I PS 3523 
 .194 S4 
 1891 
 Copy 1 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Shelf ...Iq.^. 54 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
THE SEA 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON LIVINGSTON. 
 
 ^ 
 
 [FOR PRIVATE DISTRIBUTION.-] 
 
 December. 1891. 
 
 

To Her, 
 
 Whose sweet friendship 
 And sweeter love 
 Were the inspiration 
 Of my first verses, 
 I dedicate this volume 
 
 Affectionately. 
 
 A. T. 
 
Ct'PVRIGHT, 1892, 
 
 Ai,FREt. Tennyson Livingstc 
 
POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 My Friend: 
 
 I had planned to have this little volume in your hands to-day. The 
 responsibility for the fact that it is not there lies wholly with the pub- 
 lishers. To me association is much; and as this is, of all the year, 
 the day of sweet associations to all of us, I am deeply regretful that I 
 have not a little part in your present pleasure. Ere long, I hope, my 
 remembrance and this explanation will greet you; and I trust you will 
 find in the book, in some degree, the pleasure its preparation for you 
 has given me. 
 
 These selections are chiefly from a mass of material which developed 
 a few years ago during a brief period when I was left much to myself 
 and my varied ruminations. Their composition was a matter solely of 
 agreeable pastime, with not the remotest intention of publication, even 
 in this private manner. My apology for their appearance is the kind 
 and urgent expressions to this effect of the very few of my friends who 
 have heard or read some of them. Having determined to respect their 
 wishes, I concluded to have sufficient copies to go to other of my friends 
 who have known nothing of these writings. 
 
 As the book goes only to my friends, I feel sure that it will be 
 leniently perused. Should it chance to fall under the notice of others, 
 their justness will as surely modify their criticisms. 
 
 With all good wishes, with which I fain would have greeted you 
 to-day, believe me 
 
 Your friend, 
 Jamestown, N. Y., A. T. L. 
 
 Chrittmtti, tSgi. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOE. 
 
 The Sea , , 
 
 Christmastide, ......... 23 
 
 Love, ......... 29 
 
 A View of a Life, 
 
 35 
 
 October, •■...... 41 
 
 Decoration Day, ....... 47 
 
 The Ancient Church at Tadousac, ..... 59 
 
 The Betroth.al, . ..... 65 
 
 Love Songs : 
 
 A Lover's Farewell, •■...... 75 
 
 My Love Had Gone, ....... 76 
 
 The South-wind, Soft, ....... 77 
 
 The Cloud and Field, •■..... 79 
 
 For Virginia's Sake, ........ 81 
 
 I Wonder if She Knows, 82 
 
 An October Idyl, ........ 84 
 
 Is it Strange that I Should Love You ? . . . . 86 
 
 To Virginia, ........ 88 
 
 Miscellaneous: 
 
 To My Father, ........ 91 
 
 "Unmanly Devotion," ....... 95 
 
 Thanksgiving gy 
 
 To a Young Lady, ........ 99 
 
 A Flirtation. ........ loi 
 
 Ideal and Real, ....... 103 
 
 My Flowers are Fading, ...... 104 
 
 To a F"". ' . ' . 105 
 
 Were These, My Dead, .Alive, 108 
 
 When Daylight Dies, . . . . . . .110 
 
 A Prayer, . . . . . . ,,2 
 
 Prose: 
 
 My Native Hamlet, . . . 'IS 
 
 My Life is a Stream, ....... 123 
 
 Sentiment, ........ 126 
 
THE SEA. 
 
THE SEA. 
 
 fy RE AT, restless, roaring Sea! To-day thy feeling tones 
 Ut Vibrate responsive chords within my tuneful soul; 
 
 As when a note from human throat, attuned by heart 
 Harmonious, awakes the lute-string's sweeter lay. 
 Yet sometimes I have wished thy \ oicc might intermit 
 One little hour, or Ijul a moment, even while 
 My troubled mind conceived a single thought; just that 
 Thou shouldst not ever he the same unquiet sea. 
 At times the heart wants peace; anon the weary head 
 Would rest if all around were in repose; but to 
 Such heart or head thou never givest their desire. 
 Since first the Hand Omnipotent laid thee, new-born. 
 In thy vast bed thou'st never slept, but day and night 
 Thy big, wide-open eye has looked in Heaven's face, 
 Xor blinded by the burning gaze of Sol, nor drowsed 
 By Lun.i's softer light, and in the spacious \ ault 
 Above thee nothing has escaped thy notice. Thou 
 Hast seen the birth of suns and worlds; and, too, thou hast 
 Beheld the last faint glow of stars extinguishing. 
 The countless host of shining orbs that nightly pass 
 In measured tread before thy sight must give thee thought. 
 As they do me, of Him who grandlv marshaled them 
 And, in their wonderful mannnivres, avc maintain^ 
 
Such harmony that each his separate, circling path 
 Pursues, colliding not. And those rare heralds, whom 
 Thou hast observed with brilliant dash appear and then 
 As hastily depart, speed on their rambling routes 
 Like one who, in a mazy dance, winds in and out 
 Among the rest, escaping each. 
 
 While thus thy gaze 
 Is ever fixed, thou dost exhale thy humid breath, 
 Which to the fecund Air ascends, and presently 
 The vaporous Clouds are born. These, morn and eve, arrayed 
 In irridescent hues, extracts from purest light, 
 Are fairer pictures than a Titian may portray. 
 Nor selfish thou I Upon the winds thy clouds are borne 
 To thirsty lands. In pleasant rain or crystal snow 
 Thy breath to Earth is given; who, in gratitude, 
 Refreshed, now pours into thy veins abundant streams 
 Of thy own food, which, entering the arteries 
 Immense that permeate throughout thy monstrous mass, 
 Becomes the nutriment to all thy utmost parts. 
 
 To-day thy mood and mine are one. To-day thy pulse 
 
 Is not more tense and active than my beating heart. 
 
 Thy fretful waves more restless than my surging thoughts. 
 
 Though boundaries are set about thee, and a watch 
 
 Upon thy deeds, thou canst well laugh thy sentinel shores 
 
 To scorn and spit upon them all thy mouthing foam. 
 
 What though they hedge thy body in.' Thy thoughts are not 
 
 Embraced by arms of land! Thy soul cannot be mured 
 
By rocks and sand! Thy soul and mine leap over bounds 
 We cannot feel, and into space we cannot see. 
 There roaming, far beyond the narrow ken of those 
 Who would restrain us, we approach the throne of the 
 Creator, and our thoughts, expanding wide, take in 
 The universe. 
 
 Nor can thy sentinels control 
 Thy speech! The yielding sands continually hear 
 Thy gentler murmurs; and as oft the rocky coast 
 Discerns thy indignation in thy sterner tone; 
 While to the haughty cliffs that rude command, 
 "Thus far!" thou shoutest loud defiance, and thy blows 
 Of wrath and thunders of thy voice make them to quake. 
 Aha, my noble Sea! For this I like thy voice — 
 Thou wilt not cringe and bow to stern, resistless Fate, 
 But in thy dignity declare alike thy scorn 
 And independence; and — so will I treat my fate. 
 
 But thou art very kind and gentle to thy friends! 
 Thou lovest man, who, separated from his kind 
 By all the length and breadth of thy. majestic self. 
 Must to thee look for help to reach his fellow-man. 
 In his frail vessel fixed, with products of his clime 
 Desired by men in other lands, he bids farewell 
 To friends and home to seek for pleasure and for gain. 
 To thee he trusts his life and worldly store; and thou, 
 His faith perceiving, dost reward it by thy care. 
 On thy soft bosom resting, thou dost bear his bark 
 To destined port. 
 
At times emotion deep prevails 
 Within thy soul, and swelling thought heaves high thy breast. 
 Then pales weak man with fear, lest thou, absorbed o'ermuch, 
 Forget the burden light in thy puissant arms. 
 His cry is heard by thee and thou dost calm thyself; 
 And now, in undulations rhythmical, thy breast 
 Doth gently rise and fall, and, by its motion, lulls 
 The anxious heart to peace and sweet content, as bird 
 Is rocked to sleep upon the little, swaying bough. 
 O gentle Sea! I know thou hast a tender heart 
 And would not ruthlessly endanger or destroy 
 So frail a thing as man. My noble-hearted Sea! 
 
 Grand secrets, too, and mysteries hast thou which yet 
 
 To man have never been revealed. The drapery 
 
 That covers the uneven bed on which thy form 
 
 Gigantic lies is woven of these hidden things; 
 
 And only He who placed thee there may take thee up 
 
 Again, and so expose to the rude public gaze 
 
 The wonders known for ages but to thee alone. 
 
 Till then man may but catch, in thy pellucid depths, 
 
 Dim glimpses of the treasures rich that lie spread out 
 
 Beneath thee; or imagine that he faintly hears. 
 
 In thy low undertone, the voices of those souls 
 
 Who perished when, in rage, thou didst forget all else 
 
 Save that which angered thee; and who were doomed to lie 
 
 Among the coral and the sponge, part of the web 
 
 Mysterious now covering thy couch, to there 
 
Remain until the clarion trump of Gabriel sounds. 
 
 'Tis true, O Sea! thou sometimes art so overwhelmed 
 
 With rage intense against thine enemies, that, in 
 
 The tumult of thy mighty heart, is lost the thought 
 
 Of man; as when the children of thy blood and breath, 
 
 Gathered in compact dark, unfilial and unjust, 
 
 In jealousy conspire and plot against their sire. 
 
 Riding upon the wind. Cloud joins with Cloud, and these 
 
 With others, all denoting in their lowering frowns 
 
 And darkening visages their evil thoughts and ill 
 
 Designs. Beholding this, thy gentle heart is touched 
 
 With indignation, which grows more and more profound 
 
 As thou dost contemplate the all-rebellious host. 
 
 Thy heart beats fast and strong; thy breath more deep and quick 
 
 Is drawn as anger grows and agitates thy soul. 
 
 Thy children note thy wrath. In fear and shame they call 
 
 To aid their friend, abhorrent Night, whose help is sought 
 
 By all who are intent on foul and violent deeds. 
 
 Eager responding, horrid Night appears, all clothed 
 
 In black habiliments. Around his ponderous form 
 
 A mantle, flowing wide, obscures the canopy 
 
 Of heaven. Emboldened by a league with such a power, 
 
 Their coward faces hidden from their parent's view, 
 
 Thy children now begin to cast upon their sire 
 
 Their fiery shafts and shout malignant thunderings. 
 
 Now art thou overcome with grief and righteous wrath! 
 
 O mariner unfortunate! whose craft infirm 
 
 Is tossed upon thy turbulent breast this night perverse. 
 
Say now thy prslyefs, O man! and make thy peace with God. 
 Thou mayst not hope that thy great friend will think upon 
 Thee now. By the next blow his frenzied arm will strike 
 Will come thy doom — another thread be woven in 
 The hidden drapery of his couch. So, fare thee well! 
 
 The insulted parent who as yet the gathering storm 
 Of strong emotion has restrained within himself, 
 His breast now rising high, now falling low, as fast 
 His surging thoughts in violent waves swell and recede 
 Within him, raises now his hoary head, its white 
 Locks flying in the rushing wind, and hurls his mad 
 Anathemas against his offspring, who now throw, 
 In quick succession, down upon the Sea their darts 
 Intense, and drown his voice in ceaseless thunders loud. 
 Now bright illumined by their flaming shafts, he spies 
 Their leader, darkest, most ill-favored of them all. 
 And lifting up his powerful arm, he seizes him. 
 And, swiftly swinging him about, he dashes him 
 Against the rock-ribbed land. 
 
 In dire confusion thrown 
 By the destruction of their chief, they fly around. 
 In moving circle wide, above the wrathy Sea. 
 Now and again their spiteful thunderbolts are thrown. 
 But aimless, and sometimes upon themselves, and still 
 In awful tones reverberating do they cry 
 Against their author, who in vain extends his arms 
 To grasp them. Round and round, across and back they fl\ 
 
In fearful panic. But for Night's grim presence it 
 Appears their clamorings would cease, for they perceive 
 The folly of their violent course and fain would be 
 At peace with their insulted and avenging sire. 
 
 Lo! in the east Aurora's ambient glow is seen, 
 
 And soon her rosy figure, softly draped, appears, 
 
 Announcing to the world that close behind her comes 
 
 The King of Light! And now that monster, who, so late. 
 
 Performed his silent, dark and inauspicious part 
 
 In the foul scene, is quick to gather round his form 
 
 His spreading robe, and swiftly to the West he flies; 
 
 For never yet has Night been bold to-meet the gaze 
 
 Of his arch enemy the Sun. 
 
 Aerial path 
 Ascending slow, the God of Day now greets the Sea! 
 
 Perceiving that his friend is sore distressed and wrought 
 
 To highest pitch of anger by that keenest hurt 
 
 A parent may receive, a child's ingratitude. 
 
 His ire is quick enkindled, and he throws upon 
 
 That cruel band his hottest glances of reproof. 
 
 Their rancor thus renewed against both Sea and Sun, 
 
 They congregate betwixt the two and hide from each 
 
 The other. Then, straight through their vaporous forms that King 
 
 Projects his strongest beams and quells at once their pride. 
 
 Subdued complete, they shed the tears of sad remorse; 
 
 At which the Sea, his heart a little softened, bids 
 
Them all depart to the sick Land, their further tears 
 To pour upon his thirsty lips and fevered brow. 
 Then, rapid as the wind, they fly beyond the shores 
 Of Ocean, weeping still their contrite, crystal spheres. 
 The kindly Sun, beholding the repentant drops. 
 Now smiles his benediction, and, behold! across 
 The sky is stretched an arch of beauty which mankind 
 Regards alike with wonder and delight. 'Tis but 
 The light of love, refracted by that purest lens, 
 A tear of honest sorrow for a sinful deed. 
 
 Although above his heaving breast no sign appears 
 
 Of conflict strong so recent waged, the Ocean still 
 
 Is deep purturbed; but gentler beats his calming heart, 
 
 And longer, slower draws his breath. And now, at last. 
 
 Again composed, I hear his voice upon the shore; 
 
 I feel his pulses softly beat; I see him look 
 
 In Heaven's face with peaceful eye all silently. 
 
 O Sea! So gentle and so mighty! In thy voice 
 
 Unceasing, and thy ever-throbbing pulse, type of 
 
 Eternity! When I have done with wandering 
 
 Upon thy wave-washed shores, and up and down the earth 
 
 Have traveled till I'm tired; in vain or with success 
 
 Against my enemies contended long; and when 
 
 The hurts, the cares and sorrows of my life are o'er. 
 
 And, at the bidding of Almighty, I have laid 
 
 Me down in my last sleep — committed to thy arms — 
 
I then would have thee place me in thy ample bed, 
 Where, 'neath the rosy umbrage of a coral tree, 
 Reclining on the wondrous fabric wrought for thee, 
 I'd sweetly rest, awaiting the glad call to life 
 Immortal in the regions of eternal peace. 
 November /y, 1SS5. 
 
CHRIS TMAS TIDE. 
 
CHRISTMASTIDE. 
 
 Now have we come to joyous Christmastide! 
 A tide that waits for man one happy day 
 Each year, that he may cease from care and tr 
 And fix his thoughts in peace upon that theme 
 Around which cluster all his better hopes. 
 Down through the centuries of the dark past 
 He sees the Star of the Nativity; 
 Whose light has never been one hour obscured 
 From the attentive eye of human heart 
 That sought for sign of peace and purest love. 
 Quick, on the wings of thought, borne to that spot 
 He stands within the cave, beside the child 
 Around whose brow have limners placed a halo 
 In token of the origin divine 
 Of that sweet soul now habiting the cla\'. 
 'Tis but a babe — a puling infant now — 
 Yet mortal compound with the Son of God! 
 Before whom bow, in thankful adoration, 
 The Wise of earth, who journeyed far to greet 
 This wondrous Web of mortal and divine. 
 Upon his mother's lap they lay their gifts 
 Of gold, the sweet frankincense and the myrrh, 
 Thus signifying both the royal need 
 23 
 
Of earthly wealth in him they there beheld, 
 
 And wafting to the soul divine within 
 
 The fragrant odors fitting to a God. 
 
 Man, standing there to-day, in thought, is conscious 
 
 Of something more than to the Wise appeared 
 
 That night in Bethlehem. In later youth 
 
 That child taught wisdom to some other Wise, 
 
 Who marveled that a lad should so profound 
 
 Appear in things not compassed by their age. 
 
 The youth became a man; and multitudes 
 
 Beheld in humble fellow-man among them 
 
 A power, against which kings were impotent; 
 
 A hand, that touched old eyes that had not seen. 
 
 And they beheld as eyes of babes new born; 
 
 That touched the lame and now he leaped for joy. 
 
 They heard a voice, that spoke to leper foul, 
 
 And soft his skin became as other men's; 
 
 A voice that spoke to dead now wrapped in grave-cloths 
 
 And rotting in his tomb, and lo! behold! 
 
 The bonds of grave and death were broken straight! 
 
 In Death's habiliments the living walked. 
 
 Much more they saw and heard to this import. 
 
 The growing child, the man, developing. 
 
 Has now become the offering of blood. 
 
 Demanded by a sin-offended God. 
 
 The innocent is slain ! like as a lamb 
 
 Is slaughtered by the priest, in sacrifice. 
 
 The body is not burned, but placed in tomb 
 
 And guarded well against deceit and fraud. 
 
In vain the force of arms is now employed 
 
 To keep that body in confinenaent there. 
 
 The great stpn^; in the eiUrance rolls away; 
 
 The man-and-Go4 wallfS foith in morning light. 
 
 Last sc^ne of all now greets the eyes of men: 
 
 Upon an eminence this Being stands, 
 
 Once d^d and buried, now again alive 
 
 By that same power he used to give to others 
 
 New life in place of mortifying clay. 
 
 There standing, robed in flesh as other men. 
 
 Beheld by those who long had followed him, 
 
 He sudden disappears in flying cloud, 
 
 Nor ever more is seen upon the earth. 
 
 But in the heart a gentle voice is heard 
 
 That speaks of peace to sorely-troubled soul. 
 
 The conscience that has pricked the tender thought 
 
 Of one because of evil he has done 
 
 Is but the prompting of that Soul to right, 
 
 WljijCh pnqe in mprtal flesh w^s all constrained, 
 
 But now unloosed, ej^panded, occupies 
 
 The uniyerse of man ; and stands between 
 
 The Father and the truant child, his brother; 
 
 And chides a ^in in love and tender ruth. 
 
 Since he, in flesh, once felt the selfsame impulse 
 
 To wrong, and all the evil lusts of man; 
 
 And cheers the patient heart that suffers long. 
 
 Or labors darkly through the tedious night. 
 
 Or waits long years for that which cometh not. 
 
 To all he, in the soul's most deep recesses, 
 
 Sings ever a sweet lullaby of peace. 
 
So joy the hearts of men at Christmastide, 
 Which waits, as other tides do not, for them. 
 And so they deck with holly and with bay, 
 With plants that lose not soon their living green, 
 The temples which in honor of his name 
 They raised, in which they congregate to worship 
 The soul that gives them greater peace on earth 
 And peace eternal in the world to come. 
 
 So, too, they hang about their firesides emblems 
 Of that dear day on which the child was born. 
 And make their homes more beautiful with flowers, 
 And always give good gifts from one to other, 
 And call together them whom most they love. 
 And feast them with the best their purse affords. 
 
 And though they mingle in their speech few words 
 Of him whose natal day they celebrate, 
 Down in the deeper currents of their thought. 
 In streams of feeling which most strongly flow. 
 There floats a little ark that bears the Child. 
 
 December ao, i8S^, 
 
LOVE. 
 
LOVE. 
 
 WITHIN a temple of the living-dead, 
 A habitation for the mind diseased, 
 Amid a varied throng alike distracted, 
 Who once v/ere quick to softest sentiments 
 And joyed in home and in the dear caresses 
 Of those who loved them; who were once ambitious 
 And pregnant with the dreams of life's endeavor 
 And its success; and buoyed with hope as any 
 Who then, without those walls, were free and healthful 
 And eagerly pursuing wealth or pleasure — 
 Amid that mass of mental wreck and ruin 
 There sat a inaid of tender years, demented. 
 All day she sat there in the selfsame spot. 
 With eyes half closed and bent upon the Hoor, 
 Her greasy, puffy face imlined by thought. 
 Her cold, congested hands in awkward pose 
 Upon her lap or hanging motionless 
 Beside her chair, her lips tight sealed in silence. 
 Nor opened save to take of food or drink 
 When offered by the nurse; a breathing statue. 
 Unmoved as marble by the life around her. 
 She breathed and ate and slept and woke again; 
 A beast doqs this, and more, but she was human. 
 
Thus yesterday and so to-day and daily 
 I saw her thus, while, like a panorama, 
 Befoie the eyes of God there stately passed 
 The various scenes that marked a mundane 
 
 At last the quiet pool begins to stir; 
 
 The healing waters now with life are troubleii ; 
 
 The sickened soul is laving in its depths. 
 
 The maid arose and walked with open eyes; 
 
 Her lips again were parted in sweet speech, 
 
 The quickened thoughts now played about her face, 
 
 Her eyes expressed her wonted animation. 
 
 The ruddy currents flowed in liealthful motion, 
 
 And as the widow's son threw off the pall 
 
 And upright sat before the wondering mother. 
 
 So stood the maid in my astonished sight. 
 
 I carefully avoided hasty converse 
 
 And chid her nurses to a like discretion ; 
 
 But when some days had passed and still I noticetl 
 
 A calm demeanor with this wondrous change 
 
 I ventured to address her with the question 
 
 Which oft my mind conceived through her long trance. 
 
 And so I said : " My dear, I want to ask you 
 
 What you were thinking all those many months 
 
 While by the door you sat in utter silence?" 
 
 To my surprise the maiden blushed and sighed. 
 
And hesitated, but when I again 
 
 Renewed my query, saying, " Tell me, Mary, 
 
 Of what or whom you thought?" the modest maid. 
 
 Her eyes upon the floor and hands, uneasy, 
 
 Engaged in bashful plucking at her apron. 
 
 Replied: "I think — I think — sir — it was Robbie." 
 
 So, Mary, thy long day-dream was of love! 
 Of loving Robbie, whom thou lovest most! 
 He was thy god and thou his worshiper. 
 Love was thy sun; thou knew no other light, 
 And by that light thine eye beheld but one; 
 He was the earth, thy single thought the moon. 
 
 O Love! Thou last emotion to depart 
 
 From mortals sick in body and in mind! 
 
 Thou smouldering ember which alone keeps warr 
 
 The heart when every sense is numb and frigid! 
 
 And in the hour of death thou latest friend 
 
 To bid adieu to the insensate tissue 
 
 Within the cavern where thou madst thy home; 
 
 And last to linger on the chilling lips! 
 
 Thou sweetest sentiment of man or God! 
 Thou dearest thing in all the universe! 
 Thou sponge that wipes out every tale of 
 
Thou only cord by whicli t1i6 Sb'i'i\ is Kft^A 
 From earth fo the eternal jbartidise! 
 Thou center round which all thhig's else devolve! 
 Thou never-dying, fiverlasting Love! 
 
 February ig, iSS6. 
 
A VIEIV OF A LIFE. 
 
A VIEW OF A LIFE. 
 
 I have a heart to love; 
 l?ut, one by one, the objects, passing sweet, 
 On whom my love was fixed, slipped from the bounds 
 That hedge mortality. Or now above, 
 Around, or where I cannot surely tell; 
 I only know they are beyond mv confines. 
 In dreams I have reached out my eager arms 
 To clasp the fairest vision that my eyes 
 E'er looked upon; but when, in trembling joy, 
 I would have grasped m.y love and to my bosom 
 Have pressed her precious form, she slow receded. 
 And still receded, till, in air dissolving. 
 Her sweet face faded into nothingness; 
 And I, in agony of loneliness. 
 Awoke, remembering she was beyond 
 My mortal reach. 
 
 My heart, so rudely pruned 
 By heedless fate, yet full of vital force. 
 Throws out each day, by natural growth impelled. 
 Its little tendrils, which find naught to cling to. 
 The vine that would, by complementing help, 
 Aspire to light and lofty elevation 
 
Lies, therefore, humbly on the earth, supine, 
 And is contented most when Autumn's leaves 
 Upon it kindly fall and hide its dearth. 
 
 And I have ardent lips. 
 Which, knowing once the nameless ecstacy 
 Of meeting other lips, in softest touch. 
 Prolonged, while pure and spicy breath perfumed 
 The air inhaled, and circling arms firm pressed 
 Together hearts that beat in unison, 
 Cannot forget their loss. 
 
 I had ambition once 
 To be a more than mere existing thing; 
 In honor and by work to have my place- 
 In foremost ranks of acting, thinking men; 
 To find, each morn, some noble work to do. 
 To see, each eve, my duty well performed ; 
 Loving my fellow-man, to do him good; 
 To be a husband, master of a home. 
 Whose mistress true loved me unspeakably ; 
 To be a father, happy sire of children. 
 Who, as from year to year their tender natures 
 Put forth new shoots of beauty, grow in strength. 
 And burst in fragrant bloom that promises 
 A fruitful time, are constantly a joy; 
 Until in later ye.nrs, to manhood grown. 
 One takes my name and place in active life; 
 
Another, in fair womanhood, obeying 
 
 Her nature, leaves parental care and goes 
 
 To grace with beauty and all gentle charms 
 
 Her lover's home; while I and she who shares 
 
 With me life's woes and joys, alone at last, 
 
 In pleasing idleness of feeble age, 
 
 Feel sacred satisfaction as we see 
 
 The dear first-fruits of those young, thrifty plants 
 
 To whom we gave existence and a name, 
 
 And watch the new lives sweetly grow apace 
 
 And bud and bloom and flourish, while we wait 
 
 The termination of our own. . . . This was 
 
 A dream — ambition's empty recompense. 
 
 I have a life to live 
 Which is not all delusive as a dream; 
 And yet I find no joy enticing me 
 To still prolong this weary, mortal round. 
 One constant thought — would that it were His wil 
 Who in this pulsing mass breathed his pure soul, 
 To take that spirit from this jaded flesh. 
 Defiled by contact with the grime and soot 
 Of human wretchedness and sinful lust, 
 And in some other sphere, some other form. 
 Permit the full fruition of its hopes! 
 This goal awaiting I will labor on 
 Until my lonely, dreary course be run. 
 
Perhaps in some fair clime 
 The heart that here is bowed with griefs and woes 
 And rudely tossed in tempests of this life, 
 Or bruised and faint from knocks of human strife, 
 Or buried quite beneath the heavy cares 
 And infinite perplexities of earth, 
 Yet brave and calml}' meeting it'^ hard fate, 
 Will, in a richer measure, find reward 
 And in a grander strength employ those traits 
 Which, born in sorrow, to perfection grew 
 While daily fed on rough experience. 
 
 October JO, /SSj. 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
 THE gorgeous hues around me vie 
 With colors of the evening sky. 
 No eastern maiden in her best 
 Is all so gay and richly dressed 
 As our dear Earth, in red and green, 
 Yellow and brown, and, in between. 
 All shades and tints. A fairy hand 
 Touched verdure with mosaic wand. 
 
 Low in the West the sleepy Sun, 
 His shining day of duty done, 
 Rests, purple-robed, beyond the lea; 
 A moment glances o'er the mead, 
 Then folds his wings, so long outspread. 
 And gently sinks upon the sea. 
 
 Now Luna, while hei- father sleeps, 
 While lonely watcher vigil keeps. 
 Brightly reflects, with modest grace, 
 The glory got from her sire's face; 
 And chilly air and falling leaf, 
 The ripened corn in tented sheaf, 
 
And barren fields o'er all the land 
 Tell that October is at hand. 
 
 O fairest month! If but thy hues 
 
 Might ne'er their glorious beauty lose! 
 
 If but thy air, so pure and clear, 
 
 Gave strength and hope throughout the year! 
 
 But no! one word alone I see 
 
 Upon each blade and flower and tree — 
 
 Change! This the message thou dost bear 
 
 To my regretful, listening ear. 
 
 Thy hues must fade; thy leaves must fall, 
 
 And desolation cover all. 
 
 Even thy stimulating breath 
 
 Must icy cold grow in thy death. 
 
 After, a pall of purest white 
 
 Shall hide thy form from mortal sight; 
 
 An infant's pall. A little span 
 
 Of beauteous life (in time less than 
 
 A single year) departs in thine, 
 
 Called back unto its source divine. 
 
 And this is life: To-day a joy 
 So pure it seems naught can alloy. 
 To-morrow, early, it has fled; 
 A sorrow find we in its stead. 
 
Thus, lonely, sit I here and brood. 
 
 Wrapped in thy melancholy mood. 
 
 Regretting that I must again 
 
 Be roused from the delicious pain 
 
 Of these sad thoughts to hear once more 
 
 The busy city's ceaseless roar. 
 
 And, midst the throng and tumult rife. 
 
 Engage again in human strife. 
 
 On train front Atlantic City, 
 October ig, iSSj. 
 
DECORATION DAY. 
 
T 
 
 DECORATION DAY/ 
 
 HE living and the loving stand to-day 
 Around the habitations of the dead! 
 
 Not newly dead are these who lowly lie 
 
 In quiet, single-chambered homes, asleep 
 
 For aye to voice of friend or to earth's din, 
 
 Beneath the feet of them who kindly come 
 
 To thatch their humble dwellings' roofs with flowers. 
 
 These earthy, uncemented walls closed round 
 
 Their unresisting occupants when men 
 
 Who now stand here with bearded lips were babes 
 
 Unborn and leaped within their mothers' wombs 
 
 At shouts of victory, and quivered there 
 
 At tales of strifes in which their sires were slain. 
 
 Nor to their mouldy tombs come men to-day 
 
 In sorrow's crape and black habiliments, 
 
 With swollen, blood-shot eyes and tear-stained cheeks, 
 
 Which mark the visage of the freshly grieved. 
 
 There was a time to weep and sob and mourn, 
 
 And put on garments of a somber hue, 
 
 When living eyes saw w^ounds in these dead forms, 
 
 ♦These verses were written while, in imagination, upon the field of Gettysburg, where 
 many, both of the "Blue" and the "Gray," are lying. 
 
Rude, cruel, foul-made, gaping wounds, through which 
 
 The ruddy waves had ebbed their latest tide 
 
 While battle-smoke made dark the fading day 
 
 And war's loud tumult drowned the last faint cry; 
 
 While one great nation wept and sobbed and mourned 
 
 With mothers, wives and sisters of these dead ; 
 
 While frantic War raged up and down the land, 
 
 Led by the horrors. Hate and Jealousy 
 
 And Anger and Revenge; and followed fast 
 
 By all the fellows of their reckless ti'ain, 
 
 Pain, Sickness, Death and Woe and ruthless Ruin, 
 
 And all the Crimes, and all the vicious Passions, 
 
 And Fire aiul Waste and Want and Poverty; 
 
 And, over all, black, wide-winged Desolatioai, 
 
 Dark hovering, shutting heaven's light away. 
 
 Now those dark, dismal days are but remembered 
 
 As one recalls the tragedies of dreams; 
 
 And gentle Peace now hovers o'er the land. 
 
 And, with her spotless pinions, fans the brow 
 
 Of Industry and swells the bellied sails 
 
 Of Commerce; and, held in her beak, she bears 
 
 The olive branch, and in her talons grasps 
 
 A vine's rich cluster and the corn's ripe ear, 
 
 Plucked from the fruitful fields of Agriculture. 
 
 Prosperity has driven Want away 
 
 And Plenty fills the garners of the farm, 
 
 And Comfort houses everv son of toil, 
 
And Joy smiles in the sweaty face of Labor, 
 
 And Hope points cheeringly to future years. 
 
 Now babes lie tranquil in their mothers' wombs, 
 
 And wives are glad, for husbands come at eve; 
 
 And maids rejoice, for lovers soon return. 
 
 Fire glows now only in the busy forge 
 
 That melts the cannon into plows and tools, 
 
 Or from the earth dissolves her precious metals, 
 
 Which, by the pliant hand of Art, are molded 
 
 To useful shapes and to the world's advantage. 
 
 Sweet Charity has joined the hearts and hands 
 
 Of men who once raised swords against each other; 
 
 And Love grows beauteous flowers in every garden 
 
 Of all the country's hillsides, plains and valleys, 
 
 And on this happy May day gathers them 
 
 And brings them to the heroes of the land 
 
 As her best offering of gratitude 
 
 To those who cannot hear the praises spoken, 
 
 Nor see the grateful look upon men's faces. 
 
 Nor feel the silent pressure of the hand. 
 
 From these turf-censers, sprinkled with fresh flowers. 
 
 While summer's suns are scorching their sweet petals, 
 
 A fragrant incense will arise to heaven 
 
 And bear to the brave spirits of these heroes 
 
 The grateful sentiments of human hearts. 
 
 Thus shall men honor most the noble dead 
 Who, for their country's weal, accepted woe; 
 
Who bore the mutilation of their bodies 
 
 That its great body might continue whole, 
 
 And gave their lives that its life might not perish, 
 
 And thus bought blessings for their fellow-men. 
 
 The marble and the granite and the brass 
 
 Are cold and hard and senseless, dead reminders 
 
 Of lively virtues and warm sentiments 
 
 And soft emotions of the human breast; 
 
 And their stiff, calculated, chiseled words 
 
 Stand there through generations, formal, fixed, 
 
 As the full measure of an obligation; 
 
 The monument, a duty justly done; 
 
 And these enduring marks of estimation 
 
 Are granted only to a favored few 
 
 Who were, perhaps, less brave and suffered less 
 
 Than many who lie nameless in their graves. 
 
 But flowers are Love's sweet thoughts that bloom, like love. 
 
 Most richly and profusely in the spring-time, 
 
 And burst spontaneous as love itself 
 
 Springs from one heart to greet another heart. 
 
 Each new day they are fresh and always welcome; 
 
 And they are varied as affection's speech: 
 
 A stately lily, pure as its white petals; 
 
 A red rose, warm and blushing with its passion; 
 
 A modest daisy, from neglected field; 
 
 The sweet azalea, from the wooded hill; 
 
 A buttercup, rich as its golden color; 
 
 And wee, dear violets. Love's constant mentors, 
 
 That only Winter's blustering blasts may silence. 
 
Each several flower has its own pretty speech, 
 Its silent speech, looking the thought it feels; 
 And flowers are soft and tender as the thoughts. 
 The living, loving thoughts they represent; 
 And they are beautiful to look upon, 
 Nor do they cause a shudder through the frame. 
 For they suggest not death, but beauteous life; 
 Not the dark charnel house and damp, chill dust 
 That once was quickened with a living soul. 
 But that dear soul itself which now inhabits 
 Immortal regions, where eternal bloom 
 The everlasting flowers of Paradise. 
 
 So stand, to-day, the living round the dead, 
 Thatching their humble dwellings' roofs with flowers 
 And sprinkling on these censers Love's sweet thoughts. 
 Which Summer's suns will burn in fragrant incense 
 That will arise to heaven to the heroes 
 Whose bodies moulder in these lowly tombs. 
 And so the living ever more will gather 
 About these sleeping forms in pleasant springtime, 
 Strewing their loving thoughts in beauteous flowers; 
 Remembering the woe these dead accepted, 
 That to their country might come blessed weal, 
 And that the mutilation of their bodies 
 Kept whole the land now honored and majestic; 
 And that the present reign of peace and concord 
 Was bought by blood that poured forth from their woui 
 51 
 
But there are other dead who perished then 
 
 Now lying there as peacefully asleep. 
 
 They were as brave to face the cannon's mouth; 
 
 They walked as boldly in the jaws of death; 
 
 From their rude wounds their blood as freely flowed; 
 
 As manfully they laid them down and died; 
 
 And they were martyrs, though their cause was evil. 
 
 Their cause was wrong, but they believed it right, 
 
 And gauged their faith by no less than their lives. 
 
 We do not sing to them our songs of praise; 
 
 Our faces are not toward them grateful turned; 
 
 To them we owe no blessings of to-day ; 
 
 But while we handle these sweet signs of love, 
 
 Of warm emotions and of tender thoughts, 
 
 Shall we not strew some on their graves as well? 
 
 They were the kindred of these nobler dead 
 
 In soldiers' virtues and in soldiers' woes. 
 
 Like them, they left their homes and wives and sweethearts 
 
 To trudge in measured step with gun and knapsack. 
 
 Through the lone night they paced with watchful eyes 
 
 And beating hearts, while their worn fellows slept; 
 
 They heard the bugle and the battle-shout. 
 
 Obeyed their captain's call and felt as keen 
 
 The bullet, bayonet and saber-stroke; 
 
 And who shall say that, when their spirits winged 
 
 Their flight beyond the ken of mortal eye. 
 
 They went not hand in hand, fraternal joined. 
 
 With them who in the flesh had been their foes? 
 
 Or who shall say what these dumb mouths would speak 
 
Could they, as erst, the heart's deep feelings utter? 
 What keen regret, sincere and honest sorrow, 
 What earnest wish to right their deeds of wrong 
 May not those souls have felt when from their sight 
 The mortal veil was lifted and they saw 
 Truth, Justice, Freedom, Right, ranked with their foes. 
 Ranked with the country which they would have rent, 
 Ranked with the millions whom they would have kept 
 In bondage, ignorance and brutal fear! 
 Shall then our hearts deny to them forgiveness 
 And Charity reach not to them her hand. 
 To show that Hate was buried with their dust 
 And strife put in the scabbard with our swords? 
 Then strew upon their turf-rCofs pretty flowers. 
 Whose fragrance will to heaven bear oi;r thoughts, 
 And tell the welcome tale to former foes 
 That Hate was buried deeper than their bones; 
 That wars are done and strifes are sheathed with swords; 
 That Charity has taken by the hand 
 
 Both " Blue" and " Gray" and made them once more brothers; 
 That Love plucks flowers from forest, field and garden 
 To deck the graves of former friend and foe; 
 That North and South and East and West clasp hands 
 And dance around the pole of Liberty, 
 From which the Stars and Stripes are proudly streaming. 
 While all the land sing songs of Peace and Freedom, 
 And nations look with wonder on the scene 
 Of universal concord in that country 
 Where all the people rule themselves discreetly; 
 83 
 
Where men are truly, now, born free and equal; 
 Where neither race nor riches, caste nor color, 
 Determines in the babe more lofty station 
 Nor wider scope to live, enjoy sweet freedom 
 Or keen pursue the longed-for happiness; 
 For blackest Ethiop is free as Saxon! 
 
 .Still other graves there are, more newly made, 
 
 On some of which the grass has not yet grown; 
 
 And one stands open at this very hour 
 
 To coldly welcome him who, yesterday. 
 
 Wrapped round his chilling limbs his blanket robe, 
 
 Lay down and closed his eyes and fell asleep. 
 
 These new-made dwellings of the noble dead 
 
 Contain the forms of soldier veterans 
 
 Who perished not on bloody battle-fields. 
 
 But brought their wounds and sickened bodies home. 
 
 Or from the conflict 'scaped without a scar. 
 
 But they as wholly offered to their country 
 
 The priceless, patriotic gift of life 
 
 As those from whom that best gift was accepted. 
 
 For, side by side with them they stood in battle. 
 
 Marched in the rain or snow or burning sunshine, 
 
 Paced up and down the lonely beat on picket, 
 
 Made the cold earth their cot, the sky their tent-roof; 
 
 And some left arms and legs on Southern fields, 
 
 And some brought bullets home fixed in their flesh, 
 
 And some bore scars of bayonets and sabers. 
 
And soon or later these laid down the lives 
 Which they had offered for their country's weal. 
 So on their graves Love lays the same dear flowers 
 With which she decorates the noble dead 
 From whose rude wounds, upon the battle-field, 
 The ruddy waves flowed out their latest tide. 
 
 And there are heroes yet alive and standing 
 
 About these graves to-day with quickened thoughts, 
 
 Reviewing hours when, with these dead, they fought 
 
 And bled and met the rough assaults of war, 
 
 And gathered round the camp-fire telling tales 
 
 Of home, of peace and love, and in the tents 
 
 Lay wearily and dreamt the night away. 
 
 And while the noble dead are decked with flowers 
 
 We fain would give a nosegay to the living. 
 
 Take then this rose — our grateful heart's affection — 
 
 And this green leaf — our lasting memory 
 
 Of thy brave deeds for us and for our country; 
 
 And wear them on thy manly soldier bosom 
 
 Until thy limbs grow chill and thou dost wrap 
 
 Thy blanket robe around them and lie down 
 
 And close thine eyes and fall asleep in death. 
 
 Then shalt thou bear upon thy soul's brave breast 
 
 While winging far thy first immortal flight 
 
 The love and memory of human hearts — 
 
 A decoration nobler than proud kings 
 
 May lay upon their titled favorites. 
 
And when thy form lies also in the tomb, 
 
 In single-chambered home beneath the sod, 
 
 Like these thy mates who perished long ago. 
 
 Then men will gather in the pleasant spring-time 
 
 To strew with Love's sweet flowers the nation's dead 
 
 In memory of their virtues and their woes, 
 
 And of the blessings which they bought for others 
 
 When for their country's weal they nobly offered 
 
 Their lives and all that mortals hold most dear. 
 
 Thus, too, from generations yet unborn 
 
 Will spring a people's ever grateful speech. 
 
 Not in the calculated, chiseled words 
 
 On the cold monuments of stone and brass. 
 
 But from these soldiers' humble dwellings' roofs, 
 
 Thatched with the posies of sweet, blooming May, 
 
 Which summers' suns of future years will burn, 
 
 A fragrant incense will arise to heaven 
 
 And bear to the brave spirits of our heroes 
 
 The nation's love and memory undying. 
 
 April 24, iSS6, 
 
THE CHURCH AT TADOUSAC. 
 
THE CHURCH AT TADOUSAC. 
 
 From " Katrine and Arthur." 
 
 B RRIVED at Tadousac, as is the custom 
 M The travelers, debarking, crossed the town 
 To see the ancient church. Upon a height, 
 
 From which St. Lawrence and the Saguenay 
 
 Are both in view, it stands, as it has stood 
 
 For nearly thrice a century, 'tis said ; 
 
 The second temple in America 
 
 Erected to the honor of Almighty. 
 
 So small, yet dignified; in just proportion 
 Of steeple, choir, of nave and gallery ; 
 The high-backed pews, that hide the worshipers; 
 The Host, amid the candles on the altar; 
 The walls, adorned with paintings, dim and cracked 
 With age; the crucifix, which generations 
 Have bowed before, their hearts to heaven raised. 
 Meanwhile, by its dumb likeness of the Savior, 
 Whose tender love, whose suffering and death 
 Had hither drawn those humble souls, devout; 
 There, in that little, consecrated house, 
 The small beginning of a vast increase 
 59 
 
Of sacred architecture, Arthur sat 
 And prayed for blessings on the beauteous maiden 
 Whose heart (he knew not) had ah'eady yielded 
 Itself to him; and prayed that, somehow, He 
 Would bring their lonely lives in happy union 
 And make their future sweet as was his dream. 
 
 When from the little, holy house he came, 
 
 He stood a moment on the sacred ground 
 
 Strewn thick with soft suggestions of the past. 
 
 Behind the church, saw mounds of buried hopes 
 
 Marked by a stone engraven with a name; 
 
 There have Love's fires been banked for Time's long night, 
 
 Whose smoth'ring coals will, in eternity, 
 
 Be blown to living, never-dying blaze 
 
 By breath of Him who lighted first the fires. 
 
 There, centuries ago, have pain and sorrow 
 
 Bid last farewell to sad and suff'ring mortals. 
 
 There, wrapped in clay, lie dusty forms of men 
 
 Whose strength has wielded axe whose blows resounded 
 
 Across these rivers, flowing then as now. 
 
 The face of mortal beauty there was veiled 
 
 By priest, for separation long as time 
 
 From those who erst had loved to look upon it; 
 
 And there her lips were sealed in endless silence. 
 
In through that door have entered youth and maid; 
 Before that altar have their vows been said; 
 Upon her finger priest has placed the ring; 
 Gone all ; these rivers now their dirges sing. 
 
 To-day another j'outh, now standing there, 
 Another maid to marriage-bed would bear; 
 Another priest another ring will give ; 
 And streams repine when these have ceased to live. 
 
 Thus moralizing, Arthur turned away 
 From where his memories will oft return; 
 From where began the shadows of that day 
 Whose flame within his soul will ever burn. 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 From " Katrine and Arthur." 
 
 BESIDE them lay broad fields which gently fell 
 From either hand t' embrace a purling brook 
 That slow meandered, welcome, in their midst; 
 And, at their furthest limit, rose abrupt 
 (As one vast wave swells on a steep-sloped shore) 
 Until they touched the border of the woods 
 Which covered head and shoulders of a hill; 
 The woods, dark-green, inviting to their shade; 
 The fields of grass late mown and now sweet-scented; 
 The fields of wheat and oats full ripe and yellow 
 Bowing their heads to their approaching fate. 
 "This is our farm," Katrine remarked, "where often 
 We go to frolic near the farm-house yonder 
 Between the hills, or ramble in the woods, 
 Or build a fire and roast the toothsome sweet-corn. 
 Or dance and sing and play on our guitars." 
 
 Beyond they wound between high hills, wood-crowned, 
 
 And crossed a valley and again ascended 
 
 A hill by winding roads between wild hedges 
 
 Of shrubs and briers which half hid the fences. 
 
 The daisies^ gathered thick beside the way, 
 
Erect but modest, raised their full, frank eyes 
 
 To look upon the loving pair now passing. 
 
 The little birds alighted in the bushes 
 
 And peeped between the leaves to see the lovers. 
 
 And sweetly chirruped to them their good wishes; 
 
 And even the four-footed brutes, who lowly 
 
 Incline their heads to eat from humble table 
 
 Their frugal fare, ceased grazing and looked up 
 
 And winked their big, soft eyes in mute approval. 
 
 All nature seemed in sympathy with them. 
 
 The winds were gentle and but lightly touched 
 
 Their faces and but coyly stirred the halo 
 
 Of yellow hair about her brow and temples. 
 
 Even the careless clouds above moved slowly 
 
 That they might linger on the scene of love. 
 
 And here they stopped, observing through a notch 
 
 Betwixt the hills a hazy, dreamy picture 
 
 Of towers and buildings backed by distant mountains. 
 
 A veil of purple air, spread over all. 
 
 Gave to the scene the semblance of a vision 
 
 Of some strange, far-off and unreal world. 
 
 Then in their hearts these two beheld strange cities. 
 
 With towers of strength and walls of gi-ace and beauty, 
 
 All covered with the purple haze of glory 
 
 That hope e'er throws about her forms enchanting; 
 
 And backed by mountains ever green, impassive. 
 
 The powerful, shelt'ring arms of the Almighty. 
 
 In those strange cities they in fancy dwelt 
 
 In homes of sweet content, with peace all furnished. 
 
Adorned with trophies of the world's success, 
 
 Lighted and warmed alone by ardent Love, 
 
 Which was the setless sun of those fair cities 
 
 Where never dusk nor gloom of night succeeded. 
 
 They silent gazed upon the double scene 
 
 Till Arthur gently bade the horses on; 
 
 And for a time their speech was soft and low. 
 
 As if they would disturb by louder tones 
 
 The sweet vibrations of their inmost souls. 
 
 As slow the horses further climbed the hill 
 
 (For they seemed now to understand the wish 
 
 Of them they bore) the lovers sudden turned, 
 
 An instant looked into each other's eyes. 
 
 And read there tales their words could ne'er express. 
 
 Down in that well of azure Arthur peered 
 
 So far beyond the beauteous circling brim 
 
 That opened wide and let him freely see 
 
 The pure, clear fountain deep as thought could pierce 
 
 (The depths unsullied of the maiden's soul). 
 
 So pure and clear — itself a radiant source 
 
 Of light that oft had welled up to the brim 
 
 And flashed its beauty to another eye, 
 
 But never had the fount itself been seen; 
 
 And never more shall those blue brims dilate 
 
 And show to Arthur's gaze the crystal waters 
 
 In which he then beheld himself reflected. 
 
 Henceforth sweet Memory alone may show 
 
 The wondrous vision he that moment saw. 
 
 The soul is not laid bare by one's volition; 
 
It does not answer to another's summons, 
 
 Or stern command, or soft and sweet petition; 
 
 But if it ever show its naked self 
 
 Unto another it is when, unconscious, 
 
 Raj)t in sweet contemplation, unawares 
 
 It opes the door that it may better see, 
 
 And finds, surprised, an eager, watchful eye; 
 
 Then quickly shuts nor henceforth opes the door. 
 
 On, circling, slow ascending, still they passed. 
 
 The sweet thoughts crowding thicker in their hearts 
 
 That even now seemed bursting with the flood 
 
 They could not hold, nor would prevent from coming. 
 
 Nor scarce could Arthur now restrain his arms 
 
 From clasping to his heart the maid bewitching 
 
 Who sat beside him. On her happy head 
 
 A broad-brimmed hat, trimmed with a bunch of roses 
 
 And roll of soft, blue mull. A white, thin garment 
 
 But slight obscured the sky-blue dress beneath, 
 
 Save on her arms, where through its thin disguise 
 
 Appeared the faint pink glow of nature's tinting. 
 
 Her small, white hands played with some flowers which Arthur 
 
 Had gathered by the way; and oftentimes 
 
 She raised the half-hid face up to his view. 
 
 Set in a golden haze of flowing hair 
 
 And tinted on its cheeks to match the roses 
 
 Upon her hat; and from her azure eyes 
 
 Threw glances innocent and frank and merry, 
 
But fraught with tenderest love, full in his own; 
 
 And parted in sweet smile the bright-red lips, 
 
 A smile that ran across her glowing cheeks 
 
 And sought to hide itself within her dimples. 
 
 Still on by fields all overgrown with shrubs, 
 
 By fields of corn, by fields of yellow grain 
 
 Now falling fast before the noisy reaper 
 
 Loud clattering in the ears of trembling stalks 
 
 The warning of their swift-approaching doom. 
 
 At last they enter through the high-arched gateway 
 
 And, skirting round the vaults of human husks 
 
 Now empty and returning dust to dust, 
 
 They come upon a charming woodland way. 
 
 Which they pursue around the mountain's brow. 
 
 Upon one side the woods slope to its summit 
 
 And on the other fall down to the stream 
 
 That flows about its base. Half round the mountain 
 
 The leafy -shaded way abruptly ends; 
 
 But ere that point is reached a hillock rises 
 
 Upon the mountain's side, wood-covered, steep; 
 
 And there the road expands into a circle, 
 
 Within whose center stands a lone pine tree. 
 
 Here Arthur stopped, and to the inviting tree 
 
 Made fast the equine pair and left the two 
 
 To ruminate beneath its grateful shade; 
 
 Then with Katrine he climbed the little hill. 
 
 Upon its brow she sat, where, looking down 
 
 Between the trees, the flowing stream appeared 
 
 And glimpses of the farms upon its shore. 
 
And to their ears rose sounds of husbandry, 
 A farmer's rude dictating to his oxen, 
 A mother's shrill, sharp calling to her offspring, 
 And shouts of children playing on the bank; 
 And in between these sounds a sweet refrain, 
 The stream's soft argument with some strong rocks 
 That stubbornly intruded them upon it. 
 And Arthur, glad reclining at her feet. 
 Looked up into her face and was content. 
 And would have welcomed the Almighty's sentence, 
 "Thus shall it ever be with thee and her!" 
 But the pulsations of his heart assured him 
 That time was speeding and the sweet hour passing 
 In which he might remain there with Katrine. 
 And now his words are plain, for he would know 
 In words as plain her answer to his love. 
 He tells her of his life, his present prospects. 
 His future hopes, nor pictures half so fair 
 As to his sanguine mind appears that future. 
 He bids her think upon her present life 
 Of peace and plenty, love and luxury. 
 And of the prospects fair and promises 
 Of her own future — not regarding him — 
 For high above his present selfish hopes. 
 His pleasing dreams of happiness with her. 
 His wish supreme is that her life shall be 
 Supremely happy, or with him or no. 
 Then answered she in words as frank as his 
 And told him that her life was fair and happy, 
 70 
 
That she was loved and had sweet friends about her, 
 
 That she had ample of the world's possessions; 
 
 But that since she had known him, in her thoughts 
 
 Her future happiness with him was linked, 
 
 Though but in hope till now; but now so strong. 
 
 Nor loving friends, nor home, nor luxury. 
 
 Nor aught should e'er divert her love from him, 
 
 Nor in her contemplation separate 
 
 Her longed-for future happiness and him. 
 
 Then Arthur drew him close beside Katrine, 
 
 Encircled in his arms her sky-blue waist 
 
 And kissed her pretty neck and rosy cheek. 
 
 And whispered in her ear such tender words 
 
 As to the curious, listening birds about him 
 
 He would deny; but from their prying eyes 
 
 He could not hide, nor from the gaze of squirrel 
 
 High perched upon a bough, his bushy tail 
 
 Bent forward on his back, now barking at them. 
 
 Thus on the hillock bound these two their hearts 
 In sweet betrothal, while the birds looked on, 
 And from his perch the squirrel gazed and scolded. 
 And from the farms, far down the mountain, rose 
 The shouts of children and the swain's rude tones. 
 And from the stream its murmurs of reproach 
 Against the rocks, while back of them the horses 
 Stood patiently and waited for their coming. 
 Beside the pine tree in its grateful shade; 
 71 
 
While Arthur, lowly stretched beside Katrine, 
 Held her blue waist and kissed her neck and cheek, 
 While she plucked from a little neighboring bush 
 Its tender leaves and tore them into shreds, 
 While all the trees around them stood in silence, 
 And over them the careless clouds moved slowly, 
 And softly on their faces blew the south-wind. 
 
LOFE SONGS. 
 
A LOVER'S FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, sweet Friend! 
 The few, short days of joy are gone 
 
 Which thou hast lately granted me; 
 And I, unhappy, left alone 
 
 With only memories of thee. 
 
 Farewell, sweet Love! 
 In all the dreary hours until 
 
 I shall behold thy face again. 
 Thine eyes, thy breath, thv kisses still 
 
 Will haunt my heart and soothe its pain. 
 
 Farewell, my sweet, sweet Heart, farewell! 
 Oh! hateful word that breaks the spell 
 Of lips that touch, of hearts that love, 
 Of arms entwined — Oh! strength of Jove, 
 Destroy that fateful word and seal 
 Our lives in one eternal weal! 
 
 And yet — I bid thee — Sweet — farewell! 
 
 Seplemhei- ig, /SSj. 
 
"MY LOVE HAD GONE. 
 
 I went into the cheerful home 
 Where erst my Love did dwell. 
 
 I thought to hear her footstep come 
 Or merry voice her presence tell; 
 
 But all was silent. Then there fell 
 Upon my heart a heavy cloud ; 
 
 My Love had gone! I knew it well. 
 My soul within me cried aloud. 
 
 why must I from her be kept 
 Whose love and lips are all my joy? 
 
 If she but on my bosom slept 
 
 No earthly care would e'er anno)'. 
 
 Then come again, my loving Heart! 
 
 Ami do not from me ever stray. 
 Let not your lips from mine depart; 
 
 My arms shall still about you stay. 
 * « « * 
 
 1 go into the dreary home 
 Where erst my Love did dwell; 
 
 I do not hear her footstep come, 
 Nor merry voice her presence tell. 
 September 21, iSSj. 
 
THE SOUTH -WIND, SOFT." 
 
 The south-wiiul, soft, from o'er the sea 
 Is not so fresh and pure a draught 
 
 As thy sweet breath, that came to me 
 When, Love, at thy dear lips I quaffed. 
 
 The south-wind, soft, so gently plays 
 Upon my cheeks and temples now ; 
 
 It minds me, darling, of the days 
 
 When thy soft fingers touched my brow. 
 
 But sweetest thought of all it brings — 
 Seen only by the slender moon, 
 
 Thy lips kissed mine (the memory clings); 
 O softest touch — but gone so soon. 
 
 Now dream I on of later grace, 
 
 Of other joy (most precious boon!) 
 Lips, hearts and all in warm embrace, 
 
 Not even seen by slender moon. 
 * * * * 
 
 The golden orb, thin veiled by cloud. 
 
 Is hanging in the western sky ; 
 A light as bright and ardent glowed 
 
 Upon my soul in days gone by. 
 77 
 
My Light is hid, ;iiid through Love's night 
 I'm lonel}' waiting till she rise; 
 
 Her who alone is my delight 
 
 I'm watching for in eastern skies. 
 
 The south-wind, soft, from o'er the sea 
 Falls gently, sweetly on me now 
 
 While I am waiting. Love, for thee 
 And thy soft hand to press my brow. 
 
 September 2y, iSSj. 
 
THE CLOUD AND FIELD. 
 
 Virginia! with the love-lit eyes 
 
 That look so sweetly into mine, 
 From which the dart of Cupid flies 
 
 Directly back again to thine. 
 
 Thus, darling, we each other wound 
 And one to other gives sweet pain; 
 
 More sweet and welcome than to ground 
 Are softest strokes of gentle rain. 
 
 I am a field, a cloud thou art, 
 
 (I would that Field and Cloud were nearer!) 
 While dear thy rain falls on my heart. 
 
 Thy own soft pressure would be dearer. 
 
 If but I were a mountain now. 
 
 Then thou wouldst come, embrace my form. 
 Soft stroke my face, sweet kiss my brow. 
 
 And shower Love's darts in gentle storm. 
 
 O, dearest, would it not be sweet 
 If we could thus each other greet.' 
 
 A field cannot to mountain grow. 
 
 But swift-winged cloud its love may show. 
 
Just think, \'irginia, if you will, 
 A mountain 's but a greater hill, 
 
 A hill is only larger mound. 
 
 Anil fields have mounds set all around. 
 
 Could not you then, Virginia, dear, 
 Come to the Field its heart to cheer? 
 
 Come! as a dew — a fog — but come! 
 And make my mouth with kisses dumb! 
 
 Now Cloud may on these love-lines fall 
 When I have writ myself 
 
 Thy 
 
 Paul. 
 
 Christmas Evt, tSSj. 
 
"FOR VIRGINIAS SAKE." 
 
 The sun was setting, and the evening star 
 Peeped drowsily upon the hills and lake; 
 
 We looked together on the scene afar — 
 I loved it most for my Virginia's sake. 
 
 Fast paled the golden light along the west, 
 As fast we saw a thousand stars awake; 
 
 Dark grew the hills, the wee bird sought its nest- 
 I loved the gloaming for Virginia's sake-. 
 
 We wandered on; too fast, the hill, descended; 
 
 Too soon the lamp-light on our sight did break, 
 And, too, too soon had our sweet journey ended — 
 
 I was most sorry for Virginia's sake. 
 
 My sun has set; my hills and dales in gloom 
 
 Are wrapped; my birds are sleeping, ne'er to wake; 
 
 My gloaming but some kindly stars illume — 
 Ah! — night! — I'm sorry — for Virginia's sake. 
 
I WONDER IF SHE KNOWS." 
 
 I wonder if she knows 
 
 How oft my thoughts have tiirued 
 (As Moslem, while he praj's, 
 Toward Mecca bends his gaze) 
 Toward her, while my soul yearned 
 For one sweet look that in her dear eyes glows- 
 I wonder if she knows. 
 
 I wonder if she knows 
 
 How long the moments seem 
 Since yestermorn she left 
 My soul so sore bereft 
 (As, waking from a dream 
 Of bliss, the heart but sad and sadder grows)- 
 I wonder if she knows. 
 
 I wonder if she knows 
 
 How sweet the roses smell 
 On which, so far away. 
 She looked but yesterday 
 And o'er them breathed a spell 
 Tliat to my restless soul brings sweet repose — 
 I wonder if she knows. 
 
I wonder if she knows 
 
 How glad my heart will he 
 When in my arms once more 
 I fold her as of yore 
 And in her dear eyes see 
 The love that to me like a clear brook flows- 
 I hope — I think she knows! 
 
AN OCTOBER IDYL 
 
 * * [ would thou hadst not left me! 
 Although I do not know thy naine, 
 Nor e'er before had seen thy face, 
 I miss thy sweetness and thy grace, 
 I miss thy love-look — all the same 
 As if of friend fate had bereft me. 
 
 Art thou not thinking, too, of him 
 To whom thou waved a last adieu 
 Ere from the pier thou turned away 
 To stroll, on this October day. 
 Through the bright woods, 'neath sky of blue. 
 While squirrels spring from limb to limb? 
 
 I sit beside thy empty chair 
 
 And look back on the brilliant wood 
 Where thou art treading on dead leaves 
 While my lone spirit silent grieves. 
 (That sullen plash bodes me no good; 
 A haze is round me everywhere.) 
 
A white gull from the water springs 
 
 And wings his rapid flight toward thee; 
 More rapid flies my jealous love 
 And wantons round thee in the grove, 
 Peers at thee from behind a tree 
 And in thine ear a love-song sings. 
 
 I cannot think that thou dost feel 
 
 The lonely pang that stabs my heart, 
 And yet it would be sweet to know 
 That thou dost love me even so 
 And didst regret that we should part 
 Ere that we might our love reveal. 
 
 If it shall be that once again 
 
 We on this lake together ride, 
 
 I'll sing to thee a little lay 
 
 About a sweet October dsiy. 
 
 While I am sitting by thy side — 
 
 And thou wilt know me better then. 
 
 *^ Hiawatha^^^ Chautauqua Lake, 
 October 21, 1886. 
 
'IS IT STRANGE THAT 1 SHOULD LOVE YOU?" 
 
 Is it strange that 1 should love you? 
 
 All these many days, 
 
 By your gentle ways, 
 In my web of thought you have been weaving 
 
 Silken threads of softness rare and beauty 
 
 (While my fingers trembled in their duty), 
 Which my fancy formed in pictures past believing. 
 
 Is it strange that I should love you? 
 
 With your tender eyes, 
 
 Whence Love's arrow flies, 
 Mine with softest strokes you have been pelting; 
 
 And when once from yours there rushed a river 
 
 Quick I felt my frame responsive quiver 
 As my soul in sympathy your tears were melting. 
 
 Is it strange that I should love you? 
 
 When your sweet voice spoke 
 
 In my heart awoke 
 Chords that only Love's dear tones vibrate; 
 
 My rapt soul their dulcet music noting. 
 
 Seemed on amorous, airy wavelets floating. 
 Can you blame me that I welcomed such a fate? 
 
Is it wrong that I should love you? 
 
 True, you are not mine, 
 
 Nor can I be thine, 
 Yet I cannot think it really sin 
 
 That, unhid, my soul to yours went speeding. 
 
 Drawn by that which satisfies its needing; 
 If 'twas sin I'll never wish it had not been. 
 
TO VIRGINIA. 
 
 Virginia! with the merry laugh, 
 Whose echoes in my memory live; 
 
 And lips at which I fain would quaff, 
 As erst, the sweets they only give. 
 
 Virginia! with the golden tresses 
 
 That fall, luxuriant, on her shoulders; 
 
 And arms that give such dear caresses, 
 
 And eyes in which Love's hot fire smoulder 
 
 I would to-night those sweet eyes see; 
 
 Those dear arms feel and stroke those tresses; 
 And hear thy laugh ring merrily. 
 
 And on my own feel thy lips' presses! 
 
 December ji ^ iSSj. 
 
MISCELLANEO US. 
 
TO MY FATHER, 
 
 On the Completion of His Ninetieth Year. 
 
 Dear Father! Thou hast lived a score 
 Beyond the three score years and ten 
 Which round the little lives of men 
 
 Whose strength is but the common store. 
 
 And even yet thine eye is brio-ht, 
 Thine ear alert, thy taste acute, 
 And all thy senses such as suit 
 
 At three score, and thy step as light. 
 
 And so to-day I fain would sing 
 Of thy long life in grateful praise 
 To Him who giveth length of days, 
 
 And strength, and health, and each good thir 
 
 And I would scan thy long life o'er 
 As, standing by an ancient tree, 
 I seem through all the years to see 
 
 While it has grown from more to more. 
 
 I see the spot beneath the hill 
 Where, ninety years ago to-day. 
 The little, new-born man-child lay, 
 
 Whose voice, begun then, echoes still. 
 
The house is gone, and, in its place, 
 
 A newer home new hearts contains; 
 
 There newer mother bears her pains 
 And smiles upon her infant's face. 
 
 I see the old log-house, where thou 
 
 Didst, restless, con thy lessons o'er; 
 
 And swung thy feet above the floor, 
 While all thy thoughts were of the Now. 
 
 And that long, rocky slope appears 
 
 Athwart which thou hurled stones at night 
 And woke those trains of flashes bright 
 
 Whose gleams have pierced through all these years. 
 
 And, too, that later school-room, when 
 Thy harder tasks were patient wrought; 
 I ween more patient since thou got 
 
 A glance from Rachel now and then. 
 
 And still another room I see 
 
 Where thou, as master, held the rule, 
 Kind master of the village school 
 
 And master of the rule of three. 
 
 Yon fields, once wild^ thy hands subdued; 
 There, streams where oft the speckled trout 
 Thy hook ensnared; those woods about, 
 
 Where thou the dappled deer pursued. 
 
 92 
 
The weather-beaten house still stands 
 
 Where thou thy first love wooec} apd wed. 
 The nuptial blessings scarce were said 
 
 When Death upon her )aid his hands. 
 
 The grave is old where she was laid, 
 The stone is worn that bears her name, 
 But in thy heart is still the same 
 
 Fresh image of the winsome maid. 
 
 Two other graves, one overgrown 
 These forty years, and one yet bare, 
 Thy later joys and griefs declare — 
 
 Thrice mated and thrice left alone. 
 
 I see thee as I first recall 
 
 Thy features, when my childish dream, 
 Asleep or waking, made it seem 
 
 That God was like thee all in all. 
 
 Thy life has ever quiet been; 
 
 Content to labor with thy might 
 
 And chiefly careful to be right. 
 Unselfish, just and pure within. 
 
 I cannot sing thy wealth or fame. 
 
 Of place or power which thou hast held; 
 But in this couplet I would weld 
 
 Truth, faith and goodness to thy name. 
 
And when thou hast lain down to rest 
 Not less shall be men's comments than 
 " There lies in all respects a tnan^ 
 
 Whom they loved most who knew him best. 
 
 One parting prayer my Muse would say: 
 God grant that many autumns more 
 Thy feet shall tread the hither shore 
 
 Ere from our sight thou wend thy way. 
 
 October ig, iSSS. 
 
"UNMANLY DEVOTION."* 
 
 Unmanly to forgive! If you had said 
 
 Unwomanly I might have held my peace; 
 
 For when her sister has been seen to fall 
 
 From virtue's beauteous and exalted paths 
 
 Down to the meaner, rougher ways of life, 
 
 On which so many trudge with aching hearts 
 
 And shame-hid faces, weary of the world 
 
 Of sin and sorrow which they there behold, 
 
 How seldom from the upper, purer paths 
 
 Is reached a woman's hand to help her back. 
 
 To lift her from the ways that ever downward 
 
 Pursue their evil course to end in hell! 
 
 Unmanly so to love his wife, the mother 
 
 Of his sweet babe! that, when she did forget 
 
 Her vows of constancy and his devotion 
 
 And left her faithful spouse and tender child, 
 
 Lured by the blandishments of wealth and pleasure. 
 
 And found a goal of poverty, remorse 
 
 And lonely sickness, leading her to death. 
 
 He still kept in his heart sweet thoughts of her 
 
 And, when he learned that she was dying, hastened 
 
 To kiss the dew of death from off her forehead 
 
 ♦President Cleveland's sister used 
 while endeavoring to dissuade Mrs. Jam 
 
And lay her weary head upon his breast 
 And whisper in her ear his dear forgiveness. 
 
 Unwomanly perhaps! and, if unmanly, 
 
 The more the shame! I'lay, is it base, ignoble, 
 
 In man or woman, to be like that One 
 
 Who kindly chid, "Go, woman, sin no more," 
 
 Who deemed it not pollution that the sinner 
 
 Washed with her tears His feet and on Him poured 
 
 The precious ointment, her best offering; 
 
 Or dost thou think it truly noble, manly., 
 
 To loathe the sinner equal with the sin? 
 
 O Pharisaic woman, who would have 
 A heaven but for such as thou alone! 
 Go, hide thy frigid, barren breast, on which 
 No manly man may look save with reproach! 
 Nor seek to drown thy sister's voice that tells 
 A tale of love, a story of forgiveness. 
 Of one poor, humble man who loved his wife 
 As God loves sinners; and who pardoned her 
 As some day 30U will wish to be forgiven! 
 April s, fSS6. 
 
THANKSGIVING. 
 
 A nation sits to-daj' in thankful frame 
 
 Round tables laden with the harvest's yield; 
 
 A nation pays its homage to His name 
 
 Whose loving care brought fruitage to the field. 
 
 Upon the fresh-turned earth men scattered seeds, 
 Which lay through barren winter 'neath the snow. 
 
 Thus sown in simple faith, the worthiest deeds 
 Oft long lie buried ere they fruitful grow. 
 
 The vernal showers, the vernal sunshine came. 
 The seeds sprang into stalks upon the mold; 
 
 And summer's fertile rains and ardent flame 
 
 Filled the stalks' heads and turned their green to gold. 
 
 So grew men's loving thoughts, men's virtuous deeds, 
 When on them fell the gracious smile of God; 
 
 Love bore a crop of love for all men's needs. 
 Virtues lie thick and green .is autumn's sod. 
 
 Yet, midst the worthy wheat grew some wild tares; 
 Midst virtues, vices; and with good, some ill; 
 
Sorrows with joys — God answered not all prayers; 
 But he is good, and men are thankful still. 
 
 Garners are pregnant with the ripened grain; 
 
 Peace walks with Plenty, Love looks from each face ; 
 And grateful hearts within the sacred fane 
 
 Praise the good Giver of this ample grace. 
 
 And each man, happy, in his home sits down 
 To eat and drink his well-provided cheer; 
 
 And in his heart content and comfort crown 
 The thousand blessings of the fruitful year. 
 
 November, iSS6. 
 
TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 After Visiting Her Sick Pet Dog. 
 
 I am anxious to quiet the fears of your heart, 
 Which, I fancy, is still, as it was, all agog; 
 
 And yet I must say, to be frank on my part, 
 I found our poor patient " as sick as a dog." 
 
 However, as singular as it may seem, 
 
 I was met by a growl, e'en before I addressed him; 
 Which gave me of hope, not a ray, but a bca7n 
 
 That curable was the disease that distressed him: 
 
 For patients who growl are the kind that affirm. 
 When the gods have invited them into their mill 
 
 To be ground very fine, and all that (if the term 
 
 You will pardon), that they'll "be doggoned if they will.' 
 
 And so I am ready to-night to opine 
 
 (Though of course it is true we are all in the dark) 
 That, by aid of the spirit and beef and quinine, 
 
 We will quickly determine the virtue of bark. 
 
 Now, if you should observe that the dog wags his tail 
 You will know that his sickness won't last very long. 
 
 On the contrary, if the reverse should prevail 
 
 'T would imply that the former was not very strong. 
 
Thus briefly discussing the symptomatology, 
 Prognosis and treatment of poor little Max, 
 
 It remains that I sing, as it were, his dogs(x)oIogy 
 In terraque salus, in coeloque pax! 
 January lo, iS86. 
 
A FLIRTATION. 
 
 One beautiful day, by the murmuring sea, 
 
 Sat a youth all alone, all alone was he; 
 
 And he listlessly peered 'neath the brim of his hat 
 
 At a pair of brown eyes and a face, and all that. 
 
 And the eyes peered at him and the face softly smiled, 
 Till his heart by the glances and smiles was beguiled 
 From its lonely, contemplative, regular action 
 To a thumping desire to approach the attraction. 
 
 And the heart of the maiden beat faster and stronger 
 As glances repeated and shadows grew longer, 
 Until mutual impulse brought both to their feet 
 And impelled them to seek a convenient retreat. 
 
 Where, free from suspicion and rude observation, 
 Two strangers might join in a wished conversation ; 
 And so this fair maid and the youth with the hat 
 Indulged a brief hour in agreeable chat. 
 
 They talked about this and they talked about that, 
 They gazed at the bathers, some lean and some fat, 
 And they looked at each other and thought vastly more 
 Than they spoke while they sat there upon the sea's shore. 
 
And the waves ebbed and flowed, and the moments too soon 
 Took their leave, without license, that sweet afternoon; 
 And to-night there remains, to distinguish that day, 
 Only memories — and a dear, little blue spray. 
 February 12, 1886. 
 
IDEAL AND REAL. 
 
 O tell me not that I shall find, 
 In pleasing image of the mind, 
 More joy than I shall ever see 
 In all the sweet reality! 
 
 'Tis very sweet to think, I trow. 
 Of that supreme, ecstatic bliss. 
 But I will aye prefer to know 
 The real, spicy, soft, sweet kiss! 
 
MY FLOWERS ARE FADING." 
 
 My flowers are fading, and their fragrance sweet 
 Is changing to a rank and noisome smell; 
 So mortal beauty fades, Time's baleful spell 
 
 Brings, soon or late, all fair beneath our feet. 
 
 My flowers are dead. So must all mortal die; 
 And, grown offensive, foul, be cast away. 
 Ye beautiful and fair! Be proud to-day; 
 With my dead flowers to-morrow ye may lie! 
 
TO A FERN, 
 
 Plucked on the Summit of Mount Raven. 
 
 Thou little Fern! On yon high mountain's top, 
 
 Most wondrously curled in a little ball, 
 
 Thou lay concealed beneath the ling'ring snow 
 
 Until the vernal Sun crept in thy bed 
 
 And woke thee with his hot and lusty stare; 
 
 And smiled to see thee drowsily stretch out 
 
 Thy tiny form; and came again next day 
 
 And kissed thee, whisp'ring ardent hopes of days 
 
 To come when he and thou would revel there 
 
 With summer breezes and soft, fleecy clouds 
 
 That oft would stop a moment on their way 
 
 To toy with thee and thy aspiring mates. 
 
 Then, with his occult art, he deftly brewed, 
 
 From the clouds' kisses and the morning dew, 
 
 The rocks and the rough mold to which thou clung. 
 
 A dainty liquor, which thou gladly drank 
 
 And wast refreshed thereby, and daily strengthened 
 
 To meet the rude assaults of pelting rains 
 
 And careless, violent winds and raging tempests 
 
 And chill, depressing gloom of moonless nights. 
 
 Henceforth from day to day thy courage grew, 
 
 And strength, but not thy form, for thou art like 
 
 Thy ancestors, in stature small, yet proud; 
 
 105 
 
And more ambitious than thy grosser kindred, 
 
 Who are content to live their little lives 
 
 Secluded in some low, damp, shaded place 
 
 Where e'en the universal friend of life, 
 
 The Sun, may find no chance to smile upon them, 
 
 Where they may see but their own selfish selves. 
 
 The shrubs that hide them, and their dank earth-bed. 
 
 But thou aspired to lofty pinnacle. 
 
 The mountain's summit, whence thy vision swept 
 
 O'er lake and stream and plain and lesser mountains 
 
 Far as the human eye may scan the earth; 
 
 Where, too, thou didst at night behold the stars. 
 
 Their bright eyes blinking at thee as they moved 
 
 Across the placid heaven ; and the moon 
 
 E'er changing, whose white beams, so many nights, 
 
 Made thy lone hours less lonely. In the morn 
 
 Thou early didst awake to see the glorious 
 
 Appearing of the sun; and watched, reluctant, 
 
 Yet with delight, his marvelous disrobing. 
 
 Upon the clouds he hangs his garments, dyed 
 
 So rarely, many hued, which, donned at morn. 
 
 Comprise his wondrous, brilliant robe of light; 
 
 Then sinks to sleep upon the western sea. 
 
 Yes, thou wee one! 'twas thy sublime ambition, 
 Thy self-complacency where I felt fear, 
 Thy courage and thy hardihood, thy love 
 Of all the grand and beautiful and awful 
 
 106 
 
Around thee — these it was so drew my heart 
 To thee when with my two sweet maiden guides 
 I stood beside thee on that mountain's top 
 And, rapt, scanned all the wide horizon round. 
 Therefore I plucked thee and, upon my heart, 
 Bore thee away to my abode, where daily 
 Thou mindest me of that rare hour we met. 
 Ah, me! thy limbs are stiff with so long lying 
 On my hard desk. — I fear much thou art dead! 
 Well! well! we all must die — but where's thy spirit? 
 It was thy spirit touched me on the mountain ; 
 It is thy spirit that provokes these words. 
 Has it gone back to hover o'er that summit 
 Which it called home.^ To-night around my casements 
 Mad winds are howling and the rain is pelting. 
 On Raven's height more fierce the storm is raging; 
 And in its midst thou sprite, I wis, art clinging 
 To that great rock on which we stood together. 
 A Dieu! brave little soul! I'll ne'er forget thee. 
 Would all thy betters were as nobly fashioned! 
 November lo, iSgt. 
 
" WERE THESE. MY DEAD, ALIVE." 
 
 Were these, my dead, alive I would not now 
 Be lying, lonely, sad and broken-hearted 
 Upon this turf, where I so lately parted. 
 
 With a last kiss upon each pallid brow, 
 
 From the dear forms which, erst, in purest joy 
 I pressed to my fond heart, while soft their arms 
 Entwined about my neck and their sweet charms 
 
 Obscured my woes, and cares ceased to annoy. 
 
 Were these, my dead, alive I would not be. 
 
 With mine, augmenting Heaven's tears now weepii 
 Upon this city-full eternal sleeping — 
 
 Tears that keep green their turf and memory. 
 
 Were these, my dead, alive I would to-day 
 (While Heaven weeps upon this quiet city, 
 In loving sympathy and tender pity. 
 
 Tears for the living and the lifeless clay) 
 
 In some sweet home that I should call my own. 
 Reclining on my couch, hold in each arm 
 A prattling child, and with my kisses warm 
 
 My daughter's first and then my boy's voice drown. 
 
Were these, my dead, alive, while there I lay 
 With my two tender buds in close embrace, 
 A beauteous flower would bend above my face 
 
 And kiss my brow and with her children play. 
 
 Were these, my dead, alive, each weary day 
 Would have an evening hour of perfect joy; 
 Each night, repose; sweet sleep without alloy; 
 
 Each morn content would lead my duteous way. 
 
 At Wildwood, in the rain. 
 May 13, 1SS6. 
 
"WHEN DAYLIGHT DIES." 
 
 When daylight dies 
 And o'er the landscape deepening shadows glide, 
 Yet not obscuring quite the meadows wide 
 Nor the dark tortuous line where flows the stream, 
 Lone, by my chamber window, do I dream 
 When daylight dies. 
 
 At eventide 
 When the loud, boisterous day is hushed to sleep. 
 When the slow-waking stars begin to peep 
 Upon the drowsing world and murmuring deep, 
 Above whom they will night-long vigil keep; 
 While Canis shows his teeth, Ursa his tail, 
 I muse serene and no rude thoughts assail 
 At eventide. 
 
 When darkness falls 
 And through the wide-oped portals of my eyes 
 Flit ghosts of landscapes, high around me rise 
 The circling hills, like black clouds in the skies; 
 Grander my thoughts, higher my spirit flies. 
 Winging its airy way 'mong orbs by Thee 
 Set in Night's vault to watch the world and me 
 When darkness falls. 
 
In hallowed peace 
 I close my eyes to all but thee, Most High! 
 Within whose hand the wheeling planets fly 
 As on the infant's palm the whirling toy 
 A moment spins its round to give him joy. 
 Before thy wondrous might my weakness falls. 
 Thy love to thy great heart my spirit calls 
 In hallowed peace. 
 
 November, 1886. 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 God! almighty Source of power! 
 
 We, thy feeble creatures, seek 
 Strength for every weary hour 
 
 Of the coming toilsome week. 
 
 God! eternal Source of light! 
 
 We are groping on our way, 
 Shine upon our souls' dark night; 
 
 Thou canst make it clear as dav! 
 
 God! thou only truly Wise! 
 
 We, who need so much to know. 
 Wisdom more than gems would prize; 
 
 Let us each dav wiser grow! 
 
 God ! thou very Heart of love — 
 Constant, tender, pure and sweet! 
 
 Grant this prayer, all else above: 
 
 With our hearts, in such love, meet! 
 
SKETCHES. 
 
MY NATIVE HAMLET. 
 
 IN a contemplative mood I wandered, to-day, about the 
 village in which my earliest years were passed. In the 
 faces of those whom I met in my walk I discovered only 
 the cold stare or half-interested, questioning gaze which 
 villagers give to a stranger. I found upon my way no 
 welcome smile, nor even recognition ; and yet, in that little, 
 brownish-yellow house, a few feet back from the narrow 
 sidewalk, I began (in a small way, truly, but with no incon- 
 siderable eclat) my mundane and vociferously independent 
 existence. 
 
 As a puling, expressionless infant, with no very pleasing 
 personal appearance, too freshly rubicund and too loudly 
 discontented with my suddenly-acquired condition, aimlessly 
 knocking my soft head with my wee and harmless digits, 
 utterly indifferent to the courtesies of callers, not even deign- 
 ing a responsive glance to their oculary salutations; a 
 tiny and total stranger, not only to that community, but to 
 the world; offending, every moment, against the commonest 
 rules which regulate the institutions of society; as heathen- 
 ish, indeed, in my conduct as though my parents had leaped 
 from tree-top to tree-top in an African jungle, with a score 
 of yet more disagreeable idiosyncrasies of my natal state, 
 my advent to that village (I am credibly informed) was, 
 notwithstanding, so phenomenal and so important an occasion 
 that no less distinguished a personage than the principal 
 115 
 
physician in those parts, the genial and worthy Doctor M., 
 lent his presence, and, with a condescension and famiharity 
 which were unmerited by my brief acquaintance with him, 
 gave me a hearty slap of welcome, upon a region, luckily, 
 in which my tender, vital forces did not lie. Moreover, the 
 accomplished wife of the clergyman, the kind Mrs. W., did 
 me the honor to volunteer her efficient services in introduc- 
 ing me to some novel methods which she deemed it expedi- 
 ent that I should then pursue. The news of my coming to 
 town spread through the hamlet, and many, both old and 
 young, hastened to pay their respects to me and to con- 
 gratulate my parents upon the accession of so estimable an 
 individual to their household. The matrons and maids 
 bestowed their sweetest osculations, and the men and boys 
 offered as much of their respective hands as they supposed 
 would be acceptable to the strange Lilliputian or appreciated 
 by his limited capabilities. In this flattering manner I was 
 received, at a period when to give aught in return I had 
 neither ability nor inclination. 
 
 Behold, now, the dull discernment of rural minds, and 
 mark the irrational discrimination of their energetic urbanity! 
 I came among them again to-day, a stranger, as before, but 
 in many respects strikingly altered, and, I trust, to ad- 
 vantage. In my stature there is no suggestion of the 
 diminutive, unless, forsooth, it be in contrast. My manner 
 is now quiet, and neither selfish nor savage. My complexion 
 has improved, and the capillary covering of my cranium has 
 concealed the barren suggestiveness of the former occasion. 
 My hand will now receive, with appreciation, the proffered 
 palm of boy or man; and, should the eyes of matron or maid 
 now throw upon mine their soft strokes of affectionate greet- 
 116 
 
ing, I will not persist in casting my glances divergent to 
 those attracting orbs, nor will I, as was my wont when I 
 first appeared in this hamlet, stuff my fists in my mouth to 
 oppose the luscious imprint of a labial salute; and yet, 
 strange to say, I have come from retracing my native paths 
 without having received so much as a nod. " Tempora et 
 mores mutajitjii- et nos mutamuy in tilts"! But the muta- 
 tions of time have not so sadly affected the impersonal 
 associations of my infancy. There, before the door-way, 
 one on either side of the short walk from the gate to the 
 portico, stand the two spruces which my father, more 
 practical than sentimental, brought home, in a buggv, from 
 his native state when he and my mother returned on their 
 wedding journey. The trees have grown thrice as lofty as 
 I, and their dark-green foliage drapes gracefully from their 
 upward-curved limbs, as fringes and tassels hang softly 
 pendant from the outstretched arms of a woman. And 
 there, toward the west from the walk, is the apple-tree (not 
 changed so much as the spruces), which was so beautiful in 
 the spring-time and gave such sweet scents to my nostrils, 
 and all through the summer shaded myself and my sister 
 from the too ardent sunshine, and furnished strong arms that 
 held up the never-tiresome swing, and, at last, in the autumn 
 (before the leaves became yellow and rusty and fell to the 
 ground, leaving its poor limbs bare through all the cold 
 winter), offered to us the juicy and fragrant apples, each 
 dangling from one of the tree's little fingers. Here, to the 
 east from the house, but a few steps away, in the yard, near 
 the fence, under a clump of lilacs and alders, is the limpid 
 spring whose cool currents have flowed through all these 
 years as constant as the warm streams from my heart. 
 117 
 
Bending my little head over its crystal depths, I often gazed 
 in childish wonder upon the boiling sand at the bottom, 
 ceaselessly yielding to the welling water; and down there, 
 too, I saw a face that opened its mouth and smiled and 
 winked and twisted itself all awry whenever mine did the 
 same. 
 
 There, on the rear of the lot, alongside of the alley, is the 
 stable which used to shelter the gentle bovine that I loved 
 (not the less, I presume, because of the white and nutritious 
 secretion which my father dextrously abstracted from the 
 swinging magazine beneath her) and whom, one day, when 
 her lacteal stock had diminished in worth below a fair interest 
 on her flesh, my father killed and flayed and cut all in pieces, 
 greatly to my amusement, until, when he had finished, I re- 
 quested him to put her together again, when, learning that he 
 could not comply with my wish and that I never should see 
 dear old Buttercup again as I used to, I wept bitterly. 
 
 Down the street, on the other side, stands the same sacred 
 house in which, by the side of my mother or on the lap of 
 my father, I played with my cap and kerchief while my 
 little feet swung to and fro, but kept silence because I was 
 told to, yet wished in my heart, with many a sigh, that the 
 man would not tell such a long story. And back of the 
 house is the church-yard, so quiet and dark with the shade of 
 pines, where, when I was but a year old, in the arms of my 
 mother, I looked on an open grave into which some men 
 lowered the mortal remains of my grandmother, while I 
 laughed aloud, in great glee, shocking the whole assemblage, 
 but my poor mother most of all, for it was her dearest friend 
 who lay there in the casket upon which the cold clods were 
 to fall. 
 
 118 
 
And up toward the other end of the hamlet, is the campus 
 where (long before the cruel war called them to the ordeal 
 of bullets and blood and death, or, still worse, starvation in 
 rebel prisons) the militia gathered on training-days in the 
 presence of the villagers and country-folk. The play- 
 soldiers were proud of their martial display, when, in warlike 
 attire, they executed manoeuvres and performed evolutions 
 according to tactics; especially the officers and cavalrymen 
 upon their mettlesome steeds, that were as much stirred by 
 the music of fifes and drums as were the soldiers and people; 
 and the spectators were proud of the feigned warriors, for 
 there was no one among them but had some relation or 
 friend in the company. Therefore those were always proud 
 days, the proudest of the year, unless, perhaps, the Fourth of 
 July, which was not, indeed, unlike them, for the soldiers 
 took part, of course, in the festivities of that national day of 
 rejoicing over our ancestors' prowess in arms, though then 
 there were also happy bands of children, Sabbath-school 
 organizations, in the prettiest dresses and ribbons, coats and 
 caps which their more or less limited wardrobes permitted. 
 On those occasions, too, my father was, usually, the orator 
 of the day, being chosen because he was one of the most 
 learned men in that neighborhood, and the most used of 
 them all, save the clergyman, to literary effort, for he was 
 then the village school-master, and exercised his honorable 
 vocation in the old school-house which I saw to-day, a little 
 further up the street. 
 
 And there are the same village stores (those accom- 
 modating depositories of all the various articles needful to 
 the person, household, workshop, or farm), where, in the 
 evenings or on idle afternoons, the men and lads loitered in 
 119 
 
gossip or in the graver discussions of politics, law or religion; 
 the thoughtful among them often giving to their ideas much 
 more pleasing and practical forms than the diverted whittlers 
 succeeded, meanwhile, in evolving by their swainish art 
 from the pliant sticks. 
 
 Then, too, over this broad highway, the turnpike, one 
 of the principal thoroughfares from the metropolis to the 
 Great Lakes, there daily rolled the cumbrous but comfortable, 
 rocking stage-coach, which (before these days of palatial 
 whirling across the continent in fewer hours than it then re- 
 quired to transport the traveler from one end of the state to 
 the other) was the most fleet and commodious common 
 carrier. I imagine I see it now coming in sight at the top 
 of the hill, to the east, in a halo of dust; and down it comes 
 pell-mell, behind the galloping horses, bobbing and swaying 
 to and fro in such violent motion I wonder the rough, reck- 
 less driver retains his exalted position; but, with the most 
 nonchalant air, he cracks his long lash over the team, and, 
 while the villagers stop to stare and query about the oc- 
 cupants, the four-in-hand dashes up to the inn, where the 
 passengers alight to rest or partake of refreshment. There 
 is the weary and somnolent gentleman who has held (as well 
 as he could) his seat in the corner for half a thousand miles, 
 and the courageous maiden who is returning from a pro- 
 tracted visit to friends "east of the mountains"; the matron, 
 way-billed from the last county, who is going to see 
 Rebecca, her daughter, and make the acquaintance of somfe 
 new representatives of the family, who will joyously greet 
 their grandmother; besides, a mother with three or four 
 children (the youngsters so happy they are really quiet with 
 interest and expectation), who got on at C. and are billed 
 
• to F., where they will spend a fortnight with the "old 
 folks," the mother's parents. Then the coach rolls across to 
 the post-office, where the driver throws out from the boot 
 the big mail-bag. There the always expectant group 
 gathers to watch the assorting of letters and newspapers, and 
 when it is over, some of the group turn away, as they have 
 done every day for a month, empty-handed, and yet they 
 will come to-morrow again, just the same. And now the 
 big mail-bag is returned to the boot under the feet of the 
 driver, and the coach has received at the inn its late oc- 
 cupants and away down the street it is fast disappearing 
 from the view of the villagers. 
 
 Thus, as I strolled through the little hamlet which was 
 once my home, the mute and inanimate relics that yet 
 remain suggested a thousand dear recollections of friends 
 and events that were borne out of sight in Time's chariot, 
 as the travelers used to be carried away in the soft-cush- 
 ioned, lumbering stage coach. 
 
 Yes! my friends have departed, and those who once knew 
 me are gone, or they have forgotten me, and I was, to-day, a 
 stranger in the place of my birth. But many old landmarks 
 are there just as they were thirty-five years ago; and by 
 them I was welcomed and brought into sweet intercourse 
 with the spirits of dead institutions and long-buried incidents 
 of the years of my infancy. And, although the village seems 
 dead, too, or very soundly asleep, for I saw none of that 
 warm animation that ever appeared when I knew it long 
 since; and, although it has wondrously shrunken in my 
 estimation as a part of the world, for my world of to-day is 
 so vastly greater than my world of that other day; and, 
 although I shall never again have welcome of words in this 
 
 121 
 
hamlet; even though all the rest of these present suggestions 
 of the past shall also depart, yet I will sometimes come and 
 awaken my earliest memories in lonely and sad, but sweet, 
 contemplation as long as the spring under the little mound 
 in the yard, near the roadside, shall continue to well, from 
 the sand at the bottom, the cool, limpid water in which I so 
 often beheld the reflection of the innocent face of a child. 
 pebruary 26, 1886. 
 
"MY LIFE IS A STREAM." 
 
 MY life is a stream, now narrowly flowing between very 
 high and barren hills, that come sharply down to the 
 water's edge, leaving no low, fertile spot which it 
 might nourish, nor even a path by its side upon which men 
 might walk. So, as they pass along, it is high upon the 
 hillside, and they cast but distant glances toward the low 
 water. An idle stream, bearing no burden of precious 
 freight or more precious life, but navigable, and its yielding 
 surface is awaiting the touch of some confident craft to 
 awaken its unwilling indolence to agreeable action. A quiet 
 stream; on so dead a level lazily lolling, it turns no wheel in 
 all the whirling machinery of the world. The high hills 
 shutting out the beauty beyond them, and even the light 
 above them, make the stream dark and gloomy, and leave it 
 alone to itself with only their bleakness. The stream can not 
 peer further down the valley than the point it has reached, 
 for a thick fog is there, which it touches but can not lift. 
 Only one way can it look — backward, over the long, narrow 
 length of itself, from the little beginning down, increasing 
 so slowly in size and strength, but murmuring sweetly all 
 through its youthtime; playing with pebbles, shaking the 
 hand of a little bough bent over it and smiling as pretty 
 a smile in the face of a pendant flower as it gives to the 
 stream ; then laughing at the big stones placed in its bed by 
 a youth for his maid to walk over upon; and roaring with 
 
glee as it dashes around a great rock that it finds in its way ; 
 no obstacle but it can master. Now, in more dignified man- 
 ner, and proud of the use made of it, the stream pushes 
 against the breast of a wheel with its hands and a strength 
 that rolls it around like a barrel; and the wheel turns the 
 mill and the mill grinds the wheat into flour which the maid 
 bakes in bread for the household. The stream is so happy 
 to know that it labors for others and does some good that, ,, 
 under the wheel, it bubbles and boils with delight. Still 
 further on it carries the logs and the lumber and does the 
 roughest of work that a stream may do. Later, the stream 
 is entrusted to carry a beautiful craft on its bosom, and this 
 is the greatest enjoyment that stream ever had, though it 
 now does not tumble and toss and foam in its pleasure, but 
 down in its bosom it feels the strong touch of her keel and 
 spreads out its arms and embraces the vessel as much as it 
 may. But once, in the night, a negligent pilot guided the 
 pretty craft against a great rock ; and the shock made the 
 stream tremble and lash the shores with its waves of dis- 
 pleasure and grief, for the craft was broken to pieces. The 
 stream, looking back now, sees only some parts of her fur- 
 nishing lying along the shores, clinging to rocks and to roots 
 that were glad to embrace a memento of that lovely craft. 
 Then, as the stream flows on — for it could not stop — the 
 shores become higher and higher, the low, verdurous banks 
 and the trees disappear and, at last, the stream is encompassed 
 as I described to you when I began. 
 
 But while it is narrower, darker and hidden, it is deeper, 
 and a sweet under-current of feeling, that has not on the 
 surface an index, is quietly flowing on into the future, under 
 the fog. 
 
If, in the uncertain gloom, it shall fall into a cavern of 
 earth and never again appear in the light of the sun nor take 
 part in the bustle of life, it will dream of the light it has seen, 
 and enjoy, in reflection, the pleasures of work it has done. 
 
 Or, if it shall be that a little beyond these precipitous 
 walls that enclose it, and which are so strong it cannot break 
 through them, a little beyond the thick cloud that is now 
 overhanging it, there shall appear a broad plain, whose grass 
 it may nourish; or, stumbling over some obstacle, it shall 
 alight on the wheel of a mill; or, if on its bosom someone, 
 in temerity, places his vessel, heavily laden with woes, or 
 with hopes, or with fortunes, the stream will be glad, and 
 so work with a will at whatever its hands find to do. 
 
SENTIMENT. 
 
 I REMEMBER you questioned me once as to what I en- 
 joyed most, and when I replied, with some hesitation, 
 
 "Sentiment!" you seemed disappointed. I meant by 
 that word what I take its true meaning to be — a creation, 
 resulting from a thoughtful, intelligent retrospection of a 
 soul's deep experience — and this is my greatest, I may say 
 my only thorough enjoyment. I enjoy my work when I 
 have it to do; I enjoy the success of endeavor and endeavor 
 itself, but sentiment most. I find it, of course, in poetry and 
 the poetic expressions of prose. But, to me, it comes most 
 sweetly fresh from the touch of an external hand on the 
 chords of some sense. 
 
 I inhale its perfume in the breath of a rose, in the sweet- 
 scented violets and the dear apple-blossoms. 
 
 I hear it in brooks and the voices of birds, in the sough- 
 ing tree-tops, in the cadence of winds round the eaves and the 
 sash, and in patter of rain on the roof. 
 
 I see it in flowers and the faces of women, in the sunset, 
 and up in the clear sky at night, in the woods and the fields 
 and the sparkle of dew-drops. 
 
 I feel it in the touch of a zephyr, in the tremor of earth 
 when a train thunders by, in my trembling nerves that vibrate 
 to touches of joy or of woe — for even the chamber of Death 
 may give a sweet thrill to a thought.