THE UNIVERSITY

OF ILLINOIS

LIBRARY

^ From the collection of
^ Julius Doerner, Chicago
§ Purchased, 1918.

Return this book on or before the
Latest Date stamped below. A
charge is made on all overdue
books.

U. of I. Library

9324-S

Mrm ttour

LcYDIA F7INMAN (@ASB.

PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR.

DANVILLE, WISCONSIN.
1882.

James Guilbbrt, Printer, Chicago.

2^ AhA.S.

///

MY FATHER AND MOTHER,

THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIIiED,
WITH REGRET THAT THE TRIIJUTE IS
NOT MORE WORTHY THEIR
ACCEPTANCE.

700709

PREFACE.

The poems which follow have been written through an
interval of several years, to while away the leisure hours of
my home life. Many of them have been given to the public
through the leading papers of Chicago, and elsewhere, and
have met, I may say, with a favorable reception. While not
claiming for them a high degree of merit, the partiality of
friends has prevailed upon me to collect them and give them
a permanent form in this little volume. And so I launch my
little bark in the great sea of literature, expecting neither fame
nor fortune, simply hoping for an appreciation from the friends
who are dear to me, and to whose pleasure may this little book
minister.

L. H. C.

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

The Wisconsin, ........ 9

The Lover’s Choice, . . . . . .• 14

Mother, . . . . . . . . .15

When the Children are Home, ..... 16

Stephen and Rachael, ....... 18

Hymn to the Fisher-wives, . . . . . 19

A Merry Old Maid, . . ■ . . . .21

My Old Sweet-heart, ...... 22

A Problem, . . . . . . . .23

The Maniac, . . " . . . . . 24

Watching, ........ 25

Little we Know, . . • . . . . . 27 ’

A Battle Scene, . . . . ’ . . .28

Riches, ........ 30

Daisy-Chains, ........ 32

My Song, ........ 33

When I am Growing Old, . . . . . -35

A Bird Song, .'...... 36

The Canceled Names, . . . . . • . -37

Phoebe, ........ 38

To My Sister Mina, . . < . . . .40

Blush Roses, ....... 41

The Maid and the Sea, . . . . . .42

At Confession, ....... 42

Her Story, ........ 46

At the Foot of the Hill, ...... 48

The Two Painters, . . . • . . . .49

The Lemonweir, ....... 50

A Silhouette, ........ 52.

Baby Fingers, . . . . . . . 53

Perplexity, ........ 54

(CONTENTS,

Six Years, Brother,

One i)ay, . . . ,

To-morrow, ....
Love’s Matliematics,

A Heart T>caf,

Broken Chords, . . . .

Weary, ....
Song of the Farmer’s Wife,
Happiness, ....
Wouldn’t You.^ . . . .

The Man who Died for Me,

Give us back the Laurel,

Deceived, ....
After Many Days,

Idlers, ' .

Elfin,

Why Should I.'^ .

Farmer Grimes, . . . .

Lilies, . . ' .

The Poets, . . . .

Sparrows, ....
Children, . . . .

Love Making,

Flirtation Weary,

My Ships, ....
After all, . . . . .

What I Will Take, .

Some Day, . . . .

Met and Parted,

A Prosy Story in Homel}’^ Rhyme,
Forget, ....

To My Sister, . • . .

God’s Children, . . • .

Two Lives, . . . .

Thorns, ....

Your Castles and Mine,

66
67

80
ai

86
88

97
99

lOI

CONTENTS. 7

Twilight Guests, ....... 102

Kisses of Peace, ....... 103

Autumn Time, ....... 104

Into the Evening, ....... 105

In the Moonlight, ....... 106

Good-bye, . . . . . . . .107

A Fable, ........ 108

Mismeasured, ........ 109

True unto Death, . . . . . . . m

Delirium, . . . . . . ■ .112

Only a News-boy, . . . . ■ . . 114

Serenade to Morning, . . . . . • • 1^5

The Hungering, . . . . . .. . 117

Dreams, . . . . . . . . .118

Drift-wood, . . . . . . . . 119

Silver Hair, . . . . . . . .121

Wrecks, ........ 122

Gone Astray, . . . . . . . .124

Ode to Time, . . . . . . . 125

My Childhood Home, ....... 126

By Plays, ........ 129

Sooner or Later, . . . . . . .130

Recompense, ....... 131

An Answer, ........ 132

In the Corn, . . . . . . . . 133

Infatuation, ........ 135

Mine Own, . . . . . . . . 136

The Hospital Nurse, ....... 137

The Unfinished Lesson, ...... 142

School-time, ........ 143

Do You Remember, May.^^ ..... 145

Lost and Found, ....... 147

Under the Stars, ....... 149

October, . . . . . . . . .150

The Lost Chord, ....... 151

An Allegory, . . . . . . . .152

CONTl<:X'l s.

The World and You, . . . . . . 154

The Witch is in the Cream, . . . . . .1^5

At the gate, ........ 156

Unmasked, ........ 158

Beside the Still Waters, ...... 159

Her Ideal, ........ 161

Into Mischief, ....... 163

When the Cows Come Home, ...... 166

Misunderstood, ....... 168

Idols, ......... 169

The Love-Vine, ....... 170

Shame on the Man, ....... 172

Matilda the Spinster, . . ... . • 173

Peter-Bird, ........ 175

THE WISCONSIN.

O proud Wisconsin, thou hast rolled
Thy currents wild, and strong, and bold.
For centuries with steadfast sway
That onward sweeps thy tide to-day;
Resistless, dark, and calm, and deep.

How seem you here in tender sleep.

And there with laughter bubbling o’er.
Then beating restless ’gainst the shore.
And yonder mirroring the sheen
Of sunlight on thy walls of green.

The yellow sand-rocks worn and old.
Bend low to touch their locks of gold
And head-dress green, upon thy face.

And who could know, with here no trace
But calmness in thy depths ^o still.

Where narrow walls resist your will.

The waters rave, and fume, and sound
Like angry demons caged and bound.

In rage you lash the crags that stand
Like adamantine walls so grand.

The “Guardian Rocks” that almost seem
To clasp their hands across the stream.
You over-leajD like beasts at bay.

And shoot the rocky, narrow way.

Then hush at once the angry tone
Of fury, that you blush to own.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

And sink to calm and peaceful rest,

Like babe so fair on mother’s breast,

And softly sing the lullaby

That down the stream in echoes die.

Wisconsin proud, in sunny dreams
Thou wast not glad like sister streams.

For thou didst feel ambition’s aim
And long for monumental fame.

Thine artist soul and artist hand
Must mark thy path with steps more grand.
Thy walls with marv’lous scenes bedeck’d,
vSeemed carved by human architect.

With wiverns grim and chevroned naves.
With turrets grand and griffins grave,

And sand-rocks gold, and red, and grey.

Seem laid in wondrous parcpietry.

’Neath crannied ledges high and wide.

The sun fays dance upon the tide,

And clouds their brows from veils unfold.
And rainbows rise from pots of gold.

Beneath the rude arcade of domes
The Dryads dwell in cavern homes
Where Nymphs the wind-harp’s songs repeat.
And Naiads time with dancing feet.

In grottos here the Fairies dwell
And weave their witching, magic spell
O’er sporting, dashing waters pale,

That rise a mystic fairy veil.

Then circling, change in sunny air
To sparkling gems of beauty rare;

THE WISCONSIN.

1 I

In chiseled caves the shadows grey
With Imps of darkness hide away,

Where dwells the shriveled Witch so grim
Who feeds her snakes by moonlight dim;
The phantom chamber where abide
The souls whose clay thy waters hide —
Who manned those sand-stone ships of State
Chained to thy shore by cruel fate —

That long and wait the time when she’ll
Their anchors weigh and set them free.

Who knows what ghosts their revels hold
Among these canyons dim and old?

Who knows what ancient gods possess
These lab’rinth ways, and in distress
Await the time when they again
Foretell events to trustful men?

Wisconsin proud, in flow and swell,

The red man loved thy waters well.

I Tow oft the Indian’s swift canoe
Has darted thy wild rapids through,

And feast-fires and the beacons bri ght
Oft tinged thy waves with lurid light.

The hunted braves their foes did mock
And leap thy stream from rock to rock,
While baffled pale face gazed spellbound
In fear, where waters hissed and frowned
Below. The dusky mother ]Droud,

Baptized her babes in thy foam-cloud ;

’Mid dangerous swirls with ready will
The Indian youths oft tried their skill ;

LEISURE HOUR POEMS,

And often has thy shining rays
Thrown back tlie maiden’s tender gaze,

As she wore in her braids the band
Of heads a lover’s dusky hand
Had fashioned, and had l:)ound it there.
Because she seemed to liim most fair.

From towering clifTs the lover brave
Oft plunged beneath thy foaming wave.
Then rose and swam the rapid run,

To greet the bride his brav’rv won.

J^iit once a chief, so legends say.

Sank in the seething waves for aye.

And she, in bridal robings, who
Sat near the shore in birch canoe.

The chant of death heard soft and low,
Veered her light bark with wail of woe.
And plunged into the swirling pool.

And each new moon, the legends rule.

The Indian maid and lover glide
In white canoe the dashing tide.

Wisconsin proud, thy ebbing flood
Has often been deep stained with blood.

The horrid crimes thy waves conceal.

Thy tongueless walls will ne’er reveal;

If lips so silent could but speak,

Their tales would blanch the reddest cheek;
What cruel deeds and brave were done.
What battles lost and battles won;

How oft the wolt’s bay o’er the wave
Of pale faced foes, the warning gave;

THE WISCONSIN.

How oft thy rocks have heard, alack!
The war cry fierce, and hurled it back;
How oft the dying chant was sung.

And down thy waves by echoes rung;
Upon these craggy rocks below
A warrior dashed a rival foe,

And here a captive pale was bound
With burning fagots piled around.

On yonder towering cliffs so high
A chief was chained and left to die.

And trembling pines along the shore
Yet whisper all their terrors o’er.

But flow thou on, proud stream, until
The voice of doom bids thee be still.

And stern eternity shall rock
Thy waves to slumber sweet, and lock
Them there for aye, while those who rest
In calm of peace so pure and blest
Upon thy shores — may they have found
Their joyous, happy hunting ground.

r.KISUKK HOUR POEMS.

THE LOVER’S CHOICE.

or course I love Howers, my clearest,

When I l^ave my choosing, you know.
May 1 cull the ones I think sweetest
Of all the sweet flowers that grow.?

Some think that the rosebuds are fairest.

But I love the one that’s half blown.

It blooms with its rare, dainty crimson
On lips I would press to my own.

And there are the beautiful pansies.

With true hearts of heaven-dyed blue;
They’re found in the eyes of my sweetheart.
With love glances thrilling me through.

I’ll take, too, the lily most charming.

That blossoms in all the wide land,

That looks with its five perfect petals
So like to my darling’s fair hand.

O yes! for you said 1 might gather
The blooms I thought fairest and best.
With roses, and pansies, and lilies,

I never would care for the rest.

MOTHER.

In evening dreams of bliss I feel
Her kisses fond and sweet,

And hear a whispered prayer that is
With tenderness replete.

And O, how pure that smiling face —

The eyes that look in mine,

With glances full of joy and peace.

And love almost divine.

And just how deep that mother-love
- They say I’ll never know
Until the coffin lid is closed
Above her lips of snow;

And just how priceless are the prayers
And, blessings they have told.

I’ll never learn till in God’s home
The records shall unfold.

It may be true; but well I know
In this rough, weary way.

With mother’s smiles, and mother’s prayers,
•My feet could never stray.

If some day I should miss her face
And tread the path of sin,

I know one thought of mother’s tears
Would lead me back again.

LKISURI-: HOUR FORMS.

1 6

But if before her I should pass
From out life’s woe and care,

Though all that Heavenly throng were near
I’d miss my mother there;

For, though the joy of that fair home
l^eyond our knowing be.

While mother lingered on life’s shore
’T would seem no home to me.

VVaiEN THE CHILDREN ARE HOME.

Oh, the children are home, and their mother and I
Fondly gaze on their features, too happy to sigh.

And all else is forgotton, for life’s sweetest chimes.

Ring again in our spirits their musical rhymes.

As we echo the rippling laughter with pride —

That we’ve longed for and missed by the old fireside.

For once more they are children — the boys and the girls.
Though the bright cheeks are faded and silvered the curls;
Though the foreheads are furrowed with care and with pain.
And the forms are all stalwart — they’re children again;

And if one dares to hint they are older than when
In the meadows they danced with the butterflies, then
We will brand him a slanderer where he may roam;

We are all young again when the children are home.

WHEN THE CHILDREN ARE HOME.

Here’s our eldest, his dark hair is threaded with grey,

And the baby — the baby — how old is she pray?

There’s our captain — the dandy — and Mollie the pet.

The old loves of the ingle they never forget.

And the two up in Heaven, are they lost to our sight?

Nay, nay, on with the frolic, they’re with us to-night.

And O, ho! How we laugh in our joy till we cry
At the pranks of these girls — their old mother and I,

And the grand-children open-mouthed funnily stare
At the tricks of these boys with their silvery hair.

The grand-children? No, no, they are myths, and I say:
Shut the door in their faces and bid them away ;

For at our merry feasting we’ll have not a gnome
To o’ershadow our hearts when the children are home.

If these boys are not wrestling! Well, I declare!

Here! Keep out of the way; you’ll get hit with a chair.
There! I told you; The baby has bumped her dear head;
Do run quickly, O mother! for sugar and bread.

Ah! I wonder if kisses won’t answer as well
As in babyhood sorrows, — who is there can tell ?

And now, mother, this wild crew is turning our heads;
Don’t you think it is time they were sent to their beds?

So bring hither my Bible, and kneel ’round my side,

Keep the children, oh Father! whatever betide.

And watch over their footsteps when we shall be gone.
And O, guide them safe home at the Heavenly dawn;

And when mother and I through thy shining streets roam
Help us patiently wait till the children are Home.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

STEPHEN AND RACHAEL.

From Dickens’ Hard Times.

O hearts that live so near, and yet,

So far apart. That thrill in vain.

And throb, and beat, and sigh, and fret.
With love’s delicious, hopeless pain.

O lips that simple words express.

And yet with tenderness o’erHow;

That never meet in love’s caress.

But smile and sigh that it is so.

Fond eyes that mark each cheek tear- worn;
But dare not glance where love-light hides

Beyond the mask, lest each should mourn
In pain the path where duty bides.

O hands that toil, but only clasp
In symjDathy and tenderness;

Whose toil seems sweeter for the grasp
Of that expressive, silent press.

O weary ones, who, mid life’s throngs
Must walk alone, and restless beat

The lonely path, while each one longs
For echoes of the other’s feet.

Afar, anear, beyond regret.

With hopeless, painless hearts of woe;

In smiles and grieving tears, and yet
Content, that God hath willed it so.

HYMN OF THE FISHER-WIVES.

The brave fisher-wives gaze o’er the
Treacherous bar,

At the sails of the ship that is
Gliding afar,

And the waves sing a lullaby
Sweet in their rest.

Like a fond mother rocking a
Child on her breast.

But from anxious hearts floateth the
Hymn like a prayer,

Giving loved ones so faithfully
Unto His care.

“Wilt thou watch them, O Father, and
With them abide;

Through the day-light and darkness, oh
Pity and guide,

For their barque is so small on thy
Ocean so wide.”

On the shore of the sea the lone
Fisher-wives stand.

As the morning’s grey light greets the
Storm-beaten strand.

And the sleepless eyes gaze o’er the
Murmuring main,

For a glimpse of the sails they have
Watched for in vain.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

And the moaning rocks echo the
Sad plaintive song,

From the bowed, aching hearts of the
Grief stricken throng:

“Do thou watch them so tenderly.
Father, nor hide

Thy loved face from their gazing,
Whate’er betide.

For their barque is so small on thy
Ocean so wide.”

When the bright evening star its soft.
Trembling rays fling
O’er the rippling sea, then the
Calm breezes bring
To the hearts of the fisher-wives
Glad, as they gaze, *

The faint notes of a song like a
Nun’s chant of praise.

And in answer far over the
Waves in the gloam.

Floats the wives’ hymn of greeting
The fisher-men home:

“We do thank thee, O Father, for
Safe winds and tide.

Through deep perils and storms thou
Didst pityingly guide.

For their barque was so small on thy
Ocean so wide.”

A MERRY OLD MAID.

O, who is there in this world has plenty of joy,

With no trifles to trouble and naught to annoy,

With no children to bother her hour after hour.

And no pestering husband to work her heart sour?

Who skips over hard places and glides over woes.

With sunshine in her pathway where ever she goes;
And a smile on her visage that seems half divine —

Who indeed, but this merry old maiden of mine!

She’s a mint of her own, and has no one to frown
If she spends half a dime when she goes over town.

And she talks about poetry, music and art.

As if all of the muses dwelt in her pure heart.

Oh, she does as she pleases, and goes where she will.
And she envies no mortal nor wishes one ill.

And she happily walks through the sunniest glade.

As she laughs at your floutings, my merry old maid.

And along the steep hillside she glides o’er life’s track.
With no one to her apron-strings pulling her back;

And she stoops to the fallen where ever they moan
And o’er life’s thorny pathway she goes not alone;

For rich blessings go with her — the brightest and best
And love bides by the wayside where e’er she may rest.
Who has joy in this life-time that never will fade
And a crown in the next, but my merry old maid?

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

MY OLD SWEETHEART.

A lover is sitting beside me to-day,

Who neither is handsome, nor youthful, nor gay;

His dear hands are roughened hy labor of years,

H is brown cheeks are furrowed hy cares and by tears.

His proud form is bent hy the storms and the strife
That comes to us all in the struggles of life —

And with all the sorrows that compassed his way
My lover looks aged and weary to-day.

I’ve sweethearts far younger and gayer I know.

And smiles of rare sweetness on me they bestow;
They bow most divinely, they flirt and they jest —
Their hearts are hut shams — merely puff-balls at best.

Their heads hold but flatt’ry and vainest of pride.

My old love is fond, and is true, and is tried.

And though they could bring all the gold o’er the sea.
Death only could part my old lover and me.

As fondly I linger beside his arm chair.

Caressingly stroking his silvery hair,

I earnestly thank the kind Giver above,

For this precious blessing — my dear father’s love.

A PROBLEM.

I’ve seen such lovely angels
With curls of golden hair!

And just the sweetest dresses,

And faces, O, so fair.

With little, dainty fingers.

And such blue, tender eyes.

And wings that shone like dew-pearls.
Just dropped from out the skies.

I’ve seen ’em all in pictures.

And they look nice, they do;

But I’d not want my angels

All dressed like that, would you?

There’s grandpa, I’d not know him,
For he is rather stout;

It they’d put dresses on him
I know I’d laugh right out.

And grandma’s hair is silver.

Her hands look worn and old.

Her eyes are hazel and she

Wears specs with rims of gold.

The curls, and wfings, and dresses.
Would do for girls like me.

But Joe and Frank, how they’d look —
And papa — don’t you see ?

LKISURE HOUR POEMS,

I don’t believe all angels
Are like the pictures — fair,

For grandpa can’t look like them,

Nor grandma — when they’re There.
And when I get to Heaven,

If they’re all dressed up so,

How ’ll I know them from others?
That’s what I’d like to know.

THE MANIAC.

O maniac dread, with thy cold, piercing eyes.

That glare through the rude dungeon bars.

Thy savage song howling in hideous glee
To smilingly pitiless stars;

Thy glittering teeth gnash at the moonbeams so white.
While tearing thy long locks of gvey,

Thou seem’st like a beast in its jungle lair.

By mortal and devil at bay;

Thy laugh ’s like the howl of a demon in joy^.

Thy rage like the furious waves
That break on the crags with their frenzied might —
Thy moan ’s like a beaten slave’s.

Think’st thou that I pity thee? No! For God
Hath pitied thy lot, and He
Hath drawn o’er thy fancy a deep cloud of peace,

O madman, how I envy thee.

WATCHING.

At visions that pass like the wind, thon dost grasp
And whisper thy murderous will;

And grapple with foes of thy passionate brain,

Whose mad schemings never- are still.

But I, in my prison with sunshine around.

That mocketh my heart in its tomb.

Am wrestling with foes of a terrible will
Alone in my soul’s wretched gloom.

Aye, maniac fierce, in thy prison drear,

I envy thee, yea, envy thee.

For thou hast no reason of heart or of mind.

And nothing of reality;

Hast naught but the dark phantoms fleeting and wild.
To trouble thy over-wrought brain;

With no thought of life or eternity.

And nothing of joy or of pain.

Let those who may pity thy lot, yea, and grieve,

A peaceful soul resting is thine!

And mortals might call it a wild, frenzied wish.

To change thy dread prison for mine!

WATCHING.

In the morning I stand
On the glimmering strand.

That is washed by the waves as they roam.
And I bend low mine ear.

Mid the music to hear
If the voices are calling me home.

LEISUKK HOUR 1‘OKMS.

But I hear not a song
or the glorified throng,

As I walk by the murmuring sea,

Yet I know they doth wait,

And will watch till the gate
Of the beautiful opens for me.

At the calm of noonday
On the shore yet I stray.

O’er the rippling sea still I gaze.

Where the white clouds at rest,

Seemeth forms of the blest.

That are clothed in the Heaven-bright rays.

But I see not a trace
Of one dear, smiling face.

As I walk by the murmuring sea.

Yet I know they doth wait.

And will watch till the gate
Of the beautiful opens for me.

When has fiided the dn}-,

And the moon’s crystal ray
Builds a bridge of bright beams to the shore,

O O 7

By the path of pure light
Do I watch through the night,

For the ones who will beckon me o’er.

But I sec not a hand
From that mystical land.

As I walk by the murmuring sea.

Yet I know they doth wait.

And will watch till the gate
Of the beautiful opens for me.

LITTLE WE KNOW.

Little we know of the hearts that weep,

When smiles beam e’en the brightest,

Little we know of the storms o’er head

When sunbeams dance the lightest.

Little we know by the calm, clear stream.
Of cruel rocks before us.

Little we know by our life’s fair dream.
What sorrows may come o’er us.

Little we know how a thoughtless word.
May hearts most deeply sorrow.

Little we know by our loss to-day,

What we may gain to-morrow.

Little we know by the clasping hand,

How much of friendship’s in it.

Little we know when the goal we set,

The strife it takes to win it.

Little we know by a tiny stone.

What riches it may measure;

Little we know how our clinging trust
May prove a priceless treasure;

Little we know when onr hearts are light,
Of burdens that will freight us;

Little we know by the grief we bear,

The joys that may await us.

LKISI'KK IIOL'K I’OK.MS.

A J^ATTLE SCENE.

On the banks of the Potomac,

Whose dark waters softly How,
I.aii^hin*^ as the roses whisper
To the lilies far below;

Where the willows <jently swayinj^
Like a sad nun, moan and weep.

And the wind sighs through the forest
Like a troubled child asleep;

WMicre the crimson in the river
Stained the lilies’ white array.

While the blood upon her bosom
Told of battles through the day,

.Vnd the stars shone out at evening
Sadly weeping tears of dew.

Here were weary armies resting.

One the Grey, the other Blue.

In the tender shades of twilight.
Through the silent, dreamy air.

Softly rose a bugle challenge
From the armies resting there.

And o’er hill and through the meadow.
Proudly free the notes were rung.

And the words of “Hail Columbia,”

By the valiant Blue were sung.

Then as closed the echoing chorus.
Came an answer far away:

“^Maryland,” with cheers and shouting.
From the army of the Grey.

A BATTLE SCENE.

•^9

“Stars and Stripes,” the northern soldiers
Sung with ferver bold and true,

While in answer o’er the river.

Pealed the “Flag of Bonnie Blue.”

Back and forth the armies playing.

Each their own proud rallying songs.
Each in fervency of spirit,

Each in memory of their wrongs.

Ah, but soon far over hill top,

Echoed strains so grand and sweet.
Fondly played by skillful fingers,

While each heart responsive beat;

And the wind caught up the music
As it glided through the air.

Till it floated up to Heaven
Like a mother’s pleading prayer.

Many a soldier faint and weary.
Lying in his crimson gore,

Drank the music of the chorus
As it rang along the shore;

O’er the battle field it lingered
Where the dead and dying lay,
From the hearts of resting armies.
Sweeping all the feud away.

Ne’er a thought that on the morrow
Fresh would flow the bloody tide.
And a brother fall with brother.
Blue and Grey rest side by side;

I.KISUkK HOUR I*OKMS.

All the holiest passions wakened
And tog^ether flowed their tears
While the North and South were playing
That sweet song, time but endears.
Precious choral! there were thousands
Thy dear music heard no more,

For some heroes there are sleeping
On the river’s silent shore.

When in camp the boys are gathered
At the roll of martial drum.

Greeting at that Grand Reunion,

Weary comrades as they come.

Peal, ye buglers, till ye waken
Echoes in each arch and dome,

And each heart will beat responsive
In that Heavenly-Home Sweet Home.

RICHES.

In the twilight they sat, honest John and his wife,

He complaining of poverty, struggles and strife;

“We are poor, yes,” he murmured, “as poor as a crow;
For our labor and fretting we’ve nothing to show.

Here we live in a home that is lowly at best.

While the boys must be fed and the girls must be dressed
We are up with the sun and we labor till night;

And our lives slip away and our locks fade to white;
When the comforts of living for which here we slave
Shall be ours, we will stand on the brink of the grave.”

RICHES.

And he sighed. Discontent was upon his plain phiz;

On her brow was a shadow reflected from his.

Then a silence fell on them, a silence as deep
As when shadows of midnight enshroud us in sleep.

Through the door came an Imp, and his form seemed a cloud,
As beneath the vast weight of a burden he bowed.

He was ugly and grey, his eyes sunl^n and dim;

He was old and decrepit, his visage was grim;

And he said, as the burden he dropped with a ring:

“So you crave but the comforts that money can bring?”

“Let me purchase your troubles, your woes, and your care.
And the wealth of the world shall yet fall to your share;

For your years and the health that seems rosy and sure
I will give you a fortune. I’m woefully poor;

And your cares — for the boys and girls you must feed,

Here is gold, all you wish, and it satisfies greed;

And how much will you take for the honor bright name
That your children will share with no blushes of shame?

For the love of the wife at your hearth I will give
All the gold you may covet as long as you live.”

“Like a king’s on his throne shall your luxuries be.

For my jewels and treasures are countless. Ah, see!”

And he flung out a shower of diamonds that glared
In such splendor, John opened his eyes, and he stared
At the light that his wife had just struck in amaze;

Then he started, and said: “To kind Heaven the praise

That ’tis only a dream, and I find — Ah how well! —

That my troubles and cares are too precious to sell,

With my boys and my girls, and a wife that is true,

I am richer, my darling, yea far, than I knew.”

. 3 ^

LKlSrUK HOUR POKMS,

So in all of our lives at some things we repine,

And we dolefully sigh for a much sweeter wine;

Vet ofc times when ’tis sweetened we find to our cost
That the Havor most loved we forever have lost.

And if all of our joys and our burdens were told,

And a price put upon them in diamonds and gold,

Ah ! how loth would we sell but a single caress.

Or a fond smile of welcome, or tender hand-press;

And how soon would we find, ’mid our troubles and woe.
We arc happier, richer, far, far, than we know.

DAISY-CHAINS.

Down in the meadow, half asleep.

Where breezes through the grasses sweep.
An idle youth in quiet lay,

W^hile at his side a blue-eyed fay
Sat weaving with such artful care,

A dainty chain of daisies fair.

His eyes were closed in rare content.

Her thoughts alone on mischief bent.

She wound the chain about his head.

And arms, and form, and o’er him spread,
’Till he seemed but a daisy bed.

The laughing eyes then open flew.

And peered into the eyes of blue;

Up rose his hands, and with a bound.

MY SOXG.

The chain lay broken on the ground.

The blue eyes flashed with sudden light;
And flinging him the daisies white,

The vengeance in her eyes he read,

As haughtily the midget said :

“Young man, another time I’ll make
A stouter chain you cannot break.”

The little witch! Could it be true.

How well she spoke her dear heart knew?
For sure enough, around his heart
She wove a chain he could not part.

And if this very day you pass
Across the meadow’s waving grass.

You’ll see the children of the twain,
A-weaving each a daisy-chain.

MY SONG.

I thought to write in my fair life,

A song so glad and clear,

That those who listened ’mid the strife
Would linger long to hear.

The words were pure, the music sweet.
Seemed like a childhood dream,

. The measures glided like the feet
Of fairies, or like streams

I.KISliKK HOUR I'OKMS.

Of joyfiilness. No chords nor words
E’er swept my heart with pain;

It seemed that e’en the joyful birds
Caught up the glad refrain.

My life was filled with happy rhyme,
And all the bright day through

My grateful heart kept merry time,

The song more perfect grew;

And then in joy aloud I sang,

That all the world might hear

The gladsome air that softly rang,

F ree from defect or fear.

But they passed on — the busy throng.
Nor saw the singer there,

Nor heard one note of all my song —
My song that knew no care.

Ah, then I wept such bitter tears.

For what I thought so grand,

And pure and fair in my glad years,
They could not understand.

And yet, there may be songs as sweet —
As pure, and free from woe —

Sung every day by hearts I meet
And I not hear nor know.

WHEN I AM GROWING OLD.

0 will the flowers seem as fair •

As they seem to me now,

And sorrow’s clouds as quickly turn
To sunshine on my brow?

Will pleasures bright leave on my life
Their purest drops of gold,

Think you, when years are fading fast —
When I am growing old?

And will the birds sing sweetly then,

And chirp the whole day long;

And will my heart in unison
Still echo every song?

1 cannot think. It seems so long.

Till years their mantles fold

About my form, about my life —

When I am growing old.

Yet there are some whose eyes are bright.
Though locks are silver grey —

Whose hearts seem young and just as light
As does my own to-day.

Oh, if my life will aye be young.

My heart but keep its gold.

I’ll sit and laugh when frosts of time
Shall find me growing old.

LKISURE HOUR POEMS.

A BIRD SONG.

() robin, how naughty you acted

Out there hy the front garden gale, .

When Jamie was telling a story

Last night — yes, I know it was late;

But robin, now how could I leave him
There standing alone in the night.

With such a nice story half finished

I’m sure now it wouldn’t have l)een right.

And, robin, ’twas such a nice story,

I’m sure that you thought it so too,

I don’t think it wrong that I listened
Say, robin, now tell me, do you?

Yes robin, I think you were naughty
To listen to all that we said,

Then raise such a breeze in the moonlight.
And fill our gay hearts with such dread.

You scolded about all the nonsense
That your tender fledglings did see.

And threatened to tell to my mother
The story that Jamie told me.

But robin, ’twas such a nice story,

I’m sure that you thought it so too.

I don’t think it wrong that I listened.

Say robin, now tell me, do you?

THE CANCELED NAMES.

I3ut robin, this morn you are merry,
And seem in a penitent mood,

For eavesdropping surely was naughty,
Xow robin, dear, won’t you be good?
I’ll promise, if you’ll not tell mother.

I’ll ne’er again make you so late.

For Jamie would just as soon meet me
I know, at the back garden gate.

0 robin, ’twas such a nice story,

I’m sure that you thought it so too.

1 don’t think it wrong that I listened.
Say robin, now tell me, do you?

THE CANCELED NAMES.

The garret lone and musty,

I visited one day.

And gazed on things forgotten
That in the shadows lay.

Where gliding years their fingers
Had silently laid down.

On things that once were precious,
A pall of dusty brown.

From oft' the shelf of oaken
Against the grim old wall,

I chose a book of childhood
Its lessons to recall;

LEISURK HOIK POKMS.

I ope’d its yellow pages —

Caught on the fly-leaf sere
The names that had not faded
With each (juick passing year.

I saw a boyish penman,

llis name beneath mine trace,
And read by canceled letters
The future’s hidden face;
While children slyly nodding.
Looked o’er the desk to see
If fate brought joy or sorrow
To my boy-love and me.

Ah me ! The years are scattered,
I had outlived the pain.

Till memory sadly lifted
The darkened pall again.

I gaze through mists of teardrops
Back on that golden scene,
While gloomy restless shadows
Flit o’er a grave between.

PHOiBE.

I hear his mournful call and moan —
His soul is always sighing.

His song is ever like my own —

My heart breaks at his cr^dng.

PHCEBE.

“Phoebe!” “Phoebe!” “Phoebe!”
Calls he sadly all the day.

Ne’er another note has he,

O’er and o’er so tenderly,

He sings his mournful lay;
‘•Phffibe!” “Phoebe!”

He watches o’er the mound where she
Like a fair bride is sleeping.

He watches tenderly with me.

While our hearts break with weeping.

“Phoebe!” “Phoebe!” “Phoebe!”

Cries his anguished soul in pain.

While the woodland fairies sweet.
Sobbing, the plaintive call repeat,

And my heart sighs it o’er again,
“Phoebe!” “Pha'be!”

. And all the day where e’er I walk
He softly flits beside me.

And ne’er do I his sorrow mock.

And ne’er doth he deride me.

. “Phoebe?” “Phoebe!” “Phoebe!”
Mourns his heart and mine for aye;
He understands my grief so well —
Little comforter, and tells
To me his sorrow day by day,
“Phoebe?” “Phoebe!”

I.KISL'RK HOUR I'OK-MS,

TO MV SISTER MINA.

(^! I used to look on a pale youn<^ face
As it lay in its calm, dreamless rest,

At the white hands peacefully folded there.

On the bosom like lily l)uds pressed;

And in sorrow weep, that the book was closed
To the eyes of the bri<^ht world below;

For it seemed so fair to my dreaminj^ j^ii/e,

W ith no shadows of anguish or woe.

And I mourned, dear one, as your cothn closed.
For so youthful and fair was your life;

And I sighed that death had passed by the aged
W ho were bowed wdth the burdens of strife —

Who had waited long, and had listened oft
For the dip of the shadow'y oar, —

And had borne the years of your joyous life
To that echoless land evermore.

Hut to-day I gaze on a dead young face.

And I think it a beautiful sight;

He is kind, I know, to have closed the book
WMiile the pages were pure and white;

Ere the heart was aged, and ill with grief.

And had lost its pure faith and its trust.

For the years can bring to an untried heart.

Aye, far worse than the sleep of the just.

BLUSH ROSES.

Down the garden path a maiden
Walked at close of day,

While the silver veil of twilight
Gathered round her way.

As from rose to rose she flitted,
Kissing here and yon.

Drops of honey-dew that glistened
On the flowerets wan.

Came a lover down the pathway.
Unobserved and sly.

Till he stooped above the maiden.
Now so wondrous shy;

“ Stealing honey-dew and kisses,

I must have some too;”

And he bent and kissed the rosebuds,
’Neath the eyes of blue.

And they say the smiling roses
Caught the blushes red.

As the lassie, in confusion.

Bent her dainty head.

And next day the sunbeams wondered
How the roses light.

Had turned red as crimson blushes
In one single night.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

THE MAID AND THE SEA.

“O angry waves, quiet down your wrath,

Blow softest breeze o’er my true love’s path,

And cruel rocks, hide ye low your heads.

In ocean’s fathomless cavern beds; '

O storms, grow calm on the troubled sea.

And bring my fond lover home to me.”

“O dashing tides, all your madness hush.

No loving heart let your fury crush;

Shine down, oh moon, with your softest ray.

Beam out, bright stars, and watch o’er his way.
Hush, hush thy billows of wrath, oh sea.

And bring my love safely home to me.”

The moon rose calm and the stars shone bri ght,

The winds went down and the waves grew light;
The storm swept on, and the rocks sang low.

But ah, she knelt in the wildest woe.

And kissed the dead, which the tides brought home.
To her fond arms in the morning gloom.

AT CONFESSION.

It is calm even-tide.

A priest sits in confessional
With brow of peace, but eyes that tell
From their dark depths, where sorrow sleeps.
And on his sad, fair face,

AT CONFESSION.

The deep imprint of pain
Has left a saintly grace.

Around the Virgin mother pure,

Whose loving arms enfold
The smiling Babe so tenderly,

The lamps of gold

Throw sacred rays like beams

From heaven. With lightened heart and praise.

The last forgiven penitent

Has closed the doors. A calm of peace.

Like God’s own smile
Is hovering over all.

The wide door swings again.

And enters there a form
Enrobed in deepest pall.

That bows above the holy stoup
And in devotion signs the cross
W’^ith trembling hand upon her heart;

Then gathering close the somber veil
That folds her like the martial cloak
Of woe, she comes adown the aisle
The crucifix oft pressing to
Her pallid lips. She counts
Her beads with sobbing breath.

That wakens moans in arch and nave
As deep as those in courts of Death.

By the confessional
She lowly kneels, as by the grave
Of some lost love, and bursts in tears
Of bitter agony.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

“And is my daughter’s sin so deep?”
Compassionately asked
The sad-eyed priest. “ Be calmer, child,
Confession bringeth peace.” She ceased
Her sobbing, and in tones so clear,

And passionate, and sad,

Made answer: “ Father, yea.

My sin is deep. My strife
Is that I never can forget
The old, glad life.

Despite of prayers it clings
To heart and mind. O, can it be,

My soul is lost eternally?”

How starts the priest. His face is pale.

With eyes aflame he seeks to trace
Her features, but in vain. The dark
Veil hides from him her tear- wet face.

Like some black cloud in night-mare dreams.

“Before I left the world, I loved.

But O, they parted us, and then
My Bernard was untrue, they said.

Another, fairer he had wed.

Above my parents’ graves I wept.

And vainly prayed for death.

My kindred urged me seek relief
In convent walls, where dwelt no thoughts
But purity and sacred peace.

For deeds of holiness, I gave

To them my wealth, and pledged my vow

To live a bride of Heaven, and oh!

AT CONFESSION.

My flesh is scourged with penance so,
Still heart will cling to memories fond.
At prayer or chant, or in my sleep,

At morning fair, at rosary.

Or in repentance deep.

At vesper hour, in holy place.

Or ’mid the suffering ones of woe,

I ne’er forget him whom I loved —
Those years of bliss so long ago.

That seem like Heaven. O, can it be.

This sinful blasphemy

Is past all pardon? Father, blest,

Say, is there naught of sacrifice.

No penance dire, no word of charm.

To still the thoughts of deep distress ;
No balm for memories pitiless?”

How ashen pale the priest. He stares
In dream-like madness on
The form he longs, yet dares
Not clasp. At last he starts and tears
His set and bloodless lips apart.

And one fond, lingering word
Of joy and agony is heard.

“Louise!” The startled nun upsprings.
With trembling hand aside she flings.
With staring eyes, the heavy folds
Of her dark veil, and holds
It like a carven image fair.

Revealing there
A face as pure and beautiful

LKISURK HOUR I*OF,MS.

As angels are, but ah, so sad.

And worn, and wan with suflering.
“Louise! my God! they told me you
Were dead!” And strange the scene,

The Virgin pure smiles down upon
Beneath the tender vesper sheen
The walls shut in, of priest and nun
Enfolded in each other’s arms.

And walls throw back the chiming sound.
While arches grand the name prolong
Of “ Bernard, Bernard,” and repeat
The lingering cry,

Until the whispers die
Away, a sobbing song.

HER STORY.

Go, hide them away in their casket,

?^Iy eyes fill with tears at the sight.

For memories sad they bring to me,

' I care not to see them to- night.

They’re only some time tinted letters,

A ring, and a lock of brown hair,

A true-lover’s knot, and some tokens
So simple, I wonder you care
To look o’er them, e’en as a jDastime.

The gay world would smile could they see
The pages so blotted with tear drops.

But ah, they are priceless to me.

HER STORY.

So long ago penned, that the sad years
Would seem like a life-time to you.

But he who erst penned them was fearless
And loyal, and loving, and true.

He used to caress my dark tresses —

See how they are threaded with grey —
And praise my fair cheeks for their blossoms,
As Robert praised yours yesterday.

“And where is the writer?” you ask me:

Dead! dead in a far-away land.

And only a memory is left me.

With tokens you hold in your hand.

He whispered so low as we parted:

“ I’ll think, love, wherever I roam,

When I sink to rest in the evening
Of you, dear one, waiting at home.”

He smiled in his pride as he kissed me.

And hummed the gay notes of a song.
With never a thought that the waiting
Might be, ah, so weary and long.

He fell in the battle at evening —

They wrote, when his life-lamp grew dim.
He mourned for the “ little girl ” praying.
And waiting, and hoping for him.

Ah, me! and the waiting is weary,

Go put them back out of my sight,

And do you yet wonder I sorrow

That careless hands brought them to light?

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

AT THE FOOT OF THE HILL.

The journey is long, and the hillside is steep,

The pathway with brambles o’ergrown;

We pause mid the footfalls to wonder and weep.

O’er many a pitiless stone.

But over the mountain the path is all plain.

While down in the valley so still,

A rest there is waiting from anguish and pain —

A rest at the foot of the hill.

The way up the hill may be shadowed with woe,
Joy’s sun may have set in the sky,

And darkness of midnight our spirits may know;

In fear we my bitterly cry;

But over the mountain, no clouds e’er will hide
The joys that our visions will fill.

Nor shadow the rest on that beautiful side —

The rest at the foot of the hill.

The pathway is bright down the steep mountain way,
The journey is short and is swift;

The tender light shines on a pure, perfect day,

Like beams through a heavenly rift;

• The fair, golden light never dies in the west;

The calm has no terror, nor chill,

For Heaven smiles down on the beautiful rest —

The rest at the foot of the hill.

THE TWO PAINTERS.

Ah my boy, ere your feet
Shall cross o’er to the street
Of gay manhood, you so long to find.

Let me tell you of two
Who are waiting for you.

As you leave your fair youth-time behind.

There is one free from guile.

Who will beckon and smile.

And will paint all your future, my boy,
In the hue of pure health —

With the color of wealth.

He will dip his brush deep in true joy.

Like the bright autumn leaf.
Through frost-work, through grief.
Will the days bring a tinting of gold;

He will paint your name bright.

And will make your heart light.

And contentment a treasure untold.

Of the other beware.

Though his smile, boy, seems fair.
For the touch of his brush is defame.

And the hue he will seek
To bepaint your fair cheek.

Will be deeper than blushes of shame.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

He will paint all your life,

With sad troubles and strife,

And deep furrows of sorrow will trace;
He will color your heart
With demoniac art.

In the crime-tints you ne’er can erase.

So, my boy, turn away
Though his visage be gay.

It hides only a demon’s design;

’Tis the tempter, you know.

Who brings only sad woe.

And his brush is dipped deep in red wine.

THE LEMONWEIR.

Lemonwicr, a river in Wisconsin, is said to mean in the Indian tongue, “ river of
memory,” and tradition rules that those who slept upon its banks were enchanted
with dreams.

O! Lemon weir, thou artless stream
Of memory. I lie and dream
On thy green banks, the hours away.

And live my childhood’s happy day.

I dream it through without a sigh;

Its joys are cloudless as the sky
Your bosom mirrors. Music rare
I hear around me in the air.

On willow harps, with strings of gold.

The soft winds play the strains of old,

And lull me into peacefulness.

THE LEMONWEIR.

And naught can break my blissful rest.

Xo cares can chafe, no ills can harm,

Xor dreams of love dispel your charm.

How I forget all pain and woe
In watching thy Lethean flow;

And once again, a merry child,

1 roam the dell where berries wild
Hang ripe for me; where light winds press
My cheek and brow in soft caress;

Where flowers bloom ’neath smiling skies.
And on the air the bird-trills rise;

And leaves dance to my joyous strain.

And rocks each note throw back again,
And the wide world — its joy and glee,
Sunshine and song — were made for me.

The wild birds love thy waters pure.

Its crystal depths their spirits lure.

As if they too from life’s distress
Would fainly seek forgetfulness;

And as they on the willows swing.
Enraptured, they forget to sing.

The minnows glide in languor deep.

And seem enchanted into sleep;

And water lilies smile in dreams
Of Heaven, while the golden beams
Of sunlight wrap each snowy breast.

And their lives seem a perfect rest.

01 that I might so lie for aye.

And dream eternity away !

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

A SILHOUETTE.

He leaned upon the mantle-piece,

And gazed upon the face

Which beauty rare had fondly touched,

And left a tender grace.

He felt that far above his life
And soul, so little worth.

She lived in priceless purity.

As Heaven above the earth.

Could she but know the sins that weighed
His heart like leaden things.

She’d shrink from ’neath his clasping hand.
As from a viper’s stings.

He knew the secrets he must own.

Could her pure heart but guess.

She’d rather drink the poisoned cup.

Than taste his lip’s caress.

From one dear glimpse of Heaven he turned.
And on his sad soul fell

The pangs of anguish and despair.

Deep as the pains of hell.

The bitter, bitter tears of woe.

That fell that long, dark night.

Upon his life-book dropping down.

Left one page pure and white.

BABY BINGERS.

BABY FINGERS.

Tiny baby fingers,
Dimpled, plump and fair;

Tossing mamma’s tresses.
Playing mischief there.

Now in papa’s pockets
With pretentions meek.

Then among his whiskers
Playing hide and seek.

Darling baby fingers.
Pulling grandpa’s nose;

Searching in such earnest,
Wand’ring how it grows.

Now at grandma’s knitting.
In her easy chair;

Busy fingers Into
Mischief every where.

Precious baby fingers.
Folded on her breast;

Pure as robes of angels.

In her last, sweet rest.

Blessed baby fingers.

In His kindness given;

Guiding mortals upward
To their home in Heaven.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS,

PERPLEXITY.

I sit in my chambcT bewildered, and sigb,

If ever a maiden was troubled, it’s I.

I’ve one lover rich, tboiigb lie’s awfully old.

His pockets are just running over with gold;
Another is bandsome and loves me, I know,

With all tbe love that be doesn’t bestow
On bimself. Tbe other is poor, plain and true.

And carries a heart that is pure as tbe dew.

But, there are my sisters. Now beautiful Lou
Has married a man who is rich as a Jew;

She sighs for a husband who’s bandsome and gay.
Whose face is not wrinkled, whose hair is not grey.
Kate married a beauty, yet she has no joy.

She’s bead of tbe bouse and he’s more like a toy.
And don’t know as much as a boy out of school;
Like all handsome men, he’s a simpering fool.

Meg wedded for love and she ’s worst of ’em all.
For in a poor cottage that’s terribly small.

She lives like the woman who lived in a shoe.

And grumbles and grumbles. Now what can I do?
There’s Lou would give wealth if it beauty would
bring;

And Kate, who has beauty, would take any thing;
And she who has love is the worst of the three.
Love, beauty or riches, oh, which shall it be?

SIX YEARS, BROTHER.

I say to my sisters, I’ll be an old maid,

And be sure of sunshine, since they have the shade,
And all three declare, with their hands held on high.
Than live an old maid, they would much rather die.
Or live as they are — and that’s just the way;

I go to my mother, she ’s nothing to say.

The way out of trouble I ne’er can descry.

If ever a maid was perplexed, it is I.

SIX YEARS, BROTHER.

Six years we’ve missed thy smile, brother.
And long the years do seem
Since we laid thee to dreamless sleep,

To sleep that seemed a dream.

Six years the winter snows, brother.

Have draped thy bed in white;

And fairest buds have bloomed and fell
In summer’s golden light.

But six years may not pass again.

For us their clouds to view.

Ere we may, in the streets of gold,

. Walk hand in hand with you.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

ONE DAY.

Good-bye, dear day, good-bye!

And let me wreathe with immortelles,

Tlie moments sweet that fly
On golden wings, and mark with white,
The hours wherein no clouds of pain
Have dimmed the dear sunlight.

Farewell, sweet day, farewell;

E’en now the evening curfew peals
From memories’ pealing bell;

I sit and count them as they fall.

And grieve and sigh, yet smile that they
Are ever past recall.

Good-bye, dear day, good-bye;

Like some fond ones I’ve loved and lost,

That in death’s clasp do lie.

With flowers a-hloom upon the brow —
Each tender bloom a precious hour —

Thou seem’st unto me now.

Farewell, sweet day, farewell.

And go where sleep they that are gone.

For after all ’tis well;

I would not call back one dead face,

I would not live thine hours again.

Nor e’en thy joys retrace. ^

TO-MORROW.

- .S7

TO-MORROW.

Hopefully, carefully, how we have planned,
Eagerl}’ building our castles on sand;

Watching the ships that are leaving our shore.
Heedlessly thinking of days gone before,

Living in hopes of
To-morrow.

Measuring the work that we sometime must do.
Leaving the dear old friends, longing for new,
Counting the hours that so profitless fly.
Waiting for comforts to come bye-and-bye.
Coming, ]oerhaps, with
To-morrow.

Dreaming of joys that may come with the light.
Thinking all sorrow to pass with the night.
Cherishing visions of bright future years —
Visions unshadowed by anguish and tears.
Anxiously waiting
To-morrow.

Yet when it comes, ah! bitter the woe.

Fairest of castles are lying so low —

Counting the wrecks are we, over and o’er.
Stranded and broken that lie on our shore.
Wrecked by our dreams of
To-morrow.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

Work we have planned, we have all yet to do,

Old friends have left us, the new proved untrue.
Pleasure’s bright cup that we counted our all.
Changed on our lips to the bitterest gall,

O wretched foot-fall.

To-morrow.

Bitter the page of our criss-crossed life,

But we must learn all its sorrow and strife —

Dreams are like shadows of summer’s bright flowers.
Now is our all; for in this life of ours.

There is but one glad
To-morrow.

LOVE’S MATHEMATICS.

O, my Clarence! with hair like the morning,

And fond orbs of hazel, so fine,

And dear Jamie with locks of the raven.

And black eyes that sparkle like wine;

And sweet Claud, with your fair golden tresses
And orbs like the June skies divine.

How your glances set my pulses thrilling,

Your words my weak heart doth repeat.

And your tones make the sunbeams seem brighter
The cadence is soft and so sweet;

And the touch of your fingers enchanting —

My heart with true joy is replete.

A HEART-LEAF.

You all sue for my love, Oh, my darlings I
You’re dearer than all else to me,

I assure you sincerely. To reason
It stands 1 can love you all, three
Times as fondly and truly as I

Could love only one, don’t you seer

I’ll be faithful indeed, oh, my treasures I
For can’t I be just thrice as true
To my Claude, and my Jamie, and Clarence,

As only to just one of you?

And how happy it makes me my darlings,

To know ’tis not vainh’ you sue.

What is that? “I’m a flirt!” Oh, my poor heart!

That I should have lavished in vain
All my wealth of affection upon you
To reap only sorrow and pain.

For ye will not observe in your blindness,

What to me is terribly plain.

A HEART-LEAF.

Dear leaf that I often unfold,

^Vhen no eye but His own can see,

And happily linger with heart yet aglow,

Over fond, blissful visions that no one can know.
But my loving heart and thee.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

Dear leaf that 1 tenderly hide,

Within its true casket of gold,

And deep in the tenderest, sacredest spot,

Where the bright roses blossom, and death shall come
How lovingly thee I fold. [not,

Dear leaf that I cherish and love.

Not one shining letter of light
Shall memory lose from each unclouded page,

Nor shall change in the pitiless frost-work of age,

Nor fade in its desolate night,

The long years may silently come.

And swiftly may hasten away;

When death shall unfold all our treasures, dear leaf.

It shall find you untouched by life’s frost and its grief.
As you are this beautiful day.

BROKEN CHORDS.

One string of my harp is broken.

I’ve strung it again and again.

And yet though the others their music
Enchanting, they ever retain.

The harmony never is perfect;

A discord e’er falls on my ear.

I weep that the old songs now ever
Are lost, once so tender and dear.

WEARY.

A string of my heart is broken.

How oft I have welded its break;

And yet, though I touch it as fondly,

It never again will awake
The rapturous thrills in my spirit;

The joy of each old time refrain
Is gone, and the chord with its sweetness
Will never be perfect again;

Until the grand Master of music.

His magical fingers sweep o’er
The strings that lie broken and bleeding;
Then they shall be perfect once more.

WEARY.

Weary of sunbeams,, weary of rain.

Weary of hoping and trusting in vain.

Weary of longing and waiting;

Weary of smiles that come deep from the heart,
Weary of glances that cut like a dart.

Weary of loving and hating.

Weary of greeting a dear, friendly grasp.
Weary of sad farewell’s lingering clasp.

Weary of frowns and of kisses;

Weary of praises as cold as the snow.

Weary of bitings from lips of a foe.

Weary of jeers and of hisses.

LEISURR HOUR POEMS.

Weary of lioiirs that arc full of delight,
Weary of days that ai'e darker than night,
Weary of taking and giving;

Weary of pleasures that end but in clouds,
Weary of hopes that lie buried in shrouds.
Weary, so weary of living.

SONG OF THE FARMER’S WIFE.

AFTER HOOD.

Step — Step — step !

* O’er the oaken floor so bare.

With calico gown and hands of brown.
With tangled and uncombed hair;

Doing the dishes and churning,

When the morning is bright and cool.
Washing and dressing the children.

Till the first bell rings for school.

T r a m p — t ra m p — t ra m jo !

The hours away too soon!

Tramp! till the bell on the house top.

Is calling the men at noon.

Mending the children’s garments.

Till the little feet come through the door.
Darning the husband’s stockings.

Till the long shadows fall on the floor.

SOXG OF THE FARMER’S WIFE-

Washing the evening dishes,

Putting the children to bed;

While the form so spare with toil and care,

To limbs is heavy as lead.

And weary in body and soul.

With sighs in her troubled breast.

At thoughts of the toil of to-morrow,

She sinks to a prayerless rest.

O men, with sisters and wives!

O men, with mothers grey !

How little ye think that they for you
Are toiling their lives away!

How little ye care if their hearts and souls.

Of lonofinors are never stilled,

If your house, are neat and your stomachs full
And the wants of your souls are filled.

It is work — work — work !

Like a slave with chain and ball.

And never a word of praise.

Ora kind caress withal.

O God! we sow so much.

How little do we reap!

For ah, man’s love is held so dear.

And woman’s life so cheap!

This wearying round of work
Has stepped out many a life,

From the chirp of the wren, till the chime of ten.
Is the work of a farmer’s wife.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

64-

It is step — step — step!

From the morn of her wedding day,
And work — work — work!

All life’s golden hours away.

Toiling through days of rain,

Working when days are fair.

Beating the round through pain and grief.
And e’en through days of prayer.

It is toil — toil — toil!

Not a moment from care allowed.

And all that’s given is a simple living.

And a coffin and shroud!

HAPPINESS.

A phantom ship that ever glides
Beyond our reach, the dancing tides,

A thing of Heaven indeed, she seems,
Her sails aglow in sunny beams;

Pursue her not, and she will rest
Upon the waves content and blest
Within your sight, that you may gaze
On her and joy through blissful days.
Pursue her, and the joyous crew
Will beck and smile, and lure you;

But grasp her, lo! the crew will turn
To haggard, mocking forms. You learn
Too late, the eager chase was vain,

And sink despairing ’neath the main.

wouldn’t you?

WOULDN’T YOU?

He told me my face was the purest,

And fairest he ever had known;

The bobolink envied my singing,

The nightingale mimicked its tone;

My dimples they quarreled with cherries.
Just under eyes tender and blue.

My tresses they angered the sunbeams —
I half disbelieved, wouldn’t you?

He told me my fingers were dainty.

My lips only modeled to kiss,

“And would I give one of the sweetest
For such a j^oor bauble as this?”

O, may be I ought not to ’ve done it,

But he looked so pleading and true.
The ring was so pretty, I took it.

And gave him the kiss, wouldn’t you?

He told me there was a neat cottage
Just down near the rocks by the sea.
Where bright roses nodded a welcome.
And mocking-birds waited for me.

With himself, of course, for the master,
’Twas made plenty large for us two;

I forget what I said, but I’m thinking
I kissed him again, wouldn’t you?

LEISURK HOUR POEMS.

THE MAN WHO DIED FOR ME.

A friend .-U Arlington Heights once witnessed extnrordinary demonstr.Ttions of
grief by .a poor man, who was le iring the grass and kissing the giave o( one of the
soldiers, and, on being questioned, related the incident which gave rise to the fol-
lowing :

It is no brother, lying here,

No son, or kindred, e’en,

But more than these, and if you list
You’ll say the same, I ween.

Only a soldier, brave and true.

No kith or kin, had he,

But I have come to kiss the grave
Of him who died for me.

When I was drafted — ah, the times
\Verc hitter hard to bear!

My Bessie and the little ones
Clung to me in despair.

For I was all there was to feed
The little mouths, you see;

Until he came to me one day —

The man who died for me —

And said: “My friend, there’s none to grieve
For me if I should fall,

I cannot see my country from
These wee ones take their all;

Then let me fill your place, my boy,

And leave you with them, free,”

And Bessie kissed and clung to him —

The man who died for me.

GIVE US BACK THE LAUREL.

Ah yes, he fell; and Bess and I,

Have mourned for this dear one,

As we could never weep and mourn
For brother, kin, or son.

And we have toiled, and earned, and saved,
And I have come, you see,

A thousand miles to kiss the grave
Of him who died for me.

To-night, when they all kneel at home.
They’ll breathe the oft told prayer
That God will bless with perfect rest
His soul. And may be There
His joys would seem more blest, if God
AVould from eternity,

Let him once gaze on us who mourn
The man who died for me.

GIVE US BACK THE LAUREL.

I love the knights of old, who won
With spear and spur the hearts
Of ladies fair, and not by love’s
Most counterfeited arts.

Those brave rare men of sacrifice —

No sword e’er wore a sheath.

Until each neck had won a scarf.

Or brow a laurel wreath,

LEISURE HOUR POEM^.

By fair hands woven. O’er each bloom
A prayer was breathed that he
Would never let his honor dim
Who won by bravery.

I love the knights of old, for ah,

Full worthy of the love
Of women pure were those brave men.

As stars that shone above;

Who thought no sacrifice too great.

And prized the fond caress
Of woman’s love, akin to Heaven,

In truth and tenderness;

Whose hands were raised with ready will.
In sure, unerring aim.

To mark with blood the spot he stood
Who would defile her name.

I love the knights of old, for oh.

To-day we know, and weep.

That purest love of women’s hearts.

Is held so cheap, so cheap.

And oft times cast aside for those
Who walk in shadowed ways.

Whom virtue could but blush to meet:
And when on these I gaze.

And then on stainless women’s lives.

And careless hearts of men,

I pray kind Heaven to give us back
The laurel wreath again.

DECEIVED.

They stood amid the blossoms bright,
And smiled in idle talk.

She seemed fair as the daisy blooms,

That nodded by the walk.

Her heart was pure and innocent,

Her eyes were fraught with beams

Of love-light, and her joyous laugh
Rang pure as rippling streams.

She thought him noblest of his kind.

And judged him true and grand;

She might have read him truly by
The blossom in his hand.

The bloom she plucked beside the path.
And deemed that he might prize

It fairer that she gathered it,

Than others ’neath the skies.

The daisy’s golden heart he burst
With laughter light and gay.

Then cast its petals, one by one.
Unconsciously away.

And thus she might have read him whom
She thought free from all art;

He prized her pure affection as
The daisy’s golden heart.

7 ^

LEISURE HOUR I*OEMS.

AFTER MANY DAYS.

All, good Ileav’cn! is that Rutli whom we knew years ago
That sweet wild-bloom, one summer I met
In the country, and left in such terrible woe?

I remember her pale face e’en yet.

Can it be she is here with that look on her face.

And those jewels ablaze in ber hair?

And not even a sorrovvfid tinge do I trace
On her visage so wondronsly fair.

O! but isn’t she grand? Like a siren’s her smile —

How she sobbed when I bade her good-bye
In tbe lane, and I felt like a villain the while.

And I thought of her oft with a sigh,

For she loved me then truly, but wdiat could I do?

For gold smiled not on cither, you sec,

“You say somebody’s left her the mint of a jew?”

Ah! I wonder if she thinks of me?

For some women will cling to one love all their days;

“And you told her I was to be here?”

(vSee her eyes roam about in that wandering gaze,

She is looking for some one, that’s clear.)

But see! who is that greets her in such tender way
While her glance beams on him like a star?

“She’s been married three years! He’s her husband,”
you say?

Bah! how fickle, falsc-souled women are.

IDLERS.

I must go! And she even forgets that I live!

How her face shone with love’s tender light.

The best years of my life, ah, how freely I’d give,

For that glance of her fond eyes to-night!

And has she ever dreamed of revenge? For a lance
Has to night pierced this gay heart of mine;

God! how glorious her face, and how tender that glance.
And — how brightly those jewels do shine.

IDLERS.

O why do ye stand in the market place
With idly clasped hands all the day?

While the golden sun shines
With its tenderest glow.

And the neglected vines
Hang so drooping and low.

And the bright leaves are withering away.

There are stems to train, there are boughs to bend.
Else the fruit blossoms wither and die.

There are vines you can train.

There are tendrils to cling;

And oh, what will ye gain.

If ye so idly sing.

As the bright hours of pruning time fly ?

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

Tlie work it is hard, do ye think? — Yea, hard
And great for the laborer’s few,

Who are weak and depressed.

And are weary and sore.

They would gladly seek rest —

Aye, we sadly need more.

And the Master is calling for you.

And the hire is poor? — Nay, nay, it is rich —
Far richer than treasures of gold.

Or the wide world’s renown.

Or its diamonds most rare.

Will be the bright crown
The glad lab’rers shall wear,

When the wealth of the vintage is told.

ELFIN.

I know a little elfin fair.

With eyes of bluest blue.

Whose hair is like a silken web
\Vith sunlight shining through;

O O O 7

Whose cheeks like ajDple blossoms are.
Whose brow, pure as a pearl.

But she wears frocks of calico,

Just like a little girl.

She does not like to study well.

She does not like to sew.

But who e’er saw a fairy-spright
That worked? I’d like to know.

ELFIN.

And what this dainty elfin does,

You’d like to hear I s’pose?

She just makes sunshine in the house,
And laughs, and plays, and grows.

And chats and talks, and talks and chats.
And says the queerest things.

And when she’s tired of talking, then
She rests awhile and sings.

I think some cunning angel tells
Her in each morning dream
What she must say, for all the day,

She talks a “ jDerfect stream,”

Bob says, and calls her tiny lips
As noisy as a mill.

And like the wings of butterflies,

I think them never still.

She’s just a fearful little pest.

So Grandpa says, and smiles.

And tosses her, and gives her sweets.
And kisses between whiles.

But Grandma, whom she plies all day
With questions broad and tall.

Says home without our little elf
Would be no home at all.

And so we kiss her chattering lips.

And kiss her tiny feet.

And pray Him who loves little ones
To keep her pure and sweet.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

WHY SHOULD I?

Why should I care,

If my Rupert, with the princely air
And handsome face, should linger long
With other girls, in dance and song.
Why should I care?

Why should I sigh.

If he praises the lips of Kittie Bly ;

If he declare her handsome eyes
Are fairer than the June-day skies.

Why should I cry?

Why should I frown,

When he notes the style of Susie Brown,
And raves about her queenly grace.
And the soft curves of her bright face.
Why should I frowm?

Ah, surely, why?

I can tell in a trice when he is nigh.

His gay heart holds no one but me.

Yet man-like, oh, he longs to see
!Me pine and sigh.

There’s Ned and Joe,

And there’s Tom and Will, on me bestow
Many a thrilling, tender glance.

And press my hand in mazy dance.

And so, and so,

FARMER GRIMES.

My life is sweet,

And my Rupert frets instead of me;
And ho! I laugh and dance and sing,
For well I know that time will bring
Him to my feet.

FARMER GRIMES.

Yes, Grimes is dead, that good old soul.
No more you’ll see his face
On earth, for he has gone where none
Their footsteps may retrace.

He was a Granger true and just.

And with the Grangers sat,

A pitch-fork in his brown right hand,

A plow-badge on his hat.

His face was beaming o’er with smiles.
Just as the Grangers’ are.

His eyes so bright, you’d think at night
That each was some new star.

The old blue coat he used to wear.

All buttoned down before.

Once cost in dollars quite a sum —

Some fifty, less or more.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

But had he waited till this time,

He’d got the latest style,

A good fair coat, six buttons front.

And saved a handsome pile.

He left an energetic wife

Who kept the shining floors;

She loved the dirt, believed it good —

When it was out of doors.

She washed, and baked, and mopped, and churned.
Her nerves were ne’er unstrung ;

She always knew just when to speak.

And when to hold her tongue.

His girls were smart at books or broom.

The organ, too, could play;

Could bat a ball, or pitch a quoit,

Or beat you at croquet.

They wore no trail on washing days.

For sense they did not lack;

Were just as fair as she who wears
A thousand on her back.

His boys were bright as any boys;

Had learned at different schools;

But though they knew a thing or two
They were not College fools.

FARMER GRIMES.

They’d studied latin, love and law,

And still ’tis strange, ’tis true.

They did not think they knew far more
Than Grant and Beecher too.

And Grimes was earnest in his toil.
Though but a “ farmer flat;”

He didn’t mince his life-work out
Like an aristocrat.

Whene’er he met the “middle-men,”
His face would always frown.

And if they didn’t pace the field
He’d surely rake them down.

Sometimes a railroad manager
Would argue ’gainst the cause.

But farmer Grimes was smart at words.
And looking out for straws.

His arguments, whate’er they were.
Were splendidly fenced in;

He pitched his words when in the right.
And was most sure to win.

He sowed his reasons good and thick.
And dragged them over well.

And watched the other sow his weeds —
In which he did excel.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

Then harrowed all the wild weeds up,
And planted there the facts,

And cultivated honest truth
In all his words and acts.

And then he bound his arguments
In the just word of God —

That never can be broke or bent
Though trampled iron shod.

His adversary’s reasonings

Ne’er threw him off the track.

And when he had them well threshed out.
He gave the husks all back.

His grain is garnered from the field;

His sickle wears a sheath;

His plow’s at rest, and on his brow
He bears a laurel wreath.

And though upon that far-off shore
His footsteps ever roam,

The badge of Honor proud he wears
Up in the Granger’s Home.

LILIES.

On the pure forehead immaculate, rare,
Pressing the ringlets of soft-shining hair.

So like the soul of the innocent one
Whose tiny being has only begun;

Stainless as angel robes, snowiest white.

Ah, was there ever a daintier sight?

Lilies of beauty, from fairies’ own mould.
Resting in baby’s silk tresses of gold.

On the white forehead of maidenhood fair.
Twined in the ringlets of shining brown hair.
So like the joy of the newly-made wife;

So like the hopes of her own future life.
Guileless and pure as her heart on that day.
Free from a thought of an o’erclouded way.
What would seem fitter for bridal-day crown,
’Mong the rich tresses of bonniest brown?

On the pale forehead so furrowed with care.
Pressing the soft threads of silvery hair.

So like the soul that is free from all sin.

So like the Heaven it entereth in.

Spotlessly rare, with its balm-laden breath.
Pale as the hands folded calmly in death;
Fairest of flowers are the lilies of snow.
Emblems of all that is purest below.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

THE POETS.

The poets are crazy, I often have read,

And I really think it is true;

The wonderful things that they all see and hear,

I never once did — say, did you?

They write about all that the bobolink says
And sings when he’s courting his mate —

How the other birds nod at each other and smile
If he in the morning sleeps late.

They know what the wild breezes say to the leaves.
And what they are laughing about —

Tell how the gay humming-bird flirts with the rose.

As sadly the marigolds pout.

They tell how the evergreens gossip and talk —

How rudely the sunbeams doth smile.

When bumble-bee flatters the weak, silly pink.

His languishing hours to beguile.

They know what the stars to the singing brooks say.
When we only see that they wink;

Tell how the waves laugh when their bright mirror shows

o o

The sun-fairies stooping to drink.

They know what the fair, dainty lily-buds dream
When nightingale sings them to sleep.

And hear all the song that the pink sea-shells sing
Of scenes in the waters so deep.

SPARROWS.

They know where the clouds are all hurrying to,
And what makes the angry waves swell —

All ’bout the rude echo that lives in the rocks,
And lots more I never could tell.

I know I am sane, and I never see
Any such “ goings on” now, do you?

I often have heard that the poets are mad.

And I just believe it is true.

SPARROWS.

Little sparrows twittering high
Above our heads, a tender eye
In chilling storm or golden light.

Is watching always, and in flight
Or merry song. He marks it all.

And pities every harm or fall.

And are we less than these? Will He
Pass us in anger stern, if we
In sin should fall beside the way —
And pity not our sorrow? Nay,

The same fond eye is over all.

That marks the tiny sparrow’s fall.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

CHILDREN.

Happy little children, tripping to and fro,

On their pretty faces not a shade of woe,

Eyes where sunshine lingers in their joyous light.

Some as blue as heaven, some as black as night;

Some with melting sweetness, some where laughter lies.
Some are full of mischief, some are strangely wise.
Golden tresses waving, flowing ringlets brown.

Fairer far in beauty than the richest crown.

Lips as red as berries, ah, and just as sweet.

Keeping measure gaily with the restless feet.

Cheeks that vie with roses, In-ovvs as white as snow.

And as pure as pearls the hearts that beat below.

Not an envious feeling, not a look of pride.

Not a thought of anger do your young hearts hide.
Placid as the morning in it’s tend’rest ray.

Filled with peace and gladness are your lives to-day.

Happy little children, innocent and true.

How we, growing older, watch and envy you;

Count your little sayings wise, and true as gold.

Just as much believed as oracles of old;

' And your tiny footsteps guide in paths of light.

Strive to keep you ever pure in His sight.

Ah, I never wonder that the Lamb of Love
Likened little children to the home above.

LOVE MAKING.

83.

LOVE MAKING.

The tulip is folding her petals
To hide with love’s tenderest art
The message the humming-bird whispered
Her fluttering heart.

The rose her bright visage is shading,

Lest curious mortals may know
Her blushes are caused by the glances
The bold sunbeams throw.

The violet, trusting and dainty.

Bends shyly her sky-tinted brow.

Forsooth the gay breeze paused and left there
A fond kiss just now. ^

The daisy’s white petals are shielding
Our gaze from her golden heart fair.
Because a gay sweetheart has hidden
Love’s honey-dew there.

But mortals read not in their worry
The dear secrets born ’neath the skies.

Nor see, ’mid their toil the love making
Right under their eyes.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

84 -

FLIRTATION WEARY.

Yes, go! I am weary of playing
With hearts as deceiving as yours;

For oft there are glances so tender
E’en hearts of the fickle will lure.

I own you are artful and deeper
Than you at the first seemed to be,

But o’erstepping rules, sir, so widely.

Soon wearies the soul, don’t you see?

You don’t? Why you cheat like a gambler.
Though boyishly pinned to your sleeve

Your heart you so seemingly carry.

Yet me, sir, you do not deceive.

I scorn one who stoops to such cunning —
Who strives thus the batt’ries to hide;

I’ll not so be caught, and I tell you.

By rules of the game you must bide.

“The rules of what game?” Why, flirtation.
How charmingly artful you’ve growm!

'‘'‘You never were flirting?” Well, dear me!
That’s odd for a man, sir, to own.

Now look in my eyes as you say it:

“Don’t I love you surely?” you plead;

“Will not I your sweet-heart be truly ^

And can’t I your earnestness read?”

MY SHIPS,

'•8s

Withal have I been so mistaken?

This sentiment love, seems to me,

One counterfeits oft in flirtation.

’Tis hard ’neath the mask, sir, to see.

“You wait with impatience your answer?”
Well, truly, I hate to confess.

But now that you’ve put it so plainly,

I think that I’ll — well — I’ll say yes.

MY SHIPS.

Ships are sailing by to-day —

Some just sent out on their way;

Some are new, and firm, and fair.
Some have treasures rich and rare,
Some are shattered, worn and old.

And are empty in their hold.

Some are landing here, I see.

None of these belong to me.

Ships that wander long and far,

These are mine. Beyond the bar
Linger they. Of noble build.

And with treasures always filled.
They are storm and tempest-tossed.

But I know they’re never lost.

Though not one’s come back to tell
If the rest fare ill or well.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

Ships I send out every day

In the morn and twilight g^rey,

With their white sails all aglow
In love’s sunshine, thus they go.
Naught but hope their precious freight,
And I sit and watch and wait

And toil, and send my ships to sea.
That never may return to me.

Well, and what’s to me their cost,

Even though they may be lost?

I am rich in hopes alway —

Could a thousand send a day;
What if them I never view?

They may sometime come to you!

Still I send them. Let them go —
Some one gets them — this I know.

AFTER ALL.

When we our loved ones sadly lay,

To peaceful rest,

The pulseless hands we fold away
Like lilies pressed;

And hide their dear forms from our sight,
Wearil}' sigh,

And mourn the darkness of our night.
And wonder why

AFTER ALL.

That all sweet joys are covered o’er
By death’s dark pall —

O, we think this the bitt’rest lore
Of life’s all.

When dear ones wander on life’s road,
And seek alone

To bear each one his weary load,

Ah! then we moan;

For earth is wide, and they may drain
The cup so deep

Where sorrow lies, and in its pain
Will sigh and weep.

And we will mourn we cannot know
What doth befall.

And feel this saddest of life’s woe,

After all.

And so, methinks, when they are laid
To restful sleep

In the last bed that earth has made,
Though grief be deep,

’Tis well. For then, ah, then we know
Where they do rest;

Know they are free from life’s sad woe.
And it is best.

For no stern grief, nor pain, nor care.
Can e’er befall —

He knows far best what we can bear,
After all.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

WHAT I WILL TAKE.

What will I take.^ you ask, rumseller,
And smile your craven smiles,

And hold your foaming goblet mp
With all a tempter’s wiles.

I’ll tell you what I’ll take, rumseller.
From out your madening wine —

My manhood, as I owned it ere
The demon’s curse was mine.

I’ll take the name I prized, rumseller.
The friends that once I knew.

The honor I was proud to own
Before I gave it you.

I’ll take life’s purest joys, rumseller.
The home I loved so well;

The dear, fond ones, whose loss to me
No tongue on earth can tell.

And then of you I’ll take, rumseller.
Out of your baneful way.

My reason, and my life, and soul.

I’ll take them all this day.

SOME DAY.

Some day, darling, when we’re rowing
O’er life’s mystic ocean wide.

Watching anxiously the breakers
That are ’round us every side,

While the sun seems hidden, darling.

Since we left youth’s golden bay :

Will you trust me in the shadows?

Some day, darling, some day.

Some day, darling, these strong fingers
That you press so often now.

Will be brown and old with rowing,

And deep furrows mark my brow;

The dark locks you lightly finger.

Dear, will some time fade to grey :

Will you love me in the shadows?

Some day, darling, some day.

Some day, darling, when we’re drifting
On the crystal, shimmering tide,

Silently a phantom boatman
Will be rowing at our side.

Should your weak chains loose their holdings,
And your spirit glide away.

Will you miss me ’yond the shadows?
Some^day, darling, some day.

LKISURK HOUR I'OEMS.

MET AND PARTED.

I met her the first time at evenin<^,

She seemed fresh from beauty’s own mould,

And radiantly fair, as the moonheams
Touched fondly her tresses of gold.

I wooed her and won her, while others
Despairing were sent from her side;

And filled with love’s sunshine the morning
I greeted my proud, peerless bride.

We parted at evening. Around us

The sad, trembling blooms lay in tears;

Between us seemed gathering the twilight,
Like spectres of’ long future years.

■ We quarreled — I jealous and stuliborn —

*She firm as a queen and as proud,

We parted with faces like marble,

Our^hearts full of grief, yet unbowed.

We met once again — at her bedside
I bent o’er her pain stricken face;

And in the calm kiss of forgiveness.

The old tender love 1 could trace.

We parted again. In the church-yard
I left her in soul-resting sleep.

Where sad breezes sob in the twilight,

With blossoms tnat pityingly weep.

A PROSY STORY IN HOMELY RHYME.

D’ye see that man across the street
That walks with pomjDOus stride,

And that sad woman humbly like
A walking at his side?

They’re man and wife, and though you see.

She’s plain, and small, and slim.

Yet, sir, she’s got more solid grit
Than twenty men like him.

You would’nt think it, would you now.

With all that air so grand.

That when the plague came here, he took
A trip to furrin’ land.

He had a call to preach His word.

And ’fore the sun arose

One morn he started, lest he’d lose
One heathen soul, I ’spose.

And she went with him too, you ask?

If you imagine, sir.

She owns one drop of coward’s blood.

You’ll lose your bet on her.

Not much! The little woman staid
And toiled morn, noon and night,

Nor thought that she might be the next
To fcill with fever’s blight.

LlilSURE HOUR POEMS.

There ’re men here in this town would give
That woman all they own.

And why not? But for her their names
Would mark, sir, many a stone.

I know of scores of hardy men
Who boasted bravery rare;

When came the yellow fever test,

D’ye know, it wasn’t there!

Men who skipped at the first alarm,

These same brave men were they.

Who locked up houses, mills and banks.

And took the keys away.

And woman’s fair hands, weak and small.
Took up the slackened reins

Of order and humanity.

Enduring all the pains.

And dangers. How they planned and worked
Through all those griefs and woes.

Among the dead and dying ones.

The good Lord only knows.

Well, as I said, she staid and toiled.

He had a furrin’ call.

But when the plague subsided, he
Came home, baggage and all.

A PROSY STORY IN HOMELY RHYME.

His health was failin’. Furrin’ air
Was bad upon his lungs,

He gathered up a little flock,

And with a thousand tongues

He thanked the Lord that He had blessed
“Our” earnest works sublime.

In saving precious lives and souls.
Throughout this trying time.

And we all smiled, but nothing said.

And let me tell to you.

There’s many a noble deed the Lord
Can’t trust mankind to do.

But puts it into woman’s heart.

He knows she’ll take the bit
Between her teeth and pull the load.

Nor balk a single whit.

And just in here the moral comes.

Its queer, sir, ain’t it now.

That man gets credit for it all —

Will have it any how.

For mark you, here she drops the deed;

He struts the street and blows
On what “I did,” while she is home
A mendin’ up his clothes.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

FORGET.

“Forget me,” are the words you penned
Upon a dainty sheet,

Nor thought that unto bitterness
You’d turned the chalice sweet;

.You did not know the toils of life
Would ever seem to me
A dreary burden, now that I
Am bidden to forget thee.

“Forget thee,” ah, Fve prayed in vain
And striven to forget.

But thy dear face in every place
Pursues me even yet.

Could I forget the sun doth shine.

Or Heaven’s love is free —

Could I forget that life is grief —

Ah! then could I forget thee.

“Forget thee.” Though another’s lips
Must sometime call thee “ wife,”

Yet thine own countenance must shine
All through my weary life.

And now may Heaven’s choicest sweets
And gifts thine ever be;

And may thy heart be never sad
That I can ne’er forget thee.

TO MY SISTER.

Sweet sister-friend, for sympathy ■

How often I have turned to thee;

How oft thine arms in tenderness
Have folded me in fond caress;

How oft in fever’s burning pain
Your loving hands have soothed my brain;
How oft thy tender words of balm
Hath brought my heart a peaceful calm.

The only one to whom I ope

The secret doors where joy and hope,

And pain and grief their revels hold
Within my heart. The grains of gold

From dross thy heart can’st quickly tell.
For thou dost weigh my soul so well.

And soundest every smile and sigh.

And knowest just how deep^tliey lie.

When thou art absent, how I pine
For thy fond words, O sister mine;

And oft in stillness of the night
I think of thee with true delight.

The greatest boon of Heaven I crave
Is, that the immortelles shall wave
Not long above my form, ere I
Shall meet my sister-love on high.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

GOD’S CHILDREN.

O little faces pinched and spare,

And tiny limbs sunbrowned and bare;

O tired feet that wander so
Amid the scenes of want and woe;

O weary eyes that aching gaze,

And tender hearts that know not praise.
And hungering mouths so seldom filled,
And longing spirits never stilled.

Had I the wealth that some men know.
Your aching hearts a Heaven I’d show.
Where all your woes would find relief.
Where even man forgets his grief;

Not out of books I’d read His love,

For His own voice speaks from above;
His breath of b^dm your checks will kiss.
And lull you into dreams of bliss.

Out from the city’s glaring halls
Of hollow pomp; its prison walls
And mansion homes, its huts of want.
And churches rare no poor must haunt.
Out from the noise, and roar, and din.
Out from the hardened paths of sin.

Your little feet have trod too long —
Wandering feet that knew no wrong;

TWO LIVES.

Into the fields of rainbow hue,

O’er-spread with richest diamond dew,
Where He his treasures doth unfold,

And rarest emerald, ruby, gold.

Are laid in beauty at your feet;

Where- His own choirs are singing sweet.
And all is joyous, pure and gay.

There would I lead your stejDS to-day.

How I would watch your eyes grow bright,
And fill with wondering, happy light.

And watch your pale cheeks crimson grow
As smiles of sunshine flit and glow
Upon your face, and hearts grow free
F rom woe and want, as here you see
A Heaven of joy, where e’er you roam.
Within the light of God’s own home.

TWO LIVES.

“Why kneel you yet? I have forgiven you
The deepest wrong a man could ever do
A woman’s love,” she said,

“So fond and true.

I say you are forgiven, but yet you kneel.
And why? You kiss my hand until I feel
The bitterest pain of woe at this
Sad, mute appeal.”

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

“What do you ask? ‘My trust and love, and then
To blot from out my heart the cruel pain
And memories, and take
You back again?’

Why did you come to leave my heart for aye,

The thought of trembling lips that plead and pray.
When only this one answer, 1
Must give alway.”

“My love you always have. I could not will
It otherwise. It is ’yond human skill
To change its power. In death
I’ll love you still.

No need to ask to be forgiven. Well

You knew before you asked, my lips would tell
You aye, e’en were my anguished soul
In deepest hell.”

“But ah, my trust In you Indeed is o’er!

Like some proud wreck, it tossed from shore to shore,
Till tempest-lashed it sank
To rise no more.

I ne’er can take you back. F orgive, I pray.

The phantom past would rise like shadows grey,
And rack my soul with cruel tortures
Every day.”

“The bitter pain we will outlive I wis.

And life for us will hold its share of bliss.

And we will be content
Despite of this.

THORNS.

‘You do not understand a woman’s heart?’

You never will! But God and angels part
The hiding veil, and know how it
Can bleed and smart,

And writhe in pain, and live and love. But yet.
Though I forgive and love you still, shall fret
And pine, perhaps, still I
Cannot forget.

Good bye! I can but pray now as you go.

That in the better land God will bestow
On me, the old time trust and love
Free from this woe.”

“ ‘And you?’ The world is wide. We will not sigh
For long, though now this seems to you and I
The only grief that life
Can hold. Good-bye ! ”

They parted. And content their lives do glide
In useful ways, and though apart so wide.

They seem as blest as those who are
Love-satisfied.

THORNS.

You took the rose I held. An emblem true
Of love. Its thorn full soon appears
To stab your trusting heart and leave in lieu
Of joy, a wound of crimson tears.

lOO

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

I told you thus. Its truth you would revoke, —
Would clasp the rose and clasp it fast,

While paling lips did tell how true I spoke.

E’en when the trembling cry was past.

You ask a kiss? You must be mad indeed.
They’re bon-bons fit for babes alone.

And never soothe the heart, but fret and bleed
The wound of love — why do you moan?

“I cruel am? ” It is not so, for days
A-hence you’ll laugh as all men do.

And sue another’s love, and kinder praise
Me, than if I had worshiped you.

Requited love grows cold indeed, for see
How man soon tires of wifely care

And love and smiles, and pines to be more free —
To win a face that seems more fair.

Love comes and goes, and leaves as it departs
The hearts of foolish ones to pine;

I’d rather leave the thorn within your heart.
Than you should leave it, sir, in mine.

You call me heartless? Well, it may be so,

I’ve learned what true love is, that’s all!

A guest for scorning. Treat it well, and lo.

It leaves upon your heart a pall.

YOUR CASTLES AND MINE.

lOI

YOUR CASTLES AND MINE.

Build your castles — build them grand,
Rear them with a master-hand;

Let your halls he high and wide —

No weak spot the arches hide —

Fill your rooms with glitt’ring ore,

Silk and pearls your closets store.

I will build mine rarer still —

Richer goods my castles fill;

Though you build yours towering high,
Mine shall rise and cleave the sky;
Yours may all like temples stand —

I will build mine thrice as grand.

You must use yours every day,

Else they moulder and decay;

They may cause you care and woe.
Wars may come and lay them low.

So though marble or of stone.

Yet not one is all your own.

Mine will never cause me pain,

Nor on field of strife be lain;

Nor my treasures ever mold, —

Richer far than pearls or gold ;

They will last while ages fly.

These my castles in the sky.

102

LKISUKE IIOUK POEMS.

TWILIGHT GUESTS.

In iny wanderings in northern Wisconsin I met a beautiful old lady who was
l)lind, and she said she could tell when it was near evening, for the air was softer, the
breezes lighter, and they seemed to be whispers among the leaves.

They tell me that ’tis twilight —

Though long years have passed away
Since I saw his loving sunbeams,

Or his tender light so grey;

Yet I know it by the music

Of the breeze and voices sweet;

And upon the grass around me,

Hear the fall of heavenly feet.

Know it by the whispering’s near me.
By the breath upon my brow.

By the fingers in my tresses —

Ah, I felt them there just now;
Mortals tell me ’tis the breezes
In the leaves and grass I hear,

And I let them' think I’m dreaming.
When my twilight guests are near.

Every evening here I listen.

For their music soft and low,

Though I cannot see their faces,

Yet their voices all I know;

And they whisper in the twilight.

That they’ll bring, some evening lone,
A grim guest so strange and silent —
One that I have never known.

KISSES OF PEACE.

103

And these blind old eyes shall open —
Not in earth’s calm twilight gi'ey,
But where I shall know their faces,

In the light of His own day.

And I sit and wait and listen,

As the twilight comes to me.

For the footsteps of the stranger
Whom I shall not dread to see.

KISSES OF PEACE.

All the day lias been beautiful, darling.

The golden beams outside have lain
On the grass and the blooms like a blessing.
But sad was my heart in its pain.

For they haunted my mind like grim spectres —
The words we spake harshly this morn —

I’ve regretted the stern tones sincerely.

And pined o’er those fierce looks of scorn.

And amidst the bird’s merriest carols

The thoughts e’er would come to my mind,
That the dark cloud would never be lifted.

If fate should forget to be kind ;

LEISURli HOUR POEMS.

And the years might be burdened with sorrow,
For O, should I miss from to-day,

Your loved footsteps beside me — how weary
And long would seem earth’s lonely way.

Aiul so, love, I have mourned and have waited.
As never I waited before.

For the shadows of twilight to deepen —

To greet you again at the door.

And more precious than fame, friends or treasures
Which ne’er cause the heart’s woes to cease.

Is to meet yon, dear one, at the twi light,

And feel your fond kisses of peace.

AUTUMxY-TIME.

As the richest leaves of autumn.
Gather glories day by day.
Growing perfect in their beauty.
While bright blossoms fade a wav,
Changing emerald, gold and ruby.
Nature’s rarest, richest dyes.

Till they fall and rest forever,

’Neath the soft autumnal skies;

So may our years ever gather
Riches that are pure and blest.
After summer blooms have faded.
Till He gathers them to rest

INTO THE EVENING.

Out from the morning of childhood,

With all of its innocent grace;

Out from the forenoon of girlhood,

Where sunshine and joy came apace;

Out from the noon of the matron,

With cares that seem stern and yet blest —

Into the shadows of evening,

I’m gliding with oars all at rest.

Pleasures I’m leaving are transient —

Behind are the breakers so bold ;

Sunshine and beauty are resting
On glaciers of danger untold.

Life’s saddest grief is behind me

With many fond joys, too, most blest;

Evening’s calm zephyrs before me,

Are whisperings of heavenly rest.

Skies overhead smile upon me

The same tender radiance of yore;

Flowers just as rich in their blooming
Still nod at my barque from the shore.

Into the evening, while drifting,

I take with me all that is blest;

Leave the long day, with its toiling,

For evening’s calm, glorified rest,

to6

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

IN THE MOONLIGHT.

Ah, the mellow, silver moonlight
Falling on her dream-lit face.
Lighted eyes of witching beauty
With the light of love’s own grace.
Long we lingered in the evening.
And all life seemed free of care.
While the star-beams wove around us
Spells of love’s own magic there.

On her cheeks the roses blossomed.
Paler far than in the day;

Loving light fell on her forehead
In the moon’s soft, shining ray.
Like a tender dream of beauty.
Every smile that shone on me —

I could linger in the moonlight
Through all love’s eternity.

Tender rays upon her tresses.

Soft and silken their beam.

Seemed a fairy veil that from us
Hid the future like a dream;

Dainty fingers fair and waxen.

Gave to mine their thrills of bliss.
While her lips my own in rapture
Pressed love’s first and fondest kiss.

GOOD-BYE.

107

Years have passed. Again I linger
’Neath the moon-beams sad and lone,
While the breezes in the branches
Like the restless spirits moan;

And the fairies of the moonlight
Weave their dewy blossoms sweet,

In the grasses o’er a dear one
Who lies sleeping at my feet.

GOOD-BYE.

O kisses fond that fall on brow and hair
From loving lips that give a tender thrill!

How from the heart flows out all grief and care,
And with love’s sunshine all its chambers fill;

How like a dream the blissful moments fly ;

How all the thoughts of weariness depart.

And future years of waiting seem to lie

O’er spread with summer sunshine in the heart!

But ah! they fly; and at the last, my own,

Your trembling, clinging lips press mine and sigh;

And that is all — but the long, long days alone,

To ponder o’er that one sad word, “Good-bye.”

Yea, we have planned to meet again; and yet
He only knows how long the years may be;

The days of woe we never may forget,

Until each other’s sipile again we see.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

It may be not till cruel time shall leave

II is withering frost on cheek, and hair, and brow
Or one of us may walk alone to grieve
The other gone. I cannot think it now!

O love, how near a Heaven ’twould seem below —
Methinks that we could e’en forget to sigh —

If in this world our hearts could only know.

We never need to say again “Good-bye!”

A FABLE.

A glad nightingale Hew to the brook’s stony bed.

And sang out his thanks for a drink.

While an old froggie listened and nodded his head.

As he sunned his green coat on the brink.

And he spake to the bird: “I have heard you oft, lad.
Ami I think your style really fine;

That you sing but one song, now is surely too bad,

I will gladly teach you some of mine.”

“I am old in the craft, and composed, you have heard.
Many songs of the meadows and brooks.

’Tis a pity your voice — that is rare for a bird —

Should be left like an uncultured rook’s.

In the world where you live, you’d win glory I ween.
If your tone was more practiced and clear;

I will sing you a song, and your taste is so keen.

You will be an apt scholar, my dear.”

MISMEASURED.

109

So he croaked, and he croaked, and he cro-o-o-oaked.
Such a horrible tune out of time;

And the nightingale listened, not even provoked
Into smiles at the jumbling rhyme.

And when froggie was through, the wise nightingale said,
“My dear friend, ’tis my deepest regret
That the world is too ignorant, far too unbred /

Your rare style to appreciate yet.

“They would laugh at my efforts to imitate you;

They would call me an upstart — a fraud.

Your remarkable songs, I lament there are few
Who would, sir, understand and applaud;”

So off to the forest he flew, and ne’er seemed
To think frog such an ignorant boor
For the kindness intended, while froggie esteemed
Him — “a sensible fellow, that’s sure.”

MISMEASURED.

You have indeed grown weary soon.
That you should come and kneel
Here at my feet, and ask my love
And life, through woe or weal.

What was the fault of that fair face?

Her lips were sweetness’ own.

Her brow was fair as was her heart,
Her eyes with fondness shone.

I lO

LKISURli HOUR rOEMS.

She loved you well, I truly know,

Her life was purity;

And ere I answer you I’d learn
Whose e’er the fault could be.

Your lips are closed. Hast lightly prized
The heart that was all thine;

And ask to while the hours away
The deepest love of mine?

Are you a god that you should think
We all must how, and sigh.

And do you honor if you pause
To smile, and then jDass by?

Nay, go! you tread ujoon a heart —

A pure and precious thing.

Sooner th'an taste your cruel lips
I’d meet a viper’s sting.

If I have touched a deeper chord
Then you before ere knew.

You’ll only feel the bitter pang
You gave a heart more true.

If not. I’ll pray you’ll sometime know
How near the world above —

How much beyond your measuring —
Is woman’s earnest love.

TRUE UNTO DEATH.

“True unto death,” the maiden whisjDered,
“True till death,” he made reply;

And with lingering caresses

And fond vows, he said, “Good-bye.”
She within the rose-wreathed cottage.
There to wait and dream and j^ray;

He to toil for wealth and honor.

In the city’s crowded way.

“True unto death,” the words were spoken.
At the altar high and grand.

He had laurels on his forehead.

She had treasures in her hand.

Not the little cottage maiden.

But a richer, fairer love —

Strange he trembled at the echoes
In the arches high above.

“True unto death,” she faintly uttered.
Tenderly as years before
Whispered low the hopeful maiden
Where the roses climbed the door.
Spoken while the lips grew whiter,

Gasped with weary, fainting breath.

And the marble headstone o’er her
Bears the words, “True unto death.”

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

DELIRIUM.

Great Goil, what curse hangs over me.?

\\ Iiat have I clone that this dark ban
Is on my life? Why hast thou drawn
The black cowl of unreason o’er
My brain, and left it wilder than
A murderer’s, when on the scaffold placed?

0 it were sweet to die. Methinks

E’en death’s ice-clasp would grateful seem.
Hut ah, to dread and feel this deep
Wild terror creeping over sense
And soul, and know I’m growing mad!

Who has not felt the demon’s grasp
Upon the heart in midnight dreams;

And felt the agony of gloom
And maddest terror? O it is
Like this to crowd a thousand years
Of horror in one brief, short hour.

The sunbeam’s quivering flash e’en throws
O’er heart and brain a horrid cast,

ITnknown and undefined. Sweet smiles.
And tender words from loving lips.

Strike hate unto my soul, and dark
Designs burn fierce like altar fires
Of Mona down into my brain,

That only blood can sate. E’en when

1 call on God for mercy and
Deliverance, an echo wakes

DELIRIUM.

That shrieks my voice a thousand times,
Then hurls it back within my soul
In hissing curses, fierce and wild.

How every sound seems changed to howls
And shrieks and groans, like those within
The depths of flaming Hades. How
Each nerve and sinew thrills with mad.
Mad horror, as the demons crowd
Around with ghastly forms, and stare
With eyes of fire, that fiercely burn
Within their sockets deep; and stand
With grinning mouths and lolling tongues.
And point their flaming brands toward
My shrinking form with bony hands
Outstretched to grapple me. And how
The cursing devils dance and laugh.

And mimic at my awful fear.

O God. The murd’rer’s form bent o’er
My couch with glitt’ring blade upraised
At midnight hour, is naught. Let in
The savage beasts to feed upon
My form, and let me feel their teeth
Upon my flesh; their red hot tongues
That lap my blood; their cruel claws
That rend my bones asunder. Aye,

Let loose the demons hideous
Of earth and hell on me, be they
In human garb but clothed, and I
Will welcome them. But oh, great God,

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

II4

Deliver me from out the arms
Of those dread imps of darkness, who
Have neither form nor shape nor life
Nor being. Those mad, phantom thoughts
And fears and terrors which e’er reign
In havoc wild, when reason but
Unchains them in the human mind.

ONLY A NEWS-BOY.

It’s only a news-boy who’s crushed in the street.

Trampled to death on the stones ’neath the iron-shod feet.
Just a news-boy, half-starved, who is ragged and wan.

And a lordly vmice haughtily shouts: “Man, drive on!”

Aye, drive on, drive ye on with your gay, prancing steeds.
From the pitiful wail of a fond heart that bleeds —

From the form you have crushed ’neath the wheels like a toy
From the white, haunting face of the dying news-boy!

And drive on, lest the fond mother’s curses so wild
Should fall on your proud ears as she bends o’er her child.
Fiercely kissing the blood and the dust from the face.
Where the sharp, cruel hoof of your steed left its trace.

Drive ye on to the door of your palace so grand.

And there proudly smile down where your little ones stand;
Ha! you start at the face that is pallid and cold.

As it stares from your curtain’s rich, velvety fold.

SERENADE TO MORNING.

“5

You may drive to the steps of yon edifice high,

Where you worship the steeple that points to the sky:

Do ye shrink from the face of the Christ-mother mild,

Who seems kissing the lips of a dear, dying child?

And drive on, past the portals of death — if you may.

With your fiery steeds and your equipage gay: /

Ha! how strange that the form in its dust-begrimmed gore.
Should still haunt your proud presence, e’en here at death’s
door.

But let angels adjudge, who so wistfully wait
For each one who is seeking the pure, pearly gate.

Through which you will drive if you can — if you can:

Let the angels be judges, not man — nay, not man.

SERENADE TO MORNING.

The Quail’s first cry the winds take up.
And shouting call, “Wake up! wake up!”
Until the woodland choir starts
A chorus from a thousand hearts.

The wild Bee’s wake with busy hum.

As Partridge beats his martial drum;

The Mock-Bird strikes a bugle note.
Oriole trills to clear his throat.

The Swallow chatters on the wall.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

I l6

And Phcube pipes her plaintive call;
Ni<rhtingale sings her song forlorn,

The old owl toots his broken horn;

The Rook croaks out his saucy say,

The Blackbirds sing a roundelay;

As loudly calls the Chanticleer,

And Bullfrogs’ bass is free of fear;

The Cricket chirps, the Cattle low.

While Ring-dove sings her song of woe. .

The Thrush springs up with joyous shout,
15oholink’s trumpet notes peal out.

The Lark rings forth his clarion free.

The Jay-bird joins the reveille —

The brook that chants the whole day long.
Greets then the morn with sweeter song.

The twittering Wrens, the gay Cuckoo,

All help to drown the Pigeon’s coo;

The Robins chirp, the Martins pi^^e,

And faintly cries the watchful Snipe;

And echoes wake that shout on high.

Until the call has reached the sky.

Then night her robes of darkness folds, .•
And morning dons a dress of gold ;

And o’er the hills and tree-tops tall
Burst floods of sunshine over all.

And children from the windows peer.

With shouts of joy that morn is here.

THE HUNGERING.

117

THE HUNGERING.

O, thei’e are hungering mouths!

The world is full of money;

And cheeks are spare and pale
Which should be fair and sunny.

And there are starving hearts
In many a fairy palace.

For grief oft hides in smiles
That lurk above the chalice.

The forms that toil all day

Find no rest from their aching,
And hearts that hungering j^ine
Are near, oft times, to breaking.

Aye, there are starving mouths;

The world is full of wrongings;
And there are starving hearts.

For souls are full of longings.

Men feed the weeping ones,

A crust will soothe their sorrow.
Pity, O God, the souls

That find no rest to-morrow.

iiS

LEISURK HOUR POEMS.

DREAMERS.

O dreamers of life’s morning time,
Who sleep the hours away,

No shadows dread
Creep round thy bed —

Thy thoughts are all of play.
Sleep on,

Dream on,

That thy pure bliss
May linger long, we pray.

O dreamers of life’s blissful time.
The world in bright array
Seems deck’d to thee.

And fair to see.

And filled with pleasures gay.
Dream on.

Dream on.

Sad hours will come;

O love then, while ye may.

O dreamers of life’s even time.
With locks of silver grey.

And brows which care
Has left still fair.

Aye, dream while yet ye stay.
Dream on.

Dream on.

Live love’s time o’er.

Till fades earth’s tend’rest ray.

DRIFT-WOOD.

II9

O dreamers of earth’s resting time,
So weary of life’s way,

How calm and blest.

Doth seem thy rest,

F rom cares of stern to-day.

Sleep on.

Dream on.

Nor wake until

Thy dreams come true for aye!

DRIFT-WOOD.

Adown the stream the drift-wood glides.
Borne on by ever changing tides;

Now slow, now swift, tossed o’er and o’er.
Then beat against the rocky shore;

Here smoothly borne with rapid might.
There, tossed about by billows white.

And swirled beneath the angiy main
A moment, but to rise again;

Now shining in the sun’s clear ray.

Then darkening ’neath the clouds of grey.

See yon the wreck of some great mast.
With ’round her those of humbler cast;
And of some stately castle proud
Here glides a beam in moss-green shroud ;

120

LlilSURK HOUR POEMS.

While there, a log of some rude home
Is cast amid the waves to roam.

And this is but a new built spar,

That, water-soaked with many a scar.
Among yon wrecks, uncouth and bare,

See, clings a water-lily there.

As if she owned some saving grace
To guide them to a resting place.

•And thus adown the stream they go.

The new and old, the high and low;

Until within some quiet bay,

They’re driven there to rest for aye.

So down the stream of life we glide,

J3ut drift-wood on a changing tide;

The sun shines over head to-day.
To-morrow may be damp and grey.

Now swift we glide, now slow, and sigh
As some loved face goes hurrying by;

Now swirled beneath the treacherous wave
We sink and rise with spirits brave;

Then beat against the rocks of woe.

And tossed by tempests to and fro.

Adown the tide we float among
The gay, the sad, the old, the young,

With those of care, and sin, and shame.
And those of pride, and wealth, and fame;
With those we love and those we hate.
We’re hurried on by tides of fate.

SILVER HAIR.

I2I

The sunny hours oft end in clouds,
The fairest forms the wave enshrouds;
The joys we fain would keep to-day
The waters cruel hide away;

Except, perhaps, the one pale bloom
Of hope, that watches to the tomb.

At last, within the harbor bar.

Whither we drift from near or far.

We sink into a calm so blest —

God, only God, doth know the rest.

SILVER HAIR.

Ah, blessings on the tresses sere.

That fade and whiten every year.

Fade while they near the bright gateway
Of earth’s last sunset. Day by day
We sit and watch the dear hands fold
Of our fond loved ones, growing old.

And kiss the care-lined forehead where
Press richest crowns of silver hair.

Impatient words that haunt us yet.

With wrongs we’ve done our hearts doth fret

With sorrow deep, for who can say

How much they’ve changed these locks to grey.

123

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

O days of joy we would erase
If these sad wrongs we could efface,

As we caress the marks of care
And smooth the threads of silver hair.

Ah, sliver hair, so touched by time!

As every jjassing bell doth chime.

So like the veil the fairies furl,

As white as sea-foam, pure as pearl.

So changed by toil and care of years.
So changed by sacrifice and tears.

As rich as crowns the bri ght ones wear.
Ah, how we love the silver hair!

WRECKS.

We stood on the sea-shore in silence, we two.

The winds and the wild waves were singing
A song that was free,

And so full of glee
That it fell on the air with a ringing.

The wild surges flashed in the golden sunlight.
Their heads high to heaven were lifting,
While out on the tide.

With no hand to guide,

Many wrecks were there, helplessly drifting.

WRECKS.

123

A spar from the wrecks the waves brought to our feet,
Then laughed at our woe and retreated;

The echo of pain
Beat oft and again,

Which the rocks and the fierce winds repeated.

Ah, well did they know that the wreck was our own!
Of ho^Des we had trusted in gladness.

To billows of blue
That promised so true
To bring home to us nothing of sadness.

But somewhere we knew in the pitiless deep

Our hopes, fond and precious were lying,

, Our hearts made no groan.

Too bitter to moan.

We left them in mockery crying.

We parted in silence. Our paths led apart.

But our li]Ds gave no token of sorrow.

The waves danced in glee *

O’er the wreck, and we
Were left only our trust in to-morrow.

For He who once silenced the grim, mocking deep.
Will turn aside billows affrighted.

And from their sad graves
Deep under the waves.

He will resurrect hopes that were blighted.

124

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

GONE ASTRAY.

Out in the world my boy is gone —

The world of crime and sin;

With no kind hand to lead him back,

No door to take him in.

Gone from the hearts that love him so;

From home he’s turned away,

From mother’s tender guiding care.

My boy has gone astray.

And he may want a crust of bread.

May sip the cup of woe.

May fall in paths of bitter sin.

And I may never know.

And I can only sit and weep —

In anguish kneel and pray.

That Heaven will guide the wandering feet
Of him who’s gone astray

O wayward feet that I have kissed —

My heart doth sadly yearn
To guide them now; and blesses them
In what paths they may turn.

Let me believe a mother’s j^rayers
May light my wanderer’s way.

And trust His hand will Heavenward guide
My boy who’s gone astray.

ODE TO TIME.

125

ODE TO TIME.

You think I am fast growing old, Father Time,

My cheeks you have furrowed with care;

My fingers are bony and shrunken with toil.

And threaded with silver my hair;

My shoulders bend low ’neath the burdens of life.

My form trembles under their weight.

My limbs they are palsied and weak. Father Time,
And feeble and slow is my gait.

You think, sir, perhaps you are making me old.

You’re cheating yourself with the thought;

You’ve stolen the rose from my once blooming cheek.
And deep, shriveled furrows have brought.

You laugh at the wrecks that you make, Father Time,
And deem it but pleasure to steal

All things that are beautiful, tender and bright.

And make them your icy hand feel.

But you cheat yourself when you think, Father Time,
Your changes are making me old;

Your grip on my life-line can never bring fear —

My pleasures you never can hold ;

My heart, sir, will ever be merry and young.

My love-lamp will ever be bright;

You never can take from my eyes. Father Time,

Their dear, youthful vision of light.

126

Leisure hour poems.

And I defy all of your changes, Old Time,

For I have no terror of thee,

The pitiful sight of your sad, heartless wrecks.
Can never hring fear unto me.

My face may be furrowed, my form may he bent.
My tresses he plundered of gold,

Rut farther than this, sir, your power is lost —

My heart’s youth will never grow old.

MY CHILDHOOD HOME.

I’ve strayed down halls of beauty.
That seemed like visions sweet.
With gold and silken hangings
And velvet ’neath my feet.

And on each side the mirrors
Caught up the pomp and show.
And over all the gas-light

Beamed with its softest glow.

’Twas like a fairy palace.

But yet, another place
Doth outshine all these glories
With its fair, rustic-grace;

No rare lace decks the window.
But humble scenes, the wall,
And richer far than gas-light.
The love that beams o’er all.

MY CHILDHOOD HOME.

127

The chime of loving voices
Yet echo in my ear,

With accent fond and tender,

I’ve listened oft to hear.

I smile again at praises
I heard with rare delight.

And live again the friendships

That make life seem more bright.

But memory wanders ever
To fonder words I know
That never stoop to flatter.

But ah, I love them so;

And dearer far the praises
From lips now growing old.
Than wealth of fame or honor,

Or treasure caves of gold.

I’ve sat in galleries crowded.

In bright, bewildering throngs.
In rapture I have listened
To orchestras and songs.

That seemed so like to Heaven’s,
My soul was borne away
To realms of pure Ely si an,

And seemed with joy astray.

But ah, when I have wakened,

I list to sweeter strains
I heard far back in childhood.

And catch the fond refrains

128

LEISURE HOUR 1‘OEMS.

or mother’s songs at twilight,

When day was growing dim,

And breezes in the tree-tops
Echoed the evening hymn.

I’ve gazed on rare old paintings
Traced by a master’s hand;

Have wandered out of being
Amidst the scenery grand;

I’ve roved the mount and meadow.
And roamed o’er ruins grey.

Have dreamed till brain was aching.
And lingering, turned away.

But there are precious pictures
I know of, rarer still;

Pictures of mead and forest.

Where I have roamed at will.
Pictures of home in love-land.

That hold the heart in thrall.
Painted in memory, ever
Perfect, whate’er befall.

O precious home of childhood,

’Mid all life’s sweets and woe.
Though other homes are richer.
Thou art the best below;

Thy voices, songs, and pictures.

May be so humble, yet
Of all earth’s rarer scenes, ye
Are last that we forget.

BY-PLA\S.

129

BY-PLAYS.

Ah, how nice ’tis alone ’mid the flowers,

And rippling fountains that seem
Like the murmuring brooklets, the summer
We lived in that enchanting dream.

You remember that time in the country?

How sweet was the birds’ tender air;

And those walks in the moonlight delicious,

0 wasn’t that a love-dream most rare?

And we parted, you know, by the brooklet.

It’s song I remember e’en yet.

How it mocked our sad hearts when at parting

1 kissed you. You do not forget?

But ah me, the world stepped between us;

You lingered in Europe, while I
Sadly dreamed o’er the days of that summer.
And marked every one with a sigh.

You are pale. Shall we go to the ball-room?

But hush! there are voices anear;

I hope that no gossip o’erheard us.

The folly might cost us too dear.

Ha! see yonder affecting confession;

The lady’s in tears on my life —

And the man — I declare! ’tis your husband.
The lady — Great God! is my wife!

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

SOONER OR LATER.

Ah, sooner or later, our heart’s fondest trust
Will fall in decay or will sink into dust.

The hopes that are fairest dissolve like the clouds.
And earth’s rarest treasures arc folded in shrouds.

The pleasures that first to our gazing look fair.

E’er turn as we greet them to giants of care.

And dreams that seem ever too bright to decay,

Like wills-o’-the-wisp, will hut lead us astray.

Aye, sooner or later, we find, and we grieve.

That friends we most trusted have stooped to deceive;
And beauty, which fame o’er our gay vision shed.

Has faded like blooms in the hands of the dead.

The cup of sweet wine we so thought to have earned
To bitterest waters of ^larah has turned;

And apples of love that we plucked with such greed.
Have proved to be apples of Sodom indeed.

So sooner or later the visions most sweet
Will sink to the level of dust in the street;

And pleasures will mock us, and friends will all fail.
E’en love will deceive us, and riches will pale;

And all that we learn in this sad life of pain
And longing and sorrow, is — life is all vain,

’Less we in humility kiss the stern rod.

And learn all is loveless and faithless, but God.

RECOMPENSE.

I3I

RECOMPENSE.

For every pain, and ill, and woe.

And grief, our spirits ever know.

For every wish unsatisfied.

For every joy we are denied.

We all shall find a recompense.

I do not know how long may be
The hours wherein no joy I see;

I do not know how dark the clouds
May frown, that doth my patTi enshroud,

I only know that He is kind.

And I my recompense shall find.

I know not even in what way
My joy will come. Mayhap this day
He’ll smile on me. It may be years
Will pass in shadows and in tears —

My soul perhaps be borne ahence
Ere I shall find my recompense.

Some where, some time — if soon or late —
I know me not. I only wait
Till He shall bid my burdens fall.

And dry my tears and raise the pall ;

Then shall I find my recompense.

*32

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

AN ANSWER.

Can you give me a love that is deep,

And is pure;

That is kind, grand and fond, and is strong
To endure?

Can you give me a heart that is just
And is free.

And is willing to share all its joys.

Sir, with me?

Can you give me a hand that is kind —

That in scorn

Hath not pointed to one led astray
And forlorn?

Can you give me the past with no blush.
Sir, of shame.

And the years that have left you no
Unholy aim?

Can 3’ou give me a love, and a heart
Just as true.

And a life and a name, fair as those
I give 3'ou?

If 3'ou answer me yea, it is well.

By your side

I will walk with true joy, though the world
May deride.

IN THE CORN.

133

But if not, you may go, for the gift
Is too small

That you offer me, sir, in return
For my all.

IN THE CORN.

Through the field in sunny seed time.

Pass a merry youthful pair.

She with fair hands drops the kernels,

He with strong hands plants them there.

Over head, with noisy flutter.

Flits a winged saucy wight.

Startling maid and youth who loiter
In the warmth of May sunlight.

Sings he loudly, and the echoes
Spread the song in saucy trick;

“Dig a hole, dig a hole.

Drop it in, drop it in.

Cover it up, cover it up.

Quick, quick, quick!”

Summer light falls soft and mellow
O’er the tasseled field, and through

Rustling corn, the merry maiden.

Walks beside the lover true.

134

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

Darting with a noisy flutter,
From the silky corn among —
Where in hiding he had rested,
’Rose the bird of saucy tongue.

And he shouts above tlie rustle.

To the lover sick in heart:

“Tell your love, tell your love.
She’ll believe, she’ll believe.
Kiss her now, kiss her now.
Quick, quick, quick!”

Autumn winds caught up the laughter
Of the gleaners in the corn.

With the mirth of merry maiden,

And the sigh of youth forlorn.

As she dances ’mid the buskers.

In her hand the ear of red.

To the jealous, pining lover,

Shouts the saucy bird o’erhead:

Sings he wisely, ah, how wisely!

(How could bird learn such a trick?)
“Build a house, build a house.

Put her in, put her in.

Shut the door, shut the door.
Quick, quick, quick!”

INFATUATION.

135

INFATUATION.

I care me not how he hath gazed
In brighter eyes than mine;

If he has praised, or worshiped low
Before a fairer shrine.

I care me not how other lips
His own in passion may

Have fondly pressed and pressed again,
Since he is mine to-day.

I care me not that he hath heard
A voice of sweetest tone.

That filled his heart with rapture.
Though the voice was not my own.

I only feel upon my face
Love’s silent, blissful ray.

And feel his clasp ujDon my hand.

And know he’s mine to-day.

To-morrow,'in our sober sense.

This blissful day may seem

Like to some midnight trance of bliss,
*A trance within a dream.

To-morrow we may hardly know
Love’s idol turned to clay,

I have no fear of future' tears
If he is mine to-day.

LEISUKE HOUR POEMS.

136

MINE OWN.

0 love, I hold your pale, pale hands
That give no clasp to mine,

And smooth the marble brow where rests
The light of Heaven divine.

1 gaze upon the fast shut eyes,

And kiss in tenderness

The chilling lips, that ne’er on earth
Will wake to my caress.

Dear one, I cannot think you lie
In death’s stern, icy fold.

Your life has passed far out the west
With all its sunset gold.

And left my future years so dark
And sad and drear with pain.

It seems no morning e’er can bring
The sunshine back again.

Yet mayhap after all ’tis well —

This bitter, bitter woe —

Should we have lived as some do, love.

This were far best I know —

Live as some do whose lives and loves
Have drifted far apart.

Whose homes are tombs, where coffined lies
The love of each proud heart;

THE HOSPITAL NURSE.

Where whited walls like sepulchers
Shine out their ghostly light,

And every curtain seems a pall
Dark as the deepest night.

I think of these and press your lips,
And check the sobbing moan,

For oh, dear one, let come what may.
Your love is all my own.

THE HOSPITAL NURSE.

A noble face, did you say, friend?
Aye, she was noble, too, •

And if you care to hear the tale.

I’ll gladly tell it you.

Not such as those you read in books.
Where all is gay and bright,

’Tis rain and shine together, sir.

That make things true and right.

And she was just a soldier’s nurse.
Not very young, nor old;

Her face was furrowed, tho’ her hair
Retained its glint of gold.

Nor was she any beauty, friend.

She practiced no fine arts.

But ’tis not beauty’s graceful forms
That hold the triiest hearts,

138

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

I saw her first time when in camp,

’Twas strange, you may be sure,

In those rough times to see a girl
Like her ’round out of door.

She had no fear of us rough chaps,

Hut smiled sweet, as we lay
Outside the tent, just as she would
At children there at play. ,

There wa’n’t a man within the camp
Who’d slight her faintest call.

And if ’twere needful not a few
For her would give their all.

You ask me why we felt like this.^

Well, sir, ’tis hard to tell.

We felt the strongest reverence like.

And we’d protect her well.

And times at evening when we’d hear
Her light dress rustle by,

Adown tow^ard the surgeon’s tent
To give some orders, why —

Tho’ she was known all through the camp,
And never knew a fear —

Why we’d steal after her all armed
To see’f a rough was near.

And when I fell at Fredricksburg
With that ball in my knee.

THE FIOSPITAL NURSE.

139

The next thing I remember, was
Her face bent over me.

In sympathy and tenderness
She whispered soft and low:

“My poor, poor boy,” and there 1 was
Older than her, I know.

Her soft hands coolecl my burning brain
In heat that fever brings.

Her breath seemed like an incense rare
From angel’s fluttering wings.

Her voice seemed like yEolian’s harp.
Soothing, and fond and sweet.

It made one think of sounds he’d hear
In Heaven’s golden streets.

You think I am extravagant
To laud this woman’s name,

But if you’d known her as we did,

I know you’d say the same.

In those rough times, but very few
Of kindly smiles vou’d meet.

And times I’ve felt I’d like to kiss
Where trod pure women’s feet.

And up and down the long, low room
She moved with softest tread,

A bringing smiles to saddest lips
As hovering o’er each bed.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

She spoke the kindest words to all,
And smoothing each fair tress,

She softly stroked the fevered brow
With touch of tenderness.

Ah, I have seen the tender looks
They gave her when she came.

And loving smiles of worship, too.
When e’er they spoke her name.

Each soldier there she called her “boy
They had a way most cpiaint.

Of calling her, old men like me.

Our “little mother-saint.”

The story of her life she told
To us one weary day.

How a fond lover kissed her lips
And sailed to sea for aye.

She kissed the j^ictured face of him
Who sleeps beneath the tide.

And wept, and we were sad for her.
An unwed, widowed bride.

O many a tale “ her boys ” told her
Of gay, or troubled life;

Of many a rude, and kindly deed
And many a scene of strife.

And little tender tales of love
They whispered in her ear.

THE HOSPITAL NURSE.

I4I

And many a message fond she sent
For them to loved ones dear.

I’ve seen her o’er a soldier bend
To peep within the case

He held, and smile so softly as
He kissed the pictured face.

Aye many a line so dear she wrote
That made hearts light and glad,

And many a message too, she sent.

That made them dark and sad.

For many a time I’ve seen her bow
Above a pulseless breast.

Cut from the brow a wayward curl.

And lay the hands at rest,

Then kneel down by the snowy cot
And clasp her hands in prayer ;

O friend, it seems as if I saw
An angel hovering there.

* % 4s

We missed her face one lonely week,

And she was ill, they said.

Then one sad morn they brought us word,
Qur “mother-saint” was dead.

To each her soldier-boys she sent
Her picture and her love.

And bade us by our country stand.

And meet her up above.

142

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

And not to mourn. For she had gone
To that dear land of jo} ,

Ami rest, and peace, and love — gone home
To meet her sailor hoy.

When I saw round the coffin there
Men young, mature, and grey.

And saw some with the empty sleeve
Wipe tears of grief away,

And when I passed by cots and heard
Brave men like children moan,

I thought her richer, far, than she
Who rules upon a throne.

And if ’tis true that “each pure deed’s
A grem in settingf srold,”

o o o '

The crown she’ll wear will be worth more
Than worlds of wealth untold.

Men may speak light of women, friend.
And duty prate to her.

But her pure life can save more souls
Than half the preachers, sir.

THE UNFINISHED LESSON.

I’ve shattered my idol — ’tis broken to-day —

I’ve burned it to ashes of leaden and grey,

Aye, broken and burned though of gold, or of clay.

SCHOOL-TIME.

143

They told me my idol would bitterness bring,

And over life’s pleasure a dark shadow fling,

And leave in my sad heart an unhealing sting.

’T would bind me with chains that are stronger with years.
Chains that would tighten with all of my fears
That ever would fret me with troubles and tears;

The now sweetened chalice to wormwood would turn.
For lessons of loving we all sadly learn —

’Twere better by far, that the idol should burn.

The page I was learning I here lay aside,

The form I have modeled in bitterness hide.

And free from all idols, I henceforth abide.

I’ve shattered my idol — ’tis broken to-day —

Dismantled and buried if gold or if clay;

And chains that would bind me are loosened for aye.

SCHOOL-TIME.

I listen to the school-bell’s chime.
That sounds so drearily.

Its iron tongue rings in my heart
With notes of mockery.

I vainly wait the child’s command
That called on me to aid
The search for cap, or book, or ball.
His careless hand mislaid.

144

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

My heart aches for the dancing form ;

I miss the “good bye” sweet,

I long to hear the slamming door,

The fall of pattering feet;

I listen for the greeting shouts
From comrade’s merry lips,

And long to catch the kiss he threw
Back from his finger tips.

I turn and gaze around the room,

And see no garments lie
With playthings scattered on the floor
The children trooping by.

Step softly, lightly on the walk.

With measured step and slow.

As if they thought to lighten thus
A spirit crushed with woe.

And some with hushed and silent air.
Halt by the open gate.

As if in wonder that this morn
Their little friend was late.

Some linger ’neath the window-sill.
And, pitying, gaze at me —

God bless the little tender hearts
For their pure sympathy.

The moments sad I dream away.

Till on the echoing air
The last bell peals into my brain
The call to chapel prayer.

DO YOU REMEMBER, MAY?

145

And I respond with aching heart;

Across the darkened room
I glide, and kneel where sleeps a form
In all its coffined gloom.

The fairy, waxen, jDulseless hands.
Give no clasp to my own.

On crystal lips of snow I feel
No fond caress. I moan
In wildest grief above the face
Illumed with light divine.

And try to say from outTny heart,
“Thy will be done, not mine.”

DO YOU REMEMBER, MAY?

Do you remember. May,

The walks we used to take
In evening’s twilight calm and grey
Through woodland, mead and brake?

The e’en star watched our way.

The blooms smiled at our feet,

The birds trilled us their good-night songs
With accent fond and sweet.

Do you forget the eve
I took within my own
Your hand, and told you of my love?
Your eyes with fondness shone;

146

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

My heart was strangely glad,
When I pressed love’s first kiss
Upon your lips. 1 wonder, May,

If you remember this!

Do you remember. May —
vSo far away to me
It seems — one tender eve I led
You over hill and lea

Unto the little cot
Within a quiet dell,

That some dear day would be our own?
We made sweet plans and — well

It matters not, we loved
Each other then, yet oh.

It sometimes seems so strange to me
That fate could change us so.

O’er wood, and moor and fen,

I wandered yesterday.

Along the same old moss-lined paths
Our footsteps used to stray

In years agone. Within
The dell yet stands the home
That we called ours that eve we stood
Within the tender gloam.

He sat within the door
And you sang soft and low.

LOST AND FOUND.

147

Just as I pictured we would sit
And sin^ so lon^ a^o.

You gave the draught I asked,
And gaze upon my face
As strangers do. There was no line
Familiar you could trace.

For time will change us all,

For he will have his play.

And he changed all our future years.
When he changed our hearts. May.

I am a wanderer.

And from all care am free —

And you live happy in the home
Once built for you and me.

I am content, nor hold
A vain regret, but yet
Sometimes I think I’d like to know
If you. May, quite forget.

LOST AND FOUND.

LOST.

Lost, a home amidst roses and sunshine.
Where came not a shadow or storm.
Where tenderest beams of true love -light
Shed beauty round every dear form.

148

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

Lost, a wife whose eyes beaming with gladness,
Were full of love’s own witching grace;

And whose smiles full of peace and contentment
Bloomed rare on her beautiful face.

Lost the children so gleeful and gifted
With purity, licauty and love.

Whose immaculate grace seemed but kindred
To that of the beings above.

Lost, a life that was blessed with contentment.
And friends true as purified gold.

And a heart that was earnest and upright.

Whose value can never be told.

FOUND.

Found, a sparkling glass in the evening.

With wretchedness hidden therein.

And a shelter from storm in the alleys.

Or houses of sorrow and sin.

Found, a couch in the hard, frozen gutters.

With stones there to pillow his head.

Where the demons in dreams crow^led round him,
And reptiles crept over his bed.

Found, remorse was so bitterly taunting
While thinking o’er sad, wasted years.

That he only drank deeper and deeper.

The dregs that bring nothing but tears.

UNDER THE STARS.

149

Found, that reason must flee from the demons
That fiendishly crowded around;

And the dread, clanking chains of a madman
Was all in return he had found.

UNDER THE STARS.

Under the stars he kissed her.

The first sweetest, tenderest time,
Their hearts, like the breeze of Elysian,
Were singing a fond, wordless rhyme
And rustling leaves in the branches
Were playing a glad, fairy chime.

Under the stars they parted.

His fond words’were earnest and low,
With kisses all thrilling with rapture
And eyes full of hoj^e’s tender glow.
He whispered : “a little while only
And then — darling, I love you so.”

Under the stars he’s sleeping

Fast fettered in death’s icy chain.

The moon looks down pitifully tender,
The leaves chant a mourning refrain,
And she sobs alone in the starlight —
Alone in her desolate pain.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

150

OCTOBER.

October calm, and cool, and sweet.

In beauty’s robes of state, we greet
I'hee fairer than the month of May,

VVdth thy rich leaves of gold and grey.

And silver, purple, green and brown;

Like fairy missives flutt’nng down.

They teach us all where we must rest
In common bed on nature’s breast.

Though men have called thee cold and sere.
Thou art the grandest of the year.

For summer’s heat and toil are done
And peace rests with each weary one.

Life’s fair October, calm and grey.

Dear month of beauty and decay;

With leaves all withered, sere and old.

And leaves of emerald, ruby, gold.

And somber lined, that crown each life
With deeds of beauty or of strife.

Just as the bright leaves flutter down.

With those of amber, grey, and brown,

So do our deeds of good or sin.

Tell to the world what life hath been.
October, with your glow and rime.

Life’s rarest, dearest resting time.

THE LOST CHORD.

15I

THE LOST CHORD.

All clay have the dread shadows glided
Like ghosts in the terrible gloom,

My lone spirit filling with darkness
And chill, like the fear of the tomb.

While slowly the drear twilight gathers,
And evening her deep sadness brings,

I open fond memories harpsichord.

And sweep o’er the quivering strings.

The chimes that I hear from the island
Far back in the sea of the past.

Are echoes from glad childhood ringing,
And, oh, too enchanting to last.

The notes of true joy from my girlhood.
Like carols of gay birds ring out —
The songs of pure gladness and pleasure
Know nothing of sadness or doubt.

On over the deep, changing measures
Of rapture, and sad, wordless jDain,

Of rythm and discord I linger.

And play them again and again.

The sorrowful strains of the minor
I wander so thoughtlessly o’er.
Recalling the dark, mournful shadows
That haunted my pathway before.

152

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

The strains growing softer and richer,

Are soothing my heart of its care —

The strings seem attuned with true gladness,
The measures grow tender and rare.

Until in a grand soothing chorus.

They swell like a Heavenly song —

Each chord seems a beautiful anthem
The choir of the unseen prolong.

And oh, there’s one chord I’ve awakened
’Tis one that I lost long ago.

Its melody sweeps o’er my spirit.

Dispelling those burdens of woe.

It lights up the cloud’s o’er my vision.

The doubts of my heart bids to cease.

Flings open its desolate chambers.

And brings in the angel of peace.

And into the halls so long haunted
By discord and shadows of grey.

The chord of such Heavenly sweetness
Is locked there forever and aye.

AN ALLEGORY.

When God in wisdom infinite
Conceived the thought of man.
Around his throne there gathered he.
Three servants of his van —

AN ALLEGORY.

153

Justice, Truth and Mercy fair,

He sought their finite aid —

“O servants of the Throne of Grace,

I ask shall man be made?”

And Justice answered, frowning low:
“O make not man. Great God —

On laws he’ll make transgressions dire.
Rebel at thy just rod.”

And Truth replied as Justice did,

“Thy name he will refute;

The sanctuaries of thy grace.

With voice and hand pollute.”

But Mercy, kneeling at the throne.
With tears of love did pray:

“O God, make man, and I through all
Will follow in his way.”

So man was made, and thus spake God :
“Go, child of Mercy free;

With all mankind be just and true
And Mercy follow thee.”

And thus it is, that through life, man
His sins in lightness holds.

For Mercy follows, and round him
Her loving mantle folds.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

THE WORLD AND YOU.

Tlie world with its smiles is alluring,

Its praises are sweet to mv ear,

Its flatt’ry like wine is entrancing,

Its laughter is pleasant to hear.

I love its gay crowds and its fashions;

Its bright eyes that sparkle on me,

Its pride and its beauty and splendor,

Its music and bright repartee.

And yet though the gay world is charming.
How well, ah, how well do I know
’Tis hollow and false, and its friendship
Is fleeting — but mock’ry and show.

For should the stern fates frown upon me.
And misfortune shadow my name.

Should tempests and storms but assail me,
A whisper but rise to defame,

The world would care not for my sorrow.
And they who smile sweetly to-day,
Would scatter like leaves of the forest
When antumn winds whirl them away.

But you, ah, I know ’mid life’s sorrows
Will steadfastly stand by my side.

And smile down upon me as fondly.
However the world may deride.

And so, though I bow at the praises
And smile when the flatterers sue.

The dross at their feet I but lavish.

The gold, love, is treasured for you.

THE WITCH IN THE CREAM.

155

THE WITCH IS IN THE CREAM.

We ply the dash
With flirt and splash,

This is no hour to dream,

We have no time
To measure rhyme,

The w^itch is in the cream.

The dash flies round,

With hateful sound,

And 'we impatient ^row.

As crystal flecked
And diamond specked.

The cream appears below.

The moments fly,

An hour goes by.

And long the seconds seem,

We sit and fret
And fume, and yet
The witch stays in the cream.

In these sad days
Of modern ways.

The horse shoe has no charm.

Little she cares.

The shoe she dares.

Nor takes the least alarm.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

156

Are there no powers
These modern hours,
The witch-spell to unfold?
Aye, patience, toil.
Faith, ice and moil,

Is sure to win the gold.

And so the dash
We ply with splash.

Nor sit we down to dream.
Till foam we churned.

To gold is turned —

The witch has left the cream.

AT THE GATE.

There’s nothing to do but to wait,

Till the face of the porter I see,

Who will beckon and smile.

And will solve me the while.

Life’s wonderful mystery —

As I patiently wait
At the gate.

Until it be opened to me.

I lonely and wistfully stand,

I am tarnished with wrong arid with sin,
I am soiled with the dust
Qf the. road, yet I trust

AT THE GATE.

■157

The One who is watching within,

While I wearily wait
At the gate,

Will pity and bid me come in.

They’re many that pass through the gate.
There are many turn sadly away.

And the dear ones that leave
Me their absence to grieve,

I miss from my side each day.

As they pass through the gate
And I wait

My turn in the silent array.

With hands idly folded I stand,

Watching sadly my loved as they go.

I am schooling my feet
To stand still in the street.

And learning a lesson, I know, •

While I patiently wait
At the gate.

So weary of earth and its woe."

Very near to the portals I seem.

And I catch a clear glimpse of ‘.the l)lest.
As the door widely swings
As if opened with wings.

Yet well do I know it is best
That I patiently wait - ’

At the gate, • ■

E’en though I am longing to rest.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

And yet me-thinks harder than all

Of the griefs that have burdened the past —
All life’s wearisome toil,

All its bitter turmoil,

Its days with clouds overcast.

Is to patiently wait
At the gate

Until it be opened at last.

UNMASKED.

One rare day I dreamed, my darling.
That you bent above my face
As upon the couch I rested.

And your form I well could trace.
And I saw how changed your features
From the look they always wore;
Full of love they beamed upon me
As I never saw before.

I saw, too, your fond lips parted
In a smile wondrously sweet.

As I heard you whisper, “Darling,”
And my pulses wildly beat.

Then your smiling face came nearer.
And your breath my cheek caressed.
As I felt your warm lips lightly
On my own in rapture pressed.

BESIDE THE STILL WATERS.

159

Then I started in my dreaming,

But I clasped the empty air,

I awoke, and strange! I found you
Sitting in my easy chair.

So intent upon a story

That you heard me not, you say.
But I saw the book you held, sir,
Upside down as plain as day.

And you never dare deny it.

Though so scornfully you smile.
When you tell me I was dreaming
Just the maddest dream the while.
I was dreaming, but I knew you,
And the dream I did not make,

O you can’t deceive me, darling.

For my soul was wide awake.

BESIDE THE STILL WATERS.

In the soft, fading light on the

Glimmering strand.
Where the white ripples mingle with
Gold of the sand.
Where the lingering sunbeams in
Tenderness play.

O’er the light, tranquil waves of the
Slumbering bay.

i6o

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

Where the peaceful tides silently
Lower and swell,

With a cadence like that of a
Far distant bell,

Here at pale eventide my steps
Stray as tliey will.

On the beautiful shore of the
Waters so still.

At my side, as I walk, is a

Footstep I hear.

And my heart is appeased of its
Care and its fear.

I have oft heard the step at the
W ailing of light.

And it e’er leads me safe through the
Darkest midnight;

And I know it full well — though His
Form I ne’er see.

Yet I know and I trust the dear
One who leads me.

And with calmness of peace doth my
Trusting heart fill.
When I hear his loved step by the
Waters so still.

And some time by the murmurless
Wave I shall roam.
Where the boatman awaits who will
Carry me home,

I shall hear the loved songs that the
Blessed ones sing,

HER IDEAL.

l6l

And shall greet the soft breeze of each
Balm laden wing;

1 shall feel His firm hand in the
Even time grey,

And shall know His fond voice at the
Dawning of day.

And with rapturous bliss shall my
Trembling soul thrill,
When I greet his loved face by the
Waters so still.

HER IDEAL.

To-day she met him on the street.

How could she know this same
Man sued her heart when she was young.
And oft a wooing came?

How could she know

To see him so.

She loved him years ago?

For then he bore a princely form,

And he a hero seemed.

And boasted youth and friends and gold ;

How tenderly she dreamed
Of his loved face

Where was no trace.

Or stain one need erase.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

162

To-day she saw him. He had changed
How sadly since they met
The last. His hair was grey, his face
Was worn and wan, and yet,

She knew him well —

Who could foretell
How time this wreck would knell?

He scarcely saw her as he passed.

Yet once, oh, he was true.

And loved her, ere her fate was kind
And came between these two.

Ah me, ah me.

And can it be
She loved one such as he?

He reeled along the street. His child
In shame was leading him.

I saw her clasp her boy and thank
Kind Heaven, with eyes tear-dim.
That no such shame —

Naught of defame
Was o’er his father’s name.

How strange is life and love.

And fate, sometimes, how kind.

How often those we vested grand
Are woeful weak, we find.

For strange to say.

We meet these stray
Ideals, every day.

INTO MISCHIEF.

163

INTO MISCHIEF.

I s’pose I’ve been in mischief, for
That’s what mamma would say,

But the temptation was so great
I could’nt resist no way.

You see, (I hate to tell it, for
May be ’twas awful bold,)

I rummaged through the garret where
The things were most as old

As Eve and Adam too. Well I
Went through an oaken chest.

And in one corner found a box —

The cutest little nest

For lover’s tokens ever was.

And just full of ’em too.

And Satan would’nt leave me, so
I had to look it through.

And I am rather glad I did.

You see, for now I know
It’s not so wrong to be in love.

Though my mamma says so.

There were some tokens, and the notes,
O my! were just divine,

I copied lots of pretty things
To write sometime in mine.

164

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

I never thought my staid papa
Could e’er have been so silly,

Just think of signing now his name
“Your Own Devoted \V’'illie.”

Mamma’s was every bit as bad;

I’m sure she never thought

Wdien lecturing me the other day
That she’d so soon he caught.

She said to me: “When she was young,

A child only sixteen,

Who thought of any thing but school,
W'as not a trifle green,”

And there it is up in the loft
All down in black and white.

Papa gave her a ring upon
Her sixteenth birthday night.

Papa frowns so if Harry stays
Till after ten, while he.

One letter states, kissed Ma goodnight
A little after three;

Which means, most always I have learned
Till very nearly four.

And there was such a lot of trash
I never saw before.

INTO MISCHIEF.

165

There was a withered old bouquet,

A motto ill it too,

A locket, and a tiny glove,'

And faded bow of blue.

Well, do you know I smiled. It was
The neatest “give away,”

For, oh dear, how they lecture me
On these things every day.

They’d make me think there was no love
If what they say I’d mind.

But now I know when they were young
They loved the maddest kind.

I have no doubt that silliness
And love to youth belong.

But if my parents fell in love
It can’t be very wrong.

I’spect these things to me will read
As foolishly some day.

As they do now to Pa and Ma —

When I am staid and grey;

But when my girls are grown, you’ll sec —
If ever comes that day —

I’ll never leave my letters ’round
To give me dead away.

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

1 66

WHEN THE COWS COME HOME.

When summer weaves her carpet green
Of softest shades, and twilight sheen,

Has decked the meek-eyed violets blue
In fairy dress with pearls of dew;

When light winds play a tender air.

And toss the curls of golden hair.

And touch the lips of ruby red
With loving kisses, and o’er head
The robin sings her babes to rest
Among the leaves that hide her nest.

And trills her neighbor kind “good-night,”
As softly falls the sunset light.

Up through the evening’s quiet gloam
The patient cows come trooping home.

The flowers that bloom upon the hills
Look fondly up, as care-free trills
Of childish laughter float anear;

The crickets listen free of fear.

The minnows start within the stream
And hide in beds where lilies dream.

While berries blush where sumac bends
In greeting to the childish friends.

By moss-lined paths the hair-ferns grow.
And dandelion nods his locks of snow
To woodland bells so prim and true.

Who hide their smiles in bonnets blue;

WHEN THE COWS COME HOME.

With arching boughs the tall trees stand,
Pillars in God’s cathedral grand.

Their naves take up the ting-a-ling
Of chiming cow bells, as they ring
Along the path and catch the strain
Of youth-times innocent refrain;

And sweet notes free from care or woe
The saucy wood-nymphs backward throw.
And whisper o’er the childish vows
Of sweet-hearts, bringing home the cows.

Up through the lane the cow bells cease.

The gates are swung. A calm of peace
Is over all, save wHlp-poor-will,

Whose mocking roundel echoes still;

The cows are herded, closed the gates.

The echoes sleep, and vet he waits
The prize he earned, ah, can it be.

That love, in spell of witchery.

Is weaving round each youthful heart
A web they do not care to part?

For see, he half in mirth and bliss.

Bends low her blushing cheeks to kiss.

And stars look down and twinkle, while
The blooms look up and sweetly smile.

* * * *

O boy and girl of long ago.

Ye’ve counted many a winter’s snow.

And summer’s storm, until the blight

Has changed youth’s locks to threads of white

LKISUKK HOUR I'OEMS.

15ut summer’s gold is treasured where —
With winter’s silver — naught of care
Or life-time pain, can ever rust
Love’s treasure rare, or change to dust.

And as at eve the cpiiet train
Of cows come trooping up the lane.

The withered hands tenderly cling
In silent press, as wide gates swing
And trooping in come memories old
That never lose youth’s tinge of gold.
The cow bell’s chime, the childish song,
Like echoes seem that years prolong;

And youthful strains the birds trill o’er;
The stars smile down in love once more.
And old hearts whisper youth-time vows.
As homeward come the j^atient cows.

MISUNDERSTOOD.

How she smiled last night and seemed not to care
When he gazed on her o’er the dancers there;

And his lips curled oft with a proud disdain.

And her brain beat wild in its fevered pain.

And her heart was chill while her wild blood turned
To a redder hue as her flushed cheeks burned;

But she laughed and danced lest they all should know
How her being thrilled with the throes of woe.

IDOLS.

[69

And how could he know that her poor soul cried,
To be freed for aye from the chains of pride —

That her pleading glance rested oft on him,

For his eyes were veiled with a mask so grim
That he only saw how she smiled again
At the flatt’ry fair from the lips of men.

As she gaily danced. But her heart was lead.

And her eyes were bright with the tears unshed.

Yet her feet were light in the whirling waltz.

And her mood was gay, and he thought her false.
But how could she weep ’mid the dancers gay.

Lest they knew she sorrowed her heart away?

And he came not near, but within the dim.

Shaded corner stood like a watcher grim.

And he watched her dance with a haughty smile
On her parted lips, and yet all the while

How his fond eyes gazed with a burning glance
That pierced her heart through like a cutting lance.
But amid the dancers how could he know
That her heart beat wild in the throes of woe.

IDOLS.

How carefully and tenderly
We rear them every day.

And build them fair and grand, and place
From earthly eyes away.

Within the temple we have decked
In beautiful array.

LKISURE HOUR POEMS.

And how we turn in horror deep
At stories often told,

Of heathens who have knelt and praised,
Their i^ods of clay or gold.

Hut yesterday we placed our trust
In one we called a friend.

To-day we bow before a face
That new enchantments lend.

To-morrow, ah, we’ll gather up
Some fragments, with a groan
Of fallen gods. Yet on our lips
To smiles will turn the moan.

As we gaze on the idol fair.

Of gold that we enthrone.

Our God is hut a jealous God,

Wdiat wonder that the fates
Do laugh where’er the ruins lie
Of idols man creates.

And lie hath bless’d, yea, doubly blessed.
Him who can gaze and smile.

On ashes of his hopes and trust.

Within the funeral pile!

THE LOVE-VINE.

She stood beside the love-vine true.
And plucked the hud laden with dew.

THE LOVE-VINE.

I71

The moon shone down in tender light,
Upon the mystic blooms of white.

She gazed in thoughtful mood, then pressed
The foam like blooms to lips and breast.

And unobserved, in wonderment,

A lover listened with intent.

“I wish,” she said, “I wish that he,

As much as I lofe him, loves me.

And if my love comes not to woe,

I wish that he might tell me so.”

She swung the blossoms o’er her head.

And on the air their perfume shed.

He caught the love-vine as it fell.

And clasped the maid: “O love, ’tis well,”

He cried, “that fate this fairy sign.

Should give from your hand into mine.”

“My heart, dear one, holds none but thee.
Was that fond wish, sweet, made for me?”

Low sank her head upon his breast.

And as his lips her brow caressed,

The lids drooped o’er the e}"es of blue.

“My wish,” she faltered, “love, came true.”

172

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

SHAME ON THE MAN.

O shame on the man who goes out in the world
With a smile on his lips all the day,

Who fawns on the crowd as it fast hurries by,

That cares not for him or his way.

Who carries a tongue that is merry with jests.

Who is pleasant where’er he may roam.

But only has scowls, and ^larls, and growls.

For the ones at home.

A niggard is he who e’er toils, scrimps and saves.

Just to lay it all by on the shelf.

He ’s worse who cheats home of its comforts and joys.
And spends all his gold on himself.

But meaner than these is the husband who smiles
On his fellows where e’er he may roam.

And only has scowls, and sneers, and growls.

For his own at home.

For little the world cares for him or his smiles.

He is naught but an atom of dust;

While he 7nay be king in a realm of his own.
Surrounded by love and by trust.

So shame on the man who defrauds his loved ones —
Who wastes all his smiles as he roams.

And only has scowls, and snarls, and growls.

For the ones at home.

MATILDA THE SPINSTER.

173

MATILDA THE SPINSTER.

Matilda the spinster was sitting alone,

Within the cool shade of a roof all her own.

Her rippling tresses were threaded with grey,

Her apron was spotless, and this was the way
She talked to herself as she rocked to and fro,
A-knitting and knitting and telling her woe.

“Yes, I’ve had my chances, as well as the rest.

But I refused all of ’em, even the best,

I might have been married to Thomas McClue,

And borne his twelve children and now bake and stew,
While he growls and grumbles and knocks ’em about;
Like pirates they quarrel and blaspheme and shout.

“And there’s that old toper, Theopolus Brown,

He threatened himself to behead, shoot or drown.
When I declined firmly his circlet to wear,

A caution ’twas truly the way he did tear.

The very next week, why he wed Kitty White,

And now he comes home on a spree every night.

“A hopeless old gambler is that Charlie Ladd,

He’s frittered away every cent that he had.

His wife takes in washing to keep ’em, poor dear.

And I. give the girls a new suit every year.

“And old Joseph Grey, he and work ne’er agree.

He’ll die in the poor-house as sure as can be.

His wife is half starved and his children are pale.

174

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

But little he cares for their pitiful wail,

As long as he gets all he wishes to eat.

He cares hut to gossip and loaf in the street.

“And there’s Jamie Winters, he’s crazy, they say.
He’s sense enough, mind you, to get his own way;
There ’s only one man in the world who is great.
And he is that mortal as chosen by fate.

He preaches religion for others to live;

Knows only the charity other folks give.

He advocates rights of our sex with applause —

But his wife’s a slave if there ever one was.

“There’s minister Twaddle, How dull it must be
For his wife to listen to sermons that she
Herself writes while he lays stretched out at his ease
A-grumbling because his pants gape at the knees;
And Saturday nights she does up his one shirt.

And day after day the boys play in the dirt.

“And there’s Herbert Green, who’s been ill all his life.
He’s lively enough when he’s heating his wife;

My! how he did rave — his face fairly was blue.
When I told him my purse could ne’er support two.

“A chronic old widower’s Uriah Stowe.

He married five women and planted ’em low;

They share the same head-stone and peacefully lie.
What joy it must be to so dutifully die,

To glorify one precious being of eartb.

As bald as a pumpkin almost from his birth.

PETER-BIRD.

175

“There’s Theodore Jenkenproud. He ran away,
With all his wife’s money and jewels one day;

The prettiest servant girl took with him too,

The town could afford. Well it looked awful blue
Awhile for his wife, but she finally went
To live with relations, but has’nt a cent.

“Ah, yes, such is life. Now I might have been
The wife proud and happy of any these men,

But I sadly frittered my chances away.

My teeth are all out and my locks are all grey.

My lot is full easy, but some how, they own,

’Tis joy to see ‘Mrs.’ upon one’s grave stone.

“I might have been happy as well as the rest.

Its no use repining. Perhaps it is best.”

As slily we children slipped out of the door
Unnoticed and grinning in silent encore,

A poor, lonely tear drop rolled down to the floor.

PETER-BIRD.

Saucy bird you drive me frantic.

What mean you by every antic?
How you dance upon the bushes
While the artful Mary blushes.
Something sure you must be screening
Bird, and I must know its meaning.
Pluming wings with saucy flutter
All the notes you deign to utter
Is “Peter,” “Peter.”

176

LEISURE HOUR POEMS.

Peter, Peter. Peter who.^

Tell me, bird, oh, tell me, do.

Is he short or is he tall.

Is lie medium lar^e or small;

Is he handsome, is he plain.

Is he wicked, wise or vain.

Is he humble, crafty, bold,

Is he youthful, is he old.

Is he wealthy, is he poor?

Does he seek to win her heart
By the help of wily art?

Tell me, bird, oh, tell me, do.

Peter-bird you’re so contrary,

Its no use to question Mary;

She’ll say naught but stand there blushing-
Artful maiden — vainly hushing
You to silence. Is she merely
Teasing me? I’d like so dearly.

Bird, to know. You stand there seeming
Like a spit-fire, only screaming,
“Peter,” “Peter!”

Peter, Peter. Peter who?

Tell me, bird, now tell me, do.

Did he call her “Daisy,” “Pearl,”

Or the dearest, sweetest girl?”

Did he press her finger tips?

Did he touch her dainty lips?

Was she arch or was she sly.

Was she artful, bold or shy?

PETER-BIRD.

177

Does she lavish fondest smiles,

Bird, on him? If this is so
1 shall cause this Peter woe;

Tell me, bird, oh, tell me, do.

Little spit-fire are you jealous?

So am I, and I am zealous.

Bird, to know who is this Peter,

That you wot of. Does he meet her
In the glen or in the garden.^

What has caused your heart to harden,
That you only sit and taunt me

With the words that ever haunt me,
“Peter,” “Peter!”

Peter, Peter. Peter who?

Tell me, bird, oh tell me, do.

Does she flirt to pass the time?

Will she wear his ring or mine?

Does she mean it, bird, think you.

When she says she loves me true?

Ah, you nod your head, and she
Smiles and blushes. Teasing me
You’ve been all this time, you sprite,

I must have the sweetest kiss.

On her lips to pay for this.

Tell me, bird, oh, would’nt you?

THE END.