LJRRARY OF CONGRESS. UNITED STATES OF AJIERir.l. POEMS, ;^TVl/t. ^: S^ J^. 1ELI0TYPE PRINTING CO. BOSTON A VOLUME OF POEMS y MRS. M. A. B. KELLY State Normal College, Albany. N. Y. '^'"hoYi . - V ■ y^ 2B>o^ton JOSEPH GEORGE CUPPLES 250 BoYLSTON Street \ Copyright, 1892, By J. G. CUPPLES. A U rights reserved^ CONTENTS. PAGE Preface xl WAR WAIFS. Introduction Memories of the Siege of Suffolk. . . . i, Around the C amp-Fire g The Hero of Fort Seward 7 A Soldier's History 9 Midnight Musings 17 We Two 18 Old Aunt Milly 19 "Dan" 21 The Siege Raised 22 Battle of Deserted House 24 Two Years Ago 28 The Last Tattoo 29 A Rebel Souvenir 30 The Nameless Heroine 32 The Young Soldier 34 The Blue and the Gray 36 The Lost Cause 38 Laurel-Crowned 4° A Christmas Eve in Camp 41 \'i CONTENTS. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. PAGE The Mystery of Spanish Rock 45 At the Grave of Albrecht Durer .... 56 In the Binnenhof 57 Impromptu 59 Between the Lakes 60 NuLLi Secundus 61 A Myth of the R.hine 62 Munich 63 The Arminian Chest . . . . . . -65 The Judknstrasse 67 The Greatest Tragedy 68 POEMS WRITTEN FOR OCCASIONS. The Years 83 To Mrs. W. on Her Wedding-Day .... 94 Lines Written for a Wedding Anniversary . 94 Figure-Heads 96 QUIRKS AND QUERIES. A Silicate 117 To Plagiarism 117 Query 118 Why Not .? iiS Your Choice . iiS O Don't You Remember .' . . . . . .119 The Self-Made Man 121 Is IT A Failure ? .121 Resume 122 The Puzzled Entomologist 123 Myths i-:4 CONTENTS. vii CYPRESS SPRAYS. PAGE In Memoki \m i-9 The Early Dead 130 Gone 131 Beyond 131 Threc Years Ago 13- Saved 133 Seven Years Ago i34 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. My Lady Dedlock 139 Experience 140 Autumn Leaves ........ 141 The First Snow 14- The True Queen i43 Going Down to the Grave . . » . -14 + Runaway Jim HS Kind Words Only 151 Grave of Leather Stocking 151 " His Own Accuser" i54 My' Little Qtierist 15^ The Water Tiger 156 Submission i57 Spring Harbingers 158 Without and Within 160 No One to Carry the Keys 161 October 162 The Last Reveille 163 '• Still She Keeps Rocking Him" .... 165 Why Does She Weep for Him .?.... 166 The Thunder Bolt ....... 167 CONTENTS. PAGE An Autumn Idyl i68 Longings 171 Life's Largess 171 I Wish 171 The Flower-Girl of the Tuilleries . . .173 The Beautiful Home 175 Ode to Burns 175 Two Letters 180 Dead Man's Island 181 The Down Grade . . . . . . . . 1S4 A Contrast 185 In Palmer's Studio 187 To a Northern Robin 189 Homeless 191 A Lesson . . . . • . • • • • 192 My Real Estate 193 Twilight in Washington Park 195 Every Day 196 Lines for an Album 197 Cryptogamla. 198 A Carol . 200 An Incident 202 Retrospective 203 The Hen with One Chick 203 A Fragment 206 Death of Tasso 207 Friendship — What Is It ? 209 Down by the Sea ... . . 210 The Old Bell . . .... 212 The Last Supper of the Girondists . . .214 Missions 217 In Conclusion 218 CONTENTS. i.v LESSONS FROM THE STOICS. PAGE Happiness 223 224 225 Contentment Moderation The Measure of Worth 226 POEMS FOR THE CHILDREN. Coals of Fire 231 235 235 237 The Orphan Prince A School-Girl's Trials Song — Work for All to Do .... Grimalkin 23S A Rhymed Epistle to Fred 240 Lost Treasures . 241 A Botanical Baby 242 The Victor VANqyisHED . . . . . • ^\\ Old Mr. Santa Claus ...... 246 The Unattainable 200 The First "Bang" 249 The Two Weavers 250 Retaliation . 252 School Song (Parting Ode") 254 PREFACE. It may not be inappropriate to give a few words of explanation concerning tlie '' War Waifs " that introduce this volume. The author was a resident of Suffolk, Va., during a greater part of the late Civil War. The place was occupied as an outpost, and the condition of its inhabitants, under the alternate sway of the contending armies, was not an enviable one. The helpless women and chil- dren of the town would have suffered for the bare necessities of life had it not been for the kindness of the Federal Army. The author remembers with lively gratitude one occasion on which the generous and timely aid rendered by Gen. N. M. Curtis, the " Hero of Fort Fisher," saved both her child and herself from impending starvation. A few of the poems were written during that .period, but most of them were subsequently com- posed from a diary of the events as they occurred. Many of the dead and wounded of the battle of " Deserted House " were borne to hospitals imme- diately adjoining the author's residence, and one xli PREFACE. building on her premises was appropriated by the One Hundred and Twelfth N. Y. Vols., as a " Dead House." The battle of " Deserted House " began a little after two o'clock on the morning of January 30, 1863, and continued till about noon of the same day, when the Confederates retreated across the Blackwater. The gallantry of many of the regi- ments in this engagement is rewarded in the official records with honorable mention. The Siege of Suffolk, by Gen. Longstreet, com- menced April 12, 1863, and continued about three weeks. This bombardment cost several lives, and no small destruction of property. Many of the helpless citizens, fleeing from their burning dwel- lings, rushed excitedly between the skirmishing lines and thus lost their lives in attempting to es- cape from an impending peril. One family, whose house had caught fire, attempted to seek safety within the Federal Lines, the mother carrying an infant in her arms. She was instantly killed, but the rest of the family escaped unhurt. It was during this siege that Ned Buntline, of Dime Novel fame, wrote a pathetic letter to Gen. Peck, asking to be temporarily released from prison, (where he was confined for inebriation) that he might " help do some of the fighting." His peti- PREFACE. xiii tion was granted, and he did good service during the siege. For information concerning dates and many- other important points, the author is indebted to the following named : — Gen. N. M. Curtis ; Gen. Jno. Palmer, Com- mander-in-Chief, G. A. R. ; Dr. Charles M. Clark, Thirty-ninth 111. Vols. ; Capt. Samuel Culberton, and Hon. Edgar A. Day (both of the First N. Y. Dragoons); Mr. Geo.W. Wiggins, Sixth Mass. Inf. ; Serg. Henry C. Van Vechten, First N. Y. Mounted Rifles, and Mr. Geo. E. Lowry, Secy and Treas., Thirteenth Ind. Vet. Association. That the War Waifs may be of interest, not only to those who took an active part in the events to which they refer, but to all who love their country and their country's flag, is the sincere wish of the author. M. A. B. K. Albany, Dec. i, 1891. WAR WAIFS, INTRODUCTION. "Weave these sad experiences into rliyme ; so that the harmony of verse, the blessings of peace to come, and the healing hand of time, may soften the remembrance of what you are now passing through." (Extract from a letter written by Mrs. Elizabeth Curtis Wallace, who under the pseudonym of " Allie Zandt," became a popular contributor of war-items to the leading journals of the South.) Dear Allie Zandt, I sit alone In sorrow and in silence now, And do thy bidding. Years have flown. Since last I pressed upon thy brow The farewell kiss ; but from my heart Thine imaged grace will ne'er depart. As in my ear the pearly shell Sings of the ocean far away, So in my heart sweet memories dwell And chide me for my long delay In gleaning, through the weary years. These blossoms born of blood and tears. MEMORIES OF THE SIEGE OF SUFFOLK. On the evening of the 19th of April, 1863, a company of the 89th New York Volunteers — Lieut. Col. England— and a company of the Sth Connecticut Volunteers— Lieut. Ward — embarked on the gun-boat Stepping-Stones — Lieut. Lamson — and led on by General Getty, they stormed and took a bat- tery from the enemy stationed at Hill's Point, on the west side of the Nansemond. The rebel loss : two killed, six ■wounded, one hundred and thirty prisoners, seven of whom were officers, besides five brass pieces and a large supply of ammunition. Federal loss : three killed and five wounded. Virginia's fertile fields are waste and bare, For where the broom-straw waved, a year ago, White tents are pitched, and scattered, here and there, ' War's stern insignia lie ; while to and fro, The tramp of steel-clad men, and sabre's ring, Proclaim to earth and sky that War is King. Long lines of earth-works raise their frowning forms ; Deep rifle-pits their deadly secrets hide ; Low-flying vultures sweep the sky in swarms. In search of banquets, such as they provide Who rush to battle, and in mortal strife, Yield up the mystery that men call Life. 4 IVAJ^ WAIFS. A little hamlet, desolate, forlorn, Its homes dismantled, and in ruins laid, Awakes in startled fear, this April morn ; For ere the crystal lines of amber fade Low in the east, the cloud-distended sky Fore-warns of death and danger, lurking nigh. Swift couriers are flying here and there, The signal-flag that crowns the " Merry Oak " Its mystic message floats upon the air, And they who read its meaning, pale, invoke The God of battles, while the long-roll's beat Sends forth its call to conquest or defeat. Then speeds the news : — The guards are driven in ! The enemy appear before the town With Longstreet at their head ! Now, who would win The hero's fadeless laurels of renown. Must charge the foe, pursue him in the race, And challenge Death's dark sentry, face to face. From yonder belt of woods there comes the boom Of loud-mouthed cannon, as their hissing throats Fierce warnings issue, of impending doom ; While 'mid the roar, the call of bugle-notes And stirring drum-beats through the camps re- sound. And rouse to action all the tented ground. Oh, hapless homes of a beleaguered town ! O, fear-blanched matrons, gather to your side Your helpless broods ; the storm beats fiercely down. WAR WAIFS. 5 The storm of iron hail, — where will ye hide ? Where find a refuge from the bloody hand That desolates and darkens all the land ? For see ! Along the clay-cleft road is borne An army litter, and stark dead and cold, A woman's form outstretched ! Let Pity mourn, And soft-eyed Sympathy her arms enfold Around the orphaned babe, with starved lips pressed Against its mother's chill and pulseless breast. Day follows day, and messengers of wrath Flame-footed, speed from rifle-pit and fort, While ghastly ruin marks their bloody path ; Meanwhile, there comes the steady, strong report Of distant gun-boats, on the Nanseraond, That fiercely, to the rebel taunts, respond. Now solemn Night unrolls her sable screen : And flashing up against the somber sky, The fitful blaze of War's red torch is seen Above uncofifined forms that stricken, lie Where they their debt of duty nobly paid, 'Neath straggling shot or scathing enfilade. And all along the outer picket line, Keen eyes are peering through the veil of night, To catch the gleam where rebel camp-fires shine ; For, firmly planted on the frowning height Above the river's bank, they dimly ken The Stribbling Battery, held by Pickett's men. 6 WAR WAIFS. Now on the night-air breaks the cannon's roar, And far and near, swift, fiery missiles scream ; Look, from the Nansemond's deep, winding shore The gun-boat Stepping-Stones moves down the stream ! Waist deep, her heroes land, and stem the flow. Then scale the height and fiercely charge the foe. With sudden shout they rush upon the rear, And now with hand to hand, and steel to steel They sternly grapple, till a lengthened cheer, That rises o'er the cannon's deaf 'ning peal, Proclaims the victory, — 'tis done, 'tis done, The rebel fort with all it holds, is won ! AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE. 'Tis night in camp, the guns are stilled, And bright the watch-fires glow ; The soldiers' hearts with hope are filled, And while the fires burn low, And ere the tattoo calls to rest, They pass the hour with song and jest : — SONG. Oh, we fear not the gray-back that stealthily glides Through the vine-tangled swamp where the cop- per-head hides ; For the Somerton Road it is guarded with care. While the Boys of the Sixth Massachusetts are there, — WAR WAIFS. 7 The brave boys that through Baltimore marched undismayed, And handled their guns as if war were their trade ! Then what boots it to us, this wild rumor that flies. Of the skulking guerilla, sharp-shooters, and spies ? We have Foster's and Terry's and Murphy's Bri- gades, And we'll welcome the foe with our grand fusil- lades ; And if any rash Reb should still venture too near, Then good old Pennsylvania will toss him a Spear ! So we're ready for Jenkins, we're waiting for Hood, And we scoff at the foe in the dark cypress wood ; For our rifles are trusty, our bayonets keen. And with Davis's Battery playing between The strong Somerton Road and the face of the foe, Sure, his path will be rough and his march will be slow ; Then hurrah for our country, three cheers upon three. For " The home of the brave and the land of the free." . THE HERO OF FORT SEWARD. During the siege of Suffolk, Va., a half-clad infant, escap- ing from its mother's care, found its way to Fort Sev.ard, situated in the rear of the Sixth Massachusetts Hospital. Dr. Walter Burnham actually tore the flannel pennon from his flag-staff and gave it to the mother of the child. As he pre- sented it, he good-naturedly observed, "All that our staff needs is to stick to its colors, and a cotton flag will keep it warm enough ! " 8 WAR WAIFS. Through all the camp a rumor runs, to-day, Fort Seward's taken ! Fort Seward taken ? How ? By whom ? Upon the air there falls no boom Of wrathful cannon, near nor far away, While banner-crowned, the stately bastions loom Tall, proud, unshaken. A pygmy soldier, — such is the report, — (Mere rumor, may be), Attacked, and captured, on the spot. The garrison, without a shot. Know ye the little Reb that stormed the fort ? Behold, he smiling stands ! Oh, harm him not, 'Tis some one's baby. His thread-bare coat is like the Rebel rag, Less tattered, may be ; But not a hero in the land. More cheerful homage may command, — For see ! The hospital hauls down its flag. And puts it in the happy mother's hand. To clothe her baby ! From hand to hand he passes, — crowned with gifts, — Glad, smiling, fearless. His dash was brilliant, bloodless, bold. But he the garrison will hold ; For as his questioning glance to each he lifts, And as his chubby arms their necks enfold. His eyes are tearless. M'AR WAIFS. 9 A SOLDIER'S HISTORY. I went into a hospital to-day, And there, outstretched upon their narrow beds, Men wounded, helpless, wan and haggard lay; And some there were whose lives like brittle threads Half-severed hung, as with hot, labored breath And film-blurred eyes they blindly fought with Death. The surgeon met me, — curt and rough of speech, But tender as a woman in his thought ; " There's one poor devil yonder, past the reach Of human help," he said. — I turned and caught The meaning of his words, and for the rest, If Death be friend or foe, God knoweth best. Before me, lay a soldier, young, — as age Is measured by the swiftly fleeting years ; But in the volume of a life, one page May hold a record, blotted o'er with tears, That would a strange, unsolved enigma be To him whose life is pure and glad and free. For it is hard to stand, in thought, where stood An erring brother, when the tempter came And smote him blind to every sense of good, And left him helpless in the path of shame, To wake at last, soul-smitten, hopeless, faint, With that heart-hunger which no words can paint. I write the story of a ruined life. Unvarnished, plain, as it was told to me. — lo WAR WAIFS. A sin-wrecked soul has passed from earthly strife, Passed to that far Beyond where'er it be, — To mourn, ah, nevermore, — who dares gainsay, The fault of his long, tearful yesterday : — My home was in the fair, broad West Where rose-hued sunbeams sink to rest, And flush with each deep, mellow ray Tall, cloud-capped summits, distance-gray, And thrifty vales and dappled hills. Hemmed in with silver-threaded rills. 'Twas there my boyhood days were spent, And there my father toiled, content, Nor cast one look of vain regret Back o'er the past. But when I met A pensive look, sometimes a tear Up-springing to my mother's eyes, — (Sweet orbs as soft as April skies,) I questioned why. " 'Tis naught, my dear, 'Twill pass away," she quick replies, "And we are very happy here." I was so young, I could not know That over-care would make her old ; But thought my mother's locks of gold, And rounded throat, as white as snow. Their beauty would forever hold ; Nor dreamed that in her breast there lay A tearful longing, hidden deep, For home and kindred, far away. Where eastern hills and valleys sleep. WAR WAIFS. No gladsome mates had I to share My childhood sports ; but oft there came A little maid with auburn hair, And rosy lips and cheeks aflame With bashful blushes as she stood In budding sweetness, fair, as good. And when with furtive glance I scanned Her modest face, with grieved surprise I noted oft that in her eyes The rounded tear-drops seemed to stand. But soon I learned to frame in speech The sympathy I sought to lend ; And she in turn would shyly reach Her dainty hand to mine and bend A listening ear to hear me tell Strange fairy-tales. Ah, passing well I loved that little maid to teach, The little maid named Isabel. One morning when the frosty air Of bleak December silvered o'er The wood and stubble everywhere, She came and sat beside our door In orphaned grief; and from that day She turned no more her steps away, But lived in glad content to share My mother's love, my father's care. Years passed, and ever at my side My foster-sister kept her pace ; In task or game, with wistful pride She sought her merit in my face ; 12 WAR WAIFS. No higher umpire did she ask, Joy-crowned if I approved her task ; And to my heart an answer sent With eyes that voiced her mute content. The touching story sweetly told Of Paul and fair Virginia's fate, We verified ; for days of old, And days that are their secrets hold, Of hearts that oft untimely mate, — Linked by the mystic tie of fate, — To turn at last so strangely cold That all the world seems desolate ! Our hidden love we dared not tell, But kept the secret guarded well ; And they who saw us, day by day, With growing fondness, closer cling, Saw but two children at their play ; And when I placed a shining ring . Upon her dimpled hand one day. She spoke no word, she made no sign, But raised her soft brown eyes to mine, In glad response no words could tell ; And then in secret Isabel Became my bride ! I meant no wrong. But oft 'tis proved in tale and song, That secret pledge, whate'er it be. Gives rein to infidelity. As years sped on I restless grew ; My father's clovered acres smiled WAR WAIFS. As fragrant, broad, and fair, to view, As when I roamed, a happy child Along the shaded, crystal rills That led from distant, sapphire hills Through field and wood and velvet dell. Content with my good Isabel. But that great, boundless world outside, Sent to my ear its throbbing sound. — 'Tis strange how oft our paths divide When heart to heart is closest bound ! I left my home, my sister-bride. And from that hour my breast hath found No lasting joy. The swelling tide, Of wild ambition's wave hath drowned My struggling soul and, tempest-tossed, I've wandered helpless, hopeless, lost. Temptation wove its baleful snare ; I fell and learned to crush at last. The bitter grief, the wild despair That o'er my life their shadows cast ; And from my breast the prompter hurled That frowned, when fortune spoke me fair, Clutched at my heart and sought to bare My hidden secret to the world. I learned to smile with lips that lied, And found it not a stupid task ; In base deceit each art I plied, Neath falsehood's fair, illusive mask ; But conscience oft renewed her claim And spurned the price that purchased fame. 14 IVAR WAIFS. The hearts and hands of men I won ; I rose to honor and renown, And gloried in my rising sun When beauty smiled, and wealth bowed down ; Then to my heart serenely said, "Thou hast no past, thy past is dead." But fame is a light recompense, As empty as the Syren's song, And will not heal nor hush the sense Of having wrought a lasting wrong ; And he who lives a dual life. Writhes in a self-accusing strife ! At length a hungry longing came To see once more my boyhood's home. I strove to hide the blush of shame That tinged my cheek, as thoughts would come Of just reproach and bitter blame, And bid me wait, till years on years Had steeled fond hearts and dried their tears. With throbbing pulse I stood once more Within the open cottage door ; But not alone, for by my side, I led a newly-wedded bride ! So reckless, cruel, and unjust. So lost to shame, so false to trust. May man become when passion's reign Enslaves the heart and mads the brain. A little child with soft, brown eyes, — Such eyes a heritage must be ! WAR WAIFS. 15 Glanced shyly up, in scared surprise, Then questioned: — "Did you come to see The place where mama's ma is laid ? They put her there, a week ago. I'll show the way, I'm not afraid." — No wonder that the crimson glow Of shame forsook my guilty cheek ! Crushed, trembling, stunned beneath the blow, I scarce could stand, I could not speak, And bowed my head in silent woe. Then on my ear there sweetly fell Glad words of welcome, tender, low, Like echoes of the long ago. I raised my eyes, and Isabel Before me stood ! The fires of hell Consumed me then ; for well I knew That she was brave, and pure, and true, And I more false than tongue can tell. A woman's grace will pardon wrong. And shield the hand that stabs, and yet Her heart be true, her trust be strong; But when her trust with scorn is met. What deeper anguish may she know } Death cannot deal a surer blow. How like a burnished blade of steel Her glance went to my coward breast. As statue like, in mute appeal She stood, with choking sob suppressed, Her pallid lips and eyes a-strain 1 6 WAR WAIFS. Revealing all her speechless pain. The wasted form, — the hectic glow That played upon her marble cheek, Betrayed her soul-consuming woe More touchingly than words could speak. A moment thus she mutely stood, And then the vital, crimson flood Burst from her lips. — I wear the stain On hand and heart, and say " 'tis well." — I sprang to save her, but in vain. She fled my touch, and lifeless fell Prone at my feet, slain Isabel ! The whirlwind's breath hath swept my track, I've harvested my bitter-sweet ; She gave me truth, and blindly back I threw the jewel at her feet. Through years of silence she had borne My mother's doubt, my father's scorn, To shield me from their righteous blame ; And from her finger tore the band That proved her just and legal claim As any mother in the land, To give my child her father's name. The years wear on. My child hath grown To maidenhood. But from that day Her orphaned heart hath never known The need of mother-love. Away Beyond the western hills they bide. And I, — what right have I to claim One tender thought } My child .? My bride } Mine only in an empty name I WAR WAIFS. i; I've harvested my bitter-sweet, I've drunk the bottom dregs of sin ; I've roamed with weary, restless feet, Nor paused, nor dared to look within ; And sought forgetfulness in vain. From pole to pole, and main to main. Sweet love hath nestled near my heart, With weary wing and panting breast ; Unmoved, I saw her, grieved, depart, I could not give her pinions rest ; And beauty with her magic spell Hath sought to woo me but in vain ; For ne'er will bloom, in vale or dell. So fair a flower as Isabel, Nor throbs a heart so free from stain, Nor beats so true, nor loves so well. MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. "As every place at the South, occupied by the Union forces, is denied all communication with the Southern army, many of us have not heard from our husbands in twelve months. If they fall, we shall never know when nor where, especially those who have gone out as privates under the Conscript Act." — Extract from a letter. The moonbeams came so bright, Charlie, The moonbeams came so bright. And wove their soft, white drapery - Round the baby's crib, to-night, That I wondered if the soldiers. And you, among the rest, Were talking 'neath the moonlight Of the hearts that love you best. I8 WAR WAIFS. There are days when storm-clouds gather. And the rain comes falHng fast ; Days wherein no summer sunshine Smiles away the howling blast ; Then I wonder if the soldiers, And you of all the rest, Have outside cheer and comfort, And hope within your breast. There are days when burning sunbeams Kiss the parched and arid earth, Days when floret-eyes are turning Toward the banks that gave them birth, Pleading vainly for the wavelets That so oft have washed away The dew that droops their eyelids At the early peep of day ; Then I wonder if the soldier 'Neath the fiercely burning sun, Is panting out his life-breath On the field just lost or won ; And I tremble, as I wonder Whether you, of all the rest, Are lost on earth, forever, To the heart that loves you best ! WE TWO. Sleep, baby mine, though through the murky air The solid shot and shrieking shell resound ; While lurid flames light up the sky, and round WAR WAIFS. 19 Our quaking tenement, the horrid glare Of burning homesteads pictures wild despair. Swift meteors of wrath fall to the ground With hissing threat, on Death's dread errand bound ; And soon, with arms reversed, shall they who bear Their fallen comrade to his resting-place Beside the rolling Nansemond, slow pass Before me, while I gaze with pallid face ; For on some future day, we two, — alas, When War's red chariot hath run its race. May seek with tear-dimmed eyes, — a mound of grass ! Suffolk, Va., April 25, 1863. OLD AUNT MILLY. Do you mark the little cabin standing near that clump of pine. Where the bamboo's jointed tendrils round the cypress-knees entwine ; Where the mulberry's bare rootlets, twisted and rheumatic, coil In and out among the holly that defies the barren soil ? Well, that cabin is Aunt Milly's, and from early ■ dawn of day. Till the tattoo beats at evening, poor old Milly toils away At her " washin' fur de sojers," — and though shot and shell may speed 20 WAR WAIFS. On their sure or doubtful errands, still Aunt Milly takes no heed ; But with sleeves rolled to her elbows, and bandana of bright red Folded "zactly on de bias," and coiled round her grizzly head, She blends music with her labor, till she makes the cabin ring, And 'twould fill your heart with gladness, just to hear old Milly sing : — De Lawd He sent an angel down To set His people free; Den come my lub-e-ly bred-er-en, Oh, come along wi' me ; De boat it is a waitin' fur To take po' sinners in. An' when yo've landed on de sho' Yo'll drap dat load ob sin ; De Lawd He'll take it all away, An' place yo' on de groun', Wi' silver slippers on yo're feet To walk ole Jordan roun'. I feel like, I feel like, I feel like marchin' on ; I feel like, I feel like, I feel like marchin' on. Dey dun and tuk de Lawd ob love, And nailed Him to de cross on high, Had I de whings ob Noah's-es dove I'd sing and praise Him twell I die. WAR WAIFS. 21 It pears like, it pears like I'm on my journey home ; It pears like, it pears like I'm on my journey home. "DAN."* (Written at Suffolk, Va., Nov. 3, 1S62.) Dan is a jolly good fellow, And Dan is gay, dashing, and bold, He always looks out for the ladies. No matter how young, or how old ! In short, he's the qualifications (We'll say it aloud, for we can), To make him the chief among mortals, A high-hearted, whole-hearted man. His pockets know never a famine. They leak, but they leak at the top, A fault that few people complain of (I know one or two who do not) ; So all the young cousins at Christmas March up to his room, to a man. And "salute," as they grasp the bright quarter Held out by their dear " Cousin Dan." Dan travels way down in Secessia, He's seen ail the mules and a — bare And desolate region of country. As ever he saw anywhere ; * Adjutant Daniel C. Liggett, Second Ohio Vols. ; IVAR WAIFS. He says that one Buck of Ohio Is worth a plantation of mules, But Dan never learned how to " reckon " According to Secession rules ! He wears some " brass straps " on his shoulders ; Wears long-legged boots, and all that, But still he retains all his senses ! He knows how to relish a chat With every fine fellow about him, — Is bound to enjoy all he can. And all the "good boys " in camp hail him By no other title than " Dan." He always speaks well of the ladies (I know he'd speak well of his wife). 'Tis a marvel he should have stayed single These long dreary years of his life ; But when this great conflict is over, And Peace shall be stayed in her flight. Should there be a great rush to the Union, Why, Dan will be forced to unite ! THE SIEGE RAISED. Sad April skies have wept their fill, Dark clouds no more their tears distill, And smiling May, with garlands fair. Her fragrance sheds on, all the air ; WAR WAIFS. She comes, a harbinger of peace, For lo, the sounds of battle cease ! Bright banners wave from strong redoubts. While contrabands, and trusty scouts And couriers, with flying feet Report the foe in full retreat ! The fury of the storm is past. The Val-father speaks peace at last ; The deep Blackwater rolls between Besieger and besieged. The scene Is changed, and all the camp rings out With song, and cheer, and victor's shout. And now each heart beats high again, For yonder comes the Wagon-train ! Up to the hub, in miry clay, The clumsy " U. S." makes its way. Brimful of treasures, packed with care, — Good news from home, and tid-bits rare From loving hands, and hearts too true To e'er forget the Boys in Blue ! Now round the evening mess they throng. With merry tale and jocund song ; Nor pause to mend their home-spun verse As they their martial deeds rehearse, Till all too soon the tattoo's sound Is heard. The sentry makes his round, The dying camp-fire's fitful light Dies out, and fold on fold, the night Envelops camp and field, once more In peaceful rest. — The Siege is o'er. 23 24 WAR WAIFS. BATTLE OF DESERTED HOUSE. * (Read at the Ninth Annual Reunion of the Old Guard, held at Indianapolis, Sept. 23, 1891.) 'Tis midnight. Slumber's balm hath sealed The soldier's eyelids, and the moon Looks calmly down on tent and field ; And as her mellow light is shed O'er all the sleeping camp, outspread, The soldier dreams, — but ah, too soon His blissful dream of home hath fled ! Mid-winter holds his icy reign. And from their fleecy tents the stars Step forth to join that brilliant train The rear guard of the mighty Mars. But see ! There speeds with flashing light Athwart the sky, a single star That slips beneath the moon's pale bar And darting down, is lost to sight. Who knows, but 'mid the shining host Some sentinel forsakes his post ? And now beneath the winter sky Our columns stand in full array To fight, perchance to fall, — to die ! We question not — But who shall say That in the bravest hero's eye * A point nine miles west of Suffolk, Va., held bv the Con- federate General, Roger A. Pryor. WAR WAIFS. 25 There glistens no uprising tear (Born not of craven-hearted fear), But for the loved ones, far away ? Spear's Cavalry, with clattering speed, In swift advance our columns lead ; And as by twos they onward dash, A sudden whizz, — a musket's flash With startling force breaks on the air ! They heed it not, but boldly dare The foe with answering sabre's clash. Ah, how they charge ! See, everywhere Their glancing weapons, gleaming bright, Flash back the full moon's flooding light. Then rises loud the mingled shout, "They've put the rebel guards to rout ! " And wild huzzas, and cheer on cheer Resound from front, and flank, and rear. Now forward rush our fleet deploys ! Through wood and swamp they fearless go, The "Thirteenth Indiana Boys," With bayonets fixed to charge the foe. On, on, they press, till lost to sight, Then all is veiled in blackest night ; For now, alas, the waning moon Dies out, and scout and bold dragoon Must stand, with hearts that never quail, And blindly face the leaden hail. Now Follett's guns with thunder-tones Join Davis's in fiery wrath. 26 WAR WAIFS. While piercing shrieks and stifled groans Mark well the War-king's reddened path ; And men and horses moaning lie Beneath the cold and starless sky, In pools of blood and thickets damp ; Nor heed the rush, nor hear the tramp Of those who brave this woeful night Without one star their path to light. But as they, blind, bewildered, go, The darkness veiling friend and foe, Whence comes that crash, — that sudden light? A rebel death-bolt on its way Has struck a caisson ! — Clear and bright. As shines the sun at full mid-day. The flames leap up, and now the foe Learns where to strike his surest blow. His vantage-ground, he seizes, — quick His missiles search our ranks, and thick The field is strewn with heroes slain. Where whizzing bullets fall like rain. The flames are quenched, and sable Night Again spreads out her gloomy pall ; By shot and shell, on left and right. Scorched, scattered, now our comrades fall, And mangled, torn, and crushed, they're found Stretched lifeless on the frozen ground. At length we hail the rosy beam That ushers in the dawn of day ; And though the deadly missiles scream Amid our ranks, firm on our way JVAR WAIFS. 27 We form battalion lines, nor yield Till we have charged across the field, To deal the last decisive blow Upon the swiftly flying foe. Well may each standard-bearer claim The proud inscription, written here.* New York will mourn her martyred slain. And Pennsylvania drop a tear Upon the graves of those who fell To save the flag they loved so well ; For from the East and from the West, Men side by side, unflinching, stood, Nerved by the cause, dear to each breast. That bound them in one brotherhood. From Massachusetts' classic hills To Indiana's rolling plains. Each loyal heart with ardor thrills At sight of those deep, crimson stains, That on our ensigns floating free. Record our hard-won victory. As o'er our fallen brave, we breathe A prayer of faith, that for each brow The gentle hand of Peace may wreathe A lasting chaplet, let us bow And to the God of battles yield The glory of the blood-bought field. I request that there may be inscribed upon the resfi- mental colors, " Blackwater and Deserted House." — Col. Samuel C. Spear, Eleventh Penn. Cavalry. 28 WAR WAIFS. TWO YEARS AGO. (Written during the war, and published as a tribute to the One Hundred and Twelfth N. Y. Vols.) Two years ago, when summer flowers Were shrinking 'neath September's frown, When Nature, rich with autumn's dowers, Exchanged her green, for robes of brown ; Chautauqua's sons, her pride, her boast, As Freedom's breast its wounds revealed, Went forth to join the mighty host Already on the battle-field. The widow's only son was there, — Alas, how could she bid him stay. When aged men, with hoary hair. Their armor burnished for the fray? Wives, mothers, daughters, sisters all A parting blessing freely gave, In answer to that earnest call, — "To arms ! To arms ! Your country save ! " And nobly has that gallant band The soldier's toils and perils shared, As 'neath the banner of their land Their bosoms to the foe they bared ; For some lie sleeping on the plains Where mingled hosts of dead repose, And some, mayhap, in captive chains In sorrow pine 'mid cruel foes. WAR WAIFS. 29 And some there were whose spirits burned To hasten to the deadly fray, — But ah, their coffined forms returned Before its sounds had died away. Their coffined forms ! alas, the woe That clad the home, the heart, the face. Ah, Death, it was a cruel blow That years on years may not erase. Along the winding Nansemond They're scattered, too, in dreamless sleep ; Above their graves the dew-plants bloom, And there, like silent mourners, weep. Two little years, — alas, how few Of all that noble band remain ! Of all those hearts, so tried and true, How few shall greet us here again ! THE LAST TATTOO. " The number is growing less and less as each year makes its changes. Soon ' Taps ' and ' Lights Out ! ' will be sounded for the last one in our number, by the grim camp-follower of us all — Death! — only to awake at the 'Reveille' of Ga- briel, as he summons us for final account." — Extract from the History of the Thirty-Ninth Illinois Regiment, -written by Charles M. Clark, M. D., late Surgeon of the Regiment. Death sounds for all the last " tattoo," Deep silence reigns ; night closes round ; The restful sleep that none may woo, And none may break, strange, still, profound. Beclouds each sense. — Friends, tearful, strew Spring violets, and meadow-rue. And mark the spot as hallowed ground. so WAR WAIFS. Each winter spreads a veil of snow, Each summer braids a tender wreath For some new grave. — Years come and go ; But they who rest in peace beneath The winter's blast, the summer's glow, Hid not the sword within its sheath Till it had dealt the final blow ! What rarer gift can man bequeath Than life, to stay a nation's woe ? And when they meet in Grand Review Before the final Judgment Hall, Think ye, the "Boys " who donned the "Blue' Responsive to their country's call Will blanch with fear ? Nay, is it true He heedeth e'en a sparrow's fall ? Then will he mete to each his due. And justly, wisely, judge us all. A REBEL'S SOUVENIR. Swift rushing, Death's challenge to meet, But still rushing bravely to death. The masses in gray fell like chaff at our feet Swept down by our cannon's hot breath. But now breaking ranks, see, they yield At last to our fierce, galhng fire ! And, leaving their wounded and dead on the field In wildest confusion, retire; WAR WAIFS. 31 Retire in the direst dismay, And flee to the sheltering pines ; And now from the field, both the blue and the gray Are gently borne back to our lines. What was it the soldier in gray With face cold and white as the snow, Held tightly within his clinched hand as he lay Stark dead at the feet of his foe ? Nay smile not with scorn as you scan The verses his sweetheart hath penned ; Perchance when the " fight at Manassas " began. Your poet foresaw not the end ! GOD SPEED, Now God speed thee, thou art going from thy childhood's home away, At the call of duty going, and what charm shall bid thee stay ? Every tie is calmly broken, Every farewell firmly spoken, And thy proud eye gives no token Of regret nor fear, to-day. As with voices strong and steady. Comes the watch-word, "We are ready," — Ready for the toils, aye, ready. That await us on the way. ******** When we see the proud light burning In each fearless victor's eye, 32 WAR WAIFS. Then we'll know that Southern spirit hath taught conquered foes to fear it, And we'll sacredly revere it, as a thing that cannot die. Blood-stained is the parchment, and worn, And scarcely the words we discern, — " God speed," — 'tis the prayer of a heart that is torn With grief for the hero's return ! THE NAMELESS HEROINE. "The men of the Seventj-sixth will not soon forget, and I should fail in the performance ofmj duty, did I not mention the 'Nameless Heroine' who, with a cup in each hand, so busily dealt out water to the thirsty boys, the tears of sym- pathy stealing down her lovely cheeks, as the wounded soldiers came hobbling by, until pierced by a rebel ball, she fell dead by the side of her pail !"— (Battle of Gettysburgh.) From the History of the Seventy-Sixth Regiment, N. Y. Vols, by Hon. A. P. Smith, First Lieut., and ^. M. of the Regi- ment. Oh, give honor and fame to the heroes who fought, And give laurels and tears to the martyrs who fell On that fierce July day when your columns were brought Face to face with the foe and his murderous shell. On that day when the daisy, white-robed like a bride. Shrank away from the carnage with fear-droop- ing eyes, WAR WAIFS. 33 When the grass dipped its blade in the dark crim- son tide, And the sweet Dove of Peace winged her way to the skies. But when over the mounds of your heroes ye strew The first-born buds and blossoms of woodland and dell, When ye plant by the sod of your brave Boys in Blue The bright banner for which they so gallantly fell. Then forget not the grave where your heroine lies, Oh remember the maid who with heart strong and true. In the midst of the slaughter, with pitying eyes Bravely held out the cup of cold water to you : And with tender care, gather one blossom of white. With its heart crimson-tinted, and plant it alone. Where the willow droops low and the dews of the night Softly weep for the maiden unknelled and unknown. 34 IVAR WAIFS. THE YOUNG SOLDIER. " The sight of the dead and dying made us feel rather sober. Here lay the dead body of a boy not more than eighteen years of age. How soon his career was ended! A young volunteer in the morning, a dead hero at night." — (Skirmish at Blackburn's Ford.) Fro7)i Todd's Seventy- Ninth Highlanders. Once as wayward fortune led me to a homestead quaint and old, While I shared its kindly shelter, this, the tale the good wife told : Ah, how Time's swift shadow passes, full ten years and more have fled, Since that patient, sad-eyed woman told the story of her dead ! In her hands she clasped a portrait, fair the face, as any girl's, Eyes of blue, beneath a forehead 'broidered o'er with auburn curls : Pleased, she told me of his boyhood, dwelt on all his winsome ways ; How he filled the house with sunshine. — Who can chide a mother's praise } Then a soldier, proud, he left her, armed to meet the deadly strife. And upon his country's altar laid the precious boon of life ; When his star of hope was brightest, when no cloudlet dimmed his sky, With his young life full of promise, lo, the sum- mons came to die ! WAR WAIFS. 35 'Mid the din and smoke of battle, bravely facing shot and shell, He, whom Nature stamped a hero, like a hero, fighting fell. " Fell at Blackburn's Ford," she faltered, " fore- most he, and unafraid. Not a truer, braver soldier served in Richardson's brigade. " Only eighteen when he 'listed, 'tis just twenty years to-day, Twenty years of life in heaven," — and she, weep- ing, turned away, — Kissed the portrait of her hero, — put it in its wonted place, And again took up life's burden with a sweet and patient grace. Summer flowers have bloomed and withered on the turf above his breast, Winter snows have mocked the whiteness of the stone that marks his rest ; But the presence of his spirit from her soul will ne'er depart ; Like the bright wing of a seraph it shall gather round her heart. 36 WAR WAIFS. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF DRURY's BLUFF. (Read at the Eleventh Annual Reunion of the Thirt_y- ninth Infantry, held at Joliet, Oct. 8, 1891.) There were dead men in blue, there were dead men in gray, There were columns that wavered, then melted away ; There were horses and riders stark, stiff on the sod, There were shouts, there were groans, and petitions to God ; While the hiss of the shrapnel, that volvox of war. Mocked the whizzing of bullets from near and from far. *• See that tall, plucky Yank ! a good target is he. And ril just go for him, else he may go for me." Quick as thought, from the fast-falling ranks of the gray Sped a bullet well-aimed, and a brave soldier lay Writhing, bleeding, and helpless, with film-blinded eyes Gazing upward in prayer to the pitiless skies. But when night spread a veil o'er the carnage of day. By the soldier in blue knelt a soldier in gray. Gently back from his forehead he brushed the soft curls And a face, finely chiseled and fair as a girl's, WAR WAIFS. 37 Grimly stamped with the pallor of death, met his view. Starting back, he cried out, " Is it, can it be true ? Yes, too terribly true ! — and 'twas my hand that sped The swift ball on its errand ! Oh, speak to me, Fred! Let me hear from your lips that the deed you for- give, — See! The wound is not deep, — it will heal, — you will live, You must live, I will nurse you, my own hand shall heal This rough scratch, (curse the ball), — now my boy do you feel My strong arm underneath you? — Slow, steady, and rise When I give you the word." Then the film-clouded eyes Sought the face bending o'er them, the palHd lips stirred. " It — was — all — a — mistake, dearest — brother." Each word Fell in low, husky whispers. " You — loved — me — too — well To — send — such — a — grim — messenger ; — ah, but — I— fell — With — the — old — flag — above me ! Tell — mother — I — die — In — the — faith — that — she — taught — us ; and — tell — her — that— I 38 WAR WAIFS. See, — beyond — the — dark — waters, the — clear — beacon — light. But — oh, — never — say how — I — was — slain — in — the — fight, — Hold — me — closer." Then fondly, with face pressed to face, And with heart close to heart, came the last long embrace. One hot kiss on the forehead, one grasp of the hand. And the soldier in blue at his Chieftain's command, Made salute, and passed up to that army above, Whose strong Leader is Christ, and whose Coun- tersign, " Love." THE LOST CAUSE. (A Confederate Retrospect.) You never saw the Heights } — So, So. Ah, then you've never seen The head-stones and the hillocks, low. With narrow paths between ; You've never seen the mound near by, Where 'neath one mammoth stone. Two thousand Yankee Soldiers lie, Marked — " Graves of the Unknown. Marked plain upon the paneled slab, And quite as plainly read ; But not so plain, my little lad. The cause for which they bled, — WAR WAIFS. 39 "The Rebel hordes with whom they fought, Ought to he there," — you say ? Ah, boy, you think as you were taught, And so, no doubt, thought they. No matter now, 'tis past and gone, Forgotten and forgiven, And whether right, or whether wrong, They'll settle that in heaven. — But you should see proud Arlington Crowned, on her lofty height, No fairer prospect ever shone Beneath the sun's broad light. The thoughts of her rose-scented lanes With garden-plots ablaze, — And fertile fields, and blossomed plains Bring back the vanished days When on the Heights she sat, a queen, And, rolling calmly by. The broad Potomac's classic stream Smiled back Virginia's sky. The Heights.? Why, Lee's old home, — here, look, 'Tis pictured on this chart ; My lad, you should not need a book. To know the thing by heart. You were not born ? So it appears, — Time flies as swift as light. Yes, yes, 'tis nearly thirty years Since Lee led on the fight. 40 WAR WAIFS. Ah, Lee was Nature's true-born lord, With soul that could not wince, And armed with silver-hilted sword, He rode like any Prince ! His brow was clear, his eye was bright, His heart was true and strong. His arm was nerved to strike for right; He'd never strike for wrong. And proud were we, at his command. To rush into the fray. Some lost a head, some lost a hand, But none lost heart, that day. I gave my good right arm, — see, there. But I — I'll never grieve That for the Lost Cause I must wear Henceforth an empty sleeve. LAUREL-CROWNED. A Tribune, in the days of old, His life, a sacrifice, laid down, To guard his legions in their hold. For which he won a laurel-crown. Beneath a heap of stricken dead. The dauntless chief alive was found ; His comrades raised his feeble head, And proudly hailed him " Laurel-Crowned. WAR WAIFS. 41 May we not boast our heroes, too, As brave as any land hath found ? And shall the victors, tried and true. Who died for us, remain uncrowned ? Nay, — raise the shaft that shall proclaim Their loyalty and love, profound ; Carve tearfully their wreath of fame. And proudly hail them " Laurel-Crowned." A CHRISTMAS EVE IN CAMP. 'Tis Christmas eve in camp. Bright overhead The starry chandeliers their lustre shed On tent and fortress, and the gentle wing Of Peace above the camp seems hovering. Within the crowded ward, upon his bed A dying soldier lies. The nurse's tread Scarce breaks the stillness ; while the fitful light From blazing fagots paints strange scenes to-night, And on the whitewashed walls weird shadows creep Of phantom forms that from the embers leap. The soldier watches the fantastic play. Then slowly turns his tearful eyes away. For had he passed unscathed from out the fight, A furlough would have crowned this Christmas night, And by the cheerful fire-light of his home He might have watched the shadows go and come : And so through all this night of sore unrest A deep home-yearning fills his saddened breast. 42 WAR WAIFS. His wistful glance brings quickly to his side The watchful nurse; but with a soldier's pride He checks the falling tear, and whispers, "Tell The ' Boys ' I send them all a kind farewell ; Sit near and press your hand against my side ; The night has seemed so long, and I have tried To bear the pain alone ; but now I know My hour has come; and so before I go, I want to give you this, for mother. Lift My head a little, there ! This Christmas gift I lately carved for her — a crown, and cross With rosary. Oh, she will mourn my loss And weep for me, poor heart ! For I am all She has on earth ; yet at my country's call She bade me go ! The Christmas sun will rise For me no more. Beyond those star-lit skies My spirit soon shall speed its rapid way. You'll send the gift to mother, and you'll say How well I loved her } Had my furlough come, Could I have spent this night with her at home, How many loving words I would have said. Ah, loving words withheld, die with the dead ! But you will tell her this — she'll guess the rest. Oh, — could — I — lean — my — head — upon — her — breast — I'd — die — content. Ah, — now — I — see — : light ! It — shines — for — me — it — marks — the - way, — good-night." IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. THE MYSTERY OF SPANISH ROCK. Far, far away, 'neatfi skies of blue, Beyond the genial Gulf Stream's flow, Clad in a glory ever new, And fringed with coral reefs of snow, Bermuda's green hills rise to view, Mid crystal waves that deep below Hide growths of wondrous form and hue. Her heights with goodly cedars crowned, Stand dark against the azure skies, As wave-caressed she sits rock-bound. Above a hidden world that lies Submerged in amber depths ; for there Strange colonies in secret toil. And deftly build with patient care The snowy texture of the soil. 46 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. I see, or seem to see, to-day, As once I saw in days of yore, The jeweled waves of Grassy Bay That flash along its smooth white shore. Again with thee, O far-off friend, Amid enchanted scenes I stroll, Where azure skies above us bend, And sapphire seas around us roll. How grateful is the memory Of those time-buried days of old. When from a rose-wreathed jalousie, We watched the tender buds unfold, As o'er the land and o'er the sea The sunshine fell in " fluid gold." Fairy-land ! In fancy's flight, The poet and the artist rise To realms of beauty, Eden-bright, Inspired 'neath thy deep-tinted skies. For thee the sweetest warblers sing, For thee the fairest flowers bloom. And mid thy groves on gorgeous wing Rare insects scent the rich perfume Of nectared plants whose tendrils cling Round stately palms that skyward loom. 1 mind me of thy hedges crowned With oleander bloom ; thy thyme And scarlet heath that wide around Their fragrance shed and climb To barren rocks, storm-bent and browned. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 47 All these and more before me rise In memory of that glad time When 'neath thine iridescent skies I shared thy glories in their prime. How gayly o'er the purple reefs Our cedar craft sped on its way, As light and noiseless as a leaf's Low rustle at the close of day ; Our oarsmen, bronzed as those bold chiefs Of whom they sang, in rounde-lay ! The sea was flecked with snowy sails, And soft delicious breezes fanned The rippling waves ; while balmy gales Brought spicy odors from the land. Each craft its pennons broad unfurled, Light "dingey," yacht, and carvel gay; While dimpling eddies played and purled Round shattered hulks that anchored lay Where drifting sea-weeds swayed and swirled. And stately steamships far away Gave token of that outer world Beyond the reefs where dashing spray By wind and. wave is tossed and whirled. White sea-gulls skimmed, in tireless flight, The glassy surface of the deep ; And flying fish as swift as light From out the sea would sudden leap. Then downward vanish out of sight. 48 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. The Inner Reefs ! Name, ye who can, The wonders of that world below, Safe from the ruthless grasp of man. Hid 'neath the ocean's restless flow, Where waves the Gorgon's purple fan Mid coral roses white as snow. There angel fish in blue and gold FJit near the surface, watchful, shy, • While cautious sea-hares, fearless, bold, Sport in a cloud of crimson dye ; And sea-anemones unfold Like flowers beneath a summer sky ! Strange forms of sponge-life, slimy, brown, Mid branching sea-rods feebly sway Where clumsy gherkins, fathoms down. Creep lazily in quest of prey ; And sea-wreaths, torn from Neptune's crown, Float jeweled with the crystal spray. Sea-urchins ply their purple spines, Pearl-hued physalae buoyant float. The feather-star its tendril twines Around the jelly's toppling boat. And like a changing opal shines The dolphin's iridescent coat. Too soon that day the ebbing tide Its warning to our oarsmen gave ; In vain their haste we sought to chide, Their dripping oars along the wave With rapid strokes they ceaseless plied. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 49 And as our swiftly flying craft Danced gayly in the freshening breeze, With wistful eyes we gazed abaft, And bade farewell to reef-set seas. How like the tale by Sagas told, How like the myths the Eddas teach, The scenes we marked when last we strolled Along the " South Shore's " sandy beach That shone a band of burnished gold ! To seaward lay an endless reach Of curling waves; while frowning, bold, To landward, rose the Spanish Rock ; And far above its rugged height Like mottled clouds there hung a flock Of graceful boatswains poised in flight. Mid flowering shrub and bearded sedge, White coral cottages were seen ; And browsing on a shelving ledge Some tethered goats stretched forth to glean The trailing crab-grass at its edge. We clambered up the wooded steep, Past calabash and spreading palm, — Below, the moaning, surging deep, Above, the sweet and restful calm Of azure skies. Our tangled way, As on we rose from height to height, Through beds of fragrant fennel Lay, And sweet alyssum, snowy white. 50 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. At last we reached the Pirate's Cave, Camelo's cross, Camelo's name, Long washed by pelting storm and wave, Had vanished, like Camelo's fame ! And where the robbers of the sea Had buried once their lawless spoil. The shell-flower scattered lavishly Its blossoms o'er the sterile soil. Within the cave our torches gleamed With lurid glare. Stalactites hung From vaulted roofs, deep-carved and seamed ; And over all our brush-lights flung A glare so weird that much it seemed A fairy tale in legends sung. Then suddenly upon the ear Sweet strains of music faint and low, Came floating from afar. As near, Still nearer drew the sound a glow Of amber light flushed all the drear Deep-shadowed space and then a flow Of melody came sweet and clear, — A plaintive song of hidden woe. SONG. There are some thoughts we may not speak, Down deep they lie within the soul. As shadows 'neath the waters sleep, But never to the surface roll. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 51 There are some thoughts we cannot speak, In vain we seek to call them forth, For strongest words are still so weak That language seems of little worth. There are some thoughts we dare not speak, Dark o'er the heart their shades are cast ; Some bitter mem'ries which we keep Sealed, sacred to the silent past. There are some thoughts which could we speak, What canker-spots would leave the brain ! A few brief words in whispers weak, Might bring life's sunshine back again. Nay, ask it not — the palsied tongue Refuses now to act its part ; Live on, a few more days agone, And palsied too shall be the heart. ******** Charmed as by some weird, mystic spell, We stood in breathless wonder there. Was it the song of Ariel That floated on the cave-pent air? The dainty, tricksy Ariel, The cloven pine-imprisoned sprite. That couched within a "cowslip's bell," And on a bat's wing floated light ! Did Prospero with magic skill Still rouse the furies of the deep, And "'twixt the sea and sky," at will Bid tempests rise and fiercely sweep 52 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. The hollow waves ? Did Caliban, The "freckled whelp" of Sycorax, His deeds of darkness subtly plan And all his powers of evil tax To wreak his wrath on helpless man ? Again arose a trembling strain, Half song, half plaint ; then broken, low, Came whispered sounds of soul-pent pain And smothered sighs and sobs of woe. SONG. Through daisy-starred meadows, 'Mid sunbeams and shadows, A youth and a maid trip along ; While over and over The fresh, nodding clover, The flattering bee hums his song. With step light and airy, This blithe meadow fairy Speeds on with her knight true and strong; While over and over The deep, blushing clover, The light, fickle bee hums his song. With heart fondly beating, She smiles back his greeting, Ne'er dreaming of falsehood or wrong ; While over and over The sweet, fragrant clover, The sly, greedy bee hums his song. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 53 Alone in the meadow, Like some ghostly shadow, A sad, tearful maid glides along ; While over and over The pale, drooping clover Now seldom the bee hums his song. Heart-weary with weeping. At last she lies sleeping. Unmindful of sorrow or wrong ; While over and over The dead, scentless clover No longer the bee hums his song. ******** The wailing song was hushed. Again With gleaming torch we swiftly sped In eager quest. But all in vain ; Throughout the dismal space a dread And solemn silence seemed to reign. With eager steps we hurried on Past crystal lakes that tranquil lay Like mimic seas ; while dimly shone Our dying torch-light o'er the way. But fruitless was the search. No trace Of syren, sea-nymph, ghoul or sprite. Appeared within the haunted place To thrill the heart with sudden fright. "Ho ! Fair Miranda, where, oh where Art thou concealed .■' " we loudly cried. But Echo, daughter of the Air, In mocking tones alone replied. 54 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. Then as we groping still pursued The mystic singer, we descried An open space where roughly hewed, Rude steps led to the world outside. And mounting up the coral stair That led into the outer world. We breathed once more the balmy air That swept the sea and softly curled Its shining waves, while here and there Danced graceful yachts with sails unfurled. From steep and crag, green lichens hung. And mottled all the barren ledge, And tastefully the life-plant flung Her drooping blossoms o'er its edge ; And golden star-flowers gleamed among The feathery fern and tufted sedge. Along the Rock's broad base we strayed Until we reached the seaward side. There, 'neath a Pride-of-India's shade. We sat and watched the creeping tide ; When lo, above the moaning sea. There rose again the liquid swell Of that wild, plaintive melody That echoed through each caverned cell. SONG. Thalatta ! Thalatta ! I love thee, O sea. And on thy white waves I am longing to be ; All hail to the spirit, wild, daring and free, That fears not thy billows, thou turbulent sea. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 55 Thalatta ! Thalatta ! beneath thy cold wave, Lies hidden full many a mariner's grave ; Nor treasure, nor jewel, his strong arm could save, The sea-nymph hath borne them away to her cave. Thalatta! Thalatta! thy white, foamy crest No terror awakens within my torn breast ; What matter it if I but peacefully rest ? Ah, sad heart, be patient, thy God knoweth best. ******** With knitted brows we eager peered Through hidden path and open glade; Distrustful that a scene so weird. By some sly conjurer was played. When lo, upon a beetling height That overhung the wave-washed beach, A woman's form in dazzling white, A moment stood and scanned the reach Of rolling surf ; then swift as light She downward leaped ! A splash — a screech Like some scared sea-bird in its flight. And 'mid the wild and foamy breach Of maddened waves she sank from sight. Ah, years may speed in noiseless flight. And dreams may oft my senses mock ; But ever vivid, ever bright, As memory shall her stores unlock, Will stand before my cloudless sight That Phantom of the Spanish Rock. 56 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. AT THE GRAVE OF ALBRECHT DURER. " Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies ; Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies." Henry VV. Lo>i<^ fellow. Old Nuremberg! I stand before its towers and castles strong, And think of him who wove its scenes into his I see the Schone Brunnen's spray in pearly cloudlets rise, And note the quaint old gabled roof, high pointing to the skies. I mark its churches richly carved, its statues and its shrines, And stroll along the bridge-linked banks through which the Pegnitz winds : While crumbling towers and castled crags and wooded walks and ways Seem shrouded in the twilight mist of mediaeval days. Now past tiled roof, past oriel, past rough and rugged steep, Toward the churchyard of St. John, my onward course I keep. Unchallenged by Krafft's sentinels, stern, silent, cold, and still, That stand, the stately witnesses of genius, toil, and skill : And where the sumach's crimson fruit and painted leaves abound. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 57 I mark the print of pilgrim feet that tread this hallowed ground. Here pausing, where the sunbeams fall upon an ancient stone, I read a name that Nuremberg hails proudly as her own ; A name that bears a royal sound to every loving heart, That Rome and Prague and Bruges boast in treasured gems of art. And " Emigravit," dimly carved below the name, I see. Of him who won the fadeless wreath of immortality. Ah, prince of artists, death to thee brought life's eternal dawn. Thy hand forgot its cunning near four hundred years agone ; And yet thou livest, triple-crowned by Fame's undying hand. The poet, painter, sculptor of thine honored father- land. Nuremberg, August 13, 1890. IN THE BINNENHOF. I stand within the Binnenhof, and think of that dread day When John of Barneveldt stood here, one early morn in May ; 58 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. The white swans floated tranquilly upon the silver sheen Of crystal lakes, and beechen groves put on their newest green ; Sweet-throated warblers 'mong the trees were flit- ting here and there, While bursts of gushing melody rang out upon the air. I see the aged Advocate as bowed with grief he stands And leaning on his staff he clasps his thin and feeble hands. "O God," he cries, "for all my toil is this my hapless fate^ Is this the meed of forty years of service for the state ? " The sword is sharp, its edge is keen, but what is so imbued With an eternal, deathless sting as base ingrati- tude ? The friend of Orange, of the State, of Equity and Right, Must he be martyred to appease rank jealousy and spite ? He bows his head, "Be quick," he cries, — then falls the fatal sword, Thus perished John of Barneveldt — Knight, Advo- cate and Lord ; But when that headless trunk was raised and placed upon its bier Methinks that Justice blushed for shame and Mercy dropped a tear. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 59 IMPROMPTU. (On seeing a cat resting on one of tiie exquisitely carved corbels in Melrose Abbey.) Most favored Felis, on thy stony bed Of rarest sculpture thou art free to lie ; p-ree, through these cloisters old, with stealthy tread To wend thy way, and none thy track will spy, To bore thine ear with oft-repeated tale Of " flowing tracery " or " chiseled Kale." I envy thee thy freedom, wily beast. The freedom of such solitude profound ; But well I know that veneration, least Of all thy graces, to this hallowed ground Hath ne'er enticed thee ; nay, thy greed hath said, " A living rat out-weighs a monarch dead." No line elegiac charms thy wary glance ; No clustered column of monastic skill Allures thine eye. With cautious look askance Through nave and transept thou dost roam at will ; Yon quaintly carved angelic choir of stone As moved as thou, sly fiend of flesh and bone ! Past decorative details, cap and pier, Thou glidest on, unmindful of the use Of that odd sentiment that drops a tear Above the stone that hides the heart of Bruce ; Nor wind-dirge from the distant Eildon hills. Nor moaning Tweed, thy savage nature thrills. 6o IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. Soft waves of moonlight through the " oriel " creep, And fall upon the mystic Wizard's urn ; I hear a ghastly step, a sudden leap — And then with startled haste I trembling turn To see thee seize a hapless creature there And fiercely crush it for thine evening fare ! But why upbraid thee for thy cruel bent, Marauding brute, since men, with nobler sense, To bloody warfare all their valor lent To win, alas ! the grave's poor recompense ? So, prowling victor, still thy franchise keep To haunt the tombs where greater victors sleep. BETWEEN THE LAKES. Fair Interlachen ! What a rhythmic sound Flows through the name ! With lofty peaks snow- crowned, She sits between Brienz and Thun, a Queen. Her heights are ermine-tipped ; her valleys, green With velvet verdure ; and her hill-sides set With picturesque chalets. A fleecy net. Rose-tinted, in the Alpine sunset's glow, Half hides the Jung Frau's dazzling cap of snow, As, like a scene 'neath Titian's opal skies, Fair Interlachen in the twilight lies ! But fairer still at early flush of morn When rings the echo of the Alpine horn From peak to peak her beauties lie outspread. Bright in the sunlight gleams the silver thread IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 6i Of mountain streams that rush in swift cascades And flash mid jagged cliffs and forest glades To join the winding current of the Aar That in its emerald beauty shines afar. Go where the misty Staubach's torrent flows, Seek Lauterbrunnen's dreamy, calm repose ; Ascend the Schreckhorn's summit clad in snow That guards the glacial Grindenwald below ; Mark where the turbid Liitschine hissing leaps Its rocky barriers, or, silent, creeps Along the flowery vale at last to hide In Lake Brienz its troubled, restless tide ; But mid the glories of each wonderous^cene, Still Interlachen reigns the Alpine Queen ! NULLI SFXUNDUS. (In the National Gallery- — London.) Hear what Ruskin says of Turner : — Are men measured by men's praise } Then was he the sole discerner Of shy Nature's hidden ways. His deft hand alone could fashion Azure seas and skies of gold ; He alone possessed the passion That could clasp fair Nature's mold. He could paint the tree, the mountain, Rugged rock and wave-worn stone ; He could form the living fountain Subtle-hued and rare in tone. 62 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. He could paint the plunge and tumble, Splashing foam and spring and leap Of the wild cascade. — The humble Rill could picture hidden deep Within the dell ; and the meadows Where the sunbeams coyly play In and out among the shadows, His swift pencil could portray. So, with Ruskin, we enchanted View the scenes by Turner wrought, While each flower his hand hath planted Wakes a deep and tender thought. A MYTH OF THE RHINE. High rises the Siebengebiroe, Dark-clad with the rich, purple vine. Its seven heads resting in cloud-land. Its foot dipping down to the Rhine. And here, where the Drachenfels' ruins Sit frowning and gloomy and cold, Bold Siegfried beheaded the Dragon That guarded its ill-gotten gold ; The gold that the gods, Loke and Odin, Had seized from the Dwarf of the Sea, And given in ransom to Hreidmar, That they from his bonds might be free. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 63 Then, (trusting the Songs of the Eddas, That herald the Norse hero's fame,) Wild Fafner slew Hreidmar, his father, And then a sea-monster became ! A poison-tongued, venomous Dragon, The terror of gods and of men, That none but the Champion Siegfried Dared beard in his cavernous den. And down to this day there's a legend That oft in the moonlight there glides A monster with jaws wide-distended, Adown the steep Drachenfels' sides, To sport in the dark Rhenish waters ; And all (who have seen it) declare It must be the shade of the Dragon That Siegfried destroyed in its lair! Cologne, August 21, 1890. MUNICH. Now halt we here in Miinchen, ancient town, That like a wrinkled dame, in modern gown, Smooths out her ample folds, and, smiling down, Says " Now behold me ! " But like the town-aspiring country lout. Whose dearth of city breeding will crop out. So here, the Alt and Neu are linked with doubt, They've always told me. 64 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. Here Klenze, Gartner and Cornelius wrought, Here Kaulbach, Schnorr and Rottman truly caught The spirit of the Master-Artist's thought — And mark how real Schwanthaler's Painters stand in proud array ! Thus wheresoe'er the tourist's feet may stray, Artistic handicraft adorns his way In grand ideal. Behold the Ruhmeshalle — Hall of Fame ! The Pinakothek — softly speak the name, For Burgher critics will your accent blame Howe'er you prize it. The Alte Residenz, the Konigsbau, The frescoed Kirche of Die liebe Frau — Oh, that some Teuton born would teach us how To gutturize it ! Ah, ye who sprechen Deutch, ye little reck The strain on lingua fraenum, held in check. When all the glories of the Glyptothek You view with wonder; And as you through the Ludwigskirche stroll And face the " Day of Judgment," how the soul In native gutt'ral growl can paint the roll Of frescoed thunder ! Here Beauharnais bestowed rich gifts of art, Aegina's Marbles, too, here form a part Of that vast, treasured wealth that thrills the heart Of Kerl and Kaiser ; IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 65 And thus, the Present, Past, the Old and New Alike inspire the soul, and charm the view, As we, in wonder lost, our way pursue Along the Isar. THE ARMINIAN CHEST. Models of the " Old Arminian Chest," in which Hugo Grotius escaped, are shown at The Hague, and the legend is here understood and appreciated by all classes. Where the Yssel, the Waal, and the Meuse sea- ward flow. Now pellucid and fleet, now dark, turbid, and slow; Where the perfumes of orchards like incense arise. And the green hills of Gelderland point to the skies ; Here, securely intrenched by the triple-armed Rhine, Stands that frowning old fortress, the strong Loevenstein. Double-walled, double-fossed, iron-bolted, and barred, Where the dark, swelling waves keep their fierce, restless guard, See its turrets, its ramparts, its parapets stand. Overlooking the valleys of fair Gelderland. Thus it rises defiant, time-battered and bare. And who crosses its draw-bridge strikes hands with despair. 66 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. With despair, did I say ? Nay, the grand human will And the deep love of freedom surmounts every ill; And the bars of the Loevenstein fortress are light When the soul of a Grotius seeks freedom and flight ! 'Tis a morning in March, near three centuries gone, Wild the winds howl without, swift the tempest comes on. Hugo Grotius, thine hour of deliv'rance is near. Now bestir thee with haste, bid defiance to fear; For the skippers are waiting thy body to bear In its improvised cofifin to old Gorcum Fair! Ah, thy good wife was never so faithful as now ; What a smile vi^reathes her lips, what a joy crowns her brow. What a flutter 'twixt terror and hope fills her breast. As she locks thee within the Arminian chest ! Aye, she kisses the lock of thine improvised tomb. For should fortune forsake thee, then sealed is thy doom. 'Tis a perilous voyage, where tempest and wave Are the sextons that hollow a billowy grave ; And the fury-lashed Waal rears a white foamy crest That now threats to engulf the Arminian chest. Pent up, smothered, and sea-tossed, oh, terror- struck soul, Be thou patient, the skippers are nearing their goal. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 67 It is reached, thou art rescued, the arm of the Rhine Hath upborne thee and freed thee from stern Loevenstein ! Written at The Hague, August 22, 1889. THE JUDENSTRASSE. As we stroll along the "Jews' Quarters," I am reminded of poor Heine. Within this gloomy precinct, he, with his wretched Hebrew brethren, was compelled to be locked — like veritable criminals, on every Sabbath that he chanced to set foot in the ancient, imperial city. Within these squalid " Quarters of the Jews," As though he were a culprit, close confined, Young Heine, like an exile, wept and pined. Here he invoked his tearful, pensive Muse, And wove poetic garlands whose bright hues No hint betrayed of that defiant soul That spurned the bonds that held it in control. Ah, Christian zeal, whene'er thou dost abuse Thine high prerogative, till years on years Are fled, thy cruel wounds shall leave a scar! Sad Hebrew faces, channeled deep with tears, Long-waiting, watched for that slow-rising star That nov/ full-orbed, resplendently appears The herald of the day-dawn, seen afar. Frankfort-gn-the-Main, August 18, rSgo. 68 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. THE GREATEST TRAGEDY. Along- the rugged mountain-side we wind Our way toward the clouds. At every turn New wonders greet us as we leave behind Ravine and gorge, wherein we faint discern Swift, foamy, white cascades that leap to find The vale below clad in green moss and fern. Our onward, upward course is marked by shrines That pious hands have set along the way ; And from the Kofel Crag there brightly shines A beacon light, — the sun's reflected ray ; While mingling with the clouds we mark the lines Of snow that rest above the summits gray. Past Ettal's Cloister rich in relics old, Past the unique, palatial chalet Of Marquis Bute, past cliff and crag and bold O'er-hanging precipice, we hold our way To where the fir-clad Tyrols close infold A little hamlet. Here, at close of day, Behold, (our up-ward, cloud-ward journey done) Fair Oberammergau's green vale displayed, Where we shall see before to-morrow's sun Hath set sad, fearful Tragedy portrayed, — The Crucifixion of the Sinless One, On whom the guilt of all the world was laid ! Meanwhile, as through the town we wend our way, The placid Ammer's current we descry, IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 69 And pass some low-built cottages. Here, gay With cap, and sash, and plume, go strolling by The village peasants, as in groups they stray In happy leisure 'neath the twilight sky. No stately edifice with spacious halls. Is here to greet our splendor-loving eyes, Nor velvet tapestries, nor frescoed walls ; No lofty columns, richly sculptured, rise. But in the peasant's word of welcome falls A restful benediction from the skies. Perchance we lodge beneath the roof of one Who sits a Ruler in the Sacred Play ; A Herod, Pilate, Annas, or the son Of Simon may our footsteps stay And bid us welcome. All is kindly done As when a friend meets friend along life's way. Two hundred years and more have sped away Since here the Tyrol peasants earnest prayed That God the fearful pestilence would stay Which had their homes well nigh in ruins laid ; The plea was heard and from that faith-crowned day They've kept their pledge to hallow each decade. Hark ! On the Sabbath stillness breaks the sound Of early signal guns. O'er hill and plain The startling summons echoes far around ; And now there wends an eager, surging train, Wherein true pilgrims from all lands are found, To see the Son of Man betrayed and slain ! 70 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. We gather here a vast expectant throng : On either side dark fir-clad hills arise : Below, the crystal Ammer winds along, And like a pictured scene the landscape lies ; And as we silent sit a burst of song Ascends in praise to Him who rules the skies. It is the opening prologue ; and behold The rich-robed Chorus pass upon the stage ! They cease, and then in tableau we are told The story of that strange, primeval age When through fair Eden trailed the serpent's fold, And wrought such woe as time can ne'er assuage. The Adoration of the Cross appears In tableau next ; and then upon the stage A throng of peasants rush with song and cheer And loud hosanna. Youth and hoary age. And lisping childhood shout till far and near Glad songs of praise their hearts and tongues engage. For see! The Christ, upon an ass's foal Led by His Loved Disciple, now doth ride Into Jerusalem. — The Prophet's scroll Hath plain fore-shown the scene. Close to his side Are pressed His chosen few. — Ah, kingly soul, Thy noble mien bespeaks Thy lofty Tribe ! With waving palms they hail Him, Prophet, King, As he alights and through the Temple strides ; IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 71 He marks the money-changers, hears the ring Of filthy lucre, and indignant, chides The traders who unto the Temple bring Their wrangling traffic where God's peace abides. With lash in hand He drives them from the place, And spurns the Priests who glare with angry eyes In helpless wrath upon His holy face ; Then, as the doves, released, speed to the skies. So to the Great Sanhedrim, hurried pace The baffled Priests, while threats of vengeance The song and tableau now such scenes portray As those fore-casting the Messiah's fate ; As Jacob's sons, their brother, seek to slay, So while the fierce Sanhedrim sit in state. They plan the deed that crowns the Sacred Play; For blood alone can quench their vengeful hate. Again is sung in deftly woven verse The coming scene : and tableaux then disclose The prophecies that ancient scrolls rehearse. Tobias from his weeping mother goes, Fore-shadowing the ills of that deep curse Pronounced on Innocence by plotting foes. The parting hour at Bethany ! Ah years On years may roll but vivid still will rise That scene of woe. — Fast fall our blinding tears As that sad mother, bowed, with streaming eyes. 72 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA, In anguish pleads her love, her grief, her fears, In tones that seem to reach the vaulted skies. Now Vashti kneels before her irate king, While Esther, proudly clad in robes of state Ascends the throne, graced with the royal ring. Thus fair Jerusalem's unhappy fate Is typified. — Now haste thee, Judas, bring Thy treason to an end, nor doubting, wait. But ere the Feast of Passover is spread, Lo, from the Promised Land, the faithful spies Return, through fertile fields divinely led, And bear rich clustered fruit of fabled size ; While Israel's wandering hosts are fed With snowy manna falling from the skies. As sits the master with His chosen band Of faithful followers, He humbly kneels To wash their feet ; and at His mild command They tearfully submit. Then from His hand The bread and wine they take while softly steals The sound of music from a seraph band. The Traders and Iscariot have met To bargain for the blood of Christ the Lord. He pleads his empty purse, the price is set, And quickly he receives his base reward ; Well pleased he hugs the prize with muttered threat, He who so lately shared His Master's board ! IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 73 But 'mid the fierce Sanhedrim's loud debate, Two aged Rulers rise and plead the cause Of Him on Whom such deep and deadly hate Hathfallen. — "How hath he transgressed the laws ? " They ask. But naught can stay or change His fate, His death must be accomplished ere they pause. Both Choir and Tableau now the scenes fore-show Of sad Gethsemane. — False Joab's sin, And Adam bending 'neath his weight of woe, Prepare the tragedy. Wild breaks the din Of eager voices while above, below, Weird echoes answer from the rocks within. The Garden of Gethsemane ! Alone ! Ah, stricken heart, hast ever felt the woe Of utter loneliness ? Hast ever known A grief that none may share ? — Here, kneeling low, He cries aloud in soul-exalting tone, " If Thou hast willed it, Father be it so." The fatal hour has come. He is betrayed ; Iscariot his stealthy kiss bestows ; But see ! With patient grace and undismayed, He meets their spiteful thrusts and cruel blows; While His disciples, trembling, and afraid. Depart and leave Him to His ruthless foes. To Annas first they bring Him strongly bound, And then to Caiaphas before the day 74 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. Hath dawned ; while in the darkness gather round The witnesses that swear His life away; And when pretense of judgment they have found, Before stern Pilate next their cause they lay. Meanwhile, remorseful Judas is fore-shown In tableau, painting Cain's despairing woe. And soon, with haggard mien, and frenzied tone, In deep repentance, he resolves to go And plead for Him who stands condemned alone. Well guarded by the stern, relentless foe. Remorse ! remorse ! Ah, how can words portray The agony that robs his soul of rest .? In vain he pleads, in vain he seeks to stay The awful sentence. — Tearing from his breast The blood-bought purse, he hurls it swift away, And rushes forth with frenzy's rage possessed. Behold another, who with craven fear His Lord and Master steadily denies ! But when the cock, the signal, loud and clear Hath given thrice, then bitterly he cries, "I have denied Thee, O my Master, dear," And pleads for pardon, with tear-blinded eyes. Sore troubled is the Roman Ruler now. That they the Nazarene to him should bring. He marks His stately mien, His noble brow. And questions, " Dost Thou call Thyself a King .? " With fearless eye the Master answers, "Thou Hast said it ; yet I seek in everything IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 75 To testify unto the truth." — Replies Proud Pilate, "What is truth?"— Then from his wife Conies Claudius and to his master flies With her swift message. "Spare this just man's life." W^ith glad assent he bids the Rabbies rise And speed to Herod with their lawless strife With tenfold wrath their victim they deride, And fell him to the earth with brutal blows. — Thus Samson mocked and fettered is descried In tableau ; while his terror-stricken foes Seek vainly from impending doom to hide, — A fitting symbol of the Drama's close ! Bound like a felon stands the Holy One, Before the royal Herod, doomed to die. The haughty monarch asks, "What hath He done > What evil hath He wrought.?" — They make reply, " He hath by magic all the people won, And claimeth to be crowned of God on High." But Herod in derision bids them place A robe of white upon Him in mock jest, And sends them back to Pilate with due grace And compliment that he will judge Him best ; With savage shout the mob their way retrace, While deepest hatred rules each fiendish breast. In tableau Joseph's blood-stained coat is brought And laid before old Jacob's tear-dimmed eyes ; 'je IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. And in the thicket the mute lamb is caught For Abraham's devoted sacrifice : And now the rabble satisfied with naught But blood with shouts of vengeance rend the skies. But Pilate minds them of their Custom's claim To free a felon ere the Paschal day ; In quick response they fiercely shout the name Of vile Barabbas and without delay The wretch is brought with cheek untouched by shame To claim the homage which the rabble pay. With bitter spite the thorny crown they press Upon his bleeding brow ; within His hand The mimic sceptre place ; the purple dress Of royalty they bring and then confess In mocking tones, their King, and jeering stand And taunt Him with His human helplessness. Then Pilate yielding to their fierce demands. Proclaims at last, "The Nazarene must die." But calls aloud for water that his hands Before them he may cleanse. " The crimson dye Of guiltless blood be yours," he says and stands Himself condemned by purer Courts on High I Once more with vivid truth are typified The fearful scenes that mark the tragic close, As toiling slowly up Moriah's side. The patient Isaac with his burden goes ; While raised on high the gleaming, brazen hide Of Israel's serpent in the sunshine glows. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 77 Toward Golgotha now, He journeys slow, Ben.eath His heavy cross, till on the way He fainting falls ; but with harsh threat and blow They urge Him on, for naught their haste can stay. As thirsting for His blood they eager go Toward the Hill of Death without delay. But as He staggers forward, faint and weak, In meek submission, and with patient mien, Upon the air there falls a piercing shriek ; Lo, Mary with the faithful Magdalene And John discover now Him whom they seek. And cry, " It is the Holy Nazarene ! " Then Simon takes the heavy cross and bears It for his Master while the women, near, Support the weeping mother. Thus each shares A two-fold burden. But no shrinking fear The sad, soul-speaking face of Jesus wears. As tenderly he whispers words of cheer. His hour is come ! Ah, how the mother pales With agony as loud the strokes resound That drive through feet and palms the cruel nails That hold Him to the cross. Then from the ground They raise Him 'tween the thieves. — All effort fails To paint the horrors that the scene surround ! Now as the Holy Records hath foretold. They part His raiment and the spoils divide ; 78 IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. And then His seamless vest they grudging hold. And casting lots with laugh and jest deride The Nazarene as they their trophies fold And lightly toss the rattling dice aside. Now sad and plaintive comes the felon's cry, " Remember me in pity, Lord, I pray." And Jesus, gazing on him, makes reply, " Behold in Paradise this very day Thou shalt with me abide." His foes draw nigh. And seek in scornful ire His speech to stay. Below the cross stands Mary; moans and sighs Break from her bursting heart. Then unto John, "Behold thy mother, son," He earnest cries, And unto Mary calls, "Behold thy son." And Mary, moved with grateful love, replies, " In death, Thou car'st for me, O Blessed One ! " "I thirst," He murmurs now in accents low, At this the bitter draught they bid him take ; He turns away and breathes a prayer of woe ; Then, "It is finished," cries, — The mountains quake. Deep thunder rolls, the skies with lightning glow, And rocks and hills as if with terror shake ! Anon, with lifted spear they pierce His side, And they who witness shudder as they see The gaping wound that pours its crimson tide. Then Pilate's messenger comes hurriedly With gracious leave that Joseph may provide Fit sepulture for Him of Galilee. IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. 79 Down from the cross with careful, loving hands They take their bleeding Lord and tenderly They wrap his mangled form with snowy bands Of finest linen. Gazing tearfully Meanwhile upon His face, each mourner stands. Then bear Him to His mother reverently. We see Him lifeless on His mother's breast, While at her feet is laid the thorny crown : We see Him borne to His rock-cave of rest ; We see the terror-stricken guard fall down. And see them haste with sudden fear possessed, The tidings to proclaim throughout the town. A final tableau crowns the Sacred Play. The Nazarene ascends in robes of white. While weeping friends in adoration pray. And gaze with up-turned eyes where seraphs bright Cloud-veiled descend and beckon Him av/ay. Thus fades the Risen Lord from mortal sight ! Awe-stricken, thoughtful, mute, we turn away ; With speechless rapture every voice is stilled. A doubting world renews its faith to-day. He Hves ! He lives ! the scripture is fulfilled. " Peace unto you," we hear the Master say. And every fainting heart with hope is thrilled. Forever on the Crystal Ammer flows. Forever on through flowery mead and dale ; 8o IDYLS FROM OVER THE SEA. Soft sunsets fade amid eternal snows, And rising sunbeams purple hill and vale ; And as time marks each rounded decade's close New voices shall take up the Wondrous Tale. POEMS WRITTEN FOR OCCASIONS. THE YEARS. (Written on the Tenth Alumni Anniversary, for the class of '78, Academic Department, Gloversville Union School.) 'Tis an old-fashioned theme that from earliest time Has been rhymed into measure, and measured in rhyme, Has been sung by our poets in deep, thrilling strains, And has shaken orations from orator's brains. In the drama of Life on the world's busy stage, Where seven brief acts mark the length of an age, In all scenes, in all acts of this popular play Hasty exits and entrees go on, day by day; But like all well-planned dramas, not one has a voice His entree or his exit to hasten by choice ; — First, the pink, mewling infant most pitiably frail. Then the dull, whining school-boy, who creeps like a snail With his book-strap or satchel to meet the stern face Of a sage who knows well how to quicken his pace ; Then the lover whose breast is a furnace of flame, And who sighs at the sound of Dulcinea's name ; 84 POEMS WRITTEN Next the glory-crowned soldier with knap-sack and sword ; Then the Constable Dogberry, proud as a lord ; Now a Lear, robbed of majesty, slippered and lean, With a thin treble voice and a wild, haggard mien ; And last, he who out-beggars the imbecile king, " Sans teeth, taste, and eyes, yea, sans everything." But no matter how tasteless, how irksome his art, From beginning to end each must carry his part. One far wiser than I hath affirmed that the wealth Of a man or a woman consists not in health ; Consists not in portion, in station nor power. But that poverty comes with the loss of each hour ; And that he is the Croesus who stands in his prime, While no soul is so poor as the bankrupt in time As he sadly, like Ossian, cries out through his tears, "Whence comes it, where goes it, this swift stream of years ? " You behold in her carriage, my lady of state, Her coachman, her footman, obsequiously wait. Each alert to obey the least hint of command, For she governs her realm with a wave of her hand. But that hand, diamond flashing, is shriveled and thin. With its knuckles bulged out and its muscles caved in. And you spy, 'neath her trappings of jewels and gold. That in spite of all gilding, the woman is old. FOR OCCASIONS. 85 And that pompous old banker with gold-headed cane, Is regarded with awe by a scrub in the lane Who presides o'er a bank, shoveled out of moist clay. But he would not exchange with that banker to- day. He has muscle and sinew, he stands in his prime. And his debits are small in the bank-book of time; He has hopes which no ghost of the past may dis- arm. For the glamour of youth sheds a magical charm ! — Was old Ponce de Leon vain, dapper and bold, The only gallant who to dodge growing old, Breasted billows and breakers, all danger, in truth, To discover a spring of perennial youth ? Honest friends, there are thousands, at this very day. Who are seeking this spring, — by a different way. But they're seeking a myth, in a region unknown, Bubbling up very near the "philosopher's stone." When the grinders grow sparse, and the eyes dimly squint. When each facial contour bears the strong fossil print Of a crow's spreading foot, and the deep furrowed brow Hints that youth's brightest blossoms are under the plough ; 86 POEMS WRITTEN When a few straggling locks on the shining bald head Are arranged like a pall o'er the face of the dead ; When both muscle and sinew dry down to the bone, And one stands like a mullein-stalk, shivering alone ; Then what mystical fountain, what marvelous jDOwer Can bring back vitality's God-given dower ? Or what powder, pomatum, what foul drug of sin Make the blush from without shame the blush from within ? Oh, fair queen of all hearts, when the magical spell Of your beauty is lost, try to say "It is well." You may hug that deep secret, — the date of your birth, But chronologists flourish all over the earth ; And they'll point to the records, they'll order a search Of your family Bible, your christ'ning at church, And they'll prove past denial, by honest zeal fired, That your juvenile lease has already expired. You may mourn your gray hairs, those white guests of the years, But they'll come though you greet them with fast falling tears. FOR OCCASIONS. %7 You may dote on the foretop your fancy has nursed, But some sharp eye will ken that your switch was born first ; Turn your back to the mirror, your face to the wall, And the head of the Ostrich is hidden, that's all ; For like that dainty fern that we gather with care, There is naught that out-rivals the real Maiden- Hair!— And ye lords of creation, don't tell it aloud, But there's many a Turveydrop, ancient and proud, Who has fought with rheumatics and wrestled with gout, Who has built himself in and has built himself out ; While the grey spears that mottle his brindled mustache He has tweezered and twitched in a manner so rash, That his mal-treated lip, imperceptibly fringed. Looks much like a picked fowl just about to be singed. His white porcelain smile, edged with pink vulcan- ite, Would suggest a condition of chronic delight ; But you smile through a tear at his light, frothy glee. And his feeble attempts at a sharp repartee ; 88 POEMS WRITTEN And the faded coquette who encounters his leer. Whispers low to her fan, " Oh, but isn't he queer ? " For, in spite of his mirth and his frolicsome airs. It is plain to perceive that he's mostly repairs. When the fair apple-blossoms, pink-petaled and sweet, Fill the air with their fragrance, then fall at our feet. We rejoice in the fruitage, ripe, golden, and rare, Nor bewail the lost blossoms that scented the air. Then why this repining, this wail of despair, This affright at beholding the ghost of a hair, This strange terror of wrinkles, this fear lest some tongue Spread the awful report that you're no longer young ? Has the past been so vacant, so wasted the years. That no rainbow of Hope shimmers up through your tears ? Have you sought only vanity under the sun. Is the wide world no better for what you have done ? To the out-cast, the fallen that crept to your door. Have you said, with the Master, " Peace, sin thou no more " ? To the famished, the starving that roam o'er the land. Have you tendered the pittance they begged at your hand ? FOR OCCASIONS. 89 Have you knelt with no mourner to weep o'er a bed On which liHes and hare-bells their soft petals shed ? On that dark, lonely, path that no sunbeam adorns Have you scattered no roses, uprooted no thorns ? Over wastes of rough stubble and deserts of sand, Have you lightened no heart, have you strength- ened no hand? These are acts in Life's drama that challenge true art. And he well may lament who has failed in his part. Then rejoice, O young hearts, in the days of your youth. But subvert not their freshness, their promise, and truth By broad-casting "wild-oats" where you should scatter seeds That develop high aims, noble thoughts, honest deeds ; Else, perchance in the future, a conscience-lit flame May illumine, too strongly, some past deed of shame ; Or a sense of abasement your proud bosom fret As you writhe in the pangs of a lasting regret. You have youth, you have hope, you have vigor and health, Oh, scorn not, oh, waste not this fullness of wealth ; Let the fleet-footed years as they swiftly depart Find you broadened in soul and unsullied in heart. 90 POEMS WRITTEN But the drama goes on and behold here to-day A gay, amateur troupe who have made their entree And their exit as well, and we loudly encore As the curtain is dropped and the closing scene, o'er ; But their brief interlude will be followed, I ween. By a classic rehearsal for some grander scene ; And new glories they'll garner at each ripened age. As new homage they win on the throne of the stage ; For all "artists-in-born" seek the plaudits of fame As a spur to a nobler, a still higher aim. — And this thought leads me back to the primitive age Of your drama scholastic when flashed on the stage A star-troupe of young actors, unrivalled in art, True and earnest in soul, pure and loyal in heart. Thus they stood, laurel-crowned, just a decade ago,— Have you heard the old adage that every crow Thinks her own young the whitest .'' Be that as it may. You will seek for a whiter brood, many a day ! — Here T sigh o'er my theme, and I pause in my rhyme. For a Decade of Years, ten lost children of Time FOR OCCASIONS. 91 Stand before me to-night and my pulses beat fast As they hft, each in turn, the light veil of the past ; And, though tear-mists of Memory shadow and mar The vista that smiles in the distance afar, Yet, with crude, rapid touch, without finish or hue I would fain paint the scenes that arise to my view ; — There's a green, sloping hill with its pathways well-trod, And some tall, spreading trees that cast over the sod Their fine profiles in shadow with here and there, too, A bright net-work of gold where the sunbeams glint through. At the top of this summit and crowning its head Stands your old Alma Mater with both arms out- spread, Suggestive of welcome, suggestive of flight To the top of ambition's most classical height. — There are long flights of stairs, old and dusty and worn. There are low, narrow halls with some splinters up-torn By the swift rush of feet as they fall into line In the order of grade. And this picture of mine Has a still higher flight very far to the eye, But more restful for being so near to the sky ; 92 POEMS WRITTEN And its windows look out over valleys and dells, While afar in the distance, their low evening bells Call to service or prayer at the close of the day, When soft twilight descends on the hills far away, — On those time-honored hills, with green banners unfurled. That stand proudly to-day, the first-born of the world ! * Such, the half-drawn perspective, — but who can impart By a touch of the pen what is graved on the heart ? Ah, how often on Fancy's swift pinions I fly To your old Alma Mater's third loft in the sky ; To that peaceful retreat by sweet Solitude blest That from turmoil and care gave me refuge and rest. Alone, but not lonely, with friends true and tried. And my life-work before me, what craved I, be- side ? And there crowns the remembrance of happy years flown The sweet thought of another life linked with my own ; And once more rings the sound in the garret o'er- head Of a hammer and saw and a boy's nimble tread. * The Adirondacks. FOR OCCASIONS. 93 There with close-knitted brow he toils on with a will To develop some feat of mechanical skill, Till at length the young ship-wright exhibits a craft That the favoring gales of his future shall waft Over waters unknown. And it comes, the glad day When both master and vessel speed gayly away, — Speed too gayly away, over waters unknown, And are lost to a life doubly saddened and lone. As the long days of absence, recorded with tears. Waste to months and the months wear to long, dreary years. But we meet here to-night not in sorrow nor gloom. As we bring our heart's offerings and strew o'er the tomb Of a Decade of Years wreaths and garlands of flowers That true Friendship and Love pluck from Mem- ory's bowers ; And though hearts have been saddened and cheeks have been wet. We will waste not one thought in a useless regret ; For with faith in the hand that blends wisdom with woe. Still the decades may come and the decades may go; 94 POEMS WRITTEN But the fast-rolling years as they come and depart Shall not find us nor leave us less fervent in heart ; And our life-lease, though short, we'll not crave to extend, " For that life is the longest which answers life's end." TO MRS. W. ON HF:R WEDDING DAY. (With a dozen spools of cotton.) May your smooth thread of life be of generous length, And perfect in texture and number and strength ; And now that 'tis twisted with one of a kind That every way pleases your heart and your mind, You will wind up your bobbin with willing assent. And just run life's machine with a double intent. LINES WRITTEN FOR A WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. Dear friends, we have come on this glad New Year day, With gifts and with wishes our homage to pay. And to hear what the bride and the groom have to say In favor of courtship and marriage; FOR OCCASIONS. 95 A fourth of a century surely must prove The truth or the falsehood of conjugal love, Though matches on earth that are sanctioned above No falsehood can ever disparage. " Some trials of course, we have met with " you say. Yes, sunshine and shadow twin-children of Day Their net-work of changes have wrought o'er your way ; Though one little sunbeam was given To comfort your hearts and to gladden your eyes, — The gift of your Father, who bids you be wise. And keep it unsullied and pure for the skies, For the skies that we mortals call Heaven. Your features will fade and your eyes will grow dim, And thin locks of gray nestle under your brim, But your hearts will grow young as you look upon him And you'll say it must be an illusion ; But no. Father Time ever sprinkles a thread Mid the locks of the fairest and loveliest head. And so whether married or single, or dead. We are subject to just such intrusion ! With health and with wealth may your future be crowned. May peace and prosperity ever abound, All "family jars " full of sweetmeats be found, And wedlock, a true golden fetter 96 POEMS WRITTEN That shines with the wearing, — a mystical chain, Whose wonderful links a strange magic retain That brightens each pleasure and softens each pain, Old Hymen could wish you no better ! FIGURE-HEADS. (For a Reunion at the State Normal College, Albany, N. Y., Dec. 29, 1885.) When politicans swell their noisy throats With long orations born of borrowed notes, Or advocate some unimportant cause, To show their knowledge, or to win applause, May not a school-dame sing in humble strain The scattered thoughts that flit athwart her brain ? May she not show how spite of care and toil Huge shams may flourish in a fertile soil } Then come my Muse, and mid unnumbered strains, Raise one brief note before the chorus wanes : Come now, while rhymers meet, and metres rhyme To chant the progress of the present time. And tune thy lyre, by fairy Fancy led. To sing the progress of the Figure-Head. An odd vagary led me to my theme ; One night I had a most impressive dream ; Methought that in a crowded mass, I met A host of forms, and on each form was set FOR OCCASIONS. 97 A score of heads, of every style and size, And on each forehead, just above the eyes. Hung a placard, inscribed with this queer sign : " I'll scratch your head, my friend, if you'll scratch mine ! " All shams and shoddies, all pretence and fraud. These nodding heads virere fashioned to applaud ; All cliquish " Rings," intrigues, and cunning wiles Found recognition in their furtive smiles ; All public sinecures, professions, trades, First-class positions of all ranks and grades, — Whatever wealth bestows, or influence sheds, Was represented by these itching heads. Of capillary growth there was no lack Except one thin, bald place upon the back. Where constant scratching had laid bare the bone, Just as erosion wears away a stone. Each face with self-complacency grew sleek, — And oh, what wondrous, fearful breadth of cheek ! 'J'hen round I cast my eager, questioning eyes, Saw other heads half timidly arise Without placards upon the foreheads high ; But brightly shone within each soul-lit eye The fire of genius, in whose borruzved ^\\QQ.xi These well-scratched heads were basking, calm, serene. I woke, and shaking off the drowsy spell That bound my senses, I remembered well That what in Dream-land had been shown to me Was but a type of what I daily see. 98 POEMS WRITTEN O flitting Figure-Heads that rise to power In mushroom growths that thrive one little hour ! O Figure-Heads that rule through long decades By constant scratchings (those most potent aids)! Come forth to roll-call, answer to your names, And tell the truth, though it your master shames. Come forth distorted heads of mammoth size, With vulture-beaks and fiery Argus-eyes That flash like lightning in a pelting storm. Ye are the giant heads of bold Reform. — O stern Reform, thou moral Hercules, Canst thou bring Evil down on bended knees ? Twelve times twelve labors hath thy might as- sailed, Yet Evil stands well-backed, well-armed, well mailed. Political reforms with zeal advance, And nimbly lead thei"r partners in the dance Of Civil-Service Quickstep, while the Press Records their pirouettes and styles of dress. Some Terpsichorean who trips and falls Becomes a gastropod, and creeps and crawls In slimy suppliance upon the ground, Where'er the Quickstep dance goes round and round. Anon, the dance is changed for target drill, Which yields the test of every marksman's skill ; And target-practice soon becomes so brisk That every Figure-Head sustains some risk ; FOR OCCASIONS. 99 While Census-bill projectiles framed with skill Just miss the mark, and lodge fast in a Hill ! * Reluctant Muse, I free thee from a task That would a hideous monster all unmask ; That would a tale unfold of this ripe age Which Tragedy ne'er played on mimic stage ; A tale of frauds and lucre-loving lust, Of infidelity to public trust, Of petty pilferers who reimburse Official tramps from out the public purse. Of bartered honor and of bribes and blame That makes the cheek of Justice blaze for shame. With careful tread, with secret, solemn awe, Lest I o'er-step the bounds of nature's law, I rise sublimely to those frigid heights That even touch the base of Woman's Rights, And sing Reform, — reform that breaks her chain And frees her from the thraldom and the pain That bondage brings to those unquiet minds Who feel the fetter, softly though it binds. One marvels much that woman, born to cheer And bless the world, should seek a broader sphere ; That from her quiet hearth-stone she should turn Her timid, longing eyes, and sighing, yearn For rights which man dares hardly hold in trust ; Man, high in purpose, in decision just, * In allusion to Gov. David B. Hill's veto of the Census Dill for the State of New York in 1SS5. 100 POEMS WRITTEN Man, born of Nature's most sublime ideal, On whom "the gods have seemed to set their seal," Whose lofty souls would scorn to flout her claim To hard-earned stipend or to well-earned fame. What seeks she then in Legislative Halls Where she must brave the thrusts of party brawls. And rude contempt, and Libel's shifts and shocks, And all the slime that soils the ballot-box? Why sees she not within the small domain Of household circle all her duty plain ? Why to some desperate impulse does she yield To cultivate the broad and barren field. Although perchance the garden of her home Spring up with weeds, and coiling serpents come And breathe on her fair flowers a blighting breath That marks their trail with dire disease and death ? Does morbid sense of wrong or fancied right Thus drive her headlong on her tangent flight ? Let woman solve a query if she can That puzzles e'en the subtle brain of man. O Mistress Jellyby, sublime ideal, Suspend your efforts, check your ardent zeal. For " Borrioboola-Gha " there is no hope, That scene of action is beyond jc?/r scope. To man, primeval schemer, leave that field. And see what grand results it soon will yield. Let him direct you while you tug and toil ; He'll give you leave to till the rugged soil, FOR OCCASIONS. loi To prune and nurture with a constant care, — He'll not assert his claim the toil to share; But with an air that marks his conscious right He'll give you leave to work zvith all your might f He'll give you leave to wear out heart and brain, Then dole you out a pittance of Ins gain ; He'll give you leave all irksome tasks to do, Then claim the profit and the honors too ! He'll show you, by a logic most complete That your true sphere is at his lordship's feet. No matter though Minerva sponsor stood When you assumed the trust of womanhood A brazen Figure-Head thai trust disdains Where " might makes right " and gender out-ranks brains. Come forth, O Figure-Heads of social styles, That nod approvingly as Fortune smiles ; That all financial ranks intently scan, And with financial scales weigh every man. — Alas ! does wealth or station, pride of birth. Does power or polish stand for solid worth > Nay, nay, a strong, true heart full oft beats high Beneath a garb despised by social eye ; And giant brains throb 'neath a brim! ess hat, Ah, faith, " a man's a man for a' o' that." O Style and Fashion, Folly's twin-born apes. Before whose shrine the world her model shapes, Stern rulers, that our thoughts and lives control. Ye starve the heart, and dwarf the very soul.— I02 POEMS WRITTEN See fair Devotion in her Sunday smile Self-conscious, trip along the crowded aisle ; In Fashion's latest quirk is she arrayed, Style is her watchword, style her stock in trade. She eats, she sleeps, she walks, she talks in style, A stylish giggle rounds her stylish smile ; Her stylish calls are always in exchange. Like hostile guns saluting at long range ; She toils not, spins not, does not read nor think, But oh, how she adores the roller-rink ! Though oft at church for vanity harangued. Her foretop, like her doors, is loudly banged. — With waist so cramped within her corset's clasp That every breath is but a painful gasp. With bangles jingling like a convict's chains She fans and flutters till her pew she gains. Ducks down her head, as Custom bids her do, And — soothes the corn that's sprouting in her shoe ! Anon, a suitor comes to seek her hand : Has he position, bank-accounts, and land ? If not, oh luckless wight, how swift his fall, Some blear-eyed, blinking Croesus has them all ; . And for his wealth, which is her only goal, She sells herself, her body and her soul ; A golden Figure-Head, with golden crown Of scattered hairs as white as thistle down, Supplies the rank for which she longing sighs, Adores her beauty and ignores her lies. Thus any race, Decrepitude may gain If he but amble with a golden cane. FOR OCCASIONS. 103 In freaks of Fashion most grotesque, most queer, One dainty object claims our notice here ; In haunts where no rude country swain intrudes, Behold the promenade of city dudes ! With beardless cheek, and downy upper lip ; With limbs as sleek as molded tallow dip ; With gloves immaculate, with slender cane That ne'er was soiled in dust of country lane With souls no larger than a cricket's crop, These pigmy counterparts of Hotspur's fop Sport cigarettes, and strut with lofty mien, — Tobacco plants, fresh, fragrant, young and green. Lo, Science, Mistress of the boldest brain. Shall proud Pretence be found upon her train ? Alas ! our roll-call must all dolts betray ; For quack professionals o'er-crowd our way And prate of Law, Theology, and Health ; Their empty titles being all their wealth. Yea, quack-professionals of every class From rank to rank with rapid progress pass, And shielded by a titled Figure-Head, Venture to rush " where angels fear to tread." Mad Medicasters here must find a place, Who laugh at Science in her very face ; They store their brains with sundry healing facts, And store themselves with patent pills and packs. And boast of skill which works such grand results That e'en the dead arise with quickened pulse ; Then diagnose in such a swelling strain That Terminology could scarce explain ; 104 POEMS WRITTEN Expound pathology in learned tone, And deal a doubtful grain to every groan. Not less in Sciolism's well-thronged mart Poor Pettifoggers act their petty part ; Financial vultures hover everywhere, And seek to seize the greedy vulture's share By long delay and weary, vain dispute, — The Vholes, and Guppies, of the Jarndyce suit. Fierce legal vampyres, that their victims drain By sapping every artery and vein, Urged by the jingle of expected fees, Show clients how they'll win their case with ease; But summing up their items of defense, More often show their lack of common sense. Theologasters fill the sacred desk Who rival Comedy in grave burlesque ; With measured tone, and upward glance sublime, These pious Damons of Macauley's rhyme Inspire their hearers with a sleepy awe As they expound the claims of Moral Law ; Then Milton, Luther, Watts, or Wesley, quote. And fill each gap with — a selected note. Have they to foreign lands e'er made a tour ? That jaunt is shared alike with rich and poor ; Henceforth their feeble minds are tossed and vexed. How best to introduce it in the text ; And every benediction, sermon, prayer, Is spiced with odors of a foreign air, While sleepy hearers nod, and doze, and snore. And dream they've wakened on a foreign shore. FOR OCCASIONS. 105 And while to sacred themes our thoughts we raise Comes forth a Figure-Head that blinds the gaze ; With saintly visage and with austere grace ; With cautious tread and slow, funereal pace ; With mock humility, and modest mien. That hides itself where best it can be seen ! Behold Piosity, fanatic elf. Who sees no good except her righteous self. The cloak which Charity with her endowed Is laid aside, as one reserves a shroud For that cold day which Nature brings to all, When life's thermometer takes its last fall. In scripture lore she is the only sage, She follows one straight road, the Narrow Gauge. With venomed tongue and Sanctimony's slime. She stings and hisses at a hint of crime ; But crumbs of scandal are sweet morsels, while She smites her breast in true Pecksniffian style. She prowls and peers with hungry, furtive glance, Some monstrous sin to spy, and if perchance She finds a frailty or a cause for blame. She lifts her holy hands and cries " For shame ! " Then boasts in a sepulchral mongrel tone, (A cross between a chuckle and a groan,) That she has passed Temptation's direst snare. Yet her fair soul is pure as Heaven's own air. Thus self-exalted does she loud bemoan The sinfulness that leaves her all alone. Till Virtue cries in bitterness and wrath, " Oh, what a goodly outside P^alsehood hath ! " io6 POEMS WRITTEN Perhaps some critic, noting each new case, Thinks poetasters here might find a place. Yes, grant them all that to their rank belongs, Grant all but a rehearsal of their songs ! Upspringing all about us, rhymesters rise With hearts brimful, but heads, not over wise, Whose vain conceits their sense so far abuse, That soon they make their visionary muse To rival Orpheus, whose magic lyre Could thrill the dead with its poetic fire ; And Sappho, that fair, gifted, Grecian maid, Is cast by them completely in the shade ; And one poetic wag boasts in his lays That "fools will write, while greater fools will praise." K^ prince of shams, we here may aptly quote The scribbing novelists of Beadle note, Whose startling titles fix the eager glance Of hungry readers starving for romance. Their pages drip with sympathetic tears. As sinking hope is swallowed up in fears Lest some bold hero perish in the strife. In which he wages all to win a wife. With slow, reluctant, hesitating tread Do I approach that shapeless Figure-Head, With brain as heavy as a London fog, And rightly labelled Pseudo-Pedagogue. The little Devil at his printer's case. With busy hand and mildly vacant face, FOR OCCASIONS. 107 Sets up his stick, well spaced in pica row, But knows not what he sets, nor cares to know. He " follows copy," and has never known A higher impulse ; does he stand alone ? Nay, not alone, — behold the long parade Of mimic tutors in each rank and grade, Who shame pretense to science and to art, Like some rude actor who mistakes his part. Not air scholastic and not learned fact. Can fill the place of inborn, native tact. 'Tis magnetism's subtle, strange control That binds the heart and captivates the soul. Slow imitators carry out designs Enclosed by certain circles, squares or lines ; Nor do they hasten their dull, plodding pace To seize a prize awarded in the race. With second-hand attainments on they grope, Nor seek a broader field nor freer scope ; Blind bats and moles that neither feel nor think, The mongrel apes of Darwin's missing link, Low protozoans, with a one-celled wall. Acephalous, and fossilized withal ! O, servile teacher, cast your books aside. And Nature's grand old volume open wide. Its pleasing truths each lisping tongue should learn. Its pictured page should charm at every turn. In one glad concert they should shout with glee That flowery alphabet, the ABC. io8 POEMS WRITTEN Of bud and blossom, springing all about, And let them thumb the page, it can't wear out. How soon each lesson they'll delight to read. Line after line they'll con with eager speed ; Strange stories learn ; with morals pure and good. That add a flavor to their mental food. Frail jewels, wrought of sunbeams, frosts, and dews Will charm their eyes with all the lustrous hues Of richer gems, so coveted, so dear, That bring their owners naught but fret and fear. And where the daisy shades her modest face With bordered cap of plaited, homespun lace, They'll love to linger ; eagerly they'll ask A thousand questions on their pleasing task : As, why the mole throws up the mimic mound That hides his gloomy castle underground ; How master Robin's stylish, scarlet vest Is cut to fit his portly, glossy breast ; How Daffodil her scented kerchief flirts ; Why butterflies have gold-embroidered skirts ; While clumsy toads wear on their ugly backs A rusty coat, all seamed and scarred with cracks. What hidden wealth lies in the rocky ledge ; Where gets the wind its keenly cutting edge ; Where plods the peddler snail on slimy track, With all his " notions " heaped upon his back. Why men at Beauty's shrine, their worship give ; Why homely, unloved things should care to live ; FOR OCCASIONS. 109 Why roses crown the vulgar, way-side bush ; What means the music of the mottled thrush ; Whence come the silver-sandaled rills that glide Between their velvet banks on either side ; How stealthy spiders weave their subtle lace ; What holds the starry canopy in place ; Where the pale moon-man in the day-time goes, What makes that mammoth pimple on his nose ; Why sweetest blossoms oft bear bitter fruit ; Why cheerful crickets wear a mourning suit ; What dainty humming-birds, in dandy coats, Seek in the morning-glories' creamy throats; How from the thistle's cup, marauding bees Despite her bristling guard, her treasures, seize ; How stones increase in growth ; why sunbeams fade And leave the pleasant earth enwrapped in shade. As Hiawatha questioned on until He taxed Nokomis to her utmost skill, So they will query in their youthful zeal. With minds that quickly grasp, and hearts that feel. Of evolution, with its "how " and " when," They'll puzzle Huxley, o'er and o'er again ; And with swift haste they'll seek to learn each rule That solves these problems in fair Nature's school ; Because as our wise Shakspeare taught, their books Are found in "trees, in stones, in babbling brooks."' no POEMS WRITTEN Close these bright pages, and in clear mid-day, They'll grope in darkness, all along life's way. Then, O true teacher, study Nature's page And let its precepts all vour heart engage ; And like those silent slaves, the sap and root That clothe the showy boughs with leaves and fruit, Act well your part, and this plain truth declare : " One dignifies his calling by his care." Aim to be true, nor seek to question why On every hand exalted, proud and high Dull, self-inflated, pedagogic frauds Stand ranked and titled, while the world applauds. Remember that most mystic, potent sign, " I'll scratch j/(??/r head, my friend, if you'll scratch mine." Well may we pause and ruefully exclaim Behold how Figure-Heads may rise to fame ! My task is ended. If, perchance, I bring A thrust unkind, keen-edged by Satire's sting, I bring it only as an expert's test. To tear the shield of Truth from Falsehood's breast. Then cease, my Muse, nor let thy strain unkind No real worth no recognition find Of earnest effort and persistent will Life's noblest aim and mission to fulfill : For lo, to-day an earnest band I meet Who tread with eager, careful, patient feet FOR OCCASIONS. iii ■ The path that leads to Truth's most blest abodes ; Nor have they sought the short and easy roads ; I've learned their path, I've marked its steep ascent And watched their wistful glances upward bent. Hail dear Alumni of the days of yore, We greet you gladly at our mother's door; We bid you welcome to this spacious hall, Its hospitahty is free to all. There was a day, — not very long ago, When you came home, and found us, as you know^ Just like that ancient lady in the shoe, We smiled a welcome, for what could we do ? We hoped you wouldn't come, but all the same, We had to ask you, and so on you came ! Our Alma Mater sought with yearning look To give you, every one, a cozy nook. To see that all alike were warmed and fed. That not a chick went supperless to bed ; But still the careful dame, though seldom vexed, Did seem at times to be somewhat perplexed To find her hearthstone, once so broad and wide. Too small, although we "squeezed in" side by side. Meanwhile, we watched her patient, care-worn face As earnestly, with stately, matron grace, She urged the Junior brood to study well, And show their Seniors how they'd learned to spell. And much we marveled how her girls and boys, In stifled air and midst a Babel noise. Could heed her words of wisdom and of grace ; But still they wrought, and time crept on apace. 112 POEMS WRITTEN The good old lady shook her head and sighed, The house was small, that could not be denied. Not only small, but old and shaky too. With her, to will was but to plan and do. Now to the State she tremblingly appeals : Her hopes and fears in confidence reveals ; Remarks what noted progress has been made In every high profession, art, or trade In which her sons and daughters have engaged, KvL(!!i proves it, too, by Catalogue all paged ! She pleads that never has reproach, nor shame, Nor one foul blemish stained her honored name. 'Tis done, the State responds, — O honored Dame, What nobler monument could mark thy fame .■' Through yon Great Window streams the Christ- mas light, And rare Mosaic patterns charm the sight ; Pupil and teacher gracefully portray The early dawn of this resplendent day, And speed a truth that quickens heart and mind : Sweet fruit may ripen 'neath a bitter rind ; In castle or in cottage, near or far, It is not zukere, but rather what we are. But Roll-Call summons us, and we'll away, As each famiUar name is called to-day. Our Alma Mater sighs, for some, alas, Do not respond. From out the waving grass On some lone hillside steals the wind's sad moan, — What need of roll-call has a cold, white stone .'' Long may our voices strong with moral might Be heard at roll-call in the Cause of Right : FOR OCCASIONS. 113 Swift be the progress of the eager feet That in the race with vain Pretence compete ; Strong be the arm that frees with fearless stroke The neck of Genius from its galling yoke, That bares bold Falsehood to the very bone, And places Truth upon her rightful throne. QUIRKS AND QUERIES, A SILICATE. Stern and stony was the bearing of fair Kate in all her ways, Yet a trifle metamorphic under passion's fusing blaze ; So it chanced a spark magnetic, from love's anvil burning fell On the cold, silicious bosom of this flinty demoi- selle ; And the crusted, noduled geode, that she used to call her heart Was soon entered by fleche d'amour (that, in French, means Cupid's dart). Then a geologic gouger plied the chisel of his fate, And above his whole collection placed this shining sili-Kate. TO PLAGIARISM. O shrewd reviser of all themes. Of theory and thought, Thy verse an odd mosaic seems Of mixed quotations wrought. ii8 QUIRKS AND QUERIES. Thy muse with passion's fervid fire, To fair Apollo clings, But, ah, she tunes a borrowed lyre. And steals the lender's strings ! QUERY. What lights the flame that flashes from our eyes To stranger-eyes, responsive, on the street ? And as we backward glance, why no surprise That we a stolen glance should backward meet ? And when from this quick union of our eyes There leaps a new-born impulse, — ere it dies. Give it a name, ye psychologic wise. WHY NOT ? Our shrewd politicians who manage the wires. Soon rise to the height that commands their de- sires ; And when they grow giddy with soaring so high, Neither standing nor sitting of course they must lie! YOUR CHOICE. "Women sit, or move to and fro, some old, some young, The joung are beautiful — but the old are more beautiful than the young." — Leaves of Grass" Walt Whitman. O rash Walt Whitman, what wilt thou find next To interweave among thy Grassy Blades .-' Thy glumous gramina have sore perplexed The Phenogamic grub, that bores and spades QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 119 To sap the juicy root of each green leaf That hides a floret-bud within its sheaf. Thy broadened Blades have root in no mean soil, Their fibres spring from Nature's richest mold ; Each subtle vein within its glossy foil Pulsates with life poetic, yet they hold A mystery, alas, beyond my ken, O gifted poet of the Endogen. But if this version of thy verse be true, That Old Spring Beauties, past their time of May, Are quite as fresh and quite as fair to view As pink June roses, blushing by the way. Then oh, what huge bouquets await thy call, And, good Walt Whitman, thou shalt have them all! OH, DON'T YOU REMEMBER? (A College Reminiscence.) Oh, don't you remember Joe Wilder, Hugh Brown, Joe Wilder, the wildest of boys. Who was known through the length and the breadth of the town, By his ready-made, rollicking noise ? And don't you remember old " Squeery," Hugh Brown, And his cynical, — "That is superb! " When we floundered in giving the stem of a noun. Or tripped up on the root of a verb ? I20 QUIRKS AND QUERIES. And don't you remember the " Snug'ry," Hugh Brown, Where he found the strong, odorous signs That some lore-loving students in slippers and gown Had been puffing away at long nines ? And don't you remember he scored it, Hugh Brown, By a look, unmistakably plain ; And how we would rather haveyiV/him come down With the weight of his gold-headed cane ? Oh, don't you remember Old Bridget, Hugh Brown, With her eyebrows so bushy and black. How she swooned with dismay in the face of a frown, And revived in the face of a smack? And don't you remember the garret, Hugh Brown, With its roof pointing straight to the sky, Where she nursed us through measles on pillows of down. And just gorged us on sweet pumpkin pie ? Oh, never forget stern old "Squeery," Hugh Brown, Nor his petrified stare of surprise When you blundered upon the right stem of a noun, In a manner uncommonly wise. QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 121 And do not forget dear old Bridget, Hugh Brown, Nor the light that she shed on your track ; For her spirit went up, when her body went down, And both went where they'll never come back ! And oh ! don't forget young Joe Wilder, Hugh Brown, For though vigor and bloom may depart, Yet Time's fiercest ravages ne'er can tear down The strong walls of a true, loving heart. THE SELF-MADE MAN — HIS NAME. I promised him that I would weave his name Into a sonnet — therefore, I begin ; But how, in fourteen lines, e'er hope to win For him the laurel-wreaths of lasting fame That his rare gifts and dauntless deeds may claim .-* " Self-made," — he bids me weave this oft within My humble verse. His course has been A round of brilliant conquests in Life's game, F'ought single-handed, thus he spins the tale ; And as in grand review his triumphs pass, His " self-made " craft has weathered every gale ; But I have reached the thirteenth line, alas. And lest both Pegasus and promise fail, I'll haste at once to "write him down an Ass." IS IT A FAILURE.? Oh, is it a failure, this union of hands. Of dowers and mortgages, houses and lands, 122 QUIRKS AND QUERIES. And paraphernalia that always commands The homage of every station ? It surely should not be a question of doubt, For ever since Adam went strolling about With elbows and knees, yea, with heels and toes out, And vowed that a wife he could not do without, We have honored this holy relation. In fact, father Adam did not tell a fib. The evening he put on his new fig-leaf bib. And said he'd get married, if it took a rib. And ordered his family carriage : A carriage for two, that was made to seat four, For Adam was honest and true to the core, And as for divorce, Eve was safe on that score, — Now why should our Devil pop in at the door And mention the thing that we'd like to ignore ? "Aye, but that was an old-fashioned mar- riage ! " RI^SUMfi. As I was remarking a moment ago, - The old-fashioned weddings were not made for show, The swain had his sweetheart, the maiden her beau. But courtships were rare, and the magnetic glow Of their passion was not evanescent. QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 123 They shared with each other through long-wedded years, Life's sunshine and sorrow, its hopes and its fears. And mingled together their smiles and their tears, — The full honeymoon, as the record appears. Never waning, as now, to a crescent. We often observe in the conjugal bower, That Hymen's mysterious, magical power, In grafting the fruit of affection's fair flower, Makes some acids sweet, and some saccharines, sour As fortune's queer compound arranges. But all who " look backward " a hundred years hence, Will marvel to learn of the charming pretence Of ardent devotion, where dollars and cents Could sever or bind two fond hearts — on the fence Awaiting commercial exchanges ! THE PUZZLED ENTOMOLOGIST. " You say you found it on the fence, And that its color changed when you Peered 'neath its wings } That is immense, I scarcely can believe it true. Three-winged ! Well, well, — now let me trace. The Diptera } No, that has two. Orthoptera > No, that gives place To four-winged insects, that won't do." 124 QUIRKS AND QUERIES. The three-winged myth with changing hue, Our scientist viewed o'er and o'er ; With microscopic eye, anew He taxed his deep, entomic lore ; But taxed in vain. The gauze-winged bee. The silken moth, the dragon-fly, The busy ant, the supple flea Each passed before his mental eye. Then suddenly his puzzled look Changed to a phase half-sneer, half-frown, And pushing back both lens and book He seized a label and wrote down : " Amorphous type — can leap and fly, Can climb or crawl at will, — and hence Its Genus plain : Mugwumpii, Its native habitat, the fence ! " MYTHS. On high Mount Olympus, as old legends go, — A mountain that stands with its head in the snow, Bold Jupiter changed himself into a crow, And carried off Juno, — the legends say so. Without the slight loss of a feather ! But she soon grew jealous of this tricky bird, For rumors and scandals she constantly heard, And if she but hinted her fears, by a word. He would c-a-w in a manner extremely absurd. And be sulky for hours together. QUIRKS AND QUERIES. 125 Fair Juno was highly offended, of course, And turned to the courts to obtain a divorce, But got no redress from this popular source. For Jupiter c-a-w-e-d till he made himself hoarse. And then sought to quell her by actual force ; While birds of the very same feather Declared that some facts (should they choose to relate) Would kindle such wrath in the breast of her mate. That Juno would wish herself down in that state Where torch-light processions such vapors create As to alter the state of the weather. Calisto, her rival, was famously fair. So Juno transfigured her into a bear. And cruelly caged in the very same lair, Calisto's son Arcus ; the thing I declare Was harsh, for a woman who had any share In heart-felt affection, but she "didn't care," For such was her manner of speaking ; But Jupiter seeing what Juno had done, Transferred the two Brunos 'way up near the sun. And here comes the moral :— Most quarrels begun Through envy and malice, will, in the long run Recoil on the agent,— the "kick of the gun," The game, meanwhile, soaring 'way up to the sun. And nothing of value will ever be won By those who for vengeance are seeking. CYPRESS SPRAYS. IN MEMORIAM. In the "City of Rest" a new grave has been made, And my heart turns toward it to-day ; For beneath the low sod a dear form has been laid That I loved in the years passed away. Ah, how shall I paint the bright virtues that crowned Thy life ever blameless and true ? Thy clay, like all mortals, must blend with the ground. But thy spirit earth's taint never knew. All gentleness, charity, sympathy, love, A stranger to passion and hate ; 'Tis meet that earth's angels be gathered above. Though earth be left twice desolate. I long to kneel down by thy far-away grave, And weep forth the anguish within, And pray that thy guardian spirit may save My feet from temptation and sin. 130 CYPRESS SPRA YS. *Tis well that earth's sunbeams be sometimes with- drawn, Else heaven would seem not so near ; 'Tis well when we trace in our hopes over- thrown, A blessing baptized with a tear .; 'Tis well that our feet are not called to depart While we tread the dark pathway of sin, — That Death, the Iconoclast, breaks not the heart When he shatters its idols within. THE EARLY DEAD. Thy life was but a little book. With leaf uncut and page unread ; And as upon thy face I look I cannot call thee dead. The cloud that flecks the summer sky, The frosted lace-work on the pane. The breath of lilies floating by Are not more free from stain Than thy young soul. Thou hadst thy part In life's uneven, doubtful race, And won the goal ere on thy heart Sin's touch had left one trace. C YPRESS SPRA YS. 131 GONE. A sunbeam to the sky has gone, Back to the sky that gave it birth, A note is missing from your song, 'T will ne'er be found again on earth. An early flower has faded, died, The frailest flower in all the wreath You held so dear, and long you tried To shield it from the chill of death. That sunbeam now divinely pure Shall cheer you in its native sphere ; That flower, too fragile to endure The blights and blasts that smote it here, Developed by a hand Divine, Shall bless you in its native bowers. — Alas, we may many garlands twine, But cypress wreaths alone are ours ! BEYOND. As one from whose light grasp a jewel slips, I still pursue an eager, fruitless quest, And almost feel her dainty finger-tips Against my tear-stained cheek in pity, pressed, And almost hear, above my heart's wild beat. The patter of her willing, welcome feet. 132 C YPRESS SPRA YS. I wake at midnight, with a sense renewed Of all my loss, — of dreary days in store ; I call her name in my lone solitude, — Ah, will she answer from that far off shore ? Alas, how far, — how near that shore may be, Is known to none but angels pure as she. She leads the way. — Across Death's dark abyss Be thou, oh. Faith, the bridge on which I stand To mark the path that from such woe as this Leads up to light, to love, to that blest land Where I shall clasp again my white-robed child Fair as she left me, spotless, undefiled. THREE YEARS AGO. Shadows, dark and gloomy shadows, Such as only mourners know. Fell upon our cheerful hearth-stone. Only three short years ago. We had been so glad and happy Ere was dealt the fatal blow. That we scarce could bear, unshaken, All that came three years ago. Now our hearts are ever saddened. And our tears as freely flow. As they fell upon his coffin. Only three short years ago. CYPRESS SPRAYS. 133 Checkered sunshine falls around us, On his grave so green and low, But no shadow dims his sunlight. As it did three years ago. We alone are left in shadow And in darkness here below, Left to mourn the free, glad spirit Lost to earth, three years ago. SAVED. Sleeeping beneath the green willow to-night Is that dear little lambkin of ours. And I'm trying to say it is just, Lord, and right That she's buried forever there out of my sight, 'Neath her bed of bright mosses and flowers. Taken away from the evil to come Is the sweet one that's slumbering there. Taken away from the sorrow and sin, From the conflict without and the conflict within That her frail, tender life could not bear. Spared from the tempest and safe in the fold Of the good, faithful Shepherd above ; And though her poor body is senseless and cold, And sinks 'neath the grave's loathsome mildew and mold Yet her spirit knows nothing but love. 134 CYPRESS SPRAYS. I know there's a spot on this fair earth of ours Where I shall at length find repose ; Embowered mayhap mid green mosses and flowers, Where birdlings shall chirp through the long sum- mer hours From their nests in the myrtle and rose. Ah, then if my spirit may enter the fold Which the good, faithful Shepherd hath blest, Though Death's clammy hand with its pitiless hold Shall force me to share the grave's mildew and mold, Yet how gladly I'll welcome its rest ! SEVEN YEARS AGO. Seven years ! Alas, the shadow That across our threshold lay, Falls as darkly on our hearthstone As it did that bitter day. Seven years the blue-eyed pansies O'er her grave their watch have kept, While beneath the flowers and grasses She in dreamless rest has slept. Night dews fall in tear-drops round her. Weeping willows near her wave, Bird songs float with mournful cadence O'er our loved one's early grave. C YPRESS SPRA VS. 135 We "forget her" ? shall the star-gems Fail to deck the brow of night ? Shall the sunbeams fail to cheer us With their genial warmth and light ? Just as well might we forget her, She who blessed us from her birth, She the sunbeam of our household — Faded from our si^ht on earth. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MY LADY DEBLOCK. "By the light of the fire, he can be seen looking toward the moonlight. By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be seen in profile, perfectly still." — Bleak House. I cannot view her as a grand ideal, That stately, haughty queen of Chesney Wold ! I take the tale to heart as sadly real. And when with tears, the picture I behold, Which he, the master artist, wrought with care, Her wrongs, her sorrows, her remorse, I share. I hear a steady, stealthy, muffled tread Fall on the " Ghost-walk," soft as shifting sands ; I see the deadly pallor quick o'erspread Her brow, her cheek, and her fair, jeweled hands. As her relentless judge, with legal care. The deep-hid secret of her life lays bare. I follow her when in that fear-winged flight. She hurries, foot-sore, through the crowded street. Lost in the blackness of the wintry night. " I see no way before my guilty feet," I hear her cry, and list her sobbing moan — " Ah, I must travel my dark way, alone." I40 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And that dark way leads to a pauper mound ! Her starving heart compels her weary feet To seek the spot where she may touch the ground That holds the form, — that hides the last retreat Of one, who, lying there, a senseless clod. Stole from her breast the rarest gift of God. I see her at the pauper graveyard gate. "The place, I've often had in my mind," she said ; One icy hand has clasped the iron grate, And prone and helpless lies my lady — dead ! Ah, Charity, thy softest robe prepare, And veil her shame with thy most tender care. EXPERIENCE. " First test the tension of your thread before you wind at all," My mother said, as clumsily I wound a shapeless ball; How well I learned a lesson then, that now I oft recall ! " And favor the weak places, dear, the flaws along your thread, And wind your ball more evenly, and lap the ends, instead Of tying those unsightly knots ; they spoil your work," she said. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 141 'Tvvas years ago, — but now her words I clearly comprehend ; In each fine cord that binds the heart of friend to cherished friend, Are brittle flaws that will not bear strong tension to the end. So, when a thoughtless tongue lets fall a word that pains my ear, I hide the flush of wounded pride, and check re- sentment's tear, And thus the cords that wed our hearts grow stronger, year by year. When Malice spins her subtle thread to fashion Scandal's ball, And busy Gossip's giddy reel the tangled skeins lets fall, I test the tension of each strand before I wind at all! AUTUMN LEAVES. O ye withered leaves of autumn, How ye mind me of my fate, How ye mind me that my changeful Day of life is waxing late ; That the genial, glowing summer Of my joyous youth is past ; And that Life's chill, somber autumn Ends in Death's cold, wintry blast ! 142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But I thank thee, O my Father, That the semblance endeth here; That unlike the leaves of autumn That must perish with the year, My glad spirit shall awaken To a life of light and joy, Where autumn winds no longer moan Nor wintry blasts destroy. THE FIRST SNOW. There falls a veil of spotless white, The first white veil of snow, Upon thy lonely grave to-night, The cold winds tell me so. Each silvery ilake, that robes the land In fleecy folds of white, Falls softly as a spirit hand On thy low grave to-night. I did not mark Death's stealthy shade That nearer drew each day ; I did not see them when they laid Thy wasted form away. One curling tress of auburn hair, — 'Twas all that came, — ah, me ; Alone, I weep, with none to share My grief in losing thee ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 143 A broken circle waits me now, And tearful eyes I see, Two aged heads in sorrow bow That may not look for thee. I'll haste to grant the boon they ask, The boon they sadly crave, But ere the living forms I clasp, I'll seek thy new-made grave. I know that sunbeams grace the skies, That shadows fall to earth ; I know that when the body dies. The spirit hath new birth ; And would my soul, like thine, were free From every tie below. That I might calmly rest with thee Beneath a veil of snow. THE TRUE QUEEN. Fair Rose, thou art my Queen, And at thy feet Have I not sworn it, yea, a thousand times, and more ? Then wherefore dim the luster of thy sheen, And jealous, weep. That I should pause, perchance, at fair Viola's door ? 144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. To be a Queen, Sir Knight, May please the sense That subtle pride too oft awakes within the heart ; But could'st thou read a woman's soul aright. Small recompense Is hers who giveth all that she may win a part ! A Queen may well command Thine homage true ; But when into thy garden, thou dost haply roam. Why gather tenderly within thy hand The Violet, blue, That her rare fragrance may rejoice thee in thy home ? The subtly woven crown That Love bestows. To me were little worth, should Cupid, changeful roam, And captured by the Violet, cast down The broken Rose ! Nay, she alone is Queen whose fragrance fills the home. GOING DOWN TO THE GRAVE. Going down to the grave with no hope in thy heart, That thy God will receive thee sin-robed as thou art ? Life's sunshine extinguished, with faltering tread, In darkness and doubt going down to the dead ? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 Going clown to the grave in the blackness of night, No star-beam of love from the Father of Light ? No Savior's sweet presence and promise to save ? A stranger to God going down to the grave ? No God and no hope ! Where, oh where, is thy stay ? Thy Savior long pleading turns not yet away ; His sad eye zvill pity ; His strong arm can save ; Why then in thine own strength go down to the grave ? Thine hour of gay pleasure ere long will be o'er ; A dark gulf awaits thee ; its mad waters roar, — Too late thou wilt call on the mighty to save, When thy prayer shall be lost in Eternity's grave. RUNAWAY JIM. 'Twas near the Dismal Swamp, where cypress wood, And stately oaks, and tall primeval pines, For years on years, like sentinels had stood, Gray-bearded with dead moss and tangled vines. — 'Twas near this swamp, slave-haunted, that I lay The scenes long passed — but ah, so real to-day ! Here stood a mansion, in the happy days Ere fair Virginia's flowery hills and plains Had felt the scathing breath, and scorching blaze Of blighting War, and his attendant trains Of evil, that like fiends of wrath and hate, Laid all her beauty waste and desolate. 146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I see the thrifty acres, smiling, crowned With ripened wheat ; the fertile meadow lands ; The reach of woodland, on the higher ground ; The sweet rose-hedges, trimmed by careful hands ; The bordered pathways, winding here and there ; And fragrant clover nodding everywhere. I see the matron of this broad estate In regal beauty o'er her household reign ; Proud of the serfs that on her bidding wait. Proud of her wealth and high ancestral name, But prouder far of her twin-boys that stood The future solace of her widowhood. Now comes the day when for the love of gold, She steels her heart against the cry of pain ! The trader pays his price ; the slave is sold, His weeping wife, and mother, plead in vain, — But, that you may the scene as plainly see, List to the tale as it was told to me : "Ah, honey, I has seen de day When bofe mine eyes run clean away Wid tears dat neber ceased to flow. Laws holp my life ! Why, doan ye know.? 'Twas when my Jim was skulkin' roun', Dat Dismal Swamp. — Sho', I'll be boun'. Ye neber hearn me tell o' him } Why, Rhody's daddy, dat's my Jim. Ye see our missus done an* sol' Him to a trader; an' he stole MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 147 Away dat bery night, an' hid Down in de Swamp; den missus bid De ober-seer hunt his track Wid all de houn's, to fotch him back. Dey seerched ontirin', night an' day, But Jim, he hid hisse'f away ; An' me an' Juno, — dat's his wife, Made sartin sho' he'd lose his life ; An' all de chillun, day an' night, Po' lam's, a cryin', wild wid fright. But a'ter dey hed scrimaged roun', An' Jim was nowhar to be foun' ; An' a'ter 'bout a year hed passed. An' we'd all gin him up, at last, De twins, dat's massa Bije an' Ben, (Ole missus' heart was sot on dem,) Dey tuk it in der beds one day, To go down to de dam an' play. So finishin' der 'lotted sums, Dey tuk der hooks, an' lines, an' wu'ms, An' went down to de Feeder, whar De stream is mighty swift an' cl'ar. To cotch some fish. Sence dey was bawn Ole missus kep' em near de lawn. An' neber let 'em 'scape her eye ; But somehow on dat. day, an' why, I disremember, seein' it's ben, A dozen years or mo' sence den. 148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Dem twins dey slipped f'om missus' sight, An' neber peared agin dat night ! Ah, missus didn't know twell den, When she lost little Bije an' Ben, How deep it cuts, down in de heart, Whev chile an' parent's druv apart. All night de grown folks swa'med about, All night ye mought uv hearn em shout ; But 'twa'nt no use, fer not a soun' Come back to tell de twins was foun'. Po' missus, 'stracted, walked de flo', An' when de mawnin sun once mo' His cheerin' beams, sent laughin' down, She bid de fiel'-han's, all aroun' To scour de wood, de swamp, an' fen. But still no news o' Bije an' Ben. Wal, jest at night, de second day, She, sperrit-broken, tried to pray ; Wid tears a streamin' down her face, She tole de Lawd her wretched case ; When right afo' her 'stonished eyes Dar stood my Jim ! Laws, ef de skies Hed fell right down to yeth below, She could n't ben mo' skeered, I know. In bofe his ban's he clutched a cap, De warter streamin', drap by drap From bofe der brims. She gib a shriek, But Jim, he neber stayed to speak. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 149 Ner 'splain de meanin', — neber said De twins was foun' alive ner dead. Wal, jest about a minute mo', Dar stood inside de open do', Dem precious lam's, 'scaped f'om all harms ! An' rushin' to der mudder's arms Dey tole der story, blin' wid tears. 'Tis sump'in like a dozen years Sence dat tuk place, but yit I seem To see it like it was a dream. Dey waded f rough de stream, to fin' A place to drap de hook an' line ; But jest whar it was pow'ful deep, Dey lost der footin', could n't keep A stan'in spot ; an' seein' der fate, Dey screamed for holp, but 'twas too late ; An' so at last, dey bofe went down. Locked in one nudder's arms to drown. But 'stead o' dat cold, slimy grave, Dey woked up in a mons'ous cave ; An' when der eyes dey opened wide, Dar stood po' Jim, clus by der side ! Fer he hed watched 'em wade de stream, An' seen 'em fall, an* hearn 'em scream, An' clomb de bank, der lives to save, An' toted 'em inside his cave. ' Why did he take der drippin' caps To show der ma ? ' I reckon p'r'aps 'Twas just to let her taste de smart Dat he felt gnawin' at his heart. ISO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Fer twice he crep' so near at night, Dat he could see his cabin's light ; An' he could 'stinctly hear de soun's O' Juno's voice, but den de houn's Dey skeered him so, he dasn't stay ; An' so he'd trem'lin' steal away. An' dasn't look, one minute, back. For fear de houn's 'ud scent his track. An' when de stawm come peltin' down, Fit to t'ar off de roof, I foun' Po' comfo't in de wa'mth an' light, A knowin' Jim was out dat night, A starvin' an' a hidin' whar De p'isen varmints make der la'r. Ah, honey, when yer chillun goes Down in dat Swamp, ye neber knows What hoi's 'em dar. 'Taint men, alone, Dat frough dem dismal shadders roam ; An' fo' de Lawd, Jim's hed his shar* O' sorrer in dis life to b'ar. ' Did he come back ? ' Yes, I'll be boun' For missus sent de yerran' roun' To ebery cross-road in de Ian*, Ef Jim 'ud come, she'd allers stan' 'Twixt him an' harm, an' — doan ye see, Dat's Jim wid Rhody on his knee ! " MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 151 KIND WORDS ONLY. How like music o'er the waters — How like sunshine on the sea — How like morning's brightest day-beam, Comes a kindly word to me. When my life-cares make me weary ; When my soul is racked with pain, Lo! a word of kindness greets me. And my heart grows glad again. Oh, this life is full of sunshine — Full of sunshine every day, And unless we watch for shadows, They fall not athwart our way ; And this earth were almost heaven. Could we every blessing see ; But we're waiting — ever waiting For some blessing yet to be ! Bright, how bright would be earth's pathways, And how like the world above, Were our words all "words of kindness," And our deeds all "deeds of love." GRAVE OF "LEATHER-STOCKING." Is fiction truth? Do I but dream, as tearfully alone I kneel beside a grass-grown grave marked by a mossy stone, ' 152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Which bears a name so time-bedimmed I scarce the words may trace, And just beneath — "Let no rude hand disturb this burial-place." "Path-finder," "Hunter," "Pale-faced Chief" — all titles were the same To one who bore a Christian soul beneath a sav- age name ; For rude he was, and all unlearned in every let- tered page, And yet the Book of Nature read with wisdom of a sage ! Here, just beyond the hunter's grave, low, crouch- ing at his feet, "Old Hector" with his master shares this quiet, wild retreat ; A savage hand in honest faith entombed him thus with care. That in the Spirit's hunting-grounds he'd join his master there. Here 'neath the sycamore and oak the forest hun- ter sought To rest his worn and weary frame when all life's toils were wrought ; Improvement's hum and busy din fell harshly on his ear. Far more he loved the haunts where roam the bison and the deer. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 153 Here, swift the Pawnee's arrow sped, and here his light canoe. When launched upon the crystal Loup, swift as his arrows flew ; The crystal Loup where each bright wave by flowery banked caressed, Along the dimpled surface bore a diamond in its breast ! And here, when on the war-path, went the savage chief in pride, He prayed the Great Wacondah that his ear he'd open wide. And show him well the Teton's trail, the ambush of the Sioux, That from his belt a hundred scalps should fright his foe anew. Ah, strange emotions thrill my soul as wandering here alone, I muse upon the tragic deeds of days forever flown, When one primeval forest hemmed these fair, broad prairie lands. Where fiercely rose the dismal whoop of prowling savage bands. Farewell, ye scenes, for never-more my feet shall hither stray ; But oh, when faith within me wanes and heaven seems far away, 154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I'll mind me of a strange, lone man — a savage yet a sage, Who studied Nature's book and read God's name on every page ! "HIS OWN ACCUSER." " Trust me, no tortures which the poets feign Can match the fierce, unutterable pain He feels, who night and day devoid of rest, Carries his own accuser in his breast." (Gifford's yuvetial.) There's a grim and ghastly phantom. Whose fierce eyes upon me stare Like the eye-balls of a demon, — With a crazed and burning glare ; And no matter where I hide me. This grim spectre still is there. And within his bloodless fingers Is a scroll he clutches fast, And therein a panorama Of the dark and evil past, Evil records that shall curse me While my life and being last. With the sunbeam and as noiseless, At the early wake of morn, Lo, he glideth to my pillow. And his ghastly, ghostly form Is the first to make me sorrow That another day is born. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 155 All day long this gloomy shadow With a stealthy, muffled tread, Walks before me and about me While I faint with awe and dread ; And I wonder if his presence Will be with me when I'm dead. When the twilight shadows gather And with broken heart I bow, And in contrite anguish murmur " Lord, have mercy on me now," This fierce demon whispers " Never. Not on such a wretch as thou." When heart-wearied with earth's pleasure, I would seek a higher goal — Some strange power holds me earthward With a steady, firm control ; 'Tis the spectre's bony fingers Pressing down upon my soul. Every hope my heart has cherished, — Every sight and sense and sound That was wont to lift my spirit To a higher, broader ground, Is made hateful by the torment That unto my life is bound. So my soul is clad in sadness And in sorrow all the day, And the Future's world of sunshine Has for me no cheerful ray, For the Phantom's gloomy shadow Chases every beam away. 156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MY LITTLE QUERIST. " Why did my little sister come Unless she meant to stay ? Could anybody love her more Than we ?" says little May. " Why did she go ? Where did she go ? What makes her stay away ? Did anybody need her more Than we ? " asks little May. Alas, these tearful questions wake Sad memories to-day ; "He needs her most Who loves her most" Is all that I can say. THE WATER TIGER. Have you watched the Dytiscus, and noted his skill, As his metal-clad craft he propels at his will ? Now he glides along swiftly o'er smooth mimic waves, Now he suddenly dives to the sub-marine caves Of his little marsh-ocean, and searches within For such booty as only this Corsair may win. Ah, a Corsair indeed ! From his earliest days What a savage career his life-record betrays ! For, see ! the young larva, with murd'rous intent, Is already a pirate on fierce carnage bent. With his horn-plated visor he seizes his prey. And with ready-set fangs bears it swiftly away. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 157 Thus the poor hapless victim its life-blood must give That this infant marauder may flourish and live. O thou antic young tad-pole, how sad is thy fate ! Thou hast counted the days between thee and a state Of green, velvet-clad frog-ship, but counted in vain, For thy blood-thirsty captor regards not thy pain. Thou must perish and die ; he will fatten and thrive, To expound the grand law that the fittest survive ; While thy finny companions with big, bubbly eyes. Gaze upon thee bewildered, in silent surprise That a fierce Water-Tiger with bold, sudden grip Should cut off both thy hopes and thy tail at one snip! SUBMISSION. Lord, I am weary of debasing toil, Lift me, I pray Thee, to a higher plane ; For I would fain behold the ruby dawn Of promised day, — the day of peace and rest To those who trust in Thee. My aching feet Are tired, and torn with the sharp thorns of care As wearily I struggle on and on Through tangled thickets set with snares of sin. 1 58 MISCELLANEO US POEMS, Point out, dear Lord, that straight and narrow way From which I strayed, in search of Pleasure's form That vanished ere my hand had touched her hem ! I bow my head 'neath Thy offended frown And shrink not from thy chast'ning rod in fear ; For well I know that when that frown hath passed, Thy smile, approving, will new heart restore ; And when my festering wounds shall close and heal, New robed and free from all unsightly scar. Shall I in strength, and hope, and faith arise. Filled with a peace that none but Thou canst give. SPRING HARBINGERS. Our Mother Earth is in her loom. And weaving, night and day ; Her new spring carpet must be done Before the month of May ! Note well the stripes of red and green, Of yellow, brown, and blue, In warp and woof I ne'er have seen Shades of such tender hue. Our grand Snow-King is melting down, And nevermore will rise ; The icicles that spike his crown Have dwindled, too, in size : MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 159 His fair, round cheek reveals a scar, His noble Roman nose Gives evidence of real catarrh, And — see ! that robin goes And perches on the old well-sweep, And strokes her glossy breast, Then turns and takes a doubtful peep Into her last year's nest. The hill-side, just across the lake Shows patches, here and there Of snow, like some huge Christmas cake Picked prematurely bare ; And at its base, a ledge, and plain Its naked ribs I see Beneath a wasting counterpane Once white as white could be. And busy fingers I behold That weave with fairy-floss, As on the bare rocks hard and cold They spread their mats across. Weave on, weave on, dear Mother Earth, Thy carpet warm and bright. Of warp or woof thou hast no dearth, And with what new delight I'll tread thy velvet tapestry With beauty so replete. And praise the rare benignity That placed it 'neath my feet. i6o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. My heart leaps high, as far and wide, Where e'er I chance to stray I find sweet harbingers that hide Their elfin forms away, Down deep within the tangled woods, With that bright swarm of B's, — The Birds, the Butterflies and Buds That seek such haunts as these. WITHOUT AND WITHIN. The sun shines in my outer world, But darkness reigns within, A fearful gloom enshrouds my soul — The nebula of sin. Dear Savior, smile away this gloom. And let the sunlight in. Sweet bird-songs cheer my outer world. But anguish wails within. Ambition, pride, and gross deceit Have bound my soul in sin ; Then, O my Savior, break these bonds. And let the sunlight in ! Temptations throng my way without. Remorse broods dark within ; The chains that bind my tortured soul Are festered o'er with sin ; Dear Savior, send thy healing balm. And let the sunlight in. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. i6i While pleasure gayly smiles without, What torment reigns within ! And still, poor weakling that I am, I tread the paths of sin. My Savior, I am lost if thou Let not the sunlight in. NO ONE TO CARRY THE KEYS. (A Dixie Bachelor's Solilocjuj.) I've bought me a snug little cottage. As cozy as cozy can be ; Not down by the dark rolling river, Nor yet by the blue rolling sea ; But here in my own " Happy Valley," Half hid by the tall, waving trees, But oh, what is life in a cottage With no one to carry the keys .'' I turn to my desolate dwelling. Whene'er the day's labor is o'er. But find there no gentle form waiting, To clasp at the half-open door. Aunt Dinah comes in from the kitchen. And mumbles such phrases as these, ** Wish Massa'd make haste and get married, I'm tired of toting de keys." My larder is full to o'erflowing, With vegetables, poultry and hams, For those with a taste more exquisite, I've claret, fruit, jellies, and jams. i62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But when at my table I linger, To feast on such dainties as these, My appetite sinks with my spirits, I've no one to carry the keys. To tell of my cares and my crosses, Domestic'ly speaking, — would cause Most any young lady of feeling. At least for a moment to pause ; And pausing, she then might indulge in Soliloquies something like these : — " Poor fellow, he's lonely," — and — "may-be He'd like me to carry the keys ! " So when I've a few moments' leisure, I'll call on some fair one I know, I wont ask a formal permission, To be " for the season " her beau, I won't swear her eyes are like diamonds, Nor even fall down on my knees, I'll just ascertain if she loves me. If so she shall carry the keys ! OCTOBER. Lazy, hazy, pale October, Nature's Quaker, grave and sober, Spurning all the brilliant flowers Peeping forth from Summer bowers ; ChiHing them with frown so bitter That their eyes with frost-drops glitter ; Floret-eyes with frost-drops filling By thy glance, so cold, so chilling. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 163 Yet, though Quaker-like and sober, Thou hast many a phase, October ; Thou hast many a changing notion When thy thoughts are set in motion ; For to-day we find thee choosing Neutral tints, all else refusing ; Then, like some gay, dashing fellow. These are changed for brilliant yellow, Indian-red, green, brown, and umber. Tints and half-tints without number ; Nature's wardrobe freely rifling. All to please a taste so trifling ; And her garments rudely rending, Never making, always spending, — Sure thou mayest be called, with reason, Nature's spendthrift of the season. THE LAST REVEILLE. Headlej states, in his History of Napoleon and his Mar- shals, that M'Donald, while crossing the Splugen Pass with his army of fifteen thousand men, lost nearly two hundred of them, many of whom were swept away by the avalanches. A drummer, whose fall over the precipice was broken by masses of snow, reached the bottom unharmed, and for one hour beat his drum rapidly for relief. But all in \ain, and he survived his fall only to die a more cruel death of cold, famine, and despair. Old Splugen's brow grew dark with storms As brave M'Donald's staggering line — A mass of weary, war-worn forms — - Her snowy hights began to climb. 1 64 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Still boldly pressed those columns on, While storm and wind swept fiercely past, And " Vive I' Empereur " rang out anon, As if to taunt the Alpine blast. But suddenly an awful form, Like some snow-demon hidden there, Plunged down the mountain 'mid the storm, While shrieks of terror rent the air. "An avalanche ! " and with the word Each struggling column felt the blow Which fell unaimed, which struck unheard, And hurled them to the gulf below. From out the drifted mass of snow A youthful drummer feebly crept, For he unharmed received the blow While low in death his comrades slept. Down deep amid those lifeless forms — Alas ! what power could aid him there ? — And 'mid the thunder-crash of storms He beats his drum in wild despair. The muflfled sounds went ringing up That awful precipice of snow, While o'er despair a gleam of hope Rose in the throbbing breast below. Ah, how that desperate, vain appeal. That touching, pleading, stirring call. Went piercing like a blade of steel To hearts whose aid was powerless, all ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 165 And still he beat the hurried roll, Still upward turned his pleading eye, P'or hope yet breathed within his soul, "They will not leave you here to die." With eager gaze he scanned the steep, While fearful anguish rent his soul, And then more loudly rang the beat Of that long, earnest, solemn roll. But soon the rapid strains grew less. And there without one pitying eye, Without one heart to cheer or bless, The poor boy lay him down to die. His dying strains more faintly rang. His wail of hopeless agony. Then Alpine blasts his death-dirge sang — He'd beaten his last reveille. STILL SHE KEEPS ROCKING HIM. " Still she keeps rocking him, Ever caressing him. Brushing the hair from His colorless brow. Softly they've whispered her, " Life has gone out of him," Gently she answers, " How still he is now ! " i66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Still she keeps rocking him, As though she would shake from him The cold hand of death, Like the weights from his eyes ; Rocking the clay of him While softly the soul of him Angels are rocking Far up in the skies." WHY DOES SHE WEEP FOR HIM? (In answer to " Still She Keeps Rocking Him.") Why does she weep for him. Mourn and lament for him, Craving at most But a handful of dust .? Cold, lifeless clay at best, Cold on her yearning breast, Lost is her treasure, But where is her trust > Let her not cling to him. Striving to fling from him Death's chilly hand. With its firm, frozen hold. Death has not made the choice, 'T is but the Shepherd's voice Calling the little lamb Back to its fold. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 167 Why, then, go sorrowing, All the day borrowing Memory's mourning And memory's gloom ? Rather let hope unite With faith's celestial light, Casting a halo Far over his tomb. THE THUNDER BOLT. The sky puts on its darkest frown, The spiteful storm comes pelting down, The lightning smites all hearts with fear, In its wild, zig-zag, mad career, All nature, wrapped in direst gloom. Quakes, as with dread, impending doom. Through field of grass, and ripening grain The tempest shrills a cry of pain ; The opening flowret droops its head. The full-blown flowers their petals shed, And giant trees are earthward borne. With branches cleft, and roots uptorn. Stunned, blinded by the lightning's glare. As peals of thunder rend the air. Birds, beasts and men crouch low with fright. And noon-day sun is quenched in night. A crash ! a flame ! a cloud of smoke ! Some home has felt the liofhtnins: stroke : 1 68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Is it yon mansion on the hill, Or that low cot beside the mill ? The mansion ! See, from every door And window, how the fierce flames pour ! And corniced roofs, and frescoed walls And marble floors and stately halls Are swallowed up in flames and smoke, For what can brave the lightning stroke ? That mystic torch with ghostly flame And fiery speed, what hand can tame ? Thus, oft when skies are most serene, Jove hurls a bolt, to prove, I ween. To thoughtless man, how frail, unreal His thread of life, his worldly weal. AN AUTUMN IDYL. '• From rise of morn till set of sun, I've seen the mighty Mohawk run." Thus sang the bard whose mellow rhyme With dancing wave kept rythmic time, As musing, listless, dreamily. He wove bright wreaths of poesy. Thus on fair Loch Worth's sunny brae, I sit and watch, the livelong day, The Hudson's limpid waters run, Bright jeweled in the noon-day sun, Or, tempered by soft twilight's glow, In dreamy silence onward flow. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 169 I've marked the Rhone with hurried pace Slip from Geneva's pure embrace, Fair as Pygmalion's statue-bride, And join the foul Arve, side to side ; Yet clear, unsullied as the soul Of cloistered nun, its waters roll Through fertile vale, and velvet mead. With crested wave and quickening speed, Till hill and dale and valley fair Its shining threads of silver wear ; Then through the Jura's rugged side It dashes on with foamy tide, And bursting forth, broad, boundless, free, It leaps into the open sea ! And I have marked the Hinter's flow ; Dark, glacier-born 'mid Alpine snow. It glides through crystal, emerald waves Where lovely Constance gently laves Her 'orchard-banks, then steals unseen Through wooded glades and belts of green : Unfettered in its rapid course, Still on, with self-asserting force, It finds, like men who pant for fame, A broader sweep, a prouder name. And soon upon its rugged shore The thrifty vineyard's purple store And castled crag, and lofty pine Stand mirrored, — this, the Classic Rhine! I70 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But all unmindful, here to-day, Of crumbling crag and turret gray, I sing the stream whose purling rills Trip gayly down my native hills, To swell the wave that bears along Its gathered wealth through gorge and plain, From Adirondack to the main. Behold how graceful, buoyant, light, As white-winged sea-gulls poised in flight, The snowy sails pass, one by one. While, from the quiver of the sun, Long, silver arrows, glancing bright, Cleave Irving's" River of Delight." Fair Loch Worth, robed in royal dyes Caught from October's brilliant skies, I hail thee Queen ! Thy leafy bowers, Thy broidered walks, thy woodland flowers. Thy blended beauties, manifold. Emblazoned with autumnal gold, Proclaim thee crowned, with wood-nymphs set To weave thy rustic coronet ; While Eolus in playful sport His zephyrs sends to wake thy court And checkered sunshine softly falls On mossy floor and vine-clad walls. Thus throned by wind and wave caressed, Wear proudly then thy flower-starred crest. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 LONGINGS. Oh, how lonely this world looks to me ! Every hill, every valley, and tree, Though robed in a beauty that others may see. Has a lonely and sad look to me. Oh, how lonely this world looks to me ! And I'm eagerly longing to see A world where no blight falls on blossom or tree ; Oh, how bright will that world seem to me ! Oh, how dreary this world looks to me ! And I strive mid the darkness to see Some promise of light, and if any there be, O my God, let it shine upon me ! LIFE'S LARGESS. In every heart some seed of goodness grows ; In every path some bud of beauty springs ; In every sky some rainbow-color glows ; In every hedge some woodland warbler sings ; And he who in life's largess hath no part, Hides deep an ivied ruin in his heart ! I WISH. When storm clouds sweep the sky, And feathery flakes of snow In ermined beauty lie On hill and dale below, Oh, then I wish my heart were spotless as the snow. 172 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. When crystal raindrops fall, And patter 'gainst the pane, And robe with gloomy pall The forest, field, and plain, Oh, then I wish my heart were pure as falling rain. When apple-blossoms fair. Float down in fragrant showers. And all the scented air Is sweet as Eden's bowers, Oh, then I wish my heart were stainless as the flowers. When clouds of pearly white Light up the changing sky, And bands of silvery light In tranquil beauty lie. Oh, then I wish my heart were calm as that fair sky. When morning's early beam Wakes all the world anew. And glade, and glen, and stream Reflect her rosy hue. Oh, then I wish my heart could wake in peace anew. And when the day grown old Sinks down in drowsy rest And bars of molten gold Shut out the purple west. Oh, then I wish my heart could claim its promised rest. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 173 THE FLOWER-GIRL OF THE TUILLERIES. All night in the Palais de Jitstice, Surrounded by demons of hate, The fair Antoinette sat awaiting The seal of her terrible fate ; Unblenched, with a calmness majestic, She waited the seal of her fate. At last the mock-trial was over, And fixed was her sorrowful doom ; The "Austrian " guilty of treason. Must die at the hour of noon — Fair child of the noble Theresa, Ah, why should she perish so soon ! And as she went forth to her dungeon Unmoved 'mid her pitiless foes, A fair, girlish form glided forward And placed on her bosom a rose — " My sovereign," she cried, " there's one loves thee On earth, and God pities thy woes." Ah, Trine de la Cour, thy rash folly Will bring thee to sorrow, I ween ; Already thy destiny's pending. The axe of the red guillotine Shall cancel thine act of devotion, And blot out thy love for the Queen ! ******** 174 . MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. All day, till the twilight's deep shadows Crept in at the low cottage door, He eagerly waited her coming, The aged and blind de la Cour, For Trine was the light of his being, The sunshine that played on his floor. Within the Conciergerie dungeon, Bowed low on the cold pavement floor, That night found her kneeling beside him — His long day of darkness was o'er ; He woke where an earthly tribunal Could doom him to death never more ! Till morn thus she kept her lone vigil, Unheeding the sentry's slow tread, And as the huge doors were unbolted She started, and shivered with dread ; "O take me not from him," she whispered, " O leave me alone with my dead ! " Ah, why do her sad eyes thus brighten, Has Hope o'er her destiny cast One ray to enliven the future ? Ves, Trine, thou art rescued at last, For Robespierre and Danton have fallen, The dark reign of Terror is past ! The atheist's idols are shattered, Their worshipers writhe in the dust ; Arise then, young Christian, and praise Him Whom thou didst so fearlessly trust. He reigns the Great King of thy nation, The God of the faithful and just. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 17s THE BEAUTIFUL HOME, There's a beautiful home in the land of the blest, And its skies are unclouded and clear ; Its hills and its valleys in sunshine are dressed, Such sunshine as never glows here. There a true Friend abides, and his love is so pure That it " casteth out every fear ; " His friendship so lasting, 'twill always endure ; Such friendship we cannot know here ! That friendship is ours, and that love we may claim ; And whenever life's pathway is drear. If we look to that Friend — if we call on His name, He will gladden our hearts, even here. ODE TO BURNS. The poet ploughman wrote, — long years away, That when on earth he closed his mortal stay. In that bright world above he'd ask no more Than just a Highland welcome to the shore. O poet-heart, of poet-souls the king, Thine earthly welcome came on tardy wing. And cold neglect thy sinking soul oppressed. Long ere the bay thy throbbing brow caressed. 176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A score of years, — and Dumfries marked thy worth, A hundred years, — and Scotia's bells pealed forth In mellow tones, o'er every bank and brae, A full-voiced welcome to thy natal day. When neath thy "hodden-grey," the kindling fire Of genius turned thy ploughshare to a lyre. Was this the goal thy longing soul did crave, A breath of fame to fan an early grave ? Ah, wise, wise world, ye might have been more wise. Had ye unclosed your sluggish, purblind eyes, And looked above, vyhen oft ye groped below : Then, had ye learned to rescue want from woe, To spy the grain of gold hid in the dross. To cull the silken thread from worthless floss ; To rank the grand designer o'er the lout Whose clumsy moil scarce brings the pattern out. Poetic healer, born at Nature's call, God gave thee power to touch the wounds of all ; For every mood, for every phase of thought That frets or glads the soul, thy muse hath wrought A melody to soften and to cheer. With grace " nae found in book, nae found in lear ;" And as some flower in spring lifts up its head Above the frozen blanket of its bed, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 177 So, 'mid a stubborn soil and barren earth, Thy quickened fancies struggled into birth. Though oft thy flowret-buds with hearts of snow, Burst crimson-tipped with passion's heated glow, F'ull oft, exhaled they too, their sweetest breath, When crushed by storm that threatened blight and death. In Mossgiel's frosty field, thy share upturned The "bonnie gem " a prouder bard had spurned. And that "wee sleeket-beast wi' tim'rous breast" Despoiled by thee of her snug, leafy nest. Inspired thy tender heart's most plaintive cry That its " puir, stibble cell " should ruined lie. So hapless " Maillie," tethered in her woe. Caused thy full breast with grief to overflow. And ever didst thou bend with pitying ear. The cry of want, the plaint of woe to hear ; And thy impulsive soul, oft stained with wrong. Still for the right gushed forth in fount of song. Thy magic lyrics, in chaste language dressed. To charm the maid, or fire the patriot's breast. Waft to the weary brain a fresh delight. As evening zephyrs fan the brow of night ; Thy scathing satires hiss with rhythmic gall. And, " Holy Willie " seethes above them all. Thy dirges, on the trembling air up-borne, Re-echo sadly " Man was made to mourn," And thou didst mourn and sob thy soul away For her, thy " star, with ever less'ning ray." 178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Aye, thou couldst mourn the loss of sterling worth, And honest tears, and bitter plaints pour fortli, And call the "hills and cliffs, and briery dens, Wi' their black burnies wimplin' down the glens," To join the wail, and cry '• He's frae us torn. He's gane, he's gane, and Nature's sel' shall mourn." Thy pastorals, that mirror to the eye Transcendent beauties of earth, sea, and sky. Like Standfield's rocks, like Turner's foam- troughed seas. Exalt and thrill, astonish, soothe and please. How sweetly drawn, thy clay-built cottage home, Whence passion's glare lured thy rash feet to roam, And learn that life was " but a galling load Along a rough, a hard and weary road." How quaintly drawn, the hearthstane bright and warm. The straw-thatched roof secure from blast, and storm ; The text, " selected wi' judicious care," The deep-toned hymn, the solemn evening prayer ; The father's admonition " to obey The master's rule, and ne'er to jauk or play ; " The thrifty wife, who to her life-work true, " Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new," Love, faith, and truth that taught thy cheek to glow With honest scorn at sierht of "tinsel show." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 179 child of passion, swayed by grief and mirth, Wild was the soil that gave thy fancies birth, Twin-born there sprang, at thy swift, rash behest, 1 he dainty idyl and the ribald jest ; The keen burlesque, the penitential prayer. Remorse's waij, the pregnant " Holy Fair •'" The hymn devout, the bitter, black'ning curse, Made doubly black by thy invective verse. And yet thou couldst a charity unfold In notes that might be set to staves of gold ; So thou couldst point, in poesy divine, The sure safe path, of the unerring line, And, from thine own mishaps, the moral draw That none may rise but by the "plummet's law" Wrecked, tempest-tossed on life's careering wave Thy faith still plead the Master's power to save. And thou Shalt live, thy stifled cry for fame Is heard, and high above the princely name Of royal line stands "Burns,".and wind and wave Waft far and wide the glory thou didst crave. Behold across the seas, at Art's command, Far far from thy loved Scotia's loch-gemmed land. Mid birds and blossoms, such companions, boon, As shared thy songs upon the banks of Doon, Thy princely form, in peasant garb arrayed. In breeks, in bonnet, and in Highland plaid. Shall stand in grace and beauty, to attest Thy magic power to thrill the world's great breast ! i8o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And while each Scottish son with pride surveys Thy matchless semblance,* may his warmest praise To Calverley's deft hand be freely given, The hand whose skill, — the gift divine of Heaven, Hath shaped in beauty and in charming grace Thy noble form, thine earnest, soul-lit face, That speaks, through bronze and granite, deep in- wrought. The proud fulfillment of thy yearning thought. TWO LETTERS. I pondered in sadness and sore desolation, My heart was as heavy as heavy could be ; When the old iron screech-owl flew in at the sta- tion And bore 'neath his pinions a letter for me ; A right welcome letter, — I'll ask nothing better Than this welcome letter from over the sea ! "Come back." — Ah, how swiftly the deep desola- tion That shrouded my spirit, departed from me ! Then the old iron screch-owl flew out at the sta- tion, * In allusion to the statue of the Poet in Washington Park, Albany, N. Y. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. i8i And bore 'neath his pinions, this message from me : — " I come." — Now what better Than this speedy letter Could I have sent back to my love o'er the sea ? DEAD MAN'S ISLAND. [For sixty-five years Silas Town lay buried on this island, with no stone to mark his resting-place. It was not till July 4, 1871, that a monument was erected, as a token of respect, to the memory of a soldier and a scout in the Army of Wash- ington.] Where flows the Little Salmon swiftly on In haste to meet Ontario's embrace, A spot of green, a wave-set emerald gem, As fair as ever in the Trosachs shone, Sits mirrored in its fair pellucid stream. And here, a monument like some tall ghost, Up-rises mid a growth of chestnut trees. Whose spreading boughs half hide the slender shaft On which is carved the name of Silas Town. Now, as our light canoes salute the shore. The fragrance of wild violets is borne To bid us welcome to this calm retreat. The graveled banks with sedge and rushes teem. And in the early spring, the scented leaves Of pink arbutus trail along the ground, And fill the air with delicate perfume. i82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A strange, lone man, to secret service pledged, A sort of Leather Stocking, yet in books Unnamed, was he, the tenant of this isle. He asked for no reward, he sought not fame, He craved no title, to no rank aspired, But toiled in secret for his country's good. Was he a hero } History forgot To write his name among her honored dead. When one beholds the blossoms or the fruit Of some majestic tree, stops he to think Of those two secret agents hid away, — The limpid sap— the life-blood of the tree — And, buried out of sight, the humble roots .-' Yet, were these factors to withdraw their aid. The monarch of the wood must stand discrowned ! When bold Burgoyne moved forward from St. John's And, pressing southward, turned toward Crown Point, Securing in his march the proud control Of lake, and river, and contested post ; This humble scout was set to mark his course. To calculate his numbers and his strength. To note the sudden halt, the swift deploy, So that his boasted strategy in war Be turned to sad disaster and defeat. The faithful spy, with eye and ear alert, Lest to the savage foe he fall a prey Before his sacred mission be fulfilled, Soon gave to Stark and Gates the needful clew MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183 That served in cutting off the last retreat, And placed within their grasp the royal prize. All honor to the heroes, laurel-crowned, Whose names are gilded on the roll of fame ; But let no grudging hand to-day withhold A tardy tribute, laid with reverent care Upon the humble grave of him who dwelt Apart from human sympathy and love. To win for generations yet unborn, The crowning glory of a nation's life. Beyond the island's rim, across the stream, A little hamlet nestles 'mong the trees. And near it, a small plot of ground, thick set With head-stones. Once it held a single, grave. And on its low, white tablet, one might read : " Lenora Hartvvell, aged nineteen years." As Enoch Arden played with Annie Lee " Among the waste and lumber of the shore," So Silas Town, in early boyhood days Played with this " pretty damsel of the port," Until the two grew up, approved by all To be the sharer of each other's fate. But lovers' quarrels through all circles run. And jealousy, of love the secret foe, Estranged the two, and pride held fast the door That closed between them. Silas went to sea. And in a year, returned to find a grave New-made, within the grassy plot of ground That joined to Nora's home. He turned away. 1 84 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And passed his bitter hour as hopelessly As did the Pathfinder, when he renounced The new-born light that Mabel Dunham's love Had shed athwart his lonely way ; and like The Leather Stocking, turned with purpose new. In noble abnegation of himself, To serve his country in her hour of need. And sorrow made him strong. The foe without, The foe within, he bravely faced and fought ; And when his work was done, he sought this isle. And here in solitude his years were passed. The friendly Indians, his only guests. Supplied his wants, which hermit-like, were few, And when his hour was come, he laid him down To die, as he had lived, alone. 'Tis said That here, two snowy flowers, with crimson lip, And fragrant breath are found. Their counter- parts Ne'er seen in all the region roundabout. Excepting two twin blossoms on the grave Of Nora Hartwell, yonder in the grove ! Thus, each new spring, these snowy buds unfold. With crimson lips renewing that sweet pledge Of youthful love and constancy of soul That time nor space nor death can e'er destroy^ THE DOWN-GRADE. The older we git, it seems, somehow er uther. The years they jes' pile right on top o' one nuther ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 185 And if I may ventur' to speak in a figger, To give my idees what the poets call vigger, I feel like a tree that is swingin' and swayin' In make-believe growth.with its roots all decayin' ; But 'taint no use sighin', and 'taint no use frettin', No sun ever riz without reachin' its settin'. The up-hill o' life, as you climb it, grows higher, But when you're on top, then the bottom seems nigher ; And like a train, plannin' a railroad disaster, The strides o' the years they grow longer and faster. Till on the down-grade, I discover I'm winnin' The very same p'int where I hed my beginnin' ! A CONTRAST. You rove 'mid the beauties of roseate bowers, And smile at the future undimmed by a cloud ; In life's field of sunshine fringed round with bright flowers. No wonder you see not the pall nor the shroud. I roam through the shades of perennial night, My soul clad in mourning, in sorrow and tears, A wilderness-world, without comfort or light, Where dry, withered leaves hide the graves of the years. 1 86 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. You stand 'neath the azure of youth's glowing sky, While rainbows of hope their bright colors un- fold ; You laugh as the fleet-winged years hurry by, Nor dream that their number erelong will be told; I stand out alone 'neath the beat of the rain, And see all my long-cherished fancies depart, With never a new thought to brighten my brain, With never a new hope to gladden my heart. The sweet voice of friendship, of solace and love, Makes music around you to soothe every care ; You reach not for blessings, they fall from above ; No wonder you cling to a world that's so fair ! I stretch out my arms as I long to infold The forms that once blessed me with friendship and trust ; But ah, cruel phantoms, ye mock my sad soul, Ye flit, and I clasp but a handful of dust. But let me not murmur, the hand is divine That deals out my portion of bitterness here ; O heart sorely chastened, cease, cease to repine, For now He is nearest with comfort and cheer ! come, gentle spirit, come heavenly dove, And fold thy soft wings o'er this world-wearied breast ; 1 bless the kind hand that chastiseth in love — My God and my fortress, my refuge and rest. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 187 IN PALMER'S STUDIO. (A Poet's Tribute to Albany's Renowned Sculptor, Erastus D. Palmer.) Was Daedalus a myth, as poets sing, Who fled from Minos on a waxen wing t Ah, surely no. The Hindu faith reveals Metempsychosis turning life's swift wheels ; And, granting this, then Art, departing, gives New life to Art, and Daedalus still lives. Yea, when the artist's soul new birth receives. Its crumbling chrysalid it soaring leaves, And seeks a truer, higher aim, I trow. Since " New life reaps what the old life did sow." O Sculpture, queen of all the plastic arts, What varied charms thy subtle skill imparts ! These silent groups, in grace and beauty wrought, Reveal the artist's introspective thought. A mass of unshaped clay conceals for him The wavy tress, the plump and rounded limb Of rosy childhood, — the severe and grand Primeval sinew of the savage hand ; The statesman's massive brow, — the shell-like lid Neath which the Peri's sleeping eye is hid ; Sweet Morn and Eve, on fairy pinions sent, Faith, looking to the cross in calm content ; The hidden arrow of the wily foe ; The fair White Captive, agonized with woe ; The Little Peasant's earnest questioning face, A woodland nymph in wild unstudied grace ! 1 88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Behold her stand, in mute, transfixed surprise, With grief-drooped lid and sad, appealing eyes, As, pierced with sorrow at her fruitless quest, She holds with careful hands an empty nest. Alas, my little maid, that those bright things Our trusting hearts hold first, should first take wings ! O gifted one, that from dull, lifeless clay Canst make so real the scenes of yesterday. Dramatic passion and ecstatic joy Thy fancy and thy skill alike employ ; For while our Little Peasant weeps her loss An Indian Maiden finds the blessed cross ! And as her darkened soul new light receives, Its tender radiance a halo weaves That crowns her brow and floods her form with light. As morning sunbeams rend the veil of night. No touch of nature to thy sense is lost, — The rounded dew-drop and the ghostly frost. The rough, hard stubble and the opening flower Thy chisel graves with equal grace and power. A Hemans sang — all honor to her name, The Pilgrims' woes, and won immortal fame ; A Weir's deft pencil limned the little band Self-exiled, hasting from Delft-Haven's strand ; But here is presence, life-like, strangely real, No poet's dream, no painter's high ideal ; Here courage battles with grim want and woe. Defies the snarling wolf, the skulking foe, — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 189 Rare symbols these of what the sculptor's skill And glowing fancy may create at will. Thus at each turn, with graphic stroke enwrought, The pliant marble breathes his pregnant thought. His fine detail, Lysippus well might praise, As soul-absorbed he copies nature's ways : From nature's perfect plan he never swerves. But cleaves the graceful slopes, the inward curves Of Beauty's mould, as wrought Praxiteles Fair Phryne's form the sensuous eye to please. And while he toils with Phidian zeal, he asks " What meed of men shall cheer me at my tasks } Through what bold, final stroke shall come suc- cess, What Pericles shall crown, what patron bless } " Ah, harder than the granite's ledge-locked form Is that cold breast that Genius fails to warm ! Yet lagging Fame too oft withholds her bays Till eye and ear are deadened to her praise. But ever in the poet's yearning heart Thou'lt live, bay-crowned, the Trinity of Art. TO A NORTHERN ROBIN. (Written at Natchez, Miss.) I have listened to thy carol and each note my be- ing thrills, For they mind me of the bird-songs of my own, dear, native hills ; iQO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Of the bird-songs in the forest, where the checkered sunshine plays With the leaflet and the floweret, in the long, bright summer days. Now those hills are bleak and barren, for Old Winter holds his reign. And he's spread a snowy mantle over every hill and plain, And the silvery rills and streamlets making music through the land, He has bound in icy fetters with a stern, relent- less hand. He has breathed upon the forest and the leaves have left the bough. For his frozen breath has chilled them and they're faded, withered, now, While the choir of sylvan songsters that enlivened glen and glade. Will no longer charm the wood-nymphs with the music that they made. Pretty warbler — thou'rt a stranger, and lil