Xariffa's Poems 
 
By 
 
 'hi^^ Uj^v^cy ^frww^e-KfiC. 
 
 
 / 
 
 PHILADELPHIA ^ 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO 
 1870. 
 

TO MY MOTHER, 
 
 Dear Mother ! In the still and solemn hours 
 That come so often in my lifetime now, 
 Like rocks that rise to intercept the flow 
 
 Of tides that sweep too swiftly past their shores, 
 
 How tenderly my heart thy name adores ! 
 I see thee on thy pinnacle of years, 
 
 Thy feet just trembling on the Future's floors ; 
 Thy locks of strength by Time's relentless shears 
 
 All shorn ; toward the Yonder World thine eye 
 Uplifted yearningly. O Mother mine ! 
 
 As the swift footsteps of the years go by 
 I cling to thee as to a thing divine, 
 
 And feel how dark a path my life would be, 
 
 Noblest of mothers, if bereft of thee. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To my Mother 3 
 
 The Backwoodsman's Daughter. ii 
 
 "John." ^7 
 
 The Torchlight Procession ^9 
 
 Wife Words ^^ 
 
 At the Ball ^3 
 
 How Much do you Love me ? 25 
 
 Epithalamium ^7 
 
 The Sudden Shower 3° 
 
 A Tenant's Petition to a Landlord 33 
 
 My World 3^ 
 
 Katy Did 44 
 
 Bring me no Captive Pets 49 
 
 November -> 
 
 Fidelitas 53 
 
 Sunrise -^^ 
 
 God Bless You ! ^^ 
 
 Malvina 3 
 
 The Baby • ^5 
 
 To an Old Portfolio ^^ 
 
 Somebody 
 
 A Memory 9 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lines to Cora 72 
 
 The Slaughtered Crane 75 
 
 The Organ-Grinder 80 
 
 To Baby Lily 82 
 
 The Haunted House 84 
 
 To my Sister 88 
 
 Waiting 90 
 
 My Grandsire's Watch 91 
 
 Umbrae 93 
 
 Gertrude 96 
 
 " You are Not Forgotten." 98 
 
 Ode to the " Mother Hubbard" of a Fancy-Dress Ball 100 
 
 My Birth-day 102 
 
 Acrostic 105 
 
 The Box of Old Shoes 106 
 
 Willie's Wife in 
 
 The Murderer 113 
 
 We Twa 117 
 
 Woman's Work 120 
 
 The March Snow-Storm 123 
 
 Deserted 125 
 
 To Guy 127 
 
 Do Angels Weep ? 128 
 
 Ingemisco 130 
 
 The Old Willow Tree 133 
 
 Zura 136 
 
 A Reverie 141 
 
 The Bandit's Burial 143 
 
 The Lion's Ride 146 
 
 Elodie 150 
 
 Song 153 
 
 By the Fire 155 
 
 Inscription for a Tomb 158 
 
CONTENTS. 9 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Mary Moore ^59 
 
 Mirabelle i6i 
 
 Little May Ballard 165 
 
 Lizzie 1^7 
 
 Love Lines ^7^ 
 
 To Some False Hair ^73 
 
 The Little Fiddler's Song I75 
 
 To a Flower from Gertrude's Tomb 178 
 
 After the War ^79 
 
 Lines ^^^ 
 
 Lines to a Bouquet io4 
 
 Never Complain ^^" 
 
 Ebb and Flow ^90 
 
 The Old Clock in the Corner 191 
 
 The Odd Fellow's Funeral 194 
 
 My Pupils 197 
 
 Luther Lane 200 
 
 Childe Sibyl 204 
 
 The Toy 207 
 
 Our Own 210 
 
 The Church Bell's Lament 212 
 
 Blood 216 
 
 Pressed Flowers 219 
 
 Don't You Remember ? 221 
 
 Creed 226 
 
 AToast 228 
 
 To-Whoo 229 
 
 The Suicide 232 
 
 Twilight 234 
 
 Trust 236 
 
 Fallacia 238 
 
 Invocation 43 
 
 The Lover to the Blue Ribbon that had tied Laura's Letters. ... 244 
 
lO CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 At Ada's Tomb 245 
 
 Fair Coz 247 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Renunciation 249 
 
 The Maiden 250 
 
 The Man 251 
 
 To a Caged Mocking-Bird 252 
 
 To One Beloved 253 
 
 To my Pen 254 
 
 Lake Pontchartrain 255 
 
 To the Mouse that Nibbled my MSS : 256 
 
 Sacramentum Amoris 257 
 
 At the Wheel 260 
 
Xariffa's Poems. 
 
 THE BACKWOODSMAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I WAS a wanderer from my place of birth, 
 Seeking among the wide world's busy throng 
 A peaceful harbor for my woe-wrecked heart. 
 The charm of home was gone — the links of love, 
 So blessed in their brightness, broken were. 
 And I had turned away, striving to heap 
 Upon the black grave of the past the dust 
 Of dim forgetfulness. 
 
 Toward the West 
 I turned my troubled brow. I had heard much 
 Of that fair land, where the untrammeled herd 
 The echoing turf salutes with scornful hoof. 
 Where verdant plains lie like unfolded scrolls 
 Whose emerald pages Nature paints with flowers ; 
 Where the proud stag beside his timid mate 
 Drinks from undesecrated streams ; and all 
 Seems like the Eden Garden ere the stain 
 Of sin besmeared its beauty. There I turned. 
 Not with the hope to find my joys again, 
 
 11 
 
12 THE BACKWOODSMAN' S DAUGHTER. 
 
 But with intent my misery to hide 
 Out of men's sight for ever. 
 
 In the car 
 Which bore me on — whither I cared nor knew, 
 So it was westward and away — I marked 
 Among the travelers a swarthy pair — 
 A woodman and his wife. Between them sat 
 A child — a little girl — whose deep blue eyes, 
 Beneath their golden lashes hiding, looked 
 Like twin forget-me-nots by sunbeams kissed. 
 About her pretty brow and shoulders bare 
 Her yellow locks, not curled nor braided, hung 
 In glittering ripples to her slender waist. 
 So wonderfully fair she looked beside 
 Her rough protectors in her fragile grace. 
 She seemed like some frail wind-flower peeping out 
 From the broad shadow of two gnarled old oaks. 
 
 Her lips, steeped in their early innocence 
 Like morning buds in dew, parted at last. 
 And her few words tripped lightly over them 
 Like footsteps over flowers. " Father dear," 
 She softly said, and twined her little hand 
 Amongst the old man's gray and stubborn locks — 
 " Dear father, tell me, are we almost home ? 
 I am so weary of this clattering car. 
 This dust and din, and all this careless crowd 
 Of people whom I never saw before — 
 Tell me, dear father, are we almost home?" 
 
 '' 'Most home !" the sire returned and laid his hand 
 Upon her upturned brow ; " and why, my child. 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN'S DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 Dost long to reach that spot which ill compares 
 With those fair city scenes whence you have come ? 
 Dost thou forget the rich man's splendid home, 
 The busy streets, with all their glittering crowds, 
 The gay shop-windows where each day you saw 
 So many tempting toys and wondrous books? 
 And dost remember how you loved to hear 
 The chiming church-bells in the steeples high, 
 And often drew your little hand from mine 
 To climb the steps, and through the doorways vast 
 Catch glimpses of Religion's love of show?" 
 
 '' True, father dear," the little one replied — 
 
 " True, I did like the bus}^ city crowds. 
 The lofty houses where rich people dwell, 
 The gay shop-windows and the pretty toys, 
 Because they were so wonderful and new 
 To my unpracticed eyes. In vestibules 
 Of solemn churches, too, I loved to wait 
 To hear the wings of music beat the air 
 When the deep organ did the Sabbath greet. 
 I well remember how I drew away 
 My humble garments, lest they might defile 
 The dazzling robes of those who could afford 
 In worthier garb to worship. Yet I knew 
 The heart lies naked in our Father's sight, 
 Howe'er the form is clad ; and I was sure 
 That He could see my fervent love for Him 
 Beneath my simple gown. I envied none 
 Their wealth, nor did I wonder that they wore 
 Their best in presence of their King." 
 
 "My child," 
 The father said, while to his rugged face 
 
H THE BACKWOODSMAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A smile came tenderly, " thy words are good ; 
 But bear In mind that in thy Western home 
 All this which thou dost own to having loved. 
 Will, to thy beauty-loving eyes, be lost ; 
 Such things belong not, darling, to the poor." 
 
 " The poor have memories just like the rich," 
 She gently said. " I can remember all, 
 And make my mind a picture-book to read 
 To little friends who have not seen as much." 
 
 Into the father's eye leaped a swift tear 
 
 And trembled there, while with unsteady lip 
 
 His questions still he plied : " But tell me why 
 
 Thy little heart hath fixed itself, my child, 
 
 So fondly on our lowly wildwood cot.^ 
 
 There trials are, and hardships chain the hands 
 
 Of those who love thee, and exacting toil 
 
 Doth from affection steal her sweetest hours. 
 
 How can that spot be brighter in thy sight 
 
 Than homes where ease presides and care is not.^' 
 
 Upon the woodman's wrinkled face the child 
 Fixed her blue eyes in wonder at his words ; 
 And then, as if her little lips returned 
 The all-sufficient answer, she replied, 
 '' Why, fiather, that is homer 
 
 The shining tear 
 That had been trembling in the old man's eye, 
 Fell, at her words, down o'er his swarthy cheek, 
 And with a quick embrace of thankfulness 
 He clasped his darling to his rough, broad breast, 
 
THE BACKWOODSMAN'S DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 Praising the Father that his child possessed 
 That best of blessings, a contented heart. 
 
 She, smiling there within his loving arms, 
 Recalled to him that little spot out West, 
 Where, in the sunny forest-clearing stood 
 Their lowly rough-hewn cabin, where each morn 
 The merry brook ran laughing past the door, 
 As if its freight were joy to all the world. 
 
 " There," murmured she, half dreaming in his arms. 
 
 " The livelong day among the woody wilds 
 I find such pretty playmates and playthings. 
 The velvet-footed rabbit waits for me 
 Beneath the sheltering cover of the fern ; 
 The squirrel, chattering o'er his nutty meal. 
 Flies not at my approach ; and pretty stones, 
 With fallen acorns, fill my lap with toys. 
 The cool moss seems to welcome my bare feet, 
 And birds recite their poetry to me 
 As perfectly as though I were a queen. 
 And never ask if I be rich or poor !" 
 
 Across her hair, while thus she prattled on, 
 The slanting sunbeams gently stretched themselves, 
 Then stole away like worshipers content 
 With having touched some consecrated thing. 
 Before the day was wholly gone, the train 
 Stopped at a backwoods station, and the child. 
 Holding the hands of those whose prize she was, 
 Passed from my sight for ever. She was home. 
 
 Long did I muse upon the simple scene ; 
 
 And like a sliarj^ rebuke the child's sweet words 
 
5 THE BACKWOODSMAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Sank in my restless heart. She, with a cot, 
 
 A few wild flowers and unfettered pets. 
 
 Was rich ; whilst I, with all that wealth could give, 
 
 A glittering home and hosts of titled friends. 
 
 Lashed to the demon Discontent, was out 
 
 Upon the world a wanderer ! 
 
 Long years 
 Have sped since then, but in my dreams by night 
 And in my walks by day, by that child's voice 
 I feel my sad heart haunted. Echoing there. 
 It hath for me a strange significance. 
 Out of the blazing blue of noonday skies. 
 And up beyond the midnight's starry depths. 
 It seems to gently lead my chastened soul, 
 And leave it trembling by mysterious gates. 
 While its soft echoes whisper, " That is home !" 
 
"JOHN.' 
 
 I. 
 
 I STAND behind his elbow-chair, 
 My soft hands rest upon his hair- 
 Hair whose silver is dearer to me 
 Than all the gold of the earth could be- 
 And my eyes of brown 
 Look tenderly down 
 On John, my John. 
 
 II 
 
 The firelight leaps and laughs and warms, 
 Wraps us both in its ruddy arms — 
 John, as he sits in the hearth-glow red. 
 Me, with my hands on his dear old head— 
 
 Encirling us both 
 
 Like a ring of troth, 
 Me and my John. 
 
 III. 
 
 His form has lost its early grace. 
 Wrinkles rest on his kindly face ; 
 2* B 
 
 17 
 
1 8 " JOHN:' 
 
 His brow no longer is smooth and fair. 
 For Time has left his autograph there ; 
 
 But a noble prize 
 
 In my loving eyes 
 Is John, my John. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " My love," he says — and lifts his hands, 
 Browned by the suns of other lands, 
 In tender clasp on my own to lay — 
 " How long ago was our wedding-day ?" 
 I smile through my tears, 
 And say, " Years and years, 
 My John, dear John." 
 
 We say no more — the firelight glows ; 
 
 Both of us muse — on what, who knows ? 
 
 My hands drop down in a mute caress — 
 
 Each throb of my heart is a wish to bless. 
 With my life's best worth, 
 The heart and the hearth 
 Of John, my John ! 
 
THE TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION. 
 
 T N the dark, with a child on her bosom, 
 i A woman is walking the floor ; 
 And she moans while she hushes her darhng, 
 
 " O God ! it is hard to be poor !" 
 In the dark, with a child on her bosom- 
 
 The dark of a comfortless room ; 
 Not even a candle's dull ray to soothe 
 
 The terrible ache of the gloom. 
 
 Down the street throngs a joyous procession, 
 
 With thousands of lamps all alight, 
 And the red glare of whispering rockets 
 
 Ascending the silence of night. 
 Oil enough for the multitudes marching, 
 
 And banners and ribbons and flowers, 
 While the blue of the zenith is blazing 
 
 With grand pyrotechnical showers. 
 
 All alone with her poor little burden, 
 
 A woman with hungering eyes 
 Soothes, with lips that are pallid with fastmg. 
 
 Her famishing baby's cries. 
 
 19 
 
20 THE TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION. 
 
 She catches the echoes of loud huzzas — 
 " Great God !" she sighs, under her breath, 
 " While Opulence squanders so much away. 
 Must my little ones starve to death ?" 
 
 Hark, the tramp of the marchers comes nearer ! 
 
 Transparencies gleam past her door ; 
 There " Our Cause," "- Our Kind," " Our Country,' 
 she reads. 
 
 But never one mottoed " Our Poor !" 
 And she looks at the flickering torches, 
 
 And counts the magnificent flags ; 
 Then turns with a gasp to her darkness again. 
 
 And her scanty, unseemly rags. 
 
 Like a river of light, the procession 
 
 Flows away down the stony street. 
 And the star-studded gates of the midnight 
 
 Close on the reverberant feet. 
 The music dies out in the distance, 
 
 All silently sink to their rest, 
 Save a maniac mother pacing the floor, 
 
 A little cold corpse on her breast. 
 
WIFE-WORDS. 
 
 I. 
 
 BELOVED one of my heart ! how bright 
 The future lies before us ! 
 Bathed in affection's purest Hght 
 
 It casts its sunshine o'er us ; 
 And all the past of bitter hours, 
 
 Or ones of sadder seeming, 
 Forgotten are amid the flowers 
 
 On which our hearts lie dreaming. 
 
 II 
 
 The gladsome earth we e'en might deem 
 
 Contained no grief or sadness, 
 So bright and joyous is our dream 
 
 Of Love's unclouded gladness. 
 Like twin-born flowers, our earnest hearts 
 
 Shall pass their days united ; 
 And when the bloom of one departs, 
 
 The other will be blighted. 
 
 21 
 
32 WIFE-WORDS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Clasped to thy fond and faithful breast, 
 
 The links of life seem lengthened, 
 And round our spirits softly rest 
 
 The ties our love has strengthened. 
 Thus wandering on, with hearts in one, 
 
 Souls linked so naught can sever : 
 We'll side by side seek that bright home 
 
 Where love endures for ever ! 
 
AT THE BALL. 
 
 NAY, do not bend thy lips toward mine ear 
 To whisper, 'mid the music and the light, 
 And dizzy dancers' maddening career, 
 
 The story of thy strong heart's early blight. 
 
 I do not care to know. Of little worth 
 
 I count that friendship which would fiiin exact 
 
 As tribute due its accidental birth, 
 
 The key to thy past's storehouse of grim fact. 
 
 Keep thine own secrets hidden in thy heart ; 
 
 'Twixt them and me let Silence hang her screen ; 
 T ask but to rely on what thou art — 
 
 It matters little what thou may'st have been. 
 
 There is a Bluebeard's chamber with us all, 
 Perhaps — a little key, a lock all rust — 
 
 Where hangs, beheaded, on the gloomy wall 
 Within, our proudest hopes, our noblest trust. 
 
 Each human life its solemn mystery hath. 
 Its hidden love or its embittered hate ; 
 
 Its weary wandering in some stony path, 
 Its fruitless beating 'gainst the bars of fate ; 
 
 23 
 
24 AT THE BALL. 
 
 Its eager aims at empyrean heights, 
 
 Its downward hurhng among lowly things ; 
 
 The fading from its eyes of dearest sights, 
 The silent folding of its bruised wings ; 
 
 Its spring of promise, rich in bud and bloom, 
 Its death and burial and its lonely stone. 
 
 Hewn from the quarries of despair and gloom, 
 To mark some grave to all the world unknown ! 
 
 So, if thou hast thy wounds, display them not — 
 True sympathy demands no show of scars ; 
 
 Trust sponges from life's tablet every blot, 
 And doubt no honest friendship ever mars. 
 
 But come, the balcony grows chill, I feel ; 
 
 Back 'mong the merry maskers let us go, 
 To hear the tap of the hilarious heel, 
 
 And see them point the educated toe. 
 
 The rush, the whirl, the music and the glare. 
 The masks that hide false faces, and the ends 
 
 Encompassed by deception, all are there : 
 
 Your arm — so — now, good-night, my best of friends. 
 
HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE ME? 
 
 INSCRIBED TO ONE WHO ASKED THE QUESTION. 
 
 HOW much do I love thee? 
 Go ask the deep sea 
 How many rare gems 
 In its coral caves be ; 
 Or ask the broad billows 
 That ceaselessly roar, 
 How many bright sands 
 Do they kiss on the shore. 
 
 How much do I love thee? 
 
 Go ask of a star, 
 How many such worlds 
 
 In the universe are ; 
 Or ask of the breezes 
 
 Which soothingly blow. 
 From whence do they come 
 
 And whither they go. 
 
 How much do I love thee? 
 
 Go ask of the sun 
 To tell when his course 
 Will for ever be done ; 
 3 25 
 
26 HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE ME f 
 
 Or demand of the dust 
 
 Over which thou hast trod, 
 
 How many cold hearts 
 Moulder under the sod. 
 
 How much do I love thee? 
 
 When billow and sea 
 And star shall have told 
 
 All their secrets to thee — 
 When zephyrs and sunbeam 
 
 Their courses reveal — 
 Thou shalt know what this bosom 
 
 Which loves thee can feel. 
 
EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 ONE trembling foot upon the threshold golden 
 Of that mysterious door 
 Which soon will swing upon its hinges olden, 
 Beckon her through the portal thus unfolden, 
 And ope for her no more. 
 
 One foot on that untrodden threshold falling. 
 One yet on girlhood's shore ; 
 
 A voice on either side the portal calling ; 
 
 Both tuned to love, but one almost appalling- 
 One new, one known of yore. 
 
 Both tender, one half tearful, and both pleading- 
 Yesterday and to-morrow ; 
 She gives a hand to each ; the Past, receding, 
 Cries, ''Go! may thy true young heart know no 
 bleeding, 
 And thy pure soul no sorrow !" 
 
 She lingers yet by girlhood's gladsome river. 
 
 Her gaze upon the tide ; 
 She sees the sunbeams through the shadows quiver. 
 Life lures her with new charms it has to give her 
 
 Upon the other side. 
 
 27 
 
28 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 The ripples reach her feet ; she knows not whether 
 
 The more to joy or wonder ; 
 And while she hesitates, the holy fatlier 
 Has said, "Whom God our Lord hath joined 
 together. 
 
 Let no man put asunder." 
 
 Let those who can shed no tears at a wedding — 
 
 Death's jocund-hearted brother. 
 Why should all tears be kept for funeral shedding? 
 In marriage, too, its mystic pathway treading, 
 
 Joy and w^oe kiss each other. 
 
 There the same robing is in novel raiment ; 
 
 The parting pangs ensue ; 
 The loved one's bliss received as precious payment 
 For grief which finds no other sweet allayment 
 
 With those who say adieu ! 
 
 The mother sees a coffin in the bridal. 
 
 Smile on it though she may ; 
 Her own heart lies there, shrouded, suicidal — 
 Bereft of what most blest life's lone abidal 
 
 In her she gives away. 
 
 Yet sound the harp — cease, cease, O heart! to 
 tremble — 
 
 Joy to the wedded pair ! 
 Lost is the tinkling brass and sounding cymbal 
 Of thoughtless years in the ennobling symbol 
 
 Their clasped hands now wei,u\ 
 
EPITHALAMIUM. 29 
 
 They have gone forth on sunny seas united ; 
 
 Their sail, Love's pure vs^hite wing — 
 Their rudder, Trust ; by which they both stand plighted, 
 Watching the compass which their way has righted — 
 
 The golden wedding-ring. 
 
 Let them pass on, friend, father, sister, mother ; 
 
 With Hope's bright flag unfurled : 
 Heaven loves the wedded as it loves none other — 
 With perfect faith in God and one another 
 
 They may defy the world. 
 3* 
 
THE SUDDEN SHOWER. 
 
 THE weather, one day, appeared en jnasque^ 
 With a deal of sunshine on — 
 A flaunt of blue o'er his great rain-cask. 
 
 Not a bit of cloud did he don. 
 The streets arose from their slough of desjoond, 
 
 The gutters felt mighty small ; 
 The smiles came back to the face of the pond, 
 The grace to the grasses tall. 
 
 Too. tempting by far ! The belle and beau 
 
 Looked forth at the masker gay ; 
 Huzza for the satin that shineth so, 
 
 For beauty and show to-day. 
 Parasol tiny and lithe rattan, 
 
 Bootee of patent leather ; 
 Panama hat and sandal-wood fan. 
 
 All shining with the weather. 
 
 Rich -poult de sole and barege Anglais^ 
 
 And petticoats tucked to the knee ; 
 Satinets, cassimers, drap-d'ete^ 
 
 And elegant organdie ; 
 30 
 
THE SUDDEN SHOWER. 3^ 
 
 And gorgeous silks, ten dollars a yard, 
 The exquisite green sunshade ; 
 
 Young India mull— blest theme for the bard- 
 All join in the masquerade. 
 
 The gayest masker amongst them all — 
 
 The good-for-nothing weather — 
 Stirs rich and poor and short and tall, 
 
 All in a crowd together. 
 Fashion flits by in her brocatelles 
 
 And Beggary walks behind her, 
 While Folly jingles her merry bells, 
 
 And Youth flies past to find her. 
 
 And wee ones, aping the larger ton, 
 
 Gotten up with wondrous pains. 
 Make up in furbelow^s, and so on. 
 
 Whatever they lack in trains. 
 Fair babes in mull and Valenciennes lace, 
 
 In the blinding sunlight squirm. 
 And '^ mamma" glides with as grand a grace 
 
 As if not robed by a worm ! 
 
 And up and down. In pomp and parade. 
 
 Simplicity, decked in satins. 
 Flirts in this merry masquerade 
 
 With wisdom of the Latins. 
 But suddenly, swiftly, where in the world 
 
 Did all this deluge gather.? 
 Where are the blue and the sunshine whirled.? 
 
 What under the sun ails the weather.? 
 
32 THE SUDDEN SHOWER. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! a merry old traitor he, 
 
 And the votaries of the sun, 
 In dripping, bedraggled finery, 
 
 Acknowledge themselves undone. 
 The gutters swell to respectable creeks, 
 
 The streets to rivers have grown, 
 While roseate lips and blushing cheeks 
 
 At touch of water have flown. 
 
 Parasol tiny and lithe rattan. 
 Bootee of patent leather, 
 
 Panama hat and sandal-wood fan, 
 In arms agfainst the weather. 
 
 Rich foult de soie.^ and barege Anglais — 
 
 Oh what a frightful muddle ! 
 Petticoats tucked and drap-d'ete., 
 
 Fine feathers dipped in a puddle ! 
 Green sunshade over ten-dollar silk. 
 
 Is shedding copious tears. 
 And young Swiss mull, not so white as milk, 
 
 Looks much too old for its years. 
 
 Ha ! presto ! change ! fly. Jack, and begone ! 
 
 Fine fashion in brocatelles ; 
 Beggary with disfiguring frown. 
 
 And Folly with muffled bells ; 
 Flee, one and all, in sorriest plight. 
 
 The maskers all together, 
 Each with a sputtering word of spite 
 
 At the sudden chang^e of weather. 
 
A TENANT'S PETITION TO A LANDLORD, 
 
 BY THE OCCUPANT OF A SHUTTERLESS HOUSE. 
 
 TO that Unknown whom auction sales have made 
 A sort of myth or trenchant trick of trade, 
 I would pour forth, in view of summer-time, 
 My aggravated woes in rough-shod rhyme ; 
 And were my simple foolscap lute or lyre, 
 My landlord would its deepest strains inspire. 
 
 Perchance this good man never yet has spent 
 His days in some small dwelling made to rent — 
 A sort of tea-box with four windows placed 
 Where hieroglyphics usually are traced, 
 Unlined by Chinaman's zinc-loving eye 
 To keep its precious contents cool and dry. 
 A roof as flat as flattest contradiction, 
 And ceilings low as some PVench tale of fiction ; 
 So that we sit beneath them seared and mute, 
 And see our children turning to dried fruit ! 
 
 Great cracks hung up on hinges and called doors. 
 See-saws laid over sleepers and called floors, 
 
 C 33 
 
34 A TENANT'S PETITION. 
 
 Walls beautified by spots where plaster was, 
 And lank lath laughing with its broken jaws ! 
 Rooms planned by some one skilled in short division, 
 Who thought, no doubt, in making this provision. 
 Tenants, like dishes, if but closely packed, 
 Run very much less risk of getting cracked ; 
 Yet rent demanded which, in bank-notes small. 
 Spread on the floor would nicely carpet all. 
 
 In such a house for one long year I've borne 
 The yoke of inconvenience, and I've torn 
 My silent shoulders with its jagged weight, 
 And only to myself bemoaned my fate. 
 I've frozen when it froze, and mouldy grew 
 When dampness oozed our tomb-like mansion 
 through ; 
 When summer suns their dog-day courses ran, 
 I've dreamed, at night, that some hot frying-pan 
 Held my poor frame, and fancied I was fish 
 Left, cook-forgotten, in my scorching dish. 
 
 I've plead for painters — panthers would sooner 
 
 come ; 
 For masons — my hearers suddenly grew dumb. 
 
 I showed the stony walls, with moisture lined, 
 " The powers that be" grew suddenly stone blind ! 
 Thus, whatsoe'er I've asked for tenant's uses 
 Has died a natural death of poor excuses. 
 Finding it was " no kind of use to talk," 
 I said," We will take up our beds and walk ;" 
 Beneath this roof no more my blistered brains 
 Shall frame their prayers in purgatorial pains ; 
 
A TENANT'S PETITION. 35 
 
 Like wandering Arabs we must roam about ; 
 Rest we in rented houses on our route, 
 Fate and self-preservation cry, "Move out." 
 
 Still my resolves quite hard to manage prove ; 
 
 They are not "balky," but they hate " to move." 
 
 With hopeful patience do they turn and say, 
 "••Make the house tenantable — let us stay !" 
 
 My landlord, in this most enlightened age, 
 
 When solving mysteries is all the rage, 
 
 If I should tell what in this building housed 
 Has these long lines of dull complaint aroused — 
 
 If I should tell what ghostly fingers tap 
 
 Upon the doors, to spoil my morning nap — 
 If I should tell what spectres on the roof 
 Make the tin sheets from shingles spring aloof — 
 
 If I should tell what awful sights I see 
 
 When sleep has blinded every one but me. 
 What faces fill the unshuttered window-pane, 
 I'm sure no tenant would live here again. 
 
 Still worse than all, when the long summer day 
 Its panting heart doth 'neath our roof-tree lay — 
 When other homes are cool, and blinds of green 
 Tone down full many a happy family scene, 
 Laying soft shadows in the parlors neat. 
 And rendering home completeness more complete — 
 In this strange house, where breezes never play, 
 Where noontide lies upon our roof all day. 
 Where each hot room an inquisition seems 
 Which fancy fills with tortured victims' screams — 
 Oh, here — believe me, 'tis no idle tale I make — 
 Some martyr daily bui'iieth at the steak. 
 
36 A TENANT'S PETIT/ ON 
 
 Of these strange things I've borne my silent share, 
 And told no living being what they are ; 
 
 And if, kind landlord, you will grant one plea, 
 No mortal e'er shall know of them from me. 
 
 In confidence I fain would say, of late 
 
 Reports have got abroad about the state 
 
 In which I keep my house. The other day 
 I heard my baby had been seen to cry 
 Because a grain of dust was in its eye ; 
 
 And some one said 'twas just my careless- way, 
 
 I hadn't dusted the poor child that day ! 
 
 And then I heard, when we sat down to tea — 
 My " gudeman" and my little toddlers three — 
 
 Somebody saw the table-cloth was darned, 
 
 And of this vulgar fact the village warned. 
 And, with a shiver that portended chills, 
 
 " This comes of women's meddling with goose- 
 quills." 
 
 Another said our shadows on the wall 
 
 Were not kept perpendicular at all. 
 
 But moved their heads, and rocked them to and fro, 
 As well-bred shadows would not do, you know 
 
 I'm puzzled how these horrid facts got out. 
 
 Who took the time to peddle them about ; 
 
 Hosts of good friends had kindly called on me. 
 Broken my bread and sipped the cup of tea ; 
 
 But who the foe that did me this good turn. 
 
 Try as I would, was more than I could learn. 
 
 I learned at last — discovered how 'twas done. 
 You see, from morn till even does the sun 
 
A TENANT'S PETITION. 37 
 
 All day walk staring our small windows through, 
 
 And finding out each trifling thing we do, 
 Goes gossiping around among the folks, 
 And tells our misdemeanors as good jokes. 
 
 I've not the least protection from his boldness ; 
 
 He mocks me when I would repel with coldness. 
 Now this is rather more than I can bear : 
 Even sunshine shall not enter here to share 
 My home and hearthstone, and turn traitor there. 
 
 I would like shutters, sir, to keep him out ; 
 I cannot have such ruthless folks about. 
 Now, if you have the heart to tell me nay. 
 The worst I wish you is some summer's day, 
 When suicidal flies ftiU in the butter. 
 Yielding the ghost with many a greasy splutter ; 
 
 When moths grow sick of daylight, and grown 
 
 brave 
 Seek in our cup of tea a watery grave ; 
 When one's most cool ideas seem turned to oil, 
 And one's afraid to keep them lest they spoil ; 
 When melting moods grow rancid in the heat. 
 And one can scarcely keep his temper sweet, — 
 Then do I hope, if you resist my plea. 
 You may be doomed to pass an hour with me, 
 And in this furnace, seven times heated, learn 
 How readily do Blind delinquents burn ! 
 4 
 
MY WORLD. 
 
 The mind is its own place, and in itself 
 
 Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. — Milton. 
 
 I HAVE a world — a world that is mine own ; 
 A realm that teems with all things bright and 
 fair, 
 That blooms or perishes, exists or dies, 
 Is sunlit, shadowed, peaceful or at war. 
 As I may will. It is a changeful world *" 
 Whose beauties turn to terrors, and whose joys 
 Melt into gloom as meteors fade in night. 
 To-day, the silver cascade's sparkling mirth 
 With the swift flash of gorgeous bird-wings joins ; 
 The grass is green, and laughing rivulets 
 Under the w^eedy banks with shadows play ; 
 While over all the cloudless heavens hang 
 Like some triumphal arch, beneath whose blue. 
 In chariot of gold, with flower-twined wheels, 
 The Princess Royal, Youth, rides down Life's road 
 Toward the Palace of Futurity. 
 To-morrow, all things bright and gay have fled ; 
 Stupendous rocks the dark skies seem to bear 
 
 38 
 
MT WORLD. 39 
 
 Upon their craggy shoulders. Where the Sun, 
 Provider prodigal for Earth, his bride, 
 But yester lavished splendor, all is night 
 And wild bewildering tumult, while the sea 
 From the stern shores that manacle its strength 
 Preaches its solemn sermons. 
 
 Tis my will 
 At times to woo the spirit of the storm. 
 And wait his coming through the gates of cloud. 
 The howling winds his lusty heralds are, 
 Who shriek his advent over moor and main ; 
 While through their clear, aeolian trumpets roll — 
 The breath of tempests and the blasts of woe. 
 Weaving in weird yet wondrous harmony, 
 Destruction's battle-march. Mantled in mists. 
 His angry hands of noisy thunders full. 
 The livid lightning flashing from his eyes. 
 His wrathful brow with scowling fury black, 
 The Storm-king comes — cloud-armies at his back — 
 A veteran host whose hoary locks have waved 
 In Nature's conflicts since creation's birth. 
 The hills, stern in their resignation, yield 
 Their brows, sunbrowned by ages, to the stroke 
 Which seeks their hearts. The valleys sob, the rills 
 Put up a petulant cry, the forest kings 
 Bow down their lofty heads, rocks crashing fall. 
 The angered mountains veil their battled fronts. 
 The billows gnash their teeth ; confusion dire 
 Claps her jubilant hands and Nature's queen. 
 Earth, the all-beautiful, lifts her wet eyes 
 In mute appeal, and vanquished lies beneath 
 Her conqueror's gaze. 
 
40 MT WORLD. 
 
 Aofain, a-wearied gTowii 
 With hearing Nature's harp discordant strung, 
 I turn aside ; and lo ! the sun rides forth 
 Serene in splendor through unclouded skies, 
 And like a royal lover proudly folds 
 The sorrowing earth in his forgiving arms. 
 Rebukes the angry seas, and woos the winds 
 To rest. With gentle touch he fondly lifts 
 The rose which fell beneath the storm's rough heel. 
 And with a smile he dries the crushing tears 
 Out of the lily's overladen heart. 
 The frailest flower joys at his approach, 
 And lifts its head to meet his kind caress. 
 All hail to thee, supernal king of light, 
 Who thus at once a universe canst sway, 
 And stoop a daisy's little face to kiss ! 
 
 I am sole ruler in my world, and make 
 
 It calm and lovely, terrible and wild, 
 
 To suit my mood. I dwell therein alone, 
 
 Amid the hosts of things inanimate. 
 
 The only animate one, or I do throng 
 
 Its ways with merry feet and joyous hearts, 
 
 And forms all grace and gayety, which float 
 
 Like zephyrs to my arms, and offer me 
 
 The smile of cordial welcome. 
 
 Souls are there, 
 True as eternal truth ; and eyes whose light, 
 Steady as vestal fires, illumes my life. 
 And hearts whose faithful throbbings echoes are 
 Of footsteps which crossed over them to death. 
 
MY WORLD. 41 
 
 The iinforgotten fill fLimillar nooks, 
 
 And still, deep natures, calm as summer lakes, 
 
 Ofler Love's fragile bark safe anchorage. 
 
 There all that's noble In mankind is man's ; 
 
 And woman's womanliest attributes 
 
 Surround her nature like a belt of stars. - 
 
 There sweet-lipped Sympathy takes up the cross 
 
 Of sobbing Sorrow, and her burden shares. 
 
 No serpent there e'er writhes beneath the rose, 
 
 No love forgets — no friendships fade away. 
 
 The good, the true, the beautiful are there ; 
 
 The triune bright, whose mission is to teach 
 
 Earth, after all, is one of heaven's gates. 
 
 I can go hence once more among the wqrld. 
 
 Whose hidden rocks had wellnigh wrecked my trust 
 
 In human kind, with calm, uplifted brow, 
 
 A glad forgetfulness of wrongs, a heart 
 
 Rejoicing to forget and to forgive, 
 
 A spirit schooled to bear. 
 
 Thus do I live, 
 A dweller on the earth, 3'et by the hand 
 Of Thought, that mighty and mysterious Prince 
 Of the fair House of Life, led up above 
 It and its woes to dream my dreams and sing 
 My songs in pensive solitude. 
 
 Whene'er 
 The outer world is cruel unto me. 
 When friends I've loved and trusted changeful grow, 
 Or when misfortune lays her heavy hand 
 Upon my brow, and human pangs press hard 
 
 4«- 
 
42 MT WORLD. 
 
 Against my human heart, I hie me here, 
 
 To this my inner world, and shutting out 
 
 All that. may cold or uncongenial seem, 
 
 I kneel me down, and lifting up my voice 
 
 Broken and full of sobs to Him who rules 
 
 All rulers, I pour out my griefs and lean 
 
 With all my woes on his consoling breast. 
 
 Then doth my world — that world whose stilly shores 
 
 Shut out all earthly bleakness — glow with scenes 
 
 Of sacred beauty, as we see the walls 
 
 Of dim and shadowy cathedrals hung 
 
 With scriptural scenes. A warm and tender light, 
 
 By rosy clouds subdued, illumes my soul ; 
 
 And like an organ touched by reverent hands 
 
 My heart peals anthems ! 
 
 Go ye who have endured 
 The blight of change and sorrow and deceit 
 Which stains the outer world — go build ye up 
 A temple fair, an inner world that teems 
 With all that's pure and true and beautiful ; 
 Where at the foot of its great cross tliy life 
 May kneel and show its wounds, and, healed, arise ! 
 There will ye find a refuge from all ills — 
 A balm for every pain ; in need, enough ; 
 In place of hatred, love ; in place of foes. 
 Friends constant as the stars. So shalt thou find 
 That calm and all transcendent peace which comes 
 Of the surrendering of earthly things 
 To hold unveiled communion with thy God ! 
 And thou wilt find among the silent paths 
 Many a broken altar of thy life, 
 Beside whose ruined columns thou wilt bend, 
 
MT WORLD. 43 
 
 Not mourning or aggrieved to see it thus, 
 But thankful that thou didst not lean too long 
 Upon its weakness. Thou wilt sigh, perhaps. 
 The thistle and the clambering brier to see 
 Where thou hadst planted roses, yet thoult feel 
 That thorns make surer ladders than rose leaves. 
 With which to scale the great eternal gates. 
 
KATY DID. 
 
 YEARS ago a gentle maiden, 
 With a heart of love and truth, 
 And a bosom all unladen 
 
 With the sins of modern youth. 
 Gave her purest, best affection. 
 Without vs^orldly-w^ise reflection. 
 But with hasty heart-selection 
 To one she loved too blindly — 
 Too blindly and too w^ell. 
 
 And the maiden's mien v^^as simple. 
 Like the heart w^ithin her breast — 
 
 Heart w^here Truth had built her temple — 
 Heart where Virtue's wings found rest ; 
 
 Katy was the maiden's name — 
 
 Modest name untouched by shame. 
 
 Till her winsome lover came. 
 
 With young Love's thrilling whisper 
 Beguiling Katy's ear. 
 
 Oh he wooed her and he won her, 
 As have men before and since ; 
 
 Spreading luringly before her 
 All the picture's brightest tints. 
 44 
 
KATT DID. 45 
 
 Life he painted well and fairly, 
 Tempting pencil guiding charily, 
 And when he besought her warily 
 To fly with him, she did, she did. 
 Poor, trusting Katy did. 
 
 Far from home and those who loved her. 
 
 With his promises so fair. 
 He to distant scenes removed her ; 
 
 Then he left her pining there. 
 Other hearts have blindly trusted ; 
 Other love has, cankering, rusted ; 
 But no mortal, woe-encrusted. 
 
 E'er fell a fairer ruin 
 Than hapless Katy did. 
 
 With a woman's adoration 
 
 Katy strove to hide the dart. 
 And with blind infatuation 
 
 Pressed it deeper in her heart ; 
 And with weary feet she wandered. 
 And with aching brow she pondered 
 On the hopes that she had squandered 
 
 For a vision and a falsehood : 
 Katy did, Katy did. 
 
 Back to scenes of early gladness 
 
 Katy's heavy footsteps turned — 
 Love of home, with all her sadness, 
 
 In her bursting heart still burned. 
 But no form sped forth to meet her, 
 No loved lips were oped to greet her — 
 Oh, no human flight is fleeter 
 
^<S KATT DID. 
 
 Than that which flees from maidens 
 Who err as Katy did. 
 
 Man may smile and fawn and flatter — 
 
 Do the wrong so well he can ; 
 Still the world approves, no matter — 
 
 He is man, all-potent man — 
 
 But let woman's step betoken 
 
 That the slightest line is broken 
 
 Of the laws the world has spoken, 
 
 She finds the cold contumely 
 
 That wretched Katy did. 
 
 Years o'er Katy's brow did linger 
 
 Slowly, sadly, one by one — 
 .Time's unerring, tireless finger 
 
 Wrote her race was almost run — 
 When, one night, while stars were shining 
 Midnight's dusky form defining 
 In the moon's pale arms reclining, 
 She saw a sight of wonder — 
 Heart-broken Katy did 
 
 Lingering by the babbling fountain 
 
 Where so often Katy dreamed 
 Of that home beside the mountain 
 
 Where her sun of life first beamed, 
 Katy saw soft tresses flowing 
 Round a figure bright and glowing. 
 While enchantment she seemed throwing 
 About poor Katy ever — 
 Sad, silent, Katy did. 
 
KATT DID. 47 
 
 Katy felt it was a fairy, 
 
 One of those kind-hearted sprites 
 Who are drawn to those a-weary 
 
 Of the world's accursing blights. 
 Then the mystic wand was lifted, 
 And the moonbeams softly drifted 
 O'er the brow of the heart-rifted 
 
 Child of sin and child of sorrow — 
 Woe-stricken Katy did. 
 
 "Mortal," said the fairy being, 
 
 " See, thine earthly task is o'er ! 
 Soon from hence wilt thou be fleeing, 
 
 Where no grief can visit more. 
 From thy grave shall spring a mourner 
 Which, from every leafy corner. 
 Maiden's ear shall seek to w^arn her 
 Of the danger of confiding 
 In man, as Katy did. 
 
 " See, my wand its garb is weaving — 
 Garb of hue which vs^ill not fade. 
 With no gorgeous tints relieving 
 Its translucent emerald shade. 
 When the summer leaves are falling, 
 When the grave seems coldly calling, 
 When all mortal hopes are palling, 
 She'll tell the world what Katy, 
 Misguided Katy did. 
 
 " Dusky hours of autumn cliarming. 
 
 It shall live the leaves among; 
 4* 
 
48 KAT7' DID. 
 
 And the hand that seeks its harm hur 
 
 Shall find silence where was song.* 
 Over all the broad land sweeping, 
 Shall thy mourning band be weeping, 
 Singing while the world is sleeping 
 The cruel wrongs of Katy — 
 Katy did, Katy did." 
 
 As the fairy ceased her speaking, 
 
 Lo ! a change o'er Katy passed, 
 And to earth's emmouldering keeping, 
 
 Sank her weary form at last. 
 Then arose a legion, mourning 
 Shrub and leafy tree adorning. 
 With their voice of mystic warning. 
 
 Monotonously chanting, 
 " Katy did, Katy did." 
 
 When autumnal nights are coming, 
 
 When the drowsy earth is still. 
 Maidens listen for the humming — 
 
 Humming rising o'er the hill. 
 Of the green band swiftly winging 
 To the dewy boughs, where swinging 
 They may chime their choral singing, 
 
 To tell what hapless Katy, 
 Katy did, Katy did. 
 
 * The Katydid becomes silent when the bough or tree is touched 
 on which it chirps its busy song. 
 
BRING ME NO CAPTIVE PETS. 
 
 BRING me no captive pets ! Give back the deer 
 Its native vsrilds and Its forest shade, 
 The coohiess soft of the shadowed glade, 
 The far free hills where Its home Is made. 
 And the flying herd which it misseth here. 
 
 Av, send him forth where waving branches spread 
 Their quivering leaves above his antlered head, 
 Where the fresh streamlet glides to meet the sea ; 
 Bid him go there and feel that he is free ! 
 
 Bring me no captive pets ! Yon prisoned bird 
 Pines for a flight through the fresh free air. 
 The cozy nest with Its mate to share. 
 The bending boughs in the valley fair. 
 
 And the dancing waves, by the zephyrs stirred. 
 Go forth sweet bird, thy fetters are a dream, 
 The lilies bend above thy native stream ; 
 Thy mate, in sadness, walteth there for thee— 
 Go seek her side and tell her thou art free ! 
 
 Bring me no captive pets ! The bright gazelle 
 Weareth, in sorrow, his gilded chain ; 
 He pants for the distant hills again. 
 The heathery down and the spreading plain, 
 
 And the gushing spring of the mountain dell. 
 
 5 D 49 
 
50 BRING ME NO CAPTIVE PETS. 
 
 Unbind his chain ; although its Hnks be bright, 
 Its golden glitter bears a bitter blight ; 
 Forth to the far-off forest bid him flee, 
 With each glad footfell shouting he is free ! 
 
 Bring me no captive pets ! Yon cooing dove 
 Folds in its prison its docile wing 
 A suffering, helpless, lonely thing ; 
 Its mute heart yearning in vain to spring 
 
 Once more to the feathered flocks of its love. 
 Bid.it away ! Bid it go seek the home 
 Where loved ones linger for the loved to come. 
 And may each pulse as it speeds onward be 
 A thrilling throb that whispers it is free ! 
 
 Bring me no captive pets ! The skies above. 
 The stars that watch o'er the bounding seas. 
 The earth with its wealth of bloom and breeze, 
 The birds that sing in the tall green trees, 
 
 Are treasures enough for my heart to love. 
 
 Chains, though they gilded be, still, still are chains ; 
 The lightest shackles will leave cruel stains : 
 Enough is ours ; alas ! why must we see 
 Fetters on aught that God created free? 
 
NOVEMBER. 
 
 AS I sat by my silent hearthstone, alone, 
 Alone, 
 Watching a dying ember, 
 
 I was startled to hear a deep sigh on the gale, 
 And I said. Whence cometh that desolate wail? 
 A voice answered, " Over the lips so pale 
 
 Of November." 
 
 I shuddered that dreary name to hear 
 
 So near ; 
 Closer I drew the ember ; 
 
 Triumphant had Summer till now held her reign- 
 September beneath her bright banner lay slain, 
 October had knelt at her feet on the plain, 
 But ne'er might she hope the victory to gain 
 
 O'er November. 
 
 Through all the dark hours, till night went by, 
 
 Did I 
 That doleful sigh remember ; 
 Lo ! Summer was dead when the gray morning came, 
 
 51 
 
52 NOVEMBER. 
 
 And a voice which I shuddered to know was the same, 
 Said, " I am chief mourner for Summer ; my name 
 
 Is November !" 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh wildly wept Nature over the clay 
 
 Which lay 
 Cold as the brow of December ; 
 And with mournful measure murmured the rills, 
 And over the earth blew the blast that chills, 
 While the old artist, Autumn, out on the hills, 
 
 Painted November ! 
 
 Ah, carefully now have I closed my door ; 
 
 No more 
 Do I muse over an ember ; 
 I watch from my windows with wakeful eyes, 
 For the Season's pale sexton, old Winter, to rise, 
 And in shroud of snow and a coffin of ice. 
 
 Bury November. 
 
FIDELITAS. 
 
 COUCHED on a bloomy bank I lay, 
 Half dreaming, by the lapsing tide ; 
 A form half angel and half fay 
 I saw float downward to my side. 
 
 Her wings ethereal fanned my face, 
 As down she sank upon her knees ; 
 
 Her form, full of a dainty grace, 
 
 Swayed like a blossom in the breeze. 
 
 Her locks, rich in that tint of bronze 
 That's seen in summer's sundown skies. 
 
 Clustered like holy-hearted nuns. 
 To hide her bosom from my eyes. 
 
 Her lips were like a folded bud. 
 And blossomed sweetly into smiles. 
 
 While her blue eyes poured forth a flood 
 Of radiance like twin starry isles. 
 
 Entranced I lay — enraptured gazed — 
 The bloomy bank, the lapsing tide, 
 
 All else forgot, as, half amazed, 
 I watched the wonder at my side. 
 
 5 ''' 53 
 
54 FIDELITAS. 
 
 " Born of the wave art thou ?" I said, 
 
 " Or cam'st thou down from yon bright star 
 Whose ray a shining path has laid 
 O'er twilight's fields to the afar? 
 
 " Or art the fair embodied dream 
 Of some lone poet of the earth, 
 Which, formed to glorify his theme. 
 Has fled the brain that gave it birth ? 
 
 " Or art a prisoned secret fled 
 
 Some heart-cell, while the traitor Sleep, 
 Drunk at the Feast of Dreams, betrayed 
 The sacred charge he had to keep ? 
 
 " Or faithful Love, that on life's march 
 
 Hath wrong and chill and blight withstood ? 
 The jeweled keystone of the arch 
 That spans perfected womanhood ?" 
 
 While yet I spake, she seemed to grow 
 Less and more less in every part, 
 
 Till as she knelt beside me, lo ! 
 
 She was not higher than my heart. 
 
 Then came her voice — a tone between 
 The fall of brook, the note of bird, 
 
 The sweetest thing my ear had e'en 
 In all its listening lifetime heard. 
 
 " I am not aught thou'st named," she said ; 
 " No wanderer from the starry side. 
 No secret from its prison sped. 
 No deathless love personified. 
 
FIDELITAS. 55 
 
 " I am a little foundling Fay — 
 
 The pet of our good Fairy Qtieen — 
 Bathed in a dew-drop every day, 
 
 And lodged at night in tent of green. 
 
 " She found me many a day ago 
 Dying beside a daisy dead, 
 Stretched out beneath a flake of snow 
 That covered me from feet to head. 
 
 " I lived, and kind Titania claims 
 My life-rewards her every care, 
 And when some goodly deed she names, 
 I'm chosen her behest to bear. 
 
 " I carry tears to help dissolve 
 
 The pangs of dry-eyed Misery's pain ; 
 I make the lamps of hope revolve 
 Along the shores of life again. 
 
 " I bear to sleeping babes the smile 
 The youthful mother loves to see ; 
 The broken-hearted I beguile 
 With gleams of golden memory. 
 
 " I speak from empty nooks — from chords 
 Some absent hand has loved to touch ; 
 From withered flowers — forgotten words — 
 The silent things that say so much ! 
 
 " Now here my good queen bids me stray 
 Among the bloom beside the wave, 
 And offer you whate'er you may 
 
 Most, from her store of blessings, crave." 
 
56 FIDELITAS. 
 
 Then, smiling tenderly, she drew 
 
 From out her bosom, ringlet-shaded, 
 
 A little lock of hair, I knew 
 
 My young love's gentle hands had braided 
 
 " Wilt have thy youth ? I stayed its flight, 
 As swifl: it sped toward the vast 
 Unfathomed depths of wrong and right 
 Regretful mortals call the past ! 
 
 " 'Tis thine — its fields all unexplored. 
 
 Its hopes, its dreams ; yet calmly choose 
 Between its doubtful joys restored 
 And the experience thou must lose !" 
 
 I answered : '' Tempt me not — so saith 
 My heart which youth can claim no more 
 
 Till life hath crossed the bridge called death, 
 'Twixt time and the eternal shore !" 
 
 " Youth fades," she said, as down I pressed 
 Upon the braid one burning kiss, 
 
 " And all it leaves as dearest, best. 
 Is oft some trifle such as this ; 
 
 " So take the hair — it may ensure 
 
 Thy heart from some ensoiling stain ; 
 'Tis well to hold some relic pure 
 Of years that come not back again ; 
 
 " And name some gift — is't pride of place. 
 Or wealth's emoluments you crave — 
 Fame, honor, aught that life can grace 
 In its slow journey to the grave ?" 
 
FIDELITAS. 57 
 
 I mused : " Wealth? nay, not that I ask ; 
 
 So often riches make one poor, 
 And life beneath wealth's golden mask 
 
 Goes begging love from door to door. 
 
 " Honors and fame? Nay, 'twere to see 
 Hatreds grow thick about my feet, 
 And crops of baleful jealousy 
 Make all existence a defeat." 
 
 She said, "Take then prolonged years, 
 
 Beyond life's ordinary span, 
 With all the ease that old age cheers 
 
 And homage from thy fellow-man. 
 
 " Thine aged steps I'll shield from strife, 
 Vexatious troubles keep at bay — 
 Those petty ills that peck at life 
 As hungry jackdaws peck at prey." 
 
 " Nay ! past the verge of usefulness 
 
 What verdure can existence crown ? 
 Whilst living I may others bless — 
 Not longer would I linger on. 
 
 " Nor do I tremble as I note 
 
 The parting of life's slender thread ; 
 We are but candles Death snuffs out 
 When it is time to go to bed. 
 
 " And what though round us may be cast 
 That care with tenderest kindness rife, 
 Despite it all, we die at last 
 
 Of that most strange disease called Life. 
 
SS FIDELITAS. 
 
 " So none of these ; and since my birth 
 Passed by of fairy gift denied, 
 I claim not for my days on earth 
 Aught for my vanity or pride. 
 
 " Yet, since to give, 'tis granted thee 
 
 Aught knov^n to earthly nomenclature, 
 One boon I ask — restore to me 
 My olden faith in human nature. 
 
 " Root from my heart its growth of rue, 
 Let simple trust my spirit cheer ; 
 Let me believe all love is true, 
 
 And every new^-found friend sincere." 
 
 " Rash mortal !" so the fairy said — 
 " It is thy ruin thou'dst invoke ;" 
 Then, as in grief, she bent her head, 
 And seemed to vanish — I av\^oke. 
 
SUNRISE. 
 
 A TINT of red in the far east — a gleam 
 Of gold upon the hills ! Upon the sea 
 A rosy tinge, as if the soft waves blushed 
 At their oft-whispered farewells to the night. 
 From gorge, and glen, and cool green valley floats 
 A pearly mist — earth's grateful incense sent 
 Upward to Him who said, " Let there be light." 
 
 Down in the rose's ruby heart, and deep 
 In the pure lily's chalice lies the dew — 
 That holy water gathered by the hand 
 Of Nature to baptize the new-born day. 
 
 The balmy groves quiver with tuneful life, 
 
 The silent blossoms bend in fragrant prayer. 
 
 Earth slowly smiles, and through the mists which 
 
 veiled 
 Her star-watched slumbers, lifts her face like one 
 Who, half reluctant, wakes from dewy dreams, 
 And scatters from her hesitating brow 
 The rosy crov^'n of sleep. 
 
 59 
 
6o SUNRISE. 
 
 Lo ! in the east 
 Now gleam the golden lances of the hours ; 
 Gently they put aside Night's sable veil ; 
 The expectant skies glow with a deeper flush ; 
 The waiting waters throb like welcoming hearts : 
 The monarch comes ; earth shouts, the darkness flies, 
 And Dawn lies fainting in the arms of Day. 
 
GOD BLESS YOU! 
 AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO A. H. S. 
 
 GOD bless you — in three words a prayer, 
 Exalted, fond, devout, sincere — 
 With health and strength 
 And days of length, 
 With joys of youth. 
 With lips of truth. 
 With heart that nobly beats to do 
 As you'd have others do to you, 
 God bless you ! 
 
 God bless you on the land or sea. 
 Where'er a wanderer you may be — 
 With days of peace. 
 With wealth's increase ; 
 
 With life that shames 
 
 Degenerate aims ; 
 With heart kept holy in His sight. 
 With hand that's brave to do the right — 
 
 God bless you ! 
 f» 61 
 
GOD BLESS rOUl 
 
 God bless you, as your life descends 
 Time's hillsides steep, with faithful friends 
 With lot well cast, 
 With faith steadfast ; 
 With will to bless 
 Those favored less ; 
 With strength to reach yon realm of bliss- 
 Better and brighter far than this — 
 God bless you ! 
 
MALVINA. 
 
 I NEVER cross the well-known portal 
 Where erst thy glance of love met mine 
 But winging back from spheres immortal, 
 Thy radiant young face seems to shine. 
 
 I seem to hear thy voice in greeting, 
 To feel thy soft hand clasping mine ; 
 
 I seem to hear thy lips repeating 
 
 The welcomes of the old " lang syne." 
 
 Thy books still keep their olden places. 
 The flowers that loved thy girlish care 
 
 Toward the sunlight lift their faces, 
 And seem to ask if thou art there. 
 
 There are thy dainty vase and volume. 
 Thy favorite nook and vacant chair ; 
 
 Thy bird-cage by the ivied column. 
 The pathway to thy place of prayer ! 
 
 Each toy thy girlish fancy treasured 
 
 For thy dear sake is cherished still ; 
 And though the tomb thy form hath measured, 
 . Thy hallowed home it yet doth fill. 
 
 63 
 
64 AIALVIJVA. 
 
 Thy voice in every room seems ringing, 
 
 Thy footsteps echo in each hall, 
 And thine ow^n smile to life seems springing 
 
 Forth from thy portrait on the w^all. 
 
 Call ye this death ? Nay ; though thy brightness 
 
 Lost may be, and beauty fled. 
 Though hushed thy young heart's happy lightness, 
 
 And dumb thy lips, thou art not dead ! 
 
 Thou art not dead ; nay, though the preacher 
 
 " Dust unto dust," so truly saith. 
 There is a higher, holier Teacher 
 
 Saying, " Tis slumber and not death." 
 
THE BABY. 
 
 SHE is the blithest, brightest bird, 
 The sweetest, winsomest Httle fay, 
 That e'er a loveless bosom stirred 
 To own aflection's potent sway. 
 
 Her locks are sunshine softly curled 
 Above a brow they love to kiss ; 
 
 Her eyes, twin stars from other w^orld, 
 Wandering in wonder over this. 
 
 Her cheeks are ruddy, sweet and fair, 
 Where dimples play at hide-and-seek ; 
 
 Her lips bright shores of gladness, where 
 Rejoicing waves of laughter break. 
 
 For home she's one continual song— 
 
 A sunny dispellant of care ; 
 A star, a joy where troubles throng ; 
 To earth a heaven — to heaven a prayer. 
 6 « E 65 
 
TO AN OLD PORTFOLIO. 
 
 TO-DAY I broke the clasp — the key was gone — 
 Lost years ago, with hopes and pleasures known ; 
 When friendships sat so thickly on life's brim 
 I thought to miss none that o'erflowed the rim ; 
 When glowed the wine and foamed life's ruddy cup, 
 'Twas then I locked this old portfolio up. 
 
 To-day I opened it — 'twas like the gloom 
 
 Which bursts from out the long-unopened tomb, 
 
 Where dust and ashes but remain to tell 
 
 That here we wept o'er what we loved too well : 
 
 Relics of dead or dear ones living yet — 
 
 Of friends forgot, or whom we would forget. 
 
 Here were old letters stained and dim with age. 
 Some marked with teardrops upon every page ; 
 Some gay and graceful as wood-flowers in June, 
 Some dark with clouds which gathered ere life's noon. 
 All breathe of loves which on youth's altar lay — 
 All tell of loves for ever passed away. 
 
 Here were sweet songs — friendship's devoted lays, 
 Ringing reminders of departed days, 
 66 
 
TO AN OLD PORTFOLIO. 67 
 
 Stilled are the hearts that to their music beat, 
 Silent the tones that chimed their cadence sweet: 
 The earnest souls that tuned them with the just, 
 The loving lips that sang them turned to dust ! 
 
 Here are some flowers tied up with ribbons blue, 
 
 The roses withered, ribbons mouldering too ; 
 
 And at my touch they crumbled into dust. 
 
 Like earthly hopes wherein we've placed our trust. 
 
 There was no record of the giver's name. 
 
 And treacherous memory told not whence they came. 
 
 Friendships and flowers and hopes of early days. 
 All, all have faded from my yearning gaze ! 
 In vain I weep, deplore them — all in vain ; 
 The Past yields up our loved ones not again. 
 Of mine there's but a memory and a tear, 
 Or links, such as this old portfolio here. 
 
 Alone I'm left to turn these treasures o'er. 
 Pieces of wreck cast up on Time's cold shore — 
 Hopes that sailed in them, joys that bounded on. 
 Lie buried in the ocean of Bygone. 
 Of all that formed the young and joyous train. 
 My blighted heart and hopes alone remain. 
 
 Who will he be that in some time to come, 
 When this poor heart and these my lips are dumb, 
 Will sit him down o'er pages I have writ. 
 By lamps of love my burning brain hath lit. 
 To read my records, mixed with memory's lees. 
 And feel o'er them what I now feel o'er these? 
 
SOMEBODY. 
 
 A LITTLE bit of mystery I try to solve in vain — 
 Like some tormenting problem again and yet 
 again ; 
 In day-time and in night-time doth its hidden meaning 
 
 vex me, 
 Compelling me to love the more the more it doth per- 
 plex me. 
 
 Entranced I hear my startled heart beat out its quick 
 
 alarms, 
 Swift v^ould I fly — each avenue is sentried by her 
 
 charms ; 
 Like some enchanted circle, round my daily path they 
 
 spread ; 
 Across the mystic brink of flowers I, do not seek to 
 
 tread. 
 
 With smiles for me and frowns for me, beguiling and 
 
 misleading — 
 Sad for to-day, to-morrow gay, advancing and receding : 
 Olden story ne'er embodied more bewitching, 'wildering 
 
 doubt — 
 No name I give the mystery ; dear reader, find it out. 
 
 fiS 
 
A MEMORY. 
 
 SOFTLY o'er my senses stealing, 
 Gliding like deep waves of feeling 
 O'er my soul, 
 Comes a dream that sparkles brightly 
 As the tears that tinkle lightly 
 Where they roll. 
 
 Long ago, when I was roving 
 With a heart attuned to loving 
 
 Faithfully, 
 Ere I knew the stain that sweepeth 
 Over souls the wide world keepeth 
 
 Chained yet free — 
 
 I beheld a lovely maiden. 
 With a spirit lightly laden, 
 
 Full of joy : 
 In her cheeks bright blushes tingling. 
 With her mirth a music mingling, 
 
 Sans alloy. 
 
 Hers a brow like summer morning, 
 With the floating clouds adorning 
 
 69 
 
7o A MEMORY. 
 
 Its sweet light ; 
 Hers the glances like the gleaming 
 Of the early sunshine, beaming 
 Mildly bright. 
 
 Hers the lips like dewy roses, 
 When the shade of evening closes 
 
 Daylight's doors ; 
 Hers a breath like fragrant clover. 
 When the summer winds sweep over 
 
 Balmy moors. 
 
 Hers a cheek carnation-tinted. 
 And with dazzling dimples dinted ; 
 
 While a smile 
 Round her rosy mouth was playing, 
 Peeping through the ringlets straying, 
 
 All the while. 
 
 Oh, I loved her with a madness 
 Which my nature's truest gladness 
 
 Has undone ! 
 Trustingly my heart believed her, 
 Never word or deed deceived her — 
 
 Never one. 
 
 Youth flew forward, fondly dreaming ; 
 True was every outward seeming. 
 
 Till one day 
 Sorrow his light course arrested. 
 Met him boldly and broad-breasted 
 On his way. 
 
A MEMORY. 71 
 
 Then I learned, all broken-hearted,. 
 That the glorious links were parted 
 
 Of our love ; 
 And I strove with bitter sadness 
 To forget my fleeted gladness — 
 
 Madly strove. 
 
 Years have passed since last I met her — 
 Passed in striving to forget her, 
 
 All in vain. 
 Even now I would believe her, 
 And with welcoming arms receive her 
 
 Once again. 
 
 Oh when once we yield to loving, 
 To that power so sweetly moving, 
 
 And so strange. 
 We may woo the world's caressing. 
 We may win its worthless blessing, 
 
 But not change ; 
 
 For when once the chain has bound us. 
 When for once those links are round us, 
 
 We in vain 
 May the fetters seek to sever ; 
 They will fester there for ever 
 
 In sweet pain. 
 
LINES TO CORA 
 
 THEY will never come back, the bright beautiful 
 days, 
 The gladdening days of the glorious spring 
 With its blossoming crocus and jessamine sjDrays 
 
 And its verdure that comes o'er the land like a 
 king ; 
 They are fleeing for ever ; the freshness and bloom 
 Of these sun-lighted days of the years of thy life. 
 Like dreams dreamt on pillows of precious perfume 
 They fade ere thou knowest with what glory they're 
 rife. 
 
 But say you the summer is coming anon, 
 
 Its gardens all flush with ripe beauty and splendor, 
 With its harmonies grander than those that are gone, 
 
 With its sunshine more brilliant, its shadows more 
 tender ? 
 Dost thou say that its voices are richer in meaning, 
 
 The fruit that is mellow more luscious than bloom. 
 The harvest that's golden and ripe for the gleaning 
 
 Worth all of the spring's evanescent perfume? 
 72 
 
LINES TO CORA. 73 
 
 Ah ! love — 'tis the seed sown In spring-time that grows 
 
 To spangle with blossoms the summer's green glade ; 
 'Tis the sapling of spring whose maturity throws 
 
 Over summer's hot pulses the cool cloak of shade ; 
 And the harvest that's golden, the fruit that is red, 
 
 And the gushes of song on the summer day's track, 
 Are the precious results of a spring that has sped, 
 
 Which will never come back — which will never come 
 back. 
 
 Say'st thou autumn will come when the summer is 
 gone. 
 
 With the purple and gold that embroider its glory. 
 And the song of the vintager greeting the dawn, 
 
 While with blood of the grape the winepress is gory ? 
 Dost thou say that the full-handed autumn can tender 
 
 Such riches as spring-time nor summer e'er knew. 
 While the gorgeous skies and the forests of splendor 
 
 Are rarer than roses and richer than dew ? 
 
 Remember that spring and its sunny caress. 
 
 Its welcoming warmth and its fostering mould, 
 Is the source of all this that thy autumn can bless. 
 
 Its clusters of purple, its harvests of gold ! 
 For the stalk yielding grain and the grape yielding wine, 
 
 And the fruit-laden orchards old autumn must lack. 
 Were it not for the tendrils of spring's early vine 
 
 And the seeds of a season that never comes back. 
 
 Then gather now, darling, the delicate bloom 
 Of the crocus and jasmine and clambering rose ; 
 
 Extract from their petals the precious perfume. 
 Thy life to embalm as it draws to a close ; 
 
 7 
 
74 LINES TO CORA. 
 
 Scatter seeds while the days of thy years are but few, 
 Broadcast upon intellect's nourishing mould, 
 
 That the sunshine of youth and its fostering dew 
 May yield thee a harvest of beauty untold. 
 
 For the spring-time of youth quickly fadeth away 
 
 And the swift summers perish on time's sterile shore ; 
 All the autumn's rich glory fast falls to decay 
 
 And winter's chill hillsides are ours — nothing more. 
 But if in the seed-time thou'st planted aright, 
 
 For each season of life shall some blessing arise, 
 Till the Spring-time Eternal shall bloom on thy sight. 
 
 And thy wandering feet roam the star-sprinkled 
 skies. 
 
THE SLAUGHTERED CRANE. 
 
 TWAS summer, and the noonday sun shone down 
 With burning fervor on the land and sea ; 
 The wandering winds had sung themselves to sleep, 
 And hid their folded pinions in the haunts 
 Which no man knows. The clouds lay furled away 
 Like useless sails upon a bark becalmed ; 
 And not a shadow crossed the blazing sky, 
 Which spread itself unbrokenly away. 
 One boundless breadth, monotonously blue. 
 There was no hum of life in grassy depths. 
 The cheery chirr of grasshopper was hushed, 
 The butterfly hung idle on the rose, 
 And insects slumbered in the sleepy flowers. 
 The pasturing herds their fragrant food resigned. 
 And sought the sluggish pools or cooling shade. 
 While woolly flocks laid down their fleecy forms 
 In drowsy rest beneath widespreading trees. 
 There was a weighty silence in the air — 
 A hush that awed, a quiet that oppressed. 
 Not even a steepled bell swung out its tones 
 To break the stillness of the Sabbath noon ; 
 And Nature, like the olden Magi, bowed 
 In prostrate worship to her god, the sun. 
 
 75 
 
76 THE SLAUGHTERED CRANE. 
 
 Parching with thirst, a scorned and lonely bird 
 
 Deep in the forest shadows songless sat. 
 
 No gentle gale his burning bosom cooled, 
 
 No scented breeze beguiled his idle wings. 
 
 The very denseness of the leafy shade 
 
 Shut out the air for which he drooped and pined. 
 
 He stretched his slender neck and gazed abroad : 
 
 He saw bright fields of grain and glassy streams, 
 
 The spicy swamp, the clover-sprinkled plain, 
 
 And, tempted by their peaceful loveliness. 
 
 He poised himself, then flapped his heavy wings. 
 
 And rising lazily upon the air. 
 
 Soared from the wooded depths away, away. 
 
 His flight was far, and for his wearied wing 
 
 He sought at last some quiet resting-place. 
 
 An elm stood near which reared its branches high 
 
 And o'er the stream which slumbered at its base 
 
 Cast a refreshing shade. With one swift swoop 
 
 He sank among the thick inviting leaves, 
 
 And folded there his wrings. The uncouth bird. 
 
 With harsh, discordant note and plumage dull. 
 
 In his own ugliness secured from harm. 
 
 Contented felt, and with confiding trust 
 
 Stroked his coarse plumes, or plucked with busy 
 
 beak 
 His ruffled pinions, while with yearning note 
 He wooed his mate to follow him. 
 
 Alas ! 
 Is earth so full of guilt there is no room 
 For innocence to sleep unguarded there? 
 Is Wrong so ready and is Might so strong 
 That Peace must always rest upon her arms? 
 
THE SLAUGHTERED CRANE. 77 
 
 A shadow, human in its shape, swept o'er 
 The steely mirror of the silent stream ; 
 A cautious step crept o'er the burning sand, 
 A searching eye the lonely bird descried ; 
 Then, swift as thought, the deadly rifle ball 
 Sped through the Sabbath sunshine to its grave 
 In that poor heart ! 
 
 With one wild cry of woe, 
 Which seemed to call on Heaven to note the deed, 
 The doomed bird fluttered to the ground and died I 
 With trembling wing back to the distant wood 
 Swift sped his widowed mate. The wild green hills, 
 Her only sympathizers, sent her cries 
 Re-echoed from their hardy hearts, while far, 
 Through dark ravines and caverns cold, where clung 
 The deadly nightshade and the hissing snake, 
 The rattling echo of the merciless shot 
 Crept, like a murderer, away and hid ! 
 
 " Ye shall no murder do" — " Thou shalt not kill !" 
 Tell us, ye angels who the records keep 
 Of right and wrong, the meaning of these words? 
 Is not life, life ? Are brain and heart-throb, love. 
 Ambition, hope, grief's weight and joy's keen thrill, 
 Not life in creatures dumb, but life in kings? 
 If to take life be not to kill, then why 
 To slaughter tyrants is it to murder do ? 
 Vouchsafe, ye guardians who the secrets hold 
 Of heaven and earth in your mysterious hands. 
 To once define that undiscovered line 
 Where righteous justice ends and crime begins. 
 7* 
 
78 THE SLAUGHTERED CRANE. 
 
 What worth was that dead bird to him who drew 
 
 The red blood from its palpitating heart ? 
 
 What prize in those gray shattered pinions lay? 
 
 What gain that blood-stained beak which bit the dust 
 
 To him who laid it low? No hungered lips 
 
 Had plead for feathered prey ; no famished frame 
 
 Could feed its human life on this foul flesh ; 
 
 No victim science claimed like this : the shelves 
 
 Of curious cabinets would but have scorned 
 
 To add to far-found treasures such a thing ! 
 
 The very food which gave its homely form 
 
 Fuel to keep alive its vital flame, 
 
 From wormy wood or miry morass plucked, 
 
 Made it a worthless offering to lay 
 
 Upon the dainty shrine of appetite. 
 
 If justice sees in cruelty no crime, 
 
 Then be destruction's wanton heel unbruised ! 
 
 Why take away with thoughtless stroke the life 
 Thou canst not give again ? If 'tis thy right 
 To kill, 'tis easily done ; but though thy hand 
 May mountains move and valleys turn to hills. 
 Or shackle seas or bridge a universe. 
 Thou canst not life bestow upon a worm. 
 Though humble be the harmless thing that crawls 
 Confiding to thy feet, why crush it out? 
 Because its state seems lowly in thy sight 
 Or its existence worthless, must it die ? 
 'Tis not for us to know its mission here. 
 The tiniest insect in its cell remote 
 Fulfills its purpose in the wondrous chain 
 God forged at the creation. Not a heart 
 Which beats but has its throbbings linked within 
 
THE SLAUGHTERED CRANE. 79 
 
 Some other heart, and has, perchance, a home 
 As sacred to its wordless loves as shrines 
 By man held dear. By thine own altars then, 
 By all those ties to thee the tenderest. 
 Beware what thou dost render desolate ! 
 Pause ere thou lay'st a finger on a pulse 
 To still its throbs ! Withdraw thy hand In awe 
 Lest thou, in killing wantonly, should steal 
 Thy Maker's treasures ; for the breath of life 
 The hand and seal of God the Father is. 
 
THE ORGAN-GRINDER. 
 
 AWEARY man he sought my door- 
 A worn old man, ill-clad and poor 
 Who on his bending shoulders bore 
 
 The means of his subsistence. 
 An organ, old and quavering, 
 Like him who raised his voice to sing, 
 Accordant with the jarring thing 
 Which earned him his existence. _ 
 
 / 
 
 An aged man, with locks all white 
 As snow on lofty Alpine height. 
 And features covered with the blight 
 
 Of time and crushing sadness : 
 With feeble steps he came alone. 
 And cast his heavy burden down. 
 Then begged me, in his flattering tone, 
 
 " Be gracious in thy gladness." 
 
 I gave him there to drink and eat ; 
 Then rising from his lowly seat. 
 With heavy foot the time he beat 
 And tuned his voice for singing ; 
 
 80 
 
THE ORGAN-GRINDER. 8i 
 
 Far through the vacant village street 
 His untrained voice rang w^ild and sweet, 
 While every cadence seemed replete 
 With memories it w^as bringing. 
 
 For, as he sang, the trickling tears 
 Coursed through the wrinkles of his years — 
 Heart rain that swept the silent biers 
 
 Of long-departed pleasures ; 
 And still he sang with trembling tone 
 Of friends he'd loved and joys he'd known, 
 There in the twilight dim, alone. 
 
 In soft and mournful measures. 
 
 He sang of one sequestered spot 
 Across the sea, where stood the cot 
 Where first, in childhood's hour, he sought 
 
 A mother's fond caressing ; 
 He told how shattered fortunes led 
 His steps afar to earn his bread ; 
 And as he paused I bent my head 
 
 And craved the old man's blessing. 
 
 For age and sorrow and white hair 
 Ennobling toil and chastening care. 
 The bishop's gown and mitre are 
 
 Upon God's broken-hearted. 
 Humbly his benediction fell. 
 Then came a faltering farewell, 
 Lost in the peals of vesper bell — 
 
 The minstrel had departed. 
 F 
 
TO BABY LILY 
 
 GO bring me of blossoms the brightest and best, 
 Those jewels of Nature that grow on her breast ; 
 Bring bird-songs of warblers that flash through the 
 
 groves 
 Where the first of all lovers repeated their loves ; 
 Bring voices of billows in joyous commotion ; 
 The purest of pearls from the gem-beds of ocean : 
 Bring all that is rarest and fairest to lay 
 At the feet of the Lily that blossomed in May. 
 
 II. 
 
 Go bring me, of spring-time, her daintiest breath ; 
 Imprison the dewdrops that jewel the heath ; 
 Go gather ye here from earth's loftiest height. 
 Still gilded with star-beams, morn's earliest light ; 
 Go bring from eternity's threshold a beam 
 Of unquenchable radiance ever to gleam 
 On the wandering footsteps, wherever they stray, 
 Of Lily, our Lily, that blossomed in May. 
 82 
 
TO BABT LILT. 83 
 
 III. 
 
 Bring hither some tankard unbought and unsold, 
 More shining than silver and purer than gold, 
 Whose wave-polished brim no mortal hath tasted, 
 Whose contents divine no rude hand hath wasted ; 
 Scooped out from some shell of the cavernous deep, 
 In the brightest of crystal its rosy rim steep ; 
 Let heaven's best beam on the bright waters play, 
 And we'll drink to the Lily that blossomed in May. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Go bring me bright dreams for an innocent pillow, 
 Faith steadfast and strong for life's dangerous billow ; 
 Bring trust in the Highest through surges of sorrow ; 
 Bring strength for to-day and sweet hope for to- 
 morrow ; 
 A vigilant soul, while the tender heart dreams 
 By youth's starry meadows and sunshiny streams : 
 Bring every best blessing to lovingly lay 
 On the brow of our Lily that blossomed in May. 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 Fancy. 
 
 HARK to those footsteps in the hall, 
 That step upon the stair ! 
 Heard ye that hand against the wall ? 
 The shriek that echoed there ? 
 
 Fact. 
 
 'Twas but the wind that crept between 
 
 The crevices and cracks ; 
 The ghost has never yet been seen 
 
 That faced the fire of facts. 
 
 Fancy. 
 
 Nay, nay ; 'twas not the wind. Behold 
 
 The door-knob slowly turns ! 
 Perhaps some spirit sad and cold 
 
 For this bright fireside yearns. 
 And list ! upon the outer door 
 
 Didst hear that heavy knock ? 
 The old house shook from floor to floor 
 
 In answer to the shock. 
 
 84 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 85 
 
 Fact. 
 
 Nonsense ! Imagination's hand 
 
 Alone the latch did lift ; 
 Reason and sense both laughing stand, 
 
 Such idle whims to sift. 
 The knock upon the outer door 
 
 Was some lone cartwheel's jar, 
 Or watchman's rattle ; nothing more 
 
 Than all such knockings are. 
 
 • Fancy. 
 
 Tell me not so — night after night, 
 
 Up, up the winding stair. 
 With flickering lamjD and robe all white, 
 
 And wild, disheveled hair, 
 I see a pallid figure wind 
 
 With silent step and slow. 
 With withered roses loosely twined 
 
 About her brow of snow. 
 
 Fact. 
 
 Some solid supper tells that tale 
 
 Eaten 'twixt twelve and one — 
 Some wretched pickle steeped in ale 
 
 Or roastbeef over done. 
 These are the spades that dig men's graves — 
 
 Such hands our death-bells ring — 
 Oh souls are body's veriest slaves 
 
 Where apj^etite is king ! 
 
 8 
 
^6 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 Fancy. 
 
 Nay, trust me, 'tis a haunted house 
 
 In which I've come to dwell ; 
 No wind, no pickle, mug or mouse 
 
 So dire a tale could tell. 
 From cellar damp to garret high, 
 
 All through the night hours lone, 
 Strange footsteps foil, strange voices sigh, 
 
 Or sob, or shriek, or groan ! 
 
 Fact. 
 
 A haunted stomach, mark me well, 
 
 Holds all the ghosts you see : 
 Oysters and wines thrown in pell-mell 
 
 With coffee and with tea. 
 Up, down through dim intestinal hall 
 
 Some turkey's leg may stalk. 
 And wonder where in distant thrall 
 
 Its lonely mate doth walk. 
 
 Some partridge, too, all marred and pale 
 
 May make its wretched way 
 Through cabbage and cucumbers stale, 
 
 Which seem inclined to stay. 
 And vinegar, well spiced and sour. 
 
 Shudders to stand between 
 The milk-punch of the last half hour 
 
 And custard made of cream. 
 
 Hence springs your sprite with troubled hair, 
 Your demons grim and gray ; 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. S^ 
 
 The gibbering ghosts which grin and glare, 
 
 And which no priest can la}-. 
 Nay, P'ancy, prythee do not speak ; 
 
 Thy rein must now be slacked ; 
 Thou may'st not lay thy dainty cheek 
 
 'Gainst the rough beard of Fact. 
 
TO MY SISTER. 
 
 MISvS me sometimes ! There'll be a vacant place, 
 My own sweet sister, where so long I've been ; 
 There'll be an empty chair, another face 
 
 By thy fond side where I've so oft been seen. 
 In the long coming years may memory's chimes 
 Ring up kind thoughts of me. Miss me sometimes ! 
 
 Miss me sometimes ! When mirth and music reign 
 Throughout these scenes which I have loved so 
 well! 
 
 Oh miss me then ! for never here again 
 
 With the clear chorus will my glad voice swell. 
 
 My footsteps then will roam in other climes, 
 
 Far from this cherished spot. Miss me sometimes ! 
 
 Miss me sometimes, and fondly love me still ; 
 
 My heart, like mountain summit bleak and bare. 
 Can bravely front the stormy clouds that chill 
 
 If far beyond the gloom, undimmed and fair, 
 I know thy star of love unclouded climbs 
 To shine on me as now. Miss me sometimes ! 
 
 88 
 
TO MT SISTER. 89 
 
 ]My eager soul has dreamed — ay, madly dreamed — 
 Of honors and the glory that fame brings ; 
 
 But it has found life is not what it seemed, 
 And honor, fame, unsatisfying things. 
 
 Between the leaves of my young life lie pressed. 
 
 Like withered flowers, the hopes it treasured best. 
 
 My aspirations long since died ; this brow 
 
 'Neath Disappointment's bitter sting still smarts ; 
 
 And all the monuments I ask for now 
 
 Are monuments of love in human hearts. 
 
 Oh rear, sweet sister, in thy heart for me 
 
 Something like this to live eternally. 
 
 And now farewell ! Oh may our Father's hand 
 Brighten thy path with every kindly gift ; 
 
 And angel guardians in the starry land 
 From thy fair brow untimely sorrows lift. 
 
 Farewell, farev^^ell ; ah ! sister mine, when chimes 
 
 Memory's vesper, miss me thou wilt sometimes. 
 
 8* 
 
WAITING. 
 
 DREARILY burns the fire in the grate ; 
 The wind is high and the hour is late, 
 But, lovingly here I sit and wait 
 For a step I long to hear. 
 
 The night is cold and the wind is high, 
 But the moon is full and round in the sky, 
 Lighting the path which my love comes by 
 My desolate heart to cheer. 
 
 The air is chill and the stars are few. 
 On yonder plains of infinite blue. 
 While I wait for the lover fond and true 
 Who is coming by and by. 
 
 Swift clouds are hurrying over the night, 
 But what care I for the threatening sight? 
 Though the moon be dark, the eye is bright 
 Which is coming by and by. 
 
 Though thunders roll, upon his breast 
 My head shall sink in happy rest. 
 Like a birdling's, hid in quiet nest 
 
 From the storm-king's angry eye. 
 
 90 
 
MY GRANDSIRE'S WATCH. 
 
 A TIMEPIECE old, yet worn and weary never, 
 It hangs, a relic, by the bed-room door ; 
 With ceaseless ticking thus it sayeth ever : 
 " Years fourscore and more 
 I've told time's steady, steady progress o'er." 
 
 I saw it first when for my childhood's pleasure 
 
 My grandsire held it to my wondering ear. 
 And bade me listen while its busy measure 
 Said to me pleasantly, 
 "Merry, merry hours I'm marking for thee here." 
 
 The good man died ; still the old watch kept ticking, 
 
 And as they hung it by the bedroom door 
 I lingered there to hear its ceaseless clicking 
 
 Saying o'er, " Years fourscore 
 
 Have borne him hence for ever, ever more." 
 
 I listened to it as my own years hastened 
 
 To mingle with the memories of the past. 
 And even then my yearning heart was chastened 
 To hear it say, " Hastening away 
 Is youth's bright morn whose sunshine cannot last !" 
 
 91 
 
92 MT GRANDSIRE'S WATCH. 
 
 In that same spot, when my full heart was darkened 
 By heavy clouds of changeful after-years, 
 
 With stricken soul to its clear voice I hearkened — 
 " Hopes and fears, births and biers : 
 Such is this life — a scene of smiles and tears." 
 
 And when my best of earthly hopes were scattered, 
 And graveyard gloom hid those I held most dear, 
 
 I turned, with all my fondest heart-ties shattered, ' 
 To hear that voice saying, '' Rejoice, 
 Thine own time cometh — nausfht is eternal here." 
 
UMBR^, 
 
 TICK, tick, so the pulse of Time 
 In its solemn monotony throbs ; 
 And away on the hills with a woe that chills, 
 The dying storm-blast sobs and sobs, 
 Like the heart of penitent crime. 
 
 The winds rush over the moor 
 
 Like steeds that have never been tamed. 
 And through years to-night of mildew and blight, 
 
 Raps, raps at my heart's closed door, 
 A love that has never been named. 
 
 III. 
 
 I gaze at the starlit sky. 
 
 That bewildering poem of God, 
 And my heart keeps time to a sweet old rhyme, 
 
 Learned 'mid the asters and golden-rod 
 Of an autumn long gone by. 
 
 93 
 
94 UMBR^^. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Out of the wreck of my life, 
 
 Floats up a young face that is fair — 
 Young and transgressing and unconfessing : 
 I see it floating, floating there, 
 Amid the billowy strife. 
 
 V. 
 
 Life was a dream when we met, 
 Luxurious, balmy and bright ; 
 She wandered away ere yet the full day 
 
 Had taught me man's most ennobling right 
 Is to forgive and forget. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I buried her out of sight, 
 
 'Neath the sods of my passing years ; 
 And rolled a stone 'gainst the sepulchre lone. 
 
 Where, shrouded in manhood's manliest tears. 
 My love lay cold and white. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But oft and again as now 
 
 That love which I never have named 
 From the past will come with its young heart dumb, 
 And the red, red lips which never blamed 
 
 Seem lingering on my brow ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Who looketh not back sometimes 
 
 Through the valley of vanished years, 
 Nor longs for the power, for one short hour. 
 
UMBRyS. 95 
 
 To efllice some step, to dry some tears, 
 Some requiems change to chimes? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Could I but beckon her back, 
 
 Could she see me owning the shame 
 That sent her adrift with no one to lift 
 
 The dust from her tarnished name. 
 
 The stones from her young life's track ; 
 
 X. 
 
 Then, then to its life of woe. 
 
 Could I yield my desolate heart, 
 And welcome the stroke that another's broke 
 When the fiat went forth for us to part 
 
 In that autumn long ago ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Shame on my wretched pride, 
 
 Shame on my cowardly soul, 
 Which so feared the world it madly hurled 
 A woman out on its dangerous shoal. 
 
 Nor knew if she lived or died. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet gazing on yonder sky, 
 
 That mystical poem of God, 
 I seem to behold, through the gates of gold. 
 My lost one laying her grievous load 
 
 At the feet of Christ on high. 
 
GERTRUDE. 
 
 GERTRUDE ! A few brief weeks ago, how linked 
 With joy this name ! It was in mirthful hours 
 A melody — sunshine in clouded moods, 
 In saddened hours a prayer. " Gertrude," we cried, 
 And she we loved came flying to our arms 
 On friendship's wings, and laid her hands in ours, 
 And gave us smiles and gentle words, and stood 
 Beside the weary sufferer's couch of pain. 
 Like some mild star whose gentle radiance beams 
 On evening's cloud. 
 
 Her daily deeds were like 
 The flowers which children scatter in the path 
 Of brides — so pure, so fresh ; and where there grew 
 A thorn, she meekly kept it for herself 
 And gave the rose away ! 
 
 As pilgrims seek 
 Some consecrated shrine, so came the poor 
 To her, and poured their sorrows at her feet — 
 With ready hand she ministered to want 
 While her young lips did feed the hungry heart. 
 And clothe the naked, trembling soul with God's 
 Blest promises. 
 
GERTRUDE. 97 
 
 And little ones — those gems 
 Which Jesus scatters from his crown for us 
 To gather and replace therein — whose hearts 
 Beat so much nearer heaven than our own- 
 Lavished their spodess love, as if they saw 
 And recognized in her the shining face 
 Of one but straying here from Paradise. 
 A goodly thing it is to know of one 
 That little children loved her. 
 
 Alas ! for us, 
 Death came ! Death, the pale sculptor ! Pitiless, 
 He pressed the lips, and they were ice ; he touched 
 The brow, and it was marble ; laid his hand 
 Upon the heart, and it was still for aye. 
 The friend we loved, our fairest and our best, 
 He saw and chilled into a statue. 
 
 '' Gertrude !" 
 No more to us a name ! A monument 
 Erected in our hearts, it stands for all 
 That's purest, brightest, best. Around its base 
 Memories cluster like forget-me-nots, 
 And love its apex crowns with immortelles. 
 When we would bring to mind the holy type 
 Of life, of beauty, innocence and worth, 
 Of noble attributes and lofty aims, 
 Of Christian meekness and unswerving faith. 
 Of rarest self-forgetfulness and deeds 
 Of saint-like goodness, — when we fain would rest 
 Our broken hearts on holy ground like this, 
 Then, then, we whisper, " Gertrude !" 
 9 G 
 
"YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN."* 
 
 NOT forgotten," " not forgotten !" 
 Those words sweep o'er my heart 
 With all the sunny brightness 
 
 Which remembrance can impart. 
 " Not forgotten !" Oh there's music 
 In those kindly words for me, 
 And ever through their sweet refrain 
 Float memories of thee. 
 
 How pleasantly come back to me 
 
 Hours fleeted long ago ; 
 When eyes were bright and hearts were light, 
 
 And spirits pure as snow ; 
 When merry lips trilled merry songs, 
 
 And every heart was gay, 
 And you and I went laughingly 
 
 Along youth's rosy way ! 
 
 How joyously we feasted Life 
 
 And crowned him merry king. 
 When apple trees were full of bloom. 
 
 And the robins welcomed spring ! 
 
 * From a friend's letter. 
 98 
 
YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN. 99 
 
 The blood that made our young hearts beat 
 
 Was then a rushing tide, 
 Which every brightness reveled in, 
 
 And every grief defied. 
 
 The summer eves w^ere blissful then, 
 
 The summer days w^ere long ; 
 The woods seemed full of bluest birds, 
 
 The sunshine full of song. 
 *' Forgotten !" No, but life has grown 
 
 For both so earnest now. 
 And sadder things than flowers are fixed 
 
 Upon each other's brow ! • 
 
 But here's to thee ! There still exists 
 
 A bright spring in my heart. 
 Which fills a cup of love for thee. 
 
 Dear friend, where'er thou art ; 
 And wheresoe'er fate marks thy path. 
 
 By mountain, plain or sea. 
 May early joys and early friends 
 
 Still unforgotten be ! 
 
ODE TO THE "MOTHER HUBBARD" OF A 
 FANCY-DRESS BALL. 
 
 MOST quaint and meritorious dame, 
 Who bears that fond maternal name 
 To childish memory dear, 
 Permit a simple quill of goose 
 Enthusiastic thoughts to loose, 
 And eulogize thee here. 
 
 What heart that loves the happy past, 
 What eye that backward loves to cast 
 
 A glance to bygone days. 
 But Mother Hubbard's title speaks 
 With glistening eyes and glowing cheeks, 
 
 And lips that love to praise? 
 
 'Mid all the gay and gladsome throng 
 Of ladies fair and courtiers strong, 
 
 Within the festive hall. 
 Thy quaint and picturesque attire, 
 Thy ready wit and soft satire, 
 
 Were winsomest of all. 
 
 100 
 
ODE TO ''MOTHER HUBBARD r lOI 
 
 Though England's proud and haughty queen, 
 With kings and princes seldom seen, 
 
 Adorned the motley crowd, 
 Each heart forgetful of all these, 
 Down upon Memory's bended knees 
 
 To Mother Hubbard bowed. 
 
 We wonder not that at thy shrine 
 Thy wondrous friend of class canine. 
 
 Long wrecked on storied strand. 
 As the dear object of thy love, 
 So blest, should quite distracted prove, 
 
 And not know how to stand. 
 
 Full many a wight of present day 
 To hear thy generous lips but say 
 
 Not every hope was dead. 
 Would daily dance a merry jig, 
 Don any sort of martial rig, 
 
 Or stand upon his head ! 
 
 Dear dame ! May thy life's cupboard be 
 For ever filled most plenteously 
 
 With every blessing known ; 
 And when some knight shall seek to share 
 Thy woman's love and woman's care, 
 
 Refuse him not a bone ! 
 
 9 * 
 
MY BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 A PILGRIM on Time's silent shore, 
 I rest my weary feet to-day — 
 Look back upon the nevermore, 
 The sun which always gilds the yore, 
 And sound my harp's lone lay. 
 
 II. 
 
 Here at the feet of youthful years 
 I strike the half-regretful strings — 
 
 Sound the soft strain which gently clears 
 
 Away the mistiness of tears 
 Fond memory ever brings. 
 
 III. 
 
 To-days I've known and ceased to know 
 
 Rise fast on my reverted gaze, 
 While like retreating armies go 
 The hours I never more may know, 
 To join my yesterdays. 
 102 
 
MT BIRTH-DAT. 103 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet why should I be sad ? Behold 
 
 My silky locks are brown as yet ; 
 No silver shining 'mid their gold, 
 No lines upon my forehead scrolled, 
 
 Though Time and I have met ;. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ay, often met before to-day, 
 
 For I Time's tenant am while here ; 
 
 And he, before his house of clay. 
 
 Raps regularly for his pay 
 On rent-day, once a year. 
 
 His clear receipt in heavy hand 
 
 Stands traced on every brow that lives ; 
 All other debts for house or land 
 We may with bold affront withstand. 
 But Time no credit gives. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I paid, to-day, the annual rent, 
 
 But paid it with a bitter sigh ; 
 'Tis gold I grieve to feel is spent — 
 Gold from a gracious Giver sent 
 To spendthrifts such as I ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But let my rested feet move on, 
 My pilgrimage not yet is o'er 
 
I04 MT BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 No more I'll mourn the glories gone, 
 But with my new to-morrow's dawn 
 Resume my road once more. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Dashed from my cheek be every tear, 
 Each shadow from my spirit cast ; 
 What though upon the Past's gray bier 
 The corpse of still another year 
 Lies in its shroud at last? 
 
 'Tis but a warning touch of pain 
 
 Upon my careless brow at best — 
 A seeming loss, a certain gain — 
 One link removed from that long chain 
 Which leads to endless rest. 
 
ACROSTIC. 
 
 A BREATH, a thought, a cloud that flies 
 Perfumed with reveries toward the skies ; 
 Rolling in purple mists away 
 In paths where man may never stray. 
 
 Melting our passions into calm, 
 Excelling Gilead's magic balm. 
 Here wakes our bliss — here dies our grief — 
 A whole existence in a leaf! 
 
 Vapor and fragrance, ashes, dust ; 
 A joy serene, a dream to trust ; 
 Niched in thy fires our visions read, 
 A world, a hope, a heaven, a weed ! 
 
 105 
 
THE BOX OF OLD SHOES. 
 
 A COBBLER dwelt in an Eastern town, 
 And a busy old man was he, 
 He worked from morn till the sun went down, 
 
 With his lapstone on his knee. 
 Little recked he of the world without — 
 
 Its bustle and bother and din — 
 He cared not a fig what folks were about, 
 If their " custom" he gathered in. 
 
 All the day long his hammer and awl 
 
 And bristled " wax-end" he plied ; 
 Nor thought of his neighbors great or small— 
 
 Who was born, who wedded, who died. 
 And time wore on with him stitching there 
 
 On " upper" and " siding" well " soled" 
 Till his empty pockets no more were bare. 
 
 But jingled with musical gold. 
 
 Then a larger shop became his desire. 
 
 And straight did he set about 
 To widen the floor and raise the roof higher, 
 
 And move the old rubbish out. 
 
 lOG 
 
THE BOX OF OLD SHOES. 107 
 
 And thus he discovered a box all grim 
 
 With the dust and the dirt of years, 
 And he opened it, out in the daylight dim, 
 
 With a pair of shoemaker's shears. 
 
 Gad !" cried he, " here's a box of old shoes, 
 Good for nothing at all I s'pose — 
 Here's little and big and great and small. 
 Old-fashioned and worth not the prick of my awl 
 They're the refuse work of some earlier year. 
 All dusty and mouldy ; I vow 'tis queer 
 That so long in my snug old shop they'd be, 
 Unnoticed and wholly forgot by me. 
 
 I'll set them out by the old shop door ; 
 They'll do for a sign if nothing more ; 
 It's a pretty good lot to be wasted so. 
 But then what better thing can I do T' 
 Just here a thought struck the old man's pate : 
 With pen and ink he fulfilled it straight, 
 And nailed this bill on his box of shoes : 
 Folks who want 'em are welcome to choose." 
 
 Well pleased he felt in his heart's kind fount 
 That " loss" had thus turned to " good account," 
 And he thought how many a foot now bare 
 Could cover its shivering nakedness there ; 
 And he worked away that whole day long, 
 Smiles on his lips or a snatch of song. 
 For he felt so many in sorry need 
 Could a blessing reap from his humble deed. 
 
Io8 THE BOX OF OLD SHOES. 
 
 But his f7' lends came by and read the bill, 
 
 Then into the box turned their greedy eyes, 
 And with eager fingers they searched until 
 
 They found for themselves a suitable " size." 
 They stamped about with sneer and frown 
 
 To see if they fitted their own feet quite. 
 And they swore they did as they laced them down, 
 
 Albeit they were " a trifle too tight." 
 
 Then with angered lips they shouted loud : 
 
 " Here's an insult, zounds ! we none will bear ; 
 
 This man's getting rich and waxing proud, 
 And thinks his grim old rubbish we'll wear ! 
 
 They were meant for us sure ! behold how they fit- 
 Though perhaps they do a trifle squeeze. 
 
 Odds ! bristles ! his crazy old pate we'll split 
 For daring to ofler us cast-offs like these !" 
 
 Then relatives came who heard he was rich — 
 
 They never had known him in Poverty's door — 
 And thought they'd look in now to see him stitch, 
 
 And perhaps catch a drop as his fortunes ran o'er. 
 But they caught the cry his friends had raised. 
 
 And tall and short and fat and slim. 
 Each vowed a " size" he was " sore amazed," 
 
 To find in that box expressly for him. 
 
 Then, arming themselves with a goodly load 
 From the labeled box outside the door. 
 
 They into the cobbler's premises strode. 
 
 Where, singing, he hammered his lap-stone o'er. 
 
THE BOX OF OLD SHOES. 1 09 
 
 As up he rose, surprised at the crowd 
 
 Of kindred and friends in his presence meek, 
 
 They knocked him down, and vehemently vowed 
 Not an impudent word would they let him speak. 
 
 In vain he strove in his wild despair 
 
 T' explain the "case" in the way it stood ; 
 But they banged and beat him, and all did swear 
 
 Not a word should he say, they'd be shod if he 
 should. 
 So with merciless blows was he overthrown — 
 
 The blood from his body did slowly ooze, 
 And he gave up the ghost with a mouldy moan. 
 
 Falling dead 'neath his lot of dusty shoes. 
 
 Thus the kind intent of a generous heart 
 
 Was turned to ill in that angry mood. 
 And the shoemaker's body beaten apart 
 
 By the very weapons he wielded for good. 
 How oft, as I roam this wide world o'er 
 
 And note the paths that people choose. 
 My thoughts go back to that box by the door. 
 
 And the innocent cobbler's lot of shoes ! 
 
 When I see fair words which innocent lips 
 
 Let fall in the lightness of guileless hearts — 
 Pure as the sweet the honey-bee sips 
 
 From the rose's depths ere its bloom departs — 
 When these words are torn by the vulture beaks 
 
 Which Purity's beauty loves to bruise, 
 I'm certain their arrogant venom seeks 
 
 A " size" for itself in the box of shoes. 
 
 10 
 
lO THE BOX OF OLD SHOES. 
 
 When some thoughtless jest from a lip of mirth 
 
 Cast lightly forth — a breath on the air — 
 Is seized by the shoe-fitters here on earth, 
 
 And rendered foul where 'twas meant most fair- 
 When a careless glance from a gay pair of eyes 
 
 Is caught up as something on which to muse, 
 'Tis plain the defamer is seeking a " size" 
 
 For himself in the box of ready-made shoes. 
 
 If a tale by some dreamy romancer be writ, 
 
 Each character chosen out of the brain. 
 And the shoe-fitters pull it to pieces to fit 
 
 Their personal attributes into its vein, 
 I turn me away then thoughtful and lone. 
 
 On the ludicrous folly of such to muse, 
 And feel there's a " fit," or they'd not put it on. 
 
 In the innocent cobbler's old box of shoes. 
 
WILLIE'S WIFE 
 
 WILLIE'S wife has come amang us — 
 Willie's wife is young : 
 Sure her heart can never wrang us 
 Wi' sae sweet a tongue. 
 
 II. 
 
 Willie's wife has een that sparkle 
 
 Like a starry night : 
 Surely anger canna darkle 
 
 Een that shine sae bright ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Willie's wife has lips as smilin' 
 
 As the sun at morn ; 
 Ah ! the heart maun be beguilin' 
 
 Where such smiles are born. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Een sae bright an' lips sae pleasant 
 
 Are as sweet as spring ; 
 Be her future like her present — 
 
 Sic a bonny thing ! 
 
 Ill 
 
112 WILLIE'S WIFE. 
 
 V. 
 
 Mony folk that ken her tell us 
 
 Luvely is her life : 
 Certain sumthin' gude befell us 
 
 When Will chose a wife ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Surely cauldness s'all na stay us — 
 
 Gudely maun she be ; 
 Ways that won our Willie frae us 
 
 Maun be fair to see. 
 
THE MURDERER. 
 
 OUT, out into the night he speeds away, 
 His guilty heart beating the reveille 
 Which breaks for ever in his stricken breast 
 The slumbers of remorse. The stars, to w^hich 
 He has been wont to lift a loving gaze, 
 He fain would hide from now, and the soft winds. 
 Whose gentle fingers once caressed his brow. 
 He shrinks from as from whispering demons who 
 
 His damnins: secret now would fain betrr 
 
 '& 
 
 '-^y 
 
 To all the world. The murmur of a brook, 
 A rustling leaf, the twitter of a bird. 
 Cause him to start and tremble, and the dews 
 Of mortal dread to wet his fevered brow 
 
 Nature, through guilt of his, seems guilty grown ; 
 
 Her holiest smile seems, in his sin-veiled sight, 
 
 The hollow mask which hides Suspicion's face. 
 
 In every shadow he a pursuer sees. 
 
 In each sunbeam a dagger for his heart ; 
 
 The passing breeze seems laden with his name, 
 
 Each bird-song freighted with a passing knell ; 
 
 The rose seems tinted with his crime's red hue, 
 
 His victim's pallor each pale lily wears. 
 
 10 * H 113 
 
114 THE MURDERER. 
 
 He hates the Hght which may betray himself, 
 The darkness dreads which may conceal his foes. 
 Upon the ramparts of his life pale Fear, 
 A sleepless sentry, walks, while grim Distrust 
 Doubts even Fear, and so keeps double watch. 
 
 Hunted like some wild beast from place to place, 
 For ever hiding and yet never hid, 
 Nameless, without a home, without an hour 
 Unhaunted by the spectre of his sin ; 
 Fearing to sleep and dreading to awake. 
 Afraid of God, yet more afraid of man ; 
 Hungered and thirsting amid Plenty's feast. 
 Stealing with bated breath through thorny ways 
 When pleasant paths invite his bleeding feet ; 
 Shunned by the good and hated by the bad — 
 His days creep on like some long funeral train, 
 A fearful corpse for ever in their midst. 
 
 Off from his manly shoulders he has dropt 
 
 His manhood, like a cloak which did conceal 
 
 His hideous deformity of soul. 
 
 No more may he stand forth among mankind 
 
 A man. The world has branded him accursed ! 
 
 He knows no solitude ; for him, alas ! 
 
 The gloomiest loneliness is peopled most ; 
 
 In the dread midnight, when all others sleep, 
 
 Silence shrieks murder in his startled ear ! 
 
 And when the Sabbath pours its holy balm 
 
 Upon the bowed head of a Christian world, 
 
 He, on the rack, in Thought's hot dungeon bound. 
 
 Writhes in his agony, while Conscience stands 
 
THE MURDERER. II5 
 
 As Grand Inquisitor, searing his soul 
 With the hot irons of remembered guilt. 
 
 He dreams sometimes of childhood's happy days — 
 
 A father's smile, a mother's loving kiss ; 
 
 Then starts and feels that he has laid 
 
 A bloody hand on Memory's white shoulder! 
 
 Sometimes he kneels and clasps his crimsoned palms, 
 
 And feels his dumb heart wrestling with its crime. 
 
 Yet dares not breathe one prayer to that just God 
 
 Whom he has sinned against. His weary feet 
 
 Shall rest no more. He must take up his cross — 
 
 The cross of his great sin — and bear it on : 
 
 His guilt is with him always. Not a depth 
 
 So deep but it shall find him out ; no height 
 
 So high, save Christ's forgiving arms. 
 
 But it shall track him there and smite him still. 
 
 No more his brow shall know Affection's kiss, 
 
 No more his red hand feel a friend's fond clasp. 
 
 His lips shall thirst in vain to drink of love 
 
 From hearts which trusted in him, and which broke 
 
 When he betrayed. His ears shall long to hear 
 
 Loved voices whose dear tones for him are hushed. 
 
 His heart shall ache with wounds which know no cure. 
 
 His anguished eyes weep for the blessed sight 
 
 Of faces he shall look upon no more. 
 
 For him there is a place by no man's hearth, 
 
 A shelter for his head 'neath no man's roof; 
 
 No sinless woman on his breast shall lie, 
 
 Around his knee no happy children sport. 
 
 They who beneath the shadow of his life 
 
 Shall dare to rest, its upas blight must bear. 
 
Il6 THE MURDERER. 
 
 He lives and yet is dead ; for lo ! liis days 
 
 Which die Lord God did give him in the land 
 
 Are desolate. They lie like some fair field 
 
 Across whose harvest the consuming fire has swept, 
 
 And left destruction in its scathing track. 
 
 With none to love, too vile to be beloved, 
 
 A wretched wanderer upon the earth, 
 
 Like Ishmael of old his hand is raised 
 
 'Gainst every man, and each man's hand 'gainst him. 
 
WE TWA. 
 
 SIDE by side sit John and I, 
 Twa autumn leaves thegither, 
 And ilka blast that shakes the ane 
 
 Is cruel to the ither. 
 The wind about our door is cauld, 
 
 Life's fires are burned to embers ; 
 The only sun that shines for us 
 Is burly, bleak November's. 
 
 The years nov\^ left us crutches are, 
 
 On which we totter slowly 
 Toward that rest that's ready for 
 
 The lofty and the lowly. 
 But as we hobble side by side. 
 
 An' gang our gait sae cheerly. 
 We baith find time to whisper yet, 
 
 " We lo'e ane 'ither dearly." 
 
 An' mony a canty hour we pass, 
 
 Our early days recallin', 
 When all Life's roses buddin' were, 
 
 Whose petals now are fallin'. 
 
 117 
 
Ii8 WJS TWA. 
 
 In memory's shade we sit us doun, 
 Youth in our hearts sits singin', 
 
 An' John ance mair a bridegroom is- 
 My wedding bells are ringin'. 
 
 An' thus upon our brows the bleeze 
 
 Of ither years to woo us, 
 We hold ane 'ither's hand and think 
 
 How gude God has been to us ; 
 How He has kept our hearts sae true, 
 
 And held the sunshine o'er us, 
 An' taught us when he sent a cloud 
 
 He knew what best was for us. 
 
 We mind how little faces gleamed. 
 
 An' little hands caressed us, 
 Lang syne, when in our sturdy youth 
 
 Our gracious Father blessed us. 
 We mind us how we buried them 
 
 Wi' grief an' tears at even ; 
 We hid the root on earth — the bloom 
 
 The angels culled in heaven. 
 
 We thought our hearts lo'ed weel before 
 
 To ane anither plighted, 
 But they were never twins we found 
 
 Till grief had them united. 
 Joy's fading archway may be bright 
 
 For light hearts to pass under. 
 But mutual sorrows weave the ties 
 
 Which this warl' canna' sunder. 
 
WB TWA. 
 
 So, jogging onward step by step, 
 
 Though Life's young fires are embers, 
 We find there's warmth sufiicient left 
 
 To thaw our iced Novembers. 
 For lo'e can warm an' lo'e can cheer 
 
 And lo'e can ope the portal, 
 Now locked by Life's auld rusty key, 
 
 Which leads to bliss immortal. 
 
 119 
 
WOMAN'S WORK. 
 
 DARNING little stockings 
 For restless little feet, 
 Washing little faces 
 
 To keep them clean and sweet, 
 Hearing Bible lessons, 
 Teaching catechism, 
 Praying for salvation 
 
 From heresy and schism — 
 Woman's work ! 
 
 Sewing on the buttons. 
 
 Overseeing rations, 
 Soothing with a kind word 
 
 Others' lamentations. 
 Guiding clumsy Bridgets 
 
 And coaxing sullen cooks, 
 Entertaining company 
 
 And reading recent books — 
 Woman's work ! 
 
 Burying out of sight 
 
 Her own unhealing smarts. 
 
 Letting in the sunshine 
 On other clouded hearts ; 
 120 
 
WOMAN'S WORK. 121 
 
 Binding up the wounded 
 
 And healing of the sick, 
 Bravely marching onward 
 
 Through dangers dark and thick — 
 Woman's work ! 
 
 Leading little children 
 
 And blessing manhood's years, 
 Showing to the sinful 
 
 How God's forgiveness cheers ; 
 Scattering sweet roses 
 
 Along another's path, 
 Smiling by the wayside. 
 
 Content with what she hath — 
 Woman's work ! 
 
 Letting fall her own tears 
 
 Where only God can see, 
 Wiping off another's 
 
 With tender sympathy ; 
 Learning by experience, 
 
 Teaching by example, 
 Yearning for the gateway, 
 
 Golden, pearly, ample — 
 Woman's work ! 
 
 Lastly Cometh silence, 
 
 A day of deep repose — 
 Her locks smoothly braided 
 
 Upon her breast a rose ; 
 Lashes resting gently 
 
 Upon the marble cheek, 
 A look of blessed peace 
 
 Upon the forehead meek ! 
 11 
 
122 WOMAN'S WORK. 
 
 Pale hands softly folded, 
 
 The kindly pulses still ; 
 The lips know no smiling, 
 
 The noble heart no thrill : 
 Her couch needs no smoothing 
 
 She craveth for no care ; 
 Love's tenderest entreaty 
 
 Wakes no responses there. 
 
 Fresh grave in the valley — 
 
 Tears, bitter sobs, regret ; 
 One more solemn lesson 
 
 That life may not forget. 
 Face for ever hidden, 
 
 Race for ever run — 
 " Dust to dust," a voice saith. 
 
 And woman's work is done. 
 
THE MARCH SNOW-STORM. 
 
 ''T^' 
 
 ^WAS but yesterday morn, 
 When, with banner all torn. 
 The old warrior. Winter, received his conge ; 
 And sounding the rally 
 O'er hill-top and valley. 
 He gathered his forces from slow water-courses, 
 From meadow and mountain and frozen-up fountain ; 
 Then shut in his breath 
 'Twixt his icy old teeth. 
 And grumblingly sauntered away. 
 
 He did ; 
 Grumbled and sauntered away. 
 
 Then down the dale dancing. 
 
 And up the glen glancing, 
 Came light-footed Spring and kissed the bleak wold — 
 
 Glanced up in surprise 
 
 At the cloud-covered skies. 
 Waved her sweet-scented hand o'er the frost-laden land ; 
 Then merrily rallied the crocuses pallid. 
 
 That sullen and rigid 
 
 Lay frozen and frigid ; 
 And she shivered to find it so cold 
 
 In her realm — 
 Shivered and burst into tears ! 
 
 123 
 
124 THE MARCH SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Then back on his path, 
 
 With demon-like wrath, 
 Whirled wary old Winter, and scattered her train. 
 
 With ice-pointed lances 
 
 He froze up her glances ; 
 Then mounting his forces on icicle horses, 
 On his icy-cold brow placed his pale crown of snow. 
 
 And defied vanquished Spring 
 
 To o'erthrow the ice-king — 
 Defied her, and frigidly mounted again 
 
 His throne — 
 His icy and frosty old throne. 
 
 And Spring, timid creature, 
 
 With fear in each feature, 
 Her sceptre resigned to the sturdy old king ; 
 
 Then fled in dismay 
 
 From valleys away. 
 Sending wails of despair on the frost-bitten air ; 
 While, with snow on the hills and ice in the rills. 
 
 His army in mail 
 
 Guarding every dale, 
 Winter looks over his shoulder at Spring, 
 
 And laughs — 
 Laughs at the victory won. 
 
DESERTED 
 
 SHE was a young wife once, 
 Full of trust, 
 Believing love's virgin gold 
 Could not rust. 
 
 II. 
 
 She knelt her at Christ's feet. 
 
 Young and strong, 
 And made her vows, and dreamed 
 
 Not of wrong. 
 
 III. 
 
 Her footsteps fell on flowers. 
 
 And her eyes 
 Saw only rosy paths, 
 
 Sunny skies. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! how one kind voice blessed 
 
 The sweet air ! 
 How fondly one kind hand 
 
 Stroked her hair ! 
 
 125 
 
126 DESERTED. 
 
 Does any dare to say 
 
 Clouds will rise? 
 Her trusting, wifely smile 
 
 Doubt defies. 
 
 VI . 
 
 Can clouds bedim such faith, 
 
 Such fond trust? 
 Never, till death shall lay 
 
 Dust to dust. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Years pass — she is not yet 
 
 An old wife, 
 But time has stolen the sweets 
 
 From her life. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 No roses for her now ; 
 
 Only snow 
 Lies cold wherever flowers 
 
 Used to grow — 
 
 IX. 
 
 Pale snow that drifts and drifts, 
 
 Day by day, 
 Through hollows of her heart, 
 
 Nor melts away. 
 
 X. 
 
 Her trustful, sweet young life 
 
 Thus has died ; 
 Nailed to Love's cruel cross. 
 
 Crucified. 
 
TO GUY. 
 
 AS rivers which their sources find 
 In mountain summits parted wide, 
 Yet meet at last and find the sea 
 In one commingled common tide — 
 
 So we, of different birth and blood, 
 
 Strangers for years our course did run, 
 
 Till Fate the parted pulses found, 
 And swept the swift tides into one ! 
 
 127 
 
DO ANGELS WEEP? 
 
 UP from the earth can worldly woes arise, 
 Piercing the starry canopy above, 
 To wound the spotless souls of Paradise, 
 
 And wring stern sorrow from those hearts of love ? 
 Oh tell me, spirit watchers of my sleep ! 
 In yon fair heaven do the angels weep ? 
 
 Say, can those pearl-winged messengers of peace 
 Bend their bright brows o'er sorrow's shaded hearth ; 
 
 Bring to the bruised heart its blest release, 
 
 And mingle heavenly tears with tears of earth ? 
 
 Tell me, O ye who saintly vigils keep 
 
 With mortal mourners ! do the angels weep ? 
 
 Comes there swift rushing from its spirit-home 
 Some beaming seraph for each child of sin, 
 
 Wooing the restless, troubled heart to come 
 And fold itself her cleansing wing within ? 
 
 Say, ye who heaven's golden harvest reap ! 
 
 O'er earthly errors do the angels weep ? 
 
 128 
 
DO ANGELS WEEPf 129 
 
 How vast a truth, for mortals here to know 
 
 That they who sound the heavenly harps can mourn ! 
 
 That for each sin the human heart doth sow 
 A tear-drop in some seraph's breast is born ! 
 
 Oh what temptation o'er the soul could sweep, 
 
 Nerving the heart to make an angel weep ? 
 I 
 
INGEMISCO. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE dying day 
 Wrapped in its sunset banners lay 
 
 Fading, fading : 
 There, wordless both, we watched it going, 
 With coldness on our two hearts snowing. 
 And silence out of silence growing, 
 
 Shading, shading 
 All our lives with its chill flowing. 
 
 Parted for ever, 
 
 We stood together 
 Among the hills of purple heather. 
 
 II. 
 
 There, side by side, 
 We saw the sweet day when it died 
 
 Sadly, sadly. 
 We heard the songs of twilight birds, 
 The tinkling bells of twilight herds, 
 All things save one another's words, 
 
 Gladly, gladly- 
 Softening our aching heart's discords. 
 
 ]30 
 
INGEMISCO. 131 
 
 Parted for ever, 
 We walked together 
 Among the purple blooming heather. 
 
 III. 
 
 We heard the hum 
 Of evening's hidden minstrels come 
 
 Creeping, creeping 
 From hill-top, tree-top, shore and stream, 
 As if e'en silence found a theme 
 In evening's loveliness supreme ! 
 
 Weeping, weeping : 
 Our souls awaked from life's best dream ! 
 
 Parted for ever, 
 
 We passed together 
 Across the blooming waves of heather. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Our hearts were numb, 
 
 Our passionate lips were stricken dumb- 
 Throbbing, throbbing ; 
 
 Our burning pulses shook their tears 
 
 Across the unforgotten years 
 
 Of tender hopes and slumbering fears. 
 Robbing, robbing 
 
 Life of all that life endears — 
 Parted for ever, 
 We crossed together 
 
 The scented shadows of the heather. 
 
132 INGEMISCO. 
 
 V. 
 
 One swift look cast — 
 One mute appeal — the last, the last ! 
 
 Parted, parted, 
 Two hands which ne'er shall clasp again, 
 Two hearts that breaking hide their pain — 
 Pride stabbed our love and it was slain ! 
 
 Frozen-hearted, 
 Two God-bound lives world-rent in twain ! 
 
 Parted for ever. 
 
 No more together 
 We cross the fragrant seas of heather ! 
 
THE OLD WILLOW TREE. 
 
 IT waves in its loftiness close by the door 
 Where my little lips lisped their accents of yore, 
 Where my young brother played— and a mother's hand 
 
 bound 
 The wreath on the forehead that loved to be crowned ; 
 It stands in its pride by the moss-verdured well 
 Where the rainbow-hued water-drops musically fell, 
 While the accents of childhood's dispassionate glee 
 Rang up through the leaves of the old willow tree. 
 
 It spreads its broad branches far, far o'er the spot 
 Which saw us assembled, each eve, in our cot, 
 Where the eyes of affection devotedly met, 
 And kind words were spoken I ne'er can forget. 
 'Neath its sheltering arms, in the soft summer air. 
 Rose softly and sweetly our voices in prayer, 
 And hushed as a breeze o'er a calm summer sea 
 Rose our words through the leaves of the old willow 
 tree. 
 
 It saw my sweet sister go forth in her pride ; 
 Her beautiful cheek bore the blush of a bride ; 
 
 12 ^^^ 
 
134 THE OLD WILLOW TREE. 
 
 Her eyes flashed with pleasure, her rosy hps smiled 
 As a mother's fond blessing there hallowed her 
 
 child ; 
 It saw that lip sadden, that eye drop a tear, 
 As the parting from home and its loved ones drew 
 
 near ; 
 But the birds and the branches with voices of glee 
 Filled with music the leaves of the old willow tree. 
 
 It saw my brave brother become a proud man. 
 Of loftiest purpose and resolute plan ; 
 It saw him launch forth on the waves of the world, 
 Like a stem from the parent tree ruthlessly hurled ; 
 It saw him borne back, all his high hopes at rest, 
 With the pulseless young heart that lay cold in his 
 breast ; 
 
 God ! his last parting was spoken to me 
 'Neath the listening leaves of the old willow tree. 
 
 1 next left the spot with my brow overcast. 
 
 And the joys of my childhood for ever gone past ; 
 
 I had learned there to know that this world cannot 
 
 give 
 Those pleasures for which we all labor and live : 
 With quivering lips thence I wandered away — 
 Lips too mournful to smile, too despairing to pray ; 
 But I bore in my bosom far o*er the blue sea 
 Some dew-laden leaves from the old willow tree. 
 
 Long years have gone by since I last bade adieu 
 'Neath its shade to the fond friends my young spirit 
 knew — 
 
THE OLD WILLOW TREE. 135 
 
 Years sweeping their changes across the hearthstone, 
 
 Where my father and mother now linger alone. 
 
 How warm was their blessing, how thick were their 
 
 tears. 
 As I clung to them fondly the last time for years ! 
 Oh I feel in my soul they are waiting for me 
 'Neath the whispering leaves of the old willow tree ! 
 
ZURA. 
 
 ZURA, from her casement leaning, 
 Hears the song of mocking-bird, 
 Sees the laurel and laburnum 
 
 By the sweet south breezes stirred — 
 Sees the rose and pallid lily 
 
 Drop their faces from her view, 
 
 Half abashed and half emboldened, 
 
 Dainty tipplers drunk with dew. 
 
 Zura shakes her dusky tresses 
 
 Backward from her forehead white, 
 And with parted lips she drinketh 
 
 Of the glory of the night — 
 Revels in its waste of verdure, 
 
 In its prodigal perfume ; 
 While the. royal-hearted Southland 
 
 Holds its carnival of bloom. 
 
 Zura sees the moon of midnight 
 
 O'er her airy ocean ride, 
 As some ship that drags her anchor 
 
 And goes drifting with the tide — 
 
 136 
 
ZURA. 137 
 
 Here and there a silent meteor 
 
 On its secret mission flies, 
 Flaunting its mysterious pennon — 
 
 Blockade-runner of the skies. 
 
 Zura hears a footstep falling 
 
 On the blossom-scented sod, 
 And her heart throws kisses softly, 
 
 Shyly where that foot hath trod. 
 Hark ! the tender notes of minstrel 
 
 With the blossoms interlace, 
 And her Creole blood goes bounding 
 
 In swift blushes to her face. 
 
 " To the starry high seas, maiden. 
 
 Lift the glory of thine eyes ; 
 There they'll find in all that's brightest 
 
 Than themselves no brighter prize ; 
 See the red rose where its petals 
 
 Night's narcotic goblet sips ; 
 Were its crimson hues and sweetness 
 
 Borrowed from thy sweeter lips } 
 
 "See the fair Wisteria casting 
 
 Purple pennons to the breeze — 
 Round about thy casement climbing — 
 
 Tell me, maiden, what it sees. 
 Does it kiss thy young cheek, Zura ? 
 
 Does it look thee in the eye ? 
 Does it see thy bosom heaving ? 
 Ah ! most enviable spy ! 
 12* 
 
138 ZURA. 
 
 " Birds of spring, in grove of orange 
 
 Nests have built amid the bloom ; 
 Caskets holding treasure hidden 
 
 In a palace of perfume. 
 Scented orchards drip their sweetness 
 
 On the violet's royal bed 
 Of veined gold and princely purple — 
 
 Stars eternal overhead. 
 
 In the maze of bloom the zephyrs 
 
 Whisper they have lost their w^ay — 
 Of her own exceeding sweetness, 
 
 Night herself must faint away. 
 Buds and bloom and dewy blossoms. 
 
 Light of moon and spreading grove, 
 Ray of star and wing of zephyr, 
 
 Whisper, dearest, but of love — 
 
 Love such as I bear thee, Zura : 
 
 Answer me with smile or sigh. 
 Wilt give love for love, my darling?" 
 
 Softly came the answer, " Fie !" 
 Sang again the pleading minstrel : 
 
 " Maiden, trifle not with love ; 
 'Tis the signet-ring of heaven 
 
 Dropped from angel hands above. 
 
 Fly with me, O Zura ! maiden. 
 
 Thine shall be earth's brightest bowers, 
 
 And the universe shall know no 
 Fairer resting-place than ours. 
 
ZURA, • 139 
 
 In the ever-blooming Tropics 
 
 We will find our paradise — 
 Thine in my supreme devotion ; 
 
 Mine, dear love, in thy sw^eet eyes. 
 
 "Round the feet of Time, the tyrant. 
 
 Rosy shackles shall be hung — 
 That we hear him not in passing. 
 
 And remain for ever young. 
 Birds uncaged in bowers of beauty 
 
 Shall to music set each day ; 
 Wilt thou come, my own, my Zura .?" 
 
 Coyly came the answer, " Nay." 
 
 " Falsehood, then," the minstrel mutters, 
 
 " Fills the earth and fills the skies. 
 Turns Hymettian sweets to poison, 
 
 Lurketh in a maiden's eyes ; 
 Makes her honeyed lip taste bitter. 
 
 Sours the sweetness of her cheek. 
 Chokes within its treacherous fingers 
 
 Joys that would her bosom seek. 
 
 ■' Robs the rose of all its beauty, 
 
 In the orange blossom hides !" 
 Came a whisper drifting toward him : 
 
 " Orange blossoms are for brides !" 
 Swift a new hope, like an arrow. 
 
 Shot across the minstrel's brain — 
 And with trembling lip he gathered 
 
 Up his broken song again ; 
 
140 ZURA. 
 
 And again the tuneful measure 
 
 Floated far and floated free, 
 Mingling its impassioned cadence 
 
 With love's sweet hyperbole : 
 " I will steep my song in dewdrops 
 
 Till it win thee to my side — 
 I will braid the midnight moonbeams, 
 
 Zura, sweet, to crown thee bride. 
 
 " I will wrap thy fair existence 
 
 In the mantle of my life — 
 Proudly guard its precious pulses 
 
 With the sacred watchword — wife ; 
 With the heart-beats in my bosom 
 
 For thy feet I'll pave the way — 
 Wilt thou bless me, Zura, maiden?" 
 
 Gently came the answer, " Yea !" 
 
 Then a light form from the casement 
 
 In the moonlight bendeth low ; 
 Orange blossoms, dew and roses ! 
 
 What new secret do ye know ? 
 Heart of maid and heart of minstrel 
 
 Joy triumphant sentinels — 
 Over all the stars are hanging — 
 
 Beautiful betrothal-bells. 
 
A REVERIE. 
 
 THE Past ! How mournfully its tides return 
 And break on memory's melancholy shore ; 
 Quenching the watchfires of the soul, which burn, 
 
 Kindled by cherished flowers whose bloom is o'er. 
 Each wave that dashes 'gainst the aching heart 
 
 Tells of some withered hope, some joy that's crushed, 
 Some silent song whose echoes ne'er depart, 
 Some voice we dearly loved for ever hushed ! 
 
 How fraught with change, with sorrow and deca}-, 
 
 Come back the pictures of departed years ! 
 How many graves obstruct Thought's loving way ! 
 
 How hearts have changed — how smiles have turned 
 to tears ! 
 And all succeeding days which gently rest. 
 
 As tide-worn pebbles, on Time's fading shore. 
 Wear their impressions sadly in the breast. 
 
 Which yearns for pleasures that return no more. 
 
 Love, that we deemed enduring in its strength, 
 Falters when most we wish it to be strong, 
 
 And hearts we thought unchanging change at length. 
 And cease to love where they have loved so long. 
 
 141 
 
H2 A REVERIE. 
 
 Thus are our spirits taught to turn from earth, 
 From wounded love and coldly-severed ties, 
 
 To seek that peace which wins its blessed birth 
 In the unsullied land beyond the skies ! 
 
THE BANDIT'S BURIAL. 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF FREILIGRATH. 
 
 ON bloody bier extended 
 A corpse lay cold and wan ; 
 The heavy burden, slowly, 
 
 Six stalwart men bore on — 
 Six men all bronzed and bearded. 
 Well armed with steel and lead, 
 Through odorous pine forests 
 Bore on their silent dead. 
 
 Two brightly-polished muskets, 
 
 With barrels round and clear. 
 Crossed by three stout rapiers. 
 
 Composed this forest bier. 
 Upon their blades the bandit. 
 
 Once fiercest in the fray. 
 With ghastly head thrown backward, 
 
 Now bruised and bleeding lay. 
 
 Upon his pulseless temples 
 
 A gaping wound lay red. 
 Where on its fatal mission 
 
 The deadly bullet sped : 
 
 143 
 
144 THE BANDIT'S BURIAL. 
 
 Across his frowning forehead 
 Fast flowed the stiffening gore, 
 
 While mountain breezes fanned the face 
 They could refresh no more. 
 
 His bloodshot eye was glassy 
 
 His cheek's brown hue had flown, 
 And to the livid lips in death 
 
 His scornful smile had grown. 
 The blade, once bold in combat. 
 
 The right hand tightly held 
 With grasp that would not loosen 
 
 When conquering foeman felled. 
 
 O'er stones and tangled mosses 
 
 From his last battle-field, ' 
 The brigand drew unheeded 
 
 The sword he'd scorned to yield ; 
 And down its blade so shining 
 
 A bloody streamlet ran. 
 As though the very weapon 
 
 Wept for the murdered man. 
 
 His left hand, cold and stiffened, 
 
 His silken girdle held 
 In grasp that clutched it sternly 
 
 When death his pulses quelled. 
 Gold lace and tinsel loosely 
 
 Waved his slashed doublet o'er. 
 And in his belt the dagger 
 
 That would be drawn no more. 
 
THE BANDIT'S BURIAL. I45 
 
 So lay the pallid warrior 
 
 Beneath the gloomy pines, 
 While comrades bore him sadly 
 
 Through the dark Apennines. 
 Calm on his bier of weapons 
 
 He slept 'neath heaven's blue vault, 
 Till in the forest's deepest depths 
 
 Their leader bade them halt. 
 
 In solemn mountain fastness 
 
 Down the rude bier was laid, 
 And sabre bright and musket 
 
 Now serve for pick and spade. 
 They shut him in no coffin. 
 
 Lost, lonely, loveless, dead ; 
 Shrouded in blood and armor. 
 
 He seeks his dreamless bed. 
 
 The funeral rites are over. 
 
 The grave swells black and bare ; 
 The little troop turn silently 
 
 And leave him sleeping there. 
 They load their trusty muskets — 
 
 Hark to that whistle shrill ! 
 In secret mountain coverts 
 
 They have vanished — all is still ! 
 13 K 
 
THE LION'S RIDE. 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF FREILIGRATH. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE desert king, the lion, comes to roam his 
 kingdom o'er ; 
 Above him wave the rustHng leaves of lofty syca- 
 more. 
 As, winding near the dark lagoon, he crouches in the 
 
 cane, 
 And waits to see the tall giraffe come there to drink 
 again. 
 
 'Tis evening, when the Hottentot his lowly village 
 
 lights. 
 When sunset signals gleam no more upon the mountain 
 
 heights. 
 When the benighted Caffre dreary jungle hurries 
 
 through. 
 When in the wood and by the stream sleep antelope 
 
 and gnu — 
 
 146 
 
THE LION'S RIDE. 147 
 
 III. 
 
 Comes now with step majestic o'er the desert the 
 
 giraffe, 
 And in the still lagoon kneels down its waters thick to 
 
 quaff'; 
 With eager eye and outstretched neck she seeks the 
 
 muddy pool, 
 And lowly bends her burning mouth and parching 
 
 tongue to cool. 
 
 The rushes part ! with fearful roar the lion upward 
 
 springs ; 
 Close to that bowed and gentle neck with deadly grip 
 
 he clings. 
 What a steed and what a rider ! what superb caparison ! 
 Did royal state or stable ever claim a rarer one ? 
 
 Up leaps the doomed giraffe with wild, reverberating 
 cry, 
 
 And forth upon the silent plain speeds in her agony ; 
 
 All down the splendid housings drops a deep ensan- 
 guined stain, 
 
 And the charger's breast is curtained by the rider's 
 yellow mane ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 She beats the moonlit pathway with her swiftly-flying 
 
 feet, 
 Her glaring eyeballs vainly strained some kindly aid to 
 
 meet ; 
 
HS the LION'S RIDE. 
 
 Thick o'er the brown-flecked saddle-cloth the heated 
 
 foam doth start, 
 And the hushed desert listens to the charger's beating 
 
 heart. 
 
 Like some weird ghost that panting steed glides o'er 
 
 the sandy sea ; 
 Spread on the wind the rider's banner floateth royally ; 
 Behind the flying phantom whirls a golden cloud of 
 
 sand, 
 Like the pillared cloud which guided Israel to the 
 
 Promised Land. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Comes on their track the whirring vulture, croaking 
 
 through the air ; 
 That foul profaner of the grave, the hyena, is there ; 
 The robber of the herdsman's flocks, the panther, joins 
 
 the train, 
 And the royal rider leads them all across the bloody 
 
 plain. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Firmer upon his tottering throne the monarch plants his 
 
 feet. 
 And with his claws the cushion rends which forms his 
 
 princely seat : 
 Her restless rider onward still the poor giraffe must bear, 
 Though dimmer grow her glaring eyes, and faint her 
 
 gaspings are. 
 
THE LION'S RIDE. 1 49 
 
 On the desert's lonely verge at last the foaming steed 
 
 doth reel — 
 She dies, and lo ! the courser now becomes the rider's 
 
 meal. 
 Far over Madagascar gleams the gray dawn of the east, 
 And once again is ended here the lion's nightly feast. 
 13* 
 
ELODIE 
 
 I KNEW somebody, long ago, 
 Ere life grew sad and time grew slow — 
 I will tell you whom, if you list to me, 
 And forgive if I weep for Elodie. 
 She was a rose without a thorn, 
 A blush on the blooming cheek of morn, 
 A dimple upon life's sunniest stream, 
 A bliss, a breath, a beautiful dream. 
 
 Under the autumn's nut-brown branches. 
 
 Under the leafy avalanches. 
 
 Blushing, brightening, laughing, swaying, 
 
 Ever going, yet ever staying. 
 
 There I met her, loved her, wooed her, 
 
 Idolizingly pursued her. 
 
 Laid my lavish love before her. 
 
 Hung the bridal chaplet o'er her ! 
 
 II 
 
 Life was a double joy to me. 
 Wrapped in love's holy mystery. 
 150 
 
ELODIE. 151 
 
 In a new-made channel the current swept, 
 
 With a new-born power my pulses leapt ; 
 Two eyes of blue were the heaven I sought ; 
 Beyond those sapphire gates there was naught : 
 In life's sweet dawn love chained me there, 
 But the fetters were golden he made me wear. 
 
 Like shaken sunshine swung her tresses. 
 
 Hiding the arms that gave caresses ; 
 
 A drift with sunset red upon it 
 
 Her brow was when my kiss fell on it. 
 
 She was a picture half enchanted, 
 
 A temple by some angel haunted ; 
 
 I would not confess her all divine : 
 
 She was holily human — she was mine ! 
 
 Mine, did I say.? I called her so 
 
 In loving lunacy long ago : 
 
 In earth below or heaven above 
 
 Was there aught so strong as my strong love.? 
 
 My arm that shielded, my heart that shrined, 
 
 My soul round that fragile flowret twined ; 
 
 Could they not shelter and save and shield. 
 
 Do all — do everything but yield.? 
 
 I heard not Death's cold tapping finger, 
 
 Bidding my love no longer linger ; 
 
 For me, in my mad idolatry. 
 
 Life had no limit, heaven no decree. 
 
 I never remembered my rose might fade, 
 
 I dreamed such blossoms never decayed ; 
 
 Till her sweet lips smiled, and said, " We sever,' 
 
 Till her fond blue eyes were closed for ever ! 
 
152 EL O DIE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Under the swinging, swaying willow 
 They made her icy, icy pillow ! 
 I, like a tombstone, bending o'er, 
 Wretched that I went not before, 
 Record her death, her name, her age 
 Upon my heart's embittered page, 
 And see the tear-wet sod grow green 
 My life's one love and me between ! 
 Yet God, who took my idol hence. 
 Gave, in his grand omnipotence. 
 Belief to fill the empty niche — 
 Thus he impoverished to enrich. 
 Calmly I wait Death's certain hand 
 To ope the gates of the holy land. 
 Where, purified, my soul shall see 
 In heaven my angel, Elodie. 
 
SONG 
 
 COME, haste thee home ; the lamp is trimmed, 
 An anxious heart is throbbing there, 
 And loving eyes, with tear-drops dimmed. 
 Are gazing on thy empty chair. 
 
 Oh haste thee home ; a tender smile 
 
 Shall chase the care-look from thy brow, 
 
 While love and joy the time beguile 
 Which passes there so slowly now. 
 
 The fire burns brightly on the hearth. 
 
 The cricket chirps its monotone. 
 And one who loves thee best of earth 
 
 Awaits thee there, and waits alone. 
 
 While red the flickering fire-flames glow, 
 The watcher notes her shadow fall. 
 
 And waits the absent one to throw 
 One more beside it on the wall ! 
 
 153 
 
154 SONG. 
 
 She watches by the cottage door, 
 She lingers by the garden gate, 
 
 And speaks thy dear name o'er and o'er. 
 Like some lone bird that calls its mate. 
 
 Then haste thee home ; the lamp is trimmed, 
 A loving heart is throbbing there, 
 
 And gentle eyes, with tear-drops dimmed, 
 Are gazing on thy empty chair. 
 
BY THE FIRE. 
 
 MEMORY sits in my heart to-night, 
 Like a lone saint telhng her holy beads 
 In the dim cloisters of long ago ; 
 
 She opens the book of the past and reads. 
 
 She turns the leaves of my lonely life, 
 
 And my years in a slow and solemn procession 
 
 Go steadily by, like a train of monks 
 
 That pass on their evening way to confession. 
 
 There are young years whose summery skies 
 Lift their arches blue o'er a life serene : 
 
 No sorrowful willow woven among 
 The beautiful bay trees' hopeful green. 
 
 And years of darkening change march there. 
 Which bear no trace of life's early sweet, 
 
 And cowled years which join in the train 
 With lowered brows and unwilling feet. 
 
 155 
 
156 BT THE FIRE. 
 
 And all these years have their friends and foes 
 As pensive Memory's guests to-night : 
 
 She raises her calm blue eyes and smiles 
 As with noiseless step they come in sight. 
 
 And thou art there, O tenderest dream 
 That ever my lifetime came to share ! 
 
 Sweet as the smile on an infant's lip — " 
 Exalting, earnest and pure as prayer. 
 
 We seem once more to sit side by side 
 
 Down by the warm hearth's mellow light, 
 
 And the old love-links we deemed so strong 
 Seem just as strong as ever to-night ! 
 
 What does the cold world know of the storm 
 Which drove us helpless far out to sea, 
 
 Where the turbulent billows rase like hills 
 For ever and aye 'twixt you and me .'' 
 
 It may read of wrecks and storm-swept decks, 
 And of white sails sadly driven asunder, 
 
 But little it knows of the joys or woes 
 
 Which the merciless billows have swept under. 
 
 Through every change and every care 
 My heart to that early dream has clung- 
 
 But I know that the sweetest psalmody 
 Of all my changeful life has been sung. 
 
 I shall hear life's matin-peals no more 
 Across the flowery meadows rolling ; 
 
 Just over the lonesome twilight hills 
 I hear the vesper-bells all tolling. 
 
BT THE FIRE. i^'J 
 
 And I stand to-night by the gloomy rocks 
 Of a solemn and ever-echoing shore, 
 
 Calling in vain for the glance and smile 
 Which have vanished, alas ! for evermore. 
 
 But I hear thy voice on the other side. 
 And I know the hour mine soon w^ill be 
 
 When Death shall divide the Red Sea of Time, 
 And my ransomed spirit cross over to thee. 
 
 14 
 
INSCRIPTION FOR A TOMB. 
 
 HERE have we gathered, with a reverent hand, 
 The sacred shackles that a while detained 
 An angel from the paths of Paradise. 
 Death saw and struck the mortal fetters off, 
 And gave rejoicing heaven back its own. 
 158 
 
MARY MOORE. 
 
 I KNEW thee when thy girh'sh years were few, 
 Mary Moore ; 
 When the bloomy bhish upon thy cheek was new, 
 
 Mary Moore ; 
 When the blossoms in thy hair 
 Than thy brow were not more fair — 
 Sweeter not what thrushes suns" 
 Than the language of thy tongue, 
 
 Mary Moore. 
 
 Thy scarlet lip was winning in its smile, 
 
 Mary Moore ; 
 The dimple on thy young cheek was a wile, 
 
 Mary Moore ; 
 And thy song was like the note 
 In the linnet's joyous throat, 
 When it greets the morning's rays 
 With its psalmody of praise, 
 
 Mary Moore. 
 
 Side by side, through the orchard's drifting bloom, 
 
 Mary Moore ; 
 
 Hand in hand, drenched in dewy spring's perfume, 
 
 Mary Moore ; 
 
 159 
 
i6o MART MOORE. 
 
 Heart with heart by shelly beach, 
 Trusting silence for our speech — 
 Dreaming youth and gentle maid, 
 In those sunny days we strayed, 
 
 Mary Moore. 
 
 While the bob-o'-link shook his merry bells, 
 
 Mary Moore ; 
 In the meadows and the cool mossy dells, 
 
 Mary Moore ; 
 Ere the summer-time had flown, 
 Change thy gentle heart had known. 
 And thou bad'st me, " Go, forget !" 
 What we both remember yet, 
 
 Mary Moore ! 
 
 Where the bloom hung the fruit is on the bough, 
 
 Mary Moore ; 
 The tender blade has harvests rip'ning now, 
 
 Mary Moore ; 
 But the thrushes sing no more 
 Where they sweetly sang of yore. 
 And my heart has learned to live 
 Without the love thou couldst not give, 
 Mary Moore ! 
 
MIRABELLE. 
 
 SHE lay on a crimson sofa, 
 And the sheen of her golden hair 
 Hung down in unbraided beauty 
 
 Over shoulders as snow-flakes fair. 
 A cloud on the pensive forehead 
 
 And a lift of the arching brow — 
 The tremor of some emotion 
 Flitting over the red lips now. 
 
 II. 
 
 Two letters beside her lying — 
 
 One bearing a nobleman's crest ; 
 The other without emblazon, 
 
 Save a tremulous heart's request. 
 The first a coronet offered 
 
 And " position whilst thou dost live ;" 
 The next, '' a true heart's devotion 
 
 Is, darling, all I can give." 
 
 III. 
 
 " Wealth ! 'tis a marvelous sceptre 
 In womanly keeping," she mused, 
 And thought of a coronet gleaming 
 On her glorious locks unloosed. 
 14 * L 161 
 
1 63 MIRABELLE. 
 
 " Gold ! 'tis a talisman mighty, 
 
 And a setting for beauty rare ;" 
 Then smiled in the polished mirror 
 At herself, exceedingly fair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The nobleman writes me kindly, 
 
 With the pride of his lofty race, 
 And in courtly language praises 
 
 My ' radiant beauty and grace.' 
 The rare temptation of riches 
 
 He has skillfully ]-ound me thrown, 
 But I remember while reading 
 
 That his years are double my own ; 
 
 V. 
 
 " And I note my noble suitor. 
 
 In essaying my heart to move. 
 Uses but the force of money. 
 
 And never the lever of love. 
 But Guy here writes to me only 
 
 Of a love that has grown w^ith life ; 
 And, urging his strong affection, 
 
 Sayeth, ' Mirabelle, be my wife.' 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Gold ! it hath wonderful power 
 
 To soften the bitterest lot ; 
 
 But could it extract the poison 
 
 From a marriage where love is not? 
 
MIRABELLE. 163 
 
 Pride whispers, ' To be a fine lady 
 Is well in Ambition's eyes' — 
 ' To be a true woman is nobler,' 
 My womanly heart replies." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Again she lifted the letters, 
 
 There comparing them each with each- 
 The pompous parade of riches 
 
 With a poor man's tender speech. 
 " For one I should shine," she whispered, 
 " A queen in the wary world's eyes — 
 But a beggared heart I'd carry 
 
 Hidden under the grand disguise ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " And I must wear, for the other. 
 
 Cold poverty's scantiest gown, 
 But my heart, in his fond keeping. 
 
 Would wear Love's rosiest crown. 
 Ah me !" said the lady sighing, 
 
 " Would that heart ever feel regret 
 That for true love's flowery chaplet 
 
 I rejected a coronet.^ 
 
 IX. 
 
 " When my cheek bears no more roses, 
 
 And my forehead knows youth's decline. 
 Shall I mourn these proffered treasures 
 ■ And this title which misfht be mine? 
 
164 MIRABELLE. 
 
 Could I sit down in Guy's cottage, 
 With a tear on my faded face 
 
 That in the Duke's passing carnage 
 I owned no luxurious place ? 
 
 X. 
 
 " Nay ! my heart makes ready answer 
 
 To the question, bitter and cold ; 
 Wealth is Life's fanciful gilding, 
 
 But true love is its solid gold. 
 The honor of honest labor, 
 
 The escutcheon of industry. 
 And the crown of spotless virtue, 
 
 Mark the real nobility. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Thank God that it is not money 
 
 And titles and title-deeds 
 That can satisfy the craving 
 
 Of a woman's noblest needs ! 
 Here is my Lord Duke's answer. 
 
 And let him not deem it rash" — 
 Then she watched the waxen taper 
 
 Burn the nobleman's words to ash. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then she wrote with a glad impatience 
 
 " Dear Guy, I am not one to mock 
 A true heart's sincere petition 
 
 With the idleness of mere talk. 
 With faith in your noble nature, 
 
 Sweet trust in your love — it is well : 
 Through life, until death, I answer, 
 
 I am thine alone — Mirabelle." 
 
LITTLE MAY BALLARD. 
 
 FOLD the white hands softly o'er the pure bosom, 
 Clasp In her fingers earth's loveliest flowers : 
 Angels in Paradise wait to unloose them 
 
 And scatter their fragrance through heavenly bowers. 
 Upward and downward, through regions of space, 
 
 Heralds of light hover over the clay, 
 Touching the forehead and kissing the face. 
 Calling, " Child-angel, come with us away." 
 
 Seal the sweet eyes and fold back the fair tresses. 
 
 Spirits, like hers, linger not here below ; 
 Angels but lent her from angel-caresses 
 
 To teach us the loveliness Heaven doth know. 
 See ye not radiant faces of love ? 
 
 Hear ye no rustle of seraphic wings ? 
 Feel ye no scintillant glory to prove 
 
 Mystical presence of heavenly things ? 
 
 Hush thy wild sobs, O disconsolate mourner ! 
 
 Thy little one slumbers — sweet, sweet is her rest ; 
 Angels of tenderness far hence have borne her — 
 
 The arms of " Our Father" thy babe have caressed. 
 
 105 
 
1 66 LITTLE MAT BALLARD. 
 
 Upward, still upward — on, on to the skies. 
 Winging their flight from the prison of clay, 
 
 Past the gates of the dawn and the realms of sunrise 
 The child and the angels have flitted away. 
 
LIZZIE. 
 
 DO I remember Lizzie ? Oh yes ! 
 She was the pride of the place ; 
 No one looked in her eyes but to bless 
 Her bright and beautiful face. 
 
 I never saw a forehead so white, 
 
 Such a purely womanly brow : 
 Let's see ! if I remember aright, 
 
 That was thirty years ago. 
 
 Her hair was as dark as forest gloom 
 
 When the sun's about to set, 
 With here and there through the dusky bloom 
 
 A sunbeam shimmering yet. 
 
 And her cheeks were like crushed carnations, 
 
 With lilies laid close beside, 
 Or a wave's paly palpitations 
 
 With sunrise upon the tide. 
 
 Her lips were like sanctified portals 
 Whence holy church music pours ; 
 
 And her smiles, like evangelized mortals. 
 Came out of their crimson doors. 
 
 167 
 
1 68 LIZZIE. 
 
 "Would I know her now?" Art thou hinting? 
 To affection what is Time 
 But an artist softly retinting 
 Pictures already sublime? 
 
 Know Lizzie ? Yes ! anywhere straying, 
 
 Walking in triumph or tears ; 
 My heart has been kneeling and praying 
 
 To her image all these years — 
 
 Bound there by memories unblighted, 
 
 And love that could never die, 
 Though her fate was never united. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! with such as I. 
 
 I never beside her long tarried, 
 And never once kissed her brow ; 
 
 No doubt she long ago married, 
 And wholly forgets me now ; 
 
 For mine was that worship unspoken 
 
 Which burnetii on unrevealed. 
 I knew, though my heart should be broken, 
 
 'Twere better for both concealed. 
 
 I know that my forehead is wrinkled, 
 My bosom becrossed with care. 
 
 And time has unsparingly sprinkled 
 His hoarfrost over my hair. 
 
 But, then, what of that? Not a wrinkle 
 
 Furrows my heart to-day, 
 For Lizzie's white hand seems to sprinkle 
 
 Youth on its roots alway. 
 
LIZZIE. 169 
 
 The sunset of life Is serener 
 
 Than the glowing flush of its dawn ; 
 
 And Memory goes out like a gleaner 
 In the fields of the golden gone. 
 
 And she lies like a dreamy sleeper 
 
 'Mongst the harvests swept away 
 By Time, that relentless reaper, 
 
 To the world of Yesterday 
 
 In her bygone girlish glory 
 
 My Lizzie she loves to hold : 
 There she lives like the song or story 
 
 Which, though aged, never grows old. 
 
 Like a star she rose on my lifetime ; 
 
 I worship that starlight yet. 
 Though the rays of her womanly wife-time 
 
 Some other bosom has met. 
 
 What ! say you she never has wedded.'' 
 
 Strange is that story, if true ; 
 Why the days of her life seemed threaded 
 
 With love-links for ever new. 
 
 Lovers, like sentinels, wandered 
 
 Along her beautiful life ; 
 Was all that fidelity squandered. 
 
 And Lizzie never a wife t 
 
 You say that her hair is whitened, 
 
 And her life one long regret ; 
 That her days go by unbrightened, 
 
 And her heart cannot forget. 
 
l7o LIZZIE. 
 
 Pray, what in her sweet existence 
 Could give her a moment's pain ? 
 
 What heart ever showed resistance 
 To aught she desired to gain ? 
 
 Nay ! say not yon form is Lizzie ; 
 
 Ah ! trifle not thus again ; 
 My brain grows easily dizzy, 
 
 And my heart is prone to pain. 
 
 Still, do you say she is near me ? 
 
 Her face ! Ah ! how can you dare ! 
 Do you mean yon pale woman — hear me- 
 
 With her crown of silver hair? 
 
 With that brow so sad and shrunken. 
 That eye with its faded fires. 
 
 That cheek so pallid and sunken. 
 That lip where all joy expires? 
 
 You rave ! I turn from your picture ; 
 
 Your Lizzie like that may seem, 
 But mine is unbound by the stricture 
 
 Of any such fearful dream. 
 
 Mine lives in the land immortal 
 Of manhood's undying truth, 
 
 And love is the pearly portal 
 Of the fount of eternal youth ! 
 
LOVE LINES. 
 
 OH tell me not that future years 
 Will bring a shadow to my brow, 
 That time will turn my smiles to tears, 
 
 And change the heart that loves thee now. 
 As fly the years more closely still 
 
 Clings to the oak the pendent vine ; 
 As time rolls by, so, dear one, will 
 My heart cling closer unto thine. 
 
 Talk not of wealth's alluring power ; 
 
 What are its gems and gold to me ? 
 I'd give them all for one sweet hour 
 
 Of calm, unbroken bliss with thee. 
 Ah ! dearest one, the humble hearth 
 
 Where love and truth contented live 
 Lendeth a brightness to the earth 
 
 Which wealth can never, never give. 
 
 Then take me to thy faithful breast, 
 
 And let thy heart my haven be ; 
 Where I may safely sink to rest, 
 
 From life's rude tempests fondly free. 
 
 171 
 
172 LOVE LINES. 
 
 Thus, heart to heart and hand in hand, 
 We'll smiling greet life's shadowed even, 
 
 Whose fading light reveals the land 
 Where Love creates eternal heaven. 
 
TO SOME FALSE HAIR. 
 
 HERE is a tress of hair like mine, 
 So like in texture and in hue 
 'Tvvould seem, as here its threads I twine, 
 Beneath no other sun or vine, 
 Upon no other head than mine. 
 It grew. 
 
 Yet know I not ujDon what brow 
 
 The glossy locks first shining hung ; 
 Whether 'twas pure as drifted snow, 
 Whether 'twas sad or dark or low. 
 Whether 'twas old and worn with woe, 
 Or young. 
 
 What thoughts filled up the busy brain 
 
 Beneath this soft, uncurling hair. 
 Were they of greed and golden gain. 
 Ambition, avarice or pain? 
 Teemed they with burning hopes or vain 
 Despair? 
 li* 173 
 
174 T^O SOME FALSE HAIR. 
 
 How throbbed the heart? Did love alone 
 
 Hold undisturbed dominion there ? 
 Or was that heart his tottering throne, 
 With pride and peace and glory flown, 
 Its royal colors thickly strewn 
 
 With care? 
 
 Is it some woman's radiant hair, 
 
 The former pride of some proud head ? 
 Has age shot silver arrows where 
 The sister tresses shimmering are? 
 Has Beauty scorned the change to share 
 And fled ? 
 
 Or has the former owner died ? 
 
 What pangs or pleasures felt she last ? 
 The pressure of some true heart tried, 
 Some haunting thoughts of fate defied. 
 Or turned she to some love denied 
 Long past? 
 
 O relic of some life gone by, 
 
 Or of some bosom beating yet ! 
 Were voice but thine how might I sigh 
 O'er some heart's hallowed history — 
 Some long life's mournful mystery — 
 Regret ! 
 
 Cold world of fashion, false and vain. 
 How much in thy deceit we trust ! 
 Forgetful that thy glittering train, 
 Like this fair tress must, grain by grain. 
 Be scattered and resolved again 
 To dust. 
 
THE LITTLE FIDDLER'S SONG. 
 
 I FIDDLE for breakfast, I fiddle for dinner, 
 I fiddle for saint and I fiddle for sinner ; 
 From morning till night my little bare feet 
 Go cheerily roaming from street to street ; 
 I pocket the pennies and pocket the dimes, 
 And I crook my elbow to suit the times, 
 With my squeak ! squeak ! do ! re ! mi ! fa ! 
 
 I fiddle for maid and I fiddle for master, 
 Where faces are fairest I fiddle the faster ; 
 Where money is spent or where money is made, 
 I'm often rebuffed, but oftener paid ; 
 I play for the poor and I play for the proud. 
 And I pass my cap to the kind-hearted crowd. 
 With my squeak ! squeak ! do ! re ! mi ! f a ! 
 
 Few know the joy that a vagabond feels, 
 With a fiddle to play and a dog at his heels ; 
 A-roaming from palace to cottager's door, 
 Amusing the rich and delighting the poor, 
 Content to sleep anywhere when it comes night, 
 A peaceful conscience making " all right," 
 With my squeak ! squeak ! do ! re ! mi ! fa ! 
 
 175 
 
176 THE LITTLE FIDDLER'S SONG. 
 
 The world owes a living to Rover and me ; 
 We cheerfully take it, whatever it be, 
 Eating our dinner in quiet, alone — 
 I taking the meat, he taking the bone ; 
 Then, taking the road when 'tis time that we jog. 
 Together we tramp it — myself and my dog, 
 With our squeak ! squeak ! do ! re ! mi ! f a ! 
 
 I travel by land and I travel by sea, 
 
 So careless and happy and healthy and free : 
 
 With a crust in my pocket and peace in my heart, 
 
 I'm ready to rest or I'm ready to start ; 
 
 Gayly I wander 'twixt palace and hut. 
 
 Merrily scraping the jolly cat-gut, 
 
 With its squeak ! squeak ! do ! re ! mi ! fa ! 
 
 Where wild blows the wind and where frost fills the air, 
 Where rivers are icy and mountains are bare ; 
 In climes where the orange and jasmine in bloom 
 Load the wandering breeze with the sweetest perfume — 
 Right tired, sometimes, but disconsolate never, 
 I trustingly swear by my fiddle for ever. 
 
 With its squeak ! squeak ! do ! re ! mi ! f a ! 
 
 -«. 
 I haven't a sorrow, I haven't a care, 
 Though naked my feet and though rugged my fare ; 
 And as for my clothes being ragged or small, 
 Why Adam and Eve had just no clothes at all ; 
 So, sure that I'm much better off' than were they, 
 I fiddle and fiddle and fiddle away, 
 
 With my squeak ! squeak ! do ! re ! mi ! fa ! 
 
THE LITTLE FIDDLER'S SONG. 177 
 
 I fiddle to-day and I fiddle to-morrow, 
 
 I fiddle for joy and I fiddle for sorrow ; 
 
 In the North, in the South, in the East, in the West, 
 
 Wherever my fiddle will pay me the best ; 
 
 A musical elbow I find is the thing 
 
 To Poverty rob of her bitterest sting, 
 
 With its squeak ! squeak ! do ! re ! mi ! f a ! 
 
 I fiddle for breakfast, I fiddle for dinner, 
 
 I fiddle for saint and I fiddle for sinner ; 
 
 From morning till night, wnth my little bare feet, 
 
 I cheerily wander from street to street ; 
 
 I pocket the pennies and pocket the dimes, 
 
 Shaking my elbow to suit the times. 
 
 With my squeak ! squeak ! do ! re ! mi ! fa ! 
 M 
 
TO A FLOWER FROM GERTRUDE'S TOMB. 
 
 AROSE, a pure, white rose, so sweet, so fair, 
 One well might deem thy spirit hidden there. 
 Its flight to heaven staying yet a while 
 Slome loving mourner's sorrow to beguile. 
 I kiss the flower — its petals, half unfurled, 
 So like thy heart — " unspotted from the world," 
 Its gentle fragrance, delicate and pure — 
 So like thy guileless spirit's portraiture. 
 'Twas gathered from thy grave — this little rose — 
 Where its main stem such lavish verdure throws ; 
 The cold, forbidding features of the tomb 
 Lie hidden in its sweet embrace of bloom. 
 As if the vine had caught the tender grace 
 Thy smile once had, to cheer a gloomy place. 
 178 
 
AFTER THE WAR. 
 
 OVER the stony street, clamp, clamp, clamp 
 Ride the cavalrymen from the camp ; 
 With carbines slung and sabres bright, 
 Home they ride from foray and fight. 
 Grimed with their battles lost and won, 
 Husband, lover, father and son 
 
 Riding home. 
 
 Tramp, tramp through the dusty street 
 Rings the sound of returning feet ; 
 Through the valleys and over the hills. 
 The throb, throb of their marching thrills. 
 With folded banners and sullen drums. 
 Rank and file the regiment comes 
 
 Marching home. 
 
 Heavily fall the hoofs of the horses. 
 
 Clattering home with the cavalrymen ; 
 Steadily tramp the feet of the forces. 
 
 Marching home from the wars again. 
 Muskets silent and sabres sheathed, 
 Peace on the gleaming steel has breathed, 
 God be praised ! 
 
 179 
 
8o AFTER THE WAR, 
 
 Alas ! for desolate hearts and homes 
 Where the long-awaited never comes ! 
 Where the hearth is swept and fire kept bright 
 For eyes that never will see its light — 
 Where affection waits, and waits in vain, 
 For the step that never will come again 
 From the war I 
 
LINES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF JAMES E. VAN STEENBURG, OF 
 FISHKILL VILLAGE, DUCHESS Co., N. Y. 
 
 AND thou art gone ! Gone as the brave oak goes 
 When, lightning-riven, it falls in all its strength 
 Gone like a star struck from its shining sphere. 
 With all its brilliant radiance undimmed ; 
 Gone, like a sun that's set, with all the gold 
 And purple of a noble life w^ell spent, 
 Making thy couch of death irradiate. 
 Thine absence doth a starless twilight leave 
 In hearts that loved thee, yet is it illumed 
 By the rich glow the memory of thy days — 
 So rightly lived, so calmly yielded up — 
 Paints in warm, glowing, glorious tints 
 Along the dark horizon of regret. 
 
 The dew was yet upon thy leaves of life ; 
 Time, in his fiery thirst, had not yet sapped 
 The morning freshness from thy manly pulse, 
 The summer sunshine from thy generous heart 
 Thy feet yet rested 'mid the rosy bloom, 
 The noonday light and warmth and crystal truth 
 
 16 181 
 
1 82 LINES. 
 
 Of grand existence, and the curdling clouds 
 Of wintry age bad not, as yet, obscured 
 One star in the fair zenith of thy days. 
 The royal gold of faithful friendship filled 
 The coffers of thy life, yet thou didst die ! — 
 
 Die, while Love clung to thee and prayed aloud 
 
 In direst agony that thou wouldst live. 
 
 Die, while True Friendship, self-forgetful, stood 
 
 And watched with smited heart thy failing pulse. 
 
 Die, while Affection's meek resistance fought 
 
 The one foe stronger than are all our friends ! 
 
 Ay ! while we wept Death offered thee his hand, 
 
 And thou didst take it fearlessly, like one 
 
 Wiio only sees in him the trusty guide 
 
 Who waits to lead us through Life's final gates 
 
 Lito the better country just beyond. 
 
 Droop, O ye village elms ! beneath whose shade 
 So long and peacefully his heart did beat — 
 Droop low and sadly for that heart is still ! 
 Turn ye your morning dews to tears and shed 
 Them tenderly in memory of him 
 Who shall to your green arches come no more. 
 Your leaves will fall in autumn, but his feet 
 Will never rustle their crisp depths again ; 
 Your branches will put forth their buds in spring 
 And birds will build there, but his loving eye 
 Shall look upon your buds and birds no more. 
 Droop low, ye village elms, his sacred dust 
 Has passed beneath your archway to that couch 
 Whose lonely pillow he shall never leave ! 
 
LINES. 183 
 
 Ye mountain peaks, bid ye the passing clouds 
 To crape your summits with their pale gray mists. 
 Death has put out the eyes that loved ye well, 
 And hushed the voice that joyed to speak your praise. 
 A note is stolen from the lofty scale 
 Of human harmony ; and all the sweet 
 Resounding echoes climbing up your heights 
 Must miss one from among their cheerful choir. 
 
 Cease, cease to toll, ye village church-bells, cease ! 
 
 Our hearts are turned to funeral-bells, and toll 
 
 For one who is not ; and the aisles of thought, 
 
 Where Memory, a pale-faced mourner kneels, 
 
 Ring with the echoes of departed feet. 
 
 Which, save in dreams, will walk our ways no more : 
 
 But Faith, consoling Faith, points from the tomb 
 
 Toward the far, eternal valleys, where 
 
 The angels sow the fields of night with stars, 
 
 And bids us staunch our wounds with the sweet hope 
 
 That soul to soul we there may meet again 
 
 Him whom Our Father, in His wisdom, called 
 
 From earth to be with Him in paradise. 
 
LINES TO A BOUCtUET. 
 
 SWEET gift ! to thee, on friendship's altar cast, 
 My heart kneels down, o'erflowing with emotion, 
 For thou hast brought me pictures of a past 
 
 Which memory worships with a strange devotion. 
 
 Thou bringest visions of a distant hearth, 
 A far-off roof-tree and a rushing river — 
 
 A meadow w^iich gave golden cowslips birth, 
 A brook whose song was " ever and for ever." 
 
 I seem to see a well-remembered face, 
 
 I seem to listen to familiar voices, 
 I wander in a well-remembered place ; 
 
 In days of old the new to-day rejoices. 
 
 I feel a well-known pressure on my hand. 
 And on my yielding lip and cheek another ; 
 
 On childhood's sunny threshold do I stand 
 And gaze into the sweet eyes of my mother. 
 
 Long-faded sunsets glow again for me, 
 
 Again are gentle hands my locks caressing ; 
 
 I kneel once more beside a father's knee. 
 
 And bow my forehead to his tender blessing. 
 
 184 
 
LINES TO A BOUQUET. 185 
 
 Fair phantom fingers lead me down the vale 
 
 Where sleep for ever those my heart hath cherished. 
 
 And Memory's ghostly feet glide cold and pale 
 Among the frozen flowers of summers perished. 
 
 The grave, behold ! gives back its early dead, 
 The past yields up its Herculaneum treasure ; 
 
 Long-silent lips, dipped in Life's rosy red, 
 
 Sigh, sing, sob, laugh again, in pain or pleasure. 
 
 Along my path lie scattered tearful smiles — 
 Scattered and buried in the sad " No more" — 
 
 Which now a blossom's simple breath beguiles 
 To rise from the white camps of " Gone before." 
 
 16 * 
 
NEVER COMPLAIN 
 
 NEVER complain ; why should you bare 
 To the world your heart ? 
 For your red wounds what does it care, 
 However they smart? 
 Why burden its gales 
 With your woes and wails ? 
 Hush them and crush them — 
 Never complain ! 
 
 II. 
 
 What though your best aims for success 
 
 Seem wasted labor? 
 And what though Fate seems but to bless 
 Your richer neighbor? 
 Learn to endure it, 
 Can complaint cure it? 
 Your share bravely bear — - 
 Never complain ! 
 186 
 
NEVER COMPLAIN. 1 87 
 
 III. 
 
 Because your path is drear and dark, 
 
 Must 3^ou shadow mine ? 
 Because I sail a leaky bark, 
 Shall I founder thine ? 
 
 Nay ! trim your own sails 
 To weather Life's gales ; 
 Qj-iail not and fail not — 
 Never complain ! 
 
 Craven ! to make another's ears 
 
 Sewers to drain your life 
 Of all its refuse sighs and tears, 
 Ills and petty strife ! 
 'Tis a beggar's due. 
 This " I pity you !" 
 Disgracing, debasing — 
 Never complain ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Why will ye to the weakness yield 
 
 Of base repining? 
 'Tis cowardice — best kept concealed. 
 This senseless whining. 
 Why lend to Malice 
 Your heart's best chalice ? 
 She'll drain it and stain it — 
 Never complain ! 
 
1 88 NEVER COMPLAIN. 
 
 VI. 
 
 What though hope's golden harvest be 
 
 Mingled with tares? 
 What though in joys attained you see 
 But thickening cares? 
 Bear your own load, 
 Nor another goad 
 With thongs of your wrongs — 
 Never complain ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Less sins than fretting are called crime 
 
 In this world of pelf: 
 Be strong, be still ; 'tis strength sublime 
 That conquereth self. 
 
 What though )^our heart ache — 
 What though your heart break ! 
 Wear it and bear it — 
 Never complain ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Whate'er the sorrow you endure. 
 
 You can find a worse — 
 Some deeper wound more hard to cure, 
 Some bitterer curse. 
 In comforting others — 
 Friends, sisters, brothers — 
 Find relief for your grief — 
 Never complain ! 
 
NEVER COMPLAIN. 189 
 
 IX. 
 
 A day will come when all the pain 
 
 Will be requited — 
 When clouded skies will clear again, 
 And wrongs be righted. 
 Smother your sighs, man ! 
 Stifle your cries, man ! 
 Moan not and groan not — 
 Never complain ! 
 
EBB AND FLOW. 
 
 THE morn is on the march, her banner flies 
 In blue and golden glory o'er the skies ; 
 The songs of wakening birds are on the breeze, 
 The stir of fragrant zephyrs in the trees. 
 Waves leap, full freighted, to the sunny shore. 
 Their scrolls of snow and azure written o'er 
 With hope and joy and youth and pleasure new, 
 While surges fast the sands with jewels strew — 
 The tide is in ! 
 
 The stars shine down upon a lonely shore, 
 The crested billows sparkle there no more. 
 Poor bits of wreck and tangled seaweed lie 
 With empty shells beneath the silent sky. 
 Along the shore are perished friendships spread. 
 In Hope's exhausted arms lies Pleasure dead ; 
 A life lies stranded on the wreck-strewn beach, 
 The ebbing waves beyond its feeble reach — 
 The tide is out ! 
 190 
 
THE OLD CLOCK IN THE CORNER. 
 
 I MIND me of two pleasant things 
 My childhood loved to know, 
 And smile on them as memory brings 
 
 The scenes of " long ago." 
 I see them now, as down the past 
 
 Mute Fancy's footsteps fall — 
 An old clock in the corner dim, 
 A shadow on the wall. 
 
 The clock was old and dull with years ; 
 
 Its dial scarred and wan, 
 For it had marked the smiles and tears 
 
 Of generations gone. 
 With timid eyes I used to watch 
 
 Its figure, dark and tall, 
 And 'twas my mother's shadow fell 
 
 Beside it on the wall. 
 
 For ever there at eventide. 
 
 That form so slight and fair, 
 The old clock ticking at her side. 
 
 And roses in her hair ! 
 
 191 
 
192 THE OLD CLOCK IN THE CORNER. 
 
 And there I saw the stars look down 
 
 And pallid moonbeams fall 
 Round the old clock in the corner lone — 
 
 The shadow on the wall. 
 
 How oft, when nestled to her breast, 
 
 I've heard her whispered prayer 
 That by the gracious Saviour blest 
 
 Might be her darling there. 
 And when I waked in those dear arms, 
 
 My dreamy eyes would fall 
 On the ol(j clock in the corner dark — 
 
 Her shadow on the wall. 
 
 The spring-time came, the robins sung, 
 
 The gladiolus bloomed. 
 The wild rose by the roadside hung, 
 
 And all the air perfumed. 
 And still I saw my mother's smile 
 
 Illume the ancient hall. 
 The old clock ticking at her side — 
 
 Her shadow on the wall. 
 
 Alas ! there came a time when lone 
 
 My heart grew evermore ; 
 I found that I had leaned upon 
 
 A shadow — nothing more. • 
 Still ticking was the grim old clock 
 
 Out in the lonely hall. 
 But gone for aye the form that cast 
 
 The shadow on the wall. 
 
THE OLD CLOCK IN THE CORNER. 193 
 
 For for away in shadow-land 
 
 Where bloom the bright and blest, 
 The loved one with an angel band 
 
 Found her abiding rest. 
 I learned, as I wept beside the clock 
 
 Alone in the gloomy hall, 
 How precious to the heart may be 
 
 A shadow on the wall. 
 
 And love, I learned, is not a breath 
 
 Which time doth wipe away ; 
 Though Life's a blossom kissed by death, 
 
 Then left to slow decay. 
 And Time, the ceaseless monitor, 
 
 Is the old clock in the hall. 
 And treasures which we cherish most 
 
 But shadows on the wall. 
 N 
 
THE ODD FELLOW'S FUNERAL. 
 
 "nr^WAS almost sunset, and alone I wandered 
 X Among the mansions of the dreamless dead ; 
 
 Pensive and sad, on other scenes I pondered — 
 On loved ones lost, on joys for ever fled. 
 
 The withering breath of autumn, fliint and low, 
 Came sadly sighing past each quiet tomb, 
 
 While shadows, gathering upon evening's brow, 
 Added their darkness to the deepening gloom. 
 
 Softly upon the gentle air of even 
 
 Stole to mine ear lone notes of music sweet, 
 So distant that they seemed to glide from heaven 
 
 Into my sad soul's innermost retreat. 
 
 It seemed as if some angel-band were here 
 Chanting soft requiems above the dead ; 
 
 While one lone star hung like a pitying tear 
 
 Above each slumberer's couch, by twilight shed. 
 
 Near and more near the mystic music drew ; 
 
 I heard the throbbing of a funeral drum : 
 Another silent dweller then, I knew, 
 
 Approached this pale-doored city of the dumb. 
 
 )94 
 
THE ODD FELLOW'S FUNERAL, 195 
 
 Then came the mourners with their measured marches, 
 Their shrouded banner and the solemn bier, 
 
 Bringing, beneath the evening's starry arches, 
 A brother to lie down for ever here. 
 
 Upon the coffin his regalia lay, 
 
 Where roses freshly gathered shed perfume 
 Sweet as sweet life upon the white array 
 
 Of halls all echoless and plates all g^loom. 
 
 A branch of evergreen from each kind hand. 
 
 To symbolize belief in life immortal 
 And joy eternal in the eternal land. 
 
 Dropped tenderly upon the tomb's cold portal. 
 
 Ashes to ashes, dust be unto dust ! 
 
 The clinking trowel finishes the tale : 
 The spirit soars where neither moth nor rust 
 
 Corrupts, nor friendships fade, nor griefs assail. 
 
 'Tis o'er ! The solemn ritual is said, 
 The funeral cortege vanishes in gloom. 
 
 But I still linger by the buried dead 
 
 And shed my tears upon a stranger's tomb. 
 
 In tropic climes had been his early home : 
 Ah ! do his dear ones wait his coming there .^ 
 
 There do they pray for him when night hath come 
 Nor know their darling is beyond their prayer .f* 
 
 While these sad thoughts arise, my memory brings 
 Her own great griefs and opens them anew ; 
 
 For eyes must weep and sorrow plant her stings. 
 Albeit God is good and Heaven is true. 
 
196 THE ODD FELLOW'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Sorrows there are that never find repose, 
 
 Griefs that the wounded heart can ne'er forget, 
 
 Deep graves withhi our lives that never close, 
 Great suns of bitterness that never set. 
 
 I had a brother once ; long since he died : 
 
 Far from the scenes of childhood's sunny bloom 
 
 He wooed illusive Fame to be his bride — 
 He found a deathbed and a stranger's tomb ! 
 
 Kind brothers laid him in his early grave. 
 
 And soothed his dying hour with gentle care ; 
 
 God's blessing on that brotherhood I crave. 
 
 And for them breathe a sister's grateful prayer. 
 
I 
 
 MY PUPILS. 
 
 HAVE two pupils, young and strong, 
 Restless and roving all day long ; 
 Bent, half the time, o'er dry old books, 
 And half upon their own good looks. 
 
 Some years ago a Father's care 
 Sent them my study hours to share — 
 
 Two wandering truants, full of sins, 
 
 A pair of tantalizing twins. 
 
 Yet they're not wicked, only wild ; 
 
 But what a charge for such a child 
 As I was when at first I sought 
 To teach them as they should be taught ! 
 
 Try as I may their ways to lead, 
 I find they're leading me instead ; 
 And, often puzzled what to do, 
 Pm thankful that there are but two. 
 
 In vain, whenever comes the night 
 I shut them both in prisons tight ; 
 
 In vain, when comes the merry morn, 
 I ope the doors and sagely warn ; 
 17 * 197 
 
198 MT PUPILS. 
 
 They gravely wink at what I say ; 
 
 Then, self-reHant, go their way, 
 
 As full of mirth, as free from pride. 
 
 As though they ne'er had heard me chide. 
 
 Loads of advice the good world brings 
 To keep these youths in leading-strings ; 
 But they, the saucy things, declare 
 Precept is cheap, example rare ! 
 
 They split ujDon all sorts of rocks. 
 Give goodly folk all sorts of shocks ; 
 Find earnest Christians out of church. 
 And leave long sermons in the lurch. 
 
 They go where I forbid them to. 
 
 View scenes they're told they should not view ; 
 Trust where most men suspicion feel — 
 Where fewest pray they with me kneel. 
 
 They take the Bible for their priest, 
 And like it best explained the least j 
 
 If I must shoulder all their sins, 
 
 I wonder where the list begins. 
 
 Yet some good things do they behold — 
 These pupils whom I'm prone to scold — 
 And with them both I visions view 
 Which pardon wins for ills they do. 
 
 They see, in guilt's distracted face, 
 
 Still signs of a redeeming grace ; 
 And where a brother falls, they say, 
 '' Oh lift and help him on his way !" 
 
MT PUPILS. 199 
 
 Real poverty, disguised in gold, 
 In Luxury's lap they oft behold. 
 
 While truest wealth and noblest worth 
 
 In rags and ruin walk the earth. 
 
 In fallen woman's blasted fame 
 
 They see not unrepentant shame ; 
 
 They glance the broken heart within — 
 Own hers the shame, but man's the sin. 
 
 No breast so black they cannot see 
 
 Therein some spot of purity ; 
 And little seeds of faith sublime 
 They've found in hearts of calloused crime. 
 
 Where Justice flings its stern decrees 
 They Pity see on bended knees, 
 
 Saying, " Many a sin, world unforgiven, 
 
 Its pardon findeth up in heaven." 
 
 And thus, however I may preach, 
 
 My pupils still their teacher teach : 
 May He who gave them to my care 
 Chide not that they no better are ! 
 
LUTHER LANE. 
 
 WITHIN a tottering tenement, 
 Upon a patch of ground 
 Where breeze and bloom are never blent 
 
 Nor ray of sunlight found — 
 A spot which beauty ever shuns, 
 
 Where gloomy shadows reign — 
 Dwells one of Nature's honest sons, 
 Whose name is Luther Lane. 
 
 No tree nor floweret decks the place, 
 
 No signs of woman's care,* 
 No smiles upon the old man's face, 
 
 No children by his chair : 
 The robin there ne'er rests its wing, 
 
 No cricket chirps its strain. 
 No blossoms blush, no birdlings sing, 
 
 For lonely Luther Lane. 
 
 So quiet this remote retreat, 
 It seems the home of death : 
 
 One hears the heart of silence beat, 
 While Nature holds her breath.. 
 200 
 
LUTHER LANE. 20I 
 
 Like shivered spears or broken blades 
 
 On blighted battle-plain, 
 The grasses droop, the daisy fades. 
 
 Where dwelleth Luther Lane. 
 
 Li weariness and dreariness 
 
 Unvaried pass his days. 
 No friendly lips to blame or bless. 
 
 No voice to plead or praise. 
 Unheeded shine the stars on high. 
 
 Unheeded falls the rain ; 
 'Tis all the same, w^hatever sky 
 
 Bends over Luther Lane. 
 
 Believe me, 'twas not always so : 
 
 That bent brow once was bold ; 
 'Twould be less shrunken now, I trow, 
 
 Were not the heart so cold. 
 Once, ne'er a lighter footstep fell. 
 
 Once, ne'er a blither swain — 
 Triumphant was the village belle 
 
 Who danced with Luther Lane. - 
 
 'Twas then — in those forgotten years 
 
 When but to breathe was bliss, 
 And Luther thought the " vale of tears" 
 
 Was any world but this — 
 He met a maid whose merry eyes 
 
 Could flatter and could feign. 
 And she, with mingled smiles and sighs, 
 
 Bewitched poor Lutlier Lane. 
 
202 LUTHER LANE. 
 
 Each Sabbath eve, in simple garb, 
 
 With pulses bounding high. 
 His bosom bleeding with the barb 
 
 Which Cupid loves to fly, 
 Bearing Love's electricity 
 
 In every throbbing vein. 
 With fluttering felicity 
 
 Wooed loving Luther Lane ! 
 
 Poor Luther ever had been taught 
 
 That naught v\^as made in vain ; 
 A woman's promises, he thought, 
 
 Included were, 'tis plain. 
 So, trustingly, he knelt before 
 
 The girl he hoped to gain, 
 Who vowed that she, a twelvemonth o'er, 
 
 Would wed with Luther Lane. 
 
 Now there are hearts, like gypsy's palm. 
 
 Which, e'er the fate is told 
 That makes another's blight or balm, 
 
 Must first be crossed with gold ; 
 So Luther's ladye-love declared 
 
 The two must two remain 
 Till Fortune had her favors shared 
 
 With worthy Luther Lane. 
 
 A lonely man in lonely mine. 
 
 He labored far away : 
 What sun as bright as Hope can shine. 
 
 Or make a shorter day? 
 
LUTHER LANE. 203 
 
 A year rolled by, another passed— 
 
 He hastened home again 
 His love to greet ; for rich at last 
 
 Was hopeful Luther Lane. 
 
 He sought her far and sought her wide, 
 
 And found her but to know 
 She bore another's seal of pride 
 
 Upon her fickle brow. 
 She curled her haughty lip in scorn, 
 
 And met with cold disdain 
 The broken heart, the look forlorn. 
 
 Of jilted Luther Lane. 
 
 Cursed be thy greed of gold !" he cried ; 
 
 " My heart for trusting thee ; 
 Where woman's breast can avarice hide, 
 
 Cursed may she ever be ! 
 The hearthstone of my life is cold ; 
 
 Ne'er can it glow again, 
 Its chill shall yet thine own enfold — 
 
 Remember Luther Lane !" 
 
 From all he'd known and loved before 
 
 He turned to this lone spot— 
 A shell upon a silent shore. 
 
 By every one forgot. 
 No outward indications show 
 
 His bosom's dreary pain ; 
 But life is one long, bitter woe 
 
 For crazy Luther Lane. 
 
CHILDE SIBYL. 
 
 SHE flies before me down the garden path, 
 Smiles when I frown, defies my potent wrath ; 
 Pelts me with roses when I would rebuke. 
 Returns my sternest glance with saucy look ; 
 On tip-toe stands behind my elbow chair 
 And hides her white hands in my grizzled hair, 
 Then drops her bright head down upon my shoulder 
 Ah ! were I younger or were she but older ! — 
 
 What then? 
 
 She gives me greeting with her rosy lips, 
 
 Wafts graceful farewells from her finger tips ; 
 
 Along my sober path presumes to dance. 
 
 And through her curls darts back her merry glance ; 
 
 Then flies, and flying bids me follow after. 
 
 Hides from my sight, allures me with her laughter ; 
 
 I find her, swing her to my stalwart shoulder : 
 
 Ah ! were I younger or were she but older ! — 
 
 What then ? 
 
 Around my neck her dimpled arms she throws. 
 Turns pirouettes upon her pretty toes, 
 
 204 
 
CHILDE SIBTL. 205 
 
 Nestles in mine her soft, bewitching hands, 
 While she confides her childish plots and plans, 
 And if I find some trifle done amiss, 
 She " hushes up" reproaches with a kiss ! 
 How can I find it in my heart to scold her? 
 Ah ! were I younger or were she but older ! — 
 
 What then ? 
 
 Oft when I think some sweet caress is missed, 
 
 My unexpecting brow is slyly kissed. 
 
 Or in feigned sleep if her fair head be pressed 
 
 In momentary quiet on my breast, 
 
 And unto hers my swarthy lip be neared. 
 
 She starts and veils her bright face with my beard ; 
 
 Were she more timid or were I but bolder. 
 
 Were I but younger or if she were older ! — 
 
 What then ? 
 
 She loves all nature— she is Nature's child, 
 So brightly pure, so purely undefiled ! 
 I watch her flitting in the fragrant gloom, 
 The fiiirest flower where all is flowery bloom ; 
 And from my heart springs up a prayer to bless 
 With all that's loveliest her loveliness. 
 I call, she comes— to my broad breast I fold her : 
 Ah ! were I younger or were she but older ! — 
 
 What then ? 
 
 Up from my knee, to-day, her face she lifts 
 While through the oriel window softly drifts 
 Sunlight, which rests upon her golden hair, 
 Like the soft blessing of a silent prayer. 
 18 
 
2o6 CHILD E SIBTL. 
 
 I lay my trembling hands upon her brow, 
 Ah ! dare I wake her from her child-life now ? 
 Close, closer to my yearning heart I hold her : 
 Nay, were I younger or were she but older ! — 
 
 Then ! Then ! 
 
THE TOY. 
 
 MY cousin Flora has found a new toy 
 With which she trifles to-day, 
 As a child with the coral and bells disports, 
 Which to-morrow it throws away. 
 
 II. 
 
 And why do we bitterly watch her game ? 
 
 Why do we painfully start? 
 As she idly toys with the throbbing thing — 
 
 'Tis only a human heart. 
 
 Ill . 
 
 Only a heart which fell in her way, 
 Earnest and strong and unwrung. 
 
 Eager of purpose, and proud and brave. 
 Manly and noble and young. 
 
 Unused to the thrill of a woman's touch. 
 
 New to love's passionate joy : 
 Prone to believe in a woman's truth — 
 
 So, her legitimate toy. 
 
 207 
 
2o8 THE TOT. 
 
 V. 
 
 She captured It with her lily-white hands, 
 
 She kindled it with a blush, 
 She set it a-flame with the mantling glow 
 
 Of her forehead's rosy flush. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She braided it in with her golden hair, 
 She ensnared it with her smile, 
 
 She dazzled it with her radiant eyes, 
 And bewitched it with her guile. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She wove it a spell with a glance and sigh, 
 
 Bewildered it with her grace. 
 Then parted her crimson lips in surprise 
 
 As it broke before her face ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ah ! my cousin Flora may play too long, 
 
 And repent of it too late ; 
 Love is a terrible thing to transmute 
 
 In the crucible of hate ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 And 'twere well if unto my lady fair 
 Were the simple art but known, 
 
 Of detecting the pebble polished bright 
 From the rarer precious stone. 
 
THE TOY. 209 
 
 For the woman who plays with false and real. 
 
 Coveting both as her gains, 
 Finds the true will pass from her eager clasp 
 
 While the counterfeit remains. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And it were well in the ruin she wreaks 
 
 If only a heart would break, 
 But so often a soul is swallowed up 
 
 In a single heart's earthquake. 
 
 And the tidal wave of a love betrayed 
 In its mighty strength bears down 
 
 The manliness out of a strong man's life, 
 And leaveth it there to drown. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 So one strong word I would whisper low 
 
 In the ear of my lady fair. 
 As she sits 'mid the ruins of broken hearts 
 
 And smiles at the wreck — Beware ! 
 18* 
 
OUR OWN. 
 
 THE child that sports upon our knee 
 And clings to our embrace, 
 With all the happy witchery 
 
 That lights a childish face — 
 If he hath blessed another's arms 
 
 And other birth hath known, 
 How coldly do we view his charms 
 Beside our fair, " Our Own," 
 
 A mansion rears its lofty walls 
 
 With Wealth's impress thereon. 
 With stately towers and spacious halls 
 
 And sculptured coping-stone ; 
 We upward cast no envious eye 
 
 To note its grandeur lone. 
 But, rearing castles in the sky, 
 
 Do loftier build " Our Own." 
 
 The world holds forth its glittering arms 
 
 And beckons to its breast, 
 Displaying its alluring charms 
 
 'Neath Pleasure's dazzling crest ; 
 
 210 
 
OUR OWJ^. 211 
 
 But turning from its subtle art 
 
 Where purer joys are known, 
 How sweet to nestle to that heart 
 
 We know is all " Our Own !" 
 
 Though lowlier be the vine-clad cot 
 
 Than towering mansiqns nigh, 
 To eyes content it is a spot 
 
 Too dear for wealth to buy. 
 There is the kettle's busy song 
 
 Upon the warm hearthstone. 
 And joyous faces all day long 
 
 To glad and bless "Our Own." 
 
 Of all the wealth of all the world, 
 
 The dearest and the best 
 Is where affection's wings are furled 
 
 And loving lips are prest. 
 'Tis not the gilded hoard of gold 
 
 That brightens life alone, 
 But knowing what we have and hold 
 
 Is honestly " Our Own." 
 
THE CHURCH-BELL'S LAMENT. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE OLD STONE CHURCH IN FISHKILL 
 VILLAGE. 
 
 " I3IMM! boom!" said an old church-bell, 
 
 jj As swiftly I hurried by ; 
 " Bimm ! boom ! I've a tale to tell, 
 Oh list to my lonely sigh !" 
 The night was cold, the air was chill, 
 
 But so mournfully fell the tone, 
 It seemed my very heart to thrill, 
 And I paused as the bell went on : 
 
 " Bimm ! boom ! I've heard strange things 
 
 Come forth from the lips of men. 
 And ceaselessly my old tongue swings 
 
 As I think them o'er again. 
 'Twas yesternight, in the pale moonlight, 
 
 That a wary plan was told 
 To tear me down from my lofty height, 
 
 For the church was growing old. 
 
 " Bimm ! boom ! And I heard them say 
 That the building was too small 
 For those who wished to come and pray 
 
 To the mighty God of all. 
 212 
 
THE CHURCH-BELVS LAMENT. 213 
 
 But I looked down and saw all 'round 
 
 Full many a vacant pew, 
 And I said, They want but wider ground 
 
 To indufe the wealthy few. 
 
 They said that the church had rusty grown 
 
 In the wearing hand of Time, 
 And no architectural beauty shone 
 
 In the turret where I chime. 
 The pews were low, the desk too high 
 
 For the listening flock to hear. 
 But I knew the cause was a sleepy eye 
 
 And an inattentive ear. 
 
 Then louder still their plans were voiced 
 
 And thus the word went round : 
 Each stone and timber, joint and joist, 
 
 Let's level with the ground ; 
 And in their place a structure grand 
 
 Shall the hand of Fashion rear ;' 
 Alas ! that Fashion e'er should stand 
 
 'Twixt God and his creatures here ! 
 
 Bimm ! boom ! in this turret high 
 
 For a century I've swung. 
 And tolled the years, as they hurried by. 
 
 With the stroke of my iron tongue ; 
 I've watched the battle beneath me here, 
 
 I've seen the victory won ; 
 I've rung to the conqueror's heart, good cheer, 
 
 And tolled when his work was done. 
 
214 THE CHURCH-BELL'S LAMENT. 
 
 " I've rung with joy at the infant's birth, 
 
 I've w^atched his course to fame — 
 Seen him embraced by his mother earth 
 
 When back to her arms he came ; 
 I've watched the gay or saddened files 
 
 As they've thronged the old church door ; 
 Ah ! many a foot has trod these aisles 
 
 Which ne'er will tread them more. 
 
 "I have rung out my merriest peal 
 
 For the maiden's bridal-day, 
 And heard her vow for woe or weal 
 
 Her fresh young life away. 
 I've seen her brow grow old with years 
 
 In the home she honored well ; 
 I've seen her grave bedewed with tears 
 
 As I struck her funeral knell ; 
 
 " I've seen the shadowy churchyard fill 
 
 With forms whose tasks were done ; 
 In yonder graveyard, cold and still, 
 
 They've gathered, one by one. 
 I've seen the old, the grave, the gay. 
 
 And youth in its fairest flower. 
 Like the leaves of autumn pass away. 
 
 Since I've swung in this old church-tower. 
 
 " Bimm ! boom ! Oh let no hand 
 Be raised to tear me down ! 
 For Memory's sake let the old church stand, 
 Unscathed by vandal's frown. 
 
THE CHURCH-BELIJS LAMENT. 215 
 
 'Tis true the roof is moss-grown now, 
 
 And the lichened walls are gray, 
 But th'ere's room for the Christian heart to bow 
 
 And the earnest lip to pray." 
 
 The clock struck twelve — the church-bell ceased 
 
 Its sad complaint to croon, 
 And a darksome cloud, with silver fleeced, 
 
 Passed off' from the full, round moon. 
 I looked aloft at the turret gray, 
 
 And dashed away my tears, 
 As I prayed the bell, untouched, might stay 
 
 In its home of a hundred years. 
 
BLOOD! 
 
 AY ! it is ever thus — " blood, blood !" you cry 
 With your well-cut, aristocratic lip ; 
 Who lacks it, in your scrutinizing eye, 
 Lacks every claim to social fellowship. 
 
 You prate of proud descent and lines of kings, 
 And boast your own ancestral ties to me ; 
 
 I love you, ladye fair, for many things — 
 Least of them all, your ancient pedigree. 
 
 I have found princely natures, noble blood. 
 
 In men your standard would set down as clowns, 
 
 Their dearest ties, the Common Brotherhood — 
 Their daily lives, the most ennobling crowns. 
 
 Rather had I one such had held the helm 
 
 That launched my pulses on Life's fretful flood. 
 
 Than that a score of princes of the realm 
 Had with diluted greatness cursed my blood. 
 
 Blood ! the line to which drowning pretence clings 
 To save itself. Oh such a rotten rope ! 
 
 Yet deemed the most acceptable of things 
 To lay beneath the social microscope. 
 216 
 
BLOOD I 2.17 
 
 A man is what he is in spite of blood ; 
 
 If he have lack of more intrinsic worth 
 It matters little be he of the brood 
 
 Of all the proudest Incas of the earth. 
 
 Your grandsire was a lord, his sire a duke, 
 His sire a prince, as you have evidence — 
 
 Here's an arithmetic which makes blood look. 
 To simple eyes, of sorry consequence : 
 
 To your grandsire you stand one-fourth related. 
 To your greatgrandsire you are eighth by claim ; 
 
 To his proud sire, again, 'tis estimated 
 A sixteenth link is all you dare to name. 
 
 Here are but three removes — one more again 
 Leaves to you but a thirty-second part — 
 
 Scarcely enough to fertilize a brain 
 
 Or have a marked eflect upon the heart. 
 
 Should we go farther back, 'twould be to find 
 The precious drops become so very few ; 
 
 To see where in yourself they are enshrined 
 Would be no easy thing for me or you. 
 
 To believe your noble self the sweet result 
 
 Of honest excellence I am content ; 
 My heart bows low to worth, but Dens vult 
 
 It never shall be fettered to descent^ 
 
 Nor to the shallow sophistry of clique^ 
 
 With its white-handed claims to high degree — 
 
 Pure grains of human gold I do not seek 
 In such weak rinsings of nobility. 
 19 
 
2l8 BLOOD I 
 
 Fools have been known to spring from kings direct, 
 And in their idiocy have grovs^n apace, 
 
 While giants in strength and kings in intellect 
 Have been the offspring of a peasant race. 
 
 I fear, fair ladye, that I am too blind, 
 
 Even w^ith the powerful lens of habitude, 
 
 To honor see in birth alone, or find 
 
 Transmitted greatness in a drop of blood. 
 
PRESSED FLOWERS. 
 FOUND IN A BOOK PUBLISHED IN 1704. 
 
 I. 
 
 DEAD roses ! crumbling here they lie — 
 What is their past history, 
 What the unsealed mystery 
 Left with these frail flowers to die. 
 What lips have tasted their perfume, 
 What eyes grown brighter for their bloom, 
 What hand did this blue love-knot tie? 
 
 Pale emblems of some broken dream, 
 
 Broken on the wheel of Time ; 
 
 Ashes of some faith sublime 
 Scattered on Life's hurrying stream ; 
 
 Fras^rant embers of regret, 
 
 Dead and pale and silent, yet 
 Full of eloquence supreme ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Cold corpses of some perished love, 
 Coffined 'twixt these sombre pages, 
 'Mid the words of buried sages, 
 
 219 
 
220 PRESSED FLOWERS. 
 
 Cherished trifles, ye do prove 
 
 Truer truths than Wisdom preaches, 
 Sweeter truths than Science teaches : 
 
 Truths with every age enwove — 
 
 Truths of Love's dominion telling 
 O'er the realms of Life for aye : 
 Though the ages roll away ; 
 
 Though the bells of time be knelling 
 Strong and loud, and loud and strong, 
 Death of old and death of young, 
 
 Death of love they're never telling. 
 
 Come, relics of some bygone trust. 
 Come, I have a dead hope too — 
 Dead and dumb and cold as you. 
 
 Long left to ruin and to rust. 
 Let me lay you by its ashes, 
 'Mong its tarnished golden meshes. 
 
 Gently lay you, dust to dust ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 All the world has its dead roses 
 Hidden from the eyes of sages. 
 Shut between the heart's still pages 
 
 And no look or sign discloses 
 How the throb of being centres 
 Where the outward never enters. 
 
 Where some blossom dead rejDoses ! 
 
DON'T YOU REMEMBER? 
 
 ROAMING among the daisies, you and I, 
 The tangled drifts of daisies, glad and young. 
 Beneath the azure of a cloudless sky, 
 The zephyrs catching, as they wander by, 
 
 The tender accents falling from your tongue — 
 Don't you remember ? 
 
 II. 
 
 A country glow upon my girlish cheek. 
 
 As side by side the wooded slopes we rise. 
 Or in the fresh spring mould the beech-sprouts seek 
 Or part the rushes by the winding creek, 
 
 Reading sweet secrets in each other's eyes — 
 Don't you remember ? 
 
 III. 
 
 The soft wind tossing back my light brown hair. 
 
 The robins building in the apple trees ; 
 A scent of roses on the morning air. 
 The birth of buds about us everywhere, 
 
 A warm and tender gladness on the breeze — 
 Don't you remember? 
 
 19* 221 
 
222 DON'T rOU REMEMBER? 
 
 IV. 
 
 The brook that leaped adown the mountain height 
 And sped away, nor ever looked behind 
 
 As if it feared the stern old mountain might 
 
 Find out the secret of its hasty flight, 
 And follow on its truant feet to bind — 
 Don't you remember ? 
 
 The hills we climbed through merry baths of dew 
 
 To catch the sun's light on our laughing faces. 
 Ere he should cast his beams on hearts less true 
 Than yours to me, love, or than mine to you, 
 Wasting the treasure of his first embraces — 
 Don't you remember ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 The stream meandering through the vale below, 
 
 The marshy meadow's reedy banks between. 
 Where the coquettish cowslips flirted so 
 With every breeze, or bent their bright lips low 
 And kissed the water from their beds of green — 
 Don't you remember? 
 
 VII. 
 
 The bit of river southward of the town, 
 
 Pale in the dawn, like some gray lock of hair 
 
 That Winter might have clipped from his old crown. 
 
 And given to Spring to keep when he was gone, 
 In kindly memory of him to wear — 
 Don't you remember ? 
 
DON'T rOU REMEMBER? 223 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The pollard willow, where the honey-bees 
 
 Gave concerts in the branches all day long, 
 The blackbirds whistling in the hickory trees, 
 The bob-o'-link on a milkweed in the breeze, 
 Almost committing suicide with song — 
 Don't you remember ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 The fallen petals by the fruit trees given 
 
 To drape with white the emerald robes of May, 
 Along the country lanes and roadsides driven. 
 As if some young bride in her flight to heaven 
 Her bridal wreath had scattered on the way — 
 Don't you remember? 
 
 The blood-root that came up with such a shriek 
 Whene'er we pulled it from its hiding-places, 
 The plants and mosses that we used to seek. 
 While Earth with her rent bosom could not speak. 
 But as we robbed her breathed hard in our faces- 
 Don't you remember? 
 
 XI . 
 
 The old beech-woods, upon the hillside steep, 
 
 Where the wild ladyslippers always grew. 
 Fair golden harvests that you loved to reap — 
 Sweet golden harvests that I loved to keep — 
 
 Blessed by the sunshine and baptized with dew— 
 Don't you remember? 
 
224 DON'T rOU REMEMBER r 
 
 XII. 
 
 The quaint old garden with its graveled walks, 
 
 Its grass-plots starred with golden dandelions, 
 Its daffodils, May-pinks and hollyhocks, 
 Its white syringa with sweet-smelling stalks. 
 And neighbors coming after slips and scions— 
 Don't you remember ? 
 
 There, 'neath my chin, you held the buttercup, 
 
 Some truth you saucily declared to prove ; 
 Then cried, when bashfully my eyes would droop, 
 " A girl's blush is the flag her heart runs up 
 To signal its surrender unto Love !" — 
 Don't you remember ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And then you clasped my brown hand in your own — 
 
 You know how willfully you could persist — 
 There was a strange new music in your tone. 
 Thrilling and sweet — well — we were all alone, 
 I may mistake, but were my lips not kissed? — 
 Do you remember ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 Then how the village-bells rung out one day. 
 How joyfully we two walked side by side ; 
 The church door opened and we knelt to pray. 
 Friends crowded 'round their kindly words to say. 
 And shake your hand, and some one called me 
 bride — 
 
 Don't you remember? 
 
DON'T rOU REMEMBERS 225 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Our bark, since then, has touched on many strands, 
 Our wandering feet have roamed in many cHmes, 
 Our brows been kissed by suns of far-off lands ; 
 New friends, dear love, have clasped our willing hands. 
 But the old times — the ever-dear old times — 
 We both remember. 
 P 
 
CREED. 
 
 I. 
 
 I 
 
 BELIEVE if I should die, 
 And you should kiss my eyelids when I lie 
 Cold, dead and dumb to all the world contains, 
 The folded orbs would open at thy breath, 
 And from its exile in the isles of death 
 
 Life would come gladly back along my veins ! 
 
 II. 
 
 I believe if I were dead. 
 And you upon my lifeless heart should tread, 
 
 Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be. 
 It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch 
 Of him it ever lov^ed in life so much, 
 
 And throb again, warm, tender, true to thee. 
 
 I believe if on my grave. 
 Hidden in woody deeps or by the wave. 
 
 Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret, 
 From every salty seed of your dear grief. 
 Some fair, sweet blossom would leap into leaf. 
 
 To prove death could not make my love forget. 
 
 226 
 
CREED. 227 
 
 IV. 
 
 I believe if I should fade 
 Into those mystic realms where light is made, 
 
 And you should long once more my face to see, 
 I would come forth upon the hills of night 
 And gather stars, like fagots, till thy sight. 
 
 Led by their beacon blaze, fell full on me ! 
 
 I believe my faith in thee, 
 Strong as my life, so nobly placed to be, 
 
 I would as soon expect to see the sun 
 Fall like a dead king from his height sublime. 
 His glory stricken from the throne of time. 
 
 As thee unworth the worship thou hast won. 
 
 I believe who hath not loved, 
 Hath half the sweetness of his life unproved ; 
 
 Like one who, with the grape within his grasp, 
 Drops it with all its crimson juice unpressed. 
 And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed, 
 
 Out from his careless and unheeding clasp. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I believe love, pure and true, 
 Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew 
 
 That gems life's petals in its hours of dusk — 
 The waiting angels see and recognize 
 The rich crown jewel, love, of Paradise, 
 
 When life falls from us like a withered husk. 
 
A TOAST, 
 
 GIVEN ON THE BIRTH-DAY ANNIVERSARY OF J. B. 
 
 SLAWSON. 
 
 OUR host — to-day around his board we meet 
 In mutual joy his natal day to greet ; 
 Honor to pay the well-spent years of one 
 Whose race, we pray, is yet not halfway run. 
 Could all whom he has blest be here this hour, 
 Hearts heaped with love would be his birth-day dower, 
 And many a lip, unseen by us to-day, 
 Smiles o'er the sorrows he has turned away. 
 Fill up your glasses, gentle friends, fill high — 
 Drink to the generous heart that's never dry. 
 Drink to the lip o'er its own good deeds dumb. 
 Drink to our host — fill high, a bumper, come — 
 Long life, good friends, good fortune be his own. 
 Blessings spring thick from all good seeds he's sown, 
 And may Old Age, when wandering this way, 
 His silver banner long forget to lay 
 Above the honored brow we toast to-day. 
 
 228 
 
TO-WHOO! 
 
 AN old owl sat in a willow tree 
 Crying aloud, Who will shelter me ? 
 flapping his wings in the heavy dew, 
 And mournfully muttering " Whoo, whoo, whoo? 
 Who'll give me shelter," the poor bird said — 
 " Me without refuge or board or bed, 
 With a broken heart and an aching head, 
 And wings as heavy, as heavy as lead — 
 Freezing out here in this villainous dew — 
 Who will be good to me? whoo, whoo, whoo?" 
 
 A young owl sat in an opposite tree. 
 
 His fine feathers picking right lazily. 
 
 He listened a while to the other's complaint, 
 
 But hadn't the patience, you know, of a saint ; 
 
 So he cried, " Who'll shelter your old gray head? 
 
 Fool ! if you're poor you might better be dead. 
 
 A sexton, never a banker, I trow. 
 
 Is the man to call when 3^our purse gets low — 
 
 The crowd makes room for a corpse to pass through- 
 
 If his coffin be pine, no one asks, whoo, whoo ?" 
 
 20 229 
 
230 TO-WHOOl 
 
 " Whence comes this voice?" cried the elder owl, 
 With trembling tone and ominous scowl ; 
 
 " Shall you, then, never be old and gray. 
 That you fling your impudent taunt this way? 
 Where were you born, and where were you raised, 
 And which of your parents, pray, was crazed, 
 That you were not taught with rod and rule 
 Your rude, impertinent tongue to school ? 
 Rare birds have they been that feathered you : 
 Who were they, young gentleman — whoo, whoo, 
 whoo ?" 
 
 '' My father," the younger owl replied, 
 "• Was a prime old ' governor,' full of pride ; 
 I drank his wine, on his funds had fun, 
 And he applauded this son of a gun. 
 His wife, ' the old lady,' was fond of a lark — 
 Her day, like Fashion's, began after dark. 
 She gave me a taste for wandering from home, 
 And my favorite air was, ' I love to roam.' 
 I soon cut them both and away from them flew ; 
 Who wants such old shackles about him — whoo, 
 whoo?" 
 
 "Where were you born?" the elder owl cried. 
 
 Holding his heavy wings close to his side. 
 "• In the chestnut tree," was the quick reply, 
 " Farmer Top-knot's henroost very close by." 
 " Alas !• and alas !" groaned the elder owl, 
 " You're my own lost child, you ungrateful fowl ! 
 I am breathing my last ; come hold up my head — 
 Receive my last gasp for I'm very near dead — 
 What child was e'er petted as I petted you? 
 Tell me that, you young rascal — whoo, whoo, whoo ?" 
 
TO-WHOO! 231 
 
 In vain did the old owl mutter and moan, 
 He was left in his willow tree all alone. 
 His child had fled far from the cheerless spot, 
 Nor offered to ease the other's hard lot. 
 There the old fellow thought of his son in health, 
 With plenty of chickens and wholesome wealth. 
 Leaving him under that lowering sky, 
 Advising him, too, to make haste and die ! 
 And he moaned, as he sat there feeble and cold, 
 ' It is hard to be desolate when w^e are old !" 
 
 Then he thought, " Did I teach him his duty when 
 
 young ? 
 Lies the fault with him or with those whence he 
 
 sprung } 
 O fathers and mothers, the sapling small 
 Must be trained when tender if trained at all I 
 Trim up the shoots that are growing too bold, 
 If shelter and shade you'd find there when old." 
 With a flutter and mutter and shivering groan, 
 A few sad tears and an unheard moan. 
 The owl fell dead, and no mortal knew 
 Nor asked, as they kicked him aside, whoo, whoo? 
 
THE SUICIDE. 
 
 THE stars on high, 
 And the young moon in the summer sky 
 Drifting, like some lone canoe, 
 O'er its seas of jeweled blue — 
 " I walk by the river, 
 
 Where rushes quiver, 
 And the dull moan and monotone 
 
 Of surging waters fill mine ear — 
 Alone, alone, alone, alone ! 
 
 I clasp my hands and wander here." 
 
 I see the gleam 
 
 Of quivering star-lamps on the stream, 
 As if the beacons they might be 
 Guiding the river to the sea. 
 " I pause and listen 
 
 While they glisten 
 On the slow but steady flow 
 
 Of river sweeping to the sea — 
 Echo, echo, echo, echo 
 Only Cometh back to me." 
 232 
 
THE SUICIDE. 233 
 
 " I hush my heart — 
 I watch the mystic night-birds dart 
 From sea to land, from land to sea, 
 Like restless souls in misery. 
 The rolling river 
 Sweeps on for ever 
 To depth unknown, where stars shine down 
 
 On treasures hid by the miser sea — 
 Alone, alone, alone, alone ! 
 
 No voice, no words, no love for me ! 
 
 ' For evermore 
 
 On rolling wave, by reedy shore, 
 Must mine eyes see no other fate. 
 My heart beat on so desolate ? 
 
 O rushing river. 
 
 Bear on for ever 
 My weary soul, where darkly roll 
 
 The deep streams of eternity — 
 In thy strong arms enfold, enfold 
 
 The heart that gives its life to thee !" 
 
 The stars on high, 
 The slender moon in the silent sky, 
 Drifting like some spirit bark 
 O'er its seas of starry dark — 
 The river flowing, 
 God only knowing 
 What its flight hides out of sight, 
 
 As on it rushes to the sea — 
 Alone, alone, alone, alone ! 
 
 Drifting to eternity 
 
 20* 
 
TWILIGHT. 
 
 I. 
 
 I WANDERED forth at set of sun 
 The harvest work was almost done, 
 And closed were doors of barn and bin, 
 Shutting the garnered harvest in. 
 
 II. 
 
 Down to the sunset-tinted stream 
 To drink was led the tired team ; 
 And lowing cattle from the hill 
 Strolled homeward past the silent mill. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then came some love-belated swain 
 Whistling upon his load of grain, 
 While here and there the bending leaves 
 Gave kisses to the ripened sheaves. 
 
 The wild flowers on the steep side-hill 
 Drew close together with a thrill, 
 Whispering, 'mid twilight's dewy tears, 
 Love tales into each other's ears. 
 234 
 
TWILIGHT. 235 
 
 Beside the farmer's cottage door 
 The father held his babe once more, 
 While little ones, by twos and threes, 
 Were clustered at his sturdy knees. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I saw no sin, no shame, no frown. 
 And as Night drew her curtain down 
 She said, " Content is Life's best store 
 Go teach thy heart to ask no more !" 
 
TRUST. 
 
 BE of good cheer ; the sorrows we lament 
 We yet shall know as mercies kindly meant — 
 Angels pass into hearts by sorrow rent, 
 
 All in the Lord's good time ! 
 
 The cloud will pass, the sun will shine again, 
 The bow of promise arch the angry main, 
 Peace follow storm and pleasure follow pain, 
 All in the Lord's good time ! 
 
 The wound will heal, the burden will grow light. 
 The wandering footsteps will be guided right. 
 The thorniest path seem paved with blessings bright. 
 All in the Lord's good time ! 
 
 Grief's sobs will turn to smiles ; the lip of woe. 
 The radiant light of love and joy shall know, 
 And Faith will triumph at Doubt's overthrow, 
 All in the Lord's good time ! 
 
 Though life's bleak waves are tempest-tossed and chill. 
 The Master's voice will utter, " Peace, be still" — 
 The raging billows bow before his will. 
 
 All in the Lord's good time ! 
 
 236 
 
TRUST. 237 
 
 And we, the brittle toys by Time resigned, 
 
 Tossed from his wearied hands, bruised, broken, blind, 
 
 The heights of everlasting life shall find, 
 
 All in the Lord's good time ! 
 
FALLACIA. 
 
 DREAMING here while stars are paling 
 On the brow of night again, 
 While the winter winds are wailing 
 And the moon is on the wane — 
 
 Dreaming here, weaving fancies — 
 Fancies for my busy brain. 
 
 Dreaming here with tear-drops welling 
 From a heart whose hopes are vain — 
 
 Heart with proud ambition swelling. 
 Swelling but to sink again — 
 
 Dreaming here, weaving fancies — 
 Fancies from a fevered brain. 
 
 Dreaming here while music's measure 
 O'er the earth sweeps wild refrain. 
 
 And the thoughts I've loved to treasure 
 Thrill my spirit-harp again — 
 
 Dreaming here, weaving foncies — 
 Fancies from my throbbing brain. 
 
 238 
 
FALL ACTA. 2.2,^ 
 
 Dreaming here, alone and lonely, 
 
 " What," I whisper — " what is fame? 
 
 Pierian sisters, tell me only 
 
 What it is that men call fame — 
 
 Toiling for it, dying for it, 
 Hearts aglow and souls aflame?" 
 
 Shines the moon on frozen waters — 
 
 Ghostly moon on ghostly snow — 
 Silent all Mnemosyne's daughters. 
 
 Comes no whisper sweet and low — 
 " Speak," I plead, " ye fabled Nine, 
 
 Tell me what I fain would know." 
 
 Waiting here, alone and lonely, 
 
 "- What," I ask ye, " what is fame?" 
 
 Coldly comes the answer, '' Only 
 Shade of shadow, hollow flame — 
 
 Dreamer's vision, poet's fancy, 
 Mocking tempter, empty aim ! 
 
 ' Ignis fatuus^ fatal wooer. 
 Flushing foirest as it flees, 
 Leaving its deceived pursuer 
 'Midst the fierce Eumenides, 
 
 With their fearful fingers tearing 
 At the vitals of his ease. 
 
 ' Winsome traitor, fleeting pleasure. 
 Very fair and very false, 
 Stealing all 'he golden treasure 
 
 From the soul's unguarded vaults — 
 Leaving but the cold, gray ashes 
 Of the pure flame that exalts. 
 
240 FALL A CIA. 
 
 '' Luring, laughing, gayly mocking, 
 Swift within the soul to creep, 
 In Ambition's cradle rocking 
 
 Feverish dreams that will not sleep — 
 
 Will not hide their glaring eyeballs — 
 Will not, will not silence keep. 
 
 " On the shore where waves are beating 
 Write thy name upon the sand ; 
 Lo ! the waters, when retreating, 
 Bear it from the silent strand — 
 
 Ask them for the vanished writing — 
 Writing written by thy hand ! 
 
 '' Saw you not the letters written 
 
 Clear and fair when first you came ? 
 Saw you not the white sand smitten 
 Smooth as marble ? This is Fa7ne — 
 
 Fame the tempter. Fame the robber — 
 Robbing life to make a name !" 
 
 From the shadows thus the voices 
 Answered me in startling strain, 
 
 Saying, " Well the heart rejoices 
 When its bitter foe is slain"— 
 
 Saying, " Dreamer, dream no longer- 
 Take Life's real road again." 
 
 Asks my heart, the voice defying, 
 " If the poet's gift be mine, 
 
 Must I thrust it dead or dying 
 From its altar-stone divine .? — 
 
 Must I quench its fires immortal — 
 Radiant fires I know are mine ? 
 
FALL ACTA. 24 1 
 
 " Qiiench them with the bitter water 
 Of renunciating tears, 
 Tell my soul that thou hast taught her 
 Something worse than all her fears — 
 
 Stretching hopes, like sudden corpses — 
 Out, unshrouded, on their biers? 
 
 " Must I lay my fingers tightly 
 At the red roots of my heart. 
 Rending out the joys unsightly 
 Thou hast named the poet's art — 
 Dying in my songless silence — 
 Chosen as the better part? 
 
 " Eos, then, and Leto, hear me ! 
 By thy stars and by thy dawn 1 
 By the midnight drawing near me, 
 By the gloom — hours creeping on — 
 Life is stricken of its sweetness — 
 Life beholds its glory gone." 
 
 Came the voice, " Nay, poet-maiden. 
 Keep thy gifts from sudden death ! 
 
 Keep thy songs, and keep them laden 
 With the poet's noblest breath — 
 
 Breath whose sweetest aspirations 
 Words of cheer to others saith. 
 
 " Sing the infant to its slumbers, 
 Sing the dying to his rest ; 
 Pour the music of thy numbers 
 In the sinner's guilty breast — 
 
 Lay the poet's balm of healing 
 On the heart of the opprest. 
 21 Q 
 
242 FALL AC I A. 
 
 " Sing to earth's defiled daughters 
 Songs embahned in. mercy's dew, 
 Sweeter far than flowing waters 
 
 Which the famed Macaenas knew — 
 
 Lead the footsteps of the wanderer 
 By thy songs to pathways new. 
 
 " Sing the skeptic from his scorning, 
 Sing the sinner from his shame. 
 Sing to Error earnest warning — 
 Sing, O poet ! not for fame — 
 
 Fame the tempter. Fame the mocker- 
 Shade of shadow, empty aim !" 
 
 In the shadows die the voices. 
 
 Fades the Presence from the room, 
 
 Dream of Fame, retreating poises 
 On its pinnacle of doom ! 
 
 Poet's vision, dreamer's fancy — 
 Leto cradles in her gloom. 
 
INVOCATION. 
 
 COME to me, Sleep ! 
 Thy silent seal upon my forehead set ; 
 Weave o'er mine eyelids thy mysterious net, 
 Bring me oblivion without regret — 
 
 Teach fond memory to forget ! 
 
 Come to me, Sleep ! 
 Shut out the glaring grievances of day. 
 Thy soothing hand upon my sore heart lay, 
 Close to the bank where Death's cold waters play, 
 Guide and lead me safe away ! 
 
 Come to me. Sleep ! 
 
 For me the visions of thy dreamland paint. 
 Hush on my lip each wearisome complaint. 
 Break from my soul the shackles of restraint. 
 Cheer the spirit prone to faint ! 
 
 Come to me, Sleep ! 
 
 Shut me a while outside the world's great gate. 
 And, ere I know again my mortal state, 
 Teach me to fearless face my frowning fate. 
 Bravely still to watch and wait. 
 
 248 
 
THE LOVER TO THE BLUE RIBBON THAT 
 HAD TIED LAURA'S LETTERS. 
 
 A FADED, rumpled, once how dear, a thing! 
 I never thought with such indifferent eye 
 
 Its pretty, dainty love-knots to untie, 
 Or stigmatize it as a "bit of string !" 
 But somehow Cupid wears a restless wing. 
 
 The sweet epistles that the ribbon tied 
 Have also lost their power to soothe or sting. 
 
 I really thought they'd thrill me till I died ! 
 Strange how Old Time loves to obliterate 
 
 A fellow's " deathless love" in this cool way. 
 And turn to blessings what seemed " frowning fate," 
 
 And make his angels prove but common clay ! 
 What this blue ribbon bound I once held higher 
 Than life : to-day they lit the parlor fire ! 
 
 244 
 
AT ADA'S TOMB. 
 
 POOR is that life so loved its little all 
 May hide beneath a coffin and a pall ; 
 Content to run its God-allotted term, 
 Only to fill a grave or feed a worm ! 
 Whose chiseled urn alone remains to tell 
 That life w^as his, and that he loved it wrell — 
 Leaves to the world no legacy beside 
 The fact that he was born and lived and died, 
 And found in life no nobler mission taught 
 Than to exist, to perish and be naught ! 
 
 Thine, gentle being, was the loftier aim 
 That shuns the vulgar patronage of fame, 
 That held the cup to lips that were athirst, 
 And bent the knee for burdened souls sin-curst ; 
 That meekly owned the earthly honor sweet 
 To pluck the thorns from other bleeding feet ; 
 Thine every day, like daisies in the sod, 
 A bright but humble offering to thy God. 
 Along mine own thy life in beauty lies, 
 A path by which to join thee in the skies : 
 Thy words, thy smiles, thy kindly deeds remain 
 To cheer, exalt, ennoble and sustain ! 
 21 - 245 
 
246 AT ADA'S TOMB. 
 
 Back from thy grave, along my lonely days, 
 Thy bright existence casts its golden rays, 
 Lighting, as sunset lights the clouded west, 
 Joys thou didst plant within my stricken breast. 
 
 In hours when anguish most my heart enthralls 
 
 Thy memory, like a benediction, falls. 
 
 And like some sweet Gregorian chant I hear 
 
 Thy life's sweet melody upon mine ear. 
 
 The vesper-bells of love above thy tomb 
 
 Mingle their chimes with hope's perpetual bloom, 
 
 And 'mid the toils of earth and earthly things 
 
 I hear the beating of an angel's wings ! 
 
FAIR COZ. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHAT is that in your hair, fair coz, 
 What is that in you hair?" 
 " 'Tis a gem of exceeding beauty and size, 
 Of Brazihan mines — a marvelous prize ; 
 'Tis a jewel white with the captured light 
 Of ages condensed in a bauble bright— 
 A diamond it is called." 
 II. 
 "A diamond, fairest coz, you say?" 
 A bauble, nay, oh nay !— 
 'Tis the sweat of a hundred human brows 
 Spilled under curses and wrung from blows ; 
 'Tis the sinews and strength of a thousand slaves, 
 The phosphorent light from a thousand graves— 
 'Tis this you have in your hair. 
 
 " What is that on your shoulders, coz — 
 Your shoulders so soft and white ?" 
 
 " 'Tis a bit of exquisite hand-wrought lace 
 
 I would not for worlds have a rent deface— 
 
 A beautiful thing : see the rare design 
 
 Of Indian lilies and tropic vine— 
 
 A Mill it is called." 
 
 247 
 
248 FAIR COZ. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " A bit of lace, you say? Oh no ! 
 I see but a fair young girl 
 With toiling fingers and heart full of care, 
 Weaving her life in this tracery rare, 
 For a cruel crust and a cruder bed, 
 A pillow of stone for a virtuous head : 
 Of these is your Jichu made. 
 
 '' Of what is your toilette made, fair coz, — 
 
 Of what is your toilette made?" 
 " Of jewels and silks and marvelous lace 
 Which a princess royal well might grace — 
 Bracelets of pearl with emerald clasp, 
 Girdle of gems with a golden hasp : 
 Of these is my toilette made." 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Of gems and laces and girdles gold? 
 
 Of something beside, fair coz. 
 'Tis made of the bitter and terrible cost 
 That might have saved hundreds of women lost- 
 Of eyes that glare with a stony stare 
 At the iron face of their own despair : 
 
 Of these is your toilette made !" 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 RENUNCIATION. 
 
 MY love died hard — I clutched its snowy throat 
 And watched its frantic graspings at my heart- 
 Saw its sweet eyes in mortal anguish start — 
 
 Heard its wild cries for mercy overfloat 
 
 The blows with which its pleading lips I smote. 
 Relentlessly I pressed it to its doom, 
 
 One bitter word upon its forehead wrote, 
 
 Then thrust the dead outside the gates of Gloom. 
 
 I did the murder — ay ! this hand so white, 
 So soft and pale and womanish a thing. 
 
 Held in its slender grasp what could requite 
 Forgotten vows and falsehood's cruel sting. 
 
 I slew it— ay ! but dying at the root 
 
 Of Life in flower, it poisoned all the fruit. 
 
 249 
 
THE MAIDEN. 
 
 I MUST send back his letters, and all these 
 Sweet tokens of his fond and tender truth ? 
 
 Love on the lees is bitter wine, forsooth ! 
 Oh just once more let me, on bended knees. 
 Press to ray heart its hoard of memories ! 
 
 These letters, withered flowers — this lock of hair — 
 I kiss them, clasp them — God in heaven, who sees 
 
 My grief, forgives its passionate despair ! 
 We quarreled — 3^es ! and for so slight a thing ! 
 
 How was it? fault of mine, or his? Ah well ! 
 It brooks not now — there ! give him back his ring. 
 
 Warm from my hand, and for me say farewell ! 
 Shall the world mock me ? Nay ! defend me, Pride ! 
 But oh ! ere this blow came would I had died ! 
 
 250 
 
THE MAN. 
 
 YOU heard my bell, Victor ! I rang for you. 
 Here ! clear this rubbish from my escritoire I 
 
 That last flirtation really gathered more 
 Love-tokens — gloves and notes and ribbons blue — 
 
 Than I supposed ; throw them all out of door ; 
 I do not want them lumbering up my room — 
 
 Ah ! what is that ? A little sprig of rue ? 
 It does not smell well, 'pon my word. Exhume 
 The other trinkets and that lock of hair 
 
 From yonder secret drawer. I had not thought 
 The little lady had so much to spare ! 
 
 Make haste, you idle fellow, is all out? 
 Well dress me now for Lady Hovey's ball ; 
 I meet a new star there — Fay Duvenal. 
 
 251 
 
TO A CAGED MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 O WILLING warbler— whistler of the wood ! 
 When sunny zephyrs sweep the soft South land, 
 
 And Spring sows all the soil with scented hand, 
 And fringy ferns fan the faint forest .flood ; 
 Oh, best and blithest of the birdling brood, 
 
 Why do I find thee caroling, captured here. 
 Thy mellow, mocking melody imbued 
 
 'Twixt prison bars with all its wildwood cheer? 
 Grand McEstro of the tuneful tribes that bide 
 
 Within yon vast cathedral of live-oak ; 
 High Priest of plumy poets, sending wide 
 
 The notes which peace, good-will and love invoke. 
 Thou teachest, psalmist sweet, how we should rise 
 Like thy brave song, above adversities. 
 252 
 
TO ONE BELOVED. 
 
 I KNOW, to-night, thou art among the gay. 
 The centre of a light and joyous throng, 
 
 Who hang upon thy laugh, thy jest, thy song ; 
 I know the dawn will gather, cold and gray, 
 And find me waiting thee till break of day. 
 
 Our lives together have known no alloy, 
 And, dearest, thy delight is mine alway. 
 
 Though thou art absent I am with thee now ; 
 Thought, like some stalwart swimmer, parts the waves. 
 And, eager for the resting-place he craves, 
 
 Leaps, nude and glowing, from the amber tide 
 Of Memory, and, rushing to thy arms. 
 His dripping limbs in thy caresses warms. 
 
 22 263 
 
TO MY PEN. 
 
 I SCARCE can tell if friend thou art, or foe— - 
 If most I have to praise thee or to blame. 
 In the lost years unto my hand you came, 
 And when I would I could not let you go. 
 That thou hast been a solace oft, I know — 
 That I have learned to love thee I must own ; 
 But this confession scarcely will atone 
 For moments spent with thee that I may owe 
 To languid leisure or to Fashion's hour. 
 A duty never yet I left for thee 
 
 Undone or incomplete ; but I have fled. 
 Perhaps too oft, the social tyrant's power, 
 O pen of mine, to feel myself set free 
 
 When chained to thy sweet tyrannies instead 
 
 254 
 
LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN. 
 
 INTO thy sapphire wave, fair Pontchartrain, 
 Slow sinks the setting sun ; the distant sail, 
 On far horizon's edge, glides hushed and pale. 
 Like some escaping spirit o'er the main. 
 The sea-gull soars, then tastes thy wave again ; 
 The bearded forests on thy sandy shore 
 In silence stand, e'en as they stood of yore 
 While yet the red man held his savage reign. 
 And daring Iberville's adventurous prow 
 As yet had never cut thy jDurple wave. 
 Nor swung the shadow of his shining sail 
 
 Across the bark of the Biloxi brave. 
 Ah, placid lake ! where are thy warriors now ? 
 
 Where their abiding-places — where their grave.? 
 
 255 
 
TO THE MOUSE THAT NIBBLED MY MSS. 
 
 AND so, my little friend, you're taking pains 
 To prove yourself a bit of a bas-bleu — 
 
 A most unwise thing, rest assured, to do ; 
 For if there's aught on earth " pays bad," 'tis brains ; 
 The world, too has a horror of ink-stains. 
 
 Last night, I see you tried a simple sonnet, 
 The night before some lively love-refrains ; 
 
 You'll be more popular, depend upon it, 
 If you restrict yourself to bread and cheese. 
 
 Dress well, dance well, make the salute polite, 
 At Fashion's altar crook your cringing knees ; 
 
 Get drunk, do anything, my friend, but write : 
 Take my advice — I warn you from the brink 
 Of social suicide by pen and ink. 
 
 266 
 
SACRAMENTUM AMORIS. 
 
 IF I should lift my lips to yours, 
 What would you do ? 
 Kiss them and call me friend, perhaps, 
 Forget then to be true ? 
 
 If at your feet I laid my heart 
 
 For you to take, 
 Would you do more than lift it up 
 
 To let it fall and break ? 
 
 If I should send the searching sweep 
 
 Of fasting love 
 Down in thy heart's deep well, and brought 
 
 Naught to the brink above, 
 
 I there would faint, in sight of draughts 
 
 I might not drink ; 
 And, famished for the far-down drops, 
 
 Die on the stony brink ! 
 
 Oh such a shuddering sense I know 
 
 Of fearful dread 
 Lest living love of mine seek yours 
 
 And find it icy — dead ! 
 
 22 * R 257 
 
258 SACRAMENTUM A MORIS. 
 
 Lest it should seek to warm itself 
 
 In your dear hold, 
 And, finding Love's bright fire gone out, 
 
 Die there of cruel cold ! 
 
 Of all Life's fearful hungerings 
 
 The heart's is worst — 
 Unceasing draughts of Love cannot 
 
 Quench Love's unceasing thirst. 
 
 And thee I know so sadly well ! 
 
 The love divine 
 Which my exacting heart would crave 
 
 I know is not in thine ! 
 
 'Midst thy life's sculptures then, my heart 
 
 Thou may'st not carve — 
 Nor yield I thee the living thing. 
 
 Lest thou should'st let it starve ! 
 
 Yet I may give you all my life 
 
 Unknown to you — 
 Content to see you glad and free, 
 
 Whilst I alone am triie. 
 
 To soften with an unseen care 
 
 Thy daily path. 
 To give thee, out of my own life, 
 
 The sweetest flower it hath ; 
 
 To press from fruits of my best days 
 
 Wine for thy lips, 
 And joy to see thee drink, nor taste 
 
 The dregs that my life sips ; 
 
SACRAMENTUM AMORIS. 259 
 
 To lead thee with an unseen hand 
 
 To noble things, 
 To hear thee give grand utterance 
 
 To grand imaginings ; 
 
 To see thee write to all the world 
 
 With mighty pen, 
 Made from the plumes of thine own soul, 
 
 Truths for thy fellow-men ; 
 
 To see thee pass to all that's best 
 
 Across my heart, 
 Unclogged by its exactions fond, — 
 
 This is my chosen part. 
 
 So, go thy way without me, nor 
 
 At fate repine ; 
 My heart I give not ; but for life 
 
 My soul, my soul is thine ! 
 
AT THE WHEEL. 
 
 THAT " constant employment is constant enjoy- 
 ment'* 
 I often have heard the dear old people say ; 
 But fuller the measure of my simple pleasure 
 If Robin and I were but roaming to-day. 
 
 Here I must keep busy, though weary and dizzy, 
 
 Still whirling my wheel and still spinning my thread, 
 
 Though harvests are yellow and bird-notes are mellow, 
 And lips of wild roses glow fervent and red ! 
 
 The path through the meadow lies cool in the shadow. 
 The mischievous brook laughs aloud in the vale ; 
 
 The cry of the plover floats tunefully over 
 The rattle of oziers that redden the swale. 
 
 The bee from the bosom of red-clover blossom 
 Has hurried to sip of the buckwheat in bloom ; 
 
 The blush of the thistle, the blackbird's clear whistle, 
 Are blent with the summer-day's light and perfume. 
 
 The soft wandering gale fills a silvery sail. 
 That idly floats by on yon far-away stream. 
 
 And a frail spirit-boat, 'neath the other doth float 
 P^aintly fair, like some beautiful dream of a dream. 
 
 260 
 
AT THE WHEEL. 261 
 
 With odor of myrtle the voice of the turtle 
 Comes drowsily up from the valley below — 
 
 I hear the dull rapping of woodpeckers tapping 
 The bark where the hollow old sycamores grow. 
 
 The beetle is humming of autumn days coming, 
 And swings in its leaf-hammock hung in the vale — 
 
 The lily gasps faintly, as passionless, saintly. 
 It stands in the path of the libertine gale. 
 
 The clink, clink of the blade rises clear from the glade. 
 Where, sharpening his scythe, stands the whistling 
 mower. 
 
 While the gossipping crow on his tall hickory bough 
 Sits moodily muttering his meaningless lore. 
 
 There are mystical fingers whose gentle touch lingers. 
 It seems, as I listen, on yon golden plain. 
 
 There blending and shading and lovingly braiding 
 The sunbeams astray with the beard of the grain. 
 
 With tired hand twirling the wheel that keeps whirling. 
 The wearisome spindle I speed all the day — 
 
 With the whirl of the wheel how my brain seems to reel. 
 And longs from the dull hum to hurry away ! 
 
 I shall eagerly watch the first star-ray to catch. 
 
 That shall tell when the sun lieth low in the west ; 
 
 When swallows home darting tell day is departing. 
 And night brings the toiler sweet guerdon of rest. 
 
 Then over the hollow and green summer fallow 
 I shall hear the loud summons of co'boss, co'boss ; 
 
 While " Lineback" and " Dover," breaths sweetened 
 with clover. 
 The cool, fragrant pastures come slowly across. 
 
263 AT THE WHEEL. 
 
 With "Brownie" and "Daisy," milk-laden and lazy — 
 The gentle-eyed heifer half standing aloof, 
 
 While the dew-laden grass gently yields as they pass 
 To the lingering print of each slowly-raised hoof. 
 
 Then away, then away, as dies the long day, 
 
 O'er the path that leads down to the sycamore grove. 
 
 Where dear Robin will wait by the old wicket gate. 
 With a smile for my eyes and a heart for my love !