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DESERT SANDS: 
 
 SELECTED POEMS 
 
 of 
 
 D. Frank Peffley. 
 
 1899, 
 
?u s 
 
 31263 
 
 Copyright, 1899, 
 By David Franklin Peffley. 
 
 ^WO COP| E s RECEIVED. 
 
 ^i^Q L^? ^\K^l0^1 
 
AUTHOR'S NOTE. 
 
 This small collection of verses has been made more 
 with a view to the preservation of the productions of my 
 pen than for any other purpose; but a limited edition is 
 modestly placed before the public as a perhaps little- 
 worthy contribution to the literature of the West. The 
 book is the slow growth of years, the poems having been 
 written in a disconnected way, as the muse moved me 
 in the midst of a life of plodding, wearing work, and 
 have not had as careful revision as should have been 
 given them before they were published. 
 
 They have been printed under disadvantages as to 
 proof-reading, as is painfully evident in several places; 
 but as the errors will be obvious to the intelligent reader 
 I will not call attention to them specifically. 1 regret 
 to have to ask the indulgence of my friends, for whom 
 this edition is principally intended, on this point. 
 
 I hope the volume may not seem to be entirely with- 
 out excuse for its appearance. 
 
 D. Frank Feffley. 
 Indianola, Towa, May 5th, 1S99. 
 
REVELATION— A Tale of Christmas. 
 
 The old year drew near to his passing, 
 Drew near as an age-bended Pilgrim 
 Who sees with dim eyes just before him 
 Rise the shrine he has life-long been seeking 
 Thro' fields that were radiant and fragrant, 
 Thro' fields golden-bright with their harvests, 
 Thro' fields resting 'neath the brown stubble. 
 Thro' fields that were barren and cheerless. 
 And joyfully yields up the spirit; 
 For his feet have accomplished the journey 
 That has been his sole mission in living. 
 
 Two homes stood beside a worn highway 
 Where the feet of the dead and the living 
 Had trod the red soil into atoms, 
 And the winds and the rains had removed them, 
 Their doorways stood facing each other, 
 
 -1- 
 
And their windows looked down on the trav'lers 
 Who constantly eastward or westward 
 Fared in unending procession, 
 The old faces gradually going 
 And leaving their places to new ones. 
 On the one hand the glow of the wood-fire 
 Was ruddy and cheerful as childhood 
 As it shone thro' the old-fashioned casements, 
 Illuming the face of the passer 
 Who glanced as he hurried on homeward 
 At the happiness it was a part of. 
 Within there dwelt three generations. 
 The grand-parents, ,on whose thin temples 
 The snows of their seventy winters- 
 Snows the warmth of this world cannot soften — 
 Lay white as on Andean summits. 
 Sat on opposite sides of the hearth-stone. 
 He smoked in contentment the clay pipe 
 Which his grand-daughter hlled and presented 
 With a kiss and a stroke of his forehead. 
 She busied her fingers with knitting, 
 Or smiled at the frolicsome children 
 
Who played round her soft-cushioned rocker, 
 
 Oft pausing to ask the old questions 
 
 She had answered their parents before them 
 
 About Santa Claus and his reindeer, 
 
 And how he gets down thro' the fireplace 
 
 Without scorching the fur of his clothing. 
 
 Careless were both; for the future 
 
 Was bright with the bow of the promise, 
 
 And the past had been prosp'rous and happy. 
 
 The brows of the parents were thoughtful, 
 
 But grateful hearts shone thro' their faces; 
 
 For ne'er had the death-angel call'd them 
 
 To sorrow, or ill-fortune fallen, 
 
 But always the Good Lord had blest them 
 
 Whatever their hands had engaged in. 
 
 And now, when life's summer was ending, 
 
 They rested amid what they'd gathered, 
 
 Living only for those they had brought from 
 
 The mystic Eterne to the Present. 
 
 But over the way there were dreary, 
 
 Dark windows, with Want looking thro' them, 
 
 Misfortune had long time abode there. 
 
The father had labored while waiting, 
 
 For the shadow he saw surely settling 
 
 To deepen and shut the world from him. 
 
 It had fallen; and flowers had blossomed 
 
 One summer above him. Her sorrows 
 
 Had broken the mother's poor spirit, 
 
 And her frail body's strength was fast waning. 
 
 For her eldest had died ere his father, 
 
 Whose hope he had been for the future, 
 
 A staff they would have still to lean on 
 
 When he should be gone from among them. 
 
 Yet she toiled as always a mother 
 
 Will toil till the grave opens for her 
 
 That the little ones left to her keeping 
 
 Might feel not the rac kings of hunger, 
 
 But in vain. And the chill winds of winter 
 
 Swept round them and laughed in the windows, 
 
 And mocked when the door was thrown open 
 
 At the want and the sorrow within it. 
 
 The eyes of the children grew hollow; 
 
 From their lips fled the music of laughter; 
 
 They stood at the windows and wondered 
 
At what their young minds saw so darkly; 
 Why the width of the time-worn old highway 
 Should to them be the gulf that shut Dives 
 From the Beggar in Abraham's bosom. 
 
 'Twas the eve that the chorus of angels 
 
 Sang "Good Will" o'er Judea's hilltops. 
 
 All day the children had noted 
 
 The stir and the glad preparation 
 
 For the feast and the joy of the morrow, 
 
 The surprises the young ones should wake to 
 
 In the home with the sun-lighted portal. 
 
 But the darkness grew thicker and chiller 
 
 And the fatherless babes at the window 
 
 Cried with the cold and the hunger 
 
 That the mother could give no relief from. 
 
 Grief burst from the wan sufferer's bosom, 
 
 A sob she in vain strove to stifle. 
 
 The children, hearing it, turned from 
 
 Their watching and threw their arms round her, 
 
 Each murmuring "Mamma, I love you," 
 
 And asking her why she was crying. 
 
 She pressed them both to her heart then 
 
And said "Because mamma loves you.'' 
 
 They kissed the warm tears from her eyelids, 
 
 Held her thin, pallid face in their cold hands, 
 
 Kissed her again and the sadness 
 
 Faded out of the lives of the children. 
 
 Forgot were the cold and the hunger 
 
 In the heart-glow of love for the moment. 
 
 And the music of innocent prattle 
 
 Drove away the lank wolf from the threshold. 
 
 But the lights o'er the way flared yet brighter, 
 
 And a shout faintly heard floated to them. 
 
 They begged that their mother would take them, 
 
 To look thro' the window a moment 
 
 And see what was happiness like to. 
 
 How could she deny them such asking? 
 
 So wrapping them in their scant garments 
 
 She took in her arms the two babies 
 
 And silently crossed o'er the roadway 
 
 And stood in the light of the casement, 
 
 Stealing joy for the hearts of her children. 
 
 The glow from within soon betrayed them. 
 
 The youngest looked out thro' the window, 
 
 —6— 
 
Then screaming clung hard to his sister. 
 Quickly she looked where he pointed 
 And saw as a flash three white faces 
 Turn to the darkness and vanish. 
 But the flash was enough to reveal them 
 To more than the eyes of the youngest; 
 The father and mother had seen them. 
 The vision smote into their heart-depths 
 A-nd broke up their fountains of feeling. 
 
 With tears gushing over her eyelids, 
 
 "Oh, Jesus!" she cried "how we blindly 
 
 Forget thee in doing thee honor! 
 
 How little on this thy clear birth-night 
 
 We feel in our hearts of thy teaching!" 
 
 "Come, wife," said her husband, arising, 
 
 And straight they rushed into the darkness 
 
 Where the three were seen staggering homeward 
 
 Pierced with the frost-laden night air, 
 
 With sobs from the little ones breaking 
 
 As they clung in their fright to their mother. 
 
 Then a gleam from the hallway upon them 
 
 Fell bright as the parents ran wildly 
 
And called them to stop. Then the mother 
 Sank clown on her knees in the roadway. 
 ''Forgive us," she cried, "but 'twas Heaven 
 To these my poor babes for one moment 
 To look on the scenes at your hearthside. 
 It was wrong, but I beg you will pardon; 
 For I shall be gone ere the Christ-night 
 Again this drear world shall curtain. 
 The call I have heard, and I know that 
 The snows will lie lightly above me 
 When Time's clock shall next strike the twelve-month. 
 Oh, how sweet shall I rest then! 
 But these, my innocent children, 
 Too young yet to know, not to suffer,"- 
 Before she could conquer her feeling, 
 The daughter had answered her mother 
 With warmth-giving wraps, and the children 
 Were borne through the doors to the hearth-stone. 
 And their eyes grew wider with wonder 
 At the strangers, and strange things around them. 
 Protesting and sobbing, the widow 
 Was borne by strong arms to the fireside 
 —8— 
 
And placed in the father's great arm-chair. 
 The babes were borne off -to the wardrobe 
 And dressed in the warmest of garments 
 Selected from those of the youngest. 
 Soon for the three was a feast spread 
 Such as the little ones never 
 Had tasted; the mother in long time. 
 And when with the food more of color 
 Had mantled their cheeks, and brighter 
 The lights in their eyes had arisen, 
 A chapter was read and the father 
 Poured fervently forth to the Giver 
 The thanks from his heart overflowing 
 For the lesson they'd learned, but so slowly. 
 Nor would they suffer the widow 
 And babes to return to their dwelling 
 So cheerless that night, nor the morrow, 
 But with feasting and joy entertained them. 
 
 So passed the winter, and spring came; 
 Came to the children as happy 
 And playful as lambs in the meadows; 
 But with it the mother grew weaker, 
 
 —9— 
 
And when from the brookside in May-time 
 
 They brought to her fragrant wild flowers, 
 
 She kissed the brown hands that had plucked them. 
 
 And, soothed by their sweet exhalation. 
 
 Whispered "Farewell'' and a blessing, 
 
 And her soul floated out from its prison. 
 
 They buried her where she had wished them, 
 
 By the graves of her son and her husband, 
 
 And carved on a shaft of pale marble 
 
 The names of the three silent sleepers. 
 
 Soon was forgotten the sorrow 
 
 The little ones felt in her going. 
 
 And memory was but the fragrance 
 
 That a long withered flower leaves behind it 
 
 In the book 'tween whose pages we pressed it. 
 
 They strewed the three graves every May-time 
 
 With the flowers that had softened death's pathway. 
 
 They slowly learned more of their childhood 
 
 And the home they had left o'er the roadway, 
 
 With the story of that night in December, 
 
 And the lesson it bore, and the blessing, 
 
 As womanhood blossomed within them, 
 
 —10- 
 
And sought to repay all with loving 
 And serving God's poor as He taught them 
 Whose birth the loud chorus of angels 
 Announced with the glad song of "Good Will. 
 
 DREAM-WINGED. 
 
 Once when the dewy wings of summer night 
 
 Had closed about my spirit, weary with the toil 
 
 That earth hath ever made its share of life below, 
 
 And 'neath their brooding shadows I had sunk 
 
 Into a deep and restful sleep, beside my couch 
 
 A beauteous Dream did stand: 
 
 A Dream more fair than mortal tongue or pen 
 
 Can to the mind describe, or pencil's touch 
 
 Can limn for mortal eye. 
 
 Its face of radiant, pallid light, ethereal, pure 
 
 Upon me smiled with solemn happiness; 
 
 And thro' my frame no shock of terror passed, 
 
 Nor tremor of slight fear, for in that face 
 
 Such sweet compassion beamed as mortal face 
 
 Ne'er wore, nay, none but His. 
 
 No words its lips did pass; but, bending low, 
 
 —11— 
 
Within its own my willing hand it clasped, 
 
 And to its pulseless bosom held. 
 
 I felt nor saw no motion; but soon I knew 
 
 The darkling earth was shrinking in the misty space, 
 
 And tiny stars, as seen from her, were sprung 
 
 To blazing suns, and songs of spheres through ether 
 
 whirling dizzily 
 Came faintly on my ear that heard 
 Most exquisitely clear. 
 
 And now I found my Dream and me beside 
 
 A wondrous tide with surface calmer than the face 
 
 Of childhood in the arms of healthful sleep. 
 
 No ripple marred it, made by breeze that sped 
 
 From shore to shore. Its only dread its silence, 
 
 For no index of its depth was there, and clear 
 
 As crystal tho' it lay, no eye could penetrate, 
 
 For all the light reflected that upon it fell. 
 
 Above it rolled a cloud as light as floats 
 
 When June across her bluest vault unfolds 
 
 Her fleeciest banner to her softest airs. 
 
 But still no eye could pierce its folds, so light 
 
 And yet so dense. 
 
 —12— 
 
I wished that I might see beyond; 
 And with the thought a momentary rift 
 Broke through the cloud, and with the glimpse I caught 
 My soul was filled with joy ecstatic. 
 Beyond there walked, within my voice's call, 
 A group of beings like my guide, my Dream, 
 With fields beneath their feet like those my child- 
 hood knew, 
 Whose carpet was of flowers and softest moss. 
 And farther ranged the hills eternal, crowned 
 With trees that never shed their robes that glow 
 Beneath the moveless sun that gives them day; 
 And where their feet rest on the gentle slopes 
 That part them from the spreading plain below, ' „ 
 Broad shadows fell from everlasting canopies 
 Where groves were vocal with the notes of birds 
 That sing away the golden cycles of their deathless sphere. 
 The rift was closed; but in my soul the joy 
 Ecstatic dwelt. "0, is it death," I cried, 
 "To pass this waveless tide and be where death is not? 
 To rest in yonder groves and list to deathless tongues? 
 To gaze on scenes that change not, nor can change? 
 
 —18— 
 
lead me there! No terror can it have if that be death, 
 
 and there 
 D^ell those I loved on earth where sorrow is." 
 A moment was my vision lost; and when 
 It came again T stood upon that wondrous plain 
 With beings of my Dream-guide's mould 
 About me. Songs of grove-choirs, full of sweetest chords, 
 And incense of the teeming meadows spreading far, 
 With perfume-laden breezes from the hills 
 O'ercame my untried spirit, and I sank 
 Into the arms my Beauteous One outheld. 
 A kiss she on my forehead pressed, and on the kiss let fall 
 A tear of tend'rest pity and of love. 
 My spirit quick revived, and then I heard 
 The name of Letha, baby-sister of my longlost youth. 
 And when I heard that name, so long unheard on earth, 
 
 existing here 
 But on the simple stone that marks the spot 
 Where 'neath the little mound I saw forever hid 
 Her snowy, placid face, the joy within o'erwhelmecl me; 
 And I saw no more of that unchanging strand 
 To which we drift unthinking on, for I awoke 
 And all the load of life upon me came again. 
 
 —14— 
 
FAITH'S CHILLING 
 High in the shapely tower it swung, 
 The great sonorous bell, and flung 
 From off its brazen lips and tongue 
 Full, vibrant and exultant tones. 
 I paused upon the pavement stones 
 Below and listened. O'er my soul 
 In thrilling ripples seemed to roll 
 A summons from the bending sky, 
 Whose far, blue depths outreached the eye 
 That springtime morn, to worship's seat. 
 With bended head and rev'rent feet 
 I passed the arched door and stood 
 
 Without the sanctuary, where 
 I listened to the swelling flood 
 
 The organ poured upon the air 
 Of harmony; majestic, grand 
 As that which waked the shepherd band 
 It seemed 't must be. 
 
 I entered and 
 An usher beckoned with his hand. 
 I followed up the noiseless aisle 
 
 -15- 
 
The soothing flood swept down the while; 
 
 And when the pew door closed I sank 
 
 Into the cushioned seat and drank 
 
 From founts that sprang in Heaven's hills, 
 
 I thought, and felt the Power that fills 
 
 The walls of space and enters in 
 
 Each human heart that seeks its sin 
 
 To lose and God's sweet grace to win. 
 
 The choir burst forth. Each voice that sang 
 
 Was faultless, and the anthem rang 
 
 Upon my tense and intent ear 
 
 Distinct and beautiful and clear. 
 
 But cold — how cold! Those voices told 
 
 No story in their perfect tone 
 Of God's abiding, as of old, 
 
 In hearts that sang to him alone. 
 ''They mock for money," then I said 
 In sorrow, and I bowed my head; 
 "They sing their praises all to men 
 For man's reward.'* 
 
 My eyes again 
 I raised to meet the pastor's face 
 
 —16— 
 
Standing in his sacred place, 
 Slight and full of youth and fair, 
 To offer up the opening prayer. 
 The seminary's training shone 
 
 Through phrase and accent, gesture, pose; 
 My heart sank slowly as a stone 
 
 In ocean's depths as the prayer uprose. 
 "He prays to men, for man's applause," 
 I cried within me. 
 
 And when came 
 The sermon, in it God's great name 
 Nor Christ's was emphasized, but passed 
 As if they were the least and last 
 To be considered in man's life. 
 It dwelt on things of earth — the strife 
 Of parties— measures — men; the gains 
 Of art and science; all with pains 
 Sought out, and told with flowing tongue. 
 His hearers on his accents hung, 
 For eloquence was there that fell 
 Upon the hushed house like a spell, 
 While his elaborated theme 
 
 —17— 
 
Made man the greater God to seem. 
 But Calvary's scene of death he spared; 
 
 u Him crucified" he would not paint, 
 As preachers of the old time dared 
 
 In burning words, heart-spoken, quaint. 
 
 The organ loosed again its flood 
 As cheerless on the tiles I stood 
 Without the sanctuary's door 
 And saw the ebbing tide outpour 
 Of worshippers; but not a face 
 
 That looked in mine gave out a beam 
 Caught in that house of added grace. 
 
 To me it did not sacred seem 
 When on the pavement stones again 
 
 I stood and gazed upon the pile, 
 A triumph of the hands of men, 
 
 And mused on what I'd seen the while 
 I sat within, and wondered not 
 That God by man's so oft forgot. 
 
 18- 
 
DEATH OF JOHN BAPTIST. 
 Within an Eastern prison's noisome cell, 
 Dank and dark and narrow, guarded lay 
 The Christ's forerunner, Prophet, bound. 
 No fault was his; no law of man or God 
 By him was violate. But speaking out 
 Against illicit love of one in whom 
 Was vested Rome's unholy sway in Galilee 
 Had drawn upon his head the cruel hate 
 Of woman, more relentless far than man 
 When sin hath in her heart usurped the seat of good. 
 
 Again the year brought round the festal day 
 On which was Herod wont to celebrate 
 His birth, and in his sumptuous palace halls 
 Were gathered there his guests of high degree. 
 Story and jest and song with laughter rang 
 And echoed from the walls. Red shone the wine 
 And sparkled as 'twas drained from brimming cups, 
 And with its fire to warm the full-fed blood, 
 Still louder waxed the mirth around the board 
 Till song and jest and boasting tale grew flat. 
 Then called a favored one who sat at Herod's right, 
 
 -19- 
 
"A dance, King, Hast not a damsel here whose grace 
 Can to the hours add wings ere they begin to creep?" 
 Then joined they all, "A dance! a dance, King!" 
 
 And Herod sent a message to his wife 
 
 Commanding that into his presence come 
 
 Her daughter, versed in all the subtle skill to please 
 
 That marks the oriental maid of high estate. 
 
 She came — a girl whose beauty well might captivate 
 
 E'en sober brains and hearts that sought no more 
 
 In woman than a perfect form, an eye with passion lit, 
 
 Voluptuous grace in motion that could rouse 
 
 And quicken most phlegmatic natures to admire. 
 
 Applause burst forth when in the tempered light 
 She paused, her smile disclosing gleaming ivory, 
 Her deep, dark orbs cast round with witching glance, 
 With pearls and gold bedecked and wondrous hair 
 Half hiding, half revealing, but marking stronger still 
 Each charm of face, and neck and arms and billowing 
 
 breast, 
 With robes that were well fashioned to throw out 
 In strong relief the beauty-lines that most please men 
 In sensual moods, or heated with the cup. 
 
 —20— 
 
Then silence while she danced, or comment under breath, 
 
 And loud acclaim of praise when she had done, 
 
 And Herod's praise most generous of all. 
 
 Flushed with exertion and with exultation she, 
 
 Summoned, stood before him and he spake: 
 
 "Most fair and graceful thou, and worthy of 
 
 Our favor to the full. Ask what thou wilt to equal power 
 
 Within our kingdom, and it shall be thine. 
 
 These guests do hear our oath. Damsel, say thy wish." 
 
 But she — a child she was in years, obedient to 
 
 Her mother's will — would not until she knew that will 
 
 Her wish prefer, and straighway sought her side. 
 
 The proud Herodias, implacable in hate, 
 
 Knew well the custom of the court and was resolved 
 
 Within her heart that he should cease to live 
 
 Who had offended not the law but her. 
 
 So to the child she said, "Go, ask my lord the king 
 
 That unto you he bring the head of him who now 
 
 In bonds and prison lieth for my sake. 
 
 He knoweth whom, nor dare he to refuse 
 
 What he hath sworn to do." 
 
 Quickly at his feet she stood again and spake 
 
 —21— 
 
According to the counsel of her mother's lips. 
 
 Deep silence fell within the palace walls. 
 
 On Herod's face a moment pallor came and then a cloud 
 
 Of sorrow passed. Fear before had come between 
 
 His cruelty and John, whose innocence he knew, 
 
 And whom the people held as sent of God. 
 
 But now? Could he before his high-born guests abjure 
 
 His oath and live despised of them, unworthy of his 
 
 name ? 
 His word was out. Not unredeemed should it return: 
 He must be Herod still. 
 Forth went his edict; and the executioners 
 Within the prison's hold appear with lamp and sword. 
 The prisoner beholds the blade, but not a trace 
 Of fear comes in his strong and rugged face. 
 •'What would ye. men," he asks, "with me this night?" 
 They answer him, "The king would have thy head 
 To grace the festival which he doth celebrate. 
 Kneel quickly: keep not waiting in the hall 
 His guests, nor tax his patience with our long delay." 
 " 'Tis but a sword's swift stroke 'twixt God's own face 
 
 and me, 
 
 —22— 
 
His servant, all unworthy Him to serve. 
 My life is Herod's, but my spirit God's, to whom it flies- 
 Be quick/' 
 
 He kneels; a flash within the narrow walls 
 Like summer's lightning, and a torrent darkly red; 
 A trunk that trembles for a moment and is still; 
 A gasp, and closing eyes. 'Tis all this side of Heaven. 
 The guests retire to sleep away the night's carouse. 
 Herodias dreams o'er the cruel triumph of her hate, 
 While Herod ill at ease rolls on his wakeful couch 
 And prays for light, remorseful asking oft, 
 *'Ah, if from the dead he come again?" 
 
 REASON'S REBUKE. 
 
 The azure paled and turned to gold. 
 The gold to purple; fold on fold 
 The curtain-clouds were hung on high 
 Across the gorgeous summer sky; 
 And in the softened light the day 
 Upon the mountains dying lay. 
 
 —23— 
 
I sat and watched the changing scene 
 
 Reflected in the quivering sheen 
 
 The lake spread wide, by elf-breaths stirred, 
 
 Or by the wild notes of a bird 
 
 Whose song swept o'er the water's face 
 
 From the dark, green shade at the mountain's base. 
 
 The gold and purple faded; crept 
 
 The shadows out; the dusk sky wept; 
 
 The clouds rolled back behind the brow 
 
 The mountain lifted, frowning now. 
 
 The bird-notes faltered, then grew still; 
 
 The lake's broad shimmer sank from sight; 
 And water, grove and plain and hill 
 
 Were blended in the hue of night. 
 
 The stars came out, and twinkling fell 
 Their soft, pale glimmer through the air. 
 
 I yielded to sweet nature's spell 
 And drifted musing free from care. 
 
 "Come," said Fancy, "Come with me. 
 Sail we o'er the ether sea; 
 Sail we where bright rivers flow 
 On other planets, lit by glow 
 
 —24— 
 
Of other suns, and other years 
 Mark the whirl of time; in spheres 
 Where the changeful life of man 
 Is measured by another span, 
 His progress by another plan; 
 In spheres where life is yet unknown 
 And Force formative acts alone; 
 In others yet where sullen Death 
 
 Broods over all — Time's work is done, 
 All animate has yielded breath 
 
 And Desolation from the throne 
 Of stern Fate's kingdom grimly sees 
 The slow out-work of his decrees. 
 Come, sail with me." 
 
 She touched my brow, 
 With unfelt fingers and the prow 
 Of her craft unseen she turned away 
 From earth and with the speed of day 
 As it darts from the sun through space we whirled 
 Round star and moon and world on world 
 Till intellect reeled in effort vain 
 
 To comprehend in the vision shown 
 
 25 - 
 
The reach of Force's vast domain, 
 
 Whose sway all space alike must own. 
 
 And I woke. I heard the lake's low plash; 
 I saw the fire-fly's lantern flash; 
 The beetle hummed in the soothing air; 
 The cricket chirped in the wall, and where 
 The east met the earth pale Luna's beam 
 Softened the gloom with its rising gleam. 
 
 I said, ''Here have been problems given 
 
 At my home's door too deep for me. 
 With such has mind for ages striven. 
 
 And still unwrit the answers be. 
 The light and darkness both I see; 
 The sun flame screened by hill and tree: 
 I hear the music clear and low 
 Come up from where the waters flow ; 
 [ hear the hum of wings that beat 
 The umbrous air, and at my feet 
 Frail insects fill the night with sound, 
 Though voiceless; and the landscape round 
 Me's flecked with intermittent fire 
 Phosphoric, burning without heat. 
 —26— 
 
A thousand strings creation's lyre 
 Hath, all attuned to concord sweet. 
 
 And yet I cannot comprehend, 
 
 How wide one vibrant arc may bend 
 
 In Being's scale. I only know 
 Its amplitude is governed by 
 
 The power that makes yon worm to glow 
 And the stars to swing in the boundless sky. 
 
 Myself the greater mystery, yet 
 
 All queries of whither and whence unmet 
 
 And what imperfectly understood." 
 
 Then reason spake in pensive mood, 
 
 "What profits it to seek thy source? 
 
 The parent of all that is is Force 
 
 Who with the sceptre Law compels 
 
 Obedience from all matter, born 
 
 To life or that in silence dwells. 
 
 With sense and sentiment untorn. 
 
 Co me, take my hand and walk with me 
 
 And half the mystery will not be. 
 
 Thou'lt be content to live and die 
 
 Without the knowledge of how and why." 
 
LEGEND OF SPIRIT LAKE. 
 
 It is a legend weird and old 
 That still by Lacd 'Esprit is told. 
 Whose bosom clear and deep and cold 
 Throws back the hue of northern skies 
 And each slow fleck that neaththem flies — 
 So mirror bright its surface lies. 
 
 Within it, hid from mortal sight, 
 
 With his lone love whose face of white 
 
 That glows like Heaven's far lamps of night 
 
 Drives back the shadows to their cells. 
 
 Bold Star-of-Day, the Lost Chief dwells — 
 
 Lost Chief whose breast with vengeance swells. 
 
 Their wrath the wild Dakotan fears; 
 
 And ne'er across the water steers 
 
 His rocking craft, lest their list'ning ears 
 
 Catch the paddle's plash, or their eyes, perchance, 
 
 Its silvery flash in the sunbeam's glance 
 
 Or the gleam of the ripples that shine and dance. 
 
 For they waken the dread Storm Fiend who rends 
 
 The thongs of the tempest wolves and sends 
 
 —28- 
 
Them howling over the lake, and lends 
 A frown to the clouds whose anger breaks 
 In crash and roar till the scared earth quakes, 
 The startled ooze through the low depths shakes, 
 And the boatman sinks to the world below. 
 And watching there their own they know; 
 And the water sleeps in its charmed glow 
 When the face that floats above is white, 
 Like the far, dim lamps of Heaven at night 
 That twinkle and glint in the leaden height. 
 
 THE LEGEND. 
 
 Widely roamed the Dakotas 
 
 In the fair, crisp days of the Autumn 
 
 When the prairies turned brown and the forests 
 
 Resplendent in gold and in purple 
 
 Shone in the soft yellow sunshine 
 
 That blended the frost-painter's touches, 
 
 Seeking the haunts of the bison 
 
 And the deer that fed on the meadows. 
 
 Close by the Father of Waters 
 Curled upward the smoke from their tepees, 
 Or near to the margin of lakelets — 
 —29— 
 
Footprints of the Great Spirit — 
 Shining upon the broad landscape. 
 There speared they the fish and the turtle. 
 There gathered they fruits from the thickets; 
 And dried there the flesh that the hunters 
 Brought from the long, weary chases 
 For their living when back to the village 
 The North-wind should drive them, and Winter 
 Should lock up the store-house of Nature. 
 
 Or far on the Mightier river 
 Whose waters are turbid and angry 
 As they roll with the thaws from the mountains 
 Swift toward the Gulf where the southland 
 Bathes in the sun-heated tidewaves, 
 Their brave men followed the war path, 
 And the blood of their enemies stained it 
 Behind them with streakings of crimson. 
 Homeward they turned them rejoicing, 
 Flaunting the gore-knotted scalplocks, 
 Trophies of valor the old men 
 Looked on and boasted of bold deeds 
 Themselves had accomplished aforetime, 
 
 —30- 
 
Ere Age, the patient old warrior 
 
 Had stript them of strength and endurance 
 
 And bidden them stay with the women. 
 
 Young Star-of-Day was their war chief. 
 
 Brown was his face as his fellows'; 
 
 Matted and black were his long locks; 
 
 Keen was his eye as the eagle's; 
 
 Stronger his arm was than any 
 
 That followed him; and in the ambush 
 
 None was as he so successful; 
 
 While in the fury of the battle 
 
 His stroke was the stroke of the lightning 
 
 Whose flash rives the heart of the oak tree. 
 
 In his veins coursed the blood of the white man. 
 He knew it not; for he never 
 Had known of the mother who bore him, 
 The mother who long years had mourned him. 
 The squaw who had nourished his childhood 
 Had stolen him from the rude cradle 
 Where, crowing and catching at sunbeams, 
 He lay in the cabin at evening 
 Where the land of the pioneer paleface 
 —31— 
 
Touched the domain of Dakota. 
 She named him from the star-whiteness 
 Of his face as it glowed in the twilight. 
 Kind had she been, and he loved her 
 And thought of her ever as mother. 
 
 He was loved of the tribes, and they trained him 
 
 In all the rude arts of the warrior, 
 
 That he should succeed Um-pa-sho-ta, 
 
 The Chief whom their old men had followed. 
 
 One eve as the band by a lake side 
 Stopped for rest from their marching, 
 There lay, wearied out with exertion 
 In following day-long her captors, 
 A maiden of radiant beauty 
 Weeping upon the coarse grasses. 
 White was her face as the starlight, 
 Golden her hair as the sunset, 
 Blue were her eyes as the heavens, 
 And she pleadingly looked at the Chieftain 
 In silence, imploring compassion. 
 She reached the bold heart with her prayer. 
 He pitied her sorrow and loved her. 
 —82— 
 
He felt in his breast a new impulse 
 Unknown to the tribes of the prairie, 
 And knew he was not a Dakotan. 
 
 When the braves had sunk into slumber 
 Deep and undreaming around him, 
 He stole to the maiden who sleepless 
 Still sobbed as she lay on the grasses, 
 Lonely and frightened and trembling. 
 He loosened the thongs that had bound her, 
 And lifting her up in his strong arms 
 Bore her quickly out from among them, 
 And down where the waters complaining 
 Impatiently beat on the margin 
 In musical murmurs, though sullen. 
 There nestled among the rank sedges 
 A boat. It was frail and unsteady; 
 But safety lay over the waters. 
 Escaped from the bands of Dakota, 
 They'd fly to the land of the white men; 
 For the new revelation within him 
 Had told him that their blood was his blood. 
 There would he love her he'd rescued. 
 —83— 
 
Half across the expanse he had paddled 
 
 When the breath of the east wind grew stronger 
 
 And the wavelets, now tipped with the silver 
 
 The moon as she rose threw upon them, 
 
 Grew rough in their play, leaping over 
 
 The low-floating sides of the vessel. 
 
 It sank; and the Chief and the maiden 
 
 Went down to the world of the dead men. 
 
 Sinking he cursed the Dakotas. 
 
 In the caverns of Death he still hates them, 
 
 And none of the tribes dare offend him 
 
 By crossing the lake where they perished. 
 
 For the storms will obey him. Destruction 
 
 He sends o'er the face of the water. 
 
 And thus have the tribes of the northland 
 
 Been taught to shudder and whisper 
 
 When they speak of the lake and its story — 
 
 The death-haunted Lake of the Spirit. 
 
 34 
 
IN NATIONAL CEMETERY. 
 
 The holy hush of dewy eve comes clown 
 As falls a gauzy curtain, dim seen through. 
 The soft and pensive glow dies in the west. 
 Moistened breezes wander past my cheek 
 And lay their gentle touch on my uncovered brow 
 And whisper poesy into my ear. The maple leaves 
 Are stirred with still, small voices, too — 
 But yonder robin, hopping on the sward, is mute with 
 strange bright eyes. 
 
 I wander in this low abiding place, 
 
 This silent city where the dead yet live; 
 
 Where flesh and bone resolve to dust and take 
 
 Again their ancient place among the elements, 
 
 But still the blood-wrought deed survives, 
 
 And mocks at time, and scorns oblivion. 
 
 In all the backward reach of history is any dead 
 
 Who lived for ends beyond the narrow pale of self? 
 
 I think and slowly stroll. My fleshly senses fail. 
 
 I'm borne into the past. Time's wing 
 
 Whirls back, and once again I stand, a wondering boy, 
 
 —35— 
 
Yet with a man's discernment 
 
 The silence is no more, but round my ears 
 
 A storm of sounds that fill with dread the timid heart, 
 
 But nerve the brave to strong and steady beat: 
 
 The heavy cannon's boom— the musket's crash 
 
 As hurtles from its muzzle leaden death — 
 
 The circling saber's steely clang — the hoof's wild tramp 
 
 The whirr of flying wheels as batteries seek their place- 
 
 The shriek of shell, and neigh of plunging steed 
 
 As bloody rowels tear his foaming flank— 
 
 The Stentor-voiced command that rises o'er the fray — 
 
 The victor's cheer that shakes the heaven's dome— 
 
 The loud, deep curse that falls from vanquished lips — 
 
 The dying warrior's groan, breathed out unheard 
 
 By all save God — all rush at once upon my ear, 
 
 And half o'erwhelm its lower sense. 
 
 But in its higher sphere of inspiration, 
 
 And clear as golden harps that wake the halls of Hope, 
 
 Another voice is heard: 
 
 " 'Tis God defends the right; man strikes the blow, 
 
 But He doth aim; all time is His, and he 
 
 Doth do His will as suits the age. 
 
 —36— 
 
With every stroke, though blood in torrents fall, 
 Is Error driven from another hold; 
 And right is Truth, and she doth bolder grow, 
 And will at last assert her universal sway- 
 It is not death to fall the broken sword of God." 
 
 The stars, with cold, white eyes, look clown; 
 The chaos of stern sounds recedes and dies; 
 Time whirls again into the living hour; 
 I look, and at my feet the modest stones 
 I see — to other ears so mute! And yet 
 How eloquent to me, my emotions full awake! 
 Shall these low stones, these lipless orators, 
 In vain admonish us who yearly strew 
 With flowers this sod to hold forever fast 
 The peace they bought who sleep beneath? 
 A flag untorn — a freedom more than name — 
 A nation where the man is merged in nothing higher, 
 But out from him is every reckoning run ? 
 At Ft. Scott, Kansas, 1889. 
 
 -87 
 
FUGA TEMPORIS. 
 
 Down the icy steep the Year is gone — 
 Down to where the gulf of Hath Been yawns 
 To swallow all the years of Earth, Time's children. 
 Pinched was his face and haggard, and his eye 
 Was tireless, blinded with the snow. 
 His locks whipt white in the ruthless air. 
 His body, frail and drawn with age, 
 Unsteady limbs and broken staff upbore 
 With trembling remnant of departed strength. 
 A hollow moan his voice. No more 
 With gladsome speech and song he cheered 
 The sons of toil with promise fair 
 Of toil's reward. His work was done. 
 He brought them opportunity. He gave 
 Them time to sow, to cultivate, the golden moons 
 Of harvest, and passed on not looking back, 
 But leaving them with will or strong or weak to do. 
 How well they used these gifts was not his care, 
 Or if they were despised he did not heed. 
 For each must answer to and for himself 
 How much he's clone or failed to do of what he could 
 —88— 
 
Since Spring, his first gift, blooming fell 
 From his warm hand. 
 
 The Year is type of Life. 
 Man has his time to sow, to till, to reap. 
 'Tis his to will what he shall garner when 
 The time of harvest comes, as come it must. 
 
 Ah, with what report shall I respond, 
 
 And each of us, to what life's Master asks 
 
 In our accounting? Can with courage we 
 
 Say "Master, I have wrought the best I knew," 
 
 Or must we with vain regrets excuse 
 
 And wish to live again the year that ne'er can be? 
 
 The year that's born today resolve to live 
 So well that whether Fortune smile or frown 
 On worldly strivings that 'must each engage, 
 Sweet Conscience on our heavy hearts may pour 
 The balm that soothes away remorse. 
 
 89- 
 
YOUTH, AGE, HAPPINESS. 
 
 A maiden sat by a young man's side. 
 
 He held her hand, and her brown eyes fell 
 On the grass at their feet, but his with pride 
 
 Looked into her face, for he loved her well. 
 'Twas the evening time of a summer's day, 
 
 And the soft air came from the golden west 
 With a sweet, cool breath, and it paused to play 
 
 With the thick, dark tresses the youth caressed. 
 Happy was he that summer's eve, 
 
 For she to his wooing had answered '"yes" — 
 Had promised the whole wide world to leave 
 
 And trust in him for her happiness. 
 They looked down the vista of coming time 
 
 And builded them castles of gilded air. 
 Their ears were touched with a faint, far chime 
 
 As they walked together in Love's Land fair. 
 
 Three score years have come and gone, 
 And again they sit in the fading day. 
 
 Again the west wind wandering on 
 Toys with the tresses thin and gray. 
 
 -40- 
 
They've lived through the vista, the time is flown. 
 
 Their shining castles all melted from sight. 
 Yet they look still ahead where the golden sun 
 
 Gilds the Heavenly spires with a lasting light. 
 
 But he loves her still and she loves him 
 
 The same as when life in both was new. 
 Though their clasped hands tremble, their eyes be dim, 
 
 Their hearts with the old love beat strong and true. 
 
 Ah, happy indeed are those happy in age, 
 Whose closing life's volume brings no regret 
 
 To gnaw at the heart, but shows a fair page, 
 A record of good deeds, earth's duties well met. 
 
 TOAST. 
 
 THE DAY WE CELEBRATE. — OUR FLAG. 
 
 Unfurl thy scroll, Oh History, 
 
 Unfurl it and the day 
 We celebrate restore to me. 
 Let my imagination see 
 
 —41— 
 
Those grand old heroes throng the Hall, 
 
 And hear each patriotic wall 
 In ringing echoes words repeat 
 That throw the gauntlet at the feet 
 
 Of haughty Britain's stubborn king. 
 
 The day when Freedom's weary wing 
 From soaring without place of rest, 
 For thousand years turned to the West, 
 
 And sweeping Atalanta's main, 
 
 With glad cry found repose again— 
 Thy scroll unfurl, Oh History, 
 Restore to me that day. 
 
 I live that day! Oh Mystery 
 
 That hath restored to me 
 Each form and feeling, word and deed, 
 The steel-nerved courage that doth heed 
 
 No peril that the future shakes 
 
 With bloody hand, but bravely breaks 
 The bonds injustice overstrains. 
 Above the clanking of the chains 
 
 Thrown down I hear the Bell ring out. 
 
 The welkin quivers with the shout 
 —42— 
 
That from the plain and mountain floats 
 Responsive from three million throats. 
 "'Tiswar! 'Tis war, Tiswar! 'Tis war," 
 Proclaimed and answered near and far. 
 That day I live, Oh Mystery, 
 That hath restored it me. 
 
 Thou'st writ the story, glowing Past, 
 
 On thine eternal Page — 
 How long in blood the suns arose 
 How Glory's halo crowned the close. 
 
 Those heroes are but formless dust: 
 
 Their souls live on, as live the just. 
 Their memories and their works are given 
 To us a sacred trust. May Heaven 
 
 Defend us while we them defend, 
 
 And Freedom's proud domain extend. 
 Then fill the cup. Drink to the Day. 
 To patriot hearts, long turned to clay. 
 
 To Bell that rang to all the free 
 
 The natal song of Liberty. 
 Fill high the cup. With joy we'll drain 
 
 —43— 
 
To thee, Our Country's Flag, Again, 
 May we its story, like the Past, 
 Write on a glorious page. 
 July 4, 1893. 
 
 LIFE'S CYCLES. 
 Under the trees two children play; 
 Laughing boy and girl are they, 
 He with eyes of night's deep hue, 
 Hers of the cloudless sky's own blue. 
 Careless they romp on the velvet grass 
 While the scented days of spring-time pass. 
 
 Tis the roses' month. Two figures stray 
 Where the moon-cast shadows silent play. 
 A fair young head on a shoulder leans- 
 Luna of old know'th what it means. 
 Slowly is paced the path that lies 
 Where the elms in ancient grandeur rise. 
 
 Under the trees two children play 
 Merrily speeding the long, bright day. 
 
 —44 
 
Boy and girl with eyes whose hue 
 Finds its fount in a mother's of rarest blue, 
 And by her side a bronzed man stands, 
 Stroking her brow with toil-hard hands. 
 
 Again beneath the elms at play 
 Two children laugh in the autumn day. 
 Light "of eye is the girl I see, 
 But his is dark as the crow's wings be. 
 Watching now two mothers stand 
 Clasping each one a man's strong hand. 
 Rocking at ease on the porch the while 
 Two aged ones look on and smile. 
 Through glasses gleam night's faded hue 
 And the paling light of the heaven's blue 
 As they see themselves in the babes and stray 
 Far back o'er memory's long pathway. 
 Ah, Life repeats as Time flits by 
 The same sweet things, tho' we age and die. 
 We live again in our babes and theirs, 
 Our joys renewed, forgotten our cares. 
 We grow old; yet the world is young 
 Alway as when the star-hymn rung. 
 —45- 
 
AUTUMN. 
 A hush is o'er the woodland now 
 
 Where song-birds used to trill 
 Their sweet lays while the summer yet 
 
 Sat smiling on the hill. 
 
 The yellow leaves fall gently down . 
 
 Upon the with'ring grass. 
 They rustle dryly 'neath my feet, 
 
 Complaining as I pass. 
 
 A leaden light is in the sky — 
 
 No more the sunset glows 
 With gold and purple, royal hues; 
 
 Gone is the day-dawn's rose. 
 
 Like my own youth the springtime fled, 
 The summer like my prime; 
 
 And now the frost lies on my life 
 As on these woods the rime. 
 
 The thoughts I think oppress my heart; 
 
 Death's winter is before; 
 I feel its winds upon my cheek, 
 
 I hear their sullen roar. 
 —46— 
 
Begone. I'll laugh away such thoughts. 
 
 These trees are bare; but know 
 They'll wear again as green a garb 
 
 In time beyond the snow. 
 
 Shall these dumb trees see life renewed 
 
 And not to me be given 
 The same sweet boon? I can not think 
 
 So cruelly of Heaven. 
 
 Then, Winter, come. Make bare the woods 
 
 And dull the burnished sky. 
 Drive song and songster all away; 
 
 But you yourself must fly. 
 And Death, come. Still my pulsing heart. 
 
 To you I yield my breath— 
 But know that where this body lies 
 
 With it lies conquered Death. 
 
 47 
 
EASTER. 
 
 Easter! Day when the goddess Spring 
 
 Forth from her white tent comes to bring 
 
 Life to the fields and woods again 
 
 With smiling sun and gentle rain; 
 
 When she drapes with blue the vaulted sky 
 
 And floats the fleecy clouds on high; 
 
 When she softens the winds that come to play 
 
 O'er spreading meadows in the lengthened day; 
 
 When she calls by name each sweet wild flower, 
 
 Bidding it waken on bank, in bower; 
 
 And says to the birds, "Come back with me— 
 
 Come build your homes in hedge and tree. 
 
 Make glad the world with your lightsome glee 
 
 Of twitter and song — Come back with me." 
 
 Beautiful Spring! Fair season of love 
 
 When earth seems nearer to heaven above. 
 
 But a dearer thought is ours today. 
 We think of the great stone rolled away 
 From the tomb of old— of the Savior. risen 
 From the bonds of death — of the gloomy prison 
 
 —48— 
 
Of the grave o'ercome, and life proved more 
 
 Than a lone, sad walk on Time's bleak shore. 
 
 Oh, do we feel on this glad day 
 
 The love due Him who taught the way 
 
 From the dark abysmal depths of night 
 
 To the glories that gleam in Clod's clear light? 
 
 Day of the season of promise, throw 
 
 Thy love on the new-waked life below. 
 
 Day of the Resurrection, give 
 
 A sweeter joy to those who live 
 
 In the hope of Heaven, the Christian's faith 
 
 That the Lord arising vanquished death. 
 
 TWO SONGS— WAR AND LOVE. 
 I 
 
 I wrote a song of brave men's deed's— 
 A song of death on the reeking plain, 
 Where red War stalks o'er the shot-rent slain; 
 
 Where the gaunt wood-wolf with the vulture feeds. 
 I wrote of the cannon's stunning crash, 
 
 —49— 
 
Of the crackling muskets" line-long flash. 
 
 Of the shell that screams through the nitrous pall, 
 
 Of the circling sabre's gleam and fall. 
 
 And the song I wrote brought the Are again 
 To the eye of the tottering veteran, 
 A flush to the cheek of the age-bent man. 
 And nerved anew the palsing hand 
 That had drawn the blade for Native Land. 
 
 As the mind flew swift from Now till Then. 
 
 II 
 
 I wrote a song of a woman's loving — 
 A song of a mother's life devotion. 
 A wife's sweet trust and the soundless ocean. 
 
 Of a maid's pure faith who. fancy-roving. 
 Treads all the paths of the Time Untried, 
 In Hope's light walks by her Chosen 's side 
 Where fruited trees screen the sun's mild heat, 
 And roses blossom beneath her feet. 
 
 And the love-song softened the snows that lay 
 On shrunken temples until their flow 
 Gave light to the eye in a moistened glow, 
 
 —50— 
 
And the swelling breast caught the pearl that fell 
 From the trembling brim of the old heart's well, 
 As the soul looked back on the Far-away. 
 
 Which song was best — ay, which was best, 
 War-song or love-song — what be the test? 
 
 TO THREE FRIENDS. 
 
 Slippered and dr6wsing in my easy chair, 
 
 With limbs unsteady and slowly whirling mind, 
 
 Emerging from the swirl of fiery fever's flame 
 
 In which for many days it had revolved, 
 
 I sat. It was the day before the Christ-child's birth 
 
 Is celebrated; but little thought Pd given to the time. 
 
 While thus I sat, upon the stony street outside 
 
 The sound of wheels that halted at the gate 
 
 I heeded not until a moment passed. My wife 
 
 Presented then to my dilated eyes, 
 
 A basket — a modest grocer's basket 'twas. 
 
 But in that basket lay, from regions separate far, 
 
 The rarest fruits these eyes had e'er beheld — 
 
 —51— 
 
From the Floridian coast; from Europe's southern slopes; 
 From broad and sunny valleys 'neath Californian skies, 
 And from less genial vineyards of the north: 
 And all the best, most perfect of their kind. 
 And crowning all the basket's wealth there lay- 
 How shall I name it who never had within the house 
 A corkscrew? — a bottle rare of Royal Port, heart-warm- 
 ing. 
 Companion fit, most meet, for these sweet fruits, 
 Fresh from their growths, refreshing as' the dews, 
 While it the sunshine is, ay, and the showers. 
 But valued most of all, devoured first, 
 The letter was below.* Friendships words it bore, 
 Couched in friendship's terms that touch 
 And cheer the heart, more than does wine. 
 I can not answer now as I would do, 
 But only weakly thank, with feeble hand and mind. 
 Though strong and warm and quickly throbs my heart, 
 Kind friends; but thanks profuse you have. 
 
 D. F. Peffley. 
 December 26th, 1892. 
 
 *Dear Peffley : 
 
 This being the time of rejoicing, and especially so for a man who has just 
 
 —52— 
 
been through the fire of fever, we thought you might be glad to know that though tem- 
 porarily lost to sight you are still "to memory dear " With the wish of seeing you once 
 more among us at an early date, restored to health and vigor, and with the joyful com- 
 pliments of the season, we are, dear friend, Faithfully yours, 
 
 ALBERT BB3ELOW PAINE, 
 E. F. WARE, 
 J. P. ROBENS. 
 
 THE PASSING OF OCTOBER. 
 
 Now is the time of frost and falling leaves. 
 
 The breath of Autumn chills the circling blood. 
 The Year with age is trembling, and he grieves 
 
 To see the beauty fade from field and wood. 
 
 He gave them life and richly clothed them all 
 In leaf and blade and flower, in fruit and grain. 
 
 He gave them birds to carol sweet and bring 
 The sylvan joys to pensive minds again. 
 
 The mandates of the ice-goclthey obey, 
 Yet not for aye. A new Year will arise 
 
 And with it come the lengthened, softened day 
 And waking leaf and song 'neath brooding skies. 
 
 53 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE HEART. 
 
 I have listened to the music 
 
 When far-famed singers stood 
 Where cultured list'ners crowded, 
 
 And stirred them as a wood 
 
 Stirs to summer's breezes or the storm's exultant mood. 
 
 T have listened all enraptured 
 
 'When the grand piano's chords 
 Threw back to master-fingers 
 
 Music far-outspeaking words — 
 
 Rill's clear ripple, thunder's roll, the singing of the birds. 
 
 But the dearest music ever 
 
 On my heart's deep ear hath pealed 
 Is the laughter of the children 
 
 At play in wood or field — 
 
 Music never taught nor writ, from chords in souls 
 concealed. 
 
 —54 
 
A BALLAD OF THE FLEETS. 
 
 It is midnight at Manila and the ghostly mists hang chill 
 
 Over Avater, over island, over fort and iu-shore hill. 
 
 AU is qniet with the dreamy, drowsy quiet of the East. 
 
 Save the sentry's measured pacing every sound of life has ceased. 
 
 But the low waves murmur softly as they roll upon the strand ; 
 Are they whispering a secret to their playmate— to the sand? 
 And the far-off stars are trembling in the overbending height ; 
 Do they signal down the danger floating under them this night? 
 
 On the Spanish fleet the gunners, sleeping in the arms of Fate, 
 The coming of destruction all unconsciously await 
 While away the gloom fades slowly and the feet of Dawn draw nigh 
 Walking silent on the hilltops east where 8*ey meet the land and sky. 
 
 On another fleet the gunners close no eye in sleep tonight, 
 
 But with nerves as tense as harpstrings creep before the creeping light, 
 
 Safe within the harbor stealing ere the foeman is aware 
 
 'Neath the lower fallen drapery of the May-morn hanging there. 
 
 "Armas! A las armas!" shouts the sentry pointing to 
 
 The grey-dark monsters looming the grey-white vapors through. 
 
 ' 'Vienen los enemigos !" Up the bay the warships float, 
 
 And grim Cavite's challenge roars from out her iron throat. 
 
 The fleets impatient wait the sun upon this fateful day 
 The game of war, men's lives for pawns, in lust of blood to play. 
 And when the eve is come again beneath the frightened waves 
 There lie wrecked ships that coffin men low in their oozy graves. 
 
 Brave men were there on either side. They died as brave men die, 
 The foemsn who beneath the bay of far Manila lie. 
 Thank we the God of Battles that 't was theirs, not ours, who fell. 
 AH! Did the God of Judgment breathe that day the flames of hell? 
 
SIWNYEYES. 
 Busy little Sunny eyes- 
 Eyes as blue as summer skies 
 And as bright as summer suns- 
 Leaps and laugh the while she runs 
 After pretty butterflies 
 Playing over meadow flowers. 
 Not a thought of fleeting hours 
 Has my little Sunnyeyes, 
 Chasing still with gleeful cries, 
 'Till I call her, "Come to me: 
 For my darling doesn't know 
 With her racing to and fro 
 In the day tide's broadened flow 
 She's as tired as she can be. 
 Soon within my arms she sleeps 
 But in sleeping laughs and leaps 
 And I know she's still in dreaming 
 Chasing after tinted .wings, 
 Pretty, fragile, flying things, 
 That are only fair in seeming, 
 And that caught are crushed in taking, 
 Into dusty fragments breaking. 
 -56- 
 
Then I thus soliloquize: 
 
 "Like are I and Sunnyeyes. 
 
 Both are chasing butterflies 
 
 Over Life's wide meadow lands. 
 
 Cut and bleeding are our hands 
 
 With thistle's blade and rose's thorn. 
 
 Neither knows how weary we 
 
 In our vain pursuits may be 
 
 Till we hear the "Come to me'.' 
 
 Of our Father and we fall 
 
 In His loving arms asleep, 
 
 There to rest for aye and all. 
 
 When at last in slumber deep 
 
 So lie I, like Sunnyeyes 
 
 Will I dream of butterflies? 
 
 THE KNIGHT IN BLUE. 
 
 Country calls, country calls 
 
 Me away. 
 War's wing flaps upon our walls, 
 O'er the land its shadow falls 
 And the timid heart appalls 
 
 With its play. 
 
Trumpets bravely, blithely blare 
 
 By the sea 
 Calling us to gather there, 
 Bidding us to do and dare 
 Following our Banner where 
 
 E'er it be. 
 
 I had hoped that ne'er again 
 
 Mars should say, 
 "Tramping thousands, shake the plain, 
 "Sulph'rous voices, fright the main. 
 "Blood Columbia's hands must stain, 
 Death have sway." 
 
 But he's spoken, we've replied, 
 
 Cast the die. 
 Clod and justice be our guide. 
 Right or wrong on Patria's side 
 Men have ever won or died— 
 
 So must I. 
 
 -58- 
 
SOMETIMES I'D CALL THE OLD TIME BACK. 
 
 Sometimes I'd call the Old Time back, 
 
 But not to live it o'er again; 
 Too rough has been life's flinty track, 
 
 For these torn feet to keen the pain. 
 
 But there were those I loved when we 
 
 Together walked the years agone. 
 They laid them down to rest, but me 
 
 Relentless Fate whips slowly on. 
 
 One moment to look in those eyes, 
 One clasp of mine in those warm hands, 
 
 One ringing word of glad surprise 
 To greet me in the Old Time lands, 
 
 Were bliss! But no— 'Twill not return. 
 
 Again I would not live it o'er. 
 They rest within my own heart's urn 
 
 Whom I would greet — They're there no more. 
 
 STEER FAR OUT. 
 Full oft along the shore 
 
 Rock fights with furious wave 
 —59— 
 
And shuddering headland wails, 
 While far out safely sails 
 A good ship breasting brave 
 The storm's wild strength and roar. 
 Then steer thy bark far out 
 
 On life's uncertain sea 
 Beyond the rocks nor doubt 
 There thou wilt safer be. 
 
 WHAT OF THE SEA? 
 What treasure undreamed of by me 
 Lieth down in the depths of the sea— 
 The Future's unfath'mable sea, 
 Whose waters so dark are to me? 
 What storm sweeping over that sea 
 In its fury shall o'erwhelm me — 
 In my life-bark shall o'erwhelm me 
 That I sink to the depths of the sea? 
 There is none can give answer to me 
 What I ask of the Future's dark sea — 
 
 Whether good shall come up from that sea 
 Or if sorrow and death it bring me. 
 
 —60— 
 
MOTHEIi-LOVE. 
 There's nothing in heaven above, 
 
 Nor in the earth below, 
 So precious as mother-love. 
 Yet often we do not know 
 Till the selfish strife 
 On the field of life 
 Has painfully taught us so. 
 
 BEYOND THE HORIZON. 
 I saw the Moon like a silvern bark, 
 
 Sail slowly over the boundless sea- 
 Glide down the West till the mountains dark 
 
 It found and they hid it away from me. 
 
 But I knew it was sailing on and on. 
 
 I knew that Earth's rock-sinewed hands 
 Had not grasped it, and my bark was gone 
 
 To glide and to gleam over unseen lands. 
 
 As the pale Orb seeks the horizon's shade, 
 So man finds rest on the shore of Time. 
 
 But in that rest the soul's not stayed; 
 It wings away over lands sublime. 
 —61— 
 
APRIL. 
 
 "The Spring is with us again," we say 
 And mellower grows the lengthened day. 
 The ripples where the waters run 
 In sport beneath the April sun 
 Make merrier music as they break 
 Against the banks of stream or lake. 
 The hoarseness of old Winter's voice 
 As through the tree-tops dry and dead 
 A dirge o'er Nature's corse he sung 
 Or loud his boast of triumph rung 
 From frost-bells on each mountain head, 
 Is gone, and valleys all rejoice 
 With airs that on the softest cheek 
 Are hardly felt. The tree-tops speak 
 A language now the rambler hears 
 With listless yet sympathic ears. 
 
 Now all things own the Passion's sway; 
 The sunshine woos the flowers, and they 
 Woo bee and humming-bird and maid. 
 The swain upturns the opening earth, 
 
 -62— 
 
And feels within his breast a birth 
 
 Like that of plants that burst the glade. 
 
 He knows not what, nor why, nor how, 
 
 But yet there moves beside his plow 
 
 An unseen presence that has laid 
 
 A warm hand on his heart. It goes 
 
 By night with him to his repose 
 
 And round his couch spreads dreams so fair 
 
 That heaven seems nearer when the air 
 
 Of dawn with fragrance greets again 
 
 His rested strength. 
 
 A glad refrain 
 Floats from the deep chord in his soul, 
 Tuned with the mightier chords that roll 
 The anthem of the Spheres along, 
 The grand Creation's morning song 
 Whose octave sweeps from Law to Love; 
 Whose volume fills the dome above, 
 The depths below; while side to side 
 The echoless caves of utmost Space 
 Are filled as the waves of Harnony race 
 An ebbing, rising, but ceaseless tide 
 
 —63— 
 
Whose flow begins with the Spring and swells 
 Till it reaches its height in the sweet rose-bells 
 When June, the delight of circling Time, 
 Rings out from her bowers the hymn sublime. 
 
 The Spring! Tis the season of love and hope, 
 When the instinct of life is waked in all; 
 
 When the buds 'neath the sod arouse and ope, 
 And in the vine on the sun-kissed wall, 
 
 And the ivy springs in the maiden's heart 
 Till it clings to the oak in the heart of the swain, 
 
 And life is one till Death's dull dart 
 Cleaves them apart, to unite again 
 
 Where ivy and oak both green shall be 
 
 In the valley, and spring is Eternity. 
 
 THE WIND'S WORK. 
 
 The wind blows wild, the wind blows free. 
 It wafts grand ships o'er the broad blue sea 
 With the wealth of lands that lie afar. 
 It drives the storm-fiend's roaring car. 
 It drinks the dews where daisies grow, 
 It lifts the mists from the meadows low. 
 —64— 
 
It cools the burning summer noon, 
 It whispers love to the summer moon. 
 Through the vines of the cottage window creeps 
 And fans the face of the babe that sleeps, 
 Or the couch of the suffrer softly seeks 
 And soothes the heat from the fevered cheeks. 
 The wind blows wild, the wind blows free, 
 And it works as it will on land and sea. 
 
 SONG OF THE WEST. 
 
 The West! the West! 
 
 1 love it best — 
 The broad, free West with its wealth untold — 
 Grand Nature's home's in its mountains old. 
 Its dawns 'neath curtains of rose unfold, 
 Its sunsets linger in purple and gold, 
 
 While the dome of the day 
 
 Is azure alway 
 And the diamonds that stud the crown of night 
 On age-worn peaks throw a quivering light 
 That gleams and glints through the crystal air, 
 Illuming the silence eternal there. 
 —65— 
 
Here man is little and Gocl is great, 
 And He works with patience while ages wait. 
 And he hath reserved to the last the best — 
 The broad, the free, the golden West. 
 
 A SUMMER'S DAY THOUGHT. 
 The grass-waves roll like waves on the sea 
 
 As winds chase over the meadows. 
 The green vine shakes with the swaying tree 
 
 And the sunlight plays with the shadows. 
 To the hurrying breeze the grainhelcls bow 
 
 As it hastes with its kisses to dry 
 The sweat from the sturdy farm boy's brow 
 
 At work 'neath the cloudless sky. 
 O'er clovers red the brown bees hum 
 
 Intent on their winter's store. 
 Up the sparkling pool the minnows come 
 
 In the shade of its mossy shore. 
 A day to lounge on the sward and dream 
 
 Is this, aye, to dream of youth, 
 When the world was a world that did not seem 
 
 But was a world of Truth. 
 —66— 
 
Ah, visions of hope, of love and light! 
 
 Oh, castles- we builded then, 
 Peopled with beings come down from the Height— 
 
 And they proved but children of men! 
 
 Now disillusioned, heartsore and worn. 
 The gold we had gathered but dross, 
 
 T is sweeter to dream of what might be than mourn 
 We must bear, let us lighten, our cross. 
 
 LOVE'S READING. 
 
 Migonette, 
 Dear Migonette, 
 Lift to mine your eyes of jet. 
 Let me read the secret deep 
 Locked behind your lips you keep- 
 Let me read it, Migonette, 
 Written in your eyes of jet. 
 
 Migonette, 
 Oh Migonette, 
 Will you keep it from me yet? 
 
 Raise those lashes from your cheek. 
 
 —67— 
 
Let to mine your dark eyes speak — 
 Speak and tell me, Migonette, 
 With your eyes of burning jet. 
 
 Migonette, 
 My Migonette, 
 Now your eyes and mine have met, 
 Light from out their depths has spoken, 
 They the seal of lips have broken 
 And you love me, Migonette, 
 Says your heart from depths of jet. 
 
 FANCY BORNE. 
 
 Come, my love, and soar with me 
 Where wild winds wing so wide and free- 
 Sweetly wild 
 
 They fly, 
 Or mad or mild, 
 Across the sky: 
 Come, my dear one, soar with me. 
 
 We'll rise to the realms of upper air 
 Whence Earth looks dim and far and fair, 
 
 —68— 
 
And the pale 
 
 Rare blue 
 Mists' clear thin vail 
 
 Enchants the view — 
 Come, rise with me in the upper air. 
 
 'Neath moon and glinting star and sun 
 We'll race those tireless pinions on — 
 Care's dull flight 
 
 Outdone, 
 We'll live in light 
 The glad heart's own, 
 Away 'neath moon and star and sun. 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 In the clear silent night, 
 
 By fair Luna's pale light, 
 The dew with rich gems decks the red rose's spray, 
 
 And they shine there at morn, 
 
 When the day-god's first born, 
 Aurora the Beautiful, comes forth to play. 
 
 —69— 
 
And the rose's blush burns 
 
 Deeper still as she turns 
 Her cheek to the kiss of the maiden who opes 
 
 The orient's gates 
 
 Where Phoebus awaits 
 Till she wakens the world to new labors and hopes. 
 
 What balm fills the air, 
 
 And its perfume how rare! 
 How sing the glad chorists hid deep in the grove ! 
 
 0, now it is sweet 
 
 To sit down at the feet 
 Of nature and learn from her lessons of love. 
 
 LOVE NOT IN VAIN. 
 
 Ah, my airy 
 Winsome Fairy, 
 Why do you thus around me 
 Weave your subtle chain? 
 Soon, my charmer, you'll have bound me 
 Ne'er to loose again. 
 
 —70— 
 
Why, beguiling 
 With your smiling 
 All my heart away from me, 
 
 Do you taunting stay 
 From these arms that wait for thee? 
 Tell me, tempting Fay. 
 
 Do not mock me, 
 Do not mock me — 
 Sprite of moonlight, fly away. 
 
 Tempt me not again. 
 Let me love a child of Day 
 And love not in vain. 
 
 BE A MAN 
 
 If you cannot be a hero, 
 
 Lead a nation's arms to glory, 
 Write your name in letters gory 
 'Mong the great in song and story, 
 You may be a man. 
 
 If you cannot be a monarch, 
 Holding in a mighty hand 
 
 —71— 
 
The scepter o'er a chosen land, 
 Erect and proud you yet may stand- 
 You may be a man. 
 
 If you cannot be a painter, 
 
 May not limn the uncreate, 
 Pigment, canvas insensate 
 Change to life's immortal state, 
 You may be a man. 
 
 If you cannot be a poet, 
 
 Sing to all the world for ages 
 Deathless verse, as Homer's pages 
 That must live while passion rages, 
 You may be a man. 
 
 And in truth there's nothing greater 
 Than the noblest work of God, 
 An honest sovereign of the sod 
 Unwhipt of vice's scathing rod — 
 A clean-souled common man. 
 
 A SPRING SONG. 
 
 Merrily 0, Merrily 0, 
 
 Across the bare fields spring chases the snow. 
 
 —72— 
 
Clothed with the sunshine she gaily trips forth, 
 
 And winter, abashed, steals away to the north. 
 
 In her foot-prints the violets raise their blue eyes 
 
 And peep from their beds at the deep, liquid skies. 
 
 The birds in the trees are rocked by the breeze, 
 
 The breath of her laughter as on she flies after 
 
 The tyrant whose ice-beard still melts as he flees. 
 
 The black-bird is singing his "tee, le, le, ling." 
 
 The robin is bathing his beak in the spring 
 
 Where the light dimples play, as the stream on its way 
 
 Passing under the willows, smiles back at the day. 
 
 There is love 'mong the songsters, each seeking his mate 
 
 And a place for her nest in the hedge by the gate. 
 
 There is cawing of crows and crowing of cocks, 
 
 And bleating of lambs, as they race with the flocks. 
 
 Without and within is the unending din 
 
 Of the farm when its labors in earnest begin. 
 
 There is love 'mong the swains, when at eve from the 
 
 plows 
 Each Ike finds his 'Bekah a milking the cows. 
 With her milk-pail a-brimming, her true heart a-swim- 
 
 ming 
 
 —73— 
 
In its own sea of purity, ling'ring she'll stand 
 
 By the creaking lot-gate with her shapely white hand 
 
 On its latch and deny him the way to the well, 
 
 While her blooming round cheek and her dancing black 
 
 eye 
 Weave a net round his heart, never woven by art, 
 Whose meshes will hold till life's fountain runs dry. 
 Oh love, what thy charm and how potent thy spell! 
 
 With banter and laugh the low gate bending over, 
 
 Like the bee as it seeks the sweet lips of the clover 
 
 Whose nectar it kisses away with the dew, 
 
 So quick to her lips, ere his meaning she guesses, 
 
 The o'er-tempted plowman his own boldly presses — 
 
 Blame not the bold swain, for to nature he's true. 
 
 Loud laugh the rude rustics, while mantled in blushes, 
 
 Like a lakelet when sunset streams red through its rushes, 
 
 Away to the dairy she, like a fairy 
 
 Of old German forest, who tripped where the glades 
 
 Were lit by the moon whose pale light not more airy 
 
 Was than the dancers who trooped from the shades, 
 
 Flies with her heart more tenderly beating, 
 
 Thrilled and subdued with young love's blissful greeting. 
 
 —74— 
 
I CANKOT KNOW. 
 
 I cannot see — 
 
 I know not why 
 The arched sky 
 That bends o'er me 
 Is sapphire's hue, 
 Deep, clear and blue. 
 
 I cannot see 
 
 Why winter's snow 
 
 Pure white should glow, 
 Or why 't should be 
 
 So gently shed 
 
 On fields all dead. 
 
 Nor do I know 
 
 Why comes the rose 
 As springtime goes 
 
 To bud and blow; 
 Nor why its cheek 
 Hearts' love should speak 
 
 Why are the flowers 
 That deck the plain 
 
 —75- 
 
Unlike the grain, 
 When selfsame showers, 
 One life to lend, 
 On both descend? 
 
 Ah! I know not. 
 
 My eyes are dim. 
 
 I see not Him 
 Nor how is wrought 
 
 His humblest plan: 
 
 I am but & Man. 
 
 "SLUG SIX IS DEAD." 
 
 The foreman moved with a softened tread 
 O'er the black and littered floor, 
 And his grizzled head bent lower 
 
 While an added stoop his shoulders bore. 
 
 With a tear in his eye and a heart-born sigh 
 He whispered, "Slug six is dead." 
 
 "Poor old Slug Six!" The printers knew ' 
 How the foreman felt that day — 
 That his friend had gone away 
 
 -76- 
 
Where the souls of good men rest for aye 
 In the radiance bright of the land of light, 
 The home of the tried and true. 
 
 "Slug Six and I were boys as yet — " 
 
 He was stern with living men, 
 
 But his tones were woman's then — - 
 "When we came to the office together, and when 
 We earned our cases and took our places 
 And life's first takes we set." 
 
 "He wooed my sister, and his I won. 
 
 We were wedded the self same time, 
 
 And life was a joyous chime 
 As the years sped on to manhood's prime, 
 And our little ones played in the same cool shade, 
 Or romped in the same glad sun. 
 
 "Our friendship bound as a golden chain 
 
 Us two in this selfish sphere 
 
 Where oft we pay so dear 
 For a friendship only from lip to ear. 
 For each knew the other clung nearer than brother 
 When trouble came close in his train. 
 
 — 77 — 
 
"And old Slug Six was a workman, too. 
 
 His case was always clean; 
 
 No dirty proof was seen 
 Ever passed to his slug, though his light be mean; 
 
 His column's edge straight as the path trod by fate, 
 Each line of it justified true. 
 
 "There lie on his case his rule and sticks, 
 
 His tools in a life-work long, 
 
 A life that now seems a song 
 Of toil with patience, with naught that was wrong. 
 As silver they're bright in the dim, dusty light, 
 Like the record of old Slug Six. 
 
 "Pardon me, boys, these moistened eyes. 
 
 You only a craftsman knew; 
 
 I more — a man that was true 
 To his work and his kind, of a number too few. 
 For the millions live more to win than to give — 
 For the gain that but self gratifies. 
 
 "Let his pipe and his glasses lie on the sill, 
 And his apron hang still on its nail. 
 You remember how trembling and pale 
 
 —78— 
 
His hand, like the death-bark's quivering sail, 
 When he hung it there last and unmurmuring passed 
 From his work to his home on the hill. 
 
 "Drape the hand-press, boys, with crape for its friend. 
 
 Put a knot on the lever 
 
 He pulled, for it never 
 Will feel such a hand as his was forever. 
 And all that was his leave just as it is 
 Till we see in the graveyard the end. 
 
 "From Slug Six learn we lessons of living, 
 
 That when we shall hear 
 
 "Time" called in our ear 
 By a voice we must heed, we may quit with good cheer. 
 May our takes be all done, galleys ready to run, 
 And our strings like long streamers float fair in the sun 
 As we fly to the desk where he is now gone 
 And the Foreman his credit is giving. 
 
 AUGUST 8th, 1885. 
 
 The .Nations great heart is opprest, 
 
 As she bends o'er the form of her dead, 
 And lays him to peacefully rest 
 
 -79- 
 
With the dust of the brave ones he led — 
 With the brave ones that followed where glory 
 Beckoned over the battlefield gory. 
 
 The prairies spread broad in the west, 
 The ocean-washed rocks of the east, 
 The south with its sunny skies blest — 
 Each fears lest its tribute is least; 
 Each lays on his coffin of glory 
 The wreath that tells its heart's story. 
 
 The Gray clasps the hand of the Blue 
 
 With eyes dimmed with gratitude's tears 
 For the generous heart that it knew, 
 W r hen it bent to the Fate of the years; 
 Clasps hands 'neath the emblem of glory — 
 The banner untorn — 'tis his story. 
 
 The cannons boom out their salute, 
 
 The crowds in death-silence uncover, 
 As by them the train dark and mute 
 
 Glides 'neath the storm-clouds as they hover* 
 And loud the hills echo the story 
 When the thunders tell to them his glory. 
 
 -80- 
 
 * The day of Gen. Grant's funeral was a dark and stormy one. 
 
The hero's last journey is ended; 
 Sweet be his rest in the tomb; 
 The prayers of all peoples are blended 
 Where love for the great can find room— 
 And ever they'll dwell on the story 
 Of the soldier who sought not his glory. 
 
 Bow down with our faces in dust: 
 
 Bow down, and forgive the mistaken; 
 For the sword shall consume with red rust, 
 And the Union no more shall be shaken — 
 And the young men shall sing of his glory 
 When the dying shall tell them his story 
 
 BENEDICTION. 
 
 And now, 
 
 To Thee, Oh God, 
 
 We bow; 
 
 And 'neath the sod 
 
 We lay him low, 
 
 Where sun and snow 
 
 May cause the flowers of peace to grow, 
 
 -81- 
 
SONGS OF LIFE. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Life is long and all before us — 
 
 Let us laugh, then, while we may; 
 Now the sun shines brightly o'er us, 
 And the world's a summer day. 
 Merrily, merrily, 
 
 Will we sing our song, 
 "Full of glee let us be 
 As we float along/' 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 Childhood's years will fall behind us, 
 Then our happiest hours will cease; 
 But the world's great doers all remind us, 
 "Lives of duty are lives of peace." 
 Cheerily, cheerily, 
 
 Join us in the song, 
 "Willingly and smilingly 
 Row our boat along." 
 
 —82— 
 
MANHOOD. 
 
 The noon-tide glory's now around us; 
 
 Wield the hammer while we may; 
 Shape the lives that now surround us, 
 
 For the forge will cool for aye. 
 
 Ceaselessly, ceaselessly, 
 
 Let the anvil ring; 
 " 'Fearlessly and earnestly' 
 
 Is the song I sing." 
 
 AGE. 
 
 From the toils of earth we've freed us, 
 And its sorrows haunt no more; 
 
 Soon the Silent Hand will lead us 
 To the mystic further shore. 
 
 Trustingly, trustingly. 
 
 Will we wait the call; 
 Resting in the mercy 
 
 That Heaven shows to all. 
 
 —83— 
 
DIONYSIUS. 
 The tyrant's eyes scarce close in sleep; 
 Suspicion is his breath of life; 
 His confidence in no one is reposed, 
 And hatred of his kind his guiding star. 
 In secret, countless mourners weep 
 The death of near and dear. 
 His walks are guarded round 
 With every device genius can contrive. 
 His couch is unapproachable, 
 
 Deep chasmed round, and bridged from the bed-side. 
 His food he tastes not till 
 The bearer eats of every dish. 
 
 Woe the man his eye unfavorable 
 
 Rests upon. Death lurks in his gaze, 
 
 With short delay to spring. 
 
 And thus it fell one day 
 
 Upon a soldier, young and fair and brave, 
 
 With wife and babes that on his his shoulders hung, 
 
 And kissed his brow and played 
 
 With his abundant locks that fell 
 
 Careless round his neck and swinging 
 
 —84— 
 
Dallied with the wind. 
 
 He of his strength was proud; 
 
 And oft he'd stretch his sinewy arm 
 
 At length and dance his prattling boy 
 
 Upon his palm. Whose mother, proud 
 
 Of both, would look with love on each, 
 
 Rejoicing that she would have a son 
 
 Whose deeds of arms might in the years to come 
 
 Fill every mouth with praise — 
 
 Grood-natured Damon, free from care, 
 
 And rich in his own rural home 
 
 With trees for shade and fruit, 
 
 And dimpling springs to lave the heated brow, 
 
 And Pythias, serious-faced and calm, 
 
 With eyes that shone with semi-melancholy, 
 
 And words that fell into the poet's phrase, 
 
 Was his friend and comrade — 
 
 But when the battle's fury rose 
 
 A ad Glory stalked like some celestial shade 
 
 Upon the field before, then Pythias' sword 
 
 Clave like the lightning's flash, 
 
 And none dare stand before 
 
 -85- 
 
The breathless quickness of his iron nerves. 
 
 At high sun Damon's doom is named. 
 
 "Ere falls the day below yon ocean's rim. 
 
 Tell me that Damon lives no more — 
 
 Till then, the dungeon." Thus the tyrant speaks. 
 
 "My wife and babes, oh King, but one brief word 
 
 Of farewell to soothe the hearts this day will break." 
 
 "It cannot be." "I am content to die, 
 
 But oh, to kill the innocent with death of one they love 
 
 Is cruelty too much refined. Bat one last word 
 
 Of parting and I will return." 
 
 "How know T that? I trust no man." 
 
 Then with a light uncommon seen 
 
 In eyes of men beaming from his, 
 
 Spake Pythias: "But grant, great King, 
 
 The prayer of Damon that he go to bid 
 
 Farewell to those he loves, and I will take 
 
 His place till even, when he will return 
 
 To die as thou hast just decreed, 
 
 Or I for him will forfeit my dear life. 
 
 The gods will prosper you, and all the earth 
 
 Shall laud your acts to heaven." 
 
 -86— 
 
"What? trust you thus 
 
 In Friendship's name? 1 trust it not. 
 
 It is a myth that dwells but in the brains 
 
 Of poets. Yet to prove that I am true, 
 
 Your prayer I grant. But you, fair youth, 
 
 Shall prove your folly with your blood— 
 
 The chains and dungeon till the red sun sinks." 
 
 The clanking links resound. 
 
 Pythias, with weighted limbs, 
 
 Is led away. But Damon tarries not; 
 
 At home, strives vain to calm the flood 
 
 Of deep, strong feeling whose fountains broken up 
 
 Rash over all their bounds. 
 
 The hour of parting, hopeless and forever, 
 
 Has come. One long fond clasp is given 
 
 To swooning wife and wondering boys 
 
 That cry, ''Goodbye," as with a groan he's gone. 
 
 The sun above the ocean's rim 
 Hangs low. One short half hour's time 
 Is yet to pass before the fatal block 
 Shall reek with Pythias' blood. But still 
 He murmurs, "Damon will not fail. 
 
 —87— 
 
Some mischance holds him late/' 
 
 Yet comes he not. And now the noisy crowd 
 
 More boisterous grows, and cries 
 
 "Bring on the chained prisoner. Bring on 
 
 The man that trusts his friend to death. 
 
 Ha! Ha!" 
 
 Then sound above them all the tyrant's words: 
 
 "Bring out the self condemned. Bring out 
 
 The man whose friend now laughs 
 
 In some retreat safe hid at what he's gained, 
 
 And what his friend, the fool, hath lost. 
 
 I prove my saying true, that Friendship lives 
 
 But in the minds of poets and of fools." 
 
 So Pythias is led forth, pale but with a light 
 
 In his dark, full eye that awes to silence 
 
 That motley crowd. With proud and firm footstep 
 
 He treads the fated path that leads up to the block. 
 
 The evening wind the raven ringlets gently shake 
 
 From his broad, white brow, and at its kiss 
 
 He smiles; and meeting now by chance 
 
 The tear-dimmed eye of a friend of both, 
 
 Whose heaving breast tells of woe unspeakable / 
 
 -88— 
 
In firm, clear tones he shouts aloud, 
 "To die for those we love is sweet!" 
 'Mid awful hush the block is reached. 
 Clear cut against the evening sky 
 The soldier's statue-form stands out. 
 The color glows again upon his cheek. 
 His dark eye sweeps the heavens' vault, 
 The ocean's rim, the distant purple hills, 
 And loving looks upon the low hung sun 
 As what it ne'er shall rest upon again. 
 The headsman feels his axe's edge 
 If it be keen, and leans upon its helve. 
 The attendants wait the signal look 
 To bind him to the fatal wood. 
 
 Day's pulse hs.th scarce a dozen beats, 
 And Pythias' life must cease with its. 
 The great crowd's every nerve is tense, 
 Its breath suppressed, and pallor creeps 
 Upon its face; for ne'er before was seen 
 So noble death in so noble cause. 
 But list! A glad but breath-spent cry 
 Is heard far out upon the straggling verge 
 
 -89- 
 
Of this vast human sea. A whisper-wave sweeps in, 
 Coursing toward its center; and ere it reach 
 The station of the king 'tis swelled into a roar 
 Like to a storm's wild voice: "He comes! He comes! 
 "Pythias is saved, and Friendship lives!" 
 The mighty concourse surges like ocean 'neaththe wind 
 While Damon, faint with leagues of running, 
 Is borne above and hurried hand from hand 
 Toward the station of the tyrant, seated high. 
 But first to Pythias' feet. He kneels 
 And clasps his knees and blesses him with tears, 
 Then stands erect and speaks: 
 "Oh King, the gocls forever prosper you for this. 
 Now speed the stroke, for see, the si n hath sunk 
 This moment from the world." 
 But Dionysius stands with upraised hand. 
 And silence falls profound on all. 
 f *Cast off the chains from Pythias. Both shall live. 
 I know by proof that Friendship is, 
 And ask these two to make of me a third 
 In their fast bond of love that smiles at death 
 And bids me do my worst." 
 
 —90— 
 
LINES TO E- 
 Away among life's rugged hills 
 
 A little lakelet 's sleeping, 
 Whose deep blue waters have so much 
 
 Our happiness in keeping. 
 
 'T is Friendship's lake. The lilies girt 
 Its pebbly shore, while spreading 
 
 Above it on the swaying boughs 
 Are wild vines, fragrance shedding. 
 
 And o'er it bends the changeful sky 
 
 In threatening or smiling, 
 Today the heart of sighs and tears, 
 
 Tomorrow, joys, beguiling. 
 
 Sometimes unbalanced elements, 
 In raging tempests breaking, 
 
 Upstir its very sands and set 
 Its gentle heart a-quaking. 
 
 But when the storm has passed away 
 
 And skies again are azure, 
 We sometimes see within its depths 
 
 A rarer, purer treasure. 
 
 -91- 
 
For deep in every human heart 
 
 Some hidden gem is lying 
 That life's rude gales may bring to light 
 
 When nature's strength they 're trying. 
 
 Shine out, fair sun, and let your beams 
 Pierce deep this lakelet sleeping, 
 
 And show what pearls of happiness 
 Its depths may have in keeping. 
 
 MEXICAN GIRL'S LAMENT FOR HER 
 
 MURDERED LOVER. 
 Heart of mine, oh heart of mine, 
 Long in thy darkened cell repine! 
 
 Thy love lies low in the cruel grave. 
 In vain, in vain, in vain you nlead 
 At Death's closed door — he will not heed. 
 Where was the power of God to save 
 Thy love, my heart, from the cruel grave? 
 Oh heart of mine! 
 
 Love of mine, oh love of mine, 
 
 All heaven's years my heart is thine! 
 
 Thy face is hid 'neath the senseless stone. 
 
 —92— 
 
Oh heart so brave and form so fair, 
 'T was murder's hand that laid thee there. 
 God did not call thee, yet thou 'rt gone — 
 Thy face is hid 'neath the senseless stone, 
 Oh love of mine! 
 
 A-WING. 
 
 Oh sweet and free 
 Of wing to me 
 The muses sometimes come and we 
 Speed swift away to realms afar 
 
 To roam in blest ethereal fields 
 That lie beyond the evening star, 
 Whose flora richest perfume yields. 
 
 There viewless flowers 
 In unseen bowers 
 Breathe fragrance all th' unmeasured hours; 
 For time no cycles there doth run, 
 
 But an eternal golden light 
 Falls trembling from one central sun 
 That moveless rests at zenith height. 
 
 -93- 
 
These fields of mind 
 Leave all behind 
 Of Earth's drear walk, with thorns confined 
 Between two narrow, devious walls, 
 
 With clouds above and flint beneath, 
 While round misfortune's shadow falls, 
 Joy's tomb behind, before us death. 
 
 Doth there not lie 
 Beneath the sky 
 Some land like this to which I fly 
 In moments when the spirit sinks 
 
 O'erwhelmed by stroke of cruel fate? 
 Wherein the generous soul ne'er drinks 
 The cup prepared of mortal hate? 
 
 Unknown to me 
 Such land may be — 
 Some islet girt by peaceful sea 
 Where Fortune's hands with treasures gleam 
 
 That he who labors may obtain — 
 Where life may be a poet's dream, 
 A dream that wakes not into pain. 
 
 —94— 
 
Ah, Hope, fair one 
 Who still clost run 
 And beckon me to follow on, 
 How far I've followed you, foot-sore! 
 
 How far must follow yet ere you 
 Vouchsafe to touch the rosy door 
 
 That shuts your promised state from view! 
 Again a state 
 Whereon doth wait 
 Fair Truth, with Justice for her mate; 
 Where good is of more worth than gold; 
 
 Ambition is not to destroy; 
 Where Friendship every hand doth hold, 
 And mind and heart find sweet employ. 
 
 LOVE GUARDS ME, ABSENT. 
 Thy face I see not, dearest, 
 
 Yet know that thou art near 
 When life to me seems drearest, 
 
 Whispering words of cheer. 
 
 Thy spirit flies to meet me — 
 Love's wings are swift as light — 
 
 —95— 
 
And mine goes forth to greet thee 
 Beyond the shades of night. 
 
 Sweet one, thine arms uphold me 
 Oft on these treacherous sands. 
 
 When darkness' depths enfold me 
 I clasp thine outstretched hands. 
 
 My child! Thine eyes are beaming 
 With lovelight on me now: 
 
 While waking I sit dreaming 
 Thy fingers soothe my brow. 
 
 VIA IN ITALIAM, 
 
 When on life's pathway sorrows rise 
 Like mountains lifting to the skies; 
 When hope eludes the mist-dimmed ey< 
 And vanishes the promised prize; 
 Remember then Italia lies 
 Beyond the Alps. 
 
 If ye would see her templed hills, 
 Her vine-clad slopes and silvery rills, 
 Where ancient glory dwelt that fills 
 
 -96— 
 
Th' imagination yet and thrills 
 The quickened pulses, bear the ills 
 And cross the Alps. 
 
 TOTTY BROWN AND DOTTY GREEN 
 Totty Brown and Dotty Green, 
 (Their lawns without a fence between,) 
 Where tall elms and maples throw 
 Upon the grateful sward below 
 A checkered, shifting come-and-go 
 Of light and shadow, to and fro 
 Moving as the branches sway 
 To the whimsic breezes, play 
 Together all the summer day. 
 
 Totty is two years the older. 
 Dotty's crown is at his shoulder 
 When they 're standing side by side, 
 And I see him look with pride 
 O'er her straw hat's ample brim 
 When she stands in front of him. 
 He is stalwart, tanned of face; 
 Hers a form of supple grace, 
 
 -97- 
 
Lissome as a brookside willow 
 
 Bending o'er the mimic billow. 
 
 With a spirit never quiet, 
 
 In him mirth runs ceaseless riot. 
 
 He from Joy's full chalice drinking 
 
 Turns sometimes to graver thinking— 
 
 Of things beyond the grasp of men, 
 
 But clear to childhood's subtler ken. 
 
 She 's a maid of serious mind, 
 
 A baby-woman sweet and kind, 
 
 And demurely sits the while 
 
 Watching him with sunny smile 
 
 Till he, wearied with his racing, 
 
 Throws him at her side and placing 
 
 His curly head upon her knees, 
 
 Looks upward through the spreading trees 
 
 And asks, "Do you think God can see 
 
 As little things as you an' me 
 
 When he's so far oil in the sky? 
 
 I can 't see him, he 's up so high." 
 
 And Dotty answers solemnly, 
 
 "W'y Totty B'own! "Coarse he can see 
 
 -98- 
 
Us bofe, an' littler sings 'an we. 
 
 I knows it 'cause my mamma say 
 
 He watch us all 'e time we play, 
 
 An' watches all 'e birdies too." 
 
 No doubt shines from those eyes so blue 
 
 That earnestly in his look down, 
 
 Reproving with a gentle frown. 
 
 Ah, love and faith with woman's life 
 
 Come to her: man hath doubt and strife. 
 
 No sweeter children e'er I 've seen 
 Than Totty Brown and Dotty Green. 
 But silently fly childhood's days, 
 And with them vanish childish ways. 
 Again I see them on the lawn, 
 But not as in the days agone. 
 'T is summer's dusk. On tree and wall 
 Night's curtains slowly, softly fall. 
 She sits upon a rustic seat, 
 He on the greensward at her feet. 
 His dark eyes raised hers falling meet, 
 And lovers' words his lips repeat: 
 "Dora, knowing what 't would say, 
 
 -99- 
 
Grive answer to my heart today.' 7 
 With glow of rose upon her cheek, 
 "Dear Tom, no need that I should speak, 
 She says, "for you must long have known 
 That Dotty's heart is all your own — 
 Or in your breast still lives there doubt, 
 As long ago?" "It is cast out 
 By perfect love, and Truth I trust 
 Through you. To God 1 will be just, 
 Who has to woman's heart revealed 
 What from man's mind may lie concealed. 
 Love is too sweet a child for earth, 
 It can but be of heavenly birth," 
 He says with earnestness. They rise 
 And walk while Night relumes her skies, 
 And gossip leaves the zephyrs tell 
 The story never old. Ah, well 
 The story 's known to every breeze 
 That steals in summer 'mong the trees. 
 
 Tom still is taller by a head, 
 
 A stalwart man with sun- tanned face 
 And bearded lip and fearless tread; 
 
 —100— 
 
And she has all her girlish grace. 
 
 T look upon them as they go. 
 
 My heart is lighter for the sight. 
 I whisper ''Would that they might know 
 
 Alway the bliss that 's theirs tonight." 
 
 —101— 
 
IN LIGHTER VE 
 
 -102- 
 
THEORY AND PRACTICE. 
 
 Brains and modesty in man 
 Fair praise receive from all; 
 
 But when we call at Fortune's door 
 The hand-out goes to gall. 
 
 THE POLITICIAN'S PLAINT. 
 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy, we 're told. 
 Fond women call us handsome when we 're uglier 
 than sin. 
 Bit when we 've grown to voters and fat offices would 
 hold, 
 Oh, 't is then the world around us gets its fine work in. 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 "I Ve something here," the lank man said. 
 
 "That will please your taste, I think." 
 But the editor did not raise his head, 
 
 For he busily slung the ink. 
 
 "A few nice pomes,'' the visitor quoth, 
 "With the freshness of fragrant trees"— 
 
 —103— 
 
The editor muttered a fearful oath— 
 
 "Mellow as an evening breeze." 
 "We can 't use po'ms," the editor saith. 
 
 On his broad brow deepened the scowl. 
 The lank one turned as pale as death, 
 
 For he heard the bulldog growl. 
 And he fled straightway. His basket fell 
 
 Right down by the editor's chair, 
 While the red-ripe apples rolled pell-mell 
 
 On the bare floor everywhere . 
 
 AD ASTRA PER ASPERA. 
 He came to Kansas when the state was young, 
 
 And he likewise was in the dew of youth. 
 Enthusiasm loosed and moved his tongue, 
 
 And he sang high of duty and of truth. 
 The years rolled on, and there ripened in him 
 
 A laudable ambition to arise 
 Above the petty thin *3 ^hib soight to win him, 
 
 And write his name in gold upon the skies. 
 But hard the struggle was, and youth was flown, 
 
 Yet did his name not blaze among the stars. 
 
 —104— 
 
Sorrow settled on his heart, a mighty stone, 
 And on his brow were disappointment's scars. 
 
 He sadly sighed, "A humbler name I'll make — 
 A name that shall be known upon the earth. 
 
 In life's great game I'll win a minor stake — 
 Not all in vain shall have been my birth." 
 
 The steak he won. He made the name more humble, 
 And now 's beyond life's promise or its menace. 
 
 Within the cemetery upon the name you' 11 stumble— 
 'T is on a wooden headboard and is "Deais." 
 
 FATE OF A KANSAS TERROR. 
 
 He was a western terror, and he tho't to have some fun 
 
 By getting on a merry whizz and taking in the town. 
 
 Like a burnished copper steeple in a setting summer sun 
 
 Shone his nose upon the quiet streets he swaggered 
 
 up and down. 
 
 But the citizens descried 
 Him and got on the inside, 
 And they left a margin wide 
 For this terror on a toot to bravely tread. 
 
 —105— 
 
Yes, he swaggered up and down, he looked fierce and 
 loudly swore, 
 "I 'm a roarer from the land of blood and bones, 
 And nary cuss I care for the riverlets of gore 
 
 That '11 wash the dust from off these here drouthy 
 Kansas stones. 
 
 So come out if you dare, 
 And I '11 promptly fill the air 
 With a cloud of bloody hair, 
 And I '11 turn your carcasses into piyin' mines o' lead. 
 
 But the people all stayed in, and they barred the outside 
 doors 
 And peeped out of the weathershakes up in the attic 
 loft, 
 Or fled to cyclone cellars like when the storm-wind roars, 
 Or the playful western zephyr does the superstruct- 
 ures waft. 
 
 So he strode the silent street 
 While the spurs upon his feet 
 His advance and his retreat 
 Told to the cringing inmates of the houses that he passed. 
 
 —106— 
 
"1 'm a terror as T told yon, and I '11 eat you on my bread. 
 I '11 do your ticky village and your curdled blood I '11 
 spill. 
 I '11 drink your fire-water till my nose is cherry red, 
 And your sickly cemetery I '11 most assuredly fill. 
 But I did n't come to talk, 
 So crawl if you can 't walk, 
 And toe this line of chalk, 
 And gaze upon the setting sun, for it '11 be your last. 
 
 He ceased, and in the center of the wooden sidewalk drew 
 From one end of the block to about its middle plank 
 A line of ghastly white, and he would have drawn it 
 through, 
 But his after life terrestrial was made a sudden blank. 
 From the pocket at his hip 
 There waved the flashy tip 
 Of a red bandana, slip- 
 Ping further out as on his stooping way he went. 
 And just across the street, in a livery stable stall, 
 
 A billy-goat was feeding on loose hay from out a rack — 
 And men came out with hoes and scraped the terror off 
 the wall 
 
 —107— 
 
And put his pulpy remnants in a little paper sack. 
 Then without dissenting vote 
 They gave that billy-goat 
 A new twenty-dollar note, 
 Which he munched as slowly back to the hay his steps 
 he bent. 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN DARKTOWN. 
 
 Crismus comes, evah niggah knows, 
 But once a yeah, an' away hit goes. 
 Nen hab a good time while hit last — 
 Dinah move aroun' putty tolable fast. 
 Possum good and tatehs too, 
 Little pig roast an' chicken stew, 
 Tuhkey stuffed— oh, g' long away, 
 Yallah gal yaint nowhah today! 
 
 Gib me dat banjo, Sambo, 
 
 Sambo, gib me dat banjo. 
 
 I '11 play while Dinah spreads de clof — 
 
 Tum-tiddy-tiddy turn — rake hit off! 
 
 Hiyi! Whoopee! See him dance 
 
 Twell 'e shake de buttons all off en 'is pants! 
 
 —108— 
 
Look dah now at Singlefoot Joe 
 Pattin' 'is wooden laig on de flooh— 
 Now 'e's a dancin' — haw! haw! haw! 
 Jes beats all dis niggah evah saw — 
 Ef dah yaint Dinah ginnin' to swing, 
 An' she wuz a gran'ma way las' spring! 
 
 Lay down, banjo, 
 Lay jes so— 
 
 Doan mek fun o' me, 
 Wooden-laig Joe- 
 Right han' across an' suhkle roun', 
 Left han' back an' all rake down. 
 Rappy-tappy-patty-pat, scrape an' wheel 
 Lawd know how to mek a niggah's heel. 
 All promenade an' to yoh seats, 
 An' I '11 say grace foh dese heah meats. 
 
 SORTER BIOGRAPHICAL. 
 
 He was born in Arkansaw, 
 In a sorter quiet spot, 
 
 And he always stayed about 
 Where at first he'd sorter got 
 
 -109- 
 
A norry glimpse of mother earth, 
 The flint hills of his place of birth. 
 
 He was a sorter lazy youth, 
 And he sorter pottered round 
 
 The farm, and with a shovel plow 
 In summer sorter vexed the ground, 
 
 And he raised a patch of corn, 
 
 Though it sorter looked forlorn. 
 
 With the years he sorter grew 
 
 To a cracker lank and tall, 
 Dressed in home-spun yaller jeans. 
 
 But he sorter had no "sprawl," 
 Or no git-up, as they say 
 In the state of Ioway . 
 
 He married, and then sorter lived 
 On bacon from the razor back, 
 
 Corn pone and punkin stew, and raised 
 Of ganglin' boys and gals no lack. 
 
 They tapered down from six feet high 
 
 To the sugar-trough and lullaby. 
 -110— 
 
As the years rolled slowly o'er 
 His head, his hair got sorter thin 
 
 And he sorter shed his teeth, 
 And his leathery cheeks caved in 
 
 Down time's steep he 'gan to slide, 
 
 And at last he sorter died. 
 
 Ill 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Author's Note. Page. 
 
 Revelation 1 
 
 Dream-winged 12 
 
 Faith's Chilling 15 
 
 Death of John Baptist 19 
 
 Reason's Rebuke • 23 
 
 Legend of Spirit Lake 28 
 
 In National Cemetery, Fort Scott, Kas., 35 
 
 Fuga Temporis 38 
 
 Youth, Age, Happiness 40 
 
 Toast 41 
 
 Life's Cycles 44 
 
 Autumn £6 
 
 Easter 48 
 
 Two Songs: War and Love 49 
 
 To Three Friends 51 
 
 The Passing of October 53 
 
 The Music of the Heart 54 
 
 A Ballad of the Fleets 55 
 
 Sunnyeyes 56 
 
 The Knight in Blue 57 
 
 Sometimes I'd Call the Old Time Back 59 
 
 Steer Far Out 59 
 
 What of the Sea? 60 
 
 Mother-Love 61 
 
 —112— 
 
Beyond the Horizon ~ 
 
 April 61 
 
 The Wind's Work 62 
 
 Song of The West 6 4 
 
 A Summer's Day Thought"'" % 
 
 Love's Reading 66 
 
 Fancy Borne """.'"... 6 ? 
 
 Dawn 6S 
 
 Love Not in Vain 6g 
 
 Be a Man 7° 
 
 A Spring Song 7 1 
 
 I Cannot Know ""'" " 2 
 
 Slug Six is Dead .. 7 $ 
 
 August 8th, 1885 
 
 Songs of Life ZZZ 79 
 
 Dionysius ^2 
 
 Lines to E ...ZZ' 84 
 
 Mexican Girl's Lament 9I 
 
 A-Wing 92 
 
 Love Guards Me, Abs ent 93 
 
 Viainltaliam 9 ^ 
 
 Totty Brown and Dotty Green "£ 
 
 Theory and Practice y/ 
 
 The Politician's Plaint *° 3 
 
 Misunderstood io3 
 
 Ad Astra Per Aspera r ° 3 
 
 Fate of A Kansas Terror I04 
 
 Christmas in Darktown . I0 ^ 
 
 Sorter Biographical 
 
 109 
 
 —113— 
 

 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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