^LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. I 
 
 i ^ Ufa] 
 
 f UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. |, 
 
FOEM S 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY A. RIPLEY. 
 
 ROCHESTER, N. Y. : 
 
 ADAMS & EtLIS, 40 BUFFALO STREET. 
 
 1867. 
 
."K3 
 
 BENTON & ANDREWS, PRINTERS, ROCHESTER, N. T. 
 
To 
 
 WITH WHOSE LABORS I HAVE BEEN SO PLEASANTLY 
 ASSOCIATED DURING THESE LATER YEARS, I 
 VENTURE TO OFFER THESE SIMPLE 
 POEMS, NOT FOR THEIR WOR- 
 THINESS, BUT FOR MY 
 LOVE. 
 
 Buffalo, December, 1867. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Bage. 
 
 Faith, - - 9 
 
 Our Flag, ..---.-- 14 
 
 Raising The Flag, .--.-• - 16 
 
 The People, - - - ----- - 18 
 
 The Chain-Breaker, .-.-.- 30 
 
 Flowers Gathered Before Yorktown, - - - 22 
 
 Here and There. ------- 23 
 
 Lines, --------- 26 
 
 What Is It? -------- 28 
 
 Another Battle, ------- 30 
 
 To-Day, --------- 32 
 
 Strike For Our Banner, . . - - - 35 
 
 The Free Land, ------- 36 
 
 1866, -----..-- 41 
 
 Song of Welcome, ------ 43 
 
 " I Thought The Country Needed Men," - - 45 
 
 In Memoriam, -.--.-- 47 
 
 To The Front, ------- 49 
 
 Insight, -..----- 51 
 
 The Dawn, -------- 52 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Life's Music, -.....- 59 
 
 The Lady and Her Suitors, ----,- 61 
 
 Long Live The Nation, 63 
 
 Autumn, --.-... 65 
 
 The Fore-Runners, -.-... (37 
 
 " Welcome, Comrades, Welcome Home !" - - 72 
 
 The Two Knights, .-...•. 74 
 
 Poet ! Sing An Autumn Song, - - - - 76 
 
 Oc Maidan, - - - - - - - '. 77 
 
 The Trysting-Tree, --•.-.- 81 
 
 The Wayside Tent, - - - - - - 83 
 
 Invocation, -..----. 86 
 
 La Danseuse, --.--.. 87 
 AUynwood, - - - - • - - -89 
 
 AtEhncliflPe, -•-.-.- 93 
 
 What Care I For The Flight of Time ? - . 95 
 
 The Dying, --.-... 97 
 
 The Minstrel, ---•-.. 99 
 
 Missing, - - - - - - - - 102 
 
 Prsetorium, -------- 103 
 
 My Graves, - - - - - . - 107 
 
 We Look to Mount Vernon, - - - - 109 
 
 Our Shrines, -..--_. HI 
 
 Spring, - - . . - - - 114 
 
 1867, ---_.-.- 117 
 
 The Child's Thought, ------ 120 
 
 For His Mother's Sake, ----- 123 
 
 Seaward, -.-.--.. 125 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 Page. 
 
 A Memory, -..-..- 127 
 
 To , - - 128 
 
 Deligayasoli, - - 131 
 
 Aged Two, - - - . - - - - 133 
 
 Tlie Sculptor and His Statue, - - - - 134 
 
 La Tour D'Auvergne, ..--.. 137 
 
 Graduates' Song. — 1865, ----- 140 
 
 Graduates' Song.— 1867, - - ' - - - 142 
 
 Nameless Anniversary Song, . - . . I43 
 
 Love Buttons, ----... 145 
 
 In Memoriam, ------- 147 
 
 Christmas Eve, - - - - - - . - 149 
 
POEMS. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 ftREEN summits lie in light and shade, 
 And forest arches rear their pride, 
 Gleaning their pomp from things that died 
 iVnd moldered in the summer glade. 
 
 The soil is rich beneath my feet 
 
 With dust that lived in years agone. 
 
 Whose grandeur towered, whose beauty shone, 
 
 Whose bravery breasted cold and heat. 
 
 The ancient glory perished. Here, 
 Life roots itself in death, and feeds 
 Upon the crumbled past, nor heeds 
 
 That its own throne rests on the bier. 
 
10 FAITH. 
 
 And as these olden forms decay 
 To give their beauty to the new, 
 The later, standing where they grew. 
 
 So is it with the world for aye. 
 
 The Present for the Future strives ; 
 Not for themselves the Ages toil. 
 Wasting proud blood for goodly spoil ; 
 
 Not for To-day men give their lives. 
 
 Not that old bounds may be restored 
 Do gathering armies tread the plain ; 
 Not for a field is crimson rain 
 
 Upon the stainless blossoms poured. 
 
 Nay, not for these the word goes forth ; 
 •. Not for a province or a throne, 
 Is the loud battle-trumpet blown 
 Through continents from south to north. 
 
 But that the manhood crushed beneath 
 A million hoary-headed wrongs, 
 May burst its chains, break into songs. 
 
 And with a fresher gladness breathe. 
 
FAITH. 11 
 
 The people shake the palace towers ; 
 
 Kings plot against the people's life ; 
 
 The mountains heave with giant strife ; 
 At Freedom's feet the tyrant cowers. 
 
 Above the cloud-wrapt surge of war, 
 
 She sits to see the world progress, 
 
 And seers and prophets all confess 
 Her light to be their guiding star. 
 
 0, Earth ! roll toward thy perfect state ! 
 
 Put on thy garb of liberty ; 
 
 Call forth thy sons, the pure, the free, 
 About thy radiant throne to wait. 
 
 We know the sleeping centuries lie 
 Beneath the days wherein we walk ; 
 Old wisdom flavors our new talk ; 
 
 We may not fling the ancients by. 
 
 For their great thoughts come flowing down. 
 
 From misty heights so far away, 
 
 We, in our foolish, childish play, 
 Forget whence all their balm is blown. 
 
12 FAITH. 
 
 Ay ! the old thinkers for us thought ; 
 
 For us the seers their visions told ; 
 
 For us the prophecies unrolled ; 
 For us the warriors armed and fought. 
 
 Men's lives were cheap and pauper toys 
 If their great deeds were left unsown ; 
 We have to loftier stature grown, 
 
 When, with a self-forgetting poise, 
 
 We can work on, nor heed the eyes 
 
 That frigidly our lahor scan. 
 
 Uncaring, if we may but plan 
 A scale by which the world may rise. 
 
 Thus toiled the man whose reverend dust 
 
 In Mississippi's valley rests, 
 
 Whose brightness dims the tyrant crests 
 That shameless glow with princely lust ; 
 
 Who wrought through sad, distrustful hours, 
 Who saw through darkness into light, 
 Whose faith beheld the conquering right, 
 
 Whose strong life blossoms into flowers ; 
 
FAITH. 
 
 13 
 
 Who sits above the mitered priest, 
 Above the purple-vestured king, 
 Whose simple teachings yet shall bring 
 
 The world to its millennial feast. 
 
 And when these passing years are old. 
 When mosses cling to our new domes, 
 Where'er our purer freedom comes, 
 
 The fame of Lincoln shall be told. 
 
 O, Earth ! roll into golden light ; 
 
 Let sunshine pierce the battle-gloom ; 
 Roll forward j give the people room ) 
 Roll into day ', roll out of night. 
 1866. 
 
OUR FLAG. 
 
 SEE ye to it, 0, my brothers ! 
 That our flag is not abased ; 
 That the rebel band is scattered, 
 And each traitor is disgraced ; 
 See ye that the lustful murderers 
 
 Win no victory in the land ; 
 Boldly smite the craven Southron — 
 Grod shall nerve the patriot hand. 
 
 See ye to it, 0, my brothers ! 
 
 That upon Potomac's shore, 
 Where bright Freedom hath her palace, 
 
 Justice sits forevermore ; 
 See ye to it, that our country — 
 
 Land baptized in martyr blood — 
 Comes from out this Red Sea trial, 
 
 Leaving slavery in the flood. 
 
OUR FLAG. 15 
 
 0, my brothers ! God hath called you ; 
 
 Take the gleaming sword in hand ; 
 Fight beneath your starry banner, 
 
 For our glorious Motherland, 
 Till from ocean unto ocean, 
 
 From the lake chain to the sea, 
 Eastern hills and western yalleys — 
 
 All our country shall be free. 
 1861. 
 
RAISING- THE FLAG-. 
 
 SPRINCx upward to the golden sky, 
 0, banner bright and free ! 
 And float among the summer winds 
 
 That haste to welcome thee. 
 Thou art the noblest flag of earth ! 
 
 Throw all thy folds abroad ; 
 We strike beneath thy glancing stars, 
 For country and for Grod. 
 
 A many flags are on the sea. 
 
 And o'er the tented plain, 
 But only one brings freedom's glow. 
 
 On mountain and on main. 
 Forever gleam above these halls. 
 
 And pour thy floods of light 
 Upon the bands who gather here, 
 
 To clothe themselves with might. 
 
1861. 
 
 RAISING THE FT; AG. 17 
 
 8pring upward to the laughing sky ! 
 
 A million flags are there ; 
 The nation hangs its banners out ; 
 
 Loud greetings rend the air. 
 Throw thy bright folds upon the breeze, 
 
 For patriot eyes to see ; 
 True love of ours is thine to-day — 
 
 Emblem of loyalty. 
 
THE PEOPLE. 
 
 OTHE grand, imperial people ! 
 5 See them marching with firm tread, 
 To the red fields where they reap all 
 
 Glory, smiting treason's head. 
 Onward march, with courage higher. 
 Worthy of each patriot sire. 
 See ! before you flies the foeman ) 
 Strike them, every northern yeoman I 
 
 0, the noble, loyal army ! 
 
 How it stands to save the nation ; 
 Liberty, what hand can harm thee, 
 
 When such love is thy salvation ! 
 Brothers, march ! the world is weeping, 
 In these fields, to see this reaping ; 
 Lift the banner of your glory ; 
 Save from shame your country's story. 
 
THE PEOPIiE. ID 
 
 Look ! the battle for the Union 
 Stains Virginia's soil with blood ; 
 
 Grod preserve this grand communion ! 
 Break not up this sisterhood ! 
 
 All the fathers bend above you ; 
 
 All the struggling peoples love you ; 
 
 Strike ! for all the world is turning 
 
 Where our stars and stripes are burning. 
 
 0, the loyal, patriot army, 
 
 Roused to save the Motherland ! 
 
 Stand sublime ! for what can harm ye ! 
 Strike the creeping, coward band. 
 
 Smite the traitor bold or flying ; 
 
 Wait not for his base defying ; 
 
 Through the Southland march victorious ] 
 
 Grod shall make your banner glorious, 
 1861. 
 
THE CHAIN-BREAKER. 
 
 FROM all the land up rose the clank of fetters ; 
 The fields were moistened with the blood of 
 slaves; 
 And a black doom was writ in fiery letters, 
 Upon our wallsj and o'er our fathers' graves. 
 
 Up from the southern clime, from plains of gladness. 
 
 From vine-trailed forest and from lonely glen, 
 A wail of million voices full of sadness, 
 
 Came from dark throngs of burdened, hunted men. 
 
 And yet the land, in peace and deathful slumber. 
 Dreamed till the serpent showed his poison fang. 
 
 When, lo ! a risen host no man may number, 
 Between the nation and its murder sprang. 
 
 And Liberty put on her triple armor. 
 
 And crowned herself with beauty as of yore. 
 
 And walked among the camps, a regal charmer. 
 Strengthening her worshipers with Freedom's lore. 
 
THE CHAIN-BKEAKEK. 21 
 
 She wrapped about her breast a starry symbol, 
 And, for a scepter, flashed a sheathless sword, 
 
 And, with her young-limbed followers swift and 
 nimble, 
 She ran and shouted till the earth was stirred. 
 
 She struck the chains from off the dark-browed 
 pleader, 
 
 Bade the down-trodden, the oppressed go free; 
 She sprang wherever human cries might lead her. 
 
 And cleansed the sin-cursed land from sea to sea. 
 
 In Christ's own name her soldiers plant their banner; 
 
 The cross gleams out amid the stripes and stars; 
 Our valleys and our hills are Freedom's manor, 
 
 And all her high crusades are holy wars. 
 
 Ever man's worshiped leader — a chain-breaker — 
 On each enfranchised soul she writes her name ; 
 
 He is with treason drunk who would forsake her, 
 And he a patriot who seeks her fame. 
 
 Forward, then, men of strength ! On to the battle ! 
 
 Beneath her banners let your tramp be heard ! 
 Fight sternly till the war-drums cease to rattle ! 
 
 Die bravely till the nation sheathes the sword ! 
 J 861. 
 
FLOWERS GATHERED BEFORE 
 YORKTOWN. 
 
 FLOWERS of the Southland gathered for me, 
 How have ye waited the strife of the free ! 
 Ye have looked out from your haunt in the wood, 
 Flinging your breath where our brave armies stood. 
 Yielding your fragrance when crushed in the sod. 
 Weeping for souls as they went up to G-od. 
 
 Lie near my heart, blessed children of light ! 
 Tell me the morning beats back the black night ! 
 Tell me the dear old flag droops not nor fails ! 
 Tell me that treason grows ghastly and quails ! 
 Whisper that lion-hearts bound to the fray. 
 Loving the field where the cannoniers play ! 
 
 Tell me of one ! Is he brave, undismayed, 
 Cleaving a pathway with bullet or blade, 
 Loving his land as ye love the bright sun, 
 Looking for strength to the prize to be won '/ 
 Ah ! I can see by the light ye have brought. 
 That the task of my hero shall nobly be wrought. 
 1862. 
 
HERE AND THERE. 
 
 THE singing summer wind plays o'er the land ; 
 It stirs the bending willows by the brook, 
 And swells the waters into tiny waves, 
 That wait to toy with every thirsty flower 
 That clings to the low banks. It murmurs through 
 The spreading lindens, wakes the dreamy songs 
 That slumber high among the singing elms, 
 And nestles gently down on mossy roots 
 That make a network o'er the woodland sward, 
 The harvest fields lie under the clear sky, 
 Sun-browned and silent, and the meadow-slopes 
 Wrap in a mantle yonder crescent hill. 
 The air is full of tremulous morning sounds ; 
 The rustling corn, the humming fly, the bird 
 That chatters to its mate — all are abroad. 
 And all lift up a gladsome song to-day. 
 
 But a grand vision shuts this beauty out, 
 And gives my soul a nobler, sterner joy. 
 I see the battling legions of the land, 
 
24 HERE AND THERE. 
 
 Bearing the symbol of our liberty 
 
 Above their struggling ranks. This blessed sky, 
 
 That bends above me like the face of God, 
 
 Steadfast and loving, looks upon the plain 
 
 Where my brave brothers with heroic blades 
 
 Are cleaving bloody paths for truth to tread. 
 
 I see the clouds and darkness that enfold, 
 
 Like a pavilion, all the battle field. 
 
 I see the flash of arms ; I hear the crash, 
 
 The thunderous roaring of artillery. 
 
 The shout of conflict and the bugle note 
 
 That sounds the fearless charge. I see strongmen, 
 
 Men with gray hair upon white, furrowed brows ; 
 
 Men with dark locks, upon whose death-still lips 
 
 The kiss of children is yet warm ; fair sons, 
 
 Whose mothers shut themselves in darkened rooms, 
 
 That none may see their life's fierce agony ; 
 
 Proud lovers, hither sent by sweetest tones, 
 
 And wearing on their frozen hearts the sign 
 
 Of a great love, and great nobility ; — 
 
 Ay, there they sleep ; and when their souls went up, 
 
 How grandly through the opening doors of heaven 
 
 Surged in the battle-music ! Earth's salute 
 
 Mingled with the full chant of angel choirs, 
 
IIEKK AND THERE. 25 
 
 As godlike martyrs thronged the golden streets, 
 Crowned with the deathless wreath the hero wears. 
 
 Fight on, my brothers 1 glory lights the sky ; 
 Sleep on, 0, fallen ! ye are with the blest, 
 And Freedom shouts above your bannered rest. 
 1862. 
 
LINES 
 
 Suggested hy the reception of a piece of the Mag home ly 
 the Twenty-First Regiment N. Y. V. 
 
 HERE is a piece of the flag we gave 
 When the Twenty-First Regiment marched away? 
 And we charged the boys to be true and brave, 
 Nor listen to what the cravens say. 
 
 Why should it make my eyes so wet, 
 
 More than another silken shred ? 
 No blood lies thick on its threads, and yet 
 
 I know it has fluttered above the dead. 
 
 Four of my brothers they say have been shot — 
 All of the soldiers are brothers to me — 
 
 Cruelly killed for the flag, but would not 
 Yield to the rebels the stars of the free. 
 
LINES. 27 
 
 No ! 110 blood ; but 'tis battle-stained ; 
 
 'Tis not so bright as in that first May 
 After the traitors at Sumter gained, 
 
 And the North was awaking to join the fray. 
 
 Another May has gone by since then ; 
 
 Hundreds are sleeping in southern graves ; 
 Over a handful of war-tried men, 
 
 The tattered flag in its glory waves. 
 
 Another May is coming, and they 
 
 Shall march in triumph along the street ; 
 
 Let the bells peal out and the cannon play, 
 And a loyal welcome the soldiers greet. 
 
 1863. 
 
WHAT IS IT? 
 
 TT7"HAT is it that reddens the earth with blood, 
 ' ' iVnd startles the air with groans ; 
 That fills the sweet air with moans, 
 That burns on the mountain where Freedom stood. 
 
 And flames from her altar stones ? 
 ^Tis the old, old fight 'twixt the Wrong and the 
 
 Right ; 
 'Tis Liberty rising in glory and might. 
 
 What is it that glows in the heart of the boy, 
 
 And shines in his startled eye, 
 
 As the bannered hosts march by ; 
 That makes him leap with a hero's joy, 
 
 With a hero's courage die ? 
 'Tis the old, old fight 'twixt the Wrong and the 
 
 Right ; 
 And the day-star is blazing on fortress and height. 
 
WHAT IS iTVj 29 
 
 What is it that lifts from the land we love 
 
 A loathsome and reeking crime, 
 
 That lay like a poison-slime 
 On sunny valleys and tangled grove. 
 
 And fettered the nation's prime ? 
 'Tis the old, old fight 'twixt the Wrong and the 
 
 Right ; 
 And the nation moves on in the battle's fierce light. 
 
 What is it that thunders at palace doors, 
 And threatens the thrones of kings, 
 And through the black prison-house rings, 
 
 Making grand and sublime all these fiery hours, 
 That bear death on their lurid wings ? 
 
 'Tis the old, old fight 'twixt the Wrong and the 
 Right • 
 
 And America stands in invincible might, 
 
 1863. 
 
ANOTHER BATTLE. 
 
 '' A MOTHER battle !" the newsboys cry ; 
 
 -L\. Read me the names of the noble dead ; 
 I tremble to listen, I dread— yet why ? 
 Better be buried than honor fled. 
 
 Yes, read on ; I am brave to hear ; 
 
 I think you will find Ms name is there ; 
 It was just about this time last year. 
 
 That I gave my boy with a wordless prayer. 
 
 I knew the danger, the glory, too, 
 
 That went with the flag they bore that day 
 The banner is riddled through and through ; 
 
 Its bearer went down in the bloody fray. 
 
 There is his name. I am calm as death — 
 Calm as the brow that shines to-night, 
 
 Out from the heaps of slain, but my breath 
 Stops when I think of the deadly fight. 
 
ANOTHEK BATTLE. 81 
 
 0, to die as our heroes die, 
 
 Striking for Freedom, side by side I 
 0, to sleep where her martyrs lie, 
 
 On the fields where the nation's gold is tried ! 
 
 Another battle ! My heart is sore ; 
 
 But if he were here I would flash his blade, 
 Till his spirit shouted, " Ah ! nevermore 
 
 Will I shrink from the weight on my brothers 
 laid." 
 
 Oh ! I am proud as I read his name, 
 
 Nobler than title of prince or king ! 
 Who shall deny him a soldier's fame. 
 
 Up from whose ashes fresh legions spring ? 
 
 Over whose ashes the armies fling 
 
 Tribute of praise as they march away ? 
 
 I may but strike on a shattered string, 
 With a fiery heart, but a hand of clay, 
 
 1863. 
 
TO-DAY. 
 
 bannered land ! how red the light 
 That flashes through your homes to-day, 
 That flames on children in their play, 
 And streams adown the guarded height ! 
 
 O, native land ! how grand the sound 
 That breaks across the battle-plain, 
 That trembles o'er the noble slain 
 
 Who sleep for aye in holy ground ! 
 
 O, bannered land ! 0, native land ! 
 
 Lift your dim eyes to Heaven, and see 
 
 The Father of your liberty 
 Upon the starry ramparts stand. 
 
 He watches where the flag is thrown 
 To the wild winds of battle strife ; 
 He sees the crown of his grand life^ 
 
 When heroes strike for Washington. 
 
TO-DAY. 33 
 
 God save the land whose martyrs bleed ! 
 Grod save its knightly sons who fight, 
 That on its thrones, fair Truth and Right 
 
 May sit, and serve a nation freed ! 
 
 Look up, 0, friends, whose hearts are sore ; 
 
 God works against an ancient wrong ; 
 
 The night may stormy be and long, 
 But Justice wins forevermore. 
 
 When this broad land shall lie in peace, 
 And bloody fields shall wave with corn. 
 Our flag, with not an emblem shorn. 
 
 Shall signal forth the earth's release. 
 
 Not for ourselves alone we fight ; 
 Not for one people, war's red blade 
 The nation grasps ; but God hath laid 
 
 The world's great burden on our might. 
 
 Where Labor groans in English mines, 
 Where Italy's brave sons are bound. 
 Where Austria's tyrant sits encrowned, 
 
 There, like a sun, our watch-fire shines. 
 
34 TO-DAY. 
 
 March on, 0, Israel, to the sea ! 
 
 The red waves part beneath thy feet ; 
 
 Fear not for Egypt's chariots fleet ; 
 His sepulchre, thy path shall be. 
 
 Feb. 22, 1863. 
 
STRIKE FOR OUR BANNER. 
 
 SONS of the fathers, whose banners victorious 
 Shone o'er the land that our Washington saved, 
 Rouse ye, and strike for a cause that is glorious, 
 Never shrink back from the dangers he braved. 
 
 CHORUS : 
 
 Strike for our banner, and strike for our nation. 
 Brave, fearless hearts are our only salvation ; 
 Traitors may palter, and cowards may falter, 
 But true men march forward with glad exultation. 
 
 When the black tempest of war surges round us, 
 When the red battle-flash leaping we see, 
 
 When with her helmet stern Freedom has crowned us. 
 False to our country we never can be. 
 
 Chorus : — Strike for our banner, &c. 
 
 Spirit of Washington, bless us and guide us. 
 Best on our banners and lead us to peace. 
 
 Save from disunion, whatever betide us, 
 Then our fierce trials forever shall cease. 
 
 Chorus : — Strike for our banner, &c. 
 1865. 
 

 
 THE FREE LAND. 
 
 HOARY-HEADED seers of ancient time 
 5 Anointed sages of the prophet-band ! 
 
 Erom out the misty shades of earth's dim prime, 
 Dreamed ye of our free land ? 
 
 0, poets singing through the Hebrew vales, 
 Striking your lyres upon Judean heights, 
 
 Saw ye how all your orient glory pales 
 In occidental lights ? 
 
 Were the far splendors of this hemisphere 
 So dim they might not bless the weary eye 1 
 
 So veiled that priest and prophet, king and seer, 
 No glory might descry ? 
 
 Were there no voices ringing through the tombs 
 That mine the old-world cities, bidding man 
 
 Labor yet for a little through the glooms 
 With which the age began ? 
 
THE FREE LAND. 37 
 
 Cheering the burdened crowds that slowly passed, 
 With the clear morn to break beyond the sea, 
 
 And giving to the pilgrim heart at last. 
 Visions of that To Be ? 
 
 Oh ! in the bursting mountains, in the flame 
 
 That leaped from earth's deep centre to the sky, 
 
 Was there not a sworn promise that the name 
 Of Freedom should not die ? 
 
 When mail'd and crested tyranny downtrode 
 
 The men whose souls dared look above a throne ; 
 
 When tears and blood in crimson rivers flowed, 
 Beating gray walls of stone ; 
 
 Was there no hope within the brooding soul, 
 Of one who should a strong deliverer be ? 
 
 That when the dull, slow years should forward roll, 
 His sign should gild the sea ? 
 
 His voice call up the people to that height 
 Whereon men struggle till the day be won? 
 
 Ay ! the world staggered toward that living light 
 Which we name Washinoton. 
 
38 THE FREE LAND. 
 
 The blind old world, held down by bonds of fear, 
 By iron heels that pressed the courage out. 
 
 Still bore the germ whose bloom and fruitage here 
 We hail with gladsome shout ; 
 
 Still surged beneath the ages' cruel tread, 
 That left so little hope, and life, and love, 
 
 And slowly lifted its scarred, bleeding head 
 Into the light above ; 
 
 This light that gilds the West, and draws the East, 
 Its wealth and wisdom toward the setting sun ; 
 
 Whose free, broad lands invite the poor to feast — 
 The land of Washington. 
 
 We dwell within the promised paradise 
 Whose wafted odors drew the pilgrims on ; 
 
 The sun of victory goldens all the skies, 
 The century's work is done. 
 
 And o'er the mystic wires that net the land, 
 Freedom's glad messages go boldly forth ; 
 
 Missouri grasps with her unfettered hand, 
 Her sisters of the north. 
 
THE FREE LAND. 39 
 
 And that old state whereto the fathers came, 
 
 Planting their standards firm on Plymouth Rock, 
 
 Sends back warm greetings from her heart, aflame 
 With blows and battle shock. 
 
 God's country opens wide its loyal bounds, 
 
 And grows toward the seas that guard its coasts, 
 
 While the grim traitors, waiting judgment sounds, 
 Watch well the nation's hosts. 
 
 The young America that stands to-day, - 
 Arrayed in war's stern panoply, outflings 
 
 A banner that shall lead the world for aye, 
 And dim the crowns of kings. 
 
 And the gray sires that watch to see their boys 
 March forth to breast the deathful tide of fire, 
 
 Wait calmly through the conflict's smoke and noise, 
 With souls that will not tire ; 
 
 Wait with still, patient hearts to grasp the hand 
 Burning with quickened strength, or to lay down 
 
 The proven hero with that silent band 
 Whose eager life has flown. 
 
40 THE FllEE LAND. 
 
 Better to sleep within the sacred grave 
 Whereon the nation's rarest chaplets fall ; 
 
 Better to die among the true and brave, 
 Than live the scorned of all. 
 
 God's country ! Home of Liberty ! the flower 
 
 Of all the seers have dreamed, the ages planned ; 
 
 We hail thee as our own, our priceless dower, 
 0, beautiful free land ! 
 
 1865. 
 
1866. 
 
 TTNTO a mystical, unknown land, 
 
 ^ friends, we are marching hand in hand. 
 
 We pass the portals ; the Old recedes, 
 With its struggles, and triumphs, and God-like 
 deeds. 
 
 The tufted fields where the martyrs rest. 
 Shine out, in immortal beauty drest. 
 
 The laud is rich with the lavished blood, 
 
 That drenched its plains like the Nile's great flood. 
 
 And the furrows we turn, are abloom with life, 
 That came with the shock of the awful strife ', 
 
 And the golden shrines where our treasures be. 
 Are written all over with Liberty. 
 
 From Atlantic's shore to Pacific's strand, 
 
 No more shall they fetter, or scourge, or brand ; 
 
42 1866. 
 
 For the word still rings in the nation's ear, 
 The word that the peoples bend to hear, 
 
 And America leaps in her upward growth, 
 Lifting her slaves with a changeless oath, 
 
 And crowning them men, with manhood's rights, 
 While pointing to brighter, sublimer heights. 
 
 The New Land stretches unknown, away; 
 We cannot see where its fountains play. 
 
 It is veiled, and voiceless, and peaceful now; — 
 We shall tread the paths where its tampests blow. 
 
 There are wrongs to conquer ; they walk abroad, 
 Fearless of honor, and truth, and God. 
 
 And the sword must flash and the pen must write 
 While the hosts of error stand up to fight. 
 
 The battle-fields which the New Land hides. 
 Where the armies close and the victor rides, — 
 
 These fields, so wild since the world began, 
 We must win for freedom, for truth, for man. 
 
SONG OF WELCOME. 
 
 SOLDIERS ! we welcome you home from the fight, 
 Proud of your prowess, your manhood, and might; 
 Well have ye guarded the clustering stars, 
 Lifting them up o'er the traitorous bars; 
 In the heart of the nation your valor has saved. 
 Each story is shrined, and each name deeply graved. 
 
 Welcome from Southland, 0, soldiers of ours ! 
 Sound, jubilant bells, from your flag-crowned towers; 
 0, banners, shine grandly above us to-day, 
 For your strength and your glory are born of the 
 
 fray ; 
 Come out, all ye people, with shout and with song, 
 And round your scarred heroes exultingly throng. 
 
 Welcome from Richmond ! its pride is o'erthrown ; 
 Welcome from Charleston ! its glory is flown ; 
 From ocean to prairie, from river to sea. 
 
44 SONG OF WELCOME. 
 
 Triumphantly waves the proud Flag of the Free ; 
 
 It floats from the fortress where Anderson failed, 
 
 And the stars of the traitor have shrunken and 
 paled ; 
 
 They are quenched in the torrent no force can with- 
 stand : 
 
 Then welcome, thrice welcome, brave guards of the 
 land. 
 
 We give you heart-welcome, and welcome of hand. 
 I860. 
 
"I THOUGHT THE COUNTRY 
 NEEDED MEN." 
 
 MOTHER, I sit in my tent to-day- 
 Do not start — I will tell you all ; 
 I did not secretly run away 
 
 From books, and teachers, and college hail ; 
 I wear the colors my brother wore, — 
 
 Grod grant I may never disgrace the blue ! 
 And I feel what I never felt before, 
 How grand it is to'be strong and true. 
 
 I know you will say I am but a child. 
 
 That I cannot toil as a soldier should. 
 That the bugles rang and the lad went wild, 
 
 The merriest youngling of your brood ; 
 Mother, but yesterday that was so, — 
 
 I never can be a boy again. 
 For Freedom is facing her terrible foe, 
 
 And my country is calling her loyal men. 
 
46 " I THOUGHT THE COUNTRY NEEDED MEN." 
 
 If the city streets must be filled "svith fops, 
 
 Flashing their diamonds and swinging their canes; 
 If white-faced men must attend the shops, 
 
 With a human look but without the brains ; 
 If the rich man's gold outranks the truth, 
 
 Cankering and killing the fettered soul, 
 Then the giant must fight with the beardless youth. 
 
 Ere the surges of treason backward roll. 
 
 So, mother, I throw off" my college ways — 
 
 There are students enough — my place will be 
 filled ; 
 I shall read my task by the cannon's blaze, 
 
 With the battle's roar shall my life be thrilled ; 
 I shall strive to be what you said was rare — 
 
 A man that honors a noble land ; 
 You'll not forget in your evening prayer, 
 
 Your boy who fights with the soldier-band. 
 1864. 
 
IN MEMORIAM, 
 
 MAY days, ye are strangely fair, 
 Strangely bright; 
 Love is brooding in the air, 
 Sky and sea a glory wear, 
 Earth is royal-robed and rare 
 
 With your light ; 
 But I mind me of the grace 
 Early fled from life's embrace ; 
 Of the brave who sleep to-day 
 Where the woodland breezes play. 
 
 May days, ye are soft as when 
 
 ' All the land 
 
 Blossomed with its grandest men, 
 Springing forth from street and glen, 
 Flashing idle blades again. 
 With strono- hand. 
 
48 IN MEMORTAM. 
 
 Oil ! how all our hearts went out 
 In the people's loyal shout, 
 Crushing back the craven fear, 
 That would hold our heroes here. 
 
 May days, shine above my dead ; 
 
 Wake the flowers ; 
 Let them wreathe the silent bed 
 Where they sleep who boldly led, 
 When true hearts their life-blood shed 
 
 In bright showers. 
 Kiss the turf that shields the brave ; 
 Gently breathe above their grave ; 
 With your tender May-day chime 
 Chant the resurrection time. 
 
 1864. 
 
TO THE FRONT. 
 
 ^^TTP, comrades ! tlic horses are cliamping tiic bit; 
 
 ^ They smell the wild battle afar ; 
 Spring into your saddles with shout bold and free, 
 
 Like the brave, fearless troopers ye are. 
 Good bye to the tents that have sheltered us long, 
 
 To the caroling wood-bird's sweet lay. 
 To the forest of pine and the rivulet's shine, — 
 
 Grood bye to our camp — ride away. 
 
 " Ride on, till we meet the fierce foe in our path ; 
 
 G-od shield the right cause in that hour ! 
 Ride on, till the centering hosts come in wrath 
 
 To the spot where the' grim rebels cower. 
 We hasten to join the flushed armies that come 
 
 From victorious fields bravely won ; 
 So, boys, swiftly ride, till the battle's red tide 
 
 Ebbs and flows to the sound of the <j:iin. 
 
 " There are bright laurels waiting a gathering hand. 
 
 High summits before us untrod ; 
 And the future spreads out like a valley of rest 
 
 That is lit by the presence of God. 
 
 D 
 
50 TO THE FRONT. 
 
 Hurrah for tlie banner ! our shield while we live ; 
 
 When we fall let its folds be our shroud ; 
 One short, silent prayer while our sabres we bare^ 
 
 For the bugle sounds out quick and loud." 
 
 They rush with the wind that sweeps over the plain^ 
 
 Like a torrent of vengeance they pour. 
 They spur where the banners and ba3^onets gleam, 
 
 Where the eagles of victory soar ; 
 Young hearts ! deathless heroes ! they spring at 
 the call, 
 
 Enduring the battle's stern brunt ; 
 With songs for the land, at the word of command , 
 
 They boldly ride forth to the front. 
 
 0, mothers I your sons are the boys at the front ; 
 
 0, sisters ! your brothers are there ; 
 And you watch, as the columns march forward, to 
 see 
 
 Who is bravest to do and to dare ; 
 And you sternly bear up while the war surges on. 
 
 With your hearts keeping time with the drum ; 
 Crod hasten the day that shall end the dark fray, 
 
 When the boys at the front shall march home I 
 
INSIG-HT. 
 
 WHO is the coward ? He whose soul is dark ; 
 Who sees no glory in a glorious caase, 
 
 Nor knows the secret of the changeless laws 
 That urge the nations forward. From the ark, 
 Gleams out no cherub light his path to mark, 
 
 Or show him all the poor and hateful flaws 
 
 That call the heroes to fight on, nor pause, 
 Till Error lies before them, white and stark. 
 No man is coward who beholds the truth ; 
 
 Who simply guesses what is Grod's great thought, 
 
 Or hears his awful voice in thunder blast ; 
 He must be noble, must be brave, forsooth, 
 
 Who strives for prizes which His hands have 
 w^rought, 
 
 And as a victor -sovereign reigns at last. 
 1804. 
 
THE DAWN. 
 
 HOW we stood, and prayed, and trembled, od 
 these lieiglits a year ago, 
 Watching all the shadow-masses into deadlier black- 
 ness grow ! 
 
 How the land looked back and wondered at the 
 
 work so grandly done. 
 When her legions fought for freedom, bravely led 
 
 by Washington ! 
 
 How Columbia knelt and pleaded that the Father 
 
 come again. 
 Bringing victory to our banners drooping o'er the 
 
 drifted plain I 
 
 Drooping like bowed ranks of monrners. o'er Amer- 
 ica's shrined dead ; 
 
 Stained with battle-smoke, but showing still the 
 white, the blue, the red I 
 
THE DAWX. 53 
 
 How we cried for daring leaders to go forward in 
 
 the strife, 
 Flasliing blades of fiery brightness to burn out the 
 
 traitor's life ! 
 
 For an arm 'of iron sinew, for a heart of tested 
 
 gold, 
 To bear down the rebel columns when the warring 
 
 surges rolled ! 
 
 And we waited, holding down the fretting fierceness 
 
 that sprang forth. 
 Though the Southern pennons flaunted toward the 
 
 strongholds of the North. 
 
 By the fitful Rappahannock, Hooker's gallant army 
 
 stood. 
 Fronting Lee. whose batteries vollied from beyond 
 
 the faithless flood } 
 
 And at Vicksburg, with his heroes, Grant made 
 ready for the fight 3 
 
 Western men with brave- New England, strove be- 
 fore that bristlinir height. 
 
54 THE DAWJS'. 
 
 Still we waited, still we trembled, for tlie niglit was 
 
 black with wrath ; 
 Yet we waited and we trembled, looking for the 
 
 morning's path. 
 
 For we knew that God was over all this tempest, all 
 this wreck ; 
 
 Though we tossed in angry waters, Christ was sleep- 
 ing on the deck. 
 
 Spring, the maiden, grew to Summer, with her rare 
 and royal grace ; 
 
 All the land, in regal beauty, lay beneath her rap- 
 turous face. 
 
 Freedom stood beside her altar, sternly pointing to 
 
 the field ; 
 On her head, a warrior's helmet ; on her arm, a 
 
 battered shield ; 
 
 And her valiant sous passed by her to the smoking 
 
 hills afar, 
 Plunging from the peaceful home-light into lurid 
 
 gleams of war. 
 
THE DAWK. 55 
 
 Of a wild and deadly battle, Gettysburg still bears 
 
 tlie scars ; 
 Her memorial shrines lie shattered underneath the 
 
 wintry stars; 
 
 And the hillside paths where lovers wandered 
 
 through the tender flowers, 
 Beaten down by iron footsteps, show where fell life's 
 
 reddening showers ; 
 
 All her places made historic by the fierce' triumphal 
 
 blaze 
 Pouring from deep-throated cannon, in those bright, 
 
 victorious days. 
 
 While upon our roll of honor, Freedom carved the 
 
 name of Meade, 
 Grant marched through the gates of Vicksburg, 
 
 crowned with his illustrious deed. 
 
 Fell the chains from Mississippi, and the river, glad 
 
 with glee. 
 Rolled down the imperial valley, chanting psalms of 
 
 liberty. 
 
56 THE DAWX. 
 
 Aud the nation, bruised, yet glorious, slioue with 
 radiance strangely pure. 
 
 For beside our own immortals, God had left his sig- 
 nature. 
 
 Over all the Declaration, gleamed the token of His 
 
 power ', 
 And the children blessed the Fathers, in that 
 
 proud, exultant hour. 
 
 Lo 1 the golden-gated Future swings its massive 
 
 portals wide. 
 And I see the peaks of splendor where our heroes 
 
 shall abide ; 
 
 See the pillared temples rising silently as that of 
 
 old, 
 Aud with soul prophetic, wonder, as the glory is 
 
 unrolled. 
 
 All the laud is full of plenty ; hither Labor's mil- 
 lions throng. 
 
 And the fields are ripe with harvests, and the air is 
 thrilled with song. 
 
THE DAWN. 57 
 
 Eastward from the prairie-meadows, float the treas- 
 ure-laden ships, 
 
 Nor drop anchor till in European bays the vessel 
 dips. 
 
 Commerce binds with iron fetters, South to North, 
 
 and East to West ; 
 All the desert blooms with cities rich with life at 
 
 her behest. 
 
 All the bright plains where the slave sat shrouded 
 
 in his ghastly fate, 
 Drink no more the blood of bondage, wear no more 
 
 the brow of hate ; 
 
 And the camp-fires burn no longer, for the Union's 
 
 conquering flag 
 Lifts its stars o'er every valley, gleams from every 
 
 mountain crag ; 
 
 While upon the storied column after task so nobly 
 
 done, 
 History proudly places Lincoln side by side with 
 
 Washington. 
 
58 THE DAWK. 
 
 Up the slope the vision cometh, and the sky is red 
 
 with light, 
 And the clouds, aflame with glory, gather round the 
 
 broken height. 
 
 Stands the forest flushed with purple, clad in crim- 
 son spreads the plain, 
 
 And the changing pomp transflgures all the land 
 where night hath lain. 
 
 Swift the stars slide to the westward 3 morning creeps 
 athwart the lawn ; 
 Chanting voices wake the woodland : Friends, look 
 
 up ; it is THE DAWN 1 
 1864 
 
LIFE'S MUSIC. 
 
 THE tender soul of childhood loves the sweet 
 And simple strain that, like the mother's song, 
 Lulls it to cradle dreams. Low melodies 
 Of wind-swept harp, or the soft fall of rain, 
 The rustling of the leaves, the brooklet's voice, 
 The chirping of the insect in the grass, 
 The lowing of the cattle in the fields, — 
 These are the harmonies it waits to hear : 
 No shock of sound to wake the slumbering man. 
 
 But when the boyish thoughts become the strong 
 
 And steady forces pulsing with his heart, 
 
 Eating a passage into continents 
 
 Of old, time-hallowed falsehood, heaving up 
 
 With fiery throes the truth that lingered long 
 
 In mystic depths, sea-bound ; when the proud 
 
 strength 
 That with each morning's draught of sunshine grew, 
 That found its food in simple company 
 Of woods and streams, of rocks and daisied hills ; 
 
CO life's music. 
 
 When the young Titan, roused with hate sublime, 
 
 Starts up, full-armored, to possess the heights 
 
 Where Evil stands defiant with his hosts — 
 
 Oh ! then the giant wants no peaceful lay, 
 
 But the grand chords that shall break through the 
 
 skies. 
 And summon all the gods from tranquil thrones 
 To his broad battle-field. 
 
 Anon the brow 
 That shone with manhood's beauty, gathers frost ; 
 The silver crown of age rests on his head ; 
 And dimly shows the long since trodden plain 
 Where childhood bivouacked in snowy tents, 
 Listing to slumbrous lays ', the fires are dead 
 That threw their gleams fantastic through the shade. 
 And softening in the distance, cannon peals 
 And bugle blasts are mingling with the near. 
 Celestial chant that trembles through the air. 
 And calls the old man from the field of strife, 
 To lay his weapon down for palmy branch, 
 To wear his diadem, and rest for aye, 
 Beside the river flowing from G-od's throne. 
 1864. 
 
THE LADY AND HER SUITORS. 
 
 A LADY sat in lier royal grace, 
 While her throng of suitors came ; 
 And one stood proudly beside her chair, 
 
 And spoke of his ancient name : 
 " My broad, fair lands — they shall all be thine ; 
 On thy queenly brow shall rare jewels shine ; 
 Thou shalt wear the honors a thousand years 
 Have laid at the feet of the noblest peers ; 
 And the envious dames that gather around, 
 Shall wonder to see thee so richly crowned/' 
 
 " What hast thou done, my boastful knight, 
 To win the love of a lady bright ? 
 Your ancient name — it is naught to me. 
 Nor your lands that stretch to the surging sea, 
 Nor your jewels that tell of your high-born race, 
 Nor your vaunting words, nor your haughty face; 
 For, know that the man must be brave and free, 
 Or lover of mine he may not be." 
 
f\2 THE LADY AND IIEU SITTTOIJS. 
 
 A soldier came with a weary step, 
 
 But a hero's heart and life, 
 And he,bent beside the lady's chair. — 
 
 He had stood in the battle's strife : 
 " I bring thee naught but a soldier's fame ; 
 Nor jewels, nor lands, nor ancestral fame; 
 The hand I offer hath grasped the sword, 
 And smitten the foe at the nation's word ; 
 It is shattered now, but I bring to thee 
 A loyal soul — it is all my fee." 
 
 Then the lady turned, and her eyes were wet, — 
 
 " This hand of mine shall repay the debt ; 
 
 Each patriot blow hath been struck for me, 
 
 And my country's banner floats proud and free ; 
 
 How could I slight thy royal heart 
 
 And yield to the scornful courtier's art ! 
 
 Nay, nay, you shall never kneel to me. 
 
 For my heart's true lord must my master be." 
 
 1863. 
 
LONG LIVE THE NATION. 
 
 LONG- live the nation the wise Fathers founded, 
 Based on equality, freedom, and right ; 
 Still through the land where their voices resounded, 
 Rings out the cry of America's might. 
 When mad disunion broke 
 Loose from the nation's yoke, 
 Quick rushed the brave boys with rifle in hand ; 
 Scattered the rebel horde, 
 Shattered the rebel sword. 
 Covered with glory our blood-bathed land. 
 
 Long live the nation whose traitors have perished, 
 
 Hidden in infamy, buried in shame ; 
 All the dishonor their foul spirits cherished, 
 Serves but to blacken a thrice-cursed name.. 
 
 Now the red battle's throusrh. 
 
 Home march the boys in blue, 
 Dread sounds their tramp to our cowardly foes ; 
 
 State after state flings out. 
 
 With a free victor-shout, 
 Banners that tell how our liberty grows. 
 
! 
 
 r;4 T-ONG LTYE THE NATTON. 
 
 Long live the nation ! How grandly the shouting 
 Shakes the broad continent, mountain and plain 
 Forward, my brothers, unshrinking, undoubting ! 
 Rest not while tyranny waits to be slain ! 
 
 Let not our holy graves 
 
 Watch o'er a race of slaves ! 
 Break every fetter that shackles a man ! 
 
 Let the star -banner bright. 
 
 Glow with a fairer light, 
 Shieldino- all victims from merciless ban. 
 
 Long live the commonwealth ! Freedom and broth- 
 erhood 
 Wait for their crowning ! 0, dare to be just ! 
 Stand up, nation, sublime in your motherhood ! 
 Swear to be strong for the Grod-given trust I 
 Kiss in your proud embrace. 
 White brow and sable face ; 
 Say that true service its chains has outgrown ; 
 Never deny to hands 
 Wounded by rebel brands, 
 Rights by which manhood shall mount to its 
 
 throne. 
 1805. 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 SADLY I look o'er the pictured land, 
 The woodlands changed by an artist-hand. 
 
 The summer green is no longer here, 
 
 But the autumn pomp crowns the passing year. 
 
 The hill-slopes lie under rain and sun, 
 The royal task of the season done. 
 
 They lie and rest, while the forests shed 
 Their burning leaves on a turfy bed. 
 
 A glory flames like the sunset light, 
 
 Over vine-clad cottage, and tree, and height ; 
 
 And slides from the steep to the valley-sod — 
 The world lies under the smile of Grod. 
 
 There are battle-fields where the autumn comes, 
 With its song unheard 'mid the beating drums. 
 
 And the trumpet's blast, and the foeman's cry, 
 Go up with the rushing wind on high ; 
 
66 AUTuivrisr. 
 
 And the mingled color of tree and sky. 
 Fades out when the starry jBlag floats by ; 
 
 And the martyrs glow with as grand a light, 
 As they pass to heaven from the field of fight. 
 
 There are mystic voices among the trees, 
 A funeral tone in the wailing breeze, 
 
 For the bands who went in the young spring-time^ 
 'Mid the cannon's peal and the bell's clear chime. 
 
 To battle in places where brave men stand, 
 To struggle and die for the peerless land. 
 
 And some threw rifle and sabre down, 
 
 To slumber where autumn leaves are strown. 
 
 The heart is still, and the dreamless brain 
 Shudders no longer in grief or pain. 
 
 The shouting columns charge o'er the tomb, 
 But the ear is deaf, and the tongue is dumb. 
 
 They heed not music of voice or lyre. 
 As they slumber beneath this shroud of fire. 
 1863. 
 
THE FORE-RUNNERS. 
 
 HAVE you heard of old Colombo, who four hun- 
 dred years ago, 
 Steered his humble fleet from Palos, sailed towards 
 
 the sunset's glow ? 
 
 How the mothers wept, lamenting they should see 
 
 their sons no more ? 
 How the sun-browned maidens trembled when their 
 
 lovers left the shore ? 
 
 How the priests gave absolution to the crews who 
 went that day ? 
 
 How within each stricken homestead, wife and chil- 
 dren knelt to pray ? 
 
 Brave of heart was old Colombo as he left the Span- 
 ish shore ; 
 
 Strong his spirit, as about him, surged the broad 
 Atlantic's roar. 
 
68 THE PORE-RUNNER. 
 
 And as many days flew o'er them, darkening every 
 sailor's brow, 
 
 And, nor island-bay nor land-breeze greeted the ad- 
 venturous prow, 
 
 Still his words were full of wisdom, still his coun- 
 sels full of might, 
 
 Though his hidden soul was struggling through the 
 blackness of the night. 
 
 When their keel was in strange waters where no 
 
 vessel yet had been, 
 When the guiding needle mocked them, and those 
 
 rough, despairing men 
 
 G-athered round with eager question — who shall 
 measure all the power 
 
 Garnered in that mighty spirit for this fiery trial- 
 hour ! 
 
 So it is with those who venture, leaving quiet bays 
 
 of thought, 
 Launching forth upon the waters where Titanic 
 
 minds have wrought ; 
 
THE FORE-RUNNER. 69 
 
 Turning from the trodden highways, seeking for the 
 gems that gleam 
 
 Far beyond the common vision, in dim cave or hid- 
 den stream; 
 
 And the timid crowds about them curse the men 
 
 who go before — 
 Cry and mourn because their footsteps leave the 
 
 beaten paths of yore. 
 
 Shall the birdling weakly nestle in the warm and 
 downy nest ? 
 
 Shall the tender-footed child cling ever to the moth- 
 er's breast ? 
 
 Shall the arm be weak and nerveless, shall the brain 
 
 grow dull with ease ? 
 Shall the soul forbear to question of the mysteries 
 
 it sees ? 
 
 What if all about the thinker, mystic currents wildly 
 
 run. 
 Some to southward, some to northward, some toward 
 
 the rising sun ? 
 
70 THE FORE-RUNNERS. 
 
 What if faith, that guiding needle, seem to lose its 
 
 ancient power ? 
 What if all the following traitors in the tempest 
 
 blindly cower ? 
 
 Shall the Thinker turn and leave the wondrous vis- 
 ions of his life ? 
 
 Turn because of coward voices, fold his banner in 
 the strife ? 
 
 No ! by all the world hath gained since first Colum- 
 bus led the way ! 
 
 By the darkness that is fleeing, chased by heralds 
 of the day ! 
 
 By the noble words of prophets leading up unwil- 
 ling flocks 
 
 To the pastures on the hillside, from rough places 
 'mid the rocks ! 
 
 No ! by the shed blood of martyrs, by their tears, 
 
 and by their songs ! 
 By the teachings of the poets as they pass in pil- 
 
 gri;m throngs ! 
 
THE POKBRUNNERS. 71 
 
 By the heavy words of Luther, battering at the 
 
 Vatican, 
 Carrying light within the cloister, lifting up his 
 
 brother man ! 
 
 Are not prophets, martyrs, poets, the fore-runners 
 of the race, 
 
 Drawing up the hosts beneath them to a more celes- 
 tial space ? 
 
 And the pale array of Thinkers, sitting lonely out 
 
 of sight, 
 Battling with a spectral army, boldly striking for 
 
 the Bight — 
 
 Shall we turn from their endeavor, fearing they 
 
 may lead astray ? 
 Or look upward, knowing Grod doth sit upon His 
 
 throne alway ? 
 
 Knowing Truth must be immortal, and that Error 
 
 evermore 
 Grives its own death-wound, and lingers but a little 
 
 on life's shore ? 
 1864. 
 
WELCOME, COMRADES, WELCOME 
 HOME !" 
 
 D 
 
 the streets look unfamiliar ? 
 
 Are tlie voices strange, though kind ? 
 Do you feel upon your foreheads 
 
 The kiss of the welcoming wind ? 
 Hear ! clanging bells and beating drum 
 Say, " Welcome, comrades ! welcome home V 
 
 Your faces are brown, my brothers, 
 
 Bronzed by a warmer sun ; 
 And your step is free, and your bayonets 
 
 Rest from their labor done. 
 Hear ! surging crowds cry out, " They come V 
 Cry " Welcome, comrades ! welcome home !" 
 
 Do you see upon arch and dwelling. 
 Legend, and banner, and shield ? 
 
 Do you see on the evergreen columns. 
 The name of each well-fought field ? 
 
 Men ! we will shout, though you are dumb, 
 
 " Welcome, comrades ! welcome home I" 
 
"WELCOME, COMKADES, WELCOME HOME." 73 
 
 There are old men here on the pavement, 
 
 Weeping their bitterest tears ; 
 And white-faced girls at the windows, — 
 
 Oh ! these have been bloodiest years ! 
 But through the sorrow the dear words come, 
 "Welcome, comrades ! welcome home !" 
 
 Off with your caps, my brothers ! 
 
 Here are the names of your dead, — 
 Tuttle, and Cottier, and Chapin — 
 
 They who so valiantly led. 
 You have marched out from the cri^mson foam ; 
 '' Welcome, comrades ! welcome home !" 
 
 This is a grand day, my heroes ! 
 
 Would I were there at your side ! 
 Under your tattered old banners. 
 
 Symbols of glory and pride ; 
 While the chiming bells ring out " They come! 
 Welcome, comrades ! welcome home V 
 1865. 
 
THE TWO KNIG-HTS. 
 
 THE morning clouds wore robes of golden sheen, 
 The timid flowers bent 'neath their jeweled crown, 
 The bright-browed knight tossed up his plumes of 
 green, 
 And gayly sought the field with graves o'er- 
 strewn. 
 
 Among the swelling mounds uprose a tower. 
 And o'er its walls a sable banner flew ; 
 
 A grisly giant, with a sword of power, 
 
 Gruarded the blighted land where death-winds 
 blew, 
 
 The bright-browed knight gave out a challenge 
 bold — 
 
 " Ho ! mailed giant ! leave thy castle keep I 
 Truth's gleaming banner, 'neath thy walls behold ! 
 
 Grray-bearded Error ! from thy dungeon creep ! 
 
THE TWO KNIGHTS. 75 
 
 Trutli stood within the shadow damp and drear, 
 Flung by that hoary castle o'er the plain ; 
 
 The craven came not forth in warlike gear, 
 But waited till the day began to wane. 
 
 Then softly turned the portals, and he sped 
 
 All noiseless where the fair knight's banner 
 gleamed 3 
 
 The mistful air grew fiery overhead, 
 
 And in the horror, evil voices screamed. 
 
 Uprose a knight, and shouted — "Victory ! 
 
 The false knight lies beneath my banner, dead ; 
 Now shall his secret cells the sunlight see ; 
 
 Upon my spear behold his crownless head V 
 
 The soft-winged light looked o'er the darkened 
 land, 
 
 The flowers that slept beneath the blighted sod, 
 Came in their angel-raiment — a pure band — 
 
 And all sweet voices chanted praise to Grod. 
 
O, POET! SING- AN AUTUMN SONG. 
 
 
 
 POET ! sing an autumn song ! 
 5 The forest shows a burning crown ; 
 
 Our birds to southern climes have flown ] 
 0, Poet ! sing an autumn song ! 
 
 The hurrying brook moans cheerlessly 
 Between its faded, flowerless banks ; 
 The willows stand in drooping ranks 
 
 Where Summer walked so peerlessly. 
 
 Against the cold, October sky, 
 
 I see bright crimson banners hang ; 
 And where the nestled birdling sang. 
 
 The faded, ashen streamers fly. 
 
 And autumn's flaming leaves fall fast. 
 On tiny mounds and lengthened graves ) 
 The church-yard shows its phosphor waves, 
 
 Seared footprints of a fiery past. 
 
 O, Poet ! sing an autumn song ! 
 
 The day is drear and life is low ; 
 
 The vernal tides have backward flow. 
 And winter hours are dark and long. 
 
OC MAIDAN. 
 
 " At times of terror, wlien the plague rages greatly, and 
 a thousand corpses are daily carried out from Stamboul, 
 the Sheikh Ul Islam causes all the little children to be 
 assembled on a beautiful green hill called the Oc Maidan — 
 the Place of Arrows — and they bow down and supplicate 
 the Father of Mercy to have compassion on the city." 
 
 Monasteries in the Le'oant. 
 
 It is a summer morning in the east, 
 And like a wine-flusbed reveler, the sun 
 Lifts his red forehead from below the hills. 
 And glances o'er the graceful minarets 
 Which rise above the lofty palaces 
 Of that old city reared by Constantine. 
 The early light looks down upon the streets, 
 Lonely, save where some smitten one hath lain 
 His burden by, to wait the angel's touch 
 Which shall uplift his spirit to its home. 
 Through the wide gateways pass the stern old men, 
 Bearing on a rude bier some pallid form, 
 
i OC MAIDAN. 
 
 Out from the crowded haunts of Hfe and woe, 
 To those dim, shadowy, cypress groves that sigh 
 Above the turbaned monuments of pride, 
 Above the level graves of olden time. 
 The warm-hued clouds float o'er the dancing sea 
 That laves the hill's green base ; the fairy sail 
 Trembles in the light breeze ; the wakened birds 
 Utter their trancing melodies where flowers. 
 As if just conscious of the holy dawn, 
 Open their dewy eyelids to the day. 
 Lo ! from the stricken Islam homes, a band 
 Of bright-browed children gather at the mosque, 
 As if for worship. In the galleries. 
 Among the gleaming pillars, by the fount, 
 Cluster the white-robed girls, the eager boys. 
 And when the gray Muezzin lifts his chant, 
 Up to the "Place of Arrows" moves the throng, 
 And on the velvet turf inlaid with flowers, — 
 An emerald cushion broidered o'er with gems — 
 The pleading ones bow down. That green-robed 
 
 hill 
 Is as an altar piled for sacrifice, 
 Holy as were the ancient Jewish shrines 
 Whence the sweet-smelling incense rose to heaven. 
 
00 MAID AN. 79 
 
 A glow of sunlight bathes the kneelers there, 
 
 As if the gorgeous canopy were rent, 
 
 And from the golden thrones of light, were 
 
 poured 
 A fiery shower, a token of Grod's love — 
 Of the All-Father's mercy. 
 
 Orient skies 
 Nurture the same sweet trust in innocence 
 That nestles deep within each Christian heart ; 
 The same pure feeling, that a childish soul 
 Lives within sight of those great, white, pearl 
 
 gates 
 That swing unceasingly for angel's wings 
 To pass their dazzling brightness ; that the fruits 
 Hanging from that mysterious tree of life 
 Beside the singing river-waters, bloom 
 With a fresh beauty, when a childish hand. 
 Unstained by a long grasp of cankered gold, 
 Reaches the laden branches ; that the love 
 Which suffered little ones to come to Christ, 
 When, as a wanderer, he trode the paths 
 O'er Judah's mountains, or beside the sea, 
 Gave bread to fainting spirits, rests, as then. 
 Upon their trusting hearts. 
 
80 OC MAID AN. 
 
 And so we give — 
 Moslem and Christian^ — to their lily hands, 
 Our own dark, hardened palms, and let them lead 
 Our feet toward the " great King's palace," where 
 Mayhap we find the wisdom of the child 
 Crowns or o'ertops our own. 
 
THE TRYSTING-TREE. 
 
 rjVER the purple hill-top, 
 ^ Over the field of maize, 
 Faintly the sunshine glances 
 
 Arrows of amber rays ; 
 Nestles the singing wild-bird, 
 
 Slumbers the honey-bee, 
 While the dusk hand of Twilight 
 Shroudeth the trysting-tree. 
 
 Up in her low-roofed chamber, 
 
 Sitteth a white-browed maid, 
 Waiting the quiet moonlight. 
 
 Waiting the night's broad shade ; 
 Slowly the red door opens. 
 
 Through the dim path goes she ; 
 Ah ! in the starlight ever 
 
 Seeks she the trysting-tree. 
 
 Down through the laden orchard. 
 Glimmers her white robe now ; 
 
 Down by the grape-vine lattice, 
 Where the sweet violets glow; 
 
82 THE TRYSTIN6-TBEB. 
 
 Now through the bending roses, 
 Now o'er the sprinkled lea ; — 
 
 Ah ! I see from my casement, 
 Maud at the trysting-tree. 
 
 Grleaming among her tresses, 
 
 Lie the white, shining flowers ; 
 On the dark sod about her, 
 
 Fall the bright leaves in showers ; 
 Now she enclasps the hillock. 
 
 Sinking upon her knee ; 
 Waiteth her lover ever, 
 
 Maud at the trysting-tree. 
 
 Crimson banners are flaunting 
 
 Up on the far hill-side ; 
 Flaming wreaths are entwining 
 
 Many a forest's pride ; 
 And I mourn at my window, 
 
 Looking beyond the lea, — 
 There are two graves this autumn ^ 
 
 Under the trysting-tree. 
 
THE WAYSIDE TENT. 
 
 I AM aged : my hair is gray, 
 And dim is my fading eye, 
 And I sit in my wayside tent. 
 
 And watch the years go by. 
 Some, like a laden beast, 
 
 Bear treasure to yon far shore ; 
 And some, like prancing steeds, 
 
 Gro — but return no more : 
 But I care no more for gold, 
 
 I give no thought to fame, 
 But sit in my wayside tent, 
 
 Murmuring one dear name. 
 
 A name that is graven deep 
 On a snowy marble stone ; 
 
 O'er it the willows weep — 
 The willows and I alone ; 
 
 The sunlight lovingly nestles 
 Within the violet's heart, 
 
84 THE WATSIDE TENT. 
 
 And the star-beams kiss the daisies 
 That o'er the low grass start : 
 
 Within her holy grave, 
 
 My lonely heart would lie ; 
 
 I wearily look from my tent, 
 To see the years go by. 
 
 I think when the white snow melts, 
 
 And the grass begins to grow. 
 That before the spring is gone, 
 
 My stricken life will go ; 
 And when the land is rich 
 
 With waving flowers and grain, 
 I wish my grave might be 
 
 Beneath the summer rain : 
 For I sit in my wayside tent. 
 
 And watch the lingering tide, 
 Thinking of one who sat 
 
 Trustingly at my side. 
 
 I look to the golden gate. 
 
 To the golden paths of Heaven, 
 
 And pray for the Saviour's sake 
 My guilt may be forgiven ; 
 
THE WAYSIDE TENT. 85 
 
 But there rises within my soul, 
 
 A mystical, dazzling shrine, — 
 Thereon my offering lies — 
 
 Thereon I pour my wine : 
 And I turn from the glowing past, 
 
 In my heart a yearning cry, 
 As I lonely sit in my wayside tent. 
 
 Watching the years go by. 
 
INVOCATION. 
 
 STRETCHED upon the rack of life, 
 With the dear Hope-land receding, 
 I have seen enough of strife, — 
 
 Turns my spirit to Thee, pleading, 
 Praying that the clouds may flee. 
 And the sunlight shine on me. 
 
 In the dust my soul hath lain, 
 
 Stricken by Thy chastening hand ; 
 
 And the mourner's ceaseless pain, 
 I have felt at Thy command ; 
 
 Life is but a barren waste, 
 
 Chilled by every poisonous blast. 
 
 Oh ! for one bright gleam of joy. 
 Ere my course on earth is done ! 
 
 For one draught without alloy. 
 While I live beneath the sun ! 
 
 Let Thy love so bless my way. 
 That the night shall turn to day ! 
 
LA DANSEUSE. 
 
 WHERE is thy motlier, poor, weary child ? 
 Here in the world, or up in heaven ? 
 The strains of music are pealing wild, 
 
 And the watch-hand points to the hour of eleven ; 
 The sky is enrobed with clouds, — but here, 
 
 On arch and pillar the gas-lights glow ; 
 We breathe in a reeking atmosphere. 
 And I wonder to see your dress of snow. 
 
 Is your heart so full of childish glee 
 
 That you rival the grace of the butterfly ? 
 Are the plaudits you win so sweet — ah, me ! 
 
 That you never find space for a secret sigh ? 
 Do you love the crowds that about you throng, 
 
 That mingle their shouts with bright bouquets ? 
 Is your whole life given to dance and song ? 
 
 Do you scorn to labor in simple ways ? 
 
88 LA DANSEUSE. 
 
 I think, perchance, 'tis an orphan girl 
 
 That treads before me the fairy maze ; 
 I think she may hate this dizzy whirl, 
 
 This swaying mass and this brilliant blaze j 
 I almost hope that the mother lies 
 
 Where low mounds rise and violets bloom ; 
 I think she may come in angel guise, 
 
 To strengthen her child in her spirit's gloom. 
 
 I know that the heart may break with woe, 
 
 Each life-throb be a relentless pain. 
 And yet no outward sign may show 
 
 Where the canker eats, or the fire hath lain ; 
 As you smile and bow, unspoken scorn 
 
 May gush almost to your trembling lips ; 
 May God unfold a cloudless morn. 
 
 After the grief of this life's eclipse ! 
 
ALLYNWOOD. 
 
 A homesick English boy, 
 His snowy brow o'erhung with raven curls, 
 His bright eye lighted with a thought of life 
 Among the clustered groves of Britain's isle. 
 Lay on a crimson couch. Fair landscapes hung 
 Upon the walls, and they were English scenes. 
 The painted elms seemed rustling o'er his head. 
 The deer stood listening by a rocky steep, 
 And, far away, among the southern hills. 
 The hunter's horn rang loud. A dancing boat 
 Waited beside a sunny lake, whose depths 
 Seemed colored with the sunlight ; and away, 
 Beyond the lake, beyond the pleasant hills, 
 Loomed up old towers. 
 
 The boy seemed nigh the grave ] 
 And with an exile's longing, did he turn 
 His thoughts to that far home. Oh ! when the 
 night, 
 
90 ALLYNWOOD. 
 
 With her still hours, brought dreams to lure his 
 
 soul 
 From its sad fear of suffering and death, 
 With his cold hand he threw her offerings by. 
 Unless the vision were of Allynwood : 
 Of Allynwood's tall towers and daisied hills. 
 And so they said if he should cross the sea, 
 And breathe again the healthful English air, 
 It might re-tint his hueless cheeks, and give 
 To the young boy a larger draught of life. 
 And the gray grandsire, with a tender strength. 
 Bore the sick lad unto his cabin bed. 
 And nursed him lovingly, although his heart 
 Throbbed with a painful fear the boy might die. 
 And find a grave among the slimy weeds 
 And glittering shells of ocean. 
 
 But the sea 
 Bore the ship safely, and the morning breeze 
 Was laden with new life, and the fair boy 
 Drank eagerly from the flushed chalice. When 
 The summer winds sang vespers 'mid the shrouds. 
 And lifted up at eve their choral chant. 
 The mystic voices woke within his soul 
 The frozen springs of being. And anon. 
 
ALLYNWOOD, 91 
 
 The swaying vessel rested in the bay, 
 And the sick youth and fond old grandsire left 
 The city tumult, for their still retreat 
 Within the ancient halls of Allynwood. 
 
 He was the only heir of those broad lands. 
 His father's coffin lay within the tomb, 
 Beside his mother's. And the grandsire thought 
 To nerve the boy with travel, and to bring 
 More strength to his weak limbs. But foreign air 
 Had blanched his face, and now, ^mid olden scenes. 
 They waited life or death. 
 
 The sturdy grooms 
 Bore the young Edward through the galleries. 
 That he might see again the rusted mail 
 Worn by his moldering ancestors ; the boy 
 Could scarcely lift a gauntlet, and he said, — 
 " I fear me I should bring my sires to shame. 
 Were knightly deeds demanded at my hand." 
 And from the topmost tower they looked abroad, 
 Saw huntsmen riding o'er the far-off hills. 
 And the white boat upon the sunny lake, 
 As waiting for a master. 
 
92 ALLYNWOOD. 
 
 Edward said 
 
 " I have so longed to see these dear old scenes ] 
 And now their beauty charms my inner soul. 
 Mayhap the ebbing tide will turn again, 
 And I may tread these lordly halls, a man. 
 With my heart's aspirations satisfied. 
 For I would leave upon the painted walls 
 Some trace, so that my name be not forgot ; 
 I would add some renown to Allynwood." 
 
 Ten summers wrought their changes. Edward's 
 
 brow 
 Had lost its maiden whiteness. He had wept 
 O'er his dead grandsire, and the hope of fame 
 Still struggled in his heart. And so he turned 
 From childhood's purer haunts, and spent his life, 
 Battling for England on the Indian plains. 
 Beside the Ganges, under orient skies, 
 Sleeps Allynwood's last Earl. A chronicle 
 Telling of noble deeds wrought by his hand. 
 And a bent blade all dim with blood, were brought 
 To the old hall. And there, beside the mail. 
 Hangs Edward's sword ; upon its dark stained 
 
 sheath. 
 We read the name — Edward of Allynwood. 
 
I 
 
 AT ELMCLIFFE. 
 
 August 5, 1860. 
 
 HAVE seen hours when I have wished to die. 
 And thought it good to lay my throbbing head 
 Beneath the growing grass. The weary path 
 Stretching before me, seemed a desert plain ; 
 And all my hopes like to the mocking lakes 
 That gleam afar to torture dying men. 
 But here, beneath these boughs, where every 
 
 breath 
 Is changed to melody ; where mossy trunks 
 Grrow old and die, yet give their parting life 
 To violets clustered round the gnarled roots ; 
 Where notes of woodbirds mingle with the sound 
 Of the bright tinkling waters, and the sun 
 Looking upon the glade, smiles thro' the leaves. 
 And flecks the greensward with its kiss of love — 
 Oh ! here I feel that earth is beautiful. 
 That Grod is good, and life a mystic wine, 
 Poured by a Father's hand. My fainting clasp 
 Shall tighten round the goblet, and my lips. 
 Fevered with struggling, drain the holy draught. 
 
94 AT ELMCLIFFE. 
 
 Voices are calling from the shadowed hills — 
 Does Undine haunt yon river ? Are the trees 
 Strong prisons for some dainty Ariel 
 Who cries to be set free ? Have these green vines, 
 These velvet mosses, all these living things, 
 Some life within the life that greets our eyes ? 
 Something that is in bondage, hidden, sealed 
 From our imperfect vision ? Let me bow, 
 Veiling my face before these mysteries. 
 These myriad miracles that Grod hath wrought. 
 Ay ! this is holy ground ! No burning bush 
 Lifts up its flaming banner, but my feet 
 Shall tread with reverence these cathedral aisles, 
 Fragrant with odors, solemn with the train 
 Of Nature's royal priests. Grod passes not 
 While I am worshiping ; His presence stays 
 In this dim forest temple. My worn soul 
 Shall gather strength, and gird tried armor on, — 
 Then plunge anew among the anointed hosts 
 That battle, not for kingly crowns and thrones. 
 But for the broader brotherhood of man. 
 
WHAT CARE I FOR THE FLIG-HT 
 OF TIME ! 
 
 WHAT care I for the flight of time ! 
 Let it hurry me down its stream ! 
 Far in the past the sweet bells chime, 
 
 That gladdened my heart in childhood's dream. 
 The trodden way I may ne'er retrace ; 
 
 I sigh for its blossoms, its dew-geramed flowers, 
 Its skies that shone with a holy grace. 
 To lighten and bless those buried hours. 
 
 Nay ! tell me not of a life whose waves 
 
 Should bear rich burdens to yonder sea, 
 Which lies in its beauty beyond the graves — 
 
 The gleaming sea of eternity. 
 Nay ! tell me not that my bark may wreck, 
 
 As the swift tide foams o'er the lifted rock ; 
 That the crystal vase of my life may break, 
 
 And my spirit be lost in the tempest shock. 
 
96 WHAT CARE I FOR THE FLIGHT OF TIME! 
 
 There are silver gleams in the loose brown hair 
 
 That falls o'er my brow in my listless hours ; 
 My soul is weary beneath the glare 
 
 That lies on the crowd" in the world's ga 
 bowers ; 
 I know I am restless and tired of life, 
 
 That my eye is filled with a mist and dew ; 
 I feel as a stranger amid the strife, 
 
 Where no fountain refreshes my eager view. 
 
 So what care I for the flight of time ? 
 
 Let it hasten me on my way I 
 I may dream in a careless rhyme. 
 
 Of a fairer home, of an angel's lay ; 
 If it be a vision, still let it bless 
 
 The waiting soul with a passing light ; 
 It will robe my life in a brighter dress. 
 
 It will be a star in the crown of Night. 
 
THE DYING-. 
 
 LAY her down, for she must die ; 
 She hath wrought so wearily, — 
 Now her soul may rest for aye. 
 
 Smooth the tresses on that brow ; 
 Never glistened they as now. 
 When upon them bright tears flow. 
 
 Close the eyes and fold the hands, 
 O'er the heart where hidden brands, 
 Brands of woe, have burnt life's bands. 
 
 Robe her in the grave's white dress — 
 •Raiment of rare loveliness — 
 Only robe of perfect grace. 
 
 Now around the sleeper's head. 
 Scatter snowy flowers, and shed 
 No more tears above the dead. 
 
98 THE DYING. 
 
 Groiie to realms of perfect peace, 
 Where all griefs forever cease, 
 Where from sin she hath release. 
 
 He hath given His loved one sleep. 
 Where bright life-streams sparkling leap, 
 Where the Shepherd folds His sheep. 
 
THE MINSTREL. 
 
 THE sweet light rested on her brow, 
 The fresh breeze stirred each tress, 
 But the earth-chained spirit was restless now. 
 
 Like a deer in the wilderness ] 
 And the harpstring spoke like a living thing, 
 
 Of the dark thoughts in her soul ; 
 In that fleeting hour, she seemed to wring 
 The dregs from life's full bowl. 
 
 " My days are gone to the sea of years 
 
 That foams away in the past ; 
 And my spirit hath known the woe that sears, 
 
 The fiery strokes that blast ; 
 Yet away I gaze with a yearning deep. 
 
 From this starless dream of earth, 
 Far up the clouds to the golden steep 
 
 Where the holy and free have birth. 
 
100 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 " My trembling lyre hath a troubled tone, 
 
 A plaint like the lone sea-shell 
 Which, far from the deep, with a soft, sad moan, 
 
 Its tales of the main would tell ; 
 It rings with the yet unspoken song 
 
 Of the minstrel's path of gloom ; 
 Of the touch of blight, and the bitter wrong 
 
 That crushes the heart's bright bloom. 
 
 " I would cast this treasure of song away — 
 
 This treasure so fraught with woe. 
 For I feel like a pilgrim far astray 
 
 From the home where sweet flowers glow ; 
 Yet the fountain is ever gushing free, 
 
 Its depths are forever stirred. 
 And my spirit is thrilling with minstrelsy. 
 
 Though I chain the struggling word. 
 
 " I break the lyre I have tuned so long, — 
 
 No other may sweep its strings ; 
 I quaff no more the cup of song, — 
 
 The draught but sorrow brings ; 
 With lyre and song my life shall go — 
 
 The grave hath a dear repose — 
 The weary head lies calm and low, 
 
 As above the wild wind blows." 
 
THE MINSTREL. 101 
 
 She cast her harp on the rocks, and gazed 
 
 As the quivering strings grew still ; 
 And a look she gave to the star that blazed 
 
 Far over the pine-crowned hill ; 
 A quick leap from the dizzy height, 
 
 A white robe on the air. 
 And a spirit had fled in that summer night, 
 
 Seeking a realm more fair. 
 
T 
 
 MISSING. 
 
 HERE has been skirmishing down by the sea,- 
 What is its story for you and for me ? 
 
 Which of its heroes was yours, or was mine ? 
 Sat with us under our fig-tree and vine ? 
 
 Some of the soldiers are missing, they say, 
 And this is what darkens the sky of to-day. 
 
 There are hints at a name — but it cannot be he ; 
 It would bring too much sorrow to you and to me. 
 
 But some hearts are heavy with anguish to-night, 
 For this struggle has taken life's gladness and light. 
 
 The missing are somebody's — not yours, or mine ; 
 G-od's hand hath not poured out His vengeance like 
 wine. 
 
 Our cup is yet full of its brightness and mirth, 
 And the rainbow still arches our green spot of earth. 
 
 So away with the fears that come pallid like death, 
 Let us twine for our brother a fair laurel wreath. 
 1864. 
 
PR^TORIUM. 
 
 'rpWAS morning in Jerusalem. The stars 
 J- Had ceased their watching, and the uprising sun 
 Shone faintly on the lofty temple spires. 
 Eastward, Mount Olivet upreared its head, 
 And Kedron's silver stream wound through the vale, 
 And all things smiled in the reviving light. 
 It was the Passover ; the holy feast 
 Kept in remembrance of that fearful night, 
 When, through Egyptian homes, Jehovah walked 
 Smiting the first born. From the palace couch 
 Over whose pillows Pharaoh cursed and wept. 
 From the low bed whereon the captive dreamed, 
 From the dark fields wherein the herds were shut, — 
 Up from them all, arose a hopeless cry; 
 The pallid dead lay still in every house. 
 God^s judgment hand lay on the stubborn king, 
 As on the maid who stood behind the mill. 
 But o'er the sprinkled doorways of the Jews, 
 Passed the destroying angel. Grod had said — 
 
104 PR^TORIUM. 
 
 " The blood shall be a token where ye are ; 
 I will pass over when I see the blood ; 
 The plague shall not destroy you.'^ 
 
 And within 
 The old walls of the Jewish capital, 
 Waited a meeker, holier, paschal lamb, 
 Than e'er had bled beneath the priestly knife, 
 Or smoked on sacrificial altar. Oh ! 
 How could Jerusalem refuse the shield 
 Of Christ's undying love ! How could the healed 
 Forget the Healer ! How could those whose feet 
 Had passed the solemn portals, and within 
 The land of death been captive, cease to think 
 Whose voice had brought a resurrection morn, 
 And bidden them come forth ! 
 
 Yet there He stood, 
 A pale, lone, friendless captive. Eager eyes 
 Looked on Him from the crowd, and not a voice 
 Rose to defend the Saviour of them all. 
 There stood the Pharisee ; his forehead bound 
 With broad phylactery, his sweeping robe 
 Grathered about him closely, that no touch 
 Of unclean Gentile, might defile the Jew. 
 
PR^TORIUM. 105 
 
 The light gleamed dimly through the dusty pane, 
 As if it shrank from witnessing the doom 
 Of the worn prisoner, meekly standing there ] 
 For in that company were men athirst 
 For Jesus' blood. He had been sorely scourged, 
 And now the Roman soldiers roughly crown 
 His throbbing temples with the platted thorns, 
 And clothe His trembling form in purple robes, 
 Mocking Him with the show of royalty, 
 And bowing as in worship. 
 
 And anon 
 They led Him forth to slaughter, as a lamb 
 All mild and unresisting, with His cross 
 Resting upon His shoulder. Soon upreared 
 Upon Mount Calvary, three crosses stood, 
 And Christ hung on the central one. Earth hid 
 Her tearful eyes in her sad, sable robes. 
 And trembled in her terror. And the rocks — 
 The old gigantic rocks — were cleft. The vail 
 Of the great temple, hiding from the throng 
 The golden cherubim, was rent in twain, 
 Revealing the dread glory. 
 
 And the race 
 Whose skirts are stained with'holy prophets' blood, 
 
106 PKiETOBIUM. 
 
 Are cursed with a yet deeper curse for this — 
 
 The crucifixion of the Son of Grod. 
 
 Their wail goes up from deserts, and the streets 
 
 Of Gentile cities echo the loud groan 
 
 Of Judah's children. On the hoary head, 
 
 As on the fair young brow of childhood, lies 
 
 The heavy woe invoked by Israel, 
 
 In that dark day when Christ was crucified. 
 
MY G-RAVES. 
 
 TWO green-clad mounds I call my own, 
 Two graves that lie so far away, 
 That I have never o'er them strewn 
 
 Flower seeds in Spring's awakening ray. 
 I call them mine ; and yet I know 
 
 The clay that lies so deep beneath, 
 Will moulder ; and the tears I sow, 
 May never break their sleep of death. 
 
 And if I yearn to clasp each form, 
 
 And in my night-dreams press each brow, 
 I may but still the fruitless storm 
 
 Of grief that makes my being bow. 
 I wake to weep o'er visions blest ; 
 
 In agony, o'er stricken bloom, 
 My spirit quivers. Oh ! for rest, — 
 
 For calm, sweet rest within the tomb I 
 
108 MY GRAVES. 
 
 Earth may not heal the bleeding heart 
 
 Whose idols slumber in the dust ; 
 No fresh flowers o'er the mold may start, 
 
 And weary years may form no crust 
 Above these broken treasures. Life 
 
 Hath been so clouded, blighted, crushed, 
 That I am tiring of its strife. 
 
 Ere yet the mid-day sun hath blushed. 
 
 I know the hand that smites is kind, 
 
 I know the love that would but bless. 
 That would pour light upon the blind, 
 
 And guide me in this wilderness. 
 So, with a stricken heart, I lift 
 
 My voice toward the holy seat ; 
 And at His altar seek the gift 
 
 That for Heaven's glory makes me meet. 
 
WE LOOK TO MOUNT VERNON. 
 
 AH ! where shall we look when the night-shadows 
 threaten, 
 When skies are enshrouded, and star beams are 
 quenched ? 
 Where look for the strength that our spirits shall 
 greaten, 
 When Treason in crimson our country hath 
 drenched ? 
 Where look for an impulse, a grand inspiration, 
 To nerve us for battle and gird us for death ? 
 To make us yield up to our freedom-crowned nation, 
 The dreams of our youth for sweet liberty's faith ? 
 
 CHORUS : 
 
 We look to Mount Vernon, where Washington 
 slumbers ; 
 The altar where patriots renew their proud love ; 
 There the hero-heart glows, and the bard wakes his 
 numbers, 
 And the country's great father smiles down from 
 above. 
 
110 WE LOOK TO MOUNT VERNON. 
 
 0, banner of stars ! shed thy light and thy beauty, 
 
 O'er tyranny routed and blasted with shame ! 
 Rouse each throbbing spirit to love, and to duty, 
 
 To sacrifice all for Americans fame ! 
 What, what shall awake us if lulled by soft vision 
 
 Of slave-boughten luxury, purple-robed ease ? 
 What power shall preserve us from kingly derision, 
 
 From loud-shouted curses flung over the seas ? 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 We look to Mount Yernon, where Washington 
 
 slumbers ; 
 
 The altar where patriots renew their proud love ! 
 
 There the hero-heart glows, and the bard wakes his 
 
 numbers, 
 
 And the country's great father smiles down from 
 
 above. 
 1867. 
 
OUR SHRINES. 
 
 TN olden lands, kings rear their sculptured 
 J- temples, 
 
 Column, and arch, and shrine ; 
 Grrim Labor carves gray stone or brazen portal, 
 
 Into a fleeting sign. 
 
 In mystic glooms of crumbling old cathedral, 
 
 In mouldering minster aisles. 
 Where quaint devices greet the eyes that linger, 
 
 And Summer never smiles ; 
 
 Where purple banners lift their dying glory, 
 
 Their crimson and their gold. 
 And proudly utter forth their knightly story. 
 
 Written on every fold ; 
 
 Where pealing strains of harmony majestic. 
 
 Roll through the fretted dome j — 
 There earth's dead royalty, its power and beauty. 
 
 Lie in their honored home. 
 
112 OUR SHRINES. 
 
 Where shall our pilgrim feet essay to wander, 
 
 Searching for treasured dust ? 
 Where is our mausoleum, raised to render 
 
 Fair honor to the just ? 
 
 Where sleep the fathers whose brave thought 
 descended 
 
 From its clear mountain height, 
 Making a pathway, pure, and glad, and golden, 
 
 With blossoming truth and right ? 
 
 Where rest the Poets, singers of the nation. 
 
 Whose burning hearts were spent. 
 Whose life was poured like wine for all the people, 
 
 Who were our prophets sent ? 
 
 Our hands uplift no grand memorial abbey, 
 
 Wherein to shrine our great; 
 But on the daisied hill or in the valley, 
 
 In quiet graves they wait. 
 
 For some the crested sea is ever sounding 
 
 A loud, triumphant psalm : 
 For some, the burdened breezes of the meadows, 
 
 Shed scented breath of balm. 
 
OUK SHBTNES, 113 
 
 Potomac wanders by Mount Yemen's ashes. 
 
 Returning earth to earth ; 
 The western prairie hides in its broad bosom. 
 
 Its son of peerless worth; 
 
 Its simple child, who, patient, true, and tender, 
 
 Went up to martyr height. 
 And stood beside that sacrificial altar, 
 
 Transfigured in its light. 
 
 Our great are slumbering in the wildernesses 
 
 Where Freedom struggled sore ; 
 They sanctify forever with their presence. 
 
 The land from shore to shore. 
 
 The continent is rich with storied valor, — 
 
 The blue sky o'er it bent, 
 Spreads its wide dome above our shrined immortals, 
 
 A starry-curtained tent. 
 
 A million names in fiery lines are graven 
 
 With love's most subtle art. 
 
 Not on the traced stone or carven column, 
 
 But on the nation's heart. 
 1867. 
 
 H 
 
SPRING. 
 
 IT is the resurrection-time. The earth 
 Hath put on a new raiment, and stands forth ^ 
 Bidding her children look upon her face. 
 The towering maple and the spreading elm 
 Lift up their emerald banners, and the moss 
 Creeps silently o'er the gray rock, and spreads 
 A velvet cushion o'er the fallen oak, 
 A tufted carpet underneath the trees. 
 Up in the interlacing branches, choirs 
 Of singing birds utter their bursts of song, 
 And pour upon the spell-bound worshiper. 
 Floods of glad melody. The sunlight looks 
 Through the green boughs, and charms the forest 
 
 flower 
 From its most secret haunts. The grand old earth 
 Seems like a glorious temple ; and each tree. 
 Each sheltered nook, a holy shrine, where soul» 
 May pause to render homage. 
 
9PKING. 115 
 
 On the bank, 
 There are sweet clusters of blue violets, 
 Which look so lovingly into my eyes, 
 That I would take them from their wildwood home 
 To my own garden. And along the path, 
 The little white flowers peep to catch the light 
 Spring gives them with her glances. Bending 
 
 shrubs 
 Are wreathed with stainless blossoms, and the marsh 
 Keeps in its damp recesses, flaming blooms, 
 That gleams like gems of fire. 
 
 Yon clump of thorns 
 Hath thrown on its white garlands, and the lambs 
 Lie in the quiet shadows. Winding paths 
 Checker the hill side, where the flocks have sought 
 The murmuring stream, which, like a singing child, 
 Groes gently through the meadows. The soft air 
 Htirs gracefully the pliant willow twigs, 
 And wakes to fresher life the drooping grass. 
 Spring hath a myriad elemental hands. 
 Which "cease not, night nor day," their mystic 
 
 work. 
 Morn hath its dew ; noon-day its tides of light ; 
 Eve hath its million starry beams ; and night, 
 
116 SPRING. 
 
 Its spreading veil of darkness ; and the hills 
 And lowly vales, the flashing lakes and streams, 
 Are putting on their rarest festal robes, 
 To greet the laden summer. Her warm breath 
 Even now is on the air, and her soft voice 
 Speaks from the waterfall ; her magic tones 
 Send a new thrill through every living tiling, 
 And make the season a triumphal day. 
 Grand with its bright processions ; resonant 
 With trumpet notes. It is as a new earth. 
 And a new heaven were spread before our eyes. 
 And through the open portals, we could look 
 On jeweled pavements, and inhale the life 
 From all life-giving things. Each soul may find 
 A wondrous revelation, strange as that 
 Which blessed the tranced saint on Patmos Isle. 
 
1867. 
 
 LAST night, a voice said unto me, — 
 "What shall thy New Year's carol be ? " 
 
 I answered, " Lo ! my palsied tongue ! 
 My battle songs have all been sung. 
 
 "Once I did shout for truth and right ; 
 My cry rang out through storm and night. 
 
 "I fought the evil; nursed the good; 
 And did what lowly minstrel could. 
 
 " But now, with apathetic life, 
 
 I stand without, and see the strife." 
 
 Again, " What shall thy bugles play ? 
 Look up ! Another New Year's day. 
 
 "The Old is deep beneath the sod; 
 Its work has gone before its Grod. 
 
 "Ring out your requiem for the dead ! 
 Place laurel on the Young Year's head ! 
 
118 1867. 
 
 "Sing loud, a noble, triumph-strain ! 
 The New is born in strife and pain. 
 
 "The Old World brighter shines to-day; 
 More honor crowns its locks of gray. 
 
 "Its feet have marched through fire and blood ; 
 But tyrants sank within the flood. 
 
 "And fair Italia sits enthroned 
 
 Where Austria's hopeless victims groaned. 
 
 "The Old Year's work hath been well wrought, 
 Behold the victory of thought ! 
 
 "From Europe's shores to this broad land, 
 Stretches the cable's mystic strand. 
 
 " Its lightning pulses leap and thrill 
 With ' Peace on earth : to men, good will.' 
 
 "The wedded continents are bound; 
 
 Their brows with marriage garlands crowned. 
 
 "Grod grant that love may, evermore, 
 Rule all the realms, from shore to shore !" 
 
 "I cannot sing of themes like these; 
 My eyes look not beyond the seas. 
 
1867. 119 
 
 "The dearest land in all the earth, 
 Is that wherein I had my birth. 
 
 "Grrim Discord sits upon its thrones, 
 While Misery weeps, and Justice drones." 
 
 "Lift up your head, 0, fainting one I 
 See ! the wild fray is almost done. 
 
 "Freedom shall rise ere long, so bright, 
 Her noonday sun shall flood the night. 
 
 " From sea to sea, from mount to vale. 
 The beacon light of wrong shall pale. 
 
 " God rules the ruler ; wait ! be strong ! 
 And boldly raise your victor-song. 
 
 "Bards are the prophets of to-day; 
 Gro, bravely do the best you may." 
 
 "O, voice," I said, " my song shall be 
 The teachings thou hast given to me." 
 
 And all the bells rang brave and strong, 
 "grod speed the right 1 god crush the 
 Wrong ! " 
 
THE CHILD'S THOUGHT. 
 
 A FAIR, young, graceful child — 
 A gentle child — stood by her mother's side, 
 With voice like low sweet strains at eventide, 
 And spirit undefiled. 
 
 She rested her white hand 
 Upon an infant's sinless head, and pressed 
 Her lips upon its brow ; and so its rest 
 
 Was watched by love's dear band. 
 
 The child gazed on the face 
 Of the bright sleeper ; and it seemed the hue — 
 The color which the flowers win from the dew — 
 
 Had given her cheek its grace. 
 
 Perchance the sudden glow 
 Was but the stirring of the soul's young thought, 
 Which came forth like a message that is fraught 
 
 With more than mortals know. 
 
THE child's thought. 131 
 
 " Mother ! this little child 
 God gave you ! " And the mother's heart was 
 
 stirred 
 With sad sweet feelings, at the holy word— 
 
 The message calm and mild. 
 
 Long years shall pass away — 
 Years, it may be, of grief, and woe, and pain, 
 But from the relics where thick dust hath lain, 
 
 Hiding the light of day, 
 
 Ay ! when bright silver lines 
 Lie like a crown upon that mother's brow, 
 These treasured words shall sound again as now, 
 
 Up from the heart's deep mines. 
 
FOR HIS MOTHER'S SAKE. 
 
 WHAT is a mother, that the magic name 
 Thrills our world-cankered spirits, and upheaves 
 From the deep centers of our life, the fires 
 That smoulder, buried underneath the weight 
 Of cares piled mountain high ! What is the spell 
 That smites the huge rock strongly, and unbinds 
 The prisoned streams, that leap as if with joy, 
 To overflow the dry and flowerless paths 
 We have so blindly trodden ! 'Tis a word 
 So simple, that the nursling catches it 
 While lying on the bosom; and the youth. 
 Chasing his worshiped phantom through the world 
 Softens his tone to reverence, when he says, — 
 " My mother/' 
 
 Ay ! the dreams of broken age 
 Gro back to one loved form that watched their steps 
 Hear, in delirious hours, the same dear voice 
 That hushed their infant sorrows, and the head. 
 White as the raiment of the Arctic Zone, 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
FOK HIS mother's SAKE. 123 
 
 Would still be cradled on the mother's breast. 
 And when the scars of sin lie on the brow, 
 And deeper wounds are on the tortured soul, 
 Even in the stranger land, the mother's power 
 Reaches to bless her child. Like vital tides, 
 Which, delicate and invisible, yet pour 
 Their blessed gift of health through every part, 
 So, where her child may be, her spirit goes. 
 To smooth an easier way for his bruised feet, 
 To brighten his death-hour, and make his grave 
 A shrine where other hands than hers shall bring 
 Their summer buds and blossoms. 
 
 The south wind, 
 Bearing upon its wings strange whisperings 
 Of waving palms and island groves, came in 
 And kissed away the jetty locks which lay 
 On the cold forehead of the dead young man. 
 He slept amid white, fragrant flowers which twined 
 And clustered round his coffin pillows. Lines 
 Of truth and nobleness were on the face 
 Worn thin by that great struggle, when he sank 
 Beneath death's turbid waters. On his breast. 
 Still in its olden place, above his heart, 
 His silent, pulseless heart — a silver tress, 
 
134 FOR HIS mother's sake. 
 
 Fastened with golden links, gleamed out, and spoke 
 
 In voiceless music, of the mother's love. 
 
 This was a talisman to stir the fount. 
 
 To wake the sleeping waves within each soul j 
 
 And one, an aged woman bent with years. 
 
 Leaned over the cold form, and pressed his lips, 
 
 Murmuring 'TU kiss him for his mother's sake.'' 
 
 perfect blossom of an earthly love ! 
 Adown the slopes of life thy fragrance steals. 
 deathless flower, which, on the heavenly hills. 
 Yields up its holiest incense ! Mary's heart 
 Will ne'er forget, while lingering near His throne, 
 That Christ the King of Heaven lay in her arms. 
 And Christ her Saviour will be Christ her child. 
 
SEAWARD. 
 
 THE white waves whispered a magic song, — 
 The quiring waves ; 
 They lured my boy from a bright-eyed throng, 
 To their deep graves. 
 
 There are white-sailed ships on the throbbing sea, 
 
 And the sunlight glows, 
 Flaming from rudder to trestle-tree. 
 
 Like a summer rose. 
 
 The trooping waves like a bannered host, 
 
 Salute the fleet ; 
 'Twas there that my dark-eyed boy was lost — 
 
 Where the navies meet. 
 
 The sailors are singing on mast and shroud. 
 
 Their quaint sea-rhymes. 
 While I with a breaking heart am bowed, 
 
 At the morning chimes. 
 
126 SEAWARD, 
 
 Grod ! that the waves should laugh with glee, 
 
 The sweet winds play — 
 The winds and the waves that plundered me, 
 
 That bitter day ! 
 
 They beat with their burden of breaking foam, 
 
 Against the rock ; 
 And the huge tower trembles from sill to dome, 
 
 At the ocean's shock. 
 
 But I sit and weep as T seaward look, 
 
 And my brain is numb, 
 And I pray o'er the leaves of the Holy Book 
 
 For Death to come, — 
 
 For Death to come ere I seek the grave, 
 
 In my misery. 
 Longing for tones that were kind and brave, 
 
 When they answered me. 
 
 So the mother sat by her window there. 
 
 And the ships went on ; 
 Still looks she seaward with moan and prayer, 
 
 But she looks alone. 
 
A MEMORY. 
 
 THE tender green of the spring was thrown 
 Over the hill-side and over the lea ; 
 In my little dark room I sat alone, 
 
 With a white-browed terror haunting me. 
 
 The castle glowed on the mountain steep 
 
 As the clinging wall-flower shook its blooms ; 
 
 And beyond the church, where the willows weep, 
 White crosses hallowed the silent tombs. 
 
 Out in the lake the gray tower stood, 
 
 The shadows deep on the blue waves fell ; 
 
 And the waterfowl with her yellow brood, 
 Quietly passed with the gentle swell. 
 
 Out in the lake the white sail hung 
 
 Loosely upon the slender mast ; 
 And the careless peasants gayly sung — 
 
 Why was my heart so overcast ? 
 
 Down in her cradle, my sweet child lay, 
 Slept so soundly she woke no more ; 
 
 And under the sky of a southern May, 
 
 We buried her there on the lakelet's shore. 
 
TO . 
 
 "I WILL STAND AND MARK." 
 
 YOU have a proud, high place whereon to stand 
 And lift your voice for truth. Its ringing tones 
 May surge and tremble till they strike the shores 
 Beyond yon tossing ocean, and bowed hearts 
 May rise up to a nobler eminence. 
 For your grand inspirations. Hoary thrones, 
 Their huge foundations dashed by bloody tides 
 Which night and day wear out their olden strength, 
 Totter to an overwhelming burial, 
 A waiting, Red Sea tomb. What stirs the world — 
 This gray old world, which through the centuries 
 Hath slowly rolled upon its forward way, 
 Like an unwilling sluggard — that, to-day, 
 It leaps and prances as the gods had filled 
 Its chalice with new wine ! Upon the isles 
 Where late the tyrant looked from guarded towers, 
 Hath Freedom's sun shone forth ; upon the mount, 
 The watcher lights his beacon, and the glow, 
 Streaming adown the hillsides like a dawn, 
 
TO . 139 
 
 Calls from his heavy sleep the trodden slave. 
 
 Bidding him throw aside the fetter-bands 
 
 And join the honored hosts. The father looks 
 
 Upon his boy, and points to gleaming ranks, 
 
 Giving, perchance, as did old Abraham, 
 
 His son — his only son. The mother folds 
 
 To her true patriot heart the form that lay 
 
 Upon her bosom twenty years ago, 
 
 And bids him die for truth. And fair-browed girls 
 
 Send forth their lovers to the battle field. 
 
 In such a spirit as Christ bore the cross, 
 
 Willing to drink the fiery cup Grod fills, 
 
 If man may be made nobler. 
 
 And these throngs 
 
 Of hero-women and of daring men. 
 
 Are but the incarnation of the thought 
 
 Scattered by all the fathers, who now sleep 
 
 With clasped and crumbling hands, upon the floods 
 
 That swept about their valleys. How these thoughts 
 
 Take to themselves a rare significance, 
 
 And clothe themselves in armor, as we look 
 
 Back on the world's old path ! Oh ! thrice alive, 
 
 Who freely scatters thought o'er all the land, 
 
 When but a sunken sod lies o'er his dust ! 
 I 
 
IBO TO . 
 
 His name may be forgotten, but the fields 
 
 Shall whiten with a harvest that shall call 
 
 A million reapers where but one has sown. 
 
 Ay ! I will watch your life. Your hands are white, 
 
 Your brow is smooth ; no blood-stain on the blade 
 
 You have essayed to grasp. Yet I have seen 
 
 Your soft eye brighten with interior fire, 
 
 The mild brow take a sterner aspect on, 
 
 As if the shadow of a coming strife 
 
 Were trying your young strength. Ay ! I will watch 
 
 Whether you plead for poor humanity, 
 
 Or, with a slavish soul, bow down to him 
 
 Who lift's the oppressor's rod ; whether your feet 
 
 Turn to the house of mourning, or the halls 
 
 Where pleasure sits enthroned ; whether the cry 
 
 Of orphaned children comes to open doors. 
 
 Or trembles at barred portals. I will see 
 
 Whether a regal soul shines in your life, 
 
 Whether you grasp the truth beneath all forms, 
 
 Whether you battle for the risen Christ, .-^^ 
 
 Or for His empty sepulchre. ^^ 
 
DEHG-AYASOH. 
 
 CREEPING adown the gray old wall, 
 Comes Dehgayasoh, the waterfall. 
 
 Looking through twilight to catch the sight, 
 I see the shimmer of raiment white. 
 
 The moonshine lies on her silver hair, 
 
 It crowns with brightness her brow so rare ; 
 
 While silently down the mossy wall, 
 She creeps like a phantom waterfall. 
 
 And now she leaps to the starlit glen — 
 Her beauty steals to my feet again. 
 
 And I reach my hand as she hurries by 
 Where the leaves and the purple flow'rets lie. 
 
 I reach my hand for the maiden's kiss, 
 
 Ere she wanders away through the deep abyss. 
 
132 DEHGAYASOH. 
 
 A plash of water o'er ragged stone, 
 And I am left in the dark alone. 
 
 But ever she comes, and ever she goes, 
 And over the spot her magic throws, 
 
 Till a nameless mystery wraps the shade. 
 Where naught but the leaves and waters played ; 
 
 And a mystical chant thrills all the air. 
 As I linger and list to the voices there ; 
 
 And I see a spirit in saintly white. 
 Where Dehgayasoh falls down in light. 
 
AGED TWO. 
 
 LITHE as swaying willow bough, 
 Tripping where the daisies grow, 
 Kissing the white lily leaves, 
 Watching swallows 'neath the eaves, 
 Asking why the breezes blow, 
 Why the singing waters flow, 
 Was our darling — aged two. 
 
 Eyes of softest, purest blue. 
 Cheeks of sunset's rosiest hue, 
 Tresses of pale, wavy gold, 
 Dimpled arm of fairy mold, 
 Timid heart when wild winds blew, 
 Loving heart for me and you, 
 Had our darling — aged two. 
 
 Brow of marble, ice-cold cheek. 
 Tongue that nevermore may speak, 
 Folded hands upon her breast, 
 Head on coffin pillows prest, 
 Winged spirit far away. 
 Where the angel children play, 
 Lonely hearts that nurse their woe, 
 Longing for their idol so. 
 Hath our darling — aged two. 
 
THE SCULPTOR AND HIS STATUE. 
 
 THERE stands my thought ! Men gather round 
 and gaze, 
 And eyes of brightness, maiden's eyes, are dim 
 With the unspoken burden of their souls. 
 To crowds, 'tis but a marble statue, wrought 
 With most consummate skill ; each flowing tress 
 Hangs o'er the Parian brow as carelessly 
 As 'twere the silken locks of laughing boy} 
 And each proportioned limb seems bent to spring 
 Forth 'mid the eager throngs. They say it needs 
 Naught but the crimson life-tide, naught but breath, 
 To match creation's master-piece ; they name 
 Old artists who were crowned in Grrecian fanes. 
 Who worshiped reverently at art's pure shrine. 
 And wore her wreaths of glory ; likening me 
 To Phidias ; and I hear and seek to find 
 One word that tells they comprehend the form 
 They look upon for hours. Ah ! none can see 
 That 'tis but the embodiment of a thought 
 
THE SCULPTOR AND HIS STxVTUE. 135 
 
 Which through loog years has nestled in my soul ) 
 A thought which sought to be incarnated, 
 And dwell among the throngs of sordid men, 
 Mayhap to be a silent teacher \ yet 
 Most eloquent in its silence. 
 
 I have wrought 
 Through the still hours, when earth was overhiing 
 By the bright starry slopes of heaven 3 when day 
 Spread o'er the hills her golden canopy, 
 Her vaulted ceiling, where the floating, clouds 
 Seemed winged like the angels 3 when the flowers 
 Wooed me with their soft eyes, to cast aside 
 My dusty, toil-worn robe, and bathe my brow 
 In the free air and light j I heeded not, 
 But grasped my chisel tightly, and carved on. 
 Ay ! yonder statue hath my life's warm blood 
 And my faint breath within it. 'Twas my task ^ — 
 Now 'tis my finished work, and I may rest. 
 O wondering crowds ! will ye not learn to mold 
 Your lives into a form of such rare grace. 
 That 'mid the sculptures of the mansioned land, 
 Or in the temple of the glorified, 
 Of spiritual beauty ye may speak ? 
 
136 THE SCULPTOB AND HIS STATUE. 
 
 T saw yon figure on the mountain side 
 
 Where it was quarried. There it lay among 
 
 Rough masses of unshapen stone j a block 
 
 Of earth-soiled marble, hiding in its heart 
 
 The beauty which should robe my struggling thought. 
 
 And so the human form is but the thought, 
 
 The breath of Grod, arrayed in fleshly garb. 
 
 And when the breath He gave it shall have passed, 
 
 The robe will molder, and take other forms. 
 
 But the undying soul will live for aye. 
 
 Ay ! in all hearts there is the breath of Grod, 
 
 His image, which would shine from every brow, 
 
 Would but the sculptor-hand bring out the lines, 
 
 And disenthrall the tracery which lies 
 
 Under the rubbish heaps which sin hath piled 
 
 Above the fallen treasure. 
 
 1857. 
 
LA TOUR D'AUVERGNE. 
 
 HAVE you read the heroic story 
 Of the first grenadier of France ? 
 Have you read of his well-won glory, 
 
 Id poem or bold romance ? 
 So brave was the grenadier, — 
 Ah ! where will you find his peer ? — 
 That this legend, after he fell, 
 Told his history brief and well, 
 " Died on the field of honor." 
 
 Only one man in the tower, 
 
 Gruarding the mountain pass ; 
 Waiting the midnight hour, 
 
 And the darkening Austrian mass : 
 A regiment marching to strife. 
 Across their wild path but one life — 
 How the tale in the spirit will burn ! — 
 That, known as La Tour d'Auvergne, 
 " Died on the field of honor." 
 
138 LA TOUR D'AUVERGNE. 
 
 Brave to defend his post, 
 
 Hundreds against but one, 
 How should the victor boast, 
 
 If, fighting till set of sun, 
 Doing the work he sought, 
 When the summons to him was brought, 
 He yielded the mountain tower, 
 Marched out at the sunrise hour, 
 
 So, winning the field of honor ! 
 
 For, when the troops were in line. 
 Out through the fortress door, 
 
 Into the fair sunshine, 
 
 His arms the veteran bore. 
 
 How the fierce Austrian gazed, 
 
 As his hand to his cap he raised, 
 
 Saluting the brave grenadier. 
 
 Who, gallant, without a fear, 
 " Died on the field of honor !" 
 
 Years after, the hero fell ; 
 
 Should they cross his name from the roll ? 
 The Emperor, nobly and well, 
 
 Honored the patriot soul ; 
 
LA TOUIi U'AUVERGNE. 1^^ 
 
 For, when they called his name 
 Out from the ranks there came 
 One who, baring his head, 
 Spoke for the loyal dead, — 
 " Died on the field of honor 
 
 )} 
 
 Out in the world of battle, 
 
 Stretches a field of strife ', 
 There is the cannon's rattle. 
 
 There is the earnest life ; 
 Let our great struggle be glorious, 
 Let us fall grandly victorious. 
 Then when the summer flowers cover us 
 Will our brave comrades say over us, — 
 
 " Died on the field of honor." 
 
 Honor La Tour d'Auvergne, 
 
 More than you honor a king ! 
 Songs for La Tour d'Auvergne, 
 
 Songs for a nation to sing I 
 Thanks to La Tour d'Auvergne, 
 Praise to La Tour d'Auvergne, 
 In poem or bold romance, 
 Who, first grenadier of France, 
 " Died on the field of honor." 
 
GRADUATES' SONGS. 
 
 1865. 
 
 1\T0 saddened song be ours to-night, 
 -^ ' Although we like not parting j 
 No coming tears must dim the sight, 
 
 At this, our looked-for starting; 
 The broad, white field is waving now, 
 
 And " Forward I" calls the Master; 
 A crown for every loyal brow, 
 
 Grieams out through all disaster. 
 
 CHORUS : 
 
 The world cries out for brave young hearts 
 
 To do its noblest fighting ; 
 We go to bear our chosen parts, 
 
 For there's many a wrong needs righting. 
 
 Ay ! Wrong beats down the struggling Right ! 
 
 And Truth is soiled with barter ; 
 But on each well-won sacred height, 
 
 The people shrine a martyr ; 
 
GRADUATES' SONGS.— 1865. 141 
 
 Who saves the world, lays down his life, 
 Scourged by some heathen scorner ; 
 
 But Freedom walks his field of strife, 
 And man becomes his mourner. 
 
 saddened soul, awake ! Look out ! 
 
 See what this glory meaneth ! 
 The heavens are rent with song and shout, 
 
 The sun is in the zenith. 
 Christ sits above these seas of blood ; 
 
 Thorn-crowns have blossomed roses. 
 And where the cross of shame hath stood, 
 
 Grod's hand a throne discloses. 
 
 So forward march toward good and great, 
 
 Bring iron strength to weakness ; 
 Tread down the poison-shoots of hate, 
 
 Sow, broadcast, love and meekness j 
 True souls must trench on false and base, 
 
 Sin lies forever dying ', 
 Comrades, press on a little space, 
 
 Your coward foes are flying. 
 
1867. 
 
 DRIFTINGr away from the valley we love, 
 Drifting awayj 
 Comrades, our spirits all gayly shall rove, 
 
 Whither they may. 
 Look, the tower-beacon shines out like a star, 
 Faithfully warning of rock and of bar ; 
 Boldly we steer for the land that afar, 
 Dawns like a day. 
 
 Drifting away o'er a silvery sea. 
 
 Drifting away ; 
 Who are so dreamy, so happy as we. 
 
 Rocked on the bay ? 
 Comrades, arouse ! we may idle no more ; 
 See ! yonder rises a perilous shore ! 
 List ! the wild tempest is thundering before ; 
 
 Rouse to the fray ! 
 
 Striving to conquer the evil with good. 
 
 Striving for aye ; 
 Lifting fair Truth where bold Error hath stood. 
 
 Marble for clay ; 
 Father, ! help, lest we fail from the right ; 
 Touch thou our eyelids, renew our blind sight , 
 Into our weakness, pour down thy great might; 
 
 Ever we pray. 
 
NAMELESS ANNIVERSARY SONG. 
 
 BROTHERS, the festival hour is come, 
 Let us be merry to-night; 
 Within the old circle each heart is at home, 
 
 Let us be merry to-night ; 
 Sorrow and care shall not venture to creep 
 From the cradle where lately we saw them asleep ; 
 We will forget why we murmur or weep, 
 Let us be merry to-night. 
 
 Brothers, love's chain must be brightened anew. 
 
 Let us be merry to night ; 
 We know that the links are all golden and true, 
 
 Let us be merry to-night ; 
 But time's mystic touch may enshroud them with 
 
 clay. 
 While our steps become weak, and our locks change 
 
 to gray. 
 So we'll dream that our lives have turned back to 
 their May, 
 Let us be merry to-night ; 
 
144 NAMELESS ANNIVERSAKY SONG. 
 
 Brothers, a thought to the brave we will give 
 
 While we are merry to night ; 
 Who go to their death that the nation may live, 
 
 While we are merry to-night; 
 The trumpet rings out o'er the song and the wine. 
 With its call to the fields where the bayonets shine 
 And we hear our own names as we glance down the 
 line. 
 
 While we are merry to-night ; 
 
 Brothers, we pledge to each other our faith, 
 
 While we are merry to-night ; 
 The truth shall not fail while the Nameless have 
 breath. 
 
 Let us be merry to-night -, 
 The great world may go by while we clasp the warm 
 
 hand, 
 And we'll promise with brotherly kindness to stand 
 By the true and the brave of our own faithful band, 
 
 Let us be merry to-night. 
 Oct. 27, 1863. 
 
LOVE BUTTONS. 
 
 "TTITHER, mj blue-eyed darling, 
 
 -*"*-Wliat do you hold in your hand ?" 
 "Buttons, love buttons, so pretty, 
 
 So musical, gay, and so grand." 
 "And what are they for, little lady. 
 
 These buttons of gold and of glass? " 
 "Oh ! they are for fun and for frolic, 
 
 To please a wild, play-loving lass." 
 
 "Come, tell me their story, my kitten ; 
 
 Who gave them to you, and for what ?" 
 "Why, this pearly one, like an acorn, 
 
 I keep in it memory of Dot. 
 Poor Dot has sailed over the ocean. 
 
 Her mamma lies under the flowers, 
 Out in the wind and the sunshine, 
 
 Out in the snow and the showers. 
 
146 LOVE BUTTONS. 
 
 "And this one I strung for my grandma, 
 
 Her hair it is silvery gray ; 
 She says with the chills of December, 
 
 And calls me her sweet little May ; 
 And this one I love more than any ; 
 
 Look ! see the bold eagle and stars ; 
 'Twas worn by a blue-coated soldier, 
 
 And went through the terrible wars." 
 
 "Well, well, little one, you shall gather 
 
 Love buttons as long as you will ; 
 Shake them, and jingle them darling, — 
 
 Children should never be still. 
 Here, from my vest is a treasure, 
 
 String it and keep it for me ; 
 Bright may your life be with loving, 
 
 Wherever its future may be 1" 
 

 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Dec. 23, 1861. 
 
 SUMMER breath of June ! 
 9 0, sweet-lipped roses in the garden blown ! 
 Ye sing a saddened tune 
 For one that from our household band hath flown. 
 
 0, pure-eyed violets, 
 Glowing so brightly with each flushing morn, 
 
 How many a heart now frets 
 For one that into angel-life is born ! 
 
 For one that spread white wings, 
 And left the earth where we so blindly walk ; 
 
 Whose soul above us springs — 
 Above our sordid ways, our worldly talk. 
 
 Where shall we look for thee ? 
 Where thy green grave awaits our coming feet ? 
 
 Where the fleet winds are free, 
 Untamed by towering walls or city street ? 
 
148 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Where may we find thy home ? 
 Above yon golden cloud that veils the sky 't 
 
 Above yon azure dome, 
 Where, in calm nights, a million diamonds lie ? 
 
 0, blessed one ! not there. 
 Not in the grave art thou awaiting light, — 
 
 But in yon palace fair, 
 Rearing its spires upon the heavenly height. 
 
 We may not hear thy song. 
 We may not see thee in that folded flock, 
 
 Yet it shall not be long. 
 Ere at the palace gate our souls shall knock -, 
 
 Ere in the deathless land. 
 In the unshadowed fields of Paradise, 
 
 We clasp again thy hand, 
 And cease forever all these broken cries. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 The Christmas chimes 
 Rang out in holy mirth, and the clear air 
 Trembled to the glad peals of music. Throngs 
 Of eager-eyed young children, fair-browed dames, 
 And gray-haired grandsires, trod the city streets, 
 Moving as if one thought led all their hearts 
 Up to the crowded temple. The dim towers 
 Threw off their dark array, and glowed with light 
 Flung from the gorgeous windows. And the tones — 
 The deep-voiced thunder of the organ, rolled 
 Out of the open doorway, and surged on. 
 Bidding the crowds come in, and glorify 
 The Christ-child's natal day. The choral chant 
 Echoed among the cloistered galleries, 
 Where bright child-faces peered from evergreen, 
 Woven o'er arch and column. The high roof 
 Seemed an o'ershadowing forest -, and the lights 
 Glimmering among dark leaves, like sun-bright stars 
 Glancing through the thick drapery of trees. 
 The wreathed pillars threw fantastic shades 
 
150 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Upon the pavement, and the chancel seemed 
 A mystic garden bower. Pulpit and chair, 
 And consecrated desk, were garlanded 
 With the undying verdure ; and the font 
 Burned with a crown of blushing flowers. 
 
 O Christ ! 
 My thoughts went back a many hundred years, 
 To a poor village and a humble roof, 
 Ay, to rough stables and a manger couch. 
 Where a young infant laid his holy head 
 Upon the virgin's bosom. To the time 
 When the poor shepherds of the Orient, 
 Watching on eastern hills their fleecy flocks, 
 Saw the bright, guiding star, and followed on. 
 To lay their homage at the feet of Him 
 Who is the world's Grood Shepherd. No glad pomp. 
 No welcome from the sceptered kings of earth. 
 No music tones or blazoned banners, prayers 
 Or sacrifice in lofty temple, made 
 The courts ring out in a high jubilee, 
 When the Child-Saviour came to us. 
 
 But now, 
 When the great mystery is throned, and reigns 
 In countless holy souls, we seek the glades, 
 
OHRISTMAS EVE. 151 
 
 Where winter's hand hath spared the amaranth, 
 
 And with our plunder, drape the hallowed fane, 
 
 Entwining font and altar, and the psalm 
 
 And Christmas anthem pour through bright arcades, 
 
 And from the stately cloister ; the sweet strains 
 
 Linger within the cells of each child's heart, 
 
 Linking a dear and joyous holiday 
 
 To the pure memories of that ancient time, 
 
 When, as the day-dawn after starless night. 
 
 Came the mysterious Christ-child with his gifts. 
 
 From the bright gates of the soul's Fatherland.