LIBRARY 
 
 of California 
 IRVINE
 
 ESTELLE 
 
 AN IDYL OF OLD VIRGIN I A 
 
 BY 
 
 MARCUS BLAKEY_ALLMOND, A.M., LL.D. 
 
 Magazine Medalist, University of Virginia ; Head-master University 
 
 School, Louisville; formerly Professor Ancient Languages, 
 
 Male High School ; Author "Fairfax, My Lord," 
 
 "Outlines of Latin Syntax," etc. 
 
 FIFTH THOUSAND 
 
 LOUISVILLE KY 
 
 MARCUS BLAKEY ALLMOND 
 
 1899
 
 -7 
 
 Copyright. 1896, by M. B. Allmond.
 
 Dedicated to My Wife, 
 GARY MEADE ALLMOND, 
 
 And 
 MY CHILDREN, 
 
 Whose Welfare is '' Part and Parcel " of 
 My Every Thought.
 
 FROM THE LATE PRESIDENT OF 
 YALE COLLEGE. 
 
 Pro). Marcus B. AHmor.d: 
 
 My Dear Sir: Some one was so kind as to send 
 me by post a poem by yourself, entitled "Estelle." 
 Happening to have an hour to spare I at once took 
 it up, and was so interested in it as to read it through 
 at a sitting. I take the liberty to congratulate you 
 as the author of a very lovely idyll, sweet in its 
 spirit, lovely in its pictures, and admirably felicitous 
 in its diction. What can I say more, and I could 
 not say less, if I should say any thing. 
 Most sincerely yours, 
 
 N. PORTER. 
 New Haven, Conn., June 13. 1884.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 SOME years since, when the author was Professor of 
 Ancient Languages in the Male High School, he 
 urged upon the young men of his classes, as an excellent 
 exercise in the acquisition of facility in English expression, 
 a carefully written as well as a painstaking and exact oral 
 translation of the thoughts of the great authors they were 
 reading. He had followed such a course himself at school 
 and at the University of Virginia, and to prove to his pupils 
 that even one without natural gifts might, by such a 
 practice, make some headway in expression, he sat down 
 one Saturday morning, and before the day was over he had 
 finished the most of "Estelle." It embodies, it is true, in 
 the main, experiences had by the author amid the uplands 
 of the Rappahannock, close under the Blue Ridge, in Old 
 Virginia, where at his cousin's home, "Estelle," now the 
 author's wife, was teaching. In some points, however, the 
 story is purely imaginative. It is hardly necessary to tell 
 any one who knows the author that the author is no artist. 
 (8)
 
 Preface 
 
 The art of mixing and handling paints is an enormous 
 mystery to him. And so pronounced are his views against 
 the nefarious liquor traffic that it is equally unnecessary to 
 state that "his breath with wine was" never "strong" at 
 the banquet herein described, or anywhere else, or to 
 declare that he never sang the "Carpe Diem" song. Nor 
 did Mr. William Washington Meade (a nephew of the 
 celebrated Bishop and a grandson of Col. Richard Kidder 
 Meade, of Washington's staff), the father of the author's 
 wife Virginia Gary Meade die for many years after 
 " Estelle " was written. 
 
 Moreover, the author is free to admit that from the 
 time he met "Estelle" till he made her his wife, there 
 was no separation wherein she had time for the meditations 
 here attributed to her. Having reached Rappahannock 
 worn down by long years of collegiate and pedagogic work, 
 he remained amid those sunny uplands till June's dear days 
 were well-nigh over, when he repaired with her to her father's 
 home, whence he brought her away a bride on the last day 
 of that eventful month whose bewitching grace is here 
 
 chanted in song. 
 
 June, June, 
 Sweet, rare June! 
 You come too late 
 And go too soon. 
 
 (9)
 
 Preface 
 
 The popularity of the little volume was a genuine 
 surprise to the author, and, when the first edition was 
 exhausted, it was some time before he could make up his 
 mind to publish a second edition. But the thousand copies 
 of the second edition have been exhausted long since 
 three or four years since and the demand has seemed 
 so urgent from time to time, that the author is no longer 
 able to resist a third edition, especially as orders have been 
 received from Iowa to California, and from Texas to 
 Massachusetts, and even far-away Germany, within a com 
 paratively short time, showing that the little book has 
 touched a cord that vibrates in the universal heart. 
 
 In the hope that it may bear a blessing to some human 
 soul, that it may shed a bit of sunshine along the path 
 way of some shadowed life, that it may render pleasurable 
 some hour that otherwise might have been a weary one, 
 that it may bring some heart into closer and sweeter unison 
 with another heart, that it may augment good fellowship 
 and, while more widely diffusing the amenities of life, 
 contribute yet more to the elevation of man and the glory 
 of God, the author commits it for a third time to a 
 generous public. The kind letters it has brought him, the 
 hearty friendships it has made him, the blessed good-will it 
 (10)
 
 Preface 
 
 has won for him in hearts he never knew, have been to 
 him a source of infinite and abiding pleasure he may not 
 rashly reckon. And when life and its duties are over and 
 death and its mysteries are at hand, it will be one consoling 
 thought that, should all his other efforts at well-doing fail, 
 this one at least has had some measure of success. 
 
 In due appreciation of this fact the little volume appears 
 in far handsomer guise than ever before. To Mr. H. H. 
 Hughes, whose taste in typography is so well known, the 
 author here makes due acknowledgment, and there are 
 others, also, who have considerably assisted him in the 
 habiliment of the poem, to whom he would here return 
 merited thanks, were he allowed by them to do so. They 
 must take the wish for the deed. In conclusion, to one 
 and all into whose hands this little book may come the 
 author bids a hearty God-speed in all that is good and true 
 and generous and brave in all that makes life worth the 
 living and the Far-Beyond an assured and beautiful hope. 
 
 Louisville, Ky., Decembet 1, 1896. 
 
 (ii)
 
 PREFACE TO THIS EDITION. 
 
 WHEN this book was written, the author never dreamed 
 that nearly 5,000 copies would reach the public, and 
 that, too, after it had been out of print two or three years 
 between the several successive editions. He feels humbly 
 thankful for the many letters received from appreciative 
 readers the world over. God bless them, one and all, here 
 and hereafter. The purchasers of this book, he knows, 
 will pardon him for making due acknowledgment here to 
 the worth of one who in her modest self-abnegation denied 
 him the privilege in the former preface. The talented 
 young lady whose skillful hand designed the embossing-plate 
 and frontispiece and whose lithe figure adorns the various 
 half-tones now sleeps the eternal sleep. When the gentle 
 Evelyn Walbeck went on the abiding pilgrimage, a distinct 
 loss fell upon the lovers of the beautiful everywhere. But 
 in the embellishment of this book as well as in the famous 
 "Log Cabin" under which device the Republican party in 
 Kentucky votes, her ready ingenuity and happy execution 
 are shown and still remain a monument to her ability. 
 God rest her well im jenzeit on the yon side. Here she 
 abides and will ever abide in the hearts of her friends. 
 (12)
 
 ESTELLE 
 
 that fair land of light and love, 
 
 Where heroes sleep entombed in throngs, 
 Where laughing skies are blue above 
 
 And Nature sings her sweetest songs 
 In that dear land we love and hold 
 
 The saintliest of the sisterhood, 
 The State of States, whose arms enfold 
 
 Yet hosts on hosts of great and good, 
 Whose virgin soil bears virgin name, 
 
 Whose best of people wear the grace 
 Of heir ship in their fathers' fame 
 
 With ease that marks a kindred race, 
 Whose men love honor as their soul, 
 
 And women are Cornelias all, 
 da)
 
 "A sudden thought now seized on Ned 
 To weave for her a diadem." (Page 22)
 
 Estelle 
 
 Who count their jewels by the roll 
 
 Of sons who heed their country's call ; 
 Close nestling under mountains blue 
 
 A streamlet rises in a glen 
 And makes its way to broader view 
 
 Arnid the busier haunts of men; 
 But ere it leaves its mountain home 
 
 It laughs along fair sloping hills 
 And catches with its whiter foam 
 
 The ripples of unnumbered rills ; 
 It passes houses, one by one, 
 
 That, nestling 'mid their groves of trees, 
 Escape the noon-heat of the sun 
 
 When plays the fitful summer breeze ; 
 It passes scenes that would delight 
 
 The painter's or the poet's eye 
 That breathe anew by day, by night, 
 
 The glories of an Arcady. 
 Here in the month of leafy June, 
 
 When roses were in height of pride,
 
 Estelle 
 
 And Morning met sweet Afternoon 
 And kissed her by the water's side, 
 
 The farmer's daughter sits beneath 
 The freshness of the maple's shade, 
 
 While wild flowers of her native heath 
 The balmy airs with fragrance lade. 
 
 She caught the lull of noontide hour 
 
 And almost drowsed beside the fell ; 
 The bee had left the rifled flower, 
 
 The sheep had ceased to ring his bell ; 
 The browsing kine forgot to graze 
 
 And stood beneath the trees in dream, 
 While sunlight flashed its mellow rays 
 
 Upon the bosom of the stream. 
 
 The book beside her lay half-shut, 
 
 She floated off on magic seas : 
 "He comes," she dreams, "he comes ; but, but " 
 Her hair is fingered by the breeze, 
 
 (15)
 
 Estelle 
 
 Ah, well ! those lashes, they are long 
 
 And cast their shadows o'er the blue 
 That now lies hidden (am I wrong?) 
 
 Beneath those lids, just out of view; 
 And, oh ! those cheeks, I know a rose 
 
 Has stolen from its parent-stem 
 And left the track of tiny toes 
 
 In dimples upon each of them ; 
 
 And lips, Carnation's own they seem 
 
 Sweet, dainty lips, the home of bliss - 
 Such lips as Fancy, in sweet dream, 
 
 Would hover round, yet fear to kiss ; 
 So pure, they seem for angel-words 
 
 The trysting-place and holy shrine, 
 When with the twitter, as of birds, 
 
 In nuptial joy they intertwine ; 
 And, oh ! that chin so neatly turned, 
 
 A Grecian artist, yes, the best, 
 With silent envy would have burned 
 
 To see the skill it did attest ; 
 
 (16)
 
 Estelle 
 
 And brow! it rose a wreath of white 
 
 That bordered wide a wealth of tress 
 That now in sunny beauty light 
 
 Fell in fair folds upon her dress. 
 The wanton breeze with lustful glow 
 
 Now freshened as it stroked her hair, 
 And, as it kissed her brow of siiow, 
 
 Declared she was surpassing fair. 
 
 She dreamed she saw him on the hill; 
 
 She saw him moving down the path ; 
 She saw him cross the little rill; 
 
 What eyes she dreams her lover hath ! 
 How stately is his form, and fair ! 
 
 How strong his step and sure of place ! 
 How wavy his Hyperion hair, 
 
 And what an open, manly face ! 
 But books will often make us dream, 
 
 And June will bring fair fancies up 
 And tinge them with the mellow gleam 
 
 Of daffodil or buttercup. 
 (17)
 
 Estelle 
 
 NOW farmer Creal, a neighbor friend, 
 While horses to the barn were gone, 
 Thought it quite well to go (not send) 
 And see how farmer Rout came on. 
 Just at his neighbor's gate he met, 
 
 A full fourth-mile from house away, 
 A youth quite fair of mould, who yet 
 
 Bore signs or traveling far that day. 
 Clad in a garb of sober sense, 
 
 He seemed to farmer Creal a man 
 He might address without pretense 
 
 Or taking length of time to scan. 
 "Good-morning!" said the farmer then; 
 "Good-morning!" said the passer-by. 
 "Nice day!" the farmer said again; 
 "Yes, sir," the youth made quick reply, 
 And added, "Can you tell me, sir, 
 Where farmer Creal lives hereabout? 
 
 (IS)
 
 Estelle 
 
 Or, if he is not living here, 
 
 Where lives let's see old farmer Rout?" 
 "My name is Creal ; and yonder see! 
 
 Lives my old friend, good farmer Rout ; 
 I'll take you by his house with me, 
 
 If you will only turn about." 
 Then through the gate and down the hill 
 
 They kept the way that led below, 
 And chatting, now they cross the rill 
 
 And reach the spot where maples grow. 
 And here, oh stay ! ye gods above, 
 
 An Aphrodite, armed in might, 
 A sunny snare of sunny Love, 
 
 Breaks in full power upon the sight. 
 " Estelle 's asleep!" the farmer says, 
 
 And called her: "Estelle, hey, awake!" 
 Oh ! farmers have such sober ways 
 
 His ringing words the sweet spell break. 
 But farmers are the sturdy men 
 
 That build the nation strong and true, 
 (19)
 
 Estelle 
 
 That sink foundations in the fen 
 On which we round up to the blue 
 
 The house that winds and rains harm not, 
 The superstructure that must stand 
 
 When you and I are both forgot, 
 
 And children's children own the land. 
 
 N TOW days went by, as days will do, 
 
 * ^ And oft they met, as young folks will, 
 
 When air is sweet and skies are blue 
 
 And green grass creeps along the hill. 
 'Twas afternoon just such a one 
 
 As June will give beneath the skies 
 Where Blue Ridge welcomes morning sun 
 
 With her fair, laughing, winsome eyes. 
 They strolled Estelle and Ned Holway 
 
 Along the farm-road up the hill 
 To where the forest-shadows lay 
 
 In hushed repose, divinely still. 
 
 (20)
 
 Estelle 
 
 He talked in low and quiet wise 
 
 Of men and matters manifold, 
 And sighed to think the very skies 
 
 Grow brighter if but tinged with gold. 
 He told the story of his life 
 
 Of all he dreamed that he would be : 
 "I've battled there ('twas knife to knife) 
 
 To win an honest victory. 
 But gold, eternal gold ! the cry 
 
 Fills all the world and stays the hand 
 Of Art, who shrinks back with a sigh 
 
 That greed of gain engulfs the land : 
 But Art is Art a thing divine 
 
 I love her with my very soul ; 
 I'll not forsake her holy shrine 
 
 Till Mammon pay her ample dole." 
 
 They now had reached a charming spot, 
 
 Where shade locked hands with shade in glee, 
 
 The artist for a while forgot 
 The subject of his colloquy.
 
 * * * She leaned upon his arm 
 And walked on slowly back toward home. 
 
 (Page 28)

 
 Estelle 
 
 And now upon a great, wild rock, 
 
 Extending each way many feet, 
 He piled stone-block upon stone-block 
 
 Until it grew to be a seat 
 A very queen might love to hold, 
 
 Beneath the overshadowing trees, 
 And wrapped in vine-leaves crimson-gold, 
 
 Or green as hills by Southern seas. 
 A honeysuckle wild and red 
 
 Was stretching welcoming hands to them. 
 A sudden thought now seized on Ned 
 
 To weave for her a diadem. 
 The violet with blue eyes smiled 
 
 From hiding-place beneath the ledge, 
 And buttercups were growing wild 
 
 Beyond the sv^eeping forest's edge. 
 Now, as he wove, he sprang again 
 
 The subject of an artist's love 
 How field and forest, grove and glen, 
 
 And laughing rills and skies above, 
 
 (22)
 
 Estelle 
 
 And all things whisper songs to him, 
 
 And all things seem to woo his heart 
 To quaff the cup whose mantling brim 
 
 Speaks loyalty to higher art : 
 "Men's worlds are what they make them all 
 
 Or bright or dark or sweet or sad. 
 Whose heart lets sunshine on it fall 
 
 Or rain-clouds round it battle mad 
 Has joy or grief as he may choose 
 
 Has wealth no Croesus ever knew 
 Or Poverty that would refuse 
 
 To see the kindness men may do. 
 For my part I am sworn to seek 
 
 The beauty of God's master-hand ; 
 My art, my tongue, my all shall speak 
 
 The glories of my native land." 
 And thus he prattled, while a breeze 
 
 Began to stir on hidden wings ; 
 It hummed a low song in the trees 
 
 And toyed with her bonnet-strings. 
 (23)

 
 Estelle 
 
 THE SONG OF THE BREEZE. 
 
 O, sweet sun-bonnet, lined with pink! 
 
 When June wakes fancies in a youth, 
 The queenliest bonnet thou, I think, 
 
 That ever circled face of Truth. 
 
 O, sweet sun-bonnet, lined with pink! 
 
 O, sweet, fair face just peeping out! 
 Your dual power would woo, I think, 
 
 And win a heart's last halting doubt. 
 
 O, sweet sun-bonnet, lined with pink! 
 
 In whose fair fashion is no art, 
 But artless art, which is, I think, 
 
 The art of arts to win a heart. 
 
 O, sweet sun-bonnet, lined with pink! 
 
 Thou art so witching in thy grace, 
 My rapt soul lingers lang'rous o'er 
 
 The rose-tints on her lily-face. 
 
 Anon she threw it from her brow 
 And almost smiled as, looking down, 
 
 She saw the artist busy now 
 At work upon her floral crown.
 
 Estelle 
 
 "He weaves most well," she thought, "but oh! 
 
 He knows not what he's weaving there, 
 Two lives " and then she started so 
 
 Her thought was cleft like brittle ware. 
 Again she looked upon the crown, 
 
 Again the thought would come, but she 
 Would struggle so to keep it down 
 "It might, it might be destiny." 
 And he wove on and talked of art, 
 
 And talked of dreams (we all dream them), 
 And knew not that he wove his heart 
 
 Into his lady's diadem. 
 
 / < "\H ! summer speeds on fairy wings, 
 
 ^-^ When youth with youth is leagued with Joy ; 
 
 And Time counts not the half he brings, 
 
 When tricked in song he plays the boy, 
 And with round laugh and roguish glee 
 
 Steals smiles from even wrinkled cheeks, 
 (25)
 
 Estelle 
 
 And leads a laddie's foot to be 
 
 A truant bold in neighb'ring creeks ; 
 But oh ! when sorrow comes between, 
 
 When Grief reclines with pallid brow, 
 That which was only yestere'en 
 
 Seems ages to both young hearts now. 
 Oh ! wide world o'er, where is the place 
 
 That Death rules not with ruthless sway? 
 That old, old friend, whose pale, pale face 
 
 Will meet us in some unknown way. 
 Good farmer Rout in God's own time 
 
 Was called to leave his work and go ; 
 His death you would not call sublime. 
 
 His life was? You would answer, "No." 
 But silent lives like his, you know, 
 
 Are like the silent work of God, 
 They teach the grain to sprout and grow, 
 
 They lead the grass on rod by rod 
 O'er fields where mother Earth lies bare, 
 
 Rough-torn by hand of man or time ; 
 (26)
 
 Estelle 
 
 And thus they heal the wounds those wear. 
 
 And are more blest than if sublime. 
 Now, standing at the open grave, 
 
 The artist felt a sorrow new ; 
 He could not tell what 'twas that gave 
 
 Such sympathy as thrilled him through. 
 He knew a few more days, and then 
 
 His duty called him back to where 
 He laid aside his work to gain 
 
 A needed rest and wholesome air ; 
 And yet there stirred within his heart 
 
 A tenderness he never owned, 
 When yonder form seemed reft apart 
 
 By silent Grief that inly moaned, 
 A noble Impulse rose and said 
 
 (Ah, well ! we '11 not repeat it here) . 
 Ambition lifted up her head ; 
 
 The Impulse shrank away in fear. 
 
 (27)
 
 Estelle 
 
 A FEW days more, and then by chance 
 ** He passed the gate that led within 
 To Estelle's home. The sun's last glance 
 
 Was resting on this world of sin, 
 And giving benediction sweet 
 
 In floods of golden, glorious light, 
 And streaming far away to greet 
 
 The onward coming of the night. 
 All sorrow-laden she had walked 
 
 On down the roadway to the gate. 
 They met; before they knew they talked 
 
 How long we need not here relate. 
 But, as she leaned upon his arm 
 
 And walked on slowly back toward home, 
 He felt his heart grow wondrous warm ; 
 
 In some strange way his thoughts would roam 
 To that point where Ambition rose 
 
 And said, "It can not be, and must 
 (28)
 
 Estelle 
 
 At once be crushed. So do n't disclose 
 
 Your weakness to her simple trust." 
 Estelle -was fair, exceeding fair, 
 
 And sorrow gave her yet more grace : 
 It made more golden yet her hair, 
 
 It made more pretty yet her face ; 
 And then her voice had such a charm, 
 
 It rose and fell in cadence sweet; 
 And when his eye fell on her arm, 
 
 He found a model quite complete. 
 Thus moving on, a sudden whir 
 
 Of wings, and then before their eyes 
 A young bird fell, (was it not queer?) 
 
 And, wounded, struggled hard to rise. 
 Estelle was touched, and said, "Poor thing, 
 
 A cruel hand has wrought thee wrong; 
 A bird that bears a broken wing 
 
 Can never sing its sweetest song." 
 And that was all ; the artist knew 
 
 To-morrow he must leave, if he 
 (29)
 
 3 "* 
 
 a i-h 
 
 3
 
 Estelle 
 
 Would step by step rise upward through 
 Temptation to art's mastery. 
 
 O-MORROW came, and he -was gone ; 
 * And she well, women can be strong. 
 A dream that they have dreamt upon 
 
 Until it works almost a wrong, 
 They yet can hide away and smile, 
 
 And none of those they chance to meet 
 Can ever know how they beguile 
 
 Their hearts to play such fair deceit. 
 
 r T^HE artist stood within his room 
 
 * And worked at easel long and stout. 
 From morning's light to evening's gloom 
 
 Fair ladies went within, without. 
 And one there was who often came 
 
 And watched the paintings as they grew; 
 And with her was a stately dame 
 
 Whose diamonds flashed upon the viev. 
 (30)
 
 Estelle 
 
 There was no doubt but wealth was theirs ; 
 
 There was no further doubt but they 
 Were not so wrapped in art affairs 
 
 That oft their eyes would stray away 
 To where the artist, deep in thought, 
 
 Was linking dream to dream so fair 
 That all about him, as he wrought, 
 
 He fancied was ambrosial air. 
 In time he met with them and grew 
 
 To know they were sweet Fashion's own, 
 Whose art levees a parvenu 
 
 Regarded as quite near the throne. 
 Ambition stirred anew within 
 
 His heart of hearts, as now he read 
 The work he need not to begin, 
 
 If he would yield but to be led. 
 The way was plain, the sailing clear, 
 
 The world would then all honor give ; 
 With talent, wealth, and fashion near, 
 
 He well might think it sweet to live. 
 
 (31)
 
 Estelle 
 
 He looked his gallery round, and saw 
 
 'Twas here an eye, 'twas there a hand, 
 That seemed in some strange way to draw 
 
 His thoughts unto another land, 
 And mountains blue and sunny skies, 
 
 And golden locks in wavy fold, 
 And all the depth of blue in eyes, 
 
 And memories of the days of old. 
 
 'Twas cruel to his name to dream 
 
 Of turning from this chance away. 
 As Fashion's favorites round did stream, 
 
 When night had intercepted day, 
 He felt a very lord of men, 
 
 A monarch of a little world ; 
 And round and round, again, again, 
 
 In mazy dance his glad heart whirled. 
 The blazing diamonds sparkled bright, 
 
 The slippered feet in kid were clad, 
 And surely never revel-wight 
 
 A more enlisted partner had. 
 (32)
 
 Estelle 
 
 She threw her soul into the dance, 
 
 And seemed enkindled with the throng, 
 As foot to foot and glance to glance 
 
 Their airy figures flashed along. 
 But, ! there was, I can not tell, 
 
 A little something wanting yet 
 To win him, and to win him well, 
 
 So well that he must needs forget. 
 
 No ties now bound him to that lass, 
 
 That little country-maiden there ; 
 He simply met her as you pass 
 
 A rose-bush flowering in the air ; 
 You stop and view the roses red, 
 
 You catch the perfume with your breath, 
 And then you stride on straight ahead 
 
 And care not how they meet their death. 
 This world is all a thing of show, 
 
 And who would ride upon the crest 
 Must rate these finer feelings low, 
 
 And not be hampered or distrest. 
 
 (33)
 
 Estelle 
 
 If birds with broken wings should fall 
 
 Before his feet with plaintive look, 
 He casts them from the way, that's all \ 
 
 They '11 find some little, hidden nook. 
 Thus did Ambition lure his soul 
 
 And find a reason for each act : 
 We go to pieces on the shoal 
 
 In fleeing from the cataract. 
 
 OH ! such is life ; and ere we know 
 'Tis presto! and a change is made, 
 And what was this a while ago, 
 
 Is that before it can be said. 
 And so, within that distant glen 
 
 Beneath the mountain's arching brow, 
 Far from the busy haunts of men, 
 
 Is maiden meditative now. 
 She sees the sun rise in the east, 
 
 She sees the sun set in the west, 
 She sees the Summer spread her feast, 
 
 And Autumn come a welcome guest. 
 
 (34)
 
 Estelle 
 
 Her daily round of duties all 
 
 Her books, her walks, her dreams by night 
 Are shadowed by an inward pall 
 
 Whose edges gleam with golden light ; 
 For, though the face of Hope was hid, 
 
 Faith, loving maid that knows no guile, 
 In dreamless innocency bid 
 
 Her heart play with a wanton wile. 
 The flowers knew her kindly touch, 
 
 The bird's poor broken wing was healed, 
 The lambs all grew to love her much, 
 
 And followed faithful round the field ; 
 The trees swung out their hands in glee, 
 
 The brooklets laughed as she passed on 
 The breezes breathed in ecstacy, 
 
 The sun rays welcomed her at morn. 
 She taught the music now to stray 
 
 In winsome grace o'er pliant strings, 
 And oft she sang a roundelay 
 
 That ran into more serious things : 
 
 (35)
 
 HER SONG. 
 
 Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well, 
 
 And work will keep her young heart sweet; 
 
 The morn shall find me down the dell, 
 The night shall give me rest complete. 
 
 Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well, 
 
 And work will keep her young heart sweet. 
 
 Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well, 
 But clouds will linger in the sky; 
 
 I wonder if they will not swell 
 And burst in tempests by and by. 
 
 Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well, 
 But clouds will linger in the sky. 
 
 Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well, 
 
 And work will keep her young heart sweet. 
 
 I do not know, I can not tell 
 
 Which way she leads my willing feet; 
 
 Eut hope is mine, and hope is well, 
 
 And work will keep her young heart sweet. 
 
 (36)
 
 And, suiting action then to song, 
 
 She took her life up new again, 
 And bore it like a lark along 
 
 The by-paths of that little glen. 
 As chance now opened up the way, 
 
 She taught the children in the school. 
 (How easy is a teacher's sway 
 
 Where Love is law, and Duty, rule.) 
 She grew to have exalted aim; 
 
 She saw within their little eyes, 
 All nicely set within its frame, 
 
 A picture of sweet Paradise ; 
 And knew that each pure little heart 
 
 Was in itself a costly gem, 
 And were it nurtured quite apart 
 
 Would stud the Master's diadem. 
 But man is man's supremest foe, 
 
 Though he should be his dearest friend, 
 And thousands league for brothers' woe 
 
 While hundreds work for better end. 
 
 (37)
 
 Estelle 
 
 The Caesars of this cruel earth 
 
 Have been the spoilers of the best 
 That God's dear love has -wooed to birth 
 
 In every human being's breast. 
 Man preys upon his fellow-man, 
 
 And children in their very teens, 
 While learning use of a or an, 
 
 Interpolate a thousand scenes 
 Of Life's kaleidoscopic round 
 
 Upon the neighbor children's soul ; 
 And thus the serpent's track is bound 
 
 By Human-life's concentric whole. 
 She thought if she could lead them out 
 
 And let the hills speak to them words 
 And airs of heaven lap them 'bout 
 
 And glad them with the songs of birds, 
 And there along the brooklet's banks 
 
 The story of the waters teach, 
 She might accord herself due thanks 
 
 For keeping them from Harm's sad reach. 
 (38)
 
 Estelle 
 
 So, often when the tasks were o'er, 
 
 And books were laid aside that day, 
 She led them gently from the door 
 
 Across the field and forest way ; 
 She taught them of the beauties sweet 
 
 That lay on hill-side and in vale, 
 That fell about their very feet 
 
 And rose in joy to regale ; 
 She told them that the human soul 
 
 Is like a -wondrous mirror made, 
 And will reflect the half or whole, 
 
 In fuller light or deeper shade, 
 Of all this joyous universe, 
 
 That speaks of beauty, truth, and God, 
 And be the better or the worse 
 
 Upon a human will's mere nod. 
 If it is worn as it should be, 
 
 And kept undimmed by sin's foul breath, 
 It will reflect the harmony 
 
 That moves through all things even death. 
 
 (39)
 
 She led them then from self to stray, 
 
 And begged them walk with open eyes 
 And watch for flowers along the way, 
 
 And hand in hand ascend the rise ; 
 She told them earth was rich and sweet, 
 
 That God looks outward from the skies. 
 If man his fellow man would greet 
 
 With warmth of heart and loving eyes, 
 Old Want would fold her hands and sleep, 
 
 And Crime into a dwarf would shrink, 
 And Sorrow's heart would cease to weep, 
 
 And fell Despair halt on the brink. 
 A great warm heart will burgeon out, 
 
 If Faith and Charity are there, 
 But greed of gain is seed of doubt, 
 
 And doubt will nurture sin and care. 
 It is not what we have, but are, 
 
 That makes us happy here on earth, 
 And up beyond or sun or star 
 
 Our souls are reckoned as our worth. 
 (40)
 
 Estelle 
 
 As air pours in a tainted room 
 
 And sweeps the pestilence away, 
 And to the wan restores the bloom, 
 
 And for the darkness gives the day, 
 So Nature peeps into the heart 
 
 And blows the bloom of roses in, 
 And swings the dusky doors apart 
 
 And sweeps away the brood of sin. 
 
 But, oh ! the teacher as she taught 
 
 Yet grew and grew more lovely still, 
 And far the noblest work she wrought 
 
 Was this' she schooled a perfect will. 
 And though she sometimes dreamed "Perhaps," 
 
 She smiled and said "God knoweth best." 
 And while the children conned their maps, 
 
 Her lily heart had perfect rest.
 
 Estelle 
 
 world had seized him, and he flung 
 * His ardent heart into the stream ; 
 He rose a meteor, that now hung 
 
 In mid-air as the planets seem. 
 His friends were scores on scores, and they 
 
 Hung round him with a hollow glee, 
 And made the midnight hour like day 
 
 With song and dance and revelry. 
 The club-rooms gleamed with golden light, 
 
 The banquet table groaned with freight ; 
 To round the hour of waning night, 
 
 The wine-cup sat beside the plate. 
 They each had sung a little song 
 
 They all had spoken each his speech, 
 The artist's breath with wine was strong, 
 
 As back he leaned with glass in reach 
 
 (42)
 
 Esteilt 
 
 HIS SONG: CARPE DIEM. 
 
 Brave Caecuban and Massic clear! 
 
 Horatian strains will celebrate, 
 With old Falernian, year by year, 
 
 Your powers to intoxicate! 
 But whether it be Caecuban, 
 
 Or Massic mantling to the brim, 
 Or glorious old Falernian, 
 
 Who drinks the deepest, here's to him! 
 
 Oh! Bacchus wears the poplar wreath, 
 
 And Venus smiles with sweet delight: 
 Come! gather now out, boys, beneath 
 
 The stars that gem the brow of night, 
 And let us sing a roundelay 
 
 And round it up with measure trim, 
 And drain the wine-cup while we may, 
 
 Who drinks the deepest, here's to him! 
 
 A merry song, come one, come all, 
 
 Let Cytherea lead the dance; 
 And, while the Graces are in call, 
 
 Let's bring them forth as each may chance; 
 And, while Apollo v/e salute, 
 
 Amid the Muses, tricked and prim, 
 (43)
 
 Estelle 
 
 With glass to glass and foot to foot, 
 Who drinks the deepest, here's to him! 
 
 Ah! Time flies fast and soon is gone; 
 
 We buried Yesterday at night. 
 To-morrow will have come and flown 
 
 Almost before it seems in sight. 
 Then seize the day; let mirth flow on. 
 
 Our chance for length of life is slim. 
 Once more, before the day shall dawn, 
 
 Who drinks the deepest, here's to him! 
 
 The seed of wine is seed of wrong, 
 
 And seed of wrong will fruit in ill ; 
 And, though you wait the harvest long, 
 
 You may expect the harvest still. 
 Old Nature is a kindly dame, 
 
 And keeps her plenty on the shelf, 
 But she will yet assert her claim 
 
 In due time to protect herself. 
 Outraged, she grows terrific then, 
 
 And wreaks her vengeance manifold ; 
 
 (44)
 
 Estelle 
 
 You may not coax her to her den, 
 
 You may not bribe her off with gold. 
 Long days the fever dread had raged, 
 
 Its ebb-tide now was setting in, 
 And kind attendants all presaged 
 
 That time and hope the fight would win. 
 As in these sluggish after-hours 
 
 He lay and languished in his bed, 
 There came a little bunch of flowers 
 
 In which were honeysuckles red, 
 And violets with eyes all blue, 
 
 And buttercups all creamy gold ; 
 And then there burst upon his view 
 
 The memories of the days of old. 
 There was no word to tell the tale 
 
 Of friendship lingering through the years- 
 There was no plea no storm no gale 
 
 No burst of passion flood of tears; 
 And yet his soul was through and through 
 
 Thrilled as by hidden battery's shock ; 
 
 (45)
 
 Estelle 
 
 His own sweet thoughts stormed into view, 
 
 And smote with might the desert rock. 
 And then he recognized as true 
 
 In all the round of life's fair things 
 The fairest (ah! need I tell you?) 
 
 Was where the Rappahannock springs. 
 And, as the days passed slowly on, 
 
 There grew upon the canvas there, 
 As bit by bit from morn to morn 
 
 He worked to drive away dull care, 
 A picture of a forest-queen, 
 
 With crown of wild flowers on her head, 
 High-throned on rocks a living green 
 
 With moss whose soft plush carpeted 
 The tesselated floor beneath, 
 
 Which won a deeper tinge from trees 
 Whose locked arms longed to make bequeath 
 
 Of trysting spot to love and ease. 
 He caught the sun-ray's laughing light, 
 
 And locked it in her golden hair; 
 (46)
 
 Estelle 
 
 He set the lily's seal of white 
 
 Upon her face and features fair ; 
 He won the rosebud's pouting grace 
 
 And on her arching lips it grew ; 
 Rose petals on her cheeks found place, 
 
 And in her eyes were violets blue. 
 And now the dawn seemed broken sweet 
 
 In whelming freshness o'er all lands, 
 As ever more and more complete 
 
 Expression grew beneath his hands. 
 It was a picture that would stay 
 
 A very Vulcan, if not blind, 
 It was a picture, I must say, 
 
 Whose canvas was the artist's mind. 
 For he was feeble many days, 
 
 And like a very infant weak ; 
 His hand with effort he could raise, 
 
 His voice almost forgot to speak. 
 
 Then came a letter. Farmer Creal 
 
 Thought rest among the mountains good, 
 
 (47)
 
 Estellt 
 
 "If he could teach himself to feel 
 
 Content with pure air and plain food ; " 
 And Cousin Mary (Creal's good wife) 
 
 Must add a post-script just to say 
 "You must come, Ed. Upon my life 
 
 We'll, cure you. Yours, devoted, May." 
 Oh ! farmers' wives are oft so kind 
 
 Up 'mid those dear old mountains blue, 
 They'll ransack all the house to find 
 
 Some better way of serving you. 
 
 eventide that holy hour 
 When calm invests the realms of air, 
 And dew brings joy unto the flower 
 
 Whose head is drooping in despair. 
 The stars were in the silent sky, 
 
 The soft light fell on hill and dale, 
 The meadow brook went purling by 
 The clover-blooms that filled the vale ; 
 (48)
 
 EsbtU 
 
 The fire-flies hung above the meads 
 
 Like ships of airy little sprites, 
 And wreathed -with threads of golden beads 
 
 The dark hair of this queen of nights. 
 Afar, anear, there was a hush 
 
 Unbroken, save at intervals 
 When nightingales upon the bush 
 
 Burst into lovely madrigals. 
 The artist at the window-side 
 
 Reclined upon the settee's length, 
 Looked out upon the prospect wide 
 
 And drank with every breath new strength. 
 The mountains in the distance now 
 
 Were growing brighter as there rose 
 The moon in silence o'er their brow 
 
 And smiled upon the earth's repose. 
 "To-morrow," queried he, "and then? 
 
 Ah ! then the Rubicon is passed ; 
 For me as for the rest of men 
 
 The die for once and all is cast." 
 
 (49)
 
 Estelle 
 
 Tomorrow woke from out of sleep 
 
 And cast her night-robes from her breast, 
 And from the hill-tops tried to peep 
 
 On that sweet vale's unbroken rest; 
 But soon the birds with silver throat 
 
 Bade welcome to her coming feet, 
 And Nature added note to note 
 
 Until the chorus was complete ; 
 The sheep stirred on the hill-tops green, 
 
 The cattle browsed beside the stream, 
 The milk-maid moved the cows between, 
 
 The farm-hand harnessed up his team. 
 The sun arose in austere pride, 
 
 And beamed upon the wakened world : 
 By every streamlet's laughing side 
 
 Peace's white-winged banner was unfurled ; 
 The dew-drop on the clover-leaf 
 
 Like some pure maiden felt his breath, 
 His beamy joy but brought her grief, 
 
 His kiss was but the kiss of death. 
 (50)
 
 Estelk 
 
 The artist found himself e'er noon 
 
 Down at the widow's modest home ; 
 Ah ! who can stay in-doors when June 
 
 With witching smiles suggests a roam. 
 They made their way as long before 
 
 (Old habit is old habit still) 
 From out the parlor to the door, 
 
 Then up the farm-road to the hill. 
 He had already told her of 
 
 The rich fulfillment of his dreams, 
 But now he seemed somehow to love 
 
 To dwell upon such pleasant themes; 
 He spoke of how he hoped his health 
 
 Would soon allow him to return 
 And with new fame get greater wealth 
 
 Than he had yet essayed to earn ; 
 He spoke of how his city home 
 
 Was hung with pictures all his own- 
 Of how his friends should often come 
 
 And spend the evenings there alone, 
 (so
 
 Esteiie 
 
 Now, as they wandered up the hill, 
 
 They reached a spot where great trees rise, 
 The breeze grew fresh and fresher still, 
 
 And bluer grew the deep blue skies. 
 Without forethought, Estelle now sat 
 
 ('Twas such a charming scene below) 
 Right on the ledge, still gazing at 
 
 The harvesters move to and fro ; 
 The wheat-field stretched out far and wide, 
 
 The golden grain, like inland seas, 
 Now flowed in ebb, now rose in tide, 
 
 Wave chasing wave as breeze chased breeze. 
 The bob-white whistled on the rail, 
 
 The harvesters broke into song, 
 And now, across the pretty vale 
 
 The wheat-shocks ranged themselves along. 
 The artist knew the hour was there 
 
 The moment of supreme suspense 
 His love he must at once declare 
 
 And yet could find no good pretense. 
 (52)
 
 Estelle 
 
 He had been brave for many things, 
 
 He had been bold at other hours, 
 But now his courage lost her wings 
 
 And speech seemed reft of all her powers. 
 It may be that he felt his life 
 
 Depended for its weal or woe 
 On whether she would be his wife, 
 
 Or, self-sufficient, give him "no"- 
 And "yes," or "no," he could not tell. 
 
 Had he seen less of man and man's, 
 He might have guessed it very well 
 
 And trusted to his heart's sweet plans. 
 But he had seen a woman smile 
 
 So oft within that world without, 
 That be had grown to place a guile 
 
 Where she would never dream a doubt. 
 But little things will often give 
 
 Excuse for great wide-sweeping acts, 
 And empires often rise and live 
 
 On pretexts that have murdered facts. 
 
 (S3)
 
 'A bunch of wild flowers often can, 
 Decide the destiny of man 
 
 (Page 54)
 
 Estelle 
 
 His eye fell on the violets blue, 
 
 The honeysuckle's breath was sweet, 
 And buttercups just yonder grew 
 
 Where field and neighb'ring forest meet. 
 A bunch of wild flowers often can, 
 
 When youth in joy is leagued with youth, 
 Decide the destiny of man 
 
 Between the lines you read the truth, 
 Or should ; for up the hill they went 
 
 With strange forebodings on their part, 
 And down they came, and sweet Content 
 
 Was coyly nestling in each heart. 
 
 A WELL-BELOVED and loving home 
 ** Is God's own picture of the blest 
 A spot to which, where'er we roam, 
 
 We all may turn and find sweet rest. 
 If, busy at his studio, 
 
 The artist worked the livelong day, 
 
 (54)
 
 Estelle 
 
 He knew the shades of night would throw 
 
 The light of home about his way. 
 A man's love wavers to and fro, 
 
 Yet settles down at last in strength ; 
 A woman's love, as women go, 
 
 Is love unto love's fullest length; 
 And he that has it, has what he 
 
 Should value as his very soul 
 A buoy that upon life's sea 
 
 Is strongest when the tempests roll ; 
 But, oh ! when woman's love is God's, 
 
 And sweetened by that higher good, 
 Its influence reaches many rods, 
 
 And consecrates a neighborhood ; 
 She is a city on a hill 
 
 A light that never can be hid. 
 Her husband feels her gentle will, 
 
 The child will love, should she forbid. 
 And Estelle sits at eventide 
 
 With ease and plenty all about, 
 
 (55)
 
 Estelle 
 
 And, in a little crib beside, 
 
 A baby-foot kicks in and out, 
 And now she bends, and with her hand 
 
 Plays with its little 'broidered gown 
 Or gives a kiss or ties a band 
 
 Or smoothes its golden ringlets down. 
 It cooes and laughs and lifts its fist, 
 
 And kicks its little toes in air, 
 And now what mother can resist? 
 
 She bounds with baby down the stair 
 And open throws the door, and then 
 
 A kiss for her, and baby, too, 
 Behold the happiest now of men. 
 
 They enter, and are gone from view. 
 
 L'ENVOY. 
 0, men that work and men that bear ! 
 
 What gives you grace to work and wait? 
 The morning kiss upon the stair, 
 The evening welcome at the gate. 
 (56)
 
 A BEAUTIFUL GIFT BOOK, 
 
 THE MOST POPULAR IDYL IN AMERICA. 
 
 . . . BY 
 
 PBOF. MARCUS BLAKEY ALLMOND, A. M., LL.D., 
 
 MAGAZINE MEDALIST, UNIVERSITY OP VIRGINIA, 
 
 HEAD-MASTER UNIVERSITY SCHOOL, LOUISVILLE, KY. 
 
 jfiftb 
 
 Three Styles 
 
 (1) A limited number bound in red or white silkgrained cloth, 
 embossed in gold leaf roses; printed on the costliest antique 
 deckle-edged paper ; eight full-pagedhalf -tones illustrating scenes 
 in the poem, autographed, numbered, in envelopes with brass fast 
 eninga $2.50 book for $1.25. (2) Same as the first-class in binding 
 and paper with seven half-tones, but not autographed or num 
 bered. Price, $1.00. (3) Bound in white parchment paper with 
 title printed in two colors (red and blue), printed on deckle-edged 
 paper, with same title-page and frontispiece (in two colors) which 
 the cloth-bound have and enclosed in a pretty paper box, 69 
 cents. Sent postage prepaid on receipt of the price by 
 
 THE ESTELLE PUBLISHING CO., 
 
 1071 THIRD STREET, LOUISVILLE, KY. 
 
 "Sweet in its spirit, lovely in its pictures, and admirably felicitous in 
 its diction." The late President N. Porter, D. D.. LL. D., of Yale College. 
 
 'Of a kind to tempt one to believe there is a greater chance for honest 
 sentiment at the South than at the North." Atlantic Monthly, Boston, Mass. 
 
 "Healthy in sentiment, honest in tone, it is what one seldom sees 
 a love story that can be read and the reader be the better off. It is elegantly 
 bound and will be a most appropriate Christmas present." Louisville 
 Courier- Journal. 
 
 "Full of healthy sentiment and wholesome views of life. The beautiful 
 little volume deserves to be widely read and shows the author to be a real 
 poet." Rev. John A. Broadus, D D., LL. D., of the Southern Baptist 
 Theological Seminary. 
 
 "A charming, idyllic poem, as fresh and simple and natural a love 
 story as any sung or told by troubadour in Provence." Editorial ir 
 Louisville Commercial.
 
 ...SEstelle... 
 
 an H&\>1 of 15 Diroinia. 
 
 BY 
 
 PROF. MARCUS BLAKEY ALLMOND, A. M., LL.D. 
 
 MAGAZINE MEDALIST, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, 
 
 HEAD-S1ASTEK UNIVERSITY SCHOOL, 
 
 IX)UI3VILl4E, KT. 
 
 " A pretty picture drawn in bold outlines, breathing the air of love 
 and home. It has the natural rhythm of the bird and the brook." 
 Bishop T. U. Dudley in Louisville (ky.) Post. 
 
 " It fits so well the balminess of June weather." Prof. B. L. Gil- 
 dersleeve, LL.D. t PH. D., Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore. 
 
 " Estelle is a very sweet and graceful poem on a most difficult key of 
 thought the Idyl. I congratulate the author on the skill or gift that 
 enabled him to write it." The late William Preston Johnston, President 
 Tulane University, New Orleans. 
 
 " Were the merit and the beauty of the poem ' Estelle ' more widely 
 known, it would certainly have a wonderful sale. A million young people 
 ought to read it this winter, for there is that in it which uplifts and strength 
 ens." Qeo. O. fisher, Librarian Drew Theological Seminary, New Jersey. 
 
 "A sweeter love story we have not read for many a long day." 
 Religious Herald, Richmond, Va. 
 
 "It is very tender, good and true." Joaquin Miller, Poet of the Sierras. 
 
 "Twenty-four karats fine." Cincinnati Commercial- Gazette. 
 
 "A very pretty and dainty volume. It has been highly praised by 
 President Noah Porter, of Yale College, and deserves it." Baltimore Sun. 
 
 "The seductive flow of the verse leads the reader along, will he, nil he, 
 until at the close, too soon reached, he feels compelled to read the story 
 again for its very beauty. We know no poem so modest and yet so fas 
 cinating." Virginia University Magaaine. 
 
 CINCINNATI, O., June, '95. 
 
 " Do you wonder that I love ' Estelle ' ? The burden of my affliction 
 seemed too hard for me longer to bear, when ' Estelle ' beautiful ' Estelle ' 
 came to me, her garments all sweet with the perfume of hill-side flowers. 
 In one little half hour she taught me so sweet a lesson of patient endur 
 ance, cheerful resignation, and earnest endeavor, that I feel I shall be better 
 for it always." H. L. B.
 
 MAY 7 1982 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 PRINTED IN US A.
 
 p~ 
 
 3 1970 00493 2288 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000200288 9
 
 HP