«f fc»»H,HuU.-i. i i.^tr^<^<^»»i*MI>»H«Mli Goip§ht]«i" \ COFVRIGHT DEPOSIT PEBBLES FROM THE SHORE By E. A. KIMBALL »",ARTletVeRITATI m BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 1904 Copyright 1904 by E. A. KiMBALL All rights reserved UBRAHYcf CON(iKtSS Two Copies Hecwveu DEC 19 1^04 -Copyiitnt tntry CUSS CI XXc, Noi //? ^3 %^ COPY 6. PRINTED AT THE GORHAM PRESS BOSTON, U. S. A. CONTENTS Rye Harbor A Pantomime An Epidemic Sunflowers The Hedge . A Little Gift After the Burial Washed Ashore A Little Girl's Birthday Friendship or Love Lines to Rev. T. R. Peed Lines for a Golden Wedding The Harvest Rocks Bridge Lines in Memory of W. H. L. An Autumn Day . Silver Bells Lines in Memory of L. M. D. In Haying Time . At the Grave of Whittier Molly On the Way Page 5 8 lO 12 13 15 i6 17 20 21 24 25 26 28 32 34 36 38 39 40 42 47 Page Old-TixMe Roses . . . .48 Rocks Village and Her Church . 49 To Miss R. I. Davis . . .54 A Retrospect . . . . t;^ Hymn . . . . . ^^8 RYE HARBOR Under the bridge, by the old tide-mill, Through leaky flood-gate, fountain and rill Bubble and gush into pearly spray, Fall into foam-flakes that float away ; By wheel and posts they silently glide, And swiftly waltz on the ebbing tide, To the merry chime of tinkling rill, And steady whir of the busy mill. A rickety, old, unpainted mill, With broken window and rotting sill; With many a crevice long and wide ; For years has it weathered wind and tide, And, faithfully, still it works away Through storm and sunshine, day after day. Seaweed and grass from its braces swing. And moss and shells to the flood-gate cling. South of the bridge, on a Sabbath day Long years ago, where the minnows play In the shallows, little True was found ; Catching the minnows ? No, he was drowned. His parents, driving from church, glanced down At something bright ; 'twas his little gown, — And the child was dead. Oh, baby True, Does the old mill still remember you? The green marsh down to the water slopes, And birds alight on the schooner's ropes. That so calmly leans on her larboard side, As down the channel recedes the tide ; And it leaves the wharf all grim and grey, With its chains, and ropes, and wisps of hay. The foam-flakes fly as the south wind blows, Where the channel bends and wider grows. Oh, clear and blue is the water deep, The shore beyond is rocky and steep, And drifting over sea-meadows green Are feathery clouds, blue sky between; And the lazy billows fall and rise Where the " Mary J." at anchor lies ; As she slowly rocks, the breezes play With her ropes and sails, that gently sway. The fisherman rows his little boat, A dozen others about it float; And gracefully gliding, fast and free The white sloop Dolphin sails out to sea ; The wavelets behind her flash and gleam. Each kissed by a brilliant silver beam ; So faces with holy glory shine. When the heart is touched by rays divine. Oh, smoothly the water flows today. And softly the ripples curve and play ; And tiny shells in the sunshine bleach Along the line of the southern beach. O'er fish-house chimney the smoke curls high, And fish are laid on the flakes to dry. And, just beyond, the first ray of morn Is caught by the captain's rustling corn. Not always so calm ! That jagged wall Has oft heard the frightened sailor's call ; The fisherman's cry on storm-tossed deck, " God guide my vessel by Ragged Neck." And Little Neck has a tale to tell Of whizzing bullets, and what befell The British seamen who tried to land ; Sent back by an unseen, plucky band. Ye lonely graves b}^ the grieving sea, Sad, sad is the tale ye tell to me ! A merciless sea, a rocky isle, A boat to the mainland sent; meanwhile A woman's agony. Hard her fate ! When the wild storm ceased help came too late ; And here for years she has lain at rest, With her infant on her lifeless breast. To me, her sister oft with tears The story told ; but how few the years Ere she was snatched by a tidal wave From the island Chair, and found a grave 'Neath seething billows. Oh, well that we Through fogs of the future can not see; That we know not th' hour when death shall come Or th' way that leads to our final home. The tide comes in, and the tide goes out, And the grey gulls skim and wheel about; The sunshine ever follows the rain ; The seaweed drifts, but the rocks remain. We drift away, old age and youth, Unmoved, unshaken, still stands the truth. But what is truth and where may it be? Said Christ the Lord, " Oh, come unto me." " For I am the Truth and living way To endless bliss in eternal day. The billows may break against this rock, Forever will it withstand the shock. You blindly drift for a little space. And the hail beats on your upturned face, But trust in me, I will safely guide Your bark, thoiigh treacherous be the tide." Sunbeams glinting- on the sea, Diamonds flashing brilHantly; Tranquil billows come and go ; Hear their music sweet and low, Like a mother's lullaby, When she holds the baby nigh ; Soothing music soft and sweet, Sings she, and does oft repeat Lullaby, the low refrain. Lullaby, the pleasing strain, Till the weary eyelids close. Till the baby finds repose. So the quiet summer sea Sings a soothing song to me. Hear the cadence soft and low. As the billows come and go; And the tender words repeat, '' Sweet is life and love is sweet. Sweet is love, and life is fleet. Let it be with love replete." A PANTOMIME A hard and level beach. Stretching away and away. Far as the eye can reach. Waves, so joyful and gay One may almost hear them shout Like children at their play, Quickly run in and out Over the glistening sand, Tumble and toss about. Foam white as white can be; A shimmering, soft moonhght, A sparkling, quiv'ring sea. A seat that holds just two ; Two lovers there rest awhile; Dark eyes and eyes of blue. A cloud its shadow throws, — Her head on his shoulder rests. (Perhaps they kiss, who knows?) Down falls a long fair braid, And he from his pocket takes A knife, with dull old blade. He saws a little while ; In his eyes a tender light, She looks on with a smile. A little glossy tress In his pocket-book is laid; A lingering caress — The wavelets dance and play Anear to the lovers' bench ; They rise and walk away. SEQUEL He flirts with all the women he can ; She's glad she married a different man. AN EPIDEMIC I have heard how yellow fever takes its many victims off; I have had the mmnps and measles, scarlet fever, whooping cough, I can read about the cholera, the very Asiatic, Sweeping through Italian cities in a way too sys- tematic. But of all the epidemics I have ever heard or read, The one that stays the longest, and has had the greatest spread. That hits the high-toned lady and the country lassie sweet. That follows to the seashore for the dude and fine aesthete. The gentleman of leisure and the darky with his hod, Taking victims by the thousands, — is the rage for golden rod ! 'Tis the northern yellow fever that for years has had its sway; The physicians do not check it; they, too, fall an easy prey. There's my daughter, Ann Belinda, just at home from Hampton Beach, And her cousin, Jane Jemima, gather all within their reach ; Daily bring it home by armfuls, so a stock on hand to keep. Yet they care no more for flowers than a couple of old sheep. lO Yes, 'tis pretty by the roadside, and I'll own it's hard to beat On the outside of your dwellings, when you dec- orate your street; And within doors, used with caution, if I rightly recollect. Sprinkled in with other blossoms, used to give a fine effect. Poets, too, have loved the flower, and have writ- ten in its praise Tender words. I used to read them, but now, since this yellow craze. Though delightful be the poem, this the vision I behold : Ann Belinda, Jane Jemima, lugging home the poet's gold. I can see nine hundred women passing through a country road. Bearing golden rod enough to make a decent- sized carload ; I behold a vast procession moving down a city street. And can see the fever symptoms in two-thirds of all I meet. Oh ! of all the epidemics I have ever heard or read. It is this that stays the longest and has had the greatest spread. For it drives o'er city pavements and it roams o'er country sod, ■ — The northern yellow fever is the rage for golden rod. II SUNFLOWERS TO MRS. M. F. T. Sunflowers ? Do I like them ? Why, yes, some- what, in their place ; Though I seldom care to pluck them, — should not put one in a vase With a pansy, or a rosebud; but I like to see them grow Where our mothers and grandmothers used to plant them years ago. Oh ! the yellow of the sunset and the glory of the morn. In the wide, old-fashioned gardens, or beside the rows of corn ; With the lilac and the dahlia, with the southern- wood and balm. How contentedly they blossom, always dignified and calm. Were I king — to deck my palace for a coming Sheba's queen. Brightest sunflowers should be mingled with the deepest evergreen; They should blaze in stars and crescents, they should loop the flags on high, And upon the lofty arches, yellow bloom should meet the eye. Were I king, — I should be tempted then to pub- lish this decree: All my subjects wearing sunflowers when they come the queen to see, Man or woman, shall be banished to the southern frigid zone. There to raise a ton of sunflowers, and to wear them, when they're grown. 12 THE HEDGE " Once you said naught would you ever That could separate us do. Ah, how long did you remember? Who was false, and who was true ? Whose the hand that sowed the thistles That have pricked both you and me ? Tall and thick the hedge between us, O'er it we can scarcely see. " Forward, onward, we go pacing, You without and I within ; Soon the hedge might be demolished If but either would begin. Now and then our hands reach through it, Clasp a moment, then unloose; But to break it and pass over. Both are stubborn, and refuse. " Hoping, longing to be nearer, Daring not to make it known, Fearing each to make concession, Onward each must go alone. Are you cruel? Am I hateful? Does it please us to offend ? I am sorry you dislike me ; I have meant to be your friend. " Oh, this hedge ! These stinging thistles ! Rank and noxious have they grown ; Tiny seeds, along our pathway, Carelessly, by us, were strown ; Hasty words and looks impatient, Bitter thoughts, deep-rooted grew, Till about us, thick upspringing, Came the thistles into view. With our feet we might have crushed them, With our hands have pulled them out ; But the faith we should have cherished Withered, and gave place to doubt. So the thistles grew and flourished And we farther walked apart ; We have known the hedge w^as growing, Seen it, each with aching heart. You'll not ask me to break through it Lest I deem you quite too fond ! Have I wronged you ? Then forgive me. For the way is dark beyond. We can not go on forever ; — I should rather be at peace. Shall we let the hedge grow thicker Till our hearts their throbbings cease ? You do trust me? Have forgiven All the past and all its pain ? Then we'll walk henceforth together. We will quarrel ne'er again. So the fence at last is broken ; — Ere the thistles go to seed. We will mow them, we will burn them, And uproot each baneful weed. But the past we must remember, Lest some angry words we say ; Lest again we find the thistles Thickly growing by the way ; Lest divided death should find us ; Lest, beside life's closing gate. One should cry, in bitter sorrow, For forgiveness all too late." 14 A LITTLE GIFT These fragrant violets I send To her who loved all flowers, my friend. But, oh, she lies so still and cold. She cannot take them, as of old. Her eyes are closed, her lips are dumb. Her slender hands are stiff and numb. No smile can o'er her features play ; She will not heed my flowers, today. But yet, with tender love, I send This little token to my friend; A token of the happy past. And of her future grand and vast. She is not here ; gone on before. She waits upon the Heav'nly shore. We hold the past ; how sweet and dear ! Her influence lives; she hovers near. We pray for strength ; we wonder why These things are so ; God hears our cry ; He gives us comfort for our pain : Though flowers die, thev bloom again. 15 AFTER THE BURIAL They have laid the mortal part Of my friend in the grave to rest ; It is cold, and the storm beats down On the sod above her breast. Two graves ! a mother and child ; Together in silence they lie ; Two graves, and a desolate home, And the wailing winds go by. But the bitter wind will cease. For the winter will soon be o'er ; The spring will return, but alas ! She will come to us no more. We may call, but all in vain; Neither love nor grief can avail. E'en the cry of the motherless babe To bring her will not prevail. A foe hard to face is Death; Hard is it from dear ones to part. Yet God in his infinite love Can strengthen the fainting heart. Two precious treasures Fie gives: Hope, memory — priceless are they ; For Memory holds up the past, While heav'nward Hope points the way. i6 WASHED ASHORE (Aunt Polly Reuienibers.) " Over the ledges by the stream Winding- along, the dead were borne From the sea, by marsh and field. And only strangers for them to mourn. " Over the bridge, and up the hill, Slowly, slowly they bore the dead ; Up the hill, then paused to rest, For the men were tired, you see," she said. " The men were tired, and laid them down, Two dead bodies on boards," she said; " Side by side upon the ground, — And out I ran to look at the dead. " I was a child, a little child ; Em ninety-one — 'twas long ago ! There they lay. The sight I saw Will follow me to my grave, I know. " Bruised, mangled, — two dead men, — Pieces of garments they had worn. Seaweed, shells, and tangled hair. And hands with the flesh all cut and torn. " Two pine coffins and one wide grave Enclosed the dead and hid from view, Hid from sight, and none to weep, And only strangers to bid adieu. " Two men once from the city came And heard what people had to say ; Came and went and told no tales. But the dead were taken not away. 17 " And who they were no one can tell ; The streets you may go up and down, Talk and wonder, — no one knows. For I am the oldest of the town. " Yes, in the old house there I Hved, The house where I was born, you see. Built when George the third was king. In old colonial days," said she. '' Still stands the house where I was born ; The stream winds eastward to the sea. Side by side the nameless dead With friends of my childhood rest," said she. " Rocks and ledges the lot surround ; Rocks with lichens and mosses green ; Sea-wall east and east the sea. And a marsh with waters bright between. " Two graves you think there are ? Why, yes. Another body came ashore From a wreck, and I was then A girl of a dozen years or more. " A vessel bearing flour and corn Was by the mighty breakers tost On the ledge ; but only one Of the men aboard of her was lost. " Wrecked on Rye Ledge, that like a snake, A serpent black, crawls out to sea. Waits for victims passing by, — It was there he lost his life," said she. " And so they laid him down to rest Beside the other two," said she ; " Long forgotten have they lain Anear to the cold, relentless sea." i8 That is her story of the graves ; The nameless graves beside the sea. JMonths and years, I know not why. Have the "-raves and sailors haunted me. fe' In wakeful nights, when children fret, When I am tired and fain would sleep. Why must I beside them stand ? Must I hear the thunder of the deep ? Must see the bodies on the beach, And solemn faces look at me, — Wives and children, wistful, sad, Look o'er a wild, tumultuous sea. A little child, somewhat I heard About the dead men washed ashore; Years forgotten, back it came To haunt and trouble me evermore. But now I hope they'll let me rest. For I have told all that I know ; All I know about the dead Who were washed ashore so long ago. 19 A LITTLE GIRL'S BIRTHDAY I heard a bluebird singing, And I thought I heard him say, " Pleasant morning ! pleasant morning For a little girl's birthday. '* I'll sing my sweetest carol, And my springtime roundelay, In the merry, merry morning Of a little girl's birthday. " I'll sing about the pussies. And they all are silver-gray On the willow, on the willow, For a little girl's birthday. " I'll sing about the robin. And he is not far away ; He is coming, he is coming. For a little girl's birthday." I hear the bluebird singing. And I'm sure I hear him say, " Happy greeting ! happy greeting For a little girl's birthday." 20 FRIENDSHIP OR LOVE Where do love and friendship meet? What is the dividing Hne ? I have sought and found it not In this heart of mine. Where do love and friendship meet? Is there a dividing line ? Is it love or friendship fills All this heart of mine ? " Each rose has its thorn," we are told, The saying we know to be true. " The sweeter the rose, the sharper the thorn," I have found it so, haven't you? Yes, roses ; but not they alone. , Why, look at this blossom, this bell. Clear white, swaying now in a passing breeze. And what does its golden tongue tell? It used to be ringing of peace ; *' Have faith in my love," once it said ; But it rings out now, " Beware whom you trust," It tolls for a faith that is dead. A faith that is dead, did I say? I wonder if Faith ever dies ; She rises again and again from the dust Where wounded and bleeding she lies. But that is the thorn of the bell, Its touch causes hot tears to start. Yes, roses have thorns, but not they alone, Some others can pierce to the heart. 21 His favorite flower, you see; How often these blossoms I wore, But the long summer days go by, go by, And he comes to me now no more. I then thought he loved me, but I Was foolish to trust him, no doubt ; That roses have thorns, but not they alone I wonder if he has found out. This morning, a copy I found Of Ingelow, down by the mill ; He had laid it there a little before, — And I think that he loves me still. " Divided " — yes, there was his mark ; So that was the poem he read ! The clouds all at once were gone from the sky, And the sun shone out overhead : For there was the flower I wore ; How well I remember the night ! — He had pressed and treasured it all this time. My bell-flower, yellow and white. Tonight I shall go to the ball, And Herbert will surely be there. And, — yes, — pinned into the lace at my throat. One little white bell I will wear. And if he still loves me, why, then A talisman fair it shall be ; And if he loves not, then, where is the harm? The blossom, of course, he'll not see. 22 It was friendship, it is love ; Where they met I cannot tell. Herbert loves me. This I know, Love and friendship mingle well, Mingle well within my heart. I shall always be his friend; Will he love me to the last? I shall love him to the end. To the end. Or long or short Be the path our feet must tread, May all bitterness and wrath Rest in peace among the dead. 23 LINES TO REV. T. R. PEED To us, not long ago, you told How wise men scorned a simple thing ; Turned from the water, pure and cold, That bubbled in a wayside spring. Something more wonderful to find. And wandered o'er a vast domain ; The crystal spring left far behind, To quench their thirst they sought in vain. We, as a people, thirst. You stand Beside the crystal spring of truth. To dip and pass with willing hand Its waters pure to age and youth. May we with willing hearts receive The limpid water you dispense ; The simple truth may we believe, Nor, scorning, at it take offense. May you, may we, or strong or weak, All comfort, all refreshing find ; To this clear fountain ever seek. And to it lead the lame and blind. 24 LINES WRITTEN FOR THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF REV. AND MRS. EBEN PEASLEE, Feb. i6, 1883 What is this golden wedding? A halting place reached after many years Of marching two as one, where man and wife May bivouac for a day ; the campfire light, Past joys and sorrows call to mind ; clasp hands With comrades, and to them recount the march Of progress, how the world has changed, or worse Or better grown ; in fancy live again The pleasant early days when cares were few, Look into baby eyes, and feel the touch Of baby fingers ; kiss the tear-stained cheek, Or chide the erring; mend the broken toys. And cry again, '' O children, what a noise ! " The preacher moves again from place to place. He breaks for hungry souls the bread of life. The farmer whets his scythe, and other men Who think they mow fall to the rear while he. With steady arm and strong, lays down a swath Three yards and more in width. Committeeman, The schoolma'am quakes before him, lest she make A blunder and his favor lose. In time Of war, rise daily prayers to God for those Who heed their country's call. And some are not! The ranks are broken; hearts are crushed and sore, The hot tears fall for those who come no more. 25 What Is this golden wedding? A halting place, but not the final rest — Not ended is the march. The vast unknown Mist-shrouded lies before ; what it may be God knows, and if the way be long or short. Day after day his penetrating light The next step shineth on and maketh plain. Assembled comrades here kind wishes bring. And hope that these their friends may all things find Conducive to their joy. When mustered out. May Christ the Great Commander say, " Well done! The good fight ye have fought; now ends the strife ; Rest, peace, to you I give, and endless life." The day is waning and the twilight falls ; The drum is beating. Hark, the Captain calls, " Lo, I am with you alway ; halt no more ; Fall into line. March on, I go before." THE HARVEST FOR THE HARVEST CONCERT, OCT., 1884 We meet tonight to render thanks Unto the Lord of Heaven, For all the tokens of his love That He to us has given; Throughout the year has He been near. With love our hearts and homes to cheer. 26 The early and the latter rain Have fallen in their season ; Though frequent frosts have touched the vales We all have still good reason Our songs to raise in grateful praise, For blessings in unnumbered ways. We praise Him for the nightly dews, And for the sunshine golden ; That tempest, pestilence, and death From us have been withholden. In toil and rest have we been blest, And earth has yielded her bequest. The products of the hill and plain, And gardens all around us. More plainly show than we can tell The mercies that surround us. We here behold the story told In vivid shades of red and gold. The harvest has been gathered in By hands both strong and willing. We thank the Lord for all good things Our barns and cellars filling. Their hymns of praise the old may raise ; The young can trill their sweetest lays. But oh, the harvest of the soul ! That let us be reviewing: In all the peaceful summer days What have our hearts been doing? Oh, do we know and dare we show The fruits that we have tried to grow? 27 And can we bring our ripened sheaves To Him who knows our weakness, And say, " Dear Lord, behold our love. Long-suffering and meekness ; We sowed in tears, we toiled with fears. But now the ripened grain appears " ? But if it be the fruits of sin Our hearts tonight are showing, If through the sunshine and the rain They have been slowly growing, — If fruits of sin be garnered in, We have decay and death within. What is the harvest of the soul ? What fruits have we for keeping? Have we our sheaves of golden grain, Or weeds have we been reaping? Are greed, lust, strife, and envy rife. Or have we everlasting life? ROCKS BRIDGE Dedicated, without permission, to certain cor- respondents who aired their notions in city papers. And they talk of discontinuing the Rocks bridge, did you say? There's no travel in that section ; it is going to decay ? " It will tumble on some passing boat " with a tremendous splash. And the ladies will be fainting when they hear the awful crash ? 3§ " There's the Groveland bridge," you tell us, " four miles off, and all we need In this thinly settled region, this old village gone to seed. And the Rocks bridge is a nuisance, 'tis not needed any more." But you think we need another to connect the Bradford shore. " Cannot afford a new one here," why, the bare thought makes you sigh ; " For the place is unimportant, and the taxes now too high. And the people of the city could not bear the great expense ; Essex county surely would not." And you call that common sense ! Yet the villagers pay taxes for some blessings not used here : The police force, pavements, sewers, and the gas- light bright and clear ; For the bridges and the high school we can pay and not complain. Thankful for our country favors while we bear the city name. Tear it down? A bridge was built here almost ninety years ago; It was needed by our fathers in a time we deem so slow; Oh, with pride they looked upon it, longest o'er the Merrimack, And shall we who boast of progress in a fast age backward track? 29 Couldn't we bring back the red men; give up chloroform and steam ; In a gondola, slow-drifting, take an easy trip down stream ; Vote the telephone a nuisance, throw machinery- aside ; Let the scanty gown of homespun deck the mod- ern blushing bride ? Two and twenty years the first bridge stood the- sweep of time and tide ; Then the springtime rains descended on the hills and valleys wide; Heavy rains the deep snow melted, rills and brooks a torrent poured Down the hillsides to the valley, where the swell- ing river roared. Roared and plunged the mighty torrent ; like an earthquake was the crash Of the bridge of ice upbreaking, heaving, piling with a clash Heard for miles. Great masses drifted onward, and the angry tide Leaped its banks and swept resistless down the vale on either side. And the bridge went down before the flood, a broken, shapeless mass ; Tossing, whirling toward the ocean did the frag- ments quickly pass. Then another bridge, and stronger, spanned the stream from shore to shore ; It has stood the tide and tempest half a century and more. 30 Some strange scenes the bridge has witnessed, future chronicles will tell ; Morse fulfilled his own prediction : bleeding, dy- ing, there he fell, Hast'ning to obey the signal, as the schooner blew its horn. Waking up the sleeping echoes on that bright September morn. They will speak of one a-weary, in the twilight of the mind, Leaping down into the current, hoping there sweet rest to find ; Of the oars in sunlight flashing, of the arms so strong and brave, Bearing back the almost lifeless, saving from a watery grave. Wandered often here the poet Whittier, then young and strong ; Of " the river's steel-blue crescent " he has told us in his song ; Of the bridge and " gray abutment," where the " idle shad-net dries," How " the tollman in his cobbler's stall sits smok- ing with closed eyes." Here have wandered happy lovers in the shim- mering moonlight, Gazing oi¥ into the distance, seeing visions fair and bright ; Only fair — no black clouds lower in the lover's golden west, For his future bringeth treasures, looking for- ward he is blest. 31 Why, a hundred teams and more would cross the old bridge every day, And because we need a new one you would take it all away, When the work of reconstruction is progressing fast and far : Why, the cost you should have counted sooner! 'tis too late you are ! For the dredgemen and the divers are a-working with their might, And the iron and the timber high are piled in open sight. Why not try to take from out the year the much- needed month of June? When again you take your fiddle twang us out a better tune. June 29, i( LINES IN MEMORY OF W. H. L. OF RYE, N. H. His work is done, we sadly said, As we heard him numbered with the dead., Hands, heart, and brain can do no more ; He is resting on the other shore. Not far away, but yet unseen. For a heavy mist lies dark between This side and that ; but yet not far Is the land where " many mansions " are. Ours is the loss, his is the gain ; We sorrow, but he is free from pain. 32 Sweet rest be his in endless day, And ours to labor, to trust, and pray. His work is done, we thought and said, As we sadly named him with the dead. His work is done? Ah, no; ah, no; It is going on, — God wills it so. We feel it in our souls today. We know death carried not that away. His life well spent, each day complete, Has given to us its fragrance sweet. His prayers, his counsels, dealings just. They will not crumble and turn to dust. His humble walk with God we know Death has no power to overthrow. Because our hearts are faint and sore Shall we exclaim that his work is o'er? Nay ; with us it doth still abide. Though he has passed to the other side. Passed on ! O depth of grief and woe ! We had not dreamed that he first would go Beyond the tide. So well, so strong. We thought he would linger with us long. We miss him more than we can tell, And our hearts sometimes almost rebel Against the stroke that fell so soon, That smote him in life's fair afternoon. 33 But hush ! rebellious thoughts he still ! He is beyond the power of ill. And we are selfish ; God knows best, And he gives to his beloved rest. AN AUTUMN DAY Like the smile of a shy maiden comes the rosy flush of dawn, Slowly, slowly from the eastward in the crisp autumnal morn ; And the silver star to westward shines but dimly through the gray. While the mist upon the lowland thinner grows and fades away, Vanishes before the glory of a perfect harvest day. Soft the air, subdued the sunshine, light the touch of balmy breeze ; Scarcely can you hear it whisper as it passes through the trees. Now and then a bright leaf flutters, falls in silence to the ground ; Even hickories and acorns that are dropping all around Fall among the grass and brambles with a far- off, muffled sound. Chick-a-dee-dee-dee comes sweetly from that twisted apple tree ; From the maple, farther, fainter, hear it ; chick-a- dee-dee-dee. From among the hazel blossoms, where the stream creeps slowly by. 34 Thickly strewn with beech leaves golden, still more faint, a low reply, Then above us chick-a-dee-dee rings the music clear and high. Perched among the fragrant branches of the apple orchard there Is the hale and thrifty farmer picking Baldwins red and fair ; Cautiously he reaches upward, carefully from branches tall. One by one he takes the apples until he has gathered all. One by one, — as come the moments to the great and to the small. Yonder in the barn sits grandsire husking out the yellow corn ; Smilingly he fills the basket ; although aged, not forlorn, For his thoughts are backward roaming, he is once again a boy In his father's lowly cottage. Retrospection gives him joy. For the long-gone days of childhood are the days without alloy. You can hear the cricket army chirping, chirping in the grass ; Hear the hoarse cry of a raven, see its shadow quickly pass. And the children ! If you listen you will hear them shout and call To each other, in the distance, boys and girls and squirrels, all Frisk about upon the hillsides, while the walnuts round them fall. 35 Now the cows come slowly homeward, low the sun sinks in the west, And yon crescent brighter growing tells us nature seeks her rest. Oh, these peaceful days of autumn, all too soon they slip away; Soon will howl the blasts of winter, soon the skies be cold and gray. Let us gather in our harvest, while the golden moments stay. There are other treasures waiting, like the apples on the bough ; Let us reach a little higher, let us take our bless- ings now; We should not sit idly waiting for the precious fruit to fall, And expect the corn and pumpkins to roll home- ward at our call ; Nor should we, when wanting chestnuts, let the squirrels take them all. SILVER BELLS For the Huenty- fifth anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Elias H. Perkins of Hamp- ton, N. H., Nov. 19, 1888 Do you hear a sound of music? Low it sinks, then loudly swells, Clear upon the air of evening ; 'Tis the melody of bells : Singing, ringing, keeping time ; Silver bells, how sweet their chime ! 36 Louder, clearer they are pealing, " Welcome friends of groom and bride. With a joyful purpose bidding Welcome to their own fireside : Merrily they chant and ring, Cheerily they chime and sing. They are wakening the echoes, Memories of bygone years ; They are calling back the loved ones, They are mingling smiles and tears. Slowly, softly, tolls the bell ; Tenderly it says, " Farewell." Now we hear them slowly chanting Of our blessings in disguise ; Of the stars that gleam and twinkle Though we see but clouded skies : Chanting of the light divine That doth on our pathway shine. And again we hear them telling Of a faith that will not fail. Of a strength that shall be given, Of an arm that shall prevail O'er the foes that hide within, And shall conquer death and sin. They are sounding out kind wishes From all friends and kindred dear. For a long and happy future For the happy couple here. — All in harmony sublime Mav their bells forever chime. 37 LINES IN MEMORY OF L. M. D. While walking in shadows of on-coming night, A little before us she passed from our sight. We reached out our hands for the touch of her own, We clasped but the mists, — we were walking alone. She was gone, she was lost! we sought her in vain. Crushed down to the earth with our burden of pain, We groped for her foot-prints while tears blind- ing, hot, Fell thick as we called her, — she answered us not. Looking up we beheld, through the darkness afar, A faint ray of light like the gleam of a star. It brightened and shone through the gloom of the night, And gladdened our hearts with its glorious light. It comforted, strengthened, and helped us to rise. It drew our sad thoughts from the earth to the skies. Fair light, from the beautiful city of love! The hope of a meeting beyond and above. 38 IN HAYING TIME I am a farmer hale and strong, I work in clover all day long ; When dews fall softly down at night, When summer days are long and bright, When sings the bobolink for me. My clover fields are fair to see. 'Tis then I drive my steeds about The lots of clover tall and stout, To music of the mower's click: Rick-a-tic-tic, tic-tic-tic tic; Thick, fragrant cuts I leave behind, Sometimes a hornet's nest I find. Mv sons, gay fellows, Sam and Jim, With scythes the ragged edges trim ; Their swaths they spread with song and jest, John with the tedder turns the rest ; While I, through clover red and thick, Keep up a rattling ric-tic-tic. My good wife likes the sound to hear, And when the dinner hour draws near, She often in the doorway stands And beckons to me with her hands : Dear hands ! dear wife, whom there I see ! Dear home ! there's rest and peace for me. Ah ! there she stands. This way her face Is turned, to see how small a space I have to cut. As 'round and 'round The patch I drive, she hears the sound, The mower's merry rapid click, Among the clover, rick-tic-tic. 39 When jane, my little girl, was sick, She'd listen for the rick-tic-tic ; And '' Where does father mow today ? " Or " Father's coming home " she'd say. And every day some clover bloom I carried in to scent her room. And when the little lassie died, I laid a fragrant bunch beside The fair, white face. She could not see ! But it was comforting to me. 'Twas years ago, but still I miss Her noonday prattle — good-night kiss. They talk of perfumes, costly, rare. But oh, what can with this compare, This breath of clover newly mown? No monarch on his gilded throne Can purchase fragrance half so sweet As clover crushed beneath my feet. Rick-a-tick-tic-tic, the task is done ; Afar it gleameth in the sun, My field of clover, level, sweet. May all my tasks be thus complete, And may my life a fragrance shed That shall remain when I am dead. AT THE GRAVE OF WHITTIER Oct., 1892 Fresh-turfed the long and narrow mound, With crimson woodbine twined around, The homelike blossoms sweet and fair, And fading garlands resting there. 40 Here all is silence, save the faint, Low murmur of the leaves, whose plaint Seems softly sighing overhead, — A lamentation for the dead? Ah, no; a chant of holy peace, Of grateful love that must increase. As songs immortal, truths sublime. Shall echo down the shores of time. A chant victorious and grand, Outswelling o'er his native land. Where man with nature shall unite To sound the triumph of the right. And I this tribute fain would pay Unto Pentucket's Bard today — He being dead yet speaketh ; this, Tho' tinged with pain, holds much of bliss. He speaketh yet in w^ords that cheer The weary traveler, when drear His pathway, when the clouds of night Obscure the skies, shut out the light. He speaketh yet brave words and plain. In years of life without a stain, In simple faith, intensely strong. That brooks no trifling with the wrong. He sings in silence to the heart, And all discordant sounds depart ; He speaketh yet in tender strain: Sing on, O earth ! the glad refrain. 41 MOLLY " Woman ? — that in the homespun gown, A man's old pahn-leaf hat tied down, Broomstick cane and kerchief gay? That is a scarecrow, I should say. Walking away this lovely morn. Just escaped from a field of corn." Woman, surely ! Look at her eyes ! Lightning darts in lowering skies ! Tough old hide and a lonesome tooth, Hands that might have been washed in youth. If e'er she had one; wrinkled, bent. Has Endor's witch to you been sent? That is Molly. She lives alone, Down at the Neck. Not much is known About her youth or middle life ; They moved to town, John and his wife. In eighteen-forty. He is dead, — Died of heart disease, it is said. Molly the widow, gray old crone, Lives in that low brown house alone. Would you enter, look at her room ? Here in the corner stands the broom. Hemlock branches tied to a stick, Seldom used, though the dirt be thick. Sooty fireplace and smutty crane. Poor old kettle with smirch and stain. Old tin pail where the tea was " biled," Chair with a dozen cushions piled, Bed in one corner, low and small. Clock in another, slim and tall. 42 Tables and chests and boxes stand About the room on ev'ry hand ; On and behind them Molly flings All of her broken plates and things : Pitchers and skillets, bowls and mugs, Shattered bottles and castoff jugs. Cobwebs long from the ceiling swing, Cobwebs thick to the windows cling; Sage and catnip in bunches tied. Years and years have they hung and dried Heaps of rubbish you here may scan : Old jaw-teeth and a warming-pan. Molly will charm the tooth that aches, Though to look at her fingers makes One a-tremble and loath to choose Whether to let her or refuse. Open your mouth, now shut your eyes. And on your tooth her finger lies. Rocking her body to and fro. Witch-like mutterings grum and low, Though you may long to bite and squirm, Molly will hold her finger firm Until your nose and eyes are red. Until the charm has all been said. Molly is glad we came today. Rising, now, we would go away ; Slowly she sways, and slowly sings. And from some hiding place she brings A miniature for us to see, — A man who looks scarce twenty-three. 43 We dare not question, so we gaze, His handsome face and hair we praise ; We reach, at length, the cottage door; Her bony hands are waving o'er Our heads. Again she mutters low, — A blessing? We will take it so. The tides and years both came and went, And Molly lived in fierce content^ Alone, unloved, in grim unrest. Her secrets locked within her breast; Her privilege the coast to scan, From old Whale's Back to far Cape Ann, She saw each dismal stranded wreck That beat against the rocky neck. She must have loved the wondrous light That gleamed across the darkest night: White Island's true, revolving star, One loyal friend who could not mar With near approach her wretched peace, As rude boys, who were bade to " cease Their pranks." On them she vent her ire In cruel oaths and curses dire. She could not brook life's modern ways. But lived the old Colonial days Until the last ; and then she died. As she had lived, in bitter pride. With this request : " When I shall die Send me away, that I may lie With childhood friends ;" and, as she willed, Her neighbors saw the wish fulfilled. 44 But, ere she died, they overturned Her junkshop;, and the rubbish burned. With shrieks and howls poor Molly saw Her room reduced to " Heaven's first law." Fiercely she fought the four strong men Who dared to purify her den. With misty darkness all about, At ninety-two her lamp went out. They sought and found, — not hidden gold^ But letters which her secret told: How Molly, in the bloom of life, Had almost been a happy wife ; Her gowns prepared, her garments frilled. Her chest with homemade linen filled. Then jilted in a heartless way A few hours ere the marriage day. Half-crazed and reckless she had tried Her sorrow from the world to hide. She met a captain's lovesick son, And they, ill-mated, were made one. He was a traveled, polished sot. His wealthy friends esteemed her not; And, destitute of love and truth. They wrecked the hopes and joys of youth. The life that might have been made fair They lived in discord and despair: Without forbearance, and the will To cherish good and conquer ill. Persistently would they shut out The music that was all about. Unwise they lived and foolish died. The victims of ill-will and pride. 45 Still stands the house ; the breakers roar Against the rocky eastern shore; Receding, solemnly they say, " They're passed away, all passed away." Now o'er the blue there comes a light. It turns and shines, now red, now white ; It says, '' Life is not wholly vain, We may find comfort for each pain." 46 ON THE WAY Life is brief. Whatever you do, be cheerful and brave, God gives us sunhght this side of the grave. Look for hght. Look and enjoy, take what comfort you may. Receive and impart something helpful each day. Light and shade Each other succeed. Let hurricanes burst, Never despair. Make the best of the worst. Storms will pass. Though many and fierce be the tumults to quell, Strength lies in repose : rest often and well. Time is swift. One cannot do all things ; choose what is fit. There's much we call work 'twere well to omit. Watch and pray. Our strength is weakness, we stumble and fall ; God's right arm uplifts us, He hears when we call. Trust in Him. Be patient in helping those who are down, He who overcometh weareth the crown. At the end Lay down thy burden, thy sorrows shall cease. Enter the gate of the City of Peace. 47 OLD-TIME ROSES They have blossomed, the low, straggling roses That ran in the old garden bed ; They are dearer to me than all others. The old-fashioned rose of deep red. Oh, I welcome the dear old-time roses, I longed for their crimson and gold ; And the exquisite buds, rich and fragrant, I wanted once more to behold. They recall the bright days of my childhood, And joys that will come nevermore. For I gathered each June the sweet blossoms That grew by the brown farmhouse door ; — And my mother still stands in the doorway, And smiles on her rude, noisy band, As the roses half-blown and half-shattered We snatch from the bush for her hand. I remember the neat, roomy kitchen. And mother's own favorite place ; I can see by the wide-open window Her chair, and her beautiful face. As I come up the path from the schoolhouse. And pause at the threshold again. With a cluster of rosebuds beside her She sits with her sewing, as then. Now I enter again the dear homestead. To stand by the old rocking-chair, And she turns with a kind word of greeting. And tenderly smooths out my hair. 48 Oh, the dcHcate touch of her fingers Had power to soothe and restrain, And her smile of rare sweetness could comfort Our sorrows and lessen our pain. It is sad that our roses nmst wither, That all our bright visions must fade, And our hopes, like the fast-falling petals, In shadowy silence be laid. Oh, the roses bloom on in the garden, They fill with their perfume the air, And the buds by the brown farmhouse doorstep Are dainty and faultlessly fair. But the children have grown, they are scattered, And father and mother no more In their easy chairs sit by the window. Or rest on the green near the door ; They are gone, and I muse in the twilight, On joys that will come nevermore. While in fancy I pluck the old roses For mother, who smiles as of yore. ROCKS VILLAGE AND HER CHURCH Written for the seventy-fifth anniversary of the recognition of the Second Baptist Church of Haverhill, January i, i8^y In a corner of a comely town, A quiet village nestles down Among her fair, encircling hills. With deep ravines, where sparkling rills From many a living spring flovv^ out. Through sunny meadows twist about To vine-wreathed bowers, arching o'er A winding river's western shore, 49 A winding river, broad and deep ; By Hunting Hill its waters sweep ; By pleasant homes and fertile fields, Where nature rich abundance yields To those who toil. It onward flows By cellars old, where, lonely, grows The faithful lilac, as of yore It blossomed by the farmhouse door; Where woodbines clamber up the bank, And berry-vines grow wild and rank ; Then by a grass-grown twelve-rod way, A wharf, unused, left to decay. Within deserted garden beds The stately lilies bow their heads ; Of those who trod these intervales, The closed gentian tells no tales. A road now wanders down the hill. That once began at Peaslee's mill, And ended at the ferry old ; 'Twas " Goodman Ayer's cartway," we're told. Where, then, were builded vessels strong. Was heard the merry workman's song ; A gilded sign then swung before The tavern's hospitable door. A cemetery lone and still, A garrison upon the hill ; A massive bridge, a toll-house small, A flagstaff and an engine hall ; With roads that cross and turn about, Where houses straggle in and out — This is the village of today. As one in passing through might say. 50 As grandma in her corner sits, A-dreaming, while she slowly knits, So sits the village ; with a sigh She dreams of life in days gone by. When she was center of a trade Where goods were sought and bargams made When stores were stocked, and shelves were lull Of garments made of honest wool. Where, from the inland country town. The farmer brought his produce down To barter for, perchance, a suit, A warm pea-jacket or surtout. Oh ! traffic here was lively then. The shops were full of busy men ; Large cattle-droves were stabled here, Of lack of work there was no fear. Almost incredible it seems! The street was full of passing teams : Great loads of firewood oxen-drawn. Whose drivers woke the early morn ; The echoes coming from afar, ^, Of " Haw ! " and " Gee ! " and Get up, Star ! With salt-hav loads they plodded back Across the frozen Merrimack. And, then, adown the old Back Lane, Rode giants of the hill and plam From distant forests — pine and oak. Felled by the sturdy woodman's stroke ; Thence rafted on the ebbing tide To ship-vards near the ocean side. Their destined mission to fulfill, Through storm or sunshine, good or ill. 51 The church, at first a feeble few, Soon into grand proportions grew; Her house of worship on the hill The people came from far to fill. On Sunday morn, with holy zeal, They heard the pastor's long appeal, Nor did he then to empty pews Proclaim the blessed gospel news. But, in the greater world outside. New industries were multiplied ; So, to the regions round about Her strong and noble sons went out. In other fields to work and pray. 'Twas thus the good times passed away. Her influence^ that once was great. Beyond the line of town and state. Declined, diminished, till we see Five churches where one used to be. In narrowed field, with members few, This mother still her work must do. The old were cheered, the young were taught. The weak were helped, the erring sought. Her trials great, with courage true. The faithful church has struggled through. The sons who from the village went To her their offerings have sent ; The loving heart, the willing hand. Have often cheered the little band : And, through the darkness, day by day, Her God has led her all the way ; His Presence has gone on before. Five years, a decade, and threescore. 52 Then let our earnest prayers ascend For His direction to the end. Let songs of gratitude arise For blessings of the earth and skies, For common comforts, and the pain That works for our eternal gain ; And unto Him all praise be given. For joys of earth and hope of Heaven. Long live Rocks Village, quaint and old! Well may her history be told In song and story ; well may she Proud of her early record be. And while the river blue and deep Shall by her vales and hillsides sweep, May peace and plenty here be found. And love to God and man abound. 53 TO MISS R. I. DAVIS DECEMBER I5, Not seventy years ! How can it be ? Suppose you say you're sixty-three? Nay, make it fifty, more or less. What need that you today confess How many summers, fair and green, Or snowy winters, you have seen? What need a backward path to trace, Or Sorrow's sombre form embrace? Brood not o'er other long-gone years. Recall not now their sighs and tears ; Let faith's bright evening star arise And deem them blessings in disguise. The present has its favors rare; Then, trusting in a Father's care. In this year's closing pantomime, Give but a nod to fleeting Time ; Then carry on the work begun. Let each day's task be nobly done. Lay down the burdens that you may, And count the mercies of today. So will your joy and hope increase, So may each birthday bring you peace. May friends be true, and God be near. And perfect love cast out all fear. 54 A RETROSPECT Written for the Reunion of the Peastee kindred, Aui^ust, ipoj. Shall we sing of the days of old ? Shall we tell of struggles past? Of sturdy men with courage bold, In a country new and vast, Who builded the log-cabin rude, A home for the wife and child, In the terrible solitude Of the forest dense and wild? Where wolves through the wilderness howled When the night wind niade its moan, And the dark, stealthy savage prowled About the settlement lone? Where horrors awoke them at night, And dangers beset by day? They had to be brave in the fight To conquer the foes in the way. 'Twas a desolate life and bare ; But with grateful hearts they wrought. They accepted the scanty fare. Yet a larger blessing sought. To worship their God in their way. They came to this far, new^ land ; They purposed His word to obey. This stout-hearted, strong- vvilled band. The Book was to guide them along (Not many of them could read; 55 LofC. But the preacher was wise and strong, And held them up to his creed). No papers had they, and few books ; And some learned men could write, The others by cross or by crooks Signed names by the candles' light. The sunshine was theirs and fresh air, And water pure from the rill. Flowers blossoming ev'ry where. And the moonlight white and still. And silence, far-reaching and deep! And space for thought to expand. The conscience this trust gave to keep, To do first the duty at hand. They lived undisturbed by the jar And rattle of passing train. Or screaming, on-rushing car. No steamboats were then on the main. No " head-on collision " had then Made hundreds to shriek and groan. Disasters now common to men To them were wholly unknown. Of the country, nothing they knew Beyond and outside their coast, They had but a limited view Of its wealth ; nor could they boast Of wonders of mountain and park, The millions its mines would yield; Of caverns unmeasured and dark. Its breadth of prairie and field. 56 No prophet so wise as to plan What the centuries would show : The complex inventions of man ; The gifts that wealth would bestow ; The progress of science and art, Of labor and skill well paid ; But, unknowing, they did their part, And gave to the plan their aid. The truth they determined to seek ; For the right they bravely fought. They patiently strengthened the weak ; The good of the whole they sought. Thus wisely they builded, and sure. With no concession to wrong, A government long to endure, A nation valiant and strong. The work they accomplished we praise ; They did what they found to do. We make them the theme of our lays ; We honor the good and the true. As far as they followed the Lord, May we in their footsteps tread ; May the light of His blessed Word O'er the path of life be shed. Alas for the people that turns Aside from the righteous way! But happy the nation that learns The voice of God to obey. Then let us remember to praise Their leader, our Guide and King, When we talk of the olden days, When of trials past we sing. 57 HYMN That I should sometimes toil in vain, That I should often suffer pain, That dark my way should be ; That I should learn to take defeat. The work I choose seem incomplete, May be the best for me. For life is sweet, and friends are dear. If all were light and beauty here, If all were joy and love, If true friends only we should meet, And gems were sparkling at our feet, We should not look above. While holding to the best of earth We miss some things of greater worth. And see not, as we might. The glories of the better land : God's way we do not understand. Nor walk we in the light. To keep us from alluring sin Our way He often hedges in. That we may watch and pray. Lest memory should bring regret. Lest we His wondrous love forget And from His presence stray. 58 f UBRARY OF CONGRESS 016 117 838 » jiiiiiiilttiiii