OF CAUK. L1BRARy . IN CLOVER AND HEATHER IN CLOVER AND HEATHER BY WALLACE BRUCE WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON BRYANT UNION, TEMPLE COURT, NEW YORK 1896 All rights reserved Copyright, 1895! by WALLACE BRUCE. OF A V. HAIQHT. TO MY WIFE. I have in life bttt wishes three : The first is realized in thee ; The second you can surely guess Sweet presents sent from Heaven to bless : The third some sweet and quiet nook, To read the leaves of Nature's book. I could not make my wishes four Love, children, home Earth has no more. 2125671 PREFACE. The title of this volume, " In Clover and Heather," was chosen to suggest not only the blending of Columbia's and Scotia's sweetest bloom, but also to entwine as in a floral wreath delightful reminiscences of scenes and incidents at home and abroad, with here and there a lyric-blossom native to every land and every age. It occurred to the author early in his sojourn of four years at Edinburgh to present a selection of verse under this inscription. As the first and second editions have now been some time exhausted, also an edition de luxe, he clings with special fondness to a title which brought such pleasant fortune, and, in preparing a third edition for his publishers in Edinburgh and London, is not unwilling to herald an American edition under the same happy auspices for friends in the United States, vii PREFACE. In arranging the present work the author has retained only a moiety of those which appeared in the first edition, so that the present issue may be more properly regarded a new selection, or the latest gleaning from his two complete volumes, the Old Homestead and the Wayside. Principal Fairbairn, of Oxford University, cordially pronounces these poems "fragrant of both soils"; and the late Professor Blackie's cheery inspiration, both by word and by pen, encourages to new endeavor. What wonderful power in one human and sympathetic heart to broaden the realm of life ! Its influence and wide-reaching results no age can fully estimate. To bind closer in sympathy the great world of humanity is the brightest dream of the poet, to deepen the sense of brotherhood the noblest vision of the prophet, to strengthen the bond of universal love the highest service of literature. W. B. CONTENTS. PAGE. THE STRANGER, 13 ONE WORD 15 THE SNOW ANGEL, 17 LIFE'S PAUSES, 20 HER PICTURE, 23 LOVE'S DIAL, 29 THE OLD HOMESTEAD, 32 THE FLOWER-KEY, 37 REPENTANCE, 40 41 INASMUCH," 41 THE PATHWAY OF ANGELS, 49 " WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY," . . 51 OLE BULL'S CHRISTMAS, 54 THE ROCK WHERE MY MOTHER PLAYED, . . 66 THE NUPTIALS, 69 DESTINY, 70 ENVIRONMENT, 71 SCOTT'S GREETING TO BURNS, 72 PREFACE. In arranging the present work the author has retained only a moiety of those which appeared in the first edition, so that the present issue may be more properly regarded a new selection, or the latest gleaning from his two complete volumes, the Old Homestead and the Wayside. Principal Fairbairn, of Oxford University, cordially pronounces these poems "fragrant of both soils"; and the late Professor Blackie's cheery inspiration, both by word and by pen, encourages to new endeavor. What wonderful power in one human and sympathetic heart to broaden the realm of life ! Its influence and wide-reaching results no age can fully estimate. To bind closer in sympathy the great world of humanity is the brightest dream of the poet, to deepen the sense of brotherhood the noblest vision of the prophet, to strengthen the bond of universal love the highest service of literature. W. B. CONTENTS. PAGE. THE STRANGER, 13 ONE WORD, 15 THE SNOW ANGEL, 17 LIFE'S PAUSES, 20 HER PICTURE, 23 LOVE'S DIAL, 29 THE OLD HOMESTEAD, 32 THE FLOWER- KEY, 37 REPENTANCE, 40 " INASMUCH," 41 THE PATHWAY OF ANGELS 49 " WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY," . . 51 OLE BULL'S CHRISTMAS, 54 THE ROCK WHERE MY MOTHER PLAYED, . . 66 THE NUPTIALS, 69 DESTINY, 70 ENVIRONMENT, ....... 71 SCOTT'S GREETING TO BURNS, 72 CONTENTS. PAGE. COLUMBIA'S SON, . : . . . * . 79 A HAND-SHAKE, .82 THE PRINTER-BOY'S DREAM 85 ALPINE SPRING, 89 INCH CAILLIACH, LOCH LOMOND, ... 92 THE AULD BRIG'S WELCOME, 96 "UNO DE MILLE," 105 THE YOSEMITE, 109 NIAGARA, 1 14 THE HUDSON 115 IN CLOVER AND HEATHER 126 THE HOMESTEAD WELL 128 DE FUNIAK LAKE, 136 A STAR-EYED DAISY, 137 To PROFESSOR JOHN STUART BLACKIE, . . 138 To THE MEMORY OF C. T. V. S., . . . .142 LONGFELLOW, ...._... 143 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 144 To MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, . . . . 150 THE HARP OF TOM MOORE, 151 LOOK AT THE MOON, MY SWEETHEART, . . 154 LOVE'S LITANY, 157 IN WHISPERS, 159 CONTENTS. PAGE. ANNIE, 160 A COAST SURVEY, 162 FERDINAND TO MIRANDA, 165 JULIET TO ROMEO, 166 THE Music OF LIGHT, 167 IMPERIAL TIME, 169 QUESTIONS, . 170 THE INFINITE, 174 GOD'S HEARTHSTONE, 175 THE GLOAMING 177 So SWEET THE DREAMS, 179 DREAMLAND AND LOVELAND, .... 181 SMILE AND WAIT, 183 OF AGE, 185 MY CASTLE, 186 A WANDERER, 189 THE STRANGER. AN EASTERN STORY. An aged man came late to Abraham's tent. The sky was dark, and all the plain was bare. He asked for bread ; his strength was wellnigh spent, His haggard look implored the tenderest care. The food was brought. He sat with thankful eyes, But spake no grace, nor bowed he towards the east. Safe sheltered here from dark and angry skies, The bounteous table seemed a royal feast. But ere his hand had touched the tempting fare, The Patriarch rose, and leaning on his rod " Stranger," he said, " dost thou not bow in prayer ? Dost thou not fear, dost thou not worship God ?" He answered, " Nay." The Patriarch sadly said : " Thou hast my pity. Go ! eat not my bread." 13 THE STRANGER. Another came that wild and fearful night. The fierce winds raged, and darker grew the sky ; But all the tent was filled with wondrous light, And Abraham knew the Lord his God was nigh. " Where is that aged man ?" the Presence said, " That asked for shelter from the driving blast ? Who made thee master of thy Master's bread ? What right hadst thou the wanderer forth to cast ?" " Forgive me, Lord," the Patriarch answer made, With downcast look, with bowed and trembling knee. " Ah me ! the stranger might with me have stayed, But, O my God, he would not worship Thee." " I've borne him long," God said, " and still I wait; Couldst thou not lodge him one night in thy gate ?" ONE WORD. " Write me an epic," the warrior said " Victory, valor, and glory wed." " Prithee, a ballad," exclaimed the knight- " Prowess, adventure, and faith unite." "An ode to freedom," the patriot cried " Liberty won and wrong defied." " Give me a drama," the scholar asked " The inner world in the outer masked." " Frame me a sonnet," the artist prayed " Power and passion in harmony played." " Sing me a lyric," the maiden sighed " A lark-note waking the morning wide." '5 ONE WORD. " Nay, all too long," said the busy age ; " Write me a line instead of a page." The swift years spoke, the poet heard : " Your poem write in a single word." He looked in the maiden's glowing eyes, A moment glanced at the starlit skies From the lights below to the lights above- And wrote the one-word poem Love. 16 THE SNOW ANGEL. The sleigh-bells danced that winter night ; An old-time village rang with glee; The windows overflowed with light ; Joy ruled each hearth and Christmas-tree. But to one the bells and mirth were naught : His soul with deeper joy was fraught. He waited until the guests were gone; He waited to dream his dream alone ; And the night wore on. Alone he stands in the silent night ; He piles the snow in the village square; With spade for chisel, a statue white From the crystal quarry rises fair. No light save the stars to guide his hand, But the image obeys his soul's command. THE SNOW ANGEL. The sky is draped with fleecy lawn, The stars grow pale in the early dawn, But the lad toils on. And lo ! in the morn the people came To gaze at the wondrous vision there; And they called it " The Angel," divining its name, For it came in silence and unaware. It seemed no mortal hand had wrought The uplifted face of prayerful thought; But its features wasted beneath the sun; Its life went out ere the day was done; And the lad dreamed on. And his dream was this : "In the years to be I will carve the Angel in lasting stone; In another land beyond the sea I will toil in darkness, will dream alone. While others sleep I will find a way Up through the night to the light of day. 18 THE SNOW ANGEL. There's nothing desired beneath star or sun Which patient genius has not won." And the boy toiled on. The years go by. He has wrought with might; He has gained renown in the land of art; But the thought inspired that Christmas night Still kept its place in the sculptor's heart; And the dream of the boy, that melted away In the light of the sun that winter day, Is embodied at last in enduring stone, Snow Angel in marble his purpose won; And the man toils on. LIFE'S PAUSES. A curious stranger environed in doubt, An interrogation-point toddling about, A bundle of questions nothing more Cooing and creeping upon the floor. A comma of sunshine, a playtime to see The flower, the bird, the brook, and the tree ; A vision of childhood count one for the pause A ripple of laughter, a golden clause. A stile in the pathway, a summer day, A blissful moment too sweet to stay; Swift semicolon of youth divine Count two in tracing the raptured line. 20 LIFE'S PAUSES. An exclamation " You ! O You !" The same old story, forever new, An arrow's flight to a soul new-found, A volume of love in a vowel-sound. A song, a prayer, a marriage vow, A compound-word in the chapter now, Only a hyphen, but angels wait And hush their anthem in heaven's gate. A gleam of light in the gliding years, A colon of joy in the font appears, A point of hope in the fleeting text Our line continued in the next. The sentence finished, a gentle mound By waving grass encircled round ; A period here, but not complete Merely a rest for weary feet. LIFE'S PAUSES. A rest for the night till the morning wakes, Till the purpling east in glory breaks; Faith writes a dash for the great TO-BE Beyond Time's bracket Eternity. HER PICTURE. " This is your picture, just as you were In the May-day time when first we met, With a winsome look, a gentle demur, And dimples that cradle the old love yet : Just as you were when the artist caught The crimson tint of your blushing -cheek ; And gazing thereon I have sometimes thought The very picture itself might speak. I wonder how he captured the grace, The pose of the neck, the floating curl, The womanly sweetness, the open face, The sparkling eyes of a laughing girl." 23 HER PICTURE. Such were the words the husband said, As he turned with joy to his bonnie bride; It was only a month since they were wed, The sky was fair and the world was wide. " And this was her picture when she was young, My mother, whose hair is growing gray, Just as she looked when she softly sung, As I sat at her feet on the floor at play : Just as she looked when she used to tell Of the shepherds who watched their flock by night And her eyes still keep the same sweet spell, A blissful magic of love and light. She knows she is all the world to me, As we muse in the gathering twilight now Her heart the shrine where I bend the knee, Her blessing the crown upon my brow." 24 HER PICTURE. Such were the thoughts of a son who knew The fullness of love in a mother's prayer, With soul still pure, and purpose true To keep the dream of his boyhood fair. in. " This was the grandma I used to know Who sat and rocked me by the hearth ; Her face had hardly so rich a glow, Though her eyes ran over with laughing mirth ; As blue as the girl's just over the way, Who never gets scolded for making a noise, The one I expect to marry some day, Though always pretending she doesn't like boys. I told her about the picture last week, And said her eyes weren't nearly so bright, That she hadn't half so pretty a cheek, And she cried till the nurse made me say good night. 25 HER PICTURE. Thus spoke the grandson young and bold, As he cheerily glanced across the way, Where a merry elf with locks of gold Looked up and laughed with her dolls at play. " What of the picture hanging there, Quaintly set in antique frame, Titian-like with sunny hair, A bit of canvas without a name ? I found it perched on a garret beam, Pleading attention in accents meek, As a chink in the roof let in a gleam, And deepened the tint of the rosy cheek. So I brought it down, cobwebs and all, Polished with care the tarnished gold, Placed it here in the ancient hall, And it seems at home in the sacred fold.' 26 HER PICTURE. But the speaker thought that an angel smile Tenderly stole through the crevice there, For his daughter slept in the shadowy aisle Ere he found and cherished the treasure rare. v. So the years went by and the story grew, While the picture silently kept its place, How a fairy came in the morning dew, A wondrous vision of youthful grace ; Too lovely in sooth for human mould, A spirit from out the hallowed past, A vivid presentment ere faith was cold, Or art entrammelled in fetters fast : Till a maiden, playing an old-time air To a lover who came from over the seas, Saw her own fair features reflected there, As she quickly glanced from the ivory keys. 27 HER PICTURE. And other dreamers in coming years The same sweet portrait will dearly prize, And find transfigured through smiles and tears Their own bright tresses and fond blue eyes. 28 LOVE'S DIAL. In hope and joy we've journeyed O'er many a land and sea ; Love's dial marks the sunshine The years are twenty-three : They seem a dream foreshortened, An idyl sweetly told, For every hour was silver, And every day was gold. By many a stream we've wandered, Through forests dim and vast, Where far Sierra's mountains Their westward shadows cast ; Through bright Italian cities And dim cathedral aisle, And realms where art and beauty The centuries beguile ; 29 LOVE'S DIAL. By Scottish rills that murmur The songs our mothers knew, Through deep denies still guarded By heroes tried and true ; By burn and field and river, O'er many a land and sea, We've wandered on together The years are twenty-three. It seems somehow a story That hardly can be real, Too bright and evanescent For memory's gentlest seal ; A word, a line, a poem That never can be told, For every hour was silver, And every day was gold ; Or like a floating vision Where ripples softly break, 30 LOVE'S DIAL. And idle oars lie floating Upon a moonlit lake ; A paradise of glory Where love is never old, And every hour is silver, And every day is gold. And so beside Love's dial We note the fleeting years, And gather in the harvest That grows in smiles and tears; Then voyage on together Upon a wider sea ; The days are drifting leeward The years are twenty-three. THE OLD HOMESTEAD. Welcome, ye pleasant dales and hills, Where, dreamlike, passed my early days ! Ye cliffs and glens and laughing rills That sing unconscious hymns of praise ! Welcome, ye woods, with tranquil bowers Embathed in autumn's mellow sheen, Where careless childhood gathered flowers, And slept on mossy carpets green ! The same bright sunlight gently plays About the porch and orchard-trees ; The garden sleeps in noontide haze, Lulled by the murmuring of the bees ; The sloping meadows stretch away To upland field and wooded hill; The soft blue sky of peaceful day Looks down upon the homestead still. 32 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. I hear the humming of the wheel Strange music of the days gone by ; I hear the clicking of the reel ; Once more I see the spindle fly. How, then, I wondered at the thread That narrowed from the snowy wool, Much more to see the pieces wed, And wind upon the whirling spool ! I see the garret once again, With rafter, beam, and oaken floor; I hear the pattering of the rain As summer clouds go drifting o'er. The little window towards the west Still keeps its webs and buzzing flies, And from this cosy childhood nest Jack's beanstalk reaches to the skies. I see the circle gathered round The open fireplace glowing bright, 33 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. While birchen sticks with crackling sound Send forth a rich and ruddy light. The window-sill is piled with sleet, The well-sweep creaks before the blast, But warm hearts make the contrast sweet, Sheltered from storm, secure and fast. O loved ones of the long ago, Whose memories hang in golden frames, Resting beneath the maple's glow, Where few e'er read your chiselled names, Come back, as in that Christmas night, And fill the vacant chairs of mirth ! Ah me ! the dream is all too bright, And ashes lie upon the hearth. Below the wood, beside the spring, Two little children are at play, And Hope, that bird of viewless wing, Sings in their hearts the livelong day. 34 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. The acorn patters at their feet, The squirrel chatters 'neath the trees, And life and love are all complete They hold Aladdin's lamp and keys. And, sister, now my children come To find the water just as cool, To play about our grandsire's home, To see our pictures in the pool ; Their laughter fills the shady glen, The fountain gurgles o'er with joy That, after years full three times ten, It finds its little girl and boy. No other spring in all the world Is half so clear and cool and bright, No other leaves by autumn curled Reflect for me such golden light. 35 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. Of childhood's faith this is the shrine ; I kneel beside it now as then, And though the spring's no longer mine, I kiss its cooling lips again. Unchanged it greets the changeful years : Its life is one unending dream ; No record here of grief or tears, But, like the limpid meadow-stream, It seems to sympathise with youth, Just as the river does with age, And ever whispers sweetest truth Is written on life's title-page. THE FLOWER-KEY. A fairy princess wandered when a child, From jewelled halls beneath the ocean's bound, Up to the world, where rocks in ruin piled Behind her footsteps closed with hapless sound; In vain with feeble arm and tiny hand She sought return; then sank in blinding tears, Till came a noble queen with stately band To give her shelter and to calm her fears: But still she sighed and never might forget The sylphid streams where shadows never stray; While at her wish ten thousand heroes met And wrought with will to find her homeward way A fruitless task, a kingdom's force was spent, The rock by mortal strength could not be rent. 37 THE FLOWER-KEY. She came and went, but oft in bitter grief Bemoaned her fate beside the cruel door "The Power that guards to every prayer is deaf, The princely palace closed forevermore ! The fair enchanted grottos where I strayed In golden hours, would they again were mine ! My sisters dear with whom I fondly played When days were bright, what memories enshrine ! Long weary years my patient footsteps press The ruthless threshold that I know full well; No answer comes my sorrowing soul to bless, No genii wait to break the magic spell, Yon heartless crag returns my anxious cry 'Alas! alas!' the listening glens reply." " What flower is that thou bearest in thine hand?" A hermit said, who heard the sad refrain; " I've wandered wide in many a distant land, And know full well that human works are vain." 38 THE FLOWER-KEY. The Princess answered : " Symbol dear to me A primrose pale." " Then be not thus bereft; In other realms 'tis known as Mary's key: Touch thou with it." The rock in silence cleft. The door swung wide on massive hinges wrought, The key of flowers had touched the hidden ward : A gleam of light with glory strangely fraught, A strain of joy upborne in sweet accord. The hermit picked the fallen primrose there; The door had closed. Alone he bows in prayer. 39 REPENTANCE. A curse was hurled into the air, That God a brother's soul might blast. The hot tears fell. Then rose a prayer, That God might guard and keep it fast. Swift sped the curse, but swifter far The white-winged prayer on mercy's breath ; While angels o'er Heaven's crystal bar Beheld the race of life and death. The bat-like curse in dazzling light Uncertain now its journey keeps, While up through heavenly radiance bright The victor prayer in triumph sweeps. The crystal bar wide open flies, The prayer is safe in Paradise ; It closes at the angel's nod, The curse ne'er reached the throne of God. 40 INASMUCH." A CHRISTMAS STORY. You say that you want a Meetin'-house for the boys in the gulch up there, And a Sunday-school with pictur' -books ? Well, put me down for a share. I believe in little children; it's as nice to hear 'em read As to wander round the ranch at noon and see the cattle feed. And I believe in preachin' too by men for preach- in' born, Who let alone the husks of creed and measure out the corn. The pulpit's but a manger where the pews are Gos- pel-fed; And they say 'twas to a manger that the star ot Glory led. "INASMUCH." So I'll subscribe a dollar toward the manger and the stalls ; I always give the best I've got whenever my partner calls. And, stranger, let me tell you : I'm beginning to sus- pect That all the world are partners, whatever their creed or sect ; That life is a kind of pilgrimage a sort of Jericho road, And kindness to one's fellows the sweetest law in the code. No matter about the 'nitials from a farmer, you understand, Who's generally had to play it alone from rather an or'nary hand. I've never struck it rich, for farming, you see, is slow; And whenever the crops are fairly good the prices are always low. 42 "INASMUCH." A dollar isn't very much, but it helps to count the same ; The lowest trump supports the ace, and sometimes wins the game. It assists a fellow's praying when he's down upon his knees " Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these." I know the verses, stranger, so you needn't stop to quote ; It's a different thing to know them or to say them off by rote. I'll tell you where I learned them, if you'll step in from the rain : 'Twas down in 'Frisco, years ago had been there hauling grain; It was just across the ferry, on the Sacramento pike, Where stores and sheds are rather mixed, and shan- ties scatterin' like 43 "INASMUCH, ' Not the likeliest place to be in. I remember the saloon, With grocery, market, baker-shop, and bar room all in one. And this made up the picture my hair was not then gray, But everything still seems as real as if 'twere yester- day. A little girl with haggard face stood at the counter there Not more than ten or twelve at most, but worn with grief and care; And her voice was kind of raspy, like a sort of chronic cold Just the tone you find in children who are prema- turely old. She said : " Two bits for bread and tea, ma hasn't much to eat ; She hopes next week to work again, and buy us all some meat. 44 "INASMUCH." We've been half-starved all winter, but spring will soon be here, And she tells us, ' Keep up courage, for God is always near.' " Just then a dozen men came in ; the boy was called away To shake the spotted cubes for drinks, as Forty- niners say. I never heard from human lips such oaths and curses loud As rose above the glasses of that crazed and reckless crowd. But the poor tired girl sat waiting, lost at last to revels deep, On a keg beside a barrel in the corner, fast asleep. Well, I stood there, sort of waiting, until some one at the bar Said, " Hello ! I say, stranger, what have you over thar ? " 45 "INASMUCH? The boy then told her story ; and that crew, so fierce and wild, Grew intent, and seemed to listen to the breathing of the child. The glasses all were lowered. Said the leader: " Boys, see here ; All day we've been pouring whisky, drinking deep our Christmas cheer. Here's two dollars. I've got feelings, which are not entirely dead, For this little girl and mother, suffering for the want of bread." " Here's a dollar." " Here's another; " and they all chipped in their share, And they planked the ringing metal down upon the counter there. Then the spokesman took a golden double-eagle from his belt, Softly stepped from bar to counter, and beside the sleeper knelt; 46 "INASMUCH." Took the " two bits " from her fingers, changed her silver piece for gold. " See there, boys ! the girl is dreaming." Down her cheeks the tear-drops rolled. One by one the swarthy miners passed in silence to the street. Gently we awoke the sleeper, but she started to her feet With a dazed and strange expression, saying : " Oh, I thought 'twas true ! Ma was well, and we were happy ; round our door- stone roses grew. We had everything we wanted, food enough, and clothes to wear; And my hand burns where an angel touched it soft with fingers fair." As she looked and saw the money in her fingers glistening bright " Well, now, ma has long been praying, but she won't believe me quite, 47 "INASMUCH." How you've sent 'way up to heaven, where the golden treasuies are, And have also got an angel clerking at your grocery bar." That's a Christmas story, stranger, which I thought you'd like to hear ; True to fact and human nature, pointing out one's duty clear. Hence, to matters of subscription you will see that I'm alive Just mark off that dollar, stranger; I think I'll make it five. 48 THE PATHWAY OF ANGELS. A PERSIAN LEGEND OF THE MILKY WAY. They lived and dreamed in silent ages past Two lovers parted through long bitter years And died in hope. But fate, still cruel, cast Their future lot in far-off different spheres, To grieve in vain, and Heaven itself was naught An empty joy for what is life at best Till with the threads of being there is wrought A chord responsive to another breast ? Their spirits yearned across the chasm drear ; An answering wish shot swift from soul to soul, A bridge of light o'er that wide waste to rear, An arch of stars across the flaming scroll. They waited not, nor asked they God above, For time or space cannot dissever love. 49 THE PATHWAY OF ANGELS. Long aeons pass, and now the narrowing zone Needs but one star to make the span complete ; One crowning sphere from out the living throne To bind the arch. Straightway archangels fleet Sought God, and spake : " See'st Thou yon starry way Where spirits bold would bridge the realms of space ? Have they Thy Will with wandering spheres to play, And rob Thy throne presumptuous pride to grace ? " " Shall I destroy," God said, " the works of love, I who am Love ? " In radiant glory bright Those spirits wept with joy; around, above, For one sweet instant thrilled all worlds with light: " The keystone take from God's eternal throne ; The works of love abide, and they alone." WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY?" " Will ye go to the Indies, My Mary ? " Sang Robin in days long ago ; And still clear as a carol of morning His notes in sweet melody flow. " Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ? " Ay farther and fonder thy way ; Beyond the soft sway of her palm trees, Or rose-broidered rills of Cathay, Thy footsteps have wandered in music, No name, Highland Mary, like thine, From the ripple of sweet-flowing Afton To Columbia's anthem of pine. 5 1 "WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY?' Like a wide-arching rainbow of glory Thy fame spans the ocean to-day, And perfume of sweet hawthorn blossoms Floats round us in billows of spray. Resplendent with faith and devotion Thy troth is a vision of light, And though woven of pleasure and sorrow The girdle of love is still bright. Yon star-sprinkled " Pathway of Angels " Gleams white as when Love gave it birth, But Burns and his Mary are nearer With pathway that circles the earth ; Where lovers in rapture will wander And dream the same dreams as of yore, By the glow of the same golden sunsets And lapping of waves on the shore ; 5 2 WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY f Till the stars grow pale in their journey, Till the sun is shorn of its light, And cold on the eyelids of morning Hang the darkness and dews of the night. Till then, ay, till then, and forever, For lovers and love never die, Shall the song of our sweet Highland Mary Bind closer the earth and the sky. 53 OLE BULL'S CHRISTMAS. MY LANDLORD'S PRAIRIE STORY. Move along a trifle, stranger, just a little ; don't you see On the floor that hieroglyphic, something like a letter B ? Right there, close to where you're standing, sort of sacred spot we keep ; And we always touch it gently when we scrub up once a week. Recent ? Yes, some time last August, but I put it in to stay; And the yellow pine will hold it after we are laid away. No one sets his chair upon it or he's straightway told to shove ; For the boys, you see, won't stand it ; that's a plank the neighbors love. 54 OL BULLS CHRISTMAS. " Somewhat of a Poets' Corner," once a high-toned traveller said ; They corrected him politely as they showed him up to bed. He explained about an Abbey I don't quite recall the name With a chapel full of dead folks that had found their way to fame. But, they said, this is no graveyard ; here's the spot where Ole stood When he told his Christmas story right before the blazing wood. Never heard him ? Never saw him ? Stranger you don't mean to say That you never heard the master, Ole" Bull, the fiddler, play? Talk of classic art in music ! What was that to Ole Bull, When his blood with life was tingling and his eyes were brimming full ? 55 OL BULLS CHRISTMAS. I have thought his heart in rapture sent its pulses all the way Through the bit of seasoned timber that against his bosom lay ; Till the fiddle seemed a fixture, part and parcel of the man, And the trembling strings a net-work over which his feelings ran. He would shake your sides with laughter, make you weep as by a look, And between the bits of music he could talk just like a book. Fluent speakers ! We have had them, noted men from foreign parts ; But, for eloquence, I tell you, Ole held the ace of hearts. He was not the man to filter idle jests through wab- blin' lips ; Born somehow to talk all over from his toes to finger- tips : 56 OL BULL'S CHRISTMAS. Just a sort of natural battery, filled the room with life and joy, Beaming face, with locks of silver, bright and chipper as a boy. He would sit here of an evening, reeling off the slickest thread ; And the hour-hand wasn't heeded or the horses in the shed. " Let 'em whinner," said the deacon, "they can stand it once a year; And our wives they don't expect us, when they know that Ole's here." We were all a bit Norwegian, and he seemed to feel at home ; Said no hearth shone bright as this one from Christi- ania down to Rome. He would tell us his adventures in those cities old and gray; How he struggled, toiled, and suffered when he first began to play ; 57 OL BULKS CHRISTMAS. Of his failures and successes, praise and honor won at last, From patrician, prince, and peasant, wheresoe'er his lot was cast ; But of all his greatest triumphs he regarded this the best, How he won a gray-haired hermit on the prairies of the West. It was on a Christmas evening, wellnigh fifty years ago; None who heard him can forget it; lost in sleet and blinding snow, Fifteen miles from any farm-house, twenty from the nearest town, Ole Bull had missed the guide-board, for the storm had hurled it down. Stumbling, floundering in the snow-drifts, onward pressed his noble gray, Led by instinct and devotion ; Ole let him have his way. 58 OL BULL'S CHRISTMAS. Many a trail they'd tried together, but he deemed this trip the last; Horse and rider both must perish in that wild and howling blast. Hope had died and life was ebbing, when, from out the cruel night, Far across the fenceless prairie faintly shone a twink- ling light. Many a time I've heard him tell it, as he let his fancy play, Till you felt the storm about you, saw the distant flickering ray ; Found your nerves and hair a-tingling, all attuned to passion's key There it glimmers like a light-house just above the blinding sea Fainter now : O bitter darkness ! idle vision of the brain Joy ! Behold the ruddy firelight streaming through the window-pane. 59 OL BULLS CHRISTMAS. Steady, one more drift, my bonnie ! bravely done, all danger past ! What ! No word or sign of welcome ! tried the door and found it fast. Near at hand a ruined shelter, remnant of a cattle- shed ; Safe within, the gray was grateful, pawing gently to be fed. Soon a lantern, then a shadow, and within the creak- ing door Stood a being such as mortal never saw on earth before. Fierce his bitter imprecation " Get you out, whoe'er you be ! I have sealed an oath in heaven never human face to see ; Heart and soul to hate abandoned, love by cruel fortune wronged ; I've renounced for years forever all that to my life belonged. 60 OL BULL'S CHRISTMAS. Take your way ! Begone ! Ay, perish in yon wild demoniac yeast ; For the wrongs that I have suffered I will have revenge at least." " Fiend or madman !" Ole answered, seized his shoulder in a trice, Led him straight into the cabin, for his grip was like a vise ; " I am here to stay till daylight, asking neither food nor grace ; Sit you there within the shadow ; and I charge you keep your place." Hour by hour went by in silence, till the hermit, crooning low, Took a fiddle from his cupboard, woke the airs of long ago. Ole, wondering, looked and listened. Though his touch showed little art, He could feel the deeper music sweetly welling from the heart. 61 OL BULL'S CHRISTMAS. All perhaps to him remaining of a brighter, happier morn, Ere his heart became a desert, and his curse was yet unborn. Long he played the old-time music, as unconscious of his guest; Then with cold and feigned politeness turned and spake in bitter jest; In a tone of well-bred irony, telling of a better day, " Will the stranger who is with us lay aside his cloak and play ? " Ole rose and took that fiddle; said he never felt before All the conscious power within him as upon that cabin floor, Saw in vision panoramic circling galleries of acclaim, With the flush of joy ecstatic and with beauty's light aflame; Felt the glowing tide of transport swelling from a thousand hearts, 62 OL& BULLS CHRISTMAS. And the thrill of deep emotion when the tear in rapture starts ; Ah, but that was gilded pageant, this was more than stately dome To a lonely heart in exile he is playing " Home, Sweet Home." Nearer still and ever nearer, all entranced the hermit drew, Gazed with open eyes of wonder through his lashes wet with dew ; Thought his midnight guest an angel come unto him unawares, As the music softly stealing brought again his mother's prayers. Long-pent tears, their barriers bursting, coursed his careworn furrows free, In that far-off, storm-swept prairie, where God's eye alone might see : Desolate his heart and harder than the rock by Judah's fold, 63 OL BULL'S CHRISTMAS. Smote by Ole's rod of magic, woke like Meribah of old. Miracle of love eternal! Ever still life's mystic bowl, Touched by human kindness, bubbles in the desert of the soul. So, ere morning dawned, like brothers he and Ole side by side Shared the narrow cot between them, made by faith and friendship wide. " Saved, ay, saved ! " the hermit murmured, " I have found my life again ; Learned a truer, deeper meaning in the words, my 'fellow-men.' " Then they took their way together when the storm was overpast ; In the crowded city parted, journeying on to meet at last. 64 OL BULLS CHRISTMAS. This was Ole's favorite story, which he told us stand- ing here, With the fire-glow streaming o'er him so the spot, you see, is dear ; And, at evening in the winter, when I hear the village bell, O16's music floats about me, all the room seems in a spell; And again I hear him saying, " That one hermit to enthrall Stands among my proudest triumphs, sweetest, grand- est of them all." THE ROCK WHERE MY MOTHER PLAYED. I hear the notes of the Whip-poor-will As of old in the gathering shade ; I sit by the rock on the quiet hill Where in girlhood my mother played. With cheeks out-blooming the morning flowers, And with heart as light as May, It was here that she came in the golden hours, By the lichened rock to play: A granite waif, by glacier borne From a far-away northern sea; It seemed so lonely, from kindred torn, That she kept it company. 66 THE ROCK WHERE MY MOTHER PLAYED. Till all in fancy or witching dream It shone with a glimmering light, While fairies trooped in the moon's pale beam, To dance through the summer night. And such was her tender grace to me, As we wandered the forest wild, That ever the fairies seemed to be Her playmates when a child. And she, a queen of the Sylphid race, On her silvery throne held sway; But alas! I dream of her girlish face, And the rock is cold and gray. For the fairies went when my mother died, And my years were scarcely ten; I come to-night from wandering wide, But they never will come again. 67 THE ROCK WHERE MY MOTHER PLA YED. I love the garden and orchard old, The meadows her footsteps pressed, And the stately oaks that shook their gold In the lap of their gentle guest. I love the spring and the rippling rill, Where in evening she often strayed; But dearer to me the quiet hill And the rock where my mother played. 68 THE NUPTIALS. NEW YORK AND BROOKLYN BRIDGE. The nuptial-knot at last is firmly tied ; A hundred bells ring out a merry chime, A hundred wires proclaim to every clime Manhattan takes fair Brooklyn for his bride. In strength and beauty growing side by side, Cities betrothed, you waited vigorous prime, Like steadfast lovers of the olden time, Ere greed and gain our early faith defied. We wish you joy. No longer twain, but one, For ever bound in links of triple steel ; You need no marriage ritual to rehearse, Which Venice chanted to bright Adria won ; No golden ring ; the service now is real " Each other take for better or for worse." 69 DESTINY. I wandered down a brooklet bubbling bright, Which slowly widened gliding towards the sea ; A leaf aglow with Autumn's golden light From restful bough was nodding dreamily. Midway it hung, but, as my lifted hand Would pluck its beauty from the listless bough, A laughing breeze, so light it scarcely fanned The unkempt silver of the poplar's brow, Bore it across. I followed in my quest, And down the bank upon the farther side I journeyed on into the purpling west The brooklet, now a river deep and wide, No more to be recrossed, it might not be A drifting leaf and yet my soul was free. 70 ENVIRONMENT. If the seed had not dropped, Or the tree had not grown, If the frost had not nipped, Or the leaf had not blown ; Had it not drifted over The moment I passed, If the stream had been wider Its beauty that glassed ! Did the leaf know His will ? Too tangled the skein ; Did I wander unguided ? The question is vain. Be it Fate or Free Will, What matter to me ; Either side of the river Leads down to the sea. 7 1 SCOTT'S GREETING TO BURNS. [Scott introducing Burns to Shakespeare, in Central Park, New York, after the unveiling of the Burns statue. The three statues are within easy speaking distance of each other.] We greet you, Robbie, here to-night, Beneath these stars so pure and bright ; We greet you, poet, come at last With " Will " and me your lot to cast. We've talked aboot you mony a day, And wondered when you'd be this way. Reach out your hand, and gie's a shake Just ance, for auld acquaintance' sake. 72 SCOTT'S GREETING TO BURNS. We welcome you from Scotia's land, And reach to you a brither's hand ; A kindred soul to greet you turns Will Shakespeare, this is Robbie Burns. We've sung your songs here mony a night Till that dear star is lost in light, And Willie says the lines you wrote Will even do for him to quote. He likes your verses wondrous weel, And says you are a glorious chiel ; In fact, the only one that knows The space 'twixt poetry and prose. O Robbie, if we had a plaid, We'd quite convert yon Stratford lad. He said, in truth, but yester-morn, " I'm Scotch in wit, though English born ; 73 SCOTT'S GREETING TO SURNS. " And, Walter, it may yet appear That Scotland takes in Warwickshire. Let Avon be the border line, Blot out the Tweed, or draw it fine." So, Willie, brew your peck o' maut, And set the board wi' Attic saut, For Rob has come at last, you see We were a pair, but now we're three. We need nae ither comrade now, No niodern bard o' classic brow; 'Tis lang before anither man Will be admitted to our clan. In stormy nights 'twas lonesome here When " Will " recited half o' " Lear"; But now he quotes your eerie tale In thunder, lightning, and in hail ; 74 SCOTT'S GREETING TO BURNS. And says his witches can't compare Wi' those that chased Tarn's " guid grey mare. He's even learned your " Deil Address," To quote some night for good Queen Bess ; For, Robbie, this is haunted ground, Where spirits keep their nightly round, And when the witchin' hour is near You'll see strange beings gather here. I saw Queen Bess the other night Beside him, clad in vesture bright, While kings and queens, a noble throng, In dim procession passed along ; And walls seemed rising from the earth Like Leicester's tower at Kenilworth ; And all the pageant that was there Seemed floating in the moonlit air. 75 SCOTT'S GREETING TO BURNS. Ay, beauty, jealousy, and pride, In Dudley's halls walked side by side, While Amy Robsart seemed to stand With fair Ophelia, hand in hand. And, Robbie, what a vision came As Willie whispered Ariel's name! The towers dissolved, and round him drew The stately, gentle, fair, and true Miranda, Juliet, Imogen, Hermione, and Katharine, While Rosalind among them stood The sunlight of sweet Arden's wood. 'Twere long to pass them in review, For still the circle wider grew, Until the airy vision bright Was lost at last in liquid light. 76 SCOTT'S GREETING TO BURNS. So let me whisper in your ear, Never to tell what passes here. There'll be a grand reception soon To greet the lad frae Bonnie Doon. We'll gather up the j oiliest crew Falstaff, Prince Hal, and Roderick Dhu ; And "a* the rantin' brither Scots Frae Maiden Kirk tae John o' Groats." So, Robbie, mak' yoursel' at home, 'Mang friends and brithers you have come, And here's a land that's quite as fair As that between the Doon and Ayr. A land that glories in its youth, That owns nae creed but living truth, Where " pith o' sense and pride o' worth " A refuge find frae rank and birth; 77 SCOTT'S GREETING TO BURNS. A land that's made your verses real, Whose guinea-stamp is honor's seal ; Ay, Robbie, here they've quite forgot To write the " Sir " just Walter Scott. And here your songs will ever ring Through a' the years the centuries bring, Till all are free, and every sea Shall know nae shore but liberty. COLUMBIA'S SON. He stood beneath the crowning monument To Walter Scott in Edinboro' town, A lad of six, our Malcolm, who had spent Scarcely a week 'mid Scotland's heather brown ; And, sighing, asked his mother every day " Why don't they paint these houses, old and gray ? " For well he knew the Hudson's cheery shore, With golden sunsets flooding all the west ; Could lisp a bit of Rip Van Winkle's lore, And deemed his home an island of the blest; So dear the homestead brook and crystal lake, We thought at first his little heart would break. 79 COLUMBIA'S SON. And what to him was all the storied past, The rich romance which Scotia's children share ? Too young to know the love that binds us fast, Which he some day will also proudly bear; He only saw dun walls and grayish sky To dim the blue of his bright laughing eye. Methought, therefore, an object-lesson now I'll give the boy, right here, upon the spot; Beneath the kindly, clear, uncovered brow Of him we love, our glorious Walter Scott ; I'll tell him why this lofty pile commands The reverent homage of far distant lands. I bade him look from base to towering spire, From flying buttress to dissolving line, To crowded niches with their minstrel-choir, Whose living songs all hearts and lands entwine ; I thought to make full clear ere I began The greatness of the poet and the man. 80 COLUMBIA'S SON. I had my points arranged to make them tell, The Trosachs, Tweed, and Forth in order due ; Highland and Lowland, crag and misty fell, Where beacons blazed and fiery crosses flew ; I summoned all the wealth at my command, And held my audience fairly by the hand. Enrapt he stood; intently gazed on high He seemed so small beneath that spire so great ; I thought to get " Don't know " as his reply, And then at large upon my theme dilate ; 'Twould take, forsooth, the best part of an hour To sketch the Wizzard and his matchless power. " Now, listen, Malcolm," slowly I began I didn't want the little fellow dazed " Just think a moment : Do you know the man For whom this noble monument was raised ? " With answer worthy of Columbia's son He took it in, and said : " George Washington." 81 A HAND-SHAKE. TO A CLASSMATE, AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS. What ! fifteen years ? No, not that long ! The record, David, must be wrong. Dear Mother Yale, correct your sight, It's only 'sixty-seven to-night. There's some mistake no jesting here We're hardly out of senior year. Dear mother, look again, I pray ! Last June was our Commencement-day. The elms on old New Haven green Have scarcely lost their russet sheen ; It only seems an evening since We sat upon the college fence. 82 A HAND-SHAKE. But tell me, now, whose bairns are these Bright boys and girls, about your knees ? Somehow they seem to look like you. Old Yale is right 'tis 'eighty-two. Ay, facts are chiels which winna ding, And bairns are facts the decades bring. Come home with me, I'll introduce Another flock that looks like Bruce. I think we'll have another pair To take our seats in college there Ah, David, how old Yale will shine When she receives your boys and mine ! They'll never sleep in Chapel ! no ! Like bricks tipped sideways in a row ; They'll never help each other through Old Euclid, like some lads we knew. 83 A HAND-SHAKE. It's our good-luck and dearest joy To find more gold in each alloy ; For in each bright and childish face We both can read their mother's grace. Let others boast their gear and wealth, These are our treasures, rich with health ; The living gold that's coined above, Fresh from the mint and stamped with love. Upon this truth we take our stand, Two brothers of a scattered band. Give us your hand, for words are lame, I find you, David, just the same ; With cheery voice, with generous heart, With will to do the manly part ; A noble leader now as then 'Twas then of boys, but now of men. 84 THE PRINTER-BOY'S DREAM. On a rickety stool by a rickety door Of the editor's room on the upper floor, In the inner sanctum of pen and shears, Sat a printer's boy of uncertain years Waiting for copy; and all was still Save the rasping scratch of a rapid quill. The Carrier's Address was being born In the old-time verse for the New Year's morn ; And the editor wrote like a man inspired, But the hour was late, and the boy was tired. Congressional Records, in binding grim, And Patent Reports looked down on him 85 THE PRINTER-BOY'S DREAM. Plump volumes revealing the nation's health, And of books the editor's only wealth. Large files of papers, dusty and old, In unswept corners quietly told That his paper was somehow a thing of dates, While the plums were reserved for happier fates. But the books, and the files, and the editor gray, To the drowsy boy were fading away ; And the narrow room seemed a gallery grand, With rich-wrought carvings on every hand. Beautiful volumes quaint and old, Yellow vellums with clasps of gold, Arranged in ebony cases rare, Greeted his vision everywhere ; And he noted the books in tens were placed, And a hundred volumes each alcove graced. 86 THE PRINTER-BOY'S DREAM, Eighteen were closed with a brazen bar, But the Nineteenth alcove was still ajar. No parchment here ; the books were new, And the last was registered Eighty-two; While a boy in feature resembling him, Not ragged and soiled, but neat and trim, Near the lower shelf, he seemed to see Placing another marked Eighty-three; And an angel sat in a golden chair, Writing in characters bright and fair With a noiseless pen ; and the volume bore On the clear white margin Eighty-four. But the vision vanished with, " Johnny, come ! This to the foreman, and then go home. " Wait, one line more a merry cheer ! To each and all a blithe New Year!" 87 THE PRINTER-BOY'S DREAM. Gone were the alcoves with carving old, And volumes rich with clasps of gold; The Patent Reports came back again, The whitewashed wall, the dingy den; And the angel that sat in glory there Was the editor gray in his old arm-chair. 88 ALPINE SPRING. TO MY MOTHER, MARY ANN MACALPINE BRUCE. Dedicated at DeFuniak Springs, Florida. I know the mountain brooklets in the pass of wild Glencoe, Where waved the MacAlpine standard a thousand years ago. I have heard the pibroch sounding by stream and wooded fell, And lingered in the gloaming beside St. Ronan's Well. I know the homestead fountain, where the waters bubble bright, Beneath the oak and maple aglow with golden light ; I listen to the music of the gurgling sylvan rill, And the gentle, mellow cadence of the wondering whippoorwill. 89 ALPINE SPRING, I wander down the footpath, in memory here to-day, With my mother to that springside in the hills so far away; I hear the old-time stories, kneel again beside her knee, And the woodland's murmuring music through the twilight speaks to me, With a love that knows no distance, though deep shadows intervene, Leading back the weary wanderer through the mead- ows fair and green, With a love that lifts her rainbow, though the skies be dark above Sunshine from a sphere immortal, born of heaven a mother's love. In the glory of this sunshine we have come in glad- ness now, In the light that veils her presence, reverent with un- covered brow ; 90 ALPINE SPRING. Here beside the gentle music of fair waters flowing free Alpine Spring, my sainted mother, consecrates its heart to thee. Come, then, children, free and happy, for her laugh was light as yours ; Come, fair youth, with golden promise that abideth and endures; Come, fond age, that now is waiting for the bliss that she hath won ; Welcome to the Alpine fountain while its waters greet the sun. INCH-CAILLIACH, LOCH LOMOND. (The island burial-place of Clan- Alpine, resembling, from Rossdhu, a reclining body with folded arms. ) No more Clan-Alpine's pibroch wakes Loch Lomond's hills and waters blue ; "Hail to the Chief " no longer breaks The quiet sleep of Roderick Dhu : Enwrapped in peace the islands gleam Like emerald gems in sapphire set, And, far away, as in a dream, Float purple fields where heroes met. Inch-Cailliach island of the blest ! Columba's daughter, passing fair, With folded arfns upon her breast, Rests soft in sunset radiance there ; 92 INCH-CAILLIACH, LOCH LOMOND. A vision sweet of fond Elaine, And floating barge of Camelot, Upon her brow no trace of pain, And on her heart " Forget me not." Forget thee, saintly guardian ? Nay, From distant lands across the sea To this lone isle I fondly stray With song and garland fresh for thee; I trace the old inscriptions dear, Fast fading now from mortal ken, And through the silvered lichens peer To read MacAlpine's name again. My mother's name, a sacred link That binds me to the storied past ; A rainbow bridge from brink to brink, Which spans with light the centuries vast. Two hundred years ! Clan- Alpine's pine Has struck its roots in other lands ; 93 JNCH-CAILLIACH, LOCH LOMOND. My pulses thrill to trace the sign And touch the cross with reverent hands. All ruin here ! the shrine is dust, The chapel wall a shapeless mound; But nature guards with loving trust, And ivy twines her tendrils round The simple slab, sublimer far Than gilded dome for Scotia's line ; The open sky and northern star Befit the chieftains of the pine. The light streams out from fair Rossdhu Across the golden-tinted wave ; That crumbling keep, that ancient yew, Still mark a worthy foeman's grave ; But warm the hearts that now await Our coming at the open door, With love and friendship at the gate, And beacon-lights along the shore. 94 INCH-CAILLIACH, LOCH LOMOND. Dear Scotia! ever yet more dear To loyal sons in every land ; Strong in a race that knew not fear, And for man's freedom dared to stand ; Ay, dearer for thy songs that float Like thistle-down o'er land and sea, And strike the universal note Of love and faith and liberty. 95 THE AULD BRIG'S WELCOME. Delivered at the unveiling of the Burns Statue, Ayr, July 8, i8qi. The Auld Brig hails wi' hearty cheer Uncover, lads, for Burns is here ! The bard who links us all to fame, And blends his own with Scotia's name. Seven hundred years the winding Ayr Has glassed my floating image there; I've seen long centuries glide away, But Robin brought our blithest day. I heard the Thirteenth's warlike peal Wake serried ranks of glinting steel : All wrinkled now, yet in my prime, I wait with joy the Twentieth's chime. 96 THE AULD BRIG'S WELCOME. I cherish weel in memory bright The glorious deeds of Wallace wight, And deem the very stones are blessed Which bind the arch his feet have pressed. I mind the time King Robert's band With sweeping oar left Arran's strand ; The flame that lit yon Carrick hill All round the world is shining still. Old Coila's had her share of fame, Her bead-roll treasures many a name ; She's had her heroes great and sma', But Robin stands aboon them a'. The auld clay-biggin of his birth Becomes the shrine of all the earth ; The room where rose the Cotter's prayer The proudest heritage of Ayr. 97 THE AULD RIG'S WELCOME. No starlit sky, no summer noon, But kens the banks o' bonnie Doon ; No human heart but fondly turns Responsive to the Land of Burns. Ah, Burns ! who dares to call thee poor ! Each skylark nest on yonder moor, Each daisy-bloom on flowery mead, The lambs that on the meadows feed, Each field and brae by burn or stream, Where wandering lovers come to dream, Are all thine own. As vassals all We gather here from princely hall, From lowly cot, from hills afar, From southern clime, from western star, To bring our love ; all hearts are thine By title time can never tyne. THE AULD BRIG'S WELCOME. The crowning meed of praise belongs To him who makes a people's songs ; Who strikes one note the common good, One chord a wider brotherhood ; Who drops a word of cheer to bless His fellow-mortal in distress, And lightens on life's dusty road Some traveller, weary of his load ; Who finds the Mousie's trembling heart Of God's great universe a part ; And in the Daisy's crimson tips Discerns a soul with human lips. We little dreamed when. " Mailie " died Those tender words would speed so wide ; Men smiled and wept, and went their way- The prince was clad in hodden gray. 99 THE AULD BRIG'S WELCOME. Though but a brig, it garred me greet To hear him pour his " Vision " sweet, And in one crowning climax seal His pity even for the Deil. To see the couthie Twa Dogs there, Their joys and griefs wi' ither share A cantie tale, it made me smile That sic a lad was born in Kyle ; Who caught the witches in a dance, And bound them all in lasting trance ; The very land is bright and gay Since Tarn o' Shanter rode this way. The Auld Brig kens the story well These rippling wavelets love to tell : " Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore A fonder kiss his waters bore THE AULD BRIG'S WELCOME. That raptured hour, that sacred vow, Are love's eternal treasures now ; Montgomery's towers may fall away, But Highland Mary lives for aye. And sweeter still the swelling song Of loyal love repairing wrong ; Like mavis notes that gently fa' " Of a' the airts the wind can blaw." Brave bonnie Jean ! We love to tell The story from thy lips that fell ; The lengthened life which Heaven gave Casts radiant twilight on his grave. A noble woman, strong to shield ; Her tender heart his trusty bield ; The critic from her doorway turns With faith renewed and love for Burns. 101 THE AULD BRIG'S WELCOME. She knew as no one else could know The heavy burden of his woe ; The carking care, the wasting pain Each welded link of misery's chain. She saw his early sky o'ercast, And gloomy .shadows gathering fast, His soul by bitter sorrow torn, And knew that " man was made to mourn/ She heard him by the sounding shore Which speaks his name for evermore, And felt the anguish of his prayer : " Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr." O Robert Burns ! by tempest tossed, Storm-swept, by cruel whirlwinds crossed ; Thy prayers, like David's psalms of old, Make all our plaints and wailings cold. THE A ULD BRIG'S WELCOME. In weakness sown, yet raised in might, He wept that we might know the right ; His sweetest pleasures pain-imbued ; His song a drama's interlude. And who dare thrust his idle word Where God's own equities are heard ? " Who made the heart, 'tis He alone " Let him that's guiltless cast the stone. We know but this : his living song Protects the weak and tramples wrong ; Refracting radiance of delight, His prismed genius, clear and bright, Illumes all Scotland far and wide, And Caledonia throbs with pride To hear her grand old Doric swell From Highland crag to Lowland dell ; 103 THE AULD BRIG'S WELCOME. To find, where'er her children stray, Her " Auld Lang Syne," her " Scots wha hae,' And words of hope which proudly span The centuries vast "A man's a man." Then welcome, Burns, from shore to shore ! All hail, our Robin, evermore ! Though late, we greet the Ploughman's name Full in the morning of his fame. 104 "UNO DE MILLE." ONE OF " THE THOUSAND " OF GARIBALDI. LAKE COMO. Another gone of " The Thousand " brave ; Across Lake Como borne to his grave. " Uno de Mille " they softly say Waiting there by the quiet bay : A crowded piazza, a weeping sky ; Hush ! The steamer is drawing nigh. " Uno de Mille !" Who is he ? A soldier, they whisper, of liberty; One of the thousand from college hall Who rallied at Garibaldi's call : His voyage finished, the anchor cast, Home at Como to sleep at last. I0 5 "UNO DE MILLED Home, by her rippling waters blue, Mirroring skies of tender hue ; Home, where a kinsman's heart-felt tear Hallows a brother-soldier's bier ; Home, where a noble comrade now Plaits a chaplet to grace his brow. Strew with roses the hero's way, Over the sleeping warrior pray ; Home, from journeying far and wide, Welcome him here with stately pride ; The night, my brother, comes to me ; The morn, Italia, to thee ! Strew with roses the hero's way, Over the sleeping warrior pray ; Wake, Italia ! Speak for me, Reunited from sea to sea ; Guard with honor the sacred bier, " Uno de Mille " is lying here. 106 "UNO DE MILLE." Thus mused his comrade through the night, Weaving a garland fresh and bright ; Sorrowing for a brother dead, Summoning hours forever fled ; The light burns dim, the dawning day Touches the mountains cold and gray. The pen has fallen from his grasp, His head is bowed, his hands unclasp ; The sunlight pierces the casement there, He greets the morning with stony stare ; The day, Italia, breaks for thee ! The night, my brother, comes to me. Not as he deemed. He little thought The morrow's work would be unwrought. Little he dreamed the boat that bore His comrade dead to Como's shore, Dark-draped its homeward course should keep To bear him too where his kinsmen sleep. 107 "UNO DE MILLE," Hushed again the crowded square, Sky and lake the stillness share ; Over the mountains a fading glow " Duo de Mille " they murmur low ; One, with tapers in yonder dome, One, 'neath the starlight, going home. And so they parted, not in tears, Wedded in death through coming years ; Sleeping remote by the sunny shore, Reunited forevermore ! Lake Como sings one song to me : " The morn, Italia, to thee ! " 108 THE YOSEMITE. Waiting to-night for the moon to rise O'er the cliffs that narrow Yosemite's skies; Waiting for darkness to melt away In the silver light of a midnight day; Waiting, like one in a waking dream, I stand alone by the rushing stream. Alone, in a temple vast and grand, With spire and turret on every hand; A world's cathedral, with walls sublime, Chiselled and carved by the hand of Time; And over all heaven's crowning dome, Whence gleam the beacon-lights of home. 109 THE YOSEMITE. The spectral shadows dissolve; and now The moonlight halos El Capitan's brow; And the lesser stars grow pale and dim Along the sheer-cut mountain rim; Till, touched with magic, the gray walls stand Like phantom mountains on either hand. Yet I know they are real, for I see the spray Of Yosemite Fall in the moonlight play, Swaying and trembling, a radiant glow From the sky above to the vale below; Like the ladder of old to Jacob given A line of light from earth to heaven. And there comes to my soul a vision dear, As of shining spirits hovering near; And I feel the sweet and wondrous power Of a presence that fills the midnight hour; And I know that Bethel is everywhere, For prayer is the foot of the angel stair. THE YOSEMITE. A light divine, a holy rest, Floods all the valley and fills my breast; The very mountains are hushed in sleep From Eagle Point to Sentinel Keep; And a lifelong lesson is taught me to-night, When shrouded in shadow, to wait for the light. Waiting at dawn for the morn to break By the crystal waters of Mirror Lake; Waiting to see the mountains gray Clearly defined in the light of day; Reflected and throned in glory here, A lakelet that seems but the valley's tear. Waiting; but look! the South Dome bright Is floating now in a sea of light; And Cloud's Rest, glistening with caps of snow, Inverted stands in the vale below, With tow'ring peaks and cliffs on high, Hanging to meet another sky. THE YOSEMITE. O crystal gem in setting rare ! O soul-like mirror in middle air! O forest heart of eternal love ! Earth-born, but pure as heaven above, This Sabbath morn we find in thee The poet's dream of purity. The hours pass by; I am waiting now On Glacier Point's o'erhanging brow; Waiting to see the picture pass, Like the fleeting show of a wizard-glass; Waiting; and still the vision seems Woven of light and colored with dreams. But the cloud-capped towers and pillars gray Securely stand in the light of day; The Temple wall is firm and sure; The worshippers pass, but it shall endure, And will, while loud Yosemite calls To bright Nevada and Vernal Falls. THE YOSEMITE. O grand and majestic organ choir, With deep-toned voices that never tire ! O anthem written in notes that glow On the rainbow bars of Po-ho-no ! O sweet "Te Deum" for ever sung, With spray, like incense, heavenward swung! Thy music my soul with rapture thrills, And there comes to my lips "The templed hills; Thy rocks and rills," a nation's song, From valley to mountain borne along; My country's temple, built for thee, Crowned with the Cap of Liberty! O country reaching from shore to shore ! O fairest land the wide world o'er! Columbia dear, whose mountains rise From fertile valleys to sunny skies, Stand firm and sure, and bold and free, As thy granite-walled Yosemite. NIAGARA. Proud swaying pendant of a crystal chain, On fair Columbia's rich and bounteous breast, With beaded lakes that necklace-like retain Heaven's stainless blue with golden sunlight blest! What other land can boast a gem so bright ! With colors born of sun and driven spray A brooch of glory, amulet of might, Where all the irised beauties softly stray. Ay, more God's living voice, Niagara, thou ! Proclaiming wide the anthem of the free ; The starry sky the crown upon thy brow, Thy ceaseless chant a song of Liberty. But this thy birthright, this thy sweetest dower, Yon arching rainbow Love still spanning Power. 114 THE HUDSON. Gray streaks of dawn are faintly seen; The stars of half their light are shorn ; The Hudson, with its banks of green, Lies tranquil in the early morn. The earth and sky breathe sacred rest A holy peace too sweet to break A spell like that Divine behest Which stilled the Galilean lake. The circling hills, with foreheads fair, Await with joy the crowning rays; All nature bows in grateful prayer; The templed groves respond with praise. "5 THE HUDSON. Ye trembling shafts of glorious light, Dart from the east with golden gleam ; Cleave the dark shield of fleeing Night, And slay her with your arrowy beam. Cities and hamlets, up and down This level highway to the sea, Along the banks sit gray and brown, Dim shadows musing dreamily. Adown the river sloops and ships Float slowly with the lazy tide ; And round the bluff a paddle dips Where once the storm-ship used to ride. The vision widens as the morn Sweeps through the portals of the day ; Purple and rosy mists adorn Mountain and hill-top far away. 116 THE HUDSON. n. The Catskills to the northward rise With massive swell and towering crest The old-time " mountains of the skies," The threshold of eternal rest ; Where Manitou once lived and reigned, Great spirit of a race gone by ; And Ontiora lies enchained, With face uplifted to the sky. The dream-land, too, of later days, Where Rip Van Winkle slept in peace, Wrapped up in deep poetic haze A twenty years of sweet release. Ay, burning years ! a nation's forge ! To wake to freedom grown to more To find another painted " George " Above the old familiar door. 117 THE HUDSON, Through summer heat and winter snow, Beside that rushing mountain stream, Just how he slept we cannot know ; Perhaps 'twas all a pleasant dream. Mayhap in many a wintry squall, Or howling blast, or blinding storm, He thought he heard Dame Gretchen call, And that sufficed to keep him warm ; Or else that flagon's wondrous draught, Distilled in some weird elfin-land, Drawn from the keg old Hendrick quaffed, And shared by all his silent band. O legends full of life and health, That live when records fail and die, Ye are the Hudson's richest wealth, The frondage of her history ! 118 THE HUDSON. ill. And musing here this quiet morn, I call up pictures far away, Of fountains where thy wave is born, Of rills that in deep shadows play; Of forest trail, and lake and stream, Rich poems bound in green and gold, Whose leaves reflect the autumn gleam Ere summer months are growing old ; Of camp-fires bright with dancing flame, Where dreams and visions floated free, And Rosalind, with Annie's name, Interpreted the dreams to me: Lake Avalanche with rocky wall, And Henderson's dark-wooded shore, Your echoes linger still, and call Unto my soul for evermore. 119 THE HUDSON. Tahawas, rising stern and grand, " Cloud-sunderer," lift thy forehead high ; Guard well thy sun-kissed mountain land, Whose lakes seem borrowed from the sky. O Hudson ! mountain-born and free, Thy youth a deep impression takes; For, mountain-guarded to the sea, Thy course is but a chain of lakes. IV. And not alone thy features fair, And legend lore and matchless grace, But noble deeds of courage rare Illume, as with a soul, thy face. The Highlands and the Palisades Mirror their beauty in the tide; The history of whose forest shades A nation reads with conscious pride. 120 THE HUDSON. On either side these mountain glens Lie open like a massive book, Whose words were graved with iron pens, And lead into the eternal rock ; Which evermore shall here retain The annals time cannot erase ; And while these granite leaves remain, This crystal ribbon marks the place. The spot where Kosciusko dreamed Fort Putnam's gray and ruined wall; West Point, where patriot bayonets gleamed- This open page reveals them all. From Stony Point to Bemis Height, From Saratoga to the sea, We trace the lines, now dark, now bright, From seventy-six to eighty-three. THE HUDSON. We celebrate our hundredth year With thankful hearts and words of praise, And learn a lasting lesson here Of trust and hope for coming days. And sweet to me this other thought, And more than fancy to my mind : These grand divisions, plainly wrought, In human life a semblance find. The Adirondacks, childhood's glee ; The Catskills, youth with dreams o'ercast; The Highlands, manhood bold and free ; The Tappan Zee, age come at last. O Tappan Zee ! with peaceful hills, And slumbrous sky and drowsy air, Thy calm and restful spirit stills The heart weighed down with weary care. 122 THE HUDSON. Pocantico's hushed waters glide Through Sleepy Hollow's haunted ground, And whisper to the listening tide The name carved o'er one lowly mound. Fair mansions rise on every hill, With turrets crowned, and stately towers, Which men can buy and sell at will ; But old Van Tassel's home is ours : A quiet, cosy little nest, Enshrined and loved for evermore ; Where Geoffrey Crayon came to rest, WTien all his wanderings were o'er. Thrice blest and happy Tappan Zee, Whose banks along thy glistening tide Have legend, truth, and poetry Sweetly expressed in Sunnyside. 123 THE HUDSON, The twilight falls, the picture fades; My soul has drifted down the stream; And now, beneath the Palisades, I wonder, " Is it all a dream ? " Below the cliffs Manhattan's spires Glint back the sunset's latest beam ; The bay is flecked with twinkling fires ; Or is it but " Van Kortlandt's dream ? " Hark ! Freedom's arms ring far and wide ; Again these forts with beacons gleam ; Loud cannon roar on every side I start, I wake ; I did but dream. Deep silence 'mid these glorious hills; Dark shadows on the silver stream ; My very soul with rapture thrills : " Is't heaven, or earth, or but a dream ? " 124 THE HUDSON. Nay! true as life, and deep as love, And real amid the things that seem ; For Earth below and Heaven above Proclaim " truth stranger than a dream." IN CLOVER AND HEATHER. There are greetings the wide world over, And blossoms wherever we roam, But none like the heather and clover To welcome the wanderer home. Warm-hearted with kindred devotion, Twin sisters in sympathy true, They whisper across the wide ocean, Love-laden with memory's dew. In purple tints woven together The Hudson shakes hands with the Tweed, Commingling with Abbotsford's heather The clover of Sunnyside's mead. 126 IN CLOVER AND HEATHER. A token of friendship immortal With Washington Irving returns Scott's ivy entwined o'er his portal By the " Blue-eyed Lassie " of Burns. Their names by heather-bells wedded With fondness Columbia retains ; In freedom's foundation imbedded The lay of the minstrel remains. Ay, this their commission and glory, In redolent bloom to prolong Love, liberty, legend, and story, That blossom in ballad and song. So here's to the clover and heather Of river-side, mountain and glen, As I stand wi' doffed bonnet and feather At the yetts of my forebears again ! 127 THE HOMESTEAD WELL. Again beside the Homestead Well, And moss-grown bucket 'neath the trees, With trickling drops that, bead-like, tell My prayers unto the passing breeze ; I hear them pattering one by one In purling music as of old, When blithely rose the morning sun And sprinkled hill and dale with gold. I gaze upon the threshold there, The doorway that my mother knew A happy group of faces fair Refills the frame of antique hue; 128 THE HOMESTEAD WELL. The sloping roof seems nearer now, Endeared by dreams that reached the skies, Fond memories gather as I bow And greet the past with moistened eyes. The meadow-walk is still the same, Familiar flowers befringe the path ; They seem to speak my sister's name In childhood's golden aftermath ; The gray rail fence has been replaced, But in the picture that I see The coloring is not effaced It all remains the same to me. Again the orchard ladders lean Against the trees of long ago, While eager hands the fruitage glean Bright " gilly-flowers " of ruddy glow, Round " rattle-apples," plump and red, To which I listened when a boy 1*29 THE HOMESTEAD WELL. Ah, even then was sweetness wed To beauty in a fleeting joy. Yon quiet lane where once I strayed Invites me to the wooded crest, Through fields and meadows where I played With nature as a welcome guest ; I see the open bars again, Near which the flock was wont to sleep, And years roll back as up the glen I hear the scurrying of the sheep. Ah, far-off pictures ! gazing still Into the magic mirror here, I dream of mead and rippling rill, Yet find the Homestead Well most dear; Its swinging bucket fondly glows, A swaying pendulum of light, A happy horologe that throws No shadow on its dial bright. 130 THE HOMESTEAD WELL. But wider visions meet my gaze I trace the glorious Hudson now, Her lofty crags and crystal bays, Whose beauty crowns Columbia's brow ; I muse beside the Northern lakes Where braided streams in music flow Again o'er far Sierra breaks The morn to tint her peaks of snow. I dwell amid Edina's towers, And wander down the banks of Ayr, By winding Avon gather flowers, Westminster's proudest trophies share; I tread old Haarlem's stately halls, And float upon the Zuyder-Zee Along the Rhine, whose ivied walls And vine-clad hills breathe liberty. O wayside wanderer ! Yonder sky, Reflected here in mirror true, THE HOMESTEAD WELL. No rival knows, though far and nigh Thy feet have brushed the morning dew ; But something in this liquid light Recalls those dear Parisian days, Riviera's noontide clear and white, Mentone's cliff and sunlit bays. Sweet Naples, terraced to the sky, Milano's poem hung in air, Ravenna's gates that time defy, Verona dear and Florence fair; Proud Venice, holding once the key Of commerce as it journeyed west, The " swan-like " city of the sea, Asleep upon a tideless breast. Como ! of mountain lakes the queen ! Lucerne the King ! Behold them now ! I see her crown of emerald green, , The glacier diamonds on his brow ! 132 THE HOMESTEAD WELL. Geneva ! guardian of the brave, Where exiled freedom found a home ; And there above the Caesar's grave In glory still eternal Rome. How wide the circle sweeps away From this fond centre of the heart, From meadows green to cities gray, From waving fields to crowded mart ; Like weary doves our thoughts return Again unto the homestead ark Across the wastes our spirits yearn Ere twilight slips into the dark. Dear Homestead Well, thy mirror fair, Deep-set within its stony frame, Reflects the joy, illumes the care, The weary steps by which we came : The mountain trails that seemed so steep No mortal foot might find its way, THE HOMESTEAD WELL. Where faith and lofty genius keep Their star-lit journey to the day. O far-off, tranquil, peaceful days, Ere life becomes a hurrying stream, While yet the gentle brooklet plays And to the pebbles sings its dream; These later scenes cannot replace The pictures that I know full well, And in my inmost heart I trace What youth and love alone can tell. colors born of morning dew That canvas never yet has seen; No other skies are half so blue, No other meadows half so green; 1 hold and keep in memory dear The days and dreams that would not stay, The summer days then seemed a year, And now the years seem but a day. 134 THE HOMESTEAD WELL. So here, entranced in gentle spell, I wait again with trusting heart To let the magic mirror tell The story that it would impart ; For not alone in retrospect, But faithful yet to loving eye, Its crystal waters still reflect The sunlight of a cloudless sky. 135 DE FUNIAK LAKE. IN THE ADIRONDACKS OF WESTERN FLORIDA. (A magic spring one mile in circumference, round as the moon and clear as the sky. ) A lotus-land where Time forgets its date, A dreaming-place beneath the swaying trees ; A lake so pure it seems the wedded mate Of yon fair sky, before the rustling breeze To rippling laughter wakes its gentle breast, Showing it, too, is human: Oh, what joy To roam in sunlight here, kind Nature's guest, Wooing her smile ! or, bliss without alloy, To watch the moonlight kiss the lapsing wave With one we love, and speak with answering eyes The language Paradise ne'er lost, but gave Lest man should be an outcast from the skies. No spot so sweet ; no water half so blue ; God's crowning circle wrought with compass true. 136 A STAR-EYED DAISY. SAN MARCO, ST. AUGUSTINE. (Trtcentenmal Anniversary, 1886.) Ensigns of empires flaunt thy flanking wall, Grim ancient warders guard thy storied gate, Loud Babied centuries at thy bastions wait On Spanish, French, and English seneschal. Rich yellow folds of Castile's haughty state, Fair Fleur de Lys from proud Parisian hall, St. George's Cross triumphant o'er them all, Recall long years of fierce and bloody hate. But now the star-eyed daisy lifts its form From crevice, chink, and crumbling parapet, Without one stain of battle's crimson storm On snowy leaf with golden petal set : Bright banneret which Nature kindly rears, To deck with light the mould of bitter years. TO PROFESSOR JOHN STUART BLACKIE. COMMEMORATING HIS EIGHTIETH YEAR. Dame Nature, communing with Coila one day, Remarked in a social, neighborly way, That she had been kept rather busy of late Attending to poets and matters of state ; That Robbie had closed up the century well, And Byron and Scott would hold out for a spell; She was therefore inclined to take a vacation, And, on her return, to startle the nation ; Would visit, forsooth, Asia Minor and Greece, And lay out a plan for her great masterpiece. So she wandered unseen for a time among men, Returning about eighteen hundred and ten. 138 TO PROFESSOR JOHN STUART BLACK IE. Then straightway to Coila her way she betook, And found her ensconced in a bright cosey nook. With swift-winged words her tale she began I've found the essentials for making a man ; The proper proportion of genius and art, Love, humor, and pathos, mind, body, and heart, With habiliments, too, that are fit for a king, Or better, for genuine princes that sing. I met the nine Muses, who gave me a piece A delicate web of the old Golden Fleece Which they bade me to take far over the wave To bright sunny lands where magnolias wave ; To a fountain of youth, Ponce de Leon by name, And I wandered for months without finding the same ; The woes of Ulysses were nothing to mine, But I stayed by the Fleece as I promised the Nine; 139 719 PROFESSOR JOHN STUART BLACKIE. Till there in a wilderness, silent and vast, In a clear sparkling pool the token was cast ; And lo, as I gazed, the Fleece took the form Of a mantle well woven for sunshine or storm. Be it Jason or Stuart, " Midlothian " still Is the brand of this Greek-Scotch-American twill ; And, Coila, the laddie will never grow old Whose heart is enwrapped in this wondrous fold. From the east to the west, from the old to the new, From Helicon dry to Columbia's dew I have wandered at will ; this staff in my hand Was found in the groves of fair Florida's land; Amid pines that embosom de Funiak Spring, Where poplar and laurel the poets outsing, Where children of Scotia in happiness dwell, By a fountain as sacred as St. Ronan's well; 140 TO PROFESSOR JOHN STUART BLACK IE. In gardens of lotus, with sunshine so clear That the centuries glide without noting the year : So, Coila, adieu ! I go with the morn, Guard plaidie and staff for the genius unborn ; It may be a month, or it may be a day, Look well to the infant that's coming this way; And, also remember, this mantle of joy Will keep its possessor forever a boy. 141 TO THE MEMORY OF C. T. V. S. Noble of stature, brain, and soul, and heart, Of sterling purpose and of sturdy mould; Serenely poised alike in busy mart, In genial circle, or in friendship's fold; With pleasant smile and cheery word for all, But centered still on duty. Brave and strong, To do the right whatever might befall : Integrity his motto rhythmic song Of light and love to hold the world in thrall, Or tune to honor every note of wrong. And now, while yonder hillsides fair and bold, Along the Hudson's bright and silvery way, Illume a volume bound in green and gold, There comes the silence of that Summer day, Which hushed the ripples of the gliding stream, And blended sorrow with its sunny dream. 142 LONGFELLOW. Again I see him on the sunlit lawn, As in the May-day of that final year, With brow as radiant as the early dawn, And eye transparent as the heavens clear. With cloak o'er shoulder thrown in careless grace He stands enframed in budding flowers and trees, A genial Orpheus, with Olympian face Forever fanned by pure Arcadian breeze. Ah, more to me than Prospero's magic isle The paths and greensward where the poet dreamed ! The opening blossoms wooed his kindly smile, The expectant flowers with richer colors gleamed. My soul still clasps the warm and generous hand Which wields the sceptre of a kingless land. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. An anthem sweeps from hill to sea, From harp of pine to organ wave, A fragrance floats on breezes free, From flowers above Mount Auburn's grave. The last of all the noble choir Has gone who sat at Bryant's feet; And broken now is every lyre That made the century's song complete. Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, Holmes ! Scarce sixteen autumns glide away, Since shadows o'er these mountain domes Crept gently eastward cool and gray, 144 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. To rest beside yon Cambridge towers, On daisied slope and stately lawn, On winding streams and tranquil bowers, But sixteen years, and all are gone. Proud commonwealth, a glorious shrine From hills "rock-ribbed" to flowing tide! Dear mother-state, what tendrils twine About thy porch of freedom wide ! What burning words in sturdy speech, And eloquence surpassing art ! What ringing lines that sway and reach The forum of the human heart ! And he who woke the earliest strain, To greet the morning clear and bright, Knows well where fondest memories reign And at our banquet sits to-night. H5 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. For here, beside your fountains clear, He wrought with care and dreamed of fame Beneath these arching elms more dear For whispering leaves that speak his name. And there " a fair haired woman " strayed Mid meadow flowers tRat kissed her feet, And here their first-born sweetly played About the threshold where we meet. From Cummington's long Sabbath days His pathway widens to the sea, O'er Berkshire Hills where sunlight plays And every hour is blithe and free. He lingers here in musing mood, Serenely dwells 'mid friendships sweet, In woodland scenes where fancies brood, And gave the land a guerdon meet. 146 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. For all reciprocal the gift Of home or love to genius born, A sentence or a line can lift A landscape to eternal morn. Yon mountain rising bold and sheer Has something more than outlook wide, A " Monument " of memory dear, Outlasting all the works of pride. No purer current ever flowed Through poet's heart in rippling song For you his living canvas glowed, To him Green River's banks belong. Ay, he the Prospero who filled Your woods and groves with fairies bright, He touched the rock and nature thrilled Responsive to his wand of might. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. The partridge and the squirrel knew, Nor feared him as he wandered nigh, The " Violet " and the " Gentian " blue Looked upward with a kindly eye. The " Waterfowl " in lonely flight, From river marge to sunnier clime, Becomes a prophet of the night, A counselor on the shores of time. O wondrous power ! to flash a thought, A gleaming lyric from the soul, An arrowy word with sunlight fraught To touch the heart and reach the goal ; To keep the dew of early youth, To tell the story of the free, Proclaiming wide eternal truth And glorious dawn of liberty. 148 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. High priest of Nature ! Ay, and more Beside the narrowing realm of fate Behold him standing by the shore And calmly " waiting at the gate;" To catch a far diviner breath Above the clamor and the strife ; His earliest poems sang of death, His latest anthems speak of life. And so from out the autumn woods, And far athwart the purple sky, Shall float his song of many moods To widen as the centuries die. 149 TO MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. When I do note the beauty of thine eyes, And think that they have long been sightless dust; When I observe the warrior's envied prize Helmet and corselet thick with yellow rust ; When scutcheoned doors lie prone in castle halls, And turrets totter, razed by ruthless Time ; When panelled brass from stately column falls, Well-graved with praises writ in lofty rhyme Then I perceive how all things here decay ; That this wide world is but a shifting stage, Where faith and love, fierce pride and passion, play, And narrow lines divide the fool and sage ; Where fame's brief candle flickers to its death, And beauty's reign is measured by a breath. T 5 THE HARP OF TOM MOORE. AT THE SCOTCH-IRISH CONGRESS, COLUMBIA, TENNESSEE. The top of the morning to Ireland And the Scotch- Irish Congress to-day ! All hearts respond at the banquet When the Harp of Tom Moore leads the way The bells of the Shandon are ringing Their music from over the sea, But sweeter the Harp of her poet In the mountains of old Tennessee. The sons of the Shamrock and Thistle Still cherish the visions of yore, And the Harp of old Tara awakens Again to the voice of Tom Moore ; Each string, with memories sacred, Is tuned to Liberty's key, THE HARP OF TOM MOORE. And the songs that float down the ages Are always the songs of the free. It sings of the " Exile of Erin," But her exiles are exiles no more, For the Isle of old Erin has drifted Close under Columbia's shore. " Where liberty is, is my country " Has guided her over the way, And Columbia holds in her borders The heart of old Ireland to-day. Manhattan and Plymouth and Jamestown Can boast of their heritage true, But Mecklenburg's fame is immortal When we number the stars in the blue j The Scotch-Irish-Puritan-Fathers First drafted the words of the free, And the speech of Virginia's Henry Is the crown of Our Liberty's plea. THE HARP OF TOM MOORE. The sons and the grandsons of heroes Who fought for freedom and right With joy hail the dawn of the morning, " Mavoumeen !" Awake to the light ! The maidens of Lome and Killarney Are swelling the chorus to-day, For the castles of Oban and Blarney Are only just over the way. Then welcome, a thrice hearty welcome To legendry, lyric and lore, With a pledge and " Guid Hielan' welcome " To the voice and the Harp of Tom Moore ; A toast to the Shamrock and Thistle, And sunshine both sides of the sea, As Erin clasps hands o'er the ocean With Columbia in fair Tennessee. 153 LOOK AT THE MOON, MY SWEETHEART. Look at the moon, my sweetheart, Look at the moon with me, And you will be seeing your darlint, And I will be seeing thee ! The same bright moon of Killarney The distant Sierras see, The same round moon up yonder Looks down upon you and me. They say that she is nearest Of all the skyey train ; And we will hold her dearest Until we meet again ; For many a night, my sweetheart, Beneath her kindly gleam, LOOK AT THE MOON, MY SWEETHEART. We strolled by dear Killarney, And life was all a dream. So true your faithful letter, I know it all by heart ; It says you are coming for me, And we nevermore shall part; Her silver beams will guide you, Where'er you chance to be, As I wait by dear Killarney Your coming o'er the sea. The throb of hope is swifter Than morning's golden car, And the light of love that binds us Outshines the evening star ; The moon on dear Killarney A ladder rears for me, Up which the white-winged angels Shall bear my dreams to thee. '55 LOOK AT THE MOON. MY SWEETHEART. So look at the moon, my sweetheart, Look at the moon with me, And you will be seeing your darlint, And I will be seeing thee ; The same bright moon of Killarney The distant Sierras see, The same round moon up yonder Looks down upon you and me. 156 LOVE'S LITANY. Sweet the rose on flowery lea, Sweet the sunlight on the sea, Sweeter still your glance to me I love you. Fonder than when evening lies In the lap of summer skies Is the language of your eyes I love you. Bright the voice of ruddy morn Answering to the bugle-horn, Brighter still since you were born- I love you. 157 LOVE'S LITANY. Dear the love-songs of the past, Dear the dreams of love that last, All " Love's Litany " thou hast I love you. 158 IN WHISPERS. A song came floating from out the sky ; When asked to stay, it answered, " Why ?" " A New- Year verse for one most fair," I spake with joy. It answered, " Where ?" I whispered low. The song sped by " Not sweet enough for her am I " " An angel voice I'll go and get." The poet sighed, and waiteth yet. 159 ANNIE. When all the hills were rich with gold, And beauty bloomed on every tree, One darling more was in the fold, One treasure more upon the knee. When all the fields were white with snow, And seventeen Autumns passed away, By Merry Christmas fireside glow We met that winter holiday. When all the fields were fresh and fair, And bird and brook were all in tune, Two hearts and hands were given there, That quiet, lovely day in June. 160 -ANNIE. And so the seasons are but three, For Spring and Summer now are one ; And Winter only comes to me To mark the time of love begun. 161 A COAST SURVEY. Oh yes, I've seen your Boston girls, And anchored close to Cambridge curls ; But from Ches'peake 'way down to Maine There is no girl like Sarah Jane. What love-lit eyes ! Twin beacons rare ! What landscape cheeks ! what wavy hair ! Her mouth a sort of inland sea, Her smile a whole Geography. She is the bonniest, best-rigged lass From Sandy Hook to Hatteras; And when she laughs her open face Looks like a sea-side watering-place. 162 A COAST SURVEY. What joy to launch a gallant kiss Upon that tideless sea of bliss ! To start it off, and let it float To realms of sweetness far remote ; To navigate a whaling smack, Without a thought of getting back ; To drift unheeding day or night, Or drop, like Jonah, out of sight. And yet one seems to need a chart To find a port from which to start ; Her mouth is like Long Island Sound, It takes a week to go 'way round. And very few survive the trip, Especially round the upper lip; A treacherous coast, where, all forlorn, Her nose comes down just like Cape Horn. 163 A COAST SURVEY. Columbus thought by sailing west, To find the Islands of the Blest, But had he ploughed this pathless sea He might have sailed eternally. The voyage may be safe and plain, But please excuse me, Sarah Jane ; On second thought I'm in no haste To launch upon that boundless waste. So tempt me not ; the sweetest kiss No sounding finds in that abyss. I'd rather float in Baffin's Bay, While others make your coast survey. My Annie dear, you lift your eyes To ask me where the moral lies ? Ah, rose-bud mouth, well if you please, There have been wrecks on smaller seas. 164 FERDINAND TO MIRANDA. Miranda mine, thy beauty is more rare Than May-day flowers that deck the meadows green ; Thy lips are sweeter than the lily fair Plucked fresh at dawn from out the glittering sheen ; The mantling color of thy cheek's bright hue Makes pale and shames the blood of damask-rose; Thine eye preserves the violet's pensive blue, Which, born of light, with heaven's own color glows; Thy neck, full sweet, seems like a flowery lane, Or garden pathway, to thy gentle breast, Where love, that knows not passion's earthly stain, Has dwelt alone and wished no other guest. Here Eden's flowers retain the morning dew, And sweeter seem united all in you. 165 JULIET TO ROMEO. One more fond kiss, my Romeo, and away ! The eastern hills are touched with rosy light. Ah love, with thee dun night is brightest day, And brightest day, when thou art gone, is night. How blest the hours swift-borne on starry wheels ! How heavy waiting on the laggard sun ! A weary void till day her eyelids seals, And Heaven's high warders guard love's fortress won. Dear Romeo, go ! Yet I would have thee stay, O pilfering morn, that robs the jewelled skies! Purloining gems within thy mantle gray, Take all but leave the one dear star I prize. Alas ! that love from love should ever part ; Yon sunrise brings wan sunset to my heart. 166 THE MUSIC OF LIGHT. The joyous song of the morning stars The poet caught in the dawn of time; He read the notes of the heavenly bars, His soul was thrilled with the choral chime. Through mystic years the Egyptian heard From Memnon's statue a harp-like tone, And marvelled at the elusive word From raylit lips of lifeless stone. In Orphic and Homeric days The god of music was god of light, And strung Aurora's rhythmic rays Across the vibrant lyre of night. 167 THE MUSIC OF LIGHT, And savants now in the world's high noon The visions of olden times rehearse; For rhythm of music and light are one, And science reflects the poet's verse. 168 IMPERIAL TIME. Imperial Time, that neither hastes nor waits, First-born of Him who wrought creation fair, In glory throned at Morning's golden gates, Ere Light was spoken to the wondering air; Great chronicler of silent ages vast, Forgetting naught though centuries glide away ; The sifted star-dust on thy pages cast Obscures no record of thine earlier day : Viceroy supreme beyond the farthest bound Where human sobs in pallid echoes die, Within whose soul no pitying throb is found, Whose only tears are meteors of the sky ; Monarch and viceroy, chronicler sublime, But mortal still, a shadow's shadow Time ! 169 QUESTIONS. Whence, and whither, and what are we, Tossed on the billows of ceaseless strife ? Where is the shore beyond the sea ? Where is the fountain of human life ? Whence and whither? Ah! all in vain! We wait and listen. No tidings come ; Darkness and shadows still remain, The stars are silent, the earth is dumb. We question the years ; they answer naught Save this from the void we also came. The circle widens of human thought, But life's horizon remains the same. 170 QUESTIONS. We pick with lenses the flecks of light, We sift from nebulae sun by sun, We mark and measure the comet's flight, We weigh the planets one by one : From lowest germ to highest form We trace the links of Nature's chain ; But what is life this essence warm ? The same deep mysteries still remain. Like children who rap on an empty vault, And listen to hollow echoes there, Material science is still at fault The tomb of Nature is cold and bare. Like travellers lost in forest vast, Returning and crossing their paths again, We reason in circles, to ftnd at last That we reach the point where the quest began. 171 Q UESTIONS. Ah, fruitless search ! We learn no more ; The wisest sage no knowledge brings; No step returns from the silent shore ; " Rounded with sleep " the poet sings; " A narrow cape betwixt two seas," " A swallow darting through the room," A leaf that flutters in the breeze, A moment's light, a rayless tomb ; Phantasamagoria, thing of a day, Born of the night, into darkness hurled, Cunning compound of breath and clay, Ashes and dust of a worn-out world : Flitting shadows on cosmic screens ! Silhouettes thrown from a juggler's hand ! Phantom players in spectral scenes ! Is this the enigma to understand ? 172 QUESTIONS. Or is there a breeze from the open sky That wakens the harp of a thousand strings ? A firm-built hope that a human sigh Is borne through ether on angels' wings ? An inspiration that One is just, Who keeps the sparrow in His care ? That this spark from Him, in a shell of dust, His love and goodness shall also share ? A final rest for faltering feet, Weary and pierced with cruel wounds, Climbing to reach the golden street Up ladders made of brittle rounds ? Questions answered by Faith alone, Not to be settled by words of strife ; To be learned at last, to be fully known, When the key of death fits the wards of life. THE INFINITE. With measuring lines we reach from star to star, On pinion bold we seek creation's rim, The vast horizon mocks us from afar With sphere on sphere beyond our vision dim ; On weary wing our thought, from voyage vain, Like that lone dove, with neither leaf nor bud, Returns to find the windowed ark again A floating refuge on a shoreless flood. O mystery vast which veils the sovereign brow ! O vergeless silence, depths by light untrod ! Space without centre ! Time, eternal now ! O star-gemmed vesture : Seamless ^be of God ! What word doth this vast Universe inthrall ! Bounded by nothing, yet embracing all. '74 GOD'S HEARTHSTONE. The evening fires are burning dim Along Chautauqua's western rim; The embers of a dying day Are sinking in the ashes gray. We lay aside our toil and care, We bow to Thee in thankful prayer, That round Thy hearthstone, wide and free, The world is all one family. 'Tis not in temples built by hands, Or written scrolls from far-off lands, But at the altars reared by Thee, We learn the truest liturgy. GOD'S HEARTHSTONE. Thy voice was heard on Sinai's height, On Horeb's mountain veiled in night; Thy voice is heard in every rill, Thy glory glows on every hill. Night speaks to night, day speaks to day ; Their world-wide language lives for aye ; Their lines have gone through all the earth, The heavens declare Thy matchless worth. So may Thy Word of Love more dear To every age and race appear, Until Time's narrow, restless sea Is hushed in Thy eternity. And oh, may faith still deeper grow, Till peace from heart to heart shall flow ! Till all the world, each even-tide, Shall gather round Thy hearthstone wide ! 176 THE GLOAMING. A wish at close of day, The evening waits; A hope, a morning ray From eastern gates : A bright and sunny spot Along the stream ; A quiet sheltered grot Where we can dream : A window looking west Towards sunset gold, Bespeaking gentle rest When we are old ; '77 THE GLOAMING. A glow in yonder sky When shadows creep, And love's soft lullaby Inviteth sleep : A hand to clasp in ours With pressure dear; And then some simple flowers With friendships near; A good-night gloaming kiss, Life's day complete ; A lingering hour of bliss Where twilights meet. 178 SO SWEET THE DREAMS. So sweet the dreams that speak of thee, Fain would I slumber all the while At rest within thy gentle smile, Where Icve is all the world to me. A blissful realm wherein we learn Fond lessons life can never teach; For dreams are but the thoughts that reach .From earth to heaven and then return; Bright angel-ladders that uprear Their summits to the shining stars, Adown whose rounds of silver bars Float footsteps from the silent sphere. 179 SO SWEET THE DREAMS. Kind spirits guard us as we sleep, And guide us through each coming day, And teach us, Father, how to pray, And pure and true our souls to keep. 180 DREAMLAND AND LOVELAND. Near our dreamland lies a loveland, Ever fresh and fair with flowers ; We can see it from our dreamland Soon the loveland will be ours. There's a cottage in that loveland Porch-embowered with trellised vine ; Sweet the vision from our dreamland Round its windows roses twine. Lead me gently through the dreamland That I may no longer roam ; Guide me safely to the loveland For I long to rest at home. 181 DREAMLAND AND LOVELAND. Where the breath of tender blessing Sweetens duty bravely done ; Care beguiled by fond caressing Dreamland, Loveland all in one. 182 SMILE AND WAIT. Would to-day were now to-morrow, and to-morrow yesterday Three days folded up together, in Time's basket laid away; For there's one that waits my coming under fair and sunny skies, And I'm yearning for the sunlight of her sweet and loving eyes. Change the hour-glass into minutes ! Let the white sands swiftly glide, Till our hands are clasped together, and our hearts beat side by side. Let bright birds convey the message to the blossoms of the South, 183 SMILE AND WAIT. And love's light- winged gentle breezes waft my kisses to her mouth. Haste sweet dreams on rays of moonlight, whisper gently smile and wait, Till the hours and days are counted when I'll meet her at the gate. OF AGE. 18661887. The stars are fading in the gray, Faint rosy light proclaims the morn. Awake, my love, for love to-day Recalls the hour our love was born. It scarcely seems a summer-day Since winsome lips were fondly kissed, So swift the seasons glide away When loving hearts keep faithful tryst. And yet the figures on life's page, From Sixty-six to Eighty-seven, Declare our love is now of age Just tweniy-one since Home and Heaven Were twinned within those loving eyes Which led my soul to Paradise. 185 MY CASTLE. The hill-tops are fair in the bright, cloudless day, The valleys are sweet with the blossoms of May ; I gaze from the cliff where my Castle shall stand The grandest and proudest of all in the land; With turrets and columns of Parian white, Blocks seamless and clear as if quarried from light ; With portal wide open to high arching hall, And threshold emblazoning welcome to all. No outlook so varied, no structure so fair; Neither Norman nor Moorish with mine can compare; The dreams of all artists from over the sea Unite in one vision of beauty for me. MY CASTLE. The richest wood-carvings from many a land, The rarest of pictures are mine to command : Ah, dreamer, whose vessels have voyaged in vain, Come, visit my Castle from Castles in Spain ! The glow on the hill-tops is fading away, The valleys, all garnered, are russet and gray ; I gaze from the cliff where I stood the fair morn When the rose-tinted dream of my Castle was born. The turrets, the columns, the tapestries rare Have faded and melted like mist in the air Impalpable, vain, mortised beams of moonshine ! The sun never shone on that Castle of mine. Ah, well, but the ground-plot and title are clear For others their Castles and mansions to rear ; While I keep in framework of old tarnished gilt The Castle of mine that never was built. .87 MY CASTLE. The fireside is bright in a dear cottage home, One chimney sufficing for turret and dome; And, dreamer, your voyage has not been in vain, If you find at some hearthstone your Castle in Spain. 188 A WANDERER. I have wandered the wide world o'er, I have sailed over many a sea, But the land that I love more and more Is Columbia, the land of the free. From the east to the western shore, From the north to the southern sea, Columbia for me ! I have lingered in ivy-grown bowers, In minsters and palaces vast, Amid castles and crumbling towers Whose shadows backward are cast; But the longed-for Atlantis is ours, And freedom interprets at last The dream of the past. 189 A WANDERER. The rivers of story and song, The Danube, the Elbe, and the Rhine, Entrance for a day, but I long For the dear old Hudson of mine ; The Hudson, where memories throng, Where love's fondest tendrils entwine, Of beauty the shrine. Like music entranced in a dream Glide the Afton, the Doon, and the Ayr; But the Jansen the clear Jansen stream, In one heart shall their melody share ; And my soul still reflects its bright gleam, For I played in my childhood there, When visions were fair. I have heard the sweet chiming of bells From the Seine to the Avon and Dee, But sweeter the anthem that swells From the pine-clad Sierras to me ; 190 A WANDERER. And the Sabbath-like stillness that dwells In these mountains far up from the sea, Lake Tahoe with thee. I have gathered sweet flowers in the west, Where the streams are embroidered with gold, But the blossoms that I love the best Are those which I gathered of old ; The same that my mother's lips pressed, The petals their sweetness still hold, Her heart they enfold. I have wandered the wide world o'er, I have sailed over many a sea, But the land that I love more and more Is Columbia, the land of the free. From the east to the western shore, From the north to the southern sea, Columbia for me ! 191 PERSONAL TRIBUTES TO MR. BRUCE'S POEMS. The outward form is beautiful, and my first acquaintances with the contents are in harmony therewith. WM. E. GLADSTONE. Read the whole without stopping, and said "Amen" to every page. PROF. JOHN STUART BLACKIE. I think you have very successfully carried out your idea of the Cathedral. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Hearty thanks for thy excellent poem, printed in style worthy of its fine and fitting verses. JOHN G. WHITTIER. I have read your verses with great pleasure. They are very easy, fluent, lively, and well compacted. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. The poems are fragrant of both soils. It was a happy thought to wed through Scott and Irving the Tweed and the Hudson. PRINCIPAL FAIRBAIRN, Mansfield College, Oxford University. The poems and illustrations are to me full of the fondest mem- ories. I was born and brought up on the banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, and I am familiar with all the scenes you describe and delineate so well. JAMES M'COSH. I congratulate you on issuing such a charming volume. It will be thankfully received by every lover of Burns. I thank you as one. You have touched the strings with melodious results. HENRY WARD BEECHER. Lovely as a dream, and good as gold ; better, it will stay among the household treasures safe and sure, and be treasured by the children's children, who will say the poet was my grandpa's friend. ROBERT COLLYER. OLD HOMESTEAD POEMS. BY WALLACE BRUCE. Illustrated, pp. x, 168. Square 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $2.00. His patriotic verses are warm with genuine feeling. Critic, New York. Mr. Bruce's diction is always crisp and strong, and his versifi- cation fluent and musical. Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. The lighter verses of Mr. Bruce have their special quality, and are sprightly and graceful from the lightness of touch. N. Y. Times. Mr. Bruce writes with ease and invariable metrical correctness. Spirited in style and patriotic in tone. N. Y. Sun. The poems are characterized by a home spirit of love, tender- ness, and simplicity. Minneapolis Tribune. A cheerful father, the love of home and children breathes through these lyrics. Philadelphia Ledger. They are the kind of poems which one loves to read, and from the reading of which you arise full of good thoughts and noble purposes. Christian Advocate, Pittsburg. The poems are marked by their quaintness of style and ex- pression, and will fully interest poetic readers. They are patriotic, home-loving, wrong-hating, in which the reader will find the grandest truths. Chicago Inter-Ocean. Mr. Bruce writes in ringing verse or simple, tender lines of the landscapes that are dear to him, of the people whom he loves, of home, and of country. He appeals to what is noble and true in human nature.- Boston Post. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. The above work is for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price. WAYSIDE POEMS. BY WALLACE BRUCE. Illustrated, pp, x, 168. Square 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $2.00. Musical in versification, noble in thought, pure and winning in sentiment. The Scottish- American, New York. Wallace Bruce sends a charming spirit throbbing through his poems, a spirit which fascinates and uplifts. Methodist, Balti- more, Md. Mr. Bruce's muse has the flavor that characterizes both his native and his ancestral land. The Gazette, Montreal, Canada. Vivid narration and sincere and simple expression, promise enduring popularity for Mr. Bruce's work. Boston Transcript. Mr. Bruce is already known to readers on both sides of the Atlantic through his "Old Homestead Poems." His sentiment rings true, and his numbers are easy and fluent. The Dial, Chicago. A very handsome specimen of illustration, typography and binding, which will add beauty as well as literary value to the home library of every lover of true poetry. Troy Daily Times. Mr. Bruce has found appreciative readefs for his tuneful muse, and these wayside poems will be gladly welcomed by the old friends of this popular author. Syracuse Daily Post. Not a poor one among them ; not one without excellence, and some are worthy of a long life, if tender feeling and beauty of expression are the criteria Northern Christian Advocate. There breathes through them a spirit of home life, patriotism and love of nature, with a swing at times which recalls Scott, Burns, and the giants ''which were in those days." Plattsburgk Republican. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. The above is for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price. IN CLOVER AND HEATHER. BY WALLACE BRUCE. He touches smoothly and sweetly chords that have an echo on both sides of the Atlantic. The Scotsman. A certain open-air flavor that is at no time common to writers of verse. Saturday Review. Keenly alive to the beautiful, whether in art or in nature or home-life, and draws his inspiration equally from one and all. Full of delicate humor and nice discernment. Birmingham Gazette. Mr. Bruce's verse thrills with fine, free-flowing, vigorous spirit, which imparts to it that feeling of reality and freshness that gives to the poetry of Burns its permanent attraction. Glasgow Herald. Wallace Bruce celebrates his country's heroes in his own name, his country's soil in the name of his book, and his country's vir- tues in every page. London Academy. "In Clover and Heather " contains many fine poems and lyrics, full of freshness and brightness, informed by ardent patriotism, gentle sentiment, and domestic love. London Graphic. When he sings of nature his touch is light and effective ; when he speaks of his own country his heart breathes in every line; when he touches on things unseen and eternal, it is with reverence and simplicity. Liverpool Mercury. WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH AND LONDON. BRYANT UNION, TEMPLE COURT, NEW YORK. A 000034899 5