I LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 )C 
 
 lY OF CONf 
 
 # 
 
 I UNITED STATES OF ABIERICA. 
 

 
MY 
 
 Welcome Beyond, 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 n-< 
 
 /' BY 
 
 ALLIE !WELLINGTON|^t><J^ 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. 
 
 NEW HAVEN: JUDD & WHITE. 
 
 1877. 
 9K 
 

 COPVKIGHT, 
 1876, 
 
 By Dodd, Mead & Company. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Welcome Beyond 7 
 
 At Last 10 
 
 My Ships 12 
 
 If 15 
 
 The Dying Year iS 
 
 The Faces We Meet 20 
 
 Some Day 24 
 
 Inner Sanctum 28 
 
 Somebody's Home 31 
 
 Ships at Sea 34 
 
 Agony Bells 38 
 
 Drifting 41 
 
 Naming the Baby 44 
 
 Going Home 48 
 
 To Mrs. Allie W. Brooks 53 
 
 Driving Home the Cows 56 
 
 It may Be 60 
 
 Dropping Anchor. 63 
 
 The Magic Chime 67 
 
 President Lincoln 70 
 
 Promise 73 
 
 The Strawberry Girl 74 
 
 Responsum 79 
 
 Dream-Land 81 
 
 The Church Angel 85 
 
 The River 88 
 
 Pond Lilies 90 
 
 Waiting at the Gate 94 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Whetting of the Scythe 97 
 
 Autumn 102 
 
 Under the Snow 105 
 
 Weavings 108 
 
 The Unseen m 
 
 The Unknown 114 
 
 Dead 116 
 
 The Storm King 118 
 
 The Early Bird 120 
 
 Recognition 123 
 
 Etoile de la Mer 126 
 
 Life's Bravuras 128 
 
 Rain on the Roof 131 
 
 A Fragment 135 
 
 Vigils 136 
 
 The Blue Violet 139 
 
 Agnes Allen 141 
 
 Indian Summer 144 
 
 The WHip-rooR-wiLL 147 
 
 Why Not? 150 
 
 The Drummer Boy 153 
 
 Rowing 157 
 
 The Tolling Bell t6i 
 
 Not Yet 164 
 
 Evangeline. , 167 
 
 The Winds 170 
 
 The Connecticut River 173 
 
 The End. (To A. W. B.) 178 
 
 Waiting for Me 182 
 
 The Old Year AND THE New 184 
 
 1776— 1876 187 
 
MY WELCOME BEYOND. 
 
 'HO will greet me first in Heaven, 
 When that blissful realm I gain, 
 When the hands have ceased from toiling. 
 
 And the heart hath ceased from pain ; 
 When the last farewell is spoken, 
 
 Severed, the last tender tie. 
 And I know how sweet, how solemn, 
 And how blest it is to die ? 
 
 As my barque glides o'er the waters 
 
 Of that cold and silent stream, 
 I shall see the domes of temples 
 
 In the distance brightly gleam ; 
 Temples of that beauteous city 
 
 From all blight and sorrow free ; 
 Who adown its golden portal 
 
 First will haste to welcome me ? 
 
MV WELCOME BEYOND. 
 
 Ah, whose eyes shall watch my coming 
 
 From that other, fairer shore ? 
 Whose the voice I first shall listen 
 
 That shall teach me heavenly lore ? 
 When my feet shall press the mystic 
 
 Borders of that better land, 
 Whose face greet my wondering vision ? 
 
 Whose, shall clasp the spirit hand ? 
 
 Who will greet me first in Heaven P 
 
 Oft the earnest thought will rise, 
 ]M using OR the unknown glories 
 
 Of that home beyond the skies ; 
 Who will be my spirit's mentor? 
 
 Will it be some seraph bright ? 
 Or an angel from the countless 
 
 INIyriads of that home of light ? 
 
 No, NOT THESE — for they have never 
 Gladdened here my mortal view ; 
 
 But the dear ones gone before us, 
 They, the loved — the tried — the true ; 
 
MY WELCOME BEYOND. 
 
 They who walked with us Hfe's pathway, 
 To its joys and griefs were given ; 
 
 They who loved us best in Earthland, 
 Be the first to greet in Heaven ! 
 
lO AT LAST. 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 CLOSE the sightless e^'es with tender, loving care, 
 They are blessed with visions of beauty other- 
 where ; 
 Place the feet that many a thorny path have trod ; 
 No more weary w'anderings ; — he is with his God. 
 
 Brush the wavy locks from o'er the marble brow, 
 All that death hath left us that is changeless now ; 
 Brow that once so humbly bowed beneath the rod 
 Wears the crown immortal ; — he is with his God. 
 
 Fold the hands so cold o'er the pulseless heart, — 
 Heart so kind and noble, of our lives a part ; 
 No more toilsome labor, or shadowed ways to plod ; 
 Done, life's longings, strivings ; — he is with his God. 
 
AT LAST. II 
 
 Lay around him flowers that he used to love, 
 Maybe he still loves them in his home above ; 
 Bear him, — gently bear him to his last abode, 
 Peaceful are his slumbers — safely with his God. 
 
 Worth and merits cherish ; o'er his errors all, 
 Let the silken mantle of charity e'er fall ; 
 Make thy life as noble as the path he trod. 
 Emulate his virtues ; leave the rest with God. 
 
 Let no fears, or doubts obscure the promise true, — 
 For His children ever there is One will do 
 More than earthly parent, — saith His loving word. 
 Therefore heart, be comforted ; trust him with his God. 
 
 Place the green turf o'er him, there to slumber deep. 
 Till the angel cometh to wake him from his sleep ; 
 Let no sorrowing tear-drops fall upon the sod, 
 Home at last he's entered, — Leave him with his God I 
 
12 MY SHIPS. 
 
 MY SHIPS. 
 
 I WONDER where, ah, me ! 
 This stormy night. 
 The ships I sent to sea 
 
 With colors dight. 
 And sails spread fair, 
 And pennons fluttering in the breezy air, 
 All decked to brave Life's ocean wide. 
 And gaily o'er each billow ride ? 
 
 Launched from youth's golden strand. 
 Freighted with hope, 
 
 I bade them some fair land, 
 Or sweet isle's slope 
 
 Seek out for me ; — 
 
 Some fair enchanted realm, some bright To Be- 
 Fairer than seen by mortal eyes 
 This side the pale of Paradise I 
 
MY SHIPS. . 13 
 
 Away on sunny seas 
 
 I bade them go, — 
 Then come rich argosies 
 
 With wings not slow, 
 And enter port 
 Bearing tlie treasures of a restless heart, — 
 
 Freighted with all that golden schemes 
 
 Had wrought, or wove my brightest dreams. 
 
 Ah, me ! where can they be ! 
 
 What waters know 
 Those ships I sent to sea 
 
 So long ago ? 
 With anxious gaze 
 I've scanned the line of the horizon's maze, 
 
 Yet no proud sail, with gleam alight. 
 
 E'er yet has cheered my wistful sight ! 
 
 Hath Fate her dire monsoon 
 
 Sent treacherous forth ? 
 Or merciless lagoon 
 
 Spread ruin's dearth ? 
 
14 MY SHIPS. 
 
 Do tropic sands 
 
 Drift o'er their shattered masts on foreign strands ? 
 Or did they find life's frigid, polar sea, 
 And crystal chains withhold my ships from me ? 
 
 Alas ! zvhere cati they be 
 
 This stormy night ? 
 They come not back to me 
 
 With colors dight ! 
 Perchance they found 
 Not what they sought, in all earth's weary round, 
 
 And so my treasured_ hopes — no more at sea. 
 
 Anchored in yon bright port, now wait for me. 
 
IF. 
 
 15 
 
 "IF." 
 
 IF there should come to me to-night 
 Some bright-winged seraph from the other shore, 
 And say, "Mortal, lay by thine earthly care, 
 
 Thy labors here are all forever o'er," 
 Would I be sad, or joyous at the call — 
 
 This summons from the Father to come home 
 And take the rest for which I often sigh ? 
 
 Greet him with smiles, or tears, who sayeth '"' Come " ? 
 Ah, me, alas ! I scarcely know ; 
 Each varied gift doth tempt me so ! 
 
 Life's goblet to the brim is full. 
 
 And bright the hue and sparkle of its wine ; 
 I just am reaching forth the hand to take, 
 
 And to the eager lips to press it mine ; 
 The spirit of its joy doth beckon, " Stay, 
 
 Sip first these sweets, and pluck these flowers fair, 
 
1 6 IF. 
 
 Leave not ungathered all these beauteous gems 
 For those that deck a realm far otherwhere ; 
 The day is scarce begun, and all 
 Unfinished is life's madrigal ! " 
 
 And there are tasks that wait me here, 
 
 For the dear Master, that I fain would do ; 
 Alas, that those already done should seem 
 
 So incomplete, so meager, and so few I 
 And there are ties so te7tder, yet so strong. 
 
 That bind us here ; fond hearts to which we cling, 
 That love shrinks back appalled and terrified. 
 
 At this dread pain of earthly severing, 
 The gloaming, and the stream so cold, 
 The silent darkness, and the mold. 
 
 Yet there are crosses that I faint beneath. 
 And heavy burdens I would fain lay down ; 
 
 Temptations dire from which I would be free. 
 And earnest yearnings that I would were grown 
 
 To bright fruition ; and, far better still. 
 Loved faces that I long once more to see, 
 
And hands long parted eager clasp again ; 
 
 Though dark and cold soe'er the stream may be, 
 By His strong hand I shall be led, 
 His breast support my weary head. 
 
 And so, if there should come to-night 
 
 The messenger that God will send to me, 
 I could to either angel — Life, or Death — 
 
 Say, "Stay, sweet spirit, I will bide with thee ;" 
 And as each day the shades of evening fall, 
 
 I whisper to my soul, that " it may be 
 The shadow of His wings who comes to set 
 
 Thee from thine earthly fetters ever free." 
 Whate'er the hour He choose to come, 
 I wait and pray, ' ' Thy will be done. " 
 
THE DYING YEAR. 
 
 THE DYING YEAR. 
 
 THE old year lieth low; dim is his eye, 
 And icy cold the deeply-furrowed brow 
 O'er which his white locks stray, while languidly 
 
 Faint pulses tell the life-tide ebbing now ! 
 Oh, bring ye memory's flowers, and of them weave 
 
 A chaplet bright, to crown the dying year, 
 And strew them there, though tears for Nevermore 
 And '^ Might have been " fall sadly on his bier. 
 
 Many a cherished treasure hath he given. 
 
 Many a treasure borne away for e'er. 
 Sent forth the bridal, and the funeral train, 
 
 Mingled glad welcomes with the farewell tear. 
 Blended the sound of revelry and mirth, 
 
 With the fierce battle's din, the mourner's wail ; 
 For some, the myrtle and the rose hath twined, 
 
 Others, the cypress dark, and night-shade pale. 
 
THE DRYING YEAR. 19 
 
 Hark, to the muffled tread of centuries ! 
 
 From that dim shore, — the Past — they hither come 
 To claim their kindred ; the dark pall above, 
 
 And snowy shroud beneath are spread, while moan 
 The sorrowing winds a mournful requiem. 
 
 Farewell, old year ; we part to meet no more 
 As now, — ^yet from that land of sepulchers. 
 
 Oft wilt thou come with spectral throngs of yore. 
 
 How wilt thou come ? Like a reproachful shade, 
 
 To censure for the follies of the past. 
 For moments lost, and duties all undone. 
 
 Or blight, or shadow o'er some spirit cast ? 
 Or, with the guise approving, say "Well done, 
 
 Beyond, a fadeless crown shall deck thy brow " ? 
 Hotv wilt thou come to Memory's hall, Old Year ? 
 
 Our hearts are saying — echo answereth— How ? 
 
20 THE FACES WE MEET. 
 
 O' 
 
 THE FACES WE MEET. 
 
 ^H, the faces we meet! the faces we meet ! 
 At home, or abroad, on the hurrying street 
 Each has its history, dark, or bright, 
 Traced so clearly in legible light, 
 As with pen of gold 
 Of finest mold. 
 Diamond pointed. 
 And lightly scrolled, 
 Some telling that Fortune hath graciously planned 
 Their sketch, and wrote with her soft, white hand ; 
 
 Others, where harrowing Grief and Care 
 Have left in steel their traces there — 
 Steel that cuts like the two-edged sword 
 Slowly carving each written word. 
 
THE FACES WE MEET. 21 
 
 Through anxious fears. 
 
 And sorrowing tears, 
 
 Each furrowed line 
 
 Its import wears ; 
 And we read that "Life is a stern warfare, 
 To battle and do, to sujfer and bear ! " 
 
 While others — the iron hand of Sin 
 Branding each line and sentence in — • 
 Leaving forever its harrowing trace. 
 Where once was purity, beauty, and grace ; 
 
 The soul's deep scars 
 
 Like iron bars 
 
 O'er windows bright, 
 
 The visage mars ; 
 And we read, — " Life's a wild bacchanalian song, 
 The province of selfishness, ruin, and wrong ! " 
 
 Faces so old, yet so young in their years, 
 Where pinching penury blights and sears, 
 And the bony finger of Poverty writes, 
 And merciless Misery e'er indites ; 
 
22 THE FACES WE MEET. 
 
 Where pain and want, 
 
 And hunger gaunt, 
 
 Bid joy, and beauty 
 
 x\nd hope avaunt ; — 
 " Life is to wander starving, and cold, 
 Shunned, and forsaken, toil, and grow old ! " 
 
 Oh, the faces we meet, — the faces we meet, 
 At home, or abroad, on the hurrying street I 
 Beautiful faces, with soul-beaming eyes, — 
 Visions of angels that walk in disguise ! 
 
 Faces glad and as gay 
 
 As the blue skies of May, 
 
 With no more of care 
 
 Than the rose on the spray ; 
 Others, sad, yet more sweet, with submission's soft tone, 
 By treading the wine-press of sorrow alone. 
 
 Pitiful faces upturned so to mine, 
 Wistful and eager, as if to divine 
 If human charity, pity, or love 
 Could be found 'neath the dome of the heaven 
 above ? 
 
THE FACES WE MEET. 
 
 Little faces so old, 
 
 Thin with hunger and cold, — 
 
 Faces furrowed by toil 
 
 After perishing gold ! 
 Ah, the heart is oft burdened with sorrow replete, 
 By the tales that are read in the faces we meet ! 
 
 23 
 
24 
 
 SOME DA Y. 
 
 T 
 
 SOME DAY. 
 
 HERE will be a hush in a darkened room, 
 
 Where, heeding not the stilly gloom, 
 A pallid form will lowly lie 
 'Neath the folds of the snowy drapery ; 
 Pale hands clasped o'er a pulseless breast, 
 Cold, white lips in silence pressed, — 
 Eyes that have closed in sleep for aye ; 
 There will be footsteps' muffled tread, 
 And voices whisper, — ''She is dead," — 
 
 Some day ! 
 
 Others' tears, and others' woes 
 Shall not disturb my deep repose ; 
 Perhaps some loving hand may press 
 ]My marble brow in tenderness. 
 And twine the myrtle with flowers fair. 
 To deck my rest as I slumber there ; 
 
SOME DAY. 25 
 
 But naught to me will that pressure be, 
 Or beauty, or fragrance of rarest flowers, — 
 The light, or shadow of passing hours, — 
 
 Some day. 
 
 I shall not heed as they bear me on 
 
 With solemn tread to the church-yard lone, 
 
 Or hear the toll of the deep-toned bell 
 
 Breaking with mournful ebb and swell ; 
 
 As they lower me down, I shall heed, nor fear, 
 
 The requiem strain I shall not hear, 
 
 Or ever the shock of the yellow clay. 
 
 As with hollow sound on the coffin lid 
 
 It falls, and covers my narrow bed, — 
 
 Some day. 
 
 Summer and winter will come and go 
 With their floral wealth, and robes of snow, 
 And the phantom train of years go by, 
 But I shall not heed them where I lie ; 
 The violet there with its eye of blue. 
 May weep o'er my mound its tears of dew, 
 2 
 
20 SOME DA V. 
 
 The wild bird trill his sweetest lay, 
 Yet the heart that 'neath lies cold and still, 
 Will not respond with its wonted thrill, — 
 
 Some day. 
 
 Only a lock of silken hair, — 
 Little mementos here, and there, 
 Only a ceasing of toil and strife, — 
 Alas, alas ! is it aH of life ? 
 Ah, no ! there's somewhere a fairer shore, 
 Where hands long parted shall clasp once more, 
 A beauteous land in the far away. 
 Where light and joy will e'er remain, 
 And the soul its long lost treasures regain, — 
 
 Some day. 
 
 Then why should we fear, oh Death ! thy clasp. 
 Or shrink at the touch of thine icy grasp. 
 Since thou art the angel that opens the gate 
 Of that city bright, where our loved ones wait? 
 We will place the hand without one thrill. 
 Into thine own, so cold and chill ; 
 
SOME DAY. 27 
 
 Come, lead us thou, to that realm of day, 
 Where never is heard a sigh, or knell. 
 But where the pure and beautiful dwell 
 
 For aye ! 
 
28 INNER SANCTUM. 
 
 INNER SANCTUM. 
 
 DEEP within the heart's recesses 
 Is an inner sanctum, where 
 Loves the soul to hold communion 
 With the guests assembled there ; 
 'Tis afar from earth's vain striving, 
 
 Far from its discordant din, 
 And an agel guards the portal 
 That no stranger enter in ! 
 
 There's an altar whose pure incense 
 
 Wafteth upward evermore ; 
 Holy sacraments are offered, 
 
 Treasured relics there of yore ; 
 There are tones whose gentle accents 
 
 Greet us now on earth no more — 
 Tones that wake a thrilling echo, 
 
 'Lons: the soul's vast corridor. 
 
INNER SANCTUM. 29 
 
 There are faces (how we loved them !) — 
 
 That once lightened all life's care, 
 Only there they now can greet us, 
 
 Only now that angels wear ! 
 Harp- tones soothe the weary spirit, 
 
 Voices whisper words of cheer, 
 Gentle hands with magic kindness 
 
 Wipe away each falling tear. 
 
 And the world knows not the blessings 
 
 Resting on the spirit brow, — 
 Knoweth not the sacrifices 
 
 Offered, — heareth not the vow, 
 For it seeth not the shining 
 
 Ones that ever greet us here. 
 In the heart's e'er blooming greenwood. ' 
 
 Be earth's pathway bright, or drear. 
 
 Mortal, in thy weary wanderings 
 
 After Fame's delusive goal. 
 Sometimes turn thee to this Eden, — 
 
 This Palladium of the soul ; 
 
30 
 
 INNER SANCTUM. 
 
 Let no sacrilegious offering 
 E'er those altar-fires bedim ; 
 
 Keep thine angel ever stationed 
 That no stranger enter in ! 
 
SOMEBOD Y'S HOME. 3 1 
 
 SOMEBODY'S HOME. 
 
 CAREFULLY open the time-worn gate, 
 Tread not thoughtless the grass-grown path, 
 Enter not rudely the lowly door 
 
 Where, long neglected, the ivy hath 
 Intertwined with loving clasp 
 
 Its slender branches, as if in pledge 
 To guard the spot where perchance e'en now 
 
 Sweet memories oft make their pilgrimage ; 
 Spot, wherever the feet may roam, — 
 Some soul's Mecca, — somebody's home 1 
 
 To the broken trellis the rose-vine clings 
 In dependent beauty, and to the air 
 
 Giveth its sweetest fragrance forth ; 
 
 But where the hand that trained it ? Where P 
 
32 
 
 SOMEBODY'S HOME. 
 
 Where are the feet that this threshold trod ? 
 
 The gladsome voices of laughter and song ? 
 Where are the forms that to this lone place 
 
 Gave life and beauty the live day long ? 
 Ah, what spot more sad, 'neath the heaven's blue dome, 
 Than the mouldering ruins, once somebody's home ? 
 
 Weeds are waving where once the flame 
 
 Cheerfully greeted each glad return ; 
 Drear is the hearth, once the scene of mirth — 
 
 In its ashes cold no pale embers burn ; 
 The wild bird carols it plaintive note. 
 
 Where once trilled the mother's lullaby ; 
 Where erst the sportive sunbeam strayed, 
 
 Now, dark and spectral shadows lie ; 
 A viewless presence seems haunting each room 
 Of this tenantless Eden, — somebody's home. 
 
 Here, hath been welcome, and farewell tones, 
 
 Joy, and sorrow, and anxious care ; 
 It may be angels have hovered near. 
 
 Upward to Heaven some heartfelt prayer. 
 Or ransomed spirit to gently bear ! 
 
SOMEBODY'S HOME. 7^-3^ 
 
 Then carefully open the time-worn gate, 
 Enter not rudely the lowly door, 
 
 'Tis the shrine where the soul's purest offerings 
 wait, 
 Which adown the dim aisles of long years may have 
 
 come, 
 Sacred to memory ! — Somebody's home ! 
 
34 SHIPS A T SEA. 
 
 SHIPS AT SEA. 
 
 /'~\N the flowery bank of a purling stream 
 
 ^-^ Stands a fair-haired boy, while the golden gleam 
 
 Of the morning rests on the sunny face, 
 
 And 'mid flowing ringlets caressingly plays ; 
 
 A dimpled hand clasps the gilded prow^ 
 
 Of a little toy skiff, and eagerly now 
 
 It reaches out to the silvery tide, 
 
 And the painted sails o'er the water glide. 
 
 The little feet dance, while he shouts with glee, 
 
 ' ' Oh mama — come look ! My ship's at sea ! " 
 
 But the blue eyes glisten with falling tears 
 
 As the tiny skiff down the current steers 
 
 And Cometh not back at his pleading call ; 
 
 Smile not at his grief ; 'twas his childish— «//./ 
 
 Slowly pacing the wave-worn strand, 
 
 Her soft, pink cheek by the sea-breeze fanned, 
 
SHIPS A T SEA. 
 
 A maiden watcheth with pensive air. 
 
 Anon she stops, and with hand so fair 
 
 Shading the Hght from her earnest eyes, 
 
 She looks afar, where the blue waste lies 
 
 Blended with mist in the distance pale, 
 
 To catch the glimpse of a snowy sail ; 
 
 And her face lights up with glad surprise 
 
 As the bright mirage from the waves doth rise, 
 
 But sighs succeed, as the shadows play 
 
 O'er the surging deep, and 'tis lost for aye. 
 
 Thus gazing afar through hope and fear. 
 
 With a smile that gleams through a trembling tear, 
 
 She waiteth long for the bright to be, — 
 
 That coming ship on the distant sea ! 
 
 Day by day in his counting-room 
 
 The merchant toileth 'mid gathering gloom, 
 
 While anxious thought and wearisome care 
 
 Twine a cypress wreath for his pale brow there ; 
 
 He searcheth the lists of ' ' Arrivals " o'er, 
 
 " Late Departures " from a foreign shore, 
 
 The " Wrecks," "Disasters," the '' Lost at Sea," 
 
 Murmurs of ruin and poverty. 
 
 35 
 
^6 SHIPS A T SEA. 
 
 And clencheth his hand as if power to crave, 
 While he utters a curse on the tardy wave ; 
 His locks grow white as the years go by, 
 Furrowed the brow, and dim the eye 
 Watching and waiting his earthly all, — 
 Treasures that lie 'neath the dark wave's pall. 
 
 A low, thatched cot by the sounding shore. 
 Sends its beacon ray when the storm-clouds lower. 
 And night comes on, and the surf beats wild. 
 And the heart of the widow is with her child ; 
 The mariner sees it through distance dim, 
 Takes hope, for he knoweth 'tis meant for him ; 
 There, morning and eve the mother prays. 
 That ' ' He who the winds and tempest stays. 
 Keep from all ill and danger free 
 My darling Willie, on the wide, wide sea." 
 
 Ah, we all have ships on a stormy sea, 
 
 That sea is the marge of Eternity ; 
 
 And with anxious hearts, when the tempest's rife, 
 
 Do we scan the clouded horizon of life. 
 
SHIPS A T SEA. 37 
 
 If perchance a glimmering sail may appear 
 
 To tell of hope, and comfort near ; 
 
 Thus we watch, and wait by the wave-worn strand 
 
 Those coming ships from a far-off land ; 
 
 But 'tis known but to One whether woe, or weal 
 
 Be their freight, or how long ere the grating keel 
 
 May sound a welcome to thee and me, — 
 
 Whether safely anchored, or — lost at sea I 
 
38 
 
 AGONY BELLS. 
 
 AGONY BELLS.* 
 
 SOMEBODY'S dying to-night ! Alas ! 
 Hear ye those agony bells, 
 Solemnly, mournfully break on the air, 
 
 The saddest of all sad knells? 
 From yon high tower they downward float. 
 
 Like a voice from the far-off Heaven ; 
 To some soul 'tis the last of earth. 
 And its tenderest ties are being riven, 
 Somebody's dying 1 
 
 Is it childhood, lovely and pure. 
 
 Whose spirit is cleaving this midnight air ? 
 
 Is it youth in the flush of hope, 
 
 With its dreams of the future radiant and fair ? 
 
 * There was formerly a custom in the Roman Catholic Church 
 to commence a solemn toll of bells, called Agony I'ells, when 
 any one connected with that church was supposed to be dying. 
 
AGONY BELLS. 39 
 
 Or is it manhood, strong and brave, 
 
 That's fallen in the noontide strife, 
 Or age bent down with the weight of years, 
 
 Treading the twilight paths of life ? 
 Somebody's dying ! 
 
 It may be a mother — a father — child, 
 
 A sister — a brother — a maiden fair ; 
 It may be a homeless, friendless one — • 
 
 A stranger, far from love's tender care ! 
 Whoe'er it be, was the solemn call 
 
 Welcome, or greeted with startling fears ? 
 Was their mission accomplished? their life-work 
 done ? 
 
 Are they angel voices the spirit hears ? 
 Somebody's dying ! 
 
 There are other deaths, there are other graves 
 Than those spread o'er by the grassy mound ; 
 
 There are other mourners than sable clad, 
 And sepulchres else than on earth are found ; 
 
40 
 
 AGONY BELLS. 
 
 There are souls that to darkness and death go down, 
 
 Whose corridors echo reproachful knells ; 
 There are friendships that languish, and hopes that 
 expire, 
 And hearts that e'er list their own agony bells, 
 Forever dying I 
 
DRIFTING. 41 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 DOWN by the shell-strewn, pebbly shore, 
 Where the city's din is heard no more. 
 Where the sea-birds dip their wings in play, 
 And the waves are decked with feathery spray, 
 Where light and shadow rise and fall, 
 I sit and list the ocean's call, 
 As with many a sigh her bosom heaves 
 Like a maiden who o'er her lost lover grieves ; 
 Watching the wild birds in their play. 
 Watching the dark waves decked with spray. 
 The ocean's sighs, and the sunbeams gay, 
 The seaweeds drifting away, away. 
 
 Watching the dip of the plashing oar, 
 The ships that pass, and return no more. 
 The fading light of the snowy sail. 
 The ploughing steamer's foamy trail, 
 
42 DRIFTING. 
 
 The fisherman's toil on the distant sea, 
 Like that long ago on the Galilee, — 
 The faces that come, and the faces that go, 
 As far and near the boatmen row ; 
 Watching the tide as it creeps more near 
 Up the frowning rocks, then retreats in fear, 
 Writing its histoiy on the sand 
 Like the graceful sweep of a magic hand. 
 
 Now the merry sound of laughter and song, 
 Comes borne o'er the dancing waves along. 
 And the sunlight's glow on the waters blue 
 Kindles with gold and iris hue, — 
 Changing this wave dark to an emerald's gleam. 
 And that to a diamond's glittering sheen ; 
 
 This is turned to an amethyst ; 
 
 That wave of pearl has a silver crest ; 
 
 Onyx and sapphire, ruby and gold, 
 
 Glittering gems of hues untold 
 
 Here at my feet spread far and wide. 
 
 Rise and fall with the fitful tide ; 
 
 But a shadow creeps o'er the wondrous view. 
 
 And all is changed to a leaden hue ! 
 
DRIFTING. 
 
 43 
 
 Oh, beautiful sea, so old and gray, 
 Though brightly the sunbeams o'er thee play, 
 Thy precious freight, and thy scenes so gay 
 From me are drifting away, away ! 
 
 We each are adrift, on a wide, wide sea ; 
 
 A sea whose shore is Eternity ; 
 
 Sunlight and shadow over us fall. 
 
 Storm and tempest spread their pall ; 
 
 Other barges we hail and greet, 
 
 Then sever, no more on its waves to meet ; . 
 
 Yet whether the storm, or sunlight fall, 
 
 The Great God watcheth over all ; 
 
 And we know that oft through the tempest's roar. 
 
 Sweet voices shall reach us from yon bright shore, 
 
 And our eyes may catch from that misty strand 
 
 The beckoning glimpse of some loved hand. 
 
 Like a flower that floats on the ocean's spray. 
 
 Hour by hour, and day by day. 
 
 With its drear December, and smiling May, 
 
 Our lives are drifting away, away ! 
 
44 NAMING THE BAB V. 
 
 NAMING THE BABY. 
 
 WHAT shall we call our darling, 
 This little waif of love, 
 This compound of smiles and dimples, 
 
 Sent to us from above? 
 This little bundle of gladness 
 Where the rose and lily vie, 
 And the fairest tint of the violet 
 Ne'er equaled the blue of her eye ? 
 
 This wealth of gold and sunshine 
 
 That we somehow misname "curls," 
 These two little lips of ruby. 
 
 With four little snow-white pearls ; 
 Smiles, and tears, and dimples. 
 
 Little hands and feet never still, 
 What shall we call this treasure 
 
 That so our hearts doth fill ? 
 
NAMING THE BABY. 45 
 
 What shall we call the baby, 
 
 Our little nameless dove ? 
 What shall the angels call her, 
 
 Up in the home above ? 
 It must be something gentle, 
 
 With accents soft and sweet. 
 With a tender, joyous cadence, 
 
 And for love's language meet. 
 
 A name that hints of the witchery 
 
 Of her winsome, artless ways. 
 And the matchless charm and beauty 
 
 Of her angel form and face ; 
 For never was face so faultless. 
 
 Or fair to look upon, 
 As that of our darling baby, 
 
 The sweetest under the sun ! 
 
 Shall it be Maude, or Minnie, 
 
 Grace, or Evangeline ? 
 Lilian ? sainted Agnes ? 
 
 Or Mary, — half divine? 
 
46 NAMING THE BABY. 
 
 Inez, for dark eyes only, 
 
 And locks of waving jet ; 
 Lenore,and queenly Laura 
 
 Suggest the proud brunette ; 
 
 Annie, and Nellie, — too common ! 
 
 While Avice, so much preferred, 
 Doth not with her eyes so dreamy, 
 
 And angel lace accord ; 
 Oh, who would have thought so meagre 
 
 The long list, one by one, 
 As we seek a name for our darling, 
 
 The sweetest under the sun ! 
 
 What shall we call the baby. 
 
 Our little nameless dove ? 
 What shall the angels call her, 
 
 Up in the home above ? 
 This compound of smiles and dimples 
 
 With hands and feet never still. 
 This little gleam of sunshine 
 
 That so our hearts doth fill ? 
 
NAMING THE BABY. 47 
 
 Ah, it recks not so much what we call her, 
 
 If she only be faithful and true 
 To the life-work laid before her, 
 
 That her little hands may do ; 
 If only the feet never wander 
 
 From paths of light divine, 
 And when He numbers His jewels 
 
 "The Master" calls her— "z?h«^." 
 
48 GOING HOME. 
 
 s 
 
 GOING HOME. 
 
 *OME shall go at daybreak, when the mists lie on 
 the plain, 
 
 And the dewdrops sparkle like diamonds from moun- 
 tain-top to main, 
 When the morning-glory opens its crumpled edges 
 
 fair, 
 Reaching its silken tendrils to grasp the soft June 
 
 air, — 
 When the lily is heavy with fragrance held in its pure 
 
 white cup, 
 And the far-off aisles of the woodland are wafting their 
 
 incense up. 
 And the little birds half-wakened, twitter their first 
 
 sweet note. 
 While the orient rays steal upward, and like golden 
 
 banners float, 
 
GOING HOME. 
 
 49 
 
 And the angel that opens the portal of Heaven to 
 
 let them in, 
 Shall see that morn is breaking o'er our world of 
 
 shadow and sin, — 
 Our beautiful, beautiful Earthland, where the lessons 
 
 of life begin ! 
 
 And some shall go at the noontide, when the sun with 
 
 quivering heat 
 Hath drank the dew of the morning from each wood- 
 land's cool retreat, 
 When the birds have ceased their carols, and to the 
 
 forest fled. 
 And like a bashful maiden the lily droops her head, — 
 When the tide is high in the harbor, and the stately 
 
 ships come in 
 With their freight from a far-off country, 'rnid the 
 
 whir and busy din 
 Of the little nestled village, with its sloping hillside, 
 
 where 
 The voices of merry children float on the summer 
 
 air ; 
 3 
 
50 GOING HOME. 
 
 Yes, some shall go at the noontide away from this 
 
 busy scene, 
 And rest in that other village that lies on the hillside 
 
 green,— 
 That silent, peaceful village, where the river rolls 
 
 between. 
 
 And some shall pass in the twilight, when the glory- 
 kindled west 
 Seems a stairway from earth to Heaven, of gold and 
 
 amethyst ; 
 Ruby and sapphire blending their splendors over 
 
 all, 
 Towering high, and higher, till they reach the jasper 
 
 wall ; — 
 When so still lie the misty shadows, so voiceless the 
 
 fragrant air, 
 We can almost hear the footsteps of angels on the 
 
 stair 
 As they ascend and descend on missions of God to 
 
 men, 
 Changing earth to the olden Bethel scene again, — • 
 
GOING HOME. 
 
 51 
 
 While the stars that look down so peaceful from yonder 
 
 vaulted sky, 
 Like beacons light that stairway up to the world on 
 
 high,— 
 World linked with the realm of mortals by a strange 
 
 and mystic tie ! 
 
 And some, in the holy midnight, when the earth in 
 silence sleeps, 
 
 And the pale moon faithful vigils above its slumber 
 keeps. 
 
 When the lily has shut its petals to wake at the morn- 
 ing dawn. 
 
 And the bright-winged bird of the woodland to its 
 downy nest hath flown ; 
 
 Or when winter winds are sweeping across a stormy sky. 
 
 And the weird old trees are waving their ghostly hands 
 on high. 
 
 Moaning and wildly shrieking all through the dreary 
 night, 
 
 With the lifeless earth deep buried in its sepulchre cold 
 ■ and white ! 
 
52 
 
 GOING HOME. 
 
 Ah, it matters not ivhen the going, or ever the bound 
 
 be passed, 
 Though the warm and radiant sunshine, or tempest 
 
 overcast, 
 Whether early, or late the summons — if, we only reach 
 
 home, at last ! 
 
TO MRS. ALLIE W. BROOKS. 
 
 53 
 
 TO MRS. ALLIE W. BROOKS. 
 
 LINGER not among the shadows 
 When God's sunlight is so free, 
 Flooding all the world with beauty, 
 
 Woodland, vale, and boundless sea ; 
 Life hath much of joy and gladness. 
 
 In the mission we fulfill. 
 Many bright and sunny pathways. 
 We may choose them, if we will. 
 
 Linger not among the shadows, 
 
 See how constant is His care 
 O'er the least of His creation, 
 
 Bird and insect everywhere ; 
 Feeds with dew each tender flower, 
 
 Clothes the lily of the lea. 
 Shall he not with loving kindness 
 
 Even much more care for thee ? 
 
54 
 
 TO MRS. ALLIE W. BROOKS. 
 
 Linger not among' the shadows, 
 
 Look not e'er through dimming tears 
 Down the future's darkened vista, 
 
 Clouded by thy doubts and fears ; 
 Only trust the great "Our Father " 
 
 Every doubting fear to quell ; 
 Thou may'st gain e'en here the assurance 
 
 That " He doeth all things well." 
 
 Linger not among the shadows. 
 
 Look for light and strength above, 
 To the soul's sure hope and comfort, 
 
 One whose name is ever love, — 
 One who did of deepest sorrow, 
 
 Death itself, for us partake, 
 Who hath said, "I will go with thee. 
 
 Never leave thee, nor forsake," 
 
 Linger not among the shadows 
 Dearest friend ; that loving hand 
 
 That hath placed the heavy burden, 
 'Neath its weight shall help thee stand, 
 
TO MRS. ALLIE W. BROOKS. 55 
 
 Help thee bear it on till even, 
 When we lay our burdens down, 
 
 Greet the smile of waiting loved ones, 
 And receive the waiting crown. 
 
56 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 OLD BRINDLE stands at the pasture bars, 
 Chewing demure her cud ; 
 Patiently through she solemnly peers, 
 
 And whisking her tail at the troublesome flies, 
 She turns her large soul-looking eyes 
 With a wistful look where the cold spring lies 
 On the hillside slopes, where the mosses green 
 Like velvet are lining the banks between ; 
 
 And her honest face seems wondering why 
 Two little forms, with feet so spry, 
 
 Come not down the path by the wood. 
 
 But soon four little sunburnt hands 
 
 Are reaching the topmost bar ; 
 And one little form on tiptoe stands. 
 
 For Susie is only six years old, — 
 
 Robbie, eight and a half, — with months all told, 
 
DRIVING HOME THE COWS. . 57 
 
 Though he seems quite a man, so noble, and bold : 
 When all are down to the lowest round, 
 Old Brindle goes o'er with a lazy bound, 
 
 And takes her way to the brook's retreat, 
 
 Browsing here and there the clover sweet 
 
 With a tranquil, matronly air. 
 
 Soberly after, come Spot and Red, 
 
 And stand in the stream knee deep, 
 Drinking peacefully, head to head ; 
 
 While Bessie, the heifer, makes more ado. 
 And utters her joy in a high-keyed " Moo-o-or 
 And shaking her horns, frisks and capers anew, 
 As if there were never so happy a thing, 
 ■ As out of the pasture, and down at the spring. 
 While the little drivers have much for eyes 
 And ears to catch, with glad surprise. 
 And their feet from hastening keep. 
 
 There are "pussy willows" just over the knoll 
 
 Where the cresses grow each year ; 
 There are golden cowslips with blossoms so full, 
 3* 
 
58 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 And farther, arc violets, wliitc and blue, 
 With their delicate, penciled lines so true. 
 And the flower de luce, robed in royal hue ; 
 There's the sun-heated sand to trace bare little feet, 
 And the stream's crystal pool for a cooler retreat. 
 While the shad-bush holds tempting its blos- 
 soms of snow ; 
 There's the wintergreen mound with bright ber- 
 ries aglow, 
 And the birch tree growing near. 
 
 The squirrel that's leaping from bough to bough. 
 
 Must be followed to find his home ; 
 See the chipmuck skipping the stone wall now ! 
 
 There's the blue jay wearing so jaunty his cap ; 
 The groundmole just waked from his afternoon 
 
 nap. 
 And the woodchuck that long has evaded the 
 trap. 
 There's a robin's nest up in the maple tree, 
 With its downy lining, and blue eggs three ; 
 
DRIVING HOME THE CO WS. 
 
 59 
 
 Then down in the leaves they must cautiously 
 
 spy, 
 
 To see if the grass-birds are ready to fly, 
 Or the mother bird has come ! 
 
 What wonder is it that twilight dew 
 
 Rests on the orchard boughs, 
 Ere Brindle's well-known, gentle low 
 
 Is heard at the barn-yard gate ? 
 
 Chide them ? Ah, no ! though the hour be late ; 
 
 Leave harsh, stern things for their coming Fate, 
 For full, full soon, to the careless child 
 Will come life's toil, and turmoil wild. 
 
 When the weary heart shall know more care 
 
 Than now the buoyant spirits share 
 In driving home the cows 1 
 
6o IT MA Y BE. 
 
 IT MAY BE. 
 
 IT may be that around us all unseen, 
 Unheeded 'mid life's strife and hurrying, 
 Some parched lips are thirsting for the draught 
 
 Whose cooling waters we alone can bring ; 
 Hearts fainting 'neath their heavy, weary weight, 
 
 A word, or smile might make that burden light ; 
 Or spirit wounded, broken, whose deep pain 
 Our hand might soothe, did we but heed aright. 
 
 It may be that the lightly spoken word 
 
 May turn to bitterness some cup of life 
 And poison all its sweetest springs of joy. 
 
 That otherwise with happiness were rife ; 
 Could we unkindly think if the green turf 
 
 Were lying o'er his cold and pallid brow? 
 Sweet sympathy can never reach the dead, 
 
 Give needed charity and kindness jwiv. 
 
IT MA Y BE. 6 1 
 
 Would we so often falter by the way, 
 
 The light temptation yield, the right deny, 
 For lack of charity the w-rong bid speed, 
 
 Pass on the ''other side" the duty by 
 We deem as irksome, did we only know 
 
 That, leaning from the bastion of the skies 
 O'er all our devious, earthly wanderings. 
 
 Some dear one watched with tender, loving eyes ? 
 
 It may be that the gently flitting air 
 
 We deem the breeze that fans our fevered brow, 
 Is but the stirring of the angels' wings 
 
 That hover round us as we journey now ; 
 And vague presentiments of future things 
 
 Which oft like gleams across our spirits stray, 
 Are but the fragments of deep mysteries 
 
 We catch, as they hold converse by the way. 
 
 It may be that the years we've numbered ours, 
 Are only days, or hours, or moments less, 
 
 And that our cherished plans, and golden schemes 
 Cry out to us in their own helplessness 
 
62 IT MA Y BE. 
 
 For time, and execution ere they fade 
 
 As many an idle dreamer's erst hath done. 
 
 While the propitious moment gliding by, 
 No battle fought, or noble victory won ! 
 
 Life hath its earnest work, its care and need, 
 
 No time for idle dreaming by the way : 
 Up and be doing, though the wished-for meed 
 
 Be long withheld ! Work while it is to-day ! 
 The shadows lengthen, hours have grown apace. 
 
 We know not what the morrow's sign shall be ; 
 Ere yet the sunlight tints the eastern sky, 
 
 It may be that ' ' The Master " calls for thee. 
 
 Oh, ye who patient wait with hope deferred, 
 
 Whose life with wearying care and toil is fraught, 
 Longing for the sweet recompense of rest 
 
 Earth cannot give in plenitude — think not 
 Thy loved and lost, thy cherished home and rest, 
 
 So/ar removed beyond death's chilling stream — 
 Work, wait, and hope, with earnest, trustful hearts, 
 
 It may be Heaven is nearer than ye deem. 
 
DROPPING ANCHOR. 6^ 
 
 DROPPING ANCPIOR. 
 
 IS life had been rough and stormy, as only a 
 sailor's can be, 
 
 H 
 
 For since his early boyhood, home was the wide, wide 
 
 sea; 
 And her waves, and her tossing billows, her storms and 
 
 her breezes wild. 
 Had taught, and molded each impulse, claiming him 
 
 for her child. 
 
 Handling the ropes and ratlines, like the careless sport 
 of a toy ; 
 
 Braving the storms that threatened, with a kind of 
 wanton joy ; 
 
 Reefing the sails at the order, climbing the mainmast's 
 height. 
 
 Keeping watch at the station, all through the weari- 
 some night : 
 
64 DROPPING ANCHOR. 
 
 And so he had grown to manhood, — unpolished, but 
 
 strong and brave, 
 With a heart as true and noble, as e'er loved the ocean 
 
 wave ; 
 With all ports of the world for his station, all nations 
 
 his kinship and clan. 
 His creed — "Love to God and thy neighbor;" his 
 
 neighbor and brotherhood — Man. 
 
 Never counting his life as precious, were another's in 
 
 peril to save. 
 In wreck, or disaster, to succor — risking a watery 
 
 grave ; 
 Ever true to earth and to Heaven ; discarding pain 
 
 and fear. 
 And giving to suffering sorrow, relief, as well as a tear. 
 
 But there came a time when life's voyage for him was 
 
 almost done. 
 Its storms and its tempests over, the haven of promise 
 
 won ; 
 
DROPPING ANCHOR. 65 
 
 For the head so white and silvered, on its dying pillow 
 
 lay, 
 And with the tide's outgoing his life-tide ebbed away. 
 
 A comrade bending o'er him, broke on his deafening 
 
 ear — 
 " How is it with you, Captain; have you aught of 
 
 doubt or fear ? " 
 The pale face lights with radiance, while the faltering 
 
 voice replies : 
 "No, I see a light in the distance, out from the dark 
 
 waves rise ! " 
 
 The hours go by : still fluttering against its prison 
 walls, 
 
 The spirit seems to linger, while the low tide ebbs and 
 falls ; 
 
 " How is it now ?" is questioned ; and with a gasp- 
 ing breath, 
 
 ''Rounding the Cape," makes answer, in the husky 
 tone of death. 
 
66 DROPPING ANCHOR. 
 
 The midnight comes ; the tide waves have left the 
 
 barren strand, 
 While the breeze goes down on the ocean, and over 
 
 the silent land ; 
 The face of the dying pallors, yet the spirit seems to 
 
 thrill 
 With a joy that leaves its impress, and the beating heart 
 
 is still. 
 
 " Hoiv now ? " is again the question signaled to death's 
 
 dull ear. 
 While the dim, set eyes are closing on all that once 
 
 was dear ; 
 The cold, white lips just quiver with the spirit's answer 
 
 passed. 
 And the whispered words, "Drop anchor!" tells the 
 
 mariner home at last ! 
 
THE MAGIC CHIME. 67 
 
 THE MAGIC CHIME. 
 
 UP the river, up the river, 
 There's a castle quaint and old, 
 Standing on its wave-worn borders 
 
 In relief fantastic, bold ; 
 To its walls the ivy clinging-, 
 
 Intertwines with blossoms fair, 
 Giving out, like swaying censers. 
 Ceaseless incense on the air. 
 
 Through each cleft and rifted casement, 
 
 Brightest sunbeams love to stray, 
 Resting like a golden halo 
 
 Round some cherished niche for aye ; 
 It hath devious halls and windings, 
 
 Where we store our treasures rare, 
 There are shadowy forms and faces 
 
 Flitting noiseless everywhere. 
 
68 THE MAGIC CHIME. 
 
 There are Hope's pale, withered garlands, 
 
 Many a heart's choice souvenir, 
 Many a bright dream's gilded fragments, 
 
 Many a smile, and many a tear ; 
 There are tones whose thrilling cadence 
 
 We shall hear on earth no more, 
 Ah, thrice dear this wondrous castle, 
 
 And its name — its name is Yore. 
 
 From each high-arched tower and turret, 
 
 Echoeth e'er a varying chime, — 
 Memory's bells forever sounding 
 
 Through the mystic realm of time ; 
 Sometimes floating down the river 
 
 When the sky and winds are fair, 
 With a soothing, hallowed influence. 
 
 Like the vesper call " To prayer" 
 
 And we turn to catch their music, 
 
 Leaning on our weary oar. 
 And refresh us from our toiling. 
 
 Strengthened by their magic power ; 
 
THE MAGIC CHIME. 69 
 
 Oft in sobbing intonations 
 *■ Sound they when the billows swell, 
 Drifting on the shuddering tempest 
 Like the tolling of a knell. 
 
 Thus adown life's surging river, 
 
 'Mid the threatening shoals we move. 
 Gazing backward up the current 
 
 Where no more our barks may rove ; 
 Gazing forward through the dimness, 
 
 If perchance with wistful eye 
 We might trace the shining margin 
 
 Of bright isles, — the by-and-by. 
 
 Ah, when evening shadows gather. 
 
 And we lay aside the oar, 
 When the pale mists from the river, 
 
 Cold and silent on us lower — 
 May those chimings sweetly soothe us 
 
 Till" that brighter morn begin. 
 And the silvery chime of Heaven 
 
 Ringeth our glad welcome in ! 
 
70 PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
 
 PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
 
 HEROIC martyr ! noble, fallen brave ! 
 How shall poor, feeble words our grief 
 express, 
 How tell the great, the inestimable loss 
 Our country suffers in her deep distress ! 
 
 A nation's heart is bleeding ! Ah, how soon 
 
 Do requiems sound in Freedom's anthem's stead ; 
 
 How soon do joyous chimes of victory 
 Change into tolling o'er her silent dead ! 
 
 Thou, who with courage bold hast nobly stood 
 Calm and undaunted 'mid the fearful storm, 
 
 Guiding through threatening shoals and breakers 
 dire 
 Our Ship of State, with skillful hand and firm, — 
 
PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
 
 Who, with prophetic eye above the sea — 
 The deep Red Sea of blood — beheld afar 
 
 Through the dim distance, the soft ray of Truth, 
 And steered by it, that beauteous polar star, — 
 
 How can we spare thee, now the storm abates. 
 Oh, skillful helmsman — pilot true and tried ! 
 
 Our anchor is not cast, clouds threaten still. 
 Between us and the port, dangers spread wide ! 
 
 Pillar of strength whose falling shakes the earth, 
 Ah, who shall now thy mighty burden bear ! 
 
 Who stand like thee amid the surging flood. 
 Pure and unsullied as the marble fair ? 
 
 For thou of manhood wert the perfect type. 
 In wisdom great, honest, and brave, and kind ; 
 
 Patriot and statesman, champion of the right. 
 Nature in thee her choicest gifts combined. 
 
 Great in thy goodness and simplicity, 
 
 Great in the sphere of intellect's vast plan, 
 
 And that which makes man ever truly great. 
 Great in the love of God, and love of man 1 
 
7-2 PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
 
 Cold is thy brow, yet resting gently there 
 The amaranth and laurel are entwined ; 
 
 We give back dust to dust, but evermore 
 
 Within thy nation's heart thou'lt be enshrined. 
 
 Yes, other ba}-s shall fade, and traitors' names 
 
 By future ages execrated be ; 
 Thine, thine shall live, revered and loved, as long 
 
 As suns shall shine, or hearts love liberty ! 
 
 And we had hoped that thou, so faithful, true, 
 Would'st live to share the blessings of thy toil ; 
 
 But human sighi is dim — our strength is weak, 
 We only know He doeth all things well: 
 
 That for thee now all toil and pain are o'er. 
 For thee the battle fought, the victory won ; 
 
 In our deep sorrow we will strive to teach 
 
 Our hearts to humbly say — "Thy -will be done.' 
 
 East Hartland, Conn., April 14, 1865. 
 
PROMISE. 
 
 n 
 
 PROMISE. 
 
 A H, well for us that when tempests rise 
 •*- -*- With fearful gloom o'er life's fair skies, 
 We may know the token of promise and love, 
 Is somewhere spanning the clouds above ; 
 
 That though the deluge waves may roll. 
 But open thy window, oh, storm-tossed soul. 
 And the dove will come ere the tempest cease, 
 Bearing the olive of hope and peace. 
 
 And well for us that in after years 
 We may reap with joy what was sown in tears, 
 And the golden harvest ours shall be 
 In the bright Beyond — Eternity. 
 4 
 
74 THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. 
 
 THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. 
 
 SUNBURNT brow, and hazel eyes 
 Lit with innocent surprise, 
 Looking up from wayside mead 
 As the traveler's passing tread 
 Breaks the stillness, where is heard 
 Naught but song of wild-wood bird, 
 And the bee's low, drowsy hum, 
 Locust's whir, and beetle's drum ; 
 Hat half tied, half swinging down 
 From the head of golden brown 
 Decked with many a tangled curl ; 
 Lips of ruby cleft with pearl, 
 Redder for the berry's stain 
 (Not more sweet their kiss I ween), 
 While the little sculptured chin 
 Might an artist's pencil win. 
 
THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. 
 
 Simple dress by wild shrub torir, 
 Could not hide a lovelier form ; 
 Graceful poise and rounded limb, 
 Little feet so bare and slim, 
 Skipping o'er the daisies white. 
 And the buttercups so bright, 
 With no thought of care, or ill, 
 Save thy basket gay to fill. 
 Then to trip across the mead 
 With thy treasures, where is hid 
 Yonder cottage's low door 
 By the woodbine climbing o'er, 
 Peeping through its leafy screen, 
 And the wide-branched maples green ; 
 Or when weary, lay thee down. 
 Mingling curls of golden brown 
 With the clovers white and red, 
 Tender grass and moss thy bed. 
 Where the coolest breezes play, 
 Fragrant with the new-mown hay ; 
 Nymph of glen and woodland bower. 
 Thou the fairest wayside flower ! 
 
 75 
 
76 THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. 
 
 Little maid so light and free, 
 With thy winsome, artless glee, 
 Did'st thou know the world was wide ? 
 Dark and deep Life's surging tide ? 
 Nay, I'll teach thee not the rune 
 Thou wilt learn, alas 1 too soon ; 
 Deem all life as bright and fair 
 As thy seven summers are ; 
 Every heart as undefiled 
 As thine own, sweet, loving child ; 
 No more large the world away 
 Than thy flowery meadows gay ; 
 And there rears no loftier dome 
 Than the roof of thy sweet home ; 
 No more wealth, than love and mirth 
 That are clustered round its hearth, 
 And no rubies that can shed 
 Hues like thy ripe berries red ; 
 And no harsher tones than heard 
 From the gay-winged woodland bird ! 
 Long be joy thy happy dower. 
 Little snow-white, wayside flower 1 
 
THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. 
 
 For, alas ! the years will speed 
 
 Quickly o'er thy sunny head, 
 
 And the heart may learn full soon 
 
 Life's not all a cloudless June, 
 
 Far more wide the world with care, 
 
 Than thy grassy meadows are ; 
 
 And that dire deceit and sin 
 
 Many a flowery path lurk in ; 
 
 Treachery and cruel wrong, 
 
 Boldly in its highway throng ; 
 
 And the spirit, weak and worn, 
 
 Some day may in sorrow turn 
 
 Back to memory's sunny fields. 
 
 Flecked with flowers, and cooling rills, — ■ 
 
 Cross Life's vales and ocean strands, 
 
 Its Sahara's burning sands. 
 
 Seeking for the rest and bliss 
 
 Of its one green oasis, — 
 
 But to be for one short hour 
 
 Once again the wayside flower ! 
 
 n 
 
yS THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. 
 
 Ah, there's many a hapless one, 
 Though with fame and victory won, 
 Wearing gemmed or laurel crown, 
 That would fling the bauble down 
 Gladly, like thyself to be 
 From all care and turmoil free ! 
 Many a jeweled, sceptered hand 
 Yield its wealth of gold and land, 
 Castle bright, and lofty dome. 
 Had that hand no stain e'er known 
 Deeper than, sweet child, thine own,- 
 Dimpled, berrj'-stained, and brown ! 
 Long be childhood's happy hour 
 Little snow-white, wayside flower ! 
 
RESPONSUM. 
 
 79 
 
 RESPONSUM. 
 
 (to a stranger.) 
 
 \Y the window, through whose casement 
 Evening throws her misty light, 
 Listening to the whispering tree-tops, 
 And the robin's last good-night ; 
 Listening to the many voices 
 
 Calhng from the olden time. 
 Sitting in the twiUght shadows 
 I am weaving out a rhyme : 
 
 "Weaving" at tliy bidding, stranger, 
 
 Tell me, — what shall be my theme ? 
 Shall it be the Past, whose tintings 
 
 Brightly through the Present gleam ? 
 Or the Future, whose dim outlines 
 
 So elude our wistful sight ? 
 Weaving at thy bidding, stranger, 
 
 What shall be my theme to-night ? 
 
8o I^ESPONSUM. 
 
 Life, ah, life's a mystic poem 
 
 With a rhythm ever new, 
 Sometimes rising to a grandeur 
 
 That's divinely great and true ; 
 Oft with flowing intonations 
 
 Set to Hope's sweet gittern's strain, 
 And anon with solemn measure, 
 
 Metered to a requiem. 
 
 As the last touch of the artist 
 
 Gives the work its perfect grace. 
 As the last stroke of the sculptor 
 
 Is its crowning loveliness, 
 As the author's closing sentence 
 
 Oft with most of beauty glows. 
 May thy life, that wonderous poem, 
 
 Be mosl beautiful at dose. 
 
DREAM-LAND. 
 
 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 THERE'S a shadowy land, far, far away, 
 In a bright, ethereal sphere, 
 Where our spirits free and joyfully stray, 
 
 Unburdened by sorrow or fear ; 
 Where the skies are undimmed in depths of blue, 
 
 And decked the beauteous fields 
 With fragrant flowers of the fairest hue. 
 And fruits which earth never yields. 
 
 They come to us there from the Long Ago, 
 
 The loved whose whispered farewell 
 Seemed a knell to our joy as we laid them low 
 
 To rest in the quiet dell ; 
 They come from the prairies where bright waters flow, 
 
 And the stately forests wave, 
 From regions far where the shroud-like snow • 
 
 E'er rests en the stranger's grave ; 
 
 4* 
 
82 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 From the silent depths of the deep blue sea, 
 
 From sunny climes where the fair 
 Magnolia flower, and the orange tree 
 
 All day lade the perfumed air ; 
 They gather around, and we clasp once more 
 
 The hand now vanished for aye, 
 And we catch the tones that in days of yore 
 
 Oft cheered life's rugged way ; 
 
 And we join in songs that we used to sing 
 
 Round the home hearth bright at even, 
 While the pale star-flowers were blossoming 
 
 On the silent plains of heaven. 
 And we list to enchanting melodies, 
 
 Symphonies wild and deep. 
 As we're wafted o'er to this mystic shore 
 
 By the light-winged angel — Sleep. 
 
 Anon we soar to the Dream-land bright 
 
 Unaided by Morpheus' power. 
 For Fancy, with pinions of silvery light, 
 
 Wafts us o'er to its magical shore. 
 
DREAM-LAND. 83 
 
 And then, what faiiy-like structures we raise ! 
 
 Aerial castles, so high. 
 That as we silently, joyfully gaze, 
 
 Their domes seem to pierce e'en the sky ! 
 
 And we deem that Time, in his busy round 
 
 Them gently will touch — spare them all — 
 Yet often we start at the rumbling sound 
 
 Of our beautiful castle's fall ! 
 While Fancy, with weary and shattered wings, 
 
 From the ruins hastens in fright, 
 And slowly, sadly retreating, she brings 
 
 Back to earth from the Dream-land bright. 
 
 And though we have gazed on the gilded dome, 
 
 As it shone in the dazzling light ; 
 Though to crumbling clay were its fragments thrown, 
 
 O'erspread by the gloom of night. 
 Yet how we love, again and again. 
 
 Away to the ruins to soar, 
 And summon our allies, a numerous train. 
 
 Another to rear as before ! 
 
84 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 Fair, mystical, Dream-land ! We'll bless thee e'er 
 
 For the wild, enchanting spell 
 O'er the spirit cast ; for scenes more dear 
 
 To the heart than mortal can tell ; 
 We"]l bless thee for luring from care away, 
 
 For rest to the weary given. 
 And those who mourn a brighter day, 
 
 Glimpses of home, and Heaven. 
 
THE CHURCH ANGEL. 85 
 
 THE CHURCH ANGEL. 
 
 OHE sat beside me in the church, 
 *^ One beauteous Sabbath-day ; 
 Such eyes, I ne'er before had seen, 
 
 With a blue like skies in May ! 
 A face, such as we sometimes dream 
 
 Are met in fairer worlds, 
 While 'neath her jaunty hat there peeped 
 
 A row of chestnut curls. 
 
 The sunbeams fell aslant upon 
 
 The throng of worshipers, 
 The soft airs flitted in and out. 
 
 Like viewless messengers ; 
 The organ's tone ne'er seemed so sweet, 
 
 So thrilling, nor the pause 
 That followed half so sacred ! How 
 
 I wonder who she was ? 
 
86 THE CHURCH ANGEL. 
 
 The preacher followed in discourse, 
 
 And Angels were his theme, 
 How day by day their footsteps fall 
 
 Beside us all unseen ; 
 How oft they shield us from the ill, 
 
 And cheer life's thorny way ; 
 I thought nwie sat beside me there, 
 
 Personified in clay 1 
 
 And when my memory treacherous proved, 
 
 (Ah, sweet misfortune's lot 1) 
 A dainty finger pointed out 
 
 The sacred hymn forgot ; 
 How well our voices harmonized ! 
 
 (I can't divine the cause, ) 
 But some new chord seemed to be woke — 
 
 I wonder who she was ? 
 
 The benediction resting on 
 
 Each bowed, devoted head, 
 I wished them but the opening words 
 
 Of ritual instead ; 
 
THE CHURCH ANGEL. 87 
 
 I took my hat to go, like one 
 
 Who leaves some charmed place, 
 While 'mid that multitude I saw 
 
 But one — an anarel face ! 
 
 Sabbaths have come, and Sabbaths gone 
 
 Full many a time since then, 
 And I with care still seek me out 
 
 The same seat, but in vain ; 
 That face is not in all that throng ! 
 
 Still ruled by Fate's stern laws, 
 My heart repeateth o'er and o'er, 
 
 ' ' / wonder who she was ! " 
 
THE RIVER. 
 
 THE RIVER. 
 
 A SILVERY stream in the morning light 
 Evermore dashes its waters bright, 
 With a charming melody and magical chime, 
 Purling along through the realms of Time, 
 'Mid verdant banks where the rose and thyme 
 Their fragrance blend, as on, and away, 
 Dance the fairy-like circles of spray. 
 
 A troubled river, it onward flows 
 'Neath the noon-tide ray, where no repose 
 Its wild waves find, but breakers dark 
 Lie deep concealed, and many a bark. 
 Lone wreck, and waif its borders mark, 
 And many a willow, and cypress tree 
 O'er the turbid depths bend mournfully. 
 
THE RIVER. 89 
 
 With a broad, broad sweep, and a solemn sway, 
 Rolls the silent river in the twilight gray ; 
 No musical ripple with varied tone 
 O'er its surface plays, no surging waves moan. 
 But the beauteous tints of the daylight flown 
 On its bosom rest, like a peaceful dream. 
 While with the deep sea blends the mystic stream. 
 
90 
 
 POND LILIES. 
 
 POND LILIES. 
 
 OH, ye who neither toil nor spin, 
 But clothed in white do ever rest 
 Upon the water's peaceful breast, 
 Wearing your golden coronet 
 With all its dewy jewels set, 
 Breathing such sweetness from your lives 
 In all your silent ministries, 
 Far from the proud world's ceaseless din — 
 
 How do ye chide our grosser lives, 
 
 Who, vexed and worn by sordid cares, 
 And strife for gifts that honor bears, 
 For gold, and greed, and selfish gain, 
 Too often mar with sin's dark stain 
 The spirit's spotless robe of white. 
 Forgetting that true peace and light 
 
 Which calm repose in God e'er gives. 
 
POND LILIES. 91. 
 
 Anchored to earth, your long stems float, 
 
 Rocked by the breeze with gentle sway, 
 And ripples that around you play, 
 Your slender anthers quivering, 
 E'en at the fan of th' wild bird's wing ; 
 Ye do the best that's given to do 
 By Him who ever cares for you, 
 
 And each frail bud and leaf doth note. 
 
 Oh, bright creations ! if it be 
 
 That all God's works for man are planned, 
 His highest good by wisdom scanned. 
 And all beneath the earth and sky. 
 From tiniest mote to worlds on high, 
 Are but His thoughts materialized, 
 How pure, how lovingly devised, 
 
 And sweet the thought that fashioned thee ! 
 
 A loving hand hath sent ye here, 
 
 Oh beauteous flowers, to cheer the hour. 
 And yielding to your gentle power. 
 Your silent whisperings are heard. 
 And nobler impulses deep stirred 
 
92 
 
 POND LILIES. 
 
 Within the heart, still more to love 
 And trust that Greatest Friend above. 
 Ye seem to say, ' ' If thus for me 
 He careth, how much viore for thee, 
 Oh, ye of little faith, more dear ! " 
 
 But as I gaze enraptured o'er. 
 
 Close fold you in your green case cleft, 
 And I my treasures am bereft ! 
 But when the first faint-tinted ray 
 Proclaims the coming of the day, 
 Like a new hope that's born to light 
 From out the darkness of the night, 
 You open all your dewy eyes 
 Upon the world with sweet surprise, 
 
 To see the glorious sun once more I 
 
 Thanks for thy gift. Father above. 
 
 Thanks for thy gift, oh, truest friend ; 
 May One who each doth kindly send 
 
POND LILIES. 
 
 93 
 
 To cheer and bless my varied way, 
 Make all thy life, till its last day, 
 Glad with His presence every hour 
 To bless ; and like this beauteous flower, 
 As pure and sweet with His dear love. 
 
94 WAITING A r THE GA TE. 
 
 WAITING AT THE GATE. 
 
 [Suggested on learning that a member of the i6th Con- 
 necticut Regiment died at Andersonville Prison, Ga., while 
 waiting at the prison gate in hope of being exchanged for Con- 
 federate prisoners.] 
 
 I AM waiting at the gate, mother. 
 Within the prison lone, 
 Waiting with a painful longing 
 For the loving ones at home ; 
 For one look into your faces, 
 
 For the sweet and tender care, 
 Gentle tones and joyous greeting 
 That I know await me there. 
 
 The evening star beams bright, mother, 
 
 Far up the azure sky, 
 And I know it shines as brightly 
 
 On the spot for which 1 sigh ; 
 
WAITING AT THE GATE. 95 
 
 And it draws me gently to you 
 
 This evening, calm and late ; 
 Home seems a little nearer 
 
 While waiting at the gate ! 
 
 We stood by the dear old flag, mother. 
 
 When dangers thick and fast 
 Each moment gathered round it, 
 
 Stood by it iill the last ! 
 And the thought brings joy and comfort, 
 
 For the 7-ight I bear this pain, 
 Let it soothe thee, 'mid thine anguish. 
 
 If we meet not here again. 
 
 Want and suffering have wrought changes, 
 
 You would scarcely know your boy ; 
 But in Heaven you will know me, 
 
 Naught shall there our peace destroy. 
 Farewell, mother ! something tells me 
 
 That on earth no more I wait, 
 But for thee I'll keep my vigils. 
 
 Waiting at the pearly gate ! 
 
g6 WAITING A T THE GA TE. 
 
 That silver star burned pale and dim 
 
 In the light of early morn, 
 But he who watched its evening ray 
 
 To a brighter realm was borne. 
 Ah, how many "round lonely hearthstones 
 
 Watch for dear ones early and late, 
 How many sad eyes gaze southward, 
 
 Vainly waiting at the gate I 
 
THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHE. 97 
 
 THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHE. 
 
 THE mowers with their scythes so bright 
 Are all afield to-day, 
 Where grassy billows rise and fall 
 
 As light winds o'er them play ; 
 Where buttercups and daisies nod, 
 
 Sweet clovers smile between, 
 And butterflies play hide and seek 
 
 Behind the flowery screen. 
 Where lilies gleam in gold and red. 
 
 Arrayed so gorgeously. 
 That all the humbler meadow flowers 
 
 Lifl; high their heads to see ; 
 While the blue berry modestly 
 
 Bends with its treasures low, 
 In mimic clusters of the grape, 
 
 Where tenderest grasses grow. 
 5 
 
9 8 THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHE. 
 
 The cricket chirps his cheery note, 
 
 The bee with drowsy hum 
 Flits here and there, from flower to flower, 
 
 A fickle lover, come 
 In velvet suit of gold and black, 
 
 And foppish airs so gay. 
 Sipping the sweets wherever found, 
 
 A moment — then away ! 
 The bobolink his roundelay 
 
 Is warbling o'er and o'er ; 
 The meadow lark in Quaker gray 
 
 Pipes from his leafy bower ; 
 The mother robin's anxious call 
 
 Sounds from the maple nigh. 
 As with low wing she tries to teach 
 
 Her half-fledged brood to fly. 
 The little wren with matron air 
 
 Sits on her tiny nest. 
 Or gossips with her neighboring wrens 
 
 While for the worm in quest ; 
 The circling swallows cleave the air, 
 
 Their morning labors done, 
 
THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHE. 99 
 
 Their graceful wings like polished jet, 
 
 Bright gleaming in the sun ! 
 While humming-bird, with easy poise, 
 
 And long and slender bill, 
 Coquets among the meadow belles, 
 
 And takes his choice at will ; 
 Decked in the royal, mingled dyes. 
 
 Of purple, blue, and green. 
 That each fair beauty has a smile 
 
 For him is clearly seen ! 
 Upon the breezy, morning air, 
 
 Fragrant with new-mown hay. 
 There comes a music far more sweet 
 
 Than e'er from palace gay 
 Arose, where haughty courtiers bowed, 
 
 And fair forms floated lithe, 
 'Tis made by nature's noblemen. 
 
 The whetting of the scythe ! 
 
 Maggie upon the casement leans, 
 
 Her eyes of hazel brown 
 Resting with dreamy gaze upon 
 
 The meadows sloping down ; 
 
lOO THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHE, 
 
 Old Brindle's milk but half is strained, 
 
 Unskimmed is all the cream, 
 While Dottie's calf is not yet fed, 
 
 Or ducks let to the stream ; 
 From her low Avindow she can see 
 
 The mowers as they go, 
 The easy skill with which they lay 
 
 The grassy billows low ; 
 A graceful form moves with them there 
 
 On which her eye will still 
 Delight to linger most of all, 
 
 Her handsome, gallant Will ! 
 And though his dark eye seems to rest 
 
 Intent upon the hay, 
 She knows his heart turns evermore 
 
 With lingering gaze this way I 
 With noble mien, and waving locks 
 
 That deck a princely brow. 
 With heart as pure, and lips as true 
 
 As e'er breathed lover's vow ; 
 
THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHE. loi 
 
 With spirit ever brave and kind, 
 
 Yet mirthful oft, and bhthe. 
 What wonder that she loves to hear 
 
 The whetting of his scythe ! 
 
 Dream on 'neath summer skies and sounds, 
 
 Oh, fair-faced Maggie Dean ! 
 Thy heart will ne'er know less of care 
 
 Than bears it now, I ween : 
 And so while fall the lilies gay, 
 
 Beneath the steel so bright, 
 The clovers, and the buttercups. 
 
 And meek-eyed daises white. 
 May hope's sweet bud within the heart 
 
 Enfold for perfect blQom, 
 Till bright as palace halls shall seem 
 
 Thy humble, cottage home. 
 And music else to thy maiden ears 
 
 Of this seems but a tithe, — 
 That melody from meadows gay, 
 
 The whetting of his scvthe ! 
 
I02 autumn: 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 WHENCE, and whither, peerless queen, 
 \Vith thy courtly, stately mien, 
 And thy flowing auburn hair 
 Circled by a chaplet rare ? 
 Say, bright spirit, dost thou come, 
 From some distant mountain home. 
 Or lone isle 
 
 Beyond the seas ? 
 Cam'st thou with 
 , The evening breeze, — 
 Or did the soft ray of morn 
 Guide thee to our far-off bourne ? 
 
 Summer fair hath gone to rest, 
 
 Gently to thy bosom pressed, 
 
 Breathed the last, her farewell sigh. 
 Calmly closed her soft blue eye. 
 
A UTUMN. 
 
 And the golden tresses thou 
 Parted from her pallid brow, 
 Laid her in 
 
 The cold grave deep, 
 Ne'er to waken 
 From her sleep ; 
 From thy gentle sister's bier. 
 With light tread thou hastest here ! 
 
 Yet we thought not summer gone 
 
 Till we heard thy dirge-like moan, 
 
 And thy mornful harp all strung, 
 
 Breathing a low requiem ; 
 
 'Twas one lone, yet beauteous eve, 
 
 And the giant, weird old trees 
 
 Raised their branches 
 
 Green, and high, 
 Whispering waved, 
 "Spirit, good-bye ! " 
 'Neath my window swept the sound 
 Borne from vale and forest round, — 
 
 103 
 
I04 AUTUMN. 
 
 And I sorrowing, turned away, 
 For we loved her gentle sway ! 
 
 Autumn, stay thy hand, nor crave 
 The frail blossoms that she gave ; 
 Her sweet warblers exile not 
 To some foreign isle's retreat ! 
 Paint the woodland 
 
 Wild and gay, 
 Tint the clouds 
 All gorgeously, 
 Yet, O Autumn, do not crave 
 These mementos Summer gave ! 
 
UNDER THE SNOW. 105 
 
 UNDER THE SNOW. 
 
 WITH jewels earth's bosom is gleaming 
 In the moonlight cold, and clear, 
 Earth all robed for the bridal, 
 
 For she weddeth the glad New Year ! 
 Calm, majestic, and lovely. 
 
 With an air of queenly pride, 
 As she waiteth the bridegroom's coming, 
 Is the radiant, peerless bride. 
 
 And I sit in the mystic shadows 
 
 That like phantoms come and go, 
 Musing o'er buried treasures 
 
 Lying silent under the snow ; 
 Forms and brows of beauty. 
 
 Ringlets of golden hair. 
 Pale hands folded so restful 
 
 O'er hearts unburdened by care ; 
 5* 
 
Io6 UNDER THE SNOW. 
 
 Unheeding the storms above them, 
 
 Life's toil and conflict done, 
 Its hopes and its fears all ended, 
 
 Victory lost, or won ! 
 Age, and youth, and childhood. 
 
 The loved of the long ago. 
 Waiting the promised summons 
 
 Calmly under the snow. 
 
 O'er glen, and by crystal streamlets 
 
 That have long forgotten to flow. 
 Who knoweth what myriads of flowerets 
 
 In their mossy beds lie low, 
 Only waiting the genial sunshine. 
 
 The dew, and the gentle rain. 
 And voice of the woodland songster 
 
 To call them forth again ? 
 
 Ah, there's many a heart that's hidden 
 Like summer's waiting flowers, 
 
 'Neath cold reserve and darkness, 
 In this winter world of ours. 
 
UNDER THE SNOW. 107 
 
 Only waiting hope's kind beaming, 
 
 Affection's genial glow, 
 To waken to life and beauty. 
 
 What now lies — under the snow 1 
 
Io8 fVHA VINGS. 
 
 WEAVING S. 
 
 FROM pale morn, till twilight gray 
 Blendeth shadows on the lea, 
 Toils the weaver wearily, 
 
 'Mid the turmoil, and the din 
 Of those high, close walls within ; 
 In, and out. 
 
 The shuttle flies, 
 Thread by thread 
 Inwoven lies, 
 Till the beauteous fabric seems 
 Magic wrought of fairy hands 1 
 
 Springtime weaves her web of green, 
 Summer links gay flowers between. 
 Autumn mingles threads of sheen, 
 
WE A VINGS. 109 
 
 Crimson shades 
 
 Of gorgeous dye, 
 Blending in 
 
 Strange harmony ; 
 Winter weaves with visage sear, 
 A shroud to robe the dying year. 
 
 Weavers are we, — weavers all ! 
 Never ceasing from our toil. 
 Time, the warp, that magical ' 
 With the woof 
 
 Of hours and days 
 Mingleth in 
 A varied maze. 
 As the passing years succeed 
 On life's tissue far and wide. 
 
 With what inwrought mysteiy 
 Each design blends harmony ! 
 And full oft we wonder why 
 Sombre shades 
 E'er intervene, 
 
no WEAVINGS. 
 
 All the loveliest 
 Tints between ! 
 Heeding not that shadows e'er 
 Make the light more bright appear. 
 
 Friendship, hope, and loving deed, — 
 Gold and silver threads inlaid, 
 Whose bright lustre ne'er shall fade ; 
 And it matters not how dark 
 Be the background of our work, 
 Whether morning, 
 
 Eve, or noon, 
 Tells life's wondrous 
 Fabric done. 
 Or with smiles, or tears we toil, 
 Be it only woven well ! 
 
THE UNSEEN. m 
 
 THE UNSEEN. 
 
 AS sitting in the twilight shadows dim, 
 I turn with pensive thought Hfe's volume o'er, 
 And linger on its pages, one by one. 
 
 Fraught with such varied charm, and magic power, 
 Where mingling shade and sheen, 
 So strangely intervene. 
 There comes to me the thought I cannot waive, 
 
 Or banish, like a gentle spirit's tone — 
 An ever-hovering presence all unseen, 
 A sweet assurance that I'm not alone ! 
 
 When, at the holy midnight's solemn hour 
 
 The weary world is wrapped in p&aceful sleep, 
 And like a heavenly dream, sweet silence rests 
 O'er city's towering spires and ocean deep, 
 And each unslumbering star 
 Keeps watch from fields afar ; 
 
12 THE UNSEEN. 
 
 From yon unfathomeci depths there floats to me 
 Companionship ; and distance seems to lend 
 
 An unseen ladder, o'er whose golden rounds 
 The white-winged angels evermore descend. 
 
 The cool night breeze flits through my lattice pane, 
 
 Bearing the odors of a thousand blooms ! 
 Was that her silken curl that swept my cheek ? 
 
 Whose voice familiar to my spirit comes 
 Sweeter than music's tone 
 Saying, "Thou'rt not alone, 
 We bear thee escort all the weary way ? ' 
 
 Searching with eager gaze the darkness far ; 
 Stretching the arms to clasp a viewless form ; 
 
 Nothing but shadows ! Clasping empty air ! 
 
 Oft on the busy street with thoughtless tread, 
 Or 'mid the surging,- thronging multitude, 
 A stranger, 'mid the strangers that surround, 
 Where most of all is deepest solitude, 
 A well-known voice I hear, 
 Whispering, ' ' / am here ! " 
 
THE UNSEEN. 
 
 And oftentimes a presence seems so near, 
 We list to catcli the footsteps as of old, 
 
 And seems to glide in mine with loving clasp 
 A hand that long hath been so still and cold. 
 
 We cannot hear their footfalls' gentle tread, 
 Or the soft rustle of their garments' flow ; 
 We cannot see their angel faces lit 
 With heavenly halo, yet we only know 
 'Mid every smile and tear, 
 Sweet sympathy is near, 
 And when this mortal vail is rent in twain, 
 , And dawns the vision of the glorified. 
 Then shall we see with recognizing eyes, 
 They who walked with us ever, side by side ! 
 
 "3 
 
114 ^-^-^ UNKNOWN. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 UPON an unknown sea our barks are sailing — 
 A deep, unfathomed sea, a restless tide ; 
 With sails set to the varying breezes, toiling, 
 
 We at the laboring helm our barges guide ; 
 Sometimes the gentlest zephyrs kindly favor, 
 
 And o'er the waters smooth we calmly glide, 
 Anon the roaring tempest wildly rageth, 
 
 And threatening billows frown on every side. 
 Out on an unknown sea ! 
 
 Upon this unknown sea our barks in sailing 
 Meet other barks bound for some distant clime, 
 
 A signal hailing, greeting, and we sever. 
 For none may tarry on the waves of Time ; 
 
 And thus, with storms and sunshine, farewells, greet- 
 ings. 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 115 
 
 We sail forever on, nor toil resign, 
 Marking life's sun farther, and farther westward, 
 Beneath the foaming surges slow decline, 
 Out on an unknown sea ! 
 
 Upon an unknown sea our barks are sailing ! 
 
 No ! not unknown sea, for One beside 
 Us stands, who giveth a true chart, and compass. 
 
 That through the threatening breakers safely guide, 
 And when the tempests loud are wildly raging. 
 
 And anxious fears the fainting spirit thrill, 
 We look to Him, by faith that strong hand grasping, 
 
 And to the waves a voice says, " Peace — be still !" 
 Oh Saviour, ever bless us with thy presence, 
 
 That we may reach that haven, where no more 
 We know the tempest's power, the fears, the doubtings, 
 
 That round us gather all the journey o'er 
 Life's surffins:, troubled sea ! 
 
Il6 DEAD. 
 
 DEAD. 
 
 WHAT is it to be dead ? 
 To lie so calm, and still, — 
 So undisturbed, so mute, so deaf," 
 
 So passionless, so cold and chill, 
 That friendship's voice or love's soft tone 
 The heart can never thrill ? 
 
 To bid adieu to earth, 
 
 To leave a vacant chair, 
 A silent chord in music's tone. 
 
 Whispering mementos everywhere, — 
 A voiceless anguish in the hearts most loved 
 
 That ever lingereth there ? 
 
 What is it to be dead ? 
 Oh, solemn mystery 1 
 
DEAD. 117 
 
 Oh, awful change that waiteth all 
 
 With Fate's mute prophecy ! 
 I can't divine thee, thou unknown ! 
 
 Stern Death, what art thou ? Say ? 
 
 A voice comes stealing soft 
 
 As the fragrant breath of even, 
 " If all thy trust in God be stayed, 
 
 A rest to the weary given ; 
 A sleep, to dream of Paradise ; 
 
 A passport home — to Heaven ! " 
 
Il8 THE STORM KING. 
 
 THE STORM KING. 
 
 THE Storm King rideth forth to-night 
 Clad in his panoply of war, 
 His rumbling chariot-wheels I hear, — 
 The flashing eye of his fiery steed, 
 
 I see from the cloudy plains afar I 
 
 On, on, he comes, with regal power 
 
 Like an armed legion driven, 
 
 While the pearly dust, like the dew of even. 
 Woke by the feet of his flying steed. 
 
 Falls from the battlements of heaven ! 
 
 Earth trembles at his near approach. 
 
 The mountains shudder in their dread, 
 The forest bows in awe its head ; 
 
 Old Neptune, frowning in his rage, 
 
 Riseth to meet him from his coral bed. 
 
THE STORM KING. uq 
 
 The strong oak of a century 
 
 Imploring throws its arms to heaven ; 
 
 While the pale lily, tearful riven, 
 Lays to the ground its lovely head. 
 
 As if the pure thing prayed to be forgiven. 
 
 Within its cradle nest the oriole, 
 
 Rocked fiercely by his sweeping breath, 
 Sits trusting, while the eagle safe. 
 
 Looks down derisive on his power, 
 
 Far o'er the clouds that threaten blight and 
 death. 
 
 Oh, Storm King ! as with regal might 
 
 Thou goest e'er from shore to shore. 
 Speak to the heart of man, to adore 
 
 Him who hath sent thee on thy way. 
 
 And bid them love, revere Him evermore. 
 
 Oh, land o'er which the bloody storm 
 
 Of war hath swept wildly and free. 
 Thine eagle soareth now o'er clouds afar, 
 
 Where smiles the bow of Peace, and bathes 
 
 Its wings in the pure light of Liberty ! 
 
I20 THE EARLY BIRD. 
 
 THE EARLY BIRD. 
 
 FAST fall the flakes of downy snow, 
 Veiling the light of the bright blue sky, 
 Wildly the bleak winds moan as they go, 
 Piling their phantom castles high, 
 
 While from the top of yon leafless tree 
 Floateth a plaintive song to me. 
 
 Ah, why so sad thy tone, sweet bird. 
 
 Sitting alone on yon branch so bare ? 
 My heart with sympathy hath been stirred 
 By that wailing sound, thy grief to share ? 
 Dost thou lament thine early flight 
 O'er distant seas from woodlands bright } 
 
 Dost thou mourn that the balmy air 
 Lured thee on to our fickle clime, 
 
THE EARLY BIRD. 121 
 
 Then left thee to stern winter's care 
 A homeless waif in thy stranger time ? 
 
 Oh, hush, bird, hush ! I cannot bear 
 That sorrowing plaint of thine to hear ! 
 
 Knowest thou not that under the snow 
 
 Are violets sleeping, and lilies fair, 
 And paths where the murmuring streams shall go, 
 Only waiting the sunlight there ? 
 
 That the skies above the clouds are as blue 
 As the beauteous tint of thy bright wing's 
 hue ? 
 
 That the leafy spray in the warm sunbeams 
 
 Shall gently rock thy downy nest, 
 Where berries red 'mid dark leaves gleam ? 
 
 Then cheer thee, bird, from thy mourning rest, — 
 For down the winter's snowy aisles 
 A radiant summer waiting smiles ! 
 
 Ah, life hath its winter, too, sweet bird, 
 Its chilling blast, and leafless tree ; 
 6 
 
122 THE EARLY BIRD. 
 
 But He who for us each hath cared 
 Hath a sunnier chme, and by and by 
 
 I will take my flight o'er the silent sea, 
 To that Summer of Souls prepared for me. 
 
RECOGNITION. 
 
 123 
 
 RECOGNITION. 
 
 YES, I shall meet them there, 
 Nor fail to recognize, 
 Mary, with her deep blue eyes, 
 And wealth of golden hair ! 
 
 Ernest, with noble brow. 
 And locks of waving jet — 
 Willie, our household pet — 
 
 Methinks I see them now 1 
 
 She who first led the way 
 Of all our joyous band. 
 To that far, shadowy land 
 
 In yonder realm of day ; 
 
124 RECOGNITION. 
 
 He, the true-hearted, brave, 
 Who at his country's call 
 Upon her shrine laid all. 
 
 Her honor bright to save ; 
 
 And one — our joy and pride — 
 Link in the chain of love. 
 Binding our hearts above — 
 
 " The liitle hoy that died:' 
 
 Two green graves side by side 
 Within the homestead's shade ; 
 The other's rest is made 
 
 Where Southern waters glide. 
 
 Though severed he7'e, we know 
 That there their spirits blend, 
 Where never, friend for friend, 
 
 The sorrowing tear shall flow. 
 
 And I shall know each face 
 Of dear ones gone before, 
 From all the angel choir, 
 
 And each remembered voice. 
 
RECOGNITION. 
 
 Ye, whose it is to keep 
 Vigils by nigl:it and day 
 O'er all the varied way 
 
 Of us who toil and weep ; 
 
 Toiling 'mid joy or pain. 
 
 Through valleys lone and deep, 
 Up highlands wild and steep, 
 
 Our Father's house to gain ; 
 
 For us keep watch, and wait, 
 From your bright starry home ; 
 We soon, yes, soon shall come, 
 
 Oh, meet us at the gate ! 
 
 125 
 
126 ETOILE DE LA MER. 
 
 ETOILE DE LA MER. 
 
 " On a high promontory in the old town of Honfleur stands the 
 Chapel of Notre Dame de Grace. It is here that prayers are 
 put up by mariners previous to their voyages, and by their 
 friends during their absence. Over tire portal is an image of 
 the Virgin and Child, with the following inscription: "Etoile 
 de la mer, priez pour nous." — Irving's Bracebridge Hall. 
 
 LIGHT dance the crested billows 
 Over the wateiy plain, 
 Soft swell the fragrant breezes 
 
 Wafted o'er woodland and main ; 
 Gently the white sail beckons — 
 Beckons impatient for me — 
 Country, home, loved ones, we sever 1 
 Pray for us, Star of the Sea ! 
 
 Many a day shall vanish, 
 
 Many a moon shall wane, 
 Many a June her roses 
 
 Strew, and gather again. 
 
E TOILS DE LA MER. 127 
 
 Change o'er all her edict 
 
 Write, ere we gaze on thee — 
 Death still spread his dark pinions ; 
 
 Pray for us, Star of the Sea ! 
 
 Onward, we steer our vessel, 
 
 'Neath us lie jewels rare. 
 Gems which nymphs and naiads 
 
 Twine 'mid their flowing hair ; 
 Onward where roameth the storm king, 
 
 Sporting wildly and free ; 
 Lest his deep coral bed be our pillow, 
 
 Pray for us, Star of the Sea 1 
 
1 2 8 LIFE ' S BRA VURA S. 
 
 LIFE'S BRAVURAS. 
 
 THERE are sacraments that wait us 
 All along lifers dewy vale, 
 Sacred gifts that cheer and brighten, 
 Guarded as the Holy Grail, — 
 Pure, as aught of earth, or human, — 
 
 Almost human — half divine, 
 Vanishing if hand unsanctioned 
 
 Seeks to take them from their shrine. 
 
 There are altars that are waiting 
 
 For the coming of our feet, — 
 Altars that a cheerful Duty 
 
 With her offerings hastes to greet ; 
 Others, where the sacrifices 
 
 Must be laid, when each appears, 
 Though the holocaust be sprinkled, 
 
 With life-blood, or bitter tears ! 
 
LIFE'S BRAVURA S. 129 
 
 There are crosses that are waiting 
 
 For our hands to take and bear, 
 And their shadow sometimes falleth 
 
 O'er us, e'er that cross we near ; 
 Light or heavy, we must bear them, 
 
 Whether weak, or whether strong, 
 Till we reach the rolHng river, — 
 
 Though the way be short, or long. 
 
 Life's Gethsemanes, beyond us, 
 
 Wait with prayers, and watchings lone, — 
 ' ' Let this cup pass from me, Father ; — . 
 
 Not my will, but Thine be done ; " 
 Sacred sorrow of the spirit. 
 
 Where no human aid can come, 
 And the ear of Heaven seems heavy ; 
 
 "Absalom ! oh, Absalom ! " 
 
 Yet we pass not all unnoted 
 
 'Mid the sacrifice and pain, — 
 
 With each cross, and heavy burden, 
 
 Ever comes a sweet refrain ; 
 6* 
 
ISO 
 
 LIFE'S BRAVURAS. 
 
 Ah, we go not unattended 
 
 Where the cypress branches wave, 
 For a voice amid the shadows 
 
 Cheering sings, — " Oh, heart, be brave ! 
 
 And our spirits catch the echo 
 
 Of that sweet bravura's tone, 
 Sung by viewless guardians round us, 
 
 As we tread the valley lone, — 
 And renewing hope and courage, 
 
 By the cheer that presence gave, 
 Though but faltering the accents. 
 
 Oft respond — "Oh, heart, be brave ! " 
 
 Nothing lost ;— but only taken 
 
 From our loving care awhile ; 
 Not in vain one cross or burden ; 
 
 For each earthly tear — a smile ; 
 For each sacrifice — rejoicing. 
 
 Just beyond the silent wave, — 
 Therefore sing thine own bravuras 
 
 Weary heart ; — Be brave ! be brave I 
 
RAIN ON THE ROOF. 131 
 
 RAIN ON THE ROOF. 
 
 PATTER, patter on the roof, 
 Tinkle, tinkle overhead. 
 Patter and tinkle with musical rhythm 
 Like some fairy footfall's tread ; 
 
 Fairy footfalls, lightly falling 
 With a monotone so low, 
 
 Waking echoes that have slumbered 
 'Mid the halls of long ago. 
 
 Arid around my sleepless pillow 
 Thronging memories flitting come, 
 
 And the midnight darkness lightens, — 
 Lightens all my chamber's gloom 
 
132 
 
 RAIN ON THE ROOF. 
 
 With the radiant faces round me, 
 While there comes a sweet refrain 
 
 Blending with the silent darkness, 
 And the falling of the rain ; 
 
 'Tis my mother's voice that's singing ; 
 
 And the cradle that is hid 
 By the rubbish in yon attic, 
 
 Is again my lowly bed ; 
 
 Is again my world's horizon, 
 
 And the sweet face beaming o'er, 
 
 Shining through the misty shadows 
 Of the long years' corridor, 
 
 Is once more in all its beauty. 
 
 Of my little world the sun. 
 As my mother sits beside me, ' 
 
 Crowned with all that time hath won ! 
 
 ' * Sleep, my dear, lie still and slumber, " 
 Thrills like lute tones gently played, 
 
 With the melody uprising, 
 
 ' ' Holy angels guard ihy bed ; " 
 
RAIN ON THE ROOF. i^^ 
 
 And I close my eyes serenely, 
 
 Soothed each pain, and childish ^yoe, 
 
 '^ Heavenly blessings imihout 7iumher," 
 Falls with accents sweet and low, 
 
 While the rising cadence closes, 
 
 " Gently falling on ihy head ; " 
 Listening with eager wonder 
 
 Of the Saviour's infant bed, 
 
 As the cradle hymn continues 
 With its sweet and touching lay, 
 
 " How his birthplace was a manger, 
 And his softest bed was hay." 
 
 And there steals upon my spirit 
 Such surcease from life's stern toil, 
 
 Such sweet rest from all its labors, 
 From its din, and wild turmoil — 
 
 Wearied with its anxious strivings. 
 
 With its sacrifice and pain, 
 With its crosses and its losses, 
 
 And its hopes, so sadly vain — ■ 
 
134 
 
 RAIN ON THE ROOF. 
 
 Such relief as heart and spirit 
 Have in years agone not known, 
 
 Such pure joy again in trusting 
 With a childish heart alone ! 
 
 Slowly I unclose my eyelids, 
 By that voice my vision led, 
 
 Darkness reigns within my chamber, 
 And the face and song have fled ; 
 
 But the rain is softly falling 
 
 O'er yon mound so sacred kept, 
 
 On the green roof 'neath whose silence 
 Voice and face so long have slept. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 135 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 A H, if at last for us some noble deed 
 -^^ On the Recording Angel's archives stand, 
 And our tired, pilgrim feet shall safely pass 
 
 The peaceful borders of the Better Land, 
 Though 'mid temptations, crosses, toil, and pain, 
 The way we trod, — we have not lived in vain I 
 
136 VIGILS. 
 
 VIGILS. 
 
 T T THILE other eyes are sleeping, 
 
 ^ » And other forms at rest, — 
 While other visions peaceful, 
 
 With blissful visions blessed, — 
 All through the long night weary, 
 
 With loving, anxious care. 
 The mother o'er her loved one bends, 
 
 Nor thinks of slumbering there. 
 
 Though fever-tossed, he heedeth. 
 
 Nor feels the fond caress, — 
 Nor seeth o'er his suffering couch 
 
 That patient, gentle face, — 
 Yet through the long night weary 
 
 With loving, tender care, 
 Though all unknown, unheeded, 
 
 That watchful eye is there. 
 
VIGILS. 137 
 
 Tossed wildly, and in sorrow 
 
 Througli life's brief fevered dream, 
 We grasp at joys and find them 
 
 Delusion's wily gleam ; 
 Widi darkness round, and o'er us, 
 
 We may not see the eye 
 "That sleepeth not nor slumbereth," 
 
 Bent on us pityingly ; — 
 
 We may not feel the presence 
 
 Of a mighty hand, and true, 
 That leadeth and upholdeth 
 
 All the long journey through ; — 
 Yet though invisible, unfelt, 
 
 That watchful eye is e'er 
 Keeping its ceaseless vigils 
 
 O'er all our sorrows here ; 
 
 And when the morning dawneth, 
 
 And forever from our eyes 
 " This mortal vail is taken, 
 
 We shall "see Him as He is ;" 
 
138 VIGILS. 
 
 We shall know why heavy laden 
 Earth's thorny path we trod, 
 
 And rejoice, forever dwelling 
 
 In the glorious light of God. 
 
THE BLUE VIOLET. 139 
 
 THE BLUE VIOLET. 
 
 HAIL to thee, beauteous blossom ! 
 Thus early, and hither again ? 
 The snow is yet white on the hill-tops. 
 
 The breezes blow chill o'er the plain, 
 The Crocus has scarce oped her petals, — 
 
 The Snowdrop just forth from her tomb, 
 The trailing Arbutus half wakened, 
 
 I thought not to see thee so soon ! 
 
 Who tinted thine eye, gentle flower, 
 
 Blue, blue as the ether above ? 
 Why linger there sorrowing tear-drops, — 
 
 Weepest thou for the sunbeams of love ? 
 Though earth be cold and darksome, . 
 
 Thy dwelling-place lonely and drear, 
 Look up, — look up to the heavens, — 
 
 Light and beauty are smiling there I 
 
I40 THE BLUE VIOLET. 
 
 Thou speakest in silent language 
 
 To my heart, fair blossom, to-day, 
 Of one that in early springtime 
 
 Like thee passed from earth away ; 
 Like thine, her eye's mild beaming, 
 
 Whose radiance seemed from above. 
 Like thine, her brief life cheered us, — 
 
 Fragrant with gentle love. 
 
 Thou art dearer to me, frail blossom, 
 
 Than any of all thy race. 
 Thou teachest a lesson of meekness. 
 
 Patience, and faithfulness ; 
 And when at last I slumber. 
 
 Nor marble urn, nor stone 
 Be reared, but come, thou floweret. 
 
 And mark the spot alone. 
 
AGNES ALLEN. 141 
 
 AGNES ALLEN. 
 
 AGNES ALLEN one Summer's morn 
 Sat at the lowly cottage door, 
 Braiding the plaits of tinted straw 
 
 In the shade of the rose-vine arching o'er. 
 Over and under, in and out, 
 
 Strand by strand, were they interlaid, 
 At the snowy fingers' magic touch. 
 
 As thought was weaving its light and shade. 
 
 Down the lowland's gentle slope. 
 
 The river wound its silver strand. 
 Where the white sail of the fisherman's barge, 
 
 Beckoned and waved like a phantom hand. 
 Heather and thyme from hill and vale. 
 
 Bowed their heads to the soft June air, 
 While singing birds and insects gay, 
 
 Flitted in gladness everywhere. 
 
143 AGNES ALLEN: 
 
 Never was hand more faultless formed, 
 Never was face more faultless fair, 
 Than Agnes Allen's — the fisherman's maid — ■ 
 
 As she sat 'neath the rose-vine trellis there ; 
 But a shadow stole o'er the sunny brow, 
 
 ' Through the drooping lashes, a tear's soft 
 gleam, 
 While a sigh the silence of musings broke. 
 
 Like the stifled sob through a troubled 
 dream. 
 
 'Ah, why should I toil from morn till eve, 
 
 Day by day," she sorrowing said, 
 ' Would that He, who poverty gave. 
 
 The wealth of the Countess had given 
 instead." 
 The beauty faded from river and glen. 
 
 Lost in the gloom of that murmuring 
 thought, 
 And the wild bird's carol was drowned that day 
 By the strain which discontent had taught. 
 
AGNES ALLEN. 143 
 
 The Countess passed, as she rode that morn 
 
 In her stately chaise/the fisherman's cot, — 
 And from her window a scene she saw 
 
 'Neath the vine-arched door, which was 
 ne'er forgot. 
 "Ah, all my wealth, my fame and ease. 
 
 Would I freely give," — in her heart she said, — 
 " Had I but a tithe of the matchless grace. 
 
 The peerless beauty of that fair maid ! " 
 
 Over and under — in and out — 
 
 Golden stranded, or sombre hued, 
 Be life's wondrous tissue wove. 
 
 Or ever through smiles, or tears be viewed ; 
 Yet still that olden song we sing, — 
 
 Old as Eden, but ever new, — 
 "Oh that I had ! " is the wild refrain. 
 
 Of each throbbing heart, till its throbs are 
 through. 
 
144 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 WITH a milder, softer azure 
 Beam the ether depths above, 
 Where all day the sailing cloudlets 
 
 Like frail barges silent move, — ■ 
 While afar, where the horizon 
 
 Blendeth with the mountains brigh,t, 
 Fleets of argosies seem anchored, 
 In a sea of golden light. 
 
 Like a dream, o'er vale and woodland 
 
 Resteth now the silvery haze, — 
 Hushed, the bird notes from their borders, - 
 
 Withered, dead, the flowery maze. 
 And the purling streamlet murmurs 
 
 Tenderly its low refrain, — 
 As though lulling wearied nature 
 
 To her long, deep, slumbering. 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 145 
 
 Musing in the rustling forest 
 
 With the dry leaves scattered round, 
 From its height anon one saileth 
 
 Past one with a spirit sound ; 
 Soft airs from the glen are wafted ; 
 
 From the verdant, tasseled pine, 
 Low, mysterious sighs and sobbings, — 
 
 Whispered voices half-divine. 
 
 Indian Summer ! How like magic 
 
 Memories cluster at the name 1 
 Memories of a race long blighted, 
 
 Of a wild, yet princely fame. , 
 
 Fancy views the lowly wigwam, — 
 
 Dark-eyed maidens of rare charms, — 
 Sable chieftains in grave council, — ■ 
 
 Dusky warriors clad in arms ! 
 
 Dreamy days of waning Autumn, — 
 
 Loveliest, saddest of the year ! 
 Many a lesson, mystic poem. 
 
 Read we from thy leaves so sere, — 
 7 
 
146 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Though life's June e'er soon is vanished 
 As glad music's answering thrill, — 
 
 Yet may round its drear November 
 Light and beauty linger still. 
 
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 147 
 
 THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 
 
 WHY dost thou sing 'neath my window to-niglit, 
 Oh, ominous songster thy plaintive strain ? 
 All other warblers' notes are hushed, 
 
 Why echoes the midnight thy sad refrain, 
 
 Whip-poor-will ? 
 
 Like a spirit-presence the moon's pale light 
 
 Is resting o'er forest, hill and dale, 
 And naught the solemn stillness breaks 
 
 Save the repetend of thy ceaseless wail. 
 
 Whip-poor-will ! 
 
 Gentle and soft is thy carol now, 
 
 As the last fond note of the brooding dove, . 
 Then louder and faster the numbers flow, 
 
 As if with thy sad tale our hearts thou would'st move, 
 
 Whip-poor-will, 
 
148 THE irillP-FOOR-WILL. 
 
 I am keeping weary vigils to-night, 
 
 Midnight vigils, sad, and lone, 
 With naught to burden the solemn hour. 
 
 Save the echoing plaint of thy monotone, 
 
 Whip-poor-will. 
 
 'Neath the folds of the snowy drapery 
 
 Lieth the form so still and cold ; 
 O'er the silent heart the white hands rest, 
 
 O'er the pallid brow wave tresses of gold ; 
 
 But the waxen lid droops heavily now 
 
 O'er the matchless blue of the beautiful eye, 
 
 And the lips once ruby, are ashen and pale. 
 
 Nevermore will they smile, nevermore will they 
 sigh. 
 
 Watching with death ! Alas for the hour ! 
 
 Where — where art thou now, oh, gentle friend ? 
 Which of yon bright stars is thy spirit-home? 
 
 Dost thou know of my vigils, and thy presence lend ? 
 
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 
 
 Ere the morrow wanes, oh, beautiful clay, 
 They will lay thee low in thy narrow bed, 
 
 There oft will the night-bird sing his dirge, 
 And flowers their sweetest fragrance shed. 
 
 Cease, cease thy lament, oh, sorrowing bird, 
 Go fold thy wing in thy downy nest. 
 
 For weary hands, and weary heart, 
 And weary spirit, are for e'er at rest ! 
 
 149 
 
150 WHY NOT? 
 
 WHY NOT? 
 
 WHY not bravely meet the duties 
 That around our pathway lie ? 
 Buckle on the waiting armor 
 
 With firm hand, unshrinkingly, 
 When the wrong so boldly triumphs 
 O'er the right, the good and true, 
 And there wait for us the labors 
 Which no other hand can do ? 
 
 Why not thrust the sharpened sickle, 
 
 When the fields of golden grain 
 Wait the reaper's tardy coming 
 
 On the world's wide harvest plain ? 
 Shall "The Master's" garner languish 
 
 While we heedless idle here, 
 With so many sheaves ungathered, 
 
 And the noontide drawing near ? 
 
WJIV NOT? 151 
 
 Why not raise a fallen brother, 
 
 Sinking in sin's vortex wide, 
 When the multitude unpitying, 
 
 Pass him on the '■^ other side," 
 Or with scorn, or jest upbraid him 
 
 With his folly, or his sin ? 
 Why not bind the wounded spirit, 
 
 Pour the " oil of joy " within ? 
 
 Why not ? Ah, could we discover 
 
 In the far beyond that lies 
 Now concealed from mortal vision, 
 
 All the sacred ministries 
 We might give to other spirits. 
 
 All the hope, the faith, the joy, 
 All the gold of souls most precious 
 
 We might save from sin's alloy. 
 
 With one view but to inspire us 
 
 With the truth, — what ^' might have been " — 
 Seeing with the undimmed vision 
 
 Of eternity, 2^% then, — 
 
152 
 
 WJIV NOT? 
 
 How our eager feet would hasten 
 
 To perform life's every vow, 
 Soothe and comfort, raise and strengthen, 
 
 Toil in love ! Ah ! why not now ? 
 
THE DR UMMER BOY. 153 
 
 THE DRUMMER BOY. 
 
 J'TT^WAS the bugle's dulcet numbers 
 
 -1- That woke the early morn, 
 And o'er to the hill-side cottage 
 
 On the soft, June air were borne : 
 "Good-bye, my darling Willie, 
 
 God keep thee, oh, my son ! 
 To Him, and to my country, 
 
 I give thee — my only one ! " 
 
 "Don't weep when I am gone, mother, 
 
 The thought will give me pain ; 
 He can protect me safely, 
 
 I shall soon come back again ! " 
 And the little form looked manly 
 
 As it took its stationed place 
 In line with the stalwart soldiers, 
 
 With its innocent, childish face ; 
 7* 
 
154 
 
 THE DRUMMER BOY. 
 
 But tear-dimmed eyes watched sadly 
 
 At the little garden gate, 
 Till the folds of the streaming banner, 
 
 And gleam of the bayonet. 
 Were lost in the far-oif distance, 
 
 With the drum's low, measured beat. 
 
 All day had the bright sun striven 
 
 To lighten the war-cloud's dun ; 
 All day had the soft air echoed 
 
 The boom of the heavy gun, — 
 The roar of the wide-mouthed cannon, - 
 
 The roll of the martial drum, — 
 And tread of the mighty legion. 
 
 As the strife went raging on. 
 
 'Tis eve on the plains of Shiloh, 
 
 The victor's bay is won, 
 And the moon turns pale as she gazeth 
 
 On the ravage war hath done ! 
 
THE DR UMMER BOY. 155 
 
 Drenched is the green turf over, 
 
 And o'er, with the life-tide red ; 
 Ghastly the upturned faces 
 
 In the light which her mild beams shed ! 
 While the sad night winds go sighing, 
 
 With light and reverent tread. 
 Round the grassy couch of the dying. 
 
 And lowly slumbering dead. 
 
 They lift the sunny ringlets, 
 
 Wet with the chilling dew. 
 From the fair, white brow of Willie, 
 
 On the green turf pillowed low ; 
 No soothing hand to comfort, 
 
 None to list the last faint moan. 
 Save the moon, that with ceaseless vigils, 
 
 Looks kindly, pityingly down. 
 The dark blue eyes close weary 
 
 With a sigh, as of slumber deep, 
 And the pale lips sweetly murmur, 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep ; " 
 
1 5 6 THE DR UMMER BOY. 
 
 The little prayer is ended, 
 
 While a gleam of heavenly light 
 
 Illumes the childish features, 
 
 As he whispers, " Mother — good-night I 
 
 Morn smiled from her rosy chambers, 
 
 O'er mount and valley fair, 
 As though earth were still an Eden — 
 
 And she saw him lying there, 
 With little hands clasped prayerful, 
 
 Like a marble statue rare ; 
 But he felt not the fragrant breezes. 
 
 Heard not the wild bird's song. 
 For the name of Willie was numbered 
 
 Above, with the angel throng. 
 
no WING. 
 
 157 
 
 ROWING. 
 
 DOWN by the river's sedgy bank 
 Where the lilies white on their long stems 
 float, 
 And the willows dip their streaming locks, 
 
 Paul, and Maude, in their light-oared boat 
 Gayly glide o'er the water's sheen. 
 
 Swift as the plash of the rapid oar 
 Drips with musical gems so rare. 
 
 While their backward track on the surface lies 
 In eddying waves like a maiden's hair. 
 
 Merrily laughing, On they go. 
 
 Past the alders and maple grove, 
 Down where the ferns and laurel fringe 
 
 The shaded banks of- a sylvan cove ; 
 
158 . ROWING. 
 
 Down where the gray and wave-worn rocks 
 Spread their carpet of velvet green, 
 
 And the weird old elms stretched their sheltering 
 arms 
 Flecked with the sunset's glint between. 
 
 On the topmost bough the squirrel blinks, 
 
 Chatters, and whisks his bushy tail, 
 Sits erect on his haunches gray. 
 
 Then leaps down the old trunk's coat of mail. 
 Swinging from yonder osier branch. 
 
 The bobolink warbles his roundelay, 
 Peers through the clump of leafy screen, 
 
 Then cocks his head in a knowing way ; 
 ^' Bob-o-\rs\\, hob-o-Xwik, sphink, sphank, sphinh, 
 
 They're really lovers, I'm hotind to think ! " 
 
 Then poising his body, he spreads his wings, 
 And away to his nest with his young ones four ! 
 
 While all the woodland's altar gifts, 
 His musical chalice pouring o'er. 
 
ROWING. 159 
 
 Up from the water's glassy depths, 
 
 The timid minnows leap in play, 
 And the speckled trout dart slyly out 
 
 From their hidden nooks 'neath the old rocks 
 gray. 
 
 The ripples beckon with waving hands, 
 
 The lilies nod their sweet consent, 
 So floating on in the twilight dim. 
 
 Dreamily drifting the light boat went ; 
 'Twere wondrously pleasant to float with the tide, 
 
 Enchantingly magical ! one would deem. 
 And that, like the Lethean wave of old, 
 
 Forgetfulness blent with the mystic stream ! 
 
 For the two that lingered with voices low, 
 
 Took no note of the fleeting time. 
 Till the echoing tone from the distant tower 
 
 Pealed so faintly its warning chime ; 
 But I cannot say what the theme so long, 
 
 What the replies, or the charming spell, . ' 
 For since the bobolink flew away. 
 
 There was no one lingering near to tell ; — 
 
1 6o RO WING. 
 
 For the squirrel did not wake to list, 
 
 He slept in his nest of twigs so high, 
 And the whip-poor-will sang so long that night, 
 
 He could not into their secret pry ; 
 While the old trees firm in their strong will stood, 
 
 Keeping whatever they knew full well, 
 Nodding knowingly each to each, 
 
 The whispering leaves forbore to tell. 
 
 But the moon looked smilingly down on the two 
 
 As they slowly sauntered their homeward way. 
 For a new light beamed in the face of each, 
 
 Such as she had not seen in many a day ; — 
 So what was said, must a mystery be. 
 
 Since efforts to fathom have proven so vain, — 
 But I wouldn't wonder, if, (twixt you and me,) 
 
 'Twere ' ' the old, old story " over again ! 
 
THE TOLLING BELL. i6l 
 
 THE TOLLING BELL. 
 
 HARK ! how they break on the wintry air, — 
 Those undulating waves, — 
 As they sob, and moan, with a monotone 
 
 That tells of a world of graves ! 
 How they tremble, and sigh, then in distance die, 
 
 As the wild blast hurries on ; 
 Like some wailing spirit on wearied wing, 
 They pass, and for aye are gone. 
 .Toll,— toll,— toll,— 
 For the vanished soul 
 
 Freed from earth's sorrow and sin, 
 While the golden bells of the city of God 
 Are ringing its welcome in 1 
 
1 62 THE TOLLING BELL. 
 
 Years of innocence, love, and joy, 
 Ambition, hope, and care, — 
 Years of toil, temptation, and tears, 
 
 Of penitence, pain, and prayer, — 
 All are o'er ! Fold the hands o'er the pulseless breas 
 
 Smooth the locks o'er that brow so cold ; 
 Another slumberer, mother earth, 
 In thy silent embrace enfold. 
 Enraptured soul, — 
 Thou hast reached thy goal ; 
 
 Freed from earth's sorrow and sin. 
 The pearly gates of the city of God 
 Are opened to welcome thee in ! 
 
 Toll, — toll, — toll ! How the vibrations roll 
 
 O'er mount, and vale, and main, 
 Thrilling the soul with a solemn awe 
 
 As it echoes the sad refrain, — 
 " Gone are beauty, loveliness, worth, 
 
 Gone evermore," — they say, 
 '■' Yet round the radiant throne above, 
 
 They shine with a purer ray." 
 
THE TOLLING BELL. 163 
 
 Oh, deep-toned bell, with thy mournful knell. 
 Cease ye to toll 
 The vanished soul. 
 
 For, freed from all sorrow and sin, 
 The golden bells of the city of God 
 Are rinffinsf its welcome in! 
 
i64 ^OT YET. 
 
 NOT YET. 
 
 SOME trembling tokens of the coming morn, 
 Some purpling tints along the eastern hills 
 May cheer the waiting watcher, pale and lorn. 
 Yet, ere the day the earth with gladness fills. 
 Darkness, far deeper than the midnight gloom. 
 
 May spread o'er all its shadows like a tomb, — 
 And that faint ray prove but the eve star lone. 
 Telling the wear}^ night hath scarce begun 1 
 
 We scan with anxious heart and eager eye. 
 
 The dim horizon's verge in distance pale. 
 To catch the glimpse of hopes that may be nigh,- 
 
 The glint and glimmer of a coming sail; 
 While ice-bound on some dreary Arctic sea, 
 
 Mastless, and sailorless, our ship may be. 
 Or, o'er its freight may drift the Tropic sand. 
 
 All wrecked and shattered on a. foreign strand ! 
 
NOT YET. 165 
 
 We sow with care and toil the precious seed, 
 
 And heaven waters oft with dewy tears ; 
 The sun for many a day its warmth must shed, 
 
 Ere from the soil the tiny shoot appears ; 
 In Summer airs its wealth is waving long, 
 
 E'er yet we hear the reaper's cheery song, — ■ 
 Thus many a moon must wax, and slowly wane, 
 
 Before we garner up our golden grain. 
 
 The worm may blight the choicest, tenderest bud. 
 
 The sweetest songsters from our branches flee. 
 And bid us wait another nestling's brood ; 
 
 Long years may roll, ere blooms the Aloe tree ; 
 Along life's trembling wires we seem to hear 
 
 The clinking tokens of a message near, 
 But the soul's answer, for which most it prayed, 
 
 May, till we pass heaven's golden gate, be stayed. 
 
 Though by blind Fate the way oft seems concealed, 
 And slight the tokens 'twixt the ill and good, — 
 
 God's providences here so slow revealed. 
 So feebly grasped, so dimly understood, — 
 
1 66 ^'OT YET. 
 
 Yet still we know on love's electric chain, 
 No message lost, no plea is sent in vain ; 
 
 And though not yet His answer may appear. 
 There, shall we gain the good we failed of here. 
 
E VANGELINE. j 6 7 
 
 EVANGELINE. 
 (suggested by a picture of Longfellow's evangeline.) 
 
 AH, not alone to sentient, living things, 
 Is given the magic power, the sweet control 
 To sway our inner lives, and mold fore'er 
 
 The- deep and hidden purpose of the soul ; 
 For Ave may read a kindred sympathy 
 
 In the cold marble's chiseled features traced. 
 Mute canvas breathe a language which the gift 
 Of speech to living lips hath ne'er expressed : 
 
 Mute canvas, — thou to me canst never be, — 
 For naught the fantasy can e'er dispel ; 
 
 A spirit looketh through those eyes of thine, 
 
 And to my questioning heart replies,— "'Tis 
 well ; " 
 
1 68 EVANGELINE. 
 
 Yes, — well to patient bear the seeming ill, 
 To trust the guidance of a Father's hand, 
 
 Though long, and wearisome, the way appear 
 That leads through night, up to the morning land. 
 
 I'll place thee on the wall, — the sacred wall, — 
 
 Of the soul's inner temple, and should care, 
 Or sorrow o'er my way their shadows cast, 
 
 And far o'erspread the skies that erst were fair, 
 That look of touching sadness, chastened grief. 
 
 Blended with sweet submission, tried and true, 
 Shall teach me patience 'mid each woe, and thus, 
 
 Cheerful I'll take life's burden up anew. 
 
 And I will bear thee o'er the River's tide, 
 
 That stream which severs yon bright world from 
 this. 
 For its dark waves can never more efface 
 
 Memory's record ; when that w^orld of bliss 
 I gain, and wondering join the angel throng, 
 
 F'll seek until I find a face like thine : 
 Sure such a face, and only such an one 
 
 Would answer to the name, — Evatigeline. 
 
EVANGELINE 169 
 
 Ah, many an angel walks this earth of ours 
 
 With folded wings, and clad in mortal guise, 
 And many a brow the saintly nimbus decks 
 
 With heavenly radiance, had we but the eyes, — 
 The spirit-intuition to perceive ! 
 
 Blinded by human wants, and selfish cares, 
 The world knows not these natives of the skies 
 
 Which oft it entertaineth unawares. 
 
I70 THE WINDS. 
 
 THE WINDS. 
 
 WINDS of Springtime, meriy "winds, 
 Sporting round the mountain's brow. 
 Flitting through the woodland dim, 
 
 O'er the sunny vale below ; 
 Rolling on the great white clouds 
 
 Through the depths of ether blue, 
 Waking many a dimpled smile 
 
 On the lakelet slumbering low, — 
 With music tones as wild and free 
 As childhood's merry laugh could be. 
 
 Winds of Summer, gentle winds. 
 Breathing through the leafy dell, 
 
 Whispering 'mid the tasseled pines 
 Where the lengthened shadows fall, 
 
 Wafting sweets and odors rare, 
 
 Gathered through the livelong day, 
 
THE WINDS. I 'J I 
 
 Loitering by the floweiy hedge, 
 
 Nook, and streamlet, far away ; 
 Like a balm from Heaven their flow 
 To the heated, careworn brow. 
 
 Winds of Autumn, sorrowing winds, 
 
 Sighing through the russet glen. 
 Moaning by the withered wood 
 
 Many a plaintive requiem, — 
 Sobbing in the church-yard lone, 
 
 Like some mourner for the dead, 
 That through the long day and night 
 
 Ceaseth to be comforted ! 
 Of the year's long anthem-hymn, 
 Autumn chants the minor strain. 
 
 Winds of Winter,— furious winds, — 
 
 Rushing down the wild ravine. 
 Raging o'er the barren heath, 
 
 Sweeping Neptune's wide domain ; 
 
172 THE WINDS. 
 
 Onward e'er an unseen tide, 
 
 Like winged legions clad for war ; 
 
 Mountains shudder as they pass, 
 Forests bow their heads in awe ; 
 
 Type of ruthless spoilers they. 
 
 Making strife and blight their way. 
 
THE CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 ^11 
 
 THE CONNECTICUT RIVER. * 
 
 OH river ever seeking the great sea 
 Through loveliest vale on which the sun e'er 
 shone ! 
 Beautiful art, thou, whether Winter hoar 
 
 With crystal girdle circles thy fair zone, 
 Decking thy grassy banks and arching trees 
 
 With bristling tracery of rimy art. 
 And the crisp air and skater's glistening steel 
 Quicken the pulse's current to the heart, — 
 Or, in thy glassy depths reflected lies 
 
 The peaceful vision of the summer sky. 
 Unbroken, save the ripples that are woke 
 By the light oar, or keel thy waters ply I 
 
 Like youth's impetuous spirit uncontrolled. 
 Thou breakest from thy rural mountain home, 
 
 O'erleaping every barrier in thy course, 
 
 Afar through untried valley depths to roam ; 
 
I 74 THE CONNE C TIC U T RI J 'ER. 
 
 Say, river, — did'st thou love the sea so well 
 
 That thou could'st thus thy kindred waters leave, 
 Where tranquilly upon the lake's calm breast 
 
 Thy life might pass 'mid shores, where interweave 
 The verdant branches of the spruce and pine. 
 
 Guarding thee ever through the night and day, 
 So undisturbed, and calm, thy little world, 
 
 The greater world and turmoil far away ? 
 
 Unheeding the tall, whispering sentinels. 
 
 The solemn pines, wrapped in their mantles 
 green, 
 On, on thou fleest, nor once lookest back 
 
 To glance upon the beauty of the scene ; 
 Not e'en the gray old rocks, or crowned hills. 
 
 Or calm, majestic mountains could thee stay, 
 Till, wearied with thy haste, and tamed at length. 
 
 Thou pauseth in thy course, and loiteringly 
 Glideth through meadows, sweet with clover-blooms, 
 
 And musical with thrill of wild-bird's song, 
 Laving caressingly the gnarled roots 
 
 Of giant oak, and elm, where high among 
 
THE CONNE C TIC U T RI VER. 1 7 5 
 
 The leafy branches, the bright oriole 
 
 With artist skill his cradle-nest hath hung, 
 
 Flitting, a gleam of fire, now here, now there, 
 His tiny brood by breezes rocked and swung. 
 
 So long thou lingerest 'mid these charmed scenes, 
 
 Forgotten seems a while the distant sea ; 
 Thou settest willows all along thy banks, — 
 
 Landmarks, to guide thee ever on thy way. . 
 Now widening, deepening, winding ever on. 
 
 Two rival guardians' rise ! On either side. 
 Mount Tom, and Holyoke ! pausing, as for choice, 
 
 Turning, thou dost between them peaceful glide. 
 
 And here, what artist's skill the picture paints 1 
 
 What poet's pen its beauty e'er can trace ! 
 The eye must see, that the mind revel in 
 
 Its wondrous charm, and time can ne'er efface 
 That scene from Memory's canvas : e'en the waves, — 
 
 Those primal waters ere the age of man 
 That wrought thy hollow vale, rounded its hills, 
 
 And graceful curved its undulating rim, — 
 
1 7 6 THE CONNE C TIC UT EI VER. 
 
 These must have deemed their handiwork complete, 
 And gazed upon thee with supreme content, 
 
 With folded arms, as other artists gaze. 
 Empowered above their native element. 
 
 Oh beauteous vale, encircled like a gem 
 
 Of emerald setting by thy verdant hills, 
 Hint of our long-lost Eden, we could deem 
 
 That in thy peaceful shades life's common ills 
 Must lighter seem, and an enchantment gain, 
 
 And mortal here ne'er mourn his harder lot ; 
 And Rasselas, had he but looked on thee. 
 
 Ne'er craved the Happy Valley that he sought I 
 
 Connecticut, — ''long river," — the terse name 
 
 The dusky savage gave thee ; on thy shore 
 Rose his rude wigwam, sped his arrow's flight, 
 
 And the Great Spirit's form thy waters bore ; 
 The Indian maiden mused beside thy banks, 
 
 Or, through thy waters rowed her light canoe, 
 Waving her tresses o'er thy glassy depths 
 
 To catch of her fair face a mirrored view. 
 
THE CONNECTICUT RIVER. 177 
 
 The wild deer bounded o'er thy grassy slopes, 
 And reared above thy banks his antlered head ; 
 
 The pale-face came ! And like the mists of morn 
 Before the rising sun, they each have fled 1 
 
 Flow on, forever on, oh beauteous stream ! 
 
 Widening and deepening like the waves of life ; 
 Man cannot stay thee in thy chosen course. 
 
 He yields to thee,— his victor, — in the strife ; 
 Through shade and sunlight, curve with graceful sweep, 
 
 Through flowery vales and rocky barriers high, 
 Past peaceful villas, cities' towering spires, 
 
 Past billowy slopes where silent cities lie ; — 
 Flow on, with blessings on thy crystal tide, 
 
 In all thy beauty and thy grandeur free ! 
 Oh river, seeking patiently and long, — 
 
 Joy to thy waters, — thou hast found the sea ! 
 8* 
 
178 THE END. 
 
 THE END. 
 (to a. w. b.) 
 
 YES, it will come some day, some day, 
 And I shall fly from this home of clay, 
 Haste at the Master's bidding word. 
 Swift as the wing of the uncaged bird 
 To its downy nest in the tree-top hung, 
 By the gentlest breezes rocked and swung ; 
 Cleaving the depths of the far blue sky. 
 On joyous wing I shall upward fly ! 
 
 Ah, what thoughts will the spirit fill ? 
 What faces greet, what voices thrill ? 
 And who the angel that guideth me 
 Up through the depths of the ether sea ? 
 Will it be the loved who have left us here. 
 Or a stranger spirit from yon bright sphere ? 
 
THE EiVn. i^g 
 
 Oh, it must be God bids the dear ones come 
 To guide us up to his heavenly home ! 
 
 It will come — it will come — the end of life, 
 With its mingled scenes of peace, and strife ; 
 Its hours of rest, and gainless moil, 
 Its pain, and care, and loving toil; 
 Its sunniest hopes, and clouded fears, 
 Its sweetest smiles, and bitterest tears ; 
 Its brightest tints, and darkest shades. 
 Its valley depths, and highland glades- 
 Its grief that lives, and joy that dies, 
 Its dreams and stern realities ; 
 Its welcome time, and parting hour, 
 Its sunshine bright, and clouds that lower ; 
 Its purest gold, and worthless dross. 
 Its richest gain, and direst loss ; 
 Yes, it will come, some day — some day — ■ 
 And I shall fly from this home away. 
 
 Will it be morn, or noontime bright ? 
 Eve, or the holy, calm midnight ? 
 
THE END. 
 
 'Mid summer's flowers, or winter's snows ? 
 Spring's soft tints, or autumn's glows ? 
 And who the friend that shall go with me 
 Down to that verge where my soul is free ? 
 Who shall kiss earth's last adieu, 
 Latest clasp, as it fades from view ? 
 
 Who smooth my brow with tearful care, 
 Sever its lock of treasured hair, 
 Fold my hands with such soft caress, 
 O'er the heart so cold in its pulselessness, 
 Tenderly pillow with flowers my head, 
 Making so soft my lowly bed 
 For the night that is come, with its restful sleep, 
 Its last long slumber, so silent and deep ? 
 
 Yes, it will come — some day — some day ! 
 Yet it matters not just when it shall be ; 
 Where the releasing ? Hcnsj P and who 
 The loved that lingers with last adieu? 
 Ah, it matters not if our tasks are done, 
 Life's mission accomplished, its victory won ; 
 
THE END. i8l 
 
 Enough to know it will surely be, 
 And there are duties that wait for me. 
 
 So I'll cheerfully walk my appointed way, 
 Bearing each burden as well as I may, 
 For it may be that in the brighter sphere 
 We shall wonder oft why we toiled not here 
 With more willing hand and earnest heart, 
 Yielding "The Master" that "better part," 
 Why we sighed so oft, and smiled not more. 
 Why with trembling hands the cross we bore, 
 With such sweet rest beyond in store ! 
 
 And when the path seems dark and hard, 
 Each brighter way so hedged and barred, 
 With all the landscape seared and brown. 
 And I each burden fain lay down ; — 
 When I sigh for the dear ones that await 
 My coming feet, at the pearly gate, 
 I will oft to my spirit cheeringly say, 
 " It will surely come, sovie day — some day I" 
 
WAITING FOR ME. 
 
 WAITING FOR ME. 
 
 HIGH swell the dark billows above our tall mast, 
 Loud gathers the tempest, swift hurries the 
 
 blast, ^ 
 Wild shrieks the lone sea-bird, hastening home to the 
 
 shore. 
 Deep repeats to mid-ocean its mystical lore ; 
 The thunders may echo again and again. 
 Nor feared are the wild winds, the waters, nor main, 
 For a beacon light gleaming afar o'er the sea, 
 Tells welcome, and loved ones, waiting for me ! 
 
 On Life's troubled ocean is launched my frail bark 
 Where the sunlight may gleam, yet the breakers lie 
 
 dark. 
 From your isles, southern breezes, oh waft me perfume, 
 As chill blow the storm winds, and gathers the gloom ; 
 
WAITING FOR ME. 183 
 
 The tempest may deepen — on, on will I move, 
 Though no cheering, olive, brings back the lone dove, 
 For a beacon from Heaven's bright portal I see, 
 Telling welcome, and loved ones, waiting for me ! 
 
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 PALE and wan the old year lieth 
 On his fleecy couch of snow, 
 While the winds are round him sighing 
 Requiem dirges for the dying, — 
 
 E'er their faithful vigils keeping, 
 Sadly, while the death shade creeping, 
 Chills the old year, faint and low. 
 
 Midnight at her holy vespers 
 
 Kneeleth at this solemn hour, 
 Interceding for the spirit 
 Passing to that realm so mystic. 
 
 While her lamps on high are lighted 
 Cheering the lone way benighted 
 To that dim, mysterious shore. 
 
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NE W. 
 
 Fare thee well, old friend, and cherished, 
 
 Kind, though fickle, dear old year ! 
 Thou hast brought us many a blessing, 
 Many a lesson stern impressing. 
 
 Many a treasure taken forever ; 
 Yet thy friendship as we sever. 
 Claims the tribute of a tear. 
 
 Softly falls the lingering echo 
 
 Of his last expiring moan ; 
 Hark ! the bell's deep tones are swelling ; 
 'Tis his knell the silence thrilling ! 
 
 . Ere that sound is lost forever, 
 Swift wings bring the young successor 
 
 Of the old year, dead and gone 1 
 
 Up into thy radiant visage 
 
 Earnest gaze we, glad New Year, — 
 If perchance life's future phases. 
 With its labyrinthine mazes. 
 
 We might trace in some fair feature, 
 And elude that sterner teacher, — 
 Fortune, — oft so dread, severe. 
 
1 86 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 Say, for thou the sceptre bearest, 
 
 And the throne is all thine own, 
 Wilt thou with life's "Musi" impress us, 
 And its "■ JSIight have been " distress us ? 
 Change the beautiful ideal 
 To the cold unlovely real. 
 Like the shadowy years agone ? 
 
 Round th)- brow we twine rare garlands 
 Thy young brow, oh, glad New Year ! 
 Buds of hope, and faith's fair flowers 
 Wove 'neath fancy's fairy bowers ; 
 
 When thou givest us back the chaplet. 
 Will it be with blooming fragrance. 
 Or a garland dead and sere ? 
 
 But perchance thou bearest the message 
 
 That shall call us hence away ; 
 Be it thus, — oh, be the angel 
 That shall lead us through that portal 
 
 Where the loved ne'er more shall sever, 
 Joy and beauty dieth never, 
 In a realm of endless day. 
 
1776— 1876. 1 87 
 
 A 
 
 1776 — 1876. 
 
 HUNDRED winters' snows, 
 A hundred summers' glows, 
 A hundred springs like glints of green, 
 A hundred autumns' tints between 
 Upon Time "s canvas traced, 
 And lo, a century hath passed ! 
 A valiant, patriot band we see 
 Striving for God, and liberty ! 
 
 Undaunted by the power 
 
 Of tyrants, in that hour. 
 Nobly they stood at that pure shrine, 
 Guarding its sacred rights divine ; 
 
 ' ' To conquer or to die ! " 
 
 Their watchword, and their battle cry ; 
 In God their hope ; in God their trust, 
 With him their righteous cause, and just. 
 
1 7"] 6— 1 8-] 6. 
 
 Nor vain their hope and prayer, 
 
 Nor vain to do and dai'e ; 
 Though strong the foe, the world's proud queen, 
 They, but a handful of brave men ! 
 
 Yet not unto the strong. 
 
 Doth triumph e'er belong ; 
 The Lord of battles heard their cry, 
 And granted strength, and victory ! 
 
 Death, famine, fire, and sword. 
 
 Only to new zeal stirred 
 That suffering, brave, and patriot band ; 
 And e'en to-day that blood-bought land 
 
 For which they nobly died, 
 
 Exalted stands, a nation's pride ; — 
 The gaze, and envy of the world ; 
 Her flag in every clime unfurled. 
 
 Where erst the trackless wild 
 
 The savage foot beguiled. 
 And echoed far the warwhoop's hideous sound. 
 And the fierce wolf its secret lair had found, — 
 
1776—1876. 189 
 
 To-day, the teeming mart, 
 And the great city's pulsing heart, 
 Or peaceful village points its spires. 
 And waving fields crown man's desires. 
 
 Oh, patriots who bled, 
 
 Honored, and noble dead ! 
 Oh, Pilgrim band with deed and purpose true, 
 Ye builded higher, grander, than ye knew ! 
 
 Peace to your lowly graves, 
 
 O'er which New England's green turf waves ; 
 A nation, the most blest for aye. 
 Rises to call ye blessed to-day ! 
 
 Hopes, doublings, faith, and fears, 
 
 And strifes ; — a hundred years ! 
 We hail with joy our country's natal day ; 
 Ah, who can tell what glorious destiny 
 
 The future may bestow, 
 
 If such a boon be ours now ! 
 A hundred years ; — the clock strikes one 1 
 The centuries have just begun ! 
 
190 1776— I Sj6. 
 
 Oh, sweet New England vales, 
 Ye mountains grand, and hills, 
 Ye billowy prairies of the blooming West, 
 Savannas of the South in beauty dressed, 
 Your choicest garlands bring 
 To deck her brow, and bid to sing 
 Your wild birds all their sweetest songs to-day ; 
 Old ocean's priestly hand in baptism to lay 
 Upon that brow, to consecrate for aye ! 
 
 Of old, baptized in blood. 
 
 To-day, baptized to God ; 
 And bid from shore to ever-sounding shore. 
 Where rivers gleam, or sleeps the hidden ore. 
 
 The vast old forest aisles, 
 
 O'er which the bending heaven smiles. 
 From pine, to blooming orange, raise 
 One grand and glorious psalm of praise ! 
 
 And you, ye deep-toned bells. 
 
 Ring out in joyous peals ! 
 From all }'0ur airy towers, and turrets liigh, 
 Waft forth melodious incense to the sky ; 
 
1776— T 87 6. 191 
 
 And as ye sway and swing, 
 
 Your iron censers intoning, 
 Tell to the nations of the world, 
 O'er 2. free land our flag's unfurled ! 
 
 God of our fathers ; Thou 
 
 To whom we reverent bow. 
 Be ours to safely guide in days to come ; 
 In Thee may all our hopes and aims be one, 
 
 And our dear country's name, 
 
 Untarnished in its brightest fime, 
 Through centuries to come, e'er be 
 Land of the noble and the free ! 
 
 New Haven, Conn., /z^/y 4, 1876. 
 
 New York : J. J. Llttlo cSt Co., Printers. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 At Last io 
 
 Agony Bells 3^ 
 
 Autumn 102 
 
 Agnes Allen 14^ 
 
 Blue Violet, The ' I39 
 
 Church Angel, The 85 
 
 Connecticut River, The 173 
 
 Dying Year, The 18 
 
 Drifting - • • • 41 
 
 Driving Home the Cows 56 
 
 Dropping Anchor 63 
 
 Dream-Land ol 
 
 Dead "6 
 
 Drummer Boy, The ^53 
 
 Etoile de la Mer 126 
 
 Evangeline I"7 
 
 Early Bird, The 120 
 
 End, The (To A. W. B.) 178 
 
 Faces We Meet, The 20 
 
 Fragment, A - ^35 
 
 Going Home 4^ 
 
 If..^ 15 
 
 Inner Sanctum 28 
 
 It May Be 60 
 
 Indian Summer ^44 
 
 Life's Bravuras ^2a 
 
 My Welcome Beyond 7 
 
 My Ships 12 
 
194 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Magic Chime, The 67 
 
 Naming the Baby 44 
 
 Not Yet 164 
 
 Old Year and The New, The , 1S4 
 
 President Lincoln 70 
 
 Promise 73 
 
 Pond Lilies 90 
 
 Responsum 79 
 
 River, The 88 
 
 Recognition 123 
 
 Rain on the Roof 131 
 
 Rowing 157 
 
 Some Day 24 
 
 Someljody's Home 31 
 
 Ships at Sea 34 
 
 Strawberry Girl, The 74 
 
 Storm King, The iiS 
 
 1776 — 1876 187 
 
 To Mrs. Allie W. Brooks 53 
 
 Tolling Bell, The 161 
 
 Under the Snow 105 
 
 Unseen, The in 
 
 Unknown, The 114 
 
 Vigils 136 
 
 Waiting at the Gate 94 
 
 Whetting of the Scythe, The 97 
 
 Weavings loS 
 
 Whip-poor-will, The 147 
 
 Why Not?, 150 
 
 Winds, The 170 
 
 Waiting for Me 182 
 
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