0. 
 
€i^ne 
 
 psider % Lilies 
 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 ^Epcc^ jae^^ew ^E^vig. 
 
 ST. LOUIS : 
 
 Published by Becktold & Co., 
 
 1883. 
 

 JA 4t IMS 
 
Contents. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Consider the Lillies, _ - - - i 
 
 God, - - - - ■ - - 3 
 
 Voice of The Sea, - - - - - 8 
 
 Affinity, - - - - - - 12 
 
 The Weary Way of Life, - " ' ''^ ^> - - 16 
 
 To My Heart, - - - - - - ^9 
 
 Life's True Pictures, - - - - 22 
 
 Alone, - - - - - - - 28 
 
 Our Temple of Art, - - - - 31 
 
 The Future Great City of the World, - - 36 
 
 Ode to Captain James B. Eads, - - - 44 
 
 Farewell, O Good Old Year, - - - - 53 
 
l.Testimoiiial from Hon. J. D. Finney.] 
 
 Mrs. Rebecca Morrow Reavis : 
 
 Madam : Addison says somewhere in the Spectator that " women may be living poems, but 
 they never write one." However true it may have been in his age, it is not so in ours. The 
 mascuHne genius and feminine tenderness displayed by Mrs. Felicia Hemans, will make many a 
 heart throb, when our grandchildren have grown gray. No American poet is her superior, and to 
 this hour in the outgiving of the soul's inspiration she stands alone amid her sex. 
 
 May I say, without intending any fulsome adulation, that I have found in many of your desul- 
 tory poems the yet unfledged germs of her genius ? 
 
 May I further suggest that while applauding your muse in her highest flights, I would still be 
 more pleased, did she continue longer on the wing. In other words, you should write a woman's 
 Iliad, not, however, a story of batdes and sieges, but a tale of the human heart. Select such a 
 subject, and in writing it. make it the anchor which holds you to your hope of immortality. Then 
 you may say in the words of Mrs. Hemans : 
 
 *' I shall not perish all, the bright work grows. 
 Beneath my hand, unfolding as a rose 
 Leaf after leaf to beauty ; line after line 
 I fix my thought, heart, soul to burn, to shine." 
 
 Very Respectfully^ 
 St. Louis, October 30th, 1883. John D. Finney. 
 
 (Tesfcimonirtl from Judge S. D. Thompson.) 
 
 To the Editor of the Spectator : 
 
 I trust that you will continue to encourage Mrs. Reavis in writing poetry. Her last poem in 
 the Spectator. "Consider the Lilie«;," shows that she possesses three qualities which go to make 
 the highest art in poetry : nobility of sentiment a sense of the beautiful, a power of melody. If 
 Mrs. Reavis continues to write and to improve as she has lately done, she will soon take the country 
 by storm. Just now the want of a poet is th&cryin;j^ want of American literature. 
 
 Yours truly ^ 
 St. Louis, October 13th, 1883. S. D. Thompson. 
 
TO 
 
 fifnuM mp. MS 
 
 iOHN p,(^ ^JIONBERGER, 
 
 A man whose every wish to aid each noble cause 
 
 Is parent to an honorable deed ; 
 Who, in his role of friend, was never known to pause, 
 
 But promptly sought to satisfy the need ; 
 
 Who, in his earnest hope that future years may see 
 That highest type of worth for which we look, 
 
 Spares not an effort now to aid humanity, — 
 The Author dedicates this little book. 
 
 Then go, my little book, I bid thee fond farewell ; 
 
 Go o'er the untried path, — make thine own way ; 
 The hills and steep descents before thee I can't tell. 
 
 But thou art not alone where thousands stray. 
 
 I send thee as a dove out on the wide, wide main, 
 
 And only ask I may, at length, be blest 
 With some fond proof that thou hast not gone forth in vain 
 
 That thou hast found some verdant place to rest. 
 
 R. M. R, 
 
iKETCH OF THE MUTHOR. 
 
 ^ 
 
 N reproducing the following poems, written by Rebecca Morrow 
 Reavis for St. Louis publications, it is due to the author to 
 state, that while she possesses a genius and ability for composi- 
 tion and authorship of a high order, and has given much of her time 
 during the past ten or more years, to the writing of prose and poetry, 
 her name has but recently appeared in public print. Possessed, however, 
 of a superior intelligence and of the highest elements of womanly virtues, 
 she claims a place among the present aspirants and ambitious co- 
 workers in the broad field of American literature. In this chosen field 
 of labor she has already demonstrated a power of thought and expres- 
 sion in poetry and prose of unusual merit. 
 
 Her style is original and marked for easy expression, and thus 
 early appearing as an author, it may be assumed that she can readily 
 and certainly achieve a high and well deserved place among the female 
 authors of this country. 
 
 With this first presentation of some of the poems of this new and 
 brilliant author, it is due to her and the public to present a brief sketch 
 of her life. 
 
 Upon the evergreen Isle, in the midst of the sea, there has been 
 given birth to so many who have adorned the pages of literature ; be- 
 come distinguished in oratory and statesmanship, and have in some in- 
 stances led the armies of the greatest nations in Europe to victories that 
 
wrap its history with unfading glory and honor, that it would be strange 
 indeed if the situation and the spirit which surrounds and makes eminent 
 all of history, should fail to give birth to new energies, fresh endeavors, 
 and great ambitions. These conspicuous characteristics of the Celtic 
 race are largely owing to situations, circumstantial surroundings and con- 
 ditions which seemingly have crushed individual opportunities for centu- 
 ries. In the grand historic results are shown the spirit of aspiration as 
 well as action, pressing forward to conspicuous places in the front rank of 
 literature ; however great and heavy has been the hand of oppression. 
 
 It is in connection with such a race that Rebecca Morrow Reavis is 
 named in this notice, who was born in county Galway, in the charming 
 and beautiful town of Monivea, Ireland. Her father was a tradesman, 
 quite prosperous, and in comfortable circumstances. She was the seventh 
 of the eight children composing the family, and was offered the oppor- 
 tunities of a good common school education, which were greatly improved. 
 Having a tenacious and. retentive memory, her intellectual development 
 was rapid, and she became in consequence imbued with an unconquer- 
 able desire to rise to the higher levels of fame attained by her country- 
 women. Infused with this spirit, her object and aspiration became honor- 
 able distinction in the realm of literature, and is best explained by a 
 quotation from Edgeworth : *' Fame sometimes gives her votaries visions 
 of their future destiny, while yet in early life. There is then a sort of 
 sympathy, created between their youthful aspirations and coming deeds 
 — a reflection of the futu^re upon the present." With such enlarged views 
 she came to the United States in 1876, in the hope of satisfying a great 
 ambition. Her first residence in the United States was in Camden, N. J., 
 and in 1882 she came to the Great West. Inheriting her father's love for 
 literature, she wrote poetry at ten years of age, and other pieces of no 
 inconsiderable merit in later years, and made books her companions and 
 studied the literary productions of the times. 
 
 During the past few years Mrs. Reavis gave much time and 
 earnest thought to her earlier ambitions and devotion to the grand ideal 
 and dream of her life. When asked, why she left the home of youth for 
 
a new and untried country, she replied : " I left home, because 1 
 wearied of monotony, and have a restless, feverish ambition to be and 
 to do — something. Such restlessness and impatience as would make one 
 
 * weary of life ' without a purpose to gain or attain to, and which says 
 
 * You Diust ! ' to its victim." Again when asked concerning her education 
 and capabilities to become an author, the following self-confident and 
 self-asserting answer was promptly given : " My education is not exceed- 
 ingly ample nor brilliant, but sufficient with my ability — and inherent 
 facility for composition — to entitle me to a place among the world's 
 aspirants." 
 
 Such courage and daring is an unquestioned evidence of the spirit 
 which conquers fortune and fame. Her coming West was to find a 
 broader field for the exercise of her active mental forces, and already she 
 is being recognized as a brilliant rising star in the firmament of literature. 
 To her the splendors of the earth and heavens are most attractive, and 
 looked upon with intense interest. It is the grandeur of thought, and not 
 the cold methods of analytical philosophy, that arouses the sublime con- 
 ceptions of her writings. They partake of the gorgeous flash from the 
 cloud in a storm, and of the dreamy distance of the landscape when in 
 repose, more than of subtle reasoning from causes to effect. They at once 
 startle and surprise, instead of leading through an old worn path, and 
 hence her productions are received with a greater interest. 
 
 Miss Morrow was married June 3rd, 1883, to Mr. L. U. Reavis, of St. 
 Louis, the distinguished author of " The Future Great City," "Removal of 
 the National Capital," and many other publications, including lectures, 
 which have commanded wide public attention. 
 
 In connection with her brief history, something may be said of her 
 personally and of her manner of writing. She is a lady of superior 
 intelligence, and wholly of a retiring, modest and unpretentious demeanor, 
 which at once command respect and high regard of all who know her. 
 She is personally attractive and possessed of highly amiable qualities. 
 As a writer she partakes something of the *' mystic," as Swedenborg 
 would call it. Her method of composition is one of unusual and sur- 
 
prising rapidity. The poem on Captain Eads was written in three 
 days, and that too without any previous knowledge of the history and 
 labors of that distinguished citizen and engineer. An unexpected request 
 to write the poem, accompanied with a biographical sketch and additional 
 notes, led to its production in a small town in Illinois, and no matter what 
 competent critics may say of the merits of the poem, it will still remain 
 as enduring evidence of the superior ability and genius of the author. 
 And as her name is now entered as a new aspirant in the field of litera- 
 ture, the public, from time to time, will be favored with her productions. 
 
 As appropriate to the presentation of this sketch, it will be of interest 
 to briefly consider something of the poet, as viewed by Lord Macaulay, 
 Emerson, and others. 
 
 From Macaulay the poet receives but little encouragement to follow 
 the muse in the regions of fancy. Emerson, on the other hand, gives 
 every possible word of encouragement to the rising poet. 
 
 Said Macaulay, in his matchless and admirable criticisms upon poets 
 and poetry : " By poetry, we mean the art of employing words in such a 
 manner, as to produce an illusion on the imagination : the art of doing by 
 means of words, what the painter does by means of colors." He then, 
 for illustration, selects from England's greatest poet in support of his own 
 definition : 
 
 " As imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation and a name." 
 
 Upon this always attractive subject Emerson has written much and 
 well. He says : " The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty. 
 He is a sovereign, and stands on the center. For the world is not painted 
 or adorned, but is from the beginning beautiful; and God has not made 
 some beautiful things, but Beauty is the creator of the universe. There- 
 fore the poet is not any permissive potentate, but is emperor in his own 
 right. Criticism is infested with a cant of materialism, which assumes 
 that manual skill and activity is the first merit of all men, and disparages 
 
 ® Vlll -3 
 
such as say and do not, overlooking the fact that some men, namely 
 poets, are natural sayers, sent into the world to the end of expression, 
 and confounds them with those whose province is action, but who quit it 
 to imitate the sayers. But Homer's words are as costly and admirable to 
 Homer, as Agamemnon's victories are to Agamemnon. The poet does 
 not wait for the hero or sage, but, as they act and think primarily what 
 will and must be spoken, reckoning the others, though primaries also, 
 yet, in respect to him, secondaries and servants ; as sitters or models in 
 the studio of a painter, or as assistants who bring building-material to an 
 architect." 
 
 Again he says : " For poetry was all written before time was, 
 and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that 
 region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt 
 to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or a verse and 
 substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men 
 of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these 
 transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations." 
 
 If Emerson ever failed to be transcendental, he would not be Emerson. 
 In relation to poetry, however, he thinks deeper and better than Macaulay, 
 exclaiming: ** With what a joy I begin to read a poem which I can con- 
 fide in as an inspiration ! " 
 
 In accord with these suggestions, Jamblichus says : "Things more 
 excellent than every image are expressed through images." 
 
 If it is true, as Spenser says, that, 
 
 '• For of the soul, the body form doth take, 
 P'or soul is form, and doth the body make," 
 
 every inspired thought that warms in the soul of the genuine poet is a 
 new and fresh revelation to himself, as full of delight and surprise as it is 
 to the admiring reader. In support of this divine truth, Proclus says : 
 
 " The mighty heaven exhibits, in its transfiguration, clear images of 
 the splendor of intellectual perceptions ; being moved in conjunction with 
 the unapparent periods of intellectual natures." 
 
The first utterances of the old prophets were in the form of poetry, 
 and so was all history written until the time of Herodotus. Many of the 
 ancient nations proclaimed their laws in this form, until at a more recent 
 period language assumed the construction of prose. The loftiest thoughts 
 and most delicious language of literature are in the form of verse, and 
 only in this materialistic age have its votaries become less than the aggre- 
 gate of population. Dante's Divine Comedy was the swan's song of the 
 middle ages. The swan died with the age, but the song survives and will 
 live throughout the generations. So when a real poet comes forward to 
 claim public attention, her history, however brief, is a subject of natural 
 inquiry and interest. 
 
^W^ORD TO THE MEADEP. 
 
 issuing this little volume to the public, it is not my desire to 
 0^ call attention to whatever merit there may be in it, neither is 
 it my desire to believe it utterly devoid of some thought 
 and expression worthy the attention of the reader. For the defects 
 contained I do not apologize, because I would not knowingly submit 
 myself as an object of solicitous lenity to a public under no obligation 
 to me, and not expected to indulge me unwillingly with a portion 
 of their time or favor. 
 
 In respect to its defects, I only call to remembrance the fact 
 that the productions of our best poets have not been faultless — that 
 they have all, in some degree, erred, and come short of the glory of 
 Perfection. In my composition it has not been my rule to addict my- 
 self exclusively to the beauty and harmony of rhyme for rhyme's sake, 
 when by so doing I would be necessitated to discard a more noble 
 thought or expression. I have rather kept" before me the true senti- 
 ment and principle of poetry in its native garb, not deigning to elabor- 
 ate by art, or ornament what Nature had not already beautified. Such 
 celebrated poets as Pope, Dryden, Oldhim and others have furnished 
 us with examples of this character : 
 
 False eloquence, like the prismatic ^/ajj, 
 
 Its gaudy colours spreads in every p/ace. — Pope. 
 
 My parents are propitious to my 7visA, 
 
 And she herself consenting to the d/iss. — Dryden. 
 
 Draw next the pattera of that tree, 
 
 Draw Bacchus and soft Cupid by.— Oi, DM am. 
 
And now, in conclusion, I will say that though I desire the favor of 
 the public, I do not demand it unworthily. If, in criticizing, they em- 
 ploy that art to such perfection that they shall not only destroy the 
 whole fabric of my endeavors, but every hope that sustained its pro- 
 gression, they cannot destroy the principle, and I shall wish that in 
 the future " from out the ruins of the old may arise the new." How- 
 ever, it will not be out of place, perhaps, to recall here the philosoph- 
 ical retort made by Apollo to Zoilus when that eminent critic pre- 
 sented the god with a severe criticism on an admirable book. The 
 god asked for the beauties of the work. *' I have busied myself only 
 about the errors," replied Zoilus. Whereupon the god handed him a 
 sack of unwinnowed wheat, and bade him pick out all the chaff for his 
 
 reward. 
 
 R. M. R. 
 
 St. Louis, December ist, 1883. 
 
loNSIDER JhE lilLIES. 
 
 " Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow ; they toil not, neither do 
 tliey spin : and yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not 
 arrayed like one of these." — Bible. 
 
 piEE the lilies, saintly lilies, blooming in the lowly valleys, 
 
 Scattering wide their fragrant virtues with the morn and 
 evening breeze ; 
 Not the glory, regal glory of King Solomon, when wore he 
 
 Robes of purple and of scarlet, could compare with one of these. 
 
 Though they toil not, and they spin not, man with all his wisdom cannot 
 Form from out his toiling labors, beauteous fabric like to theirs ; 
 
 Pure as heaven, only heaven and its holy ones are given 
 Spotless purity and beauty, such as that the lily wears. 
 
 Nothing fearing, never fearing, when the dark'ned hours are nearing, 
 That to-morrow may not find them clothed in all their bright array. 
 
 As the sparrow, trusting sparrow, who needs not to plough nor harrow 
 Bides the morrow without doubting the great Giver of to-day. 
 
Only mankind, sinful mankind, out of all creation can find 
 
 Time for murmuring, and complaining, doubting, fearing, sighs 
 and tears : 
 
 He is toiling, daily toiling, while his heart is daily spoiling 
 All the joy and good of living with his never-ending fears. 
 
 Birds and flowers, beauteous flowers, you've a destiny like ours, 
 And you fill it with obedience to your nature's law, divine, — 
 
 So ought we too, would that we, too, could adhere in faith, as you do, 
 To the principles of living which all virtues here combine. 
 
 Know our duty, do our duty, not for sake of praise, or booty, 
 
 But because — 'tis right, for right will bring its own reward at last ; 
 
 Work contented, rest contented with our life, for He who sent it 
 Is sufficient for the future, as He has been for the past. 
 
J^ 
 
 *' Nothing but the ever-rolling centuries of eternity can furnish the keys with 
 which to unlock the mysteries of Godliness." — Bascoin. 
 
 "Star after star is counted; and the various constellations of celestial 
 bodies are told, and mapped out like milestones along our familiar roads. 
 And yet the mind goes on ! It searches the ineffable mysteries of the sidereal 
 heavens, and the magnitude of those invisible worlds of grandeur which revolve 
 beyond the most distant stars. Amazed at the greatness, and grandeur, and 
 harmony, and incomprehensibleness of those things which are visible beneath, 
 around, and above, the soul — ]:)ulsating with joy and with the inexpressible 
 desire to know more— inquires, " What and Where is God'? " 
 
 OD! 
 
 TKili- Who is God ? What Is He ? Where is He ? 
 
 The innumerable spirits of the blessed sing praises 
 To His name, crying: " Holy, holy, holy Lord God 
 Of hosts ! " Great, and wonderful Spirit, unfathomable 
 Wisdom, incomprehensible Power ; great Essence of 
 Life and eternity, how little do we know of thee ! 
 Thou art, O God ; we feel it in the spirit which thou 
 Hast given us We cannot blot thy immensity 
 And eternal existence from our souls, which are each 
 As a drop from the great ocean of thy mysterious 
 Immortality. O God ; we ask what Thou art — 
 We, who are but combined atoms of matter, which 
 
 « 0? 3 S) 
 
Thou can'st at will blow to the four points of the earth — 
 We dare to seek into incomprehensibility, and to 
 Fathom the depths of mystery, which even angels 
 Cannot look into ; to behold a light before which the 
 Cherubim and seraphim veil their faces, lest 
 The dazzling streams of effulgence, which emanate 
 From thy divinity should absorb their existence. 
 Why do we rush into Thy presence with such haste 
 And daring ? 
 
 Because man is an intelligent being. 
 He rests not in ignorance of the cause of his existence ; 
 He seeks to become acquainted with the laws of Creation 
 And of Nature around him. He leaves the lower earth ; 
 Ascends, step by step, through the innumerable 
 Worlds in space ; for his spirit is free, his soul is ardent. 
 And thirsting for the great Spring of knowledge. Time 
 And distance are as naught to him. Up, up ; higher 
 And higher still, leaving constellations, suns and 
 Satellites behind him, Immensity before him — 
 He proceeds with glad haste — he enters the zone 
 Of second life, of spiritual reality : the great 
 Tropic of eternal Summer and sunshine, which 
 Derives its ethereal warmth from the streams 
 Of life proceeding from the great Centre of the 
 All-pervading Principle, where the mighty 
 Hosts of immortality enjoy the rich perfume 
 Of perpetual verdure, the dreamy inhalation 
 Of exotic fragrance, the crystal waters of Life 
 Which eternally reflect the rays of the Sun of 
 
Righteousness and love. He scarce gazes upon 
 The inconceivable loveliness into which he 
 Enters, lest he should be tempted to wander, and 
 In the enjoyment of delectable pleasures, forget 
 His one desire. He casts a hurried glance toward 
 The Source of all around him ; mounts the 
 Gauzy, phantom-like rarefaction, the touch of 
 Which upon his cheek is like angel's breath ; 
 On, on he goes in breathless expectancy 
 Until at last he finds himself far beyond 
 The reach of the most powerful telescope, 
 Beyond the great seventh circle of worlds, where 
 At the foot of a wondrous sphere of light, he 
 Bows in sublime and awe-stricken adoration. 
 
 He dares not look upon the awful grandeur 
 Of the divine body whose spirit fills infinitude. 
 Merciful ordination ! — a veil is cast between 
 Him and the great Power — his Creator. 
 He falls prostrate, humbly, on his knees : then 
 He feels his own littleness, his insignificance 
 Among the wonderful works of vast Creation ; his 
 Lips move slowly and he exclaims : — Lord, what 
 Is man, that thou art mindful of him ! 
 Restless, feverish, unsatisfied man, he still 
 Thirsts for a glance of the interior glory ; his 
 Heart utters an earnest appeal : — then One, 
 Bright and dazzling, the Well-beloved of the 
 Father, touches the veil with a hand of pity 
 And love — parts it as the great veil of Juda's 
 
Temple, between the Holy place and the most 
 Holy had been rent : unveiling the Sheklna 
 To those who could look. 
 
 Unapproachable brilliancy ! 
 Dazzling glory ! He cannot behold it and 
 Live. The Great Power, whose breath is the 
 Mechanism of worlds, so fearfully and 
 Wonderfully made ; who is not forgetful of the 
 Smallest pivot which helps to form and 
 Cement the entire construction of revolutionary 
 Motion. Then man feels that God is 
 Unattainably beyond him, even though he 
 May seem to touch the very hem of His garment 
 Of divine majesty ; infinitely above him, 
 Even though he may seem to kneel at the foot 
 Of the throne. Then he understands that 
 Man, with all his knowledge, learning, and 
 Searching, cannot find out God ; that it 
 Were madness to dream of penetrating the 
 Mysteries of the High and Holy One, who 
 Inhabiteth eternity. He descends with dazed 
 Eyes ; his wisdom is no more ; he only knows that 
 God is, that He is high above all gods, that His 
 Dwelling is the Heaven of heavens, the extreme 
 Height of holiness, and power, the great Principle 
 Of life. 
 
 Such is the power of his 
 Imagination, when it is the messenger of spiritual 
 Aspiration, and intense longing for the higher 
 
Life. But thouoh he knows only that God Hveth, 
 He must know that this is sufficient for him 
 As seen by the all-wise Providence ; let him 
 Still continue to wander through those spheres 
 Where angels tread, reaching out for spiritual 
 Licrht and understandings, losingr sieht of 
 Those things which are below, and pressing 
 Forward to those which are above and beyond 
 Him, so shall his thoughts and imaginations 
 Become combined in one grand and pure 
 Stream of magnetism, through which he can 
 Ascend and descend as on a ladder, like 
 Unto that of the Patriarch of old ; always bringing 
 With him from above, purer inspirations, 
 Brighter hopes, a lighter heart, and an 
 Atmosphere of cheerfulness ; carrying with 
 Him a sunshine on his countenance ; on 
 Which will be reflected the glory which 
 Surrounded him, as did Moses' on his 
 Descent from the Mount, so that those 
 With whom he comes in contact shall partake 
 In his happiness, which having been nearer 
 To God fills him with. 
 
 Truly, God is great and wonderful ; praise 
 Him in the firmament of his power : praise 
 Him for his mighty acts : praise Him 
 According to his excellent greatness. Bless 
 The Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me. 
 Bless His holy name ! 
 
IfoiCE OF J HE #EA. 
 
 '' Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain."— -^jr^^. 
 
 1 
 
 H, sad, sad sea, what tale do you tell, 
 What tale do you echo to me ? 
 A trumpet you make of the litde pink shell 
 
 That wanders away from the sea : 
 It wanders away, away. 
 
 O'er many a valley and hill. 
 And ever it seems in a whisper to say- 
 Hush ! list to my tale — be still ! 
 
 Oh, sad, sad sea, what tale do you tell, 
 
 With your voice of billowy roar. 
 As you thunder your words with a crash and swell 
 
 'Gainst the cliff and the lonely shore ? 
 Why struggle so hard with the lonely shore ? 
 
 With the cliff in its gloomy height, 
 While you're crying the dirge of "no more ! no more ! " 
 
 O'er those you have hidden from sight ? 
 
Oh, sad, sad sea, what tale to you tell, 
 
 When you're kissing the golden strand ? 
 Where you're filling the prints that so lightly fell 
 
 And the wells that were dug by hand ; 
 A moan of sorrow you leave behind, 
 
 And each kiss is a parting knell 
 That falls on the heart like the sighing wind — 
 
 The heart who your tale can tell. 
 
 Oh ! sad, sad sea, I remember well 
 
 The tale you had echoed to me, 
 When once to my ear a little pink shell. 
 
 That wandered away from the sea, 
 I placed as I would a little sick bird, 
 
 Whose breathing I fain would hear 
 In the warm throb that so faintly stirred 
 
 As it nestled against my ear. 
 
 You told me a tale. Oh sad, sad sea. 
 
 Of thousands of miles between 
 The home of my childhood's days and me - 
 
 The home where my heart has been 
 So knitted to those of truth and love, 
 
 That every wave that breaks 
 Seems to tear the web that I fondly wove — 
 
 Of hope in the heart that aches. 
 
You told me a tale, Oh moaning sea, 
 
 Of struggles and drowning cries, 
 From the helpless forms who fell in thee, 
 
 Who only in death could rise ; 
 Of mothers' and fathers' sobs of grief. 
 
 Of brothers' and sisters' tears, 
 And friends and lovers, whose only relief 
 
 Was faith in the after years. 
 
 U 
 
 You told me a tale, oh, sighing sea, 
 
 Of ships that so proudly sail 
 With a happy crew, whose shout of glee' 
 
 Is lost in a dying wail 
 'Mong yawning chasms 'tween mountains green 
 
 Where the helpless ships go down 
 With a flutter of death, as when earth is seen 
 
 To bury a fated town. 
 
 And another tale, oh, great, wide sea ! 
 
 You poured through the tiny shell 
 You told me of God's eternity, 
 
 Where your buried victims dwell ; 
 Of a love so broad, so wide, so free, 
 
 Which fills all that life wdth bliss ; 
 Of an ocean of joy and ecstacy ; 
 
 A balm for the pain of this. 
 
 10 
 
Then sad, sad sea, though the tales you tell 
 
 Bring sorrow to many a heart 
 Thank God for the hope, and the joy as well 
 
 Which your mighty waves impart. 
 And though in fear I would cross the line 
 
 Which divides the oceans blue, 
 Of sea and sky, between me and mine, 
 
 I've learned to love you, too. 
 
FFINITY. 
 
 " There are souls created for one another in the eternities, hearts predes- 
 tined each to each from the absolute necessities of their nature, and when this 
 man and this woman come face to face, they recognize my master and my 
 mistress without words spoken or vows pronounced." — Anna E. Dickinson. 
 
 HAT is '' Affinity ? " O, come revealing, 
 
 Ye angel hosts who bend before the throne, 
 This secret power — this blissful mystic feeling 
 Which fills the soul with visions of " its own. 
 
 Tell me, if, when in those infinite spaces 
 
 Your aerial forms you wing from zone to zone, 
 
 This light is it, which on your shining faces. 
 
 Reflects — attracts — from each to each '' its own ? 
 
 There are, 'tis said, from out the mighty masses. 
 Communities of earth's departed, drawn — 
 
 Since glorious star another star surpasses, 
 
 Is this the power which draws to each " its own ? 
 
 12 
 
So that within the systems of that world, 
 But harmony and perfect peace is known ; 
 
 No spirits by discordant ones are troubled, 
 
 Each is sustained, and does sustain " its own ? 
 
 Is this the power, when as if they were hurl'd 
 To space — by force of omnipotence thrown ; 
 
 Those mighty orbs — encircles each great world 
 With its special spheres, peculiarly " its own ? " 
 
 Or is it this magnetic, subtile nature 
 
 Which once discerned, will have stronger grown. 
 Between the helpless creature and Creator; 
 
 And brine him face to face with God — " his own ?" 
 
 Is it that power which in the heart of mortals 
 Breaks up the fallow ground — hews out the stone ; 
 A temple makes it, through whose golden portals 
 It brings an idol and proclaims — " your own ? " 
 
 This same which calls with low and earnest pleading 
 To her, whose heart is languishing alone ; 
 
 Tells her : " 'Tis he ! " and soon in joy is leading 
 Two souls, who recognize "My own — your own." 
 
 ® 13 _- 2> 
 
That binds those souls through years of pain or gladness 
 Each to " its own " till they have feeble grown ; 
 
 And if at last one's left alone in sadness 
 
 The other yearns and watches o'er " its own ? " 
 
 Yes, tell me what it is ; explain its nature, 
 Its origin ; from what great fountain flown? 
 
 It stamps in glowing tints each soul and feature- 
 Creation — with an image of " its own ? " 
 
 o 
 
 '' Affinity — thou art with it acquainted; 
 
 And to its power, thou art, like others, prone- 
 'Tis all this which thine imagery painted," 
 
 Replies an answering soul within my own. 
 
 (0) 
 
 Its nature is thine own whate'er that may be. 
 
 Its origin, its fountain — God alone. 
 True, stamped upon thy soul and features plainly, 
 
 It does reflect an image — like " your own." 
 
 ® 
 
 'Tis so ; this power, this blissful mystic feeling 
 I find within my heart — now stronger grown, 
 
 And like a dream, a vision now is stealing ; 
 I look into his eyes and see — " my own." 
 
O, leave me not, sweet vision now before me ; 
 
 I sought you not — this power had lead us on. 
 We met half way, when you at once did know me ; 
 
 Your heart said — ''Mine," and I exclaimed— "My own ! 
 
HE WEARY WAY OF filFE. 
 
 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow 
 of death, I will fear no evil ; for thou art with me." 
 
 — Psalmist. 
 
 HO walks the weary way of life 
 
 For many tiresome years, 
 And battles with its frown and strife, 
 
 And checks its rising tears. 
 And quells the surging grief that flings 
 
 Its terrors round his soul, 
 Gains victories unknown to kings, 
 
 And nears a grander goal. 
 
 He battles oft with foes unknown 
 
 But to himself and God ; 
 And all he feels, he feels alone, 
 
 While bending 'neath the rod. 
 None else the sorrow of his heart 
 
 Can fully comprehend. 
 And none but He can bear a part 
 
 Who did the sorrow send. 
 
Ah ! many a time we tread that way, — 
 
 The weary way of Hfe ; 
 Yet, seldom are we made to stray 
 
 Where troubles are so rife. 
 That we can't conquer them at length 
 
 With but our will, and might : — 
 For will to work gives double strength, 
 
 And God defends the right. 
 
 Each has his own especial path 
 
 In which his steps must stray ; 
 But no one, in this world, hath 
 
 More weary, troubled way 
 Than hath his neighbor, in whose heart 
 
 A secret pang may lie : — 
 No less the pain because the dart 
 
 Is hidden from the eye. 
 
 But we may have our joys as well ; — 
 
 They spring like cheering flowers 
 On rock and hill, in vale and dell, 
 
 To glad our weary hours — 
 If we but pluck them fresh and sweet. 
 
 But, ah ! too oft we tread 
 Their precious leaves beneath our feet, 
 
 And then pronounce them dead. 
 
What if the way that's still before 
 
 Is all unknown to me ! — 
 I know, by that I've just gone o'er, 
 
 That it can never be 
 Too dark to hide a star of hope : 
 
 Too rough a flower to bear : 
 Too sharp and bleak to ever cope 
 
 With fire of hidden prayer. 
 
 And when at last life's weary way, 
 
 Within the vale of death, 
 Shall terminate its last lone day 
 
 With my fast fleeting breath, 
 I will not fear an evil. Still — 
 
 With eyes of faith and love. 
 Beyond the vale I'll view the hill 
 
 Of brighter days above. 
 
 
 
*0 "My MEART, 
 
 ON ENTERING ITS NEW LIFE. 
 
 ■OME, come now, frail wanderer, wander no more. 
 ^Come, rest thee serenely : thy struggles are o'er. 
 No more, restless heart, need thy pinions be spread 
 O'er wilds of uncertainty, oceans of dread ; 
 No more need'st thou follow a phantom of air, 
 Nor sink in the sloughs of despond and despair — 
 An angel of joy, bearing peace on her wings, 
 Has descended to-day, and hark ! how she sings : — 
 "Now rest thee, thou lone one ; thy station accept, 
 "For I shall be with thee, and God will protect." 
 
 All thy life, wandering heart, e'er since thou could'st feel 
 
 The raptures that cling to the dreamy ideal, 
 
 Thou hast flown at large, like a dove o'er the main, 
 
 And finding no harbor, returned again 
 
 To rest in the ark that has borne thee through 
 
 The deluge of fancies, realities, too ; 
 
 They raised thee to Ararat's height, on hope's wings. 
 
 19 
 
Or sunk thee, but, — hark ! how the good angel sings 
 "Now rest thee, thou lone one ; thy station accept, 
 ''For I shall be with thee, and God will protect." 
 
 No father, or mother, dear heart can I see, 
 
 Their blessing to give me so cheerful, so free ; 
 
 No sister or brother, a hand to extend, 
 
 And wish me — ''God bless you, and always befriend," 
 
 But, thou art my messenger , — distance to thee 
 
 Is only a word thou hast learned from me. 
 
 And, quick, dost thou dart on love's magnetic wings, — 
 
 Yes, yes ; now behold them while joy sweetly sings : — 
 
 "Now rest thee, thou lone one ; thy station accept, 
 
 "For I will be with thee, and God will protect." 
 
 
 
 Dear heart, now be happy, for thou canst confide 
 In hifyi to whose bosom thou'rt closely allied. 
 And find thee among this new people thy home ; — 
 They're worthy of thee, and invite thee to come. 
 And, heart, do rejoice that thy lot has been cast 
 'Mong places so pleasant, and cheerful at last ; 
 Find here, in this city, true rest without wings, 
 And list to the angel who soothingly sings : — 
 "Now rest thee, thou lone one ; thy station accept, 
 "For I shall be with thee, and God will protect." 
 
But listen ! I'd charge thee, — retain it, my heart ; — 
 This friendship received ; for a stranger thou art ; 
 And ne'er let the weed of ingratitude grow 
 'Mong flowers of fidelity blooming below 
 In thy deep recesses, where those who now are 
 Thy true, honest friends in the world's wild jar, 
 Are valued so truly ; let love for them spring. 
 For, listen ! my heart, — hear them cheeringly sing : 
 ''Now rest thee among us ; thy station accept, 
 ''For God will be with thee, and we will protect." 
 
 There ! heart, thou art calm, now ; thank God for the faith 
 
 That trusts in the comforting promise, which sayeth : 
 
 "Fear thou not for I'm with thee : be not dismayed ; 
 
 "For I am thy God" — no, thou art not afraid : 
 
 And never thou need'st be, because thou wilt find 
 
 If thou'lt help me be true, exalted in mind,* — 
 
 Yes, true to my God, to my neighbor, and thee, 
 
 That God, and my neighbor and I, shall e'er be 
 
 One bond of perfection, together, which brings 
 
 A oneness of spirit, where happiness sings. . 
 
 'k -k v'r -3'- -)r -k -k -k -k 
 
 Rest ! rest thee, not lone, now ; thy station accept, 
 For joy shall be with thee while God does protect. 
 
^EiFE's jRUE Pictures, 
 
 Written after a visit to the splendid family tomb erected in Bellefontaine Cemetery by 
 Mr. Samuel Gaty, a wealthy citizen of St. Louis. The artistic design of the tomb is a true 
 representation of the successive stages of Life from the cradle to the grave. 
 
 lone Bellefontaine's verdant, dreamy silence, 
 Where sleep the weary ones in perfect rest, 
 Life steps from out a wreath of art and science. 
 In pictures true, in moral teaching best. 
 
 One family whose spirits have ascended 
 
 To kindred ones beyond this vale of tears ; 
 
 Their caskets there by marble strength defended. 
 
 Shall rest in peace through time's all-changing years. 
 
 Within a circle, towering monumental, 
 
 A noble shaft looks proudly to the sky ; 
 
 The pure white stone, so strong, so ornamental. 
 Seems fitting guard for those who 'neath it lie. 
 
 Those happy ones who left the mortal body 
 
 To mingle with its native element ; — 
 Abiding now in heaven with their God, He 
 
 Speaks through them in language eloquent. 
 
The symbol first within the blest inclosure 
 See, beneath the urn on the monument : 
 
 Upon the beds and flowers and calm composure, 
 The sacred rays of cross and wreath are bent. 
 
 The wreathed cross proclaims the Christian era, 
 That sheds its light upon the world, and is 
 
 The light which taught the lesson given here, a 
 Light unfolding heaven's happiness. 
 
 A picture next of life in all its stages 
 Is represented by the Seasons' roll ; 
 
 The earth unfolds to us her truthful pages, 
 
 That we may read the language of the soul. 
 
 First, Spring of life is shown us in the picture 
 Of budding leaves upon a goodly tree ; 
 
 The sun, in morn of life, beams on the verdure, 
 From o'er the hill-tops rising gloriously, 
 
 While in its rays, a little streamlet, darting 
 
 From out the rocks, in current clear and mild, 
 
 Sparkles in all its purity, while starting 
 
 Its first bright flow within the little child. 
 
 Then Summer, see the tree with leaves abundant, 
 When life is brimming o'er in every vein ; 
 
 The stream is larger, fuller, gushing under it 
 
 In vigor full, while rolling through the plain. 
 
 23 
 
And summer sun is in its zenith glowing ; 
 
 Its bright, sharp rays beam on the waving corn, 
 And Nature's heart with life is overflowing, 
 
 While birds and flowers the season's days adorn. 
 
 Now Autumn, — see the change ! cold winds are blowing, 
 
 From off the boughs their withered leaves, — they glide 
 
 Along the surface of the stream, whose flowing ' 
 
 Has fainter ebb — young life has graver side. 
 
 And, low among the western clouds, descending. 
 The Sun of Life is growing dim and pale ; 
 
 The corn is ripe, and for the sickle bending, — 
 Life's vigor fast declines within the vale. 
 
 Winter ! the last of Life's unerring pictures : 
 The noble tree looks sadly bare and old ; 
 
 See, icicles hang from its leafless branches ; — 
 
 The stream is frozen, — Nature's veins are cold. 
 
 Another picture now is represented 
 
 On the encircling marbles which protect 
 The sacred beds, and monument, erected. 
 
 With headstones, white, and pure as the elect. 
 
 First, infancy is in its cradle lying. 
 
 The next, the infant is to childhood grown. 
 
 In next, the child in boyhood strength is playing, 
 And next to school he travels all alone. 
 
 24 
 
We see him next, confined to desk and study, 
 
 To arm him with the weapons he must wield, 
 
 And then complete, the warfare understood, he 
 Boldly enters Life's great Battlefield. 
 
 There, see him next, with plough in hand, he's beating 
 His own marked path within the world's rough soil. 
 
 In next the seed of good or evil scattering. 
 
 In next he 's reaped the fruitage of his toil. 
 
 Now labor 's ended, and he 's contemplating 
 
 The harvest grain w^hich he in Spring had sown ; 
 
 Evil or good, he can't recall the planting : 
 
 He's weary now : — his feet have feeble grown. 
 
 See next ; within the old arm-chair now rests he 
 His last frail days on this terrestrial ball ; 
 
 In next, the chair is there, but ah ! what see we? 
 His hat and coat and friendly cane is all. 
 
 Where is he ? Ask the mound by chisel sculptured 
 Upon the next, and last leaf of the book ; — 
 
 The waving grass by Mother Earth is nurtured 
 Above the frame she lately to her took. 
 
 Now finished the grand pictures of progression, 
 A veil o'erhangs the last great act of life ; — 
 
 The sacred yielding into God's possession 
 
 Of his soul and spirit from this world's strife. 
 
 25 
 
So ends the second picture, like a history ; 
 
 Each stone reads as a leaf within the book ; 
 '' From cradle to the grave" we name the story : — 
 
 Its leaves are open wide to all who look. 
 
 One lesson more is clearly to us given, — 
 
 Five precious children sleep beneath the tomb, 
 
 And on the stone which "tells their flight to heaven 
 Is pictured well their soul's undying bloom : 
 
 Grand soul it is which issued such conceptions 
 To art, and sculptural science, so that here 
 
 Is shadowed forth man's highest, grand perceptions 
 Of love and life within that happy sphere. 
 
 There, floating clouds uphold the angel children ; 
 
 Each child a Raphael Cherub in its joy ; 
 Four are descending to the fifth who has been 
 
 His parents' joy, their youngest baby boy. 
 
 One meets him on his way, and helps him upward ; 
 
 With wreath of flowers, another comes to crown ; 
 The other two, — one pointing onward, homeward, 
 
 Rejoice to meet the little one — their own. 
 
 And he is carried upward from the sorrow 
 
 Which overshades the loved ones he had left, 
 
 And from the coldness of the grave so narrow 
 
 He cleaves the mountain clouds his brothers cleft. 
 
 26 
 
So ends the last good picture and the best one, 
 
 AVhich leaves not all our treasures In the gloom, 
 
 But comforts many a heart with its great lesson 
 Of immortality beyond the tomb. 
 
 These are the pictures which in lone Bellefontaine 
 I saw one day, and being in that mood 
 
 Which solitude within a hallowed confine 
 Produces on the soul, I understood 
 
 The lessons which they taught, and thought that could I 
 Behold them oftener with mental eye, 
 
 A wholesome view of life would work its good, my 
 Spirit oftener would cleave the sky. 
 
LONE. 
 
 " There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society where none intrudes 
 
 By the deep sea, and music in its roar." — Byron. 
 
 Alone, alone ; to be alone 
 
 When all the world's a glare 
 Of trifling mirth and gayety, 
 
 Confusion everywhere ; 
 When in the giddy mass, a time 
 
 To think in peace there's none. 
 Then let me, let me be away ; 
 
 I want to be alone. 
 
 I want to be alone, because 
 
 The heart is like the eye ; 
 It cannot bear the constant strain 
 
 Of objects flitting by ; 
 It wearies of the baubles, and 
 
 In languor flees the view, 
 To seek a calmer scene that will 
 
 The prism'd lights subdue. 
 
 To be alone is not to be 
 Condemned to solitude ; 
 
 @ 28 — ^ 
 
A spiritual company 
 
 The loneness does intrude ; 
 They come from out their cloisters 
 
 Of well beloved books, 
 And gaze unto our faces with 
 
 Their old familiar looks. 
 
 They tell us tales of ancient days, 
 
 Of how and why they strove 
 In days of w^ar and days of peace ; — 
 
 They tell us of their love, 
 And oft they lead us far away 
 
 On fancy's airy wing, 
 From lonely room and treasured books 
 
 To where their spirits sing. 
 
 In fancy oft I've listened to 
 
 Lord Byron, in his songs 
 Of youthful love, and chivalry. 
 
 Or, vindicate his wrongs ; 
 And suffering Pope essaying still 
 
 In philosophic lore, 
 And Poe, poor Edgar Poe, I see 
 
 Embrace his lost Lenore. 
 
 And Shelley, too, I've seen within 
 
 Queen Mab's ethereal car 
 With beautiful lanthe, in 
 
 Their flight from star to star, 
 Tom Moore old Tara's harp has found ; 
 
 29 
 
Its chords swell on the breeze 
 His country's future victories 
 In Irish melodies. 
 
 O, would I give my lonely hours, — 
 
 Their sacred solitude, 
 For all the trivial merriment 
 
 That gilds the multitude ; 
 Would I exchange my company, 
 
 The dreams I value so 
 For that which fascinates the eye ? 
 
 A thousand times, Oh, no. 
 
 It matters not where e'er we be 
 
 We never are alone ; 
 Each leaf and flower, each shrub and tree 
 
 Hath language of its own ; 
 The sky portrays a wondrous tale. 
 
 The rocks and glens rejoice 
 To mingle with the mighty tide 
 
 Their grand harmonious voice. 
 
 Then let me, let me be alone 
 
 When busy scene destroys 
 The purest dreams that sweeten life. 
 
 And robs it of its joys. 
 Those joys which to the thoughtless throng 
 
 Are worthless and unknown, 
 And which we ne'er enjoy so well 
 
 As when we are alone. 
 
 30 
 
■^ ^ 
 
 UR '"Iemple of MlKY. 
 
 DEDICATED TO WAYMAN CROW, ESQ. 
 
 Grand edifice, within whose massive walls 
 
 What 'wakening echoes tremble through thy halls 
 
 From ages dim, whose vaulted chambers groan 
 
 With reverberations from the deep unknown ; 
 
 Unknown to us save through the mystic scrolls 
 
 Effusive of those now departed souls 
 
 Who searched that deep unknown with piercing eye, 
 
 Ere their ascent to kindred souls on high. 
 
 Proud temple of the Nine ! if we aspire 
 
 To adoration, worthy of the fire 
 
 Which once enkindled such a sacred flame 
 
 Within the votaries of art and fame. 
 
 It is because we feel that fire is still 
 
 Pour'd forth in inspirations, which instill 
 
 One soul with power to say " Let there be light," 
 
 And from chaotic shades spring forth to sight 
 
 Rich landscapes, crown'd with Nature's choicest bloom, 
 
 Or frowning rocks, enshrouding in their gloom 
 
 The dark abyss, the heedless torrent's flow ; 
 
 Or giant mounts, crown'd with perpetual snow ; 
 
 s 31 ^ 
 
Or skies tempestuous, vieing in their rage 
 With Ocean's wrath, when both their battles wage- 
 All things whate'er they be in nature's law, 
 Of love, of beauty, majesty or awe. 
 
 Another soul is given power to call 
 
 From out the rugged stone, a form, with all 
 
 The attributes assigned to strength, to grace. 
 
 To beauty, in Creation's nobler race ; 
 
 Or, mould with plastic touch a frame so fair, 
 
 We almost feel a living soul is there. 
 
 So various are the gifts with which are blest 
 
 Those souls with whom the spirit takes its rest, 
 
 If that of some be only to admire. 
 
 The gift is not unworthy of the fire : 
 
 . XJ^is humble tribute then that gift imparts 
 
 Take to thyself, grand god of all the Arts. 
 
 And while presiding o'er our temple here. 
 
 Call to thy shrine new votaries each year, 
 
 And let the Nine imbue them more and more 
 
 As they have done thy worshipers of yore, 
 
 That Art and Science may in clearer light 
 
 Illumine coming ages in their flight ; 
 
 Reflecting on the past such brilliancy 
 
 As shall unravel still more mystery 
 
 Of ancient days, then lay their trophies low 
 
 Before his feet who did thee honor so. 
 
 This recompense be nobly to him made ; 
 
 He to our city such a tribute paid. 
 
 @ 32 3 
 
Here, in this noble temple are enshrined 
 
 The artist's works, in harmony combined : 
 
 The brush ! what wondrous beauty, like a spell, 
 
 It throws around the scene beloved so well 
 
 By him whose heart this love had so enthused, 
 
 That every touch his ardent soul transfused ! 
 
 Each tranquil shade and glowing tint that rose 
 
 Before his vision from their deep repose, 
 
 Live like his soul, and cast a glory round, 
 
 Like sunbeams streaming o'er the hallowed ground 
 
 The chisel, yielding to the master's skill 
 
 Embodies forth the objects of his will 
 
 With truth to Nature's law of harmony ; 
 
 See, here, her perfect types of beauty^ 
 
 So captivating in each form divine. 
 
 We marvel not men worship at the s 
 
 Immortal Venus ! now, as 'twas of old/%;^4oo^ £ouC'<^^^ 
 
 Men sacrifice to thee both love ar.d gold. 
 
 But soids of beauty, w^ould they were less rare 
 
 That men might always find thee good as fair 
 
 Ethereal Psyche, thou art good and pure ; 
 That saindy face of thine, that look demure. 
 Are not unworthy Cupid's warm embrace ; 
 But he who first conceived that saintly face — 
 Ah, he, how truly he in soul could feel 
 That sacred love that hallows the ideal ! 
 And they who strength and bravery possess, 
 
 ffi 33 — ^ 
 
How must they gaze upon great Hercules, 
 
 And worship every feature in that frame 
 
 Which pride associates with their own name ! 
 
 In character, or form, whate'er it be. 
 
 Whether in virtue, vice, or symmetry. 
 
 Here view its counterpart, as it has come 
 
 From England, Paris, Florence, Athens, Rome, 
 
 And think upon those ancient palmy days 
 
 When their originals called forth the praise 
 
 Of grand old Egypt, cradle of the Arts, 
 
 Ere Art and Science ceased their honored parts 
 
 In far-famed Thebes and Alexandria, 
 
 Or Ancient Greece and Rome before the sway 
 
 Of War-god's power o'er that of Peace and Pride, 
 
 Or ere great Angelo and Raphael died. 
 
 But who can say, while thinking o'er the past, 
 How soon Columbia's land, so free and vast. 
 Shall boast a city equally as great 
 As any yet that ever rose in state ? 
 What if St. Louis should that city be ! 
 Ah, who can tell, if from their bounty free. 
 Men raise such monuments as this Museum, 
 In Learning's cause, so worthy, so supreme, 
 And aid the gifted ones to still progress. 
 Promoting thus their knowledge and success ! 
 The grand result we see, we know it well ; 
 But coming years — shall they the glory tell ? 
 
Until they do, what gratitude shall flow 
 
 From the example set by Wayman Crow ? 
 
 Already has this flow of gratitude 
 
 Expressed a gifted one's beatitude 
 
 In classic workmanship, wherein is shown 
 
 A master's power, a genius all her own. 
 
 Her executions prove that still the fire 
 
 Which did the ancient artist's soul inspire, 
 
 Burns in a flame which in our land may be 
 
 A future beacon to posterity. 
 
 One work alone would justify her fame, — 
 
 Posterity will view it and exclaim : 
 
 " This bust of Wayman Crow we owe to her ; 
 
 " May the name long live of Harriet Hosmer : — 
 
 '' He's not unworthy of this honored place 
 
 '* Among the gods, who benefits his race." 
 
 And so it is, who loves his fellow-men, 
 
 And shows his love in noble actions; then, 
 
 When shall appear the names of those who're blest, 
 
 His, like Ben Adhem's, shall lead all the rest. 
 
 
 
HE 
 
 'UTURE >-©REAT 
 
 &ITY OF THE ^^WORLD. 
 
 ST. LOUIS. 
 
 H ! land of the free, and home of the brave, 
 Oh ! land, who to captives their liberty gave. 
 Revolting 'gainst bondage which crushed the last breath, 
 With the spirit of men who cried "Freedom or death." 
 Land, bending the knee to those warriors brave. 
 And looking away from the blood-watered grave — 
 Away^ away up, where those men long adored 
 Wave proudly the palm which they gained by the sword. 
 
 Oh ! land, now enjoying the boon which you bought, 
 
 Your freedom, your honor, your skill and your thought. 
 
 Subject to no power in heaven or earth. 
 
 Than that which had blessed you the hour of your birth. 
 
 A literal Canaan in honey and milk, 
 
 A rival with China, now gorgeous in silk. 
 
 An equal with Athens in art and design, 
 
 Minerva exalts you and you are divine. 
 
 Fair land, to whom prophets with unerring eye, 
 Looked through the long vistas of years flitting by ; 
 
 @ 36 a 
 
They found it not difficult looking on thee. 
 Through thy many advantages, glory to see ; 
 Rejoicing in dawn which had scarcely begun, 
 Which now in its zenith is brioht as the sun, 
 The ocean they saw waft a kiss on the breeze 
 From the queen of all lands to the queen of the seas. 
 
 A kiss which was freighted with incense of health, 
 
 From hills of fertility, valleys of wealth, 
 
 And into her lukewarm veins did impart 
 
 A trickle of joy from a tropical heart. 
 
 And saw, as their lips in identity smacked, 
 
 One sovereign supply what the other one lacked — 
 
 Like neighbors dividing the bulk of their store ; 
 
 Thus showing the friendship they each of them bore. 
 
 How brightened their eyes as they hailed the glad sight ! 
 
 They saw thee, America, center of light — 
 
 A focus, whose rays to the world were given 
 
 As freely received from the sun-god of heaven ; 
 
 And exultingly now do they look and rejoice, 
 
 As developing years speak the truth of their voice ; 
 
 While they 're beating a gem for your majesty's crown, 
 
 To which sha41 its brethren lowly bow down. 
 
 Milton, and Cowley, and Sir Thomas Brown, 
 Two centuries ago their voice handed down 
 In soft, flowing strains from Poesy's muse, 
 Inspiring the tongue, while the heart they enthuse; 
 And since have we others, as Berkeley and Sewall, 
 
 9 37 2) 
 
Adams, and Shipley, and Governor Pownall ; 
 With Paley, and Burns, and eloquent Sheridan, 
 Canning, De Tocqueville, Alaman and Cobden. 
 
 And others, like them, who the future explored, 
 Saw thee, fair America, thee they adored 
 As a beautiful child, who in years would expand 
 To a type of perfection, a queen in the land ; 
 And now, in the present, we, who have been blest 
 With the joy of beholding thee, brightest and best — 
 One thought fills our bosoms, an effort we make 
 To anticipate the next step you will take. 
 
 What step will you take next, fair Queen of the West ? 
 Are you waiting for those who have gone to their rest, 
 To come from above with a city or town. 
 All beaten and polished to set in your crown ? 
 Do you think there is nothing now left you to do. 
 Since you 've conquered the old with the sword of the new ? 
 Ah ! take care, lest your confidence placed in its hold 
 Reverse the sharp weapon, like Cassius' of old. 
 
 Throughout all th6 ages in history known. 
 
 One gem sparkled brightest, illumined the crown, 
 
 Which was placed on the head of the recognized peer, 
 
 Who rose in magnificence, trampled on fear. , ■ 
 
 The ancient days reveled in gems such as these, 
 
 Till Britannia arose for her Queen of the Seas, 
 
 And won her the honor, a peeress of all. 
 
 Through greatness ascending o'er Amsterdam's fall. 
 
Then London, the g'em, adorned the crown, 
 And sparkled on rulers and men of renown ; 
 The world bowed to it, and honor'd its name, 
 And poets and literature sang of its fame, 
 Then art, and invention, and grandeur aspired 
 To outshine in its light, which their spirits inspired, 
 And commerce enriched it, invading its streets. 
 With wealth from the holds of its numerous fleets. 
 
 And she, like the others, shall waft o'er the sea 
 Her title of commerce and greatness to thee. 
 When in the wide future the world shall praise 
 The Aaronian rod in the height of its days. 
 For thee, O, America, great in thy strength 
 Of riches strewn over the breadth and the length. 
 Of vast tracts devoted to energy's hand, 
 Shall yet rule the world with a sceptral wand. 
 
 Then why not prepare for the crown you shall wear. 
 
 The gem which must sparkle the brightest one there ? 
 
 Already 'tis waiting the artisan's skill 
 
 To fashion the model, make it what they will ; 
 
 For those good men who've gone e'er their vision was blest 
 
 With the sight which now greets us, and them in their rest 
 
 Are anxiously planning that city's design 
 
 Which shall be the great centre, the jewel to shine. 
 
 St. Louis ! St. Louis ! we echo the name. 
 
 Repeated by them as the city of fame, 
 
 On the banks of that river whose waters embrace 
 
 39 
 
The largest facilities known to the race ; 
 
 The central point in its beautiful vale, 
 
 To which, up its waters, large traffic must sail 
 
 From all the great world beyond the great sea, — 
 
 Through the stream unobstructed a gate open free. 
 
 • 
 
 And to which throng the people by water and rail ; 
 
 Who seem in prospective a breath to inhale. 
 
 From the future great heart which shall throb in the breast 
 
 Of the greatest of nations, the wisest and best ; 
 
 A heart which shall act as imperial head, 
 
 By whose guidance the tide of events shall be led. 
 
 Which shall grow and expand like its forces of steam, 
 
 Till it rivals with London, now reigning supreme. 
 
 Industry and enterprise fast gaining ground, 
 As numbers and large requisition abound. 
 Its head lifting high as it daily expands 
 In its fast-growing buildings, its utilized lands. 
 But one thing is needed to hasten the time 
 When shall shine in its splendor this city sublime. 
 Men need to look on from the present and see 
 A lesson for them in the wise, working bee ; 
 
 Add to their industry, intelligence, art. 
 Invite all the muses to play that great part 
 Without which no city in eminence grew ; 
 They distinguished the old and must also the new. 
 Let literature spread her white wings in the air. 
 And lift from the dungeons of toil and of care 
 
The hearts of the people, who Purely should find 
 The graui, not the husk, to develop'^the mind. 
 
 Like Italy of old, should some Petrarch arise, 
 
 Or, Dante, and lift to the vaulted skies. 
 
 By some method successful in scholarship's flight, 
 
 The tastes of the multitude, then what a light 
 
 Would burst on the future great city. For then 
 
 The pencil, the brush, the chisel, the pen, 
 
 With history, and poetry, and elegance, would glow 
 
 As a sunbeam Avhich liorhts on the beautiful snow. 
 
 When this is accomplished, fair Queen of the West, 
 In the city where commerce and tithe shall invest 
 So large a production from every land known ; 
 Then, then you'll rejoice, for the gem in your crown. 
 But patiently wait, while you 're working to use 
 The unparalleled qualities blessing St. Louis, 
 For cheers shall resound o'er the billowy wave 
 To the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 Oh ! beautiful city of futurity ! 
 What a wonderful, wonderful power it must be. 
 Which can raise thee to glory on pinnacle height, 
 Where the world 's past kingdoms shall pale in the light, 
 Where Baalbec, and Thebes, and Tyre once shone, 
 Carthage, Persepolis, each like the sun ; 
 Oh ! wonderful city, lift up thy glad voice — 
 Thy kingdom is coming, thy heart shall rejoice. 
 
^DE Jo ^APT. 3 AMES • J^ JaDS. 
 
 LL hail ! Columbia, favored land of Heaven — 
 ^^ All hail, all hail, resounds from sea to sea ; 
 
 From pole to pole, by touch electric riven. 
 
 The world salutes this Nation of the free. 
 
 What makes it thus in greatness so transcending ? 
 
 What lifts its towers and bulwarks up on high ? 
 What architect, with power and genius blending, 
 
 Has fashioned it from models in the sky ? 
 
 Like that great temple of surpassing splendor, 
 
 While silently arose from stone, 
 This Nation is the seat of art and grandeur : 
 
 Its architect, its builder — God alone. 
 
 Built on a rock, a firm, a sure foundation ; 
 
 Built of such stone as braves the wrecks of time ; 
 Built with such zeal as makes it this great Nation ; 
 
 Built in men's hearts — a monument sublime. 
 
 2 42 ® 
 
Columbus, first, by hand of God directed, 
 Laid the first stone upon the sacred sod. 
 
 Then, on his knees, he humbly dedicated 
 The stone and future edifice to God. 
 
 Such noble fabric still promotes the building, 
 
 With steel and iron pillars for support. 
 While Solomon's it does surpass in gilding, 
 
 Of gold and costly gems from port to port. 
 
 And now it grows in grandeur, strength and promise ; 
 
 A great, colossal statue, spanning o'er 
 The large expanse of Ocean's 'ready commerce. 
 
 And stamps its power upon the other shore. 
 
 To-day the power of Science is enforcing 
 
 Such laws, commands, as ne'er before were known. 
 
 Through active, fiery brains and muscles coursing. 
 In form of some great project, leading on. 
 
 Those brains through which now flows this subtle current, 
 With that impetus which throws head and heart 
 
 Before it, with a centrifugal movement, 
 Are rather few, and sadly far apart. 
 
 Yet 'tis such brains that go to build the structure ; 
 
 Such heads and hearts are what the Nation needs ; 
 And men to-day are living in the future — 
 
 A future sacred to the name of Eads. 
 
 43 
 
Eads ! Captain Eads ! The name is grand — ennobling — 
 What was to Greece the name Archimedes, 
 
 And, what to Germany, was that of RoebHng, 
 To fair Columbia is that of Eads. 
 
 Aye, more, for science in this mighty nation, 
 Is great as Eads is peer among his peers. 
 
 Like Newton at the foot of Gravitation, 
 
 Does Eads stand at the head of Engineers. 
 
 His monuments are those which last forever ; 
 
 That Bridge of wonder — go and mark it well ; 
 Go, mark the outlets of that mighty river, 
 
 Which to his Genius yield as to a spell. 
 
 In coming ages none will question, is he 
 
 Whose name is written on it mile by mile, 
 
 A greater Hero of the Mississippi, 
 
 Than Horatio Nelson, Hero of the Nile. 
 
 His iron fleet in '6i, is imm_orcal, 
 
 Of which Lord Nelson would be justly proud, 
 And proudly with it entering in the battle 
 
 Would gain the day, with power like Eads' endowed. 
 
 Now, all his works, with these, a star eclipses — 
 The Tehuantepec Route, that is the star ; 
 
 Unlike the river, he would make the Isthmus 
 A road for ships of peace, instead of war. 
 
 (? 44 — -3 
 
Oh, what a mind that opens to each nation 
 
 Such golden vistas through that portal wide ; 
 
 Surely the gods will aid the gran4 creation, 
 If men be slumbering in Columbia's side. 
 
 He would in love for mankind make all countries, 
 
 Through dealings with each other, closer friends, 
 
 And strew the white crest waves through coming centuries, 
 With ships well filled with all that Nature sends. 
 
 Hark ! hear those waves through myriad ages swelling, 
 In one grand chorus of symphonious song — 
 
 The strain caught up on countless harps is telling 
 The joy of nations to a happy throng. 
 
 Among that throng, great hearts are throbbing proudly, 
 And gazing on the crowning work, rejoice ; 
 
 I fancy now I see good Abraham Cowley 
 Smile on the truth of his prophetic voice. 
 
 Two centuries since the poet bid the nation 
 
 "To plough the earth, to plough the very main." 
 
 No doubt he built upon an Eads foundation 
 Who'd "traffic with the universe maintain." 
 
 And thus, like him, through time's progressing wonders. 
 Shall he whose works that spirit power proclaim. 
 
 Live, after Earth to God His own surrenders — 
 On land, and sea, in an immortal name. 
 
 (g 45 3) 
 
For widely o'er creation's vast expanses, 
 
 Where billows roll with God's unfathomed power, 
 
 His soul to-day who man's great good advances 
 Shall ride triumphant to the eternal shore. 
 
 The truth of one whose ashes strewed the river, 
 And followed with its windings to the sea. 
 
 Now wide as the Atlantic rolling ever, 
 Perpetuate the martyr's memory. 
 
 So lives the m.emory of he whose genius 
 Now nestles close on the paternal breast, 
 
 From which proceed, like placid, shining virtues, 
 A progeny unequalled in the West. 
 
 With childlike faith within the folds reposing, 
 Of shining, wavy coils, there sink to sleep 
 
 The little sunbeams, whose bright eyes are closing. 
 Weary with many a playful dart and leap. 
 
 And when Aurora breathes upon their faces 
 Her breath of light, of heat and mother love. 
 
 They 'wake, emerge from out the waves' embraces, 
 And fly to kiss their father-god above. 
 
 And as they go, they touch their golden tresses 
 With diamond sparkles from the treasure deep. 
 
 More radiant, thus, each little angel blesses 
 
 With double brightness wheresoe'er 'twill peep. 
 
 46 
 
Those diamond sparkles are like dew drops^ paling, 
 Combined with other than effulgent light, 
 
 And sheds that light which on the waters sailing; 
 A beacon is to mariners by night. 
 
 It sails away, — Jiis geniits, whose intention, 
 Throueh winding curvatures within the vale. 
 
 Leads to the Gulf, by way — his own invention. 
 Through which the ships of nations now may sail. 
 
 'Till in the errand Old Ocean 'tis embosomed, 
 Where freely now it carries out his plan. 
 
 And does to-day as when the May Flower blossomed, 
 The world enrich with God's great gift to man. 
 
 Thus tracing truths as England does her martyr's 
 We from the River to the Gulf are led, 
 
 And from the Gulf to Ocean's boundless waters 
 Where'er the foot of mankind ever treads. 
 
 Perchance there may another brave Columbus, 
 When this commercial tide is ebbing high, 
 
 Break from the line to seek for, not a fabulous. 
 But actual Cipango, lying nigh. 
 
 He'll breathe the tropic fragrance from the garden ; 
 
 It's fruits and vegetation on the breeze ; 
 His heart will swell as nearer draws his Eden, 
 
 Which others sought for in enchanted seas. 
 
 47 
 
And sailing up the current of the river, 
 
 Which may be Pison, flowing where there's gold, 
 
 Praise God who from delusions did deliver. 
 And lead him to the ''Garden of the World." 
 
 Or farther down across the Isthmian passage. 
 
 Another Raleigh, in the golden land, 
 Will find the King, to whom he'd bear the message. 
 
 Of greater power displayed by greater hand. 
 
 He'll tell him that through Eads all nations gather 
 Around the cave of Mammon, richer far ; 
 
 That Oceans crown him, Commerce calls him father ; — 
 He's broken down the on^ pa7dition bar. 
 
 That they who had such pangs of hunger suffered, 
 Now look and see the maiden at her wheel, 
 
 Like Fortunatus, and to them are tendered 
 
 The gold that lasts them through life's woe or weal. 
 
 He'll tell him that this noble Hia-watha, 
 Lives in no Isle of Brandon, never found. 
 
 But close beside the branching water's father. 
 Within the glorious '' City of the Mound." 
 
 > 
 
 That now, no more, men waste their time in seeking 
 
 For Bimini, or other fabled founts ; 
 That knowledge, rather is the fount they're reaching 
 
 And drink its waters from our modern Mounts. 
 
 48 
 
Eads' fame's unequalled, while 'tis daily growing ; 
 
 His power 's unlimited in mind and space, 
 No, Ne-plus-2iltra of the ancients knowing, 
 
 He builds not their pillars of Hercules. 
 
 Nor would they in mythology's tradition 
 Cause him, like Hercules, to block the way 
 
 Of further claims to progress and ambition. 
 In those two Mountain Pillars of to-day. 
 
 They would assign to him some brilliant story, 
 A birth as wondrous as their Dieties', 
 
 And look to him for power, for fame, for glory, 
 To aid them in their many victories. 
 
 They'd say, perhaps: — ''The Standard of his nation 
 Had in his talons borne the starry flag, 
 
 In moments of ecstatic exultation, 
 
 'Bove pride of place, upon his native crag. 
 
 And waved it proudly in the starry world, 
 
 With olive branch of peace 'tween man and man, 
 
 Displaying thus, as fold by fold unfurled, 
 A power unequalled since the world began. 
 
 The brilliant orbs all claimed the spangled banner ; 
 
 Each saw its image in the mirror blue. 
 And asked the bird " to whom belongs the honor ? " 
 
 He must decide which one to give it to. 
 
 49 
 
The bird reflected, as if undecided, 
 
 Whether 'twas best to take it back to earth, 
 
 Then thought that " power is strongest undivided :— 
 Its destiny is equal to its birth." 
 
 " 'Tis best," he thought, ''to leave it to whoever 
 Is greatest here, than take it back again. 
 
 Where wars, the leaves from off the branch might sever, 
 'Tween hosts of Heaven, and earth's greatest men." 
 
 Thus spoke the bird : " Ye shining constellations, 
 Whiche'er is greatest shall possess the prize ; 
 
 It symbolizes greatest of Earth's nations. 
 And must not lose its glory in the skies." 
 
 'Twas well, they said, then each its claim submitted. 
 
 The bird whose piercing glance discerned far. 
 Immediately saw which one was best fitted 
 
 To hold the flag, then chose his honored star. 
 
 "Venus," said he, "the flag to you is presented, 
 For love is greatest 'mong the powers of Heaven; 
 
 As to your form in beauty so transplendent 
 Upon mount Ida was the apple given." 
 
 Then Mars and Jupiter, both pained and jealous, 
 Said they were greatest and the prize was theirs ; 
 
 Both warr'd against the noble bird and Venus ; 
 Then Mercury steps in and interferes : 
 
 50 
 
"The tlao^ belongs to Venus — let her have it; 
 
 She conquers where subdued are power and wars ; 
 She carried Heaven to its nation's Planet, 
 
 And shall to Heaven bear the Nation's Stars." 
 
 Then looked the goddess on her treasure, proudly. 
 And waved it in the ether when she sees 
 
 The bird uphold his magic branch and loudly 
 
 Proclaim with potent voice. Peace ! Peace ! Peace ! 
 
 The bird was free, and now he would return. 
 And sighing deeply, wrapped his pinions round 
 
 The sacred flag he had in triumph borne 
 
 From off his crag, above the hallowed ground. 
 
 She sees the tender pinions wrapped about it. 
 And Mercury, when both let fall a tear ; 
 
 ''Dear bird, your nation cannot do without it : 
 Here, take it back, we shall not keep it here." 
 
 Thus Venus spoke, in accents low and tender, 
 While she resigned the honor of her claim, 
 
 And then the bird, 'midst lights of golden splendor, 
 Returned to rest within the land of Fame. 
 
 But as once more upon the rocky summit, 
 
 With love he plumed his breast in every fold. 
 
 He saw two tears made one and falling from it. 
 Transformed to a star like burnished gold. 
 
 51 
 
Surprised, he watched these curious phenomena : — 
 The star went saiHng o'er the sunny meads 
 
 Of Lawrenceburg, in Southern Indiana, 
 
 Then heard he angels name it James B. Eads. 
 
 Still gazing, saw three Magi kneel before it — 
 'Twas then a child of Heaven-favored birth, 
 
 Their gifts presenting, while all three adored it, 
 As his attendants on his path through earth. 
 
 He grew and flourished in that balmy region. 
 With Mercury and Venus at his side, 
 
 Led by the Magi whose bright gifts were legion, 
 To manhood's stature, into manhood's pride." 
 
 Such might have been the Ancient's oft told story ; 
 
 And men would build a temple to his name, 
 But now the temple raised to names of glory, 
 
 Is that erected by the hand of fame. 
 
 And so there are such temples scattered over 
 The spacious world, in honor of the deeds 
 
 Which go to build Columbia's noble structure, 
 Whereon 's inscribed the living name of Eads. 
 
iEareweil, W ^ood ©ld S^.ear ! 
 
 ^!^Jt AREWELL ! thou'rt drawing to thy close 
 ^& O good old year, 
 
 Thou seem'st to weary for repose 
 
 Fast fading year ; 
 Thou dost attire thee in a sombre gown, 
 Where faded roses struggle with the brown 
 Dried mass of leaves on which thou lay'st thee down 
 
 As on a bier, old year. 
 
 Thou'st seen thy buoyant days in spring, 
 
 Dear dying year, 
 
 When nature's voice with joy did sing 
 
 Thy praise, O year ; 
 
 Then violets woke them from their long, long sleep, 
 
 And frozen brooks gushed out with merry leap. 
 
 Startling the stillness of the forest deep 
 
 With youthful cheer, old year. 
 
 63 
 
Thou'st also seen thy summer days, 
 
 Beloved year, 
 Then sunshine gladdened with its rays, 
 
 Thou cheering year 
 Beside the stream the frisking lambkins played, 
 And children's feet tripped 'neath the honied shade 
 Where lover wooed and won his pretty maid 
 
 With smile and tear, O year. 
 
 Q 
 
 And then the summer passed, and thou 
 
 Wert wearied, year ; 
 Men reaped the fruit of hoe and plow 
 
 From thee, good year, 
 Now is thy harvest sun chilled by the breath 
 Of dull November's blast, whose look is death 
 To tender farewell flowers and leaves which hath 
 
 Been long so dear, old year. 
 
 And now we see thee bleak and bare, 
 
 Thou dear old year ; 
 Thy leafless boughs sigh in the moaning air, 
 
 O, dying year. 
 While through each crevice shrieks the cold night wind, 
 With mournful wail so weird and undefined, 
 Which round the fire the children closer bind 
 
 In fancied fear, old year. 
 
 54 
 
And soon thy days will be no more ; 
 
 Farewell, old year. 
 Thou 'It pass away with all thy store, 
 
 Eventful year, 
 Of every good and evil we have done 
 From New^ Year's morn to Old Year's dying sun ; 
 O, hide our failures — they are oft begun 
 
 In good sincere, O year. 
 
 And when thou layest thee down to rest ; 
 
 Dear worn-out year, 
 When in thy spotless robes thou'rt dress'd, 
 
 Fast fading year, 
 May we a lesson take, and try to be 
 In duty faithful unto death like thee, 
 Then spotless robes of immortality 
 
 Shall wreath us here, old year. 
 

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