? " 
 
 " Whence she came I cannot tell : 
 How she came I know full well. 
 Come with me, if you would hear ; 
 We may wake her, talking here." 
 
 Ere she leaves the winsome Grace, 
 Stroking back the shining tresses, 
 
 Straying o'er the classic face. 
 Kisses soft upon it presses 
 
BEMERA. 
 
 Who of us would then have guessed 
 That the lips in pity pressed 
 On that fever-heated brow 
 
 Would be ope'd to execrate, 
 Ere had waned the fleeting " now," 
 
 Her whom they had kissed so late. 
 
 As she stooped she chanced to see, 
 'Round the maiden's neck, a cord; 
 
 And, though wondering what could be 
 There attached, she had regard 
 
 For the maiden's helpless state, 
 
 Moved thereby to calmly wait. 
 
 But when Rachel told to Grace 
 Briefly what had taken place 
 Yester-eve, and further stated 
 
 That, as yet, they'd failed to trace 
 Any clue that might be freighted 
 
 With the maiden's name or place ; 
 
 She the silken cord remembered, 
 And at once desired to know 
 
 If as yet the maid had tendered, 
 To her aunt, its weight to show. 
 
 "For," says Grace, " 'twould likely tell 
 Something of her place or name : 
 But, perchance, you've thought it well 
 To investigate the same ? " 
 
 29 
 
30 BOOK SECOND, 
 
 No ; she'd seen the cord as well ; 
 But had thought the maid would tell, 
 When recovered, what her name, 
 And the village whence she came. 
 
 " But, dear aunt, her mind is dazed : 
 Grief her mind hath doubtless crazed : 
 She her name may never know. 
 Now since it hath happened so, 
 Will you not be thought to blame. 
 If you fail to find her name. 
 When perchance it lies concealed, 
 Only waits to be revealed ? 
 
 " That the single name of Psyche which she gives 
 Is in keeping with her ravings only shows 
 That the name, like all the other, only lives 
 In the fever-heated brain from which it flows. 
 
 " You ere this, no doubt, have li»eard the myth related 
 From the which poor Psyche's story is created ? 
 No? well, if you'd care to hear it, I will state it." 
 Yes she would : so Grace proceeded to relate it. 
 
 At length their words did strangely float 
 
 From Psyche and the fable. 
 To Robert Roy and what he wrote. 
 
 And whether they'd be able 
 To go to him commencement day, 
 Or be obliged at home to stay. 
 
HEMERA 
 
 They talk of Robert's future plans, 
 And of the pending marriage bans 
 That will so soon unite in one 
 The winsome Grace and Rachel's son. 
 
 " Oh aunty, it will seem so queer : 
 
 I lose an aunt, but find a mother ! " 
 ' And yet, I'm not your aunt, my dear ; 
 Your father, though I call him brother, 
 Is-no connection, save that he 
 Did share his childhood's home with me. 
 
 "I, too," [and here the eye grows dim,] 
 " Was once a waif like her within : 
 God gave me friends whose tender care 
 
 To them I never can repay ; 
 But to the maiden, slumbering there, 
 A part shall be returned this day. 
 
 " She seems to me a tender child 
 Whose only fault is innocence ; 
 Confiding, trustful, loving, mild. 
 Acquainted not with indigence : 
 
 " And yet, whose lot hath not been cast 
 Within the vitiating grasp 
 Of opulence, whose vices blast 
 The heavenly fruitage of the mind 
 Till naught but worthless leaves we find." 
 
 A momentary silence reigns, and then 
 
 Miss Grace resumes her converse once again. 
 
 31 
 
32 BOOK SECOND, 
 
 " And yet, you've marked the ring she wears. 
 It seems to me — that is, it bears 
 A strong resemblance to — a — ring — 
 That — Oh ! that Robert wore last spring 
 
 " I'd most forgotten where I'd seen it. 
 And — but of course he didn't mean it, — 
 He said that he had lost the ring." 
 
 " He wrote to me the selfsame thing. 
 'Tis true : for Robert wouldn't lie, 
 Not e'en in jest. But tell me why 
 You thought he had." 
 
 "Had what? had lied? 
 Why, aunt, I thought that term applied 
 Where any one had been deceived 
 Through malice : whereas I beHeved 
 The falsity to be a jest ; 
 Because I'd said I thought it best 
 That he should leave the ring with me. 
 Now don't you think the rings agree 
 In outward make amazingly? " 
 
 " That this agrees with that in outward make 
 Is quite beyond dispute : but then, 'twould take, 
 To cause amazement, some peculiar dress, 
 Or quality, that both alike possess. 
 
 " Now this they lack ; and hence 'tis not surprising 
 That they in outward semblance are the same : 
 A plain gold band with diamond set comprising 
 Their make-up. But the initials of the name — 
 
HEMERA. 
 
 If on this ring • To R. R. from R. B.' 
 
 Were cut, it would be strange as strange could be ! " 
 
 " ♦ To R. R. from R. B.' you say : 
 R. B. ? And why those letters pray ?" 
 
 " R. B. initials Robert Bing, 
 The gentleman who gave the ring : 
 A man of wealth, a friend of Roy's, 
 Who wished that we would — " 
 
 Here, a noise 
 That seemed a partly stifled cry," 
 
 Arising from surprise or pain. 
 Is heard ; that by a lengthened sigh 
 
 Is followed : all is still again. 
 
 " 'Tis Psyche : I must go to her," 
 
 Aunt Rachel said ; and rising, went. 
 
 But, as she entered, not a stir 
 
 From Psyche. She, approaching, bent 
 
 To note the pulse and fevered brow. 
 Then Psyche said : " I'm better now. 
 
 ** But, gentle Venus, tell me why 
 My Efos does not come to me ! 
 You know him I am sure : for I — 
 That is ' To R. R. from R. B.' 
 Is written in this ring he gave to me : 
 My Eros gave : I heard you say it : see ! " 
 
 She holds the ring aloft ; and lo ! 
 Within the letters plainly show ! 
 
 33 
 
3^ BOOK SECOND. 
 
 No doubt remains : it is the same ! 
 
 Not, is it so, but, how it came, 
 
 Is now the question. " Grace ! Oh, Grace ! 
 
 It is ! it must be Robert's ring! 
 Can Psyche tell me where the place 
 
 Her Eros found this pretty thing ?" 
 
 " I ? No ; he said he'd had it long 
 
 And prized it much. That 's all I know : 
 Except he said ' It shall belong 
 To Psyche now : it shall not go 
 To any other.' Then he placed it here 
 Upon this finger, saying ' Never fear : 
 Your Eros will forever more be true 
 To plighted faith, to love, and you !' " 
 
 •' 'Tis strange! what think you, Grace, is 't not ? 
 
 I don't see how this ring he got ! " 
 " Nor I : and yet it must be true. 
 
 He found the ring. I wish I knew ! 
 
 I'll write to Robert, it may be 
 
 That he can solve the mystery." 
 
 But here a little hand was gently laid upon 
 
 her arm ; 
 And, turning, Grace was deeply moved to see how 
 
 great alarm 
 Was pictured in the dark-blue eye that met, in 
 
 mute appeal. 
 Her dark, but lustrous orb : yet deeper still was 
 
 made to feel 
 
HEMERA, 
 
 The pleading tone, as Psyche from her pillow 
 
 raised her head, 
 And, reaching out her other hand, so piteously 
 
 said : 
 
 " O, please don't keep the pretty ring ! 
 'Tis Eros' pledge to be 
 Forever true ; and it will bring 
 My Eros back to me." 
 
 Grace dropped the ring in Psyche's eager palm 
 
 and quick replied : 
 " I would riot keep your ring, sweet child, for all 
 
 the world beside. 
 But who is Eros, pretty one ? and why so long 
 
 away ? 
 Is *t anything that you have done that thus 
 
 prolongs his stay ?" 
 
 As thus she spoke she felt that she had said 
 
 a cruel thing: 
 Nor was poor Psyche blind to this ; for, conscious 
 
 of the sting, 
 She shrank from Grace who, kneeling, to her 
 
 childish" form did cling 
 Withi loving arms ; while to her eyes the pitying 
 
 tears did spring. 
 
 *' Excuse me, child/' said gentle Grace, 
 " I did not mean to wound you so !" 
 And then she kissed the pretty face, 
 
 While down her cheek the tears did flow. 
 
 55 
 
36 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 And Psyche, overcome at this, 
 Forgave her with a loving kiss. 
 
 " Sweet lady, I know not your name, 
 As none have ever told it me : 
 You know the ring, from whence it came ; 
 My Eros must be known to thee. 
 
 ** See ! I will show you Eros' face ; 
 
 And you will know him I am sure." 
 A locket from its resting-place 
 
 She took : a locket made secure 
 By silken cord. She opened it, 
 And to the floor did quickly flit 
 A paper closely folded ; but Psyche did 
 
 not heed : 
 Her eyes upon the portrait were fixed with 
 loving greed. 
 
 " Oh, Eros !" cried the maiden, while fast the tears 
 
 did fall, 
 "Can you not hear your Psyche, your loving 
 Psyche, call ? 
 I know my Eros loves me : those lips have told 
 
 me so ! 
 But fate hath snatched you from me : 'twas not 
 your will to go !" 
 
 Removing from her neck the cord, poor Psyche 
 
 gave to Grace 
 The locket, in the which is seen an almost 
 
 boyish face : 
 
HEM ERA. 57 
 
 A face that 's coyly turned aside^ as though 
 
 the eye would bend 
 To miss the fond, admiring glance a stranger's 
 
 eye would send : 
 And showing thus a profile that would rival, 
 
 in contour, 
 The beauty of che Grecian god whose name he 
 
 doth endure. 
 
 His noble brow is overcast by curls of flaxen 
 hair: 
 
 His beardless face, in feature, with none other 
 will compare : 
 
 *Tis not the soft, effemmate ; nor coarsely mas- 
 culine : 
 
 The cheeks of down and manly frown do place 
 it just between. 
 
 But how is Grace affected by 
 
 The Grecian god ? At sight, 
 She, turning with a startled cry, 
 
 Conveys it where the light 
 May fall direct upon the face : 
 She looks, and looks again : fond Grace ! 
 
 She won't believe her falsing eyes ! 
 She rubs them : but, to her surprise, 
 The features still remain the same : 
 And now she wildly calls the name. 
 
 " O, Robert, Robert ! is it you ! 
 1 won't believe ! it can't be true ! 
 
38 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 O aunty, look ! and tell me I 
 
 Have sinned to think your boy could lie !" 
 
 Aunt Rachel trembling takes the toy, 
 And looks within. " It is my boy ! 
 Oh God ! my erring Robert Roy !" 
 
 " I'll not believe it !" Grace replies : 
 And then, her wildly wandering eyes 
 Upon a slip of paper light ; 
 
 And, as a drowning mortal grasps 
 At anything, however slight, 
 
 She runs to it, and bending clasps 
 The little note with trembling hand. 
 While on her brow the sweat-beads stand. 
 
 •* I have it now : this proves him true !'" 
 .She cries, and opens it to view. 
 Alas, poor Grace ! it only feeds 
 Her doubt ; for this is what she reads : 
 
 ^, WHOM IT AUy 
 
 ^^o^ We ^^^^^^ 
 
 all mortal edicts spurn. 
 By the perfect law of love. 
 
 Formed by Venus and her son, 
 Regents human hearts above, 
 
 he, 
 
 /TsYche, now are one. /T) I 
 
 KM 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 ZEUS. 
 
 Oceanus long since received the son 
 
 Of Hyperion old, his journey done. 
 
 Once more dark Erebos o'er Nature broods : 
 
 O'er fickle Nature, prone to varying moods. 
 
 Swarthy Nimbus, throned o' high. 
 
 Spreads his wings o'er earth and sky ; 
 
 Stars withdraw behind the screen ; 
 
 Sheets of pulsing light are seen : 
 Witching hght. That seems to tear 
 
 Wild and bright ! The suffering Air, 
 
 What a flash ! Till torrents flow 
 
 Wakes a crash To mark her woe ! 
 
 Swiftly Zeus, through boundless space, 
 
 Sends his thunder-bolts to chase 
 
 Slothful Time whose boasted wing 
 
 Seems to them so tame a thing. 
 On all the earth descends impartial rain : 
 On lowliest hut as on the proudest fane : 
 On rolling flood as on the thirsty land ; 
 Or on the sloping roof to bless the washer-wo^nan s hand. 
 
 I 
 
40 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 The college clock rings out the hour: 
 
 'Tis twelve : and darkness reigns supreme 
 
 Within — without ; save where some flower 
 Of intellectual growth doth seem 
 
 Content o'er musty books to toil, 
 
 While dimly burns " the midnight oil." 
 
 Through an upper-story window, where are ranged 
 the rooms 
 
 Which the students occupy, the feeble lamp- 
 light comes. 
 
 Peering in, we see a student's pale and thought- 
 ful face ; 
 
 But his weary eyes no longer lines of logic 
 trace. 
 
 On the desk an open book doth claim the 
 
 student's thought ; 
 But with steady stride he treads the floor and 
 
 heeds it not. 
 Suddenly he pauses where the lamp-light 
 
 shineth clear 
 On his face uplifted, as he calls on God 
 
 to hear : 
 
 Hear me, O my God ! and grant 
 
 Strength in weakness : in despair, 
 Let the siren, Hope, but chant 
 Music that shall draw me where 
 Justice dwells, and Peace and Love abide ! 
 Save me from the darkly rolling tide 
 
ZEUS. 41 
 
 " Of emotions, wakened by 
 
 Rank injustice on the part 
 Of the friends that ever lie 
 
 Nearest to the human heart ! 
 Father, mother, sweet-heart, — all have fled : 
 To my wounded soul are worse than dead !" 
 
 He resumes his aimless tread athwart his 
 
 study floor ; 
 But his step is lighter, brow less clouded 
 
 than before. 
 Now the changed current of his thoughts doth 
 
 drift along, 
 Bearing him each moment nearer to the siren's 
 
 song; 
 While his ear is bent to hear each low yet 
 
 sweet refrain. 
 Till with hope the heart is flooded, as with 
 
 thought the brain. 
 
 Turning now, he nears the desk, he lifts the 
 
 lid, and draws 
 From within two crumpled notes ; but something 
 
 bids him pause. 
 
 " No ; 1 will not read again 
 Missives burdened with such pain : 
 I remember but too well 
 Every thing they have to tell. 
 
 " Mother, who of all should know me best, 
 Thinks me guilty ! She, upon whose breast 
 
4a BOOK THIRD, 
 
 " I have lain in infancy, and who 
 Led my infant feet my boyhood through, 
 Training my young soul with tenderest care, 
 Teaching me to bow to God in prayer, 
 
 '• Now believes that I have strayed 
 From the path before me laid — 
 Have indulged in grossest sin ! 
 O my mother ! thou hast been 
 
 Most unjust I 
 Yet thy love, it doth appear, 
 Hath survived the early bier 
 
 Of thy trust ! 
 
 " No ! to you I will not come — 
 Will not share your love — your home, 
 Till I come to prove to you 
 That your boy was ever true 
 
 To his love 
 Of the virtuous, the pure ; 
 Or we meet, from doubts secure. 
 
 Up above ! 
 
 •' There, at least, 'twill all be plain : 
 Then we may unite again. 
 When thy faith in me, now dead, 
 Springs to Hfe thy love to wed ! 
 
 " But oh ! to be compelled to pass through life 
 Apart from her I'd thought to call my wife! 
 To know that I by her must be despised, 
 From her pure heart unjustly ostracized, 
 
ZEUS. 43 
 
 " As though myself impure ; 'tis this that falls 
 So like a crushing weight upon my soul : 
 'Tis this whereby the future so appalls, 
 
 And threatens like a mighty sea to roll 
 Above a hopeless, crushed, and bleeding past, 
 On breakers soon my ruined life to cast ! 
 
 " But no ! if I should thus give way to grief, 
 I'd only prove a cause for their behef. 
 God helping me, I yet will prove 
 
 To them this charge to be unjust ; 
 Or ever live without their love , 
 
 Till ' Earth to earth, and dust to dust.' 
 Be murmured o'er my lone yet virtuous grave; 
 God's justice, then, in heaven I will crave 
 
 " Till then, farewell to home and friends ! 
 Come Hope : 'tis thou must make amends 
 For banished Love: while Faith must be. 
 With Works, my guide to Heaven's See !" 
 
 He took the cruel notes and cast them where 
 
 The flames consumed them : " Perish thus Despair!'* 
 
 These words he spoke; then from the desk he drew 
 
 Material for writing : sat him down 
 And wrote : wrote hurried, burning words, yet few; 
 
 While on his brow there lurked a subtle frown. 
 
 An hour has passed since first we looked within : 
 Again we look; and, by the lamp-light dim. 
 We see two notes : the one is closed; 
 The other Robert has in hand. 
 
44 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 He smiles, and tries to look composed . 
 But loses quite his self-command. 
 
 •' O, Grace, how can I part with you I" 
 He sobs; while tears, like morning dew, 
 Upon his manly cheeks do rest : 
 Then draws a portrait from his breast, 
 Where it has lain against the heart 
 That finds it now so hard to part. 
 
 " But 'twill not be for long I'm sure. 
 God grant that I may soon secure 
 A key to this great mystery 
 That shuts me out from love and thee !" 
 
 A lingering look, a fond caress, 
 And then he placed it with the tress 
 Of dark-brown hair, and folded note, 
 Within a wrap on which he wrote 
 The name of her with whom to part 
 So grieved his faithful, loving heart, 
 
 The notes are now laid out of sight, 
 Then Robert walks the floor: 
 
 Too much disturbed to sleep to-night 
 He thinks the future o'er. 
 
 Robert's plans that night took shape to stay 
 Where he was until commencement day, 
 Which was fast approaching. Oh, the pain 
 That it cost inactive to remain ! 
 
ZEUS. 45 
 
 But he felt that it were better so ; 
 For, at first, he knew not where to go : 
 And, by starting out without a clue 
 He might fail in that he had in view. 
 
 The ring — he knew he'd lost it there, 
 On college grounds. " I'll not despair : 
 To know who found the ring," thought he, 
 " Would give a clue whereby 'twould be 
 Within my power the sphinx to solve, 
 And from distrust my name absolve." 
 
 He now had cause to push the quest 
 To farthest bounds ; and search with zest 
 For what, no doubt, would help him trace 
 The usurper of his ring and face. 
 
 But how his face ? "Indeed," he thought, 
 " I don't see how my face he got ! 
 Or, having got it, had it pass 
 As hkeness of himself. The lass 
 Is surely crazed : or, can it be, 
 That she 's a cheat as well as he ?" 
 
 And thus in labyrinths of thought 
 
 He wandered on. The theme was fraught 
 
 With mystery on every side : 
 
 A mystery that widened wide 
 
 And deepened, till it seemed that he, 
 
 Stormed-tossed upon a raging sea 
 
 Of thought, was drifting farther out, 
 
 And beating aimlessly about, 
 
46 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Devoid of compas, bounded by 
 A darkness that defied tlie eye. 
 
 Sometimes, across his mental sight, 
 A thought would flash its Hghtnings bright 
 That rivaled, both in light and speed, 
 The thunder-bolts of Zeus. Indeed, 
 The storm within his breast appalls 
 E'en more than that without his walls. 
 
 While yet he paced the floor, Aurora's bkish, 
 As, issuing from the bosom of the Night, 
 
 She mounted heavenward with rosy flush, 
 Did crown the eastern hills with golden light. 
 
 The clouds reflect her blushes bright, 
 
 Then follow after fleeing Night : 
 While Helios doth rise with great display, 
 Supporting with one arm the new-born Day ; 
 
 While with the other painteth he 
 
 A rain-bow bright upon the sea — 
 The surging sea of clouds that seems to rest 
 Upon the bosom of the puisne West. 
 
 Aye ! on the proudly swelling breast 
 Of Free-land's young, ambitious West : 
 That West whose virtue to our country gave 
 The hand that " From our country's brow did lave 
 Its one dark stain," the toil-oppressed and shame- 
 begetting slave I 
 
ZEUS. 47 
 
 One week — two weeks have passed away 
 And left with us commencement day. 
 
 • Commencement day itself, so fraught 
 With high expectancy, hath brought 
 Its annual flow of eyes to see 
 The modern Ciceroes set free 
 From loved Grinnell : v/hich hath in store, 
 Though young, such wealth of classic lore 
 And science, that she merits well the tale 
 "A Modern Athens with a Western Yale." 
 
 Within the walls of " Modern Athens " Pride, 
 [That noble structure yearly opening wide 
 Its portals to the world that hastes to greet 
 The B.'s both A. and S., whose laggard feet 
 So soon must pass beyond those walls to mingle 
 
 with the throng, 
 Commence the never-ending strife 'gainst ignorance 
 
 and wrong,] 
 A large assembly wait to hear the voice of 
 
 cultured youth. 
 In this, their first endeavor, to convince the 
 
 world of truth. 
 
 Youth after youth has come and gone, 
 Receiving each full many a bon 
 From fond, admiring friends. And now 
 A youth appears whose lofty brow, 
 O'erhung with flaxen curls, doth seem 
 Familiar as a morning dream. 
 
48 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 With folded arms he proudly Stan's 
 
 Aloof: but briefly, while he scans 
 
 With eagle eye the moving sea 
 
 Of heads, all turned expectantly 
 
 To view the coming man. His eye 
 
 In short duration, seems to spy 
 
 A face and form that sends a flush 
 
 To Robert's cheek. An answering blush 
 
 Is seen to dye the grief-rid face 
 
 Of her we've known as winsome Grace. 
 
 Yes, Grace is there : she could not stay 
 At home on this eventful day: . 
 The day on which she'd hoped to see 
 Her Robert Roy a proud A. B. 
 
 Hers ? Ah, no longer! he had proved 
 
 Himself unworthy to be loved. 
 
 And yet, though she had steeled her heart, 
 
 By bitter thoughts, to act the part 
 
 Of one most deeply wronged, she felt 
 
 Her resolutions quickly melt 
 
 Beneath his fond, yet burning gaze, 
 
 As winter's snow beneath the blaze 
 
 Of summer Helios. That look 
 
 Unmaned him so that Robert shook 
 
 Beneath his weight of love. Advanced 
 
 To proper po., all faces danced 
 
 Before his eyes and blended, till 
 
 They seemed but one : that one so still. 
 
 And, since had fled the blush, so white 
 
 And marked with woe, that, at the sight. 
 

 Z,E US. A(\ 
 
 His heart is moved with sympathy 
 For her he loves so tenderly. 
 
 And yet he joys to know that she 
 As deeply loves and grieves as he. 
 A selfish joy, no doubt; but then, 
 A joy quite natural ; for men 
 Dislike their grief alone to bear : 
 It lessens grief, that grief to share. 
 
 With effort strong he now regains 
 His self-command ; nor even deigns 
 To shun the pale, reproachful face 
 Of, now, no longer winsome Grace. 
 
 His mind is fixed upon the theme 
 Of his discourse. All else doth seem 
 As seems a long forgotten dream 
 That, specter-like, our memory haunts, 
 While, shadow-like, it nothing daunts. 
 
 " Hello, Robert ! where away ? 
 Wait; there's something I would say." 
 
 *' Well, what is it V Robert waits 
 Till his classmate, William Bates, 
 Reaches him : then, side by side, 
 With a quick and measured stride, 
 They continue on their way, 
 While doth wane commencement day. 
 
50 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 Robert Roy is just returning 
 To his lodgings from the train. 
 
 William Roy, his father, yearning 
 To receive him home again, 
 
 Had been present and had heard 
 
 His oration, every word : 
 
 Then had sought him out, and tried 
 To persuade him to his home. 
 "Never!" Robert Roy replied, 
 " If to you I cannot come 
 With a name devoid of stain. 
 Then from home I'll e'er remain." 
 
 " But, my boy, we've not believed 
 That you did so gross a wrong, 
 Since your letter we received : 
 
 For, that falsehood don't belong 
 To your vices, we have had 
 Proof sufficient. Yet, my lad, 
 
 " Circumstances, you'll admit. 
 Gave us reason to suspect ; 
 And we hope the search you'll quit 
 
 Only after you detect 
 Who's to blame, and how it came 
 That both face and ring 's the same." 
 
 Ah, yes ! good old " Honest Bill " 
 Tries to banish every doubt : 
 
 But a doubt will linger still 
 That he finds he cannot rout : 
 
ZEUS. 51 
 
 For his mind a proof doth claim, 
 That his heart doth long to frame. 
 
 Even so the gentle Grace, 
 
 In her heart, believes him true ; 
 
 But the proof of ring and face 
 Makes it difficult to do. 
 
 When that day their eyes had met, 
 
 Hers, she knew, expressed regret. 
 
 Robert at the entrance stood 
 
 When Miss Grace, and father, passed 
 His was a forgiving mood ; 
 
 But the look her father cast 
 Toward him, touched his pride, and he 
 Failed their presence there to see. 
 
BOOK IV 
 
 PENATES. 
 
 Our country owns no richer, fairer lands, 
 Or other country, than its breadth expands, 
 Of waving grains, or meadows flower-bedecked, 
 O'er western plains with pleasant wood-lands flecked. 
 . Stretching yearly farther west, 
 
 Settlers' homes, with plenty blest, 
 
 Stand 'mid pleasant, home-made groves, 
 
 Such as birds frequent in droves. 
 Wildest notes, Till workmen stern 
 
 Warblers' throats The chorus learn, 
 
 Wake, to charm That joy imparts 
 
 Wood and farm. To honest hearts ! 
 
 Sloughs, where richest grasses grow, 
 
 Stripe the fields where harvests blow. 
 
 Such the homes the rising West 
 
 Sets to those of homes in quest. 
 On lofty, limestone knoll we chance to be : 
 Off" which we view a boundless, billowy sea 
 Of rolling acres ; o'er whose grassy tide, 
 Our enterprising western craft, the " Prairie Schooners^'' 
 glide. 
 
• PENATES. 53 
 
 While yet we gaze we chance to see, 
 
 Arising in the distant east, 
 A cloud of smoke that seems to be 
 
 From bondage just released. 
 
 And now, far up the iron track 
 
 That passes near our hillock's base, 
 We see what seems a monster black, 
 Whose single eye of fire doth trace 
 The many miles of changeless road that leads 
 Straight on o'er western farms and trackless meads. 
 
 A warning shriek, prolonged and shrill, 
 
 And, rushing toward our limestone hill. 
 
 Behold the tamed Chimera of 
 
 The nineteenth century ! Above, 
 
 There floats its breath of fire and smoke : 
 
 Beneath, in keeping with its stroke. 
 
 The trembling earth in terror flies : 
 
 Before, from its unearthly cries, 
 
 There speed the cattle, wild with fright : 
 
 Behind, its traihng length we sight ! 
 
 On, on ! it flies along the track 
 
 While sounds its measured tread : clack, clack ; 
 
 Clack, clack; clack, clack; it passes now, 
 
 And, strange to say, a lofty brow, 
 
 O'er-hung with flaxen curls, is seen . 
 
 Then time and distance intervene. 
 
 But quickly Fancy takes her flight, 
 And on the flying train doth light : 
 
45 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Where Robert Roy, in silent thought, 
 Sits brooding o'er his luckless lot. 
 His brow is knit, as though perplexed 
 By opposites, or by them vexed. 
 
 But soon across his features flits a smile 
 As hope of quick success his thoughts beguile : 
 For he hath found, he thinks, a clue ; and yet, 
 A clue that deeper mystery doth beget. 
 
 His classmate. Bates, last eve to him had shown 
 A notice, in a paper from Des Moines, 
 That read as follows : 
 
 '' FOUjSiD, beloiv the town, 
 A maiden who, it seems, had drifted down 
 From some point higher up, until at last 
 She, with some drift-wood, on the shore was cast. 
 But, having been so long time dead afid drowned, 
 
 She could not well be recognized ; and yet, 
 Upon her person there were trinkets found 
 
 That may identify. A diainond, set 
 Within a plain gold ba7id, adorned her hand — 
 Her wedding finger : while, within the band, 
 Was cut, in letters plain to see. 
 The mark, ' To F. R. from R. B: 
 A locket in her hand she grasped : — 
 A golden toy : — but ^tiuas unclasped ; 
 And, while wdthin could yet be traced 
 An outline dim, 'twas so defaced. 
 That none the features could define. 
 Nor e'en the portraiture' s design. 
 ' T'as been supposed the fnaiden died 
 Frofn choice: that is, a suicide." 
 
PENATES. 55 
 
 This notice Robert read ; and quite perplexed, 
 He knew not what to do ; but felt assured 
 
 That herein lay a clue, or what indexed 
 A sure solution soon to be procured. 
 
 So, in the morn, he started for Des Moines,' 
 Intent on following, out the clue he'd found. 
 
 *Tis on this trip that we his wanderings join 
 And find him in deep meditation bound. 
 
 Onward speeds the flying train : 
 Swifter speeds his busy brain. 
 Wild conjectures flash a past, 
 As do land-marks when so fast 
 Whirl the car-wheels o'er the track 
 At the swift Chimera's back. 
 
 Now and then a fixed conclusion, 
 Rising out of wild confusion, 
 Marks his progress even as 
 Doth the mile-post which they pass. 
 
 Station after station has in turn been left 
 
 behind : 
 Now " Des Moines !" the brakeman shouts, in fashion 
 
 of his kind. 
 Then the speed is slackened : soon the platform doth 
 
 appear ; 
 And departing parties part with partners, part 
 
 in fear 
 Lest the wild Chimera at the front should onward 
 
 rush , 
 
56 BOOK FO URTH. 
 
 Ere they reach the platform, 'mid the wild 
 impulsive gush. 
 
 Robert Roy, while standing there amid the 
 
 bustling throng, 
 Gazing on their animated faces, felt a 
 
 strong, 
 Nearly over-powering wish that there would 
 
 chance along 
 Some familiar face ; and yet he felt that it 
 
 were wrong 
 Thus to give a way to such a silly, boyish 
 
 whim. 
 Knowing that, in all the town, not one was 
 
 known to him. 
 
 Still he noticed with surprise 
 That, amid the hurrying crowd. 
 
 Some of those who fixed their eyes 
 On his face familiar bowed : 
 
 Bowed, while o'er their features played 
 Servile smiles, as though to court 
 
 Favor : smiles howe'er that made 
 Robert think himself their sport. 
 
 Now he turns and walks away, 
 While revolving, in his mind, 
 
 What his course. He cannot pay 
 Large hotel-bills, and must find 
 
 Private lodgings while he stays. 
 
 Realizin^r this he strays 
 
PENATES, 57 
 
 Thoughtfully up Fourth street, where 
 Swings a " RESTAURANT " in air. 
 
 Having dined, and ascertained 
 Where, perchance, there might be gained 
 Either certain confirmation, 
 Or, at least, a confutation, 
 Of the hopes he'd entertained 
 That a clue might here be gained, 
 He hastened forth and up the street : 
 But, going forth, he chanced to meet 
 A person who with rudeness past, 
 While o'er his face a withering blast 
 Of hatred swept, designed to make 
 A knave with apprehension quake. 
 
 While wondering how he chanced to own 
 
 An enemy within a town 
 Where he supposed himself unknown, 
 
 He reaching Court street turned him down 
 To Thirdj when he accosted was 
 
 With " Hello, Lee ! to what mishap 
 Owe we this meeting?" Then a pause 
 
 Ensued, when, like a thunder-clap. 
 The truth went crashing through his brain. 
 
 With flash so vivid it revealed 
 All former mystery so plain. 
 
 He wondered it had seemed concealed. 
 
 He took the stranger's proffered hand, 
 And thus replied : " Kind sir, I fear 
 
5^ BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 There's some mistake. I understand 
 You call me Lee, and think it queer 
 That you should meet me now, and here." 
 
 Surprised and puzzled was the look 
 The stranger's face upon it took. 
 And then, he smiling said : "James Lee, 
 You need not think to jest with me. 
 
 " It takes much more than change of voice 
 To hide a friend ; and I rejoice 
 To see you here ; and hope, for one. 
 Your visit to the Yellow-stone 
 And National Park will be delayed 
 Another year ;" when Richard Slade 
 And I, with others, now intend 
 To do the West : in fact, to spend 
 The rounded season there in quest 
 Of sights sublime, the grandest, best !" 
 
 Here Robert, thinking he should be 
 From error freed, said earnestly: 
 "But, sir, I still assure you there 
 Is some mistake. 'Tis hardly fair 
 To doubt one's word, it seems to me. 
 Concerning one's identity ; 
 And I assure you, once again, 
 I'm not James Lee : although 'tis plain. 
 From my experience since I came 
 To town, that some one of that name 
 Resembles me so closely, none 
 Will quite believe but we are Qne." 
 
PENATES. 
 
 The stranger laughed good humoredly 
 And said : " I beg your pardon, Lee : 
 But 'tis to much a James-Lee jest 
 To challenge credence. I'll suggest 
 That you, neglecting to attend 
 To something here, return to mend 
 The breach, and think the circumstance 
 Affords for sport a goodly chance. 
 
 " And so you change, to some extent, 
 Your tone of voice : and, being bent 
 On ' codding,' as the boys would say, 
 The friends you chance to meet to-day, 
 You also change your mode of dress. 
 Though slightly. Come now ! own the guess 
 To be a good one : Yours the treat. 
 And ' mum ' 's the word till next me meet." 
 
 Now Robert Roy, no doubt inclined 
 To like the jest, desired to find 
 To what degree his form and face 
 Resembled his whom he to trace 
 Was full determined, feeling sure 
 That he could thus the truth procure, 
 Concerning what to him appeared, 
 Till now, so strange that he had feared 
 'Twould baffle all solution. Now 
 'Tis plain as day: yet where and how 
 To go to work he cannot see. 
 Although 'tis plain to find this Lee 
 Is one important step, since he 
 Could doubtless solve the mystery. 
 
 59 
 
BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 And yet he feels a stronger test 
 Of their resemblance will be best, 
 Lest time and money should be spent 
 In tracing out a falsing scent. 
 
 At length occurred a happy thought, 
 
 At whose surmise he quickly caught, 
 
 And said : " If you, to satisfy 
 
 Yourself, will with my wish comply, 
 
 I'll prove to you I'm not the one 
 
 You seem to think me. I've begun 
 
 To fe^ an interest in this man. 
 
 My counterpart, and have a plan 
 
 By which a test may be applied ; 
 
 Whereby you may be satisfied 
 
 And I as well. My wish, defined, 
 
 [Begotten of a curious mind,] 
 
 Is that you'll introduce me at 
 
 Your friend's, my double's, home. By that. 
 
 You'll doubtless find who knows him best 
 
 Will find herein no James-Lee jest." 
 
 " All right ; we'll see : but, as to that, 
 I'm satisfied. What name is pat ?" 
 " My name is Robert Roy. Your name ?" 
 " My name will still remain the same : 
 'Twill not — " *' But, sir, you must forget 
 That we have never elsewhere met." 
 
 The stranger smiled, and pointing where. 
 Above their heads, there swung in air 
 
PENATES. 6 1 
 
 A handsome sign, remarked that he 
 Might there refresh his memory, 
 Invited him to step within 
 And wait till he returned to him, 
 Then hurried down the street. The sign, 
 Which Robert read, was, in design. 
 Most beautiful ; while printed on't 
 Was " J. McQueen and M. Gabront." 
 
 While yet he wonders which the name 
 His new-found friend, by right doth claim, 
 A small, dark-featured man he spies 
 Who stands within and calmly eyes 
 The passers-by. On being seen 
 He steps without, " Hello, McQueen ! "' 
 Some passer-by salutes : when, lo ! 
 The small man bows ; and then we know 
 McQueen and him to be the same : 
 Hence M. Gabront must be the name. 
 
 'Tis hardly worth the while to state 
 
 How long Rob Roy was made to wait * 
 
 Ere M. Gabront returned : nor yet, 
 
 How many friends young Robert met. 
 
 Whom he hacf never seen before. 
 
 These details, therefore, pass we o'er. 
 
 At length, with horse and chaise Gabront 
 Returned, prepared as for a jaunt 
 Of some extent. They northward ride, 
 Until they reach the river-side : 
 
62 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 For north of town the river takes 
 An eastern course, until it makes 
 A bend that takes it southward through 
 The city, which it cuts in two. 
 
 The river reached, they this ascend 
 And find it makes another bend : 
 Here flowing from the north around 
 A dainty, tree-capped isle that 's found 
 A footing in the river-bed, 
 And sweetly rears its crested head 
 Amid refreshing waters, where 
 A sweet perfume exhales the air 
 From myriad flowers that deck the isle, 
 And lend thereto a seeming smile. 
 
 Upon their left, the oak-tree and the linn, 
 The elm and maple, blend their shadows dim ; 
 While, here and there, the cedar's lasting green, 
 By tint peculiar, beautifies the scene. 
 
 ■ Save brief remarks upon the landscape fair, 
 No words have passed between the tacit pair : 
 Upon dispute so seemingly ill-bred. 
 They seemed to feel that nothing could be said 
 With relevance ; so each, with different thought, 
 Did wait the issue they so strangely sought 
 
 Their call they both desired to end the same: 
 The one, that he might thus the victory claim ; 
 The other, that the hope, his soul had gained 
 Of having solved the problem, be sustained. 
 
PENATES. 63 
 
 Gabront, that he is right, 's inclined to doubt. 
 A glance, though, reassures and puts to rout 
 All thought that he may, at his journey's end, 
 Unearth a new and not an olden friend. 
 
 At length Gabront doth think to draw him out : 
 By questionings, to lead him round about ; 
 And cause him, not suspecting to divulge, 
 By careless speech, the ruse he doth indulge. 
 
 But here, a sudden interruption came : 
 A startled cry, a scarcely spoken name, 
 And, tracing out the glance of Robert's eye, 
 Upon the stream a boat he doth descry, 
 Where-in two ladies and a gent doth ride; 
 Or idly drift adown the tranquil tide. 
 
 But why that cry ? and why that troubled face ? — 
 
 That whispered name — " Grace Manfre !" — is it Grace ? 
 
 Yes, she it is : her merry voice we hear ; 
 
 And wonder she so mirthful should appear, 
 
 Who yester time so sad did seem, the while 
 
 Nor Josh nor young Burdette could cause a smile. 
 
 Slowly onward glides the boat : 
 Swiftly speed the horse and chaise. 
 
 Now at opposites they float. 
 
 While she, stooping, archly plays 
 
 With the rippling water, while 
 
 Paying jest with, playful smile. 
 
64 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 Swinging round a' curve, they hide 
 From their view the merry group. 
 
 Then doth Robert's manly pride 
 Rise, asserting him the dupe 
 
 Of a love for one whose heart 
 
 Can no lasting warmth impart. 
 
 Oh. the mingled pain and pleasure! 
 
 When our thoughts revert to one 
 Who, though still our heart's best treasure, 
 
 Hath, by something said or done, 
 [And how quick we such detect,] 
 Proved unworthy our respect ! 
 
 Love the culprit's case defends ; 
 
 Pride doth take the sterner part : 
 Not that Judas pride that tends 
 
 To betray the human heart 
 By asserting self-perfection, • 
 
 But a pride that claims inspection. 
 
 Such a pride arrests the soul 
 
 In its every act to find 
 Whe'er the action hath its goal 
 
 By a worthy purpose lined : 
 Whe'er the passion, thought, or act, 
 Can from self-esteem detract. 
 
 Lovest thou ? 'tis well 'tis so : 
 
 Let thy love no trifle move. 
 But, if not, be sure to know 
 
 That its object will not prove 
 
PENATES. 65 
 
 Quite unworthy thy devotion, 
 Fickle as the trackless ocean. 
 
 One week has passed : a week of pain and joy 
 To luckless, yet encouraged, Robert Roy. 
 
 To-day we board with him the flying train 
 That northward bound, and west, is soon to gain 
 A near approach to fair Wyoming, crowned 
 The Switzerland of Western Lands, and found 
 To far surpass [and what, indeed, does not 
 That is American ?] that famous spot 
 Whose scenery, quite as noted now as grand, 
 Promoted first the name of Switzerland. 
 
 As Robert steps aboard the train, we note 
 
 The presence, standing in a part remote, 
 
 Of one who watches secretly each move 
 
 That Robert makes ; as though he sought to prove, 
 
 By some unguarded act of his, or acts, 
 
 Some cherished supposition as to facts. 
 
 That face ! we've seen — Ah ! now we recollect. 
 The same dark frown of hatred we detect 
 As swept that face when seen by us before ; 
 Then entering as we left the rest'rant door. 
 
 With " All aboard ! " the bell begins to ring, 
 The wheels to move : the whole stupendous thing. 
 
66 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 With gentle motion, moves along the track, 
 
 While sounds its slow, but fast increasing clack; 
 
 Clack, clack; clack, clack — The platform sweeps from view, 
 
 And on it stands our friend of baleful hue : 
 
 This Robert sees and smiles, quite pleased to know 
 
 He leaves behind his only seeming foe. 
 
 Nor was it nought but seeming. They had met 
 Quite oft. In fact, at nearly every step 
 He'd felt that he was followed, and would turn 
 To see him pass from sight, or meet his stern, 
 Determined gaze. And once, when quite apart 
 From observation, he, with sudden start. 
 Had wheeled about, and, meeting face to face, 
 Had asked him why his footsteps he did trace 
 With such persistency. His answer came, 
 Replete with hatred, headed by that name 
 Which Robert met at well-nigh every turn, 
 And hailed with pleasure, since he did discern, 
 In each new repetition, newer test 
 That he a fact had found that would divest 
 The problem of all mystery. But now. 
 The sight of this most sullen, angry brow 
 Doth trouble him ; and he desires to know 
 The provocation that hath made it so. 
 
 ^' James Lee," the stranger hissed, while darker grew 
 The storm-cloud of his anger, " ask it you ? 
 You, who have basely, I have cause to know, 
 Betrayed a brother's trust, and proved a foe 
 To innocence and chastity ? O, fiend ! 
 The helpless innocent that on you leaned, 
 
PENATES. 67 
 
 To whom you promised all a brother's care, 
 My lost Louise — where is she, villain ! where ? " 
 
 While speaking he had placed his brawny hand 
 On Robert's shoulder. Now his fierce demand 
 Was emphasized by tightened grip, and shake 
 That would have made a knave or coward quake. 
 
 But Robert Roy was neither this nor that. 
 And met unflinchingly the look that sat 
 Upon his brow, and would have well become 
 The features of a Nemesis. But dumb 
 With this new revelation which, he knew. 
 But proved his former supposition true, 
 And moved by pity for a brother's grief, 
 To which he longed to offer some relief. 
 He gendy pushed aside the iron hand 
 That gripped his shoulder, but was on a stand 
 To know what best to say. To tell this man 
 The truth in full would seem to him a plan — 
 A coward's plan — to retribution shun ; 
 Yet this, he felt, was all that could be done. 
 
 The hope that by a straight, unbiassed tale 
 He might succeed, where otherwise he'd fail, 
 In carrying conviction, and might gain 
 A friend to council and perchance sustain, 
 By undisputed evidence, what he 
 Would have to prove in order to be free 
 From all suspicion, moved him to the choice 
 Of telling all, if he'd but hear his voice. 
 
68 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 *' Sir, I perceive," said Robert in a tone 
 
 Of even tenor, " that to still disown 
 
 The right to bear the name you've given me, 
 
 [In which you're not alone,] will only be 
 
 A painful repetition of dispute 
 
 As void of pleasure as it is of boot. 
 
 " And yet, in justice to myself and you, 
 I do assure you that I speak you true." 
 A sneer, that spoke his scorn and unbelief. 
 Conveyed his thought and plainly said " be brief. 
 
 " If you'll but hear me, I will tell you all 
 I know concerning him I've heard you call 
 James Lee. And truly, far too much I know 
 To wonder that he has in you a foe. 
 If — " Here, abrupt that heavy hand was laid 
 On Robert's arm, and further speech delayed. 
 
 Then, pointing to the ring on Robert's hand. 
 He instant made of him this fierce demand : 
 " O, coward ! knave ! I'll not believe your lie I 
 On me, how dare you such deception try ? 
 
 " And hast forgotten how that ring you gave 
 To me when rescued from a watery grave 
 By my endeavor ? Would to God that I 
 Had let you perish ! since you then could die 
 Without this stain upon your manhood, and 
 Without this other crime that 's in demand 
 From me ! the crime of taking noiu the life 
 That then I saved I unless, Louise vour wife, 
 
PENATES. 69 
 
 You love and cherish, as a husband should, 
 
 Her whom you chose, because so pure and good, 
 
 To be the play-thing of a passing mood. 
 
 *' Ah ! little dreamed I, when, in mock debate, 
 You on the joys of free-love would dilate, 
 That you'd a heart which sanctioned every word 
 Of that which I supposed you thought absurd ! " 
 
 He paused. When next he spoke his voice was low 
 And tremulous with feeling. " You must know, 
 Old friend and comrade, that I love you still ! 
 The thought of other days controls my will, 
 Or I would strike you where you stand. But now 
 Receive my pardon ; take a solemn vow 
 To do the right ; and let us be once more 
 The stalwart friends we were in days of yore ! " 
 
 " Your friend," said Robert, " I desire to be, 
 And will endeavor such to prove. For me, 
 No more is possible. I cannot claim 
 A former friendship with you in his name 
 Whose chance resemblance to myself doth make 
 It possible his friends should thus mistake 
 For one the other. Yet I cannot blame, 
 [Since rings, as well as faces, are the same, ] 
 Your doubt of my integrity ; and hope 
 That to your doubt you'll give the fullest scope, 
 And watch my movements till I prove to you 
 That what I've said is no more strange than true.'* 
 
70 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 And now, impatient of so long delay, 
 
 Young Robert turned, and would have walked away 
 
 But, hereupon, his arm the stranger took 
 
 To stay him ; then, with altered tone and look. 
 
 Told Robert, if his statement were a lie, 
 
 He'd best, without delay, prepare to die. 
 
 With this he wheeled and soon was lost to sight 
 
 Amid the shades of fast approaching night. 
 
 From what was said, 'tis clearly seen 
 That Roy had not inactive been, 
 But had so well improved his time 
 That, when he left for western clime. 
 He all the truth had ascertained. 
 And also had his ring regained. 
 
 The ring was pawned to pay expense 
 Of burial, and was rescued thence 
 By Robert who by chance had learned 
 Its whereabouts, and also earned 
 By writings, though but poorly paid, 
 The means that, now at length, had made 
 It possible this thing to do, 
 And still an onward course pursue. 
 
 That this ring was his own, and not 
 The ring that Psyche wore, he'd caught 
 From hearing said his double wore 
 A ring of such a cast, before 
 The time that he had missed his own 
 From off his finger. This, 'twas shown 
 
PENATES. 7T 
 
 By circumstance, had found its way, 
 [Though how no one would dare to say.] 
 To fair Des Moines upon the hand 
 Of her who, found upon the strand 
 Below the town, was proved to be 
 A former resident of G . 
 
 She thence, it seems, had come with one 
 
 Who had deserted her and gone 
 
 To — none knew where. Her landlord grew 
 
 Uneasy, and at length withdrew 
 
 From her the shelter of his roof; 
 
 And thenceforth all men stood aloof. 
 
 Strange it is that those who claim 
 
 To be Christ's disciples turn 
 From the erring in his name 
 
 Who doth o'er the erring yearn : 
 And whose pardon can alone 
 For their own misdeeds atone. 
 
 Claiming Christ to be their guide, 
 
 They no Christ-Hke mercy know ; 
 But will banish from their side 
 
 Those who any weakness show : 
 By their lack of Chri-tian grace, 
 Give for their return no space. 
 
 That 'tis well to censure such, 
 
 None can doubt : it makes them dread 
 
 Public sentiment so much, 
 As regards the marriage bed, 
 
72 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 That they strive this sin to shun, 
 So condemned by every one. 
 
 But the Christian should recall 
 Christ's reply ; and know 'tis true 
 
 That, if men had, one and all. 
 
 Looked to home before they threw, 
 
 Never had a scandal-stone, 
 
 Since the world began, been thrown. 
 
 He should also recollect 
 
 That 'twas Christ himself who said 
 To the one they did detect 
 
 In adultery, when had fled 
 Her accusers conscience' blow, 
 *' Nor do I condemn thee: go." 
 
 Christ says, " Go; and sin no more." 
 Christ's pretended followers say, 
 " Go ; nor darken more my door ! " 
 While with sneers they bar the way 
 To a wished return from shame, 
 To a loved and honored name. 
 
BOOK V. 
 
 MELPOMENE. 
 
 O wondrous muse ! whose melodies divine, 
 On snowy sheet, we strive in vain to Hne ; 
 Or with an ear imperfect strive in vain 
 Old bards to rival in poetic strain, 
 
 Spread thy youthful pinions wide : 
 
 Soar to realms as yet untried : 
 
 Speed to mounts, and shun the plain : 
 
 Sing to us of mountain fane, 
 Where the pews. To Lucre bow 
 
 Which we use. The knee, or plow 
 
 Will be free ! The fields, or e'en 
 
 What though we The alleys glean I 
 
 Silent, yet impressive, are 
 
 Sermons that no follies mar : 
 
 Such as towering cHff can tell, 
 
 Sturdy rock, or canon fell. 
 One speaks of God's omnipotence : one tells 
 Of human insignificance : one dwells 
 On omnipresent death, till awed we bow 
 On bended knee, to calculate the stretcJi from bed to brow I 
 
74 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 But as we peer adown the drear 
 And barren canon's side, 
 
 A hearty cheer doth greet our ear, 
 That echoes far and wide. 
 
 We scarce can tell from whence it fell, 
 
 For echo loudly rings : 
 Like tongue of bell, adown the dell 
 
 From side to side it springs. 
 
 But soon we see a group of three : 
 They swing their caps and cheer: 
 
 Their shout, in glee, the echoes free 
 Respond to, far and near. 
 
 They Hsten, till the latest thrill 
 
 Far up the canon dies ; 
 Then, with a will, a third doth fill 
 
 The air with quaint replies. 
 
 Hist! what noise is that we hear? 
 Some one surely draweth near. 
 Aye ! 'tis one we've seen before — 
 Robert Roy ! He bends him o'er. 
 Views the water far below, 
 Sees the trio, turns to go, 
 Then, in search of safe descent, 
 Nears again the fatal rent. 
 Fatal, for the bushes part; 
 Forth a shadowy form doth dart ; 
 Quick the hellish deed is done ! 
 Robert Roy to death has gone ! 
 
MELPOMENE. 75 
 
 " Falsing friend, to hell you go I " 
 " Hell you go ! " the rocks reply, 
 Then—" My God ! why did I so ? " 
 " Did I so ? " the echoes sigh. 
 
 And now, It pales 
 
 Behold With fear ! 
 
 His brow . He quails 
 
 Once bold I To hear 
 
 The horrowing thud 
 
 From depths below ! 
 It chills his blood 
 To feel — to know — 
 That he, henceforth, must bear within 
 The consciousness of such a sin I 
 
 He meditates in Nature's face to fly : 
 
 As Robert died, so too himself to die. 
 
 But old Self-love asserts herself too strong, 
 
 And Reason adds, " 'Twould be a double wrong ! " 
 
 Then Passion spoke: ''A loving maid doth wait!" 
 And Duty asks, " What then your sister's fate ? " 
 Then Self-respect, " You gave him but his own I " 
 " Go with him, then ; and face the Great Unknown \ 
 Darest thou do that? " his outraged Conscience cries. 
 " No, no ! not now !" his coward Heart replies : 
 " Let me first live to know myself forgiven — 
 By worthy deeds, to pave a road to heaven I " 
 
 An instant hand is laid upon his arm. 
 Alarmed he turns: nor lessens that alarm, 
 
76 BOOK FIFFH. 
 
 When, at his side, — Behold I the one whom he 
 Had hurled from time to meet eternity I 
 
 The same in stature — same in face and mien : 
 And yet, a close observer might have seen, 
 In this man's face, a lack of frankness such 
 As Robert's wore : while in its place " debauch " 
 Is plainly read. No matter, he is here ; 
 And smites the would-be murderer with fear: 
 
 A fear soon followed by a sweet relief, 
 
 When superstition changes to belief. 
 
 And he conceives kind Heaven to have decreed 
 
 That he from this so horrid crime be freed. 
 
 And now, behold ! the vengeful fires within 
 
 Are quenched entire by virtue of his sin. 
 
 With open arms he cries, " Thank God, you live ! " 
 
 With streaming eyes he murmurs, '' AVilt forgive ? 
 
 " Forgive the rashness of that moment, Lee. 
 I've lived, since then, an age of misery ! 
 An age 1 albeit 'twere scarce an hour ago, 
 Nor half so long, since to the depths below 
 Your form I hurled I It seemed I could not fly! 
 I longed — O, how I longed I — myself to die I 
 Escape the accusations from within, 
 And silence conscience by a two-fold sin ! " 
 
 He paused, and waited Lee's reply : 
 Who subtle thousjht : " He 's crazed or I 
 
MELPOMENE. 77 
 
 " Mistake his meaning. It would seem 
 That he imagines, or doth dream, 
 That from this height to depths below 
 He hurled me scarce an hour ago : 
 Nor could I blame the act if he 
 Had done so, since so wronged by me. 
 
 " Now, if this act I should deny. 
 What hinders it that he should try 
 [Old Nemesis once more aroused] 
 To do the deed he hath espoused. 
 
 '• But, if he think that he hath done 
 The deed, to him it will be one 
 With having done it. He will feel 
 Repentant, and his heart will steel 
 Against the calls of Nemesis : 
 While I, now duly warned by this. 
 Will strive a virtuous Hfe to live." 
 And so resolved, he said, " Forgive ? 
 Why, Geldon, it would seem that I 
 Should be the one to • pardon ' cry : 
 
 " For I have wronged you : wronged you so, 
 That, were I now a corpse below, 
 'Twould be no more than is my due ! 
 But God hath spared my life I and you — 
 You have been spared the inward sting 
 Of conscious guilt. If you can bring 
 Yourself to — No ! I will not ask 
 That you forget : that were a task 
 
78 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 Impossible ! But, Nels, forgive I 
 And let us both for heaven live I 
 
 "Ah, yes! for heaven, where now doth dwell 
 She whom — " '* Go on ! what would you tell ?' 
 
 " It just occurred to me that you 
 May not have heard. Ah, Nels, 'tis true 
 I've — that is — " Here the strong man wejn. 
 His nobler nature, which had slept 
 '1 ill now, is roused : he weeps her fate 
 Whose love he prized not till too late. 
 
 " Dost mean — My God ! Louise is dead ! 
 I thought that you — why, man, you said 
 That— Where? when died she? Tell me all V 
 
 •' I will : but come ; 'tis getting late : 
 Come, sup with me, the while I state 
 The case as 't did befall !" 
 
 Toward Lee's hotel they grieving wend their way, 
 While slowly wanes this sad, eventful day. 
 And there, in converse o'er untasted tea, 
 A tale, too common far, was told by Lee. 
 
 How he had learned to love the sweet Louise, 
 And by unfeigned devotion sought to please. 
 How well he had succeeded. How his thought 
 To wed, his father disapproved and sought 
 To overcome, by swearing, should he wed 
 That beggar girl who for her daily bread 
 Was forced to toil, he forthwith would with-hold 
 All means of sustenance. How he had told 
 
MELPOMENE. 79 
 
 His loved Louise, and then advanced the thought 
 That they might wed in secret. This was fraught 
 With such deceit that she withheld consent , 
 And sought with love expressed to be content. 
 
 Long hours in pleasant intercourse were passed : 
 And he, well read in fabled lore, at last 
 To full beUef in true-love's bond beguiled, 
 By logic false, this unsuspecting child. 
 
 He read to her of Venus, queen of hearts, 
 Who governs human passions and imparts 
 Each lasting flame : then taught her it would be 
 A sacrilege to combat Heaven's decree. 
 
 ALLEGORY PROPER. 
 
 And then, of Eros' love for Psyche read : 
 For Psyche whose unrivaled charms 'tis said 
 E'en Venus envied : who in jealous rage 
 Resolved upon a plan whereby to wage 
 A dire revenge upon the hapless maid. 
 So summoned Eros, god of love, and said : 
 
 " Go thou, my son, with golden dart inspire 
 This most presumptuous mortal with desire 
 For one whom all, with one accord, do ken 
 To be the most contemptible of men." 
 
 To do her bidding Eros, quite content, 
 Did hasten him, for day was well-nigh spent. 
 With quiver swung in careless grace athwart 
 His shoulder bare, and pinions plumed to start, 
 
BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 With promises the mischief dire to do, 
 From famed Olympus earthward Eros flew. 
 
 And as he neared the confines of that state 
 Where Psyche's sire in regal grandeur sate. 
 With full intent to do his mother's will, 
 And Psyche with unworthy dart to thrill, 
 He had selected from his quiver one 
 Deformed and blunt, and warmed it in the sun. 
 
 'Twas such a dart as, while 'twould warm the heart 
 And cause the blood to pulse in every part 
 With feverish madness, yet would leave a wound 
 To pride, for which a balm could ne'er be found. 
 
 Another dart, selected from a score 
 
 His quiver held, he in his bosom wore : 
 
 A dart so sharp, so straight, so shapely formed. 
 
 That it would grace whatever breast it warmed. 
 
 And this [how cruel love hath ever been ! ] 
 
 Awaits the most contemptible of men. 
 
 But note thou this : Dame Justice, who, we know, 
 Hath oft most justly been conceded slow, 
 Had timely been informed of this foul plot 
 And had her deputees upon the spot. 
 
 As Eros now the royal garden nears, 
 
 He, mirthful tones and rippling laughter, hears : 
 
 And then, himself invisible, he came 
 
 So near, he heard from one sweet Psyche's name ; 
 
MELPOMENE. 81 
 
 And, peering round the shrubs that intervene, 
 He there beholds a most bewitching scene. 
 
 A sparkling fount dolh heavenward send its spray^ 
 
 Which in descent reflects the sunset ray ; 
 
 And then, in artificial lake confined, 
 
 Doth seem for pleasure more than sight designed. 
 
 For there, quite innocent of prying eye, 
 
 The king's fair daughters with each other vie 
 
 In Naiad arts. As Eros, with bow bent 
 
 And dart prepared, forth from his covert went, 
 
 He chanced young Psyche's witching charms to note 
 
 More closely ; and so strangely was he smote 
 
 By her attractions, that he failed quite 
 
 To note the presence of the fairy wight 
 
 Who, crouching near where he would have to pass, 
 
 Was holding a colossal blade of grass 
 
 Athwart his pathway. Nearer still he draws : 
 
 Another step — Ah ! something bids him pause ! 
 
 With trembling hand his bow he now doth bend , 
 And in an instant more the dart will send, 
 To find a lodgement in the beauteous breast 
 Of Psyche, by no thought of ill distressed. 
 
 Oh ! will the gods such fiendish deeds allow ? 
 
 E'en so it seems. But no ! for even now 
 
 A shadowy form, by Eros' self unseen, 
 
 [By Psyche's self he so bewitched hath been] 
 
 Doth flit before, and with extended wing. 
 
 Made strong by direst need, doth clip the string. 
 
3 2 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 The arrow falls before him in the path ; 
 And he endeavors, though with feigned wrath, 
 To this procure, when, true to duty still, 
 The Httle elf doth trip him at his will. 
 
 He, stumbling, falls a prey to his own art : 
 The bosomed arrow pierces Eros' heart. 
 
 The raging flames of love at once ignite, 
 
 And Psyche to obtain were his delight. 
 
 So great his love, he would not flinch to move 
 
 Hell, earth and heaven, his love for her to prove I 
 
 At length arrives the chance he so desires : 
 The royal household for the night retires ; 
 And Eros, though the god of love is he. 
 Like any common swain, doth mount the tree 
 Beneath her window. At the serenade, 
 'Tis said that Eros sang while Orpheus played. 
 
 The sound of Eros' voice and Orpheus' lyre 
 Floats through the window, laden with desire ; 
 And quite unable to resist their charms, 
 Sweet Psyche soon reclines in Eros' arms. 
 
 He bears her to a grotto 'mid the clouds, 
 While every act the friendly darkness shrouds. 
 And there by arts of love he doth beguile 
 The fleeting moments, till on them doth smile 
 The first faint glimmer of approaching day, 
 When to her home the maid he doth convey. 
 
MELPOMENE. 83 
 
 Each night, returning as the night returns, 
 He bears her off: while in her bosom burns, 
 Not only love intense, but strong desire 
 To see the one that doth that love inspire. 
 
 Her sisters, jealous of her happy state. 
 Reproach her oft with having for a mate 
 Some hideous monster whom in darkness she 
 Embraces,, but from whom in light she'd flee. 
 
 She, fearing lest this horrid tale be true, 
 At length determines to obtain a view, 
 And while he sleeps, approaching with a light, 
 Removes his mask, the dusky hue of night. 
 
 She sees no gnome : no monster grim is there : 
 A god I a god, of all the gods most fair. 
 Most lovely ! Scarce can she believe her eyes, 
 So great her admiration and surprise. 
 
 And noAv, with mingled joy and fear, she bends 
 
 To reassure her senses, and attends 
 
 With closest scrutiny to every part. 
 
 He moves his lips I He speaks her name ! A start 
 
 Of glad surprise, and from her lamp descends 
 
 A drop of hery oil: which, as it blends 
 
 A scarlet with the whiteness of his arm, 
 
 Doth waken him. He, seeing Psyche's form 
 
 Above him bend, and in her hand the light, 
 
 Rebukes her doubt, then vanishes from sight. 
 
84 BOOK FIFTH, 
 
 Poor Psyche I all her joy has fled, and pain 
 And sorrow in her gentle bosom reign. 
 
 Forthwith she enters on a pilgrimage 
 In search of him whose presence doth assuage 
 Her sorrow ; and whose lightest \vord, if given 
 In proof of love, transports from earth to heaven. 
 
 She wanders on. Beneath a brazen sky, 
 Through lonely wilds, her aimless rovings lie. 
 At length, arrived beside a sparkling river, 
 Whose dancing waters onward glide forever, 
 She pauses on its grassy banks to rest, ' 
 By pain and sorrow, want and woe oppressed. 
 
 The liquid depths with gloomy thoughts are rife, 
 Suggesting that she put an end to life : 
 To that Hfe which, since not by Eros prized, 
 She knows to be e'en by herself despised. 
 
 Yet hope still lives within her troubled breast 
 E'en though, as yet, hers is a hopeless quest. 
 Nor has she yet found any food for hope ; 
 Which since had died, had she not given scope 
 The fullest to imagination's play, 
 In dreams by night, in thoughts the livelong day. 
 
 But at this moment she doth realize 
 How hopeless is the search, how great the prize 
 On which her heart is set. Discouraged quite, 
 Resolved to end her life, this being bright 
 
MELPOMENE. 85 
 
 Attempts to cast herself from bank of sod, 
 To die a victim to the river god. 
 
 But no ! Dame Nature will not hear to this, 
 That she who is her choicest work should kiss 
 The hand of Death ; and, to her bidding true, 
 The mystic river vanishes from view ; 
 The grassy bank extends its border wide, 
 And distant far the river is descried. 
 
 Determined still her hopeless life to end. 
 
 She toward the distant stream her course doth bend : 
 
 But as again the river's brink she nears, 
 
 Again the change is wrought : it disappears. 
 
 She still pursues, and still from her embrace 
 The river turns ; till, wearied by the chase. 
 She sits her down to mourn her cruel fate. 
 When, lo I she sits beside a palace gate. 
 
 Now hope revives. She thinks to find within 
 Her Eros, and forgiveness for her sin : 
 Or one to find to whom her love is known. 
 Who may inform her whither, he hath flown. 
 
 Ah, yes ! they know him : they describe his face, 
 His witching ways : but cannot help to trace 
 His where-abouts ; unless she find him where 
 Yon temple lifts its turrets high in air. 
 
 She journeys thither only to be told 
 
 That whom she seeks was there in days of old ; 
 
86 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 But that he since to other lands hath fled, 
 Unless indeed he be among the dead. 
 She smiles at this : she knows him well to be 
 Immortal, from the " King of Terrors " free. 
 
 So, being told where other temples are, 
 She journeys on : nor thinks she journeys far, 
 Since Hope, revived, doth sing her siren song 
 Which breathes of love: — wherein do visions throng 
 Of days to come, when love shall be the theme 
 To tinge her thought, give color to her dream. 
 
 At length, at Venus temple she arrives: 
 Who Psyche of her liberty deprives, 
 ■ And makes to toil like any common slave. 
 Till Psyche longs to rest within the grave. 
 
 Nor had her wish been long ungratified, 
 So great her tasks, so humbling to her pride, 
 Had not her loved, her long-sought Eros, who 
 In secret loved, in secret aided, too. 
 
 By Eros' aid she overcomes, at last, 
 The jealous rage of Venus. All the past 
 Is soon forgot : and Psyche, purified, 
 Immortal lives as Eros' happy bride. 
 
 Now Psyche (v'v^/y^) is the Greek for soul ; and so 
 
 This allegory tells how we below. 
 
 By passions and misfortunes purified, 
 
 Are fitted for true happiness beyond the Jordan's tide. 
 
MELPOMENE. 87 
 
 " By stories such," said Lee, " I won Louise 
 To my belief: and most this tale did please 
 Of Psyche. So when I had hushed her fears 
 By feigned certificate, wherein 't appears 
 That we united were by Heaven's decree, 
 I called her Psyche : Eros she called me. 
 And fled from home to dwell with whom she loved, 
 Not 'mid the clouds, but in a place removed. 
 Where we might in poetic dream indulge. 
 With none our secret union to divulge. 
 
 " At length comes stern reality to jar 
 Upon our senses, telling us we are 
 Not gods, but mortals, frail and prone to err : 
 For something unexpected doth occur. 
 
 " And thus it was : I had been out to see 
 My loved Louise who seemed that day to be 
 E'en more attached to me than e'er before : 
 So much so that, on parting at the door. 
 She said that, if my love for her should wane. 
 She, thus bereaved, would soon become insane. 
 
 " Assuring her my love would prove to be 
 As vast, as endless as eternity, 
 Upon her brow a parting kiss I pressed, 
 i\nd bade her, as she loved me, be distressed 
 By doubts no more : by doubts that wronged me, too. 
 
 '• At that she wept, and said she hoped that you 
 Might not be angered at the course we'd ta"en : 
 When I assured her, if it gave her pain 
 
88 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 # 
 With bond no other than our mutual love 
 
 To be my bride, that pain we would remove 
 
 At any cost. Then smiled she through her tears 
 
 And kissed me, saying she would have no fears, 
 
 If 'twere not that she knew you disapproved. 
 
 And, feeling wronged, would injure whom she loved. 
 
 *' We parted. Little dreamed I then 'twould be 
 For time, and, mayhap, for eternity. 
 
 " Yet so it proved : for, frightened at a train, • 
 My horse became unruly. 'Twas in vain 
 I sought to check him. Faster yet he flew ; 
 Till, with a sudden move, my form he threw 
 Adown a slight embankment. There I lay 
 
 . Unconscious ; and, until th' ensuing day, 
 Knew nothing. Even then the time was brief 
 Ere, to my pains, delirium brought relief 
 
 *' For two long weeks the fever raged, and then 
 I woke, one morn, to consciousness again : 
 A consciousness, the pain of limb wherein. 
 To equal grief of mind, did not begin. 
 
 " The thought of Psyche and her lonely state, 
 Her doubts confirmed, her self-predicted fate. 
 What might have been of future happiness. 
 What is to be of yet unknown distress, — 
 The one, a sacrifice at Mammon's shrine ; 
 The other. Heaven's penal-fraught design, — 
 All, all ! combined to render such distress, 
 I could not other than my sin confess. 
 
MELPOMENE. 89 
 
 " I have a sister : you have seen her, Nels : 
 To her I made confession. From whom else — 
 Ah, yes I from whom ! — could I have hoped to gain 
 Such magical relief from mental pain ? 
 
 " Her kind rebuke, yet sympathetic tear. 
 Her hopeful tone, designed my heart to cheer, 
 Her caution that I for the worst prepare, 
 Yet cherish hope, nor bow me to despair. 
 All seemed a balm to soothe my troubled breast, 
 By anxious thought and conscious guilt oppressed. 
 
 " Upon the morrow Kate, with grieving heart 
 But cheering word, did on a mission start : 
 In seeming, to relieve the needy poor ; 
 In truth, some news of Psyche to procure. 
 
 " But Psyche's self was no-where to be found : 
 Nor at the cot, nor 'mong the neighbors 'round, 
 Nor even with her foster-parents, where 
 My sister called in hope she might be there. 
 
 " What next to do we scarcely could decide. 
 We thought to advertise, but wished to hide, 
 If possible, our shame. With this intent, 
 We put a tried detective on the scent. 
 
 " One week had passed : two weeks of dread suspense, 
 While waiting with solicitude intense 
 For his return. I had, within this time, 
 Improved in health, till, at the merry chime, 
 
9o BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 Of vesper bells one Thursday eve, I went 
 
 With Kate to evening prayer. With good intent 
 
 I yielded to her wish to there attend, 
 
 And, contrite, seek in prayer the ' Sinner's Friend.' 
 
 " Sweet sister Kate I How earnestly, within 
 Those weeks, she sought to wean my soul from sin ! 
 But while my one great sin I did lament, 
 'Twas not that I of sinning did repent. 
 But that so great a happiness was lost : 
 'Twas not the sin, so much as sinning's cost. 
 
 " And yet my grief was not for self alone ; 
 'Twas Psyche's darkened life I did bemoan. 
 
 '■'■ At close of service, some one placed a hand 
 Upon my arm. I turned, and there did stand 
 The one I of all others wished to see : 
 Detective Bartwell, just returned to D . ' 
 
 " He told me of his searchings, far and near ; 
 Of, now and then, a clue that would appear 
 To lead him to success ; but which w^ould end 
 In disappointment. Hien his course did tend 
 
 Toward D ; had just arrived ; was passing by,. 
 
 When he perceived our carriage at the tie. 
 
 *' With heavy heart returned I home that night : 
 My thought, ' Why am I barred from doing right ? ' 
 No trustful spirit mine : no thought of prayer : 
 Rebellious, almost driven to despair, 
 
MELPOMENE. 91 
 
 I sought my couch. I passed a restless night, 
 Nor reahzed when dawned the morning light: 
 For troubled thought recalled to me again 
 Oblivion to each remorseful pain. 
 Entailed by soothing fancies of an over-burdened 
 
 brain." 
 
 Lee told him how, a week from then, 
 He w^oke to consciousness again : 
 A consciousness begetting pain 
 That seemed too great to well sustain. 
 
 For when his health had so returned 
 
 That sister Kate, who this discerned. 
 
 Did think it safe, to him she brought 
 
 A paper, in the which he thought 
 
 To drown his grief. But Kate, who knew 
 
 What there awaited him withdrew 
 
 To some convenient point, where she 
 
 Awaited what she knew would be, 
 
 At first, a great increase of grief; 
 
 But which would bring, at length, relief 
 
 From that uncertain state of mind 
 
 To which he long had been consigned. 
 
 Lee told with tears and sobbing breath. 
 
 Of what he thought to be the death 
 
 Of loved Louise : how she had died, 
 
 As he supposed, a suicide. 
 
 And been consigned to mother Earth. 
 
 With none to mourn who knew her worth : 
 
92 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 For she was buried ere he read 
 
 The notice. Mourning her as dead, 
 
 He sought the grave, on which he placed 
 
 A floral tribute ; then retraced 
 
 His homeward way with saddened heart. 
 
 And shortly after did depart 
 
 For western lands. 
 
 He paused. And now, 
 Did Geldon, with contracted brow. 
 Desire to know the reason why 
 He late had met with open lie 
 His earnest wish the truth to know. 
 
 But Lee denied this being so : 
 Then listened with attentive ear, 
 But quite incredulous, to hear 
 How at Des Moines himself did claim 
 To be one Robert Roy by name : 
 
 Although the ring he had upon 
 His finger at the time was one 
 That Lee had given Nels when he 
 Had rescued him from death ; but Lee 
 Had afterwards received from Nels, 
 Replacing it with something else ; 
 Since, as an heir-loom, it would be 
 Of greater worth, by far, to Lee. 
 
 This point Lee not alone denied, 
 But proved untrue. " Behold," he cried 
 With hands upheld, " the ring you name 
 I have not ; nor have had the same 
 
MELPOMENE. 9: 
 
 For months; since 'tis the ring I gave 
 To Pysche, now within her grave !" 
 
 Thus talked they, till there came to both 
 A vague suspicion of the truth : 
 Suspicion, sooth, for Geldon fraught 
 With this, a most unpleasant thought: 
 
 " I then, the innocent have slain !" 
 Which thought went raging through his brain, 
 Till, quite distraught, he rising said : 
 
 " My God I Lee, if this man be dead, 
 I want to know it. Come ! we'll go 
 And search with lights the depths below." 
 
 They went. They searched. And this they found 
 A crimson stain did mark the ground 
 Beneath the point where Robert stood 
 When Geldon did that deed of blood. 
 
 Nor was this all. They saw as well 
 
 A trail that reached from where he fell. 
 
 To where the foaming Yellowstone 
 
 Did wash the rocks. No more was known. 
 
 Morning dawned, and with it came 
 Lee's return to conscious shame : 
 Came to him remorseful thought 
 With the deepest anguish fraught. 
 
 On his brow he feels the stain 
 Marking him a double Cain : 
 
94 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 For he feels the sin is his 
 
 That did waken Nemesis ; 
 
 And he knows the sin his own 
 
 Whence poor Psyche's death hath grown. 
 
 Every moment, now, of Hfe 
 Hath for Lee an endless strife 
 With remorse that rankles deed 
 In his breast and murders sleep. 
 
 How the follies of our youth 
 
 Oft embitter every sup 
 From life's chalice: while, forsooth, 
 
 At the bottom of the cup, 
 We shall taste the dregs of life ; 
 
 And it rests with us to say 
 Whe'er with bitterest folly rife, 
 
 Or with sweetest virtue gay. 
 
 Not yet has Lee his harvest fully rept : 
 For other seed has ripened while he slept. 
 And wiien from fitful slumber he aw\akes, 
 Remorse a deeper hold upon him takes 
 On finding Geldon gone and hearing said. 
 He walked alone while yet the morn was red. 
 
 With heart prophetic, telling Geldon's bent. 
 
 He to the scene of Geldon's folly went, 
 
 And stooping, strained his eyes to pierce the gloom 
 
 That in the depths thus early findeth room : 
 
 But there he nothing sees, and nothing hears, 
 
 That seems a confirmation of his fears. 
 
MELPOMENE. 95 
 
 He gazes long; till Fancy, horrified 
 At thoughts indulged, now seemeth to divide 
 The horror-bristling gloom, and show to him 
 A ghastly face that, 'mid the shadows dim. 
 Doth seem a horrid likeness of his own : 
 This, as he gazes, fades with ghostly moan. 
 
 While yet with horror rooted to a spot. 
 
 With such most direful cogitations fraught, 
 
 He sees that fancy-painted face again, 
 
 And with it sees a face that he doth ken 
 
 To be of Geldon. Ghastly it doth seem, 
 
 While from a gaping wound the blood doth stream. 
 
 Unable longer to endure the sight, 
 
 He flies the place, while ghostlv shrieks affright. 
 
 If he but knew the truth of his surmise. 
 But knew how Geldon from his couch did rise 
 Ere rose the sun, and, wandering forth alone. 
 Did brood o'er grief and sin, till, reckless grown. 
 He sought the stage of yester's tragedy. 
 And dared the act, " In Nature's face to fly," 
 He thence would take the cue his part to play : 
 A part to flood the house with dire dismay I 
 
 But this he knew not for a certainty, 
 
 So left thus incomplete our tragedy ; 
 
 While, had this knowledge goaded to the leap, 
 
 He, then and there, his just deserts would reap. 
 
 As 'twas, he in his chamber wrestled long 
 
 With his desire to end a life of wrong. 
 
96 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 And what the power that held him from the act? 
 Was't this, that he the moral courage lacked ? 
 No, no ! 'twas his acquaintance with a life 
 That, with all Christian acts and graces rife, 
 Taught this to be. no act of moral strength, 
 But act of cowardice; for which, at length, 
 He would be called to answer. Sister Kate, 
 Whose modest Christian spirit he of late 
 Had witnessed, o'er his nature held such sway 
 That he from such an act was held at bay. 
 
 While yet he wrestles with the strong desire 
 To silence conscience by an act so dire, 
 He hears a hasty tread outside the door: 
 Attending this he hears the postman roar, 
 
 " Dispatch! dispatch for James K. Lee: make haste!' 
 He ope's the door and in his hand is placed 
 A telegram, within the which 'tis said, 
 
 " Come quickly ; or your fatJier will be dead I " 
 
 He hastens home where he doth find 
 His father still with conscious mind; 
 Who welcomes him with anxious thought 
 That with confession dire is fraught. 
 
 Lee, seated by his side, awaits 
 With tearful eye the tale he states. 
 But, as he enters on the task, 
 That Lee will write it he doth ask. 
 
 For none will doubt the truthfulness 
 Of what I, facing death, confess ; 
 
MELPOMENE. 97 
 
 And I desire no doubt to mar 
 The righting of a wrong, or bar 
 The truth from reaching every one 
 Therein concerned." 'Tvvas thus begun : 
 
 *' 'Tis not a parent's death you'll mourn, 
 When to my final rest I'm borne : 
 Yet God, who reads the heart, must know 
 A parent's love I've sought to show. 
 
 " And, though there is that I regret 
 In my control of you, I yet 
 Can guildess say I've sought to do 
 What I considered best for you. 
 
 *' Still you I've wronged, however loath: 
 For I have found, too late, the growth 
 Of happiness doth not depend 
 On worldly wealth, but heavenward trend. 
 
 " And then, your parents I have wronged: 
 For you by right to them belonged 
 Through all these years ; and, for their sake 
 Alone, I should confession make. 
 
 "Know, then, that you were born in York, 
 Of parents poor, but hard at work 
 Endeavoring to secure a home 
 Where they might, in the time to com© 
 Enjoy as much of tranquil rest 
 And honest toil as might seem best 
 
98 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 To God: and where their children might 
 Be taught the joy of doing right, 
 For love of right, and learn to fear 
 And love the God they did revere. 
 
 '* Your mother I remember well. 
 I knew her — aye ! and felt the spell 
 Her presence ever bore for me — 
 Ere she or I was wed. But she 
 Was poor, as goes the world, so I, 
 An heir to wealth, would pass her by; 
 Or worse, would pluck this humble flower, 
 To wear it next the heart an hour ; 
 Then, when had fled its nectared sweet, 
 Would trample it beneath my feet. 
 
 " But when with purpose such I deigned 
 To stoop, and love undying feigned, 
 I found that, by some magic power, 
 What I had deemed a lowiy flower 
 Was now a stately palm : while 1, 
 A foul, licentious worm, did lie 
 Beneath, and strive to gnaw in twain 
 The root that did the palm sustain. 
 
 "Indignant, I revenge did vow: 
 But found no means, nor where, nor how. 
 Till, after years of waiting, I 
 A young and tender sprout descry : 
 
 "Then, crawling near, I undertake 
 The sprout from parent stem to break, 
 
MELPOMENE. 99 
 
 And in its place ingraft a dead 
 
 And withered twig. 'Twas done. 'Tis said 
 
 They never doubted that the child 
 
 They found within the forest wild, 
 
 A mangled corpse, was theirs. Indeed, 
 
 Why should they, since I took the heed 
 
 To. change each article of dress 
 
 That they the truth might never guess. 
 
 " Yes, all I changed ; except a ring 
 To which the little child did cling 
 Tenaciously. 'Twas large in size, 
 [The same, in fact, that you so prize,] 
 And was suspended from the neck 
 By silken cord: and I, to check 
 Your crying, let you still retain 
 The ring. I did not long remain 
 In York, but moved to Iowa, 
 Where I have lived, from day to day 
 A prey to conscious guilt. And now, 
 The end — is — near ! Upon — my— brow 
 I feel — the chilling — touch — of Death, 
 And — shorter — grows — my — wasting — breath !" 
 
 Exhausted quite, he paused : but soon 
 Was heard to say in calmer tone : 
 
 • Your father's name was William Roy. 
 I heard he moved to IlHnois, 
 And afterward to Iowa : 
 But where-about I — cannot — sav." 
 
loo BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 Again he paused, with bated breath 
 That showed the near approach of death ; 
 And then, by death appalled, did say : 
 *' May God have mercy ! Katy, pray ! 
 
 ♦' Oh, Katy ! Call — my — Kate — to — me! 
 Art — here — my — child ? Oh, let — me — see — 
 My — child — once — more !" " Here, father !" said 
 The tearful Kate. '^ Too— late !" * * He 's dead. 
 
 ** Too late ! O, God ! for dying lips 
 What fearful words !" says Kate: then trips, 
 And falls ere Lee can reach her side. 
 When lifted, lo ! a crimson tide 
 From mouth and nostril flows ! Then Lee, 
 Her head low resting on his knee. 
 With kerchief wipes away the flow, 
 And, frantic, calls on her to show 
 Some sign of life ere breaks in twain 
 His aching heart. She doth remain 
 As limp and motionless and while 
 As though in death. Her form so light, 
 So Hfeless, Lee doth lift and place 
 In near reclining chair. A trace 
 Of life is seen, so soon to end 
 In death: but, hopeful, Lee doth send 
 A summoned servant quick to bring 
 The doctor's aid. He then doth cling 
 To dying Kate and, wild, implore 
 His Kate to speak to him once more. 
 
MELPOMENE. loi 
 
 In such a crisis he doth find ' 
 The true bent of his heart and mind, 
 And cries: " O, spare her, God above ! 
 'Tis Kate, not Psyche, whom I love ! 
 
 '• I swear, if Kate be spared to me, 
 To consecrate my all to thee : 
 But, if in death she soon doth lie, 
 I swear by mine own hand to die 
 Here at her feet !" Approaching Death 
 Stays not his course : and Katy's breath 
 Doth shorter grow, till in despair 
 He kneels before her, dying there ; 
 While at his brow the pistol's gleam 
 Enhances much the tragic scene. 
 
 And now, as Kate with gasping breath expires, 
 Tames Lee to death resigns himself, and fires ! 
 
BOOK VI 
 
 THALIA. 
 
 Oh, droll Thalia, pay we court to thee, 
 
 Or ere we tire of grave Melpomene : 
 
 On whom we've gazed, till friends and foes declare 
 
 Our face an appetizer, strangely rare ! 
 
 Some say, " Surely such sad sighs 
 
 Seem so surly, sweet Sal shies. 
 
 Sal says she should shift such style : 
 
 Snich sighs shirking, she should smile. 
 Wherefore we The Bernhardt smile, 
 
 Wish to be To read the while 
 
 Wed to thee : ' The comic style 
 
 Whence to see That did beguile 
 
 Such as read, in ancient time, 
 
 Stories thou hast put to rhyme : 
 
 Spiced with wit, in satire's slime 
 
 Steeped, or sweet with humor's chime. 
 Or whether we successful prove, or no, 
 Our aim is, to our readers, here to show 
 Odd freaks and frolics, mingled with the woe 
 Our pen describes: for, spite of fate, the sentenced cock 
 will crow. 
 
THALIA. 103 
 
 That mammoth spider, massive sun, 
 His work diurnal hath begun: 
 For issuing- from behind his serene, 
 Where he hath hid since yester-e"en, 
 He weaves a web of golden light, 
 So fine its threads elude the sight : 
 Each thread, in fact, is spun so fine 
 Its shade requires a minus sign. 
 
 Tarantula, with eye of fire. 
 While creeping higher still, and higher, 
 Delights to view his wide-spread net 
 And- gloat o'er captive worlds that fret 
 And buzz and twist like monstrous flies, 
 Entrapped by " cobwebs in the skies." 
 
 And Oh, Thalia ! what if v/e. 
 Earth's parasiies, should chance to be, 
 While lightly jesting, startled by 
 The sudden rush, athwart the sky. 
 Of cleansing brush, applied with vim 
 By her who keeps the Universe in trim ! 
 
 How the wanton jest would die ! 
 From the lips the color fly ! 
 While the wildly staring eye 
 Would be fixed upon the sky ! 
 
 But, forbear ! O gentle muse ; 
 Nor thy magic power abuse : 
 Not with horrors such infuse 
 Those who brighter musings choose. 
 
104 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 Tell us how the golden light 
 Of the orient chased the night, 
 Sombre hued, from Psyche's sight, 
 As she ope'd her eyes in fright. 
 
 Ope'd them, lit with reason's flame, 
 Wondering greatly how she came 
 To be listening to a name 
 That recalled her grief and shame. 
 
 'Twas a name she thought was known 
 To herself and him, alone, 
 Who had claimed her as his own 
 Briefly ; then had basely flown. 
 
 Should she ever see again 
 Him to whom was due the pain 
 Of an over-burdened brain ? 
 Love for whom she did retain, 
 Notwithstanding his disdain 
 And indifference to the stain 
 She must bear, nor e'en complain, 
 Since complaint would be but vain. 
 
 Such the thoughts that name recalls : 
 Then she views her chamber walls. 
 And their strangeness so appalls, 
 That her cry to whisper falls. 
 
 Then again that name she hears, 
 And her interest drowns her fears 
 
THALIA. 105 
 
 For the time ; since it appears 
 He who speaks is moved to tears. 
 
 '* Aunty, do you think that she, 
 Psyche, e'er would care for me, 
 If her clouded mind should be 
 Ever from this bondage free ? 
 
 ♦• Do you ?" " Why, Jack, I declare ! 
 , I'm surprised ! I — why — there, there ! 
 Don't you cry : I would n't care I 
 You're too young such thoughts to share.'* 
 
 He too young, at four and ten ! 
 With a heart as prone to ken 
 True love, as the hearts of men, 
 Twice his age, hath ever been ! 
 
 'Tis too much for Jack to bear. 
 Rushing forth, he cares not where. 
 He has reached the gate, when — " There ! 
 Oh, my stars ! but won't she stare !" 
 
 On a tap at Psyche's door, 
 Something never heard before, 
 Rachel has but crossed the floor. 
 When she hears the whispered roar, 
 
 " Rob's a comin' : sure as guns !" 
 Swift she to the window runs, 
 Where she sees her smoking buns 
 Disappearing. As he shuns 
 
io6 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 Rachel's grasp, Jack bastes to meet 
 Those who journey up the street, 
 Thinking cousin Rob to greet. 
 But, imagine bis defeat, 
 
 When two Roberts meet his gaze: 
 Each, with proffered hand, displays 
 Friendly greeting, and conveys, 
 By bis words, a perfect maze. 
 
 Jack, bewildered, steps aside : 
 Laughing, they, with measured stride, 
 Pass him by, awhile they chide 
 Cousin Jack's unwonted pride. 
 
 Now the mother sees her boy, 
 Knows 'tis he — 'tis Robert Roy — 
 And, with all a mother's joy. 
 Winged haste she doth employ. 
 
 Soon, to Robert's manly breast, 
 She by loving arms is pressed. 
 When, from one who seems distressed, 
 Hears she this most strange request : 
 
 '• Mother, may I have a part 
 Of the love you bring to mart 
 In your richly laden heart ?" 
 With surprise occasioned start, 
 
 Rachel turns ; and there doth stand 
 Robert with extended hand. 
 
THALIA. 107 
 
 Wonder-wide her eyes expand : 
 For she sees his features bland 
 
 Bend above her, and a smile 
 Plays about his lips the while 
 Arms embrace in true-love style: 
 But his eye betrayeth guile. 
 
 She from his embrace withdraws : 
 Then ensues a painful pausef 
 While she seeks to know the cause 
 Of this freak of Nature's laws. 
 
 At this moment doth appear, 
 In the cottage doorway near, 
 One whose look of grief and fear 
 Melts to one of wondrous cheer. 
 
 At the sight of Psyche's face, 
 In the look of one we trace 
 Strong emotions, and his place 
 In the farce he fails to grace. 
 
 This, at once, the other sees, 
 And by tacit sign agrees 
 To unmask : and, set at ease 
 Lee doth haste to greet Louise. 
 
 What their feelings, none may know : 
 Since the pen of e'en a Stowe, 
 Or a Holmes, would fail to show 
 Soul-tints of so rich a glow I 
 
io8 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 When Jack beheld the turn affairs were taking, 
 
 He watched with jealous eye the form of Lee, 
 Till sure his own impassioned heart was breaking, 
 
 As Psyche on his bosom he did see, 
 He turned and fled, nor waited Robert's greeting. 
 
 Who with considerate kindness called to him; 
 And, fearing in his present state a meeting 
 
 With any, sought the forest shadows dim. 
 
 That Jack was not sincere in his affection 
 
 For Psyche, who of us will dare to say. 
 When we remember our own deep dejection 
 
 And broken heart, as oft, in boyhood's day. 
 Our youthful heart-strings felt the touch of Cupid, 
 
 In some fair maiden form, upon them laid. 
 And afterward were told she thought us stupid, 
 
 Or worse, beheld a preference displayed 
 For some one else : for someone not so freckled, 
 
 Or not so bashful as our awkward self. 
 
 And how we've wished that we were not so speckled ; 
 
 And dreamed of vanished specks and gathered pelf, 
 Till, youthful hopes reviving, sorrow vanished ; 
 
 And we e'en looked with sympathetic eye 
 Upon our rival, who in thought was banished 
 
 From our ideal world, to grieve and die. 
 
 And what a world ! a world by magic lighted, 
 By true-love warmed, by beauty's self bedecked. 
 
 By maid more lovely trod than she who slighted 
 Our young affection, who in thought we wrecked 
 
THALIA. 109 
 
 By slighting hers in turn : when, to us kneeling, 
 With pleading eye she humbly sought our own ; 
 
 And, to our former love for her appealing, 
 Did seek to move our regal heart of stone. 
 
 Ah, boyhood, thou hast fled ! and now our dreaming, 
 
 By judgment tempered, and experience. 
 Hath lost its glow of realistic seeming, 
 
 And hence its power our spirits to enhance. 
 
 The clouds of riiid-day lack the beauteous tinting 
 That marked the same when seen at matin-time.; 
 
 But through the clouds of evening see we glinting 
 The beauties of that near celestial clime. 
 
 Now to our story. Jack, as we were saying, 
 O'ercome by jealous rage and boyish grief, 
 
 Amid the shadows of the forest straying. 
 Did seek in fancy-painting for relief. 
 
 At length he found beside the forest brooklet. 
 
 That here in sullen silence held its way. 
 As though in sympathy, a grassy nooklet, 
 
 And sat him down amid its shadows gray. 
 
 As there he sat and brooded o'er the present, 
 
 Ere yet gay Fancy woke to dreamy life, 
 His thoughts were anything but good and pleasant. 
 
 Reverting ever-more to war and strife. 
 
 Before him there did flit, in vivid seeming. 
 The Shakspearean " dagger of the mind," 
 
no BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 Inviting him, by its revengeful gleaming, 
 To bloody act, with direst sequence lined. 
 
 An invitation which a young peruser 
 
 Of tragic trash and boy-heroic creed 
 Will oft accept ; nor know himself the loser, 
 
 Until he reaps the harvest of misdeed. 
 
 While drowned in a sea of meditation, 
 
 He suddenly was brought again to life 
 By hearing two in earnest conversation, 
 
 And caught the scattered words ''love — madly — wifeV 
 
 The one addressed now speaks ; and by attention 
 The closest, Jack both hears and knows the voice 
 
 As that of cousin Grace. " But did you mention 
 To papa, silly boy, your present choice ? " 
 
 " I did : and to our union he consented, 
 
 And e'en expressed a wish for my success. 
 Oh, darling, be thou with my love contented 
 
 [Thou'lt learn to love in time] and say me ' yes I ' " 
 
 There soon ensued such scuffling — sobbing — cooing, 
 As follows welcome answers : then a string 
 
 Of epithets, too sweet for ought but wooing, 
 When rankles deepest wanton Cupid's sting. 
 
 All this within a rod of Jack occurring. 
 
 Hid by the veil of shrubbery between. 
 His boyish heart with interest was stirring : 
 
 But, moved by fear, he crept away unseen. 
 
THALIA. Ill 
 
 Robert, being unacquainted 
 
 With the turn affairs have taken, 
 Thinks of her he loves as sainted : 
 
 With his love for her unshaken 
 Stroles he forth to seek her side, 
 Claim her as his promised bride. 
 
 Just one month 'twill be to-morrow, 
 Since, those burdened notes receiving, 
 
 He had first perceived the sorrow 
 That had proved a source of grieving 
 
 To himself and friends as well, 
 
 Such as few, indeed, can tell. 
 
 What a month of frenzied madness ! 
 
 Month of pain and toil and worry ! 
 And with what refreshing gladness 
 
 It had closed ! To homeward hurry, 
 With the proof he long had sought, 
 Was with joy the deepest fraught. 
 
 But a sorrow still is waiting. 
 
 He the little brook is nearing, 
 While in thought he is debating 
 
 Whe'er the good or ill appearing 
 To result is greatest, when 
 Jack appears to him again. 
 
 With a sign for him to follow, 
 
 Jack, with quite indignant bearing, 
 Speeds along the little hollow 
 
 Where the brook doth glide ; and, wearing 
 
112 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 On his face a weighty look, 
 Nears again the httle nook. 
 
 Robert would to Jack have spoken — 
 Asked of caution such the reason, 
 
 Had not Jack, by finger token. 
 Hushed his utterance in season. 
 
 As it is, to please the boy, 
 
 He doth greatest care employ. 
 
 'Gainst his lips his finger pressing. 
 Jack desires that he should listen. 
 
 Hearing voices, he, now guessing 
 All, while eyes indignant glisten, 
 
 Starts to leave the wrongful place, 
 
 When he hears the voice of Grace. 
 
 Tender words he hears, and loving : 
 Then, a manly voice, replying, 
 
 To his burdened soul is proving 
 That the love, on which relying. 
 
 He hath many dangers faced, 
 
 Hath by other been displaced. 
 
 Yet the hope, he is mistaken. 
 
 Lures his lagging feet, on leaving, 
 
 Toward her home. Will he awaken 
 Presently, to find this grieving 
 
 But the shadow of a dream ? 
 
 So unreal it doth seem ! 
 
THALIA. IJ3 
 
 Now there comes to mind the boating 
 
 On Des Moines' pygmean river, 
 When, adown the river floating. 
 
 He had seen her face a quiver 
 With, for her, untimely mirth: 
 Then his hope evinces dearth. 
 
 At length he nears the house. 'Tis silent all ; 
 And, of his hope, doth seem the funeral pall. 
 He enters unannounced. The dinner hour 
 Is fast approaching. " Aunty 's in the flour. 
 You bet I" said Jack, who, silent until now. 
 Had followed on with thought to hear " the row " 
 He thought must follow, when his cousin Grace 
 Should meet her quondam lover face to face. 
 
 Aunt Jane receives him with a gracious smack, 
 That of old-fashioned welcome shows no lack ; 
 And, saying Grace is rambling in the grove. 
 She pleads a dinner burning on the stove ; 
 Then with a few brief questions leaves him there. 
 Enjoying, as she thinks, her easy chair 
 Within the cozy parlor. But his thought 
 Too much with love's inconstancy is fraught. 
 
 At length he sees Miss Grace, without escort. 
 
 Returning, as he thinks, from love's resort. 
 
 He steels his heart no signs of love to show. 
 
 That she might ne'er his disappointment know, 
 
 Nor shrink from an avowal of the truth 
 
 From any feeling, toward himself, of ruth. ^ 
 
114 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 He sees her now with eager step draw near ; 
 And finds it hard to think that look of cheer 
 Occasioned by event that soon must part 
 From her, for aye, his own most loyal heart. 
 
 He once had thought that such event would be 
 To her, as him, a source of misery. 
 
 He hears her step re-echo through the hall. 
 The Old love, pent within, doth loudly call 
 For recognition : and, by instinct moved, 
 He, rising, takes a step by pride reproved. 
 
 He nears the door, his face with love aglow: 
 A love he cannot master, though he know 
 Its object be unworthy. Now he hears 
 Her fast retreating footstep which appears 
 To lead her toward the kitchen. Instant, then, 
 His manner changes : he resumes, again, 
 Unfelt indifference, the easy chair. 
 And, o'er the lawn, his fixed and aimless stare. 
 
 He, lost in thought, hears not the opening door. 
 
 Nor gentle tread athwart the matted floor : 
 
 But soon, in darkness, feels the quaint surprise 
 
 Of playful pressure on his closed eyes ; 
 
 And then, with bounding heart, the touch doth feel 
 
 Of loving lips that, from his own, do steal 
 
 An amorous kiss. He speaks the name of Grace 
 
 With doubting heart : a doubt that soon gi'es place 
 
 To soothing trust, as, sitting face to face, 
 
 Tliey, in each glance, the olden love-light trace. 
 
THALIA. 115 
 
 At length, there comes to him the recollection 
 
 Of smiles that on another she bestowed, 
 At time when, if her love would bear inspection 
 
 All smiling had been crushed beneath the load 
 Of newest sorrow. He, with kind intention, 
 
 To save her feelings hides the doubt indulged ; 
 But puts upon the rack his slow invention 
 
 To find how best the truth may be divulged. 
 
 Although the doubt is, in her presence, shaken, 
 
 He knows an explanation will be best ; 
 Lest, in her absence, it once more awaken, 
 
 The gorgon-head that turns to stone love's zest. 
 
 He may have seen some one his Grace resembling : 
 His own experience tells him this may be ; 
 
 And yet, 'tis so improbable, he, trembling 
 
 Through fear of doubt confirmed, says pleasantly : 
 
 *' How joyed you, Grace, your visit lately taken 
 
 To fair Des Moines?" " Not well!" is her reply. 
 
 "My fondest hopes were, then, too newly shaken: 
 Besides, how could I joy and you not by !" 
 
 Her loving arms around his neck are clinging, 
 
 Her gentle head upon his bosom rests ; 
 And Love, within, her sweetest song is singing, 
 
 Yet Doubt doth make a discord he detests. 
 
 The thought, " 'twas her I saw !" still further leading, 
 He asks : " Who your companions that first day 
 
ii6 BOOK SIXTH, 
 
 When boating ?" In her glance her wonder reading, 
 He waits to hear what she to this may say. 
 
 " My cousin Ethel and — But you are ailing ! 
 
 What is it, Robert ?" Asks the gentle Grace. 
 And now the truth, howe'er unwelcome, hailing, 
 He, restless, strides the floor with bloodless face. 
 
 At length he turns to Grace with lips atremble. 
 And says : " One other question I would ask ! 
 
 Who your companion in your morning ramble ?" 
 He, now, no longer seeks his doubt to mask. 
 
 She, plainly now his state of mjnd discerning, 
 Resolves to punish, feeding still his doubt : 
 
 And, recklessly all consequences spurning. 
 Refused to answer save by mimic pout. 
 
 And Robert, full convinced of her deception. 
 
 And able nought but coquetry to see 
 As cause of double deahng, seems a Neptune 
 
 That, wrathful, rides the Sea of Jealousy. 
 
 Or else, as Juno seems the scornful Grace : 
 
 As Jupiter, we in his features trace 
 
 The storm-cloud ; from his eye the lightnings flash ; 
 
 And in his tones, we hear the thunder's crash ! 
 
 While yet they do enact this tragic scene. 
 The head of one, concealed behind the serene, 
 Appears in view : a pair of roguish eyes 
 Doth twinkle, as do stars that gem the skies. 
 
THALIA. 117 
 
 Or, peering through the rifted nimbus-cloud, 
 Do loop the folds of Nature's somber shroud. 
 
 Then Jack from sense of duty, — roguish lad, — 
 Convinced to be discovered thus were bad. 
 Reached forth a hand and, touching Grace's arm, 
 Loud whispered, to be heard above the storm, 
 " Say! cousin Ethel 's comin' with her beau. 
 I thought as may be you would want to know." 
 
 Then Grace with dignity arose and said, 
 [While she indignant tossed her queenly head,] 
 " Your tragic airs, sir, please to lay aside. 
 And wait a fitter time my faults to chide. 
 My friends approach : and I should much detest 
 To have you thought of temper such possessed." 
 
 He paused. He, wondering, looked at Grace: and then 
 He turned as though to leave the room. But when 
 Miss Grace observed his motion to retire. 
 She said: " Wait, Robert ! I so much desire 
 To introduce my friends to you !" But no ! 
 Ashamed to stay, he seemed resolved to go. 
 
 But ere he reached the door, 'twas open thrown ; 
 And, bounding m, came one to him unknown. 
 In form and bearing, 'twas a second Grace : . . 
 
 In feature, too, the likeness you could trace. 
 
 *' My cousin, Ethel Moreland, Mr. Roy. 
 And, Ethel, this is Robert. Wish you joy 
 
ii8 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 Of your acquaintance !" Words they interchange 
 Of mutual pleasure ; when, a fact most strange, 
 Young Robert seems to hear the voice of Grace ! 
 And when she, in his puzzled look, doth trace 
 His wonderment, a flood of mirthful joy 
 Again reminds of Grace. Then Robert Roy, 
 Ashamed yet pleased, aside to Grace doth say, 
 " I much regret the doubts indulged to-day ! • 
 
 " Can you forgive me, darling?" Who can doubt, 
 Although her answer be a mimic pout. 
 That she, when told the truth in full, was moved 
 To love more deeply : since his doubt but proved 
 With how sincere a heart impassioned Robert loved ! 
 
 Returning to the scene of tragedy. 
 We now will seek our readers' minds to free 
 From just misapprehension that we claim 
 To raise the dead by calHng them by name. 
 
 The day of miracles is past: but then. 
 Strange things occur among the sons of men. 
 And strange it is that ere the pistol shot 
 Could pierce the brain that, to a frenzy fraught 
 By grief o'erwhelming, sought by death to still 
 Its throbbing pulse, there came, to thwart its will, 
 A timely blow that turned the murderous hand 
 From purpose dire. Then Geldon doth command 
 
THALIA. 119 
 
 The would-be suicide to lift the eye 
 
 And note the mercies of the Lord Most High. 
 
 Obeying, he beholds whom he had thought 
 
 A dying Kate, recalled by pistol shot 
 
 From fainting fit : while by her side doth stand 
 
 An alter ego who, with gentle hand. 
 
 Administers to Kate a cooling draught 
 
 Of water, that with eagerness is quaffed. 
 
 Impossible the effort to portray 
 The scene that follows! Joy, subdued, not gay, 
 [Since in the presence dire of Death they stand. 
 Compelled to own his sway o'er sea and land] 
 Doth form the back-ground of a picture, where 
 Are ranged, to form a harmony most rare. 
 Faith, Hope and Love, those heavenly Graces who 
 Are sent to men their sufferings to subdue. 
 
 And now, at table Robert, by request. 
 
 Relates to them his strange escape from death. 
 
 How, when from lofty height he felt him thrown, 
 
 Instinctively he grasped at every stone 
 
 Projecting from the cliff, and thus did break 
 
 To some extent his fall: although to take 
 
 A lasting hold impossible he found, 
 
 Till touched, at length, his feet the solid ground. 
 
 Not daring first to cast a downward glance, 
 Quite sure the waters far below him dance, 
 And that, perchance, the rock on which he stands 
 No larger is than his expanded hands. 
 
I20 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 He glances up, and far above him sees, 
 As brush appearing, known gigantic trees. 
 
 But soon he ventures oti a downward glance. 
 Full nerved to meet his fate whate'er may chance. 
 Below he sees the earth, with gaping jaw. 
 Prepare his entrance to her hungry maw : 
 
 While on a narrow ledge his feet do rest. 
 No wder there than by his feet is pressed ; 
 But widening toward the right, till several feet 
 Of level rock his eager glances greet. 
 
 With caution to its welcome lap he moves : 
 But, for his nerves, too great his peril proves. 
 He sinks exhausted on the narrow ledge, 
 And lies unconscious on the very edge 
 Of " many fathoms depth of nether air;" 
 Nor wakes to hfe ere rest the night shades there. 
 
 E'en then he wakes a vicious growl to hear, 
 And glaring eyes to see, that on him peer. 
 From out the gathering gloom, hke coals of fire : 
 And soon he thinks to know a grizzly's ire. 
 
 The struggle that ensued we'll not describe : 
 
 But say that Bruin freely did imbibe 
 
 Of lead and steel a goodly potion, then 
 
 Went tumbling to the bottom of the glen. 
 
 "VMiat then became of him they never knew. 
 
 Not dead, 'tis thought, he dragged himself from view 
 
THALIA. 121 
 
 Now Bruin's presence there, to Robert, gave 
 Assurance of a means himself to save: 
 For there must be a path to upper air, 
 Or how account for Bruin's being there. 
 
 Thus late, the darkness will no seach permit : 
 Upon the ledge, till morning, he must sit. 
 
 Exhausted, bruised and sore, he sank to sleep, 
 Nor waked till down the western cliff did creep 
 The welcome light of day. The darkness still 
 Each cranny of his rocky perch doth fill : 
 
 But, glancing up, he sees the light of day. 
 Yet sees as well what thrills him with dismay ! 
 For o'er the edge of direful precipice 
 A being leaps, the hand of Death to kiss I 
 
 Though pygmied seeming, at that lofty height, 
 [To Robert known by instinct, not by sight,] 
 The noble lad did nerve himself to save 
 His would-be Cain from suicidal grave. 
 
 On I on he comes I From rock to rock he bounds 
 In helpless haste I while all the vale resounds 
 With thuds the loosened rocks, in their descent. 
 Do make, on downward inclination bent I 
 
 Head-foremost falling on the rocky ledge 
 Where Robert stood, he dangled o'er the edge: 
 And soon had made the plunge to depths below. 
 Had Robert failed his manly strength to show 
 
122 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 By grasping firm his body dangling there, 
 At risk of plunging into nether air 
 Himself. At length, a firmer footing gained, 
 He found that scarce a sign of life remained. 
 
 An ugly gash across his face was seen, 
 
 Inflicted by some rock with corner keen 
 
 "Gainst which he struck. That he to consciousness 
 
 Returned, his presence fitly doth express. 
 
 While yet they w^aited for increase of light, 
 [So long at such at depth doth linger night,] 
 A rock came tumbling from some point above. 
 And seemed to them a presence there to prove. 
 
 Then Robert, with his face upturned, did see, 
 It seemed, a person peering down, -Twas Lee. 
 Uncertain, Robert told what he had seen. 
 And Geldon, staggering to his feet, did lean 
 On Robert, while they each with upturned face 
 Did gaze. 'Twas then that Lee had fled the place. 
 
 They call to him : their voices reach his ear ; 
 But to his guilt they ghostly shrieks appear. 
 
 As light grew on a pace, they found 
 Old Bruin's path, which, winding round 
 A bend and through a crevice, led, 
 By soft ascent, to cragged head 
 Of cliff, some distance from that spot 
 With such unpleasant memories fraught. 
 
THALIA. 12. 
 
 They found that Lee had gone, and where, 
 And why : and quickly journeyed there, 
 Arriving just in time to save 
 James Lee from suicidal grave. 
 
 A little yet remains to tell. 
 Comparing notes the mists dispel, 
 Revealing Lee as Robert's twin. 
 To them the rings a gift had been 
 From some eccentric friend of Roy's, 
 Who at the Christening named the boys. 
 
 One Robert was and Roderic one : 
 But Roderic missed was found by none ; 
 Although was found a little child. 
 They thought was he, within the wild. 
 
 When Roderic finds that Psyche lives, 
 His love for Kate to curb he strives ; 
 And goeth straight to Psyche's side, 
 Intent on making her his bride. 
 
 Of their arrival at the home 
 
 Of Robert, and the way he come 
 
 To meet with doubt the winsome Grace, 
 
 We've told you in another place. 
 
 But why Miss Grace with look of cheer 
 Did near the house, and why. appear 
 Without distrust of Robert's love 
 To greet him, is not told above. 
 
124 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 The facts are these : Miss Grace had been 
 To Robert's home, <and there had seen 
 Her lover's double who did bring 
 To nought the proof of face and ring ; 
 Then, hearing whither he had gone. 
 On swiftest wings to him had flown'. 
 
 'Tis hardly worth the time and space 
 To say that Robert wed with Grace, 
 And that Louise became the bride 
 .Of Roderic Roy, her joy and pride. 
 
 Now Jack, whose wrath had been appeased. 
 To live at Psyche's home was pleased ; 
 And oft would tell, in after-day. 
 Of what he termed his love affray. 
 
 Young Roderic his attention turns 
 To farming : and, successful, earns 
 A lively-hood for self and wife ; 
 Nor e'er bemoans his change in life. 
 
 He takes no part in Lee's estate. 
 But leaves it all entire with Kate, 
 To whose remonstrance answers he : 
 " The price of sin 'twould seem to me. 
 
 " Its threatened loss did once induce 
 To sinful course ; and now its use 
 Would seem a pand'ring still with sin 
 My heart would not uphold me in." 
 
THALIA. 
 
 125 
 
 So Roderic as an honest man, 
 Though poor, his married Hfe began : 
 While Psyche Hved, as Roderic's bride, 
 Some brief, yet joyous years, then died 
 To find a home the clouds among : 
 Yet died she not unmourned, unsung ; 
 For Roderic loved his youthful bride, 
 And deeply grieved he when she died. 
 
 But since to God his latter day is given, 
 
 There breathes the hope, they two will meet in heaven! 
 
 WELCOME HOME. 
 Solo, 
 
 -V— r ^ X- 
 
 While a walking, heard we talking 
 At a pretty cottage gate : 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ #T 
 
 Though eaves-dropping may be shocking, 
 Yet we heard what here we state. 
 
 i 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 A=^ 
 
 V^ 
 
 -9-i 
 
 -0—0. 
 
 First the little wife is singing-. 
 While her child to her is clinging. 
 
 And her voice with joy is ringing 
 As she waits him at the sate; 
 
 -*^^-- 
 
 e, while waiting for his coming at the gate ! 
 
126 
 
 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 --K- 
 
 ^^fE^Ei^JEEEEl 
 
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 Wcl-coinc liomc! Wei - come homo 
 
 
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 •zzz: 
 
 P^ 
 
 ^1 
 
 -/- 
 
 -# 
 
 V- 
 
 m 
 
 Welcome home ! Welcome home ! 
 
 AVelcome home, welcome home ! Welcome liome, welcome home ! 
 
 
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 -N — N- 
 
 r-fi 1 ^ T'^^j 'a:^^^^ — n: — 
 
 ^U — s-T -! ! -^ — -4 — ^ - - -^ J^^HZtZZ 
 
 Lov • al hearts, nor do - sire e'er to 
 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
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 5 — ^- *-^^ ^• 
 
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 Loy al hearts, nor de sire e^er to loam far trom home. 
 
 
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 ^ 
 
THALIA 
 
 127 
 
 -0^ — ^- 
 
 -^v=^=?^ 
 
 4 • S—»-^-^ 
 
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 y • I 
 
 From the shop and the field, that their bounties do yield, 
 
 45; 
 
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 P=^=^i 
 
 N — N 
 
 * *- 
 
 ^ir-— 
 
 -#-T 
 
 ttf,^ , 
 
 .J6 ^__ 
 
 From the shop and the field, that their boun-ties do yield, 
 
 B^ — P — -N— j 
 
 -#-=- 
 
 1^ 
 
 A — # — — #-^— i? 
 
 1^ 
 
 
 E^ 
 
 r?— t^ 
 
 :^zz=#tf= 
 
 To the homes your love doth shield, wel - come home 
 
 .9_^_^ 
 
 S^ 
 
 -^ ^ 
 
 S—a—jt 
 
 -:ir-<^ 
 
 7~J^~^^ ^' 
 
 -#--=—# — ^ — «> — #- 
 
 f^ 
 
 ^-^ 
 
 ^m 
 
 ffi 
 
 ^^ ^ z'- 
 
 To the homes your love doth shield, welcome home, \vel-come home I 
 
 <:\ 
 
 -(• P- 
 
 f?H^ 7 ^ ]^ 
 
 &^^=^ 
 
 ^33 
 
 ^^^^^ ga 
 
128 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 Then, on nearing, chanced we hearmg 
 
 What she said unto her mate, 
 Who her Httle song was cheering 
 As he neared his cottage gate : 
 And her words of sweetest seeming, 
 That with mother-pride were teeming, 
 While her eyes with love were beaming. 
 Were as we to you relate ; 
 Aye, in meaning, were as we to you relate ! 
 
 " We are straying, while you're staying. 
 From the kitchen to the gate ; 
 While the little one is saying, 
 
 ' Papa 'j" naughty^ muzzer Kate ." 
 Hush, my darling, papa 's earning 
 Bread and butter while he's yearning 
 To be with the hearts a burning 
 Him to welcome at the gate ; 
 Aye, to welcome papa's coming at the gate I 
 
 " We are waiting at the grating, 
 Waiting at the kitchen grate. 
 When we hear a wee voice stating, 
 ' Papa ' s tojiiiii' muzzer Kate I ' 
 Then we catch the little deary 
 To our bosom, though aweary, 
 And we haste to make it cheery 
 For our Roderic at the gate ; 
 Aye, to cheer our loving Roderic at the gate !' 
 
THALIA. 129 
 
 All aweary, lonely, dreary. 
 
 Is the heart that has no mate, 
 Has no home so sweet and cheery, 
 
 Where a loving heart doth wait : 
 Wait for one that cometh never 
 With a frown, but cometh ever 
 With a heart that naught can sever 
 
 From its mistress at the gate ; 
 From its loving mistress singing at the gate I 
 
 THE END. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Essays, Etc., 
 
 page 
 
 . Truth, A Valedicton', 
 
 133 
 
 Man : His Future State, 
 
 139 
 
 Past, Present and Future, 
 
 - 146 
 
 Elfrida, .... 
 
 147 
 
 To Matie, . . . . 
 
 148 
 
 A Letter, .... 
 
 149 
 
 Contentment, ... 
 
 155 
 
 The Realm of Thought, 
 
 157 
 
 " I Told You So ! " 
 
 - 158 
 
 Autograph, . - . 
 
 159 
 
 Translations, 
 
 
 Horace' Satire, L Book L, 
 
 161 
 
 Pyrrha, .... 
 
 171 
 
 Lalage, .... 
 
 173 
 
 Psalms. 
 
 
 Psalm I., • - 
 
 174 
 
 Psalm II., .... 
 
 174 
 
 "Psalm III., 
 
 176 
 
 Psalm IV., 
 
 - 176 
 
 Psalm v., - 
 
 177 
 
 Psalm VI., 
 
 179 
 
TRUTH 
 
 A VALEDICTORY DELIVERED IX CHRE5T0- 
 MATHIAX HALL. 
 
 And what is truth ? The candle of the soul : 
 The light whereby we guide our souls aright : 
 A beacon light upon the shores of time 
 To point us to the breakers and the shoals 
 Where other lives, as precious as our own. 
 Have been forever wrecked. 
 
 Or, further still, 
 
 It is the sun of intellectual life ; 
 Which, rising in the soul, dispels for aye 
 The darkness and the gloom of ignorance, 
 Wherein wild superstition hath held sway. 
 And tortured us with myriad sights and sounds 
 That, 'mid the gloom of our benighted brains 
 Seemed not of earth. And oft, in frenzy wild. 
 We've seized our fellow-men and tortured them, 
 Until in madness they've confessed a lie — 
 Confessed they were the authors of those things 
 That to themselves were \\Tapped in mystery. 
 
13 ^ MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 
 
 Reviewing now the ages of the past, 
 
 From stand-point bright illumed by modern truth, 
 
 Doth seem like peering in the open mouth 
 
 Of some vast subterranean cavern, where 
 
 The bright sun, at its zenith, casts its beams 
 
 Within the open portal, piercing deep 
 
 The gloom beyond. What sounds do issue forth. 
 
 And strike upon the ear with variance grand ! 
 
 Ah ! wailings loud of woe and blank despair 
 Are borne to us ; and, mingled with these sounds. 
 We hear the sharp, reverberating crack 
 Of fell Oppression's cruel, ruthless whip : 
 
 For Slavery, with its cruelties and woes. 
 
 Stands forth in bold relief: which long did cling, 
 
 AHke some hellish fiend, upon the skirts 
 
 Of brute humanity ; until, advanced 
 
 Beyond barbaric shades, man learned to loathe 
 
 This child of hell, which truth's bright rays revealed 
 
 In all its hideousness : and, with an arm 
 
 Made strong by sense of right, he hurled from him 
 
 The clinging fiend, which sullenly withdrew, 
 
 And hid within the shadows of the past. 
 
 Yet fiercely warred, and long, the powers of truth 
 
 Against the false, ere this result was gained : 
 
 For ignorance, and selfishness, and lust. 
 
 All sought to bar the entrance way to truth 
 
 And long succeeded. But within the mass 
 
 Of human kind by Providence were set 
 
 Bright gems, the Browns and Sumners of our land ! 
 
TRUTH. 135 
 
 They, drinking in the beams of heaven-sent truth, 
 
 Reflected them upon the darkened souls 
 
 Of their misguided countrymen, until 
 
 The precious truth found lodgement in their breasts, 
 
 And every true and noble soul was roused 
 
 To see the dire necessity to act. 
 
 Then followed war : a bloody, cruel war ! 
 
 A civil war, most cruel far of all : 
 
 Since there, arrayed in deadly combat, stand, 
 
 With strength to strength and steel to steel opposed, 
 
 The son against the father, friend 'gainst friend, 
 
 And brother fighting 'gainst his brother man ! 
 
 Ah ! wild the wail of anguish that resounds 
 From northern lake to gulf of southern clime. 
 From wild Atlantic's surging billows' bounds 
 To California's peaceful, golden strand ! 
 And homes, that yester-day were scenes of joy, 
 To-day are filled with misery and woe ! 
 
 The hearts that love unselfishly are those 
 That deepest feel the loss of that they love ; 
 And souls on noblest purposes intent 
 Are those whom disappointment deepest moves. 
 
 Young lives in whom are centered all the hopes 
 Of mothers who for years have watched and prayed — 
 Have prayed that God would grant to them to see 
 Their boys the grandest, noblest that could be — 
 Are sacrificed upon the battle-field. 
 
J 
 
 6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But oh ! ye mothers, who at home lament 
 O'er those you love, I pray you, be content I 
 Your prayers are answered : not in vain your toils : 
 Your sons have perished, not in drunken broils, 
 But, sacrificed to truth and liberty, 
 They have attained most grand nobility ! 
 
 "Tis past : the rebel host succumbs at last : 
 
 The cloud of war is lifted and we see 
 
 A land baptised, O Liberty, to thee ! 
 
 Baptised in blood — the blood of friends and brothers, 
 
 Of fathers, sons, loved relatives and lovers I 
 
 And bathed in tears — the tears of friends bereaved, 
 
 Of orphans, widows, mothers, maidens fair, 
 
 Whose hearts are filled with grief and dark despair ! 
 
 Yet who would wish their loved ones to recall, 
 
 If slavery, too, returning, once again 
 
 Must settle down upon our native land : 
 
 This land that we have e'er been wont to call 
 
 •• The Land of Freedom ;" but which now, indeed, 
 
 First merits such a name. 
 
 Ere this it stood 
 Before the world a lie — a contradiction : 
 But now, thank God, it lifts its towering form 
 From out the crimson flood of patriot blood, 
 And stands before a censure-loving world 
 Uncensured. Aye, e'en more I The world at large, 
 Constrained to feel the force of words that we 
 Have sacrificed cur best blood to maintain, 
 
TRUTH. ■ 137 
 
 Are awed to silence, when with crimsoned hand, 
 Upon the smiHng sky that bends above, 
 Our country writes in characters of blood — 
 The blood of noble citizens — this truth : 
 *' All 171671 at birth created free a7id equal I " 
 
 Thus truth hath oft been purchased with the blood 
 Of noblest men, and. tears of fairest women. 
 Yet who can doubt that it is better thus 
 Than that these truths should passively exist, 
 Nor stir men's souls to prompt decisive action ? 
 
 We've heard " 'Tis sweet for country's sake to die ;" 
 
 But feel that this may often prove untrue : 
 
 For 'tis not country we could so revere 
 
 That death for her would seem to us a nectar, 
 
 But those grand truths our country represents: 
 
 And so that line we generalize to this : 
 
 ' Tis sweet to die i7i 77iainte7ia7ice of t7'ut/i .' 
 
 But other truths there are which, not opposed 
 
 So openly to lustful, selfish passions. 
 
 Meet not with opposition such as that 
 
 Which we have just described. There are, in fact, 
 
 Some truths, related so to human life, 
 
 That they are sought and courted, won and used. 
 
 Through selfish aims, for selfish purposes. 
 
 And yet they're truths of great intrinsic worth, 
 
 And such as true men labor to attain, 
 
 Since through these they increase their usefulness. 
 
138 MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Such are the truths, my comrades, we have sought 
 By patient toil, yet pleasing, to acquire. 
 
 Our college life is spent in acquisition 
 Of truth : whereby we gain that discipline 
 And knowledge that will fit us for the work 
 Of after life. But whether we will use 
 Our knowledge for a purpose good, or bad, 
 Depends upon our sep'rate characters. 
 
 Another term has passed : a term made glad 
 
 By our associations. We've enjoyed 
 
 Chresto. society : and most of all 
 
 Those evenings when our friends saw fit to come. 
 
 And manifest their int'rest by their presence. 
 
 To-night we are indebted to our fiiends 
 For their attendance here ; and wish that we 
 Might see them ofi.en in the Chresto. hall. 
 But hoping they've enjoyed our wild attempts 
 At literary efibrt, we must now 
 Bid fiiends and comrades, one and all, adieu ' 
 
J/AX: HIS FUTURE STATE. 
 
 MAN : HIS FUTURE STATE. 
 
 AX ESSAY READ AT A HOME LITERARY 
 SOCIETY. 
 
 A man is, in similitude, a god : 
 God's image mirrored on the polished face 
 Of his completed, working Universe : 
 God's seal that he hath set upon Creation 
 To mark it as approved, or ratified. 
 
 Man's capabilities embrace the scope 
 Extendinsj from arch-ansrel to arch-fiend : 
 And 'tis his undisputed right to be 
 ^Vhatever, in this sweep, he wills to be : 
 A right that he is conscious of, and yet 
 Doth seldom take advantage of, because 
 The taking costs an effort. 
 
 Thus it is : 
 He'd rather live in indolence and ease, 
 Than use the powers of mind and soul with which 
 'Tis possible for him to upward soar. 
 And write his name among the good and great. 
 The famed of earth and heaven ; or downward swoop, 
 And cut his name \vith bold and daring hand, 
 Upon the smoky, blackened cliffs of hell. 
 
140 MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 
 
 But, using still another metaphor, 
 
 Man is the seed that God's own hand hath sown 
 
 Upon a soil prepared for him alone. 
 
 All things within the scope of man's perception 
 
 Were prearranged for the development 
 
 Of intellect and sensibility, 
 
 Whose germs lie hidden in the fetus, man. 
 
 Man's will-power is the plant's vitality : 
 
 His sensibilities, the tender roots 
 
 That grope for food 'mid nature's fertile soil : 
 
 His intellect, the little slender shoot 
 
 That pushes upward with unceasing toil, 
 
 To seek the light of universal truth. 
 
 Some seeds produce the tender, clinging vine ; 
 And some, the sturdy oak-tree's hardy growth : 
 Some seeds, the rose, whose beauty charms the eye. 
 E'en while her thorns do lacerate the hand 
 That would despoil her of her crowning glory. 
 
 The laden fruit-tree, and the barren shrub ; 
 
 The waving grain, and toil-producing weed ; 
 
 The daisy meek, and stately ever-green ; 
 
 The lily pure, and poison plant that grows 
 
 Amid the bogs and marshes, feeding on 
 
 The filth and slime accumulated there ; 
 
 These differ none the more in kind than do 
 
 The human plants that grow in God's great garden. 
 
MAN: HIS FUTURE STATE. 141 
 
 Examine well the roots of any plant, 
 
 And find the little seed from which it sprung. 
 
 What have you ? It may chance that not a trace 
 
 Of any seed rewards your eager search. 
 
 If otherwise, 'twill be the skeleton 
 
 Of what was placed within the quickening soil : 
 
 For, while the plant that sprung from it still lives, 
 
 The seed hath died and crumbled unto dust. 
 
 Now, skeptic, come and view this thriving plant, 
 The emblem of your soul's futurity, 
 And know that death is swallowed up of life. 
 All beautiful and grand it stands beside you, 
 While underneath it lies its quondam self. 
 Devoid of life — aye, mingled with the dust ! 
 
 You, who delight in reading nature, come : 
 And see, if on this page of nature's book. 
 Its Author has not plainly said to man. 
 Death marks the entrance to a higher life.'''' 
 
 Then, doubters of the Hfe that is to be. 
 
 Pray doubt no more ; since nature, too, declares, 
 
 As well as Christendom, that we must live, 
 
 [Though in a more developed state than now,] 
 
 E'en after death despoils us of the frame 
 
 That nurses into life the embryo 
 
 Of what our lives shall be when we have grown 
 
 Up through the cold, dark world wherein we're sown. 
 
 Into the warmth and sunlight and pure air 
 
 Of God's celestial kingdom. 
 
142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 There are men 
 Who, for the sake of argument, believe, 
 Or try to, what few others will believe ; 
 And what their reason, in a healthy state. 
 Before 'twas drugged by sophistries, declared 
 To be untrue. There are men who will swear, 
 E'en in the face of nature's wondrous works, 
 That God is a nonentity — a myth : 
 Who, seeing foot-prints in the sand, will swear, 
 Not only that some person hath been there. 
 But that he was a large man ; or a small : 
 A clumsy lout ; or polished gentleman. 
 And will affirm that it is their belief 
 The person wore coarse trousers ; or that he 
 Was dressed in broad-cloth : swung a cane ; or didn't. 
 Aye I they will almost venture to declare 
 The color of the unknown person's hair ! I 
 So much they pride themselve? upon their tact. 
 They'll paint the man, if they but see his track 
 
 But on the foot-prints of Almighty God, 
 
 The marks of a designing Providence, 
 
 Of an unlimited intelligence 
 
 United with omnipotence, they stare. 
 
 Nor have a thought that any one 's been there. 
 
 They sneer at any who suggest the thought. 
 
 Some say, "Thou fool, this is the work of chance.'^ 
 
 But if you should assure them that the print 
 
 They saw upon the beach had come by ch.ance. 
 
 They'd circulate the story in a trice 
 
 That you were idiotic. Fie, on men 
 
 Of such knock-kneed consistencv I 
 
MAN: HIS FUTURE STATE. 143 
 
 These same, 
 If placed some cloud\' night on barren plain, 
 Far distant from a human habitation, 
 Will have no fear of losing their direction, 
 If they but have a compas for inspection. 
 Yet on their way through life they both reject 
 The Christian's guide-book, and refuse to go 
 The way the soul's magnetic needle points. 
 
 They say the aspirations of the soul. 
 
 That ever point toward immortality, 
 
 If followed, will mislead the human race. 
 
 And, lest themselves should seem without a guide, 
 
 They use their iron-pointed sophistries 
 
 As magnets, striving with them to cajole 
 
 The souls best guide to pointing toward the pole, 
 
 Annihilation. 
 
 Claiming as their guide 
 The voice of reason, they unreasonably 
 Insist that men should banish from their lives 
 That hope which, in the darkest hour, doth seem 
 The golden dawning of a grander day:" 
 That sweet anticipation which doth paint 
 With loveliest tints the sun-set skies of age, 
 And lends a charm e'en to the plans of youth. 
 
 They'd liave us tossed upon the sea of life, 
 
 Now lifted upward by prosperity. 
 
 Only to sink to depths of poverty : 
 
 Now resting on the bosom of content, 
 
 Then battling with the waves of fierce desire : 
 
 Now wafted swiftly onward by success. 
 
1 44 MIS CELLANE OUS P OEMS. 
 
 Then suffering 'mid the calm of fell despair : 
 And oft-times struggling 'mid the storms of life, 
 Endeavoring to escape the hungry waves 
 Of dire adversity that sweep our deck ; 
 And all for what ? That we may anchor safe 
 Beyond the troubled sea of life, and know 
 The peace and joy of blest security ? 
 
 Ah, no ! for they assure us no such port, 
 
 As we have hoped to reach, awaits our coming : 
 
 That death ends all : that death — Ah ! death must be 
 
 The breaking into fragments on the rocks — 
 
 The cruel rocks of tearless destiny — 
 
 Of all that 's sweet and beautiful in life : 
 
 Of all that 's noble, grand, majestical ! 
 
 The final struggle they compare to what ? 
 
 •A sad awakening from life's fitful dream : 
 
 A dream bright tinted with the rosy flush 
 
 Of sportive joys, indulged in childhood's years : 
 
 A tint that deepened, as the years went by 
 
 And youthful hopes gave birth to cherished plans. 
 
 And then, as plans develop into facts, 
 
 And we, as men, are entering into life 
 
 With all the zest that noble purposes 
 
 And fast maturing plans can give, there comes 
 
 The bed of sickness : we lie down to die, 
 
 Awakened now to realize the fact 
 
 That all the past is but a feverish dream : 
 
 That all the future is an endless tomb : 
 
 The present^ simply waiting for our doom I 
 
MAN: HIS FUTURE STATE. 145 
 
 And yet, in spite of all their sophistries, 
 There do come times in even these men's lives 
 When, breaking loose from outside influence, 
 The hope within them, to its nature true, 
 Turns pointing them toward immortaUty. 
 
 When there comes drifting by them on the waves» 
 The empty hull that late had borne a brother, 
 A brother who not long before had been 
 Their loved companion, but with sails full set 
 Had caught the breeze that bore him on before^ 
 'Tis hard to think that he 's forever lost. 
 
 We hear them then speak words that form a strange 
 
 Conglomeration of pet sophistries 
 
 And stringent hopes that rise in opposition. 
 
 Here is a medley answers this description, 
 
 Which we have taken from the pen of one 
 
 Whose metaphores we very much admire. 
 
 But whose consistency we fail to see. 
 
 •' Life is a narrow vale between the cold 
 And barren peaks of two eternities. 
 We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. 
 We cry aloud : our only answer is 
 The mocking echo of our wailing cry. 
 From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead 
 There comes no word : but in the night of death, 
 Hope sees a star ; and, listening, love can hear 
 The soothing rustle of angelic iving 1 " 
 
T46 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE. 
 
 'Tis past the hour of noon, and swift the sun 
 Dedineth toward the west. Ere long 'twill sink 
 Beneath the dim horizon, and will link 
 The coming night to fast departing day. 
 
 How sad to think that soon this gladsome hour, 
 
 So full of sunshine and of song, must be 
 
 A drop within the vast eternity 
 
 Of ages past ! 'Tis Hke the fragrant flower 
 
 Whose fragrance and whose beauty we enjoy 
 
 For one brief hour, then cast the bud aside, 
 
 A withered flower — a pleasure that hath died. 
 
 Again the present hfe may well be termed 
 A narrow strait, between two boundless seas : 
 A strait through which we all must swiftly glide 
 From past to future on the hurrying tide 
 Of present life. The past we soon forget ; 
 Or when recalled, recall it with regret 
 That never more its pleasures we'll enjoy, 
 Or that we oft neglected to employ 
 Some golden opportunity, which might 
 Have proved to us a source of rare delight. 
 
ELFRIDA. 147 
 
 Not so the future ! What to us can be 
 
 So charming as the vast, unbounded sea 
 
 Of time to come ! A sea o'er which no sail 
 
 As yet hath passed ; whose beauties tongue would fail 
 
 To rightly tell ; and whose untasted sweet 
 
 Ariticipation hastens on to greet ! 
 
 ELFRIDA. 
 
 Alone amid the wild flowers that did bloom 
 
 Upon the mossy bank of Thames in June 
 
 Reclining, she was prettiest of all 
 
 The blossoms that there grew. While slowlv Sol 
 
 Did sink toward his couch in the far west, 
 
 As though reluctant to retire to rest 
 
 And leave a scene so pleasing to the eye. 
 
 For as in graceful posture that well nigh 
 Would credit do to studied art she lay, 
 Her airy highland costume did display 
 A form so graceful it would well nigh seem 
 To be nought other than a pleasing dream : 
 A dream, forsooth, that soon must fade in air, 
 And leave no trace of real existence there. 
 
 But when from form x)f such exquisite grace 
 I bend my glance there meets my gaze a face 
 That beggars all description by its bright 
 And regal beauty : while I, at the sight, 
 
148 MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 
 
 No longer wonder that such wondrous tales 
 Should reach our ears : for, lo ! each story pales 
 Before the grand original ! And I, 
 Regretting 'tis the king's prize that doth lie 
 Before me, find myself inclined to weep, 
 Or, false to him who sent me, at her feet 
 Kneeling, to woo and win. 
 
 Elfrida, though. 
 Was dreaming, not of wooing, but of woe : 
 As there, half sitting half reclining, she 
 Looked off across the stream as though the free, 
 Yet gentle breeze, then toying with her hair, 
 [That hung in careless tresses o'er her fair, 
 Yet ruddy cheek that, with its healthful glow, 
 Bespoke a life that nought of sickness knew,] 
 Was whispering, gently whispering of the sorrow 
 That 'twould be hers to know upon the morrow. 
 
 TO MATIE. 
 
 ON THE PRESENTATION OF AN AUTOGRAPH ALBUM. 
 
 Little Matie, this I give you, 
 
 A memento of my love: 
 But a treasure far more precious 
 
 Hath he given who rules above. 
 
 'Tis a soul to train for heaven : 
 Spotless, pure, he gave it you: 
 
 If you'd keep it as 'twas given, 
 To yourself and God be true I 
 
A LETTER. 149 
 
 A LE ITER. 
 
 Iowa College, Grtnnell, Iowa, 
 Of old Jan. the 25th day, 
 A. D. 1879. 
 Dear Brother James : 
 
 I drop you a line 
 Thinking perchance 5'ou would like to hear 
 How prospers your brother this glad New Year. 
 I'm jogging along in the same old way, 
 Quite prosy and dull, most people would say ; 
 But then there is poetry in it for me. 
 
 Though most of the boys have agreed to agree 
 That the rules of the college are rather severe, 
 If justly adjudged they would not so appear. 
 
 You see we're required on the Sabbath to go 
 To church service twdce : and not to be slow, 
 But to enter on time. They hold 'tis n't right 
 To play cards or billiards, drink whiskey or fight : 
 The which things to check they have made it the rule 
 To turn all who practice the like from the school. 
 
 But the worst rule, I think, [though no worry to me,] 
 Is a rule some will recognize, named as " Rule Three " 
 
1 50 MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 
 
 " Youni^ genilewen 7i.nl I be allowed,'" says the rule, 
 
 '' To visit young ladies, attending this school, 
 
 Or gallant them about, on Saturday only; 
 
 And that, ivhen tJiey re feeling unconunonly lonely 
 
 Through lack of the study from which they're released 
 
 At four in the afternoon J^ 
 
 This rule is greased, 
 In order to make it suit better the taste, 
 By a clause being added that 's only a waste 
 Of time, ink and paper : for where is the fool 
 Who will try to make use of the last of this rule — 
 '*" Unless by permission ? " 
 
 Indeed, 'tis a sin ! 
 Only think what a fix a poor boy would be in ; 
 Suppose there 's a concert, a ball, or a show. 
 And it strikes him he ought to ask Mary to go. 
 Full of life [as a boy at his age ought to be] 
 He jumps for his hat, then thinks of " Rule Three. '^ 
 His ardor soon cools, and he takes his seat, 
 Determined to ask her when next they meet. 
 
 They meet next day, and with face all aglow. 
 
 He asks Miss Mary to go to the show :■ 
 
 She smiles an acceptance ; he bows and moves on. 
 
 The happiest of men : but his joy is soon gone ; 
 
 For he now recollects that he has to obtain 
 
 The consent of the faculty. Oh, what a shame ' 
 
 He thought him a man ; he now feels he's a boy. 
 
 His self-esteem 's vanished, and banished his joy. 
 
A LETTER. 151 
 
 He goes to head-quarters to get his permi"t : 
 
 They don^t approve shows : they invite him to sit, 
 
 While they give him a lecture on theatres and shows, 
 
 With a point-blank refusal put in at the close. 
 
 Now what does he do ? Why, that 's plain to see ! 
 
 He " goes back on " the girl, or he breaks " Rule Three !" 
 
 But enough about rules. Let me tell you now 
 
 Of last New Year's morn — what happened, and how. 
 
 '* A happy New Year ! " wer^ the words I said, 
 While snuggly ensconced in my cozy bed. 
 Then quickly the blankets I from me flung, 
 And forth from beneath them as quickly sprung. 
 
 *' A happy New Year !" I essayed to shout ; 
 But the words were frozen ere half way out. 
 And clung to my Hps as though loth to part. 
 Their devotion was touching ! The tear-drops start 
 In acknowledgement mute : but their ardor cools 
 Ere they traverse the cheek ; and, branded as fools, 
 They would fain withdraw from the enterprise. 
 But no ! they are doomed beneath the eyes 
 To mutely stand as monuments grim 
 Of the noble purpose that prompted them. 
 
 They remind us of those whose hearts have been moved 
 
 By noble impulses ; but who were reproved. 
 
 Or disheartened, by those who should urge them on, 
 
 Till, chilled and discouraged, ambition gone. 
 
 Like the frozen tear-drop, they hang on the cheek 
 
 Of Humanity, while with mute lips they speak 
 
152 MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 
 
 Of what might have been had their friends but given 
 Encouragement, which is the manna from heaven 
 That feeds our ambition and strengthens our zeal 
 And causes adversity's wounds to heal. 
 
 But excuse the digression. Indeed, I must feel 
 
 Rather chilly by this time, standing there 
 
 In night attire, with the frosty air 
 
 All 'round and about me, while on my cheek 
 
 The tear-drops rest : but I'm one of those meek 
 
 And gentle lambs such as Mary possessed. 
 
 [All Maries are not with such .lambkins blessed.] 
 
 You've heard how he went with young Mary to school, 
 And stood around out in the cold ? For the rule 
 Was rather severe, as rules gen'rally are, 
 And he was " turned out." Doesn't say what for : 
 But hkely 'twas caused by his breaking '* Rule Three." 
 Gallanting young Mary to school, you see. 
 
 But, nonsense aside, let the story be told. 
 Attired, at length, in my clothes worn and old — 
 For, though it be New Year's, I'm none of your swells, 
 To trot around town ringing people's door-bells. 
 And sitting me down to their cake and their tea. 
 Then off in a twinkhng some other to see. 
 
 I love to sit quietly down with my book ; 
 Or write to some friend ; or perchance take a look 
 In the face of some friend, loved, earnest and true, 
 And with him converse ; but for me it wont do — 
 
A LETTER. 153 
 
 This butter-fly life, running here, running there, 
 And calling on people for whom 1 don't care, 
 Just because it 's the fashion. 
 
 I don't say that all 
 For this reason alone make their New Year's call : 
 I know of a number of friends in Grinnell 
 Whom I love and respect ; aye ! far too well 
 To bore them by calling on New Year's day, 
 To sip, eat and chatter, then up and away. 
 
 But, as I was saying, I put on my worst ; 
 And as I [for once in my life] was the first 
 To arise from my couch, it devolved on me 
 To beseech father Vulcan to set us free 
 From the icy grip of John Frost, Esquire, 
 By giving" life to a rousing fire. 
 
 But Vulcan it seems was inclined to pout 
 For when, to keep warm, I had danced about 
 For something less than an hour, I came. 
 Expecting to see a glittering flame 
 And a glowing stove, I saw instead 
 The black coals frowning from out their bed 
 Of smoldering ashes, the kindling charred, 
 Its virtue gone, its beauty marred. 
 
 But, as I gazed, a single spark 
 Just flashed in view, then all was dark : 
 And only that black, ungrateful frown 
 Looked up in my face, as I looked down. 
 
1 54 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 This spark, thought I, is the emblem true 
 
 Of a noble life that flashes to view, 
 
 Lighted by genius, by passion fed, 
 
 Fostered by praise, by ambition led: 
 
 It illumens the world with its dazzling light. 
 
 But, alas ! like the spark, though it pleases the sight, 
 
 Like the spark, it is fleeting and soon goes out, 
 
 While the world moves on with a fiendish shout. 
 
 And now, brother James, you will please to wait 
 For the rest of the story. 'Tis getting late, 
 And I must be up in the morning on time : 
 For chapel prayers are observed at nine, 
 And my Latin is unprepared for ten. 
 Write soon. 
 
 From your brother's, 
 
 John Cutler's, pen. 
 
 AUTOGRAPH. 
 
 While youth and beauty still are thine. 
 Remember, friend, that these are fleetinj 
 
 And strive that beauty of" the mind 
 And soul appear on their retreating. 
 
CONTENTMENT. 155 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 There are those wlio desire from the world to retire, 
 And who never aspire to a destiny higher, 
 Or a purpose more grand, than to delve in the land. 
 They're content thus to dwell, and no mortal can tell, 
 
 Except those who have tried such a life. 
 What enjoyment 's possessed by the man who is blessed 
 
 With contentment, a home and a wife. 
 
 But again there are those who their eyes seem to close 
 To the bounty that flows but for them ; and disclose 
 That their souls are on fire with the selfish desire 
 To possess all the wealth, and the joy, and the health 
 
 That is granted to man in this life ; 
 And who never can know all the pleasures that flow 
 
 From contentment, a home and a wife. 
 
 Neither class ought to be as a pattern for thee. 
 Christian friend ; don't you see they're extremes? As for me 
 No desire to retire, from the battle's fierce fire, 
 Shall induce me to shirk, or neglect to do work 
 
 That 's required of each Christian in life : 
 'Tisn't right to retire from the strife through desire 
 
 Of contentment, a home and a wife. 
 
156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 We're to do all we can for the right: 'tis the plan 
 Of our maker that man, though his life 's but a span, 
 While he lives, shall employ all his powers': not enjoy 
 Lying back on his oars, drifting on toward the shores 
 
 Of eternity, dreaming that life 
 Is a smooth, placid sea, and its object can be 
 
 But contentment, a home and a wife. 
 
 We should have in our mind some great purpose defined ; 
 And should ne'er be resigned, or content, till we find 
 That with wide-awake powers we're improving the hours 
 With a purpose in view that is manly and true : 
 
 Then, if not with our duty at strife, 
 We may have, since content that our time is well spent, 
 
 With contentment, a home and a wife. 
 
 While I hope discontent with no life may be blent 
 That 's to usefulness lent; yet a life that is spent 
 In some quiet retreat, with enjoyments replete 
 Should by no means be free from its presence ; since he 
 
 Who could wish to enjoy such a life. 
 Is too selfish and vain to such blessings obtain 
 
 As contentment, a home and a wife. 
 
THE REALM OF THOUGHT. 157 
 
 FHE REALM OF THOUGHT 
 
 MY FIRST EFFORT. 
 
 Is it true that Milton's time 
 Robbed us of all thought sublime ? 
 That he, with gigantic stride, 
 O'er all heaven and earth did ride, 
 Grasping, with majestic mind, 
 Every theme that he could find, 
 Worthy of a poet's rhyme. 
 Worth his labor, worth his time ? 
 
 Is there now no higher summit ? 
 Must we own that Milton won it ? 
 Won the laurel, won the cBown, 
 And above us, looking down, 
 Doth defy our best endeavor, 
 Sometime in the great forever, 
 To attain a loftier spot 
 In the realm and range of thought ? 
 
 No ! though Milton has before us 
 Gained the height now smiling o'er us. 
 Yet, above him, we can see. 
 On and on toward Deity, 
 
I5S MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 
 
 Thought's Mount nobly, grandly rise, 
 With its summit pierce the skies, 
 While the world it doth embrace 
 With its broad, expanding base. 
 
 Ye who long to find some theme, 
 In the realm of thought or dream. 
 On the which aloft lo rise, 
 Doubt not that beyond the skies, 
 Human thought with thought divine 
 Joins in one unbroken line, 
 Endless as eternity, 
 Climbed by none, reserved for thee. 
 
 Mount it then : nor thus repine. 
 With the poet, Milton, dine : 
 Then beyond him take your flight ; 
 On some loftier cliff alight. 
 And to us who wait below 
 For the treasures you may throw, 
 Fling, with careless, lavish hand. 
 Pearls of thought supremely grand. 
 
 " 1 TOLD YOU SO ! " 
 
 Of all mean things e'er said by man 
 " I-told-you-so ! " doth form the span. 
 
A UTOGRAPH. 
 
 It comes to one in times distressed, 
 And adds its sting, [to all the rest,] 
 Of marked inferiority 
 To whosoever twitteth thee. 
 *' I-told-you-so !" did me assail 
 When clipped my saw a hidden nail, 
 And to the harshly grating sound 
 Did add its multifold compound, 
 Beneath the shock of which I said, 
 To loved one, words that since have fed 
 The canker-worm of self-reeret 
 That in my bosom findeth lodgement yet. 
 
 159 
 
 AUTOGRAPH. 
 
 You desire, my friend, that I 
 Write for you my autograph. 
 
 If I do, you will not cry ? 
 
 No ? Well, then, prepare to laugh. 
 
 I'm the son of old Ben Butler. 
 
 Do n't believe it ? I can show 
 That my father's name 's Ben Cutler; 
 
 That he's aged you well know. 
 
 Then the difference all must be — 
 
 [You'll admit it, having seen them] 
 'Tween the letters, B and C. 
 
 A B C — There's nothing 'tween them ! ! 
 Hence my father, I have proved, is old Ben Butler 
 As for me, I'm Yours as Ever, 
 
 J. E. Cutler. 
 
i6o MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 
 
 Q. HORATI FLACCI 
 
 SATIRARUM. 
 LIBER PRIMUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Qui fit, Maecenas, ut nemo, quam 
 
 sibi sortem 
 Seu ratio dederit seu fors objecerit, 
 
 ilia 
 Contentus vivat, laudat diversa se- 
 
 quentes? 
 
 " O fortunati mercatores ! " gravis 
 annis 
 
 Miles ait, multo jam fractus mem- 
 bra labore. 
 
 Contra mercator, navem jactantibus 
 Austris, 
 " Militia est potior. Quid enim ? Con- 
 curritur ; horae 
 
 Momento cita mors venit aut victoria 
 laeta ! " 
 
TRANSLATIONS. i6i 
 
 FIRST BOOK 
 
 OF 
 
 HORACE' SATIRES. 
 
 I. 
 
 How happens it, Maecenas, that no one 
 
 hves content 
 With his own occupation, by chance or 
 
 reason sent, 
 But ever envies deeply who different 
 
 paths frequent ? 
 
 " O fortune-favored merchant !" the aged war- 
 rior saith. 
 
 When labor-worn and weary, he views ap- 
 proaching death. 
 
 But contrawise the merchant, aboard his 
 reeling craft 
 
 Which, rocked by raging tempests, is deluged 
 fore and aft, 
 
 Is heard exclaiming, " War-fare is preferable. 
 For why ? 
 
 The armies rush together with thrilling 
 battle-cry. 
 
 And in an hour's brief passing there comes a 
 speedy death, 
 
 Or else a glorious victory that 's hailed with 
 joyful breath ! " 
 
1 6 2 MIS CELLANE OUS F OEMS. 
 
 Agricolam laudat juris legumque 
 
 peritus 
 Sub galli cantum consultor ubi ostia 
 
 pulsat. 
 Ille, datis vadibus qui vure extractus 
 
 in urbem est, 
 ' Solos felices viventes ' clamat ' in urbe.' 
 
 Cetera de genere hoc, adeo sunt multa, 
 
 loquacem 
 Delassare valent Fabium. Ne te merer, 
 
 audi 
 Quo rem deducam. Si quis deus, " En 
 
 ego," dicat, 
 *' Jam faciam quod voltis : eris tu, qui 
 
 modo miles, 
 Mercator ; tu, consultus modo, rusticus: 
 
 hinc vos, 
 Vos hinc mutatibus discedite partibus. 
 
 Eia! 
 Quid statis ?" — nolint. Atqui licet esse 
 
 beatis. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 163 
 
 The learned lawyer envies the rustic's 
 
 healthful glow 
 Who knocks for consultation ere cocks 
 
 begin to crow : 
 But he who, bailed to do so, has come from 
 
 woodland dell. 
 Declares ' Those only happy, who in the 
 
 city dwell.' 
 But similar examples so numerous 
 
 have grown, 
 They'd weary in the telling the greatest 
 
 linguist known. 
 That I may not detain you, just hst a 
 
 while to me. 
 And to what end I lead this you very 
 
 soon shall see. 
 If any god, beholding of men the dis- 
 content, 
 Should say, " What you're desiring I'm ready 
 
 now to grant : 
 And you, a soldier lately, shall now a 
 
 merchant be ; 
 While you, but now consulted to till the 
 
 soil art free. 
 Hence you, you hence departing, with changed 
 
 parts shall act. 
 Come on ! why stand you waiting ?" — unwilling, 
 
 they'd retract. 
 And yet it is permitted that these should 
 
 happy be ; 
 [For, choosing other calling, from their's they 
 
 may be free.] 
 
i64 MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Quid causae est, merito quin illis Jup- 
 iter ambas 
 
 Iratus buccas inflet, neque se fore 
 post-hac 
 
 Tam facilem dicat, votis ut praebeat 
 aurem ? 
 
 Praeterae, ne sic, ut qui jocularia 
 
 ridens 
 Percurram, [quamquam ridentem dicere 
 
 verum 
 Quid vetat ? ut pueris olim dant crus- 
 
 tula blandi 
 Doctores, elementa velint ut discere 
 
 prima ; 
 Sed tamen amoto quaeramus seria 
 
 ludo.] 
 Ille gravem duro terram qui vertit 
 
 aratro, 
 Perfidus hie caupo, miles, nautaeque 
 
 per omne 
 Audaces mare qui currunt, hac mente 
 
 laborem 
 Sese fere, senes ut in otia tuta re- 
 
 cedant, 
 Aiunt, cum sibbi sint congesta ci- 
 
 baria: Sicut 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 165 
 
 So why may not Jove justly both cheeks in 
 
 wrath inflate 
 Against these mad complainers. and say that 
 
 from this date 
 He'll not be quite so ready to give to prayers 
 
 an ear; 
 [But every craven bosom will agitate with fear.] 
 
 Henceforth, not thus, as one who delights to 
 
 jest or jeer, 
 Will I review the action of peasant or 
 
 of peer. 
 [Although what law forbids one to laughing 
 
 speak the truth ? 
 As often kind instructors do candies grant 
 
 to youth, 
 When they desire to teach them the rudiments 
 
 of thought: 
 But yet, all jesting over let 's seek the 
 
 moral taught.] 
 He who wath plow so hardy doth turn the 
 
 heavy soil, 
 This faithless petty tradesman, the soldier 
 
 worn by toil, 
 And sailors, who undaunted brave every 
 
 sea, declare 
 That, with this thought to cheer them, they every 
 
 burden bear. 
 This namely, that as old men they'll rest se- 
 cure from care. 
 When to themselves they've gathered food plenty 
 
 and to spare. 
 
1 66 MISCELLAXEO US POEMS. 
 
 Paniila [nam exemplo est] magni formi- 
 ca laboris 
 
 Ore trahit quod cumque potest atque addit 
 acerso, 
 
 Quem struit, baud ignara ac non in- 
 cauta futuri. 
 
 Quae, simul inversum cofitristat Aquarius 
 
 annum, 
 Non usquam prorepit et illis utitur 
 
 ante 
 Quaesitis sapiens ; cum te neque fervidus 
 
 aestus 
 Demoveat lucro, neque hiemps, ignis, mare, 
 
 ferrum, 
 Nil obstet tibi, dum ne sit te ditior 
 
 alter. 
 
 Quid juvat immensum te argenti pondus 
 
 et auri 
 Furtim defossa timidum deponere 
 
 terra ? 
 '• Quid si comtfiinuas, vilem redigatur ad 
 
 assem?' 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 167 
 
 Just as the ant so tiny, and so labor- 
 ious, too, 
 [For i^is for a pattern of industry 
 
 to you,] 
 Doth drag whatever 'tis able within its 
 
 burrow, where 
 It adds the new-found treasure to stores 
 
 collected there, 
 Which it hath gathered being by no means 
 
 unapprised 
 Nor heedless of the future. The ant though 
 
 is more wise 
 Than man, for when Aquarius in gloom doth 
 
 wrap the year 
 She never from her burrow will venture to 
 
 appear, 
 But those things sought in sunshine she uses 
 
 now. nor hoards ; 
 While neither heat of summer, nor winter's cold, 
 
 nor swords. 
 Nor fire, nor sea, can move thee from love of 
 
 gain, and naught 
 A hindrance seems while other, than you, is 
 
 richer thought. 
 How helps it thee in secret, and moved by fear 
 
 to place 
 A ponderous weight of silver or gold in earth's 
 
 embrace ? 
 " But if you it diminish^ you will its luorth 
 
 reduce 
 To paltry J worthless pennies.'' Yet if 'tis not 
 
 for use. 
 
i68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 At ni id fit, quid habet pulchri construc- 
 tus acervus ? 
 
 Milia frumenti tua triverit area 
 
 centum : 
 Non tuus hoc capiet venter plus ac 
 
 mens : ut si 
 Reticulum panis venales inter 
 
 onusto 
 Forte vehas humero, nihilo plus ac- 
 
 cipias quam 
 Qui nil portarit. Vel die quid referat 
 
 intra 
 Naturae fines viventi, jugera cen- 
 tum an 
 Mille aret ? ''At suave est ex magno to Here 
 
 acervoy 
 
 Dum ex parvo nobis tantundem haurire 
 
 relinquas, 
 Cur tua plus laudes cumeris granaria 
 
 nostris ? 
 Ut tibi si sit opus liquidi non amplius 
 
 urna, 
 
TRANSLATIONS, 169 
 
 What beauty hath the treasure collected 
 
 by thy toil? 
 Thy threshing floor doth yield thee, as products 
 
 of the soil, 
 One hundred thousand naeasures of lusty 
 
 golden grain : 
 Thy stomach for this reason than mine no 
 
 more '11 contain : 
 As if you chance, as one of a troop of 
 
 slaves, to bear 
 Upon thy burdened shoulder a reticule 
 
 of fare. 
 And nothing more receiveth than he who 
 
 beareth nought. 
 Declare to me what difference it makes to 
 
 one whose lot 
 Within the bounds of nature is cast whe'er 
 
 he possess 
 A thousand fertile acres, or acres many 
 
 less ? 
 *' 'ZzV sweet to feel that plenty within one's grasp 
 
 doth lie:' 
 Yet while to us thou leavest enough to 
 
 satisfy. 
 Why think thy spacious gran'ries our little 
 
 cribs excel ? 
 As, if thou need'st of water no more thy 
 
 thirst to quell. 
 Than 's found within the bucket as 't rises 
 
 from the well. 
 Or in the flowing goblet, and yet art heard 
 
 to tell, 
 
I70 MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 
 
 Vel cyatho, et dicas, " Magno de flumine 
 
 malim 
 Quam ex hox fonticulo tantundem 
 
 sumere/' Eo fit, 
 Plenior ut si quos delectat copia 
 
 justo, 
 Cum ripa simul avolsos ferat Aufidus 
 
 acer ; 
 At qui tantuli eget quanto est opus, is 
 
 neque limo 
 Turbatam haurit aquam, neque vitam a- 
 
 mittit in undis. 
 
 LIBER I. CARMINUM V. 
 
 PYRRHA. 
 
 Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa 
 Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus, 
 Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro ? 
 Cui flavam religas comam 
 Simplex munditiis ? Heu quotiens fidem 
 Mutatosque deos flebit, et aspera 
 Nigris aequora ventis 
 Emirabitur insolens, 
 Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea, 
 Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem 
 Sperat, nescius aurae 
 Fallacis ! Miseri, quibus 
 
TRANSLATIONS 171 
 
 " You'd rather take that portion from out some 
 
 mighty stream 
 Than from this Httle fountain." From this 'tis 
 
 clearly seen 
 That whom a superabundance delights are 
 
 borne along, 
 Torn loose from every mooring, by current 
 
 wild and strong 
 Of Aufidus — the Auf'dus of selfishness 
 
 and greed ; 
 But who desires so much as will answer 
 
 present need, 
 He neither sips the moisture from Want's re- 
 pulsive mire, 
 Nor risks his life encount'ring the waves of 
 
 fierce desire. 
 
 BOOK I. ODE V. 
 
 , PYRRHA. 
 
 What youth, slenderly built, dewy with liquid scents, 
 Courts thee, Pyrrha, amid roses so numerous. 
 In some favorite grotto? 
 
 For whom braidest thy flaxen hair 
 Thou thro' neatness so plain ? Ah ! but how often faith 
 And gods changeable he'll grieve o'er, and oceans vast 
 Roughed by blackening cyclones 
 He too greatly will wonder at. 
 Who now joys him in thee, golden believing thee, 
 Who expects thee to be ever free, ever thus 
 Love-like, not scenting guile on 
 
 Love's sweet breath ; How forlorn, for whom 
 
172 MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 
 
 Intemptata nites I Me tabula sacer 
 Votiva paries indicat uvida 
 Suspendisse potenti 
 Vestimenta maris deo I 
 
 LIBER I. CARMINUM XXII. 
 
 LALAGE. 
 
 Integer vitae scelerisque purus 
 Non eget Mauris jaculis neque arcu, 
 Nee venenatis gravida sagittis, 
 
 Fusee, pharetra, 
 Sive per Syrtes iter aestuosas, 
 Sive facturus per inhospitalem 
 Caucasum, vel quae loca fabulosus 
 
 Lambit Hydaspes. 
 Namque me silva lupus in Sabina, 
 Dum meam canto Lalagen et ultra 
 Terminum curis vagor expeditis, 
 
 Fugit inermem : 
 Quale portentum neque militaris 
 Daunias latis alit aesculetis, 
 Nee Jubae tellus generat, leonum 
 
 Arida nutrix. 
 Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis 
 Arbor aestiva recreatur aura, 
 Quod latus mundi nebulae malusque 
 
 Jupiter urget, 
 Pone sub curru nimium propinqui 
 Solis, in terra domibus negata : 
 Dulce ridentem Lalas^en amabo 
 
 Du]ce loquentem I 
 
TRAXSL A no. VS. 1 7 3 
 
 Thou, set, seemest to shine ! By votive-tablet borne, 
 This wall, sacred, declares me to have hung thereon 
 Vestments dank to the potent 
 
 God — feared 2rod of the ocean ! 
 
 . BOOK I. ODEXXII. 
 
 LALAGE. 
 
 Blameless as to life, and by sins untainted 
 
 Man needs not of Moors javelins and cross-bow. 
 
 Nor with poisoned darts heavy laden needs he, 
 
 Fruscus. a quiver, 
 Whether thro' the hot Syrtes sands a journey 
 Soon to make, or whe'er thro' unfriendly mountains 
 Or thro' places which, fabulous in ston*, 
 
 - Laves the Hydaspes. 
 For, indeed, a wolf, in the Sabine forest, 
 "While I of mv own Lalasre am sinmncy 
 And beyond the bound, dangers near, do wander 
 
 Flees me defenceless : 
 Such a monster as neither militarv 
 Daunia doth rear, *mid her spreading forests, 
 Nor doth generate Tuba*s realm, of lions 
 
 The arid nurser. 
 Place me where no tree, on the barren prairies. 
 By a summer breeze is invigorated, 
 [Which side of the world vapors and a hurtful 
 
 Atmosphere burdens.] — 
 Place beneath the car of too near approaching 
 Sun, within a land long to homes negated : 
 Still will I love my sweetly smiling, sweetly 
 
 Prattling Lalage ! 
 
1 74 MIS CELLANE OUS P OEMS . 
 
 PSALMS. 
 
 PSALM I. 
 
 Blessed is he that parleyeth not with sin, 
 Nor standeth in the way of sinful men, 
 Nor yet the seat of th' scornful sitteth in. 
 But in Jehovah's law is his delight 
 In this he meditateth day and night. 
 He, hke a tree, the running waters near, 
 That beareth in his season of the year 
 Nor withereth, shall prosper, never fear. 
 Not so the wicked: transient as the day, 
 They're like the chaff the wind doth drive away. 
 Th' ungodly shall their trial ne'er sustain. 
 Nor sinners 'mid the righteous e'er remain. 
 The way of righteous men doth God regard : 
 Ungodly men shall perish, saith the Lord. 
 
 PSALM U. 
 
 Then why do the heathen so rage, 
 And the people a vanity frame? 
 
PSALMS. 175 
 
 The kings of the earth, too, engage, 
 
 And the rulers their counsels inflame 
 Against the Lord God, and against 
 The Anointed's most hallowed name. 
 ^' Their bands — let us break them asunder," they say, 
 " And from us their cords let us cast away." 
 
 He, sitting in heaven, shall laugh ; 
 
 Yea, the Lord shall deride them with ease. 
 To them he shall speak in his wrath, 
 
 And shall vex when they sorely displease. 
 My King upon Zion I've set 
 
 And I now will declare his decrees : 
 For God unto me hath said, " Thou art my son ; 
 This day I begat^thee. Most Holy one." 
 
 Ask me, and the heathen are thine, 
 
 And the utter-most parts of the earth. 
 Thy rod then shall make them to whine ; 
 
 And as potter's ware, little of worth, 
 Thou shalt dash them in pieces so fine 
 They shall be as tho' ne'er having birth. 
 Be wise, then, ye kings of the earth, then be wise 
 Be instructed, ye judges, and right devise. 
 
 Then serve ye Jehovah with fear. 
 
 And with trembling rejoice ye as well. 
 
 Kiss the son, lest he angry appear: 
 Sing his praises, his glories to tell, 
 
176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Lest ye die by the way with none near 
 When is kindled his wrath but a spell. 
 Oh, blessed are all whose dependence in him 
 Is placed, and whose faith in him ne'er grows dim. 
 
 PSALM IIL 
 
 Lord, how are they increased that trouble me ! 
 That rise in arms against me many are they, 
 And many they that of my soul doth say 
 "There is no help for him in God."" Selah. 
 
 But thou, O Lord, art still a shield for me ; 
 My glory and the lifter of mine head. 
 I raised my voice to God from off my bed. 
 And from his holy hill he heard. Selah. 
 
 I lay and slept ; I waked ; the Lord sustained. 
 Ten thousands round about I will not fear. 
 Arise, Lord; save me, O my God; be near: 
 For thou didst smite my foes upon the cheek ; 
 Didst break ungodly teeth. Salvation seek 
 Of God : thy people thou hast blessed. Selah. 
 
 PSALM IV. 
 
 Hear thou my call, O God of righteousness 
 Thou hast enlarged when I was in distress ; 
 
PSALMS. 177 
 
 Have mercy, Lord, on me, and hear me when 
 I pray to thee. O ye, the sons of men, 
 How long will ye my glory turn to shame ? 
 How long love vanity and seek with blame 
 Untruths to frame ? Selah. 
 
 But know the good to God are set apart : 
 When unto him I call, sincere in heart, 
 The Lord will hear. Stand thou in awe, nor sin : 
 With thine own heart commune thy bed within, 
 And cease thy din. Selah. 
 
 Present the offerings of righteousness. 
 And put your trust in God when in distress. 
 There be a multitude of them that say, 
 "Who then will shew us good in any way?" 
 Toward us, O Lord, Hft up thy countenance bright : 
 For thou hast filled mine heart with more delight 
 Than in the time of drunkenness and feast. 
 When much their corn and wine hath been increased. 
 I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep : 
 For thou in safety. Lord, my soul canst keep. 
 
 PSALM V. 
 
 Give ear to my words, O Lord ; 
 
 Consider my deep meditation. 
 My King and my God, regard 
 
 The voice of my loud supplication 
 
1 78 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 For pray I to thee. 
 
 My voice thou shalt hear 
 In the morn of my fear ; 
 O Lord, in the morn my devotions shall be 
 
 Turned upward to thee. 
 
 Thou art not a God that will take 
 
 In wicked devices a pleasure : 
 No evil its dwelling shall make 
 
 With thee, nor be held as a treasure. 
 The foolish shall ne'er 
 Remain in thy sight 
 And they that delight 
 In sin shall be moved thy hatred to fear 
 Indulging whene'er. 
 
 Destruction shall come upon them 
 
 That generate slanders abusive : 
 The Lord will abhor and condemn 
 
 The bloody man and the delusive ; 
 But then as for me. 
 Thy grace will sustain 
 As, entering thy fane, 
 Toward the holy of holies, on fear-bended knee, 
 I worship but thee. 
 
 Because of mine enemies, Lord, 
 
 I'm needing thy righteous direction. 
 
PSALMS. 179 
 
 Reveal to my earnest regard 
 
 That path that will bear iheir inspection : 
 For faithfulness none 
 
 In their mouths can be found : 
 In their hearts sins abound : 
 And their throats open sepulchres are for each one 
 By their flatteries undone. 
 
 By their counsels destroy them, O God; 
 
 Cast them out for their many transgressions 
 For rebellious they challenge thy rod. 
 
 But fill thou with joyful expressions 
 The bosoms that trust — 
 Whom thou dost defend — 
 Who thy name doth commend. 
 For thou, Lord, wilt bless with thy favor the just : 
 'Tis the shield of his trust. 
 
 PSALM VI. 
 
 O Lord, in angry mood, rebuke me not. 
 Nor chasten me in thy displeasure hot. 
 Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am frail; 
 My vexed bones, O Lord, I pray thee heal. 
 My soul is also sorely vexed : but thou, 
 O Lord, how long ? How long art absent now ? 
 Return, O Lord, deliver thou my soul: 
 O save me, thus thy mercies to unfoP. 
 
I So MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 For there will be in death no thought of thee : 
 
 Who, in the grave, to thee will grateful be ? 
 
 With groaning worn, all night make I my bed 
 
 To swim ; while drench my couch the tears I shed. 
 
 Mine eye consumed is because of woes ; 
 
 It waxeth old because of all my foes. 
 
 Depart from me ye sinful workers all : 
 
 The Lord hath heard, of my lament, the call. 
 
 The Lord hath heard mine earnest plea to spare 
 
 The Lord Jehovah will receive my prayer. 
 
 Let all my foes, ashamed, be sorely vexed : 
 
 Let them return to be with shame perplexed. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 Au-RO' RA, {£os,) the goddess of the dawn. See Eos. 
 
 Cu' PiD, (Eros,) the god of love, son of Venus and 
 Mars, a wanton boy from whose tricks neither gods nor 
 men were safe. He carries a bow and a golden quiver 
 filled with arrows, or darts. The golden darts kindle the 
 fires of love in the hearts they wound; while the leaden 
 darts produce aversion to a lover. For the story of his 
 love for Psyche read "Allegory Proper" on page 79 of 
 this volume. 
 
 E'os, the Greek personification of the dawn. At close 
 of night she rose from her couch and ascended the heavens 
 m a chariot drawn by swift horses, as the fore-runner of 
 Helios, the sun. 
 
 Er' e-bos, or Er' e-bus, the personification of darkness. 
 E' Ros, same as Cupid, which see. 
 
 Heli-os, a personification of the sun. is represented as 
 the son of Hyperion and brother of Eos. 
 He-me' ra, a personification of day. 
 Hy-pe-ri' on, one of the Titans, father of Helios and Eos. 
 Ju' NO, (Hera,) the queen of heaven and wife of Jupiter. 
 Ju' Pi-TER, the king of heaven and the gods. See Zeus. 
 Mel-pom' e-ne, the muse of tragedy. 
 
i82 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Muses, the inspiring goddesses of poetry and art, nine in 
 all, represented as daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne, i. e., 
 Memory. 
 
 Naiads, the nymphs of fresh water, whether of river, 
 brook, lake or fountain. 
 
 Nem' e-sis, the goddess who punishes crimes. Hence a 
 personification of revenge. 
 
 Nep' tune, the god of the sea, over which he rides in a 
 chariot drawn by horses with brazen hoofs and golden 
 manes, while the monsters of the deep play around his 
 chariot. 
 
 Nim' bus, the storm-cloud. 
 
 Nymphs, female divinities of inferior rank, with whom the 
 Greeks and Romans peopled all parts of nature. 
 
 Nyx, the Greek personification of night. 
 
 0-ce-a-nus, the god of the water which was believed to 
 surround the whole earth. The early Greeks pictured the 
 earth as a flat circle with a river of water perpetually flow- 
 ing 'round it. This river was Oceanus. Out of this the 
 sun and stars were believed to rise, and in it, set. 
 
 Or' pheus, a mythical personage who received a lyre 
 from Apollo and instruction from the Muses, until even the 
 trees and rocks moved to the sound of his lyre. 
 
 0-lym' pus, a mountain ia Thessaly on the top of which 
 the early poets actually believed the home of the gods to be 
 situated. 
 
 Penates, the guardian gods of house-hold and state, 
 among the old Latins. 
 
 Psy'che, (pro. si-ke) " the soul," represented as one of 
 
GLOSSARY. 183 
 
 three daughters of a king. Her beauty incensed Venus 
 but charmed Eros. For the story, see '' Allegory Proper," 
 page 79. 
 
 Pyg' MIES, people of the height of a vvyixri, i. e. 13J inch. 
 
 Sphinx, a fabled monster which proposed riddles. Hence, 
 a riddle. 
 
 Tha-li'a, the muse of comedy. 
 
 Ve' nus, the goddess of love. 
 
 Vul' can, the god of fire. 
 
 Zeus, the king of heaven and the gods : also the god of 
 storms, as the thunder was believed to be his voice, and the 
 thunder-bolt his weapon. 
 
''''IIk\ 
 
 
 
 
 
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