o ^^ ^ ^.:t^^ ^jm^^\ ^^M^^ •''^ 'oK *k *• 4P ^ "^P^ :. ■'^^o* ^^ ' % . • > "^ aV ^^ ♦ » « r •• v< o *-^-V .^^^^^ "-^^^^ N^^ ^ J^ * HOURS OF FANCY: OR VIGIL AND VISION, ^5 BY ALDINE S. KIEFFER. :3e.x i,i^^ nj^ DAYTON, VA. : RUEBUSH, KIEFFER & CO., PRINTERS. 1881. f^ COPYRIGHT, RUEBUSH, KIEFFER & CO., 1881. DEDICATION. AS WHEN A CHILD WILD FLOWERS WERE GATHERED AMID THE WESTERN PRAIRIES AND TWINED INTO RUDE WREATHS FOR HIS mother's eye: SO NOW in later years, these strange wild flowers of thought gathered in the vales of memory and fancy, are laid as a garland at his mother's feet, p.y her child The Author. PRE FA CE. -K-W- Conscious within myself of the manner in which the following pages have been written, it is with some trepidation and not without feelings of regret that I make them public. The manner I refer to will become apparent to the reader who will soon perceive great haste, immaturity, "inexperience and every error denoting a feverish at- tempt, rather than a deed accomplished." The verses contained in the first and second divisions of these pages were written for the most part at odd moments, here and there, and with little premeditation or fore- thought. Some of them were written by the light of dying camp-fires; some in mountain hollows, after a 6 PREFACE. day's ramble ; and others again in tlie midnight soh- tude — and all hurriedly. This is not said with any purpose or design of forestalling criticism, or of evok- ing it. I am too well aware of my own imperfections to be wounded by others telling me of them, and there is no anguish so deep and poignant as that of the consciousness of a failure. I should not now make these verses public if I thought that the years to come would present time and opportunity to prune and cor- rect them for the better. Such as they are I send them out on the great sea of letters, to be blown hither and thither as ships without rudder or compass ; and yet, 1 believe, some of them at least, will find a safe anchor- age in the pleasant havens of warm hearts and sunny souls. There are verses relating to incidents of the late war published in the first department, not for hate's sake, but because their author lived and wrote and suf- fered during the years when Red war smote the land With shock of hattle and with flood of flame, and for their appearance in this volume he makes no apology. The Lyrics, comprising the fourth division of this PREFACE. 7 little book, now appear for the first time separated from the music to which they were originally wedded by such writers as Unseld, Meyer, Tenney and others. Many of them are familiar to the public. In a few cases the songs were written to the melody of the mu- sic, which will account for their unique and somewhat imperfect rhythm. The reader, however, will become his own critic ; will form his own judgment upon these verses; and with him I now desire to leave them to their fate. ALDINE S. KIEFFER. March i, i88i. CONTENTS. VIGIL AND VISION Three Vigils, . . 17 The Confederate Dead, 86 Sir Fontaine's Ride, 43^ The Phanton^. Bride, 51 A New Year's Vigil, 61^ An Old Man's Reverie, 64 Hagar and Ishinael, . 66 A Poet's Death, 70 Memories, . . 73 A Vision, . 76 Dej)arted Pays, 78 Faith, Hope and Charit;; 5 80 Hopes that Perish, . 81 A Picture, 83 A Rhapsody, 84 A Dream of Heaven, 86 Marye's Height, 88>^ Kissing by the Well, 91 In Memory, 93 lo CONTENTS. Lines to an Old Oak Tree, 9o Unbiiried, 97 Hades, 99 Dreams, . . 101 ]^ot all a Dream, 101 Our Fireside, 102 SONGS AND IDYLS. The Years Go By, 107 In the Gloaming, 108 I Walked Thro' Mystic Halls, . . . .111 Sweet Vernon Wood, . . . . . .112 Sweet Linville's Vale, 114 Indian Summer, 116 A Wasted Life, US Forevermore, 119 To Somebody, 121 An Autumn Idyl, 122^ — Alfalfa, 125 Faith's Logic, ........ 127 March Musings, 129 The Hills of Long Ago, 131 Diantha, 132 Primroses, 134 The Mountain Pine, Vdn^ Nameless Sorrows, . i 137 Name on the Tree, 138 A Lament, 140 A Prayer, . 141^^^ Longings, 142 A May Idyl, 143 Under the Elm Tree, . . . . . .145 Love's Autumn, 147 In Memoriam, 148 October Dreams, 149 CONTENTS. I i April, November, Songs of Love, Angel Guards, . Blow, BloAV, Blow, December, . An Allegory, . Resurgere, Life's December, The October Moon, Three Graves, . The Mystic Spring, Voice of the Winds, To Shenandoah River, By Babel's Stream, "When the Swallows Homewar To My Blanket, The Sentinel, . My Angel Love, A Tress of Hair, Cvnthia Fly," 151- 152 158 155 157 158 1(5(1 161^ 168 1()4 im 1(>7 170^ 171- 178 174 17(i 177 179 ISO ISl PERSONAL POEMS. To Joseph Salyards, To Rev. J. H. Barb, To My Wife, . To B. Blake, . 1S5 1S7 ISfl 191 LYRICS. Brightly Nom% Eden of Love, After While, Good Deeds, A Dirge, Shout for Gladness, 195 19() 197 19S 199 200 12 CONTENTS. Morning Light, 201 It Won't be Long, .... . 202 Gentle Spring, . 203 Twilight Whispers, . 204 Thinking of Thee, .... . 206 Heavenly Rest, .... . 207 Evergreen Shore, .... . 208 "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, J J . 209 Banquet of Love, .... . 210 My Mountain Home, . 211 Nearer Home, . 212 Say, Are You Ready? . . 213^^ Jesus Will Let You In, . 214.^ Golden Plain, . 215 Twilight is Falling, . 216^^ A Pilgrim Song, . 217 My Treasure, .... . 218 Nellie, . 219 Look Beyond, .... . 220 City of Light, .... . 221 Home to My Mother in Heaven, . 222 Home of the Blest, . 223 Jacob's Well, .... . 224 Old Schoolhouse, . 225 Grave on the Green Hillside, . 226 Soul's Sweet Fatherland, . 227 By the Gate, .... . 228 Christmas Bells, . 229 The Savior Calls, . . 230 My Refuge, .... . 231 Tune the Lyre, . 232 Stanzas, . . . . . 233 Eventide, . 234 To Missouri River, . 235 To Erato, . . . . . . 236 AN INVOCATION. O POESY ! for thee I hold my pen, That am not yet a glorious denizen Of thy wide heaven — should I rather kneel Upon some mountain-top until I feel A glowing splendor round about me hung, And echo back the voice of thine own tongue? O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen, That am not yet a glorious denizen Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer. Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath Of flowering bays, that I may die a death Of luxury, and my young spirit follow The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo, Like a fresh sacrifice ; or, if I can bear The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring me to the fair Visions of all places : a bowery nook Will be elysium — an eternal book Whence I may copy many a lovely saying About the leaves, and flowers — about the playing Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; And many a verse from so strange influence That we must ever wonder how, and whence It came. Also imaginings will hover Round my fire-side, and haply there discover Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander. 14 AN INVOCATION. In happy silence, like the clear Meander Through its lone vales ; and where I found a spot Of awfuller sliade, or an enchanted grot, Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness. Write on my tablets all that was permitted. All that was for our human senses fitted. Then the events of this wide world I'd seize Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease Till at its shoulders it should proudly see Wings to find out an immortality. — -John Keats. ^--^ "^^AigWg)/^-^^ g)-^ -IVIGIL AND VISIONlx- THREE VIGILS. A THOUSAND camp-fires streamed their light Along the chambers of the night, And flashing through the forest wide Illumined Rappahannock's tide ; Or glanced their baleful lights on high Against the cheerless winter sky, That redly glanced, or darkly frowned. As flashed or fell the fires around. Old Fredericksburg in darkness lay Between the lines of Blue and Gray, And friend and foe looked on her spires Lit with strange glamour by the fires : — While silent sentries walked their round. Or stopped to listen to the sound Of river's plash, or owlet's cry. That echoed to the dreary sky. South of the town among the pines Lay Lee's and Jackson's veteran lines ; Beneath their blankets worn and gray They slept the midnight hours away, — THREE VIGILS. While winter winds sang low and chill Among the pines on Marye's hill. Some dreamed of death, and coming doom — Of rifle-shot and cannon's boom — Of charging ranks that swayed or reel'd As shot and shell swept o'er the field. And others in sweet dreams did roam By youthful paths to childhood's home, Or saw the eyes of beauty shine In faces love had made divine. Alas ! how many a noble form Slept all unconscious of the storm So soon to break with sullen roar And drench the plain with human gore ; Nor heeded, as the hours swept by The wind's low, muffled, funeral cry. And others slept, nor recked their sleep Was but the prelude of that deep - And holy slumber of the grave, Round which Time's billows break and lave, And moan in vain, till Time shall be ' Engulfed in one eternal sea. Beside a glimmering fire, whose light Fought with the shadows of the night. Three soldiers stood and counted o'er Past pleasures — fled forevermore ; And breathed their hopes or told their fears THREE VIGILS. 19 Of coming days, and deeds, and years. These three were comrades, and had been In many a wild and fearful scene Of blood and carnage, since the day That valiant Blue and dauntless Gray Had shed their blood like summer's rain On drear Manassas' fated plain. These three had played in childhood's days Along the same old woodland ways, Had often wandered, hand in hand, Thro' mountain-path and meadow-land ; Read the same books and grew to youth Three souls of honor, filled with truth. But, scarce had Youth's sweet morning past. Ere borne upon the tempest's blast War's trumpet notes, and battle's tide Came surging by ; — and far and wide It smote our Sunny Southern land From mountain-peak to ocean's strand. And now, beside the fading light Of dying fires, this dreary night, These three brave spirits stood and kept Sad converse whilst the others slept. The first to speak was Denville Dold, Who, in brief words his story told. How he watched the night before And caught a glimpse of that far shore Where war's wild waves shall roll no more. 20 THREE VIGILS. "I stood," said he, "far out, alone, Where I could catch the river's moan. And watch the camp-fires fade and die Against the drear December sky. My post was underneath a pine That Time had wreathed with grace divine ; And through whose branches, bending low. Wind -spirits sang their wail of woe ; — And, by their dirges, full of gloom, I heard my own approaching doom. The constant stars of heaven above Looked down in ministry of love. But, O, so sad their pale light streamed ! Not like the nights when we three dreamed Of Fame and Glory whose bright beams Were to illume life's latest dreams." " Comrades," said he, " you know me well, Nor friend may say, nor foe may tell That ever, in the battle tide, I faltered, swerved, or turned aside At sight of any mortal foe, Or quailed before a foeman's blow — Nor shrank from duty, since the day, I donned this suit of Southern gray. And yet, last night, whilst all alone, I heard the river plash and moan. And heard the owlet's doleful cry, And the deep forest's mournful sigh — And watched the meteors in their flight THREE VIGILS. 21 Across the starlit plains of night : A deep fear fell upon my soul That wrapt me round as with a stole. In that lone hour of night and gloom I read of all my hopes, the doom ; And saw with vision strange, but clear, The wreck of all I once held dear. I kept my vigil — for, no foe Awaked my reverie of woe ; No rifle-shot hissed thro' the gloom To seal some lonely picket's doom ; But, deeper round my spirit fell The folds of that mysterious spell. Around me rose the glorious Past, Whose beauteous scenes are fading fast ; — The orchard lane, the meadow lawn. Where quails piped forth at early dawn, — The church, the school-house on the hill. The happy brook that turned the mill, The dim, old forest, where we played In boyish glee amid the shade — All these, and more ! And with these came The faces of those friends we name In holiest whispers in the ear Of God, who deigns to stoop and hear. I thought of her whose form, enshrined Within my heart and boding mind Seems fairer than the saintliest face 2 2 THREE VIGILS. That artist's pencil e'er did trace. I thought of her sweet face — so fair — And of the look of mute despair That told more deep than words could tell The anguish of our last farewell ! Aye, comrades, think you that the soul At times, may break from life's control, And read, with vision clear and free The records of eternity? I think she read this fateful hour When last we stood within her bower. And when the whispered word, Farewell ! Smote on our hearts like a funeral knell. But this is not an hour to read The outlines of a mystic creed ! Once, when the river hushed her moan, And brighter beamed the stars that shone On yonder wold and wooded hill. And Nature whispered, ' Peace be still,' I heard, or thought I heard, my name. Thrice syllabled in tones divine. As from the South a soft wind came That waked the dreaming, whispering pine. And then, a small hand clasped my own But, oh ! the touch was cold as stone : A moment, and it slipped away. Whilst denser darkness round me lay. That touch, so strange, so icy chill. THREE VIGILS. 23 Sent through my heart and soul a thrill Of silent awe, and holy dread Like that of watching with the dead. I felt my hand, and looked, but, lo ! The ring she gave me years ago Had left my finger— how, or where? Are questions idle as the air ! Tt was a token — and I know Her spirit freed from earthly woe Went up, last night, on wings of love To yonder heavenly courts above — But, ere she went, she passed me by. And breathed in death, life's last good-bye! Then sank my heart, as sinks the lead From plummet line to ocean's bed ; And from the sands of Hope's fair shore The tide ebbed out forevermore. But, when the Third Relief came round, To change the sentries, I was found At duty's post beneath my pine, A sentry on the outer line. All through the night, and through to-day— Where'er my footsteps wend their way, TSat vision of the night gone by Seems ever present to my eye. E'en now, in yonder coals, I trace The outlines of that one sweet face. And in the wind's voice murmuring by 24 THREE VIGILS. I catch the whisper of her sigh. It matters little now — we go With morning's dawn to meet the foe ; Perchance that doom, that soon or late Awaits us at the hand of Fate. I go to mine — but not a nerve With coward twitch shall flinch or swerve While our red -cross shall wave on high Outlined against the battle sky. But should I fall, pray, pledge me here — By all that memory holds dear — Tliat you will make 'neath yonder pine A tomb to hold this heart of mine." The next to speak was Ira Bee, In whose sharp features one could trace The fearless will, undaunted, free. That looks unblanched in danger's face. But now he seemed in thoughtful mood And weighed his words, in tones subdued. As thus he spake : " Last night I stood On picket -post in yonder wood, Where I could look adown the lines Of foes, encamped in yonder pines. Along the river's farther shore. I heard their voices break and roar Like ocean waves — far, far away. When gentle breezes wake the spray. I too, had visions, strange and wild ; THREE VIGILS. 25 My mind was like a restless child I'hat will not sleep, though mother tries Her softest, tend'rest lullabies. Sweet Mother Nature sang for me And sought to woo me to her breast. But wilder than the wildest sea, Thought's billows lashed in mad unrest — Until my soul in that brief hour Stood like a sentry on Time's tow'r. That, looking far beyond Life's sea Saw all the mystic Yet to be ! Once, when the cloud of fog and smoke. That hung above the river's face Was severed by the wind-wing's stroke, I saw along the open space Some demon's brow, whose visage dire Lit by the gleam of hellish fire Shine for a moment, and then fade Into the gloom that night had made. And, once, when watching toward the West, Above the distant mountain's crest, I saw long lines of spirits glide In a]l the pomp of martial pride. Their brilliant armor flashed and gleamed — Above them their bright banners streamed — And then they closed in mimic fight Along the starlit plains of Night ! Our red cross on its field of blue 26 THREE VIGILS. Smote on the heav'ns its lustrous hue ; And then the scene dissolving passed Into the darkness deep and vast ; And, sentry-like, alone I stood At picket -post in yonder wood. Can spirits of the mighty dead Whose hearts in these wild years have bled And ebbed away on battle -plain, Come back to this poor earth again ? Or do they, in the ambient air. Camp round about us everywhere ? Or march with us along the way. Or nerve us in the battle-fray? I know not what such visions mean. As Denville Dold and I have seen : But I have heard our grand-dames tell Of omens wild and what befel To those who, blest with second sight, Behold the mysteries of the night. But let us wait ; — lest I mistake, To-morrow's morn shall hear the roar Of battle -billows as they break Red -capped with foam of human gore ! And when the night again comes down Upon the spires of yonder town Our red -cross banner in her pride Shall on the breeze triumphant ride. But O, how sad to gaze around On those who slumber on the ground, THREE VIGILS. 27 To know that some of them now sleep Upon the bridge that spans the deep, Mysterious chasm that hes between These mortal shores and those unseen — And with the reveille shall wake Their latest look of morn to take. But I, if I have read aright My vision wild of yester-night, Have deeper doom to meet than they Who on the morrow pass away, For I shall march through all the years That war shall flood with blood and tears, Till white-winged Peace shall come to reign Once more, above our sunny land ; And then, upon the last red plain My life-blood shall bedew the sand. But let that be ! it matters not ! No love-lorn maid shall weep for me In silence o'er the lonely spot Where all my dreams shall cease to be." The last to speak was Sergeant Kay ; No braver ever wore the gray, Nor marched, nor fought, nor lay beside A camp-fire in the forest wide. He turned, and to his comrades said : " No vision wild hath crazed my head. Nor filled my heart with strange dismay At any time, through life's long day ! 28 THREE VIGILS. I have been told that I was born One August night, at midnight's hour ; And through that night until the morn A tempest raged with fearful power ; And that the vivid lightning's gleam Illumed my life's awaking dream ; And thunder's voice pealed loud and clear Its greeting on my infant ear. Was this an omen? tell me, pray, Or but the chance thing of a day? I neither know, nor care to know ! But this is true : where'er I go I see no scenes so passing fair As storm-clouds clashing in the air ; — No glance so fair as lightning's gleam. That flashes on the torrent's stream, Nor hear a sound so grandly sweet As thunder-peals that hills repeat. My life has been a wild delight Of revel with the storms of night — A blending with the scenes of strife Tliat wreck the battle-fields of life ; And yet, no token, dark or bright. Hath come to me by day or night ! But, comrades, see ! the morning gray, Climbs up the eastern skies away, — And underneath yon lustrous star Morn's rosy gates will soon unbar. Hush ! hark ! what's that ? a rifle shot ? THREE VIGILS. 29 Another, and another ! What? Our wily foes so soon awake, The stillness of this hour to break? Or is it but some picket's play, To warn us of approaching day ?" Scarce had he spoken, ere the clear Sharp crack of rifles ringing near, Along the sentry line revealed The storm now breaking o'er the field. Then beat the drums their wild alarms, — Then rose the cry : To arms ! To arms ! While veteran legions used to war Grasped for their rifles ! near and far The wild commands in tumult rang — As sabres from their scabbards sprang — And couriers hurrying to and fro Gave orders where to meet the foe. Great Jove ! it was a splendid sight, To see the morning flash her light Against the banners, and the sheen Of bayonets and sabres keen ! As rank on rank moved quick away To meet the onset of the fray ! Then rang the sharp, quick, rattling peal From every throat of burnished steel, And on the foe their terror pour'd — As volley after volley roar'd — 30 THREE VIGILS. And cannon echoing boom for boom Smote through the sulphurous clouds of doom In wild discordant notes of hell As trembling columns reeled or fell ! Now wilder and more darkly grand, Fresh legions sweep across the plain, And close in struggle hand to hand. Beneath the storm of leaden rain ! Then fiercer rang the battle cry That tingled to the farther sky — And redder flowed the crimson tide. From living fountains gushing wide That bayonet, and ball, and blade In many a human heart had made ! No pen may paint in colors well That fearful minature of hell ! Where mangled corses bathed in gore By neighing steeds are trampled o'er. And broken skulls, and many a form Torn by the crash of battle's storm. Lie heaped around each palisade. Where fiercest struggle had been made. Here lay Wear's ruins — heaped and pent — The dead and dying — friend and foe — With broken muskets — ensigns rent — And over all the pall of woe. Now, like old Ocean, when the roar Of tempest dies along the shore, And weary waves in sadness moan THREE VIGILS. '31 Along the surf-beat cliffs of stone — So ebbs the battle -tide away — So sinks the terror of the day. The fight is o'er, the day is done, The sulphurous clouds roll slow away ; Behind the Blue Ridge sinks the sun. And softly beams his parting ray. The purpling twilight, far and wide, Falls soft on Rappahannock's tide — And gathering deeper, fold on fold, Envelopes wood and open wold. Now hushed and sweet the holy night, Bends down from her imperial height, And folds her tender arms around Each form that decks the gory ground. Like some sweet Priestess at her shrine, She murmurs low her prayers divine. To soothe some sufferer in his moan, Whose life ebbs toward the Great Unknown ; Or points some dying eye, afar, Beyond the light of evening's star, Whose tender beams illume the West And beckon to the land of rest. • A thousand faces ghastly white, Upturned against the starry sky, Have all forgotten how to light The soul's quick fires within the eye. 32 THREE VIGILS. Here sleeps a boy whose forehead fair Should claim a mother's kiss and care ; But on whose brow and curls of gold The death-dew sparkles clear and cold ; And near his side a veteran lies, Whose hand in death yet feebly tries To touch the face of that fair boy — But death denies e'en this poor joy ! And heaped around, the wounded sigh, And moan, and groan, and long to die, Or whose glazed eyes, in mute appeal, Turn to the dead who cannot feel. Around these, guns and caissons piled, With human brains and blood defiled. But from whose brazen throats no more The sullen boom of War shall roar ; While steed and rider, friend and foe, Around them slumber cold and low. And over all Night's starry crown In regal splendor sparkles down. Across the field, at dead of night, The ambulances wend their way. Amid the ruins of the fight That glitter in the moonbeam's ray. And with the wounded — foe and friend- In Mercy's deeds united blend, To soothe the dying, or to save Some comrade from a soldier's grave ; THREE VIGILS. ^;^ While flags of truce stream soft and white Adown the silent halls of Night. Among the dead, so still and cold, In death's embrace slept Denville Dold ; Two gaping wounds adown his side Told where had ebbed life's crimson tide ; But to the last his Vision wild in peaceful beauty must have smiled, — For, lying on his tranquil breast, A portrait sweet his dead hands pressed — And floating proudly to the sky His red -cross banner waved on high. They bore him from the field away. Enshrouded in his blanket gray ; And Sergeant Kay and Ira Bee Laid him to sleep beneath the tree Where he had heard the river moan Along his picket-post — ^alone. Above his silent dust the pine Pours forth its mystic strains divine. As summer's breeze sighs o'er the plain, Or winter wails his wild refrain. And after days the fact revealed That, on the night his doom was sealed. His loved one's spirit passed away Thro' death's dark portals into day. Through all the thrilling, changeful years, 34 THREE VIGILS. Begrimed with blood, bedewed with tears, And filled with ashes — till the land Grew black beneath destruction's hand ; Until our flag, once proudly bright, Went down the stonriy vault of night : And then upon the last red plain Brave, dauntless Ira Bee, was slain. He fought — he died — he sleeps — 'tis well 1 But where he slumbers none may tell. No triend, no maiden comes to lave With silent tears his unknown grave ; But constant stars in beauty keep Their vigils o'er his holy sleep. But Sergeant Kay still walks the earth. And mingles with life's fateful storms ; The magic hour that gave him birth, Begirt him round with guardian forms Who, watching, shield his every way Through doubtful night or stormy day. He lives to see our banners furled — No more to flash along the world ; He lives to feel our dark defeat * With dreary woes and ills replete ; To feel the taunt, the gibe, the jeer. That tingle harshly on the ear. And tear afresh old wounds apart. That healing only scar the heart — And throw across the soul's broad plain THREE VIGILS. 35 The shadow of a mighty pain — All these he lives to feel and share, Yet bids defiance to despair ! Ah ! happier far those hearts that keep, In battle-trench a soldier's sleep ; And over whom sweet Nature weaves Her coronal of buds and leaves, To hallow through the summer hour The holy scene of fallen power. THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. " How sleep the t»rave who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest." No marble statues in their voiceles woe, Keep mournful watch o'er those who slumber low, No lofty pyramids o'erawe the plain, Cephrenus-like, to guard the martyr'd slain ; No tumuli are reared to keep the dust, Which kept so faithfully a nation's trust ; Nor gilt mausoleum nor towering fane Record the valor of the mighty slain. Alone they sleep, their land too poor to weep In chiseled grief, for those her valleys keep ; Alone they moulder, but their graves' green sod Is loved by us, — who loved them, — next to God. But not alone their recompense I raise — Far better bards shall sing in loftier praise Of those before whose glorious deeds must pale The lustre of Thermopylae's bright tale. Tinseled with fame by thrice a thousand years, Nor as it then, but as it now, appears ; — CONFEDERATE DEAD. 37 Of those before whose deeds old Marathon, And Waterloo, when France was left undone. Must seem but mimic frays ere soldiers fought, Clad in the gray that Southern matrons wrought. These heroes sleep — their knightly deeds shall live. While gray-haired Time hath yet an hour to give To bards who sing, or those who ponder o'er The classic pages of a nation's lore. A sire shall tell his grandson on his knee. Of the immortal bands who fought with Lee ; An AsHBY — Stewart — legion is their name. Who stand empyreal in the lists of fame ; But brighter still stands one collective head. Fame writes it thus, "The Noble Unknown Dead," Who sleep, from Rio Grande's tortuous tide, To where Potomac rolls in classic pride : Who sleep a hundred well-fought fields upon. From Petersburg to fated Donelson— ~ From Gettysburg to Chickamauga's plain — From Fredericksburg to Charleston on the main ; By flood, by fell, in densest wold and glen, Slumber the ashes of these mighty men. How sleep these dead ? alas ! on many a plain. The drifting sleet and pelting wintry rain Beat on their tombless bones ; 01 it may be, The wild December winds in all their glee. Wail mournful dirges through the skulls that lie 38 CONFEDERATE DEAD. Unknelled and coffinless beneath the sky, Perhaps the field-mouse now a shelter finds In that grand temple which was once the mind's. Some sleep in earth with scarce enough of clay To hide from view the mold'ring blankets gray ; Nor stone, nor stake, to mark the lonely spot. Where slumber those whose names are now forgot By all save those who mourn a darling son, Or she who widowed weeps an absent one. Some calmly sleep whose only meed of fame. The simple cross, recording but the name. Reared by some comrade's hand, whose tender care, Thus placed affection's latest tribute there. Some in dense forests, where the pine-tree waves, With terebinthine fragrance o'er their graves. Keep slumber deep, whilst gentle winds that sigh. Strew shadows of the cloudlets passing by. Upon the "moldering tombs of moldering leaves," That Nature builds o'er those for whom she grieves. Some sleep, who gave themselves a sacrifice For Freedom's cause, where nature's altars rise. And o'er whose dust old Winter weaves a shroud Of whitest woof from out his ebon cloud. Some sleep by crystal rivers where bright waves Reflect the dancing sunbeams on their graves, Where sweet forget-me-nots with azure hue. And shining daffodils, weep pearly dew. Some sleep where limpid, babbling runnels crisp. CONFEDERATE DEAD. 39 Whose task from morn to morn seems but to lisp In liquid notes, mellifluently bland, The tender requiem of a mighty band. And many a form, alas ! whose lonely grave Is far beyond the land he fought to save, Sleeps on, forgetful of the solitude. Till dust once more with life shall be indued. Above their couch no mother's foot shall tread, Nor mother's tear shall ever there be shed ; No sister's voice with suppliant tone in prayer, Shall ever mingle with the evening air ; Nor maiden band, in happy summer hours. Shall strew their lonely graves with buds and flowers. Alone ! alone ! oh God ! and shall these sleep Without a shaft their memory to keep, That future nations, when this race is fled, May read thereon inscribed, "The Unknown Dead?" Some sleep in quiet, where the church-bell's sound. Peals sweetly o'er the consecrated ground ; Where gentle hands, each anniversary morn, With woven garlands every grave adorn. Thus through the land — in vale, and glen, and dell, On mountain, hill and plain, by flood and fell, By bubbling fount, by stream, and restless tide, Obscurely sleeps a nation's glorious pride. How mourns the land, thus widow'd of her might, 40 CONFEDERATE DEAD. Whose hopes have sunk in wretchedness and night ? To whose fair dime stem fate and conq'ring foe Bequeathed a gloomy heritage of woe ! No pious mockery with hollow show, Is passed as grief for those who slumber low ; Nor pompous pageantry in woe's disguise, Parades the streets to wonder-loving eyes. But through the land meek Sorrow sits resigned, By every hearth — enthroned in every mind. Beside her fire the widow sits alone, And ever on the night -wind breaks her moan ; The daughter once of affluence and pride. In mean attire, now weeps for those who died. While the long train of beggared orphans roam. Far from the shelter of their childhood's home ; And whose sad souls with wail of grief and woe. Rend heaven above o'er those who slumber low. In woe's habiliments the land is clad. And Nature weeps as though herself were sad. Well may she weep, for never yet were born. On earth's broad surface from Time's earliest morn, Such god -like men, whose souls, tho' quenched in night. Have writ in glorious deeds a record bright. Down through the tide of years that are to flow, With brighter lustre still their names shall glow, And time shall prove, whatever now is^aid, That not in vain their priceless blood was shed. CONFEDERATE DEAD. 41 Truth cannot die, although her glorious light, May for awhile be hid by Error's night. Yet time shall see her full effulgence shed, In radiant streams round the Confederate Dead. DIRGE. Sleep, sleep, sleep. And the April clouds shall ever Weep, weep, weep. Tears of grief o'er those who never Faltered when the storm of battle, Smote the hills with cannon's rattle. But with hearts as proud as free. Dared to die for liberty. Sleep, sleep, sleep. And the golden stars shall ever Keep, ke6p, keep. Through the night of time — forever. Watch above the slumbering legions. Who have found Elysian regions ; Watch above the sacred dust — Hearts that kept a nation's trust. Sleep, sleep, sleep. While the wailing winds sliall ever Keep, keep, keep. Chanting mournful dirges ever, O'er the dust of those whose glory 42 CONFEDERATE DEAD. Shall forever live in story, Lustrous, quenchless, deathless, bright, Until time shall end in night. Sleep, sleep, sleep. And the voice of time shall ever Keep, keep, keep, Breathing notes of praise forever, In a bold and martial measure. O'er a nation's slumbering treasure, — Hymning until hope be fled. Paeans for the "Unknown Dead." -W'-<»^3J <5v iT-^ "W- SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE; Or, The Knight of the Golden Horse-shoe. A NEW year's story. I. In those dim days so long gone by, When old Virginia lay A sylvan wilderness between . The Blue Ridge and the Bay, Sir Spotswood fresh from Blenheim came. With knightly scars and well-earned fame. He builded near Germanna Ford A little house of prayer ; A village, and a fortress, too. Sir Spotswood founded there ; In good King George's name, the land He ruled with firm, but knightly hand. He gathered round him noble men. Brave, daring, kind and true ; He dubbed them knight, and gave to each A badge — a. gold horse -shoe :* 44 SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. And bound them with a mighty oath Liegemen to King and country both. No one upon his scarlet coat Might wear the golden shoe Till he could prove that he had crossed The Apalachian bluejf And drank, upon some rugged height, King George's health on New Year's night. And one John Fontaine,^ bless his name ! When he was made a knight Swore he would climb some mountain peak Each coming New Year's night. And through the tangled forests ride Seven days, each year, from Christmas-tide. <' So let it be ! " Sir Spotswood said, — " A fearful vow is thine ; Two golden shoes to thee I'll give, — One hath a charm divine : The very dead will own its sway When once pinned fast to blue and gray." These noble Knights Tramontane rode On many a wild foray. Did battle with the Indian tribes In fierce and bloody fray. SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. 45 And year by year they slowly pressed The savage hordes toward the West. Near twice a hundred years have fled Since their wild deeds were done, And they have passed with all the dead Beyond life's setting sun ; — No chronicle is left to tell The fate unknown that each befel. 'Tis said that ere Sir Fontaine died His charmed horse -shoe was lost, And that upon his dying bed Uneasily he tossed And moaned aloud : "I dread the day When that shoe rests on blue and gray ! " But what he meant none ever knew, And so Sir Fontaine died — But it was held in after years That on the Christmas-tide His spirit on his coal-black steed Rode through the land with fearful speed. II. Long years went by, and near Mine Run Stern Stonewall's legions lay, In that wild time when battle's tide Rolled o'er the Blue and Gray ; 46 SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. And filled our sunny land, in vain, With tears and blood, and heaps of slain. His weary legions lay and slept Upon the frozen ground, Whilst round the camp the sentries kept Their silent, watchful round. While winter winds sang slirill and clear A requiem o'er the dying year. Upon the morn of that strange day A trooper Gray had found A little casket made of steel, With copper linkets bound ; Safe in his cartridge-box he placed The trinket with foreboding haste. Upon the outposts of that camp. Beside a dying fire. The trooper broke that casket strange. Impatient with desire : — And lo ! within a small horse-shoe Pinned to a silken ribbon blue. He turned it round — behold his prize, With precious gems inwrought ; A three -month's furlough scarcely then That trinket would have bought ; Upon his breast he pinned it fast, — Then heard a fearful bugle blast. SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. 47. It smote his ear but not with fear For he was bold and brave, And scarcely would have paled to see A dead man from his grave ; Yet once again upon the blast That bugle call went rushing past. Then like a Northern streamer shone That horse -shoe on his breast, Each separate gem a glory threw In lines towards the West ; — And near him now, with eyes aglare. Two chargers snuffed the wintry air. The one was black as death's dark plume, On whose broad back there sat An olden knight in scarlet clad, With spur and plume and hat ; — The other steed was white as snow That gleams beside the river's flow. "I am Sir Fontaine," spoke the knight, "Now mount in haste," said he, " For thou shalt ride this New Year-tide Across the land with me, And drink on yonder mountain height King George's health this New Year night." Impatient neighed the white steed then ; — The neigh prophetic rang, — 48 SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. Into the saddle with a leap The startled trooper sprang, — And then the chargers quick as light Flashed through the chambers of the night. On, on they sped o'er hill and vale, Through flood and tangled fell, But Sir John Fontaine seemed to know His way most wondrous well ; Whilst now and then a meteor cast A glamour on the scenes they passed. Once by a ruined church they rode, Round which a churchyard lay : Strange spectres stood among the graves In judgment-like array ; But not a word Sir Fontaine said As wilder, faster on they sped. On, on they swept past Stanardsville, Along the turnpike way That leads through stony Swift Run Gap|| Since good King George's day, — And soon they gained the mountain's height. And paused them in their maddened flight. "Now right well ridden! " Fontaine said, " A royal, knightly thing ! Dismount thee here and drink with me SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. 49 Of this old mountain spring ; Drink the King's health and there shall be A sight this world no more shall see," They drank the draught, — around them rose A cloud of roseate light ; Then Fontaine grasped the trooper's hand And cried, " Thou art a knight ! A royal knight for one brief day. Yon charm is pinned to Blue and Gray! " Then, like the summer's noonday sun, That golden horse -shoe shone : And over mountain, tow'r and cliff A flood of light was thrown ; — And, ringing on the wintry tide, Strange bugle blasts rang wild and wide. Old knights from graves of long ago Now gathered near the spring, And drank as spirits only may A health to George the King ; And turning on the trooper, cried : " This is a merry New Year's ride ! " But when Sir Fontaine raised his hand He broke the mystic spell. And forth from heaven's blue, starry vault. An awful meteor fell ; 50 SIR FONTAINE'S RIDE. It smote the spring — then far and wide Deep silence filled the midnight tide. Next morn, 'tis said, a mountaineer In chasing game that way. Chanced by the ebbing spring to find The dying trooper Gray, Who told his tale — then closed his eyes And passed beyond earth's wintry skies. And now Sir Fontaine rides no more, His soul at ease doth rest, Or, in the distant Aiden rides Upon some nobler quest ; — And with him passed, beyond the blue. The long-lost charm — his gold horse -shoe. * Sir Spotswood, during his expedition across the Blue Ridge, instituted an order known as Knights of the Golden Horse-shoe. The hadge of this Tramontane Order was a golden shoe. It is singular how these relics have disappeared from the Old Domin- ion. Dr. R. H. Tatum, of Virginia, remembers a memher of his family during the past generation to have seen one, supposed to l>e the last of these badges left. t A name given to the Blue Ridge range of mountains by Gov. Si>otswood in his famous expedition of 1716. X John Fontaine came from the mother country to Virginia iu 1713, for the purpose of exploring the country, and was made a member of this order. Vide Dr. Slaughter's History of St. Mark's Parish. II It is a historic fact that the first party of white men who ever crossed the Blue Ridge were these Knights of the Golden Horse- shoe, and that they passed through what is now known as Swift Run Gap. This highway was opened for public travel by ordei- of King George III, in 1764. Vide Acts of the Assembly of the Colo- ny of Virginia. THE PHANTOM BRIDE. A NEW year's story. The day had died ; the sacred night Was dark as Nile ; Dense clouds absorbed the moon's soft light, The star's sweet smile. Old Ocean, like a god in pain. Moaned in the bay, — And wild waves wailed a sad refrain To ruins gray. On this wild night, the last of all The failing year. The mirth-mad town kept festival With goodly cheer. But one there was among the throng Of that gay town. Who walked amid the mirth and song With half a frown. 52 THE PHANTOM BRIDE. By gilded hall and parlor door He hurries past ; Heeds not the mirthful song, the roar That fills the blast. He wanders onward, and the streets Grow still and cold, And further on the pathway greets The open wold. Across the barren, broken fields He winds his way, By memory's lamp that ever yields A faithful ray. And now he hears the splash of waves Beneath his feet ; And round the grave-stones and the graves The wild winds beat. For he had gained the surf-beat wall Where, long years gone, A good man reared a chapel hall Of polished stone; That it might prove a light -house for Some sin-tossed soul, Amid Life's elemental war When wild waves roll. THE PHANTOM BRIDE. 53 A moment, and he passes through The chapel door, And down the aisle, by vacant pew, He steps once more. What needed now the taper'$ light That well-known way ! Not darkness, storm, nor ebon night. Could check or stay ! He mounts the winding stair and gains The organ loft. Where erst in youth he heard refrains Wild, weird, and soft. And, joy ! the organ still is there, As when in youth, He waked its chords to praise, and prayer. And love, and truth. A truthful sexton, grave and old, Beside the sea. This weird and wondrous story told. One morn to me. Who added further, that the man Had loved, in youth. Strange, magic, mystic lore to scan For Occult truth ; 54 THE PHANTOM BRIDE. And that he loved in those glad days A maiden fair, Whose beauty was above all praise, Beyond compare. She was to have been made his bride One New Year's day ; But, just the eve before, Death's tide Bore her away. He said the shock of sudden grief Deranged the man — Who fled the place and sought relief In far Iran. He studied cabalistic lore By Nimrod's grave ; Slept in strange shrines along the shore Of Euxine wave ; Learned secret charms from magian sage In Persian lands; Knelt in old temples worn with age On Lybian sands ; Walked in the wilderness alone — Kept vigils deep ; Saw, like old Jacob on the stone, Strange things in sleep, — THE PHANTOM BRIDE. 55 Until, like Endor's witch, he found In some wild hour, A charm o'er Stygian sleep profound : Unearthly power ! Grown wise at last, in years, and all That man may be, He sought once more the chapel hall Beside the sea. Above the scenes and solitude Of that lone hour. His master spirit seemed to brood, With subtle power, As if to waken some high deed To glorious birth. In splendors that should far exceed The light of earth. But now his fingers tried the keys ! Low, sweet, profound, — Old harmonies that used to please, Came smiling round ; And, like some wonderful perfume. From spice -clad shore. They filled with fragrance all the room From ceil to floor. 56 THE PHANTOM BRIDE. And hark ! it must have been the blast That rang the bell, For in the belfry clear and fast It rose and fell ; — But suddenly the waves of sound Grew low and faint, And then a glory shone around Each pictured saint, — A glory streaming filled the hall With heavenly light ; Each window niche and frescoed wall Shone sweetly bright. Then wildly deep and nobly grand The anthem rolled : The organ knew the master's hand, His touch of old ! Responsive to the pulsing waves Of tuneful breath, The sainted sleepers from their graves Stepped out of death : — Through vestibule and chapel door The shadows glide. Like billows broken on the shore Of death's blue tide. THE PHANTOM BRIDE. 57 Some knelt beneath the pictured saints In lowly prayer ; Some made their melancholy plaints To Mary there. Old choristers long absent there Walked down the aisle, And clomb again the winding stair, Smile greeting smile. Amid the throng was one sweet face Of queenly mould. Clothed on with loveliness and grace, Fair as of old ! In samite robes of purest white — A lovely bride ; Rich gems and gold flashed out their light In dazzling tide. Fair as the angels that we see In holy dreams, When far beyond the mystic sea The Future gleams. By crucifix and virgin pale, And font of stone, She hurries to the chancel rail — There stands alone ! 5-8 THE PHANTOM BRIDE. A glory overflowed the room Till now unseen, While censers swinging shed perfume Amid the sheen. Then rose the organist to view The shining scene ; Oh, Death in Life ! that face he knew, — His young heart's queen ! The same sweet face — the smile of old ; The golden hair ; How fast Time's billows backward roll'd, — Why stands she there ? A moment, and the living stands Beside the dead ; And there were clasped two shining hands Above each head ! An aged priest, whose locks were white As winter's flow. Whose sacred stole shone like the light Of fire on snow, — Arose, and read the holy rite That made them one ; — No mortal ever saw such sight Beneath the sun ! THE PHANTOM BRIDE. 59 The living wedded to the dead — And Death so fair ! The pale priest blessing either head With hands of prayer. But with the blessing of the priest, One fearful blast From out the chambers of the East Came rushing past ; And smote the belfry till the bell Rang wild and wide A dreary, weary funeral knell, On night's dark tide. Strange lights gleamed forth among the graves, And then went out ; The shivering winds and surging waves Gave one great shout That smote the dismal, doleful clouds And pierced them through ; And let the moonlight fall in shrouds From windows blue. The chapel hall once more grew still And dark and cold ; — The winds died on the wooded hill And frozen wold. 6o THE PHANTOM BRIDE. The riven clouds rolled from the skies And quickly fled : — And in the waves the starlight lies : — The year was dead. Next morn the organist was found By chancel rail ; Death's bridal wreath his temples bound So peerless pale. His days had been a lonely strife With anguish fed ; The magic deed that crowned his life Awoke the dead, And with the dead he found his bride ;- Then ceased to weep ! In quiet church-yard, side by side. Their ashes sleep. A NEW YEAR'S VIGIL. In Fairfax wood a little chapel stands, A ruined chapel, round which angels keep Their nightly vigils, and around whose walls The now forgotten dead unheeded sleep : No song peals out above their sainted dust Save that which Nature sings to Nature's God ; No mourner comes with gift of tears and flowers Wherewith to bathe and beautify the sod. To this lone chapel came one winter night, A weary horseman who had lost his way. In those fierce days when Red War smote the lantl, And gallant spirits wore the Blue and Crray : His steed was weary and himself was faint. Lost and alone, he scarce knew what to do, For all the country round was full of foes ; To venture further were not wise he knew. Dismounting from his steed he gave him corn — Then entered cautiously the chapel door ; Lit up a fire within the olden walls And spread his blanket on the oaken floor. 62 A NEW YEAR'S VIGIL. The year was dying, for it was the night Whose coming morn should crown the young New Year. And so he thought to watch till morning light Should show the Old Year laid upon his bier. He heard the voiceful winds sing mystic songs Among the pines above the sainted dead, And as he listened on his rapt soul fell A sad, mysterious, reverential dread ; He heard the answering call of doleful owls Far out amid the bosom of the wood. These, with the place, and with the graves around. Gave Meditation melancholy food. He saw the firelight gleam in fitful smiles Upon the time-stained ceiling overhead ; And heard strange whisperings in the chapel aisles. Like those we hear when watching with the dead. Sweet faces gleamed among the dying coals, Shone for a moment and then passed away, — And once, he thought, he saw the face of one — The perished idol of his Summer Day. Lo ! on a sudden down the chapel aisle A golden glory shone from heaven above, And peace, fell like a robe around his soul. Whose whispering accents only breathed of love. Then spake a heavenly visitant and said : " Sir Cavalier, to thee, to-night, I bring A NEW YEAR'S VIGIL. 63 These faded gloves, this tress of silken hair, This little picture, and this gem -set ring. " These are the keepsakes that I gave to thee, When death was calling from the other shore ; And in this chapel here, a New Year's gift I place them all within thy hands once more." So spake the voice, and silence reigned again. The golden glory fled the chapel hall ; — The trumpet's blast rang out upon the wood. To horse ! to horse ! resounds the bugle call. Quick as a thought the cavalier awakes And mounts his charger for the fateful ride ; A fierce, wild flash — a plunging, screaming shell — Two ghastly wounds — a gushing, crimson tide, And life's last dream of earthly love was o'er ; Beneath his dying steed the rider lay ; A double gift the New Year brought to him — The cavalier had found at last his way. Twice did the New Year dawn that day for him : Once round a ruined chapel here on earth, — Once in that brighter chapel Far Beyond, \Vliere immortality of love hath birth ; And there she met him, she of whom he dreamed, Not with a faded glove, but with her hand. Her own sweet hand, thrice purified and blest. Gloved with the glory of that upper land. AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE. The sounds of mirth and music all have fled ; The hall is quiet, and the guests withdrawn ; The gladsome New Year greetings have been said, And happy hearts to life's strange War have gone ! The joyous day with all its mirth is dead, And softly falls the snow upon the lawn : — O human life ! that I should linger here To watch the shadows of another year ! The fire upon the hearth sheds warmth and light. As through the fuel creeps the golden flame, Just as of old, — when on the New Year's night Friends of my youth with gifts and gladness came To waken in these halls some new delight, In mirth and glee and many a harmless game. But now I sit alone, my room is still. While falls the snow beside the frozen rill. Long years agone ! how happy now ye seem. Your lights beam out, but leave the shades behind That then were mixed with life's ambitious dream ; — And in my heart, to-night, I only find The memories of love, whose radiant stream Of heavenly light doth yet illume my mind. AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE. 65 Guests of the past still throng my soul's wide hall, While snows and shadows on the bleak earth fall. Friends of my youth, where are ye now ! O where ? Gone like the visions of a New Year's day ! I hear your voices on the midnight air, — I see your faces in the coals that play Their hide-and-seek amid their ashen lair : That for a moment glow, then die away. Sweet spirits of the past ! I linger here Where falls the snow and winter winds are drear. I too shall follow to that far-off Land From whose strange bourne no traveler returns ! I feel, to-night, some guardian angel's hand. Beneath whose touch my inmost spirit yearns With earnest longing, on that shore to stand With the "rapt seraph that adores and burns." That I may share with you the greeting cheer, Where lasting pleasure crowns the glad New Year. O blissful thought ! to dwell upon that shore Whftre no storms come, and snows may never fall. To sing again with happy friends of yore Who throng with gladsome hearts that Temple Hall, From whose sweet precincts they go out no more ; — While golden glories gather over all. Sweet home of rest and everlasting light, Would I might share thy bliss this New Year's night ! 5 HAGAR AND ISHMAEL GENESIS XXI : XII-XXI. " And she went, and sat her down over against him a good way off, as it were a bow-shot : for she said. Let me not see the death of the child. And she sat over against him, and lift up her voice, and wept.'" ■•' And God heard the voice of the lad ; and the angel of God call- ed to Hagar out of heaven, and said unto her. What aileth thee, Hagar ? fear not ; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is." Wearily a woman wanders through Beersheba's bar- ren sands, While the sterile waste around her to the glowing sky expands ; And the fervid sky gleams fiercely, pouring down its furnace heat On the sad Egyptian, Hagar, and the faint lad at her feet. Flying from a jealous mistress and from Abram's ten- der care. Son and servant in the desert, ready now to perish there ; Faint with terror, thirst and hunger, wearily they onward go, Speechless in the fiery anguish of that fearful hour of woe. HAGAR AND ISHMAEL. 67 For the water in the bottle all was spent, and parched and dry- Shone the yellow sands around them underneath a cloudless sky ; Not a sigh or sound of pity reached them from the wastes around, Death alone seemed walking near them in that soli- tude profound. (lod of Israel ! how the mother - heart sank then in Hagar's breast, — When the lad could smile no longer tho' by mother- lips caressed ; \\'hen his hand slipped thro' her fingers limp and listless, like a band, And the weak knees with their burden sank upon the glowing sand. There amid the scanty shadow of a thorn -bush grow- ing near, Hagar cast the lad, and with him all that now to her was dear, And^withdrew a bow -shot from him in her miser)^ and grief, For she could not look upon him, powerless to yield relief. Dark -eyed, dark-haired child of Hagar, Ishmael, thou wert nothing then, 68 HAGAR AND ISHMAEL. Left to die beneath a thorn-bush — far from tents of kindred men, — Oh ! could Sarah then have seen thee, her fierce an- ger would have grown To a tender fount of pity even had her heart been stone. God of Abram ! how the mother prayed in that fierce, fateful hour . 1 None hath told us, none may ever, but she prayed a prayer ot power ; For while moaning in her anguish for her dying, darling boy Forth an angel swept from heaven with a message of great joy. Saying : " What doth ail thee, Hagar? quickly lift thy weeping eyes, — Lo, a fountain bursts to glad thee, glancing to these burning skies — Seek the lad and fill thy bottle, God hath heard thine and his cry, Paran's land awaits to bless thee, journey on, thou shalt not die." Who can paint the grateful gladness of that weary woman's heart, As she saw the clear, cool fountain into living fresh- ness start ; li HAGAR AND ISHMAEL. 69 Lifted up the boy and blessed him, called, him back to life again, Kissed him — blessed him — and then journeyed forth to find the tents of men. Yet the sands drift in the desert of Beersheba's drear domain, And the fearless sons of Ishmael pitch their tents on Paran's plain, And God's promise unto Hagar standeth steadfast to this day, — While the restless ages moving slowly wear the worlds away. God of Abram ! still have mercy on the Ishmael of to-day, And the weary Hagar flying from a Sarah's wrath away ; Grant a Paran for their dwelling and Thy love to be their guide Through the waste and barren places in life's wilder- ness so wide. f^e)^ A POET'S DEATH. A POET lay on a couch of pain With a fevered brow and a throbbing brain, And a weary, aching heart ; For his faith was shaken by storms of doubt As the dream of his Hfe was fading out ; — The man was sore and faint throughout. Ready to die and depart. A watcher sat by that couch of pain. But his words of solace were idle and vain. For sick was the soul of the man ; But the watcher gazed as the night went by At the troubled face and the sunken eye ; While Cynthia looked from her home on high And smiled — as no other can. But the sick man slept — in a troubled way — As the summer-night wore fast away : — But the watcher grew half afraid As he felt invisible shadows glide Thro' the vine-clad casement standing wide ; A POET'S DEATH. 71 Filling the room with a mystical tide Of silken whisperings made. The poet moaned like a little child That dreams of running thro' forests wild : — His thin lips parted and then he smiled, And thus a song he sang : ^' Over the purple, moonlit sea Cometh a vision fair to me ! Cometh a vision fair to me Over the purple, moonlit sea ! A snowy sail and a golden barque ! And the rowers rowing on Are clad in vestments of living light, And their foreheads gleam like the dawn ! '' Vision of beauty ! it draweth near ! Gliding along on the silver tide. Gliding along on the silver tide, Vision of beauty ! it draweth near. Happy faces and forms I see ! — The form of my mother, who prayed for me ! The face of my sister, who sang for me ! And the fair-faced maiden who was to be The bride of my heart, the soul of my soul ! Whom the monster. Death, on a dark night stole From her happy home on the meadow lea. Stole her away from her home and me. From her happy home on the meadow lea. 72 A POET'S DEATH. But see ! O see ! She Cometh to me, Gliding along in a golden barque, Over the purple, moonlit sea ! ''The prow of the boat has touched the strand. And the singers are singing a song ; They beckon to me and they bid me come To join in their festal throng — And this is the burden of their song : "'We come, we come, from the beautiful land,, We come, we come for thee ! From the far-off shores of the Morning strand. We come, we come for thee I Our rowers have rowed the whole night long Over the silver tide ; And we bear to thee from the silent land Thy beautiful, fair, young bride I We come, we come from the beautiful land. We come, we come for thee ! From the far-off shores of the Morning strand. We come, we come for thee !' " The song grew still, but the man made moan. Like a weary wind that sighs alone Thro' a desolate hall at night ; And the watcher saw that a thought had set Like a signet-seal on the forehead wet With the cold, dank dew of death ; MEMORIES. 73 He touched his hand, but the poet was gone Out of the night and into the dawn ; And the morn like an emerald lay on the lawn, And the watcher had looked on Death. MEMORIES. Down the meadow lands of memory as I walked this afternoon, Paused I by a ruined temple where we knelt in life's warm June, Wreathing round it many a garland, many a fra- grant, rich festoon. Kneeling there I paused to listen to the music of the spheres ; Caught the perfume and the whispers of those hap- py vanished years, Saw life's gladness and its sadness through a flood of blinding tears. For the vail of our fair temple now is riven, rent in twain. And the incense of our censers may not fill the court again. 74 MEMORIES. With their fragrant odors soothing weary heart and aching brain ; — For the vail of our fair temple now is riven, rent in twain. Vacant seats, and empty censers, and a broken, ruin- ed shrine, Faded laurels lying round it, and a barren, trampled vine ; Weary, dreary desolations of a wealth once mine and thine. Holy memories gather round me as I think of that last feast, When we worshipped with our faces turned toward the glorious East, Chanting psalms and swinging censers, thou a priest- ess, I a priest ; Holy memories gather round me as I think of that last feast. Golden dreams and songs of glory float around me as of yore. Waves of re-arisen pleasures lip the sands on Mem- ory's shore ; — But the vision fades before me, and the earth is earth once more. For I see the hills around me shorn of all their beau- ty now ; I MEMORIES. 75 And the valley holds no temple at whose shrine my knee may bow, Nor a priestess who could shrive me or could seal again my vow. Day is dying, and my vision turns toward the glow- ing West, While the gleaming of the Evening Star wakes long- ings in my breast, Longings for the stilly night-tide and the hour of quiet rest. Stars like angels' eyes are beaming and the full May- moon looks down, On the dreaming meadow willows ; — on the moun- tain's stony crown ; On the quiet little churchyard, and the thoughtless slumb'ring town ; Stars like angels' eyes are beaming and the full May- moon looks down. Thro' this Vale of Tears and Shadows, westward now my journey lies. Thither tend my pilgrim footsteps, thither tend my longing eyes, To the regions Eucharistic where glad hallelujahs rise. In yon clime of joys supernal where eternal summer glows, I 76 A VISION. We may meet in that Great Temple that no broken altar knows, Where the music and the banquet and the day shall never close, In yon clime of joys supernal where eternal summer glows. =■<>■> -=^-^<'<>o A VISION. ♦W"W- An angel came by night and touched Mine eyes with sleep profound And in a moment placed my feet On Zion's sacred ground — And bade me look around and see A vision of the things to be. I looked and lo ! before me lay Fair Judah's sacred hills, Her ruined cities, wasted plains, Her broken founts and rills ; But all at once night's diadem Revealed the Star of Bethlehem. Strange, lustrous, bright, its glory threw A glamour o'er the scene. A VISION. 77 On Calvary, on Carmel's height, And Lebanon's green sheen — Whilst from the charmed vault of Night The star fell down on Zion's height. Where fell the star a city rose Fair, beautiful and bright ; Its walls and gates and towers divine Streamed forth their floods of light, — A sea of glory filled the land. From mountain peak to ocean strand. Then rose a mighty shout of joy, From unseen spirit bands. The mountains bowed their lofty peaks. The forests clapped their hands — While earth, and sea, and heaven above Swelled forth the song of Wondrous Love. Old prophets of the misty past — Old bards of sacred song, — Bright bands of Hebrew maidens fair, And Judah's warriors strong ; A countless host rose from the dead, With banners gleaming overhead. From East, from West, from North, from South, Long lines of pilgrims came. From every clime, from every tongue, Of every race and name ; 78 DEPARTED DAYS. Those who had followed — though afar — The glorious light of Bethlehem's Star. I "woke : — but on my raptured ear Sweet songs of triumph dwell, And beauteous scenes yet haunt my brain That words can never tell, And on my longing heart still lies That mystic dream of Paradise. O, glorious City of the Blest, Thou Mother of us all ! I long and wait to see thy light On Judah's mountains fall — To mark thy bulwarks and thy towers, And rest in thy eternal bowers. DEPARTED DAYS. O DEAR departed days ! O days that come no more ! O sea of joy, whose wave hath ebbed From mortal shore ! Thy tide shall flow no more : Thy wrecks lie on the strand ; DEPARTED DAYS. 79 And Memory walks with shoeless feet Thy barren sand. I tread where thou hast been O sea of days ! gone by — An arid waste lies out beneath An ashen sky. Here lies Hope's painted hull ; Her broken masts are gone, — Her rotten decks scarce hold the ghosts That walk thereon. Love's fairy craft lies there, Round which the sad winds sing : The tide went out, returned no more, — Poor, stranded thing ! But where the radiant forms Whose gentle, lily hands Once bound each other's golden curls With silken bands? Aye, they have perished too, Along this ocean strand : The fire of life strewed ashes here Upon the sand. Light ghosts go tripping by : — No perfume in their hair, 8o FAITH, HOPE AND CHARITY. No song, no voice, no whispered breath Disturbs the air. O sea ! O bark ! O soul ! O days that come no more ! O Memory, why walk ye here This dreary shore? FAITH, HOPE AND CHARITY. And now abideth Faith, Hope and Charity, these three, l)ut the greatest of these is Charity. — II. Corinthians. 'Tis sweet to have that Faith which looks Beyond earth's clouds of doubt and gloom ; That paints a rainbow on Life's storms. And wreathes a glory round the tomb. O Faith, sweet Faith ! with gentle hand Thou leadest us through darkling ways, And thou wilt safely guide at last To Zion's courts of endless praise. 'Tis sweet to have that Hope which cheers Our wearied hearts whilst wandering here ; That sweetly smiles away our fears Through every fleeting, changeful year. HOPES THAT PERISH. 8i O Hope, sweet Hope ! thy smile canst cheer The fainting heart, the longing soul ; Canst bid us sing of harbors fair, However wild the billows roll. But sweeter far that link Divine That binds us to Immanuel's breast ; That Love which yields a foretaste here Of yonder home of endless rest. O Love, sweet Love ! that bids us share Another's joy, another's woe ; What bliss wilt thou not yield to us In that blest land to which we go. HOPES THAT PERISH. Alas ! how many a dream of bliss Fades out before our eyes. As day by day the chilly mists Obscure our mortal skies. Perchance some little laurel leaf From off our brow is torn ; — Some bird of song that built its nest, From out the nest hath flown. 6 82 HOPES THAT PERISH. A faded flower, a tress of hair, A letter, or a ring, Oft breathes a tale we would not hear ; The song we dare not sing. While in each heart some joy is nurst And fondled day by day. Close at its feet some wild despair Lifts up- its voice alway. No sunlight gleams that does not cast A shadow on some spot ; My joy may be another's woe. My grief, his happy lot. Oh ! if the secrets of our souls Lay out in open view, How you would pity me, my friend, How I should pity you. Our hearts at best are living tombs Wherein dead treasures lie ; And joy on timid feet walks past With half a tearful eye. Then let us weep with those who weep^ And smile with those who smile ; . Our griefs, our joys, — aye, life itself — Last but a little while. A PICTURE. 83 A PICTURE. -W-"H- As passing clouds that fleck the summer sky And strew their shadows on the vales below, Pass on and on, melt into mist and die Beneath the sun's effulgent, fervid glow : — So do our hopes and pleasures pass away, But leave their shadows on the soul's broad field ; While fiercely glows the sun of life's red day Upon our aching heads that have no shield. A glowing desert lies behind our backs Thro' which we trod on bruised and bleeding feet ; And ashes, tears and blood lie in our tracks, That wind by bitter streams that ne'er grow sweet ; Before us lies the boundless, dread unknown, Hid by futurity's dark veil of clouds ; Where grow the fruits of seeds that we have sown, A pregnant realm of shadows and of shrouds. A strange, sad journey is life's little day, With all its petty ills, its griefs, its pain ; Its joys that flash like lightning on our way, And like the lightning vanishing again, All — all to end in one long, dreamless night Where foes disturb not, and no fears annoy : Where dust and darkness set their seals of might On life, light, love, and all of grief or joy. 84 A RHAPSODY. But dust, and death, and darkness shall not reign, Sole lords forever in a night profound ! "Let there be light ! " shall echo yet again, And Lazarus-like the world to life shall bound ,- A new creation from the old shall rise, — Free from the curse, the thorn, the guilty stain : And a new day shall gild eternal skies, Born out of Time's long, dreary night of pain. ■ o>^.^^«=o.^^>opy day— and even now that the years go by more rapidly— the ^•harming Api'il and May weather tempt me to loiter by its side, when the hurry of life ought to call me elsewhere. But I am glad that romance has charms for me still, and trust that she and I may go together through all the days of my pilgrimage, hand in hand. ii6 INDIAN SUMMER. INDIAN SUMMER. O SOUTH-WEST wind ! wind of the far south-west, From Cautantowwit'st gardens freshly blown, Thy mystic music lulls the sea to rest And gives to earth a glory all thine own ; Blow on, O wind ! the happy vine-clad hills Look up, with smiles, to catch thine amorous breath ; And to thy kiss, with joy, each leaflet thrills. Unconscious that it is the kiss of death. The parting year's embrace that ends in death. Blow on, O wind, and bring the halcyon days Of Indian Summer, with their quiet joy, To fringe with gold the olden woodland ways Where once I trod a careless, happy boy ; — To gild the streamlet with a purer light ; To tinge with softer hues the gladsome sky ; — To hang red banners on the mountain's height Where ancient pines lift up their arms on high And sob their music as the hours go by. Blow on, O wind, the homeward cow-boy hears Thy mournful whisper in the wooded hill ; The round moon, rising, calms his silly fears, — He dreams of happy years life's span to fill ; — But he will find them as his father's found Full -freighted with their share of care and grief INDIAN SUMMER. 117 V\'hose weight increases as they roll their round ; Till Indian Summer whispers of relief And brushes down the sere and yellow leaf. south-west wind, wind of the far south-west, You wake a sadsome echo in my soul Of by-gone songs — whose singers are at rest, — While Time's wild chariot -wheels forever roll ; The fond, fair faces faded long ago, Say, can you tell me whither they have gone? Do they in newer life and fresher beauty glow Beyond the gates that guard the golden dawn? Say, can you tell me whither they have gone? Blow on, O wind, I catch your doleful strain That breathes of darkness, dust, decay and death ; And my mute soul shrinks at the sad refrain Of rustling leaves that fly before thy breath ; — But Hope and Faith, the Twin Immortals, come And point with shining fingers far away — Beyond the glowing stars — to that glad home. Where fears of death and darkness and decay, Affright no more the golden summer day. t The soutli-west is the pleasantest wind which l)lows in ^New England. In the month of October, in particular, after the frosts which commonly take place at the end of September, it frequent- ly produces two or three weeks of fair weatlier. in which the air is pei'fectly transparent, and the clouds which float in the sky, of the purest azure, are adorned with brilliant colors. This charm- ing season is called Indian Summer, a name wh!<;h is derived from the natives, who l)elieve that it is caused by a wind wh'ch comes immediately from the court of their great and benevolent God, < 'autantowwit, or the south-westei-n god. ii8 A WASTED LIFE. A WASTED LIFE. The reapers are out in the fields to-day, Binding their sheaves of bright golden grain ; The meadows are sweet with the new-mown hay Rolling along on the homeward wain ; But where is the tribute my hand should bring To the treasure-house of my Lord, the King ? My field hath been swept by the tempest's blast. And the mildew and blight lie thereon ; And the glorious summer-tide is past, And my hope of the harvest is gone ; While not a sheaf in my hands I bring To the treasure-house of my Lord, the King. The zephyrs are filled with the voice of praise As the anthem of harvest is sung In the orchard lawns and the woodland ways And the green, happy hills among ; But where is the song that my lips should bring To the harvest-feast of my Lord, the King? My paeon was stilled in my youthful morn, In the fateful struggle with wild Despair ; And my lute was left, like my heart, forlorn, A prey to corroding grief and care ; FOREVERMORE. 119 No Summer-song can my poor heart bring To the harvest-feast of my Lord, the King. Have mercy, I pray thee, O Lord, my King, On a weary soul and a ruined Hfe : A wounded, wretched and helpless thing, Blown o'er the earth on the wings of strife ! Nothing have I to thy feast to bring Save ashes and tears, O Christ, my King. Thou knowest the pangs of that lonely strife With the tempter's wiles in the desert drear ; And the darkling close of thine own pure life. When Friendship fled at the sight of Fear ; Remember all these, O Jesus, my King, And pity the desolate heart I bring. FOREVERMORE. FoREVERMORE the stars Will kiss the vale's green sod, But nevermore our feet shall tread That vale which once they trod- Forevermore the brook, Will be a reflex fair ; But nevermore shall mirrored be Our forms and faces there. I20 FOREVERMORE. Forevermore the birds Shall fill that vale with song. But nevermore our passioned words Shall flood their tide along. Forevermore the hills Will wear their crowns of stone ; But nevermore round us at eve Their shadows shall be thrown. Forevermore the rose^ The red one and the pale, The hare -bell sweet — each flow'r that blows Shall there their sweets exhale- But neveniiore by these Our hearts shall gladdened be. As in the days that now have fled Alike for you and me. Forevermore the pine Will whisper to the brook. And voices sweet mysteriously Will echo from each nook : The sky will beam as pure. The stars as true will burn; — Forever, ah, forevermore Our hearts will thither turn ! TO SOMEBODY. 121 TO SOMEBODY. There is a pale, sweet face Comes to me in my dreams, And tenderly and winningly Its gentle radiance streams Platonic fire upon my heart : — A sweet desire no more to part Her soul and mine while power divine Shall measure years eterne. And yet no mortal form Like hers has blessed my sight ; From whence then comes this vision sweet Upon the wings of night ? 'Tis not from Heaven above, I know, Nor Hades' shadowy vale below. But sweet and warm, with gentle form She waits some mortal love. I know her eyes divine, I know her golden hair : I know the two sweet, luscious lij^s Beyond the mind's compare ; And somewhere in this world of ours. In paths bestrewn with sweetest flowers, We two shall meet, our souls shall greet, — Souls, minds and hearts be one. 122 AN AUTUMN IDYL. Whose mind can reach thro' space And tell where brain waves end ? Or, tell why sympathetic souls May not unite and blend, Long ere the clasp of kindly hand, — And touch of tone, and manners bland, Have firmly wound two hearts around With gentle wreath forever ? >J-<^^-.>^^X^o FAITH'S LOGIC. Wheels the world forever onward, True, unwavering, night and day ; And the restless, ringing ages, Greet her on her changeless way. Chafes the sea beneath the tempest, But the tide comes up alway ; Some eternal purpose reigneth Which the seas themselves obey. Wintry winds may blast the landscape, Garden, field, and forest fair ; But no hand may stay the spring-tide From replacing beauty there. And shall He who watches matter Void of soul, and heart, and mind. Fail through endless ages keeping Loving watch o'er humankind ? i 128 FAITH'S LOGIC. Thus I argue as I ponder Through the night-tide, all alone, While my spirit wanders backward Through the years forever flown — Counting all the broken treasures Strewn along life's thorny way ; Empty shrines and ruined temples, Golden idols turned to clay. But my heart grows calm and tranquil When I think of Him who reigns, — All life's deep and fearful meaning Gentle, trusting Faith explains. He who marks the falling sparrow Safe will keep me, well I know ; For beyond His sentry outposts No poor wanderer may go. Out of darkness comes the morning, — Out of winter comes the spring, — And the broken fibre, woven. On the lute some day will sing ; All are parts of one great purpose, And the end will prove it right ; Spite of sorrow, death and darkness, Eventide shall bring the light. MARCH MUSINGS. 129 MARCH MUSINGS. From books and men I turned away And sought in Nature's charms, to-day, For quiet, peace and joy ; At every turn for many a mile She blessed me with a cheerful smile — A smile in which there was no guile — And free from all alloy. A charm seemed resting on each spot, The rock-ribbed hill, the meadow plot. The quiet orchard lawn ; But I, poor child of doubt and clay, A passing pilgrim on life's way. Could only bow my head and pray, And silently pass on. The meadows don their robes of green, The oak renews his emerald screen, With each returning year ; But coming years can never bring To our poor hearts a second spring ; No withered hope, no j^erished thing May ever reappear. The heart becomes a living tomb — But no wild flowers above it bloom 9 130 MARCH MUSINGS. To scatter fragrance there The foot grows faint, the head turns gray ; The whole Kfe wastes by slow decay ; The burnished gold turns into clay, And fade all visions fair. And yet, O Mother Nature ! yet, I feel the seal thy hand hath set About my heart's strange door ; And though I dimly see thy plan, Too great thy scope for me to scan ; — Thou wast ere ever I began, — I'll trust thee everuxore : For in the ages yet to be When peak and plain, and cloud and sea Have each subserved their day, Thou wilt revive this mortal form With breathings soft, and kisses warm,— And place beyond the reach of stonn, Or doubt, or dull dismay ; And there, in meadows cool and green. Where crystal waters flash their sheen To holier, happier skies, I'll find the friends who trod with me The mountain path, the meadow lea, And know — whatever else may be, A love that never dies. THE HILLS OF LONG AGO. 131 THE HILLS OF LONG AGO. 'Tis midnight's high and holy hour : The fire upon my hearth burns low, And chilling winds with subtle power Are whispering to the falling snow ; Dim phantoms glide across my room, On noiseless step they come and go :— Pale spirits watted through the gloom, Blown from the Hills of Long Ago. Hills of the Long Ago, how bright Your fields and sunny slopes appear As memory floods with golden light The scenes of many a vanished year ! No more, no more my feet shall press Your sacred heights now clad in snow, And summer joys my heart shall bless No more, sweet Hills of Long Ago. The frozen rime hangs thick and white On cedar bough and marble tomb. And many a lovely form, to-night. Sleeps heedless of the chilling gloom :— But their pure spirits, light and free. Heed not the winter's frost and snow, Thro' midnight hours they come to me Back from the Hills of Long Ago. 132 DI ANTRA. Ah ! blessed thought, tho' Time's rude hand May mar this earthly home of ours, The soul's immortal powers expand. Nor dread life's brief remaining hours. Immortal friends, who throng my room, I heed your whispers soft and low ! And Memory points me through the gloom Back to the Hills of Long Ago. -o>o<^^»io^^o=^o NAMELESS SORROWS. Every heart hath its own sorrow Which the world shall never know ; And with each succeeding morrow Deeper grow the depths of woe, — Depths no plummet e'er may sound, Lonely, silent and profound. Griefs we dare not tell to others. Awful, holy and sublime ; — Griefs we keep from our own mothers, Hidden like some fearful crmie — Woes that pierce, and griefs that kill — Out of reach of human skill. There are graves that lie deep hidden In each lonely heart's domain ! Memory sheds her tears unbidden, And the soul throbs thro' with pain ; But no angel rolls the stone From these graves ; — we weep alone. 138 NAME ON THE TREE. Round these graves our sad souls linger, Wailing, weeping bitter tears ; But no seraph's radiant finger Points beyond the gloom of years ; And we can but wait and sigh, For the hour that bids us die. Death, oh God ! that strange transition, From this sphere of care and grief: Shall it yield us an admission To a life of sweet relief? Where the woe-worn heart and mind Endless joy and peace may find ? NAME ON THE TREE. Along an olden mountain path. Worn mgged by the torrent's wrath, I strolled this afternoon ; Past many a well remembered spot, The hemlock grove, the limestone grot Where ferns in many a graceful knot Hung like a rich festoon. I paused, and thought of that sweet day In Life's warm June, long passed away. NAME ON THE TREE. 139 When we held pic-nic here ; Of all the glad, gay forms, and fair. Whose hearts were warm as summer air ; But most of one, with sunny hair, Whose words were once so dear. I sought the beech tree by the spring Whereon was fixed the pic-nic swing : — A fragment hangs there yet ; And looking up I saw your name That I had carved ; the smothered flame Broke out at sight of that dear name ; Mine eyes with tears grew wet. The sweet old story ever new, Of youthful love, the false, the true. The changeful, changeless world ; But not an unkind thought had I For memories of the days gone by, Tho' you were changeful, changeless I, While spheres the wild years whirled. How many hearts have fed such flames ? How many hands have carved such names ? Dead millions gone before ! The dust of centuries lies thick On ashen hearts, that once, love-sick. Made pulses tingle wild and quick, That now shall throb no more. I40 A LAMENT. And mine shall rest in quiet, too, As peaceful as the things I view In this calm, holy spot ; Your name may spread upon the tree When you and I have ceased to be : — My song may live for thee and me, An echo in this grot. A LAMENT. =K-W' There are no days like the dear old days That have perished, like ships at sea ; There are no ways like the sweet old ways That once bloomed so brightly for me ; — A halo hath fled from the face of the moon, A glory from off the hills, And I hear no more the soft love tune In the meadow, beside the rills. There are no songs like the sw^eet old songs That the singers once loved to sing ; Mute are their tongues : — to the Past belongs The chant of our life's sweet spring. But a tenderer gloom on the churchyard sleeps, And a glory is gathering round Each marble slab, where the Death-angel keeps His vigils, on holy ground. A PRAYER. 141 There is no rest like the deep, sweet rest That is found in the quiet grave, — And there is no heart that so fully is blest But that death it will some day crave. While the years go on with their endless round. Day unto day and night to night. Not a joy that will live hath ever been found. And Hope is a meteor-light. And though I can, read in the glad new spring The lines of a prophecy grand : How the Master-hand from the grave will brini< The links of a broken band ; — Yet I see no days like the dear old days That have perished on Time's wild sea, And I walk no ways like the sweet old ways That once bloomed so brightly for me. A PRAYER. () Father of Mercies ! my soul flies to thee As I view the dark storm that my sins have aroused ; Nor refuge nor rest from its fury I see, Until safe in thy mansions my soul shall be housed. O Father, behold me ! and pity, and claim, A weak, wand'ring child that comes pleading thy lo\e • 142 LONGINGS. I come pleading alone in a Savior's dear name, For the grace that can lead me to mansions above. O pity and shield me ! clouds, tempest and night Have gathered around me, and loud thunders roll ; O scatter them all, o'er my pathway shed light. And safe in thy mansions give rest to my soul. le^-?^ LONGINGS. For each sweet joy that dies, a pain is born, As surely as the evening follows morn. And pain lives longest in this world of ours. As thorns survive the death of all the flowers. The earth wheels eastward with a wild unrest. Half day, half night, unconscious which is best. Dust, death and darkness, storm, and grief, and pain Are the weird notes that fill out life's refrain. But we, poor mortals, why should we complain ? There were no pleasure, if there were no pain ! And yet, I pray thee. Mother Nature, dear. Take back thy weary child of hope and fear : — A MAY IDYL. 143 Fold back my dust within thy bosom watm And mold anew in some diviner form ; And free my spirit that her wings may try The azure depths of an unchanging sky ; For here it chafes beneath these changeful skies, Where glory fades and even beauty dies. A MAY IDYL. Once more, and yet once more. To old earth's time-worn shore Comes merry May, like some sweet spirit fair, With face serenely calm. And lips and breath of balm, And glorious garlands in her braided hair. Beside the rippling rills — Among the orchard hills — And through the mountain wilds she wanders free ; The hills and vales rejoice To hear her gentle voice, And my heart throbs beneath her melody. 144 A MAY IDYL. O sweet, sweet happy May! Tho' brief and bright thy stay Thou comest once, with every changeful year, To thrill the world with bliss Beneath thine amorous kiss. While doves and swallows pause thy songs to hear. Thou dost remind me now Of one fair face and brow Whose beauty with thy glories might compare ; Soft as the whisper'd love Of angel -lips above Was her sweet voice, and she like them was fair. But oh ! no more, no more. To my heart's dreary shore Will that sweet May come back o'er Time's wild sea Thro' weary, fateful years Of wintry doubts and fears I wait in vain ; — no more it comes to me. Gone, gone is my heart's May, Nor will Life's Summer stay With her rich fields of Fame to bless my way ; Life's woodlands all are sere — And chill, and dull, and drear The Autumn wails a doleful, weary lay. UNDER THE ELM TREE. 145 UNDER THE ELM TREE. By a sparkling crystal fountain, Underneath an Elm tree's shade, While the stars looked on the mountain, And the wind sweet music made ; Wliile the twilight gathered round us, Lingering gently on the hill, Mystic wreaths of feeling bound us. And we lingered talking still. Then we felt our hearts grow nearer, As our souls breathed forth our vows. And our words found echoes clearer In the clustered whispering boughs ; Ah ! the furthest heaven heard us. And the stars shed brighter gleam, For a power Eternal touched us — Life seemed but a beauteous dream. Still we sat there, lingering, loving. We were all — all else was naught — And with each sweet moment proving Bliss, which worlds could not have bought Life, nor death, nor time can measure, Nor eternity destroy. Vows that angels penned with pleasure. In tliat hour of purest joy. 10 146 UNDER THE ELM TREE. Time may soon deface grand paintings, Crumble pyramids to dust, But 'twill add but brighter tintings To that spot of sacred trust ; Time may drift red sands around it, Burning suns above may be. Drifting deserts still may bound it, But an oasis green 'twill be. Why, O why, did death not find us, Underneath that Elm tree's shade ? Why thus spared for Fate to bind us With rough chains — our hearts betrayed ? Constant still, true to each other, Walking life's lone path apart. Filling stations that another Could have filled with better heart. Where are those whose hate betrayed thee, When Red War strode through the land ? And by lying lips enslaved thee — Not thy heart — but worse, thy hand ! Ah ! we cannot see their mission. But some day it must be shown, When our hopes shall have fruition, When once more thou art mine own. For a greener Elm is growing. By a purer fount, somewhere, LOVE'S AUTUMN. 147 And a gentler breeze is blowing, Under starlit skies more rare ; And beneath that spreading Elm tree, When Time's waning day is past, To my heart again I'll clasp thee, — Whilst eternity shall last. LOVE'S AUTUMN. Like meadows filled full of the moonlight Mixed with shadows and odorous balm ; Like the depths of the skies on a June night Filled full of an exquisite calm ; Like a garden run wild with sweet roses, — Like a park wreathed with amorous vines, — Like a lake, where the white swan reposes, Dreaming dreams in the dusk of the pines. Our souls were such meadows of blisses, — Our minds were such regions of calm, — Your lips were a garden of kisses, Your breath such an odorous balm ; Our hearts, they were chambers of gladness Trellised round with sweet tendrils and vines ; And your lips that had never breathed sadness, Conned over Love's exquisite lines. 148 IN MEMORIAM. But that day-dream of love and of pleasure, That morning of peace and delight, Hath departed and left us no treasure, Save memories as mournful as night ; The garden of roses hath faded. The meadows are full of dead leaves, The lakelet's fair bosom is shaded. And its sad waves a monody weaves. Ah me ! as I gaze on the vision, Dim ghosts of the dead days gone by Come and taunt me, and hold in derision My sorrows, each tear and each sigh. While low hangs the dun sky all dreary 'On the sands of Life's shipwreck-strewn shore, Where the mystical waves have grown weary With chanting. No more, never more ! m MEMORIAM. One year ago, to-night, A pair of little feet Were shod to walk through the shadowy vale. Eternal morn to meet. One year ago, to-night, A pair of little hands OCTOBER DREAMS. 149 Lifted the latch of our door, and left In search of golden lands. One year ago, to-night, A little white-robed form Shivered with cold, as he left our home. In search of sunlight warm. He found the warm sunlight, He found the golden land, — For a message came from his home, to-night, By a white-robed angel band. OCTOBER DREAMS. The hope that fades, the dream that dies, The cloud that sweeps across the skies, The wind that passes by, Are scarce more brief than mortal life: — Is it then well to vex with strife A thing of days with dreams run rife That with the night shall die? So asks my soul, this autumn day. As round my feet the dead leaves play I50 OCTOBER DREAMS. And eddy in the blast ; The hly and the rose are dead ; The farmer's wain stands in his shed ; The fields are bare, and overhead Dun clouds are drifting past. And thou, why should I vex thy mind With memories of words unkind, Seeing we both shall die? And in the tranquil, stilly grave From which no hand is strong to save — Our dust shall sleep while winds shall rave And dull clouds fleck the sky. Thus, while the sad October blast Wakes a faint cadence of the past I feel no tinge of pain ; The bitter words that once could give Long nights of pain, no longer live ; — I have forgotten, and forgive : Where shall we meet again ? Aye, where? — perhaps beyond the stars When Death the Morning's gate unbars t And we may find at last That bitter words, and tears, and pain Are preludes to the rich refrain That for Life's after- acts remain. When this wild scene is past. APRIL. 151 APRIL. — °H"H» — Once more the tender gloaming falls Around earth's winter-ruined walls This gentle April eve, And south winds from the moaning seas Come whispering to the budding trees, That now have ceased to grieve. The swelling buds are dreaming dreams Of dewy morns and sunny beams And happy Summer hours ; The Easter flowers peep through the sod And sweetly smile good-night to God, And dream of fragrant bowers. The twilight dies, and my dream runs Back thro' the years whose April suns Have set to rise no more ; And Fancy paints one happy day. Whose lights and shadows lingering play Along this dreamland shore. For since that day no Easter flowers Have bloomed like those that blessed the hours Of that sweet April time ; Since then Life's lessons have been learned — 152 NOVEMBER. The prize is dust when once 'tis earned, - And empty as this rhyme. The South winds kiss my window pane And wake the wind-harp's tender strain In mournful, minor key ; Be still, O heart 1 nor question why That things most loved, most surely die, What is to be, must be. ■><>°-4--^°<>° NOVEMBER. The rude November blast Sweeps wildly past, And withered leaves ride on his scentless wings And never yet was heard. From beast or bird, A wail so sad as this one which he sings. From faded grove and bower This lonely hour His dirge-like strain ascends to starless skies ; And in my lonely room. His voice of doom Affrights my spirit with a wild surprise. SONGS OF LOVE. 153 The flowers are in their graves — And by the waves The willows' robes piecemeal are torn away ; And with uncovered head Above the dead The stately oak weeps in his kingly way. No more the kine are seen Upon the green, But orchards, woodlands, meadows, fields are bare ; And out against the sky Bleak mountains high Stand like so many statues of Despair. O rude November blast, Sweep wildly past ! But know that summer skies will beam again. And south-winds with perfume Shall rend the tomb And kiss to life each victim thou hast slain. SONGS OF LOVE. -w-w- The singer that sang me a song of Love In the years long gone — is dead ! But the song still lives, like the stars above That burn when the day hath fled ; 154 SONGS OF LOVE. Deathless and pure, in the innermost soul, While the waves of life's ocean around me roll. The voice of that singer is hushed and still To the ear of others around ; But it reaches me from the far-off hill With sweeter and holier sound : — From the far-off hill were the Mansions stand, Gleaming so sweet in the Master's Land. The song is not changed ; — 'tis the same sweet song, The song of the olden time ; — But the cadence is faultless, no note is wrong, And Love is its rhythm and rhyme, — And the singer is thinking that I, some day, Will join her in singing the old love -lay. And thus, I suppose, there is one sweet voice Comes ringing to every heart From the far-off Land, where spirits rejoice, To which we may soon depart ; [blend Where the lute and the harp, and the rich voice In the Song of Love that shall never end. Ah ! little we know how the songs we sing As we walk through life to-day. May fasten their tendrils to hearts, and cling, When our lives have passed away; — And bind, with the golden links of Love, Some weary heart to the Courts above. ANGEL GUARDS. 155 ANGEL GUARDS. Two angels, pure as heaven's own light, Each human form attend ; One on the left, one on the right, Who follow us by day and night. Till life's strange way shall end. Recording angels they, who keep The records of each day. And seal the books when once we sleep- That as we sow so shall we reap, Upon the harvest-day. The angel on the left notes all The evil that we do ; — Ot angry words that we let fall, And sinful acts, however small, Is kept a record true. The other angel writes the good We do throughout the day ; Each holy thought o'er which we brood. All kindly acts of brotherhood, And gentle words we say. And when at night the midnight bell The solemn hour doth toll. 156 ANGEL GUARDS. One of the records kept so well Is sealed at last, till heaven or hell Shall claim the deathless soul. If he, for whom the books are kept. Hath turned to God his prayer Ere he upon his couch hath slept, The evil record then is swept Away by fingers fair.")" But, if his prayer hath been unsaid, Alike through night and day. The angel on the right doth shed A tear upon her page, instead. And wipes the good away. Such is the story as 'tis told In ancient Magian Lore, And whether new, or whether old. The moral is as pure as gold That bids us pray the more. t The Mohammedans have a tradition that the angel who notes a man's good actions has the command over him who notes his evil actions ; and that when a man does a good action, the angel of the right hand writes it down ten times, and when he commits an ill action, the same angel says to the angel of the left hand, Forbear setting it down for seven hours; peradventure he may pray, or may aslt pardon. BLOW, BLOW, BLOW. 157 BLOW, BLOW, BLOW. Blow, blow, blow, On thy barren hills, O Wind ! But the sweet perfume of thy breath is left In the summer vales behind. Moan, moan, moan. Thro' the cedar, and hemlock, and pine. While the leaves are dead on the stately oak And the apple-tree and vine. Howl, howl, howl. Thro' the caves on the mountain -side ; For the cadence sweet of thy summer-voice In the summer vales hath died. It is well that the fruits of the fruitful trees In the husbandman's garners sleep ; It is well that the soul of the purple grape Is housed in his cellars deep. It is well that the youthful heart may feast In the vales where the Summer glows — But O, is it well that the weary feet Have to climb through the Winter's snows ? 158 DECEMBER.' Aye, it is well, when the joys of the heart Fall off like the leaves from the vine — When the heart hath changed from a summer sprout To a wintry mountain pine. Aye, it is well — for the mountain pine Is nearer the heaven above, While it looketh down on the vale below That sleeps in the warmth of love. Blow, blow, blow, On thy barren hills, O Wind ! But the sweet perfume of thy breath is left In the summer vales behind. -^^=o<^ DECEMBER. December winds are whispering chill To barren oaks that crown the hill. And to the dead leaves there ; — A strange, sad song, so full of pain, The sharp winds sing to hill and plain : A doleful dirge — for all the slain That once bloomed sweetly fair. The pines and cedars wear their green. But make more desolate the scene. DECEMBER. 159 Of darkness and decay ; Sole mourners on the hillside there, — They moan their tones of wild despair That swell upon the wintry air, Then sadly ebb away. And many a human tree, to-night, Stands leafless in the waning light Of Hope's expiring beam ; Beneath them all their dead leaves lie ; Above them hangs a wintry sky -, Around them chill winds wail and sigh That joy is but a dream. Pale lovers, whose young loves are dead ; Sad bards, whose glorious dreams have fled, Stand on Life's windy hill ; And with them stands the ruined maid, Whose leaves of joy have all decayed. While unrelenting, undismayed. Life's wintry winds sing chill. God pity all these human trees That sway in Life's wild, wintry breeze This lone and dreary night. And grant that an Eternal Spring To each new robes of green may bring. And joy -birds once more sweetly sing Li Summer's Land of Light. i6o AN ALLEGORY. AN ALLEGORY. I. A FLOWER was loved by a humming bird, And the humming bird Hved in the mountain, The floweret bloomed on a ledge of rock. And out of the rock flowed a fountain. A warrior, valliant but cruel of heart, In passing the fountain one day, Threw a stone at the bird — the flow'r it smote, And it withered ere evening grey. The little bird strayed thro' the wild mountain bow'rs, Its little heart sick with its sorrow ; But none could it find 'mid a thousand flowers . From which it a solace could borrow. 11. A maiden was loved by a warrior bold ; The maiden lived down in the valley ; The warrior dwelt in his own stronghold. Save when he to battle would rally. The warrior mounted his steed one day — Rode off to the red field of battle ; — And the maiden died ere the close of the day, While the vale re-echoed war's rattle. RESURGERE. i6i The humming-bird flew to the chieftain bold, And whispered, ere day's closing hour : ^' Death hurls bolts at you, thy loved one they smite, Like the stone thrown by you smote my flow'r." The humming-bird hied to the floweret's side, And there on the ledge of rock it died ; To the vale in haste rode the chieftain brave. But the maiden he sought lay robed for the grave. RESURGERE, \ET if, as holiest men have deem'd, there he A land of souls beyond that sable shore. To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And sophist, madly vain of dubious lore ; How sweet it were in concert to adore With those who made our mortal labors liffht ' To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ' n^v, -D ,^^"^j,d ^^ch mighty shade revealed to sight, The Bactrian, Samain sage, and all who taught the right.— Byron. The caterpillar that weaves his shroud As the autumn days go by. Awakes with the spring-tide's sun and cloud A golden-winged butterfly : A nobler type and a higher form. Of life, to flash in the sunlight warm. The kernels of grain which the farmers sow In their furrows deep and wide, II i62 RESURGERE. Decay and die that the harvest may glow In the glorious summer-tide ; For gladsome germs from the dead grains rise. Flushing their green to cerulean skies. Earth's glories fade, but the world wheels on, Renewing her joys again ; And every year brings a brighter dawn To gleam on a fairer train ; — The world grows fresher with each glad spring. And sweeter the song that the singers sing. And so I sit in my cosy room And list to the March wind's song ; Dreaming a dream without shadow or gloom As the night-tide flows along ; — While stars gleam down from the tents above Where angels are singing the Songs of Love. I dream of a sister whose eyes were bright When the world to her was fair ; I dream of my boy who sleeps, to-night. On the hillside cold and bare ; And I dare to dream that these shall rise, In the world's New Morn, to glad mine eyes. I dream of a singer who sang for me In the gladsome summer hours ; When the blossoms hung on the orange tree In the land of vine and flowers ; — LIFE'S DECEMBER. 163 I dare to dream she will sing for me, In her glad New Home by the summer sea. "■ No after life ! " said the Sadducee, " No God ! " said the foolish soul ; — But less than the winds are such words to me As the seasons onward roll ; For Christ has risen, my hope is free From Sceptic, Sophist and Sadducee. LIFE'S DECEMBER, How swiftly pass the years away, They will not tarry, will not stay ; Their darksome gloom, or brightsome gleam, Fade from our vision like a dream. They tell their four- fold tales, and die Beneath the drear December sky ; The spring and summer beam no more — And autumn's dead strew winter's shore. They come again but to repeat To other ears their promir,e sweet ; And other hearts shall find, like ours. In winter's hand but withered flowers. 1 64 THE OCTOBER MOON. No more for us the years shall bring The verdure of life's happy spring ; No more shall summer's starlight shine In bowers that love once made divine. These come but once — no after year Revives the scene to memory dear ; While age's winter drifts the snow Upon the graves of long ago. And we, sad mourners, weep and sigh Beneath the chill December sky; But tears of bitterness and pain Will ne'er revive our joys again. THE OCTOBER MOON. Gleam down, through long and silent hours, On frosted leaves and fading bowers, O clear October moon ! Soft glories thy pale glintings make Round orchard lawn, and forest brake, And silv'ry fount, and stream, and lake, This holy night's high noon. Gleam on, O moon ! yon willow tree Turns her pale, pleading face to thee THE OCTOBER MOON. 165 In silent, deep despair ; The winds look on with bated breath, While field and forest dream of death ; And, softer each sweet brooklet say'th Her mystic, midnight prayer. O Moon ! from thy pm-e home of light How canst thou smile so sweet, to-night, On Nature's couch of pain ! Lo ! what a wreath of golden hair Hangs clustering round earth's temples fair And falling on her bosom bare — Pleading for life in vain. O Luna, fair ! thy rites of old Were cruel as thy kiss is cold This clear October night ! — And now, while Death walks everywhere — While Nature lifts great hands of prayer, With head uncovered, — bosom bare, — Thou smilest with delight. Beam on ! thy mocking light did blend With one fair dream that found an end One sad October night ! Dust lies upon her bosom fair, And mingles with her golden hair ; — Your heartless smile alone I share That mocks a dead delight. 1 66 THREE GRAVES. THREE GRAVES. " I DIGGED three graves in a lonely land. And laid therein, with a trembling hand, The queenly forms of an angel band. '' The first was Faith, and I laid her there In Doubt's dark grave while life was yet fair. And breathed not a word of song or prayer. " The next was Hope, — but I bathed her head With bitter tears when I found her dead ; — And wild the words of despair I said. "■ The last was Love, the fairest of all That ever walked in the Master's hall ; The queenliest queen, so fair and tall, " But she, sweet soul, when her sisters died. Wept on their graves, and wept by my side,- Pined like a child, and sickened and died. '' I smoothed her locks with a faltering hand ; I hid her face in the desert sand ; The fairest face of a heaven -born band. " I buried these ere my head was gray, THE MYSTIC SPRING. 167 And since that time in the wilderness way I walk with fiends — Hate, Doubt and Dismay. • I journey on, though I know not where, With fruitless tears and with fruitless prayer, Eating the ashen fruit of despair. ' No pillar of fire by night I see. No cloud by day leads the way for me Thro' this wild waste by the dead Dead Sea," Thus spake the Sceptic I met one day, Faithless and hopeless on Life's highway. Loveless and Christless, and all astray. God pity him, and pity us all When death's dark shade and the funeral pall Over our wearied hearts shall fall. THE MYSTIC SPRING. Among our West Virginia peaks, Where nature plays such wondrous freaks, A mystic spring is found : — Some Undine wandering on her way Among these hills, one summer day, ^ i68 THE MYSTIC SPRING. Clomb this high peak whose temples gray With cedar boughs are bound. Beneath an age -worn difF of stone. With moss and lichens overgrown, Repose her fair limbs blest ; And whilst this gentle Undine slept. Close by her feet a fountain leapt — One-half flowed East, the other kept Its bright way to the West. And standing by this fountain's brink Once more, to-day, I can but think This fount a type must be Of human loves divided here ; Of pleasure's smile and sorrow's tear ; Of heaven -born faith and earth-born fear That drift toward the Sea. We clomb this mountain -peak one day In years that long have passed away, And viewed Love's landscape o'er; But some strange hand in that sweet hour Laid on our souls a baleful power, And we went forth from this fair bower To meet in life no more. Thus hath it been — thus shall it be To those who, after us, shall see THE MYSTIC SPRING. 169 And drink of this strange fount ; — For lovers drinking here shall find In after life their paths will wind In devious mazes, dark and blind, Diverging from this mount. But, like the waters of this spring. Though severed here — the journeying Will gain the same bright goal ; To aching hearts this brings relief, — For years are few and days are brief, — And there's an end to wayworn grief— A haven for the soul. And we — we two — shall find the Sea And mingle, unrestrained and free, In that sweet Evermore ; — Then be forgot the mountain peak — Then be forgot the fateful freak That, by strange pathways, bade us seek Eternity's calm shore. *0n the top of one of the dividing ridges of the Alleghany chain a spring arises A traveler noticing its singular situation, divided its waters hy inserting a piece of bark in the fountain, and di- rected one-half its waters to the East, which seeks the Potomac and eventually finds the Chesapeake ; the other half finds the Ohio and finally the G ulf of Mexico, hoth hlending at last in the great Atlantic. It is painful to think how many founts of human joy are divided and how many hearts separated hy strips of hark torn from the great Upas tree of slander. And yet it is pleasant to think that in the great hereafter these divided hearts may blend in the great ocean of felicity. lyo VOICE OF THE WINDS. VOICE OF THE WINDS. " There are, it may "be, so mauy kinds of voices in the world, and none of them is without signification.'' — I Cor. 14 : 10. I SIT all alone by my hearthstone, to-night, While soft on the floor falls the warm, ruddy light ; And I list to the voice of the winds as they moan Thro' the hallway and door with their mystical tone. Who has not, at some time, since childhood's bright day, Hid his face in his hands and bowed to the sway Of the magical music that winter- winds make ? What a world of strange fancies their cadences wake ! They bring recollections from out the dim Past, — Of friendships and pleasures too happy to last ; Of the place we were born, the spot where we played, And the lonely churchyards where our treasures are laid. They sing the same songs every year in the hall, When on Autumn's fair face Winter spreads his dark pall; Thro' key-hole, and cranny, and rent window-pane. Comes the sad, mellow music, with minor refrain. And he who shall sit here in long, after years Will list the same song, and will dream, as he hears, Of the Past and the Future, and that lonely spot Where heart -aches and storms shall all be forgot. TO SHENANDOAH RIVER. 171 Oh, sweet Mother Nature ! I thank thee for this ; — Thy constancy whispers of ultimate bhss ; — Tho' all else may change as the years glimmer by, Unchanged will thy wind-spirirts murmur and sigh. O Voice of the Winds ! ye will chant o'er my tomb Your low, solemn music thro' Winter's chill gloom ! But when earth's latest Winter shall melt into Spring How sweet shall the song be that then ye shall sing ! 0>0^^>0<0 TO SHENANDOAH RIVER. Sweet Shenandoah ! daughter of the skies ! A pleasant pathway to the seas is thine, By dusky mountain peaks that starward rise Thy voice goes up to greet the gloaming pine That trembling, echoes back thy tender tones divine. Bright Shenandoah, river of delight ! Couldst thou but feel how dear thou art to me. Thou wouldst not hurry past this starlit night, To thy great home, the sounding, shoreless sea. But tarry here, and talk an hour, to-night, with me. O mountain river, in this wild retreatjt I sit and watch the mighty Night come down. As on thy breast He flashes clear and sweet Each brilliant gem in His great, lustrous crown ; While mountains smile and rocks forget their frown. 172 TO SHENANDOAH RIVER. Upon my ear thy liquid whispers fall Like heavenly music, soft, and glad, and sweet, The mighty cedar on his mountain wall J Bows down his head in happiness replete, Like him who leans his face to kiss his loved one's feet. Sweet mountain river, tell me, dost thou know The wild, sad longing of the poet's soul. As standing here he listens to thy flow ? If so, O river ! pity my heart's dole. And let thy peace fall on my spirit like a stole. O thanks, sweet river ! that thy voice divine Now calls from out the realm of Long Ago One dear, fair form, whose heart was pure as thine, Whose breath was sweet, whose soul was white as snow, She comes to stay with me ! Flow on, sweet river, flow ! t Brock's Gap.— It would 'be diflBcult to find, in the whole range of Virg-inia mountain scenery, a more picturesque and lovely spot than this. Here the North Fork of the Shenandoah River, in ages long gone, has cut a passage through the North Mountain, and on either side of the stream rocks rise in precipitous grandeur for hundreds of feet. The pass is so narrow that there is hardly room on the one side for a wagon road, while from the other side the living stones rise from the water's edge. Dead, indeed, must be his soul who, standing here, does not feel the divine afflatus. t Over no stream in the world do cedars and pines hend with a tenderer solicitude than here. And the many legends of the white and the red man respecting this spot, clothe it with a mythologi- cal halo brighter tlian that of Greece. It requires little imagina- tion, as standing here on a summer starlight night, to hear the river talking to the cedars — and the cedars to the stars, and to feel the immediate presence of intelligencies of a higher order than those horn of dust. It is one of Nature's Temples in which the winds and waters, and mountains, and cedars, and rocks are priests, and spirits are the worshipers. BY BABEL'S STREAM. 173 BY BABEL'S STREAM. By the Babylonian river, lo ! the host of Israel hes, Captive — moaning in the gloaming of the rich Chal- dean skies, While the waters hurry by them heedless of their tears and cries. There the maiden, and her lover, doomed to slavery's galling chain In the service of a nation God had taught them to disdain. Wept their bitter tears of anguish with an aching, throbbing brain. There the orphan child looked upward with a mute and sad surprise To the heavens that bent above him — then into his captor's eyes — Wept, and slept — and dreamed of playing where Ju- dea's altars rise. There the aged priest and prophet wept the weary night away. Catching glimpses of the future by Faith's telescopic ray; 174 THE SWALLOWS HOMEWARD FLY. Seeing visions of the dawning of the glorious, per- fect day. Sang the night-winds thro' the willows in the mid- night's dusky gloom ; But the stringless harps of Israel slept as voiceless as the tomb, While the air grew denser round them with the whis- perings of doom. Sad, so sad — that night of anguish, by the Babylon- ian stream, — Fiercest night of all great sorrows in the world's long fitful dream. That may never be forgotten till Eternal Day shall gleam. - WHEN THE SWALLOWS HOMEWARD FLY." "When the swallows homeward fly," Once a maiden sang to me. Underneath a starlit sky, By a wild accacia tree ; While the red -lipped, rosy June Breathed for us a low, love-tune. THE SWALLOWS HOMEWARD FLY. 1 75 "When the swallows homeward fly," Once again the maiden sung, While across the western sky- Sober clouds of autumn hung ; And the winds sang a refrain Full of pity, full of pain. ''When the swallows homeward fly," Now the maiden sings no more When the twilight shadows fall Round about the cottage door ; But beyond the Summer Sea She will sing some day to me. Years have fled, but unto me Swallow wings are ever dear, And in dreams I think that they Often bring her spirit near ; But no songs they sing for me, By the wild accacia tree. Now the red -lipped, rosy June Breathes to me no low, love -tune ; And the wild accacia tree Blooms no more for her and me ! Sunny days and sunny skies Glow for other hearts and eyes. 176 TO MY BLANKET. TO MY BLANKET. of^coj^o Thou and I must part, old blanket ! Though I yield thee with a sigh ; I had hoped thy folds would wrap me Closely round when I should die : But the hand of Time hath fingered Thee more roughly than my frame, Thou art torn in shreds, and tattered, I am living all the same. Dear old blanket ! we together Oft have wandered thro' the storm Of the cold, grim-visaged monarch, And thro' Summer's sunlight warm ; Thro' the peaceful country by-way. Thro' the city's crowded street, Thou and I have been campaigning ; — Oh, those days! — how false, how fleet Thou hast shielded me when duty Placed me on the picket-post, And we, too, have held our places When in battle host met host. Thou art pierced and rent with bullets That a foe had meant for me, — THE SENTINEL. 177 Thanks to him who ruled their mission, Would, also, they had spared thee. Ten times have we laid together On the field of carnage red, Whilst around us lay the wounded, Bleeding, dying and the dead. Thus in tempest or in sunshine. In the camp or in the field. Where I wandered thou wast with me. With thy folds my form to shield. Thus have we, for years together, Been of friends the truest, best. And a tear-drop now is gathering. As I lay thee by to rest. Yes, we now must part, old blanket. Though I yield thee with a sigh. For I thought thy folds should wrap me Closely round when I should die. THE SENTINEL. The sentinel walked his lonely round, And challenged each passer-by ; Whilst his comrades slept on the frozen ground And dreamed 'neath a wintry sky 12 178 THE SENTINEL. Of home and a thousand joyous scenes In the peaceful walks of life, Unmarred by the clash and clang of steel, And the din of mortal strife. A slumberer lay 'mid the veteran host, Though his soul was wandering far, Afar, afar from the sentry post. And far from the scenes of war ; He wandered amid the orange groves, And fancied his love was there. And happily fled each fleeting hour, Unmarred by a thought of care. "Fall in, third relief! " the sergeant cried, And the dreamer from slumber arose, And grasping the musket that lay by his side. Kept a watch for his wily foes ; But they came not then, and the night wore on, And the sentinels changed their round. And the dreamer dreamed the same bright dream As he lay on the frozen ground. The morning came, and with it the clash. The rush, and the tumult of arms. The sharp, quick peal and the thundering crash, And all of war's horrid alarms. The battle raged on, and the day wore by. And night closed over the field, MY ANGEL LOVE. 179 And friend and foe were alike that day, For neither their claims would yield. Yet the dreamer sleeps, tho' he dreamless sleeps 'Neath a cheerless, foreign sky ; And the maiden weeps, she bitterly weeps. And sighs that she cannot die ; For years have fled, vague tidings has she That her lover lies under the sod. But even the spot where the sentinel sleeps ' Is known alone to his God. -o>=<»^^^c^ MY ANGEL LOVE. Purer than the heaven's azure, At the closing hour of day ; Gentler than the star-beams mingling With the twilight dim and gray; And as lovely as the lily. Basking in the morn's first beam — Was my love, she whom I worshiped In my youth's gay, gorgeous dream. She was mild — too mild and gentle. For life's rough and boisterous hours ; She was pure — too pure and holy For this sinful world of ours ; i8o A TRESS OF HAIR. And the angels, elder sisters, Came by twilight from above, And from earth's dark, gloomy prison Carried home my augcl love. Thus she left me, and I sorrow, Sorrow as the years wear by. Ever hoping that the morrow Will but dawn to bid me die. For the earth holds not a treasure, Not a soul that e'er can love Like the gentle, trusting spirit Of my lost, my angel love. A TRESS OF HAIR, Here lies a tress of my sweetheart's hair, A silken braid of her long, black hair. That she gave me years ago ; She had pinned it fast to a ribbon of blue ; The ribbon is fading, is changing its hue. But the heart that hath treasured it still is true To the idol of years ago ; — To the idol that sleeps in the valley deep. By the streamlet that wanders where willows weep. ■ CYNTHIA. i8i Yes ! silken tress of my sweetheart's hair, That gracefully curled round a neck so fair, And fell o'er a bosom so soft and warm, I have ever worn thee nearest my heart, (Yes, Delia, next to thy lover's heart !) As a treasure too priceless wherewith to part, Till they robe this weary form For the last long sleep in the valley deep, By the streamlet that wanders where willows weei). CYNTHIA, What does the gentle Cynthia say, As she smiles on the earth to-night? Kissing the mountain, kissing the hill, Kissing the woodland, kissing the rill, Kissing the flowers, and taking her fill Of kissing to sleep, with a delicate will, This beautiful world of ours ? With silken whispers and witching smiles, She speaks to the lover to-night ; Telling of bowers whose birds have fled, Telling of arbors whose loves are dead, Telling of meetings, and what was said i82 CYNTHIA. In the ears of Love, while the clouds o'erhead Were fitting types of its constancy. With a sad, sweet whisper she speaks to him Who has wandered from childhood's home ; Calling up scenes of youth's bright day. Calling up sister and brother at play, Calling up those who have passed for aye From this world of ours, to one away In the kingdom beyond the sea. To the Christian she speaks of a tenderer ray Than the beam of her own sweet face ; Tells of a clime that forever is bright. Tells of a day that shall never know night, Tells of the ransomed whose robes are made white, Tells how they sing to their harps, in His sight, Tlie praises of God and the Lamb. .^PERSONAL POEMa * PERSONAL POEMS. TO JOSEPH SALYARDS. The summer day sinks dying on the plain, The happy day that all so sweetly smiled ; Lo ! Mother Night stoops down to kiss her child And weep her tears through silent "hours of pain O'er the dead day that never more shall rise To greet thee, Salyards, or to glad mine eyes. Amid the harvest-field of stars, on high, The fair, young moon hangs like a sickle bright ; — Against the sky the distant mountain height Stands like a Titan, waiting but to try His arm of strength to reap the worlds above. And garner in this universe of Love. From these I turn, to-night, O, noble friend ! To ponder on that day when last we walked Among the shadows of this glen, and talked Of hidden mysteries, and things which tend To make us long to comprehend that power Which Endor's Witch displayed one midnight hour. To-night I feel thy soul is laid on mine ; I look around and try to understand 1 1 86 TO JOSEPH SALYARDS. The winning pressure of a spirit-hand, That fain would lead me with a power divine Through cabalistic corridors that end In Occult Truth. I fear to walk, my friend ! Thou art the elder, both in deeds and days, In wisdom, worth, and all that makes the man, — And yet, to-night, my soul leans out to scan The mystic Ocean with his many bays. For some calm anchorage where we may see The sun rise clear upon that Ocean free. I find it not. I crave one gift of thee : That shouldst thou go the first to that far land Where the freed soul in wisdom shall expand. That thou wouldst send some answer back to me. In dream, or token ; letting some truth fall In clear hand -writing on my chamber wall. Here flesh lies heavy on the soul's fine springs And weighs it down to earth; our heavy eyes Discern the gross, the immaterial flies ; — We beat our series with our unfledged wings When Idothea beckons us to try The freshness of the circumambient sky. The world grows old, her gods have passed away ! Saturn and Jove are worshiped now no more ! Their broken temples strew earth's desert floor TO J. H. BARB. 187 Swept by the restless ages' ruthless sway. [dawn, O'er Time's great mountain height Truth's day will If not for us, at least when we are gone. Thou art — I am — nor can we cease to be ! — While glowing worlds illume the realms of space The universe shall be our dwelling place ; — Then shall we know — if not before — and see All happy visions, read all golden lore, God -like immortals sorrowing no more. TO REV. J. H. BARB. I LOVE to climb the mountain's rugged crest At eventide, in happy summer-time. When from the golden chambers of the West Sweet zephyrs come, and chant in runic rhyme To graceful pines that nod their plumes, — and sigh Like mournful voices of the years gone by. How sweet, at such an hour, from some high steep To gaze upon the landscape spread below, To watch the darkling shadows as they creep And twine around the distant river's flow ; Till darkness shrouds the eastern mountain wall And God's star-spangled banner floats o'er all. !8 TO J. H. BARB. 'Tis sweet to hear, at such an holy hour, The Vesper hymn that Mother Nature sings, When pine and peak, and every fount and flow'r Are gently fann'd by unseen spirit wings ; While all proclaim in harmonies divine That earth and all its fullness, Lord, are Thine. Surrounded thus, 'tis sweet to look above And scan the splendors of the upper sky ; * To dream of Immortality and Love, And all fair things, that never fade or die ; To paint fair pictures of that purer clime Where spirits walk the hills of light sublime. Thou hast some treasures in that better land, And some of mine are there ; perhaps, to-night, Thy loved and mine are walking hand in hand Adown the meadow-lawns of pure delight, — Whilst we, poor mortals, climb the mountain's brow, And through a glass discern but darkly now. And yet, dear Barb, I cannot help but think This spot is holy ground whereon we stand ; For here my soul hath had immortal drink Pressed to her lips, by some fair spirit hand, — A glorious foretaste of that Fount above. Whose waters glad the golden courts of Love. And, hence, I love to climb the mountain's crest At dewy eve, in happy summer-time, TO MY WIFE. 189 When from the golden chambers of the West Sweet zephyrs come and chant in runic rhyme ; While each bright, golden orb that burns on high Proclaims a gladsome future, by-and-by. o>o^^>^c . TO MY WIFE. The leaves are falling, my darling. The leaves are falling. And in the meadow the starling With sad voice calling Mysteriously speaks to my soul And mournfully tenders my heart, Till the brain hath no longer control To keep back the tears that now start, Bleeding my soul — easing my brain. My tears are falling, O darling. My tears are falling. And still in the meadow the starling Is sadly calling, — And somehow the starling and I Seem to question old Time, to-day, And look up from earth to the sky. And sadly from both turn away — The starling to wail — I to weep. I90 TO MY WIFE. From Time's bleak mountains, my darling, From Time's bleak mountains, A voice comes back to the starling, That wails by the fountains, — It rises and swells in the breeze ; It lisps in the murmuring stream ; It whispers around the old trees, Like the sounds that we hear in a dream. Speaking only one word, Death ! death ! death ! This voice keeps calling, my darling. Sadly keeps calling. Wails in the meadow the starling, Still the leaves falling ; — The cloud -fretted heavens frown death ; Death sits on the rock-crested hills. And crouches with half-taken breath In bowers beside the bright rills, — O, death ! death ! terrible death ! Some lone, sad evening, my darling. When shades have blended. Will cease the wail of the starling, My tears be ended ; And out through illimitless space The song of the starling will go. My spirit its pathway will trace, — That pathway no mortal may know, Nor the goal of that journey strange. TO B. BLAKE. 191 TO B. BLAKE.t Softly through the twiHght, steahng, Comes a fond, famihar voice ; And the love the tones reveaHng Bids my earth-worn heart rejoice, For they speak of rest from sorrow, In a home imdimmed by care, And that each succeeding morrow Gently bears me nearer there. Often as I sit and ponder Comes this spirit voice to me, — Comes it from the far-off yonder Shores of glad Eternity? And I feel the thrilling nearness Of some other soul than mine. Oh, my wife ! this angel dearness Voice and spirit are they thine ? Often, when my feet grow weary In the pathway that I tread ; When the clouds that lower dreary Burst their tempest on my head ; When my hopes sink to despondence And my faith to unbelief, Comes this angel correspondence Speaking comfort and relief. 192 TO B. BLAKE. Darker now the night falls round me As I linger by the tomb ; But the lone grave hath not bound thee ; Dust alone sleeps in its gloom : — And thy voice yet comes to bless^ me From the groves of endless life, And thy spirit to caress me, O my earth-born, angel -wife. Come to cheer me while I wander, Soon my pilgrimage shall cease : Come to bless me when I ponder, Bringing messages of peace ; — For Death's night will soon close o'er me, Soon my dust may sleep with thine ; Soon my spirit stand before thee. And thy Paradise be mine. t These stanzas were written for Mr. B. Blake, of Ohio, whose wife has been among the " dead who die in the Lord " for a num- ber of years. I liave takent he liberty of attempting- to portray an angel visit. It matters little what views may be entertained "by the reader ; but who has not, at some time of life, felt the touch of a vanished hand ? Has not a mother, a sister, a father, a broth- er, or friend come back to you from the shores of the far-oflf yon- der, as you have pondered in the twilight ? Have your eye«s never been "opened" like the young man's to whom Elisha spake, when "he saw the mountains full of chariots of fire and horse- men of fire '■ ? -iLYRICS. 13 LYRICS. 0^0 BRIGHTLY NOW. Brightly now the moon is beaming, Over mountain, tow'r and tree ; And the Hghts of heav'n are streaming Lines of gold upon the sea ; All the night is hush'd and holy Round about earth's mortal shore, And my spirit bending lowly, Dreams of happy days of yore ; Dreams of faces fair and holy I shall see on earth no more. They are gone beyond earth's weeping, They have fled from sin and care ; They are safe in angels' keeping, Where the skies are ever fair ; I shall meet them at the portal In that glorious by-and-by, Meet and greet each bright immortal In that glory-land on high ; Greet them at the shining portal, Where no joy can ever die. Far away, and yet so near us. Angel bands of light and love ; 196 EDEN OF LOVE. They can watch and they can hear us, As thro' earth's dark vales we rove ; Oft they come on snowy pinions, Breathing words that Faith can hear, Telhng of those bright dominions, Free trom care, or doubt, or fear ; Even now I hear their pinions In the stillness, rustling near. Beams the moonlight on the mountain, Gleams the starlight on the sea; And the willow shades the fountain, And the zephyr woos the lea ; But my weary spirit ponders On the glories far away. And on Faith's white pinions wanders To the realm of endless day ; Sadly dreams and mutely ponders On the land so far away. EDEN OF LOVE. Oh, when shall I dwell in my Father's bright home, From sorrow and sin ever free ; With fair, shining angels forever to roam, And my blessed Redeemer to see. AFTER WHILE. 197 Oh, fair are the halls in that Palace of Song ! And sweetly the ransomed ones sing, As ages of bliss flood their bright tide along In the home of the Savior, our King. There safe shall I rest when life's journey is o'er, And sing with the loved ones above ; There dwell with my Savior and friends evermore, In that sweet, happy Eden of Love. I AFTER WHILE, — °w-w« — Earthly cares will soon be ended, After while, after while ; Hearts and hands with dust be blended. After while, after while ; And our feet, now worn and weary With life's pathway, dark and dreary. Shall find rest where skies are cheery, After while, after while. We shall hail a happy morning After while, after while ; Zion's hills with light adorning, After while, after while ; Even now sweet spirits meet us, 198 GOOD DEEDS. And to come to them entreat us, At heaven's portals they will greet us After while, after while. There beside the crystal river. After while, after while ; We shall praise thee, glorious Giver, After while, after while ; And through all the glad forever. We shall live with Jesus ever. And shall part — no, never, never. After while, after while. GOOD DEEDS, There is no joy like that which springs From deeds of kindness done ; For that will last when we have passed Beyond life's setting sun. Fame, wealth and splendor pass away Like flowers that fade and die ; Good deeds, like immortelles, shall live In fadeless hue on high. The highest tribute paid to Christ While here on earth he stood, ■ A DIRGE. Was, that he gave his Hfe for men In daily "doing good." Like Him, may we forever live To do our Father's will ; And seek — in kindly deeds of love — Life's mission to fulfill. So that, when we have passed beyond Life's latest setting sun, We shall receive from Christ himself That meed of praise : " Well done ! " For 'tis the deed, and not the creed. Will last through endless years. And clothe the soul with robes of light Beyond this Vale of Tears. 199 A DIRGE, Tenderly lay her to rest 'neath the sod : Angels look lovingly down ! But the fair spirit hath flown to her God,- Gone to receive a bright crown : In the sweet fields of the blessed to roam, Singing with angels so fair ; 200 SHOUT FOR GLADNESS. Dwelling with Christ in His beautiful home, — All its bright splendor to share. Why should we linger to weep round the tomb ? Sorrow shall vex her no more ! Never a shadow of trouble or gloom Reaches yon heavenly shore. There with the glorified spirits to reign Through the bright ages above : Free from all sorrow and sickness and painj, Resting in heavenly love ! SHOUT FOR GLADNESS. Shout for gladness, sons of Zion I Lo ! the morning light appears. Rising o'er Time's dreary mountains. Breaking thro' the mist of years; Jesus comes with thronging angels. From the shining courts above, And the banner streaming o'er Him Is the banner of His love. Shout for gladness, O ye people ! Let your songs of triumph ring I Lo ! the morn of Zion's glory ! Christ, the King of kings, is King I MORNING LIGHT. 201 Shout for gladness, Christ is coming From the regions of the blest ; Countless millions rise to meet Him From the North, South, East and West ! Lo ! the reign of sin is over ; Death no more can terror bring ; Shout aloud and sing for gladness, — Christ, the King of kings, is King ! Glorious day, so long expected ! Flood your tide of bliss along ; Brooks, and vales, and seas, and mountains. Join the everlasting song ! Zion, from the heav'ns descending O'er the earth her radiance flings ; Saints and angels join the chorus, Shout, for Christ is King of kings ! o>o^^X^o MORNING LIGHT. O THE night of Time soon shall pass away, And the happy golden day will dawn. When the pilgrim staff shall be laid aside. And the kingly crown put on. We are watching now for the Morning Light, For the New Jerusalem to come ; 202 IT WON'T BE LONG. We are waiting still for the Savior, Christ, Who shall call his children homje. O the happy day that shall gild the hills, When the Lord shall come to earth again ! O the happy hearts that shall welcome Him, When he comes once more to reign. What^a joyful time when the earth shall gleam In the light of an eternal day. When the saints shall sing unto Christ their King, In their golden glad array. IT WON'T BE LONG. Is thy young heart, O happy child. Now fill'd with youthful pleasure ? Look up from these, and ne'er forget To place in heav'n thy treasure ! It won't be long ere childhood days Have passed away forever ; Then look afar, and see thy home Beyond the rolling river. Is thy soul fill'd, in manhood's pride. With dreams of fame and glory? Look up from these and view the Cross, And read Redemption's story ! GENTLE SPRING. 203 It won't be long till life shall fade, Its lights go out forever ; O look afar, and view thy home Beyond the rolling river. It won't be long, it won't be long, My sister and my brother. Till life for us will all be past — Then let us love each other. It won't be long till prayers and tears Shall cease with us forever ; O let us look to that sweet home, Beyond the shining river. GENTLE SPRING. Gentle spring is here again. Bringing mirth and gladness ; All the singing birds have come, Chasing gloom and sadness. But my heart is sad and lone, Tho' the wintry days have flown, For I miss the loving tone Which could bring it gladness. Years ago her gentle voice Fill'd my heart with pleasure, 204 TWILIGHT WHISPERS. And life's lot was full of joy, With this single treasure ; But no joy earth now can give, Tempting with the wish to live, x\nd I linger but to grieve For the dear, lost treasure. All alone, she calmly sleeps. Underneath the willow, And the hare -bells mutely weep. Tears upon her pillow ; But her face still brightly beams, Coming to me in my dreams — Like an angel's still it seems — Bending o'er my pillow. TWILIGHT WHISPERS. The twilight shadows gently fall Upon the cottage lawn ; And memory calls to absent friends That one by one have gone. The evening breeze sighs thro' the trees And whispers, half in sadness : — Perhaps we all shall meet again In heaven's sweet morn of gladness. TWILIGHT WHISPERS. 205 I lift my eyes to heaven's blue dome, Bright stars are gleaming there ; And Fancy sees beyond the stars The loved ones dwelling there. The twilight breeze sighs once again, Sad as an absent lover : — Perhaps we'll meet on heaven's bright plain When life's strange dream is over. I bow my head, I dare not look At star-gemm'd azure skies, For tears of bitterness and doubt Are gath'ring in my eyes. Once more the zephyrs stir the trees Till all their branches quiver : — Perhaps we'll meet with friends again. Beyond the shining river. O mournful, plaintive twilight breeze, Why whisper in my ear, That sad perhaps that fills my soul With agonizing fear? Once more the wind sweeps o'er the lawn, And whispers to the clover : — There's no perhaps in that sweet home. When life's sad day is over. 2o6 THINKING OF THEE. THINKING OF THEE. O WILT thou never come Home to this breast, Home to this weary heart With care distress' d ; Bringing thy gentle voice, Thy sunny smile ; Making my heart rejoice. If but awhile. If but for one short day, Here all alone. To have thy warm heart beat Close to my own ; To hold thy hand in mine, Thy lips to kiss ! Oh, 'twould be heav'n to me — One day of bliss. If but for one short hour, At day's decline. To hear thy voice in prayer Mingle with mine ; That as the stars come out From heav'n above, Our souls may melt in one Sweet kiss of love. HEAVENLY REST. 207 HEAVENLY REST. I LONG for that sweet rest That comes when life is o'er, In yonder mansions of the blest Beyond death's sable shore ; There my Redeemer lives, And rules, and reigns above. And to his chosen children gives, A life of endless love. Oh, sweetly fair and pure The land to me appears ; A blissful realm that lies secure. From darkness, death and tears. Each day that passes by But wafts us nearer there ; And joy and rest awaits on high, In Zion bright and fair. A few more years of pain. And earthly toil, and strife. And Christ's dear children all will gain, That home of blissful life. Then let us sweetly live In love, and praise, and pray'r. And each at last from Christ receive, A crown of glory there. 2o8 EVERGREEN SHORE. EVERGREEN SHORE. Beyond the dark valley and shadow of death, There bloometh an evergreen shore ; Secure from all changes of season or time, Where tempests and clouds are no more. There's rest on that beautiful shore, Sweet rest on that evergreen shore. Where sorrow and sighing and darkness and death And tempests and clouds are no more. Bright mansions of splendor adorn that fair shore. Still waters of life murmur there ; The glory of God and the smiles of His love. Adorn it with radiance rare. 'Tis there that our Savior a place has prepared, — A rest for the sheep of his fold ; With Abram and Isaac and Jacob to share The joys that can never be told. Oh, why should you wander, in folly and sin, Away from that evergreen shore ; When Christ in his mercy your soul doth entreat To share its pure joys evermore ? NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. 209 NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP: k A WIDOW sat watching her fair-haired boy One weary, winter day, As burning with fever and racked with pain The httle sufferer lay ; But day went out and the night came down, The pain had passed away ; And the child looked up, and the mother bent down To hear what he might say : — " Kiss me, mother, let me go. Where is neither pain nor woe ; Kiss me, mother, do not weep — ' Now I lay me down to sleep.' " *' O mother, the angels stood round my bed, All day they sang to me ; And sweetly they told me of that bright land That lies beyond the sea; And they told me, too, of a river pure Whose waters I shall drink, And it flows so still through a beautiful vale ; — I'm near it now, I think. — Kiss me, mother, let me go, Where is neither pain nor woe ; Kiss me, mother, do not weep — ' Now I lay me down to sleep.' " 14 2IO BANQUET OF LOVE. " And Annie, my sister, that died, you know, Just four long years ago : I thought she came with them and stood just here. In robes as white as snow ; And she sang of Christ and of heaven so bright, That I forgot my pain ; And I think, to-night, as you watch by my side. That she will come again. — Kiss me, mother, let me go. Where is neither pain nor woe ; Kiss me, mother, do not weep — o<^o- NELLIE. The wind sweeps down the meadow, The snow lies on the hill. And in old winter's bosom The brooklet sleepeth chill ; The earth has lost its beauty. The skies are clad in gloom. For she is gone, — my darling — To sleep within the tomb. The winds of winter lonely. Chant dirges o'er her grave ; And round about it only The leafless willows wave ; No pleasant flowers are swelling, To burst their rich perfume. Nor summer grasses growing, To clothe her peaceful tomb. 2 20 LOOK BEYOND. But there will come the summer, And there will fall the rain, And there the tender willow Shall yet grow green again ; And there the south-wind's calling, Shall waken fragrant flowers. And there shall birds sing sweetly In happy summer hours. And O, there comes a summer, More precious, sweet and fair, When we shall, like earth's flowers, New robes of beauty wear ; And then we'll rise together And walk these fields again. And sing with all the angels. Redemption's joyful strain. LOOK BEYOND, Look beyond, my soul, and see Zion's city fair ; Gleaming radiant as the sun. Free from pain and care. Lo, the race is almost run ! Life's fierce strife will soon be done CITY OF LIGHT. 221 Glorious rest will soon be won ! Yield not to despair. Lo, thy Captain, Jesus, leads Forth to realms of rest ; Victor's wreaths shall bind thy brow, In His mansions blest ; There with saints and angels fair. Free from every earth-born care, Thou shalt endless pleasure share, On His loving breast. CITY OF LIGHT. There's a City of Light 'mid the stars, we are told, Where they know not a sorrow or care : And the gates are of pearl, and the streets are of gold, And the building exceedingly fair. Let us pray for each other, nor faint by the way. In this sad world of sorrow and care. For that home is so bright, and is almost in sight. And I trust in my heart you'll go there. Brother dear, never fear, — we shall triumph at last. If we trust in the word He has giv'n ; 22 2 HOME TO MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN. When our trials and toils, and our weepings are past, We shall meet in that home up in heav'n. Sister dear, never fear, — for the Savior is near. With his hand He will lead you along ; And the way that is dark Christ will graciously clear, And your mourning shall turn to a song. Let us walk in the light ot the gospel divine ; Let us ever keep near to the cross ; Let us love, watch and pray, in our pilgrimage here ; Let us count all things else but as loss. HOME TO MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN. O FATHER, come kiss me once more, And watch by my bed just to-night : Your Nettie will walk thro' the Valley of Death Ere dawn of the sweet Sabbath light. O father, I'm going to mother, so dear, I dream' d that I saw her last night ; And over the river, sweet voices I hear : They call me to mansions of light, — Home, home, home to my mother in heaven. O father, what news shall I take To Jesus and mother for you ? HOME OF THE BLEST. 223 I'll tell him to send holy angels of light To bless and to comfort you, too. Our home here is lonely and dark, And oft we are hungry and cold ; But I shall go home to my mother, to-night, Where pleasures are purer than gold. O father, dear father, once more Of Jesus I pray you to think ; And when I am gone to my mother in heaven, O father, please give up your drink. O father, dear father, once more Please read in my Bible, and think : "No drunkard shall enter the kingdom of heaven!" O God, keep my father from drink ! ^i-S"" HOME OF THE BLEST. Home of the blest, sweet visions of love Gladden my soul while thinking of thee ; Sweet are thy streams and gardens above ; Home of the blest, thou art dearer than all to me. Harps of the blest, your music I hear : Soothingly sweet it comes unto me. 1 224 JACOB'S WELL. Calming to rest each torturing fear, Home of the blest, thou art dearer than all to me. Home of the blest, life's burdens I'll bear : Walking by faith thy glories I see ; Shortly thy joys and pleasures I'll share ; Home of the blest, thou art dearer than all to me. JACOB'S WELL Jesus sat by the well, and a woman came there, She a poor, needy sinner like me ; And He gave her to drink of the Water of Life, And this water is still flowing free. Ho, ev'ry one that thirsteth ! Come ye to the waters ! Come ye to the waters, flowing so free ! Whoso drinketh this water shall thirst never more, For a fountain it ever shall be, Springing up in His soul unto life evermore ; And this water is flowing for thee. Jacob's well is still full, and the Savior still waits, And He calls, thirsty sinner, to thee ; Will you drink of the fountain of Jacob and live. While this water is still flowing free? OLD SCHOOLHOUSE. 225 OLD SCHOOLHOUSE. Fond mem'ry paints the scenes of other years, Green be their mem'ry still ; And bright amid those joyous scenes appears The schoolhouse on the hill. the old schoolhouse that stands upon the hill, I never, never can forget ; Dear, happy days, ye gather round me still ! I never! no, never can forget. There hangs the swing upon the maple tree, Where you and I once swung ; There flows the spring, forever flowing free. As when we both were young. And just beyond the schoolhouse playing ground, Green grows the forest still ; Where once we chased each other round and round, With boist'rous glee and skill. There climb the vines, and there the berries grow Which once we prized so high ; And there the ripe nuts glisten in the glow Of rich October's sky. 15 226 GRAVE ON THE GREEN HILLSIDE. And on the play -ground happy children still Shout as in days of yore ; But oh ! those days, alas, for us, dear Will, Are gone forever more. GRAVE ON THE GREEN HILLSIDE. There's a little grave on the green hillside That lies to the morning sun. And our way-worn feet often wander there When the cares of the day are done ; There we often sit till the twilight falls, And talk of that far-off land, And we sometimes feel in the twilight there The soft touch of a vanished hand. Grave on the green hillside. Grave on the green hillside ; In the years to come we will calmly sleep In a grave on the green hillside. Ah ! the land is full of these little graves. In valley, and plain, and hill ; There's an angel, too, for each little grave, And these angels some mission fill ; SOUL'S SWEET FATHERLAND. 227 And I know not how, but I sometimes think They lead us with gentle hand, For a whisper falls on our willing ears From the shores of a far-off land. And these little graves are but wayside marks That point to the far-off land, And they speak to the soul of a better day, Of a day that is near at hand ; Tho' we first must walk thro' the darksome vale, Yet there Christ will be our guide ; And we'll reach the shore of the far-off land Thro' a grave on the green hillside. SOUL'S SWEET FATHERLAND. There is a land on whose fair shore No tempests beat or surges roar ; Where weary, way-worn souls may find Rest for the throbbins: heart and mind. 'to 'Tis the clime of the blest, 'Tis the land of delight. Where the many mansions stand ; 'Tis the home of the soul. Ever fair, ever bright, — 'Tis the soul's sweet fatherland. 2 28 BY THE GATE. Its peaceful plains glow in the light Of one glad day that knows no night ; There Christ, the King, who reigns above, Fills all the boundless realm with love. Sweet are the songs the singers sing In that great temple of our King ; There martyrs, priests and prophets old, Walk on the streets of shining gold. Oh, may we reach that joyful land. No more to clasp the parting hand ; Forever there, with Christ above, Reia^n in that land of boundless love. BY THE GATE. Holy, happy angels guard the Christian's way, Never from his path they stray ; Ever on their mission, they their vigils keep, Guarding all his waking, watching all his sleep. By the gate they'll meet us, 'Neath the golden sky. Meet us at the portal. Meet us by-and-by. CHRISTMAS BELLS. 229 Tho' we may not see them with our mortal eyes, By the light of Time's dim skies, Yet we hear their whispers, pointing far away To the golden lustre of eternal day. Holy, happy angels, sent us from above, Thro' the Savior's gracious love. Be ye ever near us, guarding all our way, Till we reach the mansions of eternal day. CHRISTMAS BELLS. — -H-W- — Happy Christmas bells are ringing Ev'rywhere, ev'rywhere ; Merry Christmas bells are ringing. Upon the wintry air : lelling of the love of God's dear Son, How He came from heav'n to earth. Ringing in the morning, once again, Of our dear Savior's birth. Ring, sweet bells, oh, ring again ! Pealing out your gladsome strain ! Happy Christmas bells, peal on. Ringing gladness ev'rywhere. 2 30 THE SAVIOR CALLS. Happy Christmas bells, your chiming Wakens hopes bright with love ; Tenderly your music tells us Of that sweet home above. Hopefully we look to that sweet home, Far removed from care and sin, Longing for the bells of heav'n to ring A sweeter Christmas in. Happy Christmas bells, your pealing Calls to pray'r, ev'ry where ; Cheerfully we look beyond us To that sweet home so fair : When the winter days have ended here, May we all in heav'n above. With our blessed Savior then appear In God's sweet home of love. THE SAVIOR CALLS. Hearken, children, the Savior calls you ! Hear the joyful news ! Free salvation to you is offered, Dare you still refuse ? Children, children, the Savior calls you, And his promise is to-day ; MY REFUGE. 231 Fly to him for his priceless blessing, O do not delay. Come to Him, in thy youth's sweet morning, Give him all thy heart ! He will shield thee, and gently bless thee. Never from thee part. By-and-by, when this life is ended. You shall dwell on high ; Share his love in the many mansions Far beyond the sky. o>o^^xKo MY REFUGE, The Lord my refuge is! My fortress, my defence, Whose battlements of strength are crowned With Love's Omnipotence ; And round about whose living wall Eternal splendors ever fall. Not kingdoms, thrones, or pow'rs, Things present, nor to come ; Not life, nor death, nor height, nor depth Can drive from this dear home ; 232 TUNE THE LYRE. This Rock, this Tower, forever sure I Eternal Refuge, shall endure ! Safe, sheltered by this Rock, What ill have I to fear? No storm can reach me where I standi No foe can venture near : Eternal Refuge of the soul, While endless ages onward roll I >>- TUNE THE LYRE. Tune ! tune the lyre, but not to joy. Strike ! strike the notes of woe ; And o'er my care -bewildered hearty A sad enchantment throw : Dark strains well suit my spirit now. Since sad is every thought, The saddest notes the sweetest arC;, With sweetest solace frauerht. ^b^ O sing of dear departed days, Of joys forever flown ! O madly strike the sounding lyre For I am all alone ! STANZAS. 2T,i, Sing ! sing Euterpe, maid of heav'n ! But let the strain be deep, () touch the wildest note of grief, — Then, minstrel, let me weep. STANZAS. I LOVE to think of the joyous Past, With its train of happy friends ; — To look at the scenes of the long ago Through the glass that Memory lends ; And yet it fills my spirit with woe And it throbs my heart with pain. To think of the friends and the peaceful scenes I shall greet no more again. There are downy cheeks, and laughing eyes, And lips, that I used to kiss. In that bright train ! O where are they now ! In a brighter world than this ? A radiant form I see through my tears, The tjueenliest one of the train ; But her cheek is pale, and I sigh to think I shall meet her no more again. There are comrades, too, in that long, long train, Bra\e comrades who fell by my side ; 2 34 EVENTIDE. Fought the battle of Life on the red field of Death, Fought bravely, fell nobly, and died. They sleep their last sleep in the forest deep, And they sleep on the battle plain ; In the groves on the hill-tops they sleep, and O, Shall I meet them no more again? They are gone, all gone, and I still am left To weep o'er the grave of the Past, That veils in its depths so many bright flow'rs That bloomed all too brightly to last ! And I cannot but weep, as I sit all alone, To think of the long, silent train ; — How others are flying with those that have flown. Shall I meet them no more again? EVENTIDE. 'Tis sweet to lie at eventide, Within the forest wild and wide : To watch the stars that gem the sky, To hear the winds in sadness sigh. And think of by-gone days. 'Tis sad at such an hour as this, To think on scenes of youthful bliss, TO MISSOURI RIVER. Of her you woo'd and won — and lost, When Life and Death the last die toss'd, And Death the winner proved. 'Tis sweet to feel, at such an hour, That Death is but a kindly power ; To fancy one bright star above The joyous home of her you love. That Death will bear you there. TO MISSOURI RIVER. i LOVE thee, proud stream, as I loved thee of yore, Tho' alas ! on thy banks I may stray never more ; I love thee, proud stream, as I loved thee in youth, Ere I left the fair paths of virtue and truth, I love thee, proud stream, where in infancy's pride, I cull'd the bright flowers that grew by thy side ; I love thy dark waves, as onward they sweep Past the toml) on thy bank where my father doth sleep. ( ) hallowed spot ! ever dear shalt thou be ! For undying Memory still brings thee to me : Yes, oft on the wings of fair fancy I roam, [home. By the stream, by the tomb, and by childhood's bright 2 36 TO ERATO. Roll on, noble river ! roll on in thy pride ! Lave gently the tomb on thy green, mossy side Thou type of my life, roll on to the sea. As I float down Time's tide to eternity. TO ERATO. Sweet maid of heaven, Erato, fare -thee -well ! No more with thee I climb the mountain height. Nor with thee, in the gloaming seek the dell To read God's poem on the brow of night ; To wander with thee on the moonlit strand And kneel beside thee, holding fast thy hand. Sweet maid of heaven, Erato, fare-thee-well I I fill the lonely night with bitter tears ; With weary sighs, foreboding sorrows swell As looking out I see the lonely years That are to dawn and fade, and die away Without thy song to bless each parting ray. Sweet maid of heaven, Erato, fare-thee-well ! Thy myrtle wreath, thy crown of roses rare, — Thy lute's soft witchery and thy lyre's sweet spell Have been to me a joy beyond compare ; — TO ERATO. 237 But woe is me ! Olympus fades from view, While broken arches echo my adieu ! And yet, perchance, in some far distant day, With thee again Parnassus I may climb. And hear thy mellow lute's bewitching lay, And drink the fountain of a purer rhyme ; But till that day, Erato, fare-thee-well ! Once more, Erato, yet once more, farewell ! c^-^ THE END. ^^^)c D-1 ; A^ ^ • • • - ^^ '^ *^ • • " ^% ' .♦^^rJ.. * <>> « « *^o ** • ^*^t™hS. • Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process > ^ J Deacidified usin_ F^ ^ Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide X \* ^J^ Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 1' % * ' ^>^\*^ PreservationTechnologies ^-''^ A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 K* J v^ * >: • ^*l<^^ ^^. • a '^O^ .-^^^ * 0* .-'jj:*. o, ,-».* -• DOBBS BROS. I.IBRARV BINOINO ^ <* * TV.* .C- toe 8?,%. .0* .;••- *> ^ »!iikr.