Class _"PS3-^-|-S' Book, , T7^t(,6 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. UNCLE STEPHEN AND OTHER VERSES UNCLE STEPHEN BY AMOS LUNT HINDS PRIVATELY PRINTED AT 1905 LIBRARY of CONGRESS Two Copies Received DEC 19 1905 Copyright Entry CLASS ex. XXc, No. /3 3 ^?7 COPY B. COPYRIGHT 1905 BY AMOS LUNT HINDS ^ The verses in this little volume have A been written at various times during the ^ last forty years. Some of them have ap- ^ peared in " Scribner's Monthly," " The ^- Independent," *'New York Tribune," J ''Golden Rule," "Portland Advertiser," ^ ''Maine Farmer," "Waterville Mail," and other Maine journals. They are published at the suggestion and request of old friends, to whom they are sub- mitted with affectionate greeting. A. L. H. Benton Falls, Maine, November 12, 1905. CONTENTS A Working Creed .... 3 Uncle Stephen .... 4 The Song-Sparrow . . . .15 The King-Cup's Test ... 19 Admonition ' ^3 The First Stone .... 25 In Memory 28 The Old Block House . . 30 The Heart's Prophecy ... 37 An Album Verse .... 38 The Soldiers' Monument . . 39 Character and Repute . . 42 An Old Fife 43 The Point of View ... 47 Planting Trees 48 November 53 Katahdin 55 Cornelia 58 viii Contents Through Toil . Hans Christian Andersen Grandmother Reed A Choice .... Consolation . The Reply .... Memorial Day . Now One Answer The Warder . A Fire of Apple Wood . In Tenebris Unexpected Guests . Finis 60 62 65 67 71 74 76 78 80 83 85 92 93 95 UNCLE STEPHEN AND OTHER VERSES A WORKING CREED EEP life serene. Toil steadfastly, Nobility In mind and mien. Let fall the seed ; How it shall fare, With fevered heed Ask not ; that care Should burden thee Than plant and tree No more. God's love Doth constant prove. Bids blight or flower The harvest dower. UNCLE STEPHEN STORY, a story," says Golden Head, As she storms her father's knee; *' Not fairy, but some tender tale, And as true as true can be." " Well, daughter, lay these sunny curls Just here upon my breast. And round the dainty little form Let father's fond arms rest ; Then, while a purpling glory fills The restful even-tide. And far across the tuneful fields The lengthening shadows glide, I '11 tell of one who sleeps in peace These fifty years and more. Where yonder ancient oak-tree shades Uncle Stephen 5 The bickering streamlet's shore. His neighbors called him * Uncle Ste- phen,' — A fond, familiar name — I notice oft with generous souls Men loving kinship claim. " You can't remember the year * sixteen,' " It passed so long ago ; They only do whose reverent heads Are white like falling snow. That year no fruitful summer came To bless the waiting land ; Somehow, the constant season missed Its Master's just command. For sixty years ago to-night, When June's soft breezes blow, There lay above the pallid hills A shroud of drifting snow. And o'er the wondering farmers' homes Fell fierce a swirling rout, 6 Uncle Stephen As on those wild December nights When stormy winds are out. Thro' all the dismal morning hours, Across the whitening lands, Farmers had walked beside their plows With closely mittened hands. And chilling redbreasts hopped for food Where the furrow darkling lay, Till pitying plowmen stayed their teams, And lifted them away. And so, the dreary season through, Each month the hoarfrost fell, Till wintry autumn's wailing winds Moaned like a funeral knell. No happy songs of harvest home. Fierce winter at the door. Earless the stricken corn-fields stood, God help the friendless poor ! For those were days of pioneers ; Shut off from other lands. They had alone, in hours of need, Uncle Stephen y Their own stout hearts and hands. To-day, let summer suns refuse To grace with gleaming grain And ranks of golden-tasseled maize The rocky hills of Maine, And thrice ten thousand hearts, with ours In kindliest union wed, Thro* all the vast and fruitful West, Would fill the land with bread." " And Uncle Stephen .? " " Daughter, yes. We '11 make no more delay, When one has pleasant words to speak He loiters on the way. Beside yon stream, that thro' the years, With ever-murmuring wave. Sings to the wild anemones, Abloom above his grave. Just where the brook and river meet 8 Uncle Stephen Beneath the pine-clad hill, Stood, in the century's early dawn. Good Uncle Stephen's mill. Where all the cheery summer days. With dreamy, slumbrous sound. Grinding the corn from far and near, His rumbling stones went round. It may not be the miller had A poet's heart and brain. That unseen music filled the air, The while he ground his grain. Perchance his dull ears never heard. On summer evenings lone. Beneath the river's babbling flow. Its mystic undertone. Or, musing thro' the silent noons. Untouched by toil or care, He never heard the harvest fly Shrill thro' the shimmering air, Or saw beneath his sleeping mere. The mirrored pine-trees through. Uncle Stephen g Far fleets of snowy summer cloud Go sailing down the blue. Yet they who read aright the page Of years, dark-lined with wrong, Can see in Uncle Stephen's life A most ethereal song, The rhythmic beauty of good deeds ; Since never from his door Unpitied or unaided went One of God's homeless poor. Amid life's ills his bounteous heart A thousand ways was tested, Till o'er his humble home it seemed A rainbow's arch had rested ; And on the darkest winter day. About the little mill, Brooded the charm of sweet content, The sunshine of good-will. " But when, 'mid years with plenty crowned, 10 Uncle Stephen The famed * cold season ' came, Then all the fires within his soul Burst into cheeriest flame. From many a distant country-side, Seeking for corn in store, The rich and shrewd, on weary quest, Drew rein beside his door. * To purchase corn for daily needs We find no trifling task ; Sell us your grain, we '11 make no terms, But pay you what you ask.' * Nay, nay,' the sturdy miller said, * I must not sell to you ; The money in your well-filled purse Hath power to help you through ; I keep my corn for those who have No money left to pay ; I '11 trust them in their hour of need, And bide the time they may.' Uncle Stephen 1 1 " Their struggling mother left behind, The father gone before, One day two little orphans stood Beside the river's shore. Bearing within their slender arms Some scanty store of corn. Gleaned with as sad a heart as Ruth's In Judah's fields, forlorn ; And, as was wont, their small halloo They sent across the tide. Till Uncle Stephen from his mill Their little forms espied, And loosing straight his log canoe Was quickly at their side. How soon the httle ones, at first Abashed, were at their ease ! For Uncle Stephen, gray and old, Had deftest power to please. The bounty in his welcome smile, His genial, child-like way. 12 Uncle Stephen Their orphaned hearts Uke sunhght cheered The Hvelong summer day. And when the lingering solstice sun Shone like a far gold dome, With words of cheer to bear along, He sent them, happy, home. " That evening, as the weary dame Drew forth her precious store. The chest, that held the corn she sent, Was brimming o'er and o'er. * Gramercy, children, how is this ! ' The dazed good-wife did say, * Has Uncle Stephen failed to toll Our little grist to-day } ' * Oh, yes, indeed, he tolled the grist,* The guileless orphan said, * For, resting his brown, wrinkled hand On little brother's head, Uncle Stephen i^ While just the faintest, queerest smile Played round his quivering lip, I saw his heaping measure, thrice, From bin to hopper dip.* Then, with o'erflowing heart and eye, The mother knelt to pray. And many a swift God-bless-him sent Its tearful, tremulous way To where, above these mists of time, Heaven's mystic uplands lay. Oh well for him whose whispered name, Breathed forth 'mid grateful tears. Like some sweet note in music meets God's ever-listening ears ! " Between the Hues, O Golden Head ! Your musing father reads This lesson clear, that generous souls And tender, loving deeds. In this self-seeking world of ours, Are what the Master needs : 14 Uncle Stephen \ That, would we have Ufe's closing hours ; With peaceful glory kissed, ■ Like those white clouds that sleeping lie ] 'Mid rosy amethyst, ! We should remember as we live \ How the good man ground his grist." THE SONG-SPARROW OME days from June, like merry-hearted girls, Strayed through the fields of March, Sang tuneful songs, and flaunted golden curls. The wild and stormy arch Of heaven forgot to frown On field and woodland brown ; And like a giant, surly and uncouth. Subdued to tenderness by love and youth, Reflecting down the light from joy-lit maiden eyes, Filled all the fields of air with the blue of summer skies. The larch and maple felt the cold blood stir i6 The Song-Sparrow Along their frozen veins ; And 'neath the mossy groves of fra- grant fir The arbute of the plains, Like some pure sleeper taken by sur- prise, Just oped the lids of her sweet wonder- ing eyes. The streamlet, wakened from its frozen sleep, Dashed murm'ring downward o'er the rocky steep. And with the music of its deep-toned lyre Chimed in the treble of the feathered choir. The mood was transient ; from the fro- zen sand Of storm-swept Hudson Bay A northern simoon, surging down the land, The Song-Sparrow 1 7 Rushed o'er the smiHng day ; 'Mid swirling snow and bitter bhnding rain, Lapsed all the scene to savagery again. Then from my study window looking forth Upon the raging storm, The wintry currents breasting from the north, I spied a tiny form, — A sparrow, wresting in its bitter need A frugal meal from off a wind-swung reed ; And soon as ever it had broke its fast, Lo ! through the pauses of the howling blast A liquid song of thanks rose clear and high Through all the tumult of the wintry sky; 1 8 The Song' Sparrow Above the stars I have no doubt God heard The heartfelt offering of his little bird. 'Twere nothing strange, with all the air in tune And fragrant with the violets of June, That any bird should sing, That through the lapses of still summer eves. Amid the canopies of rustling leaves. With song should fold its wing. But that sweet hymn through bleak and wintry skies Uprising dims with tearful mist mine eyes, Touches within the soul a chord Like some deep utterance of the Lord, As if across the restless sea Were heard the voice from Galilee. THE KING-CUP'S TEST Y lips seemed swift enough with words, 'Mid schoolmates' song and story, That, ever as her sweet face came, Lost all their wonted glory. Some glamour in the deep blue eye — Love's nameless, tender token — Drew close the golden gates of speech And left the word unspoken. Till one rare morning, when the year Was gay with leafy banners, And Nature's tuneful troubadours Were singing blithe hosannas. When every sound was in the air The sweet-voiced spring could utter, 20 The King-Cup's Test She plucked a king-cup from the hedge, To see if I Hked butter. A golden chalice, closed in snow, The blue eyes peering under — E'en now, in sober middle-age, I find no room for wonder That, when youth's happy vintage bore Its bubble-beaded wine, The peerless vestal's pensive face Seemed more than half divine. Dear guileless girl ! She clearly meant The golden fruit of dairy ; I heard alone the pronoun sweet That stood for winsome Mary. And while the swift impetuous tides Set all life's valves a-flutter. The cooler brain found strength to say My fond heart did love but her. 77?^ King-Cup's Test 21 "Your heart — your heart — I meant — I meant " — The tell-tale blood came flushing, Fair as above the morning hills The rosy dawn lay blushing. So erst the Teucrian shepherd boy, Some mountain path pursuing Plucked, lily-like, life's crowning joy, His sweet CEnone wooing. Adrift upon the tide of years — The mystic, murmuring river — Sometimes we see the sunlight play. The cypress starlit ever ; And always up the singing stream One fair dawn gleams afar, Touched with the rose of early day Beneath the morning star. And if at times, in sportive mood, She holds the king-cup under, 22 The King-Cups Test Demure as when she broke the spell That held our lives asunder, Be very sure a glad heart bids The fond lips more than utter How through the lapse of happy years Her old-time love loves but her. ADMONITION OW wrought I yesterday ? " Small moment now, To question with vain tears or bitter moan, Since every word you wrote upon the sands Of yesterday hath hardened into stone. " How work to-morrow ? " 'T is a day unborn. To scan whose formless features is not granted ; Ere the new morning dawns, soul, thou may'st wing Thy flight beyond to-morrows, disen- chanted ! 24 Admonition " How shall I work to-day ? " O soul of mine ! To-day stands on the threshold, girt to lead Thy feet to life immortal ; strive with fear ; Deep pit-falls strew the way ; take heed — take heed ! THE FIRST STONE O sacred legend of the Nazarene Makes glad with tenderer touch The heart oppressed by sin, Or comes to plead with such Sweet eloquence to win, As that rare passage where the Mag- dalen, By subtle scribe and Pharisee accused, Stands in the Master's presence all con- fused. With strange unwonted tears her down- cast eyes suffused. As silently the eastern morning steals Across Chaldea's plain, Within the stately walls Of ancient Salem's fane The chastened splendor falls : 26 The First Stone All pomp of art its rosy gleam re- veals, All grace and strength the elder world hath found, And 'mid a throng entranced in hush profound, The form of One who stoops and writes upon the ground. How vauntingly those Scribes and Phar- isees, Long-robed, displayed their broad phy- lacteries ! How swift and sure to name With cruel jibes and jeers The fallen woman's shame ! How clear upon their ears Fell those swift words of flame That every pulse did stir ! ** Let him that hath no blame The first stone cast at her." The First Stone 2j And each, convicted by accusing wrong, Leaves, as he steals the corridors along. The Magdalen, the Master, and the silent throng. Then from his musing posture Christ uprose ; The crowning sequel every sad heart knows. Full many a burdened soul. As time's slow ages roll. Like her of ancient years. Seeking to touch with tears His garment's heahng hem, Doth hear him calmly say, "O woman, where are they That did accuse thee sore ? Neither do I condemn ; Go thou and sin no more." IN MEMORY Captain William T. Parker fell at Spottsylvania, May 19, 1864. IS forty years to-day since my young friend (How at the thought of him sweet memories rise That move the heart and dim with mist the eyes !) Gave his white Hfe, a blameless sacri- fice, Upon thy stricken field of sad re- nown, O Spottsylvania ! One of the dauntless heroes that went down Before the cannon's breath on that dread day. In Memory 2g I have not found along the track of years, Since that far hour when we shook hands to part, A man more true, chivalric, pure in heart. Or one that Hved from meanness more apart. Rich in all sacred instincts men revere. Alas ! that from high aims and duties here. And fond companionships, Heaven early called ! Since earth is poor, and rich the boun- teous skies In loyal souls — but God sees otherwise I Benton Falls, Maine, May 19, 1904. THE OLD BLOCK HOUSE HERE the wedded rivers mingle, Murmuring down a broader way, Past fair cities, seaward singing. Stands the block-house old and gray, Built amid the woods primeval — Iron pathways at its feet — Like some lonely watcher musing Where the night and morning meet. Not of Indian wars or gory Massacres its gray walls tell ; Never hath some Church or Standish Told his children what befell. When the wily savage, stealing Through the dusk the pine woods made. The Old Block House 31 Smote the widowed wife and mother Childless to its palisade. Saxon strength, art, and endurance Overmatched the feebler breed ; Mount Hope's sachem strove no longer With the heir of Runnymede, When Maine's primal forests echoed With the strokes of Shirley's axe, And his hardy workmen builded The quaint walls of Halifax. Yet, O Hchened structure, surely He who listens finely hears Tales that well are worth the telling. Whispered through the phantom years. Thou art built of pines whose needles Trembled in Ticonic's roar. ^2 The Old Block House Ere the boy Columbus sported In the old streets of Genoa. Musing by thy storm- worn portal Sets the fancy free to stand, Lonely, as an Indian hunter In his strange primeval land. Fades the garrulous, teeming present, Stilled yon stately mills of use — What is this that parts the coppice } ' T is the weird form of the moose. In the pine-wood mighty voices — List, the fitting interludes — * T is the wild fowl madly sporting 'Mid their plashy solitudes. Dim across the ancient river, Shadowed deep with forests high. Like some pallid wraith or spectre, See, a silent birch glides by. The Old Block House ^^ And above, where surging waters Wake with might a deep-toned lyre, Lo, some wandering brave, benighted, Lights his lonely bivouac fire. He shall hear thy flood, Ticonic, Rushing fetterless and free. And shall break his fast to-morrow By the sailless summer sea ; Count his days of journeying over By the waning moon that smiles O'er the gleaming coves and reaches, Strewn with Casco's wooded isles. This is nature's vast cathedral, Forest-aisled from deep to deep ; Never comes the image-breaker ; Here the dead mound-builders sleep. Never in the morning's ofling. Westering with the landward breeze. ^4 The Old Block House Keel of daring navigator Parts the strange and lonely seas. Little recks the child of nature Dreams that haunt the school-man's brain, Vows of hooded monk and friar, Or the schemes of Charlemagne. " Never comes the image-breaker } " Hark, a deep and smothered sound Rushes through the wood's dim arches, Creeps along the trembling ground. 'T is the axe of pioneer, And an era new is born ; See, the clearing's smoke floats skyward, Through the still October morn. Ere long, Arnold's restless spirit, While his blazoned banners fleck The Old Block House ^5 The lone river's silent reaches, Seeks the siege of far Quebec. And anon, on peaceful mission, As the glad day follows night, Learning's grave and meek disciples Bear the Master's love and light. So, when war's alarum leaveth Crimson plain and startled air, Nature's lulling rains of summer Set her fair white lilies there. Lo, against the evening's amber. Looms the factory's ponderous side. Brightly gleaming, many- windowed. As an argus hundred-eyed. And the sunset, slowly fading, Yields the weird night solemn rule. Gilds the spires of sleeping village And the walls of Chaplin's school, ^6 The Old Block House Gilds the quaint and lichened ramparts Of the block-house old and gray, Lingering where the married rivers Croon their ancient roundelay. THE HEART'S PROPHECY Y friend drew near me unaware ; He brought sweet love, not harm ; And still my heart beat momently With strange and vague alarm. A startled throb — tho' when I turned, From my pale face, he said. The lilies vanished, and straightway Some roses bloomed instead. I blamed my heart that it should fall Prey to such groundless fears. It plead the stern necessity Of these sin-clouded years, But prophesied a happier scene, In peace and love complete. Where it would trust all messengers, And keep its rhythmic beat. AN ALBUM VERSE m SHEAF of happy years be thine to gather, Young Gleaner on life's har- vest plain ! A soul serene through storm and sunny weather Be thine to gain, Young Gleaner on life's harvest plain 1 THE SOLDIERS' MONUMENT Lines read at the unveiling, Waterville, Maine, May 30, 1876. 0-DAY, like incense, sweet ac- claim With tearful thought is wed, Where'er the mournful marbles name The nation's patriot dead. Above the land dark-glooming lay A starless night of shame. How like a glimpse of breaking day Their swift obedience came ! On many a lurid battle-field Austerely lost or won. They showed how manly virtues live From struggling sire to son. 40 The Soldiers' Monument To "make the bounds of freedom wide " They gave their gallant lives ; Since brave Heath fell and Winthrop died Life's subtlest worth survives. The charm of letters, learning's light, Each tender ideal dream. Amid the pure transfiguring air With tenfold glory gleam. When with the lull of cannonade. War's fierce alarums cease, And o'er a nation's thousand hills Falls the hush of stainless peace. Long let this musing soldier stand 'Neath free New England's skies, To all that love the fatherland. Type of self-sacrifice. The Soldiers' Monument ^/ And ever as fair Freedom's cause Brave new defenders needs, Chivalric souls for righteous laws Stand firm in faith and deeds, That when, once more, the passing years, Like birds upon the wing, Amid some May-time's smiles and tears. Shall reach a hundredth spring. Our children's children, wiser grown By all the years have taught. All civic virtue find their own. All crowning wealth of thought. CHARACTER AND REPUTE HARACTER and repute — Wraith and reality — Twin shapes but incomplete In true identity ; Somewhat of good and ill The balance shifting still. Then seek not, soul, to keep ' Thyself and history ' In perfect equipoise Here on this twilight brink Of life ; but live to be, In all great quality, I Far nobler than men think ! i AN OLD FIFE Among the relics in the State House at Augusta is an old fife bearing this inscription : " On this fife was played the Dead March at the execution of Major Andre." SHROUD shot thro' with gold, the while I mused, Sad memory wove among the curios here — Showed this dumb pipe austerely inter- fused With annals of a long-departed year — With passion-freighted deeds that stirred amain The fiery blood of patriots, and still burn Along our veins with scarce less urgent glow. As we renew old rapture and old pain, 44 ^^ Old Fife Feel valor, triumph, scorn, of friend or foe — That backward-peering fancy can dis- cern. Draw near and read the faint, time- yellowing line Precisely traced along the fife's scarred side By one who loved such virtu as old wine: " This played the march when Major Andr6 died." But gaze beyond this grave memento cast. Like wandering waif on wave-deserted heights, Far thro' the gathering mist and read That tragedy of an heroic past — Feel the relentless pulse-beats of that breed An Old Fife 4^ Of sires who wrought, thus grimly, for their rights. Did heaven deep sapphire glow, or gloom a frown ? Were hushed the winds, or tuned in lofty psalm That far October day at Tappantown ? Ah, Nature's mood boots less — the Man was calm ! None calmer brooked, unblanched, the vast concourse Of troop and citizen ; none deeper breath O f incense drank from cool autumnal airs. Listing the shrilling of this pipe's thin voice As 't were for festival, that dirge of death — This peer of England's bravest cava- liers ! 46 An Old Fife The solemn pageant faded long ago. The throes of other wars, 'mid civic strife Full fierce and century-long, have dulled the woe Of that old war which gave the nation Hfe. The fifer's lips are dust. All search is vain For aged chronicler who might recall The scene. The gallant foeman other ways Serves his great Leader otherwhere. Of all The vanished spectacle, this fife still stays — Could breathe that selfsame dead march THE POINT OF VIEW IS the fairest of all flowers — To the eye you must suppose ; To the heart it gives no more Than a scentless guelder-rose. *T is the plainest wayside bloom — To the eye you are to think; To the heart it brings the gift Of a sweet carnation-pink. PLANTING TREES LONG the quiet village street, Skirting a shadow-haunted way, Robust in bole and broad of arm, Great elms and maples bend and sway. They bring no fruit as corn or wine. They store with wealth no throbbing mart ; Their ministry is more divine. The culture of the human heart. When April suns have stirred their blood And May's warm breezes thrill the air. Planting Trees 4g What rich undress of golden bloom Those graceful elms and maples wear ! And when June, fair imperial month, The summer of the northern year. Leads in, and like some great-souled queen, Strews her large bounty far and near, What wondrous mantles quaint and rare. As sunbeams glance and soft winds blow. Those stately monarchs of the air Athwart their stalwart shoulders throw ! Through cool sweet depths of verdur- ous gloom ^o Planting Trees A hundred song-birds flit and sing, Staid robins with their martial tunes, Gay orioles with tinted wing. How tenderly from drooping boughs Their dwellings, breeze-swung to and fro. Cradle the birds that still shall sing As endless summers come and go ! And when the artist Autumn comes To gild his gleaming wheat with gold. And stain with crimson dyes the hills That prop the azure-tinted wold, He lingers with his tenderest art, Till, 'neath the Indian summer skies, The street, with golden light aflame, Seems like some path in Paradise. Planting Trees 5/ And though the wizard Winter weaves O'er all the pallid country-side His spell, be jeweled by the mist And sun, they rise up glorified. And so the rolling seasons through, All souls that live with unclosed eyes In myriad modes of form and hue Find in these trees some new sur- prise. The hands that planted long ago Were folded on a silent breast, And with life 's ceaseless ebb and flow Sank into their eternal rest. And yet methinks the genial soul Who wrought that other lives might see In leaf and bloom and graceful form The stately beauty of the tree, 52 Planting Trees Must feel, mayhap, a tender joy If from the skies he sometimes sees What grace the fair New England town Gains from the thoughtful planter's trees. NOVEMBER NCE from a russet oak, this autumn morn, A robin piped the song it loves in May ; And once a hermit, shy and far with- drawn, Trilled, happy heart, its sweet ethereal lay. Their silent mates, these finding voice to sing Amid the fading splendors of the hour, Could wrest no tuneful prophecy of spring From chill November sky and leaf- less bower. ^4 November So, like the silent or the singing bird, When life's autumnal frosts their ravage bring, Shall we dwell voiceless, or our hearts be stirred To song prophetic of returning spring. KATAHDIN BRAWNY athlete, pitiless as fate ! The tireless wrestler with an aeon's storms ! A product of the years that antedate Earth's loveliness with weird and sav- age forms ! An anchorite, austere and gloomy- browed. Within the silence of a solemn wood Withdrawn ; who, cowled in mist, leans on his staff To hear the northern diver's weird wild laugh Across lone lakes resounding far and loud, Befitting well his stern, relentless mood. 56 Katahdin And yet beside grim old Katahdin's feet, By many a beetling crag inclosed around, That bates the fierceness of the north wind's breath And lullabies the wild tornado's sound, A little lake, translucent, pure, and sweet. Lies sleeping on its cool white bed of sand, — The charm of life amid the reign of death. An alien beauty in a savage land. And all about its gleaming pebbly bed The blue-eyed mountain harebells fond- ly cling. And in the dark firs glooming overhead. Serenely trustful, sweet-voiced wild- birds sing. Katahdin 31 Sometimes, perchance, within the stern- est breast, Whence fond confiding words no more outwell. Like hidden fires that slumber unex- pressed, The pure high thought and sweet emotion dwell. CORNELIA ECAUSE great souls than gold prize honor more, Because her sons were loyal to old Rome, Revered the gods, kept faith, and loved their home, Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, wore As queenly gems the children that she bore. "These are my jewels." Lo, the famed reply. Winged for long flitting thro' each alien sky. Speeds, bird-like, past the threshold of her door ! O Saxon matron! great queen of the west ! Cornelia 5P Columbia! thine be the meed to say — Keeping the promise of thy peer- less youth — Cornelia-wise to every biding guest, "These are my praise, their feet do hold the way Of stainless honor, probity, and truth." THROUGH TOIL Per ardua ad astra ; per angusta ad augusta." HOLD it better far that one should rule Imperious temper with a sin- ewy will, Than amiable and passionless of soul, With folded hands amid life's din sit still For though ofttimes the battle goeth hard, Strength comes with struggle, and wild olive leaves. Twined round a brow begrimed and battle-scarred. Mean more to noble men and nobler gods Than costliest purples of inglorious ease. Through Toil 6i Though tired men, through toil-encum- bered years, Seek restful havens, lotus lands of dreams. Who that hath seen doth evermore for- get What glory o'er his burnished armor gleams. Who fights with grosser self, or crushes down With stalwart blows the vices of his age. Threading the austere heights of chaste renown ! The victor's joy. Fate nevermore re- veals To sluggish souls, nor his transcend- ent peace. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN NDER the sea from a distant strand Fleetly the mystic courier sped, Bearing the message from land to land, That Christian Andersen lies dead. And when the hush of the eventide Falls 'neath the far New England skies, And the summer landscape, dim and wide, In the tender gleam of the gloaming lies. The mother gleans for her little girl Tidings that come with the dying day, Hans Christian Andersen 63 Foam-flakes that drift from the rush and whirl Of Hfe three thousand miles away. " And is he dead ? 't is so too bad ! " These were the words the little one said, And the tones of the voice were ten- derly sad For her darling dreamer lying dead, In the Danish town beyond the sea ; All quenched the mellow fancy's gleams. And hushed in voiceless mystery The dear romancer's golden dreams. But, little one, this is the sombre side Of the cloud that rests over human love, 64 Hans Christian Andersen Whose low-lying mists do evermore hide The stars in the azure fields above. For the vanished life so loyal and true, That crossed yestreen the mystic tide, Hath somewhere found in the bound- less blue The happy home of the glorified. Oh, rich is the lot of the child-like soul, Whose years through devious chan- nels move. Yet touch serene life's utmost goal, Laureled with childhood's crowning love! GRANDMOTHER REED OME, Letty, sing ' The Rose of Annandale/ " Said Grandma, gray and old and blind, But young in heart, and crystal-clear in mind As in her happy girlhood far away. The loitering sea-breeze, rippling Casco Bay, Played with her silver hair that distant day. And fair Orr's Island smiled 'mid summer green. Grandma's dim eyes beheld the beau- teous scene No more, no more the island-studded sea; Yet patient, gentle, steadfastly serene. 66 Grandmother Reed Smoothing the curls, would Grandma say to me < From out a summer life that did not I fail, j " Come, Letty, sing * The Rose of An- i nandale.' " j Dear loving Grandma, peaceful, long ago, She went beyond the blue tide's ebb and flow. Beyond the glint and gleam of snowy sail, , Into the realm of life's perpetual spring ; And, long ere this, has heard the angels sing A sweeter song than "The Rose of Annandale." A CHOICE Fsome divine intelligence should stand Beside the vine - wreathed threshold of my door, As in old days, to place within my hand The gift I would implore, Should I with Midas choose the gleam- ing gold. Or seek great Hera's proffered ample power, Or would my thought a finer insight mould In that most fateful hour ? That I might ask through taking ear- nest heed Of deep-heard voices, not some tran- sient bliss. 68 A Choice Unmindful of the deathless spirit's need In other lives than this, But plead to know my King's eternal laws, To feel within my breast, like mystic leaven, All pure and subtle influence that draws The soul toward God and Heaven : To hold my way above life's fret and jar. In firm allegiance my course to run, As, through yon trackless blue, some silent star Moves round its central sun : Yet not removed from life's pervading woe. Nor shielded from its cruel sense of loss. A Choice 6g But dowered with the alchemy to know How grief sublimes from dross : And not removed from dark tempta- tion's touch, But gifted with a strength that would not fail, Swift to elude the demon's clinging clutch And mightily prevail ! That when some summer in the far-off years With wandering blooms adorns my lonely grave. Where fall no more love's unavailing tears, And unkept grasses wave, I may not reck that nevermore my name Is syllabled in tender utterance here. yo A Choice That no fond thought of me doth ever claim The meed of smile or tear : Since, flitting like a breath of viewless wind, Encompassed by a father's constant care. My peaceful ghost would most securely find Abiding-place more fair ; Old voices hear, sweet as far evening bells, Break the deep hush upon long silent lips, Renew for aye, amid the asphodels, Its lost companionships ! CONSOLATION I FT up, tear-blinded one, Lift up thine eyes and view, Beyond the golden day, That sky of wondrous blue 1 The grave is dark And drear below. But thou dost know Full well, I wis, My spirit went that way, My body this ? Didst thou not hear, dear love, But yesterday. Two poets sing ? One looked into a grave. No gracious blossoming Of hope and faith made glad 72 Consolation Thy yearning life ; He sang, at best, Surcease of strife — Oblivion's dreamless rest. The other, all unskilled In mortal minstrelsy. Warbled a song that filled, With its rapt melody, A twilight hour. The man looked down, ah me ! To earth's dark opening ; The bird, with folded wing. From trembling perch on high, Sang to the boundless sky. Come when the summer comes. Fond heart, and keep for me. In tender ways — With velvet sward and blooms — This quiet place ; Consolation 7^ Think of old days, But neither weep nor sigh ; Lift up a lighted face ! Sing to the boundless sky ! THE REPLY HAT art thou, soul of mine, what art thou, pray ? I toil to compass thee, but fail alway. " I am the meeting-place, forevermore, Of streams innumerable ; I am that deep — That cavern dark, wherein they surge and roar ; I am the pool sequestered, where they sleep And dream and glint and purl. I am that strange Twin-windowed room, which fronts, at either pale. Eternity ; that height thou shalt not scale ; That depth thou shalt not sound. I brook no change, The Reply y^ I change incessantly ; some changeless base Of being mine, deep-delved, un- sunned, God-wrought ; Whereon the human architect doth raise, Thro' many a wavering mood of afterthought, His walls and pinnacles. Withal my care Keeps, tome on tome, in deep- shelved rank for thee, Each pregnant page of thy long his- tory — All count of good and ill ingathered there. Wouldst thou of this eventful room the key.? Fate granteth not the boon, but do not sigh, — Thou art the real custodian — not I." MEMORIAL DAYi END blue above their place of rest, Thou fair New England sky ; With tender grace invest the spot Where sleeping patriots lie. Let human hearts together vie, And grateful homage bring, Till round the soldiers' sepulchre The holiest memories cling. The sacred cause they died to save Lives on from age to age, Since Freedom's gallant martyrs fill Each dark historic page. And Sidney on far Zutphen's field. And they who slumber here, 1 Read at the Memorial Day exercises at Waterville, Maine, 1876. Memorial Day yy Demand alike all peoples' praise And every patriot's tear. Then strew above the soldier's grave, The fair flower's nodding bell, And dearer to the hero, still, The heart's pure immortelle. Forget-me-nots for brave young forms Who fill the unknown graves. Above whose lonely burial mounds The southern lily waves. And let self-sacrificing deeds All souls with faith inspire, Kindle upon each altar stone Love's ever-living fire, Rememb'ring that all saintly lives Sleep not beneath the sod. But work the Master's mission still In the Paradise of God. NOW HUMBLE Saxon word writ here, How small thou seem'st ! How small that moving point which thou Dost symbolize ! And yet these eyes Were blind indeed, Could they not see Eternity Within thy narrow span decreed ! Our morrows and our yesterdays are null, Of value void. They form nor part nor parcel of our lot. Thou art our realty. We hold in fee Thy rich estates. Now yg If beggars we, It will not be Thy bounteous hand which seques- trates ! ONE ANSWER " If a man die, shall he live again ? " OD gives men sense of seeing, And beautiful things to see, He grants their eager hstening All charm of melody. He feeds their taste on fruitage, Stored with world-garnering clutch. His smooth, rough, fine, rewardeth The deftness of their touch ; Ten thousand blooms distilling For them their priceless scent, As ten thousand stars are gleaming In yon blue firmament! Fond traits of benefaction, And a burden-bearing race, One Answer 8i That wait the glad almsgiving, And the shining of the face ! Each happy inmate given Rich realms to occupy In the bounteous earthly dwelling With its sun-illumined sky, Save one, and that one fairest Of all the busy throng, In lineament most winsome. Most passing sweet in song. Who sits and gazes alway. With wistful, tear-brimmed eyes. Far through those magic casements. Far through those throbbing skies. The moan of human sorrow — A low, sad undertone — Unquenched from unwrit ages, Floats in from every zone. 82 One Answer She bides, as carved in marble, Intent on naught beside, She must see her shining uplands. She will not be denied. Surely no incompleteness Dwells in God's love to man, In the vast, full-orbed perfectness Of his eternal plan. THE WARDER OD keep my soul to-night! God keep my soull " he cried. " Twilight's gray shadow falls; the never tiring foe Prevails. Come near, Strong One, speak rest till morning-tide — Sweet dream-oblivious rest of boyhood's long ago ! "The morrow's dawn shall take the struggle up again, The burning hours be filled from flam- ing sun to sun With contest grimly waged. Fierce Armageddon's plain, With all the surging host, shall hold no worthier one. 84 The IVarder " But now, that sleep dissolves the mus- cles of the will, Thrust back, O God, these stealthy shapes which menace me, — Pity the helpless form of thy drugged sentinel, Who turns, o'erborne, dear God — to thee — who turns — to thee!" The tired soldier slept, the tireless foe at bay, His boyhood sleep that night. Full many a fearful ghoul Drew nigh, — peered eager in, but turned in swift dismay To see the mute, dread warder there. God kept his soul ! A FIRE OF APPLE WOOD HE winter sky with stars is filled Of every rank and name, But chiefly through the frosted glass I see Orion flame, And watch the great sun, Sirius, rise Above the patriarch pine That lifts its tower of massive gloom Across the horizon line. How white and cold and still the scene, Those gleaming stars below. They who have sometime made their home In North New England know ; How rosy-warm the scene within They never could divine '86 A Fire of Apple IVood Who spend their years 'mid tropic heats, And languors of the Line. I turn me from the bloomless fields, And from the birdless tree, And from those shivering suns which light That cold immensity ; I draw the shades, leave lamps unlit, Make grateful solitude Where, leaning close and warm, I watch A fire of apple wood. Ah ! 't was a noble tree that feeds These leaping flames at length ; What queenly garb its summer guise ! What rugged winter strength ! Into its ample breast it drew The brooding rain and sun. And gave them forth in bloom and fruit, A life-long benison. A Fire of Apple Wood, 87 It knew no moody vagaries Like men we sometimes see ; It ever kept a constant mind, My dear old apple-tree ! Always near lingering solstice suns One saw the great white mound, Always with blustering equinox The crimson-pa ven ground. It saw around its springing youth The old dark pine-wood frown. — A grandsire of colonial days Had brought the sapling down From his fond mother-state to grace The humble home in Maine, — To fruit amid the clearing's smoke And ripening corn and grain. It had the seedling's flavor wild, — When Nature takes in hand To make an apple to her mind, 88 A Fire of Apple Wood All grafts that men have planned Must yield to her fine alchemy ; She, as none other can, Marries the wildness in the fruit To the wildness in the man. I lift the falling brands and heap With fragrant logs the fire ; The ruddy glow, the sparklet's glint. The purring gleams conspire With all the gracious fruitage given, And all the bounteous bloom, To gild, as always generous deeds, The darkness of the doom. Leap up, thou quivering soul of flame And storm the dusky flue. Thou warblest some melodious lilt E'en with thy last adieu, And visions gather of old days, When life was in its spring, A Fire of Apple Wood 8g And all things fair joined hands with thee In lovely blossoming ! Once more around my boyhood home The summer twilight broods ; Once more the plaintive whip-poor-will Calls from the pasture woods ; 'T is past late milking-time ; the cows, Through the cool eventide, Are resting where the orchard trees Rise up on either side ; The bats are flitting ; neighbor lights Fade out, but fireflies gleam ; I hear a streamlet's whispering flow Lapse through the radiant dream ; Adown the peaceful gloaming floats. O'er slumbering field and dell, The murmur-freighted " lin-lan-lone " Of a far-off evening bell. go A Fire of Apple Wood Again my crowning hour of life Smiles back across the years ; Again the fair Whitsunday morn Its olden splendor wears. I walk with Miriam in a world Complete of loveliness As my pleased eyes may hope to see In other lives than this. She seems the noblest of all girls, Gentle, without pretense ; The nursery of spiritual blooms Rooted in sterling sense. We thread the velvet-swarded lane And come beneath the shade Of my loved apple-tree — the bees A happy music made. My fire of apple wood burns low. The warm transfiguring gloom A Fire of Apple Wood gi Should gladden Miriam's heart and mine In our pleasant keeping-room. Is this her hand in mine I hold ? Is this her form I see ? Or is it but the beauteous wraith Of tender memory ? IN TENEBRIS SHADOW haunted pathway this! Our Httle Hght Shines Hke a tiny taper borne Through soundless night. But guidance to the pilgrim feet Is freely given — Sense of a loving Paraclete, And hope of Heaven. Enough to feel, whene'er we pray. With soul sincere, For strength to thread an austere way. The strength draw near. Enough to know whene'er we live As one immortal, We seem to tread the paths that give Upon Life's portal. UNEXPECTED GUESTS HOSE warmly welcome guests, Children of light and air — How they come like love and life To greet us unaware ! They brighten like the dawn, They blossom like the rose, So graciously they steal Forth from the deep repose. One moment naught did dwell In the gates day leaves ajar. Save the beauteous loneliness — But look — the evening star ! Yon elm's March leaflessness A tender yearning brings ; We recall the wistful gaze. And lo — a bluebird sings ! g4 Unexpected Guests Those tuneful madrigals — Like flowers in scented sleep, They bloom one knows not where, The twilight is so deep. FINIS OW soon the morning shifts to even-song. Our heartiest welcomes never can prolong The summer's stay. She folds her purples like a queen de- throned : Along the way Her vanished kindred went she goes forlorn. Farewell we say Musing with full hearts 'mid the golden corn. How soon youth's springtide shifts to snowy age ! As some deft reader, turning page by page Of rare romance, g6 Finis Reaches the finis, wrought in quaint device, With swiftest glance, So tireless Time reads on without re- pose. Turning life's volume to its mystic close — A dreamless trance, A flight as viewless as the wind that blows.