PS 3501 
 
 .027 04 1 
 1907 1 
 Copy 1 i 
 
 Pb 
 
 
 Ifll 
 
 : -^ 
 
 m\ 
 
 1 - I ' 
 
 A 
 
 MMd.. 
 
 e :r»A\ 
 
 SMi# 
 
 1: 
 
 HfliiillllH 
 
 liiiiiliii 
 
 
 
 liJ 
 
Class _rpS"d .sot 
 Book . Hi ^TO f - 
 
 Copyright N". 
 
 \3J1X 
 
 GOPIfRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
OCCASIONALS 
 
efc 
 
 ^^^^r<iJl^Uv (Xcla.^<^(^t^^ 
 
OCCASIONALS 
 
 POEMS 
 By JOSEPH ADAMS 
 
 New York and Washington 
 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1907 
 

 LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two CoBies Received 
 
 tEB 16 1907 
 
 iopyright Entry 
 
 s '4 kx^M N^ 
 
 Copyright, 1907, by 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
TO THE G. A. R. 
 
 DEDICATORY. 
 
 To you, O Comrades, tried and true, 
 Grand Army of the Boys in Blue — 
 And to the martyred Lincoln — name 
 Highest upon the scroll of Fame — 
 This book of verse I dedicate, 
 Because you came to save the State, 
 In glad response to Duty's call ; 
 Came from the legislative hall. 
 The school, the sacred desk, the farm. 
 Throughout the land, in vv^ild alarm; 
 Yet nerved to courage for the fight. 
 By faith in God and in the right — 
 The faith that v^on the victory. 
 And made our nation great and free, 
 In name and fact — forever free — 
 In truth the land of liberty. 
 
 September, igo6. 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Tis three score years and ten and three, 
 
 Since first I saw the light of day; 
 And, thanks to Him whose care for me 
 
 Has been so constant all the way, 
 I come, though late, without a plea, 
 
 Without excuse or fear, to say 
 That duty and necessity 
 
 Impel me — and I must obey — 
 To introduce myself, and mine — 
 
 These children of the heart and pen, 
 These messengers from Love Divine, 
 
 During my three score years and ten. 
 
 To you, my friends, who long have had 
 Desire to meet them, whose requests 
 
 Were vain, now come they neatly clad, 
 And may you find them welcome guests. 
 
 'Twas one by one, and far apart, 
 These unexpected children came; 
 
 But every one was from my heart; 
 
 And, with no thought of gain or fame, 
 
 I kept them in seclusion — bound — 
 Till Duty bade me set them free, 
 
 To roam, perchance, the world around; 
 
I trust they'll warmly greeted be, 
 And treated with respect profound — 
 
 Should they escape, on that rough sea 
 Whose shores with many wrecks are strown. 
 
 The sad, sad fate, or destiny. 
 To die unhonored or unknown. 
 
 But, three score years and ten and three, 
 
 Forever giving, day by day. 
 The Love Divine has cared for me. 
 
 Guiding my footsteps all the way; 
 The Love that "watches over all," 
 
 And over every ill prevails; 
 The Love that notes the sparrow's fall; 
 
 The Love that never, never fails. 
 
 So I, in faith that never fears. 
 
 In light and warmth of God's own sun, 
 Await the fruitage of the years; 
 
 The while I say, "Thy will be done." 
 
 — ^The Author. 
 September, jgo6. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Stand by the Flag, " 
 
 The Outcast's Prayer, I3 
 
 Perfect Through SufEering, I9 
 
 Sabbath Evening Musings, 23 
 
 "No, Not Last Night," 28 
 
 Music, 32 
 
 The Grave of My Wife, 35 
 
 My Heart Grows Weary, 3^ 
 
 Our Love, 40 
 
 In Memorlam, 42 
 
 Sympathy, 43 
 
 True Bravery, 44 
 
 Had I the Power, 46 
 
 The Nameless Martyr, 48 
 
 Rum Must be Sold, 5i 
 
 Questions for the Democracy, 53 
 
 Plant a Tree, 56 
 
 I'll Forget Thee? 58 
 
 The .Traitor, 60 
 
 Reflections, 62 
 
 Sweet Baby Girlie, 65 
 
 In the Shadow of the Willow, 67 
 
 Ode to Cuba, 69 
 
 To My Mother, 7i 
 
 Dreamland, 73 
 
 Children's Song, 75 
 
 To an Actress, 77 
 
 A Scrap, 79 
 
 Reason, 81 
 
 Longings for Poesy, 82 
 
 Then and Now, 84 
 
 Dear Louise, 88 
 
 "Tempus Fugit," 89 
 
STAND BY THE FLAG. 
 
 We will stand by the flag, comrades, bearing it on, 
 Till it waves, the proud emblem of victory won. 
 
 Or, tattered and torn, lies in dust at our feet, 
 Our friend, our protector, our blest winding sheet. 
 
 We love that proud banner, whose folds, evermore 
 Shall welcome the stranger from earth's darkest 
 shore. 
 Death! death to the cowardly wretch who would 
 dare 
 To dim the bright luster of one single star! 
 
 Disease had been wasting our national life ; 
 
 From dreams of security 'woke we to strife; 
 Our flag, all in tatters, o'er Sumter hung low. 
 
 And a brave little band stood all firm 'gainst the 
 foe, 
 
 When the guns of Fort Moultrie at last broke the 
 spell. 
 And a sound through the land, as of Freedom's 
 death knell. 
 Aroused from her slumber the lethargic North, 
 And sent to the rescue her proud armies forth. 
 
 II 
 
The eye of the Infinite only, could see 
 
 What, from doubtful beginning, the end was 
 to be; 
 
 The mind of the Infinite only, could plan 
 
 A contest, whose end should be freedom to man. 
 
 The heart of the Infinite only, could bleed 
 For millions oppressed, in their hour of need. 
 
 And will that oppression, when striking a blow 
 At the national heart, should itself overthrow. 
 
 The hand of Omnipotence only, can wield 
 The sword, which in purity comes off the field. 
 
 No stain of revengefulness left on its hilt. 
 No mark of ambition, no sign as of guilt. 
 
 But that Eye is all-seeing; that Mind doth control. 
 In the great end of being, the good of the whole; 
 
 That Heart's each pulsation, the might of that 
 Hand, 
 Aye beats for this nation, and strikes for this land. 
 
 Then we'll stand by the flag, comrades, bearing 
 it on. 
 
 Till it waves, the proud emblem of victory won; 
 And if, peradventure, it trail in the dust, 
 
 We will hoist it again, for in God is our trust. 
 
 His breeze still shall waft it. His sun's warmest kiss 
 Still crimson it over with blushes of bliss ; 
 
 His stars shall look laughingly on it at night; 
 His poor of all nations hail it with delight. 
 
 June 14, 1863, 
 
 12 
 
THE OUTCAST'S PRAYER. 
 
 Out from the city's dust and din, 
 Its scenes of strife, its haunts of sin, 
 
 I passed the gate 
 Where rich and poor and great and small 
 Inherit, undisputed all. 
 
 Their last estate; 
 
 Where lord of lands and riches vast 
 And humblest peasant meet, at last. 
 
 On equal ground; 
 All struggle o'er, all strife, to rest 
 Upon one common mother's breast, 
 
 In peace profound. 
 
 'Twas not an evening to forget; 
 An Indian summer sun had set; 
 
 The air, so calm 
 It scarce disturbed the fountain's spray, 
 Had kissed the flow'rs and come away 
 
 Laden with balm. 
 
 The mellow light of closing day 
 Tinted the golden clouds that lay 
 
 In grand device; 
 Domes, castles, arches, spires, agleam 
 With changing splendors; like a dream 
 
 Of Paradise. 
 
 13 
 
No sound from wood or vale or hill, 
 Save the low rippling of a rill, 
 
 As if 'twould raise 
 At once a prayer and a complaint ; 
 So murmuring, so sweet, so faint 
 
 Its psalm of praise. 
 
 Devotion's best, most fitting hour; 
 When Love's supremest, sweetest pow'r 
 
 Our being fills! 
 Cold were the heart, and hard, I ween. 
 At such a time and such a scene. 
 
 Warms not, nor thrills. 
 
 Reclining there in thoughtful mood. 
 Keen ev'ry sense — yet all subdued — 
 
 I caught a sound, 
 As 'twere a sigh of one who grieves, 
 Or of the wind among the leaves — 
 
 And glancing round. 
 
 Surprised, in attitude of prayer. 
 Beheld a figure kneeling there 
 
 Upon the sod; 
 And list'ning, breathless, faintly heard. 
 Between her sobs, each fervent word. 
 
 Meant but for God. 
 
 "Oh, thou great Father over all, 
 Who notest e'en the sparrow's fall. 
 In doubt and fear, 
 
 14 
 
With darkness round me like a pall, 
 
 And guilt and shame, on Thee I call; 
 
 Oh, deign to hear! 
 
 "Forgive, forgive thine erring child! 
 My heart is torn! My brain is wild! 
 
 Oh, let me be, 
 Though long so fallen, so defiled. 
 With thine own spirit reconciled! 
 
 Help, help thou me! 
 
 "Within the very shadow cast 
 By yon cathedral-walls so vast 
 
 I dwell. I hear 
 Its organ tones each Sabbath day, 
 As loud they swell, then die away, 
 With charmed ear; 
 
 "And I have longed to enter there 
 And listen to the voice of prayer; 
 
 But while I stood 
 Trembling with fear, the gaze so cold 
 Of all who passed me to Thy fold, 
 
 Did chill my blood. 
 
 "And so I can not seek relief 
 From sin — the burden of my grief — 
 
 Within Thy walls; 
 'Mid Pharisaic pomp and pride, 
 The scornful look on ev'ry side, 
 
 My soul appalls! 
 
 15 
 
"But here, beside my mother's grave, 
 My heart, my will — Ah ! canst Thou save 
 
 If they — thine own — • 
 With coward tongue Thy name profess, 
 Yet leave me in my wretchedness 
 
 To die — alone? 
 
 "Oh, Saviour! Saviour! pity me! 
 Like her I come they brought to Thee 
 
 In days of yore; 
 So loathed! so lost! so full of woe! 
 Oh for Thy voice, bidding me 'go 
 And sin no more.' " 
 
 I turned with eager ear, and eye 
 Expectant, tow'rd the western sky, 
 
 Which erewhile seemed 
 So like the very gate of Heav'n, 
 To hear, "Thy sins are all forgiv'n, 
 
 Thy soul redeemed." 
 
 But no ; night's robe of stars was spread 
 Above the living and the dead; 
 
 Afar they shone. 
 Cold as the hearts the erring meet 
 In Christian church or crowded street. 
 
 Alone, alone! 
 
 Though not, as erst, to outward sense, 
 The heralds of Omnipotence 
 His love fulfill. 
 
 i6 
 
Methought my llst'ning soul could hear, 
 Midst the low whir of pinions near, 
 His "Peace, be still." 
 
 'Twere profanation to intrude 
 Upon so sacred solitude. 
 
 And vain to stay; 
 And so, while yet she prayed and wept. 
 From my retreat I softly crept 
 
 And went my way, 
 
 Back tow'rd the city's thronging marts. 
 Where weary, sinful, breaking hearts. 
 
 Long night and day. 
 Beat 'gainst their prisons in despair 
 Of Christian sympathy, and wear 
 
 Their lives away. 
 
 That night I dreamed a birdling flown. 
 By chilling winds too rudely blown 
 
 And lost, was found; 
 Its plumage ruffled, ev'ry hue 
 Dimmed, soiled, and wet with morning dew, 
 
 Dead on the ground. 
 
 The spoiler's work at last was done — 
 My dream fulfilled — the risen sun. 
 
 Pallid, yet warm. 
 Shone through the dreamy autumn air, 
 With kisses for her brow and hair, 
 
 And lifeless form. 
 
 ir 
 
Oh churchmen! let your iron creeds 
 Be fashioned to the people's needs! 
 
 Invite them in, 
 For whom (else all your hopes are vain) 
 The very Son of God was slain; 
 
 "The dead in sin." 
 
 And since He came to save the lost, 
 Say not her barque, so tempest-tossed, 
 
 So frail, so fair. 
 Failed of the harbor of the blest — 
 The haven of His love — to rest 
 
 In Heav'n's pure air. 
 
 Poor, injured, erring child, farewell! 
 May none in scorn thy story tell ; 
 
 But may'st thou be 
 Only by those remembered here. 
 Who o'er thy grave will drop a tear 
 
 In charity. 
 
 December^ 1873, 
 
 18 
 
PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING. 
 
 We press the carpet of the spring-time sod, 
 
 Whose golden blooms look upward round our 
 feet ; 
 
 On either hand the pendent branches nod; 
 
 All nature strives to make the charm complete. 
 
 Ten thousand sweetly-warbled tones we hear, 
 As though each leaflet were a tuneful throat. 
 
 While myriad insect-voices greet the ear; 
 Yet has the strain no harsh, discordant note. 
 
 The brooklets sparkle as they softly run, 
 
 In gladness rippling, laughing on their way; 
 
 And over all looks down the beaming sun. 
 And smiles upon the beauty of the day. 
 
 Throughout our being runs a joyous thrill ; 
 
 Our hearts, respondent, rise the scene above, 
 Tow'rd Him whose all-pervading mind doth fill 
 
 The earth with tokens of His perfect love; 
 
 When, suddenly, dense, low' ring clouds arise 
 O'er the horizon of the distant west. 
 
 To darken with a pall of gloom the skies, 
 
 And break the charm of Nature's peaceful rest. 
 
 19 
 
The wind's low sigh is deepened to a moan; 
 
 The morn's glad smile changed to a frown severe; 
 The monarchs of the wood begin to groan, 
 
 And trembling, bow their heads as though in fear. 
 
 At length, in wrath the fiery lightnings flash; 
 
 The thunder, rumbling, rolls with mufl^ed roar; 
 The waves of ocean madly, fiercely dash. 
 
 And break in frenzy far upon the shore. 
 
 The rain descends in one unbroken sheet, 
 As though Omnipotence had raised it there, 
 
 And left it unsupported, to complete 
 The terrors of the tempest-darkened air. 
 
 But when, at length, the anger of the storm 
 Is wholly spent, its wildest tumult o'er. 
 
 The sun looks down with softened light, and warm, 
 And all seems calmer, fairer than before. 
 
 The leaves have donned a deeper, brighter green; 
 
 All floral life appears more freshly fair; 
 A tinted light o'er all the sky is seen, 
 
 A finer fragrance fills the quiet air. 
 
 Light, fleecy cloudlets float, the meads above ; 
 
 The bow of promise bends, the landscape o'er : 
 We feel the contrast, and we own a love. 
 
 Not less for Nature, but for God the more. ' 
 
 20 
 
Though many giant forms have bowed the head, 
 That stood in pride to greet the morning sun ; 
 
 Though flow'rs are with'ring now among the dead, 
 That bloomed in beauty when the storm begun; 
 
 Oaks, that its rage withstood, are stronger grown 
 To breast the tempest of another day; 
 
 And palms, that prostrate were, are fuller blown; 
 All nature fairer and all life more gay. 
 
 And as with nature, even so with man; 
 
 The storms that bow him, if he rise again. 
 But leave him nobler, purer, stronger than 
 
 Before: his highest life is born of pain. 
 
 As plants are pale, long hidden from the sun. 
 And in perfumeless beauty, fail to please; 
 
 So man's brief life, when all its sands are run. 
 Is vain, if passed in luxury and ease : 
 
 But, crushed to earth, if still his heart endure, 
 Like the closed bud unwary feet have trod, 
 
 Its incense-offering, more divinely pure. 
 Set free, ascends, acceptable to God. 
 
 Deem thyself blest, O man, whoe'er thou art. 
 If He to breast the storm hath chosen thee. 
 
 Or burden bear of sorrow in thy heart ! — 
 
 Only through suffering may'st thou perfect be. 
 
 21 
 
If, sometimes, tears thy drooping lids bedew, 
 As thine allotments hard, oppressive prove. 
 
 The time will come when retrospective view 
 Will show thee, in them all, a Father's love. 
 
 1870. 
 
SABBATH EVENING MUSINGS. 
 
 If, now and then, as on we go, 
 A quiet evening hour or so 
 
 We spend, recalling all we've tasted 
 Of pains and pleasures, hopes and fears. 
 While toiling up through all the years. 
 
 Such hallowed hours will not be wasted ; 
 
 For, in the thoughtful retrospect, 
 We see what traits we may reject. 
 
 And what are worthy our retaining; 
 How best to fill the Father's plan. 
 And thus become the perfect man — 
 
 Whether we're losing ground, or gaining. 
 
 'Tis Sabbath eve. O'er field and town 
 The shades of night are settling down ; 
 
 The sunset tints grow paler, dimmer; 
 While here and there a star is seen. 
 Peering, the broken clouds between, 
 
 Down at the earth, with feeble glimmer. 
 
 The bells I hear, and see the light 
 In chapel windows; but, to-night, 
 
 Loved meditation suits me better 
 Than pulpit words. Reflective mood 
 Prefers the calm of solitude, 
 
 Where thought may roam, with naught to fetter. 
 
 23 
 
How much, by men Mem'ry's wondrous power, 
 May be recalled in one short hour! 
 
 Her panoramic views, unrolling, 
 Reveal the scenes of scores of years, 
 Compel responsive smiles, or tears, 
 
 Beyond restraining or controlling. 
 
 Again we loiter in the shade, 
 
 By feath'ry boughs of hemlocks made. 
 
 Plucking the wintergreen's red berry, 
 Or clamber to leaf-screened retreat. 
 Tempting, forbidden fruit to eat; 
 
 The blushing peach, or purpling cherry. 
 
 We cast, once more, the baited hook 
 In purling waters of the brook. 
 
 And hear again the boist'rous shouting, 
 'Tve got a nibble!" "There's a bite!" 
 "Old speckled-sides, you're brought to light!" 
 
 We're living o'er those days of trouting. 
 
 We see the school house and the mills; 
 The rustic bridge between the hills ; 
 
 The old barn, swallows skimming lightly 
 Above its roof, and 'neath its eaves. 
 Their mud-nests, lined with straw and leaves. 
 
 Round which they dart with movements sprightly. 
 
 24 
 
The creek, in winter frozen o'er, 
 Ice-pillared rocks along its shore, 
 
 And on its glassy surface gliding 
 Skaters, with faces all aglow, 
 As round and round they swiftly go; 
 
 The little ones content with sliding. 
 
 Again to vine-embowered retreat, 
 Safe shelter from the summer heat. 
 
 We hie us to disrobe for swimming; 
 Or 'neath the matted greenness sit. 
 And watch the birds that lightly flit, 
 
 So near they seem the water skimming. 
 
 We see the shadows, as they pass, 
 Of clouds along the meadow grass. 
 
 Beneath the gentle pressure waving 
 Of zephyrs, laden with perfume. 
 Exhaled from lips of freshest bloom. 
 
 Our brows with incensed coolness laving. 
 
 The home group — two in middle life, 
 Erect and brave to breast its strife; 
 
 Best loved of all our circle's number; 
 Father and mother — with us still. 
 But tott'ring, nearly down the hill. 
 
 And soon to rest in dreamless slumber. 
 
 25 
 
Grandpa and grandma, pensive sit, 
 Reading the words of holy writ, 
 And thinking of the near hereafter: 
 While in the corner, more obscure. 
 The children pass, with looks demure, 
 
 Sly- whispered jokes, with smothered laughter; 
 
 When grandpa hears the gleeful sound, 
 Raises his glasses, looks around. 
 
 Disturbed by "all this youthful folly," 
 Restrains the vain attempt at joy. 
 Forgetting he was once a boy. 
 
 As thoughtless, rollicking, and jolly. 
 
 The scene is changed. The wind's low tone 
 I hear, as if in sadness, moan, 
 
 Like voices of the broken-hearted. 
 Who wait, despairing, by a tomb. 
 With scarce a hope to break the gloom. 
 
 And weep and wail for the departed. 
 
 Oh, saddest of all Sabbath eves 
 
 My life has known! My spirit grieves 
 
 For her whose voice no more is ringing. 
 With happy children round her knee. 
 In songs so dear to them and me. 
 
 She's now among the angels singing. 
 
 26 
 
Perhaps bright cherubs of the skies 
 Are round her there, with speaking eyes, 
 
 To list her hymns of heavenly sweetness, 
 Or blend their voices with her own, 
 'Mid choral throngs around the throne. 
 
 In strains of more divine completeness. 
 
 Ah, youthful time of smiles and tears! 
 Though, looking back adown the years. 
 
 My heart is often filled with yearning; 
 Could I some magic art employ. 
 To make myself again a boy, 
 
 I'd tarry long before returning. 
 
 For, drawing nearer, now, the goal. 
 Where welcome rest awaits the soul. 
 
 Of what avail departed pleasure? 
 There's something better far to gain; 
 Else love, and hope, and faith are vain. 
 
 The heart is ever with its treasure. 
 
 The morning's rosy tint is past; 
 The midday sky with clouds o'ercast, 
 
 Yet would I not the hope surrender. 
 That, in the afternoon's decline, 
 The sun may glow with light divine, 
 
 And set, at last, in golden splendor. 
 
 1S70. 
 
 27 
 
'NO, NOT LAST NIGHT." 
 
 [When this poem was written, the author had long been try- 
 ing to grope his way in the impenetrable darkness of Agnosti- 
 cism ; but he now rejoices in the knowledge of the fact — as clearly 
 demonstrable as is the simplest problem in mathematics— that 
 there is a God, '* whom to know aright is life eternal."] 
 
 "Why did our baby cry last night?" 
 Her brown eyes, beautiful and bright. 
 As though of heav'n their liquid light, 
 And full of wonder, open'd wide, 
 As quickly, frankly, she replied, 
 "No, not last night, just now I cried!" 
 
 She'd been so busy all the day, 
 At baby work and baby play. 
 The burden of her many cares 
 Had overcome her unawares; 
 And, sobbing, she had sunk to rest. 
 Soft pillowed on her mother's breast. 
 
 Awakening at dawn, from sleep 
 So all unconscious, calm, and deep. 
 She knew not that the night had sped. 
 On sable wings, above her bed ; 
 And vain th' assurance we repeated 
 That sleep our little girl had cheated ; 
 
 28 
 
Persistently she still replied, 
 
 "No, not last night, just now I cried!" 
 
 And so, methinks, with us 'twill be, 
 
 If, in the far eternity. 
 
 We waken from our last repose. 
 
 When first our 'wildered eyes unclose 
 
 And we are told a million years 
 Have glided, noiseless, o'er our biers — 
 For ages crumbled — that no trace 
 Remains of our long resting place ; 
 Told that mankind has nobler grown; 
 That Kingcraft has been overthrown 
 
 By Education, glorified. 
 
 Whose benedictions far and wide 
 
 Were scattered, till the glad earth rings. 
 
 With "Hail! All Hail! Thou King of Kings!" 
 
 That priestcraft, in the noonday light 
 
 Of reason, has withdrawn from sight. 
 
 With all its base, unhallo'd greed, 
 
 Of power and pelf, its dogma, creed. 
 
 Dark superstition, bigotry. 
 
 And all save Truth, which makes man free, 
 
 Whether by Jesus grandly taught, 
 
 Or by Confucius; or inwrought 
 
 29 
 
In nature's work — of all a part — 
 And known to ev'ry human heart; 
 Listening, with infinite surprise, 
 We, too, with wonder-beaming eyes, 
 Will say, as did our household pride, 
 "No, not last night, just now we cried!" 
 
 A thousand million years of death 
 Are but the passing of a breath — 
 Unto the dead; awake at last. 
 They would not know an hour had passed ; 
 To them 'twould not a moment be, 
 E'en though 'twere through eternity. 
 
 And what, if, when the night shall come, 
 Of rest within our narrow home. 
 Our day of pain and sorrow o'er, 
 We sleep, to waken nevermore? 
 What matter? Would it not be blest- 
 Calm, undisturbed, eternal rest? 
 
 But, whether this or that be so. 
 We only guess; we cannot know. 
 Whate'er, where'er that power may be. 
 Whether "Nature," "Force," or "Deity," 
 That holds the boundless universe. 
 It holds to bless, and not to curse. 
 
 30 
 
within the palm of Nature's hand 
 Her children may securely stand; 
 For, self-existent, or by Will 
 Divine created, she is still 
 Our loving mother; on her breast 
 'Twere sweet, indeed, to sink to rest! 
 
 In consciousness of duty done. 
 In consciousness of vict'ry won 
 By bravely bearing, day by day, 
 Why should we not, at nightfall, lay 
 Our burdens down, with such relief 
 As tells of joy, and not of grief? 
 
 1883, 
 
 31 
 
MUSIC. 
 
 I opine there was music before there was light; 
 For when the earth sprang out of chaos and night, 
 While yet nature slept in a watery grave, 
 Sweet music was made 'twixt the wind and the 
 
 wave. 
 When The "Let there be light" swept the darkness 
 
 away. 
 And the waste was transformed from night into day ; 
 When dry land appeared as the waters withdrew. 
 And the grass and the herb and the fruit tree grew; 
 When the bird on its buoyant wing floated along. 
 With a heart full of joy and a voice full of song, 
 The streamlet, the bird, and the mild breezes, then 
 Made music, sweet music, from hillside and glen. 
 
 And mild strains of music, most thrilling and sweet. 
 Were rung through all nature, the advent to greet 
 Of him who should rule with unlimited sway; 
 Whose sceptre all creatures of earth should obey. 
 And her gentle power will ne'er cease to be. 
 While there's one breeze in motion, one wave in the 
 
 sea, 
 One leaflet to tremble, one streamlet to run. 
 Or one form of beauty still left 'neath the sun. 
 
 32 
 
In the depth of the forest, the wild beast of prey, 
 The dread of the hunter while roaming at bay, 
 Has thrown o'er his neck the bold capturer's chain, 
 And is tamed and subdued as he lists her mild strain. 
 
 When from care and from labor we sink to repose, 
 Forgetting in slumber our ills and our woes, 
 How charming, how cheering, how soothing to hear 
 Sweet accents of music break soft on the ear. 
 While they come gently stealing, as if 'twere afar 
 From an angel-touched harp in some twinkling star, 
 And seem borne along on each trembling ray — 
 A kind of heart sentinel, keeping away 
 All low thoughts, so earth-born, of passion and strife, 
 That are wont to intrude in the best dreams of life; 
 Thoughts that mar every pleasure and dim every joy. 
 As pure gold is dimmed by the basest alloy. 
 
 Sweet sentinel! ever thrice blest be thy power 
 In soothing the sorrows of Life's darkest hour; 
 In mildly subduing and calming the soul. 
 And oft placing Vice under Virtue's control! 
 Each being that breathes must acknowledge thy 
 
 sway ; 
 To hear thee, to feel thee, is but to obey. 
 That heart must be petrified doubly by years 
 To the hardness of granite, that melts not to tears. 
 Neither thrilling with pleasure nor throbbing with 
 
 pain. 
 When the ear is saluted by thy gentle strain; 
 
 33 
 
Aye, that soul must be draped in the blackness of 
 
 woe, 
 And moved by no impulse save that which is low. 
 
 Thou art strength to the weak and a lure to the 
 
 brave, 
 When the battle's loud din offers fame or a grave; 
 Thou art dear to the mariner far o'er the wave; 
 And if dear to the free, doubly so to the slave. 
 No cruel monopoly ever can claim 
 Thine infinite worth. Thou art ever the same 
 To the serf and his lord, to the vassal and king; 
 And to each heart the same pure emotions dost bring. 
 They who rise through the vapors and mists of the 
 
 sod 
 To the City whose light is the presence of God, 
 Will find, whate'er else may their being employ, 
 In divinest of music an infinite joy. 
 
 i8s6. 
 
 34 
 
THE GRAVE OF MY WIFE. 
 
 That grave ! Ah, it lies 'neath a shrouding of snow ! 
 The winds o'er it chillingly, moanfully blow; 
 Above it droop ice-beaded boughs of the trees. 
 As though Nature's tear-drops had fallen, to freeze ; 
 And I fain would imagine those pearls to be 
 Kindly tokens of sympathy, shed for me. 
 
 Like clouds o'er a landscape no sunlight may part. 
 Till they've watered the earth, my grief-clouded 
 
 heart 
 Finds relief but in tears; yet I would not forget — 
 Though Mem'ry's recallings were dark with re- 
 gret — 
 That mound, where lies sleeping the pride of my 
 
 life. 
 With all its fond hopes ! 'Tis the grave of my wife. 
 
 There oft' in the summer's warmth, beauty, and 
 
 calm, 
 I've sat, while Aeolus passed, laden with balm 
 But just kissed from the flow'rs, and vocal with song 
 Of warblers in playfulness flitting along; 
 Yet the sweet life and love all around me were vain, 
 To still my sad heart, or its longings restrain. 
 
 35 
 
There at twilight I've lingered when all was still, 
 Save the mournful call of a lone whippoorwill, 
 Whose song seemed most tenderly plaintive to be, 
 As though 'twere intended for me — only me; 
 And I've hummed a low strain, while waiting alone, 
 More grievingly, sighingly sad than his own. 
 
 Then, breathless, I've listened; perchance I might 
 
 hear 
 The rustling of pinions angelic anear; 
 And fancied my heart would be made to rejoice 
 By the touch of her hand, or the sound of her voice. 
 But these fond imaginings all are in vain; 
 Our loved ones, departed, return not again ! 
 
 But at last, yes, at last — in joy-beaming light 
 Of a sky without clouds, a day without night, 
 'Mong the glorified throng of that blissful shore. 
 Where dread of the tomb will be known nevermore, 
 Our glad arms again may each other enfold. 
 With holier rapture than thrilled us of old. 
 
 Oh Grave! far away in the beautiful west, 
 Where my darling's so peacefully taking her rest. 
 With longings more soulful than language can 
 
 tell- 
 Though I'll think of thee ever — Farewell! Fare- 
 well! 
 Arise from the gloom, O my soul, of the tomb, 
 Tow'rd Heaven, eternal in beauty and bloom! 
 
 36 
 
I know, if at last I'm permitted to stand 
 
 With her, 'mid the beauties of Paradise-land, 
 
 Forevermore freed from all sorrow and strife. 
 
 To pluck healing leaves from the blest tree of life, 
 
 Again reunited, with love as of yore, 
 
 Our hearts and our hopes will be one evermore. 
 
 1869. 
 
 37 
 
MY HEART GROWS WEARY. 
 
 My heart grows weary — weary of the burdens, 
 The cares, the toils, the ills of struggling life. 
 
 And almost sinks within me as the journey 
 
 Draws toward the summit, 'mid increasing strife. 
 
 The soul's endeavor, hope, and constant yearning 
 Well nigh, at times, unnerve me and unman; 
 
 While some blind fate seems ever overturning 
 Each expectation, aim, and hope, and plan. 
 
 I see bright visions in the distance gleaming, 
 And almost reach them in my eager haste. 
 
 When, lo! I find the brightness only seeming, 
 And grope in darkness on a desert waste. 
 
 Full oft' the day, dark as the night succeeding. 
 Is fraught with all of ill that mind can bear; 
 
 My weary feet and aching heart are bleeding; 
 And scarce can I but sink in mute despair. 
 
 If, when we pass beyond the "silent river," 
 
 We throw not oflE each grief, and care, and pain, 
 
 To feel and mourn our Ills no more forever, 
 Then has our being been, alas! In vain. 
 
 38 
 
But Nature, In her myriad forms, has given 
 Lessons of hope — the day beyond the night — 
 
 Her wand has rent the vail 'twixt earth and heaven, 
 Parted the mists which darkened on our sight; 
 
 And, if but Reason, throned within, do guide us, 
 We'll bear our crushing burdens, "kiss the rod," 
 
 Knowing full well no evil can betide us ; 
 
 For all will come in good that comes from God. 
 
 Grown strong and stronger under cares diurnal, 
 We'll cast our weary load, at last, away, 
 
 And mount, and mount, and mount, and drink 
 eternal 
 Draughts of knowledge and of bliss for aye. 
 
 39 
 
OUR LOVE. 
 
 Our glances met; It gently stirred, 
 And glowed within each breast, 
 Gaining In strength and ardor as 
 It grew from day to day ; 
 And by the power of will at length 
 Would not be put to rest 
 Within our longing, throbbing hearts, 
 Nor banished thence away. 
 
 We yielded as the Ice yields, when 
 
 Old Winter's work Is done. 
 
 And, melting, wasting, warming. 
 
 It dissipates In mist. 
 
 And mounts to purer atmosphere, 
 
 And nearer to the sun, 
 
 To float in perfect restfulness ; 
 
 No power to resist. 
 
 As well essay with finite mind 
 
 The Infinite to prove. 
 
 Or wrest the course of nature from 
 
 His ever-wise control. 
 
 As dim the glow within the heart, 
 
 Of first, unsullied love; 
 
 The highest, purest nutriment 
 
 And life of human soul. 
 
 40 
 
We may walk among the multitude 
 
 With sandals on our feet, 
 
 Eating our crust in thankfulness, 
 
 And bear a kingly part, 
 
 Though clad in vilest rags e'er worn 
 
 By beggar of the street, 
 
 If conscious still we have the love 
 
 Of one fond, faithful heart. 
 
 May bear, with fortitude sublime. 
 
 Life's burden and unrest; 
 
 With resignation see its sun 
 
 Go dark'ning to eclipse; 
 
 Yet feel, whate'er betide us, that 
 
 We still are doubly blest. 
 
 If words of tenderness are breathed 
 
 For us by loving lips. 
 
 But he whom Fate denies this boon — 
 
 Denies this breath of life — 
 
 Though wealth, and fame, and honor, with 
 
 Most lavish hand she give, 
 
 May mingle in the social throng. 
 
 Or plodding ranks of strife. 
 
 Yet know not, dream not what it is 
 
 To wholly, truly live. 
 
 February^ i8yo. 
 
 41 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Come, spirits of our loved and honored dead, 
 Rejoice with us who gather here to-day! 
 We lived to see the cause for which you bled 
 Arise resplendent from the deadly fray 
 In glorious triumph, evermore to be 
 Loved by the land your valor rendered free! 
 We live, enjoying all you thus bequeathed ; 
 We live to see the sword of conflict sheathed; 
 We live to love the ground wherein you sleep; 
 And sacred vigil o'er your ashes keep ! 
 And so we come, our gratitude to show. 
 In our poor human way, the while we strow 
 Our floral emblems, striving thus to prove 
 A nation's and our own enduring love. 
 Accept, O ! saviours of this golden land, 
 This day's poor offering of the heart and hand ! 
 Then rest In peace! You live forevermore 
 Within all noble hearts the wide world o'er! 
 And well might we, e'en In our brightest hours, 
 Envy your ashes lying 'neath these flowers! 
 1883. 
 
 42 
 
SYMPATHY. 
 
 A subtile sense of other's grief, 
 That prompts the offer of relief; 
 An eye that never fails to trace 
 The furrows on another's face, 
 With impulse swift to give, the while, 
 Its tear for tear, or smile for smile; 
 An ear that catches from the air 
 Each faintest murmur of despair; 
 A hand that's ever quick to grasp 
 The stranger-palm in friendly clasp, 
 Nor falters, querying to know 
 Whether the hand of high or low; 
 A heart that makes another's moan, 
 Another's joy, as well, its own; 
 An angel form from God's own skies, 
 Too rarely seen by mortal eyes. 
 
 1871. 
 
 43 
 
TRUE BRAVERY. 
 
 Where find we truest bravery? 
 
 Where find we firmest men? 
 
 Where find we least of slavery? 
 
 Among the 'upper ten"? 
 
 No! oft we find the humblest slave 
 
 Upon our southern soil, 
 
 Despite his bonds, more truly brave 
 
 Than those who claim his toil. 
 
 He who, in shabby, home-spun dress, 
 Can mingle with the throng. 
 Unheeding all ; the vulgar jest, 
 Or jeer, or ribald song, 
 May boast by far a braver heart, 
 More free from all that's vain. 
 Than he who acts the boldest part, 
 Upon the battle-plain. 
 
 What though he face the cannon's blaze, 
 
 And bear the gory plume; 
 
 Through leaden shower and battle-haze, 
 
 Fresh to the Victor's tomb ? 
 
 What though a nation shout his praise. 
 
 And "bravest of the brave" 
 
 Be written on the pile they raise 
 
 Above the warrior's grave? 
 
 44 
 
All this is not true bravery; 
 
 'Tis but a wild unrest ; 
 
 A wish for honor, glory, fame, 
 
 That fills the longing breast; 
 
 But he who to the Public Voice 
 
 Is not a cringing slave. 
 
 Yields but to Right, may well be called 
 
 The bravest of the brave! 
 
 i8s6. 
 
 45 
 
HAD I THE POWER. 
 
 Had I the power within my hand, 
 Unheeding wealth and fame, 
 
 All o'er this slavery-darkened land, 
 I'd wield a sword of flame. 
 
 Its light should guide the toiling slave 
 To manhood's manliest part; 
 
 Its point should dig the tyrant's grave. 
 And pierce his callous heart. 
 
 Its edge, each manacle and chain 
 From manhood's limbs should sever, 
 
 To be united ne'er again 
 O'er flesh and blood forever. 
 
 And it should scathe the tyrant's brow 
 
 Until his eye grew dim; 
 And make him cowering, cringing, bow 
 
 To those who've bowed to him. 
 
 Had I the power, those hearts I'd break 
 That have so long withstood 
 
 The prayers of millions, though it make 
 Our land a field of blood. 
 
 46 
 
Then Afric's very dead, whose bones 
 
 Lie in a foreign soil, 
 Should hail with shouts in thunder-tones, 
 
 The end of servile toil. 
 
 The glad winds from Atlantic's shore 
 Should bear the shouts along, 
 
 And old Pacific's thunderous roar 
 Give back thanksgiving song ! 
 
 One universal jubilee 
 
 Should hail that happy day 
 When all mankind alike were free 
 
 From tyranny's dread sway. 
 
 We have the power! The Ballot-Box 
 Shall be that "sword of flame" 
 To save our "ship of state" from rocks 
 Of infamy and shame. 
 
 The stalwart arm that planted there 
 On Rocky Mountain's height 
 
 The cross of Christ, our flag shall bear 
 Through this, our darkest night. 
 
 October 14, 1S56. 
 
 47 
 
THE NAMELESS MARTYR. 
 
 ["One negro, a laborer in the Iron Works of Tennessee, said he 
 knew all about the plot, but would die before he would tell. He 
 received seven hundred and fifty lashes, and died." 
 
 — New York Tribune^ 
 
 There stands not on the lists of fame 
 A brighter or a nobler name 
 
 Than his — if 'twere but given — 
 Who lately gave himself to be 
 A martyr unto Liberty, 
 
 And fled from bonds to heaven. 
 
 Ne'er since the Christ was crucified, 
 More bravely, truly, nobly died 
 
 Creature of mortal mould ! 
 No friend was there, nor loved one near, 
 To breathe one word of hope or cheer; 
 
 His very name untold! 
 
 Of earthly glory, which doth seem 
 To multitudes so bright, no gleam 
 
 Broke through his night of gloom ; 
 He only heard the mocking groan, 
 The laugh from those cold hearts of stone. 
 
 And bore his fearful doom. 
 
 48 
 
And when the lash, at every stroke, 
 A fresher wound, and deeper, broke, 
 
 He stood unbending still, 
 As if to prove to all mankind 
 The nature of the negro's mind. 
 
 The firmness of his will. 
 
 His birthright. Liberty, he sought; 
 And, if he failed, the grave, he thought, 
 
 Could but confine the clay; 
 While the freed soul would take its flight 
 Beyond the reach of Slavery's night, 
 
 To live in endless day. 
 
 And thus, with "bleeding hands and side," 
 He slowly languished, drooped, and died 
 
 No hero e'er more brave! 
 A martyr unto Liberty, 
 A noble warning to the free, 
 
 Example to the slave. 
 
 There dwelt within that humble soul, 
 A spirit man could not control, 
 
 To fetter or confine; 
 A spirit that would bravely dare, 
 For others, even death to bear — 
 
 Was't not almost divine? 
 
 49 
 
It would have been — almost? — yes, quite 
 Divine, in Anglo-Saxon, whiter 
 
 But though to manhood true, 
 Long years must pass before respect 
 Is paid to w^orth or intellect 
 
 In men of darker hue. 
 
 Ye men who sit in halls of state, 
 Your hearts with haughty pride elate, 
 
 And never choose to heed 
 The pleadings of the sufE'ring slave. 
 Ye help to dig the bondman's grave. 
 
 And make the martyr bleed! 
 
 Although it may not be your hand. 
 That wields the lash, or plies the brand 
 
 Which burns him at the stake. 
 There is on earth no pow'r at all 
 That sanctions holding men in thrall. 
 
 Except the laws ye make. 
 
 Awake from slumber then! awake! 
 "Remember those in bonds!" and break 
 
 Each chain, till all are free! 
 For He has said, who all things sees, 
 If *'not unto the least of these 
 
 Ye did it not to me." 
 
 February, i8s7' 
 
 SO 
 
RUM MUST BE SOLD. 
 
 [Five judges, or Judases, in the Court of Appeals, New York, 
 have decided the Maine Law to be unconstitutional. Rum must 
 be sold.— New York Tribune, April 14, 1856.] 
 
 Yes, rum must still be sold ; 
 
 The license must be given; 
 And, for the sake of gold, 
 
 The many robbed of heaven; 
 The ''oft told tale be told," 
 
 Pure friendship's ties be riven. 
 And all of virtue's mould 
 
 From human hearts be driven. 
 
 For men must gather wealth 
 
 From human blood and tears. 
 And blasted hope and health 
 
 Through dark and weary years; 
 The mother still must weep 
 
 When loved ones cry for bread; 
 Her midnight watch still keep. 
 
 Deserted, lone, and dread. 
 
 The serpent still must coil, 
 Although his sting be death; 
 
 Must leave his slime upon our soil 
 And in our air his breath ; 
 
 SI 
 
Rob earth of peace and purity, 
 Lay waste the joys of home; 
 
 'Tor man," 'tis said, "would not be free 
 Without the sale of rum." 
 
 The innocent must pine away, 
 
 In cellars, dark and damp. 
 Without the golden light of day. 
 
 Without the evening lamp; 
 We must enjoy the liberty 
 
 For which our fathers bled. 
 Though it fill the earth with felons. 
 
 The potter's field with dead. 
 
 Woman's wrongs may not be righted. 
 
 Woman's tears must flow like rain; 
 Her petitions must be slighted. 
 
 Or if heard, be made in vain. 
 It is woman's heart lies bleeding, 
 
 Yet she must not act her part; 
 Man must govern, all unheeding 
 
 How he crush the human heart. 
 
 Judges may, with a decision. 
 
 Make oppression doubly sure; 
 Make the object of derision 
 
 All that's noble, good and pure. 
 But there comes a retribution. 
 
 For there is a higher law 
 Than a man-made constitution; 
 
 In it judges find no flaw. 
 
 April 14, i8s6. 
 
 52 
 
QUESTIONS FOR THE DEMOCRACY. 
 
 What Is Democracy? 
 
 What Aristocracy? 
 Are they synonymous — one and the same? 
 
 Call ye this nation free, 
 
 Holding In slavery 
 Millions, God's children. In Liberty's name? 
 
 What say the poor oppressed 
 
 On Ocean's heaving breast 
 Daring for freedom the w^ind and the wave, 
 
 When, as our shore they near, 
 
 Cries and deep groans they hear; 
 Harsh clank of manacles worn by the slave? 
 
 Hope they for freedom here? 
 
 Comes not a troubled fear 
 Involuntarily over the heart? 
 
 Think they secure to live 
 
 'Mong those who choose to give 
 Man's best inheritance but to a part? 
 
 Would that low policy, 
 
 Which with its ready plea, 
 Very contemptible — namely, of hue — 
 
 Makes its sad ravages. 
 
 Stop with the savages? 
 Would it not reach at length, you, sir, and you? 
 
 53 
 
Does a man's habitude, 
 
 Color, or latitude 
 Make him our property, if that we can, 
 
 By means of his weakness. 
 
 Or even his meekness, 
 Gain an authority over the man? 
 
 Does that good old Volume, 
 Whose every column. 
 
 Presents inspiration truly sublime. 
 Sanction Democracy's 
 Pj-esent philosophy? 
 
 Or does it favor most that of old timei 
 
 Those great immortal dead 
 
 Who for their country bled ! 
 Were they our forefathers? How could it be 
 
 That from their high estate 
 
 Men could degenerate 
 Into corruption so low as have we? 
 
 Will Northern Cowardice 
 
 Still make a sacrifice 
 Unto the Slave Power all that's most dear? 
 
 Is it not most unwise 
 
 Still, still to compromise? 
 Does it not argue the basest of fear? 
 
 54 
 
Will inactivity 
 
 E'er make a nation free? 
 Is't not discussion the Southron offends? 
 
 If, then, our tongues are mute 
 
 Do we not prostitute 
 Heaven's best gifts to most unholy ends? 
 
 Are we not presuming 
 
 Too much, in assuming 
 That we on the South as of old may rely? 
 
 The "great institution!" 
 
 Is't not all pollution? 
 Will some new school Democrat please make reply? 
 
 1857^ 
 
 55 
 
PLANT A TREE. 
 
 Plant a tree! Its boughs may wave 
 
 Oft' in life above thy head; 
 It may serve to mark thy grave 
 
 When thou'rt numbered 'mong the dead. 
 
 And its leaflets, as they tremble, 
 Fanned by zephyrs light and free, 
 
 Fairy voices may resemble, 
 
 Whisp'ring to thy friends of thee. 
 
 Plant a tree beside thy door, 
 
 Where the birds that glide along, 
 
 May alight at morn, and pour 
 O'er thy waking, notes of song. 
 
 Gaily chirping, warbling, trilling. 
 Cheating thee of care, or pain. 
 
 And thy soul with gladness filling 
 By the joy of their refrain. 
 
 Plant a tree before the season. 
 
 Now advancing, pass thee by! 
 Reaching, like a thing of reason. 
 
 Upward, ever tow'rd the sky. 
 
 56 
 
It may tower in height sublime 
 
 After thou hast ceased to be ; 
 Index to the flight of time, 
 
 Emblem of nobility. 
 
 Plant it, farmer, in the meadow! 
 
 'Mid perfume of new-mown hay; 
 Thou may'st rest thee in its shadow, 
 
 From the heat of summer day. 
 
 Plant a tree o'er earthy pillow 
 
 Of thy loved and cherished dead; 
 
 Drooping ash or weeping willow — 
 Bowed, as sorrow bows thy head. 
 
 Thus hath Nature's Poet spoken. 
 
 Trees were "God's first temples" fair; 
 
 What were life without this token 
 Of a loving Father's care? 
 
 When we pass the mystic portal — 
 Pass the darkness of the tomb — 
 
 And attain to life immortal 
 In a land of perfect bloom. 
 
 Trees, methinks, are there to greet us, 
 Whose bright leaves shall never fade; 
 
 And our "loved and lost" will meet us 
 In the beauty of their shade. 
 
 865. 
 
 57 
 
I'LL FORGET THEE? 
 (Song.) 
 
 I'll forget thee? I'll forget thee 
 
 When the sun withholds his light; 
 When the moon forgets, in splendor, 
 
 To look down upon the night; 
 When the buds forget to open, 
 
 And the birds forget to sing. 
 As cold Winter's heart is broken 
 
 By the wooing smiles of Spring. 
 
 REFRAIN 
 
 Darling, darling, I'll forget, forget thee then; 
 Darling, darling, I'll forget, forget thee then. 
 
 I'll forget thee when the mother, 
 
 With her first-born on her breast, 
 Fails to breathe fond words none other 
 
 May so tenderly express; 
 When the stars forget to glisten, 
 
 When all truth from earth has flown; 
 When our Father fails to listen 
 
 To the pleadings of His own. 
 
 58 
 
I'll forget thee when the ocean 
 
 Tides forget to ebb and flow; 
 When the cloudlets cease their motion, 
 
 Ever lightly, to and fro; 
 When the bee forgets the sweetness 
 
 In the heart of summer bloom; 
 When my life's sad incompleteness 
 
 Shall have ended at the tomb. 
 
 Then, should hope of blissful being 
 
 In the realm of perfect love, 
 Faith in One, All-wise, All-seeing, 
 
 Idle, vain, delusive prove; 
 Then, if Revelation's pages 
 
 Are but fables, dreams of men. 
 Death, but sleep, through endless ages, 
 
 I'll forget, forget thee then. 
 
 1S69. 
 
 59 
 
THE TRAITOR. 
 
 Oh, traitor base ! how deep the shame 
 Which gathers now around thy name! 
 Like thick, dark clouds, or mists of even, 
 That hide from view both earth and heaven ! 
 But, unlike mists or vapors light, 
 Which ever vanish with the night. 
 The cloud of shame which veils thee o'er 
 Will blacker grow forever more ! 
 
 The night in which thy sun has set 
 Did never know a morning yet; 
 The banishment thou knowest now, 
 The traitor's brand upon thy brow, 
 The loathing of the nation's heart 
 For thee and for the dastard part 
 Which, in thy madness, thou didst play, 
 At this, the noon of Freedom's day. 
 
 Will form a blot on History's page, 
 A stain, the blackest any age 
 Has given, or in justice can 
 Give to the name of one bad man. 
 'Twill grow still blacker, more intense; 
 Till the death angel calls thee hence 
 To meet thine Arnold face to face — 
 Brother in treason and disgrace. 
 
 60 
 
I'd rather be of meanest birth, 
 A thing, the most despised of earth; 
 A reptile, crawling on the ground, 
 Leaving its slime on all around. 
 Its poison in the very air. 
 Its breath of cursing everywhere. 
 Than have thy name or fame, or be. 
 Oh, traitor base! a thing like thee. 
 
 June 17, 1863. 
 
 61 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
 How much there Is in retrospection 
 
 That calls for tears; 
 How much of pain in recollection 
 
 Of by-gone years; 
 How oft' we're failing, falling, sinning 
 
 Each day; and yet, 
 Worse at its end than its beginning, 
 
 Without regret. 
 
 And this the picture's darkest shading; 
 
 That we may go 
 From step to step in retrograding, 
 
 And never know 
 How much that's nobler, purer, finer. 
 
 The soul may gain; 
 How, unto heights of life diviner 
 
 It may attain. 
 
 How oft' we're prostrate, creeping, crawling, 
 
 While, day by day. 
 Voices within are loudly calling, 
 
 "Arise! Obey 
 The promptings of your better nature. 
 
 With impulse rife; 
 Attain unto a nobler stature, 
 
 A higher life." 
 
 62 
 
Why must our eyes be ever turning 
 
 Downward, In vain, 
 To satisfy the soul's deep yearning 
 
 And soothe Its pain, 
 When skies that bound our mortal vision 
 
 Are fair and bright, 
 And fairer far the fields elyslan, 
 
 Beyond our sight? 
 
 When stars, like diamonds, shine above us. 
 
 Gemming the blue. 
 And, heavenward looking, One to love us 
 
 Would meet our view? 
 Why are our hearts so unbelieving, 
 
 So dull, so slow 
 To seek for truth, so often grieving 
 
 O'er things so low. 
 
 When Bethlehem, undlmmed, eternal. 
 
 To Faith's glad eye, 
 Glows with the light of Love supernal, 
 
 Beyond the sky, 
 And He whose life for our salvation 
 
 Freely was given. 
 Has made secure our restoration 
 
 To joy and Heaven — 
 
 With the supremely just condition, 
 
 That works of love. 
 And charity, and heart-contrltlon 
 
 Our faith shall prove? 
 
 63 
 
The voice of God and voice of Reason, 
 
 United, say 
 "Gather the harvest in its season! 
 
 Work while 'tis day! 
 
 "For all too soon the night is coming, 
 
 And every breath 
 Of air sin-poisoned, is but dooming 
 
 To endless death. 
 O'ercome all fear and all dejection; 
 
 With fullest trust, 
 Press on! and gain the resurrection 
 
 Among the just." 
 
 1870. 
 
 64 
 
SWEET BABY GIRLIE. 
 
 (A Nursery Song.) 
 
 Oh, our precious baby girlie, 
 Nestles down so very early. 
 
 Such a darling baby girlie is she; 
 And the stars all peeping, peeping 
 In the window, while she's sleeping. 
 
 Think it is a little angel they see. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Such a sweet baby girlie, 
 
 Such a dear baby girlie, 
 Such a darling baby girlie is she! 
 
 E'en the stars all peeping, peeping 
 
 In the window, while she's sleeping. 
 Think it is a little angel they see. 
 
 In the arms of Sleep she lingers. 
 Until Dawn, with rosy fingers. 
 
 Puts aside the somber curtain of the skies, 
 Dallies with her golden tresses. 
 And with gentlest of caresses, 
 
 Kisses every trace of slumber from her eyes. 
 
 65 
 
Eyes of more than diamond splendor; 
 
 Little heart of love so tender; 
 Little fingers, busy as the honey bee; 
 
 Little face so bright and cheery; 
 
 Little feet that ne'er seem weary; 
 Oh, our darling baby girlie Is she. 
 
 1882, 
 
 66 
 
IN THE SHADOW OF THE WILLOW. 
 (Companion Piece of "Sweet Baby Girlie."') 
 
 Ah ! our precious baby girlie 
 
 Fell asleep too very early, 
 Ere two summers' blooms her tiny feet had press'd; 
 
 So we made for her a pillow 
 
 In the shadow of a willowy 
 Where we gently, sadly laid her down to rest. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Such a sweet baby girlie. 
 
 Such a dear baby girlie, 
 Such a darling baby girlie was she; 
 
 And though sleeping on her pillow 
 
 In the shadow of the willow. 
 Still our darling baby girlie is she. 
 
 Sacred dust that now reposes 
 'Neath the daisies and the roses. 
 
 Where we laid the form we never here may see! 
 Though we grieve, we'd not recall her, 
 For no harm can e'er befall her. 
 
 Oh, our darling baby girlie was she. 
 
 ^7 
 
REFRAIN. 
 
 Such a sweet baby girlie, 
 
 Such a dear baby girlie, 
 Such a darling baby girlie was she ; 
 
 Though we grieve, we'd not recall her. 
 
 For no harm can e'er befall her; 
 Still our darling baby girlie Is she. 
 
 Waiting, yearning, oft we ponder, 
 Wond'ring whether, "over yonder," 
 
 Somewhere, somewhere, far away, there Is a land. 
 Where our precious baby girlie, 
 Just within "the gate so pearly," 
 
 Beckons, beckons with her tiny angel hand. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Such a sweet baby girlie, 
 
 Such a dear baby girlie. 
 Such a darling baby girlie was she; 
 
 Though we grieve, we'd not recall her, 
 
 For no harm can e'er befall her. 
 Still our darling baby girlie is she. 
 
 1882, 
 
 68 
 
ODE TO CUBA. 
 
 Oh Cuba, fair queen of the isles of the sea! 
 Our true-hearted millions are praying for thee. 
 Too long in the tyrant's embrace thou hast lain, ^ 
 Despoiled of thy treasure, while bound with his 
 
 chain. 
 Too long from the soil where thy martyrs have trod. 
 Has their precious blood cried in vain unto God. 
 Thy deep wrongs and sorrows our spirits appall; 
 And Liberty weeps when thy patriots fall! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Look up ! The day of thy triumph is nigh ; 
 Our banner of stars still waves in the sky; 
 A vow we have made unto Heaven for thee, 
 Oh beautiful queen! That thou shalt be free! 
 
 When our patriot fore-fathers fought, long ago, 
 And died, like thy noble sons, facing the foe, 
 There came from a nation far over the sea, 
 The aid that secured us this "land of the free." 
 All honor to France and her brave La Fayette, 
 Whose generous act 'twere a crime to forget! 
 Shall we be less just unto thee, in thy woe? 
 Our free millions answer, "A thousand times no!' 
 
 69 
 
Thou llest, fair Cuba, so near to our shore, 
 Thy charms we behold from our wide-open door; 
 We hear thy sad cry when thy children are slain; 
 The plaint of thy mothers, who, childless, remain. 
 We beckon to thee, and entreat thee to come 
 To thy Heaven-selected and natural home. 
 Thy night shall be follow^ed by glorious morn! 
 From travail like thine Independence is born! 
 
 God willed, when that flag to the breeze was un- 
 furled. 
 That it should befriend the oppressed of the world. 
 Accursed be the false heart and palsied the hand 
 Of him who would venture that will to withstand! 
 The blood thou so long hast been pouring like rain 
 On Freedom's own altar, shall not be in vain! 
 There is room for the star of a people so true, 
 'Mid the stars in our ensign's cerulean blue! 
 
 70 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 When the morn's first light Is beaming, 
 And the earth with beauty teeming, 
 Everything in nature seeming 
 
 Glad and happy, wild and free; 
 And the notes of warblers, singing, 
 Through the depths of air are ringing, 
 All around seems bringing, bringing. 
 
 Dearest mother, thoughts of thee. 
 
 When I sit and muse, for hours, 
 Oft' in shady nooks and bowers, 
 Where the breath of fairy flowers 
 
 In its fragrance comes to me; 
 Then the very air surrounding. 
 In such purity abounding. 
 And the notes so sweetly sounding. 
 
 Bring, dear mother, thoughts of thee. 
 
 When the faithful stars are peeping. 
 Silent watch o'er slumber keeping. 
 And the tears of Nature— weeping- 
 Sparkle on each shrub and tree; 
 Or when light of day is waning, ^ 
 Love's light still is found remaining. 
 And my spirit still retaining. 
 Dearest mother, thoughts of thee. 
 
 71 
 
When to home my heart is turning, 
 Always beating, always burning, 
 With an ever-quenchless yearning 
 
 Loved and cherished ones to see; 
 Then 'tis not an idle notion. 
 But a real, pure devotion. 
 Which, with joyous, fond emotion, 
 
 Brings, dear mother, thoughts of thee. 
 
 Well we know that thou art going — 
 Love's sweet gifts, the while, bestowing — 
 With the stream that's ever flowing 
 
 Onward to the boundless sea; 
 But, when earthly ties are riven. 
 We'll be drawn to thee in heaven 
 By the counsel thou hast given. 
 
 And, dear mother, thoughts of thee. 
 
 i8S2. 
 
 72 
 
DREAM-LAND. 
 
 Of all lands, from those of the north, bleak and 
 
 cold, 
 To the bright, sunny south-lands of silver and gold, 
 None In beauty can vie with the beauty untold 
 
 Of our fairy dream-land. 
 Her flowers are the fairest, her breezes most pure; 
 Her pleasures the rarest, and ever most sure; 
 To visit that beautiful realm, night or day. 
 Give Fancy free rein, and you're soon far away 
 
 In our fairy dream-land. 
 
 Italia has boasted, and proudly boasts still, 
 Of her beauty of river and valley and hill; 
 But we live In a lovelier land at our will ; 
 
 'TIs our fairy dream-land. 
 Her rivers are bright liquid silver, and whirl 
 'Twixt banks that are gemmed with the richest of 
 
 pearl ; 
 And they murmur such music as never was heard 
 From aught save the river, the breeze, or the bird 
 
 Of our fairy dream-land. 
 
 How much that's called real Is joyous or bright? 
 Does not the Ideal afford most delight ? 
 And are we not happiest ever In sight 
 Of our fairy dream-land? 
 
 73 
 
E'en love-light, 'tis said, is oft' fanciful too, 
 And thus has a richer, more exquisite hue; 
 For who'll not acknowledge it better than real. 
 The love that is made in the gardens ideal 
 Of our fairy dream-land? 
 
 To Him who, in giving us being — or mind — 
 The beauty of fancy so well has combined 
 With Truth, the foundation on which all man- 
 kind — 
 
 To have freedom — must stand. 
 Let us look with deep gratitude, while we believe 
 That He's the kind giver of all we receive; 
 And let us remember from Him ne'er to stray. 
 Though oft' we may wander, enraptured, away, 
 
 In our fairy dream-land. 
 
 i8S2, 
 
 74 
 
CHILDREN'S SONG. 
 
 In the morning of our being, 
 When the sun is bright above; 
 
 In the smile of One All-seeing — 
 In His atmosphere of love — 
 
 'Mid the perfume of the roses, 
 
 In the beauty of the light, 
 While the soul full trust reposes 
 
 In all things so fair and bright; 
 
 Ere the thorns have sprung to wound us, 
 'Mong the flowers in our way. 
 
 Or the shadows gathered 'round us, 
 Growing darker, day by day; 
 
 Ere the cares of life, down-weighing, 
 Make us weary with their load, 
 
 Or our feet have turned to straying 
 From the straight and narrow road; 
 
 Ere our hearts are deeply callous. 
 
 Or our nature icy grown. 
 Let us drink from brimming chalice, 
 
 Waters flowing from the throne; 
 
 75 
 
Waters healing, purifying, 
 Whose elixir maketh whole, 
 
 And imparteth an undying 
 Bliss of being to the soul. 
 
 We can ne'er requite His kindness 
 Who hath died for you and me; 
 
 But He calleth to His vineyard; 
 Faithful servants we may be. 
 
 Then shall all the soul's devotion 
 Be rewarded with success; 
 
 And our lives, to full proportion 
 Rounded, yield us happiness; 
 
 And beyond, the smiling angels 
 Wait to welcome us, at last, 
 
 When the day shall dawn in glory, 
 And the night be overpast. 
 
 J869. 
 
 76 
 
TO AN ACTRESS. 
 
 One word, fair lady, I would speak to thee ; 
 
 I'd only breathe It in thy list'nlng ear ; 
 So low, so gentle should the whisper be, 
 
 That e'en a hov'rlng spirit might not hear. 
 
 I'd ask thee, first, forgive the liberty; 
 
 I'd not one word, one syllable impart, 
 Which would imply that thou couldst ever be 
 
 Less noble or less pure than now thou art. 
 
 And yet. If angels, as we're told, did fall, 
 Sure mortals, made a little lower, may; 
 
 And it were well, on Life's broad stage, if all 
 Acting their parts, would ever watch and pray. 
 
 I would not have thee, with suspicious eye, 
 Seek to discern In every man a foe. 
 
 Bearing thyself with cold reserve, and shy; 
 I would not have thee wrong thy nature so. 
 
 But since 'tis thine to act on every stage, 
 Coming In contact with all natures there. 
 
 Meeting the smiles of youth, the arts of age. 
 The word I fain would speak is this, Beware! 
 
 17 
 
Wert thou my sister born, I'd say no more; 
 
 Thou art my sister; I can say no less. 
 Where'er thou wand'rest, or on sea or shore, 
 
 May Heav'n watch o'er thee to preserve and bless. 
 
 i86s. 
 
 78 
 
A SCRAP. 
 
 Ye men who prate about the wiles 
 Which woman has for winning; 
 
 Her artful ways, her studied smiles, 
 And many ways of sinning, 
 
 If independent ye would be. 
 And if ye can but doubt her. 
 
 Just try the plan awhile, and see 
 If ye can live without her. 
 
 Ye bachelors who've tried in vain 
 Some fair one's heart to capture; 
 
 Who've tried again, and yet again, 
 But never felt the rapture. 
 
 Don't spend an hour in some retreat. 
 Against "the sex" a-talking. 
 
 And then appear upon the street 
 With such fair one a-walking; 
 
 But seek some lone and darksome cave, 
 Where ghosts and goblins tarry j 
 
 Live as a hermit, or a slave. 
 And swear you'll never marry; 
 
 79 
 
And when some months or years youVe spent 
 
 In solitude so pleasant, 
 Perhaps, perhaps, ye may relent. 
 
 And wish e'en woman present. 
 
 i8S3' 
 
 80 
 
REASON. 
 
 How much of mystery and doubt 
 Forever hang, our lives about, 
 
 Like gloom of night the soul surrounding ! 
 How much of truth, when puny man 
 Has learned from Nature all he can, ^ 
 
 Lies deeper than his reason's sounding! 
 
 Reason, imperfect, or ill-used, 
 Is the divinest gift, abused; 
 
 Like low'ring clouds around the mountain. 
 It ever makes the truth obscure; 
 As mists, around its rim, are sure 
 
 To dim the brightness of the fountain. . 
 
 And if, sometimes, the longing eye 
 May look beyond the farthest sky- 
 Beyond the term of man's probation — 
 'Tis only when the searching mind 
 The light of Reason has combined, 
 By faith, with light of Revelation. 
 
 1S70, 
 
 81 
 
LONGINGS FOR POESY. 
 
 Oh, were it mine — 
 
 The gift divine — 
 The power to impart 
 
 All shades of thought 
 
 In beauty wrought 
 As from their fount they start, 
 
 And trace each line. 
 
 With impulse fine, 
 Upon another's heart! 
 
 There's one should share 
 
 The vistas rare 
 With which my fancy teems; 
 
 With finer grace 
 
 Than art may trace 
 Earth's mountains, vales and streams, 
 
 I'd paint them, bright 
 
 With Heaven's own light, 
 Among her fondest dreams. 
 
 I see her stand, 
 
 A soul so grand! 
 So very far above 
 
 My humbler plane ! 
 
 Would she disdain 
 The reachings of my love? 
 
i87o. 
 
 Or might I dare 
 Approach her there, 
 My constancy to prove? 
 
 Oh, were ft mine, 
 
 The gift divine! 
 So long I've yearned in pain! 
 
 So oft my tears. 
 
 Through years and years. 
 Have fallen like the rain! 
 
 And still this fire 
 
 Of wild desire 
 Must burn, and burn in vain. 
 
 83 
 
THEN AND NOW. 
 
 Oft we read in olden story, 
 How those sainted martyrs fell, 
 
 Round whose names the wreath of glory 
 Ever rests they won so well. 
 
 How they fought 'gainst false opinions, 
 Strove the world's dark night to break; 
 
 Till the Church's slavish minions, 
 Tortured, burned them at the stake. 
 
 How self-righteous bigots, kneeling 
 
 At the very shrine of God, 
 With a seeming holy feeling, 
 
 Bathed their hands in human blood. 
 
 And the boldest nature falters. 
 And the heart grows sick and sore, 
 
 As we read how sacred altars 
 
 Were made red with human gore. 
 
 And we offer thanks to Heaven, 
 That the night has passed away; 
 
 And that unto us 'tis given 
 
 To behold this bright noon-day. 
 
 84 
 
But, e'en with our prayers ascending 
 To the Throne of God on high, 
 
 There is sadly interblending, 
 Many a shriek and bitter cry. 
 
 And the voice is Woman's, pleading — 
 Comes it from the past, away? 
 
 No! her heart lies crushed and bleeding 
 In the sunlight of today! 
 
 Helpless innocence is given 
 
 To the pow'r of vilest lust; 
 Till the victims doubt if Heaven — 
 
 Doubt if even God be just. 
 
 While of myriad bells, the ringing 
 
 Gaily trembles on the air; 
 While is heard the voice of singing, 
 
 And of thankfulness and prayer — 
 
 Millions feel the keenest sorrow, 
 Each to know himself a slave; 
 
 Praying that the coming morrow, 
 Grant but freedom, or the grave. 
 
 Hope not for fair Freedom's morning, 
 
 Ne'er expect her natal day. 
 Till ye heed the mild heart-warning, 
 
 Break and cast each chain away. 
 
 85 
 
Till the Church, her wrongs eschewing, 
 
 Cursing old time bigots less. 
 And her vows to God renewing. 
 
 Cease to torture and oppress. 
 
 Blood still drips from sacred altars. 
 Blood of faithful. Christian men — 
 
 Gags and scourges, chains and halters, 
 Are as common now as then. 
 
 This, the great Republic! nation 
 Of "the noble free" and brave. 
 
 Makes the pride of God's creation, 
 Man — a chattel, man — a slave. 
 
 Like the beast he may be driven ; 
 
 Like the beast he may be sold ; 
 And the heart's best ties be riven. 
 
 Silver chords — for dust, for gold. 
 
 Ye whose locks with age are hoary, 
 Ye who near the silent tomb; 
 
 As ye read, in olden story. 
 
 Of the Christian martyr's doom, 
 
 Give a word that's hopeful, cheering 
 
 To the martyr of our day; 
 If of God ye have a hearing. 
 
 For the toiling bondman pray! 
 
Ye whose brows, as yet unwrinkled, 
 Show that ye are in your prime, 
 
 Ye whose locks are yet unsprinkled 
 By the wintry frosts of time. 
 
 Let each thought and each endeavor 
 
 Be against our nation's foe! 
 Swearing to be vanquished never — 
 
 Choose to die or overthrow! 
 
 Ye whose days as yet are youthful — 
 Ye whose lives are just begun — 
 
 Whose young hearts are warm and truthful, 
 There are laurels to be won; 
 
 Laurels that are greener, fairer 
 Than were e'er to mortals given. 
 
 Laurels that will make the wearer 
 Child of Fame, and heir of Heaven. 
 
 1^57^ 
 
 87 
 
DEAR LOUISE. 
 
 Dear Louise, I'm dreaming, dreaming 
 That thine earnest eyes are beaming 
 
 On me as in days of yore — 
 Blissful days when, often meeting, 
 And, with fond embraces greeting, 
 We, with gentlest words, entreating. 
 
 Vowed to love forevermore. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Ever, and forevermore, dear Louise, forevermore; 
 Ever, and forevermore, dear Louise, forevermore. 
 
 Dreaming that again we wander 
 In the groves, or sit and ponder 
 
 On our fair Mahoning's shore; 
 Or, to friendly grotto stealing. 
 On its mossy carpet kneeling. 
 Every pledge with kisses sealing, 
 
 Vow to love forevermore. 
 
 1896. 
 
'TEMPUS TUGIT." 
 
 [Written on receiving from a friend a watch fob, on which 
 were crocheted the words of the title.] 
 
 Yes, time is flying, 
 
 The summer dying. 
 Each moment adding a moment more 
 
 To the past and gone; 
 
 We are moving on. 
 Silently on tow'rd the unknown shore. 
 
 We're gently gliding. 
 
 No ill betiding, 
 And no dark storm-cloud hovering o'er; 
 
 Will we join the blest 
 
 In a land of rest. 
 When our barques we moor on the unknown shore ? 
 
 Is there sometimes brought 
 
 A saddening thought, 
 With visions of friends who've gone before? 
 
 Are we not oft deeming 
 
 It only seeming, 
 And thinking there is no unknown shore? 
 
 89 
 
Not a narrow road 
 
 To a blest abode? 
 No home when the ills of life are o'er? 
 
 No haven blest, 
 
 Of peace and rest? 
 And love and bliss? Not an unknown shore? 
 
 Away with the thought, 
 
 For it must be bought 
 With the hope of happiness evermore! 
 
 And fondly cherish. 
 
 Ere reason perish. 
 Faith in a life on the unknown shore. 
 
 i854> 
 
 90 
 
FEB 15 1907 
 
llhlHlil! illi' 
 
 'I liii 
 
 iii 
 
 mm