THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 - 
 
 /
 
 ECHOES OF THE PAST, 
 
 BY 
 
 S. S. LUCE. 
 
 GALESVILLE: 
 
 S, S, LUCE & SON, PRINTERS, 
 1881,
 
 rs 
 
 VISIONS OF THE PAST. 
 
 HOW clearly come the echoes of the past, 
 As standing on life's summit, we look back 
 To mark our difficult, imperfect track, 
 And down the western slope our vision cast, 
 To where our earthly sun must set at last : 
 While on we go, yet clearer and more clear, 
 The old familiar sounds fall on our ear- 
 Now soft and sweet, and now like trumpet blast. 
 I caught these echoes on the trembling string, 
 And tried to hold them in my feeble clasp ; 
 Like some enchanting spell to which we cling, 
 Yet seems forever to elude our grasp ! 
 Such as they are, imperfect, incomplete, 
 My friends, I lay these Echoes at your feet. 
 
 762925
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 PAGE. LINE. 
 
 11 5th., read Buoyant for ' Boyant.' 
 
 23 9th., read stayed for ' staid.' 
 
 40 8th., read shone for ' shown.' 
 
 06 16th., read dross for 'dress.' 
 
 66 19th., read guide for ' gide.' 
 72 6th., read Who met at that, etc. 
 
 Ill 5th., read eyes for 'eye.' 
 
 135 15th., read crowd for 'croud.' 
 
 143 9th., omit was. 
 
 150 20th., supply a after to. 
 
 185 14th., read monotony for ' monotory.'
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Labor . . 1 
 
 In Memoriam . 11 
 
 Sugaring Time 14 
 
 The Woodman's Daughter 17 
 
 That Council of Cork ... 20 
 
 Song of County Seat . . 23 
 
 The Country 'Squire . . 25 
 
 Stanzas . 35 
 
 August ... 37 
 
 Harvest Moon . 39 
 
 October . . 41 
 
 November 43 
 
 Winter Song 44 
 
 1879 . 46 
 
 1880 .... 47 
 Early Friends 48
 
 The Meadow Lark ... 49 
 
 Who Can Tell . . . .52 
 
 Sing the Old Time Song. . . 54 
 
 Sing While You May . . .56 
 
 Aunt Rhoda .... 57 
 
 The Mountain Stream . . .GO 
 
 In Memory of Alex. McGilvray . 63 
 
 How Shall it Be ? . . . 65 
 
 Whistling on the Sidewalk . . .67 
 
 The Infant's Grave . . . 69 
 
 The Little Brown School-house . .71 
 
 Memory of a Friend . . . 73 
 
 The Young Angler . . . 75 
 
 The Moderate Drinker's Song , . 78 
 
 Boyhood . . . . . 81 
 
 Cropp . . . . 89 
 
 The Single Prohibition Vote .. . 93 
 
 Life . . . .' .. 96 
 
 December . . ....' . . 97 
 
 Farewell to Eighteen-eighty . -> 100 
 
 The Press . '.. , ., . 102 
 
 Stanzas . . . : . 104 
 
 Death, (burial of A. R. Wyman) . , 105 
 
 Lines . . , . . 106 
 
 The Veteran's Request . ' .' '.' 108
 
 Lines . . . . .110 
 
 To A Western Owl . . . Ill 
 
 The Recluse . . . .113 
 
 Lines ..... 153 
 The White Owl .... 155 
 
 Hard Times . . . .158 
 
 Bob . . t , . V .161 
 
 Retrospect . 164 
 
 Death of a Sister . 166 
 
 A Mother's Love .167 
 
 Madness . 168 
 
 Autumn Tints 169 
 
 Garfield . 170 
 
 Regret . . . . .172 
 
 Death of Decora 174 
 
 The Fountain . 177 
 
 Long Ago . . . m .178 
 
 The Apple-sauce Man . . 180 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Letter to Miss L. c. R. F. 
 Letter to a Friend 
 Letter to Same 
 Letter to Mrs. M, M. B. 
 Echoes of the Past
 
 LABOR. 
 
 HEAD BEFORE THE 
 
 NORTHWESTERN DISTRICT CONVENTION OF 
 FARMERS, AT GALESVILLE WIS., 
 JAN. 7TH. 1880. 
 
 IX making out a bill of tare, 
 Our farmer friends are well aware 
 
 Sonic dishes of unsavory kind 
 A place among the others find ; 
 And thus I bring my offering here 
 In contrast to your better cheer, 
 With much of trembling for its fate 
 Among these critics of our State.
 
 LABOR. 
 
 By Eve's advice in days of old, 
 Man ate forbidden fruit, 'tis said, 
 
 And ever after, we are told, 
 
 Was forced to work to earn his bread ; 
 
 A sad mistake as all agree 
 
 . To frustrate thus what God designed 
 
 And brought eternal misery 
 Forever after to mankind. 
 
 This was the price that Adam paid 
 For knowledge ; and it left a debt 
 
 That no one ever can evade 
 
 Which has not half been cancelled yet. 
 
 It seems if this primeval pair. 
 
 Had lived in ignorance and bliss, 
 We had inherited our share 
 
 From that day even unto this 
 Of that same ignorance and joy, 
 
 Of that same fruit without the toil 
 Sweet dreamless nights without alloy, 
 
 And days devoid of care for spoil.
 
 LABOR. ^ 
 
 Twere worse than vain to here repeat 
 The trite old tale of Adam's curse, 
 
 So fraught with misery complete, 
 Recorded in Miltonic verse, 
 
 With stately measure, grand, sublime, 
 That scorns the fetters 'of a rhyme. 
 
 Enough to know that Adam's fate 
 
 Was sealed ; and 'neath th' Almighty scorn 
 Was turned without the elysian gate, 
 
 And misery and toil were born. 
 
 'Twas thus that farming first began, 
 And downward to the present day, 
 
 The common heritage of man, 
 Has ever onward held its way. 
 
 First herds that cropped the herbage crude, 
 With tents to shelter from the storm, 
 
 Young earth a boundless solitude 
 A wilderness, in primal form.
 
 LABOR. 
 
 The burning sun to rule by day ; 
 
 The moon and stars to shine by night, 
 To guide two pilgrims on their way 
 
 From mental darkness into light. 
 It would be tedious to trace 
 
 The course of agricultural skill : 
 Centuries on centuries crept apace, 
 
 And it had gained small progress still. 
 
 In later years, when Virgil wrote 
 
 His pastorals in Latin verse, 
 It' his bucolics I should quote, 
 
 'Twould give you cholics that are worse. 
 To think of milking sheep and goats 
 
 Instead of cows of modern breed ; 
 Or chasing those long snouted shoats. 
 
 Would be a sorry task indeed. 
 
 Leaving behind those poets sage 
 Who sang of agriculture rude, 
 
 I pass to the medievial age, 
 
 When methods were about as crude.
 
 LABOR. 
 
 A proud and haughty warlike race, 
 
 That in those stirring feudal days 
 Lived oft by conquest or the chase, 
 
 And in most rude outlandish ways, 
 When might was right. The arts of peace 
 
 Declined and languished ; in their place 
 The bloody arts of war increased 
 
 And feuds and rapine marched apace. 
 Men fought for spoil, men fought for creeds, 
 
 And oft for vengance in their rage ; 
 The record of their cruel deeds 
 
 Mars many a leaf of history's page. 
 
 When later came our fathers o'er 
 
 For freedom's sake freedom of thought, 
 And landed on New England's shore, 
 
 It was a freedom dearly bought. 
 They battled with the sterile soil 
 
 Against the treacherous savage band 
 They labored on with patient toil 
 
 With perils thick on every hand
 
 LABOR. 
 
 As ore is purged of filthy dross 
 When in the fiery furnace tried, 
 
 So human souls of passions gross, 
 Are by sore trials purified. 
 
 Thus the "New World" in days of old, 
 When sown with Puritanic seed, 
 
 Bore wills of iron, hearts of gold, 
 Yet bound by superstitious creed, 
 
 And to those Puritans severe 
 
 This nation owes a lasting debt. 
 Their memory we should revere 
 
 Their sterling virtues ne'er forget. 
 
 They sowed the germ, and by their toil, 
 Subdued the rank and noxious weeds 
 
 That sprung spontaneous from the soil. 
 Theirs were not sounding words, but deeds. 
 
 And now a nation strong and free, 
 We reap a generous recompense ; 
 
 Our free lands reach from sea to sea, 
 And span a mighty continent.
 
 LABOR. 
 
 These are the fruits of patient toil, 
 These the rewards of virtuous lives, 
 
 And he who cultivates the soil 
 By honest labor always thrives. 
 
 Could those stern lion-hearted men 
 Awake to life in this, our day, 
 
 And view the progress there has been 
 Within the present century 
 
 O, who could fathom their surprise ? 
 
 The march of the industrial arts 
 Might well confound those sages wise 
 
 And give us grateful, thankful hearts. 
 
 How would they view the clattering car 
 That sweeps our prairies of their spoil, 
 
 And gathers in from near and far 
 The golden products of the soil ? 
 
 Or him, who through his fields of maize, 
 Beneath his canopy of state, 
 
 Defies the sultry summer days 
 
 From early morn 'till evening late ?
 
 LABOR. 
 
 We call these days of progress rare 
 
 The age of lightning and of steam ; 
 No other era can compare 
 
 With this, the present, it would seem. 
 But are we happier in our day 
 
 Than were our ancestors of yore? 
 And does our own prosperity 
 
 Excel our fathers, gone before ? 
 
 The old, old story of the "fall," 
 
 An act that thwarted God's intention 
 Seems hardly probable at all, 
 
 But very much like man's invention- 
 Some one who had a wholesome fear 
 
 To earn his bread by honest labor 
 Would like to live from year to year 
 
 Upon the products of his neighbor. 
 
 " Irreverent !" I think you said. 
 
 " 'Tis sin to doubt one jot or tittle." 
 Am I to blame to snap a thread 
 
 That seems so very, very brittle? 
 1
 
 LABOR. 9 
 
 The laws of God and nature here, 
 
 Are laws of labor, laws of action ; 
 The earth revolves from vear to year, 
 
 / 
 
 Nor deviates a single fraction. 
 
 And worlds on worlds that swing in space 
 
 Are moving in their orbits ever, 
 Each in its well appointed place, 
 
 Goes on, and on, and ceases never. 
 
 The fountain from the mountain's side, 
 Sings on rejoicing in its motion ; 
 
 The river, with majestic tide, 
 
 Kolls on to join the mighty ocean. 
 
 The ocean with its ceasless waves, 
 
 Oft 'gainst its rugged shores is dashing, 
 
 Or gently, lovingly it laves, 
 
 Or roars among the breakers splashing. 
 
 Action 16' lifeinaction death, 
 Is written clear throughout creation ; 
 
 The very air that fans our breath 
 Is purified by agitation.
 
 10 LABOR. 
 
 Shall man, the choicest of God's hand, 
 Of all his works the richest treasure, 
 
 In his own image nobly planned, 
 Live but a life of idle pleasure? 
 
 No, rather let mankind rejoice 
 
 That they have faults and frailties human ; 
 The freedom and the gift of choice , 
 
 And hopes and sympathies in common. 
 
 Then let us labor for our weal, 
 To idleness there is no trusting 
 
 The brightest and most polished steel, 
 When not in use, is prone to rusting. 
 
 Shrink not the duties of to-day, 
 
 Nor stop to care and sorrows borrow ; 
 
 The sun that lights our present way, 
 May be obscured in clouds to-morrow. 
 
 Then view not labor as a curse, 
 But a rich blessing kindly given; 
 
 The order of the universe 
 The grand economy of heaven.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 LONG years ago I had a dear young friend ; 
 Frank in his manners, noble in his mind ; 
 Sweet temper and bright virtues seemed to blend, 
 To grace his person, cultured and refined. 
 
 Boyant his hopes, though fortune had not smiled, 
 And strewn with flowers the pathway of his youth ; 
 
 Hard toiling on, the weary hours beguiled 
 In visions bright of virtue and of truth. 
 
 Nature more generous than the " fickle maid," 
 Endowed his mind as only Nature can ; 
 
 And science, noble science lent its aid 
 To finish what kind Nature thus began.
 
 P2 IN MEMORIUM. 
 
 To make life useful was his end and aim ; 
 
 Most faithfully he conned the healing art ; 
 He sought no easy flight to gilded fame, 
 
 But wrought right manfully to act his part. 
 
 Thus years flew on he won a fair success 
 In his profession ; but there came a change 
 
 Wealth came but slowly I could only guess 
 
 What wro't that change, so sudden and so strange. 
 
 One clay I asked him why this strange unrest 
 In one who seemed well fitted to enjoy 
 
 The sweets of life whom circumstances blest 
 With much to comfort, nothing to aiioy ? 
 
 He answered thus : " I've learned this potent truth 
 The world pays tribute only unto wealth ; 
 
 And thus a gilded passport grants, forsooth ; 
 Other approaches are but counted stealth. 
 
 I'll seek this magic passport to the great 
 
 I'll seek the land that yields the glittering spoil, 
 
 I'll work till wayward and reluctant Fate 
 Shall yield her tribute to my patient toil.
 
 IX MEMORIUM. 13 
 
 I'll drop the years that link the social chain, 
 
 And yield to Mammon what the world demands, 
 
 And when I seek to rivet it again, 
 
 It shall be firmly clasped with golden bands." 
 
 He sailed ; but when he reached the "Golden Gate," 
 The pale "Death Rider" claimed him as his own ; 
 
 Afflicted friends lament his mournful fate 
 The broad Pacific lulls him with her moan. 
 
 He sleeps in peace in San Francisco's soil, 
 Far from his kindred and his native land ; 
 
 The world's ambition, its delusive spoil, 
 
 No more shall bind him with seductive band, 
 
 I often ask if this shall be the end 
 
 Of this young life, to memory so dear 
 
 And shall we never meet our early friend 
 
 To know and love him as we knew him here ?
 
 SUGARING TIME. 
 
 WHEN boisterous March winds ceased to blow, 
 When Sol shone down with kindlier glow, 
 And fences peered above the snow 
 
 In the New England clime, 
 Then swelled the heart of every boy ; 
 He welcomed back again with joy 
 The annual sugaring time. 
 
 Down came the snow-shoes from the shed : 
 Equipped with ample hunter sled, 
 Forth over three feet snow he sped, 
 
 With proud and measured tramp ; 
 Well armed with crossbow, ax and gun, 
 For labor interspersed with fun, 
 At the old sugaring camp!
 
 SUGARING TIME. 1 O 
 
 Fanned by the exhilarating breeze, 
 With squirrels chattering in the trees, 
 No monarch 'mid his wealth and ease, 
 
 Knows such ecstatic joys 
 As 'mong those forest monarchs stout 
 Rung clear arid high the happy shout 
 Of those New England boys, 
 
 When night had wrapped her shadows round 
 The grand old forest, and no sound 
 Disturbed the stillness most profound 
 
 With camp-fire blazing bright, 
 And bubbling cauldron seething hot, 
 Seemed peopled each misterious spot 
 With wizzard, fiend or sprite. 
 
 When spring advancing on apace, 
 And Nature donned a smiling face, 
 Then on the hill-side you might trace, 
 
 Where rivulets had slumbered, 
 Now wakened from their winter dreams, 
 Leapt forth the emanciapted streams 
 In rills from springs unnumbered.
 
 16 SUGARING TIME. 
 
 And then was heard the wild bee's hum, 
 The whirring partridge's muffled drum, 
 And to his favorite haunts would come, 
 
 Our old familiar friend 
 The robin ; from his mellow throat 
 Proclaiming in melodious note 
 The " sugaring" near its end. 
 
 Then youth and beauty oft would meet 
 With wit and rapartee to greet, 
 And taste the accumulated sweet ; 
 
 Those rustic girls and boys, 
 Fresh with the glow of sparkling health, 
 No worldly honor, pride of wealth, 
 Could match their simple joys. 
 
 I like to view them now as then 
 Not as grave matrons, bearded men 
 And live those old scenes -o'er again 
 
 As in our youthful prime, 
 And hear their careless laughter ring 
 As when of yore we met in -spring, 
 The dear old sugaring time ! 
 Galesville, Wis., March 15, 1877-
 
 THE WOODMAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 LITTLE ell just herself- 
 Was the woodman's daughter 
 Eyes so blue, loving, true,, 
 Everybody thought her 
 Such a charming little maid, 
 Living in the wood-land glade. 
 
 Had she wit ? not a bit ; 
 
 But it was her beauty 
 Made each lad nearly mad, 
 
 Calling him from duty, 
 Oft to worship her sweet face, 
 And her ways of winning grace.
 
 18 THE WOODMAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 In the spring she would sing 
 As the birds had taught her, 
 
 While before her father's door 
 Danced the -crystal water : 
 
 Where the speckled troutlets played, 
 
 Slyly watched the little maid. 
 
 . ? 
 
 Strayed her feet in wild retreat 
 To pluck the crimson cherries, 
 
 Or softly cross the yielding moss, 
 Where grew the check erberries ; 
 
 And many a charming path she knew 
 
 Where trillium white and purple grew. 
 
 In the wood, oft she stood 
 
 To view the squirrel's gambols: 
 
 Spent blissful hours in culling 1 flowers 
 Amid her rural rambles ; 
 
 And thus she grew to womanhood 
 
 Artless, beautiful and good.
 
 THE WOODMAN'S DAUGHTER. 19 
 
 Alackaday ! time speeds away ! 
 
 This maid's no more a beauty, 
 But hale and stout she moves about 
 
 Respondent to life's duty, 
 The mother of five sturdy boys 
 That vex her with their boisterous noise. 
 
 January, KS78. 

 
 THAT COUNCIL OF CORK. 
 
 w 
 
 HEX a boy, U. S. Grant learned the currier's 
 trade. 
 
 To guard against want and to serve him in need, 
 He faithfully studied how leather was made ; 
 
 " Useful labor is honorable," this was his creed. 
 
 When later, our nation in peril was placed, 
 
 And the best in the country were called to the 
 field; 
 
 When defeat and disaster fast followed apace, 
 U. S. Grant was the General never to yield. 
 
 V 
 
 Thus the back of Rebellion was broken in twain, 
 
 The Union restored, and our country was saved ; 
 While Peace, gentle Peace came to bless us again, 
 
 And Liberty reigned where the blacks were 
 enslaved.
 
 THAT COUNCIL OF CORK. 21 
 
 Then the voice of the nation arose for the man 
 
 Who had served in our peril and saved from 
 defeat. : 
 
 And they said ; " He who led us in victory's van 
 To serve us in peace, it is every way meet." 
 
 And they placed him by vote in the president's 
 chair. 
 
 And he served them so well that they chose him 
 
 again, 
 
 And many there were who were free to declare 
 That he honored the place, and ought to remain. 
 
 When free from his duties he traveled abroad, 
 
 He was welcomed and honored by all of the 
 nations ; 
 
 France, England and Scotland were ready to laud, 
 To feast and to greet him with hearty ovations 
 
 And lately at Dublin tho warm Irish heart 
 Gave the greeting most kindly of any, as yet ; 
 
 And the Gen'ral still lingered, unwilling to part 
 With a people so kind, with a sort nf regret.
 
 22 THAT COUNCIL OF CORK. 
 
 But the Council of Cork flew up with a pop : 
 
 " We will not receive anti- catholic Grant, 
 And if the ex-President's thinking to stop, 
 
 We're the boys that are ready to say that he 
 sha'nt !" 
 
 The Gen'ral had listned to bursting of bomb, 
 
 And smiling, remarked : " It seems a great 
 
 mystery, 
 (As he rolled his cigar 'twixt his finger and thumb) 
 
 " These Cork folks should know so little of 
 history." 
 
 Since, in all his travels he found none so wise 
 As the Council of Cork, the question is whether 
 
 It might not be well some plan to devise, 
 
 To Grant these Cork sages a medal of leather. 
 
 Galesville, Jan. 1879.
 
 SONG OF THE COUNTY SEAT. 
 
 OH sad was the day when they took me away 
 From my home on the beautiful Beaver; 
 No peace have I found, since I've boarded around 
 O why did they force me to leave her. 
 
 They told me sweet tales of Elysian vales 
 
 That abound in the land of Arcadia, 
 Where I'd reign like a queen, in grandeur serene, 
 
 And be treated in style like a lady. 
 
 Well, I staid there a vear, and vou mav think it 
 
 c ./ 
 
 queer, 
 
 They told quite a different story 
 It was nothing at all compared with Whitehall, 
 And would fade in the light of her glory.
 
 24 SOXG OF THE COUNTY SEAT. 
 
 So they " toted" me over, and made me a home. 
 
 And treated me well, I acknowledge ; 
 But it seems not to me like the old home, you see, 
 
 With the stream, the mill and the college. 
 
 But now I am told by the young and the old, 
 It would be a most excellent notion, 
 
 To make the thing square, I must go up to Blair 
 And keep up the rotary motion. 
 
 Thus I circle around, and hope to be found 
 Some day to my first love returning ; 
 
 For go where I will, I think of her still ; 
 My heart for the old home is yearning. 
 
 [CHORUS.] 
 Oh sad was the day when they took me away 
 
 From my home on the beautiful Beaver ; 
 No peace have I found since I've boarded around 
 
 Oh ! why did they force me to leave her. 
 
 Octoln; !H7S.
 
 A NEW ENGLAND SKETCH. 
 
 Tall and stately was the 'Squire, 
 Broad of shoulder, strong of limb, 
 Generous hearted, quick to ire, 
 Few would care to anger him. 
 
 Little skilled in bookish lore, 
 He was not unknown to fame. 
 
 He'd held offices a score, 
 
 Though he scarce could write his name. 
 
 He was law unto his town, 
 
 Quick to wrath, yet full of zeal, 
 
 And the way his fist came down, 
 Would have split a board of deal.
 
 26 THE COUNTRY 'SQUIRE. 
 
 Not a monarch of to-day . 
 
 Rules with such an iron will, 
 And with such tyranic sway, 
 
 As that 'Squire of Hayden Hill. 
 
 Stalwart sons and daughters three, 
 Had this potent country 'Squire ; 
 
 Comlier maidens you'll ne'er see, 
 Whom the country lads admire. 
 
 Cora was her father's pet, 
 
 Tall and straight and masculine ; 
 
 And the next, whose name was Bet, 
 Had those social charms that win 
 
 But the sweetest of them all, 
 With her eyes of tender blue, 
 
 Frail and slender, fair and tall. 
 Was the youngest daughter Sue. 
 
 Graceful, artless in her ways, 
 Modest in her speech and mien, 
 
 She was worthy of all praise 
 Fit to rule, a rustic queen.
 
 THE COUNTRY 'SQUIRE. 2.7 
 
 At the district spelling school, 
 
 In her native rural town, 
 With a courage calm and cool, 
 
 She had " spelt the master down." 
 
 And these triumphs of her youth 
 
 Ne'er her vanity could reach ; 
 Words of modesty and truth 
 
 Ever graced the maiden's speech. 
 
 'Twas a pleasant spring-like day, 
 And the sun was glowing warm ; 
 
 Snow began to melt away 
 From the fences on the farm. 
 
 In the wood-yard was the 'Squire 
 
 With his favorite son John, 
 Chopping for the kitchen fire, 
 
 Ere the busy time came on. 
 
 Coming up the garden lane, 
 
 Was a country farmer boy, 
 Known as little Tommy Blane, 
 
 In old Deacon Hart's employ.
 
 28 THE COUNTRY 'SQUIRE. 
 
 Thomas was a nice young lad ; 
 
 He was clever at his books, 
 And the country girls were mad 
 
 O'er his fascinating looks. 
 
 Though a little undersize, 
 He was graceful in his form, 
 
 And his dark expressive eyes 
 Took the ladies as by storm, 
 
 He had come to ask the 'Squire 
 For his charming daughter Rue, 
 
 And to brave the father's ire, 
 For his love was firm and true, 
 
 Motioning the 'Squire aside, 
 In an honest manly way, 
 
 Asked to win her for his bride, 
 At some favored future day. 
 
 As the silence that hath birth 
 
 When the lightning shaft hath sped, 
 
 Ere the thunder shakes the earth 
 And the elements o'erhead,
 
 THE COUNTRY 'SQUIRE. 29 
 
 So the silence came, forsooth, 
 
 When the 'Squire, in his surprise, 
 
 Looked contempt upon the youth 
 Through the lightning of his eyes. 
 
 And the deep'ning of his frown, 
 When in thunder tones he spoke 
 
 Thinking thus to crush him down, 
 As the lightning rends the oak. 
 
 " You little silly Tommy Blane, 
 I wonder what has tempted you 
 
 What put it in your foolish brain 
 To ask me for my daughter Sue ?" 
 
 " What can you do to earn your bread ? 
 
 Much less could you support a wife ! 
 My John there's taller by a head 
 
 You are a fool, upon my life !" 
 
 " Now John can ' but' you two to one, 
 And beat you soundly pitching hay, 
 
 And count it nothing more than fun 
 To mow your heels off any day."
 
 30 THE COUNTRY 'SQUIRE. 
 
 Now Thomas was a modest lad ; 
 
 He listened calmly to the 'Squire ; 
 His lips were firm, he was not mad, 
 
 But in his eye there lurked a fire ! 
 
 " I'll take your axe, and for the rest, 
 Upon yon log I'll try with John, 
 
 And while we strive to do our best, 
 
 You shall be judge, while you look on." 
 
 Well pleased the 'Squire gave his consent 
 To see the triumph of his son ; 
 
 In place of rage came calm content : 
 He viewed the victory as won. 
 
 And now the axes gleam in air 
 And now they ring on solid wood 
 
 The chips are flying everywhere, 
 
 While the old 'Squire astonished stood. 
 
 Now Tom had deftly halved the but, 
 And turned to get another start 
 
 While John upon the second cut 
 
 Had not as yet, quite reached the heart.
 
 THE COUNTRY 'SQUIRE. 31 
 
 " Put in, you'll beat him on the pinch !" 
 He said to John, but while he spoke, 
 
 John lacked a good round solid inch, 
 While Thomas gave the final stroke. 
 
 John wiped the sweat from off his brow, 
 Remarking as he bio wed his nose : 
 
 " You've beat me, Tommy, anyhow ; 
 I'll have to stand it, I suppose." 
 
 And Tom replied in modest speech, 
 
 To ease up John in his defeat : 
 " If we had tried on yonder beech 
 
 I think it likely you'd have beat." 
 
 The 'Squire aroused from his surprise, 
 Was somewhat softened in his pride ; 
 
 For pluck and muscle in his eyes 
 Were more than everything beside. 
 
 " You've beat John fairly, I admit ; 
 
 Your strength and courage I admire ; 
 But though you have the real grit, 
 
 You'll find you cannot beat the 'Squire."
 
 32 THE COUNTRY 'SQUIRE. 
 
 '* I've been here nearly forty year, 
 
 And hired strong fellows, you may bet, 
 
 And you may think it very queer, 
 No one has ever beat me yet." 
 
 " You take John's axe and I'll take mine, 
 And if I do not put you through, 
 
 Then my objections I'll resign, 
 
 And leave your question all with Sue." 
 
 In earnest now the strife began : 
 
 Love nerved the arm, love nerved the will 
 Deft youth against the stout old man, 
 
 Whose mind was stubborn as the hill. 
 
 As blow on blow in mortal strife, 
 
 When sword meets sword or bavonet thrust, 
 
 / 
 
 When one slight error costs a life, 
 And leaves a warrior in the dust, 
 
 So waged the strife 'twixt age and youth : 
 Youth struck for love, age struck for will ; 
 
 Twere hard to tell who'd win, in truth, 
 As blows fell thicker, harder still.
 
 THE COUNTRY 'SQUIRE. 33 
 
 Scott wrote with his immortal pen : 
 
 " Love rules the camp, the court, the grove," 
 
 An this is now as true as then ; 
 
 For what shall conquer now but love ? 
 
 Amid the din of sounding blows, 
 Directed with such power and skill, 
 
 Tom drops his log, and with it goes 
 The irate 'Squire far down the hill. 
 
 Surprised, astonished rose the 'Squire ; 
 
 He had not counted on defeat. 
 With sullen shame in place of ire, 
 
 He made a silent, slow retreat. 
 
 He slyly glanced to take a view 
 Just as he passed the garden wall ; 
 
 There stood his saucy daughter Sue, 
 The rougish girl had seen it all. 
 
 The years flew by, the 'Squire was gray. 
 His haughty spirit was subdued ; 
 
 A kind of calm philosophy 
 
 Replaced his former temper rude.
 
 34 THE COUNTRY 'SQUIRE. 
 
 He sits beside the kitchen fire, 
 Half dreaming in his easy chair ; 
 
 A beaming smile comes o'er the 'Squire, 
 For happy matron, Sue is there. 
 
 And little Sue that looks like Tom, 
 And little Tom that looks like Sue 
 
 The pattering feet, that go and come, 
 Seem pleasing to the old man's view.
 
 G3 
 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 LAD is Spring 
 When the earth rejoices, 
 Freed from the bondage of dreary Winter's reign ; 
 When the air resoundeth with the happy voices, 
 Welcoming back the blissful time again. 
 Glad is Spring. 
 
 Sad is Spring, 
 When the greensward hideth 
 
 All our soul hath cherished, in this " vale below," 
 In the heart once joyous, sorrow now abideth, 
 Painful the memory of the cherished long ago. 
 Sad is Spring.
 
 36 STANZAS. 
 
 Glad is Spring, 
 When the birds are singing, 
 
 And all Nature's pulses with quickened blood 
 
 are rife, 
 Soft and balmy breezes, odors sweet are bringing ; 
 
 And we thank the Giverfor the luxury of life. 
 Glad is Spring. 
 
 Sad is Spring 
 When our earthly pleasures 
 
 Cloy, and the night comes to shroud our happy 
 
 > day ; 
 
 Early friends departed, gone our dearest treasures 
 Somber shadows gather o'er life's future way. . . r , 
 Sad is Spring. 
 
 Glad is Spring 
 When the hopeful farmer, 
 
 Trusting faithful Nature, " scatters wide the 
 
 grain ;" 
 Trusting in the promise that the Autum's garner 
 
 Shall return the tribute many-fold again. 
 Glad is Spring. 
 
 Galescille, April "23d, 1878.
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 LATEST of the daughters three, 
 Reigning o'er the summer-time, 
 Who shall touch a note to thee, 
 Seldom praised in poet's rhyme? 
 
 Sober matron of the year, 
 
 Gone the freshness from thy face, 
 Care-lines on thy brow appear ; 
 
 Yet thou hast a quiet grace- 
 
 Genial, kind benevolence ; 
 
 Doing good that it may r bring 
 Happiness, without pretence 
 
 Free from noisy trumpeting.
 
 38 AUGUST. 
 
 Quiet, dreamy August days ! 
 
 Plenty in the fields abound 
 Sweet the bloom of tasseled maize, 
 
 Air is filled with insect sound. 
 
 Sharp the rasping locust's notes 
 Clear the whistle of the quail ; 
 
 While a smoky vapor floats, 
 Half obscuring hill and vale. 
 
 August 1878.
 
 HARVEST MOON. 
 
 SWEET harvest moon, so pure and bright, 
 That swingeth in the azure sphere ; 
 How kindly falls thy placid light, 
 
 The toiling husbandman to cheer ; 
 To guide him on his weary way, 
 When sinks the burning orb of day. 
 
 How grateful falls the evening dew 
 'Mid cheerful chirp of cricket's note ; 
 
 The distant landscape to our view 
 Seems in the fairy mist to float ; 
 
 While Nature sleepeth calm and still 
 
 On prairie and on distant hill.
 
 40 HARVEST MOOX. 
 
 O, harvest moon, in thy pure sphere, 
 The poet's theme, the farmer's trust 
 
 That shineth on from \;ear to year 
 While nations crumble into dust ; 
 
 That in etherial orbit swung 
 
 Ere Homer wrote, or Virgil sung 
 
 That shed thy rays on Beauty's brow, 
 When first they shown in Eden fair ; 
 
 Thou shineth down as kindly now, 
 As erst on the primeval pair; 
 
 Or when the glorious boon of light 
 
 Came from the dark.cha.otic night ! 
 
 August 2d, 187S)._
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 THE forest leaves are sere and brown, 
 And scattered by the passing breeze, 
 They fall in drifting eddies down 
 
 To form a carpet 'neath the trees; 
 Or, floating downward on the streams, 
 They pass away like youthful dreams. 
 
 The birds have ceased their summer songs 
 And pluming for their Southern flight, 
 
 In field and wood, a solemn throng, 
 They linger but to say " Good night," 
 
 Ere they shall spread their buoyant wings 
 
 To wake their songs in new born springs.
 
 42 OCTOBER. 
 
 Bright, peaceful, dreamy Autumn days, 
 That erst inspired the poet's pen 
 
 When down the vale the smoky haze 
 Obscures the landscape from our ken, 
 
 Like mystic curtain that doth hide 
 
 Our vision from the other side. 
 
 So when life's sun is nearly set, 
 
 Fast moving down the western slope, 
 
 In joyous smiles we linger yet, 
 
 Inspired by Faith, buoyed up by Hope. 
 
 We stand upon the earthly shore, 
 And cheerful wait the passage o'er. 
 
 October 15, 1878.
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 BRIGHT Autumn tints are fading into brown, 
 The brave blue gentian droops its beauteous 
 
 head ; 
 The withered leaves to every blast come down, 
 
 And leaden clouds the wintry skies o'erspread. 
 
 Autumn seems sad, and lingers with a tear. 
 
 Half frozen on her cheek, to say farewell, 
 And o'er her shoulder views stern Winter drear 
 
 Coming apace to ply his icy spell. 
 
 Thus in our lives, far down the western slope 
 
 We tearfully look back to bid adieu 
 To all we love, poised oft 'twixt fear and hope, 
 
 With Time, relentless Time fore'er in view.
 
 WINTER SOXG. 
 
 HARK, the blast sweeping past 
 O'er the trackless prairie ; 
 Cold and bleak, hear it shriek 
 Cheerless wild and dreary ; 
 Down the chimney hear it roar, 
 Through each crevice sifting 
 Snow and sleet ; against the door 
 Mammoth piles are drifting. 
 
 While without hoarse the shout 
 
 Of the Borean battle, 
 Sharp to pierce, wild and fierce, 
 
 Making windows rattle 
 'Round the hearth-fire's ruddy blaze 
 
 Let us wake the cheerful strain, 
 Sing the song of other days, 
 
 Bring the old time back again.
 
 WINTER SONG. 45 
 
 Through the rifts on the drifts 
 
 Clear the stars are shining, 
 And the cloud like sombre shroud 
 
 Shows its " silver lining ;" 
 May our hearts be pure as they 
 
 In their sparkling brightness, 
 Yet as warm as summer daf 
 
 Blissful in their lightness. 
 
 Jan. 1879.
 
 1879. 
 
 GONE ! buried with thy kindred of the past ! 
 How brief thy stay ! yet grasping in thy span 
 The varied seasons since thy reign began, 
 
 First, Winter, with his storms and Borean blast 
 Howled round our dwellings, sweeping fiercely past, 
 
 Turning our thoughts within to social joys 
 Domestic pleasures free from base alloys. 
 
 Then brought us hopeful spring with beauteous 
 
 flowers 
 And genial summer with its sun and showers 
 
 And bounteous autumn with its fruits and grain. 
 Thy mission ended and thy work well done, 
 
 Thou liest down to quiet rest again, 
 As have thy predecessors, one by one, 
 
 To dreamless slumbers as the world moves on.
 
 1880. 
 
 JOYOUS we hail thee, glorious new-born year ! 
 While standing o'er the coffin of the past, 
 We welcome thee, yet " smiling through a tear ;" 
 
 For well it is that sorrow cannot last 
 Whils't thou dost show thy youthful presence here, 
 
 And rays of sunlight o'er the shadows cast. 
 Gay Youth is gayer for thy cheering smiles, 
 
 And Age is hopeful in thy sparkling glance ; 
 For buoyant Hope the present hour beguiles, 
 
 And sounds the bugle-call, the world's advance. 
 Then hopeful on, what e'er shall be our fate ; 
 
 The sluggard greeteth not the morning sun 
 The laggard shall lament when 'tis too late, 
 
 While Industry the golden prize hath won. 
 
 Galcsvillc, Jan. \st.
 
 EARLY FRIENDS. 
 
 SCATTERED how widely on life's devious way! 
 Some gone to rest in budding youth's fresh years, 
 Others in manhood's bright meridian day; 
 Yet, happily, so few have gone estray, 
 
 The source of sharp regrets and hopeless tears. 
 
 Some toiling on for wealth or honored name, 
 Intent on present happiness, or future fame ; 
 Others content to pass an aimless life, 
 Devoid of pleasures, unalloyed with strife. 
 Here youthful genius, in a lonely spot, 
 Sleeps on unnoticed, by the world forgot ; 
 There glorious life-work, like the golden sun, 
 Went down in splendor when its task was done. 
 Some sleep at home beneath the household tree, 
 Others in foreign land or distant sea : 
 All scattered, gone, or passing one by one. 
 
 6
 
 THE MEADOW LAEK. 
 
 BIRD of the cheerful strain, 
 Back to thy haunts again, 
 Joyious thy greeting ; 
 Scarcely a year ago, 
 When fled the winter snow, 
 Here was our meeting. 
 
 March with her chilling blast, 
 Swept o'er the Prairie past 
 
 Cheerless and dreary ; 
 Yet from thy mellow throat, 
 Came the inspiring note, 
 
 Clear-toned and cheery.
 
 50 THE MEADOW LARK. 
 
 Close to our mother earth, 
 Had'st thou thy lowly birth, 
 
 On the broad prairie ; 
 There in thy humble nest, 
 Warmed by maternal breast, 
 
 Watchful and wary, 
 
 Reared with most tender care 
 Taught erst to mount the air 
 
 With thy young pinions - 
 Singing while summer lasts, 
 Seeking with autumn's blasts, 
 
 Warmer dominions. 
 
 Dost to the race belong 
 Far-famed in poet's song, 
 
 Over the ocean ? 
 Or is thy mission here, 
 Sad hearts and lone to cheer 
 
 With thy devotion ?
 
 THE MEADOW LARK. 51 
 
 Bird of the cheerful strain, 
 Back to thy haunts again, 
 
 Joyful we greet thee ; 
 Long seemed the winter day, 
 Sadly it passed away 
 
 Ere we could meet thee. 
 
 March 5th 1878.
 
 WHO CAN TELL? 
 
 QPARKLIXG, joyous little miss, 
 ^-J Golden hair and eyes of blue, 
 Lips inviting mother's kiss, 
 
 All the world is bright to you. 
 Shall no darkening shadows fall 
 
 On your future, little maid ? 
 Will your pleasures never pall, 
 
 And your blooming cheek ne'er fade ? 
 W T ho can tell ?
 
 WHO CAN TELL? 53 
 
 To your young and artless view 
 
 All is beauteous and fair ; 
 Friends most loving, kind and true 
 
 Greet your presence everywhere. 
 In this world of grief and joy, 
 
 Will the sunlight always shine ? 
 Will your pleasures never cloy ? 
 
 Constant happiness be thine ? 
 Who can tell ? 
 
 Life hath sorrows, life hath care 
 
 Life hath duties, hard and stern 
 Life hath burdens, great to bear 
 
 Life hath lessons all must learn. 
 In life's contest only few 
 
 Reach the goal and win the prize ; 
 Will thy courage bear thee through 
 
 O'er the obstacles that rise ? 
 Who can tell ? 
 
 Wisconsin. 1879.
 
 SING THE OLD-TIME SONG. 
 
 SING us the old-time song 
 As oft we sung it of yore, 
 While by the hearth-fire sat the throng 
 That ne'er shall sit there more. 
 
 Sweet and sad the strain, 
 
 Echoes of the long ago ; 
 Something of pleasure, something of pain, 
 
 In those old strains flow. 
 
 > 
 
 For visions sad and sweet 
 
 They bring unto our view ; 
 Of faces dear no more we meet 
 
 The loving, kind and true.
 
 SING THE OLD-TIME SONG. 55 
 
 The mountain in its pride, 
 
 The verdant fir clad hill, 
 The sparkling streams that onward glide 
 
 We seem to see them still. 
 
 The flowers that bloomed in spring 
 
 By wood and winding stream ; 
 Sweet notes of birds that used to sing 
 
 All mingle in our dream. 
 
 And as the years depart, 
 
 And age comes on apace, 
 We clasp these visions to our heart 
 
 That time cannot efface. 
 
 Then sing the old-time song 
 
 In cadence soft and low, 
 Till memories of the past shall throng 
 
 The cherished long ago. 
 
 January 1879.
 
 SING WHILE YOU MAY. 
 
 SING while you may, ere care or sorrow 
 Cometh unbidden, cometh unsought ; 
 Sing, sing to-day, lest the to-morrow 
 
 May be with anguish and misery fraught. 
 
 Sing while you may ; youth in its brightness 
 Passeth away as the flowers of spring ; 
 
 Laugh, laugh to-day, in your heart's lightness 
 Careless as birds in their happiness sing. 
 
 Work while you may ; life is but fleeting, 
 Time is too short for our labor on earth : 
 
 Forward to-day never retreating 
 
 Life hath its duties as well as its mirth. 
 
 Sing while you may ; age hath its pleasures 
 When we look back o'er a virtuous life, 
 
 Joyfully viewing the bright, precious treasures 
 Freed from the dress of the world's busy strife. 
 
 March 1879.
 
 AUNT EHODA. 
 
 MY maiden aunt, of days lang syne 
 Her goodness I can ne'er forget ; 
 A heart so human yet divine, 
 Where all the virtues rare combine 
 On earth is very seldom met. 
 
 Her hair, once brown, was touched with gray ; 
 
 Her eyes were of the mildest blue, 
 Where holy light seemed wont to play, 
 While plodding on her patient way, 
 
 To conscience and to duty true.
 
 58 AUNT RHODA. 
 
 Time touched her lightly as she trod 
 
 The path of duty and of toil 
 Fresh as the flowers that deck the sod 
 Her fervent prayers arose to God 
 Far, far above the world's turmoil. 
 
 While thus she sought in sweet commune 
 To ease the burden of her task, 
 
 She hummed away from morn till noon 
 
 Some sacred, antiquated tune, 
 
 And seemed in heavenly rays to bask. 
 
 Her step was by the sick one's bed 
 
 Full oft at midnight's dreary hour, 
 To bathe the sufferer's aching head 
 To cheer the hours of pain and dread 
 By care and sympathetic power. 
 
 'Twas hers to weep with those who weep-- 
 'Twas hers to joy with those who joy 
 To aid along earth's rugged steep, 
 Efface the lines of care that creep, 
 And free from life, its base alloy.
 
 AUNT RHODA. 59 
 
 And thus she lived to ripened years 
 
 A self-denying, useful life ; 
 Wiping from sorrow's cheek the tears 
 Renewing hopes and calming fears, 
 She passed beyond the world of strife. 
 
 Aunt Rhoda ! (dear old-fashioned name,) 
 
 Thy life so simple yet sublime, 
 Was more than sermon, though it came 
 From lips of eloquence and flame : 
 Thy deeds shall lasting be as time ! 
 
 February \st, 1879.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 SWEET mountain stream, to memory dear, 
 Still dancing on thy sparkling way, 
 Thy song that pleased my youthful ear, 
 Seems just as fresh to me to-day. 
 
 Though long and weary miles divide., 
 And hill and prairie stretch between, 
 
 I seem to listen to thy tide, 
 
 And view again thy silver sheen. 
 
 With friends beside me as of yore, 
 'Neath peerless moon and star-lit sky, 
 
 I sit upon thy lovely shore, 
 And listen to thy lullaby.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 61 
 
 I stand as then beside thy fount, 
 
 And feel the same ecstatic joy 
 The inspiration that was wont 
 
 To stir my being when a boy : 
 
 Or follow down thy winding shore, 
 
 Through forest dark and opening glade 
 
 Still listen to thy mystic roar 
 
 While dashing oft in wild cascade. 
 
 The yielding moss beneath my tread 
 The fragrance of the forest trees, 
 
 With woven canopy o'erhead 
 
 That bars the sunlight and the breeze. 
 
 And farther on where human skill 
 Has fashioned nature to man's use, 
 
 Subdued the forest to his will 
 Made the rude wilderness produce 
 
 Its treasures for his daily need, 
 Thou too, dost seem to be subdued. 
 
 And murmur on with lessened speed, 
 Freed from the mountain solitude.
 
 62 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 Now through the vale, and now by hill, 
 O'er pebbly bed thy waters glide ; 
 
 Thy course is onward, onward still, 
 With cheerful song and silvery tide. 
 
 Ah, happy days, how fleetly sped ! 
 
 Gone ! vanished to return no more ; 
 The dearest friends of earth are dead, 
 
 And dreamless slumber on thy shore. 
 
 Flow gently on, Oh mountain stream ! 
 
 By willowed banks through meadows green ; 
 Thy vision haunts me like a dream, 
 
 Forever 'mid life's shifting scene ! 
 
 Gahsiille, March 1880,
 
 IN MEMORY OF ALEX. McGILVRAY. 
 
 LATE PRESIDENT OF THE BURNS CLUB. 
 
 Read at the Celebration of Burns 1 Anniversary, Jan. 25, 1879. 
 
 ONE place is vacant in our band, 
 We miss the pressure of his hand 
 Whose grasp was hearty and sincere ; 
 We miss the face so bright with cheer, 
 The presence, like the summer rays 
 That come to gladden winter days. 
 We hear no more the piper's strain 
 That bringeth to our view again 
 The dear old land beyond the sea, 
 That liveth in our memory.
 
 64 IN MEMORY OF ALEX. MCGILVRAY. 
 
 Stilled is the hand that touched the cord- 
 Hushed is the voice of cheery word ; 
 Yet, though his person is not here, 
 And though we miss his words of cheer, 
 
 Perchance his spirit lingers near, 
 And now, as in the past, it yearns 
 To honor the immortal Burns, 
 Who touched with such an artless art 
 The well-springs of the human heart. 
 
 And may not we, in sweet commune, 
 While memory sets our hearts atune, 
 And fancy comes her charms to lend, 
 Greet here to-night, our dear old friend ? 
 Still listen to his Highland note, 
 That seemeth down the hall to float ; 
 Still listen to his words of cheer, 
 And feel his presence with us here ? 
 
 8
 
 HOW SHALL IT BE? 
 
 THERE'S much been written and said, we hear, 
 Of those whose deeds are evil 
 And the question is asked, have they aught to fear 
 From a hell and a personal devil ? 
 
 Where a lake of brimstone, seething hot, 
 
 Is bubbling on forever ; 
 Where the worm that gnaweth, dieth not, 
 
 And ceases his tortures never ? 
 
 Where he of the horns and the barb-ed tail 
 
 With features grim and horrid, 
 Shall grin with joy at the human wail 
 
 In those regions dark and torrid ?
 
 66 HOW SHALL IT BE? 
 
 Can we think that an infinite God of love, 
 From his high and holy station, 
 
 Shall look with joy from His throne above 
 On the works of His wise creation 
 
 And view the writhings in endless pain, 
 
 And feel a thrill of pleasure, 
 While the songs of the blessed ring again 
 
 In strains of endless measure ? 
 
 O, why should we cavil of things unknown, 
 
 Or question the wise creator? 
 The children he fashioned and named his own 
 
 He will call home, sooner or later. 
 
 The years roll on, and the seasons bring 
 Their gifts and their bounties ever ; 
 
 And who so thankless, he cannot sing 
 In praise to the bountiful Giver ? 
 
 The sun that shineth from day to day, 
 
 The stars that glitter at even, - 
 Should gide us safely along the way, 
 
 Till the goal is reached in heaven.
 
 WHISTLING ON THE SIDEWALK. 
 
 WITH stern intent and measured tread, 
 She whistled as she passed along, 
 And heeded not the gaping throng 
 That jeered and jested as she sped ; 
 A pert young miss, scarce in her teens, 
 With air as proud any queen's. 
 
 O, maiden, though thy face be fair, 
 Thy whistling was quite out of tune ? 
 For while she strove for " Bonnie Doon" 
 
 We scarcely recognized the air. 
 But such persistency ! we'll bet 
 The lass will make a whistler yet.
 
 68 WHISTLING ON THE SIDEWALK. 
 
 Now ye young men who laugh and jeer 
 At this young maiden, pert and fair, 
 We caution you to erst beware ! 
 
 We'll stake our credit as a seer, 
 You'll one day want her for a wife 
 To whistle joyous on through life.
 
 THE INFANT'S GRAVE. 
 
 BY our county's northern bound, 
 Where a winding stream is flowing, 
 Gnarled oaks are standing round, 
 
 And beneath the wild flowers blowing. 
 
 Wild and lonely is the spot ; 
 
 Wave on wave the prairie swelling ; 
 Where the vision reaches not 
 
 Farmer's cot or human dwelling. 
 
 There I saw a tiny grave ; 
 
 Fresh the earth about it lying. 
 While above the green boughs wave 
 
 In the June breeze softly sighing.
 
 70 THE INFANT'S GRAVE. 
 
 Frail the board that marked the bed 
 Where the little child is sleeping ; 
 
 Birds were sieging overhead, 
 
 And beneath the wild vines creeping. 
 
 Here, the emigrant his tent 
 
 Pitched beside the running water, 
 
 Buried, ere he onward went, 
 Little " Inge Iversdatter"* 
 
 Short the stay for mother's tears, 
 Weary miles before them lying ; 
 
 Life's stern duties, hopes and fears 
 Left but little time for sighing. 
 
 Weeping as they bid adieu 
 
 To the dear one left behind them, 
 
 Lost forever from their view- 
 Sad the memories that bind them. 
 
 Galesville, 1880 
 
 *Inga, the daughter of leer.
 
 THE LITTLE BROWN SCHOOL-HOUSE 
 BY THE STREAM. 
 
 H 
 
 OW fleeting seems the time, 
 Since in my youthful prime, 
 And the memory now doth haunt me like a dream, 
 Of those youthful faces bright, 
 And eyes of sparkling light, 
 In that little brown school-house by the stream ! 
 
 Sweet pleasures of the past 
 
 Too beautiful to last ; 
 Too perfect to be real, it would seem ; 
 
 The happiness and joys 
 
 Of those merry girls and boys, 
 In that little brown school-house by the stream.
 
 72 THE SCHOOL-HOUSE BY THE STREAM. 
 
 How often do I say, 
 
 Where are they all to-day ? 
 And my mind doth with olden fancies teem : 
 
 Can it be that some are gray, 
 
 And others passed away, 
 In that little brown school -house by the stream ? 
 
 How can I e'er forget 
 
 The dear place where we met, 
 
 And the teacher that let in the kindly gleam, 
 And the sparkling of those eyes, 
 As they felt the new surprise, 
 
 In that little brown school-house by the stream ? 
 
 When at life's busy task, 
 
 How often do I ask : 
 Will our hopes of the future prove a dream ? 
 
 And shall we meet no more. 
 
 As we met in days of yore, 
 In that little brown school -house by the stream. 
 
 March, 1880.
 
 IN MEMORY OF A FRIEND WHO DIED 
 AT SAN FRANCISCO. 
 
 HE rests beside the Golden Gate, 
 Far from his home he sleeps alone ; 
 His friends lament his early fate 
 The ocean lulls him with its moan. 
 
 He rests beside the Golden Gate 
 The dearest friend of early youth, 
 
 With heart so tender, soul so great, 
 
 Whose word, whose every act was truth. 
 
 Rejoicing in his friends' success, 
 
 He shared their sorrows and their joys ; 
 
 His sympathy was theirs to bless, 
 Stripped of the selfish world's alloy a, 
 
 We know our aged friends must pass 
 
 Bowed 'neath the weight of ripened years ; 
 
 We miss their presence, but alas ! 
 
 We must submit and dry our tears.
 
 74 IN MEMORY OF A FRIEND. 
 
 As when the noble ancient oak, 
 No longer beareth fruit or leaf, 
 
 Yields to the hardy woodman's stroke, 
 And falleth like a forest chief. 
 
 But, when in manhood's glorious prime, 
 With cultured mind and wealth of heart, 
 
 They pass beyond the " shores of Time," 
 Can we be reconciled to part ? 
 
 If what we have been taught be true, 
 We meet beyond this earthly sphere, 
 
 No more with friends to bid adieu 
 To know them as we knew them here, 
 
 Freed from earth's grossness, pure and bright, 
 To see them as ourselves are seen, 
 
 And dwell forever in the light, 
 
 Once bounded by a mystic screen 
 
 Then little reck we when shall sound 
 The summons that shall call us o'er 
 
 To meet beyond the earthly bound, 
 
 Our dear friends who have " gone before." 
 
 Galesville, March 1879.
 
 THE YOUNG ANGLER. 
 
 FAR up the mountain's wild ravine, 
 A sparkling stream comes dashing down, 
 Sings on its rocky walls between, 
 And hurries onward to the town. 
 
 Then through green meadows takes its way, 
 In gentler mood and softer song, 
 
 Where speckled trout were wont to play, 
 In its clear waters all day long. 
 
 How happy on a balmy day, 
 
 When freed from toil or task at school, 
 A rustic lad oft took his way 
 
 To drop his hook within the pool.
 
 76 THE YOUNG ANGLER. 
 
 Words are too poor to tell the joy 
 
 That stirs the soul and thrills the heart- 
 
 The sweet experience of the boy, 
 When first he plies the angler's art. 
 
 How proud, elastic was his tread ! 
 
 The song of birds how very sweet ! 
 As down the fragrant mead he sped, 
 
 The yellow cowslip 'neath his feet. 
 
 The drum of partridge from the grove 
 The willows o'er the water's brink 
 
 The turtle's cooing notes of love 
 The medley of the bobolink. 
 
 Now seated 'neath a shady tree, 
 He careless trolls along the stream, 
 
 And listening to its melody 
 
 He dreams a happy boyhood dream. 
 
 " Why waste his life in ceasless toil ? 
 
 The joyous birds are free- as air ! 
 Why delve all day the stubborn soil, 
 
 With bounteous Nature everywhere ?
 
 THE YOUNG ANGLER. 77 
 
 " Why bend beneath the irksome task, 
 And sweat beneath the burning sun ? 
 
 All else is free, and none to ask 
 Why this is done or that undone. 
 
 " The squirrel in yon hemlock tree, 
 That eats his nut upon the limb, 
 
 And barks and chatters in his glee, 
 No hateful labor worries him." 
 
 The hum of bees is overhead, 
 All Nature's harmonies around ; 
 
 While sits upon his mossy bed 
 The young philosopher profound.
 
 THE MODERATE DRINKER'S SONG. 
 
 U T never drink to hurt me : 
 * Oh no, I only take 
 
 A little wine when I'm unwell, 
 Just for the stomach's sake. 
 
 " I never drink to hurt me : 
 But then, it does me good 
 
 To take some bitters just before 
 I take my daily food. 
 
 " I never drink to hurt me : 
 But when I'm feeling chill, 
 
 I think some spirits very good, 
 Say, just about a gill.
 
 THE MODERATE DRINKER'S SOXG. 79 
 
 " I never drink to hurt me : 
 
 But when I'm very warm, 
 A little brandy toddy then 
 
 Just cools me to a charm. 
 
 " I never drink to hurt me : 
 
 But really we ought 
 To maintain the liberties 
 
 For which our father's fought. 
 
 " They tell me that my nose is red, 
 
 My hat is caving in, 
 And that my whole appearance is 
 
 Not what it might have been : 
 
 " They say that everything about 
 
 A shabby aspect wears ; 
 * My children ragged, and my wife 
 Is broken down with cares. 
 
 " The other day Jake Simkins asked 
 
 Me if I wouldn't sign 
 The temperance pledge and drink no more 
 
 Of rum or gin and wine :
 
 80 THE MODEKATE DRINKER'S SONG. 
 
 " I tell you I was awful mad, 
 And gave it back to Jake. 
 
 I said : You darn'd etarnal fool, 
 There's principle at stake !" 
 
 " If there's not liberty for all 
 To eat and drink at will, 
 
 Why then, in vain our fathers fought 
 And bled on Bunker Hill !" 
 
 10
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 >*~pHOUGHTFUL face and eyes of brown- 
 
 -*- Hat of straw with shattered crown 
 Underneath the slouching rim, 
 Scarcely can you peep at him. 
 Vest and trowsers hardly meet 
 Sun-browned hands and shoeless feet, 
 And you wonder what may be 
 In this crude humanity 
 What of sorrow, what of joy, 
 Stir? this rustic farmer boy t 
 
 There he stands upon the sod, 
 In his hands an alder rod
 
 82 BOYHOOD. 
 
 With a bit of linen twine, 
 Made to serve him as a line 
 And a bent pin for a hook. 
 Now he wanders by the brook, 
 And the minnows and the trout 
 Seem to know what he's about ; 
 Casting up a roguish look, 
 Nibbling at his barbless hook. 
 
 If you ask him, he can tell 
 Where the stealthy muskrats dwell 
 Underneath the willowed bank, 
 With the mosses brown and dank ; 
 Where the ground-bird builds her nest 
 Close beside the ferny crest ; 
 Where the robin comes to sing, 
 In the early days of spring ; 
 Where the oriole, in glee, 
 Sings within the maple tree ; 
 Chants her song the livelong day, 
 In the lovely month of May :
 
 BOYHOOD. 83 
 
 When the blue-bird and the wren 
 Come to rear their young again, 
 He can show the woody knoll 
 Where the chipmuck has his hole ; 
 And the shady hemlock glen 
 Where the red fox had her den, 
 Reared her young and .stole their food 
 From the farmer's feathered brood. 
 
 Thus, the little farmer boy 
 Finds within his breast the joy 
 That kind Xature always gives 
 Bounteously to him who lives 
 Close unto her heart of hearts, 
 And sweet happiness imparts. 
 
 Far removed from worldly strife, 
 'Mid the sweets of rural life, 
 Oft he listens to the birds, 
 As he drives the lowing herds ; 
 Happy, whistling as he goes 
 Whipping off the thistle blows.
 
 84 BOYHOOD, 
 
 Listening to the wild bees' hum, 
 And the partridge's muffled drum ; 
 To the softly cooing dove, 
 In her tender notes of love. 
 
 Every flow'ret by the way, 
 Has a pleasant word to say ; 
 Every brooklet has its song, 
 Joying as it speeds along ; 
 Every tiny blade of grass, 
 Gives its lesson as we pass. ' 
 
 Dear the sunlight and the shade- 
 Sweet the forest and the glade- 
 Soft the zephyr's gentle breeze, 
 Sighing through the forest trees- 
 Whispering through the boughs of pine, 
 Making harmony divine. 
 
 Not all happiness and joy, 
 Came to bless the farmer boy ; 
 When the wearying task was set, 
 Pushing on in dust and sweat,
 
 BOYHOOD. 85 
 
 Oft he wrestled with the soil, 
 Sighing 'mid the hatefurtoil ; 
 Hoed the lengthened rows of corn, 
 Longing for the dinner horn. 
 Nor, when hoeing season done, 
 Was there much of boyish fun 
 In the hay-field 'neath the sun. 
 
 Nor did harvest bring relief : 
 Tugging at the bearded sheaf- 
 Pierced with thistles in the grain, 
 Oft he felt the smarting pain. 
 But where e'er our course may tend, 
 Human sorrows have an end. 
 
 When the bounteous Autumn came 
 With the crimson fruit aflame, 
 Happier than a king, forsooth, 
 Was this rustic farmer youth. 
 Sitting 'noath a favorite tree, 
 None were happier than he.
 
 86 BOYHOOD. 
 
 Luscious fruit was strewn around 
 In profusion on the ground ; 
 And he, for a time, forgot 
 All the hardships of his lot. 
 
 Winter brought its care and joy 
 To. our little farmer boy. 
 Worked he briskly day and night 
 Toiling hard for the delight 
 Of those precious hours at school : 
 For it was the farmer's rule 
 That the boy must earn his way, 
 And forego his hours of play 
 Not the practice of our day. 
 Still it was a discipline, 
 Rigid as it might have been, 
 That developed careful thought. 
 Privileges dearly bought, 
 Are more valued for their cost, 
 And less likely to be lost.
 
 BOYHOOD. 87 
 
 As lie stands beside the brook, 
 With an earnest, thoughtful look, 
 Let us ponder what may be 
 Written as his destiny : 
 
 Will he cultivate the soil, 
 Spend his life in ceaseless toil, 
 Rising with the morning sun, 
 Working till the day is done ; 
 Mixing not in worldly strife, 
 Simple in his ways of life ; 
 Tread the path his father trod 
 Just to man and true to God ? 
 
 Will ambition fire his breast, 
 Burning with a wild unrest, 
 Striving for a fadeless name, 
 Seeking for the " bauble Fame ;" 
 And with potent voice or pen, 
 Sway the weaker mass of men ? 
 Will he seek the poet's bays 
 For the doubtful meed of praise?
 
 88 BOYHOOD. 
 
 Will he be a soldier brave, 
 
 Marching where proud banners wave? 
 
 Will the^politician's tact, 
 
 Lead him to dishonest act 
 
 Or will patriotic fire 
 
 Nobler thoughts and pure inspire ; 
 
 Hating falsehood, scorning pelf, 
 
 Loving Virtue for herself; 
 
 Toiling, that the world may be 
 
 Strong in its integrity ; 
 
 Living to some purpose here, 
 
 Fitting for a higher sphere ? 
 
 Such we'd have him, but Ah, well ! 
 
 Who can of the future tell ? 
 
 Yet whatever be his lot, 
 
 Mansion proud or humble cot, 
 
 In the rear or in the van, 
 
 Mav he be an honest man. 
 
 11
 
 CKOPP. 
 
 HIS name was Cropp the neighbors called him 
 " Gizzard ;" 
 
 They said he surely must have lived on air ; 
 It would have puzzled any witch or wizzard 
 To make a living on his scanty fare, 
 
 Yet, strange to say, his wife was fat and hearty 
 The standing joke of all the girls and boys ; 
 
 She, uninvited, went to every party, 
 
 And weighed about three hundred av'dupoise. 
 
 While he was sallow, wrinkled, spare and bony 
 A stranger to emotions kind and warm ; 
 
 His callous heart, impassionless and stony, 
 As were the pastures of his mountain farm. 
 
 And while she dined abroad, full oft with neighbors, 
 Unwelcome as she was, where e'er she went, 
 
 He carried on at home, his mental labors 
 In figuring up his twenty-five per cent.
 
 DO CROPP. 
 
 A silent pair, they were, it oft was stated 
 
 Economy of words, kind deeds, as well as gold 
 
 In this regard they were most kindly mated, 
 And spent their days in reticence, we're told. 
 
 One day while darning up a woolen stocking 
 Where the great toe had made a fearful rent, 
 
 She came to grief an accident more shocking 
 To her, it seems, could hardly have been sent. 
 
 A darning needle, that from kindred many, 
 Had come to her an heir-loom of the past 
 
 That had come down from granny unto granny 
 The useful implement had failed at last. 
 
 And now the silence that had been unbroken, 
 Did find its voice : " What shall I do," she said ; 
 
 " This needle was to me the choicest token 
 A tie that bound the living with the dead !" 
 
 " I'll tell you what," he said, " I go to-morrow 
 To mill ; now woman don't you cry ; 
 
 You can a needle of a neighbor borrow, 
 
 I'll get the blacksmith, L to weld the eye.
 
 CROPP. 91 
 
 S 
 
 Next day at forge our sturdy son of Vulcan, 
 Who, by the way, was not a stupid dolt ; 
 
 Stood smirched with soot as dark as Turkey's Sultan, 
 Worthy to forge the royal thunderbolt. 
 
 The glowing coal sent sparks to beam and rafter, 
 When Cropp appeared and fumbling at his fob, 
 
 " My wife," he said, " has met with a disaster, 
 And I have brought you down a little job." 
 
 He took the broken needle from his wallet, 
 And paused a bit to hear the smith's reply ; 
 
 " The end is broke, the eye, I think they call it :" 
 There was a twinkle in the blacksmith's eye. 
 
 Yet spoke he gravely to the miser patron : 
 
 "I'll make it right," he said, "with my small drill, 
 
 And you can take it to the worthy matron 
 As good as new, when you return from mill." 
 
 The miser gone, our smith of wit and muscle, 
 His features bright with pleasure as he went 
 
 Across the street, yet free from any bustle, 
 Bought a new needle with a copper cent.
 
 92 CROPP. 
 
 Soon Croop returned : a man of whim and wheedle, 
 He looked the job over twice or thrice, 
 
 He viewed with satisfaction the bright needle, 
 And then he asked the blacksmith for his price. 
 
 " I think, friend Cropp, the work is worth two shil 
 ling' ; 
 
 The job is number one, you see 'tis prime, 
 The steel is hard, it took a lot of drilling, 
 
 I might have laid a plow-share in the time." 
 
 Cropp paid the bill, and holding up the treasure, 
 His hard grey eye lit up with cunning glow, 
 
 His stolid features beamed for once with pleasure ; 
 " It could be done, you see, I told her so !"
 
 THE SINGLE PROHIBITION VOTE OF 
 TREMPEALEAU COUNTY. 
 
 WHEN showers of silent missives fell 
 In places near and towns remote,. 
 They counted up, and strange to tell, 
 They found one Prohibition vote. 
 
 In numbers, Garfield led the van 
 A statesman, patriot, soldier brave ; 
 
 A stalwart, staunch Republican 
 Who did so much to free the slave. 
 
 'Tis true his enemies declared 
 
 He shared Mobilier with Ames ; 
 
 Of this, his friends recked not, nor cared 
 Thev said, " It can't be true of James !"
 
 94 THE VOTE. 
 
 Next, Hancock came, in number less, 
 But made quite good by extra noise, 
 
 If one might be allowed to guess 
 By waving flags and shouts of boys. 
 
 And Weaver, too, made quite a stir 
 " The farmer's and mechanic's choice ;" 
 
 His Greenback web they would prefer, 
 In plenteous volume to rejoice. 
 
 And then they laughed at poor Neal Dow 
 Till one man nearly split his throat ; 
 
 They said : " We'd like to see just now, 
 The man that threw away his vote !" 
 
 A grave philosopher stood near, 
 
 And leaning on his staff of oak, 
 He listened to the jibe and jeer, 
 
 And then in kindly accents spoke : 
 
 " We're oft deceived by what we see ; 
 
 W T e oft misjudge by what we hear ; 
 The thoughts that truthful seem to be, 
 
 Are sometimes falsehoods, when made clear."
 
 THE VOTE. 95 
 
 He took from 'neath his garments, then 
 The moral scales, that motives weigh ; 
 
 That weigh the subtle thoughts of men, 
 As gold is tried in the assay. 
 
 Two thousand votes were on one scale, 
 
 To weigh what is with what doth seem 
 
 That truth o'er error might prevail 
 The single ballot tipped the beam !
 
 LIFE. 
 
 T HEAR them say that life is very sweet, 
 *-And so it is, if filled with noble deeds ; 
 
 If it be given to help a brother's needs, 
 To cheer him on, to guide his weary feet, 
 And make his earthly pleasures more complete. 
 
 But if man liveth all in all for self, 
 And if he seek in life no higher meed 
 Than low desires to satisfy his greed, 
 
 The pleasures that may flow from hoarding pelf; 
 Then life is barren, poor and common-place, 
 
 And all unworthy the creative plan 
 That spake to being an immortal race 
 
 The crowning work of all since life began 
 
 Half human, half divine yet erring man. 
 
 12
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 GRAVE and gloomy December- 
 Last of the passing year ; 
 I shiver while I remember 
 The last time thou wert here. 
 
 Out of the frozen North-land, 
 
 Cometh again thy blast, 
 Shrieking through leafless branches 
 
 And rushing wildly past. 
 
 Down in the hazel thicket 
 Whistles the mother quail, 
 
 Calling her Summer broodlings, 
 With shrill and piercing wail
 
 98 DECEMBER. 
 
 Calling her brood to covert 
 Down in the sheltered vale, 
 
 While the stealthy red fox 
 Is following on their trail. 
 
 Poor little Summer broodlings, 
 Born on the prairie's breast, 
 
 Fanned by the cooling breezes, 
 Snug in the downy nest, 
 
 Wandering through the grain-fields, 
 Sheltered from Summer's heat, 
 
 Safe from the hawk's sharp talons, 
 Reared in the farmer's wheat. 
 
 Shadows are on the prairie 
 Shadows enshroud the hill ; 
 
 Sharply the hail is driving 
 The blast is piercing chill 
 
 The stars are hid in the heavens 
 
 The moon looks down through the rift 
 
 On the cold earth's wild commotion, 
 And glints on the piling drift.
 
 DECEMBER. 99 
 
 Up in the oaken branches, 
 
 Hooteth the boding owl : 
 " What care I for the storm-blast 
 
 What for the tempest's howl !" 
 "To-hoo! to-hoo! to-hoo-ah !" 
 
 Shouteth the boding owl. 
 
 "To-hoo! to-hoo! to-hoo-ah!' 
 
 I joy in the tempest's wail- 
 To-night I sup on rabbit, 
 To-morrow, feast on quail !" 
 
 Life, too, hath its December, 
 
 W T hen passed the June of youth, 
 
 Happy if we remember 
 A life devoted to truth. 
 
 Have borne its burdens bravely 
 Have lightened our brother's load, 
 
 And cheered him kindly onward 
 Over the weary road. 
 
 Galesville, Wis.
 
 FAREWELL TO 1880. 
 
 Good-bye Old Year ! 
 Thou art hastening to thy close ; 
 Thy days are numbered here, 
 And in thy last repose 
 
 Thou wilt slumber with thy kindred gone before, 
 To awaken never more ! 
 
 Good-bye Old Year ! 
 How cold and white thou art ! 
 
 The blast is blowing drear 
 And the beatings of thy heart 
 Grow fainter, and yet fainter, to the end : 
 Good-bye, Old Friend !
 
 FAREWELL TO 1880. 101 
 
 Yet thanks, Old Year, 
 For thy chastening and thy joys, 
 
 For the happiness, the cheer, 
 Though mixed with base alloys, 
 For the peace and good will that abound, 
 And plenty strewn around. 
 
 Good-bye, Old Year ! 
 And while we ring thy knell, 
 
 Let us write above thy bier : 
 " Thou perform'dst thy mission well, 
 And a bright and golden link in Nature's chain 
 Forever wilt remain !" 
 
 Galesville, Dec. <28, 1880.
 
 THE PRESS. 
 
 THE Press ! the Press ! the mighty Press ! 
 The friend of Freedom and the free ; 
 That came humanity to hless 
 
 The staunehest prop of liberty. 
 In peace, it tunes the rural reeds ; 
 
 In war, it sounds the bugle note, 
 Leads nations on to daring deeds, 
 
 Where sabres flash and banners float. 
 
 In science, it doth ever lend 
 
 A hand her noble gifts to spread ; 
 It is the poet's' faithful friend, 
 
 Through which he lives though he be dead. 
 It is a solace sweet to age 
 
 The brightest guiding star of youth ; 
 A counselor unto the sage 
 
 The guard of virtue and of truth.
 
 THE PRESS. 103 
 
 It brings its gifts to stately hall, 
 
 And to the peasant's humble cot ; 
 It is alike to one and all, 
 
 Of high degree or lowly lot. 
 The Press ! the Press ! the mighty Press ! 
 
 The friend of Freedom and the free 
 That came humanity to bless, 
 
 The staunchest prop of liberty.
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 WE win our way by patient toil ; 
 We make our record by our deeds ; 
 The richest and most generous soil, 
 Uncultured, beareth worthless weeds. 
 
 'Tis well the world's respect to win ; 
 
 To win our own is better far : 
 'Tis little what we might have been, 
 
 But all in all of what we are. 
 
 A life that's worthy of success 
 
 Be thine, and if it bring not fame, 
 
 It hath a better recompense 
 The guerdon of a spotless name. 
 
 13
 
 DEATH. 
 
 THOU say'st our friend is dead and thus it 
 seems : 
 
 His face is calm, but pale, so very pale ! 
 A heavenly peace lies sweetly on his lips 
 Almost a smile, as if he would but speak 
 To comfort us, and say that all is well. 
 Thou say'st 'tis sad to die in manhood's prime ; 
 And thou art right ; but if we may compute 
 Life by its works, and not its length of years, 
 Our friend hath lived out his allotted time, 
 Paid Nature's debt, and left a record bright. 
 No boaster he, a man of kindly deeds, 
 And not of words and noisy trumpeting ; 
 And while he lies so peacefully at rest, 
 I think the angel stands with ready pen 
 To make the record in the Book of Life.
 
 LINES. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SUSAN SLAYTON, WHO DIED 
 
 MARCH 3d, 1843: 
 
 FLOWER of loveliness, liest thou low ! 
 The sorrows of earth no more shalt thou know ; 
 No more shalt thou gladden the fire-side hearth 
 Lowly and cold is thy bed in the earth. 
 
 Spring shall return with its beauty and flowers 
 Gaily shall warble the birds in the bowers ; 
 The flowers thou never shalt gather again, 
 Nor join the glad birds with thy innocent strain. 
 
 Closed are the eyes, that sparkled so bright, 
 That mirrored thy soul in angelic light ; 
 Pale is thy cheek, where once bloomed the rose 
 Thou art gone in thy youth, to thy lasting repose.
 
 LINES, 107 
 
 But peace to thee, Susan, and sweet be thy rest, 
 And green be the sod o'er thy innocent breast, 
 And sweet be the flowers ; their fragrance shall 
 
 bring 
 Thy memory back, as returneth each spring. 
 
 Sad are the hearts of thy parents and drear ; 
 They sorrow that thou canst not gladden them here ; 
 But why should they sorrow for thee or repine ? 
 All too cold is this world, for that warm heart of 
 thine !
 
 THE VETERAN'S REQUEST. 
 
 OSING the song of other years, 
 And I will listen to thy strain ; 
 It sweetly chimes upon my ears, 
 
 And brings my childhood back again. 
 
 Again it brings unto my view 
 
 The bright gay scenes I loved of yore- 
 When all seemed beautiful and true 
 
 But now are fled forevermore. 
 
 The rosy cheeks, the sparkling eyes 
 That glowed so lovingly and kind, 
 
 And made earth seem a paradise, 
 Are gone, and I am left behind.
 
 THE VETERAN'S REQUEST. 109 
 
 And manhood's aspirations, too, 
 
 Are with those early friendships fled 
 
 All vanished like the morning dew 
 Upon the summer landscape spread. 
 
 How varied are the scenes of life 
 
 How strangely mixed with weal and woe ! 
 
 I've seen the field of mortal strife, 
 
 I've seen the strong, the proud, laid low ! 
 
 I've heard the trumpet's. war-like bray 
 I've seen the deadly saber flash 
 
 The war-steed rush to bloody fray, 
 And bayonet with bayonet clash ! 
 
 Earth hath few pleasures now for me, 
 
 For severed is its dearest tie ; 
 Yet oft doth doating memory 
 
 Dwell with delight on days gone by. 
 
 Slow roll the years when life is new, 
 But when we come to hoary age, 
 
 And turn our backward path to view, 
 "Tis hardly marked on Nature's page.
 
 110 . THE VETERAN'S REQUEST. 
 
 Now sing the song of other years, 
 And I will listen to thy strain ; 
 
 It sweetly chimes upon my ears, 
 
 And brings my childhood back again. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A LADY S ALBUM. 
 
 I NEED not wish thee youth and grace, 
 With friends to cheer and home to bless- 
 These are but wishes common-place, 
 And these are gifts you now possess. 
 
 But I will wish thee lengthened years 
 A life that blesses and is blest 
 
 Bright, joyous days, unsulled by tears, 
 That bringeth calm and peaceful rest.
 
 TO A WESTERN O\VL. 
 
 THEY call thee bird of omen ill : 
 From the deep forest on the hill, 
 Thy hoot disturbs the night air still ! 
 
 And yet thou seemest wondrous wise 
 As from thy round prophetic eye 
 Thou lookest hidden mysteries. 
 
 One thing is sure, depend upon't, 
 Your wise old grandsire in Vermont, 
 Knew every dark sequestered spot ; 
 
 And when the blackening thunder-cloud 
 Wrapped lofty Mansfield like a shroud, 
 He hooted long and hooted loud. 
 
 Perched in a lofty hemlock tree, 
 To hoo! to hoo! came bodingly 
 Upon the night air, bold and free.
 
 112 TO A WESTERN OWL. 
 
 Tis said, that many years before 
 
 He heard the cannon's deafening roar, 
 
 And saw the smoke on Champlain's shore ; 
 
 And, listening to each booming gun, 
 He strained his eyes to see the fun, 
 Where Yankees fought and Britons run. 
 
 He surely was no common bird, 
 And' though he could not read a word, 
 Judged well from what he saw and heard. 
 
 14
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 A ROMANCE IN TWO PARTS. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 ACROSS the sea, on England's shore, 
 There lived a Squire of fine estate, 
 Whose wife had died some years before, 
 And left him most disconsolate. 
 
 Two noble sons to manhood grown 
 A sweet young girl of seventeen ; 
 
 And though the latter not his own, 
 She scarcely dearer could have been, 
 Though she were of his kith and kin. 
 
 She was the daughter of a friend, 
 Who, dying, left her to his care, 
 
 And all the Graces seemed to lend 
 Their charms to give her beauty rare.
 
 114 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 Well read in letters and in art, 
 
 In social culture well refined ; 
 A tender sympathizing heart, 
 
 AVith beauteous form and wealth of mind, 
 'Tis little marvel many sought 
 
 To gain her love and win her hand ; 
 Yet all their efforts proved as naught 
 
 Her heart was her's still to command. 
 
 Thus to the world the maid appeared, 
 
 But in the circle of her home, 
 She was most cherished and endeared ; 
 
 Nor did her fancy seem to roam 
 To gay and festive scenes without. 
 
 With a devoted daughter's love, 
 And sisterly regards devout, 
 
 Loved and beloved, she seemed to move. 
 
 W r hen years before, the mother died, 
 More dear became the father's ward ; 
 
 And more to him than all beside, 
 Save his two sons, in his regard.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 115 
 
 He had a plan though naught was said 
 On which he doated much of late ; 
 
 The eldest son, in time should wed 
 His ward, and heir his fine estate. 
 
 The younger son, of studious mind, 
 Might well a learned profession seek ; 
 
 Though to the army disinclined, 
 He took most kindly to his Greek. 
 
 " And fortune favors," thought the Squire, 
 " For while with John she is most free, 
 
 From Richard she doth oft retire 
 To seek John's livelier company." 
 
 Alas, the Squire, at his ripe age 
 
 Though of a penetrating mind, 
 And on most subjects, counted sage, 
 
 Seemed, in love-making, growing blind. 
 
 The timid glance, the drooping eye, 
 The deepening flush upon the cheek, 
 
 The bashful look, so coy and shy, 
 
 More eloquent than words can speak, 
 
 Told the sweet tale in language true 
 So ancient, yet forever new.
 
 116 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 And this, John saw and understood 
 More clearly than his brother saw ; 
 
 He loved the maiden, but he would 
 Not sacrifice fraternal law. 
 
 Soon in an interview the Squire 
 
 His social scheme to John revealed ; 
 
 Avowed his heart's most fond desire, 
 And nothing from his son concealed. 
 
 And John, without reserve expressed 
 His firm convictions ; but he said 
 
 " He did not know, he only guessed, 
 She loved his brother in his stead." 
 
 John's intimations much surprised 
 The father, who expressed a doubt 
 
 Twas something he had not surmised, 
 But were it so, he'd soon find out. 
 
 "I doubt," said John, " if Richard knows 
 The tender passion of his heart ; 
 
 Nor yet would Edith now disclose 
 
 The fact which she but knows in part."
 
 THE RECLUSE. 117 
 
 A few days after, on the lawn, 
 
 The Squire and Richard as they walk, 
 
 Just as the evening shades come on, 
 Engage in confidential talk : 
 
 " I think," said Richard in reply 
 To something that the father said, 
 
 " The time has now arrived when I 
 
 Should seek some work for hand and head." 
 
 " While John and Edith with you stay 
 
 To comfort you in coming age, 
 I might go to America, 
 
 And in s^me enterprise engage." 
 And ere the father had replied 
 
 Edith was standing by his side. 
 
 " Oh Richard ! brother, will you go 
 And leave your friends so very dear ! 
 
 It cannot, it must not be so! 
 
 How can we do without vou here ?
 
 118 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 A tear was in her loving eyes 
 
 A crimson flush suffused her cheek ; 
 
 And Richard felt a sweet surprise, 
 A happiness he could not speak. 
 
 In interview with John next day, 
 
 He frankly told him what he'd planned ; 
 
 But John insisted he should stay, 
 Nor think to leave his native land. 
 
 Richard replied : " My brother, dear, 
 I must not lead an aimless life ; 
 
 The world has duties, tasks severe, 
 I long to mingle in its strife." 
 
 " And you can ask sweet Edith's hand, 
 And comfort father in his age, 
 
 While I will seek a distant land, 
 And in some useful work engage." 
 
 " No, Richard thou art more than blind, 
 Thou dost possess sweet Edith's heart, 
 
 A fact I long ago divined 
 
 And shunned myself the fatal dart."
 
 THE RECLUSE. 119 
 
 In her I have a sister's love, 
 
 I feel a brotherly return ; 
 Her joy in you is far above 
 
 Where spirit doth for spirit yearn." 
 
 " My most unselfish brother, dear, 
 
 How shall I thank you for your words ? 
 
 A love and friendship so sincere 
 Are such as seldom earth affords." 
 
 " Not as unselfish as may seem," 
 
 Said John, " as you shall shortly see, 
 
 For I have had my own sweet dreams 
 Of conjugal felicity." 
 
 Two years have past and John has wed 
 
 A titled lady for his mate. 
 Her gentle birth to serve instead 
 
 Of gold in bank or rich estate. 
 
 And Richard, with his constant heart, 
 Has made sweet Edith all his own 
 
 A bond which only Fate may part, 
 
 When Death shall claim one for his own.
 
 120 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 And they have bid a sad adieu 
 
 To kindred, friends and native land, 
 
 And launched upon the ocean blue, 
 To seek a home on foreign strand. 
 
 The sun was bright, the air was balm, 
 
 When sailed they from their native shore, 
 
 With gentle breeze, and sea as calm 
 As were the loving hearts it bore. 
 
 The blissful hours, how fleet they sped ! 
 
 The sky above, the sea below, 
 The starry firmament o'erhead, 
 
 All seemed to wear a lovelier glow. 
 
 The seventh day was near its close, 
 When murky clouds obscured the sky, 
 
 And from the west the winds arose ; 
 The angry waves were dashing high, 
 
 And now dropped down the gloomy night 
 And covered ocean like a shroud. 
 
 The wind increased with fearful might 
 The lightnings leapt along the cloud. 
 
 15
 
 THE RECLUSE. 121 
 
 The thunder came with fearful crash ! 
 The opening clouds their torrents dash ! 
 
 And all were scuttled down below. 
 The seaman brave, with stern intent, 
 
 While waves sweep o'er and tempests blow, 
 Must battle with the element. 
 
 Now mounts the ship on mountain wave 
 Now plunges in the foaming main ; 
 
 Yet on she goes right staunch and brave, 
 And plunges but to rise again ! 
 
 But, ha ! a vivid lightning flash 
 
 Reveals a ship upon their lee ! 
 A moment then a fearful crash, 
 
 That sounds above the roaring sea ! 
 
 The captain's cry : " Man quick the boats ! 
 
 Be ready men, to let them go ! 
 Free everything aboard that floats, 
 
 And call the passengers, below !"
 
 122 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 Fast sinks the ship how dear is life 
 To Richard and his sweet young bride ! 
 
 His dearest treasure, cherished wife 
 Far more than all on earth beside ! 
 
 One thought sustained amid the gloom : 
 No earthly power their souls can part ; 
 
 And though they find an ocean tomb, 
 
 E'en Death shall find them heart to heart. 
 
 And now they seek to' launch the boat ; 
 
 But ere it from the ship is free, 
 And made in readiness to float, 
 
 A wave has swept them in the sea !
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 ON the rugged mountain's side, 
 Long ago, for many a year, 
 In a cabin did abide, 
 
 Allerston, the mountaineer. 
 
 High above, the mountain crest 
 Seemed to pierce the azure sky, 
 
 Where the eagle built her nest- 
 Kent the air with piercing cry. 
 
 Close against the beetling rock, 
 Loosened from its mountain bed 
 
 By the power of lightning shock, 
 He had reared his humble shed.
 
 124 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 Sheltered from the northern blast, 
 Guarded from the western wind 
 
 By the walls which Nature cast 
 From her masonry behind ; 
 
 South and East, by logs of spruce 
 That grew upon the table-land, 
 
 And fashioned neatly for their use 
 With axe in his artistic hand. 
 
 The roof above with barks was laid 
 On rafters from the fragrant fir ; 
 
 The batten door, of planks was made, 
 With bars that man nor beast could stir. 
 
 In front, a miniature plateau 
 
 O'er primal forest grand, looked down 
 
 Upon the glistening spires below, 
 Where nestled a New England town. 
 
 Before the hut, a garden plat 
 
 Was cleared of the primeval trees, 
 
 Where speckled mooley, sleek and fat, 
 Her cud was chewing at her ease.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 125 
 
 And on the "right, where rocks were rent, 
 A crystal spring gushed forth to light, 
 
 And sparkling, singing as it went, 
 
 Dashed down the rocks and out of sight ; 
 
 Yet echoed back the mountain caves 
 The tinkling music that it made, 
 
 As downward leapt the tiny waves 
 O'er rocky bed in wild cascade ; 
 
 Still hurrying onward to the mead, 
 
 Through canon deep, then peered again 
 
 'Twixt verdant banks with lessened speed, 
 A winding, molten-silver chain. 
 
 Deep forests flanked on either hand 
 The cultured plat and cabin rude, 
 
 While eastward far the vision spanned 
 The town from this wild solitude. 
 
 The maple, valued for its use, 
 
 The fragrant birch and graceful beech, 
 The hemlock and the resinous spruce 
 
 Grave veterans, had they power of speech,
 
 126 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 Might many a startling tale unfold, 
 Unwritten yet by human pen, 
 
 Of centuries grown dim and old 
 Beyond the power of mortal ken. 
 
 The nimble squirrels, sportive played 
 Among the branches all day long ; 
 
 The birds their happy music made, 
 
 And trilled their notes in sweetest song. 
 
 His hut was rude, with hole aloft 
 The fire was built against the wall, 
 
 The smoke, escaping at the roof, 
 Curled upward in a column tall. 
 
 A table wrought from slab of spruce 
 A cot of bearskins at one side 
 
 Utensils fashioned for his use 
 
 His simple wants seemed well supplied. 
 
 A fox-hound stretched before the fire 
 A rifle, horn and bullet-pouch 
 
 A knife, a hunter might admire, 
 In handy reach above his couch.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 127 
 
 A wholesome- tidiness prevailed, 
 
 As ordered by a woman's hand ; 
 All so complete, that nothing failed 
 
 The admiration to command. 
 
 Choice books, upon the shelves arranged, 
 In various languages, were here ; 
 
 Though from society estranged, 
 These silent friends were ever near. 
 
 Close by him was his loved guitar, 
 That many a lonely hour beguiled, 
 
 And oft his thoughts seemed wandering far 
 To days when he was but a child. 
 
 A mournful shadow on his face 
 
 A far-off look was in his eye 
 And lines of sorrow your might trace, 
 
 While from his breast oft came a sigh. 
 
 And he, who reigned within supreme, 
 A man of forty, lithe and strong, 
 
 None knew his history, and deemed 
 To ask him, would be doing wrong.
 
 128 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 For he was courteous and kind, 
 
 And loved by those who knew him well ; 
 A man of culture and of mind, 
 
 Whose life seemed burdened by a spell. 
 
 The day was bright, the sky was clear, 
 
 The forest odors filled the air ; 
 The birds sung in the branches near, 
 
 And all seemed happy everywhere ; 
 
 For it was June, sweet, smiling June, 
 With fragrant flowers and gorgeous leaf ; 
 
 When Nature seems in perfect tune 
 With harmonies that banish grief. 
 
 The gray mists hung above the town, 
 And shut the landscape from the view, 
 
 On which the mountaineer looked down 
 And saw the church spires piercing through 
 
 The mystic drapery and dun, 
 
 And glistening in the morning sun. 
 
 16
 
 THE RECLUSE. 129 
 
 And thus he seemed ; shut from the world, 
 
 Far from the stage of busy life, 
 Where human actors fiercely whirled 
 
 In dizzy maze of ceasless strife ; 
 Their aspirations and their joys, 
 Were now to him but banished toys. 
 
 The blasted pine upon the cliff, 
 
 With barkless trunk and naked limb, 
 
 That standeth there so stark and stiff, 
 Is but a fitting type of him ; 
 
 It draws no sap from mother earth, 
 
 That bore and nourished it at birth. 
 
 The sun rose high a party gay 
 
 Were climbing up the mountain side, 
 
 And as they mount, they take their way 
 Near where the hermit did abide. 
 
 And now upon the mountain crest, 
 They look afar, the country round ; 
 
 To north and south, to east and west, 
 They view a grandeur most profound.
 
 130 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 The morning mists had crept away, 
 And in the glowing mid-day light, 
 
 Hill, vale and stream before them lay, 
 And burst upon their ravished sight. 
 
 A thousand farms before them spread, 
 With mead and pasture draped in green ; 
 
 While many a stream its silver thread 
 Wound far away the hills between ; 
 
 With hamlets, dotting here and there, 
 And far the city's domes and spires 
 
 Reflected in the noon-tide glare, 
 Glowed like so many beacon-fires. 
 
 And, bounding far their wondering gaze, 
 The circling mountains, range on range, 
 
 Lay basking in the shimmering haze, 
 And framed a picture rare and strange. 
 
 Thus looked the city strangers down 
 On hill and valley, field and town.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 131 
 
 Now tired and hungry, they retire 
 
 To take a lunch, enjoy a rest ; 
 Descending, build with sticks, a fire 
 
 Beneath the mountain's sheltering crest. 
 
 Where Nature reared a fragrant bower, 
 And crystal waters sparkled near 
 The cabin of the mountaineer. 
 
 They spent a most delightful hour. 
 
 They spread their cloths upon the ground, 
 A merry circle gathered round, 
 With conversation full of glee 
 W T ith sparkling jest and repartee. 
 
 But there was one, among the rest, 
 
 Who seemed with heavy thoughts oppressed ; 
 
 And while across her face would flit 
 
 A transient smile, at flash of wit, 
 
 It passed as soon, and in its room, 
 
 There came a deeper shade of gloom.
 
 132 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 Among the party there were few 
 The sad but gentle lady knew ; 
 She had a sweet and lovely face, 
 A kindly word, a winning grace, 
 And though of beauty, very rare, 
 Bore marks of sorrow and of care. 
 A week had only passed, since she, 
 A stranger came across the sea, 
 And with a city friend, was there 
 To breathe the bracing mountain air. 
 
 The lunch was o'er, but not the jest, 
 
 When suddenly along the west, 
 
 A small black cloud appeared in sight, 
 
 And scarce above the mountain height. 
 
 Then on it came, a somber cloud, 
 
 That wrapped the mountain like a shroud ; 
 
 Save, when there came a lightning flash, 
 
 Quick followed by the thunder crash. 
 
 And now they seek the cabin near, 
 Where dwelt the hermit mountaineer.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 133 
 
 With open door he kindly said : 
 
 " You're welcome to my humble shed." 
 
 They passed his hospitable door 
 And seated round the cabin wall, 
 
 A company of near a score. 
 
 And soon the rain began to fall, 
 
 And then the mountain tempest roared 
 With many a shriek, or dismal wail 
 
 And down the swollen torrent poured. 
 
 The sky was darkened as by night, 
 Save the faint glow upon the hearth, 
 
 And many a face was deathly white, 
 While ceased the former tones of mirth. 
 
 For hours the mountain tempest roared, 
 For hours the rain in torrents poured, 
 And when at last, there came a rest, 
 The sun was sinking in the west, 
 And many a stream, now fierce and wide, 
 Went leaping down the mountain side.
 
 134 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 Made angry by the recent rain, 
 Dashed roaring onward to the plain. 
 
 And then a consultation rose : 
 The day was drawing to its close, 
 The night would soon be closing down, 
 And miles to pass to reach the town 
 O'er paths both difficult and steep, 
 Through gloomy forests dark and deep. 
 
 " I'll help you," said the mountaineer, 
 " You're welcome to my cabin here 
 Such as it is, though humble quite, 
 It offers shelter for the night ; 
 And safety, sure, demands your stay, 
 For dark and treacherous is the way, 
 And while my humble roof you share 
 You shall be welcome to mv fare." 
 
 */ 
 
 His generous offer, frank and free, 
 Made with such gentle courtesy, 
 They thankfully accept, and then 
 Bring forth the baskets once again.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 135 
 
 And set to work with patient zeal, 
 Then to prepare the evening meal. 
 The fire renewed, they roast the game 
 Shot in the morning as they came ; 
 With trout, caught in the mountain brook, 
 The triumph of the angler's hook ; 
 And now they brew the fragrant ten, 
 Culled from the city's choice bohea, 
 That filled all space, and gave away 
 Its appetizing aroma. 
 
 A rustic table, ample sized, 
 
 Was by the hermit, improvised, 
 
 And deftly laid by ladies' hand, 
 
 With smoking viands that command 
 
 The admiration of the croud, 
 
 That shout their praises long and loud. 
 
 Each one was now assigned his post: 
 The head was given to the host, 
 While near the stranger lady sat, 
 Who joined not in the lively chat.
 
 136 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 But seemed with heavy thoughts oppressed, 
 As if deep sorrow filled her breast. 
 She trembled when the hermit spoke, 
 As suffering from mysterious stroke, 
 While others laughed, and merry joke 
 Went round the board in harmless glee, 
 AVith unrestricted jollity. 
 
 And while the host strove hard to please, 
 He labored and seemed ill at ease ; 
 As if some mystery o'er him hung 
 Some shadow to his being, clung. 
 
 When many a pleasant word was passed, 
 And all were satisfied at last 
 And when the table had been cleared, 
 And when the sun had disappeared, 
 The torches lit, the fire renewed, 
 They circle round on benches rude. 
 The night without was dark and drear, 
 The panther screamed from covert near. 
 
 17
 
 THE RECLUSE. 137 
 
 The weird owl answered back again, 
 The echo of the wild refrain 
 Joint tenant of the wild domain, 
 That held the undisputed right 
 To rule the gloomy wood by night. 
 
 To pass the dreary night away 
 
 To shorten up the hours till day, 
 
 Which might wax tedious and long, 
 
 Each one in turn should sing a song. 
 
 And if one failed to sing a tale, 
 
 Might, in its absence, then prevail. 
 
 And first in order, he who led, 
 
 A bright young lad whose name was " Fred." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 EYES OF BLUE. 
 
 O give me the lass with the eyes of blue 
 
 With golden hair and ringlets curled, 
 Whose heart is loving, kind and true ; 
 I ask no sweeter gift of the world. 
 I might forget 
 A bright brunette.
 
 138 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 AVith sparkling eyes and raven hair, 
 
 But eyes of blue, 
 
 So loving, true, 
 Would haunt my memory everywhere. 
 
 I might admire soft eyes of brown- 
 Love in their liquid depths oft glows ; 
 But their deep arched brows might sometimes 
 
 frown 
 
 And a thorn be hid 'neath the beauteous rose. 
 I might forget 
 A bright brunette, 
 
 With sparkling eyes and raven hair ; 
 Soft eyes of brown 
 May sometimes frown, 
 But blue, are constant everywhere. 
 
 And eyes of gray, some people say, 
 
 Cut like a sharp Damascus blade- 
 Strong to defend, but keen to slay ; 
 Of such, one might well be afraid. 
 I might forget 
 A bright brunette.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 139 
 
 With sparkling eyes and raven hair ; 
 
 And then the gray 
 
 May sometimes slay, 
 But blue, are tender everywhere. 
 
 When ceased the song, they criticise 
 The advocate of azure eyes ; 
 And ask, why the Creator made 
 Some eyes of light and darker shade, 
 When only eyes of blue are true ? 
 And then his brown-eyed sister said : 
 " O, Fred knowa better, don't you Fred ?" 
 (And, glanced across the room, to where 
 Sat black -eyed Kate, her brother's care,) 
 " A poet's freak as I suppose, 
 Who, in his dreaming only knows 
 That eyes of blue 
 Will rhyme with true. 
 But now it does of right belong 
 To Kate to follow next in song."
 
 140 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 But Kate was shy, and made excuse 
 Yet found it of but little use. 
 The hermit saw she was afraid, 
 With his guitar, came to her aid, 
 And with a word of kindly cheer. 
 Then with melodious voice and clear, 
 She sang of rural life its joys, 
 Far from the city's strife and noise. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A rural life is the life for me, 
 
 When the earth is green and fair to see ; 
 
 With grazing flocks and lowing herds, 
 
 And the sweet, free songs of the happy birds ; 
 
 W T ith the sparkling dew of the early morn, 
 
 And the fragrant breath of the sweet pure air, 
 The wealth of the flowers and the waving corn 
 That gladden our senses everywhere.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 141 
 
 They may sing of the city's pride and wealth, 
 But give me the country air and health, 
 With Nature's gifts of sight and sound, 
 With Nature's harmonies around. 
 I ask no more I ask but these 
 
 A bright sweet home in some rural nook, 
 'Neath the shady boughs of the native trees, 
 
 With the lulling sounds of a babbling brook. 
 A rural life is the life for me, 
 When the earth is green and fair to see, 
 With the grazing flocks and lowing herds, 
 And the sweet, free songs of the happy birds. 
 
 As ceased her voice, so pure and free, 
 According in sweet harmony, 
 The simple words seemed half inspired, 
 And all with one accord, admired 
 Her modesty, her artless grace, 
 The blushes that suffused her face.
 
 142 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 As many a compliment was paid, 
 In tribute to the black-eyed maid ; 
 While Jane, the farmer's girl declared 
 That while she Kate's opinion shared 
 Of Nature's beauties and her charms, 
 To those who cultivate the farms 
 " There's real drudgery" she said, 
 " For those who labor for their bread, 
 And much of homely prose comes in, 
 Where a sweet poem should have been. 
 And while we sing our simple songs 
 I think it now in course belongs 
 To Major Dillon, on our right, 
 To tell us something of the fight 
 A loftier strain of camp and field, 
 Where some must triumph, others yield- 
 Where men, the glory always win, 
 While women seldom venture in." 
 The gallant Major cleared his throat, ' 
 And struck a lofty martial note.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 143 
 
 SONG. 
 
 THE SCOUT. 
 
 'Twas the eve before the battle, 
 
 Upon our arms we lay ; 
 The foe, encamped before us, 
 
 Was scarce a mile away : 
 
 The camp-fires were extinguished, 
 
 No stars were overhead ; 
 With bated breath we listened, 
 
 The sentry's measured tread. 
 
 All was silent, save the hoot of owl 
 
 Above us in the pine, 
 And now and then a random shot 
 
 Along the picket line ; 
 
 And 'mid the boding stillness 
 
 The silence of the tomb, 
 Each felt that the to-morrow 
 
 Might seal his earthly doom.
 
 144 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 And then his thoughts would wander 
 
 To loved ones far away, 
 And shudder as he thought upon 
 
 The coming bloody day. 
 
 But hark ! a challenge by the guard ! 
 
 And then the countersign ; 
 And now the brave and trusty scout, 
 
 Has passed within our line. 
 
 He totters on with weary step 
 And seeks the Gen'ral's tent ; 
 
 For he had drawn the picket's shot, 
 And, bleeding as he went, 
 
 He sank exhausted to the ground, 
 
 A paper 'neath his vest ; 
 The surgeon found the cruel ball 
 
 Had pierced a woman's breast. 
 
 But well he kept his secret then, 
 And saved her brave young life ; 
 
 A service which she well repaid 
 When she became his wife. 
 
 18
 
 THE RECLUSE. 145 
 
 " A gallant feat, and well repaid," 
 
 Kemarked the sparkling, black-eyed maid. 
 
 " But, Major, would you deem it wise 
 
 To make unseemly sacrifice, 
 
 For love or country, thus to swerye, 
 
 From modest, maidenly reserve?" 
 
 The gallant Major thus replied : 
 
 " We're often governed by our pride. 
 
 How will the world our actions view ? 
 
 We ask, and not if they be true 
 
 To our own conscience and to right, 
 
 In the clear ray of reason's light. 
 
 Woman's true mission with us here, 
 The sacred hearth and home to cheer ; 
 From life's rude scenes and cares at rest, 
 And blessing while herself is blest. 
 
 Not hers the camp and sanguine field ; 
 Not hers the sword and gun to wield ; 
 A glorious mission, far above 
 Of trust, of charity and love."
 
 146 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 Yet poorly, man her love requites, 
 Who would deny her equal rights, 
 And plays the tyrant to control 
 Hi? peer in purity of soul. 
 
 And now I will propose a toast : 
 
 Long life unto our hermit host, 
 
 And may his days be blessed with peace, 
 
 And may his wisdom still increase, 
 
 'Till he forego his lonely life, 
 
 And seek the solace of a wife ; 
 
 And joining in our social joys, 
 
 Know earthly bliss, with its alloys." 
 
 Three hearty cheers the guests prolong, 
 
 Then call the hermit for a song. 
 
 He rose and bowed, with pensive smile, 
 Seemed toying with the strings awhile, 
 As if sad memories from afar 
 Waked to the strains of his guitar ; 
 And then with mournful voice and free, 
 According in sweet harmony,
 
 THE RECLUSE. 147 
 
 As if from painful memories wrung, 
 In thrilling notes the hermit sung. 
 
 HERMIT'S SONG. 
 
 O, what to me are joys of earth ? 
 
 O, what to me are social joys ? 
 There's sadness in the strains of mirth, 
 
 And all things seem but senseless toys. 
 My hopes are buried in the sea, 
 My joys are 'neath the surging sea ! 
 The cruel, the relentless sea, 
 Holds all that was so dear to me ! * 
 
 The hours seem lengthened into days, 
 
 The months are like so many years, 
 And life, once bright with gilded rays, 
 
 Is filled with shadows and with tears. 
 My hopes lie buried in the sea 
 
 Are tossed beneath the angry wave, 
 And all that once was dear to me 
 
 Lies in a cruel ocean grave !
 
 148 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 There is a hope amid the gloom 
 
 A glorious hope its light doth shed 
 When spirits hurst their prison tomb, 
 
 And ocean renders up its dead, 
 My treasure buried in the sea, 
 
 And tossed beneath the surging main, ' 
 Then from its ocean grave set free, 
 
 May be restored to me again. 
 
 Now ceased the hermit's mournful strain, 
 And died away the sad refrain 
 A moment's silence, and no more, 
 When forward on the cabin floor, 
 The stranger lady, fainting fell. 
 Surprised, no one the cause could tell, 
 But all with will and hands essayed, 
 To give their sympathy and aid. 
 
 They gently laid her on the bed, 
 
 They chafed her hands and bathed her head.
 
 THE RECLUSE. 149 
 
 She soon recovered from the trance, 
 And bent a tender, loving glance 
 Upon the hermit, as she said : 
 " The sea hath given up its dead !" 
 
 " Edith, my darling, long lost bride" 
 
 The hermit in return replied ; 
 
 " Say, am I dreaming or is this 
 
 An earthly, or a heavenly bliss?" 
 
 " I know not, Richard, husband, dear, 
 
 'Tis joy to feel, that thou art near ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to listen to thy voice. 
 
 O, let us prayerfully rejoice, 
 
 That after dreary years of pain 
 
 Our severed hearts are one again." 
 
 " How can it be, O, Edith, dear, 
 
 Where have you been how came you here ? 
 
 Do I but dream, or can it be 
 
 A blissful, blest reality ?" 
 
 " Upon that fearful night when we 
 Were swept into the angry sea,
 
 150 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 I floated on a piece of wreck, 
 
 Thrown from the sinking vessel's deck, 
 
 'Till I was rescued by the crew 
 
 That pierced our steamer's timbers through, 
 
 Who sent a boat in hope to save, 
 
 The drowning from an ocean grave. 
 
 But none were found, save only me 
 
 All others sunk beneath the sea. 
 
 I sailed to England, but the years 
 
 Were long and gloomy, filled with tears. 
 
 Two months ago my health to mend, 
 
 I sailed from England with a friend. 
 
 And now, my dear, will you relate 
 
 The circumstances of your fate ?" 
 
 " It was upon that dreadful night 
 
 When all I loved and held most dear, 
 
 Seemed gone forever from my sight, 
 With nothing left my life to cheer, 
 
 I buffeted the angry wave, 
 And clinging to cabin door,
 
 THE RECLUSE. 151 
 
 I sought my worthless life to save 
 Was thrown upon a rocky shore. 
 
 Two cheerless days, one dreary night, 
 
 When I descried afar a sail, 
 And on it came, and near in sight, 
 
 I shouted, and they heard my hail. 
 
 They sent a boat, I went aboard, 
 And sailing for New England shore, 
 
 My weary limbs were soon restored, 
 But griej oppressed me evermore. 
 
 I wandered on from place to place, 
 But nothing seemed my life to cheer ; 
 
 The loved, the lost, the sweet dear face 
 Was in my vision ever near. 
 
 At length I sought this wilderness 
 Alone with Nature to commune ; 
 
 And now your presence comes to bless, 
 Like fragrant breath of balmy June.
 
 152 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 We'll seek a home in some sweet vale, 
 Where love shall crown our future years, 
 
 Where peace and harmony prevail, 
 And joy shall compensate for tears. 
 
 19
 
 LINES. 
 
 ON THE MATRIMONIAL ALLIANCE OF AN AGED 
 COUPLE. 
 
 IN single blessedness they dwelt, 
 And Cupid's dart had never felt, 
 While many a youth and blooming bride, 
 The knot Hymeneal had tied ; 
 Yet still inflexible they prove, 
 And laugh at such a thing as love : 
 
 Upon Olympus' lofty height, 
 
 Sat Venus and her son one night ; 
 
 Casting to Earth, her brilliant eyes, 
 
 Two lonely beings she espies 
 
 " Thou stupid boy, that could'st not see 
 
 Those two were formed for unity."
 
 154 LINES. 
 
 Sporting thou'st been with every flower 
 That grows within the_Elysian bower, 
 Till time, the stern, relentless sage, 
 Has well nigh swept them from the stage 
 Of human life : Now draw thy bow, 
 And quick thy pointed shaft let go !" 
 
 Quick to his head the boy-god drew 
 Th' unerring dart ; the arrow flew, 
 And, though full forty miles apart. 
 Both at the instant felt the smart.
 
 THE WHITE OWL. 
 
 " White Owl" was the non de plume of a writer to the 
 Waterbury Lyceum, a literary society of considerable re 
 pute. The bird assumed to look in upon the nightly gath 
 erings of the society, and played the part of critic, sage and 
 monitor. These articles failing to appear at several meet 
 ings of the society, the fate of White Owl is shadowed in 
 the following lines, in imitation of Poe's Raven : 
 
 SITTING in my chamber dreary, with the cares 
 of day aweary, 
 Thinking what to say that had not oft been said 
 
 before 
 What to write for our Lyceum, for our weekly 
 
 Atheneum* 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there 
 
 came a rapping, 
 
 As some bird with fitful flapping, flapping at my 
 chamber door. 
 
 This I heard and nothing more. 
 
 *\Veekly paper.
 
 156 THE WHITE OWL. 
 
 Wild with sudden fear I started and a piercing 
 glance I darted 
 
 Could it be some of the many ancient ghosts of 
 yore 
 
 Then again I heard, the flappings, quoth I, 'tis the 
 spirit rappings, 
 
 And thought I, shall I be able to prevent my wri 
 ting table 
 
 From jumping up and dancing round the floor 
 And I trembled more and more. 
 
 And I said : What mystic power stalks abroad at 
 
 ^this dark hour? 
 For surely such mysterious sounds I never heard 
 
 before : 
 Art thou fiend, or art thou fairy, from thy realms 
 
 so bright and airy ? 
 Then the dogs sat up a night howl, and in walked 
 
 a stately White Owl, 
 With noisless tread, he slowly came along the 
 
 chamber floor 
 
 Stood and gazed, and nothing more.
 
 THE WHITE OWL. 157 
 
 In his eye no look of gladness, but a melancholy 
 
 sadness, 
 
 In his pallid countenance he hore, 
 Fresh, dark blood his breast bespattered, and with 
 
 pinions wildly shattered, 
 In a saddening plight and cheerless, and a sorrow 
 
 calm and tearless, 
 Thus he stood with injured mood upon my chamber 
 
 floor. 
 
 Thought I, White Owl is no more. 
 
 O bird ! said I, is this real, or a dreamy, wild ideal, 
 Caught from pages of some ancient wizzard lore? 
 Why stand'st thou here in this condition ? Tell, O 
 
 tell us what thy mission, 
 Thou the friend of our Lyceum, patron of the 
 
 Atbeneum, 
 Wilt thou never join again our literary corps ? 
 
 Said the White Owl, " never more !"
 
 HARD TIMES 1858. 
 
 [Written by request to contribute " something 
 funny" for the school paper.] 
 
 I'M to write by request for your manuscript paper, 
 Some comical rhymes for the matter of fun : 
 Thinks I, you have cut up a bit of a caper- 
 It's myself that can't tell how the thing's to be done. 
 
 When the pockets of people are loaded with money, 
 They laugh of themselves without saying a word, 
 But now should you see one inclined to be funny, 
 Be sure he's insane or in office preferred.
 
 HARD TIMES. 159 
 
 The doctors are sad at the prospect before them, 
 And sparingly deal out their powders and pills 
 Leave their patients to Nature, who kindly restores 
 
 them, 
 And saves them the trouble of long winded bills. 
 
 The Lawyer returns to the plow and the harrow, 
 For his clients can't pay for his plotting and pleas ; 
 Thus we quietly live, for we've learned to our sor 
 row 
 That Lawyers don't talk without liberal fees. 
 
 The Merchant has also his share of vexation ; 
 
 He says, " things are dull, we can't dodge the hard 
 
 times ;" 
 
 But if we will call at his mercantile station, 
 He'll show us the way to save all of our dimes.
 
 160 HARD TIMES. 
 
 Old Bachelors, too, are flocking together 
 They cannot afford the expense of a wife 
 They grumble and croak through the inclement 
 
 weather, 
 At the ills that compel them to bachelor life. 
 
 The times ! the hard times ! the people are crying, 
 And every one laughs with with an ill applied 
 
 grace ; 
 
 If he tries to look glad, it endeth in sighing, 
 And he makes at the best, but a sorrowful face. 
 
 20
 
 BOB. 
 
 THEY called him Bob they knew him by no 
 other 
 
 I know not if he had another name 
 A faithful lad-, who loved his widowed mother, 
 And cared but little for applause or fame. 
 
 Somehow he gained a fund of information, 
 And soon became a kind of engineer ; 
 
 He run the " Flying Dutchman" at the station, 
 An ancient engine, wheezy quaint and queer. 
 
 This he remodeled in a thorough manner, 
 Made new the cylinder, 'improved the stroke, 
 
 Till many an engineer upon his honor 
 
 Declared the Flying Dutchman was " no joke."
 
 162 BOB. 
 
 It chance 1 just then, an engineer quite noted, 
 Through drunkenness had come into disgrace ; 
 
 And thus our hero, Bob, became promoted 
 To run the passenger, and take his place. 
 
 He grew in favor in his new position, 
 
 With steady hand and cool, courageous brain, 
 
 He seemed an engineer by intuition 
 
 The place he honored and could well maintain. 
 
 A July day had closed with tempest roaring- 
 A fearful thunder-gust with flooding rain 
 
 The angry torrents from the hills were pouring, 
 And Bob was on to run the midnight train. 
 
 The night came down with concentrated blackness 
 And covered earth as with a sable pall 
 
 A seeming chaos, limitless and trackless, 
 Above, beneath, around, enveloped all ! 
 
 Near, on the track, the glaring head-light gleaming, 
 W T hat dangers were ahead, no one could guess ! 
 
 The fearful darkness seemed with perils teeming, 
 As thundered on the midnight mail express!
 
 BOB. 163 
 
 But now a light a signal light of danger 
 
 Has caught Bob's watchful, penetrating sight ; 
 
 " Down breaks !" he whistled, though to fear a 
 
 stranger, 
 He knew full well the perils of the night. 
 
 And now the train, at rapid speed advancing, 
 With screeching brakes came to a sudden stand ; 
 
 A hundred eyes then to the front were glancing, 
 Eager to see what dangers were at hand. 
 
 There stood Delphine, the farmer's brave young 
 
 daughter, 
 Waving a signal-light above the track, 
 
 While roaring on, the turbid maddened water, 
 Rushed through the yawning chasm at her back! 
 
 I need not here record the praise, the glory 
 That came unsought unto the modest maid 
 
 A theme quite meet for poem or for story, 
 Of her who gave that night her saving aid. 
 
 But happy Bob, now in his sweet retirement, 
 
 With pride would tell you how he gained a wife, 
 
 (Nor think the tale a burdensome requirement,) 
 That fearful night when Delphine saved his life.
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 1 PLUCKED a rose, when but a boy 
 A simple, chaste and beauteous flower; 
 Its memory is a living joy 
 
 That lightens many a tedious hour. 
 
 I saw it drooping on its stem, 
 
 Weighed down with dew at early morn, 
 And sparkling bright with many a gem 
 
 That might a coronet adorn. 
 
 Aye, that was many years ago, 
 That seemeth now as but a day ; 
 
 Time then crept on so very slow, 
 That now flies like the wind away
 
 A RETROSPECT. 165 
 
 A father's care was o'er me then 
 A mother's love was mine to bless ; 
 
 And though they'll ne'er return again, 
 Their memory bringeth happiness. 
 
 Thus kindly deeds are never lost : 
 A mother's love, undying still 
 
 Still guides our bark, though tempest-tost, 
 And bears us on through good and ill. 
 
 And like the rose that drops its leaves 
 To cause a pang of childish pain, 
 
 And for a time our spirit grieves, 
 Its fragrance ever doth remain.
 
 DEATH OF A SISTER. 
 
 MY darling sister, youngest of the flock, 
 Who was to us on earth so very dear, 
 How sadly falls the news upon the ear, 
 That thou art gone ! We feel the painful shock, 
 And wondering ask, why should we linger here, 
 While thou art called in strength of womanhood 
 From thy dear friends thy work of doing good ? 
 How fleet is time ! It seems but yesterday 
 I heard thy childish laugh in sportive glee, 
 And saw thee in thy girlhood, light and free, 
 Oft by the brook, where thou wert wont to stray 
 To watch the trout play in its waters bright 
 And gather flowers and pebbles by the way : 
 Gone now, forever from our earthly sight !
 
 A MOTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 THE purest thing on earth a mother's love ; 
 The most unselfish gift to mortals given 
 The highest, choicest attribute of heaven, 
 And worthy its hestowment from above. 
 It clieth not, forever bright and pure, 
 Though fades the form and passes from our sight, 
 That once inclosed the pure and peerless gem, 
 Richer than aught in sovreign's diadem. 
 This priceless gift, that ever doth endure, 
 Untouched by time, and growing yet more bright, 
 Oft glows the beacon -light by which we steer 
 Our mortal bark to reach the port at last 
 Through all the perils we encounter here 
 To find the haven and outride the blast.
 
 MADNESS. 
 
 K 
 
 NOW'ST thou of aught more cruel than the 
 
 grave ? 
 
 It is when human reason flies its throne, 
 And as a ship when from its moorings blown, 
 Floats at the mercy of the angry wave 
 With none to guide no mortal hand to save. 
 
 If thou hast had a friend thus tempest-tost, 
 With mind unanchored, hopelessly afloat, 
 Sport of the wave, with mental rudder lost, 
 Borne to his death, with no life-saving boat- 
 Hast heard the maniac laugh that rends the soul 
 The flashing wit that pierceth to the heart 
 Fierce passion which no reason could control 
 Then thou hast known the grief and felt the smart 
 More keen than fiendish torture can impart. 
 
 21
 
 AUTUMN TINTS. 
 
 FIRST carne the sumac with its scarlet flame, 
 And then the maple with its yellow tint, 
 Like burnished gold just glowing from the mint; 
 And now the " brave old oak," of English fame, 
 That in our hemisphere sustains its name, 
 With purpling hues, fast changing into brown, 
 Its mottled foliage to the blast comes down 
 Softly as snow-flake in the winter came. 
 On every side the changing woods are gay 
 With gorgeous coloring ; no artist dare 
 With brush or pencil paint the florid hues 
 In striking contrast to the prairies gray, 
 Stripped of their beauty, desolate and bare 
 " A subject, meet for melancholy muse."
 
 GAEFIELD. 
 
 MOURN not for him the nation's chief, 
 Whose course on earth is run 
 For human life at, best is brief 
 
 His work was nobly done: 
 He stood among the garnered sheaves 
 When set his earthly sun ! 
 
 Mourn not the hardships of his youth, 
 
 For human lives are tried 
 Foul error purged from glowing truth, 
 
 As gold is purified ; 
 The purest one that ever lived 
 
 On earth, was crucified !
 
 GARFIELD. 171 
 
 But mourn the nation's deep disgrace, 
 
 The foul and damning stain ; 
 And while in shame we hide our face, 
 
 And writhe in mental pain, 
 O let us pray ; " Speed, speed the day 
 
 When Purity shall reign." 
 
 Then sleep thee sound, O martyred chief ! 
 
 And peaceful be thy rest ; 
 Thy nation's counselor, though brief, 
 
 She crowns thee with her best 
 Who sleep the noble, cherished few, 
 
 Whose words and deeds are blest.
 
 EEGRET. 
 
 T SIT beneath the beeehen shade 
 -** Where erst we sat my love with me 
 When I was but a youthful maid, 
 And but a bashful lad was he. 
 
 'Twas in the beauteous month of June 
 
 When field and wood in green were drest, 
 
 The air was hushed, while hung the moon 
 Her slender crescent in the west. 
 
 We sat in silence ; not a word 
 
 Escaped our lips, his hand held mine ; 
 
 He trembled as some feeling stirred 
 His being he could not divine.
 
 REGRET. 173 
 
 At length he asked me for his bride ; 
 
 My thoughtless answer brought its woe ; 
 I listened to my foolish pride 
 
 My heart said yes, my tongue said no. 
 
 He left me 'neath the beechen shade, 
 The moon sunk o'er the western hill ; 
 
 Remorse a deeper shadow made 
 Upon my life, and haunts it still. 
 
 I sit to-night beneath the tree 
 
 Where erst we sat in days of yore ; 
 
 A saddening thought comes over me, 
 For youth is fled for evermore ! 
 
 The summer's gone, the leaf is sere, 
 
 The moon glints down with frozen light, 
 
 The wind shrieks through the branches drear, 
 And adds its terrors to the night ! 
 
 While here I sit with painful thought 
 
 On him whose fate my word had sealed 
 
 A sad experience, dearly bought 
 He sleeps on Chattanooga's field !
 
 DEATH OF DECORA. 
 
 Decora, chief of the Winnebagos, was dec-ended in a direct line 
 from the union of a French officer uamed De Carry with Ho-po-ho- 
 e-kaw, ''Glory of the morning," chinftess of the tribe O chnnck-o raw 
 or Winnebagos. He died at an advanced age, in the fall of 1864 near 
 Tomah Wis., in extreme poverty. He possessed a fine physical and 
 mental organization, but had been nearly blind for several years. 
 It was this chief who captured Black Hawk in 1832. and delivered 
 him to our jrovernmeut. 
 
 HIEF of the Wennebago band, 
 Brave of spirit and strong of hand ! 
 In thy Indian veins by chance, 
 Mingles the blood of sunny France, 
 From the chieftess Ho-po-ho-e-kaw, 
 Queen of the tribe 0-cliiirik-o-raw"
 
 DEATH OF DECORA. 175 
 
 Born of a fearless iron-race, 
 
 E'en Time himself doth slowly trace 
 
 His care-lines on thy sun-bronzed face. 
 
 Thy step was firm, thy form was straight, 
 
 Under a century's leaden weight ; 
 
 But closed forever thy eagle-sight ; 
 
 Thou cans't but dream of the blessed light 
 
 That erst shone over thy once loved land, 
 
 Where roamed and hunted thy happy band. 
 
 And now thou'rt come to sleep at last, 
 Where thy days of youth and manhood passed 
 Hunting the deer and buffalo, 
 'Mid summer's rains and winter's snow, 
 And taking scalps of the hated foe. 
 
 Thy sun sinks low, thy hour is come, 
 
 Chaunt the dirge and beat the drum, 
 
 Hi-ya-ho-yah-hi-yah-hoo, 
 
 Bring forth the scalps of the hated Sioux, 
 
 Swing them aloft by the raven hair, 
 
 Let the war whoop rend the air !
 
 176 DEATH OF DECORA. 
 
 * 
 
 Sink it low in a mournful wail, 
 Dying away on the sighing gale ; 
 Echo it back from each rocky nook, 
 Murmur it on in the running brook ; 
 Whisper it in the pines above, 
 Soft and sweet as a mother's love. 
 
 Now hath ceased the loved chief's breath, 
 Stark and cold his form in death ! 
 Hi-yah-ho-yah-he-yah-hee, 
 Bury him under the blasted tree ! 
 Place by his side the arrow and bow, 
 Let him away to the loved ones go, 
 Where the deer and antelope abound, 
 In the blissful far-off hunting ground ! 
 
 What are they here but the white man's jibe, 
 The fragments of a shattered tribe, 
 Faded and fallen their once proud band, 
 Only to bloom in the spirit land ! 
 Hi-yah-ho-yah-hi-yah-hee, 
 Bury him under the blasted tree ! 
 22
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 PURE sparkling fountain, from thy mountain 
 cave, 
 
 That doth rejoice to greet the blessed light, 
 As bursting from thy deep, imprisoned night, 
 Thou leap'st to gladness in thy crystal wave, 
 And dashest onward, fetterless and brave, 
 O'er shining pebbles, singing on thy way, 
 Like some freed child that revels in its play, 
 Nor stop'st to think the world hath duties grave. 
 Bright, happy fountain ! would that thou could'st 
 
 tell 
 
 The mysteries that Nature doth conceal 
 Deep, darkly hidden in her caves below, 
 And never yet to mortal eye revealed ; 
 Where, 'mid the winding grots and fairy cells, 
 Perchance thy crystal waters ever flow.
 
 LONG AGO. 
 
 CARELESS words were spoken, long ago; 
 Sacred vows were broken, long ago ; 
 
 And many a dreary day, 
 
 On life's weary way, 
 
 I have journeyed since those days, long ago. 
 O, those gay and blissful days, long ago ! 
 O, those joyous, sunny days, long ago ! 
 
 When everything was bright, 
 
 And touched with fairy light, 
 In those careless, blissful days, long ago.
 
 LONG AGO. 179 
 
 
 
 We met and we parted, long ago ; 
 My love was false-hearted, long ago ; 
 
 His careless words that flattered, 
 
 My earthly idol shattered, 
 And left naught but bitterness and woe. 
 
 Oh ! the anguish of those days, long ago ! 
 
 Oh ! the wretchedness and tears, long ago ! 
 Aye, the wretchedness and tears, 
 When all that life endears, 
 W"as wrecked in that fearful long ago. 
 
 My youth lost its lightness, long ago ; 
 My life lost its brightness, long ago ; 
 
 And I labor to forget 
 
 The time when erst we met, 
 And the anguish of that parting, long ago, 
 The darkness of those days, long ago ! 
 
 I toil and labor here, 
 
 The sick and sad to cheer, 
 And live down the sorrow and the woe, 
 Forgetful of the sad Ions: ago. 
 
 O O O
 
 THE APPLE-SAUCE MAN." 
 
 THERE lived in New England, a long time ago, 
 A man of queer habits, as seldom you'd know ; 
 He sold apple-sauce by the quart or the can, 
 And the people all called him " The Apple-sauce 
 man." 
 
 He lived on a hill, and he used to come down 
 With the berries he picked and sell them in town ; 
 And the boys, when they saw him, they always began 
 To shout and hurrah for the Apple-sauce man. 
 
 A sort of philosopher, was he, in truth, 
 And took jokes most kindly from old folks and youth: 
 " My dears, always take all the comfort you can, 
 For life is but short," said the Apple-sauce man.
 
 " THE APPLE-SAUCE MAN." 181 
 
 " Make the most of this world, you're not sure of 
 
 another, 
 
 Eat, drink and be merry, my sister and brother ; 
 Remember my counsel and follow my plan, 
 And you'll surely be blest," said the Apple-sauce 
 
 man. 
 
 He died years ago, and I haven't a doubt, 
 The truth of his theory he has found out ; 
 But wherever he is, I would not dare bet 
 That he is not selling his Apple-sauce yet.
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 STOWE, VT., Jan. 1845. 
 
 night, and ceaseless Time again 
 Proclaimed once more the hour of ten ; 
 I took my pen, and first I knew, 
 Coz, I was scribbling to you. 
 Will please excuse the want of grace, 
 Ideas trite, words common-place ; 
 Had I ability and time 
 To choose my words and smooth my rhyme, 
 It should be better ; but I write 
 In unpremeditated plight, 
 And needs must, beg you to forbear 
 Your censure for my want of care.
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 183 
 
 The night is beautiful ! On high 
 The moon glides through a cloudless sky; 
 Afar on Mansfield's snow-clad height, 
 Glimmers her melancholy light ; 
 While forests dark and hills around, 
 Sleep in tranquility profound. 
 Dost worship such an hour as this ? 
 Then hast thou felt poetic bliss ! 
 
 But vain the charms of earth and air, 
 If love or friendship be not there. 
 Can Sol with genial ray impart 
 A spell to thaw the frozen heart ? 
 
 No, e'en the magic charms of spring, 
 With beauteous floral offering 
 With glittering dew-gems sparkling bright. 
 Resplendent in the morning light 
 Wilh every field and budding grove 
 Resounding to the notes of love 
 That mingle in harmonious song, 
 With brook and rill that skip along
 
 184 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 They make no music to our ear, 
 If friendship's offering be not here. 
 
 What think'st thou cousin ? do we prize 
 High as we ought, those friendly ties 
 That give to life its magic power 
 A sun-beam in its darkest hour ? 
 
 The cup of human life, I trow, 
 Is strangely mixed with weal and woe, 
 And oft more like a mystic dream 
 Than a reality doth seem : 
 Now Hope puts forth her gilded ray, 
 To light our dim uncertain way, 
 , Anon our aspirations proud 
 Sink in Despondency's dark cloud. 
 
 But it were better I dismiss 
 A melancholy theme like this, 
 A bit of gossip chat, and then 
 I'll lay aside my weary pen ; 
 For I divine I write in vain, 
 Unless I touch a cheerful strain. 
 
 23
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 851 
 
 ****-::-* 
 
 Tell friends to write me without fail 
 
 I watch with interest every mail 
 
 Forgetting not, yourself the while, 
 
 To write in your peculiar style, 
 
 And let me know if you enjoy 
 
 True happiness without alloy 
 
 Your cheerful home, the friends sincere, 
 
 Have left a memory ever dear 
 
 Especially I can't forget 
 
 Good natured artless Harriet. 
 
 The clock rings out the night's deep noon, 
 High in the zenith is the moon ; 
 And you are wearied by this time 
 With this monotony of rhyme ; 
 And I will close, and ask excuse. 
 Your humble cousin, 
 
 s. s. LUCE.
 
 186 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 STOWE, VT., Nov. 1846. 
 
 LETTER TO A FRIEND. 
 
 My friend, a thousand thanks are due 
 
 For that poetic note from you, 
 
 So kindly fraught with friendship true 
 
 And love sincere ; 
 I fear I never can repay 
 You in my rude, imperfect way, 
 
 For words so dear. 
 
 Last Thursday Eve, with care opprest, 
 Deeming myself the most unblest 
 Of mortal sinners unconfessed, 
 
 In mood most blue, 
 I called at the P. O. to see 
 If aught was superscribed to me, 
 
 My friend, from you.
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 187 
 
 Hast seen upon some dismal day, 
 
 The sun break forth with sparkling ray. 
 
 And light all Nature up so gay 
 
 With gladsome smile, 
 That one would hardly think that e'er 
 A storm had swept, or tempest drear, 
 
 Her face the while ? 
 
 'Twas thus with me ; I felt the glow 
 Of sun-light on my being flow : 
 I hurried home with pace not slow 
 
 Once more" to trace 
 
 Those words which sweetest pleasure bring, 
 And o'er the clouds of sorrow fling 
 
 Sun-light and peace. 
 
 What were this world in all its pride, 
 
 When it shall only serve to hide 
 
 Our dearest friends ? Can aught beside 
 
 E'er make us glad ? 
 No, all the charms of earth and air 
 May greet our vision everywhere, 
 
 and vet we're sad.
 
 188 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 STOWE, VT., CHRISTMAS EVE, 1846. 
 LETTER TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Kind friend, a busy day is past ; 
 I sit me clown to list the blast, 
 That howls in fitful gusts along, 
 And wildly shrieks in cheerless song. 
 
 I look to hill and plain, but drear 
 Is all around, with naught to cheer. 
 Old Mansfield's bleak and snow-clad brow 
 Is darkly wreathed in storm-cloud now ; 
 West Branch is mute and sings no more 
 Along its verdant winding shore, 
 But bound by winter's icy chain, 
 Seems silenced, ne'er to wake again.
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 189 
 
 Not, as in y friend, when you were here, 
 Its notes fall pleasing on the ear ; 
 
 no, and yet it seems so strange, 
 
 That time, thus brief, could make such change. 
 
 It was but yesterday the flowers 
 Were blooming sweetly, and the bowers 
 Were clothed in green ; the birds so gay 
 Sang in their shadow all the day. 
 Hushed is their song, the flowers are fled, 
 The leaves are scattered, all seems dead. 
 
 Alas, my friend, how like a dream 
 
 Things of reality do seem ? 
 
 Is man deemed wise? What does he know 
 
 Of skies above or earth below ! 
 
 But cease this strain, lest I should bring 
 
 A chilling blast to mar thy spring; 
 
 Were all but truthful or sincere, 
 
 There'd be no winter in our year : 
 
 / 
 
 1 mean that winter of the heart, 
 V* Inch freezes the immortal part.
 
 190 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 I hailed your letter with delight, 
 Read it with pleasure, thankful quite 
 That you should not forget to send 
 Such kindly greeting to your friend. 
 It was to me no small diversion 
 To hear the tale of your excursion ; 
 You don't like novels, eh, I'll het 
 You'd write a first-class novelette. 
 
 Your school-house good, your scholars bright, 
 And all things moving on just right 
 Well, that is fine; I wish you all 
 The joy you merit ; that's no small 
 Or selfish wish, for well I trow 
 You'd seldom taste the cup of woe.' 
 
 The hour is waxing late, I ween, 
 For not a light can now be seen, 
 Except a taper's feeble ray, 
 Dim through the casement o'er the way, 
 And I, my tedious rhyme will close, 
 And wish you friend, a bon repose.
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 191 
 
 GALESVILLE, Nov. 24, 1881. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MBS. M. M. B. 
 
 *How short, dear sister, seems the time, 
 
 Since we were in our youthful prime, 
 
 And wandered often by the brook ; 
 
 You plucking flowers, and I with hook, 
 
 To coy the trout ; for then as now, 
 
 The girls were w r ont upon their brow 
 
 To wreathe sweet flowers, while boys oft sought 
 
 The rougher pleasures, dearly bought. 
 
 But most I mind me of the hours 
 When Autumn's frost had chilled the flowers, 
 And night was fierce and wild without, 
 While piercing winds with angry shout,
 
 192 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Along the vale and wooded hill, 
 
 Now gruffly roared, then whistled shrill, 
 
 Pierced every crevice as it blew 
 
 And shook the dwelling through and through, 
 
 While frozen sleet and pattering rain 
 
 Dashed fiercely 'gainst the window pane. 
 
 Yet we were sheltered for the night, 
 While cheerful wood-fire blazing bright, 
 Roared up the ample chimney's throat, 
 And sent its gleam to parts remote, 
 In the old kitchen where we sat 
 Encircled round in social chat. 
 
 How bright and genial was the glow ! 
 We cared not how the winds might blow, 
 Nor how the winter storms might beat; 
 We cared not for the rain and sleet, 
 Our social band was then complete. 
 
 Our grandsire, with his years grown grey, 
 
 Was dreaming of an early day, 
 
 And took the liberty of age 
 
 To give the young his counsel sage. 
 
 24
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 193 
 
 He* thought the men of modern days 
 Were taking to degenerate ways, 
 They in the time when he was young, 
 Were just in deed, discreet of tongue. 
 Our father tolls the tale again 
 Of Platsburg battle on Champlain ; 
 And best of all, our mother cheers, 
 With many a song our childish ears, 
 Or reads a poem, or perchance, 
 Relates some tale of wild romance, 
 Our childish pleasures to enhance. 
 
 Thus wore the evening hours away 
 In social happiness ; to-day, 
 I'm thinking of the priceless joys 
 That came to us when girls and boys, 
 W T hile sitting by that ancient hearth, 
 In merry chat and heart-felt mirth : 
 I'm thinking of the happy band, 
 The many gone unto that land, 
 From whence no traveler returns, 
 For which the mortal spirit yearns,
 
 194 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Yet fears to enter at the gate, 
 
 Which all must pass, or soon or late. 
 
 I mind me, too, when spring again 
 
 Had come to check drear Winter's reign, 
 
 And Sol, with a more genial ray, 
 
 Began to melt the snow away 
 
 From the huge maple's rugged base, 
 
 In that familiar sugar place ; 
 
 Then on the crust in morning prime, 
 
 W T hen every shrub with sparkling rime 
 
 Was iflitterins; in the mornins: sun 
 
 O O o 
 
 Witli laugh and shout we used to run, 
 While that old wooded, grand arcade 
 Sent back the merry shouts we made, 
 As peopled by some nymph or sprite, 
 Rejoicing in the morning bright. 
 And well I mind me of the spot 
 Where the old caldrons, seething hot 
 Between huge logs, with fire agleam, 
 Sent heaven-ward the smoke and steam. 
 'Twas here, in spring we used to meet, 
 Ostensiblv to taste the sweet,
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. lt"> 
 
 But more, I think, the social joys, 
 So fondly prized by girls and boys. 
 
 When later in the spring we strayed 
 By sunny slope and opening glade, 
 To pluck the earliest flowers of spring, 
 To hear the joyous wood-notes ring 
 Of gladsome birds, returned again 
 To greet us with their welcome strain, 
 How sweet was Nature everywhere ? 
 The earth, the sky, the fragrant air, 
 Might well with paradise compare. 
 The summer days of sweat and toil, 
 To coax the hard and stubborn soil 
 To yield its comforts and its gain, 
 Brought less of pleasure than of pain ; 
 But autumn with its golden sheaves, 
 Its gaily tinted forest leaves 
 The dropping nuts, a sound so dear 
 To every doating, childish ear 
 The burdened orchards too, that shed 
 Their treasures striped, yellow, red,
 
 190 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Leave mem'ries that will not decay 
 Till life on earth shall pass away, 
 Full oft I think and nightly dream, 
 Of walks we took along the stream 
 With our dear mother, who could see 
 Sweet charms in every shrub and tree, 
 And in all things God's loving care, 
 For which she breathed a grateful prayer. 
 She taught her children to revere 
 The gifts bestowed upon them here, 
 And to accept with thankfulness 
 These gifts, which came their lives to bless. 
 
 A devotee at Nature's shrine, 
 She seemed inspired with love, divine ; 
 She worshiped the green earth she trod, 
 Yet looked from " Nature up to God." 
 
 As time rolls on from year to year, 
 And robs us of our friends most dear, 
 And leaves us less our lives to cheer, 
 Death would be welcome at the end 
 Could we but know that each dear friend,
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 197 
 
 Would join us in another sphere, 
 To know each other there as here. 
 
 Oft as I take a backward view * 
 To that old home when life was new, 
 I seem to be a child once more, 
 And live the old *enes as of yore. 
 A father's care was o'er us then, 
 The kindest, patientest of men, 
 So unassuming in his ways", 
 He lived for others, sought no praise. 
 His sunless life of constant toil, 
 Forever delving at the soil, 
 To feed the hungry and to wait 
 His recompense " beyond the gate." 
 
 I oft our school-day life recall, 
 
 So brief, and yet more prized withal, 
 
 Eked from that season of the year 
 
 When snows were deep and winds were drear, 
 
 O'er long and weary -roads to go, 
 
 'Gainst biting frosts, through drifts of snow.
 
 198 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 At school we form those friendships clear, 
 Which brighter grow from y ear, CT >-*-*- 
 And only cease when Death shall call, 
 As soon or late he doth for all. 
 
 Aye, many a friend of priceless worth, 
 Has passed beyond the scenes of earth ! 
 Gone ! severed is the social band, 
 Gone to enjoy that " better land ;" 
 Gone, father, mother, sister, brother 
 And Nature's law seems here reversed, 
 The younger children passing first, 
 While we who here remain to-day 
 Are growing care-worn, wrinkled, gray, 
 And have but little time to wait 
 Our destiny for such is fate ! 
 Yet cheerful still may be our years, 
 While hope sustains and friend endears, 
 With smiles still glistening through our tears.
 
 VISIONS OF THE PAST. 
 
 VISIONS of the past, to my view revealing, 
 Whatsoe'er was charming and beautiful 
 
 in youth ; 
 
 Voices of the past on my ear are stealing, 
 Glowing with the purity and eloquence of truth. 
 
 Errors of the past, pierce the soul with sorrow 
 Bring to the conscience repentance and regret ; 
 Shadows of the past may a gilding borrow, 
 And the skies may brighten ere the sun be set. 
 
 Virtues of the past, brighter and yet brighter 
 Grow with our growth, and strengthen with each. 
 
 year ; 
 
 Burdens of the past, lighter and yet lighter, 
 Come to the pure in heart, till life disappear.
 
 200 VISIONS OF THE PAST. 
 
 Sorrows of the past doth the spirit chasten, 
 Teach human frailty, the brevity of time ; 
 " Work while the day lasts," as we forward hasten 
 On our sacred mission to the end sublime. 
 
 Pleasures of the past, though alloyed and fleeting, 
 Fill us with gratitude and thankfulness of heart ; 
 Sunshine and shadow while our hearts are beating, 
 
 - O 7 
 
 Only by the contrast we know the two apart. 
 
 Friendships of the past stronger and yet stronger 
 Grow the social bands as human life proceeds ; 
 Clear burns the steady light, brighter and longer 
 With the true and faithful in their words and deeds. 
 
 Loves of the past they liveth on forever ! 
 The purest of earth, and most radient above ; 
 What, though all else decay, they shall perish 
 
 never, 
 For love doth come of God, and God himself is 
 
 love. 
 
 25

 
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