Class 
 
 Book , k SSPfc 
 
 Copyright^ , 
 
 i Oia, £ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 
 
P-0=E=M=S 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD GRUSE 
 
 BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 
 835 Broadway, New York 
 

 Copyright, 1908, 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD GRUSE 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 LIBRARY of CONGRESS] 
 
 J Two OoDies f?eceived 
 
 | MAY 6 1909 
 
 Ljj Ccpynent Entry . 
 
 •■■'■ ■■■-■■ 
 
 3 
 
 
FOREWORD. 
 
 In presenting this little volume of verse to 
 the public, I am fully aware that it has many- 
 imperfections. The majority of these poems 
 were written between the ages of fifteen and 
 eighteen. A few of the poems have already 
 appeared in print. 
 
 I did not change their form to speak of, ex- 
 cept making a few minor corrections here and 
 there, for, in order to bring some of the poems 
 into a better shape, I would be obliged to treat 
 the subject differently. Then, if I would be 
 required to work the subject over again, I 
 could just as well spend my time on some sub- 
 ject more worthy and more inviting to my 
 maturer powers. So I present them, in a 
 large measure, as they were originally written. 
 
 E. G. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Voice I 
 
 On the Banks I 
 
 To My Violin 3 
 
 To a Bird on a Lady's Hat 3 
 
 On Hearing a Familiar Melody 5 
 
 The Hall of Fame 5 
 
 The Spirit of Romance 6 
 
 Consolement 7 
 
 The Robin's First Chirp 7 
 
 On Parting with H. C. Greene 8 
 
 The Crocus 9 
 
 The Violet 9 
 
 The Ocean 9 
 
 The Aged 10 
 
 Lines to Beauty 12 
 
 The Wind Thru the Screen 14 
 
 Ode to a Bobolink 18 
 
 A Boat-ride at Sunset 20 
 
 The Indian Mound 22 
 
 Spring 25 
 
 December 2.J 
 
 Lines to a Lady 28 
 
 The World's the World Wher'er We Go. . . 29 
 
 Spring and Poetry 30 
 
 Ode to an Ivy 37 
 
 Ode to the South Wind 39 
 
it Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Childhood. 43 
 
 All Things Were Born to Die 43 
 
 A Resemblance 44 
 
 Ode to a Meadowlark 44 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 On Finishing the Study of Homer 49 
 
 To Keats 50 
 
 In a Hay Field 50 
 
 May 51 
 
 Beneath the Open Sky 52 
 
 Dawn in a Strange Place 52 
 
 Midnight 53 
 
 Autumn 53 
 
 Genius and Expression 54 
 
 Evening 55 
 
 Solitude 55 
 
 To Shakespeare 56 
 
 November 57 
 
 December 57 
 
 To Shelley 58 
 
 To Florence 58 
 
 On Friendship 59 
 
 To Sleep 67 
 
 To Agatha 68 
 
 Imagination 69 
 
 To a Lady 69 
 
 On First Hearing Kubelik .., J J 
 
 The Young Sailor 78 
 
THE VOICE. 
 
 A beckoning Voice sounds forth a burning 
 
 note, 
 And men unconsciously its call obey; 
 The darkness of the night, the light of day, 
 All doth alike its energies promote. 
 They see bright visions in a halo float, 
 And half forget that they are formed of clay, 
 Lifting man upward from his narrow way 
 And giving him new hopes on which to dote. 
 Yet, what that voice may be and whence it 
 
 comes. 
 The one who is inspired scarcely knows; 
 It speaks, and he a new apparel dons, 
 And his whole being with the message glows. 
 Cold, hunger, pain, he courts and luxury 
 
 shuns 
 That he may lift man from his sordid woes. 
 
 ON THE BANKS. 
 
 On the green banks, oh, -gentle stream, 
 How often have I wandered, 
 And watched the water as it gleamed 
 Below from where I pondered. 
 
Poems 
 
 How oft these dear familiar scenes 
 My yearning soul entranced, 
 Until it leaped within my frame 
 And to the ripples danced. 
 
 I loved to sit upon the bank 
 When western skies were red, 
 And see the glorious glimmer that 
 The water overspread. 
 
 Still far more grand and beautious 
 To me the stream did seem 
 When from the sky the lucid moon 
 Cast forth its silvery beam. 
 
 When 'bout the moon the twinkling stars 
 Began to reappear, 
 Refulgent shining, till each one 
 Became more bright and clear; 
 
 When from the water's glassy depths 
 Sweet message did flow, 
 Refreshening to such souls in which 
 Superior visions glow; 
 
 Ah, then, is when I loved to sit 
 On thy green banks, Oh, Stream ; 
 Then did my being give response 
 To the alluring scene. 
 
Poems g 
 
 TO MY VIOLIN. 
 
 Thou singer of sweet melodies, 
 
 Soul-searching instrument, 
 
 Companion of my woeful heart, 
 
 Thou makest grief relent, 
 
 When, rightly touched from out thy breast, 
 
 Half -human tones are sent. 
 
 I see thee silent in thy case, 
 
 A worthless wooden frame, 
 
 But when some Paginini graps 
 
 Thee with a soaring strain, 
 
 How wondrous are thy penned-up powers, 
 
 Thou charmer of the brain. 
 
 Thou singer of sweet melodies, 
 
 Upon my breast recline, 
 
 And with my soul-tipped fingers, let 
 
 Me touch a strain sublime, 
 
 Until my soul leaps on thy strings, 
 
 Melts to thy tones divine. 
 
 TO A BIRD ON A LADY'S HAT. 
 
 And thou wouldst sing for us no more, 
 Sweet birdie blithe. Thy voice 
 Is silent, which so long did fill 
 
POSMS 
 
 The groves with music choice 
 
 And pleased the listening ear, or made 
 
 Some weary heart rejoice. 
 
 Thy voice is silent; yea, thy wings 
 No more in rapid flight 
 Cut thru the air, for human heart 
 Envied their plumage bright 
 And thot to give it thee not man, 
 Kind nature was not right. 
 
 Thou cam'st to sing for us a song, 
 
 Inspired with hope and love, 
 
 To give us glimpses of the joy, 
 
 The happiness above, 
 
 To put a bit of cheerfulness 
 
 In paths thru which we move. 
 
 How cruel is man; he oft complains 
 
 Of sorrow's venomed dart; 
 
 Yet these sweet creatures will he slay 
 
 With sly ensnaring art, 
 
 Whose very mission is to soothe 
 
 The pains and heal the heart. 
 
 O Vanity, it is for thee 
 These harbingers are slain; 
 What gain is there to still the voice 
 Which calms our earthly pain 
 
Posms 5 
 
 For plumage vain ? Yet man will do't, 
 And wear the worthless frame. 
 
 ON HEARING A FAMILIAR MELODY. 
 
 Oh, songs, how dear to me you are 
 
 I heard long, long ago; 
 
 When now I hear your melody, 
 
 Warm tears began to flow, 
 
 For memory brings back past joys, 
 
 Which I no more can know. 
 
 Her voice me haunts who used to sing 
 
 Those melodies for me, 
 
 And with that voice there comes the dream 
 
 Of love so pure and free, 
 
 When we culled violets from the banks 
 
 And roses from the lea. 
 
 Oh, bygone days, could I again 
 Your soothing pleasures share; 
 Could I again be young and free, 
 Relieved of all this care, 
 And hear those precious melodies 
 Whose notes now seem so rare. 
 
 THE HALL OF FAME. 
 
 Where is the Hall of Fame, 
 The longed-for seat of immortality? 
 
6 Poems 
 
 Is it in marble's cold solidity, 
 Or in a hall's domain, 
 Encased or hung in frame? 
 
 Where is the Hall of Fame? 
 'Tis in the human heart and there alone; 
 The heart, which treasures up, the great deeds 
 done, 
 
 And give the doer a name; 
 
 Here is the Hall of Fame. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE. 
 
 As I gaze o'er the fields this winter day, 
 When all the snow has melted and the sun 
 Shines warmly on the scattered leaves and 
 
 trees, 
 The spirit of romance doth o'er me come 
 And former pleasures, joys, excursions, all, 
 Do thru my mind in panorama run. 
 I fancy now myself upon the shore 
 And listening to the water's gentle sound, 
 Then in the verdant meadows fresh and green, 
 Then in the woods with birds rejoicing round. 
 I wander here, now there, where'r there's 
 
 beauty, 
 Scarce knowing whither my strange course is 
 
 bound. 
 
POUMS % 
 
 CONSOLEMENT. 
 
 My soul thru these unfriendly winter hours, 
 Unhappy, desolate, would be, 
 If only on the dreary storms I'd ponder 
 And would no distant comforts see. 
 
 One doth most gladly realize the hand 
 Which earthly beauty thus destroys, 
 Doth also with a touch more quickening 
 Bring back earth's sunshine and its joys. 
 
 When life naught but a mass of troubles seem, 
 And melancholy dulls the mind, 
 Could we but dwell on happier distant scenes, 
 And leave destructive thots behind. 
 
 THE ROBIN'S FIRST CHIRP. 
 
 Sweet harbinger of spring, thy chirp 
 Is pleasing, when alone 
 Amid the leafless boughs, thou singest, 
 In thy soft plaintive tone. \ 
 
 Amid the leafless boughs? Ah, yes. 
 For then my heart doth burn 
 When, in prophetic temperament, 
 Some warbler doth return. 
 
8 iPoems 
 
 Chirp on, sweet bird ; I welcome bid 
 To thee, and if thy strain 
 Is not the sweetest, still a friend 
 Thou ever shall remain. 
 
 ON PARTING WITH HARVEY C. 
 GREEN. 
 
 We stood beside the opened gate 
 With faces stern and sad; 
 The gate which many times had made 
 Our youthful bosoms glad. 
 
 The moon was fair, and bright its rays 
 Gleamed from the cloudless sky, 
 Which made our hearts e'en closer cling, 
 And more tear-stained our eye. 
 
 We lingered long, yes, long it seemed, 
 For long we were to part, 
 Unwillingly from our mute lips 
 The farewell seemed to start. 
 
 Thus friendship has its sadness, too; 
 For partings sometime come, 
 When we think our acquaintance has 
 Just fairly well begun. 
 
Poems 
 
 THE CROCUS. 
 
 Oh, emblem fair of balmy May, 
 How sweet on plains you bloom, 
 When grass yet sear and trees yet bear, 
 But gone is winter's gloom. 
 
 I often long for brighter flowers; 
 Yet when you come in, Spring, 
 My heart is glad; for other scenes 
 Than barren fields you bring. 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 Blue fragrant flower, thou springest up 
 Beside this hidden stream; 
 And oft thy beauty fades away 
 Without e'er being seen. 
 
 Some of these blossoms I will cull 
 And pin them on my breast ; 
 The others I will think about — - 
 There dreaming in your nest. 
 
 THE OCEAN. 
 
 When to the wild and raging deep 
 We turn our eyes and meditate 
 Upon its mass, the life of man 
 
io Poems 
 
 Seems but a mist, not long by winds 
 
 Or tempests tossed; for many years 
 
 Its mighty mass has sounded on 
 
 The shore, and still it seems not old. 
 
 It being waters, still by winds 
 
 Are tossed, and man yet spreads his sails 
 
 And floats away to lands beyond. 
 
 Thou seem'st unchangeable, Oh, Sea. 
 While day by day the sun beholds 
 Some form, turn cold and laid to rest, 
 E'en years effect thee not; thy roar 
 The beach still echoes loud 
 As in the ages long ago, 
 But man is flesh; each thot and act 
 Takes 'way some ne'er returning force, 
 While drops which leave thy massive bed 
 Again flow back into thy depths. 
 
 Yon rocks turned gray by briny foam, 
 'Gainst which for years thy waters dashed, 
 Are also old and long enduring, 
 As adamant they are, but yet 
 Thy gentler motion slowly wears 
 The sullen rock. So teach, O Deep, 
 That hearts with fierce desires filled 
 Are easiest moved by gentle souls. 
 
 THE AGED. 
 
 I watched him walking with unsteady gait, 
 For recreation, now his only toil, 
 
Or pastime, as it to his mind appealed. 
 How slow his fimbs each other lead, which 
 
 once 
 With youthful strength and vigor overflowed, 
 And climbed the dizzy heights and swam the 
 
 stream 
 With full and lusty stroke. His shrunken face, 
 With wrinkles spread, from which gleams 
 
 forth the change 
 Of nearly eighty years, resembles not 
 At least, not much, his beaming youthful face. 
 He little thot, perhaps, when sticks he 
 
 flung 
 Into the waters, stirring up a splash, 
 Or with them chased the squirrel in youthful 
 
 sport, 
 That years should lead so swiftly on and 
 
 force 
 His weakened limbs to lean on such a stick 
 For self-support and help him move along. 
 No more with morning's mellow sun he 
 
 goes 
 Unto his labor, mingling 'mong the throng, 
 His days of toil are o'er; his deeds are 
 
 wrought, 
 And now he waits his final recompense. 
 
iz Poems 
 
 UNES TO BEAUTY, 
 i. 
 
 Smile if you will 
 
 At this unhandsome face; 
 
 Your smiling but reflects 
 
 Your crude, unpolished soul, 
 
 And does not, nor does never, never, 
 
 Condemn the one your smiles reprove. 
 
 Your continence but tells to men 
 
 Your ignorance; on it there is inscribed, 
 
 "I meddle in the shallows of this world, 
 
 Ne'er tasting of the vital things of life/' 
 
 ii. 
 
 'Tis true she is not beautiful. 
 
 She has not Cleopatra's brow, 
 
 Nor have her eyes 
 
 The lustre of some radiant star, 
 
 Whose glance make mortal heart to leap 
 
 And swim in ecstacy; 
 
 Nor are her lips 
 
 The likeness of two roses, which, 
 
 By morning breeze, together pressed, 
 
 Each other's overflowing glory kiss ; 
 
 Nor are her hair a band of silken curls, 
 
 The floss of maise full streaming in the breeze 
 
POSMS 13 
 
 And smiling in the sun; 
 Nor is her form the sculptor's dream, 
 A form like that of nymphs, 
 Which haunt the shady springs. 
 But why, then, call her beautiful? 
 
 in. 
 
 I must with you who smile agree, 
 
 (All poets must), lest I were not a poet, 
 
 That there's a pleasure in such beauty as 
 
 Doth satiate the mind. 
 
 There's pleasure in angelic eyes, 
 
 In rosy lips and dimpled cheeks, 
 
 Yet 'tis not always true, 
 
 Such beauty is the revelation of 
 
 The inmost soul, 
 
 But oft 'tis but a mask 
 
 Which hides a shallow heart. 
 
 'Tis not the flowers most beautiful, 
 
 Which sweetest fragrance yield ; 
 
 'Tis not the birds in brightest plumage decked, 
 
 Which sing the loveliest melody ; 
 
 'Tis not the harp with richest jewels trimmed, 
 
 Which strikes up finest harmony. 
 
 Ah, no ; and yet by such are men deceived. 
 
 'Tis not the brightest eyes 
 
 Which see the deepest; 
 
 'Tis not the handsomest lips 
 
 Which speak the sweetest; 
 
14 Poems 
 
 'Tis not most perfect forms 
 Which bear themselves the straightest. 
 No, no. Yet this some cannot believe. 
 One cannot beauty judge by eye alone; 
 The heart its different hues and aspects first 
 Must well assimilate, before is found 
 Its true divinity. 
 
 THE WIND THRU THE SCREEN. 
 
 i. 
 
 Sigh, wind; sigh thru the woven screen, 
 
 Whose high-strung wires, like silvery strings 
 
 Of some Aeolian harp, vibrate 
 
 To thy enchanting touch, 
 
 Creating music, dreamy, soft and sweet. 
 
 Sigh on ! Thy harmony 
 
 Is soothing to my soul. It wakes 
 
 A slumbering chord, which wakening gives 
 
 Immediate response to thy soft sighing, 
 
 Which o'er my consciousness doth creep, 
 
 Just as the memory of some pleasant dream, 
 
 Which brought sweet visions in the night, 
 
 But which the dawn dispersed, 
 
 And melted into naught, by touching it 
 
 With stern reality, 
 
 Us knelling back to our real state 
 
 Of pain and suffering again. 
 
 And we the morning loathe, 
 
lPo^ms !IS 
 
 Which scared such scenes away, 
 In which we fainly would forever dwell, 
 And brought us to our natural selves again 
 To scenes we fainly these few hours forgot. 
 'Tis as a voice of happier bygone days 
 Complaining to an overburdened breast. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Tis sweet, pathetic, yet 'tis said and melan- 
 choly, 
 
 This sighing thru the screen; 
 
 It bears me back to my familiar chamber — 
 My youthful chamber, 
 
 In which, when weary, roaming fields and 
 woods, 
 
 I passed the happy hours away, 
 
 Communing with the souls of yesterday; 
 
 Companions, tho not cased in mortal frames, 
 
 Yet dearer far to me than such 
 
 Whom I could with my fingers touch, 
 
 Or with my eyes behold. 
 
 Their earthly forms, tho long returned to dust, 
 
 Their souls yet live and give us nourishment 
 
 Far more than those who walk to-day on earth, 
 
 Bound in their prison, struggling to be free. 
 
 'Tis, after all, the spirit; the soul that lives 
 
 And speaks to men. 
 
 As soon as earth's great intellects 
 
 Abandon their material frames, 
 
1 6 Poems 
 
 Forgetting all their frailties, 
 We understand what all their struggling meant. 
 We Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton know 
 To-day much better than those who beheld 
 Their mortal forms and heard their voice. 
 Their souls float free, to us akin. 
 
 in. 
 
 Still sighs the breeze in changing harmony. 
 Now almost 'tis inaudible, 
 Like breaths of spirits slumbering by a stream, 
 Then gradually increasing pitch or suddenly 
 It murmurs like the oak in evening air, 
 With cadences like some master's symphony. 
 Methinks I sit now by 
 
 My open chamber window, 
 Where I so oft have sat and mused 
 On scenes before me, or on life's philosophy, 
 Or read some favorite poet. 
 When satiated with some stroke of genius 
 
 great, 
 I turned my eyes away 
 From these rich golden stores, 
 And thru the open window gazing, 
 Beholding yellow-waving harvest fields, 
 Made lovely by the richness of the setting sun; 
 And listening to the branches of the trees, 
 Which, bending their green tops in playful 
 
 dance, 
 
POUMS I/ 
 
 And spreading out their mass now here, now 
 
 there, 
 Time keeping to the soft, unsteady breeze; 
 And hearkening to the carol of some bird, 
 Which hopped from branch to branch, 
 Now hid, now visible ; 
 And to this sighing thru the screen, 
 I meditate on the verses read. 
 Then could I feel the poet's sentiment, 
 For poetry flowed about me everywhere, 
 And, animating the dead page, 
 My soul brought in relationship 
 With what the poet in his inspiration felt. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Still, still there's music sighing thru the screen, 
 Just as it thru my youthful chamber window 
 
 sighed. 
 How often when the radiant moon was full, 
 And twinkling stars at one another smiled, 
 Without a candle burning 
 To light the chamber, I sat on the window sill 
 And let the breeze my temples cool, 
 While I beheld the splendor of the moon, 
 Watched how as slowly moving clouds 
 Within its lustre were beseiged, 
 It polished them with silver bright 
 And fitted them, 
 For their celestial wanderings. 
 
1 8 Poems 
 
 I often wished I could some nectar drink 
 
 Which would drive sleep away, 
 
 That I till morn could watch the skies, 
 
 And dream the night away in wakeful ecstacy. 
 
 v. 
 
 Sigh on, sigh on, sweet breeze; 
 
 Sigh thru the screen. 
 
 There is a consolation in thy harmony 
 
 Which now I gladly drink. 
 
 It brings before me happier days 
 
 And gives a momentary joy 
 
 Amid the grind and struggle of this life. 
 
 ODE TO A BOBOLINK. 
 
 Now will I pause; I've rambled in the mead 
 
 This summer day to hear thee sing, 
 
 And here thou sittest on the swaying stems, 
 
 Easing from thy last caroling 
 
 Thy little throat, which never seems to tire 
 
 From flowing forth in endless song, 
 
 No matter if it floats o'er plain unheard 
 
 Or listened to by spell-bound throng, 
 
 It is the same ; it is the best thy breast contains. 
 
 What carest thou if human ears thee hear ! 
 How many of thy sweetest strains 
 Melt in the air, and fade away unheard, 
 
Poems 19 
 
 Re-echoed only by the plains. 
 
 Thy song is not for man ; 'tis not for him 
 
 Who oft thy happiness doth spurn, 
 
 But 'tis to thy Creator thou doest pour 
 
 The joys which in thy bosom burn, 
 
 To whom thy spirit is akin more than to us. 
 
 Now, frightened by my sud'n appearance, thou 
 Layest on thy shoulders thy wee head, 
 And with a sudden spring upstarting straight, 
 Thou leavest behind the fragrant mead, 
 Outpouring floods of charming melody, 
 Such floods, as if thy heart would burst; 
 As if some grief thou wert forgetting, which, 
 Long in thy bosom thou hast nurst, 
 Forgetting by one desperate struggle what thee 
 grieves. 
 
 I have alarmed thee and scared thee from 
 Thy resting place, and yet in fleeing 
 Thou singest for me such a melody 
 Which seems doth nearly melt thy being; 
 As if we playmates intimate long were, 
 And thou didst with me slyly play, 
 Me leaving far behind unwillingly; 
 Me coaxing with the cheerful lay, 
 Full knowing I thy rapid, easy flight would 
 envy. 
 
 I nearly turn to weep, dear, gentle bird, 
 
20 Poems 
 
 To think I, who have frightened thee, 
 
 Should for this act unmannerly receive 
 
 Such floods of sweet, rich harmony: 
 
 As if there was no vengeance in thy breast; 
 
 No frown for evils done to thee, 
 
 No harshness, rudeness, to thy enemy, 
 
 But all was love and sympathy. 
 
 I listen as thou singest with a nobler heart. 
 
 A BOAT RIDE AT SUNSET. 
 
 Now is the loveliest season of the day, 
 The sky is red and earth is beautiful. 
 Among the oaks on yonder hill afar 
 An intermittent murmuring is heard 
 Which, growing fainter, fainter at each stir, 
 Seems gradually to die and fade away, 
 As if by its own music lulled asleep. 
 The birds are not all silent; some yet sing 
 One good-night carol more, before they bid 
 Departing day farewell. The water: Ah, 
 How calm it is; how in a trance it sleeps. 
 
 Now come my little boat, companion sweet, 
 On evenings such as these, bear me along 
 With gentle motion o'er the water calm, 
 That I may of this passing beauty breathe. 
 With one light, steady stroke we break away 
 From shore and glide into the bosom of 
 The lake, where we upon the current will 
 Be borne, and make our rowing easier. 
 
POSMS 21 
 
 Now move we smoothly, far enough from land 
 
 We have receded as to duly meet 
 
 The water motion, which, unnoticed, flows. 
 
 How willingly the water's crest divides 
 
 As glides the boat along; as if 'twas pleased 
 
 To entertain some welcomed visitor. 
 
 The oars dip with a gentle splash and leave 
 
 A ripple, which expands o'er all the lake ; 
 
 And from them drip the cool, fresh, sunlit 
 
 drops, 
 When from the water's surface they're up- 
 raised. 
 A little farther from the shore let's float 
 That we may in a panorama see 
 The windings of the valleys and the slope 
 Of hills; the recognition of which will 
 More sweet our rowing make, for 'twould 
 
 not be 
 Inviting if we on an ocean were, 
 Where land nowhere around was visible; 
 Earth, sky and water must commingle in 
 This scene to give it real sublimity. 
 
 Now glide we slowly in a little bay, 
 Where from the woods surrounding comes the 
 
 breath 
 Of perfume floating o'er the water calm. 
 Now would I could into the water cast 
 The laboring oars and drift where'er the breeze 
 And current of the water carry me, 
 And with a swan-like motion onward move 
 
2,2, Poems 
 
 Thru rushes and thru water lilies till 
 The water cradled me to slumber sweet. 
 
 THE INDIAN MOUND. 
 
 I come again to this observatory, 
 Where I the woods and lake can view, 
 While breezes cool and loaded with perfume 
 O'er me their gathered sweetness strew 
 The valley smiles, with many blossoms white, 
 Which mingle with the green their hue. 
 
 Amid what heap of relics, bones, I stand! 
 
 These skeletons, which, years ago, 
 
 In flesh and blood contained a living soul, 
 
 Should they now be demolished so, 
 
 And lie here, scattered o'er this sunny mound 
 
 To worthless dust returning slow? 
 
 Here lies a skull and there a stalworth limb, 
 
 If they are mates we hardly know. 
 
 In complete structure they can ne'er appear 
 
 Again; if breaths of last days blow 
 
 To wake them, it is but the soul they call 
 
 Which long away from these did flow. 
 
 A spectacle appalling, ghastly, grim 
 
 To see the temple of the soul 
 
 Thus torn asunder and spread o'er earth, 
 
 As if some furious demon stole 
 
P0£MS 23 
 
 The airy substance and with temper wild 
 Demolished this its earthly mold. 
 
 Thus are our bones ; from them the spirit flees 
 And they are naught but worthless dust, 
 E'en more unseemly than the stones, which on 
 The shore by water's motion thrust; 
 E'en more repulsive than these iron tools 
 Which lie here covered thick with rust. 
 
 Then in what composition are we made 
 If these dull bones are but as naught? 
 We must be mainly spirit ; these intrigues 
 In which its liberty is caught, 
 Decay, while it becomes with life aflame 
 And gains the goal it long has sought. 
 
 When flesh yet filled the caverns of these bones 
 
 In reverence were these forms laid 
 
 Beneath the sod, with heathen rites; 
 
 Each with his ashen bow and blade, 
 
 And things, which might be needed by the dead 
 
 While wandering in the silent shade. 
 
 These forms were laid to rest forever here ; 
 
 But man with his inquiring mind 
 
 Could not in peace let him here rest; but must 
 
 The sepulchre's rich contents find, 
 
 And with a dirty shovel scrape the bones 
 
 As if they ne'er a soul enshrined. 
 
24 Poems 
 
 A beautiful spot for a burial site! 
 
 Below this elevated mound 
 
 A valley stretches many furlongs wide 
 
 And winds the grassy knoll around, 
 
 In its rich depths, full many kinds of trees 
 
 Arise and many berries wild abound. 
 
 The valley widening, northward meets a lake, 
 
 The lovely Big Stone the chief home 
 
 Of these tribes formerly; this spot they chose 
 
 Was to the lake around a dome 
 
 Where eye could both its northward turning 
 
 view 
 And eastward until lost in gloom. 
 
 They chose this as a respite for their dead, 
 Thinking if they were still to roam 
 Invisible o'er earth, they'd be 'mid scenes 
 They loved, 'mid kindred spirits, known 
 To them and could live 'mong the trees and 
 
 drink 
 As formerly from springs moss-grown. 
 
 It seems the soul would love to hover 'bout 
 Such an enchanting paradise, 
 At least a while, to murmur 'mong the trees, 
 Mixed with the breeze, or o'er hills rise, 
 Or dance upon the waters playfully, 
 Seen only by immortal eyes. 
 
POKMS 25 
 
 And with this thot in mind as here I stand, 
 
 I feign I feel the spirits float 
 
 Around me, issuing from the valley's depths 
 
 As if they on the herbage dote, 
 
 And playfully revisit these grim frames 
 
 In which they first received their growth. 
 
 How many souls from here their last flight 
 
 took, 
 Toward heaven wafted by the breeze 
 Perfumed, and motion of the waters cool, 
 And murmur of the swaying trees ; 
 So near heaven were they on this spot, that 
 
 they 
 Departed with apparent ease. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Once more doth Nature from her slumber 
 
 wake 
 And timid Eurus strengthened by the sun 
 Offers rebuke to hectorly Aeolis. 
 It fans the hoary locks of winter till 
 They move obedient to its mild command. 
 Now to the touch of gentle-fingered Spring 
 Dissolve the icy streams, which pour their 
 
 flood, 
 Increased by torrents (mountains' melted 
 1 snows) 
 
 Down to the vast and never-resting sea; 
 
26 Poems 
 
 The dormant buds react and gradually 
 
 Send forth their hidden blossoms, fragrant 
 
 flowers 
 Developing and verdant foliage; 
 The meadows sprout and with their stretching 
 
 green, 
 Afford a background for heaven's canopy. 
 Oh, Spring, how wondrous, beautiful, thy 
 
 touch ! 
 Amid these scenes now chirps the robin red, 
 Sweet harbinger of blessed summer time ; 
 The lark with more melodious voice and 
 
 strong, 
 Makes glad the vacant air, which in its vast 
 Expanse resounds the thrilling melody, 
 More room! more room! cries my expanding 
 
 soul. 
 These chambered walls restrained its soaring 
 
 wings 
 Within their boundary, besieged by snow and 
 
 ice, 
 But when the fields and trees and stream and 
 
 birds 
 In unison pour forth their eloquence 
 Persuasive, then the tightening strings of my 
 Freed soul turned to an elevated pitch 
 Unconsciously vibrate and answering give 
 Accompaniment to their sweet harmony. 
 
Poems zj 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 Still Eurus must transfigured earth endure 
 Occasionally thy gentle wanderings 
 When slumber ought to be imperative 
 Upon thy restless brow ? For this to thee 
 Is night and when I feel thy gentle touch 
 It seems't thou rangest in uneasy dreams. 
 Thy haunt is not the barren fields and crests 
 Of snow, where beauty holds apart its charms, 
 But 'tis the sylvan stream, the verdant woods 
 Which smile at thy approach and welcome give. 
 'Tis thine to kiss the sunny meads and sip 
 Perfume from flowers beautiful and waft 
 It playfully to nerves who to such balm 
 Give recognition and swiftly react. 
 
 Away! Away! sweet-tempered intruder, 
 Thy season's past! Thots sad to realize, 
 Come thou, Aeolis, burst from out thy cave ; 
 From northern regions drive perpetual cold 
 And entertain deserted lonely earth 
 With thy enchanting howl and whistle shrill. 
 Thy blustering whirl doth remedy complaints, 
 It seems my blood runs parallel to it 
 Since nature tunes its flow. Thus harmony 
 Pre-eminent predominates all things 
 And checks unseeming inconsistencies 
 By blending blood and wind and clime in one. 
 
 December, yes December, wild it is 
 
28 P03MS 
 
 The month of gloom and dreary solitude, 
 Yet without wind or cold or snow or ice, 
 What would it seem else than a thing deceased 
 Demanding some physician for its cure. 
 
 LINES TO A LADY. 
 
 How could'st thou be so cruel, fair maid, 
 
 To give me all this pain? 
 
 How can'st thou turn so cold away 
 
 And make me thus complain? 
 
 I've tried to win a smile of thee, 
 
 But tried it all in vain. 
 
 I once thot thy wild beaming eye 
 Spoke messages to me, 
 Spoke in a language most divine, 
 Which made all sorrows flee, 
 But now I know, I knew not then 
 Their strange divinity. 
 
 The birds sing of thy loveliness, 
 
 Flowers bloom thee to adorn, 
 
 The breezes cool thy dimpled cheek, 
 
 And founts reflect thy form, 
 
 Yet these because they speak of thee, 
 
 But make me more forlorn. 
 
 Oh, let me gaze no more, sweet maid, 
 Into thy deep, dark eyes, 
 
POSMS 29 
 
 For then I may evade the spell. 
 Which from their lids doth rise, 
 Then may I for a time forget, 
 That thou dost me despise. 
 
 THE WORLD'S THE WORLD WHER- 
 E'ER WE GO. 
 
 The world's the world where'er we go, 
 All men have heart and mind, 
 And when we search for something new 
 We but the old things find. ; 
 
 Some leave the hut, some leave the court, 
 
 In time but to return, 
 
 Saying, "Here is the old, the new, 
 
 I will no longer yearn." 
 
 "I thot there was no struggle there, 
 And sought a higher life, 
 But now I know in hut and court 
 There is the self-same strife." 
 
 We make the world, the world makes us, 
 The world would make us base, 
 And yet we need its struggling groans 
 To temper here our race. 
 
 We make the world, the world makes us. 
 We have an inner light, 
 
30 Poems 
 
 Which makes the world where'er we go 
 Repulsive or abright. 
 
 SPRING AND POETRY. 
 
 There is a joy in living, when sweet Spring 
 Doth pour about our beings, balmy air; 
 When it has conquered winter with a smile 
 And sent it melted to the ocean's depths. 
 When it the chamber opens for the nymphs, 
 Which ruthless winter held in strict restraint,' 
 Which 'bout our beings swarm invisible, 
 And fan them with such soft and gentle touch 
 That we ourselves are in the motion lost 
 And seem in heavenly atmosphere to float. 
 We cannot strictly to our own selves cling, 
 We wander carelessly about and let 
 Unconsciously into our opened breast 
 These harmless yet mischievous messengers, 
 Which bletch from us our being e'er we are 
 Aware and give it to the breeze and air 
 To pour it into trees and flowers or waft 
 It o'er the tranquil lake, across to hills 
 Where in the caves it turns into an echo, 
 And leaps about from place to place unseen, 
 Resounding every motion then astir, 
 Till we feel everything a part of us. 
 
 We now forget the struggles of the past, 
 The heart-aches and the pangs of sorrow 
 cruel, 
 
Poems 31 
 
 The worry causing many sleepless nights, 
 The consciousness of failure, which, desire, 
 For high perfection e'er reminds us of. 
 The fountain oozing from the troubled breast 
 Is dry and clearer springs let forth their store. 
 The breath of Spring, wafts 'bout us lovingly 
 The dews of heaven, which renovate the soul, 
 And takes away the old and wasted things, 
 Them blowing to some newly opened port 
 Where they yet can inferior function form. 
 Just as a thresher, threshing with a flail 
 Heaps up the golden grain and to the wind 
 Lets fly the chaff and undesired seed, 
 Or as one pressing from the juicy fruit 
 The cool and sparkling wine, throws 'way the 
 
 seeds 
 And coverings, just so spring's balmy breath 
 Takes 'way the waste and leaves the richest 
 
 part. r 
 
 It takes from us a sense of heaviness 
 And makes us feel less of coporeal weight 
 Escourting us to lighter spiritual realms. 
 How many in this soothing atmosphere 
 Find sweet repose. The lover gaunt and lorn, 
 Despondent o'er some inconsistent breech, 
 Breathes now a balm inspiring to his soul 
 Which makes his suffering seem sadly sweet, 
 As if the beauty of the earth; the flowers 
 And woods and meads reflected in degree 
 His love when she to him seemed fondly true. 
 
32 Po£MS 
 
 Those who departed ones lament and morn 
 Feel sweet consolement enter in their breast 
 As if the very face of Nature bright 
 Sweetly reflects the immortality 
 Of those whose parting made their bosoms 
 
 droop. 
 Some disappointed by the loss of fortune 
 Or by hopes unfulfilled now somewhat lose 
 Their hold on things terrestial and feel 
 An impulse more divine by letting all 
 Their actions take a freer, natural course. 
 The poet comes not to thee, oh, Sweet 
 
 Spring, 
 Only when earthly scenes his soul depress 
 (Altho' to him thou art far dearer then 
 Than commonly, when all with him runs 
 
 smooth. ) 
 But always thou to him a close friend art. 
 Unlike a man whose pathway cleaves the 
 
 earth, 
 Who walks perpetually on trodden ground 
 And never takes a step imaginary 
 Upon the floating clouds or by some stream, 
 Whose breast becomes impenetrable, 
 Who, when calamity o'erpowers him 
 And hopes are lost and faith in men dissolved 
 Knows not for comfort, whiter he should flee. 
 Unlike him art thou poet, thou too well 
 Knowest the balm, which nature holds in store 
 And ever drawest nourishment from her. 
 
Poems 33 
 
 So much thou dotest on her that quite oft 
 Her fragrant fumes intoxicate thy brain, 
 That thou f orgetest the cold and grating world, 
 Its grinding mechanism monotonous, 
 And livest in a realm of ecstasy, 
 Where things invented by the imagination 
 Are as they should be, not as they now are. 
 And yet these bright prophetic visions, 
 
 which 
 Spleened poets howl and dream of, what are 
 
 they? 
 What help they to humanity relieve? _ 
 None ! says the ignorant, ah, how unjust 
 Such judgment we our idols need to have 
 Before we set, we need a spark of fire _ 
 Mixed with our cold and practical affairs. 
 The poet has three functions to perform, 
 To teach men beauty to appreciate, 
 Especially as found in Nature's realm; 
 To help establish the brotherhood of men; 
 And raise men's ideals to a higher plane. 
 
 Thus comes the poet in his attitude, 
 Full glorious 'gain to thee this opening year, 
 Dear nature, not as one with sickened heart 
 Disgusted at some act irreverent, 
 Who would find for his bleeding wound a 
 
 balm, 
 But rather as one who for many years 
 With thee was growing intimate and woed 
 The beauty sparkling in thy genial face, 
 
34 Poems 
 
 And oft from thy sequestered fountains drank. 
 He lives not in the realm of common men 
 To routine bound, who live a toilsome life 
 And know not in what continence to trust. 
 His kingdom is not altogether here 
 'Mong bustling men, it is the handiwork 
 Of God from which he inspiration draws. 
 He dreams of realms beyond the grating world 
 And has a friend in hill and mossy stream, 
 In valleys beautiful and verdant woods 
 And when he over these rich borders roams 
 He's always greeted with a pleasing smile. 
 
 When I behold Earth's beauty gradually 
 Expand to scenes more and more beautiful, 
 Charmed by a soft love-breathing atmosphere, 
 I wish then that I had a hundred minds 
 Or one sufficient in capacity 
 That it could all the finer arts embrace. 
 Would not that man was doomed to struggle 
 
 hard 
 A lifetime at one thing, one chosen art, 
 Before he can succeed and waive all others, 
 Altho' for them he cares and has for them 
 A faculty; He in a channel moves, 
 Which, to the ocean never finds its way; 
 If e'er it to the roaring beach arrives 
 It slacks and spreads and sinks into the sand. 
 He wanders in a forest, bearing trees 
 Of every sort, but only sees the oak 
 As if no other vegetation grew. 
 
Poems 35 
 
 I would now be a painter that the scenes 
 Which I behold could not escape my sight, 
 But I could sketch them in their natural color, 
 On canvass which for years its strength would 
 
 hold. 
 On which when Winter in his cold embrace 
 Me holds and such scenes are by it despoiled, 
 I could gaze and of lovely springtime dream. 
 How with my easel tucked beneath my arm, 
 I'd wander o'er the fields and valleys wide, 
 Thru woods, by springs and spirit haunted 
 
 streams, 
 The loveliest bowers seeking for my brush. 
 I would a sculptor be that I in rock 
 Long-lasting could some startled roe-buck 
 
 carve, 
 Which frightened by my sud'n quiet approach, 
 Leaps wildly forward thru the trembling 
 
 leaves. 
 I would be a musician that with harp 
 Melodious, I, beneath some shady bower, 
 Could lie, where e'en the breezes slumber mute, 
 And strike up such enchanting melody 
 That all the forests would the notes resound. 
 Or in a boat a little way from shore 
 I'd row and let the oars in water hang, 
 And taking up my well-tuned instrument 
 Would woo the breezes with music that afar 
 To distant shores the harmony could float. 
 The breezes floating down the valleys cool; 
 
$6 Posms 
 
 The trees now here, now there to murmur stir- 
 ring, 
 The waters moving to a soft-toned roar, 
 Would to my music be accompaniment. 
 A poet also would I be that I 
 Could sip the finer breath of all these scenes 
 And taste the beauty which about me glows. 
 These faculties with one another struggle, 
 Each trying o'er the other predominate, 
 But then the muse with her consuming fire 
 The others shrivel and retains the throne. 
 
 I will then be a poet, if one mind 
 To these all cannot well administer. 
 I'll wander in the cool and shady woods 
 And breathe the mingled fragrance, which be- 
 neath 
 The boughs the violets and roses pour. 
 The "cool and shady woods," there's magic in 
 These words ; when one comes in their solitude 
 He feels some spirit hovering over him, 
 Which fills his bosom with a pleasing awe, 
 The breezes murmuring among the boughs 
 Shake poetry down, as if it dropped from 
 
 heaven, 
 And in the boughs became entangled that 
 It could not on the blooming flowers droop, 
 And needed to be loosened from its couch 
 Before it could the trees and flowers baptize. 
 I'll lie down 'mong these flowers, while the 
 birds 
 
Posms Z7> 
 
 About me sing in endless caroling; 
 I'll give my mind to musings, idle, weird, 
 Then stroll upon the shore and let the breath 
 Of moving waters cool my feverish brows. 
 
 ODE TO AN IVY. 
 
 We plant thee now, oh ivy green, 
 
 Beside the shady wall, 
 
 That thou may'st ever upward climb, 
 
 If naught thee doth befall, 
 
 And in thy climbing keep afresh 
 
 The memory of us all. , 
 
 We plant thee now, oh ivy green; 
 
 Thy life has just begun, 
 
 While we now venture from these halls, 
 
 A new, hard race to run, 
 
 Thou'rt coming, we are going; 
 
 Our work here has been done. 
 
 Yet we are but beginning, too ; 
 So far we've given naught; 
 We've eagerly absorbed all which 
 Our Alma Mater taught, 
 And now we go into the world 
 With eager missions fraught. 
 
 'Tis not for selfish gain we strive, 
 Not for the gleam of gold, 
 
38 PoSms 
 
 The struggling of humanity 
 From us such aims doth hold; 
 For we would make less tears to flow 
 And make more joys unfold. 
 
 Sweet memories we leave behind, 
 As we from these halls go. 
 What lies before who can divine, 
 The future we ne'er know, 
 It may be full of countless joys, 
 It may be full of woe. 
 
 Yet let us not in paths of ease, 
 Move o'er life's rugged fen; 
 Let pain, affliction, sorrow ope 
 New worlds unto our ken, 
 That we may better sympathize 
 With griefs of other men. 
 
 When we grow weary, oppressed by ills 
 
 We shall oft think of thee, 
 
 Think how thou'rt upward climbing still, 
 
 So calmly and so free, 
 
 And we shall take new heart again 
 
 And shall new visions see. 
 
 So with a last but fond adieu 
 We turn our steps away, 
 Turn to the cold, ungrateful world 
 Our fortunes to assay, 
 
Poems 39 
 
 May we not from our duties shrink 
 Nor falter by the way. 
 
 ODE TO THE SOUTH WIND. 
 i. 
 
 Oh, soft South wind, whose stir is never wild, 
 In whose sweet folds sleep balmy Spring; 
 Who thru the winter roved in distant climes 
 Where joyous birds ne'er cease to sing; 
 Thou who art sensitive to loveliness 
 And only sound'st thy clarion when 
 A message of rejoicing thou dost blow, 
 Which comes most pleasing to our ken, < 
 Blow on me thou, once more my drowsy being 
 
 wake. 
 
 ii. 
 
 A victory is yours, a grateful one, 
 South Wind, che fierce, unfriendly cold 
 Thou hast dethroned and from grim Winter s 
 
 head 
 For Spring thou hast the sceptre stole, 
 And hast caught Winter by his hoary locks, 
 Not harshlv, yet hast made him weep, 
 Till down his furrowed, gaunt, unseemly cheek 
 Swift channels of blue waters creep, 
 Till his whole features are for weeping altered 
 
 quite. 
 
40 Posms 
 
 in. 
 
 May this not be a dream ; may I not feign, 
 I feel thy sweet, inspiring breath, 
 Flow 'round my being, thus entrancing it 
 Into a sort of lifelike death. 
 For often as I'm by thy touch o'erpowered, 
 Forgetting what I was and am, 
 I for a moment think myself somewhere 
 Beyond the mortal state of man, 
 So drunken am I with the scenes surrounding 
 me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But why should I rejoice, oh, welcomed Wind, 
 
 When thou dost but melt 'way the snow, 
 
 Which covered up the ruinous heaps of earth 
 
 And doth again the ruins show, 
 
 The same as when the fierce autumnal winds 
 
 Were bearing Spring's seeds to their tomb, 
 
 And all was melancholy, woods and fields 
 
 And meads, not long ago abloom 
 
 And floating in sweet beauty unsurpassed. 
 
 v. 
 
 The ruins lie before me visible, 
 
 And when upon the shrunken leaves, 
 
 Thou breathest tenderly, 'tis as a sigh 
 
Posms 4 1 ' 
 
 Of some new spirit mild who grieves 
 For what has passed away, as if to life 
 It would again these things restore. 
 In just such mood thou comest, pensive, sad, 
 Bewailing things which are no more, 
 Altho' thy voice to joyful melody is tuned. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But were this all thy coming would betoken, 
 
 There would be fruit for melancholy ; 
 
 But 'tis not all ; 'tis not the vital part 
 
 Of thy approach ; thy harmony, 
 
 A hundred, sweeter, gentler sentiments 
 
 Doth voice, which makes us welcome thee. 
 
 Wrapt in thy folds are incantations of 
 
 New birth, life, a divinity, 
 
 Which even seems to generate mankind anew. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thou floatest o'er the verdant valley wide 
 
 And breathest on the sunny hills, 
 
 And rangest playfully o'er the green plains 
 
 With vital breathing, which instills 
 
 In that with which it doth in contact come 
 
 A living spirit ; flowers bloom, 
 
 And meadows sprout, responding to thy touch, 
 
 Broad fields appear in greenness soon 
 
 And Beauty everywhere illuminates the Earth. 
 
42 Poems 
 
 viii. 
 
 Then risest thou a little way from Earth 
 
 And drivest from its resting place, 
 
 Some cloud to give thy tender children drink. 
 
 Each upward holds its pleading face 
 
 Like birdies waiting what the mother brings; 
 
 And as the drops come gently down, 
 
 They open wide their purple, rosy, lily lips 
 
 And never raise an envious frown, 
 
 But each in its own satisfaction drinks. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then comest thou some sultry day along, 
 
 And visitest these fragrant flowers, 
 
 Which now have from thy nourishment grown 
 
 full, 
 And beauteous, from warmth and showers, 
 And sippest perfume from the different ones 
 Till thou no more art travelling air, 
 But nature's breath, forth drawing from her 
 
 bosom, 
 Sweet essences that man may share, 
 The richness she possesses, if he only will. 
 
 x. 
 
 I know not if I am a part of thee; 
 I feel a close companionship ; 
 
Poems 43 
 
 Would I could wander with thee o'er the 
 
 Earth 
 And could from hills to valleys skip ; 
 Could woe the flowers with a gentle kiss; 
 The water rippling lazily; 
 The forest using for my stringless lyre, 
 On which I could some lullaby 
 Soft chant and could the poet's longing bosom 
 
 soothe. 
 
 — ■ m 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 I often dream of childhood days 
 When e'er I sad and lonely, 
 And think of happy childish wrys, 
 Which now to me seem holy. 
 
 My mind was filled with pleasant dreams, 
 Which long from me have flown ; 
 Stern manhood is not what it seems 
 E'er it to man is known. 
 
 Then sorrows were not sorrows real, 
 Nor pain was not real pain, 
 For coming morrow did reveal 
 True happiness again. 
 
 ALL THINGS WERE BORN TO DIE. 
 
 The buds spread out in foliage, 
 
44 Poems 
 
 The grasses spring up green, 
 To fill the place of others, which 
 Now withered on earth lean. 
 
 The fragrant flowers, sweetly bloom, 
 The daisy, violet, the rose, 
 To fill the place of others, which 
 Once grew where now each blows. 
 
 The birdies try their feeble wing 
 And chant their new-born note, 
 To fill the place of others, which 
 Once had a sweeter throat. 
 
 The children frolic, weep and play, 
 The youth some phantom trust 
 To fill the place of others, which 
 Now sleep in common dust. 
 
 A RESEMBLANCE. 
 
 She passed me by, 
 
 I caught her eye. 
 
 Familiar was the beam 
 
 Which from their lids did stream. 
 
 ODE TO A MEADOW LARK. 
 
 And yet once more I listen to thy voice, 
 Sweet meadow lark, most welcomed bird; 
 
Po£Mg 45 
 
 When nipping frosts and autumn's winds de- 
 stroyed 
 
 All beauty which on earth then stirred, 
 
 Unmercifully, turning all things sear, 
 
 I knew not if 'twould be my lot 
 
 To drink again these sweet sensations, which 
 
 Accompany thee, the breezes soft, 
 
 The gentle atmosphere, which stimulates the 
 soul. 
 
 But so with thee again I live and breathe 
 The balmy life-instilling air, 
 Of gentle Spring, when many, many, who 
 Devotedly were wont to share 
 Thy melody, no more will hear thee sing. 
 Yet this affects thy spirit not, 
 Thy voice e'en clearer, richer, sweeter rings 
 O'er valley than before forgot, 
 To men were those whose drooping hearts no 
 more thou'lt cheer. 
 
 The world moves on ; perpetually it moves, 
 
 Not stopping for events, which come; 
 
 Men die and leave these stormy scenes behind; 
 
 Most leave when life is just begun, 
 
 Mourned by few friends who closest to them 
 
 lived, 
 Yet moves the floods of things along 
 The same as when they were participants; 
 Still laughter stirs the motly throng, 
 
46 Poems 
 
 Still sighs are heard, still tears from lonely 
 eyelids flow. 
 
 Melodious bird, a friend to aching hearts, 
 
 Thou lead'st me to another sphere, 
 
 When thy clear notes float thru the balmy air, 
 
 New hopes, new aspirations cheer. 
 
 My troubled breast; for soon I know I'll have 
 
 Companions, other than for months 
 
 I've had. The joyous birds, the fields and 
 
 flowers, 
 Which I long longed to be amongst, 
 Will soon again declare man's immortality. 
 
 Kind nature wakes with thee, which ever 
 
 draws, 
 The soul from its corporeal frame, 
 And makes it feel immortal, lifting it 
 Aloft with budding hopes aflame. 
 How soon we satiated are with scenes 
 Conventional, we always long 
 For something we ne'er fully can attain, 
 As if we to some dwelling belong, 
 Remote from where we now our time allotted 
 
 fill. 
 
 We long to be with Nature, with the world 
 Outside, the universe, with thee 
 Dear bird, to drink thy melody and feel 
 Our souls leap from their bondage free, 
 
Poems 47 
 
 To realms of which we sometimes dimly 
 
 dream ; 
 To have them blown by balmy winds 
 Into the grass and flowers surrounding us, 
 And have a certain power, which binds 
 These down, for our reception loose their 
 
 tensity. 
 
 Thy voice is not so sweet, so lively as 
 Thy sister's, who doth upward run. 
 Outpouring such a flood of harmony 
 That it melts round the summer sun; 
 Nor as the nightingale's, who to the moon 
 And moonlit valleys doth complain 
 In endless caroling and makes one wish 
 To cease on midnight with no pain, 
 Yet it has filled my heart with many visions 
 new. 
 
 Now soon all earth again will be astir; 
 The flowers fragrant, grasses green 
 Will blow and I will in the meadows stroll, 
 The lily and the rose between, \ 
 
 To watch thee sitting on the swaying stems, 
 Or rising upward in the sky, 
 O'erflooding all the air and fields around, 
 The valleys deep and the hills high 
 With joyous music, which is clearly heard 
 afar. 
 
48 [Poems 
 
 How oft at haying time I've welcomed thee 
 
 And listened to thy merry song, 
 
 While stretched upon a heap of new-mown 
 
 hay, 
 A happy, joyous world among. 
 This paradise, the fragrance of new hay, 
 The flowers beautifully hued, 
 The breezes creeping slowly thru the grass 
 With many mixed perfumes bedewed, 
 Made me my mortal state awhile forget for 
 
 joy. 
 
 Then when I heard thee carol, warble so, 
 
 With thy o'erflowing heart content, 
 
 Ah, how I wished this veil enshrouding me 
 
 Could from my burning breast be rent 
 
 And I like thee could be some blithsome spirit 
 
 And could from out my bosom pour 
 
 Like thee, some unpremeditated strain 
 
 Which would my being onward spur 
 
 To higher asperations, easing it from pain. 
 
 For thee there is no fever or no fret, 
 No sting of sorrow or no wail 
 Of cruel injustice, which makes some to curse 
 And some to falter and grow pale. 
 With thy uplifting uncomplaining voice. 
 Thou makest man somewhat forget 
 The wretched conditions under which he 
 strives, 
 
The heartaches and the pangs he's met 
 While trying to secure the station he desires. 
 
 Oh, bird where hides the joy, the happiness, 
 
 That thou on earth doth ever show; 
 
 At morn, at noon, at eve, in rain or shine, 
 
 Thy soul unceasingly doth flow, 
 
 In melody tuned to immortal love, 
 
 While we poor pilgrims lonely, worn, 
 
 Seem in our struggle for some unseen light, 
 
 But as adventures forlorn, 
 
 Compared to thee wrapt in thy joyful ecstacy. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 ON FINISHING THE STUDY OF 
 HOMER. 
 Now, must I leave thee, Homer, bard divine? 
 Whose muse so oft my longing breast inspired, 
 A muse with battle's raging tempests fired 
 Composed of men devoted to Mars' shrine, 
 Yet touched so sweetly with an air sublime 
 Are those hot scenes of battle awfully horrid 
 That one can ever drink and not be tired 
 And see a glory thru the carnage shrine. 
 Farewell, dear bard, now in thy native tongue, 
 Which thou did'st tune to sweetest melody ; 
 I've longed for thee in youth and now have 
 
 wrung 
 From thee an essence that to satisfy; 
 
5o Poems 
 
 I feel like one just from the forest come 
 Refreshed and feeling its sublimity. 
 
 TO KEATS. 
 
 I lie beside this brook, among these flowers 
 And meditate on thee immortal Keats ; 
 I wonder how, as each perfume me greets, 
 It would inspire thy breast, what dormant 
 
 powers, 
 Would rise up to thy ken, bathed in the show- 
 ers 
 Of thy rich genius, what unknown sweets 
 Would rise, distilled by thy word-weaving 
 
 feats. 
 A paradise thou'd make of these cool bowers. 
 Sweet bard while thus I muse in visions bright 
 Thy earthly pilgrimage recurs to mind, 
 And settles o'er the spirit like a blight. 
 Thine was a brief yet intense light which 
 
 shined, 
 With such a lustre from its lonely height 
 To lighten scenes to which the world was 
 blind. 
 
 IN THE HAY-FIELD. 
 
 I'll lie here on this heap of new-mown hay 
 And rest till from the barn the racks return. 
 What blessedness! no matter where I turn 
 
Poems 51 
 
 There's beauty. How the gentle breezes stray 
 
 Among the grasses as if on their way 
 
 Intoxicated, sipping from the urn, 
 
 In which the prairie's perfumes mingling burn, 
 
 Until they rambled if 'twas holiday. 
 
 Some meadow larks hop 'bout me in the grass, 
 
 Some skyward rise and set the air to song; 
 
 Now drowsily a bumblebee doth pass 
 
 Me by, coaxing its laden joints along. 
 
 A thousand insects in a consort mass 
 
 Their chirps; a jubilant and merry throng. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 Sweet summer's childhood, cheerful, lovely 
 
 May, 
 When e'en the trees beside the haunted stream 
 Seem in a childish ecstasy to dream, 
 Robed in their new apparel, virent, gay, 
 Too prouds in winds full lustily to sway ; 
 When flowers thru the pearly dew drops gleam 
 And in the breezes float, distilled, unseen, 
 Once more refresh a lonely pilgrim's way. 
 When earth thus makes her continence to 
 
 smile, 
 Then 'way all things, which irritate the soul. 
 Let me now wander in the shady wood 
 Or on the shore where murmuring waters roll, 
 That I may more of my relationship 
 With the mysterious universe unfold. 
 
52 [Poems 
 
 BENEATH THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 What a relief to stand beneath the sky- 
 Immeasurable and feel your soul expand 
 Into infinitude in sky, on land ; 
 To leave the city's temples towering high 
 Which doth "the soul's immensity belie," 
 For when one sees beyond his frail command 
 The far-off clouds, the sea, the distant strand, 
 He feels a smallness from his nature hie. 
 This penned-up life deceives ; when everything 
 Is in man's reach, when he doth walk between 
 His own creation, which hide the sun and 
 
 moon 
 To the whole infinite a darkening screen; 
 Go forth and learn thy true immensity, 
 Catch from the heavens an immortal beam. 
 
 DAWN IN A STRANGE PLACE. 
 
 Come, friendly dawn ; around my being fold 
 Thy brightening garments, while I linger here 
 'Mong strangers, steeped in foolish, needless 
 
 fear. 
 How visions flit at evening o'er the soul, 
 'Neath a strange roof, 'mid people harsh and 
 
 cold, 
 With none to speak a word the heart to cheer, 
 Or help the people's enmity to bear 
 
Posms 53 
 
 Or help the spirit its high visions hold. 
 Come, come, thou vanisher of petty doubts, 
 Creator of sweet sympathy in man, 
 Light my troubled, my chaotic breast 
 And out of sight these weird fantasms fan. 
 That I may not think evil of the good 
 And all in pessimistic color scan. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 'Tis midnight; all the living world lies still, 
 No motion stirs in east or south or west ; 
 The wind, the trees, the lakes are all at rest, 
 And deathlike silence doth the spirit thrill. 
 The full moon floats above yon sleeping hill, 
 Subduing Sirius with its silvery crest, 
 The peaks and valleys show forth at their best, 
 As heaven opes her mighty dome at will. 
 Earth dreams! Would that she wake not 
 
 from this trance, 
 Would she in this consummate state could 
 
 dream 
 Forever and not groan and smile by chance, 
 This is of immortality a gleam: 
 Dissolve dull clay into the wide expanse 
 And join the flood of this celestial stream. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 A murmur of the gentle, western wind, 
 
54 Poems 
 
 A russel of few sear and yellow leaves, 
 
 A twitter 'neath the cool wind-haunted eaves, 
 
 And autumn dons his toga sable-lined. 
 
 How can it be so forward, so unkind, 
 
 As to so devastate the fields and trees, 
 
 And drive the birds, which set our hearts at 
 
 ease 
 To leave us in these lonely wastes behind ? 
 E'en if all earth is in dark saffron steeped, 
 Yet as the mist clears from the hills away, 
 There rises yet a glory from this heaped 
 Brown mass, which with the wide expanse of 
 
 gray 
 Reflects a glory of the harvests reaped 
 Of garners full, sweet fruits and rustics gay. 
 
 GENIUS AND EXPRESSION. 
 
 An artist mixing for effects his hues, 
 A deft musician measuring off his time, 
 A poet studying o'er some stubborn rhyme, 
 Show forth the burning soul in different views. 
 There may be much his efforts to confuse, 
 E'er thru his work the artist's soul doth shine, 
 And then 'tis but a spark of that divine 
 Promethian fire, which inspired his muse. 
 How scant is language for the soul's great 
 
 range, 
 Eor its emotions, feelings, sentiments; 
 That genius grows despondent is not strange: 
 
Posms 55 
 
 A glance, a sigh, a tear, the heart's true vents, 
 Soul-felt communications which ne'er change, 
 Express more than all rhymes the poet in- 
 vents. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 A golden glory floods the reddening west, 
 Whence beatific visions gorgeous flow ; 
 A growing splendor ; richer beauties glow 
 By shifting of the clouds. A sweet unrest 
 Steals o'er the spirit as we gaze in quest 
 Of hidden mysteries; the things we know 
 Seem few, compared to this celestial show 
 Of vast infinitudes we ne'er can test. 
 The softening winds yet breathe and die away ; 
 The silenced oaks have fallen fast asleep 
 And now stand dreaming, 'mong whose 
 
 boughs the jay 
 Yet chirping his last note, doth gently leap ; 
 All else is hushed, all turmoil of the day, 
 As shadows slowly o'er the valleys creep. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 Come, gentle Dryad, take me by the hand 
 And into forests dense my pathway lead, 
 Where full I may, my longing spirit feed 
 And more of nature's beauties understand. 
 Or thou fair Naaid come my course command 
 
56 Posms 
 
 And to the green, secluded banks proceed, 
 
 Where waters cool angelic visions breed 
 
 As one drinks in their ceaseless murmur bland. 
 
 Sweet solitude for thee I idly stray 
 
 Beside the stream and in the forest shade ; 
 
 For thee I make this special holy day. 
 
 My soul needs thee ; it needs the hill and glade, 
 
 To draw it from its dull incarnate clay, 
 
 And made it undiscovered fields invade. 
 
 TO SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Thou fount from which the thirsty scholars 
 
 drink, 
 From which the cultured sweet refreshment 
 
 seek, 
 In which for pearls the learned ever peep, 
 Before whose brightness other fountains 
 
 shrink, 
 Whose course is nature and thus has no brink, 
 Whose watering place men's hearts with bot- 
 toms deep, 
 Can these few words sufficient if they speak, 
 When thousand could not utter what I think ? 
 Yet rightly, Shakespeare men thee sacred hold, 
 Thy complex harp against whose golden 
 
 strings 
 Vibrated sweetly thy far-reaching soul, 
 Us closer and in true relation brings 
 
Poums 57 
 
 With human hearts ; its music doth unfold 
 In strains divine, their secret laborings. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 November thru a troubled continence _ 
 At times doth force a melancholy smile ; 
 It would not us with wantonness beguile 
 And cheerful looks, when in its lap immense 
 It holds the loveliness of spring with sense 
 Of guilt, now all in ruins, a dreary pile, 
 Which once made earth a paradisial isle, 
 With beauty for an easel too intense. 
 It is a link, which Beauty sweet connects 
 With desolation dire ; it moderates, ^ 
 And into summer's seething veins injects 
 A cold medicament, which warmth abates, 
 And tempers climate to the climate next 
 Before rough Winter ushers in its wastes. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 December wild now ushers in its wastes, 
 
 The month of gloom and dreary solitude; 
 
 So wild, choatic, yet so ermine hued. 
 
 Its desolation loveliness creates. 
 
 No scene so barren but what promulgates 
 
 Some beauty if by eye recipient viewed. 
 
 Not banks alone by beauty are imbued, 
 
 But also are the cliffs, which northwind grates. 
 
58 OPosms 
 
 How to December's icy touch congeal, 
 The streams and cracks the frozen earth ; 
 Earth ventures seldom from the sun to steal. 
 A friendly beam, altho' at times, in mirth 
 The sun makes her to laugh and laughing feel 
 New comfort in her unaccustomed dirth. 
 
 TO SHELLY. 
 
 I ope mine ear and listen to the wind, 
 And hear a charming, mystic harmony, 
 The voice and breath of Nature. Calm, softly 
 It now doth breathe and then to softness blind 
 It fiercely thru the valley's depths doth wind. 
 I flowers behold in colors flowing free, 
 Yet faint in fragrance, pale to some degree, 
 By moon now silvered now by sun's gold lined. 
 So seems the world when I thy poetry read 
 Dear Shelley, everything is beautiful, 
 But floating like a cloud I cannot grasp. 
 Thy fruits with heavy juices are ne'er full, 
 But filled with some pale nectar angel-dyed, 
 Which palates would for savor never cull. 
 
 TO FLORENCE. 
 
 Fair Florence, breeder of immortal souls, 
 Thou second Athens, whose rich atmosphere 
 Doth elevate the soul above this sphere 
 "Where Dante grew and first began to mold 
 
Poems 59 
 
 His great sad life, where Angelo unrolled 
 His genius, where Savanarola's career 
 Begun, where Galileo oft did peer 
 Into the heavens, where Boccaccio wrote his 
 
 scrolls ; 
 Oh, wonder not why I enraptured gaze 
 Upon thy glorious beauty, at thy past. 
 Thy walls seem sacred to this cultured age 
 And shall not go to dark oblivion fast; 
 Thy history is an interesting page 
 And may its influence long to mankind last. 
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 1. 
 
 / V ^ 
 
 We understand each other not. No one^ 
 Can of another's soul the depths divine ; 
 Deep in each heart there is a secret mine, 
 Which none can penetrate. No earthly sun 
 Can cast its rays beneath the shifting scum 
 And see the cogs, the framework which com- 
 bine 
 The mechanism in a working fine, 
 Which mechanism since motion begun, 
 In pith, momentum, gradually increased 
 Till it had reached its utmost vital force, 
 Whereat it holds for several strenuous years. 
 Its full capacity, then in a course, 
 
60 Po^ms 
 
 Of lesser movement it begins to fall. 
 And doth the meditative trend endorse. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Humanity was thus since it begun ; 
 
 Like then 'tis now, a soul is still a soul, 
 
 Still it the same griefs tries away to roll, 
 
 The same indulgences and vices shun, 
 
 The same hard individual race to run, 
 
 No matter if since then it did unfold 
 
 Much of its mystery, before untold, 
 
 Which only could by struggling centuries 
 
 come. 
 'Tis human nature not, which changes thus, 
 'Tis but the changing garb in which 'tis 
 
 dressed ; 
 The raiment changes every several years, 
 Perhaps 'tis always to the color best, 
 For what would be the use of change at all, 
 If we were not with something better blessed. 
 
 in. 
 
 Why does each age not walk with greater 
 
 strides ? 
 Why like a vessel on a stormy sea, 
 Go onward wavering, hesitatingly? 
 Why does it not as it the billows rides 
 Move forward straight, before the water hides 
 
Poems 6i 
 
 Its course ? Why not leap far unshocked, free, 
 
 That sooner it may reach its destiny, 
 
 Before it with calamity collides? 
 
 It is because each generation must 
 
 Its lessons learn, of what their fathers did 
 
 They could start from, they would great 
 
 progress make, 
 But little heed they what their sires bid, 
 And stumble on the same experiences 
 From which their fathers lifted half the lid. 
 
 IV. 
 
 More civilized, more simple is our taste, 
 While many things become much more com- 
 plex. 
 The savage had not such a large index 
 As we to tamper with, yet much did waste 
 In foolishness ; he wanted to be graced, 
 In award show, by precious stones, bracelets ; 
 All things be had went to his form deck, 
 Which ornament to us would seem debased. 
 The country lass with jewels in her ear, 
 With ribbons floating in her ill-bound hair, 
 All dressed discordant and ununiform, 
 Thinks in her gorgeousness good will to share. 
 The royal lady tho' more finely dressed, 
 More simple looks, when we the two compare. 
 
62 POSMS 
 
 V. 
 
 More civilized, more simple in all things ; 
 We see a structure crude and standing long, 
 Mirandad, gabled, paintings colored wrong, 
 Its image to our curious memory clings ; 
 What skill in labor seem these confusings. 
 Then when we see a structure fine and strong 
 The plans all by a master workman drawn 
 It to our senses simpler meaning brings. 
 The artist striking up a melody, 
 With fingers automatic to the mind 
 Seems simpler far than he who staggers thru 
 The keys, uncertain where his tune to find ; 
 By watching we think it would easier be 
 To reach the artist's art, than his who's blind. 
 
 VI. 
 
 We still each other do not understand, 
 What chasms lie between two friendly hearts, 
 However warm, the sweet affection darts 
 From one another's frame, apart they stand 
 In mind, e'en if they feel a magic wand 
 Knit them together, which affection starts, 
 And friendly touch from soul to soul imparts, 
 They feel there's something they cannot com- 
 mand. 
 There seems a vacant space between their 
 hearts, 
 
Poems 63 
 
 A vacancy, which never can be filled. 
 Affection and familiarity, 
 Can thus far go, the soil no farther tilled 
 Finding, they realize their seeds will not 
 Take root and will in vain o'er it be spilled. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The child has friends in all, in everything, 
 Whatever comes before him that he grasps, 
 As in his little mind it wonder maps 
 As some strange curiosity. A thing 
 For satisfaction he must to him bring 
 And handle, prove its realness with few taps. 
 How suddenly he enters new compacts 
 As strange desires to his mind do spring. 
 He has not long been separated from 
 The universal realm where all is one. 
 He recognizes scarce man as a friend, 
 More than gay kittens, sporting with him 
 
 dumb, 
 For to all these he's yet quite close akin, 
 He's from their atmosphere not long since 
 
 come. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Tis not affection, which makes youth have 
 
 friends, 
 'Tis more the sympathy of joyous sport. 
 
64 Poems 
 
 They frolic, play at games of every sort, 
 Considering ne'er the meaning, which attends 
 Each gay hilarity; each much time spends 
 In seeing his intentions come to port 
 E'en if by it some playmate is cut short, 
 Who from his being more of friendship sends. 
 They wrangle o'er the use of space or tool, 
 One strikes the other with indignant slap, 
 Scarce knowing why; then somewhat recon- 
 ciled, 
 They play again, forgetting the mishap. 
 And each the other with more kindness treats, 
 As if to grace the lately formed gap. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The man knows least how injuries to endure, 
 A pain inflicted is not soon forgot ; 
 It always strikes some all-absorbing spot 
 And breeds there, till no medicine can cure. 
 How many insults from a bosom pure 
 Have thru some nervous disposition shot, 
 Inflicting wounds, which time e'en cannot blot. 
 Because their deeper meaning was obscure. 
 How many mean what they in anger say? 
 They speak and instantly seek to repent, 
 When words already deep have taken root 
 In breasts to whom their message rash was 
 sent, 
 
Poems 65 
 
 Familiar they perhaps become again, 
 Yet long it takes to patch the hateful rent. 
 
 x. 
 
 E'en those who long their tempered beings 
 
 poured 
 Into one channel of sweet flowing love, 
 And seem in real relationship above 
 The common lot; whose bark in heaven is 
 
 moored, 
 E'en these by some erroneous notion stirred, 
 Become again as two, and rashly shove 
 Aside their sweet connection as'f to prove 
 Their vision enamored was but dim and 
 
 blurred. 
 The stream in which their beings blended 
 
 moved 
 Now suddenly has been by harshness damned, 
 Perhaps their souls their forces join again. 
 And walk together lovingly, but lamned; 
 Or else they separate forever from 
 Each other's sight, unwilling to be blamed. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oh, could we but each other understand, 
 
 We would not what men say, but what they 
 
 ! mean 
 
 (Digest, we'd no ill-sounding language screen, 
 
66 Posms 
 
 The closest friends to-day, to-morrow stand 
 Far isolated on some separate strand, 
 Because few words their beings passed be- 
 tween, 
 Which not directly on their souls did lean, 
 Whose meaning did to enmity expand. 
 They part, desiring ne'er their faces see 
 And yet they feel at distance they are friends, 
 And could into each other's favor grow 
 If only they for past could make amends, 
 They hesitate, not knowing who should start. 
 The one offended or he who offends. 
 
 XII. 
 
 What deep complexities our friendships are, 
 We vaguely on the surface of men date, 
 And never in the stream full-streaming float. 
 A little scratch will all our friendship mar, 
 Which only heals with some enduring scar, 
 Our beings seldom strike harmonious note 
 As when they're melted into one, remote, 
 From here, where naught their mingling doth 
 
 debar. 
 We envy what we lack and others have 
 And would not be outstripped in anything 
 We would be universal, broad, unmatched 
 And to ourselves successes selfish bring; 
 'Tis lack of sympathy with fellow men 
 Which gives so apt the individual sting. 
 
Poems fy 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 i. 
 
 Invisible enchanter of the mind, 
 Embalmer and sweet sealer of the eyes, _ 
 Who with thy drugged and fragrant wings 
 
 doth use 
 From groves and flowers endeavoring to find 
 Some lid which thou canst gently fan and bind 
 In sacred trance and scense thus hypnotize. 
 Death's counterfeit, which breaks the weary 
 
 Of toil and leaves the struggling world behind 
 For peace and rest, oh, thou what would life 
 
 be 
 
 Without thy secret visitings? a chain 
 Of endless toil? Thou spannest the dreary sea 
 Of darkness with a bridge whose arches deign 
 To west and eastern hills, bridge on which we 
 In dreams rove and ourselves immortals feign. 
 
 II. 
 
 Then when thou thus doth hover on my brows 
 And keepest them for thy blessed dwelling 
 
 place, 
 And holdest me in thy magic few hours space, 
 Then let me lie beneath the waving boughs, 
 
68 Poems 
 
 On some green bank where murmuring brook- 
 let flows 
 And where the violets and myrtles grace 
 My couch and zephyr wanders o'er my face 
 And on me frankincense most sweetly blows ; 
 Where I on thy approach can meditate 
 And watch thee sport with my enchanted eyes 
 And see how gradually thou dost translate 
 My wandering thots to dreams and breaths to 
 
 sighs ; 
 How gently, mysteries thou dost relate 
 To me of my surrounding paradise. 
 
 TO AGATHA. 
 
 Sweet lady whose angelic, azure eyes 
 
 Doth search the caverns of my inner heart 
 
 Than thee no other being do I prize 
 
 With more sincerity; indeed thy part 
 
 In this great farce is not to hypnotize 
 
 Poor souls with beauty which e'en snares the 
 
 wise, 
 But 'tis a higher, nobler influence, 
 Which upward lifts the melancholy soul. 
 I could not offer thee the least offense, 
 For fear my impedence away would roll 
 From thy intelligence and strike the dense 
 Of heaven, where angels it condemned would 
 
 hold. 
 
Poems 69 
 
 Thus thou art as a mediator between, 
 
 Man and his God and keepest his spirit clean. 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 Imagination on whose fairy wings 
 
 My fleeting thots are borne from place to 
 
 place, 
 Diffused and restless, both to concrete things 
 And abstract images, I cannot trace 
 Thy pathless wanderings, which leashless 
 
 springs 
 Like lightnings forked, o'er heavens unbound- 
 ed space. 
 Now by some meadow or some mossy stream, 
 Thou lingerest, then upstarting suddenly, 
 Thou fliest to some unfamiliar scene, 
 To earth's remotest part, to mountains hoary 
 Or to the clouds or moon and stars, the realm 
 Of light, or to the ocean melancholy. 
 Controller of my mind would I could thee 
 Controll, thou letest my thots ne'er my own 
 be. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh leave me not in loneliness behind 
 Sweet lady who so long me comfort gave; 
 
jo Poems 
 
 Thou'st made me in this petty passion rave 
 And hast upset the contents of my mind 
 By holding it in gentle love entwined. 
 And now thou must all these relations wave 
 Making my bosom, more and more to crave 
 E'en if thou seemest now somewhat unkind. 
 I cannot follow thee to thy blessed clime, 
 I'll stay behind and dream and think of thee; 
 Think of the blissful joyous summer time 
 When we strolled by the waters sparkling free, 
 And rambled in the beautiful sunshine 
 When birds about us sang in joyful glee. 
 
 II. 
 
 Is there no peaceful balm, is there no rest 
 For those who are in Love's hot fever caught, 
 Which fever comes to us ofttimes unsought 
 And leads us in an atmosphere most blessed ? 
 I would not think of love a dismal pest 
 Which troubles men the more, already fraught 
 With burdens numerous and with toil o'er- 
 
 wrought 
 Till trials his o'erburdened body test. 
 I'd rather think of it as something good, 
 Which doth our being ever upward lift, 
 And tho it has its own peculiar mood 
 And oft like clouds it here and there doth drift, 
 ,Yet it has long against all evil stood, 
 And always doth the good from evil sift. 
 
Poems 71 
 
 in. 
 
 No matter where I turn my eyes to-day 
 To woods or fields, to valley or to stream, 
 In all I see thy features sweetly beam 
 As'f everything to thee did homage pay. 
 The joyous birds peal forth their anthems gay, 
 The water sparkles with a pleasant gleam, 
 The trees soft murmur with a gentle sheen, 
 Yet all these show of thee a friendly ray. 
 Thou must then of a complex nature be, 
 To be a part of all, of everything, 
 To murmur in the stream and in the tree, 
 And in the bird's sweet melody to ring, 
 For nothing can I this day hear or see, 
 But what they continence doth to me bring. 
 
 IV. 
 
 When in the morn I waken from my sleep 
 And thru my window streams the golden light, 
 E'er earthly forms attract my waking sight, 
 Thy image doth into my dull mind peep, 
 Which image not so long ago did creep 
 Into my slumbers as a vision bright, 
 As a sweet phantom of the dewy night. 
 And makes for joy my slumbering body leap. 
 Then when so early thou dust come around 
 Before the toil and turmoil of the day, 
 I surely think thy image shall be bound 
 
*J2 Po£MS f 
 
 To 'bout me all the dreary hours stay. 
 Thou'll lead me from my lofty thots pro- 
 found, 
 Into the realm of dream and fairy play. 
 
 v. 
 
 Now when the sun doth redden all the west 
 And all the world is growing calm and still, 
 And the cold moon doth rise above the hill 
 And I lie down to slumber and to rest, 
 Thou comest slyly creeping in my breast 
 And doth my mind with many cravings fill, 
 And keeps my weary limbs awake until 
 For weariness I fall to slumber blest. 
 I would not mind thee coming in my dreams, 
 But when thou comest in my waking hours, 
 When first my head upon my pillow leans, 
 And sheddest thy smiles in pleasant, heavenly 
 
 showers, 
 I fain would have you hold away your beams 
 Until sweet slumber on my being lowers. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Last night I strolled by where she used to 
 
 dwell, 
 While upward climbing was the silvery moon 
 And twinkling stars were crowding heaven for 
 
 room, 
 
Posms 73 
 
 Whose light upon the haunted dwelling fell. 
 
 What thots came to my mind I cannot tell ; 
 
 Whether I lingered long or parted soon 
 
 Or dreamed the night away in conscious swoon 
 
 I know not, I was in a magic spell. 
 
 The place was sacred for there dwelled the 
 
 one 
 Who now had fled to distant climes away. 
 I thot I heard her light, light footsteps come 
 To greet me often as I there did stay, 
 And deemed I heard her call in plaintive tone 
 As she about the fountain's cool did stray. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I picked her roses from the spacious field 
 And culled her violets from the mossy banks 
 For which she gave me many, many thanks, 
 As if to me she did her whole heart yield. 
 I brought her wreaths, her sparkling eyes to 
 
 shield, 
 Well braiding them in many styles and ranks, 
 And thus indulged in many lover's pranks, 
 Full thinking I the magic wand could wield. 
 I know not what she of these tokens thot, 
 I brought them her affectionate heart to 
 
 please, 
 And when I not these pretty tokens brought, 
 She would me in a pleasing humor tease, 
 
74 \ : Poems 
 
 That next time I the banks and prairies 
 
 sought 
 For flowers to set her wily heart at ease. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Can it be true that some can others love, 
 Whose bosoms in a seething passion burn, 
 And still receive no love for their return, 
 But on expecting to descend a dove 
 A harpy's wing gives them a backward shove? 
 Which makes their continence grow pale and 
 
 stern, 
 Altho it makes their bleeding hearts more 
 
 yearn, 
 For they're moored in an anchorage above. 
 Dear lady, long my bosom shall yet weep, 
 Long shall it in a petty passion rave, 
 Long shall it anxious, weary vigils keep, 
 Long shall it pressing trials and hardships 
 
 brave ; 
 Long nights I'll spend in sighing with no sleep, 
 If thou dost not me from these perils save. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Shy Cupid with his wee bewitching darts, 
 Doth set good many burning hearts to rave 
 And in a strange, peculiar manner crave 
 
Poejms 75 
 
 For something which our being upward starts. 
 
 He shoots unconsciously into our hearts 
 
 An airy substance, an electric wave, 
 
 A thing, which no one fool, or lord or'knave 
 
 Can analyze and set into its parts. 
 
 Thus is love pictured, that of love we know, 
 
 And further explanation simply leads 
 
 To mystery, to what man cannot show, 
 
 For it there's daily wrought heroic deeds, 
 
 And many persons thru great perils go, 
 
 Because it with a heavenly nectar feeds. 
 
 x. 
 
 Thou haunter of my thots when shall no more 
 
 Thy flitting image in my breast find space 
 
 To ruminate and run its daily race 
 
 As if for it I had blessings in store ? ' 
 
 Yet can thy image ne'er become a bore, 
 
 E'en if I every moment see thy face, 
 
 And feel thee meting out thy gentle grace 
 
 Till I'm for gentleness and sighing sore. ' 
 
 There always comes encouraging relief 
 
 If we unto the world expression give 
 
 Of our discouragement and of our grief. 
 
 We afterwards can truly better live; 
 
 E'en if our frail expression is but brief 
 
 It makes our cheerful disposition active. 
 
7§ (Poems » 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oh, would that I those fairy nymphs could 
 
 Seize, 
 
 Which from my being everlastingly 
 Escape and draw it forward laughingly 
 Into the boundless air and in the breeze. 
 Then would I their thin shapeless beings 
 
 squeeze 
 Into their natural mold submissively 
 And treat them not too altruisticly, 
 That they would leave my yearning heart at 
 
 ease. 
 Would I could watch them as they those 
 
 nymphs meet 
 Which from thy beauteous body also fly, 
 And watch them how they would each other 
 
 greet 
 And into one their airy beings sigh, 
 Whether they sauntered slow, or pranced 'bout 
 
 fleet, 
 As they far off each other did descry. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Oh, would that I could see with natural eyes, 
 Not spectacled by love's betraying lens, 
 Which truth and untruth so together blends, 
 And makes all things in false mirage arise, 
 That one who by its straying focus tries 
 
Poems 77 
 
 Discriminate 'tween truth and untruth tends 
 To weaken reason and by this condemns 
 The powers, which exalt him to the skies. 
 I wonder if thy beauty yet doth show 
 With such a lustre where thou now dost stay, 
 Or did my mind enamored make it glow 
 With double glory, whilst thou here did'st 
 
 stray ? 
 And to cool minds whose fires burn more low 
 It does not spark with so bright a ray. 
 
 ON FIRST HEARING KUBELIK. 
 
 Oft have I heard of rare enchantment sweet, 
 Of Orpheus and his soul-beswitching lyre, 
 Of nymphs who of enchanting never tire 
 And by cool springs in many love songs meet. 
 Yet never did this magic spell me greet 
 Until weird Kubelik in majestic ire 
 Intralled my soul with his celestial fire 
 And oped new avenues by his strange feat. 
 Then felt I like some prophet, who on high, 
 Sees gorgeous visions in the clouds arise, 
 Yet ne'er beheld that for which he did sigh ; 
 When suddenly above him oped the skies 
 And there appeared unto his longing eye, 
 The longed for vision, the exultant prize. 
 
yS x Posms 
 
 THE YOUNG SAILOR. 
 
 (Written in youth after reading Colridge's 
 "Ancient Mariner.") 
 
 I. 
 
 TH£ CAIvM SEA. 
 
 A sail-boat drifted playfully 
 Within the sunny bay; 
 The smallest, yet the finest boat, 
 It was around that day. 
 
 The wind since morn was very calm 
 And heaved not e'en a sigh ; 
 The sun burned hot, so very hot, 
 Burned forth from out the sky. 
 
 No breeze, no boat now did disturb 
 The calm and restful sea, 
 Tranquil and smooth it always was 
 As far as eye could see. 
 
 Swift back and forth the sea-birds flew, 
 Some soared up so high, 
 While others sailed along the sea 
 And some athwart the sky. 
 
Poems 79 
 
 The trees were seen reflected all, 
 Which stood upon the beach, 
 No leaf stirred in their towering tops 
 Where breezes always reach. 
 
 The birds sang not their usual song, 
 They raised not e'en a note, 
 Scarcely a sound of any kind 
 Within the air did float. 
 
 There was no roaring of the sea, 
 No murmur of the trees, 
 It seemed, e'en nature could afford, 
 No cool refreshing breeze. 
 
 Such solemn stillness doth precede 
 A fierce and wrathful storm, 
 Which generally comes suddenly, 
 On days so fiercely warm. 
 
 The sea-birds seemed predicting it, 
 They flew towards the land, 
 And water fowls came to the shore 
 To bathe in the cool sand. 
 
 The birds were flying 'round about, 
 Now here they flew, now there, 
 As if they knew not why they flew 
 Thus in the sultry air. 
 
80 Poems 
 
 No boat or ship was on the sea 
 Around the harbor near, 
 As if some storm was brooding slow, 
 Which made the people fear. 
 
 Some to their cottages retreated, 
 Some sat beneath the trees, 
 Anticipating that the sea 
 Would bring a gentler breeze. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE YOUNG SAILOR. 
 
 A little lad stood on the beach, 
 A fine, fine lad was he ; 
 He came full many miles away, 
 Came to enjoy the sea. 
 
 He was so straight from head to toe, 
 With curls of golden hair, 
 Which hanging thickly 'bout his head, 
 Shaded his face so fair. 
 
 His hands were smooth and soft and white, 
 His fingers they were long, 
 His cheeks were flushed with glowing health, 
 He looked real well and strong. 
 
 His eyes were colored as the sea, 
 
PoSms Si 
 
 Gray somewhat mixed with blue, 
 It seemed all things they gazed upon 
 Enjoyed their brilliant hue. 
 
 He placed one foot upon a rock, 
 With elbow on his knee, 
 And in a happy childish way 
 He gazed upon the sea. 
 
 He gazed upon the water calm, 
 Then looked toward the boat, 
 And thot how pleasant it would be 
 In it a ways to float. 
 
 He looked so young, so beautiful ; 
 Forth from his youthful face, 
 There gleamed a strange commingling 
 Of excellence and grace. 
 
 He gazed some time upon the sea, 
 Then stepped into the boat, 
 And with a smile upon his face 
 Pulled on the anchor rope. 
 
 For him the anchor was too heavy, 
 It would not give nor move, 
 He pulled and pulled with all his might, 
 And yet it would not move. 
 
 "No one is near," said he aloud, 
 
82 Poems 
 
 I'll cut the rope in twain, 
 
 Then I'll be free in joyous mood 
 
 To sail out in the main. 
 
 He stood a moment thotfully, 
 Thinking what he should do, 
 If really he should take the boat 
 And sail the ocean blue. 
 
 "Yes, yes, he thot this will I do, 
 I never was from shore, 
 No one I'm sure will use the boat, 
 I'll be back long before." 
 
 He found a knife, a rusty one 
 There lying in the boat, 
 And pressing hard against the blade 
 He cut in two the rope. 
 
 He lifted then his curly head 
 
 To see if none were 'round, 
 
 And watched him pushing out the boat 
 
 With hardly a splash or sound. 
 
 The sail was set, the rope was tied, 
 But naught of this he knew 
 Because he never sailed before 
 Upon the water blue. 
 
 He brushed aside a golden curl 
 
Poems 83 
 
 Which blurred his joyous eyes, 
 That he could better see the sea 
 As it mixed with the skies. 
 
 But all things were so calm and still, 
 He drifted not from shore, 
 And in his childish eagerness 
 He tried to ply the oar. 
 
 in. 
 
 the breezs. 
 
 Now came a murmur from afar 
 Among the distant trees, 
 The youth knew when he heard the sound 
 It was a coming breeze. 
 
 The sailor stood up in the prow 
 With beaming, smiling face, 
 And welcomed it as it came on 
 With easy, gentle pace. 
 
 The sail spread softly out its folds, 
 Gently the boat did start, 
 And thus at last was satisfied, 
 The lad's complaining heart. 
 
 He took his cap from off his head, 
 And waved it in the air, 
 
84 Poems 
 
 Tho no one saw it from the shore, 
 For no one was near there. { 
 
 His eyes cast forth such pleasant beams, 
 His face was all aglow, 
 As he looked down upon the sea 
 And saw the boat moved slow. 
 
 The surface of the gentle sea, 
 With ripples now was stirred, 
 Which softly lashed against the boat 
 Just as the youth preferred. 
 
 Now pushed the boat out in the sea 
 Whither it scarcely knew, 
 It all depended upon which 
 Direction the wind blew. 
 
 The mast stretched upward strong and full ; 
 To him it looked so high, 
 For he ne'er viewed such spreading wings ; 
 That is, not very nigh. 
 
 He proudly sat with folded hands 
 Upon a cushioned seat, 
 Nor yet he feared the gentle sea, 
 Which not yet fiercely beat. 
 
 He thot that was as all men do, 
 Just step into the boat, 
 
POSMS S$ 
 
 And without any other need, 
 They could the water float. 
 
 He knew naught of the rudder, which 
 Holds straight the boat's course, 
 Nor naught he knew about the sail, 
 Of strength the boat's course. 
 
 He did not fear the roughening sea; 
 He thot the boat would turn, 
 When he had gone out far enough, 
 That's when the sea grew stern. 
 
 He thot he'd be a sailor-boy 
 And sail the water deep, 
 No matter if his folks at home 
 A restless watch would keep. 
 
 "I'll go not far from shore," he said, 
 I'll be right back again, 
 I care not very far to sail 
 Upon this boundless main." 
 
 The raising wind upon him blew, 
 Not very strong or fierce, 
 Not as the cold autumnal winds, 
 Which to the skin do pierce. 
 
 It was not strong, yet strong enough 
 For him to turn ashore, 
 
86 Poems 
 
 But he knew nothing of the waves, 
 He never sailed before. 
 
 The waves were not so very high ; 
 No water on him splashed, 
 Nor was there any danger yet 
 That the boat would be smashed. 
 
 He wished to lead a sailor's life, 
 He wished to sail the blue, 
 But nothing of the raging sea 
 Or of a boat he knew. 
 
 Quite slowly did he leave the land, 
 The breeze it was not strong, 
 He could yet easily detect 
 The shore winding along. 
 
 The wind then raising gradually 
 Blew from the stormy north, 
 And made the sailor restless grow, 
 As swifter he sailed forth. 
 
 Now onward faster moved the boat 
 With rising wind and wave, 
 And as increasing was its speed 
 The lad's young face grew grave. 
 
 At intervals a playful gale 
 Would sweep the boat along 
 
Poems 87 
 
 And then again in playful mode 
 It would not blow so strong. 
 
 i s* 
 
 The boat began to gently rock 
 And spread the ocean foam 
 As if it was a larger ship 
 Destined the sea to roam. 
 
 The sun was hot ; its scorching rays 
 Burned down upon the brine, 
 It seemed he never saw before 
 It with such brightness shine. 
 
 The wind blew 'bout the golden curls, 
 Which hung about his head, 
 And as he watched it push the waves 
 A "gloom his face o'erspread. 
 
 Yet quietly in the stern he sat, 
 Looking upon the sail, 
 As if he thot the boat would turn 
 And go against the gale. 
 
 Now broke the sun o'erwhelming forth ; 
 On him its rays did burn; 
 He thot he had gone far enough, 
 And homeward wished to turn. 
 
 He wanted now the boat to turn, 
 But naught of it he knew; 
 
88 [Poems 
 
 He thot it surely would turn back 
 Because he wished it to. 
 
 "Good gracious," muttered he aloud, 
 Will not the boat obey? 
 It will turn when we want it to, 
 I heard the sailors say." 
 
 "Perhaps I'm not out far enough, 
 A little will I wait, 
 Then homeward surely will I turn 
 At a good speedy rate." 
 
 He glanced once more toward the land, 
 Which now seemed far away, 
 And wished himself on shore again, 
 Safe in the sunny bay. 
 
 So far he never sailed before 
 Upon the deep blue sea; 
 He vainly thot the boat would turn 
 And he soon safe would be. 
 
 "The boat will turn, I know," said he, 
 
 "Because I want it to, 
 
 I care no longer thus to sail 
 
 And cut these strong waves through." 
 
 Upon his face there was a smile 
 Whene'er the sail would turn, 
 
Poems 89 
 
 But it would straighten out again 
 And did his longings spurn. 
 
 Now onward, onward moved the boat 
 Amid the wind and spray, 
 Most boldly leaving far behind 
 The harbor in the bay. 
 
 No one from shore could see it now, 
 The boat was very small, 
 It only was a little speck 
 'Mong others grim and tall. 
 
 It only was a pleasure boat, 
 Which goes not far from shore, 
 Which seeks the bay, when raging winds 
 Make rolling waves to roar. 
 
 About the boat the sea-fish swam; 
 They came up from below 
 And on the surface would they skim 
 Where'er the boat would go. 
 
 At times such startling sights he saw, 
 There was the huge, fierce shark, 
 Swift dashing 'round with open mouth 
 If on him he would dart. 
 
 He glanced once more toward the land, 
 It makes him look aghast, 
 
90 Poems 
 
 The land which looked so near before 
 Was disappearing fast. 
 
 i 
 He looked about from east to west, 
 With tearful, longing gaze, 
 But only saw the land around 
 Becoming blurred in haze. 
 
 Ah, what a feeling stirred his breast, 
 As disappeared the land, 
 He wondered if he'd ne'er return 
 And see again the sand. 
 
 "They'll likely want the boat," he said, 
 "And mother will want me, 
 For no one knows I'm sailing here 
 Upon this dreadful sea." 
 
 "Am I now lost, ah, really lost, 
 Here on this briny foam, 
 Or will the boat yet turn around 
 And bring me safely home?" 
 
 "I wonder where the land has gone 
 Which I could plainly see, 
 I'm sure it sank not thus from sight 
 Into the gasping sea." 
 
 Alone upon the water danced, 
 The boat most playfully; 
 
PoSms gt 
 
 At times half stopping 'tween the waves 
 Where winds blew not so free. 
 
 And then again it swiftly dashed 
 When right the fierce wind blew, 
 Close clinging to the ocean's heart, 
 As would a drowning crew. 
 
 From time to time the fluttering sail 
 Would nigh dip in the wave, 
 While dashing spray would upward splash 
 And try the canvass lave. 
 
 Now wet and chilled the sailor flew, 
 With wing and rising spray, 
 Which dashed so fiercely 'bout the boat 
 Yet in a playful way. 
 
 Yes, cold he grew, but yet the sun 
 Shone from the cloudless sky, — 
 Cold — for the gradual rising winds 
 Its warmness did defy. 
 
 Now higher, higher rolled the waves, 
 The boat went on the same, 
 Most bravely struggling with the wind, 
 Ah, struggling in the main. 
 
 Upon the surface floated froth, 
 White as the fallen snow, 
 
92 CPosms 
 
 Which splashed in masses 'gainst the boat, 
 Splashed up against the prow. 
 
 No cloud traversed the mighty sky, 
 Tho cold to him it seemed, 
 For he sat unprotected there, 
 From the fierce wind unscreened. 
 
 Now hunger stared him in the face, 
 But its cruel stare was vain, 
 For what appeasing nourishment 
 Was on the watery plain. 
 
 The reddening sun began to sink 
 Down in the troubled sea, 
 And yet the boat rocked on the waves 
 Where no one it could see. 
 
 Unwillingly he rode the waves 
 In wondrous striking mode, 
 For many boats as small as this 
 Would have long spilled their load. 
 
 "I wonder if all night," he said, 
 "Upon this sea I'll stay ; 
 I would that I was back again 
 Safe in the sunny bay." 
 
 His limbs were stiff and sore and cramped, 
 From sitting on the seat, 
 
Posms 93 
 
 For fear and rocking of the boat 
 Tied down his chilly feet. 
 
 A little sail upon the blue, 
 'Twas all he went out for 
 And now he sailed till evening, 
 Far, far away from shore. 
 
 How ghost-like seemed the night to him, 
 When darkness swept the sea 
 For human forms saw he not, 
 Alone, alone was he. 
 
 Alone, amid the rolling waves 
 After the set of sun, 
 He sailed still onward in the main, 
 His strange, strange course to run. 
 
 Now fiercer, fiercer grew the wind, 
 The boat spun on the same, 
 Now lost amid the foaming waves, 
 Now pushing up again. 
 
 Since noon the lad moved not around, 
 But hugged his weary seat, 
 And e'er he knew his eyelids closed, 
 In slumber, doubly sweet. 
 
 He lay on his f olorn couch 
 Without a move or stir, 
 
94 Poems 
 
 While howling winds bore on the boat 
 As if a mist it were. 
 
 Ah, nothing could disturb his sleep, 
 Not e'en the raging sea, 
 Which splashed so fiercely on all sides, 
 His only company. 
 
 A dismal wreck it really was, 
 When darkness o'er all fell, 
 For whither he was going now, 
 The sailor could not tell. 
 
 He was not then tossed to and fro 
 Upon the raging sea, 
 But home among the little ones 
 'Mid love and jollity. 
 
 He heard the busy hum of men, 
 Who labored in the bay, 
 And with his brothers merrily 
 He spent his time in play. v 
 
 He heard the birds among the trees 
 In noisy gayness sing; 
 And saw the birds which rove the sea 
 Stretch forth their rapid wring. 
 
 Ah, happy, happy was he now, 
 Upon the distant shore, 
 
Posms 95 
 
 When suddenly there came a crasK 
 As he ne'er heard before. 
 
 The sailor woke, but only half, 
 He knew 'twas thunder's roll, 
 But memory of the angry sea 
 Did not to him unfold. 
 
 Now slowly then he oped his eyes. 
 He was so sick, so weak, 
 That scarcely nothing could awake 
 Him from his restful sleep. 
 
 But active 'gain his mind became ; 
 His eyes began to see, 
 He thot that he was dreaming now, 
 Ah, dreaming of sea. 
 
 The water looked so natural, 
 He stood up in the stern, 
 And from the water to the sky 
 He did his blue eyes turn. 
 
 "For heaven's sake," he cried aloud, 
 "This surely is no dream, 
 The sky and water look the same 
 As those I've always seen. 
 
 "I wonder where I really am, 
 How came I way out here ? 
 
g6 Poems 
 
 Can it be true that I am sailing 
 Here where no land is near ?" 
 
 Ah, now to mind came yesterday, 
 He knew then what he'd done. 
 A choking tear rushed to his eye, 
 He wept and wept alone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 TEE SEA-BIRDS. 
 
 The sun now slowly forward pushed 
 From out the morning sea, 
 Around its mass there was a mist 
 Such as sailors often see. 
 
 But yet it looked quite clear and bright, 
 Its rays were warm, too ; 
 It gave some strength and comfort to 
 The sailor on the blue. 
 
 The sea-birds now began to dart 
 Quite thick about the boat, 
 As if they, too, like him all night 
 Did o'er the water float. 
 
 Together thro' the morning air 
 They flew both large and small; 
 
Poems 92 
 
 They darted sometimes heavenward, 
 Then downward would they fall. 
 
 They flew and flew about the boat, 
 Real swiftly they flew, too, 
 Some scattered here, some scattered there, 
 Just as a jangling crew. 
 
 Now then there came a saucy gull, 
 And lit upon the mast, 
 And with his sharp and piercing claws 
 He to the sail held fast. 
 
 His eyes were red, his body white, 
 He looked nor wild, nor tame, 
 But looked as if all night he sought 
 A refuge on the main. 
 
 And then there came an albatross 
 And sat upon the side, 
 As if he wished with the young lad, 
 Upon the sea to ride. 
 
 At first he noticed not the birds, 
 He scarcely saw the sea, 
 He felt so sick, so dizzy, that 
 For naught, for naught cared he. 
 
 At length he said, "What mean these birds, 
 Which fly about so thick? 
 
98 Poems 
 
 And what does mean this dreadful one, 
 Which on the boat has lit ?" 
 
 Yet swiftly, swiftly flew the birds, 
 Athwart the morning sky, 
 From east and west, from north and south, 
 All, all came floating by. 
 
 Now black the storm clouds appeared, 
 Which hung o'er the sea; 
 Yea, black and every now and then 
 The thunder rolled in glee. 
 
 The sky was black and yet the sun, 
 Shone warmly from the east, 
 Whose warmth helped recuperate 
 The lad a bit at least. 
 
 The storm was moving to the north, 
 And came not to the spot, 
 Where sailed the wretched little boat 
 In its peculiar lot. 
 
 Now thicker, thicker, 'bout the boat, 
 The angry sea-birds flew, 
 Flew till the sea seemed moving slow, 
 The sky seemed moving, too. 
 
 From whence they came, or where they went, 
 The sailor could not see, 
 
Poems 99 
 
 It seemed to him as if they rose 
 From out the mighty sea. 
 
 But now they followed with the storm, 
 And flew toward the north, 
 And left the sky full clear and bright, 
 From which the sun shone forth. 
 
 The sea was still, the air was warm, 
 The boat now slowly crept, 
 And e'er the sailor of it knew, 
 He in the sunshine slept. 
 
 v. 
 
 THE RESCUE. 
 
 For many hours there had been sailing, 
 Upon the deep, blue sea, 
 Men who were wondering where the lad, 
 The sailor boy, could be. 
 
 They sailed all day, they sailed all night, 
 And yet they sailed in vain, 
 For nothing of him could they see 
 Out in the boundless main. 
 
 They thot perhaps the boat had sunlc, 
 And he lay deep below, 
 
ioo Poems 
 
 Where rolling waves do never sweep, 
 Nor fierce north winds do blow. 
 
 They onward moved with hope and fear, 
 They hoped to find him well, 
 And yet they feared that long ago 
 He to the bottom fell. 
 
 They saw the birds, they saw the storm, 
 All which made them to fear, 
 For now they thot they would espy 
 The boat upturned real near. 
 
 "A sail, a sail, one sailor cried, 
 I see far, far away, 
 Can it be him whom we think lost, 
 Who sailed forth yesterday?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, a sail," another said, 
 "The boat yet sets upright, 
 And if it is the sailor's boat, 
 He may yet be all right." 
 
 They steered the ship, then for the boat, 
 And as they nearer drew, 
 They saw it was the selfsame boat 
 With which the young lad flew. 
 
 Thev found him lying fast asleep, 
 And without waking him, 
 
Poems ioi 
 
 They took him up into the ship 
 And to the shore did spin. 
 
 He woke clasped in his mother's arms, 
 And many wept for joy, 
 To think that they had found again, 
 The little sailor boy. 
 
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 We beg to announce for autumn a new novel from 
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 4 Illus. $1.50. 
 
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 1! 
 
6 1903