LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 r~ ^^ a/ S O 
 
 di^ji* iij|j:^ng]^t !f tu- 
 
 Shelf..Av 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
Songs for the Hour. 
 
 y 
 
 D/ M.*70NK; 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 
 
 1S93. 
 
T 
 
 <i.>* 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^0 
 
 Copyright, 1893, 
 
 BY 
 
 D. M. Jones. 
 
 Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 
 
K 
 
 TO 
 MY LITTLE DAUGHTER. 
 
 Wee, golden-haired dreamer who knocks at my door 
 
 With bright bits of fancy and Fairy-land news, 
 And now on your birthday, rejoicing at Four, 
 
 With a four-leafed clover, to gladden my Muse ! 
 Sweet enchantments of home ! whose fairy and elf 
 
 Lend their luck to the singer, and live in his songs ! 
 The Queen of my fays is your fond little self, 
 
 For now to the youngest the sceptre belongs. 
 Then come to my garden and smile on its flowers. 
 
 And find that beforehand I wove you a crown 
 To wear on your birthdays, and brighten their hours, 
 
 RecuUing the roses they once rained down ! 
 
OOl^TEI^TS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 gwilym gwent 7 
 
 The Celtic Alliance 13 
 
 John Boyle O'Reilly 21 
 
 The Flag of the Starry Eyes 26 
 
 The Harp of O'Carolan 32 
 
 The Light of Liberty 36 
 
 Erin's Sweet Dream 39 
 
 Between the Sowing and the Reaping 47 
 
 Light-Hearted 49 
 
 The Lover's Ideal 51 
 
 One of Longfellow's Letters 53 
 
 Fair Wyoming 56 
 
 To Erin 63 
 
 Our Golden Stairs 65 
 
 The Lights that Mock Us 69 
 
 Come in My Dreams 70 
 
 The Cyclone 72 
 
 Ireland and Her Martyrs 85 
 
 Deserting the Flag of the Starry Eyes 90 
 
 Sainted at Seven 96 
 
 The Hundred and Forty-Third 98 
 
 Sheridan , 114 
 
 The Last of the Three 118 
 
 When Death had lost the Day 120 
 
 I* 5 
 
6 Contents. 
 
 I'AGB 
 
 The Roses of Rapture and Rest 123 
 
 The Beautiful Dead 126 
 
 My Pretty Boy 130 
 
 His First Fire-Cracker 131 
 
 What Ails the Gael? 134 
 
 Laughter and Tears 137 
 
 " Reddy," the River Hero ... 139 
 
 The Penny ... 143 
 
 Salt-Water Song 146 
 
 The Judge and the Referee 149 
 
 The Demand for Mr. Depew 153 
 
 " Lethe, and other Poems, 1882" 154 
 
 Some of Wyoming's Singers 158 
 
 The Robin's Laugh 162 
 
 A Fine Day 165 
 
 The Holy Child 169 
 
 Memorial Ode 173 
 
 The Vanished Maiden 182 
 
 God and the Sea 184 
 
 At Garfield's Grave 188 
 
 Love's Wounds 190 
 
 Buried Love's Epitaph 192 
 
 The Rich and the Suffering 194 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow 196 
 
 The Vision of Columbus 201 
 
GWILYM GWENT. 
 
 THE COLLIER MUSICAL COMPOSER. 
 
 (Gwilym Gwent, the Welsh-American bard, was a household 
 word to every Cymro living, owing to the great popularity of his 
 inspiring musical compositions, which have swayed the Welsh 
 world for the past thirty years. He died suddenly on July 4, 
 1891, and was buried at the HoUenback Cemetery, Wilkesbarre, 
 Pennsylvania, where his friends and fellow-countrymen intend 
 erecting a monument to his memory.) 
 
 A TOILER awakened by voices divine, 
 
 A melodist sweet, too swart of the mine, 
 
 And the chivalrous strife it inspires, 
 To forget in the glow of his song-breathing 
 
 soul 
 The joys and the griefs of a cutter of coal, 
 
 And his Motherland's emulous choirs ! 
 
 Of blithe English rhythm he seldom lost sight ; 
 But near the Welsh fountains of Bardic delight 
 His music was more at its ease 
 
8 Sotigs for the Hour. 
 
 When it merrily fifed for the soldiers of Toil, 
 Or unveiled the bright vistas of Beauty's own 
 soil, 
 When they echoed his star-lighted glees. 
 
 But wedded for aye to the rich Cymric tongue 
 Is his glee that the glories of Summer had sung, 
 
 While it mirrored the smile of the morn, 
 Ere Ocean inspired the impassioned farewell 
 Of his harp to its home, under Liberty's spell, 
 
 And the love-ties wherefrom it was torn, — 
 
 Its roof-tree that rivalled the cuckoo's retreat, 
 The Eisteddfod, in which he was wont to com- 
 pete. 
 Like the harpers and minstrels of old. 
 With his musical gems for the glittering prize, 
 Till they gleamed with the splendor of Cam- 
 bria's skies. 
 And the tale her grand symphonies told! 
 
Gwilym Gwent. 9 
 
 But his lyre, grown golden 'neath Liberty's 
 
 dome, 
 More readily made fair Columbia its home, 
 
 Since the song of the winds was the same 
 (Save jubilant chorus and conquering sweep) 
 Its Celtic strings caught from the voice of the 
 deep, 
 And the tongue that no tyrant could tame ! 
 
 In the Arcady fairer than fancy had dreamed, 
 The meed of his music, the medals he deemed 
 
 More precious than silver and gold. 
 Till the truth stared out of his toil-trampled 
 
 ways 
 And song-waking wilds, that the mintage of 
 praise 
 Is worthless in hunger and cold. 
 
 When his heart was aweary of hammer and drill, 
 And melody rock-bound, with never a rill, 
 
lo Songs for the Hour, 
 
 And fancy, with never a flower, — 
 When his longings divine were at war with his 
 
 lot, 
 In Nature's glad anthems his gloom was forgot. 
 
 Or poesy's soul-tuning power. 
 
 At work in the shadows disaster had spread, 
 In the death that is swift, and the sleep that is 
 dread 
 With the flame-swept mine in its thrall! 
 The music that comforts he caught from the 
 
 gloom 
 That had trembled so oft with the dirges of 
 doom 
 And Rescue's woe-fathoming call ! 
 
 But grander the music he heard overhead ! 
 And chalked by the light his mine-lamp shed, 
 
 In a trance on his uncut coal, 
 And traced on the mine door he tended at last, 
 
Gwilym Gwent. ii 
 
 When he seized, by the gates of a Hymn- 
 glorious Past, 
 The harp that still suited his soul ! 
 
 Culture's charmed circle too shy to come near 
 A toiler as tuneful of soul and of ear, 
 
 As if idolized all his life long; 
 Too content with his sphere ? yet true as a star 
 To the key-notes of Nature, though singing so 
 far 
 
 From the centre of light and of song ! 
 
 But a light has gone out in the Nottingham 
 
 mine, 
 In Wyoming, a lamp that will nevermore shine 
 
 Through the ripples of laughter and tears 
 That mingle in melody's beautiful tide; 
 The toiler has vanished who dreamed by its 
 side. 
 Entranced with the Song of the Spheres ! 
 
1 2 So7tgs for the Hour. 
 
 And Music, his true love, leads the vast throng 
 Who follow his hearse with victorious song, 
 
 In his mother-tongue tearfully sweet, 
 That gives, as his anthems reverently gave. 
 The glory to God, when it bursts o'er the 
 grave 
 
 Where Beauty and Melody meet! 
 
THE CELTIC ALLIANCE. 
 
 Long live the Race Alliance grand in Free- 
 dom's battle formed, 
 
 When side by side the Celtic Three the heights 
 of Home Rule stormed ; 
 
 When gallant Gael the glances kind of Scot 
 and Welshman cheered, 
 
 And the ancient race-love of the Celt in splen- 
 dor reappeared. 
 
 Promise of Hope's fair angel ! From the mo- 
 ment of thy birth 
 
 A. strange enchantment swept the seas and 
 glorified the earth. 
 
 And this unmatched Alliance means the Celt 
 the world around. 
 
 Then is it strange such rapture rose from that 
 far battle-ground ? 
 
 2 13 
 
14 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 After the battle, like the skies with all their 
 
 stars restored, 
 Free souls, a countless host, smiled on your 
 
 cause with one accord ! 
 Men vied with men in Erin's aid, proud Celts 
 
 from sea to sea, 
 And Erin's foes began to ask why she should 
 
 not be free. 
 
 O deathless League, whose smiling cheer sore 
 
 chafed the victor's soul, 
 And made them seem the conquerors who 
 
 came so near the goal. 
 Your love and courage still remain, though 
 
 shadows gloom the day, 
 Not yet so dark from dauntless Celt can chase 
 
 the smile away. 
 
 Not yet so dark they may bedim that match- 
 less Saxon's smile, 
 
Tlie Celtic Alliafice. 15 
 
 The England of the masses moves to aid the 
 Emerald Isle, 
 
 The Grand Old Man of Celt-like soul this 
 league of love inspired 
 
 That sprang to being at a bound when Free- 
 dom's cause required. 
 
 While he the Gaelic column leads, vi^hose quiet 
 
 word means more 
 Than all the sway and grandeur of the Irish 
 
 kings of yore ; 
 His force intense, so self-contained, the face 
 
 unchanged as fate, 
 Discerns fair Freedom in the dark, her hand 
 
 on Erin's gate. 
 
 Right merrily, resistless League, your ranks 
 
 again ye form. 
 Stern inch by inch to hold the ground, or take 
 
 the field by storm, 
 
1 6 Songs for the Hour, 
 
 While gallant Gael the gleefulness of Scot and 
 
 Cambrian cheers, 
 And the ancient race-love of the Celt more 
 
 splendid still appears. 
 
 The Thistle pricks Oppression's sides, the Leek 
 
 is lit with smiles, 
 To greet the Shamrock growing wild o'er all 
 
 the British Isles, 
 Where Celtic harps in chorus grand the tyrant's 
 
 dreams disturb ; 
 And now 'tis Erin's Saxon friends he strives in 
 
 vain to curb. 
 
 While Cheshire's freedom-kindled flame with 
 
 Glasgow's glory blends. 
 Your Saxon allies' footsteps sound, — fair Erin's 
 
 Enghsh friends. 
 Their swelling numbers moved and swayed by 
 
 Truth's majestic might, — 
 
The Celtic Alliance. ly 
 
 The storm, a hand-breadth at the first, that 
 smites the brow of Night. 
 
 Tn vain the foe the Gael proclaims, — the tide he 
 
 cannot stay; 
 The outlawed Celt in your embrace grows 
 
 dearer every day ; 
 But when the Saxon joins the Gael, and courts 
 
 the self-same ban, 
 Behold ! A still more glorious league, — the 
 
 Brotherhood of Man ! 
 
 What friends of freedom are not proud to lend 
 
 Old Ireland aid. 
 Who see what soul on Irish soil her children 
 
 have displayed ! 
 The heart for home all things endures till heart 
 
 alone is left, — 
 The heart, still cleaving to the Right, of all its 
 
 rights bereft ! 
 
1 8 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Resistless Erin, conquering first thy friends and 
 next thy foes, 
 
 No outlawry can reach the arm the world 
 around thee throws ; 
 
 And never worthier seemed thy sons of free- 
 dom's sacred trust. 
 
 As with proud scorn they face the false accusers 
 of the just. 
 
 In the bright blaze of Celtic fire forth-flashing 
 
 for the Right, 
 The deathless Gaelic diamond emits a brighter 
 
 light. 
 While tremble in the softer rays of its unsullied 
 
 sheen 
 The fondest tears for Freedom shed the world 
 
 has ever seen. 
 
 With Erin's songs by thousands sung outside 
 the palace door, 
 
The Celtic Alliaiice. 19 
 
 And three crossed swords athwart his dreams, 
 
 the tyrant's heart is sore. 
 Now lo ! his own, nay, England's sword, the 
 
 burnished sword of Right, 
 Discarded long, has joined the Three, and leads 
 
 them in the fight. 
 
 What though the foe in fury charge, more des- 
 perate than of yore. 
 
 Now let the battle-square be formed, for Erin's 
 - friends are four. 
 
 The England of the masses wakes, — the fight 
 ye needs must win, 
 
 Defensive here, aggressive there, to hem the 
 tyrant in. 
 
 While Cheshire's sacred firebrand the flame 
 
 still farther sends. 
 The England of the masses comes! Fair Erin's 
 
 English friends. 
 
20 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 The Grand Old Man still grander seems. Im- 
 prisoned Erin thrills, 
 
 While Home Rule, like the cannon's boom, 
 shakes old Britannia's hills. 
 
 September 2, 1887. 
 
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 From the hope forlorn that he led in his 
 youth, 
 
 There flowered in Liberty's light, 
 And the heavenly flash of the sword of truth 
 
 That he handled for God and Right, 
 The legions of Liberty's grandest crusade, 
 
 Where her standard was first unfurled ! 
 And if Freedom must fall where her Charter 
 was made, 
 
 What hope for the rest of the world ? 
 
 O heart, whose revenge for the wrongs of the 
 past 
 Was the love of his fellow-men ; 
 The heights that he reached where his lot was 
 cast, 
 And the weapons he wielded then ! 
 
22 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Columbia's fond looks for the Emerald Strand, 
 Whose love-knot his own love had tied ; 
 
 Home Rule's larger army he came to com- 
 mand, 
 And her ships on the waters wide ! 
 
 But this was the key to his kindly heart, — 
 
 The crown of his Celtic soul, — 
 That He prized not his land or his race apart 
 
 From humanity as a whole. 
 Yet his love for a land was truer than theirs 
 
 Whose affection is fixed on their own; . 
 As the myriads of friends that he made un- 
 awares 
 
 Imagined he loved them alone ! 
 
 His helping hand was an angel's wing, 
 
 A giver who gave from choice — 
 Oh ! here was a heart an anthem to sing, 
 
 The spiritual strength and voice ! 
 
John Boyle O'Reilly. '23 
 
 He pictured the crown in the workmen's tears, 
 When their teacher was taken away ; 
 
 And he filled his place through the busy years, 
 And they wept on his burial-day. 
 
 When his bow for the brave Crispus Attucks 
 he drew. 
 With the love of humanity strung, 
 To the key-note that fell from the shafts as 
 they flew. 
 Was a song for the centuries sung ! 
 And the song was a sword, for the Right 
 withheld, 
 Purpling Oppression's shield ; 
 To his fairest true, like the knights of eld. 
 Wherever the foe or field ! 
 
 With a vision broad as the years to be. 
 And as reverent of Liberty's shrine 
 
 As the Pilgrims who wandered from sea to sea 
 In search of the treasure divine : 
 
24 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 From their garlanded glory he cast the dead 
 flower, 
 
 With fadeless ones filling its place ; 
 And sounding the note of our national power, 
 
 Sang the hope of the human race ! 
 
 Great of soul and of mind, and glorious of 
 mien 
 
 When he smiled in the leader's place ; 
 In the shadows, sweet Pity's diviner sheen 
 
 Endearing his patient face. 
 Thrice-conquered grave ! where the life-shadow 
 falls, 
 
 And love is the sheltering tree ; 
 Harp, sword, and cross, — his coronals, — 
 
 And flowers from both sides the sea ! 
 
 Flowers from a thousand valleys fair. 
 Borne thither on sorrow's tide; 
 
John Boyle O'Reilly. 25 
 
 And the shamrock from over the sea is there, 
 
 And the soldier is satisfied. 
 But his deeds still live, and will live more and 
 more, 
 
 Be fruitful and multiply; 
 For his like shall be seen on every shore; 
 
 For God will not let him die ! 
 
 October 10, 1890. 
 
THE FLAG OF THE STARRY 
 EYES. 
 
 (Read before the Conyngham Post, G. A. R., in Music Hall, 
 Wilkesbarre, Decoration Day, 1890.) 
 
 The Flag that smiles, like the morning star, 
 
 In Liberty's rosy gleam. 
 And nobly fulfilled, on the night of War, 
 
 Her defenders' fondest dream ! 
 Her mingling rays but the ripples are 
 
 Of an in-rolling sea of light, — 
 Grander afloat in the blue afar 
 
 Than she was in the soldiers' sight! 
 To be deemed forever diviner yet, 
 
 In the peace of expanding skies. 
 
 In the pomp of a sun that shall never set. 
 
 And the sweep of her starry eyes ! 
 26 
 
The Flag of the Starry Eyes. 27 
 
 She has comforted them who moaned in the 
 night, 
 
 Their rivers of blood beside; 
 And her smiles were the stars that fought in 
 the fight 
 
 Which Freedom has glorified. 
 There is no sorrow she has not seen, 
 
 No night to her gaze unknown ; 
 And thus she has made, 'neath her smiling 
 mien, 
 
 The griefs of the world her own. 
 Outriding the storm on her radiant wings. 
 
 And the shafts of the warring skies, — 
 'Tis a fadeless rainbow that Liberty flings 
 
 'Neath the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 
 
 The colors we fly but the shadows are 
 
 Of a Flag that is never furled ! 
 The reflected rays of the morning star 
 
 That is watched by a waiting world ! 
 
28 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 The beautiful herald, with glowing brow, 
 
 Of sunbeams that never despond, — 
 Of a sun that, climbing its zenith now, 
 
 Smites the darkness that lies beyond, — 
 The midnight dense or the misty deep. 
 
 Where the dew of the morning lies, 
 Or where men dream, in a troubled sleep, 
 
 Of the Flag of the Starry Eyes! 
 
 The ocean-path were a weary way. 
 
 And the sea a songless wild, 
 If the Flag of the Free, like the break of day," 
 
 On its billows had never smiled ! 
 There is no triumph she has not won. 
 
 Worthy the brave to win ; 
 No gate-way of glory under the sun 
 
 That she shall not enter in ! 
 Foremost to follow the Light above. 
 
 The grandest banner that flies — 
 
The Flag of the Starry Eyes. 29 
 
 In the regions of conquest or realms of love — 
 Is the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 
 
 She has led the brave, who were hers and ours, 
 
 Through the rugged ways of War, 
 To the soldiers' realm of unfading flowers. 
 
 Where she is the morning star! 
 Where the rosy shadows her folds let fall 
 
 Outrival the gifts of May, 
 And the garlands we bring at the bugle-call 
 
 For the dead who are hers for aye ! 
 When its river of tears has emerged from the 
 gloom. 
 
 And the last fond murmur dies, — 
 Lo ! the river of fame, with its banks a-bloom, 
 
 And the love of her starry eyes. 
 
 She has won her way through the rayless pall 
 
 Of a valor that vied with ours ; 
 3* 
 
30 So7igs for the Hour. 
 
 With the kiss of forgiveness for one and all, 
 
 Where Glory had scattered flowers; 
 Where the living have pledged her the death- 
 less fame 
 
 Of the dead whom they still adore, 
 Henceforth to be freemen in more than name, 
 
 And to love her for evermore. 
 And which is the greater, their love who lost. 
 
 Or ours, where the victory lies? 
 'Tis enough both belong, whatever the cost. 
 
 To the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 
 
 Hers was the gaze of the soldier and seer. 
 
 And the Truth it was grand to defend; 
 The vow, and the vision divinely clear, 
 
 That the Union shall never end. 
 Reflecting the wisdom we all revere, 
 
 And the glory to come in the end. 
 Hers was the glance of the soldier and seer, 
 
 In the face of humanity's friend ! 
 
The Flag of the Starry Eyes. 31 
 
 In the freedman's faith and the love of the 
 free 
 
 The proof of her greatness lies, — 
 Humanity's friend, on land and sea. 
 
 Is the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 
 
THE HARP OF O'CAROLAN. 
 I. 
 
 THE WELCOME, 
 
 Forth of a silence weird and olden, 
 But for her tears had been all golden, 
 
 Whose cup of sorrow overran ; 
 Tuned to the heart-beats of her bosom, 
 Who, smiling, sees her hopes in blossom, 
 They bring the Harp of O'Carolan 
 And they sing us the songs of O'Carolan ! 
 
 Taken from Sorrow's weeping willows. 
 To catch the spray of briny billows, 
 
 Those tears of joy space scarce can span; 
 Wakened by sea-winds westward blowing. 
 Till all thy golden chords are glowing 
 
 With the heart and soul of O'Carolan, — 
 
 Thrice welcome. Harp of O'Carolan ! 
 32 
 
The Harp of O'Carolan. 33 
 
 Kissed by the sunburst round thee clinging, 
 
 Proud of the shamrock, with it bringing 
 Hope for the universal man. 
 
 Come, Harp of Innisfail, the fearless, 
 
 And fill the eyelids of- the tearless 
 
 With the righteous wrath of O'Carolan, — 
 With the joyous tears of O'Carolan ! 
 
 In the New World's harbor kindly greeted. 
 Where Music's soul is never cheated 
 
 Of one sweet charm by blight or ban ; 
 Thrilled with the strange and strong emotion 
 That sways the soul this side the ocean. 
 Thrice welcome, Harp of O'Carolan, — 
 The songs and the soul of O'Carolan ! 
 
 n. 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, brave Harp, to her returning 
 For whom unnumbered hearts are yearning. 
 Whose cup of joy too soon o'erran; 
 
34 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Oh ! if there be the least despairing 
 Or drooping in her glance or bearing, 
 Comfort her, Harp of O'Carolan, — 
 Kindle her courage, O'Carolan! 
 
 Lift up thy voice so lark-like loud, 
 
 So clear, despite the passing cloud, 
 A friendly sky she still may scan; 
 
 And, looking up, cease not to see 
 
 The golden sun of Liberty, 
 
 That kindled the soul of O'Carolan, — 
 The songs and the Harp of O'Carolan ! 
 
 .Harp of the brave, on Freedom's height 
 
 We heard, with hers attuned aright! 
 Refuse the fires of hate to fan; 
 
 But be a fountain, cool and sweet, 
 
 Amid the conflict's torrid heat, 
 
 For thou art the Harp of O'Carolan, 
 And the song is the song of O'Carolan! 
 
The Harp of O'Carolan. 35 
 
 Lest her songs be sung by slavish rote, 
 
 The passion native to thy note 
 
 Lose not, echoed from clan to clan ! 
 
 Be strains like thine the heavenly vent 
 
 And healing of her discontent; 
 
 While calm-voiced Patience steadies the van 
 Of her conquering cohorts, O'Carolan ! 
 
 July 23, 1885. 
 
THE LIGHT OF LIBERTY. 
 
 All lights which were good in the eyes of the 
 Lord, 
 All lights that are sweet to the children of 
 Eve, 
 Converge in her candle, whence issues a sword 
 That flames without favor, and smites without 
 leave ! 
 And whether the wound be a smile or a tear, 
 
 The truth disenthralled, or a lie laid bare, 
 We welcome her woundings, and hold doubly 
 dear 
 The Hand that is fearless, the Face that is 
 fair! 
 
 Her sword is the sunshine ineffably bright, 
 That kissed, as akin, the keen swords of our 
 
 sires, 
 
 ■ 36 
 
The Light of Liberty. 37 
 
 When the cry in their clanging was, " Let 
 there be Light !" 
 And the flash of their blades coaxed her 
 flickering fires. 
 'Tis the sword she presented her peerless de- 
 fenders 
 Who had come to befriend her from over the 
 sea — 
 How her lamp has been burnished ! And ah ! 
 with what splendors 
 Its flame has been fed by the love of the free ! 
 
 Freedom, whose lamp is half love and half light, 
 Yet not the least wanting in either of these, 
 So thy beauty blaze full on the world's ravished 
 sight, 
 Turn the light that is love t'ward the sorrow- 
 ing seas ! 
 More hopeful their grief, and the storm's thrill- 
 ing story, 
 
38 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Than the silence that mocks, and the mirage 
 
 that creeps. 
 Smite, rays that are sword-like, reflecting her 
 
 glory. 
 The dim lands beyond, where the love of her 
 
 sleeps ! 
 
 All lights which are good in the eyes of the Lord,. 
 All lights that are kind to the children of* Eve, 
 Converge in her candle, whence issues the 
 sword 
 Which smites without anger, and flames with- 
 out leave ! 
 And whether the world she enlightens is 
 wounded. 
 Or the Darkness of Eld that would hold her 
 in thrall. 
 The joy of the one, as she heals, is unbounded. 
 And the shame of the other foreshadows his 
 fall. ■ 
 
ERIN'S SWEET DREAM. 
 
 Free skies shall yet cover her, — never despair ! 
 
 Lo ! the tear-bursts that fall on both sides 
 the sea! 
 Free highways, free byways, for Erin, the Fair! 
 
 Fear not for your fairy-land, Erin, the Free ! 
 
 O Erin, the fair, whose fond heart were forlorn 
 
 If bereft the sweet dream of Erin, the Free ! 
 
 Sad mother ! of thee are the merriest born. 
 
 And the eyes all agleam with thy glory to 
 
 be! 
 
 All aglow with that dream with its rest and 
 
 unrest, 
 
 As real as the wrongs of the Emerald Isle. 
 
 Fair dreamer ! sad mother ! thy dream has 
 
 been blest, — 
 
 The tear owns its magic as well as the smile. 
 
 39 
 
40 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 'Tis more than a dream, as the morning is 
 more, 
 When her weeping is all she may share with 
 the night. • 
 'Tis a waking to find the one friend at the 
 door. 
 Whose presence, in slumber, had gladdened 
 the sight. 
 
 Bright dream ! on whose face fell the last 
 blushing ray 
 Of the sunset of freedom on Erin's fair shore," 
 Like the lone evening star in the footprints of 
 day, 
 It gleaned of the sunlight entrancing of yore, 
 'Mid the mists and the purple that mantled her 
 skies. 
 Through the cloud-racks, that rose with the 
 turbulent years. 
 
Erin's Sweet Dream. 41 
 
 Down that splendid expanse where her chief 
 glory lies, 
 Till it sounded the depths of the river of 
 tears ; 
 Where its silvery shadow was studied betimes 
 By the king and his nobles, its beauty that 
 praised, 
 But were wroth when they fancied 'twas Lib- 
 erty's chimes 
 Pealed over the tides as they brightened and 
 blazed ! 
 
 But ah ! 'neath the frown and the frenzy of 
 • wrong, 
 And the tempests of terror that tyranny 
 brewed, 
 It passed into proverb, and burst into song. 
 That the proud soul of Erin could not be 
 subdued ! 
 
42 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 When hope feebly throbbed in the gathering 
 gloom, 
 The longing that kindled that vision so fair 
 Kept the hearth-stone ablaze and the hill-side in 
 bloom, 
 That a glimpse of her Free Land might still 
 glitter there : — 
 Wrote her legends of blood and heart-rending 
 doom 
 O'er the dust of the martyr, in memory 
 deep. 
 That the Sunburst of Erin may find out his 
 tomb, 
 The firebrands of freedom illumine his sleep ! 
 
 Oh, deathless desire ! unquenchable dream ! 
 
 Love of liberty, shining in Liberty's stead ! 
 The star of the eve in the morning shall gleam, 
 
 When the pomp of oppression has faded and 
 fled. 
 
Erin's Sweet Dream. 43 
 
 When the hopes that deceive her, the lights 
 that misled, 
 No more may distract when they cease to 
 beguile ; 
 When all her waste places and hearts that have 
 bled 
 Shall be robed in bright raiment and win 
 back the smile ! 
 When winter, whose hardships were lightened 
 by wit, 
 And that glorious old king-scathing tongue 
 in the blast — 
 His snow-realms too oft by the death-candle 
 lit— 
 Shall voice the enchantments of freedom at 
 last ! 
 
 Pale flame ! burning heart, — outlasting the night, — 
 That will brook no requital save morning's 
 alone ! 
 
44 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Shine on, sanguine fires, the lands that ye light 
 Are all the fair dreamer may yet call her 
 own ; 
 Fade not till the day come ! ye've. conquered 
 the might 
 Of soul-stifling storms none but Erin have 
 known ; 
 Outlasting the havoc of bailiff and blight, 
 The hunger and heartache, the madness and 
 moan; 
 Surviving the grief, like a rose newly blown, 
 
 As if lit in a garden of endless delight. 
 To melt in the smile, when the shadows have 
 flown. 
 Of that ruddy Aurora, the Eros of Right ! 
 
 Deathless dream ! flashing scorn of the scaffold 
 and cell. 
 And sacred with sufferings for liberty's 
 sake ! — 
 
Erin's Sweet Dream. 45 
 
 'Twas Erin's fond glance on the exile that 
 fell 
 When that star shed its balm on the heart 
 that would break 
 But for Erin ! who saw not the tears of her 
 son, 
 And, if seeing, had bidden him put them 
 away. 
 That her fight 'gainst oppression might sooner 
 be won, 
 As the death of her heroes had hastened the 
 day; 
 That her battle for home rule, for honor and 
 home, 
 May coax freedom's kiss to that gem of the. 
 sea ! 
 And her sons need no more brave billow and 
 foam, 
 In search of . that fairy-land, • Erin, the 
 Free ! 
 
46 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Brave hearts to defend her, that never despair, 
 Free lands to befriend her on both sides the 
 sea, — 
 The dream is from God ! His smile it doth 
 wear, 
 Forecasting the twilight of Erin, the Free ! 
 
 December, 1884. 
 
BETWEEN THE SOWING AND 
 THE REAPING. 
 
 The sower's song is gay and blithe, — 
 
 The blade appears; but while he's sleeping 
 
 Success or Ruin whets his scythe, 
 Between the sowing and the reaping. 
 
 He finds them wrestling in the corn ; 
 
 Sometimes they stand together, weeping, — 
 The changeful Night, the fickle Morn, — 
 
 Between the sowing and the reaping. 
 
 'Tis true we reap as we have sown, — 
 
 That is, in kind; but in God's keeping 
 
 The blessing is, and His alone. 
 
 Between the sowing and the reaping. 
 
 47 
 
48 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Yet some who cry " Our God is good," 
 Their harvest wains with plenty heaping, 
 
 Did all against Him that they could 
 Between the sowing and the reaping. 
 
 And some who curse the God above, 
 Amid their barren cornfields weeping. 
 
 Declared with fervor " God is love," 
 Between the sowing and the reaping. 
 
 But Faith, from Famine's withered breast 
 
 To life miraculous upleaping, 
 Counts that abundance God has blest 
 
 Both in the sowing and the reaping. 
 
 October 7, 1886. 
 
LIGHT-HEARTED. 
 
 The whippoorwill's call sounds blithesome to 
 me 
 As the bobolink's key-note of gladness ; 
 My honeysuckles breathe, as they harbor the 
 bee, 
 Not the least hint of heartache or sadness. 
 
 My roses are ruddy and ready to look 
 Death full in the face without sighing; 
 
 Not a flower in my garden that darkens its 
 nook 
 With dreams of the hardship of dying ! 
 
 The daisies I love do not lavish their gold 
 
 On the mounds where the dreamless are 
 
 sleeping ; 
 c d 5 49 
 
50 Songs for the Hour. • 
 
 My violets hide not their leaves in the mould 
 Where the long grasses weep with the weep- 
 • ing. 
 
 My lilies make ready by night to attend 
 The Earth's golden wedding with Morning, 
 
 And a myriad fair things quaint offerings send 
 For my Lord and my Lady's adorning. 
 
 It has cost me no tears to return you the kiss 
 That comes with good-night and good-mor- 
 row. 
 
 Light-hearted ! Yes, dear, but is not your bliss 
 Color-blind to the signals of sorrow ? 
 
THE LOVER'S IDEAL. 
 
 The fairest flower that lifts her head 
 To drink the dews that fall so free 
 
 Sinks gently down lipon her bed, 
 
 At night, my Love, to dream of thee. 
 
 The stars come out to give thee light 
 
 And throw their radiance round thy form, 
 
 As though no other maiden bright 
 
 E'er lived whose lips with love were warm. 
 
 The angels hover o'er thy path 
 With tenderness and love untold, 
 
 And, with the heart an angel hath. 
 Their arms about thy spirit fold. 
 
 They gaze upon thy beauty till 
 
 They think of Eve before she fell, 
 
 51 
 
5 2 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 When through their bosoms swept a thrill 
 Of love and joy ineffable ! 
 
 While flowers below and stars above, 
 And angels sweet your presence deem ; 
 
 May you fulfil, in life and love, 
 
 My steadfast heart's more heavenly dream ! 
 
ONE OF LONGFELLOW'S LET- 
 TERS. 
 
 " I WOULD praise them more, had you praised 
 me less" 
 
 Is a flower from his Muse, enfolding for aye 
 Its coveted secret in rosy duress. 
 
 In a letter whose kindness is clear as day, 
 Revealing the grace and fragrance divine 
 Of a heart-flower of his for a handful of mine. 
 
 More precious to me was the praise implied. 
 And the thorn thereof, than the praise e^?- 
 pressed ; 
 
 For my heart, I trow, was more fit to be tried 
 Than its tribute was by his friendly test, — 
 
 Discerning the dew on flower and thorn. 
 
 And the blush of the splendor whereof they 
 
 were born ! 
 
 5* 53 
 
54 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 In the smile, I fancied, his letter reflected 
 
 And flashed in the face of my love-smitten 
 Muse, 
 
 A faint gleam of humor my fond glance de- 
 tected, 
 Yet not the least glimpse of it willing to 
 lose! 
 
 But it symbolled the span — 'twas the poet's last 
 year — 
 
 From friendship's first smile to its farewell tear ! 
 
 Even thus are the poets repaid by the Muse 
 
 With one living line or one deathless lay 
 (And richer the meed she is loath to refuse 
 Than that she bestows in a warm-hearted 
 way). 
 From the happy Bohemian upholding her 
 
 throne 
 To the prince who is king in a realm of his 
 own. 
 
Oiie of Longfellow^ s Letters, 5 5 
 
 Her favoring glance but a transient gleam 
 For the many, a deathless smile for the few, — 
 
 Or a bosom friend, or a beautiful dream, — 
 She rejects no lover because he is new ; 
 
 But replies, when his rhapsodies run to excess, 
 
 " I would praise them more, had you praised 
 me less." 
 
 May, 1892. 
 
FAIR WYOMING. 
 
 Sing not, my Muse, as if in love wert crossed, 
 Of beauty's wane and beauty's battle lost. 
 
 Christened with joyful tears in verse divine 
 That flowed, a poet named her " Fair Wyo- 
 ming;" 
 Whose lovely bowers were beauty's very shrine, 
 Which he at once, with rapturous outbursts fine 
 And farewells fond, still echoed in the gloaming, 
 Enshrined in song, and glorified Wyoming ! 
 
 When from her Indian first love she was won, 
 Her brave white lover whispered, "Fair Wyo- 
 ming!" 
 In the fond way he wooed her was it done ; 
 
 In flowering field at rise and set of sun, 
 56 
 
Fair. Wyoming. 57 
 
 In forest din all day, and flowerless loaming, 
 While many a flintlock flashed for fair Wyo- 
 ming. 
 
 Not without sorrow did he win his bride, 
 Herself a child of sorrows, fair Wyoming; 
 Not without glory, when their tears were dried 
 In Freedom's after-smile and patriot-pride. 
 Whence falls a tender light, for meet illuming 
 Of her remembered bfeauty, fair Wyoming. 
 
 She lifts her woodlands like a crown, but dotes 
 
 Upon her dappled dingles, fair Wyoming ! 
 
 From Campbell's Ledge the vale-queen's ban- 
 ner floats. 
 
 Hymned by the birds in blithe and plaintive 
 notes. 
 
 Glad for the bonny realms banned not from 
 blooming. 
 
 And sad for beauty blighted in Wyoming. 
 
58 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Chief of her splendors, — hint of golden hair,— 
 Falling from head to foot of fair Wyoming, 
 The blushing sunset's favorite river there, 
 A drifted dream of all that's bright and fair ! 
 Ah! back to Gertrude's day is Fancy roaming? 
 Or dreaming ? Fleeting glimpses, fair Wyoming ! 
 
 She is not here nor there, the valley sprite, 
 Her foot-falls, free, elude us, fair Wyoming! 
 On hills which hide their hoarded wealth from 
 
 sight 
 She sets her royal signet, daisy white. 
 Forget-me-not, and dandelion looming, 
 Qufeen of the wild-flower land of loved Wyo- 
 ming. 
 
 The resurrected shine of suns long dead, 
 Clad in dark cloud and rainbow glow in glooming, 
 Casts a weird grandeur where their shadows 
 spread! 
 
Fair Wyoming. 59 
 
 For flaming flower the flowering flame instead, 
 That brightest blooms for Labor's sake consum- 
 ing; 
 And oh ! what sunbursts slumber in Wyoming ! 
 
 Lo ! in the dusk their shattered diamonds make, 
 And green-eclipsing cloud, for fair Wyoming 
 Plead many a pretty knoll and blooming 
 
 brake 
 And little dewy dell, for beauty's sake ! 
 While wooded hills, where glimmers endless 
 
 gloaming. 
 Uplift their bannered green for fair Wyoming ! 
 
 To hidden fields, 'midst lightnings harvested, 
 And caverned night's awakened thunders boom- 
 ing, 
 The torch-plumed reapers . brave are charioted 
 Adown the dark, while Doom's own shadow. 
 Dread. 
 
6o Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Flees from before their gay and fearless com- 
 ing, 
 Who left their loves in care of fair Wyoming. 
 
 Night's roaring towers, day's phantoms dark that 
 
 frown, 
 But share industrial grandeur's wonted gloom- 
 ing,— 
 Wizards, that rain the rock-reaped jewels down, 
 And breaking them in sight of all the town, 
 Pluck from the fossilled leaves of Time's en- 
 tombing 
 The golden flower of Fortune for Wyoming! 
 
 The city's splendors many a sylvan spot 
 
 Enfold, kept fresh and green for fair Wyo- 
 ming ; 
 
 The vale-queen's spell remains on grove and 
 grot. 
 
 Though half their haunting legends are forgot ; 
 
Fair Wyoming. 6 1 
 
 While, by the river's bend, stands Summer, sum- 
 ming 
 
 Thy varied, verdurous charms, flower-sweet 
 Wyoming ! 
 
 Over against the city's riotous shore 
 
 Majestic trees, nurslings of wild Wyoming, 
 Arise, — elm, maple, oak, and sycamore, — 
 Their domed green delightful as of yore ; 
 Harping the hymns sublime, or softly hum- 
 ming 
 The lullabies they learned of wild Wyoming. 
 
 And what grand tales yon beauteous river 
 
 tells, 
 
 A rhythmic flow, of far-away Wyoming! 
 
 And on the rustic legend how it dwells ! 
 
 With winding panorama which impels 
 
 The wondering towns it turns to, in its roaming. 
 
 To weave still grander fables for Wyoming. 
 
 6 
 
62 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 From the far glory of her girdling hills 
 To Flora's inmost fane, on fair Wyoming 
 Lingers a grace of outline fine, which fills 
 Brimful the sense of beauty ! When morn spills 
 Its crystal rills, or sunset gold is foaming. 
 Once more the fays have found their fair Wyo- 
 ming. 
 
 The Old romance, outdone, still finds her fair ; 
 Half its romance the New owes fair Wyoming; 
 Her name forever ! web and woof as rare 
 As erst enriched the legend-weaver's care ! 
 First and last words of Wonder in the gloam- 
 ing; 
 Her miniature immortal, fair Wyoming ! 
 
TO ERIN. 
 
 This sudden dark is but transition. Beautiful 
 as Venus 
 Beheld through Sorrow's sable glass, Hope 
 hastes to Freedom's side, 
 Who cries to Erin through the cloud, " Bright 
 shines the star between us; 
 By very Hope am I eclipsed, the bridegroom 
 by his bride !" 
 
 There is a light which breeds despair, whose 
 
 blandest ray is blighting. 
 
 The daylight of the desert born, that murders 
 
 with its smile; 
 
 With golden quicksands pitiless the patient heart 
 
 requiting, 
 
 And here and there an oasis that blossoms to 
 
 beguile. 
 
 63 
 
64 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 There is a shadow, cast of Hope, which hides 
 a living glory, 
 When, like Queen Esther, for her race she 
 dares the disk of day; 
 'Tis Love come closer to her Lord to tell her 
 people's story, — 
 Let Haman rear his scaffold high and Hatred 
 have its way. 
 
 O Erin's Star, intensely bright, yet ever pure 
 and tender. 
 Familiar grown with Sorrow's face, as Sorrow 
 hath with thine, 
 On Freedom's clouded brow falls full thy 
 smile's unquenched splendor, 
 Day hearkens to thee and adores ! the dark- 
 ness is divine ! 
 
 April 29, 1887. 
 
OUR GOLDEN STAIRS. 
 
 Our babe had heard that pretty story, 
 
 With wonder in his eyes, 
 About the stairway, grand and golden. 
 
 High up the happy skies. 
 
 Four summers, for our boy, with flowers 
 
 Those golden stairs arrayed; 
 And four times all the stars of summer 
 
 Their steps with gold inlaid. 
 
 So often beauteous thoughts are uttered 
 
 By childhood unawares, 
 We half suspect our darlings traverse 
 
 In dreams those golden stairs. 
 
 One morn when ours was just awaking 
 
 Out of a gentle sleep, 
 
 e 6* 65 
 
66 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 A smile transfigured all his features, 
 That held a meaning deep. 
 
 I said, my heart with bliss o'erflowing, 
 
 That gloried in such cares, 
 " Come down with me," when quick he queried, 
 
 " What ! down the golden stairs ?" 
 
 I pressed him to my heart so fondly. 
 
 My heart sang out for joy; 
 And catching up the simple chorus, 
 
 I sang it to my boy. 
 
 Methinks the stairs are golden. 
 
 Because my boy in white 
 Comes down them every morning 
 
 And up them every night. 
 
 Oh! did he fancy, on the summit 
 Of rounded, rosy rest. 
 
Our Golden Stairs. 6"/ 
 
 That dream-land out of which he wakened 
 The Heaven of the Blest? 
 
 Or, waking, thought his splendid journey 
 
 Was hardly finished yet; 
 And I, adown the steps remaining. 
 
 Should carry him, my pet? 
 
 As well when childhood's happy visions. 
 
 As those of older hearts. 
 Have floated off and left the real. 
 
 The rapture soon departs. 
 
 When down its steps we both descended. 
 
 And at the bottom stood. 
 Surprised, my child surveyed our stairway. 
 
 And cried, ** It's only wood !" 
 
 But soon, with childish, sweet persistence. 
 When half a mind to scold, 
 
68 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 He caught the sunlight on the varnish, 
 And smiling said, " It's gold !" 
 
 Perhaps too young to deem it golden, 
 For that his Heavenly Friend 
 
 And Father smiles upon his pathway, 
 With Heaven at either end? 
 
 Again I clasped him, oh ! so fondly. 
 My heart sang out for joy ; 
 
 When catching up the happy chorus, 
 I sang it for my boy. 
 
 For this our stairs are golden. 
 
 Our little angels bright 
 Come down them every morning, 
 
 Go up. them every night. 
 
 March 5, 1883. 
 
THE LIGHTS THAT MOCK US. 
 
 There is no mockery in the smile of Morn, 
 None in the dazzling Noonday's glance divine ; 
 The earnest Stars look down, with brows 
 benign, 
 
 To bless the gentle dreams of Twilight born. 
 
 And e'en the merry Moon, a tinge of scorn 
 That just escapes for mortal fancies fine. 
 With all the mischief shadowed in her shine, 
 
 Smiles like a rose regretful of its thorn. 
 
 The lights of earth, which have a kindly glow 
 And sweep of vision heavenly in its ken, 
 Smile, in their seasons, on the sons of men. 
 Who meet the unfriendly shaft with bended bow. 
 The gleams we follow vanish like the elves ; 
 The lights that mock us glimmer in our- 
 selves. 
 
 69 
 
COME IN MY DREAMS. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Come in my dreams and smile again, 
 
 Come with the loving look of old ; 
 This broken heart is happy then, 
 
 And flutters free from sorrow's hold ! 
 Come in my dreams and kiss again. 
 
 The dear old fondness to renew — 
 I wake to find you false, but when 
 
 I dream, oh ! then so fond and true ! 
 
 Come in my dreams, when slumber brings 
 
 Forgetfulness of all my woe ; 
 Come in sweet dreams, when fond Love wings 
 
 The swallow flights of long ago, 
 And, from its home within the heart, 
 
 Still cleaves the clouds that lie beyond ; 
 
 And you shall nevermore depart, 
 
 And I will nevermore despond ! 
 70 
 
Come in my Dreams. 71 
 
 Come in my waking hours no more, 
 
 Unless it be with tearful eyes ; 
 For close to sorrow's troubled shore 
 
 Love, in a hopeless circle, flies, 
 And knows it ne'er can build again 
 
 The broken nest from whence it flew — 
 I wake to find you false, but when 
 
 I dream, oh ! then so fond and true ! 
 
THE CYCLONE. 
 
 What had Wyoming's hill-girt city 
 
 To fear from her Cloudland fair? 
 Oft had our hearts been stirred with pity, 
 
 But never yet with prayer, 
 With muttered curse and imprecation, 
 
 From pallid lips outpoured, 
 When the fierce Wind-Fiends of Desolation 
 
 Were unfettered by the Lord ! 
 The Doom-Cloud's shadow was wont to en- 
 shroud 
 
 The homes of the West alone ; 
 And what had our Valley, in shine or cloud, 
 
 To fear from the far Cyclone? 
 
 Far different the picture on Nature's ken 
 
 When the leonine storms from their lair up- 
 rose ! 
 72 
 
The Cyclone. 73 
 
 When, for man and beast, in meadow and glen. 
 And here, where the fair Susquehanna flows, 
 
 The strange unrest of a sultry day 
 To an unknown terror turned ! 
 
 And the cinder-like sun in the glooming gray 
 Like a beacon of danger burned ! 
 
 Never so dread was the black dome above us, 
 The clouds never wore so fierce a frown ; 
 
 And even the Rain, that was still fain to love us. 
 Like the tears of the prophet, wept over the 
 town ! 
 
 A crash through the clouds ! 'Tis only the 
 thunder — 
 Ah ! the tremors that follow its more dis- 
 tant peals ! 
 
 While, before and behind, and over and 
 
 under, 
 
 Broods the horror that Nature already feels ! 
 d 7 • 
 
74 Songs for thf Hour. 
 
 'Tis an outburst of rage from the fretting At- 
 lantic ! 
 Nay, a home-brewed storm, — a hurricane 
 waif! 
 Tall trees are toppled, the horses are frantic, 
 Not a spot in the city that seems to be 
 safe ! . 
 
 Not a doubter is left to make light of the 
 
 danger ; 
 The oldest inhabitant daft as the stranger^ — 
 Behind houses, in hiding, crouch fear-stricken 
 
 men. 
 Who fled from their shelter, and seek it again ! 
 Hither and thither the bravest are speeding, 
 The fate of their friends and their neighbors 
 
 unheeding ! 
 No, no, 'tis for Love's sake the fugitives 
 
 strive, — 
 The loved they may never again meet alive ! 
 
The Cyclone. 75 
 
 Sense of dread is not all in the hearing and 
 seeing ; 
 The forebodings of woman are quickest to 
 form — 
 Frightened wives, with their babes, to the cellar 
 are fleeing. 
 And some for their babes are braving the 
 storm ! 
 In the grasp of suspense, by great perils di- 
 vided, 
 The dear ones of home were never so dear; 
 But some, unaware of what has betided. 
 
 The sweet lullaby sing, " There is nothing to 
 fear!" 
 
 » 
 The Lightning's red finger the fire-bell tolls ! 
 The smoke of the flame-fronted Tempest uprolls 
 From river to roadway, from roadway to 
 
 street, — 
 Its flight up the valley less fatal than fleet. 
 
70 Songs far the Hour. 
 
 And the trophies it tore from a neighboring 
 
 vale 
 But as straws to the conquests in store for the 
 
 gale. 
 Lo ! deeper the gloom where opposing storms 
 
 meet, 
 Both caught in the grip of a greater than they, 
 Defiant at first and now swift to obey, 
 But changing its course, while they hang on 
 
 the verge, 
 And widen the sweep of its terrible scourge ! 
 With the menace of death for a myriad of 
 
 souls. 
 The smoke of the flame-fronted Tempest up- 
 
 rolls 
 ' From the south of the city, eastwardly blown, — 
 " Fire !" the first outcry, and now • " The Cy- 
 clone !" 
 A moment ago men stood in its path 
 Who now scan its revels unscathed of its wrath ! 
 
The Cyclone. yy 
 
 " Thank God, we are saved !" the cry as it 
 
 veers. 
 It has swung to the right, and when it up- 
 
 rears, 
 Lo ! the funnel-shaped cloud that every one 
 
 fears ! 
 
 "A Cyclone!" "A Cyclone!" tells the tale 
 
 in a word : 
 
 Its shuddering sounds for miles may be 
 
 heard ; 
 
 Its fierce hissing noises, its rumble and roar, 
 
 Are a hundredfold louder and terrify more 
 
 Than the rush of a runaway train in the 
 
 night, 
 
 In charge of a mad engineer, 
 
 Whose maniac shrieks and yells of delight 
 
 Were dreadful to hear, 
 
 As the engine, in agony, swept into sight; 
 
 Fear too affrighted to fear! 
 7* 
 
yS Songs for the Hour. 
 
 And the crash that befell, when it came in 
 collision 
 With another that dreamt not of danger 
 ahead, 
 Was as naught to the wreck that is wrought, 
 in derision, 
 By the awful Cyclone, with its dying and 
 dead ! 
 
 Rolling on in the dark of its own dread 
 creation. 
 Black billows of smoke and half-smothered 
 flame, 
 Like a monster, with headlights, that stops 
 at no station, 
 It comes to destroy, and will go as it came ! 
 
 Like the voice of the tempest, now low and 
 now high, 
 Increasing in volume and terror of tone, 
 
The Cyclone. 79 
 
 It rises and falls as it rolls through the sky, 
 With forces unlooked for in league with 
 its own ! 
 And striking the ground, in its dance of de- 
 struction, 
 Spreads ruin niore wide than its zigzag- 
 ing path ! 
 Drawing up to the maw of its . maelstrom- 
 like suction 
 All the odds and the ends of its house- 
 wrecking wrath ! 
 The roof of a cottage that somebody cherished. 
 The tree that had sheltered his shattered 
 abode ; 
 Dread reminders of home and its inmates 
 that perished, 
 To heighten our fears and our horror to 
 goad ! 
 A cradle let fall where babe never crept. 
 The shreds of a carpet that Beauty had trod ; 
 
8o So7tgs for the Hour. 
 
 But, blind to its ridicule, man's humor 
 slept ; 
 More fearful the scene because it was 
 odd! 
 
 Steeds in full flight, — types of Fury Titanic,- — 
 The forecasts of Terror outdistanced by 
 Death, 
 Or hurled, as they coursed o'er the pitfalls 
 of panic. 
 Into caverns that Ruin had built in a 
 breath ! 
 
 Prayer in a street-coach the storm-bombs 
 were shelling; 
 In a very simoom of thick-flying debris ! 
 Wild shrieks of anguish in many a dwell- 
 
 The warning too late from destruction to 
 flee! 
 
The Cyclone. 8 1 
 
 Dwellings, whose beauty had gladdened the 
 vision, 
 In the tatters of ruin the strange tale to tell ! 
 Solid structures it smote with appalling pre- 
 cision ; 
 Either razed to the ground or crushed like 
 a shell ! 
 
 Mighty towers snapped off like the masts of a 
 vessel 
 By this worse than a sea-storm, a-stalk o'er 
 the land ; 
 And lo ! where their Giants had gathered to 
 wrestle, 
 What shipwrecks were strewn on Calamity's 
 strand ! 
 
 Countless hearts with which it had cruelly toyed, 
 
 Unstrung in the midst of the sorrow it 
 
 spread ! 
 / 
 
82 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Hundreds of homes in a twinkling destroyed, 
 And more than a score of the mangled and 
 dead ! 
 
 The dirge has been sung, and the solemn bell 
 
 tolled, 
 Long ago for our loved, the young and the 
 old, 
 
 A score that were slain 
 
 By the dread Cyclone ! 
 Let not its dirges be heard again. 
 
 For love's sake alone ! 
 The tremble of bell, and of tear, 
 
 O'er the dust of our mangled dead, 
 Is forgot, — and forgotten, I fear, 
 
 When the shadows of terror had 
 fled, 
 The sincere and solemn thanksgiving 
 That was offered to God by the living. 
 
The Cyclone. 83 
 
 Let us be grateful for evermore 
 That the graves we counted were only a 
 score ! 
 
 'Tis the mad strength of Death and Destruction. 
 
 In a black, rushing cloud-rack confined, 
 That wrought into frenzy will brook no ob- 
 struction , 
 From anything earthly, its kindred or kind ; 
 From man, or his works, though he build 
 them of granite. 
 With the broadest foundations, the tallest of 
 towers ; 
 Like the Earthquake and Flood, the scourge 
 of our planet, 
 Lest men should grow vain in the pride of 
 their powers. 
 
 Not the thing of an hour! but casting aside 
 Its ebony chariot, whose courier is Fear, 
 
84 So7igs for the Hour. 
 
 From the region of air where mortals abide 
 It ascends, it is said, to a loftier sphere; 
 Coursing the globe at a speed would erase 
 Every vestige of life and of love from its face ! 
 But the circuits of Terror it sweeps not alone : 
 Its number is thousands, its name, The Cy- 
 clone ! 
 
 To planes far above us in mercy uplifted. 
 Narrow its path and eccentric its flight ; 
 And mortals give thanks when its movements 
 are shifted 
 From the hamlets and cities it fills with 
 affright ! 
 
 1891. 
 
IRELAND AND HER MARTYRS. 
 I. 
 
 Voices of eloquence and poesy 
 
 And song, poured on the breeze by deathless 
 lips, 
 That lead the universal symphony 
 
 Of freedom; you would suffer no eclipse 
 If, pausing now in mid-flight of your theme, 
 
 You caught the plaintive note of yon sad 
 Land, 
 In whose torn breast freedom is but a dream. 
 
 And baffled hope an inward burning brand ! 
 Forgetful of the feuds of race or clan, 
 
 Undaunted by the clash of differing creeds, 
 Remembering alone man's debt to man. 
 
 And all the world is kin in direst needs. 
 
 Should follow then so grand a Marseillaise, 
 
 Tyranny would turn and flee the enchanted 
 
 place ! 
 
 8 85 " 
 
86 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 II. 
 
 The birthday of a patriot martyr slain 
 For love of liberty, where men are free, 
 Is fitting time for joy and jubilee; 
 
 But such a day is pierced with thrilling pain. 
 
 E'en though the glory of his death remain, 
 If for his land it brought not liberty. 
 Or some sure sign its dawning soon would be 
 
 Hope's heralding he had not died in vain ! 
 The death-days of thy heroes. Land of ours, 
 
 When all the sudden overflow of tears 
 
 Hath ebbed away, grow fragrant with sweet 
 flowers ; 
 
 And for the "sobbing bells" the nation hears 
 The shrilly clarions of a glowing morn 
 The day repeat when Liberty was born. 
 
 III. 
 But thou, sad Isle! — forever fresh and green 
 In the fond memory of thy children here, 
 
Ireland and her Martyrs. 87 
 
 Though thy sweet grasses withered were and 
 sere, — 
 How many mournful deaths thy soil hath seen! 
 With naught but growing sorrows spread be- 
 tween ; 
 And following hard upon the martyr's bier 
 The footsteps of fell woe, and want, and fear ; — 
 O Sorrow's Isle ! how hard thy lot hath been ! 
 And for thy suffering heroes what harsh doom, 
 That did not grant thee what they died to 
 gain ! 
 In all this wide, wide world a little room, 
 A little space for them who would remain 
 To live and die like freemen — simple boon — 
 Beneath their own bright skies and harvest 
 moon ! 
 
 IV. 
 Yet something in brave Emmet's breast was 
 fain 
 To picture Ireland free ! the. hero heard 
 
8S Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Afar his rescued country's happy strain, 
 
 And read her unwrit history word by word. 
 He felt that his young hfe was a sweet leaven 
 
 Ireland's after-times should so pervade, 
 She still would find the favoring smile of 
 Heaven, 
 Though in the dust his loving heart was laid ; 
 And from the night that wrapped his dust in 
 gloom 
 A clear, unclouded dawn would some time rise. 
 And his dear, dead country come forth of the tomb 
 Of Tyranny, with the day-spring in her eyes ; 
 While friendly lands should scatter at her feet 
 Freedom's fair flowers, that smell so fresh and 
 sweet ! 
 
 V. 
 O Isle of many griefs ! henceforth take heart. 
 The still, small voice in England's yielding 
 
 breast, 
 Till you are free, will never give her rest — 
 
Ireland and her Martyrs. 89 
 
 England herself at last will say, " Depart 
 In peace." For ah ! not always by the art 
 Of statesmanship or arms may Empire wrest 
 A people's God-given rights away; the test 
 Is truth divine, from brute force far apart ! 
 Erin, take heart ! the day is not far off; 
 For friend and foe alike do force the time ; 
 
 God never heeds man's favor or his frown. 
 Though pride of power resist, and hatred scoff, 
 The omens of the century are sublime — 
 
 The love of right grows stronger than the 
 Crown. 
 1880. 
 
 8* 
 
DESERTING THE FLAG OF THE 
 STARRY EYES. 
 
 In the glorified cavalry garb of the Union 
 
 A shadow, like mine, but in mien too brave 
 With a soldier that faltered to hold communion. 
 
 Comes hinting to me of a flower-strewn grave, 
 Of his ghostly rides in the ranks of glory, 
 
 And my part in the patriot's paradise ! 
 'Tis a dream of his ; the deserter's story 
 
 Is known to the Flag of the Starry Eyes ! 
 
 More in fear of the flag than the ban I was 
 
 under, 
 
 When I fled in the charge that was lance to 
 
 lance ; 
 
 I heard her voice in the cannon's thunder. 
 
 And my heart seemed to shrivel beneath her 
 
 glance 
 90 
 
Deserting the Flag of the Starry Eyes. 91 
 
 Where the battle raged ; but alas ! I dallied 
 With the moment when manhood lives or 
 dies; 
 
 And when my courage had fairly rallied, 
 I fled from the scorn of her beautiful eyes ! 
 
 At every turn she uprose before me, 
 
 On the battle-cloud with its lightning flame; 
 And the spell of her grandeur in action came 
 o'er me, 
 
 With Freedom beside her, and deathless 
 Fame! 
 But still I fled, for the step had been taken; 
 
 Then a shout of victory shook the skies. 
 And lo ! it was I who had been forsaken. 
 
 Not the charioted queen of the starry eyes ! 
 
 My battle-scars for naught had counted, 
 
 Were they shown to her in her fierce dis- 
 dain : 
 
92 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 With the sabre-stroke, on my charger mounted, 
 I might seek for her dear old smile in vain! 
 So I spurred my horse, in my mad despairing, 
 Tow'rd the shallows of shame, to his great 
 surprise ; 
 And I felt that a hero my shame was sharing, — 
 With his head thrown back tow'rd her 
 beckoning eyes! 
 
 But he wheeled about, with the wildest neigh- 
 ing, 
 His love for her trumpeting far and wide. 
 With the sweep of a whirlwind her gesture 
 obeying, 
 As he plunged into victory's swelling tide. 
 She patted his neck as in approbation, — 
 
 My Nemesis now in a charger's guise, — 
 While the touch of her filled me with conster- 
 nation. 
 And a cowering dread of her flashing eyes ! 
 
Deserting the Flag of the Starry Eyes, 93 
 
 Thenceforward he ran bereft of a rider, 
 
 With my blood as a balm for his wounded pride; 
 And the gulf between us grew darker and wider, 
 
 Till it moaned like the sea when its storms 
 subside. 
 But the scorn of the Flag there was no escaping : 
 
 Wherever I went she was sure to rise, 
 Unfurled to the sight or of fancy's own shaping, 
 
 With the torments of hell in her soul-haunt- 
 ing eyes ! 
 
 I wandered away in a trance of terror. 
 
 Away from the Flag, and the faces of men ! 
 And my farther flight was a fatal error. 
 
 For the refuge sought I have failed to gain. 
 But oh ! if I knew in my isolation 
 
 That they mourn me for dead and my memory 
 prize, 
 I would crave of death's angel emancipation 
 
 From the maddening thrall of her myriad eyes ! 
 
94 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 I have grayed since then less with years than 
 sorrow, 
 On this shore more lonely than ocean-isle ; 
 But perchance I shall sight a sail to-morrow, 
 
 And catch from afar her forgiving smile! 
 The winds and the waves will attest my con- 
 trition. 
 She has smiled in my dreams and heard all 
 my sighs, 
 And never had soldier a heavenlier vision 
 
 Who has walked with Despair, 'neath her still, 
 starry eyes ! 
 
 I plead not the laurels I wore when I faltered. 
 Nor the fever-racked frame to the battle I 
 brought, 
 But the love which the hardship of fate has not 
 altered, 
 And a heart that beats true in a bosom dis- 
 traught. 
 
Deserting the Flag of the Starry Eyes. 95 
 
 Oh ! the touch of her folds ! how it thrilled 
 through and through me 
 When she smiled in my dreams and gave ear 
 to my sighs ! 
 But waking, I fear that her glance would undo me, 
 Bending over me so with her beautiful eyes ! 
 
 Lo ! a friendly sail ! the banner flying 
 That embraces the world in her peaceful 
 dream ! 
 While prone on the strand is a soldier dying 
 
 Of a broken heart and her starry gleam ! 
 Let his name be dropped from the roll-call of 
 glory 
 And classed with deserters, but do not despise ; 
 For the love of the Flag is an unfinished 
 story 
 Without the forgiveness that falls from her 
 
 eyes 
 
 1889. 
 
SAINTED AT SEVEN. 
 
 Sweet sunshine plays around my dwelling, 
 And pleasures hive their precious store; 
 
 O tearless heart! there is no telling 
 What sorrows wait without thy door. 
 
 Mother, press closer to your bosom 
 The child you lately feared to lose; 
 
 For every household has its blossom, 
 
 And Death stands doubting which to choose. 
 
 Thick gloom enfolds my neighbor's dwelling, 
 A lovely child of seven lies dead ; 
 
 But oh ! through sorrow's sudden knelling 
 Her sweet voice falls : " Be comforted." 
 
 One sweet tone threads the solemn tolling: 
 
 " Beloved of all, and only seven ;" 
 96 
 
Sainted at Seven. 97 
 
 While, from above, still more consoling : 
 "Seven means safe with Christ in heaven." 
 
 Enter, dear Christ, grief's darkened dwelling, 
 And comfort them who weep to-night; 
 
 And with tHy presence, peace-compelling, 
 Fill all the house with heavenly light. 
 
THE HUNDRED AND FORTY- 
 THIRD. 
 
 (a typical regiment.) 
 
 Written for and read at the Reunion of the One Hundred and 
 Forty-Third Regiment P. V., at Camp Luzerne, August 26, 189 1. 
 
 On our far-famed Valley what glory falls 
 
 Like the deeds of The Hundred and Forty- 
 Third ? 
 The service to Freedom their story recalls, 
 On our beautiful Valley the crown they con- 
 ferred ! 
 The men who remembered the Patriot's tomb 
 And the dust of the martyrs in Liberty's 
 urn! 
 What splendor uplighted the fair Valley's 
 gloom 
 Like that which was kindled in Camp Lu- 
 zerne ? 
 
The Hundred and Forty-Third. 99 
 
 A band of the boldest from hill-side and glen, 
 
 The ready-made heroes of forest and mine, 
 Our foremost and first, all brave-hearted men ! 
 And Liberty smiled when they fell into line 
 And followed her lead, eleven hundred strong, 
 The Flag of the Free, and the Sword of 
 the Brave, 
 To the fife and the drum that enchanted the 
 throng, 
 When they marched to the front the Union 
 to save. 
 
 Devoted to duty in camp-life and drill, 
 
 Upbuilding a fort, or marching through mire. 
 Supporting an army at Chancellorsville 
 
 As if they had not been but once under 
 
 • fire! 
 In the swamp and corn-stubble as ready to 
 serve 
 
 The colors they bore as in battle array; 
 
lOO Songs for the Hour. 
 
 From none of war's hardships willing to swerve, 
 The Flag's firm defenders forever and aye! 
 
 With a leader who loved them far more than 
 his life, 
 With a love that outweighed all the laurels 
 of war, 
 And officered so for the terrible strife, 
 
 Not a corporal there that you could not adore, 
 Not a private of whom you would not be proud ; 
 And the zeal on their features was some- 
 thing divine, 
 As they chafed to come under the black battle- 
 cloud. 
 That the sunshine of Freedom the sooner 
 might shine. 
 
 Oh ! these were the heroes, and men of like 
 mould, 
 With the Keystone itself in Confederate reach, 
 
The Hundred and Forty-Third. loi 
 
 The fearless invader in firm check to hold, 
 To lead the attack, or fill up the breach; 
 
 To fight three to one, and change front under fire, 
 And fight on, unsupported, while others re- 
 treat ; 
 
 Fire volley on volley, when forced to retire. 
 While the rebel flood-tide rolled up at their feet ! 
 
 Ay, these and their comrades, now Dana's 
 brigade. 
 Who had charged and destroyed three bri- 
 gades in the fray. 
 Deserve deathless fame for the firm stand they 
 made, 
 When they kept a whole army for five hours 
 at bay ! 
 The key of the first day's defence in their 
 keeping, 
 "We have come here to stay," the cry first 
 and last; 
 
102 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 And there to this day are some of them sleep- 
 ing, 
 Where the bugle recalls their brave battle- 
 blast. 
 
 Ah ! well may we look for a valor like theirs 
 To find its full flower in that living ro- 
 mance, 
 When their brave color-sergeant a whole army 
 dares, 
 With clinched fist defying its sweeping ad- 
 vance. 
 Their Nemesis incarnate was facing them then, 
 
 A finger prophetic, his finger of scorn ! 
 For Crippen had caught, on his clear, dying ken. 
 The first flush of the triumph to come with 
 the morn! 
 
 " Rally on your colors !" Conyngham cried, 
 "Rally, One Hundred and Forty-Third!" 
 
The Hundred and Forty-Third. 103 
 
 " Rally on your colors !" DeLacy replied, 
 
 And the action was suited then and there 
 to the word ; 
 
 And all the boys rallied, the colors were saved, 
 Crippen himself by his comrades outdone ! 
 
 Ever thus have the soldiers of Freedom behaved ; 
 In this way the war for the Union was won. 
 
 When the dread morning broke on the third 
 day's fight, 
 With artillery havoc unheard of before, 
 And Lee's legions at last came surging in 
 sight, 
 They still did their duty in Doubleday's corps ! 
 The artillery's target, supporting the left, 
 
 As if rebel revenge marked them out for its 
 prey, 
 Springing up in the path its avalanche cleft, 
 'Gainst Wilcox and Pickett helped carry the 
 day. 
 
104 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Superhuman your valor, ye brave volunteers, 
 In your State and your hearth-stones' immor- 
 tal defence ; 
 So heightening the zeal of your gallant com- 
 peers, 
 All the homes of the free seemed in breath- 
 less suspense. 
 So the North's brave battalions fought on, to a 
 man. 
 As if each its own firesides were struggling 
 to save; 
 " For the land of the free," the fierce battle began. 
 But the fight's loud refrain was "The home 
 of the brave !" 
 
 With scarcely a thought of the glory they won, 
 The country in peril their uppermost care. 
 
 Still it lightened their hearts, the knapsack and 
 gun. 
 The burdens of march and manoeuvre to bear. 
 
The Hundred atid Forty-Third. 105 
 
 Always true to their trust, wherever they stood 
 The Capitol guarding, or goading the foe; 
 
 Whether merry or sad was the veterans' mood, 
 The stern voice of Duty they ne'er failed 
 to know. 
 
 Right well had they earned the camp's wel- 
 come rest, 
 Recruiting their ranks and their own crip- 
 pled powers ; 
 But the day had not dawned of their uttermost 
 test, 
 Though its shadow lay dark on the long 
 winter hours ! 
 And its shadow is flung on the glories of 
 May, 
 And the Rapidan runs like a river of tears ; 
 'Tis night in the Wilderness while yet it is day. 
 For Doomsday has burst on our brave vol- 
 unteers ! 
 
io6 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Like wild beasts in the woods the batteries roar, 
 Like Gehenna the smoke of the conflict as- 
 cends, 
 As it withers the flower of the First Army 
 Corps, 
 On whose bhndfolded bravery the battle 
 depends. 
 Here were horrors to war hitherto unknown, 
 When Glory to Agony yielded the crown ! 
 The battle-shout here was a shuddering groan, 
 And Triumph itself wore a grim, ghastly 
 frown ! 
 
 Like courage incarnate these foemen had met, 
 And the butchery lasted day after day; 
 
 Compassion was dead, not an eyelid was wet, 
 For the fury of hell had laid hold of the fray ; 
 
 So fierce it relentlessly followed the dead, 
 
 To the brows of the dying the death-damp 
 denied : 
 
The Hundred and Forty-Third. 107 
 
 For the fires of the brush were the shrouds 
 that it spread, 
 The charred trees the sole mourners that 
 wailed at their side. 
 
 But the undaunted heroes of Dana's brigade, — 
 Who, wounded and captured, could lead them 
 no more, — 
 When Mercer was killed, fought on undis- 
 mayed, 
 With their dying behind them and duty be- 
 fore! 
 When wounded still fought, and laughed at 
 their wounds ; 
 Fought on till they died — it was fitting they 
 should — 
 Against foemen whose courage acknowledged 
 no bounds, 
 In that caldron of battle and brave men's 
 blood ! 
 
lo8 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 In the boldest relief 'gainst that background of 
 gloom 
 Was the improvised fight of the Second 
 Brigade, 
 When Glory her lost smile was seen to re- 
 sume 
 At the wild charge its men under Conyng- 
 ham made ! 
 Detached from your friends, in what savored of 
 rout. 
 You must needs keep on fighting, and rallied 
 again 
 On finding the colors that Osborne hung 
 out 
 At the famous Cross Roads for his own fear- 
 less men ! 
 
 Retaking the battery that Hancock had lost, 
 In the face of its guns and a hand-to-hand 
 fight— 
 
The Hundred and Forty-Third. 109 
 
 Heaven knows why you came there, when sore 
 battle-tossed, 
 If 'twas not to help Hancock put Longstreet 
 to flight! 
 Hancock driven back with his troops in re- 
 treat. 
 Major Osborne rode up and gave the com- 
 mand, 
 And you soon laid the prize at the General's feet, 
 With your five or six hundred, a brave- 
 hearted band! 
 
 Your regiment's dread decimation attests 
 
 The proud part that you took in those terri- 
 ble days. 
 And with lustre more lasting your valor in- 
 vests 
 Than anything else that is said in its praise. 
 The morning reports that its companies kept 
 
 Had pathos to touch e'en a veteran's soul; 
 10 
 
I lo Songs for the Hour. 
 
 In the sound of the bugle a slight tremor 
 crept, 
 While a pitiful remnant answered the roll! 
 
 Eighty strong to the fight each company came, 
 But it tugs at the heart-strings the remnants 
 to see. 
 As one scans the reports — the rest average the 
 same — 
 Of the nine, twelve, and eighteen of A, K, 
 and G! 
 Dead and living their heroes too many to name, 
 Though the regiment adds to the army's re- 
 nown ; 
 Commanders and men all deserving of fame, 
 Without naming the patriots, we point to their 
 crown. 
 
 But the Union's vast sacrificial fount, 
 
 With its rivers of blood, must still higher rise ; 
 
The Hundred and Forty-Third. iii 
 
 With many a grim mile-stone of battle to count 
 On the steep, gory path that ahead of you 
 lies. 
 Cold Harbor to come, with its hopeless as- 
 sault; 
 Its glory and slaughter, the grimmest of these ! 
 But a star still beckons from Victory's vault; 
 To the gates of Success Grant still holds the 
 keys. 
 
 In the siege and assault, when the river is crossed, 
 A share of its grandeur your regiment 
 claims ; 
 The Confederate Malakoff hopelessly lost, 
 The jasper of glory thrown back on the 
 James ! 
 From summit to summit of splendor you 
 march. 
 Every fight that you wage is fought in its 
 shine ; 
 
112 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 The rainbow of Hope spans the North's 
 clouded arch, 
 But the work done beneath it is still more 
 divine. 
 
 From your cold winter-quarters, still seen in 
 your dreams, 
 You catch its bright rays with the opening 
 of spring, 
 And they blend, as you fight, with your bayo- 
 net gleams, 
 As o'er Hatcher's Run their halo they fling. 
 " Charging the fortifications" your last 
 
 Fitting work, and how glorious the word — 
 Duty the first and last mile-stone you passed — 
 For men like The Hundred and Forty-Third ! 
 
 On our far-famed Valley what glory falls 
 
 Like the deeds of The Hundred and Forty- 
 Third ? 
 
The Hundred and Forty -Third. 113 
 
 No sweet sounds more sad than its faint bugle- 
 calls, 
 None more brave when in war-time their 
 echoes were heard ; 
 None sadder. Your dear old Commander is 
 dead, 
 At rest with the heroes of whom he was 
 fond ; 
 But the glow of their smiles on your camp-fire 
 is shed. 
 And sweet is the bugle that calls from be- 
 yond ! 
 
 August 22-25, 1 89 1. 
 
 10* 
 
SHERIDAN. 
 
 As rain-laden roses droop low on the stem, 
 So droopeth to-day Columbia's fair Gem 
 'Neath a cloud-burst of grief! The Flag at 
 
 half-mast, 
 With heart-breaking news from Nonquitt at 
 
 last ! 
 All suddenly shrouded in sorrow, the while 
 'Twas trembling with rapture 'neath Sheridan's 
 
 smile ! 
 
 Like the wife of his bosom kneeling down when 
 
 he died, 
 And the comforting angels who knelt at her 
 
 side, 
 
 So the Flag of his Country bends low over him, 
 
 With a pride in its bosom that tears cannot 
 
 dim, 
 114 
 
Sheridan. 115 
 
 That swells its bright folds till they glisten and 
 
 gleam 
 Like the fond smile of love in a sorrowful 
 
 dream ! 
 Like a dream seems his death, — and so cruel 
 
 the while 
 The sunshine of hope came with Sheridan's 
 , smile. 
 
 Banner beloved ! in the depths of thy blue 
 Glassing deeds that are golden forever anew ; 
 The god in his look, whose likeness they 
 
 caught 
 In the one supreme moment with destiny 
 
 fraught. 
 In the crisis of battle, the crash and the 
 
 strain. 
 Unmatched in thy memory shall ever remain ! 
 Unveil as of yore, our grief to beguile, 
 The sunburst of triumph in Sheridan's smile. 
 
Il6 So?igs for the Hour. 
 
 Like Columbia, the beautiful Queen of the Free, 
 The Flag bows in sorrow on land and on 
 
 sea, 
 And sobs for a soldier as true and as brave 
 As a land ever loved or God ever gave ; 
 Its stars all in tears, and its stripes all aflame. 
 While it wreathes this memorial round Sheri- 
 dan's name : 
 "No gem decks the Crown of the Union re- 
 stored 
 Like the gleam of the glory of Sheridan's 
 sword." 
 
 Admired of the world, by the army adored, 
 
 Let the tears of his comrades bejewel his 
 sword ; 
 
 In the sheath of white roses that Peace has en- 
 twined 
 
 Be the blade that is blameless forever en- 
 shrined ! 
 
Sheridan. wj 
 
 Touch gently, kind winds, the draped Banner 
 
 that weeps, — 
 In the love of its bosom the worn hero sleeps, — 
 Till it findeth, enfolding a heart without guile, 
 Death's shadows have vanished in Sheridan's 
 
 smile. 
 
 August 8, 1888. 
 
THE LAST OF THE THREE. 
 
 Listen, Atlanta! 
 
 Be still, O sorrowing sea! 
 A bugle-note, sad yet consoling, 
 Kindling our pride and our grief controlling, 
 Is blown of the lips of Glory, 
 
 On the camping-ground of the Free, 
 For the last of our three great Captains, 
 
 The last of the Three ! 
 
 Meed of his triumphs from Chattanooga 
 Down to Atlanta, his march divine. 
 
 Revealed in the genius akin to mercy 
 A bulwark stronger than battle-line! 
 
 In his last lonely march victorious, 
 
 Lo ! on the shadowy shore, 
 ii8 
 
The Last of the Three. 119 
 
 Sherman, with Grant and Sheridan, 
 And the last of our three great Admirals, 
 Who sailed a day before ! 
 
 From the farthest north to Atlanta, 
 
 From Atlanta to the sea, 
 The tolling bells, still a-tremble 
 For the last of the naval trio 
 
 That sailed on the silent sea, 
 Give voice to the people's affection 
 For the soldier who loses no lustre. 
 
 When we think, with a thrill, of the Three ! 
 
 In the sweet peace they conquered together. 
 In Liberty's own golden weather. 
 Let all the bells tearfully tremble 
 
 The loving farewells of the Free, 
 For the last of our great Commanders, 
 
 The last of Three ! 
 February 19, 1891. 
 
WHEN DEATH HAD LOST THE 
 DAY. 
 
 While yet she trod the rosy ways 
 
 Of childhood, pure and sweet, 
 She met the Master's tender gaze, 
 
 And worshipped at His feet; 
 And thus from infant innocence 
 
 To conscious faith she passed, 
 And steadfast proved till she went hence 
 
 To be with Him at last; 
 Her path to Joy's celestial sphere 
 
 Victorious all the way, 
 There was no time in her career 
 
 When Death could win the day. 
 
 Had Death surprised her in her glee 
 
 O'er childhood's gathered flowers, 
 1 20 
 
Wlmi Death had lost the Day. 12 1 
 
 'Twere fraught with less felicity 
 
 Than were her dying hours, 
 When, garlanded by angels fair 
 
 With heaven's immortal bloom, 
 She smiled amidst our mute despair, 
 
 "Triumphant o'er the tomb," 
 And sang her Saviour led the way 
 
 To heaven's perennial bowers — 
 'Twas meet, since Death had lost the day. 
 
 To deck the dead with flowers! 
 
 From the sweet age of twelve, and up 
 
 Through woman's fewer years, — 
 O sorrowing hearts ! the bitter cup 
 
 Is brimmed with happy tears, — 
 There was such sunshine in her eyes, 
 
 Such sweetness in her smile. 
 Her spirit back from Paradise 
 
 The earth could not beguile. 
 
 F 11 
 
122 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 The perfect life she has attained, 
 'Mid fields that bloom alway, 
 
 And knows more fully what she gained 
 When Death had lost the day! 
 
 May, 1889. 
 
THE ROSES OF RAPTURE AND 
 REST. 
 
 White rose, arrayed for joy or sorrow, 
 
 Friend of the living and dead, 
 While from terrestrial founts you borrow 
 
 The fragrance you calmly shed, — 
 Love's tale of bliss and grief's sad story 
 
 Telling in the very same breath, — 
 To invisible skies you owe the glory 
 
 That links you to life and death ! 
 
 Red rose, full many a storm outlasting, 
 
 A zephyr shall lay you low; 
 Then all in vain about you casting 
 
 For the friends you used to know ! 
 
 The flattering touch of soft white fingers 
 
 And Beauty's enchanting smile — 
 
 123 
 
1 24 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 The twilight of love that around you lingers — 
 You shall lose in a little while. 
 
 For the happier lot of the white rose sighing, 
 
 To press dead Beauty's cheek, 
 To follow the dead and comfort the dying — 
 
 'Tis rest for yourself you seek, 
 Red rose, consumed by a passionate longing 
 
 For the bliss that is only a dream ; 
 With the dreams you awaken, too often wronging 
 
 The dwellers by Life's fair stream. 
 
 The lore of death from the white rose learning, 
 
 Life's mystery yours, red rose ; 
 The fires of love in your bosom burning. 
 
 Breath of rapture, but not repose. 
 The white rose is Beauty's diviner reflection. 
 
 Where every hue plays its part; 
 And purity is but the sweet perfection 
 
 Of harmony in the heart. 
 
TJie Roses of Rapture and Rest. 125 
 
 Red rose, you have shared in the triumphs of 
 Beauty, 
 
 But the white is her dying choice; 
 The flower that hallowed the paths of duty, 
 
 And shared in her sinless joys ! 
 Red roses for him who died for glory, 
 
 Or, better, who battled for Right! 
 But when we have heard their heroic story, 
 
 The roses that rest him are white. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL DEAD. 
 
 Lines on the death of the deeply-lamented Harrison Wright, Ph.D., 
 a Wyoming Valley historian and poet of great promise. 
 
 The souls that were brave, and whose footsteps 
 were dutiful, 
 And love was the light they shed, 
 Whose deeds made their lives, when living, beau- 
 tiful, 
 Surely these are the Beautiful Dead. 
 
 And lo ! 'mong the noble of memory's number- 
 ing, 
 Some lives so surpassing fair, 
 
 Like the roses that bloom while the dead are 
 
 slumbering. 
 
 Their beauty forbids despair. 
 126 
 
The Beautiful Dead. 127 
 
 Of such was the friend of the choosing and 
 cherishing, 
 Ahke of the young and the old, — 
 Friendship, sweet in the leaf, as after the perish- 
 ino" 
 And at heart as fragrant to hold. 
 
 Oh ! flower of filial love's fondest engendering, 
 Fearless glance of immortal, kind eyes ! 
 
 Oh ! smile of the brave, all self-love surrendering ! 
 Kind voice! the heart's pleasant surprise. 
 
 Kind eyes ! and yet keen, that turned so for- 
 bearingly 
 
 From the bad to the good in a friend; 
 Rare, gifted intelligence ! smiting not sparingly 
 
 The wares the false teacher would vend. 
 
 He loitered not where the lotus was flowering, 
 And fled from the blight of its bloom ; 
 
128 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 But he loved the bright dreams of Nature's own 
 dowering, 
 A stranger to grief and to gloom. 
 
 For him all beauty was ever in blossoming, 
 His mind was a garden in bloom ! 
 
 And Science, to him her secrets unbosoming, 
 Were legend most meet for his tomb. 
 
 His tireless quest, the honey of history. 
 
 For winters ahead had hived; 
 And of fading traditions — despite Death's mys- 
 tery, 
 
 Say not he was short-lived. 
 
 A light indistinct Death's deeps are borrowing, — 
 'Tis the Dawn, with its deathless rays; 
 
 Yet we weep, and for soul so lovable sorrowing. 
 Every tear is a pearl of praise. 
 
The Beautiful Dead. 129 
 
 The heart that was brave, and whose friendship 
 was beautiful, 
 The spirit such lustre that shed, 
 Now reaps the reward of the wise and the 
 dutiful 
 In the home of the Beautiful Dead. 
 
MY PRETTY BOY. 
 
 My pretty boy! — 'tis love, not praise, that speaks; 
 Fond words grow flower-gay in the light of 
 
 joy,— 
 
 By more than sparkling eyes and shapely 
 cheeks, 
 
 My pretty boy! 
 
 Puck's hands, with sleepy hollows for each toy, 
 Small mouth melodious when the kiss it seeks. 
 The smile distorting grief cannot destroy; 
 
 A straggling tear compassion quickly piques. 
 Pouting with sweet cries clogged that never 
 
 cloy. 
 Your thoughts are butterflies, your footprints 
 
 freaks. 
 
 My pretty boy ! 
 130 
 
HIS FIRST FIRE-CRACKER. 
 
 'TwAS his first fire-cracker that pointed the way 
 To patriotism, and taught him to take 
 
 A personal part in the glorious day, 
 
 When we want all the music that powder 
 can make. 
 
 In its faint hissing sound he fancied he heard 
 The stir of the storm on the tyrant that 
 fell; 
 On its fire-kindling tongue the first whispered 
 word 
 That found louder utterance in Liberty's 
 Bell. 
 
 No bird-note so thrilling, no rose-bud so fair, 
 
 As that red-coated minstrel of freedom and 
 
 right 
 
 131 
 
132 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 That sang in his hand and hurrahed in the 
 air, 
 
 That fell like a soldier and died of delight. 
 
 The first streak of Liberty's dawn he descried 
 In its slow-kindling spark and its sunburst 
 at last ; 
 The rout of the red-coats and all it implied, 
 The carnage and smoke where its fragments 
 were cast. 
 
 The crackers he fired are the spokes of the 
 wheels 
 That bring Freedom's chariot partly to view ; 
 And their sparks are the stars that the rocket 
 reveals. 
 With a rush, when it flings out the red, 
 white, and blue. 
 
His First Fire- Cracker. 133 
 
 Now his patriotism needs pack upon pack, 
 With their musketry music and drum-rolls 
 of joy ; 
 Every Fourth a step forward on glory's steep 
 track, 
 If he shows half the spunk that he had 
 when a boy. 
 
 December 21, 1889. 
 
WHAT AILS THE GAEL? 
 
 What ails the Gael, and all his kin, 
 
 The wide world o'er ? 
 Though bright his smile has always been, 
 
 'Tis brighter than before. 
 Quoth he, and all his Celtic kin, 
 
 " 'Tis brighter than before." 
 
 What has his laughter glorified ? 
 
 What is't he sees ? 
 The ripple of the turning tide. 
 
 The music of the breeze ! 
 Quoth he, and every Celt beside, 
 
 " The ripple and the breeze." 
 
 How calm he looks ! What is't he hears ? 
 
 The angry seas ? 
 134 
 
What Ails the Gael? 135 
 
 Nay, while the sky above him clears, 
 
 The ripple and the breeze ! 
 Quoth they, while Freedom's visage clears, 
 
 " The ripple and the breeze." 
 
 Behold ! on every shore he stands, 
 
 With victory's mien ; 
 He and his cousins clasping hands. 
 
 With smile serene. 
 Quoth they, "And Freedom understands 
 
 That smile serene." 
 
 Though 'gainst the century's setting sun 
 
 Dark racks arise, 
 Lo ! how the smiling ripples run 
 
 From countless Celtic eyes ! 
 " Nay, nay, 'tis Freedom's rising sun," 
 
 The ready Celt replies. 
 
136 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 What ails the Gael, and all his kin, 
 
 The wide world o'er ? 
 Though bright his smile has always been, 
 
 'Tis brighter than before. 
 Quoth he, and all his Celtic kin, 
 
 " 'Tis brighter than before." 
 
LAUGHTER AND TEARS. 
 
 One smile begets another, 
 The long face hides a laugh; 
 
 If half our smiles are happy, 
 Why not the other half? 
 
 How oft our tears are tempted. 
 In rolling down, to laugh ! 
 
 If half our tears are happy. 
 Why not the other half? 
 
 Speak, glad, salt tears hilarious, 
 That drench the hearty laugh ! 
 
 If half the heart be happy. 
 Why not the other half? 
 
 When smiles and tears are wedded 
 
 Is born the brightest laugh; 
 
 12* 137 
 
138 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 And then the tear is truer 
 And tenderer, too, by half. 
 
 So let them be united. 
 
 Lone tear and widowed laugh ; 
 And who shall say that laughter 
 
 Is not the better half? 
 
 1886. 
 
"REDDY," THE RIVER HERO. 
 
 (Charles Shannon, for whose life-saving services on the Dela- 
 ware River the Philadelphia Press raised a fund by public sub- 
 scription.) 
 
 When "Where's my hat?" in " Reddy's" ear 
 
 Some rescued rascal shouted, 
 " The pitying angel" of the pier 
 
 His duty never doubted. 
 'Tis clear, who clamors for his hat 
 
 To life is closer clinging. 
 And " Reddy's" merry smile thereat 
 
 Has set life's river singing: 
 " O river death, down Delaware, 
 
 Though darkly deep embedded, 
 Thy crying waifs, in 'Reddy's' care. 
 
 Come back to me bareheaded !" 
 
 When " Where's my cap ?" with saucy mien, 
 
 Demands a well-doused urchin, 
 
 139 
 
140 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 On " Reddy's" face a smile is seen, 
 
 Some inward comfort searchin'. 
 Though laughing-glad he picked him up, 
 
 The while death's teeth did water, 
 For those who spurn life's sparkling cup 
 
 He makes it hot and hotter; 
 Yet one mute grief his big heart rocks, — 
 
 His boy! that drowned, without him, 
 The little darling of the docks. 
 
 With such bright ways about him ! 
 
 Through many a year he guarded well 
 
 Those downward-wending by-ways, 
 And helped them find, who hapless fell, 
 
 Life's fairer-looming highways. 
 Hope's grimy angel ! white within 
 
 As a happy seraph's pinions. 
 That moves athwart the paths of sin, 
 
 And leads to life's dominions ! 
 
"Reddy," the River Hero. 141 
 
 Whose honored head of golden hair, 
 
 Amid the darkness glowing, 
 A tender star, down Delaware, 
 
 Dips where 'tis death ward flowing! 
 
 Since all beheld his modest blush, 
 
 He's more than ever " Reddy," 
 And though he feel a little flush, 
 
 He'll ne'er turn out unsteady. 
 Because he has an angel's heart, 
 
 Let wealth's love-lifted pinions 
 Now give his faithful feet a start 
 
 Towards pleasure's bright dominions! 
 And yet, just as of old, he'll jump 
 
 Into the jaws of danger. 
 While in his throat's a choking lump 
 
 For many a little stranger. 
 
 Place, too, the medal on his breast, 
 Where sorrow finds a brother; 
 
142 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 The badge of golden deeds confest 
 
 Shall far outshine the other! 
 Some, wrought when boyhood's playful pranks 
 
 Announced him on the river; 
 But not one word of simple thanks 
 
 Did they — the saved — deliver! 
 And still he's young, — for him in store 
 
 What glory unrecorded, 
 Who thought, if he might rescue more, 
 
 He were full well rewarded ! 
 
 August 22, 1884. 
 
THE PENNY. 
 
 When Mammon, in a merry mood. 
 First pleads to doubting babyhood 
 
 The beauty of the penny, 
 Love plays a laughing interlude 
 
 With captive kisses many. 
 And when it falls from baby's hands, 
 Time turns his glass of glittering sands 
 
 For baby's sake, if any, 
 
 While penny follows after penny ! 
 
 Is it the coin's too sordid touch 
 Relaxes baby's gleeful clutch 
 
 Or jolly-jointed jumble? 
 The thought amuses Mammon much, 
 
 When it should make him humble ; 
 
 Love thinks she hears her darling say 
 
 (And if he follow in that way 
 
 143 
 
144 So7tgs for the Hour. 
 
 His feet will never stumble), 
 
 "Kiss me, and let the penny tumble." 
 
 When Mammon grave, in mercy's guise, 
 Stoops down where some starved infant lies 
 
 To dole the dusky penny, 
 Time hides the tear-drops in his eyes, 
 
 And Mammon hasn't any; 
 Fond Love is dead ; no merry kiss, 
 Nor playful penny gone amiss, 
 
 And never one too many — 
 
 There's somehow pathos in a penny. 
 
 To such as these Time's busy hands 
 Show not his smiling, singing sands, 
 
 Save only to embolden. 
 With them for bread the penny stands, 
 
 And not for pastime golden. 
 
The Penny. 145 
 
 Oft trembling on starvation's brink, 
 Time's golden grains sing sad, they think, 
 
 Their hearts too early olden, 
 
 And griefless death grows strangely 
 golden ! 
 1883. 
 
 13 
 
SALT-WATER SONG. 
 
 The sea is a city of shifting streets 
 
 And constantly crumbling walls, 
 And the dwellers therein are lithe athletes 
 
 That laugh when a structure falls, 
 With " a windy day," when its tottering towers 
 
 Come tumbling about their ears — 
 When their houses are shattered they say, *' It 
 showers," 
 
 And, levelled at length, " It clears," 
 
 They halloo loud to Luna, 'tis all in her eye 
 That she squanders her silver and gold 
 
 To build on their lots, while she lives in the 
 sky, 
 But when would a woman be told ? 
 
 They mock at the lady, and feigning to pout 
 
 At the rocking roofs she rears, 
 146 
 
Salt- Wafer Song: 147 
 
 " Now hadn't she better put us all out, 
 Or gather the rents in arrears," 
 
 Then, shaking with laughter, exhort her to try 
 
 Not to get full any more. 
 When the rollicking winds come sweeping by 
 
 And swallow the roofs with a roar, 
 They ask how her man is, and why she looks 
 wan, 
 
 Is she coming to make repairs, 
 And why don't the lady, if she has a man, 
 
 Let him manage her vast affairs. 
 
 Then the storm's golden trumpets strike up a 
 tune 
 And the nimble athletes a dance; 
 And they ask him to join them,^-the " Man" 
 of the Moon, — 
 Who is ready to jump at the chance ! 
 
148 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 'Mid melody soft as the voice of a dove, 
 And music would shatter our ears, 
 
 They waltz on the waves, and, falling in love, 
 Dip down in it deep with their dears. 
 
 The sea is a country vast and wild. 
 
 With mountains that melt in mist, 
 And valleys where never a flower has smiled, 
 
 Except in a mermaid's fist ; 
 But the dwellers therein are always cool, 
 
 In country and city the same ; 
 And if fretful man is a sweltering fool, 
 
 He has none but himself to blame. 
 
THE JUDGE AND THE REF- 
 EREE. 
 
 (a comedy of careless punctuation.) 
 
 They made me a referee 
 
 In a land case uncommon long-winded, — 
 An ill wind that blew a good fee, 
 
 Because for a fee they contended. 
 
 And I said to myself my report 
 Is lucid, at least to my own mind, 
 
 And when it goes up to the Court 
 
 On the usual exceptions, though stone-blind. 
 
 Dame Justice will see what I mean — 
 
 But wit, too, is blinding by flashes, 
 
 And a stroke of it might intervene, 
 
 Should she lay the law down on my dashes. 
 13* 149 
 
150 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 And behold ! from my findings of fact 
 
 The Judge found — when he looked at my 
 dashes — 
 
 The plaintiff possessed of the tract, 
 
 And then follows his wit, with its flashes. 
 
 " Possessed of the piece in dispute 
 (What more could a plaintiff desire ?) 
 
 At the time that he started the suit, 
 And upwards of forty years prior !" 
 
 Did it take me ten days to find out, 
 With a cursory sort of digression, 
 
 What the whole impish case was about. 
 And who was in peaceful possession ? 
 
 There were acres one hundred and three, — 
 Perchance more altogether were aching 
 
 To get a small slice of that fee, — 
 And the title to three it was takmg. 
 
The Judge and the Referee. 151 
 
 The plaintiff one hundred possessed ! 
 
 But his deeds called for three in addition ! — 
 He ought to be sorely distressed, 
 
 But, dear Judge, I don't mean in perdition. 
 
 I said what I meant, and I meant 
 
 What I said, and I say that I said it ! 
 
 It is not what I wrote I repent. 
 
 But the cursory way that you read it. 
 
 The defendant's attorney, he took 
 
 Two days my dull mind to enlighten — 
 
 Oh ! the fists, in my face, that he shook 
 To inform me, you see, not to frighten. 
 
 Now he claims my report is sent back 
 That the case may again be gone over ! 
 
 How the sides of old Laughter will crack 
 When that bull gets again in the clover ! 
 
152 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 But I think I can stand the attack — 
 At ten dollars a day till it's ended ; 
 
 To go up again and come back 
 
 On a teeter like that is just splendid ! 
 
 How fine to ascend and descend 
 On that seesaw aforesaid astraddle ! 
 
 With law points, to boot, at each end. 
 And myself, as it were, in the saddle. 
 
THE DEMAND FOR MR. DEPEW. 
 
 (Expected guest of the Wilkesbarre Eisteddfod.) 
 
 Sons of Saint Patrick, hinder not his flight, 
 Though laughter languish at your banquet-board ; 
 His heart with every race in kind accord, 
 His life a candle set on Freedom's height, — 
 Love's hands must needs have lit so kind a light, 
 For the oppressed its brightest rays out- 
 poured, — 
 The Welsh, your Celtic cousins, have implored 
 Your frequent guest for just one glorious night. 
 
 Let no man hinder him, nor time nor tide — 
 He comes to hear a thousand nightingales, 
 Singing as sweet as in their native Wales, 
 Till, tasting heaven, his heart be satisfied; 
 But what a hush among those matchless birds 
 At Chauncey's silvery voice and golden words! 
 
 March 9, 1892. 
 
 153 
 
"LETHE, AND OTHER POEMS, 
 
 I 8 8 2." 
 
 (Lines written on the fly-leaf of a copy presented to the 
 editor of the Boston Pilot in 1884.) 
 
 With a long face I clung to this lachrymose 
 maiden, 
 Till we met in a mirth-making mirror, — not 
 after ; 
 
 Since she wouldn't be happy at all without 
 Aiden, 
 I have cast, in seclusion, my life-lot with 
 Laughter. 
 
 If the ghost of her here out of Lethe affright 
 you, 
 
 The end that she came to will doubtless de- 
 light you. 
 
 154 
 
"Lethe, and other Poems, 1882!' 155 
 
 Some said here is trash, some called her a 
 treasure, 
 But a faintness afflicted the praises that fol- 
 lowed ; 
 
 She died, but had left me, I noted with pleas- 
 ure, 
 "The dust" on the shelf for the taffy I 
 swallowed. 
 
 I've a likeness or two left out of ten hun- 
 dred, 
 
 But why I had any all the wags wondered. 
 
 One review that I read was a dismal death- 
 notice, 
 To an epitaph turning my dull dedica- 
 tion; 
 The beam in his eye that knows well where a 
 mote is 
 The critic consumed in her instant crema- 
 tion. 
 
156 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 And would sink in the Lethe he mortally- 
 dreaded 
 
 Me, the maiden, and all, for he snatched me 
 bald-headed. 
 
 But why send her picture to John Boyle 
 
 O'Reilly, 
 Who knows not, perhaps, that she ever 
 
 existed ? 
 " Why not?" says my second love, whispering slyly, 
 
 " The smiles of O'Reilly cannot be resisted, 
 For they straighten WTy faces and broad ones 
 
 make brighter" — 
 Here she goes, though his smiles should like 
 
 scimitars smite her. 
 
 For the first time we met when he came here 
 canoeing. 
 One moment with many admiring friends 
 sharing. 
 
^' Lethe, and other Poems, 1882." 157 
 
 When I felt in his glance were a dullard's un- 
 doing, 
 With a kind word " forninst" it the damage 
 repairing ; 
 
 So I mail my " remains" the crazed critic cre- 
 mated, 
 
 To let a true poet know how she was 
 " trated." 
 
 14 
 
SOME OF WYOMING'S SINGERS. 
 
 TO DR J. T. DOYLE, 
 
 Wit's millionaire and princely son of Song, 
 Whose palace stands remote from public gaze, 
 All lighted up with culture's brilliant blaze, 
 In pleasure-grounds where Beauty's children 
 
 throng, 
 And troops of fairies dance, nor deem it wrong; 
 Where Fancy's silvery fountain freely plays. 
 While splendid dreams adorn its flowering 
 ways, 
 And Mirth keeps young, and Laughter hale and 
 strong. 
 
 The wit whose lightning, flashed from theme to 
 
 theme. 
 
 Lays the bald mount of borrowed troubles 
 
 bare ; 
 158 
 
Some of Wyoming's Singers. 159 
 
 While humor lights life's deeps with steadier 
 gleam ! 
 But when, like moonlight flood and starlight 
 fair, 
 Their witching rays through Wisdom's case- 
 ment stream, 
 The Muses, spellbound, bid farewell to Care! 
 
 TO THERON G. OSBORNE, 
 
 The singer's heart ! the poet's speech ! 
 No luscious thought beyond their reach. 
 
 When Music spreads her wings ; 
 And though the fruit too often be 
 But cherries ripe on Fancy's tree 
 (The bird we hear we seldom see), 
 
 'Tis Philomel that sings ! 
 
 But when this mood your heart enthralls, 
 It seems as though the music falls 
 For Beauty's sake alone; 
 
l6o Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Your cherry-bird — the charming things! 
 With topknot cute and colored wings — 
 Drinks cherry wine and gayly sings, 
 When Philomel has flown! 
 
 TO JOHN S. McGROARTY. 
 
 You sang at last so sweet a lay 
 
 The Muse appeared before us, 
 And fairer than for many a day 
 
 The heavenly hills hung o'er us ! 
 With you, so gentle in her mien, 
 
 So frank and unassuming. 
 Her pleasant smile and songful sheen 
 
 Your every line illuming; 
 Her shell harmonious, in your hand, 
 
 Has such bright heart-tints in it 
 That it reveals Truth's golden strand 
 
 In one immortal minute! 
 
Some of Wyoming's Singers. i6i 
 
 TO E. A. NIVEN. 
 (Journalist.) 
 
 His prose is a swift and beautiful stream, 
 
 The Song of the Brook recalls, 
 That dances along while others dream, 
 
 And his songs are its water-falls ! 
 With rapids here, and rapids there, 
 
 For his muse's light canoe, 
 Who rides clear over the rocks of care 
 
 When her shell goes shooting through! 
 Its shadow adrift in the shining tide. 
 
 Till a cataract tumbles down. 
 When his muse, refreshed with her reckless 
 ride. 
 
 Strolls off to the nearest town, 
 With a twinkling smile, and a trace of tears, 
 
 And the flowers she culled by the way; 
 But before she departs a poem appears 
 
 That has something new to say. 
 
 July, 1892. 
 
 / 14* 
 
THE ROBIN'S LAUGH. 
 
 When I listened to your laughing, 
 
 Robin, 'mid the barren boughs. 
 Then I heard remembered voices 
 
 Ring through Love's deserted house, — 
 Voices sweet and void of sorrow, 
 
 E'en as musical as yours : 
 Stay, blithe robin, lest I wrong you, 
 
 Sounds like these the sad heart cures, 
 Sweet as childhood's cheeriest laughter, 
 
 That no end to living sees ! 
 Ah ! you sing now, yet the song goes 
 
 Laughing through the leafless trees. 
 
 If friends smile and call it dreaming, 
 
 That you laugh before you sing, — 
 162 
 
The Robin's Laugh. 163 
 
 Yes, and laugh half through the singing 
 
 And its after-echoing, — 
 Let them seek you out and listen, 
 
 When they doubt the spring appears, 
 And they'll say no sweeter laughter 
 
 Ever fell through happy tears ! 
 Yet of sadness, when you've ended, 
 
 E'en the happiest inly seize; 
 Robin, is not this the reason 
 
 That you laugh through leafless trees? 
 
 Oh ! Love's dwelling in the dingles 
 
 Where the living laugh and sing, 
 And the light about their faces 
 
 Glad with glimpses of the spring! 
 Where Love's voice is like the robin's. 
 
 Rounded full and ripe with joy, 
 Rich in spring-like revelations 
 
 For the youngest girl or boy! 
 
164 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Ah, Love ! shall you hear in sadness 
 Autumn's merry-making breeze? 
 
 Then be this the only reason, 
 
 That she laughs through leafless trees. 
 
 April 19, 1884. 
 
A FINE DAY. 
 
 The day was so fine it impelled me to say it, 
 Thus adding new zest to the joy it con- 
 ferred, — 
 
 The new-born delight! 'twas a pleasure to 
 weigh it 
 On the scale of my voice with the weight of 
 a word. 
 
 Then on that of the friends whom I met on my 
 way, 
 
 With no scales on their eyes to discolor the 
 day — 
 
 Fine day ! Fine day ! 
 
 It is true, in the foulest of weather I've 
 
 said it — 
 
 Who hasn't? ha! ha! and felt foolish enough, 
 
 165 
 
1 66 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 So different the day ! in my long face you read it, 
 Yet your answer was fine when it should 
 
 have been rough. 
 " Fine day !" and I laughed as I went on my 
 
 way, 
 And you smiled as you thought, what a funny 
 
 fine day! 
 
 So vivacious I've been when the weather was 
 
 vicious, 
 My horizon so clear, though beclouded the 
 
 sky, 
 That I shouted " Fine day !" and the fun was 
 
 delicious 
 When your ear-drum had hoodwinked the 
 
 lens of the eye; 
 While you followed the hat the winds carried 
 
 away. 
 From the stand-point I took 'twas a very fine 
 
 day ! 
 
A Fine Day. . i6y 
 
 Too oft merely formal the day's salutations, 
 Lacking . feeling and warmth, though the 
 weather is fair; 
 
 Weather-beaten must needs be our wise obser- 
 vations. 
 Yet one hearty " Good-morning !" may ward 
 off despair. 
 
 Pleasant looks lend a charm to the least words 
 we say; 
 
 It takes more than the weather to make a fine 
 day. 
 
 So fine was that day when your fair one re- 
 sponded. 
 Which the fairer you knew not, the day or 
 the maid ! 
 With the drift of your speech the mild May- 
 winds absconded, 
 But the flower that she tossed you never shall 
 fade. 
 
1 68 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Your "Fine day!" the May-winds caught up in 
 
 their play; 
 'Twas the smile on her lips that perfected the 
 
 day! 
 
 Fine day, ever fair in fond memory's keeping, — 
 The day-old delight that you weighed with a 
 word! 
 
 And now it is May with her merry eyes heap- 
 ing 
 Bright smiles on your head for the praise you 
 conferred. 
 
 Then still keep repeating " Fine day !" and " Fine 
 day !"— 
 
 The young, joyous June is the next one to 
 weigh ! 
 
 Good-day ! Good-day ! 
 
THE HOLY CHILD. 
 
 From lost Eden down the Seasons Four 
 
 Had dreamed of the Holy Child ; 
 Spring caught His smile in the dream's sweet 
 
 core, 
 And in her heart hid it for evermore ; 
 And her face thenceforth a sweeter look wore, 
 
 And her spirit grew gentle and mild. 
 Every tree she touched broke out in blossoms 
 
 That bloomed with a tenderer grace ; 
 And a myriad bowers bared their white bosoms 
 
 To make Him a resting-place ! 
 
 From the Promise down the Seasons Four 
 
 Had dreamed of the Birth Divine ; 
 
 And Summer found, in the dream's deep core, 
 
 The Heart of her heart for evermore ; 
 H 15 169 
 
170 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 And redder thenceforth the roses she wore, 
 And richer the fruit of the vine ! 
 
 Then, flushed with the dream, round her pur- 
 pie throne 
 Her gifts of gold up-piled ! 
 
 The royal honor seemed hers alone, 
 To herald the Holy Child ! 
 
 Through long ages dim the Seasons Four 
 
 Had dreamed of His natal hour ; 
 And Autumn saw, in her sad dream's core, 
 The glorified look the young Child wore. 
 Though a dying heart in His bosom He bore. 
 And in her heart hid it for evermore 
 
 In fading leaf and flower. 
 On flower and leaf a crimson glow 
 
 Life out of death foretold ! 
 And she said, " If He come ere winter winds 
 blow, 
 
 I will weave Him a crown of gold." 
 
The Holy Child. 171 
 
 Down to His coming the Seasons Four 
 
 Had dwelt on the Birth Divine ; 
 Winter heard His voice when the dream was o'er, 
 And echoed its music for evermore. 
 And whiter thenceforth seemed the raiment she 
 wore, 
 
 And she cried, " The honor is mine : 
 I see His bright star through the frosty air 
 
 ' gleam. 
 
 Bending o'er Him, feel His warm breath ; 
 And deep in my bosom I treasure the dream. 
 
 Who had been the herald of Death." 
 
 Oh, heart of Winter with rapture thrilled. 
 Thy dream, the first, came true ! 
 
 With whitened locks the Seers of eld 
 
 The Blessed Babe in their arms had held ; 
 
 But the human heart 'gainst the dream rebelled 
 And the Lord of Glory slew ! 
 
1/2 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Wise men of the East ! how your golden gifts 
 glow 
 In the light of Bethlehem's star ! 
 As we carry bright gifts to our babes, through 
 the snow, 
 Is its radiance near or far? 
 
 December 22, 1881. 
 
MEMORIAL ODE. 
 
 (Read before the G. A. R. Post of Wilkesbarre, May 30, 1882.) 
 
 The soldier's path, 'mid Hope's flushed flowers 
 beginning, 
 Ends here among the roses Love has strewn ; 
 But then what lay between was worth the win- 
 ning, 
 Though like Gehenna groaned the gory way 
 That led him to these tinted tents of May, 
 And hence and upward to the fragrant camps 
 of June — 
 
 And higher still t'wards Nature's highest 
 
 heaven, 
 
 Where light and sound the perfect day do 
 
 make. 
 
 15* ^73 
 
174 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Oh, happy slumberer! to thee 'tis given 
 
 To he on Summer's heart and take thy rest, 
 
 Whether, like thee, in snow-white garment 
 
 dressed 
 For sleep, or watching 'mid the flowers till 
 
 thou awake ! 
 
 How like the mother, in her youthful beauty, 
 She folds thee to her warm, sweet-smelling 
 breast ! 
 No longer thine to do a soldier's duty, 
 Helpless and happy here as any child, 
 To dreamland fair by countless blooms be- 
 guiled. 
 And all earth's sweets are thine without the 
 weary quest ! 
 
 But now do we, who have not yet divided 
 The deep, dark waves that gave thee back 
 thy youth. 
 
Memorial Ode. 175 
 
 Look o'er the waters where thy spirit glided 
 So like a dream unto this flowering shore 
 Where merry voices ring for evermore, 
 
 Like children's voices, like thine own in sooth ! 
 
 And some, thy friends who strayed with thee 
 
 in childhood 
 So oft these very burial-grounds among, 
 The golden meadows and the echoing wildwood, 
 With step like that of youth fresh garlands 
 
 bring, 
 Bright as thine own hands wove in pleasant 
 
 Spring, 
 Till these old hearts of ours grow soft again 
 
 and young. 
 
 Now far from us as thee, the noise of battle ! 
 
 Like babes upon a holiday at last 
 War's visage dim we scan, the cannon's rattle 
 
176 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Like them in wonder hear, — so old is peace ! 
 This is not dotage, — 'tis the heart's release 
 From the long bondage of the grim and 
 gloomy Past ! 
 
 Gray veterans here there be, who carry flowers, — 
 Would weep with strange delight if they 
 might see 
 In vast array the hosts that once were ours ! 
 Hailing once more in many a doubtful fight 
 The boys that saved the day, then sank from 
 sight,— 
 Would toss their hands and shout for joy 
 hilariously. 
 
 Oh, Peace ! what blessed boon is this you 
 
 brought them 
 That took the cruel sting of war away ? 
 What charms Lethean, these you kindly 
 
 wrought them 
 
Memorial Ode. 177 
 
 So well to heal the wounds that war had 
 
 made? 
 Oh, Peace ! these hearts, once Sorrow's, dost 
 
 pervade, 
 What golden vistas down the Nation's larger 
 
 day ! 
 
 As May's white blossoms hide the hurts stern 
 
 Winter 
 Inflicted on the tempest-conquering trees. 
 That, like a cavalcade of heroes, enter 
 The rich realms where May was crowned 
 
 Queen ; 
 As earth's deep wounds are covered o'er with 
 
 green, 
 Your deathless deeds, O dead ! and fadeless 
 
 victories, 
 
 A brightening wilderness of blooms and glories. 
 Loom up between us and the wrecks of war 
 
178 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 And though we cherish still its touching stories, 
 Now, almost like romance, your sufferings 
 
 seem 
 The blessed memories of a painful dream, 
 Whose pain has given us Peace, as night the 
 
 Morning Star! 
 
 Whose pangs have brought us joy, as night 
 the golden morning ; 
 For not less brightly hath Aurora smiled. 
 That, as the legend saith, for her adorning 
 She stole full many a rosy child away ; 
 Nor Peace less bright, we cannot find to- 
 day 
 The flower of Chivalry unto her dawn beguiled ! 
 
 Time hides the crimson of the cannonading, 
 
 The imperial purple death did then display ! 
 And war's red memories, faded now or fading. 
 
Memorial Ode. 179 
 
 Have yielded to the golden crown of Peace. 
 Let not her hopes, the while her powers 
 
 increase, 
 Like golden apples turn to ashes cold and 
 
 gray! 
 
 But living soldiers, not the less we love you ; 
 Death yet denies you glory's tear-dewed 
 wreath ; 
 Nor less ye love the Flag that soared above 
 
 you, 
 It firm refused to be your battle-shroud ! — 
 Of this, surviving heroes, we are proud. 
 
 That Freedom's flowers blow fairer for your 
 loving breath! 
 
 Your voices, mingled with the battle's thunder 
 
 And feeble farewells of the dying brave. 
 Your hearts, that heard their heart-strings 
 break asunder, 
 
i8o Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Your hands, that clasped the hands that saved 
 
 the day, 
 Your hands, that brought back laurels from 
 
 the fray, 
 Are needed the rich fruits of conflict yet to 
 
 save ! 
 
 Then let the buried dead again be buried 
 
 Full deep beneath the flowers of Love and 
 Peace ! 
 Not as in war, when funeraL rites were hurried, 
 But thoughtfully, and lovingly, and slow; 
 Ye have more time than in the long ago 
 
 To scatter flowers, less cause the tear-drop to 
 release ! 
 
 Spare not the sweetest rose, the tenderest 
 blossom 
 Fond Nature into being ever fanned ! 
 For martial garb she round each hero's bosom 
 
Memorial Ode. i8i 
 
 Her " coat of many colors" loves to fold, 
 Helmeted with the daisy's sacred gold, 
 To dull the darts that fly from Time's relent- 
 less hand ! 
 
 Sleep well beneath Columbia's starry skies ! 
 
 Your fame wath hers coequal shall increase. 
 Ye soldier dead ! Oh, may your sacrifice 
 
 To deeds as grand, our souls . bestir, in peril- 
 ous peace ! 
 
 i6 
 
THE VANISHED MAIDEN. 
 
 The gold in the sky was burning, 
 
 As I walked one eve by the sea, 
 And the lustre it shed was turning 
 
 All things into gold but me ; 
 For wrapped in a mantle of sorrow, 
 
 I was proof 'gainst the beautiful change. 
 And my soul was unable to borrow 
 
 That glory so silent and strange. 
 
 But soon, with a music enchanted, 
 
 That rose from the shells on the shore, 
 
 With a phantom of joy I was haunted, 
 And I heard her soft whisper once more, 
 
 The voice of my own vanished maiden, 
 Buried deep in the caves of the sea. 
 
 And my soul then sighed for her Aiden, 
 
 And fluttered — with her to be free ! 
 182 
 
The Vanished Maiden. 183 
 
 The music increased, and the billows 
 
 Fell back into deep repose, 
 With white tranquil foam for their pillows. 
 
 When a form from the waters arose ; 
 'Twas the form of my long-lost maiden, 
 
 Buried deep in the caves of the sea, 
 Whose soul had returned from her Aiden 
 
 To talk for one moment with me. 
 
 " Let grief from your bosom be banished, 
 
 Be happy on earth for awhile. 
 For soon the maid that has vanished 
 
 Will welcome you there with a smile. 
 Where the gold in the sky is burning, 
 
 And whence we shall look on the waves. 
 While the lustre that's shed is turning 
 
 All things into gold but our graves." 
 
 July 21, 1879. 
 
GOD AND THE SEA. 
 
 "And his weary eyes welcome the sight of the sea." — Blaine's 
 Despatch. 
 
 From th^at death-haunted chamber they solemnly 
 bore him, 
 To die in their arms it might be ! 
 But strong-winged angels flew seaward before 
 
 him, 
 To move the great heart of the deep to restore him, 
 Rouse, nourish, and rest him, breathe through 
 him and o'er him 
 The blood-thrilling balm of the sea, — 
 The life-giving breath and the strength of 
 the sea. 
 
 Stern Science grew motherly, thoughtful, and 
 
 tender 
 
 As his own loving mother might be ! 
 184 
 
God atid the Sea. 185 
 
 And day and night pondered how best she 
 
 could render 
 Assistance, so naught merely human would 
 
 hinder 
 The brave heart in that body so pallid and 
 slender 
 From sounding its thanks to the sea, — 
 From trilling its drum-beats of joy by the 
 sea. 
 
 The face of young Autumn was flushed as with 
 fever, 
 And crimson as Summer's might be ! 
 
 And her touch was so scorching they scarce 
 could believe her 
 
 Sweet Autumn to be ; yet she was no de- 
 ceiver, — 
 
 Our burden of sorrow seemed greatly to grieve 
 
 her, 
 
 16* 
 
1 86 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 And she raved in that run to the sea ; 
 But at sunset she smiled, — the fair bride of 
 the sea ! 
 
 That day through fair Autumn's delusion he 
 dallies 
 With dreams of a blessing to be ! 
 Though nature is drooping, the President ral- 
 lies, 
 And they run a rapider rate through the val- 
 leys, 
 And the good engine glides down the hill-tops 
 and sallies 
 Forth of woodlands, fast nearing the sea. 
 Till " his weary eyes welcome the sight of 
 the sea." 
 
 Yet gently and tenderly thither they bore him ; 
 To die was not heaven's decree, 
 
God and the Sea. 187 
 
 For the swift-winged angels flew seaward before 
 
 him, 
 And stirred the great heart of the deep to re- 
 store him, 
 Nurse, nourish, and rest him, breathe through 
 him and o'er him 
 The hfe-giving breath of the sea. 
 And he gains ! by the grace of our God and 
 His sea ! 
 
 September 9, 1881. 
 
AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 
 
 Beneath that grand triumphal arch the night, 
 O'erlaid with fading stars in lieu of flowers, 
 Fit tokens of this fleeting life of ours, 
 
 A warrior passed, so altered to the sight, 
 
 Men said had won a world in valiant fight ; 
 When a voice answered from the King's high 
 
 towers : 
 •'Two worlds hath won, the wreck of Eden's 
 bowers 
 
 And the new Eden death can never smite." 
 
 Tall archways, eloquent with flowers, arise ; 
 
 . Triumphal music beats its anguished breast, 
 i88 
 
At Garfield's Grave. 189 
 
 Then breathes a requiem caught from sacred 
 
 choirs ; 
 Kind eyes look out, like stars, from sorrow's 
 
 skies, 
 And pour their love-light round his place 
 
 of rest. 
 Sweet starlight left of Eden's lingering fires ! 
 
 September 28, 1881. 
 
LOVE'S WOUNDS, 
 
 Life the first-born of Eden's bowers, Death 
 last, 
 And Love that came between, — mysterious 
 
 Three ! 
 O Life and Death, at last on which of ye 
 Shall blame of Love's unkindest hurts be 
 
 cast? 
 All healed then, and every sorrow passed, 
 Whose pitying hand, whose balsam-dropping 
 
 tree 
 Left for those wounds and all that misery 
 The sweetest cordial ? Death's the icono- 
 clast ? 
 O Life, I fear Love at the last will say 
 
 That thou, not Death, did most severely 
 
 smite ! 
 190 
 
Love's Wounds. 191 
 
 And tell how, when he faint and bleeding lay- 
 By Time's roadside, Death softened at the 
 
 sight, 
 And decently enwrapping him in white, 
 
 Took all the soreness from his wounds away. 
 
 February 22, 1882. 
 
BURIED LOVE'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Kind words, warm as Love's heart, Love's 
 
 living breath. 
 
 In marble cold and white ! A subtle flame 
 
 Within whose charmed circle one dear name 
 
 Defieth the devouring jaws of Death ! 
 
 Not heeding what the night wind muttereth, 
 
 Smiling through storm and sunshine just the 
 
 same, 
 
 In this lone shelter, more secure than fame. 
 
 Content with what surviving Love's heart 
 
 saith. 
 
 The marble's time-swept snow may drift away. 
 
 Or mingle with the dust that sleeps below ; 
 
 But in its stead sweet flowers shall rise, and so 
 
 Suggest the fragrance of her name, decay 
 192 
 
Buried Love's Epitaph. 193 
 
 Can never touch, and when the last flower 
 
 dies, 
 Heaven will reveal Love's name. Love's voice, 
 
 Love's eyes ! . 
 
 February 2, 1882. 
 
 17 
 
THE RICH AND THE SUFFER- 
 ING. 
 
 Has she, indeed, red rose so fresh and fair, 
 
 Journeyed far up the valley of the night 
 Unto these purpling hills of morn ? Is there 
 
 No faintness in thy heart and on thy 
 sight ? 
 Is't fear, still lingering, makes thee tremble so ; 
 
 This flush a vaporish fever in thy blood ? 
 Nay, nay, it was the breeze. Why, do you 
 know 
 
 I feel as bright as any new-blown bud. 
 
 Yet couldst thou tell what thou hast seen and 
 
 heard : 
 
 What grim and ghastly shapes beset thy 
 
 way, 
 194 
 
The Rich and the Suffering. 195 
 
 What moanings in the dark, no pity stirred, 
 What voices praying for the dawn of day ! 
 I fear the joy thy greeting now bestows 
 Would turn to pain, though passing fair thou 
 be, rich rose ! 
 
 June 13, 1881. 
 
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 What birds, the bards of air, in singing say, 
 Whisper the roses, and his ruddy Muse, 
 
 When poets born behold the break of day, 
 Music, hke manna, mingles with the dews. 
 
 Exhaling, as the measures grow in might. 
 This early fragrance from the fields of song ; 
 
 How have we quaffed its lyrical delight. 
 His fancy's goodly company among ! 
 
 How reddened all the East of our desire 
 
 With song-beams from this singer's glowing 
 
 breast ! 
 
 A grateful age will greet whose fadeless fire 
 
 In gleams of gold athwart its fadeless West. 
 196 
 
Henry W. Longfellow. 197 
 
 The wilds of nature, when his music came, 
 Hailed in its sheen their mysteries unveiled ; 
 
 While woods and waters, and their hosts, by- 
 name. 
 And all the winds, its shaping spirit hailed. 
 
 It lures some peeping glory from a star, 
 Shows deeper pathos in a pining flower. 
 
 And, like a leaven of all sweet sounds there are, 
 Imbues with rapture many a lonely hour. 
 
 Poems pure as the dreams of Paradise 
 
 Fair innocence finds lingering in her heart. 
 
 The sun's white hands that bathe her waking 
 eyes. 
 The gifts they bring, the color they impart. 
 
 Whose death-defying harmony inspires 
 
 A listener's throb of triumph in one's breast ; 
 And imagery refulgent as the fires 
 
 The poet-sun transfigures in the West. 
 
 17* 
 
198 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 As when of old had vanished all the dews, 
 The manna and its memory yet remained ; 
 
 The first fresh flush of fancy loath to lose, 
 What treasures hath this faithful singer 
 gained ! 
 
 What treasures on his fellows hath bestowed ! 
 
 And not the lays alone for which we yearned. 
 But when the suns were set that on them 
 glowed, 
 The strength imparted and the lessons 
 learned. 
 
 Filled with a melody, the Golden Rule 
 Is waking in the world, beside his own ; 
 
 He breathes more beauty on the beautiful, 
 Or leaves new loveliness where it had flown. 
 
 His tender songs stir pity's fount of tears. 
 Griefs bursting drops of balm break out 
 between, 
 
Henry IV. Longfellow. 199 
 
 As sunshine in an April shower appears, 
 To turn the wastes of winter into green. 
 
 A guide by journeyings heavenward glorified ! 
 
 Pointing to cold and sullen steeps, that freeze 
 Ambition's breath, leads, down the mountain- 
 side, 
 Where summer strives for Summer's purple 
 ease. 
 
 Held by her sun-browned hand, and not a 
 dream, 
 
 A golden ladder leans against the sky, 
 And joins two worlds which very distant seem 
 
 Until the bright ascent our spirits try. 
 
 Poesy, radiant in the twilight dim 
 
 That on the longest life comes unawares. 
 
 At night will give good angels charge of him 
 Whose earthly harp so much resembles theirs. 
 
200 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 But oh ! while yet the hues of eve remain, 
 Silence may sepulchre some matchless ode ; 
 
 The fragment of a psalm, one sweet refrain, 
 If heard, her heart with joy were overflowed. 
 
 Ultima Thule his moist eyes have descried, 
 Its quiet voices echo to his quest — 
 
 Sad sounds, like farewells, in his last songs tide 
 Soft to her saddened soul the poet's sigh for 
 rest. 
 
 February 14, 1881. 
 
THE VISION OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 Is that fire on the dark horizon reflected from 
 land or sea ? 
 
 A will-o'-the-wisp of the waters or the glory- 
 about to be ? 
 
 A sudden enchantment falls on a sleepless and 
 watchful crew ; 
 
 Yet twice had they shouted " Land !" with never 
 a shore in view. 
 
 Columbus kneels in his cabin, his soul in thanks 
 
 outpoured 
 For the vision that comes to the victor, and 
 
 a sign vouchsafed by the Lord. 
 Had he seen in the midnight glimmer of a 
 
 sleep-enveloped strand 
 The smile of his life's ideal, with a crucifix in 
 
 her hand ? 
 
202 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Could it be that his soul's beloved, the be- 
 trothed of a deathless dream, 
 
 Had caught from her outermost Eden his cara- 
 vels' distant gleam ? 
 
 But as yet not one of the doubters of a day 
 or two before 
 
 Has demanded the velvet doublet, as the first 
 to descry the shore. 
 
 And whence that shadowy splendor, with a cry 
 
 of " Land !" on his lips, 
 Like the gleam of Isabel's jewels in the midst 
 
 of the booming ships ? 
 Can it be the spirit of Isabel, the form of his 
 
 royal friend, 
 In the jewels of joy resplendent, in a dream of 
 
 his journey's end ? 
 
 He knows that once in the voyage her shadow 
 shimmered between 
 
The Vision of Columbus. 203 
 
 The blades of a crew rebellious and the friend 
 of the Spanish queen. 
 
 The veil from the dark sea lifted, its ghostly 
 gulf explored ! 
 
 The dragon of Superstition pierced by Dis- 
 covery's sword ! 
 
 He has waged and won the battle that waited 
 
 a thousand years 
 For its Genoese commander and. the gleam of 
 
 its Spanish spears. 
 He has seen all the shadows of fear from the 
 
 island of Ferro flee, 
 And the wounded roc fall limp in the sweep 
 
 of a wider sea ; 
 
 The dreams that are medieval, like the mists 
 
 of night, dissolve 
 In the swirl of the smiling waters when the 
 
 world begins to revolve ! 
 
204 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 He has waged and won the battle, in the face 
 
 of forlorn surprise, 
 In the menace of murderous madness that 
 
 glared from a hundred eyes. 
 
 In the face of swords that pointed to soundings 
 
 that tell no tales, — 
 With the faith that overcometh and the courage 
 
 that never fails ! 
 With a faith whose glance auroral his men to 
 
 themselves revealed, 
 With the truth that the victory winneth when 
 
 Rescue has fled the field : 
 
 With a faith, in the climax of terror, that stood 
 
 for those trembling tars 
 In imminent stead for the comfort that fled 
 
 from the sun and the stars ! 
 Every man of his crew forgiven for a menace 
 
 of more than death, 
 
The Visioji of Columbus. 205 
 
 For they sailed, by the chart of Columbus and 
 the Trade-wind's bewildering breath, 
 
 At a speed whose persistence appalled them, 
 'neath a canopy far too fair, 
 
 Its sunrise the doom of the dreamer, its sun- 
 set the dream of despair ! 
 
 Sailing on forever, they feared, with a menace 
 in every mile, 
 
 On a sea with a face as smooth as its dragon's 
 reflected smile ; 
 
 Inspired by the man they hated, losing heart 
 but to hate him the more ; 
 
 His will, like the winds that drove them, 
 whether shipwreck ! or sea ! or shore ! 
 
 His will, like the winds that held them, head- 
 ing away to the West, 
 
 Uniform, constant, and changeless as the love 
 
 in a father's breast. 
 18 
 
2o6 Songs for the Hour. 
 
 Had he heard in that midnight vision, in a 
 
 moment of joy profound, 
 The ghost of the Inquisition confess that the 
 
 earth is round ? 
 Did he see on the brow of Arragon the shadow 
 
 of lasting regret. 
 To be found in a time of trouble the friend 
 
 who would fain forget ? 
 
 The look of ineffable rapture on the features of 
 
 proud Castile, 
 To find the ocean furrowed by Christianity's 
 
 faithful keel ? 
 Was John of Portugal present, with the mien 
 
 of a moody king. 
 To write on the chart of Columbus " Remorse" 
 
 with his royal ring ? 
 
 Remorse for the terms rejected, the treasures 
 he lost for aye ! 
 
Tiie Vision of Columbus. 207 
 
 The ten years lost to Columbus, and a waiting 
 
 world's delay ! 
 " Ha ! ha !" cry the coming squadrons, hidalgos 
 
 in quest of gold, 
 On highways, for ages dreaded, where the 
 
 waves of the dark sea rolled ! 
 
 To Genoa's foremost freeman, commissioned of 
 God and Spain, 
 
 Did the skies' starry Dream of Columbia shed 
 more splendor than man could explain ? 
 
 In the vision vouchsafed the victor who nobly 
 fulfils his vow 
 
 Could he see the centuries wreathing the fade- 
 less leaf for his brow ? 
 
 Had he touched on the time enchanted when 
 childhood lisped his name, 
 
 And Isabel's friend, Columbus, every school- 
 boy's hero became ? 
 
2o8 So7igs for the Hour. 
 
 Had he noted the compass he conquered, the 
 needle he shaped to his mind, 
 
 In a tremor of precious rapture for the paths 
 that were yet to find ? 
 
 It matters not who the finders; for the least 
 
 and the greatest of these, 
 From the world that is round, he has wrested 
 
 the secrets of all the seas ! 
 But in lieu of his princely titles behold his 
 
 fame assured 
 In the unwritten terms of the treaty and the 
 
 treasures that Time secured ! 
 
 What a lesson his pageant teaches, whose 
 
 triumph was far too brief! 
 What a picture of greatness shrouded in the 
 
 shadows of shame and grief! 
 But lo ! when the fetters were stricken from 
 
 Isabel's faithful friend, 
 
TJic Vision of Columbus. 209 
 
 What a symbol for progress and freedom and 
 the triumph of truth in the end ! 
 
 The ages to come will bless him, as ages gone 
 
 by have blessed, 
 For the wealth the world has discovered with 
 
 his Eastern wand in the West ! 
 For the wand that borrowed its magic from his 
 
 dazzling dream of the East, 
 Till the dawn of knowledge deepened and the 
 
 wisdom of men increased ! 
 
 P'air, phantom sail Santa Maria, forerunner of 
 Liberty's ships. 
 
 Usher in the Columbian Era, with thy cap- 
 tain's cry on its lips ! 
 
 Let the realms that the Pinta announces re- 
 spond to Humanity's Dream, 
 
 Till the Nina, the need of the nations, has an- 
 chored in Liberty's Stream. 
 
 Octoljer 10 and 11, 1S92. 
 
 o iS* 
 
MF 
 
 llllllllllllllrMllll^ilhlllkllllllll 
 
 018 597 847 3