«,.,„IIII,J 
 
 ,til 
 
 f 
 
 Ml I 
 
 liii 1 i i ! :, 
 
 
 If 
 
 : r l'.'.' 
 
 
 Mm 
 
 n 
 
 
 m 
 
 M'- 
 
 m 
 
 I 
 
 J 
 

 
 
 
 ^^"^^. PS nJT 
 
 ^^/e// ,..Q...3 
 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
 
 
 
WAYSIDE SONGS. 
 
id 
 
WAYSIDE SONGS. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD C. GOODWIN, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "HAMPTON HE1GUT3." 
 
 KEW YORK: 
 MASON 13 R () T H E J t S 
 
 lOS & 110 DUANE STREET. 
 1 856. 
 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S56, by 
 
 MASON BEOTHEliS, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for tlie Southern District of 
 
 New York. 
 
 STEREOTYPED BT PRINTED BY 
 
 THOMAS B. SMITH, C. A. A L V O R D. 
 
 82 & 84 Beekmau St. 15 Vandevvater St., N. Y. 
 
f r H a r e . 
 
 Simple themes of life expressed, 
 Very homely at the best; 
 Thoughts which all of us may share, 
 Flowers which spring up everywhere. 
 Shadows falling here and there : 
 Such I've gathered; take the store. 
 And with kindness turn it o'er, 
 Read it pleasantly and free, 
 And the boldness — pardon me. 
 
Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The First Grave in the Settlement 13 
 
 The Home in New England 22 
 
 The Hero of Luetzen and Moscow 26 
 
 The Tale op the Match-Boy 28 
 
 The Old Maid 
 
 The Turnpike-gate Keeper 
 
 39 
 
 Thoughts 
 
 44 
 The Foreshadowing 
 
 To Emily 
 
 The Blind Girl 
 
 The Big Bony Hand 
 
 I AM Growing Old ^ 
 
 fi7 
 The Name Unknown 
 
 69 
 
 Mary Lee 
 
 The Fisherman's Orphan 
 
 The Autumn Evening 
 
 83 
 Spring in the Back Streets 
 
 87 
 My Mother's Keepsake 
 
 The Pilgrimage of the Childless 
 
 ^ .... 93 
 
 A Midnight Petition 
 
Vlll C O X T E N T S . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Song of the Wind 95 
 
 The Evening Wind 101 
 
 The Old Bachelor 104 
 
 To the Farmers of New England 105 
 
 To A Young Mother 109 
 
 The Mock Auctioneer Ill 
 
 A Psalm of Life 116 
 
 To Miss 120 
 
 The Valentine of Ahab Neb-^joth 124 
 
 The Memento 128 
 
 The Stream of Time 130 
 
 A Watch Picture 134 
 
 Faith 140 
 
 The Senator's Mother 141 
 
 Troubles of a Poor Poet 146 
 
 To Agnes 151 
 
 The Letter from Cape Horn 154 
 
 Tn" Memory of E.mily 160 
 
 Dream of the Solitary 163 
 
 The Yoice of the Elm-tree. 163 
 
 To a Pretty Profile 171 
 
 The Deserter 178 
 
 " In Memoriam." 182 
 
Are there no violets near the road-side springing ? 
 
 No modest daisies by the dusty path? 
 In lonely lanes no warblers ever singing? 
 
 On rock-ribbed hills no truant brooklets' laugh ? 
 
 Is the highway, where weary manhood wanders, 
 A toilsome journey, desolate and long? 
 
 Where no tired laborer in the evening ponders 
 O'er rude romance, or roving minstrel's song? 
 
 ! there are firesides, poor, but never lonely. 
 Whose household words are toil, and care, and 
 bread ; 
 
Where mothers tell their legends old and homely, 
 O'er the rude cradle and uncurtained bed. 
 
 ! there are souls among our work-worn brothers, 
 Deep moved by genius, and with thoughts sub- 
 lime, 
 
 Pure-hearted sires, and gentle, loving mothers. 
 Whose humble virtues shall illumine time. 
 
 ! there are graves bj children dearly tended, 
 On barren hills, and wild, unlovely plains. 
 
 From whose dark porch angelic forms ascended. 
 When heaven was vocal with enrapturing stniins. 
 
 From thoughts like these the soul draws inspiration ; 
 
 I sing of cottages, and way-side flowers, 
 Of humble life, and every day's relation. 
 
 Hopeful to cheer some weary brother's hours, 
 
XI 
 
 Who seeks no friendship with his powerful neighbor, 
 Who asks no meed beyond his honest due, 
 
 Whose hands are hard from years of patient labor, 
 Whose love is constant, and whose soul is true. 
 
THE FIRST GRAVE IN THE SETTLEMENT. 
 
 FoK many a sunset, o'er a western wild, 
 
 His trail was marked, along the lonely pass ; 
 Slow with his wagons, marched the Northland 
 child, 
 His wheels deep crushing, through the prairie 
 grass. 
 
 Day after day, with weary measured pace. 
 
 Where Spring with golden bloom had strewed 
 the earth, 
 
 The mellow sun smiled in the wanderer's face ; 
 And yet the camp-fire, was his only hearth. 
 
14: THE FI EST GRAVE 
 
 But now, as Summer with her sultry train 
 
 And scorching breath, came sweeping o'er the 
 hind, 
 The cattle lolled before the loaded Avain ; 
 
 And the tired sheep went wand'ring from the 
 band. 
 
 Their footsore kee})er drooped his bushy tail ; 
 
 AYith hanging tongue moved slowly round the 
 herd ; 
 Babes from the wagons moaned a plaintive wail, 
 
 And discontent in jDcevish language stirred. 
 
 They longed in soul, upon that lonely march. 
 For some green spot to consecrate as home ; 
 
 In dreams at night they saw their native larch, 
 And the long road the weary train had come. 
 
 For there were old and hoary-headed men. 
 And younger ones hi the first pride of life, 
 
IN THE SETTLEMENT. 15 
 
 Matrons and blooming children ; and again 
 
 The gray-haired grand-dame and the tender wife. 
 
 At last they halt, where pure a fonntain springs, 
 Shaded by arms of many a gnarled oak ; 
 
 And ere dun twilight joyfully there rings 
 
 The news, that here the first green sward is 
 broke. 
 
 And now while yet, still purpUng through the 
 haze, 
 
 The sunset strives its blushing cheek to hide. 
 O'er the white camp, floats soft a song of praise. 
 
 Their humble w^orship at each even tide. 
 
 Then one lair girl, that pensively and mute 
 Moved day by day amid that sunburnt band. 
 
 Woke the soft music of her deep-toned lute, 
 In sw^eet remembrance of her native land : 
 
16 THE FIRST GKAVE 
 
 "Under the forest-arch, under the pine and larch, 
 
 In the Nor'land old : 
 Under the craggy steeps, where the hlue glacier 
 sleeps, 
 In the Nor'land old : 
 There does my mother pray, there do my brothers 
 stay. 
 In the Nor'land old : 
 O Nor'land, dear Nor'land; no more, no more!" 
 
 And as she ceased, a moonbeam pale and cold 
 Lay on the soft bands of her golden hair, 
 
 As when long smce in that dear Northland old. 
 She moved a queen among the village foir. 
 
 Soon midnight silence stole along the earth. 
 In peaceful sleep the lonely camp wasboimd, 
 
 No watchman paced to guard the new-found hearth 
 Among the daisies of the prairie ground. 
 
IN THE SETTLEMENT. 17 
 
 Now morning comes, and quick, on every hand, 
 From tented couch the sturdy pilgrims rise ; 
 
 And glad walk forth to gaze upon the land, 
 Green as the fields beneath Italia's skies. 
 
 Pleased, the old sires surveyed the landscape's 
 charms ; 
 Their sons moved near them Avith a thoughtful 
 tread ; 
 Wives wandered forth with children in their arms, 
 And sunburnt boys their tottering sisters led. 
 
 Soft fell the zephyrs on the old man's locks. 
 Who counseled gravely at the morning meal, 
 
 Bleating roamed near the heavy fleeced flocks, 
 And crowed the red cock from the wagon's wheel. 
 
 But now a month has sped its quickened flight. 
 Green grows the corn, the tall grass is no more, 
 
18 THEFIRSTGRAYE 
 
 The watch-dog's bay sounds hoarsely in the night, 
 And springs the wild rose by the cabin-door. 
 
 Months flit them by, and in their wonted tide, 
 The flail and fan the bearded grain have stirred. 
 
 The flocks are shorn, and by the prairie side. 
 In sunny days the whirring wheel is heard. 
 
 A year has gone, and Spring's entrancing charms 
 Smile sweet once more, and by the household 
 stone 
 
 The maiden blushes in her lover's arms ; 
 
 And free-born children bless the stranger's home. 
 
 But ah, the clouds have gathered from afar. 
 
 The autumn gust sweeps wailing o'er the earth ; 
 Death has approached them, and the brightest 
 
 star 
 Has ceased to beam upon the settler's hearth. 
 
IN THE SETTLEMENT. 19 
 
 And now the old men gather to select 
 
 Some quiet place, and with a mournful tread, 
 
 They mark the ground which all will hence 
 respect — 
 A grave-yard lonely for their sacred dead. 
 
 They choose a spot upon that prairie's breast. 
 Where slanting sunbeams of the morning fall. 
 
 And where dark clouds declining to the west. 
 Shade through the oak-boughs like a funeral 
 pall. 
 
 Now from yon cabin where the roses hung, 
 With measured pace approach the mourning 
 band, 
 Wreaths of white flowers bespeak that she is 
 young. 
 Who first has left them for the other land. 
 
20 THE FIRST GRAVE 
 
 " She was a player of soft strains," said one, 
 On whose white forehead fell the silver hair, 
 
 " And sweet to know in this our transient home, 
 That players uj^on instruments are there." 
 
 Yes, far beyond the blue, ethereal dome. 
 
 She sweeps her harp, and plumes her wings of 
 snow ; 
 
 Forgets her sorrow at her Father's home. 
 Her secret grief we did not care to know. 
 
 Henceforth my tale goes with the passing years. 
 
 Where spires spring up, and village bells are 
 
 heard, 
 
 Where o'er smooth roads the farmer goads his 
 
 steers. 
 
 Where busy marts with din and life are stirred. 
 
IN THE SETTLEMENT. 21 
 
 A city's bound has swept the settler's home ; 
 
 Has filled the spring his cattle loved to lave, 
 And lost is all, save yonder moss-grown stone. 
 
 That still points out the singer's lonely grave. 
 
 To that small yard, now guarded by a wall, 
 Draw near, and read, for yet the lines are fair 
 
 "We do not fear to yield her to God's call, 
 For players upon instruments are there." 
 
THE HOME IN NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 I LOVE the north ; by memory led 
 Ouce more I clmib the windy hill, 
 
 Once more among the corn I tread, 
 And leap the floom beyond the mill. 
 
 Along the heights, where deep the ridge 
 Was worn by feet that pass no more, 
 
 I wander, till beyond the bridge 
 The waters at the mill-dam roar. 
 
THE HOME IN XEW ENGLAND. 23 
 
 Where still the ancient chestnut sheds 
 
 Round yon low roof, the zephyrs cool, 
 Among a score of curly heads, 
 
 My sister taught the village school. 
 
 My sister, freckled with the sun, 
 
 And browned by many a passing breeze, 
 
 Who wrote me all the news from home, 
 Tliat came like blossoms from the trees — 
 
 With other treasures from her store 
 
 Of dear New England's homespun knowledge. 
 
 The shirts and stockhigs that I wore, 
 
 Till I had worked my way through college. 
 
 There, where the clothes-line's snow-white wealth 
 Swings o'er the yard from tree to tree. 
 
 Her cheeks still warm with rugged health, 
 My mother's form appears to me. 
 
24 THE HOME IN NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Mother, the dews of years have dressed 
 With flowers and grass thy lowly mound, 
 
 And Tmie, about my brow and breast, 
 His iron chain has firmly wound. 
 
 Yet still I see thee A\dien the dawn 
 Had purpled in the distant east ; 
 
 Noon brings thy call, the echoing horn, 
 Invitmg to the frugal feast. 
 
 The long dim tAvilights round our home. 
 The circhng bats on silent wing ; 
 
 Thy clear voice near the threshold stone, 
 The songs that best we loved to sing, 
 
 All now are silent, and the grave 
 Has closed above thy sailor child, 
 
 Who, with long voyages o 'er the wave, 
 Full many a Avhiter's night beguiled. 
 
THE HOME IN NEW ENGLAND. 25 
 
 Where the dark Ganges slowly sweeps 
 
 The Indian sands, is Mary's rest ; 
 Close by the mission school she sleeps, 
 
 Her low green mound with violets dressed. 
 
 No costly pile its record rears 
 
 In memory of her humble life ; 
 The spot the traveler marks with tears, 
 
 And names the missionary's wife. 
 
 And thus, like blossoms from the trees, 
 
 The north sows seeds o'er land and sea; 
 Still, memory, w^aft thy genial breeze, 
 
 And wander o'er the hills with me. 
 
 2 
 
THE HERO OF LUETZEN AND MOSCOW. 
 
 Upon the margin of a lake, 
 
 With water creepmg to its door, 
 
 A cottage 'mid tall fern and brake, 
 Stood on the lonely shore. 
 
 Upon his bed one midnight tossed 
 A war-worn soldier, old and hoary. 
 
 Who saw the bridge of Lodi crossed, 
 And knew of Moscow's story. 
 
THE HERO OF LEUTZEN AND MOSCOW. 27 
 
 The winter sun stole through the pane, 
 And touched with Hght his silvered head, 
 
 But long before its red beam came. 
 The veteran was dead. 
 
 He died alone, his own loved land 
 Lay far across the stormy billow; 
 
 He died, Napoleon's gift in hand. 
 And image 'neath his pillow. 
 
 We buried him one winter's day: 
 Beneath New England's soil to rest, 
 
 We laid the hero's form away, 
 With cross upon his breast. 
 
THE TALE OF THE ^IATCII-r><^Y. 
 
 SuisTNY it was, a golden day, 
 
 In smiling, leafy June; 
 Upon the fresh-mown grass we lay, 
 Or on the rounded heaps of hay. 
 While near us, through the livelong day, 
 
 The brook trolled o'er its tune. 
 
 The maples old outsti'etched their arms. 
 
 The poplars whispered free ; 
 And while around the bursting barns 
 The tall grass fell, and brawny arms 
 Swept wide swarths though the meadow's charms, 
 
 They told this tale to me. 
 
THE TALE OF THE MATCH-BOY. 29 
 
 How once a child, who ne'er had seen 
 
 A forest, or a shady path. 
 Resolved to find the wandering stream 
 That down amid fresh banks of green 
 Went rippling on, mth sparkling sheen, 
 
 And babbling noisy laugh. 
 
 Soon wavy fields of grass he met. 
 
 And wandered slowly through 
 Green pastures, where the cowslip slept, 
 And on its breast the diamond kept. 
 That fairies dropped, who last night swept 
 
 O'er it on wheels of dew. 
 
 Then a dim forest, gnarled and old, 
 
 Its shadows round him laid, 
 O'er his flushed brow its breath fell cold ; 
 Wild sono-s above his head were told; 
 
80 THE TALE OF THE MATCH-BOY. 
 
 The earth put off its coat of gold, 
 And donned its cloak of shade. 
 
 From gnarled trunk the squirrel fled, 
 The boughs shook as he swung ; 
 
 The bee rose oif the wild thyme bed. 
 
 To thicker gloom the rabbit fled. 
 
 The partridge crouched before his tread, 
 Alone the robin sung. 
 
 Beside a cool stream's mossy bank, 
 
 At length the boy was seen ; 
 Among the grass and leaves he sank. 
 Leaned o'er and from the clear wave drank. 
 Where the green bulrush, tall and rank. 
 
 Stood midway in the stream. 
 
 Thus till the twiUght gathered deep. 
 His bare feet in the tide. 
 
THE TALE OF THE MATCII-BOY. 31 
 
 He watched the silent shadows creep 
 O'er tangled w^ood and rocky steep, 
 And, like the sundown, fell asleep 
 Upon the streamlet's side. 
 
 The midnight passed, and found liim there 
 
 Pale as the moonlight beam ; 
 The cool breeze waved his tangled hair. 
 The wild fox wandering from her lair. 
 Crept by him with a stealthy air. 
 
 But weakened not his dream. 
 
 The earth was wrapped in midnight shade. 
 
 The mist lay on the hill. 
 When down within that forest glade 
 The boughs a quivering movement made. 
 As if a strong wind o'er them swayed, 
 
 Then all asfain was still. 
 
02 THE TALE OF THE MATCH-BOY. 
 
 When those tall trees, that summer night, 
 
 Moved mournfully and wild. 
 Up from the greenwood winged its flight, 
 'Mid a white cloud of angels bright. 
 Who vanished in the dim star-light, 
 
 The spirit of a child. 
 
 
THE OLD MAID. 
 
 Across her wide and pallid brow 
 Is smoothed the thin brown hair, 
 
 And calmly she sits knitting now, 
 In that old-fashioned chair. 
 
 She wears no ornament or cap, 
 Her eyes are darkest blue, 
 
 A plain white apron on her lap, 
 In folds of spotless hue. 
 
34 THE OLD MAID. 
 
 Her feet a rude square footstool press, 
 
 She gazes in the fire ; 
 A tear drops down upon her dress ; 
 
 Alas! what thoughts mspire 
 
 That heart so strange, yet kind to all? 
 
 That eye serenely bright ; 
 What shadow does this hour recall ? 
 
 Why weeps she thus to-night? 
 
 Her rose-tree has not lost its flower. 
 Her mignionette its bloom , 
 
 The quaint old clock still calls the hour. 
 And sunset gilds the room. 
 
 Ah! Memory, thy deathless light 
 
 Restores to her again 
 The moments of a starless night, 
 
 To which no sunrise came ! 
 
THE TURNPIKE GAT&KEEPER. 
 
 Beyond the bridge, on the old post road. 
 
 The keeper's cottage stood, 
 On a little mound of rising ground, 
 
 Fronting a chestnut wood; 
 But a half-choked well, and a broken bough 
 Are all that remain for the cottage now. 
 
 She was very poor, and with frugal care 
 
 Gathered her small supply; 
 And from early day until evening gray. 
 
 Sewed with a steadfast eye; 
 And travelers passmg late at night. 
 Beheld her there by a single light. 
 
36 THE TURNPIKE GATE-KEEPEK. 
 
 She was all alone, and sought no friends; 
 
 And, save on the Sabbath day. 
 Was seldom seen on the village green, 
 
 Or near to the dusty way. 
 Except by the open gate to stand, 
 And take the fare from the traveler's hand. 
 
 Some summer fruits from the neighboring fields, 
 
 By the shattered curb she laid. 
 And ever there, in the summer air, 
 
 The mossy bucket swayed ; 
 And the thirsty steed at noon came near. 
 And strangers paused for the simple cheer. 
 
 The chestnut wood of my school-boy days, 
 
 With its roof of varied hue. 
 Where dark between the woof of green, 
 
 Was tangled the warp of blue ; 
 
THE TURNPIKE GATE-KEEPER. 37 
 
 Where winds sighed low, like a minstrel rude, 
 Chanting the lays of the solitude. 
 
 And sometimes here, when the sun was gone, 
 And the dew dripped off the leaves, 
 
 A boy I stood, in the whispering wood, 
 And gazed on the garnered sheaves 
 
 That were scattered about in the twilight's span, 
 
 Like the silent tents of a caravan. 
 
 And when again my wanderhig feet 
 
 To her lonely door drew nigh. 
 She would sit alone on the threshold stone, 
 
 With her face on the distant sky. 
 As if she communed with them that kept 
 Their watch when the babe of Bethlehem slept. 
 
 But years are past, and my hairs are gray, 
 And the widow's grave has long been made ; 
 
38 THE TURNPIKE GATE-KEEPER. 
 
 And the chestnut wood where the cottage stood, 
 
 Gives place to a gleaming glade; 
 And a half-choked well and a broken bough 
 Are all that remain for my childhood now. 
 
THOUGHTS. 
 
 I AM nothing on earth, 
 And O why was I born 
 
 To go strugghng from birth 
 Until death's dreary morn? 
 
 To be weary at evening, 
 And tearful at dawn? 
 
 My mission seems aimless, 
 My hopes are defied. 
 
 My fi-iendships are nameless. 
 My love-dreams denied ; 
 
 And my tears flow like dew, 
 In the cold even tide. 
 
40 THOUGHTS. 
 
 I gaze to the distance, 
 
 Thick the past gathers o'er it, 
 
 I Uve, but existence, 
 I live to deplore it. 
 
 And I see my lone grave 
 
 With the grass growing o'er it. 
 
 I have nothing protected, 
 Am by none understood, 
 
 My plans are rejected, 
 Even those to do good. 
 
 And my heart's like a rock 
 That the wave has A\dthstood. 
 
 I have struggled in vain 
 
 Till my hairs have grown gray, 
 
 But hfe's keenest pain 
 Gives no trace of decay, 
 
THOUGHTS. 41 
 
 And the journey seems long 
 To the end of the .day. 
 
 I am weary of life ; 
 
 And yet what have I done, 
 Thus to pale m the strife, 
 
 And to sink overcome. 
 Ere my heart can exclaim. 
 
 Half the combat is won ? 
 
 I am weary of life : 
 
 Am I ready to die ? 
 Can I pass from earth's strife 
 
 To the calm of the sky ? 
 May I sit where the angels 
 
 Are gathered on high? 
 
 Does my mission seem aimless; 
 Is no brother in pain: 
 
42 THOUGHTS. 
 
 Are man's sorrows too nameless 
 
 For me to reclaim : 
 No sister whose sin 
 
 I can tenderly name ? 
 
 In the years that are dross, 
 Which I live to deplore, 
 
 Have I carried the cross 
 
 Which Christ patiently bore, 
 
 Till the time when His side 
 Ponred out water and gore ? 
 
 Have I listened to crying, 
 The hungry ones fed? 
 
 Have I sat with the dying, 
 Or wept o'er the dead ? 
 
 Like Him who had never 
 A place for His head. 
 
THOUGHTS. 43 
 
 Am I weary of life ? 
 
 Let the years then to come 
 Find me harnessed for strife, 
 
 If God's will so is done, 
 Till I sink down exclaiming, 
 
 The victory 's won ! 
 
 And when in my grave. 
 
 In the fullness of years. 
 Let some heart come and lave 
 
 The green spot with its tears: 
 Some heart, that through me 
 
 Has forgotten its fears. 
 
THE FORESHADOWING. 
 
 Aboa^e this spot, ten years ago, 
 A mighty forester did grow. 
 Waving its long arms to and fro. 
 
 Beneath this shade, with berries red. 
 And flowers with many a tufted head. 
 The virgin earth was carpeted. 
 
 Where yonder brook o'er pebbles flows, 
 
 Serenely singing as it goes. 
 
 There grew, one Jmie, a snow-white rose. 
 
THE FORESHADOWING. 45 
 
 Ten years ago, a maiden fair, 
 
 With wealth of wand'ring golden hair, 
 
 Was sitting by that rose-tree there. 
 
 The old oak waved above her head, 
 And much in breezy whispers said. 
 And balmy breath about her shed. 
 
 The bee came humming from the thyme, 
 The oak talked on in pleasant rhyme, 
 The sweet brook beating measured time. 
 
 Then that fair maid, with careless look. 
 All rudely the poor rose-tree shook. 
 Till its white leaves fell in the brook. 
 
 The old oak that above her swept, 
 Let fall a droj) of dew it kept ; 
 For it was grieved, and so it wept. 
 
40 THE FORESHADOWING. 
 
 Ten years ago that oak-tree heard 
 Beneath its boughs a faltermg word : 
 What was it that its great heart stirred ? 
 
 The maiden was not there alone, 
 And in the music of the tone, 
 Two voices melted into one. 
 
 Four years ago, a woman came. 
 
 And by that rose-tree stood again ; 
 
 A poor bowed form, overwhelmed with pain. 
 
 Three beauteous children wdth her stood. 
 And looked upon the oak-tree good, 
 And said " it was of royal wood.'* 
 
 Three years ago, beneath that oak. 
 She came once more, and sadly spoke, 
 " O now indeed my heart is broke." 
 
THE FORESHADOWING. 47 
 
 Two little children then had she, 
 That stood there, in the summer free, 
 And said "it was a mighty tree." 
 
 Two years ago, she came once more, 
 More sorrowful than e'er before, 
 And O what heavy grief she bore ! 
 
 One little girl she now had left, 
 
 That looked up where a bough was cleft, 
 
 And said "the tree had been bereft." 
 
 Ten months ago, beside this brook 
 
 She came with agony of look : 
 
 Death had from her the last bud shook. 
 
 And now the brave old oak is gone, 
 And winds no more the bee its horn 
 About it in the summer morn. 
 
48 THE FORESHADOWING. 
 
 And this green turf, with berries red, 
 And flowers, with many a tufted head, 
 Three little graves have carpeted. 
 
TO EMILY. 
 
 Flowers grow every where! 
 There 's not a sohtude of mountam rude 
 
 How e'er so wild, 
 But there some Httle head, 
 By dew and sunshine fed, 
 
 Has bloomed and smiled. 
 
 Where footsteps never pass 
 Year after year, their forms appear 
 
 In varied guise ; 
 Where crop wild wandering herds, 
 And warble desert bu'ds 
 
 'Neath azure skies. 
 
60 TO EMILY. 
 
 Even the frozen shores 
 Of northern space, jdeld sheltering place 
 
 Among their caves, 
 Where from some smmy nook 
 Sweetly they overlook 
 
 The icy waves. 
 
 The Father sees them all : 
 Even those that grow by the white snow 
 
 And lonely land : 
 Not one droops down in death, 
 Not one e'er blossometh i 
 
 Without His hand. 
 
 Trust Hun, my Emily ! 
 Though clouds o'erlay life's shadowy way, 
 And gather showers; 
 
TO EMILY. 51 
 
 The sun shall shine once more, 
 And, the wild tempest o'er. 
 Behold the flowers. 
 
 Have faith like them ; 
 The lily of the fields, that perfume yields, 
 
 The wavino^ o^rass: 
 Nor fear to cast thine eye 
 Where the dark waters Ue 
 
 That all must pass. 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 I SAW a blind girl sitting once 
 
 Beneath a tree alone, 
 Beside her lay her knitting-work 
 
 Upon a mossy stone, 
 And she was singing clear and loud 
 
 A happy song of morn, 
 Of birds among the branches hid. 
 
 And reapers in the corn. 1 1 
 
 She sang of flowers whose bosoms white, 
 
 Are open to the sun, 
 She sang of dew-drops on the grass, 
 
 Of webs that spiders spun ; 
 
 I 
 
 (I 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 53 
 
 She sang at times a swelling note, 
 
 And then a warbled call, 
 As if she loved the greenwood side. 
 
 And knew the flowerets all. 
 
 At length she ceased her joyous song. 
 
 And sat in pensive way; 
 Then pleasantly I spoke to her, 
 " What canst thou know of day ? 
 Thou hast not seen the sunbeams fall. 
 
 And when thou art alone. 
 The night-time, and the day-time, child, 
 
 Must be to thee as one." 
 
 " Ah, no, sir !" said the girl to me, 
 
 " Ah, no, they are not one. 
 
 Full Avell I know of morning time. 
 
 And when the noon will come; 
 5* 
 
54 THE BLIND G I EL. 
 
 Full well I know of even tide, 
 
 And of the lonely night, 
 And when warm shines the pleasant sun, 
 
 Although I have no sight. 
 
 "The morning has a thousand somids. 
 
 There are birds among the leaves. 
 And swallows with sweet little ones, 
 
 I hear beneath the eaves: 
 And if I raise my window-sash. 
 
 Sweeps in the balmy air, 
 And falleth lightly on my cheek. 
 
 And backward blows my hair. 
 
 " I smell the roses down the walk, 
 I hear the waving grass, 
 I hear my brothers start for school, 
 I hear the mowers pass ; 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 5o 
 
 And morning has a thousand sounds 
 
 That tell the hour to me— 
 I 'm very happy, too, at morn, 
 
 Although I can not see. 
 
 "When noon-tune comes, I know it well, 
 
 From cattle in the shade, 
 That knee-deep in the Avater stamp 
 
 Adown the breezy glade ; 
 And if I 'm at the bench of stone, 
 
 To hide him from the heat 
 Old Sailor comes, with panting breath, 
 
 And stretches at my feet. 
 
 " The oxen, too, with ratthng yoke. 
 Are lowing at the gate, 
 And, loosed from labor, comes the horse 
 And whinnies for his mate. 
 
56 THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 And dowTi the gravel walk I seek 
 
 If father I can find, 
 Who with his kiss makes me forget 
 
 The pain of being blind. 
 
 "I need no dial's tracing, sir, 
 
 To tell of evening gray, 
 For birds sing ever loudest then. 
 
 And flocks slow homeward stray; 
 I hear the children's merry laugh, 
 
 And soon the insects call. 
 And in the even tide I feel 
 
 How good is God to all. 
 
 " At evening too, they often read 
 The tale of Christ to me. 
 Who healed the men with palsied limbs, 
 And made the blind ones see; 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 My heart has then an inward peace, 
 A cahn sweet strength I gam ; 
 
 I see Hhn weeping at the tomb, 
 And walking on the main. 
 
 "O do not grieve that I am blind, 
 
 Or think I'm often sad, 
 Because the light of outward things 
 
 Has never made me glad; 
 For deep within my bosom glows 
 
 A thought of coming light ; 
 Of all the joy that I shall know. 
 
 When God restores my sight." 
 
 57 
 
THE BIG BONY HAND. 
 
 AxD so you don't fancy my big bony fist, 
 With the impress of labor on sinew and wrist, 
 And prefer to press one of a delicate hue, 
 With the pink round the nails, when you say 
 "how d'ye do." 
 
 Ah ! give to my heart a hard, horny hand. 
 With the fingers well knit, and the joints at 
 
 command : 
 Too big and too heavy to case in a glove, 
 That has fought for its coimtry, its God, and its 
 
 love : 
 
THEBIGBONYHAND. 59 
 
 If not on the field where the battle is loud, 
 O'er the crimson-stained turf, that the cannon has 
 
 plowed. 
 Where the soldier crawls out from the heaps of 
 
 the dying. 
 To be crushed 'neath the heel of the foe that is 
 
 flying ; 
 
 Where the riderless steed rushes mad o'er the 
 
 plain. 
 With blood-reeking sides, and wild-flowing mane ; 
 And the hawk, and the vulture, black birds of 
 
 the fight. 
 Hover over the corpses, awaiting the night ; 
 
 Where the jackall, and wolf, with poisonous 
 
 breath, 
 Gnaw the cheeks not yet cold in the stiffness of 
 
 death ; 
 
60 THEBIG BONY HAND. 
 
 Where the dog wanders round, with a piteous 
 
 moan, 
 And Hcks the blue lips that are frozen as stone! 
 
 But in the g)'eat combat, the battle of life, 
 With its deep clanging hammers and civilized strife, 
 Or on the grand hills, with their fresh-growing 
 
 grain. 
 Where the sound of the reaper comes sweet from 
 
 the plain ! 
 
 Where the furrows are deep that the plowman 
 
 has made. 
 And the engines of war are the harrow and 
 
 spade ; 
 Where the farmer sits doA\ai in the stillness of 
 
 even, 
 And his children chant songs to their Father in 
 
 heaven ; 
 
THK BIG BONY HAND. 61 
 
 Where, warm on the hill-side, the brook sings its 
 
 tune, 
 And the blue violets grow in the sunshine of 
 
 June, 
 Where the soldiers of labor have homes on their 
 
 lands, 
 And great open hearts, and big, bony hands ! 
 
 Yes, madam! that babe that you cradle to rest, 
 Whose brown, sunny curls wander over your 
 
 breast. 
 Whose Up drains the strength of its fountain of 
 
 life, 
 Must fight in this combat, bear part in this strife. 
 
 And that daughter, whose eyes have drunk deep 
 
 of the night, 
 Shall unfold her sweet bloom, like a flower, to 
 
 the light, 
 
62 THE BIG BONY HAND. 
 
 But another may claim her — on a heart that 's 
 
 unknown 
 Shall open the rose-bud that grew in thy home. 
 
 Be careful, and fancies like these throw aside, 
 And be glad, when she weareth the wreath of a 
 
 bride, 
 If he who is chosen in thy place to stand 
 Hath a great open heart, and a big bony hand. 
 
I AM GROWING OLD. 
 
 I'M growing old, how thoughts rnsh home 
 
 As here, this autumn morn, 
 I watch the purpling sunrise come 
 
 O'er fields of wavuig corn ; 
 There 's hoar frost sprinkled on the plains, 
 
 And leaves are crisped with snow. 
 And wuidows of the cottages 
 
 Are bathed in molten glow. 
 
 An old man 's dying by my side, 
 
 And with a feeble strife, 
 Lo ! back and forth, quick ebbs the tide, 
 
 The ebbing tide of life ; 
 
G4 I AM GROWING OLD. 
 
 An old man, on whose silver hair 
 These autumn sunbeams fall, 
 
 Whose eyes glance vacantly on me, 
 And long-lost years recall. 
 
 I 'm growing old, with sorrow fraught, 
 
 I wipe his death-dewed brow. 
 And o'er me floods the heavy thought 
 
 That he is dying now; 
 I turn him toward the rising sun. 
 
 The struggle 's almost o'er, 
 He sigh^ "My boy," but boyhood's day 
 
 To me will come no more. 
 
 Lo, yonder leans an idle staff, 
 
 A vacant lonely chair; 
 No more at eve his jocund laugh 
 
 Shall hold us lingering there; 
 
I AM GROWING OLD. 65 
 
 I look into his altered face, 
 But ah ! his hands are cold ; 
 
 O does it need tliis bitter pang 
 To teach I'm growing old? 
 
 The kitchen-clock, wath steady beat, 
 
 Calls solemnly within. 
 But ah! again 'twill not repeat 
 
 Its silver chime for him; 
 So called it, when beneath this roof 
 
 He saw his first-born son ; 
 It caUs once more, but he with tune, 
 
 Amid life's scenes, has done. 
 
 'Tis true, and yet I did not feel 
 The weight of years before. 
 
 But now, as from his side I steal, 
 The last sad struggle o'er. 
 
66 lAMGROWINGOLD. 
 
 Far distant seems life's morning way 
 Yet hope my spirit stills, 
 
 And I will take my staff to-day 
 And seek the shadowy hills. 
 
THE NAME UNKNOWN. 
 
 Vailed Prophet of the year to come, 
 
 Arise, and trace for me 
 The letters of the Name Unknown, 
 
 My soul desn-es to see. 
 
 Come, lend thy mirror to my sight ; 
 
 With her my life is fraught ; 
 She claims my softest dreams at night, 
 
 My hours of daily thought. 
 
68 THE NAME UNKNOWN. 
 
 She sits within my study-room, 
 
 She fills the vacant chair, 
 She sings low songs in t^vdlight's gloom, 
 
 I start, she is not there. 
 
 Yailed Prophet of the years to come, 
 
 Reveal the face to be ; 
 The letters of the Name Unknown, 
 
 Arise and trace for me. 
 
MARY LEE. 
 
 Thy face was pale, sweet Mary Lee, 
 When I from yonder town, 
 
 The farmer's Devon stock to see. 
 Had rode my hunter down: 
 
 A strapping youth, at manhood's edge, 
 Who loved the chase to range, 
 
 I leaped old Murad o'er the hedge, 
 And rounded by the grange. 
 
70 MARY LEE. 
 
 With clattering hoofs I passed the bridge, 
 
 The trestle lodge, and tree. 
 And rising o'er the quarry's ridge, 
 
 Quick fell my eyes on thee. 
 
 To ask the way across the hill, 
 Though well the path I knew, 
 
 I left old Murad by the mill. 
 And slowly walked toward you. 
 
 A pale-faced girl, of foreign look, 
 A youth with bold brown face, 
 
 The one prepared with harp and book, 
 The other for the chase. 
 
 Such was the picture, Mary Lee, 
 
 When in the sunlight there. 
 You raised your dark blue eyes to me, 
 
 And backward tossed your hair. 
 
MARY LEE. 
 
 I Stammered something of the land 
 
 As if I went astray, 
 When, rising, you, with snow-white hand, 
 
 Marked where the pastm-e lay ; 
 
 Indeed, didst wander down where near, 
 
 The forest path was cleft. 
 Then said, " Just half a mile from here 
 
 The way lies to the left." 
 
 I parted from you at the mill, 
 
 Then, slowly o'er the do^vn, 
 Old Murad laid his course at will. 
 
 And soon returned to town. 
 
 I left him with my brother's groom. 
 And wandered o'er the park. 
 
 Till twilight gathered round its gloom, 
 And all the land was dark. 
 
72 M A E Y L E E . 
 
 My father met me on the stairs, 
 
 And called me back to dine, 
 And asked me of the farm affairs, 
 
 My judgment of the kine. 
 
 My mother sent, my cup to fill, 
 
 For nothing had I ate; 
 I saw the girl beside the mill. 
 
 And passed her back my plate. 
 
 ''What ails thee, boy?" my father said; 
 "What ails thee, clownish churl?" 
 I felt my tingling cheek was red, 
 And almost said, the girl 
 
 My mother laughed — " Some boyish freak ;" 
 
 Then came and stood by me; 
 I pressed a kiss upon her cheek, 
 
 And thought, of Mary Lee. 
 
MARY LEE. 73 
 
 With net and rod, at early da\vn, 
 
 I Avandered o'er the hill, 
 My path lay near the farm-house lawn, 
 
 And so I passed the mill. 
 
 All night I 'd seen the wandering fair, 
 
 And joyous dreams I'd had; 
 But when I found she was not there, 
 
 My heart was pained and sad. 
 
 My brow was hot — I dofted my hat. 
 
 And passed along the stream, 
 When low upon a rock she sat, 
 
 The image of my dream. 
 
 I can not say what words were said, 
 
 So long has time passed by. 
 But this I know, I spake the maid, 
 
 And she returned a sig:h. 
 
^4 M A E Y L E E . 
 
 Thy face is pale, sweet Maiy Lee, 
 And thou art strangely fair ; 
 
 Thy mother looked so once, and she 
 Had also golden hair. 
 
 Come hither, child, too frail art thon 
 To share thy brothers' play. 
 
 Come, wipe away thy tears, and now 
 Beside thy father stay. 
 
 Dear wife, that wanderest up the path, 
 And rests thy boys among, 
 
 I hear the echo of thy laugh, 
 Years only make thee young. 
 
 But come, my child, we'll hasten now 
 And meet her 'neath yon tree ; 
 
 She is my dear good wife, and thou 
 Art little Mary Lee. 
 
THE FISHERMAN'S ORPHAN. 
 
 The harbor bar moaned loud that day, 
 The curlew shrieked about the bay, 
 And to our little sheltered cove 
 Thick clouds of mist the sea-wind drove. 
 
 I met but once my mother's sight. 
 For I was born the very night 
 My father's boat was washed on shore, 
 Dismantled of its sail and oar. 
 
V6 THE FISHERMAN'S ORPHAN. 
 
 That barren grave-yard on the height, 
 Above Avhich sea-birds wing their flight, 
 Is full of mounds — and often there 
 I linger, when the evening air 
 
 Falls softly on two narrow graves, 
 O'erlooking far those slumbering wjives, 
 That murmer ever of tlie sea 
 That lonely made the Avorld to me. 
 
THE AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 'T IS cold to-night, the bitter breeze, 
 
 That all day long has shrieked and sung. 
 
 And from the brown, dismantled trees 
 The few last leaves of autumn flung — 
 
 Has spent its breath, and now the sky 
 
 Is one wide arch of blue on high. 
 
 The round pale moon, with frosty light 
 Rolls up beyond the mountain's rift, 
 
78 THE AUTUMN E Y E N I N G . 
 
 While scudding from their northern flight, 
 
 The fleecy clouds before it drift, 
 Like some white fleet of nameless sail 
 Long port-bound by an eastern gale. 
 
 I stand before the casement's panes 
 And gaze along the terraced slope. 
 
 The garden, and the silvered lanes. 
 The forest, where the pathways ope. 
 
 Through whose dark space a single star 
 
 Hangs glimmering like a lamp afar. 
 
 Roll on, pale moon, I would not add 
 One ray unto thy feeble light, 
 
 Nor take away one gleam that sad 
 Livests my thoughtful soul to-night ; 
 
 Yonder the village grave-yard lies. 
 
 And drearily the night-wind sighs. 
 
THE AUTUMN EVENING. 79 
 
 Who sleeps therein? whose sculptured stones, 
 
 Mute sentinels in white array, 
 Give back the chilling voice that moans 
 
 Along the ridged and frozen way: 
 Coldly thou shadowest forth the grave 
 Of many beautiful and brave. 
 
 Deep in their lone, oblivious rest, 
 
 The school ones of my play-time sleep. 
 
 But I, who loved the grave-yard best. 
 Alone am left for them to weep ; 
 
 Alone ! ah, no, still memory keeps 
 
 The heaved turf green where Rachel weeps. 
 
 Along the sky, hark, once again 
 
 I hear the lulling tempest roar 
 With dull, deep moan, like breakers when 
 
 A storm rolls down a rockv shore. 
 
80 THE AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 Blow on, my thoughts shall follow thee 
 O'er deserts, and the lonely sea. 
 
 Brother, as on thy face to-night 
 
 The autumn moon looks calmly down, 
 
 See'st thou the darkly wooded height 
 And silvered windows of the town ? 
 
 See'st thou once more the w^elcome beam 
 
 From out our mother's dwelUng gleam ? 
 
 Brother, since thou and I at home 
 Sat round the fire-side blazing fair, 
 
 A strange, sad vacancy has come 
 
 Where lonely stands the cushioned chair; 
 
 A staff leans idly in its place. 
 
 And weeded forms the ingle grace. 
 
 A lonely woman, old and gray, 
 A tree bereft of half its streno-th. 
 
THE AUTUMX EYEXTXG. 81 
 
 Moves slow along the accustomed way, 
 Patient, in hoj^es to sleep at length, 
 Near him whose mingled lot she bore. 
 Till the dark grave his form closed o'er. 
 
 DoAvn the cold j^assages, around 
 
 The rude veranda, o'er whose eaves 
 
 The long-armed creeper yearly wound, 
 Till it had clambered 'mong the leaves, 
 
 I hear her step, and now her light 
 
 Winds slowly back tlie stairway flight. 
 
 The neighboring bell, with winter chime, 
 Has ceased the curfew hour to call, 
 
 No more the glowing embers shine 
 With wavery shadows on the wall, 
 
 And thou, cold penetrating moon. 
 
 Art clambering toward the midnight noon. 
 
82 THE AUTUMN EVENIX(}. 
 
 Roll on, roll on, I would not add 
 One gleam vinto thy feeble light, 
 
 Nor take away one ray, which sad. 
 Invests my thoughtful soul to-night ; 
 
 Perchance when I am gone, for me 
 
 Here shall some loved one o-aze on thee. 
 
SPRING IN THE BACK STREETS. 
 
 At length cold Winter's icy king, 
 
 Who long o'er earth has held his sway, 
 
 Lies prostrate 'neath the foot of Spring, 
 Who smiling treads the streets to-day. 
 
 In narrow ways, where drifted snow, 
 In blackened heaps lay piled along; 
 
 The waters to the culvert flow 
 
 With noise like swollen brooklet's song. 
 
84 SPRING IN THE BACK STREETS. 
 
 From damp, dark lanes, and alleys drear, 
 The mildewed walls curl smoke on high, 
 
 And to the shallow courts appear 
 Once more a strip of genial sky. 
 
 The beggar wanders from his den, 
 His weasel-face less pinched by care. 
 
 And shuffles on, well pleased again 
 To snuff afar the mellowing air. 
 
 The heavy cart, which long has blocked 
 The passage to the ruined shed. 
 
 Has now its fastening chain unlocked. 
 And stands before the hydrant's head. 
 
 Tlie children climb its clumsy wdieel. 
 Or si^in their tops upon its floor, 
 
 While baby brothers creeping steal 
 To watch them from the open door. 
 
SPRING IN THE BACK STREETS. 85 
 
 The fishmaii's horn, and grinder's bell 
 
 Again the lonely alley greets, 
 While loudly rings " tin ware to sell," 
 
 Along the more frequented streets* 
 
 The vagrant dog, with drooping tail, 
 And famished swine^ with fractured leg, 
 
 The thawing garbage heaps assail, 
 No more compelled to steal or beg. 
 
 Yet, Spring, among these wretched scenes, 
 
 The crazy wall, and fetid shed, 
 Thou lov'st in smiles to cast thy beams. 
 
 And cheer the lowUest beggar's head. 
 
 And children greet thee ; far and free 
 
 O'er chimney-tops their kites they sail, 
 
 Or gather round the bhghted tree 
 
 Where still hangs lodged the parted tail. 
 8 
 
86 SPRING IN THE BACK STREETS. 
 
 The match-girl from some guarded park 
 
 Bears stealthily a flower away, 
 A little rush-light in the dark 
 
 Of her unloved and sunless day. 
 
 No more, ere dawns the faintest light, 
 The laborer's wife his meal prepares, 
 
 And e'er the sunset hour to-night. 
 
 He'll leave the workshop's wearying cares. 
 
 Sweet Spring I love thee not the less 
 
 Though flaunting pride thy presence greets, 
 
 But, O, the faintest smile I bless, 
 
 Which beams along- the cheei-less streets. 
 
MY MOTHER'S KEEPSAKE. 
 
 RiN-GLET of soft and shining hair, 
 
 The first they severed from the curls 
 
 That o'er white shoulders, round and fiiir. 
 In waves swept wandering like a girl's. 
 
 Greet me not now, with baby look, 
 With whisper of my childhood's time ; 
 
 For it is sorrowful to brook 
 
 The thought, fair curl, that thou wast mine. 
 
88 MY mother's keepsake. 
 
 Greet me not now ; the rain falls fast. 
 The big drops scatter from the leaves. 
 
 And the wet swallow wheeling past, 
 Sails home to brood beneath the eaves. 
 
 Greet me not now , o'er seventy years 
 Have clasped me with their icy span. 
 
 Channeled deep places for my tears, 
 
 And left a bowed and gray-haired man. 
 
 Greet me not now ; with mournful step 
 I cross the ancient nursery floor, 
 
 Where, a fair bantling, once I crept, 
 As foot-falls sounded near the door. 
 
 Cross it to mark the shadows pass, 
 Where oft a laughing child I came. 
 
 To see within the mirroring glass, 
 The boy's form in a gilded frame. 
 
MY mother's keepsake. 89 
 
 A shadowy band that well I know, 
 
 Fill silently the lonely room, 
 Women with locks white blanched as snow, 
 
 And old men tottering in the gloom. 
 
 Faces that once in childhood seemed 
 Too bright to overshade with care ; 
 
 Voices that rang when sunlight gleamed. 
 On grass-grown hill, and sweet parterre ; 
 
 Voices that breathe a sad, low strain, 
 Like wind-harps on the evening gale. 
 
 Waking deep yearnings, O how vain ! 
 For loved ones passed " Avithin the vail." 
 
 Sad vision from my sight evanish ; 
 
 Look up, look up, oh weary soul ; 
 Earth's feverish longings banish ; 
 
 Heaven is thy appointed goal ! 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE OF THE CHILDLESS. 
 
 We are bowed travelers, like many others, 
 Whose feet have passed mto the vale of tears ; 
 
 Slowly we wander on among our brothers, 
 Two poor old folk, left childless in our years. 
 
 'T is a long time since hand in hand together. 
 We first commenced to walk life's rough high- 
 way. 
 
 And we have learned, since then, sad truths which 
 tether 
 
 Our hearts more firmly, as our forms decay. 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE OF THE CHILDLESS. 91 
 
 Simple our lives, our wishes unaspiring, 
 Our children's memory sacredly we keep ; 
 
 Little on earth we find ourselves desiring. 
 
 Save, in God's time, among their bones to sleep. 
 
 Therefore, when Spring has warmed the earth's 
 cold bosom. 
 And grassy mounds with fragrant lilies dressed, 
 We make our pilgrimage to tend the blossom. 
 O'er the green graves wherein the nurslings 
 rest. 
 
 There grief once more unseals its flowing foun- 
 tain ; 
 Still round the spot our trembling footsteps 
 stray. 
 Till the slant sunbeams from the distant moun- 
 tain, 
 With trailing shadow, usher out the day. 
 
92 THE PILGRIMAGE OF THE CHILDLESS. 
 
 There, with our chiklren, we hold sweet commu- 
 nion, 
 With strengthened heart go forth to meet the 
 years ; 
 Waiting with patience for that blest reunion, 
 Undimmed by time, unsullied by tears. 
 
 'T is a sweet privilege to us so hoary ; 
 
 Deprive us not this tribute to their graves. 
 The simple comfort to our bitter story, 
 
 As slow we wander down to cross the waves. 
 
A MIDNIGHT PETITIOl^ 
 
 FROM THE STEPS OF THE OPERA HOUSE. 
 
 Gentle lady, will you hear me 
 
 For my mother's sake to-night, 
 Who is watching my dead brother 
 
 Till the coming on of liglit ; 
 She is very hungry, lady. 
 
 Pale, from watching by his bed, 
 I am weary, but my mother. 
 
 My poor mother, has no bread. 
 
94 A MIDNIGHT PETITION. 
 
 For three days, O ! gentle lady, 
 
 Has she lingered by his side. 
 And my little hands have scarcely 
 
 Kept our scanty wants suppUed ; 
 And to-night, his shroud a-sewing, 
 
 Sits she sobbing by. his bed ; 
 I am weary, gentle lady. 
 
 But my mother lacketh bread. 
 
 Hear me, hear me, O sweet lady, 
 
 For I do not tell a lie ; 
 Help me, help me, oh a little. 
 
 Lest my mother too shall die : 
 Since the gray of yester morning, 
 
 Has she hungered at our homo ; 
 Hear me, hear me, gentle lady. 
 
 Or an orphan I become. 
 
THE SONG OF WIND. 
 
 The winter wind is a traveller old, 
 
 And many a song has he, 
 And to-night from out of the storm-cloud cold 
 He cometh, and shigs to me^ 
 Ha ! ha ! he sings 
 He sings to me ! 
 
 And now I can hardly hear the strain 
 That forth from his harp he pours; 
 And now it is rising once again. 
 And fearfully loud it roars — 
 Ha ! ha ! it roars, 
 It fearfully roars I 
 
96 THE SONG OF WIND. 
 
 " A ship 's ashore upon the coast, 
 I left her only now, 
 Her shrouds are full of sheeted ghosts, 
 A rock is through her bow ; 
 Ha ! ha ! her bow, 
 Is through her bow ! 
 
 " I can not wait to tell you more, 
 They want a funeral dirge ; 
 Corpses are floating to the shore, 
 I see them in the surge ; 
 Ha ! ha ! the surge, 
 Cold in the surge ! 
 
 " I see them by the light of guns, 
 That flash along the deep : 
 Father's are chnging to their sons. 
 There are babies fast asleep ; 
 Ha ! ha ! asleep, 
 They are fast asleep I 
 
THESONGOFWIND. 9< 
 
 There are maidens with long flowmg hair, 
 And night-clothes ronnd their breasts — 
 There are sailors shouting in despair, 
 And children all undressed ; 
 Ha ! ha ! undressed, 
 Sweet children all undressed ! 
 
 There go the masts, the pumps mil choke, 
 
 The sea is o'er them now; 
 Ha ! ha ! it 's swept them with its stroke, 
 A few are on the bow ; 
 Ha! ha! the bow. 
 Are on the bow ! 
 
 "I see their arms, I see their heads. 
 
 Amid the boiling sea; 
 They are no more than the green kelp threads — 
 
 Ah well ! it pleases me. 
 
 It pleases me, 
 
 Ha ! ha ! it pleases me ! 
 9 
 
98 THESONGOFWIND. 
 
 " They drag a body through the surf, 
 With bruised and broken forra, 
 They bear it to a fisher's hearth, 
 Still, still the corpse is warm, 
 Is warm, is warm, 
 Ha ! ha ! is warm ! 
 
 "■ The fingers are all hooped with gold, 
 They cut them from the hand, 
 They leave it stiif'ning in the cold. 
 More, more have come to land ; 
 Ha ! ha ! to land. 
 Have come to land ! 
 
 " See there ! heaped in among the rest, 
 That maiden's headless trunk. 
 That mother, with full throbbing breast 
 A baby lately drunk ; 
 Ha ! ha ! the babe 
 That lately drunk I 
 
THE SONG OF WIND. ,99 
 
 «Ha! ha! ha! ha! 'twas a brave old ship 
 But I '11 scatter it on the shore ; 
 Its master Ues with a frozen lip, 
 And wonnds still ebbing gore ; 
 Ha! ha! his wonnds 
 Still ebbing gore ! 
 
 "There conies the dawn; I'm mightier now, 
 My strength gains more and more ; 
 I'll drown the few npon the bow, 
 And I '11 make the billows roar ; 
 Ha ! ha ! they roar, 
 They madly roar! 
 
 " Not one shall e'er survive the wreck. 
 To-night I 'm lord of the sea. 
 From stern to bow will I sweep the deck. 
 Ha! ha! it pleases me. 
 It pleases me. 
 Ha! ha! it pleases me!" 
 
100 THE SONG OF WIND. 
 
 The winter wind is a traveller old, 
 
 And many a song has he, 
 And thus from out of the midnight cold, 
 He came and sang of the sea ; 
 Ha ! ha ! the sea, 
 God pity the ones that sail on the sea ! 
 
THE EVENING WIND. 
 
 O ! EVEXiNG wind, sweet evening wind, 
 So soft, so frolicsome, and kind. 
 
 Thy genial presence brings 
 To flowery banks a perfumed gale, 
 That swells the passing shallop's sail, 
 
 And wide its pennant flings. 
 
 Thou waft'st the white-winged ships from far, 
 When silent sleeps the harbor bar. 
 
 And lights are on the shore ; 
 The fisher hastes his bark from sea. 
 Whose child beside the ruined quay 
 
 Awaits his laboring oar. 
 
102 THE EVENING WIND. 
 
 Soothed by thy breath, the farmer leaves 
 His sickle 'mid the garnered sheaves, 
 
 And wanders sloAvly home ; 
 The kine pursue the loaded wain, 
 And stealthy crop the shocks of grain, 
 
 And o'er the pasture roam. 
 
 The robin hastens to her rest, 
 The eagle to her mountain nest. 
 
 The sparrow to her spray ; 
 Thy breath unvails the evening star, 
 And streams her twiUght lamp afar. 
 
 As fades the mellowing day. 
 
 Upon the smooth and glassy deep, 
 Thou rock'st the lily buds to sleep 
 
 And blithesomely thy cheer 
 Thou murmurest round the cottage eaves. 
 Low whispering through the poplar's leaves, 
 
 Into the lover's ear. 
 
THE EVENING WIND. 103 
 
 Dew-drops are scattered on the grass, 
 As thou adown the vale dost pass, 
 
 Amid the evenmg gray ; 
 The brooklet hears thy wandering step. 
 And shimmering foam the eddy kept, 
 
 Evanishes away. 
 
 Thy voice recalls the long-lost years. 
 The sunshine and the vale of tears. 
 
 And loved friends from afar ; 
 Friends from the silent spirit land. 
 That meet me in a shadowy band. 
 
 When dawns the evening star. 
 
THE OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 He loves the influences that stir 
 
 Where voices of sweet children come, 
 
 He worships every word of her 
 
 Who sings them to their rest at home. 
 
 He w^anders round their little beds, 
 And listens to their lisping prayer ; 
 
 He puts away the light that sheds 
 Its gleam upon their eyes and hair. 
 
 Long since has age his brow besprent 
 With silver lines ; but unfoi-got 
 
 He holds one love, in calm content, 
 To dream of her who now is not. 
 
TO THE FARMERS OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Once more my native hills I tread, 
 
 Broad round me sleep the smiling meads ; 
 
 A land that 's reverend for its dead, 
 And noble from heroic deeds. 
 
 In all my life of toil and cark, 
 
 In all the joys that I have known. 
 
 Like the tired dove from out the ark, 
 Back to this land my heart has flown. 
 
lOG TO THE FARMERS OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Again before my eyes I see 
 
 The river winding through the vale, 
 
 The lake, an ocean once to me. 
 
 With here and there a scattered sail. 
 
 Yonder, the rugged hill I find 
 Half cu'cled by a crescent wood, 
 
 Where, warmly sheltered from the A\^nd, 
 The rude yet cheerful farm-house stood ; 
 
 Encompassed by its sheds and barns. 
 And dairy-yard, with massive wall ; 
 
 Its dovecot smiling down the farm, 
 And scattered kine awaiting call. 
 
 Close by the granary, near the tree. 
 The loaded market-wagon stands, 
 
 And flocks of poultry, quick to see 
 
 The door half closed by careless hands. 
 
TO THE FARMERS OF NEW ENGLAND. 107 
 
 The smoke is curling wi^e and fair, 
 The teams are going forth once more, 
 
 Or bating by the streamlet, Avhere 
 The waters through the runnel roar. 
 
 The plowman whistles down the hill, 
 
 The brown thrush, from the springing oats, 
 
 Wakes the soft noontime with its shrill, 
 Half mocking, and discordant notes. 
 
 Ah no, alas ! the hills and leas 
 
 Have lost their crescent shade of green. 
 And blackened stumps, and girdled trees, 
 
 Are weeping o'er the blighted scene. 
 
 O ! farmer of my native land. 
 
 In dreams oft rising o'er the sea, 
 
 I 've seen these glorious forests stand. 
 
 And named them with my pride for thee. 
 
108 TO THE FARMERS OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Spare them, for ancient memories, spare 
 
 The dear old patriarchal ones ; 
 Yom* grandsires left them standing there ; 
 .0 spare them, spare them, for your sons. 
 
 O stay the shining axe that rings 
 Along the lovely verdant height ; 
 
 O stay it, for the girl that sings 
 Beside yom- blazing hearth to-night. 
 
 O stay it, for the babes that wear 
 Their mother's smile and sunny eyes ; 
 
 And stay it for the sire that there 
 Beneath the grass-grown hillock lies. 
 
 O spare them for your country's fame : 
 
 Green shall his memory be, 
 Who would not, for a paltry gain, 
 
 Destroy the venerable tree. 
 
TO A YOUNG MOTHER, 
 
 WITH A BASKET OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Flowers, sweet flowers I send to you. 
 Many colored, white and blue ; 
 Rosebuds in with pansies set. 
 Pinks and fragrant mignionette. 
 
 Baby sweet has come to you, 
 Lily-fingered, eyes of blue. 
 Snow-drop resting on thy bosom. 
 Rose-bud opening into blossom. 
 
 High in the mysterious heaven 
 
 Angels watch the floweret's birth ; 
 
 May some angel one be given 
 
 For thy baby's friend on earth, 
 10 
 
110 TO A YOUNG MOTHER. 
 
 For the world is dark and chilly ; 
 Let us i^ray no frost of time 
 Touch the petals of the hly 
 Slumbering on that breast of thine. 
 
 Flower it is from heaven's sweet garden, 
 Now transj^lanted into thine ; 
 Henceforth thou must be its warden — • 
 Light from heaven upon thee shine. 
 
 Flowers, sweet flowers, I send to you, 
 Time will blight them with its dew; 
 But the baby, part of thee, 
 Shall not from thy mem'ry flee ; 
 Thine ! and in the earth or sky. 
 Soul-flower, it shall never die. 
 
THE MOCK AUCTIONEER. 
 
 From his little stall on the east of Broadway, 
 From morning till night yon can hear him bray; 
 "Going, going, going, I say," 
 
 Always going, but never away. 
 
 How in the w^orld does he make it pay? 
 
 There he stands by his counter of glass. 
 Calling aloud to the folk that pass, 
 Loud as the bray of a blatant ass, 
 " Going ! going ! going ! I say :" 
 
 Always going but never away. 
 
 How in the world does he make it pay? 
 
112 THE MOCK AUCTIONEER. 
 
 About his doors, with brows profound, 
 Some dozen of other donkeys are found, 
 With eyes as sneaking, and looks as cheap 
 As any dog that has murdered a sheep ; 
 
 And over their heads comes the dissonant bray, 
 "Gomg, going, going, I say:" 
 How in the world does he make it pay? 
 
 Now advancing slowly down. 
 Coming to see the sights of the Toicn^ 
 With open mouth, progresses a clown: 
 With face as stolid as one of brass. 
 He pauses before the door of the ass, 
 Where he, perceiving the scent of hay, 
 Louder and louder countinues to bray, 
 " Going going, going, I say, 
 Here is the place to make it pay." 
 
THE MOCK AUCTIONEER. 113 
 
 And now the scamps abont the door, 
 Lookmg like sheep-thieves more and more, 
 Prick their ears, and crowd into the store, 
 
 Where louder, still arises that bray, 
 " Going ! going ! going ! I say. 
 
 Here is the place to make it pay." 
 
 "What's agoing? let me see?" 
 Then somebody pops in his ear a flea, 
 
 "The cheapest thing that ever can be. 
 Just Uke the one he sold to me, 
 Only cheaper, dollars by three," 
 While "going, going," continues the ass, 
 
 " Shame to let such a bargain pass." 
 
 Then he opens a watch by Jonathan's side. 
 And shows him the wheels that beautifully ghde, 
 "Lor!" says John, "how slick they slide." 
 " Going ! going ! going ! I say," 
 
114 THE MOCK AUCTIONEER. 
 
 Still unbroken continues the bray, 
 " Only fifty dollars to j^ay : 
 Full of diamonds, and made of gold, 
 Going ! going ! going ! to be sold : 
 Come, old fellow, I'll throw in a chain, 
 ISTever there'll be such a bargain again — 
 Going ! gomg ! going ! I say. 
 This is the place to make it pay." 
 
 John pulls his weasel, and counts his cash, 
 And fifty dollars " settles his hash ;" 
 Then proud as a lord he walks away. 
 While still unbroken continues the bray — 
 " Going ! going ! going ! I say 
 This is the hoio we make it pay." 
 
 John showed his watch to a brother clown, 
 Who knew a thing or so of the Town, 
 
THE MOCK AUCTIONEER. 115 
 
 "Good Lord!" says he, "you're green as grass, 
 Your watch is pinchback, and chain is brass." 
 
 But still from his stall on the east of Broadway, 
 From morning till night you can hear that bray, 
 "Going! going! going! I say." 
 If you want to be fleeced, just step that way, 
 And he'll show you the trick of making it pay. 
 
A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 An old woman there was, and keen was her 
 
 sight, 
 Though bhnd as a bat to perception of Hght ; 
 And I found her one day knitting under a tree. 
 When she felt of my face to learn whose it might 
 
 be. 
 And then said all kindly and gently to me — 
 "Sit domi!" 
 
 Then she looked with her fingers, and with them 
 
 did see 
 There was room where she sat, if we both could 
 
 ao^ree : 
 
 II 
 
 I 
 
APSALMOFLIFE. Il7 
 
 And with those good eyes of hers, drew in her 
 
 gown, 
 And said, " On this bench will you please to sit 
 
 down — 
 
 With me. 
 
 " You perceive," she continued, " I am blind and 
 
 am lame, 
 And I find my way here through the eyes of my 
 
 cane ; 
 You may deem them strange optics, but they 're 
 
 better than none. 
 To one who for years has been blind as a stone ; 
 Lack-a-day ! 
 
 *' Feel my hand," she said kindly, " a horny old 
 
 thing, 
 But the touch of it once made a bonny heart 
 
 spring — 
 
118 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 A heart that lies coldly at rest in the grave, 
 With its good mother earth, who took back what 
 she gave — 
 
 To me. 
 
 " See my hair, like the threads that a glass- 
 blower weaves 
 
 For the tail of his bird, standing up on green 
 leaves : 
 
 Ah ! once it was flowing, in brown smmy curls. 
 
 And I danced in the May-time, as queen of the 
 girls. 
 
 " On this crooked old finger, you see, is a rhig. 
 Which, corroded and w^orn, is a cheap-looking 
 
 thing ; 
 But once it was bright, and the secret it told. 
 Is one that your heart is beginning to hold — 
 So take care ! 
 
APSALMOFLIFE. 119 
 
 *' For time dallies with ringlets, and leaves them 
 
 like mine, 
 And his kiss on fair foreheads tells tales of the 
 
 crime ; 
 But when the white hair steals out through the cap, 
 And the knitting-work falls from the hand to the 
 
 lap; 
 And the ball of yarn, frisking, goes off with the 
 
 cat ; 
 And the old woman noddeth alone in her nap ; 
 
 And the good man has gone to his home m the 
 grave. 
 
 And o'er his green turf the willow boughs wave ; 
 
 And your children are dead, and some stranger 
 you claim 
 
 To assist the frail steps of the time-wearied dame ; 
 
 You '11 be thinking, like me, 'tis long to be stayed 
 
 From the dear heart that sleeps in the grass-cov- 
 ered Gflade." 
 
TO MISS 
 
 I SUPPOSE it 's not right, this good Saturday 
 night, 
 The curfew-bell done with its tolling, 
 Still my fire to burn bright, and not put out my 
 light, 
 As in times when the law was controlling : 
 When, for fear of the stocks, just at nine by the 
 clocks. 
 Went to bed the poor man and his better. 
 And closing each door, began soundly to snore, 
 That the law might be filled to the letter. 
 
TO MISS . 121 
 
 But the truth must be said, and now over my 
 head 
 
 Floats a spell, like a vision of roses, 
 A dark swimming eye, whose long lashes nigh, 
 
 Sweep cheeks where a dimple reposes; 
 O that queen of all girls, with a mouthful of 
 pearls. 
 
 And a voice like a w^ild naiad's daughter. 
 And a blush looking so Hke a rose on the snow, 
 
 As a grace that dear Nature has taught her. 
 
 She has followed me here, lo ! her dark eye is 
 near, 
 As I turn o'er the page of evangel. 
 And to think of a prayer, with her face beam- 
 ing there. 
 Is to bow at the foot of an angel. 
 
 Burn, burn, my good light, far out in the night, 
 11 
 
122 TO MISS 
 
 Shine on, where cold midnight is stealing, 
 And I '11 dream of this star, whose light from afar, 
 A vision of heaven is revealing. 
 
 Hark! the clock from the steej)le is telling the 
 people 
 It is midnight, and past by a quarter. 
 And now 'gainst my pane dashes wildly the rain, 
 
 Dashes mad, with a deluge of water ; 
 What 's the storm unto me ? when the vision 
 roams free. 
 Where the air her wild music is swelling. 
 When the light of her face gildeth cornice and 
 sj^ace, 
 And her brownie-like laugh is foretelling, 
 
 That this room shall grow bright with blue lum- 
 inous light. 
 If I put on my night-cap for sliunber, 
 
TO MISS . 123 
 
 And that I shall see fair, in the ancient parterre, 
 
 That fruit of unfortunate plunder. 
 But stop, there tolls one — yet 1 've hardly begun 
 
 To reflect on this beauteous Tochter ; 
 Ha! my fire is gone out — what am I about? 
 
 Catching cold — and to-morrow, the doctor. 
 
 But the Sabbath is here, and that bell striking 
 near, 
 
 Recalls me once more to my duty ; 
 So I '11 offer my prayer — " O thou delicate fair, 
 
 May you ne'er be deprived of your beauty. 
 Kind Providence keep, all the hours of your sleep ; 
 
 Of angels sweet dreams may you borrow. 
 And soft as the dawn, may your spirit rise warm, 
 
 To meet me at church-time to-morrow." 
 
THE VALENTINE OF AHAB NEBAJOTH. 
 
 I 'M alone in the world, neither father nor mother, 
 Aunt, nephew, or niece, sister, cousin, or brother, 
 And the only companion I claim on tlie eartli 
 Is the cricket that chu'ps by the crack of my 
 heai-th. 
 
 I 'm richer than Fagin, or Shylock, or Dan, 
 Melchisedec, Isaac, and old Abraham ; 
 I have houses, and horses, and cattle, and lands, 
 Bonds, stocks, and foreclosures by lots in my 
 hands. 
 
THE VALENTINE OF NEBAJOTH. 125 
 
 I have secrets of state, and statements of facts, 
 I have bills of exchange, and exchange to be 
 
 taxed ; 
 I have all that is needed for joy in this life. 
 Save one more Nebajoth, and she Ahab's wife. 
 
 Now Rachel Bashemath, I '11 speak what I '11 do. 
 And the money I '11 give both to bake and to 
 
 brew. 
 The price you shall have for your clothes and 
 
 your shoes, 
 And to spend in such other like ways as you 
 
 choose. 
 
 I '11 allow you the sum of ten shillings a day, 
 For meat, milk, and bread, and house-servants' 
 
 pay, 
 And a shilling beside, near a dollar a week. 
 
 To spend as you choose, in fancy or freak. 
 11* 
 
126 THE VALENTINE OF NEBAJOTH. 
 
 I will give you the worth of tw^elve dollars a 
 
 •year, 
 That ill clothing the best you may ever appear, 
 And an order on Slop's for your rubbers and hose, 
 To be charged in the sum I allow^ for your 
 
 clothes. 
 
 I will give you a bank-book for money deposit, 
 To be carefully kept m your drawer or your 
 
 closet. 
 That the shillings and pence you wdll save every 
 
 year. 
 May with interest on interest compounded appear. 
 
 I will have the old coats, and old hats, and old 
 
 boots. 
 Old breeches, old vests, old shirts, and surtouts. 
 Removed from my office, a parlor to make. 
 If Rachel Bashemath ray wealth Avill partake. 
 
THE VALENTINE OF NEBAJOTH. 127 
 
 I will brush up the best of my old gabardine, 
 
 Color over my wig to invisible green ; 
 
 And of changes I '11 make, this is but the begin- 
 ning ; 
 
 For my stockings you '11 knit, the yarn is now 
 spinning. 
 
 So now, Rachel, be ready by week after next. 
 When I '11 turn out old Hagar on some slight 
 
 pretext. 
 And procure at the market a tripe and a liver, 
 That the feast may be regal when we come to- 
 gether. 
 
 These fat things prepared, we will sit down alone. 
 In the pride of our hearts, by our own household 
 
 stone ; 
 O Rachel Bashemath Nebajoth, my bride, 
 Methinks I am pressing your form to my side ! 
 
THE MEMENTO. 
 
 My grandmother 's bowed, and wrinkled, and 
 
 gray, 
 And, seventy years gone, she was married one 
 
 day. 
 In an old-fashioned church, in an old-fashioned 
 
 way. 
 
 My grandmother 's practical, silent, and cold ; 
 From her marriage her life grew reflective and 
 
 old. 
 And her heart bears a secret that words have 
 
 not told. 
 
THE MEMENTO. 129 
 
 To an oddly-bound book my old grandmother 
 
 cleaves, 
 A poor faded rose-bud lies crushed m its leaves ; 
 Why weeps the old dame when that bud she 
 
 perceives ? 
 
THE STREAM OF TIME. 
 
 Under a spreading tree, 
 
 On a wild mountain, 
 Close to a rifted rock. 
 
 Sparkles a fountain : 
 Soft is its mossy rim, 
 Over whose glassy brim. 
 
 Cool waters glisten ; 
 Here, in the summer's day. 
 Weary I often stray ; 
 Warble the birds away, 
 
 Joyftil I listen. 
 
 
THE STREAM OF TIME. 131 
 
 Forth from its crystal bed, 
 Stealeth the silver thread ; 
 Quiet and smooth it glides 
 Adown mountain-sides, 
 
 Out from the shadow : 
 Caught by the rocky steep. 
 Boldly it makes a leap, 
 
 And finds the meadow. 
 
 Under the grassy edge. 
 Under the rocky ledge, 
 
 Through the old pasture ; 
 Hound by the marshy fen, 
 Into a woodland glen, 
 
 Faster and faster ; 
 
 Under the forest's shade. 
 
 Dark by thick pine boughs made ; 
 
132 THE STREAM OF TIME. 
 
 Now in the deep ravine, 
 Hiding its crystal sheen, 
 
 'Mid pines and larches, 
 Now by soft banks again, 
 Forth from the woodland glen, 
 
 Where the elm arches. 
 
 Out from the forest's side, 
 No more its face to hide. 
 
 Hence forth it goeth ; 
 Brooklet art thou, no more. 
 But, with a dash and roar, 
 
 A river floweth. 
 
 Flow on, O stream of time. 
 On, like the brooklet's chime. 
 
 On, like the river; 
 Quick let thy current flee. 
 
THE STREAM OF TIME. 133 
 
 The ocean waiteth thee, 
 
 Thither, haste thither ; 
 
 Prophet art thou? ah no, 
 
 Thou Ungerest not to show 
 
 The fate of those that go 
 
 Over the river ! 
 12 
 
A WATCH PICTURE. 
 
 TJpon an antique sporting-watch, supposed to be over a hundred 
 years old, which was taken from the baggage of an unknown English 
 traveler, who died in New Granada. 
 
 Thou art a relic all strange and old, 
 With thy antiqne face of virgin gold ; 
 And with man, for over a hundred years, 
 Hast dated time, with its hopes and fears. 
 
 And father and son have passed away, 
 And ivy cUmb'd o'er the turrets gray 
 Of yonder church, where sunbeams rest 
 On sculptured urn, and marble crest, 
 
 (i 
 
A WATCH PICTURE. 
 
 IfiS 
 
 And grim old tombs, where each of the race 
 
 Sleeps cold and calm in his burial place ; 
 
 And the hand which wrought thee with cunning 
 
 skill, 
 Has slumbered long 'neath the grass-grown hill. 
 
 At bridal feasts, and funeral gloom, 
 At wassail boards of the crowded room, 
 O'er grass-grown paths in the gloomy park. 
 On lonely moors, when the night was dark. 
 Thy voice still called, nor feared to tell 
 Of time that passed with a ceaseless swell. 
 
 On thee the child at his father's side, 
 Who was born to share the ancestral pride, 
 With pleasure looked : and caught the beat 
 Of time that moved upon winged feet, 
 Which would still press on when he had sped 
 To the ancient place of his kindred dead. 
 
136 A WATCH PICTURE, 
 
 With thee the Esquire to the Derby came 
 When Wiklfire ran with Sir Archy Gream; 
 By thee the bets on the field were laid, 
 Where stood the grooms 'neath the awning's 
 
 shade ; 
 And thy calm old face was still and cold, 
 When lands and house from the Esquire were sold. 
 Who staked the grange on young Wildfire's 
 
 sti'ength. 
 And lost alone by a neck in length. 
 
 And when that roistering house was gone, 
 The hunt long still in the autumn morn. 
 When Esquire and groom in death were asleep, 
 And short-horns grazed o'er the rocky steep. 
 When a little cottage contained all 
 Of the ancient race of Wolf burn Hall ; 
 On, on, the same unwearied chime 
 Repeated the ebb and flow of time. 
 
A WATCH PICTURE. 137 
 
 And when a scholar lad went forth, 
 
 To travel far m the distant north, 
 
 When sighs were heaved and white hands wrung, 
 
 When the mother's head on his bosom hung, 
 
 And the sister looked through a mist of tears 
 
 To the dim far off of distant years ; 
 
 With him thou went to wander free 
 
 O'er arid waste, and trackless sea. 
 
 And when the world he had traveled round. 
 And far away from the frozen sound, 
 'Midst torrid climes he found the pass 
 Through the jungle, wood, and wild morass, 
 Thou still beat on, as true as when 
 The Esquire rode chase in the woodland glen. 
 
 And when a vision swept through that brain 
 
 To madness racked by the fever pain, 
 12* 
 
138 A WATCH PICTURE. 
 
 When lips were parched, and glazed the eye, 
 And the wanderer knew that he must die. 
 All calm thou lay on his throbbing breast, 
 With solemn beat till the heart had rest. 
 
 When there he perished, unknown to Dime, 
 
 Without revealing a kindred name. 
 
 Afar away in the swampy gloom 
 
 Of the swarthy Indian's rush-built room, 
 
 I found thee noting the silent tread 
 
 Of suns that passed o'er his lonely bed. 
 
 What untold sorrow, what heart-wrung tears 
 For him have fallen these many years; 
 How oft in dreams does his mother weep, 
 Or start with joy from her feverish sleep. 
 Alone to hear the night-bird caU, 
 Or the dog beside the garden wall. 
 
A WATCH PICTURE. l'^9 
 
 He will come no more, yet calm and slow 
 With the measm-ed tread of long ago, 
 Still dost thou beat in thy antique case, 
 And note the time for a stranger's face. 
 
FAITH. 
 
 Last night I heard, afar, a bkie-bh'd singing, 
 And with the west wind came the brooklet's 
 flow. 
 
 Near the old turn-stile I found sweetly springing, 
 Three little violets, by a bank of snow. 
 
 Hast thou less faith than nature's gentle nurslings, 
 Who raise their heads with spring-time's earliest 
 breath ? 
 
 Read then the history of these tender firstlings, 
 Nor fear the conflict of thy life or death. 
 
THE SENATOR'S MOTHER. 
 
 Among the middling walks of life, 
 
 A servant girl in yonder town, 
 She toiled till she became a wife 
 
 In that low house of sober brown ; 
 She early learned to brew and bake, 
 
 And all of household duties share, 
 Could press a cheese, make bread or cake, 
 
 And well a frugal meal prepare. 
 
142 THE senator's mother. 
 
 The strong old dame who brought her up, 
 
 In youthful days had wove and spun, 
 Basted, and sewed, and knit, and cut, 
 
 Besides the dairy-work she 'd done ; 
 And still about her busy wheel. 
 
 Less supple mth her hands than tongue, 
 She duly brought the girl to feel 
 
 How woman worked, when she was young. 
 
 " 'T was well enough," she said, " to go 
 
 And learn to read in winter time ;" 
 Therefore, when flxr the early snow 
 
 Had clothed the hills in frosty rime. 
 The girl went wandering by the wood. 
 
 To where, upon the wmdy slope, 
 The school-house of the district stood. 
 
 Strong anchor of the village hope. 
 
THE SENATOR'S MOTHER. 143 
 
 And there she learned the three ground rules, 
 
 Geography and grammar, too. 
 And how the brigs exported mules 
 
 That vanished hi the outhne blue ; 
 And how the master lashed his slave 
 
 Where those white sails would quickly come, 
 And buried in an unknown grave. 
 
 Who chief or queen had been at home. 
 
 And there she vowed a holy word, 
 
 " If o'er a babe her head should bend. 
 To train it up to serve the Lord, 
 
 And freedom's holy cause defend :" 
 In God her trust was ever sure,- — 
 
 In poverty her lot He willed. 
 Almost unknown, she lived obscure. 
 
 But lived to see that vow fulfilled. 
 
144 THE senator's mother. 
 
 She married in the self-same sphere 
 
 In Avhich her early life was cast, 
 And strove along, from year to year. 
 
 Till that warm heart had beat its last ; 
 A widow lone, with children four. 
 
 And mortgaged farm, at twenty-eight ; 
 She watched the earth his form close o'er, 
 
 And lonely left the church-yard gate. 
 
 She toiled, but first to heaven she prayed 
 
 For strength in that stern time to aid her, 
 And when upon her death-bed laid. 
 
 She felt that strength had not betrayed her. 
 We may not know the weary hours, 
 
 The sleepless nights, the many cares; 
 But this we know, that trodden flowers 
 
 Are nourished by her children's prayers. 
 
THE 
 
 SENATOR'S MOTHER. 145 
 
 In those long years, before she died, 
 
 She did what any mother can ; 
 Reared one who shall not be defied, 
 
 A stalwart, true, New England man, 
 Who listening crowds m rapture chains. 
 
 Who owns the swarthy slave his brother. 
 And her who sleeps, most proudly names, 
 
 Beloved and venerated mother. 
 
 Bless thee, old dame ! in silence sleep 
 On dear New England's rugged breast ; 
 
 Green may thy memory ever keep. 
 
 Though cold the clay is round thee prest : 
 
 And every trusting heart that bears 
 The name of mother at the home, 
 
 Kemember tliat by work and prayers 
 
 The blessings of our land are won. 
 13 
 
TROUBLES OF A POOR POET, 
 
 My little room, whose windows small 
 Look out upon the stone-faced wall, 
 Whose massive shadow, grim and high, 
 Shuts in a narrow strip of sky. 
 That, bright or cloudy, as may be, 
 Ever is beautiful to me : 
 
 That shows a narrow yard below, 
 Where a few straggling lilies grow, 
 And ancient pinks, that quite alone, 
 Edo^e round the little walk of stone, 
 
 I 
 
TROUBLES OF A POOR POET. 147 
 
 And an old vine that climbs athwart 
 The fences of the neighboring court ; 
 
 Whose broken looking-glass, and few 
 Frail chairs, that long ago were new^ 
 And table, writing-desk, and bed. 
 With the quaint picture at its head, 
 And the patched carpet, slightly torn. 
 And the thin window-shades so worn : 
 
 Things that I gathered, piece by piece. 
 Smiling to see the store increase; 
 My books, and candlesticks, and flute. 
 My old and threadbare Sunday suit. 
 Here 's your last invoice, now away. 
 Tokens of many a better day ! 
 
 Dear room ! I 've come to sj^eak adieu, 
 And my last farewell take of you, 
 
148 TEOUBLES OF A POOR POET. 
 
 To place thin hands above my eyes, 
 And throttle down the thoughts that rise, 
 Thoughts darkening like a funeral pall. 
 Over this sacrifice of all. 
 
 I 've come, the last time here to lie, 
 
 And gaze upon that strip of sky; 
 
 To toss uneasily till dawn 
 
 Her mantle o'er the stars has drawn ; 
 
 For the last time to cross the floor. 
 
 And backward to look toward tlie door. 
 
 You w^ere clieap-rented, little room. 
 Yet the quick pay-days gathered soon ; 
 The tread upon the echoing stair. 
 The knock that told me Avho was there ; 
 Last night I heard it, but in vain 
 Wrong side I turned my purse again. 
 
TROUBLES OF A POOR POET. 149 
 
 You were unlovely, little place, 
 
 And but few tenant.s liked the space, 
 
 Lost by the dormer windows old, 
 
 And the square gables, quamt and bold ; 
 
 But the same difference to me. 
 
 Made you just twice as dear to be. 
 
 I have long kept you, and loved well. 
 Here in the solitude to dwell. 
 Where the young mice steal forth to play, 
 And the grim spider swings all day : 
 Few were my savings, yet though few, 
 The rent ne'er passed its week of due. 
 
 I have grown gray-haired since the day 
 
 Up the dark stairs I found my way. 
 
 And with my kindling-wood and coke, 
 
 In the cold grate a glimmer woke. 
 
 Calling out pictures from the gloom. 
 
 For the damp ceiling of the room. 
 13* 
 
150 TROUBLES OF A POOR POET. 
 
 But my long sickness, and the bills 
 For the poor arrow-root and pills, 
 And the old doctor, who so swore, 
 Fumbling about the crazy door, 
 Took my last savings, books and flute, 
 Leavino; me weak and destitute. 
 
 Ah ! but they 're coming ; I must say good-by. 
 And for a shelter turn me to the sky ; 
 Fate has o'erpowered me, and, with bitter doom. 
 Taken the bedstead, bedding, and the room. 
 Drawn the last meshes of life's checkered woof. 
 Left me in poverty without a roof. 
 
TO AGNES. 
 
 Agnes, as pensive lingering yet, 
 
 With half-blown flowers aromid thee springing, 
 One foot on woman's border set. 
 
 And one to time of g^irlhood clino-ino^ — 
 Dost thou some future shadows heed? 
 And wouldst thy woman's history read ? 
 
 Simj^le the tale, the sibyl's page 
 
 Hath oft been turned and watched by me ; 
 Pause now upon thy pilgrimage. 
 
 And I will tell it o'er for thee: 
 Sweet child be calm, for even now 
 The buds are bursting on the bough. 
 
152 TO AGNES. 
 
 These speak of love, these quick (liscern 
 
 Thy heart's first fluttermg desire ; 
 Ever such dreams in bosoms burn, 
 
 Like embers at the altar fire, 
 Now bright from passing zephyrs blown, 
 Now dark and cold, wdth ashes strown. 
 
 With these come griefs, nor yet was eye 
 
 But dimmed its glance while tears fled o'er it, 
 
 Nor breast that heaved no bitter sigh 
 Since breast of mother sweetly bore it ; 
 
 Dear one be calm, such fate have all 
 
 Ere now the white-leaved blossoms fall. 
 
 These tell of death — the lowly flower 
 Shall spring above thee, calm reposing. 
 
 The lily for its little hour. 
 
 The rosebud in the evening closing ; 
 
 And children softlier shall tread 
 
 The grass-grown mound above thy head. 
 
TO AGNES. 153 
 
 Nay, weep not, wipe thy tears away ; 
 
 Thy trusting heart must gladly borrow 
 From the dark winter of to-day, 
 
 The hope of daAvning spring to-morrow; 
 Again shall genial summer shine 
 On blossominsj rose and trailiuo^ vine. 
 
THE LETTER FROM CAPE HORN. 
 
 My De.vr Little Sister, 
 
 Once more to your home 
 I know that the bright yellow claffas have come ; 
 That violets are springing, 
 And soft music is ringing 
 
 From many a bird : 
 And that down in the glen. 
 Over pebbles again, 
 The brooklet is heard. 
 
THE LETTER FROM CAPE HORN. 155 
 
 But your brother looks off on a wintry sky, 
 Where out from the clouds the crystal flakes fly : 
 Here the gloomy surge smgs, 
 And afar its spray flings 
 In wild scornful glee ; 
 Scarce a sunbeam floats near, 
 And the morniiig dawns drear 
 O'er a desolate sea. 
 
 Afar its dark bosom is crested with foam, 
 He hears the mad whirlwuid through icy shrouds 
 moan, 
 Sees wildly soaring 
 The albatross o'er him. 
 
 Her white wings outspread, 
 Or, far on the billow, 
 Asleep with a pillow 
 Of waves for its head. 
 
156 THE LETTER FKOM CAPE HORN. 
 
 And he thinks of the pansies adown m the glade, 
 Of the harebells that grow in the green forest 
 shade ; 
 Where the heifer stands lowing, 
 And all sweetly is flowing 
 The stream o'er its bed ; 
 Of the moss that springs brightly. 
 When over it lightly 
 Your little feet tread. 
 
 Ah! dear little sister, the roses of June, 
 Yield him no fair blossoms, or fragrant perfume, 
 No wild partridge drumming, 
 No busy bee humming 
 
 He joyfully hears; 
 But away 'mid ice islands. 
 Peering up like grim highlands, 
 He silently steers. 
 
THE LETTER FROM CAPE 11 O R N^ . 157 
 
 Rememberest, darling, how six months ago 
 Forth from the windows we looked on the 
 snow ? 
 Now before the wild blast 
 Drives it angrily past 
 
 And festoons the bow ; 
 But our ship's stanch and brave, 
 And the dark frowning wave 
 We '11 cheerily plow. 
 
 You may think, little sister, how cold it is 
 
 here. 
 
 For icicles cling to the shrouds, and appear 
 
 Ghstening and bright 
 
 In the faint sunlight. 
 
 And on every hand 
 
 Reflect the chill sheen 
 
 Like a winter scene 
 
 In our native land. 
 14 
 
158 THE LETTER FROM CAPE HORN. 
 
 Strange things, little sister, I have met in one 
 
 year, 
 Winter in summer months, icy and drear ; 
 Birds sweetly calling. 
 Little brooks falling, 
 
 With merriest flow; 
 When white overlaid, 
 Were your balsams' shade, 
 With shimmering snow. 
 
 In cold, stern December, from branches on high, 
 I have plucked ripe fruit 'neath a tropical sky, 
 Heard music fall 
 From battlements tall 
 
 Where we had come; 
 And laughed over those 
 I knew were half froze. 
 Far ofi" at our home. 
 
THE LETTER FROM CAPE HORN. 159 
 
 Agaiii, in hot August, in wrath and m might, 
 Has winter o'ershadowed with six hours of light ; 
 
 I have seen the whale sj^outing, 
 
 And heard the men shouting 
 
 " Where, where away ?" 
 
 And cold and half-perished, 
 
 Dreamed of hearts that I cherished 
 In the glad May. 
 
 I have been, little sister, where the walrus has bii'th, 
 And I write you this letter from the end of the 
 
 earth, 
 Never fearing but He 
 Who walked on the sea. 
 
 Will watch o'er us all. 
 Little sister, good-by ! 
 My messmates pass nigh, 
 And the old boatswain 
 
 Pipes his loud call. 
 
IN MEMORY OF EMILY. 
 
 In the dark grave, the damp eartli pressed around 
 thee, 
 Thou shimberest, Emily, till God shall call . 
 Eighteen long years, with cankering griefs, have 
 bound me, 
 Since from this bosom was relinquished all. 
 
 Loved heart of strongest, earliest confiding, 
 I wander here, familiar things in sight ; 
 
 One long deep grief within my soul abiding. 
 One hot, parched day, and no approach of 
 night. 
 
IN MEMORY OF EMILY. IGl 
 
 Eighteen long years, yet not enough to sever 
 The fond remembrance of thy love for me : 
 
 Will this drear life stiU linger on forever, 
 So far remote, yet still so near to thee ? 
 
 Here on this sand-beach, overbrowed by mount- 
 ams. 
 The stately palms slow bending toward the 
 
 sea, 
 This Indian land has no sure ebbing fountains, 
 More faithful to their source, than gTief to 
 me. 
 
 If thou hadst left the little one I cherished. 
 My heart perchance might then have found 
 relief ; 
 But when that little one from me had perished, 
 I bowed mv soul, and yielded up to grief. 
 14* 
 
162 IN MEMORY OF EMILY. 
 
 O ! was it wrong, when that crnshed soul was 
 bleeding, 
 I bade thy grave adieu for evermore : 
 When from that Nortliland our white sails reced- 
 ing, 
 I saw those hills, and that rock-guarded shore. 
 
 I had no wish to live, no future care ; 
 
 My heart lay buried in the earth with thine ; 
 And I knew well the depth of my despair 
 
 Could not be measured by the sands of time. 
 
 In the dark grave, yet Death's power can not 
 sever 
 
 What thy aifection to my years has been ; 
 These bleeding wounds shall not flow on forever, 
 
 And I shall see thee, Emily, again ! 
 
DREAM OF THE SOLITARY. 
 
 It rained last eve ; on vale and hill 
 The sable clouds their fullness wept : 
 
 A moimtain-torrent roared the rill, 
 
 And through the night its booming kept. 
 
 Deep soughed and moaned the piteous wind, 
 And at the dormer windows old 
 
 The vine-boughs knocked upon the blind, 
 Or, creaking, loosened from their hold. 
 
164 DREAM OF THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Then came iii gusts the pelting storm, 
 And wildly dashed against the pane; 
 
 While ever, fitfully and lorn, 
 
 The window rattled in its frame. 
 
 My single candle flared and wrought 
 Another shadow on the wall, 
 
 Whose ghostly influence I caught. 
 Till my vexed spirit seemed to call 
 
 To some soul wandering in the night, 
 Some lonely counterj^art of me. 
 
 Weary with watching for the light. 
 Ready to die if death might be. 
 
 I leaned my hot brow in my palm, 
 I pressed cold fingers o'er the pane, 
 
 Vainly I struggled to be calm. 
 
 Till the big tear-drops flowed like rain. 
 
165 
 
 DREAM OF THE SOLITARY. 
 
 I wandered fortli into the storm, 
 
 I grappled round like one astrny, 
 I reached my arms out toward the form, 
 
 If I might hold it for a day. 
 
 But I clasped nothing save a misty cloud. 
 Frail as a gossamer of morning dew ; 
 
 And I saw nothing but a waxen shroud, 
 
 With a pale corpse-face looking sadly through. 
 
 All the long night-watch lonely, far and near, 
 Like a sad mourner on a desert shore, 
 
 I was still wandering, hearkening not to hear. 
 Calling on voices that should speak no more ; 
 
 Till at the dawning, when the yielding storm 
 Melted away, like a young infant's fears, 
 
 I was left standing on a velvet lawn. 
 
 Perfumed and pearl-set with the midnight tears. 
 
166 DREAM OF THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Far in the distance curled the cottage smoke, 
 Gold glowed the windows in the coming beam, 
 
 Purple and shadow o'er the mountains broke, 
 And I awakened from my stormy dream. 
 
 Wakened, and gazed around my dreary room. 
 My narrow couch, my coverlids thin and few. 
 
 My cold grate blackened with a chilling gloom, 
 My w^indows moistened with the morning dew; 
 Wakened, and sighed. Too true, alas ! too true ! 
 
THE VOICE OF THE ELM-TREE. 
 
 In distant town, witli grass-grown streets, 
 
 And slanting roofs, and mossy, leaf-choked 
 
 eaves. 
 
 Whose tapering spire the weary traveler greets, 
 Peermg its tall shaft through the mass of 
 leaves. 
 
 Waves a dark ehn-tree, whose outstretching arms, 
 O'er gables olden, trembhngly extend. 
 
 Like some mild patriarch, who, with open palms, 
 Craves that a blessing on the roof descend. 
 
168 THE VOICE OF THE ELM -TREE. 
 
 Once, as I dreamed, I heard a wandering tone 
 Amid the branches of that weird old tree, 
 
 That seemed the voice of some forsaken one, 
 In tears and sorrow, whispering to me. 
 
 " Where is thy mother ? and the forms," it said, 
 "That sat with me, when summer hours were 
 long. 
 
 Chanting to music that my leaf-harps played, 
 Till the whole ether was a lambent song ? 
 
 " Sweet was thy mother ; on her shining curls 
 Most proud was I a jeweled wreath to set 
 
 Of radiant diamonds and milky pearls. 
 Snatched from my dewy, regal coronet. 
 
 " When first I saw thee, was her breast thy bed ; 
 Ah ! glad was I upon that natal morn ! 
 
THE VOICE OF THE ELM -TREE. 169 
 
 And tossed my arms, and waved my ancient head, 
 And whispered 'moiig the clouds, ' the heir is 
 born.' 
 
 " Years passed — a chaplet I was forced to weave ; 
 
 I wrought it well, by the pale evening light. 
 When I heard angels whispering through my 
 lea\"es. 
 Of what they brought and took away that 
 night. 
 
 " They brought thy sister, and I felt the breath 
 Of unseen wings, that bore thy mother home : 
 
 I learned of pleasure, yet I knew of death, 
 When to the roof-tree did the infant come. 
 
 " Well ! with the baby I had many a game. 
 
 And romp, and swing, that made my old heart 
 
 gay: 
 
 15 
 
170 THE VOICE OF THE ELM -TREE. 
 
 Happy was I, none happier when she came, 
 Or sadder, lonelier when she went away. 
 
 "Years now have fled, a i)Oor old sentry, lone 
 I keep my watch ; and in the midnight air 
 
 I beat my arms against the lonely home, 
 
 But wake no more the children slumbering 
 there." 
 
 Then waved his old head slowly to the blast, 
 And on his brown leaves glistened many a tear ; 
 
 His words seemed heavier, wilder, and passed 
 Like a sweet strain I must, yet dared not hear. 
 
 PoAvn bent his form, so low, so very low, 
 I felt his cold breath, as in days of yore ; 
 
 And he kept whispering, rocking to and fro, 
 "Come back! come back! and be a child once 
 more !" 
 
TO A PRETTY PROJ^II^j::. 
 
 She had not a pretty figure, nor a slender tapei 
 waist, 
 
 Yet her step bespoke the lady, and her hat ex- 
 quisite taste. 
 
 Simply trimmed with edge of ribbon ; how I longed 
 the face to see. 
 
 Nestled underneath its shadow, half concealed 
 away from me; 
 
172 TO A PRETTY PROFILE. 
 
 A cheek like moss-rose opening in the early sum- 
 mer's shower, 
 
 And lij^s two threads of coral from a naiad's 
 hamited bower. 
 
 As I met her eyes, enchantment swept a vision 
 through my brain ; 
 
 Dipped the sun behind the mountains, golden- 
 tinging all the plain ; 
 
 And a dream I wove together, such a one as has 
 its birth 
 
 When we lie down in the summer on the lap of 
 mother earth, 
 
 See the argosies go windward, down the purple 
 of the sky. 
 
 And the white-capped waves cerulean like a comb- 
 er tossing high. 
 
TO A PRETTY PROFILE. 178 
 
 When the evening curtains dropping, wove a tinge 
 of purple hue, 
 
 When the arrows of the sunset shot the red 
 among the Mue, 
 
 Sucli a form stood close beside me, and with mag- 
 ical control. 
 
 Hushed the murmuring of voices for the confer- 
 ence of soul ; 
 
 Like a zephyr stirred the drapery of her partly 
 loosened vest. 
 
 And a wealth of raven tresses rose and fell upon 
 her breast. 
 
 Deepened in the heavy shadows, spread the night 
 
 her somber pall. 
 Stirred our child within its cradle, winged the 
 
 beetle round the wall. 
 
 15* 
 
174 TO A PRETTY PROFILE. 
 
 Still our soul its vigil keeping, saw the sunlight 
 
 waxing old, 
 And we walked along the future, treading do^Ti 
 
 the sands of gold ; 
 On the fir off lonely mountains winter whispered 
 
 through the trees. 
 Darkness strode his sable charger, and the mist 
 
 rolled off the seas. 
 
 Then the vision vanished, changing, as an angel 
 
 spreads its wings ; 
 Midnight fled, and rosy sunlight laid its blush on 
 
 earthly things. 
 Through the trail of flowing curtains faces peered 
 
 into the night. 
 Dancing shadows swept the casement, ruddy 
 
 glared the fireside light. 
 
TO A PRETTY PROFILE. 175 
 
 And a face 'mid ringlets glowing, laid a cheek 
 
 beside my own, 
 Came a tear on drooping lashes, and a voice that 
 
 whisj^ered " Home." 
 
 As the rose-bud 'mong its sisters, as the dew 
 npon the spray. 
 
 When the Avild bee from the meadow scents the 
 clover far away. 
 
 As soft wind o'er wavy grasses, as rain on fxllen 
 flowers, 
 
 "Was she when sorrow entered at our lowly cot- 
 tage bowers ; 
 
 She Avas sunshine in my darkness, all that e'er was 
 child or wife. 
 
 And I loved her more than heaven — round her 
 centered all my life. 
 
176 TO A PRETTY PROFILE. 
 
 Once more the A\dzard vision vanished off, and I 
 was old, 
 
 And another stood beside me when the vesper 
 hour was tolled. 
 
 With white arms my neck ent^dning, and a face 
 of childish truth 
 
 Bending o'er my wrmkled forehead with the ten- 
 derness of youth : 
 
 Golden link between my spirit and the spirit from 
 me flown 
 
 Upon soft and snow-white pinions, leaving deso- 
 late our home. 
 
 Woke I then, and all around me lay the barren 
 stony street, 
 
 Trodden down by weary mortals, with their hol- 
 low-sounding feet, 
 
TO A PRETTY PROFILE. I'TV 
 
 High above me glared the sun's rays, scorching 
 
 m upon my brain, 
 And the workl of weary travellers met me foce 
 
 to face again; 
 Cold the phantom passed before me, floated off 
 
 into the sky, 
 Like the cloud-wave of the heavens, with a 
 comber tossing high. 
 
THE DESERTER. 
 
 O ! HAD he perisliecl on the field of battle, 
 
 His own good sword grasped firmly in his 
 hand, 
 When 'mid the cannon's shock and mnsket's rattle. 
 To death rode down the corps in his com- 
 mand, 
 I had not wept, though cold I knew the mor- 
 row 
 Would find him stifi'ning 'mong the heaps of 
 slain : 
 
THE DESERTER. 179 
 
 O ! that were joy : would God that I might bor- 
 row 
 Such sweet reUef for this o'erwhelmiug pain ! 
 
 I knew him wild, a bold and daring rover, 
 
 But I had hope : he was my only son, 
 And I, like him, had been a recreant lover. 
 
 And my youth's deeds an evil name had won : 
 And when we parted, though my eyes were 
 streaming, 
 
 I said flirewell, and wiped away the tear : 
 You go, my boy, your early life redeeming ; 
 
 And loud I answered back their parting cheer. 
 
 O ! had some lance from those wild, charging 
 Norsemen 
 Pierced that boy's heart ; and he beneath the 
 heel 
 
180 th:ede8eeter. 
 
 Of the inad ti-oop of fast-pursuing horsemen, 
 Been trodden down by gory hoofs of steel ; 
 
 Then had my honor known no dark poUution, 
 His hero fate my soul's wound would assuage ; 
 
 But O ! to meet his death by execution, 
 O'erflows the anguish-cup of my old age ! 
 
 I see it now, that cold gray misty morning, 
 
 When 'neath the ramparts they had dug his 
 grave ; 
 In hollow square I see the soldiers forming 
 
 Round that proud boy, the bravest of tlie 
 brave ; 
 I see the ships, firm anchored in the offing. 
 
 The booming gun rolls echoing from the sea ; 
 With folded arms he kneels upon his coffin, 
 
 The smoke curls off, and naught remains to 
 
 4 
 
THE DESERTER. 181 
 
 O ! he was bold, and 'mid the thickest danger, 
 With scornful lip and flashing eagle eye, 
 
 Forward he pressed, to thought of fear a stranger ; 
 O ! my brave boy, why wast thou doomed to 
 
 die? 
 Cold o'er thy head the stormy billows dashing. 
 
 Thy grave low-leveled with that sea-girt strand ; 
 Would this old heart, with bitter struggles lash- 
 
 iiig^ 
 Lay calm as thine beneath that ocean sand! 
 
"IN MEMORIAM." 
 
 Bhurtapoor, Hindostan, 1853. 
 
 As from some overlooking height, 
 The traveler's native vale appears, 
 Unaltered in the lapse of years, 
 
 O friend, I live with thee to-night. 
 
 On that old bridge of rough gray stone, 
 With thee, six years ago, I stood ; 
 I was bomid off upon the flood. 
 
 And knew that thou must dwell alone. 
 
"in ME MORI AM." 183 
 
 The hour drew near when we should part; 
 I looked into thy mild blue eye, 
 And though the watery fount was dry, 
 
 I knew the tears were at thy heart. 
 
 The creaking blocks, the grating chain. 
 The sailors working in the shrouds, 
 The noisy wharf, the gathering crowds, 
 
 And then thy sorrowing look again. 
 
 The water lapped the vessel's bow. 
 The mist rolled in from off the sea, 
 She grated harslily 'gainst the quay ; 
 
 I saw the trouble on thy brow. 
 
 I saw smk down into the deep 
 
 The lighthouse and the distant town, 
 The cold, gray fort, the houses brown. 
 
 And then passed off the deck to weep. 
 
184 "in memorial." 
 
 All night about the rudder bands 
 
 The swollen water dashed and roared, 
 
 The yards were braced, the hawsers stowered, 
 
 And piped on deck were all the hands. 
 
 At morn, the coast-wind blowing liard, 
 The bark before a press of sail, 
 The/Vind just o'er our quarter rail, 
 
 The courses drenched unto the yard. 
 
 Then long drear months of listless life. 
 The wide blue deep, the floating sedge, 
 The sail on the horizon's edge. 
 
 The game of cards, the chess-board strife : 
 
 At last the sailors' shout of land. 
 The pilot-boat from off the shore. 
 The shriekmg mew, the breakers' roar, 
 
 The long white line of gleaming sand. 
 
*'lN MEMO EI AM." 185 
 
 The bamboo town, the stately palms, 
 The old stockade of stakes and turf. 
 The Indian wadmg through the surf. 
 
 The captain carried in his arms. 
 
 O friend ! my heart is full to-night ; 
 The pale moon comes from off the sea, 
 The wind shakes the magnolia-tree. 
 
 The earth sleeps calm in silver light. 
 
 Once more I see the bridge of stone. 
 
 Where, six years past, with thee I stood; 
 The ship slow swinging to the iiood. 
 
 And thou amid thy grief alone ! 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 016 211 988 6