THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 iln!.iiarg Ufogarfc Ollarfo 
 Witb a Sfcetcb ot Her life 
 
 BY 
 
 lUincbeetcr "Oalt 
 
 OInmpang,
 
 Copyright, 1905, 
 
 WINCHESTER HALL. 
 
 All Rights Reserved.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE reason for assuming to prepare an edition 
 of Mary Bayard Clarke's poems and a sketch of 
 her life, may be gathered from the following para 
 graph in a letter to the undersigned, dated July 
 12, 1861 : 
 
 "There is one thing I have often tried to ask 
 you in my letters, to promise me you will do for 
 me ; but I have a strange reticence that often pre 
 vents my saying what I long to say, and I never 
 could get up my courage before to ask you to be 
 my literary executor. 
 
 "The war has stopped the publication of a 
 volume of poems and perhaps it will not, in my 
 lifetime, see the light; if not, the MSS. will be 
 found sealed and directed to you, with many 
 other poems which I do not care to publish my 
 self ; but which I leave to you to do with as you 
 choose. I may live many years, but as I can 
 never be well again, and as I have no settled 
 home, I feel as if I should like to have some 
 things understood." 
 
 It may be mentioned that to this request there 
 was added, after her death, the wish of her chil 
 dren and their preferred aid and sympathy in 
 the undertaking. 
 
 623
 
 iv Preface. 
 
 While I have assurance the poems will take 
 more than an ephemeral place in American song, 
 I have misgivings that in the sketch of her life 
 I have not entirely succeeded in conveying to the 
 mind of the reader, a photographic impress of a 
 life in which domestic duties were fulfilled 
 thoroughly, and with rare self-abnegation 
 which was essentially a life of labor amid much 
 privation, and long years of ill-health, all borne 
 with patient resignation ; a life enriched with 
 varied and extensive readings and researches in 
 languages, literature, and science, yet unobtrusive 
 of its attainments, and liberal and unassuming 
 in its opinions. 
 
 WINCHESTER HALL. 
 
 POCOMOKE CITY, MARYLAND, 
 August, 1905.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke vii 
 
 The Triumph of Spring 31 
 
 The Fairies' Dance 40 
 
 Shadows 45 
 
 The Rain upon the Hills 47 
 
 Nuptial Hymn of the Greeks 49 
 
 Aphrodite 52 
 
 Annie Carter Lee 56 
 
 The Water-Sprite's Bridal 58 
 
 Stonewall's Resignation 67 
 
 The Rebel Sock 69 
 
 The Tenth of May, 1866 73 
 
 The Chimes of St. Paul's 75 
 
 The Stratagems of Love 77 
 
 I Wish to Love Thee 79 
 
 Cross and Crown 81 
 
 In Memoriam 82 
 
 Clytie and Zenobia 83 
 
 Notes for Clytie and Zenobia 121 
 
 The Organ 125 
 
 The Guard Around the Tomb 129 
 
 Oremus 130 
 
 A Legend of St. Augustine 132 
 
 Tidal Bells 134 
 
 Cleopatra's Soliloquy 136
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thanksgiving Psalm 141 
 
 Resurgam 143 
 
 Through Doubt to Light 145 
 
 Under the Lava 148 
 
 The Crown Imperial 152 
 
 De Profundis 155 
 
 Truth 156 
 
 Onward 158 
 
 Exegesis 160 
 
 What is Religion ? 162 
 
 John Wesley's Foot-print 165 
 
 He of Prayer 167 
 
 The Highest Truth 169 
 
 Matter 170 
 
 The Prophet's Wonder Staff 172 
 
 The Magic Ring 176 
 
 Hermes' Ear 178 
 
 The Law and the Gospel 180 
 
 A Legend of St. Christopher 182 
 
 The Happy Valley 186 
 
 Thoughts 189 
 
 The Heart of Jesus 191 
 
 Dux Foemina Facti 192
 
 MARY BAYARD CLARKE. 
 
 WHEN we consider the physical beauty of the 
 world which lies hidden in the untrodden wilder 
 ness, on mountain ranges, down sequestered 
 valleys ; or the spiritual beauty sheltered in lowly 
 cottage, ancient hall, and in the unsunned depths 
 t)f human hearts ; it seems a part of our nature 
 to seek to bring one or the other to light and ob 
 servation, in order it may gladden and cheer and 
 reflect its charms on sympathetic hearts. So, in 
 the region of song, when deft fingers have swept 
 the chords, and we become possessed with the 
 melody of the strain, the impulse is to have some 
 one share with us a pleasure, that does not seem 
 entirely our own, until it is another's. 
 
 The name of Mary Bayard Clarke is known, 
 in her native South, to a limited and appreciative 
 circle of readers and friends. In seeking to en 
 large that circle, it is hoped that her memory will 
 not only be maintained in its freshness, among 
 those familiar with her writings, but gratify all 
 those who are interested in the literature of our 
 country, and the lovers of the beautiful in senti 
 ment, and of the elevated in thought. 
 
 In the year 1847 it was the good fortune of the 
 writer to meet Mary Bayard Devereux at Leigh- 
 ton, the home of the Right Rev. Leonidas Polk, 
 of Louisiana, where she was making a visit to
 
 viii Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 Mrs. Polk, her father's sister. She was appar 
 ently, twenty years of age, of medium height; 
 spare, but well shaped ; brown hair, a fair com 
 plexion, ears small and well set in the head, an 
 oval face, a Grecian nose, mouth long, but not no 
 ticeably so, well shaped lips, and speaking eyes of 
 bluish-grey. With a countenance all aglow with 
 the beauty of maidenhood, a grace of manner 
 that bore witness of her gentle birth, and a kind 
 ness of heart that responded to every appeal to 
 her nature, she had colloquial powers that showed 
 judicious cultivation, and a fancy that seemed 
 born of a dream of midsummer night, and often 
 burst into song. 
 
 Mary Bayard Devereux on her father's side 
 was a descendant of Thomas Pollok, who mi 
 grated from Scotland to the colony of North 
 Carolina in the year 1683, and was the leading 
 colonist for a number of years. He received a 
 grant of land from King Charles the Second, 
 portions of which, on the Roanoke river, re 
 mained in the possession of his descendants until 
 about the year 1865. 
 
 Thomas Pollok, a grandson of the above 
 Thomas Pollok, married Eunice Edwards, a 
 daughter of the Rev. Jonathan Edwards, of 
 theologic fame. One of the children of this 
 marriage was Frances Pollok, who married John 
 Devereux, of New Berne, N. C, the son of John 
 Devereux, an Irish gentleman of White Church, 
 in the County of Wexford, Ireland. 
 
 Thomas Pollok Devereux, one of the children 
 of the latter marriage, espoused Katharine Anne
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 IX 
 
 Johnson, who was a great-granddaughter of Dr. 
 Samuel Johnson, first president of King's, now 
 Columbia College, in the City of New York. The 
 subject of this memoir was one of the children 
 of this marriage, and was born in Raleigh, May 
 13, 1827. She was deprived of the advantage 
 of a mother's influence, as her mother died while 
 she was a child, but the social position of her 
 father as a gentleman of landed estate, and an 
 eminent lawyer, gave to her all the benefit asso 
 ciation and education could bestow. Her natural 
 endowments responded to educational training. 
 She developed early a decided turn for letters, 
 and soon was acquainted with French, Spanish 
 and German literature, as well as that of her 
 mother-tongue. She quickly learned to express 
 her thoughts with unobtrusive yet ready wit in 
 conversation, and to write her sentiments with 
 Ariel-like sweetness and spirit. 
 
 In 1848 William J. Clarke, a young captain in 
 the war with Mexico, arrived at Leighton. He 
 had been a playmate of Mary Bayard in Raleigh, 
 and the amity of childhood in time had grown 
 to a stronger feeling, which resulted in a be 
 trothal prior to his joining the army. Fresh from 
 the battlefields of Mexico, with scars which 
 showed his service, and promoted to the rank of 
 Major for gallantry, he had now come to claim 
 his betrothed. They were married at Leighton on 
 April 6th, of that year, by her uncle, the Bishop 
 of Louisiana, and soon returned to Raleigh, 
 where Major Clarke resumed the practice of 
 law, which he had temporarily abandoned for the
 
 x Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 army; and he was for some time auditor of the 
 State of North Carolina. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke, physically, was of a feeble tem 
 perament, although her face bore no indication 
 of it in early life, and the climate of Raleigh 
 gradually developed unfavorable influences upon 
 her health. She passed the winter of 1854-55 
 in Cuba. The air strengthened her, and it may 
 be assured the enchantment of this beauteous isle 
 was fully appreciated during the visit ; an incident 
 of which she related to the writer in a letter of 
 that time: 
 
 "I did not expect to be more than two days in 
 Matanzas, and only took a small portion of my 
 wardrobe, otherwise I should have been tempted 
 to prolong my stay indefinitely. I had left my 
 riding dress in Havana, and when I was told I 
 should lose half the beauties of the trip if I did 
 not go on horseback had to set my wits to work 
 to improvise a skirt for the occasion ; fortunately 
 I had a large shawl with me which ten minutes' 
 sewing converted into a skirt of the most brilliant 
 description ; large plaids of orange and blue pre 
 dominated, which with a black silk basque, and 
 a panama hat, rendered my costume unique to 
 say the least. My steed was a Creole pony, of 
 such small dimensions that when I was mounted 
 I could only compare myself to Tripaolemus Yel- 
 lowby in The Pirate,' who entirely hid his Shet 
 land pony with the ample folds of his Sunday 
 cloak, and was obliged to hold up his knees to 
 keep his feet off the ground. We ascended the
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xi 
 
 ridge on the side next the sea, and came back 
 through the valley; when we reached the top we 
 had a view of both that surpassed anything I 
 ever saw before; on one hand far below us, lay 
 the beautiful Bay of Matanzas, its blue waters 
 dotted over with ships, which, in the distance, 
 seemed no larger than fishing-craft, while on the 
 other we looked down into the Valley of the 
 Youmori, covered with its yellow-green cane, 
 interspersed with large white sugar houses, that 
 a little imagination might, when viewed from that 
 height, convert into elegant country places, sur 
 rounded with stately palms, lifting their feathery 
 crown above all other trees. As we came down 
 the mountain I was reminded of the Happy Val 
 ley where Rasselas dwelt, for without wings 
 escape seemed impossible ; the road by which we 
 descended was hidden by the trees, and the only 
 break in the hills, through which the river flowed 
 out, was not visible from where we stood." 
 
 One who saw her frequently during her visit 
 to Cuba, said of her: 
 
 Sprightly, intellectual, and remarkable, not 
 only for her easy, graceful manners, but her deli 
 cate, fragile beauty, she was the acknowledged 
 queen oi society in the circle in which she moved. 
 The Spanish Creoles are very frank in their ad- 
 mriation of beauty, which they regard as the gift 
 of God, not only to the possessor, but to the 
 admirer of it ; and nothing like the furore created 
 among them, by the blue eyes, fair complexion, 
 masses of soft, sunny curls, and clear-cut, intel-
 
 xii Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 lectual features of this lady, can be conceived of 
 in this country. The first time I ever saw her 
 was at the Tacon theatre. She was leaning on 
 the arm of Mr. Gales Seyton, of The National 
 Intelligencer, and surrounded by three or four 
 British naval officers, in full uniform, and, as 
 the party walked into the private box of the 
 Spanish Admiral, every eye was turned on them, 
 and a hum of admiration rose from the specta 
 tors such as could only be heard in similar cir 
 cumstances from a Spanish audience. Shortly 
 after this I met her at a ball given by the British 
 Consul General, in the Aldamer palace, and was 
 presented to her by Mr. Seyton, and from that 
 time saw her almost daily for four months, dur 
 ing which she reigned the acknowledged queen 
 of the small but select society of English and 
 Americans residing in the City of Havana, in 
 creased, as it is every winter by visitors from all 
 parts of the United States, English, American, 
 and French naval officers, and such foreigners as 
 speak English. A more brilliant circle than it 
 was that winter it would be hard to find any 
 where. But while to casual observers Mrs. 
 Clarke was but the enfant gate of society, to 
 those who looked further she was also the highly 
 cultivated and intellectual woman. The Honor 
 able Miss Murray, then on her American tour, 
 was charmed with her, and said she was the only 
 woman she had met in America who, without 
 being a blue-stocking, was yet thoroughly edu 
 cated. "She has not an accomplishment," said 
 that lady, "beyond her highly cultivated conver-
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xiii 
 
 sational powers, but they, with her beauty and 
 graceful manners, would render her an orna 
 ment to any circle in which she might move." 
 
 But the lady-in-waiting of Queen Victoria was 
 mistaken, for Mrs. Clarke had two accomplish 
 ments, both rarely found in perfection among 
 ladies. She was a bold, fearless and graceful 
 horsewoman, and played an admirable game of 
 chess. Speaking of her quickness, and the felici 
 tous skill with which she threw off little jeu 
 d'esprits, in the shape of vers de societe, one day 
 to Mr. Seyton, he replied: "She is capable of 
 better things than she has yet done, and if she 
 lives long enough will, I predict, make a name 
 for herself among the poets of our country. I 
 may not live to see the noontide of her success, 
 but I can already see its dawn." 
 
 A visit to a genial clime, however, brought only 
 temporary relief, and it was determined she 
 should reside under more favorable skies. Texas 
 seemed to offer the proper advantages, and San 
 Antonio was selected as her future home, where 
 she moved early in 1856. Shortly after she left 
 Raleigh she wrote from Tennessee, giving an 
 account of her latter days, at her early home : 
 
 "What with packing such articles of furniture 
 as I desired to take, preparing the rest for the 
 auction room, bidding good-bye to my many 
 friends, and getting the children ready for the 
 winter, I thought my hands were full, but I was 
 mistaken. In the midst of all Major Clarke 
 found he needed my services as a clerk, and for
 
 xiv Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 days I sat, pen in hand, computing the interest of 
 different amounts of money, running over every 
 conceivable division of ten years. At last every 
 sum was done, every article packed or sold, and 
 poor Multiflora Cottage stood empty and dis 
 mantled! With a heavy heart I turned my face 
 from it to set out on my journey. But my 
 strength was all gone; as soon as the stimulus 
 of hard work, both mental and bodily, was taken 
 from me, I sunk into complete despondency. 
 Every parting seemed to tear a bit from my 
 heart. 
 
 "Poor, ugly, inconvenient Multiflora Cottage ! 
 How beautiful do you look drawn by the pencil 
 of memory, on a leaf of my heart, and set in a 
 frame of sweet recollections ! Thus will you ever 
 hang : a soft mezzotint in the picture gallery of 
 memory. 
 
 "Distance mellows your imperfections, and 
 Time shall obliterate all but your pleasant remi 
 niscences. Long will it be before my heart can 
 cling as lovingly to another home, or my men*- 
 ory recall as many happy hours." 
 
 In the frontier life to which she now looked 
 forward, inconveniences were expected, and 
 privations were a part of it ; but an improvement 
 in health reconciled her to the rugged life. Gov 
 ernment troops were stationed at San Antonio 
 and the officers and their families afforded so 
 ciety. Among the officers was Albert Sydney 
 Johnston, and Mrs. Clarke mentioned to the 
 writer, with what ease and grace he often lifted
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xv 
 
 her from the ground into the saddle by taking her 
 up with both hands, and without effort on her 
 part. 
 
 Major Clarke soon came prominently before 
 the public as President of the San Antonio and 
 Mexican Gulf Railway. Mrs. Clarke, whose 
 domestic duties always claimed her first attention, 
 wrote in September, 1856: 
 
 "When my heart is busy with sad thoughts 
 my mind is idle, so I have resolutely set to work 
 and am now studying Spanish and making shirts. 
 When the children are all asleep I take my play 
 time, and either read or write." 
 
 In one of her letters the same year she writes : 
 
 "I can no longer be considered an invalid for 
 I eat, sleep, walk, ride on horseback, and work 
 like a well person. The weather is so charming 
 it is hard to stay in the house. I often resolve 
 on Monday that I will be very domestic all the 
 week, and get through lots of sewing, but at the 
 first invitation to join a party and go out nutting 
 I start up like a war-horse at the sound of the 
 trumpet, pack the children in a carriage, jump 
 on a horse and am off for the day gathering not 
 only pecans, but health and strength from the 
 fresh breezes of the prairie." 
 
 In the same she mentions a thrilling incident: 
 "I have a habit, when alone, of getting up and
 
 xvi Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 going through the house if I hear a noise at night, 
 and as housebreaking has been prevalent of late 
 I always sleep with a pistol on the mantel-piece. 
 I was awakened a night last week by a noise like 
 the cracking of a whip, and having not even a 
 grown servant in the house, got up to see what 
 was the cause; just as I was about leaving my 
 room I heard a key turned softly in the door. I 
 made one bound to the pistol and another to the 
 door, which I threw open and found myself 
 within ten steps of a man who had just opened 
 the front door, and was apparently listening to 
 know if he had aroused any one. I did not know 
 I had half so much of what is generally termed 
 the devil in me. I had but one intense desire, and 
 that was to kill him. I had not a sensation of 
 fear, but raised the pistol and took delib 
 erate aim at him; he must have see the ac 
 tion, for the moon was very bright, and as 
 I fired he jumped aside so as to put the 
 door-way between us, otherwise he must 
 have received the charge, which lodged in the 
 fence in a direct line from where I stood. He 
 ran, and I after him, and it was not until I had 
 got several steps out of the door that I remem 
 bered my defenceless condition, when I turned 
 and ran to my next neighbor, not twenty yards 
 off, and rousing the gentleman I rushed back to 
 my children, who were sleeping. By the time I 
 had assistance the robber was out of sight; and 
 then I began to feel afraid, and sitting down 
 with the large cavalry sabre which I had taken 
 down from a peg in the hall after my return, I
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xvii 
 
 cried like a child. The fright and exposure 
 gave me a chill and I have been sick and nervous 
 ever since, and while acquaintances are talking 
 of my bravery feel myself the veriest coward." 
 The mild climate of San Antonio, however, 
 while it had a favorable influence, failed as a 
 restorative to the patient; the discomforts of 
 frontier life doubtless hindered recovery. Her 
 health continued to decline until a crisis was 
 reached, at which her physician insisted she must 
 leave the place. The stirring war time, too, was 
 at hand, and its excitement was prejudicial to 
 her morbidly nervous organization. 
 
 In June, 1861, Major Clarke, having already 
 entered the Southern army, she started with her 
 four children for Raleigh, with the expectation 
 of remaining with her family until more settled 
 times. She traveled by way of Galveston, thence 
 to Berwick's Bay, Louisiana, in an open pilot 
 boat which took four days for the passage, during 
 which the children and herself were frequently 
 drenched by the rain. 
 
 During the war Mrs. Clarke remained with her 
 family in North Carolina, and was much of the 
 time in Raleigh, where the writer met her in 1864. 
 He wished to see all places in the locality asso 
 ciated with her childhood and early life, which 
 she willingly pointed out to him, and it was with 
 lively interest he noted the home where she first 
 saw light; the noble oak, under whose shade she 
 played, the old schoolhouse where she learned her 
 letters, the stones over which little feet pattered 
 on the way to school ; she took him to Multiflora
 
 xviii Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 Cottage and stood with him before the grave of 
 her mother. 
 
 Major Clarke accepted a commission as 
 Colonel of the Twenty-fourth Regiment of North 
 Carolina Infantry and was with that regiment in 
 its numerous engagements, in one of which he 
 was severely wounded in the shoulder by a frag 
 ment of shell. His capture and imprisonment in 
 Fort Delaware toward the close of the war 
 doubtless saved him from further injury, as the 
 Twenty-fourth in its last battle suffered terribly; 
 there was not a single officer in it above the grade 
 of lieutenant who was not killed, wounded or 
 captured. 
 
 In 1865 Mrs. Clarke became assistant editor 
 of The Southern Field and Fireside, and 
 writes from Raleigh : 
 
 "I leave home at 9 o'clock and write in the 
 office until 2. I review new books, write to 
 correspondents, select matter, and write articles 
 for the paper. I have a large quiet room, com 
 fortably furnished, with carpet and curtains, and 
 am treated as a decided, and much-to-be-made-of 
 addition to the establishment. My salary is paid 
 weekly, and I generally leave home with the 
 children when they go to school, and return when 
 they do. I do not feel they are neglected. 
 
 "My old Texas negro servant, hearing I was 
 sick and needed her, came back to me, and my 
 family are now all together for the first time in 
 four years."
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xix 
 
 The connection with The Southern Field and 
 Fireside lasted only a few months, as Mrs. Clarke 
 considered the proprietors had not dealt with her 
 fairly. In 1866 she began writing regularly for 
 The Old Guard, and occasionally for The 
 Land We Love. A volume of her poems ap 
 peared about this time entitled "Mosses from a 
 Rolling Stone," and was sold for the benefit 
 of the fund raised by the ladies of Winchester 
 (Va.),, for the Stonewall Jackson cemetery of 
 that place. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke wrote occasionally about this time, 
 but says in one of her letters : 
 
 "Though there is a demand for my correspond 
 ence and contributions when they are furnished 
 gratis, I can not get much money from Southern 
 editors; they are too poor to pay well." 
 
 In 1868 Colonel Clarke went to New Berne 
 (N. C.) to engage in the practice of the law. 
 Mrs. Clarke soon followed, and writes of her ac 
 tive life. 
 
 "I am busy editing my paper, the Literary 
 Pastime; corresponding with two others; con 
 tributing to two magazines ; and translating a 
 French novel ; added to which I am composing 
 the libretto for an opera, and writing Sunday- 
 school hymns at five dollars apiece." 
 
 Although there was scant remuneration from 
 her busy pen, in 1869 Mrs. Clarke was able to
 
 xx Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 purchase a house in New Berne, which was her 
 home during the remainder of her days. 
 
 Soon after Colonel Clarke's removal to New 
 Berne he was commissioned Judge of the third 
 judicial district of the State, and held the office 
 for a number of years. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke's suffering on account of her 
 health increased from year to year. The climate 
 of New Berne was not friendly to it, but she had 
 not the means to take advantage of any other. 
 Judge Clarke's salary helped to defray domestic 
 expenses while it lasted, but when he subse 
 quently resumed the practice of law, his income 
 became much reduced, and the material fruits of 
 Mrs. Clarke's literary labors, always acceptable 
 in view of their limited resources, were now 
 the main source of supplying the requirements 
 of the household ; and nobly did she strive to 
 meet pressing daily necessities, leaving many 
 comforts and all luxuries as things that might be 
 hoped for, but not expected. With all her cour 
 ageous effort, the return was inconsiderable, as 
 general publishers, and proprietors of the maga 
 zines and newspapers, particularly of the South, 
 who had the advantage of her writings, either 
 were unwilling, or too poor to pay for them ; al 
 though always gratified to have a poem, an ar 
 ticle or a letter in their columns, under her sig 
 nature. Her life became a dreary monotone in 
 every material aspect, but above bodily ills, and 
 these mists of care and anxiety, rose an unsub 
 dued spirit, and a fancy ever ready for a flight; 
 and which reposed only to be refreshed for fur-
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xxi 
 
 ther enterprise in her favorite domain of song. 
 On New Year's Day, 1876, she wrote: 
 
 "I wish I could say I was well, but I have no 
 hope of ever being better. I am one of those 
 doors that hang long, but will always creak. 
 Any sudden or unusual tax on my strength, or 
 any anxiety or worry, upsets me entirely; and 
 the worst is that people who see me, only when 
 I am at my best, think one-half my ill-health im 
 aginary, and the other half only the indulgence 
 of my own whims that I can do what is agree 
 able to me, but can not do what is not; simply 
 because I won't. I can't keep house or sew, with 
 out being laid up in a few days ; and it is impos 
 sible for me to get any writing to do that will 
 pay and enable me to hire the work done. So I 
 am generally either trying to do it, or repenting 
 that I have tried. I sometimes despair and wish 
 for the end, for I am so tired of it all. The new 
 year seems but another link, added to a heavy 
 chain. So here I am tired rusting instead of 
 wearing out the old year closes sadly, and the 
 new brings no hope of anything better." 
 
 In March of the same year she wrote: 
 
 "I review for Harper, Appleton, Sheldon, 
 Scribner and Hale, but get only copies of the 
 books from the publishers. Sometimes I can 
 get pay for a review, but not often. I would 
 give it up, but the reading matter keeps me from 
 utter despair, by interesting my mind."
 
 xxii Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 The following extract of a letter written in 
 November, 1878, is in the cheerful tone that she 
 usually maintained, in spite of privation and ill- 
 health : 
 
 " I have been on a spree of reading and 
 
 writing. In three days I wrote five poems and 
 two news letters. I will be merciful and send 
 you one of the last when printed, which will con 
 tain one poem, the other four will keep until 
 printed, when you will get them in broken doses. 
 My son Willie says I have literary delirium tre- 
 mens, for, of course, I have a headache, which I 
 impute to mince pie and Thanksgiving, and the 
 Doctor to my brain, which is shaky. He threat 
 ens me with congestion of it if I don't stop read 
 ing and writing for a while. I am having bron 
 chitis pretty badly this fall, and that always keeps 
 me out of company, as talking is tiresome con 
 sequently I read more than usual ; have just fin 
 ished a new history of the French Revolution 
 epoch, by Van Laure, and "Idols and Ideals," by 
 Moncure B. Conway a perfect mine of literary 
 jewels, from which I have stolen a handful and 
 reset in rhyme, which is the cause of three of the 
 five poems." 
 
 Her heroic struggle against disease, care and 
 despondency seemed of little avail, and while 
 they did not subdue her spirit, caused her to note 
 the unequal contest. In May, 1883, she wrote: 
 
 "I feel life a muddle, too dense for me to dis-
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xxiii 
 
 entangle, and so sit longing for it to end before 
 I lose the power to be of any use in it." 
 
 Serious as her trials had been in seeking to 
 baffle bodily ailment, a more severe trial awaited, 
 of which she wrote in November, 1883 : 
 
 "My death warrant has been read to me. I 
 shall not, probably, die soon, but I live under 
 sentence of death and almost in a cell, for I have 
 had a stroke of paralysis, affecting all my left 
 side. The Doctor says from brain trouble. I 
 write w-hile I am able to tell you this myself. I 
 can drag myself around the house, and talk after 
 a fashion, but I will never go in public as Lam 
 now, and I have no hope of being better. I will 
 write as long as I can, and always be the same 
 no, not that, I can't be the same Mary Bayard 
 ever again." 
 
 A month after the stroke she wrote : 
 
 " 'The grasshopper is a burden,' or I would 
 have written to you before. They say I will get 
 over it, but I feel I never shall. The Catholic 
 priest came to see me the other day a good, old 
 Irishman, who thinks me the best of heretics, 
 and I think he did me more good than any one 
 else. 'Be the same woman ye were? No! ye've 
 no right to expect that, and then with tears in his 
 eyes, he patted me on the shoulder and added : 
 'But there's plenty left in life for ye to do, and 
 enjoy yet, if ye can't be first and foremost and
 
 xxiv Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 go at things with a rush, as ye have done.' This 
 is the truth I am trying to bring home to myself, 
 and I wish my children could make up their 
 minds that mother is not going to get over it, 
 but may live for years as she is, and had best try 
 and adapt herself to circumstances." 
 
 Unable to use a pen, she practiced upon a type 
 writer a friend kindly sent to her, and in April, 
 1884, sent to the writer a neat note in type in 
 which she says : 
 
 "Post yourself on tricycles. I see ladies are 
 using them, and I mean to try if I can get about 
 on one; I have not the slightest desire to do so, 
 but know I had better do so, if in my power. 
 
 "I cannot tell you* how much I enjoy my cali- 
 graph. I could not write now without it, as for 
 ten days I have had gout in my right hand ; I 
 can use it with either hand, or rather with one 
 finger of either hand." 
 
 Her love of letters clung to her to the last. In 
 April, 1885, she wrote : 
 
 "I am stronger than I have been since I had 
 the stroke, but my head is so confused, and my 
 memory so much affected I can do little or no 
 brain work. An hour of it tires me more than 
 a day of it used to do. I have even lost my power 
 of reading, for more than a short time, without 
 rest. I have just finished 'The Life of George
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xxv 
 
 Eliot,' by her husband, Mr. Cross, and am de 
 lighted with it, but the magazines and papers are 
 about all I am equal to now." 
 
 Again in November, 1885, she wrote: 
 
 "I am very much interested in the Ethical 
 Culture Movement, and have just finished a re 
 view of Weston's Lectures on it. Have you 
 seen them? I have very little time for either 
 reading or writing now, and feel very rusty, but 
 sometimes I rouse up, and write a letter or read 
 a book, though generally my time is taken up 
 with sewing, housekeeping and attending to my 
 sick husband." 
 
 Judge Clarke, whose illness is mentioned in the 
 foregoing extract, died in January, 1886. Mrs. 
 Clarke wrote : 
 
 "I am so miserable with a malarial fever. I 
 have not strength to sit up, but, thankful he was 
 spared all suffering. The last four months of 
 his life was peaceful and happy he had all his 
 little wants gratified, and we petted him like a 
 spoiled child." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke died on March 30, 1886. Shortly 
 afterward her daughter wrote: 
 
 "On the 8th of March mother had another 
 stroke. She had been greatly worried in getting 
 the house in order for my brother Willie's mar 
 riage. Father's death and Willie's marriage were
 
 xxvi Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 too much for her. I tried in every way to keep 
 her as quiet as possible, as I was fearful of an 
 other attack. It was at her earnest request I was 
 married at her bedside. After that she appeared 
 to have put every earthly thing away. She lin 
 gered, without suffering, about two weeks longer, 
 gradually growing more feeble, until she ceased 
 to breathe." 
 
 These disjointed facts and fragments of let 
 ters to the writer, may enable one to form an idea 
 of her outer life; as to her inner and spiritual 
 life her poems speak in no unmeaning tone. 
 
 It is usually supposed the literary pursuits of 
 a wife and mother cannot otherwise than preju 
 dice the routine of daily cares incident to a house 
 hold. The domestic life of the subject of this 
 sketch furnishes a notable illustration to the con 
 trary. Her family was of primary concern, to 
 which all other wishes yielded precedence. Lit 
 erary recreation and labor was subordinate to 
 giving to her home and its inmates, all the com 
 forts circumstances allowed. Her children's wel 
 fare was the first object of her heart; self-abne 
 gation, where they were concerned, was a duty 
 crowned with pleasure, and the fact they have be 
 come respected and influential members of soci 
 ety, may be traced to her training and unceasing 
 exertions in their behalf. 
 
 With all her fondness for the sequestered life 
 of a student, and the solitude in which reflection 
 or fancy could have full sway, she was not a re 
 cluse; but sought the companionship of congenial
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xxvii 
 
 spirits, and had for society a zest without alloy. 
 Her colloquial powers which varied and exten 
 sive reading gave something more than the com 
 monplace talk of the drawing room, was made all 
 the more interesting by her unassuming manner. 
 It was foreign to her nature to make display of 
 her acquisitions, and she never insisted on a 
 point in history or letters which may have been 
 questioned, although her faithful memory was 
 rarely at fault. Ill-health, however, and un 
 toward circumstances, compelled her, in a great 
 measure, to forego the enjoyment of that social 
 life in which an impromptu verse by her, a repar 
 tee, or her ready and amiable wit, was delight 
 ful and pre-emient. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke had an easy, graceful, fluent style 
 in prose. Her contributions to various magazines 
 and newspapers of the day were numerous, and 
 showed vigor of thought, rare discernment and 
 a critical taste. 
 
 From the year 1865 to the year 1883 was a 
 busy portion of Mrs. Clarke's busy life. This 
 period embraced the reconstruction era in politics, 
 and it was also a re-establishment of social con 
 dition. The framework of society was involved 
 in the struggle for Southern Independence and 
 constitutional liberty, and was disintegrated by it 
 as effectually as the thin, ragged battalions of 
 Lee were scattered by overwhelming odds. 
 
 While the question of supply for material need, 
 at this time, was paramount ; the question next in 
 importance was the manner in which to meet the 
 new phase of life which confronted all, and to
 
 xxviii Mary Bayard Clarke. 
 
 formulate and carry out views adapted to the 
 changed and lower fortunes of the people. 
 
 Novel circumstances required novel views to 
 meet them, as an unexpected move of an enemy 
 might require a skilful commander to vary his 
 plan of battle, even on the field. There was 
 nought to be gained in surrendering to despair, 
 or moaning over lost opportunity. The need of 
 the time was high resolve to meet new and dis 
 tressing contingencies, by heroism worthy of the 
 fields of Manassas or Chickamauga ; and out of 
 the loins of adversity to pluck the sweetness of 
 peace and content. It was into this patriotic 
 work that Mrs. Clarke entered with all the force 
 of her nature. Her pen was never wearied, nor 
 did it ever rest, until chaos had resolved itself 
 into order, and harmony had succeeded to dis 
 cord and contention. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke's literary range was not limited to 
 her mother-tongue. She was familiar with many 
 of the best writers in German, Spanish and 
 French, and made translations from these lan 
 guages in easy and graceful prose, and in verse 
 whose rhymthic flow and truthful rendering 
 caused them to be acceptable contributions to the 
 literature of the language. 
 
 It has been said that the attribute of art is to 
 suggest infinitely more than it expresses, and of 
 genius to catch suggestions, no matter from what 
 source, and reproduce them stamped with its own 
 unmistakable mark. Tried by this standard, 
 these poems may not be unworthily placed among 
 the tributes of genius to poetic art.
 
 Mary Bayard Clarke. xxix 
 
 Her versatile power of rendering an incident 
 into rhyme caused her to write many poems of 
 passing and local interest, which it has been 
 deemed proper to omit, as they were never in 
 tended for other than the time and place in which 
 they had their origin. The poems selected are 
 given in chronological order, with a view of 
 showing the favored themes of her fancy, at dif 
 ferent stages of her career. In their mute ap 
 peal for a permanent place in the literature of 
 Southern homes, if not to a more extended cir 
 cle, the views of the writer of this sketch may not 
 be impartial, and, indeed, may be out of place. 
 He feels, however, that appeal will not be made 
 in vain, and that they will have a place in the 
 Queendom of song, due to their intrinsic merit, 
 under the verdict of the hearts "touched to fine 
 issues," for which they were intended.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF SPRING. 
 
 An early, novel and well-sustained effort of the cre 
 ative genius of Mrs. Clarke, first appeared in "Wood- 
 Notes," a collection of poems, written by North Caroli 
 nians, edited by her, and published in 1854. 
 
 The Ice-King opened his frozen gates to hold 
 high court one day, 
 
 And his liege-men all were summoned there, du 
 tiful homage to pay. 
 
 His palace was built of veinless blocks, hewn in 
 the frigid zone, 
 
 And lit with a gleam of rosy light from an Au 
 rora thrown. 
 
 His sea-green throne was a frozen wave brought 
 from the northern pole, 
 
 Which seemed with its gleaming crest congealed 
 ere it had ceased to roll. 
 
 Drest in his dazzling robes he sat in his council- 
 chamber wide, 
 
 And cast on its strong and lofty walls a glance of 
 haughty pride: 
 
 A sceptre of ice in his hand he held, which glit 
 tered with many a gem; 
 
 While the diamond and opal's changing light 
 flashed from his diadem. 
 
 His mantle of snow around him fell in many a 
 spotless fold,
 
 32 The Triumph of Spring. 
 
 With an edge of lace-work, rich and light, 
 
 wrought by the Hoar-Frost cold. 
 He smiled as his warriors round him came, clad 
 
 all in frozen mail, 
 Their gleaming swords the icicles sharp their 
 
 darts the rattling hail. 
 There stood the North- Wind, wrapped in clouds, 
 
 with his dark-forbidding face, 
 The piercing East- Wind, clear and cold, with his 
 
 subtle, treach'rous grace; 
 And there was the still and silent Sleet, with his 
 
 armour glittering bright, 
 And the stinging Frost, both Black and Hoar, 
 
 who only work at night. 
 
 "My children," he said, "my liege-men bold, 
 
 hearken to my command 
 Meddlesome Spring is seeking again to enter my 
 
 chosen land ; 
 When first she stole on me unawares and melted 
 
 my jewels bright, 
 
 I swore in my wrath I never would see the mis 
 chievous, troublesome sprite ; 
 What care I for her bright green leaves, her buds 
 
 and flowers so gay? 
 My mantle of snow and my icy gems are lovelier 
 
 far than they. 
 And sweeter, too, are my rushing winds with 
 
 their whistle keen and sharp, 
 Than the softest notes she ever drew from the 
 
 strings of her woodland harp. 
 Then hang my jewels on every bough, and let 
 
 my cold winds blow
 
 The Triumph of Spring. 33 
 
 And, lest she hide in the bosom of earth, go, bury 
 
 it deep in snow. 
 For I'll let her know a king am I whom none dare 
 
 disobey, 
 In fetters of ice I'll bind her fast and sweep her 
 
 flowers away. 
 And if, in spite of my solemn oath, she seeks an 
 
 entrance here, 
 I order you all to drive her forth at the point of 
 
 sword and spear." 
 They bowed them low at his behest, for he was a 
 
 mighty king, 
 And by his sceptre each one swore to conquer 
 
 treacherous Spring. 
 The North-Wind blew his rudest blast to meet 
 
 the Southern breeze, 
 While the silent Sleet, as the rain-drops fell, with 
 
 icicles gemmed the trees. 
 The lowering Snow-clouds veiled the Sun, lest 
 
 Spring should lurk in his ray, 
 And the Hoar-Frost sealed the earth like a stone 
 
 to drive her thence away : 
 And over the fields a pall was cast a pall of 
 
 whitest snow 
 
 Beneath whose folds all life was chilled, and Na 
 ture's pulse beat low. 
 And when from his throne, on the wings of the 
 
 storm, the Ice-King forth did ride, 
 He saw not a nook in all the land where he fan 
 cied Spring could hide. 
 Each shrub, and tree, and blade of grass, that 
 
 peeped from the snowy pall,
 
 34 The Triumph of Spring. 
 
 Was cased in a sparkling sheen of ice that the 
 
 Sleet had laid on all. 
 The Sun was hid by a murky cloud that hung like 
 
 a gathering frown, 
 And the air was filled with the driving snow, that, 
 
 ghost-like floated down; 
 While the breast of earth by the frost was raised, 
 
 as though it heaved a sigh 
 For the genial warmth of prisoned Spring, as the 
 
 frigid king rushed by. 
 "Ha ! ha !" he shouted and dashed along, "this, 
 
 this is but sport to me, 
 The beauties of Spring, what are they, I pray, to 
 
 Winter's boisterous glee?" 
 And then in his joy he tossed the snow in many a 
 
 drift and mound, 
 Rattling the ice-boughs till they cracked and fell 
 
 to the frozen ground. 
 But he wearied soon of such stormy sport, and 
 
 slept' in his palace of snow, 
 "My liege-men," he said, "can conquer Spring, 
 
 for they hold all above and below." 
 
 For a while fast bound in a chain of ice the deft- 
 fingered fairy lay, 
 
 But she silently kissed each frozen link till she 
 melted them all away : 
 
 With timid steps she slowly moved, till in every 
 warrior's breast 
 
 Suspicion of her near approach was wholly lulled 
 to rest. 
 
 Then, with gentle wiles each foe she plies till the 
 West- Winds gently play,
 
 The Triumph of Spring. 35 
 
 And the Snow-clouds melt before their breath, or, 
 spirit-like float away. 
 
 The silent Sleet next owns her power, and lets his 
 ice-darts fall, 
 
 As gently from the frozen earth she draws its 
 snowy pall ; 
 
 The Frost no longer seals its breast, the fruit- 
 trees burst in bloom. 
 
 While the meek-eyed violet lifts its head and 
 sighs a sweet perfume. 
 
 But alas ! one day in her earnest zeal she bade the 
 Zephyrs blow, 
 
 And their balmy breath was wafted on to the Ice- 
 King's home of snow. 
 
 'What, ho !'" he cried, and started up, "I felt the 
 breath of Spring, 
 
 The lazy Zephyrs fan my brow, and birds begin 
 to sing." 
 
 Then he called for the treach'rous East-Wind 
 cold, and swept the startled land, 
 
 Till the Hoar-Frost worked and the rain-drops 
 fell once more at his command. 
 
 His ice-clad warriors rose from sleep at his rat 
 tling chariot's sound. 
 
 They waved their gleaning swords on high and 
 scattered their arrows round: 
 
 They shook the trees till the blossoms fell before 
 their stormy wrath, 
 
 And strewed them with their icy breath in the 
 angry monarch's path. 
 
 The Hoar-Frost stamped on the springing grass 
 and seared its tender blade ;
 
 36 The Triumph of Spring. 
 
 And the shivering mock-bird hushed his note, of 
 
 the driving blast afraid. 
 How often thus by Death's cold hand our joys 
 
 are snatched away, 
 While by his breath our bursting hopes are 
 
 blighted in a day ! 
 Yet the wounded heart can better bear affliction's 
 
 stormy night 
 Than the lingering death its love must die if cold 
 
 indifference blight. 
 But rouse ye! hearts who mourn o'er this, take 
 
 courage from the fay, 
 And strive, like her, by loving wiles to melt the 
 
 frost away. 
 She had bravely fought 'gainst sleet and snow, 
 
 the driving hail and rain ; 
 She had stilled the North-Wind's rudest blast 
 
 and melted his icy chain. 
 With her balmy breath and her sunny smile she 
 
 worked with right good will, 
 Though the Hoar-Frost keen in the silent night 
 
 did terrible mischief still. 
 Around her steps lay blighted buds and withered 
 
 leaf and flower, 
 
 Yet she bravely said : "I'll never yield to the Ice- 
 King's cruel power; 
 For I'll hie me away to his frozen court in my 
 
 robe of brightest green, 
 And I'll melt his heart with such tender love 
 
 he'll woo me for his queen." l 
 
 The Ice-King sat on his emerald throne drest 
 in his robes of state,
 
 The Triumph of Spring. 37 
 
 But his warriors saw his heart was filled with 
 
 wrath and vengeful hate. 
 With a withering glance of rage and scorn he 
 
 turned to where they stood, 
 "And so," he cried, "the fairy Spring has made 
 
 her entrance good ; 
 Did I not bid ye ward to keep, and guard 'gainst 
 
 each device 
 To bind her fast to the breast of Earth with an 
 
 adamant chain of ice? 
 Ye are faithless servants, one and all, and I trust 
 
 you now no more, 
 But I myself, both night and day, will guard my 
 
 palace door." 
 Slowly they turned and moved away, they could 
 
 not meet his look, 
 For a deadly languor o'er them crept, and all 
 
 like cowards shook. 
 But all unmoved the angry king walked slowly 
 
 up and down, 
 And dark and vengeful were his thoughts and 
 
 terrible his frown; 
 He swore in an iceberg, strong and cold, he'd 
 
 prison the mischievous fay, 
 And bind it fast to the northern pole, out of the 
 
 reach of day. 
 Like muttering thunder deep, not loud his 
 
 sounding curses rolled 
 Through his spacious courts, his vacant halls, his 
 
 corridors lone and cold. 
 But hark ! a murmuring sound he hears, with 
 
 distant music low:
 
 38 The Triumph of Spring. 
 
 Can it be the song of triumph raised by the con 
 queror of his foe? 
 
 As he strode through his lonely silent halls to 
 fling the portal wide 
 
 He little dreamed she was smiling there just 
 on the other side! 
 
 But he knew her not when he saw her stand a 
 maiden young and fair, 
 
 With the dewy buds of the pink moss-rose 
 twined in her golden hair; 
 
 In her little hand a harp she bore, and the music 
 from its strings 
 
 Was the joyous songs of the forest bird and the 
 hum of the wild bee's wings. 
 
 Like sporting Cupids by her side, attendant 
 Zephyrs danced, 
 
 And the rugged king forgot his wrath and stood 
 like one entranced. 
 
 Meekly to him she raised her eyes, of the deep 
 est violet blue, 
 
 While a mantling blush stole o'er her cheek like 
 the sunset's rosy hue ; 
 
 "I come," she said, "from a distant land whence 
 I fled from a mighty foe; 
 
 A refuge I seek in your icy courts and palace of 
 sparkling snow." 
 
 "Come in, come in," the monarch said, "a beauti 
 ful thing art thou, 
 
 With thy velvet robe of living green and the 
 flowers upon thy brow; 
 
 And it may be our foe's the same the mischiev 
 ous fairy Spring
 
 The Triumph of Spring. 39 
 
 But she's worse, by far, than e'er I dreamed, to 
 
 harm such a tender thing. 
 Nay, shrink not, fair one, from my touch," he 
 
 said, and kissed her brow, 
 ''Thou hast sought a home in my icy courts a 
 
 home and a heart hast thou." 
 And as he gazed on the lovely sprite his heart 
 
 began to glow, 
 
 For love sprang up in his frozen breast like vio 
 lets in the snow : 
 The gentle Zephyrs from his dress, unheeded, 
 
 plucked each gem, 
 They bore his sceptre of ice away and reft his 
 
 diadem ; 
 He did not see his palace walls were melting fast 
 
 away, 
 He gazed alone with passionate love on that 
 
 bright and sparkling fay. 
 She nestled close to his frozen heart, its haughty 
 
 pride to melt, 
 Till he led her gently to his throne and at her 
 
 footstool knelt. 
 "Joy, joy!" she cried, "I've triumphed now, the 
 
 Ice-King kneels to Spring!" 
 He said not a word, but he bowed him low to 
 
 the tiny radiant thing.
 
 4O The Fairies' Dance. 
 
 THE FAIRIES' DANCE. 
 
 "The Fairies' Dance" appeared in "Wood-Notes," al 
 ready alluded to. 
 
 Who could have been so apt a chronicler, save a 
 Fancy born and nurtured in fairy-land, imbued with 
 the spirit and familiar with the associations of its 
 people ? 
 
 How oft in the days of my childhood I read 
 Those wonderful tales of the Fays and their 
 
 Queen, 
 
 And heartily envied the lives that they led, 
 For I firmly believed in their dance on the 
 
 green. 
 
 Ah, well I remember that soft night in June, 
 When having discovered their ring in the 
 
 grass, 
 Methought I would watch by the light of the 
 
 moon, 
 
 And see if such wonders would still come to 
 pass. 
 
 As I opened my window and gazed on the night, 
 How lovely the vision that greeted my eye! 
 The leaves and the flowers were bathed in soft 
 light,
 
 The Fairies' Dance. 41 
 
 While the "tears of the Angels" were spark 
 ling on high. 
 The Genius of Darkness in silence reposed, 
 
 As wrapped in a mantle of moonlight he lay, 
 For gently the wings of the Giant had closed 
 Beneath the soft touch of that bright silver 
 ray. 
 
 Ah ! bright were the fancies that danced thro' my 
 
 brain, 
 
 As I eagerly counted the stroke of the clock, 
 
 And hoped that my vigil would not be in vain, 
 
 But the Fairies would dance till the crowing 
 
 of cock. 
 
 I listened all nature lay hushed in repose, 
 When gently there stole from the bosom of 
 
 earth 
 
 A strain of low music that swelled as it rose, 
 Till it seemed the outpouring of gladness and 
 mirth. 
 
 At the sound of this music the flowers awoke, 
 
 I saw their bright cups in a moment expand, 
 When, lo ! from these cells there suddenly broke, 
 
 As freed by some magic, a gay Fairy band. 
 From the depth of each blossom there came a 
 fair elf, 
 
 Whom safe in its petals it guarded by day, 
 And kept closely prisoned in spite of itself, 
 
 Till their Queen gave the elfins permission to 
 play.
 
 42 The Fairies' Dance. 
 
 I watched a pure Lily its white petals spread, 
 I marked thje long tube of the Woodbine un 
 close, 
 And forth from their centre whence perfume is 
 
 shed, 
 The Queen and her lovely young maidens 
 
 arose. 
 Every prison now opened, and out they came 
 
 streaming 
 From the cells of each flower that bloomed in 
 
 my view ; 
 
 The air in an instant with Fairies was teeming, 
 Who all of them merrily sung as they flew. 
 
 "Oh, the fair moon is up, by her slivery light, 
 
 We Fairies may merrily dance on the green, 
 She hath bound in slumber the Genius of night, 
 
 And high in the heavens is reigning a queen. 
 Then Fairies away, 'tis the hour for play, 
 
 For laughter and gladness, for dance and for 
 
 song, 
 We'll be merry and gay, till the break of the day, 
 
 If haply old Darkness shall slumber so long." 
 
 From the tuft of the scarlet Verboena they sped, 
 From the bud of the Fox-glove all spangled 
 
 with dew, 
 Like a cloud they arose from the Mignonette 
 
 bed, 
 From the teeth of the Fly-trap they gallantly 
 
 flew. 
 
 From the leaves of the Rose, from the Violet's 
 cell,
 
 The Fairies' Dance. 43 
 
 From the depths of the Fuchsia they merrily 
 
 sprang, 
 They were hid 'mid the sweets of the Jessamine's 
 
 bell, 
 And seemed on the Bachelor's Button to hang. 
 
 They looked like the rapidly changing shade 
 
 Of the Rainbow's light in a summer shower, 
 Or the mingling hues by the sunset made, 
 
 For each was the tint of its favorite flower. 
 As butterflies oft in the heat of the day, 
 
 Upon the cool bank of some rivulet sport, 
 I marked to the ring they all fluttered away, 
 
 Where high in the midst the Queen held her 
 court. 
 
 For hours I watched them, as round an old oak 
 They danced to the sound of that heart-stirring 
 
 strain, 
 Till growing too noisy, old Darkness awoke, 
 
 And chid them all back to their flowers again. 
 In anger the Giant arose from his rest, 
 
 And from him his mantle of moonlight he cast, 
 Then frowned on the Moon till she sank in the 
 
 west, 
 
 For she knew that her hour of triumph was 
 past. 
 
 Ah, yes, it was ended, and Darkness again 
 Spread over the earth his broad wings for a 
 
 while, 
 Till the goddess of Morn, as she rose o'er the 
 
 plain,
 
 44 The Fairies' Dance. 
 
 Dispelled all his gloom by the light of her 
 
 smile. 
 She dried up the tears of the Fairies that fell 
 
 In drops of fresh dew on the flowers around, 
 And I said in my heart as I bade them farewell, 
 I'm glad that I know where the Fairies are 
 found.
 
 Shadows. 45 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 There are moments of sadness in life, 
 
 When silently over me fall 
 Forebodings of sorrow and strife 
 
 Dim shadows far-reaching and tall. 
 
 Are they warnings of trouble before, 
 Thus vaguely and faintly defined, 
 
 Or hauntings of that which is o'er, 
 Yet leaveth its shadow behind? 
 
 Why hath not the feeling a name? 
 
 In tear-drops it seeketh relief, 
 But, oh, it is never the same 
 As sadness that cometh with grief. 
 
 It is not that darkness abiding, 
 When the spirit in battle must cope 
 
 With sorrow, whose banner is hiding 
 The star-light that shineth from hope; 
 
 When the heart its own bitterness knows, 
 But keepeth it secret from all, 
 
 Though the torrent of feeding o'erflows, 
 And tears of hot anguish will fall.
 
 46 Shadows. 
 
 Does it come like a bugle-note citing 
 The spirit to arm for a fight 
 The gray clasp of twilight uniting 
 
 Joy's sunshine with sorrow's dark night? 
 
 Or is it a solemn-toned chant, 
 
 And not the vague warnings of grief 
 The dew that's distilled on the plant 
 
 Not the frost that discolors the leaf? 
 
 I know not, but fain would believe, 
 
 The feeling betokens no ill, 
 But comes the full heart to relieve, 
 
 And bid the flushed spirit be still. 
 
 And when on my pathway it falls 
 
 The warning shall not be in vain, 
 But the voice of an angel that calls 
 My soul to its duties again.
 
 The Rain upon the Hills. 47 
 
 THE RAIN UPON THE HILLS. 
 
 An inspiration from the infinite depths of a moth 
 er's heart, tender in its conception, chastely simple in 
 its expression. No one can read it without emotion, 
 or rest satisfied to read it only once. 
 
 Though 'tis raining on the hills, love, 
 
 'Tis raining on the hills, 
 Not the shadow of a cloud, love, 
 
 The smiling valley fills. 
 See how the sunlight falls, love, 
 As though it loved to rest 
 
 Upon that youthful mother, love, 
 
 Her first-born on her breast. 
 
 She cares not for the world, love, 
 
 Its pleasures or its wealth, 
 She thinks but of her child, love, 
 
 His happiness and health. 
 Life's sorrows are to her, love, 
 
 But rain upon the hills, 
 While the sunlight of that babe, love, 
 
 Her happy bosom fills.
 
 48 The Rain upon the Hills. 
 
 But see, the cloud rolls on, love, 
 
 'Tis deep'ning all the while: 
 And 'the sunlight from the vale, love, 
 
 Is fading like a smile; 
 Is fading like a smile, love, 
 
 That's followed by despair, 
 When the idols of the heart, love, 
 Are vanishing in air. 
 
 The frightened mother starts, love, 
 
 And clasps her baby now : 
 For she seeth that a shade, love, 
 
 Is gath'ring o'er his brow. 
 She is weeping o'er her child, love, 
 
 'Tis raining in the vale 
 Life struggleth now with death, love, 
 
 God grant he may prevail. 
 
 The cloud has passed away, love, 
 
 The sun is shining bright; 
 And that mother's trembling heart, love, 
 
 Rejoiceth in the light 
 But the mem'ry of that storm, love, 
 
 Her bosom ever fills, 
 And she feareth for the vale, love, 
 
 When 'tis raining on the hills.
 
 Nuptial Hymn of the Greeks. 49 
 
 NUPTIAL HYMN OF THE GREEKS. 
 
 This translation from Lamartine, although written 
 earlier, appeared during the year 1866 in a collection 
 of poems by Mrs. Clarke, entitled, "Mosses from a 
 Rolling Stone; or, Idle Moments of a Busy Woman." 
 
 Exquisite delicacy of sentiment was never robed 
 in lines of sweeter rhythmic flow. Its words linger in 
 the heart like the close of melody of which we ask, as 
 Illyria's Duke, 
 
 "That strain again." 
 
 Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
 Over the couch where beauty reposes ! 
 
 Wherefore weep'st thou, dark-eyed daughter? 
 
 'Tis no day for tears and gloom, 
 Like a lily o'er the water, 
 
 Bending with its sweet perfume, 
 Hangs thy head as o'er thee flushes 
 Love's bright glow in rosy blushes. 
 
 Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
 Over the couch where beauty reposes. 
 'Tis thy lover thou dost hear, 
 
 Take the ring that seals his flame, 
 Wear it without doubt or fear, 
 Trembling but with maiden shame.
 
 50 Nuptial Hymn of the Greeks. 
 
 If thy love burns in his soul, 
 
 There 't will glow while this is whole. 
 
 Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
 Over the couch where .beauty reposes. 
 In thy hand the torch is burning 
 
 Sacred unto nuptial bliss, 
 Let thy heart so fondly yearning, 
 Feed a flame as pure as this; 
 Shedding e'er its sweet perfume 
 O'er life's pathway to the tomb. 
 
 Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
 Over the couch where beauty reposes. 
 Crowned kids around are playing 
 
 By young maidens brought to thee, 
 Like them, in the meadow straying 
 
 Soon thy children thou shalt see, 
 New-born joys that crown the life 
 Of the mother and the wife. 
 
 Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
 Over the couch where beauty reposes. 
 In the valley wreath the myrtle 
 
 That shall shade thy infant's head, 
 Learn the cooing of the turtle 
 
 As thou mak'st his little bed; 
 In the summer's golden prime 
 Ready make for harvest time. 
 
 Scatter, scatter narcissus and roses 
 Over the couch where beauty reposes.
 
 Nuptial Hymn of the Greeks. 51 
 
 Canst them murmur like the water 
 
 As it ripples o'er the stones? 
 Woman is but nature's daughter 
 
 Let her learn her mother's tones. 
 Practice now the notes that best 
 Lull the infant to its rest.
 
 52 Aphrodite. 
 
 APHRODITE. 
 
 Aphrodite! The tale is old, but it is here given to 
 us fresh and fair as a rose freighted with the dew of 
 the morning. 
 
 'Twas in the Spring-time of the world, 
 
 The sun's red banners were unfurled, 
 
 And slanting rays of golden light 
 
 Just kissed the billows tipped with white, 
 
 And through the water's limpid blue 
 
 Flashed down to where the sea-weed grew; 
 
 While rainbow hues of every shade 
 
 Across the restless surface played. 
 
 Then, as the rays grew stronger still, 
 
 They sought the sea-girt caves to fill, 
 
 And sparkled on the treasures rare, 
 
 That all unknown were hidden there. 
 
 Roused by their warm electric kiss 
 
 The ocean thrilled with wak'ning bliss, 
 
 Its gasping sob and heaving breast 
 
 The power of in-born life confest. 
 
 But, though their waves were tossed ashore, 
 
 Upon their crests no life they bore. 
 
 Deep hidden in its darkest cave, 
 Unmoved by current, wind or wave, 
 A purple shell of changing shade, 
 By nature's careful hand was laid;
 
 Aphrodite. 53 
 
 The clinging sea-weed, green and brown, 
 With fibrous grasp still held it down 
 Despite the water's restless flow ; 
 But when they caught that deep'ning glow 
 They flushed with crimson, pink and gold, 
 And from the shell unclasped their hold. 
 Its shadowy bonds thus drawn aside, 
 It upward floated on the tide; 
 But still its valves refused to yield, 
 And still its treasure was concealed. 
 
 Close shut upon the waves it lay 
 
 Till warmly kissed by one bright ray, 
 
 When lo ! its pearly tips unclose, 
 
 As ope the petals of the rose ; 
 
 And pure and fresh as morning dew 
 
 Fair Aphrodite arose to view. 
 
 First like a startled child amazed 
 
 On earth, and air, and sea she gazed, 
 
 Then shook the wavy locks of gold 
 
 That o'er her neck and bosom rolled, 
 
 Loosened the cestus on her breast, 
 
 'Gainst which her throbbing heart now prest; 
 
 For ah! its clasp could not restrain 
 
 The new-born life that thrilled each vein, 
 
 Flushed to her rosy fingers' tips, 
 
 And deeply dyed her parted lips, 
 
 Spread o'er her cheek its crimson glow 
 
 And tinged her heaving bosom's snow. 
 
 Conscious of beauty and its power 
 
 She owns the influence of the hour. 
 
 Instinct with life attempts to rise, 
 
 Her quick-drawn breath melts into sighs,
 
 54 Aphrodite. 
 
 Her half-closed eyes in moisture swim, 
 And languid droops each rounded limb; 
 With yielding grace her lovely head 
 Sinks back upon its pearly bed, 
 Where changing shades of pink attest 
 The spot her glowing cheeks hath prest. 
 There all entranced she silent lay, 
 Borne on 'mid showers of silvery spray, 
 Which caught the light and backward fell 
 In sparkling diamonds round her shell. 
 Thus wafted by the western breeze, 
 Cythera's flowery isle she sees; 
 Its spicy odors round her float, 
 And thither glides her purple boat; 
 And, when its prow had touched the land, 
 There stepped upon the golden sand 
 With life, and love, and beauty warm, 
 A perfect woman's matchless form. 
 
 The tale is old, yet always new 
 To every heart which proves it true; 
 The limpid waters of the soul 
 In snow-crowned waves of feeling roll, 
 Until love's soft pervading light 
 Has unto color kissed the white 
 And in its deep recesses shown 
 Rich treasures to itself unknown, 
 Through many restless sob and sigh 
 Nor ever learn the reason why; 
 Whilst others wake with sudden start 
 To feel the glow pervade their heart, 
 Flash down beneath its surface swell 
 And shine on Passion's purple shell,
 
 Aphrodite. 55 
 
 Change to the rainbow's varying hue 
 The ties it may not rend in two; 
 Till doubts and fears which held it fast 
 Beneath love's glow relax their grasp; 
 Slowly the network fades away 
 Like fleecy clouds at opening day, 
 And Passion woke by warmth and light 
 In deep'ning shades springs into sight. 
 
 But man the shell too often holds, 
 Nor sees the beauty it enfolds; 
 Its close shut valves refuse to part 
 And show the depths of woman's heart. 
 And tossing on life's billows high 
 The purple shell unoped may lie, 
 Till cast on Death's cold, rocky shore, 
 Its life and longing both are o'er. 
 But if Love's warm entrancing light 
 Shall kiss the parting lips aright, 
 And wake to life the beauty rare 
 Which Nature's self hath hidden there, 
 Beneath his soft enraptured smile 
 'Tis wafted to the flowery isle, 
 An Aphrodite steps ashore 
 A perfect woman nothing more. 
 SAN ANTONIO, January I, 1861.
 
 56 Annie Carter Lee. 
 
 ANNIE CARTER LEE. 
 
 "Died, at Jones' Springs, Warren County, N. ^C, 
 October 20, 1862. Annie Carter Lee, daughter of Gen. 
 Robert E. Lee, C. S. A." 
 
 "Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 
 Saviour, in thy word we trust, 
 Sow we now our precious grain, 
 Thou shalt raise it up again. 
 Plant we the terrestrial root 
 Which shall bear celestial fruit, 
 Lay a bud within the tomb 
 That a flower in Heaven may bloom. 
 Severed are no tender ties, 
 Though in Death's embrace she lies, 
 For the lengthened chain of love 
 Stretches to her home above. 
 Mother, in thy bitter grief 
 Let this thought bring sweet relief 
 (Mother of an angel now,) 
 God Himself hath crowned thy brow 
 With the thorns the Saviour wore; 
 Blessed art thou evermore! 
 Unto Him thou dost resign 
 A portion of the life was thine. 
 "Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 
 Sore the trial, sweet the trust.
 
 Annie Carter Lee. 57 
 
 Father thou who seest Death 
 Reaping grain at every breath, 
 As his sickle sharp he wields 
 O'er our bloody battlefields 
 Murmur not that now he weaves 
 This sweet flower into his sheaves. 
 Taken in her early prime, 
 Gathered in the summer time, 
 Autumn's blast she shall not know, 
 Never shrink from winter's snow. 
 Sharp the pang which thou must feel, 
 Sharper than the foeman's steel; 
 For thy fairest flower is hid 
 Underneath the coffin's lid. 
 O'er her grave thou drop'st no tear, 
 Warrior stern must thou appear, 
 Crushing back the tide of grief 
 Which in vain demands relief. 
 Louder still thy country cries, 
 At thy feet it bleeding lies, 
 And before the patriot now 
 Husband Father both must bow. 
 But unnumbered are thy friends, 
 And from many a home ascends 
 Earnest, heartfelt prayers for thee, 
 "That as thy days thy strength may be."
 
 58 The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 
 
 THE WATER-SPRITE'S BRIDAL. 
 
 Pride might justly swell the heart of the poet who 
 could make a foray into the fair demesne of the Imagi 
 nation and return laden with spoils such as these ! 
 
 The Rio San Antonio is one of the most beautiful 
 streams in Texas. It bursts from a basin of white lime 
 stone, twenty feet deep and nine or ten in circumfer 
 ence, the irregular sides of which are covered to the 
 bottom with water-cresses in every stage of vegetation, 
 from the vivid green of the half-open leaf to the crim 
 son and yellow of the passing one; so the Spring, 
 when the sun shines into it, seems lined with a tapestry 
 of jewels woven on a ground- work of silver. Near 
 it may generally be found in bloom a small white lily, 
 as fragrant as the tube-rose, which springs up after 
 every shower, and, in a single night, will cover the 
 prairie as the stars the heavens. Its pure white chal 
 ice is a fit emblem of the perfect love shadowed forth 
 in the following allegory : 
 
 On the borders of a river 
 
 In our sunny southern land, 
 Long ago a fairy princess 
 
 Dwelt with her attendant band. 
 Hidden from all mortal vision 
 
 Was each tiny elfin shape, 
 Seeming now a darting sunbeam 
 
 'Mid the olive and the grape:
 
 The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 59 
 
 Now a sparkle on the river 
 
 As it gurgling glides along, 
 Whilst its ever murmuring ripple 
 
 Was the echo of their song. 
 Sporting in its limpid coolness 
 
 If they splashed the water high, 
 It was but the cascade foaming 
 
 When it met a mortal's eye; 
 If in fairy frolic leaped they 
 
 From the river in their play, 
 Instantly they seemed bright rainbows 
 
 Woven in the dashing spray. 
 If they lurked 'mid leafy shadows 
 
 Quivering sumbeams sparkled there, 
 If they danced upon the meadow 
 
 Dewy fragrance rilled the air. 
 Lights and sounds of nature were they 
 
 Unto mortal eye and ear, 
 But the Water-Sprite might see them 
 
 In their fairy forms appear. 
 Hid behind the cascade's curtain, 
 
 Lurking in the golden sand, 
 Peeping from some mossy crevice, 
 
 Oft he watched the fairy band. 
 Carelessly they bathed and sported, 
 
 All unconscious they were seen, 
 Feeding thus his glowing passion 
 
 For their loved and lovely queen. 
 Eagerly he watched her daily 
 
 As she laid her robes aside, 
 And with her attendant maidens, 
 
 Plunged into the cooling tide.
 
 60 The Water-Sprite's Bridal, 
 
 There each day she longer lingered 
 
 Whilst his passion stronger grew, 
 Till he almost was a mortal 
 
 In the suff'ring that he knew. 
 Now with rainbow hopes elated, 
 
 Then in deep and black despair 
 Trembling with his sweet emotion, 
 
 Swayed by trifles light as air. 
 Luring her with wiles most loving 
 
 To the shady river side, 
 Rushing, when he saw her coming, 
 
 'Neath the lily leaves to hide. 
 
 But one day the fairy came not, 
 
 In the meadow did not stray, 
 Though he listened, watched and waited 
 
 Through a long, long summer's day. 
 Bursting then each fear that bound him 
 
 All his passion uncontrolled 
 Wildly leaping in his bosom, 
 
 Through his veins like lava rolled. 
 Eagerly he sought his treasure 
 
 All along the river side, 
 Burning now to tell the feeling 
 
 Heretofore he sought to hide. 
 In a wooded dell he found her 
 
 Weeping 'neath a linden tree, 
 Not a thought of self came o'er him 
 
 As he slowly bent his knee. 
 "Who hath wounded thee, my darling?" 
 
 Were the words that from him burst 
 Not his passion, but her sorrow 
 
 Stirred his gen'rous spirit first.
 
 The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 61 
 
 Starting from him in amazement, 
 
 Up the little beauty sprang, 
 And the pride of all her lineage 
 
 In her startled accents rang: 
 "Wherefore do you dare to seek me 
 
 When I fain would be alone?" 
 But he saw surprise was struggling 
 
 With the anger of her tone. 
 Lifted were the gates of silence, 
 
 Love, like wine, now made him bold, 
 Wondering at his former shyness 
 
 All his passion then he told. 
 Anger vanished as she listened, 
 
 Trembling with a new-born bliss, 
 Timidly she nestled to him 
 
 And returned his glowing kiss. 
 In a warm, bright stream, electric 
 
 To her lip his passion thrilled, 
 And with rosy hues advancing 
 
 All her wakened spirit filled. 
 Like a lily-bud unfolding, 
 
 In the flowery month of May, 
 To his love her soul expanded 
 
 As upon his heart she lay. 
 Love the pure ethereal passion 
 
 Wells from nature's throbbing heart, 
 And, though mortals quaff it deepest, 
 
 Spirits also claim a part. 
 With its joy they taste its sorrow, 
 
 So the Wood-Nymph and the Sprite 
 Found that nature's bright_ elixir 
 
 Was not all unmixed delight.
 
 62 The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 
 
 
 
 Waking from his blissful reverie 
 
 In her ear he whispers low, 
 "Wilt thou wed with me, my darling ?" 
 
 And she sighing answers, "No; 
 Knowst thou not that woodland fairies 
 
 Only wed among themselves? 
 We are flowers, and, like them, wither 
 
 If we mate with other elves. 
 Should I yield me to thy wooing 
 
 I'd no longer be a fay, 
 Wedded to a Water-Spirit 
 
 All my power would fade away." 
 "But," he pleaded, "in my kingdom 
 
 Thou wilt share the power that's mine, 
 For the moment that I clasp thee 
 
 Half my nature melts in thine; 
 Queen of both the land and water 
 
 Shall my little princess reign, 
 Neither land nor Water-Spirit, 
 
 But a mingling of the twain." 
 
 Thus he wooed and wooing won her; 
 
 Doubts and fears were laid aside, 
 And she passed into the river 
 
 As the Water-Spirit's bride. 
 To his bosom fondly clinging 
 
 Downward from the light of day, 
 Downward from the sun and flowers, 
 
 Sank the half unconscious fay; 
 Down to where earth's deepest fountains 
 
 Bubbled from their sands of gold, 
 And her subterranean rivers 
 
 From their hidden sources rolled.
 
 The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 63 
 
 Cold and dark to her those caverns. 
 
 Which to him were warm and bright, 
 And but half a Water-Spirit 
 
 Soon she trembled with affright. 
 Tenderly he soothed and cheered her, 
 
 Drew her closer to his side, 
 As her lingering fairy nature 
 
 Vainly she essayed to hide. 
 But he felt it quivering in her 
 
 Saw his bliss to her was pain, 
 And so true and pure his passion 
 
 That he bore her back again. 
 Then, the long imprisoned river 
 Following as he upward went, 
 With a mighty leap exultant 
 
 Through its rocky arches rent 
 Rent them as love rends the fetters 
 
 Prudence doth 'gainst passion urge, 
 When the glowing waves of feeling 
 
 In a mortal's bosom surge. 
 Darkly through its hidden caverns 
 
 Still the river might have rushed, 
 But the rock by love was smitten 
 
 And its waters outward gushed. 
 Onward, upward, bubbling, gurgling 
 
 In a silver stream they rise, 
 Till in sunlight 'mid the flowers 
 
 Once again the fairy lies. 
 Welling from a rocky basin, 
 
 Shaded by o'erhanging vines, ; 
 Peaceful as a sleeping infant 
 
 Now its placid water shines.
 
 64 The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 
 
 Thus the fairy legend telleth 
 
 Yonder lovely river first 
 As a spirit's bridal chamber 
 
 From its hidden sources burst; 
 Not for it the small beginning, 
 
 "Winning tribute as it flows" 
 But at once, in perfect being, 
 
 Aphrodite-like it rose. 
 Sacred unto Sprite and Fairy 
 
 Still its lovely birth-place seems, 
 And the sparkle of their presence 
 
 On its rippling water gleams. 
 Rainbow tints are o'er it glinting, 
 
 Silver rocks around it shine, 
 Whilst, like tapestry, the cresses 
 
 All its inward chambers line. 
 Every hue that autumn flingeth 
 
 O'er the leaves that wave in air, 
 Mingled with the green of summer 
 
 Have the Spirits woven there ; 
 Shining through the limpid water 
 
 Every perfect leaflet bright 
 Sparkles like a brilliant jewel, 
 
 With an opalescent light. 
 Woodland flowers of every color 
 
 Round its rocky sides are hung, 
 Whilst o'er all a misty vapor 
 
 Like a silver veil is flung. 
 Snowy lilies round it glisten, 
 
 Shedding fragrance on the air, 
 Emblems of the tricksy spirits 
 
 Who are ever hovering there. 
 'Almanitas, I have named them, 
 
 For its meaneth "little fairy,"
 
 The Water-Sprite's Bridal. 65 
 
 And like Sprites they come and vanish 
 
 From the bosom of the prairie; 
 Springing after every shower 
 
 In all seasons of the year, 
 Fresh and pure as crystal dew-drops 
 
 Do their starry blooms appear. 
 Neither land nor water lilies 
 
 But a mingling of the twain, 
 Seeming from the clouds descending 
 
 In the falling drops of rain. 
 Like a shining silver ribbon 
 
 Waving in a gentle breeze, 
 Onward glides the lovely river 
 
 Under overhanging trees, 
 Sleeping now in darkest shadow 
 
 Still and deep its water flows, 
 Flashing like ten thousand diamonds, 
 
 Laughing, leaping on it goes 
 But a magic spell is o'er it, 
 
 Haunting all its winding way 
 With the mem'ry of that wooing 
 
 And the Spirit's Bridal Day.
 
 During the war between the States as already men 
 tioned, Mrs. Clarke wrote many patriotic poems, ex-' 
 pressive of the thoughts and feelings which permeated 
 Southern homes, and which served to maintain the 
 devotion and enthusiasm of the Confederate soldier 
 in the field; but when the war was at an end, she for 
 got all, save its blessed memories and that she had 
 tried to do her duty; and it was creditable to her head 
 and heart, that in the volume of "Mosses from a Roll 
 ing Stone," published in the year 1866, in which she 
 collected many poems, scattered through various mag 
 azines and newspapers, she did not republish a single 
 line reflecting on the conduct of our mighty adversary 
 as a mass, or individually, but preserved the silence 
 that gives dignity to misfortune. 
 
 It may be pardonable, however, to except from this 
 class of her writings, the two following poems, as they 
 will amuse without awakening resentment."
 
 Stonewall's Resignation. 
 
 STONEWALL'S RESIGNATION. 
 
 A Yankee soliloquy before the first battle of Frcd 
 ericksburg. 
 
 Well! we can whip them now, I guess, 
 
 If Stonewall has resigned; 
 General Lee in "Fighting Burnside," 
 
 More than his match will find. 
 We've done with slow McClellan, 
 
 Who kept us digging dirt, 
 And now are "on to Richmond," 
 
 Where "some one will be hurt." 
 Again around the rebels 
 
 The anaconda coils, 
 And east and west and north and south 
 
 We have them in our toils. 
 We'd have beat them at Manassas 
 
 If McDowell had not slipt, 
 When he tried to leap this Stonewall 
 
 Who don't know when he's whipt. 
 We'd have laid them in the Valley 
 
 So low they could not rise, 
 But Banks must run against it 
 
 And spill all his supplies.
 
 68 Stonewall's Resignation. 
 
 But if that fool, Jeff Davis, 
 
 Has let Stonewall resign, 
 We can go on to Richmond 
 
 By the Rappahannock line. 
 But they say he's a shrewd fellow, 
 
 Who knows a soldier well, 
 He stood by Sydney Johnston 
 
 Until in death he fell; 
 "If Johnston is no General, 
 
 Then, gentlemen, I've none," 
 He said to those who grumbled 
 
 When Donelson we won ; 
 And I don't believe that Jackson's 
 
 Resignation he'll accept 
 Hello! a rebel picket 
 
 How close the rascal crept! 
 "Say ! Johnny, is it true 
 
 That Jackson has resinged?" 
 "Well ! Yes I reckon so 
 
 Heard some'n of the kind." 
 "What for? Did old Jeff. Davis 
 
 Put a 'sub' above his head?" 
 "No, they took away his commissary 
 
 So I've heard it said." 
 "Well! we are glad to hear it, 
 
 And will tender them our thanks. 
 But who was Jackson's commissary?" 
 
 "Your Major General Banks." 
 "Confound your rebel impudence! 
 
 He'd be very smart, indeed, 
 If from supplies for one intended 
 
 TWO armies he could feed,"
 
 The Rebel Sock. 69 
 
 THE REBEL SOCK. 
 
 A true episode in Seward's raid on the old ladies 
 of Maryland. 
 
 In all the pomp and pride of war 
 
 The Lincolnite was drest, 
 High beat his patriotic heart 
 
 Beneath his armor'd vest. 
 His maiden sword hung by his side, 
 
 His pistols both were right, 
 The shining spurs were on his heels, 
 
 His coat was buttoned tight. 
 A firm resolve sat on his brow, 
 
 For he to danger went; 
 By Seward's self that day he was 
 
 On secret service sent. 
 "Mount and away," he sternly cried, 
 
 Unto the gallant band, 
 Who, all equipped from head to heel, 
 
 Awaited his command; 
 "But halt, my boys before you go, 
 
 These solemn words I'll say, 
 Lincoln expects that every man 
 
 His duty '11 do to-day,"
 
 70 The Rebel Sock. 
 
 "We will, we will," the soldiers cried, 
 
 "The President shall see, 
 That we will only run away 
 
 From Jackson or from Lee." 
 And now they're off, just four-score men, 
 
 A picked and chosen troop, 
 And like a hawk upon a dove, 
 
 On Maryland they swoop. 
 From right to left from house to house, 
 
 The little army rides ; 
 In every lady's wardrobe look 
 
 To see what there she hides. 
 They peep in closets, trunks and drawers, 
 
 Examine every box; 
 Not rebel soldiers now they seek, 
 
 But rebel soldiers' socks! 
 But all in vain ! too keen for them, 
 
 Were those dear ladies there, 
 And not a sock, or flannel shirt 
 
 Was taken anywhere. 
 The day wore on to afternoon, 
 
 That warm and drowsy hour, 
 When Nature's self doth seem to feel 
 
 A touch of Morpheus' power; 
 A farm-house door stood open wide, 
 
 The men were all away, 
 The ladies sleeping in their rooms, 
 
 The children at their play; 
 The house-dog lay upon the step, 
 
 But never raised his head, 
 Though crackling on the gravel walk, 
 
 He heard a stranger's tread.
 
 The Rebel Sock. 71 
 
 Old grandma in her rocking chair 
 
 Sat knitting in the hall, 
 When suddenly upon her work 
 
 A shadow seemed to fall. 
 She raised her eyes and there she saw 
 
 Our Federal hero stand, 
 His little cap was on his head, 
 
 His sword was in his hand. 
 Slowly the dear old lady rose, 
 
 And tottering, forward came, 
 And peering dimly through her "specs," 
 
 Said, "Honey ! what's your name ?" 
 Then, as she raised her withered hand, 
 
 To pat his sturdy arm, 
 "There's no one here but Grandmama 
 
 And she won't do you harm. 
 Come, take a seat, and don't be scared, 
 
 Put up your sword, my child, 
 I would not hurt you for the world," 
 
 She gently said, and smiled. 
 "Madam, my duty must be done 
 
 And I am firm as rock," 
 Then, pointing to her work, he said, 
 
 "Is that a rebel sock?" 
 "Yes, Honey, I am getting old 
 
 And for hard work ain't fit, 
 Though for Confederate soldiers, still, 
 
 I thank the Lord, can knit." 
 "Madam, your work is contraband 
 . And Congress confiscates 
 This rebel sock, which I now seize 
 
 To the United States."
 
 72 The Rebel Sock. 
 
 "Yes, Honey don't be scared you see 
 
 I'll give it up to you." 
 Then slowly from the half-knit sock 
 
 The dame her needles drew, 
 Broke off the thread, wound up the ball 
 
 And stuck her needles in; 
 "Here take it, child and I to-night 
 
 Another will begin." 
 The soldier next his loyal heart 
 
 The dear-bought trophy laid, 
 And that was all that Seward got 
 
 By this old woman's raid.
 
 The Tenth of May, 1866. 73 
 
 THE TENTH OF MAY, 1866. 
 
 Lines suggested by the address of Seaton Gales to 
 the Ladies of Raleigh on the anniversary of the death 
 of Stonewall Jackson. 
 
 Oh! shed not a tear for the hero who died 
 
 When the flag of his country was flying, 
 But scatter with lilies and roses the grave 
 
 Where he slumbers in glory undying. 
 He knew not the sorrow the vanquished must 
 feel 
 
 The grief of a fruitless endeavor, 
 The heart-breaking pang when the struggle was 
 o'er, 
 
 And that banner was folded forever! 
 
 Keep tears for the nation that, conquered and 
 
 ruined, 
 
 Can lay o'er its heroes no tablets of stone, 
 Though it writes every one on the true heart 
 
 of woman, 
 
 Which feels that our soldiers are never un 
 known,
 
 74 The Tenth of May, 1866. 
 
 Oh ! then, let us make a fragrant ovation 
 
 In honor of Jackson, the ides of each May, 
 And with roses that bloomed as a hero lay dying 
 Wreathe over the graves of his comrades that 
 
 day. 
 That their mem'ry like spring-time, forever may 
 
 be 
 
 Embalmed in the fragrance of flowers, 
 And their graves to the hearts of our children 
 
 unborn 
 Be as dear as they now are to oursl
 
 The Chimes of St. Paul's. 75 
 
 THE CHIMES OF ST. PAUL'S. 
 
 The chimes of St. Paul's Church, Petersburg, were 
 presented by a young lady of that place, Miss Anna 
 May, when on her death-bed; and though uninjured 
 by the shot and shell which struck the church, were 
 not rung during the bombardment, except at the fune 
 rals of the militia-men who fell early in the siege. 
 
 When first, St. Paul's, your sweet-toned chimes 
 
 Shed music on the air, 
 They seemed an angel's pleading voice, 
 
 Which called us unto prayer. 
 An angel who had left this earth 
 
 To sing a Heavenly strain, 
 But in the music of your bells 
 
 Spoke unto us again. 
 Now loud and clear, then low and sweet, 
 
 You touched each listener's heart, 
 Till every rising falling note 
 
 Seemed of its life a part. 
 You rang a clear, a joyous peal 
 
 The blushing bride to meet, 
 Then let your softest, sweetest notes 
 
 The baptized infant greet. 
 You rang a sad, a solemn dirge 
 
 The mourner's grief to tell, 
 Then let the ransomed spirit's joy 
 
 A glorious anthem swell,
 
 76 The Chimes of St. Paul's. 
 
 That while you bore aloft the wail 
 
 Of those who wept below, 
 Sweet comfort to their bleeding hearts 
 
 Might from your music flow. 
 Alas! your bells were silenced all 
 
 Hushed by relentless foes, 
 Though once above the battle's din 
 
 Their solemn protest rose. 
 They tolled amid the cannon's peal 
 
 When to our doors the tiger crept 
 And mothers mourned their half-grown sons 
 
 While babes their grandsires wept. 
 Yes ! let the foe in scorn exclaim, 
 
 We robbed ttye cradle and the grave, 
 All, all, that woman's heart could give 
 
 Old Blandford's daughters freely gave; 
 And now when every hope is crushed 
 
 With bleeding hearts they kneel 
 And fancy that your sweet-toned chimes 
 
 Can only requiems peal. 
 Ring out, St. Paul's ! ring out their woe ; 
 
 Each strain that upward floats 
 Embalms their glorious martyred dead, 
 
 In music's holiest notes. 
 Ring out ! ring out, oh ! angel bells, 
 
 While floating to the skies, 
 The incense of their sacrifice 
 
 Forever more may rise.
 
 The Stratagems of Love. 77 
 
 THE STRATAGEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 A fragment from Calderon de la Barca. 
 
 Translated by Tenella.* 
 
 The cunning archer when he fain would bring 
 Prone on the earth, a heron on the wing, 
 Aims not where now the passing mark he sees, 
 But, claiming helpful tribute from the breeze, 
 Lets fly his shaft, so it may surer light, 
 Full in its bosom's spotless, snowy white. 
 The hardy, careful sailor of the main, 
 He, who hath laid a yoke or set a rein 
 Upon the fierce and cruel sea to bend 
 Its wild and boist'rous nature to his end, 
 Steers not straight onward, but with artless skill 
 Deludes opposing waves and gains his will. 
 The warrior who would take some fortress 
 
 strong, 
 
 Feels that in arms deceit is not a wrong, 
 And seeks with military art and care 
 By stratagem to win it unaware. 
 Force yielding up to craft its vantage ground, 
 First, at another fort the alarm doth sound. 
 
 * Tenella was a pseudonym of Mrs. Clarke, used gen 
 erally in her earlier writings and frequently afterward.
 
 78 The Stratagems of Love. 
 
 The hidden mine that winds its tortuous course 
 E'en from the fire itself conceals its force, 
 Nor lets its pregnant power be known, 
 Until in blazing thunderbolts 'tis shown. 
 Now, if my love aims in the realms of air 
 And like the fowler seeks its quarry there, 
 Or sails a mariner upon the seas 
 To tempt the doubtful fortune of the breeze; 
 Or like a mine bursts forth with sudden rage, 
 Its fierce and latent passion to assuage ; 
 Does it seem strange that I with careful art, 
 Conceal the loving feelings of my heart, 
 Until Love is triumphant everywhere, 
 And I, on water, and in earth or air 
 Shall hit or reach, or conquer or o'erthrow 
 My game, my port, my fortress or my foe?
 
 I Wish to Love Thee. 79 
 
 I WISH TO LOVE THEE. 
 A translation from "Chants Chretiens." 
 
 I wish to love Thee, Oh! my God 
 My King who hath redeemed me; 
 
 I wish to love Thee, for this life 
 Is bitter, Lord, away from Thee. 
 
 I wish to love Thee, source of grace, 
 For my salvation, Lord, Thou art; 
 
 I wish to love Thee, and beseech 
 
 That Thou wilt take my willing heart. 
 
 I wish to love Thee, for to those 
 
 Who love, Thy presence Thou wilt give; 
 
 I wish to love Thee, for Thy love 
 Alone, can make my soul to live. 
 
 I wish to love Thee, that Thy light 
 In splendor may upon me shine; 
 
 I wish to love Thee, that I may 
 
 Be watched with tenderness like thine. 
 
 I wish to love Thee, for my soul 
 A refuge hath in Thee most sure; 
 
 I wish to love Thee, for Thou art 
 
 The source of peace which shall endure.
 
 80 I Wish to Love Thee. 
 
 I wish to love Thee all my life, 
 
 My heart, Oh Lord ! hath need of Thee ; 
 Then let me not forget that first, 
 
 My Saviour, Thou hast loved me.
 
 Cross and Crown. 81 
 
 CROSS AND CROWN. 
 (Thomas a Kempis, B. II, Chap. XL) 
 
 Many, Lord, a crown would wear 
 Who refuse thy cross to bear, 
 Many will Thy name confess 
 While prosperity shall bless, 
 Whose weak faith within them dies 
 When Thy tribulations rise. 
 
 Many find Thy work severe 
 Who Thy miracles revere, 
 Many with Thee bread would break, 
 Few Thy cup of sufF ring take, 
 'Tis Thy comforts they desire, 
 Not Thy pure baptismal fire. 
 
 Saviour, let me bear Thy cross 
 Counting neither gain nor loss, 
 Love Thee, with a love so pure 
 That self-love cannot endure; 
 Serve Thee that my soul may live, 
 Not for comforts Thou wilt give.
 
 82 In Memoriam. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 General Robert E. Lee, C. S. A., November 3, 1870. 
 
 The conquered banner to the skies 
 
 To greet our Jackson rose, 
 And following now that banner's lead 
 
 Our grandest hero goes. 
 
 Like some tall mount whose lofty peak 
 
 Is first to catch the sun, 
 And latest to reflect its glow 
 
 When closing day is done; 
 
 A beacon in our land he stood, 
 
 Upon whose noble head, 
 The earliest and the latest ray, 
 
 Of every hope was shed. 
 
 He cannot die! On Hist'ry's page 
 
 He lives that all may see, 
 How mortal man erst here below 
 
 May yet immortal be. 
 
 And to the stars serenely grand 
 His martyr'd soul takes flight, 
 
 That he who was our noontide sun 
 May thence illume our night.
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 83 
 
 CLYTIE AND ZENOBIA; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE LILY AND THE PALM. 
 
 This tale of Zenobia's Court, interwoven with rich 
 imagery of the Orient, needs only a fancy aroused by 
 the beautiful, to discern its simple and classic style, 
 and its refined and unaffected sentiment. It is as diffi 
 cult to analyze its rare essence, as it is to describe the 
 subtile perfume of Clyde's emblem-flower. It charms 
 and captivates the imagination, and we drink it, as we 
 do a glass of generous old wine, without inquiring 
 its year of vintage, or the sunny hillside where the 
 grape matured. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 'Tis early morning, e'er the sun 
 His golden course has yet begun ; 
 The pale gray dawn ascends the skies 
 As struggling darkness slowly dies, 
 And seems the hovering soul of Night, 
 Which, e'er to Heaven it takes its flight, 
 Still lingering hangs, 'tween fear and hope, 
 To watch the golden portals ope.
 
 84 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 Now, shimmering on the temple walls, 
 A rosy haze reflected falls, 
 Which tells the priests, who watching wait 
 To hail their god in gorgeous state, 
 That he propitious will appear 
 To bless with smiles the opening year. 
 To them that welcome roseate flush 
 Is like the maiden's tell-tale blush, 
 Which, rising e'er he yet appears, 
 Tells that her lover's steps she hears. 
 But now the crimson turns to gold 
 As slow the eastern gates unfold, 
 Which quickly changes into white 
 Before the rising tide of light. 
 Breathless, they watch it fade away, 
 Then kneel to greet the god of Day. 
 
 He comes ! and on the palm-tree's crown 
 A radiant smile casts brightly down; 
 The clash of timbrels fills the air, 
 The priests again bow down in prayer, 
 And then, in adoration, raise 
 A grand triumphant hymn of praise. 
 Before the dying cadence falls, 
 Resounding through the temple halls, 
 The vestal virgins' chorus swells, 
 Like echoes from sweet fairy bells, 
 And on the golden air there floats 
 The softest, most voluptuous notes, 
 Which tell that, darkness vanquished, now 
 To love the conquering god will bow, 
 And ardent smile on virgin Earth 
 Until she gives his offspring birth. 1
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 85 
 
 SONG. 
 
 He comes ! a conquering god who treads 
 The darkness 'neath his feet, 
 
 The bridegroom whom the waiting Earth 
 Prepares with joy to meet. 
 
 The flowers, that all night long have wept, 
 
 As soon as he appears 
 Lift up their heads to greet the god, 
 
 Who dries their dewy tears. 
 
 The Heliotrope towards him turns 
 
 All day its bright blue eyes, 
 But when his smile too ardent grows 
 
 The Morning Glory dies. 
 
 The Rose to him alone will give 
 
 The attar of its bloom ; 2 
 His warmth, like love in virgin hearts, 
 
 Draws out the sweet perfume. 
 
 Like Truth the stately Lily stands 
 
 In pure and spotless pride, 
 Her snowy bells, by darkness closed, 
 
 To sunlight open wide. 
 
 Like Justice, see, the Tulip shuts 
 
 Its petals until light 
 Shines on the kingly flower and brings 
 
 Its glories into sight.
 
 86 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 The silvery mist which veils the Earth 
 
 He gently draws aside, 
 And smiles just as a bridegroom might 
 
 When he unveils his bride. 
 
 Smile on, smile on, O glorious god! 
 
 Until your work is done, 
 And Mother Earth shall fruitful yield 
 
 Her offspring to the Sun : 
 
 The royal Palm bear golden dates, 
 Pomegranates clustering grow, 
 
 While through the Nect'rine and the Peach 
 The luscious juice shall flow; 
 
 The Almond shed its ripened nuts, 
 
 The glist'ning Orange shine, 
 The purple Fig with sweetness burst, 
 
 And Grapes hang on the vine. 
 
 Leave to the Greek his numerous gods, 
 
 The Syrian needs but one, 
 For all the heart of man desires 
 
 Is given by his Sun. 
 
 Then O, while Earth with fruit and flowers 
 
 Responds to his caress, 
 Let man, by Justice, Truth, and Love, 
 
 The power of light confess. 
 
 But, ere the song was wholly o'er, 
 
 The god concealed his face once more,
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 87 
 
 A shadowy cloud before it drew, 
 No longer of a rosy hue, 
 As though he only hid his face 
 To smile on Earth with softened grace. 
 Still darker grew the threat'ning cloud, 
 While muttering thunder, deep not loud, 
 Dismayed the awe-struck kneeling crowd. 
 But hark ! one loud terrific crash, 
 One blinding zigzag light'ning flash, 
 When lo! the cloud is rent in twain, 
 And sheds on Earth its gathered rain, 
 And in one long, low, sobbing wail, 
 In silence dies the rushing gale. 
 And then, like faith obscured by doubt, 
 In golden sheaves the sun burst out, 
 Just caught the storm before it passed, 
 And o'er the cloud a rainbow cast; 
 Which, though to Heaven it owed its birth, 
 In shining columns touched the earth, 
 Where melting into one were seen 
 Crimson and violet, gold and green, 
 Like portals to those realms ideal 
 Where all is true, but nought is real. 
 
 The portent's meaning none may tell. 
 In vain the priests essay to spell 
 The hidden mysteries of the skies, 
 Laid bare alone unto the wise. 
 With faces pale and looks aghast, 
 They search the meaning of the blast, 
 The rosy dawn so soon o'ercast. 
 Do they portend the coming year 
 Is bright with hope, or dark with fear?
 
 88 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 "Pis all in vain ! no priestly eye 
 Can into that dark future pry. 
 
 And now the marriage rites are done, 
 
 The Earth is wedded to the Sun, 
 
 Her sacrifice is all ablaze 
 
 With fire from his concentred rays, 
 
 The sacred victims all have bled, 
 
 The holy Zend Avesta's read, 
 
 And stands erect the royal priest, 
 
 Palmyra's king lord of the East, 
 
 Sprinkling the blood of bulls and rams 
 
 Toward the City of the Palms, 
 
 Where, sheltered 'neath their cool green shade, 
 
 Greek portico and colonnade, 
 
 With Persian minaret and dome, 
 
 Rise round the aqueducts of Rome. 
 
 Palmyra in the desert stands, 
 
 But sheltered from its burning sands 
 
 By wooded hills, upon whose sides 
 
 The tiger lurks, the leopard hides; 
 
 Far from the city they arise, 
 
 Which, underneath soft Syrian skies 
 
 The "Diamond of the Desert" lies, 
 
 An island in a sea of sand ; 
 
 Like ancient Persian Samarcand 
 
 For more than Eastern wealth renowned, 
 
 With royal palm-trees nobly crowned, 
 
 Palmyra Tadmor both the same, 3 
 
 The "City of the Palms" its name; 
 
 Here Odenatus, king and priest, 
 
 Reigned with his queen o'er all the East.
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 89 
 
 Together they a throne had won, 
 
 Child of the desert and the Sun; 
 
 Of Arab fire and Persian grace, 
 
 His manly form, his faultless face, 
 
 His warlike deeds, his great renown, 
 
 Bespoke him worthy of that crown 
 
 For which so bravely he had fought 
 
 Such noble deeds of valor wrought, 
 
 When Persia's haughty monarch brought 
 
 His conquering army, with one blow 
 
 "The Arab chief" to overthrow, 4 
 
 Skilled in the arts of war and peace, 
 
 The subtleties of Rome and Greece, 
 
 In council wise, in action bold, 
 
 In neither love nor hatred cold 
 
 A warrior stern, a lover warm, 
 
 He chose a queen whose matchless form 
 
 Enshrined a high yet tender heart. 
 
 A form that might be sculptor's art 
 
 Warmed into life by love's desire 
 
 To feel and not alone inspire; 
 
 A face from poet's revery caught 
 
 Of mingled sweetness, lofty thought; 
 
 An eye that each emotion showed 
 
 Now brightly flashed, then softly glowed; 
 
 A soul aflame with genius' fire 
 
 To do, and not alone inspire, 
 
 Such was Zenobia ; bright, serene, 
 
 A loving woman yet a queen. 
 
 Ambition is a fearful dower 
 
 When woman may not own its power,
 
 90 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 Though burning with intense desire 
 To feed, not quench its latent fire ; 
 Conscious of power to make a name, 
 Yet lacking strength to conquer fame; 
 Tied down by petty cares which bind 
 The body fast, yet leave the mind 
 To fret and struggle in despair 
 With greater ills which it must bear; 
 When love, though pure and unalloyed, 
 Still leaves an intellectual void, 
 A void its sweetness does not fill, 
 A longing want it cannot still. 
 Too often by the struggle torn, 
 By many an inward conflict worn, 
 A prey to doubt, the sport of fears, 
 The pearl of health dissolved in tears, 
 Too proud to yield, too weak to fight, 
 She longs at noontide for the night. 
 
 Love is but of man's life a part, 
 
 It does not fill both head and heart; 
 
 Its myrtles he would twine with bay, 
 
 And 'mid its roses laurels lay. 
 
 At intervals, fanned by its breeze, 
 
 He lies at rest in Capuan ease, 
 
 Then, cheered and strengthened for the strife, 
 
 Enters the battle field of life. 
 
 And there are women, who, like men, 
 
 Need something more than love, and when 
 
 It is not of their life the whole, 
 
 And does not fill head, heart and soul, 
 
 Leaving no wish that is denied, 
 
 No longing want ungratified,
 
 Clyde and Zenobia. 91 
 
 Laurels and bays they too should twine, 
 Not idly sit and hopeless pine. 
 Though love is sweet, the danger's great 
 When eagles stoop with doves to mate; 
 They needs must soar to be content, 
 And, if within a dove-cote pent, 
 E'en of their love they may grow weary, 
 And sigh for freedom and the aerie. 
 But she who's mated with her kind, 
 Who in her highest flights will find 
 Just o'er her head her king-bird rise, 
 Glorying in every flight she tries, 
 And urging her to fields still higher, 
 May feed with love ambition's fire, 
 Yet make of home a peaceful nest, 
 With all love's soft emotions blest. 
 So thought the royal Palmyrene, 
 And in his wife he sought a queen; 
 The partner of his royal schemes 
 Was still the woman of his dreams. 
 Though born beneath an eastern sky, 
 Zenobia scorned at ease to lie, 
 That indolent, voluptuous ease, 
 Induced by Syria's perfumed breeze. 
 Attended by her brilliant court, 
 She with her lord shared every sport, 
 And even in his wars took part. 
 No Parthian shot a truer dart, 
 No Arab with more perfect skill 
 Guided or checked his steed at will, 
 A surer lance no Persian threw, 
 A better sword no Roman drew;
 
 92 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 Not Cleopatra held her place 
 
 At banquet with more royal grace, 
 
 More lightly danced, more sweetly sung, 
 
 With brighter wit e'er armed her tongue, 
 
 Nor Jewish Deborah judged her state 
 
 With wisdom more profoundly great. 
 
 Two royal lines in her were blent, 
 
 From Egypt's queen she claimed descent, 
 
 And had her soft voluptuous grace, 
 
 Her beauty both of form and face, 
 
 Her power to fascinate and please 
 
 All men at will with equal ease; 
 
 Whilst her dark eye flashed with the fire 
 
 Inherited from Jewish sire, 5 
 
 And Miriam's spirit thrilled her soul 
 
 Which love alone could not control. 
 
 Upon a fiery, coal-black steed, 
 Whose slender legs declare his breed, 
 Whose arching neck and eye of fire 
 Show Scythian dam and Arab sire, 
 With fearless ease and faultless grace 
 She follows now the tiger chase. 
 Her battle-axe and crescent shield 
 Thalestris' 6 self might deign to wield; 
 Her lance beside her saddle hung, 
 Her Parthian bow was ready strung; 
 Ne'er looked she on her throne in state 
 So proudly grand, so truly great. 
 
 In woman's heart there ever lies 
 A queenly instinct, which will rise
 
 Clyde and Zenobia. 93 
 
 At times, however trodden down, 
 And claim its right to wear a crown : 
 Then, for a moment, she will feel 
 Her springy muscles turn to steel, 
 And boldly do, or bravely bear 
 All, all, that man himself may dare. 
 It will not stay, but while it lasts, 
 New beauty o'er her face it casts; 
 Her head is reared with conscious pride, 
 Her bosom heaves beneath the tide 
 Of wakened feeling in it pent, 
 And longs to give its passion vent. 
 And never does this instinct rise 
 To flash more brightly from her eyes 
 Than when she feels her slender hand 
 Can in his might her steed command, 
 That 'tis her alone that guides 
 The noble creature which she rides: 
 Then, over every fear supreme, 
 By Nature's hand she's crowned a queen. 
 
 So felt Zenobia shook her rein, 
 And dashed across the verdant plain, 
 Followed by her attendant train, 
 To where, beyond its outer bounds 
 Arose the forest hunting-grounds. 
 And now the royal sport began, 
 The noblest that is known to man. 
 The prickers through the jungle beat, 
 To rouse the game from its retreat, 
 The hunters circling ride around 
 Impatient for the bugle's sound,
 
 94 Clytic and Zenobia. 
 
 Whose piercing note directs them where 
 The quarry's lurking in its lair. 
 
 It comes a single blast and shrill, 
 From half-way up the wooded hill; 
 They gather round it in a ring, 
 The tiger gives one gallant spring, 
 And, ere they've clearly marked his den, 
 Alights among the startled men. 
 One instant crouching low he lies, 
 The next, straight at Zenobia flies ; 
 Backward her startled steed she drew, 
 As at the beast her lance she threw ; 
 It caught him in his downward sweep, 
 He gathers for another leap, 
 But feels his strength at once give way, 
 And savage turns and stands at bay. 
 Then, like an eagle on the wing, 
 With lance in rest, down sweeps the king, 
 But, as he poised it for the cast, 
 Another, dashing rudely past, 
 Pushed in his steed, and threw a dart 
 Which quivered in the tiger's heart. 
 But not a shout the deed applauds, 
 All silent stand the Syrian lords 
 Till anger in the monarch's face 
 To haughty dignity gives place. 
 
 Maeonius, who this deed had done, 
 Was Odenatus' brother's son, 
 And well the watching courtiers knew 
 In insolence his javelin threw.
 
 Clytie and Zcnobla. 95 
 
 The Arab blood which hotly glowed 
 Upon the monarch's cheek ^nd flowed 
 With quick pulsation through his veins, 
 His Persian prudence soon restrains. 
 He first enforced the hunter's law: 
 The youth must from the chase withdraw, 
 And then, deprived of arms and steed, 
 A prisoner's life at court must lead; 
 His sovereign's presence must not seek, 
 Must not with any courtier speak, 
 Until the king his arms restore, 
 And bid him to the chase once more.
 
 g6 Clyde and Zenobia. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 A week has flown ; the king and court 
 Are resting from the morning sport 
 Upon the palace colonnade 
 Beneath the bamboo's flickering shade. 
 High o'er a mass of foliage green, 
 With gorgeous tropic flowers between, 
 A fountain shoots its sparkling spray, 
 Weaving bright rainbows in its play. 
 Below, the water-lily spreads 
 Its flowers, like nymphs who lift their heads 
 To gaze upon a scene so fair, 
 And then, enraptured, linger there. 
 Gliding the broad green leaves between, 
 Two stately snow-white swans are seen, 
 Whose every motion bears the trace 
 Of that majestic haughty grace 
 Jove left the fabled bird which gave 
 Its form from Juno's wrath to save. T 
 High over head, his body hid, 
 A peacock reared its crest amid 
 The Persian apple's crimson bloom, 
 Whence floats a sweetly faint perfume; 
 His sinuous neck, of brilliant blue, 
 Each moment changing in its hue,
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 97 
 
 As quick he turns from side to side 
 
 His haughty head in conscious pride, 
 
 A serpent seems, who, hid in flowers, 
 
 Is seeking 'neath its leafy bowers 
 
 This Eden's Eve, that he may win 
 
 Her virgin soul to shame and sin. 8 
 
 Here lemons breathe their sweet perfume, 
 
 The lilac opes its purple bloom, 
 
 Each wand'ring zephyr as it blows 
 
 Scatters the odors of the rose, 
 
 Or from its wings the fragrance sheds 
 
 Gathered amid carnation beds; 
 
 The rosy lotus spreads its flowers 
 
 To catch the fountain's cooling showers; 
 
 The Persian jasmine's shining stars 
 
 Peep through the gilded lattice bars, 
 
 Or gently fall like flakes of snow 
 
 Upon the emerald turf below. 
 
 Bright humming-birds dart here and there, 
 
 Soft music floats upon the air, 
 
 Or gently into silence dies, 
 
 Again in liquid notes to rise, 
 
 Now clear and sweet, then soft and low, 
 
 Just heard above the fountain's flow, 
 
 Whose waters louder seem to play 
 
 Whene'er the music dies away, 
 
 Or fainter twinkle when it swells 
 
 As list'ning to the tale it tells. 
 
 Fresh from the bath Zenobia lies, 
 
 A languid beauty in her eyes, 
 
 Which flash not now with genius' fire 
 
 But softest love alone inspire.
 
 98 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 Around her scattered amaranths lie, 
 While silken cushions heaped on high 
 Support her form as she reposes 
 Upon a divan stuffed with roses. 9 
 Her Persian dress, which half conceals 
 The beauty of her form, reveals 
 Her slender feet, her instep high, 
 Crossed by her sandal's silken tie. 
 Attendant slaves in gorgeous dress, 
 Through mountain snow the sherbet press, 
 Or gently stir the perfumed air 
 With fragrant fans of feathers rare; 
 'Mid heaps of grapes fresh from the vine 
 Stand goblets filled with Chian 10 wine, 
 And golden baskets piled with fruit. 
 A Grecian girl just touched her lute 
 From time to time, until the king 
 Turned with a smile and bade her sing; 
 When clear as that soft sound that flows 
 From silvery bells, her song arose. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The Palm, the Palm, the royal Palm! 
 
 Beneath its stately crown 
 Hangs golden dates high over head 
 
 Or casts them ripened down. 
 The Vine, the Vine, the graceful Vine! 
 
 Its luscious fruit conceals, 
 Till purple grapes beneath its leaves 
 
 A wooing breeze reveals.
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 99 
 
 Just so should man before the world 
 
 In pride lift up his head, 
 And let his life's bright golden deeds 
 
 Around his feet be shed : 
 While woman, like the clinging vine, 
 
 Her sweetest gift should hide, 
 And only yield when love's caress 
 
 Shall draw the veil aside. 
 
 "The royal palm methinks should shower 
 Its golden gifts upon this flower 
 Which blooms so brightly at its feet, 
 Filling the air with fragrance sweet; 
 Say, Clytie, shall it be, my girl, 
 This sapphire ring this pendent pearl?" 
 So spoke the king, and marked her grace, 
 Her rounded form, her Grecian face, 
 Her penciled brow, her neck of snow, 
 Her coral lips like Cupid's bow. 
 A rosy glow flushed Clytie's cheek, 
 She crossed her arms but did not speak, 
 Her clustering curls of chestnut hue 
 With graceful gesture backward threw, 
 Flashed one bright look upon the king, 
 Then, smiling, took the sapphire ring. 
 
 "I too must act the part that's mine 
 And give my gift as does the vine; 
 You offer jewels better still, 
 I'll let her have her woman's will; 
 Her song has served the leaves to lift, 
 Speak, Clytie, choose Zenobia's gift."
 
 ioo Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 "If I may ask," the maiden said, 
 
 As gracefully she bent her head, 
 
 "Just what I will, O queen, to-day, 
 
 I'll for your intercession pray, 
 
 When you entreat no one denies : 
 
 In yonder tower a captive lies ; 
 
 Plead with the king that he restore 
 
 Mseonius to his grace once more, 
 
 Give back to-night his bow and spear, 
 
 And bid him at the dance appear." 
 
 Ah, Clytie! Clytie! with love's skill 
 
 You truly guessed your sovereign's will, 
 
 Watched every change his count'nance knew, 
 
 Marked every cloud that o'er it threw 
 
 A shade of anger or of grief, 
 
 And sought for all his ills relief. 
 
 'Twas at his feet not on his head 
 
 That you love's precious spikenard shed; 
 
 It fell not wasted to the earth, 
 
 For many a gentle thought had birth 
 
 In your soft heart from love alone, 
 
 Whose source to you was all unknown 
 
 As was the subtle incense rare 
 
 You burned before the idol there. 
 
 He was your Sun his loves but flowers 
 
 With whom he spent his idle hours ; 
 
 Now on the rose he cast a smile, 
 
 Then with the lily toyed awhile, 
 
 Inhaled the passion-flower's perfume, 
 
 Or brushed the acacia's yellow bloom; 
 
 Now stooped to smell the mignonette, 
 
 Or pluck a fragrant violet:
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 101 
 
 But over every flower supreme 
 Zenobia reigned, his heart's true queen. 
 
 She too had read the monarch's heart, 
 And smiled at Clyde's artless art, 
 For both by truest love inspired, 
 Divined what most the king desired. 
 "Shine down," she said, "in all your power, 
 O genial Sun, upon this flower, 
 This Heliotrope 11 who modest stands, 
 And asks a favor at your hands. 
 Come, grant her boon ; be it her right 
 Again to arm yon captive knight." 
 "I gave her," said the smiling king, 
 "For her first strain my sapphire ring; 
 And if she'll sing another song 
 To her the captive shall belong." 
 The Grecian lightly swept the strings, 
 Just as a bird might try its wings, 
 Then many a sleeping echo woke, 
 As rippling into song she broke. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 As desert birds are by the Sun 
 Warmed into life within their nest 11 
 
 Man's tender glance will wake the love 
 Which ever sleeps in woman's breast. 
 
 And O, 'tis sweetest when first woke, 
 For if the passion leaves the eyes, 
 
 Although to live deep in the heart, 
 The freshness of its beauty dies.
 
 IO2 Clyde and Zenobia. 
 
 For, as the rosy clouds of morn 
 Grow pale before the risen sun, 
 
 Love's tenderest beauty fades away 
 Before its golden noon's begun. 
 
 "Not so, not *so," Zenobia cried, 
 "Woman is not so easy won; 
 We do not ope our hearts to man 
 
 As flowers their petals to the Sun. 
 More than a tender glance 'twill take 
 A living love in us to wake, 
 Or else the captive in yon tower 
 Had won your heart, my pretty flower." 
 
 "Ah ! is it so ? and does he hope 
 To pluck this blue-eyed Heliotrope, 
 To win this bird who for me sings, 
 Within his cage to fold her wings? 
 No wonder he who'd boldly dare 
 To steal a flower from my parterre, 
 Or enter 'gainst me in love's race, 
 Should push before me in the chase. 
 What say you, Clytie, will you weep 
 If I Apollo captive keep? 
 Methinks I'd better, for in truth 
 I'm envious of the favored youth. 
 
 For, as we sigh for boyhood's joys 
 In manhood's strength and prime, 
 
 My heart oft longs for love's sweet spring, 
 Though in its summer-time; 
 
 Longs once again to feel the thrill 
 Of mingled fear and hope,
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. I0 3 
 
 As on my lady's lily cheek 
 
 I watch the roses ope. 
 For, with yon orange-tree, I'd hang 
 
 The bud, the fruit, the flower 
 Together on love's spreading boughs, 
 
 Had I like it the power. 
 There, mingling with the ripened fruit, 
 
 The full-blown flowers are seen 
 By bursting buds that scarce have streaked 
 
 With white teir tendre green, 13 
 Just so beside love's opening joys, 
 
 Its pleasures pure as snow, 
 I'd have its luscious tropic fruit 
 
 In ripened sweetness glow. 
 
 You sang of love, my pretty flower, 
 
 And see at once I feel its power; 
 
 And so, methinks, my queen, you're wrong, 
 
 In your objection to the song; 
 
 For by one glance a woman can 
 
 Inflame, we know, the heart of man, 
 
 And 'tis but fair that in return 
 
 Beneath his eye her own should bum. 
 
 Prometheus stole from heaven its fire 14 
 
 To animate a senseless form; 
 Pygmalion 15 prayed the powers divine 
 
 His ivory beauty's breast to warm; 
 But man, to melt a woman's heart, 
 
 The aid of gods need not require, 
 If in himself he feels the warmth 
 
 Of passion's pure creative fire, 
 That spark divine which always glows 
 When Heaven on him a soul bestows.
 
 IO4 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 But give to me the silvery lute, 
 
 I'll sing a warning 'gainst love's fruit ; 
 
 Tis not all sweet, but keeps concealed 
 A bitterness too soon revealed." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ambition is tbe ripened pear, 
 
 And friendship is the vine, 
 Which even round a ruin will 
 
 Its clinging tendrils twine. 
 
 But love is like the luscious peach, 
 
 A touch its bloom destroys; 
 As beautiful its blushing cheek, 
 
 As sweet its tasted joys. 
 
 Forever in its inmost heart 
 
 A hidden poison lies, 
 And all its sweetness is forgot 
 
 If jealousy arise. 
 
 So then beware, go not too far, 
 
 If only sweets you'd find, 
 Just brush the bloom and taste the fruit, 
 
 But leave its heart behind. 
 
 For man too often at its core 
 
 Meets bitterness alone, 
 While many a woman breaks her teeth 
 
 Against its heart of stone.
 
 Clyde and Zenobia. 105 
 
 "Give me the pear," Zenobia said, 
 And proudly raised her queenly head, 
 "It ripens late, is not all sweet, 
 Yet 'tis the fruit which I would eat: 
 It hangs on high, not like the peach, 
 On lowly boughs that all may reach, 
 And he who'd pluck a ripened pear 
 Must bravely do, and boldly dare." 
 
 "To you, my queen, I'll now resign 
 
 Ambition's joys, so love's be mine. 
 
 All fruit is ripe in its own time, 
 
 And when my peach has passed its prime, 
 
 Again with you I'll seek to share 
 
 Ambition's spicy, ripened pear; 
 
 Just now, methinks, I wish alone 
 
 To taste my peach, avoid its stone, 
 
 Enjoy life's sweets without its pain; 
 
 Not to the dregs its goblet drain, 
 
 But merely sip love's sparkling foam 
 
 As, like a butterfly, I roam 
 
 From flower to flower, and only rest 
 
 A moment on each perfumed breast. 
 
 You, Clytie, are the clinging vine, 
 
 But sweetest grapes yield strongest wine, 
 
 And oft in love a friendship ends, 
 
 Though lovers rarely change to friends. 
 
 And you, my queen, the whole combine, 
 
 Ambition's pear and friendship's vine, 
 
 Love's luscious peach, whose bitter stone 
 
 To me has never yet been shown ; 
 
 My stately palm, my attar rose, 
 
 Whose petals to my love unclose,
 
 io6 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 The crown imperial of my life, 
 
 My royal queen, my loving wife, 
 
 My amaranth and my asphodel, 18 
 
 On whom my thoughts in death shall dwell. 
 
 Go, Zabdas, ope the prison door 
 
 And freedom to yon youth restore ; 
 
 Bid him appear at this night's dance, 
 
 And there receive his sword and lance. 
 
 Clytie, the sapphire meaneth hope, 
 
 Give it to him, my Heliotrope ; 
 
 I free the captive from my chain, 
 
 But bid you bind him fast again." 
 
 While thus of love the monarch spoke, 
 Its light on Clytie's heart first broke, 
 And by the flash there stood revealed 
 The passion 'neath life's flowers concealed. 
 With quivering lip and blushing cheek 
 She bowed her head but did not speak. 
 'Tis sweet to love and know it not, 
 
 Sweeter, to give the heart away ; 
 But sharp the pang when woman finds 
 
 Unsought her love has gone astray. 
 And there are hearts true, loyal hearts 
 
 Which to be given will not wait, 
 But give themselves most treach'rously, 
 
 Nor know the gift until too late; 
 Too late the tendrils of their love 
 
 With gentle touches to untwine, 
 And they must wrench the branches from 
 
 The living body of the vine ; 
 Break every tie, however strong,
 
 Clytie and Zcnobia. 107 
 
 Sever each clinging link so frail, 
 And tear the vine from its support, 
 
 Though in the dust its branches trail. 
 This Clytie felt she now must do 
 If to herself she would be true. 
 Hers was a soft, a loving heart, 
 Of which ambition held no part: 
 Each fibre was with love enwrought, 
 It ruled each act, and shaped each thought. 
 Give her but love, her lute, her flowers, 
 And happy were her waking hours ; 
 No dream of fame disturbed her sleep, 
 No waking vigil did she keep. 
 When thoughts went surging through her brain 
 She strove to grasp and then retain; 
 She never felt that strange vague sense 
 Of keen desire, yet impotence, 
 These thoughts and fancies to control 
 And through her art breathe out her soul, 
 That artist soul that must find vent, 
 Or restless pines in discontent; 
 Must speak in music, painting, rhyme, 
 In sculpture, or in deeds sublime; 
 That's not content to imitate 
 But strives forever to create, 
 And ever feels it can do more 
 Yet never reaches where 'twould soar, 
 But finds an unseen net-work break 11 
 Each upward flight it fain would take. 
 To love was Clytie's only art, 
 And nobly did she act her part, 
 For softest hearts may yet be strong 
 To do the right, avoid the wrong;
 
 io8 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 Love's genial sun with tender glow 
 May melt, 'tis true, their virgin snow 
 And shine on beauties hid below; 
 But tenderest love's always allied 
 To sense of honor and to pride.
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 109 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 The music caught the captive's ear; 
 He paused awhile its notes to hear, 
 Then, nearer to the casement drew 
 Where he the palace court might view. 
 Fair was the scene on which he gazed, 
 Why starts he back like one amazed? 
 Why stamp his foot and flush with rage, 
 Then, like a tiger in his cage, 
 With rapid step pace to and fro 
 Until his cheek has ceased to glow, 
 And all the color in his face 
 To ashen pallor gives its place? 
 A passing rage the blood will start 
 In quick pulsations from the heart, 
 And send it bounding through each vein, 
 The breast to heave, the cheek to stain; 
 And man, to give such passion vent, 
 Will strike a blow without intent, 
 And all its raging fury's spent. 
 But deadly anger deeper lies, 
 No crimson flush from it will rise, 
 Back to its source the blood will flow, 
 The pulse beats full, not fast nor slow, 
 While to the heart the head will lend 
 Cool craft and power to gain its end.
 
 no Clytle and Zenobia. 
 
 The deadliest passion of the heart 
 At once may into being start, 
 And jealousy be born of Love, 
 As from the teeming brain of Jove 
 Minerva sprang in all her might, 
 Full-grown and ready armed for fight. 
 Anger with tenderest love is felt, 
 Though into sorrow soon 'twill melt; 
 But jealousy can know no trust, 
 Is never generous, never just. 
 Hatred man turns against his foes, 
 But in his jealous rage he throws 
 His keenest, swiftest, deadliest dart 
 Against the idol of his heart; 
 But if in woman's breast it burns 
 Her wrath against her rival turns. 
 When with his genial smile, the king 
 To Clytie gave his sapphire ring, 
 Maeonius caught the speaking look 
 With which the gracious gift she took; 
 It set his Arab blood on fire 
 With deadly jealousy and ire. 
 Long had it been his earnest hope 
 To win and wear the Heliotrope, 
 To turn on him those blue eyes bent 
 Where'er the king his sunshine sent; 
 For with a lover's instinct true, 
 He soon her latent passion knew, 
 And flushed with rage whene'er the king 
 Bade her for his amusement sing. 
 Nor could he, as he longed to do, 
 Taunt Clytie with the love he knew;
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. in 
 
 In his despair he sometimes tried ; 
 But on his tongue the sentence died. 
 
 Magicians, in the olden days, 
 Whene'er a demon they would raise, 
 Drew charmed circles on the floor 
 Which evil spirits passed not o'er : 
 Safe from their power within this ring 
 O'er their familiars they could fling 
 Their wondrous spells, and at their will 
 A raging tempest raise or still; 
 But if they passed that barrier frail, 
 Their art was then of no avail ; 
 The might of hell they could not stem, 
 Its demons fierce had power o'er them. 
 'Tis thus with woman : man ne'er leaps 
 Her charmed circle while she keeps 
 Within its sheltering border line, 
 Which he can feel though not define; 
 But let her once that line step o'er, 
 And she can rule him then no more; 
 The demon raised she cannot still, 
 And she must bend before its will. 
 
 In such a circle Clytie stood, 
 
 In all the might of womanhood, 
 
 And he but loved her all the more 
 
 That he its line could not pass o'er. 
 
 The single step he could not take, 
 
 The magic circle dared not break, 
 
 And tinge sweet Clytie's cheek with shame 
 
 By giving to her love a name.
 
 112 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 But 'gainst the king so oft he turned 
 The jealous rage with which he burned, 
 That well the watching courtiers knew 
 Why that discourteous lance he threw; 
 And those whose restless discontent 
 In change of sovereigns found a vent, 
 Would fan the flame and urge that he, 
 The king removed, might monarch be. 
 To such base schemes Mseonius ne'er 
 Had lent before a list'ning ear ; 
 Now evil over good prevailed, 
 His manly cheek before it paled: 
 But 'twas not horror nor dismay 
 That sent the crimson flush away 
 His prison bonds alone he felt 
 W r hile Clytie to his rival knelt, 
 And freedom, granted in her name, 
 A deeper insult yet became. 
 Full well he knew just where to find 
 A trait'rous, disaffected mind. 
 And when the evening rites were o'er, 
 Before a trait'rous priest he swore 
 Revenge for all his wrongs he'd take, 
 And kill the king for Clyde's sake. 
 
 Now plainly can that priest unfold 
 The event the New Year's storm foretold: 
 The storm must come, but 'mid its rain 
 The bow of hope shines bright again, 
 And these full sheaves of golden light 
 Proclaim Palmyra's future bright. 
 "Strike ! strike ! O royal youth," he cried ; 
 "Strike for kingdom and a bride!
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 113 
 
 And let to-morrow's rising sun 
 
 Behold the battle fought and won !" 
 
 "It shall! and then Palmyra's throne 
 
 And Clytie, too, will be my own; 
 
 She'll surely not refuse a crown 
 
 If at her feet I cast it down; 
 
 And on my unsheathed dagger swear 
 
 The diadem I will not wear 
 
 If she refuse my throne to share!" 
 
 So spake Maeonius. Half aside 
 
 The crafty priest to him replied, 
 
 "The Heliotrope turns to the Sun, 
 
 And, when Palmyra's crown is won, 
 
 I prophesy the blue-eyed flower 
 
 Will turn to you in that bright hour. 
 
 But be not rash, we've much to fear ; 
 
 To-night receive your sword and spear, 
 
 To-morrow use your dagger here. 
 
 The palace guards we cannot win, 
 
 But once the temple gates within, 
 
 The king is wholly in our power; 
 
 Slay him and then the throne and flower 1" 
 
 'Tis night, and from the palace walls 
 
 A brilliant flood of radiance falls, 
 
 Which bathes the festive scene below 
 
 In one continued golden glow. 
 
 Gay wreaths of flowers are twined around 
 
 The stately marble columns, crowned 
 
 With sculptured palm-leaves far outspread 
 
 In graceful arches overhead. 
 
 The painted ceiling showed the Sun, 
 
 His daily race not yet begun;
 
 ii4 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 His fiery coursers strong as fleet 
 
 Trample the darkness 'neath their feet, 
 
 Impatient rosy Morn to greet, 
 
 Who with one hand day's gate unbars, 
 
 While with the other, o'er the stars 
 
 She draws a golden veil of light, 
 
 And hides the beauties of the night. 
 
 More brilliant still the scene beneath, 
 
 There sylph-like maids twine like a wreath 
 
 Around their queen, who, in the pride 
 
 Of regal beauty, sits beside 
 
 The king upon Palmyra's throne, 
 
 Which might of arms had made their own. 
 
 A silvery veil was round her flung, 
 
 Which, like a misty vapor hung 
 
 Before the sun, did but reveal 
 
 The beauty it could not conceal, 
 
 And heightened the seductive charms 
 
 Of her fair neck and ivory arms. 
 
 Amid its folds she seemed to be 
 
 Venus arising from the sea, 
 
 Whose snowy foam still round her lay 
 
 All sparkling with its diamond spray. 
 
 Two pages, dressed as Cupids, bore 
 
 Her sea-green train, which swept the floor, 
 
 While on her brow a crown she wore. 
 
 Without, the light a net-work weaves 
 Across the deep-green orange-leaves, 
 From colored lamps amid them hung 
 Which o'er the sparkling fountains flung 1 
 A glow, that, as it caught their showers, 
 Seemed that of fire-flies hid in flowers.
 
 Clyde and Zenobia. 115 
 
 The starry jasmine's nightly bloom 
 
 Sheds on the air its sweet perfume, 
 
 While from the water-lily's cup 
 
 A spicy odor's wafted up, 
 
 A subtle fragrance rich as sweet, 
 
 Crushed out beneath Night's hurrying feet, 
 
 As o'er the tropic scene she sped, 
 
 Nor came with twilight's lingering tread, 
 
 Majestic, quiet, calm, and slow, 
 
 As in the colder climes of snow; 
 
 But with a flexile tiger grace 
 
 Leaped from the sunset's warm embrace, 
 
 And sprang at once upon the scene 
 
 To reign till morn its star-crowned queen. 
 
 Across the court Mseonius sped, 
 
 Nor marked the beauty round him spread; 
 
 The plot was laid the guards are won, 
 
 And, in the Temple of the Sun, 
 
 He who would wear Palmyra's crown 
 
 Next morn must strike her monarch down. 
 
 But nought restrains a jealous man : 
 
 A single word destroyed the plan 
 
 Laid with such subtle, crafty art, 
 
 By raising in Mseonius' heart 
 
 A fiend, born of his jealous hate, 
 
 Who would not for his vengeance wait. 
 
 The culprit, ere he joined the dance, 
 
 Must from the king receive his lance; 
 
 The monarch, as Masonius knelt, 
 
 A dagger drew from his own belt, 
 
 And smiling, said 'twas Clytie's right 
 
 Again to arm the pardoned knight;
 
 Ii6 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 "To her, sir captive, you belong, 
 She won your freedom with a song, 
 And lips that ne'er can sue in vain 
 Have broken with a word your chain." 
 
 It was his queen the monarch meant, 
 
 But all Mseonius' thoughts were bent 
 
 On Clytie, and in jealous ire 
 
 Again his blood flowed liquid fire; 
 
 And, like a tiger in his spring, 
 
 He threw himself upon the king, 
 
 And, ere his fury could be stayed, 
 
 Sheathed in his heart the murd'rous blade. 
 
 One moment o'er his foe he hung, 
 
 That moment Clytie 'tween them sprung, 
 
 Too late the deadly blow to stay 
 
 Or even turn its force away. 
 
 Dead from his throne the king sank down. 
 
 And tottering fell Palmyra's crown. 
 
 Zenobia's blood with horror froze. 
 
 "So perish all Mseonius' foes !" 
 
 He shouts, and holds the reeking steel 
 
 High o'er her head, ere she can feel 
 
 Aught but a woman's speechless fear 
 
 At death so awful and so near. 
 
 A drop of blood falls on her cheek, 
 
 It breaks the spell and she can speak; 
 
 Tossing her snowy arms on high, 
 
 From her pale lips there burst a cry 
 
 Of mingled anguish and dismay; 
 
 Then, like a lioness at bay 
 
 She turns, and seeks in queenly rage 
 
 The grief of woman to assuage.
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 117 
 
 At once she knew that not alone 
 Had he dared thus assail the throne, 
 And nerved herself to meet the fight, 
 Avenge her wrong maintain her right. 
 
 "Some of you staunch the blood," she said ; 
 "You, Clytie, raise the royal head. 
 The king is wounded, nothing more. 
 Ho ! guards, I charge you keep the door ; 
 Remove yon traitor from our sight, 
 And see he dies this very night." 
 
 "Methinks this is a hasty thing: 
 
 He is the nephew of the king, 
 
 Or, if he's dead, Lord of the East." 
 
 So spoke aloud the trait'rous priest. 
 
 "If he were dead I still am queen 
 
 To every loyal Palmyrene, 
 
 And it should be my earliest care 
 
 To guard my throne. My lords, beware I 
 
 Traitors are here ; I know them well, 
 
 Although their names I do not tell ; 
 
 But listen : all who intercede 
 
 For yon vile wretch, or even plead 
 
 That I till morn for vengeance wait, 
 
 I doom at once to share his fate." 
 
 She looked so lovely, yet so grand, 
 So much the queen born to command, 
 So worthy of the crown and throne 
 Which she so boldly called her own, 
 That every loyal heart was thrilled 
 And with chivalric reverence filled.
 
 n8 Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 One moment by her beautiy awed 
 They stood, and then with one accord, 
 Burst into shouts despite the priest, 
 And hailed her Sovereign of the East. 
 Then, as the traitors stood dismayed, 
 They heard upon the colonnade 
 The measured tramp of troops advance; 
 And fully armed with sword and lance, 
 The royal guard through every door 
 Began its steady streams to pour. 
 
 Two lords had on Maeonius sprung 
 When o'er the queen in wrath he hung; 
 He strove to shake them off in vain, 
 They held him till that martial train 
 Swept round the throne with measured tread 
 To guard the living and the dead. 
 Then, as the crowd was cleared away 
 From where his murdered kinsman lay, 
 Beside that prostrate form he sees 
 Clytie upon her bended knees : 
 As o'er the dead in grief she hung 
 With fiercest rage his heart was wrung. 
 Was it for this he vengeance sought, 
 For this that deed of murder wrought, 
 To see her kneeling prostrate there 
 Abandoned unto love's despair? 
 Sharp was the pang his spirit knew, 
 For sense of suffering keener grew 
 As hope within his bosom died. 
 "Now welcome, death," he sternly cried, 
 "To end at once this bitter strife 
 No pang for me so sharp as life."
 
 Clytie and Zenobia. 119 
 
 Tlien from his captors broke away, 
 Caught up the dagger where it lay, 
 And plunging it in his own side, 
 Fell down at Clyde's feet, and died. 
 
 To grief Zenobia now gave way, 
 Nor sought the bitter tide to stay; 
 The queen avenged, the woman wept, 
 And neither tears nor vengeance slept; 
 For ere the funeral rites were done, 
 She, as the priestes of the Sun, 
 And sovereign monarch of the East, 
 Passed sentence on the trait'rous priest. 
 She was Palmyra woman's grief 
 In royal power sought relief; 
 Secure as when she shared a throne 
 Queen of the East she reigned alone, 
 Inscribed her name on history's page, 
 And shone, the woman of her age. 
 
 But Clytie, like a fading flower, 
 Drooped from that fearful, fatal hour, 
 When at the queen's command she raised 
 The royal head, and wildly gazed 
 Into that face which always wore 
 For her a genial smile before. 
 They thought her dead, but though alive, 
 The shock she did not long survive; 
 For ere the palm-tree from its crown 
 Another withered leaf cast down, 18 
 The rose its monthly blossoms shed, 
 The water-lily drooped its head,
 
 I2O Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 The orange-buds had burst in bloom 
 
 To deck fair Clytie for the tomb; 
 
 The bride of Death she calmly slept 
 
 While round her bier young maidens wept, 
 
 As they with loving fingers twined 
 
 A wreath her marble brow to bind, 
 
 Singing, in voices sweet and low, 
 
 A solemn dirge of wailing woe. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 The Heliotrope is withered now, 
 
 Her god-like Sun has set; 
 But though Death's garlands bind her brow 
 
 His eyes with tears are wet : 
 
 He weeps, he weeps to take the prize 
 
 That love alone has won ; 
 Though on her bier the maiden lies, 
 
 Her soul is with the Sun. 
 
 O! Death, the victory is not thine 
 
 When life for love we give 
 And long as yon bright sun shall shine 
 
 The Heliotrope will live; 
 
 Will live in other hearts to bloom, 
 
 For love can never die, 
 But sheds on earth its sweet perfume, 
 
 Eternal as the sky.
 
 Notes for Clytie and Zenobia. 121 
 
 NOTES FOR CLYTIE AND ZENOBIA. 
 
 1 Among the most remarkable ruins of Palmyra are 
 those of the Temple of the Sun, which planet was 
 worshipped in Persia and Syria. The Magi, or priests 
 of the Sun, were divided into three orders, the first 
 consisted of the inferior priests, who conducted the 
 ordinary ceremonies of religion, the second presided 
 over the sacred fire, and the third was the Archimagus 
 or high-priest. The office of priest was generally held 
 by the reigning sovereign ; the Roman Emperor Helio- 
 gabalus had himself made a priest of the Sun, and in 
 troduced its worship at Rome. Strabo relates that 
 "The altars of the Magi were attended by priests who 
 daily renewed the sacred fire, accompanying the cere 
 mony with music !" The new year, which fell with 
 the Syrians in spring, was celebrated with great pomp, 
 and the rising of the sun eagerly watched for by the 
 priests, who foretold from the appearance of the heav 
 ens then the leading events of the year. Bulls, rams, 
 and cocks were sacrificed to the sun, and vestal vir 
 gins attended in the temple. Heliogabalus gave great 
 offense by marrying one of these virgins. Zoroaster 
 was a reformer of the Magians, and collected their doc 
 trines and rules of worship in the sacred books of the 
 Zend, called the Zend-Avesta. See Gibbon, and Biog 
 raphic Universelle, Ancienne et Moderne, vol. Hi. p. 
 434 ; also, Oracles of Zoroaster. 
 
 1 The attar, or otto, of roses can only be extracted 
 from roses that have bloomed in clear dry weather. 
 Tournefort's Voyage du Levant. 
 
 * The oriental name of Palmyra was Tadmor, which 
 signifies the same as Palmyra, "the place of the palm- 
 trees." See Josephus. 
 
 * The accounts of the origin of Odenatus differ. 
 Agathias makes him of mean descent, but other writers 
 state that he exercised hereditary sway over the Arab 
 tribes in the vicinity of Palmyra. The manner in 
 which he attained to the supremacy of Palmyra is not
 
 122 Notes for Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 clearly stated, but he succeeded his father, Septimius 
 Airanes, and raised Palmyra to a first-class power. 
 After the defeat and capture of Valerian by Sapor, 
 king of Persia, Odenatus, to propitiate the conqueror, 
 sent him a magnificent present and a respectful letter ; 
 Sapor haughtily ordered the gift to be thrown into the 
 Euphrates, and replied to the letter in terms of indig 
 nant contempt. Odenatus immediately took the field, 
 and defeated Sapor, driving him to the gates of Ctesi- 
 phon. Biographic Universelle, vol. xxx. p. 494, Art. 
 "Saint Martin." 
 
 ' "Modern Europe has produced several illustrious 
 women who have sustained with glory the weight of 
 empire ; nor is our own age destitute of such distin 
 guished characters. But, if we except the doubtful 
 achievements of Semiramis, Zenobia, the celebrated 
 queen of Palmyra and the East, is perhaps the only 
 female whose superior genius broke through the servile 
 indolence imposed on her sex by the climate and man 
 ners of Asia. She claimed her descent from the Mace 
 donian kings of Egypt, equaled in beauty her ancestor 
 Cleopatra, and far surpassed that princess in chastity 
 and valor. Zenobia was esteemed the most lovely, as 
 well as the most heroic of her sex. She was of dark 
 complexion, her teeth were of pearly whiteness, and 
 her large black eyes sparkled with uncommon fire, tem 
 pered by the most attractive sweetness ! Her voice was 
 strong and harmonious. Her manly understanding was 
 strengthened and adorned by study. She was not igno 
 rant of the Latin tongue, but possessed in equal perfec 
 tion the Greek, the Syriac, and the Egyptian languages. 
 This accomplished woman gave her hand to Odenatus, 
 who from a private station had raised himself to the 
 dominion of the East. She soon became the friend 
 and companion of a hero. In the intervals of war Ode 
 natus passionately delighted in the exercise of hunt 
 ing ; he pursued with ardor the wild beasts of the des 
 ert, lions, panthers, and bears ; and the ardor of Zeno 
 bia in this dangerous amusement was not inferior to 
 his own. She inured her constitution to fatigue, dis 
 dained the use of a covered carriage, generally ap 
 peared on horseback in a military habit, and sometimes
 
 Notes for Clytie and Zenobia. 123 
 
 marched several miles on foot at the head of the 
 troops. 
 
 "The success of Odenatus was in a great measure 
 ascribed to her incomparable prudence and fortitude. 
 Their splendid victories over the Great King, whom 
 they twice pursued as far as the gates of Ctesiphon, 
 laid the foundations of their united fame and power. 
 
 "Invincible in war, the Palmyrenian prince was cut 
 off by domestic treason, and his favorite amusement 
 was the cause, or at least the occasion of his death. 
 
 "His nephew Masonius presumed to dart his javelin 
 before that of his uncle ; and, though admonished of 
 his error, repeated the insolence. As a monarch and 
 a sportsman, Odenatus was provoked, took away his 
 horse, a mark of infamy among the barbarians, and 
 chastised the rash youth by a short confinement. The 
 offense was soon forgotten, but the punishment was 
 remembered ; and Mseonius t with a few daring asso 
 ciates, assassinated his uncle in the midst of a great 
 entertainment. But he only obtained the pleasure of 
 revenge by this bloody deed ; he had scarcely time to 
 assume the title of Augustus before he was sacrificed 
 by Zenobia to the memory of her husband. With the 
 assistance of his most faithful friends she immediately 
 filled the throne, and governed with manly counsels 
 Palmyra, Syria, and the East above five years." 
 
 "According to some Christian writers, Zenobia was 
 a Jewess." Gibbon's Roman Empire, chap, xi., with 
 notes. 
 
 4 Thalestris, a queen of the Amazons, who marched 
 with three hundred women twenty-five-days' journey 
 through hostile nations to meet Alexander. Justinian, 
 xii. 3. 
 
 "Ducit Amazonidum lunatis agmina peltis." Virgil, 
 A en. i. 490. 
 
 7 Jupiter, to avoid the jealous wrath of Juno, ap 
 proached Leda under the form of a swan. 
 
 * The peacock is an Indian bird, and, according to 
 Theophrastus, was introduced into Greece from the 
 East. 
 
 1 The Syrians scattered amaranth flowers over their 
 couches, that they might inhale the perfume, and used
 
 124 Notes for Clytie and Zenobia. 
 
 pillows stuffed with dried rose-leaves. Stephen's 
 Persia. 
 
 L0 The wine of Chios, so much esteemed by the an 
 cients, is still held in great repute. The Chians are 
 said to have first known the art of cultivating the vine, 
 which was taught them by CEnopion, king of Chios 
 and son of Bacchus and Ariadne. Mythologie Noel et 
 Chapsal. 
 
 11 Clytie was a nymph beloved by Apollo, who 
 changed her to a heliotrope, a blue flower, abundant 
 in the Grecian Isles, which turns ever towards the sun. 
 Mythologie Noel et Chapsal. 
 
 a The ostrich hides its eggs in the sand, and leaves 
 them to be hatched by the heat of the sun. 
 
 L * The orange-tree in the West Indies bears fruits, 
 buds, and blossoms all at one time on the same bough. 
 
 11 Prometheus had formed a figure of clay, and 
 Minerva beholding it offered her aid in procuring any 
 thing in heaven which might contribute to its perfec 
 tion, and bore him to heaven on her shield that he 
 might judge for himself what he required. Seeing 
 everything animated by the celestial heat, he secretly 
 applied his ferula to the wheel of the sun's chariot, 
 and thus stole some of the fire, with which he animated 
 his figure of clay. Jupiter, to punish the theft, bound 
 him to a rock, with vultures ever gnawing his liver. 
 
 10 Pygmalion, a celebrated sculptor of the island of 
 Cyprus, became so enamored with an ivory statue of 
 his own making, that he prayed Venus and the gods 
 to animate it, which they did. Ovid, Met. x. 9. 
 
 16 Asphodels were planted by the Persians in ceme 
 teries, because they believed the spirits of the departed 
 delighted in the perfume. Dictionnaire Botanique. 
 
 11 "Car le poete est un oiseau ; 
 Mais captif, ses elans se brisent 
 Contre un invisible reseau." 
 
 Theophile Gautier. 
 
 M The Palma Real Oreodoxa, or Royal Palm, losts 
 one leaf from the lower part of its crown every month, 
 while a new one springs from the upper part to sup 
 ply its place. Dr. Turnbull.
 
 The Organ. 125 
 
 THE ORGAN. 
 A Legend from the German of Herder. 
 
 Oh, temple by God's breath inspired! 
 
 Who first contrived your wond'rous frame, 
 Whence voices of all living things 
 
 Together praise Jehovah's name? 
 Now, wailing misereres shed 
 
 A heart appalling groan abroad ; 
 Then plaintive flute and cymbals clang, 
 
 With martial clarion's blast accord. 
 The hautboy's scream blends boldly with 
 
 A nation's shout of jubilee, 
 Whilst over all the trumpet's notes 
 
 Exultant tell of victory. 
 
 From piping reed the strain ascends 
 
 To timbrel's thunder. "Hark! the dead 
 Are stirring, graves are opening 
 
 'Tis the last judgment's trumpet dread! 
 How hovering hang the expectant tones 
 
 On all creation's outspread wings. 
 Jehovah comes! His thunders roll 
 
 Before Him bow all living things.
 
 126 The Organ. 
 
 Now, in soft-breathing words he speaks 
 To human hearts that trembling awed, 
 
 Bow down in prayer, then with one voice 
 Shout Hallelujah to the Lord. 
 
 The son of Maia strung the lyre, 
 Apollo tuned the joyous lute, 
 
 While from the Shepherd's simple reed 
 Pan formed the sweetly plaintive flute; 
 
 A great Pan was he who gave 
 Creation's glorious song a voice, 
 
 And let the yearning human soul 
 Hear earth and sea with Heaven rejoice. 
 
 Disdaining music of the strings 
 
 Cecilia noblest Roman maid 
 That she might hear Creation's song, 
 
 Deep in her heart with fervor prayed: 
 "Oh ! let me hear that song of praise 
 
 Those holy three sang in the fire, 
 Oh ! let my longing soul drink in 
 
 The music of the Heavenly choir." 
 Lo! by her side an angel stands, 
 
 Who oft appeared to her in prayer; 
 He touched her ear entranced she heard 
 
 Creation's song roll through the air. 
 Stars, sun and moon, the Heavenly host 
 
 The rolling seasons day and night 
 The ice and snow the frost and storm 
 
 The dew and rain, darkness and light 
 Mountains and hills and all green things 
 
 Fountains and streams, seas, rocks and wood,
 
 The Organ. 127 
 
 The souls in Heaven and tribes of earth, 
 Praised God the merciful and good! 
 
 In adoration she sank down, 
 "And now, Oh! angel, let me hear 
 
 The echo of this song," she cried, 
 "In music meet for mortal ear." 
 
 With speed an artist then he sought 
 
 Whom Bazaleel's rapt soul inspired, 
 Measure and number in his hand 
 
 In silence placed, and then retired. 
 An edifice of harmonies 
 
 Cathedral-like he reared, whence rang 
 In one according voice of praise 
 
 The Gloria which the angels sang; 
 Then, all great Christendom intoned 
 
 Her lofty credo, blessed tie 
 Together binding human souls ; 
 
 But when at sacrament the cry 
 He comes ! He comes ! rolled through the air 
 
 The spirits of the saints above 
 Came down, and in devotion took 
 
 The offering of Eternal Love. 
 Earth and Heaven became one choir, 
 
 The sinner at the temple door 
 Quaked, when he seemed to hear the trump 
 
 Proclaim, the day when Hope is o'er. 
 
 Cecilia gratefully rejoiced, 
 
 For she had found the saint's communion 
 The Christian unity desired 
 
 By all who seek the Spirit's union.
 
 128 The Organ. 
 
 "What shall I call," said she, "this stream 
 
 "Of harmony which bears the soul 
 Upon its waves to that broad sea 
 
 Where all Eternity doth roll?" 
 "Call it," the angel said, "what thou 
 
 In prayer didst yearningly desire, 
 The Organ of that mighty soul 
 
 Which sleeps in all and doth aspire 
 In richest labyrinth of sound 
 
 The hymn of Nature to intone 
 And, in devotion echo back 
 
 Creation's song before the Throne."
 
 The Guard Around the Tomb. 129 
 
 THE GUARD AROUND THE TOMB. 
 
 What is this solemn sound we hear? 
 
 It breaks upon a nation's ear 
 
 Like Ocean's sob upon the shore, 
 
 The wail of storms whose wrath is o'er. 
 
 From proud Virginia's mountains grand 
 
 It swells through all our Southern land. 
 
 A country mourning o'er its slain, 
 Who gave their lives, and not in vain, 
 Since in its heart their mem'ry blooms 
 Fresh as these flowers upon their tombs. 
 Their toil is o'er, their labors cease. 
 In war they died, but died for peace. 
 
 They bravely fought and nobly fell, 
 And Fame their glorious deeds shall tell, 
 When she decrees a crown of bay 
 No power on earth her hand can stay, 
 And on these graves a wreath is laid 
 No storm can change, no time can fade. 
 
 Where she has placed this deathless crown 
 Let woman cast her roses down, 
 And Love and Fame forever stand 
 A guard of honor, hand in hand, 
 Around these graves where heroes lie 
 Who fought for right nor feared to die. 
 May 10, 1872.
 
 130 Oremus. 
 
 OREMUS. 
 
 The following deserves to be classed among the best 
 devotional poems of the language. It has all the sweet 
 ness of Keble, with a strength all its own. It com 
 bines the logic which convinces with the sympathy 
 that converts, and we feel compelled to yield to its 
 solemn and irresistible appeal. 
 
 When dark the road and sore the feet, 
 
 When desolate the way, 
 When needing strength, and hope, and faith, 
 
 O, brethren, "Let us pray." 
 
 Prayer is the culture of the wheat, 
 
 The weeding of the tares, 
 And oft in prayer an angel we 
 
 Might shelter unawares. 
 
 A heartfelt wish that we could pray 
 
 Is in itself a prayer, 
 For 'tis the gasping of the soul 
 
 For freer, purer air. 
 
 Dost thou object "unasked He gives"? 
 
 Yes, brother, this is true, 
 But e'en His blessings blessing need, 
 
 To make them blessed to you.
 
 Oremus. 131 
 
 "I may ask wrong, He'll give what's best, 
 
 I will confide in this." 
 O, brother, he who asks for nought 
 
 Must always ask amiss. 
 
 "What will be will be" sayest thou? 
 
 That rests with Him not thee, 
 It is enough He gives thee power 
 
 To will what thou shalt be. 
 
 He never asks, "Wilt thou be made?" 
 
 When He creates a soul, 
 But to that soul He gives a will 
 
 Then asks, "Wilt thou be whole?" 
 
 "He knows my wants, why should I pray 
 
 This boon from Him to gain?" 
 We know not why, but He has said 
 
 "Ask and thou shalt obtain." 
 
 He might have made the marriage wine 
 
 At Cana with a word, 
 The water by the servants brought 
 
 Was nothing to the Lord. 
 
 What He commands that we should do, 
 
 And if our souls decline 
 He'll leave them to their emptiness 
 
 And make no water wine. 
 
 Then when He bids thee fill the pots, 
 
 O, fill them to the brim, 
 And fear not that thou ask too much, 
 
 Thou canst not weary Him.
 
 132 A Legend of St. Augustine. 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 With study spent, and worn with care, 
 A Bishop wandered by the sea ; 
 
 A rev'rend father of the church 
 And skilled in its disputes was he. 
 
 Long had he sought to know that truth, 
 Whose height no human mind can reach, 
 
 And earnest prayer for light divine 
 On what he should, and should not teach. 
 
 What was the God-head, over which 
 The subtle Greek, in keen debate, 
 
 Had wrangled until Christian love 
 
 Seemed almost quenched in deadly hate? 
 
 As wrapped in thought he slowly walked, 
 Scarce conscious of the cooling breeze, 
 
 Upon the ocean's sandy shore 
 A little child at work he sees. 
 
 "What dost thou, little one?" he cried, 
 As with a conch shell in his hand, 
 
 The child bore water from the sea 
 To fill a cell scooped in the sand.
 
 A Legend of St. Augustine. 133 
 
 "Just what you vainly strive to do," 
 With solemn look the child replied, 
 
 "I seek to drain the ocean dry 
 To fill a hollow at its side. 
 
 "As well do this, as try to crowd 
 
 Infinite truth in finite mind, 
 Or, with thy puny human power, 
 
 The secret things of God to find." 
 
 Started to hear from childish lips, 
 A truth so pointed yet so grand, 
 
 The Bishop bowed his head and said, 
 "Before Thee, Lord, rebuked I stand." 
 
 But when he raised his eyes, and saw 
 The child had vanished from the beach, 
 
 He knew an angel had been sent 
 To him, this mighty truth to teach.
 
 134 Tidal Bells. 
 
 TIDAL BELLS. 
 
 Instead of lighthouses, bells are hung on the shoals 
 of Penobscot Bay, in such a way as to be rung by 
 the motion of the water as it sweeps over the sunken 
 rocks, and thus warn of their proximity. 
 
 'Twas in the glorious month of June, 
 As morn was breaking "still and gray, 
 
 That first I heard the tidal bells 
 Ring out upon Penobscot Bay. 
 
 Green hills in softened distance rose, 
 
 Placid the water as a lake ; 
 While waiting for the sun's first smile 
 
 Its dimpling isles seemed scarce awake. 
 
 Then flushed the crimson glow of day, 
 The misty clouds their pinions furled, 
 
 Like guardian angels who all night 
 
 Had watched above the sleeping world. 
 
 And floating now toward the east 
 Had gathered there in grand array, 
 
 To enter when the portal ope'd 
 
 Through which passed out the coming day.
 
 Tidal Bells. 135 
 
 And as they caught the glorious light 
 Of Paradise that through it streamed, 
 
 Its golden glow, its rosy flush 
 
 Reflected from their pinions gleamed. 
 
 So fair that scene, so still, so calm, 
 I did not think of danger there, 
 
 But thought those solemn warning bells 
 A call to early morning prayer. 
 
 But as we glided swiftly on, 
 
 Ere one had in the distance died 
 
 Another caught the falling note, 
 Rung by the surging of the tide. 
 
 It was indeed a call to prayer, 
 
 A call rung out by Nature's hand, 
 
 Not in a chapel raised by man, 
 But in her own cathedral grand. 
 
 In solemn awe I bowed my head, 
 
 And from my restless heart there rose 
 
 A silent prayer, that tidal bells 
 
 Might ring for me until life's close. 
 
 Might softly sound when all was calm, 
 To warn of hidden rock or shoal, 
 
 And loudly ring when passion's tide 
 Was surging high within my soul. 
 
 For ah ! as down life's varied stream 
 We madly rush or gently float, 
 
 We all may hear its tidal bells, 
 If we but list their warning note.
 
 136 Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 
 
 CLEOPATRA'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 This poem first appeared in the Galaxy of April, 1877. 
 It is amenable to the criticism of that class which would 
 have the limits of Art less broad than the limits of Na 
 ture. Mrs. Clarke, in a note to the writer, says of it: 
 "I meant it to be a picture of passionate love in a 
 woman who did not feel the restraints of society, or 
 necessity of concealing her passion." In that light, 
 doubtless, it will be read, and its classic beauty recog 
 nized as being within the allowed domain of creative 
 art. 
 
 What care I for the tempest? What care I for 
 
 the rain? 
 
 If it beat upon my bosom, would it cool its burn 
 ing pain 
 This pain that ne'er has left me since on his 
 
 heart I lay, 
 And sobbed my grief at parting as I'd sob my 
 
 soul away? 
 O Antony ! Antony ! Antony ! when in thy circling 
 
 arms 
 Shall I sacrifice to Eros my glorious woman's 
 
 charms, 
 And burn life's sweetest incense before his sacred 
 
 shrine 
 With the living fire that flashes from thine eyes 
 
 into mine ?
 
 Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 137 
 
 when shall I feel thy kisses rain down upon my 
 
 face, 
 
 As, a queen of love and beauty, I lie in thine em 
 brace, 
 
 Melting melting melting, as a woman only can 
 
 When she's a willing captive in the conquering 
 arms of man, 
 
 As he towers a god above her, and to yield is not 
 defeat, 
 
 For love can own no victor if love with love shall 
 meet? 
 
 1 still have regal splendor, I still have queenly 
 
 power, 
 
 And more than all unfaded is woman's glori 
 ous dower. 
 
 But what care I for pleasure? What's beauty to 
 me now, 
 
 Since Love no longer places his crown upon my 
 brow? 
 
 I have tasted its elixir, its fire has through me 
 flashed, 
 
 But when the wine glowed brightest from my 
 eager lip 'twas dashed. 
 
 And I would give all Egypt but once to feel the 
 bliss 
 
 Which thrills through all my being whene'er I 
 meet his kiss. 
 
 The tempest loudly rages, my hair is wet with 
 rain, 
 
 But it does not still my longing, or cool my burn 
 ing pain. 
 
 For Nature's storms are nothing to the raging of 
 my soul
 
 138 Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 
 
 When it burns with jealous frenzy beyond a 
 
 queen's control. 
 I fear not pale Octavia that haughty Roman 
 
 dame 
 
 My lion of the desert my Antony can tame. 
 I fear no Persian beauty, I fear no Grecian maid : 
 The world holds not the woman of whom I am 
 
 afraid. 
 
 But I'm jealous of the rapture I tasted in his kiss, 
 And would not that another should share with 
 
 me that bliss. 
 No joy would I deny him, let him cull it where he 
 
 will. 
 
 So mistress of his bosom is Cleopatra still : 
 So that he feels for ever, when he Love's nectar 
 
 sips, 
 'Twas sweeter sweeter sweeter when tasted 
 
 on my lips; 
 So that all other kisses, since he has drawn in 
 
 mine, 
 
 Shall be unto my lover as "water after wine." 
 Awhile let Caesar fancy Octavia's pallid charms, 
 Can hold Rome's proudest consul a captive in her 
 
 arms, 
 Her cold embrace but brightens the memory of 
 
 mine, 
 And for my warm caresses he in her arms shall 
 
 pine. 
 'Twas not for love he sought her, but for her 
 
 princely dower ; 
 She brought him Caesar's friendship, she brought 
 
 him kingly power.
 
 Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 139 
 
 I should have bid him take her, had he my counsel 
 
 sought. 
 I've but to smile upon him and all her charms are 
 
 nought ; 
 For I would scorn to hold him by but a single 
 
 hair, 
 Save his own craving for me when I'm no longer 
 
 there ; 
 And I will show yon Roman, that for one kiss 
 
 from me 
 
 Wife fame and even honor to him shall noth 
 ing be ! 
 Throw wide the window, Isis fling perfumes 
 
 o'er me now, 
 
 And bind the Lotus blossoms again upon my brow. 
 The rain has ceased its weeping, the driving 
 
 storm is past, 
 And calm are Nature's pulses that lately beat so 
 
 fast. 
 
 Gone is my jealous frenzy, and Eros reigns serene, 
 The only god e'er worshiped by Egypt's haughty 
 
 queen. 
 With Antony my lover I'll kneel before his 
 
 shrine 
 Till the loves of Mars and Venus are nought to 
 
 his and mine; 
 And down through coming ages, in every land 
 
 and tongue, 
 
 With them shall Cleopatra and Antony be sung. 
 Burn sandal-wood and cassia, let the vapor round 
 
 me wreathe, 
 And mingle with the incense the Lotus blossoms 
 
 breathe.
 
 140 Cleopatra's Soliloquy. 
 
 Let India's spicy odors and Persia's perfumes 
 
 rare 
 
 Be wafted on the pinions of Egypt's fragrant air, 
 With the sighing of the night breeze, the river's 
 
 rippling flow, 
 Let me hear the notes of music in cadence soft 
 
 and low. 
 Draw round my couch its curtains ; I'd bathe my 
 
 soul in sleep ; 
 
 I feel its gentle languor upon me slowly creep. 
 O, let me cheat my senses with dreams of future 
 
 bliss, 
 
 In fancy feel his presence, in fancy taste his kiss, 
 In fancy nestle closely against his throbbing heart, 
 And throw my arms around him, no more no 
 
 more to part. 
 Hush ! hush ! his spirit's pinions are rustling in 
 
 my ears : 
 He comes upon the tempest to calm my jealous 
 
 fears ; 
 
 He comes upon the tempest in answer to my call. 
 Wife fame and even honor for me he leaves 
 
 them all ; 
 
 And royally I'll welcome my lover to my side. 
 I have won him I have won him, from Caesar 
 
 and his bride.
 
 Thanksgiving Psalm. 141 
 
 THANKSGIVING PSALM. 
 
 (Dedicated to the Philosophical Society of 
 Chicago. ) 
 
 'The Earth is the Lord's, and the fullness thereof.' 
 
 At thy footstool, Great Jehovah, 
 
 See a Nation lowly bends, 
 While a Psalm of deep Thanksgiving 
 
 From its grateful heart ascends. 
 
 Thou art Wisdom, Strength and Power; 
 
 'Tis Thy Force alone creates; 
 'Tis Thy Spirit all-pervading, 
 
 Mother Nature animates. 
 
 From her mighty womb, prolific, 
 To Thy off spring she gives birth ; 
 
 And we thank Thee, Great Jehovah, 
 For the fullness of the Earth. 
 
 'Twas Thy Force that moved the water, 
 And from darkness made the light, 
 
 Gathered up the floating atoms, 
 And the dry land brought to sight.
 
 142 Thanksgiving Psalm. 
 
 From that Force, forever acting, 
 All good things of Earth must flow, 
 
 Mind and Matter both pervading; 
 This and only this we know. 
 
 Nature's changes Science teaches 
 Her creation is concealed; 
 
 Great Jehovah's hidden secrets 
 Unto Man are not revealed. 
 
 But no less we thank and praise Thee; 
 
 Call it Matter call it Force 
 'Tis Thy Spirit, all pervading, 
 That of Nature is the source. 
 A. D. 1877.
 
 Resurgam. 143 
 
 RESURGAM. 
 
 Sung to the national air of Russia, May 10, 1878, 
 on the occasion of the delivery of a memorial-day ad 
 dress, at New Berne, by Governor Vance. 
 
 Rise, crowned with hope, O! prostrate South, 
 
 arise ! 
 And from these graves lift up your streaming 
 
 eyes; 
 
 No longer mournful glances backward cast, 
 No longer live within a buried past! 
 
 Arise! like Abram, put away your dead, 
 The rough and thorny present calmly tread, 
 And, with a heart that never knew disgrace, 
 With steadfast look the unknown future face. 
 
 As these met death, so bravely meet ye life, 
 Cast from your soul the bitterness of strife, 
 And bury deep in "dust of old desires" 
 Its still unquenched and slowly smouldering fires. 
 
 Rise ! crowned with thorns and bleeding lift thy 
 
 cross, 
 
 Life brings no real gain without some loss, 
 The battle o'er, a sentinel you stand, 
 To guard the sacred freedom of our land.
 
 144 Resurgam. 
 
 Then watch ye well the sepulchre where lies 
 A nation's buried hope, till it shall rise, 
 And coming generations joyful see 
 Our fatherland redeemed and free. 
 May 10, 1878.
 
 Through Doubt to Light. 145 
 
 THROUGH DOUBT TO LIGHT. 
 
 This philosophic poem syllables the feeling of the 
 doubter who wishes for light of one who needs the 
 charity of the Christian, and not his contumely a 
 charity rarely tendered a contumely ready and un 
 sparing ! Left to his unbelief and sequent sufferings, 
 he turns away from the fabric of belief commended to 
 him, but rejected by his conscience, and determines to 
 erect one of his own, founded upon the imperishable 
 rock of axiomatic truths ; instead of the shifting sands 
 of assumed verities, upon which was builded the fabric 
 of belief he could not accept. 
 
 This poem, and many of the following all written 
 in the latest twenty years of her life are ethical in 
 their character. It will be noted, in taking them as 
 a whole, that while the authoress clung to the Faith 
 of her Fathers, and her early teachings and associa 
 tions, as embodied in the Law and Gospel announced 
 by the Nazarene ; she doubted, if she did not discard, 
 the dogmas, creeds, and theologic views of those who 
 vainly suppose that Law and Gospel is not clear and 
 complete ; and requires to be explained and amended, 
 under fallible human effort, and through the tortuoui 
 devices of Divinity experts. 
 
 I stood alone, the creeds to which 
 My soul had always clung gave way, 
 
 And round me surged a sea of doubt 
 Whose restless waves I could not stay.
 
 146 Through Doubt to Light. 
 
 Life lost its meaning, and the grave 
 Seemed unto me the end of all. 
 
 Goodness was nothing, and from heaven 
 I feared that God himself must fall. 
 
 Friends turned from me, and counsellors 
 Upon my doubts could only frown. 
 
 Was it the glare of hell I caught, 
 Or light from heaven cast down? 
 
 I could not tell, but soon I saw 
 
 Old landmarks rise in that dark sea. 
 
 If heaven must pass like some burnt scroll, 
 This earth, at least, was left to me. 
 
 If all religious truth was dead, 
 
 Yet moral truth untouched might live; 
 
 If there should be no other life, 
 
 I'd have the best that this could give. 
 
 "Better," I said, "is truth than lies, 
 Better the generous than the mean, 
 
 Better the brave than the coward act, 
 Better the chaste than the unclean." 
 
 My feet upon this rock I stayed, 
 
 And slowly sank the waves of doubt: 
 
 With fear and trembling thus it was 
 I wrought my own salvation out. 
 
 Creeds grew to me but empty husks 
 On which I could not feed my soul, 
 
 While moral and religious truth 
 Blended in one harmonious whole.
 
 Through Doubt to Light. 147 
 
 New faith in human nature rose 
 
 From the broad, open sea of thought, 
 
 As statues in the marble hid 
 
 Are by the strokes of genius wrought. 
 
 'Twas always there, this glorious faith, 
 But cramped and hidden from my sight, 
 
 Till, stroke by stroke, Doubt set it free, 
 And suffering gave my soul new light.
 
 148 Under the Lava. 
 
 UNDER THE LAVA. 
 
 Original in conception apt in comparison this 
 poem, in its consummate and unadorned beauty, com 
 mends itself to every subtile fancy and every sympa 
 thetic heart. 
 
 Far down in the depths of my spirit, 
 
 Out of the sight of man, 
 Lies a buried Herculaneum, 
 
 Whose secrets none may scan. 
 
 No warning cloud of sorrow 
 Casts its shadow o'er my way, 
 
 No drifting shower of ashes 
 Made of life a Pompeii. 
 
 But a sudden tide of anguish 
 
 Like molten lava rolled, 
 And hardened, hardened, hardened, 
 
 As its burning waves grew cold. 
 
 Beneath it youth was buried, 
 And love, and hope, and trust, 
 
 And life unto me seemed nothing- 
 Nothing but ashes and dust.
 
 Under the Lava. 149 
 
 Oh ! it was glorious ! glorious ! 
 
 That Past, with its passionate glow, 
 Its beautiful painted frescoes, 
 
 Its statues white as snow. 
 
 When I tasted Love's ambrosia, 
 
 As it melted in a kiss, 
 When I drank the wine of friendship, 
 
 And believed in earthly bliss; 
 
 When I breathed the rose's perfume, 
 With lilies wreathed my hair, 
 
 And moved to liquid music 
 As it floated on the air 
 
 To me it was real real, 
 
 That passionate, blissful joy 
 Which grief may incrust with lava, 
 
 But death alone can destroy. 
 
 Twas a life all bright and golden, 
 Bright with the light of love; 
 
 A Past still living, though buried 
 With another life above 
 
 Another life built o'er it, 
 
 With other love and friends, 
 Which my spirit often leaveth, 
 
 And into the past descends. 
 
 Though buried deep in ashes 
 
 Of burnt-out hope it lies, 
 Under the hardened lava, 
 
 From which it ne'er can rise,
 
 150 Under the Lava. 
 
 It is no ruined city 
 
 No city of the dead 
 When in the midnight watches 
 
 Its silent streets I tread. 
 
 To me it changeth never; 
 
 Buried in all its prime, 
 Not fading, fading, fading, 
 
 Under the touch of time. 
 
 The beautiful frescoes painted 
 
 By fancy still are there, 
 With glowing tints unchanging 
 
 Till brought to upper air. 
 
 And many a graceful statue, 
 In marble white as snow, 
 
 Stands fair and all unbroken 
 In that silent "long ago." 
 
 It is not dead, but living, 
 My glorious buried Past ! 
 
 With its life of passionate beauty, 
 Its joy too bright to last! 
 
 But living under the lava 
 For the pictures fade away, 
 
 And the statues crumble, crumble, 
 When brought to the light of day; 
 
 And like to dead-sea apples 
 
 Is love's ambrosia now, 
 And the lilies wither, wither, 
 
 If I place them on my brow.
 
 Under the Lava. 151 
 
 And so I keep them ever 
 
 Far down in the depths of my heart, 
 Under the lava and ashes, 
 
 Things from my life apart.
 
 152 The Crown Imperial. 
 
 THE CROWN IMPERIAL 
 A Legend of Northern Germany. 
 
 Gentle reader ! uncover thy head, and breathe a si 
 lent prayer, for power to appreciate the beauty of this 
 inspiration of a tenderness, born of "the wisdom which 
 cometh from above." 
 
 "This rare and strange plant," writes Gerarde, "is 
 called in Latine Corona Imperialis, and Lilium Byzan 
 tium. The floures grow on the top of the stalke, incom- 
 passing it around in form of an Imperialle Crowne, 
 hanging their heads downward as it were bels. In the 
 bottom of each of these bels there is placed sixe drops 
 of most clear shining sweet water, in taste like sugar, 
 resembling in show faire orient pearles; the which 
 drops, if you take them away, there do immediately 
 appear the like again." Tradition, that sweet deceiver, 
 says that these tear-like drops did not exist in the 
 Crown Imperial formerly. The flower was white not 
 of that peculiar dark, flesh color, deepened with blushes, 
 as it now appears ; the "bels" stood upright, slightly 
 protected by the emerald leaves above them. Thus it 
 stood in full glory in the garden of Gethsemane, where 
 our Saviour was wont to walk at sunset in silent medita 
 tion. Notes and Queries. 
 
 It was the hour the Saviour loved 
 That nuptial hour when day and night 
 
 Together meet in close embrace, 
 And with a silent kiss unite.
 
 The Crown Imperial. 153 
 
 In mediation calm He walked, 
 The Darkness stayed its lingering tread, 
 
 And as He passed each loving flower 
 In adoration bowed its head. 
 
 The jas'mine, scentless all the day, 
 Now broke its box of spikenard sweet, 
 
 And from its starry calices 
 
 Poured spicy odors at His feet. 
 
 All flowers a richer fragrance breathe 
 Before Him as He silent walks, 
 
 And shed the incense of their love 
 Low bending on their slender stalks. 
 
 All save one stately lily fair 
 
 Which stood in conscious beauty's pride, 
 
 With her majestic head unbent 
 Her silvery bells all open wide. 
 
 Such beauty caught the Saviour's eye, 
 He paused before the lovely flower, 
 
 Spoke no reproof but silent gazed 
 With tenderly persuasive power. 
 
 She could not meet that loving glance, 
 Her haughty pride before it fled, 
 
 Deep blushes tinged her snowy bells 
 And virgin shame bent down her head. 
 
 The Saviour passed and darkness came, 
 The dewful Twilight gently wept, 
 
 The flowers their petals folded up 
 And nestling 'mid their green leaves slept.
 
 154 The Crown Imperial. 
 
 But when next morning they awoke 
 
 And raised their heads to greet the light, 
 
 They saw a lingering blush still tinge 
 The CROWN IMPERIAL'S spotless white, 
 
 Whilst every bell sweet pearly tears 
 Of truly deep repentance shed; 
 
 And never more in haughty pride 
 Did this fair lily lift its head. 
 
 And resting in the silvery bells 
 
 Which hang around its crown of green, 
 
 The pearly drops of sorrow still 
 
 May with the blush of shame be seen.
 
 De Profundis. 155 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Lord, from our Southern Land, 
 In mercy lift Thy hand, 
 
 Which presses sore; 
 For through its borders wide, 
 Fell pestilence doth stride, 
 While famine by its side 
 
 Knocks at each door. 
 
 Lord, keep our hope alive, 
 Give us the strength to strive 
 
 Against this foe; 
 Before Thy throne we kneel, 
 O, Great Physician, heal 
 The wounds 'neath which we reel 
 
 And end this woe! 
 
 Aside our strife we lay, 
 
 Both North and South, and pray 
 
 "Thy will be done." 
 And with one voice implore; 
 That when this plague is o'er, 
 We, as in days of yore, 
 
 Be truly one. 
 A. D. 1878.
 
 156 Truth. 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 Oh! mighty Power primeval cause 
 The unconditioned great "I am"! 
 
 Conditioned Nature to Thee bows 
 And chants an everlasting psalm. 
 
 Unlimited in time and space, 
 And all unshackled is Thy force, 
 
 Unto Thyself Thou art a law, 
 
 And of unchanging law the source. 
 
 Before Infinitude like Thine, 
 
 Man's finite mind grows dumb with awe, 
 As he from age to age attempts 
 
 To read the workings of Thy law. 
 
 Thy crystal, Truth, has many sides, 
 And light reflected shines from all, 
 
 But on no single human mind 
 Will its perfected radiance fall. 
 
 Though clouds of dogma for a while, 
 Its never-changing light may veil; 
 
 Behind them it forever shines, 
 And o'er them will at length prevail.
 
 Truth. 157 
 
 Lo! at its touch the blind do see, 
 
 The dumb do speak, the deaf do hear; 
 
 Those dead in ignorance arise, 
 Soon as its shadow doth appear. 
 
 A noble feast it spreads for all, 
 
 But yet is undiminished still ; 
 Twelve baskets full were gathered up, 
 
 Though every one did eat his fill. 
 
 These loaves and fishes typify 
 
 That Truth which is dispensed for all 
 
 In smallest fragments every where 
 Will like the rays of sunlight fall. 
 
 The finite mind may eat at will, 
 
 Nor satisfy the hungry soul ; 
 Which ever crieth "Give, oh! give," 
 
 But never can embrace the whole.
 
 158 Onward. 
 
 ONWARD. 
 
 "We cry onward ! to the heart that abandons the flesh- 
 pots of falsehood, even for a wilderness where leads 
 the pillar of truth be it fire, be it cloud." Conway. 
 
 Onward! ye who seeking Truth, 
 Put in her your perfect trust; 
 
 Though the dogmas of the past, 
 Crumble round you into dust. 
 
 Saving faith is trust in truth; 
 
 And the infidel is one 
 Who believes her glorious work, 
 
 Is by falsehood better done. 
 
 Testing not by any fear, 
 As to where her footsteps tend; 
 Onward! knowing in your hearts, 
 Truth in evil cannot end. 
 
 Ye can look on fair results, 
 By the light of triumphs past; 
 
 See the lions yet before, 
 And the chains that bind them fast.
 
 Onward. 159 
 
 Onward ! seekers, onward press, 
 Shades heroic round you stand; 
 
 Whose fidelities have reared 
 
 Unto knowledge temples grand. 
 
 Truth has martyrs ; Truth has saints, 
 Who, while cowards clamor loud, 
 
 Follow where her pillar leads; 
 Be it fire, or be it cloud. 
 
 Onward! hearts that bravely leave, 
 Falsehood's flesh-pots in the rear; 
 
 E'en into the wilderness 
 
 Onward! "fearing nought but fear."
 
 1 60 Exegesis. 
 
 EXEGESIS. 
 
 "Knowledge it excites prejudice to call it Science 
 is advancing as irresistibly, as remorselessly, as majestic 
 ally, as the Ocean moved on King Canute's chair ; which 
 represents traditional beliefs and moves backwards an 
 inch at a time." Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 Far back in the distant ages, 
 
 The early days of Time, 
 When the Prophets wrapt their teachings 
 
 In parables sublime, 
 And foretold the Kings of Tharsis 
 
 Their presents should cast down; 
 And Arabia bring her off'ring, 
 
 A new-born babe to crown. 
 
 The people heard them wond'ring, 
 But their meaning did not see; 
 
 For they fancied the Messiah 
 An earthly prince should be. 
 
 But when the Virgin Mother 
 
 For all the tribes of earth, 
 By the touch of man unsullied; 
 
 To her first-born child gave birth: 
 The Priests and Levites scoffing, 
 
 The truth would not believe, 
 And though God-like were his teachings, 
 
 The Christ would not receive. 
 
 Every age repeats the story, 
 And the people loudly cry:
 
 Exegesis. 161 
 
 "This man should not rule o'er us," 
 While the Truth they crucify; 
 
 But the touch of man unsullied, 
 In the virgin womb of Time, 
 
 'Tis brought unto perfection, 
 In majesty sublime. 
 
 And through the trackless region, 
 
 The infinitude of space, 
 Found stepping-stones where science, 
 
 The universe might face; 
 And wrote its wondrous teachings, 
 
 On Nature's mighty page; 
 With which no man may tamper 
 
 In this, or any age. 
 
 As o'er the earth remorseless, 
 
 The moving glacier crept; 
 Truth that's knowledge crystalized, 
 
 Adown the ages swept; 
 It had no need to hasten, 
 
 Its step though slow was sure; 
 Infinite time behind it lay, 
 
 Eternity before. 
 
 Then oh ! ye men of Israel, 
 
 Unto yourselves take heed; 
 For if of man this counsel) 
 
 It never can succeed; 
 But ye cannot overthrow it, 
 
 Though the Truth ye crucify, 
 If, haply, ye are fighting 
 
 'Gainst the Lord of Hosts most High.
 
 1 62 What is Religion? 
 
 WHAT IS RELIGION? 
 
 What is Religion, in whose name 
 Such fearful deeds are wrought, 
 
 And dogmas yet more fearful still 
 Unto the spirit taught? 
 
 "It is the gift of God to man, 
 
 And to none else beside, 
 The breath of life unto his soul;" 
 
 A sage to me replied. 
 
 A yearning he alone can feel 
 
 In weariness and grief, 
 For something higher than the known; 
 
 A refuge and relief. 
 
 A yearning of that soul, to bridge 
 
 The chasm which divides 
 The known from the unknown, and read 
 
 The secret which it hides. 
 
 'Twas this that from the Psalmist's soul 
 Brought forth the earnest cry, 
 
 "Lead me, My God ! unto the rock 
 That's higher still than I."
 
 What is Religion? 163 
 
 Tis not devotion, worship, praise, 
 
 The pious act or deed, 
 Though these may be the flower or fruit 
 
 That from its root proceed. 
 
 And as the earth in .eons past, 
 
 Produced but ferns alone, 
 That left the impress of their leaves 
 
 Imbedded in the stone, 
 
 So does religion in each age 
 Express man's yearning needs, 
 
 And leave an impress on the race 
 Recorded in its deeds. 
 
 Now rude and fierce with human blood 
 
 Behold its altars reek, 
 While fruit and flowers are offered by 
 
 The beauty-loving Greek. 
 
 Gotama and Confucius both, 
 
 Like fern leaves in the coal, 
 Ere Jesus came their impress left 
 
 Upon the human soul. 
 
 "The joys of life, e'en life itself," 
 
 Loyola cries, "I'll give 
 Unto the holy Mother Church, 
 
 And die that she may live." 
 
 But perfect LOVE, which casts out fear 
 
 And raises and refines 
 Life's conduct, is the living Truth 
 
 The heart of man enshrines.
 
 164 What is Religion? 
 
 Creeds, dogmas, fables, myths, and all 
 
 Shall crumble and decay, 
 But LOVE, the kernel, live when faith, 
 
 The husk, has passed away. 
 
 Then cast aside all fear, O soul, 
 
 Religion cannot die: 
 The good and true of every age 
 
 The next shall purify.
 
 John Wesley's Foot-print. 165 
 
 JOHN WESLEY'S FOOT-PRINT. 
 
 The summer sun was shining bright 
 On Epworth church one Sunday morn, 
 
 When grand John Wesley humbly came 
 Back, to the town where he was born. 
 
 Back to its little parish church 
 In singleness of heart he turned, 
 
 To preach that all should practice, what 
 Within its sacred walls he'd learned. 
 
 A gathering crowd his steps attend, 
 And soon the church's door they reach; 
 
 Alas ! they found it shut and barred ; 
 Within its walls he might not preacfi. 
 
 The crowd, indignant, murmured loud, 
 But Wesley only waved his hand; 
 
 And turning to his father's grave, 
 Upon the tomb-stone took his stand. 
 
 "The church, my friends, is dark and cold, 
 But warmed by God's own glorious sun, 
 
 I'll from this pulpit preach so plain, 
 That all may read e'en while they run."
 
 1 66 John Wesley's Foot-print. 
 
 'Twas nothing new he taught that day, 
 
 But ah ! its mem'ry lingers yet, 
 And Epworth shows upon that stone, 
 
 The print where Wesley's foot was set. 
 
 'Tis but a legend, yet it folds, 
 Within its heart a lesson grand; 
 
 That summer sun, that close shut door, 
 
 The murmuring crowd that round it stand. 
 
 For Wesley taught God's tender love 
 Within no single church is barred, 
 
 And left his foot-print on the age, 
 If not upon that marble hard.
 
 He of Prayer. 167 
 
 HE OF PRAYER. 
 
 Hidden in the ancient Talmud 
 Slumbereth this Legend old, 
 
 By the stately Jewish Rabbis 
 To the list'ning people told. 
 
 Jacob's ladder still is standing 
 
 And the angels o'er it go, 
 Up and down from earth to heaven, 
 
 Ever passing to and fro. 
 
 Messengers from Great Jehovah 
 Bringing mortals good or ill, 
 
 Just as they from laws unchanging 
 Good or evil shall distil. 
 
 He of Death with brow majestic 
 Cometh wreathed with asphodel, 
 
 He of Life, with smile seraphic, 
 Softly saying 'all is well/ 
 
 He of Pain with purple pinions, 
 He of Joy all shining bright, 
 
 He of Hope with wings cerulian, 
 He of Innocence all white.
 
 1 68 He of Prayer. 
 
 And the rustling of their pinions 
 With the falling of their feet, 
 
 Turneth into notes of music, 
 
 Grand and solemn, soft and sweet. 
 
 One and only one stands ever 
 On the ladder's topmost round, 
 
 Just outside the gate celestial, 
 
 Listening as to catch some sound. 
 
 But it is not angel music 
 
 Unto which he bends his ear ; 
 
 'Tis the passing prayer of mortals, 
 That he ever waits to hear. 
 
 By him messengers go flitting 
 But he ever standeth there; 
 
 For he is the great Sandalphon, 
 Who is gathering every prayer. 
 
 In his hand they turn to flowers, 
 From whose cups a fragrance floats, 
 
 Through the open gate celestial, 
 Mingled with the angels' notes. 
 
 For outside the golden portal 
 Of that City of the skies, 
 
 All the earthly dross and passion 
 Of the prayer of mortal dies. 
 
 Tis the Heavenly essence only 
 That can find an entrance there, 
 
 Turned into the scent of flowers 
 By Sandalphon He of Prayer.
 
 The Highest Truth. 169 
 
 THE HIGHEST TRUTH. 
 
 A tribal God was Israel's God 
 - Inspiring only fear and awe, 
 Who for His chosen moved alone, 
 
 And wrought by will, instead of law. 
 Long in this bondage were men held, 
 
 And slowly through the desert came; 
 At times were blinded by the smoke, 
 
 And then were dazzled by the flame. 
 
 But smoke and flame both passed away 
 
 As age on age went rolling by; 
 Until the Father of mankind, 
 
 Was dimly seen by Reason's eye; 
 A God who rules by law alone, 
 
 A God in whom the soul may trust; 
 For wilfully He cannot slay, 
 
 And only does because He must. 
 
 A God who is the inmost truth 
 
 Of all and every thing that is, 
 God of mankind, and Nature, too ; 
 
 For every truth of hers is His. 
 A God that reason ever seeks 
 
 But yet presumes not to define ; 
 A God who bids man trust all truth, 
 
 May such a God, in truth, be mine.
 
 170 Matter. 
 
 MATTER. 
 
 "For I shall have to speak of the new faith in mat 
 ter, once and still so flouted and despised, now seen to 
 be the haunt of mystery and the home of thought." 
 Chadwick. 
 
 What is this matter over which 
 
 There rages theologic strife, 
 'Gainst him who says that it contains 
 
 "Promise and potency of life?" 
 
 Why is it scorned and flouted so? 
 
 Why counted gross and low? 
 If we believe apart from it, 
 
 The mind can no existence know. 
 
 If matter's indestructible, 
 
 Why is it such a deadly sin 
 To hold, that through eternity 
 
 As now, it evermore has been? 
 
 They're Truth's apostles, those who trace 
 
 Its grand illimitable past; 
 And read those laws which ne'er begun 
 
 And through eternity must last.
 
 Matter. 171 
 
 And they, whom some material call, 
 View matter with most solemn awe; 
 
 The womb of thought, of soul, of life, 
 The haunt of mystery and of law. 
 
 They may not know what law combines 
 Matter and mind, body and soul, 
 
 Nor how eternally it works, 
 
 Producing one harmonious whole. 
 
 'Tis but a part that they can see 
 
 Of that eternal living mind 
 Which dwells in nature, as the soul 
 
 And body are in one combined. 
 
 For how can one who's never known 
 The sense of smell conceive its power? 
 
 He cannot see, he cannot touch 
 The perfume rising from a flower. 
 
 Nor can the sense of man conceive 
 
 Matter etherealized refined. 
 He cannot see, he cannot touch 
 
 His life, his soul, his conscious mind. 
 
 Then count me as a materialist 
 When matter's potency I plead; 
 
 And say it has eternal laws, 
 
 Man's finite senses cannot read.
 
 172 The Prophet's Wonder Staff. 
 
 THE PROPHET'S WONDER STAFF. 
 A Legend of the Talmud. 
 
 "Gird up thy loins, Gehazi, and take my staff in 
 
 hand, 
 Nor tarry by the wayside, for death is in the land. 
 
 "If any one shall meet thee salute him not, nor 
 
 stay 
 To answer any greeting that's given by the way. 
 
 "Pause not, but hasten onward to do a work of 
 
 grace, 
 And lay the staff thou bearest upon the dead 
 
 child's face; 
 
 "Back to its earthly dwelling, when thou thy task 
 
 hath done, 
 Shall come the absent spirit of this my daughter's 
 
 son." 
 
 So spake the holy Prophet; his staff Gehazi 
 
 seized, 
 And sped upon his errand, right joyous and well 
 
 pleased.
 
 The Prophet's Wonder Staff. 173 
 
 Long had he sought to hold it the Prophet's 
 
 staff of power, 
 "I too will work a wonder," he said, "on this 
 
 very hour." 
 
 "Good day to thee, Gehazi," cried Jehu by the 
 way, 
 
 "Pray whither art thou hast'ning so rapidly to 
 day?" 
 
 "Nay, stop me not, good Jehu," Gehazi proudly 
 
 said, 
 "The Prophet's staff I carry, I go to raise the 
 
 dead." 
 
 Full of his own importance the servant sped 
 
 along, 
 While following quickly after there came a 
 
 curious throng. 
 
 Who clustering gather round him, like bees that 
 
 seek a hive, 
 As Jehu cries "Gehazi the dead will make alive." 
 
 He seeks the Prophet's chamber, impatient of 
 
 renown, 
 Already hears in fancy the plaudits of the town. 
 
 "Gehazi works a wonder, the Prophet does no 
 
 more; 
 Gehazi is a prophet the dead he can restore."
 
 174 The Prophet's Wonder Staff. 
 
 He lays the staff he carries upon the pale cold 
 
 face, 
 And watches for a signal that death to life gives 
 
 place. 
 
 The sleeping child awakes not, he turns the staff 
 
 around, 
 From left to right he lays it, but still is heard no 
 
 sound. 
 
 Ashamed, he stands confounded; no plaudits 
 
 now he hears, 
 But the hootings of the people, their laughter 
 
 and their jeers; 
 
 Back speeds he to the Prophet, "Your staff, O 
 
 Master, take, 
 It hath no virtue in it, the dead will not awake." 
 
 His loins the Prophet girded and quick to 
 
 Shunem sped, 
 There, staff in hand, he enters the presence of 
 
 the dead; 
 
 The gaping crowd he scatters, then shuts the 
 
 chamber door, 
 And prays the Lord Jehovah the dead child to 
 
 restore ; 
 
 And then his living body on that cold form he 
 
 lays, 
 He breathes his life into it, and yet more fervent 
 
 prays.
 
 The Prophet's Wonder Staff. 175 
 
 By love so warm and earnest, called in Jehovah's 
 
 name, 
 The spirit hovering o'er it back to the body came. 
 
 Self-seeking, vain Gehazi had failed to raise the 
 
 dead; 
 "Here, take thy child, O mother!" the grand old 
 
 Prophet said. 
 
 Not with his staff the wonder upon the dead he 
 
 wrought, 
 But by his prayers so humble, and his unselfish 
 
 thought.
 
 176 The Magic Ring. 
 
 THE MAGIC RING. 
 From the German of Lessing. 
 
 Among the treasures of an Eastern King 
 Was, long ago, a magic opal ring, 
 Which, rightly worn, the wondrous gift con 
 ferred 
 
 To be by God beloved, by man preferred; 
 Father to son the jewel handed down, 
 The eldest always had it with the crown; 
 At length a father three sons loved so well, 
 Which one the best, himself he could not tell, 
 And so he promised each of them apart, 
 That he should have the treasure of his heart; 
 And then, a craftsman calling to his aid, 
 Two other rings in secret he had made; 
 So like each other did the opals glow, 
 Which was the first no mortal man could know. 
 In secret then to each he gave a ring 
 Just as he felt the flutter of Death's wing. 
 He died and each one of the brothers three 
 Claimed that his ring the real gem must be ; 
 In fierce contention long did they dispute 
 Then took them to a Judge of great repute,
 
 The Magic Ring. 177 
 
 Before whom each one pleads the ring that's his 
 
 Of all the three, the only true one is. 
 
 He heard them all, then calmly did pronounce 
 
 To magic charm each must all claim renounce; 
 
 "For see," he said, "not one imparts 
 
 The love of God or man unto your hearts; 
 
 Else would ye not contend your ring alone 
 
 Contains the only true and magic stone. 
 
 Go now, your claim to God's exclusive love 
 
 By piety and self-denial prove, 
 
 If lives of love and charity ye live, 
 
 A wiser one than I shall judgment give." 
 
 Thus wrangles Christian, Turk and Jew, 
 
 Each claims his creed and only his is true; 
 
 He is the favored son of God most High. 
 
 Why not by lives of self-denial try 
 
 To prove that claim ? Nor ever wrangling stand ; 
 
 Each holds a gem of truth within his hand; 
 
 And if he rightly wears his wondrous ring, 
 
 To him the love of God and man 'twill bring.
 
 178 Hermes' Ear. 
 
 HERMES' EAR. 
 
 'Twas half in sport, and half in spite, 
 
 So myths Olympian say, 
 That Zeus, the father of the gods, 
 
 First moulded man of clay. 
 
 He worked as gods alone can work, 
 Till Juno's voice he hears, 
 
 And then the image covered up 
 Completed, but the ears. 
 
 He closed the door, lest prying" eyes 
 
 His artist work should see, 
 But as he hastened to the queen 
 
 Forgot to turn the key. 
 
 So Hermes, sauntering slowly by, 
 
 Lifted the latch unbid, 
 And curious, raised the moulding cloth, 
 
 Whose folds the statue hid. 
 
 "Aha !" he cried, "I'll finish this," 
 
 And seized a curving shell, 
 Whose depths the murmuring echo hid 
 
 Of ocean's distant swell.
 
 Hermes' Ear. 179 
 
 "I'll help the Thunderer make a man," 
 
 In pert conceit he said, 
 Then stuck the shell just where the ear 
 
 Should be upon the head. 
 
 But, ere a second he could place, 
 
 The door flew open wide, 
 Back to his work, impatient Zeus 
 
 Returns from Juno's side. 
 
 He boxed the boy, and turned him out, 
 
 And laughed at his conceit, 
 Yet left the shell until he could 
 
 The other ear complete. 
 
 'Tis scarcely done e'er Juno calls 
 
 The god again away, 
 And he returns to find the shell 
 
 Fixed in the hardened clay. 
 
 " 'Tis Juno's fault," in wrath he cries, 
 
 "She always interferes, 
 And man, the queen of Heaven may thank, 
 
 For his imperfect ears. 
 
 "The good the true, the beautiful 
 
 He'll hear alone through me, 
 Through Hermes' shell imperfect sounds 
 
 From gossip's murmuring sea." 
 
 And so it is, with Zeus' ear 
 
 That man the truth discerns, 
 While evermore to gossip's voice 
 
 The other one he turns.
 
 180 The Law and the Gospel. 
 
 THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 Suggested by a sermon preached January 18, 1882, 
 by the Rev. Mr. Shields. 
 
 Reads the grand old law of Israel, 
 "Love your neighbor, hate your foe"l 
 
 But a grander, nobler teaching 
 Does the Gospel to us show. 
 
 Give to him who most maligns you, 
 And whose heart is filled with hate, 
 
 Tenderest consideration, 
 With a love both sweet and great. 
 
 Who is there that stands among us 
 From all pain and sorrow free? 
 
 None Ah ! none, although the suff 'ring 
 May unknown to others be. 
 
 Grief, perchance, has made our brother 
 Hard as was that desert stone, 
 
 From which gushed the living water 
 'Neath the prophet's urgent tone. 
 
 In his anger he is bitter, 
 Thinking us to him the same; 
 
 Feeling that our loving kindness 
 Is for him an empty name.
 
 The Law and the Gospel. 181 
 
 Bitter too, were Marah's waters, 
 'Till the tree was in them thrown; 
 
 And like them the heart is sweetened, 
 By the flowers of love alone. 
 
 Says tradition sweet deceiver, 
 That the crimson fuchsia sprung, 
 
 Of the blood of Jesus dropping 
 As upon the cross He hung. 
 
 Victim, He, of man's injustice, 
 But his tender words were true; 
 
 When He prayed for their forgiveness, 
 "For they know not what they do." 
 
 So, though word or deed of others 
 Drops of life-blood from us wring; 
 
 Let the flowers of blest affection 
 E'en from black injustice spring. 
 
 He Humanity's grand Orpheus, 
 Struck the keynote of its heart; 
 
 And the sympathy still swelling, 
 From the earth shall not depart, 
 
 'Till the brotherhood of Jesus, 
 Shall pervade the human soul ; 
 
 And his words of meek forgiveness, 
 Down the ages grandly roll.
 
 1 82 A Legend of St. Christopher. 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER. 
 
 Far back in the distant long ago 
 
 Lies the fairy-land of Time ; 
 When saints and angels walked this earth, 
 
 And man was in his prime. 
 
 Brave champions fought with sword and lance, 
 
 Demons appearing then 
 In shape of cruel monsters fierce, 
 
 Instead of forms of men. 
 
 And there were giants in those days 
 Of wondrous strength and might; 
 
 Who sometimes battled for the wrong 
 And sometimes for the right. 
 
 One Offero the bearer swore 
 
 He only would obey 
 The strongest man and mightiest prince, 
 
 Who on this earth held sway. 
 
 He sought him far, he sought him near, 
 
 The quest was all in vain; 
 For each the power of Satan feared, 
 
 Lest he by it be slain.
 
 A Legend of St. Christopher. 183 
 
 At length he reached a hermit's cell, 
 
 Who told him Jesus' story ; 
 And said that Satan's self must bow 
 
 To Christ in all his glory. 
 
 "Show me this Christ," cried Offero, 
 
 "And tell me in what manner 
 I may become his soldier true, 
 
 And fight beneath his banner." 
 
 "First you must fast," the hermit said, 
 "Then many a prayer must say." 
 
 "I will not fast," cried Offero, 
 "And know not how to pray." 
 
 "For if I fast my strength will go, 
 
 And how then could I fight? 
 I seek the service of a prince, 
 
 Who'll use my strength aright." 
 
 "If you will neither fast nor pray, 
 
 By yonder river stand; 
 For many struggle through the ford, 
 
 Who need a helping hand." 
 
 "That is a service I can do," 
 
 The giant joyful cried; 
 And from its roots he tore a palm, 
 
 His steps to stay and guide. 
 
 And then he bent his back to work, 
 
 And many a day thus spent; 
 Aiding the weak and weary, who 
 
 Across the river went.
 
 184 A Legend of St. Christopher. 
 
 One stormy night he heard a cry, 
 When wind and waves were wild ; 
 
 And on the river's bank he found 
 A wailing little child. 
 
 "Be of good cheer," said Offero, 
 
 "I'll take you safely o'er;" 
 And on his back across the stream 
 
 The little child he bore. 
 
 Sore was the toil, the burden great, 
 
 "Oh ! why is this ?" he said. 
 "The whole world's sins," the child replied, 
 
 "Are resting on my head." 
 
 "Then you are he I long have sought," 
 
 The giant hopeful cried, 
 "For ''neath the weight you always bear 
 
 I long ago had died." 
 
 "None but a stronger man than I, 
 
 I've sworn I would obey ; 
 Then grant me this, Oh ! Leader Christ, 
 
 And teach me how to pray." 
 
 "There is no need," the Christ-child said, 
 
 "For he who labors, prays ; 
 And you in aiding fellow-men 
 
 Are passing all your days. 
 
 "And he prays best, who best doth work, 
 
 In every way he can ; 
 Without a single thought of self, 
 
 To serve his fellow-man."
 
 A Legend of St. Christopher. 185 
 
 And then he signed him with the cross, 
 
 And said Thou shalt not be 
 Offero; but Christoffero, 
 
 Since thou hast carried me." 
 
 The giant knelt, and humbly said, 
 
 "Lord ! help me, lest I faint ;" 
 And evermore toiled on for men, 
 
 As Christopher the saint.
 
 1 86 The Happy Valley. 
 
 THE HAPPY VALLEY. 
 
 In the heart of Carolina, by the Blue Ridge girded 
 
 round, 
 May the fabled Happy Valley of Rasselas be 
 
 found ; 
 By the rushing of the waters it was hollowed 
 
 from the stone, 
 When the earth was hot and molten ere a single 
 
 plant had grown; 
 
 And by the tramp of ages was slowly worn away, 
 Till the breath of life came stealing down the 
 
 canon bare and gray, 
 
 Then Nature threw her mantle o'er the moun 
 tain's rugged side, 
 And smiled upon the valley, till with laughter 
 
 it replied : 
 And she said, "I'll make a garden in the hollow 
 
 of my hand, 
 With the water racing round it, like a sparkling 
 
 jeweled band. 
 Here summer's heat I'll temper, and lighten 
 
 winter's snow, 
 While from the earth forever shall healing 
 
 waters flow."
 
 The Happy Valley. 187 
 
 Right royally the mother has kept her gracious 
 word, 
 
 For the laughter of the waters in the vale is 
 always heard ; 
 
 While a 'broidery of flowers, the loveliest ever 
 seen 
 
 Casts the colors of the rainbow o'er her robe of 
 living green. 
 
 On the grass she threw her sceptre, and the 
 golden-rod upsprung. 
 
 While a drapery of creepers o'er each preci 
 pice she hung; 
 
 Where in autumn like gay banners on battlements 
 of old, 
 
 From her fortress they are streaming in crim 
 son and in gold. 
 
 Here the laurel and the ivy spread their cups of 
 pink and white, 
 
 And the scarlet trumpet-flower turns its clusters 
 to the light, 
 
 While the oxydendrum's waving o'er the maiden 
 hair below, 
 
 And the black-haw's opal berries in the sunlight 
 changeful glow. 
 
 And she stooped and whispered softly in the 
 red-man's list'ning ear 
 
 The secret of the valley, and its waters warm 
 and clear; 
 
 And she told him they were flowing from her 
 heart so warm and true, 
 
 With a wondrous gift of healing and lost vigor 
 to renew.
 
 1 88 The Happy Valley. 
 
 And she bade him wall the hollow from which 
 
 they freely welled 
 With giant logs of locust from her fertile 
 
 bosom felled; 
 And thus the white man found it a hundred years 
 
 ago, 
 When he followed Tahkeeostee in its sinuous 
 
 racing flow ; 
 As it winds among the mountains a vein from 
 
 Nature's heart, 
 And clasps this Happy Valley unwilling to 
 
 depart. 
 WARM SPRINGS, N. C, August i, 1882.
 
 Thoughts. 189 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 Caught on the wing between Warm Springs and 
 Alexander's (N. C), October 14, 1882. 
 
 The night is done, and the darkness 
 
 Floats like a cloud away; 
 While the wondrous blaze of the comet 
 
 Dies in the glare of day; 
 
 And now on the rugged mountains 
 
 I see the sunrise glow, 
 And catch at their base the sparkle 
 
 Of Tahkeeostee's flow; 
 
 While through the cloudy curtain 
 
 Its censer-waves uprolled 
 Shines a glow of green and crimson, 
 
 A gleam of autumn's gold. 
 
 And the works of man seem nothing, 
 
 Amid these gorges grand, 
 To the wonders wrought by Nature, 
 
 The pictures from her hand. 
 
 Yet oft o'er the grand old mother, 
 
 A victory he'll gain ; 
 For he is the child of her bosom, 
 
 Her noblest work his brain.
 
 190 Thoughts. 
 
 He's her youngest born, and she lets him 
 In her fond indulgence rule; 
 
 Till he fancies he's the master, 
 She the obedient tool. 
 
 For she lends him all her powers, 
 As he's playing at her feet; 
 
 And smiles at his puny efforts, 
 With the mother to compete. 
 
 She opens her volume for him, 
 With pictures grand and true; 
 
 Which, dating from eternity, 
 Eternally is new. 
 
 And she whispers secrets to him, 
 
 And teaches all he learns; 
 Though oft 'gainst the face of the mother 
 
 The weapon she gave, he turns. 
 
 For he knows she still is hiding, 
 
 Secrets she ne'er has told; 
 And age on age he's striven 
 
 Life's mystery to unfold. 
 
 -i 
 But when he stands in the presence 
 
 Of these mountains grand and wild, 
 He feels she indeed is the mother, 
 
 He, but the ignorant child.
 
 The Heart of Jesus. 191 
 
 THE HEART OF JESUS. 
 
 In the dim twilight which betokened the long night 
 of death at hand, the poet's clear vision recognized 
 the Heart of Jesus ; and with a strength not of this 
 world, her last effort was to reach it! 
 
 Embalmed and closed in silver case 
 The heart of Bruce Lord Douglas bore, 
 
 And when the Panym round him pressed 
 He tossed the casket far before. 
 
 "In life," he cried, "you always led, 
 While Douglas followed close behind; 
 
 Go foremost still I'll cut my way 
 The sacred heart of Bruce to find." 
 
 The heart of Jesus ! sacred heart ! 
 
 I'll follow wheresoe'er it leads; 
 Not dead, like Douglas' heart of Bruce; 
 
 For all mankind alike it bleeds. 
 
 No single church in silver case 
 Enclosed the heart of Jesus holds ; 
 
 That generous heart, that loving heart, 
 Humanity divine enfolds. 
 
 But like the Douglas we must cut 
 
 Our way through foes that heart to find, 
 
 And feel that God so loved this world 
 He gave his heart for all mankind.
 
 192 Dux Foemina Facti. 
 
 DUX FOEMINA FACTI. 
 
 The following tribute to the cause she loved so well, 
 was the last poem ever written by Mrs. Clarke, and 
 was read by her son, William J. Clarke, on May 10, 
 1885, on the unveiling of the statue of a Confederate 
 soldier, erected by the Ladies of the Memorial Asso 
 ciation of New Berne. 
 
 The patriotic devotion of Marmion that rose supe 
 rior to his death-agony in the battle and prompted his 
 cry: 
 
 " Yet my last thought is England's," 
 
 is not of more heroic mould than the love of country, 
 which, like a cloudless sunset, gilded and adorned the 
 slowly ebbing flood of her life-tide, as it was yielding 
 to eternity its own. 
 
 "On Fame's eternal camping ground" 
 A sentinel now takes his stand, 
 
 To guard his comrades' dreamless sleep 
 Until relieved by Time's command. 
 
 But though this soldier carved in stone 
 May slowly crumble and decay, 
 
 For "earth to earth and dust to dust" 
 Material things all pass away:
 
 Dux Foemina Facti. 193 
 
 Yet, Love, like Truth, can never die ; 
 
 And 'graved on Time's historic page, 
 The memory of our soldiers' deeds 
 
 Shall live undimmed from age to age. 
 
 By woman's hand 'tis written there, 
 "Our dead shall live," she said, 
 
 And placed her sentinel above 
 
 The grave of the Confederate dead. 
 
 Stand there, O effigy in stone! 
 
 To guard 'gainst time's corroding dust 
 The sacred mem'ries of the past 
 
 Confided to your silent trust.
 
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 The Instrument Tuned 
 
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 Attractive Binding, 75 cents. 
 
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 I 'An able and interesting work on a comparatively new 
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 Various Therapeutic Agents.j 
 
 Influence of Mind. 
 
 Extravagant Emotions*; 
 
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 Harmony the LawUf Naturfl 
 
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 Told M Twilight 
 
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 Reuben: His Book 
 
 BY MORTON H. PEMBERTON. 
 
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 CHAMP CLARK. "I haven't laughed so much 
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 ST. Louis REPUBLIC. "The book is already 
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 strangers who meet upon a Pullman car. 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 L,9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 
 
 THE LIBRARY
 
 299 
 
 Poems 
 
 PS 
 
 1299 
 
 C55U17 
 
 mi ii TSIiiP ii WL UBRARY FACILi 
 
 A 001 375 943 <