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JULIA HARRIS MAY. 
 
PICTURES 
 
 FRAMED IN 
 
 SONG 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA HARRIS MAY 
 
 FOR ART CLUBS, SCHOOLS AND 
 FAMILIES 
 
 ^^ 
 
 1907 
 
 Mayhew Publishing Company 
 Boston 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 
 Two Osplai Rftceiveo 
 
 DEC 23 190^ 
 
 0LAS8 <X XXC. No. 
 COPY B. 
 
 Copyright, 1907, by 
 
 J'ULIA tiAERIS Ma^ 
 AUBURN,'' Me. 
 
"T) 
 
 L 
 
 To My 
 Art and Literature Classes. 
 J. H. M. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 [The Poems marked thus (*) are illustrated.] 
 
 Portrait of Julia Harris May, Frontispiece. 
 
 Page 
 
 Across the Sea, 13 
 
 Artist's Secret, The 61 
 
 At Home, 72 
 
 Bavarian Jewels, 6 
 
 Cathedral of the Woods, 67 
 
 Chapel of the Skies, 69 
 
 * Christ of the Andes, The .... 80 
 
 * Distance of the Years, The ... 28 
 Double Rainbow, The 12 
 
 * Face of Jesus, The 78 
 
 His Story, 54 
 
 'T Paint the Queen," 34 
 
 * King of Rome, The 53 
 
 * Ledge, The 97 
 
Page 
 
 * Legend of the Madonna of the 
 
 Chair, A 25 
 
 * Leif Ericson, 93 
 
 Little Masters, The . 21 
 
 * Paint the Sky First, 23 
 
 * Pictures Can Any Language Speak, 19 
 
 PlERPOLE, THE LaST InDIAN OF THE SaNDY, 40 
 
 Presence of the King, The .... 82 
 
 * Prince Imperial, The 57 
 
 * Queen Louise of Prussia, 65 
 
 Rainbow of the Years, The .... 11 
 
 * RossETTi's Buried Songs, 30 
 
 * Rowing Across, 37 
 
 * Shadow of Her Face, The .... 95 
 
 Simplicity the Highest Art, 84 
 
 Teacher's Roses, The 4 
 
 * Trianon, The 32 
 
 Universal Language, The 10 
 
 We Pass This Way but Once, ... i 
 
 Wives' Obedience, The 86 
 
WE PASS THIS WAY BUT ONCE. 
 
 "I pass this way but once," 
 
 The eager traveller cried. 
 "And though I may be dubbed a dunce 
 
 Outre, undignified, 
 I'll mount with joy this peak. 
 
 Do not my mounting blame 
 Laugh not because new things I seek 
 
 For that is why I came. 
 
 '^ I have a friend at home 
 
 Who longed to come with me. 
 It is because she could not come 
 
 I would these beauties see. 
 I long to tell her all 
 
 That I am seeing here. 
 Some gift I seek, or large or small. 
 
 Some little souvenir, 
 
 "That I may take to her; 
 
 Because I love her so. 
 And say, '1 am so sorry dear; 
 
 That you could not go' — 
 Then laugh at me who will, 
 
 I care not if you laugh. 
 The joy that doth my bosom thrill 
 
 I cannot tell you half — " 
 
 We pass this way but once. 
 
 Life-travellers, oh, say. 
 Why do we leave our road to chance, 
 
 Or blindly walk the way? 
 
Oh, why neglect ihem so, 
 The earth, and sea, and sky, 
 
 Where God walks daily, since we know 
 Once only, we pass by? 
 
 Are there not hills of truth 
 
 Forever beckoning ? 
 Oh, why not climb them, nor forsooth, 
 
 Be idly wandering? 
 For soon we must go home 
 
 Across the rolling tide. 
 And know full well, we cannot come 
 
 Back again this side. 
 
 But when we touch the shore 
 
 Of that dear fatherland. 
 We shall be glad, forevermore. 
 
 Clasping our loved one's hand, 
 And thinking what this earth 
 
 Has taught us sweet and fair, 
 To know how much we have that's worth 
 
 Telling over there. 
 
 And every lovely thing. 
 
 The tender and the sweet, 
 I think we shall be glad to bring 
 
 To Our dear Father's feet. 
 If He says, ''Wandering child. 
 
 What have you brought to me? 
 From that far-off foreign land 
 
 Come and let me see," 
 
Shall we not gkidly run, 
 
 And say, "Here Father, here. 
 We've brought you, now the journey's done, 
 
 Many a souvenir." 
 And will He kindly turn 
 
 To us, and softly say, 
 *'I am so glad you tried to learn 
 
 All along the way. 
 
 Nothing was so small. 
 
 Child, it did not hold, 
 For the eye that looked at all. 
 
 Lessons manifold.' ' 
 Oh let me look to-day, 
 
 And every day, the same, 
 And, though I pass but once this way. 
 
 Be better that I came. 
 
THE TEACHER'S ROSES * 
 
 June roses in her kindly hcincls, 
 
 A lady walked the street, 
 And watched the waifs from many lands 
 
 Go forth with tripping feet 
 Unto the schoolhouse; as she walked, 
 
 A small Italian boy 
 Before her pathway quickly stalked. 
 
 His eyes brim-full of joy. 
 And gently touched the fragrant stems, 
 
 "I want um. Give me some," 
 He said, "I han't no flowers like thems. 
 
 I want um. Give me um." 
 '^ They're mine" the smiling lady said. 
 
 ''Gimme um" still he cried. 
 She lifted up the tangled head 
 
 And pushed the curls aside. 
 And said, "You want my flowers do you? 
 
 And want them for your mother?" 
 He pulled a crimson rose anew. 
 
 And said, ' 'I doesn't nuther, 
 I want to gimme my teacher though," 
 
 Oh, how the black eyes shone. 
 "I love her, love her, love her so. 
 
 Oh, gimme, gimme one." 
 The rose was his. He rushed away. 
 
 Her lovelight in his eyes. 
 To give his " virginissima 
 
 Santissima" the prize. 
 
 * Suggested by a story told by Mrs. Alice Freeman C. Palmer 
 before the Woman's Club in Cambridge, some years since. 
 
Oh sweet young teacher in the slums, 
 
 The hardest place you sought. 
 But, ah, how quick the blessing comes. 
 
 You have not worked for nought. 
 Your gracious beauty fills the aisles 
 
 Where happy children stand. 
 They read their duty in your smiles. 
 
 And wait for no command. 
 They copy not your words alone, 
 
 Or manners or position. 
 "To be like teacher" when they're grown. 
 
 The height of their ambition. 
 They bring you many a tender gift. 
 
 They cover you with roses, 
 The bud those little hands uplift, 
 
 The flower of love discloses. 
 Thus shall it be while life endures; 
 
 The sweetness that you throw 
 On other hearts, shall come to yours, 
 
 As long as roses grow. 
 
BAVARIAN JEWELS. 
 
 Frederick, the Duke of Suabia, 
 
 By the sacrament he swore 
 Thc-,t Wolf, the Duke of Bavaria, 
 
 Should threaten him no more. 
 By the sacrament he swore it, 
 
 And, on the self-same night, 
 The horsemen of the Ghibeline, 
 By lord and peasant lad were seen. 
 
 Hastening to the light. 
 
 In the castle of old Weinsburg, 
 
 Wolf by his lady swore, 
 " 'Tis the horsemen of Duke Frederick, 
 
 I have heard their tramp before. 
 I have heard their hateful tramping. 
 
 And their waving plumes have seen. 
 The Guelph is ready for the fight. 
 
 Woe to the Ghibeline." 
 
 Then he called his faithful vassals. 
 
 And closed the heavy gate. 
 While all his trusty followers 
 
 By the open draw-bridge wait; 
 By the open draw-bridge wait they. 
 
 For the signal from their head. 
 And they whisper curses loud and deep, 
 ''Soon shall the maids of Suabia weep 
 
 For their lovers lying dead.' ' 
 * * * * 
 The morning sun is shining. 
 
 The drawbridge is in place. 
 
And mv.ny a brave Bavarian 
 
 Lies wounded in the face. 
 Shouts Frederick's conquering army, 
 
 "Open the castle gate, 
 For Wolf, the rebel duke, must come. 
 And all his vassals one by one 
 
 To meet a righteous fate.' ' 
 
 But the wife of the conquered noble 
 
 Trusts not Duke Frederick's faith; 
 Will not believe him, though he says, 
 
 "Wolf shall be safe from death. 
 Safe from my bow and arrows, 
 
 Safe from our bloody sw^ords, 
 And he must bring 
 In the name of the king. 
 
 His vassals and his lords.' ' 
 
 She dares not trust Duke Frederick, 
 
 But a faithful page she speeds 
 To ask a boon of the king himself, 
 
 And thus he intercedes : 
 "In the name of our holy lady. 
 
 Our lady sweet and true. 
 The wife of Wolf, the conquered duke. 
 Your cruel deeds will not rebuke, 
 
 But asks a boon of you. 
 
 "Oh noble valiant emperor. 
 
 Bavarian maids are fair; 
 Bavarian wives they love their lords, 
 
 And costly things to wear, 
 
And jewels ^r their hair, my lord, 
 
 To make their beauty bright. 
 Let us bring out, 
 To the castle moat, 
 
 Things precious in our sight." 
 
 Konrad replied "I grant. Come forth! 
 
 Come forth. Bavarian wives I 
 Bring all your precious things, though worth 
 
 A fortune in your eyes. 
 We will not hurt a pretty maid. 
 
 Our men are brave, but true, 
 They shall not harm your matrons fair ; 
 Bring forth the pretty things you wear. 
 
 And bring your jewels too." 
 
 ^ -Sf -x- -H- 
 
 The castle doors are open now 
 
 Look! through the ponderous gate, 
 A blushing line of ladies comes; 
 
 Not a moment do they wait. 
 Not a moment do they wait, for lo! 
 
 Upon their backs they bear 
 More precious things 
 Than crowns of kings. 
 
 Or jewels queens may wear. 
 
 King Konrad sees with tearful eyes, 
 
 Duke Frederick's oaths are checked. 
 Oh, not with jewels for their hair. 
 
 Bavarian wives are decked. 
 Not with rich bracelets for their arms, 
 
 Nor clothes of Suabian flax; 
 What is this wondrous, precious thing, 
 Trembling across the bridge they luring, 
 
 Upon their very backs? 
 
Each brings her husband! Konrad sees. 
 
 He waves his kingly hand. 
 ''Duke Frederick, let these people go, 
 
 It is my stern command. 
 Husbands and wives, let them go forth, 
 
 And let my subjects know, 
 Konrad the king must ever heed 
 A noble and a loving deed. 
 
 Performed by friend or foe. 
 
 "A costly banquet I'll prepare, 
 
 To-night upon my life. 
 These Guelphs I will invite to come. 
 
 The husband with his wife 
 Freedom to all is freely given 
 
 Given by the king himself, 
 Duke Frederick, we will ever heed 
 A noble and a loving deed, 
 
 In Ghibeline or Guelph," 
 
THE UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE. 
 
 If to a foreign land you roam 
 Knowing alone the speech of home, 
 And hear no fond, familiar word, 
 How is your soul within you stirred 
 To see a smile on some kind face. 
 To hear a voice of tuneful grace! 
 The smile, the song, they do not need 
 Interpretation. These indeed 
 Speak native tongue to you, and so, 
 A universal language show. 
 
 Though the tired lip no word can speak, 
 Though the dazed ear in vain doth seek 
 To understand, the smile is still 
 Translated into glad good will. 
 And the sweet voice doth often bring 
 A wordless joy upon its wing. 
 
 I sometimes wonder with what speech 
 The angels' lips our ears will reach. 
 And what the dialect will be 
 Of all the glorious family 
 Of the forgiven, when we go 
 Unto the land no man doth know, 
 And, just beyond the pearly gate 
 For a familiar accent wait. 
 
 Perchance a smile, perchance, a song 
 Will come to us from that great throng 
 Till we discover with surprise'^ 
 These are the Language of the Skies. 
 
 lO 
 
THE RAINBOW OF THE YEARS. 
 
 Seven artists as I learn from ancient seers 
 Form the Great Masters' — Rainbow oj the Years. 
 
 The first and best that Italy can show 
 Is the great sculptor Michael Angelo. 
 
 The second, whom the first place some assign, 
 Is Santi Raphael, almost the Divine. 
 
 The third, most versatile of any man, 
 L. Leonardo, painter at Milan. 
 
 The fourth is Titian, mixing all his dyes, 
 After the pattern of Venetian skies. 
 
 The fifth, Correggio, whose unrivalled grace 
 Gave fame forever to his native place. 
 
 The sixth is Rubens of such wondrous skill. 
 That in old Antwerp he seems living still. 
 
 The seventh is Rembrandt, whose skilled fingers 
 
 made 
 Chiaroscuro, out of light and shade. 
 
 As Iris made her bow of colors seven. 
 
 So these seven artists, to the world were given ; 
 
 And, in the sky of Beauty, still they shine, 
 A promise of an art still more divine. 
 
 II 
 
THE DOUBLE RAINBOW. 
 
 But 2,s I look again what do I see ? 
 A double rainbow shows itself to me 
 Just as along the cloud-hung summer sky 
 A fainter bow doth sometimes reach mine eye. 
 
 The great Velasquez, glory of old Spain, 
 Looks down reprovingly on me again; 
 And my Murillo, Woman's painter styled, 
 Shows me his cherubs sweet and undefiled. 
 
 Del Sarto whom Lucretia so beguiled 
 Faultily faultless, yet by men reviled. 
 And BotticeUi limned in shining gold 
 Shows many a face of loveliness untold. 
 
 Angelico whose angel faces shine 
 
 In his old cloister, with a light divine, 
 
 And English Reynolds' loving children's faces, 
 
 They, to all time, repeating childish graces. 
 
 The seventh? I am not sure. I'll look again. 
 Durer or Holbein, Hals or Claude Lorraine ? 
 Or Turner, through a sunset mist, I see. 
 And just one glimpse of Whistler, comes to me. 
 
 My double rainbow vanishes in air, 
 But Art and Beauty, they are everywhere. 
 
 12 
 
ACROSS THE SEA. 
 
 And have you been ?xross the sea , 
 
 Across the sea of Dreams? 
 And did you sail right merrily 
 
 Beneath the pale moonbeams? 
 And did you see the phantom ship, 
 
 And which way did she go ? 
 And did you see her white sails dip, 
 
 I should like to know ? 
 
 Yes, I have been across the sea, 
 
 But not the sea of Dreams, 
 The ocean has come true to me. 
 
 And it no longer seems 
 So very wide, so very far. 
 
 With dangers all beset, 
 Oh blue, blue sea, with mirrored star, 
 
 Can I your face forget ? 
 
 And did you reach the other side ? 
 
 What saw you over there? 
 Are men like giants ? Do the}' ride 
 
 Upon the wings of air? 
 And do they speak with other tongues ? 
 
 And do the children grow? 
 And are the young folks ever young, 
 
 I should like to know ? 
 
 Yes, I have reached the other side. 
 
 'Tis very much like this. 
 The men are men; a bride's a bride; 
 
 The smile, the tear, the kiss, 
 
 13 
 
Are just like yours; the boys and girls 
 Are like your own, perchance 
 
 The girls have lips and cheeks, and curls, 
 And feet that Hke to dance. 
 
 And did you go to Heidelberg, 
 
 That seat of power and fame. 
 And pass the Passes of the Murgh, 
 
 Where goblins went and came? 
 And did you stand on Bingen's plain 
 
 And view the scene below? 
 And sing the old song once again, 
 
 I should like to know ? 
 
 I climbed Germania's vineclad height, 
 
 And looked upon the scene. 
 It filled my heart with new delight, 
 
 /\.nd yet, I saw between 
 The olden castles and the towers. 
 
 Green garden spots that bore 
 The very homegrown homely flowers 
 
 Picked at my mother's door. 
 
 And did you go to Switzerland ? 
 
 And did you see Mount Blanc ? 
 And did you by the glaciers stand, 
 
 And look way down upon 
 The little valleys just below? 
 
 And did you see Lucerne? 
 And pick the Eidelweiss, and go 
 
 To feed the bears at Berne ? 
 And did you hear of William Tell ? 
 
 And did the people show 
 The chapel where he jumped so well, 
 
 I should like to know? 
 
 14 
 
Oh, yes, I went to Switzerland, 
 
 It was the best of all. 
 Beside the peaks I loved to stand; 
 
 I saw Schaffhausen Fall, 
 I saw the Lion of Lucerne, 
 
 And saw the Pictured bridges; 
 And fed the funny bears at Berne; 
 
 And rode round Brunnen ridges; 
 I saw the home of William Tell 
 
 The jumping-off-place, too — 
 Some people think 'tis so, and well, 
 
 Some don't. I do, do you ? 
 
 And did you go to Holland pray, 
 
 To see the dikes and runes? 
 And did you listen every day 
 
 To our forefathers' tunes? 
 And did you see the little queen 
 
 And watch the windmills blow? 
 And are the Dutch folks very clean, 
 
 I should like to know? 
 
 I did not see the little queen 
 
 She knew not I was there — 
 But saw a maiden Evelyn, 
 
 And thought her very fair; 
 My heart prepared a crown for her, 
 
 A garland for her head. 
 Her father was a minister 
 
 From Michigan, they said. 
 
 15 
 
You did not go to Greece, or Rome, 
 
 You surely were not there. 
 You did not stand by Virgil's tomb. 
 
 Or sit in Caesar's chair, 
 You did not see the Vatican, 
 
 Or kiss the Pope's great toe, 
 Nor walk the streets where armies ran 
 
 In centuries ago. 
 You did not see the gondoliers 
 
 Or watch the Arno's blue 
 Above the dust of all the years ; 
 
 You didn't now, did you ? 
 
 I did not sit in Caesar's chair 
 
 Or kiss the Pope's great toe. 
 Next time, I shall be going there, 
 
 I'd like to have you know. 
 But I saw some things very fine. 
 
 And some things very sweet, 
 And wished they could be yours and mine 
 
 To make our home complete. 
 I did not go to Greece, or Rome, 
 
 But what is better far. 
 Back across the seas I've come, 
 
 Where all the home folks are. 
 
 And when you came across the sea 
 Did you like the motion ? 
 
 Did you think that you should be 
 Drowned beneath the ocean? 
 
 And did you count the miles each day 
 When the ship came over? 
 
 16 
 
And when you landed did you say 
 
 "Nevermore a rover"? 
 And when you reached the httle vale, 
 
 Where all the home folks go 
 Were you glad to hear "All hail' ' 
 
 I should like to know? 
 
 No, when I came across the sea, 
 
 I was not very ill, 
 I did not think that I should be 
 
 Drowned. I love it still. 
 The deep, deep sea, so bright, and blue. 
 
 Or green, with snowy foam, 
 I watched it, day by day, and knew 
 
 It was the pathway home. 
 Yes, when I landed, I was glad 
 
 That I had crossed the main; 
 And glad of the good times I'd had, 
 
 And glad to go again. 
 Now if there's any other thing. 
 
 To keep my rhyme in tow. 
 Just give your questioning its wing. 
 
 What do you want to know ? 
 
i8 
 
PICTURES CAX AXV LAXGUAGE SPEAK. 
 
 Inside a Paris Church, one day, 
 
 I sat; my home was far away, 
 
 The language of that foreign land 
 
 I could not fuUy understand. 
 
 *■ X'est-ce pas,' ' "' Pardon," one whispering said 
 
 ' * \'ous comprenez ?' ' I shook my head. 
 
 The words the chanting bishop cried. 
 
 Were Greek to me. Unsatisfied, 
 
 I looked aroimd the room to find 
 
 Some help for my confused mind. 
 
 And saw, above the altar shine, 
 
 A picture with a face di\ine, 
 
 \Miose eyes were fixed upon mine own, 
 
 Like eyes my long-lost youth had known. 
 
 An upward pointed hand I saw. 
 
 And Hps that seemed to speak. With awe 
 
 -And wonder, and dehght, I gazed. 
 
 Half comforted, and haK amazed. 
 
 The staromering throng, I heard them not. 
 
 The priest, the people, I forgot : 
 
 Forgot my loneliness, and knew 
 
 A wider \'ision, farther \'iew. 
 
 Through heart and brain. I felt a thrill 
 
 Of rapture aU the silence fiU; 
 
 And, overhead, now far, now near, 
 
 Heard whispered words none else could hear, 
 
 ^" Be comjortedS^ The chaHced priest 
 
 Toned on until the sersice ceased: 
 
 I listened not. Mv heart had heard 
 
 19 
 
A sermon that its being stirred; 
 Of hope, of faith, of God and Heaven; 
 Of comfort to the Wanderer given; 
 And this sweet truth, not far to seek. 
 Pictures can any language speak. 
 
 20 
 
THE LITTLE MASTERS. 
 
 Not to the mighty things 
 He soared, his fame to swell 
 
 With humble heart and folded wings 
 He did the small things well. 
 
 The lowly cottage hearth 
 
 He painted, saying, 'T 
 Will learn, at first, to paint the earth 
 
 And ajierwardSjthe sky^ 
 
 21 
 
No valiant Hercules 
 
 This r.rtist tried to limn, 
 He painted birds, and flowers, and trees 
 
 Instead of Seraphim. 
 
 And now, his life-work done, 
 
 Even as his pencil ceases. 
 Men call his pictures, one by one, 
 
 The little masterpieces. 
 
 Dost think thy life-work small? 
 
 Dost think thy colors dull ? 
 Oh, do thy best, and men shall call 
 
 Thy pictures beautiful. 
 
 And though they praise thee not 
 Work on, and watch, and wait. 
 
 To Him who marketh out thy lot, 
 There is no small or great. 
 
 22 
 
PAINT THE SKY FIRST, 
 
 An artist of rare skill 
 And genius manifold, 
 
 Did not outline his picture till, 
 In tints of blue and gold, 
 
 Upon the canvas, lifted high, 
 
 He spread the colors of the sky. 
 
 And when the sky was done, 
 He painted all below 
 
 23 
 
To iii;il( li ill every line ;i,ii(l lone, 
 
 Until il seemed :i,s ihoiif^li 
 The very sIkkIows were in lovi- 
 Willi (olois ( opied iVoiii ;il)ove. 
 
 Hul vvlieii I lie work he/^Miii 
 
 Was linislied, 'I was so line, 
 'I'liey did not lliink of sky or sun, 
 
 lUil only how divine 
 'I'lie lan(ls(a|)e wa,s; liow » ool ;ind sweet 
 The spot where lif^hls and sliiidows ineel ! 
 
 \'es, lei llie sky < oiiie liisl ; 
 
 'Hiis is the lesson la.ught. 
 Tha.t lifetime is, :ila.s, the worst 
 
 Whose skies arc lali'st wrought, 
 I*or, linislied with t hi' greatest care, 
 Sonicllijiig is alwavs lai kiiij^ there. 
 
 (u)d lirsl and i'iarlii I he last, 
 What heller rule than this? 
 
 If thou dost wish the work thou hast 
 To be a niaster|)iei e, 
 
 Whose smallest touches, lij^htly given 
 
 On Karth and Seas, are toned to 1 feaven ? 
 
 Oh, hast lliou painted well 
 
 Thy pi( lure's glorious sky? 
 Hast not? And longest to excel? 
 
 Then lift to Heaven thine eye; 
 And let thy work its colors wear 
 I'ainI not the ground till skies are there. 
 
 24 
 
A lk(;k\ij of 
 
 IK MADONXA OF 
 ffAlK. 
 
 Within i\](: huui of Itdy, 
 
 Four hundred years ago, 
 'I'here lived a monk of piety, 
 
 (His name was Bernardoj 
 Who built a h'ttle house for prayer, 
 And spent his time in worship there. 
 
 ''Are you not lonely?" people said. 
 
 He looked at them ancl smiled, 
 And gently shook his silvering head, 
 
 And answered, meek and mild, 
 *'Oh, no, for have I not with me, 
 Two daughters, for society?" 
 
 The wonflering peoj)Ie looked at him, 
 Confounded, and perplexed. 
 
 25 
 
''He's growing old. His sight is dim. 
 
 What win he tell us next?" 
 He answered, " One is sweet Marie. 
 The other is my old oak tree.' ' 
 
 A neighbor's child was sweet Marie; 
 
 To all so kind and good. 
 And, close beside an old oak tree 
 
 Bernardo's cottage stood. 
 And these two, ''daughters," thus he styled, 
 The oak tree, and his neighbor's child. 
 
 Time passed. A mountain freshet came. 
 
 And swept the woods away. 
 "Bernardo's old, Bernardo's lame. 
 
 He must be lost" they say. 
 But Mary quickly ran to see, 
 
 And found him, clinging to the tree. 
 
 She saved him. "My two daughters, they 
 Have saved my life," he cried. 
 
 And thanked the Lord, by night and day. 
 Until the night he died. 
 
 They buried him beneath his tree. 
 
 And Mary mourned him bitterly. 
 
 Years pass again. The storm beats down. 
 
 Nor yet the old oak saves. 
 It falls. The tree, a giant grown, 
 
 Is cut in bits for staves. 
 And Mary's husband, at his task, 
 Now makes of them, his^cooper's cask. 
 
 26 
 
A painter wanders through the land, 
 Called the Divine, by grace. 
 
 Of generous heart, and skilful hand, 
 Seeking a lovely face. 
 
 He finds the cooper hammering, 
 
 And thus he asks, half stammering: 
 
 "Your lovely wife in yonder chair, 
 
 The babe upon her knee. 
 And that sweet boy with golden hcur 
 
 Are beautiful to me; 
 Will you allow me, man, to take 
 A copy for the Virgin's sake?" 
 
 The willing cooper answered, "Yes." 
 There was no canvas near. 
 
 Or paper, for the sketch, no less 
 The picture came out clear, 
 
 Upon an oaken barrel head. 
 
 Made from Bernardo's oak, 'tis said, 
 
 The sketch was finished, Raphael 
 
 Paid for the sitting there, 
 And called it, as do all as well, 
 
 "Madonna of the Chair." 
 More beautiful to you, and me. 
 For this strange legend of the tree. 
 
 Oh when in Pitti Gallery, 
 
 This masterpiece you see. 
 If one should ask you, doubtingly, 
 
 "How can this story be?" 
 "This is not wooden." Bid them go 
 
 And say, the poet told you so. 
 
THE DISTANCE OF THE YEARS. 
 
 An iirtist known to fame 
 
 Ppinted his pictures so 
 That those who close beside him crme 
 
 To see the landscape grow 
 Seeming to find strange marks amiss 
 Cried out, "What amateur is this ?' ' 
 
 But, when the work was done 
 And far behind they stood \ 
 
 To gaze upon it, one by one. 
 
 They whispered, "Oh! how good — 
 
 28 
 
See how each color burns and glows, 
 As to a masterpiece it grows." 
 
 Thus life sometimes appears. 
 
 Each awkward rough-drawn line, 
 Seen from the distance of the years. 
 
 Where shr.de and life combine 
 Doth with a Turner beauty glow, 
 That nearer vision could not know. 
 
 Thus might it be with thee 
 Forevermore, my friend! 
 
 What seems a blemish, only be 
 A beauty in the end; 
 
 Till all thy picture's grand intent 
 
 It shall more fully represent. 
 
 The picture of thy days, 
 
 Doth think it rough and rude ? 
 Dost long to paint the grander ways 
 
 Thou hast not understood? 
 Oh do thy best, and have no fears. 
 Trust to the distance of the vears. 
 
 29 
 
ROSSETTrS BURIED SONGS. 
 
 Thus sobbed Rossetti as he stood beside 
 The coffin of his wife Ehzabeth, 
 The morning of her burial: "My wife, 
 My darUng, glory of my life, my sweet 
 Soul-helper, and my model chaste, how can 
 I give thee up ?" while scalding tears dropped down 
 And touched the face, so icy cold, below; 
 He placed his hand upon her marble brow. 
 And kissed her cheek, r,nd kissed it once again, 
 And twined his lingers in her golden curls. 
 And cried again: "My wife Elizabeth, 
 How can I, can I live without thee, dear ! 
 
 30 
 
Open those pallid lips, and speak to me, 
 
 My beautiful, mine own ! One tender word, 
 
 Oh, let me whisper in thy pearly ear, 
 
 One loving parting word. Speak, if thou canst. 
 
 Thy voice is sweeter music to my ear 
 
 Than ever Orpheus made ! She doth not hear ! 
 
 She doth not see me ! Doth not seem to know 
 
 That I am near her. Can it be ? Oh, wake ! 
 
 Awake, my darling! From that upward path 
 
 Where thou art climbing, turn, Oh, turn this way. 
 
 I love thee; love thee! Thou art all to me. 
 
 The blossom of my heart, the glorious gleam 
 
 Of light, to gild my dark, the fountain clear. 
 
 From which I drew sweet music. From thy lip, 
 
 I caught melodious songs, and gladly learned 
 
 To echo Love's own living symphonies. 
 
 Thou showed'st me how to paint the crimson morn 
 
 Of perfect joy. Alas, 'tis night to me ! 
 
 'Tis night to me ! Lift up thy little hand ! 
 
 Turn back a moment from the Heavenly road. 
 
 And take the songs that I would give to thee. 
 
 Elizabeth, my own Elizabeth ! 
 
 I place within the hand that still is mine, 
 
 The songs and sonnets thou dids't love the best. 
 
 The ones we used to sing. Thou taught'st me all. 
 
 Thine, thine they are. No eye shall look on them 
 
 Except thine own. Beside thy milk-white hand, 
 
 Thy heart more white, these latest songs I place. 
 
 Take them to Heaven with thee." 
 
 They bore her to the grave, Rossetti close 
 
 Beside her. When they buried her, his last, 
 
 Best gift, his Song of Songs, lay close against 
 
 Her heart. 
 
 31 
 
THE TRIANON. 
 
 Oh, lovely little Tricinon, 
 
 I stand and look at thee. 
 Thy gravelled v^alk, thy mirrored pond 
 
 Thy geometric tree; 
 And, as I look, there falls between. 
 The shadow of the guillotine. 
 
 I hear the voice of Antoinette, 
 Beneath these branches cah, 
 
 I see the beds of orange set 
 By yonder palace wall. 
 
 I listen. What is that I hear? 
 
 Oh, Liberty, dost thou draw near ? 
 
 32 
 
"So beautiful," my lips repeat; 
 
 "So terrible," my heart; 
 Beneath the steppings of my feet, 
 
 Strange shadows seem to start; 
 And, as these doors I enter in, 
 I feel the breath of what has been. 
 
 Here is the bed where once she Ir.id 
 
 Her innocence to rest. 
 Here is the harpsichord she played 
 
 For those she loved the best; 
 Here are the songs she used to sing, 
 Which all these halls were echoing. 
 
 Here is the chair where once she sat 
 To have her portrr.it taken 5 
 
 Just here, she donned her jaunty hat; 
 And here, we see her waken 
 
 From dreams of luxury and bliss. 
 
 To fmd what retribution is. 
 
 Oh, lovely relic of the past : 
 The house she called her own ! 
 
 My tears upon thy face I cast, 
 But see, her face alone; 
 
 And ask if beauty like to this 
 
 Can hold a heart and life amiss ? 
 
 And as I see the shadows here, 
 
 Upon these waters flow. 
 Remembering, they were just as clear 
 
 When Louis looked below, 
 My heart and I cannot forget 
 The Trianon, and Antoinette. 
 
 33 
 
"1 PAINT THE QUEEN.'' 
 
 Beside her palette, sits to-day, 
 Madame Le Bmn. Her hand 
 
 Is hfted as she seems to say. 
 To those who wondering stand, 
 
 "I paint the queen, for her and me 
 
 I'm painting immortahty." 
 
 "I paint the queen, my queen," she cries, 
 
 And Hfts her skilful brush; 
 The light of love illumes her eyes, 
 
 And genius that doth hush 
 All petty jealousies, and mean; 
 She only thinks, " I paint the queen.' ' 
 
 Oh, Queen of portrait painters, thou 
 
 Still livest. There remains 
 So much of thee that's living new, 
 
 So much that lives and reigns ; 
 For, thou hast given thy Queen and thee, 
 Beauty in immortality. 
 
 I seem to hear thy voice unite 
 With hers in tuneful song ; 
 
 I seem to hear her jesting bright, 
 That bodes not any wrong ; 
 
 And, as I look, the teardrop starts 
 
 For her, the queen of broken hearts. 
 
 34 
 
Yes, peerless queen of broken hearts ; 
 
 And queen of colors bright ; 
 In Love's dominion and in Art's, 
 
 Ye ruled with gay delight — 
 On Fame's bright tablet, let us set 
 These names, Le Brun and Antoinette 
 
."^m 
 
 »«■■ t,-... 
 
 36 
 
ROWING ACROSS. 
 
 "Will you row me across my peasant maid?" 
 Said the prince, ''then take my hand." 
 
 Her bonny brown hand in his own was laid, 
 And she led him from the land; 
 
 And her golden br:iids with the o: r-beats toss, 
 As she silently rows the prince across. 
 
 The prince gazes down to her tiny feet. 
 
 And up to her shining eyes, 
 Where his tender looks no a^nswer meet, 
 
 But one of demure surprise. 
 And the quiet prince, and peasant seem 
 To be floating into a happy dream. 
 
 Her pull is firm, and her stroke is sure. 
 
 As she steadily rows across. 
 Watching his face in the water pure 
 
 She gives her oars a toss. 
 " By your sylvan garb, and stately mien, 
 My boatman," he says, "is a forest Queen."' 
 
 They reach the shore; the maiden lands, 
 And she murmurs, " Come after me.' ' 
 
 She carries his armor in her hands 
 Till the castle door they see; 
 
 But she gives his silver a backward toss. 
 
 As she murmurs: "I wanted to row you across. 
 
 She is gone. He enters the castle hall, 
 Where he finds an honored place; 
 
 Till he sees, through the door, a maiden tall 
 Come in, with a blushing face. 
 
 37 
 
Says the Duke, "My daughter." With vexed 
 
 surprise, 
 His fair boat-woman, the prince espies. 
 
 Life's river nearer the ocean flows; 
 
 The maiden becomes a queen; 
 Still simple and kindly, each subject knows 
 
 The Austrian's stately mien; 
 But her fairest jewels, away she would toss. 
 To play the old game of rowing across. 
 
 Look. The monarch is taking her hand. 
 
 Listen. He softly saith, 
 "No maiden in all Bavarian land 
 
 Like my wife Ehzabeth. 
 Together upon the waves, we toss, 
 And she is rowing me safe across.' ' 
 
 List ! 'Tis the sound of waiHng woe ! 
 
 Doth the Prince forget his vow ? 
 Is it for this her teardrops flow. 
 
 And all unmindful now. 
 Of her whose love still lingereth, 
 Doth he forget Ehzabeth? 
 
 Oh no. The king doth not forget, 
 Or, vdll forget no more, 
 
 *Tis not for this her eyes are wet. 
 But, at her palace door. 
 
 Her only son, her joy, and pride. 
 
 Lies a dishonored suicide. 
 
 38 
 
"We did not think such woe could be, 
 When floating down the stream — 
 
 Nor think that such deep agony 
 Could follow Love's young dream.' ' 
 
 The weeping monarch whispereth, 
 
 ''My faithful wife, Elizabeth." 
 
 Hark! 'Tis the dreadful, murderous knife! 
 
 Look! 'tis the falling queen! 
 Dark anarchy, its his work is rife. 
 
 Where life and joy have been, 
 Another victim lies in death ; 
 Oh, can it be EHzabeth ? 
 
 ''Why did they slay my precious queen? 
 
 She'd done no mortal wrong; 
 Nor had one harmful thought, between 
 
 Her night and morning song." 
 The aged Francis Joseph saith, 
 "My martyred wife, Elizabeth." 
 
 He's rowing, rowing, rowing still. 
 
 But with a trembling hand. 
 Soon will he reach the shore. Soon will 
 
 The princess bid him land. 
 But now, as billows rise and toss, 
 All alone he rows across. 
 
 39 
 
PIERPOLE, 
 THE LAST INDIAN OF THE SANDY. 
 
 By the banks of Mussul Unsquit, in the days of 
 
 long ago, 
 Looking at the shining water, and the ripples 
 
 downward flow. 
 On a pleasant August morning, at the rising of the 
 
 sun, 
 Pierpole, last of all the red men, and the truest, 
 
 bravest one, 
 Pierpole, last of all the red men of the Sandy, 
 
 watched its glow. 
 On a pleasant August morning, of a summer long 
 
 ago. 
 
 All the air was filled with fragrance of the balsam 
 
 and the pine, 
 Full of wildness and of beauty ; where the purple 
 
 columbine 
 Bloomed beside the Mussul Unsquit, standing by 
 
 the river's side, 
 Hannah Susup watched the warrior, whom her 
 
 love had glorified. 
 All the air was filled with perfume of the balsam 
 
 and the fir 
 While dark Hannah looked at Pierpole, and while 
 
 Pierpole looked at her. 
 
 By their side was Iganoose, Oppalunski held her 
 
 hand. 
 By their side was Joseph Susup, darkest savage 
 
 of the land, 
 And the maidens Kate, and Hannah, and they 
 
 listened, while he said. 
 
 40 
 
"See, my squaw, my dark-eyed Hannah, that so 
 
 long ago I wed, 
 See, my dark-eyed faithful Hannah, of the forest 
 
 maids the best, 
 How the maple trees are waving by the singing 
 
 robin's nest." 
 
 ''See the ash, for making baskets. See the 
 
 salmon and the trout. 
 See the moose, and bear, and squirrel, that are 
 
 roaming round about; 
 See the golden lights and shadows, Old Day 
 
 Mountain and Mount Blue, 
 Gliding up the laughing valley, where I told my 
 
 love to you. 
 Where our fathers killed the panther, ere the white 
 
 man's axe had stirred 
 Yonder forest, or the echo of his footstep had been 
 
 heard. 
 
 "Mussul. Unsquit Sandy River. Faithful Hannah, 
 let us stay 
 
 By its ripples. Let us never from the valley go 
 away. 
 
 For I love it; Oh, I love it, and my feet shall 
 never go 
 
 From its brooksides, while Mt. x^bram sends 
 down streams of melted snow. 
 
 Mussul Unsquit. Sandy River. Faithful Han- 
 nah, let us raise 
 
 On its bank another wigwam, for the closing of 
 our days." 
 
 ''I can hear the white man's footstep stealing up 
 4? 
 
 the winding vale. 
 
They are coming' ' murmured Hannah, and her 
 
 swarthy free grew pale. 
 "Let us go. I do not love them, all the other 
 
 braves have gone; 
 They have left these woods forever, and we must 
 
 not stay alone. 
 Let us go to the Penobscot where it rushes to the 
 
 sea, 
 Let us go" cried swarthy Hannah, "Pierpole, will 
 
 you go with me?" 
 
 But old Pierpole would not listen. ''Let us stay 
 
 awhile,' ' he said. 
 White man's hand, it is not bloody, it is faithful 
 
 as the red 
 If you clasp it like a brother's, I have proved him 
 
 long ago 
 When I lived with mine own people. I have tried 
 
 him and I know. 
 When I lived with mine own people, I could clasp 
 
 the white man's hand, 
 And our noble Androscoggins did not drive him 
 
 from the land." 
 
 " Humph !' ' then answered Hannah Susup, " Oh, 
 
 how little do you know. 
 All the whites are thieves and robbers; you will 
 
 find that it is so. 
 All this valley was the red man's, from the sunrise 
 
 to the west. 
 They have come to steal our valleys. Do you love 
 
 the paleface best? 
 
Humph! I hate the pale-faced robbers; you will 
 
 never, never see 
 Hannah smoke the pipe of friendship, with the 
 thief who stole from me." 
 
 "Hush, my woman," Pierpole answered, "Hush 
 
 my woman, you are wrong. 
 I have learned the white man's language; I have 
 
 listened to it long. 
 White man gave me corn of kindness, w^hen a 
 
 captive I was made, 
 And they saved me from the vengeance of your 
 
 warriors. I had stayed, 
 I had died, but white men saved me, black-eyed 
 
 Hannah, hear me say, 
 White man offered corn of kindness, I remember 
 
 it to-day. 
 
 ''Hark, my woman," Pierpole answered, "Faithful 
 
 Hannah, see this hand! 
 See this scar upon my linger! Woman do you 
 
 understand ? 
 That the tomahawk has cut it ? Hannah, Hannah, 
 
 let us wait, 
 Till we see the white man's rifle, pointing toward 
 
 our homes in hate. 
 No, he will not burn our baskets, will not shoot 
 
 us with his gun, 
 I would stay by Mussul Unsquit, till the hunt of 
 
 Hfe is done." 
 
 43 
 
So beside the Mussul Unsquit, Pierpole built his 
 hut once more, 
 
 Till the white men settled round him, built their 
 dwelHngs by his door. 
 
 When he saw their better houses, then he built 
 a cabin too, 
 
 Down beside the running water, where the mill- 
 stream murmurs through. 
 
 There he caught the trout and salmon, there he 
 trapped the yellow fox. 
 
 There he planted corn and barley, w^hile the white 
 men raised their flocks. 
 
 Hannah loved her swarthy Pierpole, so she stayed 
 
 and worked with him. 
 Hoed his corn, and cooked his venison. Helped 
 
 him cut the willow limb 
 For the baskets that she made him; brought the 
 
 sugar from the tree; 
 Sold the baskets and the sugar, but she never 
 
 wished to see 
 Any white man cross her threshold; never smiled 
 
 on w^hite man's child. 
 But remained a sullen savage in the Mussul 
 
 Unsquit wild. 
 
 Hannah sold the maple sugar to the Eastmans 
 
 and the Reads, 
 And the Porters and the Hunters, sold them 
 
 moccasins and beads. 
 To the Titcombs and the Belchers, and the 
 
 Wendells, Hannah sold 
 Baskets full of maple sugar, and she took their 
 
 scanty gold; 
 
 44 
 
But she never smiled upon them, never sent 
 
 a pleasant gift 
 To the white man's w^ife, but ever, scornful eyes 
 
 to hers would lift. 
 
 When she met them on the hillside, all the little 
 ones would say, 
 
 "There goes ugly, hateful Hannah, we must run 
 from her to-day." 
 
 Soon the dwellings thicker, faster, up and down 
 the valley rise, 
 
 And the settlers faster, faster, lift their chimneys to 
 the skies. 
 
 Then they burn the smoking cut-down, burn the 
 birch and poplar trees. 
 
 Drive the fish, the cod and salmon, farther down- 
 ward to the seas. 
 
 " Come, my brave," said Hannah Susup, ''come my 
 Pierpole, it is time. 
 
 Let us leave the Mussul Unsquit; to the north- 
 ward we will climb. 
 
 Let us leave the brook and mountain, leave them 
 to the white man's tread; 
 
 Let us find my own Norridgewocks, in the land 
 where they've fled. 
 
 Leave the white man. and his village, come, my 
 Pierpole, it is time; 
 
 To the northward, or the eastward, or the south- 
 ward, let us climb.' ' 
 
 But old Pierpole would not listen, or would Hsten, 
 but to say, 
 
 "We will wait, my faithful Hannih, till I want to 
 go away." 
 
 45 
 
But the gmccful Oppalunski, Pierpolc's best be- 
 loved child, 
 
 Best- beloved child of Hannah, drooped and faded 
 like a wild, 
 
 Broken sapling of the forest, that the woodman's 
 axe has cut, 
 
 Died without the priestly blessing, in her father's 
 humble hut; 
 
 All without the priestly blessing, to the skies her 
 spirit went. 
 
 "Cursed of God," said Hannah Susup, and her 
 groans to Heaven she sent. 
 
 As the star-eyed Oppalunski on the river looked 
 
 her last. 
 Breathed her last faint sigh of anguish, Pierpole 
 
 held his rifle fast. 
 Aimed it toward the blue of Heaven, saying, 
 
 " Oppalunski, go! 
 Go unto the Great Good Spirit, since He wills it 
 
 should be so; 
 Oh, my star-eyed Oppalunski, brightest daughter 
 
 of the land, 
 Go unto the Great Good Spirit, He will take you 
 
 by the hand. 
 
 Then old Pierpole took the hatchet, from the 
 corner where it stood, 
 
 Cut the hand of Oppalunski, from the wrist, and, 
 in its blood. 
 
 Bore it through the w^ailing forest; bore it weep- 
 ing, praying, till 
 
 He had found a priest to bless it. Backward com- 
 ing, cold and still, 
 
 46 
 
In her grave beside the river, laid his darHng and 
 
 he said, 
 "Oh, my gentle Oppalunski, can it be that thou 
 
 art dead?" 
 
 "Cursed of God," said Hannah Susup, "Cursed 
 
 of God, oh, will you hear? 
 Will you go to our own people ? Do you not 
 
 this cursing fear? 
 Will you leave the pale-faced robbers ? Pierpole, 
 
 Pierpole, will you start ? 
 I must surely go without you, leave you with a 
 
 broken heart. 
 "Cursed of God," said Hannah Susup, "Cursed 
 
 of God, oh, Pierpole hear, 
 Will you go to your own people ? Good Great 
 
 Spirit, give him fear.' ' 
 "We will go,' ' said Pierpole sadly, "if the curse of 
 
 God we bear; 
 We will leave the fatal valley, leave the glorious 
 
 mountain air, 
 Leave the blue-ledge and the wigwam, leave the 
 
 mill-stream and the pine, 
 Down the rocky Mussul Unsquit, that shall carry 
 
 me and mine. 
 We will go,' ' said Pierpole sadly, " no more curses 
 
 will I take. 
 We will go, I know not whither, for my Hannah 
 
 Susup's sake." 
 Then the sad-faced, broken Pierpole, strong and 
 
 true, as he was mild. 
 Made canoes of birch and willows, for the mother, 
 
 for the child, 
 
 47 
 
Placed his Hannah and the children, side by side 
 
 within the boat, 
 Down the river rowed them chanting, chanting, 
 
 chanting as they float: 
 
 " Down the Sandy ri\'er we go, 
 
 Ewayca, Ewayea, 
 Down wherever it may How, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea. 
 
 Nushka, Nushka, look not so, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea, 
 Look not backward, onward go, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea. 
 
 Moon of the falling leaves shi',11 rise, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea, 
 Moon of snow-shoes liglu the skies, 
 Ewayea, Ewayea. 
 
 Star of the East shall twinkle still, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayca, 
 Star o/the West shall light the hill, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea. 
 
 The mountain shall wear its plume of snow, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea. 
 Onward the river still shall How, 
 
 E waye:\ , Ewayea. " 
 
 Thus the Indian and his children and his silent 
 
 weeping wife, 
 Moated, chanting as they floated, from the 
 wondering settler's life. 
 
 48 
 
Only once, he stopped his rowing, stopped his sv.d 
 
 imd phLintive song, 
 Pitched his tent beside the river, where the falls 
 
 were swift and strong. 
 Stayed awhile, and looked, and listened. Did 
 
 he mean to say farewell 
 1\) the vj'Jley, and the mountain, while the waters 
 
 rose and fell? 
 
 ''See," said one who looked upon them, "see the 
 
 last of all the band, 
 Pierpole, hunter of the Sandy, goes into a stranger 
 
 land. 
 Leaves the valley of his fathers. He will never 
 
 more come back. 
 See! he wears his Indian blanket, vnc] his waving 
 
 ]jlume of black, 
 Wears his shining silver medal, and his bracelets; 
 
 by his side 
 Frowning, sits old Hannah Susujj, Look! across 
 
 the stream they ride. 
 
 See the little Kate, and Joseph; see young 
 
 Mollie Susup there, 
 See the corpse of Oppalunski. Iganoose, too, 
 
 they bear. 
 Yes, they bear them in their blankets, for the 
 
 holy priest to bless. 
 Carry them, we know not whither, through the 
 
 pathless wilderness. 
 Far from any white man's footstep, far from any 
 
 white man's prayer. 
 They are going. God be with them. He can 
 
 find them anywhere." 
 
 49 
 
By the falls stayed brave old Pierpole, last of all 
 the Sandy braves, 
 
 By the falls, stayed mournful Hannah, till she 
 smiled upon the waves, 
 
 Until suns twice two had risen, till the third one 
 tinged the sky. 
 
 Then, without a word of farewell, when, to 
 Heaven, mounted high 
 
 Smoke from every white man's cottage, down the 
 river went their boat, 
 
 Down the river, they are floating, chanting, chant- 
 ing as they float : 
 
 Star of the East shall twinkle stifl , 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea , 
 Star of'the West shall light the hill, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea. 
 
 The mountain shall wear its plume of snow, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea, 
 Onward, onward, still we go, 
 
 Ewayea, Ewayea. 
 
 Down the river Pierpole floated, far beyond the 
 settler's ken. 
 
 Vanished the canoe forever, from the gaze of 
 wondering men ; 
 
 Whether to the rocking ocean, whether to Cana- 
 dian shore, 
 
 Where he went, no white man knoweth, no man 
 knoweth evermore. 
 
 No man knoweth, no man telleth, but adown 
 the singing river. 
 
 Far away from Mussul Unsquit, went the Indian 
 forever. 
 
 50 
 
Yei-.rs hovc widened to a century; white man's 
 
 children own the spot 
 Where old Pierpole Hved with Hannah, all, except 
 
 his name forgot. 
 Grows a pine-tree, higher, higher, as the distant 
 
 past recedes. 
 Stands a ruin, by the river, where old Hannah told 
 
 her beads. 
 There I have a little cottage; there I listen to a 
 
 brook. 
 Murmuring the song of childhood. There I 
 
 love to sit, and look. 
 But my heart is often asking, as I watch my 
 
 towering pine, 
 Brookside, meadow, forest, cottage, by what right 
 
 can ye be mine ? 
 
 Ye were given me by my father. Where arc 
 
 Pierpole's children now? 
 Are his dusky children's children, wandering still ? 
 
 Do they know how 
 Pierpole looked upon Mount Abram ? Do they 
 
 ever tell to-day. 
 How they floated down the river, on that morning, 
 
 far away ? 
 Yonder is a sacred acre. Grave, and stone, and 
 
 monument. 
 There my mother lies. Does Hannah, lie un- 
 
 honored, where she went ? 
 
 ''Child! be silent," voices whisper. ''Search 
 
 no more for things unknown. 
 Sometime, somewhere, here, or yonder, every one 
 
 shall find his own." 
 
THE KING OF ROME. 
 
 Sweet Image of a winsome child, 
 
 We who for beauty long, 
 And seek it pure and undefiled, 
 
 In picture or in song, 
 While we the painter's praises sing. 
 
 And own the power of art. 
 Would choose thee for our picture-kin^ 
 
 Enthroned within the heart. 
 
 Thy Father's throne hath passed away; 
 
 His memory doth wane, 
 Republics rule the land to-day 
 
 And triumph once again. 
 But oh, that picture's fadeless grace. 
 
 The years have failed to dim. 
 Napoleon liveth in that face; 
 
 We look, and pity him; 
 
 Yet do not cry, " Oh for a strong 
 
 Right arm like his to bind 
 The chains of anarchy;" but long 
 
 To keep this truth in mind; 
 That good from evil oft doth start. 
 
 As if it were its home. 
 As, in the heart of Bonaparte, 
 
 There lived the King of Rome. 
 
 53 
 
HIS STORY. 
 
 He lay within his ciT.dled bed 
 That shone with many a gem, 
 
 And bhnked into his father's face, 
 Who touched his gr.rment's hem, 
 
 And cried, "The promised heir has come, 
 
 He shall be called "The King of Rome." 
 
 He lies within his father's arms 
 
 Outside the palace walls, 
 "My lords, protect the boy from harms," 
 
 Napoleon proudly calls, 
 The while he shows the child to them. 
 Who's born to wear a diadem. 
 
 He smiles into the bishop's face, 
 
 At Sacred Notre Dame, 
 While holy baptism they place 
 
 Upon his brow; and calm. 
 And proud, and glad. Napoleon stands, 
 And holds the future monarch's hands. 
 
 He walks the marble palace floors. 
 
 His mother's arms between; 
 Nor dreams that once those gilded doors 
 
 Opened to Josephine. 
 The king of Rome, to-day, he is. 
 Within the royal Tuileries. 
 
 He leaves, one day, that happy home, 
 The teardrops in his eye; 
 
 54 
 
He is no more the king of Rome; 
 
 His father is not by, 
 While with an anxious countenance 
 The fated child departs from France. 
 
 Within the palace of Schoenbrunn, 
 
 For many years, he pines; 
 Napoleon does not see his son, 
 
 But reads these trembling lines, 
 "Oh, papa, papa, won't you come 
 And see your little king of Rome." 
 
 Alas, no more the king of Rome; 
 
 The Duke of Reichstadt he. 
 Within his grandsire's Austrian home 
 
 Forever doomed to be. 
 While on a lonely, barren isle 
 
 His father pines for him, meanwhile. 
 
 The father dies, the mother lives. 
 
 But faithless to her own, 
 The boy his last breath faintly gives. 
 
 Nor sees his promised throne; 
 And, in an Austrian tomb, they place 
 The heir of the Napoleon race. 
 
 And have they met in some far spot. 
 
 The Emperor and King? 
 Where sin is not, and war is not, 
 
 And love is everything. 
 And earthly crowns are left below ? 
 The King of kings alone doth know. 
 
 55 
 
But, as I look upon that face, 
 So sweet, and fair, and true. 
 
 And all its lines of beauty trace, 
 I see, say do not you? 
 
 Within the glancing of that eye. 
 
 Some faint reflection of the sky. 
 
 56 
 
THE PRINCE IMPERIAL. 
 
 Again the thundering cannon roar 
 
 As on that April morn, 
 They had pealed forth long years ago, 
 
 To show a prince was born. 
 Boom, cannon, boom, blow trumpets, blow! 
 A prince, a royal prince ye know. 
 
 Again, at the baptismal font, 
 
 A royal father stands, 
 And holds, as loving men are wont, 
 
 A smihng baby's hands. 
 
 57 
 
Lift, holy priest, your fervent pra.yer, 
 And sprinkle sacred water there. ^ 
 
 Two years, two brief and happy years! 
 
 Why doth the father go 
 To Russian wars? Why, through his tep.rs, 
 
 Look back, his boy to know? 
 Boom, cannon, boom! Fr.ll, foemen, fall! 
 'Tis glorious Sebastapol! 
 
 Grim war again. Who bravely goes 
 
 Close by his father's side, 
 And sees defeat, and dimly knows 
 
 A Hfe UTisatisfied ? 
 Listen! Oh, can it, can it be 
 Defeat ? Or, is it Victory ? 
 
 A sound of triumph on the air, 
 
 Transmuted to defeat; 
 The Prince Imperial goes where 
 
 The exiled wanderers meet; 
 The Marseillaise, no more they sing, 
 But sounds of grief are echoing. 
 
 Tw^o years of mingled smiles and tears, 
 
 And achings of the heart. 
 And phantom joys, and homesick fears, 
 
 And longings to depart. 
 And visions vain that come and go. 
 Forerunners of the coming woe. 
 
 And then a grave at Chiselhurst; 
 
 A father lying there; 
 For those whose place had been the first, 
 
 No homeland anv where. 
 
 58 
 
Oh, toll the bell, sad exiles toll! 
 There pa,sseth on a royal soul. 
 
 Why do the child and mother stay 
 Upon the Enghsh shore, 
 
 And look across the foaming bay, 
 Their kingdom nevermore? 
 
 " La Belle Paris ! La belle Paris 
 Adieu," cries homesick Eugenie. 
 
 Kind deeds from many noble hearts, 
 And hearts of royal mien, 
 
 Until alas, the prince departs, 
 A soldier to the queen; 
 
 And, far across the foaming sea, 
 Hesings "Britannia, 'tis of thee." 
 
 He dies. The dreadful Zulu swords 
 Have pierced him to the death. 
 
 No one to hear his dying words. 
 Or take his latest breath ; 
 
 But, chant a requiem, soft and sweet; 
 To-day a son and father meet. 
 
 A mother's groans, and bitter tears 
 
 From gentle Beatrice. 
 A broken heart through all the years, 
 
 Until its throbbings cease. 
 Ye sons of England, lone, bereft, 
 A Queen upon your shores is left! 
 
 Oh, Prince Imperial, thou art 
 A memorv alone. 
 
 59 
 
Thou livest in thy mother's heart, 
 
 Thine only earthly throne; 
 But, as from Heaven thou lookest down. 
 Thou dost not wish to wear a crown. 
 
 And as I think of thee, far more. 
 
 Thy praises I would sing. 
 Than his who palms of victory bore 
 
 Through seas of slaughtering, 
 Ring, joy-bells, I could almost cry! 
 'Twere better for the prince to die. 
 
 Thou didst not lead a conquering host. 
 
 Nor see thy foemen fall. 
 This only is thy mother's boast, 
 
 ''A Prince Imperial." 
 Glad mothers, with this mother sing, 
 ''Another Prince has found his King." 
 
 60 
 
THE ARTIST'S SECRET. 
 
 A Legend first told by Olive Schreiner. 
 
 A story strange and sweet 
 
 I read not long ago; 
 And I will now the tale repeat 
 
 If you would like to know. 
 
 Far, far across the sea 
 Where Art's full power is felt, 
 
 Within the land of Italy, 
 A wondrous artist dwelt. 
 
 He used one shade alone. 
 
 One color, but a glow 
 To other painters all unknown, 
 
 Seemed from his brush to flow. 
 
 And when his fellows cried, 
 
 "Whence comes that ruddy hue?" 
 He placed his hand upon his side 
 
 And whispered, "If you knew." 
 
 He watched his pictures grow 
 
 From morn to eventide, 
 Until, beneath their golden glow 
 
 His thought was glorified. 
 
 With head bent toward the ground. 
 
 He painted, painted on, 
 While others sought, but never found 
 
 The tints they looked upon. 
 
 6i 
 
And one went to the East, 
 The wondrous hue to find, 
 
 Nor from his fruitless searching ceast. 
 Until his eves were blind. 
 
 And one went to the West, 
 
 And from rare pigments, made 
 
 A color brighter than the rest, 
 Onlv to see it fade. 
 
 Whiter the artist grew. 
 
 His pde face purified. 
 But only those who robed him, knew 
 
 His secret, when he died. 
 
 When his white form they dressed 
 
 For burial, not far 
 From the still heart-beats of his breast, 
 
 They found a new-made scar. 
 
 For Death who seals all things, 
 
 The wounded side had healed. 
 But left the impress of his wings 
 
 Beneath the scar concealed. 
 
 Life's crimson tinged his brush; 
 
 This was the glorious hue; 
 And those who robed him whispered ''Hush!" 
 
 And ' Tf they only knew.' ' 
 
 62 
 
Ah, if we only knew 
 
 The secret of all art; 
 His work alone hath brightest hue, 
 
 Who painteth with the heart. 
 
 63 
 
64 
 
QUEEN LOUISE OF PRUSSIA. 
 
 If from that picture thou couldst come, 
 
 Oh, radiant Queen Louise, 
 And look upon thy former home 
 
 And all its mysteries; 
 
 If vision were reality, 
 
 And thou couldst come from far, 
 And all the changeful empires see, 
 
 Where thy descendants are; 
 
 If that sweet face, with serious thought, 
 
 Could break into a smile ; 
 That lace-like scarf, so finely wrought, 
 
 Could fall one side awhile; 
 
 If, down the steps of long ago. 
 Thou couldst descend, to-day. 
 
 And all thy great-grandchildren know. 
 What should we hear thee say? 
 
 What wouldst thou think of Germany? 
 
 What wouldst thou think of Greece? 
 And all the lands beyond the sea 
 
 That wait the dawn of peace ? 
 
 Oh, wouldst thou long to live awhile. 
 
 Where thy successors are? 
 And which one wouldst thou love the best, 
 
 The Kaiser, King, or Czar ? 
 
 65 
 
Those lips move not ; that foot is still 
 Those fingers, white and fair, 
 
 Must hold that traihng robe until 
 It fades, but gazing there, 
 
 I almost think she's coming down, 
 
 As in the long ago, 
 To meet the dread Napoleon, 
 
 And give him blow, for blow; 
 
 But no, she stands upon the stair, 
 And looks at you and me, 
 
 A vision, beautiful and fair. 
 Of past reality. 
 
 66 
 
THE CATHEDRAL OF THE WOODS, 
 
 One long remembered day, 
 
 In a cathedrcd grand 
 I stood, where people went to pray, 
 
 Within the German land. 
 
 The glory of the place 
 
 How well I recollect, 
 I seemed in every thing to trace 
 
 The unknown architect. 
 
 I gazed far up the pile 
 
 Through arches carved in stone, 
 And thanked the Lord I'd seen awhile 
 
 That Temple of Cologne. 
 
 Yet cared not much to find 
 
 An old divining rod. 
 It seemed so clear unto my mind 
 
 The architect was God. 
 
 Within the templed grove. 
 Vocal with praise, and prayer, 
 
 I met, to-day, the God I love 
 Who dwelleth everywhere. 
 
 Far up through maple boughs 
 That intervening spread. 
 
 Arose the echo of my vows. 
 By woods interpreted. 
 
 67 
 
"So high, so high," I cried, 
 " 'Tis Nature's own Cologne. 
 
 These trees are pillars glorified. 
 To a cathedral grown.' ' 
 
 And as I looked once more, 
 And saw the wondrous height. 
 
 And how the clinging summits bore 
 A roofing of delight, 
 
 I said, "This is the way 
 
 That richest natures grow; 
 When placed together. Day by day. 
 
 Perchance, it seemeth slow; 
 
 But higher still they rise. 
 
 Nor wish alone to stop 
 Until they lift unto the skies 
 
 Full verdure at the top." 
 
 Thus let me daily grow^; 
 
 Strong natures, by my side. 
 Until we make, above, below, 
 
 A Temple glorified. 
 
 And all sad hearts shall come 
 Beneath our spreading shade 
 
 And reach unto the skyward home 
 Sheltered, and unafraid. 
 
 * * * ^ 
 
 Oh, Grand Cathedraled Wood, 
 
 No architect unknown 
 Hast Thou, but Thou hast done me good, 
 
 My Temple of Cologne ! 
 
 68 
 
THE CHAPEL OF THE SKIES. 
 
 I stood outside Old Sainte Chapelle, 
 
 And looked the windows o'er, 
 Till weariness upon me fell, 
 
 And I could look no more. 
 "What failures all those paintings are!" 
 
 I cried in ignorance. 
 "A child's attempts surpass by far 
 
 That pictured countenance." 
 
 I went within. — How changed the scene! 
 
 How glorious the view ! 
 The outer lights flashed in between 
 
 The inner shades of blue. 
 And gold, and purple. All became 
 
 So strangely glorified, 
 I could not think it was the same 
 
 That I had seen outside. 
 :^» ^ ^ ^ 5j» 
 
 And thus with life, I softly said, 
 
 As from the place I went, 
 God's glory is interpreted 
 
 Within. It is not meant 
 That mortal eyes shall understand 
 
 The temple dark and dim. 
 Until we take Him by the hand, 
 
 And go inside with Him. 
 
 Oh, then, what hues ! What dazzling light ! 
 
 What pictures wondrous fair, 
 Ungainly to the outer sight. 
 
 Those shining windows wear! 
 
 69 
 
So dc'-rk without! So bright within! 
 
 All roughness seems to pass, 
 And God's own handiwork is seen, 
 
 Upon Hfe's painted glass. 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 And thus, far more, the future life, - 
 
 We cannot understand 
 The meaning of the war and strife 
 
 Portrayed on every hand. 
 We see no lineaments of a saint 
 
 Where all this crudeness is, 
 And think, perchance, that we could paint 
 
 With greater skill than this. — 
 
 But when we are at last inside 
 
 The great Cathedral, where 
 God takes his children to abide. 
 
 What glories it doth wear. 
 The reason for each crooked mark 
 
 Made clear before our eyes. 
 We see how Love through windows dark. 
 
 Life's picture glorifies. 
 
 And we shall say, "How strange, how strange, 
 
 We did not see before,' ' 
 And not one outline wish to change. 
 
 Or make one shading more. 
 For, all the colors strangely laid. 
 
 When inly understood. 
 Which seemed upon the outside made 
 
 Incapable of good — 
 
 70 
 
Seen through the golden glow of love 
 
 Burst forth to loveliness; 
 Unknown, unseen, and, far above 
 
 The heart of man to guess — 
 Then, eyes be not unsatisfied, 
 
 Nor coldly criticize ; 
 For ye shall, sometime, look inside 
 
 The Chapel oj the Skies. 
 
 V 
 
AT HOME. 
 
 Yes, I have been across the sea, 
 
 No more the sea of dreams. 
 The ocean has come true to me, 
 
 And it no longer seems 
 So very wide, so very far, 
 
 With dangers all beset ; 
 Oh, blue, blue sea, with mirrored star, 
 
 Can I your face forget? 
 
 Across the sea — It is not much, 
 
 We go from star to star, 
 Familiar earth we seemed to touch 
 
 Beyond the horizon's bar. 
 The very flowers, our faces knew. 
 
 The buttercup and rose, 
 The violets wear New^ England blue. 
 
 The same old North wind blows. 
 
 We touched the shore, one summer day. 
 
 At old Boulogne-Sur-Mer. 
 We climbed the cliffs, above the bay. 
 
 Three thousand miles from here. 
 We watched the foam-specked emerald sea. 
 
 We climbed again the hills, 
 To pick a pink anemone 
 
 Among the daffodils. 
 
 We stand within the Luxembourg 
 
 And in the Louvre, at last, 
 We see the pictures that endure. 
 
 Old masters of the past. 
 
 72 
 
We dream before Murillo's art, 
 
 His rare madonna's nigh, 
 But seem to see, while tear drops start, 
 
 Our own sweet mother's eye. 
 
 We scale the Jura's rugged heights, 
 
 Through rustic Mouthier, 
 Grand are the visions that delight 
 
 Our eyes along the way. 
 But as we reach the highest steep. 
 
 Or cross the rushing Lou, 
 Our home-sick hearts with longings leap, 
 
 For hills beyond the blue. 
 
 We cross the turbid Rhine, and stay 
 
 To hear the woodland song. 
 Black- Forest firs o'ershade the way 
 
 And wave sweet tunes along. 
 We pass the wondrous bridge of boats, 
 
 We touch the Rhine again. 
 And smile, as down the steamer floats, 
 
 And dream we are in Mi'ine. 
 The same Aurora gilds the sky. 
 
 The same sweet summer glow 
 Steals o'er the vales, and, from on high, 
 
 The same soft moonbeams flow. 
 
 The Blue Alsatian hills combine 
 With school-time's sweetest songs. 
 
 The sound of Bingen on the Rhine 
 To other days belongs. 
 
 73 
 
The castles of the early Gauls, 
 
 The statued monument, 
 With pictures on remembered walls 
 
 Alvsteriouslv are blent. 
 
 We ride to sound of olden tunes 
 
 Through Holland's level lands, 
 We see the wind-mills, and the runes. 
 
 And shining cattle bands. 
 We see the dykes of Amsterdam, 
 
 To Leyden we draw near. 
 Above the plains, we hear the psalm 
 
 Our fathers chanted here. 
 
 In Holland's happy Hague we stay 
 
 One summer day, and more. 
 We clasp kind hands that point the way 
 
 At Scheveningen shore; 
 Those shining eyes, that golden hair. 
 
 Those hearts so kind and free. 
 An image and a memory bear. 
 
 Of life across the sea. 
 
 Beyond the channel, is a land 
 
 By father's fathers known, 
 Its language we can understand, 
 
 Its history is our own. 
 Its very names, we speak them still. 
 
 In Lewiston or Strong. 
 Its tunes are ours. Its ballads thrill 
 
 Our hearts like home-folk songs. 
 
 74 
 
We look upon a lofty pile, 
 
 Westminster's storied fame; 
 We gaze around each sacred aisle 
 
 For some familiar name. 
 They all are ours, we claim them stil 
 
 Through kinship of the years, 
 But one, alone, our eyes can fill 
 
 With sympathetic tears. 
 
 'Tis Longfellow's; we see with pride 
 
 His face on yonder bust. 
 We joy to read his name beside 
 
 The Old World's honored dust. 
 A Shakespeare's pla,ys, a Browning's songs, 
 
 A Lowell's gracious vision. 
 They are a kin. To them belongs 
 
 Relationship Elysian. 
 
 And here we find the kinship traced, 
 
 Those chapter windows shine 
 With deeds of English Stanley, placed 
 
 By Lowell's dreams divine. 
 If Launfaul from his dream could wake. 
 
 Or lift the vision's veil, 
 The cup of joy his hand would take ; 
 
 Death finds the Holv Grail. 
 
 We sail once more the silent sea ; 
 
 Old Neptune is asleep. 
 For, as we float, full merrily 
 
 Our joy drops down the deep. 
 
 75 
 
And this the song we love to sing, 
 The sec^., the sea is wide, 
 
 But shore to shore shrll Uft its wing, 
 And find the other side. 
 
 And oh, the earth is not so wide, 
 
 For God is everywhere. 
 And heart to heart may be allied. 
 
 Or here, or over there. 
 The world is round, the grand old world, 
 
 And though betimes we roam, 
 The heart is glad when sails are furled 
 
 And findeth home, sweet home. 
 
 And thus, as o'er life's sea we sail, 
 
 The beautiful and sweet 
 Seem like some hrlf -remembered dream, 
 
 We're longing to repeat. 
 The dearest things that life has known, 
 
 The smile, the loving kiss, 
 Are they mementoes, handed down 
 
 From other worlds than this? 
 
 The hills of home, they sometimes seem 
 
 In our divinest hours, 
 The half-formed outlines of a dream 
 
 That, waking, shall be ours. 
 Ah, when we reach the other side. 
 
 Beyond the ocean's foam. 
 Will it be sweet, where we abide, 
 
 To say, ''Tliis looks like home?" 
 
 76 
 
It may be so — I hope it will, 
 
 Though Heaven hath better things, 
 And greater joys our souls shall thrill. 
 
 Than those the fire-side brings. 
 Yet, it an added joy would give 
 
 To even that land^s bliss, 
 If some glad prospect could revive 
 
 The precious things of this. 
 
 77 
 
THE FACE OF JESUS. 
 
 It is a night of pleasure at St. Paul, 
 St. Paul, the city that some people call 
 The rival of its neighbor. Often there, 
 The people gather for a good time, where 
 The halls are open every day and night. 
 Some strange new thing to show the enraptured 
 sight. 
 
 This night, unto the assembled crowd are shown 
 Pictures of famous people they have known. 
 All eagerly they look upon the screen 
 Where the familiar faces should be seen. 
 But oh, how dim! Impatiently they gaze 
 Upon the wall. There seems a misty haze 
 
 78 
 
On every picture, and the rabble cry, 
 
 ''More light, more light," or "I>ay that picture 
 
 by." 
 As, one by one, half-hidden views appear, 
 The raging multitude, in tones severe, 
 Deride them all; a dim, demure Mozart 
 They laugh to scorn, and cry, " Oh glorious art !' ' 
 A Roosevelt is pushed into the slide; 
 "How strenuous! Oh, put that daub aside," 
 Cries many a voice ; a Whittier faintly shines 
 In strange perspective, and half-vanished lines, 
 " Snowbound!' ' they cry, " Oh, take that picture 
 
 out." 
 (The exhibition nears a shameful rout). 
 "George Washington" the frightened leaders try, 
 The crowd screams louder, "Never tell a he!" 
 Confusion worse confounded doth increase 
 What shall be done to make the tumult cease? 
 Look! Look! upon the waU a face appears. 
 Benignant, beautiful. Put by your fears. 
 The light grows brighter. From the lifted 
 
 screen. 
 An eye looks forth, divinest ever seen. 
 ]t is the Christ. Upon the crowd He beams, 
 The noise is hushed, a breathless silence seems 
 To fall upon the place. " Peace, Peace, Be Still' ' 
 He seems to murmur. Quiet reigns until 
 The exhibition ends. Each slide, though dim. 
 Reflects somehow, the perfect light of Him 
 Whom all men love. Unto the very close 
 A rapt attention every picture knows; 
 And, as the crowd disperse, some whispering say, 
 " The Christ has calmed the seas again to-day.' ' 
 
 79 
 
THE CHRIST OF THE ANDES 
 
 Upon the snowy Andes' topmost height. 
 
 A statue stands, it is a glorious sight, 
 
 And those who view its huge dimensions say, 
 
 "Why is that lofty statue here, to-day? 
 
 Why does it stand upon a height that looks 
 
 On Argentina's and on Chih's nooks ? 
 
 By whose strong hewing were those boulders done 
 
 That the great statue sets its foot upon ? 
 
 What is the figure that so grandly lifts 
 
 Its golden Cross above the mountain rifts 
 
 80 
 
And points to Heaven? Is it the Christ I see? 
 Why is the statue here ? Oh, answer me, 
 Ye crags and hills; ye upward-lying plains. 
 Ye snowy chasms where destruction reigns. 
 Why is it here?'' Look, Traveler, once more. 
 What dost thou read? A thought unfelt before? 
 Thou readest ''Peace'\ The Christ looks o'er the 
 
 land, 
 To Chih, or to Argentine. His hand 
 Pointing to Heaven, confirms the promise made, 
 That two republics, once in strife arrayed, 
 Shall fight no more. Oh Brothers of the South, 
 Oh, papal priests ! let every heart and mouth 
 Give meed of praise. While stronger nations 
 
 fight 
 Ye have looked Heavenward for a guidmg light ; 
 And, on this peak, Oh, Brothers, — that for aye 
 Brothers indeed shall be, ye placed, one day, 
 A monument — True token let it be 
 Of universal love and amity. 
 Brothers and sisters Catholic, ye shame 
 Those that perchance, have looked upon your 
 
 name 
 With doubt or dread —Upon this stone they read, 
 "He who would serve the Christ, in word and deed. 
 Let him have peace — No longer let the sword 
 Be raised against the neighbor — To the Lord 
 Leave every quarrel — Lift the Holy Cross, 
 x\nd not the bayonet — Far backward toss 
 The iron for the deadly battleship. 
 Build schools and colleges — Let every lip 
 As doth the mountain-top, sing war's surcease. 
 Till continent to continent shall echo Peace.' ' 
 
THE PRESENXE OF THE KING. 
 
 "Oh I thai I migln 
 
 Do some great deed for Fatherland to-night I' ' 
 A maiden said, and stood beside the well 
 From Avhich the mossy bucket rose and fell. 
 
 ''Some wondrous deed',, she sr.id 'Svhich fame 
 would bring 
 
 Until it reached the palace of the king, 
 
 And He should send for me, and I behold 
 IMy gracious prince. It would be joy untold 
 
 To hear his voice; to hear him softly say: 
 'Well done, sweet maid!' 
 
 ' ' Alas ! I only stay 
 Beside the well, and lill, from night to morn 
 My cup, to give the thirsty, and forlorn; 
 
 But I will do my duty — • none shall say 
 They lack for water, as they pass today.' ' 
 
 A weary youth approached the wayside well ; 
 His steps were weak — upon the ground he fell ; 
 
 She lifted him; she gave the grateful cup; 
 
 He drank; He was revived, and, looking up, 
 Exckimed: ''Oh! maiden fair, thou hast well 
 
 done! 
 Thy daily deeds were small; but one by one 
 
 Thou hast performed them — due reward 
 they bring 
 
 To thee, at last; for lo ! / aw the King I '' 
 
 82 
 
Do little duties bravely — it may be 
 The Christ is in the one that's next to thee; 
 And if thou dost it well, 'twill surely bring 
 To thee — at last — the presence of the King! 
 
 83 
 
SIMPLICITY THE HIGHEST ART. 
 
 From my.ny countries hi-.ppy travellers came 
 Unto the Exposition. Every name 
 And race and language were collected tb.ere 
 To see the glories of the Lake-side Fair. 
 
 I enter with the crowd — I wondering gaze 
 
 Upon the great White City, many days. — 
 
 The Court of Honor, and the Peristyle, 
 
 And the great Fount, I see; I walk awhile 
 
 Around the splendid buildings that can show 
 
 A fleeting glory; with amaze I go 
 
 To castles and to palaces that seem 
 
 The reaHzing of my childhood's dream 
 
 Of Fairy-land. Unto the Museum, 
 
 The Palace of Great Art, at length, I come. 
 
 How my eyes glisten! as I move along! 
 
 What glorious statues! What embodied song! 
 
 Why do I smile ? Why do the tear-drops start ? 
 
 I have aw^akened to the power of art, 
 Unfelt before — Beside a grand Corot, 
 A radiant Rubens, or Correggio, 
 A Bouquereau, a Barbizon — Millet, 
 Or Alma-Tadema, a while I stay. 
 A bright Makart its half- nude maidens shows. 
 The symboled "Senses" — Michael Angelos, 
 In copied casts, are there; Velasquez' Kings 
 Of Spain; Blake's wild imaginings; 
 Reynold's Child Angels; PortnJts by Malbone 
 "The Horse-fair," "Knaus' "Madonna," the 
 "Alone" 
 
 84 
 
Of Israels — The quaint "Leif Ericson" 
 
 Of a Norwegian artist,' ' — One by one 
 
 I view these pictures till my tired eyes long 
 
 To rest awhile and watch the passing throng — 
 
 Just down the corridor a crowd I see 
 
 Before a picture — gazing cjuietly; 
 
 No word is spoken, but with tear-dimmed eyes — 
 
 They look upon it — Wondering I rise 
 
 And stand beside them — 'Tis a homely scene 
 
 (A cottage kitchen) sandwiched in between 
 
 More gorgeous paintings. Why do hundreds stay. 
 
 Beside the canvas every passing day? 
 
 Only a humble home! A mother stands 
 
 And holds her son, departing, by the hands, 
 
 And looks a fond goodby. A simple thing ! 
 
 But every heart to it is answering. 
 
 Each mother sees her boy — each man descries 
 
 His own dear mother — Memory glorifies 
 
 The country cottage — Thither thousands press, 
 
 And watch the scene with tearful happiness — 
 
 Oh, while grand pictures are forgotten there, 
 
 ''Home ties" will be remembered everywhere. 
 
 Remembered, yes, my heart remembers still. 
 This wood-cut copy can my eye-Hds fill. 
 
 Though Hovenden, the printer, early died, 
 
 And, through "a child's life saved" was glorified. 
 
 His deed heroic may forgotten be. 
 
 But not the picture — still it speaks to me 
 
 Of home, and childhood, and a mother's heart. 
 
 Simplicity I 1 1 is the JiigJiest Artl 
 
 85 
 
THE WIVES' OBEDIENCE. 
 
 Come hither, my mountain children, 
 
 My boys both brave and true! 
 My girls, so sweet, and f?ir, and good, 
 
 I have a story for you. 
 A story for you my darlings. 
 In loving words exprest, 
 It shall be true, 
 And fresh and new, . 
 I'll do my very best. 
 
 Then children, gather round me, 
 
 Come Kate, my black-eyed one, 
 Come Delia, my sweet oriole. 
 
 Our long day's work is done. 
 I'll sit to-night in my corner. 
 In this cozy old arm-chair. 
 Come Matt, and Bell, 
 A tale I'll tell 
 If you'll sit beside me there. 
 
 Long, long ago, in old England, 
 
 There lived a wilful king. 
 Who demanded that all the people 
 
 Should mind him in everything. 
 They must do just the thing that he told them 
 This wise man upon the throne. 
 Must even pray 
 In the very way, 
 And tlic words that were his own. 
 
 86 
 
So he ordered all of his subjects, 
 
 To go to the king's own meeting, 
 And stopped the preachers of other churches, 
 
 In the middle of their speaking. 
 In the middle of their sermon, girls. 
 And shut them up in jail. 
 ''What a vacked king," 
 Says Matt. Nothing 
 Could make their courage fail. 
 
 Down, down by the rushing ocean. 
 In the days of this wilful king, 
 Was a quiet little hamlet. 
 
 Where they heard the billows sing. 
 Where they heard the billows sing, boys, 
 But could not sing their Psalms, 
 For James, the king. 
 Was listening, 
 With soldiers all in arms. 
 
 Sometimes, to the secret caverns, 
 They went, of a Sabbath day, 
 And worshipped the God of their fathers. 
 
 In a very simple way. 
 In a very simple way, girls, 
 The way they loved the best. 
 But when King James 
 Found out their names, 
 They had no peace nor rest. 
 
 Then they longed to leave old England, 
 
 And go to a happier land, 
 But the king said "No, you cannot go 
 
 You must do as I command. 
 
 87 
 
Must do as I command you, 
 Must sing and pray like me. 
 The way is plain, 
 You must remain. 
 And use my liturgy.' ' 
 
 But these people were very stubborn 
 
 When they thought that they were right, 
 So they hired an old Dutch captain, 
 
 To carry them off some night. 
 To carry them oil, some night, boys. 
 And nobody else should know. 
 For they could sing. 
 In spite of the king. 
 In the land where they wished to go. 
 
 So they sold their humble dwellings. 
 
 And stored their goods in chests. 
 And, one night, just after the robins 
 
 Had gone into their nests. 
 They left the dear old home-nests, 
 And went to the sandy shore, 
 Each boy and man 
 To the vessel ran, 
 And carried their chests before. 
 
 But hark! 'Tis the noise of the bugle. 
 
 The soldiers have heard the tale ; 
 Woe, woe to the simple gospellers, 
 
 The captain is going to sail. 
 The captain is going to sail, girls, 
 Alas, he will not wait 
 To save the lives 
 Of maids and wives, 
 But leaves them to their fate. 
 
 88 
 
He leaves the wives and children, 
 
 All wailing by the sea. 
 Who call aloud to the captain, 
 
 ''Come back, come back for mc.' ' 
 But only the roaring water 
 Answers the wailing cry, 
 And far away, 
 Adown the bay, 
 The vessel is saihng by. 
 
 Within a gloomy prison, 
 
 These women still are heard. 
 They call to the soldiers around them, 
 
 And they send to the king this word: 
 ''Send us, Oh, king of the Enghsh 
 To our husbands over the sea. 
 Should we obey 
 Their will? Oh, say. 
 What the part of a wife should be ?' ' 
 
 Then wise King James was puzzled. 
 
 What answer he should give. 
 Must not women obey their husbands, 
 
 As long as both shall live? 
 As long as both shall live, men. 
 And shall I hold to-day. 
 In a prison cell, 
 Those who so well, 
 Their husbands would obey? 
 
 If I send them to their dwellings, 
 No food or clothes they own, 
 
 The husbands have carried all their store, 
 To a land where I'm unknown. 
 
To a land where I'm unknown men, 
 Shall I support the wives? 
 Or shall I say, 
 "Go, from this day, 
 United be your lives ?' ' 
 
 I cannot keep them in prison ; 
 
 For my own church Avould hate 
 A king, who punished a faithful wife 
 
 For wishing to join her mate. 
 For wishing to join her husband, 
 Ah, I shall have no peace 
 Till these women go. 
 It must be so. 
 How the gospellers do increase !' ' 
 
 And so a staunch old vessel. 
 
 One pleasant April day, 
 Sailed into the little harbor. 
 And anchored in the bay. 
 And anchored in the bay, girls. 
 And all the happy bands 
 Wives, little ones, 
 Daughters and sons, 
 Sailed for the Netherlands. 
 
 And how they landed in Holland, 
 
 And how their sweethearts wept, 
 And how their happy households 
 
 Their old religion kept. 
 Their old reHgion kept, boys. 
 The very grand old way. 
 Some other time. 
 In prose or rhyme, 
 I'll tell, but not to-day. 
 
 90 
 
And how perchance, some Prudence, 
 
 Who wept on the vilhige shore, 
 Has many a blushing descendant. 
 
 Who lives by your very door. 
 Who lives by your very door, girls. 
 And still is true to the right. 
 Like the niothers before. 
 I will tell no more, 
 Now sing me a song to-night. 
 
 Yes, sing me a song to-night, girls, 
 While I sit in the same armchair. 
 And you stand argund the piano, 
 
 And play me the dear old air 
 That I used to hear in my childhood, — 
 "The breaking waves dashed high," 
 Come Delia and Bell, 
 You can pay me well. 
 For my story if you try. 
 
 91 
 
LEIF ERICSON. 
 
 Across the pathless sea they sailed, 
 
 Leif Ericson and his crew. 
 The tempest roared; the wild winds wailed; 
 
 They spread their sails anew. 
 ' ' On ! On ! still on, my men !' ' he cried. 
 I'm sure there is another side.' ' 
 
 Behind them are Norwegian pines. 
 And Greenland's snow-capped plains, 
 
 And Iceland fields, and Swedish mines, 
 And dwellings of the Danes. 
 
 Three thousand miles of surging foam 
 
 Between them and their distant home. 
 
 They seek a land of flowery spring, 
 
 Of balmy summer days. 
 Where, all the year, the robins sing 
 
 And woods are filled with praise. 
 But ah ! the Western air is cold 
 No music do the w^aters hold. 
 >i< * * ^ 
 
 Leif Ericson enraptured stands 
 
 One sunny April day. 
 And westward points his eager hands; 
 
 "Look comrades! Look this way!" 
 He cries; for lo! The horizon's brim 
 Lifts up the longed-for land to him. 
 
 " 'Tis there! 'Tis there!' ' at length he cries. 
 
 As to the West he peers, 
 "See, comrades! Hills on hills arise. 
 Dry up your homesick tears." 
 
 93 
 
''Land! landT' he calls, his grand eyes lit 
 With joy; "but oh! w1t:i1 land is it ?' ' 
 
 ^1= >]' * ^i- 
 
 Leif Ericsons are we, and all 
 
 On life's Atlantic go, 
 And watch the wnters rise and fall. 
 
 And sunsets fade and glow. 
 And Avonder, wonder, as we glide, 
 What land is on the other side. 
 
 The ocean almost crossed, we gaze 
 
 Upon the horizon's brink. 
 '' 'Tis there! 'Tis there! A few more days 
 
 And we shall land,' ' we think. 
 But Avhen its shores our eyes have lit 
 We blindly cry, "Oh, what is it?" 
 
 Sad sailor, standing on the deck, 
 
 As yonder shore draws near! 
 Fear not upon the rocks to wreck; 
 
 The pilot's eye is clear. 
 And he wdll guide your w^ondering quest 
 To the America of Rest. 
 
 " Oh, Avhat is it ? Oh, where is it ?' ' 
 
 No longer will you say, 
 But, ''Oh, how glorious to commit 
 
 Myself to it to-day' ' — 
 Perhaps you'll say, twixt smile and tear, 
 "I did not think it was so near." 
 
 94 
 
THE SHADOW OF HER FACE. 
 
 TO MY sister's PHOTOGRAPH — 1888-1906. 
 
 Thy picture hangs above the bed 
 Where we were wont to he, 
 
 And looks upon my lonely head 
 With a protecting eye. 
 
 I sometimes think within those eyes 
 
 Thy spirit lingereth, 
 And almost see the hds arise 
 
 And Hsten for thy breath. 
 
 95 
 
Only a shadow — thou art gone. 
 
 0]"i, where thy soiil-seif is, 
 Hast thou into a something grown 
 
 More beautiful than this? 
 
 What robe immortal dost thou wear? 
 
 What perfect form is thine ? 
 What gold of heaven illumes thy hair? 
 
 What gems thy forehead twine? 
 
 Thy very self I fain would see, 
 
 When, through the gates ajar 
 I view" thee beckoning unto me, 
 
 Where all the angels are. 
 
 When we thy eighteenth birthday spent, 
 
 Well I remember now 
 Thy radiant face, thine eyes that lent 
 
 New glory to thy brow. 
 
 Thine eighteenth birthday into Heaven, 
 What doth its dawning show ? 
 
 Dost thou beloved, transformed, forgiven. 
 Remember us below? 
 
 Dost ever listen for my voice 
 
 Or footsteps drawing near? 
 Dost thou in all my joys rejoice, 
 
 And do I grow more dear? 
 
 I do not know, but this I know. 
 
 As I thy picture see. 
 The ^adow of thy face doth grow 
 
 More beautiful to me. 
 
 96 
 
THE LEDGE. 
 
 I remember a rock by the river, 
 
 A wide and sloping ledge, 
 Where we often walked together, love, 
 
 Down by the w^ater's edge. 
 Where we picked the early Mayflower 
 And pledged our love anew. 
 And carved our names 
 In deep-cut frames, 
 Do you remember too? 
 
 I went to the dear old ledge, love, 
 
 Only the other day; 
 And I walked along the very slope 
 
 Where we ran in childhood's May. 
 I saw the olden carvings 
 
 And I looked for yours and mine. 
 They were washed away; 
 They could not stay 
 Down by the water-line. 
 
 97 
 
Far off in a quiet corner, 
 ' Beneath a low fir tree 
 I read in undimmed markings 
 
 The letters, ''M. J. B." 
 I thought of the dear old choir love,- 
 And from it seemed to flow 
 A full rich tone 
 Like Jenny's own 
 Singing so long ago. 
 
 I thought as I looked around, love. 
 
 And remembered the happy past 
 I almost thought for a moment 
 
 That nothing on earth could last. 
 For the best of all the names, I said 
 Once on these ledges shown. 
 Have vanished here 
 To reappear 
 Upon some church yard-stone. 
 
 Then a voice seemed to come from the river 
 
 And to echo through the air 
 In sweet and soothing tones, love. 
 
 It whispered "Child, Beware! 
 Life hath its crumbling ledges, 
 Death hath its grave-yard stone. 
 But up above 
 Is a world of love, 
 And decay is there unknown.' ' 
 
 98 
 
I heard the warning voice, love, 
 
 I liearcl and I mean to heed. 
 For I liope in the Book of Life, loAe, 
 
 Those vanished names to read. 
 And I trust the Rock of Ages 
 Once cleft for you and me, 
 Our names will bear 
 In letters clear 
 Through all eternity. 
 
 UOFC 
 
 99 
 
17 W 
 

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