LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
Idler and Poet 
 
 BY 
 
 ROSSITER JOHNSON 
 
 n;-n 9 1882 
 
 
 rf° 
 
 ^X' 
 
 BOSTON ' ^ 
 
 JAMES R OSGOOD AND COMPANY 
 1883 
 

 Copyright, 1882, 
 By James R. Osgood & Co. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 University Press: 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 
 page 
 
 Prelude, « 
 
 5 
 
 The Gate of Tears, 
 
 14 
 
 A Song for a New Year, . 
 
 . 24 
 
 The Victory, . 
 
 27 
 
 Faith's Surrender, 
 
 . 31 
 
 Opportunity, . 
 
 36 
 
 A Love-Letter Without a Lady, 
 
 . 39 
 
 Dedication, . 
 
 44 
 
 On the Cliff, 
 
 . 47 
 
 On the Stairs, 
 
 51 
 
 Laurence, 
 
 . 53 
 
 Evelyn, 
 
 56 
 
 A Soldier Poet, 
 
 . 60 
 
 A Woman of the War, 
 
 62 
 
 Down the Genesee, 
 
 . 69 
 
 Pen and Chisel, 
 
 72 
 
 A Birthday Poem, 
 
 . 76 
 
 The Stage-Ride, 
 
 79 
 
 The Land of Noddy, 
 
 . 82 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bkevi Finietur, 
 
 85 
 
 The Winding op the Clock, 
 
 . 87 
 
 My Ship, .... 
 
 90 
 
 MOTOMANIA, 
 
 . 93 
 
 An Old Shoe, 
 
 96 
 
 An Indian Love-Song, 
 
 . 100 
 
 Golden Butter, 
 
 103 
 
 The Bohemian's Dream, 
 
 . 106 
 
 WEATHER LYRICS. 
 
 
 Ninety-nine in the Shade, 
 
 113 
 
 Zero in the Sun, . 
 
 . 115 
 
 A Rhyme op the Rain, 
 
 118 
 
IDLER AND POET, 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 A dozen steps out of the highway, 
 
 At the turn of a country lane, 
 Where an elm tree's pendulous brandies 
 
 Attemper the sun and the rain, 
 I perch myself on the fence-rail, — 
 
 Like a gull on a drifting mast, — 
 To dream of the day that is passing, 
 
 As other men dream of the past. 
 
 White clouds, like a bridal procession, 
 Go trailing up heaven's blue aisles, 
 
 With something that looks like sadness, 
 And something akin to smiles. 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 On the slope of the woodside meadow 
 The shadows turn with the sun, 
 
 And there comes a perpetual murmur 
 From the gravelly bed of the run. 
 
 Afar on the bluff's brown forehead 
 
 Are clustered the homes of thrift ; 
 On the intervale, ripe for the sickle, 
 
 The harvests their billows lift. 
 I have eaten their bread and their honey, 
 
 But to-day, for an hour, I scorn 
 The bees in the upland clover, 
 
 The reapers of lowland corn. 
 
 I will sit here a monarch like Adam, 
 
 Creation's procession to scan, 
 While bird and beast go by me, 
 
 And that beast of burden, Man. 
 They are all of the race of the shadow ; 
 
 They pass like a wavelet's gleam ; 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 But I for the moment seem real — 
 I with my mid-day dream. 
 
 What creature is that in the meadow 
 
 Parting the grass and the weeds 
 With a long and slender furrow, 
 
 Like a water-snake in the reeds ? 
 Aha ! it is five young truants, 
 
 Running from yonder school, 
 To wander at will in the woodland, 
 
 Or sport in the shadowy pool. 
 
 I am with you, my lads, for the frolic 
 
 Let us never grow up into men ! — 
 With you all day — but to-morrow, 
 
 Ah ! you must excuse me then. 
 For I know your beldame mistress, 
 
 The bane of ingenuous youth, 
 And I know the bamboo ferule, 
 
 That bites like a serpent's tooth. 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 Can this be the last Paris fashion — 
 
 The gentleman just passing by — 
 One leg of his trousers bright scarlet, 
 
 And one of an indigo dye ? 
 He's thrown away hat, gloves, and neck-cloth. 
 
 His arms to the elbows are bare, 
 And, intent on the acme of coolne 
 
 He's not wearing very much hair. 
 
 What a gay and a glorious creature 
 
 Is Man when he dares to be free, 
 When lie casts off conventional trammels — 
 
 Like that one out there, or like me. 
 Perhaps he's a poet. O brother ! — 
 
 But the fellow breaks into a run, 
 As over the brow of yon hillock 
 
 The jailer appears with a gun. 
 
 With a click, and a thud, and a rustle, 
 As hoofs fall on gravel or clay, 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 Rides a horsewoman up at a canter, 
 And down by the woodland away. 
 
 Superbly she sits in the saddle. 
 Enjoying the breeze she imparts, 
 
 With her skirt like a black nag behind her 
 The dear little pirate of hearts ! 
 
 But lady, why ride you thus lonely ? 
 
 And where is your own cavalier ? 
 Perhaps he's the slave of his business — 
 
 An M. C. — a great engineer — 
 Or the gentleman dressed in two colors, 
 
 Pursued by the man with a gun — 
 Or, now I bethink me, it may be — 
 
 It may be you never had one. 
 
 Two legs, and a walking-stick twirling, 
 A light Derby hat, a moustache, 
 
 There carry the hopes that are human, — 
 The blessings of Cupid and cash. 
 
10 PRELUDE. 
 
 Two eyes of the hue of the raven, 
 
 Two gloves of the shade of the dress, 
 
 With a parasol slant on the shoulder, — 
 These carry his joy or distress. 
 
 I can see by the faltering footsteps, 
 
 By the parasol's pondering whirl, 
 That something the boy has just uttered 
 
 Has fluttered the heart of the girl. 
 O lover, I earnestly wish you 
 
 The Yes that you yearn for to-day, — 
 May the time never come when in secret 
 
 You would that her Yea had been Nay. 
 
 Is there aught looks so neat as a nurse-girl, 
 In pinafore, ribbons, and cap ? 
 
 Is there aught that's so sweet as a baby 
 When taking his morning nap ? 
 
 One hand on the perambulator, 
 While one holds an open book 
 
PRELUDE. 11 
 
 She trundles along the highway, 
 
 And crosses the bridge o'er the brook. 
 
 O latest Arcadian dreamer, 
 
 What magical carpet is this ? 
 O cherub ! O chariot ! O charmer ! 
 
 O paper-and-calico bliss ! 
 Enjoy Avhile you may, and be happy ; 
 
 For the moment the hero shall make 
 The proposal, denouement, or murder, 
 
 Believe me, that cherub will wake. 
 
 It comes with a rumble of thunder 
 
 It goes with a roll and a flash,— 
 The circus with forty red wagons, 
 
 To the music of laughter and lash. 
 Ah ! there was my boyhood ambition, 
 
 A dream worth a hundred of these — 
 To ride in the sawdust arena, 
 
 Or swing on the flying trapeze. 
 
12 PRELUDE. 
 
 But I saw them one stormy midnight, 
 
 When a whirlwind had shattered their cope, 
 All patching the rotten canvas, 
 
 And splicing the broken rope, 
 While the rain, like a gallery's plaudits, 
 
 Pelted master, musician, and clown, 
 And the Queen of Equestrian Artists, 
 
 And the Fat Woman's lilac gown. 
 
 What is youth, hut a season of dodging ? 
 
 Or strength, if a stronger pursues ? 
 Or beauty, without its admirers ? 
 
 Or glory, hut yesterday's news \ 
 Then let me be only an idler, 
 
 Or poet — synonymous terms — 
 Like a butterfly just graduated 
 
 At the head of his class, the worms. 
 
 But let me descend from the fence-rail, 
 And hurry away to my crust, 
 
PRELUDE. 13 
 
 Ere the cloud that was raised by the circus 
 Has made me a worm of the dust. 
 
 And when I've another such outing, 
 Let me spend it again like the last, 
 
 To dream away days that are passing, 
 As other men dream back the past. 
 
THE GATE OF TEARS. 
 
 The summer-house was old and worn, 
 A Moorish roof of painted pine, 
 
 On seven slender shafts upborne, 
 Half hidden by a clambering vine, 
 
 And half in sunlight, while the leaves 
 Of two great maples flecked the floor, 
 With dancing shapes all shadowed o'er, 
 
 And rustled round the broken eaves. 
 
 It stood upon a point of land 
 Far poised above a silver flood, 
 
 And the deep gulf on either hand 
 
 By swallow-flights alone was spanned. 
 Or fleecy clouds in flying scud. 
 
 What lovers ma}' have whispered there 
 
 In silences of evening air, 
 14 
 
THE GATE OF TEARS. 15 
 
 What robbers, at the midnight hour, 
 Conspired to clutch crime's bloody dower, 
 What tuneless poet watched the stars, 
 What hermit soul through mortal bars 
 Withdrawn from every mortal care, — 
 I reck not, for I see it still 
 
 As in one dreamy afternoon 
 
 When Summer's strength was freshly hewn, 
 And Autumn's haze was on the hill. 
 
 Then we were children — happy time ! 
 
 For this old world seemed shining new, 
 And life was but a rattling rhyme, 
 
 And all its pretty tales were true. 
 We played the old familiar games, 
 
 Until they palled upon the sense, 
 And personated squires and dames. 
 
 And knaves and knights, in grave pretence, 
 Till Helen, flinging from her lap 
 
 The autumn leaves, sprang up and cried, 
 
16 THE GATE OF TEARS. 
 
 "I know a game we have not tried — 
 We'll play at finding on the map ! " 
 She brought the atlas from the house, 
 
 And spread it on the arbor floor ; 
 
 We clustered round and conned it o'er, 
 With wary eyes and thoughtful brows. 
 
 The turn went round until it fell 
 
 To Arthur, him of fewest years 
 Among us, and he pondered well, 
 
 Then bade us find the Gate of Tears. 
 What mighty travels now began — 
 
 W 7 hat voyages in unknown seas ! 
 
 We cruised among the Cyclades, 
 
 And visited the Cingalese, 
 And lino-ered at the Isle of Man. 
 We crossed the Himalayan slopes, 
 
 And climbed the Mountains of the Moon 
 We trod Peruvian bridge of ropes, 
 
 And lowland dyke, and Danish dune ; 
 
THE GATE OF TEARS. 17 
 
 We sailed the great Australian Bight, 
 
 We basked awhile on tropic shores, 
 
 We pulled the daring whaler's oars, 
 And lost ourselves in Arctic night. 
 
 On Orinoco's tangled banks 
 The chattering monkeys mocked our quest; 
 
 And in the red man's straggling ranks 
 We thrid the rivers of the West ; 
 We followed up the Niger's course, 
 
 And all the Dnieper's muddy miles, 
 And where Ontario's waters force 
 
 St. Lawrence through his Thousand Isles. 
 With vague conjecture, jests, and jeers, 
 
 We spelled out many a foreign name, 
 
 But still were baffled by the game, 
 And could not find the Gate of Tears. 
 "You give it up," said Arthur — "Good ! 
 
 But see how plain it now appears — 
 A voyage through the Red Sea's flood 
 
 Will bring you to the Gate of Tears." 
 
18 THE GATE OF TEARS. 
 
 The Red Sea's flood, we knew not then, 
 We've known too well in after years ; 
 For time and truth have made us men — 
 Swift time, stern truths told o'er again — 
 And all have found the Gate of Tears. 
 
 'Twas Arthur, too, who found it first. 
 We trembled when we saw him lay 
 His gifts at dainty feet of clay, 
 Whereon a clay-built statue stood, 
 The travesty of all that's good. 
 And sore we grieved to see him pass 
 Into the cynic school, alas ! 
 With those who every joy declare 
 An irised bubble blown in air, 
 
 Because, forsooth ! their own has burst. 
 
 Then Hugh, the sturdy boy who seemed 
 A giant in our childish eyes, 
 
 Over his schoolday task had dreamed 
 Of vast commercial enterprise, 
 
THE GATE OF TEARS. 19 
 
 And plodded on until he stood 
 
 A merchant prince among his peers ; 
 
 When came an ebb of Fortune's flood, 
 And left him at the Gate of Tears. 
 
 And Francis of the midnight lamp, 
 "Who toiled in poverty, and chased 
 His great discovery through the waste, 
 
 In attic dim and cellar damp ; 
 
 Who freely spent his little hoard, 
 
 And begged and borrowed, spending still, 
 
 And wrought and pondered, searched, and poured 
 His life-blood in the crucible ; 
 
 Who saw youth's friendships fading fast, 
 And saw his kindred on their biers, — 
 
 The mighty secret solved at last, 
 All lonely by the Gate of Tears. 
 
 O Helen of the golden hair, 
 
 Of all thy little mates that day, 
 
20 THE GATE OF TEARS. 
 
 Not one but would have borne thy care, 
 
 Or plucked his own right eye away, 
 To save those dark, deep, lustrous spheres 
 Of thine from sorrow's bitter tears. 
 It might not be ; for thine the lot 
 
 Of all good women since the fall : 
 One half of life beside the cot, 
 
 The other half beside the pall — 
 Presiding over birth and death. 
 
 Our earliest and our latest breath — 
 Our entrance on a life of fears, 
 
 Our exit at the Gate of Tears. 
 
 Last Edgar, when a naming strife 
 Wrote direful tidings on the sky, 
 
 Went gaily forth, with sword on thigh, 
 To battle for his country's life. 
 
 Upon the heights where Round Top rears 
 Its rugged crest, with voice elate 
 He led his men through Glory's gate, — 
 
THE GATE OF TEARS. 21 
 
 But mother, sister, child, and wife 
 Left weeping at the Gate of Tears. 
 
 Father Land, of lands the best, 
 Mother Freedom, dearer still, 
 What mystery moves the mighty will, 
 
 That all our days must still be dressed 
 
 In sable weeds, and pain and loss, 
 
 The mourner's tear, the martyr's cross, 
 
 Appear wherever we can see 
 
 One step advances liberty ? 
 
 So was it when our Washington 
 
 Thro' seven long years kept heart of hope, 
 From Cambridge elm to Trenton slope, 
 
 From Valley Forge to Yorktown's sun. 
 
 So was it, too, when Lincoln led 
 
 His people through the bloody years 
 
 That Fate exacted as her price 
 
 To shrive us of a hideous vice, — 
 
22 THE GATE OF TEARS. 
 
 Then bowed his own most reverend head, 
 
 And left ns at the Gate of Tears. 
 So was it when a perfect man — 
 
 If any perfect men there be — 
 Became our chief ; a little span 
 With wisdom ruled, 'mid factions rife, 
 Then slowly faded out of life, 
 
 At Elberon, beside the sea. 
 The whole world breathing prayers of hope, 
 
 The nation quivering with its fears, 
 For him the gates of triumph ope, 
 
 For us, alas ! the Gate of Tears. 
 
 So may it be when you and I, 
 
 And all of us, uncertain stand. 
 Compelled to cross, though fain bo fly. 
 The shadows of the border-land : 
 AVith tranquil mind that knows at length 
 All its own weakness, and its strength. 
 Following in quiet self-control 
 
THE GATE OF TEARS. 23 
 
 The light that shines from out the soul, 
 The wisdom never born of years, 
 
 That leads where surer suns may rise, 
 And show the gloomy Gate of Tears 
 
 An outer gate of Paradise. 
 
A SONG FOR A NEW YEAR. 
 
 The sea sings the song of the ages, 
 
 The mountain stands mutely sublime, 
 While the blank of Eternity's pages 
 
 Is filled by the fingers of Time. 
 But Man robs the sea of its wonder, 
 
 Making syllabled speech of its roar ; 
 He rendeth the mountain asunder, 
 
 And rolleth his wheels through its core ; 
 He delveth deep down for earth's treasure, 
 
 And every locked secret unbars : 
 He scanneth the heavens at pleasure, 
 
 And writeth his name on the stars. 
 2± 
 
A SONG FOR A NEW YEAR. 25 
 
 But purpose is weaker thau passion, 
 
 And patience is dearer than blood ; 
 And his face groweth withered and ashen, 
 
 Ere he findeth and graspeth the good. 
 He pursueth the phantom of beauty, 
 
 Or peddleth his valor for pelf, 
 Till the iron of merciless Duty 
 
 Hath cloven the armor of self. 
 He soweth the life of his brother, 
 
 He wasteth the half of his soul ; 
 The harvest is reaped by another, 
 
 And Death dippeth deep for his toll. 
 
 So the march of triumphal procession, 
 That Science were fain to begin, 
 
 Is hindered with painful digression 
 Of ignorance, folly, and sin. 
 
 Through mazes of needless confusion 
 The story of Freedom must bend, 
 
26 A SONG FOR A NEW YEAR. 
 
 And the grandest and simplest conclusion 
 Go stumbling along to its end. 
 
 Yet a year does not slide o'er the border 
 Of time, but some progress it shows ; 
 
 And a lustrum proves prescience and order 
 Thus the drama creeps on to its close. 
 
 If the blood that was weaker than water 
 
 Too thinly and sluggishly ran, 
 Lo ! the wine of the vintage of slaughter 
 
 Giveth strength to the sinews of Man. 
 And the shout of a lusty young nation 
 
 iSTow greets his gray brothers with glee ; 
 And the swell of its ringing vibration 
 
 Sweeps over the isles of the sea ; 
 While Liberty looks for a morrow 
 
 That promiseth joyous increase, 
 As waneth her midnight of sorrow 
 
 And waxeth her morning of peace. 
 
THE VICTORY. 
 
 When Man, in his Makers image, came 
 To be the lord of the new-made earth, 
 
 To conquer its forests, its beasts to tame, 
 
 To gather its treasures and know their worth, 
 
 All readily granted his power and place, 
 
 Save the Ocean, the Mountain, and Time, and 
 Space ; 
 
 And these four sneered at his puny frame, 
 And made of his lordship a theme for mirth. 
 
 Whole ages passed while his nocks he tended, 
 And delved and dreamed, as the years went by, 
 
 Till there came an age when his genius splendid 
 
 Had bridged the rivers, and sailed the sky, 
 
 27 
 
28 THE VICTORY. 
 
 And raised the dome that defied the storm, 
 And mastered the beauties of color and form ; 
 But his power was lost, his dominion ended, 
 Where Time, Space, Mountain, or Sea was nigh. 
 
 The Mountains rose in their grim inertness 
 
 Between the peoples, and made them strange, 
 Save as in moments of pride or pertness 
 
 They climbed the ridge of their native range, 
 And, looking down on the tribe below, 
 Saw nothing there but a deadly foe, 
 Heard only a war-cry, long and shrill, 
 In echoes leaping from hill to hill. 
 
 The Ocean rolled in its mighty splendor, 
 Washing the slowly wasting shore, 
 
 And the voices of nations, fierce or tender, 
 Lost themselves in its endless roar. 
 
 With frail ships launched on its treacherous 
 surge, 
 
THE VICTORY. 29 
 
 And sad eyes fixed on its far blue verge, 
 Man's hold of life seemed brittle and slender, 
 And the Sea his master for evermore. 
 
 And Space and Time brought their huge di- 
 mensions 
 
 To separate man from his brother man, 
 And sowed between them a thousand dissen- 
 sions, 
 
 That ripened in hatred and caste and clan. 
 So Sea and Mountain and Time and Space 
 Laughed again in his lordship's face, 
 And bade him blush for his weak inventions 
 
 And the narrow round his achievements ran. 
 
 But one morning he made him a slender wire, 
 As an artist's vision took life and form, 
 
 While he drew from heaven the strange fierce fire 
 That reddens the edge of the midnight storm ; 
 
 And he carried it over the Mountain's crest, 
 
30 THE VICTORY. 
 
 And dropped it into the Ocean's breast ; 
 
 And Science proclaimed, from shore to shore, 
 
 That Time and Space ruled man no more. 
 
 Then the brotherhood lost on Shinar's plain 
 
 Came back to the peoples of earth again. 
 
 " Be one ! " sighed the Mountain, and shrank 
 
 away. 
 "Be one !" murmured Ocean, in dashes of 
 
 spray. 
 " Be one ! " said Space, " I forbid no more." 
 " Be one ! " echoed Time, " till my years are o'er." 
 " "We are one ! " said the nations, as hand met 
 
 hand 
 In a thrill electric from land to land. 
 
FAITH'S SURRENDER 
 
 As vanquished years behind me glide, 
 
 Trailing the banner of their boasts, 
 Lo ! step for step and stride for stride, 
 
 Beside me walk their silent ghosts. 
 Each, while a narrow moment burned, 
 
 The breath of full existence shared ; 
 Then mortal Substance backward turned, 
 
 Immortal Shadow onward fared. 
 
 Between the doing and the dreaming, 
 
 My slack hands fall ; 
 Between the being and the seeming, 
 
 My senses pall ; 
 31 
 
32 , FAITH'S SURRENDER. 
 
 And swiftly through life's broken arches 
 Care with his troop triumphant marches, 
 And claims me thrall. 
 
 There ever, 'mid the moving throng 
 
 Whose mocking footfalls echo mine, 
 Poor widowed Memory leads along 
 
 Her children in a lengthened line. 
 AVhat time the head in silence hung, 
 
 I knew them by that voiceless sign — 
 Their tender forms forever young, 
 
 Their weary eyes as old as mine. 
 
 Between retreating and encroaching 
 
 Their footprints lie ; 
 Between beseeching and reproaching 
 
 Their voices die; 
 And every scheme of better living 
 They mar with blotches of misgiving, 
 
 And thrust it by. 
 
FAITH'S SURRENDER. 33 
 
 The one foul word in record fair 
 
 Stands out the foremost on the page, 
 Till all of good or glory there 
 
 Seems chance-achieved or shrunk with age ; 
 The present help of manly strength, 
 
 The royal sway of manly will, 
 However bold, go down at length 
 
 Before some iron-visored ill. 
 
 Betwixt old baulk and new beginning, 
 
 How Courage quails ! 
 'Twixt white intent and stain of sinning, 
 
 How Virtue fails ! 
 And backward on her own path turning, 
 Where Hazard's lurid torch is burning, 
 
 How Reason pales ! 
 
 From self the subtle motive spun, 
 
 Through self the generous jmrpose burns, 
 For self the martyr deed is done, 
 
34 FAITH'S SURRENDER. 
 
 And round to self at last returns 
 The boon for others dearly bought, 
 
 The far result of sacrifice, 
 That triumphs in completed thought, 
 
 Or lights a gleam in dying eyes. 
 
 Betwixt grim fact and sad surmising, 
 
 Joys merge in j^ain ; 
 'Twixt love of self and self-despising, 
 
 What grounds remain 
 Where Hope is lord and Fear is vassal, 
 Where calm Content may build her castle, 
 
 Xor build in vain ? 
 
 Though Truth be steadfast as the hills 
 Whose flinty faces mock at Time, 
 
 What boots it, if no living rills 
 
 Roll downward from that steep sublime i 
 
 I could not hold its airy height, 
 
 Though I should tread the narrow track, 
 
FAITH'S SURRENDER. 
 
 While trembling foot and failing sight 
 Conspire too well to, hurl me back. 
 
 Between the climbing and the creeping, 
 There's blood and bruise ; 
 
 Between the laughing and the weeping, 
 The soul may lose 
 
 Her grasp of all that makes the morrow 
 
 Seem other than a greener sorrow, 
 With fresher dews. 
 
OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 Not idly dreaming of Thy heaven, 
 Nor longing for some vague delight 
 
 With scorn of such as time has given, 
 Nor blind to glories of the night 
 
 With watching for the break of dawn. 
 
 Nor mourning good forever gone, 
 
 Far from my fellow men withdrawn, 
 Would I Thy mercies, Lord, requite. 
 
 The great to-come is Thine alone ; 
 
 The past, we know not whose it is ; 
 Its davs and deeds are all its own. 
 
 And mine, mayhap, its miseries. 
 36 
 
OPPORTUNITY. 37 
 
 But though all things beyond may be 
 Concealed in hazy drapery, 
 One little circle round is free 
 
 From darkness, doubt, and mysteries. 
 
 That little circle, now and here, 
 Moves onward with me as I go ; 
 
 That hazy curtain hanging near 
 
 Rolls backward with continual now ; 
 
 And still my growing pathway glides 
 
 Where some divine impulsion guides, 
 
 And still Thy firmament abides, 
 
 And through the mist its beacons glow. 
 
 The measure of Thy work is more 
 
 Than I may ever hope to span 
 With compass of the little lore 
 
 That puffs the mind of puny man. 
 I only know that round my feet 
 Lie shreds of purpose incomplete, 
 
38 OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 "Which. I must help to form and meet, 
 Revealing Thy eternal plan. 
 
 I only know that in my heart 
 
 Somehow there must be something good ; 
 Thou wouldst not set my task apart 
 
 And give me stubble, hay, and wood, 
 And these alone, that my desire 
 Might build in mockery a pyre 
 But meant for the consuming fire, 
 
 Where otherwise some hope had stood. 
 
 Though, fair Ambition's banner furled, 
 And every outlook growing less, 
 
 I elbow through a crowded world, 
 With daily toil and strife and stress, 
 
 If eye and heart to heaven be true, 
 
 Some bit of sky I still may view. 
 
 And from that little arc of blue 
 The sphere of Thy creation gue>-. 
 
A LOVE-LETTER WITHOUT A LADY. 
 
 Is the new summer bursting as freshly as ever, 
 Along the smooth margin of old Genesee, 
 
 Where the trill ium wakes with a lingering 
 shiver 
 Beneath the low boughs of the evergreen tree ? 
 
 Creeps the trailing arbutus o 1 er hillock and 
 hollow, 
 Through leafage whose greenness and glory 
 are fled ? 
 Rises dawn with a flush of new glories to follow \ 
 Comes the night with less terror and chill in 
 its tread ? 
 
 39 
 
40 A LOVE-LETTER WITHOUT A LADY. 
 
 In the grottoes we know, are the sculptures of 
 Winter 
 Made ruin and rubbish, the sport of the 
 Spring ? 
 From the great rocky walls do they crumble 
 and splinter, 
 Whence newly bom rivulets saunter and 
 sing? 
 
 Has the last shrunken drift from the meadows 
 departed, 
 Like a stage-ghost at dawn, with the dust on 
 its face ? 
 O'er the long, grassy slopes have the cloud- 
 shadows started, 
 As in summers of old, their perpetual chase I 
 
 Do you wander as once under cliff and through 
 tangle, 
 By pools where cross-currents in dark eddies 
 meet? 
 
A LOVE-LETTER WITHOUT A LADY. 41 
 
 Or study the offers of crevice and angle, 
 
 That hold out temptations to hazardous feet ? 
 
 It is long, long ago now — and longer in seem- 
 ing— 
 Since I stood with you by that river so fair; 
 But its ripple or roar, as it runs through my 
 dreaming, 
 Has no meaning or music unless you are there. 
 
 The Merrimack's waters are brighter and purer, 
 Through livelier landscapes they sparkle and 
 spree ; 
 But the step of the idler grows dull and de- 
 murer, 
 For with you walks my soul by our own 
 Genesee. 
 
 There's a love that comes forth at the bidding of 
 beauty, 
 
 
42 A LOVE-LETTER WITHOUT A LADY. 
 
 And virtue, and goodness, 'twixt woman and 
 man ; 
 There's a love more allied to devotion and duty, 
 That owes its existence to kindred and clan. 
 
 There is also a love that no mystery darkens, 
 No passion need fire, and no blindness defend, 
 
 No whisper can hurt while susj^iciousness heark- 
 ens, 
 No envy distract, and no jealousy rend. 
 
 It is born of the spirit that finds itself mated — 
 Or soaring or mining — by one of its kind ; 
 
 That can follow it far, or await it belated, 
 Can lead it in freedom, or cheer it confined* 
 
 That feels how it labors, or triumphs, or strug- 
 gles; 
 That sees what it aims at, and knows whv it 
 fails : 
 
A LOVE-LETTER WITHOUT A LADY. 43 
 
 That peers at a glance through the gauzes and 
 juggles 
 That screen and succeed where no merit avails. 
 
 No thrill marks its birth, and no rapture its 
 presence ; 
 But it grows in each fibre by circumstance 
 tried, 
 From boyhood to manhood through long juve- 
 nescence, — 
 And such 'tis I send you from Merrimack's 
 side. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 If that indeed were fact, which seems 
 
 A pleasant universal fiction, 
 That's daily horn of youthful dreams, 
 
 Nor dies of daily contradiction — 
 
 That every mortal has a mate, 
 
 And counterparts go blindly groping 
 
 To find perchance through fogs of fate 
 The end of all their weary hoping, — 
 
 I'd say : Whatever I have done, 
 
 To manhood's earnest work befitting. 
 
 Be consecrate to her alone 
 
 Who waits for me, though all unwitting ; 
 
 44 
 
DEDICATION. 45 
 
 Who puts the signs of pain away, 
 
 Lest grief too soon her cheek should furrow ; 
 Who beats temptation back to-day, 
 
 That I may see some glad to-morrow ; 
 
 Who dare not pluck a flower that grows 
 Beyond the path Grocl spreads before her, 
 
 Nor ever thinks of passing those 
 That bloom beside it to adore her; 
 
 Who strives to add a cubit yet 
 
 By faith unto her moral stature — 
 
 Dear soul ! — lest I should feel regret 
 At finding less than mine her nature ; 
 
 Whose hands train many a trailing vine, 
 That mine had rudely left to perish, 
 
 And all its tendrils deftly twine 
 
 In folds that failing years shall cherish ; 
 
46 DEDICATION 
 
 Whose steps will mark life's tune alway, 
 
 Though mine have stumbled, failed, and 
 blundered ; 
 
 Whose spirit walks with mine to-day, 
 However far our feet are sundered 
 
ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 " See where the crest of the long promontory, 
 
 Decked by October in crimson and brown, 
 Lies like the scene of some fairy-land story, 
 
 Over the sands to the deep sloping down. 
 See the white mist on the hidden horizon 
 
 Hano; like the folds of the curtain of fate. 
 See where yon shadow the green water flies on, 
 
 Cast from a cloud for the conclave too late. 
 
 " See the small ripples in curving ranks chasing 
 Every light breeze running out from the shore, 
 
 Gleeful as children when merrily racing, 
 
 Hands interlocked, o'er a wide meadow floor. 
 47 
 
48 ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 See round the pier how the tossing wave sparkles, 
 Bright as the hope in a love-lighted breast. 
 
 See the one sail in the sunlight that darkles, 
 Laboring home from the lands of the west. 
 
 " See the low surf where it restlessly tumbles, 
 
 Swiftly advancing, and then in retreat. 
 See how the tall cliff yields slowly and 
 crumbles, 
 
 Sliding away to the gulfs at our feet. 
 Sure is thy victory, emblem of weakne 
 
 Certain thine overthrow, ponderous wall. 
 Brittle is sternness, but mighty is meekness — 
 
 O wave that will conquer ! O cliff that 
 must fall ! " 
 
 "Ah lady, how deep is this truth of your teach- 
 ing ! 
 All that delights and inthralls you I see : 
 
ON THE CLIFF. 49 
 
 But little you dream of the meaning far-reach. 
 
 Yea more than you meant them, your words 
 Lave for me. 
 Light run my fancies that once were too sober ; 
 
 All the fair land of the future lies spread, 
 Brightly before me, in hues of October ; 
 
 Homeward, full laden, my ship turns her 
 head. 
 
 " Dimly across them falls fate's mystic curtain : 
 
 If but thy fingers would draw it away, 
 Making the fanciful turn to the certain, 
 
 Then would the sounds and the sights of 
 to-day 
 Ring like the strains of a ballad pathetic, 
 
 Heard when the voice of the singer is dumb ; 
 Glow like the great words on pages prophetic, 
 
 Read when the fingers that wrote them are 
 numb. 
 
50 ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 " Into the depths of thy dreamy eyes jeering, 
 
 Watching thy lips for some shadowy sign, 
 Trembling in doubt betwixt hoping and fear- 
 
 Stands my poor soul, and appeals unto thine. 
 Barren as sea-sand is every ambition, 
 
 Pride but the foam in the breaker concealed • 
 Fame is a shadow, and wealth a derision — 
 
 O love that will triumph ! O life that must 
 yield I" 
 
ON THE STAIRS. 
 
 Swift tW the foot-fall of midnight advances, 
 
 Let us linger a while on the stairs — 
 Nothing to witness our words and our glances 
 
 But the astral that over us flares. 
 Ah, how in contrast with gloomy November 
 
 The gleam of their brilliance appears ! 
 You may forget them, but I shall remember — 
 
 Remember these glances for years. 
 
 Press but the fingers for needless assurance, 
 Touch the lips for a token of truth — 
 
 Ah, how it girds for heroic endurance 
 The pitiful weakness of youth ! 
 
 So rises purpose that never shall slumber, 
 So rings its brave song in my ears ; 
 51 
 
52 ON THE STAIRS. 
 
 You may forget them, but I must remember — 
 Remember these momeuts for years. 
 
 What tho' the spirit be robbed of its buoyance, 
 
 Still wrapped iu the cumbersome clay ? 
 What tho' the wear of incessant annoyance 
 
 Shall fritter endeavor away, 
 Turn the fair June into dull-eyed December, 
 
 Drown exultation in tears ? 
 You may forget them, but I shall remember — 
 
 Remember these moments for years. 
 
 Even as now I pass out of the portal, 
 
 To the slumberous silence of night, 
 So if Remembrance, immured but immortal, 
 
 From the dwelling of earth take her flight, 
 Then, when the ashes of life's falling ember 
 
 Are lighted with flickering fears, 
 You may forget them, while I shall remember 
 
 These moments surviving the years. 
 
LAIJKENCE. 
 
 He came in the glory of summer ; in the terror 
 
 of summer he went : 
 Like a blossom the breezes have wafted ; like a 
 
 bough that the tempest has rent. 
 His blue eyes unclosed in the morning, his 
 
 brown eyes were darkened at morn ; 
 And the durance of pain could not banish the 
 
 beauty wherewith he was born. 
 He came — can we ever forget it, while the years 
 
 of our j)ilgrimage roll ? — 
 He came in thine anguish of body, he passed 
 
 'mid our anguish of soul. 
 53 
 
54 LAURENCE. 
 
 He brought us a pride and a pleasure, lie left 
 
 us a pathos of tears : 
 A dream of impossible futures, a glimpse of un- 
 
 caleudared years. 
 His voice was a sweet inspiration, his silence a 
 
 sign from afar ; 
 He made us the heroes we were not, he left us 
 
 the cowards we are. 
 For the moan of the heart follows after his clay, 
 
 with perpetual dole, 
 Forgetting the torture of body is lost in the 
 
 triumph of soul. 
 
 A man in the world of his cradle, a sage in his 
 
 infantine lore, 
 He was brave in the might of endurance, was 
 
 patient, — and who can be more \ 
 He had learned to be shy of the stranger, to 
 
 welcome his mother's warm kiss, 
 
LAURENCE. 55 
 
 To trust in the arms of his father, — and who 
 
 can be wiser than this ? 
 The lifetime we thought lay before him, already 
 
 was rounded and whole, 
 In dainty completeness of body and wondrous 
 
 perfection of soul. 
 
 The newness of love at his coming, the fresh- 
 ness of grief when he went, 
 
 The pitiless pain of his absence, the effort at 
 argued content, 
 
 The dim eye forever retracing the few little 
 footprints he made, 
 
 The quick thought forever recalling the visions 
 that never can fade, — 
 
 For these but one comfort, one answer, in faith's 
 or philosophy's roll : 
 
 Came to us for a pure little body, went to God 
 for a glorified soul. 
 
EVELYN. 
 
 If I could know 
 That here about the place where last you 
 
 played — 
 Within this room, and yonder in the shade 
 
 Of branches low — 
 Your spirit lingered, I would never go, 
 But evermore a hermit pace the round 
 Of sunny paths across this garden ground, 
 
 And o'er the fleckered lawn 
 Whereon your baby chariot was drawn, 
 
 And round these lonely walls, 
 
 Where no sound ever falls 
 So pretty as your prattle or your crow, — 
 
 If I could only know ! 
 56 
 
EVELYN. 57 
 
 If I could know 
 That to some distant clime or planet rare 
 
 Sweet souls like thine repair, 
 Where love's own fountains fail not as they 
 
 flow, — 
 I'd be a traveller, and would ever go, 
 Day after day, along the selfsame road, 
 Leaving behind this desolate abode, 
 My head upon my pillow only lay 
 To dream myself still farther on the way, 
 
 Until at last I rest, 
 Clasping my little daughter to my breast, 
 Though half eternity were wasted so, — 
 
 If I could only know ! 
 
 If I could know 
 That you a child with childlike ways remain, 
 I'd never wish to be a man again, 
 
 But only try to grow 
 As childlike, using all the idle toys 
 
58 EVELYN. 
 
 That you and I have played with, till their 
 
 noise 
 Brought back the echoes of your merry laugh, 
 When paper windmill whirled upon its staff, 
 Or painted ball went rolling on the floor, 
 
 Or puss peeped out behind the door, 
 
 Or watch, held half in fear, 
 With its mysterious ticking thrilled your ear : 
 All manly occupation I'd forego, 
 
 If I could only know ! 
 
 If I could know 
 That henceforth, in some pure eternal sphere, 
 The little life that grew so swiftly here 
 
 Would still expand and grow, 
 How should I strive against my wasting years, 
 With toil from sun to sun, and midnight tears. 
 To build my soul up to the height of yours, 
 
 And catch the light that lures, 
 
 The inspiration that impels, 
 
EVELYN. 59 
 
 The strength that dwells, 
 Beyond the bounds of earthly cares and fears, 
 Beyond this bitter wo, — 
 If I could only know ! 
 
 Alas ! what do I know \ 
 I know your world scarce compassed yonder 
 stone — 
 
 As little seems my own ! 
 I know you never knew unhappiness — 
 
 Would I could mourn the less ! 
 I know you never saw death's darker side — 
 
 The shore where we abide ! 
 I know you never felt the nameless dread — 
 
 Ah, but if mine were tied ! 
 I know you never heard a lover's vow — 
 
 And I'm your lover now ! 
 I know no answer to my wail can come — 
 
 Let me be dumb ! 
 
A SOLDIER POET. 
 
 Where swell the songs thou shouldst have sung 
 
 By peaceful rivers yet to flow ? 
 Where bloom the smiles thy ready tongue 
 
 Would call to lips that loved thee so ? 
 On what far shore of being tossed, 
 
 Dost thou resume the genial stave, 
 And strike again the lyre we lost 
 
 By Rappahannock's troubled wave ? 
 
 If that new world hath hill and stream, 
 
 And breezy bank, and quiet dell, 
 If forests murmur, waters gleam, 
 
 And wayside flowers their story tell, 
 60 
 
 
A SOLDIER POET. 61 
 
 Thy hand ere this has plucked the reed 
 That wavered by the wooded shore, 
 
 Its prisoned soul thy fingers freed, 
 To float melodious evermore. 
 
 So seems it to my musing mood, 
 
 So runs it in my surer thought, 
 That much of beauty, more of good, 
 
 For thee the rounded years have wrought ; 
 That life will live, however blown 
 
 Like vapor on the summer air; 
 That power perpetuates its own ; 
 
 That silence here is music there. 
 

 A WOMAN OF THE WAR 
 
 Through the sombre arcli of that gateway tower 
 Where my humblest townsman rides at last, 
 
 You may spy the bells of a nodding flower, 
 On a double mound that is thickly grassed. 
 
 And between the spring and the summer time, 
 
 Or ever the lilac's bloom is shed, 
 When they come with banners and wreaths and 
 rhyme, 
 
 To deck the tombs of the nation's dead, 
 
 They find there a little flag in the grass, 
 And fling a handful of roses down, 
 62 
 
A WOMAN OF THE WAR. 63 
 
 And pause a moment before they pass 
 
 To the Captain's grave with the gilded crown. 
 
 But if perchance they seek to recall 
 
 What name, what deeds, these honors declare, 
 
 They can not tell, they are silent all 
 
 As the noiseless harebell nodding there. 
 
 She was tall, with an almost manly grace, 
 And young, with strange wisdom for one so 
 young, 
 
 And fair with more than a woman's face ; 
 With dark, deep eyes, and a mirthful tongue. 
 
 The poor and the fatherless knew her smile ; 
 
 The friend in sorrow had seen her tears ; 
 She had studied the ways of the rough world's 
 guile, 
 
 And read the romance of historic years. 
 
 I* 
 
64 A WOMAN OF THE WAR. 
 
 What she might have been in these times of 
 ours, 
 
 At once it is. easy and hard to guess ; 
 For always a riddle are half -used powers, 
 
 And always a power is lovingness. 
 
 But her fortunes fell ujdou evil days — 
 
 If days are evil when evil dies — 
 And she was not one who could stand at gaze 
 
 Where the hopes of humanity fall and rise. 
 
 Nor could she dance to the viol's tune, 
 
 When the drum was throbbing throughout 
 the land, 
 
 Or dream in the light of the summer moon, 
 When Treason was clenching his mailed hand. 
 
 Through the long gray hospital's corridor 
 She journeyed many a mournful league, 
 
 , 
 
A WOMAN OF THE WAR. G5 
 
 And lier light foot fell on the oaken floor 
 As if it never could know fatigue. 
 
 She stood by the good old surgeon's side, 
 
 And the sufferers smiled as they saw her 
 stand ; 
 
 She wrote, and the mothers marvelled and cried 
 At their darling soldiers' feminine hand. 
 
 She was last in the ward when the lights 
 burned low, 
 
 And Sleep called a truce to his f oeman Pain ; 
 At the midnight cry she was first to go, 
 
 To bind up the bleeding wound again. 
 
 For sometimes the wreck of a man would rise, 
 Weird and gaunt in the watch-lamp's gleam, 
 
 And tear away bandage and splints and ties, 
 Fighting the battle all o'er in his dream. 
 
G6 A WOMAN OF THE WAR. 
 
 No wonder the youngest surgeon felt 
 
 A charm in the presence of that brave soul, 
 
 Through weary weeks, as she nightly knelt 
 With the letter from home or the doctor's dole. 
 
 He heard her called, and he heard her blessed, 
 With many a patriot's parting breath ; 
 
 And ere his soul to itself confessed, 
 
 Love leaped to life in those vigils of death. 
 
 " O, fly to your home ! " came a whisper dread, 
 " For now the pestilence walks by night. 1 ' 
 
 " The greater the need of me here," she said, 
 And bared her arm for the lancet's bite. 
 
 Was there death, green death, in the atmosphere ? 
 Was the bright steel poisoned ? Who can 
 
 tell? 
 Her weeping friends gathered beside her bier, 
 And the clergyman told them all was well. 
 
A WOMAN OF THE WAR. 67 
 
 Well — alas that it should be so ! 
 
 When a nation's debt reaches reckoning-day — 
 Well for it to be able, but wo 
 
 To the generation that 's called to pay ! 
 
 Down from the long gray hospital came 
 
 Every boy in blue who could walk the floor ; 
 
 The sick and the wounded, the blind and lame, 
 Formed two long files from her father's door. 
 
 There was grief in many a manly breast, 
 While men's tears fell as the coffin passed ; 
 
 And thus she went to the world of rest, 
 Martial and maidenly up to the last. 
 
 And that youngest surgeon, was he to blame ? — 
 He held the lancet — Heaven only knows. 
 
 K~o matter ; his heart broke all the same, 
 And he laid him down, and never arose. 
 
C8 A WOMAN OF THE WAR. 
 
 So Death received, in his greedy hand, 
 Two precious coins of the awful price 
 
 That purchased freedom for this dear land — 
 For master and bondman — yea, bought it 
 twice. 
 
 Such fates too often such women are for ! 
 
 Grod grant the Republic a large increase, 
 To match the heroes in time of war, 
 
 And mother the children in time of peace. 
 
DOWN THE GENESEE. 
 
 Written for the Walking Club. 
 
 The mellow sunlight of a day like this 
 Illumes a page in life's prosaic volume ; 
 
 And, charmed to languor with its gleam of bliss, 
 
 I linger idly over it, nor miss 
 Its touch of pathos solemn. 
 
 Here come to me again the dreams of yore. 
 
 All sweeping back in one tumultuous legion — 
 The long excursions on the wooded shore, 
 The feats of daring in the cataract's roar, 
 
 The fairy-haunted region, 
 
 The little fictions of my boyish days, 
 
 Which time already has begun to mellow : 
 
 60 
 
70 DOWN THE GENESEE, 
 
 Here marshy Marathon my step delays, 
 There's Buena Vista sleeping in the haze, 
 And yonder Porto Bello. 
 
 Behind that reedy barrier we took, 
 
 With cruel barb, the unsuspecting shiner ; 
 
 On this green slope perused the wonder-book ; 
 
 Or upward traced the tumbling streams to look 
 For fields and flowers diviner. 
 
 The royal sunlight hung a golden fleece 
 
 On every tree that rose beyond the river, 
 And, crossing over from the shores of Greece, 
 We sought to snatch it from that grove of peace, 
 And make it ours forever. 
 
 Its texture, woven in our web of thought, 
 
 May warm the pulses of some cold hereafter, 
 When storm and wreck have bowed each Ar<ro- 
 naut 
 
DOWN THE GENESEE, 71 
 
 Iii sad decrepitude, and age has brought 
 The years that know not laughter. 
 
 Till then, like this be every balmy June, 
 I shall not sigh for any lost romances ; 
 In such a mellow, merry afternoon 
 The chords of life strike up a nobler tune, 
 Inspiring sweeter fancies. 
 
 A fairer Doge this Bucentaur now bears 
 
 Than e'er espoused the sparkling Adriatic ; 
 And we, the happiest of gondoliers, 
 Push our light craft from off the rustic piers, 
 In quest of feats aquatic. 
 
 O you whose strong arms stretch the bending oar, 
 And you whose soft eyes in the sunlight 
 quiver, 
 May I walk with you on the Elysian shore, 
 Beyond the tumult of the cataract's roar, 
 Beyond the eternal river. 
 
PEN AND CHISEL. 
 
 A Friend 'forsakes Polite Literature for Plain Sculpture. 
 
 I saw the masses of rock, rough quarried out of 
 the ledge, 
 
 And the tools wherewith to carve, and the mit- 
 ten to shield the fist, 
 
 The points of cold blue steel, and the heavy 
 short-helved sledge, — 
 
 And I thought : Will his stone ideal surpass his 
 poetical grist ? 
 
 Ah, yes ! 'twas a wise exchange, and must be 
 
 productive of pelf. 
 'Tis better to sculp than boheme ; 'tis safer to 
 
 hew than to hack : 
 
 72 
 
PEN AND CHISEL. 73 
 
 'Tis pleasanter far to chisel than always be 
 
 chiselled yourself, 
 Though the muscles be strained and sore, and 
 
 the left thumb battered and black. 
 
 The form of a perfect brick shall leap to life at 
 thy touch, 
 
 Where sandstone, limestone, and grit lay lifeless 
 and cold before — 
 
 Capital, cornice, and shaft, Corinthian, Doric, 
 and Dutch ; 
 
 And perhaps the corner-stone of a corner gro- 
 cery store. 
 
 Time may tatter this foolscap, but thy window- 
 caps shall endure ; 
 
 The rains of centuries cannot efface thy most 
 delicate rune ; 
 
 And o'er the ideal sill that thou freest with 
 mallet-stroke sure, 
 
74 PEN AND CHISEL. 
 
 Some lovely maiden leaning may sigh to the 
 Muse or the Moon. 
 
 'Tis better to chip at a flint than bore at a 
 
 block-headed world ; 
 An auger will make less dust in a day than a 
 
 drove in an hour ; 
 And if with incessant "pounding a point be 
 
 clubbed and curled, 
 The man of bellows and tongs will restore its 
 
 cleaving power. 
 
 But who can a remedy find for a gray goose 
 quill diseased ? 
 
 Can a blacksmith point a joke ? Will a grind- 
 stone polish a verse ? 
 
 A contract is easier filled than a critical public 
 pleased, 
 
 And the rocks thou hewest now have counter- 
 parts in the purse. 
 
PEN AND CHISEL. 75 
 
 All labor is work, more or less ; and the laborer 
 
 worthy his hire ; 
 But alas for the gypsy crew who essay to live 
 
 by their wits ! 
 'Twere better to burn our works, and- temper 
 
 a steel in the fire, 
 To carve a lofty column where Fame in her 
 
 temple sits. 
 

 A BIRTHDAY POEM. 
 
 In" yonder homestead, brown and old, 
 One room is closed like Bluebeard's hall, 
 
 And o'er the panes, with heavy fold, 
 Moved by no breath, the curtains fall. 
 
 No curious girl or babbling boy 
 
 Its sacred silence dare destroy 
 
 With merry laugh or rattling toy, 
 Or lift the latch and break the thrall. 
 
 But every year rolls round a day 
 When every door is opened wide, 
 And through the room from side to side 
 
 The yellow sunbeams freely play. 
 
 And fearless children then may view 
 The wonders of that unknown land : 
 
A BIRTHDAY POEM. 77 
 
 The gorgeous carpet, red and blue, 
 The trinkets on the corner-stand, 
 
 The great old Bible, grandly bound, 
 
 The profiles on the walls around, 
 The antlers Grandsire's .rifle won 
 
 Ere Grand sire's axe the forest laid, 
 The sampler Grandma's hands begun 
 
 When Grandma was a blushing maid, 
 
 And all things curious and rare 
 
 That careful years have garnered there. 
 
 So live we cramped in half our souls, 
 
 Nor ever know the better part, 
 Save when some anniversary rolls 
 
 The door back from our inmost heart, 
 And lets us see our real selves 
 
 And all the rapid years have wrought : 
 
 The folded fabrics of old thought, 
 Laid by on half -forgotten shelves, 
 The hopes, once living, whose pale ghosts 
 
78 A BIRTHDAY POEM. 
 
 Yet walk the chambers where they died, 
 
 The profile of a perished pride, 
 The dreams that thronged, like Persian hosts, 
 
 The pass where Never stood at bay, 
 The golden hue of sunset shores 
 
 That slowly grew an ashen gray 
 Ere we could ship the weary oars. 
 To eat, to labor, and to sleep, 
 
 And satisfy material needs, 
 To strive, to do, perhaps to keep 
 
 Some foolish record of our deeds, 
 To hear, now friendship's cheap- won praise, 
 
 The patter now of petty ills, — 
 
 What is it to the life that fills 
 Our birthdays and our burial days ( 
 
THE STAGE-RIDE. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 The sandy highway, fringed with green, 
 By sparkling water-courses led 
 Along some ancient river's bed, 
 
 With wealth of intervale between, 
 
 Winds upward toward the purple range, 
 As journeys one in morning dream, 
 And bridges many a murmuring stream, 
 
 And revels in continual change. 
 
 Just over there the mountains lie, 
 
 The quiet brood of quiet sky ; 
 
 Just over there their shadow falls. 
 
 We wind through many a narrow dell, 
 
 And vale whose bounds more gently swell, 
 79 
 
80 THE STAGE-RIDE. 
 
 Eight onward toward the rocky walls ; 
 And still through this delusive air 
 
 Their rugged sides above us bend 
 
 And seem to mark our journey's end, 
 Just over there, just over there. 
 But lo ! the clouds, in tatters dressed, 
 Come clambering o'er the mountain crest. 
 And tumbling here, or settling there, 
 Now buoved a while in denser air, 
 Now clinging to some rocky ledge, 
 
 In sunlight dark, in shadow jiale, 
 Creep slowly down as if to wage 
 
 An Indian warfare on the vale. 
 Our leaders snuff the coming shower. 
 And put forth more determined power : 
 Our wheels more eaeer crunch the sand, 
 TVe grasp the rail with firmer hand. 
 Hold hats against the stiffening breeze. 
 More nimbly dodge the drooping trees, 
 Fall helpless in the ambushed jolts, 
 
THE STAGE-RIDE. 81 
 
 Dream timidly of breaking bolts, 
 Suspend a while the anxious breath 
 Where one mis-step might hurl to death, 
 Dash at the low hill's rocky face, 
 Spin like a peg-top round its base, 
 Go thundering through the heaving bridge, 
 And roll along the causeway's ridge, — 
 Till horses, driver, men, and freight 
 
 Seem but an animated whole, 
 With one quick impulse all elate, 
 
 The thrill of one impassioned soul. 
 
THE LAND OF NODDY. 
 
 A Lullaby. 
 
 Put away the bauble and the bib ! 
 Smooth out the pillow' in the crib ! 
 
 Softly on the down 
 
 Lay the baby's crown, 
 
 Warm around its feet 
 
 Tuck the little sheet, — 
 Snug as a pea in a pod ! 
 
 With a yawn and a gape, 
 
 And a dreamy little nap, 
 We will go, we will go, 
 To the Landy-andy-pandy 
 
 Of Noddy-oddy-poddy, 
 To the Landy-andy-pand 
 Of Noddy-pod. 
 
THE LAND OF NODDY. 83 
 
 There in the Shadow-Maker's tent, 
 After the twilight's soft descent, 
 We'll lie down to dreams 
 Of milk in flowing streams ; 
 And the Shadow-Maker's baby 
 Will lie down with ns, may be, 
 On the soft mossy pillow of the sod. 
 In a drowse and a doze, 
 All asleep from head to toes, 
 We will lie, we will lie, 
 In the Landy-andy-pandy 
 
 Of Noddy-oddy-poddy, 
 In the Landy-andy-pand 
 Of Noddy-pod. 
 
 Then when the morning breaks, 
 
 Then when the lark awakes, 
 We'll leave the drowsy dreams, 
 And the twinkling starry gleams, 
 We'll leave the little tent, 
 
84 THE LAND OF NODDY. 
 
 And the wonders in it pent, 
 To return to our own native sod. 
 With a hop and a skip, 
 And a jump and a flip, 
 
 We will come, we will come, 
 From the Landy-andy-pandy 
 
 Of Noddy-oddy -poddy, 
 From the Landy-andy-pand 
 Of ISToddy-pod. 
 
BREVI FINIETUK. 
 
 I sometimes think my life has run 
 Beyond the measure of its worth, 
 
 And wonder when will rise the sun, 
 The last tli at I shall see on earth. 
 
 Again, life's brevity appears 
 The only mar-plot ; and I plan 
 How all might round to right, if man 
 
 Could only live some hundred years. 
 
 § 
 
 But evermore this mournful thread 
 Through all reflection's tissue runs : 
 
 That if this dear one were not dead, 
 Were that one still the same as once, 
 85 
 
86 BREVI FINIETUR. 
 
 Had these a few more years been spared, 
 And all my later fortune shared, 
 Contented then 1 had not cared 
 
 For what might lie beyond the suns ; 
 
 That loss and blunders manifold, 
 
 Which mar our brief existence here, 
 Were not its knell so quickly tolled, 
 
 Might be redeemed some future year; 
 That he who faltered at the start 
 And failed, were not the course so short, 
 Might, by some latent force or art. 
 
 Have won the race, the prize, the cheer. 
 
THE WINDING OF THE CLOCK. 
 
 There is many a sober moral 
 
 In the old clock on the wall. 
 But the moral of its winding 
 
 Is the deepest of them all. 
 
 It minds me that these listless hands 
 
 And this slow-moving brain, 
 Must have diurnal turns of sleep 
 
 To wind them up again. 
 
 It speaks of friends that once were dear, 
 
 And household places filled, 
 Whose wheels of life are clogged with dust, 
 
 Whose busy hands are stilled. 
 
 87 
 
88 THE WINDING OF THE CLOCK. 
 
 And I, in dullness clicking on 
 Throughout my little day, 
 
 Must finally run down and "be 
 As profitless as they. 
 
 And then I think, the motive power 
 That drives existence round 
 
 Is often some dead weight of care, 
 Slow settling to the ground ; 
 
 While eager hands of human hope. 
 
 Forever reaching: out 
 Toward higher figures of the good 
 
 Whose shadow turns about, 
 
 Still follow in a curving track 
 Around one dreary plane, 
 
 Where noontide joy, whenever full, 
 Drops back to nought again. 
 
THE WINDING OF THE CLOCK. 
 
 Yes, there's many a solemn moral 
 In the old clock on the wall, 
 
 But the moral of its winding 
 Is the deepest of them all. 
 
 
MY SHIP. 
 
 'Twas a gallant craft as ever sailed, 
 
 And a marvellous merry crew she bore. 
 When with canvas set and colors nailed 
 
 I sent her out to a distant shore. 
 I sent her out with a broad command 
 
 To cruise at will through the Golden Jsles, 
 And bring me the product of every land 
 
 That the soul delights or the sense beguiles. 
 
 Tough are the timbers that compass her sides, 
 And the lines are graceful that curve to her 
 keel, 
 
 And she leaves a foamy wake as she rides 
 Secure with her steadiest man at the wheeL 
 
 90 
 
MY SHIP. 91 
 
 And that foamy wake in my dreams I see, 
 Where whitens the wave for a thousand 
 miles ; 
 
 And the man at the wheel, unmindful of me, 
 Is looking ahead for the Golden Isles. 
 
 If waking I walk on the lonely shore, 
 
 The foam of her furrow has melted away, 
 And I know that her sailors are merry no more, 
 
 And her pilot I know must be withered and 
 gray. 
 But I still believe that her ensign burns, 
 
 And on her brown canvas the sunlight smiles, 
 As heavily laden she homeward turns, 
 
 Or cruises yet -mid the Golden Isles. 
 
 And I never doubt she will surely come. 
 
 Riding in on some happy tide, 
 Strained and battered, but bearing home 
 
 All that she sought o'er the ocean wide. 
 
92 MY SHIP. 
 
 And if father Charon should pluck my sleeve 
 And point to his skiff, with a laughing lip 
 
 I'd do his bidding, and still believe 
 I am only going to meet my ship. 
 
 
 
MOTOMANIA. 
 
 How mean it makes a fellow feel — 
 
 "lis cruel, I declare — 
 To go to where the object is, 
 
 And find it is n't there, 
 But fled to parts unknown, and left 
 
 No intimation where. 
 
 O Muse, bring all your metaphors 
 
 Of roses rent from stem, 
 And chalice emptied of its wine, 
 
 And casket of its gem, 
 And pretty birds from cages flown,- 
 
 For I have need of them. 
 
 93 
 
94 MOTOMANIA. 
 
 The blinds are closed, and through, their lids, 
 
 Into itself withdrawn, 
 The house seems gazing on me like 
 
 A drowsy man at dawn. 
 But fearlessly I jmll the bell, 
 
 And look to see it yawn. 
 
 Alas ! its opening portal 
 
 Will welcome me no more ; 
 For now, where erst an argent field 
 
 The name in sable bore, 
 I see three ugly gimlet-holes 
 
 Disfiguring the door. 
 
 When she but made her summer tour, 
 
 A silence seemed to brood 
 In deep but hopeful sorrow o'er 
 
 The lonely neighborhood. 
 'Tis utter desolation now, 
 
 When she is gone for good. 
 
MOTOMANIA. 95 
 
 The maples on the avenue 
 
 Are yellowing with the year ; 
 They cast their knightly cloaks to earth, 
 
 As if her steps were near, 
 But to be trod by meaner feet, 
 
 And swept, by robes less dear. 
 
 How mean it makes a fellow feel — 
 
 'Tis cruel, I declare — 
 To go to where his charmer lives, 
 
 And find she lives not there. 
 It makes him bite his lips, and wish 
 
 It were not wrong to swear. 
 
AN OLD SHOE. 
 
 All well, for us all some sweet hope lies ! 
 
 MAUD MULLER. 
 
 You scan to-day the coming years 
 
 Along life's sunniest slope, 
 And see through mist of bridal tears 
 
 The rainbow-light of hope. 
 What matters if our own henceforth 
 
 Shall want that cheering sign ? 
 What matters if for one of us 
 
 YouVe slighted thirty-nine ? 
 
 The gods are not all cruelty ; 
 
 The wretch whom they destroy 
 Still finds that fortune has some faults, 
 
 And misery some alloy. 
 
 96 
 
AN OLD SHOE. 97 
 
 So may the proud and suffering ones 
 
 Not all dejected stand, 
 And they who in the desert dwell 
 
 Abuse the Promised Land. 
 
 You'll walk no more with lovers 
 
 By moonlight on the green, 
 But somewhat, anxiously inquire 
 
 The price of kerosene. 
 Warm, girlish, fancies now make way 
 
 For figures coldly true, 
 And tradesmen's due-bills take the place 
 
 Of tender billets-doux. 
 
 The spring-time once was heralded 
 
 By birds and budding flowers, 
 And lilac odors filled the air, 
 
 And gently dropping showers • 
 But now must sound of suds be heard, 
 
 And carpet-dust be flying, 
 
98 AN OLD SHOE. 
 
 And loud-moutlied Madam fret and scold, 
 Where love-struck Miss was signing. 
 
 Refulgent summer, once so dear. 
 
 Is only known, as fly-time ; 
 And autumn, gorgeous in its gold, 
 
 Is simply can and dry time, 
 When busy housewives, putting up 
 
 The winter's dainty rations, 
 Preserve and sweeten all things else 
 
 But temper, tongue, and patience. 
 
 The first young snow-storm brings no thoughts 
 
 Of merry bells and balls, 
 Of sleigh-rides on the avenue, 
 
 Of concerts, plays, and calls. 
 You sit by the frosted window. 
 
 And watch the falling flake, 
 A.nd reckon how much oven-wood 
 
 The trvstimr-tree will make. 
 
AN OLD SHOE. 99 
 
 One moment's thought we give to thee, 
 
 Where bridal favors gleam, 
 Whose smile is now a memory, 
 
 Whose presence but a dream. 
 We then resume our darkened ways — 
 
 God speed the light of thine ! — 
 And in one suitor's bliss forget 
 
 The pangs of thirty-nine. 
 
AN INDIAN LOVE-SONG. 
 
 From his ambush in thy shadowy eyes, Love 
 
 sped a shaft at mine ; 
 'Twas feathered with a shining tress, and barbed 
 
 with a smile divine. 
 My heart is all a-quiver; but hear me while I 
 
 sing — 
 Oh let me be thy beau, and I will never snap 
 
 the string ! 
 
 Then clad in noiseless moccasins the feet of 
 
 the years shall fall ; 
 For I will cherish thee, my love, till Time 
 
 shall scalp us all. 
 
 100 
 
AN INDIAN LOVE-SONG. 101 
 
 Not with the glittering wampum have I come 
 
 thy smiles to woo ; 
 But to offer a cabin passage down life's river in 
 
 my canoe ; 
 And to beguile the voyage, if thou wilt come 
 
 aboard, 
 Till sunset fire the waters the fire- water shall be 
 
 poured. 
 
 While clad in softest moccasins the feet of 
 
 the years shall fall ; 
 And I will cherish thee, my love, till Time 
 
 shall scalp us all. 
 
 My pipe of peace thy frosty scorn has shattered, 
 
 stem and bowl ; 
 But a thousand thongs from thy dear hide are 
 
 knotted round my soul. 
 Safe from the swoop of tomahawk my dove 
 
 shall ever be ; 
 
102 AN INDIAN LOVE- SONG. 
 
 And if famine stare us in the face, I'll jerk my 
 heart for thee. 
 
 So, clad in noiseless moccasins the feet of the 
 
 years shall fall ; 
 And I will cherish thee, my love, till Time 
 
 shall scalp us all. 
 
GOLDEN BUTTER. 
 
 Written for the Pot JLuck Club. 
 
 When bread goes down and wit goes round, 
 
 And every palate's in a flutter, 
 The gastric muse is surely bound 
 
 To sing the praise of golden butter. 
 
 Not only in the winter morn, 
 
 When buckwheat pancakes smoke and 
 splutter, 
 Nor on autumnal ears of corn 
 
 That bathe themselves in golden butter, 
 
 But slipping on through History's page, 
 Where other unctions clog and clutter, 
 
 And dripping down from age to age, 
 Behold the strains of golden butter ! 
 103 
 
104 GOLDEN B UTTER 
 
 When Jason left the shores of Greece, 
 Commander of the Argo cutter, 
 
 He went to find the famous fieece 
 
 That Phrixus took from golden butter. 
 
 When miners gathered at the dam 
 Above the mill of John A. Sutter, 
 
 He found his old hydraulic ram 
 Transformed into a golden butter. 
 
 And at our great Centennial rout 
 A Western woman deftly cut her 
 
 Clear way to fame by carving out 
 A lovely girl in golden butter. 
 
 Let oleo and other shams 
 
 Go back into their native gutter, 
 
 While dairy-maids as high-tide clams 
 Are happy in their golden butter. 
 
GOLDEN BUTTER. 105 
 
 With biscuit light and tea-pot bright, 
 The storms without may roar or mutter, 
 
 But we sit calm at candlelight, 
 And revel in the golden butter. 
 
 In peaceful days or days of strife, 
 When bane or bliss is too, too utter, 
 
 We'll grease the jarring wheels of life 
 With pretty pats of golden butter* 
 
 In days of rain or days of drouth, 
 With flowing style or futile stutter, 
 
 While melts it not within our mouth, 
 We'll sing the praise of golden butter. 
 
THE BOHEMIAN'S DREAM. 
 
 Alone in a garret where cobwebs hang thick 
 Over walls that display the bare mortar and 
 
 brick, 
 Whose windows look down on the roofs of back 
 
 sheds, 
 From a height that would dizzy the coolest of 
 
 heads, 
 A young author sits by a rickety stand, 
 In a broken-backed chair, with a pen in his 
 
 hand, 
 And patiently toils, ere the sunlight shall fade, 
 To stain the last quire of a ream of white laid. 
 The shadows have deepened that hang on the 
 
 wall ; 
 
 106 
 
THE BOHEMIAN'S DREAM. 107 
 
 But the Finis is written, the pen is let fall ; 
 And, glad of a respite from labors complete, 
 His hands and his head press the last written 
 
 sheet. 
 Sleep comes not alone ; for the goddess of dreams 
 Is accustomed to visit this blacker of reams. 
 Like the man that sits under a monster balloon, 
 And soars o'er the earth half way up to the 
 
 moon, 
 Now stepping at once into Fancy 's fair car 
 He sails from the dusky old garret afar ; 
 And, leaving the world with its practical crowds, 
 Such visions as these meet his gaze in the clouds ! 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 Forty large editions 
 
 Of the thrilling tale ; 
 Forty thousand dollars, 
 
 Net proceeds of sale. 
 
108 THE BOHEMIAN'S DREAM. 
 
 Forty smiling critics 
 Lavishing their praise ; 
 
 Forty famous florists 
 Bidding for the bays. 
 
 Forty thousand maidens 
 Sitting up at night, 
 
 Poring o'er the volume 
 With intense delight. 
 
 Forty thousand letters 
 From the countrv sent. 
 
 Blurred by frequent tear-drops, 
 Filled with sentiment. 
 
 Forty scheming mothers 
 Anxious for a match ; 
 
 Forty blushing daughters. 
 Each a glorious catch. 
 
THE BOHEMIAN'S DREAM. 109 
 
 Forty generations 
 
 Reverence his name ; 
 Forty future ages 
 
 Fortify his fame. 
 
 THE REALITY. 
 
 Forty dunning letters 
 
 Coming every day ; 
 Forty cents for washing, 
 
 Which he can not pay. 
 
 Forty jokes malicious 
 Cracked by forty wags ; 
 
 Forty pert young misses 
 Sneering at his rags. 
 
 Forty old companions 
 Wondering at his mood ; 
 
 Forty friends officious 
 Preaching fortitude. 
 
110 THE BOHEMIAN'S DREAM. 
 
 Forty days of sadness ; 
 
 Forty nights of sorrow ; 
 Forty dark forebodings 
 
 Hanging o'er the morrow. 
 
 Forty hempen inches, 
 Borrowed from a friend ; 
 
 Rafter at the upper, 
 ^Teck at lower end. 
 
 Forty earthy spadefuls 
 On the green hillside ; 
 
 Forty lines of local, 
 Telling how he died. 
 
WEATHER LYRICS 
 
 ill 
 
NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE. 
 
 O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers ! 
 
 O for an iceberg or two at control ! 
 O for a vale that at mid-day the dew cumbers ! 
 
 O for a pleasure-trip up to the pole ! 
 
 O for a little one-story thermometer, 
 
 With nothing but zeroes all ranged in a row ! 
 
 O for a big double-barrelled hygrometer, 
 
 To measure the moisture that rolls from my 
 brow ! 
 
 O that this cold world were twenty times colder ! 
 
 (That's irony red hot, it seemeth to me). 
 O for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder ! 
 
 O what a comfort an ague would be ! 
 113 
 
114 NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE. 
 
 O for a grotto frost-lined and rill-riven, 
 Scooped in the rock under cataract vast ! 
 
 O for a winter of discontent even ! 
 O for wet blankets judiciously cast I 
 
 O for a soda-fount spouting up boldly 
 
 From every hot lamp-post against the hot sky ! 
 
 O for proud maiden to look on me coldly, 
 Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye ! 
 
 Then O for a draught from a cup of cold pizen ! 
 
 And O for a through ticket, via Coldegrave, 
 
 To the baths of the Styx, where a thick shadow 
 
 lies on 
 
 And deepens the chill of its dark-running 
 
 wave ! 
 
ZERO IN THE SUN. 
 
 As rail-tracks shorten in the cold, 
 
 Obedient to Nature's law, 
 So shrinks the man of iron mould, 
 
 When these rude winds their weapons draw- 
 These " eager airs " of icy breath, 
 
 Whose myriad poniards, piercing, chilling, 
 Seem dealing back a vengeful death, 
 
 For cuts of that proverbial shilling. 
 
 The fuel- vendors thank their stars 
 That Lehigh higher yet must go ; 
 
 And babies cuddle close to Mars, 
 Because the Mercury is low ; 
 
 115 
 
116 ZERO IN THE SUN. 
 
 And Sunday at the twilight hour, 
 Once lit by tinder flames of Venus. 
 
 My flame bewails, with visage sour, 
 
 The coldness that has come between us. 
 
 I'd fly to her, I'd break the ice 
 
 By axing like an honest man ; 
 But breaking ice is not so nice 
 
 When it means, Fanny, be my Fan ! 
 When ghosts of frozen smiles benumb 
 
 The loving lips that shiver bluely : 
 And when the cool reply may come : 
 
 " Ask pa," — and pa is Mr. Cooley. 
 
 I'll don my double- worsted hose ; 
 
 I'll pile the grate with embers bright : 
 I'll read my Burns, and toast my toes, 
 
 And sing the songs the skalds indite : 
 Or hie me to some f ur-rin shore — 
 
 Fire Island, or a land of geysers. 
 
 
ZERO IN THE SUN 117 
 
 Or Hottentots, or hellebore — 
 To check my chattering incisors ; 
 
 Drink ginger-tea as pudding thick, 
 
 Compounded in a red-hot can, 
 Stirred with a fire-wood toddy-stick, 
 
 And ladled with a warming-pan, — 
 Unless some friendly foe, instead, 
 
 Will hold me over Etna's crater, 
 Heap coals of fire upon my head, 
 
 And drop me like a hot potater. 
 
A EHYME OF THE EAIK 
 
 Like a blotch upon a beauty, 
 
 Conies a cloud across the sky ; 
 Like an unrelenting duty, 
 
 Fall the rain-drops from on high. 
 Like death upon a holiday, 
 
 Like sleigh-ride upon wheels. 
 Like jilting on a jolly day. 
 
 Like medicine at meals, 
 Sets in a storm preposterous, 
 
 Of every plan the bane : 
 Now sullen, and now boisterous, 
 Malicious, mean, or roisterous, 
 118 
 
A RHYME OF THE RAIN. 119 
 
 But always moist and moisture-i >us ; 
 
 Forever on the gain, 
 
 And never on the wane, 
 Brin^ino; sudden consternation, 
 And a lon^-drawn botheration, 
 
 To the men upon the house-top, and the cattle 
 
 in the plain. 
 How it pours, pours, pours, 
 
 In a never-ending sheet ! 
 How it drives beneath the doors ! 
 
 How it soaks the passer's feet ! 
 How it rattles on the shutter ! 
 
 How it rumples up the lawn ! 
 How 'twill sigh, and moan, and mutter, 
 
 From darkness until dawn ! — 
 Making human life a burden, 
 
 Making joy a flimsy wile, 
 Making bondage seem a guerdon 
 In the rainless fields of Egypt, by the clever 
 
 river Nile. 
 
120 A RHYME OF THE RAIN. 
 
 Yet how pleasantly the rain, 
 
 With its delicate refrain, 
 May sing away the sultriness of summer day or 
 night ! 
 
 Set the drooping grass a-springing, 
 
 And the robin's throat a- ringing:, 
 Fill the meadow-lands with verdure, and the 
 hills with glistening light ! 
 
 Or in April, fickle-hearted, 
 
 Ere the chill has quite departed, 
 That the frosts ; and the snows, and the howl- 
 ing winds have brought, 
 
 When all the si^ns of gladness 
 
 Take a sombre tinge of sadness, 
 For days and deeds that come no more, and 
 dreams that fell to nought ! 
 
 Then, in half-unwelcome leisure 
 
 'Tis a sort of solemn pleasure 
 
 To sit beside the ingle, 
 
 Or to lie beneath the shingle, 
 
A RHYME OF THE RAIN. 121 
 
 And listen to the patter of the rain, rain, rain, 
 
 To the drip, drip, drip, 
 
 And the patter, patter, patter, 
 On the roof, and the shutter, and the pane, 
 pane, pane. 
 
 But whether night or day-time, 
 In harvest-time or play-time, 
 And whether pour or patter, 
 The early rain or latter 
 Reigns over human purpose, and plays with 
 human fears — 
 Sets mighty armies shouting, 
 Sends little Cupid pouting, 
 Turns trusting into doubting, 
 And triumph into tears. 
 
 O ! sadly I remember 
 One treacherous September, 
 "When the autumn equinoctial came a week or 
 so too soon. 
 
122 A RHYME OF THE RAIN. 
 
 I had started with a cousin, 
 For the church, among a dozen 
 Maids and matrons who were airing 
 The fall styles, and gayly wearing 
 
 The very newest, sweetest thing in bonnets 
 'neath the moon. 
 And midway of the journey, 
 Like a thousand knights in tourney, 
 
 The levelled lances of the rain drove furious at 
 our breast ; 
 And the fall styles fell and wilted, 
 On the dames so proudly kilted, 
 
 And by sudden transformation worse than 
 worst became the best. 
 Though I now am sere and yellow, 
 I was then a valiant fellow, 
 
 And esteemed it more a joy to serve the ladies 
 than to live. 
 Imagine, then, my feelings, 
 'Mid the shrinkings and the squealings, 
 
A RHYME OF THE RAIN. 123 
 
 When my water-proof umbrella proved a sieve, 
 
 sieve, sieve ! 
 AVhen my shiny new umbrella proved a sieve ! 
 
 What a sorry lot of mortals 
 
 Sat within the sacred portals, 
 In iheir mermaid millinery looking sad, sad, sad ! 
 
 Nothing dry except the sermon, 
 
 Which discoursed on dews of Hermon 
 And the streams that, saith the Scripture, do 
 make glad, glad, glad ! 
 
 So the preacher praised the waters 
 
 To those mothers, wives, and daughters, 
 Every dripping, draggled one of whom was 
 mad, mad, mad ! 
 
 And my bright and handsome cousin — 
 
 Sweetest girl among the dozen, 
 Or among a dozen dozen you might meet 
 along the way, 
 
 Then a hopeful, sprightly lassie, 
 
 Now, I fear, a little passee, — 
 
124 A RHYME OF THE RAIN. 
 
 Dates the ruin of her chances from that rainy 
 Sabbath-day. 
 She had spent her last round dollar 
 For the bonnet, gloves, and collar, 
 That should have proved effective on the smart 
 young pulpiteer ; 
 But he rode home in the carriage 
 Of her rival, and their marriage 
 Was solemnized (my cousin's word) in less than 
 half a year. 
 
 But gladly I remember 
 
 One crimson-hued September, 
 When we strayed along the hedges ana with- 
 in the gorgeous wold ; 
 
 A merry autumn party 
 
 Of men and maidens hearty, 
 Rejoicing in the foliage of scarlet and of gold. 
 
 And ere we thought of turning. 
 
 &» 
 
 Or saw a sign of warning, 
 
A RHYME OF THE RAIN. 125 
 
 We heard upon the fallen leaves the footsteps 
 of the rain. 
 Away went rules conventional ! 
 And I, with haste intentional, 
 Just clapped my good old broad-brim on the 
 head of Annie Trayne. 
 That extemporized umbrella 
 Threw cold water on a fellow 
 Who was courting, in a lazy sort of way, Miss 
 Annie Trayne ; 
 While it made me quite a gallant, 
 And a fine young man of talent, 
 In the eyes and estimation of the beauteous 
 Annie Trayne. 
 In the dreamy summer haze 
 Of my far-off boyish days, 
 I had chased the luring butterfly across the 
 grassy plain, 
 But I never threw my hat 
 O'er a prize so fair as that 
 
126 A RHYME OF THE RAIN. 
 
 When it sheltered, caught, and gave me, the 
 lovely Annie Trayne. 
 
 And I've blessed that gentle rain 
 
 Again and yet again, 
 For the flowers it set blooming in my life : 
 
 For the crimson and the gold 
 
 That adorn the little fold 
 Where I find an autumn shelter with my wife. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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