LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Shelf A.liJjir^ <^ 
 
 ^ ^\ 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
" Then 'round about in tnirthful glee, 
 Tliev sivarined in rapturous bliss.'" 
 
SONGS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SHAWANGUNKS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 BY 
 
 / 
 
 RALCY H. BELL 
 
 ^ 
 
 Copyright, 1891, by Ralcy H. Bell. 
 
 T^C^ 
 
 
 \ V \N.uv\ \ 
 
X 
 
 ^;. 
 
 Songs and Fragments of the Shawangunks. 
 
 By RALCY H. bell. 
 
 And men are only fragments 
 Of a passion ever young ; 
 
 And life is only throbbings 
 
 Of the hot breath of the Sun ; 
 
 And death is but an ebb-tide 
 Or the pulseless bride of night. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 Thy name hath been a silence in my life 
 So long, it falters upon language now. 
 
 Meredith. 
 
 To one who has been foremost in my consider- 
 ations of respect and esteem for years — my friend 
 and much more — to whom I owe, in great part, 
 my high appreciation of the beautiful — the ideal — 
 and love for that which becomes it ; who has 
 flecked my life with rapturous dreams of Joy, and 
 tuned her soul responsively in accord with mine 
 when our "hearts palpitated as if they contained 
 but a single soul;" who has tirelessly ministered to 
 my changing moods, earnestly joined in my pleas- 
 ures and wept for my woes, I aff"ectionately ascribe 
 this unworthy gift ; and 
 
 ''If I, by the Throne, sJiould behold her, "^ 
 Smiling up zvith those eyes loved so well, 
 Close, close in my arms I would fold her,^ 
 A nd drop with her* down to Sweet Hell ! ' ' 
 
 * Vou in the original ; from " Poems of Passion," by Ella Wheeler Wilcox — 
 the sweetest and brainiest poet of this age. 
 
United States Senate, | 
 
 Committee on the District of Columbia. \ 
 
 Washington, D. C, Aug. 21, 1890. 
 
 Dear Mr. Bell: 
 
 In reply to yours of 14th inst. I would 
 say that my impression would be that you will receive 
 greater advantage from publishing your book on your 
 own account than in the usual method, through agents 
 and newspaper companies. 
 
 I thank you for your personal suggestions in con- 
 nection with your work. 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 Mr. R. H. Bell, 
 
 Rosendate, N. Y. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I have dreamed a few dreams in the lap of Nature ; 
 at leisure I have written little verses in which I have 
 painted some of my " dreams and memories with words." 
 
 I have wandered whither my thoughts have led, 
 governed by the same law, maybe, that shapes the course 
 of brooks or gives to the wind its various and viewless 
 paths. Guide-boards and beaten roads have not been 
 regarded, but I have found a consolation, sometimes, in 
 the foot-prints of others — a prophecy. These verses were 
 not written for the scholar, nor to teach ; most of them 
 are commemorative. 
 
 I shall feel satisfied if this little volume interests 
 tJiose of my friends at whose solicitation it was published. 
 
 R. H. B. 
 
' ' But all subsists hy elemental strife 
 And passions are the elements of life, 
 The general order since the 'ohole began. 
 Is kept in nature and is kept in man." 
 
 * * * Everything except truth wears, and needs 
 to wear, a mask. Little souls are ashamed of Nature. 
 Prudery pretends to have only those passions that it 
 cannot feel. Moral poetry is like a respectable canal 
 that never overflows its banks. It has weirs through 
 which, slowly and without damage, any excess of feeling 
 is allowed to flow. It makes excuses for nature, and 
 regards love as an interesting convict. * * * Art 
 creates, combines, and reveals. It is the highest mani- 
 festation of thought, of passion, of love, of intuition. It 
 is the highest form of expression, of history and prophecy. 
 It allows us to look at an unmasked soul, to fathom the 
 abysses of passion ; to understand the heights and depths 
 of love. * * * The nude in art has rendered hoi}' 
 the beauty of woman. Every Greek statue pleads for 
 mothers and sisters. From these marbles come strains 
 of music. They have filled the heart of man with tender- 
 ness and worship. They have kindled reverence, admira- 
 tion and love. * * * The prudent is not the poetic ; 
 it is the mathematical. Genius is the spirit of abandon ; 
 it is joyous, irresponsible. It moves in the swell and 
 curve of billows; it is careless of conduct and conse- 
 quence. 
 
 "Art and Morality "— R. G. Ingersoll. 
 
WORDS OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 
 
 To Reuben D. Slater, the artist, whose culture and 
 kindness, genius and manhood have made me his friend ; 
 to A. V. Haight, the printer, whose character and skill 
 have won my admiration ; and to Cornelius I. Lefever, 
 of Rosendale, N. Y., whose candor and courage, liber- 
 ality, and width and depth of brain and heart, and whose 
 loyal friendship has made me his everlasting friend, I 
 gratefully acknowledge their encouragement and assist- 
 ance. 
 
 R. H. B. 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 FACING PAGE. 
 
 Frontispiece, ^ 
 
 Immortality, 13 ° 
 
 Naiad Natriece, 23 ' 
 
 NocTU, 35 ^^ 
 
 The Ghost of the Murdered Heart, 47 /' 
 
 Rondout 51 V 
 
 Death of Apukwa, 57 / 
 
 Flakes of Snow, 77 '' 
 
 Life and Love IN the Shawangunks, 81 ■• 
 
 'Neath the Shadow of the Linden, 125 . 
 
NDEX 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Immortality, .......... 13 
 
 Through Mists of Meinory 14 
 
 Flood Tide, 17 
 
 Canst Thou Tel! Me 19 
 
 Henry Abbey, 20 
 
 Naiad Natriece, .......... 22 
 
 Love's Appeal, .......... 26 
 
 Proteus Passion, . . ■ . . . . . . -30 
 
 Noctu, .... 32 
 
 Love Must Have His Love, ........ 38 
 
 Ebb Tide, 40 
 
 Inconstancy, ........... 42 
 
 Solitude, ........... 44 
 
 The Ghost of the Murdered Heart, ....... 46 
 
 Mid-most, 49 
 
 Rondout, ............ 51 
 
 Hope's Falling Leaves, ........ 52 
 
 Thoughts of a Summer Day, ........ 54 
 
 Death of Apukwa, ......... 57 
 
 Word of Sympathy, .......... 60 
 
 Babes, ............ 61 
 
 Ode to Nature, .......... 62 
 
 Bonnie Brooklyn Mary, ........ 64 
 
 Winter Roses, ........... 66 
 
 The Old Songs, .......... 68 
 
 A Sonnet to Col. Robert G. IngersoU, ...... 70 
 
lO INDEX. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Untold, 71 
 
 In Love's Tangled Web of Dreams, ...... 72 
 
 Astrology, 75 
 
 Flakes of Snow 76 
 
 Life and Love in the Shawangunks, ...... 80 
 
 A Lock of Hair, 84 
 
 Man, 86 
 
 Beneath the Golden-rod, ......... 88 
 
 Shipwrecked, .......... 90 
 
 Charles Stewart Parnell, ......... 94 
 
 The Storm, ........... 95 
 
 A Lover's Plea, .......... 97 
 
 Islands, ........... 100 
 
 Old Eli, loi 
 
 Forbidden Fruit, 105 
 
 A Poet's Life 108 
 
 The Old, Old Story, 109 
 
 Mist and Change, 113 
 
 A Night in the Shawangunks, . . . . . . . 115 
 
 To Elizabeth B. Custer (V. Gen. Custer), 117 
 
 Jealousy, ........... 118 
 
 Home, ............ 120 
 
 The Bell of the Broken Heart, . 121 
 
 Friendship 122 
 
 Charles Bradlaugh, 123 
 
 'Neath the Shadow of the Linden, ....... 124 
 
 Iconoclastic Rhyme, ......... 126 
 
 The Miner's Dream, ......... 130 
 
 Inter Nos, ........... 133 
 
 Wake, Love, 134 
 
 To Mamy 135 
 
 Farewell to Ulster , , , , . .136 
 
SONGS 
 
 SHAWANGUNKS 
 
IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Fair Hope was wed to Passion — 
 A lover bold and strong — 
 
 And Hope was rich in beauty, 
 And Passion rich in song. 
 
 They met and loved at morning ; 
 
 They loved and wed at noon, 
 For the joys they sought are fleeting, 
 
 And night comes all too soon. 
 
 They made them a bed of roses 
 And hid beneath their bloom ; 
 
 And bathed themselves in dew-drops, 
 And in a rose perfume. 
 
 For Hope was coy and bashful, 
 'Neath blushes hid her face ; 
 
 While Passion, bold and eager, 
 Clasp'd Hope in his embrace. 
 
 They fed on dreams of rapture, 
 On transports fierce and wild, 
 
 And Immortality was, 
 
 To them, their first-born child. 
 
THROUGH MISTS OF MEMORY. 
 
 " '^ * A flowing tide that wandered back 
 
 Along the con^-se and valley of the past.'' 
 
 I wandered oft in dreamy years gone by 
 
 On ground forbidden — known to none save 1. 
 
 It was a fair and flow'ry gemmed belt 
 
 Where sylvan beauty grew, and sweet love dwelt ; 
 
 Where purest pleasure found her happy mate 
 
 And hours of winged joy flew by in state 
 
 Of listless glee, unheeded till too late. 
 
 Where priceless treasures, plucked with careless ease 
 
 Now serves but to intensify and tease 
 
 The exiled heart, — in throes of hopeless thrall,— 
 
 Encompassed round by seas of bitter gall, 
 
 O, happy, blissful land of heavenly joy 
 That won the heart and kept the ardent boy 
 From dens of vice and thoughts of crafty gain ; 
 That saved his boat from shoals and bars of pain I 
 Full oft I wandered o'er its flow'ry mead 
 'Neath dreamy spells, and charms of love's sweet 
 need, 
 
THROUGH MISTS OF MEMORY. 1 5 
 
 Full oft I Strayed along each sacred dell 
 
 And stoop'd to sip from springs of magic spell 
 
 Divinest nectar, drank by gods of love 
 
 Alone ; and wooed to rest on hills above 
 
 "Where perfect peace finds perfect form," and 
 
 Sleep — 
 Calm Goddess — tranquilly enfolds to keep 
 Her ward from harm of Fear and frightful dreams ; 
 Not e'en her rustling garments flow between 
 The sleeper's rest and his unconsciousness. 
 
 O, dreamy child of Fate ! poor wand'ring brook 
 'Mid hills and dales of circumstance ! nor look. 
 Nor calculate thy speed, nor course, nor be 
 Thy journey marked nor map'd, for to the sea 
 Must wander all the streams. Then why disturb 
 Thy bosom with a care ; or seek to curb 
 Thy mental steed's impassioned will, or 'press 
 Within thy other nature, one caress 
 Which thou might'st give to flowers, on thy banks, 
 That bloom all lonely, breathing back their thanks 
 For one soft touch of passion-cooling dew ? 
 Poor exile ! driv'n from happy, holy hills, 
 No more Fll roam and play like joyous rills 
 About my pretty park. My life is lean 
 
l6 THROUGH MISTS OF MEMORY. 
 
 In pleasure — joyless night — no starry queen 
 To guide my weary, wand'ring, wayward feet 
 To soothing rest ; but onward through the heat 
 Of living hell, o'er coals of discontent 
 That I must smother, hobble on, nor vent 
 My untold sorrow, but stray on through drear 
 And darksome wood of heartless men, where Fear 
 And Fancy form a thousand sprites that haunt 
 The trammeled mind, and lure and leer, and daunt 
 Misguided travelers — toys of Wizard Fate. 
 I'll taste my pleasures never more ; my dream 
 Is ended, and the future which did seem 
 So bright and rich in love, is dim and far, 
 And all too thick with clouds to show a star. 
 
FLOOD TIDE. 
 
 There is nothing so charmful and nothing so blissful, 
 So tilled with sweet thoughts and of transport so 
 
 chock-full, 
 So full of blue sky and green patches of earth — 
 Replete with fair heaven and free from all dearth — 
 So rich and so rare, so perfect, in truth. 
 As the pleasures of love in the morning of youth. 
 
 There is nothing so charmful and nothing so blissful, 
 
 So filled with soul-perfume, of sunshine so brim-full. 
 
 So full of bird-song, brook-music and mirth. 
 
 So full of heart treasure, the purest on earth. 
 
 So rosy with hope, resplendent, in truth. 
 
 As the pleasures of love in the morning of youth. 
 
 There is nothing so cheerful and nothing so fruitful. 
 
 So full of fair nature, of words so helpful. 
 
 So throbbing with life and with freedom aflame, 
 
 So holy, with love, and deserving the name. 
 
 So bursting with passion, so earnest in truth. 
 
 As the pleasures of love in the morning of youth. 
 
15 FLOOD TIDE. 
 
 O, give me fresh youth in the morning's full prime, 
 And let all his raptures and pleasures be mine, 
 At the dawn when the pulse's red torrent s' a-fire, 
 And the soul is surcharged with the flame of desire ; 
 O, to drink from that cup — tXiAt foicniaiTi, in truth, 
 Of the pleasures of love in the morning of youth ! 
 
 It is worth all this life of sorrow and pain, 
 It is worth all the clouds, the tears and the rain, 
 It is worth all the winds that Adversity blows. 
 It is worth all the wrinkles of Age and his snows, 
 Is this dawn of the manhood, \\\\s flood-tide, in truth, 
 Of the pleasures of love in the morning of youth. 
 
CANST THOU TELL ME? 
 
 Life is the zuave's deep ivhisper on the shore 
 
 Of a great sea beyond. 
 
 Henry Abbey. 
 
 O poet, canst thou tell me what is life — 
 This throb and thrill, this brief, uneven way, 
 This light and shadow of a summer day, 
 
 This calm ennui, this toil, this care and strife 
 Of a vague, vague dream ? 
 
 For death to me is not so strange and vain, 
 So filled with barrenness, so cold and drear ; 
 So void, so desolate, so free from cheer 
 
 As joyless life — that moth of passion, pain — 
 Broken mid-day beam ! 
 
 O, what is this eternal ebb and flow. 
 
 This strange and ceaseless breathing of the deep ? 
 
 And what these moods; this calm and shaded sleep; 
 This wondrous tomb wherein we all must go 
 To a dreamless dream ? 
 
HENRY ABBEY. 
 
 Men come and go ; but truth shall ever be. 
 It does not fade, nor rust, nor waste away. 
 
 Henry Abbey. 
 
 O, poet ! O tender-eyed musician ! songs 
 Which thou hast sung- will live when all the wrongs 
 That man can do to man have died or flown, 
 Like frightened sprites of darkness at the dawn 
 Behind the misty curtained ages — past. 
 
 Thy gentle strains shall touch the strings of hearts 
 
 With magic music — soft aeolian sighs, 
 
 Sweet breath of love, a musical sadness o' tears, 
 
 And all the symphonies that play about 
 
 The hearts of human hearts, and kiss and w^aft 
 
 Rich pollen odors, minglingly, as warm 
 
 Air softened into zephyrs, sings of love 
 
 To flowers, making many one ; so thou 
 
 O, Abbey, with thy tender songs unite 
 
 Us human flowers into one family, 
 
 Wherein the love of goodness and an eye 
 
 For beauty are the bonds of brotherhood. 
 
HENRY ABBEY. 
 
 21 
 
 Thy melodies like wooded streams that flow 
 A little way through sylvan dells and go 
 All uncomplainingly through shades and beds 
 Of moss, shall yet bear upon their mirror breasts 
 The refiex of the stars, and laug-h and sing' 
 O'er many a pebbly meadow-course and bring 
 Upon their billowy bosoms show'rs of bloom — 
 The blessed tributes of the loving's love — 
 Unto the fated arms that reach from out 
 The whence " Where death's impatient deep 
 Hems in the narrow continent of life." 
 
NAIAD NATRIECE. 
 
 There is notJiing my soul lacks or misses 
 As I clasp the dream shape to my breast. 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 When low the summer sun was set, 
 
 And day gave way to gloom, 
 I sat one evening 'neath a tree, 
 
 And wove at Fancy's loom : 
 The warp and woof of pictured dreams ; 
 
 The weft was strange to see. 
 Through sights and thoughts a-drifting by 
 
 And floating over me. 
 
 Soft breezes low came bearing out 
 
 From many a perfumed dell. 
 The scented breath of sleeping flowers 
 
 More sweet than I can tell. 
 A-musing there, alone I sat, 
 
 Surrounded by a dream ; 
 A-listening to the forest sighs 
 
 And music of a stream. 
 
NAIAD NATRIECE. 23 
 
 I spied a form whose perfect mould 
 
 Showed plain against the shade ; 
 The curving bust, the sculi)tured arms, 
 
 Bespoke a naked maid. 
 Her hair was long and dark as night, 
 
 While she was fair as day. 
 And blended soft on either cheek 
 
 A rosy bloom of May. 
 
 " O maid ! " I cried, '' O queen of love ! 
 
 O forest beauty fair ! 
 Come, twine me in thy shapely arms, 
 
 And hide me with thy hair. 
 And take me gently on thy breast, 
 
 Upon thy bosom bare, 
 And on those billows let me rest, 
 
 Serene from toil and care." 
 
 A startled look the maiden took, 
 
 This forest naiad fair. 
 And trembling like a frightened fawn 
 
 The night-wind tosst her hair. 
 The startled look the maiden took 
 
 Gave way to deep surprise, 
 But from her soul of heat and truth 
 
 A love-light filled her eyes. 
 
24 NAIAD NATKIECE. 
 
 Then reaching forth she took my hand, 
 
 And led me through the wood, 
 To where a pretty Naiad band 
 
 Waist deep in water stood ; 
 And some were combing out their hair, 
 
 And some a-bathing seemed, 
 While all so sweet, divinely fair, 
 
 Half made me think I dreamed. 
 
 And some were blonds and some brunettes, 
 
 And all supreme of mould ; 
 Though all were naked, all were dresst. 
 
 With modesty tenfold. 
 " My sisters dear, my lover here," 
 
 Began this sweet Natriece, 
 '* I brought that thou mayst see me wed 
 
 A son of ancient Greece." 
 
 Then 'round about in mirthful glee. 
 
 They swarmed in rapturous bliss. 
 And presst upon my burning cheek 
 
 Full many an honest kiss. 
 And all the nobler charms and trills 
 
 A virtuous w^oman blesses. 
 In spend-thrift glee were given to me. 
 
 In wild-wood hugs and kisses. 
 
NATAI) NATRIECE. 
 
 And ere the trembling- bars of gray 
 
 Foretold the coming morn, 
 Our marriage bed was made of moss, 
 
 A child to us was born. 
 And we were wed on a mossy bed, 
 
 The Morning star was our priest ; 
 And bless the time that made her mine ! 
 
 And bless our wedding feast. 
 
 And this is why I love so well 
 
 The wild-wood and the streams ; 
 And this is why I love to tell 
 
 In wild-wood song my dreams. 
 For Nature is my loving wife ; 
 
 To her I'm doubly bound 
 With ties of kin and links of love, 
 
 And trees and flow'rs around. 
 
 25 
 
LOVE'S APPEAL. 
 
 What is title ? What is treasure ? 
 
 What is reputation s care ? 
 If we lead a life of pleasure, 
 
 ' Tis no matter hoiv nor where. 
 
 Does the train attended carriage 
 Through the country lighter rove ? 
 
 Does the sober bed of marriage 
 Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 The mountain brooklets mingle 
 
 With neighboring low-land streams ; 
 
 And the sun of heaven brightens 
 The lone moon's silver beams. 
 
 The sun and earth are mingled ; 
 
 Their transports spring the flowers ; 
 And the dews of meadows mingle 
 
 In ecstasy with showers. 
 
 The twilight weds the morning ; 
 And morning kisses night ; 
 
love's ai'peal. 27 
 
 Oft the lowest wed the hio^hest 
 And keep the balance right. 
 
 The clouds embrace the mountains, 
 And the mountains pierce the blue ; 
 
 For as all things mingle ever, 
 Then why not I with you ? 
 
 The circling worlds around us, 
 
 With stars of heaven wed ; 
 And life complete is never 
 
 'Til joined on marriage bed. 
 
 And flowers kiss each other, 
 
 And are wed by the evening dew ; 
 
 And the breezes kiss each other, 
 Then why not I kiss you ? 
 
 And waves embrace each other, 
 
 And climb and clasp the beach ; 
 And the ivy twines the oak tree ; — 
 
 Thy arms around me reach. 
 
 O, precious darling Nellie ! 
 
 Come twine thee, sweet, with me. 
 And remember that your lover, 
 
 Is dying all for thee. 
 
LOVE S APPEAL. 
 
 Take lesson, sweet one, truly, 
 From birds and air and dew ; 
 
 From the flowers and showers and nature 
 Come join one soul-love, true ! 
 
 For earth holds nothing single ; 
 
 The pure in love can kiss ; 
 When our loves are true they mingle 
 
 In sacred flames of bliss. 
 
 I pray thee, Nellie darling. 
 Come twine me 'round about 
 
 With your dainty snow-white bare arms, 
 And breathe your passion out. 
 
 Come break the bonds that bind you 
 
 To customs of the past, * 
 And we'll live in dreams of rapture ; 
 
 Enjoy them while they last. 
 
 For life at best is fleeting ; 
 
 And joys take wing too soon. 
 Why then waste one golden moment 
 
 'Neath sun-light, stars or moon ? 
 
 'Tis false, nor wisdom teaches 
 That sacrifice is right ; 
 
LOVE S APPEAL. 29 
 
 And 7iobility ne'er asks it — 
 Reverse deserves no mite. 
 
 Forgive me, love, I pray thee, 
 
 For the love we dare not speak ; 
 Nor deem it wrong my darling 
 
 That I prize this gem I seek. 
 
 The human heart is boundless, 
 
 And love must ever dwell 
 With the heart that holds its magnet. 
 
 Nor Jiow nor ivJiy can tell. 
 
 I only know I love you 
 
 With a love that's half divine ; 
 The pure, sweet face of Nellie 
 
 In my soul must ever shine. 
 
 " How long," do you ask, ''will I love you ?" 
 
 As long as the seasons roll ; 
 As long as the flowers love sunshine ; 
 
 As loncf as the life of mv soul. 
 
PROTEUS PASSION. 
 
 O, joyful is the land of love, 
 
 And blissful are her sun-lit aisles, 
 And happy are congenial hearts 
 
 By Passion clothed and fed on smiles. 
 
 And happy they whose parting lips 
 
 In kisses pay the toll of love, 
 With dewy sweets and heavenly sips 
 
 On " Th' dear warm mouth of those we love." 
 
 For life is fed by Passion's flame — 
 From Passion's heat endures the rust 
 
 And moth of time — but starves and dies 
 When passion pales, and sinks to dust. 
 
 And cold and drear would be the world, 
 Nor warmth nor nurture here be found 
 
 For burstino- bud and bloom ina: flow'r 
 If Passion's lamps were not hung 'round. 
 
 Though Passion is a Proteus thing. 
 And takes at times the serpent's sting, 
 
 It dons again the painted wing 
 
 And writes the songs that mortals sing 
 
PROTEUS PASSION. 
 
 31 
 
 Upon the very air we breathe. 
 
 It gives us strength and feeds our heart 
 Upon the blessed dreams of Hope — 
 
 Or kills us with its piercing dart. 
 
 f^o^^ 
 
NOCTU. 
 
 " The month ivas in the dowmvard ycarT 
 
 The hoary locks of Winter Time has shook, 
 And from their folds the ground is silvered o'er, 
 And ev'ry gaping nook has been supplied 
 From mines exhaustless ; All the crystal gems. 
 And flovv'rs and starry forms from viewless depths. 
 Like rarest gems of men, unsought are found 
 If found at all. The Earth, a fav'rite bride 
 Of Sol, upon her bed of cloud has turned 
 To take a nap. Her first harsh breath of sleep 
 Now rasps the chilly air ; her chamber dome 
 Of azure, decked with heavens diamonds 
 Is draped with not a fleecy white nor gauze 
 Of mist ; and through the window of the sky 
 The Moon, a crescent bark that rides and roves 
 A vasty deep unknown to man, is seen 
 To dip her silver prow behind the wave 
 Of some far distant hill and drop from out 
 Of sight. The shadows deepen and the night 
 Grows cold and drear ; the year of Ninety's now 
 So old that scarcely fifteen days shall come 
 
NOCTU. 33 
 
 And go before he's laid within the grave 
 
 That all the years gone by have dug, and, all 
 
 The future years will cover deep with dust — 
 
 A lonely grave within a desert wierd — 
 
 That awful, lonesome grave-yard called The Past, 
 
 Whereon no stone is set, no crumbling pile 
 
 To mark forgotten graves ; whereof there is 
 
 No need ; No human soul did ever roam 
 
 That boundless waste, nor any living thing 
 
 Has ever there found way — a pathless world 
 
 Wherein there is no voice, no sound nor sigh. 
 
 No song, no joy nor pain, no rain of tears — 
 
 Oblivion, the darkness of the dead. 
 
 Is king; Equality-in-dust, the queen ; 
 
 They reign supreme, alone, alone, alone. 
 
 The trees upon the mountain's northern side. 
 Along which winds this road I tread to-night 
 To see my blessed Queen of Queens, do wave 
 And whip the air — incorrigible kin — and beck'n 
 The ghostly shades and shadows that do haunt 
 The shaggy Shawangunks, and do point and nod 
 Their spectral bows menacingly at spooks, 
 That viewless roam the winds and shriek and moan 
 
34 NOCTU. 
 
 And make the des'late night a thousand fold 
 
 More dreary. Wheezingly the pine trees sigh 
 
 For Summer's wooing breath ; the road-side ice 
 
 Discharges ominous volleys at the cold, 
 
 And Nature in her grand but awful mood 
 
 Bewild'rs the weary trav'ler; dumbs his thoughts, 
 
 Who needs must see, and feel some mighty pow'r, 
 
 August, sublimely strange ; but dares not think — 
 
 The passive spell has froze the springs of thought. 
 
 Impression reigns, entrancing king, the while. 
 
 Till Reason roused from icy chills that calmed 
 
 Her powers, rends the 'numbing bonds and moulds 
 
 The chaos of the trav'ler's mind again 
 
 Into fair forms of thought. He journeys on 
 
 A wild night-haunted road and thinks the thoughts 
 
 That few do dare to think when hemmed about 
 
 With threat'ning things they know not of, and in 
 
 A world far stranger yet, to him, than all 
 
 His thoughts may be to you ; so strange ! so strange ! 
 
 But Fear's reaction on the mind gives thrice 
 
 The force to courage, and once the spooks of night 
 
 Dispersed, the heart grows brave, the soul more 
 
 strong 
 To wage and win all other battles, be 
 They what they may, or long or short and fierce. 
 
I ;« 
 
 \ -If 
 
 • ife i 
 
 ri 
 
 ^?^i? 
 
 t U\ , 
 
 - W:: 
 
 ' A ivall of stone noiv skirts the road along 
 Full many a iveary pace * * * " 
 
NOCTU. 35 
 
 * -y- i-c 
 
 A wall of stone now skirts the road along 
 Full many a weary pace. He stops where some 
 Unusual width and height attracts and holds 
 Attention for a thought — to muse and dream : 
 Whence came these stones so chiseled round with 
 
 wear ? 
 Whence came their atoms first of all and what 
 Hath loos'd them from the parent rock, and whence 
 The parent ? Whither art they hound? W'ho knows! 
 W^hat tale hath ev'ry sep'rate stone to tell 
 That rears this wall ? Ye dumb things speak ! not 
 
 dumb, 
 More elequent than mortal tongue, they speak 
 A richer language : universal words 
 That have a meaning unmistakable, plain 
 And pure as truth to those who stood to learn 
 Their letters at the knee of nature ; those 
 Conversant with the wild-wood and the charms 
 Of tree for tree ; the fascination sweet 
 Among the flow'rs that bloom, all modest, rock'd 
 On sleepy zephyrs, sweetly soft, and sung 
 To rest with starrv lulabies, and kissed 
 By am'rous Sol, and 'freshed by tears of his 
 
36 NOCTU. 
 
 Sad disappointed love, which lover-like 
 
 He 's oft renews as there be rays of Hope ; 
 
 And those who hear the voices of a tree 
 
 In leaf and bloom and listen with an ear 
 
 Of knowing sympathy to 'ts breath of sighs ; 
 
 And who commune with rocks and cloud-capp'd 
 
 craggs, 
 And with instinctive short-hand take their notes 
 From brooks and birds, from cataracts and falls. 
 From tidal ebbs and flows, to such, each stone 
 Tells tales of thrilling tragedies and far 
 More history than's taught in schools and books. 
 Who built the wall, this old stone wall, so hoar 
 With frost and snow and fringed with mossy beard ? 
 The hands that placed it there have long ago 
 Been dust — the wall is holy ! Sacred shrine 
 Where Labor worship'd Love. Upon it look 
 O, Stranger ! Seest thou not thereon it writ 
 In sacred stains of tears and manly sweat 
 The finger prints of Toil ; the blessed tale — 
 The loving romance of a hoping heart ? 
 And too, canst thou not hear that mingled strain — 
 A distant, happy song, divinely sweet. 
 And faint as ling'ring odors in a room 
 When one we love has gone — O poets' dream ! — 
 
NOCTU. 
 
 37 
 
 The children at their play ! Ah, yes ! Ah, me ! 
 Too well these stones have kept each sight and 
 
 sound, 
 Each shade and sun-kisst spot ; and ev'ry phase 
 Of wild-wood life, and ev'ry throb and beat 
 Of nature lingers 'round them still and will 
 Yet linger longer in the future than 
 A human eye can see. 
 
1 
 
 LOVE MUST HAVE HIS LOVE. 
 
 On nights like this 'when my blood runs riot 
 With the fever of yoiitJi and its mad desires. 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 Here in the gloaming, in this bower, 
 Right here beneath the willow tree. 
 
 I met my love at this sweet hour 
 And now I'm waiting here for thee, 
 
 My lusty mistress ; do not wait 
 For I am booked at eight to-night 
 
 To meet Fiance at her gate. 
 
 O Time, O cease thy rapid flight ! 
 
 Yet I am waiting ! hang the clock. 
 It's striking now the 'pointed hour ! 
 
 Ah, here she comes ! I know the frock 
 That glides beneath yon apple bower. 
 
 And now the storm of passion comes, 
 And comes all clad in robes of light ; 
 
 But ere the vortex reaches me 
 
 The flame of love shall burn as white. 
 
LOVE MUST HAVE HIS LOVE. 
 
 And now for Love's transporting sips ! 
 
 And now for dreamy flights above ! 
 I lap the wine-dew from her lips, 
 
 And quaff the nectar of her love. 
 
 I twine myself about her form 
 
 As drift to drift of white snow flies ; 
 
 We feel the rage of Passion's storm 
 Which passes off in breath of sighs. 
 
 Nor deem it wrong! rebuke us not 
 Ye children of an earth-born will ; 
 
 For this is but our common lot, 
 And love is love forever, still. 
 
 39 
 
EBB TIDE. 
 
 From the dark of dying years 
 
 Grozvs a face with violet eyes, 
 Tremulous through tender tears, — 
 
 Warm lips heavy with rich sighs, — 
 Ah, they fade ! it disappears, 
 
 A nd with it viy whole heart dies ! 
 
 Owen Meredith. 
 
 O take me back, thou rolling tide, 
 
 Across thy ceaseless billows ; 
 O, back again by Nellie's side ; 
 
 Beneath the weeping willows! 
 
 O, back again 'neath tree and star, 
 
 Beneath the moon, or roaming 
 Where oft we sat with her guitar 
 
 At even, after gloaming. 
 
 O, give me back the flowing spring. 
 
 The katy-dids a-chirping ; 
 The songs of love she used to sing. 
 
 These idle songs usurping. 
 
EBB TIDE. 41 
 
 O, take me back to Nellie's arms 
 
 Upon her bosom resting ; 
 And let me feast upon her charms 
 
 No more this cold world breasting. 
 
 And fill her eyes with love again, 
 And set her heart to throbbing ; 
 
 Bring back the roses to her cheeks 
 E'^n though the grave a-robbing. 
 
 O, take me back, thou fleeting years, 
 
 Restore my own lost treasure ! 
 And dry away these burning tears 
 
 With breezes soft of pleasure. 
 
 My love is dead and o'er her head 
 The dandelions blooming ; 
 
 My joy is dead and o'er its head 
 Regret's pale flow'rs arc blooming. 
 
INCONSTANCY. 
 
 I 
 
 IVe never feel the same emotion tzvice ; i 
 
 No two ships ever ploughed the selfsame billow. \ 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox. \ 
 
 I have it ! I declare : ■\ 
 
 The pulsing trill, the heart's j 
 
 Impatient beat ; nerves a quiver — i 
 
 My soul stuck full of darts : 
 
 The eagerness, 
 
 The blissfulness. 
 
 The dreaminess. 
 
 The hopefulness of love. 
 How I love her and adore her. 
 With what predilection woo her 
 With her fascinating amour, 
 O, how charming and engaging 
 Is my darling paramour. 
 More she loves me than I love her ; 
 Her's a constant, strong devotion, 
 Thoupfh she 's true as heaven above her 
 
 CM 
 
 I am fickle as the ocean ; 
 
 For my love, unlike the compass, 
 
INCONSTANCY. 
 
 Points with ev'iy changing notion : 
 
 Points and swerves with scented zephyrs, 
 
 Lingers after dreamy laces 
 
 And the curves of pink beneath. — 
 
 Charmed and thralled by pretty faces. 
 
 Am I sorry for her ever — 
 
 This dear, true love of mine — 
 
 As she longing, waits but for me 
 
 With a love that 's half divine ? 
 
 Yes ! I pity her and any woman. 
 Who loving, yields to any man ; 
 
 For men at best oft lack the human 
 And most belong to a lower clan. 
 
 43 
 
SOLITUDE. 
 
 O, fair and sweet is the land o' dreams, 
 And blissful are her mystic charms ! 
 
 And happy they who wander there 
 Or rest in Reverie's soothing arms. 
 
 'Tis there I woo calm Solitude — 
 
 Dispassioned Goddess of the heart — 
 
 And there I walk and talk with her, 
 And linger longest ere we part. 
 
 Fair Solitude's a winsome miss ; 
 
 Her charms are countless, pure and fair ; 
 Her blessed smiles of sacred bliss 
 
 She gives to me with transports rare. 
 
 She tells me tales and sino;s me sonsfs. 
 And coyly weaves my weft of dreams ; 
 
 And rocks me on her peaceful breast 
 Maternal like, enrobed in dreams. 
 
 And through their gauze of mystic lace. 
 As a happy babe, half 'wake I lie, 
 
SOLITUDE. 
 
 45 
 
 And look up in her fairy face 
 Content to live and there to die. 
 
 Her eyes — deep azure of the sky — 
 With soulful love-light, beam above ; 
 
 While she with soft, entrancing touch 
 Awakes my soul to Icesome love. 
 
 With her I find more joyful life 
 
 Than all the busy world can give ; 
 Nor would I trade for years of strife 
 
 One blessed hour with her to live. 
 
 For lover and mother to me is she ; 
 
 And lover and mother will ever be. 
 As flame to moth and blossom to bee 
 
 'Til the dead shall rise up from the sea, the sea. 
 
THE GHOST OF THE MURDERED 
 HEART. 
 
 A cold and snow-white corpse — a corpse 
 
 All pale and cold and fair — 
 With streaming hair and eyes of fire, 
 And a look so wierd, yet filled with dire, 
 And a face not lined but sad with care 
 I've met in my wand'rings here and there 
 In the dead of night. 
 
 And I thought I had dreamed a ghostly dream — 
 
 A hideous, bold night-mare — 
 Forgot, in short, the eyes of fire, 
 Forgot the look — the glance so dire — 
 And thought no more of the face of care 
 I'd met in my wand'rings here and there 
 In the pale moon-light, 
 
 'Til I sat one night, leagues deep in thought — 
 
 In thought on things just read — 
 Soft footfalls — footfalls soft and low 
 As a dew drop falling off of a blow — 
 
■-5 ^ to 
 
 ^ t:^ 
 
THE GHOST OF THE MURDERED HEART. 47 
 
 Great God ! I shook for I knew the tread ; 
 Half turned in my chair and beheld the dead — 
 The sad face white. 
 
 The lamp was burning ; I was not asleep — 
 
 If I was 1 am sleeping now — 
 My nerves were shocked to paralyze 
 As I gazed on the face, in the fiery eyes 
 Of the thing at my side I beheld, I vow ! 
 As I saw it then, I see it now, 
 Ere it took flight. 
 
 " O curse the thing or curse my sight " — 
 
 I said to the spectre there — 
 " And curse those burning eyes of fire, 
 And curse thy look of hellish dire, 
 And curse thy sad, white face of care, 
 And curse thy raven, streaming hair 
 Or leave my sight ! " 
 
 As the Aspen trembles by soft winds blown — 
 
 So trembled this ghost of the dead — 
 Then turning and fluttering as if to go. 
 It stopt for a moment, with accents slow, 
 Near the door, and spoke with the speech of the 
 
 dead, 
 Then vanished away with a noiseless tread, 
 As a thief from fright. 
 
48 THE GHOST OF THE MURDERED HEART. 
 
 And these are the words it said, 
 Though said in the speech of the dead 
 
 " O, man of the world 
 
 By passion hurled, 
 And led by a heartless flame ; 
 
 Beware of the coil 
 
 That shall bind and shall foil 
 And devastate each claim. 
 
 Each aim of thy life 
 
 And keep thee in strife 
 
 With thy heart ! 
 If on murder bent 
 O, keep the sad rent 
 
 Forever apart 
 
 From the soul. 
 Go kill the woman 
 But if you are human 
 Don't murder her heart." 
 
MID-MOST. 
 
 Love is not love, zvhich alters tvJieii it alteration finds. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Thy picture hangs upon the wall, 
 Beside my bed, at this sweet hour, 
 
 When low the shades of twilight fall 
 With soft, unconscious power. 
 
 The busy hum of Rosendale 
 
 Has ceased, and falls like a weary bee ; 
 While over the Upenbacher's vale 
 
 The twilight comes with thouo^hts of thee. 
 
 & 
 
 The whistle has spoken the hour of retreat. 
 When slowly, all homeward with sad, weary feet, 
 The rock-workers go — the coopers, and breakers of 
 
 stone — 
 The men of grim brawn and of sinew and muscle and 
 
 bone — 
 Gone from their labors to wife and repose. 
 Gone to their mothers, their sisters and sweethearts ! 
 
 who knows ! 
 
50 MID-MOST. 
 
 The boats have " laid to " at their moorings near by; 
 And the world seems at peace with itself and with 
 
 men — save I — 
 I am hoping and aching and longing for thee. 
 (Art thou wishing and waiting and watching for me ?) 
 I hear the piano all softly below 
 And hearing it many sweet thoughts of you grow 
 And blossom my heart with a rapturous glow 
 Of sweet memories. 
 
 Thy picture there, those liquid eyes, 
 
 These shadows here — entrancing gloom — 
 
 Recall my vanished paradise 
 From out the Past's lone tomb. 
 
 Instinctively I turn to thee 
 
 With thoughts of love, as flow'rs above 
 To Sun ; as wind sighs, to a tree. 
 
 And what does all this prove ? 
 
 Thou art my sun ; thy life the power 
 
 That moulds this clay, that feeds this soul, 
 
 That gives existence to this hour — 
 This love — this glowing coal. 
 
:?3 § 
 
 
RONDOUT. 
 
 Dear old Rondout, how I love thee, 
 Love thy water-lute and lay ; 
 
 Oft I held communion with thee 
 On some drowsy summer day. 
 
 Oft upon thy bosom sporting, 
 
 Have I dreamt my youthful dreams; 
 
 Often 'round thy shore cavorting 
 
 Have I watched thy friendly gleams. 
 
 Thou hast been my friend and nearer 
 Far than others of that name ; 
 
 Thou art now my friend and dearer ; 
 How I love thy ancient name ! 
 
 Flowing on to wed the Hudson, 
 With thy winding, moody glide ; 
 
 Proudly will the grand old Hudson 
 Swell his breast to meet his bride. 
 
 Dear old Rondout, I shall miss thee. 
 Miss thy water-lute and lay ; 
 
 Dear old Rondout, I shall bear thee 
 In my dreams though far away. 
 
HOPE'S FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 Still young, I roam about the world 
 
 And far from sweet content ; 
 My dreams of youth about me furl'd, 
 
 On unknown journeys bent. 
 
 I wander here and wander there 
 
 Like some drought stricken stream, 
 
 And search for flow'rs untouched with care 
 My soul's ill-fated dream. 
 
 I search and seek ; I reach and wind, 
 
 And long and hope in vain ; 
 With hungry heart and thirsting mind. 
 
 My clouds bring me no rain. 
 
 I wander down some mountain side 
 
 And in some valley see 
 My wish ; when there the hills divide 
 
 My wisht-for nook from me. 
 
 To make my barren life more drear, 
 And give my soul a keener sting ; 
 
 From bow'r and bush and sky I hear 
 My leesome-lack, in bird-song ring. 
 
hope's falling leaves. 53 
 
 " Avail thyself of youth and love ; 
 
 Their fresh-born fulness and delight, 
 And soar in dreamy flight above 
 
 Terrest'ral barrenness and night. 
 
 " Enjoy the May-bloom of thy life, 
 And all the sweets of maiden flovv'rs ; 
 
 For age is cold and spent with strife, 
 And only once come youthful hours. 
 
 " Nor heed the sneer, the look of scorning ; 
 
 Keep thy mind on freedom's feast 
 And bend thy gaze e'er on the morning. 
 
 Nor mind the church, but 'ape' the priest. 
 
 " Go seek thy pleasures in their time, 
 And drink the sweetness of thy prime, 
 Thy bridge of youth, a span sublime. 
 
 Of leesome rapture. 
 Inspiring all thy soul's hot race 
 For that enchanting, warm embrace 
 
 We lose to cap hire,'' 
 
 E'en thus, we gain : a lesson learned. 
 
 Fresh coined, at Truth's own mint 'twas made — 
 One spark of knowledge sure discerned 
 
 Is : with our joys comes always shade. 
 
THOUGHTS OF A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 Diamojids are found in the dark places of the earth ; 
 Truths are found only in the depth of thought. 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 Who knows the human mind, and is conversant with 
 Those countless hosts, knows much ; this world hath 
 
 little else 
 To teach ; for mysteries only lie within the thoughts 
 Of men ; and thoughts tenfold mysterious are, and 
 
 deep 
 And wide as space. And God and Devil, Heav'n 
 
 and Hell 
 And Earth and Star, man and beast and ev'ry thing 
 There is or was, hath form and substance only in 
 The wide significance of universal thought.* 
 Both good and evil are but names compared with 
 
 place 
 And time, and have no universal measure stick 
 
 * It was long a troublesome question to my understanding whether or 
 
 not a fact could exist apart from the mental conception of it ; * * * 
 
 recognizing at the same time that every idea was produced directly or 
 
 indirectly by facts. 
 
 From an Unpublished Work. 
 
THOUGHTS OF A SUMMER DAY. 55 
 
 Of truth, by which to gauge a fact ; two things alone 
 Preserve one universal standard weight, and they 
 Are Love and Hope — the only one immortal pair — 
 Eternal man and woman — parents of the soul 
 And sentiment — the god and goddess of the heart. 
 And he who worships them must be of lib'ral mind, 
 Must have both brain and heart and sympathies 
 
 immense ; 
 In him there scarce can be a trace of bigot blood, 
 Nor hate, nor envy ; vengeance, vanity nor greed. 
 He needs must know that men who err are blind or 
 
 weak ; 
 That life without a sinful act or falt'ring step 
 Exists but in angelic dreams ; that men at best, 
 See little and know less ; he pities those who fight 
 And hate like savage beasts o'er narrow, senseless 
 
 creeds. 
 But bears no enmity toward them ; he sees in them 
 A childish ignorance, a longing after truth, 
 A wish to be aright, a struggle in the dark 
 Dim dungeon — Superstition — sees the priests grow 
 
 fat 
 On inoffensive zeal put forth by those who fear 
 But reason not. He knows : sublimest words e'er 
 
 said 
 
56 THOUGHTS OF A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 Are words least comprehended ; and that prejudices 
 Are simply mental robbers ; and that vices are 
 The vilest murderers ; that murdering hearts is worse 
 Than taking lives ; and knows that "sacrifice of earth 
 To paradise is but to leave the substance for 
 The shadow." He believes that men are like the 
 
 plants : 
 None bad ; but by condition fated ill, and wild, 
 And grow untutored in neglected spots and waste 
 The soil through want. He has no rigid form by 
 
 which 
 To measure woman's virtue ; and sees in prostitution 
 The wretched yoke of heartless slavery — the gall — 
 The pain that weighs upon maternity, on grace 
 And feeble womanhood, on beauty and on charms. 
 Above all else, he knows that chisel how we may 
 This block of fate from which our lives are made, 
 
 the streaks 
 And veins of destiny will never disappear. 
 
^.. 
 
 '';v- 
 
 ^>!.i^ 
 
 
 1 
 
 5/'(^//' s/ie 'jieath a pine t7-ee, treinbling. 
 Where her Jather's ivarriors bled.'' 
 
DEATH OF APUKWA. 
 
 A LEGEND OF WAWARSING. 
 
 Long ago, one quiet evening, 
 As the Western purpling shades 
 
 Dropt their gauzy mantle over 
 
 Napanoch's rough hills and glades. 
 
 Stole into that dreamy village, 
 With a silent, stealthy tread, 
 
 Apukwa, Mohonk's only daughter ; 
 Came she there to beg for bread. 
 
 For her father, aged and feeble, 
 
 Dying in his birchen tent, 
 With the snows of age upon him — 
 
 Winter-oak rough seamed and bent. 
 
 It was summer with dame Nature, 
 And the air was fresh and sweet 
 
 With the wild flowers of the forest, 
 And the balsam tall and steep. 
 
58 DEATH OF APUKWA. 
 
 Dreamy looked she at the landscape, 
 In its darkening shadows veiled ; 
 
 Deeply breathed she of the odors 
 That the woods and flowers exhaled. 
 
 From the calm depth of her brown eyes 
 Gleamed a gem in sadness set, 
 
 While some longing, loving, hoping 
 Tear-drops made her eyelids wet. 
 
 Fate is voiceless, yet an instinct 
 Oft presages her approach ; 
 
 Ere she steps upon the threshold 
 Oft her shadows there encroach. 
 
 Was there in this rich, red daughter, 
 In her soul of fire and love. 
 
 Premonition of her danger ? 
 
 Scenes and glimpses from above ! 
 
 Soon along the village gliding. 
 
 Like a ghost or spirit fled, 
 Stopt she 'neath a pine-tree, trembling. 
 
 Where her father's warriors bled. 
 
 And beneath the pine-tree trembling, 
 By a white man she was spied ; — 
 
DEATH OF APUKWA. 
 
 Mistaken for some lurking red man, — 
 He sliot her then, and there she died. 
 
 Ending thus a life, and leaving 
 One she loved to die as well. 
 
 Illustrating Fantine, showing 
 Fate to most of us is " hell." 
 
 59 
 
WORD OF SYMPATHY. 
 
 Ye boast of your learning- and science, 
 
 Ye sages of wisdom and lore ; 
 Ye boast of your generalization, 
 
 Of " isms " you dig to the core ; 
 You tell us the beauties of nature 
 
 As over the lenses you pore ; 
 You ,dig and you delve for the treasures 
 
 All hid in a darksome, deep store ; 
 But of what avail are your labors 
 
 While learning is pulseless and cold ; 
 Of what use are the beauties of nature 
 
 Which lie hid beneath the drear wold ? 
 
 One ray of warm sunlight to gladden 
 
 The eye of a flow'r or a man. 
 Is more in the plan of creation 
 
 Than the whole of your learned-pate clan. 
 
 One word from a heart that is loving, 
 When trouble is weighing us down, 
 
 Is more to a suffering person 
 
 Than passionless wealth of a crown. 
 
BABES. 
 
 / like to hear children at the tabic telling what big things 
 they have seen during the day. I like to hear their merry 
 voices mingling luith the clatter of knives and forks. I had 
 rather hear that than any opera that was ever put upon 
 the stage. 
 
 R. G. Ingersoll. 
 
 Whose heart is alien to the love of babes 
 And feels no kinship with their simple ways, 
 Nor feels the blitheness of their budding days 
 Must be a wretch indeed, devoid of heart. 
 For what can take the place of children's love. 
 Their glad, unburdened souls, so light and free. 
 That play upon our hearts a melody 
 As sweet and warm and pure as heav'n above ? 
 God bless the children ! bless their fleeting days 
 With gladness and the innocence of truth ! — 
 Fair bursting buds of morn, that ope in bloom 
 Of richest fancy, dreams and hopeful lays, 
 And rosy hues that fill the air of youth — 
 Too soon dispersed by frosts that veil the toml). 
 
ODE TO NATURE. 
 
 Lo ! where the apple blossoms bloom 
 
 And winged songsters sport and play, 
 Fair Natm^e sat beside her loom, 
 
 And wove her flow'ry lay. 
 The dandelions' disks of gold, 
 Besprinkled o'er the meadow-wold 
 
 With butter-cups and daisies gay — 
 The notes on Nature's music sheet 
 All set to pleasure soft and sweet, 
 
 She sang throughout the day. 
 
 And there amid the flow'rs of spring, 
 
 In dreamy vales I ween. 
 She wanders there her songs to sing 
 
 Composed upon the green. 
 And there beside some rippling brink, 
 She stops with Solitude to think — 
 
 Calm Solitude, her cous'n, mayhap — 
 Upon the songs she ne'er has sung 
 Since th' proud old Earth was 'n infant young. 
 
 And cradled in her lap. 
 
ODE TO NATURE. 
 
 63 
 
 And what's the organ of her touch 
 
 So deHcately strung ? — 
 The varied strains our heart chords touch 
 
 With music ever young. 
 It is the breath of forest trees, 
 The streams and seas and birds and bees ; 
 
 Rich harmony she flings 
 Upon the billowy atmosphere 
 Pervading space both far and near, 
 
 Ah, this is the song she sings. 
 
BONNIE BROOKLYN MARY. 
 
 In the passion and pain of her kisses 
 Life blooms to its richest and best. 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 / have a passion for the name of " Mary!' 
 
 Byron. 
 
 It's my bonnie Brooklyn Mary, 
 
 Soft of eye and pure, deep-hearted ; 
 
 It's my darling, sweet-heart Mary 
 That I dream of since we parted. 
 
 Ne'er was there a woman purer 
 With her tropic, purling passion ; 
 
 Ne'er was there more sweet allurer 
 Of my soul's full throbbing pasSion. 
 
 Oft do I recall her poses 
 
 And her blue veined fairy billows ; 
 Dreaming, feast upon her roses ; 
 
 Sleeping on her breasts for pillows. 
 
 For my love won her devotions 
 And our hearts beat for each other, 
 
BONNIE BF-IOOKLVN MARY. 65 
 
 And our souls arc one, thouij;!! oceans 
 Roll between the one and other. 
 
 All descriptions of her fail me ; 
 
 Who can paint with words a woman ? 
 E'en conceptions nearly fail me 
 
 Of this ideal, lovely woman. 
 
 Vet I know her form is perfect 
 Sculptured out by Artist Nature ; 
 
 And the wealth of all creation 
 
 Help compose her faultless stature. 
 
 And my love for her is worship, 
 While my joy with her is heaven ; 
 
 Nor have known a purer worship 
 Nor would wish a sweeter heaven. 
 
 For her mind is like her person, 
 
 Pure and true, a i)crfect union ; 
 And her soul blooms forth in fragrance 
 
 Of divinity in woman. 
 
 So my bonnie Brooklyn Mary, 
 
 Soft of eye and pure, deep-hearted ; 
 
 It's of you, my sweet-heart Mary 
 That I dream of since we parted. 
 
WINTER ROSES. 
 
 O, lady fair, the biting air 
 
 Too roughly smites thy cheek ; 
 O, lady fair, the frosty air 
 
 Brings roses to thy cheek ; 
 O, let me pluck them with a kiss 
 
 None wilt thou lose thereby ; 
 The more I pluck, the less you'll miss ! 
 
 Come, quick, love, lest they fly ! 
 
 O, lady-love, the stars above 
 
 Look down with calm delight ; 
 O, lady-love, the sky above 
 
 So beautiful to-night, 
 Cannot compare wi' your rich black hair : 
 
 The stars wi' your eyes so bright. 
 Come love ! may I pluck the roses there ? 
 
 She nods with a smiling air. 
 
 Nor should you love, when stars above 
 Look down a shimmer sheen. 
 
WINTER ROSES. 
 
 My lady-love, the stars above 
 Ne'er tell what they have seen 
 
 Beneath their gaze, a misty haze 
 Envelopes many a fair 
 
 And rosy maid, who loving laid 
 Where joy dispells all eare. 
 
 ^7 
 
THE OLD SONGS. 
 
 O thou companion of my youth ! 
 
 My childhood's playmate, fond and true, 
 
 sing the old songs once again 
 
 While I, sweet love, draw near to you. 
 
 Yes, sing the old songs once again 
 And touch the organ soft and low ; 
 
 While I in dreamy ecstasy 
 
 Recall the days o' the " Long agp : " 
 
 The dear lost days we used to see — 
 The happy days of childhood fair, 
 
 When all the world was bright to me, 
 And joyous life ne'er knew a care. 
 
 When " Island* " flow'rs more fair and sweet 
 Than any growing there to-day, 
 
 1 plucked and lay them at your feet 
 
 Or wreathed your brow in happy play. 
 
 The play-house 'neath the locust tree 
 A palace rich I thought it then. 
 
 *A well watered piece of woods in Ulster. 
 
THE OLD SONGS. 69 
 
 With broken dishes scattered free ; 
 And rich to us it was I ken. 
 
 For wealth lies in the human mind, 
 
 Whether wealth in gold or wealth in heart ; 
 
 And growing old we're sure to find 
 Our richest joys the first to part. 
 
 The little cart we used to ride, 
 
 The boat, the dolls and all are gone, 
 
 With naught but memory now to hide 
 The wrecks of days that long have flown. 
 
 Then sing the old songs once again, 
 And touch the organ soft and low ; 
 
 While I through mellow dreams of pain 
 Recall the days o' the long ago. 
 
 Now let me take thee in my arms. 
 And let me feel thy throbbing heart, 
 
 Recalling all our childhood's charms 
 And joys I pray may never part. 
 
 O, thou companion of my youth, 
 
 My childhood's playmate fond and true ! 
 
 Come, breath the old songs once again 
 While I, sweet love, draw near to you. 
 
A SONNET TO COL. ROBERT G. 
 INGERSOLL. 
 
 " Our" Ingersoll ! O child of happy fate ! 
 Thou art well crowned with laurels fair and true, 
 For millions bring their tributes unto you 
 All fresh and warm, from hearts humanely great. 
 Thy grand position in the world of thought 
 And common sense is quite unique ; but one 
 Thou art in this great world, yet like the sun 
 Thou givest light and heart all richly wrought 
 In warp and woof of Love and Hope to all 
 Our race. Thy classic verse, of beauty rare, 
 Alive with throb and beat of joy and truth. 
 And bright with sparkling gems of wit, shall fall 
 Not vainly down the ages, full and fair. 
 But thrill their heart with everlasting youth. 
 
UNTOLD. 
 
 I worked all day in an ice-house, 
 
 Storing the blocks away, 
 And talked with their voiceless crystals, 
 
 That I sought to keep from decay. 
 
 I asked them of their journey. 
 Of a thousand things that day ; 
 
 And they drew me pictures from mem'ry 
 As I placed the blocks away. 
 
 And they told me many a story, 
 And legends quaint and old ; 
 
 But the rarest things they told me 
 Will never be retold. 
 
IN LOVE'S TANGLED WEB OF DREAMS."" 
 
 S/ic touches 111 y cJicck and I quiver — 
 I tremble ivith exquisite f>aius. 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 What can I do and how can I be 
 Any thing else but a servant of thee ? 
 Thou with thy face so radiant and rare, 
 Framed in soft tresses of chestnut-brown hair ; 
 Thou with thy loving looks tender and true — 
 O queen of my heart ! what else can I do ? 
 
 What can I do and how can I be 
 
 Any thing else but true unto thee ? 
 
 Thou with thy charms, surpassing, supreme ; 
 
 Thou with thy figure — a poet's dream — 
 
 Thou with thy loving-heart constant and true — 
 
 O queen of my life ! what else can I do ? 
 
 What can I do and how can I be 
 Any thing else but thy slave-devotee ? 
 
 * To a fair, sweet daughter of Ulster. 
 
IN LOVE S TANGLED WEB OF DREAMS. 73 
 
 Thou with thy wealth of beauty and grace, 
 Thou with thy Raphael-Madonna-face, 
 Thou with thy roses of tenderest hue 
 O dream of my soul ! what else can I do ? 
 
 What can I do and how can I be 
 
 Any thing else but a lover of thee ? 
 
 Thou who art pure as Love's own self, 
 
 Thou its creator and thou its elf, 
 
 Thou passion — the sweetest that mortal can woo, 
 
 O light of my life ! what else can I do ? 
 
 What can I do and how can I be 
 Any thing else but a dreamer of thee ? 
 Thou who art perfect, the sweetest on earth. 
 Thou Angel of Joy, disperser of dearth, 
 Thou gem of the morning, sweet spirit of dew, 
 O blood of my heart, what else can I do ? 
 
 What can I do and how can I be 
 Any thing else but a drop in the sea — 
 A drop in the sea of thy shoreless love — 
 A drop — then a mist in strata above. 
 Wanned into mist by your glowing love free, 
 O Sun of my heaven ! what else can I be ? 
 
74 IN love's tangled web of dreams. 
 
 What can I do and how can I be 
 Any thing else but a singer of thee ? 
 Thou the sole star of my ev'ry night, 
 Thou chaser away of my ev'ry blight ; 
 My beautiful bride the seasons through, 
 O wife of my soul ! what else can I do ? 
 
 What can I do and how can I be 
 
 Any thing else but devoted to thee ? 
 
 Thou maker of happiness, pleasure and bliss. 
 
 Charming my soul away with thy first kiss. 
 
 Melting my life thou hast mingled us two — 
 
 O wife of my heart ! what else could we do ? 
 
ASTROLOGY. 
 
 Of all the songs that poets sing 
 
 The best to me by far, 
 Are those which to my senses bring 
 
 The myst'ries of a star. 
 
 O, stars of love and stars of hope 
 That through the distance peer, 
 
 And cheer us onward as we grope 
 Through ages dark, and drear. 
 
 We know your magic — feel the spell 
 That moulds us to our fate ; 
 
 O, stars of heaven and stars of hell ! 
 O, stars that never wait. 
 
 O, swinging censers of the night ! 
 
 O, flow'rs of heaven's blue ! 
 O, symbols of some boundless might ! 
 
 O, petals of blended hue. 
 
FLAKES OF SNOW. 
 
 All silently the snow-flakes fall and lay 
 
 Their mantle — fair symbolic peace — as pure 
 
 As heaven o'er the earth. Mysterious robe 
 
 Of shadow ! Cold and colorless, both old 
 
 And new and shapeless as the wind, yet real 
 
 As truth and strange as life and fair as flow'rs — 
 
 A flow'r itself of other flow'rs inwove ; 
 
 What art thou ? Cometh whence, and whith'r away ? 
 
 Thou spectral thing ! Thou jeweled ghost that haunts 
 
 The moonlight and the starlight — ghost of tears ! 
 
 Tell some of thy rich history ! Art thou dumb ? 
 
 Replies a voice from mystic depths of air — 
 
 That strange and fickle wilderness that hems 
 
 Us in and makes us slaves to 'ts changing mood, 
 
 And loosens its fierce denizens of cold 
 
 And heat upon us, forcing us to find 
 
 A shelter from their furies, lest we die 
 
 A prey to their insatiate, heartless greed, 
 
 " Yes ! dumb to those with sightless eyes and ears 
 
 Too blunt to hear ; to mindless, thoughtless men — ■ 
 
 Devoid of soul, of empty heart and those 
 
,'*JWKa?iil';'4!«;iB'. ' "■-ipijcmmu™ i^»;- 
 
 
FLAKES OF SNOW. ']'] 
 
 Whose nerves have never felt a thrill, a throb, 
 
 A beat of pain, of pleasure ; I converse 
 
 With poets and my language is a song 
 
 That's writ on air — a mingled song of mirth 
 
 And pathos — tales of tragedy and joy. 
 
 And such as never yet were writ by man 
 
 Nor penn'd upon the tablet of his mind — 
 
 (Ah ! small it is at best to write upon — ) 
 
 And ev'ry sep'rate snow-flake here has more 
 
 To tell than all man's mental leaves can hold. 
 
 Far more than human souls can comprehend. 
 
 For ev'ry snow-flake is a page, a book. 
 
 Of wondrous, endless history ; and speaks 
 
 Of things innumerable : Nature's lore and all 
 
 Her legends of exhaustless length, and themes 
 
 So strange to man, so foreign to his ken 
 
 And custom that to speak their names would be 
 
 As meaningless as "Time," "Eternity," 
 
 Or " Magnitude " — perforce all empty names ; 
 
 Look ! Look ! yon snow-flake, larger than the rest 
 
 About it, see it fall all sullenly 
 
 To earth and heavy-hearted disappear 
 
 In one vast sheen of down ? Why so ? you ask ! 
 
 Because yet scarce a year ago it fell 
 
 Upon the happy breast of a fair bride — 
 
78 FLAKES OF SNOW. 
 
 A heaving, love-beat breast that vvarm'd the heart 
 
 And thrill'd the soul and cheered the life of him, 
 
 Her chosen lord as they rode out one day. 
 
 And there it lay and list unto her voice 
 
 Of music, sweetly clear and pure and true — 
 
 A happy poem of love — and heard replies 
 
 From his great, manly heart ; and heard their plans 
 
 Laid out in hopeful bliss, and joined them in 
 
 One long sweet ecstasy — a kiss ; a kiss : 
 
 Most sacred thing on earth — at home as well 
 
 In sorrow as in joy ; and there it lay 
 
 And heard the lore of love — O, priceless thing ! — 
 
 Restruck in hearty, happy chime, and e'en 
 
 The drossless gold, recast again as oft 
 
 Before into the magic moulds of words. 
 
 It lay upon her breast until her breath 
 
 Of holy love dissolved it to a dream 
 
 Of mist ; it went its way through paths of air 
 
 Ne'er trod by mortal man, until one day 
 
 In early Autumn, when September's tears 
 
 Were falling and the sky seemed veiled with pain, 
 
 It fell upon a coffin's glass exposed 
 
 Beside an open grave, for one last look — 
 
 A linor'rinor, loving" look — of husband at 
 
 His wife who claspt upon her silent breast 
 
FLAKES OF SNOW. 
 
 A tender babe. This wife, who but a bride 
 Of yesterday, and on whose breast this flake 
 Of snow did rest so brief a time ago. 
 Lies cold and dead there now, and on her bier 
 A tear was shed — a tremulous tear of woe ; 
 Nor came it from a human eye, but from 
 The stricken air — a melted flake of snow." 
 
 79 
 
LIFE AND LOVE IN THE 
 SHAWANGUNKS. 
 
 "'O Jiappy love ! wJicrc love like this is found.'' 
 
 It is better to be the emperor of one loving and tender 
 
 heart, ajid she the empress of yours, than to be the emperor 
 
 of the loorld. 
 
 R. G. Ingersoll. 
 
 When white the robe of winter fell 
 
 Upon the Shawangunk's breast, 
 And drear the valley landscape lay, 
 
 Meandering from the west 
 One Sunday morn, I journeyed 'long 
 
 The Shawangunk's northern wing 
 To where a woodman's cabin stood 
 
 Beside a mountain spring. 
 
 Paul Lange was the woodman's name, 
 
 A man of noble birth, 
 A scholar and a gentleman, 
 
 A man of sterling worth : 
 He left his home in Germany 
 
 Full thirty years ago 
 To build a home, seek quiet life. 
 
 Nor caring he for show. 
 
« s 
 
LIFE AND LOVE IN THE SIIAWANGUNKS. 8 1 
 
 And here among the Shawangunks blue 
 
 He met and loved his wife : 
 A dark-eyed, winsome woman, true, 
 
 A jewel in his life. 
 And here among the mountains wild 
 
 He built his humble home, 
 And dwelleth here with wife and ehild. 
 
 Nor careth he to roam. 
 
 And often round his roaring hearth 
 
 When winter's chilling blast 
 Was howling 'round his cottaofe eaves 
 
 He'd oft recall the past : 
 And tell me tales of college days : 
 
 Adventure 'cross the sea ; 
 He'd tell me tales and sing me songs, 
 
 As often thrilling me. 
 
 And oft we'd fill our wooden pipes 
 
 And oft our empty glass ; 
 Discussing this, reviewing that, 
 
 The night would quickly pass ; 
 For there beneath his humble roof 
 
 The purest pleasures dwell ; 
 And there beside his hearty board 
 
 My hunger oft I'd quell. 
 
82 LIFE AND LOVE IN THE SHAWANGUNKS. 
 
 And of the woodman's lonely life 
 
 I'd often question him : 
 "And why forsake the busy world 
 
 And grow thy learning dim 
 My friend ? " quoth I one ev'ning drear 
 
 When th' wind was choked with snow. 
 And struggling through the leafless trees 
 
 Ferociously did blow. 
 
 "My friend," said he, "the woodman's life 
 
 Is not a lonely one ! 
 What need have I for other life 
 
 Beneath the stars or sun ? 
 I'm living here in Nature's heart 
 
 And my heart beats content 
 'Mid all the charms that man can have 
 
 Upon this continent. 
 
 " Nor lonely am I here I trow, 
 
 With birds, and brooks, and air 
 To breath, quite free from city filth ; 
 
 And endless flowers fair, 
 For 'tis not solitude to be 
 
 With nature, heart to heart ; 
 My books of trees and stones and streams 
 
 For Greek I would not part. 
 
LIFE AND LOVE IN THE SHAWANGUNKS. 
 
 83 
 
 " And mark you well, my boy," said he, 
 
 "The home of solitude 
 Is not with nature, nor with mc : 
 
 The city 's its abode, — 
 That wilderness — humanity — 
 
 Where glitters tinsel gold, 
 And greed and lust and direful need 
 
 Make virtue bought and sold." 
 
A LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 " One stream of her soft Jiair strayed itiiconfijied 
 Down her ripe eheek, and shadoived her deep eyes. 
 
 Small curl of nut-brown hair — a dream 
 Of loving transport. Ah, the seam, 
 Or thread of gold that links the past 
 To me ! thou bonnie gem ! thou stream 
 
 Of Nellie's hair! — 
 Sweet fragment of the past : sole gleam 
 Athwart my sombre life of care 
 
 That gives me hope. 
 
 My mem'ry's darling ! sweetest thought, 
 That fills my soul, of rapture wrought, 
 Is this blue-ribboned curling lock 
 I took from Nellie's brow, nor sought 
 
 A greater bliss. 
 She gave it me one Autumn, frought 
 With mellow sun-light and the kiss 
 
 Of ripened fruit. 
 
 Ah, well do I remember them : words 
 Of love, from rosy lips, that birds 
 
A LOCK OF HAIR. 85 
 
 At mating- time might imitate, 
 So full of music and of love 
 
 Divinely great. 
 And looks ! — ^the inward light, that floods 
 The sensual world and makes it pure ; 
 
 I feel again 
 
 The sacred spell, the very trills 
 That floated through me, all the thrills 
 That shook my soul and made my life 
 One blessed span of ecstasy. 
 
 So fair and free, 
 As on that autumn morn, with face 
 Upturned and radiant with grace, 
 
 And beautiful. 
 
 She gave me vows, a lock of hair, 
 A locket cased her picture fair. 
 She gave me all, to enhance my bliss 
 Her melting form, threw in a kiss 
 
 And parted we. 
 But time has flown and left a thorn 
 Within my hope of her who born 
 
 My infant boy. 
 
MAN. 
 
 Wind of Winter, sun of Summer, 
 
 Breezy breath of Autumn, 
 Green of Spring and all the glimmers 
 
 Of the dew ; 
 Robe of Winter, tears of Summer 
 
 Blended hues and shimmers. 
 
 This is man. 
 ''A man's life is a strange life 
 And the ways of men are strange, strange wayr. 
 
 Rush of rivers, calm of waters. 
 
 Murmuring brooks of meadows. 
 Songs of birds and all the voices 
 
 Of the wood ; 
 Blue of heaven, pale of star-light, 
 
 All the works of nature, 
 
 This is man, 
 A man's life is a strano-e life 
 And the ways of men are strange, strange ways. 
 
 * After Longfellow. 
 
MAN. 
 
 Heaven's mercy, angels' goodness, 
 
 Hellishness and hating, 
 Loving kindness, — glowing manhood 
 
 Of the heart. — 
 Passion's hunger, wild beasts' plunder. 
 
 Untamed furies brutal ; 
 
 This is man. 
 A man's life is a strange life 
 And the ways of men are strange, strange 
 ways. 
 
 87 
 
 
 
 v( ^M J 
 
BENEATH THE GOLDEN-ROD. 
 
 Who makes my bed at night 
 
 And turns down the cover ? 
 Who keeps the sheets and pillows white ? 
 
 My mother ! O, my mother. 
 
 Who sings her babes to rest, 
 
 And tucks in the cover? 
 Who kisses each and calls them " blessed ?" 
 
 My mother ! O, my mother. 
 
 Who sings us songs at eve 
 
 As night drops her cover ! 
 Who tells us tales which we believe ? 
 
 My mother ! O, my mother. 
 
 Who takes us out to walk — 
 
 " Me and little brother ?" 
 Who listens to our childish talk ? 
 
 My mother ! O, my mother. 
 
 Who teaches us to pray — 
 " Me and little brother?" 
 
BENEATH THE GOLDEN-ROD. 89 
 
 Who tells US what in prayer to say ? 
 My mother, O, my mother. 
 
 Long years have Oed, my heart has bled 
 
 From many an aching tear ; 
 My heart has bled, my joy has fled 
 
 Before dark clouds of care. 
 
 Who lies beneath the sod — 
 
 Beneath the grave's green cover ? 
 
 Who sleeps beneath the golden-rod ? 
 My mother, O, my mother. 
 
 Who travels there to mourn. 
 With tears damp her cover ? 
 
 Who, weary, old, of joy all shorn ? 
 "Me and little brother." 
 
SHIPWRECKED. 
 
 I stand on the shore of the Restless, 
 On a beach of shifting sands ; 
 
 And I cry to the desert relentless 
 That beckons with fated hands : 
 
 " O, give me back my child-hood, 
 Its days of summer weather, 
 
 The perfume of the wild-wood. 
 The flowers I used to gather." 
 
 I call to receding billows, 
 
 That from me far have flown, 
 
 To come as downy pillows, 
 
 Renewinor the dreams I've known. 
 
 '& 
 
 I signal my barks o' fancy. 
 
 That sailed from the port of Youth, 
 And skimming the distance smoothly, 
 
 Forsake me, alas ! for sooth ! 
 
 I wail to wilds around me ; 
 I call aloud and moan ; 
 
SHIPWRECKED. QI 
 
 I reach for things beyond me 
 
 And strive and struggle and groan. 
 
 I cry aloud and listen, 
 
 The answer comes — an echo — 
 I turn where Hope's stars glisten 
 
 And toward the dawn turn also ; 
 
 Yet like a ship-wrecked sailor, 
 On unknown, rock-bound coasts. 
 
 Cast from some hapless whaler 
 I live in a land of ghosts. 
 
 I cry to the Past all vainly, 
 
 I search, but do not find ; 
 I peer in The Future dimly, 
 
 I ask — replies the wind. 
 
 How long on the shore of the Restless, 
 On this beach of shifting sands. 
 
 Must I cry to the desert relentless 
 That beckons with fated hands. 
 
 " O, give me back my childhood, 
 
 Its days of summer weather, 
 The perfume of the wild-wood. 
 
 The flowers I used to gather. 
 
92 SHIPWRECKED. 
 
 " O ^2^1 v^c me back my lost days, — 
 My guileless, blessed treasures — 
 
 O, give me back the sweet ways 
 
 To my childhood's sylvan pleasures ! 
 
 " O, take me on thy bosom 
 
 And roll thy billows back, 
 Thou restless, eternal ocean ! 
 
 To childhood take me back. 
 
 " I am so tired and weary, 
 And my soul is hungry too, 
 
 A-roaming these cold sands dreary, 
 O take me back to you ! 
 
 "Take me 'eternal ocean,' 
 
 Great mother of us all, 
 And mantle my heart in your bosom. 
 
 Your tresses let be my pall ! " 
 
 I gaze through the mists and the sadness, 
 That befog these shifting sands, 
 
 Afar out on the hazy Relentless 
 That beckons with fated hands. 
 
 And beckons and points to the eastward. 
 To the dawn delayed but sure. 
 
SHIPWRECKED. 
 
 93 
 
 Where the hopes of our liearts may go forward 
 And cancerous hearts find cure. 
 
 I counsel thee ; trust in the future, 
 
 Ye with loads of wretched pain, 
 For the dawn of the day is before thee, 
 
 And sunshine follows rain. 
 
 The past is gone, nor recall it, 
 
 Like a dream it fades away, 
 And bears on its bosom 'long with it 
 
 The night as well as the da}^ 
 
TO CHARLES STEWART PARNELL. 
 
 Dec. 24, 1890. 
 
 Parnell ! O, leader of the Irish cause ! 
 
 Protector of a nation, patriot pure- 
 
 And helmsman brave, pursue thy course nor pause 
 
 In thy endeavor for the ease and cure 
 
 Of Irish wrongs. Art thou not lov'd, ador'd ? 
 
 A million hearts beat quicker at the sound 
 
 Thy name inspires. Heed not the vulgar horde 
 
 Of thy pursuers. Thou 'rt above a wound 
 
 Of falsehood. Slander ne'er can mar nor blot 
 
 Thy spotless record, sacred to the heart 
 
 Of ev'ry free man, Irishman or not. 
 
 Thy guiding hand cannot be spared apart 
 
 From its design. And millions look at you 
 
 In admiration, as at some giant rock 
 
 Storm hem'd, wave beat, serene ; and on the blue 
 
 Unrest we hail thee, proud above the shock - — 
 
 Unconq'rable hero ! Ireland's truest friend. 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 I sit at my window watching 
 A storm that beats the pane : 
 
 In angry fury dashing 
 The tear drops of the rain. 
 
 And sitting here I ponder, 
 A-watching the falling tears, 
 
 And watching them I wander 
 Through a labyrinth of years. 
 
 Through pre-historic ages 
 I tread the desert — Past — 
 
 And in its fossil pages 
 
 My thoughts in moulds are cast. 
 
 Until through mists and mazes, 
 And checkered sun and shade, 
 
 I see through changing hazes, 
 The progress life has made. 
 
 For ev'ry rain-drop falling 
 I know some heart has bled ; 
 
 For ev'ry wind-voice calling 
 I know some soul has fled. 
 
96 THE STORM. 
 
 For ev'ry rain-drop falling- 
 Some mighty page is writ, 
 
 Of hist'ry sweet or galling. 
 E'en 's a-musing, here I sit, 
 
 In ev'ry rain-drop falling 
 The weft of legends old, 
 
 Echos each wind-voice calling 
 From craggy peak and wold. 
 
 And many a vagrant fancy 
 
 Came singing through my brain 
 
 As I sat at my window watching 
 The tear-drops on the pane. 
 
 I sat at my window watching 
 A storm that beat the pane, 
 
 In angry fury dashing 
 
 The tear-drops of the rain. 
 
 And sitting there I pondered, 
 A-watching the falling tears, 
 
 And watching them I wandered 
 Through a labriynth of years. 
 
A LOVER'S PLEA. 
 
 The wintry winds are moaning, Minna dear, 
 And the leafless trees are groaning, Minna dear, 
 
 And the feath'ry pines are sighing 
 
 And the seasons, they are dying 
 
 And my heart to thee is flying 
 
 All for true love, Minna dear ; 
 
 Darling Minna ! Minna dear. 
 
 My heart for love is aching, Minna dear. 
 Which h\\.lthou canst keep from breaking, Minna 
 dear, 
 
 And my soul for thee is yearning, 
 
 And my love for thee is burning, 
 
 And all other love is spurning, 
 
 All for thy love, Minna dear, 
 
 Darling Minna, Minna dear. 
 
 But Summer's breath will woo thee, Minna dear. 
 And fair Summer's bloom will kiss thee, Minna 
 dear. 
 
98 A lover's plea. 
 
 And will flush thy cheeks to glowing, 
 And 'will rush thy love to flowing, 
 And will start thy blood to going 
 Ever faster, Minna dear, 
 Lovely Minna, Minna dear. 
 
 And the wild flow'rs they will cheer thee, Minna 
 dear, 
 
 And the song-birds will not fear thee, Minna dear, 
 And the Muse will wake thee, thrilling, 
 And will set thy heart -chords trilling. 
 And thy husbands heart fulfilling. 
 All with true-love, Minna dear, 
 Darling Minna, Minna dear. 
 
 But thy lover, heavy hearted, Minna dear, 
 From his idol must be parted, Minna dear. 
 
 And though from thee, of thee dreaming, 
 Till his life of thine be seeming, 
 And his soul, surcharged, be teeming. 
 All with true-love, Minna dear. 
 Lovely Minna, Minna dear. 
 
 Wilt thou think of me, O, sweet one, Minna dear, 
 When the gulf of time divides us, many a year .'' 
 
A LOVER S PLEA. 
 
 Wilt thou think of me in kindness, 
 For I love you, dear, to blindness ? 
 Wilt thou think of me in sadness. 
 For I love you, dear, to madness — 
 Of thy true-love, Minna dear, 
 Darling Minna, Minna dear ? 
 
 If thou wilt then as a token, Minna dear. 
 Let thy vow at once be spoken, Minna dear, 
 And draw near me in my sadness. 
 Kiss me once just for my madness, 
 Once, O, love, just for my blindness ! 
 Kiss me, think of me in kindness 
 O, my darling, Minna dear, 
 Lovely Minna ! Minna dear. 
 
 99 
 
ISLANDS. 
 
 O, vex me not with thinking 
 On the days that come no more, 
 Of the Islands in the river, 
 Of the ripples on the shore. 
 Of the days and weeks of sunshine 
 And the hours of holy pleasure. 
 Made by mem'ry ever brighter, 
 Ever sweeter, ever better. 
 As the tides of time roll on. 
 
 Teach us to forget, O Fate, 
 
 O, stern and awful ruler. 
 
 The joys, the songs and laughter. 
 
 The music's tender mirth 
 
 The sun that gilded bygone 
 
 Paths ; the happy flow'rs I plucked ; 
 
 Go hide them, dark Forgetfulness : 
 
 Our treasures, one and all. 
 
 And bury them deep and lone ! 
 
 Only hush, sad voice of sighs. 
 
 And scatter, O, clouds of pain. 
 
OLD ELI. 
 
 Upon a summer afternoon, 
 
 One breezy, dusty day, 
 I chanced to meet upon the road 
 
 A man quite old and gray, 
 Who held within his stiff'ning arm 
 
 A child of tender years ; 
 And dust was on the infant's face. 
 
 Its eyes bedimmed with tears. 
 
 The old man stopt for I knew him well 
 
 And I shook his horny hand ; 
 We talked of rain and common things 
 
 While he held on my hand, 
 For though a sinful man was he 
 
 To all the church folks 'round 
 I liked him for I knew him well 
 
 And knew his heart was sound 
 
 In spite of all his moral ills. 
 
 The peculiar life he led ; 
 He'd oft get drunk and curse and swear. 
 
 And seek a lustful bed, 
 
I02 OLD ELI. 
 
 And fight and quarrel when " run " upon. 
 
 And make a hideous din ; 
 For all his sense of moral law 
 
 Forsook him in his gin. 
 
 His face was rough with shaggy beard, 
 
 His eyes were gray as steel, 
 His form was bent which once was straight 
 
 His gait was half a reel ; 
 And yet withall a kinder heart, 
 
 I ween, ne'er beat a breast 
 Beneath his rough exterior, 
 
 A warm heart beat and prest. 
 
 " Barnhart," said I, " what have you there ? 
 
 Whose babe is that ? " I said. 
 He drew the infant close to him, 
 
 I saw, at heart he bled, 
 "Why this is mine ! " with mirthful feign, 
 
 " Whose would it be ! " said he, 
 " I love the child and he loves me, 
 
 That's why its mine, you see ! 
 
 The mother of this vounoren here — 
 Poor ailin', sickly boy, 
 
OLD ELI. 103 
 
 Is young an' poor, forsook is she 
 
 An' can't support the boy, 
 So, ez they put him on the town, 
 
 I thought I'd bring him up. 
 And care for him the best I could, 
 
 An' try to help him up. 
 
 I raised my boys by Sal an' Kate 
 
 An' raised them youngens o' Janes' 
 An' raised 'em all the best I could 
 
 An' took the best o' pains 
 To keep 'em shod an' fed an' clothed. 
 
 Nor ever whipped 'em once ; 
 For whippin' aint no good to boys ; 
 
 It's sure to make 'em a dunce. 
 
 An' how d'er 'spose that I could see 
 
 This child 'mong strangers go, 
 When 'ts mother's keepin' house for me. 
 
 An' I'm abl' to hoe ? 
 An' Betsy, when she sees her boy 
 
 Agin, an' hugs him tight, 
 My old heart will grow young agin 
 
 At sich a loving sight. 
 
I04 
 
 OLD ELI. 
 
 An' bring me back my other days, 
 
 An' sights that I haint see 
 Fer many a lame, ole grumblin' year. 
 
 An' a child fer on my knee, 
 I aint no church man, much, " said he, 
 
 Fer of Hell I haint no fear, 
 But fer dumb brutes an' babes "said he, 
 
 You 'llallus find me here." 
 
FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 
 
 Yo?( migJit as zvcU forhid the sea for to obey the moon. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 My^Josie and I 
 
 Were lovers for years, 
 We met and were wed 
 
 'Neath a host of fears, 
 In secret we met 
 
 In secret were wed ; 
 Our marriage was heaven, 
 
 And bliss was our bed. 
 
 My Josie is fair 
 
 As the tlow'rs of May, 
 Roses bloom sweetly 
 
 On her cheeks to-day ; 
 Her sensitive mouth. 
 
 In passionate curves. 
 Bewitches me quite ; 
 
 Reduces my nerves. 
 
106 - FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 
 
 But what can we do, 
 
 She's another's wife, 
 This queen of my heart. 
 
 This gem of my Hfe ; 
 Ah, strange this may seem 
 
 To those who know not 
 The transports of joy 
 
 In danger of shot. , 
 
 But such is the case 
 
 And rightful or no, 
 A law without heart 
 
 Says " reap as you sow ;" 
 So reaping I sow ; 
 
 And sowing I reap 
 The pleasures of life 
 
 From a dangerous steep. 
 
 And loyal to nature 
 And true to my self 
 
 I journey cross lots 
 To woo the young elf 
 
 That man has called Love ; 
 And like all the streams 
 
FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 
 
 I wander me down 
 
 Rich valleys and seams. 
 
 And unto my fold 
 
 I gather them in : 
 Fountains of pleasure 
 
 Nor deem it a sin ; 
 Nor shape I the course 
 
 As onward I flow 
 Through landscapes of Fate, 
 
 But reap as I go. 
 
 107 
 
A POET'S LIFE. 
 
 " A life misjinderstood is sad as tears." 
 
 The currents of a poet's life 
 Are seldom understood ; 
 
 They ebb and flow content above 
 The strata : care and strife 
 
 When 'circled in the arms of love. 
 
THE OLD, OLD STORY. 
 
 'Twas not, I say, in ancient day, 
 
 Nor yet of recent date, 
 A peasant boy, bare-foot, at play 
 
 Swung 'round on the barn-yard gate. 
 
 The air was fine, the sun did shine 
 
 Upon late flow'rs of spring ; 
 The orchard white, like sea of brine 
 
 Did foam with bloom of spring. 
 
 The sky was blue in dreamy hue, 
 Drap'd 'round with fleecy white ; 
 
 The breezes few that gently blew 
 Brought odors of delight. 
 
 The songs of bird, the sweetest heard ' 
 Flowed softly through the boughs ; 
 
 The bleat of sheep among the herd 
 Of grazing swine and cows. 
 
 The only sound that did resound 
 In discord rude and dry ; 
 
no THE OLD, OLD STORY. 
 
 On robes of green, in gold-spun sheen 
 The Sunday's sun shone high. 
 
 When past the peasant's farm-house door, 
 
 A stately carriage drove, 
 That held a lady and her lord 
 
 On way to mountain grove. 
 
 They passed the door, but at the bore 
 Of 'n ancient well they stopped ; 
 
 He stopped to drink but she the more 
 To glance at peasant life. 
 
 Then beckoned she unto the boy 
 
 A-leaning on the gate. 
 And plied with many questions coy 
 
 His dreams of future fate. 
 
 Surprised at his high views of life 
 She thought the more and more 
 
 Upon the cares and dreary strife 
 The peasants must endure. 
 
 "And yet," she thought, "how happy seems 
 
 This dreamy peasant boy. 
 Who bathed in light of Hopes' fair beams 
 
 His future 's only joy." 
 
THE OLD, OLD STORV. Ill 
 
 Thus long she mused and oft she thought 
 
 She saw his sunny face 
 Till througfh her dreams brisrht threads were wrought 
 
 Of gold that she could trace 
 
 Throughout the web of her busy life 
 
 Back to a barnyard gate ; 
 But years less full of joy than strife 
 
 Did work to weave her fate. 
 
 And years did roll and time did toll 
 
 The bell of warning note 
 Till gradually its accents dole 
 
 Did drown this feeble mote 
 Of memory. 
 
 As tide flowed on this peasant lad 
 
 In nature's school was taught ; 
 And mingling with her num'rous glad 
 
 And radiant forms, he fought 
 
 The awful battle — desert youth 
 
 Where Poverty is king — 
 His bible, earth and flow'rs ; and truth 
 
 He made his mental king. 
 
112 
 
 THE OLD, OLD STORY. 
 
 Thus schooled, thus taught, he fought his way 
 
 To manhood's honest sphere. 
 At manhood's dawn one autumn day 
 
 He met this lady dear 
 By accident. 
 
 To tell the rest would be to tell 
 The old, old story over ; 
 
 The tale of how a woman fell 
 Prey to a youthful lover. 
 
MIST AND CHANGE. 
 
 The mind is like a river, 
 
 Its 'fed from many a source ; 
 
 It wanders just like water 
 And changes oft its course. 
 
 At early dawn it voices 
 
 The brooklets' song in mountains, 
 And lovingly rejoices 
 
 In sunny mists of fountains. 
 
 It gurgles, sighs, and moaning 
 It chafes the stubborn shore ; 
 
 It whispers, asks with groaning 
 For days that come no more. 
 
 It pencils on its surface 
 In lines and ripples plain, 
 
 The hidden things within it : 
 The bars and snags of pain. 
 
 Just so, the lines and laughter 
 On human faces show 
 
114 MIST AND CHANGE. 
 
 The reefs and rocks of danger — 
 
 The hidden things below 
 
 &^ 
 
 It rushes on and rages, 
 And surges over rocks ; 
 
 It roars o'er shallow places 
 
 But through Time's hoary locks 
 
 Is sifted from its spirit, 
 
 Its feeble race is run 
 Into the ocean near it. 
 
 That bears them one by one 
 
 Within her proud old bosom, 
 
 A-heaving to the sun ; 
 And gives back crystal treasure 
 
 Which airy journeys cover. 
 And gush in springs of pleasure 
 
 And live the old lives over. 
 
 So each thing changes ever 
 Along its winding course, 
 
 Throughout life's misty river 
 From the ocean to its source. 
 
A NIGHT IN THE SHAVVANGUNKS. 
 
 When wild mid-winter's 'numbing blast 
 
 Fills all the air with snowing, 
 And wierd the Shawangunk's howling crags 
 
 Resent the wind's mad blowing, 
 
 I left the low-land village town, 
 With many hearth-stones glowing. 
 
 My Shawangunk staff within my hand. 
 My fingers often blowing. 
 
 The night was dark and from the north 
 The freezing storm was raging, 
 
 And harpy whispers in the air 
 More spritely things presaging. 
 
 I battled hard to keep the path 
 
 Which through the woods went trailing. 
 
 While through the pines and rocky vales 
 The ghostly storm was wailing. 
 
 At length I reached a craggy ledge 
 When north to westward looking, 
 
 I saw the light from Lange's cot. 
 His wife, late supper cooking. 
 
Il6 A NIGHT IN THE SHAWANGUNKS. 
 
 Then struggled on to reach his door, 
 Which opes when I but tap it, 
 
 And for his hearty, homely fare. 
 Ah, freely does he share it. 
 
 The door I reach with welcome true, 
 
 Then at his table, steaming. 
 We sit us down and eat and drink 
 
 With kindly mirth all beaming. 
 
 While near to us with cleanly mien, 
 
 His wife, the table serving, 
 Joins in our jokes, with hearty laugh. 
 
 At strokes of wit sent verving. 
 
 And then with pipe and ruby flask 
 Beside his wood-fire burning. 
 
 We sit and talk and drink and smoke. 
 All wintry weather spurning. 
 
 Nor happier times have known than those 
 When Shawangunk's snows were falling 
 
 And visiting my faithful friend, 
 Sweet mem'ries oft recalling. 
 
TO MRS. GEN'L CUSTER. 
 
 O, if there is a theme more worthy 
 
 A sacred poet's song 
 Than virtuous maidenhood or woman, 
 
 Then class me with the wrong, 
 
 O, tender, loving, constant woman ! 
 
 O, sweet-heart good and true ! 
 The highest niche this side of heaven. 
 
 The trait I bless in you. 
 
JEALOUSY. 
 
 The Morn was melting up the east, 
 
 The West was gray as steel, 
 While Love partaking of his feast 
 
 No sense of shame could feel ; 
 
 For Magnet Love had found his Love 
 
 And Passion's heat was white, 
 While disappearing stars above 
 
 Shrank 'way from S2ich a sight. 
 
 The old-maid Moon was pale with shame ; 
 
 The Sun rose blushing red, 
 While bursting throbs from Passion's flame 
 
 Was raging o'er Love's bed. 
 
 The Sun in anger smote the Sky, 
 
 The Sky returned the blow ; 
 And thus up in the heavenly high 
 
 They each struck blow for blow. 
 
TEALOUSV. 
 
 119 
 
 And there above the misty clouds 
 The battle fierce increased, 
 
 Until the Night with stately tread 
 Walked up the concave east. 
 
 " And what is all this time about ? " 
 Up spoke the Evening Star ; 
 
 " 'Twas all because of jealousy ! " 
 Came echoing from afar. 
 
HOME. 
 
 The home zuhere virtue divells zvith love is like a lily 
 ivitJi a heart of fire — the fairest floiver in all the world. 
 
 R. G. Ingersoll. 
 
 O, Home ! thou magic, soothing name ! 
 
 Thou synonym for love's true flame, 
 
 O, hallowed thought ! From hope 'twas born 
 
 Possessing which it laughs to scorn 
 
 All other concepts of the mind 
 
 However true and well defined ; 
 
 O, home ! O presence pure and calm ! 
 
 Sweet soulful air : the hearts' best balm ; 
 
 O sacred spot ! O heav'nly blend 
 
 Of love and hope ; nor time can rend, 
 
 Thee from the blessed name oi friend. 
 
THE BELL OF THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 "There are some things quite hard to understand." 
 The engineer stood in his cab, his heart 
 Beat quick and strong ; the time drew near to start 
 His train ; he grasped the bell-rope in his hand, 
 When past him rolled a bridal party gay ; 
 He saw the bride and saw that she was fair ; 
 Then looked again and saw her auburn hair ; 
 That was enough ! he saw no more that day 
 Nor e'er again ; his Love to him was lost ; 
 Death's pallor spread his face ; his nerves all slacked, 
 He groaned, then reeled with quick convulsive 
 
 start — 
 His heart was broke'; his " dear sweet love " was 
 
 lost — 
 And, falling, tolled his own death-knell which 
 
 cracked 
 The engine bell — " the bell of the broken heart." 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Fresh nature has her countless charms, 
 
 And charms which fill our heart with pleasure ; 
 
 Yet all her charms are poor compared 
 
 With those v^q feel : the heart's warm treasure. 
 
 The woods and hills and lakes and rills, 
 The ferns and flow'rs and April showers, 
 
 The songs of birds with all their trills 
 Can ne'er compete with hearts, all ours. 
 
 There is a charm in friendship dear, 
 
 With which there's naught on earth comparing ; 
 The look, the touch, the word of cheer, 
 
 The gentle confidence and trusting. 
 
CHARLES BRADLAUGH. 
 
 Charles Bradlaugh ! never more sacred name 
 E'er spelled, in burning letters, on the shrine 
 Of truth ; clear and consistent it shall shine — 
 Eternal light within the halls of Fame. 
 The very name of Hoxton now recalls 
 Thy birth, the early struggles of thy life 
 Encompassed 'round by seas of dearth and strife 
 The like of which our lot scarce e'er befalls. 
 Mart Luther sinks beneath thee in reform ; 
 Thy life is now a shining monument of light — 
 A paragon of virtue — guide for youth. 
 ''Iconoclast'" abreast the threat'ning storm 
 Rides o'er the waves, perforce of manhood's might 
 And illustrates again the power of Truth. 
 
'NEATH THE SHADOW OFTHE LINDEN. 
 
 'Neath the shadow of the linden 
 'Neath its broad protecting arms, 
 
 I have lived snug days of winter, 
 I have bathed in summer charms. 
 
 I have breathed the breath of morning 
 There have felt the evening dew 
 
 And have dreamed beneath its branches 
 All the long, lone day through. 
 
 There the stars have spun me legends. 
 And the warm sou' wind, sweet lays ; 
 
 There the soft, deep shades of evening 
 Have whispered of other days. 
 
 And there the dear echo-voices 
 
 Of departed ones I hear ; 
 Again the multitudinous silence 
 
 Half fills my heart with fear. 
 
C'^'- 
 
 .jg^t6a„fe..-,..g 
 
 There the stars have spun 7iie legends 
 And the warm sou' ivind, sweet lays." 
 
NEATH THE SHADOW OF THE LINDEN. 1 25 
 
 And there the ghost-like train of fancies 
 Through my vision lightly roves ; 
 
 Come and go in silent numbers 
 All my early dreams and loves. 
 
 And the dear old tree, the linden, 
 
 That stands beside my door, 
 Has bound my heart in its branches 
 
 With days that come no more. 
 
 Bound and twined within its branches, 
 Ghosts of dreams that are no more, 
 
 And the dear sweet forms and faces 
 Of loved ones gone before. 
 
 So I love the tall old linden 
 
 With its dark and solemn leaves, 
 
 And its deep heart rustling over 
 Once my humble cottage eaves. 
 
ICONOCLASTIC RHYME. 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE ULSTER COUNTY SUNDAY SCHOOL 
 ASSOCIATION. 
 
 The zvorld is still deceived ivitJi 07-naineiit. 
 In laiv, zvhat plea so tainted and corrupt. 
 But being season d zvitJi a gracious voice 
 Obscures the show of evil ? In religion, 
 What damned error, but some sober brozv 
 Will bless it, and approve it zvith a text. 
 Hiding the grossness zvith fair ornament. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Conditions and Environment 
 
 Gave birth to race and government ; 
 
 But Herod-Prejudice, with scorn, 
 
 Declares "the 'blacks' ought not been born ; 
 
 But since they are, the heinous ' crime ' 
 
 Deserves the lash of ev'ry clime." 
 
 In days of yore they lashed the slaves 
 With thongs of hide — the heartless knaves — 
 Nor vanished are those cruel days : 
 They lash them yet in other ways : — 
 
ICONOCLASTIC RHYME. 12/ 
 
 Good men and women ostracised 
 
 By brutes, 'neath custom, long disguised ; 
 
 By members of some other race. 
 
 Whose only worth, a paler face. 
 
 Believe by that and through God's grace 
 
 In heaven to find some better place 
 
 Than He accords the Afric race. 
 
 O, Ignorance, thou heartless brute ! 
 
 By Superstition bred, and sired 
 
 By Prejudice — of Hell desired — 
 
 Thou hast but one string to thy lute : 
 
 The low-bred chord of selfishness 
 
 Whose only tune is : " Wretchedness 
 
 To all the world save me — and — well — 
 
 Give me my fill of selfish love 
 
 And w^hen I die, O, God above ! 
 
 Save me though millions go to Hell. 
 
 Give me a golden harp to play 
 
 With Heav'nly songs of Thine to sing 
 
 Beside some crystal, flowing spring. 
 
 Then I will make the welkin ring 
 
 While Hell roars hot with fires to flay 
 
 Poor devils not so fortunate ; 
 
 In virtue s law perhaps who lack 
 
 A paler face — God damn the black ! — 
 
128 ICONOCLASTIC RHYME. 
 
 But bless us, Thy elective great, 
 As we do crown thy old gray pate, 
 With prayers and lies and flattery 
 And heartless, vile hypocrisy. 
 
 I know I am a ' weakly worm ' 
 And laugh to see poor wretches squirm, 
 While piling high the sticks to burn 
 The devilish heretics who spurn 
 That sacred lie — Thy Holy Book 
 That teaches us of witch and spook ; 
 Defiles the race of womanhood 
 And tells us that 'tis grand and good 
 To strike her down with cruel stones, 
 And bruise her flesh and break her bones ; 
 Because she dares to want to know 
 A thing- or two, g-ive her a blow. 
 
 And how I'll laugh when IngersoU 
 Drops off the world down into Hell, 
 For teaching men the sacredness 
 Of human love, the blessedness 
 Of womanhood, and constancy, 
 And all his good philosophy. 
 For daring to teach common sense 
 We'll give him Hell as recompense, 
 
ICONOCLASTIC RHYME. 
 
 129 
 
 And burn him by the side of Paine 
 And laugh to hear him call for rain 
 To cool the fever of his tongue, 
 The fire of which, then scarce begun, 
 Shall burn through all Eternity — 
 By will of God's Divinity — 
 God bless us all. Amen I" 
 
THE MINER'S DREAM. 
 
 'Tvvas late one summer afternoon, 
 
 The sun had almost set ; 
 The West had scattered all her hues 
 
 Upon the rain-clouds wet. 
 Far back within a\vilderness 
 
 Beside a cabin door, 
 An aged man, gray bearded, rough. 
 
 Lay sprawled upon the floor. 
 
 His dress was that the miners wore 
 
 Some forty years ago ; 
 Uncouth, unkempt, he puffthis pipe, 
 
 His hair was white as snow ; 
 His chin he rested on his hand 
 
 His elbow on the floor. 
 While gazing at the setting sun 
 
 The blue smoke wreathed his door. 
 
 His eye was fast upon the clouds, 
 Though not a cloud he saw ; 
 
 His mind was wand'ring back again 
 Perforce of Nature's law, 
 
THE MINERS DREAM. I3I 
 
 To days gone by, yet close to him, 
 
 In dreams and mem'ry near ; 
 And songs were sung and voices rung 
 
 Familiar to his ear. 
 
 He saw once more the cherished past, 
 
 Dream-peopled as of yore ; 
 And saw the camp-fire's distant glow 
 
 Which shone like yellow ore. 
 Loud peals of laughter from the gorge 
 
 Bespoke that wit went 'round, 
 Though clad in rough and homely garb 
 
 'Twas rich with merry sound. 
 
 The winding line of miners by 
 
 The river's ruffled ed§;e, 
 Are panning out their "ounce a day," 
 
 Are delving in the ledge. 
 The streams once more run clear and cold — 
 
 Sierra's liquid snow — 
 And wander down their natural beds 
 
 With no impeded flow. 
 
 He sees the dreams that Harte has sung, 
 
 Recalls them to his mind ; 
 They come to him from ghosts of trees. 
 
 In voices of the wind ; 
 
132 THE miner's DREAM. 
 
 They stand out from the vanished past 
 
 In clear and bold relief, 
 Congealing all his mental pow'rs 
 
 In his one sad belief : 
 
 That from the West all glory fled 
 
 With civilizations' sweep ; 
 Where once was wild with pine and oak 
 
 A forest dark and deep — 
 Now scattered o'er with homes of men 
 
 And cultivated field, 
 Which only tame facilities 
 
 To labor offer yield. 
 
 And all beneath his dignity 
 
 A '' forty-niner " proud -^ 
 To till the fields or herd the flock 
 
 Or mingle with the crowd. 
 A man of pessimistic view, 
 
 Yet one of a mighty race 
 Whose sole developed mental trait 
 
 " Is slightly off its base." 
 
INTER NOS. 
 
 O. it 1 could tell all my heart feels, love, 
 
 All the joys to me you've given ; 
 O, if I could paint with words, love, 
 
 Our \vin_i2:-foot'd days of heaven, 
 I'd blend the stillness of a spring-tide eve 
 
 With the closing song of a summer night, 
 And hush the moon-beams on the sloping eave 
 With the music of mid-winter star-light ; 
 And I'd sing thee a song 
 Of love sweet and long 
 In a sleepy little village. 
 
 In a little white cot : 
 In a vine-clad cottage by the wall. 
 Where a charming little woman 
 
 In a little white cot. 
 In a dream-nest-bower by the wall, 
 Lives and loves me very well 
 And she calls me " Papa Bell " 
 Through the love-lit* hittice near the fall. 
 
 * Lit may not be very elegant, but it serves the purpose well. 
 
WAKE LOVE. 
 
 O wake, wake, wake love, and ope thy lattice wide ; 
 The dawn is breaking on the world, the lonesome 
 
 night has died ; 
 The owl has fled to dark retreats, the night bat 
 
 roams no more, 
 O come from out thv resting place and ope thy 
 
 lattice door. 
 
 O wake, wake, wake love, the sun half o'er the hill, 
 Is gilding all the mountain tops and paints your 
 
 window sill ; 
 The dew is on the clover bloom, the wild flow'rs 
 
 scent the air. 
 The morn is rich, the morn is fresh, but thou alone 
 
 art fair. 
 
 O wake, wake, wake love, and see the day-god rise. 
 
 For not a star in all the sky dare look thee in thine 
 eyes ; 
 
 () come from out thy resting place and walk a 
 while with me 
 
 Up yonder hill to look upon the dawn's broad- 
 bosomed sea. 
 
TO MAMY. 
 
 03 
 
 So wake, wake, wake love, and ope thy lattice wide ; 
 Breathe deep the Morning's fragrant breath and he 
 
 the Morning's bride ; 
 The dew is on the clover bloom, the wild flow'rs 
 
 scent the air. 
 The morn is rich, the morn is fresh, but thou alone 
 
 art fair. 
 
 TO MAMY. 
 
 Of all the joys this earth can give 
 
 There's none to me so sweet and mild, 
 
 So free from guile, so pure and true 
 As the l)uddinp: love of a little child. 
 
FAREWELL TO ULSTER. 
 
 To members of tJic Kingston Bar, 7vit]i great respect I 
 dedicate this unassuming verse. 
 
 The dreaded time approaches near 
 When I must wander far from here, 
 But ere I start, a trembhng;. tear 
 I pause to drop with aching fear 
 Upon the sward o' my youth's green grave ; 
 Then breast the ocean's crested wave, 
 The storms of life, how e'er they rave, 
 To seek the goal, I, yearning, crave. 
 
 No more I'll roam these rugged hills, 
 No more I'll taste these dancing rills. 
 Nor seek the precious metals here 
 Which in the Shawangunk's oft appear j 
 No more I'll land the speckled trout, 
 Nor woods resound my gladsome shout — 
 Leave all, and foreign dangers dare ; 
 To fill my purse my heart must tear. 
 
 Nor fear I most the billows' roar, 
 Nor fear a death on foreis^n shore, 
 
FAREWELL TO ULSTER. 137 
 
 But loath to break the tics that bound 
 
 My youthful days to hallow'd ground ; 
 
 And oft will long to hear the sound 
 
 My mountain streams make coursino- down • 
 
 And for the mid-day hum in town 
 
 When Autumn hills arc bare and brown. 
 
 Hills of pain and dells of pleasure — 
 Scenes my wretchedness renew — 
 
 Years of pain and months of pleasure, 
 Now a long, heart-felt adieu. 
 
 Silver Rondout calmly Howing 
 
 Through the scented clover bloom, 
 
 Fare thee well, for I am going 
 To my fortune or my tomb. 
 
 Fare thee well, small vine-clad cottage. 
 Where I wooed my own true love. 
 
 Fare thee well, dear bow'rs of pleasure 
 Where my love first found his love. 
 
 Fare thee well ! my dear old birth place, 
 Torn by Greed of Gain from me ; 
 
 Fare thee well ; my dear old hearth place. 
 Oft ril long and mourn for thee. 
 
138 FAREWELL TO ULSTER. 
 
 Fare thee well ! to birds and flowers, 
 
 I must ever from them part ; 
 Fare thee well ! fresh skies and showers 
 
 Thou shalt ever have my heart. 
 
 Friends that in my mem'ry ever 
 Gratitude holds near and dear, 
 
 Fare thee well ! and bless you ever ! 
 I shall miss your words of cheer. 
 
 Hills of pain and dells of pleasure — 
 Scenes my wretchedness renew. 
 
 Years of pain and months of pleasure. 
 Now a long heart-felt adieu. 
 
 Ye sages of the Kingston Bar, 
 
 Ye men of learning, heart and truth, 
 Ye warriors proud, with many a scar 
 
 To mark the battles of your youth, 
 Ye brave, heroic noblemen, 
 
 "Ye favor'd, ye enlightened few," 
 Ye versed in "points" above the ken 
 
 Of countrymen, my lords, adieu ! 
 
 Oft have we met at Johnson's bar 
 
 And quaffed his wine with great delight, 
 
FAREWELL TO ULSTER. 1 39 
 
 And oft to view the Polar Star 
 
 We braced the lamp-post half the night ; 
 And oft around " Thes " festive board 
 
 At dominoes we'd sit and play ; 
 To cure \\\t grip we inward poured 
 
 His " rock and rye " 'til break of day. 
 
 But Time, the tragic actor, plays 
 
 Unerring lines of pain and mirth 
 That run throughout our nights and days 
 
 Bankrupting all upon the earth, 
 Save 07ie : our honest " Billy " — 
 
 Who grasps old Time by forelock hoar 
 Nor will release until he pays 
 
 Poor " Billy's" debts, or grants him more. 
 
 Then fare thee well, my idols dear — 
 
 Ye members of the Kingston Bar — 
 In leaving you forgive the tear 
 
 I drop when going off so far ; 
 And one request is all I ask : 
 
 When meet ye at our Johnson's dar 
 And nightly tip the amber flask. 
 
 Recall to mind your friend afar. 
 
I40 
 
 FAREWELL TO ULSTER. 
 
 Farewell ! old Ulster's dreamy vales, 
 
 Her woods and streams and hills and dales ; 
 
 The scenes of all my early loves, 
 
 The scenes where still my fancy roves ; 
 
 The still retreats of coot and hern 
 
 And lowland brooks, thick hedged with fern, 
 
 "Farewell my friends ! farewell my foes;" 
 
 My heart with these / to hell with those.