LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
 
 "P S i o o a ~ 
 
 Chap, Copyriglii No. 
 
 8helf..i.]S)-5"Gc. iS 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
 J 
 
GLEANINGS IN VERSE 
 
 T'/wHlTlNG BANCROFT 
 
 For well I wote, that ye hau ben beforne 
 Of maken ropen, and had alway the corne, 
 And I come after, glening here and there, 
 And am full glad if I may find an eare 
 Of any goodly worde that ye hau left." 
 
 — Chancer. 
 
 PROVIDENCE, R. I. 
 
 PRESTON & ROUNDS CO. 
 
 1899 
 
1' 
 
 .V ', 
 
 45084 
 
 Copyright, 1899, 
 
 BY 
 
 Preston & Rounds Company. 
 TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 
 
 ^<^">> 
 
 
 PRESS OF 
 E. L. FREEMAN & SONS, PROVIDENCE. 
 
 
PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 With few exceptions the poevis in this voluvi 
 have already appeared in print ; a7id, as I have 
 no list of the various papers i7i zvhich they were 
 published, it has not been easy to avoid an un- 
 conscions infringement 2ipon some previous copy- 
 right. I believe, however, that zvith such means 
 as were available such am avoidance has been snc- 
 cessfnlly made : and. I desi7'e to thank those ivlio 
 have kindly given me permission to i^epnblish 
 poems zvhich have been previously brought out in 
 The Sunday School Times, The Christian In- 
 quirer, The Watchword, and The New York 
 Ledger. 
 
 E. D. R. B. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 iNaomi's Question to Ruth 9 
 
 Striving 11 
 
 A Distant Outlook 12 
 
 Autumn Color 13 
 
 The Prisoner of Gisors 15 
 
 Master Spirits 17 
 
 Silver Speech and Golden Silence 21 
 
 Go and Tell Jesus 25 
 
 The Quest of the Magi 26 
 
 The Hour of the Gloaming 28 
 
 The Secret of Beauty 31 
 
 The Lute of Alfarabi 33 
 
 At the Turnstile 38 
 
 "The Sisters Three" 40 
 
 Ruskin's Law of Help 42 
 
 Longing 46 
 
 5 
 
Gush 47 
 
 The Setting of the Foresail 51 
 
 Now and Hereafter 54 
 
 At the Ingleside 56 
 
 Temptation 58 
 
 Azazel 60 
 
 "V/hat Cheer" 61 
 
 Catherine Douglas 66 
 
 Alone 69 
 
 Beneficence 71 
 
 Under Tints 81 
 
 The Ox-Eyed Daisy 82 
 
 Star-lit Skies 84 
 
 The Old Plantation Days 86 
 
 The Scent of the New-Mown Hay .... 88 
 
 The Bow in the Cloud 90 
 
 No Night There 92 
 
 The Wish of Christmas 93 
 
 The First Christmas Eve 95 
 
 The Hope of Easter 97 
 
 The Promise of Easter 99 
 
 The Last Breakfast 100 
 
 5 
 
Influence 104 
 
 Searching for God 105 
 
 Like to Lil<e 107 
 
 A Law of Light 109 
 
 The Descent of the Seraph no 
 
 The Holy Thorn of Glastonbury 112 
 
 The First New England Thanksgiving . . .114 
 
 Voices of the Future 116 
 
 The Lesson of a Face 118 
 
 Reality of the Ideal 119 
 
 Memnon 120 
 
 George Ide Chace 129 
 
 Samuel Stillwell Greene 130 
 
 A. A. G 131 
 
 The Birth of Christ 132 
 
 The Saviour is Risen 133 
 
 Jesus the Christ 134 
 
 Individuality 135 
 
NAOMI'S QUESTION TO RUTH. 
 
 * Where hast thou gleaned to-day ?" 
 'Tis a voice of the olden time 
 Awakening echoes, from far away, 
 To surge in a solemn chime. 
 
 ' Where hast thou gleaned to-day ?" 
 Bring the searching question home : 
 The distant hills are growing gray 
 In the gathering night shade's gloom, 
 
 ' Where hast thou gleaned to-day ? ' ' 
 The harvest indeed is great; 
 The Lord of the harvest pray, 
 The fields for the gleaners wait. 
 
 ' Where hast thou gleaned to-day ?" 
 Hast thou followed those who reap. 
 Or do the fields by thy delay 
 Their scattered stalks still keep ? 
 
Where hast thou gleaned to-day ?" 
 Hast thou sat with folded hands, 
 
 Or idly loitered by the way, 
 Aloof from the reaper bands ? 
 
 The fields stretch far and wide, 
 
 And, before we kneel to pray. 
 May we ask at each eventide 
 " Where have I gleaned to-day ?" 
 
STRIVING. 
 
 Striving only for the good, 
 Many combatants we find, 
 
 Seeking only earthly food, 
 Craving only for the mind. 
 
 Striving for the better things 
 Fewer with us now contend ; 
 
 As we soar on stronger wings. 
 Aiming towards a purer end. 
 
 Striving only for the best 
 No competitors we meet ; 
 
 Often wearied in the quest, 
 Toiling on with bleeding feet. 
 
 II 
 
A DISTANT OUTLOOK. 
 
 Far down the bay, where earth and sky are 
 blending, 
 
 A sail is reddening in the western light; 
 The waters calm reflected hues are sending 
 
 To add new glory to the raptured sight ; 
 
 While underneath the nearer waves are heaving, 
 All dark and stormy like a sinful breast ; 
 
 No rudd}^ gleams their foaming crests relieving 
 To soothe the trouble of their vague unrest ; 
 
 But far beyond the golden sail is lifted 
 By the surrounding calmness of the bay, 
 
 In high relief with newer charm is gifted 
 With deepening color from the dying day. 
 
 So human souls, whenever calmly resting 
 By simple trust in the Almighty power. 
 
 Thus raised above all worldly tumults breasting 
 Have heavenly light, though earthly clouds 
 may lower. 
 
 12 
 
AUTUMN COLOR. 
 
 As the summer heat is ended, and the cooler 
 
 days have come, 
 The creaking of the loaded wains announce 
 
 the harvest home. 
 The green of spring now changes to the brown 
 
 of autumn sheaf. 
 But the splendor of the season is the turning 
 
 of the leaf. 
 
 Along the water courses, and reflected in the 
 
 streams. 
 Is the heightening of the color and the glory 
 
 of its gleams. 
 Across the open pastures flashes back the 
 
 deepening red. 
 Deeper even than the cloud light when the 
 
 autumn day is dead. 
 
 2* 
 
Each season has its lessons for the quiet, pen- 
 sive eye, 
 
 But a deep, impressive teaching rests beneath 
 the autumn dye. 
 
 As the leaf by changing structure grows the 
 richer in its hue, 
 
 So the heart by growing older should reflect 
 the good and true. 
 
 14 
 
THE PRISONER OF GISORS. ^ 
 
 Within a dungeon damp and drear, 
 
 A single ray upon the wall 
 Had sent its heaven descending cheer 
 
 To penetrate the gloomy pall ; 
 
 And there with only nail and stone 
 The captive carved an image bright, 
 
 And though deserted and alone 
 
 His dungeon glowed with heavenly light. 
 
 An image of the Christ he wrought 
 Upon the wall with rarest skill. 
 
 From inward trust and treasured thought. 
 With meekness and subjected will. 
 
 Those dungeon walls were rough and dark, 
 Save where the carving brightly glowed 
 
 To light in other souls the spark 
 
 Of hope and cheer his faith bestowed. 
 
 15 
 
May we, as prisoners in a life 
 
 Of flesh and sense in durance dim, 
 
 Enlisted in a daily strife. 
 Have patience to contend like him. 
 
 Then in each heart shall brightly shine 
 A likeness of the Christ so fair; 
 
 And others feel the life divine, 
 Which stamps its gracious image there. 
 
 i6 
 
MASTER SPIRITS.* 
 
 The first of English printers set his press 
 In Westminster's scriptorium. A change 
 Came o'er the place to toilers strange, 
 Who labored long 'mid fasting and distress 
 The riches of their learning to transmit 
 On vellum scrolls letter by letter writ. 
 
 He linked the middle with the modern age, 
 And published folios of sterling worth, 
 Making his work coeval with the birth 
 Of the new learning by his printed page. 
 The books he sold within the Almonry, 
 His "good cheap" making them a charity. 
 
 But few could buy a medieval book, 
 
 And they might part with houses or with lands, 
 
 * Delivered at an anniversary of the Barring-ton Public Library. 
 17 
 
For knowledge then was bound with golden 
 
 bands, 
 And many ne'er on lettered page could look. 
 The art of printing thus set learning free, 
 And type wrought for the letter liberty. 
 
 The true republic is of books, not men ; 
 Tho' heavy tomes with clasps are often bound, 
 Yet their contents, so turgid and profound. 
 Ne'er need a clasp to keep them from the ken 
 Of common minds. They have great weight, 
 
 'tis said, 
 And very likely, as they're never read. 
 
 The sightless bard of England styles a book, 
 ** The precious l^'fe-blood of a master spirit, 
 On purpose treasured that we may inherit 
 A life beyond life." Thus ideas that shook 
 The tyrannies of ancient times to-day 
 Are ours, tho' thrones and kingdoms may decay. 
 
 In books we have the best of all the ages; 
 The agora and forum disappear. 
 
The paintings and the sculptures we revere 
 Crumble away to live on modern pages. 
 Whatever the decay, whate'er the strife, 
 In books they are preserved from life to life. 
 
 The free republic makes the library free ; 
 No greater liberty the earth contains. 
 Here freedom came to birth thro' toils and pains, 
 Her last achievement that the bonds should be 
 Dashed off from books. Now all may read who 
 
 can; 
 Not liberty, but knowledge makes the man. 
 
 The bands of ignorance are strong indeed, 
 
 Far stronger than the fetters on a slave : 
 
 A higher liberation then they gave. 
 
 Who first declared that libraries should be freed. 
 
 The mind above the body now we rate, 
 
 And hence the decade that we celebrate. 
 
 But do we all consider as we should 
 
 The golden opportunity of books ? 
 
 What pleasure do they bring to him who looks 
 
 19 
 
Upon them with a mind distraught ! No good 
 Can come to such. Yet he who wisely reads 
 Ascends to heights where inspiration leads. 
 
 He lives where all the master spirits dwell, 
 
 His home becomes a palace, tho' a hut; 
 
 His soul in kingly fellowship is shut 
 
 Away from what belittles, and a spell 
 
 Of pure enchantment, freed from narrow clan, 
 
 Makes him to be earth's truest nobleman. 
 
SILVER SPEECH AND GOLDEN SILENCE.* 
 
 As we've gathered here, my brothers, on this festal 
 day of June, 
 
 And to Brunonia's memories our loyal hearts at- 
 tune, 
 
 There seems to shine around us a light from out 
 the past, 
 
 Its beauteous effulgence on all around us cast. 
 
 And as it brightly touches each fond familiar scene, 
 
 And circles with its halos each form to memory 
 green. 
 
 We almost shrink from speaking, and we feel the 
 truth of old. 
 
 That speech, it is but silver ; that silence, it is gold. 
 
 Then when we think of Wayland, of Caswell, and 
 
 of Sears, 
 Their memory growing dearer with the progress 
 
 of the years, 
 
 * Delivered in Sayles Memorial Hall, Brown University. 
 
As each one sits and ponders o'er what they were 
 
 to him, 
 The lip begins to quiver, the eye begins to dim ; 
 We hear their words of wisdom, we feel their 
 
 influence still. 
 As gushes from the fountain keep pulsing from 
 
 the rill. 
 No language can we utter, but we feel the truth 
 
 of old. 
 That speech, it is but silver ; that silence, it is gold. 
 
 What soul-subduing memories of Diman and of 
 
 Dunn 
 Come o'er us like the stillness at the setting of 
 
 the sun ; 
 How sudden came the summons, for each to go 
 
 his way 
 From the gloom of earthly shadows to the light 
 
 of endless day. 
 And now in blest companionship, as they walk 
 
 side by side, 
 Those rare and radiant spirits among the glorified, 
 
We lean upon our pilgrim staff, our thouglits are 
 
 backward rolled, 
 And speech, it is but silver ; and silence, it is gold. 
 
 But gathered here, my brothers, within these 
 
 massive walls. 
 Now sacred to the undying love a father's heart 
 
 recalls. 
 The tenderest of all memories Brunonia holds 
 
 to-day 
 Are haloed round a youthful life, too early passed 
 
 away. 
 To the student in the future as he upward turns 
 
 the eye 
 And reads the brief inscription ensculptured there 
 
 on high, 
 In Filio Pater Posuit forever will be told 
 The truth that speech is silver ; that silence, it is 
 
 gold. 
 
 Upon the brow of Horeb the prophet stood alone, 
 His mantle wrapped around him, a statue like a 
 stone. 
 
 23 
 
Not in the lightning's flashes, nor in the thunder's 
 roar, 
 
 Nor in the giant whirlwind that swept the moun- 
 tain o'er; 
 
 But in the stillness of a voice he strained his ear 
 to hear 
 
 The hero of Mount Carmel knew that his God 
 was near. 
 
 We may not climb the mountain-side our Father's 
 voice to greet, 
 
 But ours may be the bustle and turmoil of the 
 street. 
 
 Yet often, in the quiet of an hour of reverie, 
 
 We'll find that memory's voices are angel com- 
 pany. 
 
 So let us to our very hearts the ancient truth 
 enfold, 
 
 That speech^ it is but silver; that silence, it is gold. 
 
 24 
 
GO AND TELL JESUS.* 
 
 Go and tell Jesus, tho' the grave has darkened 
 All future life, thou lingerest here below. 
 
 Why do you doubt! Already he has harkened, 
 Eager to check the bitter tears that flow. 
 
 Go and tell Jesus, for the darkest sorrow 
 
 Earth e'er has known was laid upon His heart. 
 
 Why do you wait, increasing care to borrow, 
 When even now He bears it as His part! 
 
 Go and tell Jesus, tho' thy heart is breaking 
 With heavy grief, that no one else may share. 
 
 Do not delay, impatient murmurs making — 
 The heaviest grief He promises to bear. 
 
 Or on the cross, or else within the garden. 
 
 All thy dark sins and sorrows have been borne. 
 
 Go now to Him for penitence and pardon. 
 
 Whose broken heart by Roman spear was torn. 
 
 *Found in manuscript. 
 25 
 
THE QUEST OF THE MAGI. 
 
 Far from the east the Magi came, 
 Their feet were weary, their hearts aflame ; 
 Thro' crowded streets they wend their way, 
 With eager, tremulous voices say : 
 
 ''Where is the King of the Jews? " 
 
 Bringing gifts from the distant clime, 
 The lowly mien, the quest sublime, 
 The anxious soul, the searching eye. 
 Enhance the tone of their earnest cry : 
 
 "Where is the King of the Jews? " 
 
 Age on age has passed away 
 Since the Magi threaded the crowds that day ; 
 Year by year the throngs surge by 
 Bearing gifts, none raising the cry : 
 
 "Where is the King of the Jews? " 
 
 Yet thoughts for others and not for self 
 Replace the quests of greed and pelf; 
 
 26 
 
No longer need, as we thread the street, 
 Again to echo the Magi's greet : 
 
 ''Where is the King of the Jews? " 
 
 For the Babe of the manger fills the heart 
 That lives for others, and shares its part ; 
 And the crowd that surges to and fro 
 Carrying joy and banishing woe, 
 
 Hasfoimd the King of the Jews ! 
 
THE HOUR OF THE GLOAMING. 
 
 As I sit at my cottage window and look out o'er 
 
 Coweset bay, 
 To watch the shadows deepen on the hillsides far 
 
 away; 
 Though I know that the night is coming to shroud 
 
 with its sable pall, 
 Yet I deem the hour of the gloaming the sweetest 
 
 hour of all. 
 
 For over the far horizon pours a flood of golden 
 
 rays, 
 To fringe the grey of the hillsides and kiss the 
 
 blue of the bays ; 
 And over all the landscape a glory light doth fall. 
 To make the hour of the gloaming the sweetest 
 
 hour of all. 
 
 Then there steals a solemn stillness from out the 
 redd'ning west. 
 
That hushes e'en the clamor in the noisy fish- 
 hawk's nest; 
 
 And as its blest enchantment doth every sense 
 enthrall 
 
 It makes the hour of the gloaming the sweetest 
 hour of all. 
 
 For in that holy calmness from the hillsides far 
 
 away 
 Comes the sound of missing voices unheard in 
 
 the noise of day, 
 And as their gentle murmur on my raptured ear 
 
 doth fall, 
 It makes the hour of the gloaming the sweetest 
 
 hour of all. 
 
 And when the final sunset hour for me at last shall 
 
 come. 
 And I turn my eyes to westward to watch the 
 
 deepening gloom ; 
 If only then a glory light from the heavenly land 
 
 shall fall, 
 
 29 
 
It will make my own life's gloaming the sweetest 
 hour of all. 
 
 For by the golden radiance that shines from the 
 
 farther shore, 
 1 shall know that my flesh is failing, and my soul 
 
 is passing o'er, 
 Then clearer than earthly voices shall come my 
 
 Saviour's call, 
 To make the hour of that gloaming the sweetest 
 
 hour of all. 
 
 30 
 
THE SECRET OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Does beauty come in outward show 
 
 Of contour due or lovely eye, 
 Does it consist in shining glow, 
 
 Mantling the cheek with color high ; 
 Is beauty found in flowing hair 
 
 Of light, or dark, or auburn hue, 
 Or is it in expression rare, 
 
 Where inward charm is brought to view ? 
 
 Does beauty come to meet the mind. 
 
 Revealed thro' impress of the face. 
 The high endowments more refined 
 
 Than ever dwell in outward grace ; 
 Then where in mind resides the spell 
 
 That wins approval from the heart. 
 Or where does inner beauty dwell. 
 
 Beyond the reach of outer art ? 
 
 31 
 
Does beauty come to meet the heart 
 
 Of inward sympathy and love, 
 Does she her truest charms impart 
 
 To seers with insight from above ? 
 True beauty then can never fade, 
 
 But, soul to soul revealing ever. 
 Abides where changes ne'er invade 
 
 And naught the lasting tie can sever. 
 
 32 
 
THE LUTE OF ALFARABL* 
 
 A Rosicrucian of the middle age, 
 
 Content to pore 
 
 O'er learned lore, 
 Now lost to fame on history's page, 
 
 His learned zeal was bent upon the quest 
 
 Of kingly gold, 
 
 And to unfold 
 The secret, robbed his nights of rest. 
 
 A lute he played as mere accomplishment, 
 
 Beguiling hours, 
 
 Refreshing powers. 
 Thus nerving them for serious intent. 
 
 He taught the willifig lute to give 
 
 His inner life, 
 
 The varying strife 
 Of one who truly purposes to live. 
 
 * Found in manuscript. 
 33 
 
The obedient lute becomes instinct with feeling. 
 
 The vibrant wires 
 
 Express desires 
 The ecstatic player's very soul revealing. 
 
 To widen his research he traveled far, 
 
 From port to port, 
 
 From court to court, 
 Until he came to the sultan of Syria. 
 
 As learning's patron far and wide was spread 
 
 The sultan's name; 
 
 And hence he came 
 To seek new treasures from the nation's head. 
 
 In traveling garments entered he the hall. 
 
 Unheralded, unknown; 
 
 He paces all alone, 
 Threading among the courtiers great and small. 
 
 Then unabashed at the great monarch's side 
 
 Calm and serene, 
 
 With haughty mien. 
 Upon a sofa sat with equal pride. 
 
 34 
 
A scornful eye the sultan on him turned. 
 
 Holding aloof, 
 
 With sharp reproof, 
 The royal heart with indignation burned. 
 
 "And who art thou, that dar'st thus to invade 
 My palace hall. 
 And over all, 
 To seat thyself beside me, unafraid ?" 
 
 *'My name is Alfarabi, learning's lover; 
 I come to thee, 
 As known to be 
 True learning's patron. So not my reprover!" 
 
 Thus into learned talk at once they drew, 
 
 Forgetting all around. 
 
 Discussion most profound 
 Of all philosophies — both old and new. 
 
 Profounded depths of science had been sounded ; 
 
 The courtier crowd 
 
 In reverence bowed 
 At Alfarabi's researches unbounded. 
 
 35 
 
To music next the conversation turned, 
 
 A trifle merely ; 
 
 Of course, severely 
 It would not be discussed by one so learned. 
 
 ** Bring me a lute!" he said, and nothing more. 
 Taken in hand, 
 A prelude grand 
 Upon the lute he plays — unheard before. 
 
 The air he changes to a merry dance. 
 
 In giddy v/hirl 
 
 The dancers twirl, 
 As courtiers — old and young — together prance. 
 
 But now he changes to a sober strain. 
 
 What a heart-throbbing ! 
 
 And what a sobbing ! 
 The tears are coursing down their cheeks like rain. 
 
 **What mystery is this ?" the sultan cried. 
 "Words cannot give 
 Feelings that live 
 Deep in the soul !" the traveler replied. 
 
 36 
 
'* While other players play to show their art- 
 Intent on fingering, 
 Or cadence lingering— 
 I play alone the music of the heart." 
 
 Tho' on his learning History now is mute, 
 
 With no reliance 
 
 Upon his science. 
 She loves to tell of Alfarabi's lute. 
 
 37 
 
AT THE TURNSTILE. 
 
 I am waiting alone at the turnstile, 
 
 As the night-wind comes in from the sea ; 
 Full sadly I muse on his bright smile, 
 
 And the last words he uttered to me : 
 *'0 wait for me, love, at the turnstile. 
 
 And watch for my sails on the lee !" 
 Yet here have I lingered a long while 
 
 But no sign of his barque do I see. 
 
 I am waiting alone at the turnstile. 
 
 And the storm gathers angry and loud ; 
 Then the foam stretches mile upon mile. 
 
 While the breakers seethe white as a shroud. 
 My heart is so heavy and sad, dear, 
 
 As it moans with the wind o'er the sea; 
 My bosom is swelling with vague fear — 
 
 O ! come back, my lover, to me ! 
 
 38 
 
I am waiting alone at the turnstile 
 
 Till the storm-clouds are passing away, 
 And far in the east is the bright smile 
 
 That heralds the dawn of the day. 
 The billows are lulling to rest 
 
 As the wind dies away with the morn, 
 And the breaker is lowering its crest ; 
 
 But still I am waiting forlorn. 
 
 I am happy again at the turnstile. 
 
 For bright with the tinges of day 
 Came the sails that no longer beguile, 
 
 As they proudly careen up the bay. 
 My lover is now by my side. 
 
 And speaks to me words from his heart; 
 Yet I know, by the ebb of a tide, 
 
 At the turnstile again we must part. 
 
 39 
 
** THE SISTERS THREE." 
 
 Clotho : 
 
 I am spinning the thread of life ; 
 
 And the seven stars in my crown 
 Stand for the stages of mortal strife 
 
 I weave in my weft adown. 
 
 The violet hue of infanthood ; 
 
 The indigo of childhood truth ; 
 The blue, the youth-dawn lighter hued ; 
 
 The green, the time of growing youth 
 The yellow, vigorous manhood's prime; 
 
 The orange, color of decay; 
 The red that marks life's sunset time. 
 
 Refracted tint of life's brief day. 
 
 40 
 
Lachesis : 
 
 I am drawing forth life's thread ; 
 
 And the spindle turn I round 
 From violet hue to latest red 
 
 That sets the human bound. 
 
 Atropos : 
 
 I am holding the shears of fate ; 
 
 I stand by my sisters twain, 
 And tho' the hue be early or late 
 
 I make their labor vain. 
 
RUSKIN'S LAW OF HELP. 
 
 The mud that lies beneath our feet upon a rainy 
 
 day, 
 Composed of naught but water, sand and soot and 
 
 miry clay. 
 Fouler becomes, and blacker, with every tread of 
 
 foot, 
 The clay contending with the sand, the water with 
 
 the soot; 
 But should the mud be undisturbed and lie in quiet 
 
 rest. 
 And, like to like, the atoms of each element be 
 
 press'd. 
 How soon each molecule will be a helper to the 
 
 rest. 
 
 The clay a pure white earth becomes, fit for the 
 potter's hand, 
 
 42 
 
And then a vase of porcelain may in a palace 
 
 stand ; 
 But should its atoms undisturbed yet farther still 
 
 unite, 
 At last becoming hard and clear, reflecting back 
 
 the light, 
 'Tis now a brilliant sapphire, ethereal in hue. 
 And — scorning all the other rays, reflecting only 
 
 blue — 
 Is made the sacred symbol of a loyal heart and 
 
 true. 
 
 The sand-grains come together next, each ranging 
 
 in a line 
 And forming little parallels, though infinitely fine : 
 The many atoms working according to their law 
 Each closer to his neighbor with every movement 
 
 draw. 
 Until at last the opal stands forth in beauty's sheen, 
 Reflecting not the blue alone, but purple, red and 
 
 green, 
 And fitted for a coronet — the rarest ever seen. 
 
 43 
 
The soot in turn begins to try, but finds so hard 
 
 a task 
 'Tis sorely tempted to despair, and murmuring to 
 
 ask: 
 "What use for me to try at all? I surely must 
 
 be black!" 
 And yet it toils and struggles on, and patience does 
 
 not lack : 
 Becomes at last a diamond, a gem so dazzling 
 
 bright. 
 Since all the little sunbeams on its crystal sides 
 
 unite — 
 Their radiance reflected in a perfect flood of light. 
 
 Then last of all the water concludes it will not dry, 
 Since all the rest are striving it just as well may 
 
 try. 
 At first it is contented a dew-drop to remain, 
 Like those all irridescent with sunshine after rain : 
 But soon the frost is coming upon his icy car. 
 Bringing along a chilling blast from mountain-tops 
 
 afar: 
 
 44 
 
He gives the dew a sudden nip, and it becomes a 
 star. 
 
 And so, my friends, this lesson is taught to you 
 and me: 
 
 That mud forever striving shall mud forever be ; 
 
 But should its separate elements abandon jealous 
 hate, 
 
 Each working with his neighbor, and thus co- 
 operate, 
 
 They change from earth to jewels by nature's 
 wondrous plan. 
 
 And what is true of atoms may also be of man : 
 
 If he will only just consent all rivalry to ban, 
 
 And every one will try to help his brother all he 
 can. 
 
 45 
 
LONGING. 
 
 Why do you think of the scenes that have van- 
 ished, 
 
 Sighing in vain for the days long ago ; 
 Dwelling again upon thoughts you have banished, 
 
 Why does your heart fondly cling to its woe ? 
 
 Do not imagine your care would have lightened 
 Had you but weighed every word that you said; 
 
 Vain is the thought that your skies might have 
 brightened, 
 Useless to cherish the hopes that are dead. 
 
 Sometimes we meet, with a thrill of emotion, 
 Hearts that in sympathy beat with our own ; 
 
 But, like two barques meeting far in mid ocean, 
 By the next wave wide asunder are thrown. 
 
 Looks that were cast in that moment so fleeting 
 Told of the feeling that swayed in the heart; 
 
 Why should life's sweetness consist in repeating 
 Saddest of scenes — meeting only to part ? 
 
 46 
 
GUSH ! * 
 
 The lover draws as nigh as he can and vows he'll 
 e'er be true, 
 
 And tells the tale that has grown so old and yet is 
 always new, 
 
 And then they sit and sigh and woo, and woo and 
 sigh and blush : 
 
 And of all cheap things in all this world the cheap- 
 est thing is gush. 
 
 The dude of the period takes a walk along the city 
 street, 
 
 A fairy creature minces by with dainty slanting 
 feet; 
 
 She bends her form, he lifts his hat, their hearts 
 are soft as mush : 
 
 For of all cheap things in all this world the cheap- 
 est thing is gush. 
 
 * Found in manuscript. 
 47 
 
The parson prates of his dear church and prays for 
 his dear people, 
 
 And the pews talk back, "What a dear, good man!" 
 and praise him to the steeple ; 
 
 And folk outside with broad'ning grin declare that 
 praise is flush : 
 
 And of all cheap things in all this world the cheap- 
 est thing is gush. 
 
 Two rival belles in the ante-room meet — and how 
 
 they hug and kiss ! 
 The loves of Sappho and Heloise were surely naught 
 
 to this; 
 But when the ball is at its height, and eyes meet 
 
 eyes in the crush. 
 Of all cheap things in all this world the dearest 
 
 thing is gush. 
 
 The parson who prayed for his dear church doth 
 
 angry get, and scowl, 
 And the deacons and the discontents are sitting 
 
 cheek by jowl, 
 
 48 
 
And folk outside with lengtli'ning pliiz predict 
 there'll be a brush: 
 
 And of all dear things in all this world the dear- 
 est thing is gush. 
 
 The dude goes forth to promenade upon the win- 
 ter's ice, 
 
 The fairy creature makes a slip — he's by her side 
 in a trice ; 
 
 She makes a slip — he gets a fall — and lengthwise 
 falls in the slush : 
 
 And of all dear things in all this world the dearest 
 thing is gush. 
 
 The lover who drew as nigh as he could is married 
 
 now and out, 
 And she who drew as near to him appears to be in 
 
 a pout ; 
 She'd said, ''Don't go to that horrid club!" He'd 
 
 said, ''Good-bye, and hush!" 
 And of all dear things in all this world the dearest 
 
 thing is gush. 
 
 49 
 
The moral of a tale like this is not too hard to 
 
 draw : 
 Affections, like all other things, are govern'd by 
 
 a law. 
 These verses, you see, began with ''blush," and 
 
 now they end with "hush!" 
 If you blow too hot, you will grow too cold ; so 
 
 never indulge in gush. 
 
 50 
 
THE SETTING OF THE FORESAIL. 
 
 My true lover's schooner lies far a-down the bay, 
 
 And she is a-going to put to sea to-day. 
 
 I've been a long time watching her mainsail in the 
 
 sun, 
 And its idle flapping tells me that her voyage is not 
 
 begun. 
 A strong breeze now is rising that's to bear my love 
 
 from me. 
 But the setting of the foresail is all that I can see. 
 
 Together all last evening — how happy then were 
 
 we, 
 With his brawny arm around me; not a word about 
 
 the sea 
 Did we utter to each other ; but the cruel thought 
 
 would come 
 That the self-same hours to-morrow night would 
 
 bear him far from home. 
 
Now I strain my eyes to catch his form a-Ieaning 
 
 on the lee, 
 But the setting of the foresail is all that I can see. 
 
 The bay is all alive with craft a-sailing up and 
 
 down, 
 And many more are lying at the wharves below 
 
 the town. 
 There comes a proud full-rigger, with streamers 
 
 all bedecked. 
 And manned by jolly tars, whom many eager 
 
 hearts expect ; 
 But my thoughts are on that schooner, now hull 
 
 down on the sea. 
 And the setting of the foresail, that bore my love 
 
 from me. 
 
 But now the day is dying, and I see the harbor 
 
 light 
 Now winding into darkness, and now coming out 
 
 so bright; 
 And each time in its turning it seems to bring a 
 
 ray 
 
 52 
 
From the glances of my true love, gazing at it far 
 
 away. 
 My heart is full of sorrow, but the saddest thought 
 
 to me 
 Is the setting of the foresail, that bore my love to 
 
 sea. 
 
 At my window still I'm waiting, and my head is 
 wet with dew, 
 
 My eyes are red with weeping, as I peer the dark- 
 ness through 
 
 To catch another parting glimpse; but all of no 
 avail, 
 
 Since my true lover's schooner's been many hours 
 a-sail. 
 
 Forgive me, O my Father ! if e'en on my bended 
 knee, 
 
 The setting of the foresail draws my praying soul 
 from Thee. 
 
 53 
 
NOW AND HEREAFTER. 
 
 We note the outward only, and the seeming, 
 The hidden realms we never can explore ; 
 
 Our vision clouded o'er with nightly dreaming, 
 Of truth's expanse v/e scan alone the shore. 
 
 The summer wind is laden with its blessing, 
 A sweet aroma from the far-off hills; 
 
 We hail the welcome of its cool caressing. 
 But our dull sense no perfume e'er distills. 
 
 We touch the surface only, the external ; 
 
 We ne'er can penetrate life's secret springs, 
 Where far removed with effluence supernal. 
 
 All unapproached, exists the soul of things. 
 
 We hear alone the music borne aerial. 
 The fainter harmonies we may not gain ; 
 
 We strive to catch a melody etherial 
 
 Of heavenly chords, and listen — but in vain. 
 
 54 
 
And is this all, this bounded earthly vision, 
 With every sense in partial weakness grown, 
 
 Or do there range beyond the fields elysian, 
 Where we shall know as we e'en now are 
 known ? 
 
 55 
 
AT THE INGLESIDE. 
 
 I'm sitting alone at the ingleside, 
 
 As the daylight turns to grey, 
 The fire is blazing deep and wide 
 
 With the driftwood colors gay. . 
 The firelight sheds forth warmth and cheer, 
 
 And teaches a truth to me. 
 That if we would brighten the sad and drear. 
 
 Our hearts aflame must be. 
 
 I'm sitting alone at the ingleside, 
 
 The wood consumes away, 
 While the smoke ascends and the ashes bide. 
 
 To lengthen the waning day. 
 So, if our lives are quickly spent 
 
 In cheer to the lonely heart. 
 What tho' our frame with the clods be blent, 
 
 We truly act our part. 
 
 56 
 
I'm sitting alone at the ingleside, 
 
 The flame is a spirit pure, 
 In its breath both light and joy betide, 
 
 Tho' a moment it endure. 
 A word is a breath like the ingle flare, 
 
 It sounds on the ear to die ; 
 But if it is spoken with loving care 
 
 It lasts through eternity. 
 
 57 
 
TEMPTATION. 
 
 O tempted soul ! think not that thy temptation 
 Is in the wrong alone that meets thy sight. 
 
 No pov/er exists in all the wide creation 
 
 That of itself can move thee from the right. 
 
 'Tis not the wine that sparkles in the beaker, 
 'Tis not the lust that fascinates with charm, 
 
 But thine own will, by yielding grown the weaker, 
 Gives sin control that guides thee to thy harm. 
 
 Why didst thou hear the tempter when he call'd 
 thee, 
 With luring voice that thrill'd through every 
 nerve ? 
 Thou couldst not hear, when passion had enthrall'd 
 thee. 
 The still, small voice that bade thee not to swerve. 
 
Do not despair, tho' often thou hast wander' d, 
 Till thy weak will seems powerless for the right ; 
 
 Grieve not in vain o'er hours thou hast squander'd, 
 But turn at once from darkness to the light. 
 
 -Turn thou to Him who once like thee was tempted, 
 Yet, unlike thee, did never yield to sin ; 
 
 His stainless life from falling was exempted 
 To give thee aid thy victory to win. 
 
 What tho' thine eyes will ever grow the moister, 
 As for the past thy conscious heart is riven ; 
 
 Tho' thou hast not a virtue of the cloister, 
 Much mayst thou love, much hast thou been for- 
 given. 
 
 59 
 
AZAZEL. 
 
 Put far away, O Lord ! our evil deeds, 
 
 As far as east from west. 
 Put far away, O Lord! Like noxious weeds 
 
 They rankle in the breast. 
 
 Remove afar, O Lord ! our wicked thought, 
 
 As far as west from east. 
 Remove afar, O Lord ! So oft besought, 
 
 It troubles us the least. 
 
 Put far away, O Lord ! our sinful heart. 
 
 As far as east from west. 
 Put far away, O Lord ! Then shall we part 
 
 From sin that we love best. 
 
 60 
 
'^WHAT CHEER!" 
 
 A MEMORIAL ODE. 1636-1886. 
 
 Proem. 
 
 A native's voice along the Seekonk's shore 
 Welcomed the banished stranger as he came ; 
 
 That sound the woods reechoed more and more, 
 Circling still wider, fainter, yet the same, 
 ''What Cheer!" 
 
 Let music sound full harmonies to render 
 In notes melodious swelling on the ear. 
 
 Dying away in cadence soft and tender. 
 
 Murmuring forth the sachem's words, ''What 
 Cheer!" 
 
 6i 
 
 6* 
 
Ode. 
 
 Truly prophetic was that Indian greeting, 
 Where flows the river to receive the tide : 
 
 Awakening voices that, each age repeating, 
 Loudly proclaim the message far and wide. 
 
 The rock whereon the welcomed exiles landed 
 Is girt with memories Plymouth never knew ; 
 
 For here a few brave hearts together banded, 
 To conscience only ever to be true. 
 
 The liberty the Pilgrim Fathers sought, 
 Traversing ocean's weary waste to find, 
 
 Vv^is not true freedom yet, tho' dearly bought, 
 The Church and State in closer links to bind. 
 
 The Island of the Roses had a founder 
 
 Who scanned the future with an eagle eye ; 
 
 Of liberty he was no narrow bounder. 
 But sought new wilds, old tenets to defy. 
 
 The friend of Milton, he was truly vested 
 With a new charge in freedom's coming age ; 
 
 62 
 
Tho' stern the struggle, warmly he contested — 
 Fearless to fight, and ready to engage. 
 
 He ne'er was swayed by either fear or favor, 
 Yet humbly trusted in the Lord's defence; 
 
 Firmly relied upon his own endeavor, 
 
 Yet named the place of welcome. Providence. 
 
 Let music sound full harmonies to render 
 In notes melodious swelling on the ear, 
 
 Dying away in cadence soft and tender. 
 
 Murmuring forth the sachem's words, "What 
 Cheer!" 
 
 The cheer that thus brought freedom to the soul 
 Seemed like the wave that dies upon the strand ; 
 
 But proved the stirring of a drum-beat roll 
 That sent its echoes surging thro' the land. 
 
 The echoes sounded with the trying marches 
 Of those whose blood with wintry snow was 
 blent; 
 
 While freedom's bow the darkness overarches. 
 To give them songs of triumph as they went. 
 
 63 
 
The echoes murmured when the Northern martyr 
 Took on the scaffold cheerfully his dole ; 
 
 Pealed with the chimes the knell of human barter, 
 The death of a body, the marching of a soul. 
 
 The echoes silenced when the flag of blue 
 Replaced the Stars and Stripes o'er Sumter's 
 walls. 
 
 Again awakening, sounded forth anew 
 At Appomattox, where Rebellion falls. 
 
 Their undertones run thro' the proclamation 
 That smote the shackles galling on the slave ; 
 
 The p^on notes that first announced the nation 
 Home of the free as well as of the brave. 
 
 At Gettysburg they thrill the brief oration 
 With burning tribute to the patriot's worth. 
 
 And sanctify its hallowed invocation 
 
 That we may never perish from the earth. 
 
 64 
 
Epode. 
 
 And in the future, when the battle wages, 
 As come it must between the right and wrong, 
 
 Above the standards, o'er the fiery rages, 
 They'll swell the chorus of the victor song. 
 
 Let music sound full harmonies to render 
 In notes melodious swelling on the ear. 
 
 Dying away in cadence soft and tender, 
 Murmuring forth the sachem's words, ''What 
 Cheer!" 
 
 ()5 
 
CATHERINE DOUGLAS. 
 
 Within the convent chamber sits the king at his- 
 repast, 
 
 His foes are lurking in the hall, where evening 
 shades are cast; 
 
 Within the sacred walls of Perth no body-guard 
 has he, 
 
 But with his loving queen he sups in full secur- 
 ity. 
 
 The faithful bearer of his cup now at the door 
 
 appears, 
 The flagon trembling in his hand — his features 
 
 blanch'd with fears; 
 The sound of hurrying feet is heard along the 
 
 outer hall — 
 The few around the monarch knew too well that 
 
 traitor call ! 
 
 66 
 
Then rush'd a maid of honor forth to bar the 
 
 outer door 
 And stem the tide of death that fast along the 
 
 hall did pour; 
 Without the maiden heard the laugh of mockery 
 
 and scorn, 
 For traitor hands had from its rings the iron bolt 
 
 withdrawn. 
 
 And now that dauntless maiden, without a fear 
 
 of harm. 
 Within the empty iron rings inserts her slender 
 
 arm; 
 The baffled traitors on the door kept dealing 
 
 stroke on stroke. 
 Until within the iron rings the living bolt they 
 
 broke. 
 
 The noble Mucius Sc^vola within the altar flame 
 Retained his hand until his arm a blacken'd stump 
 
 became. 
 And oft the Christian martyrs in the ardor of de- 
 sire 
 
 67 
 
Thurst forth their seething arms far down within 
 
 the angry fire ; 
 Yet side by side with these, of whom eternal fame 
 
 has told, 
 The name of Scotland's heroine should surely be 
 
 enroll'd. 
 
 68 
 
ALONE. 
 
 To unattended thread one's way along a crowded 
 street, 
 Noting the surges of the human tide, 
 Seeing in none you chance to meet 
 
 A friend to turn aside 
 With welcome sweet. 
 Is to bide 
 Alone! 
 
 To wind through all the mazy labyrinths of creed, 
 To con with care the dogmas of the school. 
 
 Nor fmd the sustenance you need 
 In doctrines that but cool 
 
 Hearts they should feed, 
 Is to rule 
 Alone! 
 
 69 
 
To seek a high ideal year by year in vain, 
 
 To struggle onward, battling against hope, 
 
 To bear, perchance, the racks of pain, 
 Is as the blind to grope 
 
 For heights to gain 
 Wider scope. 
 Alone! 
 
 To have a wearing grief that no one else may share, 
 To hold the lower nature ever down. 
 
 To carry heavy weights of care, 
 Or meet suspicion's frown, 
 
 Is to bear 
 
 Alone ! 
 
 Beneath the shade of olive trees there rose a cry 
 Of One whose brow with beads of blood was 
 wet — 
 Thy will, not vii7ie, be done I and sigh 
 
 Of infinite regret. 
 Friends so nigh — 
 Alone! 
 
BENEFICENCE — A MEMORIAL.* 
 
 1785-1885. 
 
 The sibyl, kneeling at Apollo's shrine, 
 
 Besought the laurel god for length of days. 
 
 And, as she humbly sues the power divine. 
 She does not crave a crown of shining bays, 
 
 But years as many as the grains of sand 
 
 She holds within her shapely grasping hand. 
 
 For length of days she prayed, and nothing more ; 
 
 She did not seek for beauty, riches, youth ; 
 Life's ocean wide, and far the distant shore, 
 
 She thought the boon of years enough, for- 
 sooth. 
 Life without youth proved fatal to her peace ; 
 At last from age itself she sought release. 
 
 But the loved mother V\/hom to-day you praise, 
 The Christian maiden, fair Beneficence, 
 
 Whose century we sing in humble lays. 
 The eldest offspring of Benevolence, 
 
 Delivered at the centennial of the Beneficent Congregational Church. 
 71 
 
She did not seek, low kneeling at the throne, 
 The sibyl's quest of length of years alone. 
 
 She truly must have been of sterner mould 
 Who, not content in wid'ning way to tread. 
 
 Yearned for the simple narrow path of old, 
 Nearer the pierced feet, and thorned head. 
 
 A purer doctrine and more frequent prayer 
 
 Her earliest sons and daughters made their care. 
 
 An earnest purpose and a constant zeal 
 
 Have marked the long procession of the years ; 
 
 Unswerving trust, thro' good report or ill. 
 
 Guided their course with mingled hopes and fears. 
 
 So onward thro' the century they press. 
 
 With charity the bond of perfectness. 
 
 Viewing the scenes once humble, now sublime 
 Because of those who daily walked with God, 
 
 Along the dusty corridor of Time 
 
 We would retrace the steps the fathers trod. 
 
 With footsteps soft, with reverence profound — 
 
 The places where we tread are holy ground. 
 
 72 
 
To tell the tale of years in brief review, 
 And mark the conduct of the guiding voice 
 
 That never failed to indicate anew 
 
 Each course to take, however dark the choice, 
 
 'Twere best to note the pastors, each in turn. 
 
 Who caused devotion's vestal flame to burn. 
 
 Beneficence has never been a maid 
 That woos and calls and soon rejects again ; 
 
 Her leaders few, but men of higher grade ; 
 Brief pastorates have never been her bane ; 
 
 Deliberate and wise, she's chosen well, 
 
 Servants of growing power who came to dwell. 
 
 Benevolence, the grandame, had a leader 
 Who bore a widely known New England name 
 
 But Cotton proved a poor religious feeder — 
 There were a few who left the old grandame. 
 
 The real reason, if you wish to know, 
 
 Was simply this — they cottoned so to Snow. 
 
 From snow to cotton is no change of color 
 
 *Tis very clear snow cannot be more blue; 
 
 73 
 
Josiah Cotton was perhaps the duller, 
 
 So Joseph Snow was deemed to be more true; 
 However, short of Cotton did they go. 
 And long full fifty years they went with Snow. 
 
 The pastor. Snow, proved a wise master-builder, 
 For building houses was his former trade ; 
 
 Of simple truth he was no wordy gilder. 
 Yet he in love a firm foundation laid ; 
 
 Strong in the word, and ever true in deed. 
 
 He ploughed the ground and planted holy seed. 
 
 When trouble threatened about Sabbath singing. 
 As chords melodious frequent discords cause, 
 
 The brethren assembled, each one bringing 
 His own ideas, and laying down the laws ; 
 
 To curb the singers, and to stop the bother, 
 
 At last they condesce^ided to each other. 
 
 High on the list stands Pastor Wilson's name, 
 Whose memory the aged now revere. 
 
 His lips were touched as with seraphic flame — 
 His listeners seemed God's oracle to hear; 
 
 74 
 
Intent with voice and pen, his holy zeal 
 Burned with devotion for the church's weal. 
 
 Before he came he pondered o'er his call, 
 Surveyed the field, considered the event, 
 
 His usefulness endeavored to forestall. 
 
 Of the chief men tried to discern the bent ; 
 
 His estimation of the leading men 
 
 Comes to us bright in sketches of his pen. 
 
 By Thomas Jones, acute and quick to act. 
 By Colonel Hoppin, alv/ays his best friend. 
 
 By Stephen Wardwell, singer, was he backed, 
 And Joseph Potter firm support did lend ; 
 
 Thoughts of the absent sisters turn the scale. 
 
 And women's rights at least for once prevail. 
 
 Reared amid flowers, his soul was early filled 
 With images of beauty bright and fair : 
 
 The blossom of the white thorn first instilled 
 Its lesson of God's goodness, love, and care. 
 
 No flower e'er breathed its perfume on the breeze 
 
 But filled his soul with fragrant memories. 
 
 75 
 
'Tis said that St, Sophia's sacred walls 
 Are scented with the otto of the rose, 
 
 Which, like the daily incense, e'er recalls 
 The early pious gratitude of those 
 
 Who with the mortar blent the perfume rare 
 
 To send its sweetness ever on the air. 
 
 E'en so the virtues of that holy man 
 
 Were color'd by surroundings of his youth, 
 
 Thro' his imagination brightly ran 
 
 The images of beauty, goodness, truth. 
 
 Where moral beauty led he held the way 
 
 That ever brightens to eternal day. 
 
 The name of Doctor Tucker next appears. 
 Enshrined in fond remembrance to this hour ; 
 
 His fervent zeal, unchecked by cautious fears. 
 Brought great increase to witness to his power. 
 
 The Spirit oft accompanied the word, 
 
 To manifest the presence of the Lord. 
 
 The next a Boanerges, son of thunder. 
 
 Good Doctor Cleveland, vigorous and strong, 
 
 76 
 
Whose preaching seemed to be a constant wonder, 
 
 Filling the galleries with eager throng. 
 During the war, when others sought release, 
 He preached for prayer and powder, not for peace. 
 
 The thunder o'er, there came a son of love 
 To pour the oil of kindness on the waves; 
 
 In temper ever gentle as the dove, 
 
 His healing balm the growing discord laves. 
 
 His tongue e'er uttered words of loving peace 
 
 hi tones whose pleasing echoes do not cease. 
 
 A name I need not mention ends the line. 
 Long may it be before the line shall end ; 
 
 A faithful, earnest, eloquent divine, 
 
 To parish, city, state, endeared as friend. 
 
 Long may he live, and long retain the place 
 
 He so adorns with literary grace. 
 
 This house of worship had a predecessor 
 Which must have been a rather curious pile. 
 
 Of architectural rules 'twas no transgressor. 
 As it was planned in innocence of style ; 
 
 77 
 
No pattern e'er descended from the mount — 
 They built and altered on their own account. 
 
 The building first was thirty-six by forty, 
 Designed and supervised by Pastor Snow. 
 
 The brethren then were neither proud nor haughty, 
 They felled the timbers, as the records show ; 
 
 They did the work, no helpers did they hire — 
 
 They summoned to their aid no King of Tyre. 
 
 They changed it first by putting in a piece. 
 And when they saw that thus far it was good 
 
 Then to the rear they put a new increase. 
 Then dug away the hill on which it stood. 
 
 This novel way to make a structure higher 
 
 Added a dozen feet to the old spire. 
 
 So they built in and out, and then built up, 
 Or, to be more exact, they builded under; 
 
 And still they grew, o'er brimming was their cup; 
 They did not dare again to saw asunder, 
 
 So, doubtless to the credit of the town, 
 
 They made just one more change — they tore it 
 down. 
 
To fill its place this present edifice, 
 
 Grandly surmounted by its ample dome, 
 
 Thro' many scenes of changing woe and bliss 
 For five and seventy years has been your home. 
 
 Its very walls pure, hallowed thoughts invest, 
 
 That glow like dying sunbeams in the west. 
 
 The Steere Memorial Chapel claims a place 
 Of special mention, in these simple lines, 
 
 As, beautified with architectural grace. 
 Conspicuous the filial tribute shines. 
 
 God bless the donor ! precious be the health 
 
 Of him who makes a Christian use of wealth. 
 
 But I must pause, — nor let my straying fingers 
 Wander still longer over history's strings ; 
 
 And yet a little while the memory lingers 
 Just to impress the lesson that she brings. 
 
 The sacred past doth never yield its story 
 Without creating impulses for good ; 
 
 With each review there comes increasing glory 
 To gild the places where the fathers stood. 
 
 79 
 
Where'er we turn we find the plans and trials 
 Which have become our regular employ ; 
 
 Again we note the cheerful self-denials 
 
 Which brought the blessings that we now enjoy. 
 
 Their losses are our gain, and we are learning 
 To gather wisdom e'en from their mistakes; 
 
 And by their earlier marches watch the turning 
 Where shades grow lighter, till the morning 
 breaks. 
 
 So let us then with hope resume our journey 
 While, reassured, no m^ore the spirit faints; 
 
 And, pressing forward, entering the tourney. 
 Fight for the faith delivered to the saints. 
 
 As we go forth the fields are ever newer, 
 And we must fight until we're summoned hence ; 
 
 But each advance may make us still the truer 
 In worship, doctrine, and beneficence. 
 
 80 
 
UNDER TINTS. 
 
 While surface colors show the skillful finish, 
 Revealing touches of a master's care, 
 
 Of under tints, that serve but to diminish 
 The toning, many never are aware. 
 
 They soften what would otherwise be glaring. 
 They indicate the frequent self-restraints. 
 
 And are suggestive of the pains unsparing. 
 That always show the master as he paints. 
 
 These under tints are not for outward showing. 
 They are not painted for the world's applause ; 
 
 But, tho' all undiscerned save by the knowing. 
 They mark observance of artistic laws. 
 
 The truest lives have under tints concealing 
 The portraiture of many a hidden grace : 
 
 Oft to discerning eyes comes a revealing 
 In a refined expression of the face. 
 
 8i 
 
THE OX-EYED DAISY. 
 
 While driving along a country road, 
 
 On a lovely summer's day, 
 Where wild flowers made their choice abode. 
 
 And buttercups lined the way. 
 The air was wavy with the heat, 
 
 The distant landscape hazy, 
 And, close to the road, near passing feet, 
 
 I spied an ox-eyed daisy. 
 
 How graceful is its gentle nod 
 
 As it bends to the summer wind. 
 Deeper in hue than the golden-rod. 
 
 Its petals all shaded behind 
 By the calyx spreading forth its spears, 
 
 It swings so light and lazy. 
 The loveliest flower of all appears 
 
 That yellow ox-eyed daisy. 
 
 82 
 
The wild field lilies, dashed with red 
 
 And spotted o'er with brown, 
 On the hill-side, all with savin spread. 
 
 As soft as a bed of down — 
 They do not stop the passer-by 
 
 And turn his head so crazy, 
 As the loveliest flower that meets the eye, 
 
 That regal ox-eyed daisy. 
 
 83 
 
STAR-LIT SKIES. 
 
 Star-lit skies are bending o'er thee, 
 
 Faintest shades around thee glide ; 
 Soft the light that beams before thee, 
 
 Earthly cares no longer bide : 
 As thy gaze is upward turning 
 
 Toward that slowly westering star. 
 May thy heart be fondly yearning 
 
 For the absent one afar. 
 
 Star-lit skies their quiet blessing 
 
 Seem to breathe upon thee now. 
 And the breezes' soft caressing 
 
 Lingers long upon thy brow: 
 When the evening shades are falling, 
 
 And the sounds of day depart, 
 'Tis the hour when love, recalling. 
 
 Brings fond memories to the heart. 
 
 84 
 
Star-lit skies are often clouded, 
 
 And the moon is hid from sight; 
 Then the landscape is enshrouded 
 
 Deep in shadows of the night : 
 Thus the fond heart oft is grieving 
 
 For the light of love that shone. 
 Only trusting and believing 
 
 In the happy hours agone. 
 
 85 
 
THE OLD PLANTATION DAYS. 
 
 To-day I have been thinking of the old plantation 
 days, 
 Of the good old times that never will return ; 
 Tho' the darkies all have parted now, to go their 
 different ways. 
 Still in the hearts the thoughts will ever burn. 
 Now we all have got our freedom, and we have the 
 right to vote. 
 And the driver's lash would never sweep in vain, 
 Tho' the wail of parted kindred on the air will never 
 float, 
 Yet I'm sighing for the good old days again. 
 
 The row of whitewashed cabins used to glisten in 
 the sun. 
 And the smoke from out the chimneys used to 
 curl; 
 
 86 
 
And we sat upon the benches, when the hard day's 
 work was done, 
 A-listening to the river's quiet purl. 
 Then the ring of happy voices blended with the 
 merry laugh, 
 With ne'er a note of sorrow nor of pain ; 
 From the cup of flowing pleasure all we darkies had 
 a quaff, 
 So I'm sighing for the good old days again. 
 
 1 seem to hear the banjo strains a-coming to my 
 ear, 
 With the chiming of the shuffle on the board ; 
 And the darkies' voices blending in the old planta- 
 tion cheer 
 Bring pleasure that no present joys afford. 
 Tho' no master now can own us, and we can't be 
 bought or sold, 
 And we ne'er again will have to wear the chain, 
 Yet on the old plantation was a joy that can't be 
 told, 
 So I'm sighing for the good old days again. 
 
 87 
 
THE SCENT OF THE NEW-MOWN HAY. 
 
 'Tis New Year's Eve, a chilly night, 
 
 And the stars are briglitly shining ; 
 The moon a dark cloud tinges white 
 
 And makes a silvery lining: 
 The sleigh-bells jingling over the snow 
 
 In cheery chimes are ringing. 
 And the horses gaily prancing go. 
 
 With merry-makers singing. 
 
 The dancers are swaying round and round 
 
 To the strains of the Danube blue, 
 Which fill the air with a dreamy sound 
 
 As they go floating through : 
 A beauty beaming glances cast, 
 
 As she turned so blithe and gay. 
 And from her handkerchief, as she passed, 
 
 Came the scent of the new-mown hay. 
 
 88 
 
In an instant how the scene doth change, 
 
 As with touch of a magic hand : 
 Before the eye the meadows range 
 
 Far away to the rising land ; 
 The merry mowers banish care, 
 
 As the glancing scythes they sway ; 
 Again I'm breathing the summer air. 
 
 With the scent of the new-mown hay. 
 
 How often beautiful scents and sounds 
 
 Recall the forgotten past : 
 Again we tread familiar grounds, 
 
 As memories backward cast; 
 No more the drooping spirits grieve, 
 
 But the heart grows blithe and gay, 
 As with that vision of New Year's Eve, 
 
 At the scent of the new-mown hay. 
 
 89 
 
THE BOW IN THE CLOUD. 
 
 Athwart the air the sinking sun sent brightly pen^ 
 cilled rays, 
 
 The falling raindrops changing into showers of 
 golden sprays; 
 
 And overhead low hung a cloud, whose mutterings 
 increased, 
 
 While faintly glowed a yellow light far in the cloud- 
 less east. 
 
 Faster, yet faster, fell the rain; and darker grew 
 the cloud. 
 
 And brighter yet its glimmerings, its thunder still 
 more loud: 
 
 Though from its glowing bosom flashed the light- 
 ning's fiery rod. 
 
 Yet in the eastern sky there glowed no promise of 
 our God. 
 
 90 
 
But in the yellow orient there formed a pearly mist, 
 Whose light and filmy edges the fading sunlight 
 
 kissed, 
 Becoming dark and darker as denser still it grew. 
 Then quickly shone upon its folds the tints of rain- 
 bow hue. 
 
 And so methought that human hearts are like the 
 
 cloudless east 
 When earthly joys are multiplied and pleasures are 
 
 increased ; 
 But when our hearts grow dark and sad, beneath 
 
 afflictions' rod. 
 How brightly shine within them then the promises 
 
 of God. 
 
 91 
 
NO NIGHT THERE. 
 
 The western light is waning, 
 
 The night shades widen fast; 
 The stars in number gaining, 
 
 Though clouds the sky o'ercast: 
 Another day is ending. 
 
 One less of earthly care; 
 To heaven my thought's ascending, 
 
 No night shall darken there. 
 
 Day deepens into night-fall, 
 
 Night brightens into day. 
 And after sun comes cloud-pall 
 
 To hold alternate sway : 
 May I, my care forgetting, 
 
 Breathe forth my evening prayer; 
 Though here the sun is setting. 
 
 No night shall darken there. 
 
 92 
 
THE WISH OF CHRISTMAS. 
 
 The wish of ** Merry Christmas" goes forth upon 
 the air, 
 
 On the highway and the by-way the passers every- 
 where 
 
 Send out their happy voices in many varying keys, 
 
 All ringing with the accent of true heart harmonies. 
 
 Thank God! that once a year, at least, the ever- 
 beating heart 
 
 Asserts its right to influence and nobly acts its part : 
 
 E'en hardened long by years of sin, and like the 
 desert rock, 
 
 It gushes forth in sympathy to meet the friendly 
 shock. 
 
 What tho' the Child of Bethlehem could nowhere 
 
 lay His head, 
 Save with the cattle in the stall, and in a manger 
 
 bed? 
 
 93 
 
He finds a better resting place, as ages come and go. 
 Within the hardest human heart when touched by 
 others' woe. 
 
 Eternity alone can tell how many loving deeds 
 Are done each year, at Christmas tide, without the 
 
 pale of creeds, 
 E'en as the guests in Bethlehem's inn, the morning 
 
 of His birth. 
 Knew nothing of the manger child, the Lord of all 
 
 the earth. 
 
 94 
 
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 A CAROL. 
 
 If you upon this night 
 
 Shall go to Bethlehem's height, 
 
 What will you see ? 
 Within a manger lies 
 A babe with closed eyes, 
 
 The Christ that is to be. 
 Sing o'er the angels' song 
 
 Of peace, good-will to men : 
 Let age to age prolong 
 
 The loud angelic strain : 
 "Glory be to God on high!" 
 
 Around the drooping head. 
 Within the manger bed, 
 A light expands. 
 
 95 
 
Mary, the mother mild, 
 Adores her infant child 
 
 In swaddling bands. 
 Sing o'er the angels' song 
 
 Of peace, good-will to men : 
 Let age to age prolong 
 
 The loud angelic strain : 
 ''Glory be to God on high!" 
 
 So let each year adore 
 
 And praise Him more and more 
 
 Adown the ages. 
 And bring the gifts of old. 
 Myrrh, frankincense and gold, 
 
 Of eastern sages. 
 Sing o'er the angels' song 
 
 Of peace, good-will to men : 
 Let age to age prolong 
 
 The loud angelic strain : 
 "Glory be to God on high!" 
 
 96 
 
THE HOPE OF EASTER. 
 
 The winds of spring are blowing chill, 
 
 The hills with snow are clad, 
 And here and there the branches still 
 
 With autumn leaves are sad : 
 But now the crocus bursts the sod, 
 
 The primrose rises fair, 
 And e'en the tiny grass blades nod. 
 
 Rejoicing in the air. 
 
 'Tis said that on the Saviour's grave 
 
 The Syrian stars look down ; 
 That, tho' He had the power to save. 
 
 Death claimied Him as his own : 
 What claim on Him who knew no sin 
 
 Had death to hold Him long ? 
 No sealed stone could keep Him in. 
 
 As angel hands are strong. 
 
 97 
 9* 
 
As well might primrose lose its power, 
 
 The crocus fail to rise, 
 The grass at the appointed hour 
 
 Refuse to glad the eyes. 
 As He who lay in Joseph's tomb 
 
 Death's captive still should be: 
 The grave is, then, a helpless gloom. 
 
 And death, captivity. 
 
 We lay our dead beneath the sod 
 
 And mark their place of rest. 
 By faith await the power of God 
 
 In resurrection blest; 
 And, as each springtide brings its bloom, 
 
 There comes the joyous day 
 When ''He is risen from the tomb!" 
 
 All His disciples say. 
 
 98 
 
THE PROMISE OF EASTER. 
 
 The seal is broken, 
 The heavy stone is rolled away, 
 
 The angels' token. 
 The tomb is vacant where He lay. 
 
 He takes the life that He laid down, 
 
 He hath the power ; 
 He doth the tyranny of death discrown 
 
 From that same hour. 
 
 The first fruit is He, 
 That all who sleep in death shall rise ; 
 
 New immortality, 
 Whose growth ascending rends the skies, 
 
 A promise bright that empty tomb. 
 
 To all receiving. 
 To light the darkness of death's gloom 
 
 To all believing. 
 
 99 
 
THE LAST BREAKFAST. 
 
 John xxi ; 12. (Revised version.) 
 
 Upon the lake Gennesareth 
 
 The weary fishers drew their net — 
 
 But all in vain : 
 Throughout the dark and tedious night 
 They drew, until the dawn of light, 
 
 An empty seine. 
 
 *M go a fishing !" one had said ; 
 
 "We, too, must earn our daily bread," 
 
 The rest replied : 
 So they, who should catch only men, 
 Had followed to their net again 
 Him who denied. 
 
 At day-break, on the distant shore, 
 Appeared a form unseen before, 
 
Discerned by morning light; 
 And as they vvond'ringly drew near, 
 Uncheered by hope, depressed by fear, 
 
 They thought they saw a sprite. 
 
 Yet soon there sounded o'er the wave 
 A voice from Him who came to save. 
 
 Clear, loving, sweet. 
 Like music on their wearied ears, 
 To raise their hopes and lull their fears, 
 
 ''Sons, have ye aught to eat?" 
 
 *'Alas! we've drawn and drawn again 
 All through the night-watches in vain; 
 
 Alas! we've nothing caught!" 
 ''Cast now your net upon the right : " 
 They cast, and, to their wondering sight, 
 
 It came with fishes fraught. 
 
 He who had leaned on Jesus' breast 
 To Simon said, at love's behest, 
 
 "It is the Lord!" 
 And he, who wept so bitterly. 
 
Now plunged at once into the sea 
 Upon the word. 
 
 And when they all had come to land^ 
 And drawn their prey upon the sand, 
 
 That net, unbroken, 
 Through all the centuries untold, 
 To represent the Lord's true fold, 
 
 Became a token. 
 
 A fire of coals upon the strand, 
 A fish thereon from His own hand. 
 
 They saw at last. 
 ** Bring of the fish which ye have caught. 
 And learn the lesson I have taught ; 
 
 Come! break your fast." 
 
 And as they burned with inward fire, 
 Not even Thomas durst inquire 
 
 ^'Oh! who art thou?" 
 For well they knew it was the Lord, 
 And ate in silence at His word, 
 
 E'en all believing now. 
 
My brethren dear, as here ye meet 
 Heart beats to heart with kindly greet 
 
 Around the board : 
 And, when you of the feast partake. 
 Think of that scene, beside the lake. 
 
 With sweet accord. 
 
 Then in your loving hearts there'll be 
 A thrill of tender sympathy 
 
 With Him beside the sea ; 
 And you may hear Him say 
 *'Come, children of the day. 
 
 Come, break your fast with me." 
 
 103 
 
INFLUENCE.* 
 
 'Tis not by words, however wisely spoken, 
 
 That hearts are truly led ; 
 'Tis not by thoughts of which they are the token 
 
 That souls are duly fed. 
 
 'Tis not by deeds, however high and glorious, 
 
 That lives are truly blest ; 
 'Tis not by deeds of armies all victorious 
 
 That wrongs are e'er redressed. 
 
 'Tis what we are, our very being only, 
 
 That reaches other lives : 
 'Tis what we are, tho' living sad and lonely, 
 
 Both word and deed survives. 
 
 * Found in manuscript. 
 104 
 
SEARCHING FOR GOD. 
 
 The finite seeks the Infinite to know, 
 
 The thing contained to measure the container, 
 
 Beyond the veil of sense man fain would go. 
 
 How vain to solve earth's mysteries, and vainer 
 To reach through the wide universe the Cause 
 Of suns and systems. Man, the proud disdainer 
 
 Of simple faith, asserts his mighty laws, 
 That seem to him far reaching in their sweep. 
 Their operation ceaseless soon withdraws 
 
 The need of Godhead, as their movements keep 
 The worlds in balance and adjustment true. 
 Imperious thinkers thus rich harvests reap 
 
 Of philosophic structures ranging through 
 The varied forms of matter and of being. 
 Evolved in series and in order due. 
 
 105 
 10 
 
And so, not by believing but by seeing, 
 They do not humbly bow, but proudly soar, 
 And from faith's trammels grandly freeing 
 
 Their lordly souls, they thus explore 
 
 God's universe no Deity to find. 
 
 Learning the less e'en as they know the more. 
 
 io6 
 
LIKE TO LIKE. 
 
 Like to like our frame is growing, 
 Simple cell to simple cell, 
 
 In the red stream daily flowing 
 Germs the tide of life to swell. 
 
 Like to like our thoughts increasing. 
 Fact to fact put side by side, 
 
 Lead to nature's laws unceasing. 
 Thro' a universe allied. 
 
 Like to like our minds are gaining 
 Simple truth to simple truth, 
 
 Error but the darkness waning 
 In the dawn of newer youth. 
 
 Like to like our souls are storing. 
 Adding only part to part, 
 
 107 
 
In each mystery imploring 
 Wisdom of the wise in heart. 
 
 Like to like thus daily seeing, 
 From refracted ray to ray, 
 
 Till at last thro' our whole being 
 Flashes white the light of day. 
 
 io8 
 
A LAW OF LIGHT. 
 
 The air around us but receives 
 The sun's illuminating ray; 
 
 No particle of light it gives 
 To make the glory of the day. 
 
 Were not the light reflected back 
 
 From earth and planet, moon and star, 
 
 Phoebus would leave no shining track 
 To mark his chariot's course afar. 
 
 No ray of righteousness descends 
 
 With healing on our darkened earth, 
 
 Till from a human heart it bends 
 To waken goodness into birth. 
 
 109 
 10* 
 
THE DESCENT OF THE SERAPH. 
 
 Down from the throne a seraph flew, 
 The air to lustrous brightness grew ; 
 He ne'er this lowly earth had trod 
 To bring a beautiful thought of God. 
 
 Running his fingers from key to key, 
 
 In search of a thrilling melody, 
 
 The famed composer sat and thought 
 
 Till the seraph's fire his soul had caught: 
 
 No more he seemed of mortal clod 
 
 As he rendered the beautiful thought of God. 
 
 Lingering long by the plastic clay, 
 
 Moulding in vain from day to day. 
 
 The sculptor toiled in his studio 
 
 Till the seraph set his soul aglow : 
 
 No more he strove with sluggish plod 
 
 As he fashioned the beautiful thought of God. 
 
The canvas white on the easel stood, - 
 And the painter gazed in thoughtful mood ; 
 But yet the fancy ne'er would grow 
 Till the seraph struck his fiery blow : 
 Then, under the touch of the seraph's rod, 
 He painted the beautiful thought of God. 
 
 The poet strove with frenzied brain 
 
 For a truth to set in matchless strain ; 
 
 Aimless he wandered here and there 
 
 Till his soul was touched by the seraph's fire, 
 
 And the image seemed his soul to flood 
 
 As he uttered the beautiful thought of God. 
 
 The song that sweetly thrills the air, 
 The statue so divinely fair, 
 The painted scene that charms the eye. 
 The poet's strains that never die- 
 All wait for the touch of the seraph's rod 
 And are but the beautiful thoughts of God. 
 
THE HOLY THORN OF GLASTONBURY. 
 
 The bearer of the holy grail to Angleland, 
 
 To mark his journey's bourn, 
 
 His pilgrim staff, well worn. 
 On Werral Hill hath thrust into the sterile sand. 
 
 Year after year, at each recurring Christmas 
 tide, 
 That staff doth bloom with haws — 
 A miracle that awes — 
 The Glastonbury pilgrims come from far and 
 wide. 
 
 Truly the desert blooms and blossoms like the 
 rose: 
 The sand of Werrall Hill, 
 And hawthorn staff that still 
 At Christmas time is sending forth its buds and 
 blows. 
 
When comes our journey's end at last, so may 
 we plant 
 On Hill of Weary All 
 Our staff. It may befall 
 That for some hearts may bloom the haws of 
 love, tho' scant. 
 
 113 
 
THE FIRST NEW ENGLAND THANKS- 
 GIVING. 
 
 With thankful hearts the pilgrim sires 
 Saw their first harvest field. 
 
 How circumscribed were their desires, 
 Content with scanty yield. 
 
 The peas had blasted in the bud, 
 
 The barley crop was thin, 
 The corn was scarce enough for food 
 
 When all was gathered in. 
 
 Yet fish and game were plentiful. 
 Wild turkeys ranged the shore. 
 
 The hunter's gun, at every stroll. 
 Provided ample store. 
 
 The huts, erected on the bluff. 
 Sheltered from wind and rain; 
 
 114 
 
Tho' logs and mud were rude enough, 
 Devoid of window pane. 
 
 Tliey entertained their savage guests 
 
 By ** exercising arms"; 
 Thus planting in the Indian breasts 
 
 The sense of wars' alarms. 
 
 The meeting-house, upon that day. 
 
 Was filled by young and old, 
 With grateful hearts to praise and pray, 
 
 God's mercies to unfold. 
 
 To-day the sons of pilgrim sires 
 
 Assemble round their board, 
 Weighed down with all that wealth requires 
 
 From autumn's garnered hoard. 
 
 But when the church-bell sends its peal, 
 
 To summon all to pray, 
 The scores of empty pews reveal 
 
 A modern holiday. 
 
 115 
 
VOICES OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 The voices of the past are ever sounding, 
 And give their impulse to our present life, 
 
 In wisdom of the ages deep abounding, 
 To cheer or warn amid our daily strife. 
 
 In times of joy they come to us with blessing, 
 To breathe their peace when all is bright and 
 fair. 
 In hours of grief they blend with thoughts de- 
 pressing 
 And bring us aid our burdens' weight to bear. 
 
 The voices of the future, too, are calling, 
 Though few may listen to their faint appeal; 
 
 All unobserved their accents, gently falling, 
 Reverberate with coming woe or weal. 
 
 ii6 
 
Whene'er we strive and conquer, their applaud- 
 ing 
 
 Is gently borne, as with an angel's breath ; 
 But when we falter, coming time defrauding, 
 
 They whisper coldly, as with chill of death. 
 
 Whatever wrong the present age is bearing, 
 With prospect dim that it will be redressed. 
 
 That very wrong, if borne without despairing. 
 May, through our patience, make the future 
 blest. 
 
 117 
 
THE LESSON OF A FACE.* 
 
 Her face when in repose was touched by sadness- 
 The look of weeping Mary at the cross ; 
 And, tho' betokening much of earthly loss, 
 
 Revealed the conquest of a heavenly gladness. 
 
 A smile of joy, not earth but heaven born. 
 Spread o'er her features like a glancing ray. 
 Its light surpassing that of coming day, 
 
 A herald of the resurrection morn. 
 
 * Found in manuscript. 
 
 ii8 
 
REALITY OF THE IDEAL. 
 
 The life ideal is the only real, 
 
 For outward forms decay. 
 The higher purpose makes the true ideal, 
 
 By living as we pray. 
 
 Our human wills may every day grow 
 stronger. 
 Obeying the Divine; 
 Then, as without life's shadows grow the 
 longer. 
 The soul within shall shine. 
 
 Whatever now is dark, O Christ! en- 
 lighten. 
 And take away our night: 
 May more and more our earthly pathway 
 brighten 
 Into the endless li^ht. 
 
 119 
 
MEMNON, OR THE YOUTHTIDE. 
 
 Ages ago, where rolls the sullen Nile, 
 His surge bereft of ocean's crested smile, 
 Where ancient Thebes her storied columns high 
 Reared for a glory that should never die, 
 Stood Memnon's statue of colossal stone, 
 Rough-hewn to life, yet wanting breath alone. 
 As darkness brooded o'er the shadowed land. 
 It faced the east, majestic, mute, and grand ; 
 But when the blushes up the Orient skies 
 Steal from the couch whereon Aurora lies. 
 It looked expectant toward the rising queen. 
 With lofty brow, and high, heroic mien. 
 As the first sunbeam, on its mission sped. 
 Shone like an aureole on the massive head. 
 Deep from within there came a harp-like sound, 
 Distinct to all the pilgrims gathered round. 
 
No later ray, e'en should the lavish sun, 
 From wealth of radiance, send the loveliest one 
 To sport with maiden coyness round its hair. 
 Could woo again the slumbering music there. 
 So early scenes, that greet our youthful eyes. 
 And early pleasures bring a glad surprise; 
 No after joys can e'er our heart control 
 Or wake again the music of the soul. 
 
 The light of sunset glimmers o'er the sea, 
 Redd'ning the sparkling crests upon the lee. 
 As a staunch ship divides the crimson foam. 
 Bearing a sailor boy from youth and home. 
 He leans his aching head upon his hand. 
 His streaming eye directed toward the land. 
 Watching it fade in distance from his sight. 
 Lost in the gath'ring shadows of the night. 
 Oft had he read of dangers of the deep. 
 Where giant waves with lashing fury sweep ; 
 But now his thoughts turn backward to the shore- 
 He longs to hear his mother's voice once more. 
 And o'er him comes that yearning for his home 
 
That ever sinks the wanderer's heart in gloom. 
 His boyhood hours now pass in quick review, 
 And happy scenes of youthful joys renew ; 
 Forgot the ship, impelled by dark'ning sails, 
 He weeps afresh, but weeping ne'er avails 
 To bring again the fading light of day. 
 As farther still the exile's borne away. 
 
 Among the sports of which his youth was fond. 
 His chief delight was skating on the pond. 
 E'en from the first he makes a noble start, 
 With feet, like Pickwick's, full a yard apart ; 
 He strikes the stars divinely with his head, 
 Or hits the ice and sees the stars instead. 
 His comrades told him it was fun to try 
 To see how near a breather he could fly. 
 Why breathing-holes were named, passes his wit; 
 When he was in, he couldn't breathe a bit. 
 How the boy's cheeks with glowing ardor burn. 
 As he at last upon the ice doth learn 
 To crisp along with emulation rife. 
 While quick within him throbs the pulse of life. 
 
Tho' other scenes may rise to meet his view, 
 And other contests stir his soul anew, 
 Yet ne'er such keen delight can they awake 
 As in this race doth every sense partake. 
 But now-a-days in skating, what a change ! 
 The skater on the sidewalk takes his range. 
 And on his rollers rides along as glib 
 As doth a student on a roller crib. 
 
 Another thought which haunts his memory still, 
 With fond regret, is coasting dov/n the hill. 
 Now, he who coasts will always draw his sled. 
 Since half a loaf is better than no bread. 
 His sister thought that she up-hill should ride, 
 And deep within him rankled injured pride. 
 Which made his features very long and grim 
 To think she'd make a Sisyphus of him. 
 In spite of that, 'twas jolly sport to slide : 
 Down the smooth crust so merrily to glide. 
 His eyes aglow, his cheeks a blooming red. 
 While fast and faster leaps the bounding sled. 
 Yet once indignant shame within him burned 
 
 123 
 
As suddenly his jumper overturned, 
 
 And in his coat his staring eyes surveyed 
 
 A bigger rent than envious Casca made. 
 
 He thinks his mother's looI< will not be bland — 
 
 No eye like Ma's to threaten and command ; 
 
 And yet he braved it out, late homeward went, 
 
 Then supperless to bed, for punishment. 
 
 Now hath he bid these boyish thoughts farewell; 
 
 His ship careens upon the ocean's swell, 
 
 And as he's farther borne upon the sea, 
 
 He gazes landward, lost in reverie. 
 
 A lattice sways with gentle motion. 
 
 As the breeze o'er a couch where Beauty sleeps 
 Comes and goes like a wave of ocean 
 
 O'er the flush of its coral deeps. 
 
 The crescent moon sends madd'ning rays 
 To gleam in the gold of her flowing hair. 
 
 As crystal founts send dewy sprays 
 
 To shimmer and dash in the summer air. 
 
 24 
 
And so the maid hath restless slumber, 
 
 With weary tossing to and fro ; 
 For Love's neglect her soul doth cumber 
 
 With many an anxious care and woe. 
 
 But the winged god wooes the beautiful dreamer, 
 And scatters the shades of her lonely dearth. 
 
 Till from her radiant smiles you'd deem her 
 An angel vision too fair for earth. 
 
 He leads her in fancy 'neath moonlit bowers 
 Which scent the air of the summer night ; 
 
 On rosy wings he speeds the hours. 
 Making each moment a new delight. 
 
 Sleep on, O maiden! Do not wake! 
 
 Quaff still of the current of Lethe's stream ; 
 For never again, though your heart may break, 
 
 Shall you know the bliss of that first love dream. 
 
 125 
 
An aged man doth feebly wend his way 
 Adown a lane, untrod for many a day, 
 That leads with gentle windings to the home 
 He left, 'neath alien skies afar to roam. 
 At every turn he pauses long to view 
 The scenes such blissful memories renew. 
 His form, tho' stooping o'er the brink of time. 
 Elastic feels the thrill of boyhood's prime. 
 The old deserted homestead meets his eyes ; 
 The crumbling walls a mass of ruin lies ; 
 But recollections, time can ne'er efface. 
 Give to each fallen stone its proper place ; 
 And Fancy brings each absent form to view 
 To rear again his childhood's home anew. 
 Behind it, brown with autumn, rise the hills, 
 Adown whose rocks purl well-remembered rills ; 
 Before it stretch the golden-rodded leas. 
 Where rip'ning fruits hung redd'ning on the trees. 
 His brave old heart its courage well doth keep, 
 He nears the grave-yard where his kindred sleep, 
 And there he bows his snowy head in tears 
 
 126 
 
As he pours out the sorrow of the years. 
 Weep ! aged man ! weep on ! for nevermore 
 Can time to you these by-gone joys restore; 
 Nor can your heart, now wrung by many a pain, 
 Sing o'er the carols of your youth again. 
 Like an Aeolian harp which once, full strung, 
 Sweet on the breeze its chords of music rung. 
 But now with strings dissevered all save one 
 That's left to wail its dreary monotone, 
 So thou, with weakened frame and feeble breath, 
 Alone doth chant the monotone of death. 
 
 We're passing on; the light of youth has faded. 
 And the bright radiance of the glad spring days 
 
 Time with many a restless care has shaded 
 Into the purple of the summer haze. 
 
 We're passing on; and ne'er again as dreamers 
 Idly can float upon the stream along; 
 
 But we must live and act as time redeemers. 
 With trustful hearts all resolute and strong. 
 
 127 
 
We're passing on thro' life; and 'mid the reapers 
 We each may gather in the harvest grain ; 
 
 And if we guard our souls as trusty keepers, 
 We shall be sure to labor not in vain. 
 
 We're passing on to death ; and 'mid the weepers 
 We each must lie, unconscious of their moan; 
 
 Then to the tomb, to rest, as wearied sleepers, 
 Till angel hands shall roll away the stone. 
 
 128 
 
GEORGE IDE CHACE. 
 
 With mental faculties alert and clear, 
 
 He loved to search into the hidden bounds 
 
 That mind and matter in their varied rounds 
 
 Of action and reaction, far and near. 
 
 Present to sober, meditative cheer. 
 
 Not deeming knowledge less, but wisdom more. 
 
 He learned by patient thought, deep brooding o'er 
 
 The problem of existence, to revere 
 
 The First Great Cause of all. The sceptic's sneer 
 
 Of unbelief, the oft misleading gird 
 
 Of modern thought, had never stirred 
 
 His Christian faith untrammeled and sincere. 
 
 His motive pure, his conscience undefiled. 
 
 Science and Faith both claimed him as their child. 
 
 I2g 
 
SAMUEL STILLWELL GREENE. 
 
 A consecrated life, in purpose true, 
 Has come untiring to its very end : 
 Apt both to teach and learn, and ever spend 
 Its best endeavor, at the first clear view 
 Of duty, on the humblest task that waited. 
 While others, selfish, sought their own advance, 
 All eager for the world's approving glance. 
 Thou never wast with swelling pride inflated. 
 Thy voice is hushed, thy willing hands are folded, 
 Thy burden thou didst carry to the last. 
 Thou from thy daily toil at once hast passed 
 To thy reward. The minds thy skill has moulded 
 Rise to bless thee. Consecrated life of trust ! 
 Thou leav'st behind the memory of the just. 
 
 130 
 
A. A. G. 
 
 A life complete is not in length of days, 
 A story told of three-score years and ten, 
 Nor deeds performed to reach the ears of men. 
 Nor labored work to win the meed of praise. 
 For thou hast shown, what few with long delaj^s 
 Hardly attain and many ne'er achieve, 
 A thoughtfulness for others, to relieve 
 The mind depressed, a gentleness that sways 
 All hearts to thine, as we recall thy ways. 
 The grace of thy young manhood will outlast 
 The proud achievements which indeed may cast 
 A glamor o'er the outward life, that stays 
 In monumental brass, but may not live 
 In memories that the heart alone can give. 
 
 131 
 
THE BIRTH OF CHRIST.* 
 
 The highest life, that ever came to earth, 
 Cradled with beasts in Bethlehem's manger lay. 
 The wise men, long star guided, came to pay 
 Their homage, startled at the wondrous birth. 
 Strange scene ! the wise before the infant bow 
 With gifts prophetic of the new career, 
 Which brings the distant heaven to earth so near 
 That God in man now tabernacles low. 
 Just as the magi the new life receive. 
 Like little children coming to the child. 
 So all, who would accept His doctrines mild, 
 With simple faith of childhood must believe. 
 The highest life only the lowliest know : 
 From heaven it came; 'tis heaven begun below. 
 
 *Found in manuscript. 
 132 
 
THE SAVIOUR IS RISEN. 
 
 Sure as the sun on every Easter morn 
 Ascends the heavens to bring the world new light, 
 Vailing perchance his splendor, lest too bright 
 In radiance he amaze the day new born. 
 Our very hearts, though heavy and forlorn 
 Until He comes in majesty to reign. 
 Returning in the spirit doth He deign 
 Illume with healing wings. And shall we scorn 
 Sharing His rays of light, and earthward drawn 
 Reject the healing balm He brings ? With thought 
 Intent on outward form, regard as nought 
 Service refined, from every passion torn! 
 Ever, O Christ, upon each Easter day. 
 Needing Thy light, to Thee we humbly pray. 
 
 133 
 
JESUS THE CHRIST. 
 AN ACROSTIC SONNET. 
 
 Just as I come: He saves me now, 
 Endures my guilt and bears my shame, 
 Subjects my will, through savor of His name, 
 Until my froward, stubborn flesh doth bow 
 Subdued, by His omnipotence to save. 
 This is the heavenly pelican who drained 
 His own life-current from His breast unstained, 
 Embracing death, Himself He freely gave — 
 Celestial gain preferred to earthly loss. 
 He sin removed, as far as east from west. 
 Righteousness and peace in Him caressed — 
 In Him, who hung obedient on the cross. 
 Suffering, He died ; and I must suffer, too, 
 Till, in His image made, Himself I view. 
 
 134 
 
INDIVIDUALITY. 
 
 A life that's truly hid in Christ reveals • 
 
 The Saviour to the world as no life else 
 
 Can make Him known, e'en though the searcher 
 
 belts 
 The globe to find another such. Who feels 
 This truth with its deep import ne'er conceals 
 His likeness to his Lord, but makes Him known 
 As words cannot. Thus more and more is grown 
 The true idea of Christ. When love congeals 
 In many hearts, and e'en when all appeals 
 To doctrine fail, as worldliness abounds, 
 And truth deep blent with error oft confounds 
 The earnest seeker, when the strongest reels, 
 These hidden ones of Christ the truth maintain ; 
 Their lives proclaiming, godliness is gain. 
 
 135 
 
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