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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
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THE ROMANCE 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 DAVID SKAATS FOSTER 
 
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 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 W(^% Knickerbocker 3|ress 
 1887 
 
-X'b \^'^ 
 
 ,f 
 
 ■s. 
 
 73 
 
 COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 DAVID SKAATS FOSTER 
 1886 
 
 Press of 
 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 
 New York 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ^PAGE 
 
 The Noah's Ark i 
 
 Mariquita . . .10 
 
 The Old Spinning-Wheel 14 
 
 Summer Thoughts 17 
 
 Galatea 18 
 
 The Reading of the Tale 19 
 
 The Portrait 20 
 
 The Cricket 21 
 
 The Rose 22 
 
 The Voices of the Wood 23 
 
 An Autumn Fancy . ... . . .24 
 
 A Winter Fancy 25 
 
 At Break of Day 26 
 
 The Haunted House 28 
 
 Santa Trinidad 30 
 
 Then and Now 33 
 
 The Old, Old Home 35 
 
 My Friend . . 37 
 
 At Alden's 39 
 
 On the Death of a Child Four Years Old . . 42 
 
 The Unknowable 45 
 
 The Old Swing 48 
 
 When the Heavens Were Near .... 50 
 
 Shadows 52 
 
 The Magic Mirror 54 
 
 ill 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 Thalia .62 
 
 Christmas 64 
 
 My Novel 67 
 
 Midnight . . 70 
 
 The Game of Chess 72 
 
 Paquita 74 
 
 Mendelssohn's " Lieder Ohne Worte " . . . 79 
 
 A Castle in New England 82 
 
 The Last Day of Summer 85 
 
 The Sisters 87 
 
 The Ocean 89 
 
 The River 90 
 
 The Castle by the Sea 91 
 
 The Mohawk Valley, from Richfield Hill . . 92 
 
 The Gorge 93 
 
 Twilight 94 
 
 The Fountain 95 
 
 The Shell 96 
 
 Valeska 97 
 
 Dusk 98 
 
 The Wind in the Trees 100 
 
 The Oak Wood 102 
 
 John Wentworth's Will 103 
 
 A Pantomime 108 
 
 Jack's Letter to Bob iii 
 
 Madeline on Base-Ball 114 
 
 Sitting on the Stair 116 
 
 The Boston Girl . . 118 
 
 The Death-Bed of Mrs. O'Flaherty . . .120 
 
 The Beautiful Tight-Rope Dancer . . . 121 
 
 How They Paid the Church Debt at Smithville, 124 
 
 The Ballad of Campanini de Lancy . . . 127 
 
 An Angel 129 
 
 A Song of Sixpence 132 
 
 Jonathan Blake's Clock 135 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK. 
 
 TN the year — well! that don't matter ; once upon 
 
 ^ a time there stood, 
 
 O'er the hill beyond the village, where the river 
 
 skirts the wood, 
 A deserted, gabled house, with tumbling porch and 
 
 broken gate. 
 And a yard o'ergrown with burdocks, empty, bare, 
 
 and desolate. 
 *T was in autumn, earth lay fair and still, the day 
 
 was almost done. 
 Golden shone the leaves of elms and maples with 
 
 the setting sun. 
 As a child of five years, seeming for his round face 
 
 younger still. 
 Poorly clad came trudging barefoot on the road- 
 way, down the hill ; 
 His unchildlike, thoughtful manner and his dark 
 
 eyes' timid gaze 
 Shewed he ne'er had played with children, spoke 
 
 of joyless, lonely days, — 
 
2 THE NOAH'S ARK, 
 
 Spoke of sorrow, which is saddest when it comes 
 in childhood's days. 
 
 In his face a look of hope sprang up, and vanished 
 like a spark, 
 
 As he neared the old house — found it still so lonely, 
 strange, and dark ; 
 
 Then he knocked, called " Father ! Mother,'' with 
 an accent sad and faint. 
 
 Which arose, when all was silent, to a wild and 
 helpless plaint. 
 
 Beating on the door with little fists, a never-ceasing 
 din, 
 
 But an echo answered only, from the empty rooms 
 within. 
 
 Then he climbed a twisted apple-tree, which spread 
 its yellow leaves 
 
 O'er the gabled wing, and through a little window, 
 'neath the eaves. 
 
 Peered long time, with childish rapture, in a cham- 
 ber small and dim, — 
 
 For he saw a scene as wondrous as the fairy tales 
 of Grimm — 
 
 Saw a magic scene, like those described by An- 
 derson and Grimm. 
 
 In that narrow little chamber, strangely, plainly 
 
 manifest, 
 In a cobwebbed, dingy corner, darkened by the 
 
 chimney breast. 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK, 3 
 
 There were elephants and camels, wolves and lions, 
 
 red and blue, 
 Led by men with gowns and turbans, gravely- 
 marching two by two. 
 Just beyond, a Noah's ark was stranded high upon 
 
 the shore. 
 From whose hold this motley crew had doubtless 
 
 landed on the floor. 
 Let us leave this strange host marching, 'neath Paul 
 
 Wickford's eager glance. 
 And explain why he was haunting this deserted, 
 
 cheerless manse 
 Like a ghost of joys departed, drawn back by some 
 
 magic spell. 
 Or a ray of sunshine stealing through the grating 
 
 of a cell, — 
 Like the visits of the angels to Angelico's dark 
 
 cell. 
 
 Seventy years before, this house with gables peaked, 
 
 and chimneys queer 
 Had been built by Gabriel Wickford, and a legend, 
 
 not too clear, 
 With the mansion strange connected some dire 
 
 curse for shadowy crime 
 Of the builder, for the Wickfords never prospered 
 
 from that time. 
 Until Paul's kind father, bent and worn by many 
 
 an adverse wave — 
 By misfortune, grief, and suffering, found oblivion 
 
 in the grave ; 
 
4 THE NOAH'S ARK, 
 
 Then the house for debt was taken, and the mother 
 from that day 
 
 Paled and sickened, wasted slowly, kissed the child 
 and passed away. 
 
 They had journeyed to a distant land, so little Paul 
 was told, 
 
 And the hope of their returning, day by day his 
 heart consoled 
 
 With the glorious hope of sometime he was glad- 
 dened and consoled. 
 
 In a large, strange neighboring household, with a 
 
 grudging will received, 
 Paul divined not that strange riddle we call death, 
 
 but still believed 
 In the morning his beloved ones would return, 
 
 when morning came, — 
 They would surely come " to-morrow," but the days 
 
 were all the same ; 
 And unnoticed he would wander softly to his 
 
 desolate home. 
 Wondering if the night had brought them, hoping 
 
 still that they had come. 
 Tired with knocking, calling, listening, he would 
 
 climb at last and gaze 
 Through the little chamber window at those joys 
 
 of brighter days — 
 At the Noah*s ark which somehow had escaped the 
 
 sheriff's hand. 
 There they often found and led him from the realms 
 
 of fairy-land — 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK, 5 
 
 Tore him from the secret treasure, childish faith of 
 wonderland. 
 
 Leafless were the trees, and snowflakes on the chilly- 
 winds were tossed. 
 
 And the child more sad and lonely, for his faith 
 was partly lost. 
 
 Since they shewed him in the churchyard where 
 the graves lay side by side. 
 
 Came once more and knocked and waited, and at 
 last sat down and cried — 
 
 In the doorway — softly, mutely, wept away his child- 
 ish woe. 
 
 Darkness came ; the little figure lay there still, all 
 white with snow ; 
 
 But his lonely heart was happy, in that slumber 
 calm and deep. 
 
 For he heard dear, loving voices calling to him in 
 his sleep — 
 
 Heard quick footsteps, saw the windows lighting up 
 the wintry night, 
 
 Saw the door ajar, and father, mother, radiant with 
 delight, — 
 
 Sprang into their tender outstretched arms with 
 quiverings of delight. 
 
 Twenty years had come and vanished, and the old 
 house, which had stood 
 
 Winter, summer, storm and sunshine, in the drear- 
 iest solitude, 
 
6 THE NOAH'S ARK. 
 
 Was transformed, as by a fairy, to a castle quaint 
 
 and fair ; 
 Ivy climbed o'er porch and gables, flowers were 
 
 blooming everywhere ; 
 And the fairy who had changed it was a maid of 
 
 mortal mould, 
 Only daughter of the tenant, who had leased this 
 
 castle old ; 
 And this tenant was the preacher in the village 
 
 church, whose spire 
 O'er the hill, among the elm trees, at the sunset 
 
 gleamed like fire. 
 Several years in calm seclusion they had lived 
 
 there all alone, 
 And than Madeline, no thriftier housewife in the 
 
 land was known — 
 Never prettier, gentler maiden, than sweet Madeline 
 
 was known. 
 
 And her beauty grew, the longer one beheld her, 
 
 for she stole 
 Like an animated picture, or like music on the 
 
 soul : 
 Cheeks, smile dimpled, all her gestures poems, with 
 
 a magic change. 
 Either loving, roguish, sprightly ; or perhaps in 
 
 contrast strange, 
 One beheld her sweet, grave profile, bending o'er 
 
 some well-worn book. 
 With her hair a saint-like aureole, a Madonna's 
 
 thoughtful look 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK. 7 
 
 In her eyes, expressivej downcast, or those eyes in 
 
 the romance 
 Of a girlish revery gazing, with a far-off tender 
 
 glance. 
 She had passed a happy girlhood in the old house, 
 
 and it seemed, 
 With its pleasant nooks and corners, where she 
 
 lived and toiled and dreamed. 
 All her own, like those quaint fancies, those bright 
 
 castles she had dreamed. 
 
 And a message from the owner made a flood of 
 
 bright tears come. 
 Filled her tender heart with sorrow, — they must leave 
 
 the dear old home. 
 For a stranger wished to buy it, and that very day, 
 
 by chance. 
 In her father's absence came he, to inspect the queer 
 
 old manse. 
 He was young and grave and handsome, tall and 
 
 brave as knight of old. 
 Who awoke the sleeping princess, when the hundred 
 
 years were told. 
 In his smile was something mystic, what it was she 
 
 could not say. 
 As through all the curious mansion's dear old rooms, 
 
 she led the way, 
 From the cellar to the attic, pausing then, before 
 
 the door 
 Of a locked mysterious chamber, which she ne'er 
 
 had shown before, — 
 
8 THE NOAH'S ARK, 
 
 Like that chamber in her heart, in which no eye 
 had seen before. 
 
 Here she hesitated ; then her fair cheek took a 
 
 deeper shade, 
 As the door she softly opened and a tiny room dis- 
 played, 
 Desolate and bare and lonely ; and the stranger's 
 
 swift glance fell 
 On the little wooden figures and the ark, for strange 
 
 to tell. 
 There they stood, arranged exactly for a march 
 
 across the floor. 
 As when little Paul last saw them, more than twenty 
 
 years before. 
 Then with downcast eyes and trembling voice and 
 
 look of maiden shame. 
 Told she, how a little boy named Paul had lived 
 
 there ere they came. 
 And how, left alone and wandering through the 
 
 mansion old at will. 
 She had found these toys arranged, as if their owner 
 
 lived there still, — 
 How she wept to see them standing there, so sad 
 
 and poor and still. 
 
 And these treasures, which so long ago had 
 
 thrilled a little heart, 
 In her eyes appeared so sacred, that she kept the 
 
 room apart, 
 
THE NOAH'S ARK. g 
 
 And till now no one had ever come into its deso- 
 late gloom, 
 Which the ghost of vanished childhood filled as 
 
 with some sweet perfume. 
 Here she oft had loved to picture this child's life 
 
 so like her own, 
 Till, between her and the little Paul, a friendship 
 
 sweet had grown. 
 He would think it strange, and laugh to hear this 
 
 fancy queer and wild. 
 But no words could ever tell him how she loved 
 
 that little child. 
 Then she felt her hand grasped tightly, felt a tear 
 
 upon it fall ; 
 In her heart strange fancies mingled, of the stranger 
 
 and of Paul ; 
 Said the stranger : " I would have you love him 
 
 always, — I am Paul." 
 
 t!^! 
 
 ^ 
 
MARIQUITA. 
 
 T IKE a sleepy Spanish village, 
 ^ Lay the town of St. Augustine, 
 With its palms and white-walled gardens, 
 And its curious Spanish fortress. 
 Built with tower and moat and dungeon, 
 In the days of King Fernando. 
 
 Half a mile beyond the city, 
 
 On the San Sebastian River, 
 
 Stood the great old-fashioned mansion, 
 
 Stretched away the rich plantation. 
 
 Of the fair and youthful widow, 
 
 Leonora, Cid y Guerra. 
 
 She was strange and wild and tender. 
 Strange and wilful and fantastic ; 
 Many a suitor wooed her vainly. 
 Till, at last, came Dick Van Keuren — 
 Came, preceded by a letter, 
 From her kinsmen in Savannah, 
 
MARIQUITA. II 
 
 On the night of his arrival, 
 Seeking Leonora*s dwelling, 
 He was led, by sounds of music 
 And of laughter, to the fortress — 
 Led to join the merry dancers 
 At the ball in fort San Marco. 
 
 In the fortress' broad enclosure, 
 Colored lanterns, Strauss' music, 
 Mingling with the voice of ocean. 
 Towers and battlements dark-outlined 
 'Gainst the starry roof of heaven, 
 Made it all seem like enchantment — 
 
 Made it arabesque and dream-like ; 
 But with him \ was all unnoticed. 
 For his heart was deeply wounded 
 By the eyes of Mariquita, 
 Mariquita, sad and wistful, 
 Standing statuesque and silent, 
 
 Like the ghost of some fair Spaniard 
 Of the days, of seventeen hundred ; 
 Standing, where he first beheld her. 
 In the archway's gloomy shadow. 
 Whence, with merry jests and phrases, 
 He had sought, in vain, to tempt her. 
 
 When at last to words more tender 
 He had come, the night was waning, 
 
12 MARIQUITA, 
 
 And the lights went out, the music 
 Ceased to dull the ocean's murmur, 
 And the ghostly Mariquita 
 Fled away into the darkness — 
 
 Fled away and like a phantom, 
 Many a day his search eluded. 
 Then he thought of Leonora ; 
 Stood at last within her garden. 
 " Sir, my mistress still is absent. 
 She will come again to-morrow,'' 
 
 Spoke the rosy little handmaid 
 From the doorway, where her slender. 
 Rounded figure seemed a picture 
 In a frame ; her eyes were downcast. 
 And she blushed that thus he found her, 
 For, behold ! 't was Mariquita. 
 
 Balmy winds of evening rustled 
 Through the orange-scented garden ; 
 O'er the plashing of the fountain. 
 And the swaying of the hammock, 
 Low and tender voices sounded. 
 Paused and ceased and then continued : 
 
 '* Do not ask me ! oh ! I fear them, 
 Uncle Juan, Uncle Pedro, 
 And the haughty, cruel cousin, 
 Leonora, Cid y Guerra. 
 
MARIQUITA. ' 13 
 
 She was born to joy and riches, 
 I — to sorrow and to bondage.'* 
 
 Night came on, a white-robed figure 
 Through the garden swiftly glided 
 To the thicket, by the river, 
 Where the steed aiid rider waited ; — 
 *' Up ! away ! and now forever 
 You are mine, sweet Mariquita." 
 
 " Do you hear that hollow murmur, 
 Like the distant tramp of horses ? 
 We are followed. Oh ! I fear them. 
 Uncle Pedro, Uncle Juan. 
 Faster still ! the preacher lives there 
 Where that light shines out before us." 
 
 Strangely, gleamed the flickering torchlight 
 On the hurried midnight wedding 
 And 't was then, that Dick Van Keuren 
 Found that Mariquita's story 
 Of the proud and cruel cousin. 
 Uncle Juan, Uncle Pedro, 
 
 With the hurried flight at midnight 
 And the horsemen following after. 
 Was a strange conceit and fancy, 
 A romantic whim, of Donna 
 Leonora, Cid y Guerra, — 
 Found that she was Mariquita. 
 
THE OLD SPINNING-WHEEL. 
 
 T^HROUGH the intricate maze of its pulleys and 
 -■• wheels, 
 
 And its oaken frame, a vision steals 
 Of the long gone years, of the hands that are still, 
 And the elm-shaded house at the foot of the hill. 
 Where the child, round-cheeked and wond*ring- 
 
 eyed, 
 Watched the old wheel buzz at the ingleside. 
 With a sound like a far-off muffled drum, 
 In its ^* clickety^ whir-r^ whir-r^ hum'' 
 
 Years come and go ; on the porch it stands. 
 
 And the pirns fly round 'neath a fair girl's hands ; 
 
 She watches the sunset's fading rays. 
 
 With a far-off, girlish, fanciful gaze.- 
 
 Till the rose steals into her dimpled cheek. 
 
 And the garrulous spinning-wheel seems to speak 
 
 Her foolish thoughts to Christendom 
 
 With its " clicketyy whir-r^ whir-r^ hum,'' 
 
THE OLD SPINNING-WHEEL. 1 5 
 
 Still time speeds on ; 't is a winter's night, 
 The hearth fire is circled with faces bright, 
 There is laughter and jest, and the storm, in vain, 
 Beats on the door and the frosted pane. 
 And the wheel spins round with a measured rhyme, 
 Like a quaint refrain of the old, glad time, 
 Like a presage of sorrowful days to come ; 
 In its ^" clickety, wMr-r, whir-r^ hum'^ 
 
 Its voice oft brought the sick child rest, 
 And lightened many a weary breast ; 
 Beneath its song the whispered word 
 And kiss of lovers passed unheard. 
 If it could speak, that strange old wheel 
 What wonderful secrets it would reveal ! 
 What romance is hid in the weary sum 
 Of its " clickety^ whtr-r, whir-r, hum '* / 
 
 It had its influence and its share 
 
 In every joy and every care ; 
 
 Fast, fast it flew, yet with swifter rate. 
 
 Spun round and round, the wheel of fate. 
 
 They fashioned out of its woven thread 
 
 The dress of the bride and the sheet for the dead. 
 
 And the wheel went round, though the heart grew 
 
 numb. 
 With a *'*' clickety^ whir-r^ whir-r^ hum J* 
 
 All are vanished and all are still. 
 
 And the spinning-wheel by the clattering mill 
 
i6 
 
 THE OLD SPINNING-WHEEL, 
 
 Has been left behind with the primitive days 
 Of homelier toil and more honest ways ; 
 Yet, oft through the night, and out of the gloom 
 And the gathered dust of the lumber-room, 
 Its song, like a ghost's voice, seems to come, 
 With a " clickety, whir-r^ whir-r^ hum,'* 
 
SUMMER THOUGHTS. 
 
 T TPON a mossy knoll in the forest, I 
 
 ^ Lay looking upward at the eternal blue 
 
 Of the infinite and quiet heavens, through 
 The oak-leaf and the hemlock's canopy. 
 And now and then a cloud went drifting by, 
 
 Listless and slow and changing to the view. 
 
 How like my fleeting summer thoughts to you. 
 Calm, peaceful clouds ! And now the evening sky 
 A deeper, darker, lovelier azure hath. 
 
 The birds have ceased their singing, and the 
 breeze 
 Is filled with hum of insects ; darkness saith — 
 
 With the first few stars twinkling through the 
 trees — 
 That night has come. A little while, and death, 
 
 Like night, will end life's summer reveries. 
 
 17 
 
GALATEA. 
 
 T STOLE forth from the merry festival, 
 ^ With which the panes of Wentworth glimmered 
 bright, 
 
 And wandered in the still midsummer night, 
 Through an old garden with an ivied wall 
 And winding paths and statues mythical. 
 
 A pensive marble goddess robed in white. 
 
 Like some fair vision of the shadowy light, 
 Inspired me with the thought fantastical, 
 To kneel before her and apostrophize 
 
 Her loveliness in quaint, impassioned tone. 
 But, starting from her mystic reveries. 
 
 Ere I had ceased, the imagined nymph of stone — 
 A swift dissolving dream of laughing eyes, 
 
 A magic dream of golden hair — had flown. 
 
 i8 
 
THE READING OF THE TALE. 
 
 Al ZE read together on a winter's night 
 ^ ^ The oldest, quaintest, saddest of romances. 
 She leaned upon my chair ; by slow advances 
 My arm around her stole ; the panes were white 
 With silvery frost ; the hearth fire flickered bright ; 
 
 My heart was filled with ardent, wistful fancies, 
 
 And in her face I read by stolen glances 
 A gentle sorrow mingled with delight. 
 Her moistened eyes looked up ; the tale had 
 wrought 
 
 Upon us both love's tenderest, sweetest spell. 
 She must have guessed my fond and longing thought. 
 
 For her dear head upon my shoulder fell ; 
 And in that blissful silence there was naught 
 
 Beside the exquisite truth we knew so well. 
 
 19 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 ''DEAUTY of yonder portrait ! *t is from thee 
 ^ That thy descendant hath the loveliness 
 Of her arch smile, and blue eyes' thoughtful- 
 ness. 
 
 Telling thy tale, she bade me laughingly 
 
 Beware thy ghost." Thus lost in revery 
 I heard the rustle of a silken dress. 
 And saw what seemed the ghostly ancestress 
 
 Enter my lonely chamber stealthily. 
 
 Close by she passed, a little hand I caught, — 
 'T was snatched away, — she vanished into air, 
 
 Leaving a ring so small its size with naught 
 But Cinderella's slipper might compare, 
 
 Which, strange to say, when like the Prince I sought 
 An unknown bride, one hand alone could wear. 
 
THE CRICKET. 
 
 /^H ! little cricket, that the evening long 
 ^-^ Dost tell thy story to the silent hours, 
 
 While the dew falls upon the thirsty flowers ! 
 What is the burden of thy ceaseless song ? 
 A tale of love ? or secrets that belong 
 
 To the dim solitudes of ruined towers, 
 
 Whose crumbling walls the ivy leaf embowers ? 
 Or drolleries of Titania's shadowy throng ? 
 Thou art a friend, so ancient legends tell. 
 
 That with the power of mystic sorcery 
 Guardest the hearth where thou dost love to dwell, 
 
 And with thy quaint and pleasant company 
 The night's deep loneliness thou dost dispel, 
 
 Thou merry chief of insect minstrelsy ! 
 
 21 
 
THE ROSE. 
 
 T PLUCKED a rose that bloomed in solitude, 
 '■' Filling with fragrance a secluded bower, 
 
 And saw its petals, falling in a shower. 
 Rise up a maiden, her sweet attitude 
 And slender form and dimpled cheek imbued 
 
 With all the grace and beauty of the flower. 
 
 "Art thou," I asked, "the sport of magic power. 
 Or some dark-eyed enchantress of the wood ? " 
 " A hundred years," she answered, " 't was my 
 doom. 
 
 Because I laughed at love and lovers* woes, 
 A full-blown rose in loneliness to bloom ; 
 
 Who plucked the flower and broke my long 
 repose. 
 Him I should wed. Alas ! I must resume. 
 
 If he refuse, my sleep within the rose." 
 
THE VOICES OF THE WOOD. 
 
 IT E, who in some cathedral, gray and old, 
 -■• -'- Has cherished solemn reveries, knows the 
 thrill 
 
 Which moves my heart, in forest dim and still, 
 Until I long, within the shady wold. 
 To dwell, and naught beyond its walls behold. 
 
 Save what some shifting, leafy opening will 
 
 Disclose of waving grain, blue sky, and hill, 
 Village half hid, or church spire, tipped with gold. 
 With the half gloom of those vast aisles imbued, 
 
 Let me forget myself, in revery, 
 Till sunlight by their shadow is subdued. 
 
 The breezes hushed by their solemnity, 
 And like mysterious voices of the wood, 
 
 Religion, love, or sorrow speaks to me. 
 
AN AUTUMN FANCY. 
 
 SUMMER has fled, and though the earth dis- 
 plays 
 
 Her woods and fields, her vales and mountains, 
 dressed 
 
 In quiet, perfect beauty, on the breast 
 Of nature a mysterious sadness weighs. 
 And there doth steal upon me, while I gaze 
 
 Upon the white clouds, floating to the west, 
 
 And sinking *neath the blue hill's wooded crest, 
 Once more, the sweet belief of childish days. 
 That, could I pass beyond yon distant hill, 
 
 There would I find the summer once again, 
 With skies eternal, cloudless, deep and still. 
 
 And that this bright and beautiful domain 
 Would give me back sweet friends, and would fulfil 
 
 All hopes and wishes cherished long in vain. 
 
 24 
 
A WINTEE. FANCY. 
 
 T^HE night wind moans, the frost is on the pane, 
 ^ And by the flickering hearth fire manifest 
 
 There ever sits a sad and silent guest. 
 For I the ghost of childhood entertain 
 And live the days of childhood o'er again, 
 
 Until the thoughts of those, whose kindness 
 blessed 
 
 My little world, long vanished, fill my breast 
 With a great longing, passionate, childish, vain, — 
 A longing for the arms that round me twined 
 
 And filled my little heart with fond delight. 
 The looks which every cloud Vv^ith silver lined ; 
 
 The cheering words which made the days so 
 bright. 
 Friends of my childhood ! gentle, true, and kind, 
 
 Where are ye all, upon this winter's night ? 
 
 25 
 
AT BREAK OF DAY. 
 
 T^HE stars fade slowly, twinkle, pale and die, 
 ^ Before the halo rising in the east, 
 A rosy glamour steals athwart the sky. 
 
 And grows to flames of gules and amethyst. 
 The hills are silver-rimmed, the curtain of mist 
 As at some swift command, rolls back from field. 
 
 Valley and lake and wood, and floats away. 
 And the whole glorious pageant is revealed 
 At break of day. 
 
 There is a solemn murmur of the breeze. 
 There is a ripple on the lonely shore, 
 
 A solitary chirp, among the trees. 
 Is taken up and echoed o*er and o'er 
 And dies away, and all is still once more. 
 
 Then comes the signal, and all living things 
 Raise up an anthem, glorious, blithe and gay, 
 
 And the whole earth with one grand chorus rings 
 At break of day. 
 26 
 
A T BREAK OF DA V. 2/ 
 
 There is a night of sorrow and unrest, 
 A darkness of the soul — a night when all 
 
 The world of thought is haunted and oppressed 
 And hemmed about, as with a dungeon wall, 
 When heaviness and fear upon us fall. 
 
 Take courage, then ! the longest, darkest hour 
 Comes just before the first faint tinge of gray. 
 
 And sadness has no place, and fear no power. 
 At break of day. 
 
 And when that last, that silent, starless night, 
 
 Comes over us, when the dark, sorrowful stream 
 Sweeps at our feet, in dread, relentless might. 
 And every deed and word and thought shall 
 
 seem 
 To pass before us, in a troubled dream, — 
 What joy ! to watch the faintly outlined shore 
 Rise, grand and glistening, 'neath morn's silvery 
 ray 
 To know that night departs for evermore 
 At break of day. 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 RUSTY, worn, and stained by wind and weather, 
 Still the same, through all the years' swift 
 change, 
 Long has stood a homely, gabled dwelling, 
 
 Silent, dark, and strange ; 
 Seeming lost, overshadowed and forgotten. 
 
 In the busy street. 
 But 't is filled with bright and quaint illusions, 
 Hallowed by sweet faces long since vanished. 
 Haunted by the tread of unseen feet. 
 
 He who lives there, careworn, gray, and lonely, 
 
 He who loves its melancholy gloom, 
 Sometimes hears the noise of children romping 
 
 In some distant room — 
 Merry ghosts of hide-and-seek, whose voices 
 
 Lead him on, until 
 Something tells him they are but the phantoms 
 Of his childish hopes and creeds ; — then swiftly 
 They have fled, and all again is still. 
 
 28 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 29 
 
 From his mid-day reveries he is startled 
 By a fair ghost, from an old romance, 
 With a merry laugh, a slender figure, 
 
 And a roguish glance. 
 Was it all a dream ? but look ! the curtain 
 
 Trembles still, ah ! well ! 
 'T is not true, for her sweet voice is silent, 
 She has long been sleeping in that palace 
 Where no knight can come to break the spell. 
 
 There 's a whispering in the embrasured casement. 
 When the dusk comes and the night winds sigh ; 
 'Gainst the pains a little group seems shadowed, 
 
 Ghosts of long gone by, 
 When the mother called her children round her. 
 
 Held them close, and told 
 Stories of the stars and of the fairies, — 
 Magic stories, which, in childhood's kingdom, 
 Change the earth — the very hours — to gold. 
 
 But at midnight, when the street is silent. 
 And the firelight floats upon the walls. 
 Quickly all is changed, a bright enchantment 
 
 On the old house falls ; 
 Bringing back the beauty and affection 
 
 Of the golden years, 
 Bringing back the perfumes and the music, 
 Bringing back the faces and the voices. 
 Bringing back the smiles without the tears. 
 
SANTA TRINIDAD. 
 
 DEMEMBEREST thou the mission, with its 
 -'■ ^ memories 
 
 Of times long passed away ? 
 And how, admitted by a solemn verger, — 
 
 A verger bent and gray, — 
 Thou ! fairest Helen ! lingered in the garden, 
 
 While I, of graver mood. 
 Explored at will the queer old Spanish ruin's 
 
 Historic solitude ? 
 
 There Sister Trinidad, in seventeen hundred, 
 
 A young and pious soul, 
 Becoming Santa Trinidad, 't was written. 
 
 Put off her hood and stole. 
 There still were shown the holy vestments ; gazing 
 
 Upon those relics quaint. 
 My heart grew tender, with the recollection 
 
 Of the sweet nun and saint. 
 
 The sunlight, stealing thro' the painted windows^ 
 Streamed on the chapel wall : 
 30 
 
SANTA TRINIDAD, 3 1 
 
 I saw, in a kaleidoscopic medley, 
 
 Its colors rise and fall ; 
 I saw, upon the altar piece, its radiance 
 
 Restoring once again, 
 The old-time glory and the beauty faded 
 
 Long since from mortal ken. 
 
 At length, from cell and corridor emerging, 
 
 I climbed the belfry tower, 
 And thinking of those strange traditions, lingered 
 
 Until the twilight hour : 
 Returning then, along the shadowy cloisters. 
 
 Mysterious and dim, 
 I seemed to hear, in mellow cadence, floating, 
 
 The solemn vesper hymn. 
 
 I gained the chapel ; thro* the ivied windows 
 
 Yet stole a feeble gleam. 
 And lo ! as still as marble, as romantic 
 
 As youthful painter's dream, 
 Bringing me back to centuries departed. 
 
 To thoughts of things divine, 
 Behold ! a slender, black-robed nun was kneeling 
 
 Before the dingy shrine. 
 
 The phantom rose, a graceful, girlish figure. 
 
 With cowl of monstrous size ; 
 I caught a transient glimpse of pretty features, 
 
 Of two dark Spanish eyes ; 
 She moved, she spoke, words of soft, foreign accent 
 
 Came from that sombre hood, 
 
32 SANTA TRINIDAD. 
 
 The door beyond her opened, in the doorway 
 The ancient verger stood. 
 
 One glance he gave — one swift, wild look of terror. 
 
 As if he saw the dead. 
 And crying, " Santa Trinidad," behind him 
 
 He slammed the door and fled. 
 O laugh more musical than e'er was uttered 
 
 By recluse grave and sad, 
 O faithless Helen ! to have donned the vestments 
 
 Of Santa Trinidad. 
 
THEN AND NOW. 
 
 IV /I ANY, many years have fled 
 
 ^^ ^ Since this land I journeyed through ; 
 
 Round the careless youngster's head 
 
 Straggling locks of brown hair blew ; 
 Laughing, like the fields of May, 
 
 Stretched my future ; though around 
 Many a dream-like picture lay. 
 
 Tenderer charms in thee I found. 
 
 Little maid of fifteen springs ! 
 
 As we strolled 'tween wood and stream, 
 Hours were golden, hope had wings, 
 
 All was like an airy dream. 
 Now through this same land I wend, 
 
 *T is a memory-haunted way. 
 Life is hastening toward its end. 
 
 Heart is sere and head is gray. 
 
 From thy cottage gleams the light ; 
 Childish voices, glad and sweet, 
 33 
 
34 THEN AND NOW, 
 
 Outward float into the night ; 
 
 At the door thy child I meet. 
 Little maid of fifteen years, 
 
 So like thine her sweet traits seem, 
 That my eyes are dim with tears — 
 
 All again is like a dream. 
 
 No ; 't is not a dream, for all 
 
 We have lived, worked out, and thought 
 Is not fabric that will fall — 
 
 Shadow that will come to naught. 
 What our tender thoughts once hold 
 
 Hallowed, beautiful, sublime. 
 Ne'er will vanish, ne'er grow old, 
 
 But live on to endless time. 
 
THE OLD, OLD HOME. 
 
 J\ A Y heart is saddened, for all 
 
 ^ ^ *■ Seems so queer and common and small, 
 
 As I stand by the old house once more. 
 The gables are not so tall. 
 
 Nor the lawn as wide as of yore, 
 And the faces that I recall 
 
 Look not from window or door. 
 
 A railroad crosses the leas, 
 
 And they Ve laid out a street where the breeze 
 
 Rustled once in the waving corn. 
 Oh ! 't is hard to believe that these 
 
 Were the haunts of life's sunshiny morn, 
 And that those great, spreading elm-trees 
 
 Were planted when I was born. 
 
 The old place has changed, and they 
 Who endeared it have passed away ; 
 
 But still in my heart I behold. 
 As if it were yesterday. 
 
 The apple-trees, gnarled and old, 
 One mass of white blossoms in May, 
 
 And in autumn, weighted with gold ; 
 35 
 
36 THE OLD, OLD HOME. 
 
 The meadows, the fields of grain, 
 The barn, with its copper vane, 
 
 And dovecote under the eaves ; 
 Where we heard the pattering rain. 
 
 As we lay in the yellow sheaves ; — 
 And a changing, fanciful chain 
 
 My sorrowful memory weaves : 
 
 Of the lilac tree, and the bloom 
 Of the roses, whose faint perfume. 
 
 Floating in on the breeze, would fill 
 My dear little narrow room ; 
 
 Of the twilight so soft and still, 
 The evening's deepening gloom, 
 
 And the moon rising o'er the hill. 
 
 My little playmate is dead ; 
 He died when I met in his stead 
 
 The careworn man : and the mirth. 
 The joy of the morning has fled ; 
 
 And the dear old home of my birth, 
 Of my innocent childhood's tread. 
 
 Has passed away from the earth. 
 
 But oft in the world of dreams 
 It exists again, and it seems 
 
 More hallowed, rosy, and quaint. 
 From my far-away childhood streams 
 
 An aroma, sweet and faint. 
 And around it a radiance beams, 
 
 And a charm that words cannot paint. 
 
MY FRIEND. 
 
 T^O him who counts the clock's slow ticking, 
 * While the night's long hours wear away, 
 There comes a truer, nobler impulse. 
 
 Than aught that moves the heart by day, 
 And tender fancies, that, like fairies. 
 
 Fade with the dawn's first streaks of gray. 
 
 And so, to-night, while vainly seeking 
 Oblivion from my cares and fears, 
 
 There comes a flood of recollections ; 
 A face, which fills my eyes with tears ; 
 
 A longing, passionate and childish. 
 For my true friend of boyish years. 
 
 And wondering what have been his fortunes 
 In the long years since we have met, 
 
 I fear his life has not been brighter 
 For my poor influence, and regret 
 
 That in the account of our affection 
 I *m still so greatly in his debt. 
 37 
 
38 MV FRIEND. 
 
 I long for our dear confidences 
 
 In those familiar, sacred haunts, 
 To have once more our golden visions, 
 
 With all their treasures of romance — 
 The girls we loved, the stately castles 
 
 Which filled the future's bright expanse. 
 
 And though those castles all have crumbled, 
 Those hopes and dreams have all proved vain 
 
 The thought of our sweet friendship softens 
 The disappointment and the pain ; 
 
 And so, when thinking of my boyhood. 
 The tears are dried, the smiles remain. 
 
 And though the flood that rolls between us 
 Has widened with each year's swift flight, 
 
 These kindly fancies, like a rainbow. 
 Once more its distant shores unite ; 
 
 And o'er this airy bridge returning, 
 I 've been with my old friend to-night. 
 
AT ALDEN'S. 
 
 "Xl ZE were sitting by the chimney, 
 ^^ In the hearth fire's flickering light, 
 On the cliff, in Alden's cottage. 
 
 Where I rested for the night ; 
 And I told the scenes and customs 
 
 Of the lands beyond the sea ; 
 While old Alden's little daughter 
 
 Sat and listened at my knee. 
 
 In her blue-eyed radiant beauty 
 
 There was something shy and wild, 
 And the maiden's romance mingled 
 
 With the wonder of the child. 
 Hours had passed, the old sea captain 
 
 In his arm-chair dozed and dreamed. 
 Sadly moaned the neighboring ocean, 
 
 'Gainst the panes the firelight gleamed. 
 
 Then she spoke of knights and tourneys, 
 And her cheeks were all aglow, 
 39 
 
40 AT ALDEN'S, 
 
 For all day that little maiden 
 Had been reading " Ivanhoe " ; 
 
 Spoke of ghosts and of magicians, 
 While her voice to whispers grew, 
 
 Toward the panes cast startled glances, 
 Wondered if such things were true. 
 
 And I improvised a story- 
 Fit for such a place and hour — 
 
 How, for long years by the ocean. 
 In a cruel fairy's power. 
 
 Lived a little maid enchanted. 
 Till her faithful knight, one day 
 
 While her guardian fierce was sleeping, 
 Stole that little maid away. 
 
 As I spoke, her blue eyes twinkled 
 
 With a merry, mystic light ; 
 As I spoke, she rose and lingered 
 
 In the door to say *^ Good-night." 
 But her lamp threw such a radiance 
 
 'Round the roguish, pretty head. 
 That I swiftly stooped and kissed her. 
 
 And she blushed and laughed and fled. 
 
 When I came once more to Alden's 
 I beheld a mournful change. 
 
 For the little maid had vanished 
 
 And the house seemed sad and strange. 
 
 Alden's pale, gaunt look foreshadowed 
 What his quivering lips would say, 
 
AT ALDEN'S. 4I 
 
 And I grasped his hand in silence 
 And in silence turned away. 
 
 All the proud and cherished structures 
 
 By a life-long patience wrought, 
 All the triumphs which have followed 
 
 Days of toil and nights of thought, 
 Crumble, sink away, and vanish, 
 
 Like the ocean's shifting sand. 
 When that sweet face comes before me, 
 
 That lost dream of fairy-land. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD FOUR 
 YEARS OLD. 
 
 I KNEW a child whose little feet had wandered 
 Through naught but flowers, and who — 
 Still thinking that could he but climb the moun- 
 tains, 
 He 'd touch the sky^s soft blue ; 
 See why the bright stars twinkled, and if really 
 
 The clouds were flocks of sheep, 
 With all his countless little footsteps weary, — 
 Lay down and fell asleep. 
 
 'T was while the childish faith, in his small bosom, 
 
 Was beautiful and bright, 
 In our good Saviour's story, and the legends 
 
 Of holy Christmas night, 
 In that ethereal world of dream and fancy. 
 
 O'er which kind fairies reign, 
 And in his power to stay, when he grew older, 
 
 All sorrow, want, and pain. 
 42 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD, 43 
 
 Long will we miss thee, as we miss the sunbeams 
 
 In autumn days ; thou wert 
 So mischievous and glad, so omnipresent 
 
 In thy short, brown, checked skirt. 
 The block-house thou hadst built behind the wood- 
 shed. 
 
 Is out of all repair, 
 And when, with autumn days, the door creaks open, 
 
 No roguish face is there. 
 
 Sometimes thy dimpled cheeks with clouds were 
 shadowed. 
 
 But only for a while. 
 The pout upon thy quivering lips relaxing, 
 
 Would change into a smile ; 
 Then came the kiss of reconciliation. 
 
 Thy small, choked breast would rise, 
 And then I 'd find what angels were, by looking 
 
 In thy moist, loving eyes. 
 
 And every night, I Ve drawn thy little playmates 
 
 Upon my knee, and told 
 Them why thou layest, flower-strewn and small 
 hands folded. 
 
 So white, so still, so cold. 
 *T was but the preparation for the journey 
 
 To a bright twinkling star. 
 Where a great King reigned, who sent forth each 
 twelvemonth 
 
 His angels near and far, — 
 
44 ON THE DEA TH OF A CHILD, 
 
 To find and bring to live in his blest kingdom, 
 
 The gentlest little child, 
 And this time, came the summons to their play- 
 mate, 
 So good, and pure and mild ; 
 And now they grieve no more, but think that some- 
 time 
 Their summons will be given, 
 And their small friend will come again and lead 
 them 
 Up the steep path to heaven. 
 
THE UNKNOWABLE. 
 
 A PROBLEM strange is matter, for resolve it 
 
 ^~^ o'er and o'er, 
 
 Into its simplest forms, we are no further than be- 
 fore ; 
 
 For then, a tiny grain, a germ invisible we hold, 
 
 Which still can be divided, though divided times 
 untold — 
 
 A grain which may become the air, the water, or 
 have power 
 
 To grow into a giant tree, or to a slender flower. 
 
 And what is motion ? who can tell whence comes 
 its secret force ? 
 
 Is it something ? is it nothing ? hath it end ? or 
 hath it source ? 
 
 The spirit of the earth and air, forward and back- 
 ward tossed 
 
 From one thing to the other, never spent and never 
 lost ; 
 
 45 
 
46 THE UNKNOWABLE. 
 
 We see it in the growing grass, we hear it in the 
 
 wind, 
 We seize it — it eludes our grasp, it will not be 
 
 defined. 
 
 We cannot picture in the mind that kingdom vague 
 called ** space," 
 
 For where there are no limits fixed, there is not any- 
 place ; 
 
 And pondering on this shadowy theme, the thought 
 will rise that there 
 
 Must be, in all this dreary waste, a boundary fixed 
 somewhere ; 
 
 Our refuge from that thought's to think that all the 
 stars we see, 
 
 Compared with space, are as one hour in all eter- 
 nity. 
 
 And when did time begin to reign ? and when will 
 time be naught ? 
 
 That time is truly infinite, we cannot think the 
 thought. 
 
 We Ve said that time 's eternal, yet we know not 
 what we say ; 
 
 The only image that can e'er the subtle truth con- 
 vey 
 
 Is, that compared with time, the age which marks 
 this planet's face 
 
 Is like our little universe, lost in the realms of 
 space. 
 
THE UNKNOWABLE. 4/ 
 
 To these mysterious facts, all search must ulti- 
 mately tend, 
 
 And here, as 'gainst the solid rock, all thought and 
 quest must end ; 
 
 For we have found the infinite, that truth, so lightly 
 said. 
 
 Which from the grasp still soars, and leaves the 
 finite in its stead. 
 
 These strange, unknown realities must finally in- 
 still 
 
 Belief that they *re a part, a glimpse, of some al- 
 mighty will ; 
 
 And so, at last, by matter, motion, space, and time, 
 we find 
 
 The impotence of human thought, the dearth of 
 human mind ; 
 
 And this dark veil before our eyes the best assur- 
 ance gives 
 
 That there must be a higher life and that the 
 eternal lives. 
 
THE OLD SWING. 
 
 ROUND childhood's home I linger sadly, 
 And note the changes time has made. 
 I watch the group of children playing, 
 
 As once a little child I played, 
 With the old swing that still is hanging 
 Beneath the giant elm-tree's shade. 
 
 And waiting till with twilight's coming 
 The merry crowd departs — once more 
 
 I feel the old swing sway beneath me 
 With mystic measure, as of yore. 
 
 Again I dream the dreams of boyhood, 
 And live that sweet existence o'er. 
 
 It seems with every slow vibration, 
 
 A magic pendulum of days. 
 Which backward moves, until my childhood 
 
 Appears before my tear-dimmed gaze ; 
 And where the gray-haired man was dreaming, 
 
 A careless, happy urchin sways. 
 48 
 
THE OLD SWING. 49 
 
 He hears the rustling leaves and branches, 
 
 The queer cicada's wizard tune. 
 He tries to solve the wondrous problems 
 
 Of sky and earth, nor thinks how soon 
 In golden plans and childish fancies 
 
 Will fade the smiling summer noon. 
 
 The child becomes the boyish dreamer, 
 
 With future limitless and bright, 
 Outstretching to the land of fairies, 
 
 Where he, a dauntless, loyal knight. 
 In search of some wronged, lovely princess. 
 
 In the old swing takes many a flight. 
 
 Years pass : 't is dusk ; as by enchantment, 
 The swing grows wide enough for two. 
 
 An ardent youth, a pretty maiden. 
 Whom I in days long vanished knew. 
 
 That back and forth are slowly swaying. 
 And talk in whispers faint and few. 
 
 Just then fate broke the link that bound me 
 To that lost youth I loved so well. 
 
 And child and boy and lover faded 
 And vanished with the broken spell. 
 
 For lo ! like all my airy castles, 
 
 The old swing trembled, snapped, and fell. 
 
WHEN THE HEAVENS WERE NEAR. 
 
 WHEN I was but a little boy, 
 I thought that all that seemed was true, 
 All trivial things were springs of joy, 
 The earth was glorious, bright and new. 
 
 The world was mine ; *t was full, I thought, 
 
 Of fairies, genii, rare delights 
 And palaces, by magic wrought ; 
 
 I 'd read it in the ^' Arabian Nights.*' 
 
 My faith was strong in Santa Claus, 
 
 Whose gifts to good folks always came ; 
 
 And now, I find far different laws 
 Dividing honor, wealth and fame. 
 
 I thought that riches brought content, 
 That friends were always true and kind, 
 
 With rainbows all the showers were blent, 
 The clouds were always golden-lined. 
 
WHEN THE HEAVENS WERE NEAR, 5 1 
 
 The sloping hill, before our home, 
 - Seemed a steep, rugged mountain side ; 
 The small stream where we played, like some 
 Historic river, deep and wide. 
 
 I thought the sky*s blue crystal lay 
 Just o'er the tree-tops on the hill ; 
 
 And now, heaven seems so far away, 
 And every year grows farther still. 
 
 Years have crept by ; with silent grief, 
 I 've seen each boyish hope decay, 
 
 Each bright conception and belief 
 On life's stern river swept away. 
 
 Wealth, learning, aye ! the world I 'd give 
 
 To be once more so near the sky. 
 Because, the longer that I live. 
 
 The less, it seems, I 'm fit to die. 
 
SHADOWS. 
 
 THE summer wind is sighing in the tree-tops, 
 A melancholy tale ; 
 The sparkling elm-leaves trace upon the heavens 
 An ever-shifting veil. 
 
 The shadow of the chestnut moves and trembles 
 
 Upon the waving grass, 
 The ripples of a sea of molten silver 
 
 Along the meadow pass. 
 
 A cloud draws near — a ship with fleecy canvas. 
 
 Its shadow o'er the lawn 
 Steals slowly on, like death, until the sunlight 
 
 Fades, quivers — and is gone. 
 
 The rustic, ivied seat beneath the chestnut. 
 
 Where often I have made 
 Her eyes grow moist, reading some quaint, sad story, 
 
 Is lonely and decayed. 
 52 
 
SHADOWS, 53 
 
 The morning-glory looks not in her window, 
 
 As once it used, to meet 
 The merry smile, which triumphed o'er the suffering 
 
 Of beauty pale and sweet. 
 
 We watched the solemn shadow nearer stealing, 
 Before the dark ship came. 
 
 And felt, that should a ray of sunlight follow, 
 'T would never be the same. 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR. 
 
 "T* WAS toward the close of a September day ; 
 •■■ The air was hazy ; through a woodland screen, 
 Where sank the golden sun, a fiery ray 
 
 Down slanting o'er the yellow, brown and green, 
 Of corn, ploughed land and pasture, from the 
 sheen 
 Of the broad Mohawk upward glanced again, 
 
 And so enwrapt with flames incarnadine 
 A gabled mansion's windows, peaks, and vane. 
 That the old farm-house looked like castle built in 
 Spain. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet, with the sunset, it seemed lone and drear, 
 
 For only lately, death had crossed the sill. 
 And since that morn, its mistress. Widow Vere, 
 
 Slept in the little graveyard on the hill. 
 
 Here, twenty years, she lived, proud, sad, and still. 
 With one old servant, since her child had fled 
 
 With him she loved against the old dame's will ; 
 
 54 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR. 55 
 
 And as she, too, for many years was dead, 
 A kinsman, far removed, the estate inherited. 
 
 III. 
 
 And he who now, long time with boisterous din, 
 An entrance sought, was Winthrop Ford, the heir. 
 
 And when at last the door swung softly in. 
 And no one came, as if a ghost were there. 
 He entered through a hall-way, dim and square, 
 
 The musty regions of a darkened room. 
 Where, hung on either wall, a cheerful care 
 
 Had worked a weeping willow and a tomb. 
 
 And framed two coffin-plates, to dissipate the 
 gloom. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thence gladly through the farther door his way 
 He found into an oaken chamber ; here 
 
 Were portraits grave, a hearth and quaint display 
 Of volumes, brown with dust of many a year. 
 Chairs grimly carved, a sideboard dark and queer. 
 
 Whose glass gave back the sunset's dying flame ; 
 And o'er the hearth he saw, pale, startling, near, 
 
 The likeness of a young and lovely dame. 
 
 Who seemed as if about to step down from the 
 frame. 
 
 V. 
 
 She looked the heroine of some strange romance. 
 
 And seemed to follow every move he made, 
 With a mysterious and disdainful glance, 
 
56 THE MAGIC MIRROR, 
 
 Caught from old Colonel Vere, whose face, dis- 
 played 
 With grim effect, above his trenchant blade 
 Of continental glory, Winthrop eyed 
 
 With smile sarcastic, till, by beauty swayed, 
 He turned to her again, and petrified 
 With wonder, there beheld — a mirror, naught be- 
 side. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thence to an open window, with all speed, 
 He sprang, but there no flying beauty found ; 
 
 Some clothes flapped on the line, an ancient steed, 
 Like Pegasus, imprisoned in the pound. 
 Gazed sadly o'er the fence, then turned around. 
 
 And eyed, with ludicrous surprise, the knight. 
 Who ventured thus to tread enchanted ground. 
 
 A passage, then, whose door stood opposite 
 
 The mirror, gave a clue to that fair vision's flight. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And in its darkness, venturing to explore. 
 
 He reached the attic stairs, then turned aside 
 And found his way unto another door, 
 
 Which, as he came, creaked loud and opened 
 wide 
 
 Upon the castle kitchen, where he spied 
 An ancient crone, who, if she were in truth 
 
 The enchanted fair, — was much transmogrified, 
 And who supposed, a fairy prince, forsooth. 
 This apparition swift, of such tall, handsome 
 youth. 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR, 5/ 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But, when her fright allowed him to explain, 
 
 The rightful heir, with stately courtesy, 
 She welcomed, like some feudal castelaine. 
 And forthwith darted out and speedily 
 Brought the "baked funeral meats,'* which 
 proved to be 
 Cheese, doughnuts and mince pie, a goodly cheer ; 
 
 Then, while he ate, traced out the family tree 
 In all its branches, from its earliest year. 
 And told him many a tale of proud old Madame 
 Vere. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The supper ended, by a fire which blazed 
 
 Upon the hearth, for now the nights were cold, 
 
 He sat and smoked, and in the mirror gazed. 
 Hoping that there, once more, he might behold 
 That ghostly girl, of such enchanting mould. 
 
 Whose beauty, subtile as some faint perfume. 
 Filled him with fancies, strange and manifold. 
 
 And now the twilight deepened into gloom. 
 
 The fire had burned low down, and darkness filled 
 the room. 
 
 X. 
 
 An influence supernatural seemed to fill 
 
 The strange old mansion, even the doors had 
 caught 
 The charm, and opened of their own sweet will, 
 And all things were with that bright vision 
 fraught, 
 
58 THE MAGIC MIRROR, 
 
 That face, of which it seemed he 'd always thought 
 Then, suddenly, the wood blazed up once more, 
 
 Lighting the room ; his eyes the mirror sought, 
 And there he saw, within the passage door. 
 The enchanted princess stand, pale, mystic as 
 
 before. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Her face was oval and her figure tall ; 
 
 Her hair, with silver comb of quaint device. 
 Flowed waving from a fair, low brow, to fall 
 
 Upon a small, round neck ; the sweet surprise 
 
 Of parted lips, arched piquantly ; large gray eyes, 
 Mysterious in the dancing light ; and then 
 
 A dimpled chin, softened what otherwise 
 A too disdainful beauty would have been ; — 
 This much he saw before the blaze died out again. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then springing up, he struck a light and found 
 The open door ; a gust thence sweeping blew 
 
 The light out ; something rustled ; with a bound 
 He rushed into the passage, stumbled through, 
 And up the stairway to the attic flew. 
 
 A phantom shape before the window crossed. 
 And falling o'er a spinning-wheel or two. 
 
 He grasped a fluttering garment, but the ghost 
 
 Changed to an old silk gown upon a rafter tossed. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He stretched his length before the hearth again. 
 And, watching by a lamplight's flickering gleam, 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR, 59 
 
 Thought surely that the colonel winked, and then 
 He slept and dreamed a most unheard-of dream : 
 Goblins and spooks swept by in motley stream \ 
 
 And then 't was changed, and the enchanted fair 
 Sat sleeping by the hearth, while what would seem 
 
 The ghost of Madame Vere, w^ith silvery hair, 
 
 Stooped down, and in her face peered with a 
 ghastly stare. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 To shield such sleeping loveliness from harm. 
 For 'neath the spell she moved with many a sigh ; 
 
 He strove, but could not stir, to break the charm, 
 Until, the rusty sword, which dangled nigh, 
 Perceiving, in the twinkling of an eye 
 
 He seized, and at the ghost, with all his will. 
 Flung it, and presto ! wakened instantly 
 
 By a great fall of glass, — with sudden thrill 
 
 He saw the face once more the magic mirror fill. 
 
 XV. 
 
 But now, behold ! her look, her garb portrayed 
 A curious change, as if in antique dress. 
 
 She were bedizened for a masquerade, 
 
 While in her hair, the silver comb, no less, 
 Smacked of the days of some dead ancestress. 
 
 Then to a door, which opened opposite, 
 
 He turned, and saw — no dream of loveliness. 
 
 But the old servant, robed in ghostly white. 
 
 Who spoke of direful sounds and trembled with 
 affright. 
 
6o THE MAGIC MIRROR, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 He pointed at the vision ; drawing near, 
 
 She cried : " The missus' portrait ! yes ! 't is she > 
 
 Took, when she scarce was twenty, many a year, 
 Because it pained her lonely heart to see 
 Her face so gay and handsome, and to free 
 
 Her saintly mind from worldly thoughts and cares, 
 'T was covered by a mirror, goodness me ! 
 
 Who broke it ? I was frightened from my prayers 
 
 And then, an hour ago, sech fearful sounds up- 
 stairs ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Jest after Hilda Gaylord came to change 
 
 The book she borrowed as you came/' "And 
 pray ! 
 Who is this Hilda ? " 'T was a story strange 
 The old dame told ; how Hilda came one day 
 Like princess of a fairy tale, to stay 
 At Neighbor Grain's ; this princess fair, 't was true, 
 
 Taught in the village school, across the way. 
 And oft had sat and watched the whole night 
 
 through 
 With Madam Vere. But whence she came, no 
 mortal knew. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " You ought to see her. Why ! she looks, — well 
 there ! 
 It 's curious that I never thought so, jest 
 Exactly like that picture ; I declare ! 
 
THE MAGIC MIRROR, 6 1 
 
 If Hester Vere, who died away out West, 
 Had had a child — I 'd think — well now, I 'm 
 blest ! 
 Some say she had, and then, her age, jest right 
 
 For Hilda, and, what 's stranger than the rest. 
 The missus called her Hester Vere, one night. 
 My sakes ! it *s all so plain, right out in black and 
 white." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The truth was out, and Hilda proved next day 
 To be the dame's granddaughter ; naught was 
 clearer. 
 And yet the enchantment ceased not, strange to 
 say; 
 He found her daily lovelier and dearer, 
 And blest his luck, for if, with tastes austerer, 
 He had not supped so well, and in a trance 
 Levelled the poker at the magic mirror, — 
 He had forever lost the golden chance. 
 And Hilda had not been the mistress of the 
 manse. 
 
THALIA. 
 
 OFTEN, when the hearth fire smoulders, 
 In the evening's deepening gloom, 
 There has stoFn a ghostly maiden 
 To my lonely, haunted room. 
 And dispelled the doubt and gloom. 
 
 At my feet she sits and looks up 
 With those great dark eyes at me, 
 
 With a glance now grave, now roguish. 
 With her white arms on my knee. 
 Childlike, she looks up to me. 
 
 And she tells me weighty secrets 
 Of the fairies, of the elves. 
 
 Till the embers, till the grotesque 
 Porcelain figures on the shelves. 
 Take the forms of dancing elves. 
 
 Through the growing darkness steals a 
 Perfume faint from fairy-land, 
 62 
 
THALIA, 63 
 
 And I feel her round arms' pressure, 
 Feel her brown hair brush my hand, 
 Think that I 'm in fairy-land. 
 
 Then we talk of times long vanished, 
 
 Talk of many a boyish dream, 
 Weave, of long-departed fancies. 
 
 Chains that bright and fragile seem 
 
 As a child's glad golden dream. 
 
 Each day, deeper still and clearer, 
 
 I have read in her dark eyes 
 Romances of love and fancy, 
 
 Till my very being lies 
 
 In those ghostly, glorious eyes. 
 
 And though I have known and loved her 
 
 For these many weary years. 
 Every day, more sweet and childlike. 
 
 Her pale oval face appears. 
 
 For these many long, long years 
 
CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Al 7EARY were the days of autumn, 
 " ' Long and cold the nights of winter, 
 
 And our hearts were colder still ; 
 We had drained the cup of sorrow, 
 Wandered through the shadowy valley, 
 
 Bowed before the Almighty will. 
 
 Grief had grown subdued and holy, 
 For we knew we had a treasure 
 
 In that home, so far away. 
 Had a little intercessor. 
 An ambassador in heaven, 
 
 Waiting for us night and day. 
 
 By the hearth we sat in darkness. 
 With a little chair between us, 
 
 As we sat a year before, 
 When we listened for the reindeer's 
 64 
 
CHRISTMAS, 65 
 
 Tinkling bells, and told the many 
 
 Wondrous things of Christmas lore, — 
 
 Sat as when he last was with us ; 
 Thus, our sad imaginations 
 
 Would a quaint deception weave, 
 And our strange and mournful fancy- 
 Try to conjure back his presence 
 
 On that lonely Christmas eve. 
 
 And the time wore on, till, startled 
 From my reveries by the pressure 
 
 Of a soft and childish hand, 
 Lo ! I saw, between us sitting. 
 Just as though he ne'er had journeyed 
 
 To that unknown far-off land. 
 
 Golden-haired, brown-eyed, and dimpled, 
 Listening, wondering, and expectant, 
 
 Once again, — our little child. 
 But the guileless face was brighter 
 With the joy of the immortals. 
 
 With a radiance sweet and mild. 
 
 Thus, the second time, from heaven, 
 Like the Christ-child, with a Christmas 
 
 Gift of gladness, he has come ; 
 And, invisible to others. 
 With his little hands he leads us 
 
 Daily, hourly, nearer home. 
 
66 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 And his silent, radiant presence 
 Teaches patience, resignation. 
 
 Makes the dark ways bright and plain, 
 Calms our hearts and makes us tender 
 For all sorrow, want, and suffering, 
 
 Makes us children once again. 
 
MY NOVEL. 
 
 T WILL write some time a novel, 
 •■• Simple, thrilling and romantic ; 
 Beautiful shall be the heroine, 
 Very beautiful and tender. 
 
 Artfully will I arrange it, 
 And contrive to paint her portrait, 
 So that she I love will know it 
 Instantly for her own picture. 
 
 Almost black shall be her eyebrows 
 And her hair's rich wavy masses. 
 But her eyes, large, star-like, dreamy, 
 Bluer than the sky at midnight. 
 
 Rosy tints, like morn and evening. 
 O'er her cheek shall steal and vanish ; 
 Round her mouth a smile shall linger, 
 And her chin shall have a dimple. 
 67 
 
68 MV NOVEL. 
 
 Every gesture, every outline 
 Of the slender, rounded figure ; 
 Every gay or sad expression, 
 Floating o*er the lovely features, 
 
 Shall suggest some rare old painting ; 
 Shall suggest some sweet, quaint poem ; 
 On the heart shall leave an imprint 
 That shall never be forgotten. 
 
 Almost, yet not quite, a goddess ; 
 Sometimes haughty, sometimes roguish ; 
 Just enough of faults I '11 give her 
 So that one may dare to love her. 
 
 And the youth who loves this maiden, 
 From the day he first beholds her, 
 Shall be learned, grave and thoughtful, 
 Sad, poetical and silent. 
 
 After sighing long in secret, 
 He shall write a tender romance, 
 Wherein he will be the lover, 
 She will be the pretty heroine. 
 
 In this romance, all the long years 
 Of his sighing will be numbered ; 
 In this romance there will happen 
 All the scenes that he has pictured. 
 
 When, from some impending danger, 
 In the mountains, on the sea-shore, 
 
MY NOVEL. 69 
 
 From the flood, or fire, the lover 
 Risks his life to save his mistress, — 
 
 She will find, at last, she loves him, 
 And contrive some way to say so ; 
 Perhaps by sending him an envied 
 Bunch of violets from her bosom. 
 
 Thus, the hero and the heroine 
 He shall paint with such true colors, 
 That she cannot help but see it ; 
 Cannot help but know his secret 
 
 And her gentle heart, beleaguered 
 By a love so full of fancy. 
 And so delicate and constant. 
 Shall surrender all its treasures. 
 
 In her voice and in the shadows 
 Of her eyes and in her blushes, 
 He shall read the story plainly, 
 And behold ! my novel 's written. 
 
MIDNIGHT. 
 
 T^HERE 'S a time at night, when quickly 
 •■• The blue of the sky grows dark, 
 Hushed is the cricket's chirping, 
 Vanished the fire-fly's spark. 
 
 The trees are great black giants. 
 
 Cloaked, and silent, and tall ; 
 Each star 's a glittering diamond, 
 
 Each cloud *s a jet-black pall. 
 
 There 's a stir in the solemn darkness, 
 
 As of a wind in the trees. 
 As of a brook's low rustle, — 
 
 But 't is not the stream or breeze. 
 
 It swells, like the murmur of tempests, 
 
 Then lessens and sinks away, 
 As if 't were the winging up of the souls 
 
 Of those who had died in the day. 
 70 
 
MIDNIGHT, J\ 
 
 Though the world is hid in darkness, 
 
 In my life 's a calm bright light, 
 In the quietness of that moment. 
 
 Which comes at the dead of night. 
 
 Then I see though the doubts which beset me, 
 
 As I never before have done. 
 And regrets and fierce ambitions 
 
 Fade slowly, one by one. 
 
THE GAME OF CHESS. 
 
 "X* WAS stinging, blustering winter weather, 
 ^ How well I recollect the night ! 
 
 When Kate and I played chess together. 
 Her beauty in the hearth-fire's light 
 
 Seemed more Madonna-like and rosy ; 
 
 The hours were swift, the room was cosy, 
 The windows frosted, silvery white. 
 
 Even now I see that grave face resting 
 Upon the hand, so white and small ; 
 
 I see that mystic grace, suggesting 
 A painter's dream ; I oft recall 
 
 Her glance, now anxious, gay, or tender ; 
 
 The girlish form, complete yet slender, 
 In silhouette against the wall. 
 
 It was not strange that I was mated, 
 For 't was my fondly cherished aim. 
 
 I longed to speak, but I was fated, 
 The rightful opening never came. 
 
 I pawned my heart for her sweet favor, 
 72 
 
THE GAME OF CHESS. 73 
 
 With every look, some vantage gave her, 
 And so, alas ! I lost the game. 
 
 Since then, by fortune, love, forsaken. 
 
 Through checkered years I Ve passed and seen 
 
 My castles fall, my pawns all taken. 
 
 My spotless knights prove traitors mean ; 
 
 And worn, with many a check, I wander 
 
 Like the poor vanquished king, and ponder 
 With sadness on my long-lost queen. 
 
^h^ 
 
 PAQUITA. 
 
 T T was night, and we were anchored, 
 ^ Off the town of Fernandina ; 
 Miles above, we saw the beacon 
 Shine from old Ramiro's landing 
 Like a star, across the water ; 
 And up spoke the captain, saying : 
 
 II. 
 
 " I have seen the fair Paquita, 
 
 She who came, enthralled and left us, 
 
 At St. Augustine, last winter ; 
 
 I have braved the fierce old Argus, 
 
 Braved the anger of Ramiro, 
 
 I have come and seen and conquered." 
 
 III. 
 
 Then with tone and laugh derisive. 
 Answered, straightway, Randolph Gordon ; 
 " You are still, an empty boaster. 
 74 
 
PAQUITA, 75 
 
 I, myself, have seen Paquita, 
 
 And the month shall scarce have ended. 
 
 Ere I ask you to our wedding." 
 
 IV. 
 
 While they spoke I sat in silence, 
 Though my heart was strangely tortured, 
 For I, too, had known Paquita, 
 When she came to St. Augustine, 
 And her face rose up before me. 
 Dark and sad, with eyes love lighted, 
 
 V. 
 
 As she looked, when last we parted, 
 When she promised to remember. 
 "Their's," thought I, "are idle vauntings ; 
 I myself will seek Ramiro's, 
 And Paquita, she shall tell me 
 If *t was all an idle fancy." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Night, once more, the earth had mantled, 
 As I sat with Don Ramiro,. 
 'Neath Ramiro's broad piazza. 
 While his daughter, light as Hebe, 
 Came and vanished, bringing Reinas, 
 Bringing Cognac or Marsala. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In her dark, sweet face, I vainly 
 Sought a look of recognition. 
 
*](> PAQUITA. 
 
 She was cold and strange and silent, 
 Just as beautiful as ever, 
 But she did not seem as tender, 
 Did not seem the same Paquita. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But when darker grew the garden, 
 And Ramiro's red cigar light 
 Seemed the one eye of an ogre, 
 Some one stole and stood beside me, 
 Some one whispered ^* I remember/' 
 Pressed my hand and turned and left me. 
 
 IX. 
 As I rose to seek the landing, 
 From Ramiro's house departing, 
 Came the sound of whispering voices. 
 Came the sound of girlish laughter. 
 " Surely ! there is some strange secret 
 In this household of the Spaniard." 
 
 X. 
 
 As 1 watched Ramiro's beacon, 
 On my way across the water. 
 All at once it paled and vanished. 
 When I came on deck the captain 
 Had departed, none knew whither. 
 'T was a night of strange surprises — 
 
 XI. 
 
 Strange surprises, never ending. 
 
 For at dawn 't was found that Gordon, 
 
PAQUITA, yy 
 
 In some curious way, had vanished. 
 That day passed, another followed. 
 And at night there came two letters — 
 This is what the captain wrote me : 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Love has triumphed. Will ! Faquita 
 Fled last night with me to Charleston. 
 Old Ramiro would have killed her, 
 So she said, if he had caught us. 
 Please inform the proud Castilian, 
 And condole with Randolph Gordon." 
 
 XIII. 
 Gordon wrote me, from Savannah : 
 ** Will ! Faquita 's mine ; we came here 
 On the boat which leaves at midnights 
 How she loved me ! how she trembled ^ 
 Lest our flight should rouse Ramiro ;— - 
 I 'm so sorry for the captain.*' 
 
 XIV. 
 Rage, despair, and doubt possessed me 
 At these tidings, so conflicting. 
 Were there, really, two Paquitas ? 
 Was my love returned by neither ? 
 With these tidings, to Ramiro, 
 With these letters, straight I hastened. 
 
 XV. 
 Loud and long laughed Don Ramiro, — 
 Laughed until his face grew purple ; 
 
78 PAQUITA. 
 
 In the door-way something rustled, 
 And I looked and saw — Paquita ; 
 Saw her standing, like a statue, 
 With a statue's rounded outlines. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In the shadows and the dimples 
 Of her face a strange smile lingered, 
 And a roguish light came dancing 
 In her eyes' unfathomed darkness ; 
 Like a sweet, embodied riddle. 
 Mystic, fanciful, she stood there. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Speech came back to Don Ramiro — 
 Speech came back, though slow and broken ; 
 *^ With the captain fled Aurora ; 
 Inez, now, is Madam Gordon ; 
 Was it not the poor old father 
 Got them ready for the journey ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 They not know I have three daughters — 
 Yes ! Senor ! born all the same time. 
 It is twins ? no ? what you call them ? 
 And Paquita 's all that 's left me. 
 She, Senor ! will make the best wife ; 
 You can have her, if you want her.*' 
 
MENDELSSOHN'S " LIEDER OHNE 
 WORTE." 
 
 I 
 
 SWEET SOUVENIR. 
 
 *T^ IS nothing but a picture 
 
 -■• With outlines dim and faint, 
 A picture of a young girl, dressed 
 
 In fashion old and quaint. 
 In that picture there are graces 
 
 An artist could not paint, 
 And a face, the fairest, loveliest, 
 
 E'er possessed by girl or saint. 
 
 In that face there is the tenderest 
 
 Look that maiden ever wore ; 
 In that look there 's something tells me 
 
 Of the golden days of yore. 
 In those days there was a story, 
 
 Would that I could live it o'er ! 
 The story of the passionate love 
 
 I cherish evermore. 
 79 
 
80 ''LIEDER OHNE WORTEr 
 
 7 
 
 CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 At midnight, by the window, 
 
 I sat, till all was still, 
 Then pictured her before me 
 
 By passionate strength of will. 
 
 I weighed each trait of her beauty, 
 Each charm of mind and soul, 
 
 Till I conjured her before me 
 In one sweet, life-like whole. 
 
 With that dreamy look I loved so. 
 She stood in the shadowy light. 
 
 Pale and still as a lily 
 
 Alone in a garden at night. 
 
 Her look was kind and tender, 
 
 I never had seen her so. 
 She loved me, this dream maiden loved me. 
 
 Though the other was cold as snow. 
 
 44 
 
 LOOKING BACK. 
 
 I Ve gained the mountain top, and turning, 
 Look with tearful gaze 
 On the path which brings me 
 Back to childhood*s days. 
 
''LIEDER OHNE WORTE:' 8 1 
 
 Childish mountains, like my childish troubles, 
 Dwarf and sink from view ; 
 Youth's brightest scenes have somehow 
 Lost their golden hue. 
 
 Graves of all my hopes and fond ambitions 
 Dead so long ago, — 
 All my wandering, weary footsteps 
 Mark the vale below. 
 
 And, looking back with sad composure. 
 On the path of years, 
 I am calmer for those vanished tempests, 
 Happier for my tears. 
 
A CASTLE IN NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 T TPON the torrent's brink, there stands 
 ^ A castle, gray and old, 
 With drawbridge, barbican and keep, 
 
 With turrets manifold, 
 And banners, floating in the sun. 
 
 Like bands of burnished gold. 
 
 High up, above the grated arch, 
 The embrasured casements frown ; 
 
 And there, a ladye young and fair. 
 For many a day looks down 
 
 The roadway, winding o*er the bridge 
 Into the ancient town. 
 
 Upon the fields of waving grain, 
 
 Her mournful glances rest ; 
 She watches every cloud that floats 
 
 Beyond the hill's blue crest ; 
 Until, at last, an armored knight 
 
 Rides down, from out the west. 
 82 
 
A CASTLE IN NEW ENGLAND. 83 
 
 The vision fades, the scene is changed, 
 
 In one swift, magic whirl ; 
 A homely, gabled house succeeds 
 
 This castle of an earl ; 
 The princess in the tov/er becomes 
 
 A fair New England girl. 
 
 She sits beneath the porch at eve, 
 
 The time unreckoned flies, 
 Her little hands are clasped, her book. 
 
 Unread, before her lies ; 
 A fanciful and far-off look 
 
 Is in her tender eyes. 
 
 Across her faintly dimpled cheeks 
 
 The lights and shadows glance. 
 Her sweet and thoughtful face is raised. 
 
 She seems as in a trance. 
 There is an aureole round her head 
 
 Of glory and romance. 
 
 And this was all a dream of hers, 
 
 Her thought^s fantastic flight ; 
 A dream which changed her homely house 
 
 Into a castle bright ; 
 A dream which made of farmer Brown 
 
 A handsome, armored knight. 
 
 By homely tasks and trivial cares 
 Her life is compassed round ; 
 
84 A CASTLE IN' NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Her dreamy knowledge of the world 
 In quaint old books is found ; 
 
 Beyond those blue New England hills 
 'T is all an unknown ground. 
 
 Yet often, in the air, a strange, 
 
 Mysterious music seems ; 
 Old towns and lordly castles rise 
 
 In her romantic dreams ; 
 The glow of knighthood's golden days 
 
 Across her pathway streams. 
 
 While there are maids so sweet, shall fame 
 
 Of deeds chivalric fade ? 
 Come forth ! O knight ! upon whose shield 
 
 There is no spot or shade. 
 And lay your lance in rest, to win 
 
 This fair New England maid ! 
 
THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. 
 
 CACH day more bright, each day with softer 
 ^ glow, 
 
 At dawn and eve ; the summer time has passed 
 Like a long, pleasant revery and lo ! 
 
 This day has come, the loveliest and the last. 
 
 Woods, meadows, corn-fields are like chequered 
 squares, 
 
 Painted in various colors, bright and gay. 
 Summer, as with a mournful fancy, wears 
 
 Her richest garments, e'er she fades away. 
 
 The soft, clear light's enchantment makes the chain 
 Of distant hills seem strangely near at hand. 
 
 And gives to well-known scenes and objects plain 
 The glamour and the charm of fairyland. 
 
 A few white clouds, in shapes fantastic, rise 
 Above the woods, which crest the highest hill ; 
 
 'T is like the landscape of a dream, it lies 
 So deeply calm, so wonderfully still. 
 
 85 
 
86 THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. 
 
 And there are other clouds and hills and woods, 
 In the smooth mirror of the lazy stream ; 
 
 Vague, unattainable, shadowy solitudes 
 Of lotus land, a dream within a dream. 
 
 There 's naught in motion, save the quaint balloon 
 Of thistle-down ; there is no hum of bees ; 
 
 There 's something ghostly in the cricket's tune, 
 The cobwebbed hedge, the shadows of the trees 
 
 The winding brook is choked and half concealed 
 By clumps of cat-tails and of golden-rod ; 
 
 The cattle, grazing in the far-off field. 
 Are still as figures in the land of Nod. 
 
 The air is filled with something sweet and strange, 
 And nature seems to pause and hold her breath, 
 
 Before this sign of an impending change. 
 
 This deep, mysterious calm, which heralds death. 
 
 And now, the wondrous work of nature ends ; 
 
 Now, is its glorious fulness manifest 
 In this last, quiet summer's day, which blends 
 
 A solemn beauty and a perfect rest. 
 
THE SISTERS. 
 
 TN the long night's lonely musing, 
 ■■• Comes the vision of two sisters 
 That I loved in days long vanished — 
 Loved, yet knew not which I loved most. 
 
 One was rosy, fair, and dimpled, 
 Romping, laughing, dreaming, sighing ; 
 By her roguish glance enchanted, 
 Queen of all my thoughts, I owned her. 
 
 Dark and mystic was the other, 
 Dark and sad and meditative ; 
 When her eyes grew soft and tender, 
 She it was who seemed the dearest. 
 
 Years have past since we were parted 
 By the bitter tongues of envy ; 
 Many years, and many changes. 
 Like an ocean lie between us. 
 
 87 
 
88 THE SISTERS. 
 
 But their looks of kindly interest, 
 Patience, virtues, tears, and laughter. 
 Words of cheer and praise and comfort, 
 Gentle ways and sweet refinements, 
 
 Like the stars of night, have lighted 
 Me along the world's dark pathway ; 
 Like the hands of fairies, shortened 
 My apprenticeship in manhood. 
 
 And I weave this little chaplet 
 Of the flowers of love and romance, 
 For those gentle sisters, long since 
 Sleeoing in the silent city. 
 
THE OCEAN. 
 
 T ONG I watched the ocean, with its mournful, 
 ■■— ' never 
 
 Ceasing tide, each ship, that from the horizon 
 stole, 
 
 Floated by, grew less and vanished, seemed a 
 soul, 
 That upon the years, from some far shadowy river. 
 Slowly steals, until, with sail of strong endeavor, 
 
 Hope and yearning, it sweeps by unto its goal, 
 
 Fades and sinks into oblivion, while the roll 
 Of the solemn flood of years goes on forever. 
 Now the darkness hides the ocean and the shore. 
 
 And the ships have long since vanished in the 
 distance. 
 Yet I hear the breakers' dull, monotonous roar 
 
 Tell the story o'er again, with strange insistance, — 
 Hear the ancient ocean's hoarse voice evermore 
 
 Chant the mystic, sad refrain of man's existence. 
 
THE RIVER. 
 
 /^FT have I watched the sunset's mellow light, 
 ^-^ That through the window streams upon the 
 wall, 
 
 Like a mysterious river, rise and fall. 
 The lengthening shadows deepen into night, 
 And still, as if a part indefinite, 
 
 Of life and time and hope, a part of all 
 
 The thoughts and scenes and joys that I recall. 
 Thou flowest on, O river deep and bright ! 
 And I must watch, without the power to stay, 
 
 Thy tide that surges on resistlessly, 
 Thy dancing waves that bear the years away. 
 
 O thou relentless flood ! give back to me, 
 The life, that on thy current, day by day, 
 
 Is floating, floating, floating to the sea ! 
 
 90 
 
THE CASTLE BY THE SEA, 
 
 A CASTLED crag, half hidden in a wreath 
 ^^ Of ocean mist, an eagle's circling flight, 
 
 The little islands, reefs and breakers white - 
 Of a broad sea, whose waters dash and seethe 
 Against the rock, a thousand feet beneath, 
 
 The sudden gleaming of a beacon light 
 
 From the old tower upon the crag, when night 
 His gloomy shadow o'er the earth doth breathe. 
 And answering watch fires, blazing near and far 
 
 From every headland, — all that I have told, 
 And more, in evening sky and cloud and star, 
 
 Pictured above the horizon, I behold. 
 And magic scenes create, that changeful are. 
 
 As those same hues of crimson and of gold. 
 
 9T 
 
THE MOHAWK VALLEY, FROM RICH- 
 FIELD HILL. 
 
 T CLIMBED a winding roadway to the brim 
 ^ Of a gigantic basin, walled around 
 
 With hills and hills and hills, whose tops were 
 crowned 
 With forest dense, and whose remotest rim. 
 Gorge seamed, through summer haze looked blue 
 and dim. 
 
 Far down a lazy snake-like river wound, 
 
 And all was silence, perfect and profound. 
 I saw the white clouds' shadows slowly skim 
 O'er meadows, cornfields, woods, as bright and 
 still 
 
 As painted squares, the bluest dome expand 
 From ridge to ridge, and 'neath a sheltering hill 
 
 The whitest, smallest, sleepiest hamlet stand. 
 Surely ! the world's fierce tide ne'er rose, until 
 
 It stole within this dreamy wonderland. 
 
 92 
 

 T 
 
 THE GORGE. 
 
 DEFORE me, standing at the craggy head 
 
 ^ Of a great gorge, the wildest, loveliest scene 
 
 Of nature lies : far down in the ravine. 
 Choked with great hemlocks, and the yellow and 
 
 red 
 Of birch and maple, like a silver thread, 
 
 A small stream winds and widens to the sheen 
 
 Of a blue lake, that, glassy and serene 
 With distance, at the gorge's mouth is spread ; 
 Marked with white farm-house and tree-tufted hill. 
 
 For miles beyond, fields ploughed and green 
 extend. 
 Even to the horizon's edge, until 
 
 Like pleasant thought, that in a dream doth end, 
 The vista, grown more faint and soft and still, 
 
 Its hues, at length, with heaven's pale gray doth 
 blend. 
 
 93 
 
TWILIGHT. 
 
 ]\ A AIDEN ! who veiled in robes of sombre shade 
 ^ ^ ^^ Dost haunt the glen and through the forest 
 roam, 
 
 What time the clouds float o'er the heaven's blue 
 dome, 
 In changing, fading, glorious hues arrayed — 
 Art thou, indeed, a sad and lovelorn maid, 
 
 Or shy and gentle spirit, who doth come 
 
 Each day, at evening, from her mossy home. 
 Some grotto, hidden 'neath a wild cascade ? 
 I seek thee many times, and suddenly. 
 
 When the bright tints have died out from the 
 west. 
 With sweet, pale face, as in a revery. 
 
 Passes the gray-eyed maiden of my quest. 
 Through copse, through glen, in vain I follow thee. 
 
 The first star twinkles and thou vanishest. 
 
 94 
 
THE FOUNTAIN, 
 
 T^HE fountain's crystal depths contain 
 ^ For thee, O maiden ! fair as shy, 
 
 A realm of fairy mystery, 
 For there, enchanted, long hath lain 
 A strange and beautiful domain. 
 
 Look down upon its trees and sky, 
 
 Its towers, its white clouds floating by. 
 As through some wizard's window pane ! 
 And lo ! even now, a princess fair 
 
 • Gazed from those depths, as if she might 
 Enchanted be, awaiting there 
 
 The coming of the valiant knight. 
 Who seeketh always, everywhere. 
 
 To aid and succor beauty bright. 
 
 95 
 
THE SHELL. 
 
 Tl 7ITH wonder great, I heard a small voice say, 
 ^ ^ From the deep coral chamber of a shell : 
 
 " A woful maid am I, of those that dwell 
 Beneath the sea ; a curious power have they, 
 To walk as spirits ; while I thus did stray 
 
 It stormed, and I in deepest slumber fell 
 
 Within this hollow, many-tinted shell, 
 Which, when I woke, upon the sea-beach lay. 
 Because a prisoner I must be, until 
 
 Within the ocean's depths, there, I entreat 
 That thou return the shell, and often will 
 
 I cause large pearls to glisten at thy feet, 
 And o'er the waves' sad music sound, and fill 
 
 Thy dreams with maidens' faces, pale and sweet." 
 
 96 
 
VALESKA. 
 
 "\ /ALESKA ! fair unknown ! whose portrait graces 
 ^ The old oak room, — what fancies strange arise 
 
 At thy slight figure's antiquated guise, 
 Thy white, round neck half hid in dainty laces, 
 And palest, dreamiest, ghostliest of faces ! 
 
 I love thee, for the tender thought that lies 
 
 In the sweet shadows of thy hazel eyes, 
 And on thy lips, in mournful, lingering traces. 
 At night, I gaze upon thy beauty, quaintly 
 
 Glowing above the hearth-fire's ruddy flame, 
 Until the hour when, queen-like, sad and saintly. 
 
 Thou stepp'st down from thy portrait ; thy dear 
 name 
 I speak — and starting, see thee, smiling faintly 
 
 A mystic smile, fade back into the frame. 
 
 97 
 
DUSK. 
 
 Tl JE are all here again, in the twilight : 
 
 ' ^ The dark, swaying trees and the sky, 
 The wanderer wind and the ivy. 
 
 The clouds that sail up and float by. 
 
 The flowers, the grass and I. 
 
 The shadows grow broader and deeper, 
 
 I hear the wandering breeze 
 Rustling up in the branches 
 
 And telling the solemn trees, 
 
 Of prairies and of seas. 
 
 And a vision strange steals upon me, 
 
 In that changing fanciful light, 
 A small apparition comes, chasing 
 
 A moth in its zigzag flight — 
 
 'T is a little child, in white. 
 
 In the swing, 'neath the giant elm-tree, 
 He slowly sways to and fro, 
 98 
 
DUSK, 99 
 
 Lost in a day-dream and wondering 
 If the full, white clouds are snow, 
 And what makes the fire-flies glow. 
 
 The picture has long since vanished 
 In the gloom of an evening mild, 
 
 Yet still in the past I linger. 
 
 With thoughts of those days beguiled, 
 When I was that little child. 
 
THE WIND IN THE TREES. 
 
 TN the night I lie by the window, 
 *■ And hear the wind in the trees. 
 And give to its ceaseless rustling 
 And sighing, what meaning I please. 
 
 At first, 't is the wash of the ocean 
 On a rugged, desolate shore ; 
 
 Or a fire on the hearth, in winter, 
 Beginning to flicker and roar. 
 
 *T is a waterfall, in the distance. 
 Whose cadence floats to the ear, 
 
 Now a far off, indistinct murmur. 
 Now thundering, loud and clear. 
 
 'T is some giant, imprisoned spirit. 
 Who groans and struggles in vain. 
 
 Writhing up in his anguish. 
 Then sinking to earth again. 
 
THE WIND IN THE TREES. loi 
 
 'T is the endless war for existence, 
 
 Waged by the hosts of mankind, 
 Now the battle's rush sways toward me, 
 
 Now it dies away on the wind. 
 
 And, at last, *t is the conflict within me, 
 Of thoughts that will never cease, 
 
 Till the dawn looks gray through the tree tops. 
 And the night winds sink in peace. 
 
 Thus long in the night, I listen 
 
 To this strangest of symphonies. 
 This music, so quaint and solemn. 
 
 The sound of the wind in the trees. 
 
THE OAK WOOD. 
 
 T WANDERED through a holy, gloomy 
 ^ Oak wood, where 'neath violets wild 
 A brooklet murmured softly, faintly, 
 As the praying of a child. 
 
 There fell a shadowy dread upon me. 
 There came a rustling strange and low, 
 
 As if the wood might tell me something, 
 That yet my heart was not to know. 
 
 As if to me it might discover 
 
 Some secret of God's mystic will. 
 
 Then seemed it suddenly to tremble 
 Before God's presence and was still. 
 
JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL. 
 
 EACH breaker rolled in, like a smooth green 
 wall, 
 With crest o'er curling as it neared the land, 
 Where into foam it dashed with deafening brawl 
 
 At Philip's feet : yet he, of ocean's grand 
 And melancholy voice, unconscious all. 
 
 Gazed downward fixedly upon the sand ; 
 For airy footprints, small beyond compare, 
 Proved that some graceful nymph had wandered 
 there. 
 
 II. 
 
 Along a wild shore, full of lonely charms. 
 These traces following, he found at last 
 
 A nook fantastic, hollowed by the storms, 
 Where, in the shadow of a stranded mast, 
 
 Her brown hair half concealing her round arms. 
 With book clasped in her hands, lay sleeping fast, 
 
 Like that famed princess of the days of old, 
 
 A maiden of fair face and gentle mold. 
 
 103 
 
I04 JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL. 
 
 III. 
 
 As he beheld the dark, fantastic face, 
 
 There rose the fabric of a strange romance. 
 
 She seemed the daughter of some Eastern race — 
 A Spanish maid, — by some mysterious chance 
 
 Here shipwrecked ; for a nameless foreign grace 
 Hung like a dream upon her gentle trance, 
 
 And clothed with magic charm from head to feet 
 
 The girlish figure, slender, yet complete. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Long time he gazed, then stole with noiseless 
 tread 
 
 From that enchanted scene of fairy-land. 
 Not knowing that, had he but turned his head. 
 
 He would have seen her dark eyes wide expand, 
 And fill with roguish sunbeams as she read 
 
 These lines, which he had traced upon the sand : 
 " Fair dreamer ! know that a poor youth this day 
 Gazed on thy face, and loved, and passed away ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 Time fled ; once more he came, aye ! many a day 
 He wandered by the sea, but 't was in vain. 
 
 A sweet illusion, she had passed away ; 
 And like an airy dream, came not again. 
 
 Time passed ; the earth with autumn tints was gay, 
 And in a rumbling, hurrying railway train. 
 
 Past pleasant vales, blue hills, and forests dun. 
 
 All day he journeyed toward the setting sun. 
 
JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL, 105 
 
 VI. 
 
 'T was dark, when to a stage-coach queer and old 
 He changed, for he must travel all night still 
 
 Across a mountain roadway, to behold 
 His future bride ; for, by a curious will, 
 
 His Uncle John had left his long-saved gold 
 And goodly lands in trust for him, until — 
 
 Condition strange, of a most strange bequest, — 
 
 He married Marcia Brown, some girl out West. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The coach rolled on, and with a heart like lead, 
 He saw, in fancy, his prospective bride. 
 
 Some awkward country girl, and wished instead 
 *T were that fair dreamer by the whispering tide, 
 
 Who from his quest to shadowy realms had fled. 
 A few stars twinkled on his lonely ride ; 
 
 The village lights, like dancing fire-flies, winked. 
 
 And woods and fences grew more indistinct. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The mantled figure of the traveller strange, 
 
 Who shared his ride, had faded from his view ; 
 
 His thoughts assumed a more fantastic range ; 
 'T was fairy-land ; a courser, good and true, 
 
 The stage-coach had become with magic change ; 
 The princess had been found, and wakened 
 through 
 
 A loving kiss ; and he, the lucky knight. 
 
 Was bearing his fair prize to realms of light. 
 
I06 JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL, 
 
 IX. 
 
 He woke, upstarting, at his journey's goal, 
 
 And found the stranger gone, the morning gray. 
 
 From a small nosegay in his button-hole 
 
 There came a perfume faint, and, strange to say, 
 
 Around the flowers, traced on a crumpled scroll, 
 These foolish lines of his had found their way : 
 
 " Fair dreamer ! know that a poor maid this day 
 
 Gazed on thy face, and loved, and passed away." 
 
 X. 
 
 He sat upon the porch with Geoffrey Brown ; 
 
 It was a square brick house of days gone by, 
 And faced the river, toward whose banks sloped 
 down 
 
 The checkered squares of meadow, corn, and rye ; 
 And while they talked of changes in the town, 
 
 Of prices, politics, demand, supply, 
 Philip thought sadly of the startled dame. 
 Who vanished in the kitchen as he came. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then to that romance by the lonely shore 
 Of ocean his sad fancy turned again. 
 
 And to his curious ride the night before 
 
 With that strange voyager, who must have been 
 
 His fairy princess, found and lost once more ; 
 Flown like a dream, he knew not where or when ; 
 
 And all the time old Geoffrey talked away, 
 
 And told what crops did best in sand or clay, — 
 
JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL, lO/ 
 
 XII. 
 
 Told, while it seemed a changeless, far-off hum, 
 How he and Wentworth went to school together ; 
 
 Talked of his short-horn cattle, and of some 
 Uninteresting lawsuit, of the weather, 
 
 And lastly of his Marcia, who had come 
 
 From visiting ^^ way down East '* ; she was 
 ''rather" 
 
 The smartest, prettiest lady ever seen, 
 
 And cooked, spoke French, and warbled like a 
 queen. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He soon should see her ; just then, on the stair, 
 Philip heard light, quick footsteps coming down, 
 
 And all at once beheld a vision rare. 
 
 And saw his princess change to Marcia Brown ; 
 
 Her face, resplendent, sweet beyond compare, 
 Had not the slightest shadow of a frown ; 
 
 And so it came that Philip did fulfil 
 
 The strange conditions of '' John Wentworth's 
 will." 
 
A PANTOMIME. 
 
 /^^IRCLED by a laughing, chattering, 
 ^^ Merry group of little girls, 
 Like a rose girt round with pansies, 
 
 Or a sapphire set with pearls. 
 He beheld her at the children's 
 
 Pantomime on Christmas night, 
 Radiant, queen-like, *neath the magic 
 
 Of the music and the light. 
 
 On a frosty winter's night. 
 
 Harlequin and Columbine 
 
 Phantoms seemed, from fairy-land ; 
 But the clown, the wond'rous Guido, 
 
 Changed all things with swift command 
 Into laughter, as a wizard's 
 
 Touch turns every thing to gold. 
 She, alone, amid the laughing 
 
 Throng, sat silent, pale and cold. 
 
 Like some portrait framed in gold. 
 io8 
 
A PANTOMIME, IO9 
 
 From that hour a glorious vision 
 Haunted him by night and day ; 
 
 Never from his fancy vanished 
 That pale face, those eyes of gray. 
 
 Round her home he often lingered, 
 In the twilight's deepening gloom. 
 
 Watching till the slender shadow, 
 'Gainst the curtain of her room, 
 Should dispel the doubt and gloom. 
 
 Till the spring and summer faded. 
 
 And the autumn's richness passed. 
 And to her enchanting presence 
 
 He had found his way at last. 
 Those were glimpses into heaven. 
 
 Those short hours that flew so fast, 
 'T was a strange, idyllic romance, 
 
 Far too bright, too sweet to last. 
 
 All his hopes and dreams he told her, 
 
 While her gentle heart forgave 
 That he gazed so long and fondly 
 
 At her beauty pale and grave. 
 But at night the spell was ended ; 
 
 From her side he must away ; 
 To some strange toil he was fated, 
 
 What it was he might not say, — 
 
 Sad and silent, stole away. 
 
 Winter came ; once more her presence 
 Graced the Christmas pantomime ; 
 
no A PANTOMIME. 
 
 Ne'er before had scenes so golden 
 Been since old Arcadian time. 
 
 But the clown, the wond'rous Guido, 
 When the mimic play was done, 
 
 As he bowed before the foot-lights, 
 Seemed the prince of smiles and fun- 
 But the pantomime was done. 
 
 And he suddenly looked upward. 
 And his eyes met hers by chance, 
 
 'Neath the painted mask were features 
 She knew well ; a long, long glance, 
 
 Full of grave surprise and pity, 
 Sad, yet cold, she gave the clown ; 
 
 And he saw love's long-wrought fabric 
 Tremble, crack, and tumble down, — 
 Saw she ne'er could love the clown. 
 
# 
 
 JACK'S LETTER TO BOB. 
 
 "T^EAR Bob ! I am going to be married. 
 ^^ But before saying more, I must write 
 About something which weighs on my conscience. 
 
 Of course, you remember that night. 
 In the carnival season at Venice, 
 
 When we trained through that dampest of towns, 
 With that party of jolly Venetians, 
 
 That at first we mistook for the Browns ? 
 
 How, after the ball, I was married, 
 
 In joke, to an angel in black? 
 To that ghostly and dark-haired Marchesa, 
 
 The madcap queen of the pack ? 
 Her mask simply heightened the romance, 
 
 And the joke seemed immense, till I knew 
 That that rascally priest was a real one. 
 
 Which made me uncommonly blue. 
 
 For they said that the marriage was legal. 
 And things took a serious shape, 
 III 
 
112 JACK'S LETTER TO BOB, 
 
 Till you got up a duel and killed me, 
 
 To get me out of the scrape, 
 And I took the next steamer for Naples, 
 
 And left my fair widow to fate ; — 
 It 's queer how her eyes come and haunt me, 
 
 Whenever I 'm thinking of Kate. 
 
 I could kick myself well, when I think that 
 
 I played such an asinine role, 
 And I pray that you '11 bury the secret 
 
 Deep down in your innermost soul. 
 For my Kate would make things rather lively 
 
 For me, if she ever found out. 
 And now I will tell in what manner 
 
 Our little affair came about. 
 
 We met on the steamer from Naples, 
 
 Whence I sailed, as you know, for the States, 
 And at table kind fortune had placed me 
 
 In the chair which was opposite Kate's. 
 She 's a friend of the Browns, Bob ! a beauty 
 
 With manners both arch and demure ; 
 And she 's tall, and her eyes, if you saw them. 
 
 Would remind you of Venice, I 'm sure. 
 
 In the nook, just back of the wheel-house. 
 We talked of things joyous and grave. 
 
 Saw the waters grow dark in the twilight. 
 And the moon's silver bridge cross the wave. 
 
 The rest is the usual story. 
 Which no one knows better than you. 
 
JACK'S LETTER TO BOB, II3 
 
 We *11 be married to-night, and I '11 pause here, 
 And write you some more when we 're through. 
 
 Postscript, 
 
 Well ! it 's done, Bob ! and would you believe it ? 
 
 She knows all about that affair, — 
 And that was the Browns* party, — great Caesar ! 
 
 They did us up Brown, I declare ! 
 And I love her the more (but this follows. 
 
 Of course, when such cases arise). 
 For I Ve married — ^just think ! — my own widow, 
 
 Je — rusalem ! ! Yours, Jack Vansize. 
 
MADELINE ON BASE-BALL. 
 
 "XIZHAT a number of nicely dressed people ! I 'm 
 ^ " awfully glad that we came, 
 And you '11 be surprised when you find that I 'm 
 
 posted so well on the game. 
 Those buff-colored shirts and red stockings are 
 
 lovely, I know that they '11 win ; 
 And that little man there must be short-stop, for his 
 
 head would n't come to my chin. 
 
 Those three cushions down in the meadow, I sup- 
 pose, are to sit on and rest, 
 
 If they had them up here 't would be nicer ; just 
 see how that woman is dressed ! 
 
 The one with the crimson plush mantle, and the 
 hat with the ribbons and plume ; 
 
 I Ve been watching that couple this long time, I 'm 
 sure they 're a bride and a groom. 
 
 Now, why does the pitcher feel of the ball, every 
 
 time he commences to throw ? 
 To see if its properly curved ? And the catcher, 
 
 poor man ! he 's consumptive, I know, 
 114 
 
MADELINE ON BASE^BALL, I15 
 
 Or why does he wear that great pad on his chest ? 
 
 Did you hear those men laugh ? I declare ! 
 It makes me quite nervous and frightened, and 
 
 look at them now ! how they stare ! 
 
 There 's Alice and George just arriving ; that 's her 
 
 trick, always coming in late, 
 Oh, Vanitas Van-Vanitorum ! please see if my hat 
 
 is on straight ! 
 What 's that ? Struck a fowl ? Oh ! how could he ? 
 
 That man has no feeling or sense. 
 Poor little thing ! I don't see it, it must have crept 
 
 under the fence. 
 
 Stole what ? Stole a base ? Well ! I wonder such 
 
 things are allowed on the ground ! 
 And where on earth has he put it ? And what will 
 
 he do when it 's found ? 
 Caught napping at second ? Poor fellow ! he must 
 
 have been frightfully tired. 
 There 're the Smiths over there in a landau — is it 
 
 theirs, or one that they Ve hired ? 
 
 The red-stockings whitewashed ? What nonsense ! 
 
 That 's the silliest thing in base-ball : 
 And why is n't kalsomine better, if they Ve got to 
 
 do It at all ? 
 Well ! you don't look as if you 'd enjoyed it. I '11 
 
 wager you 're glad that it 's done. 
 But 't was awfully nice and excitmg — and who, did 
 
 you tell me, had won ? 
 
SITTING ON THE STAIR. 
 
 " A RT going to the ball this eve ? " 
 -^^ This was Jack's question, and I grieve 
 
 To say, the evening found me there. 
 On coming down, I picked my way 
 Between the couples, still or gay, 
 
 Who sat upon the stair. 
 
 Half down I paused, the days of yore. 
 The old, old times came back once more. 
 
 In the gay turmoil and the glare 
 I stood and lost myself, and dreamed 
 I saw /ler face ; once more we seemed 
 
 To sit upon the stair 
 
 Once more the old sweet things I said ; 
 In measure swayed her lovely head 
 
 To some gay waltz's witching air ; 
 Though draughts came whistling from above, 
 I felt no draughts but draughts of love 
 
 When sitting on the stair. 
 ii6 
 
SITTING ON THE STAIR. 11/ 
 
 The music ceased, I '11 ne'er forget 
 Its dreamy sadness, lingering yet 
 
 In her dark, moistened eyes, ** I swear ! 
 I 'd give the world to-night to see 
 That girl, who never more by me 
 
 Will sit upon the stair. 
 
 Since then I Ve climbed the stairs of life, 
 I *ve had my part of toil and strife, 
 
 And " — my sad revery ended there. 
 For, — first a giggle, then a cough. 
 Then rose a voice which said, " Come off ! 
 
 Don't stand upon the stair ! " 
 
THE BOSTON GIRL, 
 
 T TOLD her of a maid whose mind 
 
 •*• Was filled with tender thoughts and fancies, 
 
 A lovely being of the kind 
 
 They write about in old romances. 
 " Knowest thou," said I, "this maiden fair. 
 
 Whose beauty doth my thoughts beguile ? " 
 She answered with a dreamy air : 
 
 '' Well, I should smile ! " 
 
 " Her cheeks possess the rose's hue. 
 
 No form is daintier or completer. 
 No hair so brown, no eyes so blue. 
 
 No mouth is tenderer or sweeter. 
 The favored youth who gains the hand 
 
 Of this fair girl will ne'er regret it." 
 With modest grace she added : *^ And 
 Don't you forget it ! " 
 
 " O thou dear mistress of my heart ! 
 My angel ! let me kneel before thee 
 
 ii8 
 
THE BOSTON GIRL, 1 19 
 
 And say how heavenly sweet thou art, 
 And how devoutly I adore thee." 
 
 She turned away her lovely head, 
 And with a languid look that fired 
 
 My soul, in murmured accents said : 
 " You make me tired ! '* 
 
THE DEATH-BED OF MRS. OTLAHERTY. 
 
 " TJ EAR me last wurruds ! Faix ! there 's 
 
 -*■ -■• O'Shaughnessy, 
 That wurruld's thafe ! — owes me ninepince hap- 
 
 peny ; 
 And there *s Phil Coyne, with his decaiving thricks, 
 Owes me five shillin's ; and there 's Pathrick Free 
 By that same token owes me two and six, 
 The craythur ! May the divil howld him fast ! ** 
 " The ould woman is sinsible to the last ! " 
 
 " Give me a dhrop ! Arrah ! where was I thin ? — 
 And I owe Micky O'Nail wan pound tin. 
 And Phelim McCarthy two pounds, and I owe 
 Three pounds to Jimmy Hone, and Mrs. Flynn 
 Wan pound sivin shillin's two pince happeny, — no ! 
 'T is two pince and three farthin's, by your laves." 
 " Howly St. Pathrick / Hear now how she raves! " 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL TIGHT-ROPE DANCER. 
 
 T WOULD like to say, beforehand, 
 -■■ That it always makes me smile, 
 To watch those travelling agents. 
 
 Who sling the greatest style. 
 They dress like princes of the blood, 
 
 Yet any man of sense 
 Can tell a regular gentleman 
 
 From those commercial gents. 
 
 I recollect a man named Briggs, 
 
 A certain travelling swell, 
 When I tended bar at Smithville 
 
 In the Buckingham hotel. 
 *T was the time when we were boarding 
 
 The star variety show, 
 With the beautiful tight-rope dancer, 
 
 Signora Delarito. 
 
122 THE TIGHT-ROPE DANCER. 
 
 Now Briggs had been there fifteen days, 
 
 And in the show each night, 
 Had watched that tight-rope dancer, 
 
 With rapturous delight ; 
 For on the fair Signora 
 
 He was completely gone, 
 And for bouquets to sling at her 
 
 His samples lay in pawn. 
 
 One night Briggs rigged himself up fine, 
 
 And when the show was o*er. 
 Went up the stairs, and hung around 
 
 The fair Signora's door. 
 And when that tight-rope dancer came. 
 
 And waltzed up to her room. 
 Although what then and there transpired 
 
 Is wrapped in deepest gloom — 
 
 We heard an awful crash, and Briggs 
 
 Came flying down the stairs,, 
 Followed closely by a hamper. 
 
 And a trunk and several chairs. 
 When he reached the bottom landing, 
 
 He was tired and took a rest ; 
 Then he picked himself up sadly, 
 
 And took the first train West. 
 
THE TIGHT^ROPE DANCER. 
 
 123 
 
 Soon a fresh commercial tourist 
 
 Took the road in Briggs' stead ; 
 And that star variety phalanx 
 
 Skipped their bill, one night, and fled. 
 And busted up at Yankton, 
 
 Which I think was their best plan. 
 And that " beautiful tight-rope dancer," 
 
 She turned out to be a man. 
 
HOW THEY PAID THE CHURCH DEBT 
 AT SMITHVILLE. 
 
 A T Smithvllle once, to help the church, 
 ^~^ We gave an amateur play. 
 And set up *^ Julius Caesar *' 
 
 In a most astounding way. 
 The stars were Oscar Johnson, 
 
 Sam Brown, Bill Jones, and me ; 
 And the way that Jones played Caesar 
 
 Was a frightful thing to see. 
 
 At first the applause was great ; we played 
 
 For all the parts were worth ; 
 And the audience was n't critical 
 
 And did n't want the earth ; 
 Till William Jones, as usual. 
 
 Spoiled the play by getting tight. 
 And the whole thing somehow ended 
 
 In a regular Smithville fight. 
 
 We gave them ancient Romans points — 
 Except, it must be said, 
 124 
 
PAYING THE CHURCH DEBT. 12$ 
 
 When Cassius did n't know his part, 
 
 And sang a song instead. 
 When Brutus* false calves slewed around, 
 
 At which some people talked ; 
 And the curtain stuck when Caesar died, 
 
 And the corpse arose and walked. 
 
 But when Mark Antony got up 
 
 Where Csesar's body lay. 
 To speak the funeral speech, which is 
 
 The best thing in the play. 
 The audience laughed and roared, and he 
 
 Soon knew the reason why 
 When he saw the corpse, which sat upright 
 
 And winked with its left eye. 
 
 Jones was a most ambitious man, 
 
 And he thought 't was his best chance. 
 And rising from his bier began 
 
 An original Fejee dance. 
 Such conduct in a corpse you *11 own 
 
 It was exceeding queer ; 
 Then Antony, whose speech was spoiled. 
 
 Got straightway on his ear. 
 
 And from the rostrum stepped, and went 
 
 To put a head on Bill, 
 And they two waltzed around the stage 
 
 In a wild and reckless mill. 
 Then the Roman soldiers somehow, 
 
 In the scrimmage took a hand. 
 
126 PAYING THE CHURCH DEBT, 
 
 And the Roman populace followed 
 With the members of the band. 
 
 The audience cheered the Romans on, 
 
 For they thought 't was in the play, 
 But the truth dawned on their minds about 
 
 The time the stage gave way. 
 Then some one raised the cry of " fire " 
 
 And turned out all the lights, 
 And that there row was worse than them 
 
 Old Gladiators' fights. 
 
 The language that was used that night 
 
 Would be awful to relate. 
 And the Romans from that play went home 
 
 In a terribly used-up state. 
 Seven ears and noses were sewed on. 
 
 And a dozen fractures set. 
 But we took three hundred dollars in, 
 
 And paid that old church debt. 
 
THE BALLADE OF CAMPANINI DE LANCY. 
 
 ^TT WAS at Smithville, when *^ Norma " was given 
 
 -'■ By De Lancy's Opera Co.; 
 The assemblage was brilliant and cultured — 
 
 Fifty cents was the price of the show ; 
 And I think that 't was well for Bellini 
 
 That he died several years ago. 
 
 What a storm of applause, and what glitter 
 
 Of bright eyes and calcium lights ! 
 When De Lancy, the tenor robusto, 
 
 Came down from the empyrean heights. 
 Where he soared in his duet with Norma, 
 
 In a cocked hat, a sword, and red tights. 
 
 How gayly he winks toward the boxes. 
 Where the bank clerk's daughters recline ; 
 
 Where the plumber sits in his velvet coat, 
 And the solitaire pin doth shine 
 
 Of the man who owneth a twentieth part 
 Of a share in a telephone line. 
 127 
 
128 CAMPANINI DE LA JVC V. 
 
 But why does he start and grow livid, 
 As he turns to the orchestra chairs ? 
 
 And why does he falter, then dart through the flies, 
 And escape down the private back stairs ? 
 
 And who is that man whose fish-like eye 
 From the front row steadily glares ? 
 
 The curtain came down, and the gas-lights 
 
 Went out, and the music was still ; 
 For that man with the horrible grin, 
 
 Whose gaze made De Lancy ill. 
 Was the landlord from down in Ohio, 
 
 Where they skipped without paying the bill. 
 
AN ANGEL. 
 
 " TS it you, Jack ? I thought you 'd unearth me, 
 
 A For dancing, you know, I don't care. 
 So I quietly stole from the music, 
 
 The laughter and splendor and glare, 
 For a rest on the cool, dark piazza. 
 
 My cigar 's out ; come, give me a light ! 
 And I '11 tell you the dream which absorbed me 
 
 Out here in the calm summer night. 
 
 " The silver-edged mountains of cloudland 
 
 Had softened the light of the moon. 
 And the fire-flies seemed dancing the lanciers 
 
 To the ball-room's far-away tune ; 
 The breezes were rustling and whispering 
 
 Up there, in the trees overhead. 
 And there came a faint scent of syringas. 
 
 Like the perfume of days that are fled. 
 129 
 
I30 AN ANGEL, 
 
 " And my thoughts went back to a village 
 
 Somewhere in the hills, to the time 
 When my hopes and my visions were golden, 
 
 And life had a halo sublime ; 
 To an old house under the elm trees, 
 
 Which was made, by the romance and mirth 
 Of a pretty and fanciful maiden, 
 
 The dearest spot on the earth. 
 
 " In my dream. Jack ! I saw her, her eyes had 
 
 That same sweet look as of yore. 
 And I felt for a time all the vanished 
 
 Enchantment surround me once more. 
 But alas ! the glamour, the magic 
 
 Of youth are faded and lost. 
 And she — well ! I found she was mortal. 
 
 Though many a heartache it cost. 
 
 " And so, I was sitting here dreaming. 
 
 And striving to think that 't was best 
 That the romance, the freshness were ended, 
 
 That life seemed a pitiful jest. 
 And how did you like your fair partner ? 
 
 You were sitting alone on the stair, 
 And that rose which you have there, resembles 
 
 The one that she wore in her hair — 
 
 " Yes ! I know she *s vivacious and lovely, 
 
 And that she 's an angel, I own. 
 But a snare seemed to lurk in her dimples, 
 
 And her laugh had a traitorous tone. 
 
AN ANGEL. 
 
 131 
 
 Introduce me ? — well, no ! for the truth is, 
 
 That beautiful vision of lights 
 That angel of clay, I once worshipped, — 
 
 Is the girl that you danced with to-night." 
 
A SONG OF SIXPENCE. 
 
 OH ! sing that song, from out the olden time ! 
 Whose burden was the " sixpence of the 
 crown/' 
 Glad sign of wealth, those days of deeds sublime. 
 And that great king, whose fame is handed 
 down, 
 From age to age, by pockets full of rye. 
 And that immortal dish, the singing blackbird pie. 
 
 The sun was high above the eastern hill. 
 
 Yet, in the royal palace, every room 
 Was closely curtained, sombre, dark, and still. 
 
 And in the gilded parlor's stately gloom. 
 By the dim light, which stole through painted 
 
 panes, 
 Counted the sordid king, his vast, ill-gotten gains. 
 
 The tap'stried warriors trembled overhead 
 
 Like threatening ghosts of foes in battle slain. 
 
 Unmoved, he counted on, and counting, said : 
 " Great Scott ! there is a sixpence short again." 
 132 
 
A SONG OF SIXPENCE. 1 33 
 
 The curtains parted, through the room, unseen, 
 Stole, like a lovely ghost, his fair, unrivalled queen. 
 
 With many a fearful backward glance, she passed 
 The banquet hall, which the preceding night 
 
 Had filled with stains of wassail, and at last. 
 Entered the pantry, like a ray of light. 
 
 And there did break her weary fast, with bread 
 
 Whiter than driven snow, with honey thickly 
 spread. 
 
 Fit subject for a painter, there she stood. 
 Her beauty heightened by the quaint array 
 
 Of barrels, drawers, and tins of all things good, — 
 But hush ! a step was heard to come that way ; 
 
 She shrank with fear, her very heart was stilled. 
 
 Pale grew that dimpled cheek, with bread and 
 honey filled. 
 
 " Ah, me ! that sixpence of the king ! " she cried ; 
 
 "Why did I prospect in the old man's vest ? " 
 She heard the door slammed to and locked out- 
 side ; 
 
 Months passed away, her fate is only guessed ; 
 Perhaps they found her after many a day, 
 A skeleton, white bleached, alas ! we cannot say. 
 
 Around the palace, so the books agree. 
 The royal garden lay, and there, the maid. 
 
 As fair a maid as one would wish to see. 
 In blue silk gown and hose of ebon shade, 
 
134 ^ SONG OF SIXPENCE, 
 
 For pastime, hung upon a golden line, 
 Her festive sovereign's shirts, four ply and super- 
 fine. 
 
 When, lo ! there came a bird, a bird of prey 
 
 It must have been, though writ *^ a little bird," 
 And bit that sweet maid, that she swooned away ; 
 And though what then transpired was never 
 heard, 
 O ! thrice unhappy maid ! we know, too well. 
 That the sweet scent of flowers thou nevermore 
 didst smell. 
 
 And they are gone, aye ! ages long ago, 
 
 King, queen, and maid, their very graves un- 
 known ; 
 
 The royal palace, like last April's snow, 
 Has vanished, nor is left a single stone ; 
 
 And all their wealth and beauty, power and fame, 
 
 Are but a mournful tale, an empty, idle name. 
 

 
 JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 
 
 /"^ARVED with impossible figures, a massive and 
 
 ^-^ curious timepiece 
 
 Stood, in colonial years, by Jonathan Blake's ample 
 fireplace — 
 
 Stood there, ghostly and grim, with a flintlock and 
 sword crossed above it. 
 
 And, till the date of this story, at sundown the 
 fourteenth of August, 
 
 Seventeen seventy-and-seven, the time of the siege 
 of Fort Stanwix, 
 
 Ancient, stately, and quaint, from its case like an 
 old Gothic castle, 
 
 Ticked away, without ceasing, in solemn, harmoni- 
 ous cadence. 
 
 Jonathan Blake's pretty daughter Dorothy sat by 
 the window. 
 
 Turning a flax-wheel and singing, but paused, as 
 with terrible clatter 
 
 Open the door flew and in rushed a score of red- 
 coated soldiers, 
 
 135 
 
136 JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 
 
 And from the cellar to rafters, seeking a fugitive 
 prisoner, 
 
 Turned over tables and chairs and fathomed dark 
 corners with bayonets. 
 
 Rosy the flush that succeeded the pallor of Dorothy's 
 cheek, when, 
 
 Finding him not, they relinquished their search and 
 departed. 
 
 Then, with supreme indignation, hiding her maid- 
 enly fears, and 
 
 Drawing herself up as high as a rather small figure 
 permitted. 
 
 She, to the humble excuses preferred by the English 
 lieutenant. 
 
 Answered with all the disdain that a pair of dark 
 eyes could exhibit. 
 
 Now comes the wonderful part of the tale, for be- 
 fore they had vanished 
 
 Over the hill by the river, the door of the clock flew 
 wide open ; 
 
 Forth from its cavernous chamber, in uniform tat- 
 tered and blood-stained, — 
 
 Forth, like a shadow, a youth stole, and knelt at 
 the feet of the maiden. 
 
 Kissing her hand, and then like a shadow swiftly 
 departed. 
 
 Jonathan Blake was rich. His waving cornfields, 
 
 his woodlands 
 Stretched by the beautiful Mohawk and faded away 
 
 in the distance. 
 
JONA THAN BLAKE 'S CLOCK. 1 37 
 
 Jonathan Blake was rich, and Jonathan sorely was 
 
 troubled — 
 Troubled beholding the havoc wrought by those 
 
 red-coat marauders, — 
 Wrought overnight, and discovered at dawn of the 
 
 following morning. 
 Grain bins were emptied, the cornfields were tram- 
 pled as though by an army, 
 Haystacks lay smoking in ashes, and oxen and 
 
 horses had vanished. 
 Sadly he reckoned his loss, and hoping for some 
 
 compensation. 
 Rashly determined to start for St. Leger*s camp at 
 
 Fort Stanwix, 
 Twenty-one miles up the river, and fifteen miles 
 
 through the forest. 
 Little lame Solomon Pitkin, a scheming and envious 
 
 neighbor. 
 Afterwards found to have been for months in the 
 
 pay of the British, 
 Volunteered to go with him, and so they departed 
 
 together. 
 
 Never returned from that journey, Jonathan Blake 
 
 or his comrade. 
 Whether waylaid by the red-men, or carried off by 
 
 the English, 
 Tidings there came not ; and never, though long 
 
 and patiently sought, was 
 Found the magnified treasure with which report had 
 
 possessed him, — • 
 
138 JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK, 
 
 Hundreds and hundreds of dollars, 't was rumored, 
 in gold and in silver. 
 
 Floating southward, the white clouds, like souls of 
 
 the days of the summer. 
 Sank o'er the blue hills, the heavens grew cheerless 
 
 and wintry, the bleak winds 
 Moaned through the lonely gorges and leafless 
 
 boughs of the forest. 
 So came the winter and passed, and the pretty and 
 
 fanciful maiden 
 Changed to the staid Mistress Hawthorne, the wife 
 
 of the fugitive prisoner, 
 Roger Hawthorne, the youth whom the treacherous 
 
 maiden delivered. 
 Only to render tenfold a captive unto her bright 
 
 eyes. 
 Though as a timepiece its worth had departed since 
 
 Jonathan's journey, 
 Still the old clock in its corner, with queer and 
 
 fidgety manner. 
 Ticked as if it possessed some deep and mysterious 
 
 secret ; 
 And as the years passed away, in the darkness of 
 
 evening its quaint voice 
 Often brought back to the lovers the time when 
 
 the slender young ensign. 
 Wedged in its coffin-like chamber, his ruthless pur- 
 suers evaded. 
 
 Years rolled on, and the Hawthornes — their chil- 
 dren and children's children — 
 
JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 1 39 
 
 Peacefully slept in the church-yard, unknown in the 
 
 beautiful city, 
 Reared on the spot where their dwelling stood in 
 
 the whispering forest. 
 Long since, the loving tradition about the old clock 
 
 had departed. 
 Owned by some careless descendant, it slumbered 
 
 away in the attic, 
 Covered with lumber and dust ; until, asking for 
 
 just such a timepiece, 
 Came to his door, at dusk one day, a mysterious 
 
 stranger, 
 . Bent, and lame in one leg, a little old man in knee- 
 breeches. 
 With a cunning and sinister eye, and dusty, black, 
 
 thread-bare apparel. 
 Who, when the price of the dingy and ponderous 
 
 relic was settled. 
 Paid it in queer old silver, and shut himself up in 
 
 the attic. 
 After the noise of a hammer and chisel some time 
 
 had resounded. 
 Suddenly all was still, and they who ascended to 
 
 seek him 
 Found the clock lying in fragments, but where 
 
 was the singular stranger? 
 Lo ! the old man had departed in some unaccount- 
 able manner. 
 Strewn with pieces of paper, from end to end, was 
 
 the attic, — 
 Remnants of hundreds of bank-notes, thin and 
 
 yellow and faded ; 
 
140 JONA THAN BLAKE 'S CLOCK. 
 
 Currency Continental, worthless for all but old 
 
 paper ; 
 Torn as by one disappointed, and scattered about 
 
 in madness. 
 
 All that remains to be told of this far-stretched, 
 
 curious story, 
 Is that, repaired and revarnished, the stately and 
 
 veteran timepiece, 
 That since old Jonathan's journey had been in a 
 
 state of disorder, 
 Ticked away, as of yore, with solemn, harmonious 
 
 cadence. 
 
 END. 
 


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