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SONGS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 WILDWOOD 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. MARCElvIvA M. HINES 
 (FLORA WILDWOOD) 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 C. W. CALKINS & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 
 1903 
 
T's -s> nr 
 
 LiBfiAfxY <.f CONGRESS 
 Two Copies fteceji^ed 
 
 FEB 9 1904 
 
 \ Copyright Entry 
 
 CLASS a, xXc. No. 
 
 ^ 1 ' ' 
 COPY 
 
 1 
 
 
 Copyright, 1903, 
 
 BY 
 
 ELLA H. STRATTON. 
 
CONTKNTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Minstrel, Why Art Thou Sad? 9 
 
 To My Mother 10 
 
 Appeal to New England 11 
 
 A Day Amid Old Scenes 12 
 
 To My Brother 1/5 
 
 I am Lonely 16 
 
 I was Angry 17 
 
 I Miss Thee 18 
 
 My Rosebud.^ 18 
 
 Stanza 20 
 
 Disappointment 21 
 
 A Birthday Orisoi! 21 
 
 " Misfortunes are not Alwaj's Evils" 23 
 
 Ode to Sleep 24 
 
 Stray Thoughts at Midnight 25 
 
 A Sabbath Eve . . 26 
 
 The Old and the New 27 
 
 Aweary 29 
 
 My Birthday . . . ' 31 
 
 Ihe Mother's Blessing 32 
 
 Wemu8t Part 34 
 
 To an Old Coat 35 
 
 A Chapter from Life i'." 36 
 
 The Myrtle vs. the Poppy 37 
 
 Musings at a Bridal. (To the Bridegroom.) 38 
 
 (To the Bride) 39 
 
 Changeless Love 40 
 
 May 41 
 
 He Says He Loves Me 42 
 
 Almost There 44 
 
 Jime 44 
 
 Musings of a Pohtician's Wife 45 
 
 Near and Far 46 
 
 5 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Aroostook Railroad 47 
 
 To Magawisca 48 
 
 Edward Moulton 49 
 
 To Lizzie 50 
 
 I've Seen the Editors. Part 1 51 
 
 I've Seen the Editors. Part II 52 
 
 Thanksgiving 53 
 
 Lines 54 
 
 The First Snow 54 
 
 Bring Back Those Coats 55 
 
 Who Kissed the Editor? 56 
 
 Alone 58 
 
 Gently 59 
 
 The Two Gardens 60 
 
 In the City 61 
 
 Brother, Come Home 62 
 
 Scandal 63 
 
 Churning— And What Bridget Thought of It 63 
 
 Let the World Wag — A Reverie 64 
 
 Ansiver Me (Florence Percy) 65 
 
 I Answer 1 hee 66 
 
 Kiss Me Before You Go 69 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Pratt 70 
 
 " Shake Hands" 70 
 
 Change 71 
 
 The Fire-Friend 72 
 
 Daguerreotype 74 
 
 George W. Pratt 75 
 
 To the Aroostook Volunteers 76 
 
 If the Soul is Beautiful 77 
 
 Song 77 
 
 Oh, Foolish Miller! 78 
 
 Moonlight 79 
 
 My Birthday 80 
 
 Build TTp the Wall 81 
 
 The Rain-Spirits 82 
 
 6 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Whither? 83 
 
 The Blessed Rain 83 
 
 Over the Hill 84 
 
 Gone 85 
 
 Unfortunate 85 
 
 One Thanksgiving Day 86 
 
 The European Conflict 87 
 
 Lines in a Prize-Book 87 
 
 The Hardest Part of the Battle 88 
 
 Take What You Will 89 
 
 Land of the Sky 89 
 
 The Land Pirate 90 
 
 The Key '. 90 
 
 Christmas Garlands 91 
 
 Barnum J. Hines 91 
 
 Easter Lilies 92 
 
 Recompense 92 
 
 Among the Mountains 93 
 
 Hurrah for Old Kennebec ! 93 
 
 Ready 94 
 
 Dandelions 94 
 
 Little Bird on the Cherry Tree 95 
 
 Should We? " • 95 
 
 Adown the Bay 96 
 
 Ruth Hall Hines 96 
 
 Good-Bye 97 
 
 One By One 97 
 
 If I Had 98 
 
 Are They All There, Mother? 98 
 
 Nearing the River. (Zelpha Hines Claik; 99 
 
 The Boatman Pale 100 
 
 S. Wesley Stratton 100 
 
 The Two Birds 101 
 
 Very True 102 
 
 When the Master Calleth 102 
 
 Seasonable 103 
 
 7 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Pagk 
 
 Have You Seen My Darling ? 103 
 
 Hall's Mill, Hartford, Me 104 
 
 The Bride of Winter 105 
 
 April 106 
 
 Walking in the Shadow 106 
 
 Under the Apple-Tree 107 
 
 Cora Bell Cole 108 
 
 AUie 109 
 
 What is Home Without a Mother? 110 
 
 The Bride's Opals Ill 
 
 Miracles 112 
 
 Ruth Howland Hall 114 
 
 A Paradox 115 
 
 Wedding Bells. To E. W. R 116 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. C. C. K 116 
 
 After Many Years. 1846-1886 117 
 
 A Golding Wedding 118 
 
 Turned Out of Doors 119 
 
 Snowbird 120 
 
 Our Roy. (Roy F. Bartlett) 120 
 
 Only a Little While 121 
 
 A Woman of Fashion 122 
 
 A Modern Marriage 123 
 
 The Love Knot 124 
 
 Our Mary 125 
 
 Remember — Forget 125 
 
 In the Fog 126 
 
POEMS. 
 
 MINSTREL, WHY ART THOU SAD? 
 
 Minstrel, why is thy voice so low, 
 Thine eyes so dim'd with tears? 
 
 Lady, my harp but echoeth now 
 The vanished hopes of years. 
 
 I once, like thee, from care was free, 
 
 No shade was on my brow. 
 But often I, unknowing, sigh, 
 
 And breathe my sad songs now. 
 
 Lady, I loved as few have loved, 
 
 My love but once can live, 
 I gave, as at her shrine I knelt. 
 
 All that I had to give. 
 
 And she was pure as angel's dream. 
 
 Fair as the evening star. 
 Where its mild, heavenly radiance gleams 
 
 Upon us from afar. 
 
 Death came with gentle hand and claimed 
 
 The fair girl as his own ; 
 He bore her to the spirit land. 
 
 And now I am alone. 
 
 And dost thou ask why I am sad 
 
 And breathe a mournful lay? 
 Lady, the fair, the beautiful, 
 
 From earth has passed away. 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 I'm thinking of thee now, Mother, 
 
 The teardrop in my eye, 
 Which riseth to its overflow. 
 
 But answereth a sigh. 
 My heart is very sad, Mother, 
 
 As far from thee I roam ; 
 My mind is lingering mournfully 
 
 Around my wildwood home. 
 
 And memory ever true. Mother, 
 
 Doth now before me bring 
 Each well-remembered haunt. Mother, 
 
 Each old familiar thing; 
 Each loving word of thine. Mother, 
 
 I listen to once more, 
 And as my fond heart thrills with them, 
 
 They're dearer than before. 
 
 Ah! well-beloved friends, Mother, 
 
 Do sweetly on me smile. 
 And words of trustful tenderness 
 
 The fleeting hours beguile ; 
 While round my neck now twines, Mother 
 
 My little sister's arm. 
 And from my cheek she steals a kiss, 
 
 With winning childhood's charm. 
 
 But now the scene doth change. Mother, 
 
 Thy cheek with tears are wet ; 
 Still doth the parting kiss you gave 
 
 On my lips linger yet. 
 And still I see thy look, Mother, 
 
 Which bade me trust in God, — 
 And Virtue's ways I still will love; 
 
 The path which thou hast trod. 
 
 10 
 
APPEAL TO NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Sons of freemen ! has the tyrant bound ye by some 
 
 magic spell? 
 Waken from your thoughtless dreaming — hear ye 
 
 not the solemn knell 
 Tolling for departed glory? List those notes as on 
 
 they spread, 
 Like the march of Southern coffles, with their slow, 
 
 despairing tread. 
 
 Once again those notes are rising, — 'tis a father's 
 anguished tone, — 
 
 And a mother's farewell blessing is that broken- 
 hearted moan, — 
 
 'Tis the clash of chains and fetters, 'tis the driver's 
 whip ye hear, 
 
 'Tis the wronged ones' call for justice, — fall they 
 on a heedless ear? 
 
 Rouse ye, sons of free New England, 'tis no time for 
 dull delay. 
 
 With the wail of fettered bondmen swelling louder 
 every day. 
 
 With the circle of your freedom growing smaller 
 every hour, 
 
 With your sons as felons dying in the cells of South- 
 ern power. 
 
 They are trampling on your liberties, your freedom 
 
 is at stake; 
 To the ballot box then onward, and a lifelong effort 
 • '-^ make ; 
 
 Give that servant its "instructions," and the world 
 ' -rl will hear its voice. 
 Then the demon slavery'll tremble, and man once 
 
 more rejoice. 
 
 11 
 
In tones of thunder bid it say, "Our children ye may 
 
 bind, 
 But ah! ye soon will learn this truth, ye cannot 
 
 chain the mind; 
 'Tis free, and it shall ever be, free as the winds that 
 
 play. 
 Free as the ocean billows, which no mortal hand 
 
 can stay. 
 
 "Ye say our sons and daughters are helping off your 
 
 slaves, 
 That we are but base kidnappers, but miscreants 
 
 and knaves. 
 That ye can mould us as ye will, that we to you must 
 
 bow. 
 That, like your own chained bondmen, must do your 
 
 bidding now. 
 
 "No! by the rights ye've trampled down, we swear 
 
 to never rest, 
 Until this whole broad nation with liberty is 
 
 blessed, 
 Until the flag of freedom o'er Columbia is unfurled. 
 And 'America' shall cease to be the byword of the 
 
 world." 
 Written in 1858. 
 
 A DAY AMID OLD SCENES. 
 
 The rooms so familiar looked strangely lone, 
 For there fell on my ear no loving tone ; 
 But a stranger's glance was upon my face, 
 And a stranger sat in my mother's place. 
 While children's voices rang out in glee 
 A musical cadence unknown to me; 
 But they spoke to my heart of days gone by, 
 And I turned away with a tear-dimmed eye. 
 
 12 
 
The swallows were chirping under the eaves, 
 The robins were singing amid the leaves; 
 But they seemed to have learned a sadder lay 
 Than that which they sang in my childhood's day, 
 Then circled so gracefully around my head, 
 As if knowing still the hand where they fed. 
 And with that gentle, half-sorrowful strain 
 Fondly welcomed back the exile again. 
 
 The rosebush I planted, and joyed to see 
 
 Its pure buds gratefully blooming for me, 
 
 'Twas my earliest friend, and I loved it well, 
 
 Had withered away, as under a spell. 
 
 And the lilac-tree, which my mother reared. 
 
 By childhood sacredly, firmly endeared, 
 
 Scarce lived ; its wide branches with moss o'ergrown, 
 
 And tall, dark weeds all around it strewn. 
 
 I sought out the spot where the grape-vine hung ; 
 It was clinging still, as of old it clung, 
 To a fair, young tree which loved, in its pride, 
 The trembler, so frail, which grew by its side. 
 'Twas clinging there still, but its tendrils wore 
 Not the fresh, green look which they early bore; 
 But the clasp of death had bound it there. 
 With its leaves all withered, its broad stem bare. 
 
 I turned with a sigh to the pebble-strewn shore, 
 
 But the plank was rotten I'd bounded o'er. 
 
 The tiny waves came like old friends to me, 
 
 And danced at my feet, oh, so merrily! 
 
 And they cooled my lip, and they bathed my brow, 
 
 And sung me a song so lovingly low 
 
 That I half forgot, in its soothing lay, 
 
 The home and the friends that had passed away. 
 
 13 
 
The shady old orchard was still the same, 
 And I called each tree by the loved one's name;* 
 They nodded their heads, as the soft wind sighed, 
 With a mournful tone, through their branches wide, 
 As bidding me welcome, those dear old trees! 
 How thrillingly sweet were the memories 
 Which rushed, like a flood, on my dreamy brain 
 As I sat in my favorite haunt again. 
 
 I thought of the time when, artless child, 
 I wove gay visions, so earnest and wild, 
 Of a future untouched by change or blight ; 
 Each object was clothed in a rainbow light. 
 And playmates so guileless had sported there. 
 And wove fresh wreaths for our frolicsome hair, — 
 The hair we had loosed by the merry bound. 
 And tangled by chasing the butterfly round. 
 
 We had sweet friends dwelling everywhere : 
 The lily unfolding its petals fair. 
 The blithe humming-bird, on the primrose-tree, — 
 Each bird, and each flower, and all things free. 
 The sportive wind joined in our gambols oft. 
 And tinted our cheeks with its kisses soft. 
 While our pet birds sang us a tune so sweet, 
 As we danced round their nests with untaught feet. 
 
 Then my brow grew sad — I thought of the doom 
 Which wrapped our bright hopes in an early gloom 
 Till my heart was full, and I leaned my head 
 Where the violets made me so soft a bed ; 
 And the old trees watched o'er my slumber long. 
 And sweet birds sang me a lullaby song, — 
 Long years were erased from memory's scroll 
 As I lay and dreamed on that grassy knoll. 
 
 * Each one of the family had a particular tree named for them. 
 14 
 
TO MY BROTHER. 
 
 For weeks, long weeks, I've watched thee day by day, 
 And still from off thy paling cheek the health hue 
 
 fades away ; 
 Thy weak'ning form is wasting fast, thy pulse is faint 
 
 and low. 
 And what the future bideth thee, our God alone can 
 
 know. 
 
 My heart is sad, my brother, as I stand beside thee 
 
 now, 
 And lift, with mournful tenderness, the damp locks 
 
 from thy brow; 
 But as I meet thy pain-dim'd eyes, raised gratefully 
 
 to me, 
 I know that sickness strengtheneth the tie which 
 
 binds to thee. 
 
 My mind is wandering, brother, to our home, far, 
 
 far away. 
 Where the wild birds sing most sweetly, where the 
 
 brightest sunbeams play. 
 Where the holy stars look fondly down to bless us 
 
 with their love, 
 And whisper softly of a home, a glorious home above. 
 
 Yes, I'm thinking of our home, brother, in fancy now 
 
 I see 
 Our brothers in their joyous sports, our sisters in their 
 
 glee. 
 Our father, with his noble brow deep lined by many 
 
 a care, 
 Our mother, with her gentle eye,— I see them— all 
 
 are there. 
 
 15 
 
But on that dear old home, brother, a shadow soon 
 
 must fall ; 
 Its hearts are so enwoven, if one suffers, so do all. 
 E'en now the sad-winged messenger is speeding on 
 
 its way. 
 And happy faces will give place to anxious ones 
 
 to-day. 
 
 My heart is sad, my brother, as I stand beside thee 
 
 now, 
 And lift, with mournful tenderness, the damp locks 
 
 from thy brow. 
 He who of old raised the sick and burst death's 
 
 cruel bands, 
 Is none the less All-powerful — I trust thee in His 
 
 hands. 
 
 I AM LONELY. 
 
 "I am lonely," sang a maiden, 
 In a trembling voice and low, 
 While her bosom's rapid heaving 
 Told that she had cause for grieving, 
 More than a fictitious woe ; 
 "I am lonely," sang a maiden, and the words fell 
 soft and slow. 
 
 "I am lonely; oh, relentless 
 Fate to sever those that love. 
 To deprive me of the blessing 
 Which was mine while thus possessing 
 One whose love did ever prove 
 Like oasis in a desert, where the wearied travelers 
 rove. 
 
 16 
 
"I am lonely; fancy gazeth 
 Through the mist of coming years 
 With prophetic eye and tearful; 
 Readeth she a record fearful, — 
 _ Mocking hopes and anxious fears, 
 Daysof anguish, months of sorrow, ere the loved 
 again appears. 
 
 "Ere upon my warm lips pressing 
 Steals the kiss of love again. 
 While the murmured word caressing, 
 And the earnest, low-breathed blessing, 
 Shall I listen for in vain. 
 As the straying Highland soldier yearneth for a 
 home-like strain. 
 
 "I am lonely," sang a maiden, 
 In a trembling voice and low; 
 "For each moment, slowly telling, 
 Do the broad waves, proudly swelling. 
 Bear him onward in their flow. 
 Farther from my eager clasping" sang a maiden, 
 soft and low. 
 
 I WAS ANGRY. 
 
 I was angry this morn, and I blush with shame 
 
 As I think of my folly to-night ; 
 It matters not now, e'en were others to blame. 
 
 If my conscience says I was not right. 
 
 There's a blot on my mem'ry, a stain on the page 
 The All Just hath recorded to-day; 
 
 Ah, me ! I have caused the dark spot by my rage, 
 And I cannot now wash it away. 
 
 17 
 
I MISS THEE. 
 
 I miss thee when the morning light 
 Breaks gently o'er the eastern sky, 
 
 Dispelling all the shades of night, — 
 I miss thy sweetly sad "good-bye." 
 
 When sultry noon each lab'rer brings 
 
 Home from his daily toil awhile, 
 I miss the joy thy spirit flings 
 
 O'er mine, in that glad, grateful smile. 
 
 When evening, with her starry sheen 
 
 Of holy spell, asserts her right, 
 I turn from the enchanting scene 
 
 And miss, beloved, thy fond "good-night." 
 
 MY ROSEBUDS. 
 
 I greet thee not, New Year, I cannot bring 
 A garland of fresh flowers for thy brow. 
 
 For hope's bright blossoms all are withering, — 
 They have but little early fragrance now. 
 
 Last year I met thee with a smile most bright 
 And heart most merry in thy gleeful train; 
 
 That joyous heart, that happy spirit's light 
 Have passed away, — they will not come again. 
 
 For three sweet buds were nestled on my breast, — 
 A rare bouquet I nevermore may see; 
 
 But my full heart was all too richly blest, 
 
 They drooped and died. God gave — He took 
 from me! 
 
 16 
 
One was a fair and gentle boy, whom oft 
 
 I watched with all a mother's love and pride, 
 
 With silken hair, and eyes so dark and soft; 
 He was too pure for earth, therefore he died. 
 
 They laid my darling, all so cold and white, 
 On the low bed where he so often slept. 
 
 And through that long, dark, lonely, silent night 
 A loving vigil by his side I kept. 
 
 I thought my cup was full e'en to the brim. 
 Another drop would cause its overflow ; 
 
 I could not see the thronging shadows dim, 
 
 Which death was flinging round my thresholdjow. 
 
 I had a merry, blithesome little girl, 
 
 With bounding step, and voice of silvery tone. 
 
 With bright cheeks kissed by many a wand'ring curl, 
 And bright eyes gazing fondly in my own. 
 
 How my lone heart doth miss her glad caress. 
 
 Her twining arms, and sweet "mamma, good-bye." 
 
 How treasure up her grace and loveliness, 
 O God, that all things beautiful should die! 
 
 Perchance she heard her brother 'mid the choir 
 Of loving angels, with his harp new given ; 
 
 She recognized the scarce forgotten lyre. 
 
 And plumed her wings instinctively for Heaven. 
 
 Then came the last of the fated three. 
 
 With dimpled hands and brow of purest snow, 
 
 Pleading in helplessness of infancy 
 That the stern spoiler would avert the blow. 
 
 In vain. Death saw in him too fair a flower 
 To fade and wither 'neath a chilling sky. 
 
 And bore him in his bosom to a bower 
 
 Where rare buds bloom, that never droop or die. 
 
 19 
 
When memory whispers of the joyful shout, 
 And voices mingling in their childish glee, 
 
 Of wild, rich laughter, ringing gaily out, 
 Most thrilling music in the world to me, — 
 
 When in full force upon this stricken heart 
 Th' unbroken silence weigheth wearily. 
 
 When murmuring words and tears unbidden start, 
 And life seems worthless, passing drearily, 
 
 Then fall sweet voices on my listening ear, 
 As dying notes from the iEolian thrill, 
 
 In tones so soft, so rich, so silvery clear, 
 
 "Dear mother, weep not, we are with thee still. 
 
 Weep not, thou'rt blind and canst not see the way ; 
 
 Yet, to our sight, no love tie has been riven. 
 Three angels watch thee fondly day by day ; 
 
 Three angels wait to welcome thee to Heaven." 
 
 STANZA. 
 
 "My album is a garden plot 
 Where all my friends may sow." 
 
 A garden plot? Then I will bring 
 
 A flower that blooms unwitheringly, — 
 
 Its leaves less bright in joyous hours, 
 
 But, when the cloud of sorrow lowers, 
 
 Its buds expand, its petals fair 
 
 Shower fragrance on the darkened air. 
 
 Knowest thou this plant? Its name is love,- 
 
 A rare exotic from above; 
 
 A purer cannot grace thy bower, — 
 
 Darling, wilt thou accept the flower? 
 
 20 
 
DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 This world is a vale of sorrow and trial, 
 
 Its brightest buds fade, be they ever so fair; 
 From the cradle we drink from the cup self-denial, 
 And are chained to the feet of tyrannical care. ' 
 We anticipate ever. 
 But participate never. 
 The joys and the pleasures we once hoped to share. 
 
 'Tis disappointment alone that can teach us 
 
 What weak and dependent creatures we are ; 
 'Tis that doth prepare us when death's call doth 
 reach us, 
 To cast off with joy the frail bodies we bear — 
 And the world gladly leaving, 
 O'er false hopes ne'er grieving, 
 Be guided by angels. Heaven's pleasures to share. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY ORISON. 
 
 Father in Heaven, the day is past. 
 
 And on my bended knee 
 I pour my heart's deep feeling out 
 
 In thankfulness to Thee. 
 
 Thou'st watched me when, a wayward child, 
 
 The hours unheeded flew, 
 And my young heart was almost wild 
 
 With pleasure, ever new. 
 
 When youth gave place to maidenhood 
 
 Thine eye was on me still. 
 Thine angels "watched o'er me for good," 
 
 A shield 'twixt me and ill. 
 
 21 
 
Thou'st borne with my ingratitude, 
 Which dared Thy wisdom chide, 
 
 When less than 'finite mercy would 
 Have crushed me for my pride. 
 
 I am a wife and mother now, 
 
 And time has left a trace 
 Upon the placid, childish brow, 
 
 Upon the maiden's face. 
 
 Yet there's no shadow on my heart, 
 
 He hath dealt gently there, 
 And spared the hopes which formed a part 
 
 Of ev'ry thought and prayer. 
 
 I have a child — a winsome thing 
 
 Of artlessness and glee; 
 Oh, may her young life's blossoming 
 
 Bright as its budding be ! 
 
 I have a husband — richly blest 
 
 A woman's heart must be 
 Which finds so fond a place of rest 
 
 As Thou hast given me. 
 
 Forgive my thanklessness, I pray, 
 
 When pride and sin beguiled. 
 And let Thy blessing rest for aye 
 
 On husband, wife and child. 
 
 Father in Heaven, the daj'^ is past, 
 
 And on my bended knee 
 My priceless treasures do I trust, 
 
 With childlike faith, to Thee. 
 
 22 
 
MISFORTUNES ARE NOT ALWAYS EVILS." 
 
 I have been thinking all the day, 
 
 To comfort me a season, 
 When darkest shadows cloud the way 
 
 They have some hidden reason. 
 They make the sunshine seem more bright, 
 
 When the thick gloom is shaken, 
 And hearts more thankful than the light. 
 
 Unbroken, could awaken. 
 
 For ah, we ne'er could fully prize 
 
 The boundless blessings given 
 Did not some old remembrance rise 
 
 Of brighter young dreams riven. 
 We are poor mortals, cannot cast 
 
 Our future, e'en if pleasant, 
 We can but trace the length'ning past, 
 
 And try to bear the present. 
 
 But there is One who knoweth all 
 
 The trials round us pressing, 
 One who can make the shades that fall 
 
 Not evils, but a blessing. 
 One who will hear the raven's cry. 
 
 And heed the sparrow falling, — 
 Think you He scorns the trembling sigh. 
 
 Or spurns His children calling? 
 
 Ah no ! each low and broken sob 
 
 Doth find a ready hearer. 
 And hearts, where deepest sorrows throb. 
 
 Will find Him all the nearer. 
 Then upward look, with holy faith, 
 
 When wild misfortunes gather. 
 E'en as a child trustingly saith, 
 
 "Thy will, not mine, my Father." 
 
 23 
 
ODE TO SLEEP. 
 
 Come, gentle sleep, I close my weary eyes 
 And wait th}?^ coming with fond eagerness. 
 
 E'en as a child, worn with long weeping, sighs 
 To feel a mother's soothing, kind caress. 
 
 I turn me restlessly from left to right, 
 
 While bitter thoughts around my pilJow press. 
 
 Oh, fold me closely in thy arms to-night, 
 And give thy blessing, sweet f orgetf ulness ! 
 
 Forgetfulness of every outward ill 
 
 Which so disturbs my weary spirit's rest; 
 
 Forgetfulness of hopes and fears that thrill 
 Their melody or discord through my breast. 
 
 And from thy home, the far-off dreamland, bring 
 
 Sweet visions of angelic loveliness. 
 And o'er my brain their witching beauty fling. 
 
 Until my soul receives their full impress. 
 
 Then, when the morning comes, and thou dost take 
 Thy seal so softly from my slumbering lid, 
 
 And from that inner living bid me wake 
 To roam the busy haunts of life amid. 
 
 There shall be new strength given me to bear 
 Whatever trials life may have for me. 
 
 For angel voices whisper even there, 
 
 Voices which come to me so oft through thee. 
 
 24 
 
STRAY THOUGHTS AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 I thought we'd meet to-night, love, I hoped we'd 
 meet to-night. 
 
 But faster falls the shadows, and faster fades the 
 light, 
 
 The long, dim road grows dimmer each moment to 
 my sight, 
 
 I know, I know full well, love, we cannot meet to- 
 night. 
 
 fTis hard to say good-bye, love, 'tis hard to say 
 
 good-bye, 
 To the fond hopes I've cherished in thinking thou 
 
 wert nigh, 
 To see my dreams of happiness so brightly woven 
 
 fly 
 
 Before those falling shadows, before that fading sky. 
 
 Dark thoughts are thronging wildly, dark thoughts 
 
 that will not flee, 
 Strange thoughts that whisper sadly, and whisper 
 
 aye of thee, 
 They tell a thrilling story of danger unto me ; 
 Alas, I cannot know, love, that all this may not be ! 
 
 That loving eye may now be closed, that noble heart 
 
 be still, 
 That earnest voice may nevermore my inmost pulses 
 
 thrill. 
 Those clasping arms may folded lie, obeying not thy 
 
 will, 
 And my cup need no other drop its bitterness to fill. 
 
 25 
 
Vainly I've tried to smile to-day, when I would 
 
 rather weep, 
 Vainly I've called them fancies, such as 'wildered 
 
 spirits sweep ; 
 Be they fancies or realities, a fearful guard they 
 
 keep. 
 As alone I sit at midnight, and watch while others 
 
 sleep. 
 
 A SABBATH EVE. 
 
 I am sitting by my window 
 This solemn. Sabbath night. 
 
 And fancy that I almost see 
 Star-gemmed wings in flight. 
 
 Bright, glancing wings of angels 
 
 Are passing to and fro, 
 Bearing from heaven pure blessings 
 
 To th' humble ones below. 
 
 Stay, angels — angels tarry 
 One moment on your way; 
 
 Of those boundless, priceless blessings, 
 Grant one to me, I pray. 
 
 Ahl angels, years have passed a score 
 Since first I left your band 
 
 To spend a length'ning pilgrimage 
 Upon an earthly strand. 
 
 The passport which God gave me 
 As I left heaven that morn 
 
 On my long and tiresome journey 
 Is travel-stained and worn. 
 
 26 
 
Much I fear the One who standeth 
 Ever at the portal bright 
 
 Could not trace the worn-out letters 
 Should I give it Him to-night. 
 
 And this th' blessing that I crave : 
 To me this night be given 
 
 A renewal of the passport 
 To ope the gate of Heaven. 
 
 THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 The Old Year is dying, dying, 
 And the New is crowned to-day; 
 
 See the courtiers hastening, trying 
 Their respects the first to pay. 
 
 Sleigh-bells merrily are ringing 
 On the clear and frosty air, 
 
 And a glad refrain, the singing 
 Of glad voices there. 
 
 Gaily lighted many a dwelling, 
 Full of joy the moments fleet, 
 
 While rich music, proudly swelling. 
 Keepeth time with dancing feet. 
 
 But the poor old king lies lonely, 
 All his flatterers have fled. 
 
 Thinking of new honors only, 
 Make no wailing for the dead. 
 
 Turn me from the greetings, cheerful. 
 Of the young and glad New Year ; 
 
 Come we, all alone and tearful, 
 To the sad, deserted bier, 
 27 
 
Thinking of life's many changes, 
 
 With a smile or with a sigh, 
 While our fancy forward ranges 
 
 To the future, tremblingly. 
 
 Standing on the narrow threshold 
 'Twixt the Old Year and the New, 
 
 Gaze we, for a twelvemonth, backward. 
 Looking at the false and true. 
 
 Just such promises were made us, 
 Just such merry-makings then ; 
 
 But the Old Year's hopes all faded, — 
 Can our lost faith live again? 
 
 Through its long days, dark and dreary, 
 Some have toiled with heart and brain, 
 
 Almost hopeless, faint and weary. 
 Praying but for rest, in vain. 
 
 To some, patiently awaiting, 
 Sad hearts longing to go home, 
 
 Gently, and with loving message, 
 Hath the white-robed ans-el come. 
 
 But to others, how unwelcome 
 He approached with icy breath. 
 
 Sitting down beside the loved ones. 
 Chilled them ere they thought of death . 
 
 To such homes, alas, how heavy 
 
 Is the blow that taketh all ! 
 Leaving but a fearful shadow 
 
 Of the coffin and the pall. ; 
 
 28 
 
Look we for them in the morning, 
 And at eve, they are not there; 
 
 Ever seeking, vainly yearning, 
 Find we but the vacant chair. 
 
 While we mourn the early fallen, 
 In their beauty and their pride, 
 
 Other hearts for those make wailing 
 Who had better far have died. 
 
 For the lost, who still are living, 
 With a soul all seared and dead, 
 
 Loving evil, what a great woe, 
 How can they be comforted? 
 
 Varied sorrows! It requireth 
 All our faith and trust in God 
 
 To submit, when deeply chastened,- 
 Meekly bow and kiss the rod. 
 
 But not willingly the Saviour 
 Doth afflict a humble one, — 
 
 Reverently may we say then, 
 "Father, let Thy will be done." 
 
 AWEARY. 
 
 She sat for hours in the window nook, 
 
 Seemingly scanning a dear old book; 
 
 But her eyes were dim, she saw not a word, 
 
 The leaves were unturned, and the letters blurred; 
 
 But she murmured oft, with a sobbing sigh, 
 
 "Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 
 
 29 
 
She watched not the moments thus come and go 
 
 Till the sunset sky was all aglow; 
 
 Then she sang in a plaintive undertone, 
 
 Which sounded far more like a saddened moan, 
 
 As upward she glanced at the purpling sky, 
 
 !' Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 
 
 And the stars peeped out — were they angels' eyes 
 
 Lovingly looking from Paradise? 
 
 And the gentle moon smiled while bringing down 
 
 For that shaded brow a beautiful crown ; 
 
 But her lips still murmured the mournful cry, 
 
 ** Aweary, aweary, weary am I.". 
 
 Her cheek all its earliest freshness wore. 
 And the low, sweet brow not a deep line bore ; 
 But ah, 'tis not always the lapse of years 
 That maketh one old, but the weight of tears,- 
 The memories thronging that bid us cry, 
 "Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 
 
 And sometimes a moment crowdeth more woe 
 In its one brief span than years could know. 
 When sorrow's simoon, with its blasting breath, 
 Makes the heart's oasis a desert beneath, 
 Vainly we murmur, or struggle, or sigh, 
 "Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 
 
 She had tasted grief, — wild, terrible, deep, — 
 How bitter the draught ! Well might she weep ; 
 For hope's fair blossoms had withered and died, 
 Rudely cast forth on that desolate tide. 
 And often she whispered, with moistened eye, 
 ."Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 
 
 30 
 
But sounding footsteps were heard in the hall, 
 The lights flash forth on the parlor wall, — 
 She crusheth her tears, and the ready smile 
 Springeth back to her well-trained lips the while; 
 And the angels alone bore the echoes by, 
 "Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 
 
 Ah, many a one in the festive throng 
 Hath bandied the jest, hath sung the song. 
 When the inner life, that we none can know, 
 Is filled, overflowing, with wordless woe; 
 When the heart-voice moaneth silently, 
 "Aweary, aweary, weary am I." 
 
 MY BIRTHDAY. 
 
 My birthday ! And though I am now 
 
 But one year older. 
 Stern Time seems tracing on my brow 
 
 Faint lines still colder. 
 
 Girlhood grows sober at the view 
 
 Of age advancing ; 
 But hope, still to her trust so true. 
 
 Onward is glancing. 
 
 Youth, playmate of my earlier hours. 
 
 Lingers beside me. 
 Soon to desert for fairer bowers, 
 
 Whate'er betide me. 
 
 Dear mem'ry, with a sad, sweet smile. 
 
 Unfolds her treasures, 
 And bids me gaze with her awhile 
 
 On childhood's pleasures. 
 
 31 
 
.'Tis past — and the vast field of life 
 
 Spreads widely round me. 
 Faint not, my soul, tho' care and strife 
 
 Darkly surround thee. 
 
 Shrink not, though trials every hour 
 
 Thicken before thee. 
 But trust in the Eternal Power, — 
 
 He will watch o'er thee. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S BLESSING. 
 
 How sweetly thou art sleeping now, my son, 
 
 The calm, sweet sleep that childhood only knows 
 
 Lulled by fond fancies, coming one by one; 
 And all the perfume of the blushing rose 
 
 Lingers on that smooth cheek, with dimples set, 
 
 Which jetty lashes softly shade, my pet. 
 
 From thy half -parted lips the breath comes thro', 
 Sweet as the breath of flowers in summer time, 
 
 When their bright petals glisten in the dew. 
 And the swift mowers cut them in their prime ; 
 
 Like sleeping lily in its place of rest, 
 
 Soft pillowed, is the heaving of thy breast. 
 
 How like thy father's is that youthful face, — 
 
 How more and more like his thy broad, full brow; 
 
 And as I part the clust'ring curls, and trace 
 His image there, quick tears unbidden flow, — 
 
 For ah, I watched, but one brief year ago, 
 
 Another sleeper as I watch thee now. 
 
 82 
 
The moon was looking just as softly in, 
 
 And seemed to tremble, else it was my tears 
 
 That so deceived me, for my eyes were dim 
 
 With recent weeping — battling with such fears, 
 
 Such bitter fears as those who, watching, know 
 
 With one more breath the dearly loved may go. 
 
 Thus all alone I watched him while he slept ; 
 
 For, in that solemn night, I seemed to hear 
 Triumphal marches that the angels kept 
 
 Adown the starry pathway, still more near, 
 Till, slowly opening the azure gate. 
 They whispered the tired sleeper, "Come, we wait!' 
 
 And he awoke — with what a sad surprise 
 I drew that dear head to my bursting heart. 
 
 Looked in the misty depths of those dark eyes 
 And read the message there — he must depart! 
 
 One parting kiss, one blessing for his son. 
 
 One prayer for wife and child, and he had gone! 
 
 And now I gaze on thee, and think of him 
 And thee together, till my heart is full 
 
 Of love unutterable — my eyes grow dim. 
 While the deep fount wells up, my beautiful. 
 
 Yet from my shelt'ring arms thy proud young life 
 
 Longs to go out into the world's great strife. 
 
 Ah, who shall guard thee safely there, my boy? 
 
 Who guide thy untried footsteps, lest they stray 
 'Mong hidden pitfalls, lured by some false joy, 
 
 Till thou canst find no more "the narrow way?" 
 Thy mother's earnest, prayerful blessing, given, 
 Is that two Fathers guide thee up to heaven ! 
 
 33 
 
WE MUST PART. 
 
 Fate's mandate once more, love, 
 
 Compels us to part, 
 Though the vine of affection 
 
 Is twined round each heart — 
 Though its tendrils are clinging 
 
 To every thought. 
 And its blossoms outspringing 
 
 With fond hopes are fraught. 
 
 Yet why dost thou ask, love, 
 
 In low, thrilling tone, — 
 As, pressed to thy bosom. 
 
 Thou call'st me thine own, — 
 If my love will not perish 
 
 When far thou dost roam? 
 If still I will cherish 
 
 Thy heart as my home? 
 
 Oh, doubt me no more, love. 
 
 Thine image is set 
 Too deep in my heart, love, 
 
 I cannot forget. 
 The world may deride thee, 
 
 And false friends may blame — 
 I'll linger beside thee. 
 
 The same — still the same. 
 
 31 
 
TO AN OLD COAT. 
 
 Poor old coat, so ragged, thou needst much mending, 
 I think, from the many big holes that I see; 
 
 And it likewise appears that the task is depending, 
 For its execution, all upon me! 
 
 I know 'tis a hard one, for darning and patching 
 Are truly two things that I almost despise ; 
 
 And before I begin on't I cannot help fetching 
 To soothe my sad spirit, two or three sighs. 
 
 dear! See this sleeve, rent in so many pieces. 
 The mate to it everywhere almost as bad ; 
 
 1 feel that each moment my courage decreases, 
 
 If I'd a rich husband — don't I wish I had? 
 
 If matches are heaven-made, he should be selected 
 And ready to take me for better or worse ; 
 
 But he comes not, alas! and so I am expected 
 To drudge as I'm bidden and not make a fuss! 
 
 I toil unbefriended, as if all depended 
 
 On cooking nice dinners for misthress to scan ; 
 
 The child must be tended, old clothes must be 
 mended, 
 And when all's attended to, sleep if I can. 
 
 But still awhile longer I'll strive, without grumbling, 
 To darn and to patch, to cook and to scrub. 
 
 To bear needless scolding, keep children from tum- 
 bling, 
 Expecting no thanks for't — ah, there's the rub ! 
 
 Now, editor, darlint, so many are rhyming. 
 You'd expect me to do like the rest, I suppose ; 
 
 But you must not expect up Parnassus far climbing, 
 One who toils in the kitchen and mends the old 
 clothes, 
 
 35 
 
A CHAPTER FROM LIFE. 
 
 Earnestly have I been pouring 
 
 Over many a mystic page, 
 Pondered on the fearful meaning 
 
 Of dark passions in their rage, 
 Till my heart is wildly throbbing 
 
 With the grief it may not tell, 
 And a bitter sigh is waking 
 
 Deep in its most secret cell. 
 
 Once I thought that no deception 
 
 Lurked within this world of ours ; 
 That the pathway to the grave was 
 
 Through a garden strewn with flowers. 
 And I longed to linger ever 
 
 Where the sun shone clear and warm- 
 Little dreamed I o'er its beauty 
 
 E'er could sweep the blasting storm. 
 
 Wistfully I viewed the roses 
 
 That thy pathway did adorn, 
 But I knew not 'mid their fragrance 
 
 Lay a poisonous, deadly thorn. 
 Ah, I thought thou wert so happy, 
 
 Every joy of earth was thine; 
 Now, for all the world, I would not 
 
 Change with thee this lot of mine. 
 
 All that wealth could ever purchase. 
 
 All that love could e'er bestow, — 
 These were thine, and, gently gliding. 
 
 Peacefully thy life did flow. 
 But the scene has changed, and vainly 
 
 Thou dost struggle with the storm; 
 On it rushes in its wildness. 
 
 And its mists enshroud thy form. 
 
 36 
 
He is false to whom thou gavest 
 
 Trustingly thy heart and hand, 
 And alone amid the tempest, 
 
 Unprotected, thou dost stand; 
 For no loving arms enfold thee. 
 
 No fond lips to thine are pressed, 
 Whispering thee, with love unchanging, 
 
 "Lay thy head upon my breast." 
 
 Thus I read in that strange volume, 
 
 Whose commencement w^as so fair. 
 While each length'ning chapter sayeth, 
 
 "Faded hopes, and grief, and care. 
 Trust betrayed, and true hearts broken, 
 
 Flowers dying ere they bloom, y^ 5 
 Blighted love, joys all decaying — ' 
 
 Gorgeous sunrise, midday gloom." 
 
 THE MYRTLE vs. THE POPPY. 
 
 Give to others all the myrtle, for that wreath I do 
 
 not sigh ; 
 "My name is writ in water," and the waves are loud 
 
 and high. 
 And soon upon the lonely shore will the remorseless 
 
 tide 
 Sweep o'er my soul and cover all its bitterness and 
 
 pride. 
 
 I give back all kind remembrances for which I would 
 have striven. 
 
 For I scorn to claim mere pity where each dearer tie 
 is riven — 
 
 Give me but a wreath of poppies, while these mo- 
 ments still endure, 
 
 Bind it closely on my forehead, "oblivion is the 
 cure!" 
 
 37 
 
MUSINGS AT A BRIDAL. 
 (To the Bridegroom.) 
 
 'Tis a solemn vow thou'st given, 
 Not mere empty words alone, 
 
 It is registered in heaven, 
 Thither by the angels borne. 
 
 Thou hast promised to direct her 
 'Mid the trials she must bear. 
 
 By thy strong love to protect her. 
 All her grief and sorrow share. 
 
 Years may pass — that vow will bind thee. 
 Firm, unchanged its links will stand. 
 
 Though joy loiter far behind thee, 
 Hope should give the parting hand. 
 
 Time may, by his bold advances, 
 
 Bear her loveliness away, 
 Dim the eye that ever glances 
 
 Upward lovingly to thee. 
 
 And wilt thou as fondly cherish 
 
 Her, whom thou hast sworn to love, 
 
 Though the charms that w^on thee perish? 
 Wilt thou then a lover prove? 
 
 Beauty may perish, but the treasure 
 
 Of the mind will then appear. 
 That will yield thee richer pleasure, 
 
 Th' darkest scenes of life 'twill cheer. 
 
 Oh, may thy wedded life be ever 
 
 Like thy present, bright and fair, — 
 
 Joys deep flowing, like a river. 
 Sparkling sunshine everywhere. 
 
 38 
 
CTo the Bride.) 
 
 Solemn is the vow thou'st spoken, 
 To honor, to obey and love, — 
 
 Though all other ties be broken, 
 This as strong as life will prove. 
 
 Love upon thee now is smiling, 
 Gilding life's tempestuous sea — 
 
 Hope, with siren tongue beguiling, 
 Whispers, thus 'twill ever be. 
 
 But this world hath many changes, 
 First we prosper, then we fall ; 
 
 Many trials God arranges 
 For His children, one and all. 
 
 And should dangers and distresses 
 O'er his brow a shadow fling. 
 
 Wilt thou, by thy fond caresses, 
 
 Bid the unwelcome guest take wing? 
 
 Wilt thou, all his love deserving, 
 As the wife be still the bride — 
 
 From thy holy vow ne'er swerving, 
 Ever happy by his side? 
 
 Wake him never from his dreaming 
 Of thy goodness and thy worth? 
 
 Thou art linked with angel-seeming; 
 Draw him not down unto earth. 
 
 Blissful is the lovely vision 
 Of thy happy future stored, — 
 
 Great as is thy woman's mission, 
 Exceeding great be thy reward. 
 
 39 
 
CHANGELESS LOVE. 
 
 Give me love which changeth never, 
 Though life's wave deceitful be, 
 
 That will, fadeless, bloom forever, 
 Binding up its life in me. 
 
 Cheering most and loving dearest 
 When the loudest roars the sea. 
 
 Oft they say, in scorn, love faileth 
 When the trial hour draws nigh. 
 
 That affection's fond eye quaileth 
 When the angry storms sweep by. 
 
 And the heart grows cold and faithless. 
 Heaves the sad, regretful sigh, 
 
 With the worldling, who doth ever 
 With deceit his heart enfold; 
 
 Who would sell his soul forever 
 For a heap of glittering gold — 
 
 If that idol lost, it may be 
 
 His false heart would soon grow cold. 
 
 But when once true love upspringeth 
 In a breast where lurks no ill, 
 
 All the heart's deep stores it bringeth 
 Quick attendants on its will; 
 
 When misfortune's shadows lower, 
 Clingeth closer, firmer still. 
 
 Give me love that naught estrangeth, 
 Pure as heaven's untroubled blue. 
 
 That earth's alchemy ne'er changeth 
 To its own e'er changing hue. 
 
 Constant love, that never rangeth 
 From its one star, tried and true, 
 
 40 
 
MAY. 
 
 How beautiful this soft, blue sky, 
 
 Which every sun-ray thrills! 
 How lovingly the shadows lie 
 
 Upon those far-off hills ! 
 
 Like a roused nation in its hour 
 
 Of struggle, triumph, pride. 
 Waters, uprisen in their power. 
 
 Have cast their chains aside; 
 
 Have thrown them by their mighty strength 
 
 Over the waterfall. 
 Scorned, trampled, crushed them, till at length 
 
 Old ocean gulped them all ; 
 
 And, by its fetters lashed no more. 
 
 In calmer, milder mood. 
 Truthfully mirrors on the shore 
 
 The overhanging wood. 
 
 Where, coquetting with every gleam. 
 
 The sparkling ripples flow. 
 And flitting cloud and pure sky seem 
 
 Another heaven below. 
 
 The budding flowers, with timid look. 
 
 Creep downward, to behold 
 Themselves reflected in the brook, 
 
 And kiss the flatterer bold ; 
 
 While proud trees bend their heads to hear 
 
 If last year's favored lover. 
 The flirting zephyr, wanders near, — 
 
 That faithless, fickle rover! 
 
 41 
 
He whispers tales that bring a flush 
 
 To listening maple boughs, 
 Till th' buds peep out with a conscious blush 
 
 Of joy, at his ardent vows. 
 
 Trembling they listen, for they fear 
 The cold winds, rude and chill, 
 
 And know not but stern winter, near, 
 Hath rough attendants still. 
 
 Yet zephyr tells of fairy trains, 
 Whose queen is merry May, 
 
 Who scatter flowers on hill and plains, 
 From eve to dawn of day. 
 
 Who bring new gifts for every tree, 
 New beauties for each flower. 
 
 New vesture for the blackened lea. 
 New tints for rifled bower! 
 
 And old trees nod with knowing look, 
 Shake off their mosses gray. 
 
 While robins watch from every nook 
 For th' train of good Queen May. 
 
 HE SAYS HE LOVES ME. 
 
 He says he loves me ! Can it be 
 That he will ever prove the same 
 
 If, in the dim futurity, 
 
 I should change, for his, my name? 
 
 42 
 
Would no cloud gather on his brow 
 When I a jesting word should speak? 
 
 Would he as fondly then as now 
 Imprint a warm kiss on my cheek? 
 
 Still would my presence have the power 
 To make his home to him most dear? 
 
 Or in adversity's sad hour, 
 Could I his saddened spirit cheer? 
 
 Or should I soon, soon cease to be 
 His greatest happiness on earth, — 
 
 Soon lose the charm of novelty 
 And be to him of little worth? 
 
 And oh, should sickness dim my brow. 
 My cheek should fade, my eye grow dull, 
 
 Would he not break his earlier vow 
 And seek for one more beautiful? 
 
 Would he ne'er wish to break the chain 
 That binds him unto one alone. 
 
 Nor wound the heart he toiled to gain 
 And vowed to cherish as his own? 
 
 But vainly would I thus dispel 
 The deep and solemn mystery 
 
 So kindly meant ; no fairy spell 
 May thus unveil my destiny. 
 
 In years untried, if he but prove 
 
 All that he to fancy seems. 
 Then sweet content, ennobling love, 
 
 Will realize my fondest dreams. 
 
 43 
 
ALMOST THERE. 
 
 Only a little way 
 Farther to go; 
 Only a little way, — 
 Row, brothers, row. 
 Though dark clouds may hide the stars from your 
 
 view, 
 And fierce be the tide, yet your compass is true, — 
 Row, brothers, row. 
 
 Only a little way 
 Farther to go ; 
 Only a little way, — 
 Row, brothers, row. 
 You are weary, the voyage is rough at the best, — 
 After shadow comes sunshine; after labor, rest! 
 Row, brothers, row! 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 Welcome for June — the fair, the young. 
 With artless glance and bashful grace, 
 
 And scattered flowers, as she had sprung. 
 Blushing, from Spring's o'erfond embrace. 
 
 Scarce knowing if to stay or flee. 
 Or time to gather up her flowers ; 
 
 Till Summer, bending low the knee. 
 Wooes the coy maiden to his bowers. 
 
 Kind Flora brings the choicest wreath 
 That ever favoring goddess wove. 
 
 And strews her path with flowers that breathe 
 Richest perfumes from field and grove. 
 
 44 
 
Each bird, on bush or bending spray, 
 Or sheltered nook of favorite tree. 
 
 Pauses 'mid labors of the day 
 To trill soft notes of merry glee. 
 
 Far out in the wild forest dim, 
 
 The roguish, whispering leaves among, 
 Bursts forth the universal hymn 
 
 Of love, in full, rich chorus sung. 
 
 As if, in Nature's vast domain, 
 
 Each bud and leaf and dear bird vied 
 
 Which one should sing the sweetest strain 
 For radiant June, proud Summer's bride. 
 
 MUSINGS OF A POLITICIAN'S WIFE. 
 
 Untruth, with a busy and mischievous train, 
 Has been peering around this election. 
 
 Whispering tales into honest minds 
 That bring me no sweet reflection ; 
 
 Tales that I know are all cruelly false 
 In their dark and malicious meaning, 
 
 And are only used because truth will not serve 
 The purpose of drift vote gleaning. 
 
 I wish, oh, heartily wish, that ne'er 
 
 Had they ta'en him away from his hiding, 
 
 Exposing him thus to malice and hate. 
 Low sneers and envious chiding. 
 
 Ah, could they give back the peace, the joy 
 Of our humble and quiet dwelling, 
 
 I'd smile at their offices passing by. 
 
 My heart with deep thankfulness swelling. 
 
 45 
 
Or were I but dreaming, and might awake 
 To welcome the morn with a blessing, 
 
 And find 'neath my husband's and children's smile 
 Relief from thoughts so depressing. 
 
 But our home rest is broken, its quiet gone, 
 
 And slander its venom is casting 
 O'er each hallowed spot and each holy thought, 
 
 With blight and with mildew blasting. 
 
 And it is no idle, unmeaning dream 
 To which such a weird shape clingeth, 
 
 Though the heavy throb of my heart is such 
 As the hand of the nightmare bringeth ! 
 
 I must teach my voice a passionless tone, 
 While untruth his doom appears sealing, 
 
 And learn to reply with a careless glance 
 To each taunt, however unfeeling. 
 
 NEAR AND FAR. 
 
 The kerosene lamp in the window 
 Of a neighbor's house, close by, 
 
 Outshines, in its rudd}'^ radiance. 
 The stars in the far-off sky. 
 
 And the fitful cares that so fret us. 
 Earth's worries, that never cease. 
 
 Eclipse the glorious beauty 
 
 Of the wonderful Land of Peace. 
 
 46 
 
THE AROOSTOOK RAILROAD. 
 
 TuNK — '* The Bailroad Cars are Coming.' 
 
 The great Aroostook railroad 
 
 Knows no such word as fail ; 
 Bring on the locomotive, 
 
 Lay down the iron rail. 
 Along the length' ning forests 
 
 We've plodded all too slow; 
 The fiery steed is panting, puffing, 
 
 Waiting word to go. 
 
 Our pi'neer axes ringing 
 
 Will never spare a tree 
 Whose falling makes sweet singing 
 
 Of fields that are to be; 
 Our lakes laugh back the sunshine; 
 
 Our rivers proudly flow ; 
 The iron horse is panting, puffing. 
 
 Waiting word to go. 
 
 We've land for thronging thousands- 
 Farms of the richest soil — 
 
 Broad acres wait their coming, 
 Impatient for the toil ; 
 
 Food for all the wee ones, 
 But wants the hand to sow; 
 
 The iron horse is panting, puffing. 
 Waiting word to go. 
 
 In Aroostook war our foeman, 
 
 Stout Johnny Bull of old. 
 Melts now the balls of iron 
 
 In quite a diff'rent mould; 
 Not round, but longer, stronger, 
 
 A railroad track they grow ; 
 The iron horse is panting, puffing. 
 
 Waiting word to go. 
 
 47 
 
Where wealth or glory calleth, 
 
 Shrewd John finds just the place, 
 The question's not who started, 
 
 But who shall win the race ; 
 In great works done like lightning 
 
 The Yankees are not slow; 
 The iron horse is panting, puffing, 
 
 Waiting word to go. 
 
 TO MAGAWISCA. 
 
 Aye, thou may'st choose the myrtle, sweet one, whose 
 
 dove-like eyes 
 Beam with such calm and holy light, like gleams 
 
 from Paradise, — 
 Such loving and confiding light, such depths of purity. 
 Surely, kind angel visitants must talk ofttimes with 
 
 thee! 
 
 The myrtle wreath becometh well thy brown hair's 
 
 wavy fold. 
 Where crown of worth and genius outshineth jeweled 
 
 gold; 
 And the hand thou lovest best of all, with gentle 
 
 touch shall twine 
 A wealth of tiny blossoms for that low, sweet brow 
 
 of thine. 
 
 Ah, thou wilt be well remembered, for thou hold'st 
 love's magic key. 
 
 And like perfume of sweet flowers thy memory shall 
 be, — 
 
 While those who only know thy name with glad ac- 
 cord shall bring 
 
 A spray of myrtle for thy wreath, "love's own sweet 
 offering." 
 
 48 
 
EDWARD MOULTON. 
 
 Another good man fallen! From his post 
 
 A watchman gone, whose place cannot be filled ! 
 
 To us the providence is dark, — mysterious, almost, — 
 We murmur at the hard decree — yet so God willed. 
 
 A sick wife watcheth, with a little child. 
 For his return to a far-distant home, — 
 
 A tiny babe that ne'er had on him smiled, — 
 
 And grouping children say, "Mother, when will 
 he come?" 
 
 Leaning upon his cane, an aged sire 
 
 Scanneth the well-known road with misty eyes. 
 While the good mother, sitting by the fire, 
 
 Lists if the sound of distant wheels arise. 
 
 Alas, it thus should be, for here to-day 
 
 Is bitter mourning for a spirit flown ! 
 He came a stranger, he hath passed away ; 
 
 Stranger no more, we mourn him as our own. 
 
 The staff of helpless age, and the strong oak 
 Where twining infancy all sheltered grew, 
 
 Is fallen; ah, most fearful is the stroke 
 
 That smites so many through one loved and true! 
 
 To-morrow, homeward slowly will he go. 
 
 With fond heart pulseless, and those strong limbs 
 stilled! 
 
 God pity those who watch, in this great woe, — 
 The chastening is severe — yet so God willed. 
 
 49 
 
TO LIZZIE. 
 
 It is an easy task to criticise 
 
 Another's actions or another's life, 
 To see the mote that dims another's eyes, 
 
 And by harsh words stir up a bitter strife. 
 
 'Twould be an easy, but an unwise, thing 
 
 For some rude hand to crush the well-tuned lyre, 
 
 Sweep all the music from each quiv'ring string. 
 And bring forth naught but shrieking discord dire. 
 
 Yet might a master-hand the sweet notes bring 
 As smoothly flowing as if tortured never ; 
 
 But ah, the human heart is of such fashioning 
 A cruel touch will vibrate there forever. 
 
 And are more blest dreams of thy slumber born 
 By adding anguish to another's breast? 
 
 Or is thy pillow softer for the thorn 
 
 Thou'st planted where another's head doth rest? 
 
 Thy short review of "Magawisca's Dream" 
 
 Is like the sugared coating of a pill. 
 Save that pills may be needful — it doth seem 
 
 More like sweet poison, pleasing but to kill. 
 
 This Magawisca is a friend I love, — 
 
 A pure, true-hearted woman, too, is she, — 
 
 Modest and unassuming. There's my glove; 
 Who touches Magawisca touches me. 
 
 Are thy lines faultless, that the critic's eye, 
 The unkind critic, ne'er hast cause to frown? 
 
 Remember, the proud eagle, soaring high. 
 
 Stoops not to sweep the dove's young fledgeling 
 down. 
 
 50 
 
Wert thou the eagle, I'd rejoice with thee — 
 There's room enough for all. But if thy pen 
 
 Can find no worthier task than mockery, 
 Take my advice and never write again. 
 
 I'VE SEEN THE EDITORS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 I've seen the editors, hurrah! 
 
 The Aroostook expedition 
 Differed from the Aroostook war, 
 
 In arms and ammunition. 
 
 No musket had the little band. 
 Save that by Cowan tested. 
 
 Shooting canards, with skillful hand. 
 Where'er the low snags rested. 
 
 No fear of bayonets had they ; 
 
 Roberts, their safety shewing. 
 Bit off a pickpole on the way, — 
 
 A needless waste of chewing. 
 
 The rest were weaponed well with steel. 
 Pens, scissors, as it happened. 
 
 And woe to him e'er made to feel 
 Their keen points, newly sharpened. 
 
 I never doubt where trust I can. 
 But think of these quill brothers, 
 
 Holding one up as their Poor man. 
 Bigger than two of t'others! 
 
 I'll nevermore believe a word 
 
 Of eating such material 
 As chips and sawdust, as I heard; 
 
 They would be more ethereal. 
 
 51 
 
They say that such men can be bought, — 
 Who'd dare with gold to try one? 
 
 Yet one old maid (who would have thought?) 
 Said she was going to buy one ! 
 
 Well, noble-looking men they were, 
 I thought, while here they tarried; 
 
 I'd like to be an editor. 
 
 Or — say, were they all married? 
 
 I'VE SEEN THE EDITORS. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Yes, I've seen the editors; 
 
 Though pleasing the inspection. 
 It yet a deeper feeling stirs. 
 
 More serious reflection. 
 
 'Tis one of Nature's wholesome laws 
 That minds of men, tho' single. 
 
 Excited by some common cause. 
 In masses meet and mingle. 
 
 Analysis brings food for thought, — 
 The whole world, every tittle, 
 
 Its government, and nations wrought 
 Of atoms, all so little! 
 
 And these men, tho' they harmless look. 
 Have much to do with moulding 
 
 Some yielding minds in every nook, 
 A weekly converse holding. 
 
 'Tis well if they who have such power 
 Give heed to words the slightest, 
 
 When there are those who, every hour, 
 
 Repeat their thoughts the lightest. 
 
 52 
 
It seems not much on either hand, 
 One man's opinions quoting, 
 
 But when his paper takes its stand — 
 Why, that is worth the noting. 
 
 "The papers say" hath mighty sweep 
 To many thousand readers ; 
 
 They'll follow, like a flock of sheep, 
 Wherever go these leaders. 
 
 Society's a vast machine. 
 
 Crammed full of every notion, — 
 The editors the fine- wrought springs 
 
 That keep the wheels in motion. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 We thank thee, lovely Mary, 
 
 For a delicate bouquet 
 Of flowers, pure as the snowflakes, 
 
 That came Thanksgiving day. 
 
 Without, young Winter's fingers 
 Were trembling with the cold, 
 
 And hoards of glittering treasures 
 Escaped his nerveless hold. 
 
 Within, the fair, frail flowers 
 Looked up, with love and hope 
 
 Thanks giving, though a wintry sky 
 Had watched their petals ope. 
 
 As from these earnest teachers 
 Our hearts caught richest lore. 
 
 For the trusting, hopeful lesson 
 We thanks give, even more. 
 
 58 
 
LINES. 
 
 Blessed are the early gathered 
 
 To the heavenly fold, 
 Sheltered from the driving tempest 
 
 And the bitter cold; 
 All is peace and joy and plenty 
 
 In the heavenly fold. 
 
 What though sudden were the summons 
 
 To the Saviour's arms, 
 To that young heart, full of loving, 
 
 It brought no alarms. 
 Blessed are the early gathered 
 
 In the Shepherd's arms. 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW. 
 
 The hills were brown and desolate — 
 
 We mourned the sudden flight 
 Of the gay leaves from the tree-tops, 
 
 Torn by the rude wind's might; 
 But there came some gentle fairies 
 
 From the pure snowland last night, 
 And with touches soft and loving 
 
 Veiled the whole in misty white. 
 
 They had heard the ceaseless moaning 
 
 That the childless old trees made 
 For the leaves that through the summer 
 
 Toyed with sunshine and with shade. 
 Dancing lightly to sweet music 
 
 When the wand'ring zephyr played 
 On his harp, the wild ^Eolian, 
 
 In the forest or the glade; 
 
 54 
 
And they touched the naked branches, 
 
 Shivering in the north wind's blast, 
 Kindly, with a whispered blessing. 
 
 And a mantle o'er them cast, — 
 Not of Summer's flickering foliage, 
 
 Which the young spring had amassed, 
 Though they breathed of budding leaflets, 
 
 Ere upon their way they passed. 
 
 And this morning, as the sunlight 
 
 Flashed among the shadows gray. 
 Glittering jewels in profusion 
 
 All along the pathway lay, 
 Till the eye was almost dazzled 
 
 By the gorgeous array, — 
 Then we knew the good snow fairies. 
 
 On their mission, passed this way. 
 
 BRING BACK THOSE COATS. 
 
 The Editor has lost his coat. 
 
 And now good Lawyer Wentworth 
 
 Cries out, "Who steals my purse steals trash,- 
 'Tis not a single cent's worth ; 
 
 But when they take my beaver blue. 
 
 And keep it, altogether. 
 They leave me wholly 'in the cold,' 
 
 Exposed to every weather.". 
 
 I s'pose the man who took these coats, 
 
 And levied on his neighbor, 
 To keep his body snug and warm, 
 
 Without much extra labor, 
 
 55 
 
Has read the adage old and quaint, 
 While need made him quick witted, 
 
 "If the coat fits you, put it on ;" 
 He tried, and it just fitted! 
 
 Quite heedless of an Editor 
 Such doleful faces making, 
 
 Or lawyer, to such luck unused. 
 With wrath and ague shaking. 
 
 But if to their imploring calls 
 
 He has not yet attended, 
 I beg he will — the coats he left 
 
 Can not much more be mended. 
 
 WHO KISSED THE EDITOR? 
 
 Bill Patterson, of old-time glory, 
 
 Is lost fore'er to song and story. 
 
 It seems to all supremely silly, 
 
 Nowadays, to ask who struck poor Billy, 
 
 For late, within a lonely sanctum, 
 
 An Editor was spoiling blankdom ; 
 
 Some maidens kissed him, and he thanked 'em. 
 
 Told of it, right out in his paper — 
 
 Who ever heard of such a caper? 
 
 And now, whichever way we stir. 
 
 All cry, "Who kissed the Editor?" 
 
 One day my work was done so early 
 That misthress, tho' at times quite surly. 
 Gave gracious answer to my prayer 
 To take one breath of heaven's pure air; 
 But, as I passed along the street, 
 I thought all crazed I chanced to meet. 
 
 56 
 
First came a portly looking body, 
 
 With sparkling eye, and round cheek ruddy, 
 
 But with his lips all in a pucker, 
 
 For all the world like a spring sucker ; 
 
 1 thought he'd been to whistling school 
 
 Where a famed Yankee gave the rule, 
 
 When, with many a curious antic. 
 
 With voice and gesture growing frantic, 
 
 He cried, "Where is the luscious maiden 
 
 With such a wealth of beauty laden? 
 
 I have a notion to be tradin' 
 
 Editorial kisses, ere they're fadin'. 
 
 Swap off, or make some such exchange, 
 
 I'll pay the market's highest range ; 
 
 My lips twist round in forms so strange, 
 
 I'm fearful of the final change; 
 
 But while I do live, I'll search for 
 
 That girl that kissed the Editor." 
 
 Just then a maiden passed us by ; 
 
 I caught a glimpse of lip and eye. 
 
 Chock-full of roguishness and fun ; 
 
 Quoth I, ho Bridget, that's the one; 
 
 Who 'twas that wrought such mischief high, 
 
 That rogue could tell, and not half try, — 
 
 But prudently said not a word, 
 
 Nor told of what my eyes had heard. 
 
 And soon there rushed along the street 
 
 A bachelor, with flying feet, 
 
 Mouth open wide, with such a grin, 
 
 You might have thrown the coal hod in. 
 
 Screamed he, "Hope's not confined to Heaven, 
 
 For kisses still on earth are given, — 
 
 Not in mere smacks, sir, but in smackers, 
 
 That go off just like India crackers. 
 
 I was not there to see the sport. 
 
 But I have heard the loud report. 
 
 57 
 
I'll be, though a mere bach'lor novice, 
 A fixture near that hall or office, 
 And they'll pass me, I tell you, sir, 
 Before they kiss the Editor." 
 
 But then I heard a distant baying. 
 
 Like hounds in far-off forests straying, 
 
 Who, when the frightened game is treed, 
 
 Yell out in triumph at its need. 
 
 Quoth I, what means that noise? Good lack! 
 
 The editors are on the track ! 
 
 And all along the shores of Maine 
 
 Louder and louder swells the strain, 
 
 And clearer grows the proud refrain, 
 
 "Hurrah, boys, 'tis time to stir. 
 
 Somebody's kissed an editor!" 
 
 Perchance they saw the lovely maid here. 
 Yet doubted if such tricks she played here ; 
 But since her secret is betrayed here. 
 Aha, how much they wish they'd stayed here! 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 Alone, like a bird tempest-driven 
 
 Afar from the sheltering nest, 
 With pinions unsteady and drooping, 
 
 I faint for a moment of rest, 
 Where the mad waves, upleaping, but taunt me. 
 
 And mock at my wearisome quest. 
 
 Is there never an island of refuge. 
 
 Whose arms stretch far out to the sea 
 
 To push back the merciless billows. 
 
 Where the wave-worn and storm-beaten flee? 
 
 No escape from the funeral dirges 
 The mourning wind waileth for me? 
 
 58 
 
GENTLY. 
 
 Gently, ye fairies that guide the snow, 
 
 Gently, I pray ye, let it fall 
 On the withering leaves that droop below. 
 
 For, tho' soft and white, it is yet a pall. 
 There were flowers last summer upon the plain, 
 
 The fairest that ever my eyes did see; 
 Others may bloom there, but never again 
 
 Will those same sweet blossoms look up to me ! 
 With what earnest trust did each morn unfold 
 'fi Rich petals, touched with the costliest dye, — 
 'Tis a human tale, and a story old : 
 
 The weeds are spared while the flowers die. 
 Then gently, ye spirits that wreathe the snow, 
 
 A delicate robe for the earth's cold breast, 
 Touch softly each pale, withered leaf as ye go. 
 
 Pillow kindly mj^ flowers, and let them rest. 
 
 Gently, ye angels that make the chime • 
 
 Of New Year bells, in their noisy glee, 
 And bear, with fleet pinions, each moment of time 
 
 With tireless zeal to Eternity; 
 Gently, we know not of aught ye bring, 
 
 But we know the good ye have borne away, 
 And, distrusting the future, our spirits cling 
 
 To a past that, escaping us, will not stay. 
 Then gently and tenderly scatter the sum 
 
 Of moments, that leap into hours as ye go, — 
 The minutes are light as the flakes that come. 
 
 But the hours more heavy than drifted snow. 
 For hopes far more fair than the summer bowers, 
 
 And lives more beautiful even than they, 
 Have faded, have died with the summer flowers, — 
 
 Gently strew o'er their bier the light minutes to-day. 
 
THE TWO GARDENS. 
 
 I have watched our skillful gardener, 
 
 At his cheerful, patient toil, 
 As he brings to highest culture 
 
 All the products of the soil ; 
 And I wondered why was needed 
 
 The unsparing pruning-knife, 
 When the spreading branches pleaded 
 
 For a little longer life. 
 
 In my ignorance I asked him 
 
 Why he did not let them grow 
 Freely, in their full luxuriance, — 
 
 Surely it were better so ! 
 Knowing well the law that rules them, 
 
 Quick to answer as to hear, 
 Would they strive so hard for being 
 
 Were they never bade appear? 
 
 With an earnest smile he answered. 
 
 Pointing to the blooming bowers 
 And the trees with promise laden : 
 
 "The design is fruits and flowers; 
 And I love each tender blossom, — 
 
 Every vine and shrub and tree 
 Leaning upon earth's broad bosom 
 
 Bears a message unto me. 
 
 "To their many words I hearken, 
 
 Aiding nature where I can. 
 Grateful, watch their sure unfolding, 
 
 Working out a perfect plan. 
 Should I always let them wander 
 
 At their wild will, fancy free. 
 Training never, pruning never, 
 
 What think you the end would be? 
 60 
 
"Lengthening their decaying branches, 
 
 Weaving meshes for your feet, 
 Masses, tangled and unsightly. 
 
 Little fruit would autumn greet." 
 Then I ceased my rash upbraidings, 
 
 For there came another thought, 
 Drawn from this, a moral lesson. 
 
 With a deeper meaning fraught. 
 
 For within another garden, 
 
 In the garden of the soul. 
 Was another patient toiler. 
 
 Striving for a perfect whole. 
 But whene'er was needful pruning, 
 
 Here a hope, there a desire, 
 'Gainst Him earnestly I struggled, 
 
 With an anger rising higher ! 
 
 Ah, the wounds are sore and many 
 
 Where His pruning-knife hath been, 
 Even now are life-tears flowing 
 
 All that garden's bounds within! 
 But, uplooking to the harvest. 
 
 Striving for a perfect whole, 
 Still the patient Worker toileth 
 
 In the garden of the soul. 
 
 IN THE CITY. 
 
 Oh, the loneliness of gazing 
 Down the busy street, — 
 
 Where the jostling crowds forever 
 Mingle, part and meet, — 
 
 Hearing no familiar footsteps 
 In the coming feet! 
 
 61 
 
Jesting words of recognition, 
 
 Smiles of lip and eye, 
 Voices full of mocking laughter ; 
 
 Is there ne'er a sigh? 
 Wave on wave the human flood tide 
 
 Sweepeth gaily by ! 
 
 BROTHER, COME HOME. 
 
 Hearest thou never the pleading home voices 
 
 Calling thee ever, earnestly calling thee, 
 Whether, untroubled, thy spirit rejoices, 
 
 Or pleasures are scattered, misfortunes befalling 
 thee? 
 
 Brother, come home! 
 
 The homestead is lonely, one tone full of gladness 
 
 We miss when the evening star gathereth all; 
 Tho' our lips may be mute, tho' we smile in our sad- 
 ness. 
 Our heart with vain yearning repeateth the call. 
 Brother, come home! 
 
 Haste thy return, for the dark, auburn tresses. 
 
 Thy mother's soft tresses, are fast growing gray ; 
 On thy father's calm brow, which the silvered hair 
 presses. 
 The thick furrows broaden and deepen each day. 
 Brother, come home! 
 
 Oh, haste thee; or, when from the toil and the danger 
 
 Thou seekest thy home, as a pilgrim his shrine, 
 'Neath the shade of its roof-tree thou'lt sit as a stran- 
 ger. 
 With never a welcome from kindred of thine. 
 Brother, come home! 
 
 62 
 
SCANDAL. 
 
 A sallow beldam, from whose path 
 
 All sweet flowers shrink, fearing her wrath; 
 
 Withered and wrinkled, too, is she, 
 
 Like apple dried upon the tree; 
 
 Peaked her nose, pointed her chin, 
 
 Her lips close drawn, and very thin, — 
 
 So thin, so sharp when they are stirred. 
 
 They're keener than a two-edged sword ; 
 
 And that is why, as logic teaches. 
 
 She always makes such cutting speeches; 
 
 Her words writhe through this fearful pass, 
 
 A strange, distorted, loathsome mass. 
 
 Creep out into the world, fell spies, 
 
 Assuming many a fair disguise; 
 
 And when their fraud and flattery 
 
 Gain of one's thoughts the entrance key, 
 
 Woe to that trusting human soul 
 
 Whose armor is not doubly whole! 
 
 CHURNING-AND WHAT BRIDGET THOUGHT 
 OF IT. 
 
 As into the churn fast falleth the cream. 
 
 Every drop quite alike doth seem, 
 
 And never, amid such a general splutter, 
 
 Can I tell, for the life of me, which is the butter. 
 
 So I fasten the cover and lift the dash, 
 
 And smile as I list to the sullen splash 
 
 With each downward sweep of that merciless lash. 
 
 While the cream, all defenseless, leaps madly away 
 
 From the rough, cruel blows that unceasingly play! 
 
 But there is no escape, though it rise to the top. 
 
 Or down to the bottom despairingly drop, 
 
 For a tireless tormentor is on its track 
 
 63 
 
And, sooner or later, will bring it back, — 
 
 Till, tired of retreating, the mass will abide 
 
 No more of such warfare, all on one side; 
 
 And angrily mutters, in whisperings low, 
 
 ''No more of such pelting will I undergo 
 
 Submissively, tamely, — the future shall tell; 
 
 If blows I must take, I can give them as well. 
 
 Let them strike as they will, they'll recoil from the 
 
 fun. 
 For the soft, silly buttermilk only will run." 
 Enough, quite enough, take the dasher away, 
 It was cream in the morning, it is butter to-day. 
 
 Just so with the world, mused I in my turn. 
 As I took the rich butter up out of the churn. 
 My soft cream thus changed to so solid a ball. 
 A strong hand was needed to mould it at all, — 
 Just so with the world, small odds can be scanned 
 While the skies are unclouded the breezes are bland, 
 Like a huge jar of cream, till there comes an hour 
 Of commotion, fierce trial with testing power! 
 And then, even then, the resemblance holds true, 
 For the world has its butter and buttermilk, too. 
 As all cream is not butter, so, in the world's plan. 
 The moral is plain if but rightly you scan, 
 Society's buttermilk ne'er makes the man! 
 
 LET THE WORLD WAG— A REVERIE. 
 
 " Let the world wag," the saying is. I would be glad 
 
 If wag it would 
 Of its own self; in truth, it is too bad 
 
 In wagging mood 
 To crush so many people in its way. 
 
 Who, if they could, 
 Would spend in quiet all life's lengthened day 
 
 In doing good. 
 
 64 
 
Mind your own business, watch your own affairs, 
 
 Are just as true. 
 Quaint proverbs as the other, yet who cares 
 
 Or old or new. 
 Good, better, bad, or worse? Who strives to drag 
 
 Them up to view? 
 I wish the world, which claims such right to wag, 
 
 Would add these, too. 
 
 I've read a page or two of life, and cry enough 
 
 Of its false shows, — 
 So much of needless making smooth paths rough 
 
 By cruel blows ! 
 So much of smiles, when one sweet answering smile 
 
 The heart ne'er knows! 
 So much of smooth-tongued hypocrisy and guile,— 
 
 And thus it goes! 
 
 Let the world wag! I'm willing, wag it may 
 
 From eve till dawn. 
 And from the dawn until another day. 
 
 On, and still on, — 
 I yield its captious smiles no power to sway ; 
 
 So, frown or fawn. 
 Wag up or down, I care not, if its way 
 
 Let mine alone. 
 
 ANSWER ME. 
 BY FLORENCE PERCY. 
 
 If you love me, friend, to-night, 
 
 Treat me tenderly ; 
 Let me rest my wearied head 
 
 Here upon your knee; 
 And the while I question you, 
 
 Prithee, answer me — 
 Answer me ! 
 
 65 
 
Is there not a gleam of peace 
 On this tiresome earth ? 
 
 Does not one oasis cheer 
 All this dreary dearth ? 
 
 And does all this toil and pain 
 Give no blessing birth ? 
 Answer me ! 
 
 Comes there never quiet, when 
 Once our hearts awake ? 
 
 Must they then forevermore 
 Labor, strive and ache ? 
 
 Have they no inheritance 
 But to bear — and break? 
 Answer me ! 
 
 I ANSWER THEE. 
 
 Sitting in the dreamy twilight 
 
 Of far northern Maine, 
 List I to the pleasant rustling 
 
 Of the golden grain ; 
 Upward, through the leafy curtains, 
 
 Watch I where the night 
 Robes herself, counting her jewels 
 
 In the waning light ; 
 Smile I at the wondrous stories 
 
 Whispered soft and low 
 By the laughter-loving wood nymphs, 
 
 Just for me, you know ; 
 But above the silken rustle, 
 
 Out upon the plain. 
 Where the fickle breezes dally 
 
 With the autumn grain, — 
 Louder than the breath-like whispers 
 
 In the shadowy dell, 
 Where the loving, sweet-toned voices 
 
 Fairy legends tell, — 
 
 66 
 
From the distant Forest City, 
 
 By the moaning sea, 
 Comes a wail of bitter anguish, 
 
 Friend, I answer thee. 
 Thus I answer thee! 
 
 Once, — nay, ask me not the question 
 
 Where it was. or when. 
 Till my wounded soul be stronger, 
 
 I may tell thee then, — 
 Once, like thee, alas, I questioned 
 
 Of the hand of fate. 
 Till I turned away in loathing, 
 
 Bitter scorn and hate. 
 And I said, "Earth is a bankrupt 
 
 In all else but woes ! 
 Life is but an arid desert. 
 
 Not a good thing grows!" 
 Oh, the anguish of that spirit 
 
 Groping in the dark, 
 'Wildered by the real and seeming. 
 
 Made the tempter's mark! 
 Oh, the many ships, full freighted, 
 
 On the sea of life. 
 Gaining nevermore the harbor. 
 
 Wrecked amid the strife ! 
 And my soul was nigh to fainting, 
 
 Asking but to lave 
 In the wild Lethean River, 
 
 Drinking deep its wave. 
 Then the murmurs of the forest 
 
 Came so soothingly 
 That I wandered, half unknowing. 
 
 Where they called to me, — 
 In the teachings of the wild wood. 
 
 Friend, I answer thee. 
 Thus I answer thee! 
 
 67 
 
Like a little child the sunshine 
 
 Danced in joyousness, 
 Every flower in welcome greeting 
 
 Wore its richest dress; 
 All things, in their places, perfect, 
 
 E'en the tiniest there, 
 As if the great Architect 
 
 Gave it all His care. 
 Asked I why such perfect beauty, 
 
 Such o'erflowing bliss, 
 Garnered by a hand unsparing 
 
 For a world like this — 
 For a world that doth inherit 
 
 From the olden time 
 Hate for everything like merit, 
 
 Love for dazzling crime? 
 Then a low, sweet voice made answer: 
 
 "Judge not weakly now; 
 If God loveth and forbeareth. 
 
 Mortal, may not thou? 
 Lo, they crucified the Saviour, 
 
 Crowned in cruel scorn ; 
 What art thou that thou dost murmur 
 
 At a single thorn? 
 Life is but a little moment, 
 
 Though it seems so long; 
 Shrink not from the trial, — 
 
 Suffer, and be strong. 
 Though the weak world praise or taunt thee. 
 
 Know not pride nor fear, — 
 Life is but a span at farthest. 
 
 And its Judge not here. 
 Gird anew thy loosened armor. 
 
 Toil all trustingly, 
 For, according to thy labor. 
 
 Thy reward shall be. 
 
 68 
 
Soon will evening shadows gather, 
 
 And the race be run ; 
 Blessed thou, if smiles the Father, 
 
 'Child, thou hast well done,' — " 
 Thus the earnest spirit struggled 
 
 Faithfully with me, 
 And the substance of its teachings, 
 
 Friend, I tell to thee. 
 Thus I answer thee ! 
 
 KISS ME BEFORE YOU GO. 
 
 Your path lies over the hillside, 
 
 Out in the rain and the sleet, 
 Out in the world's wild turmoil 
 
 Where business and bustle meet; 
 And mine, by the noiseless fireside. 
 
 Where the fanciful embers glow 
 With a changeful, lifelike motion, — 
 
 Kiss me before you go ! 
 
 My quiet way will be haunted 
 
 With visions none other can see, — 
 Glances more precious than diamonds. 
 
 Smiles full of meaning to me; 
 The sound of a welcome footstep, 
 
 A whisper thrillingly low, — 
 Ah, thought will clasp memory closely! — 
 
 Kiss me before you go ! 
 
 For this world hath a thousand mischances ; 
 
 And one of those chances may fall 
 That us two ne'er again by the firelight 
 
 Make one shadow upon the wall! 
 Then, yet once more, ere the parting, — 
 
 Alas, that it must be so, — 
 Leave me a fond benediction, — 
 
 Kiss me before you go ! 
 69 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH PRATT. 
 
 We miss her by the fireside, 
 
 The ruling spirit there. 
 And her pleasant face at the house of grace,- 
 
 We miss her everywhere. 
 Yet how earnestly she labored, 
 
 How faithfully, how well, 
 The good seed sown in humble prayer 
 
 Shall the coming harvest tell. 
 
 Though the circle groweth smaller 
 
 That earthly eyes can see. 
 Yet we know that Heaven is nearer 
 
 By a love so full and free ; 
 That, while with tears and blessings 
 
 We follow the path she trod. 
 She hath passed the outer gateway 
 
 And dwelleth with her God. 
 
 "SHAKE HANDS." 
 
 Not that I look exactly like 
 
 The picture by that name — 
 Though the well-faU'd kitchen table 
 And the dough pan I may claim- 
 Yet she must have been a Bridget, 
 And I am — just that same! 
 
 And the editor has shown me 
 
 A humble little nook, 
 Quiet and unpresuming, 
 
 Where upon you I may look — 
 If I don my clean white apron, 
 
 Draw my face down like a book! 
 
 70 
 
Yet we are not quite strangers.. 
 
 Although this goodly ship 
 Leaves port this morning gaily, 
 
 Upon her trial trip, — 
 I've sailed with you before, 
 
 Made your toast and butter-dip. 
 
 Perhaps you didn't know it, 
 
 'Tis not strange you should forget, 
 
 Sometimes folks don't remember 
 The good turns they may get ! — 
 
 "Shake hands?" Ah, well, no matter, 
 We may be good friends yet. 
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 Were the sunshine always smiling, 
 
 Did the storm-clouds never frown, 
 Earth would soon become a desert, 
 
 All its hillsides bare and brown. 
 Though the blossoms, bending lowly, 
 
 Bow beneath the cruel blast, 
 There's a richer, purer fragrance 
 
 When the rushing rain is past. 
 
 Were the sweet flowers always blooming, 
 
 Fading never from their prime, 
 There would be no ripened fruitage, 
 
 Be no grateful harvest time. 
 Did the heart ne'er lose an idol. 
 
 Were no twining tendrils riven. 
 Earth would be a home so blissful 
 
 We should never long for heaven. 
 
 71 
 
THE FIRE-FIEND. 
 
 He awoke in the depths of the forest, 
 
 One beautiful morning in May, 
 And his breath was Hke the sirocco, 
 
 As onward he forced his way; 
 The violets shrank at his coming, 
 
 And hid 'neath the sheltering green. 
 But the might of the fire-fiend was stronger 
 
 Than the wand of the wildwood queen. 
 
 He was famished and faint with his slumber, 
 
 And, with eager but stealthy quest, 
 He sought where the faithful song-bird 
 
 Twittered around her nest; 
 While the young leaves, glancing upward. 
 
 Trembled with sudden fear 
 As his hot breath swept among them, 
 
 And his glowing tongue drew near. 
 
 There were treasures the year had hoarded 
 
 For the springtime to unfold, 
 Treasures most carefully guarded 
 
 From the winter's searching cold; 
 And so gently had Spring unwrapped them, 
 
 That we could but faintly see 
 In the fairylike things before us 
 
 How lavish the gifts would be- 
 But the fire-fiend was wolf-like with hunger,- 
 
 The weak and the helpless must fall, — 
 And he drank up the musical bird-song, 
 
 Unheeding the anguished call! 
 All the lovely things that were garnered 
 
 For the beautiful children of May 
 Made but a delicate morsel 
 
 In the line of his march that day! 
 
 72 
 
At last, from the tallest tree-top, 
 
 Away to the east he espied 
 A white-roofed New England village 
 
 Reposing in peace beside 
 A softly murmuring river, — 
 
 Then he hissed in his fiendish glee, 
 "Behold the spire and the house-tops, — 
 
 I'm hungry — there's food for me!" 
 
 Then he sprang on the wings of the whirlwind, 
 
 And onward with lightning speed — 
 On, though the quivering forest 
 
 Swayed like a bruised reed. 
 Tossing its blackened arms wildly. 
 
 Bowing low at its grievous loss — 
 On, to the bank of the river! — 
 
 Ah, 'twas but a step across! 
 
 Then he grasped at the shrieking children. 
 
 While the hearthstone he rent in twain ! 
 And he followed the babe and its mother 
 
 As they fled from the scene of pain ; 
 While strong men groaned in spirit. 
 
 On that peaceful Sabbath day. 
 As the toil of so many weary years 
 
 In a moment was swept away! 
 
 He was lashed to an awful fury, 
 
 And his tongue of circling flame 
 Drew in homestead after homestead. 
 
 But his cry was still the same ; 
 Till his fearful length was shadowed 
 
 From the stream to the far-off spire, 
 And the whole of that fated village 
 
 Was girded with billowy fire! 
 
 73 
 
Then, gorged, he withdrew to the forest, 
 
 To rest him its shades within. 
 But the blackness of desolation 
 
 Marks where his steps have been; 
 Where yesternoon there was gladness 
 
 And plenty, in rich array. 
 Mourning in dust and ashes, 
 
 A village bows low to-day. 
 Prksque Isle, May 14, 1860. 
 
 DAGUERREOTYPE. 
 
 The dark clouds gather thick and fast, 
 
 The beautiful bright blue 
 By such dense shadows overcast. 
 
 No sun-ray struggles through; 
 A white mist veils the landscape. 
 
 While the tired and weary day, 
 Peevish as a half-sick child, 
 
 Will neither work nor play. 
 
 But in an idle, restless mood, 
 
 With many a needless frown. 
 Scatter the soft-winged flakes of snow. 
 
 Like white doves dropping down — 
 Unpitied on the blackened street, 
 
 Where broad the earth-stains lie, 
 In all their shrinking purity, 
 
 Alas, how soon they die! 
 
 And when to-morrow's sun shall glance 
 
 Athwart the place they fell, 
 No vestige that they ever lived 
 
 Their hapless fate shall tell! 
 They will their whole of duty do, 
 
 They will leave no mark nor name. 
 Ah, me, how many human lives 
 
 Have perished just the same! 
 
 74 
 
GEORGE W. PRATT. 
 
 To our homes, far away in the forest, 
 
 A dark-winged angel came, 
 And culled from our household treasures, 
 
 Such did the Master claim — 
 Those to our hearts the closest, 
 
 Where our love had made its throne, 
 Unheeding oft the warning 
 
 That they were not ours alone. 
 
 God gave and He hath taken ; 
 
 Yet our eyes are with tears so blind 
 We can see no silver lining 
 
 The gloomy clouds behind. 
 Ah, so grievous are the sobbings, 
 
 We can but faintly hear 
 The voice of another angel. 
 
 Though the Comforter is near. 
 
 In one home, by the dark wing shaded, 
 
 Was a youth, in the morning glow 
 And joy of his early manhood, 
 
 But he calmly turned to go. 
 Not a thought of himself — all his feeling 
 
 For others seemed to be; 
 "Weep not," he said, as they sorrowed. 
 
 "Oh, do not weep for me! 
 
 "But sing, that my soul may hear you, 
 
 As over the portal gray 
 My footsteps are heavily toiling. 
 
 The echo of 'Passing Away.' 
 Ah, sweet is the well-known music. 
 
 But a sweeter will come again. 
 Yet a little farther onward 
 
 I can almost catch the strain. 
 
 75 
 
"In the bright land where I'm going 
 
 There will be no shade of death ; 
 Tell the children that I loved them 
 
 With my latest breath." 
 Silent grew he, and so weary 
 
 That we laid him down to rest, 
 With his cherished badge of honor * 
 
 Still sparkling on his breast. 
 
 * Union Eagle. 
 
 TO THE AROOSTOOK VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 Brothers, a blessing, proud though so full of pain. 
 
 Loyal Aroostook giveth to you ; 
 Though her firesides be lonely, her tears like the 
 falling rain, 
 
 Treason imperils the red, white and blue. 
 
 She would not withhold ye who thus to the standard 
 
 fly; 
 
 Dearer than ever she bids you away. 
 Shall the starry flag waver? Hark to the olden cry: 
 "Freedom or death," rings the watchword to-day! 
 
 Oh, better, a thousand times, death on the battle- 
 field, 
 Struggling for country and freedom, like men. 
 Than the doom which stern justice shall yet to the 
 traitor yield, 
 Safe though his years may glide threescore and 
 ten. 
 
 Then on to the rescue where wrong would a nation 
 slay! 
 
 Trust in a righteous God, whate'er befall ! 
 Forget not, wherever shall duty appoint the way. 
 
 Eye of love, heart of faith follows you all. 
 
 76 
 
IF THE SOUL IS BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 If the soul is only beautiful, 
 
 What though the body be 
 But rough in its outward seeming, 
 
 If it keep that spirit free — 
 Unharmed by the world's rough contact- 
 Unstained by the touch of sin- 
 Like a casket, whose only duty 
 Is the jewel enshrined within? 
 
 Some day the body so wearied 
 
 With age, with toil or with care, 
 Will yield to the strain of the pressure, 
 
 But the spirit, whose worth is so rare 
 That the wealth of the world could not ransom. 
 
 That th' Saviour alone could restore. 
 Will go higher, to its resetting. 
 
 When He counteth His jewels o'er. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ask me not for a song to-night. 
 
 The tones would sadness borrow ; 
 Thine own glad voice would feel the blight; 
 
 But I'll sing with thee to-morrow. 
 
 Ask me not for a smile to-night. 
 My brow hath another furrow. 
 
 And my quiv'ring lip refuseth quite; 
 But I'll smile with thee to-morrow. 
 
 I cannot smile nor sing to-night. 
 
 My heart is full of sorrow, 
 Soothingly calm is the sad moonlight 
 
 I will smile and sing to-morrow. 
 
 77 
 
Then leave me all alone to-night, 
 
 To wrestle with my sorrow, 
 Alone, with naught but the dreamy light; 
 
 I'll be gay with the gaudy morrow. 
 
 OH, FOOLISH MILLER! 
 
 Foolish miller! circling, fluttering 
 
 Nearer to the brilliant light ; 
 Don't you know it cares not for you — 
 
 That its touch would kill you quite? 
 Go away, the sky is pleasant, 
 
 Out of doors the night is sweet, 
 And the air is pure and fragrant 
 
 With the breath of flowers replete. 
 
 Go in peace! Infatuation 
 
 Stronger grows while near you stay ; 
 And the lamp burns clearer, brighter, 
 
 You had better go away. 
 Break at once the magic circle — 
 
 You are quite bewildered now. 
 Thinking how 'twere best approaching,- 
 
 You had better not learn how. 
 
 What a pleasant song the taper, 
 
 In low, fitful murmurs, sings, 
 'Twere not best that thou shouldst listen, - 
 
 Foolish miller, lost thy wings! 
 Up the light in triumph rushing, 
 
 Folds him in its blinding glare; 
 Wrecked in beauty and in being — 
 
 He bemoans too late the snare. 
 
 78 
 
Ah, how many with a birthright 
 Far above the silly moth, 
 
 Circle round some gay temptation- 
 Drawing nearer, nothing loth; 
 
 Heeding not this simple lesson; 
 Counting not the fearful cost, 
 
 Till one day a weeping angel 
 Writes — a priceless soul is lost! 
 
 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Who can gather up the brightness 
 
 Of the moonlight, as it plays 
 With such living, airy lightness. 
 
 Like the dancing of the fays? 
 Now, with witching grace, coquetting 
 
 With the pure, white clouds above, 
 Till they, almost half regretting. 
 
 Sweetly blush with timid love. 
 Beautiful in midnight splendor. 
 Bringing visions dreamy, tender, 
 
 Is the moonlight on the clouds. 
 
 Now upon the waters, glancing. 
 
 Where the swiftest ripples whirl, 
 And the naiads, lightly dancing, 
 
 Wear their richest robes of pearl — 
 Jeweled robes, whose varied sparkling 
 
 Shames earth's high-wrought diadems, 
 While the eddies' shadowy darkling 
 
 Adds new lustre to the gems. 
 Minstrel winds make soft, entrancing 
 Music for the sweet nymphs dancing 
 
 With the moonlight on the waves. 
 
 79 
 
Soft its touch, full of caressing, 
 
 On the leaves that tremble much — 
 Tremble with excess of blessing 
 
 At that gentle, thrilling touch. 
 Is it strange that lovers listen 
 
 With wild joy to ardent vows, 
 When the softening love-rays glisten 
 
 On the overhanging boughs? 
 Rare love-teacher, from the olden. 
 Teaching young hearts lessons golden, 
 
 Is the moonlight 'mong the leaves. 
 
 Gentle fairies from their bowers 
 
 Slyly creep, cheered by its smile, 
 Giving their protegee flowers 
 
 Purest gems of dew the while ; 
 Till the forest, upland, meadow, 
 
 Show rich traces of their care. 
 E'en the leaves the trees o'ershadow 
 
 Gleam with jewels, quaint and rare. 
 While our souls such beauties gather, 
 Bless the loving, watchful Father 
 
 For the moonlight pencilings. 
 
 MY BIRTHDAY. 
 
 I stand midway on my journey. 
 And behold where the rising sun 
 
 In a flood of crimsoning radiance 
 Told of a life begun. 
 
 And I look far away to the westward, 
 An untraveled and lengthening plain. 
 
 See the tops of the Mountains of Evening 
 Where that sun will set again. 
 
 80 
 
Around me the glare of the noonday, 
 Yet back glancing well do I know 
 
 That my footsteps have passed the meridian 
 By the shadows beginning to grow. 
 
 Yet, if with brave heart I press forward, 
 Nor murmur and faint by the way, 
 
 I need fear not when deepening shadows 
 Come with the closing day. 
 
 For when the last gleaming of sunset 
 Shall fade in the softening west, 
 
 A kind guide is coming to bear me 
 Away to the land of rest. 
 
 BUILD UP THE WALL. 
 
 Two friends there were, who ever shared 
 
 Each other's cares and pleasures, 
 For whom, when griefs no longer spared, 
 
 Love filled the sinking measure. 
 Their wishes, dreams, ambitions, one, 
 
 One prayer their spirits making, 
 That they might have, when night came on, 
 
 One sleep and one awaking. 
 
 A foolish thing, that forth again 
 
 A look, a word had driven. 
 Made wider distance and more pain 
 
 Than death each tie had riven ; 
 What though their paths be gloomy all, 
 
 And each a weary rover? 
 Build higher yet the angry wall. 
 
 Let neither one look over ! 
 
 81 
 
THE RAIN-SPIRITS. 
 
 All the night without is starless ; 
 
 Angry storm-clouds fill the sky ; 
 While, with fitful gusts and changes, 
 
 Moaningly the winds go by. 
 Musingly I list the raindrops 
 
 Tapping at my window pane; 
 Some are bold, and some are timid — 
 
 Darling spirits of the rain. 
 
 So I open wide my casement, 
 
 Lay my flushed cheek on the sill, 
 Bid them freely come and enter, 
 
 Go or stay, e'en as they will. 
 And I hear them coming, coming, 
 
 Downward through the shadowy gloom. 
 Till their welcome footsteps greet me. 
 
 Like a loved one's, in my room. 
 
 How they bathe my throbbing temples 
 
 With their soft, cool finger-tips ! 
 Loving, gentle, dewy, tender 
 
 Are their kisses on my lips ; 
 And they sing familiar ditties, 
 
 Plaintive ditties, sweet and low. 
 Just such pleasant, wayward fancies 
 
 As they sang me long ago. 
 
 How caressing is each movement. 
 
 As their soft arms round me twine. 
 With their cool hands on my forehead. 
 
 And their cool lips upon mine! 
 How they fan away my fever, 
 
 The weird fever of the brain ! 
 Ah, what dear friends, kind and soothing, 
 
 Darling spirits of the rain! 
 
 82 
 
WHITHER? 
 
 All day long do echoing feet 
 Unceasingly sound on the city street, 
 This way or that way, across and around. 
 Restless humanity, lo! ye are bound — 
 Whither"? 
 
 The hurrying train is all day long 
 Filled with a constantly changing throng, 
 Each heart intent on its own full share 
 Of joy or of sorrow which it must bear — 
 Whither? 
 
 There's a quiet place where at last they go. 
 Kind hands supporting them, steady and slow, 
 Wearily back to the earth again 
 The worn-out mask they give — and then — 
 Whither? 
 
 THE BLESSED RAIN. 
 
 The drouth hath been long and heavy. 
 And fire hath scourged the land. 
 
 But this morning a timid raindrop 
 Caresses my outstretched hand. 
 
 And whispers in joyful cadence 
 Of millions of fairylike things 
 
 Following fast, until the sun is hidden 
 Behind their glancing wings. 
 
 Each one hath a silver goblet 
 With soft rain brimming o'er. 
 
 And soon on the brown and thirsty earth 
 Will their priceless wealth outpour. 
 
 83 
 
Hist! do you hear the patter 
 
 Of tiny feet up and down, 
 Through the highways and the byways, 
 
 Through the streets of the dusty town? 
 
 Over the heated house-tops, 
 
 Out by the panting herd, 
 Until even the fainting brooklet 
 
 By the loving touch is stirred. 
 
 Oh, the rain, the blessed rain! 
 
 How it comes like a healing balm ! 
 I bare my head to its baptismal touch. 
 
 To the voice of its mighty psalm. 
 
 OVER THE HILL. 
 
 Our Charlie in Heaven, the tablet said, 
 
 Where the hills of old Oxford their shadows spread, 
 
 And a restful quiet seemed to fill 
 
 That home of the dead, just over the hill. 
 
 Our Charlie in Heaven, the blossoms said, 
 We are twining a wreath for the early dead. 
 But we ever look upward with faith and love, 
 For we know that our Charlie has gone above. 
 
 Our Charlie in Heaven, the mourner said, 
 With her hand on the stone, as upon his head, 
 While the tears fell fast as she thought of the day 
 And the hopes that died when he went away. 
 
 Our Charlie in Heaven! Oh, blessed faith! 
 The little ones hear what the Saviour saith! 
 They go, and we follow, yet falter still. 
 For the way to those mansions Hes "over the hill." 
 
 84 
 
GONE. 
 
 Gone! Oh, how sad is our darkened home! 
 
 The very silence is pain! 
 How we long for the patter of little feet, 
 For the merry shout and the laughter swect,- 
 
 We listen, but listen in vain. 
 
 Yet even our mourning hath its joy, 
 
 For the world is cold and wide. 
 And our darling hath gone by a shorter way, 
 No turning aside, no going astray, 
 
 Safe to the other side. 
 
 Our way may be rough, the thorns may wound, 
 
 We may stumble o'er many a stone. 
 But over the lilies so pure and so sweet, 
 Not a bruise nor a stain on the little feet, 
 The Shepherd hath claimed His own. 
 
 UNFORTUNATE. 
 
 Unfortunate, is he? Stumbled and fell, 
 
 While your feet were firm and sure. 
 The other day you flattered him well. 
 Were proud of his notice, but who could tell 
 That his standing was insecure? 
 
 Unfortunate, is he? You need not know 
 
 How slight the touch that could save. 
 You slipped, he upheld you, not long ago. 
 And his generous heart was all aglow 
 With the aid he so freely gave. 
 
Unfortunate, is he? Trample him down. 
 
 What right has he now to rise? 
 What right has he anyway, even to dare, 
 To strive for a breath of Heaven's pure air 
 
 Or a glimpse of the starry skies? 
 
 Unfortunate, is he? Those other days — 
 
 Ah, that is his own affair. 
 For only prosperous friendship pays. 
 Misfortune is crime, so all the world says, 
 
 He's down, now grind him there. 
 
 ONE THANKSGIVING DAY. 
 
 They gather once more at home to-day — 
 
 The old and the young are there. 
 The rooms are merry with laughter and song. 
 
 Which I strive in vain to share. 
 While days like this, and memories 
 
 That many a heart hath known, 
 Are calling me ever, through all the mirth. 
 
 With a sweet, sad undertone. 
 
 Around me the trooping children press, 
 
 In happy and careless play, 
 With eager question and mute caress. 
 
 I answer as best I may; 
 For I hear a voice they cannot hear — 
 
 A breath like a murmured prayer 
 A low "God bless you," and then, ah, me' 
 
 I see but a vacant chair. 
 
THE EUROPEAN CONFLICT. 
 
 If those who made the quarrel 
 
 Had but to fight it out, 
 Perhaps Napoleon would have 
 
 A fiercer touch of gout; 
 Would think again, before his voice 
 
 The clash of arms should bring, 
 Because somebody's cousin chanced 
 
 To be Spain's chosen king. 
 
 The field is hardly equal 
 
 In those old centur}^ wars; 
 The kings get all the glory — 
 
 The peasants all the scars. 
 To toil and wounds and thankless death 
 
 The soldier blindly goes, 
 That laurel wreaths may princely brows 
 
 Crown victor at the close. 
 
 We, on this side the ocean, ask. 
 
 By fearful trial taught. 
 For all this wealth of human life 
 
 What great truth to be wrought? 
 We wear a hat or coronet, 
 
 And no one cares to frown; 
 Yet all of Europe's in a fuss 
 
 Just for a worthless crown ! 
 
 LINES IN A PRIZE-BOOK. 
 
 Life is a school, and we are pupils all. 
 Oh! may we con our task with daily care, 
 Be gentle, hopeful, earnest, patient, true. 
 Content if for our toil the prize we share, 
 And the Great Teacher's approbation fall 
 Upon us at review. 
 
 87 
 
THE HARDEST PART OF THE BATTLE. 
 
 Soldiers who come from the battle-field 
 
 May speak of the dreadful fray, 
 Yet their words all prove the same thing true, 
 
 Let the scene be what it may. 
 Those who go forward to the front, 
 
 'Mid the shout and the shock, may dare. 
 But the motionless columns that sternly wait 
 
 Have the hardest part to bear. 
 
 They are eager to move; they long to rush 
 
 Where the fate of the day is won ; 
 But no order comes, since the weary halt, 
 
 And still the fight goes on. 
 Oh, fearful and sad are the sights they see, 
 
 And fearful the sounds they hear, 
 As the hapless wrecks from the terrible front 
 
 Pass slowly by, to the rear! 
 
 All unavenged, though their comrades fall, 
 
 LTnblessed by the meed of praise, 
 Yet duty and honor mark the course, 
 
 And each quivering nerve obeys. 
 They wait but the word of command, to advance 
 
 Where action may valor show, — 
 Oh, the hardest part of the well-fought field 
 
 Those motionless columns know! 
 
 There are battle-fields more than we dream to-day 
 
 In the contest of Wrong and Right, 
 Whence comes not the boom of the signal gun 
 
 To betoken the deadly fight. 
 For some the world hath its laurel wreath, 
 
 Appearing so grand and great, 
 While others, as fierce — but His eye o'erlooks, 
 
 And the order is simply — wait! 
 
TAKE WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Take, if you will, my houses; 
 
 Take, if you will, my lands; 
 I yet have a fairer mansion — 
 
 A house not made with hands. 
 My title is grand to look upon. 
 
 Written in letters of gold, 
 Clear as the light of the noonday sun, 
 
 Mine, to have and to hold. 
 
 Then take, if you will, my houses, 
 
 My lands, where shadows lie ; 
 Though you leave me ne'er a foot of earth, 
 
 I've a home you cannot buy; 
 Where jarrings cease— where all is peace, 
 
 Nor trusted friends betray ; 
 Nor fraud, with its host of legal lies, 
 
 Can wrest my home away. 
 
 LAND OF THE SKY. 
 
 Zigzag, zigzag, 
 
 Up the mountain side; 
 Zigzag, zigzag, 
 
 What a wondrous ride! 
 Up above the tree-tops — 
 
 Can we reach the sky? 
 Up above the whole world — 
 
 Can trouble come so high? 
 Glimpses of the valley 
 
 Like a fairy scene; 
 Valley of the Little Folks, 
 
 It surely must have been ; 
 The gardens seem so tiny; 
 
 The houses look so small ; 
 The streams are threads of silver ; 
 
 The trees are pigmies all. 
 89 
 
THE LAND PIRATE. 
 
 Not worst of all is the man v/hose home 
 
 Is out on the restless sea, 
 Who obeys no king, and who knows no law, 
 
 No lord, save his captain free; 
 Who careth for naught but the ringing gold, 
 
 Like a brave man meets the brave. 
 And after the short, fierce fight is o'er, 
 
 There's the plank and the pitying wave! 
 
 Tho' we turn with horror from strife like this, 
 
 And our loathing do not deny. 
 There is one who goes down to a deeper depth. 
 
 And his name and his fame rank high. 
 He comes with a friendly grasp of the hand. 
 
 With greeting so cordial and kind, 
 Thinks so much of your welfare — until you have need. 
 
 You trust him, and what do you find? 
 
 All this is but seeming, — his heart is as false 
 
 As his smile that has changed to a sneer. 
 While he robs you of money, of friends, of home, 
 
 And of all that your soul holds dear. 
 Ah, for honor and mercy commend me, instead, 
 
 To the pirate and his crew. 
 Where the very flag, with its symbol dread. 
 
 Shows just what they mean to do! 
 
 THE KEY. 
 
 To do the duty nearest me, 
 And try to do it well. 
 
 Is the only key 
 
 To the mystery 
 Of life, that I can tell. 
 
 90 
 
CHRISTMAS GARLANDS. 
 
 Clouds of winter 
 
 Chill with snow! 
 Winds of winter, 
 
 How they blow! 
 But the holly 
 
 Leaves are bright, 
 Fairly shining 
 
 With delight! 
 And the holly 
 
 Berries glow 
 Rich and red, 
 
 In spite of snow! 
 For the merry 
 
 Christmas cheer 
 Crowns the fullness 
 
 Of the year! 
 And the holly, 
 
 Brave and true, 
 Has so much 
 
 Of it to do! 
 Twining garlands 
 
 Everywhere ! 
 Christmas garlands, 
 
 Oh, so fair! 
 
 BARNUM J. HINES. 
 
 Rest, Christian warrior, the conflict is ended, 
 Rest thee in peace, for thy labor is o'er. 
 
 Tenderly thus thy worn, shattered armor 
 Lay we aside, thou wilt need it no more. 
 
 Rest, Christian warrior, sentinel, watchman, 
 
 Faithful in all, hear the Master's "well done." 
 Thou hast fought the good fight, take thy crown of 
 rejoicing. 
 For the battle is over, the victory won. 
 91 
 
EASTER LILIES. 
 
 "Consider the lilies" — 
 The wonderful lilies, 
 That have donned their richest raiment 
 As they cluster by the way. 
 The dainty lilies, 
 The marvelous lilies! 
 Lo ! the king in all his glory 
 
 Cannot match the bright array! 
 How they nod beside the windows, 
 
 How they smile along the street, 
 Till their gladness seems reflected 
 In the faces that we meet. 
 The fair, white lilies, 
 The pure, sweet lilies. 
 That so whisper of the Master 
 As they cluster by the way. 
 The priceless lilies. 
 The heaven-sent lilies; 
 Each leaf a bond of promise 
 This blessed Easter day! 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 Take the world at what 'tis worth, — 
 
 Do not let it grieve you, 
 If when sweeps the winds from north 
 
 Summer friends may leave you. 
 
 Let them go — a broken staff — 
 True hearts are the surer, — 
 
 Rough winds bear away the chaff. 
 Wheat is wheat, the purer. 
 
 92 
 
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Standing at the portal 
 
 Of the wonderland. 
 Ah, did ever mortal 
 
 View a scene so grand? 
 Mountains upon mountains, 
 
 Peaks on peaks arise; 
 Some so very lowly, 
 
 Some that pierce the skies. 
 
 Doubt not the mythology 
 
 Of the ages past. 
 For, lo, the council chamber 
 
 Of the gods at last! 
 From that lofty summit 
 
 Thunderbolts were hurled — 
 Those not in the secret thought 
 
 An earthquake shook the world! 
 
 HURRAH FOR OLD KENNEBEC! 
 
 Hurrah! Hurrah for old Kennebec! 
 
 Hurrah for her sons and daughters! 
 Hurrah that the tide sweeps far and wide, 
 
 Down to the ocean waters! 
 
 Hurrah for Osgood of Gardiner! 
 
 A good, round three times three, men. 
 For a true soul that could break the bowl 
 
 And make of drunkards freemen. 
 
 Hurrah for the Washingtonians, 
 
 Whate'er the name or nation, 
 May they onward move till the whole world prove 
 
 One mighty delegation! 
 
 93 
 
READY. 
 
 One sigh for those we have left behind, 
 
 So distant, and yet so near; 
 One sobbing prayer that Heaven be kind 
 
 To those whom we hold so dear, — 
 And we turn to the future a fearless gaze — 
 
 Unflinchingly question our fate, 
 While we listen to what the oracle says, 
 
 Neither depressed nor elate. 
 
 For we will not bow if the fiat's range 
 
 Be bitter, or harsh, or cold ; 
 Should fortune be cruel, she yet may change 
 
 If our greeting is brave and bold. 
 So here's for a heart that is strong and true, 
 
 Ready to labor and wait. 
 Ready for all there may be to do, 
 
 Let the struggle be small or great. 
 
 DANDELIONS. 
 
 By the side of the noisy city street. 
 With little bare heads and little bare feet, 
 With shrunken garments so thin and so old, 
 Two children are gathering treasures of gold. 
 
 For, spite of the blinding and v>^ithering dust, 
 The grass blades are growing because they must, 
 And nestling among them here and there, 
 Is the pet flower of childhood, with jaunty air. 
 
 Oh, children, so easily won from tears. 
 Ye gather memories for coming years! 
 Oh, blossoms, scarce risen to greet the sun, 
 Ye've striven and conquered, your duty is done ! 
 
 94 
 
LITTLE BIRD ON THE CHERRY TREE. 
 
 Dear little bird, on the cherry tree, 
 What is there of hope or of joy for thee; 
 Nothing around thee but snow and sleet, 
 Nothing for shelter and nothing to eat. 
 While the north wind comes, in a vengeful row, 
 And shakes every twig of the leafless bough. 
 See, these crumbs to thine aid I fling, — 
 Cold, wet and hungry, poor little thing! 
 
 What, a cheerful song such a day as this ; 
 A song full of love and tenderness, 
 A happy song, without touch of care, 
 And no ray of sunshine anywhere ! 
 A song of triumph, full and clear. 
 Of the good time coming, so near, so near! 
 Dear little bird, on the cherry tree. 
 Teach us the wonderful mystery! 
 
 SHOULD WE? 
 
 Should we fear to go back to a father's house 
 
 After a weary straying? 
 Ah, the love that beckons is tried and true, 
 And the heartless world will be lost to view, 
 Tho' its coldness hath chilled us thro' and thro' 
 
 In the days of our long delaying. 
 
 Should we fear to go back to our Father's house. 
 
 The message with joy obeying? 
 Oh, the wayside inns are but bleak and bare 
 To the restful comfort that waits us there. 
 To the welcome One knoweth so well to prepare, 
 
 Our weariness all repaying. 
 
 95 
 
ADOWN THE BAY. 
 
 Adown the bay on the Fourth of July, 
 With a freshening breeze and a cloudless sky, 
 
 Watching the changing social law 
 On board the beautiful Saginaw. 
 
 For the groupings there and the groupings here 
 Have each a history, plain and clear. 
 
 Some cause a smile and some cause a sigh, 
 Some but a glance as you pass them by. 
 
 Silently, earnestly looking across^ 
 
 Oh, say, can you tell the gold from the dross? 
 
 While in dreamy panorama seen 
 
 Is the little isle with its touch of green ; 
 
 The city and country along the shore; 
 The fisher's boat with its home-bound oar; 
 
 The lighthouse, sentry of storm and gale; 
 And the fading vision of one lone sail. 
 
 Now a long, full breath, for adown the bay 
 The ocean glimpse stretches away and away. 
 
 RUTH HALL HINES. 
 
 Rest thee, dear mother, the long day hath ended, 
 Rest, thou hast borne well thy part, — 
 
 Of the sure promises, by far the richest 
 Was unto the pure in heart. 
 
 Thine is that promise, that wonderful promise. 
 
 Whose glory earth cannot unfold. 
 And thine be the rapture, the "peace as a river," 
 
 The joy that can never be told. 
 
GOOD-BYE. 
 
 A long good-bye to thee now, old home, 
 
 The blow hath fallen at last, 
 The hopes that we held, the dreams that were ours, 
 
 Are far away in the past ; 
 For a stranger's foot is upon the sward, 
 
 A stranger hath ta'en the key, 
 A stranger giveth the watch and ward, 
 
 And thou art won from me. 
 
 And yet thou'lt miss me at times, old home, 
 
 Though the stranger's hand should twine, 
 With a touch as tender, in mute caress. 
 
 Each flower and o'er-arching vine, 
 Though the stranger, safe in thy fireside glow. 
 
 Might even my claim deny. 
 There are ties none other can ever know, — 
 
 My dear old home, good-bye. 
 
 ONE BY ONE. 
 
 One by one do the days go by , 
 
 A lengthening chain in ceaseless play. 
 
 While sunshine and shadow with changes vie, 
 But whence and whither, who can say? 
 God knows. 
 
 One by one do our hopes unclasp 
 
 Their broken tendrils from things of earth, 
 
 But to reach again with tremulous grasp, — 
 And what is the trial and struggle worth? 
 God knows. 
 
 One by one pass on before, 
 
 The friends we have loved so long and well, 
 Pass on to the beautiful "shining shore," 
 Why do we linger, who can tell? 
 God knows. 
 
 97 
 
IF I HAD. 
 
 If I had a purse of gold 
 
 Filled with fairy treasure, 
 That, whate'er was bought or sold, 
 
 Just so much would measure; 
 Having still the olden charm 
 
 From the fairy blessing. 
 All of earthly joy or good 
 
 In one full cup pressing: — 
 Then what would I do, what would I do? 
 Ah, that is a secret 'twixt me and you. 
 
 If I had the power to be 
 
 Swift as wishing speeded 
 Over land or over sea, 
 
 All unseen, unheeded ; 
 Given to my will to say 
 
 Whom I would discover. 
 What I would for yea or nay 
 
 To my foe or lover, — 
 Then where would I be, where would I be? 
 Ah, that is a secret 'twixt you and me. 
 
 ARE THEY ALL THERE, MOTHER? 
 
 Have they gathered once more at home, mother, 
 
 Beneath the old roof-tree. 
 Where a father's blessing, a mother's prayer 
 
 Makes sacred the spot to me? 
 Have they come from the North and come from the 
 South 
 
 To prove, as often before, 
 That there's always room at grandfather's house, 
 
 And welcome for still one more? 
 
 98 
 
How well I know just where "Auntie" stands 
 
 Upreaching for roguish Roy, 
 Then eagerly turning to easy Earle, 
 
 And the little pet baby boy. 
 There are eyes of blue, there are eyes of brown, 
 
 Wondering eyes full of angel lore. 
 But no matter what color the eyes may be, 
 
 When the feet reach grandfather's door. 
 
 All there — are they all at home, mother? 
 
 Nay, the West withholds its share. 
 And stations a sentry of cruel miles 
 
 We may neither bribe nor dare. 
 But we know how the true hearts yearn, mother. 
 
 Towards the wanderers out in the cold, 
 Who can only glance back with a pitiful cry, 
 
 But who may not seek the fold. 
 
 NEARING THE RIVER. 
 
 (ZELPHA HINE3 CLARK.) 
 
 We are nearing the silent, mystical river. 
 Our ranks thin fast as the night comes on — 
 
 A message, a whisper, with white, radiant faces — 
 Friends long loved and cherished smile and are 
 gone! 
 
 Gone, and our clasping hands cannot detain them. 
 Gone on before, by a way we must go; 
 
 Swelling the host in the mansion above us, 
 Making still smaller our number below. 
 
 But we are nearing the beautiful river. 
 Though at the last we must cross alone ; 
 
 By and by we shall all get over. 
 By and by we shall claim our own, 
 
 99 
 
 L.«fC. 
 
THE BOATMAN PALE. 
 
 Do you fear the boatman pale 
 
 Rowing o'er the river? 
 Would his coming make you quail, 
 
 Make your pulses quiver? 
 Did you ever listen, waiting, 
 
 Lingering helpless by the shore, 
 Shrinking with an untold terror 
 
 When you knew him coming o'er? 
 Ah, you do not know the changes 
 
 When you look within the veil, 
 Know the rare and radiant beauty 
 
 Of the dreaded boatman pale. 
 
 Had you waited by that river, 
 
 Had you met him face to face. 
 You had loved him then and ever. 
 
 All your terror turned to praise. 
 Would the memory of that meeting, 
 
 Of that kindly whispered "wait," 
 Of that true and tender greeting. 
 
 Soften all the jeers of fate? 
 For beyond is life, and deathless 
 
 Love that nevermore shall fail. 
 Faithful they that bear us over, 
 
 Pilot true and boatman pale. 
 
 S. WESLEY STRATTON. 
 
 He resteth so sweetly, so peaceful and still, 
 He knoweth no sickness, no pain and no ill ; 
 From this chrysalis state he hath broken away — 
 His pure soul hath thrown off its dwelling of clay. 
 
 He resteth. He resteth — ah! wonderful joy 
 To see as now seeth the dear, patient boy. 
 Earth-blinded, we cannot such beauty behold. 
 "By and by, some sweet day," will the glory unfold. 
 
 100 
 
THE TWO BRIDES. 
 
 I sit by my window this fair spring day, 
 
 And close upon either side, 
 Only a step, just over the way. 
 
 Is a beautiful, beautiful bride. 
 And which is most lovely you scarce can tell, 
 
 For one is a blushing rose. 
 The other a lily with touch of grace 
 
 That never the earth-land knows. 
 
 One reigneth a queen in her own proud might, 
 
 And twined in her nut-brown hair 
 The frail orange blossom bloometh bright, 
 
 And maketh her still more fair. 
 Around her is music and mirth and song, 
 
 Love bringeth a bounteous dower, 
 While the pride and joy of that happy throng 
 
 Is the belle of the bridal hour. 
 
 The other, speak gently, there's crape on the door. 
 
 Step lightly with reverent care, 
 Sing the sweet, solemn song of the psalmist of yore. 
 
 While the bridegroom tarrieth there! 
 Oh, how pure is the bride in her peaceful rest, 
 
 With her robings of heaven's own hue, 
 The tiny, white hands softly laid on her breast. 
 
 Busy hands that have no more to do ! 
 
 Blessed Alice, too pure for a dwelling of clay, 
 
 The darling of young and of old ! 
 Thou art called to a glorious mansion away, 
 
 Thou one precious lamb of the fold! 
 We come with heart greetings, in silence, to bring — 
 
 Where words all so meaningless prove — 
 Sweet flower among flowers, our best offering, 
 
 Our deepest and holiest love. 
 
 101 
 
VERY TRUE. 
 
 It is easy to say, when the world goes smooth 
 
 And whatever we would is won, 
 When we scarcely can ask when an answer comes, 
 
 "Thy will, O Lord, be done." 
 For it simply means, though in courtly phrase 
 
 The sentences glow and shine, 
 "I cannot give up my own sweet ways. 
 
 My will, O Lord, be thine." 
 
 But let the pathway grow rough, all untried, 
 
 Till in weary bewilderment lost. 
 Let the perfumed flowers become wounding thorns, 
 
 Let every hope be crossed. 
 And how few that can breathe that holy prayer 
 
 With never a moan of complaint 
 In a time that shall try e'en the innermost soul 
 
 And prove them sinner or saint. 
 
 WHEN THE MASTER CALLETH. 
 
 When the Master calls me, shall I be ready? 
 
 When the Master calls me, tell me, pray! 
 When the Master calls me, shall I be ready. 
 
 Whether it be to-morrow, or whether it be to-day? 
 
 When the Master calls me, will my work be finished? 
 
 In the vastness of Eternity standing midway. 
 Workmanlike and promptly, will each task be fin- 
 ished, 
 
 That which was before and that which is to-day? 
 
 When the Master calls me, oh, soul, answer me. 
 When the Master calleth, what will ye say? 
 
 Are the ripe sheaves gathered, or, empty-handed. 
 Must I seek His presence, should He call to-day? 
 
 102 
 
SEASONABLE. 
 
 Drip, drop, drip ! 
 
 Rain, rain, rain! 
 
 Pour, pour, pour! 
 Till we think in despair of the time of Noah! 
 Surely forty days hath been passed, and more, 
 Yet we look with a sigh for the symbol of peace. 
 Hath the rainbow been lost that the flood doth not 
 
 cease? 
 How we shiver and shrink, how we fret, all in vain. 
 Held at the will of the merciless rain, 
 
 The gloomy, pitiless rain! 
 
 Drip, drop, drip! 
 
 Rain, rain, rain! 
 
 Pour, pour, pour! 
 It may be, perchance, that in other ways 
 We think, with a sigh, of the sunshiny days, 
 That we shiver and shrink with a terrible dread 
 From the dull, dreary darkness, the frown overhead. 
 Yet who shall dare question the smile or the frown? 
 His blessing at last, like a rainbow, may crown — 
 
 Wonderful, glorious crown! 
 
 HAVE YOU SEEN MY DARLING? 
 
 Tell me have you seen my darling 
 
 Little one, 
 Making merry all the household 
 
 With her fun? 
 Listen, can you hear her footstep 
 
 On the stair? 
 Hear the music of her prattle 
 
 Anywhere? 
 
 103 
 
She hath vanished from my clasping, 
 
 Oh, my pet! 
 And I can not rest without her 
 
 Even yet. 
 I have looked through rooms deserted 
 
 All in vain, 
 But the mocking of my calling 
 
 Comes again. 
 While the days still lengthen, lengthen, 
 
 Lengthen still. 
 And I cannot find my darling, 
 
 Come what will, 
 Meeting everywhere with tokens 
 
 Of my pet, 
 Oh, I cannot rest without her. 
 
 Nor forget! 
 
 HALL'S MILL, HARTFORD, ME. 
 
 Ah, the water have disbanded. 
 Left the old mill lonely, stranded, 
 Silent all its busy humming, as its 
 
 Great wheel turns no more. 
 Shattered every beam and rafter, 
 Hvished all sound and merry laughter. 
 And the tired feet of the builder 
 
 Have sought the other shore. 
 
 And that graveyard on the hill — 
 How our pulses throb and thrill 
 As we trace the names so cherished. 
 
 Household names we loved the best. 
 As with faltering words, low spoken. 
 From each mound we bear a token, 
 That at last our steps have wandered 
 
 Slowly by each place of rest. 
 
 104 
 
THE BRIDE OF WINTER. 
 
 We shall soon a bridal see, 
 Earth has lost her lovers three, 
 She is growing old and gray, 
 She must marry while she may, 
 Time will no more suitors bring, 
 She will wed the Winter King. 
 
 Lo, the bridesmaids dancing down 
 Over hill and valley brown, ^--': 
 With their touches, soft and light, 
 Robing poor old earth in white, 
 Deftly hiding here and there 
 Every trace of age or care. 
 
 Can this beauty be the same 
 That young Spring a- wooing came? 
 Did the Summer's courtly grace 
 Bring fresh roses to her face? 
 Or the Autumn, proud and grand, 
 Urge his gifts with lavish hand? 
 
 Stately now, and calm, is she, 
 Robed as such a bride should be— 
 Laces wrought with dainty care, 
 GHnt of diamonds everywhere; 
 Flowers? nay, flowers are common things 
 Never such this bridegroom brings. 
 
 So, if flowers are seen to-day, 
 Hidden from his touch are they, 
 Else bespangled at such cost. 
 Every fragrant hfe were lost. 
 Brilhant must his fair bride be- 
 As an iceberg— what cares he? 
 
 105 
 
APRIL. 
 
 Why so many tears, young April, 
 Tears, fast falling like the rain? 
 
 Does thy labor seem all useless, 
 All thy strivings but in vain? 
 
 Art thou weary with the struggle 
 
 Kissing cold lips into life? 
 Wouldst thou cease the long endeavor, 
 
 Rest thee from the toil and strife? 
 
 Yield not lightly thus, young April, 
 Though thy care but deck the May, 
 
 Though they call thee false and fickle, 
 Seeing but thy changeful day. 
 
 Though another claim thy garlands, 
 Other names the poets sing, 
 
 Shouldst thou falter in thy duty. 
 Where the summer, where the spring? 
 
 Ever thus hath been the measure. 
 
 So as well to smile as weep, 
 Till we reach the grand fulfillment. 
 
 Some must sow that others reap. 
 
 WALKING IN THE SHADOW. 
 
 Walking in the gloomy shadow 
 Where no sunlight ever came. 
 
 Where each word of warmth and beauty 
 Were a mockery to name — 
 
 Where the flowers, if flowers there can be, 
 
 Are so pale, of faded hue. 
 Needing but the cheerful sunshine, 
 
 Needing but the precious dew. 
 
 106 
 
Lo, the song is hushed to silence, 
 For the singer's lips are dumb! 
 
 Only tears upon the blossoms 
 
 Where the heaven-sent dew should come. 
 
 Ah, if wisdom were but given 
 
 To interpret this aright! 
 Know our proud hearts need the sorrow, 
 
 As the glaring day the night. 
 
 Could we know the deepening shadow 
 Speaks the hour before the dawn, 
 
 We could walk by faith, nor murmur, 
 Till the darkness should be gone. 
 
 UNDER THE APPLE-TREE. 
 
 I know just the nicest "summer retreat," 
 Under an apple-tree, cool and sweet ; 
 
 Where the flickering shadows race and run, 
 Up 'mid the green leaves, out in the sun; 
 
 Where clover, o'erlapping, of velvety sheen, 
 Makes a carpet, the richest that ever was seen; 
 
 Where luscious fruit, all crimson and gold. 
 With generous wealth doth the brave tree hold. 
 
 For its boughs are heavy and low and wide. 
 And a rustic seat clings to its rustic side. 
 
 At its foot a hammock swings and swings ; 
 At its top a blithe bird sings and sings. 
 
 Ah, dearly the children love to meet 
 Under the apple-tree, cool and sweet. 
 
 107 
 
CORA BELL COLE. 
 
 How sad and lone hath the bright world grown ! 
 
 Though they tell us our dai'ling is near, 
 We list in vain for her songs again, 
 
 And her foosteps we cannot hear. 
 O Cora, dear Cora, our Cora Bell ! 
 
 It is hard to say, through our tears, to-day, 
 " He doeth all things well." 
 
 From the witching ways of her childhood days 
 
 To the grace of the maiden true, 
 She our royal queen, and her realm hath been 
 
 Every hope that our fond hearts knew. 
 O Cora, fair Cora, rare Cora Bell ! 
 
 We can hardly say, through our tears, to-day, 
 "He doeth all things well." 
 
 For the burdens of life, for its cares and strife, 
 She hath taken the crown of peace. 
 
 And a glorified home hath the heaven become. 
 Where she findeth such release. 
 
 O Cora, dear Cora, our Cora Bell! 
 
 We will humbly pray for strength to say, 
 "He doeth all things well." 
 
 When, at set of sun, He shall say, "Well done! 
 
 Enter thou where the faithful be." 
 All this anguish passed, we shall meet~at last 
 
 In that blessed home with thee. 
 O Cora, dear Cora, my Cora Bell ! 
 
 We then can say, if we fail to-day, 
 "He doeth all things well." 
 
 108 
 
ALLIE. 
 
 "I am so glad," sang a sweet, young voice, 
 
 With triumph in each tone, 
 "I am so glad that Jesus loves me. 
 
 That Jesus His love hath shown." 
 
 'Twas a cadence caught from the heavenly land ; 
 
 But we could not, we would not, see 
 He was leading her up with the blessed words : 
 
 "Let the little ones come unto Me." 
 
 Fainter grew the song till the voice was hushed, 
 
 But her eye still of triumph told. 
 Of a wonderful joy that we could not feel, 
 
 Of glories we might not l^ehold. 
 
 Lay each sacred treasure of child-love by, 
 
 With tenderest touch and care, 
 The dolls in the cradle are priceless now, 
 
 For her dear hands placed them there. 
 
 Fold the little dresses, embalmed with tears, 
 
 She needeth them not again, 
 She hath purer raiment of daintier grace, 
 
 That can never soil nor stain. 
 
 Darling Allie, thy smile ever beckoneth on 
 
 Thy dear ones who love thee so ; 
 The Shepherd hath taken thee, precious lamb, 
 
 That they'll follow where thou dost go. 
 
 109 
 
WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT A MOTHER? 
 
 Such the motto fondly chosen 
 
 Only yesterday — inwrought 
 With each rainbow-tinted letter 
 
 Brighter hues of loving thought. 
 Home was always home with mother, 
 
 Could there be a truer, better, — 
 Came a message, anguish fraught. 
 
 Saying: "Death hath claimed thy mother!'! 
 
 What is home without a mother? 
 
 What is sky without a sun? 
 What is ocean without water? 
 
 What is life when death hath won? 
 What is home without a mother? 
 
 Well we know, we who have sought her 
 Through the lone rooms one by one. 
 
 Home, ah me, home without mother! 
 
 Once, at lightest touch of sorrow, 
 
 Grief of heart or care of brain, 
 ."Mother" bore the balm of healing. 
 
 Soothed the sorrow, stilled the pain. 
 Patient, tender, blessed mother! 
 
 Came to her all sad hearts, feeling 
 They should not ask cheer in vain. 
 
 Dear, unselfish, noble mother! 
 
 Now, like avalanche the burden. 
 
 And we cannot hear her prayer, 
 Feel her touch, though we are kneeling 
 
 Close beside her vacant chair. 
 Oh, my mother, oh, my mother! 
 
 It were joy beyond revealing, 
 Could we see her sitting there ! 
 
 What is home without my mother? 
 
 110 
 
Hush! What is that breath-like whisper, 
 
 What those words, like mother's own? 
 "Look above in thy beseeching, 
 
 God is love — then cease to moan." 
 Brave, pure-hearted, Christian mother. 
 
 By her life such lessons teaching; 
 She shall reap as she hath sown, 
 
 Home shall be in heaven with mother. 
 
 THE BRIDE'S OPALS. 
 
 How they gleam and glitter 
 
 And flash and shine — 
 Those wonderful jewels. 
 
 The pride of mine. 
 
 One time a wild sunbeam 
 
 In curious way 
 Went peering about 
 
 Where in darkness they lay ; 
 
 Was caught and imprisoned 
 
 By fairy spell. 
 In the heart of those jewels 
 
 Forever to dwell. 
 
 Outflashing, and eager 
 
 At every turn, 
 To find its lost freedom 
 
 It vainly doth yearn ; 
 
 For still the spell worketh, 
 
 Still barred is the way 
 For the poor, wayward sunbeam, 
 
 Lost and astray. 
 
 Ill 
 
MIRACLES. 
 
 "An egg a chicken! Don't tell me, 
 For didn't I break an egg to see? 
 There was nothing inside but a yellow ball, 
 With a bit of mucilage round it all — 
 
 Neither beak nor bill, 
 
 Nor toe nor quill, 
 
 Not even a feather 
 
 To hold it together. 
 Not a sign of life could any one see. 
 An egg a chicken! You can't fool me! 
 
 "An egg a chicken! Didn't I pick 
 Up the very shell that had held the chick, 
 So they said, and didn't I work half a day 
 To pack him in where he couldn't stay? 
 
 Let me try as I please. 
 
 With squeeze upon squeeze, 
 
 There is scarce space to meet 
 
 His head and his feet. 
 No room for any the rest of him — so 
 That egg never held that chicken, I know." 
 
 Mamma heard the logic of her little man. 
 Felt his trouble, and helped him, as mothers can; 
 Took an egg from the nest — it was smooth and round, 
 "Now, my boy, can you tell me what makes this 
 sound?" 
 
 Faint and low, tap, tap; 
 
 Soft and slow, rap, rap; 
 
 Sharp and quick. 
 
 Like a prisoner's pick. 
 "Hear it peep inside there!" cried Tom, with a shout ; 
 "How did it get in, and how will it get out?". 
 
 112 
 
Tom was eager to help — he could break the shell. 
 Mamma smiled as she said, "All's well that ends 
 
 well. 
 Be patient awhile yet, my boy." Click, click, 
 And out popped the bill of a dear little chick. 
 
 No room had it lacked. 
 
 Though snug it was packed. 
 
 There it was, all complete, 
 
 From its head to its feet. 
 The softest of down, and the brightest of eyes. 
 And so big — why, the shell wasn't half its size! 
 
 Tom gave a long whistle. "Mamma, now I see 
 That an egg is a chicken — though the how beats me. 
 An egg isn't a chicken, that I know and declare. 
 Yet an egg is a chicken — see the proof of it there. 
 
 Nobody can tell 
 
 How it came in that shell ; 
 
 Once out, all in vain 
 
 Would I pack it again. 
 I^think 'tis a miracle, mamma mine. 
 As much as that of the water and wine." 
 
 Mamma kissed her boy. "It may be that we try 
 Too much reasoning about things, you and I. 
 There are miracles wrought, every day, for our eyes, 
 That we see without seeing, or feeling surprise ; 
 
 And often we must 
 
 Even take on trust 
 
 What we cannot explain 
 
 Very well again. 
 But from the flov/er to the seed, from the seed to the 
 
 flower, 
 'Tis a world of miracles every hour." 
 
 113 
 
RUTH ROWLAND HALL. 
 
 Half a hundred years, and more, since the day 
 They stood side by side, that morning in May, 
 And, with clasped hands, vowed until death to be 
 
 true, — 
 It was springtime then — and life was new. 
 
 Half a hundred years! They had tasted all 
 
 Of life together — its sweetness and gall. 
 
 And their footsteps had reached the mysterious shore 
 
 Where one must wait — one go on before. 
 
 Without was the chill of a wdntry sky — 
 Deep under the snow the spring flowers lie. 
 The birds are hushed, and the winds are cold, — 
 It is winter time — and life is old. 
 
 Around them a stricken household band, 
 Three generations of children stand — 
 Yet all of them "children" — even they 
 Of middle age, with a touch of gray. 
 
 True in heart, pure in soul, with a perfect trust. 
 The old couple joined hands, ere part they must. 
 "Nearly fifty-five years, dear wife," he said, 
 "Fifty-five years since we were wed." 
 
 That was all, nothing more, words lost their power 
 When heart spoke to heart in that solemn hour, — 
 Ah, love is stronger than death can be, 
 That hand-clasp said — for eternity! 
 
 114 
 
A PARADOX. 
 
 Hoarding, hoarding, hoarding, hoarding! 
 
 Craving more than you can hold, 
 Just a heap of clinking silver, 
 
 Just a pile of yellow gold. 
 
 And, within the bands of iron. 
 
 House on house, and lands on lands, 
 
 Just the title deeds and mortgage 
 Wrested from outreaching hands! 
 
 Thus you plan with greed and scheming, 
 
 And the end of all will be 
 Just a heap with sods piled over. 
 
 That you may not care to see. 
 
 Would you take your riches with you. 
 Passing through the needle's eye? 
 
 Ah, to keep them you must scatter — 
 Paradox — the how and why. 
 
 For this cold and soulless treasure 
 You can make to throb and live. 
 
 If you only know the key-word — 
 And that wondrous word is give. 
 
 You must go a way ye know not. 
 You will lose what you withhold — 
 
 What ye give will come unto you — 
 Choose ye 'twixt the dross and gold. 
 
 115 
 
WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 To E. W. R. 
 
 The Northland gives you a rare beau K., 
 
 With a true lover's knot to bind, 
 And the Southland sends you a fair bouquet 
 
 With a wealth of love entwined. 
 
 The rugged side of the mountain wide, 
 
 And the sunny vale below, 
 Yield their earliest bloom to the bonny bride 
 
 In the far-away land of snow. 
 
 Tender and true, the Southland bouquet 
 
 Giveth all of its life to thee ; 
 Thro' good and thro' ill may your Northland beau K. 
 
 As true and as tender be. 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. C. C. K. 
 
 Your lives have blended into one, 
 Thro' summer or winter weather. 
 
 And evermore, as you journey on, 
 You will journey on together. 
 
 LTnion is strength, if union be true. 
 
 And love be the silken tether ; 
 And the hardest tasks will be easy to do 
 
 If you labor thus together. 
 
 The trials of life will be easy to bear. 
 Its cares not outweigh a feather, 
 
 When one who loves you can claim a share, 
 And you bear the burden together. 
 
 116 
 
Bright be the skies along your way, 
 And sweet the blossoming heather, 
 
 While you advance to the perfect day, 
 Onward and upward together. 
 
 May your sorrows lessen, your joys increase, 
 Thro' summer and winter weather. 
 
 And all your paths be paths of peace 
 As you journey on together. 
 
 AFTER MANY YEARS. 
 
 1846-1886. 
 
 Forty years — as a tale that is told. 
 Forty years — are we growing old? 
 
 Old already, some will say, 
 Glancing at the threads of gray. 
 
 Glancing at the fading eye, 
 At the wrinkles none too sly. 
 
 Well, let the years still come and go. 
 They may bring a richer glow : 
 
 For children's children claim their way 
 In our hearts and homes to-day. 
 
 Old friends are the best of friends — 
 Old scenes make for new amends. 
 
 Though springtime bloom be fair and sweet, 
 Is autumn fruitage less complete? 
 
 When harvest fields are ripe with gold, 
 It ne'er is said "they're growing old." 
 
 117 
 
A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 For fifty years! For fifty years! 
 
 Oh, rare and wonderful pleasure 
 To count by years twoscore and ten, 
 
 Of wedded life the measure ! 
 
 We give you joy, with all our hearts, 
 On this, your golden wedding, 
 
 Whereon the love of all these years 
 Its radiant light is shedding. 
 
 The springtime bloom was fair and sweet 
 That earlier wedding morning. 
 
 Is autumn fruitage less complete 
 This later one adorning? 
 
 For children bring to you to-day 
 Their meed of love and duty, 
 
 And children's children crown your way 
 With all their young life's beauty. 
 
 When twenty-five swift years shall fling 
 
 Their halo o'er the meeting, 
 May children's children's children bring 
 
 Your diamond wedding greeting! 
 
 We wrote with stars just there because 
 That seemed so fit an ending; 
 
 Yet for ourselves add one more clause, 
 Congratulations sending. 
 
 May sorrows lessen, joys increase. 
 Through spring or autumn weather, 
 
 And may your paths be paths of peace 
 As you journey on together. 
 
 118 
 
TURNED OUT OF DOORS. 
 
 Turned out by hearts 
 That are colder than snow, 
 
 Out into the streets, 
 
 Where the wild winds blow. 
 
 Yet storm and tempest, 
 
 Assailing her there, 
 Are naught to the fury 
 
 Of her despair. 
 
 Can she believe it — 
 
 That she who hath known 
 Friends without number. 
 
 Is homeless, alone? 
 
 Well she remembers 
 
 The golden glow 
 Of the beautiful hearthstone — 
 
 So long ago! 
 
 And the fair, young mother! 
 
 Ah, could she rest 
 In peace and quiet 
 
 On that true breast ! 
 
 Shut from all shelter — 
 
 Oh, gates ajar! 
 Can she find thy portals — 
 
 Is heaven so far? 
 
 119 
 
SNOWBIRD. 
 
 Swift down, without swerving, straight from the 
 
 skies. 
 Looking in at my window so coyly wise, — 
 Half thy beauty was caught from heaven. 
 And half the shadow of earth hath given — 
 What is the message that thou dost bring, 
 Folded securely under thy wing? 
 Surely I see it fluttering — 
 
 Ah, the wild hopes toward thee thronging! 
 
 The yearnings to hear from the loved and lost ! 
 From one who so lately the river crossed ! 
 The slightest token, the simplest word. 
 Would be priceless now, — oh say, bright bird, 
 What was the token she gave to thee? 
 What was the message she sent to me? 
 I scarce can be patient and wait to see. 
 For my soul is restless with longing! 
 
 OUR ROY. 
 (Roy F. Bartlett.) 
 
 Love is stronger than death. Love cannot die. 
 
 An Infinite love all spheres enfolds. 
 Though broken and shattered our fond hopes lie, 
 
 Yet love, immortal, unites and holds. 
 
 He has gone from our sight, but we feel that still 
 He is near us ofttimes, in the dear old way. 
 
 And ever, and ever, our pulses thrill 
 At thought of what he may do or say. 
 
 So, as best we can, we go on our way, 
 Where at every step we so miss our boy. 
 
 For we know, by faith, that some time, some day, — 
 Some happy day, — we shall see our Roy. 
 
 120 
 
ONLY A LITTLE WHILE. 
 
 Words are so idle, dear friend, to-day. 
 In this hour of your mighty sorrow ; 
 
 Let me whisper, as softly as whisper I may, 
 Still there cometh a morrow — 
 Only a little while. 
 
 This life, which seemeth so joyless and drear, 
 
 So lengthened the way to follow, 
 As you look down the vista of month and of year, 
 
 So worthless, so empty and hollow — 
 Only a little while. 
 
 We grope, like a blind man, 'mid wonderful things, 
 
 Unseen by our mortal vision; 
 Like the blind restored, we shall know at last 
 
 The glories of life elysian — 
 Only a little while. 
 
 The briefest span to work and to wait 
 In the path that hath been assigned us, 
 
 And the shadows of earth, its heartache and pain. 
 Will be left afar behind us — 
 Only a little while. 
 
 Then the rapture of greeting those "gone before," 
 
 Where death ne'er again can sever; 
 Alone no longer and lonely no more, 
 
 And the name of that place is Forever — 
 Only a little while. 
 
 121 
 
A WOMAN OF FASHION. 
 
 She toils not, neither does she spin; 
 
 But as for the arraying, 
 You might as well again begin 
 
 And make anew the saying. 
 
 The lily may be fair to see, 
 
 And rich, as color ranges, 
 Yet, when once dressed, you must agree 
 
 It has not many changes. 
 
 This stately ladj^ full of grace. 
 For very best of reason, 
 
 Scorns anything so commonplace 
 As one dress for the season. 
 
 Of Wo7'th she has a great deal more 
 (Her friends have means of knowing) 
 
 Than that old-fashioned, modest flower 
 In country meadows growing. 
 
 So that goes by ; but as you gaze 
 On dainty lips, soft smiling, 
 
 AVell versed in all the winning ways. 
 To mankind so beguiling, 
 
 On shimmering silks, on gems that burn, 
 With wealth of untold treasure, 
 
 You wonder — does she never yearn 
 For simpler, purer pleasure. 
 
 122 
 
A MODERN MARRIAGE. 
 
 Is it a marriage? — 
 
 Bargain and sale; 
 Glitter of diamonds ; 
 
 A bridal veil ; 
 
 A grand church wedding; 
 
 Gifts by the score ; 
 A trip to Europe ; 
 
 And then — what more? 
 
 Balls and receptions; 
 
 Flirtations — or worse ; 
 Quarrels and scandals; 
 
 Perhaps a divorce. 
 
 Pride may hold parley 
 And sneeringly say, 
 
 There is no such wonder 
 As love to-day; 
 
 Where hearts, unsatisfied, 
 Hiding their pain, 
 
 And longing to shatter 
 The gilded chain. 
 
 Yet, whether in palace 
 
 Or lowly cot, 
 There is no marriage 
 
 Where love is not. 
 
 123 
 
THE LOVE KNOT. 
 
 She was tying a knot 
 With daintiest grace, 
 
 A far-away look 
 
 On her sweet, young face ; 
 
 A knot Uke a poem, 
 Of mystical chime, 
 
 Of happy heart-beats, 
 In time and time, 
 
 With fair forget-me-nots 
 Running through. 
 
 Quaintly embroidered — 
 "Forever true." 
 
 If old were the story 
 She knew it well, 
 
 For each double bow 
 Had so much to tell. 
 
 Each double loop. 
 So strong and true. 
 
 With fair forget-me-nots 
 Running through. 
 
 Oh, the knottiest knot 
 The world can know, 
 
 Is naught to the knot 
 Of the double beau. 
 
 124 
 
OUR MARY. 
 
 Fair as the lily she gathers up, 
 Pure as the breath from its fragrant cup, 
 Untaught in the school of the worldly-wise, 
 A humble maiden, akin to the skies, 
 "Our Mary." 
 
 Hating with all her honest heart 
 Hypocrisy and canting art, 
 Using keen words where words will tell. 
 In everyday warfare we know so well, 
 "Our Mary." 
 
 Loving with all her loving heart 
 The true, warm friends who espouse her part, 
 Little cares she how the world goes on, 
 So it lets her friends and herself alone, 
 "Our Mary.". 
 
 Thy innocence be thy shield, dear child. 
 Keeping thee ever undefiled, 
 Free from the cares of the worldly-wise, 
 A humble maiden, akin to the skies. 
 "Our Mary." 
 
 REMEMBER— FORGET. 
 
 Ah, ponder no longer with vain regret 
 
 O'er memories gloomy, with teardrops wet, 
 
 For sighs cannot lighten the clouds overcast, 
 
 Nor pinings e'er brighten hopes dead with the past. 
 
 They but darken the shadows and crush out the light, 
 And leave, as thou gazeth, more desolate night. 
 Then mourn thou no longer, nor vainly regret. 
 Arise, be thou stronger, e'en learn to forget, 
 
 125 
 
Remembering only that when thou didst stray, 
 Some birds made sweet music to gladden thy way ; 
 Some flowers were blooming the foul weeds among, 
 Their richest perfuming abroad freely flung. 
 
 Hoard each glance of affection, each word-glance 
 
 arrayed ; 
 Let the frowning and harshness in oblivion fade ; 
 Forget not to treasure each good thou hast met ; 
 But the wrong in thy measure, remember — forget. 
 
 IN THE FOG. 
 
 My vision is dim this morning 
 With gazing far out in the mist. 
 
 Where the shadowy boats glide softly, 
 Like spectres no sun hath kissed. 
 
 No ripple upon the waters. 
 
 No dash of the dripping oar, 
 They come like pictures from dreamland, 
 
 They pass and are seen no more. 
 
 And which is the sky or the ocean, 
 And which is the land or the sea, 
 
 And where is the sign of their greeting. 
 Is a mystery to me. 
 
 Even thus is my soul outreaching 
 
 Afar to the dim unknown, — 
 Bewildered with grasping at shadows. 
 
 Drifting away alone. 
 
 Enwrapped in the mists of the morning, 
 So dim, yet so cold and gray, — 
 
 And whether to shipwreck or shelter. 
 My life-bark — oh, who can say? 
 
 126 
 
,tB "^ i^^'* 
 

 
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