, ;^f^. 
 
 The 
 
 COMPLETE POEMS 
 
 of 
 
 Mrs. G. S. Mabee 
 
The Complete Poems of 
 Mrs. G. S. Mabee 
 
 (S-^a-v+J n 
 
 Copyright, 1904, by G. S. Mabee, 
 Plymouth, Wisconsin. 
 
 THE ERICSON CO., PRINTERS, ELROY, WISCONSIN. 
 I904 
 

 LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Tw© Copies Received 
 
 MAR | 1904 
 
 \ Copyright Sntry 
 ' 'COPY 3 
 
It 
 
A LITTLE LIFE SKETCH. 
 
 In this beautiful little book of poems of Mrs. G. S. 
 Mabee's (nee Esther Swart) one finds such a wealth of 
 thought, clothed in such beautiful words, that it speaks of a 
 rare gift, which most amateur writers do not possess. 
 
 She was born in Florida, N. Y., in 1836 and in 1851 
 came to Plymouth, Wis., where she has always lived. Her 
 early life was spent in school work, and on the farm with 
 her parents, where she oft studied Nature, as her verse on 
 Nature so vividly tells, that one fairly hears birds sing and 
 the gurgling of the brooks. She was married to Giles S. 
 Mabee of New York on September 13, 1870. In a few years 
 she became ill, and a "shut-in" the rest of her life. 
 
 No children blessed their wedded life and yet she was 
 so fond of all the little folks and they of her, and she was 
 ever ready to greet her friends, with deepest interest in their 
 welfare. When some event occurred, a Golden Wedding, 
 or perchance an event of mirth, or perchance the death of a 
 friend, her sympathies found voice with heart and pen, and 
 many of her poems found their way into the newspapers. 
 Now that she has passed away, a sister, a husband, and 
 loving friends so deeply appreciate the work and worth of 
 her poems, that to put them into a book (for all to feast 
 upon) is indeed a work of love. 
 
 A little life sketch I have given 
 
 Of Esther, whose life is now at an end, 
 
 And more would I do if I could, 
 
 For her who was always a friend. 
 
 Mary L. Clark. 
 
A PRAYER IN VERSE. 
 
 Hear us, our Father, we beseech, 
 
 And grant us that for which we pray; 
 
 Thou knowest best the wants of each, 
 Direct us, Lord, in what we say. 
 
 May we our secret sins behold, 
 
 And pray in deep humility, 
 As did the publican of old — 
 
 "O God be merciful to me." 
 
 From egotism, Lord, defend, 
 
 Less of a spirit may we know 
 Which, to attain a selfish end, 
 
 Detracts from either friend or foe. 
 
 Help us to pray when others fall 
 And not to censure, or upbraid; 
 
 The blood of Christ atones for all 
 If at His feet their sins are laid. 
 
 When Thou in wisdom doth see fit 
 
 To lay affliction's hand upon, 
 Help us to cheerfully submit 
 
 And say, Thy will, not mine be done. 
 
 Oh fill our hearts with love like Thine, 
 And thus exclude all selfish thought; 
 
 Give us enough of grace divine 
 To love our neighbor as we ought. 
 
 May we — the members of Christ's fold — 
 Be Christlike in our daily walk; 
 
 May it not truthfully be told, 
 
 Our works accord not with our talk. 
 
 Help us to praise, as well as pray 
 
 And thank Thee for the blessings given; 
 
 May we be fitted day by day 
 
 To praise Thee, in the courts of Heaven. 
 
 Amen. 
 
SPRING. 
 
 There are verdure and beauty and fragrance all 'round, 
 From the blue vault above to the blossoming ground. 
 And the sweetest of music is heard on spring days 
 For dear Nature is singing glad anthems of praise, 
 
 For the blessing of sunshine and copious showers, 
 
 Which have decked her with blossoms and made green her 
 
 bowers, 
 Where the feathered choirs worship, all guiltless of sin, 
 And their matins prolong till their vespers begin. 
 
 From the lap of stern winter to being she springs, 
 Bringing health unto many on balm laden wings; 
 Still onward and northward she wings her glad flight 
 Till she reaches the land of perpetual night. 
 
 When the sun's golden rays kiss the dewdrops of night 
 With an ardor so fervent it absorbs them quite; 
 Surely man must respond to the magic it sways 
 And be hopeful and cheerful on lovely spring days. 
 
 O, the heart which loves Nature draws nearer to God 
 When all Nature is verdant from treetop to sod; 
 And around and above us the sweetest of notes 
 Commingle with fragrance which heavenward floats. 
 
 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A SPRING RAMBLE, 
 MAY 1880. 
 
 I rambled in the fields to-day 
 
 And plucked some tender blades of grass, 
 And thought how quickly time will pass 
 
 Till fields now bare are piled with hay. 
 
 Though hard at work, the birds seemed gay, 
 
 I noticed none appeared to shirk; 
 
 I wonder if they like to work? 
 I'll own in spring I like to play. 
 
And watch Dame Nature at her work 
 As day by day her plans unfold, 
 To man still new though ages old, 
 
 For in them God's own secrets lurk. 
 
 So plainly still, does Nature teach 
 God's wisdom only could conceive, 
 I wonder how some disbelieve 
 
 All thought can't grasp or logic reach. 
 
 Too much research pure faith destroys. 
 
 Deny the statement as we can, 
 
 The man of research is the man 
 With reason most his faith alloys. 
 
 Despite his boasted powers of mind 
 And skill from Nature to produce 
 All that is needful for his use, 
 
 He but fulfils what God designed. 
 
 I love to scan dear Nature's face 
 just as a child its mother's scans; 
 But would not, with unhallowed hands, 
 
 One finger mark of God's erase. 
 
 But long to climb some mountain height 
 
 Or visit some lone shore untrod 
 
 And view the handiwork of God, 
 As it seemed good in His own sight. 
 
 To drink in Nature's beauty pare, 
 
 Where none save Time his thirst has slaked, 
 
 And feel my inmost soul awaked 
 To child-like faith that will endure. 
 
 To be on Ocean leagues from land 
 And hear deep calling unto deep, 
 And feel God made them and does keep 
 
 As in the hollow of His hand. 
 
 Man's eloquence, at best, is weak 
 
 Compared with Nature's power to teach. 
 And, whom her teachings can not reach, 
 
 Would doubt were Nature's God to speak. 
 
THE OLD RUSTIC GATE. 
 
 I love the dear old rustic gate, 
 
 Though long unused and put away; 
 Beside it oft I used to wait 
 
 For husband at the close of day, 
 When blithely from his work he came 
 
 And smiling met me at the gate. 
 In rain, and shine, he was the same, 
 
 It mattered not if he were late. 
 
 The moss grown gate reminds me too 
 
 Of friends who came but come no more, 
 And of that number not a few 
 
 Have passed from earth, life's journey o'er. 
 In fancy I can see them still 
 
 As briskly up the walk they came; 
 And some came slow, the aged and the ill, 
 
 And others halting, who were lame. 
 
 Though it has no intrinsic worth, 
 
 No charm that other eyes may see, 
 I prize it, 'mong the things of earth, 
 
 For memories it brings to me. 
 O shades of dear departed friends, 
 
 You're welcome as they were before; 
 When fancy flags, your visit ends, 
 
 But leaves me happier than before. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Oh, this gorgeous Indian Summer! 
 
 Vain are all attempts of man 
 To describe, with pen or painting, 
 
 Fairest scenes in Nature's plan. 
 
 But faint conception of their splendor, 
 Choicest words can e'er express; 
 
And, in silent awe, I wonder 
 At fair Nature's loveliness. 
 
 Oft we see upon the canvass 
 
 Tints, to Nature wondrous true; 
 But they lack the warmth of sunlight 
 
 Which, her foliage, glances through. 
 
 And the breeze which gently stirs it, 
 
 With a breath however faint, 
 Giving varying shades of colors 
 
 Which an artist cannot paint. 
 
 And a sky of rarest splendor, 
 
 Seen as through a sunbeam veil, 
 
 Forming background for the picture; 
 All attempts at which must fail. 
 
 Artists, who would paint from Nature, 
 
 Must, ever at their easels, plod. 
 Theirs, the faulty work of creature; 
 
 Their patterns, wrought by creature's God. 
 
 THE HOME ON THE HILL. 
 
 Among pleasant recollections 
 
 Of early pioneer life, 
 Are those of a young farmer 
 
 And his estimable wife, 
 Who lived north of the Mullett 
 
 In a frame house, snug and small, 
 By graceful maples shaded, 
 
 And huge stumps surrounding all. 
 
 The place was neat and cozy, 
 Though not a poet's dream, 
 
 And better than aught else besides 
 Was, love reigned there supreme; 
 
 Though many were the visits 
 We made that genial pair, 
 
We never missed a welcome, 
 For all were welcome there. 
 
 Many a winter evening, 
 
 Around a blazing fire, 
 Our host read, while we listened 
 
 And his reading did admire. 
 We played the game of euchre, 
 
 Or better, seven-up, 
 But indulged not in libations 
 
 From flowing bowl or cup. 
 
 We did not lack for spirits, 
 
 And time sped by on wings, 
 Our host was always seeing 
 
 The funny side of things. 
 It's more than forty years ago, 
 
 It does not seem so, though, 
 And where are they, the young and gay, 
 
 Who there were wont to go? 
 
 Some in the graveyard sleeping, 
 
 Where all must .shortly go, 
 And others have gone far away, 
 
 Just where I do not know. 
 A few there are, who go there still 
 
 As they were wont of yore, 
 But scarcely recognize the house 
 
 Since it was modeled o'er. 
 
 And time has many changes wrought 
 
 Within that home as well, 
 Where love and joy were wont to reign 
 
 Came grief too deep to tell. 
 The husband rests within the shade 
 
 His own hands helped to rear, 
 And by his side has since been laid 
 
 A grown-up son so dear. 
 
 The flowers which grow upon those graves 
 Bespeak the loving care 
 
Of one who promised in her youth 
 His ills and joys to share. 
 
 Long may she live to bless that home 
 Which younger members share, 
 
 And tread the paths together trod 
 When he was with her there. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 The glorious autumn days are past, 
 They were too lovely long to last. 
 The gorgeous robes, by Nature worn, 
 The late October winds have torn 
 And scattered as in wanton mirth 
 Upon the lap of mother earth. 
 And breezes, in the leafless limbs, 
 Are singing Nature's requiems, 
 While night laments in tears of frost 
 The charms which Nature lately lost. 
 
 The seeming death is only rest, 
 
 For, hidden deep in Nature's breast, 
 
 Obedient to the Maker's will, 
 
 The streams of life are flowing still, 
 
 Out backward to their mother earth 
 
 Where tree and shrub and flower have birth, 
 
 And there for months they lie congealed. 
 
 The earth seems one vast snow-clad field, 
 
 The sun is constant in his ray, 
 
 But earth has turned her face away. 
 
 But when in spring she turns again, 
 Obedient to her Maker's plan, 
 Sol's genial warmth the frost dispels 
 And draws the sap from Nature's wells, 
 So silently we scarce know when, 
 Expanding buds, scarce seen till then, 
 Where wondrous beauty lies concealed 
 And bides the time to be revealed, 
 
When unseen hands will shift the scene 
 And robe the earth again in green. 
 
 Oh, wondrous power of Nature's God 
 
 That grows the daisy from the sod 
 
 And gives the queenly rose its hue, 
 
 Its lovely forms and fragrance too; 
 
 The modest lily with such grace, 
 
 That turns toward earth her lovely face; 
 
 The cacti 'mid the rocks to go, 
 
 And Alpine flowers so near the snow! 
 
 No safer path can e'er be trod 
 
 Than leads through Nature up to God. 
 
 I LONG TO VISIT THE WOODS ONCE MORE. 
 
 I long to visit the woods once more 
 
 And go alone, as I used of yore, 
 
 In the glad spring time, when the air is bland, 
 
 And Nature seems fresh from her Maker's hand; 
 
 When buds are bursting, it seems, for joy, 
 
 Mosses are green, and ground-squirrels coy; 
 
 Where crystal springs like mirrors lie, 
 
 Reflecting clouds as they float by, 
 
 And graceful forms of the feathered fair, 
 
 Which make their toilets each morning there; 
 
 When wood-land rills, made glad by showers, 
 
 Their banks bedecked with ferns and flowers, 
 
 Flow in and out, among the trees 
 
 And moss-clad rocks, with grace and ease; 
 
 When birds are planning and building their nests, 
 
 With not a doubt in their feathered breasts, 
 
 Of the care of Him who made them all, 
 
 Without whose knowledge not one may fall. 
 
 I wonder if that's the reason why 
 
 Some build their nests on branches so high? 
 
 That reason asserts with firm belief, 
 
 Some windy day they will come to grief. 
 
While others build but a few feet high, 
 Where a wanton boy would surely spy. 
 Yet all seem happier far than man, 
 Whose reason conflicts with Nature's plan. 
 Was ever a place of worship made 
 One-half so grand as the forest's shade? 
 There are stately columns everywhere, 
 That never have echoed the voice of prayer, 
 Which Nature is building with lavish hand, 
 True to the pattern her Maker planned. 
 Six thousand years ago, or more, 
 Ere man could boast of his building lore, 
 Their ceiling and dome of sky were hung 
 And set with stars when the world was young. 
 We read of cathedrals, old and grand, 
 iVcross the deep in a foreign land, 
 Of the scores of years it took to build, 
 And mines of gold, to adorn and gild; 
 Adorned with pictures, so rare and old 
 We could not value their worth in gold, 
 Some master artist assayed to paint 
 The last sad hours of a martyred saint, 
 And the lifelike picture does retain 
 The fancied thoughts of his gifted brain; 
 Our blessed Lord on the cross we may see, 
 Who suffered, that all might ransomed be, 
 A crown of thorns on His sacred head, 
 And cruel nails with His life blood red; 
 On His brow there seems the dew of death, 
 In fancy you hear His belabored breath. 
 And pale lips utter the prayer so true, 
 Forgive them, they know not what they do; 
 There are marble statues, so like to life, 
 You marvel, with mallet, chisel and knife 
 A skilful sculptor could ever bring 
 From marble block such a lifelike thing. 
 I'd love to gaze on those lofty piles, 
 And ramble about those dim old aisles, 
 And note the great who are buried there, 
 And read the inscriptions o'er with care, 
 
IO 
 
 To dwell in thought on their mighty deeds 
 
 And works of love which the world still reads 
 
 On scenes enacted within those walls, 
 
 The sight of which to memory calls 
 
 The changes which time and war have made; 
 
 Since their corner-stones in pomp were laid, 
 
 Where hymns of praise to God were sung, 
 
 Vile oaths and orgies of soldiers rung 
 
 And steel-clad warriors often trod. 
 
 Where were wont to kneel the priests of God, 
 
 When oft succeeded war and peace, 
 
 From the frozen North to the isle of Greece, 
 
 I'd list to music, deep-toned and grand, 
 
 Produced by the touch of a skilful hand, 
 
 From organs whose volume we can't conceive, 
 
 Or could we hear we could scarce believe, 
 
 But would not list to a solemn prayer 
 
 Poured forth on the incense laden air, 
 
 Or see the priests, in their vestments fine, 
 
 Dispensing the sacred bread and wine, 
 
 With pomp that savors of papal power, 
 
 With tapers lit at the noon-day hour, 
 
 Amid such worldly pomp and cant, 
 
 I would not list to a solemn chant; 
 
 I'd rather kneel in the forest grand, 
 
 Lighted by sunbeams on either hand, 
 
 Streaming down through the leafy branches high 
 
 Where glimpses are caught of the azure sky, 
 
 And untaught feathered choirs above, 
 
 Singing Hosanna, God is love, 
 
 And glory not man's, but His alone 
 
 To Whom each thought of our hearts is known; 
 
 No lofty dome, spacious nave, and aisle, 
 
 Nor imposing service, can e'er beguile; 
 
 God, whom we worship, must worshipped be, 
 
 In spirit, through faith and purity. 
 
II 
 A THUNDER STORM. 
 
 Hark! hear you that rumbling, muttering sound? 
 
 And whence does it come? We look all around 
 
 And see in the west, the horizon above, 
 
 A dark heavy cloud majestically move, 
 
 And know that the Storm King is coming this way, 
 
 Armed capapie in his armor of gray, 
 
 That his voice from afar is the sound that we hear, 
 
 At the volume of which earth trembles with fear. 
 
 Majestically on sweeps each storm laden cloud, 
 
 Belching forth thunder in peals long and loud, 
 
 Till the sky they o'ercast and earth they enshroud 
 
 With gloom that is lit for a second of time 
 
 By each flash of lightning; the scene is sublime, 
 
 And also appalling; for he heeds not at all 
 
 Where he blows his fierce breath, or his thunder bolts fall. 
 
 Of the poor frightened birds you can see not a trace, 
 
 They are hidden in every conceivable place, 
 
 'Neath ledges of rocks and in hollows of trees, 
 
 And niches too small for comfort or ease. 
 
 And each flash of lightning more plainly reveals 
 
 The cattle where huddled in groups in the fields. 
 
 O'er mountain and hillside and forest and plain, 
 
 The clouds are now pouring down torrents of rain. 
 
 The winds howl and shriek like demons distressed, 
 
 Then moan like a child that is grieved in its rest. 
 
 Anon they rush wildly to battle again 
 
 Alike with the works of Nature and man. 
 
 There are houses unroofed and buildings blown down, 
 
 And here or there leveled a village or town. 
 
 Even giant old oaks do heed his behest 
 
 And come thundering down on mother earth's breast, 
 
 Torn up by their roots, planted centuries ago, 
 
 By some mastodon's tread, perhaps, who can know; 
 
 Half living, half dead, they must shrink and decay 
 
 While years in the future are circling away; 
 
 Who seek them for timber, will curses invoke 
 
 On the tempest that felled them, their stout hearts it broke. 
 
 The smooth flowing streams he traverses o'er 
 
 Grow turbid and swollen, and angry their roar. 
 
12 
 
 O'er bosoms of lakes and face of the deep, 
 
 With force unabated, the angry winds sweep. 
 
 As if in defiance, the white crested waves 
 
 Give buffet for buffet, till Old Ocean raves 
 
 With fury not even a Storm King would meet, 
 
 And does not subside till he's pleased to retreat; 
 
 And scores of bold seamen have gone to their graves, 
 
 Where thunder ne'er echoes, deep down 'neath the waves. 
 
 The Storm King, alas, unlike human foes, 
 
 Man, feeble man, has no power to oppose, 
 
 Must let him rage on till his fury is spent, 
 
 Not knowing whence came he or whither he went. 
 
 THE LAKE AT REST. 
 
 How lovely is the lake at rest, 
 
 As far as eye can reach 
 There are no billows on its breast, 
 
 No surf upon its beach. 
 
 As peaceful as a child at rest 
 The vast expanse now seems, 
 
 And yet a zephyr's light behest 
 Would wake it from its dreams. 
 
 A storm would rouse to angry waves 
 
 This mirror of the sky, 
 And beat the shores which now it laves 
 
 With white-capped breakers high. 
 
 Here and there, not far from port, 
 Becalmed, some vessels lie; 
 
 Their idle sails a breeze would court, 
 If it were passing by. 
 
 But all is calm, above, below, 
 
 All Nature seems to rest, 
 Such rest as mortals sometimes know 
 
 When not with dreams oppressed. 
 
i3 
 
 How like the lake our life appears, 
 
 Ere human passions bind; 
 In childhood and our youthful years 
 
 They're like the zephyr wind, 
 
 But strengthen with advancing years, 
 As do the waves with wind, 
 
 Till, spite of human prayers and tears, 
 We human ship-wrecks find. 
 
 Yes, all that's good and pure in man 
 Foul passions can o'erwhelm, 
 
 Despite of every well-made plan, 
 When truth deserts the helm. 
 
 And hopes lie wrecked in many graves, 
 
 Like vessels on some reef; 
 One went to wreck 'mid stormy waves, 
 
 The other, tears of grief. 
 
 O, may our barques be like to those 
 Which lie not far from shore, 
 
 Just waiting till a zephyr blows 
 To waft them safely o'er. 
 
 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY HEARING A 
 MOTHER SCOLD. 
 
 Written for The Sun. 
 
 While passing a house in town to-day 
 I heard a mother scolding away, 
 Scolding her children for mischief done, 
 But I couldn't "versteh" a word, not one; 
 Her manner was angry and stern, I know, 
 And her hand upraised as to deal a blow. 
 
 I linger'd not, to see it descend, 
 
 But thoughtfully still, my way did wend. 
 
 My feelings were rous'd by that scene of strife, 
 
14 * *V 
 
 And I thought, God pity the poor man's wife 
 Who children has, but whom toil and care 
 Do never permit their sports to share. 
 To teach what untaught they are learning long, 
 That they may be playful yet do no wrong, 
 To quell all discord ere it ends in strife, 
 And teach them the nobler things of life. 
 
 Who must make each garment her lov'd ones wear, 
 
 And wash and iron and mend each tear, 
 
 And cook ev'ry mouthful of food they eat, 
 
 And stockings darn for those restless feet; 
 
 Must undress, wash and put them to bed, 
 
 And wash and dress and comb each head, 
 
 With scarcely time to kneel in prayer 
 
 Or play bo-peep with her baby fair. 
 
 Whose dull monotonous daily course 
 
 Is seldom varied except for worse, 
 
 Till hope once strong has feeble grown, 
 
 And duty left to struggle 'lone. 
 
 No wonder such mothers, with intent right, 
 
 Oft wield unwisely their sceptre of might, 
 
 Or make sad their faces by thoughts unreveal'd, 
 
 Or give vent to feelings in tears unconceal'd. 
 
 Children too young the cause to surmise 
 
 Are quick to see shadows in mamma's eyes, 
 
 Which shadow their minds as clouds do the sun, 
 
 Only they leave impressions, clouds leave none, 
 
 And many a tear a tired mother shed 
 
 Has haunted her child when that mother was dead. 
 
 But what shall the poor overworked mothers do 
 
 Is a problem unsolved; I leave it with you. 
 
 I've puzzled my brain a solution to give, 
 
 But my answer won't prove from the way people live. 
 
 But I'll do what I can, will pray with my might, 
 
 May God give them courage Life's battle to fight. 
 
i5 
 
 THE BLIGHTED LIFE. 
 
 I came across a photo while rummaging to-day, 
 
 Which awakened memories I fain would put away. 
 
 Though age had turned it yellow and dust begrimed it so, 
 
 I recognized the features of one I used to know. 
 
 The face had once been comely, ere dissipation set 
 
 Its seal upon the features, for beauty lingered yet 
 
 About the broad high forehead and wavy auburn hair 
 
 That would have been a treasure to any maiden fair. 
 
 A beard both soft and heavy concealed the wearer's chin, 
 
 But left a mouth exposed which had little firmness in, 
 
 The cheeks, which were so hollow, had doubtless rounded 
 
 been, 
 The glow of health made ruddy the once transparent skin. 
 The nose inclined to Roman, the eyes I think were blue, 
 But, bleared and red and watery, told all who chanced to 
 
 view, 
 Of manhood early blighted by alcoholic drink, 
 Of health and wealth and happiness the greatest foe, I 
 
 think. 
 In manner kind and gentle, in friendship warm and true, 
 And grateful for a kindness which any chanced to do. 
 When sober he was faithful, performing duties well, 
 Honest as the day is long, who knew him best could tell. 
 He felt his degradation and knew himself to blame, 
 But force of habit conquered in each contest with shame. 
 
 This is a faithful picture of Reuben F , one who 
 
 For years lived with my uncle, who blamed but pitied too. 
 Disowned by friends and kindred for years this man had 
 
 been, 
 Which did not tend to wean him of his besetting sin. 
 It's sad to see, by nature of gentlemen a peer, 
 Descending to a drunkard's grave step by step each year, 
 And feel that we are powerless to check their mad career, 
 Or in their sober moments to speak a word of cheer; 
 But such was Reuben's fate, for he filled a pauper's grave. 
 May his spirit be at rest with Him Who died to save, 
 The wish of one whom years ago his photograph he gave. 
 
i6 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 'Twas only a dream by whose magic power, 
 
 I visited ocean's depths for an hour 
 
 And saw with wide-open, wondering eyes 
 
 The wealth of the ocean which hidden lies, 
 
 Secure from the world's too covetous eyes. 
 
 In skulls which once sheltered the busy brain, 
 
 Lay treasure its owners had toiled to gain, 
 
 With hopes for the future no one can tell, 
 
 For the ocean keeps secrets long and well. 
 
 There were gleaming jewels of value rare 
 
 Caught fast in the meshes of tangled hair 
 
 Of varying shades, from the hue of night 
 
 To the locks of age which are silvery white. 
 
 All around lay skeletons grim and old, 
 
 Which seem to be guarding this wealth untold; 
 
 Alike unmarked were their graves revealed, 
 
 For the ocean knows nought of a potter's field. 
 
 The king and peasant together lay, 
 
 And thus will remain till the final day. 
 
 A warrior lay there still grasping his blade, 
 
 Which many a foe at his feet had laid, 
 
 Defiant no doubt to his latest breath, 
 
 E'en as I saw him, defiant in death. 
 
 Ships of all nations lay scattered around, 
 
 They sailed from all ports — to all ports were bound. 
 
 Some, blackened and charred, still told of the fray; 
 
 Only remembered in history to-day 
 
 Are the date of the battle and cause of the fray. 
 
 The world keeps no record of sorrow and tears, 
 
 Of hopes long deferred or abandoned with years; 
 
 It may not be selfish, but can't realize, 
 
 And heeds not our heart-aches and half smothered sighs. 
 
 But Providence kindly ordered it so; 
 
 If the rest of mankind were but to know 
 
 A tithe of the sorrow of mothers and wives, 
 
 ' Twould shadow the sunshine all out of their lives. 
 
 My dream of the ocean gets mixed up with earth; 
 
 But all kinds of fancies in Dreamland have birth. 
 
i7 
 
 Ocean has caverns as well as the land, 
 Formed by the action of waves on its strand, 
 Where dwelt the mermaid, that myth of the sea, 
 Which sailors once thought a reality. 
 Their depths I explored where man never trod, 
 Untrammeled the while by this human clod; 
 But soon I awoke from slumber again, 
 And found it was all a myth of the brain. 
 
 BIRTHDAY GREETING. 
 
 Written on the occasion of L. K. Howe" s forty -fifth birth- 
 day, June yth, i8gj. 
 
 In spirit, I am with you, friends, 
 
 Though many miles away; 
 The hand, this birthday greeting pens, 
 
 Would fain clasp yours to-day. 
 But in your childhood home afar, 
 
 With kindred gathered round, 
 May there be nought the day to mar; 
 
 May joy and mirth abound. 
 
 The dear old home where you were born, 
 
 What memories cluster round! 
 Upon this flowery sweet June morn 
 
 The place seems sacred ground. 
 The time-worn paths, your feet oft pressed 
 
 In romping childhood gay, 
 Remind you of dear friends, at rest, 
 
 And others far away, 
 
 Who fain would cross the continent 
 
 To spend the day with you, 
 If there were nothing to prevent, 
 
 And memory's page review; 
 Who fain would see their native hills, 
 
 Though mountains they may view, 
 And hear New Hampshire's purling rills 
 
 Instead of ocean blue. 
 
Our years are like the grains of sand 
 
 Which in an hour-glass run; 
 We cannot haste nor bid them stand, 
 
 But live them one by one. 
 You're forty-five and in your prime — 
 
 As men life's record keep — 
 May you be blessed your whole life- time 
 
 With health and friends and sleep. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Howe and Winfred too, 
 
 And all your kindred dear, 
 May each have birthdays not a few 
 
 With plenty of good cheer. 
 Today when seated round the board, 
 
 Pray you my wish allow, 
 That all the guests with one accord 
 
 Drink — luck to L. K. Howe. 
 
 TO ANNIE NOLAN. (Wife of Giles Mabee, Jr.) 
 
 Only some sweet withered violets, 
 
 In a room all deserted and lone, 
 But their sight woke a host of regrets 
 
 For a mirth loving girl, who had flown. 
 
 In spring-time we gathered the flowers 
 And together we inhaled their perfume; 
 
 But we dreamed not, in near future hours 
 
 That their sight would cause feelings of gloom. 
 
 There is fragrance in blossoms long dead, 
 And remembrance of past pleasant hours, 
 
 In the future, a brightness may shed, 
 More grateful than perfume of flowers. 
 
 Though our pathways henceforth may diverge, 
 Please remember me kindly and long; 
 
 Remember my precepts, I urge, 
 
 And forgive if I e'er did you wrong. 
 
19 
 
 Written for the occasion of Mr. and Mrs. Wm. 
 Swarfs 25th marriage anniversary, October 8, '90. 
 
 What mean these festive sounds I hear, 
 
 The house with light aglow, 
 The tables laden with good cheer, 
 
 Where sit the friends I know? 
 
 It is an anniversary, 
 
 A silver wedding day. 
 A quarter of a century 
 
 Has quickly slipped away. 
 
 And, with it, much of pleasure brought 
 
 And much of toil and care; 
 To prize the former as we ought, 
 
 The latter we must bear. 
 
 No real sorrow e'er has come 
 
 To blight your wedded joy; 
 But to make glad in age your home, 
 
 A darling little boy. 
 
 A stalwart son to manhood grown, 
 
 A married daughter too, 
 More plainly speak of time that's flown 
 
 Than an}' change in you. 
 
 The children of your daughter wed 
 
 May clamber on your knee; 
 But on their youthful grandma's head, 
 
 No prim dress-cap they see. 
 
 But should they live, when older grown, 
 
 In retrospect may see 
 A grandma who could hold her own 
 
 In race or frolic free. 
 
 Four generations here we see 
 
 Around the board to-night; 
 An incident that long will be 
 
 Remembered with delight. 
 
 The absent friends a thought demand, 
 They send regrets sincere, 
 
They fain would clasp your proffered hand 
 And share your dainty cheer. 
 
 The gifts we tender you to-night 
 
 Are tokens of esteem, 
 And will remind you of time's flight 
 
 Adown life's rapid stream. 
 
 May you live long and happy lives, 
 
 So blent the two in one, 
 That which at length the tie survives 
 
 Will wish it just begun. 
 
 TO MRS. JOSEPH BOARDMAN, OAKLAND, CAL. 
 
 The pretty fragrant flowers you sent 
 
 Arrived on Easter eve; 
 And, coming at the close of Lent, 
 
 I easily could conceive, 
 That some one, who I do not know, 
 
 In Oakland far away, 
 Of their abundance did bestow 
 
 The flowers for Easterday. 
 
 I've been an invalid for years, 
 
 With pleasures few and small, 
 And o'er your gift wept grateful tears, 
 
 And hung it on the wall. 
 I know not whether young or old, 
 
 Nor what your creed may be; 
 But pray God may return tenfold 
 
 The pleasure you gave me. 
 
 More subtle far than rare perfume 
 
 Is sympathy of minds; 
 It spans all space, pervades all gloom, 
 
 And kindred hearts entwines. 
 And if perchance some thought of mine 
 
 Has reached you from afar 
 And touched that attribute Divine, 
 
 Pray tell me who you are. 
 
21 
 
 TO REV. MR. WARD. 
 
 Accept our thanks, dear Reverend Ward, 
 
 They honestly are due; 
 The parish all, with one accord, 
 
 Regret to part with you. 
 
 By tact and care and fervent prayer, 
 And love that waxed not cold, 
 
 The flock, once scattered here and there, 
 Have gathered in the fold. 
 
 We fain would keep you with us yet, 
 
 If you thought best to stay; 
 And absent, we will not forget 
 
 Our pastor far away. 
 
 But ties of nature bid you go, 
 
 Those ties of kindred dear; 
 The Master too has work, we know, 
 
 We would not keep you here. 
 
 When in your island home once more, 
 And well tried friends around, 
 
 May you find happiness in store, 
 Pure, lasting and profound. 
 
 We all unite, since we must spare, 
 
 In wishing you God-speed. 
 Please oft remember us in prayer, 
 
 The flock you used to feed. 
 
 The following stanzas entitled "Christmas Greeting," 
 by Mrs. M. H. C. Treffry, were received by Mrs. G. S. 
 Mabee, to which she replies through the Herald, hoping it 
 may reach the writer: 
 
 CHRISTMAS GREETING. 
 
 I think of you, dear Lady, 
 In your far off pleasant home; 
 And I hear from friends about you, 
 
22 
 
 And the long years past and gone. 
 And I think sometimes you're lonely, 
 When the days are dark and drear; 
 And I wish that I could only 
 Send a word or thought to cheer. 
 
 God bless you is the message 
 My thoughts send out to you; 
 May His spirit be your comfort 
 In all life's journey through; 
 And when weary days come to you, 
 In sunshine or in rain, 
 May He send the gentle Muses 
 To charm away your pain. 
 
 REPLY TO CHRISTMAS GREETING. 
 
 Your kindly Christmas greeting 
 
 Has an echo in my heart; 
 It gives a deeper pleasure 
 
 Than a present could impart. 
 For it is genius praying, 
 
 In a woman's earnest strain, 
 That God will send the Muses 
 
 To charm away my pain. 
 
 I think the prayer was answered, 
 
 For the day seemed bright, though drear, 
 And fancy lent her magic 
 
 To transport me far from here, 
 Back to the days of childhood 
 
 With its dolls and games and kites, 
 And budding youthful fancies 
 
 Which blossomed in delights. 
 
 I mused on years maturer 
 
 And the living friends of yore, 
 
 And wished that I were able 
 To see them all once more. 
 
 I thought of others, absent, 
 
 Who are numbered with the dead, 
 
23 
 
 But did not mourn their absence 
 Nor a tear of sorrow shed. 
 
 For I have learned submission 
 
 To my Maker's will, I hope, 
 By toiling to life's summit, 
 
 To go ailing down its slope. 
 I cannot see God's purpose, 
 
 But I know that He is just; 
 And what I need is patience 
 
 ,And a simple childlike trust. 
 
 As bread upon the waters, 
 
 May the loving thoughts you send 
 Return in greater measure, 
 
 Ere you reach life's journey's end. 
 I wish you a Merry Christmas, 
 
 And a Happy New Year too; 
 May loving friends be with you, 
 
 And success crown all you do. 
 
 LINES ON REV. T. DeWITT TALMAGE'S VISIT TO 
 PALESTINE OR THE HOLY LAND. 
 
 The good-byes are spoken, the parting is o'er; 
 
 The last adieux waved from the receding shore; 
 And prayers for his safety ascend to God's throne 
 From the rich and the poor wherever he's known. 
 
 That He in His goodness will please to defend, 
 From perils of travel, their pastor and friend. 
 Atlantic ne'er cradled a ship on its breast 
 That bore more good wishes, a pastor more blest. 
 
 May the long cherished wish of his heart be fulfilled, 
 To stand where the blood of our Savior was spilled, 
 And kneel on the spot where the wise men once knelt, 
 And offer not incense but worship heart-felt. 
 
 May he visit the place where to manhood Christ grew 
 And toiled for a living as manhood must do, 
 
24 
 
 And taught us submission to parents on earth 
 And showed us the humble are those of true worth. 
 
 May he stand by the Jordan where Christ was baptized, 
 See God's spirit descending, by faith's earnest e}^es, 
 And feel that its presence is still hovering o'er 
 That then hallowed stream and its beautiful shore; 
 
 And sail on the waters of Gennesaret 
 
 Where disciples of old were spreading their nets, 
 
 When our blessed Lord called them to follow Him then — 
 And henceforth would make of them fishers of men. 
 
 And visit the site of Jerusalem old, 
 
 Whose sins Christ wept over and ruin foretold. 
 
 May the thrice hallowed summit of Mount Olivet 
 
 Inspire in him feelings he cannot forget. 
 
 And sight of the garden Gethsemane, 
 
 Which witnessed Christ's sufferings and humility; 
 
 And the tomb where He lay when His sufferings were o'er, 
 Till the angels of God rolled the stone from its door; 
 
 Bring him, as he fancies, still nearer to God — 
 While treading the path which his Savior once trod. 
 And then, if God pleases, in safety return 
 To the flock that till then for his presence will yearn. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 Written for Mr. and Mrs. Enos Eastman *s fiftieth mar- 
 riage anniversary, January //, 18Q4. 
 
 The Eastman homestead is aglow with light and warmth to- 
 night, 
 
 And friends, who were invited here, have gathered with de- 
 light, 
 
 And mirth and music crown the scene — old age and child- 
 hood meet 
 
 To keep an anniversary, an honored pair to greet. 
 
 Just fifty years ago to-night our host and hostess fair 
 
25 
 
 Their promise gave, henceforth through life, their ills and 
 
 joys to share. 
 Ere long they came to Plymouth with their stock of worldly 
 
 goods, 
 Where far and near on either hand stretched a primeval 
 
 woods; 
 Where dusky natives roamed at will, wrapped in their 
 
 blankets gay, 
 'Til civilization drove them from their hunting grounds away. 
 But wedded hearts are stout and brave when love cements 
 
 the twain, 
 They feared not in the wilderness, a livelihood to gain, 
 And sturdy muscles stronger grew from well directed toil, 
 And wealth into their coffers flowed, by tilling of the soil, 
 And children came to bless their home, four daughters and 
 
 two sons, 
 For whom they planned and toiled and saved, their darling, 
 
 precious ones. 
 Acres broad were added to their old original place, 
 And well earned honors came to them, which they have 
 
 borne with grace. 
 Their earnest, upright, helpful lives, from ostentation free, 
 Won for them friends of every grade from wealth to poverty. 
 The Scriptural injunction they did ever obey 
 In letting not the left hand know what the right gave away, 
 And their kindness to domestics with pleasure we recall; 
 "Aunt Miriam," as she is called, was mother to them all. 
 
 The older guests remember well the Eastman pioneer home, 
 The hearty welcome all received whene'er they chose to come; 
 And how each year, in early spring, warm sugar was in store 
 For friends who chose to eat their fill, perhaps a pound or 
 
 more. 
 The wooden structure was removed, a brick one took its place, 
 But memories of the hours spent there Death only can efface. 
 The ups and downs of wedded life of the last fifty years 
 Have not been to them all sunshine unmixed with grief and 
 
 tears; 
 Two daughters went from them away to that uncertain 
 
 bourne, 
 
26 
 
 From whence no traveler may return, whose absence they 
 
 still mourn. 
 But sympathy from those we love makes trials light to bear, 
 And wounds of grief are sooner healed with loved ones to 
 
 care. 
 And confidence, though slow of growth, deep rooted if it be, 
 In after years will yield a fruit most beautiful to see. 
 For love — a purer, holier love — is born of confidence 
 Than ever entered heart of man, through vision's clouded 
 
 sense. 
 Thus fifty years of wedded life, if rightly lived, I ween, 
 Tones down the ardent love of youth to deeper love serene. 
 
 Allow me to congratulate you and wish you joy to-night, 
 That Time has been so lenient and in his touch so light, 
 And also to express the wish of guests both great and small, 
 That your remaining years of life prove happiest of all. 
 
 FOR THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF MR. AND 
 MRS. L. WITT. 
 
 We've gathered here to celebrate, 
 
 And tender gifts of gold 
 To friends who, in that blest estate 
 
 Of wedlock, have grown old. 
 
 For, fifty years ago to-night, 
 
 Our host, then twenty-three, 
 Led to the altar blushing 
 
 The grandma whom you see. 
 
 Her locks, which then in color 
 
 Vied with the hue of night, 
 Have gathered on life's journey 
 
 Some gleaming threads of white. 
 
 Her cheek is somewhat paler, 
 For its youthful bloom has fled, 
 
 And her step, no more elastic, 
 Has a matron's stately tread. 
 
27 
 
 One cannot tell the shade of hair 
 
 That shaded once his brow, 
 For the frosts of age, life's winter, 
 
 Lie heavy on it now. 
 
 But like his native mountains, 
 Which are not bowed by time, 
 
 He's as erect at seventy- three 
 As most men in their prime. 
 
 Side by side they've met and shared 
 
 The joys and ills of life, 
 As will every loyal husband 
 
 And his true hearted wife. 
 
 To such are time and trials 
 
 What refining is to gold; 
 They but cleanse from human dross, 
 
 Their spirits don't grow old. 
 
 Yet memory's retrospection 
 
 Of fifty years I ween 
 Reveals full many a shadow, 
 
 But there's sunshine in between. 
 
 And children's voices echoing 
 
 In memory's corridor, 
 For there came to bless their union 
 
 A son, and daughters four, 
 
 Who grew to man and womanhood 
 
 Beside the old hearthstone, 
 Then formed new ties, and left once more 
 
 Their parents all alone. 
 
 No doubt they oft are lonely 
 And for their children yearn, 
 
 But thankful none went to that bourne 
 From whence none may return. 
 
 For all are here to celebrate 
 
 This Golden Wedding day; 
 So let us all with one accord 
 
 Be joyful whilst we may, 
 
28 
 
 And tender gifts with loving hearts, 
 And joke and feast and sing, 
 
 And make the dear paternal roof 
 With merry laughter ring. 
 
 It is not ours to speed Time's flight, 
 Nor Death's keen sickle stay; 
 
 But, please God, may this couple see 
 Their Diamond Wedding day. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN FOR ANNA RAMMINGER 
 WERNER. 
 
 It was a lovely morn in May, 
 
 And Nature seemed so fair; 
 One scarce could wish indoors to stay, 
 
 Yet Anna lingered there. 
 
 The birds sung gayly in the trees, 
 
 Just donning robes of green; 
 Through curtains lifted by the breeze 
 
 Came sunlight's golden sheen. 
 
 It rested on two forms within, 
 
 One, past the prime of life, 
 An invalid for years had been — 
 
 Must thus remain for life. 
 
 The other young, and prospects had 
 
 Of blissful coming years, 
 Although just then her face was sad, 
 
 Her eyes suffused with tears. 
 
 She fondly bowed her fair-haired head 
 
 On her companion's breast; 
 And silent farewell tears were shed 
 
 And hands in silence pressed. 
 
 "Good-bye" was all the word she said, 
 
 And slowly turned away; 
 It seemed as though the sunshine fled, 
 
 As she passed out that day. 
 
2Q 
 
 Their daily intercourse for years, 
 
 Dependent on each other, 
 Had made the maid like daughter seem, 
 
 The matron seem like mother. 
 
 No more to hear the welcome sound 
 
 Of Anna's hurried tread, 
 Which crossed the threshold at a bound, 
 
 And halted by my bed, 
 
 To tell of every funny thing 
 
 She saw while on the street, 
 And kindly messages to bring, 
 
 From friends she chanced to meet. 
 
 No more to see her graceful hand 
 
 The busy needle plying; 
 Forgetting in the work I planned, 
 
 That mine was idle lying. 
 
 No more when evening shades draw nigh, 
 
 And sewing laid aside, 
 Arranging plans for by and by, 
 
 When she will be a bride. 
 
 I fain would hear her merry laugh — 
 
 Aye, even hear her shout, 
 And see her practice skip and glide, 
 
 And waltz the room about. 
 
 But time may not reverse its flight, 
 
 Nor Nature backward turn 
 To reproduce a sound or sight, 
 
 For which the heart may yearn. 
 
 Man's memory only may return 
 
 To where it first began; 
 And youth does not for childhood yearn, 
 
 But does for manhood plan. 
 
 And Anna, when I next see her, 
 Will doubtless be more staid; 
 
 But memory often will recur 
 To all the pranks she played. 
 
3o 
 
 Another home she brightens now, 
 Our loss is but their gain. 
 
 And rains her kisses on a brow 
 That is not wracked with pain. 
 
 May all her years of wedded life 
 
 Of grief have no alloy; 
 The sacred offices of wife 
 
 Her heart and hands employ. 
 
 MEMORIES OF A FRIEND. 
 
 Clasped in her father's fond embrace, 
 
 A child with earnest eyes 
 Looked down on her dead mother's face 
 
 With tearless mute surprise. 
 
 Then, with a wistful look, she scanned 
 Each mourner's face, in vain; 
 
 Their grief she could not understand, 
 Although the cause was plain. 
 
 Bat with her dimpled hands she tried 
 
 To stay her father's tears, 
 While other eyes grew dim beside, 
 
 Which had not wept for years. 
 
 Memory photographed that scene 
 
 And left it in my brain, 
 For sympathy sometime, I ween, 
 
 To reproduce again. 
 
 The child grew up, to me well-known, 
 
 Became a wife, and mother; 
 Leaving three daughters, two well-grown, 
 
 A blooming child the other. 
 
 On hearing lately she was dead, 
 
 And grieving it is so, 
 Back to that scene my memory sped — 
 
 Enacted years ago. 
 
31 
 
 I seemed to see those wistful eyes 
 Inquiring what was wrong, 
 
 And note the look of mute surprise, 
 That mother slept so long. 
 
 Upon the coffin pillow lay 
 The same wan face at rest; 
 
 The father's eyes, as on that day, 
 By dimpled hands were pressed. 
 
 What is this innate, mystic power 
 We feel but can't explain, 
 
 Which leaves the impress of an hour 
 A lifetime on the brain? 
 
 How little of ourselves we know, 
 And less can understand; 
 
 But God no doubt designed it so, 
 When He our being planned. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF A SCHOOLMATE. 
 
 Remember me, the motto reads, 
 
 Above my parlor door, 
 And as I read my thoughts revert 
 
 To golden days of yore. 
 
 It was a present, from a friend, 
 
 Intended to remind 
 That absence friendship's sacred ties 
 
 Should all the closer bind. 
 
 I prize the gift, though needed not 
 
 To remind me of my friend, 
 For friendships which I formed in youth, 
 
 Will ripen to life's end. 
 
 I could not, if I would, forget 
 
 The pleasure that was ours, 
 As hand in hand we roamed the fields, 
 
 In search of spring-time flowers. 
 
32 
 
 We ranged the woods the livelong day, 
 And swung in grapevine swings; 
 
 And oft in memory's treasure halls 
 Her merry voice still rings. 
 
 At eve we lingered on the porch, 
 
 To hear her father tell 
 Those Revolutionary tales 
 
 He loved to tell so well; 
 
 Till we imagined every bush 
 
 Concealed a dusky foe, 
 And I, the mile between our homes 
 
 Was scarcely durst to go. 
 
 At school we shared each other's tasks, 
 
 By some means, foul or fair, 
 And neither prized promotion that 
 
 The other did not share. 
 
 Long years have intervened since then, 
 What changes time does bring, 
 
 Her hair no longer golden brown 
 Nor mine like raven's wing. 
 
 Our forms are bowed, we're grandmas now, 
 
 Our steps no longer spry, 
 And weary miles of thoroughfare 
 
 Between our homes now lie. 
 
 Our voices make no echoes now 
 
 In woodland, as of yore, 
 When we Sweet's Creek at noon-time 
 
 For treasures did explore. 
 
 We do not list to stories now, 
 
 But in our turn we tell 
 To bright-eyed, happy children dear, 
 
 What to our youth befell. 
 
 We gather not spring blossoms, 
 Nor autumn's gorgeous leaves, 
 
 And yet we are not idle 
 
 We're garnering life's sheaves. 
 
33 
 
 And sacred to her memory 
 Are links in memory's chain, 
 
 That time, and change, and distance, 
 Might try to force in vain. 
 
 THE MAGIC OF MEMORIES. 
 
 'Twas winter, and stormy and cold was the day, 
 
 And Jack Frost had embroidered in a delicate way 
 
 All the panes in my window (through mischief no doubt), 
 
 Leaving scarcely a clear spot where one might see out. 
 
 I was lonely and gloomy, to murmur inclined, 
 
 For my eyes and my ears gave no food to my mind. 
 
 All was familiar within the four walls, 
 
 With no one to speak to nor prospects of calls. 
 
 I impulsively rose, the window to wipe, 
 
 When my eyes chanced to rest on a hit or miss stripe. 
 
 If magic there was in that stripe I can't tell, 
 
 But like magic it served my gloom to dispel; 
 
 For the wind howled without and the storm beat the pane, 
 
 But powerless were they to annoy me again. 
 
 From out memory's dim distance, trooping up through the 
 
 past, 
 Came visions of bygones too vivid to last. 
 There were threads from some dresses I wore when a child, 
 When my feet were untrammel'd and fancy roamed wild; 
 And I lived o'er again all the joys I had known 
 From the time they were made until fully outgrown. 
 Next was a thread from a Christmas ball dress, 
 Its possession gave pleasure no novice could guess. 
 So I'll tell you the truth; I was foolish, I know, 
 I wore it intending to please so and so. 
 'Twere vain to attempt my admirer to guess; 
 It happened years since, "a score more or less." 
 There were threads of a dress that was worn by a bride, 
 When she plighted her troth to her lover beside. 
 How well I remember'd that fair summer morn 
 That she left our fair home, to another adorn; 
 
34 
 
 Not lovelier the blossoms our doorway beside 
 
 Than that fair auburn-haired and azure-robed bride. 
 
 Not long she remained her new home to cheer — 
 
 She sickened and died in little more than a year. 
 
 There were threads from the garments of sisters and 
 
 brothers, 
 And still farther on, from a dress of my mother's. 
 The memories they woke were the charm they possessed, 
 Which exorcised for me that spirit— Unrest. 
 Like a leaf from the past was that carpet of mine, 
 In my volume of memories for each thread there's a line 
 Which of peace, joy or sorrow so faithfully tells 
 That my heart throbs with pain or with mirthfulness swells. 
 
 GHOSTS OF FORMER DAYS. 
 
 Now oft in twilight's gathering gloom 
 Come ghosts of former days, 
 
 And range themselves about my room 
 In strange fantastic ways. 
 
 So much of life they seem a part, 
 
 So real and so fair, 
 I try to clasp them to my heart, 
 
 To find they are not there. 
 
 The vision of a fair-haired child, 
 Too frail on earth to stay, 
 
 With graceful mien and gesture mild, 
 Oft beckons me away. 
 
 And close beside the vision fair, 
 
 A sturdier form I see; 
 The reaper Death still did not spare 
 
 A boy of summers three. 
 
 The vision changes slowly now, 
 
 I see a maiden fair, 
 With rosebud mouth and snowy brow, 
 
 And wealth of auburn hair. 
 
35 
 
 And by her side a sturdy man, 
 
 Beside our cabin door; 
 I recognize my sister Ann, 
 
 The very clothes she wore 
 
 Upon the day that she was wed. 
 
 The vision changes now; 
 I see her lying on a bed, 
 
 With fevered cheeks and brow. 
 
 And hear her say, with look intent, 
 "Though why, I cannot tell, 
 
 I feel a strong presentiment 
 I never shall get well." 
 
 Still fiercer grows the burning foe, 
 
 As on destruction bent, 
 Till we who watch beside her know 
 
 Its force is well nigh spent, 
 
 And not enough of life is there 
 In that frail, wasted form, 
 
 That our united love and care, 
 To health could ever warm. 
 
 I cannot see it all quite clear, 
 
 But plainly I can trace 
 A coffin borne upon a bier, 
 
 To its last resting place. 
 
 I see a group of sorrowing friends, 
 
 Beside an open grave; 
 And hear the anthem which ascends 
 
 To Him Who being gave. 
 
 I see a man, sunburned and tanned, 
 
 A farmer he must be, 
 And children all about him stand, 
 
 And clamber on his knee. 
 
 A cradle standing just apart; 
 
 A mother sitting there, 
 Her face the mirror of her heart, 
 
 Though marked with lines of care. 
 
36 
 
 It is my childhood's home I see, 
 
 The dearest spot I know, 
 Where I played at my father's knee, 
 
 So many years ago. 
 
 I see his hair, then bonny brown, 
 
 With silver threaded now, 
 Parted and combed smoothly down 
 
 Across his broad, high brow; 
 
 The worn hands folded on his breast, 
 
 Where oft my head had lain. 
 Though I would not disturb his rest, 
 
 My tears I can't restrain. 
 
 I recognize the forms of those, 
 
 Though since long years have sped, 
 
 Who bore my father to repose, 
 Beside his children dead. 
 
 Again the mother's form I trace, 
 
 But see no cradle there; 
 Five grown-up children in its place, 
 
 Who her bereavement share. 
 
 And then come scenes of active life, 
 
 With pleasure and vexation. 
 I never have known much of strife, 
 
 Nor aided its creation. 
 
 I see a homestead warm and bright, 
 Where mirthfulness did center, 
 
 And all who chose were welcome quite 
 To lift the latch and enter. 
 
 And many a guest who entered there, 
 
 With pleasure still recalls 
 The welcome warm and generous fare 
 
 All found within its walls. 
 
 I see a white-robed clergyman, 
 
 A couple standing nigh, 
 And hear the vows which make them one, 
 
 And hear the mother sigh. 
 
37 
 
 The happy bride to-morrow goes 
 
 To far Pacific's shore, 
 And all too well the mother knows 
 
 She will not see her more. 
 
 I see a train come rushing on 
 To where their baggage stands; 
 
 Hear the conductor's "All aboard," 
 And clasp their outstretched hands. 
 
 And here the vision disappears, 
 
 I see them not again, 
 Though from my eyes I dry the tears, 
 
 My failing vision strain. 
 
 So many and such varied scenes 
 Come thronging from the past, 
 
 But only those my poem gleans 
 Which do not change too fast. 
 
 You still may find the old homestead 
 
 Much as it was of yore; 
 The winding path which to it led, 
 
 With shade trees nodding o'er. 
 
 Within the balm of Gilead's shade 
 
 You'll find a seat the same, 
 Perhaps the one, when with some maid, 
 
 On which you carved your name. 
 
 The barn, the well, and orchard too, 
 
 The pasture just beyond, 
 The meadow, where the May-pinks grew, 
 
 Betwixt the road and pond. 
 
 Of all you knew in that homestead, 
 
 But two will greet you there, 
 For some are dead, and some are wed 
 
 And gone to live elsewhere. 
 
 Where mother used with pride to see 
 
 Her grown-up children gay, 
 She watches now complacently 
 
 Her great grandchildren play. 
 
38 
 
 And brother Will, grown somewhat slim, 
 
 His hair a silvery hue; 
 You'll recognize at once in him, 
 
 The genial host you knew. 
 
 I would not, if I could, exclude 
 These spectres from my room; 
 
 They do not in the least intrude, 
 But oft dispel my gloom. 
 
 The past, though shadowed oft by grief, 
 
 Has brighter to me been 
 Than seems the future, through belief, 
 
 O'ercast bv doubt and sin. 
 
 DEATH'S ANGEL CALLED YOU HOME. 
 
 Dear mother, when I knew that you must die 
 I wept, but not for grief, for why should I? 
 For many years you had desired to go, 
 But God in wisdom had not ordered so; 
 Your work on earth till then was incomplete, 
 He had some errand for your willing feet, 
 And rest deferred is ever doubly sweet. 
 Your life was long and spent in usefulness, 
 Who knew you best, remembers but to bless, 
 And when Death's angel summoned you away 
 I could not wish to have you longer stay. 
 
 I wept, that I had caused you needless pain 
 
 By oft resenting when you did restrain; 
 
 From childhood's years to years of womanhood, 
 
 Few heed a mother's counsel as they should. 
 
 And oft I strayed from duty's simple way 
 
 With willing feet, I fear, for sake of play. 
 
 To watch the swallows build beneath the eaves 
 
 Their nests of clay, inwrought with straw and leaves; 
 
 To watch the buds expand in blossoms fair, 
 
 Inhaling draughts of perfume-laden air; 
 
 And see the herd go winding o'er the lea, 
 
39 
 
 And crop the tender grass so greedily, 
 
 And slake their thirst beside the babbling stream 
 
 Where buttercups and dandelions gleam — 
 
 All these, and more, were sources of delight, 
 
 Of which I never tired from morn till night. 
 
 I always loved dear Nature, for her charms, 
 
 She seemed to welcome me with outstretched arms. 
 
 I loved upon earth's fragrant lap to lie, 
 
 And dream day dreams, and watch the clouds float by, 
 
 Or view the lovely landscape to be seen, 
 
 Where undulating fields and forests green 
 
 Successively above each other rise, 
 
 Till they appear to reach the very skies; 
 
 And nestled mid the various shades of green 
 
 Are homes, from cots to stately dwellings, seen. 
 
 The peaceful quiet of a scene like this 
 
 Has charms for me I never can express, 
 
 It's simply rapture, nothing more or less. 
 
 Though oft you chided me, you oft forgave 
 
 And let me con the lessons Nature gave; 
 
 Forgive me now, as you forgave me then, 
 
 This time for playing truant with my pen. 
 
 'T were less than human, not to mourn for you, 
 My best of earthly friends, so fond and true, 
 Our twofold being lets us thus lament, 
 That which our spirit gives, its glad consent. 
 I miss you, mother, none may fill your place, 
 Nor lapse of time your memory efface; 
 I miss your well-known steps upon the walk, 
 The flowers you used to bring, your cheerful talk 
 Which bade me hope, and drive away despair, 
 Which makes affliction, doubly hard to bear, 
 The helping hand you lent me in time of need; 
 I miss you, mother, very much indeed. 
 
4 o 
 
 LINES ON RECEIVING A FLOWER FROM MRS. 
 
 EMMA SWART-TILLOTSON'S GRAVE 
 
 IN OAKLAND, CAL. 
 
 Only some leaves and a rosebud, 
 
 Not withered, but pressed as you see; - 
 
 Friendship's hand gathered the relic 
 And sent in a letter to me. 
 
 It grew in a clime unlike ours, 
 
 Where earth wears no mantle of snow, 
 
 And summer birds leave not the bowers, 
 In winter to milder climes go. 
 
 Where murmuring streams are not bound 
 
 By fetters of ice, cold and glare, 
 Ere spring clothes with verdure the ground 
 
 And boughs which the autumn laid bare. 
 
 By breezes of ocean, is fanned 
 
 The spot where this relic once grew; 
 
 A grave in a beautiful land, 
 
 A grave that I never may view. 
 
 This tangible relic I hold, 
 
 Whose beauty and fragrance are fled, 
 
 In fancy, still seems to unfold 
 A link twixt the living and dead. 
 
 It's something to look at and keep, 
 Which near to her ashes once grew, 
 
 Don't marvel that o'er it I weep, 
 An object so trifling to view. 
 
 In fancy I visit the spot 
 
 Where all that was mortal was lain, 
 
 Of a sister I have not forgot, 
 
 And hope to meet sometime again. 
 
 She rests in the clime of her choice, 
 
 Where storms do not rage fierce and loud; 
 
 There Nature speaks not in the voice 
 We hear in the dark thunder cloud. 
 
4i 
 
 Where tropical flowers bloom and wave, 
 
 Their odor perfuming the air; 
 And music, sweet, joyful and grave, 
 
 Is heard from the birds everywhere. 
 
 When living she often expressed 
 
 A wish that when dead, she might lie 
 
 Where snows could not drift o'er her breast; 
 And voices of ocean near by. 
 
 If spirits re-visit the earth, 
 
 And know where their bodies are lain, 
 Hers joys that the place of her birth 
 
 Does not claim her ashes again. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF EMMA CARPENTER. 
 
 At rest, beloved by all who ever knew 
 
 Her virtues many and her failings few; 
 
 The home she brightened once knows her no more, 
 
 She sleeps the sleep of death, her sufferings o'er. 
 
 When on her sweet wan face we kisses pressed, 
 And laid our loved one in the grave at rest, 
 Sad were our hearts indeed, fast flowed our tears, 
 For in that grave lay withered hopes of years. 
 
 Hopes cherished since a babe she lay at rest 
 And drew life's nectar from her mother's breast, 
 And, for each fond caress, returned a smile 
 Which knit their hearts the closer all the while. 
 
 Since first her lisping tongue the word could frame, 
 She called her father by that sacred name; 
 Into his ears she told each childish grief, 
 And in his sympathy she found relief. 
 
 We watched her grow from child- to woman-hood, 
 And knew that she was gentle, pure and good, 
 And would have given years of life to save 
 From what to us seemed an untimely grave. 
 
4 2 
 
 If it is true death loves a shining mark, 
 When his keen shaft put out the vital spark 
 He might have reveled o'er the union wrought, 
 So full of promise was the mark he sought. 
 
 Not in the first sad hours of human grief, 
 
 The o'er charged heart can find the sweet relief 
 
 In promise of God, however plain, 
 
 That we may meet with our loved ones again. 
 
 When the anointing oil of time has dressed 
 The wounds made by bereavement in the breast, 
 When true religion will complete the cure 
 And make our hearts the stronger to endure. 
 
 It teaches us, by faith and works, that we 
 May fit ourselves to dwell eternally — 
 In the blessed realm of God Whom we adore, 
 And hope to meet our loved ones, gone before. 
 
 It was but human to deplore our loss, 
 
 Which with her gain compared had seemed but dross; 
 
 Long life may many blessings have in store, 
 
 But paradise has infinitely more. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF SOPHIA BISHOP. 
 
 I knew Sophia when a girl, 
 
 A bonny, merry lass was she, 
 
 As happy as a girl could be. 
 
 About her forehead high and fair 
 
 There clustered locks of soft brown hair; 
 
 Arched brows, the bluest eyes above, 
 
 Brain full of mirth and truth and love; 
 
 Her lips seemed fashioned to impart 
 
 Each impulse of her loving heart; 
 
 All thought of guile she seemed above, 
 
 To know Sophia was to love. 
 
 She grew in stature, mind and grace, 
 
 Her virtues with her growth kept pace 
 
43 
 
 Till she attained to maidenhood; 
 
 But few there are so fair and good. 
 
 Her father's pride, her mother's joy, 
 
 Her brothers love knew no alloy; 
 
 But only lent a while was she, 
 
 For ere she reached maturity 
 
 She drooped and faded like a flower. 
 
 Though friends did all within their power 
 
 To stay the progress of disease, 
 
 And to divert her mind and please, 
 
 She faded slowly day by day 
 
 Till peacefully she passed away, 
 
 We laid her in the grave at rest, 
 
 With floral offerings on her breast; 
 
 But of those blossoms fair to see, 
 
 There was not one as fair as she. 
 
 The grave that holds her ashes dear 
 
 Is often moistened with a tear; 
 
 Her memory is ever green 
 
 In hearts that time can never wean. 
 
 Some of earth's rarest, choicest flowers 
 
 Survive their birth but a few hours; 
 
 But, once inhaled, their sweet perfume 
 
 In memory long survives their bloom 
 
 And, o'er and o'er by fancy's aid, 
 
 Still seems their odor to pervade 
 
 And float upon the summer air, 
 
 Like incense at the hour of prayer. 
 
 And thus seemed she a human flower 
 
 Whose innate sweetness had the power 
 
 To long survive its mortal part, 
 
 And live a lifetime in the heart. 
 
44 
 
 LITTLE DALE. 
 
 I use to see a well-known form, 
 
 A well-known voice to hear; 
 It mattered not if cold or warm 
 
 The weather, bright or drear. 
 For little Dale was sure to play 
 
 With kite or cart or sled, 
 Or, with his playmates, march away 
 
 As drummer, at their head. 
 In spring he use the fields to rove, 
 
 Free as a bird or bee, 
 And gather wild flowers in the grove, 
 
 Which oft he shared with me. 
 And when the pansies were in bloom, 
 
 Dear Dale and Loomis brought 
 Boquets whose fragrance filled the room— 
 
 And resignation taught. 
 Those fragrant flowers were no less sweet 
 
 Though early doomed to death; 
 Then why not we have patience meet 
 
 Who feel affliction's breath? 
 Unconscious of the good they wrought, 
 
 Too young to think were they; 
 Their presence and the flowers they brought 
 
 Oft brightened all the day. 
 Spring will come and bring fresh flowers; 
 
 But Dale will come no more, 
 For, to a fairer land than ours, 
 
 His soul has gone before. 
 I know not why it thus should be, 
 
 But know that God is just; 
 He never grieves us willingly, 
 
 And only when He must. 
 Where what was mortal of him lies, 
 
 Plant flowers — sweet flowers — each spring, 
 And let their fragrance heavenward rise 
 
 As memory's offering. 
 
45 
 
 WE MISS THEE. 
 
 Written for The Sun. 
 
 We miss thee, dear Belle, O! we miss thee, 
 
 And words are inadequate quite 
 To tell of our longings to see thee, 
 
 Which come in the stillness of night. 
 
 To hold once again our heart's treasure, 
 
 Which Death, cruel Death, snatched away, 
 
 Is something, if granted to mortals, 
 For which we'd most earnestly pray. 
 
 We list for the patter of footsteps 
 
 Which on earth we shall never more hear, 
 
 And turn from the solacing Scripture, 
 Too oft with a sigh and a tear. 
 
 Though hope to regain our lost treasure 
 
 But strengthens in it our belief, 
 Humanity oft bears us witness 
 
 That Time's the best soother of grief. 
 
 Dear Belle, we believed when we laid thee 
 At rest in the snow-mantled earth, 
 
 There were Angels in Heaven rejoicing, 
 Because of your spirit's new birth. 
 
 But it calmed not the heart of a mother, 
 
 Nor lessen'd one atom its pain; 
 All wrecked were her plans for the future, 
 
 And could not be builded again. 
 
 O, yes, there are moments of sorrow 
 
 When the heart gives no heed to the brain, 
 And our loved ones seem lost in that heaven, 
 
 To which we never attain. 
 If our love for thee savored of worship, 
 
 Which only belongeth to God — 
 May He in His infinite goodness 
 
 Help us to "pass under the rod." 
 I've gathered your playthings together 
 
 In a place that is sacred to them; 
 
46 
 
 No Monarch were able to purchase 
 
 If each tear o'er them shed were a gem. 
 
 We look to Old Time in his cycles 
 To lessen our sorrow of heart, 
 
 But not while we've being and reason 
 Would we with thy memory part. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF CLIFFORD B. VAN ALSTYNE. 
 
 In him was promise of a noble man, 
 
 Had he remained to carry out life's plan. 
 
 By nature frank and earnest, deep and true, 
 He won at once the love of all who knew. 
 
 His life, though short, to usefulness was spent, 
 He had no time for sloth or discontent. 
 
 High aspirations fired his youthful mind, 
 The keynote of success, as all may find. 
 
 When sickness came he bore it patiently; 
 
 When maimed, he was resigned it thus should be. 
 No vain regrets, for what health would have brought, 
 
 E'er found expression — if he gave them thought. 
 
 And when, at length, declining strength revealed 
 To him the truth, by loving friends concealed, 
 
 He did not shudder at death's cold embrace, 
 But met it bravely, with a smiling face. 
 
 When death parts us from friends advanced in years, 
 Regrets oft mingle with our grief and tears; 
 
 But those who go from us as Clifford went 
 Leave naught except their absence to lament. 
 
 Grieve not, fond parents, o'er your son at rest 
 
 E'er scarce his feet life's rugged path had pressed; 
 
 Though earth is fair and life is dear to all, 
 
 They are spared much, whom God doth early call. 
 
47 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF STEPHEN LITTLEFIELD. 
 
 No more a voyager on life's stream; 
 
 His barque is moored for aye, 
 Not where youth's danger beacons gleam, 
 
 But oceanward away. 
 He made no shipwreck of his life, 
 
 As many mortals do, 
 And shunned all needless petty strife, 
 
 Was modest, firm and true. 
 
 His brain a powerful factor was 
 
 That could have ruled a realm; 
 His heart was true to Nature's laws, 
 
 And ever at the helm. 
 Who knew him best and loved him most 
 
 His memory will revere; 
 And many of that goodly host 
 
 Were once his pupils dear. 
 
 We laid his lifeless form at rest 
 
 And shed a tear the while, 
 The dear hands folded on his breast 
 
 That was so free from guile; 
 And prayed, who shared his lot for years 
 
 And loved him for his worth, 
 Might see, through sorrow's blinding tears, 
 
 Of sympathy, no dearth. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF LUTHER WITT. 
 
 Death sent not his heralds, gaunt sickness and pain, 
 But he came unannounced, and came not in vain, 
 To one whom Dame Nature had richly endowed 
 With a splendid physique and intellect proud, 
 And left to develop for eighty-three years 
 The many prime virtues he had, it appears. 
 
 In rugged New Hampshire to manhood he grew, 
 And seemed to partake of her ruggedness too; 
 But inherent graces had polished the man, 
 
4 8 
 
 As her native granite skilled artisans can, 
 
 And made him so cordial, so frank and urbane, 
 
 That those who once met him would wish to again. 
 
 He came to Wisconsin a young pioneer, 
 
 And with him a loved wife and three children dear, 
 
 Resolved that the primeval forests should yield 
 
 In turn for his labor the fruits of the field; 
 
 And day after day with his axe he awoke 
 
 New music, where echoed each swift measured stroke. 
 
 None but real farm pioneers ever know 
 
 The labor required for the first crops they grow, 
 
 The relish such labor gives log cabin fare, 
 
 When hands of a loving wife deftly prepare. 
 
 Through toil and privation, his courage sustained, 
 
 He wrought for a living and affluence gained. 
 
 Then wisely resolved to relinquish farm toil, 
 
 Content to let younger men culture the soil, 
 
 He tried to enjoy in a rational way 
 
 In the evening of life the fruits of its day; 
 
 But his vigorous mind was still active then, 
 
 As plainly attested the fruits of his pen. 
 
 He finished life's chapter, e'en to its last page 
 
 Exempt from the sufferings of feeble old age. 
 
 Though mourned by his family and neighbors and friends, 
 
 All feel it a blessing when old age thus ends. 
 
 'Tis sweet to remember, even to his last day 
 
 He was cheerful and happy, and thus passed away. 
 
 With prayer in our hearts for his spirit that's fled, 
 
 We laid him at rest in the place of the dead. 
 
 Each year thins the ranks of those brave pioneers, 
 
 The few still remaining are hoary with years. 
 
 They all will have gone to that better land soon, 
 
 And left to posterity a priceless boon. 
 
 Fields, orchards and vineyards now gladden the place 
 
 Where warriors did battle and hunters gave chase, 
 
 And changed are the sites where those brave men repose. 
 
 Where flourished the oak bloom the lily and rose, 
 
 And aid by their beauty and odor and grace 
 
 In making less lonely their last resting place. 
 
49 
 
 IN MEMORY OF H. D. RICE. 
 
 (Died Jan. 23, 1901.) 
 
 Gone from all pain and sorrow! 
 
 Gone from this world of care! 
 From hopes and fears for to-morrow 
 
 To Heavenly mansions fair. 
 
 A vacant seat by the fireside, 
 An aching void in our hearts, 
 
 A loneliness at eventide, 
 
 The shadow of death imparts, 
 
 Remind us of our loved one, 
 
 Whose mission on earth is done, 
 
 Waiting beyond the river 
 To welcome us one by one. 
 
 LINES ON VISITING A FRIENDS GRAVE. 
 
 I knelt beside a new-made grave, 
 
 And moistened with my tears 
 The clods which hid a much-loved form 
 
 I had not seen for years. 
 
 And surging o'er my memory came, 
 
 Fast as those falling tears, 
 Each word and look and confidence 
 
 Exchanged in girlhood's years. 
 
 Till, in the witching guise of love, 
 
 Unhallowed passion came, 
 It would defame all sacred love 
 
 To call it by that name. 
 
 It robbed her of a spotless name, 
 
 And me, a bosom friend — 
 Made her remaining life a wreck 
 
 To its untimely end. 
 
 And how, when she had suffered much, 
 Beyond human ken, no doubt, 
 
50 
 
 God, in His infinite goodness, 
 Let reason's lamp burn out. 
 
 While kneeling there beside her grave, 
 
 I fear I did forget 
 And, with my finite wisdom, 
 
 Arraign God's infinite. 
 
 When, to my rebellious spirit, 
 A spirit seemed to call, 
 
 'Without God's knowledge,' Christ once said, 
 'A sparrow shall not fall.' 
 
 "Doubt not but they who wronged her 
 
 Will meet a just reward; 
 Remember too that vengeance 
 
 Belongeth to the Lord." 
 
 As my spirit to it listened, 
 
 Peace came o'er me as a spell, 
 And I left her grave repeating, 
 
 "He doeth all things well." 
 
 PARTING WITH A FRIEND. 
 
 "Will you accept this little token 
 I wish to give to you," she said. 
 Her voice was calm and steady, 
 But her cheeks were a hectic red. 
 With fingers almost transparent 
 She smoothed the gift the while, 
 And her lips so wan but patient 
 Wore their accustomed smile. 
 
 "It's of small intrinsic value, 
 I begun it for mother," she said, 
 "But ere it was finished," she faltered- 
 I added, "Your mother was dead." 
 The eyes which thanked me for saying 
 What her lips refused to say, 
 Had a look worn only by mortals 
 When Heaven seems not far awav. 
 
5i 
 
 I strove to thank her calmly, 
 
 For emotion seemed out of place 
 
 Beside the sweet submission 
 
 Mirrored forth in that sweet young face; 
 
 And hurried from her presence 
 
 To conceal a falling tear, 
 
 And fancied one might almost see 
 
 Death's Angel hovering near. 
 
 Once more I stood beside my friend, 
 
 Nor checked the rising tear, 
 
 For her spirit had gone to God Who gave, 
 
 And left but the casket here; 
 
 And, as I looked on her wasted form, 
 
 And the mortal within me wept, 
 
 In spirit I fervently thanked the Lord 
 
 That she from her sufferings slept. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. H. GILMAN. 
 
 Cold are the lips that first pressed yours in fond maternal 
 
 love, 
 And quiet lie the folded hands the pulseless heart above; 
 Forever hushed on earth the voice that sang you lullabies, 
 And closed the veinless, waxlike lids upon the sightless eyes. 
 
 You'll miss her dear, familiar face and offices of love, 
 The loving counsel that she gave all other things above. 
 And yet you should not grieve for her nor wish her back 
 
 again; 
 Her spirit is with God Who gave her body freed from pain. 
 
 How sweet must be the rest called death, to those advanced 
 
 in years, 
 And they who love them best while here should shed for 
 
 them few tears. 
 We do not weep o'er garnered fruits nor sheaves of golden 
 
 grain, 
 Nor should we when, in God's good time, He garners His 
 
 again. 
 
52 
 
 For like so many silken strands, each earthly tie that's riven 
 Unites with those already there to draw us nearer heaven. 
 May you, the husband of her choice, and children of her care, 
 So live that, at the final day, you'll meet your loved one 
 there. 
 
 LINES ON LORD BYRON'S PICTURE. 
 
 Written for the Donor. 
 
 Oh, head of wondrous beauty, fit temple for that mind 
 Whose God-like genius ever in hearts will be enshrin'd; 
 And ever gain new luster, as prejudice grows less, 
 Till writers of all nations his many wrongs redress, 
 And give to him the laurels which he so fairly won, 
 The Prince of modern poets, so fair to look upon. 
 
 For when had we a poet whose years did not excel, 
 So versed in human nature, or Nature knew so well? 
 From the rosy infant sleeping upon its mother's breast, 
 To life's worn, weary pilgrim who in the grave seeks rest: 
 Each stage of man's existence describ'd he with his pen. 
 As man reads a printed page, read he the acts of men. 
 
 Conceiv'd a love all spotless, and Azo's sinful lust 
 Which robb'd his own-begotten son, son of Bianca's trust, 
 Of the maid'n who so lov'd him, although his father's bride, 
 When dreaming of her lover, her sleeping lord beside, 
 Reveal'd the fatal secret, which cost that son his life, 
 And doom'd to some still unknown fate that fair but faithless 
 wife. 
 
 And who that reads the answer which Hugo made his sire 
 
 Denies the inspiration the poet's soul did fire? ' 
 
 How painted he the pallor of Parisina's cheek, 
 
 Her woe, which found expression in one long piercing shriek? 
 
 From a spirit e'en so Christ-like its enemies it blest, 
 
 To the Giavone's revengeful hate which demon-like 
 
 possess'd, 
 He understood all feelings that are native to the heart, 
 Which knowledge to his writings did vividness impart. 
 
53 
 
 From a streamlet e'en so scant a pebble turns its course, 
 To a broad majestic river, borne onward by its force; 
 From Ocean's calmest mood, when she murmurs soft and 
 
 low, 
 Until by storms arous'd to a fury none may know; 
 From verdant slopes of hills, where vales environed lie, 
 To lofty mountain peaks which seem to pierce the sky; 
 
 From sunny eastern isles by ocean waves caressed, 
 
 To the desert's trackless waste no human foot has press'd; 
 
 From glowing tropic climes where choicest plants do grow, 
 
 To shrubless polar regions of constant ice and snow; 
 
 All seem'd to him familiar, through the genius he possess'd, 
 
 Which when once aroused seldom slumber'd or took rest. 
 
 With equal ease he pictured the warbling of a thrush, 
 Or Nature's warring elements, which hold the heart in hush, 
 The softest notes of music that human skill e'er woke, 
 Or the shrillest call to arms, a country's peace e'er broke, 
 Fair scenes of peace and plenty, whereon to feast the eye, 
 Or sick'ning sights of war where men struggle, bleed and die. 
 No scene for him too humble, no theme for him too grand, 
 A torrent of fit language was ever at command. 
 
 Oh, head of wondrous beauty, fit temple for that mind, 
 Whose God-like genius ever in hearts will be enshrin'd. 
 For Greece, his much loved Greece, that land of ancient 
 
 fame 
 Is proud to rear a statue in honor of his name. 
 
 And could he now revisit those scenes he lov'd of yore, 
 Fair prospects there would greet him that Greece will live 
 
 once more. 
 And if in coming ages her glory be restor'd, 
 The poet's matchless verse which her ruin once deplor'd, 
 Will have an honor'd place in literature, I trust, 
 When the statue rear'd to him will have crumbl'd into dust. 
 
54 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 Our nation mourns her gallant sons who fought and bled 
 
 and died, 
 And strews their graves with flowers to-day, though scattered 
 
 far and wide. 
 Upon the perfume-laden air comes martial music sweet 
 And, marching to its measures slow, the sound of many feet. 
 
 In the throng are veterans gray, bowed by the weight of 
 
 years, 
 Who in their prime joined in the fray where mingled groans 
 
 and cheers. 
 Their country called them and they went, resolved to do 
 
 their best; 
 Nor grudged the sacrifice they made, to see the wrong 
 
 repressed. 
 A halting step, an empty sleeve, speaks of a bullet sped. 
 Not all that fought and bled for us are mingled with the dead. 
 Long may they live, the gallant few who still survive the war, 
 To deck the graves, memorial day, of comrades gone before. 
 
 The wives and mothers of those men deserve a passing 
 
 thought; 
 While their loved ones were in the field to keep their homes 
 
 they wrought 
 And prayed, as only those can pray whose hearts are wrung 
 
 with pain, 
 That God would shield them from all harm and bring them 
 
 home again. 
 The anxious days and sleepless nights, and news looked for 
 
 in vain, 
 Ploughed many furrows on their brows time did not smooth 
 
 again. 
 Then Nature's dearest, holiest ties were forced bv shot and 
 
 shell; 
 Their loved ones lie in unknown graves, were buried where 
 
 they fell. 
 As on the field of Waterloo, a ranker growth of grain 
 Marked where the deadliest carnage was, where thickest lay 
 
 the slain. 
 
55 
 
 O cruel war! O blessed peace! how great the contrast seems! 
 And each, in its reality, exceeds man's wildest dreams. 
 
 Our land is free from east to west, from north to south it's 
 
 free, 
 Respected by the world at large, and beautiful to see. 
 Long may our nation honor those who quelled our civil strife; 
 It matters not what part they bore, if soldier, maid or wife. 
 
 And there is One, a record keeps, Who at the last roll call 
 Shall come in glorious majesty, to judge the great and small. 
 There is no grave unknown to Him, on land or in the deep; 
 He died to save the humblest ones for whom to-day we weep. 
 
 A WELCOME. 
 
 Come out to Reunion and honor the brave 
 
 Who fought for their country, the Union to save; 
 
 And give them a welcome so hearty and true 
 
 That cravens will envy our veterans in blue. 
 
 We know they are worthy the best you can do; 
 
 Of those whom war spared there are left but a few, 
 
 For the angel of Death reviews them each year 
 
 And drafts his full quota: but few volunteer 
 
 To join the vast hosts that so silently wait 
 
 Till God's trump shall summon to list to their fate. 
 
 Some forms, once erect, we notice are bowed, 
 
 Their movements less active, their bearing less proud, 
 
 And many a head which was bonny and brown, 
 
 To-day silvery locks adorn like a crown; 
 
 But their hearts are as warm, to the country as true 
 
 As when they first beat under jackets of blue. 
 
 They are met to recount their adventures once more. 
 
 And clasp hands again with their comrades in war, 
 
 For soldiers, like sailors, are jolly good men 
 
 Who ne'er borrow trouble, but willing to lend 
 
 To other poor mortals who seem to want more 
 
 In lieu of the blessings which life has in store. 
 
 They tell tales of camp life and jokes by the score, 
 
56 
 
 Till mirthfulness reaches the point it flows o'er 
 
 In laughter that echoes from basement to roof; 
 
 Don't doubt it, for buttonless waistbands are proof. 
 
 They tell of adventures, so daring and bold 
 
 That our pulses will thrill e'en now when they're told: 
 
 When sent as a scout to the enemy's van, 
 
 How all unawares on a picket they ran; 
 
 On hands and knees creeping, in darkness profound, 
 
 So carefully noting the lay of the ground, 
 
 Outflanking a picket wherever they could, 
 
 And hiding at times in some tangled brushwood; 
 
 Making a detour by woodland and plain, 
 
 Gaining the knowledge they were sent out to gain, 
 
 With scratches and bruises and hunger profound, 
 
 They reached their own camp-fire to rest — on the ground. 
 
 Of the long dreary days in prison they spent, 
 
 Hoping each day, a release would be sent; 
 
 Till hope, like their rations, grew less day by day, 
 
 And release by starvation seemed not far away. 
 
 The scenes which our veterans are oft loth to tell 
 
 Are those of fierce battles where brave soldiers fell, 
 
 Swath upon swath, mown by cannon and gun, 
 
 And their ranks disappeared like dew in the sun. 
 
 We would not awaken such memories to-day; 
 
 Not long since, a tribute the dead we did pay: 
 
 And now to the living an offering is due; 
 
 A right joyful welcome we wish to give you. 
 
 With royal good cheer, and dainty nic-nac, 
 
 We wish to regale you, in place of hard-tack. 
 
 To those who are absent, a greeting we send, 
 
 With a wish God may prosper each one to life's end; 
 
 And when the grand reveille wakes us at last, 
 
 May the joy of reunion blot grief from the past. 
 
 OLD SANTA IS COMING. 
 
 Old Santa is coming, the jolly old chap, 
 He wears a fur coat, fur mittens, and cap, 
 And rides in a sleigh that is drawn by reindeer, 
 And chuckfull of presents, useful and queer. 
 
57 
 
 He visits the country, city and town, 
 
 There is no chimney he cannot get down; 
 
 He comes in the night when the fire has burned low, 
 
 And children asleep, my grandma says so. 
 
 I've watched for his coming, and thought it a shame 
 That while I was watching he never came; 
 I have listened in vain, and others as well, 
 For the stamp of a hoof or tinkle of bell. 
 
 As proof of his visit, at daybreak I spy 
 My stockings well filled, on a chair hanging nigh, 
 And a heap of nice things which would not go in, 
 All neatly arranged, and attached with a pin. 
 
 It puzzles me most how Santa can know 
 Just what kind of gift on each one to bestow; 
 Perhaps he's in league with grandma, or ma, 
 An older sister, or maybe with pa. 
 
 I'll puzzle my brain o'er this problem no more, 
 No doubt it's as easy as twice two are four, 
 Nor if he gets in from beneath or above, 
 I know that he comes, on missions of love. 
 
 WELCOME TO THE PIONEERS. 
 
 Thrice welcome to this festal scene, 
 Ye early pioneers, 
 
 Whose sturdy forms are bowed with toil, 
 And heads are white with years. 
 
 To you we owe the change that's been 
 Within our country wrought, 
 Since first a home for you and yours 
 In her deep wilds you sought. 
 
 The time would fail, should I attempt 
 Your hardships to recount; 
 Enough of change is visible 
 To infer a great amount. 
 
58 
 
 Where now each year our orchard trees 
 With luscious fruit are laden, 
 The dusky brave, 'neath forest trees, 
 Was wont to woo his maiden, 
 
 To chase the deer, and trap the game, 
 Or dance 'round camp-fires bright — 
 Perhaps upon the very spot 
 Where we are dancing here to-night. 
 
 The swift canoe once glided on 
 Our streams, 'mid forest gloom, 
 Where now is heard the hum of mills 
 Or music of the loom. 
 
 In early days the tinkling bells 
 
 Told where the lone cow strayed; 
 
 But herds now graze in well-fenced fields, 
 
 With hardly trees for shade, 
 
 While factories, on either hand, 
 Are springing into sight; 
 They come — we scarce know how or when- 
 Like mushrooms in the night. 
 
 And cheese, a staple article, 
 We ship to foreign lands, 
 Besides the great amount required 
 To meet our home demand. 
 
 Our cities, towns and villages 
 Have grown to goodly size, 
 With privileges of Church and School, 
 Our people ought to prize. 
 
 The distant points that once were made 
 O'er doubtful Indian trail, 
 And getting lost a dozen times, 
 May now be made by rail. 
 
 And changes far too numerous 
 For me to mention here, 
 Are but results of skillful toil, 
 In less than two score vears. 
 
59 
 
 Again we bid you welcome, 
 Whose heads are white with years, 
 Fast journeying to that better land, 
 Where you'll not be pioneers. 
 
 To you is due the best of cheer 
 Our count) 7 can afford, 
 So get your own, or neighbor's spouse, 
 And gather 'round the board. 
 
 And while a social hour is spent 
 In partaking proffered food, 
 Be not ungrateful in your hearts, 
 To the "Giver of all good." 
 
 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY THE RECURRENCE 
 OF THE BIRTHDAY OF AMERICA'S FREEDOM. 
 
 About the brow of yonder hill, 
 
 I see a curling wreath of smoke, 
 And hear the first shot echoing still 
 
 Which the surrounding country woke. 
 
 At once we heed the martial call, 
 
 This birthday of our liberty, 
 And thank our God, who governs all, 
 
 Because our lovely land is free. 
 
 We cannot comprehend the word, 
 
 As those who suffer tyranny, 
 Or else like Tell we had been heard 
 
 To shout to Nature — "We are free." 
 
 Our grandsires and our great-grandsires, 
 Upon New England's rugged fields, 
 
 Ne'er dreamed beside their cabin fires 
 Of fruits their victory now yields. 
 
 From where Atlantic's restless waves 
 
 Beat on her shores with sullen sound, 
 To shores the broad Pacific laves, 
 No soil but freedom's can be found. 
 
6o 
 
 With naught to limit or restrict, 
 Our resources are just immense, 
 
 And none may venture to predict 
 What they will be a century hence. 
 
 Our ships of commerce plough the seas 
 To far-off lands and distant isles; 
 
 Our stars and stripes float on the breeze 
 In every port that's worth the while. 
 
 We feel to-day, a nation's heart 
 
 Beats quicker for the thought it's free. 
 
 And millions with us have a part 
 In this great day of jubilee. 
 
 With fervent hearts we offer prayers 
 For wisdom, patience, love and truth 
 
 For those who manage the affairs 
 Of this great nation, still in youth. 
 
 We greatly fear this human tide 
 From every land and every clime, 
 
 Which floods our wharves on every side, 
 Does greatly swell the lists of crime. 
 
 And still we welcome all who come, 
 Because our lovely land is free, 
 
 And seem not to regard that some 
 
 For crimes their own, are forced to flee. 
 
 How shall we leaven this vast mass — 
 With love of God, and man, and peace, 
 
 Till it at last will come to pass 
 
 That greed of gain and strife will cease? 
 
 How shall a nation punish crime, 
 Whose officers are the prime cause? 
 
 Shall she supinely bide her time 
 
 And leave them to enforce her laws? 
 
 I did not mean to say these things; 
 
 But thoughts come thronging on me fast, 
 Like spectres on prophetic wings, 
 
 And have found utterance at last. 
 
6i 
 
 The love of freedom wakes the thought 
 
 In every true American, 
 That we're not guarding as we ought 
 
 The freedom our ancestors won. 
 
 THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT CONDITION OF 
 THE TIMES. 
 
 Among our national topics to-day 
 
 Is the cause of the present hard times, 
 
 A topic on which I have something to say, 
 Pray don't take offense at my rhymes. 
 
 Some say it is tariff, and others free trade, 
 
 Cheap labor and over produce; 
 And some say, the party in office has made 
 
 Of itself something worse than a goose. 
 
 They say monopoly is a bad thing, 
 
 It don't give the poor man a show. 
 He never can hope to get in the ring, 
 
 And the wealthy, still wealthier grow. 
 
 They say to labor ten hours for a day 
 
 Makes a man a mere slave and a tool, 
 But want no reduction at all in his pay, 
 
 A mean way of taking it cool. 
 
 Labor and capital do not agree, 
 
 And each think the other is wrong; 
 It is a pity, they cannot both see, 
 
 Together they only are strong. 
 
 We have resources which none may enjoy, 
 
 Because of this terrible feud. 
 While capital fears its means to employ, 
 
 Labor must starve and go nude. 
 
 The poor spend their earnings in ways they ought not, 
 
 And foolishly clamour for more; 
 The rainy days coming are often forgot, 
 
 Till want has stalked in at the door. 
 
62 
 
 And anarchy stalks abroad through the land, 
 
 Demanding in insolent tone 
 A share of the wealth which thrift has in hand, 
 
 As if it were justly its own. 
 
 We boast of our beautiful country, and may, 
 
 The form of our government laud; 
 But say naught of millions on millions we pay 
 
 Because of our government's fraud. 
 
 What, in a tramp, we would punish as theft, 
 
 In statesmen we simply call fraud; 
 Law of all conscience has long been bereft, 
 
 And justice is silenced and awed. 
 
 We license saloons to furnish us tramps, 
 From the youths of our land, by the score, 
 
 Then use of that fund in caring for scamps — 
 Was the like ever heard of before? 
 
 We are publishing tons of literature vile, 
 
 The public may read if it will, 
 And paying for puns of a similar style, 
 
 Our newspaper columns to fill. 
 
 In churches which cost a fortune to build, 
 
 They pray God to succor the poor, 
 Who from their wardrobe could spare, if they willed, 
 
 To make what they pray for secure. 
 
 There are organizations all over the land — 
 
 Intended to make people good, 
 Which on their time and their purse make demand 
 
 They should not yield to if they could. 
 
 The church teaches all the good we can learn, 
 
 Her lessons are simple and true; 
 Then give of your plenty a tithe, in return 
 
 For all Christ has suffered for you. 
 
 Our capital city, so lovely to view, 
 
 With all of its culture and style, 
 Might be a vast Sodom, except for a few, 
 
 God may spare it yet for awhile. 
 
63 
 
 The fabulous sum that soon will be spent 
 
 To view her inaugural show, 
 And much more besides, might better be sent 
 
 To those who are suffering so. 
 
 Lest people should think me a terrible crank, 
 And the Herald be lacking space, 
 
 The rest of my thoughts must remain a blank, 
 While the evils go on apace. 
 
 WOMAN'S RIGHTS. 
 
 "Do you believe in woman's rights?" 
 
 Was said to me to-day, 
 And when I answered, "Yes indeed," 
 
 Was questioned in this way: 
 
 "Do you think women competent 
 
 To take the place of men, 
 And rule this great Republic 
 
 As well as it has been? 
 
 "Would you have women at the polls, 
 
 Amid half-drunken men 
 Who would not show the least respect 
 
 For woman's rights, women? 
 
 "Who would take the household cares, 
 
 Or rock the cradles, pray, 
 If women were allowed to vote 
 
 And office hold, I say? 
 
 "The country will be ruined quite 
 
 If e'er the day does come 
 That women hold the offices, 
 
 And men are left at home." 
 
 Stop, stop, my friend, not quite so fast, 
 
 I here must interpose. 
 There's no true woman in the land 
 
 Who wants such rights as those. 
 
64 
 
 But since you've cast the gauntlet down, 
 
 Pray think it not unfair, 
 If I assert of competence, 
 
 That women have their share. 
 
 If honesty and truthfulness, 
 
 And love of right profound, 
 Are traits which make good statesmen, 
 
 Some women might be found 
 
 To fill the seats made vacant 
 Each year by theft and crime, 
 
 And we might pay our public debt 
 At least in half the time. 
 
 Half-drunken men go to their homes 
 When they have left the polls, 
 
 Once there, no shame lest others see, 
 Their brutalness controls. 
 
 About the household cares, my friend, 
 
 You need not have a fear; 
 All women are not married, 
 
 That fact is very clear. 
 
 If it were theirs to honors win, 
 
 Which now they but reflect, 
 There'd be a lot of stanch old maids. 
 
 Girls, am I not correct? 
 
 Besides, all who rock cradles 
 Don't rock them all their lives; 
 
 And there are scores of widows 
 Whom poverty makes wives. 
 
 All these might well fill offices, 
 
 Men's lavishness restrict, 
 And thus avert the ruin 
 
 Which unwisely you predict. 
 
 Why men would not have women vote 
 
 To my mind is quite clear, 
 They'd have less chance for Salary Grabs 
 
 And Credit Mobilier. 
 
65 
 
 As I have said, they do not want 
 Those rights you so much prize, 
 
 Less indolence and greed of gain 
 Should them demoralize. 
 
 But there are rights they fain would have, 
 Which men could well accede, 
 
 And if you listen to it now, 
 I'll say you woman's Creed. 
 
 First, she believes that the Lord knew best 
 
 Who formed her a help-meet, 
 And therefore she would not aspire 
 
 To fill earth's highest seat. 
 
 She knows He said that man should rule; 
 
 His right she does respect, 
 But wants him, too, to do his part, 
 
 Love, cherish and protect. 
 
 She wants a pure, unselfish love, 
 
 No prettier face may sway, 
 And not that spurious article 
 
 So much in vogue to-day. 
 
 She does believe that cherish means 
 
 To take the tend'rest care; 
 All harsh words and actions too, 
 
 That man her sex should spare. 
 
 Protection means a freedom from 
 
 The sterner cares of life; 
 Getting of the livelihood 
 
 Should ne'er concern the wife. 
 
 Enough there are of household cares 
 
 To wrack her tender brain, 
 Without minute details 
 
 Of business loss or gain. 
 
 She has a right when fashions change 
 
 To get a new style bonnet, 
 And man's presumptuous if he dares 
 
 To sit in judgment on it. 
 
66 
 
 A right to spend a trifling sum 
 For ribbons, gloves and laces, 
 
 Without being told she's quite outside 
 The matrimonial traces. 
 
 She has a right to order bills 
 From groceryman and baker 
 
 Without man looking as tho' he'd seen 
 A ghost or undertaker. 
 
 She has a right to man's escort 
 
 Whenever he is able, 
 And suitable attention claim 
 
 From him when they're at table. 
 
 A right to at least a part 
 
 Of his evenings when at leisure; 
 
 To spend them thus he once esteemed 
 The height of earthly pleasure. 
 
 A right when man's involved in aught 
 That will cause her shame or sorrow, 
 
 To be informed by him at once, 
 And not by friends to-morrow. 
 
 For rights like these a woman gives 
 Respect and love unbounded, 
 
 And man raay rule like Prince at home 
 With loyal ones surrounded. 
 
 When woman fails to reverence man 
 
 The trouble oft lies here: 
 She does not recognize the man 
 
 Through fumes of smoke and beer. 
 
 Then blame her not if she can't see 
 
 Her superior in the man 
 Who hath God's image quite effaced 
 
 By his own ruthless hand. 
 
6 7 
 
 ADVICE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 My dear young friend, with your request 
 That I would write something for you, 
 
 You did not name what you'd like best; 
 Perhaps some good advice will do. 
 
 Your college days will soon be past, 
 
 Those quiet, uneventful days, 
 Whose memories will a life-time last, 
 
 And be a source of joy always. 
 
 The friendships which you formed while there 
 Will strengthen with the lapse of years, 
 
 For nearer draw the hearts which share 
 In common all their joys and fears. 
 
 When free from all restraint at last, 
 
 Don't fancy life henceforth more fair, 
 
 To find, ere many months have passed, 
 
 You've only changed restraint for care. 
 
 You'll find that worldly pleasures pale 
 Ere half your purpose is obtained; 
 
 The reason why so oft they fail 
 
 To satisfy when they are gained. 
 
 Though duty's path may roughest seem, 
 You'll find it smoothest in the end, 
 
 And will not forfeit self-esteem, 
 
 Nor blush to meet an injured friend. 
 
 Be sure the calling you'll pursue 
 
 Engages both your mind and heart, 
 
 And pray that grace be given you 
 
 All needful knowledge to impart. 
 
 Books teach by precept, line on line, 
 
 Example teaches silently; 
 If all the authors could combine 
 
 They could not teach so rapidly. 
 
 Since in God's image you were made, 
 Be prayerful lest you should defile; 
 
68 
 
 Let all your acts be chaste and staid, 
 
 And let your heart be free from guile. 
 
 The spark of genius you betray, 
 
 If rightly fed may prove a flame. 
 
 Improve your talent as you may, 
 
 And look for progress, not for fame. 
 
 There are but few who reach that height, 
 Though many do aspire to climb, 
 
 Who, unsuccessful in their flight, 
 
 Content themselves with making rhyme. 
 
 If of that number you should be, 
 
 In it more pleasure you will find 
 
 Than those who spend time frivolously 
 And value matter more than mind. 
 
 If not according to your taste, 
 
 And you do not the courage lack, 
 
 Pray don't consign this to the waste, 
 But stamp anew and send it back. 
 
 SELECTING A WIFE. 
 
 Of those who come to man's estate, 
 There's some time in their lives 
 When they resolve, without delay, 
 To court and take them wives. 
 
 It often happens they're quite young 
 
 Or somewhat over-nice, 
 
 So I've decided 'twill be well 
 
 To give them some advice. 
 
 To each young farmer I would say, 
 You should not wed much style, 
 For it's a thing, we all well know, 
 Don't flourish well "on sile." 
 
 It's hard to make a woman, 
 Who when a girl was airy, 
 
See she must trim her sails to meet 
 The proceeds of a dairy. 
 
 The dainty one whom you admire, 
 Because she is so frail, 
 Would not much execution do 
 At churn or milking pail. 
 
 She is well skill'd in worsted work, 
 As everybody knows, 
 And yet I fear she would not darn 
 Much worsted in your hose. 
 
 There is not every farmer's girl 
 Fit for a farmer's wife, 
 As many a man has learned too late, 
 And rued it all his life. 
 
 To make my meaning plainer still 
 In a matter of much weight, 
 Your attention I would kindly claim 
 While I further illustrate. 
 
 Now call to mind the many girls 
 You've called on, Monday morning, 
 And found their mothers hard at work, 
 And them — o'er novels poring. 
 
 And when by chance the other day, 
 You visited Miss Starling, 
 What fine biscuits mamma made, 
 While she sang "Mollie Darling." 
 
 She knew her mother had been at work 
 All day, from early dawn, 
 And yet she challenged you to play 
 At croquet, on the lawn. 
 
 She doubtless sang and flirted well, 
 And humored all your wishes; 
 But it would have much better been 
 If she had washed the dishes. 
 
 Perhaps that mother is to blame, 
 But allowing that be so, 
 
7o 
 
 It does not change one whit the fact 
 That she's not fit for you. 
 
 Then leave such for some other man 
 
 who gets his bread 
 In a less honest way, 
 
 And marry one who is accustomed to work, 
 And is not quite so gay. 
 
 TO MINISTERS. 
 
 To each unmarried minister 
 
 I say, get you a wife, 
 But on the choice you make depends 
 
 Your happiness for life. 
 
 No doubt you have an ideal wife, 
 Most all young men have one, 
 
 Who, if she were but tangible, 
 Would be fair to look upon. 
 
 Of that love mere fleshly charms arouse 
 
 Do all mankind partake; 
 But there's a purer, holier love 
 
 Such charms can ne'er awake. 
 
 The woman whom you wed should have 
 
 A large, unselfish heart, 
 Of which you should be satisfied 
 
 To occupy a part. 
 For she who loves her Creator less 
 
 Than she could love His creature, 
 Would make no fitting wife for you 
 
 Who are a Gospel teacher. 
 
 She should be sympathetic too, 
 And share each parish trouble; 
 
 From want of human sympathy 
 Our cares oft seem to double. 
 
 The Spirit turns from earthly things 
 God's guidance to implore; 
 
7i 
 
 The Human should have human ears, 
 
 In which its grief to pour. 
 In taste and manners too, refined, 
 
 In tact be quite your equal; 
 To man's failure or success in life 
 
 The wife is oft the sequel. 
 By tact I mean that faculty, 
 
 Born of the heart and brain, 
 Which tells one how, and when, and where 
 
 An honest point to gain. 
 There's still one thing important 
 
 I fear you might not see, 
 To all these virtues added 
 
 There should be industry. 
 No half-paid young minister 
 
 Can keep his wife in ease, 
 At a yearly cost for household help 
 
 Of at least one-fourth his fees. 
 Of all things in society 
 
 The hardest thing to find, 
 Is a girl who does not think herself 
 
 To labor, too refined. 
 Why mothers shield their girls from toil, 
 
 With such persistency, 
 Which eventually they must perform, 
 
 Is what I cannot see. 
 Pardon this digression, 
 
 Your need suggested it; 
 I've small faith in their conversion, 
 
 Though I preach each chance I get. 
 Whene'er you weary in your search, 
 
 Or with loneliness are haunted, 
 Remember how the Patriarch served 
 
 To get the one he wanted. 
 But, when you do find her, 
 
 I'd have you shrewder, mister, 
 Don't let your intended father-in-law 
 
 Palm off on you her sister. 
 
72 
 
 TO LAWYERS. 
 
 A word to lawyers, you ne'er give 
 
 Advice without a fee; 
 And still you need not hesitate 
 
 To take what I give free. 
 
 Your danger comes from other source 
 Than that of the young farmer, 
 
 For style is an essential thing 
 In one who is your charmer. 
 
 You need not fear she'd ruin you 
 
 By taking of her ease, 
 For you could more than off-set that 
 
 By pocketing fat fees. 
 
 You may be called in coming years 
 
 To fill a place in life, 
 Where it would aid materially 
 
 To have a genteel wife. 
 
 We're not so young, the most of us, 
 That our minds can't recall 
 
 The coarseness of a certain dame, 
 Whom good luck did befall. 
 
 But, lest I seem irreverent to those 
 Who loved her assassined lord, 
 
 I'll pardon beg for what I've said, 
 Nor will say another word. 
 
 One caution more I freely give; 
 
 Hoping you will heed it, 
 Of every class of men extant, 
 
 Lawyers oftenest need it. 
 
 Dear Fanny Fern (peace unto her) 
 
 When living, wisely said: 
 "Our smartest men are almost sure 
 
 The greatest fools to wed." 
 
 Perhaps they think that such a wife 
 Can more easily managed be, 
 
73 
 
 And they of brain enough can spare 
 To supply a small family. 
 
 If so, young men, however versed 
 
 On points of law you be, 
 Some day you'll find your reckoning wrong 
 
 On consanguinity. 
 
 Caution: Don't wed a beauty without sense, 
 
 Because to wealth she's heir; 
 For common sense, unlike the wealth, 
 
 With her you could not share. 
 
 TO TRADESMEN. 
 
 Young tradesman, I would almost think 
 
 Advice to you but lost, 
 Save for the fact you always think 
 
 Things worth more than they cost. 
 
 Allow me to express the wish 
 
 That you ne'er change your mind, 
 
 Because of countless dollars spent 
 On woman's tastes refined. 
 
 Though circumstances do allow 
 
 Your fancy wider scope, 
 There's danger still in choosing, 
 
 With which you'll have to cope. 
 
 Your wife, unlike the farmer's, 
 
 Need not be used to work; 
 'T would only soil her dainty hands 
 
 And make the servants shirk. 
 
 Nor brilliant like the lawyer's 
 
 Need she necessarily be, 
 For you're not likely to be sent 
 
 To Washington, D. C. 
 
 But don't get one who seems to have 
 A business turn of mind, 
 
74 
 
 To keep her posted in your "biz" 
 Would be some work, you'd find. 
 
 Or should she choose to post herself, 
 
 Perhaps she might discover, 
 Of games and drinks and choice cigars 
 
 You are somewhat a lover. 
 
 If not devoid of conscience quite, 
 
 Might even discover more; 
 "All's not fair" in trade, I fear, 
 
 If 'tis "in love and war." 
 
 But, when you find a girl content 
 
 To take what you'll allow, 
 Whose feeble mind will ne'er inquire 
 
 Where it was got, or how, 
 
 With accomplishments enough to grace 
 
 The home you can provide, 
 You will have found whom I would choose 
 
 Most tradesmen for a bride. 
 
 No doubt, you think I'm careless quite 
 
 About her looks and size, 
 The size of glove and shoe she wears, 
 
 And shade of hair and eyes. 
 
 Perhaps I am, but then I know 
 Such things of small account, 
 
 Especially if she possess 
 Of wealth a fair amount. 
 
 I do admire a rosy cheek 
 
 Whose color Nature fixed; 
 Its varying shades are lovely, 
 
 And not the least bit "mixt." 
 
 And hair that's fast upon one's head, 
 
 A living, glossy mass, 
 That does not change in quantity 
 
 At fashion's "Presto pass." 
 
 But don't "go much" on pearly teeth 
 Which well-trained lips reveal, 
 
75 
 
 If the owner laughs mechanically 
 Their fairness to conceal. 
 
 Beauty, now-a-day, my friend, 
 To art owes most its luster; 
 
 There's many a bride called beautiful 
 Who scarce a charm can muster. 
 
 Besides, it's mostly due, no doubt, 
 To Mother Eve's transgression; 
 
 The handsomest are first to fade 
 When once in man's possession. 
 
 TO THE "GIRLS.' 
 
 In the Plymouth Reporter, last week, it said 
 
 The Plymouth young ladies have just had a spread; 
 
 Which meant a good supper at Schram's dining hall, 
 
 With the surplus proceeds of the grand Leap Year Ball. 
 
 It gave a long list of those in attendance, 
 
 And spoke flatteringly of their independence. 
 
 It seems that the "boys" were left out in the cold, 
 But were not offended, as I have been told. 
 No doubt but they managed the hours to beguile, 
 Being free to indulge in cigars or a "smile." 
 
 Besides, they are planning to give a grand ball, 
 
 A retaliation to eclipse them all. 
 
 And then all the surplus, if any there be, 
 
 They can spend for themselves and feel perfectly free. 
 
 When reading the item, this thought came to me: 
 Why did they not spend it in kind charity? 
 When thousands are naked and hungry and cold, 
 And houseless and homeless and crippled and old, 
 Should the children of faith, who have bread and to spare, 
 For mere selfish pleasure, use more than their share? 
 
 Dear girls, don't be angry, I mean no offense. 
 When you have a surplus of dollars and cents, 
 
7 6 
 
 Remember the poor in their humble abode, 
 
 Then you will have treasure where rust can't corrode. 
 
 The Master has said, but do we believe, 
 "It is more blessed to give than to receive." 
 Make sure of the blessing', whenever you can, 
 And set an example for our best young man. 
 
 ARE YOU FILLING YOUR MISSION? 
 
 Soon, men must acknowledge women their peers, 
 Excepting in vice and physical strength, 
 
 And should they progress for the next dozen years, 
 As they have for the last, will excel them at length. 
 
 I am telling the truth unvarnished and plain, 
 Though sorry to say it, am I all the same. 
 
 Our national morals are not on the gain, 
 
 And women, yes women, are greatly to blame. 
 
 All their finer feelings which influence men, 
 
 Through contact with business and hustle for gain, 
 
 Are blunted. I'll wager that nine out of ten, 
 If accused of the same, will answer like Cain. 
 
 Ye sisters and daughters, mothers and wives, 
 
 Are you doing your duty, as God meant you should, 
 
 Who are making strong men be drones in the hive, 
 The way you are earning your own livelihood? 
 
 You cheapen men's wages, for they must compete, 
 Whether married or single, with girls in their teens, 
 
 Who spend all they earn, in hopes to look sweet, 
 And wear silk and satin, instead of sateens. 
 
 You are needed in homes, all over the land, 
 To make them so neat, so cosy and bright, 
 
 And lighten the labor of over-worked hands, 
 And make home a haven of rest and delight. 
 
 Are folks growing better than they were of yore? 
 More noble and manly, courageous and strong? 
 
77 
 
 Have womanly virtues kept pace with lore? 
 
 Do we battle for right and despise what is wrong? 
 
 Are our fathers and brothers, husbands and sons, 
 More worthy our love and their neighbors' respect 
 
 Than the long ago, sturdy, old fashioned ones? 
 
 Ere you answer these questions, pause and reflect. 
 
 We are nearing the age of invention and push, 
 With the "coming woman" on wheels in the van; 
 
 But the cheeks of true women are dyed with a blush, 
 Whenever they think of the coming man. 
 
 A word to the wise is sufficient, they say. 
 
 You may culture the brain at cost of the heart; 
 But, hearts in which goodness and virtue bear sway, 
 
 The germs were transmitted through Nature, not art. 
 
 LOVELY SNOW. 
 
 Of all the lovely things I know, 
 There's scarce a lovelier than snow. 
 When viewed in an unbroken sheet, 
 Unstained by earth or marred by feet, 
 It's like a mantle pure and white 
 Which hides deformity from sight, 
 Developing in shrub and tree 
 Some beauty we had failed to see. 
 The plainest things are lovely quite, 
 When coated o'er with crystals white. 
 A simple zigzag fence of rails, 
 When thus adorned, all language fails 
 To give conception of its charms; 
 I've often seen it thus on farms. 
 And spires and roofs and turrets high, 
 Outlined in white against the sky, 
 Which makes it seem a deeper blue 
 By contrast with that lacking hue, 
 A glorious sunlight flooding all, 
 Spires and roofs and turrets tall, 
 
 LofC. 
 
78 
 
 A picture form which few could paint, 
 
 With a resemblance howe'er faint. 
 
 And trees seen bending 'neath the weight 
 
 Of winter's spotless robe of state 
 
 Which she lets down so silently, 
 
 We scarce can hear though feel and see; 
 
 They dot the landscape here and there, 
 
 And, of its beauty, form a share. 
 
 So still and motionless they seem, 
 
 It may be but a poet's dream, 
 
 I hear or think I hear a prayer 
 
 Of Nature breathed upon the air, 
 
 Invoking breezes to arouse 
 
 And shake the jewels from their boughs. 
 
 The snow-clad hills and mountains tall 
 
 Display its beauty best of all. 
 
 Who has not seen the sun arise 
 
 From out the rosy eastern skies, 
 
 And bathe those lofty peaks of white 
 
 With an effulgence all too bright 
 
 To be endured by human sight? 
 
 The ocean never cast ashore 
 
 A shell whose lining could eclipse, 
 
 In tints, those sunlit mountain tips, 
 
 While at their base deep shadows lay, 
 
 Unconscious of the coming day. 
 
 Not all its beauty may be seen 
 
 Without the aid of wind, I ween. 
 
 As if in answer to the prayer 
 
 Which Nature breathed upon the air, 
 
 The wished-for breeze has risen now 
 
 And gently sways each laden bough 
 
 Till snowflakes fall in showers like rain, 
 
 And all the trees are bare again. 
 
 Meanwhile the wind has stronger grown, 
 
 The light snow into heaps been blown, 
 
 Now here a bank and there bare space, 
 
 Like magic it has taken place. 
 
 Tired with its frolic on earth's breast, 
 
 The wind has lulled and gone to rest. 
 
79 
 
 The eye roves far, but seeks in vain, 
 Bejeweled trees and spotless plain, 
 For in their stead are snow drifts deep, 
 Where light and shadows play bo-peep. 
 To those who live in climes so warm 
 They never witness a snow storm, 
 And may not view the lovely sight 
 Of Nature robed in spotless white, 
 I'll say, that language can't express 
 A fraction of its loveliness. 
 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 This is a nation's holiday, 
 
 Made sacred by the lives 
 She sacrificed in war, to pay 
 
 For sins she now survives. 
 
 While witnessing her rites to-day, 
 
 Memory, glancing back, 
 Sees ranks of soldiers march away, 
 
 Who never did come back. 
 
 From east and west and north they go, 
 
 A goodly throng to view; 
 That someone loved them all, we know, 
 
 Our gallant boys in blue. 
 
 Many a one who marched away, 
 With laurels thought to come; 
 
 But comrades brought, another day, 
 At beat of muffled drum. 
 
 And some in loathesome prison cells, 
 More dreaded far than death, 
 
 So each surviving comrade tells, 
 Drew their expiring breath. 
 
 One cannot picture scenes like those 
 With either pen or brush; 
 
8o 
 
 Could we depict one-half their woes, 
 'Twould make our country blush. 
 
 While mothers, wives and sisters wept, 
 And prayed the war might close, 
 
 Still farther south our forces swept, 
 And din of battles rose. 
 
 Our southern kinsmen suffered more, 
 But theirs the greater gains; 
 
 Each drop of blood shed in that war 
 Helped loosen slavery's chains. 
 
 And time, with its effacing years, 
 
 Will wipe away the stain, 
 As from our eyes it dried the tears, 
 
 Shed for our loved ones slain. 
 
 Many a gentle hand to-day, 
 
 With southern flowers has drest 
 
 Those mounds so dear, though far away, 
 The graves where loved ones rest. 
 
 We loved them well, our boys in blue, 
 Whose graves they deck to-day, 
 
 And memory has them now in view, 
 Just as they marched away. 
 
 The sovereign balm that time imparts, 
 Has calmed our grief, but still, 
 
 Are dreary voids within our hearts 
 No other loves may fill. 
 
 They left their homes, as dear as ours, 
 To keep the rights we prize; 
 
 And may the odor of sweet flowers, 
 From graves, like incense, rise. 
 
MAR 1 190* 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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