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The Homesteader 
 and Other Poems 
 
The Homesteader 
 and Other Poems 
 
 By 
 
 Alice Pyne McDavitt 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE COSMOPOLITAN PRESS 
 
 1913 
 

 Copyright, 1913, by 
 The Cosmopolitan Press 
 
 ©CI.A35S976 
 'ti J. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Homesteader 9 
 
 The Search for Gold 17 
 
 The Storm-Queen 30 
 
 The Hurlers of the Dead 25 
 
 The Footstep on the Stair 28 
 
 December 32 
 
 Mystery 34 
 
 Death 36 
 
 False Shepherds 39 
 
 A Sea Shell 41 
 
 Our Ghosts 43 
 
 The Cause 44 
 
 Life 46 
 
 Reminiscence 47 
 
 Writers and Their Wares 48 
 
 The Top 50 
 
 The Novelist 51 
 
 The Masterpiece 52 
 
 The Verse Writer 53 
 
 The Serpent's Pen 54 
 
 My Castle in Spain 57 
 
 The Meed 60 
 
Poetry <31 
 
 The Dreamer 62 
 
 Fame 63 
 
 The Epitome 64 
 
 As to Troubles 66 
 
 ReaHty 68 
 
 No More Sea 69 
 
 Homeward Round 73 
 
 A MilHonaire 75 
 
 The Promise 77 
 
 The Absent Ones 78 
 
 Good-Bve 80 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 *'Of making of books there is no end; 
 
 In olden days was said; 
 Now in the ofttrod paths we wend 
 
 Tn the footprints of the dead. 
 
 And so 1 otter forth my rhymes 
 
 To wile an idle hour 
 In sultry Summer's sunny time 
 
 Or when storms of Winter lower. 
 
 And may they win me friends to love, 
 
 Where-ever they may go 
 My readers find a treasure trove 
 
 To read again — and slow. 
 
 God grant I weaken no man's creed, 
 May faith be brighter still, 
 
 Of darkened doubt be left no seed 
 To taint the human will. 
 
 The talents that we each may have ' 
 Are given of Thee, — our God, 
 
 Soon to be requited in love, 
 While we sleep 'neath the sod. 
 
The Homesteader 
 and Other Poems 
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 A merchant in an Eastern town, 
 
 x\nd in the prime of life, 
 AA' ith a daughter fair of sweet sixteen, 
 
 And a lady for a wife. 
 
 And he was doing fairly well, 
 
 His business brought him gain ; 
 But he dreamed forever of Western lands 
 
 And fields of golden grain. 
 
 .And office and desk more hateful grew 
 
 And the city's dust and dins. 
 He compared them often to himself 
 
 With horses and crops and bins. 
 
 And he thought him not of the life of ease. 
 
 Fine linen, and social life ; 
 Of servants who served and sought to please, 
 
 Of his daughter, or his wife. 
 
 Of the lonely life on the distant wilds, 
 
 Of the cabin for mansion changed. 
 Of toil-worn hands and care-worn face. 
 
 Or the settlers' distant range, 
 
10 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Of the arduous tasks that are never done, 
 Tho' one works from dawning gray 
 
 Through blistering heat of noonday sun 
 Until eve and the moon's pale rays, 
 
 And of the risks of failing crops, 
 
 And the rains that will not come. 
 Of the dull dumb hatred of it all 
 
 And the farmers' scanty home, 
 
 Of the bank accounts that are very rare 
 
 To be found on the yeoman's side, 
 Of the ashen face of the farmer's wife 
 
 Who was once a blooming bride. 
 
 He knew it not he could not toil 
 
 Who had never learned how to farm, 
 
 His hands w^ere as white and free from soil 
 As his soul was free from harm. 
 
 As for horses he knew not good from bad. 
 
 But had loved them from a child : 
 And his youthful dreams had been often filled 
 
 With the breaking of bronchos wild. 
 
 Oh, a shifting mark for sharks was he 
 
 As good as they often find. 
 They looked him over and winked again 
 
 And smiled to the men behind. 
 
 Who sold him teams of lean sorry skates 
 
 At prices of fabulous worth. 
 As he drew the reins o'er those ponies' backs 
 
 He was one of the Lords of Earth. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS H 
 
 He hired a car and loaded it full 
 
 Till there was not room for more, 
 And as he bought each parcel and lot 
 
 Few knew how his hopes did soar. 
 
 He sold his business and at a loss, 
 
 But for that he did not care, 
 So glad was he to find himself free 
 
 For those Western lands so fair. 
 
 Oh! False is the lure of gold Tm told. 
 
 And for Love a man may die, 
 But the Western fever in its grip 
 
 Is worse by far, they say. 
 
 And the Western fever held its course 
 
 As he bade each friend good-bye. 
 With a clasp of the hand he said farewell, 
 
 And a brightening of the eye 
 
 As he asked them to come to his Western home 
 
 And partake of the settlers' fare, 
 And each get a homestead for himself 
 
 Ere they grew both scarce and rare. 
 
 II 
 
 The journey by rail was dull and cold, 
 
 And the horses pined and died ; 
 And he drew 'them forth by the wayside grim 
 
 And buried them side by side. 
 
12 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Until at last only three were left 
 
 Of all he had bought in pride. 
 He reckoned the price he had paid for each 
 
 And he turned away and sighed. 
 
 Arrived at last at his journey's end, 
 Ah, 'twas then his troubles began ! 
 
 Had his soul been made of baser stuff 
 He'd have felt himself undone. 
 
 The feed was scarce and the feed was high, 
 
 His three horses must be fed ; 
 The inn was poor and the ''grub" was worse, 
 
 And scant was the fare and bed. 
 
 Oh ! prices were high in that Western town 
 
 Where every man is alive ; 
 And each must look unto himself. 
 
 For every one must thrive. 
 
 He hied him forth to a land agent then, 
 
 Or an agent hied to him ; 
 And a very brilliant tale was told, 
 
 And related w^ith gust and vim. 
 
 Perhaps he failed to believe it all : 
 
 But of that I cannot record. 
 But his hopes once faded revived again 
 
 As the Phoenix from ashes soared. 
 
 He saw the land was fair and good. 
 
 The soil would be hard to beat. 
 The Winter is dry and cold, they said ; 
 
 Winds lessen the Summer's heat. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 13 
 
 He filed for a homestead ; that wasn't enough ; 
 
 He thought he would like to own 
 Those Western regions for miles around 
 
 And have it in Spring wheat sown. 
 
 He bought some land and bargained for more ; 
 
 And implements, horses, and cows, 
 And harness and lumber, all count high, 
 
 And oxen and sheep and sows. 
 
 And perhaps his judgment was just as good 
 
 As of many a city man 
 Who lived all his Hfe 'mong ledgers and books 
 
 And did many a column scan. 
 
 But of farming well he didn't know much. 
 But he thought that he did, you see; 
 
 And was willing to learn, if he only could, 
 And the farmer's life is free. 
 
 Free to toil till death doth come, 
 
 Tho' his muscles may relax; 
 To till the land and sow the wheat 
 
 And barley and oats and flax. 
 
 The Summer was dry, and his crop was poor, 
 And his money was growing scant; 
 
 Of provisions for Winter he had enough 
 And — he had never known want. 
 
14 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 III 
 
 That Winter the settlers often say 
 
 Was the worst they ever knew; 
 And November's breath was icy cold 
 
 As it froze the lake and slough. 
 
 And every day grew colder still. 
 
 And the wind a cutting blast, 
 And the snoAv came down on those open plains 
 
 Till in billows high 'twas cast. 
 
 As high as the tops of the sodded shacks, 
 
 And still it fell, they say, 
 As tho' it never meant to quit 
 
 Till the end of the Judgment Day. 
 
 And then, alas, his wife fell ill. 
 
 And each day she seemed to fail. 
 ''I am so tired," she often said, 
 
 "Of the snow and sleet and hail. 
 
 "And oh to be 'mong my peo]jle again. 
 
 And oh for my mother dear ; 
 ^fy sister's face I long to see. 
 
 But I shall be buried here. 
 
 "And oh to see the church again. 
 
 The church where we were wed, 
 To hear a sermon but once more." 
 
 Again and again she said. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 15 
 
 She passed away one Winter's morn. 
 
 And seemed not loath to go. 
 She bade a smiling goodbye to each. 
 
 Ah, yes — it is often so. 
 
 And the heartsick fret for the absent face. 
 
 Oh, father and daughter could tell 
 Of the anguished and often sleepless nights, 
 
 Yet each must say, " 'twas well," 
 
 \\ ith some the memories do not duil 
 
 And grow dim as the days go by ; 
 The absent are ever in the heart, 
 
 Tho' bright the smiling eye. 
 
 Perhaps it was best that toil they must 
 
 As the Springtime came again 
 With the undullous Chinooks* breezes mild 
 
 And the sunshine and the rain. 
 
 And the hope that lives in the luimati breast 
 
 That sorrow but seldom slays. 
 Tho' every one of us wonders oft 
 
 At the m5'\stery of human ways. 
 
 Now that it happened he did not care 
 
 As to crop or rain or drought. 
 Tt seemed that luck had come his way. 
 
 That fortune had sought him out. 
 
 And every venture brought success ; 
 
 Then coal on his land was found. 
 And capital with 'its bustling ways 
 
 Was at work on the fields around. 
 
16 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 And his homestead site was chosen then 
 For the railroad's busy town, 
 
 And never more would his oxen plow 
 Or his wheat again be sown. 
 
 And lots were sold and houses built, 
 
 And money came to him, 
 As if to comfort as best it might 
 
 The man whose eyes were dim 
 
 With the memory of the loss of her 
 Who had been so glad to go, 
 
 So tired was she of the dreary plains 
 And the hail and sleet and snow. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 17 
 
 THE SEARCH FOR GOLD 
 
 I would tell as best it may be 
 The version of a miner's tale ; 
 
 Tell it as he told it to me 
 
 Of his search that did not fail, 
 
 Of the mines and of the working, 
 Of the desert and the plain. 
 
 Of the dangers ever lurking 
 
 And the miner's thirst has slain. 
 
 And I wish I had the wording 
 And the genius but to write 
 
 In the EngHsh that was curdling 
 Of the horrors of the fight : 
 
 Of the burning of sun shining. 
 
 Of the glaring of the sand. 
 Of the digging without whining. 
 
 And the vale of Dead Man's Land, 
 
 Of the finding of the treasure 
 And the lack of water there. 
 
 Of the gold to buy him leisure 
 And the love of lady fair, 
 
 Of the thirst so fiercely burning 
 That at last his reason fled. 
 
 Of the folly of returning 
 
 Tho' his lips were parched and bled. 
 
18 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Return ! Ah, no. Indeed, how could he 
 Cross that burning desert plain? 
 
 Pile the nuggets high there would he 
 In the sands where is no rain. 
 
 And he babbled to the lizards 
 
 Of the beauty of his love 
 Who had bade him brave the hazards, 
 
 Bring of gold a miser's trove. 
 
 "I will wait a life-time for you. 
 And will pray both day and night." 
 
 Thought he of those words so truthful 
 And the purpose that was right. 
 
 As he staggered with the shivers 
 That are not brought on by cold. 
 
 Dreamed he of the shimmering rivers; 
 Then he cursed the shining gold. 
 
 Ten miles back of him was water. 
 
 He would strive to reach it there 
 'Mid the maniac's dreadful laughter 
 
 And wild shoutings on the air. 
 
 Came across a canteen rusty, 
 
 And some ants and clothing worn, 
 
 And a skull and bare bones musty, 
 Tho' the flesh from them was shorn. 
 
 By the skeleton knelt he blindly. 
 Touched the hideous thing with care; 
 
 Soft and low he asked it kindly, 
 "Searched you too for gold with prayer?" 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 19 
 
 "Did a woman beg with kisses, 
 Bid bring back the miner's gold; 
 
 Did the lizards give you hisses 
 As they taunted you of old? 
 
 "Did you find the gold as I did, 
 
 Did you seek for water here, 
 And from you had reason fled, too. 
 
 Ere you sought your lonely bier?" 
 
 There the miners found him babbling. 
 
 Talking to that awful skull, 
 With the maniac's senseless gabbling, 
 
 Thirst and hunger rendered dull. 
 
 And they carried him to shelter, 
 Gave him of their tenderest care. 
 
 Food and water by the spoonful, 
 For such kindness is not rare. 
 
 And his reason came back to him. 
 
 And he told them of his find. 
 Found again the nuggets due him, 
 
 And he showed the traces wind, 
 
 And the colors and the workings. 
 And the mined for golden store. 
 
 And the patience of the diggings 
 That of treasure would yield more. 
 
 Did he find his sweetheart faithful? 
 
 Was she true who had sent him there? 
 For — sometimes — are women truthful 
 
 But this one was only fair. 
 
20 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE STORM-QUEEN 
 I 
 
 The spirit of the storm 
 
 Is brooding o'er the deep ; 
 She calleth forth her minions 
 
 Who never, never sleep. 
 From caverns deep of oceans broad 
 
 They v^hispering gather round, 
 A ghastly throng of elfin brood 
 
 With beetling brows and ashen face. 
 Of serpent form and hissing voice, 
 
 They answer to the sound 
 Of lowering tempests' awful roar. 
 
 Of darkening clouds and waves that soar 
 O'er sinking ship and drowning crew, 
 
 With wailing voice that echoes, — "More,' 
 'Midst lashing foam they rushing seek 
 
 Some farthest shore that seas divide, 
 Where living men may never more 
 
 Their loved ones see again. 
 
 H 
 
 But fair as the day 
 
 Is the face of their queen, 
 And her eyes have the glance 
 
 Of power serene. 
 And her form is majestic 
 
 With light and with life, 
 Who rules o'er dominions 
 
 Of darkness and strife. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 21 
 
 Her voice is as gentle 
 
 As cooing of doves 
 As she sings to the dying 
 
 Wild songs of dead loves, 
 Of hopes that are banished 
 
 With youth's vanished fires, 
 And riches to sate 
 
 The meanest miser's desires. 
 
 She calls to the brain 
 
 Of the wanderer grim, 
 Who cared nought for love 
 
 Of home or of kin ; 
 And he thinks him again 
 
 Of the mother at home. 
 Who prays that kind winds 
 
 Favor those who may roam, 
 
 And places a light 
 
 In the window to guide 
 Those wandering footsteps 
 
 Again to her side. 
 Yet never, oh never. 
 
 On this earth will she see 
 The laddie who knelt 
 
 As a child at her knee, 
 
 And who now in the storm 
 Cons the prayers of his youth. 
 
 With faith he at last 
 
 Seeks the Goodness of Truth. 
 
 "Dear Father, give comfort 
 To those who shall weep." 
 
22 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 He murmurs a vow 
 
 And sinks silent in sleep. 
 
 Ill 
 
 She sings to the saddened. 
 
 Her song is of rest 
 From strife and from sorrow, 
 
 From anger and woe. 
 She tells of a home 
 
 Where the weary are blest 
 Where never again 
 
 Will they find human foe. 
 
 Contented they wander 
 
 Those fair shores to find. 
 With dankest of seaweeds 
 
 Their bodies she winds. 
 And the moan of the winds! 
 
 Weary Requiem, cease. 
 As the aged find comfort 
 
 And Infinite Peace. 
 
 IV 
 
 But, oh, to the children 
 
 So sweet is her song! 
 They crowd them around her, 
 
 A worshipping throng; 
 And loving and gentle 
 
 And tender is she 
 Who leads forth the young 
 
 And the careless and free. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 23 
 
 To the deep-grottoed niches 
 
 Of the palaces fair, 
 Hung round them with jewels 
 
 And pearls most rare; 
 And silver and gold 
 
 For a pavement they find; 
 Tortuous are the ways 
 
 To those grottoes that wind. 
 
 And never again 
 
 May they find their path hence ; 
 And she whispers a lullaby 
 
 Softly and slow, 
 As a mother who loves them 
 
 She croons to them low. 
 They sleep there as calmly 
 
 As children at home; 
 Forever is vanished 
 
 The lost wish to roam. 
 
 V 
 
 Earth's Empires change 
 
 And may crumble away, 
 And kings come and go 
 
 That others may sway 
 And rule for their hour 
 
 Of pitiful might 
 Ere forth they must venture 
 
 To the grave's silent night. 
 
 But here is no change. 
 
 Tho' centuries pass. 
 
 The grottoes of ocean 
 
24 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Their Requiems ring, 
 And ever the spirit 
 
 Of storms wild will sing, 
 And then croons to the dying 
 
 Her mad changeful lays 
 Till Eternity's Trumpet 
 
 Sounds the ending of days. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 25 
 
 THE HURLERS OF THE DEAD 
 
 "Have you never heard the story, then, 
 Of the Hurlers of the Dead? 
 Then glad I'll be to tell it you," 
 The gardener to me said. 
 
 *'T'was a windy day in Autumn, 
 The man was weird and old; 
 I've often wondered o'er it since,— 
 'Twas strange, the tale he told. 
 
 *Tn Cork my early days were spent, 
 Tho' Lismore 'tis my home. 
 This many's the year I here have worked, 
 And I'm now too old to roam. 
 
 "O'Driscoll is my name for sure. 
 And, know ye, it has been said 
 My father's people once were kings 
 And gallant soldiers led. 
 
 "And many's the bloody fray was fought 
 In other days I'm told," 
 And bright the blue eyes flashed at me. 
 I smiled — the man was old, 
 
 "Are there ghosts in the tower there? you ask. 
 I may not tell you how, 
 But many the doings queer I've seen," 
 And his form was trembling now. 
 
26 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 "Full forty years ago or more 
 There be living still, 'tis said ; 
 But loath to speak are those who've seen 
 The Hurlers of the Dead. 
 
 **Tho' powers strange they will possess 
 Of maladies and ills, 
 And of the curious herbs to find 
 By many a brook and rill, 
 
 *'Tho' broodings strange their faces set 
 In a way no man should ken, 
 They wander often by themselves 
 And sadness marks them then. 
 
 *' 'Tis said they know the day they'll leave 
 To mingle with the dead, 
 And if the lad be single, sure 
 No lassie will with him wed. 
 
 " 'Twas coming home my mother was 
 From the wake of Hoolihan, 
 And in the graveyard that she passed 
 She saw the dead and ran. 
 
 *The jokes and fun and tusseling 
 Of those who were at play 
 And the ghastly faces of them all 
 Would fright the heart of clay. 
 
 "And the stoutest player of them all 
 Was the corpse they'd placed that day 
 Within the grave in God's own plot 
 All in the good old way. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 27 
 
 *'And his brother sure did keep the goal, 
 The living with the dead. 
 At that my mother rushed away 
 Tho' her feet did seem Hke lead. 
 
 "And within a little space of time 
 That brother pined full soon, 
 And was buried there beyond the gate 
 Where the sun doth shine at noon. 
 
 "And sure no flowers will ever bloom, 
 Nor grass doth grow, 'tis said, 
 Where they drop their hurleys down again. 
 The Hurlers of the Dead." 
 
28 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE FOOTSTEP ON THE STAIR 
 
 A group of greybeards were one day 
 Chatting in quite an informal way. 
 The wine and pipe had passed along, 
 Enlivened with many a pleasant song. 
 
 At last the conversation lulled, 
 Tho' not in any sense was it dulled ; 
 But came a pause, and then one smiled, 
 And told of having an hour beguiled 
 
 By a seance of mediumistic spook, 
 
 In course of which his nerves were shook, 
 
 (Yes, shaken is the proper word, 
 
 But — Euphony — must e'er be heard.) 
 
 At this the moments fast flew by 
 With ghastly tales of witchery ; 
 But one there was who gloomed intent 
 On old memories of past sentiment. 
 
 When gay laugh broke or sally flew. 
 Still yet more grave and silent grew, 
 Until at last one smiling said 
 "Will you tell us why you are so sad? 
 
 "Know you of ghostly prinktune gay? 
 If so, give voice and tell us, pray. 
 We stake our words we will not doubt 
 But cast incredulous thoughts to rout." 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 29 
 
 He glanced around ; all pledged his tale ; 
 But each observed he grew more pale, 
 But no one dreamed to hear of spirit 
 From such a matter-of-fact of merit. 
 
 "Well, men," he said, "I have never told, 
 Tho' my story is to my memory old. 
 Many years ago when but a lad 
 Just fresh from college, with verdure clad, 
 
 "I went forth with introductions sent 
 
 From friends of political influence, 
 
 And obtained, as perhaps you may have heard, 
 
 The post of envoy, an important word. 
 
 "In the course of my mission I was sent, I will 
 
 say. 
 To a country house in an English May. 
 That entrance hall I remember yet. 
 For I would not if I could forget. 
 
 "Yet the haunting sadness it brings to mind 
 Some hint of the dreary ocean's wind. 
 And the timid footfall on the stair 
 I have often heard as I listened there. 
 
 "The ancient candelabra and quaint carved chairs, 
 The dim old pictures of ladies fair. 
 And a priceless painting of The Flood,' 
 And artistic treasures of field and wood. 
 
 " 'Twas waiting as a stranger there 
 I first saw a vision upon the stair, — 
 
30 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 A maiden young of sylph-like grace. 
 With the stately pride of a haughty race. 
 
 "And I gazed with rapture and lost my heart 
 To a perfect picture of perfect art, 
 And, strange as it may seem to you, 
 It was not in vain I was forced to sue. 
 
 "The happiest man in the world was I 
 To know that for love did *My Lady' sigh; 
 Yet our love story ended like many another : 
 We parted in anger one from the other. 
 
 *T had vowed I would not forgive again, 
 For bitter was I with jealous pain. 
 Yet I halted a moment by the stair 
 Where first I had met my darling fair, 
 
 "And smiling she came and spoke to me; 
 But I turned away and would not see. 
 Thus out of her life I passed away, 
 Wandered over the world by a devious way. 
 
 "But at last one day I understood 
 
 The simple meaning of many a word 
 
 That had caused an estrangement of saddest 
 
 pain, 
 And I sought that English home again. 
 
 "There was crape on the doors and darkened stair. 
 And gloom and sorrow everywhere; 
 For the maiden I sought had passed away, 
 And my name was the last she spoke, they say. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 31 
 
 "I looked at the marbled face so fair 
 Ere they bore her body away from where 
 Of all the treasures of beauteous worth 
 The one most perfect was consigned to earth. 
 
 "That night I lingered in that stately hall, 
 And alone I glanced 'round the carved wall. 
 Then adown that moonlit stairway came 
 My beautiful darling with smile the same 
 
 "As when I had gone away in scorn 
 On that bitter day of a long-past morn. 
 As I strove to clasp that form in white 
 Where she had been was wan pale light, 
 
 "Yet my life was lessened of its pain 
 As I heard that timid step again. 
 And every year, it has been said, 
 Comes ever that footfall of the dead." 
 
32 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 Sitting by the window, 
 
 List'ning to the rain, 
 To the patter, patter, 
 
 Of the rain against the pane. 
 
 Dreaming of the past 
 
 That to her has come again. 
 With its bitter sorrow. 
 
 With its joy and pain. 
 
 *Mid those mists of visions 
 
 She's a girl again, 
 List'ning to the dashing 
 
 Of the rain against the pane. 
 
 Dear love of days long vanished, 
 
 Come back thru the mystical gloom. 
 
 Take form 'midst the dark'ning shadows 
 That are thronging the silent room. 
 
 Peering thru the twilight 
 
 And the drip of rain, 
 Hear the beat, beat, beating 
 
 Of the storm against the pane. 
 
 List'ning for a voice 
 
 She fain would hear again. 
 Knowing that at last 
 
 She's waiting not in vain. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 33 
 
 Answered is the dreamer, 
 
 She is loved again. 
 Death has claimed her promise 
 
 'Midst the rain against the pane. 
 
 Love has answered the heartcall, 
 Tho' many the years that have fled, 
 
 For thin is the veil that divideth 
 The living from the dead. 
 
34 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 MYSTERY 
 
 We come, we go, 
 
 We pass upon our way. 
 The why we do not know, 
 
 For reason cannot say. 
 
 To see our God, 
 
 To know the Infinite, 
 
 We feel the rod; 
 No more is definite. 
 
 We Hve, we die. 
 
 And all is mystery. 
 
 To laugh, to sigh. 
 Is human history. 
 
 All unexplored 
 
 By any living man, 
 
 Tho' judgment soared 
 And logic sought to scan. 
 
 "Oh, do not dare," 
 All bygone sages say, 
 
 "To venture where 
 Beyond — none may — 
 
 "Stand back, give o'er; 
 
 No human brain shall ken 
 Unnavigable shore 
 
 Of bog and fen." 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 35 
 
 No line, no word; 
 
 Knowledge is guarded here. 
 The angel's flashing sword 
 
 Stops progress drear. 
 
 We shall not see, 
 
 For all is darkest night; 
 The senses reeling flee 
 
 Who seeks for light. 
 
 All philosophies 
 
 Prove futile, useless, weird, — 
 Impenetrable awe 
 
 Rules abyss neared. 
 
36 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 DEATH 
 
 One day, one blessed day, 
 
 A Being grand stood by me, — 
 
 A glowing, shining effulgence played 
 Around that form beside me. 
 
 He smiled, and gracious thoughts 
 Shone on that brow angelic. 
 
 Said I, ''What message have you brought 
 From other world's symbolic?" 
 
 I paused, affrighted — majestic look 
 Did gleam in eyes resplendent. 
 
 I felt commensurate silence brook. 
 And knew 'twas death commandant. 
 
 He spoke in gentle voice and sweet, 
 ''Come with me ; I would show thee." 
 
 The sounds of rushing waters met 
 Did close on all around me. 
 
 We wandered where the violets bloom 
 
 By wooded slope and river. 
 Said he, "All this is but a tomb 
 
 Where man has slept forever." 
 
 Again our steps directed were 
 
 To forest grand primeval. 
 "Here warriors once and bold and sure, 
 
 Now dead to all of evil ; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 37 
 
 "And root and branch and leaves decay 
 
 Are fed by legions gory, 
 The grave of millions more who may 
 
 Repeat again the story." 
 
 He stooped and lifted from the earth 
 
 Of dust a merest handful. 
 "This is composed of men of worth 
 
 And ambitious thoughts unboundful. 
 
 "Old Mother Earth is but the shell 
 
 To retake again the cumbers; 
 Demolish all who here may dwell 
 
 Of God's created numbers." 
 
 Again we stood a crowd among 
 
 In a city of dimensions; 
 The tide of commerce mighty swung 
 
 'Mid workshop and pretensions. 
 
 The motley rushing crowds surged fast 
 
 On business or on pleasure. 
 Only a few more years go past 
 
 And winding sheet shall measure. 
 
 "Each living form you see to-day 
 So strong and fair and graceful 
 
 Shall hence with me from life away 
 To dust of oblivion peaceful. 
 
 "I sow my seeds of swift decay 
 
 Ere babe is born of woman, 
 Allot the time to pass away, 
 
 Restrict the days of human. 
 
38 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 "And death is needful to bereft, 
 For earth could never feed them. 
 
 If all who lived were living yet, 
 Why cannibals would lead them. 
 
 "And carnage, blood, and wretchedness 
 Would follow dark contention. 
 
 And so I come with blessedness 
 And grant to earth — retention. 
 
 "But lo ! — the soul I cannot stay ; 
 
 It returneth to Whom lent it. 
 I have no knowledge of the way 
 
 And know not why Who sent it." 
 
 "And are there fairer worlds than this 
 Where souls may live forever. 
 
 And realize perfection's bliss 
 By eternal smiling rivers?" 
 
 But he was gone, nor said again 
 Answer of ill or pleasure ; 
 
 Yet queried I, but all in vain. 
 The sum of human measure. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 39 
 
 FALSE SHEPHERDS 
 
 They ask for a million in cash 
 
 To Christianize the world, 
 To free with concerted dash 
 
 The heathen in darkness hurled. 
 
 To teach as they have been taught 
 
 In the colleges of to-day 
 The gist of the higher thought 
 
 And the trend of the newer way. 
 
 And some few there are who cherish 
 A reverence for olden days; 
 
 But for others ideals perish 
 Who are seekers of newer ways. 
 
 Sneer at Genesis of Creation 
 
 As a mythological tale, 
 And withhold it from the nations 
 
 Lest perchance their mission may fail. 
 
 And some would say that Jesus 
 Was naught but a man of clay, 
 
 And doubt the raising of Lazarus; 
 — Yet, doubting, they dare to pray. 
 
 And dispense a part of the Bible, 
 And omit a chapter and verse ; 
 
 Take the. miracles from the Gospels, 
 Teach the doubts of determinate curse. 
 
40 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 False shepherds who lead the sheep 
 By the gate of destruction grim, 
 
 Do the martyrs in Heaven weep 
 
 Who were tortured and died for Him? 
 
 False teachers who teach for pay, 
 And seek not for guidance divine. 
 
 Deep planners for to-day 
 And the money to be thine. 
 
 And would teach from some other book 
 Of science and masterly lore, 
 
 While retaining the shepherd's crook 
 Consider the Bible a bore. 
 
 The danger to-day to fight 
 
 Are these wolves who devour the flock, 
 Whose minds rule as guides to the light. 
 
 Yet delude they to doubts that mock. 
 
 And the Church does cry to-day 
 To be fed of the Living Bread, 
 
 Yet must follow these rulers' sway; 
 Do you wonder that Faith is dead? 
 
 And the prayers of woe ascend 
 To the Father of tender love 
 
 That a teacher may descend 
 
 To re-gather God's flock who rove. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 41 
 
 A SEA SHELL 
 
 Pondering o'er some bookshelf lore, 
 Wandering idly on the shore, 
 Absent glancing at the waves 
 As the rockbound coast they lave, 
 
 I picked up a lovely shell, 
 Shoreward cast by drifting swell. 
 And I held it to my ear, 
 Listened to its murmurings drear. 
 
 By the water's sounding roar 
 Where the fleecy cloudlets soar, 
 By the ocean that I love 
 Where for aye Fd wish to rove. 
 
 Thus the echo of the shell 
 Seemed a part of ocean's spell. 
 Pink and white, a thing of joy, 
 Light and wavelets' fragile toy. 
 
 And it whispered of its home. 
 Of the sea and of its foam, 
 And there echoed hints of pain, 
 So I tossed the shell again. 
 
 'Neath the waves it sank to rest. 
 Home again on ocean's breast. 
 And these thoughts there came to me 
 As the shell went back to sea : 
 
42 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Thou, O man, art mystery, 
 Part of God's eternity, 
 And thy hopes we may but scan 
 As a part of God's great plan. 
 
 And thy soul doth seek in vain 
 Thru an earthly life of pain. 
 Murmuring, searching for the way 
 When thy death shall end in day. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 43 
 
 OUR GHOSTS 
 
 There are ghosts who invade our lives 
 The more we would fain forget, 
 Ghosts we meet in the busy street, 
 Our friends perchance or their wives. 
 
 We pause and smile and pass them by 
 With a word, a nod, or a pleasant smile, 
 Who have filled our lives with regret 
 And our hearts with fear and fret. 
 
 Yet our eyes still smile, 
 
 Tho' we hate meanwhile 
 
 Our ghosts whom we hasten to meet, 
 
 And pause as our ghosts we greet. 
 
 Oh, could we but cover with sods 
 As we bury them deep in their graves 
 Beneath where the waving trees nod. 
 Or mayhap in the dark ocean's wave. 
 
 The ghosts of our friends whom we wish to for- 
 get, 
 But, alas, who are living and in our paths yet. 
 
 Our ghosts whom we hasten to meet. 
 With smiles as our ghosts we greet. 
 Our friends whom once we loved as friends 
 But we know them as friends — no more. 
 
44 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE CAUSE 
 
 As we follow the scientists' jingling maze 
 We trusting read what the Bible says ; 
 Tho' we reason forever of the why and wherefore, 
 Sane logic still tells us there is a therefore. 
 
 As we study our earth it seems but small, 
 The planet perhaps that is least of all ; 
 Then we contemplate man and his talk is grand 
 Of molecules and atoms and grains of sand. 
 
 The cohesive force of infinitive space, 
 The abysmal darkness of chaotic place; 
 As he pauses and tells you in learned way 
 A re-quote of some college professor's say 
 
 As to how chance brought the molecule et al, 
 And millions of centuries ere the atom could 
 
 crawl, 
 More trillions of time and emerged an ape, 
 Which is why some ignorant people gape. 
 
 And so again after centuries ran 
 The job grew perfect and at last came man. 
 From a skinclad savage of herbs and roots. 
 Until civilized at last he learns to shoot. 
 
 Tho* worshipping long moon, idols, and sun. 
 Now he states distinctly of Gods there are none; 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 45 
 
 Yet back of it all we are forced to see 
 The hand of a Great Divinity. 
 
 And it matters but little as to whether 
 We were formed in a week or in ages either, 
 But — that we live and are here to-day- 
 Proves — beyond is God, there's no other way. 
 
46 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 LIFE 
 
 Drifting, gliding, passing away, 
 
 A spar on the waters 
 
 I saw to-day ; 
 
 And it seemed to say 
 
 As 'twas swept along, 
 
 Now in the shadow 
 
 Again in the sun ; 
 
 Then by the waters overcast 
 
 And out of sight 
 
 It was gone at last. 
 
 I am like unto you, 
 
 Ye sons of men, 
 
 Drifting, gliding, passing away, 
 
 The whim of chance, 
 
 Swift changing play. 
 
 One moment exalted. 
 
 Then lowly again; 
 
 But swept along 
 
 With the gliding stream 
 
 Until one day you pass along 
 
 Into Eternity. 
 
 Life is done. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 47 
 
 REMINISCENCE 
 
 It seems to me we have lived before 
 
 Ere the dawn of earth began. 
 
 In times long past, in a far-off age, 
 
 I have known of hate and love and rage. 
 
 And have studied of problems old and sage, 
 
 Of time and eternity, chaos and calm, 
 
 And did list perchance to the angels' psalms, 
 
 As in glorious tones they did often chant. 
 
 Or tell of a lost soul's grievous plaint 
 
 Ere he found the Heaven of love and faith 
 
 And the tender Father's care. 
 
 For the haunting strains of a melody grand 
 
 That recalls a home in a distant land 
 
 Come to me oft in the silent eve, 
 
 And this earth and its sordid ways I leave 
 
 To commune with the long ago. 
 
48 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 WRITERS AND THEIR WARES 
 
 A GAY EVENING 
 
 I would pass an evening gaily 
 
 With the minds of long ago, — 
 Shakespeare, Milton, Byron, Shelley, — 
 
 But I turn av^ay from Poe. 
 
 Wordsworth, Holmes, and Blake, and Kingsley, 
 
 Proudly standing in a row ; 
 Moore and Jonson, Burns and Dryden, 
 
 Southey, Massey, Ingelow, 
 Never Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
 Tennyson and Cook and Landon, 
 
 Emerson and Hemans slow, 
 Stately Scott and Goethe's measures, 
 
 Dana, Willis, Longfellow, 
 
 Hood and Wolfe and Barbauld, too, 
 
 Croly, Bryant, Jewett, Lowell, 
 Whittier, Keble, and Rossetti, 
 
 Brownings, yes, and Goldsmith, too; 
 But never verse of Allan Poe. 
 
 With their haunting, witchlike measures 
 
 Of the bejls that will not cease 
 In my brain they ring forever ; 
 
 And "The Raven" gives no peace. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 49 
 
 But the repetition soundeth 
 
 Ever, ever, ever-more, 
 Till I wish that Raven never 
 
 Never, never, any more. 
 
 On that bust of Pallas ever 
 Just above the chamber door 
 
 Still would sound forever, ever. 
 Ever, ever, ever-more. 
 
 Percival, Halleck, and Taylor, 
 
 But I turn away from Poe. 
 
50 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE TOP 
 
 'There is always room at the top." 
 In silence she pondered the thought, 
 
 With dreams of girlish fancies 
 How she might clamber aloft. 
 
 When to the top she'd striven 
 Then the full meaning came home, 
 
 Lovelorn and friendless she stood there, 
 Away at the top, — Alone. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 51 
 
 THE NOVELIST 
 
 She read for pleasure, 
 And from all books, 
 
 As one might judge 
 By her studious looks. 
 
 She dreamed to compose 
 
 A tale herself 
 That by good luck 
 
 Might sell itself. 
 
 She wrote of lands 
 She had never seen, — 
 
 A far too common 
 Practice, it seems. 
 
 She told of times 
 She knew not of; 
 
 And wise ones read 
 But forgot to scoff,. 
 
 The plot was sane, 
 Nor filled with sin; 
 
 No runaway wife 
 Lurked there within. 
 
 Her story is read 
 And bound to sell, 
 
 For honest folks 
 Love morals well. 
 
52 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE MASTERPIECE 
 
 L.. 
 
 "The poem's well done, 
 
 With careful plan, 
 And lofty purpose," 
 
 Said the college man. 
 
 "It is sweetly grand, 
 Such a charming air. 
 
 With pensive aspect," 
 Said "My Lady" fair. 
 
 "The study of weeks 
 
 By midnight oil, 
 Each word's well turned," 
 
 Said her dear friends all. 
 
 Sweeping the floor, 
 No thought of fame. 
 
 When into her mind 
 That sonnet came. 
 
 She dropt her broom 
 
 And wrote away. 
 And that is how 
 
 Fame came that day. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 53 
 
 THE VERSE WRITER 
 
 The editor sat in his sanctum 
 
 And read the verses in haste, 
 He quickly scanned each sentence, 
 
 For he had no time to waste. 
 
 He found as the day passed over 
 They still in his brain took room ; 
 
 And he sang the halting measures 
 To a quickly improvised tune. 
 
 And a master heard the music 
 
 As he halted by the door, 
 And he brought forth the beauty and rhythm 
 
 That no one had seen before. 
 
 And then came fame, and fortune, 
 
 And laurels fell at his feet; 
 Yet he failed to think of the writer 
 
 Who had dreamed of that song complete. 
 
54 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE SERPENT'S PEN 
 
 He is not kind, he is not wise, 
 
 The poet in a serpent's guise, 
 
 With vaunting talk and slandering tongue. 
 
 Who walks the ways of men among. 
 
 With hissing voice and subtle way 
 A woman's fame he seeks to slay ; 
 Condemns the good, convicts the fair, 
 And in disguise he seeks to snare. 
 
 In justice' name we set him forth, 
 Let him be known both North and South, 
 A man, — to write of shrugs and things. 
 Told of in hints and whisperings. 
 
 To prate of woman's fame in rhyme 
 Stamps such a man and for all time. 
 No talk of just and goodly pride 
 Can gloss the cad who would deride. 
 
 Who speaks of chat as favored guest 
 With gloating pride's expanding chest. 
 Leads us to think of slighting words. 
 Perhaps by other friends o'erheard. 
 
 Of poison tongue and angry way, 
 In garb of lamb who seeks to slay, 
 Go forth despised, condemned of men, 
 The poet with the serpent's pen. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 55 
 
 To think that works like his will sell, — 
 For by his ad he is known well, — 
 That verse like his can move the mart, — 
 And even by some be classed as art, — 
 
 This lessening of a woman's fame. 
 This darkening of a mother's name. 
 
 We all have quoted, seen, or heard, 
 And surely know each well-placed word. 
 By William Watson was it penned, 
 And so none may dare to defend. 
 
 When first we conned of serpent's tongue 
 We thought of themes he might save sung ; 
 With brilliant intellect and wise. 
 He might have chosen a kinder guise. 
 
 But then again consider well 
 
 Of slanderous tongues with his from h — 1. 
 
 When envy seeks her to abuse, 
 
 And Satan aids her tongue to loose. 
 
 We all have heard of lives most fair. 
 Whose names were blackened by the snare, 
 And those with sainted purpose oft 
 Have proved the target of the scoff. 
 
 I know not heroine of the tongue 
 Of whom the poet Watson sung. 
 But if she wields a tongue of sorrow 
 None ought for her to trouble borrow. 
 
56 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Watson's poems may live for aye ; 
 
 Go read his stanzas now to-day. 
 
 'The Ode to Shelley" will excite your wonder, 
 
 "Lachrymae Musarum" ponder. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 57 
 
 MY CASTLE IN SPAIN 
 
 Oh, you ought not to give such a stare of surprise 
 With incredulous questioning glance of the eyes, 
 And smile at my house of prosaic gray, 
 With crudest of furnishings far from gay. 
 And no wellkept lawn of emerald green 
 Interspersed with flowerbeds spaced between. 
 No stately driveway do you discern, 
 Yet you look as if you would like to learn. 
 And your search for news will not be in vain. 
 For to-day I shall tell you of my castle in Spain. 
 
 It is not always I can find the way, 
 
 Or may borrow the keys of the guardian fay, 
 
 And it's then when tired I only weep 
 
 Till discouragement drives me away to sleep. 
 
 But sometimes it happens when I feel most blue, 
 
 Because of sorrow the same as you, 
 
 Why, then in a trice I am up and away. 
 
 And there for golden hours I stay. 
 
 I wander so haply up many a stair 
 
 That leads to the treasures of my castle most fair. 
 
 Oh, the glorious rooms so wide and grand, - 
 And for leagues around I own the land. 
 No sordid bothers can follow one where 
 For a few short hours I am happy there. 
 Oh, the hangings are made of silks of cost 
 (The bills for which have long been lost). 
 The rugs are Turkish, rare works of art, 
 
58 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Their equals are seen in no earthly mart. 
 But of all the riches most valued to me 
 Are my treasure ships sailing over the sea. 
 
 I have watched their coming for many a day, 
 
 Across the ocean and safe in the bay. 
 
 "And what do their cargoes consist of ?" you smile. 
 
 (Dear me, what a practical question of guile.) 
 
 li you do not watch out, you will render in vain 
 
 A perfect description of my castle in Spain. 
 
 They are loaded with fancies that dreams are made 
 
 of, 
 And when they hear this no writers will scoff ; 
 Many wonderful, beautiful thoughts come to me 
 From my golden treasure ships over the sea. 
 
 The plots of the books I shall publish some day 
 And of how all will read them, — some will, any- 
 way,— 
 Sweet, filmy pale fancies of poems most rare 
 Dissolve there before me upon the thin air. 
 You cannot conceive of the treasures of worth. 
 Roseate, multi-colored, no mere visions of earth. 
 And most welcome are you to your gold and its 
 
 care, 
 I want but my dream-jewels so glittering fair. 
 For perfect contentment I seek not in vain 
 When alone with my genii in the castle of Spain. 
 
 Your cold sneer reminds me of some dreary times 
 When weary and sad I seek other climes. 
 For there are but fragments all tattered and torn, 
 Gray ashes of dreams that are most forlorn. 
 And minute bells booming from over the sea 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 59 
 
 Tell of ships that are lost forever to me, 
 And of hopes that are vanished or buried away 
 Where comfort can never give forth faintest ray; 
 But still is one rainbow fair arched I do see 
 When my castle in Spain will come back to me. 
 
60 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE MEED 
 
 Scant the meed — his pubhshed sonnets 
 Held an honored scholar's place, 
 
 And his health and life had suffered 
 O'er those lines- of polished grace. 
 
 And came love and marriage to him, 
 Children, poverty, and cares, 
 
 Toil and hardship's awful furnace, 
 Yet he offered dainty wares. 
 
 And unheeding were the rabble. 
 And unnoticed were the songs, 
 
 Save by some and men of letters, 
 Treasured gems of thought among. 
 
 But he wrote for love of writing, 
 And one day the pen was stilled 
 
 With the magic of the genius, 
 By the wand of death distilled. 
 
 Ah ! Now comes the praise of thousands, 
 
 Homage offered at his bier. 
 But no smile his features softened 
 
 Who had passed unheeded here. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 61 
 
 POETRY 
 
 A poet is born, not made 
 
 By rules of men's devising. 
 To his soul the metre is said, 
 
 And he sings by improvising. 
 
 Pray, who would teach the lark 
 
 As he trills his roundelay? 
 To his music you gladly hark 
 
 As he brightens the early day. 
 
 Oh! a scholar may write a poem 
 
 More learned than a Burns, 
 But no heart will give it a home, 
 
 And none to the reading returns. 
 
 And when the spirit says, "Write," 
 The words will come at a thought ; 
 
 As the glories that are given to sight 
 They are seen and no need to be sought. 
 
62 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE DREAMER 
 
 Three angels bent o'er a crib one day 
 Where smiling in sleep a baby lay 
 
 In a hovel old and poor. 
 The roof unthatched, the glass was gone 
 From the window-frame all broken down; 
 Yet o'er the child the sunlight streamed 
 As he lay content and sweetly dreamed, 
 
 While death the mother bore 
 
 To the land where toil is o'er. 
 
 "Hard to bear is the lot that's given. 
 Kind sister, take the babe to heaven," 
 
 The angel of life did pray. 
 "Nay, I shall come when the Master sends," 
 And upward at the call of love she wends. 
 But genius paused with wondrous gleam 
 And she gave to the child the gift to dream 
 
 And talents of words that may 
 
 Lure men to a better way. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 63 
 
 FAME 
 
 I have planned and hoped, 
 Have prayed and striven, 
 
 Have rejoiced and moped. 
 Have seized and riven. 
 
 I have dared and reached, 
 And have trampled dow^n. 
 
 Who was oft discouraged 
 When luck had flown. 
 
 Believe me, the goal 
 Once gained will cloy; 
 
 'Tis but the toll 
 To fame's alloy. 
 
64 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE EPITOME 
 
 What does it all amount to, pray? — 
 
 Our pitiful labor from day to day, 
 
 Our wearisome toil from the dawn of the sun 
 
 Until evening comes and our work is done, 
 
 And folded hands on our bosom cross. 
 
 Done with the gain — and done with the loss. 
 
 What matters it whether our path be rough, 
 If we meet with kindness or with rebuff, 
 Tho' the sunshine over our lives may play 
 Or storms may threaten and mar the way? 
 Tho' our lifelong journey be ever so steep 
 Our eyelids closed will no longer weep. 
 
 What does it matter what fame we win, 
 And what, tho' the temple may usher us in. 
 If envy doth blacken our efforts vain, 
 Or praise and honor may keep from stain ? 
 The laurels will fade and the crown will drop 
 When Death doth our earthly progress stop. 
 
 It matters not if a friend may sigh. 
 
 Or careless pass our lifework by. 
 
 Or if a storied urn may tell 
 
 The tale of our years and tell it well. 
 
 From struggles and efforts we'll be at rest, 
 
 From hope and anguish, and — it is best. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 65 
 
 It amounts to nothing, if misunderstood, 
 And warped and twisted be every word. 
 Tiho' the friend we trusted was false or true. 
 And instead of triumph we drank but rue. 
 Our sorrow and joy will soon be past. 
 And evening comes, and sleep---at last. 
 
66 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 AS TO TROUBLES 
 
 If troubles you have, keep them close to yourself. 
 
 Don't constantly lay them away on a shelf, 
 
 To bring them to view again next day, 
 
 To depress poor unfortunate souls who pray 
 
 Their grievous trials may not drive them mad. 
 
 Yet you force them to hear your history sad. 
 
 Do try to-day for once to be glad. 
 
 And count and recount the joys you have had. 
 
 If aches and ill health are bothering you, 
 Chronic dyspepsia haunts your neighbor, too ; 
 And none are exempted from painful ills 
 Until death has exacted his last due bills. 
 If you cannot be gay, why, smile anyway, 
 And think of some cheering thing to say 
 To dispel of gloom some faintest ray 
 And bring quaint brightness to the day. 
 
 As you con and recon your pitiful tale 
 Remember to others your woes grow stale. 
 They will weary of you and your sorrows, too. 
 And your doleful company soon eschew. 
 Consider how lightly you esteem their bothers. 
 How scant is your courtesy for woes of others. 
 Now pause and be honest and dare to say 
 That of little account are you to-day. 
 
 And how small and mean were your noblest 
 thoughts 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 67 
 
 And the wrong and havoc that you have wrought. 
 
 What kindly act did you ever do ? 
 
 Who for noble deed could remember you? 
 
 What saintly sacrifice for a friend 
 
 That was not intended to gain some end? 
 
 What struggling soul thru you has thrived? 
 
 Whose life is the better that you have lived? 
 
 Seek a way to do some good to your neighbor. 
 Observe how his shoulders are bent from labor. 
 Be kind to the children, God's helpless poor; 
 You may find a mission not far from your door. 
 Your hours for work are becoming few ; 
 Go into the vineyard ; there is need of you. 
 As the evening comes to each well-filled day 
 You will find glad peace as you kneel to pray. 
 
68 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 REALITY 
 
 She had worshipped, oh, how madly ! 
 
 Divinely he loved and well. 
 But to wed she dreamed of sadly, 
 
 For marriage is love's death knell. 
 
 Ah, trysts of hopes divine 
 And ecstasies wild of yore 
 
 To matrimony resign, 
 
 For worship will come no more. 
 
 To bear, to suffer, to rear 
 'Mid anguish and thru pain. 
 
 With meek humility's prayer. 
 And know that self is slain. 
 
 A life prosaic and gray, 
 
 Devoid of all romance, 
 Divested eternally 
 
 Of word or look or glance. 
 
 To eat, to cook, to live 
 
 Forever and for aye ; 
 To work, to toil, to thrive 
 
 Till death doth take away. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 69 
 
 NO MORE SEA 
 
 Deep sadness comes o'er me 
 
 When stated I see 
 Holy words saying plainly 
 
 There shall be no more sea. 
 Oh, ocean, I love thee 
 
 Both wildly and well, 
 Ear dearer than earth 
 
 With mountain and dell. 
 
 So grand in thy moods 
 
 They answer to me. 
 Each thought, every interest, 
 
 Seems known to thee. 
 Tihy waves and thy anger 
 Now majestically frown, 
 Then smoother than crystal 
 And thy temper is flown. 
 
 Yet listen the murmur 
 
 That soothingly sounds 
 And tells of the vigilance 
 
 Of eternal rounds, 
 Thy indulance of motion 
 
 That's never at rest 
 But changes with winds 
 
 Whether east or from west. 
 
 From north or from south, 
 Wheresoever they blow, 
 
70 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 They find there their echo, 
 
 If violent or slow. 
 Thou wilt lash thee to fury 
 
 Till thy storm it is spent, 
 And torn is the rigging. 
 
 And tattered and bent 
 
 Are the vessels that floated 
 
 So proud on thy breast. 
 The fragments are scattered 
 
 And their crews are at rest, 
 And deep in thy depths 
 
 Are millions of bones. 
 Oh, hist to the triumph 
 
 That tells in thy tones ! 
 
 And oft as I linger 
 
 Alone by thy side 
 I am told that my grave 
 
 Will be thy waters wide. 
 And I ask for no other. 
 
 No winding sheet white, 
 But the depths of thy billows, 
 
 Far, far from the light. 
 
 No deathbed where gathers 
 
 The damp on my brow, 
 No mourners to grieve me 
 
 With words faint and low. 
 No shelter where sickness 
 
 Will linger by me 
 Until helpless and weary 
 
 I long but to flee. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 71 
 
 No racking of pain 
 
 Until brain reels to sleep, 
 And no one, oh, no one 
 
 To linger and weep. 
 Sad ocean, I love thee. 
 
 Thy moods are my joys, — 
 To watch thee despising 
 
 Vain earth and its toys. 
 
 The foam on thy billows 
 
 With white capping crest. 
 As down sinks the sun 
 
 Far away in the west. 
 And some time it shall be, — 
 
 Of this, I am sure, — 
 My rest will be with thee 
 
 For time evermore. 
 
 And my bones shall whiten 
 
 And glisten some day 
 Deep down in thy cavernous 
 
 Fissures of clay. 
 And there shall they linger 
 
 In thy darkened bed 
 Till the Almighty shall render, 
 
 Sea give up thy dead. 
 
 And rolled up as a scroll 
 
 Shall the firmament be, 
 And never again 
 
 Shall there be any sea. 
 And assembled and clothed 
 
 In' their flesh they shall stand. 
 
72 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 The drowned who for ages 
 Have slept in thy sand. 
 
 And there the Great Judge 
 
 Shall they gather before, 
 Tho' for centuries dreamed they 
 
 Thy waves beating o'er. 
 And among them shall I be, 
 
 Thou dost murmuring say, 
 Tho' smiling and calm 
 
 Are thy waters to-day. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 73 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND 
 
 A sea as smooth as placid lake, 
 
 A sky of fairest blue, 
 A sun of clearest shining rays, 
 
 And a staunch ship, tried and true. 
 
 There is perhaps no better place 
 Where one so quickly learns 
 
 To know the other passing well. 
 And love from friendship turns. 
 
 As there alone upon the deep 
 We meet as strangers there, 
 
 And even before the day is done 
 We each our joys may share. 
 
 With jest and song and laughter 
 
 The days were passing by, 
 And now the thought of home at hand 
 
 Came to each brightening eye. 
 
 And love called for a last caress, 
 And kisses fond were given. 
 
 And vows of troth eternal passed 
 To be by distance riven. 
 
 And then a passing cloud there came, 
 Changed to the tempest's roar ; 
 
 And otean's billows reared aloft, 
 Like mountains seemed to soar. 
 
74 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Down in the trough that vessel sank, 
 
 It rose and sank again ; 
 Captain and sailor at his post 
 
 Did fight that raging main. 
 
 Then came the cry, from whence none knew, 
 And every face blanched white. 
 
 "The ship's on fire," "The ship's on fire." 
 Our doom is sealed this night. 
 
 And to the sea whom all had feared, 
 Shrunk from in horror fierce, 
 
 Full many a frenzied soul leaped forth, 
 With prayers that seemed to pierce 
 
 The very vault of heaven's dome 
 That hung, a blackening pall. 
 
 O'er all that freight of human life ; 
 And thus death came for all. 
 
 But not one sank beneath the waves 
 But prayed the Father's care. 
 
 The arm of flesh had failed them then, 
 And life and love are fair. 
 
 But He whose ways we may not know, 
 
 Who watches over all. 
 Has gathered each unto Himself. 
 
 He heard His children's call. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 75 
 
 A MILLIONAIRE 
 
 A very great man has died to-day, 
 
 A mortal worth milHons has passed away, 
 
 A personage unique of finance great. 
 
 An important figure, but Death failed to wait. 
 
 Skilful physicians tried all their art 
 
 For weakened arteries of the heart. 
 
 A heart, did you say? Why, had he one? 
 
 There are those to declare that he had none. 
 
 But he that as it may, he has passed away, 
 
 A very great man has died to-day. 
 
 Oh, his home was built on a fashionable square. 
 
 Where there was ever the purest of air. 
 
 And his house was the costliest of them all ; 
 
 Yet the palsying chill of death did crawl 
 
 Around the doorway and thru the hall, 
 
 Nor paused he from pity to enter at all. 
 
 Some say that more cruel than death was he, 
 
 The man whom death to-day set free 
 
 From the deed of mercy, the thought of grace. 
 
 Forever from the power of the rich man's place. 
 
 A patron of costly art was he, 
 
 Famed pictures worth fortunes you may see 
 
 In golden frames on his walls to-day. 
 
 All subjects and varied, both grave and gay, 
 
 And some of course were imported from France, 
 
 Among them quaint gems of salon and dance, 
 
 And another, an Italian design of the devil. 
 
76 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Was most surely conceived by some son of evil. 
 
 Oh, a lover of artistic sense was he, 
 
 And millions for paintings of merit gave he. 
 
 A funeral casket of fabulous worth 
 Will consign his mortal remains to earth. 
 And columns of newspaper notices say 
 That a king of finance has passed away, 
 With a lengthy Hst of his wealth as well, 
 And of what he bequeathed to charity tell. 
 Charity ? What, did he know the word ? 
 For never before did he give, we have heard. 
 The cries of the needy, the orphan's prayers, 
 Too intent on his millions to heed their cares. 
 
 It has been related by those who know 
 
 That along death's pathway he feared to go. 
 
 He pleadingly offered a wonderful price. 
 
 If the surgeons would save him by some device. 
 
 Oh, yes, he had need of saving, they say, — 
 
 This once powerful rich man who died to-day. 
 
 A cold, hard man with his soul on gain 
 
 And never a thought for poverty's pain. 
 
 A man worth millions has died, they say. 
 
 While millions are starving in the world to-day. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 77 
 
 THE PROMISE 
 
 Your hands were dimpled soft and white 
 When first I met you, love. 
 For labor's task they seemed too slight. 
 I begged that I might have the right 
 To be for life your guardian knight. 
 
 Your faded face deep lines doth wear, 
 Your eyes are dim from tears, 
 Your form is bent from anxious cares, 
 Your hands the marks of toil do bear ; 
 Yet you to me are now more fair. 
 
 I promised you a life of ease 
 
 When first I met you, love. 
 
 You've toiled for me and sought to please, 
 
 And to fresh hope oft gave the lease. 
 
 Not while life lasts will my love cease. 
 
 And I have given you love. 
 
78 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 THE ABSENT ONES 
 
 I received a letter from you to-day, 
 
 A girlhood's friend who lives far away, 
 
 One whom I loved long years ago, 
 
 But absence makes memory's heart beat slow. 
 
 You tell me your baby boy has died, 
 And you write to me, from the distance wide, 
 That I should cheer you as best I may, 
 Altho' I have lost no child, you say. 
 
 Ah, no. Thank God, they are living yet. 
 Not for their death are my eyelids wet. 
 But distance divides them away from me, 
 One out in the west and another at sea. 
 
 And my fairest, my darling, is gone from me. 
 Across the ocean and far away ; 
 Yet as none have died I'm not lonely, you say; 
 'Tis but as it should be, their being away. 
 
 And sometime they'll return for an hour or so. 
 Ah, me, is that all the comfort you know? 
 Is that all the solace your grief has taught, — 
 And that but the depth that death has wrought. 
 
 I fear me but shallow is your deepest thought, 
 Your friendship not such that I should have sought. 
 But believe me, I'll drop many tears for you, — 
 For you and the death of your baby, too. 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 79 
 
 For I know that your heart is sore to-day 
 From sorrow that your child is laid away. 
 May you think as you close your eyes to sleep 
 Of the absent children for whom mothers weep. 
 
 After the first depth of your grief has flown, 
 When the flowers bloom from the seed you've sown 
 On the tiny grave of your baby boy 
 Who with witching ways was your constant joy. 
 
 When you think of your heaven and him at rest, 
 Ahd that soon you may see him among the blest. 
 Consider the parents who are praying to-day 
 For their wandering children so far away. 
 
 And fear they may travel the path of wrong, 
 With youth's heedless laugh and careless song, 
 And that each hour they are farther away 
 From the precepts and guide of their childhood day. 
 
 And know, tho' your pillow is wet from tears, 
 In the world are mothers who have wept for years. 
 As you slumber so sweetly until daylight comes. 
 With no anguished dreams of those who roam. 
 
 May your life bring no deeper sorrow, I pray. 
 Than the death of your child who is safe to-day. 
 Then pray as you close your eyes to sleep 
 For the many children for whom mothers weep. 
 
80 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 GOOD-BYE 
 
 Good-bye, my readers one and all, 
 And may you each some time recall 
 A sentiment or line or verse, 
 Perchance some thought again rehearse. 
 
 And brighter may life's outlook be 
 Because of poem composed by me; 
 And if you differ from my view. 
 Indulgence then I crave of you. 
 
 Remembering that what doth suit one 
 Your neighbor's fancy ofttimes spurns, 
 And that what pleases at one time 
 At another proves but spurious rhyme. 
 
 These poems were the toil of years, 
 And contain perchance some hint of tears. 
 May you with interest con each lay. 
 And so again I bid — Good Day.