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(^WTt/ U ^ fhU^^LM^ , 
 
IP^ocme 
 
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 Sarah H. TMatson 
 
 ** ail ms eprtnfls are In tTbee.' 
 
 pubUsbed tor tbc benefit ot tbe Marner Dome. 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 DEC 22 1905 
 
 CoDyriffht Entry 
 
 Jttv.29. ft^as' 
 
 CLASS ti. XXc. No, 
 
 f sntfS 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 
 Copsriabteb September, 1905. 
 bie Xouisa SSrainert. 
 
 Messenger Co. Print, St. Albans, Vt. 
 
CompllcO bB 
 /ftarg B. m, Clarh anD Xousla JBraincrD, 
 
prefatory flftemoir, 
 
 ^^HE Poems of Mrs. Henry T. Watson were given, after her 
 ^L death, by her brother, Mr. James M. M'ooney, and her 
 sister, Mrs. Harriet S. M. Patterson, into the hands of 
 the Board of Managers of the Warner Home to be pubHshed 
 for the benefit of that institution to which Mrs. Watson was so 
 devoted. 
 
 They are pubHshed now, less with an idea of bringing pe- 
 cuniary assistance to the Home, than with the thought of the 
 comfort and joy their possession will bring to the many who loved 
 her, and who felt the charm and inspiration of her beautiful life ; 
 and also with the hope and expectation that they will bear their 
 message to many who never could know her, save through these 
 children of her pen. Many of the poems are of a personal nature 
 written with no thought of publication. 
 
 From early girlhood it was m.ost natural for Mrs. Watson 
 to express herself in verse. During the war, and the great sor- 
 row it brought her— the death of her beloved older brother, Hugh 
 Mooney — her over-burdened heart, bearing with its own grief 
 and anxiety that of the Nation, found expression in the war 
 poems. Some of these poems were then published in the Ver- 
 mont Transcript. Other poems will be recognized as having 
 been written for public occasions, for in everything appertaining 
 to the life of the community Mrs. Watson had a vital interest. 
 "A Dream of the Monday Afternoon Club" and a few others 
 touch upon the love of genuine fun that was so delightful a 
 characteristic of the author, and made her an ideal companion 
 on any pleasure trip. 
 
 Page 5 
 
Essays written for the Chapin Literary Club show more of 
 Mrs. Watson's exhaustive study and rare literary ability. She 
 had an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a remarkable men- 
 tality. But her poems breathe so truly of the sweet and devo- 
 tional spirit by which her whole life was ruled, that we cannot 
 but believe that she will bring to the generations to come what 
 she ever brought to the one into which she was born — healing 
 and help, joy and inspiration. 
 
 In "Parsonsville," Saint Albans, Vermont, in a large white 
 farm house, shaded by locust-trees, overlooking the beautiful 
 Champlain valley was born on December 23rd, 1841, Sarah Ann 
 M'ooney, second child of James Carr Mooney and Mary Ellen 
 Breakey Mooney. 
 
 In that home she grew to womanhood, attending the district 
 school, alluded to in "The Old School House," living very close 
 always to nature's heart, yet seizing every possible opportunity 
 for knowledge of the great outside world. On June 19th, 1861, 
 she was married to Henry James Watson, a union of such love 
 and faithfulness that it seemed most fitting that, at its earthly 
 termination, death should divide them by less than twenty-four 
 hours. 
 
 A life lived in Saint Albans with the exception of a few 
 months of teaching at Maquam and Highgate Springs, and in 
 her early married life a short time in Whitehall, New York, a 
 life uneventful save with the common joys and sorrows that 
 come to all mankind, and yet a life so filled with the Holy Spirit 
 and the "love that passeth knowledge," that when she died, 
 Phoebe Gary's words written of another, seemed most fitting for 
 her, — 
 
 "Such a perfect life as hers, again, 
 
 In the world we may not see; 
 
 For her heart was full of love, and her hands 
 
 Were full of charity." 
 
 Love was ever the key-note of her life, and in its wideness 
 and richness and beauty reached out to embrace all, of whatever 
 caste or creed, and yet with such personality and understanding 
 
 Page 6 
 
sympathy that each friend felt that, in a pecuHar way, Mrs. 
 Watson was her own. 
 
 Especially did her love turn to little children and to the 
 young people growing up around her, and to numbers of them 
 she was the true friend and confidant. 
 
 Mrs. Watson was baptized in infancy in the Episcopal 
 Church and as a young woman confirmed by Bishop Hopkins, 
 receiving her first Communion on Whitsun Day, a day always 
 kept by her with much joy and gratitude. The Church Year 
 was very dear to her and one always longed to be near her 
 during the special times of festival and fast, to gain added 
 meaning in her devout interpretation of the holy mysteries. 
 To St. Luke's, her own parish Church, she gave her life- 
 , long love and devotion. Many will ever associate her spir- 
 itual face and devout kneeling form with its services ; while 
 in the social life of the parish, her bright and loving greeting 
 was charming, and looked forward to by all. She made it an 
 unwritten rule to call on all strangers and bid them welcome, and 
 the poorer people found in her a friend indeed. 
 
 In the Sunday School where for years she taught and prayed 
 over and loved each child under her care ; in the various guilds 
 where she was so delightful a fellow-worker, with her gentle 
 deference and her merry way of making light all hard tasks ; in 
 the Helping Hands Junior Auxiliary, developed from the little 
 sewing school that held its meetings at her home, where so many 
 little hands learned to set their first stitches, while their hearts 
 were gently and unconsciously being led by her sweet teaching 
 and unspoken influence to higher things ; in the care of the altar 
 which was her dear delight; in the Loyal Circle of King's 
 Daughters which for years she led, guided and inspired by her 
 intense and burning love for the King of Kings, and her longing 
 to have all draw near in a like love and devotion, — her life might 
 easily form a volume and not this simple sketch of a few im- 
 perfectly chosen words. And yet what need? The life now 
 closed to earthly sight lives on, and its record is written in the 
 tables of the heart of the children of men who rise up to call 
 her blessed. 
 
 Page 7 
 
Mrs. Watson's love and work were not confined alone to 
 her family, friends and Church. It has often been a matter of 
 wonder how she could so fully and completely give herself to so 
 many varied objects of charity and public weal. The Warner 
 Home should perhaps be mentioned after her Church, for that 
 institution owes to her a debt of gratitude unmeasured. In her 
 love for children these unfortunate little ones, gathered into that 
 safe fold, were the objects of her tenderest solicitude and care, 
 while her faithfulness and efficiency as the Secretary of the 
 Home made it impossible to fill her place. From the beginning 
 of the Home until her death, a period of twenty-three years, she 
 never missed a monthly meeting of the Board of Managers. 
 
 Those who worked with her in the old days of the Temper- 
 ance Crusade and the Water Street Mission will best remember 
 her devotion to these causes that make for righteousness, and 
 that interest continued always. 
 
 So gentle and loving and quick to forgive a fault and dis- 
 cover a virtue, Mrs. Watson was keenly alive to every truth. She 
 saw black and white with, at times, an almost startling discrim- 
 ination and never confused them, and her views were most 
 pronounced. With the spirit of the Master she hated the sin 
 while she reached out a helping hand to the sinner, scorned a 
 meanness but was ever ready to attribute the best possible 
 motives to others actions. 
 
 Mrs. Watson had a tender interest in the graves of all she 
 had ever known, and on Decoration Day she and her venerable 
 mother would spend hours in decorating the graves of many who 
 would otherwise have passed unremembered. She was most 
 active in the work of the Old Cemetery Association, lovingly 
 recalling incidents in the lives of those who had long since passed 
 away, and influencing this generation to remember and care for 
 the resting place of those, into whose heritage they were now 
 entering. 
 
 Her slight and delicate form driving about on errands of love 
 and mercy; the earnest gaze of her deep blue eyes as she gave 
 her undivided attention to any tale of joy or woe, no matter how 
 trivial; the great charm of manner as each comer was welcomed 
 
 Page 8 
 
to her home and on entering felt it was good to be there, and 
 that it was indeed a place of peace on life's dusty highway; the 
 walls lined with books and pictures, some her own work and 
 others cherished gifts from friends, and especially from Mr. 
 Watson who delighted to give her whatever would bring pleas- 
 ure; the beautiful letters that followed her friends on their 
 journeyings or to distant homes, — all these and many, many 
 more tender and blessed memories will be recalled anew in read- 
 ing her verses. 
 
 There were shadows over Mrs. Watson's life but when they 
 deepened no one was asked to help bear the burden. She simply 
 took up each cross that came and carried it so smilingly and 
 bravely that, in looking back, we remember most of all the grace 
 of God that comes to those who living day by day with the 
 Saviour are privileged to suffer with Him. 
 
 After nursing her beloved mother in her last illness, pneu- 
 n'onia, Mrs. Watson was so worn with watching and broken by 
 sorrow, for her mother was inexpressibly dear to her, that she 
 easily became a victim to the same dread disease. She went to 
 her last Communion in Church on Easter morning early and 
 attended the children's service in the evening, and even then 
 looked very ill, but she had all her life paid little attention to her 
 own physical troubles, though naturally delicate in constitution. 
 
 She lived nearly through Easter Week, attended at first by 
 Mr. Watson in unwearying care, until he too on Wednesday was 
 striken with pneumonia, and together they passed rapidly down 
 into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. From the first Mrs. 
 Watson realized that she could not live, and gave directions as 
 to her work and sent loving messages and gifts to her friends. 
 But a great exhaustion from the beginning of her illness pre- 
 vented her saying much, though she held her consciousness to 
 the end. As simply and naturally and beautifully as she had 
 ever lived, she made ready for the last journey. Her chief con- 
 cern was for her husband, not realizing how soon he would 
 follow. When the end came on Friday, April 8th, 1904, she named 
 the moment for reading the Commendatory prayer for the dying 
 and her "Amen" was fervent and clear. And then she quickly 
 
and quietly went on into the presence of Him whom she had ever 
 loved and served, and we knew that she had seen "the King in 
 His beauty and beheld the land that is very far off." 
 
 On Tuesday afternoon, April 12th, the double funeral of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Watson was held from St. Luke's Church, and the 
 "light from the great window" streamed down upon the casket 
 of her who had so often listened in sorrow and heartfelt sym- 
 pathy for others to the words that now in turn brought their 
 comfort and hope to those mourning for her. 
 
 We turned from her grave with a new meaning in this life, 
 with a firmer grasp on eternal life, and hearing the words most 
 often spoken by her — "her text," — 
 
 "l&itBBth art ll|f pmt in i\twct, 
 for tJi^a Bljall stt (Boh." 
 
 August, 1905. Louisa Brainerd. 
 
 Page 10 
 
Ipioeme 
 
 ON THE BIRTHDAY OF CHAUNCEY 
 WARNER. 
 
 ® 
 
 NCE more September woods put on 
 
 Their royal robes of red and gold; 
 Should we muse sadly thereupon 
 
 And say, "The year is growing old?" 
 The glory of the summer hides 
 
 In falling leaf and fading flower, 
 And with the ripened fruit abides 
 
 The wondrous secret of its power. 
 In golden sheaves of ripened grain, 
 
 We meet the sweet spring days once more, 
 Perfection holds close at its core 
 
 The rosy bud of bloom again. 
 
 So youth lifts up its crown to age, 
 Innocence, purity and truth, 
 
 The buds of royal heritage. 
 
 Promise of ripened privilege. 
 
 For age is but perfected youth. 
 
 Page 
 
And thus it is to-day we meet, 
 
 And golden sunshine wraps us round, 
 A wealth of color, perfume, sound, 
 
 The tender grasses 'neath our feet 
 And the blue arching skies o'erhead, 
 And Home and Hospital are wed. 
 Voices of childhood, glad and sweet, 
 
 And smiles on faces worn with pain. 
 The tribute of the heart and lip. 
 
 The touch of happy fellowship. 
 And all that's sung and all that's said 
 
 Make mention of an honored name. 
 
 A name that's spelled in gracious deeds, 
 
 Of one whose life exceeds our praise; 
 Who in a round of peaceful days 
 
 But little all our homage heeds. 
 We, in his eighty years again 
 
 The blossom time of youth may see. 
 The strength of the young century 
 
 In this ripe sheaf of golden grain. 
 
 In shadow of these walls we stand, 
 
 And thronging visions rise and fade, 
 Disease rebuked, and gently laid 
 
 On fevered brow the healing hand. 
 And always 'tis the Master's voice. 
 
 And ever more the Master's touch, — 
 "Be whole," "Be clean," and "Inasmuch," 
 
 "Neither do I condemn," "Rejoice." 
 
 And yonder on the sunny heights 
 
 Where first the sweet spring blossoms wake, 
 O, Home above the village lights. 
 
 My heart is tender for your sake. 
 For there the little children rest. 
 
 In their safe aerie, looking down 
 Across the steeples of the town 
 
 To sunset glories of the west. 
 
 Page 13 
 
Alas! we know that little feet 
 
 Stumble along life's rugged way, 
 And sin, pain, sorrow, day by day, 
 
 Their old sad mysteries repeat. 
 Still evil mixes with our good, 
 
 The foes are all along the line. 
 Lurking by every stream and wood 
 
 Eager to catch the countersign. 
 O, for brave hands to hold the light, 
 
 Hands outstretched far to guide and guard. 
 To make the road of evil hard 
 
 And smooth a pathway for the right. 
 
 Sweet childhood, in your shining eyes, 
 
 And youth with eager upturned face, 
 Feet poised a tip toe for life's race, 
 
 I read far reaching destinies. 
 For you the mighty century waits, 
 
 It opens wide the golden doors. 
 Your feet shall tread its palace floors, 
 
 You, known and honored in the gates, 
 Shall hold its balance wheel of power, 
 
 "The precious things of lasting hills," 
 And ancient mountains wait for you. 
 
 The past is yours and all things new. 
 And when the century strikes the hour. 
 
 The hour which sounds a call that thrills. 
 That call supreme shall strike for you. 
 
 O, youth, stand up before the years, 
 
 Make affidavit of thy claim, — 
 An honored life — a spotless name. 
 
 Give to the solemn winds all fears, 
 Ask — nay, demand the best in store, — 
 
 Wealth, honors, love, aye, something more — 
 The Truth which maketh free — the wings 
 
 By which the spirit soars and sings — 
 The right of age to stand beloved. 
 
 Stand before God and man unmoved — 
 Body and soul alike approved. 
 
 Sept. 17, 1895. 
 
 Page 13 
 
A PICTURE. 
 
 T have many pictures hung within my heart. 
 And some are cobwebed by neglect and time, 
 And some are faded because I am changed — 
 
 Ah ! those I look at with a thrill of pain ! — 
 And some I've curtained over with sweet dreams, 
 And when I lift the veil from them it seems 
 
 lyike the reality come back again. 
 
 I have one picture hung within my heart; 
 I never wish to look at it by day, 
 
 Amid the rush of business and of care ; 
 But when the summer twilight lightly falls 
 Upon the locust trees and garden walls, 
 
 And I sit idly dreaming in my chair, 
 Wlien trailing robes of summer sunset lie 
 In gorgeous splendor on the western sky, 
 When tired nature, like a weary child, 
 Lies down to rest upon the dewy grass. 
 And counts the dusky shadows as they pass. 
 And counts the little stars that tremble out. 
 And listens to the schoolboy's distant shout. 
 
 And to the thousand dreamy sounds that rise 
 From marshy places and the reedy brooks — 
 
 Those twilight murmurs which all harmonize 
 In one grand universal vesper hymn — 
 'Tis at that hour, that holy twilight hour, 
 When the day dies, and when the night is born, 
 When the old thoughts again come back to me. 
 And the dear faces once again I see. 
 When from the present I am set apart — 
 Then I unveil that picture in my heart. 
 
 Page 14 
 
A homestead, with a grassy yard in front, 
 And penciled by the moonhght on the sward. 
 
 The graceful foliage of the locust trees, 
 And statelier maples in a June repose; 
 
 No faintest whisper of a summer breeze. 
 Or song of bird, or drowsy hum of bee. 
 Are in the picture which comes back to me; 
 But glad young voices, not yet tuned to ring 
 The sullen changes of a dull despair; 
 Four voices, with no undertone of care 
 To break the harmony of mirth and glee. 
 Are in the picture which comes back to me. 
 
 The door-stone lies in shadow, for the moon 
 
 Must climb a little higher up the sky, 
 
 Before the shadows, which obliquely lie 
 
 Across the grassy yard, can reach the place 
 
 Where we four watch to greet her coming face, 
 
 Upon the door-stone, sitting in the shade. 
 
 And later, when the moonlight covers all 
 
 The grassy yard, excepting where there lie 
 
 The graceful shadows of the locust trees — 
 
 A golden background, quaintly wrought and filled 
 
 With rare devices of embroidery — 
 
 We four walk through the bars of golden light. 
 
 And through the echoing silence of the night 
 
 Stroll far away adown the the moonlit road. 
 
 What ! tears ? Ah, yes, for 'twixt that night and this 
 Are lonely, lonely days and weary nights, 
 And clashing arms, and gory battle fields; 
 And two green graves, a thousand miles apart. 
 Reverse the picture hung within my heart. 
 
 Pa^e 15 
 
A DEAD HORSE, 
 
 ®NIvY a horse? Well it is true, 
 'Tis not as if it were the child 
 Whose life meets yours like morning dew, 
 And in whose tender eyes of blue 
 It seems as if the heavens smiled. 
 
 'Tis not as if it were the friend 
 Who 'neath the shadows of the years 
 Has walked beside you, tender, true. 
 Faithful, when friends were false or few, 
 Who shares alike your smiles or tears. 
 
 Only a horse, — yet I confess 
 The glad neigh answering to my call. 
 The proud neck arched for my caress, 
 Had much of human tenderness, 
 Brute love is faithful, after all. 
 
 What happy days come back to me, 
 What memories of wood and wold. 
 What rare pure meadows, stretching wide. 
 Whose woof of daisies brightly plied 
 With buttercups made cloth of gold. 
 
 What loiterings beside the way, 
 By ferny roadsides cool and sweet, 
 When, in our happy hearts there lay 
 Speech, which "day uttereth to day" 
 Yet leaves the story incomplete. 
 
 What sunsets — when I drew the rein 
 Just where the hill road winds away, 
 With rapture which is kin to pain, 
 Watched the clouds flush and fade again, 
 While glory crowned the dying day. 
 
 Page i6 
 
What hours — when kindly nature laid 
 Her soothing touch on heart and brain, 
 When harvest fields, and wood, and shore, 
 And hills their breath of healing bore 
 And brought me rest and strength again. 
 
 Only a horse, and yet for years 
 She was my comrade true and tried, 
 Linked with my pleasure and my pain, 
 With wedding bells, with funeral train, 
 Surely it was a friend that died. 
 
 Only a horse, yet the sweet tones 
 Of one glad thought my spirit thrills. 
 The blessings of this world are loans. 
 And this was one from Him who owns 
 The "cattle on a thousand hills." 
 
 June 1880. 
 
 NURSERY RHYMES. 
 
 '/^^VER the hills and far away," 
 Sj^ Where "Little Boy Blue lies fast asleep" 
 Is the happy country of elf and fay. 
 Of Cinderella and "Little Bo-peep", 
 "The house that Jack built" is standing yet. 
 The cock crows loudly at peep of day— 
 The priest and maiden wMth eyelids wet, — 
 "The cow has jumped over the moon" they say. 
 High on the tree top the cradle swings 
 By breezes rocked through the starry night. 
 Chance of catastrophe only brings 
 To the heart of childhood keen delight. 
 
 Page 17 
 
Traditions there are of a little maid 
 
 Clad in a dainty Red Ridin^^ Hood, 
 
 Half eager we listen, and half afraid, — 
 
 Likewise to "Cock Robin" and "Babes in the wood." 
 
 How the dogs do bark in the dewy lane, 
 
 At sight of the beggars who come to town ; 
 
 Ah! me, shall ever we see again 
 
 Such splendors of tatter and velvet gown? 
 
 O, happy valley of trust and hope, 
 
 O'er whose far uplands the breezes play, 
 
 How we longed to climb to the last green slope 
 
 And over the blue hills look away. 
 
 Aye, life is rich in the joy it brings, 
 
 And toil is noble, and love is sweet. 
 
 We read glad meanings of hidden things 
 
 And the spoil of ages is at our feet. 
 
 But childhood possesses the kingdom still — 
 
 The ripest wisdom that comes with time. 
 
 Nor art of poet can touch or thrill 
 
 As did the old snatches of nursery rhyme. 
 
 November 6, 1888. 
 
 THE MARCH WIND. 
 
 ®VER the mountain and through the vale 
 Comes a phantom ship with a phantom sail, 
 Far in the inland and out at sea. 
 Wild, untamed, fearless and free. 
 Rides the wild March wind. 
 
 Tossing the snow like a boy at play 
 On the cottage roof or the broad highway, 
 Through the stormy night and the stormy day, 
 Tingling the cheek with a deeper dye. 
 Giving new light to the laughing eye. 
 Singing and stinging it whistles by — 
 The wild March wind. 
 
 Page 18 
 
Kissing the forest, kissing the wave, 
 Sighing over the lonely grave 
 Of the young, the beautiful, the brave, 
 Tossing the branches of budding trees 
 'Till a milder sky and a calmer breeze 
 Woes the snow from the sunny leas, 
 And the March wind dies. 
 
 March 3, 1865, 
 
 ONE SUMMER. 
 
 ♦ir stood in the hey-day of our golden summer, 
 II The spell of whose beauty enraptured like wine, 
 No days were alike, but each royal new comer 
 Had a grace of its own and a sweetness divine. 
 The buttercups nodded, the breath of the dover 
 From meadows brought fragrance and warmth as a kiss. 
 In a great gush of melody, over and over. 
 The bobolinks told me their story of bliss. 
 
 The dawn and the twilight— the evening and morning. 
 The twitter of birds and the hum of the bee. 
 The blue of the mountains, the hills soft adorning, 
 All had their sweet message and greeting for me. 
 The waves had a story— with closed eyes I listen 
 To-day to the soft break of ripples once more. 
 With closed eyes recall all their sparkle and glisten, 
 And the blue of the harebells on rocks of the shore. 
 
 With closed eyes! aye, Time, thou hast no power to cancel 
 That summer's sweet splendor— whatever befall, 
 In thy temple I've stood in the innermost chancel. 
 And the gift of the altar thou canst not recall. 
 The silence hath voices— the tempest a meaning, 
 The great rush of waters sweet memories wake. 
 And life's barren spaces yield rich after gleaning, 
 O, long vanished summer— and all for thy sake. 
 
 July 23, 1889. 
 
 Page 19 
 
THE STORY OF A WEDDING. 
 
 ♦fjT will tell you a story 
 n Of a wedding long ago, 
 Name and rank of youth and maiden 
 The old record doth not show — 
 That a blessing crowned their union 
 Is enough for us to know. 
 
 For a Guest was at the bridal, 
 Happy bridal. Royal Guest, 
 Surely as the years passed, brighter 
 Grew the love that day confessed, 
 Purely as on God's own altar 
 Burned the flame the Saviour blessed. 
 
 There were kinsfolk and acquaintance, 
 
 There was merriment and glee. 
 
 And a feast as was the custom 
 
 In those days in Galilee, 
 
 And that wine was on the table 
 
 May seem strange to you and me. 
 
 We are told that Holy Mary 
 
 Came and whispered to the Son, 
 
 "vSo the wine pots are all empty. 
 
 And the feast is but begun." 
 
 And He turned and looked upon her, 
 
 "Think you that mine hour hath come?' 
 
 But she knew that He was royal 
 
 Not alone of David's line, 
 
 That long line of noble princes, 
 
 But the Son of God, divine, 
 
 King of Kings, of earth and heaven. 
 
 Lord of water and of wine. 
 
O think of His condescension. 
 Poor, unknown — yet Royal Guest. 
 Think too of the servants' wonder, 
 As they did the Lord's behest — 
 What a moment since was water 
 Was of wine pronounced — "the best. 
 
 O, I love this wondrows story. 
 This old stor}' which I tell. 
 Because He, the King of Glory, 
 Promised Prince of Israel, 
 He who blessed the Jewish bridal 
 Comes to all our homes as well. 
 
 Lo, He knocks, O, rise and open. 
 Bring Him to the honored seat, 
 And be sure no joy is perfect, 
 And no blessing is complete. 
 And we have no lasting honor. 
 If we sit not at His feet. 
 
 In the cottage poor and lowly, 
 
 Let the door be opened wide, 
 
 He will make the hearth stone holy 
 
 Sitting ever at your side. 
 
 Think how He but looked on water, 
 
 And straightway 'twas glorified. 
 
 Tell me happy plighted maiden 
 Waiting for the bridegroom's voice. 
 Is He coming to your bridal, 
 Has He bid your heart rejoice? 
 O, be sure 'tis a true marriage 
 If the Lord approves your choice. 
 
 Page 31 
 
And. dear friends, all joys are sacred 
 When we bring- them to this test — 
 Never sit at feast or banquet 
 If He is not there a guest, 
 Never, never touch the wine cup, 
 vSave the wine which He has blessed. 
 
 December lo, 1878. 
 
 TO MY OLD BROOM. 
 
 ^H^Y good old broom, thy earthly race 
 Ik. 11*/ Of usefulness is o'er; 
 I mark it, as with stiffened pace. 
 
 Thou glidest o'er the floor. 
 And saddened memory looks away 
 
 To that remembered time. 
 That long to be remembered day, 
 
 When thou wert in thy prime. 
 
 In kitchen, parlor, chamber, hall. 
 Thou wert an honored guest, 
 
 And household members, one and all. 
 
 Thy earthly mission blessed. 
 
 Did Johnny from his muddy boot 
 Leave dirt upon the stair. 
 
 Or Bridget stumbling, drop the soot, 
 My faithful broom was there. 
 
 If little Lily scattered crumbs, 
 
 When she was feeding Tray, 
 Thou, faithful queen of all the brooms, 
 
 The litter brushed away. 
 And once when Alice lost her ring, 
 
 We sought it o'er and o'er. 
 Thy quick preception spied the thing. 
 
 Behind the pantry door. 
 
 Page 22 
 
And often little chubby Ned, 
 
 Thy polished form astride, 
 Around the carriage house and shed. 
 
 Right manfully did ride. 
 But faithful friend, I lay thee by, 
 Thy usefulness is o'er. 
 With saddened heart and brimming eye. 
 
 Farewell forever more. 
 
 November 21, 1862. 
 
 AT THE SEASHORE. 
 
 WjYERY tide that I watch brings in 
 /IC^ Some treasures of ocean's store, 
 And the waves, like children let loose at play, 
 Throw them about in a careless way 
 And leave them upon the shore. 
 
 And I gather them one by one 
 
 And I treasure a quaint conceit; 
 And the gray old clififs look solemnly down, 
 And the turrets smile in the distant town. 
 
 And the waves sing at my feet. 
 
 And I think of that soundless sea, 
 
 Which only the dead cross o'er. 
 And the tide is death, and disease the wave, 
 And our souls the treasures snatched from the grave, 
 
 And Heaven the pleasant shore. 
 
 And sometimes the sea is calm, 
 
 And the waves sing a hymn of rest. 
 And the tide rocks the soul on a tender arm, 
 Till it finds a shelter secure from harm. 
 
 In the garden of the blest. 
 
And sometimes the waves dash high, 
 At the gates of the shuddering tomb, 
 
 And the tempest shrieks, and the surges roll, 
 
 And out on a stormy sea the soul 
 Launches to meet its doom. 
 
 The tide wooes its treasure long sometimes, 
 
 And the wild waves about it play; 
 And again, in the turning of a hand, 
 There's left but a shadow upon the sand — 
 The spirit is far away. 
 
 And I look out over the sea. 
 
 Then back where the cliffs look down. 
 And not sad, but serious, take my way 
 Up the rugged steep of the rough pathway 
 
 That leads to the distant town. 
 
 WEARING THE WILLOW. 
 
 /TXO, bring me a branch of the green waving willow 
 Vir That grows by the brook in the glen, 
 
 I'll make me a wreath and I'll wear it for ever, 
 
 My love is most false of all men. 
 
 We stood by that tree, when the starlight was trailing 
 Her robes in the leaf shadowed stream, 
 And his face in the misty light smiled down upon me, 
 Like a face that is seen in a dream. 
 
 The stars heard his whispers, the wind caught his kisses, 
 The brook sang a high solemn song. 
 The willow tree quivered and shook in its branches 
 All telling me something was wrong. 
 
 Page 24 
 
They were telling me that he was false, had I listened, 
 I should not be standing to-day, 
 And wearing a crown of green waving willow, 
 And my false lover gone far away. 
 
 Yet he is not worthy to be so remembered, 
 
 I'll carry it back to the glen. 
 
 And the brook will laugh gleefully, bearing it seaward, 
 
 O, most false of false-hearted men. 
 
 October 20, 1863. 
 
 RECOGNITION. 
 
 ♦f^^OW shall I know thee in that happier sphere 
 lU Whither I go? 
 
 I have love's signet which was given me, ere 
 
 Death laid thee low. 
 Angels by that could lead mc where thou art, 
 
 If I should ask. 
 But I would rather leave to my own heart 
 
 The holy task. 
 The hands I've clasped in days that have gone by. 
 
 The lips I've kissed. 
 The eyes through which thy spirit smiled good by 
 
 Through wreathes of mist, — 
 Are but the tattered livery which is laid 
 
 Aside with earth : 
 I do not know the one which God has made 
 
 For heavenly birth. 
 How shall I know the spirit which took shape 
 
 In words and song. 
 In love so tender and so passionate, 
 
 In hate of wrong — 
 The hearty sympathy so quick to spring 
 
 At every call — 
 The charity which like a jewelled ring 
 
 Encircled all. 
 
 Page 25 
 
But I shall know thee, — there will be some word 
 
 Which I shall know. 
 Like holy music which my soul has stirred 
 
 Long- years ago. 
 A smile will radiate thy spirit face, 
 
 And my soul sing 
 As for a violet found in shady place, 
 
 The first of spring. 
 And I shall know thee, clasp thee, hear thee sing 
 
 The angels' song — 
 Patience my souj, and curb thy eager wing — 
 
 'Twill not be long. 
 
 May 8, 1865. 
 
 OBSOLETE. 
 
 T was an ancient house, at which 
 I paused to rest awhile ; 
 Nay, picture not the turrets of 
 Some grand ancestral pile ; 
 'Twas but an humble farm-house, which 
 
 Back from the highway stood, 
 Shaded by elms and oaks which once 
 Were monarchs of the wood. 
 
 An aged woman with white cap, 
 
 Scarce whiter than her hair, 
 Welcomed me in, and bade me rest 
 
 In her great kitchen chair. 
 And then, she had some work .she said. 
 
 To do that afternoon, 
 And if I'd sit alone awhile, 
 
 She'd try to join me soon. 
 
How old it was, the great fire-place, 
 
 Where a huge kettle swung. 
 The rafters, where, in gay festoons, 
 
 Apple and pumpkin hung. 
 How nice it was the sanded floor 
 
 So smooth and white and clean — 
 The well-sweep through the open door — 
 
 It was a quiet scene. 
 
 So quiet — heavens ! what sound was that, 
 
 Which fell upon my ear? 
 My tongue was palsied with the shock, 
 
 My hair stood up with fear. 
 I could not move — but that wild shriek 
 
 Of horror rose and fell. 
 Until it culminated in 
 
 One grand expiring yell. 
 
 I knew no more, but in a swoon 
 
 Of agony I lay, 
 Until my hostess brought m.e out. 
 
 Just at the close of day. 
 "What sound was that?" I gasped, while seemed 
 
 My very brain to reel — 
 She laughed, O horror, laughed and said 
 
 " 'Twas my old spinning wheel." 
 
 THANKSGIVING DAY. 
 
 /TX ATHER round the board in silence, 
 \ar O, was ever banquet spread 
 When no absent name was spoken. 
 And no vacant seat gave token 
 Of the presence of the dead ? 
 
 Page 27 
 
Gather round the board in silence, 
 
 Yet not sadly or in grief — 
 Rather as a mute thanksgiving 
 That the God who rules the living 
 
 Gives unto the dead — relief. 
 
 Gather round the board in silence. 
 
 Little time have we to stay, 
 And 'tis well we should remember 
 All the times the grey November 
 
 Saw this anniversary day. 
 
 Come, O, dead years, sit beside us 
 
 Fill each vacant chair, and let 
 Each face smile upon us brightly, 
 'Tis better to remember rightly. 
 
 Aye far better, than forget. 
 
 Now, once more, we're all together. 
 Smile, O, dead eyes, on our mirth. 
 See how well we keep your places, 
 And your dear remembered faces 
 At the board and by the hearth. 
 You, the dead, and we, the living, 
 Meet once more in mute thanksgiving. 
 Meet around the homestead hearth. 
 
 November 28, 1867. 
 
 GOING TO PASTURE. 
 
 ♦fC^ERE is the lane through which we drove the cows- 
 nm^ Lift up your dress, the grass is wet with dew — 
 When you and I were little girls together, 
 And every sunny morn and evening cool, 
 Liking it better far than books or school. 
 We went to pasture in the summer weather. 
 O'er this rough path made hard by horny feet 
 We scampered barefoot and enjoyed it too. 
 
 Page 28 
 
Look, Nelly, there's the very bobolink 
 
 Perched on a rail, with gushing, rippling thrill 
 
 Of joyous welcome, glad that we have come; 
 
 We used to watch him every day until 
 
 He raised his wing, but ere he flew would wink 
 
 His merry eyes as if to say — well done. 
 
 The berry bushes are not half as high 
 
 As when long years ago we drove the cows, 
 
 And filled our cups and manufactured pies 
 
 Of crimson berries 'twixt two smooth green leaves. 
 
 And talked of culinary destinies 
 
 In the bright house-wife days that were to be. 
 
 Meanwhile the cattle lazily would browse 
 
 Along the lane, and look with longing eyes 
 
 Across the zigzag fence at waving grain — 
 
 So, oft in life, some uncouth barrier lies 
 
 'Twixt us and what we struggle to attain. 
 
 Here is the seat, Nell, which we called our bower, 
 
 Because of velvet grass and mossy stone. 
 
 And wild sweet vines, which gaily leaped and clung 
 
 To the rough arm the Elm had downward flung. 
 
 In rifts between, the sunlight's windows, we 
 
 Looked o'er fair meadows and the cool green wood, 
 
 On sparkling waters of the Lake at rest. 
 
 Or nearer still, the view which we loved best, 
 
 The twilight vista through the fair green hills, 
 
 Bridged by the shadows of the afternoon, 
 
 One of those dreamy gaps, which nature fills 
 
 With shadow, sunlight, music and perfume, 
 
 And meadows green gemmed with yellow buttercup. 
 
 And nodding daisies in the golden June. 
 
 Ah ! Nelly, didn't we hatch mischief here. 
 
 Plot raids and banquets, and our speech denies 
 
 Words of description for the liberties 
 
 Page 29 
 
We took with romance in that golden time, 
 
 And read love verses with a monotone. 
 
 Ah ! Nell, I read it in your starry eyes, 
 
 You've learned since then which words to emphasize, 
 
 Which sentences require an underline. 
 
 The pasture gate is open and the cows 
 
 With steady sober p^ce come on amain. 
 
 O, what a perfume greets me as they pass, 
 
 Of reedy brooks and low sweet pasture grass. 
 
 And berry bushes like those in the lane. 
 
 Let's drive them home, Nell, as we used to do 
 
 And talk our girlhood talk in girlhood words. 
 
 Until our friends, the butterflies and birds. 
 
 Dream that their playmates have come back again. 
 
 The sky is full of sailing ships, my Nell, 
 
 With fairy islands lying in their wake. 
 
 The meadow lands are brilliant in their bloom, 
 
 And from the hills comes down to breath of June, 
 
 And through the shadows rifts of sunshine break, 
 
 The golden sunlight crowns the hills' rough brows. 
 
 And we are school girls driving home the cows. 
 
 But bless me, Nelly, here your husband comes. 
 
 His grave professorship would think us wild, 
 
 And call our play the burlesque of a child. 
 
 O, dear, the years do make us wondrous wise. 
 
 But rob us of simplicity and grace. 
 
 Stoop down, pretend you're picking strawberries, 
 
 And smooth those merry dimples from your face, 
 
 And then we'll take his highness in our train. 
 
 And talk wise talk and with a sober face. 
 
 Follow the cows home through the dear old lane. 
 
 The romance-haunted, shadowy old lane. 
 
 June 9, 1865. 
 
 Page 30 
 
TWO LITTLE POSTMEN. 
 
 ^^HERH are two little postmen so jolly and sweet, 
 ^^ And (by the way both of them live on onr street) 
 One is named Arthur, the other is Johnny, 
 One is my sweetheart, and both are right bonnie. 
 Well, these little postmen came to my door, 
 And they rang the box bell as it ne'er rang before ; 
 And nobody answered, and so they came in. 
 These two little postmen, and shouted like sin. 
 Hannah, half dressed, thought the house was on fire. 
 And pallid with terror at mishap so dire, 
 To the top of the stairs dragged her poor trembling feet 
 To find — two jojly postmen as merry and sweet 
 As a pair of ripe apples. They replied to her hail 
 And told her she'd better look after her mail. 
 Well, she unlocked the mail box, and what did she see 
 But my sweetheart's first, very first letter to me. 
 
 THE TALKING GAS. 
 
 ^^ HERE is a subtle gas, a moral flame, 
 VIU Whose rainbow hues and tints bear many a name. 
 Whose sparkling tri-tongued forks, and flashing jets. 
 Rival the fairest gem of coronets; 
 A jack-o-lantern flame, which leads us on 
 O'er bog and forest 'till our strength is gone. 
 And bids us then amid the darkness grope. 
 Palaver, humbug, flattery, and soft soap. 
 Are classed among the classic apjDellations 
 By which this gas is known among the nations; 
 A king with many titles, and, alas! 
 A monarch absolute is Talking Gas. 
 
The salesman, so obsequious and polite, 
 As if displaying goods were his delight. 
 Tells you, with sigh herculean and deep. 
 That goods before were never sold so cheap. 
 It is a sacrifice, immense, 'tis true, 
 But he is proud to make it, seeing it's you. 
 The article just suits yoy, 'tis so neat, 
 So beautiful, exquisite, charming, sweet. 
 Perhaps you swallow all he says, nor question 
 Whether his gas is easy of digestion ; 
 But I am apt to snub my nose, an act 
 For which Dame Nature fitted me, in fact. 
 And to myself say. Madam, should you drop 
 In this half-frantic race from shop to shop. 
 Buy what you want, but don't buy soap or brass, 
 Nor purchase, by the wholesale, Talking Gas. 
 
 The politician, longing for a seat 
 
 In halls where legislative bodies meet. 
 
 An easy seat, where he from day to day 
 
 May lounge, and read, and doze the hours away 
 
 Eat of good dinners, drink good brandy, too, 
 
 And vote the way his party tells him to — 
 
 Save when his eagle glances can descry 
 
 Some safer turnpike for his policy — 
 
 And give his poor dyspeptic stomach vent 
 
 In~spiteful howls which shake the firmament. 
 
 And spend long months in argument to prove 
 
 That black is white, or jealous hate is love, 
 
 Brings all this well-paid blessedness to pass, 
 
 By filthy lucre, rum, and Talking Gas. 
 
 "Measures, not men," is sometimes party cry — 
 A very good one, I do not deny — 
 But men and measures oft prove to be such 
 That neither men nor measures are worth much. 
 When men make measures but a stepping stone 
 To serve some pet ambition of their own. 
 Or when, as often proves the case, alas! 
 Both men and measures are but bags of gas. 
 
 Page 32 
 
A lawyer, strong in argument to win ; 
 A tailor, fashioning a cloak for sin; 
 A priest, who leads his flock the sunny way, 
 Nor lifts a warning crook to lambs astray; 
 A mocking-bird, who blends in mellow notes, 
 The combined incense of a thousand throats; 
 A Caesar, who each Rubicon will dare. 
 Who comes, and conquers, ere we are aware; 
 A counterfeit, which even banks will pass — 
 All these; aye, more than these, is Talking Gas. 
 
 WINTER SUNSET. 
 
 ♦^F saw the sun go down last night, 
 ^§ The sun go down — that is to say, 
 I saw the pale bright winter day 
 Pause on the mountain tops afar. 
 To smile its greeting to the star 
 Which in the moon's fair crescent lay — 
 I heard, yet without faintest sound, 
 As tenderly earth's monarch said 
 To mountain top and ice-locked bay — 
 We cannot all be kings of day, 
 O, royal peak, lift your proud head 
 To night, I'll crown you in my stead 
 And at your feet my robes I'll lay. 
 
 And then, O, miracle sublime, 
 
 Earth, sky and air enchantment lent, 
 
 The western gates were opened wide — 
 
 I saw a city fortified. 
 
 From citadel and battlement, 
 
 From buttressed tower and earth wall, 
 
 I watched the banners rise and fall. 
 
 The royal colors interlace, 
 
 "Keep silence happy earth" they said, 
 
 (So I the flashing signals read) 
 
 "The Lord is in His holy place." 
 
 February i6, 1891. 
 
 Page 33 
 
THE BABY'S HAND, 
 
 ll^INK and dimpled — a baby's hand, 
 UV Palm of velvet and wrinkled wrist, 
 Doubled sometime into tiny fist, 
 
 Soft for caressing — strong to demand. 
 Ruling the world with a magic wand, 
 
 A charm whose might we may not resist- 
 Nothing weaker on earth I wist. 
 
 Yet hut and palace throughout the land 
 Yield to the power of the babys hand. 
 
 LONG AGO. 
 
 ♦ii^REEZES of by-gone days, breathe low ! 
 J^ I'm listening with heart and brain 
 
 Alert, if I but catch again 
 Some far off echo of that strain 
 From out the sweet dim long ago. 
 
 The same blue mountains hedge me round, 
 The same bright waters ebb and flow — 
 
 The old sweet world of sight and sound. 
 The blessings of whose beauty crowned 
 My glad youth in that long ago. 
 
 THE FOOTSTEPS. 
 
 ♦fC%OW the footsteps come and go, 
 mumJ On the walk and in the hall. 
 Baby footfalls light and low. 
 
 In the twilight's tender glow 
 Quick they answer to our call. 
 
 Page 34 
 
Still the footsteps come and go, 
 Eager footsteps on the stair, 
 
 Happy feet, we love them so, 
 Lightly running to and fro 
 
 Making music everywhere. 
 
 Footsteps, footsteps, come and go, 
 While we listen as we pray. 
 
 List with bated breath and low. 
 Listen while the hot tears flow, 
 
 "Father, keep them in Thy way." 
 
 THE DROUTH. 
 
 ^T^HE grass in the pasture is crisp and brown, 
 ^^ And the brook in the pasture is dry, 
 And the spring by the rock is so low, I think. 
 The cattle have hardly enough to drink. 
 And there's no rain in the sky. 
 
 How thirsty the clover field has grown. 
 
 How thirsty the breezy hill. 
 And the river is out of sorts, I guess, 
 And has refused in its bitterness 
 
 To turn the wheel by the mill. 
 
 I've talked to the maples the best I could 
 
 With hopes of the by and by. 
 But the leaves are dusty and rusty and brown. 
 And sometimes in troops they come sailing down. 
 
 And there's no rain in the sky. 
 
 Even the stars have a feeble smile. 
 
 And look through a cloudy veil. 
 And the earth looks sickly and yellow, but then 
 The sun is sad, and I don't know when 
 
 I have seen the moon so pale. 
 
 Page 3s 
 
THE RAIN. 
 
 ME need the rain, the thirsty earth 
 Lifts her parched bosom for the sky's embrace, 
 Methinks a sullen discontent has left 
 
 This shadow on the sunshine of her face. 
 The sky is hung with smoky curtains round, 
 Even the sun looks through a misty veil, 
 'Tis well, the earth is weary of his smiles. 
 And he, poor lover saddened is, and pale. 
 
 The moon rides on her way through billowy clouds. 
 
 So dense, that we her pathway scarce can trace, 
 But here and there she lays a fold aside. 
 
 And shows the blood-red flushes of her face. 
 The stalwart arms of thunder and of lightning too, 
 
 Must push aside these curtains hung on high, 
 And, He who reigns draw forth the bolt again, 
 
 That fastens now the flood-gates of the sky. 
 
 Father, send rain, and bid the crops rejoice. 
 
 Mankind's dependance for their Winter's food. 
 Send down thy blessing on the fields and trees, 
 
 And, thus pronounce all earth's productions good. 
 Father in Heaven, let Thy smiles once more 
 
 Illumine all our war-ensanguined land, 
 We need Thy aid, we need Thy loving care, 
 
 O, spread for us the bounties of Thy hand. 
 
 June 22, 1862. 
 
 MY YOUTH. 
 
 ^^HE rosy, rosy flushing of the dawn, 
 ^1^ The golden promise of a golden day. 
 A voice from breezy hills and meadow lands, 
 
 A breath of May — 
 The song of waves along the pebbly shore, 
 
 Page 36 
 
The rustle of a bird within its nest, 
 The scent of purple violets at my feet, 
 
 And last — but best, 
 The holy peace, the promise, and the hope 
 
 Of youth's glad morning hour in sunny May. 
 The peaceful sunrise hour which ushers in 
 
 Life's working day. 
 It comes to me, this dream of early youth, 
 
 Like benediction from the olden time. 
 And cheers my soul and warms my weary heart 
 Like sacramental wine. 
 
 January 28, 1867. 
 
 INGRATITUDE. 
 
 r T is to rear a fragile flower 
 I With an unvarying care. 
 And watch the tender stem each hour 
 
 Unfolding pure and fair. 
 Then in some luckless hour to breathe 
 
 The perfume, charged with death, 
 And only live to know that it 
 Had poison in its breath — 
 
 It is to clothe some rocky cliff. 
 
 With trees and grass and flowers, 
 And bring the rarest singing birds 
 
 To warble in its bowers. 
 Then, in some hour of joy. you feel 
 
 The treacherous rock give way. 
 And many dizzy feet below. 
 
 You 'mid the ruins lay. 
 
 Page ^7 
 
It is 'mid Summer hours to strew 
 
 Fresh roses in the way 
 Of one whose Hfe you fain would make 
 
 One long bright Summer day. 
 But when misfortune's hand points out 
 
 Whose love was true and tried; 
 To watch the friend you cherished, pass 
 
 "Upon the other side." 
 
 This is Ingratitude — the sky, 
 
 When Faith's pure star is dim, 
 The golden cup, whose poison draught 
 
 Was honey at the brim. 
 It is the point where Faith and I 
 
 Forevermore must part; 
 The blade held by a human hand, 
 
 To probe a human heart. 
 
 November 9, i860. 
 
 ONE WAY TO GET RICH* 
 
 '^^IS necessary you should have 
 Vl^ A little common sense; 
 But better still, if you possess 
 
 A dash of impudence; 
 For rough-shod impudence always 
 
 The highest honor gains. 
 And "cheek" is oft the substitute 
 
 For common sense and brains. 
 Throw feeling, heart, and sympathy 
 
 Together in the ditch, 
 And let all other aims subside 
 
 In that of getting rich. 
 
 Page 
 
Since oil is plenty, dip your paws 
 
 In some Petroleum well, 
 Grease, whether in soft soap or wool. 
 
 Is easy stuff to sell ; 
 But if you have a debtor, rule 
 
 With Shylock's utmost power, 
 Require strict time, save when delay 
 
 Makes profit every hour. 
 Exact, like Shylock, all your due. 
 
 But unlike him, take care 
 Lest your triumphant feet should slip 
 
 Into some lawyer's snare. 
 
 Let public spirit never find 
 
 Your warm zeal waxing cold. 
 And make the public trust a spade 
 
 To shovel in your gold. 
 Be your religion policy, 
 
 There your chief triumph lies, 
 Your fellow men the honest gulls 
 
 Sent up for sacrifice. 
 Make lying, cheating, stealing, look 
 
 As legal as you can; 
 Believe yourself, if others don't. 
 
 That riches make the man. 
 
 A BOY. 
 
 ^^ HERE'S a boy of my acquaintance, 
 ^1^ And I think he's ten years old, 
 He has cheeks as red as apples. 
 
 And his hair has dreams of gold. 
 And his eyes have ways of shining 
 
 That are pleasant to behold. 
 
 Page 39 
 
"Are you cold?" I said, this morning, 
 And he just laughed in my face ; 
 
 Jack Frost never caught an urchin 
 In a fair and honest race. 
 
 And this boy always reminds me 
 Of a squirrel in a chase. 
 
 ETERNITY. 
 
 ^T% P the steep rugged heights of Death, 
 Vl^ With swift, sure feet I climb, 
 And fellow travellers walk with me 
 
 Of every age and clime. 
 Masters of music and of song 
 Upon this path I find. 
 With harmony of word and sound — 
 
 Learning long gathered and profound. 
 To cheer the soul with holy thought. 
 And draw to Heaven, angel-taught, 
 
 The human heart and mind. 
 
 Old age is with me on the way, 
 The path is steep to them, 
 They've borne the burden of the day 
 And known the woes of men. 
 And middle age and happy youth, 
 And infancy and foe and friend. 
 Toil up the steep, but none descend 
 
 The wild declivity. 
 To youth it is a sunny slope 
 Where bloom the flowers of love and hope, 
 They may not know life's tenderest bliss. 
 
 Its deeper sorrows may not taste, 
 Or in life's follies run to waste. 
 
 Page 40 
 
They may not drink the sweet deep draught 
 Of wine crushed in the press of thought, 
 
 Or by the chemist student drawn 
 From rills and springs whose sparkling dawn 
 
 Was with the Infinite. 
 Youth cannot see with manhood's eye, 
 Life has a rose-hued joy for each; 
 Those side by side with me will reach 
 
 The end as soon as I. 
 
 Onward and upward, side by side, 
 
 And hand in hand, friends true and tried, 
 
 And bitter foes and clown and sage, 
 
 All make the same rough pilgrimage. 
 Years look at me with starry eyes 
 And Amaranth crowns of memories. 
 And time and changes and the sun 
 
 Point to a journey almost done, 
 And shadows which we've followed, turn 
 To dust and ashes in their urn. 
 
 And you and I, friend, you and I 
 Must climb a few more steeps together, 
 Before we reach that last peak crowned 
 
 With clouds so dense and so profound, 
 The human eye can never trace 
 
 A passing spirit's resting place. 
 Fear not, though round that dizzy height 
 Veiled in dusk shadows of the night. 
 Valleys, whose depths are soundless, lie, 
 Years, are their mists in mortal eye 
 
 The valleys of Eternity. 
 
 Fear not, our souls shall float away 
 Beyond the night, beyond the day. 
 Beyond change, Time and bitter memory. 
 
 Page 41 
 
Beyond the clouds, beyond the spheres 
 Where roll no chariot wheels of years, 
 Where falls no bitter rain of tears. 
 Fear not. His arm will guide us when 
 
 We from the dizzy heights of Death, 
 Shall pass away from mortal ken. 
 Fearless as birds, who tread the air, 
 Leaving all weights of sin and care, 
 
 Will float away, away, away 
 To His warm loving arms we'll fly 
 
 Through all the vast Eternity. 
 
 May 22, 1865. 
 
 ST. ALBANS, J788-I888. 
 
 HLONG the outposts of Time's stately march 
 The turrets rise, or gloomy bastions frown ; 
 Toil, art, or science rears triumphal arch, 
 Or some great deed is stamped upon the age. 
 And, writ in gold upon historic page, 
 A leaf is folded down. 
 
 Day unto day hath ever gracious speech, 
 Night unto night adds knowledge most divine; 
 The centuries recruit their ranks from each, 
 And, as the sentinels change on their beat, 
 Through the far silence, we hear tread of feet. 
 And catch the countersign. 
 
 To-dav we listen to the pulse of fate 
 Surging through all the tumult of events, 
 We feel the power of love to conquer hate, 
 Watch grand thoughts triimiph, trace effects to cause, 
 And, with bowed head, see State and Nation pause 
 In solemn sacraments. 
 
 Page 
 
The century rolls back— no more we hear 
 The hum of wire, the whiz of wheel and band— 
 The hiss of steam, the whistle shrill and clear— 
 The woodman's axe rings through the forest gloom, 
 We stand beside the spinning wheel and loom, 
 And all the craft of hand. 
 
 Familiar places fade as in a dream, 
 Our broad highway shrinks to a wooded lane; 
 A cabin of hewn logs stands by the stream, 
 And wild birds brush the eaves with happy wings, 
 And warble with the housewife, as she swings 
 The kettle on the crane. 
 
 O home and hearth, O happy hearth and home. 
 Light of the wilderness, with prayers and tears 
 Laid on an altar 'neath the starry dome. 
 An hallowed flame by heaven's free breezes fanned 
 To burn for "God and Home and Native Land," 
 Through the Eternal years. 
 
 The days passed on in hard and patient toil. 
 And in the pleasant valley by the Lake, 
 The clearings opened up the fertile soil,— 
 Toil which brings blessing down to you and me. 
 O, friends, dear lands of old beyond the sea. 
 Were bruised for our sake. 
 
 And toil-worn hands are sacred evermore; 
 Their blessed mission evermore the same. 
 We fold them tenderly when toil is o'er. 
 We cover them with lilies fair and white, 
 And kiss them through the tears which blind our sight. 
 And bless them in His Name. 
 
 Page 
 
We read between the lines — through the great wood, 
 Marked by trees notched or felled to serve as guide, 
 Rough pathways told of distant neighborhood, — 
 For woman's heart grew sometimes faint and weak, 
 And longed to hear some other woman speak 
 And would not be denied. 
 
 Through miles of wilderness, trod willing feet. 
 To lay a hearth, or rear a cabin wall ; 
 And there were forest idyls, strangely sweet. 
 And forest queens — a crown indeed she wore 
 Whose little children played about the door, — 
 The cross was under all. 
 
 Few were their comforts, and their luxuries few; 
 But from far homes were little treasures brought, — 
 For womanhood is to her instincts true, 
 And love of beauty is a blessed boon 
 
 Albeit with danger fraught, — 
 Comforts and luxuries are numbered soon, 
 The Bible, Pilgrims Progress, Psalm and tune, 
 A bit of china or a silver spoon. 
 
 Or sampler quaintly wrought. 
 
 And one there was who loved her garden best, — 
 I have the memory of a placid face, 
 With kerchief neatly folded on her breast, — 
 Sweetbrier, lilac, tansy, caraway, 
 The scions of her roses bloom to-day. 
 In all their olden grace. 
 
 "Thus far the Lord has led me on." she sung, 
 When the great dusk came down into the wood, 
 With sabbath praise the leafy arches rung. 
 Thus to be happy in one's lot, is wealth, 
 She praised God for her home, her children, health, 
 For pinks and southernwood. 
 
•'A cloud of witnesses are here to-day, 
 These men of steadfast purpose and firm will, 
 And the brave women, staunch in heart as they, 
 Who laid out highways, organized and planned 
 For school and court house, with each fresh demand 
 
 Ever advancing still, — 
 O, friends, recall to-day the efforts made, 
 And their delight when corner stones were laid, 
 
 For meeting house and mill. 
 
 The great hearts builded better than they knew, 
 Who builds with God will never toil in vain, 
 The brookside clearing to a hamlet grew, 
 The happy hills shook off their royal crown 
 Of Hampshire Grants, — in time a stately town 
 Rose by the blue Champlain. 
 
 O, light o'er wooded heights of morning hills, 
 Flashing on cross and spire, on roof and dome, 
 Thy joy through all the radiant landscape thrills, 
 Our fathers' God, who led them all the way, 
 "Pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day," 
 We bless Thee for this home. 
 
 O mountains, on whose peaks the happy day 
 Flings gold and crimson banners 'gainst the sky. 
 Dear Lord, "when everlasting doors give way," 
 Will aught be fairer than this glowing crest 
 Of far blue moimtains, cradled at whose breast 
 The isle-gemmed waters lie? 
 
 Fair valley, whose great ledges have thick leaves, 
 Which bear the record of earth's early days, 
 Green fields whose promise is of future sheaves. 
 And dear historic Lake, whose fleets to-day, 
 Are peaceful fishing boats upon the bay, — 
 Of forts, and battle smoke, and stately ships. 
 Tradition speaks with tender smiling lips, — 
 All celebrate Thy praise. 
 
 Page 45 
 
And this "Fair goodly heritage" is ours. 
 Truly our lines in pleasant places fell. 
 We mark our bulwarks and we count our towers, 
 God and our fathers hold the sacred right 
 On this great day of Freedom's morning light. 
 To bid us guard them well. 
 
 The nation lights its torches at the hearth, 
 Each day-break holds a century in its hand, — 
 And all are ours — for we possess the earth; 
 Guard well the hearth, O, freemen, day by day, 
 Hills shall wax old, and mountains melt away, 
 God's law alone shall stand. 
 
 Pure hearts, clean hands, and happy homes confess 
 A Nation clothed with strength of righteousness, 
 Strength which sure safety to that people brings 
 Whose psalm and way-cry is the King of Kings, 
 Home and our Native Land. 
 
 DREAM OF THE MONDAY AFTERNOON CLUB. 
 
 ***fi' dreamed a dream the other night 
 II When all around was still" — 
 I dreamed — The Monday Club had pitched 
 
 A tent on Aldis Hill', 
 And for one glad ecstatic month 
 
 We'd neither bake nor brew. 
 But leave our worries and our cares 
 And live as angels do. 
 
 Our Sunshine said — 'twas going back 
 
 To pre-historic days. 
 Before we'd evoluted in — 
 
 To modern shapes and ways. 
 But in some shadowy jungle depth 
 
 We leaped from tree to tree. 
 And grinned, and chattered, all day long 
 
 In happy company. 
 
 Page 46 
 
Then Lizzie Locke, in full war paint, 
 
 Big rubber boots and all. 
 Said that she'd traced her pedigree 
 
 To Eve before the fall. 
 And by all records now extant, 
 
 Eden, beyond a doubt 
 Must yield the palm to Aldis Hill, 
 
 Though Adam is left out. 
 
 Then how the ferns and mosses laughed, 
 
 The trillium blushed red. 
 Miss Lady-slipper dimpled up. 
 
 And Jack-in-pulpit said 
 He'd wager his whole parish, 'gainst 
 
 Sir Thomas Lipton's cup, 
 That Adam would be there in force 
 
 Before our month was up. 
 
 And Nell and Lottie clapped their hands. 
 
 And O, how Emma sang 
 "In days of old, when Kniglits were bold, 
 
 Until the Hoyt woods rang. 
 And everybody sang — in fact 
 
 Each tried to get ahead, 
 But clear and high beyond them all — 
 
 The voice of Hannah led. 
 
 Dear Mary Clark paused long enough 
 
 To gasp — "O, girls do cease, j 
 
 We'll scandalize the Warner Home, ' 
 
 And bring up the police." . I 
 
 And Queen Louisa raised her wand, j 
 
 The fragrant air grew still, [ 
 
 I heard the breath of birds and flowers, < 
 
 Sweet life of Aldis Hill. j 
 
 Page 47 ; 
 
And that dear group of earnest souls 
 
 Stood silent, looking down, — 
 Or in my dream I saw them so, — 
 
 Upon the busy town. 
 "We left them for a month of rest," 
 
 Mused blessed sister Sue, 
 And then Miranda said, "Now, girls, 
 
 I'll tell you what we'll do :" 
 
 "We couldn't waste a month in rest 
 
 Who'd like to organize, 
 A class to read biology 
 
 Or art, or botanize?" 
 "Or study birds," said Nelly Hart, 
 
 "A cooking class" said one. 
 Another thought it "just the time 
 
 To sew for heathendom." 
 
 Just then our two new members laughed 
 
 In French — quite soft and low — 
 And Jennie told an Irish joke, 
 
 Just pat and apropos, 
 So glad we were to hear her voice, 
 
 So glad her face to see. 
 That little Mary Sunbeam said, 
 
 "Let's give her three times three." 
 
 We came near singing "Blest the tie," 
 
 But Melvina said just then, 
 "Why what can this be?" and we looked 
 
 Down towards the haunts of men. 
 And there on High street stood — not van 
 
 For gipsy folk or band — 
 But just the great old Fuller barge. 
 
 And Jack with four in hand. 
 
 Page 48 
 
We squeezed Maretta Fuller then, 
 
 We said — 'twas just like her 
 To give us this surprise — the dear 
 
 Old arch-conspirator. 
 Jane, Nell and Lottie formed the line. 
 
 And follow on who will, 
 Sophia, Lucy, Margaret Coote 
 
 All hurried down the hill. 
 
 Hannah, I know was in the plot. 
 
 For I saw in my dream. 
 Hampers of sandwiches and cake, 
 
 Of salad and ice cream. 
 Description fails before that drive, 
 
 Its memory haunts me still — 
 That race with the electric, as 
 
 We tore down Hayward hill. 
 
 Story and laughter, song and joke 
 
 All in one merry mix — 
 Spectators surely pitied Jack, 
 
 With all those lunatics. 
 And Ellen Warner sat by me, 
 
 We giggled all the way. 
 She said — "This does beat all the Dutch 
 
 In Penn-syl-va-nia." 
 
 And Lizzie Stevens spoke one word 
 
 She never said before — 
 "If Vermont winters are like this, 
 
 I'll emigrate no more." 
 The trees on dear old Rocky Point 
 
 Reached welcoming arms once more. 
 The far blue mountains and green hills, 
 
 The rocks and pebbly shore; 
 
 Page 49 
 
The nodding blue bells on the cliff, 
 
 The waves with rapture sung 
 One theme — our blessed Sister Sue 
 
 Is Sixty — something young. 
 And if the great round world rejoiced 
 
 And blossomed into song, 
 The Monday Club, of course, took hold 
 
 To help the thing along. 
 
 For sister Sue is ours, and Love 
 
 The key note of the tune 
 By which the shrill November winds 
 
 Breathe symphanies of June. 
 'Twas a fantastic dream and yet 
 
 So much of it is true — 
 Past — Present — June — November — Love — 
 
 Hannah and Sister Sue. 
 
 And though November hills be white 
 
 And forests brown and sere. 
 Yet where Love reigns 'tis evermore 
 
 The rose time of the year. 
 Aye — Where Love reigns — time is no more — 
 
 Many our years, or few, 
 We're always girls, and always young, 
 
 Like blessed Sister Sue. 
 
 November lo, 1902. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 CAN later blues match that cerulean haze 
 Which wraps the skies of bread-and-butter days? 
 That only blue which can be called divine, 
 Though we have blues of stockings and of rhyme ; 
 And old blue doctrines — strong enough in truth 
 To raise on end the unkept hair of youth : 
 
 Page so 
 
Blue pills, the doctor's aide-de-camp who ride 
 With martyr'd victims over death's dark tide; 
 Blue Sunday laws, which vex the week day too; 
 And then — three cheers — the old red, white and blue ; 
 Blue noses, on a frosty winter day; 
 Blue noses, pickled in some recent fray; 
 Awful blue Mondays when the work goes wrong; 
 Blue looks when lovers stay away too long; 
 And blue receptions, where poor husbands knew 
 And felt that every wind in Heaven blew. 
 
 O, most entrancing, most seraphic hue, 
 
 I could extol thee until all is blue; 
 
 Clear sky of childhood— ere the cloud of doubt 
 
 And rough experience blot thine azure out, 
 
 I'm blue to-day, and by this time you've seen 
 
 I want a parallel for love's young dream. 
 
 First Love — that radiant gleam which oft doth light 
 
 The rustic's parlor upon Sunday night — 
 
 Not physical, but moral light I mean. 
 
 No blaze of tallow or of kerosene. 
 
 But a soft gas, whose origin none know, 
 
 'Twas borne with time, six thousand years ago, 
 
 'Twas Eve's sole consolation and delight 
 
 When driven from paradise, one starless night, 
 
 Before petroleum came to rule a nation, 
 
 Or charcoal gas lit up the corporation. 
 
 First Love — a graceful epidemic which 
 
 Like mumps or measles, aye, or like the itch — 
 
 Is caught before we know it, and endured 
 
 With stoic calmness until it is cured, 
 
 A kind of heart disease which leaves no holes, 
 
 But comes— like first snow, just to try the soles 
 
 Of luckless urchins, and melts ofif as soon 
 
 As they, half famished, scamper off at noon — 
 
 Page SI 
 
Aye, aye, first love is often doomed to die, 
 Strangled in buns and huckleberry pie. 
 And these days, I am sure that we should call 
 Love — which survived a season of base-ball, 
 Or which, through all the mazes of croquet 
 Still kept the even tenor of its way — 
 Chronic affection, an institution fixed 
 As laws of Medes and Persians, but betwixt 
 Ourselves, I think the cases rather rare. 
 We live on first love, as we breathe the air 
 Drawn in one breath, and cast another out. 
 And sometimes in close quarters I've no doubt 
 We breathe again the same air we exhale. 
 And that you know is something rather stale. 
 
 Lord bless you boys and girls, I love to see 
 
 Your bright eyes sparkle in glad company, 
 
 And as I love the ripple of the rills. 
 
 Or the warm sunlight on the Autumn hills; 
 
 Your laughter, and your smiles, your words of glee 
 
 And all your little joys are dear to me. 
 
 And though I sometimes laugh at you, I feel 
 
 Each little woe which stabs like polished steel. 
 
 I love to breathe the lillies which you hold, 
 
 I love to watch you counting up life's gold 
 
 And deeming it so precious, though untried — 
 
 Ah ! life and love — like gold — are purified 
 
 By firey trial, prayer, and many tears, 
 
 By long companionship, by circling years. 
 
 And by the tangled web of circumstance 
 
 Which, from the brilliant hues of young romance 
 
 And stern reality makes cloth of gold. 
 
 Which keeps the heart warm till the pulse is cold. 
 
 Page sa 
 
"THE OLD PLACE.'' 
 
 B white, hard-beaten road winds round the hill, 
 Through the green pastures, O, so green and still, 
 Through the fair meadows, where the shadows rest, 
 All through the golden summer afternoon; 
 When sinks the sun into the radiant west, 
 And all the perfumed air is hushed and still, 
 Dear meadows close beside the happy hill. 
 
 The farm house, sheltered by a shelving ledge, 
 Battered by time, by sun-light and by storm, 
 Forsaken now, and desolate and lone; 
 Yet children's children 'neath its roof were born. 
 And happy youths and maidens called it home, 
 And merry feet have danced along the green, 
 And rosy lips drank from the bubbling spring. 
 And eager eyes looked from yon rnouldering sill 
 Beyond the pleasant meadows and the hill, 
 To where the radiant landscape, sloping down, 
 Shows far away the steeples of the town. 
 And hearts have beat like birds upon the wing. 
 
 A row of currant bushes near the door. 
 The housewife's glory in those olden days ; 
 And then a narrow path which leads us on, 
 By older bushes and by pleasant ways, 
 To the old orchard — listen to the moan 
 Of winds in the old wood beyond the ledge. 
 You said to me, O, friend of summer time. 
 It 'minded you of surf upon the shore. 
 Familiar music of your sea-side home. 
 
 O mountains, lifting up your heads of snow, 
 When summer sunshine floods the happy glen, 
 What tales ye could tell of the long ago. 
 
 Page 53 
 
When by the hearth-stone's long extinguished blaze 
 Gathered the merry groups of other days; 
 How many a quilting frolic hath been here 
 When rustic neighbors came from far and near, 
 And apple bees, when the old rafters smiled 
 In festooned splendor, and the labor o'er, 
 What m.erry feet tripped o'er the sanded floor; 
 In chimney corners, shielded from the light, 
 What gay flirtations whiled away the night. 
 What long walks home beneath the harvest moon. 
 
 And there were other days — days sad and still, 
 
 When through the meadows and around the hill. 
 
 The funeral train bore slowly to his rest 
 
 The aged father or the happy child. 
 
 And still the mountains in the sunlight smiled, 
 
 Lifting their rugged foreheads to the sky. 
 
 Unchanged while all the changing years went by. 
 
 SUNSHINE. 
 
 ®wake, a golden prophecy 
 Streams in upon the floor; 
 It trembles lightly on the wall, 
 As swaying branches rise and fall, 
 O ! when did gracious Heaven let fall 
 So fair a gift before? 
 
 Do wake ! I'm sure you will not wish 
 
 To close your eyes again; 
 You'll feel as Noah did, of old, 
 When, through his window, small and cold. 
 Shot shining arrows, tipped with gold, 
 
 After six weeks of rain. 
 
 Page 54 
 
Wake up ! I've much to talk about : 
 
 Now that I've seen the sun, 
 O ! for the hills, the woods, the lake, 
 I want to breathe long breaths, and shake 
 My drowsy energies awake — 
 
 The summer time has come. 
 
 I heard a bob-o-link, just now, 
 
 The old familiar strain, 
 I well each rippling note did know, 
 When summer mornings, long ago, 
 I, barefoot, with the cows did go 
 
 To pasture, through the lane. 
 
 And this same bob-o-link, I vow. 
 
 Sang to me all the way : 
 Why has he left that sunny lane, 
 Winding through fields of grass and grain; 
 The buttercups and clover bloom. 
 The whispers of the rosy June ; 
 The old white rock, the pasture gate; 
 The fragrant wood, the singing brook, 
 Which wound with many a fall and crook, 
 
 And singing, singing, all the way. — 
 
 Bless mej I think I'm in a drowse. 
 
 And dreaming about birds and cows, 
 
 Now, then, indeed we must both rouse. 
 It doesn't rain to-day. 
 
 May 25, 1867. 
 
 AFTER THE SUMMER, 
 
 .^AREWELL! good-by! 
 
 Jl Once more our hands are clasped before we part, 
 
 And lip meets lip, and heart beats back to heart, 
 
 And eager question, and low-toned reply 
 
 Show how grief strives against philosophy. 
 
 Page ss 
 
A few pale smiles, ^rim phantoms and forlorn 
 Creep out like sentries on a rainy morn, 
 While words fall quickly, as the steady play 
 Of rifle shots which keep a foe at bay. 
 And memory's drum-beats wake up for review 
 These few sweet months — alas ! so sweet and few. 
 How much there is, which had our souls had power 
 To weigh the anguish of this parting hour 
 Had been unsaid, undone, 'tis now we feel 
 How to-day treads upon to-morrow's heel, 
 And wonder if that hour will ever be 
 Which to past time shall pay no usury. 
 Yet who would slay his memory, although 
 Remorse lies stricken with the self-same blow. 
 To pluck a thorn I would not crush the flower, 
 Whose perfume lives in this our {carting hour. 
 
 Farewell ! good-by ! And shall we never meet 
 In pleasant homes, or on the busy street? 
 Or by these happy shores, where we have strayed 
 When tidal waves about our footsteps played? 
 Or yon cliff, dearest, from whose craggy steep 
 We've watched the sun go down into the deep; 
 And when had faded the last smile of day, 
 Above the Eastern mountains far away, 
 We've watched the new moon raise her bended bow, 
 And shower her arrows like the falling snow? 
 O, in those holy hours, so still and dim. 
 Our hearts went up in nature's vesper hymn; 
 And lips chose serious language to express 
 God's love and power, and our own nothingness. 
 The song of birds among the corn has ceased; 
 We've sat with nature at her harvest feast, 
 And seen her store-house locked, for you and me 
 The golden summer holds a golden key. 
 And memory in the coming winter hours 
 Shall taste the perfume of these fading flowers, 
 And feed upon these garnered fruits, and fold 
 Warmth, light and sunshine in her heart of gold. 
 
 Pagelse 
 
Farewell! good-by! I'm glad that we have met; 
 Glad though the parting leaves my eyelids wet. 
 Glad for the smiles the radiant summer wore, 
 Glad for these happy cliffs — this happy shore. 
 Aye, glad, more glad than these poor lips can tell, 
 That we have met, though but to say — farewell. 
 
 A JUNE DAY IN SEPTEMBER. 
 
 ♦fC^x\ST thou returned, fair June? 
 UMm/ I heard thy laughter pass. 
 Borne on the breeze, and now I see 
 
 Thy footprints on the grass ; 
 Thy banner in the sky, 
 
 An azure cloud I see, 
 And grove and wood are vocal with 
 
 Thy wild, sweet harmony; 
 Hast thou returned, fair June, 
 
 With tripping feet again — 
 With perfumed breath and voice of song. 
 
 To take again thy reign ? 
 
 But why, alas! is this? 
 
 There's sadness on thy brow ; 
 I something miss, and where, O June, 
 
 Where are thy flowers now? 
 The daisy of the field. 
 
 The violet from the rill, 
 The buttercup, the bluebell and 
 
 The harebell from the hill? 
 Stripped of thy glories, why 
 
 O June, why art thou here? 
 Where is thy brightness and thy mirth. 
 
 Fair jewel of the year? 
 
 Page 57 
 
The skies are bright with smiles, 
 
 The woods are gay with song, 
 Yet there's a shadow, which I know 
 
 Doth not to June belong. 
 The hills are bleak and cold, 
 
 The valley trees are bare, 
 Or robed in crimson, not the dress 
 
 Which June would bid them wear. 
 Ah ! well I know, fair June, 
 
 That when the night shall fall, 
 Thou'lt slip away, nor come again. 
 
 Till spring shall sound her call. 
 
 A BIRD SONG. 
 
 OOK here, little robin, up under the eaves, 
 
 Take courage and come to my window I pray ; 
 The great fields are golden with their ripened sheaves, 
 
 And there's a sad moaning in our maple leaves, 
 As Nature half proudly, half mournfully grieves 
 O'er her children to-day. 
 
 Come down, pretty bird, you are lonely I ween 
 
 Up there all alone in your desolate nest; 
 
 O, well I remember a different scene, 
 
 When the branches which sweep the old roof tree were green, 
 
 And far away sounded the mowing machine. 
 
 And the afternoon sun slowly sank in the west. 
 
 Poor robin, your nestlings have all flown away, 
 And the time of your going I know to be near ; 
 
 Take courage and come to my window I pray. 
 
 My great heart is full of its yearning to-day. 
 
 To be flying like you o'er the hills far away, 
 Keeping pace with the year. 
 
 Page 58 
 
You remember the day when the spring-time was glad 
 
 With the birth of the flowers and the laughter of rills; 
 And the silly old trees in the forest went mad, 
 When Nature poured out all the sunshine she had 
 To make crowns for the hills. 
 
 When the grass in the breezy old pasture was green, 
 Save where in deep hollows the dead leaves were laid ; 
 
 Or in the dark thicket, or tangled ravine, 
 
 Where never the broad smiles of sunlight were seen, 
 
 But where Nature loves to sit idly I ween, 
 In the silence and shade. 
 
 When the brook decked its shoulder with mosses and sung 
 
 Its glad mountain song to the listening glen. 
 You folded your wing, pretty robin, among 
 The maples, whose branches my window o'erhung. 
 And I knew you were glad by the song which you sung. 
 To be home again. 
 
 And you told me — O, robin, it made my heart ache — 
 
 Of a grave far away where my tears never fell ; 
 Where early the whispering breezes awake, 
 And the sunlight falls golden and warm for his sake 
 Whom I loved so well. 
 
 Where the oaks toss their arms in the face of the storm, 
 
 And the rush of the river is heard like a wail; 
 Thank God he is happy, and sheltered and warm. 
 This pitying yearning to shield him from harm 
 Can no more avail. 
 
 But go, little robin, I hear your mate's call; 
 
 I shall dream of you guarding that grave far away. 
 Sing gaily when sunlight falls brightly o'er all — 
 Sing softly and low when the night shadows fall 
 
 At the close of the day. 
 
 Page sg 
 
THE ANNIVERSARY OF A DECISION. 
 
 'J^HIS day, this hour — ah, do I hold again 
 ^U The bonds so loosely held, which fell away, 
 And left me with a sudden thrill of pain. 
 Whose echoes vibrate in my soul to-day. 
 This day, this hour, and what alas! is it 
 Which every fibre of my being- thrills — 
 With silent lip and dreaming eyes, I sit 
 And look back o'er the hills. 
 
 The hills of Time, so evenly disposed, 
 Crowned with radiant memory, through whose mists 
 The past in tender beauty stands disclosed; 
 Ah ! Time has necromancy in his gifts 
 To make the past appear a youthful bride. 
 Crowning with beauty, gentleness, and ease, 
 That which was old and ugly, side by side. 
 When we were young and difficult to please. 
 
 That day with which to-day stands parallel. 
 Was but a common day of light and gloom, 
 And yet it seems to me a living well 
 Of diamond lustre, set in clover bloom; 
 Ah! if I stood again on yon green slope. 
 O'er whose pure paths with reckless haste I went, 
 I'd have more present faith, less future hope, 
 And show appreciation by content. 
 
 If I could stand again where once I stood. 
 
 Back dim sweet years where dusty cross roads lie — 
 
 "Walk here!" said Reason, "it is for your good;" 
 
 "This path is easier," was another cry ; 
 
 The dew-dipped arrows of that voice should glance. 
 
 As on a sheltered head beats pelting rain ; 
 
 I would not be the slave of circumstance. 
 
 But every circumstance should serve my aim. 
 
 Page 60 
 
Peace, foolish heart, it is a strange content 
 Which knows the past to be a sealed book. 
 Yet deems the present but a supplement, 
 At which it is an idle waste to look; 
 And it is destiny, which after all, 
 Leads our decisions, be they good or ill. 
 Birth, education, circumstance, are all 
 As potent agents as the human will. 
 
 We do not know our powers, until drawn out; 
 We are not gifted with omniscient eye. 
 And we are apt to trust to things without 
 Inquiring much wherein their merits lie, 
 And life's enigma may be easy wrought. 
 Some are designed to seek the eagle's nest, 
 And some in valleys pluck the violets sought. 
 Some follow after, and some lead the rest. 
 And is it right for one to mourn because 
 Others can walk serenely where he fell? 
 A cursory reading of God's fixed laws. 
 Would show the path for him, impossible. 
 
 We cannot win a smile from Fame, unless 
 
 A world's appreciation meets our hope. 
 
 And after all what's glory but success. 
 
 And fame, what is it but a telescope 
 
 Through which an eager world looks at our faults. 
 
 And makes them virtues, and our virtues raise, 
 
 Until sometimes the two turn summersaults. 
 
 When dizzy heads are surfeited with praise. 
 
 Like prisoned birds we beat against our wires 
 With restless longing, and vague discontent. 
 Alas ! sometimes our fondest, best desires 
 Are granted us in a just punishment; 
 It was not cruel fate or reckless chance, 
 Which hushed the footfalls of that vanished time. 
 I'll sometime lift the veil of circumstance. 
 And see the working of God's vast design. 
 
 Page 6r 
 
THE ONE TALENT. 
 
 ♦fF had one talent — it was small ; — 
 II I heedlessly laid it away, 
 My comrades called me, and all day, 
 Beside the shore, with listless hands, 
 I sifted grains of golden sands. 
 And idly watched the clouds float by, 
 Or the white sails of passing ships — 
 Often with murmurs on my lips 
 That others sailed the seas — not I — 
 
 The summer sunlight on the sea, — 
 The echoing arches of the wood, 
 The corn fields rustle, and the birds, 
 The meadow breezes, clover sweet, 
 The upland pastures and the herds — 
 All sound and sight in harmony 
 Of love and power and majesty — 
 Alas ! that I misunderstood. 
 
 The voice of Duty called to me, 
 
 And Hope entreated tenderly. 
 
 And Privilege, with eager feet 
 
 Turned to the hills, made gracious ^ause 
 
 And bade me tread the heights with her,- 
 
 I felt within my being stir 
 
 The unseen power — the solemn call 
 
 Of holy mount and burning bush. 
 
 Yet I refused — because, because 
 
 I said my talent was so small. 
 
 At noonday — wandering heedlessly. 
 From a bold headlapd looking far, 
 Touched by the marvel of the sea 
 And the far footsteps of the tide; 
 Aroused, perplexed, dissatisfied, 
 
 Page 62 
 
My soul woke longing to be free, 
 Yet Opportunity passed by — 
 So seldom now she turned to me — 
 "My talent is so small" — I cried — 
 "Why venture where I cannot see?" 
 
 And now the evening shadows fall 
 
 I know the talent was not great. 
 
 But O, the time that's run to waste. 
 
 The twilight mocks my tardy haste, 
 
 My anguished search for what I laid away 
 
 And prized so carelessly in life's young day. 
 
 And learned its value, O, dear Lord so late. 
 
 Begun November lo, 1893. 
 Finished November 2, 1901. 
 
 AND OLD MAID. 
 
 SHE was alone — no kindred blood 
 Had claim upon her love or care; 
 An ivy among odks she stood, 
 
 With tendrils reaching everywhere. 
 Dependent, as are all who live. 
 
 On man below and God above. 
 She gave — 'twas all she had to give — 
 
 Her hands' whole work, her heart's whole love. 
 
 We have seen violets blue and sweet, 
 
 Not for the banquet or parade. 
 Or for the festive revel meet, 
 
 But on the fevered pillow laid. 
 Their tender beauty brought repose, 
 
 And cool, sweet thoughts to heated brain, 
 Which haughty tulip, queenly rose. 
 
 Or regal dahlia sought in vain. 
 
 Page 63 
 
In happy homes, when fell the stroke 
 
 Of death or sorrow, she was there ; 
 Though frail, she helped to bear the yoke 
 
 Of many a fellow sister's care. 
 A light in many a home; and yet 
 
 Such is many a violet's fate; 
 Her only star of love had set 
 
 And left its high shrine desolate. 
 
 She lived serenely. When she died, 
 
 It was as if some star was hid. 
 Ah! many a matron in her pride 
 
 Might bow above her coffin lid, 
 And pray that when should dawn that day 
 
 When earth is lost and heaven won, 
 Her friends with as much truth could say, 
 
 "Her work is done, and nobly done." 
 
 A VERY TRUE TALE. 
 J777— J878. 
 
 ♦fF'LL tell you a story, and boys, do you know, 
 n It is something which happened a long time ago ; 
 Some five score and odd (two or three) years or so. 
 'Twas the time when we all were called Yankees, and when 
 Men, women and children were all minute men, 
 And stood ready for service when called for, right then. 
 
 You see women had rights in those days. It is said 
 
 That they melted their platters and plates — they were lead— 
 
 Into bullets, to fire at the enemy's head. 
 And they went without tea, — O my sisters, just think 
 Of the taxes we pay for that national drink. 
 But they wouldn't pay taxes — those women — not they. 
 If I'd time, I could tell you, how in Boston Bay, 
 There was such a big lot of good tea thrown away. 
 The good men did the deed — but then, without question, 
 It was the result of some woman's suggestion ; 
 A moral well worthy of rapid digestion. 
 
 Page 64 
 
Ah ! in these latter days, I am happy to say, 
 
 We have women with just as much back bone as they, 
 
 Who beg to have barrels of drink thrown away, 
 
 In view of the horrible taxes to pay. 
 
 But I'd like to shake hands with those sturdy old dames. 
 
 And just say we'd be glad could they send in their names 
 
 To our Temperance Union. Just think of our gains ! 
 
 They'd be members ex-officio, or something like that, 
 
 (I'm never quite sure when my Latin comes pat.) 
 
 But bless me, the story I started to tell 
 
 Was a tale of invasion, and of what befell 
 
 An army, which answered at first to roll-call 
 
 At St. Johns, I think, and that's near Montreal. 
 
 Those were funny old days. Just think now how we whine 
 
 When a great fall of snow stops the trains on the line; 
 
 And if by the cable we don't hear each day 
 
 From all over the world we think something's to pay ; 
 
 And get bored and all out of sorts right away. 
 
 But then — just imagine a life so forlorn — 
 
 Not a railroad or telegraph either were born. 
 
 Why, their names weren't known, and strange as it may seem, 
 
 St. Albans herself was the ghost of a dream. 
 
 And as now, on dark nights, there was no kerosene 
 
 To light the street lamps — there were no streets to light — 
 
 There was no city hack, there was no Johnny White ; 
 
 No mills, shops or depot — alas, and what's more, 
 
 There was no Welden House, there was no Corner Store, 
 
 No great breezy Common, where boys could play ball. 
 
 There were no boys, in fact — there was nothing at all. 
 
 I have told what there ivasn't because 'twill explain 
 Why this bold invader, who sailed up Champlain, 
 Didn't come out by railroad, with his rank and file, 
 And visit St. Albans; it wasn't worth while. 
 So he sailed down the Lake, one glad summer day, 
 This reckless invader — Burgoyne, by the way, — 
 And he didn't even run into the Bay, 
 
 Page 6s 
 
But kept right along, took Crown Point and Fort Ti, 
 Without very much trouble, and his star rose high, 
 And he thought it was grand for one's country to die. 
 And so, flushed with victory, his march he resumed — 
 A slow, toilsome journey, it must be presumed — 
 And they heard of his coming down Bennington way, 
 And the bold hearts got ready their brave part to play, 
 And they gave him a warm, hearty welcome one day. 
 
 T think we've all heard of the Bennington fight, 
 'Tis the grandfather's theme — 'tis the children's delight; 
 Stock went up, and darkness began to look bright. 
 I'd liked to have been there, it must be confessed, 
 When Stark sent Burgoyne word "to pull down his vest," 
 Which he did in a hurry and kept on his way, 
 Until he met more just such welcomes one day. 
 Which so overcame him that he was constrained, 
 In view of the way he had been entertained, 
 To give our folks a present, to have and to hold, 
 To remember him by, when the days shall grow old, 
 And to their children's children the tale should be told. 
 
 I'm not very well used to those primitive ways, 
 
 But if you will believe me, in those ancient days 
 
 They didn't take photographs, else without question, 
 
 This noble Burgoyne at his good wife's suggestion. 
 
 Would have had all his men in full battle array. 
 
 Made into a picture, to send us some day. 
 
 We'd be glad now to see them, but I must confess, 
 
 That Stark would have said — "Darn their pictures," I guess. 
 
 A classic expression, I think, more or less, — 
 
 So this good Burgoyne did the best that he could, 
 
 You know that folks can't always do as they would, 
 
 So he gave what he knew would expression afford 
 
 Of his heart's inmost feelings — ^he proffered his sword. 
 
 O, do you remember one bright day last summer ' 
 
 When saint, aye and sinner, Priest, Levite and bummer. 
 
 Page 66 
 
The old resident and the newest new comer, 
 
 With cannon, whose Hps had no whisper but peace, 
 
 With torpedoes and crackers the din to increase. 
 
 With all our best clothes on and banners unfurled, 
 
 The whole population — in fact, all the world 
 
 Who could possibly get here — helped welcome, with cheers. 
 
 The guests of our nation— THE 6TH FUSILIERS? 
 
 What a wild day it was — what a mad, merry day. 
 
 And do you remember when they went away 
 
 By some trick of fireworks, the line of their march 
 
 Was under what seemed a grand trii^mphal arch. 
 
 Amid heat and excitement, destructi've to starch? 
 
 And we gave them our best — our best music and song. 
 
 We made our best speeches — in fact, all day long 
 
 We put our best foot out, and put it out strong. 
 
 And all that long day, I will pledge you my word, 
 
 That nobody mentioned poor old Burgoyne's sword, 
 
 Or by so much as hinted that they could afford 
 
 To send us some nice little trophy of peace, 
 
 Because we all felt that the wonders ne'er cease. 
 
 And the brave boys from Canada helped celebrate 
 
 A day that was big in the annals of fate. 
 
 So we buried the hatchet and unstrung the bow, 
 
 And we gushed — that's a fact, but that's all right, you know. 
 
 History repeats herself. The 6th Fusiliers 
 
 Were so pleased with our common, our rockets and cheers. 
 
 And the bridge which they helped us build over the years, 
 
 That they've sent us a gift, which a prince might afford. 
 
 Burgoyne didn't give his whole heart with his sword — 
 
 I think, on the contrary, his heart was deep gored. 
 
 But the gift of to-day — with a hearty good will 
 
 Let us hold up our hands, while our glasses we fill 
 
 With good pure cold water, and drink to the day 
 
 When our brave British neighbors, from over the way, 
 
 Came out and shook hands in their hearty old way. 
 
 Page 67 
 
And we give them our promise that while the world stands, 
 We will cherish the gift which they left in our hands, 
 And we trust that the present reciprocal bands 
 Of peace and good will may grow stronger with years, 
 And we'll all, men and women, give three hearty cheers. 
 Every 4th of July for THE 6TH FUSILIERS. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 ®I honey-bee, singing among the blossoms — 
 The pea blossoms purple and white — 
 Are the hearts that live in their pulseless bosoms 
 
 As weary as mine to-night? 
 O ! singing bird, in the tangled bowers. 
 
 Shaded from storm and sun. 
 Do you sit and weep in your leafy towers. 
 When the day is almost done? 
 
 Does the light breeze swaying the tangled vine, 
 
 Strike your heart to the very core ? 
 Does it haunt as a voice is haunting mine, 
 
 Or a step that will come no more? 
 O ! violets hid in your mossy nest, 
 
 O ! daisy with eye like a star. 
 Do you miss him, my darling, the bravest and best 
 
 Who fell in the cruel war? 
 
 THE CLOUDS. 
 
 mELLIE, quit that hateful hemming. 
 Daintiest ruffles pure and white, 
 Don't compare with heaped-up brightness, 
 Of the glorious sky to-night. 
 
 Page 
 
And your daintiest ball-dress, Nellie, 
 Thinnest gossamer and lace, 
 
 With its lovely, costly trimmings 
 And each pearl-drop in its place, 
 
 Would be coarsest fustian, dearest. 
 Side by side with what I see, 
 
 Can it be they're angels' dresses, 
 Hung up there to show to me? 
 
 I should, think they'd have been ruined 
 In the shower this afternoon. 
 
 It's so bright in Heaven, the angels 
 Didn't think 'twould rain so soon. 
 
 Now the angels' hands are spreading 
 Softly out each radiant fold, 
 
 And the setting sun is gleaming 
 Like a burnished shield of gold. 
 
 And O, Nellie. Nellie, sister. 
 
 Sure the breezes must have shook 
 
 Diamonds from the angels' caskets. 
 Lay aside your work and look. 
 
 See them glistening in the meadow — 
 I've been very good since school, 
 
 If you'll let me go and get them, 
 I'll bring back my apron full. 
 
 And if darkness comes too quickly, 
 
 I'll not fear if I can see 
 Twinkling eyes of happy angels 
 
 Looking fondly down on me. 
 
 August I, 1864. 
 
 Page 69 
 
WRITTEN BY A PICTURE IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 ♦|C%OW lovingly the moonbeams smile 
 nj Upon the sleeping I.ake, 
 And bend to catch the echoes, that 
 
 The Fairy's paddles make, 
 As she with tiny form erect 
 
 And arm upon the oar. 
 With her fair island home in view 
 
 Strikes boldly for the shore. 
 
 There is a mossy grotto there, 
 
 Hid in a violet dell, 
 With the low ferns for shade trees, that 
 
 The fairies love so well. 
 And there to-night, they wait for her, — 
 
 A patient group, I ween — 
 To lead beneath the starry sky 
 
 A dance upon the green. 
 
 October 17, 1861. 
 
 THAT FOOTSTEP. 
 
 ^^HERE'S a footstep on the stairs, 
 \M Listen, does it come this way? 
 Nettie, in the parlor fills 
 
 The air with boisterous play. 
 
 I wish she'd hush her prattle 
 Just an instant, 'till I see 
 
 If that footstep is the footstep. 
 Dearest on the earth to me. 
 
 Now it comes along the passage, 
 Just a little minute more. 
 
 Will it come on, or will it pause 
 Before some other door? 
 
 Page 70 
 
Pen and paper seek oblivion, 
 
 I can write no more to-day — 
 For I'm sure now of the footstep 
 
 That is coming on this way. 
 
 July lo, 1861. 
 
 FLL BE TRUE TO THEE. 
 
 *^f^IS not alone while peace shall fold 
 ^U Her pinions o'er my head, 
 'Tis not alone while joy's bright flowers, 
 
 Their incense round me shed; 
 Nor yet while Hope, with liberal hand. 
 
 Brings offerings to me, 
 'Tis not for these uncertain joys, 
 
 I plight my faith to thee. 
 
 Though care and sorrow chance to leave 
 
 Their impress on thy brow. 
 Though silver twine amid the locks, 
 
 So dark and glossy now; 
 Though age upon thy manly form. 
 
 His blighting power should tell. 
 And dim the brightness of the eyes, 
 
 That I have loved so well. 
 
 Though sorrows come in legion form, 
 
 And joys are frail and few, 
 Though all the friends of youth forsake, 
 
 And God alone is true; 
 Though Poverty's chill breath should blight 
 
 Together thee and me, 
 My heart is firm to bear it all, 
 
 ril still be true to thee. 
 
 March, li 
 
 Page 71 
 
BY AND BY. 
 
 MHEN March winds and April showers 
 Wake again the shimbering earth, 
 And the springing grass and flowers 
 Crown again the summer's birth. 
 When the sun's long rosy fingers 
 
 Stroke the tresses of the wood, 
 As through long bright hours he lingers, 
 Like a lover understood. 
 
 When the golden happy valleys 
 
 Smile approval on each wile 
 Of the day-god's graceful wooing, 
 
 And the haughty mountains smile. 
 When the summer binds her tresses 
 
 With the golden sheaves of grain, 
 And each morn the sun lifts jewels, 
 
 From the couch where she hath lain. 
 
 Then gird up thy heart, my darling, 
 
 Do not cry aloud or w^eep, 
 When thy loving words and kisses 
 
 Fail to wake me from my sleep. 
 Lay me down among the flowers. 
 
 In earth's bosom soft and warm. 
 By and by, lie down beside me, 
 
 Ever free from earthly harm. 
 
 March 19, 1865. 
 
 COMFORT FOR ONE I LOVE. 
 
 .Rather if 'tis Thy win, 
 
 JW To bid the throbbings of my heart be still. 
 
 And close my eyes; 
 'Tis Thy hand fills the cup. 
 And meekly I drink up 
 
 The sacrifice. 
 
 Page 72 
 
Not for myself, on high 
 To Thee I Hft mine eye, 
 
 In anguished prayer. 
 Death would but come to me, 
 A friend to set me free 
 
 From pain and care. 
 
 But for his sake, whose love 
 In my heart, like a dove, 
 
 Folds its pure wings. 
 For him I shrink away, 
 And dread to see the day 
 
 Close upon earthly things. 
 
 In the still night I start, 
 When grimly round my heart. 
 
 Steals this stern dread. 
 I creep close to his side. 
 In that dear breast to hide 
 
 My weary head. 
 
 But when that hour shall come. 
 With all its shuddering gloom 
 
 Of wild alarms; 
 His love, however deep. 
 Nor tears, nor prayers can keep 
 
 Me in his arms. 
 
 Father to Thee I call, 
 And if the stroke must fall, 
 
 Be Thou his stay. 
 Comfort and cheer his heart, 
 Lead him from earth apart, 
 
 To tread Thy way. 
 
 January 3, 1862. 
 
 Page 73 
 
THE BURDEN OF A SONG. 
 
 ME all miss something — 
 There is no life so rounded and complete, 
 So rich in all we longed for most and first, 
 In gifts or graces which the spirit nursed 
 When hope and joy were young, and life was sweet- 
 No spirit wings have touched, no fleshly feet 
 Have reached the utmost limit of desire. 
 And rested there — content to soar no higher. 
 
 O, valley of our failure, or our test, 
 Desert and wilderness and crucial fires — 
 O, days of bitterness and starless nights, 
 And sore defeat and unfulfilled desires — 
 O, weary flesh and soul that longs for rest. 
 When it shall be sometime, somewhere at last, 
 Bending in awe from blessed hills of rest. 
 We shall review the struggles of the past. 
 How will it look from the eternal heights? 
 Can we not now believe that God knows best ? 
 
 Let great souls struggle on in fearless strife — 
 Not theirs the lot to ride upon the crest 
 Of happy fortune through a mortal life. 
 But on the hills to set the beacon lights. 
 To call across ravine, and gulf and fen. 
 Where'er on earth may hide the haunts of men, 
 Or voice of God may pierce the starless nights. 
 To guide the wanderer to home and rest. 
 
 A POEM— W. C T. U. 
 
 Hfar off nation waited long ago, 
 For One to come and set the people free. 
 Watched and saw only sad years come and go; 
 Listened, even on bended knees, that so 
 
 They might catch footfalls of old prophecy. 
 
 Page 74 
 
There were proud hearts, that thought of ancient days, 
 
 Of David's splendor and his kingly throne ; 
 But there were souls, that better knew God's ways, 
 That dreamed amid the holy temple's praise 
 Of a Messiah whom the world should own. 
 
 To humble shepherds on the plains, one night. 
 
 Doing God's work by tending flocks and herds, 
 It pleased the Lord to grant a glorious sight. 
 While round about them shone a wondrous light, 
 . And angel voices chanted wondrous words: 
 
 For lo! the Prince of Peace was born that day. 
 
 Promised Deliverer, the Incarnate Word. 
 Dear friends, a poor babe in a manger lay, 
 To whom the world will yet acknowledge sway. 
 And nations yet unborn pronounce the Lord. 
 
 See how the glad years gather at His feet! 
 
 For whom the kings and prophets waited long ; 
 See gathering years make centuries complete. 
 While down the aisles of time rings full and sweet. 
 
 The old glad music of the angels' song. 
 
 And we believe— our faith's firm corner-stone— 
 
 That the fair babe of ancient history 
 Is God-made man— the High and Holy One 
 Taking our nature— the Beloved Son, 
 
 Fulfillment of the Law and Prophecy. 
 
 O does our work look small, the end seem far? 
 
 ' Think how the angels drooped their shining wings 
 To tell poor shepherds on the plains afar. 
 Of peace and love, and that the wondrous star 
 
 Proclaimed the birth-night of the King of Kings. 
 
 Page 75 
 
We plant, and sow, and water with our tears. 
 We pray for sun to shine and dews to fall. 
 
 And we forget God's everlasting years — 
 
 Forget that when our harvest ripe appears, 
 
 "His mills grind slowly, and exceeding small." 
 
 O, let us feel this day of all the days. 
 
 That we are parts of the eternal plan. 
 The Lord is patient — let us learn His ways; 
 And He, who knows no length of years or days. 
 Hath from the lips of lisping babes asked praise, 
 
 Infinite Glory stoops to finite man. 
 
 December 28, 1878. 
 
 A PRAYER FOR THE NATIONAL CONVENTION. 
 
 qipOUNTAIN of Counsel, at Thy feet 
 JP Humbly Thy daughters sit to-day. 
 "Where two or three together meet," 
 
 We have Thy word of promise sweet, 
 O, Master for this grace we pray 
 
 That when Thy daughters congregate. 
 From North and South, from East and West, 
 
 And for Thy presence ask and wait; 
 Open, Oh, Lord, Thy great flood gate 
 And let Thy glory stand confessed. 
 
 We ask the blessing of Thy grace, 
 
 We ask the baptism of Thy power. 
 O, set Thy seal upon each face 
 
 And make the place a holy place, 
 And make each hour an holy hour. 
 
 Let self and selfish aims take wing, 
 Touch heart and lip with sacred fire. 
 
 While children of a heavenly King 
 Take counsel with a heavenlv Sire. 
 
 1879. 
 
 Page 76 
 
THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE. 
 
 7tll PON the hill stood long ago — 
 Vr^ So long one almost questions whether 
 'Twas real — that school house brown and low. 
 With long rude benches standing high, 
 And low front seats where you and I 
 Sat in our pinafores together. 
 
 A dear old room with whitewashed wall, 
 A stove and cross-legged desk official, 
 
 Black-board and desks with marks on all, 
 Where jack-knives of our fathers had 
 
 Carved images of lass and lad, 
 
 With here and there a bold initial. 
 
 'Twas there, through all the summer days, 
 We struggled at the roots of knowledge. 
 
 And strove to walk in wisdom's ways — 
 Got whipped when we the ways forsook. 
 
 Or stepped from Webster's spelling book 
 Upon some shorter cut to college. 
 
 Then too, this school house on the hill. 
 Was subject to much transformation. 
 
 Was school or lecture hall at will, 
 Became, with very small demur, 
 
 A concert hall or theatre — 
 
 Or church, without denomination. 
 
 And here at "early candle light," 
 On bleakest evenings in November, 
 
 The neighbors came each open night, 
 To hear the goodly companie 
 
 Rehearse Pizarro's tragedy — 
 
 'Twas fifty years ago, remember. 
 
 Page 77 
 
And sure no play of later days 
 
 Could ever furnish half the pleasure, 
 
 Of Robin Rough-head's funny ways 
 
 When round the stove flew uncle Lute 
 
 With Luna B — in fierce pursuit, 
 
 Her cap frills keeping time and measure. 
 
 And time passed onward, and we grew 
 Not wise perhaps, but surely older — 
 
 As rising mists expand the view. 
 And life's great headlands far away 
 
 Beyond the field, and wood and bay, 
 
 Lift their blue outlines bold and bolder. 
 
 And each prepared to take his part, 
 For life's a stage the seer reminds us, 
 
 A play of either heads or hearts. 
 Of comedy or tragedy — 
 
 And each, which ever it may be. 
 
 Must take the role which is assigned us. 
 
 What thronging visions rise and fade 
 Living to-day the old days over — 
 
 The rail fence corners where we played. 
 The maples skirting the long hill, 
 
 The orchard and the cider mill — 
 
 Even youth's buttercups and clover. 
 
 The parties and the New Years rides 
 The prizes and rewards of merit, 
 
 The spelling schools when we chose sides. 
 Dear me — although not quite a dunce 
 
 I never did spell down — not once — 
 Although I often came quite near it. 
 
 Page 78 
 
O, to recall those lyceum nights, 
 
 And the debate prolonged and heated 
 
 The "Kansas" talk and "human rights," 
 I'd laugh, but that I'd surely cry, 
 
 Remembering how you and I 
 
 Did mourn when Freemont was defeated. 
 
 Of course girls always bear their part 
 
 And use each gift whate'er the gift is; 
 "The Critic" held each head and heart— 
 
 A few stray copies still survive. 
 To show how very much alive 
 
 We girls were way back in the fifties. 
 
 Where are they now— the merry crew 
 Alert, care free and joyous hearted. 
 
 With virtues many, faults so few, 
 
 The boys and girls we used to know. 
 
 Who in that sweet dim long ago 
 
 With us upon life's journey started? 
 
 We meet grey bearded men and dames, 
 
 With voices sweet and tender faces, 
 As we recall old days and names, 
 Familiar once, and some among 
 The list will ever more be young. 
 
 And ever fill the dear old places. 
 
 Ah, those old days are far away, 
 
 And years, whose memories are tender, 
 Stand in their shining ranks to-day, 
 
 As dimly we, through eyelids wet. 
 Review so much we would forget. 
 
 So much we lovingly remember. 
 
 Page 79 
 
A mist is on the morning- hills, 
 
 We're drifting into Autumn weather; 
 Yet age its pledge to youth fulfills — 
 
 And though our footsteps lie apart, 
 Yet we, old friends and true of heart, 
 
 Still tread life's sunset slopes together. 
 
 CHRISTMAS (898. 
 
 "Glory to God in the highest, 
 
 And on earth Peace, good-will toward men. 
 
 '^^ODAY from far-off unknown lands, 
 VU Across the trackless sea, 
 O'er dreary wastes of desert sands, 
 
 And rivers flowing free, — 
 A song rings through the centuries, — 
 
 A song for you and me. 
 
 O, happy hills of Palestine, 
 
 That sounded first the strain, 
 W'hen angel voices gave to time 
 
 Eternity's refrain, — 
 O, brave sierras of the West, 
 
 That echo back again. 
 
 Love struck that one resounding chord 
 
 Of perfect harmony, — 
 When Love was born as Christ the Lord, 
 
 Our Prince of Peace to be. 
 O, friend, to all life's music. Love 
 
 Forever gives the key. 
 
 Page 80 
 
THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 ^V'Hj II'H heart, whose pulses keep 
 Vl\t% Alternately their beat 
 
 Of hope and fear. 
 Weary and desolate, 
 I, at the threshold wait 
 The coming year. 
 
 He bringeth gifts to me, 
 But what those gifts may be, 
 
 I do not know. 
 It is this dread of fate, 
 As tremblingly I wait 
 Appalls me so. 
 
 The crimson tide of war, 
 Which long has surged afar, 
 
 Beats on our shore. 
 And thousands are laid low 
 Since one short year ago, 
 
 To be no more. 
 
 Lo, at my very feet. 
 Those crimson surges beat, 
 
 In sullen strife. 
 I do not know the day. 
 When they shall sweep away 
 My all of life. 
 
 A prisoner of war. 
 My brother pines afar 
 
 For friends and home. 
 What wonder that I wait. 
 Saddened and desolate. 
 
 For news to come. 
 
 Page 
 
O, God, the news has come, 
 Far from his friends and home, 
 
 My brother died. 
 O, if this news be so, 
 Help me to bear the blow. 
 
 Thou who wast crucified. 
 
 His sufferings were sore, 
 But he feels pain no more,- 
 
 Help me to pray. 
 Father, the flesh is weak, 
 O, let Thy Spirit speak 
 To mine to-day. 
 
 January 25, 1864. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 song of a star. 
 No star of the heaven was ever so bright, 
 No radiance that matched with that marvellous light. 
 Which streamed from afar. 
 
 H 
 
 A song of a child. 
 A babe with whom never a babe may compare, 
 A mother of all fairest maidens most fair. 
 
 This mother so mild. 
 
 A song of a place. 
 A manger the place of the beasts of the stall. 
 But the "Light" that was born touched the meanest of all 
 
 With tenderest grace. 
 
 Page 82 
 
A song of a night. 
 A midnight with shepherds on Bethlehem plain, 
 And lo ! through the darkness a great glory came 
 
 And made the world bright. 
 
 A song of a song. 
 Ringing down through the ages it tells of His birth, 
 "It is glory to God and good will upon earth," — 
 
 Redemption from wrong. 
 
 Let all the earth sing. 
 All nations and kingdoms, the isles of the sea, 
 The greatest of all men, the bond and the free, 
 O, lift up glad voices and bend willing knee 
 
 To acknowledge Him King. 
 
 December i8, 1893. 
 
 NEW YEAR'S NIGHT. 
 
 'yt^HE curtains are drawn and the lamps are lit, 
 ^U The fire burns ruddy and bright. 
 With my book and work, in my easy chair, 
 I'm sitting, old friend, and wondering where 
 And what you are doing to-night. 
 
 The ghosts of the sweet dead years, old friend, 
 
 The years of the long ago, 
 One by one have come back to me, 
 And brought to me faithfully, tenderly, 
 
 The faces I used to know. 
 
 Page 83 
 
And, whether the golden sunHght falls, 
 
 On the waves by the pleasant shore; 
 And the green woods ring with the wild bird's song, 
 As, happy and free, as the day is long. 
 
 We rove together once more. 
 
 Or, the wind sweeps over the ice-locked bay, 
 
 And the grand old maple is bare, 
 And the wood teams toiling up the road, 
 With the heavy drifts and their heavy load. 
 
 Have all their strength can bear. 
 
 Be it bleak December, or rosy June, 
 
 Rain, or sunlight, or sleet. 
 In each passing year your dear face is set. 
 Wreathed with smiles or with tear drops wet, 
 
 Patient, and faithful, and sweet. 
 
 The New Year sits at my hearth to-night. 
 
 Oh, friend of the long ago, 
 And some whom we loved in those happy days 
 Are lost to sight in life's winding ways. 
 
 And some lie under the snow. 
 
 But there's room for all in my heart, old friend. 
 
 And though we are parted long. 
 In the Holy City we'll surely meet; 
 I shall know your step on the golden street. 
 
 Your voice in the angels' song. 
 
 PEACE ON EARTH. 
 
 **"|i^EACE on earth, good will to men' 
 
 ||V Down the ages comes to me 
 Sweet and clear the strain, as when 
 Angels sang in Galilee. 
 
 Page 84 
 
"Peace on earth," I lift mine eyes, 
 
 As I hope for pardoning grace, 
 When at last beyond the skies 
 
 I shall see my Saviour's face, 
 So I forgive, and my whole heart 
 Takes up the happy strain, until 
 Tljere is for hate no place or part; 
 
 Love, peace on earth, peace and good will. 
 
 December i8, 1886. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR. J888. 
 
 HT parting of the ways we stand — 
 The dear old year and L 
 I'm loath to loose the friendly hand 
 And speak the sad good bye. 
 Friendly in blessings which it brought. 
 Kind when it did withhold. 
 The dear touch of a Father's thought 
 Stamped all in lines of gold. 
 I hold again the vanished days 
 Which in review pass by, 
 As we stand at the parting ways, 
 The dear Old Year and I, 
 Joy, disappointment, and the sting 
 Which comes of hope deferred, 
 Wounds of a friend— that bitter thing 
 By thought, or deed, or word. 
 Loneliness, longing— but how sweet 
 The recompense to me, 
 The dear hours at the mercy seat, 
 Communion, Lord, with Thee. 
 
 Page 8s 
 
Joy has its joy bells, grief its moan, 
 And I have learned to bring 
 Not gold and frankincense^ alone, 
 But myrrh as offering — 
 Myrrh is not bitter in His hand, 
 And from the saddest moan 
 Spring melodies at His command, 
 Which joy bells have not known. 
 So for the sorrow and the cheer 
 I render grateful praise, 
 Standing to-night with the Old Year, 
 At parting of the ways. 
 
 THE KING'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 *'^^ IS The King's birthday — stand — not by the gate 
 \m Of the great palace whence shall pass the train. 
 Brilliant with cloth of gold and jewelled dress ; 
 Princes and courtiers, with a cool disdain, 
 On guard, lest the rough crowd too close should press. 
 Ah ! Not with pomp of scepter and of throne, 
 And pride of power. He comes to meet His own. 
 The King of Kings, whose birth we celebrate. 
 
 No clash of bells in stately dome or tower. 
 No trumpet blare announced His Kingly birth; 
 But silence on the hills, and all the air 
 Vibrant, as in that happy morning hour 
 When the stars sang, and sons of God with power 
 Shouted for joy — at midnight came a cry 
 Of angel voices — singing "Peace on earth 
 And glory evermore to God on High." 
 
 Page 86 
 
THE OLD YEAR. t894. 
 
 ®NLY a breath of Time, 
 But, warm and sweet, 
 It touched this Hfe of mine 
 With grace complete; 
 'Till with a sigh it bore 
 
 Away forever more 
 Something from my own heart- 
 Which makes it hard to part 
 With this Old Year. 
 
 O, beautiful white hand 
 From that sweet shadowy land, 
 Unmarked by fleeting years, 
 
 By suffering or tears, — 
 
 Out from eternity 
 Reach down and comfort me, 
 
 O, comfort me, as I 
 
 Bid the Old Year good bye. 
 
 This sad sweet Year. 
 
 December 31, 1894. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE IN CAMP. 
 
 Dedicated to W. I. W. 
 
 COME, boys, don't spare the logs to-night; 
 Work with a hearty will, 
 And let our camp-fires warm and bright. 
 
 Blaze 'gainst yon darkening hill. 
 The clouds are leaning from the sky, 
 As if they fain would fold 
 
 Page 87 
 
Upon the ground, where soldiers lie, 
 Their shadows damp and cold. 
 The frost is hiding in the air 
 
 To take us on the sly, 
 No matter if we have a care, 
 
 We'll cheat him by and by. 
 
 'Tis Christmas eve, heap up the fire, 
 
 And by the ruddy blaze. 
 We'll speak of — ah ! we never tire, 
 When speaking of those days 
 When burned the cheerful fires at home. 
 
 And those we hold most dear. 
 Of friends and kindred, used to come 
 
 To keep our Christmas cheer. 
 Our mothers and our wives were there, 
 
 Our sisters gay and young. 
 And some of us had sweethearts fair 
 
 As poets ever sung. 
 
 Pile on the logs, boys, let the blaze 
 
 Rise cheerily and bright. 
 
 This is to each, in different ways, 
 
 A haunted camp to-night. 
 Bright smiles from faces young and fair. 
 
 Like sunlight on us beam. 
 And bended forms and silvered hair. 
 
 Are mingled in our dream. 
 The music of a little tongue, 
 
 Lisping some pet desire. 
 Telling of little stockings hung 
 
 Beside the kitchen fire. 
 
 They're speaking of us, boys, to-night, 
 With low-toned words and prayer, 
 
 And pure eyes beam with dimmer light, 
 Because we are not there. 
 
 Page 88 
 
Well, boys, it is no shame to weep, 
 
 And onl,y cowards sneer, 
 When up from brave hearts true and deep. 
 
 Wells manhood's holy tear. 
 Pile on the logs ! chill is the air. 
 And frowning is the sky, 
 Rings out the sentry's "Who goes there?" 
 
 And chilling winds sweep by. 
 
 December 21, 1864. 
 
 LINES; 
 
 Suggested by a spray of leaves from Jefiferson Davis' 
 garden, in Richmond. 
 
 "jjW OOR leaves, no wonder that you look 
 ||y Old, withered and forlorn; 
 You've been where sterner spirits shook 
 
 And trembled in the storm. 
 Though I know not your name— you breathe 
 
 Sweet perfume on the air — 
 I've wound your kind in summer wreaths, 
 
 And thought them sweet and fair. 
 
 They brought me happy thoughts and words, 
 
 And visions pure and sweet; 
 I'm haunted now by clashing swords, 
 
 And tread of marching feet. 
 I see the sentinel at night 
 
 Pause to inhale thy breath; 
 Thy mates, in festive halls of light. 
 
 Saw Richmond's "dance of death." 
 
 Page 89 
 
The sun, which made thee bright and fair 
 
 With kisses all the day, 
 Looked in, through grated windows, where 
 
 My dying soldier lay. 
 The moon, which through the boughs did trace 
 
 A halo for thy head, 
 O'er his pale forehead threw, v/ith tender grace, 
 
 A veil when he was dead. 
 
 The breeze which kissed thee bore his soul beyond 
 
 The outposts of the years. 
 
 Poor leaves, I have thy tender message conned 
 
 Through a dim mist of tears. 
 Why did not he, the rebel chieftain, pause 
 
 When lay within his reach 
 The truthful lessons found in nature's laws, 
 
 Which these frail leaves could teach? 
 
 He could have plucked them from the parent stem 
 
 Which at his door-stone lay. 
 And studied out that severed States, like them, 
 
 Could live but for a day. 
 His cause has failed, his guardian angel grieves 
 
 And weeps, but hopes no more; 
 His name, his fame, his honors are dead leaves 
 
 Upon a barren shore. 
 
 MY BROTHER HUGH. 
 
 ♦fi'N a land of foes and strangers, 
 
 n Sick and helpless and alone, 
 Pining for familiar faces, 
 
 Pining for his Northern home. 
 In a hospital in Richmond, 
 
 Many weary miles away. 
 With no friend or kindred near him, 
 
 Ivies my brother Hugh, to-day. 
 
 Page 90 
 
All day long", my sad heart pictures 
 
 That dear face, grown thin and white, 
 
 And his shrunken form is gliding- 
 Through my visions of the night. 
 
 And I hear him calling for me, 
 In a voice grown strangely low, 
 
 Asking for the care and comfort, 
 That I'm powerless to bestow. 
 
 We were infants in one cradle. 
 
 And no parting ever knew, 
 'Till the day that he enlisted — 
 
 And he was but twenty-two. 
 Now he lies in cruel Richmond, 
 
 From his Northern home afar, 
 With no friend, unless God gives one 
 
 To the Prisoner of war. 
 
 Father, see'st Thou my anguish, 
 
 Hearest Thou my midnight prayer? 
 Thou, who makest even sparrows 
 
 The dear objects of Thy care. 
 Are Thy arms about my brother, 
 
 Keeping him by night and day? 
 Thou, O Thou alone can'st help him — 
 
 I can only wait and pray. 
 
 Pity all, O God, who suffer, 
 In the camp or on the field, 
 In each dispensation, Father, 
 
 Let Thy mercy stand revealed. 
 Hear the prayers that daily, nightly. 
 
 Rise from anguished hearts to Thee, 
 Pity Thou our weakness. Father, 
 Jesus, intercede for me. 
 
 December lo, 1863. 
 
 Page 91 
 
A MYSTERY. 
 
 M'HY was it that I could not sleep, 
 Why did I wake to say, 
 "I rise again to watch and weep, 
 
 For dawns another day?" 
 And then a calm seemed to enfold 
 
 My heart, and with each breath, 
 I asked myself if it foretold 
 Thy coming, or thy death. 
 
 I, from my window, looked away 
 
 Upon the hills, where snow 
 And ice lay where we used to play, 
 
 In summers long ago. 
 And lo! it was the full moon's light 
 
 Which on the hillsides lay; 
 Why was it that I woke that night, 
 
 And thought that it was day? 
 
 I did not weep, I did not moan, 
 
 T had no hope or fear, 
 I did not seem to be alone, 
 
 O, tell me wert thou near? 
 Did that young dauntless soul of thine 
 
 Time, distance, overleap — 
 Was it thy spirit-lip on mine 
 
 Which woke me from my .sleep? 
 
 For thou wert dead that morn, oh ! when 
 
 Thy worn soul was set free. 
 Did its old pulses leap again 
 
 Once more for home and me? 
 And was thy longing love so sore 
 
 It could not be denied. 
 Till angels oped the starry door 
 
 To have thee satisfied? 
 
 Page 92 
 
But sometime in the radiant glow 
 Of Heaven's immortal light, 
 
 When I have met thee I shall know 
 The mystery of that night. 
 
 MY BROTHER, 
 
 S.EE the dark waves come and go, 
 Come and go. 
 With their solemn song of woe, 
 
 Song of woe. 
 In his youth and beauty bright, 
 They have borne him from my sight 
 Out into the gloomy night, 
 I saw him go. 
 
 When he drifted from the strand 
 
 Where I lay, 
 I could see his waving hand 
 
 Far away. 
 'Twas a sad respite from doom, 
 'Twas an echo from the tomb, 
 'Twas a faint light 'mid the gloom 
 
 Of a dark day. 
 
 Still rolls on the solemn sea, 
 
 Solemn sea. 
 Music sounding drearily, 
 
 Drearily. 
 For those surging waves of war 
 On the breakers sped afar, 
 And the dim shores felt the jar, 
 
 Drearily. 
 
 Page 93 
 
'Neath that dark sea of the dead, 
 
 Of the dead. 
 Calmly sank that fair young head, 
 
 Dear young- head. 
 One fair tress of waving hair, 
 That my darhng used to wear. 
 Is all that's spared me from the war. 
 
 All is dead. 
 
 But beyond Death's solemn sea 
 
 We shall meet, 
 Even now the waves beat high 
 
 At my feet. 
 Never more the clash of arms. 
 Never more war's dread alarms, 
 In a loving Father's arms, 
 
 We shall meet. 
 
 April 1 6, 1864. 
 
 WE SHALL MEET AGAIN. 
 
 ^V'nj E shall meet again — the sunset 
 \t'^r%' Mocks me with its golden bars, 
 And the sky seems an arched gateway. 
 Studded with the gleaming stars. 
 But the blessed happy sunshine, 
 Whispering winds and falling rain. 
 The low sobbing of the river. 
 And the forest's sad refrain, 
 Comfort me with many voices. 
 Tell me we shall meet again. 
 
 Page 94 
 
We shall meet — not by the grave mound, 
 
 Where thy mouldering ashes lie, 
 
 With but stranger graves around thee. 
 
 And beneath a stranger sky. 
 
 All these things will be forgotten. 
 
 All this suffering, all thy pain. 
 
 Agony of that last struggle. 
 
 And the grave where thou hast Iain, 
 
 Will forgotten be in rapture. 
 
 Brother, when we meet again. 
 
 We shall meet — the sunset portals 
 
 Wider open every day, 
 
 And beyond the starry gateway, 
 
 I by Faith can trace the way, 
 
 I can see the shadows resting 
 
 On the lonely "way-side inn," 
 
 And the pallid Host who opens 
 
 Wide the doors to let me in — 
 
 Thou hast crossed the mystic threshold, 
 
 I can go where thou hast been. 
 
 And my pathway is not lonely. 
 
 For upon each rugged steep, 
 
 Thou has left, to cheer and aid me. 
 
 The faint impress of thy feet. 
 
 O, thy suffering, my brother, 
 
 O, those months of weary pain, 
 
 Thy death in a rebel prison — 
 
 Surely it was not in vain — 
 
 God will show us why and wherefore. 
 
 When at last we meet again. 
 
 Page 95 
 
THREE SAD DAYS. 
 
 ^^'HE smile of autumn on the hills 
 \m In golden radiance lay, 
 And all the running- brooks and rills 
 
 Sang solemn songs that day, 
 When sadly from our shadowed home, 
 
 Our soldier went awa3\ 
 
 The hills of Hagerstown were flushed 
 
 With glory from afar, 
 The summer evening calm and hushed 
 
 Welcomed the coming star. 
 They led him from the battle-field, 
 
 A prisoner of war. 
 
 When footsteps of the winter lay 
 On Richmond's living tomb, 
 
 God led him to the realms of day. 
 From suffering and gloom. 
 
 Upon his foes his righteous lips 
 Shall speak a righteous doom. 
 
 ONE YEAR AGO. 
 
 Rummer had faded, and the blush 
 *^/ On Autumn hills grown pale. 
 And footsteps of the Winter lay 
 
 Like shadows on the vale. 
 We sat in homesteads warm and bright, 
 
 By peace and plenty crowned; 
 And he lay in his guarded tent 
 
 Upon the frozen ground. 
 
 Page 96 
 
And, later, in the cheerless ward, 
 
 Sick, helpless and alone. 
 Pining for faces that he knew 
 
 And friends he loved at home. 
 Until one night a vision rose 
 
 Above his couch of woe, — 
 A shining pathway up the heights 
 
 'Mid clouds like wreathes of snow. 
 
 An open gate, whose hinges seemed 
 
 The sunset's crimson bars, 
 The gleaming rivets, studs and bolts 
 
 Were groups of shining stars. 
 Fair forms came down the pathway bright 
 
 In glistening robes arrayed. 
 Their rustling garments seemed the breeze 
 
 Which through the home-trees played. 
 
 They lifted up the wasted hands, 
 
 Smoothed the brown hair away, 
 And whispered, "Prisoner, thou art free, 
 
 Come up the shining way." 
 His suffering com.rades spoke to him 
 
 But caught no answering tone. 
 They touched his lip — 'twas icy cold — 
 
 Plis heart — but life had flown. 
 
 He laid aside the faded badge 
 
 Of mortal birth, and rose 
 Triumphant over sin and death, 
 
 Triumphant o'er his foes. 
 Lord, we are mortal — Thou art just. 
 
 Help us through tears to see 
 Our loved one on the shining shores 
 
 Where prisoners are set free. 
 
 December i8, 1864. 
 
 Page 97 
 
FIVE YEARS AGO. 
 
 ^^ HE hills were crowned with gold 
 \^ And the clover fields were brown, 
 And the clouds, a dark procession rolled 
 
 Over the sleeping town — 
 And mistily, from each heavy fold. 
 
 The rain drops trembled down. 
 
 Over the hill and wood. 
 
 Over the brook and dell. 
 O'er the grassy slope, where the farm house stood 
 
 And the cedars at the well, 
 Flung the clouds, as if they understood 
 
 And mourned with our farewell — :'■ 
 
 I watched him far away — 
 
 Down the valley green and low. 
 In the morning shadows dim and grey, 
 
 And I wept, for I loved him so. 
 It was five long years ago to-day, 
 
 Five long long years ago. 
 
 There's a hat on yonder nail 
 
 Battered by wind and rain, 
 But the form I watched down the grassy vale 
 
 Never came back again. — 
 There's a stranger grave where the sad winds wail 
 
 And tenderly falls the rain. 
 
 October, 1867. 
 
 25TH ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 Died in Richmond, Va., Hugh Mooney, 
 January 25, 1864-1889. 
 
 ^T^HE years pass by unnumbered where thou art, 
 Vl^ There are no seasons or recurring days. 
 Which wake the olden echoes in the heart, 
 And lead the soul to walk in olden ways. 
 
 P*Se 98 
 
But to that blissful present does there come 
 
 No change, growth, era, longing or the touch 
 
 Of sweet anticipation, or the dumb 
 
 Home-sickness of the soul that strives o'er-much? 
 
 The record of all these, dear heart, are set 
 
 Upon the girl face that you used to know — 
 
 Years have their records. Time its alphabet, 
 
 Seasons are marked by rose leaves or by snow. 
 
 And I, a woman, hollow-eyed and wan, 
 
 Peer back through purple shadows till I trace, 
 
 In the warm flush and splendor of the dawn 
 
 The form I knew — the laughing, boyish face. 
 
 Change cannot touch thee, young, alert and brave, 
 
 The martyr's halo and the warrior's crown. 
 
 Where daisies bloom some where, and grasses wave, 
 
 Hover like shadows where they laid thee down. 
 
 But, O. Immortal part, I long to know 
 
 What lessons may have made thee spirit-wise. 
 
 Does life develope? — Do they ebb and flow, 
 
 Those silver streams that water Paradise? 
 
 Is there no vineyard where the Master stands 
 
 Leading, directing, cheering, as of old? 
 
 No touch of healing from the tender hands? 
 
 No lifting of the burdens manifold? 
 
 For, O, dear Lord, we cannot comprehend 
 
 Lives strangely shaped as by a game of chance, 
 
 Whose course the saddest fates alone attend, 
 
 Whose way is hedged with bitter circumstance. 
 
 And then death comes and the dark curtain falls, 
 
 O, human Saviour, with the pitying eyes. 
 
 Hath not the Father's house some sheltering halls 
 
 For these poor souls in Thy dear Paradise? 
 
 Pago 9<3 
 
THE SHIP OF STATE. 
 
 HLL hands on deck !" Quick, we can see 
 The foaming breakers rise, 
 And like a pall the hazy clouds 
 
 Hang from the darkening skies. 
 See how the proud ship strides above 
 
 Each heaving billow past ; 
 Work with a hearty will and we'll 
 Outride the storm at last. 
 
 O, hear the mighty timbers creak, 
 
 List to the flapping sail. 
 While through the lofty rigging shriek 
 
 The thunders of the gale. 
 Up, men, for high above the storm 
 
 The flag is floating still ; 
 Bound to the mast-head, which was hewn 
 
 In blood at Bunker Hill. 
 
 "Stand by the ship," it is no time 
 
 For idle murmuring now, 
 No time for mutiny when rocks 
 
 Frown at the vessel's prow; 
 Stand by the wheel., loosen the ropes, 
 
 Set free the tattered sail, 
 Strain every nerve to ease the ship. 
 
 And we'll outride the gale. 
 
 Work with a will, these mighty planks 
 
 And timbers must not part ; 
 Our Fathers welded them with prayers 
 
 From many a broken heart ; 
 "All hands on deck!" Work with a will 
 
 And energy till morn ; 
 We're all aboard, for life or death, 
 • And we must cheat the storm. 
 
 Page 
 
A HOSPITAL STORY. 
 
 In War Time. 
 
 MELL, this does seem like sweetest rest 
 After the tumult and the toil, 
 And this low couch is softest down 
 
 To one who's slept on "sacred soil." 
 If I could only stand erect, 
 
 As I have always stood before, 
 I do not know that I'd object 
 
 To staying here a week or more. 
 
 That strong right leg I used to own 
 
 Served me as well as Uncle Sam ; 
 It bore me through the "seven days' fight," 
 
 And Fredericksburgh and Antietam. 
 You needn't laugh as if I'd run — 
 
 For if I did 'twas toward the foe; 
 The Vermont Second never begun 
 
 A piece of work and left it so. 
 
 Just ask our colonel, if you think 
 
 My word a confirmation needs ; 
 I hear his shout at Fredericksburgh — 
 
 "Come on, brave boys, your colonel leads." 
 We did not falter when we met 
 
 The troops we'd promised to support. 
 Flying in shattered columns back. 
 
 Disordered at the first report. 
 
 I see again his calm, pale face. 
 
 Made rigid by his sacred ire; 
 I feel again the sudden thrill 
 
 Which through our columns swept like fire. 
 Then on, at double quick, we sweep 
 
 Where'er that gleaming rapier led, 
 Until we reach the goal we seek 
 
 And fight, like tigers, o'er our dead. 
 
 Pa^e 
 
Ah! boys, that was our colonel's fight; 
 
 That hour of victory was his hour ; 
 His right arm raised, his flashing sword, 
 
 His rigid face, his words had power 
 To deaden every thought of fear, 
 
 Of aught save what we had to win 
 As up the heights of Fredericksburgh, 
 
 With death all 'round, we followed him. 
 
 Ah! children's children of the men 
 
 Who stood by him in bloody fray. 
 In fireside tales shall speak the words 
 
 He spoke upon that gallant day; 
 Just as I've whispered them since then, 
 
 To nerve my soul for many a fight, 
 Until this ugly bullet came 
 
 To m.e, on picket guard, one night. 
 
 The doctor says that if I gain 
 
 As I have done, he'll send me on 
 With the next squad of men that leaves 
 
 For Montpelier or Burlington. 
 And bless you, boys, won't I be glad 
 
 To see the dear green hills once more, 
 And friends who love the soldier lad 
 
 At the old homestead's open door. 
 
 COMPANY L. 
 
 /^ OMING home, — let all hearts sing a high hallelujah I 
 \m The fighting is over. 
 
 The bugles are silent — the drums' noisy rattle, 
 And the sharp sabre clash as they galloped to battle. 
 The camps are all silent, deserted, and lone. 
 And our battle-scarred heroes are all coming home — 
 Father, brother, and lover. 
 
 Page io« 
 
Coming home, with their laurels so faithfully gathered ; 
 
 Now let all the bells ring; 
 Our heroes have many sad stories to tell, 
 Who have done all their duty so nobly and well ; 
 Who, guarded by angels, lived where thousands fell, 
 
 To bring home rejoicing. 
 
 But have pity, O God, there are gaps in the ranks 
 
 And we never can fill them. 
 I coulf! tell you of many a bold charge they made, 
 Of many a picket-post skirmish, and raid ; 
 And Kilpatrick knows well how Vermont boys can rally, 
 And they rode with brave Sheridan all through the valley. 
 
 But Death rode beside them. 
 
 There were young, manly forms, who marched proudly away. 
 
 That sad autumn morning, 
 Who returned cold and silent in coffin array. 
 And the home mountains shelter their dear graves to-day. 
 There are other graves, unmarked graves, God guards them well ; 
 His flowers bloom on trenches where brave heroes fell 
 
 Without one note of warning. 
 
 Have pity, O God, there are gaps in the ranks ; 
 
 Joy is mingled with weeping; 
 My soldier, aye, yours too, in Richmond are lying, 
 But he who hath borne all the anguish of dying, 
 
 Remembrance is keeping. 
 Where breezes o'er Gettysburgh's blue hills are sighing, 
 
 Another lies sleeping. 
 
 Welcome home, soldier boys, we have smiles for the living, 
 
 And tears for the dead. 
 Welcome back to the homestead's wide welcoming door, 
 Welcome back to the citizen's freedom once more. 
 Welcome back to the work-shop, the forge and the farm, 
 And bless our kind Father, whose strong, lovmg arm 
 
 Hath protected and led. 
 
 Page 103 
 
Let good deeds of the future — ^brave deeds of the past, 
 
 Stand a bright parallel. 
 You have well served your country ; O boys, serve your God, 
 
 As nobly and well. 
 When rings o'er, the mountains the loud trttrnpet call, 
 On that last solemn day, which must come to us all, 
 Let each name have pure place upon Heaven's roll-call, 
 
 Of Company L. 
 
 June 14, 1865. 
 
 THE MORNING. 
 
 SEE, the glorious dawn is breaking, 
 And the nation's night is past, 
 From our dream of horror waking, 
 
 Thank God for the morn at last. 
 Up the everlasting mountains ; 
 
 Furls the battle-smoke ere day — 
 Incense, from God's blessed fountains, 
 Clears the bloody stains away. 
 
 Lo! the morning stars are singing 
 
 Hymns of blessedness and rest, 
 And a full hosanna ringing 
 
 Through the armies of the blest. 
 All the air seems filled with voices 
 
 Of brave men, called forth to die ; 
 They have v/on, and heaven rejoices 
 
 In earth's shout of victory. 
 
 Yet, oh patriots, remember. 
 
 Life and death go hand in hand, 
 
 There are hearts whose wounds are tender 
 Over all our stricken land. 
 
 Page 104 
 
Mingle pity with rejoicing, 
 
 Tears with hymns of jubilee, 
 
 For the pain and death, and suffering", 
 Which has made our Union free. 
 
 AT GETTYSBURG, 
 
 ^ff\RAWN up in battle-line they stood, 
 Jl^r As yet an untried band. 
 But laid upon each bridle-rein 
 
 Was an untrembling hand. 
 Grim, motionless, they waited for 
 
 The signal of command. 
 Their captain rode along the lines, 
 
 With brow as calm and pale 
 As when his eloquence found voice 
 
 In classic halls of Yale; 
 And now, as then, seemed written there, 
 
 "The earnest never fail !" 
 
 He seemed a youth, and yet he well 
 
 His noble manhood bore. 
 It was his dignity and grace 
 
 His soldiers bowed before ; 
 His gentleness and perfect truth 
 
 Made them still love him more. 
 The order came — a moment he 
 
 Rose in his saddle, and 
 His eagle eye glanced over those 
 
 Of whom he had command. 
 Then spoke, with an uncovered head 
 
 And an uplifted hand : 
 
 Page los 
 
"Ye men of old Vermont," he said 
 
 "The time has come when you 
 Shall prove your love for the Green Hills 
 
 If it be false or true. 
 My sacred honor and my life, 
 
 I pledge, my men, with you !" 
 He ceased, but from the sunny hills 
 
 Came back the sounding cheer, 
 And upon many a swarthy cheek 
 
 Glistened a soldier's tear. 
 And hearts beat high that never knew 
 
 One coward pulse of fear. 
 
 Then charged they up the hillside, which 
 
 Had smiled that sunny morn, 
 When the bright sun picked jewels up 
 
 Of dew and sunshine born, 
 And laid his warm, bright mantle on 
 
 The fields of waving corn. 
 The hours flew by — and shot and shell 
 
 Did fearful work that day, 
 And men, like ripened grain before 
 
 The reaper, fell away, 
 And men, in gory heaps, upon 
 
 That sunny hillside lay! 
 
 And still, where fiercest raged the fight. 
 
 Those gallant horsemen led ! 
 And swords which flashed at sunny morn, 
 
 At eve were crimson red; 
 Alas! for happy wives at home, 
 
 And maidens still unwed. 
 Night laid her pall at last upon 
 
 The horrors of that day. 
 And those brave men stood closely round 
 
 Where their young leader lay; 
 Where they had borne him when he fell 
 
 Amid the dreadful fray. 
 
 Page 106 
 
A few stern tears they shed for him. 
 For warrior's tears are few, 
 
 But if the words they spoke of him 
 His hovering spirit knew, 
 
 He knew that in their inmost hearts 
 They had pronounced him true! 
 
 CORPORAL GRAY. 
 
 '^Y^WAS twiHght, thank God, and the battle was o'er, 
 V]^ But the breezes which sighed o'er that bloody field 
 bore, 
 Like the solemn sobbing of waves on the shore. 
 Or the moan of the forest when the gale dies away, 
 The groans of the wounded, who fell in the fray. 
 
 They were "left on the field," and the field was not ours, 
 And those poor dying heroes had lain there for hours 
 Without food, without water, and suffering pain 
 Which wrung groans of anguish again and again, — 
 The battle-field's solemn unchanging refrain. 
 
 Our poor weary soldiers strove vainly to sleep, 
 
 With the earth for a couch, and the firmament deep 
 
 Overhead, where the stars, solemn sentinels keep 
 
 Their unchanging, pitying guard all the night, 
 
 O'er that sad harvest field, with the grain left to blight. 
 
 But our boys could not sleep, that sad field was too near, 
 
 And the low undertone smote the sensitive ear, 
 
 As they lay in the darkness, and wished it were day, 
 
 And they were again in the heat of the fray, 
 
 "Well, who will come with me, if I find a way 
 
 To help the poor fellows?" said Corporal Gray. 
 
 Page 107 
 
Some shrugged up their shoulders, and said they'd no fear, 
 But the bravest among them held life to be dear, 
 And 'twas but useless risk, with those pickets so near; 
 They were only too glad to have lived through the day, 
 Though they wished all success to Corporal Gray. 
 
 They divided their rations, hard crackers and meat, 
 'Twas but little to tempt their poor comrades to eat, 
 But 'twas all that they had, and their canteens they swung 
 At the Corporal's shoulder, and at his belt hung; 
 Then in silent farewells, they his manly hands wrung. 
 
 The moon lay in shadows, the stars in the sky 
 
 Had grown pale with weeping, but God's tireless eye 
 
 Unslumbering kept a lone watch upon high, 
 
 Smiling on the brave soldier, who kept on his way 
 
 Past the sentry, who knew him, and paused but to say — 
 
 "God bless you and speed you, young Corporal Gray." 
 
 When Our Father shall gather His jewels on high. 
 To be wrought into diamonds and pearls in the sky. 
 For the crowns which His children shall wear by and by, 
 When each pitying tear shall beam bright as a star. 
 And each prayer and each blessing shall gleam from afar, 
 When each unselfish act shall shine pure as the day. 
 There'll be riches in Heaven for Corporal Gray. 
 
 He came back to camp with the morning's first glow, 
 With a wound in his foot, from a gun of the foe, 
 But, as he told the boys, 'twas a trifle too low. 
 And he'd no time to wait for more compliments then. 
 For he bore in his arms one of our wounded men, 
 An old schoolmate who went out in "Company N." 
 
 Page io8 
 
The cheers that they gave brought the Colonel to see 
 What the joy of the "Company L" boys could be, 
 And they told him the story and wept in their glee, 
 But he not a word said of praise, neither of blame, 
 Though a week or two after a commission came, 
 All duly made out in the Corporal's name. 
 There is the first step in each ladder they say, 
 And if you and I live, we'll perhaps see the day. 
 When the papers shall speak about General Gray. 
 
 November 30, 1864. 
 
 DIED IN HOSPITAL, 
 
 ^^'HE city slept — vice, virtue, good and ill, 
 \^ The scheming brain, kind heart and busy feet, 
 The cannon's thunder and the drums were still, 
 And but the sentry paced the silent street. 
 Night in the Hospital — that Southern sky, 
 In mercy dropped to-night her tears of rain. 
 And the cool breezes idly wandering by 
 Made pattering music on the window pane. 
 The weary soldiers heard the welcome sound, 
 Stern heroes battling with a sure decay. 
 Thought of the camp and of the battle ground, 
 And of the dear ones watching far away. 
 
 Silence reigned in the lonely ward, save when 
 Some weary sufferer moaned aloud with pain. 
 Or rose to take some cooling drink and then 
 Turned on his couch, and strove to sleep again. 
 Dimly the lamp burned, near the break of day 
 Beside the couch on which one form reposed 
 Whose lamp of life was glimmering away, 
 Faint were his pulses and his eyes were closed. 
 
 Page 109 
 
He had been dreaming that the rain drops fell 
 Upon the homestead roof, far, far away, 
 And listening to the music, loved so well 
 He on his bed beneath the rafters lav. 
 
 And then the thunder shook the heated air, 
 And lightning flashed across the midnight sky, 
 He heard the maples groan in their despair, 
 And writhe and tremble as the gale went by. 
 He dreamed his mother stood beside his bed, 
 Thinking the storm might cause her boy to fear, 
 And smoothed the pillow underneath his head, 
 And whispered "Trust Him, darling, God is here." 
 He started up, to clasp her neck again, 
 And woke amid that weary scene of woe, 
 He heard the sufferers round him moan with pain, 
 And saw that the dim lamp was burning low. 
 
 He thought of home; with tears that would not stay 
 Within the fountains he had thought were dry, 
 Counted the sleepers who around him lay; 
 Not one had known him in the days gone by. 
 He wondered if they missed him much at home, 
 And if they spoke his name, with tears and prayer. 
 And if they watched and prayed for him to come, 
 And kept his chamber as if he were there. 
 How many thoughts came o'er him, as he wept; 
 The shuddering thought, O what if he should die! 
 Thought of the grave-yard where his kindred slept. 
 And wondered where his lifeless form would lie. 
 
 And then like summer sunshine after rain. 
 Faith swept away the shadowy clouds of fear ; 
 He seemed to hear his mother's voice again. 
 "O, trust Him, trust Him, darling, God is here." 
 
 Pftg« no 
 
They found him lying on his narrow bed, 
 When morning sunshine lay athwart the sky; 
 His heart was still— they said that he was dead. 
 It must have been a pleasant thing to die, 
 For he was lying in his tranquil sleep, 
 One wasted hand beneath his fair brown hair. 
 And on his brow a look of joy as deep 
 As if a mother's kiss were lying there. 
 
 July, 1864. 
 
 WE REMEMBER. 
 
 •riyf^ E remember how they gathered from the mountain 
 ViU4 and the glen, 
 
 When the battle call resounded for the fight. 
 There were boys with beardless faces, there were youths and 
 stalwart men 
 
 All eager and in earnest for the right. 
 We remember, we remember how they sadly marched away 
 
 From the homes that were to know them nevermore. 
 From the cheerful fireside pleasures— from the little ones at play, 
 
 From the trembling lips that kissed them at the door. 
 
 We remember how they fought, when the sky was black with 
 smoke. 
 
 And the fearful work of carnage had begun. 
 When above the battle's din, the hoarse cannonading broke, 
 
 And their comrades fell beside them one by one. 
 We remember how they died on the field of m.ortal strife, 
 
 In the camp, — on lonely picket, in the ward. 
 In the loathsome prison den, we remember how each life 
 
 Burst its fetters and went up to meet the Lord. 
 
 Page HI 
 
We remember all the hopes, which lie buried at our feet, 
 
 All the cherished plans and purposes of years, 
 We remember all those dreams which make youth and man- 
 hood sweet. 
 
 We remember them with sorrow and with tears. 
 And we remember too, as we strew their graves with flowers, 
 
 The old Union which they gave their lives to save. 
 They shall wear the martyr's crown, but the heritage is ours ; 
 
 Let us pledge a new allegiance o'er each grave. 
 
 Decoration Day, 1869, 
 
 OCTOBER % J889. 
 
 ®Gettysburgh hills, lift your heads 
 , Uncrowned in the dawn chill and gray, 
 Uncrowned, save in smile which God sheds 
 Over long rows of narrow green beds. 
 Where our heroes are resting to-day. 
 But, resting? what need? when youth thrills 
 Over rich waves of pulses like theirs? 
 They carried the strength of the hills, 
 And, Nature, God's handmaid fulfills 
 Years, three score and ten, to her heirs — 
 Why take then in vigor and prime 
 A quarter of century's sleep? 
 Their deeds have made one day to shine — 
 A radiant star through all time — 
 To-day we its memory keep. 
 
 Wake, horsemen ! wake, infantry ! all ; 
 Strong arms break the fetters of clay, 
 Mount guard ! storm the earthworks ! scale wall ! 
 O, bugle, that sounded the call 
 Why are ye so silent to-day? 
 
 Page na 
 
To-day when the Green Mountains send 
 A greeting to Round Top once more — 
 Ah! the foeman is brother and friend, 
 The blue and the grey softly blend — 
 V/hat need of the bugles of yore? 
 But, O, for one grand reveille 
 To wake for an instant that thrill 
 Of the youth that has vanished away, 
 The hopes that were blasted that day, 
 The voices forever more still. 
 
 Thought goes swiftly back — we were young, 
 
 Life was sweet, and we danced in its light ; — 
 
 Trumpets sounded, the wild bugles rung, 
 
 And the song died away on the tongue. 
 
 And down the front raged the fight. 
 
 Comes again, like the spell of a dream, 
 
 That tension of heart and of brain, — 
 
 Torrents change the whole course of a stream. 
 
 Where grass waved the bright waters gleam. 
 
 And roses bloom never again. 
 
 Years have passed, our heads have grown gray. 
 
 Our lips have forgotten the song. 
 
 But the Gettysburgh hills tell the nations how they 
 
 Gave — Saviour of men, was there no other way ? — 
 
 Their young lives to expiate wrong — 
 
 We stand in the shadows of years, 
 
 O, Peace, clad in shimmer of light, 
 
 Let thy glory a rainbow draw out of our tears, 
 
 Which shall span the broad land with a trust that endears, 
 
 And the joy which comes after night. 
 
 Page 113 
 
A MESSAGE. 
 
 ^^ HE sun is almost set, 
 
 \^ And ere the dawn they tell me thou wilt be 
 Far on thy journey o'er the soundless sea. 
 
 Why are my eyelids wet? 
 
 Give me thine hand, 
 And kiss me, dearest, for the old times' sake. 
 I have a message I would have thee take 
 
 Unto the better land. 
 
 There was a time, 
 
 Dost thou remember, it was long ago; 
 
 But times and faces live in hearts, we know. 
 
 Do they in thine? 
 
 Canst thou look back, sweet one, 
 And see the hillside, and the shadowy lane. 
 The meadows, bright with clover bloom again, 
 
 The setting sun? 
 
 Comes, as to me, 
 
 A perfumed whisper from the locust trees, 
 
 And are there voices in the evening breeze. 
 
 Which speak to thee? 
 
 And hast thou still 
 Within thy heart, forever more the same, 
 His face, who on the highest rock hath left his name. 
 
 On yonder hill? 
 
 The sun is almost set. 
 
 And thou wilt see him ere the dawn of day; 
 
 O, tell him that to-night you heard me say, 
 
 "We love him yet." 
 
 Tell him I said, 7' 
 
 His memory in our hearts is sweet and bright. 
 Our grief as sore as on the winter's night 
 
 We heard that he was dead. 
 
 Page 114 
 
Yet tell him, still 
 
 Life hath its blessings, though his dear head lies 
 
 In its lone grave beneath the sunny skies. 
 
 It is God's will, 
 
 And it is right 
 That we should keep our selfish grief at bay, 
 And win some joy and sunshine from each day, 
 
 To crown the night. 
 
 The sun is almost set, 
 O, take to him one heart throb, it will tell 
 With yearning tenderness, how well, how well 
 We love him vet. 
 
 GOD'S HARVEST HELD. 
 
 ^T^EATH rode upon the summer air, 
 >S2r^ And whistled in the breeze. 
 
 And smiled with sudden, sullen glare, 
 Among the happy trees. 
 
 On the green sward his footsteps lay, 
 
 And angels must have wept. 
 When o'er the fields and wood that day 
 
 His lightning glances swept. 
 
 He came not as the reaper there, 
 
 'Twas as the blighting hail 
 On grain fields promising and fair, 
 
 Not ready for the flail. 
 
 Aye 'twas God's harvest field, for when 
 Death's blighting arrows sped, 
 
 He gathered up the souls of men. 
 Whose comrades said were dead. 
 
 Page IIS 
 
He gathered up the unripe grain, 
 
 BHghted before its time, 
 And bade it bloom in p^ace again, 
 
 Beyond the fields of time. 
 
 God's will be done, I do not weep, 
 Though swells my heart with pain. 
 
 For well I know that they who sleep 
 In Christ, shall wake again. 
 
 WAITING AT THE DCMDR. 
 
 £VER, when I passed her door, 
 Every day 
 She was leaning from the door; 
 Though her bended figure bore 
 Weight of sixty years, or more. 
 And her furrowed forehead wore 
 Locks of gray. 
 
 Always gazing from the door, 
 
 Every day ; 
 Always with that eager smile, 
 As if, in a little while, 
 By the Oak tree, or the stile, 
 Or the mountain's dim defile, 
 
 Far away. 
 
 She should see a coming form 
 
 That she knew. 
 I would know him, so she said. 
 Because he the horsemen led. 
 And his coat, stained gory red. 
 
 Was of blue. 
 
 Page 1 16 
 
Every day she watched for him 
 
 At the door, 
 And when dimmer grew the light, 
 She would say, with strange delight, 
 "They will sleep in camp to-night, 
 But with earliest morning light 
 That dear face will bless my sight 
 
 Yet once more." 
 
 Days and weeks and months went by, 
 
 Slowly by. 
 They had told her he was dead. 
 But she better knew, she said. 
 That strong form, and fair young head, 
 Who the eager horsemen led. 
 
 Could not die — 
 
 Must not die. 
 
 But I missed her, one fair day. 
 
 From the door, 
 She had gone to meet him there, 
 Beyond Oak tree, stile and glen, 
 Meet him with his gallant men. 
 
 She had gone to meet him, where 
 Souls no blood-stained garments wear. 
 There's no strife, nor blood-shed there: 
 She had passed Heaven's pearly gate. 
 She will never watch or wait 
 Any more. 
 
 P»ge 117 
 
BABYJIMMIE. 
 
 ®my brother, precious soldier, 
 'Neath the fair Virginian skies, 
 
 Can I tell you of the shadow- 
 That upon our homestead lies? 
 
 Of the deepened shadow, brother, 
 For one settled darkly there, 
 
 When you left us, and the burden 
 Seemed almost too great to bear. 
 
 You remember that sad parting, 
 
 How the skies seemed full of tears. 
 
 As our hearts almost to bursting 
 
 Were filled up with hopes and fears. 
 
 How we struggled with our sorrow; 
 
 Ah, at many a cottage door, 
 That sad picture has been mirrored. 
 
 Weary, weary times before. 
 You remember how you lifted 
 
 Baby Jimmie from his chair. 
 And his blue eyes filled with wonder, 
 
 When your tears fell on his hair; 
 And he put his fair arms round you, 
 
 As he always used to do. 
 When he knew that you were going. 
 
 And he wanted to go too. 
 
 Alas, brother, one fair morning 
 
 When the fields were bright with dew, 
 And the birds sang sweetest music 
 
 That the sunshine ever knew; 
 When all nature seemed rejoicing 
 
 That the summertime had birth, 
 Watched we, while our bird, our sunshine. 
 
 Baby Jimmie passed from earth. 
 
 Page 11$ 
 
Passed he over death's dark river, 
 Breasting waves we all must meet; 
 
 The deep waters hushed forever 
 The dear patter of his feet. 
 
 O, the homestead is so lonely; 
 
 There's a little empty chair, 
 There are little shoes and dresses 
 
 That the baby used to wear. 
 There are marks of tiny fingers. 
 
 On the window frame and door, 
 But our sister's darling baby, 
 
 Little Jimmie, is no more; 
 But there is another angel. 
 
 With no earth-dust on his wing, 
 Waiting, 'mid the heavenly splendors 
 
 Of the mansions of our King. 
 
 THAT NIGHT. 
 
 ^f^ HE stars burned in the sky ! 
 
 ^ And o'er the hills the summer breezes sighed. 
 As if to keep the watch-fires bright on high, 
 The night he died! 
 
 Slowly the hours went by, 
 
 As each were loath to bear upon its wing 
 Our flower, which was but born to bud, and die 
 
 Ere blossoming. 
 
 The pulses of the tide 
 
 Beat with strong, healthy throbs along the shore: 
 Ah ! well we knew that his young life would ride 
 
 Out with the tide once more. 
 
 Page 119 
 
Oh! can I e'er forget 
 
 The solemn silence of that morning hour. 
 Ere the sun rose? Alas! we saw him set 
 
 Upon our fading flower. 
 
 How long ago it seemed — 
 
 How changed the aspect which our being wore, 
 Since the blue eyes, which mildly on us beamed, 
 
 Were closed forever more. 
 
 Ah, well, we cannot know 
 
 A joy, and thrust it from our hearts again; 
 We cannot feel a pang of mortal woe, 
 
 And be as we have been. 
 
 The days of life go by — 
 
 The summer sunshine and the winter cold ; 
 We see the spring flowers wake, the violets die. 
 
 And we grow old. 
 
 But there are days whose light 
 
 Sends rills of sunshine over all the rest; 
 And there are seasons, like that solemn night, 
 
 Which put my soul to test — 
 
 Which change the hues of life ; 
 
 Whose shadows with our fairest dreamings blend; 
 Whose voices echo down the stream of life. 
 
 Even unto the end. 
 
 The footsteps of that night 
 
 Keep pace with mine through the journeying years, 
 Nor pause, until above the hill-tops bright 
 
 The heavenly dawn appears. 
 
 Page I20 
 
THE FIRST SONG OF THE ROBIN. 
 
 ♦fF want to make this day a hymn of praise, 
 II I want each hour to strike some sounding chord 
 Which shall re-echo through all future days, 
 With each swift passing breath to praise the Lord. 
 It is not that the day is over bright : 
 Upon bare fields the clouds are dropping snow, 
 But, rippling softly through the dusky light, 
 I heard a robin's song an hour ago. 
 
 I caught the thought — do birds live after all 
 Much nearer the eternal heart than we? 
 Through His great silence breaks a rustling fall, 
 Only a sparrow dropping from the tree. 
 But birds sing on and trust — I wonder why 
 My finite wisdom may not break away 
 From idle questionings and doubts, and I 
 Praise God from full heart as the birds to-day ! 
 
 So, whether resting on life's breezy height 
 With effort crowned and fond heart satisfied, 
 Or in the misty valley's fading light 
 Walking alone with every hope denied; 
 Yet shall my soul make melody and still 
 Spirit and voice sing on, in glad accord. 
 Contented as a bird to do His will, 
 Shall my whole being rise to praise the Lord. 
 
 March 28, i88< 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 qi^OROIVE me mine offences, Lord, 
 ^^ This grievous burden on my heart 
 Makes the cold heights so hard to climb, 
 'Twixt me and where Thou art. 
 
 Pag-e 121 
 
Forgive and bless me, let the hills 
 Wear their old crowns of joy again, 
 And the green woods chant hymns of rest, 
 My soul is sick with pain. 
 
 O, sweep away the veil which hides 
 The holy beauty of Thy face, — 
 Let morning stars together sing 
 Of Thy forgiving grace. 
 •And let Thy loving kindness, Lord, 
 Thy goodness so o'er-shadow me. 
 That I offences may forgive 
 As Thou forgivest me. 
 
 Grant that my heart be opened wide 
 To take such draughts of mercy in. 
 That I forgive 'till I forget 
 That an offence hath been. 
 So, Father, let me walk with Thee 
 In pleasant pastures, till my heart 
 Shall lose its all of earth and be 
 Pure even as Thou art. 
 
 January 14, 1867. 
 
 MY PRAYER. 
 
 'TfU PON the threshold of each day 
 VrV I stay my eager feet; 
 Thou art the Life, the Truth, the Way, 
 That I may walk aright, I pray 
 Before Thy mercy seat. 
 
 O, may each word that I shall speak, 
 And may each thought be pure; 
 Help me to humble be, and meek. 
 And O, remember, I am weak. 
 Lord help me to endure. 
 
 Page 182 
 
Where'er my footsteps tend this day, 
 
 Be ever near to bless; 
 Pillar at night and cloud by day, 
 In trouble my support and stay, 
 
 My refuge in distress. 
 
 Be Thou my Counselor, my Friend, 
 
 Be Thou my mercy seatl 
 Thy grace in rich abundance lend. 
 And make me faithful to the end, 
 "So shall my rest be sweet. 
 
 January 1879. 
 
 A FUNERAL. 
 
 ^f^HROUGH the great window streamed the light 
 ^^ Gold, violet, purple, crimson, red, 
 
 It filled the nave with radiance bright— 
 The archways overhead. 
 
 Light, color, sound in mystic chord 
 
 Of unseen harmony and grace, 
 
 Spoke of the presence of the Lord 
 Within the holy place. 
 
 We saw where they had placed our dead. 
 
 And conscious life went on the while. 
 
 Unmeasured save by muffled tread 
 Of footsteps in the aisle. 
 
 And then as in a dream, the word. 
 
 The solemn anthem, hymn and prayer, 
 Strange that familiar service heard 
 
 Should such new meanings bear. 
 
 Page 123 
 
A waft of rose and heliotrope — 
 
 Strange whisper of some happy dream, 
 A breath of June — a garden slope. 
 
 The murmur of a stream. 
 
 THE NEW ORGAN. 
 
 ®UR Father, King enthroned in love, 
 Thy temples are not made with hands, 
 All depths below, all heights above, 
 Thy years are as the countless sands. 
 
 Weak is this tribute of our praise 
 As faintest whisper from afar, 
 To Him through whose majestic days 
 Rings anthems of the morning star. 
 
 To whom in an unending psalm. 
 The rhythms of creation run — 
 The wind's soft murmur in the palm. 
 The stately footsteps of the sun. 
 
 And yet, as little children, we 
 
 "O, holy, holy, holy Lord," 
 
 Ask that this voice of melody 
 
 May with Thy heavenly choirs accord. 
 
 Father, accept our gift, and bless 
 Its use through all the future days. 
 Pipe, pedal, stop — the hands that press 
 The keys — let all unite in praise. 
 
 "Praise God from whom all blessings flow" 
 
 Let arch and pillar make reply. 
 
 In tender echoes sweet and low 
 
 "Be Thou. O God, exalted high." June lo, 1889. 
 
 Page 124 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 ®Thou whose deep love flows 
 Swift as a river, 
 Purer than mountain snows, 
 Sweeter than bud or rose. 
 
 Author and Giver, 
 Who from Thy home on high 
 Hearest the raven's cry— 
 Thou who art ever nigh, 
 Swift to deliver ! 
 
 O, bend Thine ear to me — 
 I would draw near to Thee ! 
 O, lift me up to Thee— 
 Nearer — still nearer! 
 Be of my life a part — 
 Dwell Thou within my heart! 
 I would feel that Thou art 
 Dearer, still dearer ! 
 
 Father, I bring to Thee 
 Those who in infancy 
 Guarded and shielded me 
 
 From want and danger ; 
 And for His sake, whose birth 
 Was Thy best gift to earth- 
 That gift whose priceless worth 
 
 Lay in a manger — 
 
 For His sake, I ask of Thee, 
 Let those so dear to me 
 Be very dear to Thee! 
 
 Guard and protect them. 
 Comfort, and guide, and bless, 
 Save them from sore distress. 
 Lead in the wilderness. 
 
 Aid and direct them. 
 
 Page 125 
 
Softly the years go by, 
 And the long night draws nigh; 
 O, let Thy loving eye 
 
 Beam on them ever! 
 Let these last years be blest, 
 Of all their lives the best; 
 And give them peace and rest, 
 Father, forever. 
 
 ANOTHER DAY. 
 
 ® royal gift — another golden day, 
 A day when opportunity may wait 
 In loving patience at the palace gate, 
 If haply that the king might pass that way, 
 And upon loyalty make gracious claim, 
 Some sacrifice it may be, or some task. 
 Or of His loving favor He might ask 
 Some message or quick errand "In His Name." 
 
 A day when we by strange new paths may climb 
 
 To Heavenly places, or upon some height 
 
 Of grand Transfiguration glistening bright 
 
 We scarce may bear the radiance sublime. 
 
 In the grey morn, noontide or twilight dim, 
 
 In the sad shadows of Gethsemane, 
 
 Or in the desert place, or by the sea 
 
 We as "dear children" still may walk with Him. 
 
 Or it may be that He will lead to-day 
 In restful pastures quiet, green and sweet. 
 And by cool waters we may stay our feet, — 
 O, Master, teach us for Thou knowest best. 
 Then to the day's stern action or its rest. 
 We'll follow gladly, so Thou lead the way. 
 
 March 1891. 
 
 Page 136 
 
ST. ALBANS HOSPITAL. 
 
 ©radiant June, be robed in loveliness, 
 Blue skies, be fair, and fleecy clouds that lie 
 On morning hill tops, westward roll and bless 
 
 The earth in golden sunsets by and by. 
 Glad brooks, make melody, dance lightly down 
 
 O'er pebbly paths and through the grassy ways, 
 And cool green pastures of the dear old town. 
 
 Tell some sweet idyl of the olden days. 
 On elbow resting by the slope where stood. 
 Long years ago, a cabin in the wood. 
 
 Be reminiscent, streamlet, gaily tell 
 
 Of the first bridge that on your shoulders lay, 
 Rough-hewn and rustic, it did duty well 
 
 And served its generation and its day. 
 Tell of your palmy days, when guarded still 
 
 By giant groves of maple, hemlock, pine, 
 Your strong full torrents turned the busy mill, 
 
 Till restless progress, calling down the line, 
 Proclaimed an era of good things to be — 
 New forces, broader views, new destiny. 
 
 And, streamlet, winding 'twixt high banks beside 
 
 The "Silent City," tell, in sweetest strain. 
 How sorrow, sickness, death are glorified. 
 
 How, once for all. Redemption wrought in pain. 
 Tell how to-day the Great Physician stands 
 
 Where pity waits on anguish or distress, 
 He points to wound prints in His tender hands. 
 
 Wherever oil and wine are brought to bless 
 The bruised stranger with their healing balm. 
 And His — "For Me — " is sweeter than a psalm. 
 
 Page 127 
 
We look up to the hills — the hills of June : 
 
 O, breezy heights, be glad; cool hollows, wake 
 To ferny life and rapture of perfume. 
 
 Reach downward softly shadowy hands and shake 
 The folds from radiant meadows at thy feet, 
 
 Till, clad in daisied sheen and cloth of gold, 
 June walks the earth in queenly robes complete, 
 
 Her soft hands heaped with treasures manifold. 
 Content, if we but touch her garment's hem. 
 We live our June days and give thanks for them. 
 
 Give God the glory, — It is He who fills 
 
 The barns with plenty, and the land with peace; 
 His are "the cattle on a thousand hills," 
 
 And His the power by which all things increase. 
 To one He giveth wealth beyond his need, 
 
 And softly, as in heavenly vision, tells 
 Of lambs which on the lonely barrens feed, 
 
 Fainting for cooling shade and living wells. 
 To one obedient to the gracious call. 
 We owe our gifts of Home and Hospital. 
 
 Close to the great heart of the busy town, 
 
 And still remote from all its rush and din, — 
 In front, a broad stretch of green lawn slopes down. 
 
 At rear, the gardens and the homes shut in, 
 Northward, beyond the lawn, an avenue 
 
 With grassy carriage drive leads to the street. 
 Church, schoolhouse, breezy park are in the view, 
 
 A picture in June loveliness, complete, — 
 Gladly we tread the pleasant path again. 
 Beside the convent hedge-row, through the lane. 
 
 Dear memories cluster round these stately walls — 
 The touch of happy feet upon the stair, 
 
 Voices and laughter in the spacious halls, 
 And sweet home life and music everywhere, 
 
 Page 128 
 
One upper room is sacred for their sake — 
 The Httle maiden with the laughing eyes 
 
 And the brave boy, with bounding pulse awake 
 To earnest purpose and sweet sympathies; 
 
 Unto this room immortal life came down, 
 
 And gave to youth and faith a fadeless crown. 
 
 The olden hospitality was sweet, 
 
 But wider still the great doors stand to-day, 
 When love and pity at the threshold greet 
 
 The wounded stranger, found beside the way. 
 Unlike Bethesda of the ancient days, 
 
 Unlike the hospice on the lonely height, 
 Here, may none lack the kindly hand to raise, 
 
 None perish groping toward the friendly light. 
 But may the angel by the waters stand 
 Reaching to all who will, supporting hand. 
 
 We ask for length of days and peace to bless 
 
 The giver, who strews blessings in His Name, 
 Who touched all wounds with loving tenderness. 
 
 Who healed the sick, the palsied and the lame 
 We ask the touch of this divinest grace 
 
 Upon the gift which fills our hearts to-day. 
 May His dear love so sanctify the place — 
 
 For more or better could we ask or pray? — 
 That hall and corridor and sunny ward 
 i\Iay be the habitations of the I,ord. 
 
 THE KING'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 ^^HE morning gladness of the spring 
 \m Shone in her happy eyes. 
 She looked on each created thing 
 Each day with new surprise; 
 And heard the far off echoing chords 
 Of heavenly harmonies. 
 
 Page 129 
 
She saw the happy hills flush red 
 
 At coming of the sun; 
 
 The waves dance in their valley bed, 
 
 The brooks in rapture run, — 
 
 "The Father loves all things" she said, 
 
 "All things, and I am one." 
 
 Humanity's great problems stirred 
 Her soul with vague unrest, 
 Of sorrow, care, of sin she heard — 
 Her life so safe and blest. 
 Could spare of its abounding grace, 
 S^he lovingly confessed. 
 
 And when she wore at length a cross, 
 Symbol of royalty, 
 Which dwells above all gain or loss. 
 Whose bonds are liberty, — 
 "Noblesse oblige" she whispered low 
 In sweet humility. 
 
 Henceforth her happy girlhood grew 
 
 In beauty as a flower, 
 
 Rooted in Christ her strength she drew. 
 
 And sweetness for each hour, 
 
 His Name became her vital breath, 
 
 His love her vital power. 
 
 February 12, 1890. 
 
 OUR KING. 
 
 To the Loyal Circle. 
 
 I'EAR Daughters of the King, to-night 
 There comes a greeting from afar,- 
 And from Judea's plains, a light 
 Flashes to earth's remotest height, 
 The golden legend of a star. 
 
 Page 130 
 
 S)' 
 
A legend — ^yet to prove it true 
 The centuries wheel into line, 
 Apostles down the ranks, anew, 
 Pass on to martyrs, saints — to you 
 A Name — the royal countersign. 
 
 A Name — which startled shepherds heard 
 Long years ago on Bethlehem's plain — 
 A promised blessing, long deferred. 
 The Way, the Truth, the Incarnate Word, 
 The Prince who came in peace to reign. 
 
 To-night, upon His Holy Hill, 
 We glad allegiance renew. 
 The Spirit beareth witness still, 
 And they who do the royal will 
 Set to His seal that God is true. 
 
 Long we His garments' hem to touch? — 
 Through humble service, toil and pain. 
 We hear His gentle "Inasmuch" — 
 My Kingdom is made up of such 
 As labor "In My Name." 
 
 O, blessed daughters of the King^ 
 Bring gold and frankincense and myrrh, 
 The soul's best tribute hither bring 
 Heart, hand, and voice make offering. 
 And own Him more than conqueror. 
 
 December 1888. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE. 
 
 HT his head, 
 In the fading sunset's glow, 
 Silent, for his head lies low, 
 
 Sad, because I loved him so, 
 I am living, he is dead, 
 
 And I knew him years ago. 
 
 Page 131 
 
Buttercups and daisies lie, 
 
 On the meadows, fresh and bright. 
 
 Nodding in the fading Hght, 
 
 Drowsy with the coming night. 
 
 Yet, beyond the meadows, I 
 , See a "City out of sight." 
 
 On a wave of sunset cloud, 
 
 Fairy islands rise and float. 
 And the white sails of a boat, 
 
 Purple banners wave and float, 
 I, beyond the sunset cloud 
 
 See a harbor, and a boat. 
 
 In that harbor far away, 
 
 In that "City out of sight," 
 Rides the boat that sailed away. 
 
 In the twilight dim and grey, 
 The pilgrim, who went home one day, 
 
 And to whose green grave to-night 
 I have found my lonely way. 
 
 "He's not here, but risen," yet 
 
 For the sake of long ago. 
 When the form we used to know. 
 
 Moved among his fellow men, 
 For the voice which echoes yet, 
 
 For the smiles we can't forget, 
 At his grave I'm kneeling low. 
 
 Aye, it is the place for prayer. 
 
 Here should all our doubtings cease, 
 
 Here should rest the perfect peace. 
 Here all jarring notes accord. 
 
 Dear brow and lip return to dust. 
 But leave me still my perfect trust. 
 
 That he has risen with the Lord. 
 
 June 20, i86g. 
 
 Page 132 
 
SYMPATHY, 
 
 ®give me such aboundingf grace 
 Such fullness that I may, 
 Though bravely striving in the race, 
 
 Yet bravely yield the foremost place. 
 Nor count I've lost the day. 
 
 I have the tears for others woe; 
 
 I,et my true spirit feel 
 Like thrill of music sweet and low, 
 
 That ecstasy which angels know 
 When told of mortals' weal. 
 
 Poor, desolate, forsaken, sad, — 
 All hope's bright banners furled. 
 
 Still may my stricken heart be glad 
 That joy is in the world. 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY, 
 
 ♦jjlJEHOLD the solemn ages stand 
 
 %ID Bowed at the Saviour's cross to-day, 
 
 And centuries speak with lifted hand 
 
 To every nation, every land, 
 
 "It 7vas the Son of God," they say. 
 
 O, Roman soldier, that wild cry 
 Wrung by thine agony of fear. 
 Pierces the throne of God on high, 
 And all the sounding depths reply. 
 And all the hosts of evil hear. 
 
 Page 133 
 
O, Life so royal, so divine! 
 O, human life so pure and sweet, 
 All that I have and am is Thine, 
 Take Thou this little life of mine, 
 To-day an offering at Thy feet. 
 
 Nothing I bring but my sore need, 
 Of this great wondrous sacrifice; 
 "It was the Son of God" indeed. 
 O, Saviour, all my life I'll plead 
 "Remember me in Paradise." 
 
 April II, 1879. 
 
 EASTER. 
 
 CHRIST hath risen from the dead. 
 Smile, O eyes so used to weeping. 
 And, O wounded heart be healed, 
 'Tis a happy harvest field, 
 That will bear of such a reaping. 
 
 Shrinking, doubting soul grow strong, 
 Down the long line of the ages, 
 Comes with lilies' fragrant breath, — 
 How He burst the bonds of death, 
 Solved the problem. of the sages. 
 
 Christ hath risen from the dead! 
 
 Sown in anguish and in sorrow, 
 
 Sown in tears and pain and strife, 
 
 Ah, but the eternal life 
 
 Which springs from this seed to-morrow! 
 
 Page 134 
 
"Christ the first fruits of the dead" 
 Sing, O waiting souls in prison, 
 Sing, O nations in the grave, 
 Christ the Lord hath power to save, 
 Ye shall rise for He hath risen. 
 
 We are passing, friends, to-day 
 Toward the valley and the sadness. 
 But the gloom of death's long night, 
 In the Resurrection light 
 Bursts — a morn of joy and gladness. 
 
 Christ hath risen from the dead, 
 Great Redeemer, King of Glory, 
 Conqueror of grave and death, — 
 O, let everything with breath 
 Shout the Resurrection story. 
 
 Easter Monday, March 29, 1880. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT PRAYER. 
 
 C^ ORD, help me day by day 
 J^ To grow into Thy likeness more and more. 
 Each morn to feel Thy blessed sunlight play 
 Upon my soul, as never yet before. 
 
 Help me Thy face to see 
 In every blessing which surrounds my days. 
 So may I see Thee, that my life shall be^ 
 A psalm of perfect thankfulness and praise. 
 
 And if Thou should'st withold 
 The blessing, still help me to feel 
 Thy love through all, if but Thy hand I hold, 
 To feel 'tis well. Thou dost but smite to heal. 
 
 Page 13S 
 
In all Thy hands have wrought — 
 The everlasting hills, the woods, the sea, 
 Of all created things let there be naught 
 Which shall not ever speak to me of Thee. 
 
 And let Thy spirit make 
 My body and my soul His resting place, 
 'Till outward form and inward life shall take 
 Each day some added purity and grace, 
 
 And bear some gracious flower. 
 That weary ones who by the roadside wait. 
 May gather faith and courage, and some hour 
 Let me bear fruit to feed the desolate. 
 
 '"Nearer my God to Thee," 
 Nearer in faith, I cannot be too near, 
 Nearer in love, until my love shall be 
 The perfect love, which casteth out all fear, 
 
 August 31, 1875. 
 
 SOW THE SEED. 
 
 HLL day long from happy hill-sides 
 Where the vineyards wooed the sun, 
 Leaving care and household labor 
 Had the wondering people come. 
 Leaving fields, prepared for seed-time. 
 Leaving nets beside the sea, 
 Till a multitude were gathered 
 On the shores of Galilee. 
 'Twas a day of silent beauty. 
 Even nature listened, when 
 One, who spake as never man spake, 
 I-vOoked upon those eager men. 
 He the Lord of harvests taught them 
 
 Page 136 
 
Lessons suited to their need — 
 
 Parables of fields and seed-time. 
 
 Of the sower and the seed — 
 
 O, dear laborers down the ages, 
 
 Comes to-day to you and me, 
 
 The old lessons which the Master 
 
 Taught the people by the sea. 
 
 O, go labor in His vineyard, 
 
 Plant and dig — there's work for you, 
 
 Find support for tender branches, 
 
 He will send the rain and dew — 
 
 Sow the seed upon the hillsides 
 
 Where the tender lambs do feed. 
 
 In ihe field and by the roadside, 
 
 In the desert, sow the seed — 
 
 On the mountains bleak and barren. 
 
 In the valleys green and low. 
 
 By the brooks and water courses. 
 
 Wheresoever thou shalt go — 
 
 Sow the seed in faith and patience. 
 
 Sow in weakness and in pain. 
 
 And leave with the Lord of harvest, 
 
 Blade, and ear, and ripened grain. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 JilWUST this be so?— the raging waters roll 
 LnJ In surging billows o'er my trembling soul; 
 Vainly I strive through all the weary night 
 For but one gleam of Bethlehem's starlight; 
 Struggling to tear my hateful bonds away, 
 
 I strive, like Jacob, till the dawn of day. 
 
 Page 137 
 
Thank God, the dawn comes bright and clear at last, 
 Like shipwrecked sailor on some lone shore cast, 
 Chilled and benumbed, 'tis yet with pure delight, 
 I view the landscape spread before my sight. 
 Viewing the peril and the shipwreck past, 
 I thank God I am free and safe at last. 
 
 Just as a child, denied some fond desire, 
 Kindles in fury all his infant ire, 
 Until at length, when he is made to know, 
 A mother knows best for his weal or woe, 
 When he his own ingratitude can see, 
 Contrite, he seeks once more his parent's knee. 
 
 So come I to my God; if 'tis His will, 
 
 I bid each feeling of my heart be still, 
 
 Unworthy, sinful, knowing it I come. 
 
 And ask my Father to receive me home; 
 
 I bring, O God, my only sacrifice — 
 
 A broken and a contrite heart, wilt Thou despise? 
 
 IN HEAVEN. 
 
 '**fp^AVE you many friends in Heaven?' 
 
 11%/ Said a little child to me. 
 When the holy hush last twilight 
 
 Brought her to my knee. 
 Just as sacred music thrills me 
 
 With a blessed sense of pain. 
 O'er each quivering chord the question 
 
 Woke a sad refrain. 
 
 Page 138 
 
And the sea of Time rolled backward — 
 
 And sad memory's sad sea; 
 And I counted all the sailors 
 
 Who have sailed with me 
 Since we left the port together, 
 
 In the holy hush of dawn, 
 Ere the treacherous winds were rising. 
 
 Or the storm came on. 
 
 Childhood's seas of purple brightness, 
 
 Happy voyage, happy crew; 
 And the later days of tempest 
 
 Pass me in review. 
 Towering headlands, capes, and beaches, 
 
 Pass before my sight once more; 
 Point where one by one my comrades 
 
 Calmly went ashore. 
 
 Have I many friends in Heaven? 
 
 War, and trouble, and disease 
 Sadly smote the bark that drifted 
 
 Over purple seas. 
 And we sail in duskier waters. 
 
 And among the sad-eyed crew 
 Are but few of the old faces — 
 
 Oh! how very few. 
 
 Have I many friends in Heaven? 
 
 Every year I number more, 
 Waiting in the dusky shadows 
 
 On the peaceful shore. 
 Blessed sailors, who the haven 
 
 Of a peaceful rest have found. 
 Ye have but reached home before me — 
 
 I am "homeward bound." 
 
 Paga 139 
 
MIDNIGHT. 
 
 J|^ROM my turret window leaning, 
 Jl At the solemn noon of night, 
 Treasure I the mystic gleaming 
 
 Of the harvest fields of light. 
 Mistily the robes of angels 
 
 Float along the milky way, 
 Folding in their trailing splendors, 
 
 Jewels that are dim by day. 
 
 And they gather them in silence, 
 
 Smiling in the fading light, 
 While the sobbing winds are moaning 
 
 The lost glories of the night. 
 Then the low-toned bells of midnight 
 
 Faintly fall upon my ear. 
 And the "winds are hushed and silent, 
 
 With the mysteries gathering near. 
 And the valleys veil their beauty. 
 
 And the mountains far away 
 Stand uncovered for the bridal 
 
 Of to-morrow with to-dav. 
 
 I can hear the sound of voices. 
 
 That I loved in days of yore, 
 I can see the smiles of faces 
 
 That will smile on me no more; 
 And the far-off Heaven seems nearer, 
 
 And God's love beams pure and bright, 
 From my turret window leaning. 
 
 At the solemn noon of night. 
 
 Page X40 
 
so LET ME LIVE. 
 
 ^JfO, precious Father, let me live, 
 
 S? So let me slights and scorns forgive, 
 
 That when I die 
 The violet by the river's brink, 
 Bending its slender head to drink, 
 
 Be no more loved than I. 
 
 Gird me about with faith and love, 
 And let a halo from above 
 
 Rest upon me: 
 And let my robes be the pure dress 
 Of perfect love, of holiness, 
 
 And charity. 
 
 And if the current of my life 
 
 Must wind along 'mid care and strife, 
 
 A shadowed stream; 
 With only willows on the brink; 
 Where come no singing birds to drink. 
 
 Or flowers to dream. 
 
 Still, Father, let its murmur be 
 Music through all eternity; 
 
 And when at last 
 Its hurrying footsteps reach the sea, 
 And the glad song rings high and free 
 
 O'er perils past, 
 
 Then fold me. Father, in Thy arms. 
 
 Safe from earth's woes and earth's alarms. 
 
 Forever more. 
 Though burdens weigh my spirit here, 
 I shall have nothing more to fear 
 
 On yonder shore. 
 
 Page 
 
SUNRISE. 
 
 HWAKE! a holy seal is set 
 On voice of bird and bee; 
 The brig-ht face of the rose is wet, 
 
 And tears weigh down the violet 
 Upon the grassy lea. 
 
 The spirits of the mist that wore 
 
 The livery of night, 
 Wait for the sun's warm kiss before 
 They leave their river beds, and soar 
 Away beyond our sight. 
 
 How sweet this hour, when grief and care 
 
 And toil are put away, 
 This Sabbath of the earth and air. 
 Which nature gives to morning prayer 
 Just at the break of day. 
 
 The rosy fingers of the sun 
 
 Point upward to the sky, 
 Above the hill-tops dark and dun; 
 Booms through the town the sunrise gun. 
 
 And the dark shadows fly. 
 
 MORNING PRAYER. 
 
 .3|^\THER, let the morning break 
 ^^ Sweetly on my soul to-day, 
 And the minstrel breezes wake 
 
 All my soul to melody; 
 Help me to forget my load. 
 Journeying on Thy heavenly road. 
 
 Page 142 
 
Though the heavy folds of mist 
 Half the morning's glories hide, 
 Ere by noontide sunbeams kissed, 
 
 They shall climb the mountain side. 
 Walking, Father, in Thy sight— 
 "At eventide there shall be light." 
 
 If my path should lie to-day 
 
 Amid darkness, amid gloom — 
 If in groping for the way, 
 
 I should fall upon a tomb 
 Of some cherished hope long dead — 
 Let Thy love still beam o'erhead. 
 
 If the skies should melt in rain. 
 And the clouds obscure the day, 
 
 When the sun shall shine again, 
 
 Lord, above my onward way 
 
 Let Thy bow of promise shine. 
 
 And a perfect faith be mine. 
 
 Let me walk serenely. Lord, 
 
 Leaning on Thy arm of might, 
 
 Trusting in Thy holy word. 
 
 Through the gathering shades of night. 
 
 Re Thou with me. Lord, to-day, 
 
 Journeying on the heavenly way. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 * QJJ YE, silent Memory sometimes lifts 
 >2t% The coffin-lid from off the years— 
 The dead years buried 'neath the drifts 
 
 Of time and change, of hopes and fears. 
 Sometimes the sky puts on a look 
 
 It wore on some remembered day. 
 
 Page 143 
 
And back the past rolls like a book — 
 
 The past which seemed so far away. 
 A chime of bells, a gush of song, 
 
 A look, a tone, a smile, will bring 
 Back what our hearts have buried long. 
 » Some sweet, sad, half-forgotten thing, 
 A daisy or a buttercup, 
 
 Are little things to stir the heart ; 
 Yet they may bring sweet memories up 
 
 Which of our happiest hours are part. 
 It is a blessed thing that Time 
 
 Hath a sure balm for every wound ; 
 Though we may love the matin's chime, 
 
 The vesper hath as dear a sound. 
 But 'mid our flowers dead leaves remain; 
 
 And sometimes, as we pass them by, 
 We live the old days o'er again. 
 
 And this dream we call Memory. 
 
 WATCH AND PRAY. 
 
 HYE, watch as well as pray. 
 Watch in thine hour of glee — 
 Lest set by folly free — 
 
 Lest thy unguarded lip 
 Some idle word shall slip, 
 Which shall encompass thee. 
 
 Watch, aye, watch and pray, 
 
 Watch lest thy heart should fold 
 
 Dross 'mid its purest gold. 
 
 Watch lest thou wake some day, 
 
 To find rust and decay. 
 
 Watch lest thy heart grow cold. 
 
 Page 144 
 
Watch, aye, watch and pray, 
 
 Quickly the hours go by, 
 And the long night draws nigh, 
 
 Canst see thy way? 
 
 Watch, aye, watch and pray, 
 
 Thy rest is nigh . 
 
 May 4, 1867. 
 
 MORNING LIGHT. 
 
 ©morning bring me o'er the hills, 
 From thy great reservoir of light, 
 That one majestic ray which thrills 
 Through shadows of the darkest night. 
 
 Bring me the spirit of the Dawn, 
 
 And the glad day through all the hours 
 
 Shall laugh amid its happy bowers, 
 
 At eventide shall still be light. 
 
 No cloud obscures that blessed day 
 
 When Thou the Truth, the Life, the Way 
 
 Art Morning Star and Evening Light. 
 
 November 30, 18 
 
 FRANKLIN COUNTY GRAMMAR SCHOOL. 
 J799-J899. 
 
 ^T'HE traveller, pausing upon Alpine heights, 
 ^y Looks back across the valleys far away, 
 He sees the glimmer of the hamlet lights, 
 
 He hears the torrents play. 
 He lives again the peril of the pass. 
 The sudden fear, which made his firm cheek blanche. 
 The rock, the precipice, the wide crevasse. 
 
 The deadly avalanche. 
 
 Page 145 
 
Yet, with a joyful song, on bended knee, 
 With tender hand he plucks the Edelweiss, 
 And looking up, his great heart leaps to see 
 
 The Alps on Alps arise. 
 And higher still his eager footsteps press, 
 For him the stars sing, and the torrents call. 
 The distant peaks reach shadowy hands to bless, 
 
 And God is over all. 
 
 Aye, God is over all ! Eternal years 
 
 Blend into harmony the strains of time. 
 
 And the day's work, wrought out with hopes and fears. 
 
 Rings on in song sublime. 
 The Present waits — it is the Past that speaks 
 With living words to tell how deeds were wrought. 
 Do our green hills respond like Alpine peaks 
 
 To echo back the thought? 
 
 Does the old Earth remember, — does her heart 
 
 Hold sacred places where from age to age, 
 
 Brave souls have lived, loved, suffered, borne their part, 
 
 And left their heritage? 
 Does the old life still linger on the street. 
 With greetings which the listening spirit heeds, 
 And silent joy when Past and Present meet 
 
 To celebrate their deeds? 
 
 The Past brings memories, dim and far away— 
 A low log school house 'mid the forest trees, 
 An old time village green, and boys at play 
 
 And visions like to these. 
 But words must fail to yield the Past its due, 
 The vivid Present doth most fitly show 
 How great souls "builded better than they knew. 
 
 One hundred years ago. 
 
 Page 146 
 
Among its peers our giant century stands, 
 Majestic in its power to do and dare, 
 Mighty of heart and brain with liberal hands, 
 And of achievement rare. 
 A century greatest in — not what is wrought. 
 Or in the splendor of its matchless deeds, 
 But in the fitting of its gracious thought 
 To suit the common needs. 
 
 Greatest, in that each patient year hath won 
 To higher levels still, and undismayed, 
 Calls back a welcome to earth's humblest son 
 
 To climb, nor be afraid. 
 Aye, for its daughters, with chivalric grace. 
 These golden years have smoothed out rugged ways, 
 And given broader vision, generous place, 
 
 And wealth of honest praise. 
 
 And for the little children, with a power 
 
 Magnificent in love and tenderness, 
 
 The century has struck the triumph hour, 
 
 And called the world to bless. 
 Still the heights beckon and the future calls — 
 Who overcometh, must strive valiantly. 
 But in the sunlight, beyond mountain walls 
 
 Fair waits our Italy. 
 
 O Childhood, in your shining eyes, 
 
 Youth, in your fair upturned face, 
 Your feet, poised, eager for life's race, 
 
 1 read far-reaching destinies. 
 
 For you, a glad new century waits. 
 
 It opens for you golden doors, 
 
 Your feet shall tread its palace floors, — 
 
 You, "known and honored in the gates," 
 
 Shall hold its balance wheel of power, 
 
 Page 147 
 
"The precious things of lasting hills 
 And ancient mountains" wait for you, 
 The past is yours and all things new. 
 And, when the century strikes its hour. 
 The hour which sounds a call that thrills, 
 That call supreme shall strike for you. 
 O Youth, stand up before the years, 
 Make affidavit of your claim — 
 The right to win an honored name. 
 Give to the solemn winds all fears. 
 Ask, nay, demand the best in store. 
 Wisdom, wealth, honor, aye, and more — 
 The Truth which maketh free — the wings 
 By which the spirit soars and sings, 
 The right of age to stand unmoved. 
 Stand before God and man beloved. 
 Body and soul alike approved. 
 
 TO A FRIEND OF SUMMER TIME. 
 
 ^^^HE time draws near the birth of Christ,' 
 Vv To-day among the evergreens 
 My heart the pleasant task made light 
 With happy dreams — 
 The balsam fir, the sweet ground pine. 
 Told tales of August holiday, 
 And to the fragrant woods and hills 
 Led me away. 
 
 The pleasant talk went on meantime, 
 I caught the meaning of no word, 
 The ripple of the Grafton brooks 
 Was all I heard. 
 
 I saw — O, friend, recall with me 
 The winding roads among the hills, 
 The boughs which swept the pebbly paths 
 Of glancing rills — 
 
 Pajje 143 
 
The golden-rod which everywhere 
 In its barbaric splendor glowed, 
 The crimson leaves yon plucked beside 
 The Townshend road. 
 The wealth of maidenhair and fern 
 In woody glen and road-side nook, 
 The rustic bridge that lightly spanned 
 The Hinckley brook. 
 
 With shadows on the Grafton hills, 
 Recall, I pray, the tender grace, 
 The restful idleness — the charm 
 Which haunts the place. 
 Invoke the spirit of the hills, 
 And with the bells in happy chime, 
 Let summer music fill your heart 
 This Christmas time. 
 Life's woof is laid in slender threads. 
 It's web is rich in what hath been. — 
 We met to part — "Hail and farewell" 
 At wayside inn. 
 
 But, sweet as the voices of the dawn 
 Or bells at even far away — 
 Are thoughts of you, O summer friend, 
 This Christmas day. 
 
 Christmas Eve, 1890. 
 
 THE 22ND ANNIVERSARY OF MY MOTHER'S 
 WEDDING DAY. 
 
 ♦ff" look upon her pictured face, 
 II And see the lines of care. 
 Which two and twenty years ago. 
 Had not been planted there. 
 
 Page 149 
 
With Fancy's feet, I tread along 
 
 The intervening years, 
 And O, how fair and bright to me 
 
 My mother's face appears. 
 
 Her skin is fairer than mine own. 
 
 Her cheek a deeper dye, 
 The sunshine of a happy heart 
 
 Beams in my mother's eye. 
 But two and twenty times, the breath 
 
 Of this mild month has sighed 
 Across my mother's brow, since she 
 
 Became my father's bride. 
 
 They've robbed her of her girlish charms, 
 
 And on that peaceful brow. 
 The coming shadows of old age 
 
 Are slowly gathering now. 
 I do not ask to stay them, but 
 
 I wish that they would fall 
 So lightly, than I may not trace 
 
 Their gradual course at all. 
 
 May joy within my mother's heart 
 
 Forever find a home. 
 And peace and plenty crown her way, 
 
 Through all the years to come. 
 May sorrow never add a line 
 
 To that beloved brow, 
 Where Time is slowly tracing out 
 
 His shadowy foot-prints now. 
 
 September 3, 1861. 
 
 Page 150 
 
LITTLE SADIE. 
 
 ^PARKIJNG eyes brim-full of mischief, 
 *"^ Dark and bright as eyes can be ; 
 Hair like rippling sunshine falling; 
 Voice like little song-bird calling 
 From the locust tree. 
 
 You should hear the song-bird singing, 
 
 Singing, laughing all the day; 
 Willful as a little empress, 
 Sadie's like the present Congress — 
 Bound to have her way. 
 
 Independent little Sadie 
 
 Bows to neither caste nor creed. 
 "Of such is the kingdom," truly; 
 Were the words unspoken, surely 
 
 We had felt their need. 
 
 All her little charms and graces 
 Are more than my muse can tell ; 
 
 And, why lengthen out my ditty? 
 
 She's not mine, and more's the pity, 
 For I love her well. 
 
 May the choicest blessings, darling, 
 All thy happy life enfold! 
 
 All the falling sunbeams bless thee! 
 
 All the whispering winds caress thee, 
 Sadie, three vears old! 
 
 Page IS I 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Olive Chadwick, aged 13 years, Entered into rest March 22, li 
 
 SHE had no budding May, no rosy June, 
 No blossom time, when singing bird and bee 
 Revelled in sunshine, and in rare perfume, 
 And all the glad earth rang with melody. 
 
 But days and nights of suffering and pain 
 Made the sweet spirit old before its time. 
 
 And brought to tired nerve and throbbing brain 
 Patience and Faith, which were almost sublime. 
 
 "That life is long which answers life's great end," 
 I heard it said, when her brief life was o'er, 
 
 By one — her faithful Pastor and her friend. 
 
 In faith and sorrow she had reached four-score. 
 
 She loved to follow where the Saviour led. 
 Patient in suffering, daily grew in grace, 
 
 We feel that she was one of whom 'tis said, 
 
 "Their angels do behold our Father's face." 
 
 O, body racked with agony and pain, 
 
 O, freed soul, waiting at the heavenly gates. 
 
 Not 'till we see thee as thou art again, 
 Can we conceive the glory that awaits. 
 
 July 2, 1880. 
 
 TO BIRD. 
 
 ^I^O-DAY upon a country road, 
 \^ I saw the pale wild aster nod 
 Its greeting to a flower I know. 
 With plumy crest, I thotight of you — 
 It was the golden-rod. 
 
 Page 152 
 
The fragrant meadows held aloof, 
 Their skirts touched the dividing wall, 
 Where blest in happy neighborhood 
 With thistle, milkweed, mullein, stood 
 This harbinger of fall. 
 
 Near by, an upland pasture lay, 
 
 Fern beds and clumps of woodland gloom, 
 
 A tangle of good company, — 
 
 Wild grape, the elder, sumach tree, 
 
 And wild rose, out of bloom. 
 
 Along the road side, far and near 
 A hush of expectation fell, — 
 I heard — at least T seemed to hear, 
 The watchword of the changing year, — 
 The low — "Hail and farewell." 
 
 The tender silence wrapped me round. 
 With witching grace it seemed to say, 
 "Dear heart, the golden rod is here. 
 And it will mark this blessed year 
 A happy wedding day." 
 
 August 3, 1890. 
 
 TO MRS. J. GREGORY SMITH. 
 
 On her eightieth birthday. 
 
 ^^^HE Spirit of the morning tempts my dream, 
 Vv Spirit of love and joy, of life and light. 
 Which woos me to the heights with tender grace 
 And bids me watch the shadows flee through space, 
 The great chart of the universe unfold, 
 And words emerge from chaos and from night 
 While the stars sing together as of old. 
 
 Pagre 
 
From dawn to sunrise still my dream goes on, — 
 What is this haunting thought — this thread of gold 
 Which binds me to those twilight days of old, 
 Earth's dawn — the toil and travail of the race, 
 The struggle which made strong, the Sacrifice 
 By which are set life's values and its price. 
 The perfect wisdom and divinest grace? 
 
 A dream of women, noble, true and brave, 
 Jeptha's fair daughter, Ruth content to glean 
 In harvest fields, or Sheba's matchless queen, 
 Or Esther, bending from her lofty place 
 Her queenly life at stake to save a race. 
 Or some great sea-king's daughter at the prow 
 Of white sailed ship that ruled the ocean wave. 
 Or Joan of the voices, whose white brow 
 Bore Heaven's chrism, with the power to save — 
 Love, duty, courage, truth and purity 
 Were the white angels of their destiny. 
 
 But why, beloved, tell of ancient days. 
 
 Or of rare souls long passed from earthly sight? 
 
 Their spirits gave to yours of radiant grace. 
 
 And as through agate windows shining bright. 
 
 The splendor of the dawn is in your face. 
 
 For eighty years you've walked life's pleasant ways, 
 
 Bom comrade of the sunshine and the light. 
 
 Take from my heart this gift of love and praise, 
 
 Long may you stand in your appointed place 
 
 Blessing and being blessed in length of days, 
 
 Ere called to sweeter dawn and clearer sight. 
 
 October 7, 1899. 
 
 Page 154 
 
M. A. W. C/S SEVENTY YEARS. 
 
 ♦|i(J^El/OVED, all these vanished years rise up, 
 %|J^ Majestic, in their tenderness and grace. 
 They seek your life's pure fountain, and the place 
 Is like a shrine, to which the weary come 
 To be refreshed, the hungry to be fed. 
 The sufferer healed, the mourner comforted; 
 Joyous, or sad, all drink of your full cup 
 Which overflows with blessing for the race. 
 Yet pardon, friend, the gracious years do well 
 In tender lines their radiant story tell. 
 In the sweet peace of your beloved face. 
 
 July 21,1902. 
 
 '^MOTHERING SUNDAY 1888, FROM YOUR 
 LITTLE GIRL/' 
 
 "Who goes a'mothering finds violets in the lane." 
 
 mOT mine, excepting by the tender grace 
 Of love, and perfect trust and sweet accord, 
 Mine by the kinship which we love to trace 
 With dearest joy, when spirit face to face. 
 We recognize the souls that love the Lord. 
 But in my heart of hearts upon the shrine 
 Sacred to mother-love — the sweet pure place 
 Which women hold as by right divine. 
 There fondly cherished do I hold you mine — 
 A gift blessed unto me by Sovereign Grace, 
 And I thanked Him whose dear love underlies 
 All joy, — I blessed Him for your love and you; — 
 At church on Mothering Sunday, when my eyes 
 Met }'our sweet token with a glad surprise — 
 Rare English violets fragrant as the dew. 
 
 Page 155 
 
And for the graceful gift T thank you, dear, 
 
 But most of all the tender thought I prize, 
 
 The flowers will fade — the thought will live to cheer 
 
 With sweetest perfume many a coming year. 
 
 And I can bear it home to Paradise. 
 
 To L. B. March 15, i88i 
 
 TO L. B. NOVEMBER 25, J898. 
 
 ^f^EAR Heart, it was a blessed day, 
 
 Ji^ Set in the drear November weather, 
 
 Yet, I am sure that through the grey. 
 
 Into the light the storm clouds rolled. 
 
 Into a burst of sunset gold — 
 
 As you, wrapped in sweet welcome lay — 
 
 A breath divine — a newborn child. 
 
 Surely the happy angels smiled. 
 
 Bending in shining ranks together, — 
 
 She will bring joy to earth, they said. 
 
 And peace, where'er her footsteps tread, 
 
 Shall spring, as lilies from the sod. 
 
 And all things pure and sweet shall wake 
 
 To bud and blossom for her sake. 
 
 Divine in all sweet fellowship, 
 
 In sacrifice, in pain, and care, 
 
 Divine, in grace of heart and lip. 
 
 Of loving service, and of prayer, — 
 
 In all to do His will allied. 
 
 And when, at last, the sunset light 
 
 Shall bless the close of life's long day, 
 
 'Twill fold a spirit robed in white; 
 
 In likeness of the Son of God 
 
 She "shall wake and be satisfied." 
 
 Page 156 
 
EDNA M. BARNARD. 
 
 In Memoriam. 
 
 ©faithful heart, O, patient heart that waited 
 Beside the fountain of all love and truth 
 To fill life's pitcher— not as one belated 
 Hast thou gone home. The flush of morn and youth 
 vStill lingered at life's noonday. Calm which follows pain— 
 The patience born of suffering,, and the peace 
 Which comes from God, as comes the blessed rain 
 To thirsty hillsides, bidding them to cease 
 From mourning— all these crowned thy life, 
 Dear friend, the loving mother and the wife. 
 
 November 1880. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 E. D. EAMES. 
 
 ♦IWjEvST, soldier, rest, 
 llv Hard was the battle, but its woes are past, 
 Thy name is stricken from the roll at last, 
 Thou'lt walk no more amid the din of strife, 
 The cool green shores of an immortal life, 
 Thy feet have pressed. 
 
 Beloved, rest, 
 
 Thy pure young life was like a morning dream 
 Or like the passage of a summer stream, 
 Low-toned, but mountain-born and free. 
 That early reached the soundless sea, 
 Eternity. 
 
 We give thee up, 
 
 Sickness and pain seem easier to bear. 
 And Heaven is nearer since thy home is there. 
 Thy lamp of life went out beside the tomb, 
 But left a shining track amid the gloom. 
 We do not fear. 
 
 Page 157 
 
Thy pain is o'er, 
 
 But patient, gentle, thoughtful sufferer, rest. 
 We know thy pillow is a Saviour's breast. 
 When we at last shall watch life's sun decline, 
 May our last hour be glorious as was thine, 
 Our rest as sweet. 
 
 September 30, 1865. 
 
 TO MRS. McG. 
 
 /^\ Friend, go early to the grave to-day, 
 
 \mr The new-made grave of what was once so fair; 
 
 If haply that the Lord shall meet thee there 
 
 And show thee that the stone is rolled away. 
 
 Fragile she was, — this tender human flower, 
 
 With fragrance rare to those who loved her best, 
 
 A spirit pure, of many gifts possessed, 
 
 Who walked the earth with thee one little hour. 
 
 And then, — though loving care devised to save, 
 
 And clinging arms about her closely lay. 
 
 The Lord, who is the Life, the Truth, the Way, 
 
 Led gently through the gateway of the grave. 
 
 O, doubt Him not, by new-made graves He stands, 
 
 The risen Lord, the Master, it is He 
 
 Who bids you walk with Him in Galilee, 
 
 Who shows you wounded side, and feet, and hands. 
 
 Who points to this dark gateway low and chill, — 
 Behold, to-day its portals open wide, 
 To show the royal highway, glorified 
 By Him who lived to do the Father's will — 
 Beyond, are "many mansions," there the same 
 Pure spirit waits, with sweeter voice and smile, — 
 Your child, who bids you trust a "little while" — 
 The Master's words she speaks and "In His Name." 
 
 Easter 1889. 
 
 Page 158 
 
TO M. A. S. 
 
 HCCEPT as token of my loving thought — 
 Not "farewell," or "good bye" nor yet "adieu" — 
 But prayer sincere that there may come to you 
 And those you love, the joy and blessing sought. 
 May His voice still the tempests, as of old. 
 Far out upon the ocean may you feel 
 The touch of His firm hand upon the wheel, 
 Guerdon of strength and mercies manifold. 
 
 And may His love go with you all the way. 
 May the Old World give of its hoarded wealth 
 All that you ask for — rest, enjoyment, health. 
 Blessings of heart and brain, of ear and sight. 
 By memory crystalized to yield delight. 
 Whose charm shall brighten every future day. 
 And then may you return as bird to nest, 
 With glad heart singing truly "Hame is best." 
 
 March 30, 1889. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 William Embery, August 30, 1889. 
 
 ♦|K%EROIC deeds belong not to the hour — 
 ll«7 The crash of tempest, and the hurricane 
 That strikes the signal in supremest power. 
 To call the soul to sudden grasp with pain. 
 The thunderbolt which pierces sunny skies 
 Rousing to action and to wild alarms, 
 Are but the bugles sounding a surprise — 
 And the good soldier sleeps upon his arms. 
 
 Page 1 59 
 
He best advantage takes of circumstance, 
 
 He quickest leaps the swift call to obey, 
 
 Who has not left his soul to vagrant chance. 
 
 But held it in subjection day by day; 
 
 Who meets each hour armed with a strength divine, 
 
 Who fits all burdens to the yoke he bears. 
 
 Will hold for each demand the countersign, 
 
 Nor will the hour supreme come unawares. 
 
 O, Saviour, who met death in sacrifice, 
 
 With human shrinking and majestic power. 
 
 Who left a Father's throne in blissful skies. 
 
 And lived sad human years to meet the Hour, 
 
 This soul was strong and brave through love of Thee, 
 
 Daily his life grew strangely sweet and wise, 
 
 Until it closed in silent majesty. 
 
 In act of duty and of sacrifice. 
 
 TO E. McD. L. 
 
 ®! friend, this day which all your life has brought 
 So much of joy. looks now through mist of tears, 
 To tell you that with God, a day is naught 
 But shadow cast by His eternal years, 
 And that at last in happy endless day 
 Perfected love will wipe all tears away. 
 O, friend, we've seen you bear with patient grace 
 The heavy cross, and growing in your face 
 Have traced the marks God's children wear with pride. 
 The traces of brave suffering for His sake, 
 The promise that at last you shall awake 
 In His dear likeness and be satisfied. 
 
 February 24, 1891. 
 
 Page 160 
 
ELLEN A. RANLETT. 
 
 XOVE crowned her life, and love in turn was crowned 
 Monarch beloved through all her earthly days, — 
 Her heart a court where every grace was found — 
 A noble nature trained in gracious ways — 
 Where'er she walked the lilies blessed her feet, 
 And when she spoke, truth smiled with lifted face. 
 When we together sat in counsel sweet, 
 The angel of her presence filled the place — 
 The angel lingers — fragrant memories mark 
 A smile — a word — some gracious gift to each — 
 And love and faith reach out into the dark 
 Through silence far more eloquent than speech. 
 
 December 1895. 
 
 HELEN E. BENEDICT. 
 
 Hrare sweet flower 
 Whose perfumed whisper cheers each lonely da; 
 Although the stalk is broken and the bloom 
 Has passed away. 
 
 A harp, whose strings 
 Held richest melody — it is not past, — 
 The silent chords will echo in our hearts 
 While life shall last. 
 
 A spirit bright, 
 
 Endowed with gifts and graces manifold, — 
 Struggle and conquest, suffering bravely met — 
 And all is told. 
 
 Page : 
 
We hear a voice 
 
 From that far land where all is understood — 
 "Remember always that I tried to do 
 The best I could," 
 
 O, rare sweet flower 
 Blooming forever on the fadeless shore. 
 O, harp resting attuned to heavenly praise 
 Forever more. 
 
 But O, for us — 
 
 Amid the ashes of dead hopes we stand, 
 And long in lonely anguish just to touch 
 Thy vanished hand. 
 
 September 4, 1894. 
 
 ON THE BIRTHDAY OF HELEN E. BENEDICT. 
 
 ^^^HE sweet September day 
 
 \i^ Woke me at dawn with touch of angel's wing, 
 I saw on misty hilltops far away 
 A golden censor swing. 
 Glad life was every where, 
 
 A bird's song thrilled the mist wreathes overhead, 
 And a child's laughter rippled on the air, 
 "'Tis her birthday," I said. 
 To-day for her dear sake 
 
 'Tis fitting that skies smile and wild birds sing, 
 And children laugh, 'tis fitting that I wake 
 With touch of angel's wing. 
 And I will bring sweet flowers 
 And open wide the windows for the sun, 
 And make the house glad through the shining hours, 
 Lest her sweet spirit come 
 And note with sad surprise 
 That 1, who marked the fleeting days of earth, 
 Should weep for that which opened Paradise — 
 Day of immortal birth. 
 
 Page I6a 
 
But O, my heart doth long 
 
 With a great hunger for the old sweet days, 
 
 The music in the house, the laugh, the song. 
 
 The sweet familiar ways. 
 
 Saviour, I feel Thy hand. 
 
 Give me to-day a comfort in her rest, 
 
 I know, although I cannot understand, 
 
 That this birthday is best. 
 
 September 2, 1895. 
 
 MARY CLARK SAULT. 
 
 (Entered into rest February 3rd, 1895.) 
 
 ^\ friend, sweet friend, the years will come and go, 
 Vir^ The summer waves will sing beside the shore. 
 Fields smile in Spring, and hills in Autumn glow, 
 Alas! we've laid thee 'neath the winter snow. 
 To see thy face no more. 
 
 And we must weep to-day, our grief is new; — 
 
 We only see and feel the tranquil rest 
 Of the dear face, so tender and so true. 
 
 The silent hands, whose magic well we knew. 
 The lilies on thy breast. 
 
 But, as we know that Spring will come again, 
 And sunlight gild the billows tempest tost. 
 
 The spirit feels a thrill of glad refrain. 
 
 And knows, through all its depths, that not one strain 
 Of harmony is lost. 
 
 In "choir invisible" thou hast a place. 
 
 We long to hear the story thou could'st tell. 
 The rapture of that meeting "face to face," — 
 
 This faith gleams through our tears and gives us grace 
 To say, "Dear Lord 'tis well." 
 
 February 7, 1895. 
 
 Page 163 
 
TO M. A. F. 
 
 MHAT shall I say of her, my friend? 
 How say it with her truthful eyes 
 Uplifted so to search my face, 
 Beseeching me with serious grace. 
 Lest love too large enchantment lend. 
 And robe truth in a fairer guise 
 Than she might justly claim or hold ? 
 Ah! we who know this friend of ours, 
 Whose days are like the blessed flowers 
 Giving out beauty, perfume, rest, 
 A life by which our lives are blest — 
 We know the half cannot be told. 
 
 So, silently the years go by. 
 
 The years which never pause to praise, 
 
 But by some sweet mysterious ways 
 
 Mark their approval silently 
 
 On lip and cheek, on brow and hair. 
 
 Lines which are brave and sweet and true, 
 Time's signal which the flesh may wear 
 Of the soul's beauty shining through, — 
 Sign of the new name written there. 
 
 And so we love to read her face — 
 
 This friend, whom none name but to praise, 
 
 And on this day of all the days, 
 
 'Tis joy to crown her in her place, 
 
 'Tis joy, but that our words are weak. 
 
 If the sweet silent years might speak. 
 
 Or bring to us each gracious thought 
 
 Of hers, her patient work, her care. 
 
 All by some subtle process wrought 
 
 In fairest gold or peerless gem. 
 
 That were indeed a diadem 
 
 Our queen on this birthday might wear. 
 
 Page 164 
 
But we will crown her with our love, 
 And all her robes shall be of praise, 
 To-day each heart full tribute pays, 
 Her life has blessed the world we say. 
 
 Spring, streamlet, river gathering strength 
 On the bleak hills or pasture lands, 
 By flood and torrent make their way. 
 Through the great valleys sweep at length 
 And surge along the ocean sands, — 
 But all the barren places smile, 
 Field, wood, and glen for many a mile 
 Have blessed the waters as they passed. 
 
 Each soul that overcometh gives 
 Out of its strength to all that lives. 
 And the great waves of influence roll 
 When years are conquered, and the soul 
 Upon God's bosom rests at last. 
 
 August 29, 1895. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Susan P. Woodward. 
 
 /fJOOD night, dear heart, good night, the day is done, 
 \P The dewy morn, the noontide long ago. 
 The evening freshness which the storms have won, 
 And the long after-glow. 
 
 A quiet day? perhaps,— not in the wind 
 
 Which rent the rocks and mountains where he trod. 
 
 Not in the earthquake did the prophet find 
 The still small voice of God. 
 
 Page 165 
 
In nearest duty to home's quiet round, 
 
 Joy welcomed, sorrow borne without complaint, 
 
 By still small voices was the Master found 
 Speaking unto His saint. 
 
 Good night, when pain is over, rest is sweet, 
 Beloved, our hearts are tender for your sake, 
 
 "When shadows flee away," with joy we'll meet 
 And the glad day shall break. 
 
 October 2, 1895. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 4, J89J. 
 
 COUNT one more pearl upon the chain of years. 
 And wear them regally, O, friend of mine; 
 Mercies and blessings touch their pale serene 
 And flash the depths with splendor opaline, — 
 The lights of Paradise in orbs of time. 
 They stand for much this chain of pearly spheres. 
 Circles of time, God's gift, how much they mean! 
 "I ask for you the gift of happy years," 
 The strength for helpful work — for hours that shine, 
 I ask all peace and blessing, friend of mine. 
 
 TO FRIENDS. 
 
 ^fp^ OW sweet your words of love, O, friend of mine^ 
 ll«/ For love is sweet — 'tis love which gives the key 
 To all earth's music — Heaven's harmony 
 
 Is but a grander anthem, writ in bars 
 Of sunset splendor, marked by shining stars, 
 
 A score majestic traced by Love divine. 
 
 Page 166 
 
To think of all the years of happy days 
 
 That we, good friends and true, have dwelt apart, 
 
 Nor in the casual meetings did your heart 
 Open its sacred doors, and show to me 
 
 How sweet communion in its courts could be, 
 To those admitted to its peaceful ways. 
 
 Dear friend, the angel of a New Year folds 
 
 Her shining wings to hide the gifts she holds ; 
 But silent lips with loving smiles may tell 
 
 Better than words could do that all is well. 
 And your dear love for me — my love for you, 
 
 Are golden links between the Old and New. 
 Thus on life's dial doth the Love Divine 
 
 In wondrous goodness mark the "hours that shine." 
 
 January 5, 1890, 
 
 ©friend, I thank you for the tender thought 
 Which, chrystalized into the gracious word, 
 Struck low sweet chords which have my spirit stirred 
 
 With joy and peace and holy tenderness 
 And praise for all our blessed Lord hath wrought. 
 
 O, friend, may "bending skies" drop heavenly dew 
 Of iticense from the royal courts for you, 
 
 And blessed changes of the angels song 
 
 Thrill through each day and year your whole life long. 
 
 December 28, i8go. 
 
 ©friend, sweet friend, I thank you yet once more, 
 I stood without the temple, and the door 
 Swung softly outward, and I saw within 
 
 The high priest, altar, aye, and cherubim. 
 And dimly shaping in the tender light 
 
 Rose arch and column "glistering and white." 
 
 Pajre 167 
 
While far away, the voices of dead years 
 Whispered of sacrifice, of pain and tears; 
 
 And with sure spirit prescience I knew 
 
 "White stone and new name" are prepared for you. 
 
 For, standing on its radiant heights apart. 
 
 You showed me, friend, the temple of your heart. 
 
 Praise me no more — to you the gifts belong — 
 The poet's insight and the joy of song, 
 
 And rarer gift by far, the tender grace 
 
 Of those who ever stand before His face. 
 
 December 30, 1890. 
 
 ir 
 
 A GIFT. 
 
 F I could compass all my heart's desire, 
 
 What would I give you, dear, to-day? a gem? 
 That gift were small — I'd choose a diadem 
 Of rarest jewels — diamonds clear as light. 
 Pale opals glowing at each heart of fire, 
 Emeralds, sapphires, rubies bright 
 With royal splendor, and pearls purest white. 
 Pearls are the gift of tears, I have been told. 
 Aye, but through gates of pearl we find our way 
 To enter the great city — New Jerusalem, 
 Whose walls are jasper laid with brilliant gems. 
 And many a precious stone — whose streets are gold. 
 And yet to-day which marks a Gift Divine, 
 The day we love, when the great central Light 
 Of the fair city bursts through jasper walls. 
 And on life's sorrow, toil, and tempest falls. 
 And marks earth's common way a radiance bright. 
 With empty hands I greet you, cherished, blest. 
 No gift of gems or gold — just these poor words of mine, 
 And love that is not measured or expressed. 
 
 Page 168 
 
3FraGment8. 
 
 ♦ff'F I could always know Thy voice, 
 II Soft though the whisper be, 
 How gladly would my heart rejoice, 
 In all its work with Thee. 
 Often, I grope as one in doubt 
 Which voice, O, Lord, is Thine, 
 As soldier upon guard, without 
 The royal countersign. 
 
 /^tOOT> night, dear heart, good night — the radiant glow 
 
 Vi^ Of life's long twilight lingers in the west, 
 
 Hushed all discordant voices of the day. 
 
 The task is finished, work is put away — 
 
 It is the time for rest. 
 
 Why do we linger, why with trembling lips 
 
 Press kisses on the quiet brow and cheek ? 
 
 O, love, our hearts are tender for your sake, 
 
 And dumb with anguish that you may not wake 
 
 To hear the words we speak. 
 
 1819 — 1897. 
 
 CIRCLE of years- 
 Made up of sunlit days 
 That glow with opal light, 
 
 And hours that shine. 
 We will not dim their splendor 
 
 By our praise. 
 We clasp them with our love — 
 The years are thine. 
 
 Page 169 
 
♦fF know you will remember, dear, 
 
 fiti The bright September afternoon 
 We spent beside a stream as rare 
 As Clyde or "Bonnie Doon." 
 We sat upon a rustic bridge 
 And watched the shadows come and go, 
 The sunbeams glanced through leafy boughs 
 On rippling waves below. 
 In happy ease we lingered long, 
 Lulled by the music of the stream — 
 O, voices of the Grafton brooks — 
 Come back and bless my dream. 
 
 189] 
 
 ^IJ^UST I be silent ever more, dear Lord, 
 Jklitt/ A shadow in that radiant hoped-for Land, 
 Uncrowned amid the jewels must I stand — 
 
 Dumb, 'mid the hallelujahs idly wait, 
 Or strive, as here, if by some happy fate. 
 
 My soul might strike some sweet resounding chord. 
 Or by some low "Amen" might praise the Lord? 
 
 y PlkOST hear the voices of the air — 
 XL^ Of morning stars that sang of old. 
 The harmonies divinely rare 
 Of misty morn, of noontide glare. 
 Of sunset gold? 
 
 ^^^HE sweet dead years — how long we have to live 
 Vv Before we learn the trick of living well. 
 The hours and days and months we freely give 
 To filling up with dross life's narrow seive, 
 Nor pause to mark the golden .sands which fell. 
 
 Page 170 
 
ASH WEDNESDAY NIGHT. 
 
 ^T^'EMPTED as we," O then He knows to-night 
 Vl^ This haunting evil of my daily life, 
 
 This thorn upon the left side and the right, 
 This shadow betwixt me and morning light — 
 But O, thank Cod, He knows the daily strife. 
 
 February 26, 1895. 
 
 HND now again the happy time draws near 
 When glad hearts celebrate the Saviour's birth- 
 Young voices in the carols sweet and clear, 
 
 Sing of "good will to men and peace on earth." 
 O, could we hear to-night that blessed host 
 The "choir invisible" in glad refrain, 
 He is not silent, friend who loved him most, 
 For "Glory in the Highest" is the strain. 
 
 ©Saviour take these weary days, — 
 The sweet faint hopes, the bitter fears. 
 The words that faltered in Thy praise. 
 The prayers that trembled into tears. 
 
 XI FE has its twilight, and its afterglow — 
 I 'mid the shadows sit, and watch the gleams 
 Of fading light, and muse of days and dreams. 
 Sweet faces, hopes and fears of long ago — 
 And all was love — that granted or denied — 
 For Love is evermore of life the light, 
 The rose of dawn — the glow of eventide — 
 And when the night shall fall at last, we know 
 That "by the stars" we reach Love Infinite. 
 
 Page 171 
 
Iftiber, 
 
 On the Birthday of Chauncey Warner, - - ii 
 
 A Picture, 14 
 
 A Dead Honse, 16 
 
 Nursery Rhymes, 17 
 
 The March Wind, 18 
 
 One Summer, 19 
 
 The Story of a Wedding, 20 
 
 To Mj' Old Broom, 22 
 
 At the Seashore, 23 
 
 Wearing the Willow, ...... 24. 
 
 Recognition, 25 
 
 Obsolete, 26 
 
 Thanksgiving Day, 27 
 
 Going to Pasture, 28 
 
 Two Little Postmen, 31 
 
 The Talking Gas, 31 
 
 Winter Sunset, - 33 
 
 The Baby's Hand, ------ 34 
 
 Long Ago, 34 
 
 The Footsteps, 34 
 
 The Drouth, 35 
 
 The Rain. 36 
 
 My Youth, 36 
 
 Ingratitude, 37 
 
 One Way to Get Rich, ..... 38 
 
 A Boy, 39 
 
 Eternity, 40 
 
 St. Albans, 1 788-1888 42 
 
 A Dream of the Monday Afternoon Club, - - 46 
 
First Love, 5° 
 
 "The Old Place, " 53 
 
 Sunshine, 54 
 
 After the Summer, 55 
 
 A June Day in September, 57 
 
 A Bird Song, 58 
 
 The Anniversary of a Decision, - - - - 60 
 
 The One Talent, 62 
 
 An Old Maid, 63 
 
 A Very True Tale, 64 
 
 Immortality, 68 
 
 The Clouds, 68 
 
 Written by a Picture in an Album, - - - 70 
 
 That Footstep, 70 
 
 I'll be True to Thee, 71 
 
 By and By, - 72 
 
 Comfort for One I Love, 72 
 
 The Burden of a Song, 74 
 
 A Poem W. C. T. U., 74 
 
 A Prayer for the National Con ventioti. - - 76 
 
 The Old School House, 77 
 
 Christmas 1898, 80 
 
 The New Year, 81 
 
 A Christmas Song, - 82 
 
 New Year's Night, 83 
 
 Peace on Earth, 84 
 
 The Old Year 1888, 85 
 
 The King's Birthday, 86 
 
 The Old Year 1894, 87 
 
 Christmas Eve in Camp, 87 
 
 Lines, 89 
 
 My Brother Hugh, 90 
 
 A Mystery, 92 
 
 My Brother, 93 
 
 We Shall Meet Again, 94 
 
 Three Sad Days, 96 
 
 One Year Ago, 96 
 
 Five Years Ago, 98 
 
 25th Anniversary, 98 
 
 The Ship of State, 100 
 
 A Hospital Story, loi 
 
Company L, 102 
 
 The Morning, 104 
 
 At Gettysburg, 105 
 
 Corporal Gray, 107 
 
 Died in Hospital, .... . 109 
 
 We Remember, 1 1 1 
 
 October 9, 1889, - - .... 112 
 
 A Message, :^ 114 
 
 God's Harvest Field, 115 
 
 Waiting at the Door, 116 
 
 Babyjimmie, 118 
 
 That Night, 119 
 
 The First Song of the Robin, - - - - 121 
 
 Forgiveness, 121 
 
 My Prayer, - 122 
 
 A Funeral, 123 
 
 The New Organ, 124 
 
 A Prayer, 125 
 
 Another Day, - 126 
 
 St. Albans Hospital, 127 
 
 The King's Daughter, 129 
 
 Our King, 130 
 
 At the Grave, 131 
 
 Sympathy, - - 133' 
 
 Good Friday, 133 
 
 Easter, 134 
 
 A Midnight Prayer, 135 
 
 Sow the Seed, 136 
 
 Resignation, 137 
 
 In Heaven, 138 
 
 Midnight, 140 
 
 So Let Me Live, 141 
 
 Sunrise, - - 142 
 
 Morning Prayer, 142 
 
 Memory, 143 
 
 Watch and Pray, ..----- 144 
 
 Morning Light, i45 
 
 Franklin County Grammar School, - - - 145 
 
 To a Friend of Summer Time. - - - - 148 
 The 22nd Anniversary of my Mother's Wedding Day, 149 
 
 Little Sadie, 151 
 
In Memoriam, Olive Chadwick, - - - - 152 
 
 To Bird, - 152 
 
 To Mrs. J. Gregory Smith, .... 153 
 
 M. A. W. C. 's Seventy Years, .... 155 
 
 Mothering Sunday, 155 
 
 To L. B. November 25th, 1898, - - - - 1^6 
 
 Edna M. Barnard, 157 
 
 In Memoriam, E. D, Eames, 157 
 
 To Mrs. McG., 158 
 
 ToM. A. S., 159 
 
 In Memoriam, William Embery, - - - 159 
 
 To E. McD. L., 160 
 
 Ellen A. Ranlett, - - - - - 161 
 
 Helen E. Benedict, 161 
 
 On the Birthday of Helen E. Benedict, - - 162 
 
 Mary Clark Sault, 163 
 
 To M. A. F., 164 
 
 In Memoriam, Susan P. Woodward, - - - 165 
 
 September 4th, 1891, 166 
 
 To Friends, 166 
 
 A Gift, - 168 
 
 Fragments, 169 
 
i: 
 
 i 
 
OcG 22 1SQ3 
 

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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