CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 583.P58 
 
 The union of American poetry and art; 
 
 3 1924 021 992 544 o,»...« 
 
A 
 
 Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021992544 
 
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THE UNION 
 
 OF 
 
 AMERICAN POETRY AND ART 
 
 A CHOICE COLLECTION OF 
 
 Poems by American Poets 
 
 SELECTED, ARRANGED, AND EDITED 
 
 BY 
 
 John James Piatt 
 
 With 300 Illustrations on Wood by Eminent American Artists, 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 W. E. DIBBLE, PUBLISHER 
 
 1880 
 1/. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^\ 
 
HE aim of the Publisher and Compiler of " The Union of American Poetry and 
 Art," has been to present a very copious and complete collection of poems by 
 (^ American poets, devoted exclusively to native subjects, and illustrated with the 
 best engravings from designs by our leading American artists — a collection which, besides 
 all the favorite and popular poems by our most famous writers, includes very many of the 
 new and attractive pieces, written by poets of local as well as national repute, whose 
 productions have not as yet appeared in book-form. Such a collection might have been 
 presented in one body, with the classifications visual in collections of poetry by many hands; 
 but it seemed desirable, because of the largeness of the work contemplated, its issue in a 
 designated number of parts, and especially for purposes yf illustration, to have more 
 numerous breaks or divisions than would have been possible if the above plan had been 
 followed; and so it occurred to the Compiler to let the poems selected appear, in the first 
 place, in divisions corresponding to the geogi'aphical sections of the country to which they 
 referred, or to which their authors belonged, subdividing each of these according to subject, 
 sentiment, etc. This arrangement has also enabled him to indicate some of the characteristic 
 features of the poetry written in or referring to the various sections of our country more 
 clearly than would otherwise have been possible. iNew England, for example, is particularly 
 rich in the class of poems grouped under the head of Legendary, Historical, and Eomautic, 
 as well as in its moralized poems of ITature; the historical associations of the devolution 
 are more frequently illustrated in the local and landscape poems of the INIiddle Atlantic 
 States; while the institution of Slavery — the life of the Plantation — has given a peculiar 
 local coloring to the poetry of the Southern States. Again, the life of the early "Western 
 Pioneer — his close, lonely contact with wild and savage !N"ature — makes such a class of 
 pieces as has been gathered under the head of Pioneer Days possible chiefly in the Ohio 
 Yallcy. The poetry of the Great "West (which, I fancy, may be said now to begin with 
 the prairies of Illinois) also has a flavor of its own, though its native writers have been 
 few, and the poems referring to and illustrating it have been for the most part the produc- 
 tions of poets who have only visited it from the older sections of the country. 
 
11 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In general, the Compiler has endeavored in this work to illustrate, by the poems 
 selected, not only the natural features of our country, but such heroic and romantic events 
 of its history, such local legends or ti*aditions, as have been celebrated in verse by American 
 poets, with the character and sentiment of its people, their various manners and customs, etc., 
 so far as practicable. "While the effort has been made to find the best poems by writers native 
 to each respective section, or by such as have made their homes during a chief part of their 
 career within its limits — and thus to make the poetry refen'ing to each section representative, 
 as a whole, of its own poetical authorship — the Compiler has not hesitated to use occasionally 
 notable poems illustrating one section, though the production of writers who are native of or 
 dwell in another. 
 
 The two closing divisions — "Sea and Sea Shore" and "Patriotic" — it will be 
 observed are general, — their departments embrace the whole country, and the Compiler 
 trusts that this collection, as a whole, will appeal to the patriotic spirit as well as the poetic 
 sense of our countrymen at large, while each of its larger divisions shall appeal to the 
 feeling of local and sectional sentiment which remains distinct from, but of course subordinate 
 to, the great national spirit, 
 
 " KOUND, VAST, AND SPANNING ALL, LIKE SATURN'S RING. " 
 
 Fui'ther, it may be said, that while the Compiler has sought to make a fair exhibition 
 of the poetry produced in each section of our country, he has aimed to present a popular 
 rather than a critical collection. At the same time, however, he has endeavored to adhere 
 to a respectable standard in his selections throughout, and to include the best. 
 
 Credit is due the Publisher for the title of this work; — by it he has aimed to indicate 
 a purpose to make the designer's art a help-mate to the poet's in interpretation — to combine 
 the two in producing a work which should reflect our country in Poetry and Picture. 
 
 Wo work has ever been offered to the public, combining so large a representation, 
 or so great a variety, of designs by the foremost American artists, executed by so many 
 of the best American engravers. Many of these designs are actual transcripts of charac- 
 teristic landscapes, and present beautiful views of notable mountains, rivers, lakes and valleys, 
 while others illustrate interesting historical events, local manners and customs, etc.; others, 
 again, are fanciful or general in their nature. Thus we are enabled to present, — it is 
 confidently believed, — one of the most novel and interesting collections of Poetry and Art 
 ever published. 
 
 Thanks are due to the authors and publishers who have permitted the use of copyright 
 poems in this collection. 
 
A. Ballad of the French Fleet . H. W. Longfellow. 28 
 
 A. Bird of Passage Edgar Fawcelt . . 284 
 
 A. Bridal Melody James T. Fields . 130 
 
 A. Caution Mim S. Turner . 284 
 
 A Common Thought Henry Timrod . . 531 
 
 A Day in June James R. Lowell . 78 
 
 A Day in the Woods .... Dora 31. Jordan . 440 
 
 A Day of Sunshine H. W. Longfellow. 76 
 
 A Death-Bed Jam^ Aldrich . . 298 
 
 A Delaware Legend Myron B. Benton. 226 
 
 A Farewell John A. Dorgan . 298 
 
 A Forest Hymn William C. Bryant 84 
 
 A Gleam of Sunshine . . . . H. W. Longfellow. 117 
 A Golden Wedding on the Eoll- 
 
 ing-Fork W. D. Gallagher . 343 
 
 A Green Heron J. M. Thompson . 414 
 
 A Healtli E. Coate Pinlmey. 522 
 
 A Kias for Ellie Esmeralda Boyle . 523 
 
 A Lost Graveyard John James Piatt. 416 
 
 A May Melody Joel Benton . . . 280 
 
 A Morning Ride Sa/i-a J. LAppincott 300 
 
 A Novemher Landscape . . . Sarah H. Whitman 107 
 
 A November Nocturne .... Margaret J. Preston 547 
 
 A Pawpaw Jos M. Thompson. 442 
 
 A Picture Chas. G. Eastman. 157 
 
 A Picture John B. Thompson 522 
 
 A Poor Man's Thanksgiving. . Florus B. PUmplon 442 
 
 A Prairie-Dog Village .... Edward B. NeaUey. 587 
 
 A Prettier Book S. M. B. Piatt. . 445 
 
 A Psalm of Life H. W. Longfellow. 130 
 
 A Eeproach of Indolence . . . Josephine Biiiler . 424 
 
 A Savage John B. O'BeiUy. 586 
 
 A Sermon for the Sisters . . . Irwin RusseU . . 516 
 
 A Shadow H. W. Longfellow. 183 
 
 A Snow-Storm Chas. G. Eastman. 48 
 
 A Song for September .... Thos. W. Parsons. 99 
 
 A Song of Meeting Forceythe Willson . 371 
 
 A Song for Our Valley. . . . Willnam Hubbard. 373 
 
 A Spinster's Stint Alice Gary ... 377 
 
 A Spring-Time Wm. D. Homlls . 367 
 
 A Still Day in Autumn . . . Sarah H. Whitman 102 
 
 A Summer Night Elizabeth Stoddard. 286 
 
 A Sunset at Longmont . . . . ' Horatio N. Powers 583 
 
 A Violet A. B. T. Whitney. 64 
 
 A Visit from St. Nicholas. . . Clement C. Moore. 316 
 
 A Winter Morning And/rews Norton . 112 
 
 A Woman's Love John Hay . . . 397 
 
 A Year's Courtship Henry Timrod . . 530 
 
 Abraham Davenport 
 
 Abraham Lincoln ... 
 
 Ad Finem 
 
 After All 
 
 After the Ball 
 
 After the Rain 
 
 After the Eain-Storm 
 
 After Wings 
 
 Agamenticus 
 
 Agnes 
 
 Alabama 
 
 All Mother 
 
 All's Well 
 
 Alone 
 
 America 
 
 Among the Mountains in Georgia 
 Angel Watchers. ... . . 
 
 Annabel Lee 
 
 Annie 
 
 An April Aria 
 
 An Invitation 
 
 An Invitation to the Country . 
 An Old Time Fireside . . . . 
 An Order for a. Picture. . . . 
 
 An Owl 
 
 April 
 
 Apple-Blossoms 
 
 Archie 
 
 Ashes of Roses 
 
 Aspects of the Pines 
 
 At Night 
 
 At Rest 
 
 Auf Wiedersehen 
 
 August 
 
 Aunt Kizzie's Creed 
 
 Autumn in the West 
 
 Autumn Picture 
 
 Autumn Song 
 
 John G. Whittier . 46 
 
 Laura Beam . 573 
 
 Bobert K. Weeks. 285 
 
 Wm. Winter. . 312 
 
 Nora Perry . . . 126 
 
 T. Bailey Aldrich. 83 
 
 Andrews Norton . 67 
 
 S. M. B. Piatt . . 430 
 
 Anonymous ... 53 
 
 J. Chandler Han-is 523 
 
 Chas. T. Brooks . 455 
 
 Eliza S. Turner . 287 
 
 H. McE. KimbaU. 177 
 
 Emma A. Browne. 541 
 
 Samuel F. Smith . 621 
 
 Henry R. Jackson. 495 
 
 Rosa V. Jeffrey. . 423 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe . 539 
 
 K. M. B. Sherwood 430 
 
 G. Parsons Lathrop 59 
 
 James T. Fields . 79 
 
 WiUiam C. Bryant 277 
 
 John G. Whittier. 166 
 
 Alice Gary ... 413 
 
 Jos. M. Thompson. 390 
 
 Wm. B. Wright . 279 
 
 Horatio N. Powers. 566 
 
 Phcebe Gary. . 374 
 
 Maiy E. Bradley. 282 
 
 Paul H. Hayne . 542 
 
 Forceythe Willson . 414 
 
 R. H. Stoddard . 213 
 
 James R. Lowell . 155 
 
 W. D. Gallagher . 415 
 
 Margaret J. Preston 516 
 
 W. D. Gallagher . 436 
 
 Thom. S. Cottier . 100 
 
 Forceythe Willson. 442 
 
 Bachelor's Hall John Finley . . 406 
 
 Battle-Hymn of the Republic . Julia Ward Howe. 629 
 
 Battle of the Kegs Francis Hopkinson. 247 
 
 Barbara Frietchie John G. Whittier . 484 
 
 Beaver Brook James R. LoweU . 74 
 
 Before the Rain T. Bailey Aldrich. 83 
 
 Ben Bolt Thos. Dunn English 541 
 
 Benny Annie C. Ketchum. 543 
 
 Beside a Brook Wm. R. Alger . . 66 
 
 (Hi) 
 
IV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Betrothed Anew E. C. Stedman . . 149 
 
 Bill and Joe Oliver W. Holmes. 186 
 
 Blennerhasset's Island . . Thomas B. Read. 341 
 
 Boat-Song Harriet P. Spofford 612 
 
 Bonaventure by Starlight . . Henry R. Jackson. 500 
 
 Book-marka . . 3Ianj E. Nealey . 441 
 
 Boone in the Wilderness . . . Isaac H. Julian . 327 
 
 Bowling Green Thos. O. Appleton. 203 
 
 Bride Brook G. Parsons Lathrctp 29 
 
 Broadway Wm. Allen Butler. 201 
 
 Burial of the Beautiful. . . John B. Dillon. . 412 
 
 By the Autumn Sea Paul H. Hayne 607 
 
 By the Mississippi. . ... Benj. Hathaway . 574 
 
 By the Eoad-Side . ... Anonymous . . . 153 
 
 Caldwell of Springfield . . Bret Harte ... 246 
 
 Can a ... James F. Clarke . 148 
 
 Caprice at Home . . . . S. M. B. Piatt. . 394 
 
 Catterskill Falls WiUiam C. Bryant. 223 
 
 Catskill Bayard Taylor. 224 
 
 Catskill Mountains . . . Theodore S. Fay . 219 
 
 Charleston Retaken . ... Paul H. Hayne . 476 
 
 Chicago. John G. Whittier. 559 
 
 Childish Wisdom James W. Ward . 447 
 
 Christmas Preparations at "De 
 
 Plantation on de Jeems." . Margaret J.Preston 510 
 
 Convention Wm. D. Howelk . 436 
 
 Country Sleighing E. C. Stedman. . 127 
 
 Credo . . . • Mary A. Townsmd 546 
 
 Daniel Gray Josiah G. Holland 179 
 
 Dawn Richard W. Gilder 278 
 
 Day-Break H. W. Longfellow. 64 
 
 Days of My Youth St. George Tucker. 538 
 
 Dead Leaves R. H. Stoddard . 305 
 
 Death Abram J. Ryan . 549 
 
 Deserted Nests Elizabeth S. Phelps 181 
 
 Dirge R. W. Emerson . 93 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier George H. Boker . 628 
 
 Dirge for a Young Girl . . . James T. Fields 140 
 
 Done For ... Rose Terry Cooke . 579 
 
 Dorothy in the Garret . . . . J. T. Trowbridge . 169 
 
 Dow's Flat Bret Harte ... 593 
 
 Driving Home the Cows . . Kate P. Osgood . 165 
 
 Drowned Swah T. Ballon . 427 
 
 Early Spring Carlos Wilcox . . 61 
 
 Echo and the Lover John M. Harney . 385 
 
 Elliot's Oak . - H W. Longfellow. 50 
 
 Enola ... . . . Laura C. Redden . 286 
 
 Epithalamium J. G. C Brainard 129 
 
 Equinox Edith M. Thomas. 557 
 
 Evening Wilbur Dubois. . 373 
 
 Evening in Midsummer. . . Eva Lee Matthews. 386 
 
 Everything S. 3L B. Piatt. . 408 
 
 Fading Autumn E. C. Kinney . . 312 
 
 Fantaisie De Printemps. . . Edgar Fawcett . 280 
 
 Earther John James Piatt. 364 
 
 Fii'eside Fancies Fortunatus Cosby . 444 
 
 First Glance G. Parsons Lathrop 116 
 
 Flood-Tide and Ebb-Tide . . George Houghton 610 
 
 Florence Vane pkiUp p. Cooke . 526 
 
 Forest Quiet Paul H. Hayne . 535 
 
 From an Indian Mound . . Alfred B. Street . 228 
 
 Fuit Ilium E. C. Stedman. . 267 
 
 Geehale: An Indian Lament. . H. R. Schoolcraft. 557 
 
 Gettysburg Ode Bayard Taylor . . 271 
 
 Ghost-Stories E. C. Wilhon . . 448 
 
 Give me the Old . . . . R. H Messinger . 189 
 
 God in Nature Carlos Wilcox . . 92 
 
 Good-Bye R. W. Emerson . 130 
 
 Grandfather Wright John James Piatt. 352 
 
 Grandmother's Story of Bunker- 
 Hill Battle Oliver W. Holmes. 33 
 
 Greenwood Cemetery. ... S. M. Hagerman . 213 
 
 Greenwood Dam 256 
 
 Grizzly ... Bret Harte . 584 
 
 Gulf Weed C G. Fenner . 602 
 
 Hail Columbia . Joseph Hopkinson. 621 
 
 Hannah Binding Shoes. . . . Luey Larcom . . 604 
 
 Happy AVomen . Phcebe Cary. . . 419 
 
 Harvest Days of the Olden Time Lee 0. Hams . . 390 
 
 Heat- Lightning . . Edgar Fawcett . . 297 
 
 Heaveji K A. W. Priest . 170 
 
 He Dreamed of Home ... . Edith M. .Thomas. 558 
 
 Hendrick's Prophecy Anonymous . . . 220 
 
 Her Chosen Spot John. Pierpant . . 183 
 
 Hereafter Harriet P. Spofford 184 
 
 Her Sphere Elizabeth A . Allen. 152 
 
 Her Window Louise C. Moulion. 116 
 
 Hinchman's Mill W. H. Venable . 398 
 
 Holyoke Valley E. C. Stedman. . 99 
 
 Homeless Wn\. P. Brannan. 433 
 
 Home, Sweet Home John H. Payne . 304 
 
 Hudson Eiver T. W. Parsons. . 221 
 
 Hymn for the Consecration of a 
 
 Cemetery L. J. B. Case . . 159 
 
 Hymn of the City. . . . William C. Bryant 216 
 Hymn of the Moravian Nuns at 
 
 Bethlehem H. W. Longfellow. 243 
 
 Hymn on the Completion of the 
 
 Concord Monument. . . . R. W. Emerson . 627 
 
 Hymn to the Night H. W. Longfellow. 81 
 
 If I could Keep Her So . . . Louise C. Moulton. 136 
 
 If Love should Come Again. . Bayard Taylor. . 299 
 
 If She Were Here Ftorus B. Plimpton 441 
 
 In August Wm. D. Howells . 418 
 
 Indian Graves Benj. S. Parker 361 
 
 In Good Time Charlotte F. Bates. 190 
 
 In School-Days John G. WliUlier. 115 
 
 In Spring Sunshine Thomas L. Cottier. 63 
 
 In Summer Days K. M. B. Sherwood 393 
 
 In Summer Time Wm. W. Caldu-ett. 88 
 
 In the Churchyard at Tarrytown 77. W. Longfelloiv. 232 
 
 In the Meadows Bayard Taylor. . . 288 
 
 In the Old Churchyard. . '. . F. W. Loring '. . 46^ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 In the Sea Hiram Rich. . . 611 
 
 In the Springtime Robert K. Weeks . 278 
 
 In Winter Bayard Taylor. . 320 
 
 It is not Always May . . . . H. W. Longfellow. 74 
 
 It'll Nebber Come No Mo' . . F. O. DeFontaine. 517 
 
 It Might Have Been. .... John A. Borgan . 285 
 
 Jim Bludso John Hay . . . 578 
 
 Jimmy's Wooing W. W. Harney . 371 
 
 John Burns of Gettysburg. . . Bret Harie . . . 270 
 
 John Filson . . , W. H. Venable . 337 
 
 Jonathan Snow Lee 0. Harris . . 407 
 
 June James W. Riley . 379 
 
 King's Tavern John James Piatt. 432 
 
 Labor Frances S. Osgood. 131 
 
 Lady Wentworth H W. Longfellow. 24 
 
 Lake Champlain H. T. Tuckerman. 227 
 
 Lake Erie Ephraim Peabody. 555 
 
 Lake George Arthur C. Coxe . 225 
 
 Lake Saratoga John O. Saxe . . 258 
 
 Lake Superior Samuel 0. Goodrich 563 
 
 Lake Wyalusing W. H. G. Hosmer 263 
 
 Larvfe A. D. T. Whitney 178 
 
 Late Autumn Wm. B. Wright . 316 
 
 Late Marriage Maria Brooks . . 146 
 
 Lay of a Wanderer W. H. C. Hosmer 459 
 
 Lewis. Wei tzel Ftorus B. Plimpton 334 
 
 Life Richard H Wilde 529 
 
 Life in the Autumn Woods . . Philip P. Cooke . 544 
 
 Lines on Revisiting the Country William C. Bryant 8*2 
 
 Lines written on the Rocky Mt's. Albert Pike . . . 589 
 
 Little Annie Henry Ames Blood 140 
 
 Little Brown Hands Mary H Krout . 416 
 
 Little Feet Elizabeth A. Allen. 134 
 
 Little Giffen Frank 0. Tick-ner. 486 
 
 Little Nell Rebecca S. Nichols. 426 
 
 Lone Mountain Cemetery . . . Bret Harie . . . 596 
 
 Lookout Mountain George D. Prentice 492 
 
 Lost on the Prairie Rose Terry Cooke . 572 
 
 Love's Autumn Paul H. Hayne . 543 
 
 Love's Queen William Winter . 282 
 
 Lullaby E. C. Wilkon . . 419 
 
 MacDonald's Raid Paul H. Hayne . 467 
 
 Mahsr John Irwin Russell . . 515 
 
 March William C. Bryant 58 
 
 j\[arch H H. . . . . 59- 
 
 Marquette James H. Perkins. 560 
 
 May James G. Perciwl. 64 
 
 May W. D. Gallagher . 368 
 
 May John Esten Cooke . 523 
 
 May in Mason Henry T. Stanton, 351 
 
 Memories John Esten Cooke . 539 
 
 Miles Keog's Horse John Hay . . . 586 
 
 Minot's Ledge Fitz-James O'Brien 608 
 
 Mist Henry D. Thoreau 57 
 
 Molly Maguire at Monmouth . William Collins. . 253 
 
 Monadnock B. W. Emerson . 96 
 
 Montana Edward B. Nealley 584 
 
 Monument Mountain William- C. Bryant 38 
 
 Mother and Child Wm. G. Simms 535 
 
 Mount Hope W. A. Croffut . . 49 
 
 Mount Shasta Fanny M. Chappell 588 
 
 Mount Vernon . David Humphreys. 481 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing . . Eliza S. Turner . 281 
 
 My Bird Emily E. Judson . 286 
 
 My Child John Pierpont . 138 
 
 My Daughter Nurse .... Julia L. Dumont . 42.5 
 
 My Little Sweetheart .... Alice Cary . . . 382 
 
 My Maryland James R. Randall. 487 
 
 My Mother's Bible . . . George P. Morris. 305 
 
 My Old Kentucky Home . . . Stephen C. Foster . 513 
 
 My Own Dark Genesee. . . . W. H. C. Hosmer 258 
 
 My Sailor James B. Bensel . 613 
 
 My Wife and Child Henry R. Jacksm. 537 
 
 Nature Jones Very ... 66 
 
 Nearer Home Phoebe Cary. . . 448 
 
 Neversink Philip Frencau. . 259 
 
 New York Harbor on a Calm Day Park Benjamin. . 214 
 
 Niagara . L. H. Sigowney . 553 
 
 Night by the Ohio Charles C. Bronsm 429 
 
 Noon James B. Hope. . 536 
 
 Norembega John G. Whiuier . 12 
 
 November Elizabeth Stoddard. 314 
 
 Oconee Henry R. Jackson. 471 
 
 October H H. . .100 
 
 October Thomas S. Collier. 103 
 
 Ode Henry Timrod . 499 
 
 Ode to Jamestown Jas. K. Paulding . 459 
 
 Ohio's Pilgrim Band Lewis J. Cist . . 327 
 
 Oh, Mother of a Mighty Race . William C. Bryant 627 
 
 Old Folks at Home _ Stephen C. Foster. 509 
 
 Old Grimes ,-. , Albert G. Greene . 158 
 
 Old Ironsides , . _ Oliver W. Holmes. 625 
 
 Old Trinity , . . . . Arthur C. Coxe. . 199 
 
 On Crossing the Alleghani^s . L. M. Thurston . 331 
 
 On Leaving California . . . . Bayard Taylor. . 598 
 
 Only a Year Harriet B. Stowe . 139 
 
 On Lynn Terrace Thomas B. Aldrich 604 
 
 Only the Clothes She Wore . . N. Q. Shepherd . 211 
 On Recrossing the Rocky Mount- 
 ains in Winter John C. Fremont 590 
 
 On the Blue Ridge Paul H. Hayne . 490 
 
 On the Bluff. John Hay ... 571 
 
 On the Pier R. H. Stoddard . 201 
 
 Otsego Lake Anonymous . . . 243 
 
 Our Homestead Phcebe dry. . . 446 
 
 Our Skater Belle Anonymous . . . 137 
 
 Outgrown Julia C. R. Dorr. 148 
 
 Out of the Window Nora Perry . . . 123 
 
 Over tlie Bannisters Ella Wheeler . . 555 
 
 Over the River N. A. W. Priest . 190 
 
 Paddle Your Own Canoe . . . Sarah T. Bolton . 411 
 
 Pan in Wall Street E. C. Siedman. . 205 
 
 Parted Wm. D. Hoioetls . 603 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Passage Down the Ohio . . . Jas. K. Paulding. 328 
 
 Passing Away John Piei-pant . . 145 
 
 Paul Eevere's Eide H. W. LoncfeUmii. 31 
 
 Peace-Making S. M. B. Piatt. . 375 
 
 Perry's Victory Jatnes O. Percival. 556 
 
 Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's 
 
 Call E. C. Stedman. . 197 
 
 Picnic in the Woods W. H. Venahle. . 404 
 
 Pictures of Memory .... Alice Cary . . . 400 
 
 Pilgrim Song George Imnt. . . 16 
 
 Piscataqua River Thomas B. Aldrich 78 
 
 Plantation Life in South Carolina Wm. J. Orayson . 506 
 
 Plowden Halsey Caroline F. Orne . 47 
 
 Possession Bayard Taylor . . 289 
 
 Presage Wm. D. HoweUs . 608 
 
 Prescience Susan E. Wallace. 379 
 
 Proposal Bayard Taylor. . 282 
 
 Eafting . Ephraim Peabody. 340 
 
 Eain in Summer IT. W. Longfellow. 91 
 
 Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney . . 395 
 
 Readjustment Swsan Ooolidge . . 145 
 
 Read to Sleep Margaret J. Preston 548 
 
 Redwood Falls Charles S. Bryant. 564 
 
 RSve Du Midi Base Terry Cooke. 83 
 
 Revival Hymn Joel C. Han-is. . 514 
 
 River Song F. B. Sanborn. . 120 
 
 Rock Creek W. L. Shoemaker. 490 
 
 Rock me to Sleep Elisabeth A. AUen 161 
 
 Rosalie Washington AUsion 116 
 
 Same Sickness Margaret J. Preston 538 
 
 Second Love. ... . . . L. J. B. Case . . 156 
 
 Senatchwine's Grave John H. Bryant . 572 
 
 Serenade George Arnold . . 281 
 
 Shall we know our Friends in 
 
 Heaven? Sarah T. Bolton . 447 
 
 Ships at Sea B. B. Coffin. . . 612 
 
 Sighs in the South " .... Henry Ames Blood 104 
 
 Six Little Feet on the Fender . Cornelia W. Law . 443 
 
 Sixty Year's Ago . .... Berry Benson . . 550 
 
 Skipper Ireson's Ride . . . John G. Whittier . 42 
 
 Sleepy Hollow H. T. Tnckennan. 233 
 
 Sleighing Song James T. Fields . 127 
 
 Smoke Henry D. Thoreau 112 
 
 Snow Balph Hoyt. . . 317 
 
 Snow-Drop William W. Story. 124 
 
 Snow-Flakes H. W. Longfellow. 109 
 
 Snow-Flakes at the South. . . William H. Hayne 549 
 
 Sometime S. M. B. Piatt. . 417 
 
 Song Celia Thaxter . . 116 
 
 Song Celia Thaxter . . 124 
 
 Song Forlunatns Cosby . 375 
 
 Song S. M. B. Piatt. . 397 
 
 Song of Marion's Men .... William C. Bryant 469 
 
 Song of Steam George W. Cutter. 402 
 
 Song of the River Abrnni J. Ryan . 547 
 
 Sonnet William G. Simms 527 
 
 Spiritual Presence James H. Perkins. 418 
 
 Spring yf_ Parker Willis . 306 
 
 Spring in Town William C. Bryant 215 
 
 Spring-Tide B. W. Emerson . 58 
 
 Spring Thunder O. A. Warfield. . 368 
 
 St. Augustine Anonymous ... 456 
 
 St. Catharine's Philip Freneau. . 470 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Way . . . Ancmymous . . . 485 
 
 Summer Days Anonymous . . . 123 
 
 Sunlight and Starlight . . . . A. D. T. Whitney 162 
 
 Susquehanna Elizabeth F. Ellet. 235 
 
 Sweetheart Bird-Song . . . . W. L. Shoemaker. 525 
 
 Taking the Night Train . . . John James Piatt. 401 
 
 Telling the Bees John G. Whittier. 175 
 
 Terminus B. W. Emerson . 178 
 
 Thanatopsis . William C. Bryant 166 
 
 The Alpine Sheep Maria W. Lowell . 141 
 
 The American Flag Joseph R. Drake . 624 
 
 The Angelus Bret Harte ... 595 
 
 The Ausable Alfred B. Street . 263 
 
 The Baclcwoodsman .... Ephraim Peabody. 338 
 
 The Ballad of Babie Bell. . . T. Bailey Aldrich. 142 
 
 The Barefoot Boy John G. Whittier. 135 
 
 The Beech-Tree Robert M. Bird . 292 
 
 The Belfry Pigeon. . . . Nathaniel P. Willis 73 
 
 The Bells . . Edgar AUan Poe . 209 
 
 The Better Land Otway Gurry . . 439 
 
 The Birch Stream Anna B. AveriU . 80 
 
 The Birds C. P. Crunch . . 76 
 
 The Bison-Track . . ... Bayard Taylor. . 580 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead . . . Theodore O'Hara . 625 
 
 The Black Fox of Salmon River J. G. C Brainard. 44 
 
 The Black Princess . . . S. M. B. Piatt. . 512 
 
 The Bloom was on the Elder, etc. Ponn Piatt . . 420 
 
 The Blue and the Gray. . Francis M. Finch. 502 
 
 The Blue-Bells of New England. T Bailey Aldrich. 66 
 
 The Boatman's Horn Wm. 0. Butler. . 381 
 
 The Brandywine E. M. Chandler . 244 
 
 The Brave at Home Thcmas B. Read . 628 
 
 The Brilliant Nor' West . . . John K. Mitchell . 565 
 
 The Brothers Charles Sprague . 176 
 
 The Burial Place at Laurel Hill Willis G. Clark . 260 
 
 The Burning Tree Wm. D. HoweUs . 370 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus . . . Oliver W. Holmes. 610 
 
 The Changeling John G. Whittier. 22 
 
 The Children's Hour H. W. LongfeUow. 132 
 
 The Children that are not. . . Frank 0. Ticknor . 540 
 
 The City of Ships WaU Whitman. . 199 
 
 The City of the Golden Gate . Ina D. Coolbrith . 596 
 
 The Closing Scene Thomas B. Bead. 315 
 
 The Coming-Back Ralph W. Emerson 60 
 
 The Conquered Banner .... Abram J. Ryan . 494 
 
 The Country Life R. H. Stoddard . 301 
 
 Tlie Courtin' James R. Loioett . 124 
 
 The Crooked Footpath .... Oliver W. Holmes. 98 
 
 The Crowded Street William C. Bryant 202 
 
 The Dead J. G. C. Brainard 191 
 
 The Dead R. H. Stoddard . 305 
 
 The Dead House James R. Lowell . 159 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Vll 
 
 The Death of the Flowers. . . 
 
 The Death of Jasper 
 
 The Delaware Water-Gap. . . 
 
 The Deserted Koad 
 
 The Deserted Wife 
 
 The Discoverers 
 
 The Doubt 
 
 The Door-Step 
 
 The End of the Eainbow . . . 
 
 The Evening Wind 
 
 The Falling Star 
 
 The Fall of Niagara 
 
 The Falls of the Passaic . . . 
 
 The Family Meeting 
 
 The Far West 
 
 The Father's Choice 
 
 The Ferry-Boat 
 
 The Field of the Grounded Arms 
 
 The First Cricket 
 
 The First Snow-Fail 
 
 The First Spring Day . . . . 
 
 The Fight of Paso del Mar . . 
 
 The Flight of Youth 
 
 The Forest Cemetery 
 
 The Fountain of Youth. . . . 
 
 The Freshet 
 
 The Frost 
 
 The Georgetown Hills .... 
 
 The Golden Gate 
 
 The Golden Mile-Stone .... 
 
 The Golden Sunset 
 
 The Great Hereafter 
 
 The Hills of Linganore. . . . 
 
 The Hanging of Black Cudjo . 
 
 The Hoosier's Nest 
 
 The Husband and Wife's Grave 
 
 The Indians 
 
 The Indian Summer 
 
 The .lolly Old Pedagogue . . . 
 
 The Last Leaf 
 
 The Last Visitor 
 
 The Last Watch 
 
 The Late Remorse of Love . . 
 
 The Latter Eain 
 
 The Letter of Marque .... 
 
 The Light-Hoiise 
 
 The Little Beach-Bird .... 
 The Little Black-Eyed Rebel. . 
 The Little Lone Grave on the 
 
 Plains 
 
 The Lonely Christmas .... 
 
 The Lonely Grave 
 
 The Lost Anchor 
 
 The Lost Child 
 
 The Lost Sister 
 
 The Love-Knot 
 
 The Magic Pitcher 
 
 The Maize 
 
 William C. Bryant 
 
 Robert M. Charlion 
 
 Elizabeth F. Ellet. 
 
 Thomas B. Read 
 
 James 0. Percival. 
 
 Arthur C Coxe. 
 
 Wm. D. Howdls 
 
 E. C. Stedman. 
 
 S. M. B. Piatt. 
 
 William C. Bryant 
 
 A. W. Brotherton. 
 
 J. 0- C. Brainard 
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 Charles Sprague . 
 
 H. W. Longfellov). 
 
 Sarah J. Hale . . 
 
 R. H. Stoddard . 
 
 Fitz- Greene Halleck 
 
 Wm. D. Howells . 
 
 James R. Lowell . 
 
 Wm. B. Wright . 
 
 Bayard Taylor, . 
 
 R. H. Stoddard . 
 
 Chas. F. Hoffman. 
 
 H. Butterworth. . 
 
 Alfred B. Street . 
 
 Hannah F. Gould. 
 
 W. L. Shoemaker. 
 
 Edward Pollock. . 
 
 H. W. LongfeUmi). 
 
 Samuel Longfellow. 
 
 Otway Ourry . . 
 
 M. W. Hackelton. 
 
 Paul H. Hayne . 
 
 John Flnley. . . 
 
 Richard H. Dana. 
 
 Charles Sprague . 
 
 John H. Bryant . 
 
 George Arnold . . 
 
 Oliver W. Holmes. 
 
 Henry Ames Blood 
 
 Forceythe Willson . 
 
 L. J. B. Case. . 
 
 Jones Very . . . 
 
 Caroline F. Ome . 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 Richard H. Dana. 
 
 Wm. M. Carleion. 
 
 107 
 473 
 252 
 310 
 151 
 3 
 378 
 118 
 387 
 296 
 448 
 554 
 257 
 147 
 577 
 
 26 
 212 
 254 
 427 
 143 
 279 
 594 
 291 
 248 
 453 
 211 
 109 
 479 
 597 
 168 
 188 
 443 
 488 
 465 
 351 
 187 
 
 18 
 573 
 313 
 180 
 191 
 431 
 150 
 103 
 50 
 606 
 609 
 250 
 
 John B. Kaye. . 582 
 
 L. J. B. Case . . 184 
 
 L. J. B. Case . . 176 
 
 Rose Terry Cooke. 605 
 
 E. C. Willson . . 423 
 
 L. H Siyourney . 139 
 
 Nora Perry . . . 119 
 
 E. a Willson . . 378 
 
 Wm. W. Fosdick . 358 
 
 The Marshes of Glynn .... Sidney Lanier . . 496 
 
 The Meeting Waters E. H WhiUier. . 67 
 
 The Memory of the Heart. . . Daniel Webster. . 181 
 
 The Merrimac John G. Whittier . 94 
 
 The Moneyless Man .... Henry T. Stanton. 403 
 
 Tlie Morning Street John James Piatt. 399 
 
 The Mother Bayard Taylor. . 296 
 
 The Mother Perishing in a Snow- 
 storm Seba Smith ... 52 
 
 The Mountain Christening. . . Josiah G. Holland. 20 
 
 The Mountain Road Julia C. R. Dorr. 101 
 
 The Mountain Winds .... Anonymous . . . 474 
 
 The Movers Wm. D. Hmvells . 362 
 
 The Mowers Myrm B. Benton. 302 
 
 The Murdered Traveler. . . . William C. Bryant 52 
 
 The New Moon William C. Bryant 75 
 
 The Old Burying-Ground . . . J. T. Trowbndge . 163 
 
 The Old Church Road .... Wm. P. Brannan. 431 
 
 The Old Clock on the Stairs. . H W. Longfettow. 182 
 
 The Old Continentals .... Guy H McMaster 622 
 
 The Old Elm at Newbury. . . Hannah F. Gould. 53 
 
 The Old Home Wm. W. Harney. 439 
 
 The Old ]\Iaid Amelia B. Welby . 396 
 
 The Old Man and the Spring 
 
 Leaves John James Piatt. 384 
 
 The Old Mill R. H. Stoddard . 77 
 
 The Old Mill Wm. W. Harney. 381 
 
 The Old Mound Charles A. Jones . 339 
 
 The Old Oaken Bucket. . . . Samuel Woodworth. 171 
 
 The Old School-House .... Louisa M. Chitwood 394 
 
 The Old Sergeant Forceythe Willson . 629 
 
 The Other World Harriet B. Stme . 192 
 
 The Patter of Little Feet . . . Susan E. Wallace. 422 
 
 The Peaks of Otter W. L. Shoemaker. 455 
 
 The Phantom Bayard Taylor. . 287 
 
 The Phantom-Drummer. . . . W. L. Shoemaker. 482 
 
 The Phantom Ship U. W. Longfellow. 19 
 
 The Picket-Guard Ethel Lynn Beers. 491 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers John Pierpont . . 16 
 
 The Pioneer Chimney .... John James Piatt. 353 
 
 The Pioneer Hunters; . . . . F. W. Thomas. . 325 
 
 The Plains Joaquin Miller . . 581 
 
 The Plantation Caroline H. Oilman 505 
 
 The Prairie on Fire George P. Morris. 574 
 
 The Prairies William C. Bryant 569 
 
 The Pumpkin John G. Whittier. 105 
 
 The Puritan Lovers Marian Douglass . 17 
 
 The Quakeress Bride E. C. Kinney . . 283 
 
 The Quaker Widow Bayard Taylor. . 309 
 
 The Rainbow Amelia B. Welby . 376 
 
 The Rainy Day H W. Longfellm. 107 
 
 The Reaper James M. Legare . 537 
 
 The Rhodora R. W. Emerson . 70 
 
 The River in the Mammoth Cave George D. Prentice 405 
 
 The River of Time Benj. F. Taylor . 559 
 
 The Rivulet William C. Bryant 89 
 
 The Romance of a Rose . . . Nora Perry ... 37 
 
 The Royal Guest Julia Ward Howe. 164 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Sad Country William W. Story. 144 
 
 The Sandpiper Celia Thaxter . . 612 
 
 The Shaded "Water William G. Simmg 532 
 
 The Shower James W. Riley . 370 
 
 The Sin of Omission A. W. Brotherton. 421 
 
 The Skeleton in Armor. . . . H. W. Longfellow. 9 
 
 The Slave in the Dismal Swamp H. W. Loncifellow. 518 
 
 The Snow-Storm B. W. Emerson . 109 
 
 The Snow-Storm John 0. Whiitier . 110 
 
 The Song of the Savoyards . . Henry Ames Blood 207 
 
 The Star-Spangled Banner. . . Francis Scott Key. 623 
 
 The Story of Esther Zane, . W. D. Gallagher . 331 
 
 The Stranger on the Sill . . . Thrnnas B. Read . 295 
 
 The Summer Shower Thomas B. Read . 299 
 
 The Survivors Harriet W.Prescott 618 
 
 The Teacher's Dream .... W. H. Venable. . 408 
 
 The Twofold Harvest .... William R. Alger. 144 
 
 The Two Villages Rose Terry Cooke. 185 
 
 The Upper Saranac Alfred B. Street . 251 
 
 The Upright Soul James H. Perkins. 410 
 
 The Uprising Thomas B. Read . 463 
 
 The Valley Brook John H. Bryant . 69 
 
 The Village Blacksmith . . . H. W. LontjfeUow. 157 
 
 The Violet William W. Story. 63 
 
 The Virginians of the Valley Frank 0. Ticknoi: 492 
 
 The Volunteers WiUiam H. Lytic. 626 
 
 The Wabash Biver Jas. M. Thompson. 389 
 
 The Watch of Boon Island . . Celia Thaxter . . 614 
 The Widow's Charge at Her 
 
 Daughter's Bridal . . . . L. H. Sigoumey . 162 
 
 The Wife Anna P. Binnies . 531 
 
 The Willow Elizabeth A. Allen. 71 
 
 The Wind-Flower Jones Very ... 63 
 
 The Winged Worshipers . . . Charles Sprague . 81 
 
 The Witch in the Glass . . . S. M. B. Piatt. . 521 
 
 The White-Footed Deer. . . . William C. Bryant 45 
 
 The Wreck of the Huron . . . Edith M. Tliomas. 616 
 
 The Yellow Moon R. H. Stoddard . 205 
 
 The Yellow Violet William C Bryant 62 
 
 Thou Comest Not A. L. R. Dufour . 372 
 
 Thoughts on the Far Past. . . George J). Prentice 500 
 
 Through the Long Days and Years John Hay . . . 399 
 
 Tides if. If. .... 617 
 
 Tired Mothers Anonymous . . . 306 
 
 'Tis Morning and the Days are 
 
 Long Ben. S. Parker. . 379 
 
 'Tis said that Absence Conquers 
 
 Love . . . .... Fred. W. Thomas. 375 
 
 To a Beautiful Girl . . . Gem-ge D. Prentice 388 
 
 To a Child .... ... John James Piatt . 395 
 
 To a Fair Lady William Maxwell . 526 
 
 To a Mother E. C. Wilhon . . 434 
 
 To a Pine-Tree James R. Lnvell . 96 
 
 To a Waterfowl William C. Bryant 94 
 
 To an Absent Wife George D. Prentice 387 
 
 To an Oriole Edgar Fawceit . . 284 
 
 To , Fitz- Greene Halleck 295 
 
 To Nature, My Mother. . . . Adrian Rouquette . 528 
 
 To One Departed Ben. M. Piatt. . 435 . 
 
 To Seneca Lake James G. Perdval. 245 
 
 To the Daughter of an Old Sweet- 
 heart George D. Prentice 424 
 
 To the Fringed Gentian . . . William C. Bryant 106 
 
 To the Humble-Bee R. W. Emerson . 89 
 
 To the Memory of the .\mericans 
 
 who fell at Eutaw .... Philip Freneau. . 475 
 
 To the Mocking-Bird .... Fortunatm Cosby . 383 
 
 To the Eiver Charles . . . . H. W. Longfellow. 68 
 
 To the Unsatisfied Harriet W. Sewall. 172 
 
 To the W'ssahiccon Frances A. Kemble 264 
 
 Toecoa James M. Legare . 472 
 
 Touch Not .... . Lucy H. Hooper . 285 
 
 Trees in the City Alice B. Xeal . . 208 
 
 Troth-Plight Louise C. Moulton 180 
 
 Truth and Freedom W. D. GnUagher . 400 
 
 Twilight H. W. Longfellow. 609 
 
 Twilight on Sumter B. H. Stoddard . 494 
 
 Two Ina P. Coolbi-ith . 595 
 
 Two Pictures Marian Douglass . 132 
 
 Two Truths H. H. .... 155 
 
 Two Watchers John James Piatt. 618 
 
 Unanswered Prayer George Houghton . 618 
 
 Uncle Joe Alice Gary . . 434 
 
 Uncle Mellick Dines with His 
 
 Master J. R. Eggleston. . 508 
 
 Under a Tree James R. Lowell . 72 
 
 Under the Linden Myron B. Benton. 290 
 
 Unknown Frank 0. Ticknor. 542 
 
 Unseen Spirits Nathaniel P. Willis 211 
 
 Until Death Elizabeth A. Allen. 150 
 
 Up in the Wild A. D. T Whitney. 70 
 
 Upon the Beach Henry D. Thoreau 601 
 
 Valley Forge Thomas B. Read . 268 
 
 Voices of the Sea. . . . Tliomas Lhirfee. . 611 
 
 Wachuset John G. Whittier . 97 
 
 Walden Lake Wm. E. Channing. 65 
 
 Watching Celia Thaxter . . 615 
 
 Weehawken Fitz- Greene Halieck 214 
 
 West Point .... . . H. T. Tuckerman. 234 
 
 What She Brought Me. . . . Henry L. Flash . 529 
 
 When the Cows come Home . . Mary E. Nealey . 428 
 
 When the Grass shall Cover Me Ina D. Coolbrilh . 598 
 
 When the Tide comes In ... if. if. .. . 602 
 
 Where Shall the baby'sdlmple be? Josiah G. Holland. 133 
 
 Which Shall it be? Ethel Lynn Beers. 291 
 
 Who has Bobbed the Ocean Cave? John Shaw . . 624 
 
 Who Was It? Augustus J. Rerjuier 524 
 
 Wild Geese Celia Thaxter . 60 
 
 Woodman, Spare that Tree . . George P. Morris. 298 
 
 Woods in Winter H W. Longfellow. 108 
 
 Wyoming Fitz- Greene Halleck 239 
 
 Yorktown John G. Whittier. 475 
 
 You Left Me Elisabeth Stoddard. 282 
 
''^m^^mm^ 
 
 \$mim 
 
 Oh, who has not heard of the Northmen 
 of yore, 
 
 How flew, like the sea-hird, their sails from 
 the shore; 
 
 How westward they stayed not till, breast- 
 ing the brine. 
 
 They hailed Narragansett, the land of the 
 vine? 
 
 Then the war-songs of Rollo, his pennon 
 and glaive, 
 
 "Were heard as they danced by the moon- 
 lighted wave. 
 
 And their golden-haired wives bore them 
 sons of the soil, 
 
 While raged with the red-skins their feud 
 and turmoil. 
 
 And who has not seen, mid the summer's 
 gay crowd. 
 
 That old pillared tower of their fortalice 
 proud. 
 
 How it stands solid proof of the sea-chief- 
 tains' reign 
 
 Ere came with Columbus those galleys of 
 Spain ? 
 
 'Twas a claim for their kindred: an ear- 
 nest of sway, — 
 
 By the stout-hearted Cabot made good in 
 its day, — 
 
 Of the Cross of St. George on the Chesa- 
 peake's tide, 
 
 Where lovely Virginia arose like a bride. 
 
 Came the pilgrims with Winthrop; and, 
 
 saint of the West, 
 Came Robert of Jamestown, the brave and 
 
 the blest; 
 Came Smith, the bold rover, and Rolfe — 
 
 with his ring 
 To wed sweet Matoaka, child of a king. 
 
 Undaunted they came, every peril to 
 dare, — 
 
 Of tribes fiercer far than the wolf in his 
 lair; 
 
 Of the wild irksome woods, where in am- 
 bush they lay; 
 
 Of their terror by night and their arrow 
 by day. 
 
 And so where our capes cleave the ice of 
 
 the poles. 
 Where groves of the orange scent sea-coast 
 
 and shoals. 
 Where the froward Atlantic uplifts its last 
 
 crest. 
 Where the sun, when he sets, seeks the 
 
 East from the West: 
 
 The clime that from ocean to ocean ex- 
 pands. 
 
 The fields to the snow-drifts that stretch 
 from the sands. 
 
 The wilds they have conquered of mount- 
 ain and plain. 
 
 Those pilgrims have made them fair Free- 
 dom's domain. 
 
 And the bread of dependence if proiidly 
 they spurned, 
 
 'Twas the soul of their fathers that kin- 
 dled and burned, 
 
 'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them 
 that ran ; 
 
 They held — to be free is the birthright of 
 man. 
 
 So oft the old liou, majestic of mane, 
 Sees cubs of his cave breaking loose from 
 
 his reign; 
 Unmeet to be his if they braved not his 
 
 eye, 
 He gave them the spirit his own to defy. 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Com.. 
 (3) 
 
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 
 
 " Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
 Who, with thy hollow breast 
 Still ill rude armor drest, 
 
 Comest to daunt me! 
 Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
 But with thy fleshless palms 
 Stretched, as if asking alms. 
 
 Why dost thou haunt me?" 
 
 "I was a Viking old! 
 
 My deedn, though manifold, 
 
 ISTo Skald in song has told, 
 
 No Saga taught thee ! 
 Take heed, that in thy verse 
 Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
 Else dread a dead man's curse; 
 
 For this I sought thee. 
 
 Then, from those cavernous eyes 
 Pale flashes seemed to rise. 
 As when the jSTorthern skies 
 
 Gleam in December; 
 And, like the water's flow 
 Under December's snow. 
 Came a dull voice of woe 
 
 From the heart's chamber. 
 
 "Far in the Northern Land, 
 By the wild Baltic's strand, 
 I, with my childish hand, 
 
 Tamed the gerfalcon; 
 And, with my skates fast-bound, 
 Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
 That the poor whimpering hound 
 
 Trembled to walk on. 
 
 (91 
 
10 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGEND ABY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 " Oft to his frozen lair 
 Tracked I tlie grisly bear, 
 While from my path the hare 
 
 Eled like a shadow; 
 Oft through the forest dark 
 Followed the were-wolf's bark, 
 Until the soaring lark 
 
 Sang from the meadow. 
 
 "Bright in her father's hall 
 Shields gleamed upon the wall. 
 Loud sang the minstrels all. 
 
 Chanting his glory; 
 "When of old Hildebrand 
 I asked his daughter's hand, 
 Mute did the minstrels stand 
 
 To hear my story. 
 
 "But when I older grew. 
 Joining a corsair's crew. 
 O'er the dark sea I flew 
 
 With the marauders. 
 Wild was the life we led, 
 Many the souls that sped, 
 Many the hearts that bled, 
 
 By our steru orders. 
 
 "While the brown ale he quaffed, 
 Loud then the champion laughed, 
 And as the wind-gusts waft 
 
 The sea-foam brightly. 
 So the loud laugh of scorn. 
 Out of those lips unshorn, 
 From the deep drinking-horn 
 
 Blew the foam lightly. 
 
 "Manjr a wassail-bout 
 Wore the long Winter out; 
 Often our midnight shout 
 
 Set the cocks crowing. 
 As we the Berserk's tale 
 Measured in cups of ale. 
 Draining the oaken pail. 
 
 Filled to o'erflowing. 
 
 "She was a Prince's child, 
 
 I but a Viking wild, 
 
 And though she blushed and smiled, 
 
 I was discarded! 
 Should not the dove so white 
 Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
 Why did they leave that night 
 
 Her nest unguarded? 
 
 " Once as I told in glee 
 Tales of the stormy sea, 
 Soft eyes did gaze on me, 
 
 Burning yet tender; 
 And as the white stars shine 
 On the dark Norway pine. 
 On that dark heart of mine 
 
 Fell their soft splendor. 
 
 " Scarce had I put to sea, 
 Bearing the maid with me. 
 Fairest of all was she 
 
 Among the !N"orsemen ! 
 When on the white sea-strand. 
 Waving his armed hand. 
 Saw we old Hildebrand, 
 
 With twenty horsemen. 
 
 "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
 Yielding, yet half afraid. 
 And ill the forest's shade 
 
 Our vows were plighted. 
 Under its loosened vest 
 Fluttered her little breast, 
 Like l)irds within their nest 
 
 By the ha^\'k frighted. 
 
 "Then launched they to the blast. 
 Bent like a reed each mast, 
 Yet we were gaining fast, 
 
 When the wind failed us; 
 And with a sudden flaw 
 Came round the gusty Skaw, 
 So that our foe wc saw 
 
 Laush as he hailed us. 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 11 
 
 "And as to catch the gale 
 Round veered the flapping sail, 
 Death! was the helmsman's hail, 
 
 Death without quarter! 
 Mid-ships with iron keel 
 Struck we her ribs of steel; 
 Down her black hulk did reel 
 
 Through the black water! 
 
 "As with his wings aslant. 
 Sails the fierce cormorant, 
 Seeking some rocky haunt 
 
 With his prey laden, 
 So toward the open main. 
 Beating to sea again. 
 Through the wild hurricane, 
 
 Bore I the maiden. 
 
 " Three weeks we westward bore. 
 And when the storm was o'er. 
 Cloud-like we saw the shore 
 
 Stretching to lecAvard; 
 There for my lady's bower 
 Built I the lofty tower, 
 "Which, to this very hour. 
 
 Stands looking seaward. 
 
 " Still grew my bosom then. 
 Still as a stagnant fen! 
 Hateful to me were men. 
 
 The sunlight hateful! 
 In the vast forest here. 
 Clad in my warlike gear, 
 Fell I upon my spear, 
 
 0, death was grateful! 
 
 "There lived we many years; 
 Time dried the maiden's tears; 
 She had forgot her fears, 
 
 She was a mother; 
 Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
 Under that tower she lies; 
 Ne'er shall the sun arise 
 
 On such another! 
 
 "Thus, seamed with many scars, 
 Bursting these prison bars. 
 Up to its native stars 
 
 My soul ascended! 
 There from the flowing bowl 
 Deep drinks the warrior's soul. 
 Skoal! to the N'orthlaud! skoal!" 
 
 Thus the tale ended. 
 
 Henry Wadsworih Loncifdloxc. 
 
12 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC ETC. 
 
 NOREMBEGA. 
 
 [NoREMBEGA, Or NoHmbegue, is the name given by early French fishermen and explorers to a fabulous country 
 south-west of Cape Breton, first discovered by Verrazzani in 1524. It was supposed to have a magnificent city of the same 
 name on a great river, probably the Penobscot. The site of this barbaric city is laid down on a map published at 
 Antwerp in 1570. In 1604, Champlain sailed in search of the Northern Eldorado, twenty-two leagues up the Penobscot 
 from the Isle Haute. Pie supposed the river to be that of Norembega, but wisely came to the conclusion that those 
 travelers who told of the great city had never seen it. He saw no evidences of any thing like civilization, but mentions 
 the finding of a cross, very old and mossy, iu the woods.] 
 
 The winding way the serpent takes 
 
 The mystic water took, 
 From where, to count its beaded lakes, 
 
 The forest sped its brook. 
 
 A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore, 
 
 Eor sun or stars to fall, 
 "While evermore, behind, before. 
 
 Closed in the forest wall. 
 
 The dim wood hiding underneath 
 Wan flowers without a name; 
 
 Life tangled with decay and death, 
 League after league the same. 
 
 Unbroken over swamp and hill 
 
 The rounding shadow lay, 
 Save where the river cut at will 
 
 A pathway to the day. 
 
 Beside that track of air and light, 
 
 "Weak as a child unweaned, 
 At shut of day a Christian knight 
 
 Upon his henchman leaned. 
 
 The embers of the sunset's fires 
 Along the clouds burned down; 
 
 "I see," he said, "the domes and spires 
 Of Worembega town." 
 
 "Alack! the domes, master mine. 
 
 Are golden clouds on high; 
 Yon spire is but the branchless pine 
 
 That cuts the evening sky." 
 
 " Oh hush and hark ! What sounds are these 
 But chants and holy hymns?" 
 
 " Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the trees 
 Through all their leafy limbs." 
 
 "Is it a chapel bell that fills 
 
 The air with its low tone?" 
 " Thou hear'st the tinkle of the rills. 
 
 The insect's vesper drone." 
 
 "The Christ be praised! — He sets for me 
 
 A blessed cross in sight!" 
 "l^ow, nay, 'tis but yon blasted tree 
 
 With two gaunt arms outright!" 
 
 "Be it wind so sad or tree so stark. 
 
 It mattereth not, my knave; 
 Methinks to funeral hymns I hark. 
 
 The cross is for my grave! 
 
 "My life is sped; I shall not see 
 
 My home-set sails again; 
 The sweetest eyes of lN"ormandie 
 
 Shall watch for me in vain. 
 
 "Yet onward still to ear and eye 
 
 The baffling marvel calls; 
 I fain would look before I die 
 
 On ISTorembega's walls. 
 
 " So, haply, it shall be thy part 
 
 At Christian feet to lay 
 The mystery of the desert's heart 
 
 My dead hand plucked away. 
 
 "Leave me an hour of rest; go thou 
 And look from yonder heights ; 
 
 Perchance the valley even now 
 Is starred with city lights." 
 
 The henchman climbed the nearest hill, — 
 
 He saw nor tower nor town. 
 But through the drear woods, lone and still 
 
 The river rolling down. 
 
'The winding way the serpent takes 
 The mystic water took," 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 15 
 
 He heard the stealthy feet of things 
 Whose shapes he couhl not see, 
 
 A flutter as of evil wings, 
 The fall of a dead tree. 
 
 The pines stood black against the moon, 
 
 A sword of tiro beyond; 
 He heard the wolf howl, and the loon 
 
 Laugh from his reedy jjond. 
 
 He turned him back: "0 master dear, 
 
 We are but men misled; 
 And thou hast sought a city here. 
 
 To find a grave instead." 
 
 "As God shall will! what matters where 
 A true m.an's cross may stand, 
 
 So Heaveu be o'er it here as there 
 In pleasant IsTorman land? 
 
 "These woods, perchance, no secret hide 
 
 Of lordly tower and hall; 
 Yon river in its wanderings wide 
 
 Has washed no city wall; 
 
 "Yet mirrored in the sullen stream 
 
 The holy stars are given: 
 Is ITorembega, then, a dream 
 
 Whose waking is in Heaven? 
 
 "ISTo builded wonder of these lands 
 My weary eyes shall see; 
 
 A city never made with hands 
 Alone awaiteth me — 
 
 "'Urbs Syon mystica'; I see 
 
 Its mansions passing fair, 
 '■Condita ccelo'; let me be. 
 
 Dear Lord, a dweller there!" 
 
 Above the dying exile hung 
 
 The vision of the bard. 
 As faltered on his failing tongue 
 
 The song of good Bernard. 
 
 The henchman dug at dawn a grave 
 
 Beneath the hemlocks brown, 
 And to the desert's keeping gave 
 
 The lord of lief and town. 
 
 Years after, when the Sieur Champlain 
 Sailed up the unknown stream, 
 
 And J^orcmbega proved again 
 A shadow and a dream. 
 
 He found the Norman's nameless grave 
 
 Within the hemlock's shade. 
 And, stretching wide its arms to save. 
 
 The sign that God had made, 
 
 The cross-boughed tree that marked the spot 
 
 And made it holy ground: 
 He needs the earthly city not 
 
 Who hath the heavenly found. 
 
 John G. WhiUier. 
 
16 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 PILGEIM SONG. 
 
 Over the mountain-wave, see where they 
 
 come; 
 Storm-cloud and wintry wind welcome them 
 
 home ; 
 Yet where the sounding gale howls to the 
 
 sea, 
 There their song peals along, deep-toned 
 and free. 
 " Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; 
 Where the free dare to be, — this is our 
 home ! " 
 
 Dim grew the forest path: onward they 
 
 trod ; 
 Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting in 
 
 God! 
 Gray men and blooming maids, high rose 
 
 their song; 
 Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever 
 along : 
 "Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; 
 "Where the free dare to be, — this is our 
 home ! " 
 
 England hath sunny dales, dearly they 
 
 bloom ; 
 Scotia hath heather hills, sweet their per- 
 fume : 
 Yet through the wilderness cheerful we 
 
 stray, 
 Ifative land, native land, home far away! 
 "Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; 
 Where the free dare to be, — this is our 
 home ! " 
 
 Let thrive the glory-wreath, torn by the 
 
 blast; 
 Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward 
 
 they passed. 
 Green be their mossy graves! ours be their 
 
 fame. 
 While their song peals along, ever the same : 
 "Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; 
 Where the free dare to be, — this is our 
 home ! " 
 
 George Imnt. 
 
 THE PILGEIM FATHERS. 
 
 The pilgrim fathers, — where are they? 
 
 The waves that brought them o'er 
 Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 
 
 As they break along the shore: 
 Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that A&y, 
 
 When the May-Elower moored below. 
 When the sea around was black with storms. 
 
 And white the shore with snow. 
 
 The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep, 
 
 Still brood upon the tide; 
 And his rocks yet keep their watch by the 
 deep, 
 
 To stay its waves of pride. 
 
 But the snow-white sail, that he gave to 
 the gale. 
 When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; 
 As an angel's wing, through an opening 
 cloud, 
 Is seen, and then withdrawn. 
 
 The pilgi'im exile — sainted name! — 
 
 The hill, whose icy brow 
 Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's 
 flame, 
 
 In the morning's flame burns now. 
 And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 
 
 On the hill-side and the sea, 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 17 
 
 Still lies where he laid his houseless head; — 
 But the pilgrim — where is he? 
 
 The pilgrim fathers ai'e at rest: 
 
 When Summer's throned on high, 
 And the world's warm breast is in verdure 
 dressed, 
 
 Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
 The earliest ray of the golden day 
 
 Ou that hallowed spot is cast; 
 And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 
 
 Looks kindly on that spot last. 
 
 The pilgrim spirit lias not fled: 
 
 It walks in noon's broad light; 
 And it watches the bed of the glorious 
 dead, 
 With the holy stars, by night. 
 It watches the bed of the brave who have 
 bled, 
 And shall guai'd this ice-bound shore, 
 Till the waves of the bay, where the May- 
 Flower lay. 
 Shall foam and freeze no more. 
 
 John Pierpont. 
 
 THE PURITAN LOVERS. 
 
 Drawn out, like lingering bees, to share 
 
 The last, sweet summer weather, 
 Beneath the reddening maples walked 
 
 Two Puritans together, — 
 
 A youth and maiden, heeding not 
 
 The woods which round them brightened. 
 
 Just conscious of each other's thoughts, 
 Half happy and half frightened. 
 
 But as to-day they softly talked. 
 That serious youth and maiden, 
 
 Their plainest words strange beauty wore. 
 Like weeds with dewdrops laden. 
 
 The saddest theme had something sweet, 
 The gravest, something tender, 
 
 While with slow stejis they wandered on. 
 Mid summer's fading splendor. 
 
 Grave were their brows, and few their words. 
 And coarse their garb and simple; 
 
 The maiden's very cheek seemed shy 
 To own its wordly dimple. 
 
 For stern the time; they dwelt with Care, 
 
 And Fear was oft a comer; 
 A sober April ushered in 
 
 The Pilgrim's toilful summer. 
 
 He said, "Next week the church will hold 
 A day of prayer and fasting ; " 
 
 And then he stopped, and bent to pick 
 A white life-everlasting, — 
 
 A silvery bloom, with fadeless leaves; 
 
 He gave it to her, sighing; 
 A mute confession was his glance, 
 
 Iler blush, a mute replying. 
 
 And stern their creed; they tarried here 
 
 Mere desert-land sojourners: 
 They must not dream of mirth or rest, 
 
 God's humble lesson-learners. 
 
 "Mchetabel!" (at last he spoke,) 
 "My fairest one and dearest! 
 
 One thought is ever to my heart 
 The sweetest and the nearest. 
 
 The temple's sacred perfume round 
 Their week-day robes was clinging; 
 
 Their mirth was but the golden bells 
 On priestly garments ringing. 
 
 "You read my soul; you know my wish; 
 
 0, grant me its fulfilling!" 
 She answered low, " If Heaven smiles, 
 
 And if my father's willing!" 
 
18 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 No idle passion swayed her licart, 
 This quaint ISTew England beauty! 
 
 Faith was the guardian of her life, — 
 Obedience was a duty. 
 
 Too truthful for reserve, she stood, 
 Iler brown eyes earthward easting, 
 
 And held with trembling hand the while 
 Her white life-everlasting. 
 
 Her sober answer pleased the youth, — 
 Frank, clear, and gravely cheerful; 
 
 He left her at her father's door. 
 Too happy to be fearful. 
 
 She looked on high, with earnest plea, 
 And Heaven seemed bright above her; 
 
 And Avhen she shyly spoke his name, 
 Her father praised her lover. 
 
 And when, that night, she sought her couch, 
 With head-board high and oklen. 
 
 Her prayer was praise, her pillow down, 
 And all her dreams Avere golden. 
 
 And still upon her throbbing heart, 
 In bloom and breath undying, 
 
 A few life-everlasting flowers, 
 Her lover's gift, were l3'ing. 
 
 Yenus' myrtles, fresh and green! 
 
 Cupid's blushing roses! 
 Not on your classic flowers alone 
 
 The sacred light reposes; 
 
 Though gentler care may shield your buds. 
 
 From north-winds rude and blasting, 
 As dear to love, those few, pale flowers 
 
 Of white life-everlasting. 
 
 Marian Douglu 
 
 THE INDIANS. 
 
 Alas! alas! for them — those fated bauds. 
 Whose monarch tread was on these broad, 
 
 green lands ! 
 Our fathers called them savage — them, 
 
 whose bread 
 In the dark hour, those famished fathers 
 
 fed ; 
 A\^e call them savage. Oh, be just! 
 
 Their outraged feelings scan; 
 A voice comes forth, — 'tis from the dust, — 
 
 The savage was a man ! 
 Think ye he loved not? Who stood by. 
 
 And in his toils took part? 
 AVoman was there to bless his eye, — 
 
 The savage had a heart! 
 Tliink ye he yirayed not? When on high 
 
 He heard the thunders roll. 
 What bade him look beyond the sky? 
 
 The savage had a soul! 
 I venerate the Pilgrim's cause. 
 
 Yet for the red nu»n dare t(.> plead. 
 ^Ve bow to Heaven's recorded laws: 
 
 He turned to Nature for a creed 
 
 Beneath the pillared dome 
 AVe seek our God in prayer; 
 
 Througli boundless wo<i(ls lie loved to roam, 
 And tlie (4reat Spirit worshipped there. 
 But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt; 
 To one divinity with us he knelt; 
 Freedom — the selfsame freedom we adore — 
 Bade him defend his violated shore. 
 
 He saw the cloud, ordained to grow 
 
 And burst upon his hills in woe; 
 
 He saw his people withering by, 
 
 Beneath the invader's evil eye; 
 Strange feet were trampling on his fathers' 
 bones; 
 
 At midnight hour lie woke to gaze 
 
 Upon his happy cabin's blaze, 
 And listen to his children's dying groans. 
 
 He saw, and, nuiddening at the sight. 
 
 Gave his bold bosom to the fight; 
 
 To tiger-rage his soul was driven; 
 
 Mercy was not or sought or given; 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 19 
 
 The pale man from his lands must 
 
 He would be free or he would die. 
 Alas for them! — their day is o'er, 
 Their fires are out from hill and shore; 
 No more for them the wild deer bounds; 
 The plow is on their hunting-grounds; 
 
 The pale man's axe rings through their 
 
 woods ; 
 The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods; 
 
 Their pleasant springs are dry; 
 Their children, — look ! by power oppressed. 
 Beyond the mountains of the west 
 
 Their cJiildren go — to die! 
 
 Charles Spmgue. 
 
 THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
 
 In Mather's Magnalia Christi, 
 Of the old colonial time. 
 
 May be found in prose the legend 
 That is here set down in rhyme. 
 
 But Master Lamberton muttered. 
 And under his breath said he, 
 
 "This ship is so crank and walty, 
 I fear our grave she will be!" 
 
 A ship sailed from New Haven, 
 And the keen and frosty airs 
 
 That filled her sails at parting 
 
 "Were heavy with good men's prayers. 
 
 And the ships that came from England. 
 
 When the winter months were gone, 
 Brought no tidings of this vessel 
 
 Nor of Master Lamberton. 
 
 '' Lord ! if it be thy pleasure," — 
 Thus prayed the old divine, — 
 
 " To bury our friends in the ocean. 
 Take them, for they are thine!" 
 
 This put the people to prating 
 
 That the Lord would let them hear 
 
 What in his greater wisdom 
 
 He had done with friends so dear. 
 
20 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 And at last their prayers were answered : — 
 It was in the month of June, 
 
 An hour before the sunset 
 Of a windy afternoon, 
 
 Wlien, steadily steering landward, 
 
 A ship was seen below. 
 And they knew it was Lanilierton, Master, 
 
 Who sailed so long ago. 
 
 On she came, with a cloud of canvas. 
 Right against the wind that blew. 
 
 Until the eye could distinguish 
 The faces of the crew. 
 
 Then fell her straining topmasts, 
 Hanging tangled in the shrouds, 
 
 And her sails were loosened and lifted, 
 And blown away like clouds. 
 
 And the masts, with all their rigging, 
 
 Fell slowly, one by one, 
 A]id the hulk dilated and vanished. 
 
 As a sea-mist iu the sun ! 
 
 And the people who saw this marvel 
 
 Each said unto his friend, 
 That this was the mould of their vessel. 
 
 And thus her tragic end. 
 
 And the pastor of the village 
 Gave thanks to God in prayer. 
 
 That, to quiet their troubled spirits, 
 lie had sent this Ship of Air. 
 
 Henry Wadsmorlh Longfellow. 
 
 THE MOUivrTAIX CIIRISTENIE'G. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE CONNECTICUT. 
 
 How did they manage to busy themselves — 
 Our sires, in the early plantation days? 
 
 Grinding their axes and whittling their 
 helves ? 
 Fishing for salmon and planting maize? 
 
 How when the chopping and splitting were 
 done? 
 HoAV when the corn-fields were planted 
 and hoed? 
 How when the salmon had ceased to run, 
 And the bushes were cleared from the 
 old Bay Road? 
 
 They were not men who stood still in their 
 shoes. 
 Or who clung to their cabins when forests 
 were damp; 
 So, when labor was finished, the}' cut the 
 blues 
 And their sticks for a lively exploring 
 tramp. 
 
 'T was a Ijeantiful morning in June, they say — 
 Two hundred and twenty years ago. 
 
 When armed and equipped for a holiday. 
 They stood where Connecticut's waters 
 flow. 
 
 With five upon this side and five upon that, — 
 Agawam's bravest and hardiest men. 
 
 Hailing each other with lusty chat, 
 
 That the tall woods caught and tossed 
 
 Holyoke, the gentle and daring, stood 
 On the Eastern bank Avith his trusty four. 
 
 And Rowland Thomas, the gallant and good, 
 Headed the baud on the other shore. 
 
 "Due North!" shouted Holyoke and all 
 his men. 
 "Due North!" answered they on the 
 opposite beach; 
 And northward they started, the sturdy ten. 
 With their haversacks filled and a musket 
 each. 
 
 The women ran panting to bid them good- 
 bye 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 21 
 
 And sweet Maiy Pynchon was tliere (I Up the rough ledges they clambered amain, 
 g^^6ss), liolyoke and Thomas on either hand, 
 
 With a sigh in her throat and a tear in Till high in mid-passage they paused, and 
 her eye then 
 
 As liolyoke marched into the wilderness. They tearfully gazed on a lovely land. 
 
 And the hoys were all wondering where 
 they would go, 
 And what they would meet in the dan- 
 gerous way; 
 And the good wives were gossiping to and 
 fro. 
 And prating and shaking their heads all 
 day. 
 
 Up the bright river they traveled abreast, 
 Calling each other from bank to bank, 
 
 Till the hot sun slowly rolled into the West, 
 And gilded the mountain-tops where it 
 sank. 
 
 They lighted their camp-fires and ate of 
 their fare, 
 And drank of the water that ran at tlieir 
 feet, 
 And wrapped in tlie balm of the cool even- 
 ing air. 
 Sank down to a sleej^ that was dreamless 
 and sweet. 
 
 The great falls roared in their ears all night, 
 And the sturgeon splashed and the wild- 
 cat screamed, 
 But they did not wake till the morning 
 light 
 lied through the willowy branches beamed. 
 
 Brief was the toilet and short the grace. 
 And strong were the viands that broke 
 their fast; 
 Then onward they pressed till they reached 
 the place 
 Where the river between two mountains 
 passed 
 
 Down by the Ox-Bow's southerly shore. 
 
 Licking the wave, bowed an antlered buck ; 
 And ISTorthward and Westward, a league or 
 more. 
 Stretched the broad meadows of Xono- 
 tuck. 
 
 Straight up the river an Indian town 
 Filled the soft air with its musical hum, 
 
 And children's voices were wafted down 
 From the peaceful shadows of Hockanum. 
 
 Rude little patclies of greening maize 
 Drappled the landscape far and Avide, 
 
 And aAvay in tlie Xortli in tlie sunset's blaze, 
 Sugar-loaf stood and was glorified! 
 
 The morning dawned on the double group 
 Facing each other on opposite shores, 
 
 Wliere ages ago with a mighty swoo[( 
 The waters parted the mountain doors. 
 
 "Let us christen the mountains," said liol- 
 yoke in glee; 
 " Let us christen the mountains," said 
 Thomas again; 
 " That mountain for you, and this mount- 
 ain for me ! " 
 And their trusty fellows responded: 
 "Amen!" 
 
 Then Holyoke buried his palm in the 
 stream. 
 And tossed the pure spray toward the 
 mountain's brow, 
 And said, while it shone in the sun's first 
 beam, 
 " Fair mountain, thou art Mount Holyoke 
 now!" 
 
9-^ 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Tlie smi shone full on the "Western height, 
 
 When Thomas came up from the crystal 
 
 tide : 
 
 "I name thee Thomas by Christian rite!" 
 
 "Thou art Mount Thomas!" they all 
 
 replied. 
 
 They paused but a moment when rounding 
 a bluff 
 Shot an Indian's boat with its stealth3' 
 oar, 
 And with strings of wampum and gaudy 
 stuff 
 They beckoned it in to the Western 
 shore. 
 
 Gracious and brief was the bargain made 
 By the white man's potent pantomime; 
 
 And the delicate boat with its dainty blade 
 Bore them over the river one man at a 
 time. 
 
 There were greetings and jests in every 
 mouth, 
 And hearty farewells to "Holyoke" and 
 "Tom": 
 Then the gleeful men turned their steps due 
 South, 
 And took a bee-line for Agawam. 
 
 They passed Willimansett at noon that day, 
 And Chicopee just as the sun went down, 
 
 And \vhen the last daylight had faded a^vay, 
 All hungry and weary they entered the 
 town. 
 
 Mr. Pynchon demanded a full report. 
 Which Holyoke wrote for the two com- 
 mands ; 
 And when he went down to the General 
 Court 
 He placed it in Governor Winthrop's 
 hands. 
 
 Josiah Gilbert Holland. 
 
 THE CHANGELING. 
 
 For the fairest maid in Hampton 
 
 They needed not to search, 
 Who saw young Anna Favor 
 
 Come walking into church, — 
 
 Or bringing from the meadows. 
 
 At set of harvest-day, 
 The frolic of the blackbirds. 
 
 The sweetness of the ha}^ 
 
 Wow the weariest of all mothers, 
 The saddest two-years bride. 
 
 She scowls in the face of her husband. 
 And spurns her child aside. 
 
 "Hake out the red coals, goodman, — 
 For there the child shall lie. 
 
 Till the black witch comes to fetch her. 
 And both up chimney fly. 
 
 "It's never my own little daughter, 
 It's never my own," she said; 
 
 " The witches have stolen my Anna, 
 And left me an imp instead. 
 
 " 0, fair and sweet was my baby. 
 Blue eyes, and hair of gold; 
 
 But this is ugly and wrinkled. 
 Cross, and cunning, and old. 
 
 " I hate the touch of her fingers, 
 
 I hate the feel of her skin; 
 It's not the milk from my bosom, 
 
 But my blood, that she sucks in. 
 
 "My face grows sharp with the torment: 
 Look! my arms are skin and bone! — 
 
 Rake open the red coals, goodman. 
 And the witch shall have her own. 
 
 "She'll come when she hears it crying, 
 In the shape of an owl or bat, 
 
 And she'll bring us our darling Anna 
 In place of her screeching brat." 
 
 Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, 
 Laid his hand upon her head: 
 
 " Thy sorrow is great, woman ! 
 I sorrow with thee," he said. 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 23 
 
 "The paths to trouble are many, 
 And never but one sure Avay 
 
 Leads out to the light beyond it: 
 My poor wife, let us pray." 
 
 Then he said to the great All-Father, 
 "Thy daughter is weak and blind; 
 
 Let her sight come back, and clothe her 
 Once more in her right mind. 
 
 "Lead her out of this evil shadow, 
 
 Out of these fancies wild; 
 Let the holy love of the mother 
 
 Turn again to her child. 
 
 "Make her lips like the lips of Mary 
 
 Kissing her blessed Sou; 
 Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, 
 
 Rest on her little one. 
 
 " Comfort the soul of thy handmaid. 
 
 Open her prison-door. 
 And thine shall be all the glory 
 
 And praise forevermore." 
 
 Then into the face of its mother 
 The baby looked up and smiled; 
 
 And the cloud of her soul was lifted. 
 And she knew her little child. 
 
 A beam of the slant west sunshine 
 Made the wan face almost fair, 
 
 Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder. 
 And the rings of pale gold hair. 
 
 She kissed it on lip and forehead. 
 She kissed it on cheek and chin, 
 
 And she bared her snow-white bosom 
 To the lips so pale and thin. 
 
 0, fair on her bridal morning 
 
 "Was the nuud who blushed and smiled, 
 But fairer to Ezra Dalton 
 
 Looked the mother of his child. 
 
 With more than a lover's fondness 
 He stooped to her worn young face. 
 
 And the nursing child and the mother 
 He folded in one embrace. 
 
 "Blessed be God!" he murmured. 
 
 "Blessed be God!" she said; 
 "For I see, who once was blinded, — 
 
 I live, who once was dead. 
 
 "Now mount and ride, my goodman, 
 As thou lovest thy own soul! 
 
 Woe's me, if my wicked fancies 
 Be the death of Goody Cole ! " 
 
24 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Ilis horse lie saddled and bridled, 
 And into the night rode he, — 
 
 Now through the great bkick woodland, 
 Now by the white-beached sea. 
 
 lie rode throngh the silent clearings, 
 
 He came to the ferry ^vide. 
 And thrice he called to the boatman 
 
 Asleep on the other side. 
 
 lie set his horse to the river, 
 He SAvam to Newbury town. 
 
 And he called up Justice Sewall 
 In his nightcap and his gown. 
 
 And the grave and worshipful justice 
 (Upon whose soul be peace!) 
 
 Set his name to the jailer's warrant 
 For Groodwife Cole's release. 
 
 Then through the night the hoof-beats 
 
 Went sounding like a flail; 
 And Goody Cole at cockcrow 
 
 Came forth from Ipswich jail. 
 
 John Oreenleaf Whittier. 
 
 LADY WENTWORTH. 
 
 One hundred years ago, and something 
 
 more. 
 In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern 
 
 door, 
 Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose. 
 Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows. 
 Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. 
 Above her head, resplendent on the sign, 
 The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, 
 In scarlet coat and periwig of flax. 
 Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms. 
 Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, 
 
 And half resolved, though he was past his 
 
 prime. 
 And rather damaged by the lapse of time, 
 To fall down at her feet, and to declare 
 The passion that had driven him to despair. 
 For from his lofty station he had seen 
 Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green. 
 Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in 
 
 hand, 
 Down the long lane, and out into the land. 
 And knew that he was far upon the way 
 To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay! 
 
 Just then the meditations of the Earl 
 Were interrupted by a little gii'l, 
 Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair. 
 Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders 
 
 bare; 
 A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, 
 Sure to be rounded into beauty soon ; 
 A creature men would worship and adore, 
 Though now in mean habiliments she bore 
 A pail of water, dripping, through the street. 
 And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. 
 It was a pretty picture, full of grace, — 
 The slender form, the delicate, thin face; 
 The swaying motion, as she hurried by; 
 The shining feet, the laughter in her eye. 
 That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and 
 
 glanced. 
 As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced: 
 And with uncommon feelings of delight 
 The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. 
 Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say 
 These words, or thought he did, as plain 
 
 as clay: 
 " Martha Hilton ! Fie ! how dare you go 
 About the town half dressed, and looking so ! " 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 25 
 
 At which the gj'psy laughed, and straight 
 
 replied : 
 "No matter how I look; I yet shall ride 
 In nij own chariot, ma'am." And on the 
 
 child 
 _ Tlie Eai'l of Halifax henignly smiled, 
 As with her heavj' hurden she passed on. 
 Looked hack, then turned the corner, and 
 
 was gone. 
 
 What next, upon that memorable day. 
 Arrested his attention was a gay 
 And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun, 
 The silver harness glittering in the sun. 
 Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, 
 Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank. 
 While all alone within the chariot sat 
 A portly person with three-cornered hat, 
 A crimson velvet coat, head high in air. 
 Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair. 
 And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees. 
 Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. 
 Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed. 
 Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast; 
 For this was Governor Wentwoi'th, driving 
 
 down 
 To Little Harbor, just beyond the town. 
 Where his Great House stood looking out 
 
 to sea, 
 A goodly place, where it was good to be. 
 
 It was a pleasant mansion, an abode 
 Near and yet hidden from the great high-road, 
 Sequestered among trees, a noble pile. 
 Baronial and colonial in its style; 
 Gal)les and dormer-Avindows evei'j'vs^here, 
 And stacks of chimneys rising high in air, — 
 Pandsean pipes, on which all winds that blew 
 Made mournful music the whole winter 
 
 through. 
 Within, unwonted splendors met the eye, 
 Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry; 
 Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen 
 
 dogs 
 Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of 
 
 logs; 
 Doors opening into darkness unawares. 
 
 Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs; 
 And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames. 
 The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture 
 
 names. 
 Such was the mansion where the great man 
 
 dwelt, 
 A widower and childless; and he felt 
 The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom. 
 That like a presence haunted every room; 
 For though not given to weakness, he could 
 
 feel 
 The pain of wounds, that ache because they 
 
 heal. 
 
 The years came and the j'cars went, — seven 
 
 in all. 
 And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the 
 
 Hall; 
 The dawns their splendor through its cham- 
 bers shed. 
 The sunsets flushed its western windows red; 
 The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain ; 
 Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again ; 
 Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed 
 
 and died, 
 In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide, 
 Shi}is went to sea, and ships came honre 
 
 from sea. 
 And the slow years sailed by and ceased 
 
 to be. 
 And all these years had Martha Hilton 
 
 served 
 In the Great House, not wholly unobseiwed : 
 By day, by night, the silver crescent greA\', 
 Though hidden by clouds, her light still 
 
 shining through ; 
 A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, 
 A servant who made service seem divine! 
 Through her each room was fair to look upon ; 
 The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone. 
 The very knocker on the outer door. 
 If she but passed, was brighter than before. 
 
 And now the ceaseless turning of the mill 
 Of Time, that never for an hour stands still. 
 Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birthday, 
 And }M)wdered his brown hair with silver-gray. 
 
26 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Tlie robin, the foi-cruunor of the spring-, 
 The bhiehird witli his jocund carolling, 
 The restless swallows building in the eaves, 
 The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves. 
 The lilacs tossing in the winds of Maj-, 
 All welcomed this majestic holiday! 
 lie gave a splendid banquet, served on plate. 
 Such as became the Governor of the State, 
 Who represented England and the King, 
 And was magnificent in everything. 
 lie had invited all his friends and peers, — 
 The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, 
 The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest ; 
 For why repeat the name of every guest? 
 But I must mention one, in bands and gown, 
 The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown 
 Of the Established Church ; with smiling face 
 He sat beside the Governor and said grace ; 
 And then the feast went on, as others do. 
 But ended as none other I e'er knew. 
 
 When they had drunk the King, with many 
 
 a cheer, 
 Tlie Governor whispered in a servant's ear, 
 Who disappeared, and presently there stood 
 Within the room, in perfect womanhood, 
 A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, 
 Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. 
 Can this be Martha Hilton ? It must be ! 
 Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she! 
 Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, 
 
 How ladylike, how queenlike she appears; 
 The pale, thiii crescent of the days gone by 
 Is Dian now in all her majesty! 
 Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was 
 
 there 
 Until the Governor, rising from his chair. 
 Played shghtly with his rufHes, then looked 
 
 down, 
 And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown: 
 "This is my birthday: it shall likewise be 
 My wedding-day; and you shall marry me!" 
 
 The listening guests were greatly mystified, 
 None more so than the rector, who replied: 
 " Marrj- you ? Yes, that were a pleasant task, 
 Your Excellency; but to whom? I ask." 
 The Governor answered: "To this lady 
 
 here;" 
 And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. 
 She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. 
 The rector paused. The impatient Governor 
 
 cried : 
 "This is the lad}-; do jxju hesitate? 
 Then I command you as Chief Magistrate." 
 The rector read the service loud and clear: 
 "Deai'ly beloved, we are gathered here," 
 And so on to the end. At his command 
 On the fourth finger of her fair left hand 
 The Governor placed the ring; and that 
 
 was all: 
 Martha was Lady AVentworth of the Hall! 
 
 Henry Wtuhttorih LorKjellow. 
 
 THE FATHER'S CHOICE. 
 
 [The incirlent to which the following bixllad refers occurred at the time of an attack of Indians on Haverhill, Mass., iu 
 1708, when Hannah Dustin, with her nurse, was captured and carried off, her new-born infant being put to death by the 
 aavages. At the first attack Mr. Dustin bade his five children fly; then, seeing there was no hope of saving his sick wife, 
 he mounted his horse and rode at full speed after the children, hoping to save a part of them, if not all. After fiercely and 
 successfully fighting several pursuing savages, he escaped, his little ones having found safety in a forsaken house. Mr.=i. 
 Dustin afterwards escaped by putting to death her captor and his family, with the assistance of her nurse and a boy cap- 
 tured at the same time.] 
 
 '•Now fly, as flics the rushing wind — 
 Urge, urge thy lagging steed ! 
 
 The savage yell is flerce behind, 
 And life is on thy speed. 
 
 " And from those dear ones make thy choice ; 
 
 The group he wildly eye'd, 
 When "father!" burst from every voice, 
 
 And " child ! " his heart replied. 
 
28 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. 
 
 October, 1746. 
 Mil. Thomas Prince loquitur. 
 
 A FLEET with flags arrayed 
 
 Sailed from the port of Brest, 
 And the Admiral's ship disi)layed 
 
 The signal: "Steer south-west." 
 For this Admiral D'Anville 
 
 Had sworn hy cross and crown 
 To ravage with fire and steel 
 
 Our helpless Boston Town. 
 
 There were rumors in the street, 
 
 In the houses there was fear 
 Of the coming of the fleet. 
 
 And the danger hovering near. 
 And while from mouth to mouth 
 
 Spread the tidings of dismay, 
 I stood in the Old South, 
 
 Saying humhly: "Let us pray! 
 
 "O Lord! we would not advise; 
 
 But if in thy Providence 
 A tempest should arise 
 
 To drive the French Fleet hence, 
 And scatter it far and wide, 
 
 Or sink it in the sea, 
 "We should be satisfied. 
 
 And thine the glory be." 
 
 This was the prayer I made. 
 For my soul was all on fiame, 
 
 And even as I prayed 
 
 The answering tempest came; 
 
 It came with a mighty power. 
 Shaking the windows and walls, 
 
 And tolling the bell in the tower. 
 As it tolls at funerals. 
 
 The lightning suddenly 
 
 Unsheathed its flaming sword, 
 And I cried : " Stand still, and see 
 
 The salvation of the Lord ! " 
 The heavens were black with cloud, 
 
 The sea was white with hail, 
 And ever more fierce and loud 
 
 Blew the October gale. 
 
 The fleet it overtook. 
 
 And the broad sails in the van 
 Like the tents of Cushan shook, 
 
 Or the curtains of Midian. 
 Down on the reeling decks 
 
 Crashed the o'erwhelming seas; 
 Ah, never were there wrecks 
 
 So pitiful as these! 
 
 Like a potter's vessel broke 
 
 The great ships of the line; 
 They were carried away as a smoke, 
 
 Or sank like lead in the brine. 
 Lord! before thy path 
 
 They vanished and ceased to be, 
 "When thou didst walk in wrath 
 
 "With thine horses through the sea! 
 Henry Wadswrnih LongfeHow. 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 29 
 
 BRIDE BROOK. 
 
 Wide as the sky Time spreads his hand, 
 And blindly over us there blows 
 
 A swarm of years that fill the land, 
 Then fade, and are as fallen snows. 
 
 Behold, the flakes rush thick and fast; 
 
 Or are they )'ears that come between, 
 When, peering back into the past, 
 
 I search the legendary scene? 
 
 Ifay; marshaled down the open coast. 
 Fearless of that low rampart's frown. 
 
 The winter's white-winged, footless host 
 Beleaguers ancient Saybrook town. 
 
 And when the settlers wake, they stare 
 On woods half-buried, white and green, 
 
 A smothered world, an empty air: 
 
 l!^"ever had such deep drifts been seen! 
 
 But "Snow lies light upon my heart! 
 
 An thou," said merry Jonathan Rndd, 
 "Wilt wed me, winter shall depart. 
 
 And love like spring for us shall bud." 
 
 "Nay, how," said ]^Iarv, "may that be? 
 
 ISTor minister nor magistrate 
 Is here, to join us solemnly; 
 
 And snow-banks bar us, every gate." 
 
 "Winthrop at Pequot Harbor lies," 
 
 He laughed. And with the morrow's sun 
 
 He faced the deputy's dark (.•yes: 
 
 "How soon, sir, may the rite be done?" 
 
 "At Saybrook ? There the power "s not mine," 
 Said he. "But at the brook we'll moot, 
 
 That ripples down the boundary line; 
 There you may wed, and Heaven sli all see 't." 
 
30 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEOENDARV, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Forth M'ciit, iK'xt (lay, tlic lii-idal train 
 Tliriiiigh \'istas druaiiiy w'itli gray liglit. 
 
 'VW waiting Wddds, tlic ()[ion [ilaiii, 
 Arrayed in c(insL'(.Tatc(l ^\•hitl.■, 
 
 Uecfi\'cd and usliei^'d tlioni alinig; 
 
 Till,' very licastt^ Ijot'ort' tlii'ni tied, 
 CliarniL'd liy tlie spoil nf inward song 
 
 Those hovers' hearts around them spread. 
 
 Four uieu with netted foot-gear sIkkI 
 JSore tlie maid's eai'ryiug-ehair aloft; 
 
 She swayed ahove, as roses nod 
 
 On the lithe stem their Ijlooui-weight soft. 
 
 At last heside the hro()k they stood, 
 With AVinthr<>i) and liis followers; 
 
 The maid in tlake-emhroidered hood. 
 The magistrate well cloaked in fui-s, 
 
 That, parting, sliowe<l a glimpse Ijeneath 
 (Jf ample, throat-eiieireling ruff 
 
 ^Vs white as souie wind-gathered wi'eath 
 Of snow (piilleil into ]ilait and pntf. 
 
 A few grave "woi-ds, a (piestion asked, 
 Eyeliils that with the answer fell 
 
 Like falling jietals, — fn-m that tasked 
 iirief time; — yet all 'was wrought, and 
 well! 
 
 Then '' Brix.iklet," Winthrop smiled and said, 
 " Fi'ost's hnger on thy lip makes dnmli 
 
 The voiee wherewith thou shonldst have sped 
 These hjvers on their way; hut, come, 
 
 "Ileneeforth forevei' Ix; thou known 
 By mime of her here made a liride ; 
 
 So shall thy slender music's moan 
 Sweeter into the ocean glide!"' 
 
 Then laughed they all, and sudden heanis 
 Of sunshine (piivered through the skv. 
 
 Uelow the ice the unheard stream's 
 C'lear heart thrilled on in ecstasy; 
 
 And lo, a ^•isiouar3' lilusli 
 
 St<de A\'arndy o'er the voiceless M'ild, 
 And in her rajit and wintry hush 
 
 The lonely face of Nature smile<l. 
 
 Ah, Time, what wilt thou':' Vanished fpiite 
 
 Ls all that tender vision now; 
 And like lost snow-Hakes in the night. 
 
 Mute lie the lovers as their vow. 
 
 And () thou little, careless hrook, 
 Ilast thou thy tender ti'ust forgot'^ 
 
 Her modest memory forsook, 
 
 AVlujse name, known once, thou uttei'est 
 not? 
 
 Spring wakes the rill's hiithe minstrelsy; 
 
 In willow l.iough or ahler hush 
 ISirds sing, witli golden filigree 
 
 ()f pehhles 'neath the Hood's clear gush; 
 
 But nrine can tell us of that name 
 
 More than the "Mary." Men still say 
 
 "Bride Bro(.)k" in honor of her fame; 
 But all the I'est lias passed away. 
 
 Gt:orijc Parfiuni Lothioji. 
 
HIHTORICAL, LEO END ART, ROMAXriO, ETC. 
 
 31 
 
 PAUL REVKUES lilDE. 
 
 Listen, my oliildren, and you shall lioar 
 
 Of the midnight ride (it I'anl ](e\'ero, 
 
 On the eigliteentli ot A|iril, in Seventy-tive ; 
 
 Hardly a man is now alive 
 
 AVlio remendjers that famous day and year. 
 
 He said to liis friend, "If tlie Britisli mareli 
 By land or sea from the town to-night, 
 Hang a lantern aloft in the helfry arch 
 Of the North Chureh tower as a signal light, — 
 One, if liy land, and two, if liy sea; 
 And I on the opposite shore ■will lie, 
 Iveady to ride and s[iread the alarm 
 Througli every Middlesex \'illage and farm, 
 For the country li.ilk to Ix' nj> and to arm." 
 
 Then he said, "Good night!" and with 
 
 mutHed oar 
 Silently rcjwed to the Charlestown shore, 
 Just as the moon rose o\'ei' the hay, 
 Whei'e swinging wide at her mooiings lay 
 The Somerset, British nian-ot-war; 
 A phantom ship, -with each nuist and spar 
 Across the moon like a prison har. 
 And a huge lilack hulk, that \\as magnilicil 
 B\- its own retleetioii in the tide. 
 
 Mean \\hile. Ins friend, thi'ough alley and strei't. 
 Wanders and watches ^\\{\\ eager ears. 
 Till in the silence around him he hears 
 The muster of men at the harrack door. 
 The sound of arms, and the tram}i iif tcet, 
 And the measured tread of the grc^uadiers. 
 Marching down to their hoats on the shore. 
 
 Then lie elimhed the tower of the Old Noith 
 
 C'linreli, 
 By the wooden stairs, -with stealtliy tread. 
 To the lielfry-chand.ier overhead. 
 And startled the pigeons from their perch 
 On the sondier rafters, that round him made 
 Masses ami moving sluqies of shade, — 
 By the ti-emliliiig ladder, steep and tail, 
 To the highest window in the wall. 
 
 Where he pause<l t<"i listen and look ihiwn 
 A moment on the roofs of the town. 
 And the moonliii-ht tlo\\'in!j' over all. 
 
 TV'iK.'ath, in the cliui'chyard, lay the dead, 
 
 III their night-eiicanipmeiit on the hill, 
 
 Wra}i]>ed ill silence so dee}i and still 
 
 That he could hear, like a seiitiiii_Ts treail. 
 
 The watchful iiiglit-wiiid, as it went 
 
 Oree}iiiig along from tent to tent, 
 
 And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" 
 
 A moment only he feels the spell 
 
 Of the place and the hour, and the secret 
 
 dread 
 Of the lonely helfry and the dead; 
 For suddenly all his thoughts -m-v h<_'iit 
 Lhi a shadowy something far away, 
 Wliere the river widens to meet the ha}', — 
 A line of hiack that tielids iind tloats 
 On the rising tide, like a hridge of hoats. 
 
 ]\Ieanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 
 Booted and spurred, ^\'itll a heavy stride 
 (Jn the opposite slujre walked Paul IJevere. 
 Xow he patted his horse's side. 
 
32 
 
 triSTORICAL, LEdEJSDARY, HOMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Now -aze.l at tlu- laiids.-aiic lar an.l nrar, Lonoly and spectral and 8<.inl,er and still. 
 
 Then, iniiu'tiinns, stanipcd tlir .■artli. And 1,,! as l,e lo,d<s, on the belfry's hoiglit 
 
 And tunuMl ami ti.^ditened liis saddle-,i;'irtli ; A glimnu'i-, and tlieii a. o-leaiu of'liu-ht!" 
 
 r.nt mostly he wat.-lied witl. ea-er seaivl, Jle spring-s to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
 
 The belfry-tower of the Old North C'liiireh, IJiit lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
 
 As it rose aliove the graA-es on the hill, A seeond lamp in the Ijelfry Lmrns! 
 
 A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 
 
 \ sha[ie in the mooidight, a bulk in the dark, 
 
 iVnd lieiu/ath, fnnii the pebl)les, in passing, 
 
 a sjiai'k 
 Struck out by a steeil tlyiiig fearless ami 
 
 tlei't : 
 That was all! And yet, through the gloom 
 
 and the light, 
 The fate of a nation was riding that night; 
 And the spai'k struck out by that steed, in 
 
 his tlight, 
 Kindled the land into tlanie Avitli its heat. 
 He has left the A'illagc and mounted the 
 
 steep, 
 And beneath him, tran(piil and lii'oad and 
 
 <lee]i. 
 Is tile Mystic, meeting the ocean tides: 
 And undt^r the aldei's, that skui't its edge. 
 Now S(itt. on the sand, no\\' loud on the ledge, 
 Is heanl tlie tramji of his steed as he rides. 
 
 It was twelve l:>y the village clock 
 
 When he cr(jssed the bridge into Medtord 
 
 town. 
 He beard tlie ci'owing of tlie coek. 
 And the bai'king iA the farmer's dog. 
 And felt the damp of the ri\'er fog. 
 That rises alter the siui "'ot's do\\'n. 
 
 It was one by tlie village clock 
 When he gallo[ied into Lexiiigt(Ui. 
 lie saw the gilded weathercock 
 Swim ill the moonlight as he passed, 
 And till' meeting-house windows, blank and 
 
 Ijaro, 
 Gaze at him Avith a spectral glare. 
 As if they ali'cady stood aghast 
 At the bloody W(.irk they would look upon 
 
 It was two by the village clock 
 
 ^Vhen lie caiiie to the bridge in Concord town 
 
 He heard the bleating of the ilock. 
 
 And till' twitter of liirds among the trees, 
 
 x\nd felt the lireath of the imu'iiing lireeze 
 
 Blowing over the nieadoA\'s lirowii. 
 
 And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
 
 Who at the bi-idge would lie iirst to fall. 
 
 ^Vho that day Avould be lying dead, 
 
 Pierced by a Ih'itish iiiusket-ball. 
 
 Y(.m knoA\' the rest. In the hooks you have 
 
 read, 
 TIow tlu' P.ritisli Eegulars tired and fled,— 
 How the fanners gave them ball for ball, 
 Fi'om lieliiud each fence and fai'iu-yard wall, 
 Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
 riieii crossing the lields to emerge airaiu 
 
}' ^ii-el 
 
 Qi. 
 
 ///' 
 
 c /?/r//:// ^Cy/ c/}77<J:-- 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 33 
 
 Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
 And only pausing to fire and load. 
 
 So through the night rode Paul Revere; 
 And so through the night went his cry of 
 
 alarm 
 To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
 A cry of defiance and not of fear. 
 
 A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 
 And a word that shall echo forevermore! 
 For, home on the night-wind of the Past, 
 Through all our history, to the last, 
 In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 
 The people will waken and listen to hear 
 The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 
 And the midnight message of Paul llevere. 
 Henry WadswoHh Longfellow. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUI^KER-HILL BATTLE: 
 
 AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY. 
 
 'Tis lilce stirring living embers when, at 
 
 eighty, one remembers 
 All the achings and the quakings of "the 
 
 times that tried men's souls"; 
 When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I 
 
 tell the Rebel story, 
 To you the words are ashes, hut to me 
 
 they're burning coals. 
 
 I had heard the muskets' rattle of the 
 
 April running battle; 
 Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see 
 
 their red coats still ; 
 But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the 
 
 day looms up before me, 
 When a thousand men lay bleeding on the 
 
 slopes of Bunker's Hill. 
 
 'T was a peaceful summer's morning, when 
 
 the first thing gave us warning 
 Was the booming of the cannon from the 
 
 river and the shore: 
 "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, 
 
 what is all this noise and clatter? 
 Have those scalping Lidian devils come to 
 
 murder us once more?" 
 
 Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in 
 the midst of all my quaking. 
 
 To hear her talk of Indians when the guns 
 began to roar: 
 
 She had seen the burning village, and the 
 
 slaughter and the pillage. 
 When the Mohawks killed her father with 
 
 their bullets through his door. 
 
 Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't 
 
 you fret and worry any, 
 For I'll soon come back and tell you 
 
 whether this is work or play ; 
 There cant be misciiief in it, so I won't 
 
 l)e gone a minute" — 
 For a minute then I started. I was gone 
 
 the livelong day. 
 
 No time for bodice-lacing or for looking- 
 glass grimacing; 
 
 Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling 
 half-way to my heels; 
 
 God forbid your ever knowing, when there's 
 blood around her flowing, 
 
 How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet 
 household feels! 
 
 In the street I heard a thumping; and I 
 knew it was the stumping 
 
 Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that 
 wooden leg he wore, 
 
 With a knot of women round him, — it was 
 lucky I had found him, — 
 
 So I followed with the others, and the Cor- 
 poral marched before. 
 
34 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Tliey were making for the steeple, — the old 
 
 soldier and his people; 
 The pigeons circled ronnd us as we climbed 
 
 the creaking stair. 
 Just across the narrow river, — oh, so close 
 
 it made me shiver! 
 Stood a forti'ess on the hill-top that but 
 
 yesterday was bare. 
 
 At length the men have started, with a cheer 
 (it seemed faint-hearted), 
 
 In their scarlet regimentals, with their knap- 
 sacks on their backs, 
 
 And the reddening, rippling water, as after 
 a sea-light's slaughter, 
 
 Round the barges gliding onward blushed 
 like blood along their tracks. 
 
 Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew 
 
 who stood behind it. 
 Though the earthwork hid tlicm from us, 
 
 and the stubborn walls were dumb: 
 Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking 
 
 wild upon each other, 
 And their lips were white with terror as 
 
 they said, " The hour has come ! " 
 
 So they crossed to the other border, and 
 
 again they formed in order; 
 And the boats came back for soldiers, came 
 
 for soldiers, soldiers still: 
 The time seemed everlasting to us women 
 
 faint and fasting, — 
 At last they 're moving, marching, marching 
 
 proudly up the hill. 
 
 The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel 
 had we tasted. 
 
 And our heads were almost splitting with 
 the cannons' deafening thrill, 
 
 "When a figure tall and stately round the 
 rampart strode sedately ; 
 
 It was Prescott, one since told me ; he com- 
 manded on the hill. 
 
 "We can see the bright steel glancing all 
 
 along the lines advancing, — 
 ISTow the front rank fires a volley, — they 
 
 have thrown away their shot; 
 For behind their earthwork lying, all the 
 
 balls above them flying, 
 Our people need not hurry; so they wait 
 
 and answer not. 
 
 Every woman's heart grew bigger when we 
 saw his manly figure, 
 
 "With the banyan buckled round it, standing 
 up so straight and tall; 
 
 Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling 
 out for pleasure. 
 
 Through the storm of shells and cannon- 
 shot he walked around the Avail. 
 
 Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he 
 
 would swear sometimes and tipple), — 
 He had heard the bullets whistle (in the 
 
 old French war) before, — 
 Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they 
 
 all were hearing, — 
 And his Avooden leg thumps fiercely on the 
 
 dusty belfry floor: — 
 
 At eleven the streets Avere s^^•arming, for 
 
 the red-coats' ranks Avere forming; 
 At noon in marching order they wei'e 
 
 moving to the piers; 
 How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, 
 
 as Ave looked far doAvn, and listened 
 To the trampling and the drum-beat of the 
 
 belted grenadiers ! 
 
 "Oh! fire aAvay, ye villains, and earn King 
 
 George's shillin's. 
 But ye '11 waste a ton of powder before a 
 
 ' rebel ' falls ; 
 You may bang the dirt and welcome, they 're 
 
 as safe as Dan'l Malcolm 
 Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've 
 
 splintered Avith your balls!" 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 35 
 
 111 the hush of expectation, in the awe and 
 
 trepidation 
 Of the dread approaching moment, we are 
 
 welhiigh breathless all; 
 Though the rotten bars are failing on the 
 
 rickety belfry railing. 
 We are crowding up against them like the 
 
 waves against a wall. 
 
 All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs 
 
 of Charlestown blazing! 
 They have tired the harmless village; in an 
 
 hour it will be down ! 
 The Lord in heaven confound them, rain 
 
 his fire and brimstone round them, — 
 The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would 
 
 burn a peaceful town ! 
 
 Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are 
 
 nearer, — nearer, — nearer, 
 "When a flash — a curling smoke-wreath — 
 
 then a crash — the steeple shakes — 
 The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's 
 
 shroud is rended; 
 Like a morning mist it gathered, like a 
 
 thunder-cloud it breaks! 
 
 They are marching, stern and solemn; we 
 
 can see each massive column 
 As they near the naked earth-mound with 
 
 the slanting walls so steep. 
 Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in 
 
 noiseless haste departed? 
 Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are 
 
 they palsied or asleep? 
 
 Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue- 
 black smoke blows over! 
 
 The red-coats stretched in windrows as a 
 mower rakes his hay; 
 
 Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a head- 
 long crowd is flying 
 
 Like a billow that has broken and is shiv- 
 ered into spray. 
 
 Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce 
 
 a rod the foes asunder! 
 Not a firelock flashed against them! up the 
 
 earthwork they will swarm ! 
 But the words have scarce been spoken, when 
 
 the ominous calm is broken. 
 And a bellowing crash has emptied all the 
 
 vengeance of the storm! 
 
 Then we cried, "The troops are routed! 
 
 they are beat — it can't be doubted! 
 God be thanked, the fight is over!" — Ah! 
 
 the grim old soldier's smile! 
 "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we 
 
 could hardly speak, we shook so;) 
 "Are they beaten? Are they beaten? Are 
 
 they beaten?" "Wait a while." 
 
 So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted 
 
 backwards to the water. 
 Fly Pigot's running heroes and the fi'ight- 
 
 ened braves of Howe; 
 And we shout, "At last they're done for, 
 
 it's their barges they have run for: 
 They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the 
 
 battle's over now!" 
 
 Oh the trembling and the terror! for too 
 
 soon we saw our error: 
 They are baffled, not defeated; we have 
 
 driven them back in vain; 
 And the columns that were scattered, round 
 
 the colors that were tattered. 
 Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their 
 
 belted breasts again. 
 
 And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the 
 
 rough old soldier's features. 
 Our lips afraid to question, but he knew 
 
 what we would ask: 
 "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet, — once 
 
 more, I guess, they'll try it — 
 Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" 
 
 then he handed me his flask, 
 
36 
 
 HISTORICAL, LKdENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Sayino-, "Hal, you're Inokinii; sliaky; have Wlieii tlie old man said, "They're formiiu 
 
 a drop C)t' old damaiky ; 
 
 with tlieir baironets tixed for stornniiic 
 
 I'm at'eard there'll he more trouldc al'ore It's the death-grip that's a coming, — they 
 
 the job is (hine ' : 
 So I took one seorehing swallow; ih'eailt'ul 
 
 hiint I felt and hollow, 
 Standing there from earh' morning when 
 
 the firintf was Ix'irnn. 
 
 will try the works once more." 
 
 Witli hrazen trumpets blaring, the flames 
 belnnd tliem glaring. 
 
 The deadly wall before them, in close array 
 tliey come; 
 All throngh those hours of trial I had Still onward, npiward toiling, like a dragon's 
 
 watched a calm clock dial, 
 
 fold 
 
 uncoilmi,^, — 
 
 As tile hands kept creepiing, creeping — they Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning tlie 
 
 were creeping round to four, 
 
 reverbei'atinti' drum ! 
 
 Over heaps all torn and gorj' — sliall I tell 
 the fearl'ul story. 
 
 How they surged above the lireastwork, as 
 a sea lu'eaks over a (h.>ck ; 
 
 IIow (h'iven, yet scarce defeated, our worn- 
 out men retreate(h 
 
 AVith their powder-liorns all emptic<h like 
 the swimmers from a wreck? 
 
 It lias all been told and piainted; as fir me, 
 
 they say I hunted, 
 And the Wooden-legged old ( 'or[i(;ral stumped 
 
 with me down the ^tair. 
 
 When I woke from dreams atfrighted, the 
 
 evening lamps were lighted, — 
 <Jn tlie floor a 3'outh was lying; his bleed- 
 
 ing breast was bare. 
 
 And I heard througli all the flurry, ''Send 
 
 f)r Warren! hurry! hurry! 
 Tell him here's a soldier IdeiMling, and lie '11 
 
 come and drt'ss liis wound!'' 
 Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its 
 
 tale of death and sorrow, 
 IIow tin.' stai'light found liim stiffened on 
 
 the dark and bloody ground. 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 3: 
 
 Who the youth was, what his name was, where 
 
 the place from which he came was, 
 Who had brought him from the battle, and 
 
 had left him at our door, 
 lie could not speak to tell us; but 'tAvas 
 
 one of our brave fellows, 
 As the homespun plainly showed us which 
 
 the dying soldier wore. 
 
 For they all thought he was dying, as they 
 
 gathered round him crying, — 
 And they said, " Oh, how they '11 miss him ! " 
 
 and, "What will his mother do?" 
 Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's 
 
 that has been dozing. 
 He faintly murmured "Mother!" and, 
 
 — I saw his eyes were blue. 
 
 — " Why, grandma, how you 're winking ! " — 
 
 Ah, my child, it sets me thinking 
 Of a story not like this one. Well, he 
 
 somehow lived along; 
 So we came to know each other, and I 
 
 nursed him like a — mother. 
 Till at last he stood before me, tall, and 
 
 rosy-cheeked, and strong. 
 
 And we sometimes Avalked together in the 
 pleasant summer Aveather; 
 
 — "Please to tell us what his name was?" 
 
 — Just your own, my little dear, — 
 There's his picture Copley painted: we be- 
 came so well acquainted, 
 That — in short, that's why I'm grandma, 
 and you children all are here! 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. 
 
 It is nearly a hundred years ago. 
 
 Since the day that the Count de Rocham- 
 
 beau — 
 Our ally against the British crown — 
 Met Washington in Newport town. 
 
 'Twas the month of March, and the air 
 
 was chill. 
 But bareheaded over Aquidneck hill. 
 Guest and host they took their way, 
 While on either side was the grand array 
 
 Of a gallant army, French and fine, 
 Ranged three deep in a glittering line; 
 And the French fleet sent a welcome roar 
 Of a hundred guns from Canonicut shore. 
 
 And the bells rang out from every steeple, 
 And from street to street the Newport people 
 Followed and cheered, with a hearty zest, 
 De Rochambeau and his honored guest. 
 
 And women out of the windows leant, 
 And out of the windows smiled and sent 
 Many a coy admiring glance 
 To the fine young ofllcers of Franco. 
 
 And the story goes, that the belle of the 
 
 town 
 Kissed a rose and flung it down 
 Straight at the feet of De Rochambeau ; 
 And the gallant marshal, bending low. 
 
 Lifted it up with a Frenchman's grace. 
 And kissed it back, with a glance at the face 
 Of the daring maiden where she stood, 
 Blushing out of her silken hood. 
 
 That night at the ball, still the story goes. 
 The Marshal of France wore a faded rose 
 In his gold-laced coat; but he looked in 
 
 vain 
 For the giver's beautiful face again. 
 
 Night after night and day after day. 
 The Frenchman eagerly sought, they say, 
 At feast, or at church, or along the street. 
 For the girl who flung her rose at his feet. 
 
 And she, night after night, day after day. 
 Was speeding farther and farther away 
 From the fatal window, the fatal street. 
 Where her passionate heart had suddenly beat 
 
38 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 A tlirob too much for tlie uool control 
 A Puritan tcaclies to heart and soul ; 
 A throb too much for the ■wrathful eyes 
 Of one who had watched in dismayed surprise 
 
 From the street below ; and taking the gauge 
 Of a woman's heart in that moment's rage, 
 lie swore, this old colonial squire, 
 That before the daylight should expire, 
 
 This daughter of his, with her wit and grace. 
 And her dangerous heart and her beautiful 
 
 face, 
 Shoukl be on her way to a sure retreat, 
 Where no rose of hers could fall at the feet 
 
 Of a cursed Frenchman, high or low; 
 And so while the Count de E-ochambeau 
 In his gold-laced coat wore a faded Hower, 
 And awaited the giver hour by hour. 
 
 She was sailing away in the wild March night 
 On the little deck of the sloop Delight; 
 Guarded even in the darkness there 
 By the wrathful eyes of a jealous care. 
 
 Three weeks after, a brig bore down 
 Into the harbor of Newport town, 
 Towing a wreck, — 'twas the sloop Delight, 
 Off Hampton rocks, in the very sight 
 
 Of the land she sought, she and her crew 
 And all on board of her, full in view 
 Of the storm-bound fishermen over the bay, 
 Went to their doom on that April day. 
 
 When Rochambeau heard the terrible tale, 
 He muttered a prayer, for a moment grew pale ; 
 Then "Mon Dieu," he exclaimed, "so my 
 
 fine romance 
 From beginning to end is a rose and a glance." 
 
 Nora Perinj, 
 
 MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Tiiou who wouldst see the lovely and the \\'ild 
 Alingled in harmony on Nature's face, 
 Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
 Fail not with weariness, for on their tops 
 The beauty and the majesty of earth. 
 Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to 
 
 forget 
 The steep and toilsome way. There, as 
 
 thou stand'st. 
 The haunts of men below thee, and around 
 The mountain summits, thy expanding heart 
 Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world 
 To which thou art translated, and partake 
 The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt 
 
 look 
 Upon the green and rolling forest tops, 
 And down into the secrets of the glens. 
 And streams, that with their bordering 
 
 thickets strive 
 To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, 
 
 at once. 
 Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds. 
 And swarming roads, and there on solitudes 
 
 That only hear the torrent, and the wind. 
 And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice 
 That seems a fragment of some mighty wall. 
 Built by the hand tliat fashioned the old world, 
 To separate its nations, and thrown down 
 When the fiiood drowned them. To the 
 
 north, a path 
 Conducts 3'ou up the narrow battlement. 
 Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild 
 With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint. 
 And manj' a hanging crag. But, to the east, 
 Sheer to the vale go d(_»wn the bare old 
 
 cliffs,— 
 Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear 
 Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 
 With moss, the growth of centui'ies, and there 
 Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt 
 Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing 
 To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 
 Where storm and lightning, from that huge 
 
 gray wall. 
 Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at 
 
 the base 
 
The beauty and the majesty of earth, 
 
 Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget 
 
 The steep and toilsome way," 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 41 
 
 Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear 
 Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 
 Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, 
 Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene 
 Is lovely round; a beautiful river there 
 Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads. 
 The paradise he made unto himself, 
 Mining the soil for ages. On each side 
 The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond. 
 Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 
 The mountain columns with which earth 
 props heaven. 
 
 There is a tale about these reverend rocks, 
 A sad tradition of unhappy love. 
 And sorrows born and ended, long ago. 
 When over these fair vales the savage sought 
 His game in the thick woods. There was 
 
 a maid. 
 The fairest of the Indian maids, — bright-eyed, 
 With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, 
 And a gay heart. About her cabin door 
 The wide old woods resounded with her song 
 And fairy laughter all the summer day. 
 She loved her cousin ; such a love was deemed, 
 By the morality of those stern tribes. 
 Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long 
 Against her love, and reasoned with her 
 
 heart, 
 As simple Indian maiden might, in vain. 
 Then her eye lost its luster, and her step 
 Its lightness, and the gray-haired men that 
 
 passed 
 Her dwelling wondered that they heard 
 
 no more 
 The accustomed song and laugh of her 
 
 whose looks 
 Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they 
 
 said. 
 Upon the winter of their age. She went 
 To weep, where no eye saw, and was not 
 
 found 
 When all the merry girls were met to dance, 
 And all the hunters of the tribe were out; 
 Nor when they gathered from the rustling husk 
 The shining ear ; nor when, by the river's side, 
 
 They pulled the grape and startled the wild 
 
 shades 
 With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed 
 
 Indian dames 
 Would whisper to each other, as they saw 
 Her wasting form, and say. The girl will die ! 
 
 One day into the bosom of a friend, 
 
 A playmate of her young and innocent years. 
 
 She poured her griefs. " Thou know 'st, and 
 
 thou alone," 
 She said, " for I have told thee all, my love 
 And guilt and sorrow. .1 am sick of life. 
 All night I weep in darkness, and the morn 
 Glares on me as upon a thing accursed. 
 That has no business on the earth. I hate 
 The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once 
 I loved. The cheerful voices of my friends 
 Sound in my ear like mockings; and at night, 
 In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls. 
 Calls me and chides me. All that look on me 
 Do seem to know my shame ; I can not bear 
 Their eyes. I can not, from my heart, root out 
 The love that wrings it so, and I must die." 
 
 It was a summer morning, and they went 
 To this old precipice. About the cliflrs 
 Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins 
 Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe 
 Here made to the Great Spirit; for they 
 
 deemed. 
 Like worshipers of the elder time, that God 
 Doth walk on the high places and affect 
 The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on 
 The ornaments with which her father loved 
 To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl. 
 And bade her wear when stranger warriors 
 
 came 
 To be his guests. Here the friends sat them 
 
 down. 
 And sang, all day, old songs of love and 
 
 death, 
 And decked the poor wan victim's hair 
 
 with flowers, 
 And prayed that safe and swift might be 
 
 her way 
 
42 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 To that calm world of sunshine, where no 
 
 grief 
 Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 
 Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 
 Below her, — waters resting in the enihracu 
 Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades 
 Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 
 She gazed upon it long, and at the sight 
 Of her own village peeping through the trees, 
 And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof 
 Of him she loved with an unlawful love. 
 And came to die for, a warm gush of tears 
 Ran from her eyes. But when the sun 
 
 grew low 
 And the hill-shadows long, she threw herself 
 From the steep rock and perished. There 
 
 was scooped. 
 
 Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave; 
 And there they laid her, in the very garb 
 With which the maiden decked herself for 
 
 death, 
 With the same withering wild flowers in 
 
 her hair. 
 And o'er the mold that covered her the tribe 
 Built up a simple monument, a cone 
 Of small, loose stones. Thenceforward all 
 
 who passed — 
 Hunter, and dame and virgin — laid a stone 
 In silence on the pile. It stands there yet; 
 And Indians from the distant West, who come 
 To visit where their fathers' bones are laid. 
 Yet tell the sorrowful tale; and to this day 
 The mountain where the hapless maiden died 
 Is called the Mountain of the Monument. ' 
 
 WHliam Cullen Bryant. 
 
 SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 
 
 Of all the rides since the birth of time, 
 Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
 On Apuleius's Golden Ass, 
 Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass. 
 Witch astride of a human back, 
 Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — 
 
 The strangest ride that ever was sped 
 Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! 
 Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
 Tarred and feathered and carried in 
 cart 
 By the women of Marblehead! 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMAXTTC. ETC. 
 
 Body of tiii-key, liead of owl, 
 Wiugri a-di-Dd}) like u raincd-mi fowl, 
 Feathered and ruffled in ^■^'^_■l•y part, 
 Hkippor Irusou stood in tlie cart. 
 Scores of "wonicii, (.)ld and \-(ninLC, 
 Strong of iniisclo, and gid) of tongue, 
 I'uslied and pulled up the rocky lane. 
 Shouting and singing the shrill i-efrain : 
 "Here's Find Oirson, fur his liori-(l lioi'rt, 
 Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a cm-rt 
 By the Avovnen o' Morldc'cad!" 
 
 Wriidvled scolds witli hands (ui hips, 
 (iiirls in Ijlooni of clu'ck and lips, 
 Wild-eyed, fj-eedinihed, such as chase 
 Bacchus round some aiiti(pu' \'ase, 
 liricf of skirt, with ankles l)ai'e. 
 Loose of kerchief and loose of haii', [twang, 
 With t-ouch-shells Ijlowing and 1is]i-]n)iiis' 
 ()ver and over the Afauntds sang; 
 
 "Here's Find Oirson, fur his Inu'rd hori-t. 
 
 Torr'd an' futlierr'd an" corr'd in a coiTt 
 By the W(_)inen o' Morlile'ead ! "" 
 
 Small pity for him! — He sailed awav 
 From a leaking ship, in Clialeur F)ay, — 
 Sailed a«'ay from a sinking A\i'eck, 
 Witli his own town's-people on Inn- ih'ck ! 
 "La}' hy ! lay hy ! " they called to him. 
 Back lie ans-\vered, "Siidc m- s^\-ini! 
 Brag of your catch offish again!" 
 And ott' he saile(l through tlu' fog and rain! 
 Old Floyd Ireson, foi' his hard heart, 
 Tari'ed ami fcatheri'(l and cari'ied in a cart 
 liy the women of Marhlehead! 
 
 Fathoms dee[i in dark Chaleur 
 That wreck shall lie forevei'moi'c. 
 Mother and sister, wife and maid. 
 Looked from the rocks of Marhlehead 
 Over the iiu>aiiiiig ami rainy sea. — 
 Looked for the t'oming that ought mit he! 
 What did the winds and the sead)irds say 
 Of the cruel captain -who sailed away? — 
 Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heai't. 
 Tarred and feathered and cai'ried in a cart 
 By the women of .^Llrhlellead! 
 
 Through the street, on either side. 
 Up flew w'indofl-s, doors swung wide; 
 Shal'})-tongue(l spinsters, old -\\i\-es i;'ra\-, 
 Trehle lent the lishdnn'n's In'ay. 
 Sea-^\'(]rn grandsires. crippled)iiund. 
 Hulks o1 old sailoi's I'un aground, 
 
 SI k head and ^i^t and hat and cane. 
 
 And ci'ackcd with curses the hoai'se refrain: 
 "Here's Pdnd ()ii'son, fur his lioi-rd liori't, 
 ToiT d an' fullicri-'d an' coi'r'd in u cori'f 
 V>y 1 he w ' nncii o' M oi'lilc'eaij ! " 
 
 Sweetly along thi' Salem road 
 
 Bio, mi (if orchard and lilac showi'd. 
 
 Little the wii-ked ski|iper knew 
 
 <>f llie ticlils Ml givi'ii anil the sky so hlue. 
 
 Biding there in his sorr\' 1rim. 
 
 Like an Indian idol gliini and grim, 
 
 Scarc(.'ly he seemed the sound to hear 
 
 I )| Noices shunting, far and near : 
 
 "Here's Find (»irson, fur his hiu'rd hoi-rl, 
 Torr'il an' I'utlierr'd an' corr'd in a (_-oi'rt 
 By the women o' Morlile'ead!" 
 
 "IL'ar me, ncighliors ! " at last he cried, — 
 "What to me is this m.iisy riile'.'' 
 A\diat is tlie shame that clothes the skin 
 To the nameless horror that li\-es \\ntliin'.'' 
 A\ akiiig or slee}iing, I see a -wreck. 
 And hear a cry from a reeling deck! 
 Hate me and curse me, — T only dread 
 The hand of OimI ami the face of tlie dead!" 
 Said Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
 Tai'red and feathered and cai'ried in a cart 
 By the women of ^Luiilehead ! 
 
44 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
 Said, "God has touched him! — why should 
 
 we?" 
 Said an old wife mourning her only son, 
 " Cut the rogue's tether and let him run ! " 
 So with soft releutings and rude excuse, 
 
 Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 
 And gave him a cloak to hide him iu, 
 And left him alone with his shame and sin. 
 Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
 Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier, 
 
 THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON KIVEE. 
 
 [The lines below are founded on a legend, that is as well authenticated as any superstition of the kind ; and as current in 
 the place where it originated, as could be expected of one that possesses so little interest. — Aulhor's iwle.J 
 
 "How cold, how beautiful, hoAV bright 
 The cloudless heaven above us shines; 
 
 But 'tis a howling winter's night — 
 'T would freeze the very forest pines. 
 
 " The winds are up, while mortals sleep ; 
 
 The stars look forth when eyes are shut; 
 The bolted snow lies drifted deep 
 
 Around our poor and lonely hut. 
 
 "With silent step and listening ear, 
 With bow and arrow, dog and gun. 
 
 We '11 mark his track, for his prowl we hear, 
 Now is our time — come on, come on." 
 
 O'er many a fence, through many a wood. 
 Following the dog's bewildered scent, 
 
 Li anxious haste and earnest mood, 
 The Indian and the white man went. 
 
 The gun is cocked, the bow is bent. 
 The dog stands with uplifted paw. 
 
 And ball and arrow swift are sent. 
 Aimed at the prowler's very jaw. 
 
 — The ball, to kill that fox, is run 
 ]^ot in a mold by mortals made! 
 
 The arrow, which that fox should shun, 
 Was never shaped from earthly reed! 
 
 The Indian Druids of the wood 
 
 Know where the fatal arrows grow; — 
 
 They spring not by the summer flood. 
 They pierce not through the winter snow ! 
 
 Why cowers the dog, whose snuffing nose 
 Was never once deceived till now? 
 
 And why, amid the chilling snows. 
 Does either hunter Avipe his brow? 
 
 For once they see his fearful den ; — 
 'Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves 
 
 By night around the homes of men. 
 By day — along the stream it loves. 
 
 Again the dog is on his track, 
 
 The hunters chase o'er dale and hill, 
 
 They may not, though they would, look back. 
 They must go forward — forward still. 
 
 Onward they go, and never turn. 
 
 Spending a night that meets no day; 
 
 For them shall never morning sun, 
 Light them upon their endless way. 
 
 The hut is desolate, and there 
 The famished dog alone returns; 
 
 On the cold steps he makes his lair, 
 By the shut door he lays his bones. 
 
 Now the tired sportsman leans his gun 
 
 Against the ruins of the site, 
 And ponders on the hunting done 
 
 By the lost wanderers of the night. 
 
 And there the little country girls 
 
 Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look, 
 
 And tell, while dressing their sunny curls. 
 Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook. 
 
 John, G. C, Srainard. 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 45 
 
 THE WHITE-FOOTED DEEE. 
 
 It was a hundred years ago, 
 When, by the woodland ways, 
 
 The traveler saw the wild-deer drink. 
 Or crop the birchen sprays. 
 
 Beneath a hill, whose rocky side 
 
 O'erbrowed a grassy mead. 
 And fenced a cottage from the wind, 
 
 A deer was wont to feed. 
 
 She only came when on the clitfs 
 
 The evening moonlight lay, 
 And no man knew the secret haunts 
 
 In which she walked by day. 
 
 White were her feet, her forehead showed 
 
 A spot of silvery white. 
 That seemed to glimmer like a star 
 
 In autumn's hazy night. 
 
 And here, when sang the whippoorwill. 
 She cropped the sprouting leaves. 
 
 And here her rustling steps were heard 
 On still October eves. 
 
 But when the broad midsummer moon 
 
 Rose o'er that grassy lawn. 
 Beside the silver-footed deer 
 
 There grazed a spotted fawn. 
 
 The cottage dame forbade her son 
 
 To aim the rifle here; 
 "It were a sin," she said, "to harm 
 
 Or fright that friendly deer. 
 
 "This spot has been my pleasant home 
 Ten peaceful years and more; 
 
 And ever, when the moonlight shines. 
 She feeds before our door. 
 
 "The red men say that here she walked 
 
 A thousand moons ago; 
 They never raise their war-whoop here 
 
 And never twang the bow. 
 
 "I love to watch her as she feeds. 
 
 And think that all is well. 
 While such a gentle creature haunts 
 
 The place in which we dwell." 
 
 The youth obeyed, and sought for game 
 
 In forests far away, 
 Where, deep in silence and in moss, 
 
 The ancient woodland lay. 
 
 But once, in autumn's golden time. 
 
 He ranged the wild in vain. 
 Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, 
 
 And wandered home again. 
 
 The crescent moon and crimson eve 
 Shone with a mingling light; 
 
 The deer, upon the grassy mead, 
 Was feeding full in sight. 
 
 He raised the rifle to his eye. 
 
 And from the clitiis around 
 A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, 
 
 Gave back its deadly sound. 
 
 Away, into the neighboring wood. 
 
 The startled creature flew, 
 And crimson drops at morning lay 
 
 Amid the glimmering dew. 
 
 Next evening shone the waxing moon 
 
 As sweetly as before; 
 The deer upon the grassy mead 
 
 Was seen again no more. 
 
 But, ere that crescent moon was old. 
 
 By night the red-men came, 
 And burnt the cottage to the ground. 
 
 And slew the youth and dame. 
 
 Now woods have overgrown the mead. 
 And hid the clifl's from sight; 
 
 There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon, 
 And prowls the fox at night. 
 
 William CuUen Bi-yant. 
 
46 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 ABEAHAM DAVENPORT. 
 
 In the old days (a custom laid aside 
 With breeches and cocked hats) the people 
 
 sent 
 Their wisest men to make the public laws. 
 And so, from a brown homestead, where 
 
 the Sound 
 Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, 
 Waved over by the woods of Rippowams, 
 And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil 
 
 deaths, 
 Stamford sent up to the councils of the 
 
 State 
 Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport. 
 
 'Twas on a May-day of the far old year 
 Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell 
 Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring, 
 Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon, 
 A horror of great darkness, like the night 
 In day of which the Norland sagas tell, — 
 The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky 
 Was black Avith ominous clouds, save where 
 
 its rim 
 Was fringed with a dull glow, like that 
 
 which climbs 
 The crater's sides from the red hell below. 
 Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard 
 
 fowls 
 Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars 
 Lowed, and looked homeward; bats on 
 
 leathern wings 
 Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died; 
 Men prayed, and women wept; all ears 
 
 grew sharp 
 To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet 
 
 shatter 
 The black sky, that the dreadful face of 
 
 Christ 
 Might look from the rent clouds, not as he 
 
 looked 
 A loving guest at Bethan}', but stern 
 As Justice and inexorable Law. 
 
 Meanwhile in the old State House, dim 
 as ghosts, 
 Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, 
 Trembling beneath their legislative robes. 
 "It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us ad- 
 journ," 
 Some said; and then, as if with one accord, 
 All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. 
 He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice 
 The intolerable hush. " This well may be 
 The Day of Judgment which the world aAvaits ; 
 But be it so or not, I only know 
 My present duty, and my Lord's command 
 To occupy till he come. So at the post 
 Where he hath set me in his providence, 
 I choose, for one, to meet him face to face, — 
 No faithless servant frightened from my task. 
 But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls ; 
 And therefore, with all reverence, I would say. 
 Let God- do his woi-k, we will see to ours. 
 Bring in the candles." And they brought 
 them in. 
 
 Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read, 
 Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands, 
 An act to amend an act to regulate 
 The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon 
 Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport, 
 Straight to the question, with no figures of 
 
 speech 
 Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without 
 The shrewd dry humor natural to the man : 
 His awe-struck colleagues listening all the 
 
 while, 
 Between the pauses of his argument, 
 To hear the thunder of the wrath of God 
 Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud. 
 
 And there he stands in memory to this day, 
 Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen 
 Against the background of unnatural dark, 
 A witness to the ages as they pass, 
 That simple duty hath no place for fear. 
 
 John Oreenleaf Whilti«i: 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 47 
 
 Live the name of Plowden Halsey! 
 
 Honor to his hero soul ! 
 Tell the old and noble story, 
 Wreathe his name with fresher glory, 
 
 As the ages roll. 
 
 Oti" the harbor of New London 
 
 Lay a British man-of-war; 
 By her force our troops annoying, 
 And our commerce still destroying, 
 
 Driving it afar. 
 
 Who will, in the dread torpedo 
 
 Sinking down her hull beneath, 
 Screw the magazine tremendous. 
 Whose explosive force stupendous 
 Scatters all in death? 
 
 "I will go," said Plowden Ilalsey, 
 
 With the red flush on his cheek; 
 And his slender form grew stately: 
 All around him wondered greatly. 
 As they heard him speak. 
 
 "I will go," said Plowden Halsey, 
 " Some heart must the peril brave. 
 
 ISTever say that fear appalls me. 
 
 Let me go; my country calls me, 
 Honored, if I save. 
 
 "Let me go; and, safe returning, 
 Life has higher power to bless. 
 Let me go; and, even if failing. 
 Take this comfort mid bewailing, — 
 Noble failure is success." 
 
 Oh, the night was wild and stormy! 
 Shrouding mists came closely down; 
 
 Thick the murky air was glooming. 
 And the sullen waves were booming; 
 Dark the tempest's frown. 
 
 Out into the formless darkness 
 
 Strong hands bent the spi'inging oar; 
 Died awa}' the friendly voices, 
 Hushed were all the murmured noises; 
 Died the lights on shore. 
 
 Underneath the tall mast's shadow 
 Rowing close, the youth they left; 
 
 From the peril still unshrinking, 
 
 In the fatal engine sinking, 
 IJnder-waves he cleft. 
 
 Poured the rain in rushing torrents, 
 
 Down the darkness driven aslope; 
 
 Comrades, mid the wild commotion. 
 
 Watched the deed of stern devotion 
 
 Fcarfiil, yet with hope. 
 
 Ha! the ship has caught the danger! 
 
 Lights are hurrying from below ! 
 Peals the alarm-gun ! Men are leaping 
 Into the boats ! AVith swift oars sweeping 
 
 Out, to seize the foe. 
 
 Closer round they draw the circle, — 
 
 Have they won the fearful prize? 
 Louder than the pealing thunder. 
 Bursting all the waves asunder 
 Flaming on the skies. 
 
 Comes the terrible explosion! 
 
 Yast and hollow is the square 
 Where the many boats were sailing. 
 And the awful light is paling, 
 
 And no boats are there ! 
 
48 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Reels file sliip ill foamint;- waters, 
 
 Lashing furii^iis to tiie sliore; 
 And the stonu-rage grows intenser, 
 Anil the darkness gathers denser, 
 Denser than lielbre. 
 
 "Where is nolde Plowden Ilalscy? 
 
 Vainly (h) his eonirades row 
 All the night. night appalling! 
 Irresponsive to their calling, 
 
 Plowden sleeps helow. 
 
 Caroline F. Orne. 
 
 A SNOAV-STORM. 
 
 SCENE IN A VEKMONT WINTER. 
 
 'Tis a fearfnl niglit in tlie winter time, 
 
 As cold as it ever can he; 
 The roar of the lilast is heard like the chime 
 
 Of the wa^'es on an angry sea. 
 The moon is fnll ; hnt her silver light 
 The storm dashes out witli its wings to-night; 
 And over tlie sky from south to north 
 Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 
 
 In the strengtli of a mighty glee. 
 
 All day liad the snow come ihiwii, — all da}' 
 As it never came down hetorc; 
 
 And over tlie liills, at sunset, lay 
 Some t\\'o or tlirc^e feet, or more; 
 
 I'he fence Was lost, and tlie wa\] of stone; 
 
 The windows lilock-cd and the well-curbs 
 o'one ; 
 
 The liaystaek had grown to a mountain lift. 
 And the wood-pile looked like a monster 
 drift. 
 As it lay hy the farmer's door. 
 
 The night sets in on a world of snow. 
 While tlie air grows sharp and chill. 
 
 And the warning roar of a fearful hlow 
 Is heard o;i the distant liill; 
 
 And the norther, sec! on the moTintain peak 
 
 In his breath how the old trees writhe and 
 shriek! 
 
 He sliouts on the plain, ho-ho ! ho-ho! 
 
 lie drives from his nostrils the hlinding 
 
 And growls with a savage will. 
 
 Such a night as this to he found abroad. 
 In the drifts and the freezing air, 
 
 Sits a .shivering dog, in the tield,l)y the road, 
 AVitli the snow in liis shaggy hair. 
 
 Tie sluits his eyes to the wind and growls; 
 
 lie lifts his head, and nujans and howls; 
 
 Then croucliing low, from tlie cutting sleet, 
 
 Ilis nose is pressed on his quivering feet, — 
 Pray, what does the dog do there? 
 
 A farmer came from tlie village plain, — 
 
 But lie lost the traveled way; 
 And f(_ir hours he trod with might and main 
 
 A path for liis horse and sleigh; 
 P)Ut colder still the cold winds blew, 
 And dee]icr still the dce[i drifts grew. 
 And his marc, a beautiful Morgan brown. 
 At last in her struggles tlonndered down. 
 
 Where a log in a hollow lay. 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMAyTIC, ETC. 
 
 49 
 
 111 vain, witli a neigh and a. fronzioil siKirt, 
 
 Sliu plungc'd in tliu <lriftiiig snow, 
 AV^liile. liLT niastur urged, till iiis breath grew 
 sliort, 
 With a W(_)rd and a gentle hlnw ; 
 I Jut the snow was deep, and the tugs were 
 
 tight; 
 His hands were numb, and had hjst their 
 
 might; 
 So lie wallowed baek to his lialt'-tilled sleie-h, 
 And strove to shelter liimself till day, 
 Witli his eoat and the butt'alo. 
 
 lie has given the last faint jerk of the rein, 
 
 Tc.) rouse up his dying steed; 
 And tlic poor dog howls to the Ijlast in 
 vain 
 
 Fill- lii'lp in his master's need. 
 F(.)r awhile he strives with a wistful ery 
 To ea.teh a glaiiee from his drowsy eye, 
 iVud wags his tail if the rude A\'iiids flap 
 The skirt of the buffalo over his lap. 
 
 And whines when he takes ikj heed. 
 
 The wind goes down and the storm is n'er. — 
 "Tis the hour of midniglit, past; 
 
 The i_)ld trees writhe and lieiid no more 
 In tlie whirl of the rushing blast. 
 
 The silent moon with Iter peaceful liglit 
 
 Looks down OH the hills with snow all 
 white. 
 
 And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
 
 The blasted pine and the ghostly stump. 
 Afar on the plain are cast. 
 
 But cold and dead by the hidden loo; 
 
 Are they who came from the town, — 
 The iiuni ill bis sleigh, ami bis faithful d<ig. 
 
 And bis beautiful Morgan lu'owii, — 
 In the wide snow-desert, far and grand. 
 With his call on bis head and the reins in 
 
 liis band, — 
 The dog with his nose on bis master's feet. 
 Ami the mare half seen through the crusted 
 sleet. 
 
 Where she la\- when she floundered down. 
 
 Charles Uiunufjc Eastman. 
 
 MOUNT HOPE. 
 
 [MoT'NT TTorK, the liigliof^l licaillaiid in RIuhIc Island, was the ancient seat of Mctacomet, — "Kin;,' Pliilip," tlie 
 
 indomitable ehiel nt the Wanipannags. When, after a li)ng and bluody war, he was cnii.jufi'ed and kiUeil at last, his 
 wife — Queen AVuolonekanusky— - was dragged fmni her home on Mount Hojie, and sold intu slavery in IJarbadoes.] 
 
 I STROLL through verdtmt flelds to-day. 
 Through wtiving we)ods and pttstures 
 
 sweet, 
 To the red warri(.n''s tincient seat, 
 Where liipiid \'oiccs of the bay 
 r)iil»l}le in tropic tongues tiroundits rocky feet. 
 
 I put my lips to Philip's spring; 
 I sit in Pliilip's granite cliair; 
 And tln'iice I climb uji, stair l>y stair. 
 And stand where (ince' the stivage king 
 Sfocid. and ^\-ith eye i.if hawk cleft the lilue 
 round of air. 
 
60 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 On Narragansett's sunny breast 
 This necklace of fair islands shone, 
 And Philip, muttering, " All my own ! " 
 Looked north and south and east and 
 west. 
 And waved his scepter from this alabaster 
 throne. 
 
 His beacon on Pocasset Hill, 
 
 Lighting the hero's path to fame 
 Whene'er the crafty Pequot came. 
 Blazed as the windows of yon mill 
 Now blaze at set of sun with day's expiring 
 flame. 
 
 Always, at midnight, from a cloud. 
 An eagle swoops, and hovering nigh 
 This peak, utters one piercing cry 
 Of wrath and anguish, long and loud, 
 And plunges once again into the silent 
 sky! 
 
 The Wampanoags, long since dead. 
 Who to these islands used to cling. 
 Spake of this shrieking midnight thing 
 With bated breath, and, shuddering, said, 
 "'Tis angry Philip's voice, — the specter of 
 the king!" 
 
 All things are changed. Here Bristol 
 sleeps 
 And dreams within her emerald tent; 
 Yonder are picnic tables bent 
 Beneath their burden; up the steeps 
 The martial strains arise and songs of mer- 
 riment. 
 
 I pluck an aster on the crest; 
 It is a child of one, I know,. 
 Plucked here two hundred years ago. 
 And worn upon the slave-queen's breast, — 
 Oh, that this blossom had a tongue to tell 
 
 its woe. 
 
 W. A. Croffut. 
 
 ELIOT'S OAK. 
 
 Thou ancient oak ! whose myriad leaves are 
 
 loud 
 With sounds of unintelligible speech, 
 Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach. 
 Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd; 
 With some mysterious gift of tongues en- 
 dowed, 
 Thou speakest a diti'ei'ent dialect to each; 
 
 To me a language that no man can teach. 
 Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud. 
 For underneath thy shade, in days remote. 
 Seated like Abraham at eventide 
 Beneath the oaks of Mami'e, the unknown 
 Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote 
 His Bible in a language that hath died 
 And is forgotten, save by thee alone. 
 
 Hewy Wackwoiih Lmigfelkiw, 
 
 THE LETTER OF MAEQUE. 
 
 We had sailed out a Letter of Marque, 
 
 Fourteen guns and forty men; 
 And a costly freight our gallant barque 
 
 Was bearing home again. 
 We had ranged the seas the whole summer- 
 tide. 
 
 Crossed the main, and returned once more; 
 Our sails were spread, and from the mast-head 
 
 The lookout saw the distant shore. 
 
 "A sail! a sail on the weather bow! 
 Hand over hand, ten knots an hour!" 
 
 "Now God defend it ever should end 
 That we should fall in the foeman's power! " 
 
 "T was an English frigate came bearing down. 
 Bearing down before the gale. 
 
 Riding the waves that sent their spray 
 Dashing madly o'er mast and sail. 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 51 
 
 Every stitch of our canvas set, 
 
 Like a frightened bird our good barque 
 flew; 
 The wild waves lashed and the foam-crests 
 dashed, 
 As we threaded the billows through. 
 The night came down on the waters wide, — 
 "By Heaven's help we'll see home once 
 more," 
 Our captain cried, "for nor'-nor'-west 
 Lies Cape Cod Light, and the good old 
 shore." 
 
 A sudden flash, and a sullen roar 
 
 Booming over the stormy sea. 
 Showed the frigate close on our track, — 
 
 How could we hope her grasp to flee? 
 Our angry gunner the stern-chaser fired; 
 
 I hardly think they heard the sound, 
 The billows so ^\nldly roared and raged, 
 
 As we forward plunged with furious 
 bound. 
 
 "All our prizes safely in, 
 
 Shall we fall a prize to-night? 
 The Shoal of George's lies sou'-south-east. 
 
 Bearing away from Cape Cod Light." 
 Our captain's face grew dark and stern. 
 
 Deadly white his closed lips were. 
 The men looked in each others' eyes, — 
 
 Not a look that spoke of fear. 
 "Hard up!" 
 
 Hard up the helm was jammed. 
 
 The wary steersman spoke no word. 
 In the roar of the breakers on either side 
 
 Murmurs of wonder died unheard. 
 Loud and clear rose the captain's voice, — 
 
 A bronzed old sea-dog, calm and cool, 
 He had been in sea-fights oft, 
 
 Trained eye and hand in danger's school. 
 "Heave the lead!" 
 
 The lead was hove; 
 
 Sharp and short the quick reply ; 
 Steady rose the captain's voice, 
 
 Dark fire glowed his swartliy eye, 
 Eight on the Shoal of George's steered. 
 
 Urged with wild, impetuous force, 
 Lost, if on either side Ave veered 
 
 But a hand's breadth from our course. 
 On and on onr good barque drove, 
 
 Leaping like mad from waA'c to wave. 
 Hissing and roaring round her bow, 
 
 Hounding her on to a yawning grave. 
 
 God! 'twas a desperate game we played! 
 
 "White as the combine; wave i>-re\v each 
 cheek; 
 Our hearts in that moment dumbly prayed, 
 
 For never a word might our blenched lips 
 speak. 
 On and on the frigate drove, 
 
 Right in our track, close bearing down; 
 Our captain's face was still and stern. 
 
 Every muscle too rigid to frown. 
 
 On and on the frigate drove. 
 
 Swooping down in her glorious pride; 
 Lord of heaven ! what a shriek was that 
 
 Einging over the waters wide! 
 Striking swift on the sunken rocks, 
 
 Down went the frigate beneath the wave; 
 All her crew in an instant sunk. 
 
 Gulfed in the closing grave! 
 
 "We were alone on the rolling sea; 
 
 Man looked to man with a silent pain; 
 Sternly our captain turned away; 
 
 Our helmsman bore on our course again. 
 Into the harbor we safely sailed 
 
 "When the red morn glowed o'er the baj' : 
 The sinking ship, and the wild death-cry, 
 
 We shall see and hear, to our dying day. 
 
 CaruUne F. Qme. 
 
52 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 THE MOTHER PERISIIIXG IX A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 [Ill tlic year 1S'21, n Mrs. I51iil<e jicrishcd in a snow-Ktorin in tlie niglit-time, wliile traveling over a sjHir of the Cireen 
 Mountains in Vernjont. She hail an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, heiug oareluUy 
 wrapped in the mother's clotliing.] 
 
 The cold winds swept the nionnttiin's lieiglit, 
 
 And pathless was the dreai'y wild, 
 
 And mid the eheerless hc)nrs of night 
 
 A mother wandered witli her ehild: 
 
 As through the drifting snow she [iressed, 
 
 The bahe was sleeping on her breast. 
 
 And eolder still tlie winds did blow, 
 And darker hoitrs of night etime on, 
 And deeper grew the drifting snow : 
 Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone : 
 "0 God!" she cried, in accents wild, 
 "If I must perish, save my child!" 
 
 Site stripped her mantle from her breast. 
 And bared her bosom to the storm, 
 And round the child she wrapped the vest, 
 And smiled to think her babe wtis warm. 
 With one cold kiss one tear site shed, 
 And sunk upon her snowy bed. 
 
 At dawn a traveler }>;issed by, 
 And sitw her "iiettth a snowy veil; 
 The frost of ileath was in her eye, — 
 
 Her cheek was cold, and hard, artd pale: 
 He ntoved the robe from off the child, — 
 The babe looked up and sweetly smiled! 
 
 ,Sfba Siiiilh. 
 
 THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 
 
 WiTEN Spring, to woods and vrastcs around, 
 Brought blof)m and joy again, 
 
 The murdered traveler's liones were found, 
 F;ir down a narrow glen. 
 
 The fragrant birch, ;d)0ve him, liung 
 
 Her tassels in the sky; 
 And many ti vernal bk)ssom sprung, 
 
 And nodded careless by. 
 
 The red-bird warbled, ;is he wrought 
 
 His lianging nest o'erhcad; 
 And fearless, uettr the . ftital spot. 
 
 Her young the partridge led. 
 
 But there was weeping far awa}', 
 
 And gentle eyes, for him, 
 AVith watching maity an anxious day, 
 
 Were sorrowfnl tiud dim. 
 
 They little kuc^v, who loved him so, 
 
 The fearful detitli he met, 
 When shouting o'er the desert snow, 
 
 Unarmed and hard beset; 
 
HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 53 
 
 ISTor how, when round the frosty pole 
 
 The northern dawn was red, 
 The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
 
 To banquet on the dead; 
 
 ISTor how, when strangers found his bones, 
 
 They dressed the hasty bier. 
 And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
 
 Unmoistened by a tear. 
 
 But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 
 
 Within his distant home; 
 And dreamed, and started as they slept, 
 
 For joy that he was come. 
 
 Long, long they looked — but never spied 
 
 His welcome step again, 
 Nor knew the fearful death he died. 
 
 Far down that narrow glen. 
 
 William Culkii Bnjuitt. 
 
 AGAMENTICUS. 
 
 [Sir Ferdinando Gorges looked with special interest upon the pleasantly located little settlement of Agamenlions. On 
 the first of March, 1642, he erected the borough into a city, extending the charter over a region embracing twenty-one square 
 miles. This forest city was on the north side of the river, and extended seven miles back from tlie river's mouth.] 
 
 Where rises grand, majestic, tall. 
 As in a dream, the towering wall 
 
 That scorns the restless, surging tide. 
 Once spanned the mart and street and mall, 
 
 And arched the trees on every side 
 
 Of this great city, once in pride. 
 For hither came a knightly train 
 
 From o'er the sea with gorgeous court; 
 The mayors, gowned in robes of state. 
 Held brilliant tourney on the plain. 
 
 And massive ships within the port 
 Discharged their load of richest freight. 
 Then when at night, the sun gone down 
 
 Behind the western hill and tree. 
 The bowls were filled, — this toast they crown, 
 
 "Long live the City by the Sea!" 
 
 ISTow sailless drift the lonely seas, 
 ~So shallops load at wharves or quays, 
 
 But hulks are strewn along the shore, — 
 Gaunt skeletons indeed are these 
 
 That lie enchanted by the roar 
 
 Of ocean wave and sighing trees! 
 Oh, tell me where the pompous squires. 
 
 The chant at eve, the matin prayers. 
 The knights in armor for the fray? 
 The mayors, where, and courtly sires. 
 
 The eager traders with their wares, — 
 How went these people hence away? 
 And when the evening sun sinks down. 
 
 Weird voices come from hill and tree. 
 Yet tell no tales, — this toast they crown, 
 
 "Long live the Specter by the Sea!" 
 
 Anonymorus. 
 
 THE OLD EL^kl OF FEWBUEY. 
 
 Did ever it come in your way to pass 
 The silvery pond, with its fringe of grass; 
 And, threading the lane hard by, to see 
 The veteran elm of ISTewbury? 
 
 You saw how its roots had grasped the 
 
 ground. 
 As if it had felt that the earth went round. 
 
 And fastened them down with determined will 
 To keep it steady, and hold it still. 
 Its aged trunk, so stately and strong. 
 Has braved the blasts, as they've rushed 
 
 along ; 
 Its head has towered, and its arms have 
 
 spread, 
 While more than a hundred years have fled! 
 
54 
 
 HISTORICAL, LEGENDARY, ROMANTIC, ETC. 
 
 Well, that old elm, that is now so grand, 
 Was once a twig in the rustic hand 
 Of a youthful peasant, who went one night 
 To visit his love, hy the tender light 
 Of the modest moon and her twinkling host, 
 While the star that lighted his hosoni most. 
 And gave to his lonely feet their speed, 
 Abode in a cottage beyond the mead! 
 
 * * H= ^ ^ ;|; * 
 
 It is not recorded how long he stayed 
 In the cheerful home of the smiling maid; 
 But when he came out, it was late and dark, 
 And silent, — not oven a dog would bark, 
 To take from his feeling of loneliness. 
 And make the length of his way seem less. 
 He thought it was strange, that the treach- 
 erous moon 
 Should have given the world the slip so 
 
 soon ; 
 And, whether the eyes of the girl had made 
 The stars of the sky in his own to fade, 
 Or not, it certainly seemed to him 
 That each grew distant and small and dim; 
 And he shuddered to think he now was 
 
 about 
 To take a long and a lonely route; 
 For he did not know what fearful sight 
 Might come to him through the shadows of 
 
 night ! 
 
 An elm grew close by the cottage's eaves; 
 So he plucked him a twig Avell clothed with 
 
 leaves. 
 And sallying forth with the supple arm. 
 To serve as a talisman parrying harm. 
 He felt that, though his heart Avas so big, 
 'Twas even the stouter for having the twig. 
 For this, he thought, would answer to switch 
 The horrors away, as he crossed the ditch. 
 The meadow and copse, wherein, perchance, 
 Will-o'-the-wisp might wickedly dance; 
 
 And, wielding it, keep him from having a 
 
 chill 
 At the menacing sound of "Whip-poor- 
 will!" 
 And his flesh from creeping beside the bog 
 At the harsh, bass voice of the viewless frog: 
 In short, he felt that the switch would be 
 Guard, plaything, business, and company. 
 
 When he got safe home, and joyfully found 
 He still was himself! and living! and sound! 
 He planted the twig by his family cot. 
 To stand as a monument, marking the spot 
 It helped him to reach ; and, what -was still 
 
 more, 
 Because it had grown by his fair one's door. 
 
 The twig took root; and as time flew by, 
 Its boughs spread wide, and its head grew 
 
 high ; 
 While the priest's good service had long 
 
 been done. 
 Which made the youth and the maiden one ; 
 And their young scions arose and played 
 Around the tree, in its leafy shade. 
 
 But many and many a year has fled 
 Since they were gathered among the dead; 
 And now their names, with the moss o'er- 
 
 grown. 
 Are veiled from sight on the churchyard 
 
 stone 
 That leans away, in a lingering fall, 
 And owns the power that shall level all 
 The works that the hand of mau hath 
 
 wrought ; 
 Bring him to dust, and his name to naught. 
 While, near in view, and just beyond 
 The grassy skirts of the silver pond. 
 In its "green old age," stands the noble 
 
 tree. 
 The veteran elm of Newbury. 
 
 Hannah F. GmM. 
 
;^lFMa^M 
 
58 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 SPKING-TIDE. 
 
 When late I walked, in earlier days, 
 All was stiff and stark; 
 Knee-deep snows choked all the ways. 
 In the sky no spark; 
 Firm-braced I sought my ancient woods. 
 Struggling through the drifted roads; 
 The whited desert knew me not. 
 Snow-ridges masked each darling spot; 
 The summer dells, by genius haunted. 
 One arctic moon had disenchanted. 
 All the sweet secrets therein hid 
 By Fancy, ghastly spells undid. 
 Eldest mason. Frost, had piled 
 Swift cathedrals in the wild; 
 The piny hosts were sheeted ghosts 
 In the star-lit minster aisled. 
 I found no joy; the icy wind 
 Might rule the forest to his mind. 
 Who would freeze on frozen lakes? 
 Back to books and sheltered home, 
 And wood-lire flickering on the walls. 
 To hear, when, mid our talk and games, 
 Without the baffled north-wind calls. 
 But soft! a sultry morning breaks; 
 The ground-pines wash their rusty green. 
 The maple-tops their crimson tint. 
 On tlie soft path each track is seen. 
 The girl's foot leaves its neater print. 
 The pebble loosened from the frost 
 Asks of the urchin to be tost. 
 In flint and marble beats a heart, 
 The kind Earth takes her children's part, 
 
 The green lane is the school-boy's friend, 
 Low leaves his quarrel apprehend. 
 The fresh ground loves his top and ball. 
 The air rings jocund to his call. 
 The brimming brook invites a leap. 
 He dives the hollow, climbs the steep. 
 The youth reads omens where he goes. 
 And speaks all languages the rose. 
 The wood-fly mocks Avith tiny noise 
 The far halloo of human voice; 
 The perfumed berrj- on the spray 
 Smacks of faint memories far away. 
 A subtle chain of countless rings 
 The next unto the farthest brings, 
 And, striving to be man, the worm 
 Mounts through all the spires of form. 
 
 The caged linnet in the spring 
 Hearkens for the choral glee. 
 When his felloAVS on the wing 
 Migrate from the Southern Sea; 
 When trellised grapes their flowers unmask. 
 And the new-born tendrils twine. 
 The old wine darkling in the cask 
 Feels the bloom on the living vine, 
 And bursts the hoops at hint of spring: 
 And so perchance in Adam's race. 
 Of Eden's bower some dream-like trace 
 Survived the Flight and swam the Flood, 
 And Avakes the Avish in youngest blood 
 To tread the forfeit Paradise, 
 And feed once more the exile's eyes. 
 
 R. W. Emermn. 
 
 MAECH. 
 
 The stormy March is come at last, 
 
 With Avind, and cloud, and changing skies; 
 
 I hear the rushing of the blast, 
 
 That through the snowy valley flies. 
 
 Ah, passing fcAV are they Avho speak. 
 Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee; 
 
 Yet though thy Avinds are loud and bleak, 
 Thou art a A\'elcome month to me. 
 
 For thou, to northern lands, again 
 The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 
 
 And thou hast joined the gentle train 
 And Avearst the gentle name of Spring. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 r,!) 
 
 Anil, in tliy reign of lilast find storm, 
 Smiles many a long, Ijriglit, sunny day, 
 
 When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
 And heaven puts on the Iduo o\' May. 
 
 The year's departing heauty liides 
 Of wintry stoi'ms the sullen threat; 
 
 But in thy sterni/st tVown ahides 
 A look of kinilly promise yet. 
 
 Then sing aloml the gushing rills 
 h\ jo}' that they again are free. 
 
 And, brightly leaping ilown the liills, 
 lienew their jounn'}' to the sea. 
 
 Thou hring'st the ho}ie of those ealni skies. 
 And that S(.>ft time of sunny slidWers, 
 
 When the wide hloom, on earth that lies. 
 Seems of a lu'ighter world than nurs. 
 
 W'iilinin t'lill.u ]!,,„ii,l. 
 
 MAliVll. 
 
 Ueneatii the sheltering walls the thin snow 
 
 elings, — 
 Dead Winter's skeleton, left bleaching white. 
 Disjointed, crundding, on unfriendly fi(dds. 
 The inky }iools surrender tardily 
 At noon, to patient herds, a- frosty drink 
 From jagged rims of iec; a subtle red 
 Of life is kindling every twig and stalk 
 
 Of lowly meadow gi'owths; the willo-ws wrap 
 Their stems in furi'y white; the pines grow 
 
 gray 
 A little in the biting wind: mid<lay 
 lirings tiny burrowed ci'eatures, ]ieei)iug out, 
 iVIert for sun. All, March ! we kmiw tlion art 
 Kinddieai'ted, spite i>f ugly hniks and tlii'eats. 
 And, out <if sight, art nui'sing April's \-ioU'ts! 
 
 II. II. 
 
 AN APRIL AlilA. 
 
 When tlie mornings dankly fall, 
 With a dim forethought of rain, 
 
 And the robins richly call 
 To tlieir mates mercurial. 
 
 And the treedjonghs creak and strain 
 
 In tlie wind : 
 When the river's I'ough with foam, 
 
 And the new-made clearings smoke. 
 And the clouds that go and come 
 Shine ami darken frolicsome, 
 And the frogs at everdng croak 
 Undefined 
 ^[ysteries of monotone. 
 
 And liy melting lieds of snow, 
 Wind-flowers bl(:)SS(:(m all alone; 
 
 Tlien I know 
 That the bitter winter's dead. 
 
 ()ver his lieail 
 The damp sod lu'caks so mellow, — 
 Its nnisses tipjicil with points of yellow, — 
 
 I can not but Ijc glad; 
 Yet this sweet mooil will lioi'row 
 Something of a sweeter sm'rijw, 
 To touch and turn me sad. 
 
 (;,,„iji' /1i,M,/i,, Ltlhnip. 
 
60 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 THE COMING-BACK 
 
 Ah! well I mind the calendar, 
 Faithful through a thousand years, 
 Of the painted race of flowers, 
 Exact to days, exact to hours. 
 Counted on the spacious dial 
 Yon hroidered zodiac girds. 
 I knoAV the trusty almanac 
 Of the punctual coming-hack. 
 On their due days, of the hirds. 
 I marked them j'estermorn, 
 A flock of tinches darting 
 Beneath the crystal arch, 
 Pijiing, as they flew, a march, — 
 Belike the one they used in parting 
 Last year from yon oak or larch; 
 Dusky sparrows iu a crowd, 
 Diving:, dartins: northward free, 
 
 Suddenly hetook them all, 
 
 Every one to his hole in the wall, 
 
 Or to his niche in the apple-tree. 
 
 I greet with joy the choral trains 
 
 Fresh from palms and Cuha's canes. 
 
 Best gems of Nature's cahinet, 
 
 With dews of tropic morning wet. 
 
 Beloved of children, hards, and Spring, 
 
 hirds, your perfect virtues hring. 
 
 Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight, 
 
 Your manners for the heart's delight. 
 
 Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof, 
 
 Here weave your chamher weather-proof, 
 
 Forgive our harms, and condescend 
 
 To man, as to a luhher friend. 
 
 And, generous, teach his awkward race 
 
 Courage, and probity, and grace! 
 
 R. W. Emerson. 
 
 WILD GEESE. 
 
 The wind blows, the sun shines, the birds 
 
 sing loud. 
 The blue, blue sky is flecked with fleecy 
 
 dappled cloud. 
 Over earth's rejoicing fields the children 
 
 dance and sing, 
 And the frogs pipe in chorus, "It is spring! 
 
 It is spring ! " 
 
 Hark, what a clamor goes winging through 
 
 the sky ! 
 Look, children ! Listen to the sound so 
 
 wild and high! 
 Like a peal of broken bells, — kling, klaug, 
 
 kling, — 
 Far and high the wild geese ci'y, "Spring! 
 
 It is spring!" 
 
 The grass comes, the flower laughs where 
 
 lately lay the snow. 
 O'er the breezy hill-top hoarsely calls the 
 
 crow. 
 By the flowing river the alder catkins swing. 
 And the sweet song-sparrow cries, " Spring ! 
 
 It is spring!" 
 
 Bear the winter oft" with you, wild geese 
 
 dear ! 
 Carry all the cold away, far away from here; 
 Chase the snow into the north, strong of 
 
 heart and wing, 
 While we share the robin's rapture, crying, 
 
 " Spring ! It is spring ! " 
 
 Celki, Thaxter. 
 
natvuk. 
 
 61 
 
 KAIJLV si'iaxo. 
 
 LoN(! s\vollen in (Iroiicliiiiij; vain, seeds, L;-(.'ni is, 
 
 and l)nds 
 Ktart at tlio toiicli of A'ivilying l)oairis. 
 Moved l)y tlieir secret turce, tlie vital lymiili 
 Diti'iisive runs, and s[ireads o'er wood and 
 
 iield 
 A Hood of vevdnrc. Clotlied, in one sliovt 
 
 A\'eek, 
 Is naked Nature in her full attire. 
 On tlie first laoiTi, liglit as an ojien plain 
 Is all tlie woodland, tilled with sinilieanis, 
 
 ponrt'd 
 Through the hare tops, on yellow leaves 
 
 Ijelow, 
 With strong refleetion ; on the last, 't is <lark 
 With full-grown foliage, shading all within. 
 In one short week the oreluird l>uds and 
 
 l)loonis; 
 And now, wdien steeped in dew or gentle 
 
 showers. 
 It yields the purest sweetness to the hreeze. 
 Or all the trampiil atmosphere perfumes. 
 K'en from the juicy leaves of sudden growth. 
 And the rank grass of steaming ground, 
 
 the air. 
 
 killed with a Waters' i^Tniinu'riln;', reeei\'es 
 A L;'raterul smell, exhaled hy warniin;^' rays. 
 Ivich day ai'i' heai'd, ami almost e\'ei'y hour, 
 Xew iKilcs t(i swell the music ol' the uton'cs. 
 And soon the latest of the featliereil ti'ain 
 At evening t\\'ilight come; the lonely snijie, 
 ( )"er marshy lields, high in the dusky air, 
 Iu\'isilile, hilt with faint, tremulous tones, 
 Hovering oi- playing o'er the listener's ln'ad; 
 And, in mid-air, the spoi'tive niglit-lia\\d<, 
 
 seen 
 Flying awdiile at random, uttering oft 
 A clieerful cry. attended Avitli a shake 
 ( )f level pinions, dark, but when nptui-ned 
 ^Vu'ainst the lirightuess of the westei'u sky, 
 ()ne wdiite plume showinu- in the midst of 
 
 each. 
 Then far di)wu diving with a lollnw sound: 
 And, deep at tirst \\-itliin the ilistaut wood. 
 The whip-jioor-will, her name her only song, 
 ^^hc, soon as ehildren from the noisy spoi't 
 Of hdiiping. laughing, talking with all tones, 
 To hear tlie eehoes of the empty harm 
 Ai'e h\' her voice di\'crted and held mute. 
 Comes to the iiiari;'in uf the nearest grove; 
 
62 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 And when the twilight, deepened into night, 
 Calls them within, close to the house she 
 
 comes. 
 And on its dark side, haply on the step 
 Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen, 
 Breaks into strains articulate and clear, 
 The closing sometimes (quickened as in 
 
 sport. 
 Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve 
 All harmony, activity, and joy, 
 Is lovely ligature, as in her blessed prime. 
 The rohin to the garden or green yard. 
 Close to the door, repairs to huild again 
 Within her wonted tree; and at her work 
 8oenis doubly busy for her past delay. 
 Along the surface of the winding stream, 
 Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim, 
 Or round the borders of the spacious lawn 
 Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er 
 Hillock and fence with motion serpentine. 
 Easy, and light. One snatches from the 
 
 ground 
 A downy feather, and then upAvard springs. 
 Followed by others, but oft drops it soon. 
 
 In playful mood, or from too slight a hold, 
 When all at once dart at the falling prize. 
 The flippant blackbird, with light yellow 
 
 crown. 
 Hangs flutttering in the air, and chatters 
 
 thick 
 Till her breath fail, when, breaking off", she 
 
 drops 
 On the next tree, and on its highest limb 
 Or some tall flag, and gently rocking, sits, 
 Her strain repeating. With sonorous notes 
 Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet, 
 All chanted in the fullness of delight, 
 The forest rings: where, far around inclosed 
 With bushy sides, and covered high above 
 With foliage thick, supported by bare 
 
 trvniks, 
 Like pillars rising to support a roof, 
 It seems a temple vast, the space within 
 Rings loud and clear wath thrilling melodj\ 
 Apart, but near the choir, ^vith voice distinct. 
 The merry mocking-bird together links 
 In one continued song their difi'erent notes. 
 Adding new life and sweetness to them all. 
 
 Carlos Wilcvj-. 
 
 THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
 
 When beechen buds begin to swell, 
 
 And woods the bluebird's warble know, 
 
 The yellow violet's modest bell 
 
 Peeps from the last year's leaves below. 
 
 Ere russet fields their green resume. 
 Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 
 
 To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
 Alone is in the virgin air. 
 
 Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
 First plant thee in the watery mold. 
 
 And I have seen thee blossoming 
 Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. 
 
 Thy parent sun, who bade thee view 
 Pale skies, and chiUing moisture sip, 
 
 Has bathed thee in his own bright hue. 
 And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 
 
 Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
 And earthward bent thy gentle eye. 
 
 Unapt the passing view to meet. 
 
 When loftier flowers are flauutino- nigh. 
 
 Oft, in the sunless April day. 
 
 Thy eai'ly smile has stayed my walk; 
 
 But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 
 I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 
 
 So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
 The friends in darker fortunes tried. 
 
 I copied them — but I regret 
 
 That I should ape the ways of pride. 
 
 And when again the genial hour 
 Awakes the painted tribes of light, 
 
 I'll not o'erlook the modest flower 
 That made the woods of April bright. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 63 
 
 m SrRING SUNSHINE. 
 
 Bright sunshine on the meadows lying, — 
 Low winds among the orchards sighing, — 
 Blush roses by the pathway blooming, — 
 And brown bees mid the clover booming. 
 
 Cowslips where murmurous brooks are 
 
 flowing, — 
 Sweet violets by the road-side showing, — 
 
 Pink blossoms and white daisies greeting, — 
 And blue waves on the white sands beating. 
 
 through 
 
 the verdant 
 
 Like flame-flecks 
 
 arches 
 
 Of sturdy oaks and silver larches, 
 With wealth of rapid, joyous singing. 
 Blithe, merry robins swiftly winging. 
 
 Thomas L. GoUiei: 
 
 THE WIND-FLOWER. 
 
 Thou lookest up with meek, confiding eye 
 Upon the clouded smile of April's face. 
 Unharmed though winter stands uncertain 
 
 by,_ 
 Eying with jealous glance each opening 
 
 grace. 
 Thou trustest wisely! in thy faith arrayed, 
 More glorious thou than Israel's wisest 
 
 king; 
 Such faith was his whom men to death 
 
 betrayed, 
 
 As thine who hear'st the timid voice of 
 
 Spring, 
 While other flowers still hide them from 
 
 her call 
 Along the river's brink and meadows bare. 
 Thee will I seek beside the stony wall, 
 And in thy trust with childlike heart would 
 
 share, 
 O'erjoyed that in thy early leaves I find 
 A lesson taught by him who loved all human 
 
 kind. 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 O FAINT, delicious, spring-time violet! 
 
 Thine odor, like a key, 
 Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 
 
 A thought of sorrow free. 
 
 The breath of distant fields upon my brow 
 Blows through that open door 
 
 The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and 
 low. 
 And sadder than of yore. 
 
 It comes afar, from that beloved place. 
 
 And that beloved hour. 
 When life hung ripening in love's golden 
 grace. 
 
 Like grapes above a bower. 
 
 A spring goes singing through its reedy 
 grass ; 
 The lark sings o'er my head. 
 Drowned in the sky — O, pass, ye visions, 
 pass ! 
 I would that I were dead! — 
 
 Why hast thou opened that forbidden door, 
 
 From which I ever flee? 
 vanished joy ! love, that art no more. 
 
 Let my vexed spirit be! 
 
 violet! thy odor through my brain 
 
 Hath searched, and stung to grief 
 
 This suiniy day, as if a curse did stain 
 Thy velvet leaf. 
 
 William W. Story. 
 
64 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 A VIOLET. 
 
 God does not send ns strange flowers every year. 
 When the spring winds blow o'er the 
 
 pleasant }ilaees, 
 The same dear things lift up the same fair faces. 
 The violet is here. 
 
 It all comes hack : the odor, grace, and hue ; 
 Each sweet relation of its life repeated: 
 
 No blank is left, no looking-for is cheated ; 
 It is the thing we knew. 
 
 So after the death-writer it must be; 
 God will not put strange signs in the 
 
 heavenly places: 
 The old love shall look out from the old faces. 
 Veilchen ! I shall have three ! 
 
 Adeline D. T. Whibmj. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 I FEEL a nt'wer life in every gale; 
 
 The winds that fan the flowers, 
 And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, 
 
 Tell of serencr hours, — 
 Of hours that glide unfelt away 
 Beneath the sky of May. 
 
 The spirit of the gL-utle south-wind calls 
 
 From his blue throne of air, 
 And where his whispering voice in music falls, 
 
 Beauty is budding there; 
 The bright ones of the valley break 
 Their slumbers, and awake. 
 
 The waving verdure rolls along the plain, 
 
 And the Avidc forest weaves. 
 To welcome back its playful mates again, 
 
 A canopy of leaves; 
 And from its darkening shadow floats 
 A gush of trembling notes. 
 
 Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of j\Iay; 
 
 The tresses of the woods 
 With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; 
 
 And the full-brimming floods. 
 As gladly to their goal they run, 
 Hail the returning sun. 
 
 James Gales Perckul. 
 
 DAY-BREAK. 
 
 A WIND came up out of the sea, 
 
 And said, "0 mists, make room for me!" 
 
 It hailed the ships, and cried, " Siiil on. 
 Ye nuirincrs, the night is gone!" 
 
 And liurried landward far away. 
 Crying, "Awake! it is the day!" 
 
 It said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
 Hang all your leafy banners out!" 
 
 It touched the wood-bird's folded wing. 
 And said, "0 bird, awake and sing!" 
 
 And o'er the farms, " chanticleer. 
 Your clarion blow; the day is near!" 
 
 It whispered to the fields of corn, 
 
 "Bow down, and hail the coming morn!" 
 
 It shouted through the belfry-toAver, 
 "Awake, bell! proclaim the hour." 
 
 It crossed the churchyard with a sigh. 
 And said, "Not yet! iu quiet lie." 
 
 Henry )Vadsicorth Loiirjfellmc. 
 
;/ /;.// 
 
 y////j/ J/. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 65 
 
 WALDEX LAKE. 
 
 It is not far beyond the village chnrcli, 
 After we pass the wood that skirts the 
 
 road, 
 A lake, — the blue-eyed Walden, that doth 
 
 smile 
 Most tenderly upon its neighbor pines; 
 And they, as if to recompense this love, 
 
 In double Ijeauty spread their branches 
 
 forth. 
 This lake has trancp^il loveliness and lireadth. 
 And, of late years, has added to its i-harms; 
 For one attracted to its pleasant edge 
 Has built himself a little liermitage, 
 AVhere with much piety he passes life. 
 
 More iitting place I cau not fancy now. 
 For such a man to let the line run oft" 
 The mortal reel, — such patience hath the 
 
 lake. 
 Such gratitude and cheer is in the pines. 
 But more than either lake or forest's 
 
 depths 
 This man has in himself: a trampiil man, 
 AVith sunny sides where well the fruit is 
 
 ripe. 
 Good front and resolute liearlng to this life, 
 And some serener virtues, wliich control 
 This rich exterior prudence, — virtues high. 
 That in the }irinciplcs of things are set, 
 (Ireat liy their nature, and consigned to him, 
 "Who, like a faithful merchant, ilocs account 
 
 To (T(_id for what he spends, and in what 
 
 way. 
 Thrice happy art thou, AYalden, in thyself! 
 Such purity is in thy limpid springs, — 
 In those green shores which do reflect in 
 
 thee. 
 And in this man who dwells upon thy edge, 
 A holy uuin within a hermitage. 
 May all good showers fall gently \\\U) 
 
 thee, 
 !Mav thy surrounding forests long 1i(_' spared. 
 And nuiy the dweller on tliy tranquil marge 
 There lead a life (jf deep trampiillity. 
 Pure as thy waters, luuidsome as tliy shores. 
 And with those virtues which are like the 
 
 stars ! 
 
 William KIkry ('ham^iii'/. 
 
66 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 THE BLUE-BELLS OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The roses are a regal troop 
 
 And hiTiiible folks the daisies; 
 But, blue-bells of New England, 
 
 To you I give my praises, — 
 To you, fair phantoms in the sun, 
 
 Whom meny Spring discovers, 
 With bluebirds for your laureates, 
 
 And honey-bees for lovers. 
 
 All night your eyes are closed in sleep, 
 
 But open at the dawning; 
 Such simple faith as yours can see 
 
 God's coming in the morning. 
 You lead nie, by your holiness, 
 
 To pleasant ways of duty: 
 You set my thoughts to melody, 
 
 You till me with your beauty. 
 
 The south-wind breathes, and, lo! ye throng 
 
 This rugged land of ours: 
 I think the pale-blue clouds of May 
 
 Drop down and turn to flowers! 
 By cottage-doors along the roads 
 
 You show your winsome faces, 
 And, like the specter-lady, haunt 
 
 The lonely woodland places. 
 
 And you are like the eyes I love. 
 
 So modest and so tender, 
 Just touched with day-break's glorious light. 
 
 And evening's quiet splendor. 
 Long may the heavens give you rain, 
 
 The sunshine its caresses; 
 Long may the woman that I love 
 
 Entwine you in her tresses. 
 
 Thmms Baile 
 
 Aldrieh. 
 
 BESIDE A BROOK. 
 
 My way in opening dawn I took, 
 Between the hills, beside a brook; 
 The peaks one sun was climbing o'er. 
 The dew-drops showed ten million more. 
 
 Behold that guiltless bird! What brings 
 Ilim here? He comes to wash his wings. 
 Let me, too, wash my wings with prayer. 
 And cleanse them from foul dust and care. 
 
 The mountain valley is a vase 
 
 Which God has brimmed with rarest grace ; 
 
 And, kneeling in the taintless air, 
 
 I drink celestial blessings there. 
 
 To one long time in cities pent. 
 The lesson seems from heaven sent; — 
 Of pinions clean yon bird takes care; 
 Of soul defiled, do thou beware 1 
 
 WUliavi Rnunsevilk Alyei: 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 The bubbling brook doth leap when I come 
 
 by, 
 
 Because my feet find measure with its 
 
 call ; 
 The birds know when the friend they love 
 
 is nigh. 
 
 For I am known to them, both great and 
 
 small ; 
 The fiower that on the lonely hill-side 
 
 grows 
 Expects me there when spring its bloom 
 
 has given; 
 
NATURE. 
 
 67 
 
 And many a tree and bush my wanderings His ear shall catch each sound with nc^\' 
 
 knows, delight, 
 
 And even the clouds aud silent stars of Each object wear the dress that then it 
 
 heaven ; wore ; 
 
 For he who with his Maker walks aright, And he, as when erect in soul he stood. 
 
 Shall be their lord, as Adam was before; — Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. 
 
 J'liifn Very. 
 
 AFTER THE RAIK-STOPvM. 
 
 The rain is o'er. How dense and bright 
 Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! 
 
 Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, 
 Contrasting with the dark blue sky! 
 
 The sun breaks forth; from off the scene 
 Its floating veil of mist is flung; 
 
 And all the wilderness of green 
 
 With trembling drops of light is hung. 
 
 In grateful silence earth receives 
 The general blessing; fresh and fair 
 
 Each flower expands its little leaves. 
 As glad the common joy to share. 
 
 Now gaze on ITature, — yet the same. 
 Glowing with life, by breezes fanne<l. 
 
 Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, 
 
 Fresh in her youth, from (^od's own hand. 
 
 The softened sunbeams pour around 
 A fairy light, uncertain, pale: 
 
 The wind flows cool ; the scented ground 
 Is breathing odors on the gale. 
 
 Hear the rich nnisic of that voice, 
 Which sounds from all below, above; 
 
 She calls her thildren to rejoice, 
 
 And round them throws her arm of love. 
 
 Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, 
 Methinks some spirit of the air 
 
 Might rest, to gaze below awhile. 
 Then turn to bathe and revel there. 
 
 Drink in her influence; low-born care. 
 And all the train of mean desire 
 
 Refuse to breathe this holy air, 
 And mid this living light expire. 
 
 Andrews Norton. 
 
 THE MEETING WATERS. 
 
 Close beside the meeting waters, 
 Long I stood as in a dream, 
 
 Watching how the little river 
 Fell into the broader stream. 
 
 And I thought: "0 human spirit! 
 
 Strong, and deep and pure and blest, 
 Let the stream of my existence 
 
 Blend with thine, and find its rest!" 
 
 Calm and still the mingled current 
 Glided to the waiting sea; 
 
 On its breast serenely pictured 
 Floating cloud and skirting tree. 
 
 I could die, as dies the river 
 In that current deep and wide; 
 
 I would live, as live its waters, 
 Flashing fi'om a stronger tide! 
 
 Elisabeth H. Wltiliiei: 
 
68 
 
 NA TURE. 
 
 ^- **?^'^J^- 
 
 .V^oi^- 
 
 TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 
 
 River! that in silence Avindest 
 
 Tlirough the meadows, bright and free, 
 Till at length thy rest thon findest 
 
 In the bosom of the sea! 
 
 Not for this alone I love thee, 
 ISTor becanse thy waves of bine 
 
 From celestial seas above thee 
 Take their own celestial hue. 
 
 Fonr long years of mingled feeling. 
 Half in rest, and half in strife, 
 
 I liave seen thy waters stealing 
 Onward, like the stream of life. 
 
 Where yon shadowy woodlands hide tbee. 
 
 And thy waters disappear, 
 Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 
 
 And have made thy margin dear. 
 
 Thon hast tanght me, Silent River 
 Many a lesson, deep and long; 
 
 Thou hast been a generous giver; 
 I can give thee but a song. 
 
 More than this; — thy name reminds me 
 Of three friends, all true and tried; 
 
 And that name, like magic, binds me 
 Closer, closer to thy side. 
 
 Oft in sadness, and in illness, 
 
 I have watched thy current glide, 
 
 Till the beauty of its stillness 
 Overflowed me, like a tide. 
 
 Friends my soul with joy remembers! 
 
 How like quivering flames they start, 
 "When I fan the living embers 
 
 On the hearth-stone of my heart! 
 
 And in better hours and brighter. 
 When I saw thy waters gleam, 
 
 I have felt my heart beat lighter. 
 And leap onward with thy stream. 
 
 'Tis for this, thou Silent River! 
 
 That my spirit leans to thee: 
 Thou hast been a generous giver, 
 
 Take this idle song fi"om me. 
 
 Henry Wadmorth LongfeUmc. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 69 
 
 THE VALLEY BROOK. 
 
 Fresh from the fountains of the wood 
 
 A rivulet of the valley came, 
 And glided on for many a rood, 
 
 Flushed with the morning's ruddy flame. 
 
 The air was fresh and soft and sweet; 
 
 The slopes in spring's new verdure lay. 
 And wet, with dew-drops, at my feet 
 
 Bloomed the young violets of May. 
 
 No sound of husy life was heard 
 Amid those pastures lone and still, 
 
 Save the faint chirp of early bird, 
 Or bleat of flocks along the hill. 
 
 I traced that rivulet's winding way; 
 
 New scenes of beauty opened round. 
 Where meads of brighter verdure lay, 
 
 And lovelier blossoms tinged the ground. 
 
70 
 
 NA TUBE. 
 
 "Ah, happy valley stream!" I said, 
 
 "Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers, 
 
 Whose fragrance round thy path is shed 
 Through all the joyous summer hours. 
 
 "Oh, could my years, like thine, be passed 
 In some remote and silent glen. 
 
 Where I could dwell and sleep at last. 
 Far from the hustling haunts of men ! " 
 
 But what new echoes greet my ear? 
 
 The village school-boy's merry call; 
 And mid the village hum I hear 
 
 The murmur of the waterfall. 
 
 I looked; the widening vale betrayed 
 A pool that shone like burnished steel. 
 
 Where that bright valley stream was stayed 
 To turn the miller's ponderous wheel. 
 
 Ah! why should I, I thought with shame. 
 
 Sigh for a life of solitude. 
 When even this stream, without a name, 
 
 Is laboring for the common good? 
 
 ISTo longer let me shun my part 
 
 Amid the busy scenes of life. 
 But with a warm and generous heart 
 
 Press onward in the glorious strife. 
 
 John Howard BryaTit. 
 
 UP IN THE WILD. 
 
 Up in the wild, where no one comes to 
 
 look, 
 There lives and sings a little lonely brook, 
 Liveth and singeth in the dreary pines. 
 Yet creepeth on to where the daylight shines. 
 
 Pure from their heaven, in mountain chalice 
 
 caught. 
 It drinks the rains, as drinks the soul her 
 
 thought ; 
 Aud down dim hollows where it winds 
 
 along. 
 Pours its life-burden of unlistened song. 
 
 I catch the murmur of its undertone, 
 That sigheth ceaselessly, Alone! alone! 
 And hear afar the rivers gloriously 
 Shout on their paths toward the shining 
 sea! 
 
 The voiceful rivers, chanting to the sun, 
 And wearing names of honor, every one: 
 Outi-eaching wide, and joining hand with 
 
 hand 
 To pour great gifts along the asking land. 
 
 Ah, lonely brook! creep onward through 
 the pines; 
 
 Press through the gloom to where the day- 
 light shines. 
 
 Sing on among the stones, and secretly 
 
 Teach how the floods are all akin to thee! 
 
 Drink the sweet rain the gentle heaven 
 
 sendeth ; 
 Hold thine own path, howeverward it 
 
 Avendeth, 
 For somewhere underneath the eternal sky, 
 Thou, too, shalt find the rivers by and by! 
 
 Adeline D. T. Whilnetj. 
 
 THE KHODORA. 
 
 LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? 
 
 In May, when sea- winds pierced our solitudes, 
 I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods. 
 Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook. 
 To please the desert and the sluggish brook: 
 
 The purple petals fallen in the pool 
 
 Made the black waters with thei r beauty gay, 
 Here might the red-bird come his plumes 
 to cool, — 
 
NATURE. 
 
 71 
 
 And court tlie flower that cheapens his 
 
 array. 
 Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 
 This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 
 Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for 
 
 seeing, 
 
 Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 
 
 Why thou wcrt there, rival of the rose! 
 I never thought to ask, I never knew; 
 
 But in my simple ignorance suppose 
 The self-same Power that brought me there 
 brought you. 
 
 Ealph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 O WILLOW, why forever weep 
 
 As one who mourns an endless wrong? 
 What hidden woe can lie so deep? 
 
 What utter grief can last so long? 
 
 The Spring makes haste with step alate 
 Your life and beauty to renew; 
 
 She even bids the roses wait. 
 
 And gives her first sweet care to you. 
 
 The welcome redbreast folds his wing 
 To pour for you his freshest strain; 
 
 To you the earliest bluebirds sing 
 Till all your light stems thrill again. 
 
 The sparrow trills his wedding song. 
 And trusts his tender brood to you; 
 
 Fair, flowering vines, the summer long, 
 With clasp and kiss your bounty woo. 
 
 The sunshine drapes your limbs with light. 
 The rain braids diamonds in your hair, 
 
 The breeze makes love to you at night, — 
 Yet still you droop and still despair. 
 
 Beneath your boughs, at fall of dew. 
 
 By lovers' lips is softly told 
 The tale that all the ages through 
 
 Has kept the world from growing old. 
 
 But still, though April's buds unfold, 
 Or Summer sets the earth aleaf, 
 
 Or Autumn })ranks your robes with gold. 
 You sway and sigh in graceful grief. 
 
 Mourn on forever, uncon soled, 
 
 And keep your secret, faithful tree! 
 
 Xo heart in all the world can hold 
 A sweeter grace than constanc}-. 
 
 Elizabeth Akeis Allen. 
 
72 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 UNDER A TREE. 
 
 I CARE not how men trace their ancestry, 
 To ape or Adam ; let them please their whim ; 
 But I in June am midway to believe 
 A tree among my far progenitors, 
 Such sympathy is mine with all the race, 
 Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet 
 There is between us. Surely there are times 
 "When they consent to own me of their kin, 
 And condescend to me, and call me cousin. 
 Murmuring faint lullabies of eldest time, 
 Forgotten, and yet dumbly felt with thrills 
 Moving the lips, though fruitless of the words. 
 And I have many a life-long leafy friend, 
 Never estranged nor careful of my soul, 
 That knows I hate the axe, aud welcomes me 
 "Within his tent as if I were a bird. 
 Or other free companion of the earth. 
 Yet undegenerate to the shifts of men. 
 
 Among them one, an ancient willow, spreads 
 Eight balanced limbs, springing at once all 
 
 round 
 His deep-ridged trunk with upward slant 
 
 diverse. 
 In outline like enormous beaker, fit 
 For hand of Jotun, where 'mid snow and 
 
 mist 
 He holds unwieldy revel. This tree, spared, 
 I know not by what grace, — for in the blood 
 Of our New World subduers lingers yet 
 Hereditary feud with trees, they being 
 (They and the red-man most) our fathers' 
 
 foes, — 
 Is one of six, a willow Pleiades, 
 The seventh fallen, that lean along the brink 
 "Where the steep upland dips into the marsh, 
 Their roots, like molten metal cooled in 
 
 flowing, 
 Stiflened in coils and runnels down the bank. 
 The friend of all i\\& winds, wide-armed he 
 
 towers 
 And glints his steely aglets in the sun, 
 Or whitens fitfully with sudden bloom 
 
 Of leaves breeze-lifted, much as when a shoal 
 Of devious minnows wheel from where a pike 
 Lurks balanced 'neath the lily-pads, and whirl 
 A rood of silver bellies to the day. 
 
 Alas! no acorn from the British oak 
 'Neath which slim fairies tripping wrought 
 
 those rings 
 Of greenest emerald, wherewith fireside life 
 Did with the invisible spirit of Nature wed. 
 Was ever planted here! No darnel fancy 
 Might choke one useful blade in Puritan fields ; 
 With horn and hoof the good old Devil came. 
 The witch's broomstick was not contraband. 
 But all that superstition had of fair, 
 Or piety of native sweet, was doomed. 
 And if there be who nurse unholy faiths, 
 Fearing their god as if he were a wolf 
 That snuffed round every home and was 
 
 jiot seen, 
 There should be some to watch and keep alive 
 All beautiful beliefs. And such was that, — 
 Hj solitary shepherd first surmised 
 Under Thessalian oaks, loved by some maid 
 Of royal stirp, that silent came and vanished. 
 As near her nest the hermit thrush, nor dared 
 Confess a mortal name, — that faith which 
 
 gave 
 A Hamadryad to each tree; and I 
 Will hold it true that in this willow dwells 
 The open-handed spirit, frank and blithe. 
 Of ancient Hospitality, long since. 
 With ceremonious thrift, bowed out of doors. 
 
 In June 'tis good to lie beneath a tree 
 While the blithe season comforts every sense. 
 Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart. 
 Brimming it o'er with SAveetnoss unawares. 
 Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow 
 "WhercMnth the pitying apple-tree fills up 
 And tenderly lines some last-year robin's nest. 
 There muse I of old times, old hopes, old 
 friends, — 
 
NA TUBE. 
 
 73 
 
 Old friends! The writing of tlmsc woivls 
 
 lias l)(n'no 
 A'ly fancy lia<'kwaTd to tlio g-raci<>ns ])ast, 
 Tlu' gL'ne'r()ns past, when all was possible, 
 For all was then untried; the years between 
 Have taught sf)nie sweet, some hittrr lessons, 
 
 none 
 Wiser than this, — to spend in all things 
 
 else. 
 But of old friends to he most miserly. 
 Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring, 
 
 As to an oak, and precious more and miirc, 
 Witliout deservingness or hel}) of ours, 
 Tlu^y grow, and, silent, wider spread, each 
 
 year. 
 Their unbouglit ring of shelter or of shade. 
 Saered to me the lichens on tlie hark. 
 Which Nature's uiilliners would scrape away : 
 Mijst dear and sacred every withered liiiili! 
 'T is good to set them early, for our faith 
 Pines as we age, and, after wrinkles corue. 
 Fewplant, hut waterdeadones with vain tcai's. 
 
 .T„,u,..: nilxsell lj,ir,ll. 
 
 
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 TJTK r.KLFliY I'KiEUX. 
 
 Ox the crossdieam, under tlie (")ld Snuth hell. 
 The nest of a uiii-eon is huilded well. 
 In sunnuer and winter that bird is thei-e, 
 Out and in with the morning air; 
 I love to sec him track the street, 
 AYitli his ^vary eye and active feet ; 
 And I often watch him as he s})rings, 
 (Hrcling the steeple with easy wings. 
 Till across the dial his shade has passed. 
 And the belfry edge is gained at last. 
 "Tis a hird I love, with it.s liroo(ling note. 
 And the trendjling throb in its mottled throat ; 
 There's a human look in its swelling breast. 
 And the gentk' curve of its lowly crest; 
 And I often stoji with the fear I feel, — 
 He ruus so close to the rapid wheel. 
 
 Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, — 
 Chime of the hour, or funeral knell, — 
 The dove in the belfrv must hear it well. 
 
 A\'hcii the tongue s^\-ings dut to the mid- 
 night moon. 
 AVhcu the se-\tou c]icci-ly I'iiigs for no(Ui, 
 AVhen the cluck strikes clear at moiaiing light. 
 When the child is \\ aked^\'ith '• nine at night,"' 
 "When the chimes play soft in the Sabbaib 
 
 air. 
 Filling the spirit with tones (if pi-aycr, — 
 AVhatever tale in the bell is heard. 
 He lirooils (in his folded feet unstirred. 
 Or. risinu' half in his rounded nest. 
 Tie takes the time to smooth his brea>t. 
 Then drops again, with tilme(I eyes, 
 And sleeps as the last viliration dies. 
 
 Sweet bird! I would that I could be 
 A licrmit in the crowd like tbee! 
 With wings to fly to wood and glen. 
 Thv lot, like nunc, i- cast with men; 
 And dailv. with unwilliiia' feet. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 I tread, like thee, the croAvdcd street, 
 I5nt, unlike me, when day is d'er, 
 Tlion canst dismiss the world, and soar; 
 Or, at a half- felt Avisli for rest. 
 Canst smooth the feathers on thy hreast. 
 And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 
 
 I would that in sueh wings of gold 
 I could my weary heart upfold; 
 
 I would I eould look down unmoved 
 (Unloving as I am unloved), 
 And while the world throngs on heneath, 
 ymooth down my cares and calmly breathe; 
 And never sad with others" sadness. 
 And never glad with others' gladness. 
 Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime. 
 And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willl.<. 
 
 IT IS XOT ALWAYS MAY. 
 
 The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 
 The dartina; swallows soar and sing. 
 
 And from the stately elms I hear 
 The bluebird prophesying Spring. 
 
 So blue yon Avinding river Hows, 
 It seems an outlet from the sky, 
 
 ^Yhere waiting till the west-wind blows, 
 The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 
 
 All things are new; — the buds, the leaves. 
 That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, 
 
 And even the nest beneath the eaves; — 
 There are no birds in last year's nest ! 
 
 All things rejoice in youth and love, 
 The fullness of their first delight! 
 
 And learn from the soft heavens above 
 The melting tenderness of night. 
 
 Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 
 Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; 
 
 Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime. 
 For 0, it is not always May! 
 
 Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
 To some good angel leave the rest; 
 
 For Time will teach thee soon the truth. 
 There are no birds in last year's nest! 
 
 Henry Wadsworth LongfeUow. 
 
 BEAA'ER BROOK. 
 
 Hushed with broad sunlight lies the hill, 
 And, minuting the long day s loss, 
 The cedar's shadow, slow and still, 
 t-reeps o'er its dial of graj- moss. 
 
 Warm noon brims fnll the valley's cu^), 
 The aspen's leaves are scarce astir, 
 Only the little mill sends up 
 Its busy, never-ceasing burr. 
 
 Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems 
 The road along the mill-pond's brink. 
 From 'neath the arching barberry-stems, 
 My footstep scares the shy chewink. 
 
 Beneath a bony buttonwood 
 The mill's red door lets forth the din; 
 The whitened miller, dust-imbued, 
 Flits past the srpiare of dark within. 
 
 Xo mountain torrent's strength is here; 
 Sweet Beaver, child of foi'est still. 
 Heaps its small pitcher to the ear, 
 And gently waits the miller's will. 
 
 Swift slips Undine along the race 
 Unheard, and then, with flashing bound. 
 Floods the dirll wheel with light and grace, 
 And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge round. 
 
.V.l TJ^RE. 
 
 t-) 
 
 Tlic miller Aroaius not at what iMist 
 The (|iii\ei-iiin' iiiillstoiies liuiii and \\'liii-l, 
 Xoi' \io\\' lor e\'ery turn are tost 
 Arnifuls i)f dianioud and nf pearl. 
 
 But Suniiuer <'leared my happier eyes 
 With drops of some eelestial juice. 
 To see liow Beauty underlies 
 Forevermore earh form of Use. 
 
 And more: methouglit I saw that flf)od, 
 Whieli now so dull and darkliiii;' steals, 
 Thi(d<, here and there, with hnman 
 
 l)lood, 
 To turn the world's laborious wheels. 
 
 Xo more than doth the miller thei'e. 
 Shut in our several <.'ells, do «"e 
 Know with what waste of Ijeauty rai'e 
 Mo\-(.'s every day's maehinery. 
 
 Surely the wiser time shall t'<"ime 
 When this tine over[ilus of might, 
 Xo longer sullen, shnv, and dumh. 
 Shall leap to musie and to light. 
 
 In that new (diildhood of tlie Eai'th 
 Life of itself shall dance and play. 
 
 Fresh hi 1 in Time's shrunk \eins nuike 
 
 luirth 
 And lalior meet (kTight half-way. 
 
 .Taint.-i Ullxsrll Luir.l/ 
 
 TITE XEW ^[()()X. 
 
 '\ViiK\, as the garish day is done, 
 irea\'eu hums \\'ith the descended sun, 
 
 Tis passing sweet to mark. 
 Amid that flush of crimson light, 
 ^riie new moon's modest liow grow hri 
 As earth and sky grow dark. 
 
 Few are the lu'arts too cold to feel 
 A thrill of gladness o'er them steal, 
 
 When first the wandering c^ye 
 Sees fainti}-, in the evening Ida/.e, 
 That glimmering eurve of tender rays 
 
 .lust jilanted in the sky. 
 
 The sight of that young crescent hriui; 
 Thoughts of all fixir and youthful thini 
 
 The hopes of early years; 
 And childhood's purity and gra<'e. 
 And joys that like a rainbow chase 
 
 The passing shower of tears. 
 
 Tlie eaptive yields him to the dream 
 Of freedom, when that viigin beam 
 
 (Ernies out upon the air; 
 And painfully the siek nuin tries 
 To fix his dim and burning eyes 
 
 On the sweet promise tliere. 
 
 M(]st weleiniie to the lover's sight 
 (ilittei's that [lure, emerging light: 
 
 For jjraltliiig poets say. 
 That sweetesi is the lo\ers' walk. 
 And tenderest is theii' miiriuured talk, 
 
 lieiieatli its gentle I'av. 
 
 And there (h.) graver men lieliold 
 A tv}ie i:>f errfU's, loved of old. 
 
 Forsaken and tni-given: 
 And thoughts and wishes not of earth 
 Just opening in theii' early birth. 
 
 Like that new light in heaven. 
 
 WUliuia r„ll,„ Biyinil. 
 
7B 
 
 yj TUBE. 
 
 'UE BIRDS. 
 
 OxE (lay ill tlu! lilin'st of suiaiiici' \vc:itlK'r. 
 
 Skftt'liiiii;' iiiidci' a \\'liis|nM'iiiu' oak, 
 T lirai'd ti\r holioliiiks lanii'liiiiL;' to^■('tlu'l• 
 
 ()\'(,'r some oriiirhiiloi^lcal joke. 
 
 ^^^llat the iiiii was, I could ii't disi-ovi'i\ — 
 Jjauyuau'e of liii'ds is a I'iddle oil earth: 
 
 \Vhat could they liiid in wdiite-weed and clo\-ei' 
 To split theirsides with such musical mirth ? 
 
 Was it some ju'aiik of the prodi^'al siiuimei' — 
 Fai-e in the cloud or \-oice in the lu'eeze — 
 
 (^)uei'alons cat-hird — woodjiecker drummer — 
 C'awiut:' of crows liit;'h over the trees? 
 
 ^Vas it s(nue chi[i-muuk"s chattel' — <>v weast'l 
 Umk'i' the stone wall stc'althy and sly? — 
 
 ()r was the joke ahout iin' at my easel, 
 Trying- to <,'atch the tints of the sky? 
 
 .^till they flew tijisily, shakini;' all o\'ei', 
 IJuhhliliii' with j(illity, hrimful of glee — 
 
 While I sat listcuini;' deeji in the clox'er 
 ^\"onde^ing■ what their jargon c<iul(l he. 
 
 "Twas hut the \dice of a morning the 
 hi-ightest 
 That ever dawnetl o\'er von sha<h)\\'\' hills; 
 
 'Twas hut the song of all joy that i^ 
 lightest — 
 Sunshine hreaking in laughter and trills 
 
 A'aiii to conjecture the \\'ords they are 
 singing, 
 ()iily liy tones can we follow the tune; 
 In the full heart of the summer fields 
 ringing. 
 Kinging the rhythmical gladness of Jtinel 
 
 ChrUtnpiicr J\'0.r.^r Cruiirh. 
 
 A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 ciFT of <-)od ! O perlect day : 
 Wheri'on shall no man work, hut play: 
 \Vhere(ui it is cuougli for nn', 
 
 X(.it to he <loiug, hut to Ik' ! 
 
 Through ever\' fiher of m\' hrain. 
 Through vvcvy nerw, through e\'ery vein, 
 
 1 feel the electric thrill, tlu' touch 
 Of life, that seems almost too much. 
 
 1 hear the "wind among the trees 
 Pla\'iiig celestial symjihoiiii;s ; 
 
 I see the hranches downward bent. 
 Like keys ot' some great instrument. 
 
 Antl o\'er me unrolls em high 
 The splendid scenery of the sky, 
 ^^'here through a sap[ihii'e sea the sun 
 Sails like a golden galleon 
 
 Towards yonder clouddand in the West, 
 Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, 
 Whose stee[i sierra far uplifts 
 Its cragg\' summits white with drifts. 
 
SAT r 'RE. 
 
 I)lo\v, \viiid8! and waft tlirdugli all the I'ndins 
 Thu suow-tlakc'S of the <.'herr\'-bl(M)ms ! 
 I)l()\v, wimls I ami heiul within inv reaeh 
 The tic'i-y blossoms of the peach! 
 
 <) life and love! (J happy throng 
 (Jf thoughts, whose only speeeh is song! 
 () heart of man! eanst tlujn n(.)t he 
 Blithe as the air is, anil as free? 
 
 llainj WatUrudh L„i„ifdhi' 
 
 THE OLD MILL. 
 
 r>KSIDE the sti'eaiu the grist-mill stands. 
 
 With Lending rijof and leaning wall; 
 So ol(L that when the Axinds ai'e wild, 
 
 The miller treml)les lest it fall: 
 And yet it battles wind and rain, 
 ()iir brave old Mill! aiid will again. 
 
 rts (Lun is steep, and Lnng \\-itli ^\eeds : 
 
 The gates are up, the watei's pour, 
 And tread the old wheel's slip[iery round 
 
 The lowest ste[> fore\'ermore. 
 !NL'tbinks they fnme, and chafe with ire. 
 Leeaiise tbev can not elinib it hiirher. 
 
 From nKH'n to night in autumn time, 
 When har\ests fill the neighhoriug plains, 
 
 Lp to the mill the farmers drive, 
 And back anon with loaded wains: 
 
 And when the children come from school 
 
 They stop, an<l watch its f)amy pool. 
 
 The mill inside is small and dark; 
 
 lint pei.'ping in the open (hmr 
 Von see the miller Hitting I'ound, 
 
 The (bi-ty bags along the tioor, 
 'flic whiiLiiiu- shaft, the elatteriiiij' siiout. 
 And the yellow meal a-pouring out! 
 
 All day the meal is tioating thert'. 
 Rising and falling in the breeze; 
 
 And when the sunlight strikes its mist 
 It glitters like a swarm of hees : 
 
 ()r like the cdoud of smoke and light 
 
 Abo\e a blaeksnnthV forge at night. 
 
 I lo\-e our pleasant, (plaint old Mill, 
 It still recalls my boyish jirime; 
 
 "Tis changed since then, and so am I, 
 
 Wc both have known the touch of time: 
 
 The mill is crumbling in decay. 
 
 And ! — my hair is early gray. 
 
 I stand besiile the stream of Lib', 
 
 And watch the "airrent sweeji along: 
 
 And \vhen the tloo(l-gates of my heart 
 Are raised, it turns the wheel of Song: 
 
 Ibit -cant, as yet. the harvest brought 
 
 Fi-om out the golden helds of Thought! 
 
 A'iW,.„r/ ILnr;/ Stuilditnl. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 PISCATAQUA RIVER. 
 
 Thou singest by the gleaming isles, 
 By woods, and iields of coni. 
 
 Thou singest, and the heaven smiles 
 Upon my birthday morn. 
 
 But I within a city, I, 
 
 So full of vague unrest. 
 Would almost give my life to lie 
 
 An hour upon thy breast! 
 
 To let the wherry listless go. 
 And, wrapt in dreamy joy, 
 
 Dip, and surge idly to and fro. 
 Like the red harbor-buoy; 
 
 To sit in happy indolence. 
 
 To rest iipon the oars, 
 And catch the heavy earthy scents 
 
 That blow from summer shores; 
 
 To sec the rounded sun go down, 
 
 And with its parting lires 
 Light up the windows of the town 
 
 And burn the tapering spires; 
 
 And then to hear the muffled tolls 
 From steeples slim and white. 
 
 And watch, among the Isles of Shoals, 
 The Beacon's orange light. 
 
 River! flowing to the main 
 
 Through woods, and fields of corn, 
 
 Hear thou my longing and my pain 
 This sunny birthday morn ; 
 
 And take this song which sorrow shapes 
 
 To music like thine own. 
 And sing it to the eliiis and capes 
 
 And crags where I am known ! 
 
 Thomas Sailey AMrich. 
 
 A DAT m JUl^E. 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune. 
 
 And over it softly her warm car lays : 
 Whether we look, or whether wc listen. 
 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
 Every clod feels a stir of might. 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and 
 towers 
 And, groping blindly above it for light, 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
 Tlie flush of life may well he seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
 The cowslip startles in meadows green. 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its 
 chalice. 
 And there's never a leaf or a blade too 
 mean 
 
 To be some happy creature's palace; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 
 A-tilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
 
 And lets his illumined being o'errun 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters 
 
 and sings; 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her 
 
 nest, — 
 In the nice ear of Nature, which song is 
 
 the best? 
 
 Now is the high-tide of the year, 
 
 And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
 
 Comes flooding Ijack, with a rippl^' cheer. 
 Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 
 
 Now the heart is so full that a drop over- 
 fills it, 
 
 We are happy now because God so wills it; 
 
 No matter how barren the past may have 
 been, 
 
 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are 
 
NATURE. 
 
 79 
 
 AVe sit ill the warm shade and feel riglit well 
 lIo\\'tlK' sap CTee[>s iipaiid tlie l>liiss()niss\\'('ll ; 
 
 Tliat maize lias sprouted, that streams ar. 
 H(i\\'iiiu', 
 
 We may shut our eyes, hut we eaii not help Tliat the rivei- is l)lner tliaii the sky. 
 
 kudwing' 
 That skies are elear and grass is growing; 
 The hreeze eomes whispering in our ear. 
 That dandelions are hloss((nung near, 
 
 That the rol.iin is plastering his hoiisi' jiai'd 
 
 hy: 
 And if tile hrccze kept tlie good lenvs haek. 
 For other coiiriors ^\•e should not laek; 
 
 "We could guess it all hy yon heifer's lowing, 
 And hai'k! how clear liold chanticleer. 
 Warmed with tlie new wine of the year. 
 
 Tells all in his lusty crowing! 
 Joy comes, grief goes, we know not liow; 
 Every thing is liappy now. 
 
 Every thing is upward striving; 
 'Tis as easy now for the heart to he true 
 
 As foi' ii'rass to he green or skies to he hlni', — 
 
 'Tis the natural 'way of living: 
 'Who knows whither tli<' clouds have fled'' 
 
 In the unscai'rcil hi.'a\-en tlii.'y leave no wake;. 
 And the eyes forget the tears they ha\-i.' shed. 
 
 The lieart tiu-gets its sorrow and a(die; 
 The soul partakes the season's youth. 
 
 And thesuljihurous rifts of pas-:ion and^\'oe 
 Lie deep "neatli a silence i)ure and smooth. 
 
 Like hurnt-out craters healed \\'ith snow. 
 
 ,/(/„„« /e/.,...7/ Lnirrll. 
 
 A^ IXVITATIUX. 
 
 The warm wide hills are mnttted thick Oonie to our cottage-home I Lowly it stands. 
 
 with "•reen, ^et in a vale of tiowers. deep-fringeil with 
 
 And fluttering swallows All the air witli grass; 
 
 1^1, ,11,-. The s^wethrier, noiseless herald of the phce. 
 
80 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Flics with its odor, nieetiiitc itU -wlin rf)ani And ^vliilc tlie west wind walks the leafA* 
 
 ^^^ith weleonu' footstojis ti> our small ahoilc woods, 
 
 No splendid cares live heix', no harreii While orehard-ldoonis are white in all the 
 
 sliows. lanes, 
 
 The hee makes harbor at onr |)ertnmcil dooi-. And hi-ooks make mnsie in theeool deep dells, 
 
 And linins all (hiv his l)rei'zy note of joy. K'ljoy the o'olden moments as they pass, 
 
 Come, iih my friend! and share onr festal And e:ain new strenicth for days that are to 
 
 month I eonn'. 
 
 Jaine-^ T. FirlrU, 
 
 ttip: bikch stream. 
 
 At noon, within the dusty to^\•n, 
 ^Vher(.■ the \vlld ri\'er rushes down. 
 
 And tlmn(hn's hoarsely all day lonj^-, 
 I tliink of thee, my hei'niit sti'eam. 
 Low singing in thy summer dream 
 
 Thine idle, swet't, old, trampiil song. 
 
 Xorthwar(h Katahdin's cliasmiM] jiile 
 Lo("ims tlirough thy low, long, leafy aisle; 
 
 Eastward, (.)lamon"s summit sliiin's; 
 And I upon thy grassy slioi'e. 
 The dreamful, liajjjiy eliild of yore, 
 
 AVorsliiji hefore n^ine olden shi-im'S. 
 
 Again the sultry noontide hush 
 Is sweetly hroken liy the thrush, 
 
 AVhose t'lear hell rings and dies away 
 r>esi(le thy hanks, in coverts deep, 
 AVhere nod(hng huds of orchis sleep 
 
 In dusk, and dream not it is day. 
 
 Again the wild i-ow-lily t!(iats 
 llci' golden-freighte(h tented hoats 
 
 In thy cool coves of softened gloom, 
 ()'ersha(hiweil hy the whispering reed. 
 And ]iur]ile plunu'S of pickerel-weed, 
 
 And meadow-sweet in tanarled hloom. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 81 
 
 The startled minnows dart in flocks 
 Beneath thy glimmering amber rocks, 
 
 If but a zephyr stirs the brake; 
 The silent swallow swoops, a flash 
 Of light, and leaves, with dainty plash, 
 
 A ring of ripples in her wake. 
 
 Without, the land is hot and dim; 
 The level fields in languor swim. 
 
 Their stubble-grasses brown as dust; 
 And all along the upland lanes, 
 Where shadeless noon oppressive reigns, 
 
 Dead roses wear their crowns of rust. 
 
 Within, is neither blight nor death; 
 The fierce sun wooes with ardent breath. 
 
 But can not win thy sylvan heart. 
 Only the child who loves thee long. 
 With faithful worship pure and strong, 
 
 Can know how dear and sweet thou art. 
 
 So loved I thee in days gone by. 
 
 So love I yet, though leagues may lie 
 
 Between us, and the j'ears divide; 
 A breath of coolness, dawn, and dew, 
 A joy forever fresh and true, 
 
 Thy memory doth with me abide. 
 
 Anna Boyntmi Aveiili 
 
 THE WINGED WORSHIPEES. 
 
 [Addressed to two swallows that flew into the Chauncy Place Church during divine service.] 
 
 GrAY, guiltless pair, 
 What seek ye from the fields of heaven? 
 
 Ye have no need of prayer; 
 Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 
 
 Why perch ye here, 
 Where mortals to their Maker bend? 
 
 Can your pure spirits fear 
 The God ye never could oft'end? 
 
 Ye never knew 
 The crimes for which we come to weep. 
 
 Penance is not for you. 
 Blessed wanderers of the iijjpcr deep. 
 
 To you 'tis given 
 To wake sweet IJ^ature's untaught lays; 
 
 Beneath the arch of heaven 
 To chirp away a life of praise. 
 
 Then spread each wing 
 Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, 
 
 And join the choirs that sing- 
 In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 
 
 Or, if ye stay, 
 To note the consecrated hour, 
 
 Teach me the airy way. 
 And let me try your envied power. 
 
 Above the crowd 
 On upward wings could I but fly, 
 
 I'd bathe in yon bright cloud. 
 And seek the stars that gem the sky. 
 
 '•Twere heaven indeed 
 Through fields of trackless light to soar. 
 
 On iN'ature's charms to feed. 
 And IsTature's own great God adore. 
 
 Charles Sprngue. 
 
 HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 
 'Aanaairj, rpiXharoz. 
 
 I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 
 Sweep through her marble halls! 
 
 I saAV her sable skirts all fringed with light 
 From the celestial walls! 
 
 I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 
 
 Stoop o'er me from above; 
 The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 
 
 As of the one I love. 
 
82 
 
 XA TURK 
 
 I lieartl tlio Sdunds of surrow and (lelio-lit, 
 
 Tliu iiianituld, soft cliiiiics. 
 That fill tliu liauutod cliauiliers of the 
 ^Mght, 
 
 Like some old poet's rli}'iiies. 
 
 P^rom tlie eool eistenis of the iiiidiiindit ail' 
 
 My spirit (h'aiik repose; 
 Tlie fountain of }>erpetual peace Hows 
 tliere, — 
 
 From those deep cisterns Hows. 
 
 () lioly Night! from tliee I learn to bear 
 
 What man has borjie before! 
 Thou layest thy linger on the lips of C-are, 
 
 And they euniplaiu no more. 
 
 Peace! I'eace! Urestes-like I breathe this 
 prayer! 
 Descend witli broad-wiiig-ed flight, 
 The weleome, the thriee-prayed for, the most 
 fair, 
 The best-beloved Night! 
 
 Henry Wadsuviiji LomJ'eUuw. 
 
 LINES ON UEVTSTTINO THE ("OFNTRY. 
 
 I STAND upon my native hills again. 
 
 Broad, round, and green, that in the 
 
 summer sky, 
 
 Willi garnitui'e of waving grass and grain, 
 
 Orehards, and bi'eeheii forests, basking lie; 
 
 Wliile deep tlie sunless glens are seooped 
 
 between. 
 Where lirawl o'er shallow beds the streams 
 unseen. 
 
 A lisping voice and glaneiiig eyes are near. 
 
 And ever restless feet of one, M'lio, now, 
 
 (jiathers the blossoms of her fourth bright 
 
 year; 
 
 There plays a gladness o'er her fair young 
 
 brow. 
 
 As breaks the ^'aried scene u[ion lier sight, 
 
 Uphea\'ed an<l sjiread in verdure and in light. 
 
 Eor I lia\'e taught her, with delighted eye. 
 To gaze upon the mountains, . — to lieliold 
 
 \Vith dee[i alfecti<in the juire ample sky. 
 And clouds along its blue abysses n.illed, — 
 
 1^0 l(>\'e the song of 'waters, and to hear 
 
 The melody of winds \\ith ^■harmed ear. 
 
 Here I have "scaped the city's stilling heat. 
 Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air; 
 
 And, where the season's milder fer\'(jrs lieut. 
 And gales, that sweep the forest b(jrders, 
 hear 
 
 The song of liird, and souud of running 
 
 stream. 
 Am come awhile to wander and to dream. 
 
 Ay,tlame lh\ lieie- 
 est, sun ! thou 
 canst not wake, 
 In this imre air, 
 
 the plague that walks unseen. 
 The maize leaf and the maple bough but 
 take. 
 From thy str(.)ng heats, a deejier, glossier 
 green. 
 The mouutain wind, that faints not in thy 
 
 i't».y, 
 iSweejis the blue steams uf pestileuec uway. 
 
XA TURE. 
 
 83 
 
 The mountain wind! most spiritual thing 
 of all 
 The wide earth knows; when, in the sultry 
 time, 
 
 lie stoops him from liis vast cerulean hall, 
 
 He seems the Ijreath of a celestial elinie ! 
 
 As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow 
 
 Health and refreshment on the world below. 
 
 WWiom Cullai Bnjatil. 
 
 BEFORE THE RAIX. 
 
 We knew it would rain, for all the morn, 
 A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
 
 Was lowering its golden buckets down 
 Into the vapoiy amethyst 
 
 Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens, — 
 Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers. 
 
 Dipping the jewels out of the sea, 
 
 To sprinkle them over the land in showers. 
 
 We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed 
 The white of their leaves, the amlier grain 
 
 Slirunk in the wind, — and the lightning now 
 Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain! 
 
 Tliouia.^ Bailry Aldrich. 
 
 AFTER THE RAIX. 
 
 The rain has ceased, and in my room 
 The sunshine pours an airy flood; 
 And on the church's dizzy vane 
 The ancient Cross is bathed in blood. 
 
 From out the dripping ivy-leaves, 
 Antiquely carven, gray and high. 
 
 \ dormer, facing westward, looks 
 Upon the village like an eye: 
 
 And now it glimmers in the sun, 
 A srpiare of gold, a disk, a speck: 
 And in the Ijeltty sits a Dove 
 With purple rijiples on her neck. 
 
 Tliufiiaji Bailey Aldrich. 
 
 RfiVE DU MIDI. 
 
 When o'er the mountain steeps 
 The hazy noontide creeps, 
 And the shrill cricket sleeps 
 Under the grass; 
 When soft the shadows lie. 
 And clouds sail o'er the sky. 
 And the idle winds go l)y. 
 With the heavy scent of blossoms as they 
 pass, — 
 
 Then, wdien the silent stream 
 Lapses as in a dream. 
 And the water-lilies gleam 
 Up to the sun; 
 
 When the hot and fiurdened day 
 Rests ou its downward way. 
 When the moth fjrgets to play. 
 And the plodding ant may dream her worl 
 is done, — 
 
 Then, from the noise of war 
 And the din of earth afar. 
 Like some forgotten star 
 Dropt from the sky, — 
 The s(iunds of love and fear. 
 All voices sad and clear, 
 Banished to silence drear, — 
 The willino; thrall of trances sweet I lie. 
 
84 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Some melancholy gale 
 Breathes its mysterious tale, 
 Till the rose's lips grow pale 
 With her sighs; 
 And o'er my thoughts are cast 
 Tints of the vanished past, 
 Glories that faded fast, 
 Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes. 
 
 As poised on vihrant wings, 
 Where its sweet treasure swings. 
 The honey-lover clings 
 To the red flowers, — 
 So, lost in vivid light. 
 So, rapt from day and night, 
 I linger in delight. 
 Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours,, 
 
 lUise Teiry Cooke. 
 
 A FOREST HYMl^. 
 
 The groves were God's first temples. Ere 
 
 man learned 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
 And spread the roof above them, — ere he 
 
 framed 
 The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
 The sound of anthems; in the darkling 
 
 wood. 
 Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down. 
 And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 Might not resist the sacred influences 
 Which, from the stilly twilight of the 
 
 place, 
 And from the gray old trunks that high in 
 
 heaven 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the 
 
 sound 
 Of the invisible breath that swayed at 
 
 once 
 All their green tops, stole over him, and 
 
 bowed 
 His spirit with the thought of boundless 
 
 power 
 And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
 God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
 Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
 That our frail hands have raised? Let me, 
 
 at least. 
 Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
 Offer one hymn, — thrice happy if it find 
 Acceptance in his ear. 
 
 Father, thy hand 
 Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
 Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst 
 
 look down 
 Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy 
 
 sun 
 Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy 
 
 breeze, 
 And shot towards heaven. The century- 
 living crow. 
 Whose birth was in their tops, grew old 
 
 and died 
 Among their branches, till at last they stood, 
 As now they stand, massy and tall and dark, 
 Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold 
 Communion with his Maker. These dim 
 
 vaults, 
 These winding aisles, of human pomp or 
 
 pride 
 Report not. 'No fantastic carvings show 
 The boast of our vain race to change the 
 
 form 
 Of thy fair works. But thou art here, — 
 
 thou fill'st 
 The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
 That run along the summit of these trees 
 In music; thou art in the cooler breath 
 That from the inmost darkness of the place 
 Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the 
 
 ground. 
 The fresh moist ground, are all instinct -with 
 
 thee. 
 
"The groves were God's first Temples.' 
 
NATURE. 
 
 87 
 
 liere is continual worship; — nature, here, 
 In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 
 Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around, 
 From perch to perch, the solitary hird 
 Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst 
 
 its herbs, 
 Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the 
 
 roots 
 Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
 Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
 Thyself without a witness, in these shades. 
 Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and 
 
 grace 
 Are here to speak of thee. This mighty 
 
 oak, — 
 By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 
 Almost annihilated, — not a prince, 
 In all that proud old world beyond the 
 
 deep, 
 E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
 Wears the green coronal of leaves with 
 
 which 
 Thy hand has graced him. Xcstled at liis 
 
 root 
 Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
 Of the broad sun. That delicate forest 
 
 flower 
 With scented breath, and look so like a 
 
 smile, 
 Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mold, 
 An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
 A visible token of the upholding Love, 
 That are the soul of this wide universe. 
 
 My heart is awed within me when I think 
 Of the great miracle that still goes on. 
 In silence, round me, — the perpetual work 
 Of thy creation, liuished, yet renewed 
 Forever. Written on thy works I read 
 The lesson of thy own eternity. 
 Lo! all grow old and die; but see again. 
 How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
 "^'outh presses, — ever gay and beautiful 
 
 youth 
 In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
 Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
 
 Holder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost 
 One of Earth's charms! upon her bosom yet. 
 After the flight of untold centuries. 
 The freshness of her far beginning lies. 
 And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
 Of his arch-enemy Death, — yea, seats himself 
 Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulclier, 
 And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
 Makes his own nourishment. For he came 
 
 forth 
 From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 
 
 There have been holy men who hid 
 
 themselves 
 Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
 Their lives to thought and prayer, till the}' 
 
 outlived 
 The generation born with them, nor seemed 
 Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
 Around them; — and there have been holy 
 
 men 
 Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
 But let me often to these solitudes 
 Ketire, and in thy presence reassure 
 My feeble virtue. Here its enemies. 
 The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
 And tremble, and are still. OGod! when thou 
 Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fli>' 
 The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or till. 
 With all the waters of the tirmament. 
 The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the 
 
 woods 
 And drowns the villages; when, at thy call, 
 Uprises the great deep, and throws himself 
 Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
 Its cities, — who forgets not, at the sight 
 Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
 Ilis pride, and lays his strifes and follies hy'i 
 Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
 Spare me and mine, nor let us need the 
 
 Avrath 
 Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
 Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate. 
 In these calm shades, thy milder majesty. 
 And to the beautiful order of thy works 
 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
 
 WiiJiam OuUen Bnjant. 
 
ss 
 
 XATCRE. 
 
 IX SLIMMEK TIMK. 
 
 () LiXDEX-TREEs! -wIhisc l)raiii'li('s liii^'li 
 Sliut out tlic noontide's sultry sky, 
 Tlir()\\'iiii;' a sIukIow cmxiI aud diui 
 .Vloii^ tile uieadow's i;'rassy riui, 
 IIow sweet ill dreamy icst to lie, 
 riilieediiig liow the rnomeuts fly, 
 While \\'oodlaii(l odoi's, taint and rare, 
 (Jf feni ami wild rose scent the air, — 
 And liear the lio;ljt winds jilay around 
 From leaf to leaf with rustliiiii' sound, - 
 And trill (.>f liird, and insect's hum, 
 And all tlie lidline- tones that coiiie 
 
 In summer time. 
 
 (.) Linden-ti'ees ! sii mossy-old, 
 ^Vllat pleasant memoric's yon hold 
 < )t (_'arly cliildlioo<l, and its days 
 OF frolic, sport, and i;'iiileless \\'ays; 
 A time of joyance. hriglit and fair, 
 lieiieatli a mother's tender care. 
 And ever C)n. till manhood lu'ouu'lit 
 
 Maturer aims aud deeper tliouglit, — 
 And Love ar(;)se, and life beeame 
 All radiant with his quenchless flame. 
 As here, within your shelter wide, 
 ^\'e met aud lingered side liy side, 
 
 In summer time. 
 
 Linden-trees! as now once more 
 
 1 live those happy moments o'er, 
 And, stretched at ease upon the grass, 
 See jiieture alter pieture })ass, 
 Auotlier Ijrighter vision stays 
 
 My Innd-cward thoughts and tills my gaze, 
 
 For lo(d-:! where down 3'on shailed walk 
 
 A merry troop, in cheerful talk, 
 
 And gleeful laugli, and shout aud song, 
 
 Maud and the children pass along! 
 
 <> Lindens! tell me what eould be 
 
 Mi)re s\\eet to hear, <>r fair to see. 
 
 In summer time? 
 
 It', ir. CalJweR. 
 
NA TUBE. 
 
 89 
 
 TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Burly, dozing humble-bee ! 
 Wliere thou art is clime for me; 
 Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
 Far-oft" heats through seas to seek ; 
 I will follow thee alone, 
 Thou animated torrid zone! 
 Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer. 
 Let me chase thy waving liiies; 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
 Singing over shrubs and vines. 
 
 Insect lover of the sun, 
 Jo}' of thy dominion ! 
 Sailor of the atmosphere, 
 Swimmer through the waves of air, 
 Voyager of light and noon, 
 Epicurean of June ! 
 Wait, I prithee, till I come 
 Within earshot of thy hum, — 
 All without is martyrdom. 
 
 When the south wind, in May daj-s, 
 With a net of shining haze 
 Silvers the horizon wall. 
 And, with softness touching all, 
 Tints the human countenance 
 With the color of romance; 
 And, infusing subtle heats. 
 Turns the sod to violets, — 
 Thou in sunny solitudes, 
 Rover of the imderwoods, 
 The green silence dost displace 
 With thy mellow, bi'eezy bass. 
 
 Hot midsummer's petted crone. 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
 Tells of countless sunny hours, 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
 In Indian wildernesses found; 
 Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
 Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 
 
 Aught unsavory or unclean 
 Hath my insect never seen; 
 But violets, and bilberry bells, 
 Maple sap, and daffodils. 
 Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
 Succory to match the sky, 
 Columbine with horn of honey. 
 Scented fern, and agrimony, 
 Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue. 
 And brier-roses, dwelt among: 
 All beside was unknown waste. 
 All was picture as he passed. 
 
 Wiser far than human seer, 
 Yellow-breeched philosopher ! 
 Seeing only what is fair. 
 Sipping only what is sweet. 
 Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
 Leave the chafi:" and take the wheat. 
 When the fierce northwestern blast 
 Cools sea and land so far and fast. 
 Thou already slumberest deep; 
 Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
 Want and woe, which torture us. 
 Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
 
 Bidph Waldo Emeison. 
 
 THE RIVULET. 
 
 This little rill, that from the springs 
 Of yonder grove its current brings. 
 Plays on the slope awhile, and then 
 Goes prattling into groves again. 
 Oft to its warbling waters drew 
 
 My little feet, when life was new. 
 When woods in early green were dressed, 
 And from the chambers of the west 
 The warmer breezes, traveling out, 
 Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
 
90 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 My trnant stops IVoin liomo would stray, 
 Upon its y-rassy side to Jilay, 
 List tlie hrowu tliraslicr's vernal lij'iun, 
 And eroji tlio violet on its brim, 
 A\^itli lilooniing- elieek and open In-ow, 
 As yoiini;- and <;-ay, sweet rill, as tlion. 
 
 And when tlie days of boyhood eanie, 
 And I had grown in love witli fame, 
 Dnly I songlit tliy lianks, and tried 
 My tii'st rnde immljors by thy side. 
 Words eaii not tell how bright and gay 
 The seenes of life Ijefore me lay. 
 Then glorions liopcs, that now to speak 
 Wonld bring the blood into my eheek, 
 
 J'assei] o'ei' me; and I wrote, on 
 ]iigh, 
 A name I deemed slionid never die. 
 
 Years eliimge tliee not. Upon 
 
 yon Inll 
 Tlie tall old maples, verdant 
 
 still, 
 Yet tell, in gran(h'nr of deeay, 
 llow swift the years have past 
 
 away. 
 
 Sinee first, a eliild, ami half 
 
 afrai(k 
 I wandered in the forest shade. 
 Tlion, ever joyous rivniet, 
 ])ost dimjile, lea]>, and ]ii'attle 
 
 yet ; 
 And sporting with tlie samU 
 
 that pave 
 The windings of thy silver wave. 
 And (hmeing to thy o^vn wild ehnne, 
 Thon laughest at the lajise of time. 
 The same sweet sounds are in my ear 
 M\' early eliildliood loved to hear; 
 As ](nre thy linijiid watei's i-nn : 
 As f)right they sjiarkle to the sun: 
 As li'e.sh and fhiek tlie bending raidcs 
 Of her1)s that line tliy oozy banks; 
 The violet there, in soft INfay dew, 
 ('omcs up, as modest and as bine: 
 As greiai amid thy enrrent's stress. 
 
 Floats the scaree-rooted watereress: 
 
 And the bi-own o-nnind-bird, in tin' ti'len, 
 
 Still (hirps iis meri'ily as then. 
 
 Tlion ehangest not, — bnt I an\ elianged 
 Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged; 
 .\iid the gi-ave strangi'r, eome to see 
 The ])lay-]ilaee of his iid'ancy. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 91 
 
 Has scarce a single trace of him 
 Wlio sported once u[)On tiiy brini. 
 The visions of my youth are past, — 
 Too bright, too beautiful to last. 
 I've tried the world, — it wears no more 
 The coloring of romance it wore. 
 Yet well has Nature kept the truth 
 She promised in my earliest youth. 
 The radiant beauty shed abroad 
 On all the glorious works of God, 
 Shows freshly, to my sobered eye, 
 Each charm it wore in days gone by. 
 
 A few brief years shall pass away, 
 And I, all trembling, weak, and gray. 
 Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold 
 My ashes in the embracing mold 
 (If haply the dark will of fate 
 Indulge my life so long a date). 
 
 May come for the last time to look 
 Upon my childhood's favorite brook. 
 Then dimly on my eye shall gleam 
 The sparkle of thy dancing stream; 
 And faintly on my ear shall fall 
 Thy prattling current's merry call ; 
 Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright 
 As when thou met'st my infant sight. 
 
 And I shall sleep — and on thy side, 
 As ages after ages glide, 
 Children their early sports .shall try. 
 And pass to hoary age and die. 
 But thou, unchanged from year to year, 
 Gayly shall play and glitter here; 
 Amid young flowers and tender grass 
 Thy endless infancy shalt pass; 
 And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
 Shalt mock the fading race of men. 
 
 William Cullcn Bryant. 
 
 KAIN" m SUMMER. 
 
 How beautiful is the rain ! 
 
 After the dust and heat, 
 
 In the broad and fiery street, 
 
 In the narrow lane, 
 
 IIow beautiful is the rain ! 
 
 How it clatters along the roofs, 
 
 Like the tramp of hoofs ! 
 
 IIow it gushes and struggles out 
 
 From the throat of the overflowing spout! 
 
 Across the window pane 
 
 It pours and pours; 
 
 And swift and wide. 
 
 With a muddy tide, 
 
 Like a river down the gutter roars 
 
 The rain, the welcome rain ! 
 
 The sick man from his chamber looks 
 
 At the twisted brooks; 
 
 He can feel the cool 
 
 Breath of each little pool; 
 
 His fevered brain. 
 
 Grows calm again. 
 
 And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 
 
 From the neighlioriiig school 
 
 Come the lioys, 
 
 With more than their wonted noise 
 
 And commotion; 
 
 And down the wet streets 
 
 Sail their mimic fleets. 
 
 Till the treacherous pool 
 
 Ingulfs them in its whirling 
 
 A^nd turbulent ocean. 
 
 In the country, on every side. 
 
 Where far and wide. 
 
 Like a leopard's tawn}' and spotted hide, 
 
 Stretches the plain, 
 
 To the dry grass and the drier grain 
 
 IIow welcome is the rain ! 
 
 In the furrowed land 
 
 The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 
 
 Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 
 
 With their dilated nostrils spread, 
 
 They silently inhale 
 
 The clover-scented gale. 
 
 And the vapors that arise 
 
92 
 
 NA TUBE. 
 
 From the well-watered and smoking soil 
 For this rest in the furrow after toil 
 Their large and lustrous eyes 
 Seem to thank the Lord, 
 More than man's spoken word. 
 
 Near at hand, 
 
 From under the sheltering trees, 
 
 The farmer sees 
 
 Ilis pastures, and his fields of grain. 
 
 As they hend their tops 
 
 To the numherless beating drops 
 
 Of the incessant rain. 
 
 He counts it as no sin 
 
 That he sees therein 
 
 Only his own thrift and gain. 
 
 These, and far more than these, 
 
 The Poet sees! 
 
 lie can behold 
 
 Aquarius old 
 
 Walking the fenceless fields of air; 
 
 And from each ample fold 
 
 Of the clouds about him rolled 
 
 Scattering everywhere 
 
 The showery rain, 
 
 As the farmer scatters his grain. 
 
 He can behold 
 
 Things manifold 
 
 That have not yet been wholly told, — 
 
 Have not been wholly sung or said. 
 
 For his thought, that never stops, 
 
 Follows the water-drops 
 
 Down to the graves of the dead, 
 
 Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 
 
 To the dreary fountain-head 
 
 Of lakes and rivers underground; 
 
 And sees them, when the rain is done, 
 
 On the bridge of colors seven 
 
 Climbing up once more to heaven, 
 
 Opposite the setting sun. 
 
 Thus the Seer, 
 
 With vision clear. 
 
 Sees forms appear and disappear, 
 
 In the perpetual round of strange, 
 
 Mysterious change 
 
 From birth to death, from death to birth, 
 
 From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; 
 
 Till glimpses more sublime 
 
 Of things unseen before, 
 
 Unto his wondering eyes reveal 
 
 The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 
 
 Turning forevermore 
 
 In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 
 
 Henry Wadswm'th Lonyfellaw. 
 
 GOD IlSr ISTATUEE. 
 
 How desolate were nature, and how void 
 Of every charm, how like a naked waste 
 Of Africa, were not a present God 
 Beheld employing, in its various scenes. 
 His active might to animate and adorn ! 
 What life and beauty , when, in all that breathes. 
 Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work ! 
 When it is viewed unfolding every bud, 
 Each blossom tingeing, shaping every leaf, 
 Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky. 
 Rolling each billow, moving every wing 
 That fans the air, and every warbling thrtiat 
 Heard in the tuneful woodlands ! In the least 
 As well as in the a-reatest of his works 
 
 Is ever manifest his presence kind; 
 As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen 
 Quick to and fro within a foot of air. 
 Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more, 
 As in the systems of resplendent Avorlds, 
 Through time revolving in unbounded space. 
 His eye, while comprehending in one view 
 The whole creation, fixes full on me, 
 As on me shines the sun with his full blaze. 
 While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same. 
 His hand, while holding oceans in its palm, 
 And compassing the skies, surrounds my life, 
 Guards the poor rushlight from the blast 
 of death. 
 
 Cmlm Wilcox. 
 
yj Ti HE. 
 
 !)3 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Knows liu wlu> tills this lonely tiold, 
 
 To reap its scanty corn, 
 What luystiu fruit his acres yield 
 
 At midnight and at luorn V 
 
 In the long- sunny afternoon. 
 The [)lain was full of ghosts; 
 
 I wandered u[i, I wandered down, 
 lieset hy pensive liosts. 
 
 The winding CVuieord gleamed helow, 
 
 I'ouring as wide a flood 
 As when my hrothers, hing ago, 
 
 Came with me to the wood. 
 
 But they arc gone, — the holy ones 
 Who trod with me this lovely \ale: 
 
 The strong, star-hright companions 
 Are silent, low, and pale. 
 
 ^Ty good, my iiohle, in their prime, 
 Who imide this world the feast it was 
 
 Who learned with me the hire of time, 
 'Who loved this dwelling-place! 
 
 Tliev took this valley I'oi- their toy, 
 Thev ]ilayed \\\\.\\ it in e\'ery mood; 
 
 A cell fiH' player, a hall for joy, — 
 They treated nature as the\' AN'ould. 
 
 They loloreil the horizon round; 
 
 Stars tlameil an<l faded as they hade; 
 All echoes hearkened fir their sound, — 
 
 They made the wo(.)dlands glad or ma<l. 
 
 I touch this flower of silken leaf. 
 Which <uicc our childhood knew; 
 
 Its soft lea\'es wound me with a gi'ief 
 A\"liose halsam never grew. 
 
 Hearken to yon pine-warlder 
 
 Singing aloft in the tree I 
 Ilearest thou, traveler. 
 
 What he singeth t<i me'.' 
 
 jSTot nidess (iod made sharp thine ear 
 
 With Sorrow such as mine, 
 (Jut of that delicate lay c(_)uldst thou 
 
 Its hcavv tale divine. 
 
94 
 
 NA TURE. 
 
 "Go, lonely man," it saith; 
 
 " They loved thee from their birth ; 
 Their hands were pure, and pure th ei r faith, - 
 
 There are no such hearts oa earth. 
 
 " Ye drew one mother's milk. 
 One chamber held ye all; 
 
 A very tender history 
 
 Did in your childhood fall. 
 
 "You can not unlock your heart, 
 
 The key is gone with them; 
 
 The silent organ loudest chants 
 
 The master's requiem." 
 
 Ralph W(ddo Emerson. 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL. 
 
 Whither, midst falling dew. 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps 
 
 of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
 pursue 
 Thy solitary way? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean-side? 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
 The desert and illimitable air, — 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 Ail day thy wings have fanned, 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere. 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall end; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest. 
 And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall 
 bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart: 
 
 He who, from zone to zone. 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain 
 
 flight. 
 In the long way that I must tread alone. 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 WilUain CuUen Biijunl. 
 
 THE MERRIMAC. 
 
 Stream of my fathers! sweetly still 
 
 The sunset rays thy valley fill; 
 
 Poured slantwise down the long defile, 
 
 Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile 
 
 I see the winding Powow fold 
 
 The green hill in its belt of gold, 
 
 And following down its wavy line. 
 
 Its sparkling waters blend with thine, 
 
 There's not a tree upon thy side, 
 
 N"or rock, which thy returning tide 
 
 As yet hath left abrupt and stark 
 
 Above thy evening water-mark; 
 No calm cove with its rocky hem, 
 N"o isle whose emerald swells begem 
 Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail 
 Bowed to the freshening ocean gale; 
 ISTo small boat with its busy oars, 
 Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores; 
 Nor farm-house with its maple shade. 
 Or rigid poplar colonnade. 
 But lies distinct and full in sight, 
 Beneath this gush of sunset light. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 95 
 
 Centuries ago, that harbor-bar, 
 Stretching its length of foam afar, 
 And Salisbury's beach of shining sand. 
 And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand, 
 Saw the adventurer's tiny sail, 
 Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;* 
 And o'er these woods and waters broke 
 The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak. 
 As brightly on the voyager's eye, 
 Weary of forest, sea, and sky. 
 Breaking the doll continuous wood. 
 The Merrimac rolled down his flood; 
 Mingling that clear pellucid brook. 
 Which channels vast Agiochook, 
 When spring-time's sun and shower unlock 
 The frozen fountains of the rock. 
 And more abundant waters given 
 From that pure lake, " The Smile of Heaven," f 
 Tributes from vale and mountain-side, — 
 With ocean's dark, eternal tide! 
 
 On yonder rocky cape, which braves 
 The stormy challenge of the waves. 
 Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood. 
 The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood. 
 Planting upon the topmost crag 
 The staft" of England's battle-flag; 
 And, while from out its heavy fold 
 Saint George's crimson cross unrolled. 
 Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare. 
 And weapons brandishing in air. 
 He gave to that lone promontory 
 The sweetest name in all his story;! 
 Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters. 
 Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters, — 
 Who, when the chance of war had bound 
 The Moslem chain his limbs around. 
 Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain. 
 Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain. 
 And fondly to her youthful slave 
 A dearer gift than freedom gave. 
 
 But look! — the yellow light no more 
 Streams down on wave and verdant shore; 
 
 * Captain Smith. 
 
 t. Captain Smith gave to the promontory now 
 
 And clearly on the calm air swells 
 The twilight voice of distant bells. 
 From Ocean's bosom, white and thin. 
 The mists come slowly rolling in; 
 Hills, woods, the river's rockj- rim, 
 Amidst the sea-like vapor swim. 
 While yonder lonely coast-light, set 
 Within its wave-washed minaret. 
 Half quenched, a beamless star and pale, 
 Shines dimly through its cloudy veil ! 
 
 Home of my fathers! — I have stood 
 Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood : 
 Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade 
 Along his frowning Palisade; 
 Looked down the Appalachian peak 
 On Juniata's silver streak; 
 Have seen along his valley gleam 
 The Mohawk's softly winding stream; 
 The level light of sunset shine 
 Through broad Potomac's hem of pine; 
 And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner 
 Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna; 
 Yet wheresoe'er his step might be. 
 Thy wandering child looked back to thee! 
 Heard in his dreams thy river's sound 
 Of murmuring on its pebbly bound. 
 The unforgotten swell and roar 
 Of waves on thy familiar shore; 
 And saw, amidst the curtained gloom 
 And quiet of his lonely room. 
 Thy sunset scenes before him iiass; 
 As, in Agrippa's magic glass, 
 The loved and lost arose to view, 
 Remembered groves in greenness grew, 
 Bathed still in childhood's morning dew. 
 Along whose bowers of beautj' swept 
 Whatever Memory's mourners wept, — 
 Sweet faces, which the charnel kept. 
 Young, ge'ntle eyes, which long had slept: 
 And while the gazer leaned to trace, 
 More near, some dear familiar face. 
 He wept to find the vision flown, — 
 A phantom and a dream alone! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whiilia: 
 
 t Lake Winnipiseogee. 
 called Cape Ann the name of Tragabizanda. 
 
;m> 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 MONADNOOK. 
 
 Ix liis o-\vn loom's g-arment ilrossed, 
 ISy liis iiropLT liouiity bk-sscMl, 
 Fast al)u.les tliis constant gi\-er, 
 I'ouriiig many a clieeriiil rivor; 
 To far (.'yes. an aoi'ial isK; 
 Un])loWL'(l, wliicli finer spirits jiilc, 
 AVIiich morn ami crimson o\'cniiii;' paint 
 For liard, for lover, and Ww saint; 
 The people's pride, the country's core, 
 
 Inspirer, prophet evermore; 
 rilhir •which God aloft liad set 
 So that men might it not forget; 
 It should he their life's ornament, 
 And mix itself with each event; 
 Ciaiigt' and calendar an<l dial, 
 AA'eatherglass ami cliemic }iliial, 
 (Jai'den of hcrries, per(di of hirds, 
 L'asture i.if pool-haunting herds. 
 
 PMlph Wuldo Em, 
 
 TO A PIXE-TEEE. 
 
 Far uji on Katalnlin tliou towercst, 
 
 Purple-ljlue ■with the distance and vast; 
 
 Likea<doud o'er the lowlands th<(\i lowerest. 
 That hangs poised on a lull in the blast 
 To its fall Icaniutr awful. 
 
 In the storm, like a prophet o'crmaddened, 
 Thou singest and tossest thy hrauclies; 
 
 Thv heart with the terror is ghtddencd. 
 Thou forelx.idest tlie dread a\-alanch(.'S, 
 When wdiole mountains swoop valc\\'ard. 
 
 In the calm tliou o'erstretchest the valleys 
 With thine arms, as if hlessiugs imploring. 
 
 Like an old king led firth from his jialace, 
 AVlien his people to liattle are pouring 
 From the eity beneath him. 
 
 To the sluuibcrer asleep 'neatli thy glooming 
 Thou dost sing of A\-ild billows in motion, 
 
 Till he longs tti be swung mid their booming 
 In the tents of the Aralis of (jcean, 
 AVhose tinned isles are their cattle. 
 
 For the gale snatches thee for his lyre, 
 "With mad hand crashing melody frantic. 
 
 While he pours forth liis mighty desire 
 To leap down on the eager Atlantic, 
 AVhose arms strettdi to his playmate. 
 
 The wild storm makes his lair in thy branches, 
 i^'eying thence on the continent under; 
 
 Like a lion, crouched close on his haunches, 
 There awaiteth his leap tlie ticree thunder, 
 (.Jr(jwling low with impatience. 
 
 Spite of winter, thou keep'st thy green glory. 
 Lusty father of Titans ]iast numlicr! 
 
 The snow-flakes aloue make thee hoary, 
 Nestling close to thy bram lies in slumlicr, 
 And thee mautlintr with silence. 
 
V / ^6^ '^7'/V/- 
 
NATURE. 
 
 97 
 
 Thou alone know'st the splendor of winter, 
 Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices. 
 
 Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter. 
 And then plunge down the mufiied abysses 
 In the quiet of midnight. 
 
 Thou alone know'st the glory of summer, 
 Grazing down on thy l)road seas of forest, 
 On thy subjects that send a proud murmur 
 Up to thee, to their sachem, who towerest 
 From thy bleak throne to heaven. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 WACHUSET. 
 
 I WOULD I were a painter, for the sake 
 Of a sweet picture, and of her who led, 
 A fitting guide, with reverential tread. 
 Into that mountain mystery. First a lake 
 Tinted with sunset; )iext the wavy linos 
 Of far receding hills; and yet more far 
 Monadnock lifting from his night of pines 
 His rosy forehead to the evening star. 
 Beside us, purple-zoned, Wachuset laid 
 His head against the "West, whose warm 
 light made 
 His aureole; and o'er him, sharp and 
 clear. 
 Like a shaft of lightning in mid-launching 
 stayed, 
 A single level cloud-line, shone upon 
 By the fierce glances of the sunken sun. 
 Menaced the darkness with its golden 
 spear! 
 
 So twilight deepened round us. Still and 
 black 
 
 The great woods climbed the mountain at 
 our back; 
 
 And on their skirts, where yet the linger- 
 ing day 
 
 On the shorn greenness of the clearing lay, 
 The brown old farm-house like a bird's- 
 nest hung. 
 
 With home-life sounds the desert air was 
 stirred : ^ 
 
 The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard, 
 
 The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well, 
 
 The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell ; 
 
 Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; 
 the gate 
 
 Of the barn-yai'd creaked beneath the merry 
 ■weight 
 Of sun-brown children, listening, while 
 the}' swung. 
 The welcome sound of supper-call to 
 
 hear; 
 And down the shadowy lane, in tink- 
 lings clear, 
 The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung. 
 Thus soothed and pleased, our backward 
 path we took. 
 Praising the farmer's home. He only 
 
 spake, 
 Looking into the sunset o'er the lake. 
 Like one to whom the far-oft' is most near : 
 " Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look ; 
 I love it for my good old mother's sake, 
 Who lived and died here in the peace 
 of God!" 
 The lesson of his words we pondered o'er, 
 As silently we turned the eastern flank 
 Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest 
 
 sank, 
 Doubling the night along our rugged road: 
 "We felt that man was more than his abode, — 
 The inward life than ISTature's raiment 
 more ; 
 And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill. 
 The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed 
 and dim 
 Before the saintly soul, whose human will 
 Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod. 
 Making her homely toil and household ways 
 An earthly echo of the song of praise 
 Swelling from angel lips and harps of 
 seraphim. 
 
 John Oreenleaf Whillier. 
 
98 
 
 NA TUBE. 
 
 THE CKOOlvED FOOTPATH. 
 
 "^^wT-^":- 
 
 Ah, liere it is! tlie sliding rail 
 
 That marks the old renieiiihered sjiot.- 
 Tlic gaj) that struck uiir school-hoy trail 
 
 The crooked ]iath across the lot. 
 
 It left the road 1)V school and church: 
 A [leneiled shadow, nothing more. 
 
 That parted from the silver liirch 
 And ended at the fann-house dour. 
 
 Xo line or compass traced its plan; 
 
 A\^ith frefpient hends to left or right, 
 In aimless, -wayward curves it ran, 
 
 lint always kept the door in .sight. 
 
 The gal)led p<M'ch, with woodhinc green, 
 The bi'(dcen millstone at the sill, — 
 
 Though many a r 1 might stretch between, 
 
 The truant child eonld see them still. 
 
 Xo rocks across tlie pathwa}' lie, 
 Xo fallen trunk is o'er it thrown: 
 
 Ami yet it winds, we know not why. 
 And turns as if for tree (U- stone. 
 
 Perhaps some lover trod the way, 
 With shaking knees and leaping heart: 
 
 And so it i>ften runs astray. 
 
 With sinuous sweep or sudden start. 
 
 Oi' one, jicrchaiK'e, with clouded brain. 
 From some unholy ban(piet reeled; 
 
 ^\nd sinc(^ our devious steps maintain 
 ITis track across the trodden field. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 99 
 
 jS'ay, deem not thus: — no earth-born will 
 Could ever trace a faultless line; 
 
 Our truest steps ai-e human still, — 
 To walk unswerving were divine. 
 
 Truants from love, we dream of wrath ; 
 
 Oh, rather let us trust the more ! 
 Through all the wanderings of the path. 
 
 We still can see our Father's door! 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 A SONG FOR SEPTEMBER. 
 
 September strews the woodland o'er 
 
 With many a brilliant color; 
 The world is brighter than before, — 
 
 Why should our hearts be duller? 
 Sorrow and the scarlet leaf, 
 
 Sad thoughts and sunny weather !- 
 Ah me! this glory and this grief 
 
 Agree not well together. 
 
 Each one of us, perchance, may here, 
 
 On some blue morn hereafter, 
 Return to view the gaudy year. 
 
 But not with boyish laughter. 
 We shall then be wrinkled men, 
 
 Our brows with silver laden. 
 And thou this glen may'st seek again, 
 
 But never more a maiden! 
 
 This is the parting season, — this 
 
 The time when friends are flying; 
 And lovers now, with many a kiss. 
 
 Their long farewells are sighing. 
 Why is Earth so gayly dressed? 
 
 This pomp, that Autumn beareth, 
 A funeral seems, where every guest 
 
 A bridal garment weareth. 
 
 Xature, perhaps, foresees that Spring 
 
 Will touch her teeming bosom, 
 And that a few brief months will bring 
 
 Tiie bird, the bee, the blossom; — 
 Ah! these forests do not know — 
 
 Or would less brightly wither — 
 The virgin that adorns them so 
 
 Will never more come hither! 
 
 Thomas William Parsons. 
 
 IIOLYOKE VALLEY. 
 
 How many years have made their flights, 
 Northampton, over thee and me. 
 
 Since last I sealed those purple heights 
 That guard the pathway to the sea; 
 
 I see the hazy lowlands meet 
 
 The sky, and coiint each shining spire, 
 From those which sparkle at my feet 
 
 To distant steeples tipt Avith fire. 
 
 Or climbed, as now, the topmost crown 
 Of western ridges, whence again 
 
 I see, for miles beyond the town. 
 That sunlit stream divide the plain? 
 
 For still, old town, thou art the same: 
 The red-breasts sing their choral tune, 
 
 Within thy mantling elms aflame. 
 As in that other, dearer June, 
 
 There still the giant warders stand 
 And watch the current's downward flow. 
 
 And northward still, with threatening hand, 
 The river bends his ancient bow. 
 
 When here my footsteps entered first. 
 And summer perfect beauty wore. 
 
 And all thy charms upon me burst. 
 While Life's whole journey lay before. 
 
100 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Here every fragrant walk remains, 
 "Where happy maidens come and go, 
 
 And students saunter in the lanes 
 And hum the songs I used to know. 
 
 I gaze, yet find myself alone, 
 
 And walk with solitary feet: 
 How strange these wonted ways have grown ! 
 
 Where are the friends I used to meet? 
 
 In yonder shaded Academe 
 
 The rippling meters flow to-day. 
 
 But other hoys at sunset dream 
 Of love, and laurels far away; 
 
 And ah ! from yonder trellised home. 
 Less sweet the faces are that peer 
 
 Than those of old, and voices come 
 Less musically to my ear. 
 
 Sigh not, ye breezy elms, hut give 
 The murmur of my sweetheart's vows, 
 
 "When Life was something worth to live. 
 And Love was young beneath your boughs ! 
 
 Fade beauty, smiling everywhere. 
 That can from year to year outlast 
 
 Those charms a thousand times more fair. 
 And, oh, our joys so quickly past! 
 
 Or smile to gladden fresher hearts 
 Henceforth: but they shall yet be led, 
 
 lievisiting these ancient parts. 
 
 Like me to mourn their glory fled. 
 
 Edmmul Clarence Stedman, 
 
 AUTUMN" PICTURE. 
 
 Far purple skies serene and mellow, — 
 Mingling of crimson tints and yellow, — 
 liusset and amber leaves entwining. 
 And barberries and sumachs shining. 
 
 Gray shadows over hillsides drifting, — 
 Gold lights through swaying branches sifting,- 
 
 Birds softly to each other calling. 
 And ripened nuts and apples falling. 
 
 A little valley southwai'd facing, — 
 A lake set in an emerald tracing, — 
 And hid from winds now growing chilly. 
 The white bud of a fragrant lily. 
 
 Thomas S. Collier. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Bending above the sjjicy woods Avhich blaze. 
 Arch skies so blue they flash, and hold the sun 
 Immeasurably far; the waters run 
 Too sloAv, so freighted are the river-ways 
 "With gold of elms and birches from the 
 
 maze 
 Of forests. Chestnuts, clicking one by one. 
 Escape from satin burrs ; her fringes done. 
 The gentian spreads them out in sunny 
 
 days. 
 
 And, like late revelers at dawn, the chance 
 Of one sweet, mad, last hour, all things assail. 
 And, conquering, flush and spin; while, to 
 
 enhance 
 The spell, by sunset door, wrapped in a 
 
 veil 
 Of red and purple mists, the Summer, 
 
 pale. 
 
 Steals back alone for one more song and 
 
 dance. 
 
 H. H. 
 
XATURE. 
 
 lUi 
 
 THE MOrXTAIX ROAD. 
 
 OxLY a glimpse of mountain road 
 That followed where a river flowed: 
 Only a glimpse, — then on we passed, 
 Skirtino- the forest dim and vast. 
 
 JJut, heeding not the dangei'iius way 
 O'erhung liy slieer clitfs, rongh and gray, 
 I only saw, as in a dream, 
 The road heside the mijnntain stream. 
 
 I closed my eyes. ( )n rushed the train 
 Into the dark, then out again. 
 Startling the song-birds as it tiew 
 The wild ravines and o'(jrges through. 
 
 Xo smoke t.-urled upward in the air. 
 X(i nieadi:iw lands sti'etrhed hroad and fair 
 But towering peaks rose far and high, 
 Piereintr the clear, untnuihled sk\-. 
 
102 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Yet down the yellow, winding road 
 That followed where the river flowed, 
 I saw a long procession pass 
 As shadows over bending grass. 
 
 The young, the old, the sad, the gay, 
 "Whose feet had worn that narrow way. 
 Since first within the dnsky glade 
 Some Indian lover wooed his maid; 
 
 Or silent crept from tree to tree — 
 Spirit of stealthy vengeance, he! 
 Or breathless crouched while through the brake 
 The wild deer stole his thirst to slake. 
 
 The barefoot school-boys rushing out 
 An eager, crowding, boisterous rout; 
 The stui'dy lads; the lassies gay 
 As bobolinks in merry May; 
 
 The farmer whistling to his team 
 When first the dawn begins to gleam; 
 The loaded wains that one by one 
 Drag slowly home at set of sun; 
 
 Young lovers straying hand in hand 
 Within a fair enchanted land; 
 And many a bride with lingering feet; 
 And many a matron calm and sweet; 
 
 And many an old man bent with pain. 
 And many a solemn funeral train; 
 And sometimes, red against the sky. 
 An army's banners waving high! 
 
 All mysteries of life and death 
 To which the spirit answei'eth. 
 Are thine, lovely mountain road, 
 That followed where the river flowed. 
 
 Julia C. R. Dorr. 
 
 A STILL BAY IX AIITUMJM". 
 
 I LOVE to wander through the woodlands 
 hoary 
 
 In the soft light of an autumnal day, 
 When Summer gathers up her robes of glor^^. 
 
 And, like a dream of beauty, glides away. 
 
 How through each loved, familiar path she 
 lingers. 
 
 Serenely smiling through the golden mist, 
 Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers 
 
 Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst; 
 
 Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining 
 
 To light the gloom of Autumn's molder- 
 
 ing halls; 
 
 With hoary plumes the clematis entwining, 
 
 Where o'er the rock her withered garland 
 
 falls. 
 
 Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning 
 Beneath soft clouds along the horizon rolled, 
 
 Till the slant sunbeams through their fringes 
 raining 
 Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 
 
 The moist winds breathe of crisped leaves 
 and flowers 
 
 In the damp hollows of the woodland sown. 
 Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers 
 
 With spicy airs from cedarii alleys blown. 
 
 Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow. 
 Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded 
 ground. 
 
 With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow. 
 The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound. 
 
 Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits 
 brooding, 
 Like a fond lover loath to say farewell, 
 Or with shut wings, through silken folds 
 intruding. 
 Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. 
 
 The little birds upon the hill-side lonely 
 Flit noiselessly along from spray to spi'ay, 
 
 Silent as a sweet wandering thought that only 
 
 Shows its bright wings and softly glides 
 
 away. 
 
 SoxtA Helen Whibmn. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 103 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Bending beneath his load, October comes, 
 With dreamy depths of gray-blue sky. 
 
 And smoke-wreaths floating over quiet homes 
 That in the valleys lie. 
 
 Among the few lone flowers, the honey-bees 
 Roam restlessly, and fail to And 
 
 The summer morning dew's rich fragrant lees, 
 June's roses held enshrined. 
 
 The purple grapes hang ready for the kiss 
 Of red lips, sweeter than their wine; 
 
 And, mid theturningleaves they soon willmiss, 
 The crimson apples shine. 
 
 Lazily, through the soft and sunlit air. 
 The great hawks fly, and give no heed 
 
 To the sweet songsters, that toward the fair 
 Far lands of summer speed. 
 
 Along the hills, wild asters bend to greet 
 The roadside's wealth of golden rod; 
 
 And by the fences, garnet sumachs meet 
 The morning light of God. 
 
 All clad in dusted gold the tall elms stand 
 Just in the edges of the wood. 
 
 And, near, the chestnut sentinels the land, 
 And shows its russet hood. 
 
 The maple flaunts its scarlet banners, where 
 The marsh lies clad in shining mist; 
 
 The mountain oak shows in the clear, bright 
 air 
 Its crown of amethyst. 
 
 Slowly the shadows of the clouds drift, o'er 
 The hillsides, clad in opal haze, 
 
 Where butterflies now seek the fragrant 
 store 
 Of flower-sprent summer days; 
 
 Where, like a silver line, the sparkling stream 
 Flows murmuring through the meadows 
 brown. 
 
 Amid the golden light, like some sad dream, 
 A sailiess boat floats down. 
 
 All day and night a glory seems to fold 
 The wide land, where October stands. 
 
 With leaves of green and scarlet, brown and 
 gold. 
 Fast falling from his hands. 
 
 His is the presence that with gladness crowns 
 
 The long, long days of toil and care, 
 His bright smile shining where ITovember 
 frowns. 
 With snow-rime in his hair. 
 
 Thomas S. Collier. 
 
 THE LATTER RAII^. 
 
 The latter rain, — it falls in anxious haste 
 Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare. 
 Loosening with searching drops the rigid 
 
 waste. 
 As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; 
 But not a blade grows green as in the Spring; 
 No swelling twig puts forth its thickening 
 
 leaves; 
 The robins only mid the harvests sing. 
 
 Pecking the grain that scatters from the 
 
 sheaves; 
 The rain falls still, — the fruit all ripened 
 
 drops ; 
 It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell ; 
 The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops ; 
 Each bursting pod of talents used can tell; 
 And all that once received the early rain 
 Declare to man it was not sent in vain. 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
104 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 SKillS m THE SOUTH. 
 
 Oh, fai- avray the winds delay, 
 On })urple hills the soft airs play 
 AVhieli you and I would hreathe to-ilay ; 
 Anil tlie waters we w<)uld ijuatf 
 Have a wild and mountain laugh; 
 Through the meadows, through the fallows 
 Past the willows, past the sallows. 
 Breaks the hrook to slioals and shallow.-. 
 In Xew Enghrnd far away, 
 AVhere ni}' heart has giiue to-day. 
 
 The sun is rolled on wheels oi gold 
 By hazy summits gray and ohl, 
 Where all aljout from fold to tVihl, 
 
 Like liarges of an Ea.stern prinee, 
 
 The elouds ride in nuigniheenee ; 
 ^'et not so mucli of regal sjilenil(:)r 
 Can tlie East its prinet'S render. 
 As the heaven and earth engender 
 
 In Xew England far away. 
 
 At sunset every autumn day. 
 
 O'er painted rooils of autunm ^\■^ods 
 Tlie twilight, soft as amber, hrijods 
 r the dreamiest ()f its dreamy moods. 
 
 The mill-wheels in the distauee sound. 
 
 The mill-wheels gi ling n.innd and round ; 
 Tiny sheep-lx-lls tinkle, tinkle; 
 Yellow leaA'es and red lea\'es sprinkle, 
 Througli the leaves tlie waters twinkle. 
 
 In Xew England far a^\■ay, 
 
 Where my fancy tiies to-day. 
 
 From hill tn hill, Imw clear and shrill 
 The cow-he)y's calls recilio still: 
 How ipiickly n(:)w tlu' air d(jth till 
 
 With clamor of tlie honic-h(jund herds. 
 
 The cow-hell's tones, the (/ow-ljoy's words. 
 Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle. 
 In the eo]isc and in the dingle; 
 Strange how many sounds commingle 
 
 In Xew England far away, 
 
 At sunset on an autumn ila\". 
 
 Toward stream and lake, thrcuigh hush and 
 
 hrake, 
 The thirsty kine their cinirses take; 
 Xor do they less a clamor make 
 
 To see in every stream their looks. 
 
 ^Vnil hear the songs o' the singing lirooks. 
 Ah, Ikjw pleasant sounds the lowing 
 (}f the cattle homeward i;'oiiiir. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And the noise of waters flowing 
 In X"ew England far away, 
 At sunset on an autumn day. 
 
 All overhead the lea\es are dead, — 
 The hrown, the russet leaves and red; 
 Ihit how more fully, richly fed 
 The eve is with their heaut\- now 
 
NATURE. 
 
 105 
 
 Than when they greened the summer bough. 
 Air-hung gardens, radiant, splendid. 
 O'er some fairy's home suspended. 
 Show not hues more sweetly blended: 
 IS'owhere woodlands half so gay 
 As these are on an autumn day. 
 
 The lights that lie athwart the sky, 
 "White, golden, crimson, far and nigh, 
 Gleam through the windowed forestry; 
 Less rich and soft the light that falls 
 From stained panes on frescoed walls. 
 Standing 'neath each leafy column, 
 Hear we not a grand and solemn 
 
 Anthem of majestic volume, 
 
 Chanted by that blind and gray 
 Old organist, the AYind, alway? 
 
 Each woodland scene, ah, how serene! 
 
 The boughs upon the trees, I ween. 
 
 Like arches upon pillars lean. 
 
 How wondrously these pendent piles 
 Look down upon the forest-aisles! 
 
 Xever architect, nor molder. 
 
 Hath conceived or planned a bolder, 
 
 Fairer temple, nor an older; 
 And my heart has gone away 
 To worship in those woods to-day. 
 
 Henry Ames Blood. 
 
 THE PUMPKm. 
 
 Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun. 
 
 The vines of the goui'd and the rich melon run, 
 
 And the rock and the tree and the cottage 
 enfold. 
 
 With broad leaves all greenness and blos- 
 soms all gold, 
 
 Like that which o'er Mneveh's prophet 
 once grew, 
 
 "While he waited to know that his warning 
 was true, 
 
 And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened 
 in vain 
 
 For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 
 
 On the banks of the Xenil, the dark Spanish 
 
 maiden 
 Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine 
 
 laden ; 
 And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
 Through orange-leaves shining the broad 
 
 spheres of gold ; 
 Yet with dearer delight from his home in 
 
 the North, 
 On the fields of his harvest the Yankee 
 
 looks forth, 
 "Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow 
 
 fruit shines, 
 And the sun of September melts down on 
 
 his vines. 
 
 Ah ! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East 
 and from "West, 
 
 From Xorth and from South come the pil- 
 grim and guest, 
 
 "When the gray-haired Ncw-Englander sees 
 round his board 
 
 The old broken links of aftection re- 
 stored, 
 
 "When the care-wearied man seeks his mother 
 once more, 
 
 And the worn matron smiles where the girl 
 smiled before, 
 
 "What moistens the lip, and what brightens 
 the eye? 
 
 "What calls back the past, like the rich Pump- 
 kin-pie? 
 
 Oh, — fruit loved of boyhood! — the old days 
 
 recalling, 
 "When wood-grapes were purpling and brown 
 
 nuts were falling! 
 "When wild, ugly faces we carved in its 
 
 skin, 
 Glaring out through the dark with a candle 
 
 within ! 
 "When we laughed round the corn-heap, 
 
 with hearts all in tune. 
 Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the 
 
 moon. 
 
KHi 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Tolling tales of tlio i'aii-y wlio traveled like 
 
 steam 
 Til a puinpkiii-sliell eoaeli, with two rats for 
 
 lior team! 
 
 Then thanks for thy present I — none sweeter 
 
 or hetter 
 K\'r smokeil from an own or cireled a platter! 
 
 And the prayer, whidi my mouth is too full 
 
 to express, 
 Swells my heart tliat thy shadow may never 
 
 be 'less, 
 That the days of tliy lot may Ije lengtliened 
 
 he low, 
 And tlie fame of thy worth like a pump- 
 kin-vine u'i'(.>w. 
 
 Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more tine, Andtliy life he as sweet, and its last sunset skv 
 Brighter eyes never watehed o'er its Ijakiug, (iolden-tinted and fair as thy own Pump- 
 
 than thine! kin-pie! 
 
 Jiihii Oro-nknf Wiilliei: 
 
 TO THE FRIXGED GEXTIAN. 
 
 Tiior Idossom hright with autumn dew, 
 And coloi-ed with the heaven's own blue, 
 Tliat opeiiest when the (piiet light 
 Sni-(.-i_MMls the keen and frosty night. 
 
 Thou eomest not when violets loan 
 
 O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
 
 ( )r eoluml)ines, in pnrjile di'essed, 
 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hiddt'U nest. 
 
 Thou waitest late, and eom'st alone. 
 When Woods are bare and fiirds are flown. 
 
 And frosts and shortening daj-s portend 
 The aged Year is near his end. 
 
 Tlien doth thy swc^et and quiet eye 
 Look througli its fringes to the sky, 
 
 Bl 
 
 Ine — as if that skv let fall 
 
 A flower fi-om its eerulean wall. 
 
 I Would that thus, when I shall see 
 The hour of death draM' near to me, 
 TTope. blossoming within my heart, 
 May look to heaven as I depart 
 
 William CuUen Brijinil 
 
NATURE. 
 
 10 
 
 A NOVEMBER LANDSCAPE. 
 
 How like a rich and g()i'ii:c<)us picture hang- 
 In memory's storied liall, seems that tiiir 
 
 scene 
 O'er which long years their mellowing tints 
 
 have ilung. 
 The wayside tlowers liad faded one l>y one, 
 Hoar Were the hills, the meadows drear and 
 
 dun, — 
 When, homeward wending, 'neath the dusky 
 
 screen 
 Of the autumnal woods at close of day. 
 
 As o'er a pine-chul height my jiathway lay, 
 Lol at a sudden turn, the \ale ])elow 
 Lay far outs[iread, all tlnsheil with purjile 
 
 light; 
 (jray rocks and umljered \\'()i)ds gave l)ack 
 
 the gl<.)W 
 (Jf the last day-hcams, fading iido night; 
 While down the glen \\here I'air Moshaus- 
 
 suck tl()\\s 
 AVith all its kindling lamjis the distant city 
 
 rose. 
 
 Surah JLicii Whihimit. 
 
 THE LAIXY DAY, 
 
 The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
 The vines still cling to the moldering wall. 
 But at every gust tlu' dead leaves i'all, 
 And the day is dark and dieai'y. 
 
 My life is cold, and dark, ami dreary; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
 My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past, 
 
 But the hopes of youth fall thick in the 
 hiast. 
 And tlie day is dark and <lrear3'. 
 
 Be still, sad liearti and cease reiiining; 
 Behind the cloud is the sun still shining; 
 Thy fate is the ci>mmon fate of all, 
 Intel each life some rain must fall, — 
 
 Some da}-s must lie dark and dreary. 
 
 llrniii Wadiinjilh Ljiiijdhv. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest 
 
 of the year, 
 (>f wailing winds, and naked woods, and 
 
 meadows lirown and sear. 
 Ileajied in the hollo\\'s (.>f the gro\e. the 
 
 autumn lea\'cs lie dead; 
 
 They rustle to the eddying gnst, and to the 
 
 rabbit's tread. 
 The roljin ami the ^\'ren ai'e flown, and from 
 
 the shndis the jay. 
 And from the wood-top calls the eruw 
 
 througli all the gloomy day. 
 
108 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flow- 
 ers, that lately sprang and stood 
 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous 
 sisterhood ? 
 
 Alas ! they are all in their graves ; the gentle 
 race of flowers 
 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair 
 and good of ours. 
 
 The rain is falling where they lie; but the 
 cold November rain 
 
 Calls not frona out the gloomy earth the 
 lovely ones again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they per- 
 ished long ago, 
 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid 
 the summer glow ; 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster 
 in the wood. 
 
 And the yellow sunflower by the brook in 
 autumn beauty stood. 
 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, 
 as falls the plague on men. 
 
 And the brightness of their smile Avas gone 
 from upland, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm mild day, 
 
 as still such days will come, 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out 
 
 their winter home; 
 When the sound of di'opping nuts is heard, 
 
 though all the trees are still, 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 
 
 of the rill; 
 The south-wind searches for the flowers 
 
 whose fragrance late he bore, 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by 
 
 the stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youth- 
 ful beauty died. 
 
 The fair meek blossom that grew up and 
 faded by my side. 
 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when 
 the forest cast the leaf. 
 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have 
 a life so brief; 
 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that 
 young friend of ours. 
 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 
 with the flowers. 
 
 William, Oullen Bryant. 
 
 WOODS IN WINTEE. 
 
 When winter winds are piercing chill. 
 And through the hawthorn blows the gale. 
 
 With solemn feet I tread the hill. 
 That overbrows the lonely vale. 
 
 O'er the bare upland, and away 
 
 Through the long reach of desert woods. 
 The embracing sunbeams chastely play. 
 
 And gladden these deep solitudes. 
 
 Where, twisted round the barren oak. 
 The summer vine in beauty clung, 
 
 And summer winds the stillness broke. 
 The crystal icicle is hung. 
 
 Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
 Pour out the river's gradual tide. 
 
 Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 
 And voices fill the woodland side. 
 
 Alas! how changed from the fair scene, 
 When birds sang out their mellow lay. 
 
 And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
 And the song ceased not with the day! 
 
 But still wild music is abroad. 
 
 Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; 
 And gathering winds, in hoarse accord. 
 
 Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 
 
 Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear 
 Has grown familiar with your song; 
 
 I hear it in the opening year, 
 I listen, and it cheers me long. 
 
 Hem-jj Wudswarth Lon^elloa. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 109 
 
 SNOW-FLAKES. 
 
 Out of the bosom of the Air, 
 Out of the cloud-fokls of her garments 
 shaken, 
 Over the woodlands brown and bare. 
 Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
 Silent and soft and slow 
 Descends the snow. 
 
 Even as our cloudy fancies take 
 
 Suddenly shape in some divine expres- 
 sion, 
 
 Even as the troubled heart doth make 
 In the white countenance confession. 
 The troubled sky reveals 
 The grief it feels. 
 
 This is the poem of the air, 
 
 Slowly in silent syllables recorded; 
 This is the secret of despair. 
 
 Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
 ISTow whispered and revealed 
 To wood and field. 
 
 Henry Wadsmorth Longfellow. 
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Announced by all the trumpets of the sky. 
 Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields. 
 Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
 Hides hills and woods, the river, and the 
 
 heaven. 
 And vails the farm-house at the garden's end. 
 The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's 
 
 feet 
 Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates 
 
 sit 
 Around the radiant fire-place, inclosed 
 In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 
 
 Come see the north wind's masonry. 
 Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
 Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
 Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
 
 Round every windward stake, or tree, or 
 
 door; 
 Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
 So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he 
 For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
 On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
 A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 
 Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
 Mauger the farmer's sighs; and at the gate 
 A tapering turret overtops the work. 
 And when his hours are numbered, and the 
 
 world 
 Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 
 Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
 To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone. 
 Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work. 
 The frolic architecture of the snow. 
 
 lUUph WaMo Emerson. 
 
 THE FROST. 
 
 The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night. 
 And whispered : " Now I shall be out of sight ; 
 So through the valley and over the height 
 
 In silence I'll take my way. 
 I will not go like that blustering train, 
 
 The wind and the snow, the hail and the 
 
 ram, 
 
 Who make so much bustle and noise in 
 vain, 
 But I'll be as busy as they!" 
 
110 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Tlu'ii ho flow to the niOTintain, ami powdorod 
 
 its orost, 
 Tie lit on tho troos, and thoir Ijoughs he 
 
 dressed 
 With diamonds and pearls, and over tlu' ■ 
 
 hreast 
 Of tho ([niveriiis; lak(> lie sprt^ad 
 
 A eoat of mail, that it need not fear 
 The downward point of many a spear, 
 That ho lunig on its margin, far and neai', 
 Whei-e a rock could roar its head. 
 
 lie went to the windows of those who slept. 
 And over each pane like a faiiy crept: 
 AVhorever lie hreathed, wherever he stopped, 
 
 By tlio light of the iiiodii -wore soon 
 -Nfost l)eautiful things. There were flowers 
 
 and trees; 
 There "were he\'ies of Ijirds and swanus of 
 
 hoes ; 
 
 Thei'o were cities with temples and towers, 
 and these 
 All pictured in silver sheen! 
 
 But he did one thing that was hardly fair, — 
 He peeped in the cnplioard, and, finding 
 
 there 
 That all had forgotten for him to prepare, — 
 
 "Xow, just to set them a-thinking, 
 I'll hite this fjaskot of fruit," said ho; 
 "This costly pitcher I'll hurst in throe. 
 And the glass of water tliey'vo loft for nie 
 
 Shall ' tcliick 1 ' to tell them I 'ni drinking." 
 
 Hammh F. G<jul<l. 
 
 THE SXOW-STORM. 
 
 The sun that liriof Pecemhor day 
 Udsc cheerless o\'er hills of gray, 
 yVnd, darkly cii'i-lrd, gave at noon 
 A sadder light than waning moon. 
 Slow tracing down tlic thickening sky 
 Its mute and ominous prophcfy, 
 A ])ortent scorning less than throat, 
 It sank from siglit het'oro it sot. 
 A i-hill no eoat, ho\\'o\'or stout, 
 
 Of homespun stuff could rpiite shut out, 
 
 A hard, dull hittoriu'ss of cold. 
 
 That ohocked, nrid-vein, tho circling race 
 
 Of life-hlodd in the sharpened face. 
 
 The coming of the snow-storm told. 
 
 The wind hlew east : we hoard the roar 
 
 <-)f (3coan on his wintry shore, 
 
 And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 
 
 Beat with low rhythm our inland air. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Meanwhile we clkl our nightly chores, — 
 Brought in the wood from out of doors, 
 Littered the stalls, and from tlie mows 
 Raked down the herd's-grass for the eows; 
 Heard the horse wiiinnjnng for his corn; 
 And, sharply clashing horn on horn. 
 Impatient down the stanchion rows 
 Tlie cattle shake their wahait hows; 
 
 While, peering from his early perch 
 Upon the S(.'atfold's p(.ilc of liirch, 
 Tlie cock his crested helmet Ix'ut 
 And down his cpiernloiis challenge sent. 
 
 Unwarmed by any sunset ligiit 
 The gray day (hirkened into night, 
 A night made lioary with the swarm 
 
 And whirl-dance of the hUnding storm, 
 
 iVs zigzag wavering to and fro 
 
 Crossed and recrossed the winged snow: 
 
 And, ere the early bedtime came. 
 
 The Avhite drift piled the window-frame. 
 
 And througli the glass the clothes-line iiosts 
 
 Looked in like tall and sheeted glujsts. 
 
 So all night long the storm roared on: 
 
 The morning broke witliout a sun; 
 In tiny spherule traced with lines 
 Of Xature's geometric signs. 
 In starry flake, and pellicle, 
 All day the hoary meteor fell ; 
 And, when the second morning slionc 
 AVe lookcil upon a world unknown. 
 On nothino- wij could call our own. 
 
112 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 Around the glistening wonder beat 
 
 The blue walls of the firmament, 
 
 No cloud above, no earth below, — 
 
 A universe of sky and snow ! 
 
 The old familiar sights of ours 
 
 Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and 
 
 towers 
 Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood. 
 Or garden wall, or belt of wood; 
 
 A smooth white mound the brush-pile 
 
 showed, 
 A fenceless drift what once was road; 
 The bridle-post an old man sat 
 With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; 
 The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 
 And even the long sweep, high aloof, 
 In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
 Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 
 
 John Greenkaf Wkittiei: 
 
 A WmTEE MORNIISrO. 
 
 The keen clear air — the splendid sight! — 
 
 We waken to a world of ice; 
 Where all things seem enshrined in light, 
 
 As by some genii's quaint device. 
 
 'T is winter's jubilee : this day 
 
 Her stores their countless treasures yield; 
 See how the diamond glances play. 
 
 In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field ! 
 
 The cold, bare spot, where late we ranged, 
 The naked woods are seen no more; 
 
 This earth to fairy-land is changed. 
 With glittering silver sheeted o'er. 
 
 The morning sun, with cloudless rays. 
 His powerless splendor round us streams; 
 
 From crusted boughs and twinkling sprays 
 Fly back unloosed the rainbow beams. 
 
 With more than summer beauty fair, 
 The trees in winter's garb are shown: 
 
 What a rich halo melts in air. 
 
 Around their crystal branches thrown ! 
 
 And yesterday — how changed the view 
 From what then charmed us : when the sky 
 
 Hung, with its dim and watery hue. 
 O'er all the soft, still prospect nigh! 
 
 The distant groves, arrayed in white. 
 Might then like things unreal seem. 
 
 Just shown awhile in silvery light. 
 The fictions of a poet's dream. 
 
 Like shadowy groves upon that shore. 
 O'er which Elysium's twilight lay. 
 
 By bards and sages feigned of yore. 
 
 Ere broke on earth Heaven's brighter day. 
 
 God of Nature! with what might 
 Of beauty, showered on all below. 
 
 Thy guiding power would lead aright 
 Earth's wanderer all thy love to know. 
 
 Andrews Norton. 
 
 SMOKE. 
 
 Light-winged Smoke ! Icarian bird, 
 Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight; 
 Lark without song, and messenger of dawn. 
 Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; 
 Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form 
 Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; 
 
 By night star-vailing, and by day 
 Darkening the light and blotting out the sun ; 
 Go thou, my inceuse, upward from this 
 
 hearth. 
 And ask the gods to pardon this clear 
 
 flame. 
 
 Henry B. Thoreau, 
 
IX ,S('TIO()L-I)AVS. 
 
 tSxiLL sits tlio scliDol-lidUst' liy tile roail 
 
 A r:ii;-gi.Ml |jeg-i;-;U' sunning; 
 Around it still the suniaelis grow. 
 
 And blackl)tTrv \iues arc running-. 
 
 Witliin, tlu' master's desk is seen, 
 Deep seaiTed liv rajis ottieial; 
 
 The warping tloor, tlie hattei'ed scats, 
 The jaek-knit\'"s cai'x'ed initial; 
 
 Tlie eliare(:)al ti'escncs on its wall; 
 
 Its door's worn sill, betraying 
 The feet that, ereeping slow to school. 
 
 Went stornung out to pla\ing! 
 
 Long years ago a winter sun 
 
 8houe over it at setting; 
 Tjit up its Western window-i)anes. 
 
 And low eaves' icy fretting. 
 
 It touched the tangled golden curls, 
 And krown eyes full of grieving. 
 
 Of one who still her ste}is delayed 
 When all the school were leaving. 
 
 For near her stood the little l)oy 
 Her childish favor singled; 
 
 This cap pulled low U]ion a face 
 
 A\di(_>n' ]U'ide and shame wci'c mingleil 
 
 l^ushing with restless feet the snow 
 ■^I'o right and left, he lingei'cd ; — 
 
 As I'c^tlcssly her tiny hands 
 
 The hhu'-chceked apron fingered. 
 
 lie saw lici- lift her eyes; he felt 
 The sott hand's light caressing. 
 
 And heard the trendile of lu'r \'oice. 
 As it' a fault confessing. 
 
 '■I'm sori'3' that I spelt the ^\■ord : 
 
 I hate to go aljove you, 
 Ijccause," — the hr(.)wu eyes lower fell,— 
 
 " I'>ecaus(.>, you see, I love yon!" 
 
 Still memory to a gi'ayduiired man 
 That sAveet child-face is showing. 
 
 Dear girl! the grasses on her grave 
 lla\'e forty years licen growing! 
 
 lie lives to learn, in life's hard st-hoo]. 
 How few who jiass aho^-e him 
 
 Lament their triumph and his loss. 
 Like her, — heeausc they five him. 
 
 Jnhii linaikuf Whillin 
 ill5i 
 
116 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 FIRST GLANCE. 
 
 A BUDDING mouth and warm blue eyes; 
 
 A laughing face; — and laughing hair, 
 So ruddy does it rise 
 From off that forehead fair; 
 
 Frank fervor in whate'er she said, 
 And a shy grace when she was still; 
 
 A bright, elastic tread; 
 
 Enthusiastic will; 
 
 These wrought the magic of a maid 
 As sweet and sad as the sun in Spring, 
 
 Joyous, yet half-afraid 
 
 Her joyousness to sing. 
 
 What weighs the unworthiness of earth 
 When beauty such as this finds birth? 
 
 Rare maid, to look on thee 
 
 Grives all things harmony! 
 
 George Parsons Lathrop. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The clover blossoms kiss her feet. 
 
 She is so sweet; 
 While I, who may not kiss her hand, 
 Bless all the wild flowers in the land. 
 
 Soft sunshine falls across her breast. 
 She is so blest. 
 
 I'm jealous of its arms of gold; 
 
 Oh, that these arms her form might fold! 
 
 Gently the breezes kiss her hair. 
 
 She is so fair! 
 Let flowers and sun and breeze go by, — 
 O dearest! love me, or I die. 
 
 Celia Thaxta: 
 
 HER WINDOW. 
 
 Out of her window, that morn of grace, 
 She leaned her radiant, beautiful face, — 
 The sun, ashamed, went into a cloud; 
 But, glad of the dawning, the birds sang loud. 
 
 A laggard went up the garden walk. 
 And lingered to hear the murmuring talk 
 
 Of flower and bee and every comer 
 
 That fluttered along in front of the Summer. 
 
 He quafled the wine of the morning air. 
 And felt with a thrill that the day was fair; 
 Then h e raised his eyes to her window's height, 
 "Ah, me!" he said, "but the sun is bright!" 
 
 Louise Chandler Moidtm, 
 
 ROSALIE. 
 
 "Oh, pour upon my soul again 
 
 That sad, unearthly strain 
 That seems from other worlds to 'plain ! 
 Thus falling, falling from afar. 
 As if some melancholy star 
 Had mingled with her light her sighs. 
 
 And dropped them from the skies. 
 
 "No, never came from aught below 
 
 This melody of woe. 
 That makes my heart to overflow, 
 As from a thousand gushing springs 
 Unknown before; that with it brings 
 This nameless light 
 
 That vails the world I see. 
 
 if light it be — 
 
LIFE, GHABACTEE, ETC. 
 
 117 
 
 " For all I see around me wears 
 
 The hue of other spheres; 
 And something blent of smiles and tears 
 Comes from the very air I breathe. 
 Oh, nothing, sure, the stars beneath 
 Can mold a sadness like to this, — 
 
 So like angelic bliss!" 
 
 So, at that dreamy hour of daj', 
 When the last lingering ray 
 
 Stops on the highest cloud to play, — 
 
 So thought the gentle Rosalie 
 
 As on her maiden I'everie 
 
 First fell the strain of him who stole 
 In music to her soul. 
 
 Washincjtmi Alldon. 
 
 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 This is the place. Stand still, my steed. 
 
 Let me review the scene, 
 And summon from the shadowy Past 
 
 The foi-ms that once have been. 
 
 The Past and Present here unite 
 Beneath Time's flowing tide. 
 
 Like foot-prints hidden by a brook. 
 But seen on either side. 
 
 Through the closed blinds the golden sun 
 
 Poured in a dusty beam. 
 Like the celestial ladder seen 
 
 By Jacob in his dream. 
 
 And ever and anon, the wind. 
 
 Sweet-scented with the hay, 
 Turned o'er the hymn-lxiok's fluttering leaves 
 
 That on the window la\'. 
 
 Here runs the highway to the town ; 
 
 There the green lane descends, 
 Through which I walked to church with thee, 
 
 gentlest of my friends ! 
 
 The shadow of the linden-trees 
 
 Lay moving on the grass; 
 Between them and the moving boughs, 
 
 A shadow, thou didst pass. 
 
 Thy dress was like the lilies. 
 And thy heart as pure as they: 
 
 One of God's holy messengers 
 Did walk with me that day. 
 
 I saw the branches of the trees 
 Bend down thy touch to meet. 
 
 The clover-blossoms in the grass 
 Rise up to kiss thy feet. 
 
 "Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares. 
 
 Of earth and folly born ! " 
 Solemnly sang the village choir 
 
 On that sweet Sabbath morn. 
 
 Long was the good man's sermon. 
 
 Vet it seemed not so to me; 
 Fdi- he spake of Ruth the beautiful. 
 
 And still I thought of thee. 
 
 Long was the prayer he uttered, 
 
 "^'et it seemed not so to me; 
 For in my heart I prayed with him. 
 
 And still I thought of thee. 
 
 But now, alas I the place seems changed; 
 
 Thou art no longer here: 
 Pai't of the sunshine of the scene 
 
 AVith thee did disappear. 
 
 Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, 
 Like pine-trees dark and high, 
 
 Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
 A low and ceaseless sigh; 
 
 This memory brightens o'er the Past, 
 
 As when the sun, concealed 
 Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 
 
 Shines on a distant fleld. 
 
 Henry Wadmrnrlh LonyfeUow, 
 
118 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 THE DOOK-STKl 
 
 The conference-meeting through at last, 
 We boys around the vestry waited 
 
 To see the girls come tripping past, 
 Like snow-birds Avilling to be mated. 
 
 But no; she blushed, and took my arm! 
 
 We let the old folks have the highway, 
 And started toward the Maple Farm 
 
 Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 
 
 Xot braver he that leaps the wall 
 By level musket-flashes litten, 
 
 Than I, who stepped before them all 
 Who lono-ed to see me get the mitten. 
 
 I can't remember what we said, 
 
 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; 
 
 Yet that rude path by which we sped 
 Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 119 
 
 The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 
 The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; 
 
 By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, 
 Her face with youth and health was beaming. 
 
 She shook her ringlets from her hood. 
 And with a " Thank you, ISTed," dissembled, 
 
 But yet I knew she understood 
 
 With what a daring wish I trembled. 
 
 The little hand outside her muff, — 
 sculptor, if you could but mold it!- 
 
 So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, 
 To keep it warm I had to hold it. 
 
 A cloud passed kindly overhead, 
 
 The moon was slyly peeping through it. 
 
 Yet hid its face, as if it said, 
 
 "Come, now or never! do it! do it!" 
 
 To have her with me there alone, — 
 
 'Twas love and fear and triumph blendea. 
 
 At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
 Where that delicious journey ended. 
 
 My lips till then had only known 
 The kiss of mother and of sister, 
 
 But somehow, full ui)on her own 
 
 Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed liei' ^ 
 
 The old folks, too, were almost home; 
 
 Her dimpled hand the latches fingered. 
 We heard the voices nearer come. 
 
 Yet on the door-step still we lingered. 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyisli love, yet still, 
 listless woman, weary lover! 
 
 To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill 
 I'd give — But who can live youth over? 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stednmn. 
 
 THE LOVE-KXOT. 
 
 Tyinr her bonnet under her chin. 
 She tied her raven ringlets in. 
 But not alone in the silken snare 
 Did she catch her lovely floating hair, 
 For, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
 She tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 Steeper and steeper grew the hill. 
 Madder, merrier, chiller still, 
 The western wind blew down, and played 
 The wihlest tricks with the little maid, 
 As, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
 She tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 They were strolling together uj) the hill. 
 Where the wind came blowing merry and chill ; 
 And it blew the curls a frolicsome race 
 All over the happy peach-colored face. 
 Till scolding and laughing, she tied them in, 
 Under her beautiful, dimpled chin. 
 
 western wind, do yon think it was fair 
 
 To play such tricks with her floating hair'.'' 
 
 To gladly, gleefully, do your best 
 
 To blow her against the young man's breast. 
 
 Where he has gladly folded her in. 
 
 And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin? 
 
 And it blew a color, bright as the bloom 
 Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume. 
 All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
 That ever imprisoned a romping curl. 
 Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin, 
 Tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 Ellery Vane, you little thought, 
 An hour ago, when you besought 
 This country lass to walk with you. 
 After the sun had dried the dew, 
 "\^^lat terrible danger you'd be in. 
 As she tied her bonnet under her chin. 
 
 Xora Perry. 
 
12U 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 IIIVER SONG. 
 
 Come to the river's reedy shore, 
 
 My maiden, while the skies. 
 
 With bkishes fit to grace thy cheek, 
 
 Wait for the sun's uprise: 
 
 There, dancing on the rippling wave, 
 
 My boat expectant lies, 
 
 And jealous flowers, as thou goest by. 
 
 Unclose their dewy eyes. 
 
 As slowly down the stream we glide. 
 
 The lilies all unfold 
 
 Their leaves, less rosy Avhite than thou, 
 
 And virgin hearts of gold; 
 
 The gay birds on the meadow elm 
 
 Salute thee blithe and bold. 
 
 While I sit shy and silent here. 
 
 And glow with love untold. 
 
 F. S. Sanbm-n. 
 
" In Summer when the days were long,' 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 123 
 
 SUMMEE DAYS. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long, 
 "We walked together in the wood: 
 
 Our hearts were light, our steps were strong ; 
 Sweet iiutterings were there in our hlood. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 We strayed from morn till evening came; 
 We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns; 
 
 We walked mid poppies red as flame, 
 Or sat upon the yellow downs, 
 
 And always wished our life the same. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long, 
 We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook; 
 
 And still her voice flowed forth in song, 
 Or else she read some graceful book, 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 And then we sat beneath the trees, 
 With shadows lessening in the noon; 
 
 And in the sunlight and the breeze. 
 We feasted, many a gorgeous June, 
 
 While larks were singing o'er the leas. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 On dainty chicken, snow-white bread. 
 We feasted, with no grace but song; 
 
 We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and 
 red. 
 In summer, when the daj's were long. 
 
 We loved, and yet we knew it not, — 
 For loving seemed like breathing then ; 
 
 We found a heaven in every spot; 
 Saw angels, too, in all good men ; 
 
 And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 
 
 In summer, when the days are long. 
 Alone I wander, muse alone. 
 
 I see her not; bi;t that old song 
 Under the fragrant wind is blown, 
 
 In summer, when the days are long. 
 
 Alone I wander in the wood : 
 But one fair spirit hears my sighs; 
 
 And half I see, so glad and good, 
 The honest daylight of her eyes, 
 
 That charmed me under earlier skies. 
 
 In summer, when the days are long, 
 I love her as we loved of old. 
 
 i\Iy heart is light, my step is strong; 
 For love brings back those hours of gold. 
 
 In summer, when the days are long. , 
 
 OUT OF THE WINDOW. 
 
 Out of the window she leaned and laughed, 
 A girl's laugh, idle and foolish and sweet, — 
 
 Foolish and idle, it dropped like a call 
 Into the crowded, noisy street. 
 
 Up he glanced at the glancing face, 
 Who had caught the laugh as it fluttered 
 and fell. 
 
 And eye to eye for a moment there 
 They held each other as if by a spell. 
 
 All in a moment passing there, — 
 And into her idle, empty day, 
 
 All in that moment something new 
 Suddenly seemed to flnd its way. 
 
 And through and through the clamorous hours 
 That made his clamorous, busy day, 
 
 A girl's laugh, idle and foohsh and sweet, 
 Into every bargain found its way. 
 
 And through and through the crowd of the 
 streets. 
 
 At every window in passing by, 
 He looked a moment, and seemed to sec 
 
 A pair of eyes like the morning sky. 
 
 Nora Perry. 
 
124 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Above, in her chamber, her voice I hear 
 
 Singing so clear! 
 Among her flowers I stand and wait. 
 Dreaming I lean on the garden gate. 
 
 In joy and fear. 
 
 Nearer — her voice! In a moment more 
 
 Through the open door 
 Come grace and beauty and all delight 
 The round world holds to my dazzled sight 
 The threshold o'er! 
 
 Softly the light robes she doth wear 
 Sweep down the stair; 
 
 eager heart, less wildly beat! — 
 
 1 shall behold her, stately, sweet. 
 
 All good and fair. 
 
 She holds me mute with her beaming eyes 
 
 Full of bright surprise: 
 Still grow the pulses her coming shook; 
 In the gentle might of her golden look 
 
 My heaven lies! 
 
 Cdia Thaxter. 
 
 SNOW-DROP. 
 
 When full of warm and eager love 
 I clasp you in my fond embrace. 
 You gently push me back and say, 
 " Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace." 
 
 You kiss me just as you would kiss 
 Some woman friend you chanced to see ; 
 
 You call me "dearest" — all love's forms 
 Are yours, not its reality. 
 
 Oh, Annie! cry and storm and rave! 
 Do any thing with passion in it; 
 Hate me one hour, and then turn round 
 And love me truly, just one minute! 
 
 William Wetmore Stwy. 
 
 THE COURTIN'. 
 
 God makes sech nights, all white an' still 
 Fur'z you can look or listen. 
 
 Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
 All silence an' all glisten. 
 
 The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
 Towards the pootiest, bless her, 
 
 An' leetle flames danced all about 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
 Au' peeked in thru' the winder. 
 
 An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
 'Ith no one nigh to bender. 
 
 Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung. 
 
 An' in amongst 'em rusted 
 The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 
 
 Fetched back from Concord busted. 
 
 A fireplace filled the room's one side 
 With half a cord o' wood in — 
 
 There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
 To bake ye to a puddin'. 
 
 The very room, coz she was in, 
 Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'. 
 
 An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
 Ez the apples she was peelin'. 
 
LIFE. CHAnACrER, KTC 
 
 125 
 
 'Twas kill' ()' kingTloiu-conic to lnok 
 
 On sech a blussod cretur, 
 A (logTfjse blnshin' to a brook 
 
 Ain't modester nor sweeter. 
 
 lie was six foot o' man, A i, 
 ('lean i;-rit an' human natur' ; 
 
 Xone couldn't quicker pitch a ton 
 Nc)r dror a fnrrer straighter. 
 
 Jle 'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 
 lied squired 'em, danced "em, druv 'cm. 
 
 Kust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
 Ail is, lie couldn't love "em. 
 
 ibit long o" her his veins 'ould run 
 All crinkly like curled maple. 
 
 The side she lireshed felt full o" sun 
 Ez a south slope in Ap"il. 
 
 She- thought no v'ice bed sech a. swing 
 
 Ez hisn in the choir; 
 My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. 
 
 She knoioed the Lord was nigher. 
 
 All" sbe"d lilnsb scarlit, right in jirayer. 
 When her new meetiir-liunnet 
 
 Felt somehow thru" its crown a ]iair 
 ( )" lilue eyes sdt upon it. 
 
 Thet night, I tell ye, she lookefl sonw! 
 
 She seemed to"ve gut a new soul, 
 For she felt sartin-sure lie"d come, 
 
 I')owu to her very shoe-sole. 
 
 She heered a foot, an" knowed it tu, 
 
 A-raspin' on the scrajier, — 
 All wav's to once her feelins tiew 
 
 Like sparks in burnt-u[i papei'. 
 
 He ]^in' o' Titered on the mat. 
 
 Some doTibtHe <>' the sekle. 
 His heart kep' goin' pityqiat, 
 
 Lut hern went jiity Zekle. 
 
 An" yit she gin her elieer a jerk 
 Ez though she wisbeil liim fiirib'r, 
 
 All' on her apples kep" to woi-k, 
 Farin" away like niiinlei-. 
 
 " "S'on want to see nij' Fa, I s'pose?" 
 " Wal no I come da signin" "- 
 
 "Til see mv Ma'.'' Slie's sprinkliii' clo'es 
 Agin to-morrer's i'liin". ' 
 
 To say why gals acts sd or sn, 
 Or don't, "ould be presumin': 
 
 Mebliy ti> mean ijcs an' say no 
 Comes nateral to women. 
 
 lie stood a spell on one foot fust. 
 Then stood a spell on t'other. 
 
 An' on which one he felt the wust 
 He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 
 
 Says he, "I'd better call agin;" 
 Says she, "Think likely, Mister:" 
 
 Thet last word pricked him like a pin. 
 An' AVal, he up an" kist her. 
 
 When }»Ia bimeby upon "em slips, 
 
 Huldy s<_it pale ez ashes. 
 All kin' o" smily roun' the li[is 
 
 An' tear\' roun' the lashes. 
 
126 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 For she was jes' the quiet kind 
 
 AVhoso luiturs never vaiT, 
 Like streams that keep a summer mind 
 
 Snow hiel in Jenociary. 
 
 The l_)lood ehist roun' her heart felt ghied 
 Too tight for all expressin', 
 
 Tell mother see how metters stood, 
 And gin "em hotli her Ijlessin'. 
 
 Then her red come hack like the tide 
 
 Down to the ]]ay o' Fundy, 
 An' all I know is, they was cried 
 
 In nieetin' come nex' Sunday. 
 
 ./a/ue.s Russdl Lomll. 
 
 AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 TiiEY sat and e<iml>ed their beautiful hair, 
 Tlieir long, hriglit tresses, (.me hy one. 
 
 As they hiughed and talked in their eliamher 
 After the revel was (hme. [there, 
 
 IdU' they talked of waltz and (puuh-ille, 
 IdlN- they laughed, like other girls. 
 
 Who o\'er tiie fire, when all is still, 
 Comh out tlu'ir hraids and curls. 
 
 Rohe of satin and Brussels laee, 
 Knots of ti(n\ers and rihljons, too. 
 
 Scattered al)Out in every place. 
 For the re\'el is thr<")Ugh. 
 
 And Maud and ALidge in rohes of white, 
 Tlie pi'ettiest night-gowns under the sun, 
 
 Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, 
 For the revel is done, — 
 
 Sit and cond.) their lieautiful hair, 
 
 Tliose wonderful \va\'es of brown and gold. 
 
 Till the tire is out in tlie chamber there. 
 And tlie little bare feet are cold. 
 
 Tlien out of tlie gathering winter chill. 
 All out of tlie bitter St. Agnes weather. 
 
 While the lire is out and the house is still, 
 Maud and ALidge together, — 
 
 Maud and ^Sladge in robes of white, 
 
 The [irettiest night-gowns under the sun. 
 
 Curtained away from the chilly night, 
 After tire revel is done, — 
 
 Float along in a splendid dream. 
 To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, 
 
 While a thousand lusters sliimmering stream 
 In a palace's grand sakion. 
 
 Flashing (if je-\^-els and flutter of laces, 
 Tr(.ipical odors sweeter than musk, 
 
 Men and women Avith lieautiful faces. 
 And eyes of tropical dusk, — 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 127 
 
 And one face shining out like a star, 
 One face haunting the dreams of each, 
 
 And one voice, sweeter than others are, 
 Breaking into silvery speech, — 
 
 Telling, through lips of hearded bloom. 
 An old, old story over again. 
 
 As down the royal bannered room, 
 To the golden gittern's strain, 
 
 Two and two, they dreamily walk. 
 While an unseen spirit walks beside. 
 
 And all unheard, in the lovers' talk. 
 He claimeth one for a bride. 
 
 Maud and Madge, dream on together, 
 "With never a pang of jealous fear! 
 
 For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
 Shall whiten another year, 
 
 Eobed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb. 
 Braided brown hair and golden tress, 
 
 There'll be only one of you left for the bloom 
 Of the bearded lips to press, — 
 
 Only one for the bridal pearls, 
 
 The robe of satin and Brussels lace, — 
 
 Only one to blush through her curls 
 At the sight of a lover's face. 
 
 beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, 
 For you the revel has just begun; 
 
 But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night 
 The revel of Life is done! 
 
 But, robed and croAvned with j'our saintly bliss. 
 Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
 
 beautiful Maud, you'll never miss 
 The kisses another hath won ! 
 
 Nma Perry, 
 
 SLEIGIimO SONG. 
 
 Oh, swift we go, o'er the fleecy snow. 
 When moonbeams sparkle round; 
 
 When hoofs keep time to music's chime. 
 As merrily on we bound. 
 
 On a winter's night, when hearts are light. 
 
 And health is on the wind, 
 We loose the rein and sweep the plain. 
 
 And leave our cares behind. 
 
 With a laugh and song, we glide along. 
 
 Across the fleeting snow ; 
 With friends beside, how swift we ride 
 
 On the beautiful track below! 
 
 Oh, the raging sea has joy for me. 
 When gale and tempests roar; 
 
 But give me the speed of a foaming steed. 
 And I'll ask for the waves no more. 
 
 James T. Fiekh. 
 
 COUN-TRY SLEIGHING. 
 
 A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 
 
 In January, when down the dairv 
 
 The cream and clabber freeze. 
 When snow-drifts cover the fences over. 
 
 We farmers take our ease. 
 At night we rig the team. 
 
 And bring the cutter out; 
 Then All it. All it, fill it, fill it. 
 
 And heap the furs about. 
 
 Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens. 
 
 And sleighs at least a score; 
 There John and Molly, behind, are jolly, — 
 
 Nell rides with me, before. 
 All down the village street 
 
 We range us in a row : 
 Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle. 
 
 And over the crispy snow! 
 
12.S 
 
 IJFi:, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 Tlu' '\viiHl()\\'s i:;list('U, the <il(l folks listen 
 
 To hear tlio sloigli-liells jmss ; 
 The fields ^-njw whiter, the stars are 
 hrighter, 
 
 The roail is sviionth as ghiss. 
 Oiii' iilutMed t'aees hurii. 
 
 The clear north-wind blows cold, 
 The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle, 
 
 Each in lier lover's liold. 
 
 Throu<2;h hridtre and ij-atewav wr>'re shootini;- 
 sti'aightway, 
 
 Their tollman was to(( slow! 
 He'll listen after our song and laughter 
 
 As ovei' the hill we go. 
 The girls <'it, "Fie! for sljan'ie!'' 
 
 Their ehei'ks and lips are red, 
 And si^i, with kisses, l^isses, kisses, 
 
 They take tlie toll instead. 
 
 Still follow, follow! across the hollow 
 
 The tavern fronts the road. 
 Whoa-, now! all steady! the host is ready, — 
 
 He knows the country mode! 
 The irons are in the fire, 
 
 The liissinw flip is o;ot; 
 So pour and siji it, siji it, si}) it, 
 
 And sip it wliile 'tis hot. 
 
 I'nsh hack the tables, and from tlie stables 
 
 P)i-ing Tom, tlic fiddlei-, in; 
 All take your places, and iiudvc y(_)ui 
 gi'aces, 
 
 And let the dance begin. 
 The girls ai'e beating time 
 
 To hear the music sound; 
 Xow foot it, l'(Mit it, foot it, ibot it. 
 
 And swing y<}nr partnei's round. 
 
 Last coujile t(nvai-d the left! all for^'ard! 
 
 Cotillions through, let's wljeel : 
 First tune the flddle, then down the jniddle 
 
 In old Virginia Eeel. 
 Flay T^loney Musk to close. 
 
 Then take the "long cliasse,'' 
 AVliile in to suppc)-, su]>per, siijijiei-, 
 
 Tlie landlord leads the way. 
 
 The bells are ringing, the ostlers l)riugiug 
 
 The cutters wy anew; 
 The l)easts are neighing; too long we're 
 staying. 
 
 The night is half-way through. 
 Wj'ap close the butl'ahi-robes, 
 
 AYe're all aboard once more; 
 Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, 
 
 Awav i'l'om the tavern-door. 
 
r * 
 
 'J^7<rt^^^^ 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 129 
 
 So follow, follow, by liill and hollow, 
 
 And swiftly homeward glide. 
 What midnight splendor ! how warm and tender 
 
 The maiden by your side ! 
 
 The sleighs drop far apart. 
 
 Her words are soft and low; 
 Now, if j'ou li_>ve her, love her, love her, 
 
 'Tis safe to teU her so. 
 
 Edi'iLUiid Clarence Sledman, 
 
 EriTHALAAIICM. 
 
 I SAW two clouds at morning. 
 
 Tinged by the rising sun, 
 And in the dawn they floated on, 
 
 And mingled into one: 
 I thought that morning cloud was blessed, 
 It moved so sweetlv to the west. 
 
 I saw two summer currents 
 
 Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
 
 And join their course, with silent force. 
 In peace each other greeting: 
 
 Calm was tlieir course through banks of green. 
 
 While dimpling eddies pla3'ed Ijetween. 
 
 Such be your gentle motion, 
 Till life's last pulse sliall beat; 
 
 Like summer's beam, and summer's stream. 
 Float on, in joy, to meet 
 
 A calmer sea, where storms shall cease, 
 
 A purer sky. where all is peace. 
 
 Juhii G. C. Bminard 
 
130 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 A BRIDAL MELODY. 
 
 She stood, like an angel just wandered from 
 heaven, 
 A pilgrim benighted away from the skies, 
 And little we deemed that to mortals were 
 given 
 Such visions of beauty as came from her 
 eyes. 
 
 She looked up and smiled on the many 
 glad faces, 
 The friends of her childhood, who stood 
 by her side; 
 
 But she shone o'er them all, like a queen 
 of the G-races, 
 "When blushing she whispered the vows 
 of a bride. 
 
 We sang an old song, as with garlands we 
 ci'owned her. 
 And each left a kiss on her delicate brow; 
 And we prayed that a blessing might ever 
 surround her, 
 And the future of life be unclouded as 
 now. 
 
 James T. Fields. 
 
 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 GooD-BYB, proud world, I'm going home: 
 Thou art not my friend, and I'm not 
 
 thine. 
 Long through thy weary crowds I roam; 
 A river-ark on the ocean brine, 
 Long I've been tossed like the driven 
 
 foam. 
 But now, proud world, I'm going home. 
 
 Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; 
 
 To Grandeur with his wise grimace; 
 
 To upstart Wealth's averted eye; 
 
 To supple Office, low and high; 
 
 To crowded halls, to court and street; 
 
 To frozen hearts and hasting feet; 
 
 To those who go, and those who come: 
 
 Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home. 
 
 I'm going to my own hearth-stone, 
 Bosomed in yon green hills alone, — 
 A secret nook in a pleasant land, 
 Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; 
 Where arches green, the livelong day. 
 Echo the blackbird's roundelay. 
 And vulgar feet have never trod, 
 A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 
 
 Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
 I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; 
 And when I am stretched beneath the pines, 
 Where the evening star so holy shines, 
 I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, 
 At the sophist schools, and the learned clan; 
 For what are they all, in their high conceit. 
 When man in the bush with God may meet? 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers. 
 Life is but an empty dream! 
 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real! Life is earnest! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal; 
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 131 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle. 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 
 • Let the dead Past bury its dead! 
 
 Act, — act in the living Present! 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime. 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time; — 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another. 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 "With a heart for any fate; 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth LongfeUmi], 
 
 LABOR. 
 
 Pause not to dream of the future before us ; 
 Pause not to weep the wild cares that come 
 
 o'er us; 
 Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus, 
 
 Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! 
 Never the ocean wave falters in flowing; 
 Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
 More and more richly the rose-heart keeps 
 glowing, 
 
 Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 
 
 "Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; 
 
 " Labor is worship ! " the wild bee is ringing : 
 
 Listen ! that eloqiient whisper, upspringing, 
 
 Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great 
 
 heart. 
 From the dark cloud flows the life-giving 
 
 shower; 
 From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing 
 
 flower ; 
 From the small insect, the rich coral bower; 
 Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. 
 
 Labor is life! — 'tis the still water faileth; 
 Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; 
 
 Keep the watch wound, or the dark rust 
 
 assailctli ; 
 
 Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. 
 
 Labor is glory! — the flying cloud lightens; 
 
 Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
 
 Idle hearts only the dark future frightens; 
 
 Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep 
 
 them in tune ! 
 
 Labor is rest — from the sorrows that greet us ; 
 Rest from all petty vexations that meet us; 
 Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat 
 
 us; 
 Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. 
 Work, — and pure slumbers shall wait on 
 
 thy pillow; 
 Work, — thou shalt ride over Care's coming 
 
 billow ; 
 Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping 
 
 willow. 
 Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! 
 
 Labor is health ! Lo, the husbandman reaping. 
 How through his veins goes the life-current 
 leaping ! 
 
132 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 How his strong arm, in its stalworth pride 
 
 sweeping, 
 True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides 
 Labor is wealth, — in the sea the pearl 
 
 groweth ; 
 Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon 
 
 floweth ; 
 From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; 
 Temple and statue the mai'ble block 
 
 hides. 
 
 Droop not, — though shame, sin, and anguish 
 
 are round thee! 
 Bravely fling oft' the cold chain that hath 
 
 bound thee! 
 Look to the pure heaven smiling beyond thee : 
 Rest not content in thy darkness, — a clod! 
 Work for some good, be it ever so slowly; 
 Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; 
 Labor! — all labor is noble and holy; 
 Let thy great deed be thy prayer to thy God. 
 
 Frances S. Osgood. 
 
 TWO PICTUEES. 
 
 An old farm-house with meadows wide. 
 And sweet with clover on each side; 
 A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out 
 The door with woodbine wreathed about. 
 And wishes his one thought all day: 
 " Oh, if I could but fly away 
 
 From this dull spot, the world to see. 
 How happy, happy, happy. 
 How happy I should.be!" 
 
 Amid the city's constant din, 
 A man who round the world has been, 
 Who, mid the tumult and the throng, 
 Is thinking, thinking, all day long: 
 "Oh, could I only tread once more 
 The field-path to the farm-house door, 
 The old green meadow could I see, 
 How happy, happy, happy. 
 How happy I should be!" 
 
 Marian Dougla 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 
 
 Between the dark and the daylight. 
 When the night is beginning to lower. 
 
 Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
 That is known as the Children's Hour. 
 
 I hear in the chamber above me 
 
 The patter of little feet. 
 The sound of a door that is opened. 
 
 And voices soft and sweet. 
 
 From my study I see in the lamplight. 
 Descending the broad hall stair, 
 
 Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair. 
 
 A whisper and then a silence: 
 Yet I know by their merry eyes 
 
 They are plotting and planning together 
 To take me by surprise. 
 
 A sudden rush from the stairway, 
 A sudden raid from the hall! — 
 
 By three doors left unguarded. 
 They enter my castle wall! 
 
 They climb up into my turret,. 
 
 O'er the arms and back of my chair; 
 If I try to escape, they surround me: 
 
 They seem to be everywhere. 
 
 They almost devour me with kisses, 
 Their arms about me entwine. 
 
 Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
 In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 133 
 
 Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 
 Because you have scaled the wall, 
 
 Such an old mustache as I am 
 Is not a match for you all ? 
 
 I have you fast in my fortress, 
 And will not let you depart, 
 
 But put yim down iutu the duugeon 
 In the r<.)und-tower of my lieart. 
 
 And there will I kee}i you fi:)revur. 
 
 Yes, forever and a day. 
 Till the walls shall crumlile to ruin. 
 
 And molder in dust away ! 
 
 Ilennj Warhvorlh Longfellow. 
 
 WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIMPLE BE? 
 
 Over the cradle the mother hung, 
 Softly crooning a slumber-song; 
 And these were the simple words she sung 
 
 All the evening long ; 
 
 " Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, 
 Where shall the baby's dimple Tie'.' 
 AVhfre shall tlie angel's finger rest 
 AYhen he comes down to the l)ab^■ s nest'^ 
 
134 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 Where shall the angel's touch remain 
 When he awakens my babe again?" 
 
 Still as she bent and sang so low, 
 A murmur into her music broke; 
 
 And she paused to hear, for she could but know 
 The baby's angel spoke. 
 
 '' Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, 
 Where shall the baby's dimple be? 
 Where shall my finger fall and rest 
 When I come down to the baby's nest? 
 Where shall my finger's touch remain 
 When I awaken your babe again?" 
 
 Silent the mother sat, and dwelt 
 Long in the sweet delay of choice; 
 
 And then by her baby's side she knelt. 
 And sang with pleasant voice: 
 
 "ITot on the limb, angel dear! 
 
 For the charm with its youth will disap- 
 pear; 
 
 Not on the cheek shall the dimple be, 
 
 For the harboring smile will fade and 
 flee; 
 
 But touch thou the chin with an impress 
 deep, 
 
 And my baby the angel's seal shall keep." 
 
 Josiah Oilhert Holland. 
 
 LITTLE FEET. 
 
 Two little feet, so small that both may nestle 
 
 In one caressing hand, — 
 Two tender feet upon the untried border 
 
 Of life's mysteiious land. 
 
 Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree 
 blossoms, 
 In April's fragrant days, 
 How can they walk among the briery 
 tangles. 
 Edging the world's rough ways? 
 
 These rose-white feet, along the doubtful 
 future, 
 
 Must bear a mother's load: 
 Alas! since Woman has the heaviest burden. 
 
 And walks the harder road ! 
 
 Love, for a while, will make the jjath before 
 them 
 
 All dainty, smooth, and fair, — 
 Will cull away the brambles, letting only 
 
 The roses blossom there. 
 
 But when the mother's watchful eyes are 
 shrouded 
 Away from sight of men, 
 
 And these dear feet are left without her 
 guiding. 
 Who shall direct them then? 
 
 How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded. 
 
 Poor little untaiight feet! 
 Into what dreary mazes will they wander, 
 
 What clangers will they meet? 
 
 AVill they go stumbling blindly in the 
 darkness 
 Of Sorrow's tearful shades? 
 Or find the upland slopes of Peace and 
 Beauty, 
 Whose sunlight never fades? 
 
 Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit. 
 The common world above? 
 
 Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, 
 Walk side by side with Love? 
 
 Some feet there be which walk Life's track 
 unwounded, 
 Which find but pleasant ways: 
 Some hearts there be to which this life is 
 only 
 A round of happy days. 
 
LIFE, VHABACTER. ETC. 
 
 13.5 
 
 But these are few. Far more there are who 
 wander 
 Without a lioiK' or friend, — 
 Who find tlieir joiirne}' full of pains and 
 losses, 
 And long to reach the end. 
 
 How shall it he with her, the tender stranger. 
 Fair-faced and gentle-eyed, 
 
 Before whose unstained feet the world's ri;de 
 highway 
 Stretches so fair and wide? 
 
 All! who may read the future? For our 
 darling 
 
 We crave all hlessings sweet. 
 And jiray that lie who fee<ls the erying ravens 
 
 AVill guide the hahy's feet. 
 
 Elizubdh Al.n; Allen. 
 
 THE BAREFOOT I!OY. 
 
 Blessings (in thee, little man, 
 Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 
 With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
 And thy merry whistled tunes; 
 With thy red lip, redder still 
 Kissed hy straAN'herries on the hill: 
 With the sunshine on thy face. 
 Through thy torn In-im's jaunty gi'ace 
 From my heart I gi\e thee joy, — 
 1 was once a l)arefoot hoy! 
 Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
 Only is repuhlican. 
 Let the million-dollared ride! 
 Barefiot, trudging at his side. 
 Thou hast more than he can buy 
 In the reach of ear ami eye. — 
 Outward sunshine, inward joy: 
 Blessings on thee, harefoot hoy! 
 
 Oh, for boyhood's painless jilay. 
 Sleep that •\^'akes in laughing day. 
 Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
 Knowledge never learned of sehotds,— 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase. 
 Of the wild-flower's time and place, 
 Flight of fowl and hahitnde 
 Of the tenants of the wood; 
 How the tortoise bears his shell. 
 How the woodchuck digs his cell. 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
 How the robin feeds her young. 
 How the oriole's nest is hung: 
 Where the whitest lilies blow, 
 
 Where the freshest berries grow. 
 Where the u'ronnd-nut trails its vine. 
 
 Where the wood-gra[>e's clusters shine: 
 
 Of the lilack wasp's cunning way. 
 
 Mason of his walls of clay. 
 
 And the architectural yilans 
 
 Of gray hcu-net artisans! — 
 
 For. eschewing books and tasks. 
 
 Nature ans\\-ers all he asks: 
 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 
 Fai'C t(:i face with her lie talks. 
 
 Part and parcel of lier joy, — 
 
 Blessings im the barefoot l)oy ! 
 
136 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 Oh, for boyhood's time of June, 
 Crowding years in one brief moon, 
 "When all things I heard or saw. 
 Me, their master, waited for. 
 I was rich in flowers and trees. 
 Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
 For my sport the squirrel played. 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
 For my taste the blackberry cone 
 Purpled over hedge and stone; 
 Laughed the brook for my delight 
 Through the day and through the 
 
 night, 
 "Whispering at the garden wall. 
 Talked with me from fall to fall; 
 Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. 
 Mine the walnut slopes beyond. 
 Mine, on bending orchard trees. 
 Apples of Hesperides ! 
 Still, as my horizon grew. 
 Larger grew my riches too; 
 All the world I saw or knew 
 Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
 Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 
 
 Oh, for festal dainties spread. 
 Like my bowl of milk and bread,— 
 Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
 On the door-stone, gray and rude! 
 O'er me, like a regal tent. 
 
 Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
 Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
 Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
 "While for music came the play 
 Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 
 And, to light the noisy choir. 
 Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
 I was monarch : pomp and joy 
 "Waited on the barefoot boy! 
 
 Cheerly, then, my little man. 
 Live and laugh, as boyhood can! 
 Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
 Stubble-speared the new-mown sward. 
 Every morn shall lead thee through 
 Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
 Every evening from thy feet 
 Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 In the prison cells of pride. 
 Lose the freedom of the sod. 
 Like a colt's for work be shod. 
 Made to tread the mills of toil. 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil; 
 Happy if their track be found 
 ISTever on forbidden ground; 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
 Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 
 
 John Gremkaf Whitlier. 
 
 IF I COULD KEEP HER SO. 
 
 Just a little baby, lying in my arms — 
 Would that I could keep you with your 
 
 baby charms; 
 Helpless, clinging fingers, downy, golden hair, 
 "Where the sunshine lingers, caught from 
 
 otherwhere ; 
 Blue eyes asking questions, lips that can not 
 
 speak, 
 Rolly-polly shoulders, dimple on your cheek; 
 Dainty little blossom in a woi'ld of woe, 
 Thus I fain would keep you, for I love you so. 
 
 Roguish little damsel, scarcely six years old — 
 Feet that never weary, hair of deeper gold; 
 Restless, busy fingers, all the time at play. 
 Tongue that never ceases talking all the day; 
 Blue eyes learning wonders of the world 
 
 about, 
 Here you come to tell them — what an eager 
 
 shout ! — 
 AVinsome little damsel, all the neighbors 
 
 know ; 
 Thus I long to keep you, for I love you so. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 137 
 
 Sober little school-girl, with your strap of 
 
 hooks, 
 And such grave importance in your puzzled 
 
 looks; 
 Solving weary prohlems, poring over sums, 
 Yet with tooth for sponge-cake and for 
 
 sugar-plums ; 
 Reading hooks of romance in yourhed at night, 
 Waking up to study with the morning light; 
 Anxious as to ribbons, deft to tie a bow, 
 Full "f contradictions — I would keep you wo. 
 
 Sweet and thoughtful maiden, sitting by 
 
 my side, 
 All the world's Ixdbre you, and the world 
 
 is wide : 
 Hearts are there tVir winning, hearts are 
 
 there to Ijreak, 
 Has your own, shy maiden, j ust begun to wake ? 
 
 Is that rose of dawning glowing on 3-our 
 
 clieek 
 Tellins: us in blushes what vmi will not 
 
 speak '.'' 
 Shy and tender maiden, I would fain tVireg" 
 All the golden future, just to keep you so. 
 
 Ah ! the listening angels saw tliat she was 
 
 fair. 
 Ripe for rare unfolding in the upper air; 
 xs ow the rose of dawning turns to lily white. 
 And the close-shut eyelids vail the eyes 
 
 from sight; 
 All the past I summon as T kiss her brow — 
 Babe and child and maiden, all arc with 
 
 me n<i\v. 
 Oh! my heart is breaking; but God's love 
 
 I know — 
 Safe annmg the angels, He will keep her so. 
 
 Lmiisc rlaituUrr Moultrin. 
 
 OUR SKATER BELLE. 
 
 Along the frozen lake she comes 
 In linking crescents, light and fleet; 
 
 The ice-imprisoned Undine hums 
 A welcome to her little feet. 
 
 I see the jaunty hut, the plume 
 
 Swerve l>ird-like in the joyous gale, — 
 
 The cliccks lit up to burning bloom, 
 
 The young eyes sparkling through the vail. 
 
 The cjuick breath parts her laughing lips. 
 The white neck shines tlirough tossing curls ; 
 
 Her vesture gently sways and dips. 
 As on she speeds in shell-like whirls. 
 
 Men sto]i and smile to see her go; 
 
 They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise; 
 They ask her uauK'; the}- l(jng to show 
 
 Some silent friendship in their eyes. 
 
 She glances not; she [lasscs on; 
 
 Her steely footfall quicker rings; 
 She gMK'sses not the benison 
 
 AVhich follo^\s her on noiseless wings. 
 
 Smooth be her ways, secure her tread 
 Along the devious lines of life. 
 
 From grace to grace successive led, — 
 A noble maiden, imbler wife ! 
 
 AliniU/lllf'V^. 
 
138 
 
 LIFE, CHABAGTER, ETC. 
 
 MY CHILD. 
 
 I (lAX NOT make liim dead! 
 
 His fair sniishiuy head 
 Is ever l)Oiuidiiig round my stuely eliair; 
 
 Yet wlieu 111}' eyes, now dim 
 
 With tears, I turn to him. 
 The vision vanishes, — lie is not thei'e! 
 
 I walk my parlor floor, 
 
 And, through the open door, 
 I hear a footfall on the ehamber stair; 
 
 I'm stepping toward the hall 
 
 To g-ive the Ixiy a eall; 
 And then bethink me that — he is not there! 
 
 I thread the erowded street; 
 
 A satclieled lad I meet. 
 With the same heaining eyes and colored hair ; 
 
 And, as he's running liy, 
 
 Follow him with my eye, 
 Scarcely helieving that — he is not there! 
 
 I know his face is hid 
 
 Under the coffin lid; 
 Closed arc his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; 
 
 iMy hand that marlde felt; 
 
 O'er it in prayer I knelt; 
 Yet my heart wliispers that — he is not there! 
 
 I (."Ui not make him dead.! 
 
 AYhen passing liy the hed, 
 So long watched o\'ci' with parental care. 
 
 My spii'it and my eye 
 
 Seek him inquiringly, [there! 
 
 Before the thought comes, that — lu' is not 
 
 When, at tin- cool gi-ay hreak 
 
 Of day, from sleep I wake, 
 With my fii'st hreathing of the morning air 
 
 My soul goes up, with joy. 
 
 To Him who ga^e my hoy; [there. 
 
 Then ci)mes the sad thought that — he is not 
 
 AYhen at the day's calm close, 
 
 Before we seek repose, 
 I'm witli his mother, offering up our praj'er; 
 
 AYhate'er I may lie saying, 
 
 I am in spirit praying 
 For our lioy's spirit, tliongh — he is not there! 
 
 Xot there! — Where, then, is he? 
 
 The f(_)nii I used to see 
 Was jjut the raiment that he used to wear. 
 
 The grave, that now doth press 
 
 Upon that cast-off dress. 
 Is hut his '\var<lro1)e locked ; — he is not there ! 
 
 He lives! — In all the past 
 
 Tie lives; nor, to tlie last, 
 Of seeing him again will I despair; 
 
 In dreams I sec him now; 
 
 And, on his angel Ijrow, 
 I See it written, "Thou slialt see me there!" 
 
 Yes, we all live to (toiI ! 
 
 Father, thy chastening rod 
 So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear. 
 
 That, in the spirit land, 
 
 Meeting at thy right hand, 
 'T Avill be our hea\en to find that — he is tliere ; 
 
 Jvhn Pierpont. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 139 
 
 OiTLY A YEAR. 
 
 One year ago, — a ringing voice, 
 
 A clear blue eye. 
 And clustering curls of sunny hair, 
 
 Too fair to die. 
 
 Only a year: — no voice, no smile, 
 
 'Eo glance of eye, 
 Xo clustering curls of golden hair, — 
 
 Fair but to die! 
 
 One year ago, — what loves, what schemes 
 
 Far into life! 
 What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 
 
 "What generous strife! 
 
 The silent picture on the wall, 
 
 The burial-stone 
 Of all that beauty, life, and joy. 
 
 Remain alone! 
 
 One year, — one year, — one little year, 
 
 And so much gone! 
 And yet the even flow of life 
 
 Moves calmly on. 
 
 The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair. 
 Above that head; 
 
 No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 
 Says he is dead. 
 
 No pause or hush of merry birds 
 
 That sing above 
 Tells us how coldly sleeps below 
 
 The form we love. 
 
 Where hast thou been this year, beloved? 
 
 What hast thou seen, — 
 What visions fair, what glorious life. 
 
 Where thou hast been V 
 
 The vail! tlie vail! so thin, so strong! 
 
 'Twixt us and thee; 
 The mystic vail ! when shall it fall, 
 
 That we may see? 
 
 Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone. 
 
 But present still, 
 And waiting for the t'oming hour 
 
 Of God's sweet will. 
 
 Lord of the living and the dead. 
 
 Our tSavior dear! 
 We lay in silence at thy feet 
 
 This sad, sad year. 
 
 Harriet Beecher Siowe. 
 
 THE LOST SISTER. 
 
 They waked me from my sleep, I knew 
 
 not why, 
 And bade me hasten where a midnight lamp 
 Gleamed from an inner chamber. There 
 
 she lay. 
 With brow so pale, who yester-morn breathed 
 
 forth 
 Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss 
 Into the hearts of others. By her side 
 Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed 
 Upon the stricken idol, — all dismayed 
 Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who 
 
 nursed 
 
 That fair young creature at her gentle breast. 
 And oft those sunny locks had decked with 
 
 buds 
 Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wiped the 
 
 dews 
 Which death distills. The sufl:erer had just 
 
 given 
 Her long farewell, and for the last, last time 
 Touched with cold lips his cheek who led so late 
 Her footsteps to the altar and received 
 In the deep transport of an ardent heart 
 Her vow of love. And she had striven to 
 
 press 
 
140 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 That golden circlet with her bloodless hand 
 Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave 
 At the bright bridal morn. So there she 
 
 lay 
 In calm endurance', like the smitten lamb 
 Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose 
 
 breast 
 The dreaded bitterness of death had passed. 
 — Bat a faint wail disturbed the silent scene. 
 And in its nurse's arms a new-born babe 
 "Was borne in utter helplessness along. 
 Before that dying eye. Its gathered film 
 Kindled one moment with a sudden glow 
 Of tearless agony; — and fearful pangs. 
 
 Sacking the rigid features, told how strong 
 A mother's love doth root itself. One cry 
 Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer, 
 Went up to Heaven, — and, as its cadence 
 
 sank, 
 Her spirit entered there. Morn after morn 
 Rose and retired; yet still as in a dream 
 I seemed to move. The certainty of loss 
 Fell not a,t once upon me. Then I wept 
 As weep the sisterless. — For thou wert fled. 
 My only, my beloved, my sainted one, — 
 Twin of my spirit! and my numbered days 
 Must wear the sable of that midnight hour 
 Which rent thee from me. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigawmey. 
 
 DIRGE FOR A YOUlSrG GIRL. 
 
 Underneath the sod low lying, 
 
 Dark and drear, 
 Sleepeth one who left, in dying. 
 
 Sorrow here 
 
 Yes; they're ever bending o'er her, 
 
 Eyes that weep ; 
 Forms, that to the cold grave bore her. 
 
 Vigil keep. 
 
 When the summer moon is shining 
 
 Soft and fair. 
 Friends she loved in tears are twining 
 
 Chaplets there. 
 
 Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit. 
 
 Throned above, — 
 
 Souls like thine with God inherit 
 
 Life and love! 
 
 James T. Fields. 
 
 LITTLE ANl^IE. 
 
 Who will weep for little Annie? 
 
 Who will weep when morning passes 
 Through the wet and silent grasses 
 To the graves of pretty lasses? 
 You and I and all the many 
 Little birds will weep for Annie? 
 
 Who will sing for little Annie? 
 Who will sing when all together. 
 Blue and white and scarlet feather 
 Hop there in the summer weather? 
 You and I and all thp many 
 Little birds will sing for Annie. 
 
 Who will pray for little Annie? 
 Who will pray when evening closes 
 O'er the bed where she reposes 
 'Neath the hushed and folded roses? 
 You and I and all the many 
 Little birds will pray for Annie. 
 
 Who will dream of little Annie? 
 
 Who will dream not when the mellow 
 Midnight moon beneath the willow 
 Sleeps with Annie on her pillow? 
 You and I and all the many 
 Little birds will dream of Annie. 
 
 Henry Ames Shod. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 141 
 
 THE ALPIXE SHEEP. 
 
 AVhen on my ear yonr loss was knelled, 
 And tender sympathy upbnrst, 
 
 A little spring from memory welled 
 
 Which once had quenehed my bitter thirst. 
 
 And I was fain in liear to you 
 
 A portion of its mild relief, 
 That it might l>e as liealing dew, 
 
 To steal some fever from j'our grief. 
 
 After our child's untroubled breath 
 Up to the Eather took its way. 
 
 And on onr home the shade of Death 
 Like a long twiliglit haunting lay, 
 
 And friends came round, with us to weep 
 Her little spirit's swift remove, 
 
 The story of the Alpine sheep 
 AVas told to us by one we love. 
 
 They, in the valley's sheltering care, 
 Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, 
 
 And when the sod grows l)]'own and bare. 
 The shepiierd stri\'es to make them climb 
 
 To airy shelves of pasture green, 
 
 That hang along the mountain's side. 
 
 Where grass and flowers together lean. 
 And down through mist the sunbeams slide 
 
 But naught riu\ tempt the timid things 
 The steep and rugged ])ath to try, 
 
 Though sweet tlie shepiierd calls and sings. 
 And seared below the pastures lie. 
 
 Till in his arms their lambs he takes. 
 
 Along the dizzy verge to go; 
 Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks. 
 
 They follow on, o'er rock and snow. 
 
 And in those jiastures lifted fair. 
 More dewy-soft than lowland mead, 
 
 The shepherd drops his tender care, 
 And sheep and lambs together feed. 
 
 This parable, iiy Xature l)reathed. 
 Blew on me as the south-wiucl free 
 
 O'er frozen brooks that flow, unsheathed 
 From icv thralldom to the sea. 
 
 A blissful vision, tiir(.)Ugli tiie night, 
 AVould all my happy senses sway. 
 
 Of the (T(.iod Shepherd on the height, 
 Or climbing up the starry way. 
 
 Holding our little land) asleep, — 
 AVhile, like the murmur of the sea. 
 
 Sounded that voice al<_iiig tlie deep. 
 Saying, '-Arise, and follow me!" 
 
 ^[,l,■m White Loirell. 
 
142 
 
 LIFK, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 
 
 g; r^'t^^:^^^ij^k^:^>^:^>l:^l^:^)^^ ^ k>:^:^^-t^:te^ 
 
 ^^^Sff'J^^^g^ 
 
 ^4»'^^- 
 
 "¥ 
 
 Have yon not heard tlie poets tell 
 How came the (laintv Babie Bell 
 
 Into this world ot" ours? 
 The o-att's of heaven were left ajar: 
 
 With folded hands and (Ireaniy eyes, 
 
 AVandering out of Pai-a(hse, 
 She saw this planet, like a star. 
 
 Hung in the glistening deptlis (if even — 
 Its Ijridges, running to and fro. 
 O'er whieli the wliite-winged Angels go 
 
 Bearing the holy dead to heaven. 
 She touched a bridge of flowers — those feet. 
 
 So light they did n(.it beml the bells 
 
 Of the celestial asphodels, 
 
 They fell like de^v ujion the flowers; 
 Then all tlie air gi-ew sti-angely sweet! 
 And tlius came dainty Babie Bell 
 
 Into this world of uurs. 
 
 She caiiu' and brought delicious May. 
 
 The swallows built beneath the eaves: 
 Like sunlight, in ai^il out the IcaA'es, 
 
 Tlie roljins went, the livebmg day; 
 
 The lily swung its noiseless bell. 
 
 And o'er the porch the trendilimi' -s-ine 
 Seemeil fjursting \vith its \-eiiis of wine: 
 
 How sweetly, sottly, twilight fell! 
 
 Oh, earth was full of singing-birds. 
 And opening s|;iring-tide flowers. 
 
 When the dainty Babie Bell 
 Came t(j this World of ours! 
 
 Bnbie, dainty Babie Bell, 
 How fair she grew from flay to day ! 
 What woman-miture filled her eyes, 
 AVhat poetry within them lay, — 
 Those dee|> and tender twilight eyes. 
 So full of meaning, pure and bright 
 ;\s if she yet stood in the light 
 Of those oped gates of Paradise! 
 And so we loved lici' more and more: 
 Ah. never in oui- hearts before . 
 
 Was love so lovely born: 
 We felt we liad a link lietween 
 This real -world and that unseen — 
 
 The land beyond the morn; 
 And for the love of those dear e^'es, 
 P'or love of her wdiom (-Soil led forth 
 (Tlie mother's Ijcing ceased on earth 
 When Babie came from Paradise) — 
 For lo\'e of Him who smote our IIa'cs, 
 
 .\nd -woke the tdiords of joy and pain. 
 We said,"Dear Christ!" — our heartsbent down 
 Like violets after rain. 
 
 And iKiw the oi'<'liards, which were white 
 .Vnd rc(l with blossoms when she came, 
 Were rich in autumn's mellow prime: 
 
 The clustered apples burnt like flame. 
 The soft-cheeked peaches lilushed and fell, 
 The ivory chestnut burst its shell, 
 The grapes bung pnrjiling in the grange: 
 And time wrought just as rich a change 
 
LIFE, CUARACTKIL ETC. 
 
 143 
 
 In little Bal)ie Boll. 
 Her lissome form more perfect grew, 
 
 And in her feutni'es we eould trace. 
 In softened eui'\'es, her niother's faee. 
 Iler angel-nature ripened too. 
 We thought lier lovely when she came. 
 But she was holy, saintly now .... 
 Around her pale angelic brow 
 We saw a slender ring of tlamel 
 
 God's hand had taken away the seal 
 
 That held the portals (jf her speech; 
 And oft she said a. few strange words 
 
 Whose meaning lay heyoiid our reach. 
 8he never was a cliild to us, 
 
 We never held her hcing's key; 
 Wc could not teach her holy things — 
 
 She was Christ's self in purity. 
 
 ft came upon us liy degrees: 
 We saw its sha(h)w ere it fell, — 
 
 The knowledge that our <iod had sent 
 His messenger for Babie IjcII. 
 
 We shuddered with unlanguaged pain. 
 And all our liojies were changed to feai's, 
 And all our thoughts ran into tears 
 
 Like sunsliinc into rain. 
 We cried aloud in our belief, 
 
 '' Oh, smite us gently, gentl}'. Clod ! 
 
 Teach us to bend and kiss the rod. 
 And perfect grow through grief." 
 
 Ah, how we loved her, (4o(l can tell; 
 Her heart was folded deep in ours; 
 
 Our hearts are broken, Babie Bell! 
 
 At last he came, the messenger. 
 
 The messenger from nnst'cn lands: 
 And what did dainty Babie Bell? 
 
 She only cr(.)ssed her little hands. 
 She only looked more meek and fair! 
 We parted back her silken hair. 
 We wove tlie i'os(.'s round her brow, — 
 White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — 
 Wrajit her from li(.'ad to foot in flowers . . . 
 And thus went dainty Babie Bell 
 Out of this world of ours! 
 
 TIkjiikis Bailey Aldrk'h. 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 
 
 The snow had begun in the gloaming. 
 
 And busily all the night 
 Had been heajiing field and highway 
 
 With a silence dee}i and white. 
 
 Every pine and tir and hemlock 
 W(U'e ermine too dear for an earl. 
 
 And the poorest twig ou the elm-tree 
 ^\''as ridged inch <lcep with pearl. 
 
 From sheds new-roofed with Oarrara 
 Came Chanticleer's mutticd crew. 
 
 The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down. 
 And still flutteri'd down the snow. 
 
 I stood and watcheil liy the window 
 The noiseless work of the sky. 
 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds. 
 Like brown leaves w-hirliny' bv. 
 
144 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 "Where a little headstoiie stood; 
 
 How the flakes were folding it gently, 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 
 
 Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
 
 Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" 
 
 And I told of the good All-father 
 Who cares for us here below. 
 
 Again I looked at the snow-fall, 
 And thought of the leaden sky 
 
 That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
 "When that mound was heaped so high. 
 
 I remembered the gradual patience 
 That fell from that cloud like snow, 
 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 
 
 And again to the child I whispered, 
 
 "The snow that husheth all. 
 Darling, the merciful Father 
 
 Alone can make it fall!" 
 
 Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; 
 
 And she, kissing back, could not know 
 That my kiss was given to her sister. 
 
 Folded close under deepening snow. 
 
 James Russdl Lowell. 
 
 THE SAD CO"[JNTRY. 
 
 There is a sad, sad country, 
 Where often I go to see 
 
 A little child that for all my love 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 There smiles he serenely on me 
 With a look that makes me cry; 
 
 And he prattling runs beside me, 
 Till I wish that I could die. 
 
 That country is dim and dreary, 
 
 Yet I can not keep away. 
 Though the shadows there are heavy and dark, 
 
 And the sunlight sadder than they. 
 
 And there, in a ruined garden. 
 Which once was gay with flowers, 
 
 I sit by a broken fountain, 
 And weep and pray for hours. 
 
 William Wetmore Story. 
 
 THE TWOFOLD HARVEST. 
 
 A DYING girl in autumn time 
 
 Lay fading at the close of day: — 
 
 Stole o'er the fields the reapers' chime. 
 While fast around the brown ranks lay. 
 
 " Open the casement wide," she said, 
 "And raise me up, that I may look, 
 
 Ere yet my heart and eyes are dead. 
 Once more upon the field and brook." 
 
 " The harvest is the Lord's," loud sang 
 The reapers in the distant field; 
 
 With piled-up sheaves, with sickles' clang 
 To Him they all the glory yield. 
 
 Abroad, the dying maiden gazed, 
 Then all around grew sudden black; 
 
 The sun, in setting, dimly blazed — 
 Her head upon the couch fell back. 
 
 "Farewell!" she sighed, "ye scenes so dear." 
 " The harvest is the Lord's," replied 
 
 Unconsciously, the reapers, clear; 
 And, ere the distant echo died, 
 
 An Angel-reaper darted there. 
 Too swift for mortal sight to spy. 
 
 And bore the flower that drooped so fair 
 To God's great garner in the sky. 
 
 William BmmseoUle Alger. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 145 
 
 READ.TrSTMEXT. 
 
 After the earthquake shock or lightning 
 
 dart 
 Comes a recoil of silence o'er the lands, 
 And then with pulses hot and quivering 
 
 hands 
 Earth calls up courage to her mighty heart, 
 Plies every tender compensating art, 
 Draws her green, flowery vail ahove the scar, 
 Eills the shrunk hollow, smooths the riven 
 
 plain, 
 And with a century's tendance heals again 
 The seams and gashes whicli her fairness 
 
 mar. 
 So we, wlien sudden woe like lightning sped 
 Finds us and smites us in our guarded phu'c. 
 After one hrief, l)ewildered moment's s}iace. 
 By the same heavenly instinct taught and led. 
 Adjust our lives to include all hardest things, 
 And twine old hopes to vail wqw sufferings. 
 
 Susan Coiilidy. 
 
 PASSIX(; AWAY 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Was it the chime of a tiny bell 
 
 That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, 
 Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell 
 That he winds, on the hcach, S(:) mellow 
 and clear. 
 When the winds and the waves lie together 
 
 asleep. 
 And the ^loon and the Fairy are watching 
 
 the deep. 
 She dispensing her silvery light. 
 And he his notes as silvery cpiite, 
 While the boatman listens and ships his oar. 
 To catch the music that comes from tlic 
 shore ? — 
 Hark! the notes, on my ear that play. 
 Are set to words: — as they float, they say, 
 "Passing away! passing awaj'!"' 
 
 But no ; it was not a fairy's sliell. 
 
 Blown on the Ijcacli, sd mellow and clear; 
 Xor was it the tongue of a silver bell, 
 Striking the hour, that filled my ear, 
 As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a chime 
 That told of the flow (.)f the stream of 
 
 time. 
 For a beautiful clock from the ceiling 
 
 hung. 
 And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, 
 
 swung 
 (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring 
 That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing) ; 
 And she held to her bosom a budding 
 
 bouquet. 
 And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, 
 "Passing away! passing away!" 
 
146 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told 
 Of the lapse of time, as they moved 
 romid slow ! 
 And the hands, as they swept o'er the 
 dial of gold, 
 Seemed to point to the girl below. 
 And, lo! she had changed: — in a few short 
 
 hours 
 Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, 
 That she held in her outstretched hands, 
 
 and flung 
 
 This way and that, as she, dancing, swung 
 
 In the fullness of grace and of womanly pride. 
 
 That told me she soon was to be a bride; 
 
 Yet then, when expecting her happiest daj', 
 
 In the same sweet voice I heard her say, 
 
 "Passing away! passing away!" 
 
 While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, 
 a shade 
 Of thought, or care, stole softly over, 
 Like that by a cloud in a summer's day 
 made. 
 Looking down on a fleld of blossoming 
 clover. 
 The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush 
 Had something lost of its brilliant blush; 
 And the light in her eye, and the light on 
 the wheels. 
 
 That marched so calmly round above her, 
 
 Was a little dimmed, — as when Evening 
 
 steals 
 
 Upon Noon's hot face : — yet one could n't 
 
 but love her, 
 
 For she looked like a mother whose first 
 
 babe lay 
 Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; 
 And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to 
 say, 
 "Passing away! passing away!" 
 
 While yet I looked, what a change there 
 came! 
 Her eye was quenched, and her cheek 
 was wan; 
 Stooping and staffed was her withered 
 frame, 
 Yet, just as busily, swung she on; 
 The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; 
 The wheels above her were eaten with rust; 
 The hands, that over the dial swept. 
 Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they 
 
 kept, 
 And still there came that silver tone 
 From the shriveled lips of the toothless crone, 
 (Let me never forget till my dying day 
 The tone or the burden of her lay), — 
 "Passing away! passing away!" 
 
 John Pieiyont. 
 
 LATE MAREIAGE. 
 
 The bard has sung, God never formed a soul 
 
 Without its own peculiar mate to meet 
 Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the 
 whole, — 
 Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most 
 complete ! 
 
 But thousand evil things there are that hate 
 
 To look on happiness; these hurt, impede, 
 
 And, leagued with time, space, circumstance 
 
 and fate. 
 
 Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine 
 
 and pant and bleed. 
 
 And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, 
 From where her native founts of Antioch 
 beam. 
 
 Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing. 
 Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream, — 
 
 So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert, faring. 
 Love's pure congenial spring unfound, 
 unqualFed, 
 Suffers, recoils, — then, thirsting and de- 
 spairing 
 Of what it would, descends and sips the 
 
 nearest draught. 
 
 Maria Brooks. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 14/ 
 
 THE FAMILY MEETING 
 
 [These lines were written on occasion of the accidental meeting of all the surviviiis members of a family, the father and 
 mother of which, one eighty-two, the otlier eighty years old, have lived in the same house fifty-three years.]— Authok's Note. 
 
 We are all 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, brother, 
 All who hold eaeh other dear. 
 Each chair is filled — we're all at home: 
 To-uight let no cold stranger come; 
 It is not often thus aronnd 
 Our old familiar hearth we're found. 
 Bless, then, the meeting and the spot; 
 For once be every eare forgot; 
 Let gentle Peace assert her po\ver. 
 And kind Affection rule the hour; 
 
 We're all — all here. 
 
 We're nof all here! 
 Some are awa_y — the dead ones dear. 
 Who thronged with us this ancient hearth, 
 And gave the hour to guiltless mirth. 
 Fate, with a stern, relentless hand. 
 Looked in and thinned our little band; 
 
 Some like a niglit-tlash passed away, 
 Atid siuue sank, ]ing(.'ring, day Ijy day; 
 The quiet graveyard — some lie there; 
 And cruel (Jcean has his share; — 
 We're iiiif all here. 
 
 Wc (';■(' all here 
 Even they — llie dead — tljougli dead,sodear 
 Fond Memoi-y, to her duty true, 
 Brings back tlu'ir fadc(l forms to view. 
 How life-like, througli the mist of yeai's, 
 Each well-remcmbercd face tipp^'a.rs! 
 Wc see them as in tiiiK.'S hnig past; 
 From each to each kind looks ai-e cast; 
 We liear their words, their smiles behold. 
 They're round us as tlicy wei'e of (ild — 
 
 We arc all here. 
 
 \Ve are all here ! 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, lirother. 
 You that I l(.>ve with love so dear. 
 This may not long of us be said; 
 Soon must we join the gathered dead; 
 And l;\y the hearth we now sit round 
 Some other circle will be found. 
 Oh, then, that wisdom may we know. 
 Which yields a life of peace below! 
 So, in the wc>rld to follow this. 
 May eaeh repeat, in words of bliss, 
 
 "We're all — all here!" 
 
148 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 CAl^A. 
 
 Dear Friend! whoso presence in the house, 
 
 Whose gracious word benign, 
 Could once, at Cana's wedding feast, 
 
 Change water into wine; 
 
 Come, visit us! and when dull work 
 
 Grows weary, line on line, 
 Revive our souls, and let us see 
 
 Life's water turned to wine. 
 
 Gay mirth shall deepen into joy. 
 Earth's hopes grow half divine, 
 
 When Jesus visits us, to make 
 Life's water glow as wine. 
 
 The social talk, the evening fire, 
 The homely household shrine. 
 
 Grow bright with angel visits, when 
 The Lord pours out the wine. 
 
 For when self-seeking turns to love, 
 I^ot knowing mine nor thine. 
 
 The miracle again is wrought. 
 And water turned to wine. 
 
 James Freeman Clarke. 
 
 OUTGROWlSr. 
 
 l^AT, you wrong her, my friend, she's not 
 fickle ; her love she has simply outgrown : 
 
 One can read the whole matter, translating 
 her heart by the light of one's own. 
 
 Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? 
 
 There is much that my heart would say ; 
 And you know we were children together, 
 
 have quarreled and "made-up" in play. 
 
 And so, for the sake of old friendship, I 
 venture to tell you the truth, — 
 
 As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I 
 might in our earlier youth. 
 
 Five summers ago, when you wooed her, 
 you stood on the selfsame plane, 
 
 Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming 
 your souls could be parted again. 
 
 She loved you at that time entirely, in the 
 bloom of her life's early May; 
 
 And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she 
 does not love you to-day. 
 
 Nature never stands still, nor souls either: 
 they ever go up or go down; 
 
 And hers has been steadily soaring, — but 
 how has it been with your own? 
 
 She has struggled and yearned and aspired, — 
 grown purer and wiser each year: 
 
 The stars are not farther above you in yon 
 luminous atmosphere! 
 
 For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, 
 down yonder, five summers ago, 
 
 Has learned that the first of our duties to 
 God and ourselves is to grow. 
 
 Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer; but 
 their vision is clearer as well: 
 
 Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure 
 as a silver bell. 
 
 Her face has the look worn by those who 
 with God and his angels have talked: 
 
 The white robes she wears are less white than 
 the spirits with whom she has walked. 
 
 And you? Have you aimed at the highest? 
 
 Have you, too, aspired and prayed? 
 Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have 
 
 you conquered it undismayed? 
 
 Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the 
 months and the years have rolled on? 
 
 Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in 
 the triiimph of victory won? 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 149 
 
 E"ay, hear me ! The truth can not harm you. 
 
 "When to-day in her presence you stood, 
 Was the hand that you gave her as white 
 
 and clean as that of her womanhood? 
 
 Go measure yourself hy her standard ; look 
 back on the years that have fled: 
 
 Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that 
 the love of her girlhood is dead. 
 
 She can not look down to her lover: her 
 
 love, like her soul, aspires; 
 He must stand by her side, or above her, 
 
 who would kindle its holy fires. 
 
 Now farewell ! For the sake of old friendship 
 I have ventured to tell you the truth. 
 
 As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I 
 might in our earlier youth. 
 
 JvXia C. R. Dan: 
 
 BETROTHED AITEW. 
 
 The sunlight fills the trembling air. 
 And balmy days their guerdons bring; 
 
 The Earth again is young and fair. 
 And amorous with musky Spring. 
 
 The golden nurslings of the May 
 In splendor strew the spangled green. 
 
 And hues of tender beauty play. 
 Entangled where the willows lean. 
 
 Mark how the rippled currents fiow; 
 
 What lusters on the meadows lie ! 
 And hark! the songsters come and go. 
 
 And trill between the earth and sky. 
 
 Who told us that the years had fled, 
 Or borne afar our blissful youth? 
 
 Such joys are all about us spread; 
 We know the whisper was not truth. 
 
 The birds that break from grass and grove 
 Sing every carol that they sung 
 
 When first our veins were rich with love, 
 And May her mantle round us flung. 
 
 fresh-lit dawn ! immortal life ! 
 
 Earth's betrothal, sweet and true. 
 With whose delights our souls are rife, 
 
 And aye their vernal vows renew! 
 
 Then, darling, walk with me this morn; 
 
 Let your brown tresses drink its sheen; 
 These violets, within them worn. 
 
 Of floral fays shall make you queen. 
 
 What though there comes a time of pain. 
 When autumn winds forebode decay' 
 
 The days of love are born again ; 
 That fabled time is far away! 
 
 And never seemed the land so fair 
 
 As now, nor birds such notes to sing, 
 Since flrst within your shining hair 
 
 1 wove the blossoms of the Spring. 
 
 Edmwnd Clarence Stedman. 
 
150 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 UNTIL DEATH. 
 
 Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend, 
 To love me, though I die, thy whole life 
 long. 
 And love no other till thy days shall end, — 
 Nay, it were rash and wrong. 
 
 If thou canst love another, be it so; 
 
 I would not reach out of my quiet grave 
 To bind thy heart, if it should choose to 
 go; — 
 Love should not be a slave. 
 
 My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene 
 In clearer light than gilds these earthly 
 morns, 
 Above the jealousies and envies keen 
 Which sow this life Avith thorns. 
 
 Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress, 
 If, after death, my soul should linger 
 here ; 
 Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, — 
 Love's presence, warm and near. 
 
 It would not make me sleep more peacefully 
 That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe 
 
 For my poor sake ; what love thou hast for me, 
 Bestow it ere I go! 
 
 Carve not upon a stone when I am dead 
 The praises which remorseful mourners 
 give 
 To women's graves, — a tardy recompense, — 
 But speak them while I live. 
 
 Heap not the heavy marble on my head 
 
 To shut away the sunshine and the dew; 
 Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses 
 wave, 
 And rain-drops filter through. 
 
 Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay 
 
 Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find 
 One who will love and serve thee night and 
 day 
 With a more single mind. 
 
 Forget me when I die! The violets 
 
 Above my rest will blossom just as blue, 
 Nor miss thy tears; e'en Nature's self for- 
 gets;— 
 But while I live, be true! 
 
 Elizabeth Akei's AUen. 
 
 THE LATE REMORSE OF LOVE. 
 
 Comb back, mine own departed one ! 
 
 Would I could lay my cheek 
 Once more upon thy hand, and weep 
 
 The love I can not speak. 
 Alas! I knew not half thy worth 
 
 Till death was on thy brow; 
 Come back and tell my breaking heart 
 
 It is forgiven now. 
 
 I deemed that thou wert harsh and cold- 
 
 And many a warmer smile 
 Shone round my path ; but thine alone 
 
 Was true, that mournful while. 
 
 I made thee sad by look and word, — 
 
 Oh, how these memories roll 
 With lava-track along the depths 
 
 Of my poor, wretched soul! 
 
 I thought that gayer spirits might 
 
 Have loved with fonder zeal; 
 But what they are, and what thou wert, 
 
 Time sternly bids me feel. 
 Through all that dark, bewildering dream, 
 
 Thy love was still the same, — 
 A gentle and unnoticed light. 
 
 Yet still a quenchless flame. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 151 
 
 Oh, bitter is the grief that wakes 
 
 The passing midnight's gloom! — 
 Oh, misery! but to know that love 
 
 "When hidden by the tomb! 
 I pine to meet it when the day 
 
 To other eyes is bright, 
 And watch and weep and px'ay till wanes 
 
 The lone and dreary night. 
 
 Forgive! forgive! Thy blessed world 
 
 Holds not a thought of care, 
 And all ray vain remorse can fling 
 
 No shadow on its air. 
 
 Yet, by the love that once was thine. 
 
 Come from thy realm of rest. 
 And, with thy soft, low accents breathe 
 
 Peace to my tortured breast. 
 
 Come, once — but only once again 
 
 Let thy dear voice be heard. 
 And speak amid my soul's despair 
 
 One little soothing word; 
 I know thy love, I know thy worth, 
 
 And I would be thy slave. 
 Could I but open once again 
 
 The portals of thy grave! 
 
 Mrs. L. J. B. Case. 
 
 THE DESERTED WIFE. 
 
 He comes not; — I have watched the moon 
 
 go down. 
 But yet he comes not. Once it was not so. 
 He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow. 
 The while he holds his riot in that town. 
 Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep ; 
 And he will wake my infant from its sleep. 
 To blend its feeble wailing with my tears. 
 Oh, how I love a mother's watch to keep 
 Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which 
 
 cheers 
 My heart, though sunk in sorrow fixed and 
 
 deep ! 
 I had a husband once who loved me, — now. 
 He ever wears a frown upon his brow. 
 And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip, 
 As bees from laurel flowers a poison sip; 
 But yet 1 can not hate. Oh, there were hours 
 When I could hang forever on his eye. 
 And Time, who stole with silent swiftness by. 
 Strewed, as he hurried on, his path with 
 
 flowers. 
 I loved him then, — he loved me too. My heart 
 Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile ; 
 The memory of our loves will ne'er depart; 
 And though he often sting me with a dart, 
 Venomed and barbed, and waste upon the vile 
 Caresses which his babe and mine should share. 
 
 Though he should spurn me, I will calmly 
 
 bear 
 His madness, — and should sickness come, 
 
 and lay 
 
 Its paralyzing hand upon him, then 
 I would with kindness all my wrongs repay, 
 Cntil the penitent should weep, and say 
 How injured, and how faithful, I had been. 
 
 James Gates Percival. 
 
152 
 
 LIFE, CHABACTEB,, ETC. 
 
 HEE SPHEEE. 
 
 No OUTWARD sign her angelhood revealed, 
 Save that her eyes were vp'ondrous mild 
 and fair, — 
 
 The aureole round her forehead was concealed 
 By the. pale glory of her shining hair. 
 
 She bore the yoke and wore the name of wife 
 To one who made her tenderness and grace 
 
 A mere convenience of his narrow life, 
 And put a seraph in a servant's place. 
 
 She cheered his meager hearth, — she blessed 
 and warmed 
 His poverty, and met its harsh demands 
 With meek, unvarying patience, and per- 
 formed [hands. 
 Its menial tasks with stained and battered 
 
 She narsed his children through their help- 
 less years, — 
 Gave them her strength, her youth, her 
 beauty's prime, — 
 Bore for them sore privation, toil and tears. 
 Which made her old and tired before her 
 time. 
 
 And when fierce fever smote him with its blight 
 
 Her calm, consoling presence charmed his 
 
 pain ; 
 
 Through long and thankless watches, day 
 
 and night, [rain. 
 
 Her fluttering fingers cooled his face like 
 
 With soft magnetic touch, and murmurs sweet. 
 She brought him sleep, and stilled his 
 fretful moan. 
 
 And taught his fiying pulses to repeat 
 The mild and moderate measure of her own. 
 
 She had an artist's quick, perceptive eyes 
 For all the beautiful; a poet's heart 
 
 For every changing phase of earth and skies, 
 And all things fair in nature and in art. 
 
 She looked with all a woman's keen delight 
 On jewels I'ich and dainty drapery, 
 
 Eare fabrics and soft hues, — the happy right 
 Of those more favored but less fair than she ; 
 
 On pallid pearls, which glimmer cool and white 
 Dimming proud foreheads with their purity ; 
 
 On silks which gleam and ripple in the light, 
 And shift and shimmer like the summer sea; 
 
 On gems like drops by sudden sunlight kissed, 
 When fall the last lai-ge brilliants of the rain ; 
 
 On laces delicate as frozen mist 
 
 Embroidering a winter window-pane; — 
 
 Yet, near the throng of worldly butterflies, 
 She dwelt, a chrysalis, in homely brown; 
 
 With costliest splendors flaunting in her eyes. 
 She went her dull way in a gingham gown. 
 
 Hedged in by alien hearts, unloved, alone, 
 With slender shoulders bowed beneath 
 their load. 
 
 She trod the path that Fate had made her own, 
 'Eot: met one kindred spirit on the road. 
 
 Slowly the years rolled onward ; and at last. 
 When the bruised reed was broken, and 
 her soul 
 
 Knew its sad term of earthly bondage past, 
 And felt its nearness to the heavenly goal, 
 
 Then a strange gladness filled the tender eyes. 
 Which gazed afar beyond all grief and sin. 
 
 And seemed to see the gates of Paradise 
 Unclosing for her feet to enter in. 
 
 Vainly the master she had served so long 
 Clasped her worn hands, and, with re- 
 morseful tears, [wrong; 
 
 Cried: "Stay, oh, stay! Forgive my bitter 
 Let me atone for all these dreary years!" 
 
 Alas for heedless hearts and blinded sense! 
 With what faint welcome and what meager 
 fare, 
 What mean subjections and small recompense, 
 We entertain our angels unaware! 
 
 Elizabeth Akers AUen,. 
 
O WORLD upon tile linm- 
 
 ing train, 
 rij cm _V()UiMva\ ' Vn\ iik 
 A sauiitcrer tliion^li tlic 
 
 sliglitod 1 UK , 
 A dreamer, kt nu be 
 ^Iyt'ootste}if<}ia^^a\\ i\ m flo'w ci^, |K-^ 
 So fragrant all I nact 
 Use all the minuter ut tlieboiub. 
 The days die here so sweet! '" ' 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 155 
 
 AUF WIEDERSEHEN. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 The little gate was reached at last, 
 Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
 She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
 A wistful look she backward cast. 
 And said, — " Auf iviedersehen ! " 
 
 "With hand on latch, a vision white 
 
 Lingered reluctant, and again 
 Half doubting if she did aright. 
 Soft as the dews that fell that night. 
 She said, — "Auf loiedersehen!" 
 
 The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; 
 
 I linger in delicious pain ; 
 Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
 To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 
 
 Thinks she, — "Auf wiedersehen!" 
 
 'Tis thirteen years; once more I press 
 
 The turf that silences the lane; 
 I hear the rustle of her dress, 
 I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 
 I hear "Auf wiedersehen!" 
 
 Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 
 
 The English words had seemed too fain. 
 But these — they drew us heart to heart. 
 Yet held us tenderly apart; 
 
 She said, " Auf wiedersehen!" 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Still thirteen years: 'tis autumn now 
 On field and hill, in heart and brain; 
 
 The naked trees at evening sough; 
 
 The leaf to the forsaken bough 
 Sighs not, — "We meet again!" 
 
 Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, 
 That now is void, and dank with rain. 
 
 And one, — 0, hope more frail than foam! 
 
 The bird to his deserted home 
 Sings not, — "We meet again!" 
 
 The loath gate swings with rusty creak; 
 
 Once, parting there, we played at pain ; 
 There came a parting, when the weak 
 And fading lips essayed to speak 
 
 Vainly, — "We meet again!" 
 
 Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, 
 
 Though thou in outer dark remain; 
 One sweet, sad voice ennobles death. 
 And still, for eighteen centuries saith 
 Softly, — "Te meet again!" 
 
 If earth another grave must bear. 
 
 Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain. 
 And something whispers my despair. 
 That, from an orient chamber there. 
 Floats down, " We meet again ! " 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 TWO TRUTHS. 
 
 "Darling," he said, "I never meant 
 To hurt you," and his eyes were wet. 
 
 "I would not hurt you for the world; 
 Am I to blame if I forget?" 
 
 "Forgive my selfish tears!" she cried, 
 "Forgive! I knew that it was not 
 
 Because you meant to hurt me, sweet, — 
 I knew it was that you forgot." 
 
 But all the same, deep in her heart 
 
 Rankled this thought, and rankles yet, — 
 
 "When love is at the best, one loves 
 
 So much that he can not forget." 
 
 H. H 
 
156 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 SECOND LOVE. 
 
 Thou art forgotten ! aye, young brirte, the rose 
 Thy fair hand planted has a deeper root 
 Than thy sweet memory. That sends abroad 
 Its bloom,while thou art sleeping all unmarked 
 In thy lone grave — thou, beautiful and good, 
 
 So loving, so 
 beloved! Thy 
 chosen one 
 Kneels not beside 
 that lowly mound 
 
 with thoughts 
 All consecrate to 
 thee; and yet thou wert 
 Life's only flower, and by thine early bier 
 His smitten spirit sank. — But that is past; 
 N"ow o'er thine image in his heart new hopes 
 Are brightly blossoming, as gay, as sweet 
 As those that sprang with thee. Another fills 
 Thy vacant place, and, on her form, his eye 
 Rests as it did on thine, and the same tones 
 Flow from his loving lip. Thou would'st 
 
 be now 
 A cumberer of the ground! Ay, could the 
 
 grave 
 Give back its worshiped dead, thou would'st 
 
 but be 
 A shadow in his sunlight. Yet thou wert 
 Loved with earth's truest love! Thy name 
 survives 
 
 In one fair image still; but she will win 
 Thoughts for herself, not thee; and if her 
 
 smile 
 Awake one dream of all thy buried love, 
 It will be but a twilight phantom, dim 
 And colorless and cold. Oh, sadly come 
 These thoughts, young gentle bride! — we 
 
 weep 
 That love's fond faith should have so brief 
 
 a date; 
 That all which beautifies our sojourn here 
 Should be as evanescent as the dew 
 On the frail rose-leaf. But there falls a voice, — 
 A still, yet powerful voice, upon the waves 
 Of the stirred spirit, and they sink to peace ; 
 And then along its depths a music sweeps, 
 The harmony of acquiescent praise. 
 
 Our Father, humbled to the very dust 
 In self-abasement, we lament that we 
 Should e'er have questioned what Thy hand 
 
 has done; — 
 Better instructed, we adore Thy name 
 That thou hast made the sentient human heart 
 A harp of many strings, and given the power 
 To many a hand to draw its music forth, 
 Else it might lie in voiceless woe forlorn, 
 "When one is broken. Thee we meekly bless. 
 That thou hast made the heart a thing of 
 
 change 
 When all around us passes like a show, 
 So spectral and so dreamlike — else would life 
 Wear nought but tears. The Hving, breath- 
 ing form 
 Linked to the moldering corse, were not a sight 
 So mournful as the loving, feeling heart 
 Chained to a hopeless grief — its lion-strength 
 Condemned to drag a burden that will bow 
 Its noblest powers to dust. Not thus Thy love 
 Ordains life's ministries upon the soul; 
 Not thus in rayless gloom thou markest the 
 
 path 
 For human foot, but, with providing care, 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 157 
 
 As, one by one, each gentle light departs 
 Dost fill the darkened place with one as bright. 
 As beautiful and warm, and life moves on 
 Sobered, not saddened, by each transient 
 
 gleam. 
 In trustful, hopeful beauty to the last 
 
 Farewell, young bride! Where thou art 
 
 living now 
 Earth's selfishness comes not. Thou dost not 
 
 heed 
 Thy memory vanished from the heart beloved ! 
 Thy world is all too bright for tears — why 
 
 then 
 Should helpless grief be ours? In life, in 
 
 death, 
 
 Thou wert most blest ! A few, brief happy 
 
 years 
 Thy butterfly existence drank the dew, 
 ISTor soiled itself with dust. We saw thy wing 
 Flutter a moment in the deep, blue fields. 
 And then it passed from sight. A little while 
 Thy spirit tasted of life's varied bliss. 
 Then soared away before one bitter drop 
 Had fallen within the cup. JSTo tears for thee. 
 Most beautiful, most blest! Let them forget, — 
 'Tis well! Let thy sweet memory fade from 
 
 earth, 
 Or only linger as a holy charm, 
 The joy of life's lone hours — but not to wake 
 One sleeping sorrow, or throw mournfulness 
 Along one human path. 'T is well ! — all well ! 
 
 Mrs. L. J. B. Case. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 The farmer sat in his easy chair 
 
 Smoking his pipe of clay. 
 While his hale old vnfe, with busy care. 
 
 Was clearing the dinner away; 
 A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes. 
 On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. 
 
 The old man laid his hand on her head. 
 With a tear on his wrinkled face: 
 
 He thought how often her mother, dead. 
 Had sat in the self-same place; 
 
 As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, 
 
 "Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it 
 makes you cry!" 
 
 The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, 
 WTiere the shade after noon used to steal ; 
 
 The busy old wife, by the open door. 
 Was turning the spinning-wheel; 
 
 And the old brass clock on the mantle-tree 
 
 Had plodded along to almost three : — 
 
 Still the farmer sat in his easy chair. 
 While close to his heaving breast 
 
 The moistened brow and the cheek so fair 
 Of his sweet grandchild were pressed; 
 
 His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay — 
 
 Fast asleep were they both, that summer 
 day! 
 
 Charles 0. Eastman. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 Under a spreading chestnut-tree 
 The village smithy stands; 
 
 The smith, a mighty man is he. 
 With large and sinewy hands; 
 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp and black and long; 
 
 His face is like the tan; 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat, — 
 
 He earns whate'er he can. 
 And looks the whole world in the face. 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
158 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
 You can hear his bellows blow; 
 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
 With measured beat and slow, 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children, coming home from school. 
 
 Look in at the open door; 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 
 And hear the bellows roar. 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff' from a threshing-floor. 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 
 
 And sits among his boys; 
 He hears the parson pray and preach; 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice. 
 Singing in the village choir. 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 
 
 Singing in Paradise! 
 He needs must think of her once more, 
 
 How in the grave she lies; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
 Onward through life he goes; 
 
 Each morning sees some task begin,. 
 Each evening sees it close; 
 
 Something attempted, something done. 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 For the lesson thou hast taught! 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought; 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought! 
 
 Henry Wadsworth LongfeUow. 
 
 OLD GEIMES. 
 
 Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,- 
 We ne'er shall see him more; 
 
 He used to wear a long black coat. 
 All buttoned down before. 
 
 His heart was open as the day, 
 
 His feelings all were true; 
 His hair wa,s some inclined to gray, — 
 
 He wore it in a queue. 
 
 Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 
 His breast with pity burned; 
 
 The large round head upon his cane 
 Prom ivory was turned. 
 
 Kind words he ever had for all; 
 
 He knew no base design; 
 His eyes were dark and rather small, 
 
 His nose was aquiline. 
 
 He lived at peace with all mankind, 
 
 Li friendship he was true; 
 His coat had pocket-holes behind. 
 
 His pantaloons were blue. 
 
 Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes 
 
 He passed securely o'er, — 
 And never wore a pair of boots 
 
 Por thirty years or more. 
 
 But good Old Grimes is now at rest, 
 Nor fears misfortune's frown; 
 
 He wore a double-breasted vest, — 
 The stripes ran up and down 
 
 He modest merit sought to find, 
 
 And pay it its desert; 
 He had no malice in his mind, 
 
 ISTo ruffles on his shirt. 
 
 His neighbors he did not abuse, — 
 
 Was sociable and gaj; 
 He wore large buckles on his shoes, 
 
 And changed them every day. 
 
 His knowledge, hid from public gaze. 
 
 He did not bring to view, 
 ISTor make a noise, town-meeting days. 
 
 As many people do. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 159 
 
 His worldly goods he never threw 
 In trust to fortune's chances, 
 
 But lived (as all his brothers do) 
 In easy circumstances. 
 
 Thus undisturbed by anxious cares 
 His peaceful moments ran; 
 
 And every body said he was 
 A line old gentleman. 
 
 Albert G. Oreene. 
 
 HYMN^ 
 
 FOE THE CONSECRATION OF A CEMETERY AT WESTBROOK, MAINE. 
 
 Thy voice, our Grod, in Eden bowers. 
 Was heard of old mid trees and flowers, 
 And age on passing age hath seen 
 Thy footsteps still in temples green. 
 
 And we would lay our loved ones where 
 Thy gentlest presence fills the air; 
 "Where Nature's sweetest things are rife 
 With breathings of immortal life. 
 
 'T is meet that we should deck the tomb. 
 For ours are hopes of heavenly bloom; — 
 
 We grieve not here o'er soulless dust: 
 We look above to Thee, and trust; — 
 
 Trust that the same All-Gracious Power 
 That molds the bud and guards the flower, 
 Bids the freed soul exulting rise 
 When the cold clay unconscious lies. 
 
 And when we bring the laden bier. 
 To rest its precious burden here. 
 Oh, may our smitten spirits feel 
 The God who loves the flowers ■\'S'ill heal. 
 
 Mrs. L. J. B. Case. 
 
 THE DEAD HOUSE. 
 
 Here once my step was quickened, 
 Here beckoned the opening door, 
 
 And welcome thrilled from the threshold 
 To the foot it had known before. 
 
 A glow came forth to meet me 
 
 From the flame that laughed in the grate, 
 And shadows adance on the ceiling. 
 
 Danced blither with mine for a mate. 
 
 " I claim you, old friend," yawned the arm-chair, 
 "This corner, you know, is your seat;" 
 
 " Rest your slippers on me," beamed the fender, 
 "I brighten at touch of your feet." 
 
 "We know the practiced finger," 
 
 Said the books, "that seems like brain"; 
 
 And the shy page rustled the secret 
 It had kept till I came again. 
 
 Sang the pillow, "My down once quivered 
 On nightingales' throats that flew 
 
 Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz 
 To gather quaint dreams for you." 
 
 Ah me, where the Past sowed heart's-ease. 
 The Present plucks rue for us men! 
 
 I come back: that scar unhealing 
 Was not in the churchyard then. 
 
 But, I think, the house is unaltered, 
 
 I will go and beg to look 
 At the rooms that were once familiar 
 
 To my life as its bed to a brook. 
 
 Unaltered! Alas for the sameness 
 That makes the change but more! 
 
 'Tis a dead man I see in the mirrors, 
 'Tis his tread that chills the floor! 
 
160 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 To learn such a simple lesson, 
 Need I go to Paris and Rome, 
 
 That the many make the household, 
 But only one the home? 
 
 'TAvas just a womanly presence, 
 
 An influence unexprest. 
 But a rose she had worn, on my grave-sod 
 
 Were more than long life with the rest! 
 
 'T was a smile, 't was a garment's rustle, 
 'T was nothing that I can phrase. 
 
 But the whole dumh dwelling grew conscious, 
 And put on her looks and ways. 
 
 Were it mine I would close the shutters, 
 Like lids when the life is fled, 
 
 And the funeral fire should wind it, 
 This corpse of a home that is dead. 
 
 For it died that autumn morning 
 When she, its soul, was borne 
 
 To lie all dark on the hillside 
 
 That looks over woodland and corn. 
 
 James Bvssell Lowell. 
 
/rUu^ (^^^'^t^c^-v. (H.H). 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 161 
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 
 
 Backward, tumi backward, Time, in your 
 
 flight, 
 Make me a child again just for to-night! 
 Mother, come l)ack from the echolesK shore. 
 
 Take me again to ydur heart as of vore ; 
 Kiss from my foreliead the fni-rows of care. 
 Smooth tlie few silver tlii-eads out of my liair; 
 Over my shmibers your loving watch keep ; — 
 Rock me to sleeii, mother, — i-ocli me to sleep 1 
 
 ISackward, flow l)a(;k\vard, () tide of the 
 
 Toil witliout recom[)euse, tears all in vain; — 
 Take them, and give me my childhood again ! 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
 Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; 
 Weary of sowing for otliers to reap; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
 Mother, m<itlier, my heart calls for yon! 
 Many a summer the grass lias grown green. 
 Blossomed, and faded, our faces Ijet^veen : 
 Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain. 
 Long 1 to-uight for your presence again. 
 
 Come from tlie silence so l(jng and so deep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleeji ! 
 
 Over my heart, in tlie days that are flown, 
 Xo love like mother-love ever lias shone; 
 No otlier worship aliidcs and endures, — 
 Faitliful, unselfish, and }iatient, like yours: 
 None like a mother can charm away pain 
 From tlie sick soul and the world-weai\y 
 
 lirain. 
 Slumlier's soft calms n'er my heavy lids 
 
 creep : — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
162 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with 
 
 gold. 
 Fall on yonr shoulders again as of old; 
 Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
 Shading my faint eyes away from the light; 
 For with its sunny-edged shadows once 
 
 more 
 Haply will throng the sweet visions of 
 
 yore; 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Mother, dear mother, the years have been 
 
 long 
 Since I last listened your lullaby song: 
 Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall 
 
 seem 
 Womanhood's years have been only a dream : 
 Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
 "With your light lashes just sweeping my 
 
 face, 
 jVever hereafter to wake or to weep; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Elkabeth Akers Allen. 
 
 SUNLIGHT AND STARLIGHT. 
 
 God sets some souls in shade, alone; 
 They have no daylight of their own : 
 Only in lives of happier ones 
 They see the shine of distant suns. 
 
 God knows. Content thee with thy night. 
 Thy greater heaven hath grander light. 
 
 To-day is close; the hours are small; 
 Thou sit'st afar, and hast them all. 
 
 Love the less joy that doth but blind; 
 Reach forth a larger bliss to find. 
 To-day is brief: the inclusive spheres 
 Rain raptures of a thousand years. 
 
 Addine D. T. Whitney. 
 
 THE WIDOW'S CHARGE AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL. 
 
 Deal gently, thou, whose hand has won 
 
 The young bird from the nest away. 
 Where, careless 'neath a vernal sun. 
 
 She gayly caroled day by day: 
 The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve, 
 
 From whence her timid wing doth .soar, 
 They pensive list, at hush of eve, 
 
 Yet hear her gushing song no more. 
 
 Deal gently with her: thou art dear 
 
 Beyond what vestal lips have told, 
 And like a lamb, from fountain clear. 
 
 She turns confiding to the fold; 
 She round thy sweet, domestic bower 
 
 The wreaths of changeless love shall twine. 
 Watch for thy step at vesper hour. 
 
 And blend her holiest prayer with thine. 
 
 Deal gently, thou, when far away. 
 
 Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove. 
 Nor let thy tender cares decay, — 
 
 The soul of woman lives in love; 
 And sbouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear 
 
 Unconscious from her eyelid break, 
 Be pitiful, and soothe the fear 
 
 That man's strong heart can ne'er partake, 
 
 A mother yields her gem to thee. 
 
 On thy true breast to sparkle rare; 
 She places 'neath thy household tree 
 
 The idol of her fondest care; 
 And by thy trust to be forgiven. 
 
 When judgment wakes in terror wild. 
 By all thy treasured hopes of Heaven, 
 
 Deal gently with the widow's child. 
 
 Lydia Huntky Sigmmey. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 163 
 
 THE OLD BITRYI:N"G-GR0UND. 
 
 Plumed ranks of tall wild-cherry 
 And birch surround 
 
 The half-hid, solitary- 
 Old burying-ground. 
 
 All the low wall is crumbled 
 
 And overgrown, 
 And in the turf lies tumbled 
 
 Stone upon stone. 
 
 Only the school-boy, scrambling 
 
 After his arrow 
 Or lost ball, — searching, trampling 
 
 The tufts of yarrow. 
 
 Of milkweed and slim mullein, — 
 
 The place disturbs; 
 Or bowed wise-woman, culling 
 
 Her magic herbs. 
 
 No more the melancholy 
 Dark trains draw near; 
 
 The dead possess it wholly 
 This many a year. 
 
 The headstones lean, winds whistle. 
 
 The long grass waves, 
 Rank grow the dock and thistle 
 
 Over the graves; 
 
 And all is waste, deserted. 
 
 And drear, as though 
 Even the ghosts departed 
 
 Long years ago ! 
 
 The squirrels start forth and chatter 
 
 To see me pass; 
 Grasshoppers leap and patter 
 
 In the dry grass. 
 
 I hear the drowsy drumming 
 
 Of woodpeckers. 
 And suddenly at my coming 
 
 The quick grouse whirs. 
 
 Untouched through all mutation 
 
 Of times and skies, 
 A bygone generation 
 
 Around me lies; 
 
 Of high and low condition. 
 
 Just and unjust. 
 The patient and physician, 
 
 All turned to dust. 
 
 Suns, snows, drouth, cold, birds, blossoms. 
 
 Visit the spot; 
 Rains drench the quiet bosoms 
 
 Which heed them not. 
 
 Under an aged willow. 
 
 The earth my bed, 
 A mossy mound my pillow, 
 
 I lean my head. 
 
 Babe of this mother, dying 
 
 A fresh young bride. 
 That old, old man is lying 
 
 Here by her side! 
 
 I muse: above me hovers 
 
 A haze of dreams: 
 Bright maids and laughing lovers, 
 
 Life's morning gleams ; 
 
164 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 The past with all its passions, 
 
 Its toils and wiles, 
 Its ancient follies, fashions, 
 
 And tears and smjles; 
 
 With -thirsts and fever-rages, 
 
 And ceaseless pains, 
 Hoarding as for the ages 
 
 Its little gains! 
 
 Fair lives that hloom and wither, 
 
 Their summer done; 
 Loved forms with heart-hi-eak hither 
 
 Borne one by one. 
 
 Wife, husband, child, and mother, 
 
 !N^ow reck no more 
 Which mourned on earth the other, 
 
 Or went before. 
 
 The soul, risen from its embers, 
 In its blest state 
 
 Perchance not even remembers 
 Its earthly fate; 
 
 Nor heeds, in the duration 
 
 Of spheres sublime, 
 This pebble of creation, 
 
 This wave of time. 
 
 For a swift moment onlj"^ 
 
 Such dreams arise; 
 Then, turning from this lonely. 
 
 Tossed field, my eyes 
 
 Through clumps of whortleberry 
 
 And brier look down 
 Toward yonder cemetery, 
 
 And modern town. 
 
 Where still men build, and marry. 
 
 And strive, and mourn. 
 And now the dark pall carry. 
 
 And now are borne. 
 
 John Totimsend Troiobridge. 
 
 THE ROYAL GUEST. 
 
 They tell me I am shrewd with other men ; 
 
 With thee I'm slow and difficult of speech. 
 With others I may guide the car of talk; 
 
 Thou wing'st it oft to realms beyond my 
 reach. 
 
 friend beloved! I sit apart and dumb, — 
 Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine; 
 
 My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart 
 Springs forth to measure its faint pulse 
 with thine. 
 
 If other guests should come, I 'd deck my hair, 
 
 And choose my newest garment from the 
 
 shelf; 
 
 When thou ai't bidden, I would clothe my 
 
 heart 
 
 With holiest purpose, as for Grod himself. 
 
 For them I while the hours with tale or sonar. 
 Or web of fancy, fringed with careless 
 rhyme ; 
 
 But how to find a fitting lay for thee, 
 Who hast the harmonies of every time? 
 
 Thou art to me most like a royal guest, 
 Whose travels bring him to some lowly 
 roof. 
 
 Where simple rustics spread their festal fare 
 And, blushing, own it is not good enough. 
 
 Bethink thee, then, whene'er thou com'st 
 
 to me. 
 
 From high emprise and noble toil to rest. 
 
 My thoughts are weak and trivial, matched 
 
 with thine; 
 
 But the poor mansion ofters thee its best. 
 
 Julia Ward flbiif. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 165 
 
 DKTVTXfl HOME THE COWS. 
 
 Out of the clover and bhie-eyod grass 
 He turned them into tlie ri\'er hme; 
 
 One after anotlier he let them pass, 
 Then fastened tlie mea(h)w hars again. 
 
 Under the willows, and over the hill. 
 He patienti}' followed their soher pace; 
 
 The merry whistle for onee was still. 
 And something shadowed the sunny face. 
 
 Only a boy! and his father had said 
 He never could let his youngest go: 
 
 Two already were lying dead, 
 
 Under the feet of the tram]iling foe. 
 
 I>ut after the evt'uiug work \\'as done, 
 
 And the frogs were loud in the meadow- 
 Over his shouldei' he slung his gun [swamp. 
 And stealthily followed the footjiatli damp. 
 
 Across the clover and through tlie wheat 
 With resolute heart and jiui'jMise grim. 
 
 Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, 
 And the hiiud hat's Hitting startled him. 
 
 Thrice since then had the lanes been Avhite, 
 And the orchards s\veet with aiijile-bloom ; 
 
 And n(iw, when tlie cows eame back at night, 
 The feelile fatliel' droA'e tlieui home. 
 
 Eor news liad <Mniie to the lonely farm 
 Tliat three Awre lying wIku'C two had lain; 
 
 And the old man's t I'emulinis, palsied arm 
 Could iievef lean oil a son's aii'ain. 
 
 The summer day grew cool and late: 
 
 He went forthe eoA\'s when the work wasdoue; 
 
 I>ut down the lane, as he opened the gate. 
 He saw them coming one by one, — 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 
 Shaking their horns in the evening wind; 
 
 Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, — 
 l>ut who was it following close behind':' 
 
 Loosely swung in tlie idle air 
 The empty sleeve of army blue; 
 
 And worn and pale, from the crisping hair. 
 Looked out a face that the father knew. 
 
 For Southern }irisons will sometimes yawn, 
 And yield their dead unto life again; 
 
 And the day that comes witli a cloudy (hn\'n 
 In golden glciry at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears s]H'ang to their meeting eyes; 
 
 Eor the lieart must speak \\licn the li[>s are 
 And uruler the silent e\"ening skies [dumb; 
 
 Together they f )ll(i\\-i.'il the cattle home. 
 
 Knir J'ulnnul (Mr""'- 
 
166 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 AN OLD TIME FIRESIDE. 
 
 As NIGHT drew on, and, from the crest 
 Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
 The sun, a snow-blown traveler, sank 
 From sight beneath the smothering bank, 
 We piled, with care, our nightly stack 
 Of wood against the chinuiey-back, — 
 The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
 And on its top the stout back-stick; 
 The knotty fore-stick laid apart. 
 And filled between with curious art 
 The ragged brush; then, hovering near. 
 We watched the first red blaze appear. 
 Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
 On whitewashed wall and sagging beam. 
 Until the old, rude-furnished room 
 Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom; 
 While radiant with a mimic flame 
 Outside the sparkling drift became, 
 And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 
 Our own warm hearth seemed blazing 
 
 free. 
 The crane and pendent trammels showed; 
 The Turks'-heads on the andirons glowed; 
 While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
 The meaning of the miracle. 
 Whispered the old rhyme : " Uiider the tree, 
 When fire outdoors burns merrily, 
 There the loitches are makincj tea." 
 
 The moon above the eastern wood 
 Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 
 
 Transfigured in the silver flood, 
 Its blown snows flashing cold and keen. 
 Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 
 Took shadow, or the somber green 
 Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
 Against the whiteness at their back. 
 For such a world and such a night 
 Most fitting that unwarming "light. 
 Which only seemed where'er it fell 
 To make the cohlness visible. 
 
 Shut in from all the world without, 
 We sat the clean-winged hearth about: 
 Content to let the north-wind roar 
 In bafiled rage at pane and door, 
 While the i-ed logs before us beat 
 The frost-line back with tropic heat; 
 And ever, when a louder blast 
 Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
 The merrier up its roai'ing draught 
 The great throat of the chimney laughed; 
 The house-dog on his paws outspread 
 Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
 The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
 A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; 
 And, for the winter fireside meet. 
 Between the andirons' straddling feet. 
 The mug of cider simmered slow, 
 The apples sputtered in a row. 
 And, close at hand, the basket stood 
 With nuts from brown October's wood. 
 
 John Oreenleaf WkUtier. 
 
 THAIfATOPSIS. 
 
 To HIM who, in the love of E'ature, holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language : for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 
 Into his darker musings with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When 
 
 thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow 
 
 house, 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 167 
 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 
 Gro forth under the open sky, and list 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 Comes a still voice : — Yet a few days,' and thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many 
 
 tears, 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall 
 
 claim 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 To mix forever with the elements; 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock. 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude 
 
 swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The 
 
 oak 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 
 
 mold. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou 
 
 wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 "With patriarchs of the infant world, — with 
 
 kings, 
 The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the 
 
 good. 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
 All in one mighty sepuleher. The hills, 
 Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 The venerable woods; rivers that move 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks. 
 That make the meadows green ; and, poured 
 
 round all. 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun. 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 "Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
 Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are 
 
 there ! 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them 
 
 down 
 In their last sleep, — the dead reign there 
 
 alone ! 
 So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw 
 In silence from the living, and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny The gay will laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and 
 
 shall come 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long 
 
 train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men — 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who 
 
 gllL'S 
 
 In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
 The speechless babe, and the gray-headed 
 
 man — 
 Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side 
 By those who in their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to 
 
 join 
 The innumerable caravan that moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall 
 
 take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 
 
 soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 William OiUlen BryuvJ. 
 
168 
 
 LIFE, CIIMIACTER, ETC. 
 
 THE G OLDEST MILE-STONE. 
 
 [Ttie Milllnriiim Aiirniiii, nr ( icililcn Mik'-Stonu, w:i,s a gilt luarbk- pillar in the Foi-um at Rome, from which, ,is a central 
 point, the great roails <.f the pmipire diverged through the several gates of the city, and the distances were measured.] 
 
 Lbafles.? are the trees: their iiiii'|ik' hranehes 
 Spread tliemselves uhrdad, hke reefs of eoral 
 
 Risiiiir sili'iit 
 111 the Ke<l Sea <if' the winter stiiiset. 
 
 From the humli'eil chiiiiiieys (if tlie x'illao'e, 
 Like the Afreet in tlie .\rahiaii story, 
 
 Sninky eohmnis 
 Tower atuft into tlie air nf ainlier. 
 
 At the winih)W winks the tlii-kerinic tirc-liicht ; 
 Here attd tliere the lanqis of evening o-limnier, 
 
 Social watch-tircs. 
 Answering' one tiiiothcr thniiigli the (hirkness. 
 
 On tlie hearth the lighted logs tii-c glowing, 
 And, like Ariel in the el()\'en [line-tree. 
 
 Fur its freedom 
 (Ji'oausand sighs the air ini]irisoned in them. 
 
 I»y the firesi<le there are old men seated, 
 Seeing mined cities in the ashes. 
 
 Asking sadly 
 Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. 
 
 T>y the fireside there are yonthfnl dreamers, 
 Jhiilding etistles fair, with stately stairways, 
 
 Asking Idindly 
 Of the Future what it <'an not give them. 
 
 ISy tlie fireside tragedies tire acted 
 
 In whose scenes appetir two actors only, 
 
 AVife and hnshand, 
 An<l ahove them (toiI the sole spectator. 
 
 ]>y the firesidi' there are peace and comfort, 
 "Wife and children, witli fair, thoughtfid faces, 
 
 A\"aiting, wateliing 
 Foi- a well-known footstep in the passage. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 169 
 
 Eachman's chimney is his Golden Mile-Stone,— 
 Is the central point from which he measures 
 Every distance [him. 
 
 Through the gateways of the world around 
 
 In his farthest wanderings still he sees it: 
 Hears the talking flame, the answering night- 
 wind, 
 As he heard them 
 When he sat with those who were, but are not. 
 
 Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, 
 Nor the march of the encroaching city. 
 
 Drives an exile 
 From the hearth of his ancestral homestead ! 
 
 We may build more splendid habitations, 
 Fill our rooms with paintings and with 
 sculptures. 
 But we can not 
 Buy with gold the old associations. 
 
 Henry Wadswwih Longfellmv. 
 
 DOROTHY m THE GARRET. 
 
 In the low-raftered garret, stooping 
 
 Carefully over the creaking boards. 
 Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping 
 
 Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards; 
 Seeking some bundle of patches, hid 
 
 Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage. 
 Or satchel hung on its nail, amid 
 
 The heirlooms of a bygone age. 
 
 There is the ancient family chest. 
 
 There the ancestral cards and hatchel; 
 Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest. 
 
 Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel. 
 Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom 
 
 Of the chimney, where, with swifts aiad reel, 
 And the long-disused, dismantled loom, 
 
 Stands the old-fashioned spinning-wheel. 
 
 She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen, 
 
 A part of her girlhood's little world; 
 Her mother is there by the window, stitching; 
 
 Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled 
 With many a click: on her little stool 
 
 She sits, a child, by the open door, 
 Watching, and dabbling her feet in the 
 pool 
 
 Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor. 
 
 Her sisters are spinning all day long; 
 To her wakening sense the first sweet 
 warning 
 Of daylight come is the cheerful song 
 To the hum of the wheel in the early 
 morning. 
 
 Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy. 
 
 On his way to school, peeps in at the gate ; 
 
 In neat white pinafore, pleased and coy. 
 She reaches a hand to her bashful mate; 
 
 And under the elms, a prattling pair, 
 Together they go, through glimmer and 
 gloom : — 
 It all comes back to her, dreaming there 
 
 In the low-raftered garret-room; 
 The hum of the wheel, and the summer 
 weather. 
 The heart's first trouble, and love's begin- 
 ning, 
 Are all in her memory linked together; 
 And now it is she herself that is spinning. 
 
 With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip. 
 
 Turning the spokes with the flashing pin, 
 Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip. 
 
 Stretching it out and winding it in, 
 To and fro, with a blithesome tread. 
 
 Singing she goes, and her heart is full. 
 And many a long-drawn golden thread 
 
 Of fancy is spun with the shining wool. 
 
 Her father sits in his favorite place, 
 
 Pufiing his pipe by the chimney-side; 
 Through curling clouds his kindly face 
 
 Glows upon her with love and pride. 
 Lulled by the wheel, in the old arm-chair 
 
 Her mother is musing, cat in lap. 
 With beautiful drooping head, and hair 
 
 Whitening under her snow-white cap. 
 
170 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 One by one, to the grave, to the bridal. 
 
 They have followed her sisters from the 
 door ; 
 ISTow they are old, and she is their idol : — 
 
 It all comes back on her heart once more. 
 In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams 
 brightly. 
 
 The wheel is set by the shadowy wall, — 
 A hand at the latch, — 'tis lifted lightly. 
 
 And in walks Benjie, manly and tall. 
 
 His chair is placed; the old man tips 
 
 The pitcher, and brings his choicest fruit; 
 Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips. 
 
 And tells his story, and joints his flute: 
 Oh, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter ! 
 
 They fill the hour with a glowing tide; 
 But sweeter the still, deep moments after, 
 
 When she is alone by Benjie's side. 
 
 But once with angry words they part: 
 
 Oh, then the weary, weary days ! 
 Ever with restless, wretched heart. 
 
 Plying her task, she turns to gaze 
 Far up the road; and early and late 
 
 She harks for a footstep at the door, 
 And starts at the gust that swings the gate. 
 
 And prays for Benjie, who comes no more. 
 
 Her fault? Benjie, and could you steel 
 
 Your thoughts toward one who loved 
 you so? — 
 Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel. 
 
 In duty and love that lighten woe; 
 Striving with labor, not in vain. 
 
 To drive away the dull day's dreariness, — 
 Blessing the toil that blunts the pain 
 
 Of a deeper grief in the body's weariness. 
 
 Proud and petted and spoiled was she: 
 
 A word, and all her life is changed! 
 His wavering love too easily 
 
 In the great, gay city grows estranged: 
 One year: she sits in the old church pew; 
 
 A rustle, a murmur, — Dorothy! hide 
 Your face and shut from your soul the 
 view ! 
 
 'Tis Benjie leading a white-vailed bride! 
 
 Now father and mother have long been dead. 
 
 And the bride sleeps under a churchyard 
 stone. 
 And a bent old man with grizzled head 
 
 "Walks up the long dim aisle alone. 
 Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy 
 
 Sits doubting betwixt the ghost she seems 
 And the phantom of youth, more real than she, 
 
 That meets her there in that haunt of 
 dreams. 
 
 Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter. 
 
 Sought by many a youthful adorer. 
 Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water. 
 
 Shining an endless vista before her! 
 Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray. 
 
 Groping under the farm-house eaves, — 
 And life is a brief November day 
 
 That sets on a world of withered leaves! 
 
 Yet faithfulness in the humblest part 
 
 Is better at last than proud success, 
 And patience and love in a chastened heart 
 
 Are pearls more precious than happiness; 
 And in that morning when she shall wake 
 
 To the spring-time freshness of youth again. 
 All trouble will seem but a flying flake, 
 
 And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane. 
 John Tmimsmd Trowh-idge. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies. 
 
 Beyond death's cloudy portal, 
 There is a land where beauty never dies, 
 
 "Where love becomes immortal; 
 
 A land whose life is never dimmed by shade, 
 "Whose fields are ever vernal; 
 
 Where nothing beautiful can ever fade. 
 But blooms for aye eternal. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 171 
 
 We may not know how sweet its balmy air, 
 How bright and fair its flowers; 
 
 We may not hear the songs that echo there, 
 Through those enchanted bowers. 
 
 The city's shining towers we may not see 
 
 With our dim earthly vision, 
 For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key 
 
 That opes the gates elysian. 
 
 But sometimes, when adown the western sky 
 A fiery sunset lingers. 
 
 Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, 
 Unlocked hy unseen lingers. 
 
 And while they stand a moment half ajar, 
 
 Gleams from the inner glory 
 Stream brightly through the azure vault afar 
 
 And half i-eveal the story. 
 
 land unknown ! land of love divine ! 
 
 Father, all-wise, eternal! [mine 
 
 Oh, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of 
 
 Into those pastures vernal! 
 
 Nancy A. W. Priest. 
 
 THE OLD OAKEIT BUCKET. 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my 
 
 childhood. 
 When fond recollection presents them to 
 
 view: 
 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 
 wildwood, 
 
 And every loved spot which my infancy 
 
 knew ! 
 The \\dde-spreading pond, and the mill that 
 
 stood by it; 
 The bridge, and the rock where the cataract 
 
 fell; 
 
172 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 The cot of my father, the dairy -house nigh it, 
 And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the 
 
 well: 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket which hung in the 
 
 well. 
 
 That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; 
 
 For often at noon, when returned from the 
 field, 
 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. 
 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
 
 How ardent I seized it, with hands that were 
 glowing. 
 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ! 
 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
 flowing. 
 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose from the 
 well: 
 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket 
 The moss-covered bucket, arose from the 
 well. 
 
 How sweet from the green, mossy brim to 
 
 receive it. 
 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
 ISTot a full, blushing goblet could tempt me 
 
 to leave it, 
 The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved 
 
 habitation. 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
 And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the 
 
 well : 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the 
 
 well. 
 
 Samvd Woodworth. 
 
 TO THE UNSATISFIED. 
 
 Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 
 For the far-oft', unattained and dim, 
 
 "While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
 Ofters up its low perpetual hymn? 
 
 "Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching. 
 All thy restless yearnings it would still: 
 
 Leaf and flower, and laden bee, are preaching. 
 Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fi 11 . 
 
 Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
 Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw; 
 
 If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
 To some little world, through weal and woe. 
 
 If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, 
 No fond voices answer to thine own; 
 
 If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten 
 By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 
 
 Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, 
 Not by works that give thee world-renown, 
 
 Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses, 
 Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. 
 
 Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, 
 Every day a rich reward will give; 
 
 Thou wilt find by hearty striving only. 
 And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 
 
 Dost thou revel in the rosy morning, 
 When all nature hails the lord of light. 
 
 And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning, 
 Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright? 
 
 Other hands may grasp the field and forest, 
 Proud proprietors in pomp may shine; 
 
 But with fervent love if thou adorest, 
 Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine! 
 
 Yet if through earth's wide domains thourovest, 
 Sighing that they are not thine alone. 
 
 Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest. 
 And their beauty, and thy wealth, are gone. 
 
 Nature wears the color of the spirit; 
 
 Sweetly to her worshiper she sings; 
 All the glow, the grace she doth inherit, 
 
 Round her trusting child she fondly flings, 
 
 Barriei Wimlow Sewall. 
 
'Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 
 For the far-off, unattained and dim," 
 
LIFE, CHAEACTEB, ETC. 
 
 175 
 
 TELLING THE BEES. 
 
 Here is the place; right over the hill 
 
 Runs the path I took; 
 You can see the gap in the old wall still, 
 
 And the stepping-stones in the shallow 
 brook. 
 
 There is the house, with the gate red-barred, 
 
 And the poplars tall; 
 And the barn's brown length, and the cat- 
 tle-yard. 
 
 And the white horns tossing above the wall. 
 
 There are the beehives ranged in the sun; 
 
 And down by the brink 
 Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed- 
 o'errun. 
 
 Pansy and dafibdil, rose and pink. 
 
 A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, 
 
 Heavy and slow; 
 And the same rose blows, and the same 
 sun glows, 
 
 And the same brook sings of a year ago. 
 
 There's the same sweet clover-smell in the 
 breeze; 
 
 And the June sun warm 
 Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, 
 
 Settingi as then, over Fernside farm. 
 
 I mind me how with a lover's care 
 
 From my Sunday coat 
 I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, 
 
 And cooled at the brookside my brow 
 and throat. 
 
 Since we parted, a month had passed, — 
 
 To love, a year; 
 Down through the beeches I looked at last 
 
 On the little red gate and the well-sweep 
 near. 
 
 I can see it all now, — the slantwise rain 
 
 Of light through the leaves, 
 The sundown's blaze on her window- 
 pane. 
 
 The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 
 
176 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 Just the same as a month before, — 
 
 The house and the trees, 
 The barn's brown gable, the vine by the 
 door, — 
 
 Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 
 
 Before them, under the garden wall. 
 
 Forward and back. 
 Went drearily singing the chore-girl small. 
 
 Draping each hive with a shred of black. 
 
 Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps 
 
 For the dead to-day: 
 Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps 
 
 The fret and the pain of his age away." 
 
 But her dog whined low; on the doorway 
 sill, 
 
 With his cane to his chin, 
 The old man sat; and the chore-girl still 
 
 Sung to the bees stealing out and in. 
 
 Trembling, I listened: the summer sun 
 
 Had the chill of snow; 
 For 1 knew she was telling the bees of one 
 
 Gone on the journey we all must go ! 
 
 And the song she was singing ever since 
 
 In my ear sounds on: — 
 "Staj- at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! 
 
 Mistress Mary is dead and gone!" 
 
 John Qremkaf Whittiei: 
 
 THE BROTHEES. 
 
 We are but two — the others sleep 
 Through death's untroubled night; 
 
 We are but two — oh let us keep 
 The link that binds us bright. 
 
 Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood 
 That warms us is the same; 
 
 That good old man — his honest blood 
 Alike we fondly claim. 
 
 We in one mother's arms were locked - 
 Long be her love repaid; 
 
 In the same cradle we were rocked. 
 Round the same hearth we played. 
 
 Our boyish sports were all the same. 
 Each little joy and woe; — 
 
 Let manhood keep alive the flame 
 Lit up so long ago. 
 
 We are but two — be that the band 
 
 To hold us till we die; 
 Shoulder to shoulder let us stand 
 
 Till side by side we lie. 
 
 Charlei Spraffm. 
 
 THE LOI^ELY GRAVE. 
 
 [Those who travel in the lower part of New Hampshire, will often see gravestones in the fields; sometimes one— but 
 often more. — Authok's Note.] 
 
 Where yonder white memorial stone 
 Its silent watch unnoticed keeps 
 
 Through changing moons, — alone, alone 
 Some weary head in darkness sleeps. 
 
 And not a mourner wanders near 
 
 To plant a flower, or shed a tear. 
 
 Where are they now, his earthly kin? 
 
 Throng they the city's busy mart, 
 Or in the workshop's ceaseless din 
 
 Toil with a seared or careless heart? 
 They come not here — no footsteps tread 
 The pathway to the lonely dead. 
 
LIFE, CHAR AG TEE, ETC. 
 
 177 
 
 But here the everlastings spring, 
 
 And the meek, star-like cinquefoils creep. 
 
 And woodland warblers come to sing 
 Beside this pleasant place of sleep. 
 
 And Nature bids her minstrels pour 
 
 A wail o'er one who weeps no more. 
 
 Oh, never yet hath pillared tomb 
 
 In marble aisles, or church-yards old. 
 
 Such power to lift death's shrouding gloom, 
 Or snatch the soul from doubt's stern hold. 
 
 As the bright summer things that wave 
 
 Around this lone, neglected grave. 
 
 Hark! murmurs from the moaning pines 
 Sound like the far-off, surging sea, 
 
 And with a solemn splendor shines 
 The day-beam on the grassy lea; 
 
 A holy spell is in the air. 
 
 And the full heai't is bowed in prayer. 
 
 Kneel we and pray. This flowerj- sod 
 Shall be a prophet-mount sublime, 
 
 Where, uttered by the voice of Grod, 
 
 Breathe hopes that grasp unending time. 
 
 And win the spirit-eye away 
 
 From dreams that vex life's little day. 
 
 Mrs. L. J. B. Case. 
 
 ALL'S WELL. 
 
 The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, 
 My weary spirit seeks repose in thine; 
 
 Father, forgive my trespasses, and keep 
 This little life of mine! 
 
 With loving kindness curtain thou my 
 bed, 
 And cool in rest my burning pilgrim 
 feet ; 
 
 Thy pardon be the pillow for mj- head: 
 So shall my rest be .sweet. 
 
 At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and 
 thee, 
 ISo fears my soul's unwavering faith can 
 shake ! 
 AlVs irell, whichever side the grave for me 
 The morning light may break. 
 
 Harriet McEwen Kimball. 
 
178 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 LARV^. 
 
 My little maiden of four yeai-s old 
 (E"o myth but a genuine child is she, 
 
 With her bronze-brown eyes and her curls 
 of gold) 
 Came quite in disgust, one day, to me. 
 
 Rubbing her shoulder with rosy palm, 
 As the loathsome touch seemed yet to 
 thrill her. 
 
 She cried, — "0, mother, I found on my arm 
 A horrible, crawling caterpillar!" 
 
 And with mischievous smile she could scarcely 
 smother. 
 
 Yet aglance,in its daring, half-awed and shy. 
 She added: " While theywere about it, mother, 
 
 I wish they'd just finished the butterfly!" 
 
 They were words to the thought of the soul 
 that turns 
 
 From the coarser form of a partial growth, 
 Reproaching the Infinite Patience that yearns 
 
 With an unknown glory to crown them both. 
 
 Ah, look thou largely with lenient eyes 
 On whatso beside thee may creep and 
 cling, 
 
 For the possible beauty that underlies 
 The passing phase of the meanest thing! 
 
 What if God's great angels, whose waiting love 
 Beholdeth our pitiful life below, 
 
 From the holy height of their Heaven above 
 Couldn't bear with the worm till the 
 wings should grow? 
 
 Addine D. T. Whitney. 
 
 TERMmUS. 
 
 It is time to be old. 
 
 To take in sail: — 
 
 The god of bounds. 
 
 Who sets to seas a shore. 
 
 Came to me in his fatal rounds. 
 
 And said: "ISTo more! 
 
 ISTo farther shoot 
 
 Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy 
 
 root. 
 Fancy departs: no more invent, 
 Contract thy firmament 
 To compass of a tent. 
 There's not enough for this and that, 
 Make thy option which of two ; 
 Economize the failing river, 
 ISot the less revere the Griver, 
 Leave the many and hold the few. 
 Timely wise accept the terms. 
 Soften the fall with wary foot; 
 A little while 
 Still plan and smile, 
 
 And, fault of novel germs. 
 
 Mature the unfallen fruit. 
 
 Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires. 
 
 Bad husbands of their fires, 
 
 Who, when they gave thee breath. 
 
 Failed to bequeath 
 
 The needful sinew stark as once, 
 
 The Baresark marrow to thy bones, 
 
 But left a legacy of ebbing veins, 
 
 Inconstant heat and nerveless reins, — 
 
 Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb. 
 
 Amid the gladiators, halt and numb." 
 
 As the bird trims her to the gale, 
 I trim myself to the storm of time, 
 I man the rudder, reef the sail. 
 Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: 
 "Lowly faithful, banish fear, 
 Right onward drive unharmed; 
 The port, well worth the cruise, is near, 
 And every wave is charmed." 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 179 
 
 DAMEL GEAY. 
 
 If I shall ever win the home in heaven, 
 For vi^hose sweet rest I humbly hope and 
 pray, 
 
 In the great company of the forgiven 
 I shall he sure to find old Daniel Gray. 
 
 I knew him well; in truth, few knew him 
 better ; 
 For my young eyes oft read for him the 
 "Word, 
 And saw how meekly from the crystal letter 
 He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 
 
 Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
 On ready words his freight of gratitude, 
 
 ~SoY was he ever called among the gifted. 
 In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. 
 
 He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases, 
 Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday 
 rhymes ; 
 
 And I suppose that in his prayers and graces, 
 I've heard them all at least a thousand times. 
 
 I see him now — his form, his face, his 
 
 motions. 
 
 His homespun habit, and his silver hair, — 
 
 And hear the language of his trite devotions. 
 
 Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen 
 
 chair. 
 
 I can remember how the sentence sounded — • 
 " Help us, Lord, to pray and not to faint ! " 
 
 And how the " conquering-and-to-conquer" 
 rounded 
 The loftier aspirations of the saint. 
 
 He had some notions that did not improve him : 
 He never kissed his children — so they say; 
 
 And finest scenes and fairest flowers would 
 move him 
 Less than a horse-shoe picked up in the way. 
 
 He had a hearty hatred of oppression, 
 And righteous words for sin of every kind ; 
 
 Alas ! that the transgressor and transgression 
 Were linked so closely in his honest mind ! 
 
 He could see naught but vanity in beauty. 
 And naught but weakness in a fond caress. 
 
 And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
 Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 
 
 Yet there were love and ten derness within him ; 
 
 And I am told that when his Charley died, 
 N"or nature's need nor gentle words could 
 win him 
 
 From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 
 
 And when they came to bury little Charley, 
 
 They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in 
 
 his hair, 
 
 And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early. 
 
 And guessed, but did not know, who 
 
 placed it there. 
 
 Honest and faithful, constant in his calling, 
 Strictly attendant on the means of grace. 
 
 Instant in pi'ayer, and fearful most of falling, 
 Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 
 
 A practical old man, and yet a dreamer. 
 He thought that in some strange, unlooked- 
 for way 
 His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great 
 Redeemer, 
 Would honor him with wealth some golden 
 day. 
 
 This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit 
 Until in death his patient eye grew dim, 
 
 And his Redeemer called him to inherit 
 The heaven of wealth long garnered up 
 for him. 
 
 So if I ever win the home in heaven 
 For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and 
 pray, 
 
 In the great company of the forgiven 
 I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 
 
 Josiah Gilbert Holland. 
 
180 
 
 LIFE, CHABAGTEB, ETC. 
 
 TKOTH-PLIGHT. 
 
 FOR THE GOLDEN WEDDING OP A HUSBAND THIETY-SEVEN YEARS BLIND. 
 
 I BROUGHT her home, my bonny bride, 
 
 Just fifty years ago; 
 Her eyes were bright, 
 Her step was light, 
 
 Her voice was sweet and low. 
 
 In April was our wedding-day, — 
 The maiden month, you know. 
 
 Of tears and smiles, 
 
 And willful wiles, 
 
 And flowers that spring from snow. 
 
 My love cast down her dear, dark eyes. 
 As if she fain would hide 
 
 Prom my fond sight 
 
 Her own delight, 
 
 Half shy, yet happy, bride. 
 
 But blushes told the tale, instead. 
 As plain as words could speak. 
 
 In dainty red. 
 
 That overspread 
 
 My darling's dainty cheek. 
 
 For thrice six years and more I watched 
 Her fairer grow each day; — 
 
 My babes were blest 
 
 (Tpon her breast. 
 
 And she was pure as they. 
 
 And then an angel touched my eyes. 
 And turned my day to night, 
 
 That fading charms 
 
 Or time's alarms 
 
 Might never vex my sight. 
 
 Thus sitting in the dark I see 
 
 My darling as of yore, — 
 With blushing face 
 And winsome grace, 
 
 Unchanged, for evermore. 
 
 Full fifty years of young and fair! 
 
 To her I pledge my vow 
 Whose spring-time grace 
 And April face 
 
 Have lasted until now. 
 
 Lovdse Chandler MouUm. 
 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 I SAW him once before. 
 As he passed by the door; 
 
 And again 
 The pavement-stones resound. 
 As he totters o'er the ground 
 
 With his cane. 
 
 They say that in his prim ; 
 Ere the pruning-knife of Time 
 
 Cut him down, 
 ISTot a better man was found 
 By the Crier on his round 
 
 Through the town. 
 
 But now he walks the streets, 
 And he looks at all he meets 
 Sad and Avan, 
 
 And he shakes his feeble head. 
 That it seems as if he said, 
 " They are gone." 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 
 On the lips that he has pressed 
 
 In their bloom; 
 And the names he loved to hear 
 Have been carved for many a year 
 
 On the tomb. 
 
 My grandmamma has said — 
 Poor old lady, she is dead 
 
 Long ago — 
 That he had a Roman nose. 
 And his cheek was like a rose 
 
 In the snow. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 181 
 
 But now his nose is thin, 
 And it rests upon his chin 
 
 Like 11 staff; 
 And a eroolv is in his bacli, 
 And a melancholy crack 
 
 In his laugh. 
 
 1 know it is a sin 
 For me to sit and grin 
 
 At him here, 
 But the old three-cornered hat, 
 And the breeches, and all that, 
 
 Ave so queer ! 
 
 And if I should live to he 
 The last leaf upon the tree 
 
 In the spring, 
 Let them smile, as T do now. 
 At the old forsaken bouo-li 
 
 Where 1 cling. 
 
 Olircr Wendell Ilolmrs. 
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE HEART. 
 
 If stores of dry and learned lore \vc gain, 
 Wa keep them in the memory of the brain; 
 Names, things, and facts, — whatc'er we 
 
 knowledge call, — 
 There is tlie common ledger for them all; 
 And images on tliis cold surface traced 
 Make slight impression, and are soon effaced. 
 But we've a page, more ghn^ing and more 
 
 bright. 
 
 On which oiu' fricndshi]) and our love to 
 
 write ; 
 That these may never from the soul depart, 
 AVe trust them t" tlie memnry of the heart. 
 There is no dimming, im effacement there; 
 Each new pulsation keeps the record clear; 
 Warm, golden letters all tlie tablet fill, 
 Xor lose their luster till the heart stands 
 
 still. 
 
 Daniel Websia\ 
 
 DESERTED XE8TS. 
 
 I'll rather see an empty bough, — 
 A dreary, weary bough, that hung 
 
 As boughs will hang within whose arms 
 No mated birds had ever snug; 
 
 I^'ar rather than to see or toucli 
 The sadness of an empty nest. 
 
 AVherc joy has been Viut is not nr)W, 
 Where love has been luit is not blest. 
 
 There is no sadness in tlie world, 
 No other like it here or there, — 
 
 The sadness of deserted homes 
 In nests, or hearts, or anywhere. 
 
 Elizabeth Stvart Phelpa. 
 
182 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK OX THE STAIRS. 
 
 Somewhat back from the village street 
 Stands the old-fashioned eonntry-seat. 
 Across its antique portico 
 Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw, 
 And from its station in the hall 
 An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
 "Forever — never! 
 Never — forever!" 
 
 Halt 
 
 And 
 h 
 
 its 
 From its 
 
 case of massive oak. 
 Like a monk, who, un<ler his cloak, 
 Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 
 With sorrowful voice to all who pass,- 
 " Forever — never! 
 Never — forever ! " 
 
 By day its voice is low and light; 
 But in the silent dead of night, 
 Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
 It echoes along the vacant hall. 
 Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
 
 And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 
 '' Forever — never! 
 Never — forever ! " 
 
 Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
 Through days of death and days of birth, 
 Through every swift vicissitude 
 Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. 
 And as if, like QoA, it all things saw. 
 It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever! " 
 
 In that mansion used to be 
 Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
 His great tires up the chimney roared; 
 The stranger feasted at his board; 
 But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
 That warning timepiiece never ceased, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever ! " 
 
 There groups of merry children played. 
 There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; 
 Oh precious hours ! Oli golden prime. 
 And affluence of love and time! 
 Even as a miser counts his gold, 
 Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever ! " 
 
 From that chamber, clothed in white. 
 The bride came forth on her wedding-night; 
 There, in that silent room below. 
 The dead lay in his shroud of snow; 
 And in the liush that followed the prayer, 
 Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
 "Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever ! " 
 
 All are scattered now and tied, 
 Some ai'e nuirried, some are dead; 
 And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
 "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" 
 As in the days long since gone by. 
 
LIFE, GHABACTER, ETC. 
 
 183 
 
 The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 "Never — forever! " 
 
 I^ever here, forever there. 
 
 Where all parting, pain, and care. 
 
 And death, and time shall disappear, — 
 Forever there, but never here ! 
 The horologe of Eternity 
 Sayeth this incessantly,-^ 
 " Forever — never ! 
 l^ever — forever ! '' 
 
 Henry Wadmoorth Longfellaio. 
 
 HER CHOSEN SPOT. 
 
 While yet she lived, she walked alone 
 Among these shades. A voice divine 
 
 Whispered, "This spot shall he thine own; 
 Here shall thy wasting form recline, 
 Beneath the shadoM'^ of this pine." 
 
 "Thy will be done!" the sufferer said. 
 
 This spot was hallowed from that hour; 
 And, in her eyes, the evening's shade 
 And morning's dew this green spot made 
 
 More lovely than her bridal bower. 
 
 By the pale moon — herself more pale 
 And spirit-like — these walks she trod; 
 
 And, while no voice, from swell or vale, 
 Was heard, she knelt upon this sod 
 And gave her spirit hack to God. 
 
 That spirit, with an angel's wings. 
 Went up from the young mother's hed. 
 
 So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings; 
 
 She's lost to earth and earthly things; 
 But "weep not, for she is not dead, 
 
 She sleepeth!" — Yea, she sleepeth here. 
 The first that in these grounds hath slept. 
 
 This grave, first watered with the tear 
 That child or widowed man hath wept, 
 Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept. 
 
 The bahe that lay on her cold breast — 
 A rosebud dropped on drifted snow — 
 Its young hand in its father's pressed. 
 Shall learn that she, who first caressed 
 Its infant cheek, now sleeps below. 
 
 And often shall he come alone. 
 
 When not a sound but evening's sigh 
 Is heard, and, bowing by the stone 
 That bears his mother's name, with none 
 But God and guardian angels nigh, 
 
 Shall say, "This was my mother's choice 
 For her own grave: oh, be it mine! 
 
 Even now, methinks, I hear her voice 
 Calling me hence, in the divine 
 And mournful whisper of this pine." 
 
 John Pierpmt. 
 
 A SHADOW. 
 
 I SAID unto myself, if I were dead. 
 What would befall these children? What 
 
 would be 
 Their fate, who now are looking up to me 
 For help and furtherance? Their lives, 
 I said, 
 Would be a volume wherein I have read 
 But the first chapters, and no longer see 
 To read the rest of their dear histor}^, 
 
 So full of beauty and so full of dread. 
 Be comforted; the world is very old. 
 And generations pass, as they have passed, 
 A troop of shadows moving with the sun ; 
 Thousands of times has the old tale been told ; 
 The world belongs to those who come 
 
 the last. 
 They will find hope and strength as we 
 have done. 
 
 Henri/ Wadsworth LongfeUaw. 
 
184 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 THE LONELY CHRISTMAS. 
 
 At, 'tis our natal mansion! 
 
 And we again are here; 
 But it wears, like us, the shadows left 
 
 By many a passing year. 
 
 The sun shines bright above it; 
 
 But midnight drear and cold. 
 Is upon our hearts, for well we knew 
 
 Its sun in days of old. 
 
 They heap the blazing hearth-stone. 
 And the red light glances high; 
 
 But we miss the kind and joyous gleam 
 Of a loved and vanished eye. 
 
 In the gay saloon is music. 
 
 And light feet pass along; 
 But our hearts are listening for the tones 
 
 That sung our childhood's song. 
 
 Around the board of plenty 
 
 There is no seat unfilled; 
 But our mournful memory asks for those 
 
 Whose pulse in death is stilled. 
 
 They utter words of gladness. 
 For, oh, they knew them not. 
 
 Whose presence made this home to us 
 A more than Eden spot! 
 
 We loved them, ay! how deeply, 
 Words have no power to tell. 
 
 But they left us for the glorious land 
 Where the good departed dwell. 
 
 Alas! that we so selfish, 
 
 Should weep that they were given, 
 With their lives unstained — their faith un- 
 
 To the blessedness of heaven ! [dimmed — 
 
 Mrs. L. J. B. Case. 
 
 HEREAFTER. 
 
 Love, when all these years are silent, van- 
 ished quite and laid to rest, 
 
 When you and I are sleeping, folded breath- 
 less breast to breast, 
 When no morrow is before us, and the 
 long grass tosses o'er us. 
 
 And our grave remains forgotten, or by 
 alien footsteps pressed, — 
 
 Still that love of ours will linger, that great 
 love enrich the earth, 
 
 Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes 
 blowing joyous mirth; 
 Fragrance fanning off' from flowers, mel- 
 ody of summer showers, 
 
 Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the 
 happy autumn hearth. 
 
 That's our love. But you and I, dear, — 
 shall we linger with it yet. 
 
 Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one 
 sunbeam's golden net, — 
 
 On the Adolet's purple bosom, I the sheen, 
 but you the blossom. 
 Stream on sunset winds and be the haze 
 with which some hill is wet? 
 
 Or, beloved, — if ascending, — when we have 
 
 endowed the world 
 With the best bloom of our being, whither 
 
 will our way be whirled. 
 Through what vast and starry spaces, 
 
 toward what awful holy places, 
 With a white light on our faces, spirit over 
 
 spirit furled? 
 
 Only this our yearning answers, — •wheresoe'er 
 
 that way defile, 
 Not a film shall part us through the seons 
 
 of that mighty while, 
 In the fair eternal weather, even as 
 
 phantoms still together, 
 Floating, floating, one forever, in the light 
 
 of Grod's great smile! 
 
 Harriet Prescott Spofford. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 1»5 
 
 THE TWO VILLAGES. 
 
 Over tlie river, 
 oil tlio hill, 
 Lietli :i village 
 wliite and still 
 All aroniul it the 
 forest trees 
 Whisper and shiver in the hreeze; 
 Over it sailing' sliadows go 
 Of soaring hawk and sereaming erow; 
 And uionntain grasses, low and sweet, 
 (Irow in the middle of every street. 
 
 Over the river, nnder the hill. 
 Another village lieth still; 
 There I see in the eloiid_y night 
 Twinkling stars of honsehold light. 
 
 1^ IK ■- tint gleam tioni 
 the smithy s door, 
 ^Lsts that eiirl on the river shore; 
 And ill the roads ii(_) grasses i^-row, 
 For the w heels that hasten to and fro. 
 
 In that village on the hill 
 
 Xever is sound of smithy or mill; 
 
 The lionses are thatched with grass and 
 
 flowers ; 
 Never a elock to tell the hours; 
 The marlile (h.iors are al^'ays shut; 
 Von can not enter in hall or luit; 
 All the villagers lie asleep. 
 Never again to sow or i-eap. 
 Never in dreams to moan or sigh- 
 Silont, and idle, and low they lie. 
 
 In tliat village unik-r the hill, 
 When the night is starry and still, 
 Man}- a weary heart in prayer 
 Looks to the other village there, 
 And, weeping and sighing, wants to go 
 rp to that h(ime from this helnw — 
 Longs to sleep in the forest '\\'ild. 
 Whither have vanished wife and child. 
 And heareth, praying, this answer fall: 
 "Patience! that village shall hold you all," 
 
 ijlosf- Ti:'rni Cnoke, 
 
186 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 BILL AlN^l) JOE. 
 
 Come, <le:u' old eomradt', yon ;i,ii(l J 
 Will steal ail hour from (la_ys youc liy,- 
 The shining (la\'s when life was new, 
 And all was hright as nLoriiing' dew, — 
 The lusty days (if long agn, 
 When you weie Bill and I was .Toe. 
 
 Your name may tlannt a titleil trail, 
 Broud as a eoekerel's rainl>(>\\' tail; 
 And mine as Ijrief apjieudix wear 
 As Tam ( )'81ianter's luckless mare; 
 To-day, old frieiul, reniemlier still 
 That I am Joe and you are Bill. 
 
 You've wdii the great world's envied jirize. 
 
 And grand yon look in people's eyes. 
 
 With n OX. and LL.D. 
 
 In hig hi'ave letters, tliir to see, — 
 
 Yonr fist, old felhnv ! off they go! 
 
 IIow are you, BillV II<iw are you, Joe? 
 
 Y(_)u've worn the judge's ormiiied rol;e ; 
 You've taught your naine to half the glohe; 
 You've sung mankind a deathless strain; 
 
 You've made the dead past live again: 
 Tlie world may call you what it will, 
 But you and I are Joe and Bill. 
 
 The chafling young fijlks stare and say, 
 "See those old hulfers, bent and gray; 
 They talk like fellow.s in their teens! 
 Mad, poor old hoys ! That's what it means,"— 
 And shake their lieads; they little know 
 The throbbing hearts of Bill and .Joe! 
 
 IIow Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
 AYhile -Toe sits smiliiicr at his side; 
 How .Joe, in spite of time's disguise. 
 Finds the old sidioolmate in his eyes, — 
 Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fiU 
 As .Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 
 
 All, pieusive scholar, what is fame? 
 
 A titful tongue of leaping flame; 
 
 A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, 
 
 That lifts a pinch of mortal dust: 
 
 A few swift years, and who can show 
 
 Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? 
 
 The weary idol takes his stand. 
 
 Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 
 
 A\^hile gaping thousands come and go, — 
 
 IIow vain it seems, this empty show! 
 
 Till all at once his pulses thrill, 
 
 'Tis poor old .Joe's "God bless you. Bill!" 
 
 And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
 The names that pleased our mortal ears, — 
 In some sweet lull of liai'p and song. 
 For earth J.)orn spirits none too long, — 
 .Tust whispering of the world below, 
 AYliere this was I>ill, and that was .Toe? 
 
 Xo matter; while our home is here 
 Xo sounding name is half so dear; 
 AYhen fades at leno-th our lingering day, 
 AVho cares wliat pompous tombstones say? 
 Read on the hearts that love us still, 
 Hii' jacd .Joe. Wc jacet Bill. 
 
 Olmr Wendell ITohws. 
 
LIFE, CHARACTEli, ETO. 
 
 187 
 
 THE HUSBAND AED WIFE'S GRAVE. 
 
 Husband and wife ! no converse now ye hold, 
 As once ye did in your young days of love, 
 On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays. 
 Its silent meditations and glad hopes, 
 Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies; 
 Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss 
 Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares 
 Call you not now together. Earnest talk 
 On what your children may be moves you not. 
 Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence; 
 Not like to that in which ye rested once 
 Most happy, — silence eloquent, when heart 
 With heart held speech, and your mysterious 
 
 frames. 
 Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat 
 Touched the soft notes of love. 
 
 A stillness deep. 
 Insensible, unheeding, folds you round. 
 And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in; 
 Away from all the living, here ye rest. 
 In all the nearness of the narrow tomb. 
 Yet feel ye not each other's presence now ; — 
 Dread fellowship! — together, yet alone. 
 Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then. 
 
 Love? 
 And doth death cancel the great bond that 
 
 holds 
 Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that 
 
 know no bounds. 
 But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
 The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought,— 
 Are they become mere tenants of a tomb? — 
 Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate 
 
 realms 
 Of increate light have visited, and lived? — 
 Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne 
 Which One, with gentle hand the vail of flesh 
 Lifting that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed 
 In glory? — throne before which even now 
 Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow 
 
 down 
 Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed? — 
 
 Souls that thee know by a mysterious sense, 
 Thou awful unseen Presence, — are they 
 
 quenched? 
 Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
 By that bright day which ends not; as the sun 
 His robe of light flings round the glittering 
 
 stars ? 
 And do our loves all perish with our frames ? 
 Do those that took their root and put forth 
 
 buds. 
 And then soft leaves unfolded in the warmth 
 Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty. 
 Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious 
 
 flowers ? 
 Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue 
 
 give speech. 
 And make it send forth winning harmonies. 
 That to the cheek do give its living glow, 
 And vision in the eye the soul intense 
 With that for which there is no utterance,^ 
 Are these the body's accidents, no more? 
 To live in it, and when that dies go out 
 Like the burnt taper's flame? 
 
 O listen, man ! 
 A voice within us speaks the startling word, 
 " Man, thou shalt never die ! " Celestial voices 
 Hymn it around our souls; according harps. 
 By angel fingers touched when the mild stars 
 Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
 The song of our great immortality; 
 Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair 
 
 domain. 
 The tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned 
 
 seas. 
 Join in this solemn, universal song. 
 
 listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in 
 From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moon- 
 light; 
 'Tis floating in day's setting glories; Night, 
 Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
 Comes to our bed and breathes it in our 
 ears ; — 
 
188 
 
 LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 Night and the dawn, bright day and thought- 
 
 fu] eve, 
 All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
 As one vast, mystic instrument, are touched 
 By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious 
 
 chords 
 Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
 The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth 
 Grow dull and distant, wake their passi ng souls 
 To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 
 
 Why is it that I linger round this tomb? 
 What holds it? Dust that cumbered those 
 
 I mourn. 
 They shook it oiF, and laid aside earth's robes, 
 And put on those of light. They're gone to 
 
 dwell 
 In love, — their God's and angels'! Mutual 
 
 love, 
 That bound them here, no longer needs a 
 
 speech 
 For full communion; nor sensations strong, 
 Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain 
 To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. 
 Changed to celestial, thoughts that rise in 
 
 each 
 By natures new impart themselves, though 
 
 silent. 
 Each quickening sense, each throb of holy 
 
 love, 
 
 Affections sanctified, and the full glow 
 Of being, which expand and gladden one. 
 By union all mysterious, thrill and live 
 In both immortal frames; — sensation all. 
 And thought, pervading, mingling sense and 
 
 thought ! 
 Ye paired, yet one ! wrapt in a consciousness 
 Twofold, yet single, — this is love, this life! 
 Why call we, then, the square-built monument, 
 The upright column, and the low-laid slab 
 Tokens of death, memorials of decay? 
 Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man, 
 And learn thy proper nature ; for thou seest 
 In these shaped stones and lettered tables 
 
 figures 
 Of life. Then be they to thy soul as those 
 Which he who talked on Sinai's mount with 
 
 God 
 Brought to the old Judeans, — types are these 
 Of thine eternity. 
 
 I thank thee. Father, 
 That at this simple grave on which the dawn 
 Is breaking, emblem of that day which 
 
 hath 
 ISo close, thou kindly unto my dark mind 
 Hast sent a sacred light, and that away 
 From this green hillock, whither I had 
 
 come 
 In sorrow, thou art leading me in joy. 
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 
 
 THE GOLDEN SUNSET. 
 
 The golden sea its mirror spreads 
 
 Beneath the golden skies. 
 And but a narrow strip between 
 
 Of land and shadow lies. 
 
 The cloud-like rocks, the rock-like clouds, 
 
 Dissolved in glory float, 
 And, midway of the radiant flood. 
 
 Hangs silently the boat. 
 
 The sea is but another sky. 
 The sky a sea as well. 
 
 And which is earth, and which the heavens, 
 The eye can scarcely tell. 
 
 So when for us life's evening hour. 
 
 Soft passing, shall descend. 
 May glory born of earth and heaven, 
 
 The earth and heavens blend; 
 
 Flooded with peace the spirit float. 
 
 With silent rapture glow, 
 Till where earth ends and heaven begins 
 
 The soul shall scarcely know. 
 
 Samuel Lmgfdlau). 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 189 
 
 GIVE ME THE OLD. 
 
 OLD WINE TO DRINK, OLD WOOD TO BURN, OLD BOOKS TO READ, AND OLD FRIENDS TO CONVERSE WITH. 
 
 Old wine to drink! 
 Ay, give the slippery juice 
 That drippeth from tlie grape thrown 
 loose 
 Within the tun ; 
 Plucked from beneath the cliff 
 Of sunny-sided Tencriffe, 
 
 And ripened 'neatli the blink 
 Of India's sun! 
 Peat whisky hot. 
 Tempered wdth well-boiled water! 
 These make the long night shorter, — 
 
 Forgetting not 
 Good stout old English porter. 
 
 Old wood to burn ! 
 Ajr, bring the hillside beech 
 From where the owlets meet and screecli, 
 
 And ravens croak; 
 The crackling pine, and cedar sweet ; 
 Bring, too, a clump of fragrant peat, 
 Dug 'neath the fern ; 
 
 The knotted oak, 
 
 A fagot, too, perhap. 
 Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, 
 Shall light us at our drinking; 
 
 While tlie oozing sap 
 Shall make sweet music to our thinkiuii'. 
 
 Old Ijooks t<i read! 
 Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 
 The lirazen-clasped, the vellum-writ. 
 
 Time-honored tomes ! 
 The same my sire scanned liefore. 
 The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 
 The same liis sire from college bore, 
 The well-earned meed 
 
 Of Oxford's domes: 
 
 Old HonuT blind. 
 Old Horace, rake Anncrcon , by 
 Old r,ilhj. Phi Hi US, Terence lie; 
 Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie. 
 Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay 
 And Gerrase 3Lir/,-/tnin's venerie, — 
 
 Nor leave behind 
 The Ildly B<iok by which we live and die. 
 
 Old friends to talk! 
 Ay, bring those chosen few. 
 The ■\\ise, tlie courtly, and the true, 
 
 So rarely fnund; 
 Ilim f>r my wine, him for my stud, 
 Him f)r uiy easel, distich, bud 
 In mountain walk! 
 
 Bring W<i1fer good: 
 With soulful FreJ; and learned Will, 
 And tliee, my alter ego ( dearer still 
 
 For every mood). 
 
 Robert Hincliley Messinger. 
 
 V -S^^^Jf, 
 
190 
 
 LIFE, CHABACTEB, ETC. 
 
 IE GOOD TIME. 
 
 Some of G-od's truest friends do dread to die : 
 Their faith but props the weight of daily 
 need, 
 
 And in confusion oft they question why 
 Beneath the thought of death it turns a reed. 
 
 Beside dear graves God's friends do often 
 weep, 
 
 Conning His revelation with a pain: 
 The pi'onrise seems too marvelous to keep. 
 
 That dust shall rise and claim its soul again. 
 The changing chrysalis, the springing seed, 
 
 And every miracle that Nature shows 
 To help weak man hold firmly to his 
 creed. 
 
 In some fierce agony for nothing goes. 
 
 And though the creed be firm, a pang lies 
 here: 
 Can what was once so precious to the sight 
 
 In any other form be quite so dear? 
 
 The human dreads the resurrection-light. 
 struggling hearts ! in such a mood as this 
 
 Not too severely tax your souls with sin : 
 Doubt not your heirship to eternal bliss. 
 
 Because the future throws faint light 
 within. 
 
 God sees that some would never be content 
 To work their work if faith should trench 
 on sight: ^H 
 
 The. inner eye, on morning's glory bent, 
 "Would make some souls impatient for the 
 night. 
 
 God lets faith lend His glory as we need 
 
 To do life's duty — rarely for its ease; 
 But when the hands have wrought their last 
 good deed, 
 Faith shines in fullness till the spirit sees. 
 
 Charlotte F. Boies. 
 
 OVER THE EIVER. 
 
 Over the river they beckon to me, — 
 Loved ones who've crossed to the farther 
 side; 
 The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 
 But their voices are drowned in the 
 rushing tide. 
 There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
 And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own 
 blue; 
 He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold, 
 And the pale mist hid him from mortal 
 view. 
 We saw not the angels who met him there ; 
 The gates of the city we could not see; 
 Over the river, over the river, 
 
 My brother stands waiting to welcome me! 
 
 Over the river, the boatman pale 
 
 Carried another, — the household pet: 
 
 Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 
 
 Darling Minnie! I see her yet. 
 She crossed on her bosom her dimpled 
 hands, 
 
 And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; 
 "We watched it glide from the silver sands. 
 
 And all our sunshine grew strangely 
 dark. 
 We know she is safe on the farther side, 
 
 "Where all the ransomed and angels be; 
 Over the river, the mystic river, 
 
 My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 
 
 For none return from those quiet shores, 
 "Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
 
 "We hear the dip of the golden oars. 
 And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, — 
 
 And lo! they have passed from our yearn- 
 ing heart; 
 
LIFE, CHARACTER, ETC. 
 
 191 
 
 They cross the stream, and are gone for aye ; 
 We may not sunder the vail apart, 
 
 That hides from our vision the gates of 
 day. 
 We only know that their barks no more 
 May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; 
 Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen 
 shore, 
 They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 
 
 And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 
 
 Is flushing river, and hill, and ffhore, 
 I shall one day stand by the water cold, 
 
 And list for the sound of the boatman's 
 oar; 
 I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 
 I shall hear the boat as it gains the 
 strand ; 
 I shall pass from sight, with the boatman 
 pale. 
 To the better shore of the spirit land; 
 I shall know the loved who have gone 
 before, — 
 And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
 When over the river, the peaceful river, 
 The Angel of Death shall carry me. 
 
 Nancy A. W. I'riest. 
 
 THE LAST VISITOR. 
 
 "Who is it knocks this stormy night? 
 Be very careful of the light!" 
 The good-man said to his wife. 
 
 And the good- wife went to the door; 
 But never again in all his life 
 Will the good-man see her more. 
 
 For he who knocked that night, was Death ; 
 
 And the light went out with a little breath. 
 
 And the good-man will miss his wife. 
 
 Till he, too, goes to the door. 
 When Death will carry him up to Life, 
 To behold her face once more. 
 
 Henry Ames Blood. 
 
 THE DEAD. 
 
 How many now are dead to me 
 
 That live to others yet! 
 How many are alive to me 
 Who crumble in their graves, nor see 
 That sickening, sinking look which we 
 
 Till dead can ne'er forget. 
 
 Beyond the blue seas, far away. 
 
 Most wretchedly alone. 
 One died in prison, far away. 
 Where stone on stone shut out the day, 
 And never hope or comfort's ray 
 
 In his lone dungeon shone. 
 
 Dead to the world, alive to me; 
 
 Though months and years have passed. 
 In a lone hour, his sigh to me 
 
 Comes like the hum of some wild bee. 
 And then his form and face I see 
 As when I saw him last. 
 
 And one, with a bright lip, and cheek. 
 
 And eye, is dead to me. 
 How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek! 
 His lip was cold — it would not speak; 
 His heart was dead, for it did not break; 
 
 And his eye, for it did not see. 
 
 Then for the living be the tomb. 
 
 And for the dead the smile; 
 Engrave oblivion on the tomb 
 Of pulseless life and deadly bloom — 
 Dim is such glare; but bright the gloom 
 
 Around the funeral pile. 
 
 John O. C. Brainard. 
 
192 
 
 LIFE, CJIARACTER, ETC. 
 
 THE OTHER WORLU. 
 
 It lies around us like a cloud, — 
 A world wo do not see; 
 
 Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
 Alay bring us tlicre to be. 
 
 And in the husli of rest they bring 
 
 'T is easy now t<i see 
 How lovely and how sweet a pass 
 
 The hour of death may be; — 
 
 Its gentle breezes fan our cheek; 
 
 Amid our worldly cares 
 Its gentle voices whisper love, 
 
 And mingle with our prayers. 
 
 To close the eye, and close the ear, 
 Wrapped ill a trance of bliss. 
 
 And, gently drawn in loving arms. 
 To swoon to that — from tliis: 
 
 Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
 Sweet helping hands are stirred. 
 
 And palpitates the vail between 
 With breathinars ahnost beard. 
 
 Scarce knowing if we wake or si 
 Scarce asking where we are 
 
 To feel all evil sink away, 
 All sorrow and all care. 
 
 eep, 
 
 The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, 
 They have no power to break ; 
 
 For mortal words arc not for them 
 To utter or pai'take. 
 
 Sweet souls around us! watch us still: 
 
 Press nearer to our side; 
 Into oui' thoughts, into our prayers, 
 
 With gentle helpings glide. 
 
 So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 
 So near to press they seenr, — 
 
 They seem to lull us to our rest. 
 They melt into our dream. 
 
 Let death between us be as naught, 
 A dried and vanislied stream; 
 
 Your joy lie tlie reality, 
 
 Our suffering life the dream. 
 
 Harriet Bt'echer Stuu-e. 
 
1 
 
 
 •—>(*■ ■ »^ 
 
 •■.■3^i^^^-'-' 
 
 
 
 
 ipiipriiipi"^ 
 
 (V, //u(^/U ^a^c-c-U&^i^i- 'vy^^^f-^/^CQ 
 
<=#»-■ 
 
 *-~«^-- 
 
Where nowadays the Battery lies, 
 
 'Sew York had just begun, 
 A new-born babe, to rub its eyes. 
 
 In Sixteen Sixty-One. 
 They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam, 
 
 Those burghers grave and stately, 
 And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm. 
 
 Lived out their lives sedately. 
 
 Two windmills topped their wooden wall, 
 
 On Stadthuys gazing down. 
 On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all 
 
 The quaintly-gabled town ; 
 These flapped their wings and shifted backs. 
 
 As ancient scrolls determine. 
 To scare the savage Hackensacks, 
 
 Paumanks, and other vermin. 
 
 At night the loyal settlers lay 
 
 Betwixt their feather-beds; 
 In hose and breeches walked by day, 
 
 And smoked, and wagged their heads; 
 ISTo changeful fashions came from France, 
 
 The vrouwleins to bewilder; 
 No broad-brimmed burgher spent for pants 
 
 His every other guilder. 
 
 In petticoats of linsey-red. 
 
 And jackets neatly kept. 
 The vrouws their knitting-needles sped. 
 
 And deftly spun and swept; 
 Few modern-school flirtations there 
 
 Set wheels of scandal trundling, 
 But youths and maidens did their share 
 
 Of staid, old-fashioned bundling. 
 
 — The New Year opened clear and cold: 
 
 The snow, a Flemish ell 
 In depth, lay over Beeckman's "Wold 
 
 And Wolfert's frozen well; 
 
 Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors. 
 
 Drew on his Holland leather. 
 Then stamped through drifts to do the chores, 
 
 Beshrewing ail such weather. 
 
 But ^ after herring, ham, and kraut — 
 
 To all the gathered town 
 The Dominie preached the morning out. 
 
 In Calvinistic gown ; 
 While tough old Peter Stuyvesaut 
 
 Sat pewed iu foremost station, — 
 The potent, sage, and ^•aliant 
 
 Third (Tovernor of the nation. 
 
 Prayer over, at his mansion hall. 
 
 With cake and courtly smile, 
 He met the people, one and all. 
 
 In gubernatorial style; 
 Yet missed, though now the day was old. 
 
 An ancient felhiw-feastcr, — 
 Heer Govert Loockermans, that bold 
 
 Brewer and burgomeester; 
 
 Who, in his farm-house, close without 
 
 The piclcet's eastern end. 
 Sat gi'owling at the twinge of gout 
 
 That kept him from his friend. 
 But Peter strapped his wooden peg, 
 
 When tea and cake were ended, 
 (Meanwhile the sound remaining leg 
 
 Its high jack-boot defended,) 
 
 A woolsey cloak about him threw. 
 
 And swore, by wind and limb. 
 Since Govert kept from Peter's view, 
 
 Peter would visit him; 
 Then sallied forth, through snow and blast. 
 
 While numy a humble greeter 
 Stood wondering wliereaway so fast 
 
 Strode blufi' Hardkoppig Pieter. 
 
 (197) 
 
198 
 
 THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 Past quay and cow-path, through a lane 
 
 Of vats and mounded tans, 
 He puffed along, with might and main. 
 
 To Grovert Loockermans; 
 Once there, his right of entry took. 
 
 And hailed his ancient crony: 
 " Myn Gott! in dese Mauhattoes, Loock, 
 
 Ve gets more snow as money!" 
 
 I see the two old Dutchmen sit 
 
 Like Magog and his mate. 
 And hear them, when their pipes are lit, 
 
 Discuss affairs of state: 
 The clique that would their sway demean; 
 
 The pestilent importation 
 Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean 
 
 And losel Yankee nation. 
 
 To which, till after whiffs profound. 
 
 The other answered not; 
 At last there came responsive sound : 
 
 "Yah, Peter: yah, Myn Oott!" 
 Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest 
 
 Beneath the chimney-gable. 
 And courtesied, bustling at her best 
 
 To spread the New Year's table. 
 
 But when the subtile juniper 
 
 Assumed its sure command. 
 They drank the buxom loves that were- 
 
 They drank the Motherland; 
 They drank the famous Swedish wars, 
 
 Stout Peter's special glory. 
 While Govert proudly showed the scars 
 
 Of Indian contests gory. 
 
 She brought the pure and genial schnapps, 
 
 That years before had come — 
 In the "Nieuw Nederlandts," perhaps — 
 
 To cheer the settlers' home; 
 The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant roll 
 
 Of pressed and crispy Spanish; 
 Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl, 
 
 IsTor long delayed to vanish. 
 
 Ere long, the berry's power awoke 
 
 Some music in their brains. 
 And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke. 
 
 Rang long-forgotten strains: 
 Old Flemish snatches, full of blood. 
 
 Of })liantom ships and battle; 
 And Peter, with his leg of wood. 
 
 Made floor and casement rattle. 
 
 Thereat, with cheery nod and wink, 
 
 And honors of the day, 
 The trader mixed the Oovernor's drink 
 
 As evening sped away. 
 That ancient room! I see it now: 
 
 The carven nutwood dresser; 
 The drawers, that many a bui^gher's vrouw 
 
 Begrudged their rich possessor; 
 
 Then round and round the dresser pranced. 
 
 The chairs began to wheel. 
 And on the board the puneh-bowl danced 
 
 A ISTetherlandish reel ; 
 Till midnight o'er the farm-house spread 
 
 Her New- Year's skirts of sable. 
 And, inch by inch, each puzzled head 
 
 Dropt down upon the table. 
 
 The brace of high-backed, leathern chairs, 
 
 Brass-nailed at every seam; 
 Six others, ranged in equal pairs; 
 
 The bacon hung abeam; 
 The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft; 
 
 The hearty wooden fire; 
 The picture, on the steaming delft. 
 
 Of David and Groliah. 
 
 But still to Peter, as he dreamed, 
 
 That table spread and turned; 
 The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed 
 
 To circle as it burned; 
 The town into the vision grew 
 
 From ending to beginning; 
 Port, wall, and windmill met his view, 
 
 All widening and spinning. 
 
Tin-: METROPOLIS. 
 
 199 
 
 The cuwpaths, loading to tlie dorks, 
 
 Grew broader, whirling [last, 
 And cheekered into shining blocks 
 
 A eity fair and vast; 
 Stores, clmrches, mansions. ovtM'spread 
 
 The nietaniorphosei.l islaiMh 
 While not a, Ijeaver showed liis head 
 
 From Swamp to Kah-hliook highland. 
 
 Et'tsoons the [>ietur(^ passed away; 
 
 Ilonrs after, Peter \vi)ke 
 To see a s})eetral streak of day 
 
 Gleam in throni;'h fadirii'' smoke; 
 
 Still slept old (xovert, snoring on 
 
 In most melodious nundjers; 
 No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-(Jne 
 
 Commingled with his shnnhers. 
 
 But Peter, fi'om the farm-lejuse di)(.)r, 
 
 (_razed doubtfully arnuiid, 
 Kejoiced td find himsrlf oiice moi'e 
 
 On sure and soliil gi'ound. 
 The sky \\'as somewhat dark ahead: 
 
 AVind East, and morning lowery; 
 Bnt on he pushed, a two-ndles' tread. 
 
 To breakfast at his l>onwei'y. 
 
 EJiiiiiiid Cluriiifi: S(crhna)t. 
 
 TILE (TTY OF SIUPS. 
 
 C'lTY of ships ! 
 
 (0 the black ships! O the tierce ships! 
 
 O the beantiful, sliar]i-bowed steam-shi})s 
 
 and sail-ships! ) 
 C!ity of the world! (fir all races ai'e here: 
 All the lands of the earth make contribn- 
 
 tions here; ) [tides! 
 
 City of the sea ! city of hurried and glittering- 
 
 City whose gleeful tides continually rush oi- 
 I'ecede, whii'ling in and out, witli 
 eddit's and foam ! 
 City of whai'\-es ami stores! city (d' tall 
 
 facades of nuirhle and ii'ou ! 
 Proud and [lassiomite city! mettlesome, mad, 
 extraA'agant city ! 
 
 Wall Whituian. 
 
 OLD TRIXITY 
 
 Thk Paschal mo(in is ripe to-night 
 
 On fair Manhada"s liay. 
 And soft it fdls on Iloboken, 
 
 As where the Savi(jnr lay; 
 And lieams beneath whose paly shine 
 
 Xile's troul)ling angel tiew. 
 Show many a Idood-besprinkled door 
 
 Of onr passo^'er too. 
 
 But hei'e. where many an holy year 
 
 Tt shone on arch and aisle, 
 AVhat means its cold and silver ray 
 
 On dust and ruiued ]iile'.'' 
 Oh, where's the consecrated poi'ch. 
 
 The sacred lintel \\diere. 
 And where's that antique steejileV height 
 
 To bless tVic mooulie-lit air? 
 
2(10 
 
 THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 I soein to miss :i motlior's face 
 
 In this iicr \\'(.intc'<l liuiiu'; 
 And lingor in tlie gi'een (.•liurcliyard 
 
 As I'onnd that mother's t(ind). 
 Old Trinity I tli(.)U too art <j;()ne! 
 
 And in thine own hlest lioumh 
 They've laid thee low, dear mother ehureh, 
 
 To rest in liolv irronnd! 
 
 And thon wast shining on this spot 
 
 That hour the Saviour rose! 
 J5ut oh, its look tliat Easter morn, 
 
 Tlie Saviour (.>idy knows. 
 A thousand years — and 'twas the same, 
 
 A)id half a thousand more; 
 (Jld moon, what mystic chronicles. 
 
 Thou keejiest, of this shore! 
 
 And so, till good (Jueen Anna reigned. 
 
 It was a heathen sward: 
 But when they made its virgin turf 
 
 An altar to the L(n'd, 
 With holy roof they covered it: 
 
 And when Apostles came, 
 They claimed, for Christ, its hattlenients. 
 
 And took it in God's name. 
 
 Then, T'aschal mO(.)n, this sacred spot 
 
 ]i^o more thy magii,- felt. 
 Till flames lu-ouglit down the In.dy place. 
 
 Where our forefathers knelt: 
 Again, 'tis thiwn — the grave old })ile; 
 
 That mother church suldiine! 
 Look (jn its rootless Hoor, old moon. 
 
 For 'tis thv last — last time! 
 
 The vaulted roof that trembled oft 
 
 Aliove the chaunted psalui; 
 The ([Uaint old altar where \\'e owned 
 
 Our Very I'asidial Lamb; 
 The chimes that e\-er in the to^\'er 
 
 Like sera[ih-niusi<' sung. 
 And held me spell-bound in tlu' way 
 
 AVhen I was \cry young; — 
 
 Ay, look with smiles, for never there 
 
 Shines I'ascluil moon ageii. 
 Till Ijreaks the Earth's great Easter-day 
 
 O'er all the gra^-es of men! 
 So wane away, old T'aschal moon. 
 
 And come next year as Ijriglit; 
 Eternal rock shall welcome thee, 
 
 Our faitli's devoutest lie'ht! 
 
 The marble monuments -within: 
 
 Tlie 'seut(dieons, old aiul rich; 
 And one hold bishop's t^'fligy 
 
 Above tlie cbancel-inche ; 
 The mitre and the legend there 
 
 Beneath the coloreil [lane; 
 All these — thou knewest. Paschal moon, 
 
 But ne'er shalt kno\v ai^'ain! 
 
 They rear (ild Ib-inity once nnjre: 
 
 And, if ye weep to see. 
 The ghiry of this latttu' house 
 
 Thi'iee glorious shall lie! 
 Ob lay its deeyi fouu(hitions strong, 
 
 Au(h yet a little while. 
 Our Paschal Land) himself shall come 
 
 To light its hallowed aisle. 
 
 Arthur Clereland Coxe. 
 
THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 201 
 
 ON THE riEK. 
 
 Down at ihv end of tlie long dark street, 
 
 Year.s, years ago, 
 1 sat witli my sweetlieart on the pier, 
 
 Watching the river flow. 
 
 The moon ^\■as eHmliing tlie sky that night, 
 "White as the ^^'inter"s snow: 
 
 Wq kissed in its light, and s^\dre to be true, — 
 But that was years ago! 
 
 < )nee more 1 \\alk in the dark old street. 
 
 Wearily to and fro : 
 Bnt I sit no more on tlie desolate pier 
 
 Watching the river tioAw 
 
 FmImixI Henri) Studdunl. 
 
 BROADWAY. 
 
 Ox this day i")f iirightest dawning, 
 Dnderneath each spreading awning. 
 
 Sheltered from tlie sun's fierce ray, 
 Oome, and let us saunter gayly 
 Witli the cro\vil wliose footstei>s, daily. 
 
 Wear the sidewalks of Broadway. 
 
 Leave the proof-sheets and tlie ]irinter 
 Till the duller days of winter. 
 
 Till some dark I)ecenil)er day; 
 Ilettei' than youi- lucufn-ations 
 Are the \\\\t\ inspirations 
 
 ^'ou can ij-atliei- in I')n:iaih\'av I 
 
202 
 
 THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 Tell me not, in half-derision, 
 Of your Boulevards Parisian, 
 
 With their brilliant broad paves, 
 8till for us the best is nearest, 
 And the last love is the dearest, 
 
 And the Queen of Streets — Broadway! 
 
 Here, beneath bewitching bonnets, 
 Sparkle eyes to kindle sonnets, 
 
 Charms, each worth a lyric lay; 
 Ah! what bright, untold romances 
 Linger in the radiant glances 
 
 Of the beauties of Broadway! 
 
 All the fairer, that so fleeting 
 Is the momentary meeting, 
 
 That our footsteps may not stay; 
 While, each passing form replacing, 
 Swift the waves of life are chasing 
 
 Down the channels of Broadway! 
 
 Motley as the masqueraders 
 Are the jostling promenaders, 
 In their varied, strange displaj'; 
 
 Here an instant, only, blending, 
 Whither are their footsteps tending 
 As they hasten through Broadway? 
 
 Some to garrets and to cellars. 
 Crowded with unhappy dwellers; 
 
 Some to mansions, rich and gaj'. 
 Where the evening's mirth and pleasure 
 Shall be fuller, in their measure, 
 
 Than the turmoil of Broadway! 
 
 Yet were once our mortal vision 
 Blest with quicker intuition, 
 
 We should shudder with dismay 
 To behold what shapes are haunting 
 Some, who seem most gayly flaunting 
 
 On the sidewalks of Broadway! 
 
 For, beside the beggar cheerless, 
 And the maiden gay and fearless, 
 
 And the old man worn and gray, 
 Swift and viewless, waiting never. 
 Still the Fates are gliding ever. 
 
 Stern and silent, through Broadway ! 
 
 William Alien Bulla: 
 
 THE CROWDED STREET. 
 
 Let me move slowly through the street, 
 Filled with an ever-shifting train, 
 
 Amid the sound of steps that beat 
 
 The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 
 
 How fast the flitting figures come! 
 
 The mild, the fierce, the stony face; 
 Some bright Avitli thoughtless smiles, and some 
 
 AVhere secret tears have left their trace. 
 
 They pass — to toil, to strife, to rest; 
 
 To halls in which the feast is spread; 
 To chambers where the funeral guest 
 
 In silence sits beside the dead. 
 
 And some to happy homes repair. 
 
 Where children, pressing cheek to cheek. 
 
 With mute caresses shall declare 
 The tenderness they can not speak. 
 
 And some, who walk in calmness here. 
 Shall shudder as ihey reach the door 
 
 Where one who made their dwelling dear, 
 Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 
 
 Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, 
 And dreams of greatness in thine eye! 
 
 Go'st thou to build an early name. 
 Or eai'ly in the task to die? 
 
 Keen son of trade, with eager brow! 
 
 Who is now fluttering in thy snare? 
 Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, 
 
 Or melt the glittering spires in air? 
 
 Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
 The dance till daylight gleam again? 
 
 Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? 
 Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? 
 
THE METEOl'OLIS. 
 
 203 
 
 Sonic, famine-struck, shall tliink how long 
 The cold dark hours, how slow the light ! 
 
 ■Viul some, who flaunt amid the throng, 
 Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 
 
 Eacli, where Ids tasks or pleasures call, 
 Tliey pass, and heed each other not. 
 
 There is who heeds, who liolds them all. 
 In His large love and houudless thought. 
 
 These struggling ti<U's of life, that seem 
 In wayward, aimless course tn tend. 
 
 Are eddies of the mighty stream 
 That I'olls to its ap[Kiiuted end. 
 
 Wdlkun Ctdieu Enjanl. 
 
 BOWLmCI GTJEEX. 
 
 Is this the Bowling Green? I shouhl not 
 know it. 
 So disarrayed, defaced, and gone to seed. 
 Like some uu-Pegasused and prosy poet. 
 Whose Helicon is now the bowl and 
 weed ; 
 Its Green, if grass, does not precisely sho^\' 
 
 it, 
 So (dianged to worse from that (:)nce lovely 
 mead. 
 
 Xot Time has done it only, Desecration 
 lias with t'oi'rosive flnger touched the place ; 
 
 The iron fence, its once jiroud decoration. 
 The street, the nuuisions round, share the 
 disgrace, — 
 
 Now hut the stepping-st(uie of every luition. 
 Tlu' point of fusion for the hnmaii race. 
 
 The houses once. King since, in evening's 
 glory. 
 Shone \\'ith a traiupul heauty; and on 
 stoops 
 Maidens \\-ould listen wliile the old, old stoi'y 
 IJegniled the twilight; and lu-oad-skii'ted 
 grou|)S 
 l)isplaved tlieir saliers moderately giu'v, 
 nisplaciiiiC with go(jd Dutch the Indians" 
 \\'hoi")ps. 
 
 And in my own day, later, I rememher 
 Those [ileasant houses an<l their }ileasant 
 hosts. 
 
 Where gleamed like topaz in the dying endier 
 The old ^Madeira ( tlien we drank to toasts). 
 
 Ah me! that .luiu? of life is miw l>ecendMU-. 
 And all tliose smiliiii;' tiu-ni'cs are hut <j'h("ists. 
 
■2in 
 
 THE METEOl'OLIS. 
 
 Von ding'}' alien, liiii])itin' tVoiii liis steaiiicr : 
 The eolurle.ss, al)au(l<iiie(l look of all; 
 
 ^\^llell the sun sank, and slmt its wings 
 the hreeze. 
 
 The broken, flags, the fountain's silveiT Oii ! why was it ol.)liged to grow and 
 
 tremor; 
 The homes for aye disprivaeied, and the 
 wall 
 Cuirassed in gilded sign-hoai'ds, — pain the 
 dreamer. 
 And all his hlissful memories ajipall. 
 
 Ah! 'twas a dear old to^vn, tliat lost A]an- 
 
 liattan, 
 - "With its green shores, whose islands still 
 
 1 1 ad trees; 
 
 fatten '( 
 Those modest days in wortli outvalued 
 these. 
 
 The visitor, I may say without flatter}'. 
 Finds few, if any, ports to nuiteli the 
 \'iew 
 ( Wlien the wind's up, the walk is slightly 
 spattery ) 
 Of hustling, \vhite-'winged eraft and laugh- 
 ing' Ijliie, 
 
 And rouiul them o'leamed the sun-touehed Which Axes liim enelianteil on the ISatterv,- 
 
 bav like satin. 
 
 So full of life, foi'ever fresh and new. 
 
 If, as a boy I did, I nud<e my haunt in 
 
 iJear Castle Garden, soon I tind a eheek 
 In two polieemen, wlio, my courage daunt- 
 ing. 
 Stand sentinels beside tluit ]iitcous wreck. 
 And i>oint to signs: T i-ead, Aiiv tS'iiiii'iraiitcn, 
 And just beyonil I see an emptying 
 deck. 
 
 In the far future, haply, the town eompileted, 
 That foi'eign wave no more shall strike 
 the shore. 
 And tln' boys then shall fi-olii' there as we did. 
 And nuiidens flower-like bloom beside 
 tin: do(.ir, 
 And happy peo])le shall l.iehfdd repeated 
 Such a Manhattan as we loved of yore. 
 
 Tliii'inux (iuhl AppleUin. 
 
THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 20 
 
 THE YELLOW MOON. 
 
 The yellow moon looks slantly down, 
 Through .seaward mists, upon the tf)wu ; 
 And like a dream the moonshine falls 
 ]>etween the dim and shadowy walls. 
 
 The ships have lain, for ages fled, 
 Along the ^'\•aters, dark and dea<l; 
 The dying waters wash no more 
 The long Idaek line of speetral shore. 
 
 I see a crowd in every street, 
 
 But ean not hear their fading feet; 
 
 They float like clouds through shade and light, 
 
 And seem a portion of the niglit. 
 
 There is no life on land or sea, 
 Save in the (piiet moon and me; 
 Xm' oui's is true, hut (uiiy seems. 
 Within sonu' <lead old woi'ld of dreams! 
 
 l-tirh.irJ Ilninj ,Sl„ilihird. 
 
 PAN IN WALL ST U LET. 
 
 A. 1>. isd' 
 
 .IrsT where the Treasury's marhh' front 
 
 Looks o^'er Wall Street's mingled nations; 
 Where .lews and <ientiles most are wont 
 
 To thr(Uig f )r trade an<l last (piotations; 
 Where, hour hy hour, tin' rates of gold 
 
 Outrival, in the ears of [leople. 
 The (puii'ter-ehimes, serenely tolled 
 
 Erom Trinity's undaunted steejile, — 
 
 Ewn tliere T heard a strange, A^'ild strain 
 
 Sound high aho\'e the rno(lern rlamoi', 
 Ahove the (U'ies of greed and gain. 
 
 The eurfistone \var, the auction's luuiimer 
 And swift, on MUsic's nnsty ways. 
 
 It led, from all this strife for millions. 
 To aueituit. ^weet-do-notliing days 
 
 Amonu' till' kirtlr-rolicd Sicilians, 
 
206 
 
 THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 And as it stilled the multitude, 
 
 And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, 
 I saw the minstrel, where he stood 
 
 At ease against a Doi'ic pillar: 
 One hand a droning organ played. 
 
 The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned 
 Like those of old) to lips that made 
 
 The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 
 
 'Twas Pan himself had wandered here 
 
 A-strolling through this sordid city. 
 And piping to the civic ear 
 
 The prelude of some pastoral ditty! 
 The demigod had crossed the seas, — 
 
 From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, 
 And Syracusan times, — to these 
 
 Far shores and twenty centuries later. 
 
 A ragged cap was on his head: 
 
 But — hidden thus — there was no doubting 
 That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, 
 
 His gnarl6d horns were somewhere sprouting. 
 His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, 
 
 "Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, 
 And trousers, patched of divers hues. 
 
 Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. 
 
 He filled the quivering reeds with sound. 
 
 And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, 
 And with his goat's-eyes looked around 
 
 Where'er the passing current drifted; 
 And soon, as on Trinacrian hills 
 
 The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, 
 Even now the tradesmen from their tills. 
 
 With clerks and porters, crowded near him. 
 
 The hulls and bears together drew 
 
 From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley; 
 
 As erst, if pastorals be true, 
 
 Came beasts from every wooded valley; 
 
 The random passers stayed to list, — 
 A boxer ^gon, rough and merry, — 
 
 A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst 
 With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. 
 
 A one-eyed Cyclops halted long 
 
 In tattered cloak of army pattern, 
 And G-alatea joined the throng, — 
 
 A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; 
 While old Silenus staggered out 
 
 From some new-fangled lunch-house handy. 
 And bade the piper, with a shout, 
 
 To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy! 
 
 A newsboy and a peanut girl 
 
 Like little Fauns began to caper: 
 His hair was all in tangled curl, 
 
 Her tawny legs were bare and taper; 
 And still the gathering larger grew. 
 
 And gave its pence, and crowded nigher. 
 While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew 
 
 His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. 
 
 heart of Nature, beating still 
 
 With throbs her vernal passion taught her, — 
 Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, 
 
 Or by the Arethusan water! 
 New forms may fold the speech, new lands 
 
 Arise within these ocean-portals. 
 But Music waves eternal wands, — 
 
 Enchantress of the souls of mortals! 
 
 So thought I, — but among us trod 
 
 A man in blue, with legal baton. 
 And scoffed the vagrant demigod. 
 
 And pushed him from the step I sat on. 
 Doubting I mused upon the cry, 
 
 "Great Pan is dead" — and all the people 
 Went on their ways: — and clear and high 
 
 The quarter sounded from the steeple. 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 
 
THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 207 
 
 THE SOI^G OF THE SAYOYAEDS. 
 
 Par poured past Bi'oadway's lamps alight 
 The tumult of her motley tlu'ong, 
 
 When high and clear upon the night 
 Rose an inspiring song; 
 
 And rang above the city's din 
 
 To sound of harp and violin; 
 
 A simple but a manly strain, 
 
 And ending with the brave refrain — 
 
 Courage! Courage, man cainavnilr ! 
 
 Two artists in the cloud of gloom 
 
 Which hung upon their hopes deferred, 
 Resounding through their garret-room 
 
 That noble chanson heard; 
 And, as the night before the day, 
 Their weak misgivings fled away. 
 And with the burden of the strain 
 They made their studio ring again — 
 
 Courage! Courage, mon camarade! 
 
 And now where rose that song of cheer 
 Both old and young stood still for joy. 
 Or from the windows hung to hear 
 
 The children of Savoy; 
 And many an eye with rapture glowed. 
 And saddest hearts forgot their load. 
 And feeble souls grew strong again, 
 So stirring was the brave refrain — 
 
 Courage! Courage, mon camarade! 
 
 Two poets who in patience wrought 
 
 The glory of an after-time, 
 Lords of an age which knew them not. 
 
 Heard rise that loftj- rhyme; 
 And on their hearts it fell as falls 
 The sunshine upon prison walls; 
 And one caught up the magic strain 
 And to the other sang again — 
 
 Courage! Courage, mon camarade! 
 
 Alone with only silence there. 
 
 Awaiting his life's welcome close, 
 A sick man lay, when on the air 
 
 That clarion arose; 
 So sweet the thrilling cadence rang 
 It seemed to him an angel sang. 
 And sang to him, and he would fain 
 Have died upon that heavenly strain — 
 
 Courage! Courage, mon camarade! 
 
 And unto one who, tired of breath 
 
 Aud day and night and name and fame. 
 Held to his lips a glass of death. 
 
 That song a savior came. 
 Beseeching him from his despair 
 As with the passion of a jirayer. 
 And kindling in his heart and brain 
 The valor of its blest refrain — 
 
 Courage! Courage, mon camarade! 
 
 A sorrow-stricken man and wife 
 
 With nothing left them but to pray. 
 Heard streaming over their sad life 
 
 That proud, heroic lay; 
 And through the mist of happy tears 
 They saw the promise-laden yeai's, 
 Aud in their joy they sang again 
 And caroled high the fond refrain — 
 
 Courage! Courage, mon camarade! 
 
 thou with earthly ills beset. 
 
 Call to thy lips those words of joy. 
 And never in thy life forget 
 The brave song of Savoy! 
 For those dear words may have the power 
 To cheer thee in thy darkest hour; 
 The memory of that blest refrain 
 Bring gladness to thy heart again! 
 
 Courage! Courage, mon camarade! 
 
 Henry Ames Blood. 
 
208 
 
 THE METROI'OLm. 
 
 TREES IN THE CITY. 
 
 'T IS beautiful to sec a forest stand. 
 
 Brave with its iii<.>ss-growii UKjiiarelis ami 
 tlie pride 
 Of foliage dense, to whieli the soutli wind liland 
 ('onies with a kiss, as lover to his hride; 
 To wateli the light grow fainter, as it streams 
 Through areliing aisles, where hranehes 
 interlace, 
 Where soniljer }iines rise o'er tlu' sliadowy 
 gleams 
 Of silver liireh, tremliiing \\'ith mo(h'st 
 grace. 
 
 Rut tliey "who dwell hesidc the sti'eam ami hill. 
 
 Prize little ti'casnres thei'c so kindly gi\'cn ; 
 The song of hirds, the hahhling of the rill. 
 
 The pure undnndcd light and air of heaven. 
 ^rh(.'\' walk as those who seeing can not see, 
 
 lilind to tliis hcanty c\-en from their tiirtli. 
 \K V \-alnc little lilessings e\'er iVee. 
 
 \\^e c(.>\'et irmst the rai'est thinii's (if earth. 
 
 lint rising i'rom the dust of husy streets, 
 
 These forest eliildren gladden nian^diearts ; 
 As some old friend their welcome presence 
 greets 
 The toil-«'orn soul, ami freslier life imparts. 
 Their sliadc is donlily grateful when it lies 
 Al)0ve the glare which stifling walls throw 
 back, 
 Thi'ongh ipiiveiang leaves we see the soft 
 blue skies. 
 Then haiijiier tread the (bdl, unvaried track. 
 
 And\vlien tlietirst fresh foliage, emerald-hued, 
 Is opening slowly to the sun's glad beams, 
 How it recalleth scenes \A-e once have viewed. 
 And c]iildln)od's fair but long-forgotten 
 dreams ! 
 The gushing spring, ^\•ith violets clustering 
 round — 
 The ilell \vliere twin flowers trembled in 
 the breeze — 
 
THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 209 
 
 The faiiy A'iBioiiH ^vakeue(l ):iy the souud 
 Of eveiiiug winds that sighed among the 
 trees. 
 
 Tliere is a language given tu the Howevs — 
 To me, the trees "dnmlj oraeles" have 
 been ; 
 As waving softly, fresh from summer showers, 
 Their whisper to the heart will entranee 
 win. 
 Do they not teaeh ns purity may live 
 Amid the crowded haunts of sin and 
 shame, , 
 
 And over all a soothini!; inlluenee o'ive — 
 Sad hearts from fear and sorrow oft 
 reelainr? 
 
 An<l thdugh transferred to uncongenial soil. 
 
 I'ercluince to breathe alone the dusty air. 
 Burdened with souiu;ls of never-ceasing toil 
 
 They rise as in the forest free and fair; 
 They do not droop and pine at adverse fate, 
 
 Or wonder why their lot slmuld lonely 
 pri:)ve, 
 But give fresh life to hearts left ilesolate. 
 
 Fit end.ilems of a pure unselfish love. 
 
 Aliec B. Xad. 
 
 THP] BELLS. 
 
 ~< 'v,::--. 
 
 Hear the sledges witii the bells, — 
 Silver bells, — 
 What a world of merriment their mekxL' 
 foretells: 
 How the}' tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
 
 In the ic}' air of night! 
 AV^hile the stars that overspriukle 
 All the heavens seem to twinkle 
 
 With a crystalline delight; 
 Keeping time, time, tinre. 
 In a sort of Huuic rhyme, 
 To the tintiunalmlatiou that so musically 
 wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 
 Bells, l)ells, bells,— [bells. 
 
 From the iinodine- ami the tinklint;' of the 
 
 Hear the mellow ^\■eddiug liells. 
 Golden fiells I 
 What a world of happiness their harmony 
 foretells! 
 Through the lialmy air of night 
 How they ring (jut their delight! 
 From the molten-golden notes. 
 
 And all in tune. 
 What a liquid ditty Hoats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 
 gloats 
 (_)n the nujon ! 
 f*li, from out the sounding cells, 
 AVhat a gush of eupleuiy voluminously wells 1 
 Flow it swells ! 
 Ho«' it dwells 
 
210 
 
 THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 On the Future! how it tells 
 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells, — 
 
 Brazon bells! [tells! 
 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their afiright! 
 To much horrified to speak. 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune. 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of 
 
 the fire, 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 
 frantic fire. 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 'With a desperate desire. 
 And a resolute endeavor 
 Xow — now to sit or never. 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells. 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of Despair! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows, 
 By the twanging 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
 In the jangling, 
 And the wrangling, 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger 
 of the bells — 
 Of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 In the clamor and the clanu:or of the bells ! 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells, — 
 Iron bells! 
 What a world of solemn thought their 
 monody compels! 
 In the silence of the night. 
 How we shiver with afiright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people, — ah, the people, — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple. 
 
 All alone. 
 And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone. 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone, — 
 They are neither man nor woman, — 
 They are neither brute nor human, — 
 
 They are Ghouls: 
 And their king it is who tolls; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls. 
 Rolls 
 A psean from the bells! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the pgean of the bells! 
 And he daiiees and he yells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the pjean of the bells, — 
 Of the bells : - 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells, — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells, — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells. 
 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, — 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells ! 
 
 Eckjar Allen Foe. 
 
THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 211 
 
 UNSEEI^ SPIRITS. 
 
 The shadows lay along Broadway — 
 'Twas near the twilight tide, — 
 
 And slowly there a lady fair 
 Was walking in her pride. 
 
 Alone walked she; but, viewlessly. 
 Walked spirits at her side. 
 
 Peace charmed the street beneath her feet. 
 
 And Honor charmed the air. 
 And all astir looked kind on her. 
 
 And called her good as fair; 
 For all God ever gave to her 
 
 She kept with chaiy care. 
 
 She kept with care her beauties rare 
 
 From lovers warm and true; 
 For her heart was cold to all but gold. 
 
 And the rich came not to woo: 
 But honored well are charms to sell. 
 If priests the selling do. 
 
 Now walking there was one more fair — 
 
 A slight girl, lily-pale; 
 And she had unseen company 
 
 To make the spirit quail : 
 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, 
 
 And nothing could avail. 
 
 No mercy now can clear her brow 
 For this world's peace to pray: 
 
 For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
 Her woman's heart gave way! 
 
 But the sin forgiven by Christ in lieaven. 
 By man is cursed alway. 
 
 Salhuniel Parker Willis. 
 
 ONLY THE CLOTHES SHE WORE. 
 
 There is the hat 
 With the blue veil thrown 'round it, just as 
 
 they found it. 
 Spotted and soiled, stained and all spoiled — 
 
 Do you recognize that? 
 
 The gloves, too, lie there 
 And in them still lingers the shape of her 
 
 fingers. 
 That some one has pressed, perhaps, and 
 caressed. 
 So slender and fair. 
 
 There are the shoes, 
 With their long silken laces, still bearing 
 
 traces. 
 To the toe's dainty tip, of the mud of the 
 slip, 
 The slime and the ooze. 
 
 There is the dress. 
 Like the blue veil, all dabbled, discolored, 
 
 and drabbled — 
 This you should know without doubt, and, 
 if so, 
 All else you may guess. 
 
 There is the shawl. 
 With the striped border, hung next in 
 
 order. 
 Soiled hardly less than the white muslin 
 dress. 
 And — that is all. 
 
 Ah, here is a ring 
 We were forgetting, with a pearl setting; 
 There was only this one — name or date? — 
 none? 
 
 A frail, pretty thing; 
 
91 o 
 
 21: 
 
 THE ^fETBOPOLIS. 
 
 A kecpyakc, inaylic, 
 Till' ir\\\ lit' another, jiei'liajis a Iji'other, 
 
 A iiidiitl] iio«- has passed, 
 And her sail liistory reiiiaiiis yet a mystery, 
 
 Or li)ver, \\\\() knows? liini lier heart chose, JJiit tliese ^\'e keep stiU, and shall keep them 
 
 Or was she heart-free'.'' 
 
 Does the liat thei'e, 
 With the lilue \eil aronml it, the same as 
 
 they f'liiiml it. 
 Summon np a t'aij- t'aee with just a ti'aee 
 
 Of gold in the hair'.' 
 
 Or does the shaA\'], 
 Mutely appealini;' to snuie liiilik'li teeliiiu'. 
 A form, vouiig and sli^'ht, to youi' mind's May reeognizi.' these when hi_T ejiild's rlothes 
 
 until 
 Hope dies at hist. 
 
 ^\'as slie a ^ire}' 
 Of soiue dee}) sori'ow clondiug the morrow, 
 Hiding from yiew tlie skj-'s hajipy Idue'.'' 
 
 (_)r was there foul play'.'' 
 
 Alasl who nury tell';' 
 tSiime one or othei'. perhajis a fond mother, 
 
 sight 
 Clearly reeall'.'' 
 
 she sees; 
 Then — will it lie weir.' 
 
 X G. Sk'phvnJ. 
 
 THE FEiniY-BOAT 
 
 AVeecks of elouds of a somlier gray. 
 
 Like the rilified renuuiis of a mastodon, 
 
 AVere piled in masses along the west, 
 And a streak of red sti'etelied oyer the sun. 
 
 T stood on the deek of the feri'v-hoa.t, 
 As the snnniier eyeinng deejieried to idglit ; 
 
 AV^here the tides of tlie ri\'ei-ran darkhng ]>ast. 
 Through leugtheuing pilhii's nf erinlch'd 
 light. 
 
 The wind hle\\' oyer the land and tlie wayes 
 \AMtli its salt seadii'eath, and a spicy liahii. 
 
 And it seemed to cool niy throhliing lu'ain, 
 And lend luy spirit its gusty calm. 
 
 The foj'est of ruasts, tlie darkdiuUed ships. 
 The twiul<ling lights, ami the sea oi 
 men, — 
 
 T I'ead the riddle of each anil all, 
 
 And I knew tlu'ir iuue:' meaning then. 
 
 Eoi' while the lieautiful moon arose. 
 
 Ami di'ifted the hoat in hei' yellow heams, 
 
 .My soul ^vent down the riyer of thought. 
 That flows in the mystic land of dreams'. 
 
 EklKird Iloinj Shnldard. 
 
THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 213 
 
 AT REST. 
 
 With folded hands the lady Ues 
 In flowing robes of white, 
 
 A globed lamp beside her couch, 
 A round of tender light. 
 
 With such a light above her head, 
 
 A little year ago, 
 8he walked adown the shadowy vale 
 
 Where the blood-red roses grow. 
 
 A shape or shadow joined her there, 
 To pluck the royal flower, 
 
 But for her breast the lily stole. 
 Which was her only dower. 
 
 That gone, all went: her false love first, 
 
 And then her peace of heart; 
 The hard world frowned, her friends grew cold, 
 
 She hid in tears apart. 
 
 And now she lies upon her couch. 
 
 Amid the dying light: 
 Nor wakes to hear the little voice 
 
 That moans throughout the night! 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 GEEEISTWOOD CEMETERY. 
 
 Side by side rise the two great cities, 
 
 Afar on the traveler's sight; 
 One, black with the dust of labor, 
 
 One, solemnly still and white. 
 Apart, and yet together. 
 
 They are reached in a dying breath, 
 But a river flows between them. 
 
 And the river's name is — Death. 
 
 Apart, and yet together. 
 
 Together, and yet apart. 
 As the child may die at midnight 
 
 On the mother's living heart. 
 So close come the two great cities, 
 
 With only the river between ; 
 And the grass in the one is trampled. 
 
 But the grass in the other is green. 
 
 The hills with uncovered foreheads, 
 
 Like the disciples meet, 
 While ever the flowing water 
 
 Is washing their hallowed feet. 
 And out on the glassy ocean. 
 
 The sails in the golden gloom 
 Seem to me but moving shadows 
 
 Of the white emmarbled tomb. 
 
 Anon, fi'om the hut and the palace 
 
 Anon, from early till late. 
 They come, rich and poor together, 
 
 Asking alms at thy Beautiful Gate. 
 And never had life a guerdon 
 
 So welcome to all to give, 
 In the land where the living are dying. 
 
 As the land where the dead may live. 
 
 O silent City of Refuge 
 
 On the way to the City o'erhead! 
 The gleam of thy marble milestones 
 
 Tells the distance we are from the dead. 
 Full of feet, but a city untrodden. 
 
 Full of hands, but a city unbiiilt, 
 Full of strangers who know not even 
 
 That their life-cup lies there spilt. 
 
 They know not the tomb from the palace. 
 
 They dream not they ever have died : 
 God be thanked they never will know it 
 
 Till they live on the other side! 
 From the doors that death shut coldlj' 
 
 On the face of their last lone woe: 
 They came to thy glades for shelter 
 
 Who had nowhere else to go. 
 
 S. Milter Hagerman. 
 
214 
 
 THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 WEEHAWKEN. 
 
 Wbbhawken! in thy mountain scenery yet, 
 All we adore of Nature in her wild 
 
 And frolic hour of infancy is met; 
 
 And never has a summer's morning 
 smiled 
 
 Upon a lovelier scene than the full eye 
 
 Of the enthusiast revels on, when high 
 
 Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs 
 
 O'er crags that proudly tower above the 
 deep, 
 And knows that sense of danger which 
 sublimes 
 The breathless moment when his daring 
 step 
 Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear 
 The low dash of the wave Avith startled ear, 
 
 Like the death-music of his coming doom, 
 And clings to the green turf with desper- 
 ate force. 
 As the heart clings to life ; and when resume 
 The currents in his veins their wonted 
 course, 
 There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan 
 Of wearied ocean when the storm is gone. 
 
 In such an hour he turns, and on his view 
 Ocean and earth and heaven burst before 
 
 him. 
 Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear 
 
 blue 
 Of Summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er 
 
 him, — 
 The city bi'ight below; and far away, 
 Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic 
 
 bay. 
 
 Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, 
 And banners floating in the sunny air; 
 
 And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, 
 Grreen isle and circling shore, are blended 
 there. 
 
 In wild reality. When life is old. 
 
 And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold 
 
 Its memory of this; nor lives there one 
 Whose infant breath was drawn, or boy- 
 hood's days 
 Of happiness were passed beneath that sun, 
 That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze 
 Upon that bay or on that mountain stand, 
 Nor feel the prouder of his native land. 
 
 Fitz-Greene HaUeck. 
 
 NEW YORK HARBOR ON A CALM DAY. 
 
 I,>^ this a painting . Are those jaictured 
 
 clouds 
 Which on the sky so movelessly repose? 
 Has some rare artist fashioned forth the 
 
 shrouds 
 Of yonder vessel? Are these imaged shows 
 Of outline, figure, form, or is there life — 
 Life with a thousand pulses — in the scene 
 We gaze upon ? Those towering banks 
 
 between. 
 
 E'er tossed these billows in tumultuous 
 
 strife ? 
 Billows! there's not a wave! the waters 
 
 spread 
 
 One broad, unbroken mirror; all around 
 
 Is hushed to silence, — silence so profound, 
 
 That a bird's carol, or an arrow sped 
 
 Into the distance, would, like larum bell. 
 
 Jar the deep stillness and dissolve the 
 
 spell. 
 
 Park Benjamin- 
 
THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 215 
 
 SPRmG IN TOWN. 
 
 The country ever has a lagging Spring, 
 
 Waiting for May to call its violets forth, 
 
 And June its roses; showers and sunshine 
 
 bring, 
 
 Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the 
 
 earth ; 
 
 To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, 
 
 And one by one the singing-birds come back. 
 
 Within the city's bounds the time of flowers 
 
 Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day. 
 
 Such as full often, for a few bright hours. 
 
 Breathes through the sky of March the 
 
 airs of May, 
 
 Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry 
 
 gloom — 
 And lo ! our borders glow with sudden bloom. 
 
 For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then 
 
 Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, 
 
 That overhung with blossoms, through its 
 
 glen, 
 
 Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon. 
 
 And they who search the untrodden wood 
 
 for flowers 
 Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 
 
 For here are eyes that shame the violet, 
 Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, 
 
 And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set. 
 The anemones by forest-mountains rise; 
 
 And the spring- beauty boa.sts no tenderer 
 streak 
 
 Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. 
 
 And thick about those lovely temples lie 
 Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has 
 curled. 
 Thrice happy man ! whose trade it is to buy, 
 And bake, and braid those love-knots of 
 the world; 
 Who curls of everj'^ glossy color keepest, 
 And sell est, it is said, the blackest cheapest. 
 
 And well thou mayst — for Italy's brown 
 maids 
 Send the dark locks with which their 
 brows are dressed, 
 And Gascon lasses, from their jettj' braids. 
 Crop half, to buy a ribbon for the rest; 
 But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare. 
 And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. 
 
 Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron 
 grieve. 
 To see her locks of an unlovely hue, 
 Froi;zy or thin, for liberal art shall give 
 
 Such piles of curls as Nature never knew. 
 Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight 
 Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a 
 fright. 
 
 Soft voices and light laughter wake the street. 
 Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the 
 eye 
 Threads the long way, plumes wave, and 
 twinkling feet 
 Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. 
 The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space. 
 Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter 
 pace. 
 
 No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, 
 Is theirs, but a light stejD of freest grace, — 
 
 Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn, — 
 A step that speaks the spirit of the place, 
 
 Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away 
 
 To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan Bay. 
 
 Ye that dash by in chariots! who will care 
 For steeds or footmen now? ye can not 
 show 
 Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful 
 air. 
 And last edition of the shape! Ah, no, 
 These sights are for the earth and open sky, 
 And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. 
 
 WilHam Cullen Bryant. 
 
21ti 
 
 THE METROPOLIS. 
 
 iiy:\ix of the city. 
 
 K"(iT ill the sdlitudv 
 Aloiiu laav man comimiucwitli Ilca.voiiiur see 
 
 (July ill s;n'iigL' wixxl 
 Ami sunny vale, tlio present Deity; 
 
 ( )r only iiear iiis voiee 
 Wliere tlie winds wliisiier and tlie waves 
 rejoiee. 
 
 Even liei'e <lt> I lieliold 
 Tliy steps, Alniit;-lity ! — liere, amidst tlie 
 ci'itwd, 
 Tlirouyli the great eity rolled, 
 AVitli everlasting- murmur deep and lenid, — 
 
 Chdkiiig tlie Avays that wind 
 ■Alongst tlie proud piles, the work of human 
 kind. 
 
 Thy golden sunshine comes 
 From tlie round heaven, and on their dwell- 
 ings lies. 
 And lights their inner homes; 
 
 For them thou iill'st with air the unhouiided 
 skies, 
 And givest them the stores 
 Uf oeeaii, and the harvests of its shores. 
 
 Thy Spirit is around, 
 Quiekening tlie restless mass that sweeps 
 along; 
 And this eternal sound, — 
 Voiees and tijotfalls of the luimlierless 
 throng, — 
 Like the resounding sea, 
 Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of tiiee. 
 
 Ami when tlie hours of rest 
 Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea 
 liriiie, 
 Hushing its hiliowy lireast,— 
 The rpiiet of that moment, too, is thine; 
 
 It lireathes of Him who keeps 
 The vast and helpless eity while it sleejis. 
 
 iri7/ia)/i Ciilkii Bri/iiiii. 
 
 ^s- 
 
 ■ Stl.i. ' - 
 
I§T(DRY 
 
CATSKTLL MOTTXTAIXR. 
 
 And, lo! tlu" ('atskills print tlicdistant sky. 
 And o'en' tli(.'ir aii'y t(i]is tlu^ t'aiut <'1(>u(1h! 
 
 (Irivoii, 
 S(i softly Itk'uding, that tlic clicati'd eye 
 Forgets or wliicli is ea.rtli or \\'lii(li is 
 
 licaveu, — 
 iSometimes, like tliiuiilei'-elouds, tliey shade 
 
 the even, 
 
 Till, as you nearer draw, each wikmUmI height 
 
 Puts oft" the azure hues l)y distant-e gi\-eH : 
 
 And slowly lireak u[ion the enamored sight, 
 
 Uavine, ej-ag, tield, and wootl, in eoloi's true 
 
 and bright. 
 
 Mount to the cloud-kissed sunnnit. Far 
 
 helo\v 
 y|ireads the \'ast chaniiiaigu like a sIku'c- 
 
 less sea. 
 -Mark yonder narrow streandet feebly flow. 
 Like idle In'ook that creeps inglorionsly : 
 Can that tlie lovely, lordly Hudson be. 
 Stealing by town and mountain? Who 
 
 beholds, 
 At break of day, this scene, when, silently. 
 Its maj) of fleld, wood, handet, is unrolled. 
 While, in the east, the sun u[irears his locks 
 
 of gold, 
 
 Till earth receive him nc\-er can forget'^ 
 Even when i'etnruc(l amid the city"s I'oar, 
 The fairy \isioii liaunis his memory yet, 
 As in the sailor's fan<-y shines the shore. 
 Inuiii'ination cons the momeiil o"ei'. 
 When hi-st-disco\ei'e(l, aWH'-sti'uck and 
 
 anuizcd. 
 Scarce loftit'r do\'c — whom men and gods 
 
 adore — 
 <)n the (.'Xtended earth beneath him ga/.e(l, 
 Tem}ile. and tower, and town, by human 
 
 insect raised. 
 
 Blow, scented gale, the snowy canvas 
 swell. 
 
 And flow, thou silver, eddying current, 
 on. 
 
 (grieve we to bid each lovely point fare- 
 well. 
 
 That, ere its graces half ai'e seen, is 
 gone. 
 
 Bv woody bluff' we steal, by leaning lawn. 
 
 By palace, village, cr)t, a sweet snrprist', 
 
 ^Vt every turn the vision bi'caks u}ion ; 
 
 Till to our wondering and u[ilifted eyes 
 The Highlaml rocks and hills in solemn 
 o'randeur rise. 
 
 Thrndwr S. Fa,i. 
 
220 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 HENDRIK'8 PROPHECY. 
 
 Flow fair beside the Palisades, flow, Hudson, 
 
 fair and free, 
 By proud Manhattan's shore of ships and 
 
 green Hoboken's tree; 
 So fair you haven clasped its isles, in such 
 
 a sunset gleam, 
 When Hendrik and his sea-worn tars first 
 
 sounded up the stream, 
 And climbed this rocky palisade, and resting 
 
 on its brow. 
 Passed round the can and gazed awhile on 
 
 shore and wave below; 
 And Hendrik drank with hearty cheer, and 
 
 loudly then cried he: 
 " 'Tis a good land to fall in with, men, and 
 
 a pleasant land to see!" 
 
 Then something — -ah, 'twas prophecy! — 
 
 came glowing to his brain : 
 He seemed to see the mightier space between 
 
 the oceans twain, 
 Where other streams by other strands run 
 
 through their forests fair. 
 From bold Missouri's lordly tide to the leafy 
 
 Delaware; 
 The Sacramento, too, he saw, with its sands 
 
 of secret gold. 
 And the sea-like Mississippi on its long, 
 
 long courses rolled; 
 And great thoughts glowed within him; — 
 
 "God bless the land," cried he; 
 " 'Tis a good land to fall in with, men, and 
 
 a pleasant land to see ! 
 
 "I see the white sails on the main, along 
 
 the land I view 
 The forests opening to the light and the 
 
 bright axe flashing through; 
 I see the cots and village ways, the churches 
 
 with their spires, 
 Where once the Indians camped and danced 
 
 the war-dance, round their fires; 
 
 I see a storm come up the deep, — 'tis 
 
 hurrying, raging, o'er 
 The darkened fields, — but soon it parts, with 
 
 a sullen, seaward roar. 
 'Tis gone; the heaven smiles out again — 
 
 God loves the land," cried he; 
 " 'T is a good land to fall in with, men, and 
 
 a pleasant land to see! 
 
 "I see the white sails on the main, I see, 
 
 on all the strands. 
 Old Europe's exiled households croAvd, and 
 
 toil's unnumbered hands — 
 From Hessenland and Frankenland, from 
 
 Danube, Drave, and Rhine, 
 From Xetherland, my sea-born land, and 
 
 the I^orseman's hills of pine. 
 From Thames, and Shannon, and their isles 
 
 — and never, sure, before. 
 Invading host such greeting found upon a 
 
 stranger shore. 
 The generous Genius of the West his wel- 
 come proffers free: 
 ' 'Tis a good land to fall in with, men, and 
 
 a pleasant land to see!' 
 
 "They learn to speak one language; they 
 
 raise one flag adored 
 Over one people evermore, and guard it 
 
 with the sword. 
 In festive hours, they look upon its starry 
 
 folds above. 
 And hail it with a thousand songs of glory 
 
 and of love. 
 Old airs of many a fatherland still mingle 
 
 with the cheer. 
 To make the love more loving still, the 
 
 glory still more dear — 
 Drink up-sees out! join hands about! bear 
 
 chorus all," chants he; 
 " 'T is a good land to fall in with, men, and 
 
 a pleasant land to see!" 
 
 .Inoni/moH-'i. 
 
LAynsCAPE. HISTORY AM) J.FMESD. 
 
 ■221 
 
 IIITDSON RIVER. 
 
 Rivers that roll most imisiral in soiii;- 
 Are ot'ten lovely to the mind aluno: 
 
 The wanderer muses, as lu' mnvcs aloim' 
 Their])arrenl)anks, ou o-lories mit theii'own. 
 
 Or when In' sees the slimy Tihcr tjing- 
 His sullen ti'ihutr at thr feet lit Riime, 
 
 ( H'f tn his thi(n!4'lit must partial nicnKJry lirintc 
 More nohle'\\-aves,\vit hunt reno^\'n.at liomi': 
 
 ^Vhen, to ij'ive suhstanee to his hovish dreams. Xow let iiim i-lind) tin.' Catskill, to lieliold 
 
 He leaves his o\\ii, tar eountries t(i sni-vey, 
 
 ( )ft must he think, in greetiug h)rei^'n streams, 
 
 "Their names alone areheantit'ul. not they." 
 
 Tf ehanee he mark the dwindled Arnn jiour 
 
 A tide mort' meager than his miti\-e 
 
 Charles: [is n'er. 
 
 The lordly Hudson, maridiing t" the main. 
 And say what tiard, in any land of old, 
 Had sueh a ri^'er tn insjiire his strain. 
 
 Along tlielihine gray hattlernents and towel's 
 Declare \vhat rrihhers once the I'ealm pos- 
 sessed : 
 
 (^r vie^v the Rhone when summer's heat lint here HeaxenV handiwork sur]"iassetli ours, 
 
 Suhdned and sta'>'nant in the ten of .Vrles; And man has hardh' mm-e than liuilt his nest. 
 
222 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 No storied castle overawes these heights, 
 Nor antique arches check the current's 
 
 play, 
 Nor moldering architrave the mind invites 
 To dream of deities long passed away. 
 
 No Gothic buttress, or decaying shaft 
 Of marble, yellowed by a thousand years, 
 
 Lifts a great landmark to the little craft, — 
 A summer cloud that comes and disap- 
 pears. 
 
 But cliiFs, unaltered from their primal form 
 Since the subsiding of the Deluge, rise 
 
 And hold their savins to the upper storm. 
 While far below the skiff securely plies. 
 
 Fai'ms, rich not more in meadows than in 
 men 
 Of Saxon mold, and strong for every toil, 
 Spread o'er the plain, or scatter through the 
 glen, 
 Boeotian plenty on a Spartan soil. 
 
 Then, where the reign of cultivation ends. 
 Again the charming wilderness begins; 
 
 From steep to steep one solemn wood extends, 
 Till some new hamlet's rise the boscage 
 thins. 
 
 And these deep groves forever have remained 
 Touched by no axe, — by no proud owner 
 nursed : 
 As now they stand they stood when Pharaoh 
 reigned, 
 Lineal descendants of creation's first. 
 
 No tales, we know, are chronicled of thee 
 In ancient scrolls; no deeds of doubtful 
 claim 
 
 Have hung a history on every tree, 
 
 And given each rock its fable and a fame. 
 
 But neither here hath any conqueror trod, 
 Nor grim invaders from barbai'ian climes; 
 
 No horrors, feigned of giant or of god. 
 Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes. 
 
 Here never yet have happy fields laid waste, 
 The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit, 
 
 The cottage ruined, and the shrine defaced, 
 Tracked the foul passage of the feudal 
 brute. 
 
 "Yet, Antiquity!" the stranger sighs, 
 " Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the 
 view; 
 The soul's indifference dulls the sated eyes, 
 Where all is fair indeed, — but all is 
 new." 
 
 False thought! is age to crumbling walls 
 
 conlined? 
 
 To Grecian fragments and Egyptian bones? 
 
 Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind, 
 
 More than old fortresses and sculptured 
 
 stones? 
 
 Call not this new which is the only land 
 That wears unchanged the same primeval 
 face 
 Which, when just dawning from its Maker's 
 hand, 
 Gladdened the first great grandsire of our 
 race. 
 
 Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth 
 Glide past green Eden towards the un- 
 known south. 
 Than Hudson broke upon the infant earth. 
 And kissed the ocean with his nameless 
 mouth. 
 
 Twin-born with Jordan, Ganges, and the 
 
 Nile! 
 
 Thebes and the pyramids to thee are 
 
 young; 
 
 Oh, had thy waters burst from Britain's isle. 
 
 Till now perchance they had not flowed 
 
 unsung. 
 
 Thmnas William Panons. 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 223 
 
 CATTERSKILL FALLS. 
 
 Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, 
 From clift's where the wood-ilower clings ; 
 
 All summer he moistens his verdant steeps 
 "With the sweet light spray of the mount- 
 ain springs; 
 
 And he shakes the woods on the mountain side, 
 
 When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide. 
 
 But when, in the forest hare and okl, 
 
 The blast of December calls. 
 He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, 
 
 A palace of ice where his torrent falls. 
 With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair. 
 And pillars blue as the summer air. 
 
 For whom are those glorious chambers 
 wrought. 
 
 In the cold and cloudless night? 
 Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought 
 
 In forms so lovely and hues so bright? 
 Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell 
 Of this wild stream and its rocky dell. 
 
 'T was hither a youth of dreamy mood, 
 
 A hundred winters ago, 
 Had wandered ovei- the mighty wood, 
 
 When the panther's track was fresh on 
 the snow, 
 And keen were the winds that came to stir 
 The long dark boughs of the hemlock-fir. 
 
 Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair 
 For a child of those rugged steeps; 
 
 His home lay low in the valley where 
 The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps; 
 
 But he wore the hunter's frock that day, 
 
 And a slender gun on his shoulder lay. 
 
 And here he paused, and against the trunk 
 
 Of a tall gray linden leant. 
 When the broad clear erb of the sun had 
 sunk 
 
 From his path in the frosty firmament. 
 And over the round dark edge of the hill 
 A cold green light was quivering still. 
 
 And the crescent moon, high over the green, 
 From a sky of crimson shone 
 
 On that icy palace, whose towers were seen 
 To sparkle as if with stars of their own ; 
 
 While the water fell with a hollow sound, 
 
 'Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around. 
 
 Is that a being of life, that moves 
 Where the crystal battlements rise? 
 
 A maiden watching the moon she loves, 
 At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes? 
 
 Was that a garment which seemed to gleam 
 
 Betwixt his eye and the falling stream? 
 
 'Tis only the torrent tumbling o'er, 
 In the midst of those glassy walls, 
 
 Gushing, and plunging, and beating the fiooi' 
 Of the rocky basin in which it falls. 
 
 'Tis only the torrent — but why that start? 
 
 Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart? 
 
 He thinks no more of his home afar, 
 
 Where his sire and sister wait. 
 He heeds no longer how star after star 
 Looks forth on the night as the hour 
 grows late. 
 He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and 
 
 cast 
 From a thousand boughs bj' the rising blast. 
 
 His thoughts are alone of those who dwell 
 In the halls of frost and snow, 
 
 Who pass where the crystal domes upswell 
 From the alabaster floors below, 
 
 Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and 
 spray. 
 
 And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. 
 
 "And oh, that those glorious haunts were 
 
 mine 
 
 I" 
 
 He speaks, and throughout the glen 
 Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, 
 
 And take a ghastly likeness of men. 
 As if the slain by the wintry storms 
 Came forth to the air in their earthly forms. 
 
224 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 There pass the chasers of seal and whale, 
 With their weapons quaint and grim, 
 
 And bands of wari-iors in glittering mail, 
 And herdsmen and hunters huge of linih ; 
 
 There are naked arms, with bow and spear, 
 
 And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. 
 
 There are motliers — and oh, how sadly their 
 
 eyes 
 
 On their children's white brows rest! 
 
 There are youthful lovers, — the maiden lies, 
 
 In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast; 
 
 There are fair wan women with moon-struck 
 
 air. 
 The snow-stars flecking their long loose hair. 
 
 They eye him not as they pass along. 
 But his hair stands up with dread. 
 
 When he feels that he moves with that 
 phantom throng. 
 Till those icy turrets are over his head, 
 
 And the torrent's roar as they enter seems 
 
 Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams. 
 
 The glittering threshold is scarcely passed. 
 When there gathers and wraps him round 
 A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, 
 
 In which there is neither form nor sound; 
 The jjhantoms, the glory, vanish all, 
 With the dying voice of the waterfall. 
 
 Slow passes the darkness of that trance. 
 And the youth now faintly sees 
 
 Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance 
 On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees. 
 
 And walls where the skins of beasts are 
 hung, 
 
 And rifles glitter on antlers strung. 
 
 On a couch of shaggy skins he lies; 
 
 As he strives to raise his head, 
 Ilard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes. 
 
 Come round him and smooth his furrj' 
 bed. 
 And bid him rest, for the evening stg-r 
 Is scarcely set and the day is far. 
 
 They had found at eve the dreaming one 
 
 By the base of that icy steep, 
 AVlien over his stiflieuing limbs begun 
 
 The deadly slumber of frost to creep. 
 And they cherished the pale and breathless 
 
 form, 
 'Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. 
 
 WiMiam CuUen Brymil. 
 
 CATSKILL. 
 
 How reel the wildered senses at the sight! 
 How vast the boundless vision breaks in 
 
 view ! 
 Nor thought, nor word, can well depict the 
 
 scene ; 
 The din of toil comes faintly swelling up 
 From green fields far below; and all around 
 The forest sea sends up its ceaseless roar 
 Like to the ocean's everlasting chime. 
 Mountains on mountains in the distance 
 
 rise, 
 
 Like clouds along the far horizon's verge; 
 Their misty summits mingling with the sky, 
 Till earth and heaven seem blended into 
 
 one. 
 
 So far removed from toil and bustling care, — 
 So far from earth, if heaven no nearer be. 
 And gazing, as a spirit, from mid-air 
 Upon the strife and tumult of the world. 
 Let me forget the -cares I leave behind, 
 And with an humble spirit bow before 
 The Maker of these everlasting hills. 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 

LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AN I) LEGEND. 
 
 LAKE GEORGE. 
 
 A srJIMEK sliower 1i;m1 swept the woods; 
 
 But ■wlicn, from all tlio scene, 
 Uolled ott' at leng'tli the tliundei'-tloods, 
 
 Anil streamed tlie sunset slieen, 
 I <'anie where my })ostilion raist'(l 
 
 iris liorsewliip for a "wand, 
 And said, "There's jroricon, good sir, 
 
 And here's the Bloody Pond ! 
 
 An honi', — and tliongh tln' I'-ven-star 
 
 \\"^as ehasing do\\'n the sun. 
 My lioat was on 1hine azure wave. 
 
 Sweet, holy I loricon ! 
 And woiuau's \-oice cheereil on oui' hark, 
 
 ^Vith soft liewildel'ing song, 
 ^Vhile tii'etlies, dai'ting throngli the dark, 
 
 Went lightini;- us alonu'. 
 
 "And <l(>n"t yon see yon low gi-ay wal 
 
 With grass and hushes grown? 
 Well, that's Fort Geoi'ge's palisade. 
 
 That many a stoi'ni has known: 
 But here's the .l>loody Pond ^\'liere lie^ 
 
 Full many a soldier tall ; 
 The spring, they say, was never }iure 
 
 8inee that red hurial." 
 
 Anon, that hark was on the heaell. 
 
 And soon T stoo(l alone 
 L'}ion thy moldering \\-alls, Fort (rleijrge, 
 
 iSo old and i\'y-gri.iwn. 
 At onee, old tales of massaere 
 
 Were erowdiiig on my soul. 
 Ami ghosts i")f aneient sentinels 
 
 Paced up the rocky knoll. 
 
 'TA\-as i-are to see! That ^•ale beneath: 
 
 That lake so calm and cool! 
 Itut ruoui'nful A\as each lily-wreath, 
 
 Upion the turhid pool: 
 And — "On, jiostiliou, let us haste 
 
 To green.er lianks," I cried, 
 "Oh stay me not -where man has stained 
 
 With brother's hlood the tide!" 
 
 The shadowy hour ■\\'as dark imiow 
 
 For fancy's wild campaign. 
 Ami moments were ini]iassion<.'d hours 
 
 ( If battle and (")f pain : 
 Each brake and this+le seemeil alive 
 
 AVith fearful shapes of fight. 
 And u[i the feathered si'alp-locks rose 
 
 ( )f many a tawny >prite. 
 
226 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 The Mohawk war-whoop howled agen; 
 
 I heard St. Denys' charge, 
 And then the volleyed musketry 
 
 Of England and St. George. 
 The vale, the rocks, the cradling hills, 
 
 From echoing rank to rank, 
 Rung back the warlike rhetoric 
 
 Of Huron and of Frank. 
 
 " So, keep thy name, Lake George," said I, 
 
 "And hear to latest day. 
 The memory of our primal age, 
 
 And England's early sway; 
 And when Columbia's flag shall here 
 
 Her starry glories toss, 
 Be witness how our fathers fought 
 
 Beneath St. George's cross." 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Coxi 
 
 A DELAWARE LEGEND. 
 
 "l^OT me," the Indian muttered, 
 
 " Can bolt of Thunder harm 
 Whilst here on my breast is hanging 
 
 The mighty Wampum charm!" 
 
 The storm-clouds, threatening and sullen. 
 Sank down in their blackness dread; 
 
 And swifter across the prairie 
 The Lidian hunter sped. 
 
 Still mumbled the boding Thunder: 
 "Who would my anger quell?" 
 
 Snapt short — gleamed jagged the lightning. 
 And sudden the Indian fell! 
 
 An hour waned slowly; the prairie 
 Was bright as its glory before; 
 
 And softly her beads on the grass-threads 
 The west-wind counted o'er. 
 
 As a stifled thing awakens 
 
 From the winter's frozen sleep. 
 
 Slowly, at last, the Indian 
 Crept out of his torpor deep. 
 
 He arose from his trance bewildered; 
 
 Drenched was his aching form; 
 At first he but vaguely remembered 
 
 His flight and the thunder-storm. 
 
 A beautiful horse stood by him — 
 As white as the new moon's ring — 
 
 Stood tamely, as if but awaiting 
 His rider's eager spring. 
 
 The glare of his wild eyes, only, 
 
 Betokened the spirit untried; 
 And there on the ground, resplendent, 
 
 A Thunderbolt lay by his side! 
 
 '^Ugh! Now he submissive yieldeth!" 
 The Indian chuckled, "No harm 
 
 Can come from the Storm Spirit's anger 
 Whilst I bear the Wampum charm!" 
 
 He seizeth the Thunderbolt eager — 
 The heaven-sent Arrow of Wrath; 
 
 In his breast close-hidden, quickly 
 The glittering treasure hath! 
 
 Upon the bright horse he springeth, 
 Unheeding, with reckless speed: 
 
 Gone — in a twinkling second — 
 Are rider and snow-white steed! 
 
 One dagger of lightning glistened! 
 
 And a taunt resounded wide — 
 The Thunder's terrible laughter! 
 
 Then — still as a sleeping child — 
 
 The prairie was peaceful in sunshine; 
 
 But never again was seen 
 
 That Indian hunter a-roaming 
 
 Dim forest or prairie green. 
 
 Myron B. Benton. 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 227 
 
 LAKE CHAMPLAIN. 
 
 Not thoughtless let us enter thy domain; 
 
 Well did the tribes of yore, 
 Who sought the ocean from the distant plain, 
 
 Call thee their country's door. 
 
 And as the portals of a saintly pile 
 
 The wanderer's steps delay, 
 And, while he musing roams the lofty aisle, 
 
 Care's phantoms melt away 
 
 In the vast realm where tender memories 
 brood 
 
 O'er sacred haunts of time, 
 That woo his spirit to a nobler mood 
 
 And more benignant clime, — 
 
 So in the fane of thy majestic hills 
 
 We meekly stand elate ; 
 The baffled heart a tranquil rapture fills 
 
 Beside thy crystal gate: 
 
 For here the incense of the cloistered pines, 
 
 Stained windows of the sky. 
 The frescoed clouds and mountains' purple 
 shrines, 
 
 Proclaim Grod's temple nigh. 
 
 Through wild ravines thy wayward currents 
 glide, 
 
 Round bosky islands play; 
 Here tufted headlands meet the lucent tide, 
 
 There gleams the spacious bay; 
 
 Untracked for ages, save when crouching flew. 
 
 Through forest-hung defiles. 
 The dusky savage in his frail canoe. 
 
 To seek the Thousand Isles, 
 
 Or rally to the fragrant cedar's shade 
 The settler's crafty foe, [cade 
 
 With toilsome march and midnight ambus- 
 To lay his dwelling low. 
 
 Along the far horizon's opal wall 
 The dark blue summits rise, 
 
 And o'er them rifts of misty sunshine fall. 
 Or golden vapor lies. 
 
 And over all tradition's gracious spell 
 
 A fond allurement weaves; 
 Her low refrain the moaning tempest swells. 
 
 And thrills the whispering leaves. 
 
 To win this virgin land, — a kinglj- quest, — 
 Chivalric deeds were wrought; 
 
 Long by thy marge and on thy placid breast 
 The Gaul and Saxon fought. 
 
 What cheers of triumph in thy echoes 
 sleep ! 
 What brave blood dyed thy wave! 
 A grass-grown rampart crowns each rugged 
 steep, 
 Each isle a hero's grave. 
 
 And gallant squadrons manned for border 
 fray, 
 That rival standards bore, 
 Sprung from thy woods and on thy bosom 
 lay,- 
 Stern warders of the shore. 
 
 How changed since he whose name thy 
 waters bear, 
 
 The silent hills between. 
 Led by his swarthy guides to conflict there, 
 
 Entranced beheld the scene ! 
 
 Fleets swiftly ply where lagged the lone 
 bateau. 
 And quarries trench the gorge; 
 Where waned the council-fire, now steadfast 
 glow 
 The pharos and the forge. 
 
 On Adirondack's lake-encircled crest 
 
 Old war-paths mark the soil. 
 Where idly bivouacs the summer guest, 
 
 And peaceful miners toil. 
 
LANDSCAPE, HFSTORY AXD LEGEXD. 
 
 231 
 
 Opening successive — jioint and rork and liill, 
 Majestic monntain-top, and nestling vale. 
 As tlic white sail glints sndden to the sun, 
 Ott' swings the eagle from the neigliliorino- 
 
 pine; 
 And as the long Ijooni lirushes hy the lu'inlv, 
 The hrown liear jolts away within the Imsh, 
 The drinking deer winks from the sandy 
 
 jioint, 
 And hreathdike from the ledge the panther 
 
 melts. 
 As up some reach tlie vessel moves, within 
 The arcliway of a creek the hark eaiioe 
 Darts arrowdike; as turns the prow in-slnu'e 
 Tlie Indian hunter with I'ecoiling form 
 Stands grasping idly his forgotten hnw; 
 And as the yacht around some hea<lland 
 
 lu'caks. 
 Amid the rounded wigwams on the haidv 
 Leap startled movements of tumultuous life, 
 Pointing with eager haste, and gazing \\'ild. 
 Still m\ the llalf-Moon glides; Ixdiire her I'ise 
 Swarms of quick water-foA\h and from hci- 
 
 prow 
 The stui'geon leaj)S, and falls with ecliding 
 
 splash. 
 Between tlie frcfpu-nt islets hrimmed with 
 
 leaves 
 The sheldrake, in his green and siK'cr, shoots. 
 And antlers stem the gloss. But now the sun 
 Slants low, and hy an islainl of the stream 
 The anchor plunges, and the Ilalf-Moou sits 
 Still as a sleeping duck. T start, and wake. 
 The busy river-scene again extends 
 
 In the soft sundown glow. The grouping 
 
 herds 
 Throngfi the sleak fields of golden velvet 
 
 graze 
 Slow toM'ard the farm-yard; softened rural 
 
 sounds — 
 Tlie wheezing liellow, the (juiek. [icevish Ideat, 
 And the clear, jei'king ci'ow — fall on my car: 
 And, with (puck footsteps through the andier 
 
 scene, 
 Past maple-nestling homesteads, where the 
 
 steeds 
 Unloosed are led t(.) ^\■ater; where the kine, 
 Patient, a"wait ^\■itllin the lane the jiail; 
 An<l whei'c the mouse-like wren creeps in 
 
 and out 
 Its little cottage histcned to the tree. 
 To give one chatter more; past lahoring 
 
 groups 
 Loitering along with insti'umcnts of toil. 
 Past farm(.'rs' \\agons elattering to\\'ard their 
 
 honu's [when. 
 
 Fi-om city liai'terings. — contrast sli'ong to 
 A century since, oik> frirest elothed the wdiole. 
 One silent solitude, — the l'i\el''s liank 
 I reach, where, in the hush, the I'owloel-: 
 
 SI lUlllls 
 
 IjouiI, and the tiller ol' the crawling sloo]) 
 Oreaks louder; thence, swift watted o'er the 
 
 tide, 
 Igain the peo[>led streets that hold my home; 
 Dwelling upiui the everlasting stream 
 Of change and [irogress coursing through 
 
 the world. 
 
 AlJ'rcd B. Strcel. 
 
 '•4^^' 
 
'■>.'^-> 
 
 LAXDSGAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 IN THE GIIURCHYARJJ AT TAIIIIYTOWN. 
 
 TIep.e lies tlio o-oiitlo Lniiuirist, who iliril 
 In the lii'ight Indian Snnnnci' <_if liis 
 
 fame ! 
 A simple stone, \\'ith l)nt u date and name. 
 ,\[arks his st'eluded restini;--})lace lieside 
 The river that lie lnvrd and n'loi'ified. 
 Here in tlu' antumn of his days he earue, 
 But the dr\" lea\-es of life were all atlame 
 
 "With tints that lirig-htened and were mul- 
 
 ti}ilie<l. 
 lldw sweet a life was his: how sweet a death! 
 reiving, to wing with mirth the weary honrs. 
 Or with ronuintie tales the heart to <'heer; 
 Ih'ing, to leave a memory like the hreath 
 Of summers fnll of sunshine and of sliowers, 
 A grief and gladness in tlie atmosphere. 
 
 Hiniii Wiichirurth Loiififdhw. 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 233 
 
 SLEKI^Y HOLLOW. 
 
 P)ENEATi[ these gold ;ni<l azure skies, 
 The liver wimls thruugii leafy glades, 
 
 8a-ve where, like hattlemeiits, arise 
 The gray and tufted Palisades. 
 
 The fervor of this sultry time 
 
 Is teiiijiered hy the humid earth. 
 
 And ze}ihyrs, l)orn of summer's [U'ime, 
 Give a delieious eoohiess hirth. 
 
 Tliey freshen this sequestered uook 
 AVitli eonstaut greetings hhuul and fi'ee 
 
 The pages of the oiien hook 
 
 All flutter with their wayward glee. 
 
 lIo^^' hlithely trails the peuih^nt \mv\ 
 The grain slo[ie lies in green ixqiuse; 
 
 And Idfty rims, the sunshim' gl(i\\'s. 
 
 Like sentinels in Hrm ai'ray 
 
 The trues-iil-lif.' their shafts uprear; 
 
 Re<l (Mines upon Ihr sumach play, 
 And ancient locusts wiiispcr near. 
 
 From \\'a\'e and ineaddw, cliff and sky. 
 Let thy stray \-ision li(inie\\'ar<l fall: 
 
 Belnild the mist-hlitom filiating nigh. 
 Ami hollyhiick white-edged and tall: 
 
 Its gaudy leaves, tlniugh fanned apart. 
 Hound thick and mealy stamens spring. 
 
 And nestled tn its crimson heart. 
 The sated fiees enamored cling. 
 
 Mark the hrdad terrai/e tlecked with light, 
 That pieejis thi'ough ti'ellises of mse, 
 
 And ([uivers with a vague delight, 
 
 As each pale shadow eomes and goes. 
 
 The near, lnw gurgle nt' the liniok. 
 
 The wren's glad chirp, tlie scented hay, 
 
 And e'en the wateh-d<ig"s peaceful lo(dv 
 Our \'aiu discpiictudes allay. 
 
 n,ni,l ri,.;„l,„;' 'I'llrhnillllL 
 
234 
 
 '^ANDHCAl'E. HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 WEST POINT. 
 
 i 
 
 Wild nmla-ai^e far an.nn.l me rhu-s 
 To l.reezv ki.nll an.l huslie-l ravine, 
 
 Au.l o'er eael, nu^ky l.eaaian.l tt.ngs 
 Its uumtle of refreshin.n- green. 
 
 The eelu.es that so Ijohlly rung 
 
 When eaiinoi. tlashed from steep to steep 
 
 An.l Free.hmr-s airy ehahenge flung, 
 in eaeh ronuintie valley sleep. 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 235 
 
 His counsels here our chieftain breathed, 
 Here roved his mild, undaunted eye, 
 
 When yon lone fort, with thickets wreathed. 
 Held captive Britain's gallant spy. 
 
 Fit home to rear a nation's youth 
 By self-control to nerve the Avill, 
 
 Through knowledge gain expansive truth. 
 And with high aims life's circle fill. 
 
 How grateful is the sudden change 
 From arid pavements to the grass, 
 
 From narrow streets that thousands range. 
 To meadows where June's zephyrs pass! 
 
 Beneath the elift's the river steals 
 In darksome eddies to the shore. 
 
 But midway every sail reveals 
 Reflected on its crystal floor. 
 
 In tranquil mood the cattle walk 
 Along the verdant marge to feed, 
 
 While, poised upon the mullein stalk, 
 The chirping redbird picks the seed. 
 
 Low murmurs in the foliage bred. 
 The clear horizon's azure line, 
 
 Fresh turf elastic to the tread, 
 And leafy canopies are thine. 
 
 White fleecy clouds move slowly by, — 
 How cool their shadows fall to-day ! 
 
 A moment on the hills they lie, 
 And then like spirits glide away. 
 
 Amid the herbage, yesternight, 
 
 His web the cunning spider threw, 
 
 And now, as sparkling diamonds bright, 
 It glistens with the pendent dew. 
 
 Gay butterflies dart on and sink 
 O'er the sweet blossoms of the pea. 
 
 And from the clover's globe of pink 
 Contented hums the downy bee. 
 
 In all this varied beauty glows 
 
 Deep meaning for the thoughtful heart. 
 As it were fain to teach repose, 
 
 And lofty confidence impart. 
 
 How vivid to my fancy now. 
 
 Uprise the forms that life redeem ! 
 
 The ardent eye, the open brow. 
 And tender smile beside me seem. 
 
 For ITature's presence gathers back 
 
 The deeds that grace, the loves that cheer, 
 
 And as her holy steps we track, [tear. 
 
 Hope's rainbow breaks through sorrow's 
 
 Henry Theodore Tuckermmi, 
 
 SUSQUEHANNA. 
 
 Softly the blended light of evening rests 
 Upon thee, lovely stream! Thy gentle tide. 
 Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, 
 Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind. 
 Majestically flows. Oh! by thy side, 
 Far from the tumults and the throng of men. 
 And the vain cares that vex poor human life, 
 'T were happiness to dwell, alone with thee, 
 And the wide, solemn grandeur of the scene. 
 From thy green shores, the mountains that 
 
 inclose 
 In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain. 
 Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend. 
 
 Enrobed with clustering woods, o'er which 
 
 the smile 
 Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed, 
 Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues. 
 And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and shrub 
 His golden livery. On the distant heights 
 Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch 
 
 afar 
 Their burnished summits in the clear, blue 
 
 heaven. 
 Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye 
 Turns drooping from the sight. — Nature is 
 
 here 
 
23(^ 
 
 LAXDSCAJ'Ii, IIIsrORY AXD LEGEND. 
 
 Like a tliroiu'd sovereign, ami thy voice doth 
 
 tell. 
 In mnsie never silent, of her [lower. 
 Xor are thy tones unanswered, ^\diere shu 
 
 builds 
 Sueli monnnients of regal sway. These 
 
 wide 
 Untrodden forests elo(iuently speak, 
 Whether the breath of suninier stir their 
 
 dejiths, 
 Or tlie lioarse moaning of November's lilast 
 titri}) from their boughs tbeii' e(J^•ering•. 
 
 All the air 
 Is now instinet with lil'e. The merry hum 
 Of the returning bee, and tlie blithe song 
 Of fluttering bird, moeking the solitude, 
 Swell upward — and the }ilay of dashing- 
 streams 
 From the green mountain side is faintly 
 
 beard. 
 The wild swan swims tlie waters' azure breast 
 With gi-aeeful sweeji, or, startled, soai's away, 
 Cleaving with nujunting wing the elear 
 bright air. 
 
 Oh! in the lioasted lands beyoml the dee]), 
 Whe're lieauty hath a birth-right — where 
 
 eaeh iriound 
 And moldering ruin tells of ages past — 
 And evei'v breeze, as with a spirit's tone. 
 Doth waft the voiees <)f Obli\-iou baek, 
 AVaking the soul to lofty nu/nmries, 
 Is there a scene whose loveliness eould till 
 
 The heart with ])eaee more pure? — ITor yet 
 
 art thou. 
 Proud stream! witbt)ut thy reeords — graven 
 
 deep 
 On yon eternal hills, which shall endure 
 Long as their summits breast the wintry 
 
 storm [liefii 
 
 <Jr smile in the warm sunshiue. They have 
 
cy 
 
 o 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 239 
 
 The chroniclers of centuries gone by: 
 
 Of a strange race, who trod perchance their 
 
 sides, 
 Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the 
 
 earth 
 Which now they shade. Here onward swept 
 
 thy waves, 
 When tones now silent mingled with their 
 
 sound. 
 And the wide shore was vocal with the song 
 Of hunter chief, or lover's gentle strain. 
 Those passed away — forgotten as they 
 
 passed ; 
 But holier recollections dwell with thee : 
 Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud 
 And solemn monuments. The mighty dust 
 Of heroes, in her cause of glory fallen, 
 Hath mingled with the soil, and hallowed it. 
 Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen 
 
 The desperate strife that won a rescued 
 
 world — 
 The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts. 
 And hymned their requiem. 
 
 Far beyond this vale 
 That sends to heaven its incense of lone 
 
 flowers. 
 Gay village spires ascend, and the glad voice 
 Of industry is heard. So in the lapse 
 Of future years those ancient woods shall 
 
 bow 
 Beneath the leveling axe — and Man's abodes 
 Display their sylvan honors. They will pass 
 In turn away; — yet heedless of all change, 
 Surviving all, thou still Avilt murmur on. 
 Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee 
 To mark the wrecks of time, and read their 
 
 doom. 
 
 Elwabeth F. EM. 
 
 WYOMING. 
 
 Thou comest, in beauty, on my gaze at last, 
 " On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! " 
 Image of many a dream, in hours long past, 
 When life was in its bud and blossoming, 
 And waters, gushing from the fountain 
 
 spring 
 Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my 
 
 young eyes. 
 As by the poet borne, on unseen wing, 
 I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless 
 
 skies. 
 The summer's air, and heard her echoed 
 
 harmonies. 
 
 I then but dreamed: thou art before me 
 
 now. 
 In life, a vision of the brain no more. 
 I've stood upon the wooded mountain's 
 
 brow. 
 That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er; 
 And now, where winds thy river's greenest 
 
 shore, 
 
 Within a bower of sycamores am laid; 
 And winds, as soft and sweet as ever 
 
 bore 
 The fragrance of wild-flowers through sun 
 
 and shade. 
 Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs 
 
 press my head. 
 
 !N"ature hath made thee lovelier than the 
 
 power 
 Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured: he 
 Had woven, had he gazed one sunny 
 
 hour 
 Ppon thy smiling vale, its scenery 
 With more of truth, and made each rock 
 
 and tree 
 Known like old friends, and greeted from 
 
 afar : 
 And there are tales of sad reality. 
 In the dark legends of thy border war, 
 AVith woes of deeper tint than his own 
 
 Gertrude's are. 
 
240 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTOR Y AND LEGEND. 
 
 But where are they, the beings of the mind, 
 The bard's creations, molded not of day, 
 Hearts to strange bliss and suffering 
 
 assigned, — 
 Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave, — 
 
 where are they? 
 We need not ask. The people of to-day 
 Appear good, honest, quiet men enough. 
 And hospitable too, — for ready pay; 
 With manners like their roads, a little 
 rough. 
 And hands whose grasp is warn", and wel- 
 coming, though tough. 
 
 Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll- 
 bridge gate. 
 
 And the town records, is the Albert now 
 
 Of Wyoming: like him, in church and 
 state, 
 
 Her Doric column; and upon his brow 
 
 The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' 
 snow. 
 
 Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in 
 vain 
 
 To point out here, unless in yon scare- 
 crow, 
 
 That stands full-uniformed upon the plain, 
 To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds 
 from the grain. 
 
 For he would look particularly droll 
 
 In his " Iberian boot " and " Spanish 
 
 plume," 
 And be the wonder of each Christian soul 
 As of the birds that scare-crow and his 
 
 broom. 
 But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom, 
 Hath many a model here; for woman's 
 
 eye, 
 In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her 
 
 home, 
 Hath a heart-spell too holy and too 
 
 high 
 To be o'erpraised even by her worshiper 
 
 — Poesy. 
 
 There's one in the next field — of sweet 
 
 sixteen — 
 Singing and summoning thoughts of 
 
 beauty born 
 In heaven — with her jacket of light green, 
 "Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the 
 
 morn," 
 Without a shoe or stocking — hoeing corn. 
 Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders 
 
 there. 
 With Shakespeare's volume in her bosom 
 
 borne, 
 I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player 
 The maiden knows no more than Cobbett 
 
 or Voltaire. 
 
 There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old. 
 Who tells you where the foot of Battle 
 
 stepped 
 Upon their day of massacre. She told 
 Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept. 
 Whereon her father and five brothers 
 
 slept. 
 Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers 
 
 of the brave. 
 When all the land a funeral mourning kept. 
 And there wild laurels, planted on the 
 
 grave 
 By Nature's hand, in air their pale red 
 
 blossoms wave. 
 
 And on the margin of yon orchard hill 
 Are marks where time-iworn battlements 
 
 have been. 
 And in the tall grass traces linger still 
 Of "arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin." 
 Five hundred of her brave that valley 
 
 green 
 Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay; 
 But twenty lived to tell the noonday 
 
 scene, — 
 And where are now the twenty? Passed 
 
 away. 
 
 Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the 
 
 battle-day ? 
 
 Fitz- Greene HalUeh. 
 
LAynsCAPE, HIHTORY AND LFMEXD. 
 
 241 
 
 THK FRESHET. 
 
 A LE(iE\I) OF THE DELAWARE. 
 
 March liatli iml.M-koil stern winter's eliain 
 
 Niitiiro is wrajiped in misty shroiKls, 
 And eeaselessly tlip dreneljiny- rain 
 
 Th'ips from tlic H'ray, sky-mantlini;' clouds: 
 Tlie deeji sn(.>\\'s melt, and swellinn' rids 
 Pour tliroUi;-li eai'li liodow of tlie Idils; 
 Tile river fi'cnii its i-est hath I'isen, 
 And hr)unded t'rom its shattereil prison; 
 
 I li liu_( 1 ( ti i_i I nt I w I I dasli, 
 
 \\ dh _nn liii^ I II ml jhiiterinn' <-rash ; 
 
 ^\^itt li II tla tl 1 K uj 11 th ir wa\'. 
 
 Like war-steeds thundering on tlieir ]iatlj, 
 With hoofs of wa\-es and manes of sprav, 
 
 Restrainless in their mighty wrath. 
 
 ^Vild mountains streteh in t(]Wering pride 
 
 Along the river's either side: 
 
 Leaving l;iet\\'een it and their walls 
 
 Xarrow and level inter\'als. 
 
 Wlien summer glows, Imw sweet and liright 
 
 The landsea]ie smiles upon the sight! 
 
 Here, the hriglit golden wdieat-tields ^-ie 
 
 With the rich tawny of the ry(.' ; 
 
 d'lie liiiekvdieat's snowy mantles, there. 
 
 Shed lione\'eil frau'rance on the air: 
 
242 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 In long straight ranks tlie corn uj)rears 
 Its silken plumes and pennouecl spears; 
 The yellow melon underneath 
 Plump ripens, in its viny wreath ; 
 Here, the piled rows of new-mown grass; 
 There, the potato-plant's green mass; 
 All framed hy woods, — each limit shown 
 By zigzag rail, or wall of stone; 
 Contrasting, here, within the shade. 
 The axe a space hath open laid, 
 Cumbered with trees hurled blended down, 
 Their verdure changed to withered brown; 
 There, the soil, ashes-strewed and black. 
 Shows the red flame's devouring track; 
 Slim fire-weeds shooting thick where stood 
 The leafy monarchs of the wood: 
 A landscape frequent in the land. 
 
 Which Freedom, with her gifts to bless. 
 Grasping the axe when sheathing brand. 
 
 Hewed from the boundless wilderness. 
 
 The rains have ceased : the struggling glare 
 
 Of sunset lights the misty air; 
 
 The fierce winds sweep the myriad throng 
 
 Of broken ragged clouds along; 
 
 From the rough saw-mill, where hath rung, 
 
 Through all the hours, its grating tongue, 
 
 The raftman sallies, as the gray 
 
 Of evening tells the flight of day. 
 
 And slowly seeks, with loitering stride, 
 
 His cabin by the river side. 
 
 As twilight darkens into night, 
 
 Still dash the waters in their flight, 
 
 Still the ice-fragments, thick and fast, 
 
 Shoot like the clouds before the blast. 
 
 Beyond, — the sinuous channel wends 
 Through a deep, narrow gorge, and bends 
 AVith curve so sharp, the di'ifting ice, 
 
 Hurled by the flood's tremendous might, 
 Piles the opposing precipice. 
 
 And every fragment swells the height; 
 Hour after hour uprears the wall. 
 Until a barrier huge and tall 
 Breasts the wild waves that vain upsweli 
 To overwhelm the obstacle: 
 
 They bathe the alder on the verge, 
 The leaning hemlock now they merge, 
 The stately elm is dwindling low 
 Within the deep ingulfing flow, 
 Till, curbed thus in its headlong flight. 
 With its accumulated might. 
 The river, turning on its track, 
 Rolls its broad-spreading volumes back. 
 
 The raftman slumbers; through his dream - 
 
 Distorted visions wildly stream; 
 
 Now in the wood his axe he swings, 
 
 And now his saAv-mill's jarring rings; 
 
 Now his huge raft is shooting swift 
 
 Cochecton's wild, tumultuous lift, 
 
 iSTow floats it on the ebon lap 
 
 Of the grim shadowed Water Gap. 
 
 And now 't is tossing on the swells 
 
 Fierce dashing down the slope of Wells. 
 
 The rapids crash upon his ear. 
 
 The deep sounds roll more loud and near. 
 
 They flU his dream, — he starts, — he wakes! 
 
 The moonlight through the casement falls, 
 Ha! the wild sight that on him breaks, — 
 
 The floods sweep round his cabin-walls. 
 Beneath their bounding, thundering shocks 
 The frail log fabric groans and rocks; 
 Crash, crash! the ice-bolts round it shiver; 
 The walls hke blast-swept branches quiver; 
 His wife is clinging to his breast. 
 The child within his arm is prest; 
 He staggers through the chilly flood 
 That numbs his limbs, and checks his blood. 
 On, on he strives: the waters lave 
 Higher his form with every wave; 
 They steep his breast, on each side dash 
 The splintered ice with thundering crash; 
 A fragment strikes him; ha! he reels; 
 That shock in every nerve he feels; 
 Faster, bold raftman, speed thy way. 
 The waves roar round thee for their prey; 
 The cabin totters, — sinks, — the flood 
 Rolls its mad surges where it stood: 
 Before thy straining sight, the hill 
 Sleeps in the moonlight, bright and still. 
 Falter not, falter not, struggle on. 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 243 
 
 That goal of safety may be won; 
 Heavily droops thy wife with fear, 
 Thy boy's shrill shriekings fill thine ear; 
 Urge, urge thy strength to where outfling 
 Yon cedar-branches for thy cling. 
 Joy, raftman, joy! thy need is past. 
 
 The wished-for goal is won at last. 
 Joy, raftman, joy! thy quick foot now 
 Is resting on the upland's brow. 
 Praise to high Heaven ! each knee is bent, 
 And every heart in prayer of grateful love is 
 blent. 
 
 Alfred B. Stirel. 
 
 OTSEGO LAKE. 
 
 HAUNTED lake, from out whose silver 
 fountains 
 The mighty Susquehanna takes its rise; 
 haunted lake, among the pine-clad mount- 
 ains. 
 Forever smiling upward to the skies, — 
 
 Thrice blest art thou in every curling wavelet, 
 In every floating water-lily sweet, — 
 
 From the old Lion at thy northern boundary, 
 To fair Mount Vision sleeping at fhy 
 feet. 
 
 A master's hand hath painted all thy beauties ; 
 A master's mind hath peopled all thy 
 shore 
 
 With wraiths of mighty hunters and fair 
 maidens, 
 Haunting thy forest glades for evermore. 
 
 A master's heart hath gilded all thy valley 
 With golden splendor from a loving breast; 
 
 And in thy little churchyard, 'neath the 
 pine-trees, 
 A master s body sleeps in quiet rest. 
 
 liaunted ]ake,gua]'(l well thy sacred story, — 
 Guard well the meinory of that honored 
 name ! 
 <Tuard well the grave that gives thee all thy 
 glory 
 And raises thee to long-enduring fame. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 HYMN" OF THE MOEAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, 
 
 AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKIS BANNER. 
 
 When the dying flame of day 
 Through the chancel shot its ray. 
 Far the glimmering tapers shed 
 Faint light on the cowled head; 
 And the censer burning swung, 
 Where, before the altar, hung 
 The crimson banner, that with prayer 
 Had been consecrated there. 
 
 And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the 
 while, 
 
 Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. 
 
 " Take thy banner ! May it wave 
 Proudly o'er the good and brave; 
 When the battle's distant wail 
 Breaks the sabbatli of our vale, 
 When the clarion's music thrills 
 To the hearts of these lone hills, 
 When the spear in conflict shakes, 
 And the strong lance shi-\'ering breaks. 
 
 "Take thy banner! and, beneath 
 The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 
 
244 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 Guard it, till our homes are free! 
 Guard it! — God will prosper thee! 
 In the dark and trying hour, 
 In the breaking forth of power, 
 In the rush of steeds and men, 
 His right hand Avill shield thee then. 
 
 •Take thy banner! But when night 
 Closes round the ghastly light. 
 If the vanquished warrior bow. 
 Spare him! By our holy vow. 
 By our prayers and many tears. 
 By the mercy that endears, 
 
 Spare him! — he our love hath shared! 
 Spare him ! — as thou wouldst be spared ! 
 
 " Take thy banner ! and if e'er 
 Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier. 
 And the muffled drum should beat 
 To the tread of mournful feet. 
 Then this crimson flag shall be 
 Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 
 
 The warrior took that banner proud, 
 And it was his martial- cloak and shroud ! 
 
 Henry Wadmorih Lonijfelluir. 
 
 THE BRANDYWINE. 
 
 Oh! if there is in beautiful and fair 
 A potency to charm, a jiower to bless; 
 If bright blue skies and rnusic-breathing 
 
 air. 
 And ISTature in her every varied dress 
 Of peaceful beauty and wild loveliness. 
 Can shed across the heart one sunshine I'ay, 
 Then others, too, sweet stream, with only 
 
 less 
 Than mine own joy, shall gaze, and bear 
 
 HAvay 
 Some cherished thought of thee for many a 
 
 coming day. 
 
 But yet not utterly obscure thy banks. 
 
 Nor all unknown to historj^'s page thy 
 name ; 
 
 For there wild war hath poured his battle 
 ranks, 
 
 And stami)ed, iu characters of blood and 
 flame, 
 
 Thine annals in the chronicles of fame. 
 
 The wave that ripples on, so calm and still, 
 
 Hath trembled at the war-cry's loud ac- 
 claim. 
 
 The cannon's voice hath rolled from hill 
 to hill. 
 And midst thy echoing vales the trump 
 hath sounded shrill. 
 
 My country's standard waved on yonder 
 
 height. 
 Her red-cross banner England there dis- 
 played. 
 And there the German, who, for foreign 
 
 fight. 
 Had left his own domestic hearth, and made 
 War, with its horrors and its blood, a trade, 
 Amidst the battle stood; and all the day. 
 The bursting bomb, the furious cannonade, 
 The bugle's martial notes, the musket's 
 
 play, 
 In mingled uproar wild, resounded far aAvay. 
 
 Thick clouds of smoke obscured the clear 
 
 bright sky. 
 And hung above them like a funeral pall. 
 Shrouding both friend and foe, so soon 
 
 to lie 
 Like brethren slumbering in one father's 
 
 hall : 
 The work of death went on, and when 
 
 the fall 
 Of night came onward silently, and shed 
 A dreary hush, where late was uproar all, 
 How many a brother's heart in anguish 
 
 bled 
 O'er cherished ones, who there lay resting 
 
 with the dead. 
 
LAXDSCAPE, HISTORY AXD LEdJ-XU 
 
 24.3 
 
 CnsliFdinU'd and iincdtiiiKMl tliry wck- laid 
 Within tlio soldier's grave — e'en where 
 
 they fell : 
 At noon they proudly trod the tield, — 
 
 the spade 
 At night dug out their I'esting-jilaee ; and 
 
 \\'ell 
 And eahuly did they slnnd)er, though no 
 
 l)ell ^ 
 Pealed over them its s(.)lenin niusir slo\\-: 
 The night winds sung their only dii'ge, 
 
 — tlieir knell 
 Was hut the owlet's lioding (•r\- of \\-oe, 
 Tiie flap (d' night-lun\k"s ^\ing, and niiir- 
 
 niui'ing waters' flow. 
 
 But it is (jver now, — the [ilow hath I'ased 
 All traee of where War's wasting hand 
 
 hath heen : 
 i^o Vestige (d' the hattle uiav he traced, 
 ISaA'e wdiei'e the share, in jiassing o'er (he 
 
 seene, 
 Turns up s("]nie rusted hall; the nuiize is 
 
 trreeu 
 
 On what was once the death-licd (jf the 
 
 lirave ; 
 The waters have resumed theii' wonted 
 
 sheen, 
 The wild hird sings in (■adeiiee witli the 
 
 wave, 
 And naught renuiins to shoAv tlie sleeping 
 
 soldier's grave. 
 
 A pehhle-stone that on the war-fleld lay. 
 And a M'ild rose that hlossomed hriglith" 
 
 there, 
 "Were all the relies that I hore awa^^ 
 To tell that T had trod the seene of war. 
 A\"hen I had tuiaied my footsteps home- 
 
 war<l far. 
 These may seem ehildish things to some: 
 
 to me 
 They shall he ti'easnred ones, — and, like 
 
 the star 
 That guides the sailor o'er the jiathless 
 
 sea. 
 They shall lead hack my ihoughts, lo\'cil 
 
 15rand\\\inc, to tlicc ! 
 
 Klis,lb,lli M,i,;j,iirl C/iiuullc: 
 
 TO SP^XEOA LAKE. 
 
 Oy thy fair l)Osom, sih'er lake, 
 
 The wild s^van s])reads his snowy sail. 
 
 And round his hreast the ripjiles hreak 
 As down he heai's hefore the gale. 
 
 On thy fair liosoni, waveless stream, 
 Tlie dipping paddle echoes fir. 
 
 And flashes in tlie moonlight glearji. 
 And Ijright I'eflects the jiolar star. 
 
246 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTOUY AND LEGEND. 
 
 The waves along thy pebbly shore, 
 
 As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, 
 
 And curl around the dashing oar. 
 As late the boatman hies him home. 
 
 How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
 Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 
 
 And see the mist of mantling blue 
 
 Float round the distant mountain's side. 
 
 At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
 A sheet of silver spreads below, 
 
 And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 
 Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 
 
 On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
 Oh, I could ever sweep the oar. 
 
 When eai'ly birds at morning wake, 
 And evening tells us toil is o'er! 
 
 Jamei Gates Percival. 
 
 CALDWELL OF SPEINGFIELD. 
 
 1780. 
 
 Here's the spot. Look around you. Above 
 
 on the height 
 Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church 
 
 on the right 
 Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here 
 
 ran a wall, — 
 You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up 
 
 a ball. 
 ISTothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, 
 
 flowers blow. 
 Pretty much as they did ninety-three years 
 
 ago. 
 
 iTothing more, did I say ? Stay one moment ; 
 
 you've heard 
 Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached 
 
 the Word 
 Down at Springfield? What, no? Come — 
 
 that's bad, why he had 
 All the Jerseys aflame ! And they gave him 
 
 the name 
 Of the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in 
 
 their gorge, 
 For he loved the Lord God, — and he hated 
 
 King George! 
 
 He had cause, 3'ou might say! When the 
 
 Hessians that day 
 Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped 
 
 on their way 
 
 At the "Farms," where his wife, with a 
 
 child in her arms, 
 Sat alone in the house. How it happened 
 
 none knew 
 But God — and that one of the hireling crew 
 Who fired the shot ! Enough ! — there she lay, 
 And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, 
 
 away! 
 
 Did he bear it, — what way? Think of him 
 
 as you stand 
 By the old church to-day; — think of him 
 
 and that band 
 Of militant plowboys ! See the smoke and 
 
 the heat 
 Of that reckless advance, — of that straggling 
 
 retreat ! 
 Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in 
 
 your view, — 
 And what could you, what should you, what 
 
 would ycu do? 
 
 Why, just what he did! They were left in 
 
 the lurch 
 For the want of more wadding. He ran to 
 
 the church. 
 Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed 
 
 out in the road 
 With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw 
 
 down his load 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 247 
 
 At their feet! then above all the shouting Pretty much as they did ninety-three years 
 
 and shots, ago. 
 
 Rang his voice, — "Put Watts into 'em, — You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up 
 
 Boys, give 'em Watts!" a ball, — 
 
 And they did. That is all. Grasses spi4ng, But not always a hero like this, — and thafs 
 
 flowers blow all. 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE KEGS. 
 
 [Certain machines in the form of kegs, charged with gunpowder, were sent down tlie river to annoy the British shipping 
 then at Philadelphia. The danger of these machines being discovered, the British manned the wharves and shipping, 
 and discharged their small arms and cannon at any thing they saw floating in the river during the ebb tide.] 
 
 Gallants, attend, and hear a friend 
 Trill forth harmonious ditty; 
 
 Strange things I'll tell, which late befell, 
 In Philadelphia city. 
 
 'T was early daj-, as poets say. 
 
 Just when the sun was rising, 
 
 A soldier stood, on a log of wood, 
 And saw a thing surprising. 
 
 As in amaze he stood to gaze, 
 
 The truth can't be denied, sir. 
 
 He spied a score of kegs or more 
 Come floating down the tide, sir. 
 
 A sailor, too, in jerkin blue. 
 
 This strange appearance viewing. 
 
 First damned his eyes, in great surprise, 
 Then said, " Some mischief's brewing. 
 
 "These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold. 
 Packed up like pickled herring, 
 
 And they 're come down, to attack the town, 
 In this new way of ferrying." 
 
 The soldier flew, the sailor too, 
 
 And, scared almost to death, sir, 
 
 Wore out their shoes to spread the news, 
 And ran till out of breath, sir. 
 
 ISTow up and down, throughout the town. 
 Most frantic scenes were acted; 
 
 And some ran here, and others there. 
 Like men almost distracted. 
 
 Some "fire!" cried, which some denied. 
 But said the earth had quaked; 
 
 nd boys, with hideous noise, 
 Ran through the streets half naked. 
 
 And girls 
 
 Sir William he, snug as a flea. 
 
 Lay all this time a-snoi'ing. 
 Nor dreamed of harm, as he lay warm. 
 
 In bed with Mrs. Loriiig. 
 
 From sleep Sir William starts upright, 
 
 Awaked by such a clatter; 
 He rubs his eyes, and boldly cries, 
 
 "For God's sake, what's the luatterV" 
 
 At his bedside, he then espied, 
 Sir Erskine at command, sir. 
 
 Upon one foot he had one boot. 
 And f other in liis hand, sir. 
 
 "Arise! arise," Sir Erskine cries, 
 
 "The rebels, — luore's the pity, — 
 
 Without a boat, are all afloat. 
 And ranged before the city. 
 
 "The motle)' crew, in vessels new, 
 With Satan for their guide, sir, 
 
 Packed up in bags or wooden kegs, 
 Come driving tlown the tide, 'sir. 
 
 "Therefore prepare for bloody war; 
 
 These kegs must all be routed. 
 Or surely we despised shall be. 
 
 And British courage doubted." 
 
248 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 The royal baud now ready stand, 
 All ranged in dread array, sir, 
 
 With stomachs stout, to see it out, 
 And make a bloody day, sir. 
 
 E'er cannons roar from shore to shore. 
 The small arms make a I'attle; 
 
 Since wars began, I 'm sure no man 
 Ere saw so strange a battle. 
 
 The rebel dales, the rebel vales. 
 With rebel trees surrounded. 
 
 The distant woods, the hills and Hoods, 
 With rebel echoes sounded. 
 
 The fisli below swam to and fro. 
 Attacked from every quarter; 
 
 Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay. 
 'Mongst folks above the water. 
 
 The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made 
 Of rebel staves and hoops, sir. 
 
 Could not oppose their powerful foes. 
 The conquering British troops, sir. 
 
 From morn till night, these men of might 
 Displayed amazing courage; 
 
 And when the sun was fairly down, 
 Retired to sup their porridge 
 
 An hundred men, with each a pen. 
 Or more, upon my word, sir. 
 
 It is most true, would be too few 
 Their valor to record, sir. 
 
 8uch feats did they pei'form that day. 
 Against those wicked kegs, sir. 
 
 That years to come, if they get home. 
 
 They'll make their boasts and brags, sir. 
 
 Francis Hapkinsan. 
 
 THE FOREST CEMETERY. 
 
 A^'iLD Tawasentha ! "f" in thy brook-laced glen 
 The doe no longer lists her lost fawn's 
 bleating. 
 As panting there, escaped from hunter's ken. 
 She hears the chase o'er distant hills 
 retreating ; 
 No more, upi-ising from the fern around her. 
 The Indian archer, from his "still-hunt" 
 lair. 
 Wings the death-shaft which hath that 
 moment found her 
 When Fate seemed foiled upon her foot- 
 steps there: 
 
 Wild Tawasentha ! on thy cone-strewed sod. 
 O'er which yon pine his giant arm is 
 bending, 
 No more the Mohawk marks its dark crown 
 nod 
 Against the sun's broad disk toward night 
 descending, 
 Tlien crouching down beside the brands 
 til at redden 
 
 The columned trunks which rear thy leafy 
 dome. 
 Forgets his toils in hunter's slumbers leaden. 
 Or visions of the red man's spirit home: 
 
 But where his calumet by that lone fire, 
 At night beneath these cloistered boughs 
 was lighted. 
 The Christian orphan will in prayer aspire, 
 The Christian parent mourn his proud 
 hope blighted; 
 And in thy shade the mother's heart will 
 listen 
 The spirit-cry of babe she clasps no more. 
 And where thy rills through hemlock- 
 branches glisten, 
 There many a maid her lover will deplore. 
 
 Here children linked in love and sport 
 
 together. 
 Who check their mirth as creaks the 
 
 slow hearse by. 
 Will totter lonely in life's autumn weather. 
 
 ■'■Meaning in Moha-wk, "The place of the many dead." 
 
LAXnsf'APE. /flsrORV A XT) I.EGF.xn. 
 
 249 
 
 
 To ponder wliuro litV'V s})riiig'-thiio lilos- 
 
 soiiis lie; 
 
 And wlnTo tlio virgin soil was never dinted 
 
 By tlie rude plo^^■sl^a^■e since creation's 
 
 birtli, 
 
 '^^ear after year fix'sli furrows will l>e printed 
 
 Upon the sad cheek of the grieving Earth. 
 
 Yon sun, returning in unwearied stages, 
 Will gild the cenotaph's ascending spire. 
 
 O'er names on history's yet unwritten pages 
 That unlioi'u crowds will, worsliii)ing, 
 adnnre; 
 
 Xanies that shall lu'ighten througli ruy 
 country's story 
 Like rneteijr hues that tii'e her autumn 
 worxls. 
 Encircling high her onward course of gh-uy 
 hike the hriglit how which spans her 
 mcmntaiii-tlooils. 
 
 Here wliere the tlowers fiave hloomed an<l 
 
 died for ages, — [sung, — 
 
 fSloomed all unseen, and jierislied all un- 
 
 ( hi youth's green grave, traced out beside 
 the sage's, 
 
250 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 Will garlands now by votive hearts be 
 flung; 
 And sculptured naarble and funereal urn, 
 O'er which gray birches to the night air 
 wave, 
 Will whiten through thy glades at every turn, 
 And woo the moonbeam to some poet's 
 grave ! 
 
 Thus back to Nature, faithful, do we come. 
 
 When Art hath taught us all her best 
 
 beguiling, 
 
 Thus blend their ministry around the tomb 
 
 Where, pointing upward, still sits Nature 
 
 smiling ! 
 
 And never, Nature's hallowed spots adorning, 
 Hath Art with her a somber garden dressed. 
 
 Wild Tawasentha! in this vale of mournina: 
 With more to consecrate their children's 
 rest. 
 
 And still that stream will hold its winsome 
 way, 
 
 Sparkling as now upon the frosty air, 
 When all in turn shall troop in pale array 
 
 To that dim land for which so few prepai'e. 
 Still will yon oak, which now a sapling waves. 
 
 Each year renewed, with hardy vigor grow, 
 Expanding still to shade the nameless gi'aves 
 
 Of nameless men that haply sleep below. 
 
 Charles Fenno Hoffman. 
 
 THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL. 
 
 [The name of "the little black -eyed rebel" was Mary Redmond. She was the daughter of a patriot who lived in 
 Philadelphia at the time it was occupied by the British troops. In that city, and at the above-mentioned time, the incident 
 told in the poem took place.] 
 
 A BOY drove into the city, his wagon loaded 
 down 
 
 With food to feed the people of the British- 
 governed town; 
 
 And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent 
 and sly. 
 
 Was watching for his coming from the 
 corner of her eye. 
 
 His face looked broad and honest, his hands 
 were brown and tough. 
 
 The clothes he wore upon him were home- 
 spun, coarse, and rough; 
 
 But one there was who watched him, who 
 long time lingered nigh, 
 
 And cast at him sweet glances from the 
 corner of her eye. 
 
 He drove up to the market, he waited in 
 
 the line; 
 His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair 
 
 and fine; 
 
 But long and long he waited, and no one 
 
 came to buy. 
 Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from 
 
 the corner of her eye. 
 
 "Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted 
 long and loud; 
 
 And "Who wants my potatoes?" he re- 
 peated to the crowd; 
 
 But from all the people round him came 
 no word of a reply. 
 
 Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from 
 the corner of her eye. 
 
 For she knew that 'neath the lining of the 
 
 coat he wore that day 
 Were long letters from the husbands and 
 
 the fathers far away. 
 Who were fighting for the freedom that they 
 
 meant to gain or die; 
 And a tear like silver glistened in the corner 
 
 of her eye. 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 251 
 
 But the treasures, — how to get them';' crept 
 
 the question through her mind, 
 Since keen enemies were watching for what 
 
 prizes they might iind : 
 And she paused awhile and pondered, with 
 
 a pretty little sigh; 
 Then resolve crept through her features, and 
 
 a shrewdness fired her eye. 
 
 So she resolutely walked up to the wagon 
 
 old and red; 
 "May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" 
 
 she sweetly said : 
 And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for 
 
 the boy was somewhat shy, 
 And he saw her laughing at him from the 
 
 corner of her eye. 
 
 "You may have them all for nothing, and 
 
 more, if you want," quoth he. 
 "I will have them, my good fellow, but can 
 
 pay for them," said she; 
 And she clambered on the wagon, minding 
 
 not who all were by. 
 With a laugh of reckless romping in the 
 
 corner of her eye. 
 
 Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped 
 
 her fingers white and small, 
 And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! 
 
 thrust them underneath ni}- shawl ! 
 Carry back again this package, and be sure 
 
 that you are spry!" 
 And she sweetly smiled upon him from the 
 
 corner of her eye. 
 
 Loud the motley crowd were laughing at 
 
 the strange, ungirlish freak. 
 And the boy was scared and panting, and 
 
 so dashed he could not speak; 
 And "MisH, I have good apples," a bolder 
 
 lad did cry; 
 But she answered, "iTo, I thank you," from 
 
 the corner of her eye. 
 
 With the news of loved ones absent to the 
 dear friends they \\'ould greet, 
 
 Searching them who hungered for them, SAvift 
 she glided through the street. 
 
 "There is nothing worth the doing that it 
 does not pay to try," 
 
 Thought the little black-cycd rebel, \\\i\\ ii 
 
 twinkle m her eye. 
 
 William M. Carleloii. 
 
 THE UPPER SAEANAC. 
 
 Wild forest lake, thy waters spread 
 A mirror for the welkin's bound! 
 
 Thy breezes glide with rippling tread; 
 Thy linking brooks send tinkling sound. 
 
 Down to thy wave the fish-hawk swoops; 
 
 The wood-duck floats within thy bays; 
 Its trunks the water-maple groups 
 
 Along thy banks of leafy maze. 
 
 The gull darts by, a flash of snow; 
 
 Deep from thy brink green pictures gleam ; 
 The loon shouts o'er, and shoots below; 
 
 The soft haze folds thee in a dream. 
 
 The lily lifts its creamy cup 
 
 In thy broad shallows, amber clear; 
 
 And there the thatch shoots bristling up. 
 And there steals down the drinking deer. 
 
 On thy bright breast each fairy isle 
 
 Strews its rock-vase, with foliage brimmed; 
 
 And from thee grandly, pile on pile. 
 
 Soar the steep crags with thunders rimmed. 
 
 In thy smooth glades the camp-fire flames; 
 
 The hunter's light boat tracks thy wave : 
 Thy ooze in caves the muskrat frames; 
 
 The otter in thee loves to lave. 
 
 Wild forest lake ! oh, would my home, 
 My happy home, wore reared by thee! 
 
 Thence would my full heart never roam. 
 From care and trouble ever free. 
 
 Alfred B. Street. 
 
LAXDSCAl'r-:, HISTORY AM> LEGEND. 
 
 THE DELAWARE WATEIMIAI'. 
 
 ;?"-> ''S-- 
 
 Oi'R -westorii land (.-an 1)0ast im lovelier spot. 
 Tlic hills A\-]ii<-li ill their ancient graiuleiir 
 
 stand 
 l'ih;Ml to the tVownini;- clouds, the Imlwarks 
 
 seem 
 ( )f tliis -wild scene, resolved that none hut 
 
 Heaven 
 Shall look upon its heauty. Round their 
 
 hreast 
 A curtained fringe depemls. of golden mist, 
 
 Tomdied by the slanting sunbeams; while 
 
 Vielow 
 The silent river, with majestic sweep, 
 J'ursues liis shadowed way, — his ghissy face 
 Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan 
 To float in pride, or di]i his ruttled wing. 
 Talk ye of solitude? It is not here. 
 Xor silence. Low, deeji murmurs are abroad. 
 Those towering liills liold converse with 
 
 the skv 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 253 
 
 That smiles upon their summits ; and the wind 
 Which stirs their wooded sides whispers of 
 
 life, 
 And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf, 
 Bidding the stately forest-boughs look bright, 
 And nod to greet his coming! And the 
 
 brook, 
 That with its silvery gleam comes leaping 
 
 down 
 Prom the hillside, has, too, a tale to tell; 
 The wild bird's music mingles with its chime ; 
 And gay young flowers, that blossom in its 
 
 path, 
 Send forth their perfume as an added gift. 
 
 The river utters, too, a solemn voice. 
 And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone, 
 When not a sound was heard along his 
 
 shores. 
 Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek 
 Of some expiring captive, and no bark 
 E'er cleft his gloomy waters. !N"ow,his waves 
 Are vocal often with the hunter's song; 
 I^'ow visit, in their glad and onward course, 
 The abodes of happy men, — gardens and 
 
 fields. 
 And cultured plains, — still bearing, as they 
 
 pass, 
 Fertility renewed and fresh delights. 
 
 Elizabeth F. Ellet. 
 
 MOLLY MAGUIRE AT MONMOUTH. 
 
 On the bloody field of Monmouth 
 
 Flashed the guns of Greene and Waj'ue, 
 Fiercely roared the tide of battle. 
 
 Thick the sward was heaped with slain. 
 Foremost, facing death and danger, 
 
 Hessian, horse, and grenadier. 
 In the vanguard, fiercely fighting. 
 
 Stood an Irish Cannonier. 
 
 Fast and faster worked the gunner, 
 
 Soiled with powder, blood, and dust, 
 English bayonets shone before him. 
 
 Shot and shell around him burst; 
 Still he fought with reckless daring. 
 
 Stood and manned her long and well, 
 Till at last the gallant fellow 
 
 Dead — beside his cannon fell. 
 
 Loudly roared his iron cannon. 
 
 Mingling ever in the strife. 
 And beside him, firm and daring. 
 
 Stood his faithful Irish wife. 
 Of her bold contempt of danger 
 
 Greene and Lee's Brigades could tell, 
 Every one knew "Captain ^MoUy," 
 
 And the army loved her well. 
 
 With a bitter cry of sorrow. 
 
 And a dark and angry frown, 
 Looked that band of gallant patriots 
 
 At their gunner stricken down. 
 "Fall back, comrades, it is folly 
 
 Thus to strive against the foe." 
 "No! not so," cried Irish Molly, 
 
 "We can strike another blow." 
 
 Surged the roar of battle round them. 
 
 Swiftly fiew the iron hail. 
 Forward dashed a thousand bayonets. 
 
 That lone battery to assail. 
 From the foeman's foremost columns 
 
 Swept a furious fusillade. 
 Mowing down the massed battalions 
 
 In the ranks of Greene's Brigade. 
 
 Quickly leaped she to the cannon, 
 
 In her fallen husband's place. 
 Sponged and rammed it fast and steady. 
 
 Fired it in the foeman's face. 
 Flashed another ringing volley, 
 
 Eoared another from the gun; 
 "Boys, hurrah!" cried gallant Molly, 
 
 "For the fiag of Washington." 
 
254 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 Greene's Brigade, though torn unci shattered, 
 
 Slain and bleeding half their men, 
 When they heard that Irish slogan, 
 
 Turned and charged the foe as;ain. 
 Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally. 
 
 To the front they forward wheel, 
 And before their rushing onset 
 
 Clinton's English columns reel. 
 
 Monckton falls; against his columns 
 
 Leap the troops of Mayne and Lee, 
 And before their reeking bayonets 
 
 Clinton's red battalions flee. 
 Morgan's rifles, fiercely flashing, 
 
 Thin the foe's retreating ranks, 
 And, behind them onward dashing, 
 
 Offden hovers on their flanks. 
 
 Still the cannon's voice in anger 
 
 Rolled and rattled o'er the plain. 
 Till there lay in swarms around it 
 
 Mangled heaps of Hessian slain. 
 " Forward ! charge them with the bayonet ! " 
 
 "T was the voice of Washington, 
 And there burst a fiery greeting 
 
 From the Irish woman's gun. 
 
 Fast they fly, these boasting Britons, 
 
 Who in all their glory came. 
 With their brutal Hessian hirelings 
 
 To wipe out our country's name. 
 Proudly floats the starry banner, 
 
 Monmouth's glorious field is won. 
 And in triumph Irish Molly 
 
 Stands beside her smoking gun. 
 
 William Collin!'. 
 
 THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 
 
 Strangers! your eyes are on that valley 
 fixed 
 
 Intently, as we gaze on vacancy. 
 
 When the mind's wings o'erspread 
 The spirit-world of dreams. 
 
 The song of the wild bird is on the 
 wind 
 
 The hum of the wild bee, the music wild, 
 Of waves upon the bank, 
 Of leaves upon the bough. 
 
 True, 'tis a scene of loveliness, — the bright 
 Green dwelling of the summer's first-born 
 Hours, 
 Whose wakened leaf and bud 
 
 Are welcoming the morn. 
 
 But all is song and beauty in the land. 
 Beneath her skies of June; then journey 
 on, 
 A thousand scenes like this 
 Will greet you ere the eve. 
 
 And morn returns the welcome, sun and cloud 
 Smile on the green earth from their home 
 ill heaven, 
 
 Even as a mother smiles 
 
 Above her cradled boy. 
 
 Tc linger yet, — ye see not, hear not 
 
 now. 
 
 The sunn}' smile, the music of to-day. 
 Your thoughts ai'c wandering up. 
 Far up the stream of time; 
 
 And wreathe their light and shade o'er plain 
 
 and mountain, 
 O'er sleepless seas of grass whose waves arc 
 flowers. 
 The river's golden shores. 
 The forests of dark pines. 
 
 And boyhood's lore and fireside-listened 
 
 tales 
 Arc rushing on your memories, as j& 
 breathe 
 That valley's storied name. 
 Field of the Grounded Arms. 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 Strangers no more, a kindred "pride of 
 place," 
 
 Pride in the gift of country and of name. 
 Speaks in your eye and step, — 
 Ye tread your native land. 
 
 And your high thoughts are on her glory's 
 day. 
 
 The solemn sabbath of the week of battle, 
 "Whose tempests bowed to earth 
 Her foeman's banner here. 
 
 The forest leaves lay scattered cold and 
 dead. 
 
 Upon the withered grass that autumn morn. 
 When, with as withered hearts 
 And hopes as dead and cold, 
 
 A gallant army formed their last array 
 Upon that field, in silence and deep gloom, 
 And at their conqueror's feet 
 Laid their war-weapons down. 
 
 Sullen and stern, disarmed but not dishon- 
 ored: 
 Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded 
 there : 
 The soldier's trial task 
 Is ]iot alone "to die." 
 
 Honor to chivalry! the conqueror's breath 
 Stains not the ermine of his foeman's fame, 
 
 ISTor mocks his captive's doom, — 
 
 The bitterest cup of war. 
 
 But be that bitterest cup the doom of all 
 Whose swords are lightning flashes in the 
 cloud 
 Of the Invader's wrath. 
 Threatening a gallant land. 
 
 His armies' trumpet-tones wake not alone 
 Her slumbering echoes; from a thousand 
 hills 
 Her answering voices shout, 
 And her bells ring to arms! 
 
 Then danger hovers o'er the Invader's 
 march, 
 
 On raven wings, hushing the song of fame. 
 And glory's hues of beauty 
 Fade from the cheek of death. 
 
 A foe is heard in every rustling leaf, 
 A fortress seen in every rock and tree. 
 The eagle eye of art 
 Is dim and powerless then. 
 
 And war becomes a people's joy, the 
 
 drum 
 Man's merriest music, and the field of death 
 
 His couch of happy dreams. 
 
 After life's harvest home. 
 
 He battles heart and arm, his own blue 
 sky 
 
 Above him, and his own green land around, 
 Land of his father's grave, 
 His blessing and his prayers. 
 
 Land where he learned to lisp a mother's 
 
 name, 
 The first beloved in life, the last forgot. 
 
 Land of his frolic youth. 
 
 Land of his bridal eve. 
 
 Land of his children — vain your columned 
 
 strength. 
 Invaders! vain your battles' steel and 
 fire! 
 Choose ye the morrow's doom — 
 A prison or a grave. 
 
 And such were Saratoga's victors — such 
 The Yeomen-Brave, whose deeds and death 
 have given 
 
 A glory to her skies, 
 
 A music to her name. 
 
 In honorable life her fields they trod. 
 In honorable death they sleep below; 
 Their sons' proud feelings here 
 Their noblest monuments. 
 
 Fitz-Oreeiie Halleck 
 
256 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AS"!) LEGEXD. 
 
 The waterfall is (.'ailing mo 
 AVith its merry gleesomc . 
 flow, 
 And tlie green boughs are 
 heckouing me, 
 T(_) wliere tlie wild tiowers grow: 
 
 Tlie husY mill-wheel round and round 
 Goes turning, witli its re(diless sound, 
 And o'er the dam the waters tlow 
 Intf) the foaming stream lielo^\'. 
 And deep and dark, away they glide. 
 To meet the hroad, hriy'lit river's tide 
 
A 
 
 "\ 
 
 'I' 
 
 .'' It. 
 
 
 l.a. 
 
 La d- cl a^^cl ■ 
 
LANDSCAPE, HIHTORY AND LE(iENl). 
 
 :^ot 
 
 THE FALLS OF TIIF J'ASSAIC. 
 
 In a wild, tranquil vale, t'ringoil with forests 
 
 of green, 
 Where nature ha<l fashioned a sott, sylvan 
 
 seene. 
 The retreat of the ring-do^'e, the hainit of 
 
 the deer, 
 i'assaie in sileiiec rolled gentle and eleai-. 
 
 No grandeur of prospeet astonished the siglit, 
 No aljruptness sublime mingled awe with 
 
 delight; 
 Here the wild floweret hlossonied, the elm 
 
 proudly waved, 
 And pure was the eurrent the green hank 
 
 that laved. 
 
 But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick 
 
 tangled wood. 
 And deep in its gloom fixed his murky ahodc, 
 AVHio loved the wild scene that the wliiil- 
 
 winds deform, 
 And gloried in thunder and lightning and 
 
 storm ; 
 
 All Hushed from the tumult of hattle he came. 
 Where the red men eneountered tln' ehildi'en 
 
 of flame. 
 While the noise ol' the war-whoop still rang 
 
 in his cars. 
 And the fresh hleeding scal^i as a tro}iliy he 
 
 hears: 
 
 With a ghmee of disgust, he the landscape 
 
 surveyed. 
 With its fragrant wild-flowers, its wide 
 
 waving shade; 
 Where Passaic meanders through margins 
 
 of green, 
 So transparent its waters, its sui'hu-e serene. 
 
 He rived the green lulls, the wild woods he 
 
 laid low; 
 He taught the pure stream in rough channels 
 
 to How; 
 
 lie rent the ru(h' rock, tlic stce]i precipice' 
 
 gave. 
 And hurled down the ehasm the thundering 
 
 wave. 
 
 Countless momis have since n_)lle<l in the 
 
 long la[)sc oi' tiuie, 
 Culti\-atioii has softened those features suh- 
 
 lime ; 
 The ax of the white man has lightened 
 
 the sha<1e. 
 Anil dispelled the deep gloom of the tliick- 
 
 eted ii'lade. 
 
 r>ut the stranger still gazes, with wmidering 
 
 eye, 
 ( )n tlie rocks rudely tcirn, and grox'es mountcil 
 
 <.>n high ; 
 Still li.ives on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam, 
 AVhere the torrent leaps lieadlijiig, emho- 
 
 somed in foaui. 
 
 II nshiU'/ion. Irvinq. 
 
258 
 
 LANDSCAPE, ][LSrOUY ANV LKiiENI). 
 
 M^' OWN J)AliK GENESP]E. 
 
 Tim:y told iiic sontlnTii hind cDiild lioast 
 
 Cliai'iiis I'K'lior tluiii mine own: 
 iSnn, moon, and stars nl' lii'inditcr ylnw, 
 
 And \\'inds of n'untli_'r tonr; 
 And partini,' iVoni each (jJdcn liaiiut, 
 
 Familiar rock and tree, 
 J'"rom tliat sweet vale I wandei'e(l lar — 
 
 AVashed liv the Genest^e. 
 
 I jiined l)eiieath a t'orei_t,''n sky, 
 Thongdi liirds, like liai'iis in time, 
 
 Lulled AVinter on a. euneh of tlowers 
 
 C'lad in the garb of June. 
 In vain on reefs of coral Itroke 
 
 Tlie glad \\'aves of the sea; 
 For, like thy voice tliey sonnded not, 
 
 My own daidv Genesee! 
 
 AVhen GIn'istmas came, tliongh roimdniegrew 
 
 The lemon-tree and linie, 
 And the warm sky aliove me threw 
 
 The hhie of summer-timi' ; 
 1 thought of my li>\'od northern lionie, 
 
 Anil A\is]ied for wings to flee 
 AN'^Ilci'c frost-liouud, hetween frozen Ininks, 
 
 Lay hushed tlie Geuesce. 
 
 For tlie gray, mossed paternal roof 
 
 ^ly tliroljhiug hosorn yearned. 
 And ere the flight of many uioons 
 
 Aly steps I home^\•ard turned; 
 ^I}' lieart, to joy a sti-auger long, 
 
 AA'as tuned to rapture's key, 
 AA^heii I the.mui-mur heard once more 
 
 Of my o^vn Genesee, 
 
 Amhition from the scenes of youth 
 
 Alay otlu'i's lure a"\\'ay 
 To chase the phantom of renown 
 
 Throughout their little day; 
 I would not, tor a palace proml 
 
 i\ud sla^■e of pliant knee, 
 Forsake a cahiu in thy vale, 
 
 Aly o\\u dark Genesee. 
 
 William Hairy Cui/lcr Hoxmcj. 
 
 LAKE SALATOGA. 
 
 A LADY stands licside tlie silver lake. 
 
 " AVliat," said the Alohawk, "wouldst thou 
 have uic do?" 
 "Across the \\ater, sir, he pleased to take 
 
 Ale and my children in thy hark cauoe.'' 
 
 "Ah!" said the Ghief, "thou knowest not, 
 I think, 
 
 Tlie legend of the lakt', — hast ever heard 
 That in its wave the s+outest hoat will sink, 
 
 If any passenger shall speak a word?"' 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 259 
 
 "Full well we know the Indian's strange 
 belief," 
 
 The lady answered, with a civil smile; 
 "But take ns o'er the water, mighty Chief; 
 
 In rigid silence we will sit the while." 
 
 Thus they embarked, but ere the little boat 
 Was half across the lake, the woman gave 
 
 Her tongue its wonted play, — but still they 
 float. 
 And pass in safety o'er the utmost wave! 
 
 Safe on the shore, the warrior looked amazed. 
 Despite the stoic calmness of his race; 
 
 JSTo word he spoke, but long the Indian gazed 
 In moody silence in the woman's face. 
 
 " What think you now? " the lady gayly said ; 
 
 " Safely to land your frail canoe is brought! 
 No harm, you see, has touched a single head! 
 
 So superstition ever comes to naught." 
 
 Smiling, the Mohawk said, "Onr safety shows 
 That God is mcrcifnl to old and fining; 
 
 Thanks unto the Great Spirit! — well he 
 knows 
 The pale-faced woman can not hold her 
 
 tongue!" 
 
 John Godfrey Saxe. 
 
 NEVERSINK. 
 
 These hills, the pride of all the coast. 
 
 To mighty distance seen. 
 
 With aspect bold and rugged brow. 
 
 That shade the neighboring main; 
 
 These heights, for solitude designed, 
 
 This rude, resounding shore, 
 
 These vales, impervious to the wind. 
 
 Tall oaks, that to the tempest bend. 
 
 Half Druid, I adore. 
 
 From distant lands a thousand sails 
 
 Your hazy summits greet, — 
 
 You saw the angry Briton come. 
 
 You saw him, last, retreat! 
 
 With towering crest, you first appear 
 
 The news of land to tell ; 
 
 To him that comes, fresh joys impart. 
 
 To him that goes, a heavy heart. 
 
 The lover's long farewell. 
 
 'T is yours to see the sailor bold. 
 
 Of persevering mind, 
 
 To see him rove in search of care, 
 
 And leave true bliss behind; 
 
 To see him spread his flowing sails 
 
 To trace a tiresome road, 
 I>y wintry seas and tempests chased, 
 To see him o'er the ocean haste, 
 A comfortless abode! 
 
 Your thousand springs of waters blue 
 
 What luxury to sip. 
 
 As from the mountain's breast they 
 
 flow 
 To moisten Flora's lip! 
 In vast retirements herd the deer. 
 Where forests round them rise. 
 Dark groves, their tops in ether lost, 
 That, haunted still by Huddy's ghost. 
 The trembling rustic flies. 
 
 Proud heights! with pain so often seen 
 
 (With joy beheld once more). 
 
 On your firm base I take my stand. 
 
 Tenacious of the shore: 
 
 Let those who pant for wealth or fame 
 
 Pursue the water}' road; 
 
 Soft sleep and ease, blest days and nights, 
 
 And health, attend these favorite heights. 
 
 Retirement's blest abode! 
 
 Philip Freneau. 
 
2(30 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 THE ISl'RIAL I'LACa^] AT LAUREL HILL. 
 
 Here the l;iincntt'(l ilcud in dust sliall lie, 
 Lite's lino'criiig hiii^'iioi'Sd'oi', its l:il)i>rs diiiie, 
 
 WliLTO waving Ixmglis, lictwixl tlir cai'tli 
 and sky, 
 Ailuiit tlic faruwuH I'adianee <it' tlie sun. 
 
 IL'i'G tlio Ion;;' ooiifourso from the muniiur- 
 ini;' tiiwn, 
 
 Witli funeral pace and slow, sliall entei- in, 
 '^i'o hi}' the loved in tranquil silence d(i\\n. 
 
 No more to sntf'er, and no more to sin. 
 
 And in tliis halloM'ed spot, where Nature 
 sliowers 
 Iler snmiLier smiles from fair and staiidess 
 skies, 
 Ati'ection's hand maj' stre'W her <le\\'y tlowers, 
 AVIiose fragi'ant incense from the grave 
 shall rise. 
 
 And liei'c the impressive stone, engraved 
 with words 
 AVhich grief sententious gives to iiiarlile 
 pale, 
 Shall teacdi the heart; while waters, leaves, 
 and hirds 
 Alake cheerful music in the passing gale. 
 
 Say, wherefore should we weep, and where- 
 fore pour 
 On scented airs the uuavailiug sigh — 
 While suii-ljright waves are (piivering to 
 the shore. 
 And landscapes blooming — that the loved 
 must die ? 
 
 There is an endilem in this peaceful scene; 
 
 Soon rainho^\' coh)rs on the woods will 
 fall. 
 And autumn gusts hereave the hills of green, 
 
 As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall. 
 
 Then, cold and ]inle, in distant vistas round, 
 l)isrol)c<l and tuneless, all tlie woods will 
 stand, 
 While the chained streams are silent as the 
 ground. 
 As Death had numbed them M'ith his icy 
 hand. 
 

 'Here the lamented dead in dust shall lii 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 263 
 
 Yet, when the warm, soft winds shall rise 
 in spring. 
 Like struggling daybeanis o'er a blasted 
 heath. 
 The bird returned shall poise her golden 
 wing, 
 And liberal Nature break the spell of 
 , Death. 
 
 So, Avhen the tomb's dull silence finds an end. 
 The blessed dead to endless youth shall rise. 
 
 And hear the archangel's thrilling summons 
 blend 
 Its tone with anthems from the upper skies. 
 
 There shall the good of earth be found at last, 
 Where dazzling streams and vernal fields 
 expand ; 
 Where Love her crown attains, — her trials 
 past, — 
 And, filled with rapture, hails the "better 
 land " ! 
 
 Willis Gaylord Clark. 
 
 LAKE WYALUSIISTG. 
 
 Joy like a wave o'erflowed my soul. 
 While looking on its basin round, 
 
 That fancy named a sparkling bowl 
 By hoop of fadeless emerald bound, 
 
 From which boon Nature's holy hand 
 
 Baptised the nymphs of mountain land. 
 
 It blushes in the morning's glow. 
 And glitters in the sunset ray. 
 
 When brooks that run far, far below 
 Have murmured out farewell to day; 
 
 The moonlight on its placid breast. 
 
 When dark the valley, loves to rest. 
 
 Not far away were rock}' shelves 
 With the soft moss of ages lined. 
 
 And seated there a row of elves 
 By rnoonlight would the poet find : 
 
 Fairies, from slumber in the shade 
 
 Waking with soft-voiced serenade. 
 
 The waters slept, by wind uncurled, 
 Encircled by a zone of green : 
 
 The reflex of some purer world 
 
 Within their radiant blue was seen,- 
 
 I felt, while musiilg on the shore. 
 
 As if strong wings my soul upbore. 
 
 Wheeling in circles overhead. 
 
 The feathered king a Avar-scream gave; 
 His foi*m, with pinion wide outspread. 
 
 Was traced so clearly on the wave. 
 That seemingly its glass was stirred 
 By flappings of the gallant bird. 
 
 Lake, flashing in the mountain's crown! 
 
 Thought pictures thee some diamond bright, 
 That dawn had welcomed, — fallen down 
 
 From the starred canopy of night; 
 Or chrysolite, by thunder rent 
 From Heaven's eternal battlement. 
 
 William. Henry Cuyler Hosmer. 
 
 TPIE AUSABLE. 
 
 In the stately Indian Pass, 
 From my fount of shadowy glass, 
 I struggle along in hollow song 
 On my blind and caverned way. 
 
 Sharp, splintered crags ascend, 
 Wild firs above me bend, 
 And I leap and dash with many a flash 
 To find the welcome day. 
 
264 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEOF.ND. 
 
 The lean wolf laps my How; 
 
 In my pointed pools below, 
 
 The grand gray eagle's tawny eye 
 
 Like lightning fires the gloom. 
 
 Not oft is the warbling bird 
 
 In my jagged cradle heard, 
 
 For I am the child of the savage and wild, 
 
 Not pet of the sun and bloom. 
 
 I smite, in headlong shocks, 
 Roots clutching the ragged rocks, 
 And the blocks of my sable basins; 
 And the chasms my fur}=' plows. 
 Where the raven, as o'er he flies, 
 Sees the frown of his deepest dyes, 
 As the murkiest pall of the forest 
 Is flung from the dungeon-boughs. 
 
 Old Whiteface cleaves apart 
 
 In dizziest heights his heart 
 
 For the roll of my rocky waters; 
 
 And I lighten and thunder through. 
 
 And sometimes I tame my will 
 
 To sing like the wren-like rill, 
 
 And I mirror the flower and bending bower, 
 
 And laugh in the open blue. 
 
 But sometimes the cataract-rain 
 Fills my breast with frantic disdain, 
 And my boiling deep shoots torrent-like, 
 Lasliing and crashing past; — 
 Whole forests I tear in my wrath; 
 Whole hamlets I strew on my path, 
 Till my wild waves break upon the lake. 
 And I slumber in peace at last. 
 
 Alfred B. Street. 
 
 TO THE WISSAIIICCON. 
 
 My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side. 
 
 When once they turn away, thou Pleasant 
 Water, 
 ISTor ever more, reflected in thy tide. 
 
 Will shine the eyes of the White Island's 
 daughter. 
 But often in my dreams, when I am gone 
 
 Beyond theseathatpartsthyhonie and mine. 
 
 Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine. 
 And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on. 
 And when the Vjurthen of existence lies 
 
 Upon my soul, darkly and heavily, 
 I '11 clasp my hands over my weary eyes. 
 
 Thou Pleasant Water, and thy clear 
 waves see. 
 Bright be thy course for ever and for ever. 
 
 Child of pure mountain sjirings, and 
 mountain snow; 
 And as thou wanderest on to meet the river. 
 
 Oh, still in light and music mayst thou flow ! 
 I never shall come back to thee again. 
 When once my sail is shadowed on the main, 
 Nor ever shall I hear thy laughing voice 
 
 As on their rippling way thy waves rejoice, 
 Nor ever see the dark green cedar throw 
 Its gloomj' shade o'er the clear depths below; 
 Never, from stony rifts of granite gray, 
 Sparkling like diamond rocks in the sun's 
 
 ray, 
 Shall I look down on thee, thou pleasant 
 
 stream, 
 Beneath whose crystal folds the gold sands 
 
 gleam ; 
 Wherefore, farewell! but whcnsoe'er again 
 The wintry spell melts from the earth and 
 
 air; 
 And the young Spring comes dancing 
 
 through thy glen. 
 With fragrant, flowery breath, and sunny 
 
 hair ; 
 When through the snow the scarlet berries 
 
 gleam. 
 Like jewels strewn upon thy banks, fair 
 
 stream. 
 My spirit shall through many a summer's day 
 Return, among thy peaceful woods to stray. 
 
 Frances Anne Kemble. 
 
On the VVissahiccon, 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 267 
 
 FUIT ILIUM. 
 
 WASHINGTON S HEADQUARTERS AT ELIZABETH, N. J. 
 
 One by one they died, — 
 Last of all their race; 
 Nothing left but pride, 
 
 Lace, and buckled hose. 
 Their quietus made, 
 
 On their dwelling-place 
 Ruthless hands are laid: 
 
 Down the old house goes! 
 
 See the ancient manse 
 Meet its fate at last! 
 Time, in his advance, 
 
 Age nor honor knows; 
 Axe and broadaxe fall, 
 Lopping off the Past: 
 Hit with bar and maul, 
 
 Down the old house goes! 
 
 Sevenscore years it stood: 
 Yes, they built it well. 
 Though they built of wood, 
 When that house arose. 
 For its cross-beams square 
 
 Oak and walnut fell; 
 Little worse for wear, 
 
 Down the old house goes! 
 
 Rending board and plank. 
 Men with crowbars ply. 
 Opening fissures dank, 
 
 Striking deadly blows. 
 From the gabled roof 
 
 IIow the shingles fly! 
 Keep you here aloof, — 
 
 Down the old house goes! 
 
 Holding still its place, 
 
 There the chimney stands. 
 Stanch from top to base. 
 Frowning on its foes. 
 
 Heave apart the stones. 
 Burst its iron bands! 
 How it shakes and groans! 
 Down the old house goes! 
 
 Round the mantel-piece 
 Glisten Scripture tiles; 
 Henceforth they shall cease 
 Painting Egypt's Avoes, 
 Painting David's tight. 
 
 Fair Bathsheba's smiles, 
 Blinded Samson's might, — 
 Down the old house goes! 
 
 On these oaken floors 
 
 Iligh-shoed ladies trod; 
 Through those panelled doors 
 
 Trailed their furbelows: 
 Long their day has ceased; 
 
 Now, beneath the sod. 
 With the worms they feast, — 
 Down the old house goes! 
 
 Many a bride has stood 
 In yon spacious room; 
 Here her hand was wooed 
 
 Underneath the rose; 
 O'er that sill the dead 
 
 Reached the family tomb: 
 All, that were, have fled, — 
 Down the old house goes! 
 
 Once, in yonder hall, 
 
 Washington, they sa}'. 
 Led the New-Year's ball, 
 
 Stateliest of beaux! 
 Oh, that minuet. 
 
 Maids and matrons gay! 
 Are there such sights yet? 
 
 Down the old house goes! 
 
2G8 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 Britisli ti'ddpors caiiic 
 
 Kro aiiutlRT \L':ii', 
 With tlii'ir coats atlaiiu', 
 
 Aliiicing on tliL'ir toos ; 
 r)a.(ii;'litc4's of tlio lionso 
 
 Oavc tliciii liaiiglity cliecr, 
 Laugliefl to scoi'ii tlioir \'o\\'w,— 
 l)o\vii tlio old li(.)iise g'OL's ! 
 
 l>ooi'\\'ay liigli tlio l>ox 
 
 111 the grass-})lot spreads; 
 It has home its locks 
 
 Through a thousand snows; 
 In an evil day, 
 
 From those garden-heds 
 Now "tis hacked aw'ay, — 
 
 Down the old house ti'oes ! 
 
 Lo ! the sj^eamoros, 
 
 Seatlicd and sei'awny mates, 
 At the ]nansi(ni dooi's 
 
 Shi\-er, full of woes; 
 AVith its life they grew, 
 
 (_Jnarded 'well its gates; 
 Xow their task is thrcjugh, — 
 l)o\\-n the old lioiise g(jes! 
 
 On this honoreil site 
 
 Modern trade \\\\\ Imild, — 
 What unseemly fright 
 
 Heaven only knows! 
 Something j^ieaked and high, 
 
 SnuK/king of the gnild: 
 Let us heave a sigli, — 
 
 l)o^vn tlie old house goes! 
 
 Eiliiniud CiaixiiO' Sh'/Juia}). 
 
 VALLEY FOIUJE. 
 
 (_)'er toAvn ami eottaii'e, A-ale and height, 
 Down eame the W'intei', fierce and \\liit(.'. 
 And shuddering wildly, as distraught 
 At hoi'rors his own hand lia<l wroii'j'lit. 
 
 His child, the young Year, new!)- horn, 
 Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted, 
 
 W^ailed with a shi\'ei'ing voice forlorn, 
 As on a frozen heath henii^hted. 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AXD LEOEXD. 
 
 269 
 
 In vain the liearths were set aglow, 
 
 111 vain the eveuiuy lamps were lighted, 
 To eheer the dreary realm of snow : 
 (_)ld Winter's brow wonld not be smoothed, 
 Xor the 3'onng Year's wailing- soothed. 
 ILow sad tlie wreteh at inorii or eve 
 Compelled his star\'iiig liome to leave. 
 Who, }ilnnged breast-deeji from drift to drift. 
 Toils slowl)' on from rift to rift, 
 tStill hearing in his aidiing ear 
 The ery his faney whispers near, 
 Of little ones who "weej^i for bread 
 AVitliin an ill-pro\ided shed! 
 
 But wilder, fiercer, sadder still, 
 
 Freezing the tear it caused to start, 
 Was the inevitable chill 
 
 Which pierced a nation's agiied heart, — 
 A nation with its naked breast 
 Against the frozen barriers prest. 
 Heaving its tedious way and slow 
 Through shifting gulfs and (b-ifts of woe, 
 Where every Idast that whistled b\' 
 Was bitter with its children's cry. 
 
 Sucli was tlie winter's awful sight 
 For mail}' a (b'cai'}' day and night. 
 What time our country's hope forhn-ii, 
 Of every needed comb )rt sluu'ii, 
 Lay lionscd within a hurried tent. 
 Where every keen blast fuind a. rent. 
 And oft the snow was seen to sift 
 Along the Hoor its ]iiliiig drift, 
 
 Or, mocking the scant lilaidcet's told, 
 Across the night-couch frcMpieut rolled; 
 Where every patli by a soldier Ijeat, 
 
 Or every track ^^■here a sentinel stood. 
 Still held the print of naked feet. 
 
 And oft the crimson stains of blood; 
 AVhere Famine held her spectral court. 
 
 And joined liy all lier tierce allies: 
 She ever loved a camp or fort 
 
 Jjeleaguered liy the wintry skies, — 
 But chiefly when Disease is liy. 
 To sink the frame and dim tlie eye. 
 Until, with seeking forehead lient, 
 
 In martial garments cold and (hiiiip, 
 I'ale Death patrols from tent to tent. 
 
 To count the cbarnels of the camp. 
 
 Such was the winter that prevailed 
 \A'ithiii the crowiled, IVozen gorge; 
 
 Such were the horrors that assailed 
 The [latriot band at N'alley F<M'ge. 
 
 It was A midnight storm of woes 
 
 To clear the sky for Freedom's morn; 
 
 And such must ever be the throes 
 The hour when Libert_y is born. 
 
 The chiettain, by bis evening lamp, 
 Whose flame scaiX'c che(.'re(l the hazy daniji, 
 Sat toiling o'er some giant plan, 
 
 With majis and charts bef >re him spread, 
 Bclujlding ill his warrioi' scan 
 
 The })atbs which through the future led. 
 
 Thutiuui lia<:haaait Jieod. 
 
 
 
270 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 JOIIIf BURNS OF GETTYSBURG-. 
 
 Have you heard the story that gossips tell 
 Of Burns of Gettysburg ? — No ? Ah, well ! 
 Brief is the glory that hero earns, 
 Briefer the story of poor John Burns: 
 He was the fellow who won renown, — 
 The only man who didn't back down 
 When the rebels rode through his native town, 
 But held his own in the fight next day. 
 When all his townsfolk ran away. 
 That was in July, sixty-three, 
 The very day that General Lee, 
 Flower of Southern chivalry. 
 Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 
 From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 
 I might tell how, but the day before, 
 John Burns stood at his cottage door. 
 Looking down the village street. 
 Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine. 
 He heard the low of his gathered kine. 
 And felt their breath with incense sweet; 
 Or I might say, when the sunset burned 
 The old farm gable, he thought it turned 
 The milk, that fell in a babbling flood 
 Lito the milk-pail, red as blood! 
 Or how he fancied the burn of bees 
 Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 
 But all such fanciful thoughts as these 
 Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 
 Who minded only his own concerns. 
 Troubled no more by fancies fine 
 Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine, — 
 Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 
 Slow to argue, but quick to act. 
 That was the reason, as some folks say. 
 He fought so well on that terrible day. 
 
 And it was terrible. On the right 
 Raged for hours the heady fight. 
 Thundered the battery's double bass, — 
 Difficult music for men to face; 
 While on the left — where now the graves 
 Undulate like the living waves 
 
 That all that day unceasing swept 
 
 Up to the pits the rebels kept — 
 
 Round shot plowed the upland glades, 
 
 Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; 
 
 Shattered fences here and there 
 
 Tossed their splinters in the air; 
 
 The very trees were stripped and bare; 
 
 The barns that once held yellow grain 
 
 Were heaped with harvests of the slain; 
 
 The cattle bellowed on the plain. 
 
 The turkeys screamed with might and main. 
 
 And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 
 
 With strange shells bursting in each nest. 
 
 Just where the tide of battle turns. 
 Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. 
 How do you think the man was dressed? 
 He wore an ancient long bufi' vest. 
 Yellow as saftron, — but his best; 
 And buttoned over his manly breast 
 Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, 
 And large gilt buttons, — size of a dollar, — 
 With tails that the country-folk called 
 
 " swaller." 
 He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat. 
 White as the locks on which it sat. 
 Never had such a sight been seen 
 For forty years on the village green. 
 Since old John Burns was a country beau. 
 And went to the "quiltings" long ago. 
 
 Close at his elbows all that day. 
 Veterans of the Peninsula, 
 Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; 
 And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 
 Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — 
 Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore. 
 Then at the rifle his right hand bore; 
 And hailed him, from out their youthful lore. 
 With scraps of a slangy repertoire: 
 "How are you. White Hat!" "Put her 
 through ! " 
 
LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 271 
 
 "Your head's level," and "Bully for you!" 
 Called him "Daddy,"— begged he'd disclose 
 The name of the tailor who made his clothes ; 
 And what was the value he set on those. 
 While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 
 Stood there picking the rebels oft", — 
 With his long brown rifle, and bell-crown hat, 
 And the swallow-tails they were laughing at; 
 'Twas but a moment, for that respect 
 Which clothes all courage their voices 
 
 checked; 
 And something the wildest could understand 
 Spake in the old man's strong right hand ; 
 And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
 Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown ; 
 Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
 Through the ranks in whispers, and some 
 
 men saw, 
 
 In the antique vestments and long white hair. 
 The Past of the Nation in battle there ; 
 And some of the soldiers since declare 
 That the gleam of his old white hat afar. 
 Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
 That day was their oriflamme of war. 
 
 So raged the battle. You know the rest: 
 How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed, 
 Broke at the final charge, and ran. 
 At which John Burns — a practical num — 
 Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows. 
 And then went back to his bees and cows. 
 
 That is the story of old John Burns; 
 This is the moral the reader learns: 
 In fighting the battle, the question's whether 
 You '11 show a hat that's white, or a feather. 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
 GETTYSBURG ODE. 
 
 Dedication of the National Monument, July 1, 1869. 
 
 After the eyes that looked, the lips that 
 
 spake 
 Here, from the shadows of impending death. 
 Those words of solemn breath. 
 What voice may fitly break 
 The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him? 
 We can but bow the head, with eyes grown 
 dim, 
 Aud, as a Nation's litany, repeat 
 The phrase his martyrdom hath made com- 
 plete. 
 Noble as then, but now more sadly sweet: 
 "Let us, the Living, rather dedicate 
 Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they 
 Thus far advanced so nobly on its way. 
 
 And save the perilled State! 
 Let us, upon this field where they, the brave. 
 Their last full measure of devotion gave, 
 Highly resolve they have not died in vain ! — 
 That, under God, the Nation's later birth 
 Of Freedom, and the people's gaiu 
 
 Of tlieir own Sovereignty, shall never wane 
 And perish from the circle of the earth ! " 
 From such a perfect text, shall Song aspire 
 To light her faded fire. 
 And into wandering music turn 
 Its virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern? 
 His voice all elegies anticipated; 
 For, whatsoe'er the strain. 
 We hear that one refrain : 
 "We consecrate ourselves to them, the 
 Consecrated ! " 
 
 After the thunder-storm our heaven is blue : 
 
 Far-off", along the borders of the sky. 
 
 In silver folds the clouds of battle lie. 
 
 With soft, consoling sunlight shining through ; 
 
 And round the sweeping circle of your hills 
 
 The crashing cannon-thrills 
 Have faded from the memory of the air; 
 And Summer pours from unexhausted fount- 
 ains 
 
272 
 
 LANDSCAPE, HISTORY AND LEGEND. 
 
 Her bliss on yonder mountains: 
 The camps are tenantless, tlie breastworks 
 
 bare: 
 Earth keeps no stain where hero-blood was 
 poured : 
 The hornets, humming on their wings of 
 
 lead, 
 Have ceased to sting, their angry swarms 
 are dead, 
 And, harmless in its scabbard, rusts the 
 sword ! 
 
 "We heard them whisper from the shining 
 
 spaces : 
 " To-day ye grieve : come not to us with 
 
 sorrow ! 
 Wait for the glad, the reconciled To-moiTow ! 
 Your grief but clouds the ether where we 
 
 dwell ; 
 Your anger keeps your souls and ours apai't : 
 But come with peace and pardon, all is well ! 
 And come with love, we touch you, heart 
 
 to heart!" 
 
 Oh, not till now, — Oh, now we dare, at last, 
 
 To give our heroes fitting consecration! 
 Not till the soreness of the strife is past. 
 And Peace hath comforted the weary 
 Nation ! 
 So long her sad, indignant spirit held 
 One keen regret, one throb of pain, unquelled ; 
 So long the land about her feet was waste. 
 The ashes of the burning lay upon her. 
 We stood beside their graves with brows 
 abased, 
 Waiting the purer mood to do them honor! 
 They, through the flames of this dread 
 
 holocaust, 
 The patriot's wrath, the soldier's ardor, 
 
 lost: 
 They sit above us and above our passion. 
 Disparaged even by our human tears, — 
 Beholding truth our race, perchance, may 
 fashion 
 In the slow process of the creeping years. 
 We saw the still reproof upon their faces; 
 
 Immortal Brothers, we have heard ! 
 Our lips declare the reconciling word: 
 For Battle taught, that set us face to face, 
 
 The stubborn temper of the race. 
 And both, from fields no longer alien, come. 
 
 To grander action equally invited, — 
 Marshaled by Learning's trump, by Labor's 
 drum. 
 In strife that purifies and makes united! 
 We force to build, the powers that would 
 
 destroy ; 
 The muscles, hardened by the saber's grasp, 
 
 Now give our hands a firmer clasp: 
 We bring not grief to you, but solemn joy ! 
 
 And, feeling you so near, 
 Look forward with your eyes, divinely clear, 
 To some sublimely-perfect, sacred year. 
 When sons of fathers whom ye overcame 
 Forget in mutual pride the partial blame. 
 And join with us, to set the final crown 
 
 Upon your dear renown, — 
 The People's Union in heart and name! 
 
 Bayard Taylor, 
 
' Earth keeps 
 
 „o stain where hero-blood was p^ 
 
 )ured," 
 
^AJlTl^ ^D 
 
AN IXA'ITATIOX TO THE COL'NTUY, 
 
 Altieady, flnso liy DUi- siiimiKT (Iwelliili;', 
 Till' Kastor spai'mw ri'iicats Ikt soul;-: 
 
 A iiU'iTV wai'liler, slu' cliidrs tlic lilcissdiiis — 
 Tho idlo lilossuiiis that slc(.'}i so Itniy-. 
 
 The liliu'hiril t,']iants, from tho ehn's hmt;- 
 liraiu-hc^i, 
 
 A liyiiiii t(i ■wolc'OiiH.' tile hiuhliui;' ycai'. 
 The sdiitli wind -wandors tVoiii tiold ti> I'ni'est, 
 
 And softly \vhis|it'rs. •' Tho Sprint;' is lioro." 
 
 Come, dauii'litor iiiino, from tho u'lnoniy city, 
 J'oforo tlioso hiys frmn tho oirn lia\'o 
 ooast'd : 
 
 Tlio \-iiih'l In'oatlios, hy onr ddur, as s\\-(_'(_'tly 
 As ill 1ht' air of lior nati\o East. 
 
 Tliouu'li many a flower in tho wood is 
 wakini;', 
 
 Tho dafl'o(lil is onr (hnirsido ([noon: 
 t>ho [lUshes n|i«'ard tlio swai'd alroad\'. 
 
 To spot with snnshino tho oarly groon. 
 
 Xo lays so i(iy(ins as tliosc arc warlilod 
 Froiri wiry prison in niaidon's liower; 
 
 Xo pampioroil hiciom of tho u'roon-honse 
 oliamhor 
 Has half tho oharrnof tho hiwn's tii-st tlowor. 
 
 Yot tlioso swoot sonnds of tho oarly sonson, 
 And tlioso fair siu-lits of its sunny days, 
 
 Aro only swoot wdion wo fiiidly listen. 
 And only fair wlioii wo tondly gazo. 
 
278 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 Tliore is no y-lory in stni' "i' ])l(issom C'diiK', Julia (Icar, tor the sprouting willows, 
 
 Till lodkt'd n[Hm liy a, lovini;- eye; The oponiiiy tlowcTs, and tliu gloaniint;- 
 
 There is no t'ragranee in jV[iril hreezes hi'ooks, 
 
 Till hreathed with jny as the}' waudei' And li(ill()\\s, green in the sun, are waiting 
 
 by. Their d(i\\ er of beauty ti-uni thy glad hxd-cs. 
 
 Willium Cidkii. Bnjdid. 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 The night was dark, though sometimes a 
 
 faint star 
 A little while a little spaee made hright. 
 The night was long, and like an iron bar 
 Lay hea^'y on the land: Till d'er the sea 
 kSlo^vly, witliin tlie East, there grew a light 
 AV'^hieh half was starlight, and half seemed 
 
 to lie 
 The herald ot' a greater. The pale \\ bite 
 Turned slowly to pale rose, and n}i the 
 
 height 
 Of heaven slowly elindjed. The gray sea 
 
 grew 
 liose-e((lored like the sky. A white gidl flew 
 straight toward the utnu)st lidnndary ol' the 
 
 East, 
 Where slo\A'ly the rose gathered antl iu- 
 
 ereased. 
 
 It was as on the opening of a door 
 
 By one that in his hamt a lamp doth hohl, 
 
 \V'h(.ise thtme is hidden by the garment's 
 
 fold,— 
 The still air moves, the ^\'ide room is less dim. 
 
 ■More liriglit the P]ast heeanre, the oeean 
 turned 
 Dark and more dark against the brightening 
 
 Sharper against the sky the long sea line. 
 The hollows of the breakers on the shore 
 "Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth 
 
 shine, 
 Thongh wdiite the outer bi'anchcs of tlie tree. 
 Ei'om I'ose to red the level heaven burned; 
 Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, 
 A lihideof gold flashed on the horiz(in"s rim. 
 
 liichaid Wulsoii Gilder. 
 
 IN THE SPRINGTIME. 
 
 iSee what I sa'w to-day, 
 
 .Fust as 1 tui'ued away 
 
 T<_) lea\'e the liudding wood. 
 
 And pfiused and undei'stood 
 
 The meaning of Sjiring A\'eather: 
 
 Two lovers (dose together. 
 
 That, — where at last the laugbini;- lirook 
 
 Glides to the lake, — with dreamy look 
 And li}>s half-parted in a, smile, 
 
 St 1 eharmed to -wateh a little isle, 
 
 I'ast whieli the 'waves Avent I'ippling on 
 With softer musie to the swan 
 That sat there in enehanted rest, 
 Hiimoving on her nest. 
 
 Ruhai Kd'tij Wieks. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 279 
 
 THE FIRST SPRmG DAY 
 
 This baby-blossom of cold skies,— 
 Born half of winter, half of spring, — 
 
 Trembles a little where it lies. 
 
 Of it some sweet child-bard should 
 sing. 
 
 In whom no flecks of darkness stain 
 
 The silver glosses of his wing. 
 But I should mingle with my strain, 
 Darling, too many notes of pain 
 For days o'erlived in vain, in vain ! 
 
 William B. Wright. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 What wonder if thj'- tears and smiles 
 Steal from of old the poet's heart, 
 fairest Queen of sweetest wiles! 
 Then let me bring my homely part 
 Of praise — my violet of rhyme. 
 Though nobler bards with better art 
 Have sung thee many and many a time, — 
 Bards that could slip into their strain 
 Some threads of tender or sublime, — 
 Thou wilt not scorn my weak refrain. 
 Knowing how sweet a thing it is 
 To sing, though all the song be vain. 
 
 Cold Nature, by thy amorous kiss 
 
 Stung sweetly, stirs his limbs and feels 
 
 A thrill of immemorial bliss. 
 
 As a hoar king, Avhose age congeals 
 
 The merry pulse of early years, 
 
 The flush from cheek and forehead steals. 
 
 And dries the founts of happy tears, — 
 
 Whose servants, seeking through the land. 
 
 Have spied among the wheaten ears. 
 
 Where maidens reap in comely band, 
 
 A creature fashioned wondrously. 
 
 And loosed the sickle from her hand, 
 
 And led her in that she may be 
 
 As summer to the Avintry king, 
 
 As music to his misery, — 
 Feeling about his bosom cling 
 Her glowing arms, and o'er his face 
 Her flowery breath flow murnmring, 
 Loving her for her delicate grace, 
 Her tender palm of blandishment, 
 Her gracious eyes and winsome ways, 
 Perceives his frosty thews relent, 
 A subtle blossom in his blood. 
 Soft throes of passionate intent; — 
 So quickens up to leaf and bud 
 The frore earth in thy fervent arms. 
 And gets his youth in fiery flood. 
 
 Now while the brook forgets his harms. 
 The meadows hatch the flowery brood, 
 The breeze runs riot with thy charms. 
 Bring to the bard his proper good, 
 Season, to him who loves thee well; 
 And melting down his colder mood, 
 Teach all the tender buds to swell — 
 The buds of song; pansy, primrose. 
 And crocus, these that know thy spell; 
 And each young blossom as it blows 
 Shall breathe thy love, thy glory tell. 
 At morn and when its petals close. 
 
 William B. Wright, 
 
280 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 A MAY MELODY. 
 
 The earth sails under the arcli of May, 
 Gay with garkuuls, and troojis attend her; 
 
 The bkiL' sky melts, and day by day 
 
 We walk in visions and dreams of splendor. 
 
 The dandelion's disk on the tender green 
 Dots with its gold the verdurous spaees; 
 
 On knoll and meadow its glimmer and sheen 
 Fill with glory the desolate places. 
 
 The robin is turned to an arehitect, 
 
 "Weaving brown twigs in a leafy eover; 
 
 While the phoebe's piteous wail, I suspect, 
 Is Avrung from her heart by some treach- 
 erous lover. 
 
 On the river's bank, with a hint of suom'. 
 The sanguinaria's petals are drifted ; 
 
 But the frail anemone you shall know 
 By the teuderest touch of the wind uplifted. 
 
 The humble-bee tries how closely clear 
 He can graze your head on his whizzing 
 jiinious, 
 And l)eats his Ijoom on the atmosphere 
 As he sails for the Sybarite's sweet do- 
 minions. 
 
 Xow darts up the Ijobolink: watch and 
 see 
 This acrobat's skill; note his musical 
 flavor — 
 His trilled and tremoloed melody 
 
 On minim and crotchet and senii-(piaver. 
 
 In the pink-white orchard's pomp and bloom 
 The bees are droning their drowsy chorus; 
 
 New birds are coming — make room, make 
 room, 
 For the opulent Summer is just before us! 
 
 Jod Benimi. 
 
 FANTAISIE DE PUmTEMi'S. 
 
 In the aisles of the orchard fair blossoms 
 are drifting. 
 The white petals drop one by one, 
 And the tulip's pale stalk from the garden 
 is lifting 
 A goblet of gems to the sun! 
 
 Come, ramble awhile through this exquisite 
 weather 
 Of days that are fleet to pass. 
 When the stem of the willow shoots out a 
 green feather, 
 And buttercups burn in the grass! 
 
 When, pushing the soil from her Vjonny 
 pink shoidderg, 
 The clover glides forth to the world, 
 
 And the fresh mosses gleam on the gray 
 rugged bowldei's, 
 With delicate Maj'-dew impearled! 
 
 The brook in the pasture has hidden its 
 pebbles. 
 Full-flooded with April rain, 
 And listen, my love, to the silvery treb- 
 les 
 That ring from the blossoming lane! 
 
 Wliat vows to their sweetheai'ts the ga}' 
 robins utter! 
 ISTo marvel such Avooers are heard! 
 Heigh ho! how the bosoms that scorn us 
 would flutter. 
 If man could make love like a bird! 
 
 Edgar Faireetl. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 281 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 I HEAK the dry-voiced insects call, 
 
 And " Come," they say, " the night grows 
 brief!" 
 
 I hear the dew-drops pattering fall 
 From leaf to leaf, — from leaf to leaf. 
 
 Your night-lamp glimmers fitfully; 
 
 I watch below, you sleep above; 
 Yet on your blind I seem to see 
 
 Your shadow, love, — your shadow, love! 
 
 The roses in the night-wind sway. 
 Their petals glistening with the dew; 
 
 As they are longing for the day, 
 I long for you, — I long for you! 
 
 But you are in the land of dreams; 
 
 Your eyes are closed, your gentle 
 breath 
 So faintly comes, your slumber seems 
 
 Almost like death, — almost like death! 
 
 Sleep on; but may my music twine 
 Your sleep with strands of melody. 
 
 And lead you, gentle love of mine, 
 To dream of me, — to dream of me! 
 
 George Arnold. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIl^G-. 
 
 BEQUEST. 
 
 The red day is melting into even. 
 And the even looks on you and me alone, 
 
 As you stand tall and clear against the 
 westward. 
 With heaven's glory added to your own. 
 
 The sun creeps ablaze among your tresses. 
 The winds press un chidden to your brow; 
 
 If you ever mean to give me what you 
 promised, 
 I am ready for it now: — give it now. 
 
 The sun greets the earth before his parting. 
 The waves kiss the shore and trip away. 
 
 And cloud leans to cloud across the heaven, 
 And I wonder you can dare to answer nay. 
 
 By the brown stars that bend in mocking 
 o'er me. 
 By the brown clouds that loosen on your 
 brow, 
 By the ^vreathed lips that taunt me Avith 
 their redness, 
 I am sworn to have it now: — give it now. 
 
 REFUSAL. 
 
 The last words I gave you when we parted, 
 My last words for evermore shall be: — 
 
 You may borrow all the sweets of all the 
 summer. 
 But you '11 never borrow kisses, sir, from me. 
 
 I lend not, I sell not, I give not; 
 
 And yet they are to me as little worth 
 As the common drops of rain, before the 
 sun-god 
 Has spanned with them the heaven and 
 the earth. 
 
 The young moon is weaving spells around 
 us; 
 
 The sweet darkness witches us to stay ; 
 The late darkness creeping all around us 
 
 Is warning us away, — come away. 
 
 You would surely never take what I deny 
 you. 
 And yet it were a sin to break a vow: 
 But if you meant to steal it, as I fear me, 
 You had better do it now: — take it now. 
 
 Eliza Sproal Turner. 
 
282 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 YOU LEFT ME. 
 
 You left me, and the anguish passed, 
 And passed the day and passed the night — 
 
 A blank in which my senses failed; 
 Then slowly eame a mental sight. 
 
 So plain it reproduced the hours 
 
 We lived as one — the books we read. 
 
 Our quiet walks and pleasant talks — 
 Love, by your spirit was I led? 
 
 Oh, love, the vision grows too dear; 
 
 I live in visions — I pursue 
 Them only; come, j^our rival meet. 
 
 My future bring, it will be — you. 
 
 Elizabeth Stoddard. 
 
 PROPOSAL. 
 
 The violet loves a sunny bank, 
 
 The cowslip loves the lea; 
 The scarlet creeper loves the elm. 
 But I love — thee. 
 
 The sunshine kisses mount and vale, 
 The stars, they kiss the sea; 
 
 The west winds kiss the clover bloom. 
 But I kiss — thee! 
 
 The oriole weds his mottled mate: 
 
 The lily's bride o' the bee; 
 Heaven's marriage-ring is round the earth — 
 Shall I wed thee? 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 ASHES OF ROSES. 
 
 Somebody promised — "Or ever June closes 
 I will be with you to gather the roses: 
 Failing juy share of the blossomy treasure 
 May lavished on you in bountiful measure, 
 Missing the dew and delight of the 
 
 spring, 
 June, I aifirm, shall atone for the thing. 
 When the sweet summer is blushing in 
 
 roses. 
 Watch for me, welcome me — ere your June 
 
 closes." 
 
 Somebody else, by the casement leaf-shaded. 
 Watched till her roses had blossomed and 
 
 faded : 
 Counted the beautiful days as they vanished; 
 Hoped until hope from her bosom was ban- 
 ished. 
 When the fair queen of the summer was dead. 
 Sighing, she turned from the window, and said, 
 " June will return for the rose and the clover. 
 But oh! for the June of my heart that is 
 over!" 
 
 Mary E. Bn 
 
 LOVE'S QITEEN. 
 
 He loves not well whose love is bold! 
 
 I would not have thee come too nigh. 
 The sun's gold would not seem pure gold 
 
 Unless the suu were in the sky: 
 To take him thence and chain him near 
 Would make his beauty disajipear. 
 
 He keeps his state, — do thou keep thine. 
 And shine upon me from afar! 
 
 So shall I bask in light divine 
 
 That falls from Love's own guiding-star. 
 
 So shall thy eminence be high. 
 
 And so my passion shall not die. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 283 
 
 But all my life shall reach its hands 
 Of lofty longing toward thy face, 
 
 And be as one who speechless stands 
 111 rapture at some perfect grace. 
 
 My love, my hope, my all, shall be 
 
 To look to heaven and look to thee. 
 
 Thine eyes shall be the heavenly lights; 
 Thy voice shall be the summer breeze, 
 What time it sways, on moonlit nights. 
 
 The murmuring tops of leafy trees; 
 And I will touch thy beauteous form 
 In June's red roses, rich and warm. 
 
 But thou thyself shalt come not down 
 From that pure region far above; 
 
 But keep thy throne and wear thy crown, 
 Queen of my heart and queen of love ! 
 
 A monarch in thy realm complete. 
 
 And I a monarch — at thy feet! 
 
 W'dlkun Winter . 
 
 THE QUAKEKESS BRIDE. 
 
 Oh ! not in the halls of the noble and proud. 
 Where Fashion assembles her glittering 
 
 crowd. 
 Where all is in beauty and splendor arrayed, 
 Were the nuptials pei-formed of the meek 
 
 Quaker maid. 
 
 Nor yet in the temple those rites which 
 
 she took. 
 By the altar, the miter-crowned bishop, and 
 
 book ; 
 Where oft in her jewels doth stand the fair 
 
 bride. 
 To whisper those vows which through life 
 
 shall abide. 
 
 A tear glistened bright in her dark shaded e3'e, 
 And her bosom half-uttered a tremulous sigh. 
 As the hand she had pledged was confidingly 
 
 given. 
 And the low murmured accents recorded in 
 
 heaven. 
 
 I've been at the bridal where wealth spread 
 
 the board, 
 Where the spaidding red wine in rich goblets 
 
 was poured, 
 Where the priest in his surplice from I'itual 
 
 read, 
 And the solemn response was impressively 
 
 said. 
 
 The building was humble, yet sacred to One 
 Who heeds the deep worship that utters no 
 
 tone ; 
 Whose presence is not to the temple confined. 
 But dwells with the contrite and lowly of 
 
 mind. 
 
 'T was there, all unveiled, save by modesty, 
 
 stood 
 The Quakeress bride, in her pure satin 
 
 hood ; 
 Iler charms unadorned by the garland or 
 
 gem. 
 Yet fair as the lily just plucked from its 
 
 stem. 
 
 I've seen the fond sire, in his thin locks of 
 gray, 
 
 Give the pride of his heart to the bride- 
 groom away, 
 
 While he brushed the big tear from his deep- 
 furrowed cheek. 
 
 And bowed the assent which his lips might 
 not speak; 
 
 But in all the array of the costlier scene, 
 Naught seemed to my eye so sincere in its 
 
 mien, 
 No language so fully the heart to resign, 
 As the Quakeress bride's — "Until death I 
 
 AM THINE." 
 
 Mrs. E. C. Kinney. 
 
284 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 A lilKD OF PASSAGE. 
 
 As the (lay's last liglit is dj-ing, 
 As the uiirht's tirst lireczo is siti'liiiii;', 
 I simhI 3'on, Love, like a iiiesseiiger-iluve, my 
 thougiit tlu'dugii the ilistaiiee tiding! 
 
 Let it percli on 3'our sill; or, liotter, 
 Let it feel your soft hand's fetter, 
 While yoii seareli and hriiig, from under it;/ 
 wing, lo\'e, hidden a-way like a letter! 
 
 Edfjar }'\itv<xtt. 
 
 A CAUTION. 
 
 Love liailed a little maid 
 
 Romping tlirongh the meadow; 
 Heedless in the snn she played, 
 
 Scornful of the shadow. 
 "Come with me," whis}>ered he; 
 
 "Listen, sweet, to love and reason.' 
 "By and hy," she moeked reply, 
 
 "Love's not in season." 
 
 Years went, years eame, 
 Light mixed with shadow. 
 
 Love n^et the nudd again 
 
 l)reannn!J' throuu-|i the meadow. 
 
 "Be not eoy," urg('<l the hoy, 
 
 "List in time to lo\'e and reason.'" 
 
 "By and hy," slie nuised reply, 
 "Loves not in season."' 
 
 Years went, years came. 
 
 Light turned to shadow; 
 Love saw the maid again. 
 
 Waiting in the meadow. 
 "I'ass n(.) more, my dream is o'er; 
 
 I ean listen now to reason."' 
 "Keep thee eoy,"" mo(d<ed the hoy; 
 
 "Love's out of season."" 
 
 Klizii Simuil Turin' 
 
 V^J 
 
 TO AN OUIOLE. 
 
 \lii\v falls it, oriole, thoii hast come to Hy 
 Li tropic splendor through our Northern 
 sky V 
 
 At some glad mmneiit was it Nature"s choice 
 To do\\'er a scrap of sunset with a xdicey 
 
 Or did some orange tulip, flaked with lilack. 
 In some f)rg(itten gartk'ii, ages Ijack, 
 
 ^'eai-ning toward Heaven until its wish was 
 
 heard, 
 Hesii'c uns[)eakaltly to he a hirdV 
 
 Eihjar Fawtrll. 
 
NATURE AM) LIFE. 
 
 ■JXo 
 
 AD FIXEM. 
 
 I WOULD not have believed it tlicii, 
 If any one had told me so — 
 
 Ere 3'0ii sliall see iiis face again 
 A year and more isliall go. 
 
 And let tliern come again to-day 
 To pity nie and prophesy, 
 
 And I will face thern all, and say 
 To all of them. You lie ! 
 
 Falsu prophets all, you lie, you lie ! 
 
 I will Ix'lieve no word but his; 
 Will say l)ecend.ier is Jul}", 
 
 That Autumn April is, 
 
 liather than say he has forgot. 
 
 Or will not cume ^\■llo bade me wait, 
 
 AVho wait him and aeeuse him mit 
 Of l)eing very late. 
 
 He said tliat he would eorne in Spring, 
 jViid I l)elieved — believe him now, 
 
 Tliough all tile birds have ceased to siiiij 
 And l)are is every liough; 
 
 For Spring is not till he apjtear, 
 Winter is not when lie is Jiigli — 
 
 The oidy Loi'd of all my yrar, 
 For whom I live — and die! 
 
 I'uArl Kdli) W.rh. 
 
 TOUCH XOT. 
 
 Where glows a heart with silent love 
 Lay not thy rei'kless hand thereon; 
 
 E.xtinguish not the heavenly spark; 
 IiKleed, indeed, 'twere not well done! 
 
 H' e'er a spot all uiiprotimed 
 
 Is f_)und upon this world of ours. 
 
 It is a youthful human heart 
 
 When tirst it yields to pure Love's powers 
 
 Oh, grant thou still the dream that eome^ 
 'Mid rosy blossoms of the i\Iay ! 
 
 Thou know'st not what a. jiaradisc 
 I)oth with that \'ision pass away. 
 
 Tliri-e broke full many a valiant heart 
 \\dien \t\w was rett awa\' by fate, 
 
 iVnd nuiiiy, suffering, wander f)rth. 
 Filled with all bitterness and hate; 
 
 An<l man\', lileeding, wounded sore, 
 Shriek l(.)Uil f )r hopes forever fled. 
 
 And mid the world's dust fling them down,— 
 For godlike Love to them was dead. 
 
 And weep, complain, e'en as thou wilt, 
 Xot all thy peniteure and pain 
 
 (Jan caiisL' a faded rose to bloom, 
 <_)]■ liid a dead heart live again. 
 
 Lii,:,j II. lloupe. 
 
 IT MIGHT HAVE P.FEN, 
 
 Mv wasted cheeks are wet 
 With tears of vain rt^gret 
 
 For all I should rememlier not, 
 And all I would forget. 
 
 Oh, how sliall these avenge us, 
 With look, or word, or kiss. 
 
 For all the bliss that might have been. 
 And all the pain that is. 
 
 .JuJiit Aijhiii'ir l)>,r<inn. 
 
286 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 I FEEii the breath of the summer night, 
 
 Aromatic lire: 
 The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir 
 
 With tender desire. 
 
 The white moths flutter about tlie lamp, 
 Enamored with light; 
 
 And a thousand creatures softly sing 
 A song to the night! 
 
 But I am alone, and how can I sing 
 
 Praises to thee? 
 Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul 
 
 That waiteth for me. 
 
 Elizabeth Stoddard. 
 
 ENOLA. 
 
 What shall we do for the heart that is hurt ? 
 How shall we freshen the cheek that is pale? 
 Strengthen the footsteps that falter and fail, — 
 Brighten the eyes of Enola? 
 
 The sunshine is out of the trail of her hair. 
 The waist in her girdle's too slender by half; 
 Gone is the ravishing, low little laugh 
 From the blossoniy mouth of Enola. 
 
 Her necklace of pearls was broken to-day; 
 
 Some fell in her bosom, and some to the 
 
 ground 
 Slid whitely and brightly, with never a sound. 
 Like tears from the face of Enola. 
 
 If the lover who left her should seek her 
 
 to-night. 
 And put back the ring that she misses the 
 
 most. 
 It would not stay on, but slip oft' and be lost 
 From the poor little baud of Enola! 
 
 Laura 0. Eedden. 
 
 MY BIRD. 
 
 Ere last year's moon had left the sky, 
 A birdling sought my Indian nest. 
 
 And folded, oh ! so lovingly ! 
 Its tiny wings upon my breast. 
 
 From morn till evening's purple tinge, 
 In winsome helplessness she lies; 
 
 Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe. 
 Shut softly on her starry eyes. 
 
 There's not in Ind a lovelier bird; 
 
 Broad earth owns not a happier nest; 
 God, thou hast a fountain stirred. 
 
 Whose waters never more shall rest! 
 
 This beautiful, mysterious thing, 
 This seeming visitant from Heaven, 
 
 This bird with the immortal wing, 
 To me — to me, thy hand has given. 
 
 The pulse flrst caught its tiny stroke. 
 The blood its crimson hue, from mine: 
 
 This life, which I have dared invoke. 
 Henceforth is parallel with thine. 
 
 A silent awe is in my room — 
 
 I tremble with delicious fear; 
 The future, with its light and gloom, 
 
 Time and eternity are here. 
 
 Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise; 
 
 Hear, oh my God! one earnest prayer: 
 Room for my bird in paradise. 
 
 And give her angel plumage there! 
 
 Emily E. Judvm. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 2S7 
 
 THE PHANTOM. 
 
 AfiAiN I sit within the mansion, 
 
 In the old, familiar seat; 
 And shade and sunshine chase each other 
 
 O'er the carpet at my feet. 
 
 And, all forgetful of my sorrow, 
 
 Unmindful of my pain, 
 I think she has hut newly left me, 
 
 And soon will uome again. 
 
 But the sweet-hrier's arms have wrestled 
 upwards 
 
 In the summers that are past. 
 And the willow trails- its branches lower 
 
 Than when I saw them last. 
 
 They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
 
 From out the haunted room; 
 To till the house, that once was jc)yful. 
 
 With silence and with gloom. 
 
 And many kind, remembered faces 
 
 Within the doorway come, — 
 Voices, that Avake the sweeter music 
 
 Of one that now is dumb. 
 
 They sing, in tones as glad as ever. 
 
 The songs she loved to hear; 
 They braid the rose in summer garlands, 
 
 Whose flowers to her were dear. 
 
 And still, her footsteps in the passage. 
 
 Her blushes at the door. 
 Her timid words of maiden welcome, 
 
 Come back to me once more. 
 
 She stays without, perchance, a moment, 
 To dress her dark-brown hair; 
 
 I hear the rustle of her garments, — 
 Her light step on the stair ! 
 
 ilutteriiig heart! control thy tumult. 
 
 Lest e3-cs }irofane should see 
 My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 
 
 Her coming brings to me ! 
 
 She tarries long: but lo! a whisper 
 
 Beyond the open door. 
 And, gliding through the cpiiet sunshine, 
 
 A shadow on the floor! 
 
 Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me. 
 The vine, whose shadow strays; 
 
 And my patient heart must still await her, 
 ISTor chide her long delays. 
 
 But m}^ heart grows sick with weary wait- 
 ing, 
 
 As many a time before: 
 Her foot is ever at the threshold. 
 
 Yet never passes o'er. 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 ALL MOTHER. 
 
 If I had an eagle's wings. 
 
 How grand to sail in the sky! 
 
 But I should drop to the earth 
 If I heard my baby cry: 
 
 My baby — my darling. 
 
 The wings may go, for me. 
 
 If I were a splendid queen. 
 
 With a crown to keep in place. 
 
 Would it do for a little wet mouth 
 To rub all over my face? 
 
 jNTv baby — my darling. 
 
 The crown may go, for me. 
 
 Eliza Sproat Turner. 
 
288 
 
 NAT HUE AM> I'IFE. 
 
 ly THP] ^lEADOAVS. 
 
 I LIE ill tlic KiiiTiiiicr meadows, 
 
 111 tin; iiirail()«'s all alone. 
 With tlie infinite sky almve me. 
 
 Ami the sun on his midilay t'hi'oue. 
 
 The smell of the rtowering grasses 
 
 Is sweeter than any rose, 
 And a million hapjiy insects 
 
 Sint:: in the warm repose. 
 
 The mother lark that is hr Xw-s, 
 
 Feels the siiH on lier \\-inu-s. 
 
 And file deeps of the noonday ^'litter 
 With swarms of faii'y tiling's. 
 
 From the liillowy ^-reeli l)eneath me 
 To the fatlinmlcss liluc ahuve. 
 
 The creatures of Uod are hapliy 
 
 In the ^\'armtll of their summer li>\'e. 
 
 The iiifiiiite hliss of Nature 
 
 I feel in every vein ; 
 The li,i;-ht aiul the life of Summer 
 
 Blossom ill heart and hraiii. 
 
 I)Ut darker than any shadow 
 i>V thunder-(douds unfurled, 
 
 The awful truth arisi's. 
 
 That Death is in the world! 
 
 And the sky may InMm as ever. 
 And never a cloud he curled; 
 
 And the airs he liviiii;- odors, 
 But Death is in the w<u'ld! 
 
 Out (if the deeps of sunshine 
 
 The invisihie holt is hurled: 
 There's life in the summer meadows, 
 
 But Death is in the world '. 
 
 Iluydid Tciijlor. 
 
Yl(/^j-T^- I'A^^'-^^'. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 280 
 
 1>()SSESSI0X. 
 
 "It was our wedding-day 
 A month ago," dear lieart, I lioar yon say. 
 If months, or years, or ages since have jiassoih 
 I know not: I have eeased to fjnestion Time. 
 I only know that onee there pealed a ehime 
 Of joyous hells, and then I held you fast, 
 And all stood hack, and none my right 
 
 denied. 
 And forth we -walked: the ^\'orld \vas free 
 
 and M'ide 
 Defore us. ISinee that day 
 I count mv life: the I'ast is washed aA\'a\'. 
 
 It was no dream, that vow: 
 
 It was the voice that W(d<e nic from a dr(.'am, — 
 
 A hap}>y dream, I think; hut I am waking 
 
 now. 
 And drink the splendor r>f a sun supreme 
 That turns the mist of lornier tears to gold. 
 Within these arms I hold 
 The fleeting promise, chased so long in vain : 
 Ah, weary l>ird! thou ^\'ilt not tly again: 
 Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no more 
 
 depart, — 
 Thv nest is l.iuililcd in \\\\ heart! 
 
290 
 
 NATURE AND J JFK 
 
 I was the crefscent; thou 
 
 The silver phantom of the perfect sphere, 
 
 Held in its bosom: in one glory now 
 
 Our lives united shine, and many a year — 
 
 Not the sweet moon of bridal only — we 
 
 One luster, ever at the full, shall be: 
 
 One ^wvQ and rounded light, one planet 
 
 whole, 
 One life developed, one completed soul! 
 For I in thee, and thou in me, 
 Unite our cloven halves of destiny. 
 
 God knew His chosen time: 
 
 He bade me slowly ripen to my jjrime. 
 
 And from my boughs withheld the promised 
 fruit, 
 
 Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root. 
 
 Secure, Love! secure 
 
 Thy blessing is : I have thee day and night : 
 
 Thou art become my blood, my life, my 
 light: 
 
 God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt en- 
 dure ! 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 UNDER THE LINDEN. 
 
 What is there more delicious than to lie 
 Outstretched beneath thy shade, Linden 
 tree, 
 
 A long, long afternoon of mid- July, 
 And spin the gossamer of reverie? 
 
 For then a fountain cool of incense bends 
 Thy glossy boughs with a melliferous rain 
 
 As soft as beat of winged thoughts that fly 
 To rise afar in dreamland clouds again; 
 
 And constantly a murmurous strain de- 
 scends 
 From covert high of countless honey-reapers 
 Thronging their harvest-field — no saintly 
 
 keepers 
 Of holidays, like yonder oriole 
 And me; — they give no hour to idle pilay. 
 Hard misers, they each golden minute dole ; 
 And, bustling to and fro the work-shop hive, 
 Enjoin all dreaming drones to wake and 
 strive 
 
 To lay up something for a rainy day! 
 
 "How doth the busy bee?" Ah, yes! how 
 
 doth 
 He buzz with ostentatious toil, the sloth 
 
 To shame! and buzzes busier, I know, 
 By far, to keep his reputation ample, 
 
 Good Dr. Watts, since you his praises so 
 Have sung for lofty juvenile example! 
 
 And what great One is that (I scarce 
 recall ) 
 Whom your staid muse seems well acquainted 
 
 with ; 
 Some one of substance, too — no shadowy 
 myth — 
 A capitalist who will find for all 
 The unemployed some labor light as play — ■ 
 " Some mischief still for idle hands to do ! " 
 Such work were fine enough, but who, 
 oh ! who 
 Would like to take the grim employer's pay? 
 So, if upon this peaceful holiday. 
 His sharp recruiting agents forth are sent. 
 Me here they need not think to thus beguile ! 
 Toil on, industrious bees! the safer way 
 You choose, in lightsome task, and make, 
 the while. 
 With labor-song in myriad A^oices blent. 
 
 This spot like Prospero's enchanted isle — 
 Full of "sounds and sweet airs that give 
 delight." 
 
 Linden, where was all concealed from 
 
 sight ? 
 
 What covert, iu among your branchy ways, 
 
 This nectar hid from mortals' prying fancies? 
 
 What hidden cells through all the wintry 
 
 days 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 291 
 
 This honey stored, our eyes to now amaze — 
 Like fairy-work of childhood's dear ro- 
 mances — 
 On this refulgent day of ripe midsummer, 
 With dainty banquet spread, where swiftly 
 hie 
 From all the valley-hives each eager hum- 
 mer? 
 
 O Linden, how could tiny buds inclose 
 This spray of perfume that so sweetly flows 
 To me, on clover-pillow, where I lie, 
 
 Whilst cheery crickets chirp at hide-and- 
 seek 
 Among my locks; and orient butterflies, 
 That flit among my dreams in silken guise 
 Of dark sultanas, softly fan my cheek? 
 
 Myron B. Btntmi. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. 
 
 There are gains for all our losses, 
 
 There are balms for all our pain: 
 But when youth, the dream, departs. 
 It takes something from our hearts. 
 And it never 
 
 We are stronger, and are better. 
 
 Under manhood's sterner reign : 
 Still we feel that something sweet 
 
 Followed youth, with flying feet, 
 And will never come again. 
 
 Something beautiful is vanished. 
 
 And we sigh for it in vain : 
 We behold it every-where. 
 On the earth, and in the air. 
 
 But it never eonies again. 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 WHICH SHALL IT BE? 
 
 "Which shall it be? Which shall it be?" 
 I looked at John — John looked at me 
 (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet, 
 As well as though my locks were jet); 
 And when I found that I must speak, 
 My voice seemed strangely low and Aveak: 
 "Tell me again what Robert said." 
 And then I, listening, bent my head. 
 "This is his letter: 'I will give 
 A house and land while you shall live, 
 If, in return, from out your seven. 
 One child to me for aye is given.' " 
 
 I looked at John's old garments worn ; 
 
 I thought of all that John had borne 
 
 Of poverty and work and care. 
 
 Which I, though willing, could not share; 
 
 I thought of seven mouths to feed, 
 
 Of seven little children's need. 
 
 And then of this. " Come, John," said I, 
 
 "We'll choose among them as they lie 
 
 Asleep;" so, walking hand in hand, 
 
 Dear John and I surveyed our band. 
 
 First to the cradle lightly stepped. 
 
 Where the new nameless baby slept. 
 
 "Shall it be Baby?" whispered John. 
 
 I took his hand, and hurried on 
 
 To Lilian's crib. Her sleeping grasp 
 
 Held her old doll within its clasp ; 
 
 Her dark curls lay like gold alight, 
 
 A glory 'gainst the pillow white. 
 
 Softly her father stooped to lay 
 
 His I'ough hand down in loving way, 
 
 When dream or whisper made her stir. 
 
 Then huskily he said, "Not her, not her!" 
 
 We stopped beside the trundle-bed, 
 
 And one long ray of lamplight shed 
 
 Athwart the boyish faces there. 
 
 In sleep so pitiful and fair; 
 
 I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek 
 
 A tear vmdried. Ere John could speak, 
 
 "He's but a baby, too," said I, 
 
 And kissed him as we hurried by. 
 
292 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 Pale, patient Robbie's angel face 
 
 Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. 
 
 "No, for a thousand crowns, not him!" 
 
 We whispered, while our eyes were dim. 
 
 Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son, 
 
 Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 
 
 Could he be spared? Nay, He who gave 
 
 Bid us befriend him to his grave; 
 
 Only a mother's heart can be 
 
 Patient enough for such as he; 
 
 "And so," said John, "I would not dare 
 
 To send him from her bedside prayer." 
 
 Then stole we softly up above 
 
 And knelt by Mary, child of love. 
 
 "Perhaps for her 'twould better be," 
 
 I said to John. Quite silently 
 
 He lifted up a curl that lay 
 Across her cheek in willful way. 
 And shook his head, " Nay, love, not thee," 
 The while my heart beat audibly. 
 Only one more, our eldest lad. 
 Trusty and truthful, good and glad — 
 So like his father. "No, John, no — 
 I can not, will not, let him go." 
 And so we wrote, in courteous way. 
 We could not give one child away; 
 And afterward toil lighter seemed. 
 Thinking of that of which we dreamed, — 
 Happy in truth that not one face 
 Was missed from its accustomed place; 
 Thankful to work for all the seven. 
 Trusting the rest to One in heaven. 
 
 Ethd Lynn Beers. 
 
 THE BEECH-TREE. 
 
 There's a hill by the Schuylkill, the river 
 of hearts, 
 And a beech-tree that grows on its side. 
 In a nook that is lovely when sunshine 
 departs. 
 And twilight creeps over the tide: 
 How sweet, at that moment, to steal through 
 the grove, 
 In the shade of that beech to recline. 
 And dream of the maiden who gave it her 
 love. 
 And left it thus hallowed in mine. 
 
 Here's the rock that she sat on, the spray 
 that she held. 
 When she bent round its gray trunk 
 with me; 
 And smiled, as with soft, timid eyes, she 
 beheld 
 The name I had carved on the tree; — ■ 
 So carved that the letters should look to 
 the west, 
 As well their dear magic became. 
 So that when the dim sunshine was sinking 
 to rest 
 The last ray should fall on her name. 
 
 The singing-thrush moans on that beech- 
 tree at morn. 
 The winds through the laurel-bush sigh. 
 And afar comes the sound of the waterman's 
 horn, 
 And the hum of the water-fall nigh. 
 No echoes there wake but are magical, 
 each, 
 Like words, on my sjtirit thej' fall; 
 They speak of the hours when we came to 
 the beech. 
 And listened together to all. 
 
 And oh, when the shadows creep out fi-ora 
 the wood. 
 When the breeze stirs no more on the 
 spray, 
 And the sunbeam of autumn that plays on 
 the flood, 
 Is melting, each moment, away; 
 How dear, at that moment, to steal through 
 the grove, 
 In the shade of that beech to recline, 
 And dream of the maiden who gave it her 
 love, 
 And left it thus hallowed in mine. 
 
 Bobeit M. Bird. 
 
'There's a hill by the Schuylkill, the river of hearts, 
 And a beech-tree that grows on its side." 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 295 
 
 THE STRAI^GER ON THE SILL. 
 
 Between broad fields of wheat and corn 
 Is the lowly home where I was born; 
 The peach-tree leans against the wall, 
 And the woodbine wanders over all; 
 There is the shaded doorway still, 
 But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill. 
 
 There is the barn — and, as of yore, 
 I can smell the hay from the open door, 
 And see the busy swallows throng, 
 And hear the pewee's mournful song; 
 But the stranger comes — oh ! painful proof — 
 His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. 
 
 There is the orchard — the very trees 
 Where my childhood knew long hours of ease. 
 And watched the shadowy moments run 
 Till my life imbibed more shade than sun ; 
 The swing from the bough still sweeps the air, 
 But the stranger's children are swinging there. 
 
 There bubbles the shady spring below. 
 With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow ; 
 'Twas there I found the calamus-root, 
 
 And watched the minnows poise and shoot, 
 And heard the robin lave its wing — 
 But the stranger's bucket is at the spring. 
 
 Oh ye, who daily cross the sill. 
 
 Step lightly, for I love it still; 
 
 And when you crowd the old barn-eaves, 
 
 Then think what countless harvest-sheaves 
 
 Have passed within that scented door 
 
 To gladden eyes that are no more! 
 
 Deal kindly with these orchard-trees; 
 And when your children crowd their knees 
 Their sweetest fruit they shall impart. 
 As if old memories stirred their heart: 
 To youthful sport still leave the swing. 
 And in sweet reverence hold the spring. 
 
 The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds, 
 The meadows with their lowing herds, 
 The woodbine on the cottage wall — 
 My heart still lingers with them all. 
 Ye strangers on my native sill. 
 Step lightly, for I love it still ! 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 TO 
 
 The world is bright before thee. 
 
 Its summer flowers are thine, 
 Its calm blue sky is o'er thee, 
 
 Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine; 
 And thine the sunbeam given 
 
 To Nature's morning hour, 
 Pure, warm, as when from heaven 
 
 It burst on Eden's bower. 
 
 There is a song of sorrow, 
 The cleath-dii'ge of the gay, 
 
 That tells, ere dawn of morrow. 
 These charms may melt away, 
 
 That sun's bright beam be shaded. 
 That sky be blue no more. 
 
 The summer flowers be faded, 
 And youth's warm promise o'er. 
 
 Believe it not — though lonely 
 
 Thy evening home may be; 
 Though Beauty's bark can only 
 
 Float on a summer sea; 
 Though Time thy bloom is stealing, 
 
 There's still beyond his art 
 The wild-flower wreat-h of feeling, 
 
 The sunbeam of the heart. 
 
 Fitz-Greene HaUech. 
 
290 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 TUK MoTJLEi;. 
 
 I'alei!, and vol a llidiisaiiil limes imirc lair 
 Than in thy i;'ii'lh(ii>(rs iVcshost Mooni, 
 art tliou: 
 
 A softer snn-Husli tints thy i^-dldon hair, 
 A sweeter ii'raee a(h>rns thy i;'entle lirnw. 
 
 Lips that shall call thee '-mother!" at tli_v 
 hreast 
 
 Feed the yoinii^' lite, whei'ein thy nature 
 feels 
 Its deal' fnltillment: little hands are ]^iressed 
 <)n the ^\llite fonntain Love alone unseals. 
 
 L(i(jk (low II, and let Life's tender dayd.ireak 
 throw 
 
 A sei'ond radiance on thy ripened hour: 
 Ketraee thine own foi'i;-otten advent so, 
 
 And in the liud liehold thy }ierfeet Hower. 
 
 Xa^•, (juestion not: ^\'hat^•^•el• lies hej'oud 
 God will dispose. Sit thus, ^Lnhjiina mine, 
 
 F(jr tliou art lialni'd with a love as fi.nid 
 As Jewish ]\Lii'y i:-a\'e the Child l)ivine. 
 
 I lay my own proud title at thy feet; 
 Thine the tirst, holiest right to love shalt 
 lie: 
 Thougli in his heart tnir wedded pulsi's l.ieat, 
 His s^v^.■etest life our darling draws from 
 thee. 
 
 The father in his rhild lieholds fhis truth, 
 His perfeet maiihudd has assumed its reign: 
 
 Thou W'ear'st anew tin,' roses of thy yiuith, — 
 The mother in her ehild is liorn again. 
 
 B.njard Tinjini: 
 
 dTIE EVEXIXG AVTXir 
 
 SpiiUT that lireathest through my lattice : thon 
 That co.)rst the twilight of the sultry ihiy ! 
 
 (-iratefuUy flows thy freshness nnind my l.irow ; 
 Thou hast heen out upon the deep at play, 
 
 Jiiding all day the wild filue waves till now, 
 Uougheiiing their crests, and scattering 
 high tlieir sjiray. 
 
 And swelling the wdiite sail. .1 welcome tlu'e 
 
 To the scorched land, thou A\amlel'er of the 
 sea! 
 
 Xor I alone, — a. thousand hosonis I'diind 
 Inhale thee in tlu' fullness of d(dii;'lit: 
 
 And languid lurms rise u[i,and pulses hound 
 
 J^ivelier, at coming of the wind of night: 
 
 Anil languishing to hear thy welcome si.iund. 
 
 Lies the vast inland, stretched lieycmd the 
 
 sight. 
 
 (ill forth into the gathering shade ; gofortli, — 
 
 (ioihs hlessing lireathetl upon the fainting 
 
 earth! 
 
 (to, rock the little woodd.iird in his nest; 
 Curl the still A\aters, liright witli stars; 
 and rouse 
 The A\'ide old wood from his nnijestie rest, 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 297 
 
 Summoning, from the innumeral)lc boughs, 
 The strange deep harmonies that haunt his 
 breast : 
 Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly 
 bows 
 The sliutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 
 And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep 
 the grass. 
 
 Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
 The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone, 
 That they who near the churchyard willows 
 stray. 
 And listen in the deepening gloom, alone. 
 May think of gentle souls that passed away. 
 Like thy pure breath, into the vast un- 
 known. 
 Sent forth from heaven among the sons of 
 
 men, 
 And gone into the boundless heaven again. 
 
 The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
 To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep. 
 
 And dry the moistened curls that overs})read 
 His temples, while his breathing grows 
 more deep; 
 
 And they who stand about the sick man's bed, 
 Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. 
 
 And softly part his curtains to allow 
 
 Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 
 
 Go, — but the circle of eternal change. 
 
 Which is the life of nature, shall restore, 
 
 With sounds and scents from all thy mighty 
 
 range, 
 
 Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once 
 
 more. 
 
 Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, 
 
 Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; 
 
 And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
 
 He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 
 
 William Outten, Bryant. 
 
 HEAT-LIGHTNING. 
 
 The land is bathed in drowsy light. 
 And breezes move, with drowsy sigh. 
 From out that primrose West, where now 
 The long day takes so long to die! 
 
 I watch the deepening dusk, T watch, 
 With soul to languid fancies given. 
 Night close the starry flowers on earth 
 And ope the flower-like stars in heaven! 
 
 Not seen with more than transient look 
 If random glances near it stray. 
 Huge in the hueless East there hangs 
 One rounded cloud of stagnant gray. 
 
 The moments pass; a rapid bat 
 Traces black zigzags on the sky; 
 A beetle, bringing us his deep 
 Basso profundo, journeys by. 
 
 Down in the dim swamp, firefly throngs 
 A brilliant soundless revel keep. 
 
 As though beneath their radiant rain 
 Another Danae slept her sleep ! 
 
 The mild night grows; tto-ough meadowed 
 The globing dew makes odor sweet, [ways 
 And slowly now, in that dark cloud, 
 A pulse of gold begins to beat! 
 
 With fitful brightenings, brief to last, 
 The tender flashes come and fly. 
 Each winning forth from vapory depths 
 A dreamy picture, rich of dye. 
 
 Drenched to its core with gentle fire. 
 The cloud, at every mellowing change. 
 Shows tranquil lakes and lovely vales 
 And massive mountains, range on range! 
 
 And standing in the summer gloom. 
 With placid rapture I behold 
 These luminous Andes of the air. 
 These ghostly Switzerlands of gold! 
 
 Edgar Fawceit. 
 
298 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 
 
 Woodman, spare that tree! 
 
 Touch not a shigle bough ! 
 In youth it sheltered me. 
 
 And I'll protect it now. 
 'T was my forefather's hand 
 
 That placed it near his cot; 
 There, woodman, let it stand, 
 
 Thy ax shall harm it not! 
 
 When hut an idle boy 
 
 I sought its grateful shade; 
 In all their gushing joy 
 
 Here too my sisters played. 
 My mother kissed me here; 
 
 My father pressed my hand — 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But Jet that old oak stand ! 
 
 That old familiar tree, 
 
 Whose glory and renown 
 Are spread o'er land and sea, 
 
 And wouldst thou hew it down? 
 Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 
 
 Cut not its earth-boiTnd ties; 
 Oh, spare that aged oak, 
 
 Now towei'ing to the skies! 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling, 
 
 Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
 Here shall the wild-bird sing. 
 
 And still thy branches bend. 
 Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 
 
 And, woodman, leave the spot; 
 While I've a hand to save. 
 
 Thy ax shall harm it not. 
 
 George P. Mwris. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Faint splendors of the night of June, 
 Sweet radiance of the summer moon, 
 Upon thy pathway dwell. 
 Farewell, Estelle! Farewell! 
 
 Far murmurs of the summer trees. 
 And voices low of dreamy seas. 
 Around thee sink and swell. 
 Farewell, Estelle! Farewell! 
 
 Dim fragrance of the violet. 
 And of the brier-rose dew-wet. 
 Breathe from the shadowy dell. 
 Farewell, Estelle! Farewell! 
 
 And ever sweet, by thee be heard 
 The hum of bee, and song of bird. 
 And sound of holy bell. 
 Farewell, Estelle! Farewell! 
 
 John Aylmere Dorgan. 
 
 A DEATH-BED. 
 
 Her suffering ended with the day; 
 
 Yet lived she at its close, 
 And breathed the long, long night away 
 
 In statue-like repose. 
 
 But when the sun, in all his state, 
 
 Illumed the eastern skies. 
 She passed through glory's morning-gate. 
 
 And walked in Paradise! 
 
 James Aldrich. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 290 
 
 THE SUMMER SHOWEK. 
 
 Before the stout harvesters falleth the 
 
 grain, 
 As when the strong storm-Aviud is reaping 
 
 the plain; 
 And loiters the boy in the briery lane; 
 But yonder aslant comes the silvery rain, 
 Like a long line of spears brightly burnished 
 
 and tall. 
 
 Adown the white highway, like cavalry 
 
 fleet, 
 It dashes the dust with its numberless 
 
 feet. 
 Like a murmurless school, in their leafy 
 
 retreat, 
 The wild birds sit listening the drops 
 
 round them beat. 
 And the boy crouches close to the blackberry 
 
 wall. 
 
 The swallows alone take the storm on 
 their wing. 
 
 And, taunting the tree-sheltered laborers, 
 sing. 
 
 Like pebbles the rain breaks the face of 
 the spring. 
 
 While a bubble darts up from each widen- 
 ing ring; 
 And the boy, in dismay, hears the loud 
 shower fall. 
 
 But soon are the harvesters tossing the 
 sheaves ; 
 
 The robin darts out from its bower of leaves ; 
 
 The wren peereth forth from the moss- 
 covered eaves; 
 
 And the rain-spattered urchin now gladly 
 perceives 
 That the beautiful bow bendeth dver them all. 
 
 Tlwmas Buchanan Head. 
 
 IF LOVE SHOULD COME AGAm. 
 
 If Love should come again, I ask my heart 
 111 tender tremors, not unmixed with [>ain, 
 Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine ancient 
 smart. 
 If Love should come again? 
 
 Would bliss, in milder type, spring up 
 anew, 
 As silent craters with the scarlet stain 
 Of flowers repeat the lava's ancient hue. 
 If Love should come again? 
 
 Couldst thou unbar the chambers where his 
 nest 
 So long was made, and made, alas ! in vain, 
 Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thy 
 guest. 
 If Love should come again? 
 
 Would Love his ruined quarters recognize, 
 Where shrouded pictures of the Past re- 
 main. 
 And gently turn them with forgiving eyes, 
 If Love should come as:ain ? 
 
 Would Fate, relenting, sheathe the cruel 
 blade 
 Whereby the angel of thy youth was 
 
 Jain, 
 
 That thou might 'st all possess him, un- 
 afraid, 
 If Love should come again ? 
 
 In vain I ask: my heart makes no reply, 
 But echoes evermore the sweet refrain; 
 Till, trembling lest it seem a wish, I sigh: 
 
 If Love should come again ! 
 
 Bayard Tayhr. 
 
300 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 
 A .MOKXiNG RIDE. 
 
 AViiEN tn.ul.KMl in spirit, whui weary of AVlim its IViiits, tunK'.l to ashes, arc mncknig 
 
 When J faiiif iieatli its hunk'Us, and shrink And its hiiivst seene seems hut a desolate 
 
 from its sti'ite— Avaste; 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 301 
 
 Then come ye not near me my sad heart 
 
 to cheer 
 With Friendship's soft accents, or Sympa- 
 thy's tear; 
 No counsel I ask, and no pity I need, 
 But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant 
 
 young steed. 
 With his high-arched neck and his nostril 
 
 spread wide. 
 His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride ! 
 As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong 
 
 rein, 
 The strength of my spirit returiR'tli again: 
 The bonds are all broken which fettered my 
 
 mind. 
 And my cares borne away on the wings of 
 
 the wind; 
 My pride lifts its head, for a season bowed 
 
 down, 
 And the queen in my nature now puts on 
 
 her crown. 
 'Sow we're off like the winds to the plains 
 
 whence they came, 
 And the rapture of motion is thrilling my 
 
 frame. 
 On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing 
 
 the sod. 
 Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod. 
 On, on, like a deer, when the hounds' earlj- bay 
 Awakes the wild echoes, away and away! 
 Still faster, still farther he leaps at my cheer. 
 Till the rush of the startled air whirrs in 
 
 my ear; 
 Now 'long a clear rivulet lietli his track — 
 See his glancing hoof tossing the white 
 
 pebbles back; 
 
 Now a glen dark as midnight — what mat- 
 ter? — we'll doAvn, 
 Though shadows are round us, and rocks 
 
 o'er us frown ; 
 The thick branches shake as we're hurrying 
 
 through. 
 And deck ns with spangles of silver}' dew. 
 What a wild thought of triumph, that this 
 
 girlish hand 
 Such a steed in the might of his strength 
 
 may command ! 
 What a glorious creature ! ah, glance at 
 
 him now. 
 As I check him a while on this green 
 
 hillock's brow; 
 How he tosses his mane with a shrill, ]oy- 
 
 ous neigh. 
 And paws the firm earth in his proud, 
 
 stately play ! 
 Hurrah, oft' again — dashing on, as in ire. 
 Till the long flinty pathway is flashing with 
 
 fire! 
 Ho, a ditch! — shall we pause? No, the bold 
 
 leap we dare — 
 Like a swift-wingOd arrow we rush through 
 
 the air. 
 Oh! not all the pleasure that poets may 
 
 praise — 
 Not the 'wildeving waltz in the ball-room's 
 
 blaze. 
 Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race. 
 Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase. 
 Nor the sail high heaving waters o'er. 
 Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore — 
 Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed 
 Of a fearless leap on a fiery steecl. 
 
 Sara J. Lippincott. 
 
 THE COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 Not what we would, but what we must. 
 Makes up the sum of living; 
 
 Heaven is both more and less than just 
 In taking and in giving. 
 
 Swords cleave to hands that sought the plow. 
 
 And laurels miss the soldier's brow. 
 
 Me, whom the city holds, whose feet 
 Have worn its stony highways. 
 
 Familiar with its loneliest street — 
 Its ways were never my ways. 
 
 ^ly cradle was beside the sea. 
 
 And there, I hope, my grave will be. 
 
302 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 Old homestead! In that old, gray town, 
 Thy vane is seaward blowing. 
 
 Thy slip of garden stretches down 
 To where the tide is flowing: 
 
 Below they lie, their sails all furled, 
 
 The ships that go about the world. 
 
 Dearer that little country house, 
 Inland, with pines beside it; 
 
 Some peach-trees, with unfruitful boughs, 
 A well, with weeds to hide it: 
 
 No flowers, or only such as rise 
 
 Self-sown, poor things, which all despise. 
 
 Dear country home! Can I forget 
 The least of thy sweet trifles? 
 
 The window-vines that clamber yet, 
 Whose blooms the bee still rifles? 
 
 The roadside blackberries, growing ripe, 
 
 And in the woods the Indian Pipe? 
 
 Happy the man who tills his field, 
 
 Content with rustic labor; 
 Earth does to him her fullness yield, 
 
 Hap what may to his neighbor. 
 Well days, sound nights, oh, can there be 
 A life more rational and free? 
 
 Dear country life of child and man! 
 
 For both the best, the strongest. 
 That with the earliest race began. 
 
 And hast outlived the longest. 
 Their cities perished long ago; 
 Who the first farmers were we know. 
 
 Perhaps our Babels too will fall, 
 
 If so, no lamentations, 
 For Mother Earth will shelter all. 
 
 And feed the unborn nations; 
 Yes, and the swords that menace now 
 Will then be beaten to the plow. 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddarc 
 
 THE MOWERS. 
 
 The sunburnt mowers are in the swath — 
 Swing, swing, swing! 
 The towering lilies loath 
 Tremble and totter and fall; 
 The meadow-rue 
 Dashes its tassels of golden dew; 
 
 And the keen blade sweeps o'er all — 
 Swing, swing, swing! 
 
 The flowers, the berries, the feathered grass. 
 
 Are thrown in a smothered mass: 
 Hastens away the butterfly; 
 With half their burden the brown bees hie ; 
 
 And the meadow-lark shrieks distrest. 
 And leaves the poor younglings all in the nest. 
 
 The daisies clasp and fall, 
 And totters the Jacob's-ladder tall. 
 Weaving, and winding, and curving lithe. 
 O'er plumy hillocks, through dewy hollows. 
 His subtle scythe 
 
 The nodding mower follows — 
 Swing, swing, swing! 
 
 Anon, the chiming whetstones ring — 
 Ting-a-ling ! ting-a-ling ! 
 And the mower now 
 Pauses and wipes his beaded brow. 
 A moment he scans the fleckless sky: 
 A moment — the fish-hawk soaring high; 
 And watches the swallows dip and dive, 
 
 A-near and far. 
 They whisk, and glimmer, and chatter, and 
 strive ; 
 What do they gossip together? 
 Cunning fellows they are — 
 Wise prophets to him! 
 "Higher or lower they circle and skim: 
 Fair or foul to-morrow's hay-weather!" 
 Tallest primroses or loftiest daisies 
 Not a steel-blue feather 
 Of slim wing grazes: 
 "Fear not! fear not!" cry the swallows. 
 Each mower tightens his snath-ring's wedge. 
 And his finger daintily follows 
 The long blade's tickle-edge; 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 303 
 
 Softly the whetstone's last touches ring — 
 
 Tinfi-a-ling ! fii>f/-a-Unfj ! 
 Like a leaf-muffled bird in the woodland nigh, 
 Faintly the fading echoes reply — 
 
 Ting-a-ling ! ting-a-ling ! 
 
 " Perchance the swallows, that flit in their glee. 
 Of to-morrow's weather know little as we," 
 Says farmer Russet. "Beit hidden in shower 
 Or sunshine — to-morrow we do not own! 
 
 To-day is ours alone! 
 Not a twinkle we '11 waste of the golden houi', 
 Grasp tightly the nibs — give heel and give 
 
 toe! — 
 Lay a goodly swath, shaved smooth and low! 
 
 Prime is the day — 
 
 Swing, swing, swing!" 
 
 Farmer Russet is aged and gray — 
 
 Gray as the frost, but fresh as the spring. 
 
 Straight is he 
 
 As the balsam fir-tree; 
 And with sinews lithe, and heart most blithe, 
 He leads the row with his merry scythe. 
 " Come boys ! strike up the old song 
 
 "While we circle around — 
 The song we always in hay-time sing — 
 
 And let the woods ring, 
 
 And the echoes prolong 
 
 The merry sound!" 
 
 SONG. 
 
 July is just in the nick of time ! 
 
 (Hay-weather, hay-weather!) 
 The midsummer month is the golden prime 
 For haycocks smelling of clover and thyme. 
 
 ( Swing all together ! ) 
 July is just in the nick of time! 
 
 CHOKUS. 
 
 Oh, we '11 make our hay while the good sun 
 shines ! 
 "We'll waste not a golden minute: 
 
 No shadow of storm the blue arch lines; 
 We '11 waste not a minute — not 
 minute ! 
 For the west wind is fair; 
 Oh, the hay-day is rare! — 
 The sky is without a brown cloud in it! 
 
 June is too early for richest hay; 
 
 (Fair weather, fair weather!) 
 The corn stretches taller the livelong day: 
 But grass is ever too sappy to lay. 
 
 (Clip all together!) 
 June is too early for richest hay. 
 
 August's a month that too far goes by; 
 
 (Late weather, late weather!) 
 Grasshoppers are chipper and kick too high ; 
 And grass that's standing is fodder scorched 
 dry. 
 
 (Pull all together!) 
 August's a month that too far goes by. 
 
 July is just in the nick of time! 
 
 (Best weather, best weather!) 
 The midsummer month is the golden prime 
 For haycocks smelling of clover and thyme. 
 
 (Strike all together!) 
 July is just in the nick of time! 
 
 Still hiss the scythes! 
 Shudder the grasses' defenseless blades — 
 
 The lily -throng writhes; 
 And as a phalanx of wild-geese streams 
 "Where the shore of April's cloudland gleams, 
 On their dizzy way in serried grades — 
 
 "Wing on wing, wing on wing — 
 The mowers, each a step in advance 
 Of his fellow, time their stroke with a 
 glance 
 
 Of swerveless force; 
 And far through the meadow leads their 
 
 course — 
 Swing, swing, swing! 
 
 Myron B. Bmimi. 
 
3U4 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 HOME, SWEET IloME. 
 
 Mid ploaRures and pahua^s tlioiigL wt' may 
 
 roam, 
 r>e it ever so lmml)le, tliore's no phux' like 
 
 home ! 
 A eliarm from the skies seems to lialhjw ns 
 
 tlierc, 
 AVhieh, seek thronii;h the worhl, is ne'er met 
 
 with elsewhere. 
 Home! home, sweet home! 
 Tliere's no }>laee like home! 
 
 An exile from home, splen(h.)r dazzles in 
 
 vain, — 
 Oh, iiive me my lowly thatehed eottao-e 
 
 again; 
 The hirds singing gayly, that eome at my 
 
 call: 
 Give me these, and the peace of mind, dearer 
 
 than all. 
 Home! sweet, sweet home! 
 There's no place like liome! 
 
 Jo]oi Hnuvrd Payne. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 305 
 
 THE DEAD. 
 
 I THINK about the dead by day, 
 
 I dream of them at night: 
 They seem to stand beside my chair, 
 Clad in the clothes they used to wear. 
 
 And by my bed in white. 
 
 1 
 
 The common-places of their lives. 
 
 The lightest words they said, 
 Revive in me, and give me pain, 
 
 And make me wish them back again. 
 Or wish that I were dead. 
 
 I would be kinder to them now, 
 
 Were they alive once more; 
 Would kiss their cheeks, and kiss their 
 
 hair. 
 And love them, like the angels there, 
 
 Upon the silent shore. 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 
 
 This book is all that's left me now! 
 
 Tears will unbidden start — 
 With faltering lip and throbbing brow 
 
 I press it to my heart. 
 For many generations past. 
 
 Here is our family tree; 
 My mother's hands this Bible clasped — 
 
 She, dying, gave it me. 
 
 Ah! well do I remember those 
 
 Whose names these records bear. 
 Who round the hearthstone used to close 
 
 After the evening prayer. 
 And speak of what these pages said. 
 
 In tones my heart would thrill : 
 Though they are with the silent dead. 
 
 Here are they living still ! 
 
 My father read this holy book 
 
 To brothers, sisters dear; 
 How calm was my poor mother's look. 
 
 Who leaned God's word to hear! 
 Her angel face — I see it yet; 
 
 What tlironging memories come! 
 Again that little group is met 
 
 Within the halls of home! 
 
 Thou truest friend man ever knew. 
 
 Thy constancy I've tried; 
 Where all were false I found thee true, 
 
 My counselor and guide. 
 The mines of earth no treasure give 
 
 That could this volume buy: 
 In teaching me the way to live, 
 
 It taught me how to die. 
 
 Oeorge P. Morris. 
 
 DEAD LEAVES. 
 
 The day is dead, and in its grave. 
 The flowers are fast asleep; 
 
 But in this solemn wood alone 
 My nightly watch I keep. 
 
 The night is dark, the dew descends. 
 
 But dew and darkness are my friends. 
 
 I stir the dead leaves under foot, 
 And breathe the earthy smell; 
 
 It is the odor of decay. 
 And yet I like it well. 
 
 Give others day, and scented flowers. 
 
 Give me dead leaves, and midnight hours. 
 
 Ridiard Henry Stoddard. 
 
306 
 
 NATURE AND LIFlE. 
 
 TIRED MOTHERS. 
 
 A LITTLE elbow leans upon j'oiir kiiee, 
 
 Your tired knee that has so mtTcli to hear; 
 A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
 
 From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. 
 Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 
 
 Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so 
 tight; 
 You do not prize the hlessing overmuch, 
 
 You are almost too tired to pray to-inght. 
 
 But it is blessedness! A year ago 
 
 I did not see it as I do to-day; 
 We are so dull and thankless — and too slow 
 
 To catch the sunshine till it slips away. 
 And now it seems surprising strange to me, ■ 
 
 That, while I wore the badge of mother- 
 hood, 
 I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 
 
 The little child that brought me only good. 
 
 And if, some night when you sit down to rest, 
 You miss this elbow from your tired knee — 
 
 This restless, curling head from off your 
 breast. 
 This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; 
 
 If from your own the dimpled hands had 
 slipped, 
 And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; 
 If the white feet into their grave had 
 tripped, — 
 I could not blame you for your heartache, 
 then. 
 
 I wonder so that mothei's ever fret 
 
 At little children clinging to their gown; 
 Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, 
 
 Are ever black enough to make them frown. 
 If I could find a little muddy boot. 
 
 Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor: 
 If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot. 
 
 And hear its patter in my room once more ; 
 
 If ] could mend a broken cart to-day. 
 
 To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky — 
 There is no woman in God's world would say 
 
 She was more blissfully content than I. 
 But, oh! the dainty pillow next my own 
 
 Is never rumpled by a shining head; 
 My singing birdling from its nest is flown — 
 
 The little boy I used to kiss is dead! 
 
 Anomfiwym. 
 
 spRma. 
 
 The Spring is here — the delicate-footed May, 
 With its slight fingers full of leaves and 
 flowers ; 
 And with it comes a thirst to be away. 
 In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter 
 hours, 
 A feeling like the worm's awakening wings, 
 Wild for companionship with swifter things. 
 
 We pass out from the city's feverish hum. 
 To find refreshment in the silent woods, 
 
 And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, 
 Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods — 
 
 Yet, even there a restless thought will steal. 
 
 To teach the indolent heart it still must /i"(7. 
 
 Strange that the audible stillness of the noon. 
 The waters tripping with their silver feet. 
 
 The turning to the light of leaves in June, 
 And the light whispers as their edges meet : 
 
 Strange — that they fill not, with their tran- 
 quil tone. 
 
 The spirit, walking in their midst alone. 
 
 There's no contentment in a world like this, 
 Save in forgetting the immortal dream; 
 
 We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 
 That through the cloud-rifts radiantly 
 stream ; 
 
 Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye 
 
 And pine till it is hooded from the sky. 
 
 Naihaniel Parker Willis. 
 
■•The Spring is here-the delicate-footed May. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 309 
 
 THE QUAKER WIDOW. 
 
 TiiEE finds me in the garden, Ilannali — come 
 
 in! 'Tis kind'' of thee 
 To wait until tlie Friends were gone, who 
 
 came to comfort me. 
 The still and quiet company a peace may 
 
 give, indeed, 
 But hlessed is the single heart that comes 
 
 to us at need. 
 
 Come, sit thee down! Here is the hench 
 
 where Benjamin would sit 
 On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch 
 
 the swallows flit: 
 He loved to smell the sprouting hox, and 
 
 hear the pleasant bees 
 Go humming round the lilacs and through 
 
 the apple-trees. 
 
 I think he loved the spring: not that he 
 
 cared for flowers: most men 
 Think such things foolishness — but we were 
 
 first acquainted then. 
 One spring: the next he spoke his mind; 
 
 the third I was his wife. 
 And in the spring (it happeuL'd so) our 
 
 children entered life. 
 
 He was but seventy-five: I did not think 
 
 to lay him yet 
 In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly 
 
 Meeting first we met. 
 The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better 
 
 I should be 
 Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone 
 
 in age — than he. 
 
 We've lived together fifty years: it seems 
 
 but one long day. 
 One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was 
 
 called away; 
 And as we brine: from Meetina:-time a sweet 
 
 contentment home, 
 So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all 
 
 the days to come. 
 
 I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard 
 
 it was to know 
 If I had heard the spirit right, that told 
 
 mo I should go; 
 For father had a deep concern upon his 
 
 mind that day. 
 But mother spoke for Benjamin — she knew 
 
 what best to say. 
 
 Then she was still: they sat awhile: at last 
 
 she spoke again, 
 "The Lord incline thee to the right!" And 
 
 "Thou shalt have him, Jane!" 
 My father said. I cried. Indeed, 't was not 
 
 the least of shocks. 
 For Benjamin was Ilicksitc, and father 
 
 Orthodox. 
 
 I thought of this ten years ago, when 
 
 daughter Ruth we lost: 
 Her husband's of the world, and yet I could 
 
 not see her crossed. 
 She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, 
 
 she hears a hireling priest — 
 Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life's a 
 
 happy one, at least. 
 
 Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when 
 
 she's as old as I : 
 Would thee believe it, Hannah? once / felt 
 
 temptation nigh ! 
 My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple 
 
 for my taste; 
 I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon 
 
 at the waist. 
 
 How strange it seemed to sit with him upon 
 
 the women's side ! 
 I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more 
 
 fear than pride, 
 Till, "In the presence of the Lord," he said, 
 
 and then there came 
 A holy strength upon my heart, and I could 
 
 say the same. 
 
310 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 I used to blush when he came near, but 
 
 then I showed no sign: 
 With all the meeting looking on, I held his 
 
 hand in mine. 
 It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I 
 
 was his for life: 
 Thee knows the feeling, Hannah — thee, too, 
 
 hast been a wife. 
 
 Eusebius never cared to farm — 'twas not 
 
 his call, in truth. 
 And I must rent the dear old place, and go 
 
 to daughter Ruth. 
 Thee'll say her ways are not like mine; 
 
 young people nowadays 
 Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the 
 
 good old ways. 
 
 As home we rode, I saw no helds look half 
 
 so green as ours ; 
 The woods were coming into leaf, the 
 
 meadows full of flowers; 
 The neighbors met us in the lane, and every 
 
 face was kind — 
 'Tis strange how lively every thing comes 
 
 back upon my mind. 
 
 But Euth is still a Friend at heart; she 
 keeps the simple tongue. 
 
 The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when 
 she was young; 
 
 And it was brought upon my mind, remem- 
 bering her, of late. 
 
 That we on dress and outward things per- 
 haps lay too much weight. 
 
 I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wed- 
 ding dinner spread ; 
 
 At our own table we were guests, with 
 father at the head. 
 
 And Dinah Passniore helped us both — 'twas 
 she stood i;p with me. 
 
 And Abner Jones with Benjamin — and 
 now they're gone, all three! 
 
 It is not right to wish for death; the Lord 
 
 disposes best. 
 His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits 
 
 them for His rest; 
 And that He halved our little flock was 
 
 merciful, I see ; 
 For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two 
 
 are left with me. 
 
 I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit 
 
 clothed with grace. 
 And pure, almost, as angels are, may have 
 
 .a homely face. 
 And dress may be of less account: the Lord 
 
 will look within ; 
 The soul it is that testifies of righteousness 
 
 or sin. 
 
 Thee mustn*t be too hard on Ruth: she's 
 
 anxious I should go. 
 And she will do her duty as a daughter 
 
 should, I know. 
 'T is hard to change so late in life, but we 
 
 must be resigned; 
 The Lord looks down contentedly upon a 
 
 willing mind. 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 THE DESERTED ROAD. 
 
 Ancient road, that wind'st deserted 
 Through the level of the vale. 
 
 Sweeping toward the crowded market 
 Like a stream without a sail; 
 
 Standing by thee, I look backward. 
 And, as in the light of dreams, 
 
 See the years descend and vanish. 
 Like thy tented wains and teams. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 311 
 
 Here I stroll along the village 
 As in youth's departed morn; 
 
 But I miss the crowded coaches, 
 And the driver's bugle-horn — 
 
 Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters 
 Filling buckets at the wells, 
 
 With their wains from Conestoga, 
 And their orchestras of bells. 
 
 To the mossy way-side tavern 
 
 Comes the noisy throng no more. 
 
 And the faded sign, complaining, 
 Swings, unnoticed, at the door; 
 
 While the old, decrepid tollman. 
 Waiting for the few who pass, 
 
 Reads the melancholy story 
 In the thickly springing grass. 
 
 TrniiiiimimimLiiH.T 
 
 ||f«- 
 
 Ancient highway, thou art vanquished ; 
 
 The usurper of the vale 
 Rolls in fiery, iron rattle. 
 
 Exultations on the gale. 
 
 Thou art vanquished and neglected; 
 But the good which thou hast done, 
 
 Though by man it be forgotten. 
 Shall be deathless as the sun. 
 
 Though neglected, gray and grassy, 
 
 Still I pray that my de'cline 
 May be through as vernal valleys 
 
 Ami as blest a calm as thine. 
 
 Thomas Bwdmnau Haul 
 
312 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 FADING AUTUMN. 
 
 The autumnal glories all have passed away ! 
 The forest leaves no more in hectic red 
 Grive glowing tokens of their brief decay, 
 But scattered lie, or rustle to the tread. 
 Like whispered warnings from the mold- 
 ering dead. 
 The naked trees stretch out their arms all 
 day, 
 And each bald hill-top lifts its reverend 
 head 
 
 As if for some new covering to pray. 
 Come Winter, then, and spread thy robe 
 of white 
 Above the desolation of this scene, 
 
 And when the sun with gems shall make 
 it bright, 
 Or, when its snowy folds by midnight's queen 
 
 Are silvered o'er with a serener light. 
 We '11 cease to sigh for Summer's hving 
 green. 
 
 Elizabeth C. Kinney. 
 
 AFTER ALL. 
 
 The apples are ripe in the orchard, 
 The work of the reaper is done. 
 
 And the golden woodlands redden 
 In the blood of the dying sun. 
 
 At the cottage-door the grandsire 
 Sits, pale, in his easy-chair, 
 
 While a gentle wind of twilight 
 Plays Avith his silver hair. 
 
 A woman is kneeling beside him; 
 
 A fair young head is prcst. 
 In the first wild passion of sorrow, 
 
 Against his aged breast. 
 
 And far from over the distance 
 The faltei'ing echoes come. 
 
 Of the flying blast of trumpet 
 And the rattling roll of drum. 
 
 Then the grandsire speaks, in a whisper, — 
 
 "The end no man can see; 
 But we give him to his country. 
 
 And wc give our praj-ers to Thee." , . . 
 
 The violets star the meadows. 
 The rose-buds fringe the door. 
 
 And over the grassj- orchard 
 The pink-white blossoms pour. 
 
 But the grandsire's chair is empty. 
 The cottage is dark and still. 
 
 There's a nameless grave on the battle-field. 
 And a new one under the hill. 
 
 And a pallid, tearless woman 
 By the cold hearth sits alone; 
 
 And the old clock in the corner 
 Ticks on with a steady drone. 
 
 William Winter. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 313 
 
 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 
 
 
 'T WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 
 
 Tall and slender, and sallow and dry; 
 His form was bent, and his gait was slow, 
 His long thin hair was as white as snow, 
 
 But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye; 
 And he sang every night as he went to bed, 
 
 "Let us be happy down here below; 
 The living should live, though the dead be 
 dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He taught his scholars the rule of three. 
 Writing, and reading, and liistory too ; 
 He took the little ones up on his knee. 
 For a kind old heart in his breast had he. 
 And the wants of the littlest child he knew : 
 
 " Learn while you're young," he often said, 
 "There's much to enjoy down here below; 
 
 Life for the living and rest for the dead!" 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 With the stupidest boys he was kind and 
 cool. 
 
 Speaking only in gentlest tones; 
 The rod was hardly known in his school, — 
 Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule. 
 
 And too hard work for his poor old bones ; 
 "Besides, it is painful," he sometimes said; 
 
 " We should make life pleasant down here 
 below. 
 The living need charity more than the dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
314 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 He lived in the lionse by t]ie liawtlioru laiio, 
 
 With roses and Avoodbiiie over tlie dooi'; 
 llis rooms were quiet a)id neat and phiin, 
 But a spirit of comfort there held reign, 
 
 And made him forget he was old and poor; 
 "I need so little," he often said; 
 
 " And my friends and relatives here below 
 Won't litigate over me Avhen I am dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 But the pleasantest times that he had, of all. 
 
 Were the sociable hours he used to pass. 
 With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's 
 
 wall. 
 Making an unceremonious call, 
 
 Over a pipe and friendly glass: 
 This was the finest pleasure, he said, 
 
 Of the many he tasted here below; 
 "Who has no cronies bad better be tlead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 
 
 Melted all over iu sunshiny smiles; 
 lie stirred his glass with an old-school grace, 
 Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, 
 Till the house grew merry, from cellar to 
 tiles. 
 
 "I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, 
 "I have lingered a long while here below; 
 
 But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled," 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He smoked his pipe in the balmy air 
 
 Every night when the sVin went down. 
 While the soft wind played in his silvery hair. 
 Leaving his tenderest kisses there, 
 
 On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old 
 crown ; 
 And feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 
 
 " 'T was a. glorious world, down here below ; 
 Why wait for haiipiness till we are dead?" 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He sat at his door, one midsummer night, 
 
 After the sun had sunk in the west. 
 And the lingering beams of golden light 
 Made his kindly old face look warm and 
 bright. 
 While the odorous night-wind whispered, 
 "Rest!" 
 Gently, gently, he bowed his head, — 
 
 There were angels waiting for him, I know; 
 He was sure of happiness, living or dead, — 
 This jolly old pedagogue, long ago! 
 
 Geoi'ge Arnold . 
 
 l^OVEMBER. 
 
 Mucu have I spoken of the faded leaf; 
 
 Long have I listened to the wailing wind, 
 And watched it plowing through the heavy 
 clouds ; 
 
 For autumn charms my melancholy mind. 
 
 Still, aTitumn ushers in the Christmas cheer, 
 The holly-berries and the ivy-tree: 
 
 They weave a (diaplet for the Old Year's 
 heir ; 
 These waiting mourners do not sing for me ! 
 
 When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge ; 
 
 The year must perish; all the flowers are 
 
 dead ; 
 
 The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled 
 
 quail 
 
 Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled ! 
 
 I find sweet peace in depths of autumn 
 woods. 
 Where grow the ragged ferns and rough- 
 ened moss; 
 The naked, silent trees have taught me this, — 
 The loss of beauty is not always loss! 
 
 Elizabeth Stoddard. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 315 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 Within his sober realm of leafless trees, 
 The russet year iuhaled the dreamy air; 
 
 Like some tanned reaper in his hour of case, 
 When all the fields are lying brown and 
 bare. 
 
 The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills 
 O'er the dim waters widening in the vales. 
 
 Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
 On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 
 
 All sights were mellowed and all sounds 
 
 subdued. 
 
 The hills seemed fai'ther and the streams 
 
 sang low; 
 
 As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
 
 His winter log with many a muffled blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, ereAvhile armed in gold. 
 Their banners bright with ever}' martial 
 hue, 
 
 Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old. 
 Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 
 
 On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his 
 flight; 
 The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's 
 complaint ; 
 And like a star slow drowning in the light. 
 The village church-vane seemed to pale 
 and faint. 
 
 The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew — 
 Crew thrice, and al 1 was stiller than before, — 
 
 Silent till some replying warder blew 
 Ilis alien horn, and then was heard no more. 
 
 Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, 
 Made garrulous trouble round her un- 
 fledged young; 
 
 And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 
 By every light wind like a censer swung: 
 
 Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
 The busy swallows circling ever near. 
 
 Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
 An early harvest and a plenteous year; — 
 
 Where every bird which charmed the vernal 
 feast. 
 Shook the sweet slumber from its wings 
 at morn. 
 To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
 All now was songless, empt^', and forlorn. 
 
 Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, 
 And croaked the crow through all the 
 dreamy gloom; 
 
 Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale. 
 Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 
 
 Tliere was no bud, no bloom upon the bow- 
 ers; 
 The spiders wove their thin shrouds night 
 by night; 
 The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers. 
 Sailed slowly hy, passed noiseless out of 
 sight. 
 
 Amid all this, in this most cheerless air. 
 And where the woodbine shed upon the 
 porch 
 
 Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there. 
 Firing the floor with his inverted torch; — 
 
 Amid all this, the center of the scene. 
 The white-haired matron, with monoto- 
 nous tread, 
 Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless 
 mien 
 Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying 
 thread. 
 
 She had known Sorrow, — he had walked 
 
 with her. 
 
 Oft supped and broke with her the ashen 
 
 crust ; 
 
 And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
 
 Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 
 
316 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 While yet her cheek was bright with sum- 
 mer bloom, 
 Her country summoned and she gave her 
 all; 
 And twice War bowed to her his sable 
 plume, — 
 Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall. 
 
 Re-gave the swords, —but not the hand that 
 
 drew 
 
 And struck for Liberty its dying blow; 
 
 Nor him who, to his sire and country' 
 
 true. 
 
 Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on. 
 Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; 
 
 Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 
 Breathed through her lips a sad and 
 tremulous tune. 
 
 At last the thread was snapped — her head 
 was bowed; 
 Life dropped the distafl" through her 
 hands serene, — 
 And loving neighbors smoothed her careful 
 shroud, 
 While Death and Winter closed the 
 autumn scene. 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Head. 
 
 LATE AUTUMN. 
 
 The year moves to its sad decline, 
 A dull gray mist enfolds the hills; 
 The flowers are dead, the thickets pine, 
 In other lands the swallow trills; 
 For since they stole his summer-flute 
 The moping Pan sits stark and mute; 
 The slow hooves of the feeding kine 
 
 Crack the herbage as they pass; 
 
 The apples glimmer in the grass. 
 
 And woods are yellow — woods are 
 
 brown ; 
 The vine about the elm is red, 
 Cro\v and hawk fly up and down: — 
 But for the wood-thrush, he is dead. 
 
 Willium B. Wright. 
 
 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 
 
 'T WAS the night before Christmas, when all 
 
 through the house 
 Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
 The stockings were hung by the chimney 
 
 with' care. 
 In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be 
 
 there : 
 The children were nestled all snug in their 
 
 beds, 
 While visions of sugar-plums danced in their 
 
 heads ; 
 And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my caj), 
 Had just settled our brains for a long winter's 
 
 nap, — 
 When out on the lawn there arose such a 
 
 clatter, 
 
 I sprang from my bed to see what was the 
 
 matter. 
 Away to the window I flew like a flash. 
 Tore 0})en the shutters and threw up the 
 
 sash. 
 The moon on the breast of the new-fallen 
 
 snow 
 Gave a luster of midday to objects below; 
 When, what to my wondering eyes should 
 
 appear. 
 But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, 
 With a little old driver, so lively and quick 
 I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
 M ore rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
 And he whistled and shouted, and called 
 
 them by name : 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 31: 
 
 "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! noAV, Praiicer 
 
 and Vixen I 
 On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and 
 
 Blitzen ! 
 To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall ! 
 Now dash away, dash away, dash away all ! " 
 As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane 
 
 When they meet with an obstacle, mount 
 
 to the sky. 
 So up to the house-top the coursers they 
 
 flew. 
 With the sleigh full of toys, — and St. 
 
 Nicholas too. 
 And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
 The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
 As I drew in my head, and was turning 
 
 around, 
 Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with 
 
 a bound. 
 He was dressed all in fur from his head to 
 
 his foot. 
 And his clothes were all tarnished with 
 
 ashes and soot; 
 A bundle of toys he had flung on his hack, 
 And he looked like a peddler just opening 
 
 his pack. 
 His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples 
 
 how merry! 
 His clieeks were like roses, his nose like a 
 
 cherry; 
 
 His droll little mouth \\'as drawn up like a bow, 
 And the beard on his chin was us wiiite as 
 
 the snow. 
 The stump of a pipe he held tight in his 
 
 teeth, 
 And the smoke it encircled his head like a 
 
 wreath. 
 He had a broad face and a little round belly 
 That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl 
 
 full of jelly. 
 He was chubby and plump, — a right jolly 
 
 old elf; 
 And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite 
 
 of myself. 
 A wink of his eye and a twist of his head 
 Soon oavc me to know I had nothing to 
 
 dread. 
 He spoke not a word, but went' straight U) 
 
 his work. 
 And fllled all the stockings; then turned 
 
 with a jerk, 
 And la^'ing his flnger aside of his nose. 
 And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
 He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave 
 
 a whistle, 
 And away they all flew like the down of a 
 
 thistle ; 
 But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out 
 
 of sight, 
 "Hapiiy Christmas to all, and to all a good- 
 night ! "' 
 
 SNOW. 
 
 The blessed morn has come again; 
 
 The early gray 
 Taps at the slumberer's window-pane, 
 
 And seems to say, 
 Break, break from the enchanter's chain. 
 
 Away, away ! 
 
 'T is winter, yet there is no sound 
 
 Along the air 
 Of winds upon their battle-ground; 
 
 But gently there 
 The snow is falling — all around 
 How fair, how fair! 
 
 The jocund flelds would masquerade; 
 
 Fantastic scene! 
 Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade 
 
 Have cast their green, 
 And joined the revel, all arrayed 
 
 So white and clean. 
 
318 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 E'en the old posts, that hold the bars, The drifts are hanging by the sill, 
 And the old gate. The eaves, the door; 
 
 Forgetful of their wintry wars The hay-stack has become a hill ; 
 And age sedate, All covered o'er 
 
 High capped and plumed, like white hussars, The wagon, loaded for the mill 
 Stand there in state. The eve before. 
 
 Maria brings the water-pail. 
 
 But where's the well? 
 
 Like magic of a fairy tale. 
 Most strange to tell. 
 
 All vanished, curb, and crank, and rail! 
 How deep it fell ! 
 
 The wood-pile, too, is playing hide; 
 
 The ax, the log, 
 The kennel of that friend so tried 
 
 (The old watch-dog), 
 The grindstone standing by its side, 
 Are now incofi. 
 
 The bustling cock looks out aghast 
 From his high shed; 
 
 No spot to scratch him a repast: — 
 Up curves his head. 
 
 Starts the dull hamlet with a blast, 
 And back to bed. 
 
NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 319 
 
 Old drowsy Dobbin, at the call 
 
 Amazed, awakes; 
 Out from the window of his stall 
 
 A view he takes, 
 While thick and faster seem to fall 
 
 The silent flakes. 
 
 The barnyard gentry, musing, chime 
 
 Their morning moan; 
 Like Memnon's music of old time, 
 
 That voice of stone! 
 So wai'ble they — and so sublime 
 
 Their solemn tone. 
 
 Good Ruth has called the younker folk 
 
 To dress below; 
 Full welcome was the word she spoke, 
 
 Down, down they go; 
 The cottage quietude is broke — 
 
 "The snow!" "The snow!" 
 
 Kow rises from around the fire 
 
 A pleasant strain; 
 Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire! 
 
 And ye profane ! 
 A hymn to the Eternal Sire 
 
 Goes up again. 
 
 The patriarchal Book divine. 
 
 Upon the knee. 
 Opes where the gems of Judah shine, 
 
 ( Sweet minstrelsie ! ) 
 How soars each heart with each fair line, 
 
 God, to thee! 
 
 Around the altar low they bend 
 
 Devout in prayer; 
 As snows upon the roof descend, 
 
 So angels there 
 Come down that household to defend 
 
 With gentle care. 
 
 Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze: 
 
 The buckwheat heaps; 
 Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise, 
 
 Sweet Susan steeps; 
 The old round stand her nod obeys 
 And out it leaps. 
 
 Unerring presages declare 
 
 The banquet ]iear; 
 Sonn busy a|q)etites are there; 
 
 And disappear 
 The glories of the ample fare, 
 
 With thanks sincere. 
 
 Now tiny snow-birds venture nigh 
 
 From copse and spray 
 (Sweet strangers! with the ^\■inter's sky 
 
 To pass away). 
 And gather crumljs in full supply 
 
 For all the day. 
 
 Let iu)w the busy hours begin : 
 
 Out rolls the cliurn ; 
 Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in 
 
 The brush to burn ; 
 Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin. 
 
 Till night's return. 
 
 To delve his threshing John must hie; 
 
 His sturdy shoe 
 Can all the subtle damp defy; 
 
 How wades he through ! 
 While dainty milk-maids, slow and shy. 
 
 His track pursue. 
 
 Each to the hour's allotted care: 
 
 To shell the corn ; 
 The broken harness to repair; 
 
 The sleigh t' adorn; 
 As cheerful, tranquil, frosty, fair. 
 
 Speeds in the morn. 
 
 While mounts the eddying smoke amain 
 
 From many a hearth. 
 And all the landscape rings again 
 
 With rustic mirth — 
 
 So gladsome seems to every swain 
 
 The sunny earth. 
 
 Bxdph Hoyt. 
 
320 
 
 NATURE AND LIFE. 
 
 sV'!^ H*Wk^^' v^^ 
 
 IN WmTER. 
 
 The valle}' stream is frozen, 
 The liills are cold and bare, 
 
 And the wikl white Lees of winter 
 Swarm in the darkened air. 
 
 I look on the naked forest: 
 Was it ever green in Jnne? 
 
 Did it hnrn with gold and crimson 
 In the dim autumnal noon ? 
 
 I look on the barren meadow : 
 Was it ever heaped with hay? 
 
 Did it hide the grassy cottage 
 
 Where the skylark's children lay? 
 
 I look on the desolate garden: 
 Is it true the rose was there? 
 
 And the woodbine's musky blossoms, 
 And the hyacinth's purple hair? 
 
 I look on my heart, and marvel 
 If Love were ever its own, — 
 
 If the spring of promise brightened. 
 And the summer of passion shone? 
 
 Is the stem of bliss but withered. 
 And the root survives the blast? 
 
 Are the seeds of the Future sleeping 
 Under the leaves of the Past? 
 
 Ah, yes! for a thousand Aprils 
 The frozen germs shall grow. 
 
 And the dewa of a thousand summers, 
 Wait in the womb of the snow! 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
THE PIOISTEER HUNTERS. 
 
 Herb once Boone trod — the hardy Pio- 
 neer — 
 
 The only white man in the wilderness : 
 
 Oh! how he loved, alone, to hunt the 
 deer, 
 
 Alone at eve his simple meul to dress; 
 
 No mark upon the tree, nor print, nor 
 track, 
 
 To lead him forward, or to guide him 
 back: 
 
 He roved the forest, king by main and might, 
 And looked up to the sky and shaped his 
 course aright. 
 
 That mountain, there, that lifts its bald, 
 
 high head 
 Above the forest, was, perchance, his 
 
 throne ; 
 There has he stood and marked the woods 
 
 outspread, 
 
 (32.5) 
 
326 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 Like a great kingdom, that was all his 
 own; 
 
 In hunting-shirt and moccasins arrayed, 
 
 "With bear-skin cap, and pouch, and need- 
 ful blade, 
 
 How carelessly he leaned upon his gun! 
 That scepter of the wild, that had so often 
 won. 
 
 Those western Pioneers an impulse felt. 
 
 Which their less hardy sons scarce com- 
 prehend ; 
 
 Alone, in Nature's wildest scenes they 
 dwelt, 
 
 Where crag, and precipice, and torrent 
 blend, 
 
 And stretched around the wilderness, as 
 rude 
 
 As the red rovers of its solitude. 
 
 Who watched their coming with a hate 
 profound. 
 And fought with deadly strife for every inch 
 of ground. 
 
 To shun a greater ill sought they the 
 
 wild? 
 ISo; they left happier lands behind them 
 
 far. 
 And brought the nursing mother and her 
 
 child 
 To share the dangers of the border war. 
 The log-built cabin from the Indian barred, 
 Their little boy, perchance, kept watch 
 
 and ward. 
 While father plowed with rifle at his back. 
 Or sought the glutted foe through many a 
 
 devious track. 
 
 How cautiously, yet fearlessly, that boy 
 Would search the forest for the wild 
 
 beast's lair. 
 And lift his rifle with a hurried joy. 
 If chance he spied the Indian lurking 
 
 there : 
 And should they bear him prisoner from 
 
 the fight, 
 
 While they are sleeping in the dead mid- 
 night 
 He slips the thongs that bind him to the 
 tree. 
 And leaving death with them, bounds home 
 right happily. 
 
 Before the mother, bursting through the 
 
 door. 
 The red man rushes where her infants 
 
 rest ; 
 O Grod ! he hurls them on the cabin floor ! 
 While she, down kneeling, clasps them to 
 
 her breast. 
 How he exults and revels in her woe. 
 And lifts the weapon, yet delays the blow; 
 Ha! that report! behold! he reels, he 
 
 dies! 
 And quickly to her arms the husband — 
 
 father — flies ! 
 
 In the long winter eve, their cabin fast. 
 The big logs blazing in the chimney 
 
 wide — 
 They'd hear the Indian howling, or the 
 
 blast. 
 And deem themselves in castellated pride : 
 Then would the fearless forester disclose 
 Most strange adventures with his sylvan 
 
 foes. 
 Of how his arts did over theirs prevail. 
 And how he followed far upon their bloody 
 
 trail. 
 
 And it was happiness, they said, to stand. 
 When summer smiled upon them in the 
 
 wood, 
 And see their little clearing there expand. 
 And be the masters of the solitude. 
 Danger was but excitement; and when 
 
 came 
 The tide of emigration, life grew tame; 
 Then would they seek some unknown 
 
 wild anew. 
 And soon, above the trees, the smoke was 
 
 curling blue. 
 
 Frederick William Thomas. 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 327 
 
 BOONE IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Bright waved thy woods, Kentucky, 
 
 In the Summer's sunset glow; 
 Enamored evening smiled upon 
 
 The scene outspread below; 
 Nature's Eden, wild, magnificent. 
 
 Fresh from her hand was there; 
 Even angels might admiring gaze 
 
 Upon a scene so fair. 
 
 Like a mighty temple, dark and old, 
 
 Waved the dim wilderness; 
 God's ancient music spoke his praise 
 
 Amid the spreading trees. 
 By the dark and lonely rivers. 
 
 Plowing on in light and shade. 
 The red man and his shaggy train 
 
 In sole dominion strayed. 
 
 From the forest's deep recesses. 
 
 Whence curls that wreath of smoke? 
 By what startling crack of rifle 
 
 Are their slumbering echoes woke? 
 For twice two score of nights and days. 
 
 The observant savage race 
 Have marked, with wonder and with fear. 
 
 The dreadful stranger's trace. 
 
 He has reared his lodge among them, 
 He has hunted far and wide — 
 
 Alone in the vast wilderness, 
 To range it is his pride! 
 
 Now at night-fall by his cabin door 
 
 He marks the stars appear — 
 His heart is filled with home-bred joy — 
 
 He smiles at thought of fear! 
 
 Woe to your fair dominion. 
 
 Woe to your day of fame. 
 Ye dusky dwellers of the woods! 
 
 Your glory's but a name; 
 Awaken from your slumbers. 
 
 Awake or perish all — 
 The foe is on your hunting-grounds, 
 
 The herald of your fall ! 
 
 In vain — the tide of life flows in 
 
 On the daring hunter's track. 
 And not the Indian's high emprise 
 
 Can turn the current back. 
 Fierce battled he with force and fraud, 
 
 Like a savage beast at bay — 
 But his star of empire went down 
 
 In many a bloody fray. 
 
 Bright wave thy fields, Kentucky, 
 
 In graceful culture now; 
 The red man, like thy mighty woods. 
 
 Has seen his glory bow. 
 And by the dark Missouri, 
 
 The lone hunter passed to rest — 
 Till him thy late remorse called home 
 
 To slumber on thy breast. 
 
 Jsaac H. Jidian. 
 
 OHIO'S PILGRIM BAND. 
 
 New England well may boast 
 The band that on her coast. 
 
 Long years ago. 
 Their Pilgrim anchor cast, 
 Their Pilgrim bark made fast, 
 'Mid winter's howling blast 
 
 And driven snow. 
 
 Sons of that Pilgrim race 
 Were they from whom we trace 
 
 Our "Buckeye" blood: 
 Ohio's Pilgrim band, 
 Lo! on yon shore they stand. 
 Their footsteps on the land, 
 
 Their trust in God! 
 
328 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 ITot with the bold array 
 Of armies dread, came they 
 
 Proud conquest on ; 
 By a long warfare rude, 
 With patient hardihood, 
 Through toil, and strife, and blood. 
 
 The land was won : 
 
 Won from the red man's lair, 
 To be an Eden fair 
 
 To us and ours : 
 Won, as the peaceful home 
 Of Age, and Beautj-'s bloom. 
 While day shall chase night's gloom 
 
 While Time endures. 
 
 Land of the glorious West! 
 Home of our love confessed; 
 
 Pride of the Earth ! 
 What land is there, doth lie 
 Beneath God's blue-arched sky, 
 In beauty may outvie 
 
 Our land of birth ? 
 
 God of the high and free! — 
 Our fathers' God! — to thee. 
 
 Our thanks be given ; 
 Thanks for the true and brave! 
 Sires all that sons might crave; 
 Their forms are in the grave, 
 
 Their souls in Heaven ! 
 
 Lewis J. Cist. 
 
 PASSAGE DOWN THE OHJO. 
 
 As down Ohio's ever-ebbing tide, 
 Oarless and sailless, silently they glide, 
 How still the scene, how lifeless, yet how 
 
 fair. 
 Was the lone land that met the strangers 
 
 there ! 
 No smiling villages or curling smoke 
 The busy haunts of busy men bespoke : 
 No solitary hut, the banks along, 
 Sent forth blithe Labor's homely, rustic 
 
 song : 
 No urchin gamboled on the smooth white 
 
 sand. 
 Or hurled the skipping-stone with playful 
 
 hand, 
 While playmate dog plunged in the clear 
 
 blue wave. 
 And swam, in vain, the sinking prize to savu. 
 Where now are seen, along the river side, 
 Young busy towns, in buxom painted pride. 
 And fleets of gliding boats with riches 
 
 crowned. 
 To distant Orleans or St. Louis bound, 
 Nothing appeared but nature unsubdued, 
 One endless, noiseless woodland solitude. 
 Or boundless prairie, that aye seemed to be 
 
 As level and as hfeless as the sea; 
 
 They seemed to breathe in this wide world 
 
 alone. 
 Heirs of the Earth — the land Avas all their 
 
 own ! 
 
 'T was evening now : the hour of toil 
 
 was o'er. 
 Yet still they durst not seek the fearful 
 
 shore. 
 Lest watchful Indian crew should silent 
 
 creep. 
 And spring upon and murder them in sleep; 
 So through the livelong night they held 
 
 their way. 
 And 'twas a night might shame the fairest 
 
 day; 
 So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign, 
 They cared not though the day ne'er came 
 
 again. 
 The moon high wheeled the distant hills 
 
 above. 
 Silvered the fleecy foliage of the grove. 
 That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell. 
 Whispered it loved the gentle visit well: 
 That fair-faced orb alone to move appeared. 
 

 f 
 
 ilWi 
 
 VIS'S -• t'p»r >^ ^ 
 
 
 f 
 
 O w 
 
 O 0) 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 331 
 
 That zephyr was the only sound they heard. 
 'Eo deep-mouthed hound the hunter's haunt 
 
 betrayed, 
 No lights upon the shore or waters played, 
 
 No loud laugh broke upon the silent air, 
 To tell the wanderers man was nestling there. 
 All, all was still, on gliding bark and shore. 
 As if the earth now slept to wake no more. 
 
 James K. Paulding. 
 
 ON CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 The broad, the bright, the glorious West, 
 
 Is spread before me now! 
 "Where the gray mists of morning rest 
 
 Beneath yon mountain's brow! 
 The bound is past — the goal is won — 
 The region of the setting sun 
 
 Is open to my view. 
 Land of the valiant and the free — 
 My own Green Mountain land — to thee, 
 
 And thine, a long adieu! 
 
 I hail thee, Valley of the West, 
 
 For what thou yet shalt be! 
 I hail thee for the hopes that rest 
 
 Upon thy destiny ! 
 Here — from this mountain height, I see 
 Thy bright waves floating to the sea. 
 
 Thine emerald fields outspread. 
 And feel that in the book of fame. 
 Proudly shall thy recorded name 
 
 In later days be read. 
 
 Yet while I gaze upon thee now. 
 
 All glorious as thou art, 
 A cloud is resting on my brow, 
 
 A weight upon my heart. 
 To me — in all thy youthful pride — 
 
 Thou ai't a land of cares untried. 
 
 Of untold hopes and fears. 
 Thou art — yet not for thee I grieve; 
 But for the far-oft' land I leave, 
 
 I look on thee with tears. 
 
 Oh! brightly, brightly glow thy skies. 
 
 In summer's sunny hours! 
 The green earth seems a paradise 
 
 Arrayed in summer flowers! 
 But oh! there is a land afar 
 Whose skies to me are brighter far. 
 
 Along the Atlantic shore! 
 For eyes beneath their radiant shrine. 
 In kindlier glances answered mine — 
 
 Can these their light restore? 
 
 Upon the lofty bound I stand. 
 
 That parts the East and West; 
 Before me — lies a fairy land; 
 
 Behind — a home of rest! 
 Here, hope her wild enchantment flings. 
 Portrays all bright and lovely things. 
 
 My footsteps to allure — 
 But there, in memory's light, I see 
 All that was once most dear to me — 
 
 My young heart's cynosure! 
 
 Laura M. Thurston. 
 
 THE STORY OF ESTHER ZANE. 
 
 A HUNDRED years ago, and seven. 
 As our early annals well attest. 
 
 The Zanes got up an expedition. 
 And with friends and families started 
 West. 
 
 Climbing the steeps of the Alleghanies, 
 They felt they were nearer the throne of 
 God; 
 
 Then passing down into woodland valleys, 
 The gardens of nature they proudly trod. 
 
332 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 Launching their boats on the bright Ohio, 
 The ever-beautiful river of song, 
 
 They gi'ew entranced with the high green 
 hill-sides, 
 And sang with joy as the}^ glode along. 
 
 Choosing their station they built Fincastle, 
 That was afterwards named by Lord 
 Dunmore, 
 And around it they raised their first rude 
 cabins. 
 In all to the number of twenty-four. 
 And here they turned up the soil and planted ; 
 And here they gathered the harvest in; — 
 Teaching the rarely failing lesson, 
 
 That the men who work, are the men who 
 win ! 
 They praised the Lord for the land he had 
 given, 
 And hymns of thanksgiving sent above; 
 And their homes were full of joy and 
 plenty, 
 And their heai'ts were filled with human 
 love. 
 
 But from the banks of the fair Scioto, 
 
 And from the Miami's farther shore. 
 In the summer of seventeen-seventy-seven. 
 
 Some friendly runners a warning bore; — 
 A warning bore that the north-west Indians, 
 
 Leagued and painted were " ou the path," 
 Determined the Upper Ohio stations 
 
 Should all go down before their wrath; 
 That all should fall, from the Great Kanawha 
 
 Up to the stockades at old Fort Pitt: 
 And soon 'twas known by the smoke as- 
 cending. 
 
 That the Indian fires wei'e near them lit. 
 
 Fincastle — chi-istened now Fort Henry — 
 
 Calling for men, but forty found, 
 On the morning of twenty-sixth September, 
 
 With four hundred Indians ambushed round. 
 Parties sent out to reconnoiter, 
 
 And other parties alarm to spread. 
 Were met by the skulking foe, and captured. 
 
 Or shot from the Indian coverts dead. 
 
 Just at the break of day next morning 
 A fierce assault on the Fort began; 
 
 Within which was not an idle woman, — 
 Within which was not a cowardly man. 
 
 But now the little garrison numbered 
 
 E^o more than twelve, both young and old: 
 Yet the men were wary and fought with 
 judgment, 
 
 While the youths were active and firm 
 and bold. 
 And they drove the Indians back to cover, 
 
 And shouted defiance as they went; 
 But just here learnt, to their consternation, 
 
 Their supply of powder was nearly spent. 
 Now what to do was a pressing question, — 
 
 For they felt their foe would soon be back, 
 And knew that without more ammunition 
 
 They could n't repel his next attack. 
 
 The information here was given. 
 
 With a hope it might not prove in vain. 
 That a keg of powder lay safely hidden 
 
 In the cabin of Ebenezer Zane. 
 But how to get it was now the question. 
 
 Though this cabin w^as not sixty yards 
 away — 
 For ambushed well in the farther cabins, 
 
 Waiting and watching, the Indians lay. 
 "Who volunteers to go?" said the captain: 
 
 "The act will be almost certain death." 
 "I" and "I," replied half a dozen voices, 
 
 Not one of them with bated breath. 
 
 But here stepped up a pale young woman: 
 
 " I know where that powder is stowed away ; 
 'Twill trouble others to find it, captain; 
 
 I volunteer, and will fetch it." "Nay!" 
 Exclaimed the captain, and smiled upon her: 
 
 " 'T is not fit service for one like you, 
 It requires courage, and skill, and caution. 
 
 Such as belong to the very few." 
 "Nevertheless, I'll undertake it!" 
 
 "Nay I nay!" said he, "it can't be so: 
 These young men have strength and fleet- 
 ness — 
 
 Clioose you which of ihem shall go." 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 333 
 
 P''f a- "-"^^^^'1^''- ; -rvf ! 
 
 "These young men deserve your praises; 
 l^one with their bearing here find 
 fault; 
 And surely to-day they've fought like 
 heroes, 
 Repelling this hot and fierce assault, 
 And that is the very reason, captain, 
 This dangerous service thus / seek. 
 
 Look out, at the strength of our fierce as- 
 sailants! 
 Look in, at our garrison — few and weak! 
 If 1 go and fall, how little you'll miss me! 
 
 I'll strive to do the thing that I dare! 
 But the lives of these young men all are 
 precious : 
 Not one of their number can we spare." 
 
334 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 Her kindred came and opposed her purpose. 
 
 The soldiers said, "It would be a shame." 
 One by one, to dissuade her from it. 
 
 The young men earnestly pleading came. 
 She turned away from all entreaty. 
 
 Saying quite gently — "I think / know 
 Who can be spared, if any one must be. 
 
 CajHaiji! I am ready now to go." 
 Her pale cheeks reddened for just a moment; 
 
 To her forehead she pressed her open palm ; 
 Then she stood like a beautiful marble 
 statue — 
 
 Erect and queenly, aiad grand and calm. 
 
 She looked in the captain's eyes so steadily. 
 Her words, though bold, were so wise and 
 true; 
 He could not longer refuse her proffer. 
 
 And the gate before her open flew. 
 With nothing of fear, and nothing of flurry. 
 But calm and determined, and strong as 
 fate, 
 
 She waved farewell to her friends and 
 kindred. 
 
 And passed like a sunbeam out of the gate. 
 Slowly but cautiously moving forward, 
 
 Proudly her woman form she bore, 
 Till near the front of her brother's cabin. 
 
 When like a deer she leaped to the door. 
 
 Indians watching, saw her and signaled. 
 
 And soon there was rushing to and fro, 
 And their firelocks gleamed in the autumn 
 sunlight. 
 
 But the mass of the leaguns kept still 
 and low. 
 In a little while she left the cabin, 
 
 When a dark cloud suddenly met her view. 
 Out of which flashed a blazing volley, 
 
 Out of which hissing bullets flew; 
 And then, like an arrow tipped with lightning. 
 
 Into the Fort she sped amain. 
 Bearing safe the keg of powder — 
 
 And this is the story of Esther Zane. 
 
 Ammynious. 
 
 LEWIS WEITZEL. 
 
 Stout-hearted Lewis Weitzel 
 Rides clown the river shore. 
 
 The wilderness behind him, 
 The wilderness before. 
 
 lie rides in the cool of morning. 
 Humming a dear old tune. 
 
 Into the heart of the greenwood. 
 Into the heart of June. 
 
 He needs no guide in the forest 
 More than the hunter bees; 
 
 His guides are the cool green mosses 
 To the northward of the trees. 
 
 !N"or fears he the foe whose footstep 
 Is light as the summer air — 
 
 The tomahawk hangs in his shirt-belt, 
 The scalp-knife glitters there! 
 
 The stealthy Wyandots tremble, 
 And speak his name with fear. 
 
 For his aim is sharp and deadly. 
 And his rifle's ring is clear. 
 
 So, pleasantly rides he onward. 
 Pausing to hear the stroke 
 
 Of the settler's ax in the forest. 
 Or the crash of a falling oak; 
 
 Pausing at times to gather 
 The wild fruit overhead 
 
 (For in this rarest of June days 
 The service-berries are red); 
 
 And as he grasps the full boughs 
 To bend them down amain, 
 
 The dew and the blushing berries 
 Fall like an April rain. 
 
PIONEER DA YS. 
 
 335 
 
 The partridge drums on the dry oak, 
 
 The croaking corby caws, 
 The blackbird sings in the spice-bush, 
 
 The robin in the haws ; 
 
 And, as they chatter and twitter, 
 The wild birds seem to say, 
 
 "Do not harm us, good Lewis, 
 And you shall have luck to-day." 
 
 So, pleasantly rides he onward. 
 Till the shadows mark the noon. 
 
 Into the leafy greenwood, 
 Into the heart of June. 
 
 Now speed thee on, good Lewis, 
 For the sultry sun goes down. 
 
 The hill-side shadows lengthen. 
 And the eastern sky is brown. 
 
 Now speed thee where the river 
 Creeps slow in the coverts cool. 
 
 And the lilies nod their white bells 
 By the margin of the pool. 
 
 He crosses the silver Kaska 
 With its chestnut-covered hills. 
 
 And the fetlocks of his roan steed 
 Are wet in a hundred rills. 
 
 "And there," he cries in transport, 
 "The alders greenest grow. 
 
 Where the wild stag comes for water, 
 And her young fawn leads the doe." 
 
 Oh! steady grows the strong arm, 
 And the hunter's dark eye keen, 
 
 As he sees the branching antlers 
 Through alder thickets green. 
 
 A sharp, clear ring through the greenwood. 
 And with mighty leap and bound. 
 
 The pride of the western forest 
 Lies bleeding on the ground. 
 
 G-rasping his trusty rifle, 
 He whistles his dog behind. 
 
 Then stretches his finger upward 
 To know how sets the wind. 
 
 Then out from the leafy shadow 
 
 A stalwart hunter springs, 
 And his unsheathed scalp-knife glittering 
 
 Against his rifle rings. 
 
336 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 ••And wlio art thou," quoth Lc^Yis, 
 "That com 'st 'twixt me and mine?' 
 
 And his cheek is flushed with anger, 
 As a Bacchant's flushed with wine. 
 
 "What boots that to thy purpose?" 
 
 The stranger hot replies; 
 " My rifle marked it living. 
 
 And mine, when dead, the prize." 
 
 Then with sinewy arms they gi^apple, 
 Like giants fierce in brawls, 
 
 Till stretched along the greensward 
 The humbled hunter falls. 
 
 Upspringing like a panther, 
 
 He cries, in wrath and pride, 
 "Though your arms may be the stronger, 
 
 Our rifles shall decide." 
 
 "Stay, stranger," quoth good Lewis, 
 
 "The chances are not even; 
 Who challenges my rifle 
 
 Should be at peace with heaven. 
 
 "Now take this rod of alder. 
 
 Set it by yonder tree 
 A hundred yards beyond me. 
 
 And wait you there and see. 
 
 " For he who dares such peril 
 But lightly holds his breath — 
 
 May his unshrived soul be ready 
 To welcome sudden death!" 
 
 And that is Lewis Weitzel:" 
 
 Quoth Lewis, "Here he stands;" 
 
 So they speak in gentler manner. 
 And clasp their friendly hands. 
 
 So the stranger takes the alder. 
 And wondering stands to view. 
 
 While Weitzel's aim grows steady, 
 And he cuts the rod in two. 
 
 Then talk the mighty hunters 
 Till the summer dew descends. 
 
 And thoy who met as foemcn 
 
 Ifido out of the greenwood friends ;- 
 
 "By heaven!" exclaims the stranger, 
 
 " One only, far or nigh, . 
 Hath arms like the lithe young ash-tree. 
 
 Or half su keen an eye ; 
 
 Ride out of the leafy greenwood 
 
 As rises the yellow moon. 
 And the purple hills lie pleasantly 
 
 In the softened air of June. 
 
 Flonut B. Plimpton. 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 337 
 
 JOHl^ FILSON. 
 
 [Matthias Denman, Robert Patterson and John Fit.son, laid out the town of Losantiville, now the city of Cincinnati, 
 in 1788. Filson, school-master and surveyor, went out to examine the country between the Miamis, but never retur^ied.] 
 
 John Filson was a pedagogue, 
 
 A pioneer was he; 
 I know not what his nation was, 
 
 Nor what his pedigree. 
 
 Tradition's scanty records tell 
 
 But little of the man, 
 Save that he to the frontier came, 
 
 In immigration's van. 
 
 Perhaps with phantoms of reform 
 
 His busy fancy teemed. 
 Perhaps of new Utopias 
 
 Hesperian he dreamed. 
 
 John Filson and companions hold, 
 A frontier village planned, 
 
 In forest wild, on sloping hills. 
 By fair Ohio's strand. 
 
 John Filson from three languages. 
 With pedant skill did frame 
 
 The novel word Losantiville, 
 To be the new town's name. 
 
 Said Filson, " Comrades, hear my words. 
 Ere three-score years have flown, 
 
 Our town will be a city vast."' 
 Loud laughed Bob Patterson. 
 
 Still John exclaimed, with prophet tongue, 
 
 "A city fair and proud. 
 The Queen of cities in the West!" 
 
 Mat Denman laughed aloud. 
 
 Deep in the wild and solemn woods. 
 Unknown to white man's track, 
 
 John Filson went one autumn day, 
 But never more came back. 
 
 He struggled through the solitude 
 
 The inland to explore, 
 And with romantic pleasure traced 
 
 Miami's winding shore. 
 
 Across his path the startled deer 
 Bounds to its shelter green; 
 
 He enters every lonely vale, 
 And cavernous ravine. 
 
 Too soon the murky twilight came. 
 The lonesome niglit-winds moan; 
 
 Bewildered wanders Filson, lost, 
 Exhausted, and alone. 
 
 By lurking foes his steps are dogged, 
 
 A yell his ear appalls! 
 A ghastly corpse upon the ground, 
 
 A murdered man he falls. 
 
338 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 The Indian, with instinctive Late, 
 
 In him a herald saw 
 Of coming hosts of pioneers. 
 
 The friends of light and law; 
 
 In him belield the champion 
 
 Of industries and arts, 
 The founder of encroaching roads, 
 
 And great commercial marts; — 
 
 The spoiler of the hunting-ground, 
 
 The flower of the sod. 
 The builder of the Christian school, 
 
 And of the house of God. 
 
 And so the vengeful tomahawk 
 John Filson's blood did spill, — 
 
 The spirit of the pedagogue 
 Islo tomahawk could kill. 
 
 John Filson had no sepulcher. 
 Except the wild- wood dim; 
 
 The mournful voices of the air 
 Made requiem for him. 
 
 The druid trees their waving arms 
 
 Uplifted o'er his head; 
 The moon a pallid vail of light 
 
 Upon his visage spi-ead. 
 
 The rain and sun of many years 
 
 Have worn his bones away, 
 And what he vaguely prophesied. 
 
 We realize to-day. 
 
 Losantiville, the prophet's word. 
 
 The poet's hope, fulfills — 
 She sits a stately Queen to-day. 
 
 Amid her voyvl hills! 
 
 Then come, ye pedagogues, and join 
 
 To sing a grateful lay 
 For him, the martyr pioneer, 
 
 "Who led for you the way. 
 
 And may my simple ballad be 
 
 A monument to save 
 His name from blank oblivion. 
 
 Who never had a grave. 
 
 WiUiam H. Venable. 
 
 THE BACKWOODSMAN. 
 
 The silent wilderness for me! 
 
 Where never sound is heard. 
 Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot. 
 
 And the flitting wing of bird. 
 Or its slow and interrupted note. 
 
 And the deer's quick, crackling tread. 
 And the swaying of the forest boughs. 
 
 As the wind moves overhead. 
 
 Alone, (how glorious to be free!) 
 
 My good dog at my side. 
 My rifle hanging in my arm, 
 
 I range the forest wide. 
 And now the regal buffalo 
 
 Across the plains I chase; 
 K"ow track the mountain stream to find 
 
 The beaver's lurking-place. 
 
 I stand npon the mountain's top. 
 
 And (solitude profound!) 
 Not even a woodman's smoke curls up 
 
 Within the horizon's bound. 
 Below, as o'er its ocean breadth 
 
 The air's light currents run. 
 The wilderness of moving leaves 
 
 Is glancing in the sun. 
 
 I look around to where the sky 
 
 Meets the far forest line. 
 And this imperial domain — 
 
 This kingdom — all is mine. 
 This bending heaven, these floating clouds, 
 
 Waters that ever roll, 
 And wilderness of glory, bring 
 
 Their ofterings to my soul. 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 339 
 
 My palace, built by God's own hand, 
 
 Tlie world's fresh prime hath seen; 
 Wide stretch its living halls away, 
 
 Pillared and roofed with green. 
 My music is the wind that now 
 
 Pours loud its swelling bars, 
 Now lulls in dying cadences; 
 
 My J'estal lamps are stars. 
 
 Though, when in this my lonely home 
 My star-watched couch I press, 
 
 I hear no fond "good-night" — think not 
 I am companiouless. 
 
 0, no! I see my father's house, 
 The hill, the tree, the stream. 
 
 And the looks and voices of my home 
 Come gently to my dream. 
 
 And in these solitary haunts, 
 
 While slumbers everj' tree 
 In night and silence, God himself 
 
 Seems nearer unto me. 
 I feel Ilis presence in these shades. 
 
 Like the embracing air; 
 And as my eyelids close in sleep, 
 
 My heart is hushed in prayer. 
 
 Ephraim Peabody. 
 
 THE OLD MOUND. 
 
 [In the wefitern part of Cincinuati (demolished years ago by a Vandal curiosity), near what is now the junction 
 of Fifth and Mound streets.] 
 
 Lonely and sad it stands: 
 The trace of ruthless hands 
 Is on its sides and summit, and around 
 The dwellings of the white man pile the 
 ground; 
 And curling in the air. 
 The smoke of thrice a thousand hearths is 
 there : 
 Without, all speaks of life, — within, 
 Deaf to the city's echoing din. 
 Sleep well the tenants of that silent Mound, 
 Their names forgot, their memories unre- 
 nowned. 
 
 Upon its top I tread. 
 
 And see around me spread 
 Temples and mansions, and the hoary hills. 
 Bleak with the labor that the coffer fills, 
 
 But mars their bloom the while. 
 And steals from nature's face its joyous smile : 
 
 And here and there, below. 
 
 The stream's meandering flow 
 Breaks on the view ; and westward in the sky 
 The gorgeous clouds in crimson masses lie. 
 
 The hammer's clang rings out. 
 Where late the Indian's shout 
 
 Startled the wild-fowl from its sedgy nest. 
 
 And broke the wild deer's and the panther's 
 rest. 
 The lordly oaks went down 
 
 Before the ax — the cano-brake is a town: 
 The bark canoe no more 
 Glides noiseless from the shore; 
 
 And, sole memorial of a nation's doom. 
 Amid the works of art rises this lonely 
 tomb. 
 
 It, too, must pass away: 
 
 Barbaric hands will lay 
 Its holy ruins level with the plain. 
 And rear upon its site some goodly fane. 
 
 It seemeth to upbraid 
 The white man for the ruin he has made. 
 
 And soon the spade and mattock must 
 
 Invade the sleepers' buried dust. 
 And bare their bones to sacrilegious eyes. 
 And send them forth some joke-collector's 
 prize. 
 
 Charles A. Jones. 
 
340 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 KAFTmG. 
 
 An August night was shutting down, 
 
 The first stars faintly glowed, 
 And deep and wide the river's tide 
 
 Through the mountain gorges flowed. 
 The woods swelled up from either side, 
 
 The clear night-sky bent o'er. 
 And the gliding waters darkly gleamed. 
 
 In the shadows of the shore. 
 
 A moving 
 mass swept 
 round the 
 hills, - 
 
 And ever and anon they sung, 
 
 Yo, heave ho ! 
 And loud and long the echo rung, 
 
 Yo, heave ho ! 
 
 And now the tones hurst sharp and fast, 
 
 As if the heavens to climb; 
 Now their soft fall made musical 
 
 The waters' ceaseless chime. 
 Then all was hushed, till might be heard 
 
 The plashing of the oar. 
 Or the speech and laugh, half audible, 
 
 Upon the silent shore. 
 
 We flung to them some words of cheer, 
 
 And loud jests flung they back; 
 Good-night! they cried, and drifted on. 
 Upon their lonely track. 
 
 "We watched them till a 
 sudden bend 
 Received them from our 
 sight. 
 Yet still we heard the busrle 
 
 In the midst a broad, 
 bright flame, 
 And flitting forms 
 
 passed to and fro 
 Around it, as it came. 
 The raft-fire with its flying light 
 
 Pilled the thin river haze: 
 And rock and tree and darkling clifi' 
 Stooped forward in the blaze. 
 
 And while it floated down the stream, 
 
 Yet nearer and more near, 
 A bugle blast on the still night air 
 
 Rose loftily and clear. 
 From clifl" to clift", from hill to hill, 
 
 Through the ancient woods and wide 
 The sound swelled on, and far away 
 
 In their silent arches died. 
 
 blast 
 In the still- 
 ness of the 
 night. 
 
 But soon its loud notes on the ear 
 
 Fell faint and low; 
 And we ceased to hear the hearty cheer 
 
 Of Yo, heave ho ! 
 
PIONEEB. DAYS 
 
 341 
 
 Thus quickly did the river pass, 
 Forth issuing from the dark — 
 
 A moment, lighting up the scene 
 Drifted the phantom ark. 
 
 And thus our life. From the unknown 
 To the unknown, we sweep; 
 
 Like mariners who cross and hail 
 Each other o'er the deep. 
 
 Ephraim Peabody. 
 
 BLENNERHASSET'S ISLAIfD. 
 
 Once came an exile, longing to he free, 
 Born in the greenest island of the sea; 
 He sought out this, the fairest blooming isle 
 That ever gemmed a river; and its smile 
 Of summer green and freedom on his heart 
 Fell, like the light of Paradise. Apart 
 It lay, remote and wild; and in his breast 
 He fancied this an Island of the Blest; 
 And here he deemed the world might never 
 
 mar 
 The tranquil air with its molesting jar. 
 Long had his soul, among the strife of men. 
 Gone out and fought, and, fighting, failed; 
 
 and then 
 Withdrew into itself; as when some fount 
 Finds space within, and will no longer mount. 
 Content to hear its own secluded waves 
 Make lonely music in the new-found caves. 
 And here he brought his household; here 
 
 his wife. 
 As happy as her children, round his life 
 Sang as she were an echo, or a part 
 Of the deep pleasure springing in his heart, — 
 A silken string which with the heavier cord 
 Made music, such as well-strung harps afford. 
 She was the embodied spirit of the man, 
 His second self, but on a fairer plan. 
 And here they came, and here they built 
 
 their home. 
 And set the rose and taught the vines to 
 
 roam. 
 Until the place became an isle of bowers, 
 "Where odors, mist-like, swam above the 
 
 flowers. 
 It was a place where one might lie and dream, 
 And see the Naiads, from the I'iver-stream, 
 
 Stealing among the umbrous, drooping hmbs ; 
 Where Zephyr, mid the willows, tuned her 
 
 hymns 
 Round rippling shores. Here would the 
 
 first birds throng 
 In early spring-time, and their latest song 
 Was given in autumn; when all else had tied. 
 They half forgot to go; such beauty here 
 
 was spread. 
 It was, in sooth, a fair enchanted isle. 
 Round which the unbroken forest, many a 
 
 mile, 
 Reached the horizon like a boundless sea; — 
 A sea whose waves, at last, were forced to 
 
 tiee 
 On either hand, before the westward host, 
 To meet no more upon its ancient coast. 
 But all things fair, save truth, are frail and 
 
 doomed ; 
 And brightest beauty is the first consumed 
 By envious Time; as if he crowned the brow 
 With loveliest flowers, before he gave the 
 
 blow 
 Which laid the victim on the hungry shrine; 
 Such was the dreamer's fate, and such, bright 
 
 isle, was thine. 
 There came the stranger, heralded by fame. 
 Whose eloquent soul was like a tongue of 
 
 flame. 
 Which brightened and despoiled whate'er 
 
 it touched. 
 A violet, by an iron gauntlet clutched. 
 Were not more doomed than whosoe'er he 
 
 won 
 To list his plans, with glowing words o'errun : 
 Aud Bleuuerhasset hearkened as he planned. 
 
342 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 Far ill the South there was a glorious laud, 
 Crowned with perpetual flowers, and where 
 
 repute 
 Pictured the gold more plenteous than the 
 
 fruit, — 
 The Persia of the West. There would he 
 
 steer 
 His conquering course; and o'er the bright 
 
 land rear 
 His far-usurping banner, till his home 
 Should rest beneath a wide, imperial dome, 
 Where License, round his thronfid feet, 
 
 should whirl 
 Her dizzy mazes like an orient girl. 
 His followers should be lords; their ladies 
 
 each 
 Wear wreaths of gems beyond the old world's 
 
 reach ; 
 And emperors, gazing at that land of bloom, 
 With impotent fire of envy should consume. 
 Such was the gorgeous vision which he 
 
 drew. 
 The listener saw ; and, dazzled by the view, — 
 As one in some enchanter's misty room. 
 His senses poisoned by the strange perfume. 
 Beholds with fierce desire the picture fair. 
 And grasps at nothing in the painted air, — 
 Gave acquiescence, in a fatal hour, 
 And wealth and hope and peace were in 
 
 the tempter's power. 
 The isle became a rendezvous; and then 
 Came in the noisy rule of lawless men. 
 Domestic calm, affrighted, fled afar. 
 And Riot reveled 'neath the midnight star. 
 Continuous music rustled through the trees, 
 Where banners danced responsive on the 
 
 breeze; 
 Or in festoons, above the astonished bowers. 
 With flaming colors shamed the modest 
 
 flowers. 
 There clanged the mimic combat of the 
 
 sword, _ 
 Like daily glasses round the festive board: 
 Here lounged the chiefs, there marched the 
 
 plumed file, 
 
 And martial splendor overrun the isle. 
 Already, the shrewd leader of the sport 
 The shadowy scepter grasped, and swayed 
 
 his court. 
 In dreams or waking, reveling or alone, 
 Before him swam the visionary throne; 
 Until a voice, as if the insulted woods 
 Had risen to claim their ancient solitudes. 
 Broke on his spirit, like a trumpet rude, 
 Shattering his dream to nothing where he 
 
 stood 1 
 The revelers vanished, and the banners fell, 
 Like the red leaves beneath November's spell. 
 Full of great hopes, sustained by mighty will, 
 Urged by ambition, confident of skill. 
 As fearless to perform as to devise, 
 Aflush, but now he saw the glittering prize 
 Flame like a cloud in day's descending 
 
 track ; 
 But, lo, the sun went down, and left it black ! 
 Alone, despised, deflance in his eye. 
 He heard the shout, and "Treason!" was 
 
 the cry; 
 And that harsh word, with its unpitying 
 
 blight. 
 Swept o'er the island like an arctic night. 
 Cold grew the hearthstone, withered fell 
 
 the flowers. 
 And desolation walked among the bowers. 
 This was the mansion. Through the ruined 
 
 hall 
 The loud winds sweep,with gusty rise and fall. 
 Or glide, like phantoms, through the open 
 
 doors ; 
 And winter drifts his snow along the floors. 
 Blown through the yawning rafters, where 
 
 the stars 
 And moon look in as through dull prison bars. 
 On yonder gable, through the nightly dark, 
 The owl replies unto the dreary bark 
 Of lonely fox, beside the grass-grown sill ; 
 And here, on summer eves, the whippoorwill 
 Exalts her voice, and to the traveler's ear 
 Proclaims how Ruin rules with full content- 
 ment here. 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 343 
 
 A GOLDEN-WEDDma 01^ THE ROLLING-FORE:. 
 
 Ox the Rolling-Fork, in Hardin, 
 
 Where the winds and waters chime. 
 And sing to the listening traveler 
 
 Songs full of the olden time. 
 Stood a dwelling thrown wide open 
 
 To the wanton airs of May, 
 That stole up over sloping meadows 
 
 Which stretched from its doors away — 
 Here dotted with groves, there reaching 
 
 To sunny and shady nooks, 
 Where the elder-bloom swayed gently 
 
 To the ripple of purling brooks. 
 And where the voices of children 
 
 From blossoming thickets rang, 
 As, with jest, and shout, and banter. 
 
 From rock to rock they sprang. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas the home of an aged couple. 
 
 Who many and many a year 
 Had sown and reaped and garnered 
 
 The fruits of life's labors here. 
 And now there had gladly gathered, 
 
 Fi'om near and from far away, 
 A merry troop of their kindred. 
 
 And friends of an early day: 
 For this was their Golden-Wedding; 
 
 And the heavens stooped down and smiled 
 As sweetly and tenderly o'er them. 
 
 As a mother o'er her child. 
 Songs of birds, and the breath of flowers, 
 
 Floated in on the sunny air; 
 And God's benison seemed resting 
 
 All around them, every-where. 
 
 III. 
 
 As friend met friend with greetings. 
 
 How rapidly backward flew 
 The curtains of time, displaying 
 
 The scenes of the past anew ! 
 
 And soon they were where Lake Erie 
 
 Heaved its billows like the sea. 
 And then by the moaning Avaters 
 
 Of the battle-stained Maumee; 
 And anon where the bright Scioto 
 
 Day's arrowy beams flashed back. 
 As it watered the Indian gardens 
 
 That bordered its shining track: 
 Then they saw the blood of their kindred 
 
 Tinge the Wabash and the Thames, 
 And anon heard the streams of Kentucky 
 
 Murmuring their honored names. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And as the lengthening shadows 
 
 Of the years still upward rolled. 
 And they talked of the days of their danger. 
 
 And the tales of their triumphs told. 
 Tears gathered in silent sorrow 
 
 For some who had found their rest, 
 Ere blazed in its fullness the gloiy 
 
 That dawned on the Early West. 
 But they all felt proud of the heroes 
 
 Who had sprung at their country's call, — 
 For its flag, which they carried, to battle. 
 
 For their homes, if 'twere needed, to fall. 
 And the tears which had started in soiTOW, 
 
 And silence, were checked by their pride, 
 And they still talked old times with the 
 bridegroom. 
 
 And recalled still old sports to the bride. 
 
 V. 
 
 And while far behind on life's highways 
 
 Their thoughts were thus tenderly cast, 
 One rose in their midst and recited 
 
 This page from the Book of the Past — 
 One who, in the strength of his manhood. 
 
 Had moved in the scenes now brought 
 back. 
 And remembered the Woman's devotion 
 
 All along the Man's perilous track: — 
 
344 
 
 FIONEER DAYS. 
 
 THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST. 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-Land! 
 
 Stout-hearted dames were they; 
 With nerve to wiekl the battle brand, 
 
 And join the border fray. 
 Our rough land had no braver 
 
 In its days of blood and strife — 
 Aye ready for severest toil, 
 
 Aye free to peril life. 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-Land! 
 
 On old Kentucky's soil, 
 How shared they, with each dauntless baud, 
 
 War's tempest and life's toil! 
 They shrank not from the foemau, 
 
 They quailed not in the fight. 
 But cheered their husbands through the day. 
 
 And soothed them through the night. 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-Land! 
 
 Their bosoms pillowed men; 
 And proud were they by such to stand. 
 
 In hammock, fort, or glen; 
 To load tlie sure old rifle — 
 
 To run the leaden ball — 
 To watch a battling husband's place. 
 
 And fill it should he fall. 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-Land! 
 
 Such were their daily deeds: 
 Their monument — where does it stand? 
 
 Their epitaph — who reads? 
 ITo braver dames had Sparta — 
 
 Ko nobler matrons Rome^ 
 Yet who or lauds or honors them, 
 
 Even in their own green home? 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-Land! 
 
 They sleep in unknown graves; 
 And had they borne and nursed a band 
 
 Of ingrates, or of slaves. 
 They had not been more neglected! 
 
 But their graves shall yet be found, 
 And their monuments dot here and there 
 
 "The Dark and Bloody Ground!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 The plaudits that rose from the many, 
 
 And the chatter that fell from the few, 
 Were silenced, ere long, by a trumpet, 
 
 Which pealed out the "Red, White and 
 Blue;" 
 And then, oft with tremulous cadence. 
 
 And tones that made holy the air, 
 From the hall came this song of a sorrow 
 
 Among the Green Hills of Adair — 
 The violin measuring fitly 
 
 The depth of the feeling expressed. 
 And the method and voice of the singer 
 
 Soon winning the heart of each guest :- 
 
 AMONG THE GREEN HILLS OF ADAIR. 
 
 Ilow oft in the spirit we yearn 
 
 For faces and forms that have fled! 
 While the calm lights of memory burn, 
 How oft from the living we turn 
 
 To the dead! 
 So my thoughts now go wandering back, 
 O'er a quiet and shadowy track. 
 Till they rest by a murmuring stream. 
 Where in years gone I dreamed a sweet 
 dream. 
 Among the green hills of Adair — 
 The beautiful hills of Adair. 
 
 And a maiden, as sweet as the flowers 
 
 That bloomed by that mui'muring stream. 
 Walked beside me among the wild bowers. 
 Through the months, and the days, and the 
 hours, 
 Of that dream. 
 But a messenger, cruel as Death, 
 Broke in on that dream, and her breath 
 Passed away with a praj-er and a sigh, 
 As that murmuring stream glided by, 
 Among the green hills of Adair — 
 The beautiful hills of Adair. 
 
 But I wander there yet, and I hear 
 
 The tones of that murmuring stream; 
 
0) -e 
 
 o 
 
 05 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 347 
 
 And the form and the face that were dear, 
 In the beauty of youth re-appear; 
 
 And I dream — 
 Oh, I dream of a Land and a Life, 
 Lying far beyond earth and its strife, 
 "Wherein, not again to be crossed, 
 I shall find the sweet spirit I lost 
 
 Among the green hills of Adair — 
 The beautiful hills of Adair. 
 
 The refrain had scarce died to a murmur. 
 When a woman, well stricken in years, 
 
 Sang the song of Lynn's Station on Beargrass, 
 In tones that brought many to tears: — 
 
 Lynn's station on beakgrass. 
 
 As the clouds and the shadows are lifted. 
 
 And now roll from my vision away, 
 Lynn's Station appears on the Beargrass, 
 
 With the green groves around it that lay; 
 And I see gallant forms and sweet faces, 
 
 Such as brightened a day that is o'er, 
 And my ear catches faint and far echoes 
 
 Of voices I'll hear never-more — 
 Never-more — never-more — 
 
 Loved voices I'll hear again never, 
 JSTever-more. 
 
 Now my mind and my heart, in their fullness, 
 
 Wander back to the days that have been. 
 
 And my breast swells and throbs with emotion 
 
 Over memories of girlhood and Lynn. 
 
 Although dangers there threatened us often, 
 
 Man's strong arm was a shield and a spear; 
 
 And Woman's true heart made it stronger. 
 
 As she bravely sang out "Never fear! — 
 
 Never fear! — never fear! — 
 Though the strong win not always the 
 battle. 
 Never fear!" 
 
 And now I behold Nannie Allen, 
 
 Killed near by in her maidenly bloom, 
 
 And her gallant young lover, John Martin, 
 Who, in tears and alone, dug her tomb. 
 
 On a green grassy knoll, by the river. 
 
 Overlooking the Falls far below, 
 In the flush and the flower of her beauty, 
 We laid her to rest long ago — 
 
 Long ago — long ago — 
 And the winds and the waves sang her 
 requiem. 
 Long ago. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The tones of the violin lingered. 
 
 As if they' were part of the air, 
 Impregning the place with the holy 
 
 And beautiful spirit of prayer: 
 Ere long, though, the murmur was broken 
 
 By a resonant clarion blast. 
 And before the enraptured assembly 
 
 The host and the hostess soon passed. 
 On their taking position together. 
 
 The clarion ended its play — 
 And he sang then this song of their Love- 
 Life 
 
 In Kentucky's old Pioneer Day: — 
 
 LOVE-LIFE ON THE ELKHORN. 
 
 We met flrst 'mid the horrors of battle, 
 
 While rang the red savage's yell. 
 Where some of our boldest and bravest 
 
 By rifle and tomahawk fell. 
 She stood by the door of a cabin. 
 
 Unshrinking, determined, and grand. 
 From a loophole surveying the struggle. 
 
 An ax duly poised in her hand. 
 
 I bridled a steed that was haltered 
 
 In a shed that stood haply behind. 
 And, pointing the way that was safest, 
 
 She mounted and rode like the wind. 
 With night the flerce battle was over. 
 
 And we cared for our wounded and 
 slain. 
 Yet till peace spread its wings o'er Kentucky 
 
 In beauty, we met not again. 
 
348 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 But peace brought the triumphs of labor, 
 
 And scattered the shadows of gloom, 
 And the green fertile shores of the Elkhorn 
 
 Soon reveled in beauty and bloom. 
 And then, as if heaven-directed, 
 
 We met where that cabin once stood. 
 And walked hand-in-hand where our heroes 
 
 Had gone down in battle and blood. 
 
 And we met there again, and there plighted 
 
 Our faith to each other for life; 
 And never on earth yet has Heaven 
 
 Dealt kindlier with husband and wife. 
 And in memory now we together 
 
 Go back where that cabin once stood, 
 And thank God that soon out of the evil 
 
 "We witnessed and shai'ed, came the good. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 At the close came kind words and good 
 wishes 
 
 From all, that were fervent and true; 
 And the drum and the fife and the trumpet 
 
 Pealed out again, " Red, White, and Blue ! " 
 Then came, floating in from the porches, 
 
 A smothered and twittering hum, 
 And the young clapped their hands as they 
 shouted — 
 
 "The Pioneer Legion has come!" 
 And a dozen in buckskin-breeches, 
 
 By hunting-shirts overhung, 
 Walked in under caps of 'coonskin. 
 
 And sainted both old and young; 
 And they beat then the stately marches 
 
 Of time, on the notes of the years. 
 As they sang, to a fitting melody. 
 
 The Song of the Pioneers: — 
 
 SONG OF THE PIONEERS. 
 
 A song for the early times out West, 
 And our green old forest-home, 
 
 Whose pleasant memories freshly yet 
 Across the bosom come: 
 
 A song for the free and gladsome life, 
 
 In those early days we led, 
 With a teeming soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And a smiling Heaven o'erhead! 
 Oh, the waves of life danced merrily, 
 
 And had a joyous flow, 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
 The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase, 
 
 The captured elk, or deer; 
 The camp, the big bright fire, and then 
 
 The rich and wholesome cheer: — 
 The sweet, sound sleep, at dead of night, 
 
 By our camp-fires blazing high — 
 Unbroken by the wolf's long howl, 
 
 And the panther springing by. 
 Oh, moi-rily passed the time, despite 
 
 Our wily Indian foe, 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
 We shunned not labor: when 'twas due 
 
 We wrought with right good will; 
 And for the homes we won for them. 
 
 Our children bless us still. 
 We lived not hermit lives, but oft 
 
 In social converse met; 
 And fires of love were kindled then, 
 
 That burn on warmly yet. 
 Oh, pleasantly the stream of life 
 
 Pursued its constant flow, 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
 We felt that we were fellow-men; 
 
 AVe felt we were a band. 
 Sustained here in the wilderness 
 
 By Heaven's upholding band. 
 And when the solemn Sabbath came, 
 
 Assembling in the wood, 
 We lifted up our hearts in prayer 
 
 To God, the only Good. 
 Our temples then were earth and sky; 
 
 None others did we know. 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 349 
 
 Our forest-life was rough and rude, 
 
 And dangers closed us round; 
 But here, amid the green old trees, 
 
 Freedom was sought and found. 
 Oft through our dwellings wint'ry blasts 
 
 Would rush with shriek and moan ; 
 We cared not — thoiigh they were but frail. 
 
 We felt they were our own! 
 Oh, free and manly lives we led, 
 
 'Mid vei'dure, or 'mid snow, 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
 But now our course of life is short;- 
 
 And as, from day to daj'. 
 We're walking on with halting step. 
 
 And fainting by the way. 
 Another Land more bright than this, 
 
 To our dim sight appears. 
 And on our way to it we all 
 
 Are moving with the years. 
 Yet while we linger, we may still 
 
 Our backward glances throw. 
 To the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
 IX. 
 
 The wedding-feast followed.— When evening 
 
 Had quietly yielded to night. 
 The grove at the front Avas found blazing. 
 
 Every tree with its lantern a-light. 
 And soon, from a garlanded terrace. 
 
 The viol and trump made their din, 
 Giving place, as the company gathered, 
 
 To the notes of the gay violin. 
 
 Then the Country-Dance answered with 
 spirit 
 
 To old Rosin's faraihar appeal. 
 And Cotillions glode on, through the Gallop 
 
 And Waltz, to Virginia's Reel. 
 And the Past and the Present there mingled, 
 
 As the old and the young thus met, 
 That day throughout life to remember, 
 
 And that night never, never forget. 
 
350 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 'J'hus ended that Golden Wedding 
 
 An hour ere the dawn of day, 
 On the KoUing-Fork of Hardin, 
 
 In the flowery month of May; 
 And before the bright sun had risen 
 
 All the guests their couches pressed, 
 By the murmur of winds and waters 
 
 "Wooed gently, and lulled to rest — 
 All but one, whom the chains of memory 
 
 Held so Arm in their thralldom still, 
 That a link even had not been broken 
 
 By the waltz or the lithe quadrille: 
 And from him, as the host and hostess 
 
 At length their chamber sought, 
 A low and a tremulous murmur 
 
 Their ears for a moment caught; 
 And soon, as they paused to listen, 
 
 They heard, low-toned but free. 
 This song of an old log-cabin 
 
 On the banks of the Tennessee. 
 
 ON THE BANKS OF THE TENNESSEE. 
 
 I sit by the open window. 
 
 And look to the hills away, 
 Over beautiful undulations 
 
 That glow with the flowers of May; 
 And as the lights and the shadows 
 
 With the passing moments change, 
 Comes many a scene of beauty 
 
 Within my vision's range. 
 But there is not one among them 
 
 That is half so dear to me 
 As an old log-cabin I think of, 
 
 On the banks of the Tennessee. 
 
 Now up from the rolling meadows, 
 
 And down from the hill-tops now. 
 Fresh breezes steal in at my window. 
 
 And sweetly fan my brow; 
 And the soun ds that th ey gather and bring me. 
 
 From rivnlet, meadow, and hill. 
 Come in with a touching cadence, 
 
 And my throbbing bosom fill; 
 But the dearest thoughts thus wakened. 
 
 And in tears brought back to me, 
 Cluster 'round that old log-cabin 
 
 On the banks of the Tennessee. 
 
 To many a fond remembrance 
 
 My thoughts are backward cast. 
 As I sit by the open window 
 
 And recall the faded past; 
 For all along the windings 
 
 Of the ever-moving years. 
 Lie wrecks of hope, and of purpose, 
 
 That I now behold through tears ; 
 And, of all of them, the saddest 
 
 That is thus brought back to me, 
 Makes holy that old log-cabin 
 
 On the banks of the Tennessee. 
 
 Glad voices now greet me daily. 
 
 Sweet faces I oft behold, 
 Yet I sit by the open window. 
 
 And dream of the times of old- 
 Of a voice that on earth is silent, 
 
 Of a face that is seen no more. 
 Of a spirit that faltered not ever 
 
 In the struggles of daj^s now o'er, 
 And a beautiful grave comes pictured 
 
 Forever and ever to me. 
 From a knoll near that old log-cabin 
 
 On the banks of the Tennessee. 
 
 William D. Gcdlagher. 
 
 
 ■ -'TOSiijiiiiisF' " """t^^^fsffiimfsA 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 351 
 
 THE HOOSIER'S NEST. 
 
 I'm told, in riding somewhere West, 
 A stranger found a Iloosier's nest. 
 In other words, a Buckeye cabin, 
 Just big enough to hold Queen Mab in. 
 Its situation low, but airy. 
 Was on the borders of a prairie; 
 And fearing he might be benighted. 
 He hailed the house, and then alighted. 
 The Hoosier met him at the door, — 
 Their salutations soon were o'er; 
 He took the stranger's horse aside, 
 And to a sturdy sapling tied; 
 Then, having stripped the saddle off, 
 He fed him in a sugar-trough. 
 
 The stranger stooped to enter in, 
 
 The entrance closing with a pin; 
 
 And manifested strong desire 
 
 To sit down by the log-heap fire. 
 
 Where half a dozen Hoosieroons, 
 
 With mush and milk, tin-cups and spoons, 
 
 White heads, bare feet and dirty faces. 
 
 Seemed much inclined to keep their places; 
 
 But madam, anxious to display 
 Her rough but undisputed sway. 
 Her offspring to the ladder led, 
 And cuffed the youngsters up to bed. 
 
 Invited shortly to partake 
 
 Of venison, milk, and johnny-cake. 
 
 The stranger made a hearty meal. 
 
 And glances round the room would steal. 
 
 One side was lined with divers garments, 
 
 The other, spread with skins of varmints; 
 
 Dried pumpkins overhead were strung, 
 
 Wlaere venison haras in plenty hung; 
 
 Two rifles placed above the door, 
 
 Three dogs lay stretched upon the floor: — 
 
 In short, the domicil was rife 
 
 With specimens of Hoosier life. 
 
 The host, who centered his affections 
 
 On game, and range and quarter sections, 
 
 Discoursed his weary guest for hours 
 
 Till Somnus' all-composing powers. 
 
 Of sublunary cares bereft 'em ; 
 
 And then I came away, and left 'em. 
 
 John Finley. 
 
 MAT m MASON, 1775. 
 
 ["May in Mason" was written for the Centennial celebration of corn-planting by Simon Kenton, in Mason County, Ky.] 
 
 Where Limestone, with her gathered rills, 
 
 A rocky passage follows; 
 Where Lawrence, breaking through the hills. 
 
 Beats down the lonesome hollows; 
 The woods were dark and dense above, 
 
 The canes were dank below, 
 When houseless lay the city's cove, 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
 In narrow way, by gulch and knoll, 
 The brown deer broke his bearing; 
 
 The gray wolf made the sloping mole 
 An ambush for his faring ; 
 
 The stately elk, with antlers wide, 
 
 The nose-down buffalo, 
 Their lickward way went side by side. 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
 The blue Ohio, gulfward bound, 
 
 Ran ripples on the border, 
 Where nature gave the wanton ground 
 
 Her winning, wild disorder. 
 ISTor sound of bell, nor sigh of steam, 
 
 Nor oar-sweep creaking slow — 
 The river lay a liquid dream 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
352 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 The web-fowl nested in the sloo 
 
 Beside the sliding otter; 
 The red maid, in her bark canoe, 
 
 Just skimmed the slumb'rous water; 
 The red man took the wareless game 
 
 With sinew-twanging bow. 
 Till Kenton's cracking rifle came. 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
 An hundred years! Whattime! Whatchange! 
 
 To him who kept the tally. 
 Till balder grew the bounding range, 
 
 i\nd busy grew the valley. 
 There floats the smoke of forge and mill. 
 
 That tireless ply below, 
 Where stood the white cane, stark and still. 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
 The willows died upon the shore. 
 
 The beeches lost their glory; 
 The giant, white-barked sycamore 
 
 But lingers still in story, 
 ^ow smoother ways go down the bank, 
 ^ To meet the water's flow — 
 It never knew a steamer's plank 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
 These fallow lands that laugh to-day 
 
 In summer's mulling juices, 
 from wanton sleep and idle play, 
 
 Were brought to truer uses; 
 And daring hands were on the plow 
 
 That broke the primal row. 
 To see the tasseled corn-tops bow, 
 
 Au hundred years ago. 
 
 The settler found his savage foes, 
 
 In every copse appearing, 
 And death was in the smoke that rose, 
 
 Above the early clearing; 
 The toil Avas hard, the danger great, 
 
 The progress doubtful, slow; 
 But these were men who made the State 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
 Now closures grand and pastures green 
 
 Are blocked about the granges, 
 And goodly herds and homes are seen 
 
 Along the olden ranges — 
 The busy city rings with toil. 
 
 The steamers come and go — 
 God bless the brawn that broke the soil 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
 No longer in her bark canoe, 
 
 The red maid skims the river; 
 The web-fowl's nestling from the sloo 
 
 lias winged away forever; 
 A single line these lands abrade. 
 
 The lick-bound bnftalo 
 Has left till now the trace he made 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
 So let ns leave our trace behind. 
 
 And Avear it broader, deeper, 
 That coming man may bring to mind 
 
 The courses of the sleeper — 
 That after days may see our toil 
 
 And women praise us so; 
 
 As brawny jnen who broke the soil 
 
 An hundred years ago. 
 
 Henry T. Stanton. 
 
 GRANDFATHER WRIGHT. 
 
 He knew of the great pioneering days. 
 And the dread Indian times, that only live 
 In dreams of old men when the ember-ghost 
 Of long December evenings. Memory, 
 Rising from the white ashes of the hearth 
 And from the ashes of their outburnt lives, 
 
 Haunts them, and fills them with a tender 
 
 breath 
 From the rough forests, full of wolves and 
 
 deer. 
 Where their young hearts made 'he fierce 
 
 laud their own. 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 353 
 
 THE PIONEER'S CHIMNEY. 
 
 "-S 
 
 We leave the highway here a little space — 
 (So much of life is near so much of death:) 
 The chimney of a dwelling still is seen, 
 A little mound of ruin, overgrown 
 With lithe, long grasses and domestic weeds. 
 Among the apple-trees (the ancestors 
 Of yonder orchard fruited from their 
 
 houghs) — 
 The apple-trees that, when the place was 
 
 rough 
 With the wild forests, and the land was 
 
 new, 
 He planted: one, departed long ago. 
 But still a presence unforgotten here, 
 Who blessed me in my boyhood, with Ms 
 
 hands 
 That seemed like one's anointed. Gentle, 
 
 strong. 
 And warmed with sunny goodness, warm- 
 
 ing all, 
 
354 
 
 PIONEER BAYS. 
 
 Was he, familiar by the reverent name 
 Of Uncle Gardner in our neighborhood: 
 His love had grown to common property 
 By those quiet ties that Nature subtly knits, 
 And so at last had claimed the bond of blood. 
 
 He was an elder in the land, and held 
 His first proprietary right, it seemed, 
 From Nature's self; for, in an earlier day, 
 He came, with others who of old had reached 
 Their neighbor hands across New England 
 
 farms. 
 Over the mountains to this "Western Land, — 
 A journey long and slow and perilous. 
 With many hardships and the homesick look 
 Of wife and children backward; chose his 
 
 farm, 
 Builded his house, and cleared, by hard 
 
 degrees. 
 Acres that soon were meadows deep and 
 
 broad. 
 Or wheat-fields rocking in the summer heat. 
 
 His children grew, and son and daughter 
 
 passed 
 Into the world that grew around, and some 
 Into that world which, evermore unseen. 
 Is still about us; and the graveyard where 
 Their bodies slept (a few half sinking stones, — 
 A stranger's eyes would hardly see them, — 
 
 show 
 Seventy rods yonder in the higher ground) 
 Grave still a tenderer title, year by year. 
 To the dear places earned by earlier toil. 
 
 Meanwhile the years, that made these 
 
 woody vales 
 An eager commonwealth of crowding men. 
 Passed, one by one, and every thing was 
 
 changed ; 
 And he, whose limbs were like the hickory's 
 
 wheii 
 He came with life's wrought vigor here, 
 
 was changed: 
 He heard the voice that tells men they are 
 
 old. 
 Yet not the less he moved his usual rounds. 
 
 Walked his old paths ; not idle, sweated still 
 With scythe or sickle in the hay or wheat; 
 Followed his plow, when, in the April sun. 
 The blackbird chattered after, and the crow 
 Far-off' looked anxious for the new-dropped 
 
 corn ; 
 And gave the winter hours their services 
 With sheep abroad on slopes that, slanting 
 
 south. 
 Breathed off" the snow and showed a warm- 
 ing green. 
 With cattle penned at home, or bounding 
 
 flail: 
 Thus, — not forgetting social offices 
 Throughout all seasons, (gaining so the love 
 That went acknowledged in his common 
 
 name,) — 
 He, like the Servant in the Parable, 
 Doing his duty, waited for his Lord. 
 
 The chimney shows enough for memory. 
 And, it may be, a traveler passing close. 
 If thoughtful, well might think a tender 
 
 thought 
 Of vanished fireside faces, in his dream 
 Suddenly lighted by a vanished fire; 
 And should the apple-trees that linger, loth 
 To end their blossoming, attract his eye. 
 Their fragrance would not pass unrecognized 
 For deeper gifts than fragrance. He is gone 
 Who planted them, and thirty years are gone. 
 Now, if you look a quarter-mile awa}''. 
 Beyond the toll-gate and its lifted sweep, 
 You see a prouder house, not new nor old. 
 Beneath whose later roof no spirit dwells 
 That had its tenure here: a stranger holds 
 The secondary ownership of law. 
 
 It is a story, common though it seem. 
 Tender and having pathos for the heart 
 Which knows, but will not know, that he 
 
 who says 
 "My own," and looks to-day on willing fields, 
 And sets his family tree in trusted ground. 
 To-morrow hears another answer "Mine." 
 Listen, if you will listen. It is hard 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 355 
 
 To go an alien from familiar doors 
 When we are young, to wrestle where we go, 
 And win or lose quick-hearted — we are 
 
 strong ; 
 But it is pitiful when weak and old. 
 When only for the near in life we seek, 
 And Heaven, yearned after, is not thought 
 
 afar. 
 To lose our shelter and to want for rest. 
 
 Of Uncle Gardner's children three were 
 dead; 
 Yonder they lie. Their mother and two 
 
 with him — 
 Two youngest: one a boy of fourteen years. 
 His latest child ; a girl of seventeen — 
 Breathed in his still, contented atmosphere. 
 An elder daughter, wedded years before. 
 Lived far away in watery Michigan. 
 His eldest son, and the first-born of all. 
 Thrived as a merchant in the city near, — 
 Had thriven, at least, or so 'twas said ; and he 
 For some shrewd scheme had got the old 
 
 man's will 
 To be his bond. The father pledged the 
 
 land — 
 Willing for the grown man, yet for the boy 
 And for his girl at home reluctantly, 
 Holding the chance a rash one. From that 
 
 day 
 He wrought his daily labors ill-content. 
 And with a trouble in his countenance. 
 To things familiar came a subtle change. 
 The brook that long ago, companion-like. 
 Had grown acquainted with his solitude. 
 And, later, made him music when he walked 
 And led his children through the pasture- 
 ground 
 Up to the haying or the harvest gap, 
 A noisy mimic of their prattled words, 
 JSTow seemed to lift a stranger's face at him, 
 Wondering why he came there, who he was. 
 Or murmured, with a long and low lament. 
 Some undercurrent of an exile's song 
 That is not on his lips but in his heart. 
 Nothing was as it had been : something 
 vague, 
 
 That Present of the Future which is born 
 Within the bosom, whispering what will be. 
 Met him and followed him, and would not 
 
 cease 
 To meet and follow him: it seemed to say 
 "The place that knew you shall know you 
 
 no more." 
 And oftentimes he saw the highway stirred 
 With slowly -journeying dust, and, passing 
 
 slow, 
 The many who forever in our land 
 Were going farther, driven by goads unseen, 
 Or not content and looking for the new; 
 And then he thought of how in those dear 
 
 days 
 He, too, had ventured, and again he saw 
 With steadfast eyes forgotten faces, known 
 When he was young, and others dear to him 
 From whom he parted with regret, but firm 
 In the strong purposes which build the world ; 
 Thought of his consolation — she most dear 
 Was with him, they most helpless with him, 
 
 too. 
 For whom he sought a newer world of hope ; 
 — "But I am old," he murmured, "she is 
 
 old," 
 And saw his hand was shaken like his 
 
 thought. 
 
 Such were his troubled fancies. When 
 he slept. 
 In his slow dreams — with lagging team, 
 
 the last 
 Of many that, in yonder meadows foaled. 
 Grew and became a portion of the place — 
 Journeying far away, and never more 
 Reaching his journey's goal, (a weary road 
 Whose end came only with the waking day.) 
 He seemed to pass, and always 'twas the 
 
 same: 
 Through new-built villages of joyous homes. 
 Homes not for him; by openings recent- 
 made, 
 But not for him; by cultivated farms 
 Of other men — and always 'twas the same. 
 Then, when he woke and found the dream 
 a dream, 
 
356 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 And through his window shone the sun, and 
 
 brought 
 The faint rich smell of the new-tasseled corn, 
 More fragrant from the dew that weighed 
 
 it down 
 He murmured of his fields: "For other men; 
 They are not mine, Tlie mortgage will he 
 
 closed; 
 The mortgage goes wherever I shall go." 
 
 So passed the quarter of a year, and so 
 The old man, burdened with his little world. 
 Felt it upon his shoulders, stooping down. 
 Bent more with this than every other year. 
 And summer passed to autumn : in his door 
 He sat and saw the leaves, his friends of old. 
 Audible in the sunshine, falling, falling. 
 With a continuous rustle — music fit [came, 
 For his accompanying thought. At last it 
 
 The blow that reached his heart before it 
 
 came, 
 For all was lost: the son whose risk he placed 
 Both on his children's home and on his heart 
 Was ruined, as the careless worldlings say — 
 Ruined indeed, it seemed, for on his brain 
 The quick stroke flashed: for many years 
 
 the son 
 Breathed in a world in which he did not live. 
 
 The old man took the blow but did not 
 
 fau- 
 lts weight had been before. The land was 
 
 sold, 
 The mortgage closed. That winter, cold 
 
 and long, 
 (Permitted by the hand that grasped his all 
 That winter passed he here,) beside his fire, 
 He talked of moving in the spring, he talked, 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 357 
 
 While the shrill sap cried in a troubled blaze, 
 Like one whose life was not all broken down, 
 Cheerfully garrulous, with words that show 
 False witnesses of hope and seeming strength 
 When these are gone and come not. In 
 
 the spring, 
 When the first warmth was brooding every- 
 where, 
 lie sat beside his doorway in that warmth, 
 Watching the wagons on the highway pass, 
 With something of the memory of his dread 
 In the last autumn; and he fell asleep. 
 Perhaps within his sleep he seemed again 
 Journeying far away for evermore, 
 Leaving behind the homes of other men. 
 Seeking a newer home for those he loved, 
 A pioneer again. And so he slept 
 
 And still he sleeps: his grave is one of 
 those. 
 
 Ilis wife soon joined his sleep beside him 
 there. 
 
 Their children Time has taken and the 
 world. 
 
 The chimney shows enough for memory. 
 The graves remain; all other trace is gone, 
 Except the apple-trees that linger, loth 
 To end their blossoming. In restless moods 
 I used to wander hither oftentimes, 
 And often tarried till the twilight came. 
 Touched with the melancholy wrought by 
 
 change ; 
 And something in the atmosphere, I thought, 
 Remained of hours aud faces that had been. 
 Then, thinking of the Past aud all I knew 
 
 And all remembered of it — most of him 
 Whose vanished fireside blazed so near me 
 
 here — 
 My fancy, half unconscious, shaped the things 
 Which had been, and among the sleeping trees 
 The chimney from its burial mound arose; 
 The ruined farm-house grew a quiet ghost — 
 Its walls were thrilled with fitful murmurs 
 
 made 
 Within by voices scarcely heard without; 
 And from the window breathed a vaporous 
 
 light 
 Into the outer mist of vernal dark. 
 And lo! a crowd of sparks against the sky 
 Sprang suddenly, at times, and from the wood 
 (The wood? — no wood was here for forty 
 
 years ! ) 
 Bai-ked the shrill fox and all the stars hung 
 
 bright ; — 
 Till, busy with the silence far away, 
 (And whether heard or heard not hardly 
 
 known,) 
 First indistinct, then louder, nearer still. 
 And ever louder, grew a tremulous roar; 
 Then, sudden, flared a torch from out the 
 
 night. 
 And, eastward half-a-mile, the shimmering 
 
 train 
 Hurried across the darkness and the dream. 
 And all my fantasy was gone, at once — 
 The lighted window and the fireside sound: 
 I saw the heap of ruin underfoot. 
 And overhead the leaves were jarred awake, 
 Whispering a moment of the flying fright. 
 And far away the whistle, like a cry. 
 Shrill in the darkness reached the waiting 
 
 town. 
 
 John James Picdl. 
 
358 
 
 PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 THE MAIZE. 
 
 A SONS for the plant of my own native West, 
 
 Where nature and freedom reside, 
 By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever 
 blessed, — 
 To the corn ! the green corn of her pride ! 
 In the climes of the East has the olive been 
 sung. 
 And the grape been the theme of their lays, 
 But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods 
 be strung, 
 Thou bright, ever-beautiful Maize! 
 
 Afar in the forest, where rude cabins rise. 
 
 And send up their pillars of smoke. 
 And the tops of their columns are lost in 
 the skies. 
 
 O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak — 
 Near the skirt of the grove, where the 
 sturdy arm swings 
 
 The ax till the old giant sways. 
 And echo repeats every blow as it rings. 
 
 Shoots the green and the glorious Maize. 
 
 There buds of the buckeye in Spring are 
 the first. 
 And the willow's gold hair then appears. 
 And snowy the cups of the dogwood that 
 burst 
 By the red-bud, with pink-tinted tears; 
 And striped the bowls which the poplar 
 holds up 
 For the dew and the sun's yellow rays. 
 And brown is the pawpaw's shade-blossom- 
 ing cup, 
 In the wood, near the sun-loving Maize. 
 
 When through the dark soil the bright 
 steel of the plow 
 Turns the mold from its unbroken bed, 
 The plowman is cheered by the finch on 
 the bough. 
 And the blackbird doth follow his tread. 
 And idle, afar on the landscape descried, 
 
 The deep-lowing kine slowly graze, 
 And nibbling the grass on the sunny hill-side 
 Are the sheep, hedged away from the 
 Maize. 
 
 With spring-time, and culture, in martial 
 array 
 It waves its green broadswords on high, 
 And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray, 
 And the sunbeams, which fall from the 
 sky; 
 It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs 
 at noon, 
 And at night at the swift-flying fays. 
 Who ride through the darkness, the beams 
 of the moon, 
 Through the spears and the flags of the 
 Maize. 
 
 When Summer is fierce still its banners are 
 green. 
 Each warrior's long beard groweth red. 
 His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed 
 and keen. 
 And golden his tassel-plumed head; 
 As a host of armed knights set a monarch 
 at naught. 
 They defy the day-god to his gaze; 
 And, revived every morn from the battle 
 that's fought, 
 Fresh stand the green ranks of the Maize. 
 
 But brown comes the Autumn, and sere 
 grows the corn. 
 And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, 
 And but for the cock, and the noontide's 
 clear horn. 
 Old Time would be tempted to rest; 
 The humming bee fans off a shower of gold. 
 From the mullein's long rod as it sways, 
 And dry grow the leaves which protecting 
 enfold 
 The ears of the well-ripened Maize. 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 361 
 
 At length Indian Summer, the lovely, doth 
 come. 
 With its blue frosty nights, and days still. 
 When distantly clear sounds the waterfall's 
 hum, 
 And the sun smokes ablaze on the hill; 
 A dim vail hangs over the landscape and flood. 
 
 And the hills are all mellowed in haze, 
 While Fall creeping on, like a monk ""neath 
 his hood. 
 Plucks the thick rustling wealth of the 
 Maize. 
 
 And the heavy wains creak to the barns 
 large and gray. 
 Where the treasure securely we hold. 
 Housed safe from the tempest, dry sheltered 
 away. 
 Our blessing more precious than gold! 
 And long for this manna that springs from 
 the sod. 
 Shall we gratefully give Him the praise, 
 The source of all bounty, our Father and 
 God, 
 Who sent us from Heaven the Maize! 
 
 William Whiteman Fosdiclc. 
 
 INDIAN GEAVES. 
 
 All along the winding river, 
 And adown the shady glen. 
 
 On the hill and in the valley, 
 Are the graves of dusky men. 
 
 We are garrulous intruders 
 On the sacred burying-grounds 
 
 Of the Manitou's red children. 
 And the builders of the mounds. 
 
 Still repeating from the prophets. 
 And the sachems gray and old. 
 
 Stories of the south-west Aiden, 
 Curtained all around with gold: 
 
 Where the good and great Sowanna 
 Calleth all His children home. 
 
 Through the hunting-grounds eternal. 
 Free as summer winds to roam : 
 
 Here the powah and the sachem. 
 Here the warrior and the maid. 
 
 Sleeping in the dust we tread on. 
 In the forest we invade, 
 
 Eest as calmly and as sweetly, 
 As the mummied kings of old. 
 
 Where Gyrene's marble city 
 Guards their consecrated mold. 
 
 Through the woodland, through the meadow. 
 
 As in silence oft I walk, 
 Softly whispering on the breezes. 
 
 Seems to come the red men's talk; 
 
 Muttering low and very sweetly 
 Of the good Great-Spirit's love, 
 
 That descends like dews of evening, 
 On His children, from above; 
 
 Singing wildest songs of wailing 
 For the dead upon their way. 
 
 On the four days' journey homeward 
 To the realms of light and day : 
 
 Chanting soft and gentle measures, 
 Lays of hope and songs of love, 
 
 Now like shout of laughing waters, 
 Now like cooing of the dove: 
 
 Then, anon, their feet make echo 
 To the war song's fiendish howl. 
 
 And revenge upon their features 
 Sets his pandemonian scowl. 
 
 See! again, the smoke is curling 
 From the friendly calumet, 
 
 And the club of war is buried. 
 And the star of slaughter set. 
 
362 
 
 PIONEER DAYS 
 
 But alas! imagination, 
 
 Ever weaving dream on dream, 
 Soon forgets the buried red men 
 
 For some more congenial theme. 
 
 But although their race is ended, 
 
 And forever over here. 
 Let their virtues be remembered, 
 
 While we fervently revere 
 
 All their ancient burial-places, 
 Hill and valley, plain and glen; 
 
 Honor every sacred relic 
 Of that fading race of men. 
 
 Gitche-Manito has called them 
 
 From the chase and war-path here. 
 
 To the mystic land of spirits, 
 In some undiscovered sphere. 
 
 In a land of light and glory, 
 That no sachem's eye hath seen, 
 
 Where the streams are golden rivers. 
 And the forests ever green; 
 
 Where the winter-sun descending 
 Sets the south-west sky aflame, 
 
 Shall the Indian race be gathered 
 In the great Sowanna's name. 
 
 benjamin S. Parker. 
 
 THE MOVERS. 
 
 Parting was over at last, and all the good- 
 byes had been spoken. 
 
 Up the long hill-side the white-tented wagon 
 moved slowly. 
 
 Bearing the mother and children, while 
 onward before them the father 
 
 Trudged with his gun on his arm, and the 
 faithful house-dog beside him. 
 
 Grave and sedate, as if knowing the sor- 
 rowful thoughts of his master. 
 
 April was in her prime, and the day in its 
 
 dewy awaking ; 
 Like a great flower, afar on the crest of 
 
 the eastern wood-land, 
 Goldenly bloomed the sun, and over the 
 
 beautiful valley. 
 Dim with its dew and its shadow, and bright 
 
 with its dream of a river, 
 Looked to the western hills, and shone on 
 
 the humble procession, 
 Pciiuing with splendor the children's eyes, 
 
 and the heart of the mother. 
 
 Beauty, and fragrance, and song filled the 
 air like a palpable presence. 
 
 Sweet was the smell of the dewy leaves 
 and the flowers in the wild-wood. 
 
 Fair the long reaches of sun and shade in 
 the aisles of the forest. 
 
 Glad of the spring, and of love, and of morn- 
 ing, the wild birds were singing; 
 
 Jays to each other called harshly, then 
 mellowly fluted together; 
 
 Sang the oriole songs as golden and gay 
 as his plumage; 
 
 Pensively piped the querulous quails their 
 greetings unfrequent. 
 
 While, on the meadow-elm, the meadow- 
 lark gushed forth in music, 
 
 Rapt, exultant and shaken, with the great 
 joy of his singing; 
 
 Over the river, loud-chattering, aloft in the 
 air, the king-tishef 
 
 Hung, ere he dropped like a bolt in the 
 water beneath him; 
 
 Gossiping, out of the bank, flew myriad 
 twittering swallows; 
 
 And in the boughs of the sycamore quarreled 
 and clamored the blackbirds. 
 
 Never for these things a moment halted 
 
 the movers, but onward. 
 Up the long hill-side, the white tented 
 
 wagon moved slowly. 
 Till, on the summit, that overlooked all the 
 
 beautiful valley. 
 
PIONEER DAYS. 
 
 363 
 
 Trembling and spent, the horses came to a 
 
 stand-still unbidden ; 
 Then from the wagon the mother in silence 
 
 got down with her children, 
 Came, and stood bj the father, and rested 
 
 her hand on his shoulder 
 
 Long together they gazed on the beautiful 
 
 valley before them; 
 Looked on the well-known fields that 
 
 stretched away to the woodlands, 
 Where, in the dark lines of green, showed 
 
 the milk-white crest of the dogwood. 
 
 Snow of wild plums in bloom, and crimson 
 
 tints of the red-bud; 
 Looked on the pasture-fields where the cattle 
 
 were lazily grazing — 
 Softly, and sweet, and thin, came the faint, 
 
 far notes of the cow-bells; 
 Looked on the oft-trodden lanes, with their 
 
 elder and blackberry borders, 
 Looked on the orchard, a bloomy sea, with 
 
 its billows of blossoms. 
 Fair was the scene, yet suddenly strange 
 
 and all unfamiliar, 
 
 Like as the faces of friends, when the word 
 of farewell has been spoken. 
 
 Long together they gazed; then at last on 
 the little log-cabin — 
 
 Home for so many years, now home no 
 longer forever — 
 
 Rested their tearless eyes in the silent rapt- 
 ure of anguish. 
 
 Up on the morning air, no column of smoke 
 from the chimney 
 
 Wavering, silver and azure, rose, fading and 
 brightening ever; 
 
364 
 
 PIONEER DA YS. 
 
 Shut was the dooi- where yesterday monniig 
 
 the children were phiying, 
 Lit with a gleam of the smi, tlie window 
 
 stared np at them blindly, 
 Cold was the hearth-stone now, and the 
 
 place was forsaken and em[ity. 
 Empty? Ah no! hnt haunted l)y thronging 
 
 and teuderest fancies. 
 Sad recollections of all that had ever been, 
 
 of sorrow or adadness. 
 
 Once more they sat in the glow of the wide 
 
 red fire in the winter, 
 Once more they sat hy the door in the cool 
 
 of the still summer evening, 
 
 Once more the mother seemed to be singing 
 her babe there to slumber, 
 
 (3nce more the father beheld her weep o'er 
 the child that was dying. 
 
 Once more the place was peopled by all the 
 Past's sorrow and gladness ! 
 
 Neither might speak for tlie thoughts that 
 
 came crowdintr their hearts so. 
 Till, in their ignorant sorrow aloud, the 
 
 children lamented; 
 Then was the sjiell of silence dissolved, and 
 
 the father and mother 
 Burst into tears, and embraced, and turned 
 
 their dim eyes to the westward. 
 
 William Dean Houelts. 
 
 FARTHER. 
 
 Far-off a young State rises, full of iiiight: 
 I paint its brave escutcheon. Near at 
 hand 
 
 ^^^i^C^ 
 
 See the log cabin in the rough clearing 
 
 stand ; 
 
 A woman by its door, with steadfast sight. 
 
 Trustful, looks Westward, 
 
 where, uplifted bright, 
 
 Some city's Apparition, 
 
 weird and grand. 
 In dazzling quiet fronts the 
 lonely land, 
 With vast and marvelous 
 
 structures wrought of light, 
 Motionless on the burning 
 cloud afar: — 
 The haunting vision of a 
 time to be, 
 After the heroic age is ended 
 
 here. 
 Built on the boundless, still 
 horizon's bar 
 By the low sun, his gor- 
 geo\is prophecy 
 Lighting the doorway of the 
 pioneer ! 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
n ' ^^^^ ;f, 
 
 ^«>V^ 
 
 A 8PIUX(4-T1ME. 
 
 One knows the spring is coming: 
 
 There are birds; the fields are gi'ccn : 
 
 There is hahu in tlie sunlight and nKimdight, 
 And dew in the twiliijlits between. 
 
 (_) green, green leaves on the hranches, 
 
 shadowy dark helow, 
 O eool of the aisles of orcliards. 
 
 Woods that the wild flowers know, - 
 
 Jjiit ever there is a, silence, 
 A rapture great and (Uunb, 
 
 That day when the douht is ended, 
 And at last the spring is come. 
 
 air of gold and perfume, 
 
 Wind, breathing sweet and sun, 
 
 sky of perfect aznre — 
 
 Dav, Heaven and Earth in one!- 
 
 Behold the wonder, silence! 
 
 Strange as if -wrought in a night,- 
 The waited and lingering glory. 
 
 The world-old, fresh delight! 
 
 Let me draw near thy secret. 
 And in tliy deep heart see 
 
 How fared, in doulit and dreaming, 
 The spring that is come in me. 
 
 blossoms that hang like winter, 
 
 Drifted upon the trees, 
 birds that sing in the blossoms, 
 
 blossom-hanutiug bees, — 
 
 For my soiil is hehl in silence, 
 A rapture, great and dumb, — 
 
 For the mystery that lingered. 
 The glory that is come ! 
 
 William Dean IlovdU. 
 [361) 
 
368 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 SPRING THUNDER. 
 
 We know by the breath of the balmy air, 
 By the springing grass and the sunshine 
 
 fair, 
 By the soft rain falling — as if in love 
 The sleeping blossoms and bulbs above — 
 By the tint of green on the forest brown, 
 By the fallen tassels of aspen down, 
 By the lilac bud and the tufted larch — 
 That we have done with the wayward 
 
 March. 
 
 We know by the call of the nestling bird, 
 As she feels her mother impulse stirred, 
 Bj' the venturing forth of the lonely bee 
 (Like the dove sent out o'er the olden sea), 
 By the croak of the frog in his willowy pond, 
 By the dove's low moan in the copse beyond, 
 By the quickening pulse and the thrilling 
 
 vein, 
 That April laughs into life again. 
 
 But not the sunshine, the breeze, the showers. 
 The tender green on the embryo flowers. 
 The voices of birds, or the quickened sense. 
 Appeal with such startling eloquence 
 
 To the heart that yearns for the Summer's 
 
 reign 
 (Weary and earth-sick from winter's chain). 
 As that sound which seems through space 
 
 ■ to ring. 
 The first low thunder of wakened Spring! 
 
 marvel not that the men of old 
 Deemed its deep music by gods controlled, 
 And, by the power that within them strove, 
 Called it the wrath of the mystic Jove — 
 For we are stirred with an awe profound 
 By that mysterious and sullen sound, 
 Nor give we faith to the birds and bloom 
 Till we hear that fiat of Winter's doom. 
 
 So in the Spring of our life's career 
 We stand and gaze on the opening year. 
 We feel the sunshine, we drink the breeze. 
 But no source of feeling is stirred by these; 
 Not till the voice of the stormy soul 
 Swells like the sound of the thunder's roll — 
 Not till the floodgates of sorrow break, 
 In passionate tears, doth our Summer wake ! 
 
 Caihenne A. Warfield. 
 
 MAT. 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye. 
 
 Merry, ever-merry May! 
 
 Made of sun-gleams, shade and showers. 
 
 Bursting buds, and breathing flowers- 
 
 Dripping-locked, and rosy-vested, 
 
 Violet-slippered, rainbow-crested ; 
 
 Girdled with the eglantine. 
 
 Festooned with the dewy vine: 
 
 Merry, ever-merry May, 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye! 
 
 Out beneath thy morning sky! 
 Dian's bow still hangs on high; 
 And in the blue depths afar. 
 
 Glimmers, here and there, a solitary star. 
 Diamonds robe the bending grass. 
 
 Glistening early flowers among — 
 Monad's world, and fairy's glass, 
 Bathing fount for wandering sprite — 
 
 By mysterious fingers hung. 
 In the lone and quiet night. 
 Now the freshening breezes pass — 
 Gathering, as they steal along. 
 Rich perfume, and matin song — 
 And quickly to destruction hurled 
 Is fairy's diamond glass, and monad's dew- 
 drop world. 
 Lo! yon cloud, which hung but now 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CIIAHACTER. 
 
 snf) 
 
 Black upon tlie uiouiitaiu's brow, 
 Threatening the green earth with stonii — 
 See! it heaves its giant fono, 
 And, ever changing sliape and line, 
 But still presenting something new, 
 Moves slowly up, and spreading rolls uway 
 Toward the rich purple streaks that usher 
 
 in the day; 
 Brig-hteuiua;, as it onward goes. 
 Until its very center glows 
 With the warm, cheering light, the coming 
 
 sun bestows : 
 As the passing Christian's soul, 
 Nearing the celestial goal. 
 Bright and brighter grows, till God illumes 
 
 the Whole. 
 
 Out beneath thy noontide sky! 
 On a shady slope I lie. 
 
 Giving fancy ani}ile play : 
 And there's not more blest than I 
 
 One of Adam's race to-day. 
 Out beneath thy noontide sky ! 
 Earth, how beautiful! — how clear 
 Of cloud or mist the iitmosphere! 
 AVhat a glory greets the eye ! 
 What a calm, or quiet stir. 
 Steals o'er jSTature's worshiper — 
 Silent, yet so eloquent, 
 That we feel 'tis heaven-sent — 
 Waking thoughts that long have slum- 
 bered 
 Passion-dimmed and earth-eneumbered — 
 Bearing soul and sense awa}'. 
 To revel in the Perfect Day 
 That 'waits us, when we shall for aye 
 Discard this darksome dust — this prison- 
 house of clay ! 
 
 Out beneath thy evening sky! 
 
 Not a breeze that wanders by 
 
 But hath swept the green earth's bosom — 
 
 Rifling the rich grape-vine blossom, 
 
 Dallying with the simplest flower 
 
 III mossy nook and rosy bower — 
 
 To the ]ierfunied green-house straying, 
 And with rich exotics idaying — 
 Then, uusated, sweeping civcr 
 Banks of thyme, and flcKls of clover. 
 Out beneath thj" evening sky ! 
 Groups of children caper b\-. 
 Crowned witfi flowers, and rusli along 
 With jiiyous laugh, and shout, and song. 
 Plashing eye, and radiant clicelv, 
 Spirits all itusuuikmI bespeak. 
 They are in Life's Alay-month hours — 
 And tliosc wild liursts of joy, what are they 
 l>ut Life's flowers? 
 
 AVould that thou couldst last for aye, 
 
 Alerry, ever-merry May! 
 
 ^Lide of sun-gleams, shade and showers, 
 
 Bnrstiui;' Inids, and Ijreathing fl<i\\'ers; 
 
 Dripping-locked, and rosy-vested, 
 
 Violet-slippered, rainViow-crested ; 
 
 Girdled witli the eglantine. 
 
 Festooned with the dewy vine: 
 
 Merry, ever-merry May, 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye! 
 
 ir,7/R(„, I). (;,,ii,„,hr 
 
370 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHABAGTEB. 
 
 THE BURl^mG TREE. 
 
 I KEMEMBER the bumiiig brushwood, 
 
 Glimmering all day long 
 Yellow and weak in the sunlight, 
 
 Now leaped up red and strong, 
 
 And fired the old dead chestnut. 
 That all our years had stood, 
 
 Gaunt and gray and ghostly. 
 Apart from the somber wood; 
 
 And, flushed with sudden summer, 
 The leafless boughs on high 
 
 Blossomed in dreadful beauty 
 Against the darkened sky. 
 
 We children sat telling stories, 
 And boasting what we should be. 
 
 When we were men like our fathers, 
 And watched the blazing tree. 
 
 That showered its fiery blossoms. 
 Like a rain of stars, we said, 
 
 Of crimson and azure and purple. 
 That night, when I lay in bed, 
 
 I could not sleep for seeing, 
 Whenever I closed my eyes, 
 
 The tree in its dazzling splendor 
 Against the darkened skies. 
 
 I can not sleep for seeing. 
 
 With closed eyes to-night, 
 The tree in its dazzling splendor 
 
 Dropping its blossoms bright; 
 
 And old, old dreams of childhood 
 Come thronging my weary brain, 
 
 Dear, foolish beliefs and longings : 
 I doubt, are they real again? 
 
 It is nothing, and nothing, and nothing. 
 
 That I either think or see: 
 The phantoms of dead illusions 
 
 To-night are haunting me. 
 
 WHliam, Dean HmjoeUs. 
 
 THE SHOWER. 
 
 The landscape, like the awed face of a child, 
 Grew curiously blurred; a hush of death 
 Fell on the fields, and in the darkened wild 
 The zephyr held its breath. 
 
 No wavering glamour-work of light and 
 shade 
 Dappled the shivering surface of the 
 brook; 
 The frightened ripples in their ambuscade 
 Of willows thrilled and shook 
 
 The sullen day grew darker, and anon 
 Dim fiashes of pent anger lit the sky; 
 
 With rumbling wheels of wrath came roll- 
 ing on 
 The storm's artillery. 
 
 The cloud above put on its blackest frown, 
 And then, as with a vengeful cry of pain. 
 The lightning snatched it, ripped and flung 
 it down 
 In raveled shreds of rain, — 
 
 While I, transfigured by some wondrous art, 
 Bowed with the thirsty lilies to the sod, — 
 My empty soul brimmed over, and my heart 
 Drenched with the love of God. 
 
 James W. RUey. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 371 
 
 JIMMY'S WOOING. 
 
 The wind came blowing out of the West, 
 
 And Jimmy mowed the hay; 
 The wind came blowing out of the West: 
 It stirred the green leaves out of their rest, 
 And rocked the bluebird up in his nest, 
 
 As Jimmy mowed the hay. 
 
 The swallows skimmed along the ground. 
 
 And Jimmy mowed the hay; 
 The swallows skimmed along the ground, 
 And rustling leaves made a pleasant sound, 
 Like children babbling all around — 
 
 As Jimmy mowed the hay. 
 
 Milly came with her bucket by, 
 
 And Jimmy mowed the hay; 
 Milly came with her bucket by. 
 With wee light foot, so trim and sly. 
 And sunburnt cheek and laughing eye — 
 
 And Jimmy mowed the hay. 
 
 A rustic Ruth, in linsey gown — 
 
 And Jimmy mowed the hay; 
 A rustic Ruth, in linsey gown. 
 He watched her soft cheeks' changing brown, 
 And the long dark lash that trembled down. 
 
 Whenever he looked that way. 
 
 Oh! Milly's heart was good as gold, 
 
 And Jimmy mowed the hay; 
 Oh! Milly's heart was good as gold; 
 
 But Jimmy thought her shy and cold. 
 And more he thought than e'er he told, 
 As Jimmy mowed the hay. 
 
 The rain came pattering down amain. 
 
 And Jimmy mowed the hay; 
 The rain came patteiing down amain; 
 And, under the thatch of the laden wain, 
 Jimmy and Milly, a cunning twain. 
 
 Sat sheltered by the hay. 
 
 The merry rain-drops hurried in 
 
 Under the thatch of hay; 
 The merry rain-drops hurried in. 
 And laughed and prattled in a din. 
 Over that which they saw within, 
 
 Under the thatch of hay. 
 
 For ]\Iilly nestled to Jimmy's breast. 
 
 Under the thatch of hay; 
 For Milly nestled to Jimmy's breast. 
 Like a wild bird fluttering to its nest; 
 And then I'll swear she looked her best 
 
 Under the thatch of hay. 
 
 And when the sun came laughing out. 
 
 Over the ruined hay — 
 And when the sun came laughing out, 
 Milly had ceased to pet and pout. 
 And twittering birds began to shout, 
 
 As if for a wedding-day. 
 
 William Wallace Harney. 
 
 A SONG OF MEETING. 
 
 Oh, passing sweet, my Bird, my Bird, 
 
 Oh, passing sweet! — 
 For thy strain is set to the sweetest word 
 That ear of an exile ever heard: 
 
 We meet, we meet! 
 
 Oh, sweet as shelter from the blast, 
 
 Sweet, bosom-sweet! 
 The long, long banishment is past — 
 We meet at last, we meet at last! 
 
 We meet, we meet! 
 
 Forceyihe WiSson. 
 
372 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 TIIOU CUMEST XOT. 
 
 Tiiou comest not ! The sweet \\'ild r<ise <jf 
 Huiimier, 
 Long (laj'K ago, its latest ijert'niiie slied; 
 The harvest fruits haA'e ripene<l and lieen 
 garnered, 
 Tlie hlithe liird-songsters from the b<.iwcrs 
 are fled. 
 
 Tiiou (-(^laest not! The rainljow tints of 
 Antnnin, 
 Sprinkled, like shattered gems, o'er hill 
 and dell, 
 Are faded n(jw, and through the leafless 
 hranches 
 Rings out the wild wind his se[)ulchral knell. 
 
 Tliou eoniest not! No longer fragrant 
 blossoms 
 Perfume the woodland and the garden 
 bowers ; 
 
 Tlieir A\itliered leaves speak to my heart 
 of longings 
 That filled the edialiee of departed hours. 
 
 Thou e<imest not! And yet the pale, pure 
 starlight 
 Gleams, as on that sweet eve when first 
 we met; 
 But on the ear the moaii of wint'ry waters 
 , Falls, like the eeho of some heart's re- 
 gret. 
 
 Thou eomcst not! Alas! the hours are 
 numbered 
 In whi(di our hearts miglit mingle, true 
 and free. 
 To thee the world has many paths of glad- 
 ness. 
 To me but one — the path to dreams of 
 thee ! 
 
 Amanda L. E. Diifnur. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 373 
 
 A SONG FOE, OUR VALLEY. 
 
 'T IS a morning in summer-time, golden and 
 
 still, 
 And the radiance of Heaven illumines the 
 
 land; 
 Dear Vale of Mad-River, once more on the 
 
 hill 
 Looking down o'er thy far-spreading acres 
 
 I stand. 
 The blue sky above, and the green sward 
 
 below, 
 The stream in its winding and crystalline ilow. 
 And the songs of the birds — do I dream? 
 
 — are the same 
 As they were long ago when I hitherwai'd 
 
 came. 
 
 But the years, where are they? the long 
 
 years that have flown, 
 Since first, in my childhood, I gazed upon 
 
 thee? 
 In the gulf of the Past thej' are buried and 
 
 gone, 
 
 As rivers are lost in a fathomless sea! 
 Thy old men and matrons — those loved ones 
 
 of yore — 
 I ask not for them, they can greet me no 
 
 more ! 
 But the young men and maidens? — ah, 
 
 scattered and gone! 
 I stand on the hill, and I gaze down alone! 
 
 But thou art immortal, oh, beautiful vale; 
 The j-ears as they pass leave no mark 
 
 upon thee; 
 Till the sun and the stars and the seasons 
 
 shall fail. 
 This far-spreading valley will beautiful be. 
 Still the harvester's song shall make merry 
 
 the morn, 
 The breezes blow soft o'er thy billowy 
 
 corn, 
 And thy spring-nurtured river forever shall 
 
 flow. 
 And gladden the fortunate valley as now. 
 
 William Hubbard. 
 
 EVENIXG. 
 
 When the shadows of eve dim the landscape, 
 'T is a tranquil and pure delight 
 
 To gaze down this lovely valley. 
 Still touched with a lingering light. 
 
 From this bridge, the vale overhanging. 
 
 Aloft, as if from a tower. 
 The eye may perceive, in calm vision, 
 
 Each vanishing charm of the hour. 
 
 The music of earth is ended. 
 
 Or the strains come fitful and few, 
 
 While the slender shadows, decaying. 
 Fall faintlier 'mid the dew; 
 
 And Hesperus, risen in beauty. 
 Like a maiden awakened from dream, 
 
 Flings lightly her silvery image 
 In the mirror of yonder stream. 
 
 Fanning soft their invisible pinions, 
 From their haunts of verdurous gloom 
 
 Steal cool airs that wander fragrant 
 With the odors of vernal bloom. 
 
 A spirit of love is ascending 
 
 Thro' the vail of the purple even. 
 
 And a pensive influence falling 
 From the silent depths of heaven ; 
 
 Till the moon, with her queenly presence, 
 Rising out of her palace of light. 
 
 Throws down o'er the dreaming landscape 
 The radiant beauty of night. 
 
 Wilbur Dubois. 
 
374 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARAGTEB. 
 
 ARCHIE. 
 
 Oh to he back in the cool snininer slimlow 
 Of that old iiiaplc-trec ihjwn in the meadow; 
 AVatching the smiles that grew dearer and 
 
 dearei', 
 Listening in lips that drew nearer ami nearer; 
 ( )h to l)e liack in the crinison-topinMJ clover, 
 Sitting again with niy Archie, my lover! 
 
 Oh for the time when I felt his caresses 
 Smoothing awaj li-oni my I'oreliead the 
 
 tresses ; 
 AVheu up from my heait U) my cheek went 
 
 the blushes, 
 
 As he said that my voice was as sweet as 
 
 the thrushes ; 
 As he tolil me, my eyes were bewitchingly 
 
 jetty, 
 Ami I answered 'twas imly ni}' love made 
 
 them pretty! 
 
 Talk not of niai(k-n reserve or of duty, 
 ;i'W>^-i,s Or hide from my vision such visions 
 
 of l)eauty ; 
 j Pulses above may beat calmly and 
 
 even, — 
 I We have been fashioned for earth, 
 and not heaven. 
 Angels are perfect, I am but a 
 
 woman ; 
 iSaints may be passionless, Archie is 
 luiman. 
 
 Say not that heaven hath tenderer 
 
 blisses 
 To her on whose brow drop>s the 
 
 soft rain of kisses; 
 Preach not the promise of priests or 
 
 evangels. 
 Love-crowned, wdio asks for the 
 
 crown of the angels? 
 I 'i Yea, all that the wall of pure jasper 
 
 incloses. 
 Takes not the sweetness from sweet 
 
 bridal rt)ses! 
 
 ^^ \ Tell me, that when all this lite shall 
 >W be over, 
 
 " I sliall still love him, and he be my 
 
 lover; 
 That 'mid flo\\'ers more fragrant than clover 
 
 or heather 
 My Arcliie and I shall be always together, 
 Lo\'ing etermdly, met ne'er to sever; 
 Then you may tell me of heaven forever! 
 
 Phoibe Cary. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 375 
 
 'TIS SAID THAT ABSENCE CONQUERS LOVE. 
 
 'Tis said that absence conquers love! 
 
 But, oh! believe it not; 
 I've tried, alas! its power to prove, 
 
 But thou art not forgot. 
 Lady, though fate has bid- us part, 
 
 Yet still thou art as dear — 
 As fixed in this devoted heart 
 
 As when I clasped thee here. 
 
 I plunge into the busy crowd. 
 
 And smile to hear thy name; 
 And yet, as if I thought aloud. 
 
 They know me still the same; 
 And when the wine-cup passes round, 
 
 I toast some other fair; — 
 But when I ask my heart the sound. 
 
 Thy name is echoed there. 
 
 And when some other name I learn. 
 
 And try to whisper love, 
 Still will my heart to thee return. 
 
 Like the returning dove. 
 In vain ! I never can forget. 
 
 And would not be forgot ; 
 For I must bear the same regret, 
 
 Whate'er may be my lot. 
 
 E'en as the wounded bird will seek 
 
 Its favorite bower to die, 
 So, lady! I would hear thee speak, 
 
 And yield my parting sigh. 
 'Tis said that absence conquers love! 
 
 But, oh ! believe it not ; 
 I've tried, alas! its power to prove. 
 
 But thou art not forgot. 
 
 Frederick W. Thomas, 
 
 PEACE-MAKING. 
 
 After this feud of yours and mine 
 The sun will shine ; 
 After we both forget, forget. 
 The sun will set. 
 
 I pray you, think how warm and sweet 
 The heart can beat; 
 I pray you, think how soon the rose 
 From grave-dust grows. 
 
 Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
 SON'G. 
 
 All around and all above thee, 
 
 In the hushed and charmed air. 
 All things woo thee, all things love thee. 
 
 Maiden fair! 
 Gentlest zephyrs, perfume breathing. 
 
 Waft to thee their tribute sweet, 
 And for thee the Spring is weaving 
 
 Garlands meet. 
 In their caverned, cool recesses. 
 
 Songs for thee the fountains frame; 
 Whatsoe'er the wave caresses 
 Lisps thy name. 
 
 Greener verdure, brighter blossom, 
 Wheresoe'er thy footsteps stray. 
 O'er the earth's enamored bosom 
 
 Live alway. 
 Wheresoe'er thy presence lingers, 
 
 Wheresoe'er its brightness beams, 
 Fancy weaves, with cunning fingers, 
 
 Sweetest dreams. 
 And the heart forgets thee never, — 
 
 Thy young beauty's one delight, 
 There it dwells, and dwells forever. 
 Ever bright. 
 
 Forturudus Cosby 
 
376 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHABAGTEB. 
 
 THE RAmBOW. 
 
 I SOMETIMES have thoughts, in my loneliest 
 
 hours, 
 That lie on my heart like the dew on the 
 
 flowers, 
 Of a ramhle I took one bright after- 
 noon, 
 When my heart was as light as a blossom 
 
 in June; 
 The green earth was moist with the late 
 
 fallen showers. 
 The breeze fluttered down and blew open 
 
 the flowers, 
 While a single white cloud to its haven of 
 
 rest, 
 On the white wing of peace, floated off in 
 
 the west. 
 
 As I threw back my tresses to catch the 
 
 cool breeze, 
 That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled 
 
 the seas, 
 Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow un- 
 rolled 
 Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 
 'T was born in a moment, yet, quick as its 
 
 birth. 
 It had stretched to the uttermost ends of 
 
 the earth. 
 And, fair as an angel, it floated as 
 
 free. 
 With a wing on the earth and a wing on 
 
 the sea. 
 
 How calm was the ocean ! how gentle its 
 
 swell ! 
 Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it 
 
 fell; 
 While its light sparkling waves, stealing 
 
 laughingly o'er. 
 When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt 
 
 down on the shore. 
 
 No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of 
 
 prayer, 
 Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was 
 
 there. 
 And bent my young head, in devotion and 
 
 love, 
 'Neath the form of the angel, that floated 
 
 above. 
 
 How wide was the sweep of its beautiful 
 
 wings ! 
 How boundless its circle! how radiant its 
 
 rings ! 
 If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in 
 
 air; 
 If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was 
 
 there ; 
 Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and 
 
 whole 
 As the thoughts of the rainbow that cir- 
 cled my soul. 
 Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled, 
 It bent from the cloud and encircled the 
 
 world. 
 
 There are moments, I think, when the spirit 
 
 receives 
 Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten 
 
 leaves ; 
 When the folds of the heart in a moment 
 
 unclose, 
 Like the innermost leaves from the heart 
 
 of a rose. 
 And thus, when the rainbow had passed 
 
 from the sky. 
 The thoughts it awoke were too deep to 
 
 pass by; 
 It left my full soul, like the wing of a 
 
 dove, 
 All fluttering with pleasure, and fluttering 
 
 with love. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CnAJtACTKn. 
 
 6i , 
 
 I know tliat each momont of rapture or ]);iiii Yet (>! wlien death's shadows uiv liosom 
 
 But shortens the hnks in life's mystic-al <'iicliinil, 
 
 fhain; AVhen I slirink at the thouglit i>f the eothn 
 
 I kno\v that my form, hke that bo^\' from and sln-oud, 
 
 the wave, ^fay llojic, like the rainlxtw, my spirit en- 
 Must pass from the earth, and lie eold in iujd 
 
 the grave; In her Ijeautiful pinions of purple and gyld. 
 
 AnldM B. ir.% 
 
 A SPINSTER'S STINT. 
 
 Six skeins and three, six skeins and three! 
 
 Good mother, so yon stinted me. 
 
 And here they l)e, — a\', six ;ind three! 
 
 Stop, busy wheel! stoji, noisy wheel! 
 Long sliadows d(jwn my elnimlier steal. 
 And warn me to make haste and reel. 
 
 'Tis done, — the sjiinning woi-k eomjilete: 
 
 heart of mine, what makes yon lieat 
 So fast and sweet, so fast and sweet? 
 
 1 uiust liave wlieat and pinks, to stiid-: 
 ^Iv hat ii'om brim to ribbon, tliiek, — 
 
 Slow hands of mine, be f^uiek, be 
 (piiek! 
 
 Uue, two, three stars along the skies 
 Begin to wink their golden eyes, — 
 I'll lea\'e my thread all knots and ties. 
 
 U moon, so red! (.) moon, so red! 
 Sweetheart of niglit. go straight t(.i Ijed ; 
 Love's light will answer in yonr stead. 
 
 A-tiptoe, beckoning me, he stands, — 
 
 Sto]i trenibl'ing. little Joojish hands. 
 
 And sttjp the l.iands, arnl st(.i[i the Ijandsl 
 
378 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 THE DOUBT. 
 
 She sits beside the low window 
 In the pleasant evening-time, 
 
 With her face turned to the sunset, 
 Reading a book of rhyme. 
 
 And the wine-light of the sunset, 
 Stolen into the dainty nook, 
 
 "Where she sits in her sacred beauty, 
 Lies crimson on the book. 
 
 beautiful eyes so tender. 
 
 Brown eyes so tender and dear, 
 
 Did you leave your reading a moment 
 Just now, as I passed near? 
 
 Maybe, 'tis the sunset flushes 
 
 Her features, so lily-pale; 
 Maybe, 'tis the lover's passion, 
 
 She reads of in the tale. 
 
 darling, and darling, and darling, 
 If I dared to trust my thought; 
 
 If I dared to believe what I must not. 
 Believe what no one ought, — 
 
 "We would read together the poem 
 Of the Love that never died. 
 
 The passionate, world-old story 
 Come true, and glorified. 
 
 William Dean IToweUs. 
 
 THE MAGIC PITCHER. 
 
 I KNOW an ancient story of a maid 
 
 Who broke her golden pitcher at the well. 
 
 And wept therefor; when came a voice that 
 
 said, 
 "Peace, sorrowing child; behold the magic 
 
 spell 
 Wherewith I make thy loss a certain gain!" 
 Then through her tears she saw a shape of 
 
 light 
 Before her; and a lily, wet with rain 
 Or dew, was in his hands, — all snowy white. 
 
 Then stood the maiden hushed in sweet 
 surprise, 
 
 And with her clasped hands held her heart- 
 throbs down, 
 
 Beneath the wondrous brightness of his 
 eyes — 
 
 Whose smile seemed to enwreathe her like 
 a crown, 
 
 He raised no wand; he gave no strange 
 commands ; 
 
 But touched her eyes with tender touch 
 and light, 
 
 With charmed lips kissed apart her folded 
 
 hands, 
 And laid therein the lily, snowy white. 
 
 Then, as the south wind breathes in sum- 
 mer lands. 
 He breathed upon the lily-bloom; and lo. 
 Its curling leaves expanded in her hands. 
 And shaped a magic pitcher, white as snow! 
 Gemmed with the living jewels of the dew. 
 And brimmed with overflows of running 
 
 light. 
 Then came the voice, the mystic voice she 
 
 knew ; 
 "Drink of the lily waters, pure and bright, 
 
 "Thou little maiden by the well," it said, 
 "And give to all who thirst the waters cool; 
 So shall thy grieving heart be comforted; 
 So shall thy pitcher evermore be full ! " 
 Then, as the sunlight fades in twilight wood, 
 He faded in the magic of the spell; 
 While, mute with joy, the little maiden stood, 
 Clasping her magic pitcher by the well. 
 
 Elisabeth Conwell Willson. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND GHARACTEB. 
 
 379 
 
 PRESCIEifCB. 
 
 I KNEW, I knew he was coming! 
 
 Last night, as alone I lay, 
 A pitying angel dropped her wings 
 
 To bear my burden away. 
 
 A presence vailed, yet before it 
 My lonely room grew so bright. 
 
 The ashes that died on the hearth 
 Were ashes of roses last night. 
 
 Strange music beat time with my pulses, 
 
 In a low, exquisite thrill, 
 Like the dying throb of the strain 
 
 Ere the strings we struck are still. 
 
 I knew his spirit outran his feet, 
 
 My Prince! Earth held not his peer: 
 
 I slept; but my heart was awake, 
 To listen. Hush, — he is here! 
 
 <Siisa7i E. Wallace. 
 
 JUl^E. 
 
 An afternoon as ripe with heat 
 As might the golden pippin be 
 
 "With mellowness, if at my feet 
 
 It dropped now from the apple tree 
 My hammock swings in lazily. 
 
 The boughs about me spread a shade 
 That shields me from the sun, but 
 
 weaves 
 With breezy shuttles through the leaves 
 
 Blue rifts of skies, that gleam and fade 
 Upon the eyes that only see 
 Just of themselves, all drowsily. 
 
 Above me drifts the fallen skein 
 
 Of some tired spider, looped and blown, 
 
 As fragile as a strand of rain. 
 
 Across the air, and upward thrown 
 By breaths of hayfields newly mown ; 
 
 So glimmering it is and tine, 
 
 I doubt these drowsy eyes of mine. 
 
 Far off and faint as voices pent 
 
 In mines, and heard from underground, 
 
 Come murmurs as of discontent. 
 And clamorings of sullen sound 
 The city sends me, as I guess. 
 To vex me, though they do but bless 
 Me in my drowsy fastnesses. 
 
 I have no care. I only know 
 
 My hammock hides and holds me here, 
 
 In lands of shade a prisoner; 
 While lazily the breezes blow 
 
 Light leaves of sunshine over me. 
 As back and forth, and to and fro 
 
 I swing, enwrapt in some hushed glee. 
 
 Smiling at all things drowsily. 
 
 James W. Riley. 
 
 'T IS MOimiNa, A^T> THE DAYS ARE LONG. 
 
 I HAD a dream of other days; 
 
 In golden luxury shone the wheat. 
 In tangled greenness shook the maize; 
 
 The squirrels ran with nimble feet; 
 And in and out among the trees, 
 
 The hang-bird darted like a flame; 
 The cat-bird piped her melodies, 
 
 Purloining every warbler's fame,- 
 And then I heard triumphal song, 
 " 'T is morning, and the days are long." 
 
 They scattered roses, strewed the palms. 
 And shouted down the pleasant vales; 
 I heard a thousand happy psalms, 
 
8S0 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CflArtACTER. 
 
 And laugliiri^', wove a tliousaud talos 
 Of nuinic revelry and joy. 
 
 They mocking well the worldly great 
 Each tan-laeed gii-1 and l)are-fo()t hoy; 
 
 Pear sIkijhm-s of my early fate — 
 And tlien again thc^ ^l']olian song, 
 "'Tis morning, and the day is long." 
 
 Far-winding past the storied town, 
 The river ran through liosky gr(ivos 
 
 Its floods we sailed our vessels down, 
 Full freiu-lited with a mvriail loves; 
 
 
 "T is nioiaiing, and the 
 day is long.'' 
 
 Onr souls Went floating to the gales 
 
 AVith Scarlet lea^'es and shreds of hai'k; 
 
 y^Q named them sidiooners, cutters, sails. 
 And watclied theui fade in shad(>wy dark 
 
 Then down the waters flowed the sonu'. 
 
 C)h ! moi'iiing, ^^dien the 
 days are long, 
 r~-'_ And youth and inno- 
 ' ^'^ ceuee are ^\■ed, 
 
 -. And every gi'ove is full 
 ''^~'" ' of song, 
 
 \nd i\ii\ p ithway void of dread ; 
 \\ ho iuhtl\ sings its rightful praise, 
 
 < >i ii^hth dieants it o'ei- again. 
 WIru (old and narrow are the days, 
 
 \nil ^hiunkin all the hopes of men, 
 ]!( '-h dl K \\ d-.en \\-ith his song, 
 "Till niuiMin., when the days were long." 
 
 TliMi pdpititioiis \\-il(l an<l s\\'eet, 
 
 ldi( thidls it many an old delight, 
 Vnd dimph (1 hinds that lightly meet, 
 
 And hearts that trendde to unite, 
 Arise u]ion the rosy moi-n, 
 
 Pass down the lovely vales and stand, 
 A |iicture of a. memory hoiai, 
 
 The mirage of a lotus land — 
 A land where once we trolled the song, 
 "'Tis mtn-ning, and the days are long." 
 
 JJt'iijiiinin 'S. I\frKer. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AXD CHARACTER. 
 
 381 
 
 THE OLD MILL. 
 
 Live and die, live and die; 
 
 And all the weary, weary years go by, 
 
 And the quaint old mill stands still. 
 The sun-mixed shade, like a spotted snake. 
 Lies half hidden in the bosky brake, 
 
 And half across the rill. 
 
 The Summer comes, and the Winter comes, 
 And the flower blooms, and the striped bee 
 hums, 
 
 And the old mill stands in the sun ; 
 The lichen hangs from the walls aloof, 
 And the rusty nails from the ragged roof 
 
 Drop daily, one by one. 
 
 The long grass grows in the shady pool. 
 Where the cattle used to come to cool, 
 
 And the rotting wheel stands still; 
 The gray owl winks in the granary- loft, 
 And the sly rat slinks, with a pit-pat 
 soft. 
 From the hopper of the quaint old 
 mill. 
 
 The mill-wheel clicked, and the mill-wheel 
 
 clacked. 
 And the groaning grooves once creaked and 
 cracked, 
 And the children came and played; 
 The lazy team, in the days of yore. 
 Munched their fodder at the old mill door, 
 Or drowsed in its gi-ateful shade. 
 
 But the good-wife died, and the miller died, 
 And the children all went far and wide 
 
 From the play-ground by the dam; 
 Their marble-ring is grass-o'ergrown 
 As the mossy foot of the old grave-stone. 
 
 Where the old folks sleep so culm. 
 
 But the miller's son, in the city thick. 
 Dreams that he hears the old mill click. 
 
 And sees the wheel go round; 
 And the miller's daughter, through her 
 
 half-shut e^'cs, 
 Sees the miller in his dusty guise. 
 
 And the place where the corn was groniul. 
 
 Wliliam Wallace Harney. 
 
 THE BOATMAN'S HORN. 
 
 boatman! wind that horn again. 
 
 For never did the listening air 
 
 Upon its lambent bosom bear 
 So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain ! 
 What though thy notes are sad and few. 
 
 By every simple boatman blown. 
 Yet is each pulse to nature true. 
 
 And melody in every tone. 
 How oft, in boyhood's joyous day. 
 
 Unmindful of the lapsing hours, 
 I've loitered on my homeward way 
 
 By wild Ohio's bank of flowers ; 
 While some lone boatman from the deck 
 
 Poured his soft numbers to that tide. 
 As if to charm from storm and wreck 
 
 The boat where all his fortunes ride ! 
 Delighted Nature drank the sound. 
 Enchanted, Echo bore it round 
 In whispers soft and softer still. 
 From hill to plain, and plain to hill. 
 Till even the thoughtless frolic boy. 
 Elate with hope, and wild with joy. 
 Who gamboled by the river's side, 
 And sported with the fretting tide. 
 Feels something new pervade his breast. 
 Change his light steps, repress his jest; 
 Bends o'er the flood his eager ear 
 To catch the sounds far ofl", yet clear — 
 Drinks the sweet draught, but knows not why 
 The tear of rapture fills his eye. 
 
 William 0. Butler. 
 
382 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 MY LITTLE SWEETHEART. 
 
 Ah ! sad are they of whom no poet writes 
 Nor ever any story-teller hears — 
 The childless mothers who on lonesome nights 
 Sit by their Urea and weep, having the chores 
 Done for the day, and time enough to see 
 
 All the wide floors 
 Swept clean of playthings: they as needs 
 must be 
 
 Have time enough for tears. 
 
 But there are griefs more sad 
 Than ever any childless mother had; — 
 You know them, who do smother nature's 
 cries 
 Under poor masks 
 Of smiling, slow despair — 
 Who put your white and unadorning hair 
 Out of your way, and keep at homely tasks 
 TJnblest with any praises of men's eyes. 
 Till death comes to you with his piteous care 
 And to unmarriageable beds you go, 
 Saying, "It is not much — 'tis well, if so 
 
 We only be made fair 
 And looks of love await us when we rise." 
 
 My cross is not as hard as theirs to bear, 
 And yet alike to me are storms, or calms: 
 
 My life's young joy, 
 
 The brown-cheeked farmer boy. 
 Who led the daisies with him like his lambs, 
 Carved his sweet picture on my milking-pail. 
 And cut my name upon his thrashing-flail, 
 One day stopped singing at his plow — alas! 
 Before that summer-time was gone, the grass 
 Had choked the path which to the sheep- 
 field led, 
 Where I had watched him tread 
 
 So oft on evening's trail, 
 A shining oat-sheaf balanced on his head 
 
 And nodding to the gale. 
 
 Rough wintry weather came, and, when it 
 sped. 
 
 The emerald wave 
 Swelling above my little sweetheart's grave 
 With such bright, bubbly flowers was set 
 about, 
 
 I thought he blew them out. 
 And so took comfort that he was not dead. 
 
 For I was of a rude and ignorant crew, 
 And hence believed whatever things I saw 
 Were the expression of a hidden law; 
 And with a wisdom wiser than I knew 
 
 Evoked the simple meanings out of 
 things 
 
 By child-like questionings. 
 
 And he they named with shudderings of fear 
 Had never, in his life, been half so near 
 As when I sat all day with cheeks unkissed. 
 And listened to the whisper, very low, 
 That said our love, above death's wave of woe, 
 Was joined together like the seamless mist. 
 
 God's yea, and nay, 
 
 Are not so far away, 
 I said, but I can hear them when I please, 
 
 Nor could I understand 
 Their doubting faith, who only touch his hand 
 Across the blind, bewildering centuries. 
 
 And often yet, upon the shining track 
 
 Of the old faith, comes back 
 J\ly childish fancy, never quite subdued; 
 And when the sunset shuts up in the wood 
 The whispery sweetness of uncertainty. 
 And night, with misty locks that loosely drop 
 About his ears, brings rest, a welcome boon, 
 Playing his pipe with many a starry stop 
 That makes a golden snarling in his tune, 
 
 I sec my little lad 
 Under the leafy shelter of the boughs, 
 Driving his noiseless, visionary cows, 
 Clad in a beauty I alone can see : 
 
 Laugh, you, who never had 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 383 
 
 Your dead come back, but do not take 
 
 from me 
 The harmless comfort of my foolish dream, 
 
 That these, our mortal eyes, 
 Which outwardly reflect the earth and 
 skies 
 Do introvert upon eternity: 
 
 And that the shapes you deem 
 
 Imaginations just as clearly fall, 
 
 Each from its own divine original. 
 
 And through some subtile element of light, 
 
 Upon the inward, spiritual eye. 
 
 As do the things which round about them lie, 
 
 Gross and material, on the external sight. 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 Bird of the wild and wondrous song, 
 
 I hear thy I'ich and varied voice 
 Swelling the greenwood depths among, 
 
 Till hill and vale the while rejoice. 
 Spell-bound, entranced, in rapture's chain, 
 I list to that inspiring strain; 
 I thread the forest's tangled maze 
 
 The thousand choristers to see. 
 Who, mingled thus, their voices raise 
 
 In that delicious minstrelsy; 
 I search in vain each pause between — 
 The choral band is still unseen. 
 
 'Tis but the music of a dream, 
 
 An airy sound that mocks the ear; 
 But hark again! the eagle's scream — 
 
 It rose and fell, distinct and clear! 
 And list! in yonder hawthorn bush. 
 The red-bird, robin, and the thrush! 
 Lost in amaze I look around, 
 
 Wor thrush nor eagle there behold! 
 But still that rich aerial sound. 
 
 Like some forgotten song of old 
 That o'er the heart has held control, 
 Falls sweetly on the ravished soul. 
 
 And yet the woods are vocal still, 
 The air is musical with song ; 
 
 O'er the near stream, above the hill, 
 The wildering notes are borne along; 
 
 But whence that gush of rare delight? 
 
 And what art thou, or bird, or sprite? — 
 
 Perched on yon maple's topmost bough, 
 With glancing wings and restless feet, 
 
 Bird of untiring throat, art thou 
 Sole songster in this concert sweet! 
 
 So perfect, full, and rich, each pai't, 
 
 It mocks the highest reach of art. 
 
 Once more, once more, that thrilling strain !- 
 
 Ill-omened owl, be mute, be mute! — 
 Thy native tones I hear again, 
 
 More sweet than harp or lover's lute; 
 Compared with thy impassioned tale. 
 How cold, how tame the nightingale! 
 Alas ! capricious in thy power. 
 
 Thy wood-note wild again is fled: 
 The mimic rules the changeful hour. 
 
 And all the soul of song is dead! 
 But no — to every borrowed tone 
 He lends a sweetness all his own! 
 
 On glittering wing, erect and bright. 
 
 With arrowy speed he darts aloft. 
 As though his soul had ta'en its flight. 
 
 In that last strain, so sad and soft, 
 And he would call it back to life. 
 To mingle in the mimic strife! 
 And ever, to each fitful \a,j, 
 
 His frame in restless motion wheels, 
 As though he would indeed essay 
 
 To act the ecstasj^ he feels — 
 As though his very feet kept time 
 To that inimitable chime! 
 
384 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 And over, as tlie rising moon 
 
 Clinil)S with full orb the trees aljove, 
 
 lie sings his niost eneliauting tune, 
 
 AVhilc eelio wakes thi'ough all the grove; 
 
 His (Icseant soothes, in ("ire's despite, 
 
 The wear}' watehes of the night; 
 
 The sleeper from his eoneh starts up 
 
 To listen to that lay forlorn; 
 And lie who cpuitf's the midnight cup 
 
 Looks out to see the purple morn! 
 Oil, ever in the merry Spring, 
 Sweet minae, let me hear thee sing. 
 
 Eortuiiatus Coishy. 
 
 THE OLD MAN AXD THE SPKING-LEAVES. 
 
 UxDEEXEATii the hoechen tree 
 All things fall in love with me ! 
 Birds, that sing so sweetly, sung 
 Ne'er more sweet when I was young; 
 Some shy fay (I icill not see!) 
 Steals to kiss me, lovingly; 
 All the leaves, so blithe and bright, 
 Dancing sing in Maying light 
 Over me: "At last, at last, 
 He is stolen from the Past." 
 
 "Wherefore, leaves, so merrily mail? 
 I am rather sad than glad. 
 
 "He is the happy child that played 
 Underneath our beechen shade. 
 Years ago; whom all tilings bright 
 Gladdened, glad with his delight!" 
 
 I am not the child that played 
 
 Underneath }'our beechen shade; 
 
 I am not the boy ye sung 
 
 Songs to, in lost fairy-tongue. 
 
 He read fairy dreams below. 
 
 Legends leaves and flowers must know; 
 
 He dreamed fairj- dreams, while ye 
 
 Changed to fairies, in your glee 
 
 Dancing, singing, on the tree; 
 
 And, awakened, fairy-land 
 
 Circled childhood's magic waud! 
 
 Joy warmed his heart, joy kissed his brow; 
 
 I am following funerals now. 
 
 Fairy shores from Time depart; 
 
 Lost horizons flush my heart. 
 
 I am not the child tliat playetl 
 
 Underneath your beechen shade. 
 
 " 'T is the merrj' child that played 
 Underneath our lieechen shade 
 Years ae'o, — whom all thins-s brio-lit 
 Gladdened, glad with his delight!" 
 
 Ah! the bright leaves will not know 
 That an old man dreams below! 
 No; they will not hear noi' see, — 
 Clapping theii' hands at flnding me, 
 Pinging, dancing, on their tree ! 
 Ah! their happy voices steal 
 Years away; — again I feel. 
 While they sing to me apart, 
 Tlie lost child come in my heart: 
 
 In the enchantment of the 
 Past, 
 
 '%: The old man is the child at 
 
 , . last! 
 
 'V-"' Jvltii James Piatt. 
 
j^aafiSirt'JIi^Jwy^^ 
 
 _ *^, It \-s, 
 
 ^^^-^ 
 
 ^^^-^ 
 
NATURE LIFE AXD CHARACTER. 
 
 38-5 
 
 ECIKJ ,\NI) TIIP] LOVP]];. 
 
 Tjova Echo' mjste 
 rious iiympli, 
 
 declare 
 Of what ^'ou'ru iiuulo 
 and what you arc 
 Echo. ''Ail'!" 
 
 Lorcr. 'Mid airy clitt's, and }ilaccs hiyh, 
 
 Sweet Echo! listening, love, you lie 
 Echo. "Yon lie!'" 
 
 Lover. You but resuscitate dead sound 
 
 Hark! liow my voice revives, re- 
 sounds ! 
 Echo. "Zounds!" 
 
 Lorer. I'll question you hefore I go; 
 
 Come, answer me more ajirnjios! 
 Echo. "Poh' ]-M,h!" 
 
 Lorer. Tell me, fair 
 
 nymidi, if e'er yuu saw 
 
 So sweet a girl as Phi.elie Shaw' 
 Echo. "Tshaw!" 
 
 Lorer. Say,A\'liat Mill win that frisking con ej' 
 
 Intn the tnils (")f matrimony! 
 Echo. Money!" 
 
386 
 
 NATVBE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 Lover. Has Pha-be not a lioavciily hrow? 
 
 Is it not wliite as ix'^n'l — as snow? 
 Eclio. "Asb, no!" 
 
 Z.or<;r. Her eyes! AVas ever sueh a pair? 
 
 Are tlie stars brigliter than they are? 
 Echo. '-Tliey are!" 
 
 Loi'cr. Eeho. yon lie, Init eau't deeeive me; 
 Her eyes eelipse the stars, believe me — 
 Echo. " Leave me ! '' 
 
 Lorcr. But come, you saucy, pert romancer, 
 AVho is as fair as riicebe? answer. 
 Echo. "Ann, sir!" 
 
 John J/. Harney. 
 
 EVEXIXa IX ^IIDSUALMER. 
 
 Midsummer even! Heaven's blue 
 Has deepened to a richer hue; 
 III globules hangs the heavy dew. 
 
 Silent I watch tlie twinkling stars, 
 Xight's living bust in gdldeii cars, — 
 The eastern camp of bk>()d-ri.'(l Mars, 
 
 His beacon glowing. Gomes a sound, 
 As sere leaves dnipping ti> tlic gi-omnl 
 Wlien thev bv autumn ^\'illds arc Ijruwucd; 
 
 A tinkling as of silver bells. 
 
 Rising from meadows, marshes, dells, 
 
 In chime melodious dies and swells. 
 
 The tli.nvcrs, as from censers swinging 
 To the rapt night their souls are flinging, 
 And, above the mournful singing 
 
 C)f the sorrowing whippoorwill, 
 y\\"eet voices rise in birddike trill, 
 And all my raptured senses thrill. 
 
 Eia ice Jlattheivs 
 
 I 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 387 
 
 TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 
 
 'T IS Morn: — the sea-breeze seems to bring 
 Joy, health, and freshness on its wing; 
 Bright flowers, to me all strange and new, 
 Are glittering in the early dew. 
 And perfumes rise from every grove. 
 As incense to the clouds that move 
 Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear: 
 But I am sad — thou art not here! 
 
 'Tis Noon: — a calm, unbroken sleep 
 Is on the blue waves of the deep; 
 A soft haze, like a fairy dream. 
 Is floating over wood and stream; 
 And many a broad magnolia flower, 
 Within its shadowy woodland bower. 
 Is gleaming like a lovely star: 
 But I am sad — thou art afar! 
 
 'Tis Eve: — on earth the sunset skies 
 Are painting their own Eden dyes; 
 The stars come down, and trembling glow 
 Like blossoms on the waves below; 
 
 And, like an unseen spirit, the breeze 
 Seems lingering 'midst these orange trees. 
 Breathing its music round the spot: 
 But I am sad — I see thee not! 
 
 'Tis Midnight: — with a soothing spell. 
 The far tones of the ocean swell, 
 Soft as a mother's cadence mild. 
 Low bending o'er her sleeping child; 
 And on each wandering breeze are heard 
 The rich notes ot the mocking-bird, 
 In many a wild and wondrous lay: 
 But I am sad — thou art away! 
 
 I sink in dreams: — low sweet, and clear. 
 Thy own dear voice is in my ear; 
 Around my neck thy tresses twine — 
 Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine — 
 Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed — 
 Thy head is pillowed on my breast: 
 Oh ! I have all my heart holds dear, 
 And I am happy ^ thou art here! 
 
 George Dennison Prentice. 
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Mat you go to find it? You must, I fear; 
 
 Ah, lighted young eyes, could I show you 
 
 how 
 
 "Is it past those lilies that look so near?" 
 
 It is past all flowers. Will you listen now ? 
 
 The pretty new moons faded out of the sky, 
 The bees and butterflies out of the air. 
 
 And sweet wild songs would flutter and fly 
 Into wet dark leaves and the snow's white 
 glare. 
 
 There were winds and shells full of lone- 
 some cries. 
 There were lightnings and mists along the 
 way, 
 
 And the deserts would glitter against my 
 eyes, 
 Where the beautiful phantom-fountains 
 play. 
 
 At last, in a place very dusty and bare. 
 Some little dead birds I had petted to sing. 
 
 Some little dead flowers I had gathered to 
 wear. 
 Some withered thorns and an empty ring, 
 
 Lay scattered. My fairy story is told. 
 
 (It does not please her : she has not smiled.) 
 What is it you say? — Did I find the gold? 
 
 Why, I found the End of the Rainbow, 
 child! 
 
 Sarah M. B. Pixdt. 
 
388 
 
 xjrrRi:. life Ayn cinnAcrEB. 
 
 Ti' A r.r.AT riKri. iuul. 
 
 Beautiful u'lrl ! I luivo \\Lnulor.il far 
 Towau'l tilt' ruiiii' <mi and ilio cvviuiil:' -tar; 
 1 have roariu<l rmd tlie lU'rilArn WLi~tt'- iit'-ncw. 
 
 Aiul -trayoil wlu-ro tlio soft magnolias lilow. 
 r>iu I iirvor ga;-,0(l on a t'aeo so bright 
 As thiiio. s\\-i>ot spirit of young lieliglit. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 389 
 
 Beautiful girl! thou art bright and fair 
 As an angel-shape in the moonlight air; 
 No shadow rests on thy brow of snow, 
 Save that of thy tresses drooping low. 
 Love's own dear light is wandering oft 
 O'er thy gentle lip of carmine soft. 
 Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glow 
 Of the warm blood melts through the virgin 
 
 snow, 
 Is sweetly blending in one bright dye 
 The woven beauties of earth and sky. 
 Truth, holy truth, in its freshness dwells 
 Deep, deep in thy dark eyes' shaded wells, 
 And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam, 
 Like shadows of stars from a trembling 
 
 stream ; 
 And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden's 
 
 bowers, 
 And thy words 'are garlands of flowers, 
 
 bright flowers. 
 
 Beautiful girl! I have seen thee move, 
 A floating creature of joy and love. 
 As light as a mist on the sunrise gale. 
 Or the buoyant sway of a bridal vail. 
 Till I almost looked to see thee rise 
 Like a soaring thought to the free blue skies. 
 Or melt away in the thin, blue air. 
 Like a vision of fancy painted there. 
 Thy low swejet voice, as it thrills around, 
 Seems less a sound than a dream of sound: 
 Softly and wildly its clear notes swell. 
 
 Like the spirit tones of a silver bell ; 
 And the lip, whence the fairy music flows, 
 Is to fancy's eye like a speaking rose. 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful girl! thou art 
 A vision of joy to the throbbing heart; 
 A star sent down from the world of bliss, 
 And all undimmed by the shades of this; 
 A rainbow pictured by love's own sun 
 On the clouds of thy being, beautiful one! 
 
 Beautiful girl! 'tis a weary year 
 Since thy sweet voice fell on my ravished ear; 
 'Tis a long, long year of light and gloom 
 Since I gazed on thy young cheeks' lovely 
 
 bloom ; 
 Yet thy gentle tones of music still 
 Through the holiest depths of memory thrill 
 Like tones of a fount, or breeze or bird, 
 In the long gone years of childhood heard. 
 And oft in my dark and lonely moods, 
 When a demon wing o'er my spirit broods. 
 Thine image seems on my soul to break 
 Likethesweetj'oungmoon o'er agloomy lake. 
 Filling its depths, as the shadows flee, 
 With beauty and love and melody. 
 
 Beautiful girl ! thou art far away. 
 
 And I know not where thy steps now stray ; 
 
 But oh! 'tis sweet, it is very sweet. 
 
 In the fairy realms of dreams to greet 
 
 Thy cheek of rose, thy brow of pearl. 
 
 And thy voice of music, beautiful girl! 
 
 Oeorye Dennison Prentice. 
 
 THE WABASH EIVER. 
 
 There is a river singing in between 
 Bright fringes of pawpaw and sycamore, 
 That stir to fragrant winds on either shore, 
 Where tall blue herons stretch their necks 
 
 and lean 
 Over clear currents, flowing cool and thin 
 Through the clean furrows of the pebbly 
 
 floor. 
 
 My own glad river! though unclassie still, 
 Haunted of merry gods, whose pipings fill 
 With music all thy golden willow-brakes, 
 Above thee Halcyon rears his regal crest, 
 The tulip-tree flings thee its flower-flakes. 
 The tall flag over thee its lances shakes; 
 With every charm of beauty thou art blest. 
 Oh happiest river of the happy West! 
 
 James Maurice Thompson. 
 
390 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 AN OWL. 
 
 What art thou, say, a bird, or beast, or 
 
 what ? 
 Leering from that old plane-tree's hollow 
 
 stem ! 
 Thine eyes have something criminal in them. 
 And thy hooked beak suggests a chilling 
 
 thought 
 Of midnight murder of sweet sleeping things, 
 Dreaming with delicate heads beneath their 
 
 wings. 
 And. of thy hideous presence knowing not, 
 
 Till thou dost swoop ! . . . I scarce can look 
 
 at thee 
 Without a shudder, thinking how of old, 
 In frightful dungeons far beyond the sea, 
 The heathen kings their prisoners would 
 
 hold 
 For devilish wreaking of their cruelty. 
 And, while the beasts lapped human blood 
 
 as wiiae, 
 Laughed in a husky, heartless voice, like 
 
 thine ! 
 
 James Maurice Thompson. 
 
 HARVEST DAYS OF THE OLDEK" TIME. 
 
 Oh ! the harvest days of the olden time ! 
 The ring of the sickles in merry rhyme! 
 The wealth that fell at the reapers' feet, 
 With the tinkling sound of a music sweet! 
 My soul is wrapt in a dream to-day, 
 And over my senses, from far away, 
 There comes a rustle of grain, combined 
 With the drowsy voice of the summer wind, 
 And my heart o'erflows with a song of praise 
 
 For the days — the days! 
 The harvest time of my boyhood's days. 
 
 Again I walk in the joyous train 
 That follows after the loaded wain; 
 Again to my heart, like an echo, come 
 The gladsome shouts of the harvest home. 
 When the merry, sun-browned lasses greet 
 The reaper lads with the golden wheat. 
 There was one, with hair of a sunnier hue 
 Than the ripened grain of the harvest knew, 
 Grew rosy as dawn at my ardent gaze, 
 
 In the days — the days ! 
 The harvest time of my boyhood's days. 
 
 I stand again where the breezes toy 
 With the tangled locks of the farmer boy; 
 I hear the chorus of tuneful birds, 
 The tinkling bells of the grazing herds, 
 The happy shout and the joyous song, 
 And the gladsome laugh of the reaping 
 
 throng : 
 The shout, the song, the merry peal — 
 Attuned to the ring of the flashing steel — 
 They come to me now through the dreamy 
 
 maze 
 
 From the days — the days! 
 The harvest time of my boyhood's days. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! how the years go by ! 
 
 How the young grow old and the lovely 
 
 die! 
 How sad the music, how marred the rhyme. 
 Of the harvest songs of the olden time! 
 For the rattling cog and the grinding 
 
 wheel 
 Rise over the ring of the reaper's steel, 
 And Death, the harvester, low hath laid 
 The golden hair of the sun-browned maid. 
 And I sigh like one who vainly prays 
 
 For the days — the days! 
 The vanished dream of my boyhood's days. 
 
 Lee 0. Harris. 
 
'And I sigh like one who vainly prays 
 
 For the days — the days! 
 The vanished dream of my boyhood's days." 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 393 
 
 m SUMMER DAYS. 
 
 In summer days, through fields of maize, 
 
 And clover-bloom, I idling go, 
 Where dimpling speeds through flags and 
 reeds, 
 And hazel-bush and tangling weeds, 
 The river loved in childhood so. 
 
 I sit and think upon the brink. 
 With folded hands and dreaming eyes, 
 
 While now and then, from copse and fen, 
 The timid hare or canny hen 
 Slips by me with a mute surprise. 
 
 It is, I ween, a homely scene, — 
 
 A near horizon, quiet sky, 
 A reedy mere, a meadow near, 
 
 Bestarred with daisies, barley here, 
 And there a strip of ripened rye. 
 
 In later days, in famed highways. 
 
 On lofty mounts, by storied streams, 
 III fort and town of bold renown, 
 
 I have with throbbing heart sat down 
 To weave my thoughts and dream my 
 dreams. 
 
 And it might seem, to those who deem 
 N"o glory dwells in common things. 
 
 That there is naught of tender thought 
 To wed me to this nameless spot, 
 Or give my errant fancy wings. 
 
 But yet, I own, I have not known. 
 In all the world a place more sweet; 
 
 For here was spent, in glad content. 
 The hours of life's young merriment, 
 On eager, dimpled, dancing feet. 
 
 Ah, passing strange it is to change 
 From life's full grown realities, 
 
 And see, through years of mists and tears, 
 Our little selves, with shouts and cheers, 
 Come flying like the mindless bees. 
 
 Yet now and then e'en bearded men. 
 So strange a tiling is human sense. 
 
 May lose all trace of time and place. 
 And skip with childhood face to face. 
 For raiding time a recompense. 
 
 A little thing the spell may bring, — 
 
 A flower, a familiar toy; 
 A rhyme or trill of bird-song thi-ill. 
 
 The soul and drowsy senses fill, 
 With young life's all-pervading joy. 
 
 And it is rest from hours oppressed, 
 A glad escape from Argus age. 
 
 Who sits and waits at all our gates. 
 
 And trips our steps and shapes our fates, 
 Unheeding both the fool and sage. 
 
 And so when I go idling by 
 
 From crowding streets and shouting 
 trade, 
 I would go where the sky and air. 
 And field and flower, all things fair. 
 Repeat the impress first they made. 
 
 souls, who seek, from week to week, 
 
 A respite from despotic care. 
 Who struggle in the toils of sin, 
 
 Who faint in labor's smoke and din. 
 Who carry burdens hard to bear, — 
 
 Heaven will you may, e'en one sweet day, 
 In one tired year throw ofl' the thrall. 
 
 And from the shade of hill or glade. 
 Read once again, where first you played, 
 
 Dear Nature's lesson, 
 
 ■Love in all." 
 Kate M. Sherwood. 
 
394 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 I'm standing by the window sill 
 
 Where we have stood of yore; 
 The sycamore is Avaving still 
 
 Its branches near the door; 
 And near me creeps the wild rose vine 
 
 On which our wreaths were hung — 
 Still round the porch its tendrils twine, 
 
 As when we both were young. 
 
 The little path that used to lead 
 
 Down by the river shore, 
 Is overgrown with brier and weed — 
 
 Not level as before. 
 
 But there's no change upon the hill, 
 From whence our voices rung — 
 
 The violets deck the summit still, 
 As when we both were young. 
 
 And yonder is the old oak tree. 
 
 Beneath whose spreading shade. 
 When our young hearts were light and free, 
 
 In innocence we played; 
 And over there the meadow gate. 
 
 On which our playmates swung, 
 Still standing in its rustic state, 
 
 As when we both were young. 
 
 Louisa M. Chilwood. 
 
 CAPRICE AT HOME. 
 
 'So, I will not say good-by — 
 Not good-by, nor any thing. 
 
 He is gone I wonder why 
 
 Lilacs are not sweet this spring. 
 How that tiresome bird will sing ! 
 
 I might follow him and say 
 
 Just that he forgot to kiss 
 Baby, when he went away. 
 
 Every thing I want I miss. 
 
 Oh, a precious world is this! 
 
 .... What if night came and not he? 
 
 Something might mislead his feet. 
 Does the moon rise late? Ah me! 
 
 There are things that he might meet. 
 
 N"ow the rain begins to beat: 
 
 So it will be dark. The bell? — 
 
 Some one some one loves is dead. 
 Were it he ! I can not tell 
 
 Half the fretful words I said. 
 Half the fretful tears I shed. 
 
 Dead ? And but to think of death ! — 
 Men might bring him through the gate: 
 
 Lips that have not any breath. 
 
 Eyes that stare And I must wait ! 
 
 Is it time, or is it late? 
 
 I was wrong, and wrong, and wrong; 
 
 I will tell him, oh, be sure! 
 If the heavens are builded strong. 
 
 Love shall therein be secure; 
 
 Love like mine shall there endure. 
 
 .... Listen, listen — that is he! 
 
 I'll not speak to him, I say. 
 If he choose to say to me, 
 
 "I was all to blame to-day; 
 
 Sweet, forgive me," why — I may! 
 
 Sarah M. B. Pialt. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 395 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 Oh, while from me, this tender morn, de- 
 part 
 
 Dreams vague and vain and wild, 
 Sing, happy child, and dance into my heart, 
 
 Where I was once a child! 
 
 Your eyes they send the butterflies before. 
 
 Your lips they kiss the rose; 
 gentle child, Joy opes your morning 
 door — 
 
 Joy blesses your repose! 
 
 The fairy Echo-children love you, try 
 
 To steal your loving voice ; 
 Flying you laugh — they, laughing while 
 you fly. 
 
 Gay with your glee rejoice. 
 
 Oh, while from me, this tender morn, depart 
 Dreams vague and vain and wild. 
 
 Play, happy child — sing, dance within my 
 heart. 
 Where I will be a child! 
 
 John James Piall. 
 
 EAm ON THE ROOF. 
 
 When the showery vapors gather over all 
 
 the starry spheres, 
 And the melancholy darkness gently weeps 
 
 in rainy tears, 
 'T is a joy to press the pillow of a cottage 
 
 chamber bed. 
 And listen to the patter of the soft rain 
 
 overhead. 
 
 Then my little seraph sister, with her wings 
 
 and waving hair, 
 And her bright-eyed cherub brother, — a 
 
 serene, angelic pair, — 
 Glide around my wakeful pillow with their 
 
 praise or mild reproof, 
 As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain 
 
 on the roof. 
 
 Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo 
 
 in the heart. 
 And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy 
 
 being start; 
 And a thousand recollections weave their 
 
 bright hues into woof. 
 As I listen to the patter of the rain upon 
 
 the roof. 
 
 Now in fancy comes my mother, as she used 
 
 to years agone. 
 To survey her darling dreamers ere she 
 
 left them till the dawn; 
 I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen 
 
 to the strain 
 Which is played upon the shingles by the 
 
 patter of the rain. 
 
 And another comes to thrill me with her 
 
 eyes' delicious blue, — 
 I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart 
 
 was all untrue; 
 I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may 
 
 love again. 
 And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the 
 
 patter of the rain. 
 
 There is naught in art's bravuras that can 
 
 work with such a spell, 
 In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence 
 
 the holy passions well. 
 As that melody of nature, — that subdued, 
 
 subduing strain. 
 Which is played upon the shingles by the 
 
 patter of the rain. 
 
 Coates Kinney. 
 
30() 
 
 NArURK, LIFE AND CirARACTEB. 
 
 THE OLP MAID. 
 
 Why sits slio tlms in solitmlo? licr liuart 
 Suyius iiu'ltiiii;' ill lier eye's delicidiis liliie,— 
 
 And as it liea\'es, lici' I'ijie li]is lie apart 
 As it to let its lieavN' tliroliliiiiij's tlii'i")ni;'li 
 
 111 liei- dark eye a deptli ut sottne.ss swells, 
 
 Deeper than that lier eareless girlliood 
 
 wore ; 
 
 And her cheek erimsons with the hue that 
 
 tells 
 
 The rieh, hiir fruit is ripened to the core. 
 
 It is her thirtieth hii'thday' with a sigh 
 Her soul liath turned i'vom youth's lux- 
 uriant Ijowers, 
 And her lieart taken up the last sweet tie 
 That measured out its links of 
 golden hours! 
 She feels her inmost soul within 
 her stir 
 Witli tlj oughts too «ild and pas- 
 sionate to speak; 
 Yet lier full lieai't — its own iiiter- 
 jireter — 
 Translates itself in silence on her 
 • •heek. 
 
 Joy's opening huds, affection's 
 glowing flowers, 
 Once lightly sprang within her 
 heaniing track; 
 Oh, life was heautiful in those lost 
 liours ! 
 And yet she does not wish to 
 wander liack! 
 Xo ! she hut loves in kuicliness to 
 think 
 On pleasures piast, though never 
 more to he: 
 Iloiie links her to the future — hut 
 the link 
 Tliat hinds her to the past, is 
 memory ! 
 
 -Froni her lone path she never 
 turns aside, 
 Though iiassionate worshipers 
 hefore her fall; 
 Like some pure planet in her lonely pride, 
 She seems to soar and beam above them 
 all ! 
 Not that her heart is cold! emotions new, 
 And fresh as flowers, are with her heart- 
 strings kuit. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 397 
 
 And sweetly mournful pleasures wander 
 through 
 Her virgin soul, and softly ruffle it. 
 
 For she hath lived with heart and soul alive 
 To all that makes life beautiful and fair; 
 Sweet thoughts, like honey-bees, have made 
 their hive 
 Of her soft bosom-cell, and cluster there ; 
 Yet life is not to her what it hath been,— 
 Her soul hath learned to look beyond its 
 gloss; 
 And now she hovers like a star between 
 Her deeds of love — her Savior on the 
 Cross ! 
 
 Beneath the cares of earth she does not bow. 
 Though she hath ofttimes drained its 
 bitter cup. 
 But ever wanders on with heavenward brow. 
 
 And eyes whose lovely lids are lifted up ! 
 She feels that in a lovelier, happier sphere. 
 
 Her bosom yet will, bird-like, find its mate. 
 And all the joys it found so blissful here 
 
 Within that spirit-realm perpetuate. 
 
 Yet, sometimes o'er her trembling heart- 
 strings thrill 
 Soft sighs, for raptures it hath ne'er en- 
 joyed,— 
 And then she dreams of love, and strives 
 to fill. 
 With wild and passionate thoughts, the 
 craving void. 
 And thus she wanders on — half sad, half 
 blest — 
 Without a mate for the pure, lonely heart. 
 That, yearning, throbs within her virgin 
 breast, 
 JS[ever to find its lovely counterpart! 
 
 Amelia B. Welby. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When the full moon's light is burning 
 At its brightest, it is pleasant 
 
 Sometimes idly to sit yearning 
 For the slightness of the crescent; 
 
 When the finished rose is shining 
 In the sun with flushed completeness. 
 
 For the vanished bud repining, 
 Willfully to miss its sweetness. 
 
 Sarah M. B. Piatl. 
 
 A WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 
 A SENTINEL angel, sitting high in glory, 
 Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purga- 
 tory: 
 " Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story ! 
 
 "I loved, — and, blind with passionate love, 
 
 I fell. [to Hell; 
 
 Love brought me down to death, and death 
 
 For Grod is just, and death for sin is well. 
 
 "I do not rage against his high decree, 
 Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; 
 But for my love on earth who mourns for me. 
 
 "Great Spirit! Let me see my love again 
 And comfort him one hour, and I were 
 
 fain 
 To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." 
 
 Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent 
 That wild vow ! Look, the dial-finger's 
 
 bent 
 Down to the last hour of thy punishment!" 
 
 But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go! 
 I can not rise to peace and leave him so. 
 Oh, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!" 
 
398 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHAEACTEB. 
 
 The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, 
 And upward, joyous, like a rising star, 
 She rose and vanished in the ether far. 
 
 But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, 
 And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, 
 She fluttered back, with broken-hearted 
 wailing. 
 
 She sobbed, "I found him by the summer 
 
 sea 
 Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, — 
 
 She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe 
 is me!" 
 
 She wept, " N'ow let my punishment begin ! 
 I have been fond and foolish. Let me 
 
 in 
 To expiate my sorrow and my sin." 
 
 The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go 
 
 higher! 
 To be deceived in your true heart's desire 
 Was bitterer than a thousand years of Are ! " 
 
 John Hay. 
 
 HmCHMAN'S MILL. 
 
 Lonely by Miami's stream, 
 Gray in twilight's fading beam. 
 
 Spectral, desolate and still; 
 Smitten by the storms of years. 
 Ah ! how changed to me appears 
 
 Yonder old, deserted mill. 
 
 Once, with childhood's vague intent, 
 Down some furtive way I went, 
 
 Through a broken floor to peer; 
 Saw the fearful water drift 
 In a current dark and swift. 
 
 Flying from the angry weir. 
 
 While my pensive eyes behold 
 Mossy roof and gable old. 
 
 Shadowy through obscuring trees. 
 Memory's vision, quick and true. 
 Time's long vista looking through. 
 
 By-gone scenes more plainly sees. 
 
 Once, with timid steps and soft, 
 Stealthily I climbed aloft. 
 
 Up and up the highest stair; 
 Iron cogs were rumbling round, — 
 Every vague and awful sound 
 
 Mocked and mumbled at me there. 
 
 Sees upon the garner floor 
 Wheat and corn in ample store, — 
 
 Powdery whiteness everywhere; 
 Sees a miller short and stout, 
 Whistling cheerfully about. 
 
 Making merry with his care. 
 
 Wonder if those wheels remain. 
 And would frighten me again? 
 
 Wonder if the miller's dead? 
 Wonder if his ghost at night 
 Haunts the stairs, a phantom white? 
 
 Walks the loft with hollow tread? 
 
 Pleased, he listens to the whirr 
 Of the swift-revolving burr. 
 
 Deeming brief each busy hour; 
 Like a stream of finest snow 
 Sifting to the bin below. 
 
 Fall the tiny flakes of flour. 
 
 Glides the river past the mill. 
 But the wheels are stark and still; 
 
 Worn and wasting day by day. 
 So the stream of years will run 
 When my busy life is done. 
 
 So my task-house shall decay. 
 
 W. H. Venable. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 399 
 
 THROUGH THE LO:t^G DAYS AND YEARS. 
 
 Through the long days and years 
 What will my loved one be, 
 Parted from me? — 
 Through the long days and years. 
 
 Never on eai'th again 
 
 Shall I before her stand, 
 Touch lip or hand, — 
 Never on earth again. 
 
 Always as then she was. 
 
 Loveliest, brightest, best. 
 Blessing and blest, — 
 Always as then she was. 
 
 But while my darling lives, 
 Peaceful I journey on. 
 Not quite alone, — 
 Not while my darling lives. 
 
 John Hay. 
 
 THE MORNING STREET. 
 
 Alone I walk the Morning Street, 
 Filled with the silence vague and sweet: 
 All seems as strange, as still, as dead. 
 As if unnumbered years had tied, 
 Letting the noisy Babel lie 
 Breathless and dumb against the sky. 
 The light wind walks with me, alone, 
 "Where the hot day flame-like was blown. 
 Where the wheels roared, the dust was beat : — 
 The dew is in the Morning Street ! 
 
 Where are the restless throngs that pour 
 
 Along this mighty corridor 
 
 While the noon shines? — the hurrying crowd 
 
 Whose footsteps make the city loud? — 
 
 The myriad faces, hearts that beat 
 
 No more in the deserted street? 
 
 Those footsteps, in their dreaming maze, 
 
 Cross thresholds of forgotten days; 
 
 Those faces brighten from the years 
 
 In rising suns long set in tears; 
 
 Those hearts — far in the Past they beat, 
 
 Unheard within the Morning Street! 
 
 Some city of the world's gray prime. 
 Lost in some desert far from Time, 
 
 Where noiseless ages, gliding through. 
 Have only sifted sand and dew — 
 Yet a mysterious hand of man 
 Lying on all the haunted plan. 
 The passions of the human heart 
 Quickening the marble breast of Art — 
 Were not more strange, to one who lirst 
 Upon its ghostly silence burst, 
 Than this vast quiet, where the tide 
 Of Life, upheaved on either side. 
 Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat 
 With human waves the Morning Street! 
 
 Ay, soon the glowing morning flood 
 
 Breaks through the charmed solitude: 
 
 This silent stone, to music won, 
 
 Shall murmur to the rising sun ; 
 
 The busy place, in dust and heat, 
 
 Shall rush with wheels and swarm with 
 
 feet; 
 The Arachng-threads of Purpose stream 
 Unseen within the morning gleam; 
 The life shall move, the death be plain; 
 The bridal throng, the funeral train, 
 Together, face to face, shall meet 
 And pass within the Morning Street! 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
400 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 PICTURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 Among the beantifnl pictures 
 That hang on Memory's wall, 
 
 Is one of a dim old forest, 
 That seemeth the best of all. 
 
 Not for its 
 gnarled oaks 
 
 olden, ^./i 
 
 Dark with the mistletoe, ^ 
 Not for the violets golden. 
 
 That sprinkle the vale below; 
 Not for the milk-white lilies. 
 
 That lean from the fragrant hedge. 
 Coquetting all day with the sunbeams 
 
 And stealing their golden edge; 
 Not for the vines on the upland. 
 
 Where the bright red berries rest, 
 Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip. 
 
 It seemeth to me the best. 
 
 I once had a little brother 
 
 With eyes that were dark and deep — 
 In the lap of that old dim forest 
 
 He lieth in peace asleep. 
 Light as the down of the thistle. 
 
 Free as the winds that blow. 
 We roved there, the beautiful summers. 
 
 The summers of long ago; 
 But his feet on the hills grew weary. 
 
 And, one of the Autumn eves, 
 T made for my little brother 
 
 A bed of the yellow leaves. 
 Sweetly his pale arms folded 
 
 My neck in a meek embrace. 
 As the light of immortal beauty 
 
 Silently covered his face. 
 And when the arrows of sunset 
 
 Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
 He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 
 
 Asleep by the gates of light. 
 
 Therefore, of all the pictures 
 That hang on Memory's wall. 
 
 The one of the dim old forest 
 Seemeth the best of all. 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 TRUTH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 On the page that is immortal, 
 We the brilliant promise see: 
 
 "Ye shall know the Truth, my people, 
 And its might shall make you free!" 
 
 For the Truth, then, let us battle. 
 Whatsoever fate betide! 
 
 Long the boast that we are Freemen, 
 We have made, and published wide. 
 
 He who has the Truth, and keeps it, 
 Keeps what not to him belongs; 
 
 But performs a selfish action, 
 That his fellow-moi'tal wrongs. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 401 
 
 He who seeks the Truth, and trembles 
 At the dangers he ninst brave, 
 
 Is not fit to be a Freeman : 
 He, at best, is but a slave. 
 
 He who hears the Truth, and places 
 Its high promptings under ban, 
 
 Loud may boast of all that's manly. 
 But can never be a Man. 
 
 Friend, this simple lay who readest. 
 Be not thou like either them, — 
 
 But to Truth give utmost freedom, 
 And the tide it raises stem. 
 
 Bold m speech, and bold in action. 
 Be forever! — Time will test, 
 
 Of the free-sonled and the slavish, 
 Which fulfills life's mission best. 
 
 Be thou like the noble Ancient — 
 Scorn the threat that bids thee fear; 
 
 Speak! — no matter what betide thee; 
 Let them strike, but make them hear! 
 
 Be thou like the first Apostles — 
 
 Be thou like heroic l-'aul ; 
 If a free thought seek expression, 
 
 Speak it boldly! speak it all! 
 
 Face thine enemies — accusers; 
 
 Scorn the prison, rack, or rod! 
 And, if thou hast Truth to utter. 
 
 Speak! and leave the rest to God. 
 
 William I). Oaltajhei: 
 
 TAKING THE NIGHT-TRAIN. 
 
 A TREMULOUS word, a lingering hand, the 
 burning 
 Of restless passion smoldering — so we 
 part ; 
 Ah, slowly from the dark the world is turning 
 When midnight stars shine in a heav}- 
 heart. 
 
 The streets are lighted, and the myriad faces 
 Move through the gaslight, and the home- 
 sick feet 
 Pass by me, homeless ; sweet and close em- 
 braces 
 Charm many a threshold — laughs and 
 kisses sweet. 
 
 From great hotels the stranger throng is 
 
 streaming. 
 
 The hurrying wheels in many a street are 
 
 loud; 
 
 Within the depot, in the gaslight gleaming, 
 
 A glare of faces, stands the waiting crowd. 
 
 The whistle screams; the wheels are rum- 
 bling slowly. 
 The path before us glides into the light: 
 
 Behind, the city sinks in silence wholly; 
 The panting engine leaps into the night. 
 
 I seem to see each street a mystery growing, 
 In mist of dreamland — vague, forgotten air: 
 
 Does no sweet soul, awakened, feel me going? 
 
 Loves no dear heart, in dreams, to keep 
 
 me there? 
 
 JoAn James Piatt. 
 
402 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 SONG OF STEAM. 
 
 Harness me down with your iron bands; 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein : 
 For I scorn the power of your puny hands, 
 
 As the tempest scorns a chain. 
 How I laughed, as I lay concealed from sight 
 
 For many a countless hour, 
 At the childish boast of human might 
 
 And the pride of human power. 
 
 "When I saw an army upon the land, 
 
 A navy upon the seas, 
 Creeping along, a snail-like band. 
 
 Or waiting the wayward breeze; 
 When I marked the peasant faintly reel 
 
 With the toil which he daily bore, 
 As he feebly turned the tardy wheel. 
 
 Or tugged at the weary oar; 
 
 When I measured the panting courser's 
 speed. 
 
 The flight of the carrier dove, 
 As they bore the law a king decreed, 
 
 Or the lines of impatient love, 
 I could not but think how the world would 
 feel. 
 
 As these were outstripped afar. 
 When I should be bound to the rushing keel, 
 
 Or chained to the flying car. 
 
 Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last; 
 
 They invited me forth at length; 
 And I rushed to my throne with a thunder- 
 blast, 
 
 And laughed in my iron strength. 
 O then ye saw a wondrous change 
 
 On the earth and the ocean wide. 
 Where now my fiery armies range, 
 
 Nor wait for wind or tide. 
 
 Hurra! hurra! the waters o'er. 
 
 The mountain's steep decline; 
 Time — space — have yielded to my power; 
 
 The world! the world is mine! 
 
 The rivers the sun hath earliest blest. 
 Or those where his beams decline; 
 
 The giant streams of the queenly west. 
 Or the orient floods divine ! 
 
 The ocean pales where'er I sweep — 
 
 I hear my strength rejoice; 
 And the monsters of the briny deep 
 
 Cower, trembling, at my voice. 
 I carry the wealth and the lord of earth. 
 
 The thoughts of his god-like mind; 
 The mind lags after my going forth. 
 
 The lightning is left behind. 
 
 In the darksome depths of the fathomless 
 mine, 
 
 My tireless arm doth play; 
 Where the rocks never saw the sun de- 
 cline. 
 
 Or the dawn of the glorious day, 
 I bring earth's glittering jewels up 
 
 From the hidden caves below. 
 And I make the fountain's granite cup 
 
 With a crystal gush o'erflow. 
 
 I blow the bellows, I forge the steel. 
 
 In all the shops of trade ; 
 I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 
 
 Where my arms of strength are made; 
 I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint; 
 
 I carry, I spin, I weave. 
 And all my doings I put into print. 
 
 On every Saturday eve. 
 
 I've no muscle to weary, no breast to de- 
 cay. 
 
 No bones to be "laid on the shelf," 
 And soon I intend you may "go and play," 
 
 While I manage this world myself. 
 But harness me down with your iron bands. 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein; 
 For I scorn the power of your puny hands. 
 
 As the tempest scorns a chain. 
 
 George W. OuUer. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 403 
 
 THE MOIfEYLESS MAN. 
 
 Is THERE no sweet place on the face of the 
 
 earth, 
 Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has 
 
 birth? 
 "Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will 
 
 heave, 
 When the poor and the wretched shall ask 
 
 and receive? 
 Is there no place at all, where a knock from 
 
 the poor. 
 Will bring a kind angel to open the door? 
 Ah, search the wide world wherever you can, 
 There is no open door for a Moneyless 
 
 Man! 
 
 Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's 
 
 light 
 Drives oft' with its splendor the darkness 
 
 of night, 
 Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy 
 
 fold 
 Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings 
 
 of gold. 
 And the mirrors of silver take up and renew. 
 In long lighted vistas the 'wildering view: 
 Go there ! at the banquet, and find, if you can, 
 A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching 
 
 spire. 
 Which gives to the sun his same look of 
 
 red fire. 
 Where the arches and columns are gorgeous 
 
 within. 
 And the walls seem as pure as a soul with- 
 out sin ; 
 Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and 
 
 the great 
 In the pomp and the pride of their worldly 
 
 estate ; 
 Walk down in your patches, and find, if you 
 
 can. 
 Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man! 
 
 Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has 
 
 told 
 His hundreds and thousands of silver and 
 
 gold; 
 Where, safe from the hands of the starving 
 
 and poor. 
 Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore ! 
 Walk up to their counters — ah, there you 
 
 majr stay 
 Till your limbs grow old, till your hairs 
 
 grow gray. 
 And you'll find at the Banks not one of the 
 
 clan 
 With money to lend to a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark -flowing 
 
 gown. 
 With the scales wherein law weigheth equity 
 
 down; 
 Where he frowns on the weak and smiles 
 
 on the strong. 
 And punishes right whilst he justifes 
 
 wrong ; 
 Where juries their lips to the Bible have 
 
 laid. 
 To render a verdict — they've already made: 
 Go there, in the court-room, and find, if 
 
 you can, 
 Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 Then go to your hovel — no raven has fed 
 The wife who has suft'ered too long for her 
 
 ' bread ; 
 Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the 
 
 death-frost 
 From the lips of the angel your poverty lost: 
 Then turn in your agony upward to God, 
 And bless, while it smites you, the chas- 
 tening rod, 
 And you'll find, at the end of your life's 
 
 little span. 
 There's a welcome above for a Moneyless 
 Man! 
 
 Henry T. Stanton. 
 
404 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 PICNIC IN THE WOODS. 
 
 A BURST of picnic revelry 
 
 From nature's concert snmmons me: 
 
 A merry band of youths and. maids 
 
 Now gather in the sylvan shades, 
 
 A fair and picturesc[ue array, 
 
 To spend a summer holiday. 
 
 Some Lending o'er the limpid creek 
 
 For tinted shells or corals seek, 
 
 Some find where native flowers hide 
 
 Gnarled roots or mossy stones beside, 
 
 Some half-recline on grassy knolls, 
 Or carve their names upon the boles 
 Of beechen trees, — or, blindfold, tie 
 Plucked grass to tell their fortunes by; 
 And some romantic pairs explore 
 Dim glens not often trod before. 
 Repeating, to beguile the time, 
 Old scraps of sentimental rhyme; 
 And some their rustic science bring 
 To improvise a grape-vine- swing; 
 Some haste with line and baited hook, 
 And piscatorial, sober look. 
 To angle in the glassy calm 
 Above the steady-pouring dam. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 405 
 
 And many join in social games, 
 
 Familiar every-where as old, 
 
 With quaint traditionary names. 
 
 Of origin remote, untold, — 
 
 The Roving Dukes, or What's Your Will ? 
 
 The Merry Miller at the Mill, 
 
 The Bnttoner, the Magic Key, 
 
 The Hindmost of the .Gi'oup of Three, 
 
 King George's Bridge, the Hunted Glove, — 
 
 Games oft the covert way of love. 
 
 And perilous to blushing miss 
 
 Who rashly risks the forfeit kiss. 
 
 And now the magic violin 
 
 Sends through the woods a joyous din ; 
 
 Responsive to the signal sound. 
 
 The gayest flock the dancing-ground; 
 
 With native grace and ready will. 
 
 They mingle in the light quadrille. 
 
 Or, half-embracing, twain and twain. 
 
 Glide waltzing o'er the level plain, 
 
 N"or note how swift the shadows pass 
 Sun-dialed on the velvet grass — 
 Swift shadows of the maples tall. 
 That colonnade the forest hall. 
 
 When hangs the glowing sun o'erhead. 
 And flecks the densest shade with light. 
 The generous repast is spread 
 On cloths of linen snowy-white. 
 Within some chosen festal dell 
 Near which perennial waters well; 
 By gentle hand of tender maid 
 The picnic banquet is arrayed, — 
 Keen wit and sparkling repartee 
 Regale the feasting company. 
 When mirth and themes convivial fail. 
 The charms of tuneful art prevail: 
 The soft guitar's respcnisive chords 
 Make answer to the singer's words. 
 Or, by bewitching fingers wooed. 
 Yield an impassioned interlude. 
 
 W. H. VenaUe. 
 
 THE RIVER I:N" THE MAMMOTH CAVE. 
 
 Oh, dark, mysterious stream, I sit by thee 
 In awe profound, as myriad wanderers 
 Have sat before. I see thy waters move 
 From out the ghostly glimmerings of my 
 
 lamp 
 Into the dark beyond as noiselessly 
 As if thou wert a somber river drawn 
 Upon a spectral canvas, or the stream 
 Of dim oblivion flowing through the lone 
 And shadowy vale of death. There is no 
 
 wave 
 To whisper on thy shore or breathe a wail. 
 Wounding its tender bosom on thy sharp 
 And jagged rocks. Innumerous mingled 
 
 tones. 
 The voices of the day and of the night, 
 Are ever heard through all our outer world. 
 For Nature there is never dumb; but here 
 I turn and turn my listening ear and catch 
 No mortal sound save that of my own heart 
 
 That 'mid the awful stillness throbs aloud 
 Like the far sea-surf's low and measured beat 
 Upon its rocky shore. But when a cry 
 Or shout or song is raised, how wildly back 
 Come the weird echoes from a thousand 
 
 rocks 
 As if unnumbered airy sentinels. 
 The genii of the spot, caught up the voice, 
 Repeating it in wonder — a wild maze 
 Of spirit-tones, a wilderness of sounds, 
 Earth-born but all unearthly. 
 
 Thou dost seem. 
 Oh wizard stream, a river of the dead — 
 A river of some blasted, perished world, 
 Wandering forever in the mystic void. 
 No breeze e'er strays across thy solemn tide. 
 No bird e'er breaks thy surface with his wing. 
 No star, or sky, or bow is ever glassed 
 Within thy depths, no flower or blade e'er 
 
 breathes 
 
406 
 
 NATUBE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 Its fragrance from thy bleak banks on the air. 
 True, here are flowers, or semblances of 
 
 flowers. 
 Carved by the magic fingers of the drops 
 That fall upon thy rocky battlements — 
 Fair roses, tulips, pinks, and violets — 
 All white as cerements of the coffined dead; 
 But they are flowers of stone, and never 
 
 drank 
 The sunshine or the dew. Oh, somber stream, 
 Whence comest thou and whither goest ? Far 
 Above, upon the surface of old earth, 
 A hundred rivers o'er thee pass and sweep. 
 In music and in sunshine, to the sea — 
 Thou art not born of them. Whence 
 
 comest thou 
 And whither goest? ISTone of earth can 
 
 know. 
 
 No mortal e'er has gazed upon thy source — 
 No mortal seen where thy dark waters blend 
 With the abyss of Ocean. None may guess 
 The mysteries of thy course. Perchance 
 
 thou hast 
 A hundred mighty cataracts thundering 
 
 down 
 Toward earth's eternal center; but their 
 
 sound 
 -Is not for ear of man. All we can know 
 Is that thy tide rolls out, a specter stream. 
 From yon stupendous, frowning wall of rock. 
 And, moving on a little way, sinks down 
 Beneath another mass of rock as dark 
 And frowning, even as life — our little life — 
 Born of one fathomless eternity, 
 Steals on a moment and then disappears 
 In an eternity as fathomless. 
 
 Oeorge Dennison Prentice. 
 
 BACHELOE'S HALL. 
 
 Bachelor's Hall, what a quare-lookin' 
 place it is! 
 Kape me from such all the days of my life ! 
 Sure but I think what a burnin' disgrace 
 it is, 
 Niver at all to be gettin' a wife. 
 
 Pots, dishes, pans, an' such grasy commo- 
 dities. 
 Ashes and praty-skins, kiver the floor; 
 His cupboard's a storehouse of comical 
 oddities. 
 Things that had niver been neighbors 
 before. 
 
 Say the old bachelor, gloomy an' sad enough, 
 Placin' his tay-kettle over the fire; 
 
 Soon it tips over — Saint Patrick! he's mad 
 enough, 
 If he were prisent, to fight with the squire I 
 
 He looks for the platter — Grimalkin is 
 scourin' it! 
 
 Sure, at a baste like that, swearin' 's no sin ; 
 His dishcloth is missing; the pigs are de- 
 vourin' it — 
 Tunder and turf! what a pickle he's in! 
 
 When his male's over, the table's left sit- 
 tin' so; 
 
 Dishes, take care of yourselves if you can ; 
 Divil a drop of hot water will visit ye, — 
 
 Och, let him alone for a baste of a man! 
 
 Now, like a pig in a mortar-bed wallowin', 
 Say the old bachelor kneading his dough; 
 
 Troth, if his bread he could ate without 
 swallowin', 
 How it would favor his palate, ye know! 
 
 Late in the night, when he goes to bed 
 shiverin', 
 Niver a bit is the bed made at all; 
 He crapes like a terrapin under the kiv- 
 erin' ; — 
 Bad luck to the pictur of Bachelor's Hall ! 
 
 John Fintey. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 407 
 
 JONATHAN SNOW. 
 
 Jonathan Snow was decrepit and old, 
 And his poor ragged form you had pitied 
 to see, 
 Yet a king, in his mantle of purple and 
 gold, 
 "Was never so cheerful and happy as he. 
 "My coat isn't new, but it's roomy and 
 free; 
 My hat isn't quite in the fashion, I know. 
 If others have better it's nothing to me; 
 They may wear them, and welcome," says 
 Jonathan Snow. 
 
 He lived in a poor little hovel alone. 
 And you'd scarcely feel safe in its tot- 
 tering walls; 
 Yet a lord, in his ivy-crowned castle of 
 stone, 
 Was never so proud of his tapestried halls. 
 "Though opulence passes, and pride never 
 calls, 
 There's room, and to spare, for affection, 
 I trow; 
 If others delight in their parties and balls. 
 They may have them, and welcome," says 
 Jonathan Snow. 
 
 His old frame was bent, as he passed on 
 his way, 
 And his tottering limbs were distorted 
 by pain; 
 But the rich in their chaises were never 
 more gay 
 Than he as he stumped on his hickory 
 cane. 
 "My horse hasn't quite so much mettle, 
 'tis plain. 
 But Death comes as soon to the swift as 
 the slow; 
 If others love better the whip and the 
 rein. 
 They may have them, and welcome," says 
 Jonathan Snow. 
 
 His friends were the children, the poor, and 
 the old, 
 And his greeting was cheerful, his smile 
 was benign; 
 Not Croesus, with all of his silver and gold. 
 Could purchase a love of a purer design. 
 "The friendship that dwells in the sparkle 
 of wine 
 Will break with its bubbles and die with 
 its glow; 
 If others want friends that are truer than 
 mine. 
 They may have them, and welcome," says 
 Jonathan Snow. 
 
 He worshiped, in faith, the great Ruler above, 
 Though builders of creeds would have 
 thought him remiss. 
 But he taught the sweet doctrine of patience 
 and love. 
 And he found in its practice a Heaven 
 of bliss. 
 "There is healing in kindness; a tear and 
 a kiss 
 Can lighten the heart that is heavy with 
 woe; 
 If others want better religion than this. 
 They may have it, and welcome," says 
 Jonathan Snow. 
 
 One evening Death entered his poor little hut, 
 
 And Jonathan smiled, when he saw he 
 
 was there, 
 
 For be the door open, or be the door shut, 
 
 The soul that is ready has naught to 
 
 prepare. 
 
 "The seed-time was pleasant, the summer 
 
 was fair. 
 
 The harvest was garnered a long time ago ; 
 
 There are only the gleanings awaiting my 
 
 care. 
 
 You may have them, and welcome," says 
 
 Jonathan Snow. 
 
 Lee 0. Harris. 
 
4(J8 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 EYERYTIIIXG. 
 
 You'd call his room a iileasant jilaei': 
 Satin and rosc-\V()od, lights and laee, 
 And fruits and wines woru there. (Ah, well 1) 
 And _yet the rich man rang his Ijell; — 
 When lo, he saw a fairy tlit 
 Fr<im outside dusk to answer it! 
 
 Her tlowerdike eyes, so faint and lilue, 
 Looked at him through lier vail of dew; 
 Though every graeious thing ho had. 
 
 His face was IVetful, tired, and sad: — 
 
 " I'ray, sir," she A\diispered, -'did yon ring?" 
 
 He said: "Yes, I want — evei-ything I "' 
 
 The fairy langlied and walked away. 
 Ragged and rosy at his jilay, 
 A hoy ^^■ho had the grass, the dew. 
 Birds, bees, the sun, the stars, like you, 
 iShe met: "What du 3'ou \vant?" sighed she. 
 "Ohl I have everything," said he. 
 
 Sarah M. B. Pialt. 
 
 THE TEACHER'S DREAM. 
 
 The weary teacher sat alone 
 While twilight gathered on; 
 
 And not a sound was heard around. 
 The Ijovs and trirls were gone. 
 
 The weary teacher sat alone, 
 Unnerved and pale was he; 
 
 Bowed "neatli a yoke of care, he spoke 
 In sad solilo(piy: 
 
 "Another round, another round 
 Of lalior thi'o"\\'n away, — 
 
 Another chain of toil and pain 
 I)ragged through a. tedious clay. 
 
 "Of no avail is constant zeal, 
 
 IjOve's sacrifice is loss, 
 Tlu> hopes of morn, so golden, turn, 
 
 Each evening, into dross. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AXD CHARACTER. 
 
 409 
 
 "I squander on a l:)arren field, 
 My rttrengtli, my life, my all ; 
 
 The seeds I sow will never grow, 
 Tliey perish where they fall." 
 
 He sighed, and low upon his hands 
 
 Ilis aching hrow he prest ; 
 And o'er his frame, erelong there came, 
 
 A soothing sense of rest. 
 
 And then he lifted np his face. 
 
 But started back aghast, — 
 The room by strange and sudden change 
 
 Assumed propoi'tions vast. 
 
 It seemed a Senate hall, and one 
 Addressed a listening throng; 
 
 Each burning word all bosoms stirred, 
 Applause rose loud and long. 
 
 The wildered teacher thought he knew 
 The speaker's voice and look, 
 
 "And for his name," said lie, "the same 
 Is in my record book." 
 
 The stately Seiiate hall dissolved, 
 
 A church r(.)Se in its place, 
 Wherein there stood a man of (_iod. 
 
 Dispensing words of gi'ace. 
 
 And th(")Ugh lie spoke in solemn tone. 
 And though his hair was gray. 
 
 The teacher's thought was strangely wrought, 
 "I whi[)ped tliat Ijoy to-day." 
 
 The church, a phantasm, vanished s<")()n ; 
 
 What saw the teacher then? 
 In classic gloom of alc(i\'ed ro(_>m. 
 
 An author plied his pen. 
 
 "My i<llest lad!" the teacher said, 
 
 Filled "with a new surprise — 
 "iShall I behold liis name enrolled 
 
 Amonif the y'reat and wise?"' 
 
 ^ 
 
 The vision of a cottage home 
 Tile teacher now descried; 
 
 A mother's face illumed the place 
 Her influence sanctified. 
 
 "A miracle! a miracle! 
 
 This matron, well I know. 
 Was but a wild ami careless child, 
 
 Xot half an hour aij'O. 
 
410 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 "And when she to lier children speaks 
 
 Of duty's gohleii rule, 
 Her lips repeat, in accents sweet, 
 
 My words to her at school." 
 
 The scene was changed again, and lo. 
 The school-house rndc and old; 
 
 Upon the wall did darkness fall, 
 The eveniuff air was cold. 
 
 " A dream ! " the sleeper, waking, said, 
 
 Then paced along the floor. 
 And, whistling slow and soft and low. 
 
 He locked the school-house door. 
 
 And, walking home, his heart was full 
 Of peace and trust and love and praise; 
 
 Aud singing slow and soft and low. 
 He murmured, "After many days." 
 
 W. II. Veaubk. 
 
 THE UPRIGHT SOUL. 
 
 Late to our town there came a maid, 
 A noble woman, true and pure, 
 
 AVho, in the little \\'liile she stayed, 
 Wrought works that shall endure. 
 
 It was not any thing she said, — 
 It was not any thing she did: 
 
 It was the movement of her head, 
 The lifting of her lid. 
 
 Her little motious when she spoke, 
 The presence of an upright soul. 
 
 The living light that from her broke, 
 It was the perfect whole. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 411 
 
 "We saw it in her floating hair, 
 We saw it in her laughing eye; 
 
 For every look and feature there 
 Wrought works that can not die. 
 
 For she to many spirits gave 
 
 A reverence for the true, the pure, 
 
 The perfect, that has power to save, 
 And make the doubting sure. 
 
 She passed, she went to other lands, 
 She knew not of the work she did; 
 
 The wondrous product of her hands 
 From her is ever hid. 
 
 Forever, did I say? Oh, no! 
 
 The time must come when she will look 
 Upon her pilgrimage below, 
 
 And find it in God's book. 
 
 That as she trod her path aright. 
 Power from her very garments stole; 
 
 For such is the mysterious might 
 God grants the upright soul. 
 
 A deed, a word, our careless rest, 
 A simple thought, a common feeling, 
 
 If He be present in the breast. 
 Has from him powers of healing. 
 
 Go, maiden with thy golden tresses. 
 Thine azure eye and changing cheek, 
 
 Go, and forget the one who blesses 
 Thy presence through the week. 
 
 Forget him: he will not forget. 
 
 But strive to live and testify 
 Thy goodness, when earth's sun has set, 
 
 And Time itself rolled by. 
 
 J. H. Perkins. 
 
 PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE. 
 
 YoYAGBR upon life's sea, 
 
 To yourself be true, 
 And where'er your lot may be, 
 
 Paddle your own canoe. 
 Never, though the winds may rave, 
 
 Falter nor look back; 
 But upon the darkest wave 
 
 Leave a shining track. 
 
 Nobly dare the wildest storm, 
 
 Stem the hardest gale. 
 Brave of heart and strong of arm, 
 
 You will never fail. 
 When the world is cold and dark, 
 
 Keep an aim in view; 
 And toward the beacon-mark 
 
 Paddle your own canoe. 
 
 Every wave that bears you on 
 
 To the silent shore. 
 From its sunny source has gone 
 
 To return no more. 
 
 Then let not an hour's delay 
 
 Cheat you of your due; 
 But, while it is called to-day, 
 
 Paddle your own canoe. 
 
 If your birth denies you wealth, 
 
 Lofty state and power. 
 Honest fame and hardy health 
 
 Are a better dower. 
 But if these will not suffice, 
 
 Golden gain pursue; 
 And, to gain the glittering prize, 
 
 Paddle your own canoe. 
 
 Would you wrest the wreath of fame 
 
 From the hand of fate? 
 Would you write a deathless name 
 
 With the good and great? 
 Would you bless your fellow-men? 
 
 Heart and soul imbue 
 With the holy task, and then 
 
 Paddle your own canoe. 
 
412 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 Would you crush the tyrant wrong, 
 
 In the world's free fight? 
 "With a spirit brave and strong, 
 
 Battle for the right. 
 And to break the chains that bind 
 
 The many to the few — 
 To enfranchise slavish mind — 
 
 Paddle your own canoe. 
 
 Nothing great is lightly won, 
 
 Nothing won is lost; 
 Every good deed, nobly done, 
 
 Will repay the cost. 
 Leave to Heaven, in humble trust. 
 
 All you will to do; 
 But if you succeed, you must 
 
 Paddle your own canoe. 
 
 Sarah T. Bolton. 
 
 BURIAL OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 Where shall the dead, and the beautiful, 
 
 sleep ? 
 In the vale where the willow and cypress 
 
 weep; 
 Where the wind of the west breathes its 
 
 softest sigh; 
 Where the silvery stream is flowing nigh, 
 
 And the pure, clear drops of its rising sprays 
 Glitter like gems in the bright moon's rays — 
 Where the sun's warm smile may never 
 
 dispel 
 Night's tears o'er the form we loved so well — 
 In the vale where the sparkling waters flow; 
 Where the fairest, earliest violets grow; 
 
 Where the sky and the earth are softly fair: 
 Bury her there — bury her there! 
 
 Where shall the dead, and the beautiful, 
 sleep ? 
 
 Where wild flowers bloom in the valley deep ; 
 
 Where the sweet robes of spring may softly 
 rest. 
 
 In purity, over the sleeper's breast; 
 
 Where is heard the voice of the sinless dove, 
 
 Breathing notes of deep and undying love; 
 Where no column proud in the sun may 
 
 glow. 
 To mock the heart that is resting below; 
 Where pure hearts are sleeping, forever 
 
 blest ; 
 Where wandering Peri love to rest; 
 Where the sky and the earth are softly fair: 
 
 Bury her there — -bury her there! 
 
 John B. Dillon. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 413 
 
 XE ORDEE FOR A TICTURE. 
 
 GOOD painter, tell me true, 
 
 Has your hand the cunning to draw 
 Shapes of things that you never saw? 
 
 Ay? "Well, here is an order for you. 
 
 Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — 
 The picture must not be over-bright, — 
 Yet all in the golden and gracious light 
 
 Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. 
 
 Alway and alway, night and morn, 
 "Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 
 Lying between them, not quite sere. 
 And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom. 
 When the wind can hardly find breathing- 
 room 
 Under their tassels, — cattle near, 
 Biting shorter the short green grass. 
 And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 
 "With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
 (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound ! ) — 
 These, and the house where I was born, 
 Low and little, and black and old. 
 With children, many as it can hold, 
 All at the windows, open wide, — 
 Heads and shoulders clear outside, 
 And fair young faces all ablush: 
 
 Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 
 Roses crowding the self-same way. 
 Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 
 
 Listen closer. When you have done 
 With woods and cornfields and grazing 
 herds, 
 A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
 
 Looked down upon, you must paint for me; 
 
 Oh, if I only could make you see 
 
 The clear blue eyes, the tender smile. 
 
 The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. 
 
 The woman's soul, and the angel's face. 
 That are beaming on me all the while ! — 
 I need not speak these foolish words: 
 Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 
 
 She is my mother: you will agree 
 
 That all the rest may be thrown away. 
 
 Two little urchins at her knee 
 You must paint, sir: one like me, — 
 The other with a clearer brow, 
 
 And the light of his adventurous eyes 
 
 Flashing with boldest enterprise: 
 At ten years old he went to sea, — 
 God knoweth if he be living now ; 
 
 He sailed in the good ship Commodore, — 
 Nobody ever crossed her track 
 To bring us news, and she never came back. 
 
 Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more 
 Since that old ship went out of the bay 
 
 With my great-hearted brother on her 
 deck; 
 
 I watched him till he shrank to a speck. 
 And his face was toward me all the way. 
 
 Bright his hair was, a golden brown. 
 The time we stood at our mother's knee : 
 
 That beauteous head, if it did go down, 
 Carried sunshine into the sea! 
 
 Out in the fields one summer night 
 We were together, half afraid 
 Of the corn-leaves' nistling, and of the 
 shade 
 Of the high hills, stretching so still 
 and far, — 
 Loitering till after the low little light 
 
 Of the candle shone through the open door, 
 And over the haystack's pointed top. 
 All of a tremble, and ready to drop. 
 
 The first half-hour, the great yellow star, 
 That we, with staring, ignoi'ant eyes, 
 Had often and often watched to see 
 
 Propped and held in its place in the skies 
 By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree. 
 Which close in the edge of our flax-field 
 grew, — 
 Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
 
414 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, 
 
 Trom which it tenderly shook the dew 
 Over our heads, when we came to play 
 In its handbreadth of shadow, day after 
 
 day: — 
 Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore 
 A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled 
 
 eggs,— 
 The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, 
 Ifot so big as a straw of wheat: 
 The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, 
 But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
 So slim and shining, to keep her still. 
 
 At last we stood at our mother's knee. 
 
 Do you think, sir, if you try. 
 
 You can paint the look of a lie? 
 
 If you can, pray have the grace 
 
 To put it solely in the face 
 Of the urchin that is likest me: 
 
 I think 'twas solely mine, indeed: 
 
 But that's no matter. — paint it so; 
 
 The eyes of our mother — take good 
 heed — 
 Looking not on the nestful of eggs, 
 If or the fluttering bird, held so fast by the 
 
 legs, 
 But straight through our faces down to 
 
 our lies. 
 And oh, with such injured, reproachful 
 
 surprise 
 
 I felt my heart bleed where that glance 
 
 went, as though 
 A sharp blade struck through it. 
 
 You, sir, know. 
 That you on the canvas are to repeat 
 Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 
 "Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree, — 
 The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at 
 her knee: 
 But, oh, that look of reproachful woe! 
 High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 
 If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 
 
 Alice Qii'y. 
 
 A GEEEN" HERON. 
 
 Where a bright creek into the river's side 
 Shoots its keen arrow, a green heron sits 
 Watching the sunfish as it gleaming flits 
 From sheen to shade. He sees the turtle 
 glide 
 Through the clear spaces of the rhythmic 
 
 stream 
 Like some weird fancy through a poet's 
 dream ; 
 He turns his golden ej'es from side to side. 
 
 In very gladness that he is not dead, 
 While the swift wind-stream ripples overhead 
 And the creek's wavelets babble under- 
 neath ! 
 
 bird ! that in a cheerful gloom dost live, 
 Thou art, to me, a type of happy death ; 
 For when thou fliest away no mate will 
 grieve 
 Because a lone, strange spirit vanisheth! 
 
 James Maurice Thompson. 
 
 AT IflGHT. 
 
 Oh hear the waters murmur as they fall. 
 And the sad night-wind whisper her reply; 
 
 And hear the wild dove in the thicket call 
 Her loved mate homeward from the alien 
 sky. 
 
 As some tired child's my weary head is lain 
 
 Upon thy heart: thy beating heart is 
 
 warm ! 
 
 I rest deep-sheltered from all grief and pain, 
 
 ithiu the sacred cincture of thine arm. 
 
 Forceyihe WiUson. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 415 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 Dust on thy mantle! dust, 
 Bright Summer, on thy livery of green! 
 A tarnish, as of rust. 
 Dims thy late-brilliant sheen: 
 And thy young glories — leaf, and bud, and 
 
 flower — 
 Change cometh over them v?ith every hour. 
 
 Thee hath the August sun 
 Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy 
 face : 
 And still and lazily run, 
 Scarce Avhispering in their pace, 
 The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent 
 A shout of gladness up, as on they went. 
 
 Flame-like, the long mid-day — 
 With not so much of sweet air as hath 
 stirred 
 The down upon the spray, 
 "Where rests the panting bird, 
 Dozing away the hot and tedious noon. 
 With fitful twitter, sadly oat of tune. 
 
 Seeds in the sultry air. 
 And gossamer web-work on the sleeping 
 trees ! 
 E'en the tall pines, that rear 
 Their plumes to catch the breeze. 
 The slightest breeze from the unfreshening 
 
 west. 
 Partake the general languor, and deep rest. 
 
 Happy, as man may be. 
 Stretched on his back, in homely bean-vine 
 bower. 
 While the voluptuous bee 
 Robs each surrounding flower, 
 And prattling childhood clambers o'er his 
 
 breast, 
 The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest. 
 
 Against the hazy sky 
 The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest. 
 
 Beneath them far, yet high 
 
 In the dim, distant west. 
 The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare, 
 Sails, slowly circling through the sunny air. 
 
 Soberly, in the shade. 
 Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox, 
 
 Or in the shoal stream wade. 
 
 Sheltered by jutting rocks; 
 The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, 
 
 rush 
 Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush. 
 
 Tediously pass the hours. 
 And vegetation wilts, with blistered root. 
 And droop the thirsting flowers. 
 Where the slant sunbeams shoot; 
 But of each tall old tree the lengthening 
 
 line. 
 Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's 
 decline. 
 
 Faster, along the plain, 
 Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's 
 edge 
 
 The kine are forth again, 
 
 Birds flitter in the hedge. 
 ISTow in the molten west sinks the hot sun. 
 Welcome, mild eve! — the sultry day is done. 
 
 Pleasantly comest thou. 
 Dew of the evening, to the crisped-up grass ; 
 
 And the curled corn-blades bow. 
 
 As the light breezes pass, 
 That their parched lips may feel thee, and 
 
 expand. 
 Thou sweet reviver of the fevered land. 
 
 So, to the thirsting soul, 
 Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love; 
 
 And the scathed heart, made whole, 
 
 Turneth in joy above, 
 To where the spirit freely may expand, 
 And rove, untrammeled, in that better land. 
 
 William D. Gallagher. 
 
416 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 LITTLE BROWN HANDS. 
 
 They drive home the cows from the pasture 
 
 Up through the long, shady lane, 
 Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields 
 
 That are yellow with ripening grain ; 
 They find in the thick, waving grasses 
 
 Where the scarlet-lipped strawbeny grows, 
 They gather the earliest snow-drops, 
 
 And the first crimson buds of the rose. 
 
 They gather the delicate sea-weeds, 
 
 And build tiny castles of sand, — 
 They pick up the beautiful sea-shells. 
 
 Fairy barks that have drifted to land. 
 They wave from the tall rocking tree-tops 
 
 Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings. 
 And at night-time are folded in slumber 
 
 By a song that a fond mother sings. 
 
 They toss the new hay in the meadows. 
 
 They gather the elder-bloom white, 
 They find where the dusky grapes purple 
 
 In the soft-tinted October light. 
 They know where the apples hang ripest, 
 
 And are sweeter than Italy wines ; 
 They know where the fruit clusters thickest 
 
 On the long thorny blackberry vines. 
 
 Those who toil bravely are strongest. 
 
 The humble and poor become great, 
 And from these brown-handed children 
 
 Shall grow mighty rulers of state. 
 The pen of the author and scholar, — 
 
 The noble and wise of the land, — 
 The chisel, the sword and the palette, 
 
 Shall be held in the little brown hand. 
 
 Mary H. Krout. 
 
 A LOST GRAVEYARD. 
 
 SS;; Near by, a soundless road is seen, 
 
 o'ergrown with grass and brier; 
 
 Far oft\ the highway's signal flies — a hurry- 
 
 ing dust of fire. 
 
 But here, among forgotten graves, in June's 
 
 delicious breath, 
 I linger where the living loved to dream 
 
 of lovely death. 
 
 Worn letters, lit with heavenward thought, 
 these crumbled headstones wear; 
 
 Fresh flowers (old epitaphs of Love) are 
 fragrant here and there. 
 
 Years, years ago, these graves were made — 
 no mourners come to-day: 
 
 Their footsteps vanished, one by one, moving 
 the other way. 
 
 Through the loud world they walk, or lie — 
 
 like those here left at rest — 
 
 With two long-folded useless arms on each 
 
 forgotten breast. 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
^(}-£t)H c^t^r^ . 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 411 
 
 SOMETIME. 
 
 Well, either 3^00 or I, 
 
 After whatever is to say is said, 
 Must see the other die, 
 
 Or hear, through distance, of the otlier 
 dead, 
 
 Sometime. 
 
 Then, through what paths of dew, 
 
 What ilush of flowers, what glory in the 
 grass. 
 Only one of us two, 
 
 Even as a shadow walking, hlind may pass, 
 
 Sometime ! 
 
 And you or I must hide 
 
 Poor empty eyes and faces, wan and wet 
 With Life's great grief, beside 
 
 The other's coflin, sealed with silence, yet, 
 
 Sometime. 
 
 And you or I must look 
 
 Into the other's grave, or far or near, 
 And read, as in a hook 
 Writ in the dust, words we made bitter 
 here. 
 
 Sometime. 
 
 And, if the nestling song 
 
 Break from the bosom of the bird for 
 love, 
 JSTo more to listen long 
 
 One shall be deaf below, one deaf above. 
 
 Sometime. 
 
 For both must lose the way 
 
 Wherein we walk together, very soon: 
 One in the dusk shall stay. 
 
 The other first shall see the rising moon, 
 
 Sometime. 
 
418 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 Oh! fast, fast friend of mine! 
 
 Lift up the voice I love so much, and 
 warn; 
 To wring faint hands and pine, 
 
 Tell me I may be left forlorn, forlorn. 
 
 Sometime. 
 
 Say I may kiss through tears. 
 
 Forever falling and forever cold, 
 One ribbon from sweet years. 
 
 One dear dead leaf, one precious ring of 
 gold, 
 
 Sometime. 
 
 Say you may think with pain 
 
 Of some slight grace, some timid wish to 
 please. 
 Some eager look half vain 
 
 Into your heart, some broken sobs like these. 
 
 Sometime ! 
 
 Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
 m AUGUST. 
 
 All the long August afternoon. 
 
 The little drowsy stream 
 Whispers a melancholy tune, 
 As if it dreamed of June, 
 And whispered in its dream. 
 
 The silent orchard aisles are sweet 
 With smell of ripening fruit. 
 
 Through the sear grass, in shy retreat, 
 
 Flutter, at coming feet. 
 
 The robins strange and mute. 
 
 The thistles show beyond the brook 
 Dust on their down and bloom, 
 
 And out of many a weed-grown nook 
 
 The aster-flowers look 
 
 With eyes of tender gloom. 
 
 There is no wind to stir the leaves, 
 
 The harsh leaves overhead; 
 Only the querulous cricket grieves. 
 And shrilling locust weaves 
 
 A song of summer dead. 
 
 WiJliam Bean Howetts. 
 
 SPIRITUAL PEESENCE. 
 
 It is a beautiful belief, that ever round our 
 
 head 
 Are hovering, on noiseless wing, the spirits 
 
 of the dead. 
 
 To bid the mourners cease to mourn, the 
 
 trembling be forgiven: 
 To bear away, from ills of clay, the infant 
 
 to its heaven. 
 
 It is a beautiful belief, when ended our 
 
 career. 
 That it will be our ministry to watch o'er 
 
 others here; 
 
 Ah! when delight was found in life, and 
 
 joy in every breath, 
 I can not tell how terrible the mystery of 
 
 death. 
 
 To lend a moral to the flower; breathe 
 
 wisdom on the wind; 
 To hold commune, at night's pure noon, 
 
 with the imprisoned mind; 
 
 But now the past is bright to me, and all 
 
 the future clear; 
 For 'tis my faith, that after death I still 
 
 shall linger here. 
 
 James H. Perkins. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 419 
 
 HAPPY WOMEN. 
 
 Impatient wome'ri, as you wait 
 
 In cheerful homes to-night, to hear 
 
 The sound of steps that, soon or late, 
 Shall come as music to your ear; 
 
 "With babes that in their cradle sleep, 
 Or cling to you in perfect trust, 
 
 Think of the mothei'S left to weep, 
 Their babies lying in the dust. 
 
 Forget yourselves a little while. 
 And think in pity of the pain 
 
 Of women who will never smile 
 To hear a coming step again. 
 
 And when the step you wait for comes, 
 And all your world is full of light. 
 
 Oh women, safe in happy homes, 
 Pray for all lonesome souls to-night! 
 
 Phcebe Gary. 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 Lie down in my arms, sweet wonder! 
 
 Be still, little feet, and rest: 
 violet eyes, hide under 
 
 The lids when my lips are pi'essed: — 
 baby, lie close to my bosom, 
 As the dew-drop lies in the blossom. 
 Or the May-bud lies in the nest: — 
 Rest, little darling, rest! 
 
 Hush, little mouth, from grieving! 
 Hide, little hand, in my breast; 
 Many a sweet believing 
 I have o'er my baby's rest: 
 Of angel-whispers that cover 
 My darling's sweet mouth over 
 With smiles that Love loves best: — 
 Rest, httle baby, rest! 
 
 Elizabeth Convcll Wilhon. 
 
420 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND GHARACTEB. 
 
 THE BLOOM WAS OlS THE ELDEE, AND THE TASSEL ON THE COEN. 
 
 I HEARD the bob-wliite whistle in the dewy 
 
 breath of morn ; 
 The bloom was on the elder and the tassel 
 
 on the corn. 
 
 I stood with beating heart beside the bab- 
 bling Mac-o-chee, 
 
 To see my love come down the glen to keep 
 her tryst with me. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 421 
 
 I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded 
 
 path along, 
 Aud pause to pluck a flower, or hear the 
 
 thrush's soug. 
 Refused by her proud father as a suitor to 
 
 be seen. 
 She came to me, with loving trust, my 
 
 gracious little queen. 
 
 Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle 
 
 maiden shone. 
 For she was belle and wide beloved, and I 
 
 a lad unknown. 
 The rich and great about her thronged, and 
 
 sought on bended knee 
 For love this gracious princess gave with 
 
 all her heart, to me. 
 
 So like a startled fawn before my longing 
 
 eyes she stood 
 With all the freshness of a girl in flush of 
 
 womanhood; 
 I trembled as I put my arm about her form 
 
 divine. 
 And stammered, as in awkward speech I 
 
 begged her to be mine. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that 
 
 lulls a dim-lit dream; 
 'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and 
 
 sweet the rippling stream; 
 'T is sweet amid the mountain pines to hear 
 
 the South-winds sigh; 
 More sweet than these and all beside was 
 
 the loving, low reply. 
 
 The little hand I held in mine held all I 
 had of life, 
 
 To mold its better destiny and soothe to 
 sleep its strife. 
 
 'T is said that angels watch o'er men, com- 
 missioned from above; 
 
 My angel walked with me on earth, and 
 gave to me her love. 
 
 Ah ! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my 
 
 eyes are dim with tears — 
 I think upon the loving faith of all these 
 
 by-gone years. 
 For now we stand upon this spot, as in 
 
 that dewy morn, 
 With the bloom upon the elder and the 
 
 tassel on the corn. 
 
 Donn PitUt. 
 
 THE SIX OF OMISSION. 
 
 'It came to pass while thy servant was busy hither and thither, the man was gone." 
 
 For I was busy hither and yon, 
 
 And to and fro, 
 Working the Master's work I thought. 
 
 Ah me, I know — 
 Looking aback across the years — 
 
 It was not so. 
 
 Busy, pursuing with blinded zeal 
 
 Some vague wild plan 
 Whereby the world should bo sooner freed 
 
 From error's ban. 
 And earth become Paradise oiiee more 
 
 For sinful man. 
 
 Over the bars of my garden gate, 
 
 With wan, pale face. 
 One, w^istful, gazed on the summer bloom 
 
 That filled the place. 
 With hand outstretched as if entreating 
 
 A moment's grace. 
 
 But I was busy with greater things, 
 
 A whole world's fate — 
 Should I turn from these to the beggar there 
 
 Without my gate? 
 And I said, "]!fot now, but another time; 
 
 Pie will surely wait. 
 
422 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 So I toiled at my task with fevered haste 
 
 Till eve came on. 
 Then I went my way in the sunset gleam, 
 
 O'er the grass-clad lawn 
 To my garden wicket; — but, lo! I found 
 
 The man was gone. 
 
 And the deeds which I wrought that busy day 
 
 Proved vain the whole, 
 And now, too late, ah me! I know 
 
 In my inmost soul, 
 'T was an angel that stood in beggar's guise 
 And craved my dole. 
 
 N^ow, the livelong day, with tristful heart 
 
 I stand and wait. 
 Gazing and gazing adown the path : 
 
 But ah, too late! 
 The blessed presence will pass no more 
 
 Beside my gate. 
 
 Alice Williarm Broiherlon. 
 
 THE PATTER OF LITTLE FEET. 
 
 Up with the sun at morning 
 
 Away to the garden he hies. 
 To see if the sleepy blossoms 
 
 Have begun to open their eyes. 
 Running a race with the wind, 
 
 His step as light and fleet, 
 Under my window I hear 
 
 The patter of little feet. 
 
 Anon to the brook he wanders 
 
 In swift and noiseless flight, 
 Splashing the sparkling ripples 
 
 Like a fairy water-sprite. 
 No sand under fabled river 
 
 Has gleams like his golden hair, 
 ISTo pearly sea shell is fairer 
 
 Than his slender ankles bare. 
 Nor the rosiest stem of coral 
 
 That blushes in Ocean's bed 
 Is sweet as the flush that follows 
 
 Our darling's airy tread. 
 
 From a broad window, my neighbor 
 
 Looks down on our little cot. 
 And watches the poor man's blessing, - 
 
 I can not envy his lot. 
 He has pictures, books, and music, 
 
 Bright fountains, and noble trees, 
 Flowers that blossom in vases. 
 
 Birds from beyond the seas, 
 
 But never does childish laughter 
 His homew^ard footstep greet, 
 
 His stately halls ne'er echo 
 The tread of innocent feet. 
 
 This child is our "speaking picture," 
 
 A birdling that chatters and sings. 
 Sometimes a sleeping cherub, — 
 
 (Our other one has wings.) 
 His heart is a charmed casket, 
 
 Full of all that's cunning and sweet. 
 And no harpstrings hold such music 
 
 As follows his twinkling feet. 
 
 "When the glory of sunset opens 
 
 The highway by angels trod, 
 And seems to unbar the city 
 
 Whose Builder and Maker is God, 
 Close to the crystal portal 
 
 I see by the gates of pearl, 
 The eyes of our other angel, 
 
 A twin-born little girl. 
 
 And I ask to be taught and directed 
 
 To guide his footsteps aright. 
 So that I be accounted worthy 
 
 To walk in sandals of light; 
 And hear amid songs of welcome 
 
 From messengers trusty and fleet. 
 On the starry floor of heaven 
 
 The patter of little feet. 
 
 Susan Ehton Wallace. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTEB. 
 
 423 
 
 AlfGEL WATCHERS. 
 
 Ansel faces watch my pillow, angel voices 
 
 haunt my sleep, 
 And upon the winds of" midnight, shining 
 
 pinions round me sweep; 
 Floating downward on the starlight two 
 
 bright infant forms I see — 
 They are mine, my own bright darlings, 
 
 come from heaven to visit me. 
 
 And the bright band now around me from 
 
 their home perchance will rove. 
 In their strength no more depending on 
 
 my constant care and love; 
 But my first-born still shall wander, from 
 
 the sky, in dreams to rest 
 Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an 
 
 earthly mother's breast. 
 
 Earthly children smile upon me, but those 
 
 little ones above. 
 Were the first to stir the fountains of a 
 
 mother's deathless love, 
 And, as now they watch my slumber, while 
 
 their soft eyes on me shine, 
 Grod forgive a mortal yearning still to call 
 
 his angels mine. 
 
 Time may steal away the freshness, or 
 
 some whelming grief destroy 
 All the hopes that erst had blossomed, in 
 
 my summer-time of joy; 
 Earthly children may forsake me, earthly 
 
 friends perhaps betray. 
 Every tie that now unites me to this life 
 
 may pass away; — 
 
 Earthly children fondly call me, but no 
 mortal voice can seem 
 
 Sweet as those that whisper "Mother!" 
 'mid the glories of my dream; 
 
 Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease 
 perchance to lisp my name. 
 
 But my angel babies' accents shall be ever- 
 more the same. 
 
 But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from 
 
 their blessed immortal home. 
 Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my 
 
 darkened dreams shall come. 
 And I can not feel forsaken, for, though 
 
 'reft of earthly love. 
 Angel children call me "Mother!" and my 
 
 soul will look above. 
 
 Rosa Verlner Jeffrey. 
 
 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 A CHILD is lost! 
 A child whose gentle breath seemed drawn 
 
 Erona holier atmosphere. 
 So sweet the life it led; at dawn 
 That sweet life vanished, wandering on 
 
 Through sunward pathways clear. 
 
 A bird hath flown ! 
 A bird whose timid pinions seemed 
 Too frail for distant flight! 
 
 He left us as the morning beamed; 
 The night will bring him, — so we dreamed; 
 But he came not at night! 
 
 He is not lost! — 
 The child whose white feet never prest 
 
 Earth's highway dust and dew! 
 The bird that left our earthly nest 
 In Heavenly Freedom sings the best 
 
 The heavenly notes he knew. 
 
 Elizaieth Conwell Willson. 
 
424 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 A EEPI10A.CH OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 Hast ever seen white arms extending high 
 
 Out of the yawning bosom of the wave, 
 
 And, clutching vainly from that gurgling 
 
 grave 
 
 With frantic fingers, towards the listless sky, 
 
 In mute appeal for help that comes not nigh ? 
 
 Even so, from out the yeasty void where lies 
 My life-work — ever uncommenced — I see 
 Imploring arms stretched upward unto me, 
 
 Pallid and cold! — and sometimes drowning 
 
 cries 
 
 Startle my listless soul, and bid it rise! 
 
 Josephine Butler. 
 
 'T' 1 i'f''7jeay.i 
 
 TO THE DAUGHTEE OF AN OLD SWEETHEART. 
 
 I LOVE thee, Juliet, for thy mother's sake. 
 And were I young should love thee for 
 thine own. 
 Afresh in thee her early charms awake. 
 
 And all her witcheries are round thee 
 thrown ; 
 Thine are her girlhood's features, and I know 
 Her many virtues in thy bosom glow. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 425 
 
 Thou art as lovely, though not yet as famed 
 As that bright maid, the beautiful, the true, 
 
 The gentle being for w?iom thou wast named. 
 The Juliet that our glorious Shakspeare 
 drew. 
 
 Thine is her magic loveliness — but, oh, 
 
 What hery youth shall be thy Romeo? 
 
 Whoe'er he be, oh, may his lot and thine 
 
 Be happier than the lot of those of old; 
 
 May ye, like them, bow low at passion's 
 
 shrine, 
 
 May love within your bosoms ne'er grow 
 
 cold; 
 
 And may your paths be ne'er, like theirs, 
 
 beset 
 By strifes of Montague and Capulet. 
 
 Like his great prototype, thy Eomeo, 
 Half-frenzied by his passion's raging 
 flame, 
 And kindling with a poet's fervid glow. 
 May fancy he might cut thy beauteous 
 frame 
 Into bright stars to deck the midnight &k.j — 
 But, gentle Juliet, may he never try! 
 
 I paid the tribute of an humble lay 
 
 To thy fair mother in her girlhood bright, 
 
 And now this humbler olft'ering I pay 
 To thee, oh, sweet young spirit of delight. 
 
 And may I not, tossed on life's stormy 
 waters. 
 
 Live to make rhymes, dear Juliet, to thy 
 
 daughters? 
 
 George Dennison Pi'entice. 
 
 MY DAUGHTER XURSE. 
 
 I HEAK her still — that buoyant tread. 
 How soft it falls upon my heart; 
 
 I've counted, since she left my bed. 
 Each pulse that told of time a part. 
 
 Yet in a dreamy calm I've lain, 
 
 Scarce broke by fitful pain's strong 
 thrill. 
 
 As one who listening waits some strain 
 Wont every troubled thought to still. 
 
 And o'er me yet in visions sweet. 
 The image of my precious child. 
 
 Plying e'en now with busy feet. 
 
 Some tender task — for me has smiled. 
 
 Oh! youth and health: rich gifts and high 
 Are those wherewith your hours are 
 crowned; 
 
 The balm, the breath of earth and sky — 
 The gladsome sense of sight and sound. 
 
426 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 The conscious rush of life's full tide, 
 The dreams of hope in fairy bowers: 
 
 Action and strength, their glee and pride, 
 Are portions of your laughing hours. 
 
 But, still to dim and wasting life, 
 
 You bring even dearer gifts than these: 
 
 Gifts, that amid pale, sufiering strife. 
 Love, filial love, beside me wreathes. 
 
 Sweet draughts, fresh-drawn from love's 
 deep spring. 
 
 Still lull my many hours of pain. 
 And not all summer joys might bring 
 
 A draught so pure from earthly stain. 
 
 Why is it that thus faint and prone 
 I may not raise my languid head? — 
 
 A daughter's arms around me thrown 
 Yet lift me from my weary bed. 
 
 And what have flowers or skies the while 
 To waken, in a mother's breast, 
 
 Soft gladness like the beaming smile 
 With which she lays me back to rest? 
 
 Those smiles, when all things round me 
 melt 
 
 In slumberous mist, my spirit fill: 
 As light upon closed eyelids felt 
 
 Beneath their curtaining shadow still. 
 
 And still in happy dreams I hear. 
 
 While angel forms seem o'er me bent. 
 
 Her tones of ever-tender cheer, 
 
 With their high whisperings softly blent. 
 
 But hush! that is her own light tread. 
 It is her hand upon my brow; 
 
 And leaning silent o'er my bed. 
 Her eyes in mine are smiling now. 
 
 My child, my child, yow bring me flowers — 
 Spring's fragrant gift to deck my room; 
 
 But through the dark, di'ear, wintery hours 
 Love — love alone has poured perfume. 
 
 Jidia L. Dummt. 
 
 LITTLE IfELL. 
 
 Spuing, with breezes cool and airy. 
 Opened on a little fairy; 
 Ever restless, making merry. 
 She, with pouting lips of cherry, 
 Lisped the words she could not master. 
 Vexed that she might speak no faster,— 
 Laughing, running, playing, dancing. 
 Mischief all her joys enhancing; 
 Full of baby-mirth and glee. 
 It was a joyous sight to see 
 
 Sweet little Nell. 
 
 Summer came, the green earth's lover. 
 Ripening the tufted clover — 
 Calling down the glittering showers, 
 Breathing on the buds and flowei's: 
 Rivaling young pleasant May, 
 In a generous holiday! 
 Smallest insects hummed a tune. 
 
 Through the blessed nights of June : 
 And the maiden sung her song. 
 Through the days so bright and long — 
 Dear little Nell. 
 
 Autumn came! the leaves were falling — 
 Death, the little one was calling: 
 Pale and wan she grew, and weakly. 
 Bearing all her pains so meekly. 
 That to us, she seemed still dearer 
 As the trial-hour drew nearer; 
 But she left us, hopeless, lonely. 
 Watching by her semblance only: 
 And a little grave they made her. 
 In the church-yard, cold, they laid her — 
 Laid her softly down to rest. 
 With a white rose on her breast — 
 Poor little Nell! 
 
 Rebecca S. Nichols. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 4:21 
 
 THE FIRST CRICKET. 
 
 Ah me! is it then true that the year has 
 waxed unto waning, 
 And that so soon must remain nothing 
 but lapse and decay, 
 Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer 
 midnight complaining, 
 All the faint summer in me takest with 
 subtile dismay? 
 
 Though thou bringest no dream of frost to 
 the flowers that slumber, 
 Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of 
 thy voice, maketh moan; 
 With the unconscious earth's boded evil my 
 soul thou dost cumber. 
 And in the year's lost youth makest me 
 still lose my own. 
 
 Answerest thou, that when night winds of 
 December are blackest and bleakest, 
 And when the fervid grate feigns me a 
 May in my room, 
 
 And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in 
 my garden thou creakest. 
 Thou wilt again give me all — dew and 
 fragrance and bloom ? 
 
 Nay, little poet ! full many a cricket I have 
 that is willing. 
 If I but take him down out of his place 
 on my shelf, 
 Me blither lays to sing than the blithest 
 known to thy shrilling, 
 Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, 
 hope and — himself: 
 
 Leaving me only the sadder; for never one 
 of my singers 
 Lures back the bee to his feast, calls back 
 the bird to his tree. 
 Hast thou no art can make me believe, while 
 the summer yet lingers, 
 Better than bloom that has been red leaf 
 and sere that must be? 
 
 WiUiam Dean licmells. 
 
 DROWNED. 
 
 She sat alone, on a cold gray stone 
 Where the river made a desolate moan. 
 
 The sycamore-trees stood white and bare, 
 Like sheeted ghosts in the dusky air. 
 
 A black cloud floated along the sky, 
 And a night-bird uttered a dismal cry. 
 
 Sadly she thought of the innocent time. 
 Wildly she wept for her shame and crime. 
 
 Darker and deeper the shadows grow : 
 He promised to meet her an hour ago. 
 
 She sat alone on the cold gray stone. 
 And the river flowed with a sadder moan. 
 
 She heard the hum of the distant town, 
 The patter of dead leaves falling down. 
 
 She heard the toad in the long dank grass, 
 But never his tread, — alas, alas! 
 
 The morning came with its golden light 
 To the sycamore-trees so bare and white. 
 
 The mists that slept on the river's brim 
 Went up like the wings of the cherubim. 
 
 The water-lilies, so cold and fair, [hair. 
 Were tangled with tresses of bright brown 
 
 The osiers bent with a quiet grace 
 Over a form with a still white face. 
 
 The river flowed with a desolate moan, 
 And dead leaves fell on the cold gray stone. 
 
 Sarah T. Bolton. 
 
428 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 From Appleton's "Anirrican Pomt^ir■t.' 
 
 WHEN THE COWS COME HOME. 
 
 I LOVE the beautiful evening 
 
 When the sunset clouds are gold; 
 
 When the barn-fowls seek a shelter 
 And the young lambs seek their fold: 
 
 When the four-o'-clocks are open, 
 And the swallows homeward come; 
 
 When the horses cease their labors, 
 And the cows come home. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 429 
 
 When the supper's almost ready 
 
 And Johnny is asleep, 
 And I beside the cradle 
 
 My pleasant vigil keep: 
 Sitting beside the window 
 
 Watching for "Pa" to come, 
 While the soft bells gently tinkle 
 
 As the cows come home. 
 
 When the sunset and the twilight 
 In mingling hues are blent, 
 
 I can sit and watch the shadows 
 With my full heart all content: 
 
 And I wish for nothing brighter, 
 And I long no more to roam 
 
 When the twilight's peace conies o'er me. 
 And the cows come home. 
 
 I see their shadows lengthen 
 
 As they slowly cross the field. 
 And I know the food is wholesome 
 
 Which their generous udders yield. 
 More than the tropic's fruitage, 
 
 Than marble hall or dome. 
 Are the blessings that surround me 
 
 When the cows come home. 
 
 Mary E. Neakij. 
 
 NIGHT BY THE OHIO. 
 
 A SCENE FROM PRICE S HILL, CINCINNATI, OHIO. 
 
 Slow climbed the path, a breathless height, 
 Till far above I sat me down. 
 
 While all the fans of golden light 
 Were closing o'er the distant town. 
 
 The harping winds, that all the day 
 Played with the tree-tops on the hill. 
 
 In sweet low murmurs swooned away, 
 Closed their soft wings, and all was still. 
 
 Dim shadows flecked the parting day. 
 Darkling along Ohio's shore, — 
 
 On bridge, on slope, on rock-cliff gray. 
 With moss and vines all curtained o'er. 
 
 Around me man and nature slept: 
 
 Time's sands dropped with unnoted fall; 
 
 Night's silent host their vigil kept; 
 
 While Heaven seemed watching over all. 
 
 The twilight, the white moon-beam's sheen. 
 Pale emerald hues, and amethyst. 
 
 Shot through and through the deepening scene. 
 And crowned the hill-top's grassy crest. 
 
 The solemn presence of the night 
 Came slowly up the eastern sky. 
 
 As waned the fainting western light 
 On valley, stream, and forest nigh. 
 
 Fresh dropt from evening's azure shell. 
 On the broad river's slumbering tide 
 
 The stars like gleaming jewels fell, 
 And flashed and shimmered side by side. 
 
 Oh, what a time for lofty thought! 
 
 My spirit burned and felt its power; 
 And deep within my soul had caught 
 
 A holy pathos from the hour. 
 
 Thus did red Zoroaster stand 
 
 Awe-struck, beneath night's mystic reign; 
 Thus did the rapt Sabean bend, 
 
 The living hills his mighty fane. 
 
 Wonders of night, — Cod's work sublime, 
 His impress on the brow of even: 
 
 Lifting the heart from cares of time, 
 They fill the soul with thoughts of Heaven ! 
 
 Charles C. Branson. 
 
430 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 AFTER WINGS. 
 
 This was yonr butterfly, you see. 
 
 His fine wings made him vain?- 
 The caterpillars crawl, but he 
 
 Passed them in rich disdain? — 
 My pretty boy says, "Let him be 
 
 Only a worm again?" 
 
 Oh, child, when things have learned to wear 
 "Wings once, they must be fain 
 
 To keep them always high and fair. 
 Think of the creeping pain 
 
 Which even a butterfly must bear 
 
 To be a worm again! 
 
 Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
 ANNIE. 
 
 The summer is ended — 
 Glad summer, and blended 
 
 With visions that sweetly 
 Arose with its dawn, 
 Is one full of brightness, 
 And fairy-like lightness. 
 
 That thrills me completely. 
 Though winter comes on. 
 
 She came with the sweetness 
 Of soul, and the fleetness 
 Of fancy that ever 
 Gives beauty a charm; 
 
 Her laugh was the blithest, 
 Her step was the lithest, 
 And daintily clever 
 Her speech to disarm. 
 
 Her glad songs went thrilling, 
 From heart to heart, filling 
 
 Them full of the rapture 
 And glory of life; 
 And through all the dancing. 
 Her light form went glancing, 
 A born-queen to capture 
 In Love's tender strife. 
 
 Pray tell her no truer 
 
 Sends loving thoughts to her, 
 
 Pray beg one sweet message, 
 To quiet my pain, 
 Through all the drear winter, 
 Till spring-time shall splinter 
 
 The ice-bonds, and presage 
 Her coming again. 
 
 Sweet Annie! Sweet fiower, 
 In far Southern bower, 
 
 Unfolding and flushing 
 To sunshine and dew; 
 My thoughts flutter to thee, 
 One hour may they woo thee, 
 
 And speak to thy blushing 
 A message so true ! 
 
 Kate M. B. Sherwood, 
 
NATURE. LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 431 
 
 THE LAST WATCH. 
 
 The stars shine down through the shivering 
 boughs, 
 And the moonset sparkles against the 
 spire ; 
 There is not a light in a neighbor's house, 
 Save one that burneth low. 
 
 And seemeth almost spent! 
 With shadowy forms in dark attire 
 Flickering in it to and fro. 
 As if in Pain and Doubt — 
 And heads bowed down in tears! 
 Hark ! 
 Was there not Lament? — 
 Behold, behold the Light burns out! 
 The Picture disappears! 
 
 Ye who with such sleepless sleight. 
 In the chamber out of sight, 
 
 Whispering low. 
 
 To and fro. 
 Your swift needles secretly 
 At the dead of night do ply, — 
 
 What is it that ye sew! 
 
 Hark! Hark! 
 Heard ye not the sounds aloof. 
 As of winds or wings that swept the 
 roof? 
 Band of heavenly voices blending. 
 Choir of seraphim ascending? 
 Hark! Hark! 
 
 " Away ! Away ! 
 Behold, behold it is the day! 
 Bear her softly out of the door; 
 And upward, upward, upward soar!" 
 
 Forceythe Willsmi, 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH ROAD. 
 
 Winding through the everglade. 
 Where my school-boy scenes were laid; 
 Near the meadow where the bees 
 Tell their thefts to every breeze; 
 Where the woodland flowers bloom, 
 Wasting all their sweet perfume; 
 Passing by a cottage door, 
 Ifow, alas, my home no more; 
 Leading to the house of God, 
 Is the blessed Old Church Road. 
 
 Ambushed in a bower of green, 
 Yonder spire is dimly seen. 
 Like a sentry from on high 
 Pointing upward to the sky; 
 In that pleasant ambuscade. 
 Checkered with the sun and shade, 
 Stands the church where first I trod 
 In the way that leads to God; 
 ]^ow I drag life's weary load 
 Up along the Old Church Road. 
 
 I have come to see once more 
 
 The dear haunts I loved of yore; 
 
 Comrades of my early years, 
 
 Where are now your smiles and tears — 
 
 Smiles of welcome, tears of joy, 
 
 Greeting home the long-lost boy? 
 
 Silence palls my listening ear, 
 
 "So familiar sound is here. 
 
 On the grave-stone, gray and cold. 
 
 The sad tale is briefly told; 
 
 They have spent their latest breath 
 
 In the holiday of death; 
 
 Tired with life, they fell asleep 
 
 Leaving me alone to weep. 
 
 Who would fain lay down life's load 
 
 With them, near the Old Church Road. 
 
 Cruel memory, let me deem 
 
 This is but an idle dream! 
 
 There was one — oh, heart, be still! — 
 
 Wont to wander near the rill, 
 
432 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 Murmuring yet along the glade 
 Where our plighted vows were made- 
 There was one, the maiden queen, 
 Reigning o'er this sylvan scene. 
 Who had strayed from pai-adise, 
 With the splendor of its skies 
 Sleeping in her dewy eyes. 
 Never more must I rejoice 
 In the music of her voice? 
 Must the pilgrim's lonely tread 
 Wake but echoes o'er the dead. 
 
 As he nears liis last abode, 
 
 On the blessed Old Church Road? 
 
 Where the modest violets bloom 
 In the shadow of her tomb. 
 Shall the wayworn wanderer rest, 
 Deeming death a welcome guest? 
 Life's last sleep were passing sweet 
 Where his dust with thine shall meet — 
 There, beneath the self-same sod. 
 Lay him, near the Old Church Road. 
 
 W'iMam P. Biannan. 
 
 KIJSTG'S TAVERN. 
 
 Far-off spires, a mist of silver, shimmer 
 
 from the far-off town; 
 Haunting here the dreary turnpike, stands 
 
 the tavern, crumbling down. 
 
 Half-a-mile before you pass it, half-a-mile 
 when you are gone, 
 
 Like a ghost it comes to meet you, ghost- 
 like still it follows on. 
 
 Never more the sign-board, swinging, flaunts 
 
 its gilded wonder there: 
 "Philip King" — a dazzled harvest shocked 
 
 in Western sunset air! 
 
 Never, as with nearer tinkle through the 
 
 dust of long ago. 
 Creep the Pennsylvania wagons up the 
 
 twilight — white and slow. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 433 
 
 With a low, monotonous thunder, yonder 
 
 flies the hurrying train — 
 Hark, the echoes in the quarry! — in the 
 
 woodland lost again ! 
 
 ISTever more the friendly windows, red with 
 warmth and Christian liffht, 
 
 Breathe the traveler's benediction to his 
 brethren in the night. 
 
 Old in name. The Haunted Tavern holds 
 
 the barren rise alone; — ■ 
 Standing high in air deserted, ghost-like 
 
 long itself has grown. 
 
 Not a pane in any window — many a 
 
 ragged corner-bit: 
 Boys, the strolling exorcisors, gave the ghost 
 
 their notice — "Quit." 
 
 Jamestown-weeds have close invaded, year 
 by year, the bar-room door, 
 
 Where, within, in damp and silence gleams 
 the lizard on the floor. 
 
 Through the roof the drear Novembers trickle 
 
 down the midnight slow; 
 In the Summer's warping sunshine green 
 
 with moss the shingles grow. 
 
 Yet in Maying wind the locust, sifting sunn\- 
 
 blossom, snows. 
 And the rose-vine still remembers some dear 
 
 face that loved the rose, — 
 
 Climbing up a Southern casement, looking 
 
 in neglected air; 
 And, in golden honey-weather, careful bees 
 
 are humming there. 
 
 In the frozen moon at midnight some have 
 heard, when all was still — 
 
 Nothing, I know! A ghostly silence keeps 
 the tavern on the hill ! 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
 HOMELESS. 
 
 I HAVE a home no more. The humble cot, 
 That, like a modest bride half hid in 
 
 flowers. 
 Smiled all its blessings on life's morning 
 hours, 
 Has passed from earth — now strangers own 
 
 the spot. 
 The guardian power that holds my life intrust. 
 Still shows the picture to my loving view, 
 And paints the blessed forms, to memory 
 true, 
 
 Which long have slept in consecrated dust. 
 All things have changed — my home is home 
 
 no more; 
 The favorite haunts where hopes, despairs, 
 
 and loves 
 Once circled round my soul like cottage 
 
 doves, 
 The glass of Fancy only can restore. 
 The alien plowshare, for unnumbered years. 
 Has made deep furrows for my bitter 
 
 tears. 
 
 WiUiam P. Srannan. 
 
434 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHABACTEB. 
 
 TO A MOTHEE. 
 
 Thou Spirit, dowered witli immortal birth, 
 Blest with new being, out of Heaven's 
 completeness; 
 Thou wast my childhood's Guardian Saint 
 on earth, 
 Nor deemed I Heaven could give thee 
 holier sweetness! 
 
 How often in the twilight's lonely calms 
 I dream of living in these hallowed places ; 
 
 Feeling upon my heart Death's restful palms, 
 And on my face — the quiet of dead faces! 
 
 Of lying still — as thou! .... Then, in my 
 
 dreams, 
 
 I feel a thrill, as of thy spirit's nearness, 
 
 Awakening my soul. . . . And then, it 
 
 seems, 
 
 Thy saintly eyes look down, with perfect 
 
 clearness. 
 
 Elizabeth Conwell WiUson. 
 
 UNCLE JO. 
 
 I HAVE in memory a little story. 
 
 That few indeed would rhyme about but 
 me; 
 
 'T is not of love, nor fame, nor yet of glory. 
 Although a little colored with the three, — 
 
 In very truth, I think, as much, perchance, 
 As most tales disembodied from romance. 
 
 Jo lived about the village, and was neighbor 
 To every one who had hard work to do; 
 
 If he possessed a genius, 't was for labor. 
 Most people thought, but there were one 
 or two 
 
 Who sometimes said, when he arose to go, 
 
 "Come in again and see us, Uncle Jo!" 
 
 The "Uncle" was a courtesy they gave, — 
 And felt they could aflbrd to give to 
 him, — 
 
 Just as the master makes of some good slave 
 An Aunt Jemima, or an Uncle Jim; 
 
 And of this dubious kindness Jo was glad, — 
 
 Poor fellow, it was all he ever had! 
 
 A mile or so away, he had a brother, — 
 A rich, proud man that people did n't hire; 
 
 But Jo had neither sister, wife, nor mother. 
 And baked his corncake at his cabin fire 
 
 After the day's work, hard for you or me. 
 
 But he was never tired, — how could he be? 
 
 They called him dull, but he had eyes of 
 quickness 
 For every body that he could befriend; 
 
 Said one and all, "How kind he is in sick- 
 ness," 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 435 
 
 But there, of course, his goodness had an 
 
 end. 
 Another praise there was might have been 
 
 given, 
 For, one or more days out of every seven — 
 
 With his old pickax swung across his 
 
 shoulder, 
 And downcast eyes, and slow and sober 
 
 tread — 
 He sought the place of graves, and each 
 
 beholder 
 Wondered and asked some other who was 
 
 dead; 
 But when he digged all day, nobody thought 
 That he had done a whit more than he ought. 
 
 At length, one winter when the sunbeams 
 slanted 
 Faintly and cold across the churchyard 
 snow. 
 The bell tolled out, — alas! a grave was 
 wanted, 
 And all looked anxiously for Uncle Jo; 
 His spade stood there against his own roof- 
 tree. 
 There was his pickax, too, but where was he ? 
 
 They called and called again, but no reply- 
 ing; 
 Smooth at the window, and about the door, 
 The snow in cold and heavy drifts was 
 
 lying,— 
 He did not need the daylight any more. 
 One shook him roughly, and another said, 
 "As true as preaching, Uncle Jo is dead!" 
 
 And when they wrapped him in the linen, 
 
 fairer 
 
 And finer, too, than he had worn till then, 
 
 They found a picture, — haply of the sharer 
 
 Of sunny hope some time, or where or when 
 
 They did not care to know, but closed his 
 
 eyes 
 And placed it in the coffin where he lies! 
 
 None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty 
 Of the pure love that reached into the 
 grave. 
 Nor how in unobtrusive ways of duty 
 He kept, despite the dark; but men less 
 brave 
 Have left great names, while not a willow 
 
 bends 
 Above his dust, — poor Jo, he had no friends ! 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 TO ONE DEPARTED. 
 
 How oft thy name, so dear to me, 
 
 Arises in my memory yet; 
 Thy form in all its grace I see. 
 
 And never, never can forget. 
 Thy fresh young heart was all my own. 
 
 Its purity was mine — all mine; 
 My soul was raised by the sweet tone. 
 
 That made thy accents so divine. 
 
 Had'st thou been spared to bless my life. 
 And smooth my rugged toilsome way, 
 
 How easy for me in the strife 
 Had victory been from day to day; 
 
 How small would all my trials seem, 
 With thee to help me meet the storm; 
 
 How more than lovely in my dream 
 
 Would shine thy glorious, beauteous form. 
 
 But death long since has closed thine eyes. 
 
 And stilled the pulses of thy heart. 
 To meet thee now I must arise. 
 
 For Heaven has claimed the better part. 
 Sometimes I think that thou art near. 
 
 That thy soft breath is on my face; 
 Oh tell me, is thy spirit here? 
 
 Or am I near thy resting place? 
 
 Ben. M. Piatt. 
 
436 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 CONVENTION. 
 
 He falters on the threshold, 
 She lingers on the stair: 
 
 Can it be that was his footstep? 
 Can it be that she is there? 
 
 Withont is tender yearning, 
 And tender love is within ; 
 
 They can hear each other's heart-beats, 
 But a wooden door is between. 
 
 William Dean HoweUs. 
 
 AUTUMN IN THE WEST. 
 
 The autumn time is with us ! — Its approach 
 Was heralded, not many days ago, 
 By hazy skies, that vailed the brazen sun, 
 And sea-like murmurs from the rustling corn. 
 And low-voiced brooks that wandered drow- 
 sily 
 By purpling clusters of the juicy grape, 
 Swinging upon the vine. And now, 't is here ! 
 And what a change hath passed upon the face 
 Of Nature, where the waving forest spreads. 
 Then robed in deepest green ! All through 
 
 the night 
 The subtile frost hath jjlied its mystic art; 
 And in the day the golden sun hath wrought 
 True wonders; and the winds of morn and 
 
 even 
 Have touched with magic breath the chang- 
 ing leaves. 
 And now, as wanders the dilating eye 
 Athwart the varied landscape, circling far. 
 What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what 
 
 pomp 
 Of colors, bursts upon the ravished sight! 
 Here, where the maple rears its yellow crest, 
 A golden glory : yonder, where the oak 
 Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash 
 Is girt with flame -like parasite, and broad 
 The dogwood spreads beneath, a rolling field 
 Of deepest crimson; and afar, where looms 
 The gnarled gum, a cloud of bloodiest red ! 
 
 Out in the woods of Autumn ! - 
 cast 
 
 - I have 
 
 Aside the shackles of the town, that vex 
 The fetterless soul, and come to hide myself, 
 Miami! in thy venerable shades. 
 Low on thy bank, where spreads the velvet 
 
 moss. 
 My limbs recline. Beneath me, silver-bright. 
 Glide the clear waters, with a plaintive moan 
 For summer's parting glories. High o'er- 
 
 head. 
 Seeking the sedgy lakes of the warm South, 
 Sails tireless the unerring waterfowl. 
 Screaming among the cloud-racks. Oft from 
 
 where, 
 Erect on mossy trunk, the partridge stands, 
 Bursts suddenly the whistle clear and loud. 
 Far-echoing through the dim wood's fretted 
 
 aisles. 
 Deep murmurs from the trees, bending with 
 
 brown 
 And ripened mast, are interrupted now 
 Bj' sounds of dropping nuts; and warily 
 The turkey from the thicket comes, and swift 
 As flies an arrow darts the pheasant down. 
 To batten on the autumn ; and the air 
 At times, is darkened by a sudden rush 
 Of myriad wings, as the wild pigeon leads 
 His squadrons to the banquet. Far away. 
 Where the pawpaw its mellow fruitage 
 
 yields. 
 And thick, dark clusters of the wild grape 
 
 hang, 
 The merry laugh of childhood, and the shout 
 Of truant school-boy, ring upon the air. 
 
 William D. OaUaghe-r. 
 
From Ap2i^toiVs "A-iaerican Paintrrf!.' 
 
 "All through the night 
 The subtile frost hath plied its mystic art; 
 And in the day the golden sun hath wrought 
 True wonders,'' 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER 
 
 439 
 
 THE BETTER LAND. 
 
 Round me is the silent night — 
 Starry heavens are in my sight — 
 In the gloom of earth I stand, 
 Longing for the Better Land. 
 
 Names of many an olden year 
 Linger in my listening ear — 
 Names of those that now, I ween. 
 In the Better Land are seen. 
 
 There shall many pilgrims meet — 
 There shall many mourners greet 
 Lost ones, parted long before. 
 Angels of the Better Shore. 
 
 There no sound of grieving word 
 Shall be ever, ever heard — 
 
 Sounds of joy and love alone 
 In the Better Land are known. 
 
 Voyager on the tide of time. 
 Toiling for the Better Clime, 
 Thither I am speeding fast. 
 Where the toils of time are past. 
 
 Calmly leaving far behind 
 Earth's dark memories, let me find 
 Loving smile and greeting hand, 
 Joyful in the Better Land. 
 
 Savior! let the falling tear 
 Soon forever disappear: 
 Guide me, weary and oppressed. 
 Safely to the Land of Rest. 
 
 Olway Outry. 
 
 THE OLD HOME. 
 
 An out-door quiet held the earth 
 
 Beneath the winter moon. 
 The cricket chirped in cosy mirth. 
 And the kettle crooned, upon the hearth, 
 
 A sweet, old-fashioned tune. 
 
 The old clock ticked, a drowsy race, 
 "With the clicking of the cricket. 
 And red coals in the chimney-place 
 Peeped out, with many a rosy face. 
 Like berries in a thicket. 
 
 The crane's arm empty, stuck out stiff". 
 
 And tinware on the shelves 
 Twinkled and winked at every gliff", 
 In the flickering fire-light, as if 
 They whispered to themselves. 
 
 The good dame, in her ruffled cap. 
 
 Counted her stitches slowly. 
 And the old man, with full many a gap, 
 
 Read from the big book on his lap 
 The good words, wise and holy. 
 
 The old clock clicked: the old man read. 
 
 His deep voice pausing, lowering; 
 The good wife nodded, dropped her head — 
 The lids of both were heavy as lead — 
 They were sound asleep and snoring. 
 
 Oh, hale old couple! sweet each dream, 
 While — all the milk-pans tilting — 
 
 Puss paints her whiskers in the cream, 
 
 Till John and the belated team 
 
 Bring Maggie from the quilting. 
 
 May time, I pray, when falling years 
 
 Make thin my voice and thrapple. 
 Find my last days of life like theirs. 
 As sweet with children's loves and pray- 
 ers. 
 And like a winter apple. 
 
 William. Wallace Harvey. 
 
440 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 A DAY m THE WOODS. 
 
 We walked through the grand old forest, 
 
 O'er di'ifts of withei'ing leaves, 
 And through the fields where the harvest 
 
 Was gathered in shining sheaves; 
 The sun was high in the heavens, 
 
 Vailed with a luminous mist. 
 And the clouds kept changing from amber 
 gold 
 
 To opal and amethyst. 
 
 The oak wore royal purple. 
 
 The beech was in cloth of gold. 
 The elm and hickory flecked with green, 
 
 The maple in scarlet bold; 
 Over the shining river 
 
 There floated an azure haze, 
 And the hills seemed fading away like dreams 
 
 That we knew in the far-oft' days. 
 
 A brooding stillness was over all, 
 
 And many an empty nest 
 Where late the garrulous mother-bird 
 
 Had warbled her young to rest; 
 
 And a silence fell between us, 
 A feeling too deep for words, 
 
 As we thought of the vanished summer, 
 And the empty nests of the birds. 
 
 I gathered the maple's scarlet leaves 
 
 That floated and fell at my feet, 
 Content to walk in the silence, 
 
 Feeling a joy complete; 
 And out of the autumn forest 
 
 With thoughtful hearts we came, 
 When the sun was low in the western 
 sky, 
 
 Bathed in a crimson flame. 
 
 Our paths lay not together. 
 
 We parted at eventide; 
 I knew that the beautiful day was dead, 
 
 And something I knew beside. 
 I knew that the vanished summer 
 
 ISTo memory held for me 
 So sweet as the bright October day. 
 
 When I walked in the woods with thee. 
 
 Bma M. Jordan. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 Ml 
 
 BOOK-MARKS. 
 
 Hebe's an old book of Shelley's. Years To think these marks were meant to meet 
 
 my eye? 
 And did I pass the sweet, sweet fountain 
 
 . ^^' 
 Fearing to ask for drink and be denied? 
 
 dear one! I had better far have died 
 
 Than lose thy blessed love. Ah, coward 
 
 heart ! 
 To doom two loving souls to dwell for aye 
 
 apart ! 
 
 Mary E. Nealy. 
 
 I mind me that she read it. Could she know 
 How much I loved her then, would any 
 
 thrill 
 Of sorrow or regret her wai'm heart fill? 
 Ah, here are marks! "7 love thee, and I feel 
 That on the fountain of my heart a seal 
 Is set to keep its waters bright and pure 
 For thee." heart of mine! can I endure 
 
 IF SHE WERE HERE. 
 
 If only she were here, who knew 
 
 The secret paths of fields and woods, 
 And where the earliest wild flowers through 
 
 Cool mosses push their dainty hoods; 
 Whose voice was like a mt)ther's call 
 
 To them, and bade them wake and rise. 
 And mark the morning's splendors fall 
 
 In mists of pearl from tender skies : — 
 
 Could she return, as now the spring 
 
 Returns in robes of green and gold, 
 When love and song are on the wing. 
 
 And hearts forget that they are old — 
 How bright were all the days ! how fair 
 
 This miracle of life would be! 
 Whose pulsings thrill the glowing air, 
 
 And quicken over land and sea. 
 
 If only she were here, to see 
 
 The landscape freshening hour by hour. 
 And watch in favorite plant and tree 
 
 The bud unfold in leaf and flower; 
 To welcome back from sunny lands 
 
 The bluebirds that have tarried long, 
 Or feed with her own loving hands 
 
 The bright, red-breasted pi'ince of song: — 
 
 And shall we doubt thy presence here. 
 
 Spirit of light, because our eyes. 
 Vailed in this earthly atmosphere. 
 
 See not the heaven that near us lies? 
 More living thou than we, who stand 
 
 Within the shadow of the years, 
 Whose glimpses of a better land 
 
 Are caught through eyelids wet with tears. 
 
 If, brightening down the accustomed walk, 
 
 She came to welcome friend and guest, 
 To share our light, unstudied talk, 
 
 And sparkle at the rising jest; 
 Or, leading on to nobler themes. 
 
 In art and science play the sage. 
 And rapt, as in prophetic dreams, 
 
 Foretell the wonders of the age : — 
 
 And so in hope we wait and see 
 
 The springs return, and summers go. 
 That bring us nearer unto thee, 
 
 Who art beside us; since we know 
 AVhatever range thy flight may take. 
 
 Its steps thou surely wilt retrace — 
 Love binds with cords death can not break, 
 
 And draws thee from the realms of space I 
 
 Florus JB. Plimplon. 
 
442 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHAUACTEB. 
 
 A PAWPAAV. 
 
 In dusky groves, where cheerily all day long, 
 Mocking the nut-hatch aud the cardinal. 
 The trim drab cat-bird troUa its fitful song, 
 I hear the mellow golden pawpaws fall. 
 . . . What luscious fruit! scorned as of little 
 
 worth 
 By those who long for guavas of the South, 
 Figs aud bananas, pining that the North 
 
 Is barren of the luxuries of the earth! 
 Fruit that I sought in childhood with a 
 
 mouth 
 Eager to taste thy wild delicious juice! 
 What orange grown in groves of Italy, 
 Or what pomegranate ripened in the dews 
 Of Grecian isles, would I not now refuse 
 For the rare-flavored, racy pulp of these? 
 
 James Maurice Thompson. 
 
 A POOR MAE'S THANKSGIVmO. 
 
 Let him who eats not, think he eats. 
 
 'Tis one to him who last year said, 
 " My neighbor dines on dainty sweets 
 
 And I on coarser bread." 
 
 lie who on sugar angels fares 
 
 Hath pangs beneath his silken vest ; 
 
 The rougher life hath fewer cares — 
 Who fasts, hath sounder rest. 
 
 If lean the body, light the wings ; 
 
 His fancy hath more verge aud room 
 Wlio feasts upon the wind that brings 
 
 The flowers of hope to bloom. 
 
 So, if no smoking turkey grace 
 
 This day my clean but humble board. 
 
 I'll think what might have been my case 
 If rich, and thank the Lord. 
 
 No gout awaits my coming age. 
 No bulbous nose like lobster red. 
 
 To vex my temper into rage, 
 Or fill my days with dread. 
 
 Leave to the rich his roast and wine; 
 
 Death waits on him who waits for all; 
 The doctor will be there by nine. 
 
 By twelve the priest will call. 
 
 Lord, in all wholesome, moderate ways 
 Keep me, lest it should hap me worse; 
 
 Teach one to fill his mouth with praise 
 Who never filled his purse. 
 
 Florin B. Plimpti,/i. 
 
 AUTUMN SONG. 
 
 In spring the poet is glad, 
 
 And in summer the poet is gay, 
 
 But in autumn the poet is sad, 
 And has something sad to say: 
 
 For the wind moans in the wood, 
 And the leaf drops from the 
 tree; 
 
 And the cold rain falls on tLt< graves of 
 the good, 
 And the cold mist comes uji from the sea: 
 
 And the autumn songs of the poet's soul 
 Are set to the passionate giief. 
 
 Of winds that sough and bells that toll. 
 The dirge of the falling leaf. 
 
 Forceythe Willsoii. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 443 
 
 THE GREAT HEREAFTER. 
 
 'T IS sweet to think, when struggling 
 
 The goal of life to win, 
 That just beyond the shores of time 
 
 The better days begin. 
 
 When through the nameless ages 
 
 I cast my longing eyes. 
 Before nie, like a boundless sea, 
 
 The Great Hereafter lies. 
 
 Along its brimming bosom 
 
 Perpetual summer smiles, 
 And gathers, like a golden robe, 
 
 Around the emerald isles. 
 
 There in the blue long distance, 
 By lulling breezes fanned, 
 
 I seem to see the floAvering groves 
 Of old Beulah's land. 
 
 And far beyond the islands 
 That gem the wave serene. 
 
 The image of the cloudless shore 
 Of holy Heaven is seen. 
 
 Unto the Great Hereafter — 
 Aforetime dim and dark — 
 
 I freely now and gladly, give 
 Of life the wandering bark. 
 
 And in the far-ofi" haven, 
 
 "When shadowy seas are passed. 
 
 By angel hands its quivering sails 
 Shall all be furled at last! 
 
 Otway Curry, 
 
 SIX LITTLE FEET ON" THE FENDER. 
 
 In my heart there liveth a picture. 
 
 Of a kitchen rude and old, 
 Where the firelight tripped o'er the rafters. 
 
 And reddened the roof's brown mold; 
 Gilding the steam from the kettle 
 
 That hummed on the foot-worn hearth. 
 Throughout all the livelong evening 
 
 Its measure of drowsy mirth. 
 
 Because of the three light shadows 
 
 That frescoed that rude old room — 
 Because of the voices echoed, 
 
 Up 'mid the rafters' gloom — 
 Because of the feet on the fender. 
 
 Six restless, white little feet — 
 The thoughts of that dear old kitchen 
 
 Are to me so fresh and sweet. 
 
 When the first dash on the window 
 
 Told of the coming rain, 
 Oh ! where are the fair young faces, 
 
 That crowded against the pane ? 
 
 While bits of firelight stealing 
 Their dimpled cheeks between. 
 
 Went struggling out in the darkness. 
 In shreds of silver sheen. 
 
 Two of the feet grew weary, 
 
 One dreary, dismal day. 
 And we tied them with snow-white ribbons. 
 
 Leaving him there by the way. 
 There was fresh clay on the fender 
 
 That weary, wint'ry night. 
 For the four little feet had tracked it 
 
 From his grave on the bright hill's height. 
 
 Oh ! why, on this darksome evening, 
 
 This evening of rain and sleet. 
 Rest my feet all alone on the hearthstone ? 
 
 Oh! where are those other feet? 
 Are they treading the pathway of virtue 
 
 That will bring us together above? 
 Or have they made steps that will dampen 
 
 A sister's tireless love? 
 
 Cornelia W. Law. 
 
444 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 
 FIRESIDE FAlSrCIES. 
 
 By the dim and fitful fire-light 
 
 Musing all alone, 
 Memories of old companions 
 
 Dead, or strangers grown ; — ■ 
 Books that we had read together, 
 Ramhles in sweet summer weather, 
 Thoughts released from earthly tether - 
 
 Fancy made my own. 
 
 In my cushioned arm-chair sitting 
 
 Far into the night. 
 Sleep, with leaden wing, extinguished 
 
 All the fiickering light; 
 
 But, the thoughts that soothed me waking, 
 Care, and grief, and pain forsaking. 
 Still the self-same path were taking — 
 Pilgrims, still in sight. 
 
 Indistinct and shadowy phantoms 
 
 Of the sacred dead, 
 Absent faces bending fondly 
 
 O'er my drooping head, 
 In my dreams were woven quaintly, 
 Dim at first, but calm and saintly, 
 As the stars that glimmer faintly 
 
 From their misty bed. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 445 
 
 Presently a lustrous brightness, 
 
 Eye could scarce behold, 
 Gave to my enchanted vision 
 
 Looks no longer cold, 
 Features that no clouds encumber, 
 Forms refreshed by sweetest slumber. 
 And, of all that blessed number, 
 
 Only one was old. 
 
 Graceful were they as the willow 
 
 By the zephyr stirred! 
 Bright as childhood when expecting 
 
 An approving word ! 
 Fair as when from earth they faded, 
 Ere the burnished brow was shaded, 
 Or the hair with silver braided. 
 
 Or lament was heard. 
 
 Roundabout in silence moving 
 
 Slowly to and fro — 
 Life-like as I knew and loved them 
 
 In their spring-time glow; — 
 Beaming with a loving luster. 
 Close and closer still they cluster 
 Round my chair that radiant muster 
 
 Just as long ago. 
 
 Once, the aged, breathing comfort 
 
 O'er my fainting cheek. 
 Whispered words of precious meaning 
 
 Only she could speak, 
 Scarce could I my rapture smother. 
 For I knew it was my mother. 
 And to me there was no other 
 
 Saint-like and so meek! 
 
 Then the pent-up fount of feeling 
 
 Stirred its inmost deep — 
 Brimming o'er its frozen surface 
 
 From its guarded keep, 
 On my heart its drops descending. 
 And for one glad moment lending 
 Dreams of Joy's ecstatic blending. 
 
 Blessed my charmed sleep. 
 
 Bright and brighter grew the vision 
 
 With each gathering tear. 
 Till the past was all before me 
 
 In its radiance clear; 
 And again we read at even — 
 Hoped, beneath the summer heaven, 
 Hopes that had no bitter leaven. 
 
 No disturbing fear. 
 
 All so real seemed each presence. 
 
 That one word I spoke — 
 Only one of old endearment, 
 
 That dead silence broke. 
 But the angels who were keeping 
 Stillest watch while I was sleeping, 
 Left me o'er the embers weeping — 
 
 Fled when I awoke. 
 
 But, as ivy clings the greenest 
 
 On abandoned walls; 
 And as echo lingers sweetest 
 
 In deserted halls: — 
 Thus, the sunlight that we borrow 
 From the jsast to gild our sorrow. 
 On the dark and dreaded morrow 
 
 Like a blessing falls. 
 
 FortunaLus Cosby. 
 
 A PRETTIER BOOK. 
 
 "He has a prettier book than this," 
 With many a sob between, he said; 
 
 Then left untouched the night's last kiss. 
 And, sweet with sorrow, went to bed. 
 
 A prettier book his brother had? — 
 Yet wonder-pictures were in each. 
 
 The different colors made him sad; 
 The equal value — could I teach? 
 
 Ah, who is wiser? . . . Here we sit. 
 Around the world's great hearth, and look, 
 
 While Life's fire-shadows flash and flit. 
 Each wistful in another's book. 
 
446 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 I see, through fierce and feverish tears, 
 Only a darkened hut in mine; 
 
 Yet in my brother's book appears 
 A palace where the torches shine. 
 
 A peasant, seeking bitter bread 
 
 From the unwilling earth to wring, 
 
 Is in my book; the wine is red, 
 
 There in my brother's, for the king. 
 
 A wedding, where each wedding-guest 
 Has wedding garments on, in his, — 
 
 In mine one face in awful rest. 
 One coffin never shut, there is! 
 
 In his, on many a bridge of beams 
 
 Between the faint moon and the grass, 
 
 Dressed daintily in dews and dreams, 
 The fleet midsummer fairies pass; 
 
 In mine unearthly mountains rise. 
 Unearthly waters foam and roll. 
 
 And — stared at by its deathless eyes — 
 The master sells the fiend a soul ! 
 
 . . . Put out the lights. We will not look 
 At pictures any more. We weep, 
 
 "My brother has a prettier book," 
 And, after tears, we go to sleep. 
 
 Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
 OUE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Our old brown homestead reared its walls 
 
 From the wayside aloof, 
 Where the apple boughs could almost cast 
 
 Their fruitage on the roof; 
 And the cherry tree so near it grew. 
 
 That when awake I've lain 
 In the lonesome nights and heard the limbs. 
 
 As they creaked against the pane; 
 And those orchard trees — oh, those orchard 
 trees — 
 
 I've seen my little brother rocked 
 In their tops by the summer breeze. 
 
 The sweet-briar upon the window sill. 
 
 Which the early birds made glad, 
 And the dark damask rose by the garden 
 fence 
 
 Were all the flowers we had. 
 I've looked at many a flower since then, 
 
 Far brought, and rich, and rare. 
 To other eyes more beautiful. 
 
 But none to me so fair; 
 For those roses bright — oh, those roses 
 bright ! 
 
 I've twined them with my sister's locks. 
 That are laid in the dust from sight. 
 
 We had a well, a deep old well, 
 
 Where the spring was never dry. 
 And the cool drops down from the mossy 
 stones 
 
 Were falling constantly; 
 And there never was water half so sweet 
 
 As that in my little cup. 
 Drawn up the curb by the rude old sweep 
 
 Which my father's hand set up; 
 And the deep old well — oh, that deep old well ! 
 
 I remember yet the splashing sound 
 Of the bucket as it fell. 
 
 Our homestead had an ample hearth. 
 
 Where at night we loved to meet; 
 There our mother's voice was always kind. 
 
 And her smile was always sweet; 
 And there I 've sat on my father's knee, 
 
 And watched his truthful brow. 
 With my childish hands in his raven hair — 
 
 That hair is silver now ! 
 But that broad hearth's light — oh, that 
 broad hearth's light! 
 
 And my father's look and my mother's 
 
 smile 
 
 They are in my heart to-night. 
 
 Phcebe Gary. 
 
NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 447 
 
 CHILDISH WISDOM. 
 
 'TwAS the hour of prayer; and the farmer 
 
 stood, 
 
 With a thankful heart and a lowly mind, 
 
 And prayed to the Author of every good, 
 
 That the Father of all would be very kind. 
 
 And bless His creatures with raiment and 
 
 food ; 
 That the blessing each day might be re- 
 newed, 
 That every want might find relief. 
 And plenty for hunger, joy for grief. 
 Be measured out by the merciful One, 
 To all who suffered beneath the sun. 
 
 The prayer concluded, the godly man 
 Went forth in peace to inspect his farm; 
 
 And, by his side, delighted ran. 
 Glowing with every healthful charm. 
 
 His little son, a sprightly boy. 
 
 Whose home was love, and whose life was 
 
 joy. 
 
 And they rambled over the golden fields; 
 And the father said, "The harvest yields 
 A plentiful crop, my son, this year; 
 My barns are too small for the grain, I fear." 
 
 And they wandered on, through row upon 
 
 row 
 Of plumy sheaves, and at length the child. 
 With earnest look, and a rosy glow 
 
 On his shining cheek, looked up and 
 
 smiled, 
 And said, "My father, do you not pray 
 For the poor and needy day by day. 
 That God the good would the hungry 
 
 feed?" 
 "I do, my son." "Well I think, as you 
 
 plead" — 
 His eye waxed bright, for his soul shone 
 
 through it — 
 "That God, if he had your wheat, would 
 
 do it." 
 
 James W. Ward. 
 
 SHALL WE KNOW OUR FRIENDS IN HEAVEN? 
 
 We can not hear the fall of gentle feet 
 Beyond the river they may cross no more. 
 
 Nor see familiar faces, angel-sweet, 
 
 Through the dim distance, on the other 
 shore. 
 
 Where are the friends, companions, down 
 
 the years, 
 
 Who shared our care and labor, gain and 
 
 loss: 
 
 Who wept with us, in sorrow, bitter tears — 
 
 Who knelt beside us at the Savior's cross? 
 
 Some were a-weary of the world, and old. 
 And some had scarcely passed meridian 
 prime. 
 
 And some were gathered to the blessed fold 
 In all the beauty of life's morning time. 
 
 A few had climbed the heights not many gain, 
 And battled nobly for the good and true; 
 
 Many wrought humbly, on life's common 
 plane. 
 But all accomplished what they came to do. 
 
 And as we walked together, by the way. 
 They turned and left us, left us, one by 
 one, — 
 Love followed weeping, but they might not 
 stay. 
 For all her pleading, when their work 
 was done. 
 
 Shall we not meet again, or soon, or late? — 
 Meet at the entrance to the final goal? 
 
 Did the Pale Angel, at the shadowy gate. 
 Undo the tie that bound us soul to soul? 
 
448 
 
 NATURE, LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 Nay, by the holy instincts of our love — 
 By every hope humanity holds dear, 
 
 X trust, in God, to meet my treasure trove, 
 Tenderly loving, as we parted here. 
 
 It must be so, if deathless mind retain 
 The noblest attributes that God has 
 given : 
 
 Love, hope and memory count but little gain. 
 If what they win on earth be lost in heaven. 
 
 And if the human love, that underlies 
 
 All that is true and good, in man's estate — 
 All that remains to us of paradise — 
 
 Were lacking there, heaven would be 
 desolate. 
 
 N"ay, as the rich man knew, on Abraham's 
 breast. 
 
 The whilom beggar at his palace gate. 
 As Saul knew Samuel, when, at God's behest, 
 
 He came to warn the monarch of his fate; 
 
 As Moses and Elias. heavenly bright. 
 Were recognized upon the mount sublime, 
 
 Shall we know our beloved, in the light 
 
 That lies beyond the shores of death and 
 
 time. 
 
 Sarah T. BoUm. 
 
 NEARER HOME. 
 
 One sweetly solemn thought 
 Comes to me o'er and o'er; 
 
 I am nearer home to-day 
 
 Than I ever have been before; 
 
 Nearer my Father's house. 
 
 Where the many mansions be; 
 
 Nearer the great white throne 
 Nearer the crystal sea; 
 
 Nearer the bound of life. 
 
 Where we lay our burdens down; 
 Nearer leavins- the cross, 
 
 Nearer gaining the crown! 
 
 But lying darkly between. 
 
 Winding down through the night. 
 
 Is the silent, unknown stream, 
 That leads at last to the light. 
 
 Closer and closer my steps 
 
 Come to the dread abysm: 
 Closer Death to my lips 
 
 Presses the awful chrism. 
 
 Oh, if my mortal feet 
 
 Have almost gained the brink; 
 If it be I am nearer home. 
 
 Even to-day, than I think: 
 
 Father, perfect my trust; 
 
 Let my spirit feel in death, 
 That her feet are firmly set 
 
 On the rock of a living faith! 
 
 Phcebe Cary. 
 
 GHOST-STORIES. 
 
 THE FALLING STAR. 
 
 'T IS the saddest time of the autumn night; 
 
 The leaves and blossoms fall: 
 The fire with a shadowy pencil writes 
 
 Ghost-stories on the wall. 
 
 Elizabeth Conwell WiUson. 
 
 See where yon star falls headlong, flashing 
 Across the purple twilight air! — 
 
 An angel, swift-winged, bears from heaven 
 The answer to a mortal's prayer. 
 
 Alice Williarm Brotherton. 
 
Z)ec(J'^'^ 
 
 fZ'^^ cy^e-ec^ 
 
, V lii I A 
 
 ^- 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 A DREAM OP PONCE DB LEON. 
 
 A STORY of Ponce de Leon, 
 
 A voyager, -withered and old, 
 TVho came to the sunny Antilles, 
 
 In quest of a country of gold. 
 He was wafted past islands of spices, 
 
 As bright as the Emerald seas, 
 Where all the forests seem singing. 
 
 So thick were the birds on the trees; 
 The sea was as clear as the azure, 
 
 And so deep and so pure was the sky 
 That the jasper-walled city seemed shining 
 
 Just out of the reach of the eye. 
 
 By day his light canvas he shifted. 
 
 And rounded strange harbors and bars; 
 By night, on the full tides he drifted, 
 
 'Neath the low-hanging lamps of the stars. 
 Near the glimmering gates of the sunset. 
 
 In the twihgbt empurpled and dim. 
 The sailors uplifted their voices. 
 
 And sang to the Virgin a hymn. 
 " Thank the Lord ! " said De Leon, the sailor. 
 
 At the close of the rounded refrain; 
 "Thank the Lord, the Almighty, who blesses 
 
 The ocean-swept banner of Spain! 
 
 (4.53) 
 
454 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 The shadowy world is behind us, 
 
 The shining Cipango before; 
 Eacli morning the sun rises brighter 
 
 On ocean, and island, and shore. 
 And still shall our spirits grow lighter. 
 
 As prospects more glowing enfold; 
 Then on, merry men! to Cipango, 
 
 To the west, and the regions of gold ! " 
 
 There came to De Leon, the sailor. 
 
 Some Indian sages, who told 
 Of a region so bright that the waters 
 
 Were sprinkled with islands of gold. 
 And they added: "The leafy Bimini, 
 
 A fair land of grottoes and bowers, 
 Is there; and a wonderful fountain 
 
 Upsprings from its gardens of flowers. 
 That fountain gives life to the dying. 
 
 And youth to the aged restores; 
 They flourish in beauty eternal, 
 
 "Who set but their foot on its shores!" 
 Then answered De Leon, the sailor: 
 
 "I am withered, and wrinkled, and old; 
 I would rather discover that fountain. 
 
 Than a country of diamonds and gold." 
 
 Away sailed De Leon, the sailor; 
 
 Away with a wonderful glee. 
 Till the birds were more rare in the azure, 
 
 The dolphins more rare in the sea. 
 Away from the shady Bahamas, 
 
 Over waters no sailor had seen. 
 Till again on his wondering vision. 
 
 Rose clustering islands of green. 
 Still onward he sped till the breezes 
 
 Were laden with odors, and lo! 
 A country embedded with flowers, 
 
 A country with rivers aglow! 
 More bright than the sunny Antilles, 
 
 More fair than the shady Azores. 
 " Thank the Lord ! " said De Leon, the sailor. 
 
 As feasted his eye on the shores, 
 " We have come to a region, my brothers, 
 
 More lovely than earth, of a truth; 
 And here is the life-giving fountain, — 
 
 The beaiitiful fountain of youth." 
 
 Then landed De Leon, the sailor, 
 
 Unfurled his old banner, and sung; 
 But he felt very wrinkled and withered, 
 
 All around was so fresh and so young. 
 The palms, ever-verdant, were blooming, 
 
 Their blossoms e'en margined the seas; 
 O'er the streams of the forests bright flowers 
 
 Hung deep from the branches of trees. 
 " Praise the Lord ! " sung De Leon, the sailor ; 
 
 His heart was with rapture aflame; 
 And he said : " Be the name of this region 
 
 By Florida given to fame. 
 'Tis a fair, a delectable country, 
 
 More lovely than earth, of a truth; 
 I soon shall partake of the fountain, — 
 
 The beautiful Fountain of "Youth!" 
 
 But wandered De Leon, the sailor. 
 
 In search of that fountain in vain; 
 No waters were there to restore him 
 
 To freshness and beauty again. 
 And his anchor he lifted, and murmured. 
 
 As the tears gathered fast in his eye, 
 "I must leave this fair land of the flowers. 
 
 Go back o'er the ocean, and die." 
 Then back by the dreary Tortugas, 
 
 And back by the shady Azores, 
 He was borne on the storm-smitten waters 
 
 To the calm of his own native shores. 
 And that he grew older and older. 
 
 His footsteps enfeebled gave proof. 
 Still he thirsted in dreams for the fountain. 
 
 The beautiful Fountain of Youth. 
 
 One day the old sailor lay dying 
 
 On the shores of a tropical isle, 
 And his heart was enkindled with rapture. 
 
 And his face lighted up with a smile. 
 He thought of the sunny Antilles, 
 
 He thought of the shady Azores, 
 He thought of the dreamy Bahamas, 
 
 He thought of fair Florida's shores. 
 And, when in his mind he passed over 
 
 His wonderful travels of old. 
 He thought of the heavenly country, 
 
 Of the city of jasper and gold. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 456 
 
 " Thank the Lord ! " said De Leon, the sailor, 
 " Thank the Lord for the light of the truth, 
 
 I now am approaching the fountain, 
 The beautiful Fountain of Youth." 
 
 The cabin was silent: at twilight 
 They heard the birds singing a psalm. 
 
 And the wind of the ocean low sighing 
 Through groves of the orange and palm. 
 
 The sailor still lay on his pallet, 
 
 'ISTeath the low-hanging vines of the 
 roof; 
 
 His soul had gone foi-th to discover 
 The beautiful Fountain of Youth. 
 
 Hezekiah Butta-worth. 
 
 ALABAMA. 
 
 Bruised and bleeding, pale and weary. 
 
 Onward to the South and "West, 
 Through dark woods and deserts dreary. 
 
 By relentless foemen pressed. 
 Came a tribe^ where evening, darkling. 
 
 Flushed a mighty river's breast; 
 And they cried, their faint eyes sparkling, 
 
 "Alabama! Here we rest!" 
 
 By the stern steam-demon hurried, 
 Far from home and scenes so blest; 
 
 By the gloomy care-dogs worried. 
 Sleepless, houseless, and distressed, 
 
 Days and nights beheld me hieing 
 
 Like a bird without a nest, 
 Till I hailed thy waters, crying, 
 
 "Alabama! Here I rest!" 
 
 Oh ! when life's last sun is blinking 
 
 In the pale and darksome "West, 
 And my weary frame is sinking 
 
 With its cares and woes oppressed. 
 May I, as I drop the burden 
 
 From my sick and fainting breast. 
 Cry, beside the swelling Jordan, 
 
 "Alabama! Here I rest!" 
 
 Charles T. Brooks. 
 
 THE PEAKS OF OTTER. 
 
 Over the mountain-road all A&j we fared. 
 Through woods where many a gorgeous 
 
 hue was blent 
 
 With the pines' vivid green : the firmament 
 
 Wore a thin vail of cloud, nor once was bared 
 
 The blue serene above; and yet we shared 
 
 The calm content of JSTature as we went 
 
 Higher and higher, and our looks far sent 
 
 Into deep vales, or up where grandeur laired. 
 
 We fed our souls with the sublimity 
 
 Of height on height; late-lingering axx- 
 tumn flowers 
 Smiled on each cliff's edge through the 
 misty air; 
 The wild-grape's wine we quaffed from 
 withering bowers; 
 
 When lo! each mountain round seemed 
 
 dwarfed — bold, free, 
 Up towered the Otter's Peak, with summit 
 
 bare ! 
 
 The great South Peak of Otter!— there it 
 stood 
 Alone in grandeur — for we saw but one — 
 As some proud monarch, when the fight 
 is done. 
 Stands musing in a dark, inscrutable mood. 
 His crown upon his brow — his foes subdued : 
 Behind its shoulders vast had sunk the sun. 
 And a mysterious whisper seemed to run 
 Through the thick forest round — some spell 
 to brood 
 
456 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 Therein, or in the air above; our souls 
 Felt the strong influence of its presence 
 then ; 
 For something undetinahle controls 
 
 And sways us more than all the works 
 of men, 
 In heights beneath which oft the thunder 
 rolls, 
 And tempests war that foil the eagle's pen. 
 
 But ere we reached our hostelry, the rain 
 Began to patter down; the shades of night 
 With deeper gloom than usual, o'er each 
 height 
 Soon fell, and shelter we were glad to gain. 
 The rain, ere long, was changed to snow: 
 with pain 
 "We felt we should not, the next morn, 
 
 delight 
 
 Our sight with mountain-views, and that 
 
 we might 
 
 Be cabined long, and sigh for them in vain. 
 
 We passed a dismal night in lodgings cold. 
 
 And in the harassed woods the winds 
 
 heard roar; 
 But, when day came, the snow fell more 
 and more, 
 And clouds on clouds round Otter's Peaks 
 were rolled: 
 
 Prisoned, we prayed the storm its rage would 
 hold. 
 And morn to us the banished sun restore. 
 
 With potent voice all night the wild winds 
 roared 
 Like some huge cataract, or the storm- 
 vexed sea: 
 From autumn into winter suddenly 
 We seemed transferred: all night the thick 
 
 snow poured. 
 And on the mountain-sides fogs densely 
 lowered. 
 So that no mountains there appeared to 
 
 be; 
 And in our dreams the loud winds still 
 heard we: 
 But, ei'e the morning dawned, the fogs, un- 
 moored. 
 Floated away: out from the casement I 
 
 Peered, and beheld Venus and Regulus 
 Over the Flat-Top Peak beam bright and 
 
 high. 
 Then to the South Peak's top we clomb 
 with glee. 
 Through ice and snow : the sight was 
 glorious — 
 Vales, mountains, towns, streams, woods, 
 far as the eye could see! 
 
 WilMam, L. Shoemaker. 
 
 ST. AUGUSTIISrE. 
 
 In the realm of flowers, a perfumed land. 
 Girt by the sea, by soft winds fanned. 
 Ravaged by war in years grown old. 
 Its former glory a tale long told. 
 
 Stands the quaint old Spanish city. 
 
 The scene of many a hard-fought fight. 
 Of many a siege, when Spanish might 
 Was o'er the land: in its decay 
 It hath a beauty to live alway. 
 
 That quaint old Spanish city. 
 
 There's a charm in the ancient narrow street, 
 Where lovely dames erst walked to meet 
 Cavaliers in the days gone by. 
 When strife of valor and love ran high 
 
 In the quaint old Spanish city. 
 
 There's a charm in the convent's crumbling 
 In old cathedral with turret tall, [wall; 
 With moss-grown roof and merry chime, 
 Man outliving, defying time. 
 
 In the quaint old Spanish city. 
 
 Ancmyrmus. 
 
"There's a charm in the ancient narrow street, 
 Where lovely dames erst wall<ed to meet 
 Cavaliers in the days gone by.'' 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 459 
 
 LAY OF A WANDEREK. 
 
 "Where Pablo to the broad St. John 
 
 His dark and briny tribute pays, 
 The wild deer leads her dappled fawn, 
 
 Of graceful limb and timid gaze; 
 Rich sunshine falls on wave and land, 
 
 The gull is screaming overhead. 
 And on a beach of whitened sand 
 
 Lie wreathy shells with lips of red. 
 
 The jessamine hangs golden flowers 
 
 On ancient oaks in moss arrayed, 
 And proudly the palmetto towers, 
 
 "While mock -birds warble in the shade; 
 Mounds, built by mortal hand, are near. 
 
 Green from the summit to the base, 
 "Where, buried with the bow and spear, 
 
 Rest tribes, forgetful of the chase. 
 
 Cassada, nigh the ocean shore. 
 Is now a ruin, wild and lone. 
 
 And on her battlements no more 
 Is banner waved or trumpet blown; 
 
 Those doughty cavaliers are gone 
 
 "Who hurled defiance there to France, 
 
 "While the bright waters of St. John 
 Reflected flash of sword and lance. 
 
 But when the light of dj^ing day 
 
 Falls on the crumbling wrecks of time, 
 And the wan features of decay 
 
 Wear softened beauty, like the clime, 
 My fancy summons from the shroud 
 
 The knights of old Castile again. 
 And charging thousands shout aloud, — 
 
 " St. Jago strikes to-day for Spain ! " 
 
 When mystic voices, on the breeze 
 
 That fans the rolling deep, sweep by, 
 The spirits of the Yemassees, 
 
 Who ruled the land of yore, seem nigh; 
 For mournful marks, around where stood 
 
 Their palm-roofed lodges, yet are seen, 
 And in the shadows of the wood 
 
 Their tall, funereal mounds are green. 
 
 WiUlam H. C. Hosmer. 
 
 ODE TO JAMESTOWIST. 
 
 Old cradle of an infant world, 
 
 In which a nestling empire lay. 
 Struggling awhile, ere she unfurled 
 Her gallant wing and soared away; 
 All hail ! thou birthplace of the glowing west. 
 Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruined 
 nest! 
 
 "What solemn recollections throng, 
 
 What touching visions rise. 
 As, wandering th^se old stones among, 
 I backward turn mine eyes. 
 And see the shadows of the dead flit round, 
 Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall 
 sound. 
 
 The wonders of an age combined 
 
 In one short moment memory supplies; 
 
 They throng upon my wakened mind. 
 As time's dark curtains rise. 
 The volume of a hundred buried years, 
 Condensed in one bright sheet, appears. 
 
 I hear the angry ocean rave, 
 I see the lonely little bark 
 Scudding along the crested wave. 
 Freighted like old ISToah's ark. 
 As o'er the drowned earth 'twas hurled. 
 With the forefathers of another world. 
 
 I see a train of exiles stand. 
 Amid the desert, desolate. 
 The fathei'S of my native land, 
 The daring pioneers of fate. 
 Who braved the perils of the sea and earth. 
 And gave a boundless empire birth. 
 
460 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSOAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 I see the sovereign Indian range 
 
 His woodland empire, free as air; 
 I see tlie gloomy forest change, 
 The shadowy earth laid bare; 
 And, where the red man chased the bound- 
 ing deer, 
 The smiling labors of the white appear. 
 
 I see the haughty warrior gaze 
 
 In wonder or in scorn, 
 As the pale faces sweat to raise 
 Their scanty fields of corn, 
 While he, the monarch of the boundless wood. 
 By sport, or hair-brained rapine, wins his food. 
 
 A moment, and the pageant's gone; 
 
 The red men are no more; 
 The pale-faced strangers stand alone 
 Upon the river's shore; 
 And the proud wood-king, who their arts 
 
 disdained. 
 Finds but a bloody grave where once he 
 reigned. 
 
 The forest reels beneath the stroke 
 
 Of sturdy woodman's axe; 
 The earth receives the white man's yoke. 
 And pays her willing tax • 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields. 
 And all that nature to blithe labor yields. 
 
 Then growing hamlets rear their heads, 
 
 And gathering crowds expand. 
 Far as my fancy's vision spreads, 
 O'er many a boundless land. 
 Till what was once a world of savage strife 
 Teems with the richest gifts of social life. 
 
 Empire to empire swift succeeds, 
 
 Each happy, great, and free; 
 One empire still another breeds, 
 A giant progeny. 
 Destined their daring race to run. 
 Each to the regions of yon setting sun. 
 
 Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace 
 The fount whence these rich waters 
 sprung. 
 
 I glance towards this lonely place, 
 And find it, these rude stones among. 
 Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping round, 
 The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found. 
 
 Their names have been forgotten long; 
 The stone, but not a word, remains; 
 They can not live in deathless song, 
 ISTor breathe in pious strains. 
 Yet this sublime obscurity to me 
 More touching is than poefs rhapsody. 
 
 They live in millions that now breathe; 
 
 They live in millions yet unborn, 
 And pious gratitude shall wreathe 
 As bright a crown as e'er was worn, 
 And hang it on the green-leaved bough, 
 That whispers to the nameless dead below. 
 
 No one that inspiration drinks; 
 
 No one that loves his native land ; 
 No one that reasons, feels, or thinks. 
 Can mid these lonely ruins stand. 
 Without a moistened eye, a grateful tear 
 Of reverent gratitude to those that molder here 
 
 The mighty shade now hovers round 
 
 Of him whose strange, yet bright career 
 Is written on this sacred ground 
 In letters that no time shall sere; 
 Who in the Old World smote the turbaned 
 
 crew. 
 And founded Christian empires in the New. 
 
 And she! the glorious Indian maid. 
 
 The tutelary of this land. 
 The angel of the woodland shade, 
 The miracle of God's own hand. 
 Who joined man's heai't to woman's softest 
 
 grace. 
 And thrice redeemed the scourges of her race, 
 
 . Sister of charity and love. 
 
 Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide. 
 Dear goddess of the sylvan grove, 
 
 Flower of the forest, nature's pride. 
 He is no man who does not bend the knee. 
 And she no woman who is not like thee! 
 
o 
 
 X 
 
 ■< 
 u 
 o 
 a. 
 
 DC 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 463 
 
 Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallowed 
 rock 
 To me shall ever sacred be, — 
 I care not who my themes may mock, 
 Or sneer at them and me. 
 I envy not the brute who here can stand 
 Without a thrill for his own native land 
 
 And if the recreant crawl her earth, 
 
 Or breathe Virginia's air, 
 Or in JSTew England claim his birth, 
 From the old pilgrims there. 
 He is a bastard, if he dare to mock 
 Old Jamestown's shrine or Plymouth's fa- 
 mous rock. 
 
 James K. Paulding. 
 
 IN THE OLD CHUECHYARD. 
 
 In the old churchyard at Fredericksburg 
 
 A gravestone stands to-day. 
 Marking the place where a grave has been. 
 Though many and many a year has it seen 
 Since its tenant moldered away. 
 And that quaintly carved old stone 
 
 Tells its simple tale to all: — 
 "Here lies a bearer of the pall 
 At the funeral of Shakespeare." 
 
 There in the churchyard at Fredericksburg 
 
 I wandered all alone. 
 Thinking sadly on empty fame, 
 How the great dead are but a name, — 
 To few are they really known. 
 Then upon this battered stone 
 
 My listless eye did fall, 
 Where lay the bearer of the pall 
 At the funeral of Shakespeare. 
 
 Then in the churchyard at Fredericksburg 
 It seemed as though the air 
 
 Were peopled with phantoms that swept by. 
 
 Flitting along before my eye. 
 So sad, so sweet, so fair; 
 
 Hovering about this stone, 
 By some strange spirit's call. 
 
 Where lay a bearer of the pall 
 At the funeral of Shakespeare. 
 
 For in the churchyard at Fredericksburg 
 
 Juliet seemed to love, 
 Hamlet mused, and the old Lear fell, 
 Beatrice laughed, and Ariel 
 
 Gleamed through the skies above, 
 As here, beneath this stone. 
 
 Lay in his narrow hall 
 He who before had borne the pall 
 At the funeral of Shakespeare. 
 
 And I left the old churchyard at Freder- 
 icksburg; 
 gtill did the tall grass wave. 
 With a strange and beautiful grace, 
 Over the sad and lonely place, 
 Where hidden lay the grave; 
 
 And still did the quaint old stone 
 Tell its wonderful tale to all: — 
 "Here lies a bearer of the pall 
 At the funeral of Shakespeare." 
 
 Frederick W. Loring. 
 
 THE UPRISING. 
 
 Out of the North the wild news came. 
 Far flashing on its wings of flame, 
 Swift as the boreal light which flies 
 At midnight through the startled skies. 
 
 And there was tumult in the air. 
 
 The flfe's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, 
 
 And through the wide land every -where 
 The answering tread of hurrying feet. 
 
464 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 While the first oath of Freedom's gun 
 Carae on the blast from Lexington. 
 And Concord, roused, no longer tame. 
 Forgot her old baptismal name. 
 Made bare her patriot arm of power, 
 And swelled the discord of the hour. 
 
 "Within its shade of elm and oak 
 
 The church of Berkley Manor stood: 
 There Sunday found the rural folk. 
 
 And some esteemed of gentle blood. 
 In vain their feet with loitering tread 
 
 Passed mid the graves where rank is 
 naught: 
 
 All could not read the lesson taught 
 In that republic of the dead. 
 
 The pastor rose: the praj'cr was strong; 
 The psalm was warrior David's song; 
 The text, a few short words of might, — 
 "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!" 
 He spoke of wrongs too long endured. 
 Of sacred rights to be secured; 
 Then from his patriot tongue of flame 
 The startling words for Freedom came. 
 The stirring sentences he spake 
 Compelled the heart to glow or qiud-ce; 
 
 And, rising on his theme's broad wing. 
 And grasping in his nervous hand 
 The imaginary battle-brand. 
 
 In face of death he dared to flinsr 
 
 Defiance to a tyrant king. 
 
 Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed 
 In eloquence of attitude. 
 Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; 
 Then swept his kindling glance of fire 
 From startled pew to breathless choir; 
 When suddenly his mantle wide 
 Ilis hands impatient fiung aside. 
 And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes 
 Complete in all a warrior's guise. 
 
 A moment there was awful pause, — 
 Wheu Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! 
 
 cease ! 
 Cod's temple is the house of peace!" 
 The other shouted, "Nay, not so. 
 When God is Avith our righteous cause: 
 His hohest places then are ours. 
 His temples are our forts and towers 
 That frown upon the tyrant foe: 
 In this the dawn of freedom's day 
 There is a time to fight and pray!" 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 465 
 
 And now before the open door — 
 
 The warrior-priest had ordered so — 
 The enlisting trumpet's sudden soar 
 Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er 
 
 Its long reverberating blow, 
 So loud and clear, it seemed the ear 
 Of dusty death must wake and hear. 
 And there the startling drum and fife 
 Fired the living with fiercer life; 
 While overhead, with wild increase. 
 Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, 
 The great bell swung as ne'er before: 
 
 It seemed as it would never cease; 
 And every word its ardor flung 
 From oft" its jubilant iron tongue 
 Was, "War! War! War!" 
 
 "Who dares" — this was the patriot's 
 cry, 
 As striding from the desk he came — 
 " Come out with me, in Freedom's name, 
 For her to live, for her to die?" 
 A hundred hands flung up reply, 
 A hundred voices answered "7/ " 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 THE HANGING OF BLACK CUDJO. 
 
 1780. 
 
 "Well, Maussa! if you wants to heer, I'll 
 
 tell you 'bout 'um true, 
 Doh de berry taut ob dat bad time is fit to 
 
 tun me blue; 
 A sort ob brimstone blue on black, wid jist 
 
 a stare o' wite. 
 As when dem cussed Tory come fur wuck 
 
 deir hate dat nite! 
 
 " Mass Tom and me was born, I tink, 'bout 
 
 de same year and day. 
 And we was boys togedder. Boss ! in ebbery 
 
 sport and play — 
 Ole Misses gib me to Mass Tom wid her 
 
 las' failin' bret; 
 And so I boun' — in consciance boun' fur 
 
 stick to him till det. 
 
 "At las' ole Maussa, he teck sick wid chill 
 
 and feber high, 
 And de good Dokter shake 'e head, and 
 
 say he sure fur die. 
 And so true 'nuft", de sickness bun' and 
 
 freeze out all he life. 
 And soon ole Maussa sleep in peace long 
 
 side '& fateful wife. 
 
 "Den ebbery ting de Ian' could show, de 
 crap, de boss, de cows, 
 
 Wid all dem nigger m de fiel', and all dem 
 
 in de honse, 
 Dey b'long to my Mass Tom fur true, and 
 
 so dat berry year. 
 He pick mc out from all de folks to meek 
 
 me Ober'sheer! 
 
 "I done my bos', but niggers, sir — dey 
 
 seems a lazy pack. 
 One buckra man will do mo' wuck dan 
 
 five and twenty black; 
 I jeered dem, and I woUoped dem, and 
 
 cussed dem too — but law! 
 De Debbie self could nebber keep dem 
 
 rascal up to tau! 
 
 "But still we done as good as mose, wid 
 
 cotton, rice and corn. 
 Till in de year dat "Nuttin' tall"* (my 
 
 oldest chile) was born, 
 De Tory war, de bloody war, 'bout which 
 
 you've heerd dem tell. 
 Come down on all de country yeh, as black 
 
 and hot as hell! 
 
 "Mass Tom — he jine de Whig, you know; 
 
 in course I follow him. 
 And Gor' a mighty! how he slash dem Tory 
 
 limb from limb. 
 
 ■■'Nothins-at-all. 
 
466 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HLSTORY. 
 
 When fust I heer de war-cry shout and see 
 
 de flow ob blood — 
 I long fur hide dis woolly head like cootah 
 
 in de mud ! 
 
 "But Lawd! I soon git n'used to blood, 
 
 de broadsword and de strife, 
 And did'nt care a pig-tail eend fur 'tudder 
 
 folk's life; 
 Only, I heard my Maussa yell thro' all dem 
 
 battle-call. 
 And sneaked dis big fat karkiss up betwixt 
 
 him and de ball! 
 
 "Well, sir! one day Mass Tom come home, 
 
 'e close and hoss blood-red, 
 And say, sense all dem Tory kill, he gwine 
 
 dat once to bed; 
 "I needs a long tine snooze," sez he, "so 
 
 don't you wake me soon. 
 But Cudjo! let me snore oncalled till late 
 
 to-morrow noon!" 
 
 "Somehow, my mine misgib me den; so 
 
 by de kitchin light, 
 I sot and smoked, wid open yez alistenen' 
 
 tru de nite; 
 And when de fus' cock crow, I heer a fur 
 
 soun' down de road, 
 And knowed 'um fur de bosses' trot, and 
 
 de clash ob spur and swoad: 
 
 " Quick I run outside in de yad, and quick 
 
 outside de gate, — 
 And dere I see de Tory come as fas' and 
 
 sho' as fate; 
 I run back to my Maussa room, and den 
 
 wid pull and push 
 I shub 'um by de side way out, and hide 
 
 'um in de bush! 
 
 "He only hab he nite-shut on, and how he 
 
 rabe and cuss! 
 "But Maussa! hush," sez I, "before you 
 
 meek dis matter wuss;" 
 I tun to fin' some hidin' too, but de moon 
 
 shine bright as sun, 
 
 And de d — d Tory ride so swif, dey ketch 
 me on de run! 
 
 "Den, dey all screech togedder, loud, "Boy, 
 
 is your Boss widin? 
 Say where he hide, or by de Lawd! your 
 
 life not wut a pin!" 
 I trimbled at dese horrid tret, but sweer 
 
 my Boss was fled, 
 Yet, when, or where, poor Cudjo knowed 
 
 no better dan de dead. 
 
 "One Tory debble teck mj head, another 
 
 teck my foot. 
 To drag me like a Chrismass hog to de 
 
 ole oak tree root; 
 Dey fling a tick rope roun' my neck, dey 
 
 drawed me quick and high, 
 I seed a tousan' million star a-flashin' from 
 
 de sky. 
 
 "And den I choke, and all de blood keep 
 
 rushin' to my head; 
 I tried to yell, but only groaned, and 
 
 guggled low instead, 
 Till ebbery ting growed black as nite, and 
 
 my last taut was, Sho, 
 Dis nigger is a gone 'coon now, he '11 see 
 
 de wuld no mo' ! 
 
 "But, Boss! I was a hale man den, and 
 
 tough as tough could be; 
 Dey loose de rope, and let me down quite 
 
 saftly from de tree; 
 But when I seed and heerd agen, come de 
 
 same furious cry, 
 "Say where your Maussa hide, you dog, 
 
 quick, quick, or else you die!" 
 
 "I gib dem de same answer still, and so, 
 
 dey heng me higher; 
 I feel de same hot chokin' sob; see de same 
 
 starry fire; 
 Dey heng me twice, tree time dey heng; 
 
 but de good Lawd was dere. 
 And Jesus self, he bring me safe from all 
 
 de pain aud fear. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 467 
 
 "Mose dead dey lef me, stiff and cold, 
 
 stretched on de swashy grouu', 
 While all de house, big house and small, 
 
 was blazin', fallin' rouu'. 
 When pore Mass Tom from out de bush 
 
 creep in he half-torn shut. 
 To bless and ring me by bote han' dere in 
 
 de damp and dut! 
 
 " And when de war was ober. Boss, Mass 
 
 Tom, he come to me, 
 And say, I sabe he life dat time, and so, 
 
 he meek me free; 
 'I'll gib you house and Ian',' (sez he,) 
 
 'and wid dem plow and mule' — 
 I tenk him kind, 'but. Boss,' (sez I,) 
 
 'wha' meek you tink me fool? 
 
 " ' If you. Mass Tom, was like,' ( sez I, ) 
 
 '■some buekra dat I know, 
 Cudjo bin run and hug de swamp — Lor' 
 
 bless you! — long ago. 
 
 But I got all ting dat I want, wid not 
 
 one tax to pay; 
 Now go long, Maussa! wha' you wish fur 
 
 dribe ole Cuj away? 
 
 "'I uebber see free nigger yet, but what he 
 
 lie and steal. 
 Lie to 'e boss, 'e wife, 'e chile, in cabbin, 
 
 and de iiel' — 
 And as fur tieffin', dem free cuss is all like 
 
 "light-foot Jack," 
 Who carry de las' blanket oif from he sick 
 
 mudder back ! 
 
 "'I stays wid you, (sez I agen,) I meek de 
 
 nigger wuck, 
 I wuck myself, and may be, Boss, we '11 
 
 bring back de ole luck; 
 But don 't you pizen me no more wid talk 
 
 ob "freedom sweet," 
 
 But sabe dat gab to stuff de ycz of de next 
 
 fool you meet!' " 
 
 Paul Hamilton Huyne, 
 
 MacDON ALB'S RAID, a. d. 1780. 
 
 AS NARRATED MANY YEARS AFTER BY A VETERAN OF "MARIONS BRIGADE. 
 
 I REMEMBER it Well ; 't was a morn dull and 
 
 gi'ay, 
 And the Lesrion lav idle and listless that 
 
 day, 
 A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the 
 
 soul. 
 And with not a spare bumper to brighten 
 
 the bowl. 
 When MacDonald arose, and unsheathing 
 
 Ids blade. 
 Cried, "Who'll back me, brave comrades? 
 
 I 'm hot for a raid. 
 Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness 
 
 ring. 
 Then swift death to the Red-coats, and down 
 
 with the King!" 
 
 We leaped up at his summons all eager and 
 
 bright. 
 To our finger-tips thrilling to join him in 
 
 fight; 
 Yet he chose from our numbers four men 
 
 and no more. 
 "Stalwart brothers," quoth he, "you'll be 
 
 strong as fourscore, 
 If you follow me fast wheresoever I 
 
 lead, 
 With keen sword and true pistol, stanch 
 
 heart and bold steed. 
 Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle-bits 
 
 ring. 
 Then SAvift death to the Red-coats, and down 
 
 with the Kin a;!" 
 
468 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HLSTORY. 
 
 In a trice we were mounted; MacDonald's 
 
 tall form 
 Seated firm in the saddle, his face like a 
 
 storm 
 When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang 
 
 heavy and stark, 
 And the red veins of lightning pulse hot 
 
 through the dark; 
 His left hand on his sword-belt, his right 
 
 lifted free, 
 With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch 
 
 from the knee, 
 His lithe Arab was off like an eagle on 
 
 wing — 
 Ha ! death, death to the Red-coats, and down 
 
 with the King! 
 
 'T was three leagues to the town, where, in 
 
 insolent pride 
 Of their disciplined numbers, their works 
 
 strong and wide. 
 The big Biitons, oblivious of warfare and 
 
 arms, 
 A soft dolce were wrapped in, not dreaming 
 
 of harms, 
 When fierce yells, as if borne on some 
 
 fiend-ridden rout, 
 With strange cheer after cheer, are heard 
 
 echoing without, 
 Over which, like the blasts of ten trump- 
 eters, ring, 
 " Death, death to the Red-coats, and down 
 
 with the King!" 
 
 Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof- 
 stroke and shout. 
 
 That the foemen made straight for their 
 inmost redoubt. 
 
 And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, 
 quoth they: 
 
 " Lord the whole rebel army assaults us to- 
 day. 
 
 Are the works, think you, strong? God 
 of heaven, what a din ! 
 
 'Tis the front wall besieged — have the 
 rebels rushed in ? 
 
 It must be; for, hark! hark to that jubilant 
 
 ring 
 Of 'Death, death to the Red-coats, and down 
 
 with the King!' " 
 
 Meanwhile, through the town like a whirl- 
 wind we sped. 
 
 And ere long, be assured, that our broad- 
 swords were red; 
 
 And the gi'ound here and there by an 
 ominous stain 
 
 Showed how the stark soldier beside it was 
 slain : 
 
 A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a 
 goose. 
 
 With his waddling bow-legs and his trap- 
 pings all loose. 
 
 By one back-handed blow the MacDonald 
 cuts down. 
 
 To the shoulder-blade cleaving him sheer 
 through the crown, 
 
 And the last words that greet his dim 
 consciousness ring 
 
 With "Death, death to the Red-coats, and 
 down with the King!" 
 
 Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy 
 
 left 
 Whose heart was not pierced, or whose 
 
 head-piece not cleft. 
 What should we do next, but — -as careless 
 
 and calm 
 As if we were scenting a summer morn's 
 
 balm 
 'Mid a land of pure peace — just serenely 
 
 drop down 
 On the few constant friends who still stopped 
 
 in the town. 
 What a welcome they gave us! One dear 
 
 little thing. 
 As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of 
 
 the King? — 
 
 Of the King, or his minions? No; war and 
 
 its scars 
 Seemed as distant just then as the fierce 
 
 front of Mars 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTOBY. 
 
 469 
 
 From a love-girdled earth; but alack! on 
 our bliss, 
 
 On the close clasp of arms and kiss show- 
 ering on kiss, 
 
 Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush 
 thick and fast 
 
 Of the Britons, made 'ware of our rash ruse 
 at last; 
 
 So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we 
 fling 
 
 The old watch-words abroad, "Down with 
 Red-coats and King!" 
 
 As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard- 
 beaten track 
 
 We had traversed that morn, we glanced 
 momently back. 
 
 And beheld their long earth-works all com- 
 passed in flame: 
 
 With a vile plunge and hiss the huge 
 musket-balls came. 
 
 And the soil was plowed up, and the space 
 'twixt the trees 
 
 Seemed to hum with the war-song of 
 Brobdingnag bees; 
 
 Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously 
 ring 
 
 The shouts, "Death to the Red-coats, and 
 down with the King!" 
 
 Ah! that was a feat, lads, to boast of! 
 What men 
 
 Like your weaklings to-day had durst cope 
 
 with us then ? 
 Though I say it who should not, I am ready 
 
 to vow 
 I 'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops 
 
 even now — 
 The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing 
 
 down 
 Through the whole wasted day the thronged 
 
 streets of the town: 
 Why, their dainty white necks 'twere but 
 
 pastime to wring — 
 Ay! my muscles are firm still; I fought 
 
 'gainst the King! 
 
 Dare you doubt it? well give me the 
 weightiest of all 
 
 The sheathed sabers that hang there, up- 
 looped on the wall; 
 
 Hurl the scabbard aside; yield the blade to 
 my clasp; 
 
 Do you see, with one hand how I poise it 
 and grasp 
 
 The rough iron-bound hilt ? With this long 
 hissing sweep 
 
 I have smitten full many a foeman with 
 sleep — 
 
 That forlorn, final sleep ! God ! what mem- 
 ories cling 
 
 To those gallant old times when we fought 
 'gainst the King ! 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne. 
 
 SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 Our band is few, but true and tried. 
 
 Our leader frank and bold; 
 The British soldier trembles 
 
 When Marion's name is told. 
 Our fortress is the good green-wood. 
 
 Our tent the cypress-tree; 
 We know the forest round us, 
 
 As seamen know the sea. 
 We know its walls of thorny vines. 
 
 Its glades of reedy grass. 
 
 Its safe and silent islands 
 Within the dark morass. 
 
 Woe to the English soldiery 
 That little dread us near! 
 
 On them shall light at midnight 
 A strange and sudden fear: 
 
 When waking to their tents on fire 
 They grasp their arms in vain, 
 
 And they who stand to face us 
 
470 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HLSTORY. 
 
 Are beat to earth again; 
 And they who fly in terror deem 
 
 A mighty host behind, 
 And hear the tramp of tliousands 
 
 Upon the hollow wind. 
 
 Then sweet the hour that brings release 
 
 From danger and from toil: 
 "We talk the battle over, 
 
 And share the battle's spoil. 
 The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 
 
 As if a hunt were up. 
 And woodland flowers are gathered 
 
 To crown the soldier's cup. 
 With merry songs we mock the wind 
 
 That in the pine-top grieves, 
 And slumber long and sweetly 
 
 On beds of oaken leaves. 
 
 Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
 
 The band that Marion leads, — 
 The glitter of their rifles, 
 
 The scampering of their steeds. 
 'T is life to guide the fier}^ barb 
 
 Across the moonlight plain ; 
 'T is life to feel the night-wind 
 
 That lifts the tossing mane. 
 A moment in the British camp, — 
 
 A moment, — and away. 
 Back to the pathless forest. 
 
 Before the peep of day. 
 
 Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
 
 Grave men with hoary hairs, 
 Their hearts are all with Marion, 
 
 For Marion are their prayers. 
 And lovely ladies greet our band 
 
 With kindliest welcoming, 
 With smiles like those of summer, 
 
 And tears like those of spring. 
 For them we wear these trusty arms 
 
 And lay them down no more 
 Till we have driven the Briton 
 
 Forever from our shore. 
 
 William Culkn Bryant. 
 
 ST. CATHERINE'S. 
 
 He that would wish to rove awhile 
 
 In forests green and gay, 
 From Charleston Bar to Catherine's Isle 
 
 Might sigh to find the way ! 
 What scenes on every side appear. 
 
 What pleasure strikes the mind, 
 From Folly's train, thas wandering far, 
 
 To leave the world behind. 
 
 The music of these savage groves 
 
 In simple accents swells, 
 And freely here their sylvan loves 
 
 The feathered nation tells; 
 The panting deer through mingled shades 
 
 Of oaks forever green 
 The vegetable world invades. 
 
 That skirts the watery scene. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 471 
 
 Thou sailor, now exploring far 
 
 The broad Atlantic wave, 
 Crowd all your canvas, gallant tar, 
 
 Since Neptune never gave 
 On barren seas so line a view 
 
 As here allures the eye, 
 Gay, verdant scenes that Nature drew 
 
 In colors from the sky. 
 
 Ye western winds! awhile delay 
 
 To swell the expecting sail,— 
 Who would not here, a hermit, stay 
 
 In yonder fragrant vale. 
 Could he engage what few can find. 
 
 That coy, unwilling guest 
 (All avarice banished from the mind), 
 
 Contentment, in the breast ! 
 
 Philip Freneau. 
 
 OCONEE. 
 
 Oconee ! in my tranquil slumbers. 
 
 At the silent dead of uight. 
 Oft I see thy golden waters 
 
 Flashing in the rosy light; 
 And flashing brightly, gushing river. 
 
 On the spirit of my dream. 
 As in moments fled forever. 
 
 When I wandered by thy stream, — 
 
 A forest lad, a careless rover. 
 
 Rising at the dawn of day. 
 With my dog and gun, — a hunter, 
 
 Shouting o'er the hills away, — 
 And ever would my shoeless footprint-^ 
 
 Trace the shortest path to thee; 
 There the plumpest squirrel ever 
 
 Chuckled on the chestnut-tree. 
 
 And when, at noon, the sun of summer 
 
 Glowed too fiercely from the sky, 
 On thy banks were bowers grateful 
 
 To a rover such as I, 
 Among the forest branches woven 
 
 By the richly-scented vine, 
 Yellow jasmine, honeysuckle. 
 
 And by creeping muscadine. 
 
 And there I lay in pleasant slumber, 
 And the rushing of thy stream 
 
 Ever made a gentle music, 
 
 Blending softly with my dream, — 
 
 My dream of her who near thy waters 
 Grew beneath my loving eye. 
 
 Fairest maid of Georgia's daughtei's, — 
 Sweetest flower beneath her sky! 
 
 With snowy brow, and golden ringlets, 
 
 Eyes that beggared heaven's blue, 
 Voice as soft as summer streamlets. 
 
 Lips as fresh as morning dew! — 
 Although she played me oft the coquette, 
 
 Dealing frowns and glances shy. 
 These but made her smiles the dearer 
 
 To a rover such as I. 
 
 What if the earth by fairer river 
 
 Nursed more beauteous maid than she, — 
 He had found a slow believer 
 
 Who had told that tale to me; 
 And sure I am, no knighted lover 
 
 Truer faith to lady bore, 
 Than the little barefoot rover. 
 
 Dreaming on thy pleasant shore. 
 
 The happiest hours of life are vanished; 
 
 She has vanished with them, too ! 
 Other bright-eyed Georgia damsels 
 
 Blossom where my lily grew; — 
 And yet the proudest, and the sweetest 
 
 To my heart can never seem 
 Lovely as the little Peri 
 
 Moldering by thy murmurous stream! 
 
 Henry R. Jackson. 
 
472 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 TOCCOA. 
 
 Can I forget that happiest day, 
 
 That happiest day of all the year, 
 
 When on the sloping rock I lay, 
 
 Toccoa dripping near? 
 
 The lifted wonder of thy eyes 
 
 The marvel of thy soul expressed. 
 
 Aloft I saw serenest skies. 
 
 Below, thy heaving breast. 
 
 On wings of mist, in robes of spray 
 
 Long trailed, and flowing wide and white, 
 
 Adown the mountain steep and gray 
 
 We saw Toccoa glide. 
 
 Her garments sweeping through the vale 
 
 Began the whispering leaves to wake, 
 
 And wafted like a tiny sail 
 
 A leaf across the lake. 
 
 The murmur of the falling shower, 
 Which did the solitude increase, 
 We heard; the cool and happy hour 
 Filled our young hearts with peace. 
 Thou sattest with a maiden grace, 
 Thou sawest the rugged rocks and hoary, 
 As with a half-uplifted face 
 Thou listenedst to my story. 
 
 How many of the banished race, 
 Those old red warriors of the bow. 
 Have slumbered in this shadowy place. 
 Have watched Toccoa flow! 
 Perchance, where now we sit, they laid 
 Their arms, and raised a boastful chant, 
 While through the gorgeous Autumn shade 
 The sunshine shot aslant. 
 
 One night, a hideous howling night, 
 The black boughs swaying overhead. 
 Three painted braves across the height 
 A false Pe-ro-kah* led. 
 Bright were her glances, bright her smiles. 
 Wondrous her waving length of hair, 
 (Ye who descend through slippery wiles, 
 A maiden's eyes beware!) 
 
 What saw these swarthy Cherokees 
 In the deep darkness on the brink? 
 They saw a red fire through the trees, 
 Through the tossed branches wave and wink; 
 They saw pale faces white and dreaming. 
 Clutched their keen knives, and held their 
 
 breath, 
 — All this was but a cheating seeming. 
 For them, not for the phantom's death. 
 
 « Evil-child. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 473 
 
 Spoke then the temptress (maid or devil), — 
 "Let the pale sleepers sleep no more!" 
 Whoop! — three good bounds on solid rock, 
 Then empty blackness for a floor. 
 Yelled the fierce braves with rage and fright, 
 With fright their bristling war-plumes rose : 
 On these down fluttering, did the night 
 Her jaws sepulchral close. 
 
 These rocks tall-lifted, rent apart, 
 
 This Indian legend old 
 
 To thee, enchantress as thou art, 
 
 A warning truth unfold. 
 
 Who love, mid midnight dangers stand, 
 
 To them false fires wink : 
 
 Accursed be the evil hand 
 
 That beckons to the brink. 
 
 J. M. Legare. 
 
 THE DEATH OF JASPER. 
 
 'T WAS amidst a scene of blood, 
 
 On a bright autumnal day. 
 When misfortune, like a flood. 
 
 Swept our fairest hopes away; 
 'T was on Savannah's plain, 
 
 On the spot we love so well, 
 Amid heaps of gallant slain. 
 
 That the daring Jasper fell! 
 
 He had borne him in the fight. 
 
 Like a soldier in his prime, 
 Like a bold and stalwart knight 
 
 Of the glorious olden time; 
 And unharmed by saber-blow, 
 
 And untouched by leaden ball, 
 He had battled with the foe. 
 
 Till he heard the trumpet's call. 
 
 But he turned him at the sound. 
 
 For he knew the strife was o'er. 
 That in vain on freedom's ground 
 
 Had her children shed their gore; 
 So he slowly turned away. 
 
 With the remnant of the band. 
 Who, amid the bloody fray. 
 
 Had escaped the foeman's hand. 
 
 But his banner caught his eye, 
 
 As it trailed upon the dust. 
 And he saw his comrade die. 
 
 Ere he yielded up his trust. 
 "To the rescue!" loud he cried, 
 
 "To the rescue, gallant men!" 
 And he dashed into the tide 
 
 Of the battle-stream again. 
 
 And then fierce the contest rose, 
 
 O'er its field of broidered gold, 
 And the blood of friends and foes 
 
 Stained alike its silken fold: 
 But, unheeding wound and blow. 
 
 He has snatched it midst the strife, 
 He has borne that flag away. 
 
 But its ransom is his life! 
 
 "To my father take my sword," 
 
 Thus the dying hero said, 
 " Tell him that my latest word 
 
 Was a blessing on his head; 
 And when Death had seized my frame. 
 
 And uplifted was his dart. 
 That I ne'er forgot the name 
 
 Which was dearest to my heart. 
 
 "And tell her whose favor gave 
 
 This fair banner to our band. 
 That I died its folds to save 
 
 From the foe's polluting hand ; 
 And let all my comrades hear, 
 
 When my form lies cold in death. 
 That their friend remained sincere 
 
 To his last expiring breath." 
 
 It was thus that Jasper fell, 
 
 'ITeath that bright autumnal sky; 
 Has a stone been reared to tell 
 
 Where he laid him down to die? 
 To the rescue, spirits bold! 
 
 To the rescue, gallant men ! 
 Let the marble page unfold 
 
 All his daring deeds again ! 
 
 Bobert M. Charlton. 
 
474 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIIT WII^DS. 
 
 I SATE upon the lofty Tryon'e brow, 
 
 While yet the sun was struggling up the east ; 
 Broad was the realm around, fragrant below 
 
 The plains, with summer fruits and flowers 
 increased. 
 
 The soul and eye were at perpetual feast 
 On beauty; and the exquisite repose 
 
 Of nature, from the striving world released, 
 Taught me forgetfulness of mortal throes. 
 Life's toils, and all the cares that wait on 
 mortal woes. 
 
 ll^ever was day more cloudless in the sky, 
 Never the earth more beautiful in view: 
 Rose-hued, the mountain-summits gathered 
 high. 
 And the green forests shared the purple 
 
 hue; 
 Midway the little pyramids, all blue, 
 Stood robed for ceremonial, as the sun 
 
 Rose gradual in his grandeur, till he grew 
 Their God, and sovereign devotion won, 
 Lighting the loftiest towers as at a service 
 done. 
 
 Nor was the service silent; for the choir 
 Of mountain winds took up the solemn 
 sense 
 Of that great advent of the central fire, 
 And poured rejoicing as in recompense 
 One hardly knew their place of birth, oi 
 whence 
 Their coming ; but through gorges of the hilk. 
 Swift stealing, yet scarce breathing, they 
 went thence 
 To gather on the plain, which straightwaj 
 
 thrills 
 With mightiest strain that soon the whole 
 wide empire fills. 
 
 From gloomy caverns of the Cherokee; 
 
 From gorges of Saluda; from the groves 
 Of laurel, stretching far as eye may see, 
 In valleys of Iselica; from great coves 
 Of Tensas, where the untamed panther 
 roves, 
 The joyous and exulting winds troop forth. 
 Singing the mountain strain that freedom 
 loves, — 
 A wild but generous song of eagle birth. 
 That summons, far and near, the choral 
 strains of earth. 
 
 They come from height and plain, from 
 mount and sea, — 
 They gather in their strength, and, from 
 below, 
 Sweep upwards to the heights, — an empire 
 free, 
 Marching with pomp and music, — a great 
 
 show 
 Triumphal, — like an ocean in its flow, 
 Glorious in roar and billow, as it breaks 
 O'er earth's base barriers: first, ascending 
 slow, 
 The mighty march its stately progress takes, 
 But, rushing with its rise, its roar the mount- 
 ain shakes. 
 
 Anonymorm. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 475 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW. 
 
 At Eutaw Springs the valiant died; 
 
 Their limbs with dust are covered o'er, 
 "Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; 
 
 How many heroes are no more! 
 
 If, in this wreck of ruin, they 
 
 Can yet be thought to claim the tear. 
 
 Oh, smite your gentle breast, and say, 
 The friends of freedom slumber here! 
 
 Thou who shalt trace this bloody plain. 
 If goodness rules thy generous breast. 
 
 Sigh for the wasted rural reign ; 
 
 Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest! 
 
 Stranger, their humble graves adorn: 
 You too may fall, and ask a tear: 
 
 'Tis not the beauty of the morn 
 That proves the evening shall be clear. 
 
 They saw their injured country's woe; 
 
 The flaming town, the wasted field; 
 Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; 
 
 They took the spear, — but left the shield. 
 
 Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, 
 The Britons they compelled to fly: 
 
 None distant viewed the fatal plain; 
 None grieved, in such a cause to die. 
 
 Bat like the Parthians, famed of old, 
 Who, flying, still their arrows threw, 
 
 These routed Britons, full as bold. 
 Retreated, and retreating slew. 
 
 Now rest in peace, our patriot band; 
 
 Though far from Nature's limits thrown. 
 We trust they find a happier land, 
 
 A brighter sunshine of their own. 
 
 Philip Freneau. 
 
 YORKTOWN. 
 
 From Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still. 
 Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill: 
 Who curbs his steed at head of one? 
 Hark! the low murmur: Washington! 
 Who bends his keen, approving glance 
 Where down the gorgeous line of France 
 Shine knightly star and plume of snow? 
 Thou too ai't victor, Rochambeau! 
 
 The earth which bears this calm array 
 Shook with the war-charge yesterday, 
 Plowed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel, 
 Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel: 
 October's clear and noonday sun 
 Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun. 
 And down night's double blackness fell, 
 Like a dropped star, the blazing shell. 
 
476 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 Wow all is hushed: the gleaming lines 
 Stand moveless as the neighboi'ing pines; 
 While through them, sullen, grim, and slow, 
 The conquered hosts of England go: 
 O'Hara's brow belies' his dress, 
 Gay Tarleton's troop rides bannerless: 
 Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes. 
 Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes! 
 
 !Nor thou alone: with one glad voice 
 Let all thy sister States rejoice; 
 Let Freedom, in whatever clime 
 She waits with sleepless eye her time. 
 Shouting from cave and mountain wood 
 Make glad her desert solitude. 
 While they who hunt her quail with fear; 
 The New World's chain lies broken here! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
 CHARLESTOISr EETAKElf, 
 
 DECEMBER 14, 1782. 
 
 As SOME half- vanquished lion, 
 Who long hath kept at bay 
 
 A band of sturdy foresters 
 
 Barring his blood-stained way- 
 
 Sore smitten, weak and wounded — 
 
 Glares forth on either hand; 
 Then, cowed with fear, his cavernous lair 
 
 Seeks in the mountain-land: 
 
 So when their stern Cornwallis 
 On Yorktown heights resigned 
 
 His sword to our great leader 
 Of the stalwart arm and mind — 
 
 So when both fleet and army 
 At one grand stroke went down, 
 
 And Freedom's heart beat high once more 
 In hamlet, camp and town, 
 
 Through wasted Carolina, 
 
 Where'er from plain to hill 
 The Briton's guarded fortresses 
 
 Uprose defiant still, 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 All 
 
 Passed a keen shock of terror, 
 And the breasts of war-steeled men 
 
 Quailed in the sudden blast of doom 
 That smote their spirits then. 
 
 "Our cause is lost!" they muttered, 
 
 Pale-browed, with trembling lips; 
 "Our strength is sapped, our hope o'er- 
 whelmed. 
 
 In final, fierce eclipse; 
 And what to us remaineth 
 
 But to blow our earthworks high. 
 And hurl our useless batteries 
 
 In wild-fire up the sky?" 
 
 'Twas done! each deadly fastness 
 
 In flaming fragments driven 
 Farther than e'er their souls could climb 
 
 Along the path to heaven, — 
 Coastward the Britons scurried. 
 
 In reckless throngs that flee 
 Wild as December's scattered clouds 
 
 Storm-whirled toward the sea. 
 
 In Charleston streets they gathered, 
 
 Each dazed wiseacre's head 
 "Wagging, perchance in prophecy. 
 
 Or more, perchance, in dread. 
 Horsemen and footmen mingled; 
 
 They talked with bated breath 
 Of the shameful fate that stormed the gate, 
 
 Of wreck, and strife, and death! 
 
 Meanwhile our squadrons hastened, 
 
 Keen as a sleuth-hound pack 
 That near their destined quarry 
 
 By some drear wild-wood track. 
 Ah, Christ! what desolation 
 
 Before us grimly frowned! 
 The roadways trenched and furrowed. 
 
 The gore-ensanguined ground. 
 With many a mark ( oh ! deep and dark ! ) — 
 
 Made ghastlier by the star- white frost — 
 'T wixt broken close and thorn-hedgerow. 
 Of desperate charge and mortal blow 
 
 In conflicts won or lost! 
 
 Proud mansions, once the center 
 
 Of jubilant life and mirth, 
 Now silent as the sepulcher. 
 
 Begirt by ruin and dearth; 
 Their broad domains all blackened 
 
 With taint of fire and smoke, 
 And corpses vile, with a death's-head smile. 
 
 Swung high on the gnarled oak! 
 
 'Eo sportive flocks in the pasture, 
 
 N"o aftermath on the lea; 
 No laugh of the slaves at labor, 
 
 No chant of birds on the tree — 
 But all things bodeful, dreary, 
 
 As a realm by the Stygian flood. 
 With odors of death on the uplands, 
 
 And a taste in the air of blood! 
 
 On, on our squadrons hastened, 
 
 Sick with the noisome fumes 
 From man and beast unburied, 
 
 Through the dull, funereal glooms; 
 Till in unsullied sunshine 
 
 One glorious morn we came 
 Where far aloof, o'er tower and roof. 
 We viewed our brave St. Michael's spire 
 
 Flushed in the noontide flame ! 
 
 Without their ruined ramparts. 
 
 Beyond their shattered lines. 
 Just where the soil, bowed seaward, 
 
 In long, low slopes declines. 
 The foe had sent their messengers, 
 
 Who vowed the vanquished host 
 Would leave unscathed our city, 
 
 Would leave unscathed our coast! 
 
 Only — due time they prayed for 
 
 (Meek, meek, our lords had grown!) 
 To range their broken legions, 
 
 And rear ranks overthrown — 
 So that, though smirched and tainted 
 
 Their martial fame might be, 
 In order meet their stately fleet 
 
 Should bear them safe to sea: 
 
478 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 Who win, may well be gracious; 
 
 We did not stint their boon, 
 Though the white 'kerchiefs of our wives 
 
 Were fluttering in the noon — 
 On house-top and on parapet 
 
 Each token fair and far 
 Shone through the golden atmosphere 
 
 Like some enchanted star! 
 
 E'ext morn their signal-cannon 
 
 Roared from the vanward wall. 
 And to the ranks right gleefully 
 
 We gathered, one and all. 
 Our banners, scarred in many a fight. 
 Could still flash back the winter light. 
 And proud as knights of old renown. 
 With sunburnt hands, and faces brown. 
 Borne through the joyous, deepening hum 
 'Mid ring of fife, and beat of drum. 
 
 'Neath purpling silk, and flowery arch, 
 Our long, unwavering columns march ; 
 And yet (good sooth!) we almost seem 
 Like weird battalions of a dream; 
 Our souls bewildered scarce can deem 
 
 We tread once more, 
 Released, secure, 
 
 With fetterless footsteps as of yore. 
 The pathways of the ancient town ! 
 
 And still, as borne through dreamland. 
 
 We glance from side to side, 
 While mothers, wives, and daughters, rushed 
 
 To greet us, tender-eyed; 
 Each hoary patriot proudly 
 
 Lifted his brave, gray head, 
 And the forms of care-worn captives rose 
 
 Like specters from the dead — 
 
 Like specters whom the trumpets 
 
 Of freedom's cohorts call 
 To burst their grave-like dungeon, 
 
 And spurn their despot's thrall; 
 To take once more the image 
 
 Of manhood's loftier grace, 
 And, chainless now, the universe 
 
 Look boldly in the face! 
 
 And the young girls scattered flowers, 
 
 And the lovely dames were bright 
 With something more than beauty, 
 
 Li their faithful hearts' delight; 
 The very babes were crowing 
 
 Shrill welcome to our bands. 
 And perched on matron shoulders clapped 
 
 Blithely their dimpled hands: 
 
 And naught but benedictions 
 
 Lightened that sacred air. 
 Freed from the awful burden 
 
 Of two long years' * despair — 
 Two years so thi'onged with anguish, 
 
 So fraught with bitter wrong. 
 They seemed in mournful retrospect 
 
 Well nigh a century long. 
 
 -The precise period of the British occupation of Charleston was two years, seven months and two days; 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 479 
 
 But if years of mortal being 
 
 Trebled threeecore-and-ten, 
 At the last our souls exultant, 
 
 Would recall that scene agen, 
 With its soft "God bless you, gentlemen!" 
 
 Its greetings warm and true, 
 And the tears of bliss our lips did kiss 
 
 From dear eyes, black or blue. 
 
 Nathless, despite our rapture, 
 
 Down to the harbor-mouth 
 We dogged the Britons doomed to fly 
 
 Forever from our South ! 
 They left as some foul vulture 
 
 Might leave his mangled prey 
 And pass with clotted beak and wing 
 
 Reluctantly away. 
 
 Three hundred noble vessels 
 
 Rode on the I'ising flood. 
 Wherein with sullen apathy 
 
 Embarked those men of blood; 
 
 Then streamed their admiral's pennant — 
 The north-west bi'eeze blew free; 
 
 With sloping mast, and current fast, 
 Out swept their fleet to sea. 
 
 We strained our vision waveward, 
 
 Watching the white-winged ships, 
 Till the vague clouds of distance 
 
 Wrapped them in half eclipse: 
 And still we strained our vision 
 
 Till, dimmer and more dim. 
 The rearmost sail, a phantom pale. 
 
 Died down the horizon's rim. 
 
 Thus, o'er the soul's horizon. 
 
 Did thoughts of blood and war, 
 Through time's enchanted distances 
 
 Receding, fade afar. 
 Thus o'er the soul's horizon. 
 
 Our strife's last ghastly fear. 
 Like all the rest, down memory's west 
 
 Did slowly disappear ! 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne. 
 
 THE GEORGETOWN HILLS. 
 
 There's many a classic mount the Muse 
 
 Has loved and honored long. 
 About whose brow the pilgrim views 
 
 The sacred light of song : 
 Parnassus still the poet moves. 
 
 And Helicon yet thrills; 
 But my untraveled heart more loves 
 
 Our own, our Georgetown Hills. 
 
 They do not tower up to the skies — 
 
 No Atlas heights are they; 
 But light as pure upon them lies 
 
 As e'er on Atlas lay 
 Pierus had no greener trees. 
 
 Its vales no clearer rills 
 Than those that weave their melodies 
 
 Amid our Georgetown Hills. 
 
 They boast no wondrous Hippocrene, 
 No fount of Castaly; 
 
 ]5nt many a modest spring serene 
 
 In their cool nooks ye see; 
 And flowers, as sweet as those wherefrom 
 
 The Hyblan bee distills 
 His liquid honey, brightly bloom 
 
 O'er all our Georgetown Hills. 
 
 Who slept on forked Parnassus' height. 
 
 Had dreams of poesy. 
 That filled his soul with fancies bright. 
 
 His ears with harmony. 
 Methinks like marvels here are done — 
 
 His soul like dreaming fills. 
 Who sleeps, 'neath stars as fair, on one 
 
 Of our own Georgetown Hills. 
 
 Oh, pleasant, pleasant 'tis to see. 
 
 At morn or shut of day, 
 Potomac's waves flash far and free. 
 
 Slow journeying to the bay! 
 
480 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 To hear the toiling city's hum, 
 
 The droning of the mills, 
 As they, commingled, softly come 
 
 To our old Georgetown Hills! 
 
 Auld Scotia's heathered hills are fine — 
 
 Her "banks and bonny braes," — 
 And vocal those along the Rhine 
 
 With legends of old days; 
 But nowhere could I, more content, 
 
 Meet all life's joys and ills, 
 Than, where my childhood's years were spent. 
 
 Among our Georgetown Hills. 
 
 Yes, many a far-ofl' mount the Muse 
 Has loved and cherished long. 
 
 About whose brow the pilgrim views 
 The halo-light of song; 
 
 And I would gladly, if I may. 
 Ere death my music stills, 
 
 Some glimmering of the Muse's ray 
 Throw round our Georgetown Hills. 
 
 For all the springs of song are here. 
 
 As on more famous heights; 
 Birds, brooks, bees, flowers, and comrades dear 
 
 And pleasure-haunted nights; 
 And maidens, fair as ever bound 
 
 In bondage mortal wills, 
 Like flowers of beauty, blooming round 
 
 Our own, our Georgetown Hills. 
 
 And he who once the charm has known. 
 
 These hills and valleys lend. 
 About him feels their magic thrown, 
 
 Wherever he may wend. 
 Though he the world may wander o'er, 
 
 Him home-sick longing fills 
 To breathe their air, and tread once more 
 
 Our own old Georgetown Hills. 
 
 WiUiam L. Slioemaker. 
 
/L^ Ha^nuitio^ Id-a^y^^. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTOBY, 
 
 481 
 
 MOUNT VERNOK". 
 
 WRITTEN AT MOUNT VERNON, AUGUST, 1786. 
 
 By broad Potomac's azure tide, 
 
 Where Vernon's mount, in sylvan pride, 
 
 Displays its beauties far, 
 Great Washington, to peaceful shades. 
 Where no unhallowed wish invades. 
 
 Retired from fields of war. 
 
 Angels might see, with joy, the sage, 
 
 Who taught the battle where to rage. 
 
 Or quenched its spreading liame. 
 On works of peace employ that hand, 
 Which waved the blade of high command. 
 And hewed the path to fame. 
 
 Let others sing his deeds in arms, 
 
 A nation saved, and conquest's charms: 
 
 Posterity shall hear, 
 'Twas mine, returned from Europe's courts. 
 To share his thoughts, partake his sports, 
 
 And soothe his partial ear. 
 
 To thee, my friend, these lays belong: 
 Thy happy seat inspires my song, 
 
 With gay, perennial blooms, 
 With fruitage fair, and cool retreats, 
 Whose bowery wilderness of sweets 
 
 The ambient air perfumes. 
 
482 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 Here spring its earliest buds displays, 
 Here latest on the leafless sprays 
 
 The plumy people sing; 
 The vernal shower, the ripening year. 
 The autumnal store, the winter drear, 
 
 For thee new pleasures bring. 
 
 Here, lapped in philosophic ease, 
 Within thy walks, beneath thy trees, 
 
 Amidst thine ample farms, 
 JSTo vulgar converse heroes hold, 
 But past or future scenes unfold. 
 
 Or dwell on nature's charms. 
 
 What wondrous era have we seen, 
 Placed. on this isthmus, half between 
 
 A rude and polished state! 
 We saw the war tempestuous rise. 
 In arms a world, in blood the skies. 
 
 In doubt an empire's fate. 
 
 The storm is calmed, serened the heaven, 
 And mildly o'er the climes of even 
 
 Expands the imperial day: 
 "0 Grod, the source of light supreme. 
 Shed on our dusky morn a gleam, 
 
 To guide our doubtful way! 
 
 " Restrain, dread Power, our land from crimes ! 
 What seeks, though blest beyond all times, 
 
 So querulous an age ? 
 What means to freedom such disgust; 
 Of change, of anarchy the lust. 
 
 The fickleness and rage?" 
 
 So spake his country's friend, with sighs. 
 To find that country still despise 
 
 The legacy he gave, — 
 And half he feared his toils were vain. 
 And much that man would court a chain. 
 
 And live through vice a slave. 
 
 A transient gloom o'ercast his mind; 
 Yet,' still on Providence reclined. 
 
 The patriot fond believed. 
 That power benign too much had done, 
 To leave an empire's task begun, 
 
 Imperfectly achieved. 
 
 Thus buoyed with hope, with virtue blest, 
 Of every human bliss possessed, 
 
 He meets the happier hours : 
 His skies assume a lovelier blue. 
 His prospects brighter rise to view, 
 
 And fairer bloom his flowers. 
 
 David Humphreys. 
 
 THE PHANTOM-DRUMMER. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE LITTLE FALLS OF THE POTOMAC. 
 
 The Little Falls are wild and rough, and 
 
 white with foam and spray. 
 Where, roaring, leaps, and swiftly sweeps the 
 
 river on its way. 
 By rugged heaps of huge gray rocks, like 
 
 ruins of a world. 
 As by some mighty earthquake shocks in 
 
 wide confusion hurled. 
 
 Here, once, the Indian speared the fish, and 
 
 urged his light canoe ; 
 Along the craggj^ banks afar echoed his 
 
 loud halloo; 
 
 And, from his wigwam perched above, the 
 
 soft blue smoke arose, 
 Where with his pipe he sat iu peace, or 
 
 armed him for his foes. 
 
 But he has gone, and scarce a trace of all 
 
 his race remains; 
 The white man now has taken his place, and 
 
 plows his hills and plains; 
 Unchanged his native stream, below, its 
 
 sparkling torrent pours, 
 But pale-faced fishers dip the net, or angle 
 
 from the shores. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 483 
 
 Yet him Potomac's name recalls, and legends, 
 
 vague and dim, 
 Still lingering, float about the Palls, beloved 
 
 of yore by him; 
 And even now one haunts me, like a spirit 
 
 of the Past, 
 And I will seize it in my verse, and there 
 
 will bind it fast. 
 
 Long years ago, when bloody hate 'twixt 
 
 red and white was rife, 
 And startled oft the silent woods the tumult 
 
 of the strife, 
 Here reached the river on their march a 
 
 band who sought to gain 
 The swift Monongahela, and the far-off fort 
 
 Du Quesne. 
 
 They fain would aid the chief who there, 
 
 unfortunate, though brave, 
 O'ercome by Indian strategy, found in the 
 
 wilds a grave. 
 They all, in safety, crossed the stream, all 
 
 gained the rocky shore, 
 Save one, who from the ferry fell, was 
 
 drowned and found no more. 
 
 He was the drummer of the band, and, 
 
 with his noisy drum, 
 Was caught amid the rushing waves, and 
 
 strangled 'mid the foam. 
 "With slow and solemn footsteps then they 
 
 silently passed on, 
 And grieved for him who from their ranks 
 
 for evermore had gone. 
 
 'T is said, that night, with thunder's crash, 
 there came a furious storm. 
 
 And, by the lightning's lurid flash, was seen 
 the drummer's form; 
 
 And all with fear and trembling were the 
 red men stricken dumb, 
 
 As 'mid the airy war, they heard his loud- 
 esounding drum. 
 
 And often since that time, 'tis said, when 
 the elements are stirred 
 
 To fight at night, he may be seen, his ghostly 
 
 drum be heard; 
 But terrors chill each listener fill, who hears 
 
 the drum beat then. 
 Lest one of them the drummer calls, must 
 
 pass away from men. 
 
 Nay, e'en on calmest Summer days, comes 
 
 that foreboding sound. 
 And pales the lonely fisherman when all is 
 
 hushed around. 
 Save but the stream's unceasing roar and 
 
 cawing of the crow — 
 A sound that seems not in the air, but in 
 
 the deeps below. 
 
 And gray Tradition still will tell, with low, 
 
 mysterious tone, 
 Of those who, having heard the drum, the 
 
 drummer's fate have known; 
 Who, summoned by the doleful roll of that 
 
 prophetic drum. 
 Have fallen in the waters and to shore have 
 
 never come. 
 
 Not always fatal 't is to hear that drummer, 
 
 heard with dread, 
 Who, with his startling drum, would call 
 
 the living to the dead; 
 Por, warned by wise Tradition's voice, the 
 
 fishers shun the shore. 
 And cease awhile their toilsome trade, and 
 
 cease to ply the oar. 
 
 And there is living yet, a wight says, once 
 
 upon a time, 
 Lito his boat, one moonlight night, a shadowy 
 
 form did climb. 
 That long his spectral drum-sticks twirled, 
 
 and beat a shadowy drum, 
 Though faint, as from another world, the 
 
 notes that rose therefrom. 
 
 In this guise me the legend haunts, which 
 
 they all hold as true. 
 Who, on the river's foamy waves, the finny 
 
 tribes pursue; 
 
484 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 For those who have at no time yet that 
 
 drummer seen or heard, 
 Their credence give to what of him their 
 
 grandsires have averred. 
 
 I pray, ye hardy fishermen, that ye may 
 
 never hear 
 That ancient drummer's weird tattoo, that 
 
 phantom-sound of fear: 
 By liim unsummoned, bait your hooks — 
 
 secure, your nets still cast, 
 
 And on your grassy hills be yours to find 
 dry graves at last! 
 
 Mayhap, of drowned men there has been, 
 
 at length, so large a host 
 As satisfies with company that drummer's 
 
 restless ghost: 
 Howe'er it be, thus floats to. me this legend 
 
 of the Past, 
 And I have seized it in my verse, and 
 
 there have bound it fast. 
 
 WiUiam L. Shoemaker. 
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn, 
 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, 
 
 Fair as the garden of the Lord 
 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
 When Lee marched over the mountain-wall, — 
 
 Over the mountains winding down, 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars. 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars, 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind: the sun 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then. 
 Bowed with her fourscore years and ten. 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down; 
 
 Li her attic window the staff" she set. 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat lefb and right 
 He glanced: the old flag met his sight. 
 
 "Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast, 
 "Fire!" — out blazed the rifle-blast. 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and sash; 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff" 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 
 
 She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head. 
 But spare your country's flag," she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. 
 Over the face of the leader came; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 To life at that woman's deed and word: 
 
 "Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet: 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 48c 
 
 All day long that free flag tost 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well; 
 
 And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
 Shone over it with a warm good-night. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 
 
 And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 
 
 Honor to her! and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
 Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Eound thy symbol of light and law; 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whiitier. 
 
 STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY. 
 
 Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails, 
 
 Stir up the camp-fire bright; 
 No matter if the canteen fails. 
 
 We'll make a roaring night. 
 Here Shenandoah brawls along. 
 There burly Blue Eidge echoes strong. 
 To swell the brigade's rousing song 
 
 Of "Stonewall Jackson's way." 
 
 We see him now, — the old slouched hat 
 
 Cocked o'er his eye askew; 
 The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat. 
 
 So calm, so blunt, so trae. 
 The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well; 
 Says he, "That's Banks,— he's fond of shell; 
 Lord save his soul! we'll give him "; 
 
 That's " Stonewall Jackson's way." [well. 
 
486 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps oif! 
 
 Old Blue-Light's going to pray. 
 Strangle the fool that dares to scofl'! 
 
 Attention! it's his way. 
 Appealing from his native sod, 
 In forma pauperis to God : 
 " Lay bare Thine arm ; stretch forth Thy rod ! 
 
 Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way." 
 
 He 's in the saddle now. Fall in ! 
 
 Steady! the whole brigade! 
 Hill's at the ford, cut oil'; we'll win 
 
 His way out, ball and blade! 
 What matter if our shoes are worn? 
 What matter if our feet are torn? 
 " Quick-step ! we 're with him before morn ! " 
 
 That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." 
 
 The sun's bright lances rout the mists 
 
 Of morning, and by George! 
 Here's Longstreet struggling in the lists, 
 
 Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 
 Pope and his Yankees, whipped before; 
 "Bay'nets and grape!" near Stonewall roar; 
 "Charge, Stuart! Pay oft" Ashby's score!" 
 
 Is "Stonewall Jackson's way." 
 
 Ah! maiden, wait and watch and yearn 
 For news of Stonewall's band ! 
 
 Ah ! widow, read with eyes that burn 
 That ring upon thy hand. 
 
 Ah ! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on. 
 
 Thy life shall not be all forlorn. 
 
 The foe had better ne'er been born 
 That gets in " Stonewall's way." 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 LITTLE GIFFEN. 
 
 Out of the focal and foremost fire, 
 Out of the hospital walls as dire; 
 Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, 
 (Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!) 
 Specter! such as you seldom see 
 Little Giffen, of Tennessee! 
 
 "Take him and welcome!" the surgeons 
 
 said! 
 Little the doctor can help the dead! 
 So we took him; and brought him where 
 The balm was sweet in the summer air; 
 And we laid him down on a wholesome 
 
 bed — 
 Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 
 
 And we watched the war with abated 
 
 breath, — 
 Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. 
 Months of torture, how many such? 
 Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; 
 And still a glint of the steel-blue eye 
 Told of a spirit that would n't die. 
 
 And did n't. Nay, more ! in death's despite 
 The crippled skeleton "learned to write:" 
 Dear Mother, at first, of course; and then 
 Dear Captain, inquiring about the men. 
 Captain's answer: of eighty-and-five, 
 Gifl:en and I are left alive. 
 
 World of gloom from the war, one day; 
 Johnston pressed at the front, they say. 
 Little Gift'en was up and away; 
 A tear — his first — as he bade good-by, 
 Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 
 " I '11 write, if spared." There was news of 
 
 the fight; 
 But none of Giflen. — He did not write. 
 
 I sometimes fancy that, were I a king 
 Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, 
 With the song of the minstrel in mine ear. 
 And the tender legend that trembles here, 
 I'd give the best on his bended knee. 
 The whitest soul of my chivalry, 
 
 For "Little Giflen" of Tennessee. 
 
 Frank 0. Tidmer. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 487 
 
 MY MART LAND. 
 
 The despot's heel is on thy shore, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 His torch is at thy temple door, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Avenge the patriotic gore 
 That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
 And be the battle-queen of yore, 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
 Hark to thy wandering son's appeal, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 My mother State! to thee I kneel, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 For life and death, for woe and weal. 
 Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
 And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
 Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Remember Carroll's sacred trust; 
 Remember Howard's warlike thrust; 
 And all thy slumberers with the just, 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
 Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come! with thy panoplied array, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. 
 With Watson's blood, at Monterey, 
 With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
 Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come! to thine own heroic throng. 
 
 That stalks with Liberty along. 
 And give a new Key to thy song, 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Virginia should not call in vain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 She meets her sisters on the plain: 
 Sic Semper, 'tis the proud refrain. 
 That baffles minions back amain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Arise in majesty again, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 I see the blush upon thy cheek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 But thou wast ever bravely meek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 But lo ! there surges forth a shriek 
 From hill to hill, from creek to creek, — 
 Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thou wilt not crook to his control, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Better the fire upon thee roll. 
 Better the blade, the shot, the bowl. 
 Than crucifixion of the soul, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 I hear the distant thunder hum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 The Old Line's bugle, fife and drum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb: 
 Hazza! she spurns the N"orthern scum! 
 She breathes,— she burns! she'll come! she'll 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! [come! 
 
 James R. Randall. 
 
488 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 THE HILLS OF LIISTGANORE. 
 
 The evening wind blew sweet and cool 
 
 O'er hills and vales of Maryland, 
 And swept the dimpling stream and pool, 
 
 Aglow with sunset splendors grand; 
 While leaves of crimson, gold and bi'own, 
 
 And silvery tufts that float and soar, 
 Along our path came fluttering down 
 
 Among the hills of Linganore. 
 
 Then, musing as we homeward went, 
 
 " Oh ! friend," I said, " how fair would seem 
 A life in some low cottage spent 
 
 Beside yon softly flowing stream! 
 My robins there should build and sing, 
 
 My roses bloom, my ivies climb, 
 And every golden moment ring 
 
 Some note in joy's bewildering chime." 
 
 'Neath tall o'erarehing trees we rode. 
 
 And watched the mists the mountains 
 climb ; 
 Below the singing river flowed, 
 
 Above us rang the herd-bells' chime; 
 Tlie distant mountains dimly blue 
 
 Leaned soft against the bending skies, 
 "While, towering o'er the homes we knew, 
 
 "We saw the spires of Frederick rise. 
 
 The flock went bleating to the fold; 
 
 The song-bird fluttered to her nest. 
 And purple waves of twilight rolled 
 
 O'er all the crimson-flooded west — 
 As fast we rode o'er hill and dell. 
 
 The river rambling on before; 
 "\¥hile night and silence softly fell 
 
 Upon the hills of Linganore. 
 
 -*r -Ji^^pW^^ 
 
 Ah! well, if these things might be so; — 
 
 But who shall ask, and who can tell. 
 How smooth the stream of life may flow. 
 
 By mountain crag, or dreamy dell? 
 Far back among the peaceful years 
 
 A maiden roamed these pathways o'er, 
 And trilled her songs for happy ears 
 
 Among the hills of Linganore; 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 489 
 
 The violets brightened as she passed, 
 
 The daisies nodded sweet good-day, 
 And perfumed cups of clover cast 
 
 Their honey-dew along her way; 
 The mocking-bird with merriest trill 
 
 Sang sonnets to her star-like eyes, 
 And every wondering brook and rill 
 
 Leaped laughing up in glad surprise; 
 
 Till, standing where her roses grew, 
 
 One summer's eve beneath the stars, 
 She felt the eyes of one she knew 
 
 Beam on her through the lattice bars; 
 Then glancing up with timid gaze 
 
 She answers what those eyes implore, — 
 A pledge of love for future days — 
 
 Alas! sweet maid of Linganore! 
 
 Alas! sweet maid, for who may know 
 
 What depths of sorrow love must sound? 
 Or whence shall come, or whither go 
 
 The issues of its life profound? 
 Ah me! ere one sweet moon was past, 
 
 With quaking heart, o'er hill and glen 
 They heard the warrior's bugle blast, 
 
 They heard the tramp of armfed men. 
 
 Upspringing from his calm retreat. 
 
 To strong heroic manhood grown. 
 The lover gained his war-horse fleet 
 
 To sound the battle-cry alone: 
 Then fast and far the brave ranks filled, 
 
 Dark plumes went fluttering on the breeze, 
 And war-drums beat, and armies drilled. 
 
 And women wept on bended knees. 
 
 Where bold Catoctin's rugged crest 
 
 Looms dark against the western sky. 
 They knew the bravest and the best 
 
 Went boldly forth that day to die; 
 They saw the black cloud rise and swell, 
 
 They heard Antietam's battle-roar, 
 And night and sorrow shuddering fell 
 
 Upon the hills of Linganore. 
 
 Alas! sweet maid, the west wind brings 
 
 No tale of hope to charm thine ear; 
 The wood-dove in the shadow sings, 
 
 But sings no song for thee to hear; 
 The air is full of wails and groans. 
 
 The sky with smoke is shrouded o'er, 
 And breeze and bird in plaintive tones 
 
 Bewail the lost of Linganore. 
 
 Ah! dreary days that come and go, — 
 
 Long nights that wear away in tears. 
 While heavy clouds hang dark and low 
 
 O'er all the sorrow-burdened years, 
 Till rose and ivy kindly grow 
 
 O'er many a cruel battle-scar. 
 And graves oft hid by friendly snow 
 
 As things in dreams remembered are. 
 
 Yet still the maiden's fancy sees 
 
 Her lover's plume go down the west. 
 And still she watches, through the trees, 
 
 Catoctin's dim and clouded crest; 
 And "Tell me when the soldiers come," 
 
 She moans and falters o'er and o'er. 
 Nor knows his lips are pale and dumb 
 
 Among the hills of Linganore. 
 
 M. W. Hackeltmi. 
 
490 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HIS TOBY. 
 
 EOCK CEEEK. 
 
 To THIS small stream, where once was wout 
 to glide 
 The dusky native in his light canoe, 
 That swept with bird-like swiftness, silent, 
 through 
 Its deeper waters, later, thoughtful-eyed, 
 A famous mechanician came, and tried 
 The models of his strange inventions 
 
 new — 
 Wheeled boats, by power of steam made 
 to pursue 
 
 Their way, victorious, 'gainst both wind 
 
 and tide. 
 
 From Kalorania's * shades, near by, where he, 
 
 Sojourned awhile, day after day he came 
 
 To launch his sailless vessels in the creek; 
 
 And now, methinks, when river, and lake, 
 
 and sea. 
 
 Earth o'er, show huge descendants of the 
 
 same. 
 Of Fulton's fame its murmuring waves, 
 too, speak. 
 
 William L. Shoemaker. 
 
 ON THE BLUE EIDGE. 
 
 Here let me pause by the lone eagle's nest. 
 And breathe the golden sunlight and sweet 
 
 air, 
 Which gird and gladden all this region fair 
 With a perpetual benison of rest; 
 Like a grand purpose that some god hath 
 
 blest, 
 The immemorial mountain seems to rise, 
 Yearning to overtop diviner skies, 
 Though monarch of the pomps of East and 
 
 West; 
 And pondering here, the Genius of the height 
 Quickens my soul as if an angel spake, 
 And I can feel old chains of custom break, 
 And old ambitions start to win the light; 
 A calm resolve born with them, in '\\'hose 
 
 might 
 I thank thee, Heaven! that noble thoughts 
 
 awake. 
 
 II. 
 
 The rainbows of the heaven are not more 
 
 rare, 
 More various and more beautiful to view. 
 
 Than these rich forest rainbows, dipped in 
 
 dew 
 Of morn and evening, glimmering everywhere 
 From wooded dell to dark blue mountain 
 
 mere ; 
 Autumn! marvelous painter! every hue 
 Of thy immortal pencil is steeped through 
 With essence of divinity; how bare 
 Beside thy coloring the poor shows of Art, 
 Though Art were thrice inspired; in dreams 
 
 alone 
 (The loftiest dreams wherein the soul takes 
 
 part) 
 Of jasper pavements, and the sapphire throne 
 Of Heaven, hath such unearthly brightness 
 
 shone 
 To flush, and thrill the visionary heart! 
 
 III. 
 Here, friend! upon this lofty ledge sit down. 
 And view the beauteous prospect spread 
 
 below, 
 Around, above us; in the noonday glow 
 How calm the landscape rests! — yon distant 
 
 town. 
 
 'Kalorama, near Washington, D. C, was the home of Joel Barlow. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 491 
 
 Enwreathed with clouds of foliage like a 
 
 crown 
 Of rustic honor; the soft, silvery flow 
 Of the clear stream beyond it, and the show 
 Of endless wooded heights, circling the 
 
 brown 
 Autumnal fields, alive with billowy grain; — 
 
 Say, hast thou ever gazed on aught more 
 
 fair 
 In Europe, or the Orient? — what domain 
 (From India to the sunny slopes of Spain) 
 Hath beauty, wed to grandeur in the air, 
 Blessed with an ampler charm, a more 
 
 benignant reign? 
 
 Paul Hamitlon Hayne. 
 
 THE PICKET-GUARD. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac, they say. 
 Except now and then a stray picket 
 
 Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, 
 By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
 
 'T is nothing : a private or two, now and then, 
 Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
 
 Not an officer lost, — only one of the men, 
 Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
 Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; 
 
 Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn 
 moon. 
 Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
 
 A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 
 Through the forest leaves softly is creeping ; 
 
 While stars up above, with their glittering 
 eyes. 
 Keep guard, — for the army is sleeping. 
 
 There's only the sound of the lone sentry's 
 tread 
 As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
 And thinks of the two in the low trundle- 
 bed. 
 Par away in the cot on the mountain. 
 
 His musket falls slack; his face, dark and 
 grim, 
 Grows gentle with memories tender. 
 As he mutters a prayer for the children 
 asleep, — 
 
 For their mother, — may Heaven defend 
 her! 
 
 The moon seems to shine just as brightly 
 as then. 
 That night, when the love yet unspoken 
 Leaped up to his lips, — when low, mur- 
 mured vows 
 Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
 
 Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his 
 eyes, 
 
 He dashes ofl" tears that are welling. 
 And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 
 
 As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 
 
 He passes the fountain, the blasted pine- 
 tree, — 
 The footstep is lagging and weary; 
 Yet onward he goes, through the broad 
 belt of light, 
 Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
 
 Hark! was it the night- wind that rustled 
 the leaves? 
 
 Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? 
 It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary,good-by!" 
 
 And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night, — 
 ISTo sound save the rush of the river; 
 
 While soft falls the dew on the face of the 
 dead, — 
 The picket's ofl' duty forever. 
 
 Ethel Lynn Beers. 
 
492 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 THE VIRGmiANS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 The kaightliest of the knightly race 
 
 That, since the days of old, 
 Have kept the lamp of chivalry 
 
 Alight in hearts of gold; 
 The kindliest of the kindly baud 
 
 That, rarely hating ease, 
 Yet rode with Spottswood round the land. 
 
 And Raleigh round the seas; 
 
 Who climbed the blue Virginian hills 
 
 Against embattled foes. 
 And planted there, in valleys fair. 
 
 The lily and the rose; 
 
 Whose fragrance lives in va&xiy lands. 
 Whose beauty stores the earth. 
 
 And lights the hearths of happy homes 
 With loveliness and worth. 
 
 We thought they slept! — the sons who kept 
 
 The names of noble sires, 
 And slumbered while the darkness crept 
 
 Around their vigil fires; 
 But aye the Golden Horseshoe Knights 
 
 Their old Dominion keep. 
 Whose foes have found enchanted ground, 
 
 And not a knight asleep! 
 
 Frank 0. Tichiei: 
 
 LOOKOUT MOUNTAIJSr. 
 
 Historic Mount ! baptized in flame and blood, 
 Thy name is as immortal as the rocks 
 That crown thy thunder-scarred but royal 
 
 brow. 
 Thou liftest up thy aged head in pride 
 
 In the cool atmosphere, but higher still 
 Within the calm and solemn atmosphere 
 Of an immortal fame. From thy sublime 
 And awful summit, I can gaze afar 
 Upon innumerous lesser pinnacles, 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 493 
 
 And oh! my winged spirit loves to fly, 
 Like a strong eagle, 'mid their up-piled crags. 
 But most on thee, imperial mount, my soul 
 Is chained as by a spell of power. 
 
 I gaze 
 From this tall height on Chickamauga's field, 
 "Where Death held erst high carnival. The 
 
 waves 
 Of the mysterious death-river moaned; 
 The tramp, the shout, the fearful thunder- 
 roar 
 Of red-breathed cannon, and the wailing cry 
 Of myriad victims, filled the air. The smoke 
 Of battle closed above the charging hosts. 
 And, when it passed, the grand old flag no 
 
 more 
 Waved in the light of heaven. The soil 
 
 was wet 
 And miry with the life-blood of the brave. 
 As with a drenching rain; and yon broad 
 
 stream. 
 The noble and majestic Tennessee, 
 Ran reddened toward the deep. 
 
 But thou, bleak 
 And rocky mountain, wast the theater 
 Of a yet fiercer struggle. On thy height. 
 Where now I sit, a proud and gallant host, 
 The chivalry and glory of the South, 
 Stood up awaiting battle. Somber clouds. 
 Floating far, far beneath them, shut from 
 
 view 
 The stern and silent foe, whose storied flag 
 Bore on its folds our country's monarch-bird, 
 "Whose talons grasp the thunderbolt. Up, up 
 Thy rugged sides they came with measured 
 
 tramp. 
 Unheralded by bugle, drum, or shout, 
 And, though the clouds closed round them 
 
 with the gloom 
 Of double night, they paused not in their 
 
 march 
 Till sword and plume and bayonet emerged 
 Above the spectral shades that circled round 
 Thy awful breast. Then suddenly a storm 
 Of flame and lead and iron downward burst. 
 
 From this tall pinnacle, like winter hail. 
 Long, fierce, and bloody was the strife — 
 
 The noble flag, our country's hope and pride, 
 Sank down beneath the surface of the clouds, 
 As sinks the pennon of a shipwrecked bark 
 Beneath a stormy sea, and naught was heard 
 Save the wild cries and moans of stricken men. 
 And the swift rush of fleeing warriors down 
 Thy rugged steeps. 
 
 But soon the trumpet-voice 
 Of the bold chieftain of the routed host 
 Resounded through the atmosphere, and 
 
 pierced 
 The clouds that hung around thee. With 
 
 high words 
 He quickly summoned his brave soldiery 
 
 back 
 To the renewal of the deadly fight; 
 Again their stern and measured tramp was 
 
 heard 
 By the flushed Southrons, as it echoed up 
 Thy bald, majestic cliff's. Again they burst. 
 Like spirits of destruction, through the 
 
 clouds. 
 And 'mid a thousand hurtling missiles swept 
 Their foes before them as the whirlwind 
 
 sweeps 
 The strong oaks of the forest. "Victory 
 Perched with her sister-eagle on the scorched 
 And torn and blackened banner. 
 
 Awful mount! 
 The stains of blood have faded from thy 
 
 rocks; 
 The cries of mortal agony have ceased 
 To echo from thy hollow cliffs; the smoke 
 Of battle long since melted into air; 
 And yet thou art unchanged. Aye, thou 
 
 wilt lift 
 In majesty thy walls above the storm. 
 Mocking the generations as they pass. 
 And pilgrims of the far-off centuries 
 Will sometimes linger in their wanderings. 
 To ponder, with a deep and sacred awe. 
 The legend of the fight above the clouds. 
 
 Gtorge Denniscm Prentice. 
 
494 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 TWILIGHT ON SUiMTEIi. 
 
 Still and dark along the sea 
 
 Sumter lay: 
 A light was overhead, 
 As from burning cities shed, 
 And the clouds were battle-red, 
 
 Far away. 
 Not a solitary gun 
 Left to tell the fort had won, 
 
 Or lost the day! 
 Nothing but the tattered rag 
 Of the drooping Rebel flag. 
 And the sea-birds screaming round it in 
 their play. 
 
 How it woke one April morn, 
 
 Fame shall tell ; 
 As from Moultrie, close at hand, 
 And the batteries on the land. 
 Round its faint but fearless band 
 
 Shot and shell 
 Raining hid the doubtful light; 
 
 But they fought the hopeless fight 
 
 Long and well, 
 (Theirs the glory, ours the shame!) 
 Till the walls were wrapt in flame, 
 Then their flag was proudly struck, and 
 Sumter fell ! 
 
 Now — oh, look at Sumter now. 
 
 In the gloom ! 
 Mark its scarred and shattered walls, 
 (Hark! the ruined rampart falls!) 
 There's a justice that appalls 
 
 In its doom; 
 For this blasted spot of earth, 
 "Where Rebellion had its birth, 
 
 Is its tomb ! 
 And when Sumter sinks at last 
 From the heavens, that shrink aghast. 
 Hell shall rise in grim derision and make 
 room ! 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 THE CONQUERED BANNER. 
 
 Furl that banner, for 'tis weary; 
 Round its stafi' 'tis drooping dreary; 
 
 Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
 For there's not a man to wave it. 
 And there's not a sword to save it, 
 
 And there's not one left to lave it 
 In the blood which heroes gave it; 
 And its foes now scorn and brave 
 it: 
 Furl it, hide it— let it rest. 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 495 
 
 Take that banner down, 'tis tattered! 
 Broken is its staft" and shattered! 
 And the valiant hosts are scattered, 
 
 Over whom it floated liigh. 
 Oh, 't is hard for us to fold it ! 
 Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
 Hard that those who once unrolled it 
 
 Now must furl it with a sigh. 
 
 Furl that banner — furl it sadly — 
 Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
 And ten thousands wildly, madly. 
 
 Swore it should forever wave — 
 Swore that foeman's sword should never 
 Hearts like theirs entwined dissever. 
 Till that flag should float forever 
 
 O'er their freedom or their gravel 
 
 Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, 
 And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 
 
 Cold and dead are lying low; 
 And that banner — it is trailing! 
 While around it sounds the wailing 
 
 Of its people in their woe. 
 
 For, though conquered, they adore it ! 
 Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! 
 Weep for those who fell before it! 
 Pardon those who trailed and tore it! 
 But, oh ! wildly they deplore it, 
 Now, who furl and fold it so. 
 
 Furl that banner! True, 'tis gory, 
 Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
 And 'twill live in song and story 
 
 Though its folds are in the dust: 
 For its fame on brightest pages. 
 Penned by poets and by sages. 
 Shall go sounding down the ages — 
 
 Furl its folds though now we must. 
 
 Furl that banner, softly, slowly; 
 Treat it gently — it is holy, 
 
 For it droops above the dead. 
 Touch it not — unfold it never — 
 Let it droop there, furled forever. 
 
 For its people's hopes are dead! 
 
 Abram J. Ryan. 
 
 AMONG THE MOUNTAINS IN GEOEGIA. 
 
 Ye glorious Alleghanies! from this height 
 I see your peaks on every side arise; 
 
 Their summits roll beneath the giddy sight, 
 Like ocean billows heaved among the skies. 
 lu wild magniflcence upon them lies 
 
 The primal forest, kindling in the glow 
 
 Of this mild autumn sun with golden dyes, 
 While, in his slanting ray, their shadows grow 
 Broad o'er the paradise of vale and wood 
 below. 
 
496 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 How beautiful ! though, fresh from Nature's 
 
 God, 
 
 They show no footstep of an elder race; 
 
 No human hand has ever turned their sod, 
 
 Or heaved their massive granite from its 
 
 place : 
 The green banks of their floods bear not 
 a trace 
 Of pomp and power, which have come and 
 gone, 
 And left their crumbling ruins to deface 
 The virgin earth. Here Nature rules alone ; 
 The beauty of the hill and valley is her own. 
 
 Nor might the future generations know 
 
 Auglit of the simple people, who have made 
 
 Their habitations by the streams that flow 
 
 So fresh and stainless from the forest 
 
 shade; 
 Who built their council fires on hill and 
 glade, 
 And in you pleasant valleys, by the fall 
 Of crystal founts, perchance, their dead 
 have laid, — 
 But for the names of mountain, river, cat- 
 aract, all 
 Significant of thought, and sweetly musical. 
 
 Henry R. Jackson. 
 
 THE MARSHES OF GLYNN. 
 
 Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided 
 
 and woven 
 "With intricate shades of the vines that 
 
 myriad-cloven 
 Clamber the foi'ks of the multiform boughs, — 
 Emerald twilights. 
 Virginal shy lights, 
 Wrought of the leaves to allure to the 
 
 whisper of vows, 
 When lovers pace timidly down through 
 the green colonnades 
 Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark 
 woods, 
 Of the heavenly woods and glades, 
 That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach 
 within 
 The wide sea-marshes of Glynn; — 
 
 Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noonday 
 fire, — 
 
 Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire; 
 
 Chamber from chamber parted with waver- 
 ing arras of leaves, — 
 
 Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer 
 to the soul that grieves. 
 
 Pure with a sense of the passing of saints 
 through the wood, 
 
 Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with 
 good; — 
 
 braided dusks of the oak and woven 
 shades of the vine, 
 
 While the riotous noonday sun of the June- 
 day long did shine. 
 
 Ye held me fast in your heart and I held 
 you fast in mine ; 
 
 But now when the noon is no more, and 
 riot is rest, 
 
 And the sun doth wait at the ponderous 
 gate of the West, 
 
 And the slant yellow beam down the wood- 
 aisle doth seem 
 
 Like a lane into heaven that leads from a 
 dream, — 
 
 Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken 
 the soul of the oak. 
 
 And my heart is at ease from men, and the 
 wearisome sound of the stroke 
 
 Of the scythe of time and the trowel of 
 trade is low, 
 
 And belief overmasters doubt, and I know 
 that I know. 
 
 And my spirit is grown to a lordly great 
 compass within, 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HLSTOBY. 
 
 497 
 
 That the length and the breadth and the 
 
 sweep of the marshes of Glynn 
 "Will work me no fear like the fear they 
 
 have wrought me of yore 
 When length was fatigue, and when breadth 
 
 was but bitterness sore, 
 And when terror and shrinking and dreary 
 
 unnamable pain 
 Drew over me out of the merciless width 
 
 of the plain, — 
 
 JProm A.ppleton^s '^American Fainters." 
 
 Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 
 
 The vast sweet visage of space. 
 To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I 
 am drawn. 
 Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as 
 a belt of the dawn. 
 For a mete and a mark 
 To the forest-dark: — 
 So: 
 Affable live-oak, bending low — 
 
498 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 Thua — with your favor — soft, with a 
 reverent hand, 
 (Kot lightly touching your person. Lord of 
 
 the land ! ) 
 Swinging your beauty aside, with a step I 
 stand 
 On the firm-packed sand. 
 Free 
 By a world of marsh that borders a world 
 
 of sea. 
 Sinuous southward and sinuous northward 
 
 the shimmering band 
 Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the 
 
 mai'sh to the folds of the land. 
 Inward and outward to northward and south- 
 ward the beach-lines linger and curl 
 As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and 
 follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl. 
 Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again 
 
 into sight. 
 Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim 
 
 gray looping of light. 
 And what if behind me to westward the 
 wall of the woods stands high? 
 The world lies east: how ample, the marsh 
 
 and the sea and the sky! 
 A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist- 
 high, broad in the blade, 
 Green, and all of a height, and unflecked 
 with a light or a shade. 
 Stretch leisurely off", in a pleasant 
 
 plain, 
 To the terminal blue of the main. 
 Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the 
 terminal sea? 
 Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
 From the weighing of fate and the sad 
 discussion of sin, 
 By the length and the breadth and the sweep 
 of the marshes of Glynn. 
 
 Ye marshes, how candid and simple and 
 
 nothing-withholding and free 
 Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer 
 
 yourselves to the sea! 
 
 Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the 
 
 rains and the sun, 
 "Ye spread and span like the catholic man, 
 
 who hath mightily won 
 God out of knowledge and good out of in- 
 
 finite pain, 
 And sight out of blindness and purity out 
 
 of a stain. 
 
 As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the 
 
 watery sod. 
 Behold I will build me a nest on the favor 
 
 of God : 
 I will fly in the favor of God as the marsh- 
 hen flies 
 In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt 
 
 the marsh and the skies: 
 By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends 
 
 in the sod 
 I will heartily lay me a hold on the favo:^ 
 
 of God. 
 Oh, like to the favor of God, for the large- 
 ness within. 
 Is the range of the marshes, the liberal 
 
 marshes of Glynn. 
 And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, 
 
 out of his plenty the sea 
 Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood 
 of the tide must be: 
 Look how the grace of the sea doth go 
 About and about through the intricate 
 channels that flow 
 Here and there, 
 Every^yhere, 
 Till his waters have flooded the uttermost 
 creeks and the high-lying lanes, 
 And the marsh is meshed with a million 
 
 veins. 
 That like as with rosy and silvery es- 
 sences flow 
 In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 
 
 Farewell, my lord Sun ! 
 The creeks overflow: a thousand riv- 
 ulets run 
 'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of 
 the marsh-grass stir; 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 499 
 
 Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that 
 
 nestward whir: 
 Passeth, and all is still: and the currents 
 
 cease to run; 
 And the sea and the hiarsh are one. 
 
 Plow still the plains of the waters be . 
 
 The tide is in his ecstasy. 
 The tide is at his highest height: 
 
 And it is night. 
 
 And now from the vast of the Lord will 
 the waters of sleep 
 Roll in on the souls of men, 
 But who will reveal to our waking ken 
 The forms that swim and the shapes that creep 
 
 Under the waters of sleep? 
 And I would I could know what swimmeth 
 
 beloAv when the tide comes in 
 On the length and the breadth of the mar- 
 velous marshes of Glynn. 
 
 Sidney Lanlei: 
 
 ODE: 
 
 ON DECORATING THE GRAVES OF CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS IN MAGNOLIA CEMETERY, 
 
 CHARLESTON, S. C. 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, — 
 Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause! 
 
 Though yet no marble column craves 
 The pilgrim here to pause. 
 
 In seeds of laurel in the earth 
 
 The blossom of your fame is blown, 
 
 And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
 The shaft is in the stone! 
 
 Meanwhile, behalf the tardy yeai-s 
 Which keep in trust your storied tombs. 
 
 Behold! your sisters bring their tears, 
 And these memorial blooms. 
 
 Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
 More proudly on these wreaths to-day. 
 
 Than when some cannon-molded pile 
 Shall overlook this bay. 
 
 Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! 
 
 There is no holier spot of ground 
 
 Than where defeated valor lies. 
 
 By mourning beauty crowned! 
 
 Henry Timrod 
 
500 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 BONAVENTURE BY STARLIGHT. 
 
 Along a corridor I tread, 
 
 High overarched by ancient trees, 
 Where, like a tapestry o'erhead. 
 
 The gray moss floats upon the breeze ;- 
 A weary breeze, that kissed to-day 
 
 Tallulah's falls of flashing foam, 
 And sported in Toccoa's spray. 
 
 Brings music from its mountain home. 
 
 The clouds are floating o'er the sky, 
 
 And cast at times a fitful gloom — 
 As o'er our hearts dark memories fly — 
 
 Cast deeper shade on Tatnall's tomb;-. 
 While glimmering onward to the sea. 
 
 With scarce a rippling wave at play, 
 A line of silver through the lea, 
 
 The river stretches far away. 
 
 It is the hour when stars above 
 
 Reflect the spirit's inner light, 
 And the lost Pleiads of my love 
 
 Are kindling in my heart to-night. 
 I hear a footfall on the sand, 
 
 I feel an arm within my own; — 
 Full often in a distant land 
 
 I've listened to that trembling tone. 
 
 Night darkens into deeper shade. 
 
 As on, with solemn pace, we stroll; — 
 I hear the teachings of the dead. 
 
 Like sacred music in my soul. 
 So live and act while thou art here. 
 
 That when thy course of life is done. 
 Above the stars thou may'st not fear 
 
 To meet thy father's face, my son! 
 
 Heni-y B. Jackson. 
 
 THOUaHTS OF THE FAR PAST. 
 
 MISSION SAN ANTONIO. 
 
 Amid these ruins, gloomy, ghostly, strange, 
 The weird memorials of an elder time. 
 The sacred relics of dead centuries, 
 I stand in utter loneliness; and thoughts 
 As solemn as the mysteries of the deep 
 Come o'er me, like the shadow of a cloud 
 O'er the still waters of a lonely lake, 
 Or like the mournful twilight of eclipse 
 O'er the dim face of Nature. 
 
 Ye were reared, 
 ruins old, by stern and holy men, — 
 God's messengers unto a new-found world, — 
 Whose voices, like the trumpets of the blast, 
 Resounded through the forest, and shook 
 
 down, 
 As by an earthquake's dread ioonoclasm, 
 The idols that men worshiped. Their great 
 
 lives 
 
LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HISTORY. 
 
 501 
 
 Were given to awful duty, and their words 
 Swelled, breathed, and burned and throbbed 
 
 upon the air 
 In solemn majesty. They did not shrink 
 Or falter in the path of thorn and rock 
 Their souls marked out. Their moldered 
 
 relics lie 
 Beneath yon humble mounds; but ah, their 
 
 names. 
 There rudely sculptured upon blocks of stone, 
 Are breathed on earth with reverential awe. 
 And written by God's finger on His scroll 
 Of saints and martyrs. 
 
 Age has followed age 
 To the abysses of Eternity; 
 And many generations of our race 
 Have sprung and faded like the forest leaves ; 
 The mightiest temples reared by human pride 
 Have long been scattered by a thousand 
 
 storms, — 
 But ye remain. Ah yes, ye still remain, 
 And many pilgrims yearly turn aside 
 From their far journeyings, to come and 
 
 pause 
 
 Amid your shattered wrecks, as lone and 
 
 wild 
 As those of Tadmor of the desert. Wolves 
 Howl nightly in your ghostly corridors. 
 And here the deadly serpent makes his home. 
 Yet round your broken walls, your fallen 
 
 roofs. 
 Your many crumbling, shattered images. 
 Your sunken floors, your shrines with grass 
 
 o'ergrown. 
 And the unnumbered strange, mysterious 
 
 flowers. 
 That stand, pale nuns, upon your topmost 
 
 heights. 
 Wild chants and soul-like dirges seetn to 
 
 rise. 
 And the low tones of eloquence and prayelf 
 Seem sounding on the hollow winds; and 
 
 here 
 I kneel as lowly as I could have knelt, 
 If I had hstened to the living words 
 Your grand old founders uttered in the 
 
 name 
 Of God, who sent them to proclaim his will. 
 
 Oeorge Dennison Prentice. 
 
502 
 
 LEGEND, LANDSCAPE AND HLSTOBY. 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GEAY. 
 
 By the flow of the inland river, 
 
 Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
 Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
 Asleep are the ranks of the dead; — 
 Under the sod and the dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; — 
 Under the one, the Blue; 
 Under the other, the Gray. 
 
 These in the robings of glory, 
 
 Those in the gloom of defeat, 
 All with the battle-blood gory. 
 In the dusk of eternity meet; — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; — 
 Under the laurel, the Blue; 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours 
 
 The desolate mourners go. 
 Lovingly laden with flowers 
 
 Alike for the friend and the foe; — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; — 
 Under the roses, the Blue; 
 Under the lilies, the Gray. 
 
 So with an equal splendor 
 
 The morning sun-rays fall. 
 With a touch, impartially tender. 
 
 On the blossoms blooming for all; 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 Waiting the judgment day; — 
 
 Broidered with gold, the Blue; 
 Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 
 
 So, when the Summer calleth, 
 On forest and field of grain. 
 With an equal murmur falleth 
 The cooling drip of the rain; — 
 Under the sod and the dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; — 
 Wet with the rain, the Blue; 
 Wet with the rain, the Gray. 
 
 Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 
 The generous deed was done ; 
 In the storm of the years that are fading, 
 'So braver battle was won; — , 
 Under the sod and the. dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; — 
 Under the blossoms; the Blue; 
 Under the garlands, the Gray. 
 
 No more shall the war-cry sever, 
 Or the winding rivers be red; 
 They banish our anger forever 
 
 When they laurel the graves of our dead ! 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; — 
 Love and tears for the Blue, 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
 Francis M. Finch, 
 
THE PLANTATION 
 
 Farewell awhile the city's hum, 
 
 Where busy footsteps fall, 
 And welcome to my weary eye 
 
 The Planter's friendly hall. 
 
 Here let me rise at early dawn. 
 And list the mock-bird's lay, 
 
 That, warbling near our lowland home. 
 Sits on the waving spray; 
 
 Then tread the shading avenues 
 
 Beneath the cedar's gloom, 
 Or gum-tree, with its flickered shade, 
 
 Or chincapin's perfume. 
 
 The myrtle-tree, the orange wild, 
 ! cypress' flexile bough, 
 
 he myrtle-tree, the orange ^ 
 The cypress' flexile bough. 
 
 The holly with its polished leaves. 
 Are all before me now. 
 
 There, towering with imperial pride. 
 
 The rich magnolia stands. 
 And here, in softer loveliness. 
 
 The white-bloomed bay expands. 
 
 The long gray moss hangs gracefully — 
 
 Idly I twine its wreaths. 
 Or stop to catch the fragrant air 
 
 The frequent blossom breathes. 
 
 Life wakes around, — the redbird darts 
 Like flame from tree to tree, 
 
 The whippoorwill complains alone. 
 The robin whistles free. 
 
 (505) 
 
506 
 
 THE PLANTATION. 
 
 The frightened hare scuds by my path, 
 And seeks the thicket nigh; 
 
 The squirrel climbs the hickory-bough, 
 Thence peeps with careful eye. 
 
 The humming-bird, with busy wing, 
 
 In rainbow beauty moves. 
 Above the trumpet-blossom floats. 
 
 And sips the tube he loves. 
 
 Triumphant to yon withered pine 
 
 The soaring eagle flies; 
 There builds her eyry 'mid the clouds. 
 
 And man and heaven defies. 
 
 The hunter's bugle echoes nea/. 
 
 And see, his weary train 
 "With mingled howling scent the woods. 
 
 Or scour the open plain. 
 
 Yon skiff is darting from the cove, 
 
 And list the negro's song. 
 The theme his owner and his boat, 
 
 While glide the. crew along. 
 
 And when the leading voice is lost, 
 
 Receding from the shore, 
 His brother boatmen swell the strain 
 
 In chorus with the oar. 
 
 Caroline Howard Oilman. 
 
 PLANTATION LIFE IN SOUTH CAROLINA. 
 
 And yet the life, so unassailed by care. 
 So blessed with moderate work, with ample 
 
 fare. 
 With all the good the starving pauper needs. 
 The happier slave on each plantation leads. 
 
 Safe from harassing doubts and annual fears. 
 He dreads no famine in unfruitful years; 
 If harvest fail from inauspicious skies, 
 The master's providence his food supplies; 
 No paupers perish here for want of bread, 
 
 ..^'-.- 
 
 Or lingering live, by foreign bounty fed. 
 No exiled trains of homeless peasants go, 
 In distant climes to tell their tale of woe: 
 Far other fortune, free from care and strife. 
 For work, or bread, attends the Negro's life, 
 And Christian slaves may challenge as their 
 own 
 
 The blessings claimed in fabled states alone — 
 The cabin home, not comfortless, though 
 
 rude, 
 Light daily labor, and abundant food. 
 The sturdy health that temperate habits 
 
 yield, 
 The cheerful song that rings in every field, 
 
THE PLANTATION. 
 
 607 
 
 The long, loud laugh, that freemen seldom 
 
 share. 
 Heaven's boon to bosoms unapproached by 
 
 care, 
 And boisterous jest and humor unrefined, 
 That leave, though rough, no painful sting 
 
 behind ; 
 While, nestling near, to bless their humble 
 
 lot, 
 "Warm social joys surround the Negro's 
 
 cot: 
 The evening dance its merriment imparts, 
 Love, with his rapture, fills their youthful 
 
 hearts ; 
 And placid age, the task of labor done. 
 Enjoys the summer shade, the winter sun. 
 And, as through life no pauper want he 
 
 knows. 
 Laments no poor-house penance at its close. 
 Safe, in Ambition's trumpet-call to strife 
 No conscript fears harass his quiet life; 
 While the crushed peasant bleeds — a worth- 
 less thing, 
 The broken toy of emperor or king. 
 Calm in his peaceful home the slave prepares 
 His garden-spot, and plies his rustic cares; 
 The comb and honey that his bees aftbrd. 
 The eggs in ample gourd compactly stored, 
 The pig, the poultry, with a chapman's art, 
 He sells or barters at the village mart; 
 Or, at the master's mansion, never fails 
 An ampler price to find, and readier sales. 
 There, when December's welcome frosts re- 
 call 
 The friends and inmates of the crowded hall, 
 To each glad nursling of the master's race 
 He brings his present, with a cheerful face 
 And oflered hand; — of warm, unfeigning 
 
 heart. 
 In all his master's joys he claims a part; 
 And, true as clansman to the Highland chief, 
 Mourns every loss, and grieves in all his 
 
 grief. 
 When Christmas, now, with its abundant 
 cheer 
 
 And thornless pleasure, speeds the parting 
 
 year, 
 He shares the common joy — the early morn 
 Wakes hunter, clamorous hound, and echo- 
 ing horn, — 
 Quick steps are heard, the merry season 
 
 named. 
 The loiterers caught, the wonted forfeit 
 
 claimed. 
 In feasts maturing busy hands appear. 
 And jest and laugh assail the ready ear; 
 Whose voice, than his, more gayly greets 
 
 the dawn. 
 Whose foot so lightly treads the frosty lawn. 
 Whose heart as merrily, where mirth prevails, 
 On every side the joyous season hails? 
 Around the slaughtered ox, a Christmas 
 
 prize. 
 The slaves assembling stand with eager eyes. 
 Rouse, with their dogs, the porker's piercing 
 
 cry, 
 
 Or drag its squealing tenant from the sty; 
 With smile and bow receive their winter 
 
 dues. 
 The strong, warm clothing and substantial 
 
 shoes. 
 Blankets adorned with stripes of border red, 
 And caps of wool that warm the woollier 
 
 head; 
 Then clear the barn, the ample area fill, 
 In the gay jig display their vigorous skill; 
 No dainty steps, no mincing measures here — 
 Ellsler's trained graces — seem to float in 
 
 air. 
 But hearts of joy and nerves of living steel 
 On floors that spring beneath the bounding 
 
 reel; 
 Proud on his chair, with magisterial glance 
 And stamping foot, the fiddler rules the dance ; 
 Draws, if he nods, the still unwearied bow ; 
 And gives a joy no bearded bands bestow. 
 The triple holiday, on angel wings. 
 With every fleeting hour a pleasure brings ; 
 No ennui clouds, no coming cares annoy. 
 Nor wants nor sorrows check the Negro's joy. 
 
 William J. Grayson. 
 
508 
 
 THE PLANTATION. 
 
 UNCLE MELLICK DINES WITH HIS MASTER. 
 
 Ol' marster is a cur'us man, as sho as yo' 
 
 is born! 
 I's wukkin' in de crib one day a-shellin' o' 
 
 some corn, 
 An' he was standin' at de do'; — I "knowed 
 
 it"? no, sah, not! 
 Or, fo' de king! dese jaws uv mine, I'd 
 
 sh'ly kept 'em shot. 
 But to Bru. Simon, shellin' too, what should 
 
 I do but say 
 "I's starvin' sence I lars has eat — a week 
 
 ago to-day." 
 Den marster cussed and hollered: "Here's 
 
 a shame an' a dusgrace! 
 I, so long a planter, — a starved nigger on 
 
 my place! 
 Come, Mellick, drap dat corn an' walk 
 
 straight to de house wid me; 
 A starvin' nigger on my place 's a thing 
 
 shall nebber be." 
 
 "Hi! me eat 'long de white folks, sah?" 
 
 "Yes, Mellick, take a seat." 
 Den to missis: "Dis starved nigger I's done 
 
 fotch to make 'im eat," — 
 An' he drawed a big revolvah an' he drapped 
 
 it by he plate, — 
 " Gub 'im soup ! an' 'twixt de swallers, don' 
 
 lemme see yo' wait." 
 Dat soup was fine, I tell yo', an' I hide it 
 
 mighty soon; — 
 One eye sot on de pistol an' de turrer on 
 
 de spoon. 
 "Fish for Mellick, in a hurry, he's a-starvin', 
 
 don't yo' see?" 
 (Dem mizable house-niggers tucked dar 
 
 heads an' larfed at me.) 
 An' I went for dat red-snapper like de big 
 
 fish for de small; — 
 Glarnced at de navy-shooter onct, den 
 
 swallered bones an' all. 
 
 " Gub 'im tucky, ham an' aigs, rice, taters, 
 
 spinach, sparrergrars. 
 Bread, hom'iiy, mutton, chicken, beef, corn, 
 
 turnips, apple-sars. 
 Peas, cabbage, aig-plant, artichoke" — (Dat 
 
 pistol still in view. 
 An' de white folks dey all larfin', an' dem 
 
 silly niggers, too) — 
 "Termaters, carrots, pahsnips, beets" — 
 
 (""When is he gwine git done?") — 
 "Squash, punkin, beans an' kercumbers, — 
 
 eat, Mellick, don't leabe none; 
 For dis here day's done brung to me a shame 
 
 an' a dusgrace; — 
 I, so long a planter, — a starved nigger on 
 
 my place!" 
 
 Dem things ef I'd be'n by myself, I'd soon 
 
 put out o' sight; 
 But de com'cal sitiwation dar, it spile my 
 
 appetite : 
 I had to wrastle wid dem wittles hard enough 
 
 dat day! 
 Till "Now champagne for Mellick!" I heard 
 
 ole marster say. 
 When dat nigger shoot de bottle by my 
 
 hade — I's sho'ly skeered; 
 Dat stuft' it look so b'ilin' hot, to drink it 
 
 I wuz feared; 
 But arter I'd done swallered down a glars, 
 
 I feel so fine, 
 I 'gin de sitiwation not so very much to 
 
 min' ; — 
 An' den a little restin' spell I sorter tried 
 
 to take, 
 But, Lor'! ole marster hollered: "Gub 'im 
 
 puddin', pie an' cake!" — 
 — Wid he ban' upon de pistol an' de debble 
 
 in he eye! — 
 "An', Mellick, down wid all! — onless yo' 
 
 is prepar'd to die." 
 
THE PLANTATION. 
 
 509 
 
 I hurried home dem goodies like I hudn't 
 
 eat dat day; 
 Tell marster see I couldn't pack anoder 
 
 crumb away; 
 An' den he say : " Now, Mellick, to de crib, 
 
 git up an' go ! 
 
 An' de naix time yo' is starvin' come to me 
 
 an' lemme know." 
 But, Lor', in dat ar bizniss I kin nebber 
 
 show my face; — 
 An' dar's nebber been anoder starvin' nigger 
 
 on de place! 
 
 J. R. Eggleslon. 
 
 OLD FOLKS AT HOME 
 
 'Way down upon de Swanee ribber, 
 
 Far, far away. 
 Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber. 
 
 Dare's wha de old folks stay. 
 All up and down de whole creation, 
 
 Sadly I roam; 
 Still longing for de old plantation 
 
 And for de old folks at home. 
 
 All de world am sad and dreary, 
 
 Ebrywhere I roam; 
 Oh! darkeys, how my heart grows weary. 
 
 Far from de old folks at home. 
 
 All around de little farm I wandered, 
 When I was young; 
 
 Den many happy days I squandered, 
 
 Many de songs I sung. 
 When I was playing wid my brudder, 
 
 Happy was I; 
 Oh ! take me to my kind old mudder. 
 
 Dare let me live and die. 
 
 One little hut among de bushes. 
 
 One dat I love; 
 Still sadly to my memory rushes, 
 
 ISTo matter where I rove. 
 When will I see de bees a-humming, 
 
 All round de comb? 
 
 When will I hear de banjo tumming, 
 
 Down in my good home. 
 
 Stephen C. Foster, 
 
510 
 
 THE PLANTATION. 
 
 CHEISTMAS PREPARATIONS AT «DE PLANTATION ON 
 
 DE JEEMS," 1854. 
 
 [Uncle Spotswood, Major-Domo, loquitur.] 
 
 Shoo! niggars. Wot yo' waitin' for, 
 
 A-sittin' dere in rows 
 On top de fence, for all de worl' 
 
 Jes' like a flock o' crows; 
 Wot thinks dere's notliin' else to do 
 
 Sence ebba dey was born 
 But perk up sassy on de rails 
 
 An' scratch up Masta's corn? 
 
 Git down, dis minit, all ob yo', 
 
 An' shet yo' grinnin' lips. 
 An' pile yo' baskits on yo' nap 
 
 An' go an' gadder chips. 
 De reeson Masta wouldn't have 
 
 His hick'ry sawed, he own. 
 Was dat yo' doodle-bugs might pick 
 
 Up chips and yearn yo' pone. 
 
 So fill de barls onto de poach. 
 
 No matter how ye tires. 
 An' split a lot o' rich, fat pine, 
 
 To light de Christmas fires. 
 Now skite, or dat new housekeepah, 
 
 Miss Jane, will sarve yo' right; 
 She'll lock you in the 'bacca-barn 
 
 An' keep yo' dere all night. 
 
 Hi, Pete, you lazy 'possum, yo', 
 
 Hit reely makes me larf 
 To see yo' haint yit barely got 
 
 Yo' woodhouse full by harf. 
 Dere's twenty chambers to be warmed. 
 
 So grease yo' jints an' whack; 
 I tote about some hick'ry ile, 
 
 Dat's good to grease de back. 
 
 Aunt Winnie, is de cuppen full 
 
 Wid jes' de freshest cows? 
 Yo' knows hit takes 'em ebbery one 
 
 To milk an' cream de house. 
 
 La, sakes! Yo' haven't harf attend; 
 
 Dey looks so lean an' po', 
 I b'lieves dat good for-nothiu' Sam 
 
 Been feedin' dem on snow! 
 I tell yo', when ole Mistis want 
 
 De silva cream-pot full 
 Six time at breakfas', an' no cream, 
 
 Miss Jane '11 tar yo' wool. 
 So jes' you tell the overseea 
 
 Hit's Uncle Spot's command 
 Dat Blossom here, an' Tib' an' Rose 
 
 Should have dey fill o' bran. 
 
 Ole Granny, how's de poultry -yard ? 
 
 How many turkeys — hey? 
 Brud' Tuck mus' have two roasts, two 
 boils. 
 
 He vow, for ebery day; 
 An' pullets thick as chincapins, 
 
 An' now an' den a goose. 
 An' 'Poleons widout count. Oh! yes, 
 
 Yo' 'gin to make excuse, 
 Of gaps and chol'ra an' de likes; 
 
 But la! dere's plenty here. 
 Yo' need'nt keep 'em back to breed; 
 
 No matter 'bout nex' year. 
 Jes' stufi:" 'em till dey fai'ly busts; 
 
 Dere's twenty-five or so 
 Polks to be here all Christmas week. 
 
 An' dey mus' eat, yo' know. 
 An' den we needs sich piles of eggs. 
 
 For pitchers of egg-nog; 
 Dose hunters likes to keep dey throats 
 
 As wet as any frog. 
 
 Pomp, whar's de gard'ner? Has he got 
 
 His cel'ry tall an' white? 
 Ole Mistis love to see hit snap 
 
 Like pipe-stem, when she bite. 
 
THE PLANTATION. 
 
 511 
 
 Is all de ashme* 'tatoes stored? 
 
 Is all de sweet 'uiis dry? 
 An' wot about de fruit-bins, sah? 
 
 Dere '11 be no end o' pie. 
 See ef de apples, peai's, an' grapes, 
 
 An' figs is keepin' fine; 
 Ole Masta like de very bes' 
 
 Wen he have friends to dine. 
 
 I 'clar dat brannew housekeepah, 
 
 She 'nutf to make me swar; 
 "Wen I's jes' fixin' to begin 
 
 To go, she think I'm dar'. 
 Yo' po' white trash is always mean 
 
 An' close as dey can be. 
 Yah! yah! as close as black-oak bark 
 
 Onto a black 'oak-tree. 
 Ole Mistis nebba grab de keys. 
 
 As she do, by a deal; 
 Right po' white folksy like to think 
 
 Fust fam'ly servants steal! 
 
 Yo' here, Miss Jane? Why, Madam, I 
 
 Was jes' a-sayin' how 
 Fust fam'ly servants feels dere own 
 
 Deep 'sponsibil'ty now. 
 I'se been my roun's, as yo' acquired, 
 
 An' of the twenty-two 
 House-servants not a one don't strain 
 
 For mo' nor he can do. 
 De little piccinninies waits 
 
 For orders from yo' lips; 
 An' see! Dey's on dey very heads, 
 
 A-racin' after chips; 
 An' den dey's gwine for Christmas-greens, 
 
 To train about de wall. 
 For Mistis wants a Christmas-tree 
 
 For we uns, in de hall. 
 
 Hi ! hi ! how my ole 'oman larfs. 
 
 An', winkin', says to Liz: 
 "1 feels hit in my bones — a shawl! 
 
 To help my rheumatiz. 
 (I 'clar, I done forgot one thing 
 
 Ole Masta tole me 'bout, 
 Miss Annie's pony's in the stall. 
 
 An' Jim mus' turn him out.) 
 ^'■Not ready?" La, Miss Jane, yo' hush! 
 
 See how we'll scurry. Seems 
 We know some things, we does, at dis 
 
 Plantation on the Jeems. 
 Yo' nebba fear. We'll all be slick 
 
 Befo' de comp'ny comes; 
 Yes, Madam, we'll be sittin' dyked, 
 
 A-twirlin' of our thumbs. 
 
 Hi! Hes she gone? I wonder wot 
 
 Ole Mistis think about; 
 Si eh no-count housekeepah as det! 
 
 I wish she'd do widout. 
 Yo' can't make ladies ob white trash, 
 
 Dey shows from root to stem, 
 Dat oranges has nebba growed 
 
 Onto pawpaws like dem! 
 Now dere's my Mammy. She have airs 
 
 She wa'n't ashamed to show, 
 Larnt of ole Mistis' grandmamma. 
 
 Of Col'ny times, yo' know. 
 She'd keep de fam'ly credit up. 
 
 Wot needs some proppin', seems; 
 She'd 'fleet some honor roun' dis ole 
 
 Plantation on de Jeems. 
 La, bless me! dat's Miss Jane wot 
 calls. 
 
 Yes maum! I'se comin' straight. 
 Beg pardon, but 1 didn't mean 
 
 To make de missus wait. 
 
 Margaret J. Preston. 
 
 * Irish potatoes. 
 
512 
 
 THE PLANTATION. 
 
 THE BLACK PRmCESS. 
 
 A TRUE FABLE OF MY OLD KENTUCKY NURSE. 
 
 I KNEW a Princess: she was old, 
 
 Crisp-haired, iiat-featured, with a look 
 
 Such as no dainty pen of gold 
 Would write of in a Fairy Book. 
 
 So bent she almost crouched, her face 
 Was like the Sphinx's face, to me, 
 
 Touched with vast patience, desert grace, 
 And lonesome, brooding mystery. 
 
 What wonder that a faith so strong 
 As hers, so sorrowful, so still. 
 
 Should watch in bitter sands so long. 
 Obedient to a burdening will ! 
 
 This Princess was a Slave — ^like one 
 
 I read of in a painted tale; 
 Yet free enough to see the sun, 
 
 And all the flowers, without a vail. 
 
 Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring, 
 The helpless, powerful Slave was she 
 
 But of a subtler, fiercer Thing: 
 She was the Slave of Slavery. 
 
 Court-lace nor jewels had she seen: 
 She wore a precious smile, so rare 
 
 That at her side the whitest queen 
 Were dark — her darkness was so fair. 
 
 Nothing of loveliest loveliness 
 
 This strange, sad Princess seemed to lack! 
 Majestic with her calm distress 
 
 She was, and beautiful though black: 
 
 Black, but enchanted black, and shut 
 In some vague Giant's tower of air. 
 
 Built higher than her hope was. But 
 The True Knight came and found her there. 
 
 The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid 
 His shadowy lance against the spell 
 
 That hid her Self: as if afraid. 
 
 The cruel blackness shrank and fell. 
 
 Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep. 
 He took her with him through the night, 
 
 And swam a River cold and deep. 
 And vanished up an awful Height. 
 
 And, in her Father's House beyond. 
 They gave her beauty robe and crown : 
 
 On me, I think, far, faint, and fond. 
 
 Her eyes to-day look, yearning, down. 
 
 Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
y-pu-'i^ c/ (^lyi^i^-i^-u-vL 
 
THE PLANTATION. 
 
 513 
 
 MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. 
 
 The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky 
 home ; 
 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay; 
 The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in 
 the bloom, 
 While the birds make music all the 
 day; 
 The young folks roll on the little cabin 
 floor. 
 All merry, all happy, all bright; 
 By'm-by hard times comes a knocking at 
 the door, — 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good 
 night ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Weep no more, my lady; 0, weep no 
 more to-day! 
 
 We'll sing one song for my old Ken- 
 tucky home. 
 
 For our old Kentucky honie far a- 
 way. 
 
 They hunt no more for the possum and the 
 coon, 
 On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; 
 They sing no more by the glimmer of the 
 moon, 
 On the bench by the old cabin-door; 
 The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, 
 
 With sorrow where all was delight; 
 The time has come, when the darkies have 
 to part. 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! 
 Weep no more, my lady, etc. 
 
 The head must bow, and the back will have 
 to bend, 
 
 Wherever the darky may go; 
 A few more days, and the troubles all will end. 
 
 In the field where the sugar-canes grow; 
 A few more days to tote the weary load, 
 
 ISTo matter, it will never be light; 
 A few more days till we totter on the road. 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! 
 Weep no more, my lady, etc. 
 
 Stephen O. Foster. 
 
514 
 
 THE PLANTATION. 
 
 REVIVAL HYMN. 
 
 Oh, whar sliill we go w'en de great day 
 comes, 
 
 Wid de blowiu' er de trumpits en de bangin' 
 er de drums? 
 
 How many po' sinners '11 be kotehed out late 
 
 En fine no latch ter de golden gate? 
 No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer, 
 De sun musn't set on yo' sorrer, — 
 Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier — 
 Lord! fetch de mo'ners up higher! 
 
 Wen de nashuns er de earf is a standin' 
 
 all aroun'. 
 Who's a gwine ter be choosen fer ter w'ar 
 
 de glory-crown? 
 Who's a gwine fer ter stan' stiff-kneed en bol'. 
 En answer to der name at de callin' er de 
 roll? 
 You better come now ef you comin' — 
 Ole Satun is loose en a bummin' — 
 De wheels er distruckshun is a hummin' — - 
 Oh, come 'long, sinners, ef you comin' ! 
 
 De song er salvashun is a mighty sweet song. 
 En de Pairidise win' blow fur en blow strong, 
 En Aberham's bosom, hit's saft en hit's wide. 
 En right dar's de place whar de sinners 
 oughter hide ! 
 Oh, you nee'nter be a stoppin' en a 
 
 lookin' ; 
 Ef you fool wid ole Satun you'll git 
 
 took in; 
 You'll hang on de aidge en get shook in, 
 Ef you keep on a stoppin' en a lookin'. 
 
 De time is right now, en dish yer's de place — 
 Let de sun er salvashun shine squar' in yo' 
 
 face ; 
 Fight de battles er de Lord, fight soon en 
 
 fight late. 
 En you'll allers fine a latch ter de golden gate. 
 No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer, 
 De sun mus'nt set on yo' sorrer, — 
 Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier, 
 Ax de Lord fer ter fetch you up higher! 
 
 Jod Chandler Harris. 
 
THE PLANTATION. 
 
 515 
 
 MAHSR JOHN. 
 
 I HEAHS a heap o' people talkin', ebry whar 
 
 I goes, 
 'Bout Washintum an' Franklum, an' sech 
 
 genuses as dose: 
 I s'pose dey's mighty fine, but heah's de 
 
 p'int I's bettin' on — 
 Dere wuzn't nar a one ob 'em come up to 
 
 Mahsr John. 
 
 He shorely wuz de grates' man de country 
 
 ebber growed — 
 You better had git out de way when he 
 
 come 'long de road ! 
 He hel' his head up dis way, lik' he 'spised 
 
 to see de groun'; 
 An' niggers had to toe de mark when Mahsr 
 
 John wuz 'roun'. 
 
 I only has to shet my eyes, an' deu it 
 
 seems to me 
 I sees him right afore me now, jes' like he 
 
 use' to be, 
 A-settin' on de gal'ry lookin' awful big an' 
 
 wise, 
 Wid little niggers fannin' him to keep away 
 
 de flies. 
 
 He alluz wore de berry bes' ob planters' 
 
 linen suits. 
 An' kep' a nigger busy jes a-blackin' ob 
 
 his boots; 
 De buckles on his galluses wuz made of 
 
 solid gol'. 
 An' diamon's! — dey wuz in his shu't as 
 
 thick as it would hoi'. 
 
 You heered me ! 't was a caution, when he 
 
 went to take a ride. 
 To see him in de kerridge, wid ol' Mistis 
 
 by his side — 
 
 Mulatter Bill a-dribin', an' a nigger on 
 
 behin' ; 
 An' two Xaintucky bosses tuk 'em tearin' 
 
 whar dey gwine. 
 
 or Mahsr John wuz pow'ful rich — he owned 
 
 a heap o' Ian'; 
 Fibe cotton places, 'sides a sugar place in 
 
 Loozyan' ; 
 He had a thousan' nigger — an' he worked 
 
 'em, shore's you born ! 
 De oberseahs ud start 'em at de breakin' 
 
 ob de morn. 
 
 Sometimes he'd gib a frolic — dat's de time 
 
 you seed de fuu; 
 De 'ristocratic fam'lies, dey ud be dar, 
 
 ebry one; 
 Dey'd hab a band from E^ew Orleans to 
 
 play for 'em to dance. 
 An' tell you what, de supper wuz a 'tickler 
 
 sarcumstance. 
 
 Well, times is changed ! De war it come 
 
 an' sot de niggers free. 
 An' now ol' Mahsr John ain't hardly wuf 
 
 as much as me; 
 He had to pay his debts, an' so his Ian' is 
 
 mos'ly gone — 
 An' 1 declar' I's sorry for pore ol' Mahsr 
 
 John 
 
 But when I heah 'em talkin' 'bout some 
 
 suUybrated man, 
 I listens to 'em quiet, till dey done said all 
 
 dey can, 
 An' deu I 'lows dot in dem days, 'at I 
 
 remembers on, 
 Dat geniman wasn't a patchin' onto my ol' 
 
 Mahsr John ! 
 
 L-win Russell. 
 
516 
 
 THE PLANTATION. 
 
 AUNT KIZZIE'S CREED. 
 
 Yes, Mistis, I'll come to de Bible-class 
 Yo'se a-gwine to hab fob we; 
 
 But wby yo' sbould ax de ole folks in — 
 Tell yo', dat passes me! 
 
 De young uns, be sbo', will need me dar, 
 
 To quiet 'em wid a slap ; 
 An' den I ken watch ef dey falls asleep, 
 
 An' waken 'em wid a rap. 
 
 Ole Mistis, she call we into de house 
 Sometime at de mornin' pra'r, 
 
 "Wen Parson were makin' his parish roun's, 
 An' stop foh he breakfast dar. 
 
 She hadn't no use for a Bible-class, 
 
 Eoh often I heerd her say 
 Dat de souls ob de black folks does n't go 
 
 To Heaben by de white folks' way. 
 
 Young Misteses tinks dey knows a heap; 
 
 Dey doos, an' I don't deny; 
 But la! dat larnin' ken nebba help 
 
 My biscuit an' bread an' pie. 
 
 My 'sperience be, dat hit's berry well 
 
 I hab n't de call to choose; 
 Ole Mastah above, he knows I'se mo' 
 
 Religion dan I ken use. 
 
 I b'lieves in Him : I b'lieves dat He made 
 Creation foh we-alls sakes. 
 
 An' every ting else. (Do' some doos say 
 Dat Sattan, he made de snakes.) 
 
 I b'lieves dat He see I done my bes', 
 
 Accordin' to w'at I knew; 
 An' He's not a-gwine to bodder me 'bout 
 
 Wat He nebba hab bid me do. 
 
 Why, Mistis, yo' don't hoi' me to 'count 
 'Bout chammbahs an' kitchen bofe; 
 
 Yo' 'spects me to hab my bread jes so, 
 An' to chippen my breakfas' loaf. 
 
 He's not de ole Mastah I tinks he be — 
 
 So tendah, as I'se ben tole; 
 He's not de ole Mastah I takes him foh, 
 
 Ef He's rough on de black folks' soul. 
 
 He'll call me up from my kitchen-ha'th, 
 Some day w'en I'se troo wid sin ; 
 
 An' He'll say : " Pore Kizzie ! She do her bes' ! 
 Go, Gab'rel, and tote her in." 
 
 Yes, Mistis, I'll come, sence yo' wants me to. 
 An' heah w'at yo' hab to say; 
 
 But I dunno about dese cu'rus truves 
 An' dis bodderin' kind o' way. 
 
 Too much ob de lightes' sort o' yeast 
 Will bittah de bread, yo' see; 
 
 An' I feels I'se as much religion now 
 As is good foh de likes ob me. 
 
 Margaret J. Preston. 
 
 A SERMON" FOR THE SISTERS. 
 
 I NEBBER breaks a colt afore he's old enough 
 
 to trabble; 
 I nebber digs my taters till they plenty big 
 
 to grabble; 
 An' when you sees me risin' up to structify 
 
 in meetin', 
 I's fust dumb up the knowledge-tree an' 
 
 done some apple-eatin'. 
 
 I sees some sistahs pruzint, mighty proud o' 
 
 what dey wearin' ; 
 Its well you is n't apples, now, yo' better 
 
 be declarin' ! 
 For when yo' heerd yo' markit price, t'd 
 
 hurt yo' little feelin's; 
 You would n't fotch a dime a peck, for all 
 
 yo' fancy peelin's. 
 
THE PLANTATION. 
 
 517 
 
 sistahs — leetle apples (for you're r'a'lly 
 
 mighty like 'em) — 
 
 1 lubs de ol' time russets, dough its suldom 
 
 I kin strike em; 
 An' so I lubs you, sistahs, for yo' grace an' 
 
 not yo' graces — 
 I don't keer how my apple looks, but on'y 
 
 how it tas'es. 
 
 It larned him! An' I bet you when he 
 
 comes to git his riches 
 Dey didn't go for stylish coats or Phila- 
 
 delphy breeches; 
 He didnt was'e his money when experunc 
 
 taught him better. 
 But went aroun' a lookin' like he's waitin' 
 
 fer a letter! 
 
 Is dey a Sabbaf scholah heah ? Den let him 
 
 'form his mudder 
 How Jacob-in-de-Bible's boys played off 
 
 upon dey brudder! 
 Dey sol' him to a trader — an' at las' he 
 
 struck de prison; 
 Dat combed ob Joseph struttin' in dat 
 
 streaked coat of his'n. 
 
 N'ow sistahs, won't you copy him ? Say, won't 
 
 you take a lesson. 
 An' min' dis solium wahnin' 'bout de sin 
 
 ob fancy dressin'? 
 How much yo' spen' upon yo' sef ! I wish 
 
 you might remember 
 Yo' preacher aint been paid a cent sence 
 
 somewhar in November. 
 
 My Christian fren's, dis story proobes dat 
 
 eben men is human — 
 He'd had a dozen fancy coats, ef he'd a 
 
 been a 'ooman! 
 De cussidness ob showin' off, he found out 
 
 all about it; 
 An' yit he was a Christian man, as good 
 
 as ever shouted. 
 
 I better close. I sees some gals dis sahmon's 
 
 kinder hittin', 
 A-whisperin', an' 'sturbin' all dat's near 
 
 whar dey's a sittin' ; 
 To look at dem, an' listen at dey onrepec'- 
 
 ful jabber. 
 It turns the milk ob human kineness mighty 
 
 nigh to clabber. 
 
 A- A- A-Men ! !„{% BusseU. 
 
 IT'LL NEBBEE, COME NO MO'. 
 
 I'SE been waitin' long for de good old time 
 
 Dat '11 nebber come no mo'. 
 When I used to work, an' rock an' sing 
 
 In de little cabin do'. 
 
 Old Missis — bless her dear ole soul — 
 Would laff till her sides gib way, 
 
 An' Massa'd stop at my cabin jest 
 To say: "How's old Mammy to-day?" 
 
 My Sam was dar wid his fiddle, 
 Po' Sam — he's gone — done dead: 
 
 Dead for de want ob food an' clothes, 
 An' de shelter ober head. 
 
 De boys — I mean ole Massa's boys — 
 Dey lubbed old Mammy too, 
 
 Who nussed 'em eb'ry blessed one, 
 Clean down to little Mass' Loo. 
 
 An' little Mose, well, he's dead too; 
 
 How he used to dance an' sing. 
 While Jim, an' Polly, an' all de res', 
 
 Went roun' an' roun' de ring. 
 
 Po' Massa Loo! he went to fight, 
 But he nebber come back no mo' : 
 
 We heard dat he fall wid a ball in de breast 
 In front of de battle roar. 
 
618 
 
 THE PLANTATION. 
 
 He'd put his arms aroun' my neck, 
 An' say: "Mammy, I love you so;" 
 
 He did n't see no harm in dat, 
 
 Do' his Mammy was black an' po'. 
 
 Ole Missis died wid a broken heart 
 When de las' ob de boys was killed, 
 
 An' Massa bowed his head an' cried, 
 Dat his cup ob sorrow was filled. 
 
 An' yere I've sot awaitin' an' watchiu' 
 For de good time comin' no mo'. 
 
 An' I see ole Missis a callin' Mammy 
 Across from de odder sho'. 
 
 F. O. DeFoniaine. 
 
 THE SLAVE IN" THE DISMAL SWAMP. 
 
 In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 
 
 The hunted Wegro lay; 
 He saw the fire of the midnight camp. 
 
 
 And heard at times a horse's tramp 
 And a bloodhound's distant bay. 
 
 Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms 
 shine, 
 
 In bulrush and in brake; 
 Where waving mosses shroud the pine, 
 And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine 
 
 Is spotted like the snake; 
 
 Where hardly a human foot could pass. 
 
 Or a human heart would dare. 
 On the quaking turf of the green morass 
 He crouched in the rank and tangled grass. 
 Like a wild beast in his lair. 
 
 A poor old slave, infirm and lame; 
 
 Great scars deformed his face; 
 On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, 
 And the rags, that hid his mangled frame. 
 
 Were the livery of disgrace. 
 
 All things above were bright and fair, 
 
 All things were glad and free; 
 Lithe squirrels darted here and there. 
 And wild birds filled the echoing air 
 With songs of Liberty! 
 
 On him alone was the doom of pain. 
 
 From the morning of his birth; 
 On him alone the curse of Cain 
 Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain. 
 And struck him to the earth! 
 
 Henry Wadsworth LongfeUmu. 
 
THE WITCH m THE GLASS. 
 
 "My mother says I must not pass 
 
 Too near that glass; 
 She is afraid that I will see 
 A little witch that looks like me, 
 With a red, red mouth, to whisper low 
 The very thing I should not know!" 
 
 Alack for all your mother's care! 
 
 A bird of the air, 
 A wistful wind, or (I suppose 
 Sent by some hapless boy) a rose, 
 With breath too sweet, will whisper low 
 The very thing you should not know! 
 
 Sarah M. B. FiaU. 
 
 (521) 
 
622 
 
 MISGELLANEO US. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 Across the narrow, dusty street, 
 
 I see, at early dawn, 
 A little girl with glancing feet. 
 
 As agile as the fawn. 
 
 The week wears off, and Saturday, 
 
 A welcome day, I ween, 
 Gives time for girlish romp and play- 
 
 How glad my pet is seen! 
 
 An hour or so and forth she goes, 
 The school she hrightly seeks; 
 
 She carries in her hand a x'ose. 
 And two upon her cheeks. 
 
 But Sunday — in what satins great 
 Does she not then appear! 
 
 King Solomon, in all his state. 
 Wore no such pretty gear. 
 
 The sun mounts up the torrid sky- 
 The bell for dinner rings — 
 
 My little friend, with laughing eye 
 Comes gayly back and sings. 
 
 I fling her every day a kiss. 
 
 And one she flings to me; 
 I know not truly when it is 
 
 She prettiest may be. 
 
 John R. Thompson. 
 
 A HEALTH. 
 
 I FILL this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone ; 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon; 
 To whom the better elements 
 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A form so fair that, like the air, 
 
 'Tis less of earth than heaven. 
 
 Her every tone is music's own. 
 
 Like those of moiming birds. 
 And something more than melody 
 
 Dwells ever in her words; 
 The coinage of her heart are they. 
 
 And from her lips each flows. 
 As one may see the burdened bee 
 
 Forth issue from the rose. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her. 
 The measures of her hours; 
 
 Her feelings have the fragrancy. 
 The freshness of young flowers; 
 
 And lovely passions, changing oft. 
 
 So fill her, she appears 
 The image of themselves by turns, — 
 
 The idol of past years! 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace 
 
 A picture on the brain. 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts 
 
 A sound must long remain; 
 But memory, such as mine of her. 
 
 So very much endears, 
 "When death is nigh my latest sigh 
 
 "Will not be life's, but hers. 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon. 
 Her health ! and would on earth there stood 
 
 Some more of such a frame. 
 That life might be all poetry. 
 
 And weariness a name. 
 
 Edward CocUe Pinhney. 
 
MTSCELLANEO US. 
 
 523 
 
 MAY. 
 
 Has the old glory passed 
 
 From tender May — 
 That never the echoing blast 
 Of bugle horns merry, and fast 
 Dying away like the past, 
 
 Welcomes the day ? 
 
 Has the old Beauty gone 
 
 From, golden May — 
 That not any more at dawn 
 
 Over the flowery lawn, 
 Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, 
 Maids are at play? 
 
 Is the old freshness dead 
 
 Of the fairy May? — 
 
 Ah ! the sad tear-drops unshed ! 
 
 Ah! the young maidens unwed! 
 
 Golden locks — cheeks rosy red! 
 
 Ah! where are they? 
 
 John Esten Cooke. 
 
 A KISS FOR ELLIE. 
 
 A KISS for thee, Ellie! my heart-love, my A kiss for thee, Ellie! unmet and uu- 
 own ! seen ! 
 
 To thee in the "West-land, from me in the 
 
 South, 
 A kiss for thine eyes, and a kiss for thy 
 
 mouth ! 
 To thee in the West-land, from me in the 
 
 South. 
 
 Esmeralda Boyle. 
 
 Sweet rose in life's garden, but only half 
 
 blown ! — 
 A kiss for thee, Ellie ! my heart-love, my own ! 
 
 A kiss for thee, Ellie! unmet and nnseen! 
 Though rivers and prairies our paths lie 
 between, 
 
 AGIfES. 
 
 She has a tender, winning way. 
 And walks the earth with gentle grace. 
 
 And roses with the lily play 
 Amid the beauties of her face. 
 
 Whene'er she tunes her voice to sing. 
 The song-birds list, with anxious looks, 
 
 For it combines the notes of spring 
 With all the music of the brooks 
 
 Her merry laughter, soft and low. 
 Is as the chimes of silver bells. 
 
 That, like sweet anthems, float and flow 
 Through woodland groves and bosky dells. 
 
 And when the violets see her eyes, 
 They flush and glow with love and shame. 
 
 Then meekly droop with sad surprise. 
 As though unworthy of the name. 
 
 But still they bloom where'er she throws 
 Her dainty glance and smiles so sweet. 
 
 And e'en amid stern winter's snows 
 The daisies spring beneath her feet. 
 
 She wears a crown of Purity, 
 
 Full set with woman's brightest gem, — 
 A wreath of maiden modesty. 
 
 And Virtue is the diadem. 
 
 And when the pansies bloom again, 
 And spring and summer intertwine, 
 
 Great joys will fall on me like rain. 
 For she will be forever mine! 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
524 
 
 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 WHO HAS ROBBED THE OCEAN CAVE? 
 
 "Who has robbed the ocean cave, 
 
 To tinge thy lips with coral hue? 
 "Who, from India's distant wave. 
 
 For thee those pearly treasures drew? 
 Who, from yonder orient sky, 
 Stole the morning of thine eye? 
 
 Thousand charms thy form to deck, 
 
 From sea, and earth, and air are torn ; 
 Roses bloom upon thy cheek. 
 
 On thy breath their fragrance borne: 
 Guard thy bosom from the day. 
 Lest thy snows should melt away. 
 
 But one charm remains behind. 
 
 Which mute earth could ne'er impart; 
 Nor in ocean wilt thou find, 
 Nor in the circling air, a heart: 
 Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be, 
 Take, oh take that heart from me. 
 
 John Shaw. 
 
 WHO WAS IT? 
 
 I MET — when was it? Oh! between 
 
 The sunset and the morn 
 Of one indelible day as green 
 
 As memory's oldest born. 
 I met her where the grasses grow — 
 
 Away from tower and town — 
 Whose gypsy bonnet dipt the glow 
 
 Of chestnut isles of brown ! 
 
 I asked the rose to breathe her name; 
 
 She pouted and she said. 
 She could not speak of her who came 
 
 To pale her richest red. 
 I asked the lily, ripple-rimmed — 
 
 A flake-like curve of snow — 
 She sighed her glory had been dimmed 
 
 By one she did not know. 
 
MISGELLANEO US. 
 
 525 
 
 I stooped beside a tufted bed 
 Of leaflets moist with dew, 
 
 Where one sweet posy hung its head 
 Of deep, divinest blue; 
 
 And asked the violet if her power 
 Could reach that spell of flame. 
 
 She smiled, "I am her favorite flower, 
 And — Lizzie!. — is her name." 
 
 Augustus J. Requier. 
 
 SWEETHEART BIRD-SONG. 
 
 There is a little bird that sings — 
 
 « Sweetheart ! " 
 I know not what his name may be; 
 I only know his notes please me, 
 As loud he sings, and thus sings he — 
 
 " Sweetheart ! " 
 
 I've heard him sing on soft spring days — 
 
 " Sweetheart ! " 
 And when the sky was dark above. 
 And wintry winds had stripped the grove, 
 He still poured forth those words of love — 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 
 And, like that bird, my heart, too, sings — 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 When heaven is dark, or bright or blue. 
 When trees are bare, or leaves are new, 
 It thus sings on — and sings of you — 
 
 " Sweetheart ! " 
 
 What need of other words than these — 
 
 " Sweetheart ! " 
 If I should sing a whole 3'ear long, 
 My love would not be shown more strong 
 Than by this short and simple song — 
 
 "Sweetheart!" 
 
 William L. Shoemaker. 
 
526 
 
 MISOELLANEO US. 
 
 FLORENCE VANE. 
 
 I LOVED thee long and dearly, 
 
 Florence Vane; 
 My life's bright dream and early 
 
 Hath come again ; 
 I renew in my fond vision 
 
 My heart's dear pain, 
 My hopes and thy derision, 
 
 Florence Vane! 
 
 The ruin, lone and hoary, 
 The ruin old, 
 
 Where thou didst hark my story. 
 
 At even told, — 
 That spot, the hues elysian 
 
 Of sky and plain, 
 I treasure in my vision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
 
 In their prime; 
 Thy voice excelled the closes 
 
 Of sweetest rhyme; 
 Thy heart was as a river 
 
 Without a main, — 
 Would I had loved thee never, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 But fairest, coldest wonder! 
 
 Thy glorious clay 
 Lieth the green sod under; 
 
 Alas the day! 
 And it boots not to remember 
 
 Thy disdain. 
 To quicken love's pale ember, 
 
 Florence Vane! 
 
 The lilies of the valley 
 
 By young graves weep, 
 The daisies love to dally 
 
 Where maidens sleep: 
 May their bloom, in beauty vying, 
 
 Never wane 
 Where thine earthly part is lying, 
 
 Florence Vane! 
 
 Philip Pendleton Cooke. 
 
 TO A FAIR LADY. 
 
 Fairest ! mourn not for thy charms 
 Circled by no lover's arms. 
 While inferior belles you see 
 Pick up husbands merrily. 
 Sparrows, when they choose to pair. 
 Meet their matches anywhere; 
 
 But the Phoenix, sadly great. 
 Can not find an equal mate. 
 Earth, though dark, enjoys the honor 
 Of a moon to wait upon her; 
 Venus, though divinely bright, 
 Can not boast a satellite. 
 
 William Maxwell. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 527 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 These summer Sabbaths, 
 
 when the peaceful air -5-5^^ffl 
 Is sweet with incense of 
 
 the grateful earth, 
 And tremulous with the hum of insect S 
 mirth. 
 And voice of birds in song, instinct with --■^P " "5H 
 
 *'#l ll"*V 
 
 prayer, • . | -\ 
 
 Do fill our hearts with all we can of -si,^ . ^j,, 
 praise. 
 And bless, methinks, the outward life we 
 
 live; 
 Yet in that life we scruple not to give 
 To cares and lusts and idleness our days, 
 And think our God well worshiped if we 
 come, 
 At stated periods, to endure His house 
 And list His word. Oh ! heart-felt prayers 
 and vows, 
 
 Stern self-denial, toil to win our home. 
 His cross to bear, to kiss His chastening 
 
 rod — 
 These are to live, these are to worship 
 
 God! 
 
 William Gilmore Simms. 
 
528 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 TO NATUllE, MY MOTHER. 
 
 J^ATURE, powerful, smiling, calm, 
 
 To my unquiet heart, 
 Thy peace distilling as a balm, 
 
 Thy mighty life impart. 
 
 Nature, mother, still the same. 
 So lovely iiiild with me. 
 
 To live in peace, unsung by fame. 
 Unchanged I come to thee ; 
 
 1 come to live as saints have lived, 
 I fly where they have fled. 
 
 By men unholy never grieved, 
 lu prayer my teai's to shed. 
 
 Alone with thee, from cities far, 
 
 Dissolved each earthly tie; 
 By some divine magnetic star 
 
 Attracted still on high. 
 
 Oh! that my heart, inhaling love 
 
 And life with ecstasy, 
 From this low world to worlds above 
 
 Could rise exultingly ! AdHan Ri^iqvMte. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 529 
 
 WHAT SHE BROUGHT AlE. 
 
 This faded flower that you see 
 
 Was given me, a year ago, 
 By one whose little dainty hand 
 
 Is whiter than the snow. 
 
 Her eyes are blue as violets, 
 And she's a blonde, and very fair, 
 
 And sunset-tints are not so bright 
 As is her golden hair. 
 
 And there are roses in her cheeks 
 That come and go like living things; 
 
 Her voice is softer than the brook's 
 That flows from hidden springs. 
 
 She gave it me with downcast eyes. 
 And rosy flushes of the cheek, 
 
 That told of tender thoughts her tongue 
 Had never learned to speak. 
 
 The fitting words had just been said. 
 And she was mine as long as life; 
 
 I gently laid the flower aside. 
 And kisfeed my blushing wife. 
 
 She took it up, with earnest look, 
 And said, "Oh, prize the flower," — 
 
 And tender tears were in her eyes, — 
 "It is my only dower." 
 
 She brought me Faith, and Hope, and Truth, 
 She brought me gentle thoughts and love, 
 
 A soul as pure as those that float 
 Around the throne above. 
 
 But earthly things she nothing had, 
 Except this faded flower you see; 
 
 And though 'tis worthless in your eyes, 
 'Tis very dear to me. 
 
 Henry Lynden Flash. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 My life is like the summer rose, 
 That opens to the morning sky. 
 But, ere the shades of evening close, 
 Is scattered on the ground — to die! 
 
 Yet on the rose's humble bed 
 The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
 As if she wept the waste to see, — 
 But none shall weep a tear for me! 
 
530 
 
 MISCELL ANEO VS. 
 
 My life is like tlie autumn leaf 
 That trembles in the moon's pale ray; 
 Its hold is frail, — its date is brief, 
 liestless, and soon to pass away! 
 Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 
 The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
 The winds bewail the leafless tree, — 
 But none shall breathe a sigh for me! 
 
 My life is like the prints which feet 
 Have left on Tampa's desert strand; 
 Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
 All trace will vanish from the sand; 
 Yet, as if grieving to eftace 
 All vestige of the human race. 
 On that lone shore loud moans the sea, — 
 But none, alas! shall mourn for me! 
 
 Richard Henry Wilde. 
 
 A Y^EAR'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 I SAW her, Harry, first, in March — 
 
 You know the street that leadeth down 
 
 By the old bridge's crumbling arch? — 
 Just where it leaves the dusty town. 
 
 A lonely house stands grim and dark — 
 You've seen it? then I need not say 
 
 How quaint the place is — did you mark 
 An ivied window? well, one day, 
 
 I, chasing some forgotten dream, 
 
 And in a poet's idlest mood. 
 Caught, as I passed, a white hand's gleam — 
 
 A shutter opened — there she stood 
 
 Training the ivy to its prop. 
 
 Two dark eyes and a brow of snow 
 Flashed down upon me — did I stop? 
 
 She says I did — I do not know. 
 
 But all that day did something glow 
 
 Just where the heart beats ; frail and slight, 
 
 A germ had slipped its sliell, and now 
 Was pushing softly for the light. 
 
 And April saw me at her feet, 
 
 Dear month of sunshine and of rain ! 
 
 My very fears wore sometimes sweet. 
 And hope was often touched with pain. 
 
 For she was frank, and she was coy, 
 
 A willful April in her ways; 
 And in a dream of doubtful jny 
 
 I passed some truly April days. 
 
 May came, and on that arch, sweet mouth 
 The smile was graver in its play. 
 
 And, softening with the softening South, 
 My April melted into May. 
 
 She loved me, yet my heart would doubt. 
 And ere I spoke the month was June — 
 
 One warm still night we wandered out 
 To watch the slowly-setting moon. 
 
 Something which I saw not — my ej'es 
 Were not on heaven — a star, perchance. 
 
 Or some bright drapery of the skies, 
 Had caught her earnest upper glance. 
 
 And as she paused — Hal, we have played 
 
 Upon the very spot — a fir 
 Just touched me with its dreamy shade. 
 
 But the full moonlight fell on her: 
 
 And as she paused — I know not why — 
 I longed to speak, yet could not speak ; 
 
 The bashful are the boldest — I — 
 
 I stooped and gently kissed her cheek. 
 
 A murmur (else some fragrant air 
 
 Stirred softly) and the faintest start — 
 
 O Hal! we were the happiest pair! 
 O Hal! I clasped her heart to heart! 
 
 And kissed away some tears that gushed: 
 But how she trembled, timid dove, 
 
 When my soul broke its silence, flushed 
 With a whole burning June of love. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 531 
 
 Since then a happy year hath sped 
 
 Through months that seemed all June 
 and May, 
 
 And soon a March sun overhead 
 Will usher in the crowning day. 
 
 Twelve hlessed jnoons have seemed to 
 glow 
 All summer, Hal, — my peerless Kate! 
 
 She is the dearest "Angel?" — no! 
 
 Thank God! — but you shall see her — 
 wait. 
 
 So all is told ! I count on thee 
 
 To see the priest, Hal. Pass the wine! 
 
 Here's to my darling wife to be! 
 
 And here's to — when thou find'st her — 
 thine ! 
 
 Henry Timrod. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide. 
 
 And borne the rich one's sneer, — 
 Have braved the haughty glance of pride, 
 
 l^Tor shed a single tear; 
 1 could have smiled on every blow 
 
 From life's full quiver thrown, 
 While I might gaze on thee, and know 
 
 I should not be alone. 
 
 But thus to see from day to day 
 
 Thy brightening eye and cheek. 
 And watch thy life-sands waste away. 
 
 Unnumbered, slow, and meek; 
 To meet thy smiles of tenderness, 
 
 And catch the feeble tone 
 Of kindness, ever breathed to bless. 
 
 And feel I'll be alone; 
 
 I could — I think I could — have brooked. 
 
 E'en for a time, that thou 
 Upon my fading face hadst looked 
 
 With less of love than now; 
 For then I should at least have felt 
 
 The sweet hope still my own 
 To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt 
 
 On earth, not been alone. 
 
 To mark thy strength each hour decay. 
 
 And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 
 As, filled with heavenward trust, they say 
 
 Earth may not claim thee longer; 
 Nay, dearest, 'tis too much — this heart 
 
 Must break when thou art gone; 
 It must not be; we must not part; 
 
 I could not live alone. 
 
 Anna Peyre Diiinies. 
 
 A COMMOIf THOUGHT. 
 
 Somewhere on this earthly planet. 
 In the dust of flowers to be. 
 
 In the dew-drop, in the sunshine. 
 Sleeps a solemn day for me. 
 
 In a dim and musky chamber, 
 I am breathing life away; 
 
 Some one draws a curtain softly, 
 And I watch the broadening day. 
 
 At this wakeful hour of midnight 
 
 I behold it dawn in mist. 
 And I hear a sound of sobbing 
 
 Through the darkness — hist! oh hist! 
 
 As it purples in the zenith. 
 As it brightens on the lawn; 
 
 There's a hush of death about me, 
 And a whisper, "He is gone." 
 
 Henri/ Timrod. 
 
532 
 
 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 THE SHADED WATER. 
 
 When that my mood is sad, and in the noise 
 And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke, 
 
 I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys 
 And sit me down beside this little brook; 
 
 The waters have a music to mine ear 
 
 It glads me much to hear. 
 
 It is a quiet glen, as you may see, 
 
 Shut in from all intrusion by the trees. 
 That spread their giant branches, broad and 
 free. 
 The silent growth of many centuries; 
 And make a hallowed time for hapless 
 
 moods, 
 A sabbath of the woods. 
 
 Few know its quiet shelter, — none, like me, 
 Do seek it out with such a fond desire, 
 Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree. 
 And listening as the voiceless leaves re- 
 spire, — 
 When the far-traveling breeze, done wan- 
 dering, 
 Rests here his weary wing. 
 
 And all the day, with fancies ever new. 
 And sweet companions from their bound- 
 less store. 
 
 Of merry elves bespangled all with dew, 
 Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore. 
 
 Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, 
 
 I fling the hours away. 
 
 A gi-acious couch — the root of an old oak 
 Whose branches yield it moss and canopy — 
 
 Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke 
 Secure, shall never be resigned by me; 
 
 It hangs above the stream that idly flies, 
 
 Heedless of any eyes. 
 
 There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward 
 bent. 
 Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour. 
 
 While every sense on earnest mission sent, 
 Returns, thought-laden, back with bloom 
 
 and flower; 
 Pursuing, though rebuked by those who 
 
 moil, 
 A profitable toil. 
 
 And still the waters, trickling at my feet, 
 Wind on their way with gentlest melody. 
 Yielding sweet music, which the leaves 
 repeat, 
 Above them, to the gay breeze gliding 
 by,— 
 Yet not so rudely as to send one sound 
 Through the thick copse around. 
 
 Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the 
 rest 
 Hangs o'er the archway opening through 
 the trees. 
 Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, 
 pressed 
 On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries, — ■ 
 And with awakened vision upward bent, 
 I watch the firmament. 
 
 How like its sure and undisturbed retreat — 
 Life's sanctuary at last, secure from 
 storm — 
 To the pure waters trickling at my feet, 
 The bending trees that overshade my 
 form! 
 So far as sweetest things of earth may seem 
 Like those of which we dream. 
 
 Such, to my mind, is the philosophy 
 The young bird teaches, who, with sudden 
 flight. 
 
 Sails far into the blue that spreads on high. 
 Until I lose him from my straining sight, — 
 
 With a most lofty discontent to fly 
 
 Upward, from earth to sky. 
 
 William Oilmore Simms. 
 
"It is a quiet glen, as you may see." 
 
MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 535 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD. 
 
 The wind blew wide the casement, and 
 
 within — 
 It was the loveliest picture! — a sweet child 
 Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life, 
 In pauses, from the fountain, — the white 
 
 round 
 Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark. 
 Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm 
 Of so much rapture, as green shadowing 
 
 trees 
 With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red 
 
 lips 
 Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast 
 Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the 
 
 flower. 
 Wore the same color, rich and warm and 
 
 fresh : — 
 And such alone are beautiful. Its eye, 
 A full blue gem, most exquisitely set, 
 
 Looked archly on its world, — the little imp. 
 As if it knew even then that such a wreath 
 Were not for all; and with its playful hands 
 It drew aside the robe that hid its realm. 
 And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid 
 Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys, 
 And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, 
 
 the tears 
 Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek, — 
 Tears such as fall from April skies, and 
 
 bring 
 The sunlight after. They were tears of joy; 
 And the true heart of that young mother 
 
 then 
 Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously 
 The silliest ballad-song that ever yet 
 Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought 
 
 sleep 
 To fold her sabbath wings above its couch. 
 
 William Oilmore Simms. 
 
 FOREST QUIET. 
 
 So DEEP this sylvan silence, strange and 
 
 sweet, 
 Its dryad-guardian, virginal Peace, can 
 
 hear 
 The pulses of her own pure bosom beat; 
 
 Thrills to the airy elements' subtlest breath; 
 Such marvelous stillness almost broods like 
 
 pain 
 O'er the hushed sense, holding dim hints 
 
 of death ! 
 
 And her Ioav voice echoed by elfin rills. 
 And far-off forest fountains, sparkling 
 
 clear 
 'Mid haunted hollows of the hoary hills; 
 
 No breeze, nor wraith of any breeze that 
 blows. 
 
 Stirs the charmed calm; not even yon gos- 
 samer-chain. 
 
 Dew-born, and swung 'twixt violet and 
 wild rose. 
 
 What shadows of sound survive, the waves 
 
 far sigh, 
 Drowsed cricket's chirp, or mock-bird's 
 
 croon in sleep. 
 But touch this sacred, soft tranquillity 
 
 To yet diviner quiet; the fair land 
 
 Breathes like an infant lulled from deep to 
 
 deep 
 
 Of dreamless rest on some wave-whispering 
 
 strand ! 
 
 Paul Hamilton Sayne. 
 
536 
 
 MIS CELL A NEO US. 
 
 NOOK 
 
 Over the farm is brooding silence now, — 
 
 No reaper's song, no raven's clangor harsh, 
 
 No Meat of sheep, no . distant low of cow, 
 
 No croak of frogs within the spreading 
 
 marsh, 
 
 No bragging cock from littered farm-yard 
 
 crows, — 
 The scene is steeped in silence and repose. 
 
 A trembling haze hangs over all the fields, — 
 
 The panting cattle in the river stand, 
 Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce 
 yields. 
 It seems a Sabbath through the drowsy 
 land; 
 So hushed is all beneath the Summer's spell, 
 I pause and listen for some faint church bell. 
 
 The leaves are motionless, the song-birds 
 mute ; 
 The very air seems somnolent and sick: 
 The spreading branches with o"er-ripened 
 fruit 
 Show in the sunshine all their clusters 
 thick, 
 While now and then a mellow apple falls 
 With a dull thud within the orchard's walls. 
 
 The sky has but one solitary cloud. 
 Like a dark island in a sea of light; 
 
 The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows 
 plowed 
 Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight, 
 
 While over yonder road a dusty haze 
 
 Grows luminous beneath the sun's fierce blaze. 
 
 James Barron Hope. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 637 
 
 THE REAPEE. 
 
 How still earth lies! — behind the pines 
 The summer clouds sink slowly down, 
 
 The sunset gilds the higher hills 
 And distant steeples of the town. 
 
 Refreshed and moist the meadow spreads, 
 Birds sing from out the dipping leaves 
 
 And standing in the breast-high corn 
 I see the farmer bind his sheaves. 
 
 It was when on the fallow fields 
 The heavy frosts of winter lay, 
 
 A rustic, with unsparing hand, 
 Strewed seed along the furrowed way. 
 
 And I, too, walking through the waste 
 And wintry hours of the past. 
 
 Have in the furrows made by griefs 
 The seeds of future harvests cast: 
 
 Rewarded well, if — when the world 
 Grows dimmer in the ebbing light. 
 
 And all the valley lies in shade. 
 
 But sunset glimmers on the height — 
 
 Down in the meadows of the heart 
 The birds sing out a last refrain, 
 
 And ready garnered for the mart 
 I see the ripe and golden grain. 
 
 James M. Legare. 
 
 MY WIFE AND CHILD. 
 
 The tattoo beats; the lights are gone; 
 
 The camp around in slumber lies ; 
 The night with solemn pace moves on; 
 
 The shadows thicken o'er the skies; 
 But sleep my weary eyes hath flown. 
 
 And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. 
 
 I think of thee, oh dearest one! 
 
 Whose love my early life hath blest: 
 Of thee and him — our baby son — 
 
 Who slumbers on thy gentle breast. 
 Grod of the tender, frail and lone. 
 
 Oh! guard that little sleeper's rest! 
 
 And hover, gently hover near 
 To her whose watchful eye is wet — 
 
 The mother-wife, the doubly dear. 
 In whose young heart have freshly met 
 
 Two streams of love so deep and clear, 
 And cheer her drooping spirit yet. 
 
 Now, as she kneels before thy throne. 
 
 Oh! teach her, Ruler of the skies,- 
 That, while by thy behest alone 
 
 Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise, 
 No tear is wept to thee unknown. 
 No hair is lost, no sparrow dies; 
 
 That Thou canst stay the ruthless hand 
 Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; 
 
 That only by Thy stern command 
 The battle's lost, the soldier's slain; 
 
 That from the distant sea or land 
 
 Thou bring'st the wanderer home again. 
 
 And when upon her pillow lone 
 
 Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, 
 
 May happier visions beam upon 
 
 The brightening currents of her breast; 
 
 Nor frowning look, nor angry tone 
 Disturb the Sabbath of her rest. 
 
 Wherever fate those forms may throw, 
 Loved with a passion almost wild, 
 
 By day, by night, in joy or woe, 
 
 By fears oppressed or hopes beguiled; 
 
 From every danger, every foe, 
 
 God! protect my wife and child! 
 
 Henry R. Jackson. 
 
538 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 Days of my youth, ye have glided away: 
 Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray: 
 Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no 
 
 more: 
 Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all 
 
 o'er: 
 Strength of my youth, all your vigor is 
 
 gone: 
 Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions 
 
 are flown. 
 
 Days of my youth, I wish not your recall: 
 Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should 
 
 fall: 
 Eyes of my youth, you much evil have 
 
 seen: 
 
 Cheeks of my youth,' 'bathed in tears you 
 
 have been: 
 Thoughts of my youth, you have led me 
 
 astray : 
 Strength of my youth, why lament your 
 
 decay ? 
 
 Days of my age, ye will shortly be past: 
 Pains of my age, yet awhile you can 
 
 last: 
 Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight: 
 Eyes of my age, be religion your light: 
 Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold 
 
 sod: 
 Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your 
 
 God. 
 
 SL. George Tucker. 
 
 SAME SICKllil'ESS. 
 
 My mountains curve against the sky, 
 A line of beauty pure and true. 
 Beyond what English Hogarth drew; 
 And yet I watch with half a sigh 
 Their changing lights, and wonder why 
 I weary of their depth of blue. 
 
 The sheen of window-panes, that catch 
 
 The glint recurrent morning's trace 
 
 On yonder hill-side dwelling-place. 
 
 So irksome grows, I'm fain to snatch 
 
 My vision from the square bright patch 
 
 That always stares me in the face. 
 
 No greener valley, forest-walled. 
 
 This land of hill and dale can show: 
 Thro' Summer's shine, thro' Winter's snow. 
 
 Its loveliness has never palled 
 
 [Jpon the senses it enthralled. 
 Till now; — and now it tires me so! 
 
 And yet the mountains have not lost 
 One grace out of their splendid line; 
 And yet the valley forests shine 
 
 More brilliant through the jeweled frost; 
 
 And yet the stream has never tossed 
 Back flashes that were more divine. 
 
 What rippling river ever ran 
 More like a river iu a dream. 
 Than this, whose sliding waters gleam, 
 
 Beneath the bridge's airy span. 
 
 As silverly as waters can? 
 
 And yet, to-day, how dull they seem! 
 
 My eye is just as clear to note 
 
 Nature's processions, great and small, — 
 These oaks whose leaves refuse to fall — 
 That meadow where the shadows float: 
 But then — I've learned the scene by rote, 
 And spoiled the meaning of it all. 
 
 Margaret J. Preston. 
 
MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 539 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 The flush of sulibet dies 
 Far on ancestral trees: 
 On the bright-booted bees: 
 On cattle-dotting leas! 
 
 And a mist is in my eyes — 
 For in a stranger land 
 Halts the quick-running sand, 
 Shaken by no dear hand! 
 
 How plain is the flowering grass — 
 
 The sunset-flooded door; 
 
 I hear the river's roar 
 
 Say clearly "Nevermore;" 
 I see the cloud-shadows pass 
 
 Over my mountain meres; 
 
 Gone are the rose-bright years: 
 
 Drowned in a sea of tears. 
 
 John Esten Cooke. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea. 
 That a maiden lived, whom you may know 
 
 By the name of Annabel Lee; 
 And this maiden she lived with no other 
 thought 
 
 Than to love, and be loved by me. 
 
 I was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea; 
 But we loved with a love that was more 
 than love, 
 I and my Annabel Lee — 
 With a love that the wingSd seraphs of 
 heaven 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago. 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 
 So that her high-born kinsman came. 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulcher 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not so happy in heaven. 
 
 Went envying her and me. 
 Yes! that was the reason (as all men 
 know), 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 The wind came out of a cloud by night. 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than 
 the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we. 
 
 Of many far wiser than we; 
 And neither the angels in heaven above. 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
540 
 
 MISGELLANEO US. 
 
 For the moon never beams without bringing 
 me dreams 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the 
 bright eyes 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 And so, all the night-tide I lie down by 
 
 the side 
 Of my darling, my dai'ling, my life, and 
 my bride, 
 In her sepulcher there by the sea. 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 Edgar Allan Foe. 
 
 THE CHILDREN THAT ARE ITOT. 
 
 The childi'eu — the children that are not! 
 
 Ah, why 
 From the ends of the earth swells that 
 
 desolate cry? 
 Has the dull earth a glory, the bright skies 
 
 a gloom, 
 That a wail should arise at the gates of 
 
 the tomb? 
 
 Ah! deem ye the sparrow its pathway may 
 
 hold. 
 Yet a lamb of Christ's love be lost from 
 
 his fold? 
 That the diamond's sparkle should never 
 
 burn dim, 
 
 Yet a spirit be quenched that was kindled 
 by Him ? 
 
 Are the husbandman's tears with his toil 
 
 in vain? 
 From the scattered seed shall there spring 
 
 no grain? 
 Hath the chrysalis wings as its shroud is 
 
 wound ? 
 Hath the violet breath in the dull cold 
 
 ground? 
 
 Yea! bless ye God, as ye bend above 
 The broken lilies of tears and love, — 
 That not without witness the hope was given 
 That a little child should be first in Heaven. 
 
 Frank 0. Tickner. 
 
MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 541 
 
 BEJSr BOLT. 
 
 Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? 
 
 Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, 
 Who wept with delight when you gave her 
 a smile. 
 And trembled with fear at your frown ? 
 In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben 
 Bolt, 
 In a corner obscure and alone. 
 They have fitted a slab of the granite so 
 gray, 
 And Alice lies under the stone. 
 
 Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 
 
 "Which stood at the foot of the hill. 
 Together we've lain in the noonday shade, 
 
 And listened to Appleton's mill: 
 The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The rafters have tumbled in, 
 And a quiet which crawls round the walls 
 as you gaze 
 
 Has followed the olden din. 
 
 Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 
 At the edge of the pathless wood, 
 
 And the button-ball tree with its motley 
 limbs. 
 Which nigh by the door-step stood? 
 
 The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, 
 The tree you would seek in vain; 
 
 And where once the lords of the forest waved, 
 Grows grass and the golden grain. 
 
 And do n't you remember the school, Ben 
 Bolt, 
 
 With the master so cruel and grim, 
 And the shaded nook in the running brook. 
 
 Where the children went to swim? 
 Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The spring of the brook is diy, 
 And of all the boys who were school-mates 
 then. 
 
 There are only you and I. 
 
 There is change in the things I loved, Ben 
 Bolt, 
 Tliey have changed from the old to the 
 new; 
 But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth, 
 
 There never was change in you. 
 Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Since first we were friends — yet I hail 
 Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a 
 truth, 
 Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale. 
 
 Thomas Dunn English. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 There is a sound in all the land 
 
 Of the wind and the falling rain, 
 And a wild sea breaking on dead white sand 
 
 With a desolate cry of pain. 
 As if its mighty and terrible heart 
 
 Were heaved with a human pain. 
 I stand alone with the wind and rain. 
 
 As many a poet hath stood, 
 Soul-lit with the beautiful inner light. 
 
 And a sense of a higher good, 
 
 But feeling, because of the world, as if 
 
 My life were written in blood; 
 And my soul keeps sobbing a sorrowful song. 
 
 Like a brook in an autumn wood. 
 Blow wind! blow wind! fall, desolate rain, 
 
 And cry, oh, sorrowful sea! 
 To the dumb, dead sand thy merciless pain, 
 
 For such has my heart for me. 
 Pitiless! pitiless! homeless and pitiless! 
 
 Such is the world to me. 
 
 Emma Alice Broiene. 
 
542 
 
 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 ASPECTS OF THE PINES. 
 
 Tall, somber, grim, against the morning sky 
 They rise, scarce touched by melancholy 
 airs 
 
 Which stir the fadeless foliage dreamfully, 
 As if from realms of mystical despairs. 
 
 Tall, somber, grim, they stand with dusky 
 gleams 
 Brightening to gold within the woodland's 
 coi'e, 
 Beneath the gracious noontide's tranquil 
 beams. 
 But the weird winds of morning sigh no 
 more. 
 
 A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable, 
 
 Broods round and o'er them in the wind's 
 surcease, 
 
 And on each tinted copse and shimmering dell 
 Kests the mute rapture of deep-hearted 
 peace. 
 
 Last, sunset comes, — the solemn joy and 
 misrht 
 Borne from the west when cloudless day 
 declines, — 
 Low, flute-like breezes sweep the waves of 
 light. 
 And lifting dark green tresses of the pines, 
 
 Till every lock is luminous — gently float, 
 Fraught with hale odors up the heavens 
 afar, 
 To faint when Twilight on her virginal 
 throat 
 Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper star. 
 
 PaiU Hamilton Hayne. 
 
 UNKlfOWN. 
 
 The prints of feet are worn away, 
 No more the mourners come ; 
 
 The voice of wail is mute to-day 
 As his whose life is dumb. 
 
 The world is bright with other bloom; 
 Shall the sweet summer shed 
 
 Its living radiance on the tomb 
 That shrouds the doubly dead? 
 
 Unknown! Beneath our Father's face 
 
 The starlit hillocks he; — 
 Another rose-bud! lest His grace 
 
 Forget us when we die! 
 
 Frank 0. Ticlcner. 
 
MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 543 
 
 LOVE'S AUTUMN. 
 
 I WOULD not lose a single silver ray 
 
 Of those white locks which, like a milky way, 
 
 Streak the dusk midnight of thy raven hair; 
 
 I would not lose, Sweet ! the misty shine 
 Of those half-saddened, thoughtful eyes of 
 
 thine, 
 Whence love looks forth, touched by the 
 
 shade of care; 
 
 I would not miss the droop of thy dear 
 
 mouth, 
 The lips less dewy red than when the south — 
 The young south- wind of passion — sighed 
 
 o'er them ; 
 
 I would not miss each delicate flower that 
 
 blows 
 On thy wan cheek, like soft September's 
 
 rose 
 Blushing but faintly on its faltering stem; 
 
 I would not miss the air of chastened grace. 
 Which, breathed divinely from thy patient 
 
 face. 
 Tells of love's watchful anguish, merged in 
 
 rest. 
 
 Naught would I lose of all thou hast, or art, 
 friend supreme ! whose constant, stainless 
 
 heart 
 Doth house, unknowing, many an angel 
 
 guest. 
 
 Their presence keeps thy spiritual chambers 
 
 pure ; 
 While the flesh fails, strong love grows 
 
 more and more 
 Divinely beautiful, with perished years. 
 
 Thus, at each slow, but surely deepening 
 
 sign 
 Of life's decay, we will not, Sweet, repine. 
 Nor greet its mellowing close with thank- 
 less tears. 
 
 Love's Spring was fair, love's Summer brave 
 
 and bland. 
 But through love's Autumn mist I view the 
 
 land — 
 The land of deathless Summers yet to be; 
 
 There I behold thee young again, and bright, 
 In a great flood of rare, transfiguring light; 
 But there, as here, thou sniilest. Love, on me ! 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne. 
 
 BENNY. 
 
 I HAD told him, Christmas morning. 
 
 As he sat upon my knee. 
 Holding fast hig little stockings, 
 
 Stufted as full as full could be. 
 And attentive, listening to me. 
 
 With a face deoiure and mild. 
 That old Santa Glaus, who filled them, 
 
 Did not love a naughty child. 
 
 ''But we'll be good, won't we, moder?" 
 And fi'om oft" my lap he slid. 
 
 Digging deep among the goodies 
 In his crimson stockings hid. 
 
 While I turned me to my table. 
 Where a tempting goblet stood. 
 
 With a dainty drink brimmed over, 
 Sent me by a neighbor good. 
 
 But the kitten, there before me. 
 
 With his white paw, nothing loath. 
 Sat, by way of entertainment. 
 
 Slapping oft' the shining froth; 
 And in not the gentlest humor 
 
 At the loss of such a treat, 
 I confess, I rather rudely. 
 
 Thrust him out into the street. 
 
544 
 
 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 Then how Benny's blue eyes kindled! 
 
 Gathering np the precious store 
 tie had busily been pouring 
 
 In his tiny pinafore, 
 With a generous look that shamed me, 
 
 Sprang he from the carpet bright, 
 Showing, by his mien indignant, 
 
 All a baby's sense of right. 
 
 " Come back, Harney," called he loudly. 
 
 As he held his apron white, 
 "You shall have my candy wabbit"; 
 
 But the door was fastened tight. 
 So he stood, abashed and silent, 
 
 In the center of the floor, 
 With defeated look alternate 
 
 Bent- on me and on the door. 
 
 Then, as by some sudden impulse, 
 
 Quickly ran he to the fire, 
 And while eagerly his bright eyes 
 
 Watched the flames go high and higher. 
 In a brave, clear key, he shouted, 
 
 Like some lordly little elf, 
 "Santa Caus, come down de chinney. 
 
 Make my moder 'have herself." 
 
 "I will be a good girl, Benny," 
 
 Said I, feeling the reproof; 
 And straightway recalled poor Harney, 
 
 Mewing on the gallery roof. 
 Soon the anger was forgotten. 
 
 Laughter chased away the frown. 
 And they gamboled 'neath the live-oaks 
 
 Till the dusky night came down. 
 
 In my dim, tire-lighted chamber 
 
 Harney purred beneath my chair. 
 And my pi ay- worn boy beside me 
 
 Knelt to say his evening prayer: 
 " God bess fader, God bess moder, 
 
 God bess sister," — then a pause, 
 And the sweet young lips devoutly 
 
 Murmured, " God bess Santa Caus." 
 
 He is sleeping; brown and silken 
 Lie the lashes, long and meek. 
 
 Like caressing, clinging shadows 
 On his plump and peachy cheek; 
 
 And I bend above him, weeping 
 Thankful tears, Undefiled! 
 
 For a woman's crown of glory. 
 
 For the blessing of a child. 
 
 Annie C. Ketchum. 
 
 LIFE IN THE AUTTJMJSr WOODS. 
 
 Summer has gone. 
 And fruitful autumn has advanced so far 
 That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad 
 
 sun. 
 And you may look, with naked eye, upon 
 
 the ardors of his car; 
 The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks 
 embolden, 
 Are making the green leaves golden. 
 
 What a brave splendor 
 Is in the October air! How rich, and clear. 
 And bracing, and all-joyous! we must ren- 
 der 
 Love to the spring-time, with its sproutings 
 tender. 
 
 As to a child quite dear; 
 But autumn is a thing of perfect glory, 
 A manhood not yet hoary. 
 
 I love the woods 
 In this good season of the liberal year; 
 I love to seek their leafy solitudes. 
 And give myself to melancholy moods, 
 
 With no intruder near. 
 And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder. 
 
 In every natural wonder. 
 
 But not alone, 
 As Shakespeare's sensive courtier loved 
 
 Ardennes, 
 Love I the browning forest; and I own 
 
MISCELLA NEO US. 
 
 545 
 
 I would not oft have mused, as he, but 
 flown 
 To hunt with Amiens — 
 And little thought, as up the bold deer 
 bounded. 
 Of the sad creature wounded. 
 
 A brave and good, 
 But world-worn knight - 
 his part 
 
 -soul-wearied with 
 
 In this vext life — gave man for solitude, 
 And built a lodge, and lived in Wantley 
 wood, 
 
 To hear the belling hart. 
 It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness 
 
 Yields to the Hunter's madness. 
 
 What passionate 
 And keen delight is in the proud swift chase! 
 Go out what time the lark at heaven's red rate 
 
 Soars joyously singing — quite infuriate 
 With the high pride of his place; 
 
 What time the unrisen sun arrays the 
 morning 
 In its first bright adorning. 
 
 Hark! the quick horn — 
 As sweet to hear as any clarion — 
 Piercing with silver call the ear of morn; 
 And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and 
 Topthorne 
 
 And G-reysteil and the Don — 
 
 Each one of them his fiery mood displaying 
 With pawing and with neighing. 
 
 Urge your swift horse. 
 After the crying hounds in this fresh hour, 
 Vanquish high hills — stem perilous streams 
 
 perforce. 
 On the free plain give free wings to your 
 course. 
 And you will know the power 
 Of the brave chase — and how of griefs the 
 A cure is in the forest. [sorest 
 
546 
 
 3nSCELLANE0US. 
 
 Or stalk the deer; 
 The same red Hp of dawn has kissed the 
 
 hills, 
 The gladdest sounds are crowding on your 
 
 ear, 
 There is a life in all the atmosphere: — 
 
 Your very nature fills 
 "With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring 
 You climb with limbs untiring. 
 
 It is a fair 
 And goodly sight to see the antlered stag, 
 "With the long sweep of his swift walk, repair 
 To join his brothers; or the plethoric bear 
 
 Lying on some high crag, 
 "With pinky eyes half closed, but broad head 
 shaking. 
 
 As gad-flies keep him waking. 
 
 And these you see, 
 And seeing them, you travel to their death 
 With a slow stealthy step, from tree to tree, 
 Woting the wind however faint it be. 
 
 The hunter draws a breath 
 In times like these, which, he will say, 
 repays him 
 
 For all care that waylays him. 
 
 A strong joy fills 
 (A joy beyond the tongue's expressive power) 
 My heart in autumn weather — fills and 
 
 thrills ! 
 And I would rather stalk the breezy hills. 
 
 Descending to my bower 
 Nightly, by the sweet spirit of Peace at- 
 tended. 
 Than pine where life is splendid. 
 
 Philip Pendleton Cooke. 
 
 CREDO. 
 
 I BELIEVE if I should die. 
 And you should kiss my ej^elids when I lie 
 Cold, dead and dumb to all the woi'ld 
 contains. 
 The folded orbs would open at thy breath, 
 And from its exile in the isles of death 
 Life would come gladly back along my 
 veins! 
 
 I believe if I were dead. 
 And you upon my lifeless heart should tread, 
 Not knowing what the poor clod chanced 
 to be. 
 It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch 
 Of him it ever loved in life so much. 
 And throb again, warm, tender, true to 
 thee. 
 
 I believe if on m^;- grave. 
 Hidden in woody deeps or by the wave. 
 Your eyes should drop some warm tears 
 of regret. 
 
 From every salty seed of your dear grief. 
 Some fair, sweet blossom would leap into leaf, 
 To prove death could not make my love 
 forget ! 
 
 I believe if I should fade 
 Into those mystic realms where light is made, 
 And you should long once more my face 
 to see, 
 I would come forth upon the hills of night, 
 And gather stars, like fagots, till thy sight, 
 Led by their beacon blaze, fell full on 
 me! 
 
 I believe my faith in thee. 
 Strong as my life, so nobly placed to be, 
 I would as soon expect to see the sun 
 Fall like a dead king from his height sub- 
 lime. 
 His glory stricken from the throne of time. 
 As thee unworth the worship thou hast 
 won. 
 
MISGELLANEO US. 
 
 54^ 
 
 I believe who hath not loved 
 Hath half the sweetness of his life unproved; 
 Like one who, with the grape within his 
 grasp, 
 Drops it with all its crimson juice uupressed, 
 And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed. 
 Out from his careless and unheeding 
 clasp. 
 
 I believe love, pure and true, 
 
 Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew 
 
 That gems life's petals in its hours of 
 dusk — 
 The waiting angels see and recognize 
 The rich crown jewel, love, of Paradise, 
 
 When life falls from us like a withered 
 
 husk. 
 
 3Iary Ashley Townsend. 
 
 A NOVEMBER NOCTUENE. 
 
 The autumn air sweeps faint and chill 
 Across the maple-crested hill, 
 
 And on my ear 
 
 Falls, tingling clear, 
 A strange mysterious woodland thrill. 
 
 From outmost twig, from scarlet crown, 
 Untouched with yet a tint of brown. 
 
 Reluctant, slow. 
 
 As loath to go. 
 The loosened leaves come wavering down. 
 
 And not a hectic trembler there, 
 In its decadence, doomed to share 
 
 The fate of all, 
 
 But in its fall 
 Flings something sob-like on the air. 
 
 No drift nor dream of passing bell, 
 Dying afar in dusky dell, 
 Hath any heard 
 
 Whose chimes have stirred 
 A tenderer pathos of farewell. 
 
 A silent shiver, as of pain. 
 Goes quivering thro' each sapless 
 vein. 
 
 And there are moans 
 
 Whose undertones 
 Are sad as autumn midnight rain. 
 
 Ah, if without a dirge-like sigh 
 No lightest-clinging leaf can die. 
 
 Let him who saith 
 
 Decay and death 
 Should bring no heart-break, tell me why. 
 
 Each gravestone gives the answer: There, 
 I read Resurgam everywhere: 
 
 So easy said 
 
 Above the dead — 
 So weak to anodyne despair! 
 
 Margaret J. Preston. 
 
 SONG OF THE RIVER. 
 
 A RIVER went singing, adown to the sea, 
 
 A-singing — low — singing — 
 And the dim rippling river said softly to me, 
 "I'm bringing, a-bringing — 
 While floating along — 
 A beautiful song 
 To the shores that are white where the 
 waves are so weary, 
 
 To the beach that is burdened with wrecks 
 that are dreary. 
 A song sweet and calm 
 As the peacefulest psalm; 
 And the shore that was sad 
 Will be grateful and glad. 
 And the weariest wave from its dreariest 
 dream 
 
548 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Will wake to the sound of the song of the 
 stream : 
 And the tempests shall cease 
 And there shall be peace." 
 From the fairest of fountains 
 And farthest of mountains, 
 From the stillness of snow 
 Came the stream in its flow. 
 
 Down the slopes where the rocks are gray, 
 Thro' the vales where the flowers are 
 fair — 
 Where the sunlight flashed — where the 
 shadows lay 
 Like stories that cloud a face of care, 
 The river ran on — and on — and on — 
 Day and night, and night and day; 
 Going and going, and never gone. 
 Longing to flow to the "far away," 
 
 Staying and staying, and never still; 
 Going and staying, as if one will 
 Said "beautiful river, go to the sea," 
 And another will whispered, "stay 
 
 with me:" 
 And the river made answer, soft and 
 
 low — 
 "I go and stay" — "I stay and go." 
 But what is the song, I said, at last? 
 To the passing river that never passed; 
 And a white, white wave whispered, 
 
 " list to me, 
 I'm a note in the song for the beauti- 
 ful sea, 
 A song whose grand accents no earth-din 
 
 may sever. 
 And the river flows on in the same mystic key 
 That blends in one chord the 'forever and 
 
 never. 
 
 Abram J. Myan. 
 
 READ TO SLEEP. 
 
 For threescore years and ten. 
 
 Burdened with care and woe. 
 She has traveled the weary ways of men; 
 
 She is tired, and wants to go. 
 
 So musing, one afternoon. 
 
 With knitting upon her lap. 
 She hears at her door a drift of tune. 
 
 And a quick, familiar tap. 
 
 In flashes a child's fresh face. 
 
 And her bird-like voice sounds gay. 
 
 And she asks, " Shall I find you a pretty 
 place 
 And read you a Psalm to-day?" 
 
 "Aye, read me a Psalm — 'The Lord 
 Is my Shepherd' — soft, not fast; 
 
 Then turn the leaves of the Holy Word 
 Till you come to the very last — 
 
 "Where it tells of the wondrous walls 
 Of jacinth and sapphire-stone, 
 
 And the shine of the crystal light that falls 
 In rainbows about the throne; 
 
 "Where never are any tears — 
 You see how the verse so saith — 
 
 Nor pain nor crying through all God's years, 
 E"or hunger, nor cold, nor death; 
 
 " Of the city whose streets are gold ; 
 
 Ah! here it is not my share 
 One single piece in my hand to hold, 
 
 But my feet shall tread on it there! 
 
 "Yes, read it all; it lifts 
 
 My soul up into the light, 
 And I look straight through the leaden 
 rifts. 
 
 To the land where there's no more night!" 
 
 Rising, she nearer stepped — 
 
 How easy it all had been 1 
 The gates had unclosed as the sleeper slept 
 
 And an angel had drawn her in. 
 
 Margaret J. Preston. 
 
MfSCELLANEO US. 
 
 649 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Out of the shadows of sadness, 
 Into the sunshine of gladness, 
 
 Into the light of the blest; 
 Out of a land very dreaiy, 
 Out of the world very weary, 
 
 Into the rapture of rest. 
 
 Out of a land in whose bowers 
 Perish and fade all the flowers; 
 
 Out of the land of decay, 
 Into the Eden where fairest 
 Of flowerets, and sweetest and rarest, 
 
 Never shall wither away. 
 
 Out of to-day's sin and sorrow, 
 Into a blissful to-morrow, 
 
 Into a day without gloom; 
 Out of a land filled with sighing. 
 Land of the dead and the dying, 
 
 Into a land without tomb. 
 
 Out of the world of the wailing 
 Thronged with the anguished and ailing; 
 
 Out of the Avorld of the sad, 
 Into the world that rejoices — 
 "World of bright visions and voices — 
 
 Into the world of the glad. 
 
 Out of a life of commotion. 
 Tempest-swept oft as the ocean, 
 
 Dark with the wrecks drifting o'er. 
 Into a land calm and quiet, 
 Never a storm cometh nigh it, 
 
 Never a wreck on its shore. 
 
 Out of a life ever mournful. 
 Out of a land verj- lornful, 
 
 "Where in bleak exile we roam. 
 Into a joy-land above us, 
 "Where there's a Father to love us — 
 
 Into our home — "Sweet Home." 
 
 Abram J. Myan. 
 
 SNOW-FLAKES AT THE SOUTH. 
 
 I SEE them through the crystal pane. 
 Descending fast on hill and plain — 
 Spirits of dead autumnal rain! 
 
 Trees, by time rendered tall and hale. 
 Now glimmer through the landscape pale. 
 Like giants clad in heavenly mail. 
 
 Soon their transforming touch is laid 
 On every forest nook and glade. 
 The haunts of rustic man or maid. 
 
 "Where stretches yonder whitening lawn. 
 
 These tender spirits do not scorn 
 
 To sheathe the sharpness of the thorn. 
 
 They clothe each rugged vale and slope. 
 Shining like transient gleams of hope 
 To souls that in doubt's darkness grope. 
 
 All Nature's children, young or old. 
 These guardian angels of the cold 
 In soft, celestial arms enfold. 
 
 Alas, how soon their course is run! 
 Beneath the ardor of the sun. 
 They vanish ere the day is done! 
 
 William H. Hayne. 
 
550 
 
 MISCELLANEO US. 
 
 SIXTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 Wrinkled and yellow and old! 
 And are these the lips that he loved to kiss? 
 
 And are these the hands that he loved 
 to hold? 
 At last, at last, is it come to this, — 
 
 Wrinkled and yellow and old? 
 
 " Beautiful hands ! " he said ; — 
 " Shaped as the hands of a queen should 
 be; 
 
 White, with the faintest tint of red. 
 And a hint of the blue veins' tracery; — 
 
 Beautiful hands!" he said. 
 
 "Ripe, ruddy lips!" he said,^ 
 But what does it matter, ruddy or white? — 
 What does any thing matter? He is 
 dead, — 
 
 Yet his praise still rings in my dreams at 
 night, — 
 "Ripe, ruddy lips!" he said. 
 
 'Tis sixty years ago! 
 Since he kissed my hands and kissed my 
 lips,— 
 Since they laid him to sleep where the 
 violets grow, — 
 Since the light of my life went out in 
 eclipse, — 
 Sixty years ago! 
 
 Wrinkled and yellow and old! 
 And is he still young? am I old alone? — 
 
 And how will it be when all is told? — 
 I fear I shall go to him all unknown. 
 
 Wrinkled and yellow and old! 
 
 Berry Benson. 
 
NIAGARA. 
 
 Flow on forever, in thy glorious robe 
 Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
 Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set 
 His rainbow on thy forehead; and the cloud 
 Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
 Thy voice of thunder power to speak of Ilim 
 Eternally, — bidding the lip of man 
 Keep silence, — and upon thy rocky altar 
 
 pour 
 Incense of awe-struck praise. 
 
 Ah ! who can dare 
 To lift the insect-trump of earthly hope, 
 Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime 
 Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean 
 
 shrinks 
 Back from thy brotherhood, and all his 
 
 waves 
 Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes 
 
 seem 
 To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 
 
 His wearied billows from their vexing play, 
 And lull them to a cradle calm; but thou, 
 With everlasting, undecaying tide. 
 Dost I'est not, night or day. The morning 
 
 stars, 
 When first they sang o'er young creation's 
 
 birth. 
 Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking 
 
 fires, 
 That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve 
 This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's uame 
 Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears. 
 On thine unending volume. 
 
 Every leaf, 
 That lifts itself within thy wide domain. 
 Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 
 Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! — yon birds 
 Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wings 
 Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for 
 
 them 
 
 (5o3) 
 
554 
 
 THE GREAT LAKE REGION. 
 
 To touch tliy garment's hem, and lightly 
 
 stir 
 The snoAvy leaflets of thy vapor- wreath, 
 For they may sport unharmed amid the 
 
 cloud. 
 Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven, 
 Without reproof. But as for us, it seems 
 Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to 
 
 speak 
 Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint 
 Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, 
 
 Or woo thee to the tal c of a song. 
 Were profanation. 
 
 Thoi dost make the soul 
 A wondering witness of thy majesty. 
 But as it presses wit' delirious joy 
 To pierce thy vestibi"'e, dost chain its step. 
 And tame its raptu' "with the humbling 
 
 view 
 Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
 In the dread presence of the Invisible, 
 As if to answer to its God through thee. 
 
 Ijydia Huntky Sigcmrney. 
 
 THE FALL OF NIAGARA. 
 
 The thoughts are strange that crowd into 
 
 my 'brain. 
 While I look upward to thee. It would 
 
 seem 
 As if God poured thee from his hollow hand, 
 And hung his bow upon thine awful front, 
 And spoke in that loud voice which seemed 
 
 to him 
 Who dwelt in Patmos for his Savior's sake 
 The sound of many waters; and had bade 
 Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
 And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks. 
 Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, 
 
 That hear the question of that voice suhlime? 
 Oh, what are all the notes that ever rung 
 From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering 
 
 side? 
 Yea, what is all the riot man can make 
 In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? 
 And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him 
 Who drowned a world, and heaped the 
 
 waters far 
 Above its loftiest mountains? — a light 
 
 wave. 
 That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's 
 
 might. 
 
 John O. C. Brainard. 
 
THE GREAT LAKE BEOION. 
 
 555 
 
 LAKE ERIE. 
 
 These lovely shores: how lone and still 
 
 A hundred years a o, 
 The unbroken forest tood above, 
 
 The waters dashed below, — 
 The waters of a lonely sea, 
 
 Where never sail was furled, 
 Embosomed in a wilderness, 
 
 "Which was itself a world. 
 
 The lonely bird, that picks his food 
 
 Where rise the waves, and sink, 
 At their strange coming, with shrill scream, 
 
 Starts from the sandy brink; 
 The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky, 
 
 Floats o'er on level wing. 
 And the savage from his covert looks. 
 
 With arrow on the string. 
 
 A hundred years! go back; and lo! 
 
 Where, closing in the view, 
 Juts out the shore, with rapid oar 
 
 Darts round a frail canoe. 
 'T is a white voyager, and see, 
 
 His prow is westward set 
 O'er the calm wave; hail to thy bold, 
 
 World-seeking bark, Marquette ! 
 
 A hundred years are past and gone, 
 
 And all the rocky coast 
 Is turreted with shining towns. 
 
 An empire's noble boast. 
 And the old wilderness is changed 
 
 To cultured vale and hill; 
 And the circuit of its mountains 
 
 An empire's numbers fill. 
 
 Ephraim Peabody. 
 
 OVER THE BANISTERS. 
 
 Over the banisters bends a face 
 Daringly sweet and beguiling; 
 
 Somebody stands in careless grace 
 And watches the picture, smiling. 
 
 The light burns dim in the hall below — 
 
 Nobody sees her standing 
 Saying, " Good-night " again, soft and 
 slow, 
 
 Half-way up to the landing. 
 
 Nobody, only the eyes of brown. 
 
 Tender and full of meaning, 
 That smile on the fairest face in town 
 
 Over the banisters leaning. 
 
 Tired and sleepy, with drooping head, 
 I wonder why she lingers 
 
 Kow when the good-night's all are said? 
 Why, somebody holds her fingers. 
 
 Holds her fingers and draws her down. 
 
 Suddenly growing bolder. 
 Till her loose hair drops in masses brown 
 
 Like a mantle over his shoulder. 
 
 Over the banisters soft hands fair 
 Brush his cheek like a feather; 
 
 Bright brown tresses and dusky hair 
 Meet and mingle together. 
 
 There's a question asked, there's a swift 
 caress, 
 
 She has flown like a bird from the hallway ; 
 But over the banisters drops a "Yes," 
 
 That shall brighten the world for him alway. 
 
 Ella Wheeler. 
 
oob 
 
 'THE ORE AT LAKE REOIOli. 
 
 PERRY'S VICTORY. 
 
 Bright was the morn,— the waveless bay 
 Shone like a mirror to the sun; 
 Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay, 
 The matiu birds their lays begun: 
 While swelling o'er the gloomy wood 
 Was heard the faintly echoed roar, — 
 The dashing of the foamy flood, 
 That beat on Erie's distant shore. 
 
 The tawny wanderer of the wild 
 Paddled his painted birch canoe. 
 And, where the wave serenely smiled, 
 Swift as the darting falcon, flew; 
 He rowed along that peaceful bay, 
 And glanced its polished surface o'er. 
 Listening the billow far away. 
 That rolled on Erie's lonely shore. 
 
 What sounds awake my slumbering ear? 
 
 What echoes o'er the waters come? 
 
 It is the morning gun I hear. 
 
 The rolling of the distant drum. 
 
 Far o'er the bright illumined wave 
 
 I mark the flash, — I hear the roar. 
 
 That calls from sleep the slumbering brave, 
 
 To fight on Erie's lonely shore. 
 
 See how the starry banner floats, 
 And sparkles in the morning ray: 
 While sweetly swell the fife's gay notes 
 In echoes o'er the gleaming bay: 
 Flash follows flash, as through yon fleet 
 Columbia's cannons loudly roar, 
 And valiant tars the battle greet. 
 That storms on Erie's echoing shore. 
 
 Oh, who can tell what deeds were done, 
 When Britain's cross, on yonder wave, 
 Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun, 
 And met in Erie's flood its grave? 
 Who tell the triumphs of that day, 
 When, smiling at the cannon's roar, 
 Our hero, mid the bloody fray. 
 Conquered on Erie's echoing shore? 
 
 Though many a wounded bosom bleeds 
 For sire, for son, for lover dear. 
 Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds,— ^ 
 Affliction dries her tender tear; 
 Oh ! she exclaims, with glowing pride, 
 With ardent thoughts that wildly soar. 
 My sire, my son, my lover died, 
 Conquering on Erie's bloody shore! 
 
 James Goies Percival. 
 
THE GREAT LAKE REGION. 
 
 557 
 
 EQUINOX. 
 
 First, wincls of March must blow, and rains 
 
 must beat, 
 Thick airs blend wood and field and distant 
 
 hill, 
 Before the heavy sky has wept its fill; 
 And, like a creeping sloth, the chill must eat 
 Down close to Nature's core; in dull repeat 
 The days move on with scanted light, until, 
 Far shining from his western window-sill. 
 
 Some evening sun full face to face we meet! 
 And then we say the line is ci'ossed: the 
 
 feud 
 Between Old Night and Day adjusted stands, 
 As in a balance swung by airy hands 
 Above the clouds. Our fancies are but crude, 
 And hghtly gossip of infinitude : 
 None knows how wide the arch of Night 
 
 expands ! 
 
 Edith M. Thomas. 
 
 GEEHALE: AN INDIAN LAMENT. 
 
 The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore 
 
 As sweetly and gayly as ever before; 
 
 For he knows to his mate he at pleasure 
 
 can hie, 
 A.nd the dear little brood she is teaching 
 
 to fly. 
 
 The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, 
 And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a 
 
 light 
 
 As it ever reflected, or ever expressed. 
 When my skies were the bluest, my dreams 
 were the best. 
 
 The fox and the panther, both beasts of 
 the night. 
 Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light. 
 And they spring with a free and a sorrow- 
 less track, 
 For they know that their mates are expect- 
 ing them back. 
 
 Each bird and each beast, it is blessed m 
 
 degree : 
 All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. 
 
 I will go to my tent, and lie down it 
 
 despair; [my hair; 
 
 I will paint me with black, and will sever 
 
558 
 
 THE GREAT LAKE REGION. 
 
 I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane 
 
 blows, 
 And reveal to the god of the tempest my 
 
 woes; 
 I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed. 
 For my kindred are gone to the hills of 
 
 the dead; 
 But they died not by hunger or lingering 
 
 decay ; 
 The steel of the white man hath swept 
 
 them away. 
 
 This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly 
 
 wore, 
 I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten 
 
 shore : 
 Its charms I no longer obey or invoke, 
 Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. 
 I will raise up my voice to the source of 
 
 the light; 
 I will dream on the wings of the bluebird 
 
 at night; 
 I will speak to the spirits that whisper in 
 
 leaves. 
 And that minister balm to the bosom that 
 
 grieves ; 
 
 And will take a new Manito, — such as 
 
 shall seem 
 To be kind and propitious in every dream. 
 
 Oh, then I shall banish these cankering 
 sighs. 
 
 And tears shall no longer gush salt from 
 my eyes; 
 
 I shall wash from my face every cloud- 
 colored stain ; 
 
 Eed — red shall alone on my visage remain! 
 
 I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my 
 oak bow; 
 
 By night and by day I will follow the foe; 
 
 Nor lake shall impede me, nor mountains, 
 nor snows; 
 
 His blood can, alone, give my spirit repose. 
 
 They came to my cabin when heaven was 
 
 black: [track; 
 
 I heard not their coming, I knew not their 
 
 But I saw, by the light of their blazing 
 
 fusees, 
 
 They were people engendered beyond the 
 
 big seas : [ the tale ! — 
 
 My wife and my children, — oh, spare me 
 
 For who is there left that is kin to Geehale ? 
 
 Henry Rome Schoolcraft. 
 
 HE DREAMED OF HOME. 
 
 He dreamed of home — aye, while the clue 
 Of life so thin and straightened drew, 
 A breath might sever it in two! 
 
 He dreamed of home; amid the press 
 Of those old shadows death doth dress 
 In mist, and cold and heaviness, — 
 
 He dreamed of home ! Sweet in his ear 
 The sound of rustling grain-fields near, 
 The orchard oriole's fluted cheer. 
 
 Before his dim and lidded eye 
 
 The Lake's crisp billow flickered high 
 
 On azure deeper than the sky. 
 
 Slipped thence from all uproar and strife 
 Once more the looks of child and wife 
 Shone as the lamps of household life: — 
 
 He dreamed of home ! The vision flew, 
 "Wavered, reshaped itself anew. 
 Smiled, spake, as visions never do: 
 
 Still wide of home, he saw, instead, 
 Its angel standing by his bed. 
 Unshaken in the hour of dread. 
 
 Edith M. Thomas. 
 
THE GREAT LAKE BEOION. 
 
 559 
 
 THE EIVER OF TIME. 
 
 Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, 
 As it runs througR the realm of tears, 
 "With a faultless rhythm and a musical 
 
 rhyme. 
 And a broadening sweep and a surge sublime. 
 That blends with the ocean of years. 
 
 How the winters are drifting like flakes of 
 
 snow, 
 And the Summers like buds between; 
 And the year's in the sheaf — so they come 
 
 and they go. 
 On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow. 
 As it glides through the shadow and sheen. 
 
 There's a musical isle on the river of Time, 
 Where the softest of airs are playing; — 
 There's a cloudless sky and tropical clime. 
 And a song as sweet as vesper chime 
 "When the Junes with the roses are staying. 
 
 * 
 
 And the name of this isle is the Long Ago, 
 And we bury our treasures there; 
 There are brows of beauty and bosoms of 
 snow — 
 
 There are heaps of dust, and we love them so ; 
 There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 
 
 There are fragments of song that nobody 
 
 sings. 
 And a part of an infant's prayer; 
 There's a lute unswept, and a harp without 
 
 strings, 
 There are broken vows and pieces of rings. 
 And the garment that she used to wear. 
 
 There are hands that are waved when the 
 fairy shore 
 
 By the mirage is lifted in air; 
 
 And we sometimes hear through the tur- 
 bulent roar 
 
 Sweet voices we heard in days gone before. 
 
 When the wind down the river is fair. 
 
 Oh, remembered for aye be that blessed isle. 
 
 All the days of our life till night; 
 
 When the evening comes with its beautiful 
 
 smile. 
 And our eyes are closed to slumber a while. 
 May our "greenwood" of soul be in sight. 
 
 Benjamin F. Taylor, 
 
 CHICAGO. 
 
 Men said at vespers: "All is well!" 
 In one wild night the city fell; 
 Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain 
 Before the fiery hurricane. 
 
 On threescore spires had sunset shone. 
 Where ghastly sunrise looked on none. 
 Men clasped each other's hands, and said: 
 " The City of the West is dead ! " 
 
 Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat. 
 The fiends of fire from street to street. 
 Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare. 
 The dumb defiance of despair. 
 
 A sudden impulse thrilled each wire 
 That signaled round that sea of fire; 
 Swift words of cheer, warmheart-throbs came; 
 In tears of pity died the flame ! 
 
 From East, from West, from South and North, 
 The messages of hope shot forth. 
 And, underneath the severing wave. 
 The world, full-handed, reached to save. 
 
 Fair seemed the old; but fairer still 
 The new, the dreary void shall fill 
 With dearer homes than those o'erthrown, 
 For love shall lay each corner-stone. 
 
560 
 
 THE GREAT LAKE REGION. 
 
 Rise, stricken city! — from thee throw 
 The ashen sackcloth of thy woe; 
 And build, as to Amphion's strain, 
 To songs of cheer thy walls again! 
 
 How shriveled in thy hot distress 
 The primal sin of selfishness! 
 How instant rose, to take thy part. 
 The angel in the human heart! 
 
 Ah! not in vain the flames that tossed 
 Above thy dreadful holocaust; 
 The Christ again has preached through thee 
 The Gospel of Humanity! 
 
 Then lift once more thy towers on high, 
 And fret with spires the western sky, 
 To tell that God is yet with us. 
 And love is still miraculous! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whiitiei; 
 
 MAEQTJETTE. 
 
 COMPOSED ON LAKE MICHIGAN, BY THE RIVER "WHERE MARQUETTE DIED. 
 
 Sink to my heart, bright evening skies! 
 
 Ye waves that round me roll. 
 With all your golden, crimson dyes, 
 
 Sink deep into my soul! 
 And ye, soft-footed stars, — that come 
 
 So silently at even. 
 To make this world awhile your home, 
 
 And bring us nearer heaven, — 
 Speak to my spirit's listening ear 
 
 With your calm tones of beauty. 
 And to my darkened mind make clear 
 
 My errors and my duty. 
 
 Speak to my soul of those who went 
 
 Across this stormy lake. 
 On deeds of mercy ever bent 
 
 For the poor Indian's sake. 
 They looked to all of you, and each 
 
 Leant smiling from above. 
 And taught the Jesuit how to teach 
 
 The omnipotence of love. 
 You gave the apostolic tone 
 
 To Marquette's guileless soul. 
 Whose life and labors shall be known 
 
 Long as these waters roll. 
 To him the little Indian child, 
 
 Fearless and trustful came, 
 Curbed for a time his temper wild, 
 
 And hid his heart of flame. 
 With gentle voice, and gentle look. 
 
 Sweet evening star, like thine. 
 
 That heart the missionary took 
 
 From oft" the war-god's shrine. 
 And laid it on the Holy Book, 
 
 Before the Man Divine. 
 The blood-stained demons saw with grief 
 
 Far from their magic ring. 
 Around their now converted chief, 
 
 The tribe come gathering. 
 Marquette's belief was their belief, 
 
 And Jesus was their king. 
 Fierce passions' late resistless drift 
 
 Drives now no longer by; 
 'Tis rendered powerless by the gift 
 
 Of heaven-fed charity. 
 
 Speak to my heart, ye stars, and tell 
 
 How, on yon distant shore. 
 The world-worn Jesuit bade farewell 
 
 To those that rowed him o'er; 
 Told them to sit and wait him there, 
 
 And break their daily food. 
 While he to his accustomed prayer 
 
 Retired within the wood; 
 And how they saw the day go round, 
 
 Wondering he came not yet, 
 Then sought him anxiously, and found, 
 
 Not the kind, calm Marquette, — 
 He silently had passed away, — 
 
 But on the greensward there. 
 Before the crucifix, his clay 
 
 Still kneeling, as in prayer. 
 
E = 
 
 o iT 
 
THE GREAT LAKE EEOION. 
 
 563 
 
 Nor let me as a fable deem, 
 
 Told by some artful knave, 
 The legend, that the lonely stream, 
 
 By which they dug his grave, 
 "When wintry torrents from above 
 
 Swept with resistless force, 
 Knew and revered the man of love, 
 
 And changed its rapid course, 
 And left the low, sepulchral mound 
 
 Uninjured by its side. 
 And spared the consecrated ground 
 
 Where he had knelt and died. 
 Nor ever let my weak mind rail 
 
 At the poor Indian, 
 Who, when the fierce north-western gale 
 
 Swept o'er Lake Michigan, 
 In the last hour of deepest dread 
 
 Knew of one resource yet. 
 And stilled the thunder overhead 
 By calling on Marquette! 
 
 Sink to my heart, sweet evening skies! 
 
 Ye darkening waves that roll 
 Around me, — ye departing dyes, — 
 
 Sink to my inmost soul! 
 Teach to my heart of hearts that fact, 
 
 Unknown, though known so well, 
 That in each feeling, act, and thought 
 
 God works by miracle. 
 And ye, soft-footed stars, that come 
 
 So quietly at even. 
 Teach me to use this world, my home. 
 
 So as to make it heaven ! 
 
 James H. Perkins. 
 
 LAKE SUPERIOR. 
 
 Father of Lakes! thy waters bend 
 Beyond the eagle's utmost view. 
 
 When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send 
 Back to the sky its world of blue. 
 
 Boundless and deep, the forests weave 
 Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, 
 
 And threatening clifl's, like giants, heave 
 Their rugged forms along thy shore. 
 
 Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves. 
 With listening ear, in sadness broods; 
 
 Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves. 
 Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. 
 
 Nor can the light canoes, that glide 
 Across thy breast like things of air, 
 
 Chase from thy lone and level tide 
 The spell of stillness reigning there. 
 
 Yet round this waste of wood and wave, 
 Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives. 
 
 That, breathing o'er each rock and cave, 
 To all a wild, strange aspect gives. 
 
 The thunder-riven oak, that flings 
 Its grisly arms athwart the sky, 
 
 A sudden, startling image brings 
 To the lone traveler's kindled eye. 
 
 The gnarled and braided boughs, that show 
 Their dim forms in the forest shade. 
 
 Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw 
 Fantastic horrors through the glade. 
 
 The very echoes round this shore 
 Have caught a strange and gibbering tone ; 
 
 For they have told the war-whoop o'er, 
 Till the wild chorus is their own. 
 
 Wave of the wilderness, adieu! 
 
 Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods! 
 Roll on, thou element of blue. 
 
 And fill these awful solitudes! 
 
 Thou hast no tale to tell of man, — 
 God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves. 
 
 Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan 
 Deems as a bubble all your waves! 
 
 Samuel 6. Goodrich. 
 
564 
 
 THE GREAT LAKE REGION. 
 
 REDWOOD FALLS. 
 
 Far westward, toward Dakota land, 
 Pure are tlie skies and wild the 
 scene; 
 In rounded swells the prairies stand. 
 All dressed in varied gorgeous 
 
 green — 
 A play-ground for a Fairy Queen ' 
 Still northward o'er 
 the waving eaith 
 Red River seeks a 
 British sea, 
 
 ^^, 'l.\ 
 
 f 
 
 V 
 
 
 And Minnesota claims her birth 
 With western highlands on her lea, 
 'Mid wandering ocean breezes fi'ee. 
 
 Here, miraged in the morning light, 
 When cooling frosts condense the air. 
 
 Wide glows the picture on the sight, 
 Till distant views are mingled there, 
 
 Be'wildering as they 
 aie fair. 
 Transfiguied in these 
 highland vie'^^ s 
 The traveler scans a 
 fimge of trees, 
 And eagerly his way 
 ^ pursues, 
 
 a Where woody boughs invite the breeze. 
 
 Like way-marks on the shores of seas. 
 
 Some river nears, he knows right well; — 
 Where red men, in the days of yore, 
 Their tribal legends loved to tell, 
 ' And count their deeds of daring o'er, 
 
 And gather war-jiaint on its shore. 
 How wild the place ! Deep cut in stonf 
 * More ancient than the tribes of men, 
 A fretting stream goes sighing on 
 O'er granite gray, by cedars green, 
 Whereon the eagle's nest is seen ! 
 
 Here hermit Nature, old and Avild, 
 
 Had thought to make the scene her own, 
 
 And age on age the sun had smiled. 
 And cedars red in granite grown. 
 And foot of man had never known. 
 
THE GREAT LAKE REOIOK 
 
 565 
 
 Waters had leaped from rock in spray, 
 Then plunged in whirlpool deep and low, 
 
 Then in sharp angles hid away 
 'IS'eath rocks on which no foot could 
 
 go, 
 Gray, granite rocks where cedars grow. 
 
 But tides of life must onward roll, 
 Search out and conquer all the earth; 
 
 And hidden wealth of iron and coal 
 In ages past had here their birth. 
 Could ITature hide from man their worth? 
 
 The hum of life falls on the air, 
 And onward sweeps the tide of man; — 
 
 For the "poor Indian," who shall care? 
 It was his lot to lead the van. 
 And perish in the race he ran. 
 
 Scarce now the red man comes to view 
 This granite gray, this water- fall; 
 
 To gaze on clift's Avhere erst he knew 
 From cedar tops the eaglets' call; 
 Or try his war-paint on this wall. 
 
 How sti'angely sad to him the doom: 
 The pale-face shall these treasures own. 
 
 And all his fields shall lose their bloom. 
 For fields of grain by white man sown, 
 "When all his hunting-grounds are gone! 
 
 Charles S. Bryant. 
 
 THE BRILLIAISTT NOE' WEST. 
 
 Let Araby boast of her soft spicy gale. 
 And Persia her breeze from the rose-scented 
 
 vale; 
 Let orange-trees scatter in wildness their 
 
 balm. 
 Where sweet summer islands lie fragrant 
 
 and calm; 
 Give me the cold blast of my country again. 
 Careering o'er snow-covered mountain and 
 
 plain. 
 And coming, though scentless, yet pure, to 
 
 my breast, 
 With vigor and health from the cloudless 
 
 Ifor' West. 
 
 I languish where suns in the tropic sky glow, 
 And gem-studded waters on golden sands 
 
 flow. 
 Where shrubs, blossom-laden, bright birds 
 
 and sweet trees 
 With odors and music encumber the breeze ; 
 I languish to catch but a breathing of thee. 
 To hear thy wild winter-notes, brilliant and 
 
 free, 
 To feel thy cool touch on my heart-strings 
 
 opprest, [ West. 
 
 And gather a tone from the bracing ITor' 
 
 Mists melt at thy coming, clouds flee from 
 
 thy wrath. 
 The marsh and its va})ors are sealed on thy 
 
 path, 
 For spotless and pure as the snow-covered 
 
 North, 
 Their cold icy cradle, thy tempests come forth. 
 The blue robe is borrowed from clearest of 
 
 skies. 
 Thy sandals were made where the driven 
 
 snow lies. 
 And stars, seldom seen in this low world, 
 
 are blest 
 To shine in thy coronet — brilliant N"or' West. 
 
 For ever, for ever, be thine, purest wind. 
 The lakes and the streams of my country 
 
 to bind; 
 And oh! though afar I am fated to roam. 
 Still kindle the hearths and the hearts of 
 
 my home! 
 While blows from the polar skies holy and pure 
 Thy trumpet of freedom, the land shall 
 
 endure. 
 As snow in thy pathway, and stars on thy 
 
 crest. 
 Unsullied and beautiful — glorious ISTor' West. 
 
 John K. MilcheU. 
 
566 
 
 THE GREAT LAKE REGION. 
 
 APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 
 
 The apple-trees with bloom are all aglow, 
 Soft drifts of perfumed light — 
 
 A miracle of mingled fire and snow — 
 A laugh of Spring's delight! 
 
 Their ranks of creamy splendor pillow deep 
 
 The valley's pure repose ; 
 On mossy walls, in meadow nooks, they 
 heap 
 
 Surges of frosted rose. 
 
 Around old homesteads, clustering thick, 
 they shed 
 Their sweets to murm'ring bees. 
 And o'er hushed lanes and way-side fount- 
 ains spread 
 Their pictured canopies. 
 
 Green-breasted knolls and forest edges wear 
 
 Their beautiful array: 
 And lonesome graves are sheltered, here 
 and there, 
 
 "With their memorial spray. 
 
 The efflorescence on unnumbered boughs 
 
 Pants with delicious breath; 
 O'er me seem laughing eyes and fair, smooth 
 brows. 
 
 And shapes too sweet for death. 
 
 Clusters of dimpled faces float between 
 
 The soft, caressing plumes. 
 And lovely creatures 'mong the branches 
 lean. 
 
 Lulled by faint, flower-born tunes. 
 
 A rude wind blows, and, as the blossoms 
 fall. 
 
 My heai't is borne away: 
 Fainter and fainter tender voices call 
 
 Of my enamored May. 
 
 Fainter and fainter — oh, how strange it 
 seems. 
 
 "With so much sweetness fled! 
 I go like one who dreams within his 
 dreams 
 That, living, he is dead! 
 
 Htrcdio Ndson Powers. 
 
Ip 
 
 I 
 
 
THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 These are the G-ardens of the Desert, these 
 The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, 
 For which the speech of England has no 
 
 name, — 
 The Prairies. I behold them for the first, 
 And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
 Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they 
 
 stretch 
 In airy undulations, far away, 
 As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell. 
 Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, 
 And motionless forever. — Motionless? 
 No, — they are all unchained again. The 
 
 clouds 
 Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, 
 The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; 
 Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 
 The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South ! 
 Who toss the golden and the flame-like 
 
 flowers. 
 And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on 
 
 high, 
 Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not, — ye 
 
 have played 
 Among the palms of Mexico and vines 
 Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks 
 That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
 Into the calm Pacific, — have ye fanned 
 
 A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? 
 Man hath no part in all this glorious work: 
 The hand that built the firmament hath 
 
 heaved 
 And smoothed these verdant swells, and 
 
 sown their slopes 
 With herbage, planted them with island 
 
 groves, 
 And hedged them round with forests. 
 
 Fitting floor 
 For this magnificent temple of the sky. 
 With flowers whose glory and whose mul- 
 titude 
 Rival the constellations ! The great heavens 
 Seem to stoop down upon the scene in 
 
 love, — 
 A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, 
 Than that which bends above the eastern 
 
 hills. 
 As o'er the verdant waste I guide my 
 
 steed, 
 Among the high rank grass that sweeps 
 
 his sides. 
 The hollow beating of his footstep seems 
 A sacrilegious sound. I think of those 
 Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they 
 
 here, — 
 The dead of other days? — and did the dust 
 
570 
 
 THE ORE AT WEST. 
 
 Of these fair solitudes once stir with life 
 And burn with passion? Let the mighty 
 
 mounds 
 That overlook the rivers, or that rise 
 In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, 
 Answer. A race, that long has passed away, 
 Built them ; a disciplined and populous race 
 Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while 
 
 yet the Greek 
 Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms 
 Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock 
 The glittering Parthenon. These ample 
 
 fields 
 Ifourished their harvests, here their herds 
 
 were fed. 
 When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, 
 And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. 
 All day this desert murmured with their toils, 
 Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, 
 
 and wooed 
 In a forgotten language, and old tunes, 
 From instruments of unremembered form. 
 Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man 
 
 came, — 
 The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and 
 
 fierce, 
 And the mound-builders vanished from the 
 
 earth. 
 The solitude of centuries untold 
 Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie 
 
 wolf 
 Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug 
 
 den 
 Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the 
 
 ground 
 Where stood their swarming cities. All is 
 
 gone,— 
 All, save the piles of earth that hold their 
 
 bones. 
 The platforms where they worshiped un- 
 known gods. 
 The barriers which they builded from the 
 
 soil 
 To keep the foe at bay, till o'er the walls 
 The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by 
 
 one, 
 
 The strongholds of the plain were forced, 
 
 and heaped 
 With corpses. The brown vultures of the 
 
 wood 
 Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchers. 
 And sat, unscared and silent, at, their feast. 
 Haply some solitary fugitive, 
 Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense 
 Of desolation and of fear became 
 Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. 
 Man's better nature triumphed. Kindly 
 
 words 
 Welcomed and soothed him ; the rude con- 
 querors 
 Seated the captive with their chiefs; he 
 
 chose 
 A bride among their maidens, and at length 
 Seemed to forget — yet ne'er forgot — the 
 
 wife 
 Of his first love, and her sweet little ones 
 Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his 
 
 race. 
 Thus change the forms of being. Thus 
 
 arise 
 Races of living things, glorious in strength. 
 And perish, as the quickening breath of 
 
 God 
 Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, 
 
 too. 
 Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so 
 
 long. 
 And, nearer to the Eocky Mountains, sought 
 A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds 
 ISTo longer by these streams, but far away, 
 On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave 
 
 back 
 The white man's face, — among Missouri's 
 
 springs. 
 And pools whose issues swell the Oregon, 
 He rears his little Venice. In these plains 
 The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty 
 
 leagues 
 Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp 
 Eoams the majestic brute, in herds that shake 
 The earth with thundering steps, — yet here 
 
 I meet 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 571 
 
 His ancient footprints stamped beside the 
 
 pool. 
 Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
 Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 
 They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, 
 And birds, that scarce have learned the fear 
 
 of man. 
 Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 
 Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer 
 Bounds to the wood at my approach. The 
 
 bee, 
 A more adventurous colonist than man, 
 "With whom he came across the eastern 
 
 deep. 
 Fills the savannas with his murmurings. 
 
 And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, 
 Within the hollow oak. I listen long 
 To his domestic hum, and think I hear 
 The sound of that advancing multitude 
 Which soon shall fill these desei'ts. Erom 
 
 the ground 
 Comes up the laugh of children, the soft 
 
 voice 
 Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 
 Of Sabbath worshipers. The low of herds 
 Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 
 Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once 
 A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my 
 
 dream, 
 And I am in the wilderness alone. 
 
 William CuUen Bryant- 
 
 ON THE BLUFF. 
 
 GRANDLY flowing rivcr! 
 
 silver-gliding river! 
 
 Thy springing willows shiver 
 
 In the sunset as of old; 
 They shiver in the silence 
 Of the willow-whitened islands, 
 While the sun-bars and the sand-bars 
 
 Fill air and wave with gold. 
 
 gay, oblivious river! 
 sunset-kindled river! 
 Do you remember ever 
 
 The eyes and skies so blue 
 
 On a summer day that shone here, 
 When we were all alone here, 
 And the blue eyes were too wise 
 To speak the love they knew? 
 
 stern impassive river! 
 still unanswering river! 
 The shivering willows quiver 
 
 As the night-winds moan and rave. 
 From the past a voice is calling. 
 From heaven a star is falling. 
 And dew swells in the bluebells 
 
 Above her hill-side grave. 
 
 John Hay. 
 
572 
 
 THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 SENATCPIWIFE'S GEAVE.* 
 
 He sleeps beneath the spreading shade, 
 Where woods and wide savannas meet, 
 
 Where sloping hills around have made 
 A quiet valley green and sweet. 
 
 A stream that bears his name, and flows 
 In glimmering gushes from the West, 
 
 Makes a light murmur as it goes 
 Beside his lonely place of rest. 
 
 And here the silken blue-grass springs, f 
 Low bending with the morning dew. 
 
 The redbird in the thicket sings 
 And blossoms nod of varied hue. 
 
 Oh, spare his rest! Oh, level not 
 
 The trees whose boughs above it play, 
 
 Nor break the turf that clothes the spot, 
 !N"or clog the rivulet's winding way. 
 
 For he was of unblenching eye, 
 Honored in youth, revered in age, 
 
 Of princely port and bearing high. 
 And brave, and eloquent, and sage. 
 
 Beyond the broad Atlantic deep. 
 
 In mausoleums rich and vast, 
 Earth's early kings and heroes sleep, 
 
 Waiting the angel's trumpet-blast. 
 
 As proud in form and mien was he, 
 Who sleeps beneath this verdant sod, 
 
 And shadowed forth as gloriously 
 The image of the eternal God. 
 
 Theirs is the monumental pile, 
 With lofty titles graved in stone, 
 
 The vaulted roof, the fretted aisle — 
 He sleeps unhonored and alone. 
 
 Then leave him still this quiet nook, 
 Ye who have grasped his wide domain, — 
 
 The trees, the flowers, the grass, the brook, — 
 Nor stir his slumbering dust again. 
 
 John Howard Bryant. 
 
 LOST ON THE PRAIEIE. 
 
 Oh, my baby, my child, my dai'ling! 
 
 Lost and gone in the prairie wild; 
 Mad gray wolves from the forest snarling, 
 
 Snarling for thee, my little child ! 
 
 Lost, lost ! gone forever ! 
 
 Gay snakes rattled and charmed and sung; 
 On thy head the sun's fierce fever. 
 
 Dews of death on thy white lip hung ! 
 
 Dead and pale in the moonlight's glory. 
 Cold and dead by the black oak-tree; 
 
 Only a small shoe, stained and gory. 
 Blood-red, tattered, — comes home to me. 
 
 Over the grass that rolls, like ocean, 
 On and on to the blue, bent sky. 
 
 Something comes with a hurried motion, 
 Something calls with a choking cry, — 
 
 "Here, here! not dead, but living!" 
 God! Thy goodness — what can I pray? 
 
 Blessed more in this second giving. 
 Laid in happier arms to-day. 
 
 Oh, my baby, my child, my darling! 
 
 Wolf and snake and the lonely tree 
 Still are rustling, hissing, snarling; 
 
 Here's my baby come back to me! 
 
 Hose Terry Cooke. 
 
 "•- Senatohwine was an eminent chief of the Pottawatomies in Illinois; — he died in 1830. 
 
 t Western people have a proverbial saying that the blue-grass springs up wherever an Indian has stepped. 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 573 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 That soft autumnal time 
 Is come, that sheds, upon the naked scene, 
 Charms only known in this our northern 
 clime — 
 
 Bright seasons, far between. 
 
 The woodland foliage now 
 Is gathered by the wild November blast; 
 E'en the thick leaves upon the poplar's bough 
 
 Are fallen, to the last. 
 
 The mighty vines, that round 
 The forest trunks their slender branches bind. 
 Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground, 
 
 Swing naked in the wind. 
 
 Some living green remains 
 By the clear brook that shines along the lawn ; 
 But the sear grass stands white o'er all the 
 plains, 
 
 And the bright flowers are gone. 
 
 But these, these are thy charms — 
 Mild airs and tempered light upon the 
 
 lea; 
 And the year holds no time within its arms 
 
 That doth resemble thee. 
 
 The sunny noon is thine. 
 Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night; 
 And hues that in the flushed horizon shine 
 
 At eve and early light. 
 
 The year's last, loveliest smile, 
 Thou comest to fill with hope the human 
 
 heart. 
 And strengthen it to bear the stoi^ms a while. 
 
 Till winter days depart. 
 
 O'er the wide plains, that lie 
 A desolate scene, the tires of autumn spread. 
 And nightly on the dark walls of the sky 
 
 A ruddy brightness shed. 
 
 Far in a sheltered nook 
 I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower, 
 A lonely aster, trembling by a brook, 
 
 At the quiet noontide's hour: 
 
 And something told my mind. 
 That, should old age to childhood call me 
 
 back. 
 Some sunny days and flowers I still might 
 find 
 Along life's weary track. 
 
 John Howard Bryant. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 The lives of other great men, oftentimes, 
 Are crowned and glorified with golden light 
 By time and distance. Abraham Lincoln, he 
 By holy martyrdom, untimely slain, 
 Was lifted to the highest reach of fame. 
 — Thus, standing in relief against the sky, 
 
 Bathed in the light of immortality, 
 
 There is, in the bent head and yearning 
 
 Something so human that we can but feel 
 He is vouchsafed of the good Lord to watch 
 'Over our country now and evermore. 
 
 Laura Seam. 
 
574 
 
 THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 THE PRAIEIE ON FIRE. 
 
 The shades of evening closed around 
 
 The boundless prairies of the west, 
 As, grouped in sadness on the ground, 
 
 A band of pilgrims leaned to rest: 
 Upon the tangled weeds were laid 
 
 The mother and her youngest born, 
 "Who slept, while others watched and prayed. 
 
 And thus the weary night went on. 
 
 Thick darkness shrouded earth and sky, — 
 
 When on the whispering winds there 
 came 
 The Teton's shrill and thrilling cry, 
 
 And heaven was pierced with shafts of 
 flame! 
 The sun seemed rising through the haze. 
 
 But with an aspect dread and dire: 
 The very air appeared to blaze! — 
 
 God! the Prairie was on fire! 
 
 Around the center of the plain 
 A belt of flame i-etreat denied, — 
 
 And, like a furnace, glowed the train 
 That walled them in on every side: 
 
 And onward rolled the torrent wild, — 
 "Wreaths of dense smoke obscured the sky ! 
 
 The mother knelt beside her child, 
 And all, — save one, — shrieked out, "We 
 die!" 
 
 "Not so!" he cried. — "Help! — Clear the 
 sedge ! 
 
 Strip bare a circle to the land!" 
 That done, he hastened to its edge, 
 
 And grasped a rifle in his hand: 
 Dried weeds he held beside the pan, 
 
 Which kindled at a flash the mass! 
 "ISTow fire fight fire!" he said, as ran 
 
 The forked flames among the grass. 
 
 On three sides then the torrent flew. 
 
 But on the fourth no more it raved! 
 Then large and broad the circle grew. 
 
 And thus the pilgrim band was saved! 
 The flames receded far and wide, — 
 
 The mother had not prayed in vain: 
 God had the Teton's arts defied! 
 
 His scythe of fire had swept the plain! 
 
 George P. Morris. 
 
 BY THE MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 But, oh what vision of the Golden Year, 
 As from their trance thy slumbering billows 
 
 started ! 
 To see, across the solitudes austere 
 Adventurous bark thy regal empire near — 
 A stalwart band, rude-girt yet fearless- 
 hearted, — 
 The kindling dawn the misty night-gloom 
 parted — 
 Dawn of the Golden Year: 
 
 When he, the knight with snowy locks, 
 
 but still 
 His fiery heart with youthful ardor burning. 
 Sought on thy Gulf's far shores the mystic rill. 
 
 The legend-promised fount whose springs 
 
 distill 
 Perpetual youth, its vernal bloom returning. 
 He came — he went — with disappointed 
 
 yearning. 
 His white locks Avhiter still. 
 
 And he, grim seeker, further on — his quest 
 The Fount of Youth, of Eldorado dreaming. 
 Glad hailed thee, sinking on thy banks to rest; 
 Full with exultant joy his great heart 
 
 teeming: — 
 "Behold, more rich than treasured Ophir 
 
 gleaming. 
 The object of our quest." 
 

 ■^V'*- •: • 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 577 
 
 As though transported to thy farthest shore, 
 In rarer light, his mortal vision failing. 
 He gazed in wonder on each hidden store; 
 On wealth immeaaured of the glittering ore. 
 These later years to outer sight unveiling; 
 And heard the hosts of tramping miners 
 trailing 
 To-day thy farthest shore. 
 
 But he, too, sought the hidden spot in vain ; 
 His comrades left him to thy billows' caring; 
 Then, mournful turning from that task of 
 
 pain, 
 With thoughts that whispered of their 
 
 native Spain, — 
 
 Of dark eyes weeping, of love's long de- 
 spairing, — 
 
 Went sorrowing on, but saddened memories 
 bearing 
 Of that wild vision vain. 
 
 Wild vision vain? — that was prophetic 
 
 dream ; 
 The meaner type of man's prophetic yearning. 
 And here by thee, De Soto's mighty stream. 
 Shall yet the long-sought Eldorado gleam; 
 Where all shall find the golden day's re- 
 turning. 
 The truest wealth ; the deeper import learn- 
 Of that wild-fabled dream. [ing 
 
 Benjamin Hathaway. 
 
 THE FAE WEST. 
 
 Far in the West there lies a desert land, Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where 
 where the mountains the gorge, Uke a gateway, 
 
 Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the 
 and luminous summits. emigrant's wagon. 
 
578 
 
 THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 Westward the Oregon flows and the Walle- 
 
 way and Owyhee. 
 Eastward, with devious course, among the 
 
 Wind-river Mountains, 
 Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate 
 
 leaps the Nehraska; 
 And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout 
 
 and the Spanish sierras. 
 Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by 
 
 the wind of the desert, 
 !N"umberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, 
 
 descend to the ocean. 
 Like the great chords of a harp, in loud 
 
 and solemn vibrations. 
 Spreading between these streams are the 
 
 wondrous, beautiful prairies. 
 Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow 
 
 and sunshine. 
 Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and 
 
 purple amorphas. 
 Over them wander the buffalo herds, and 
 
 the elk and the roebuck; 
 Over them wander the wolves, and herds 
 
 of riderless horses; 
 
 Fires that blast and blight, and winds that 
 
 are weary with travel; 
 Over them wander the scattered tribes of 
 
 Ishmael's children. 
 Staining the desert with blood; and above 
 
 their terrible war-trails 
 Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, 
 
 the vulture. 
 Like the implacable soul of a chieftain 
 
 slaughtered in battle. 
 By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the 
 
 heavens. 
 Here and there rise smokes from the camps 
 
 of these savage marauders; 
 Here and there rise groves from the margins 
 
 of swift-running rivers; 
 And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite 
 
 monk of the desert. 
 Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for 
 
 roots by the brook-side. 
 While over all is the sky, the clear and 
 
 crystalline heaven, 
 Like the protecting hand of God inverted 
 
 above them. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth LongfeMow. 
 
 JIM BLUDSO, 
 
 OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. 
 
 Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, 
 
 Becase he don't live, you see; 
 Leastways, he's got out of the habit 
 
 Of livin' like you and me. 
 Whar have you been for the last three year 
 
 That you have n't heard folks tell 
 How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 
 
 The night of the Prairie Belle? 
 
 He weren't no saint, — them engineers 
 
 Is all pretty much alike, — 
 One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 
 
 And another one here, in Pike; 
 A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward hand in a row. 
 But he never flunked, aud he never lied, — 
 
 I reckon he never knowed how. 
 
 And this was all the religion he had, — 
 
 To treat his engine well; 
 IsTever be passed on the river; 
 
 To mind the pilot's bell; 
 And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, — 
 
 A thousand times he swore. 
 He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last soul got ashore. 
 
 All boats has their day on the Mississip, 
 
 And her day come at last, — 
 The Movaster was a better boat, 
 
 But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. 
 And so she come tearin' along that night — 
 
 The oldest craft on the line — 
 With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 
 
 And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 The fire burst out as she clared the bar, 
 
 And burnt a. hole in the night, 
 And quick as a Hash she turned, and made 
 
 For that wilier-bank on the right. 
 There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim 
 yelled out, 
 
 Over all the infernal roar, 
 "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last galoot's ashore." 
 
 Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' 
 boat 
 Jim Bludso's voice was heard, 
 And they all had trust in his cussedness. 
 
 And knowed he would keep his wc 
 And, sure's you're born, they all got 
 
 Afore the smoke-stacks fell, — 
 And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
 
 In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 
 
 He weren't no saint, — but at jedgmet 
 
 I'd run my chance with Jim, 
 'Longside of some pious gentlemen 
 
 That wouldn't shook hands with hi 
 He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, - 
 
 And went for it thar and then; 
 And Christ ain't going to be too hard 
 
 On a man that died for men. 
 
 John 
 
 DOE"E FOR. 
 
 A WEEK ago to-day, when red-haired Sally 
 
 Down to the sugar-camp came to see me, 
 I saw her checked frock coming down the 
 valley. 
 
 Far as any body's eyes could see. 
 Now I sit before the camp-fire. 
 
 And I can't see the pine-knots blaze, 
 Nor Sally's pretty face a-shining, 
 
 Though I hear the good words she says. 
 
 A week ago to-night I was tired and lonely, 
 
 Sally was gone back to Mason's fort. 
 And the boys by the sugar-kettles left me 
 only; 
 
 They were hunting 'coons for sport. 
 By there snaked a painted Pawnee, 
 
 I was asleep before the fire; 
 He creased my two eyes with his hatchet. 
 
 And scalped me to his heart's desire 
 
 There they found me on the dry tussocks 
 
 lying, 
 Bloody and cold as a live man could be; 
 A hoot-owl on the branches overhead was 
 
 crying. 
 Crying murder to the red Pawnee. 
 
 They brought me to the camp-fire, 
 They washed me in the sweet -w 
 spring; 
 
 But my eyes were full of flashes. 
 And all night my ears would sing. 
 
 I thought I was a hunter on the prair 
 
 But they saved me for an old blind c 
 When the hunting-grounds are cool 
 airy, 
 
 I shall lie here like a helpless log. 
 I can't ride the little wiry pony. 
 
 That scrambles over hills high and 1 
 I can't set my traps for the cony, 
 
 Or bring down the black buftalo. 
 
 I'm no better than a rusty, bursted rifl 
 
 And I don't see signs of any other ti 
 Here by the camp-fire blaze I lie 
 stifle, 
 
 And hear Jim fill the kettles with 
 pail. 
 It's no use groaning. I like Sally, 
 
 But a Digger squaw would n't have 
 I wish they had n't found me in the valle 
 
 It's twice dead not to see! 
 
 Hose Terry ( 
 
580 
 
 THE ORE AT WEST. 
 
 THE BISON-TRACK 
 
 Strike the tent! the sun has risen; not a 
 
 cloud has ribbed the dawn, 
 And the frosted prairie brightens to the 
 
 westward, far and wan : 
 Prime afresh the trusty rifle — sharpen well 
 
 the hunting-spear — 
 For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise 
 
 of hoofs I hear! 
 
 Fiercely stamp the tethered horses, as they 
 snuff the morning's fire. 
 
 And their flashing heads are tossing, with 
 a neigh of keen desire; 
 
 Strike the tent — the saddles wait us! let 
 the bridle-reins be slack, 
 
 For the prairie's distant thunder has be- 
 trayed the bison's track! 
 
 See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the 
 onward-surging roar. 
 
 Like the din of wintry breakers on a sound- 
 ing wall of shore! 
 
 Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort 
 the foremost of the van, 
 
 And the stubborn horns are striking, through 
 the crowded caravan. 
 
 Now the storm is down upon us — let the 
 
 maddened horses go! 
 We shall ride the living whirlwind, though 
 
 a hundred leagues it blow! 
 Though the surgy manes should thicken, 
 
 and the red eyes' angry glare 
 Lighten round us as we gallop through the 
 
 sand and rushing air! 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 581 
 
 Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our 
 
 wild, resistless race. 
 And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder 
 
 down the desert space : 
 Yet the rein may not be tightened, nor 
 
 the rider's eye look back — 
 Death to him whose speed should slacken, 
 
 on the maddened bison's track! 
 
 ]^ow the trampling herds are threaded, and 
 the chase is close and warm 
 
 For the giant bull that gallops in the edges 
 of the storm: 
 
 Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless — swing 
 
 your rifles as we run! 
 Ha ! the dust is red behind him : shout, my 
 
 brothers, he is won! 
 
 Look not on him as he staggers — 'tis the 
 
 last shot he will need; 
 More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we 
 
 run the bold stampede — 
 Ere we stem the swarthy breakers — while 
 
 the wolves, a hungry pack. 
 Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on 
 
 the bloody bison-track! 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 THE PLAINS. 
 
 I LOOK along the valley's edge, 
 
 "Where swings the white road like a swell 
 
 Of surf, along a sea of sedge 
 
 And black and brittle chaparral. 
 
 And enters like an iron wedere 
 
 Drove in the mountain dun and brown. 
 
 As if to split the hills in twain. 
 
 Two clouds of dust roll o'er the plain, 
 And men ride up and men ride down, 
 And hot men halt, and curse and shout. 
 And coming coursers plunge and neigh. 
 The clouds of dust are rolled in one, — 
 And horses, horsemen, where are they? 
 Lo ! through a rift of cloud and dun. 
 
582 
 
 THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 Of desolation and of rout, 
 
 I see some long- white daggers flash, 
 
 I hear the sharp, hot pistols crash, 
 
 And curses loud in mad despair 
 
 Are blended with a plaintive prayer 
 
 That struggles through the dust and air. 
 
 The cloud is lifting like a vail: 
 The frantic curse, the plaintive wail 
 Have died away; nor sound nor word 
 Along the dusty plain is heard 
 Save sounding of yon courser's feet. 
 Who flies so fearfully and fleet. 
 With gory girth and broken rein, 
 Across the hot and trackless plain. 
 Behold him, as he trembling flies. 
 Look back with red and bursting eyes 
 To where his gory master lies. 
 The cloud is lifting like a vail. 
 But underneath its drifting sail 
 I see a loose and black capote 
 In careless heed far fly and float 
 So vulture-like above a steed 
 Of perfect mold and passing speed. 
 
 Here lies a man of giant mold, — 
 His mighty right arm, perfect bare 
 Save but its sable coat of hair, 
 Is clutching in its iron clasp 
 A clump of sage, as if to hold 
 The earth from slipping from his grasp; 
 While, stealing from bis brow, a stain 
 
 Of purple blood and gory brain 
 Yields to the parched lips of the plain. 
 Swift to resolve to dust again. 
 
 Lo! friend and foe blend here and there 
 With dusty lips and trailing hair: 
 Some with a cold and sullen stare. 
 Some with their red hands clasped in prayer. 
 
 Here lies a youth, whose fair face is 
 Still holy from a mother's kiss, 
 With brow as white as alabaster 
 Save a tell-tale powder-stain 
 Of a deed and a disaster 
 That will never come again. 
 With their perils and their pain. 
 
 The tinkle of bells on the bended hills, 
 The hum of bees in the orange trees, 
 And the lowly call of the beaded rills 
 Are heard in the land as I look again 
 Over the peaceful battle-plain. 
 Murderous man from the field has fled. 
 Fled in fear from the face of his dead. 
 He battled, he bled, he ruled a day, — 
 And peaceful ISTature resumes her sway. 
 And the sward where yonder corses lie. 
 When the verdant season shall come again. 
 Shall greener grow than it grew before; 
 Shall again in sun-clime glory vie 
 With the gayest green in the tropic scene, 
 Taking its freshness back once more 
 From them that despoiled it yesterday. 
 
 Joaquin MiMer. 
 
 THE LITTLE LONE GRAVE ON THE PLAINS. 
 
 Two days had the train been wait- 
 ing, 
 
 Laid oft" from the forward tramp. 
 When the sick child drooped 
 And died, and they scooped 
 
 Out a little grave near camp. 
 
 Then clad in its scanty garments. 
 And wrapped in a threadbare shawl. 
 
 They laid it away 
 From the light of day, 
 Amid tears and sobs from all. 
 
 Then silently covered it over. 
 And heaped up the sandy ground, 
 And gathered a pile 
 Of small stones meanwhile. 
 And placed o'er the little mound. 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 583 
 
 God pity the poor young mother, 
 For her heart is wrung full sore, 
 
 And the fresh tears start 
 
 As she turns to part 
 From the grave for evermore 
 
 Bereft of her heart's young idol. 
 And rohbed of a mother's joy, 
 
 How could she but grieve 
 
 Forever to leave 
 The grave of her darling boy? 
 
 Oh, it was bleak and so lonely! 
 
 Oh, it was so sad and so drear! 
 Must her loved one sleep 
 There, where none could keep 
 
 A friendly vigil near? 
 
 Outside of civilization. 
 
 Far from the abodes of men, 
 
 Where the cactus blows 
 
 And the wild sage grows. 
 In the haunts of the wild sage-hen; 
 
 No tree in range of the vision, 
 No beautiful flowers bloom, 
 
 But a waste of sand. 
 
 In a desert land. 
 Surrounds the little tomb. 
 
 No birds are there to warble, 
 No sounds on the breezes float. 
 
 Save the vulture's "caw," 
 
 Full of dismal awe, 
 And the howl of the gray coyote. 
 
 John B. Kaye. 
 
 A SUNSET AT LONGMONT. 
 
 We've journeyed through the mountains. 
 
 There they stand 
 Broad-based, majestic in a grand repose. 
 Some three leagues westward. Longmont 
 
 welcomes us; 
 And while we rest, this balmy summer eve. 
 At hospitable thresholds, all the sky. 
 As if to consecrate our holiday, 
 And make our precious memories more dear. 
 Puts on unwonted glory; and our eyes, 
 Like those of Moses in the mount, are smit 
 With sudden splendor. For the sinking sun. 
 Hidden, is not repressed, but poui's its light 
 Upward and far aslant on flocks of cloud. 
 Along the clear horizon's narrow rim, 
 Down the great gulfs of everlasting rock, 
 O'er shining peaks, the distant Snowy Range, 
 And Long's high crown, while all the nearer 
 
 hills 
 In tender shadow watch the miracle. 
 Spread to the right, and gleaming fold on 
 
 fold, 
 Vermilion, saffron, pink and pearly white. 
 The gorgeous banners of the clouds are flung. 
 Waving and tossing in resplendent surge, 
 
 Above yon belt of deep, delicious sky, 
 Whose liquid opal, perfect, passionless. 
 Runs to a field of luminous emerald, 
 Broidered with marvelous fringe of crimson 
 
 fire. 
 More southward, fleecy draperies touched 
 
 with rose 
 Float on the air, and here and there droop low 
 Upon the shoulders of the purple peaks. 
 O'erhead the arrows of the hidden sun 
 Flash, now and then, on clifts of ragged cloud ; 
 And plumes of radiance, like strange tropic 
 
 birds, 
 Flit through the open spaces of the blue. 
 High up amid the awful gaps of rock. 
 Between the ranges, a soft sea of bloom, — 
 The lustrous pollen of this sunset-flower, — 
 Throbs wave on wave against the granite 
 
 shore. 
 Wondrous the billows of this golden mist. 
 Sweet, tender, lucent, as if purest dews 
 Of Paradise had washed the starry sheen 
 From heaven's choicest blossoms, and poured 
 
 all 
 Into the porphyry basin of the mount. 
 
584 
 
 TEE GREAT WEST. 
 
 A perfect incense to the unseen God. 
 Unasked we join the worship of the hour, 
 Breathless with indescribable applause. 
 The sacred spell of Beauty on us lies, 
 And power that' dwells in Light's essential 
 
 throne, 
 And Love in which all that is good is born. 
 
 The curtains of the glowing deep are drawn, 
 And through the vista, garlanded with gold, 
 O'er amethystine herbage, lawns of rose, 
 Pure streams where lilies of the angels blow, 
 Far toward the sightless glory of the Lord, 
 Our hearts are borne in measureless content. 
 Renewed and resting on the Infinite! 
 
 . Horatio Nekon Powers. 
 
 MONTANA. 
 
 A land of mountains ! Like stern sentinels 
 The towering ridges guard the vales be- 
 tween, — 
 Brown, barren peaks, encircling fairy dells 
 
 And meadows green. 
 I stand upon the high divide, and view 
 
 The straggling regiment of hills in sight, — 
 Now dull in rebel gray, now loyal blue, 
 Now plumed in white. 
 
 No sound I hear in all those solitudes. 
 Save brooklets tinkling on their beds of 
 stone. 
 Where "westward rolls, in the continuous 
 woods, 
 The Oregon"; 
 Or eastward, falling from the self-same steeps. 
 Two oceans drinking from the self-same 
 source. 
 Where the "Nebraska precipitate leaps 
 In devious course." 
 
 I ponder legends weird and marvelous tales, 
 Round miners' camp-fires by old trappers 
 told; 
 Peopling with fairy life the enchanted vales 
 
 Where lurks the gold; 
 Regions where Indians tell of travelers lone. 
 And trees whose fruit is many a price- 
 less gem. 
 But straightway turneth the rash hand to 
 stone 
 That graspeth them. 
 
 I half believe the legends strange and rude, 
 I feel their 'witching influence in the 
 breeze, — 
 The mystery of the somber solitude 
 
 Of brooks and trees; 
 And half repent the golden dream of gain 
 That hither led my vagrant wanderings; 
 And almost deem my search a theft profane 
 Of sacred things. 
 
 Edward Bowdoin Neattey. 
 
 GRIZZLY. 
 
 Coward, — of heroic size. 
 In whose lazy muscles lies 
 Strength we fear and yet despise; 
 Savage, — whose relentless tusks 
 Are content with acorn husks; 
 Robber, — whose exploits ne'er soared 
 
 O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard; 
 Whiskered chin, and feeble nose. 
 Claws of steel on baby toes, — 
 Here, in solitude and shade, 
 Shambling, shuflling, plantigrade, 
 Be thy courses undismayed I 
 
TEE OBEAT WEST. 
 
 585 
 
 Here, where ITature makes thy hed, 
 Let thy rude, half-human tread 
 
 Poiut to hidden Indian springs, 
 Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses, 
 
 Hovered o'er by timid wings, 
 "Where the wood-duck lightly passes, 
 "Where the wild bee holds her sweets, — 
 Epicurean retreats. 
 Fit for thee, and better than 
 Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 
 
 In thy fat-jowled deviltry 
 Friar Tuck shall live in thee; 
 Thou mayst levy tithe and dole; 
 
 Thou shalt spread the woodland 
 cheer. 
 From the pilgrim taking toll: 
 
 Match thy cunning with his 
 fear ; 
 Eat, and drink, and have thy fill ; 
 Yet remain an outlaw still! 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
586 
 
 THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 A SAVAGE. 
 
 Dixon, a Choctaw, twenty years of age, 
 
 Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl; 
 Tried and condemned, the rough-beards curb 
 their rage, 
 And watch him stride in freedom from 
 the hall. 
 
 " Return on Friday, to be shot to death ! " 
 
 So ran the sentence — it was Monday night. 
 
 The dead man's comrades drew a well-pleased 
 
 breath, 
 
 Then all night long the gambling dens 
 
 were bright. 
 
 The days sped slowly; but the Friday came, 
 And flocked the miners to the shooting 
 ground; 
 
 They chose six riflemen oi deadly aim, 
 And with low voices sat and lounged 
 around. 
 
 "He will not come;" "He's not a fool." 
 "The men 
 Who set the savage free must face the 
 blame." 
 A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then 
 Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon 
 came. 
 
 Silent and stern — a woman at his heels; 
 
 He motions to the brave, who stays her 
 
 tread. [reels 
 
 Ifext minute — flame the guns: the woman 
 
 And drops without a moan — Dixon is dead. 
 
 John Boyle O'SeiUy. 
 
 MILES KEOGH'S HORSE. 
 
 On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn, 
 At the close of a woful day, 
 
 Custer and his Three Hundred 
 In death and silence lay. 
 
 Three hundred to three thousand! 
 
 They had bravely fought and bled; 
 For such is the will of Congress 
 
 When the White man meets the Red. 
 
 The White men are ten millions, 
 The thriftiest under the sun; 
 
 The Reds are fifty thousand. 
 And warriors every one. 
 
 So Custer and all his fighting men 
 Lay mider the evening skies. 
 
 Staring up at the tranquil heaven 
 With wide, accusing eyes. 
 
 And of all that stood at noonday 
 
 In that fiery scorpion ring, 
 Miles Keogh's horse at evening 
 
 Was the only living thing. 
 
 Alone from that field of slaughter. 
 Where lay the three hundred slain, 
 
 The horse Comanche wandered. 
 With Keogh's blood on his mane. 
 
 And Sturgis issued this order, 
 Which future times shall read, 
 
 While the love and honor of comrades 
 Are the soul of the soldier's creed. 
 
 He said: 
 
 Let the horse Comanche, 
 
 Henceforth till he shall die, 
 Be kindly cherished, and cared for 
 By the Seventh Cavalry. 
 
 He shall do no labor; he never shall know 
 
 The touch of spur or rein; 
 Nor shall his back he ever crossed 
 
 By living rider again. 
 
 And at regimental formation 
 
 Of the Seventh Cavalry, 
 Comanche, draped in mourning, and led 
 By a trooper of Company I, 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 587 
 
 Shall parade loith the regiment! 
 
 Thus it was 
 
 Commanded, and thus done, 
 By order of General Sturgis, signed 
 
 By Adjutant Garlington. 
 
 Even as the sword of Custer, 
 
 In his disastrous fall, 
 Flashed out a blaze that charmed the world 
 
 And glorified his pall, 
 
 This order, issued amid the gloom 
 That shrouds our army's name, 
 
 When all foul beasts are free to rend 
 And tear its honest fame. 
 
 Shall prove to a callous people 
 That the sense of a soldier's worth, 
 
 That the love of comrades, the honor of 
 arms, 
 Have not yet perished from earth. 
 
 John Say. 
 
 A PRAIRIE-DOG VILLAGE. 
 
 One night a band of Indians attacked us, — 
 Crossing the Rocky Mountains once by 
 stage, — 
 And left us horseless in a waste of cactus 
 
 And parched wild sage: 
 A desert region, — dreary desolation. 
 Where never flower bloomed or grass grew 
 green. 
 As if accursed of God from the creation 
 The land had been. 
 
 Yet here, remote from man, unused to tillage. 
 
 Afar from human joy and human strife. 
 
 We walked the road-sides of a thrifty village 
 
 Of busy life. 
 And saw the people resting from their 
 labors : — 
 Snug houses theirs, well filled with winter 
 stores ; 
 And matrons, chattering gossip with their 
 neighbors, 
 Stood at the doors. 
 
 "The little prairie-dog here builds his 
 burrow," 
 Our driver said, " and here the rattle- 
 snake 
 And solemn owl, helpmates in joy and sorrow, 
 
 Their dwelling make. 
 The snake, strong-armed and fierce, keeps 
 out the stranger; 
 
 The owl, Minerva's bird, sage counsel gives ; 
 And so the prairie-dog, in haunts of danger. 
 In safety lives. 
 
 " And in these burrows, snug in every weather. 
 Secure each one in all his rights, the three, 
 A happy family, consort together 
 
 In unity. 
 And all unfettered by your laws of iron. 
 Each lending cheerful help their homes 
 they build; 
 Together thus lie down the lamb and lion, 
 God's word fulfilled." 
 
 But in our party was a Yale professor. 
 
 " You overpraise," said he, " this wilderness ; 
 The rattlesnake is but a vile oppressor, 
 
 The owl scarce less; 
 The prairie-dogs are patient little toilers, 
 Who build their homes with slow and 
 painful care, 
 When, uninvited, come these two despoilers 
 And harbor there. 
 
 " Where toil has garnered up a scanty pittance, 
 
 Labored the livelong day for rest at night, 
 
 Cometh the stronger, forcing an admittance. 
 
 And might makes right; — 
 The old, old story all through history's pages,— 
 These wilds are but the world uncivilized. 
 Where honest labor's rights in barbarous ages 
 Were lightly prized. 
 
588 
 
 THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 " There is no freedom without law and order; 
 
 To license liberty degenerates; 
 The weaker have no rights — to guard whose 
 Are builded states. [border 
 
 And Justice, royal in her robes of ermine, 
 Sits, loved of all, secure upon her throne, 
 "With power to give, and wisdom to determine 
 To each his own." 
 
 Edward Bowdoin Neatley. 
 
 MOUNT SHASTA. 
 
 How shall I near thee, gray old guardian of 
 the plain ? 
 
 Or lift my faltei'ing notes aloft to thee? 
 How shall the evanescent voice of song attain 
 
 To heights so far above my world and me ? 
 
 Alone, incomparable, thy pathless steeps un- 
 trod. 
 Wrapped in thy white, eternal robes of 
 snow, 
 Thy mighty head uplift and bare to ISTature's 
 God, 
 Thou lookest serene upon the world below. 
 
 Thou seest hoar old Lassen only dwarfed by 
 thee. 
 And Burney's dusky crater, snowy- 
 crowned ; 
 And green umbrageous ranges rolling to the 
 sea, 
 In many a haughty hill and swelling 
 mound. 
 
 Thou seest the broad tree-dotted valleys 
 stretch away. 
 The bosky dingles, dark with shadowy 
 pine. 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 589 
 
 The circling hills, like grim fantastic gnomes 
 at play, 
 And deeps where man bends toiling in the 
 mine. 
 
 Thou hear'st the fretful voice of stream on 
 rocky scaur. 
 And bolder river flowing to the main, 
 The wild, fierce shriek of struggling ocean- 
 winds at war. 
 And the weird tone of ocean's pensive 
 strain. 
 
 Thick clouds and storms and wintry winds 
 envelope thee. 
 Warm suns of summer kiss thy forehead 
 hoar, 
 
 Soft dews of night upon thy breast fall noise- 
 lessly, 
 And strange, still birds thy steeps go 
 sailing o'er. 
 
 Yet what to thee the soft, benignant dews 
 of night? 
 And what the spell of sun and' summer 
 shower? 
 1^0 song-bird rests upon thy bleak and treeless 
 height, — 
 Upon thy rugged breast no opening flower. 
 
 Oh, still, immutable, untouched of ages past, 
 Beyond the power of ages yet to be, 
 
 With foot on earth and head to heaven upcast. 
 Gray Shasta, time itself is lost in thee ! 
 
 Fanny 31. Chappelt. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN" ON" THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The deep, transparent sky is full 
 
 Of many thousand glittering lights, — 
 Unnumbered stars that calmly rule 
 
 The dark dominions of the night. 
 The mild, bright moon has upward risen. 
 
 Out of the gray and boundless plain, 
 And all around the white snows glisten. 
 
 Where frost and ice and silence reign, — 
 While ages roll away, and they unchanged 
 remain. 
 
 These mountains, piercing the blue sky 
 
 With their eternal cones of ice; 
 The torrents dashing from on high. 
 
 O'er rock and crag and precipice; 
 Change not, but still remain as ever, 
 
 Unwasting, deathless, and sublime. 
 And will remain while lightnings quiver, 
 
 Or stars the hoary summits climb, 
 Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time. 
 
 It is not so with all, — I change. 
 And waste as with a living death. 
 
 Like one that hath become a strange. 
 Unwelcome guest, and lingereth 
 
 Among the memories of the past. 
 Where he is a forgotten name; 
 For Time hath greater power to blast 
 The hopes, the feelings, and the fame, 
 To make the passions fierce, or their first 
 strength to tame. 
 
 The wind comes rushing swift by me. 
 
 Pouring its coolness on my brow; 
 Such was I once, — as proudly free. 
 
 And yet, alas! how altered now! 
 Yet, while I gaze upon yon plain. 
 
 These mountains, this eternal sky. 
 The scenes of boyhood come again. 
 
 And pass before the vacant eye. 
 Still wearing something of their ancient 
 brilliancy. 
 
 Yet why complain? — for what is wrong, 
 False friends, cold-heartedness, deceit. 
 
 And life already made too long. 
 
 To one who walks with bleeding feet 
 
 Over its paths? — it will but make 
 
 Death sweeter when it comes at last, — 
 
 And though the trampled heart may ache. 
 
590 
 
 THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 Its agony of pain is past, 
 And calmness gathers there, while life is 
 
 ebbing fast. 
 
 Perhaps, when I have passed away, 
 
 Like the sad echo of a dream, 
 There may be some one found to say 
 
 A word that might like sorrow seem. 
 That I would have, — one saddened tear, 
 
 One kindly and regretting thought; 
 Grant me but that! — and even here. 
 Here, in this lone, unpeopled spot, 
 To breathe away this life of pain, I murmur 
 
 not. 
 
 Albert Pike. 
 
 ON RECEOSSING THE ROCKY MOIHSTTAINS IE WINTEE, 
 AFTER MANY YEARS. 
 
 Long years ago I wandered here, 
 In the midsummer of the year, — ■ 
 
 Life's summer too; 
 A score of horsemen here we rode. 
 The mountain world its glories showed. 
 
 All fair to view. 
 
 These scenes, in glowing colors drest. 
 Mirrored the life within my breast. 
 
 Its world of hopes; 
 The whispering woods and fragrant breeze 
 That stirred the grass in verdant seas 
 
 On billowy slopes, 
 
 And glistening crag in sunlit sky. 
 
 Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high, 
 
 "Were joys to me; 
 My path was o'er the prairie wide. 
 Or here on grander mountain-side. 
 
 To choose, all free. 
 
 The rose that waved in morning air. 
 And spread its dewy fi'agrance there 
 
 In careless bloom, 
 Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue. 
 O'er my glad life its color threw 
 
 And sweet perfume. 
 
 Now changed the scene and changed the 
 
 eyes. 
 That here once looked on glowing skies, 
 "Where summer smiled; 
 
 These riven trees, this wind-swept plain, 
 Now show the winter's dread domain, 
 Its fury wild. 
 
 The rocks rise black from storm-packed 
 
 snow. 
 All checked the river's pleasant flow, 
 
 Vanished the bloom; 
 These dreary wastes of frozen plain 
 Reflect my bosom's life again. 
 
 Now lonesome gloom. 
 
 The buoyant hopes and busy life 
 Have ended all in hateful strife. 
 
 And thwarted aim. 
 The world's rude contact killed the rose, 
 No more its radiant color shows 
 
 False roads to fame. 
 
 Backward, amidst the twilight glow 
 Some lingering spots yet brightly show 
 
 On hard roads won, 
 "Where still some grand peaks mark the way 
 Touched by the light of parting day 
 
 And memory's sun. 
 
 But here thick clouds the mountains hide. 
 The dim horizon, bleak and wide, 
 
 No pathway shows, 
 And rising gusts, and darkening sky. 
 Tell of the night that cometh, nigh. 
 
 The brief day's close. 
 
 John C. Fremont 
 

 
 
 " 5 
 
 -D a 
 
 il 5 2 
 
 
 o < 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 593 
 
 DOW'S FLAT. 
 
 Dow's Flat. That's its name. 
 
 And I reckon that you 
 Are a stranger? The same? 
 Well, I thought it was true, 
 For thar isn't a man on the river as can't 
 spot the place at first view. 
 
 It was called after Dow, — 
 "Which the same was an ass; 
 
 And as to the how 
 
 Thet the thing kem to pass, — 
 
 Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and 
 
 sit ye down here in the grass: 
 
 You see, this 'yer Dow, 
 
 Hed the worst kind of luck: 
 
 He slipped up somehow 
 
 On each thing that he struck. 
 Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the 
 derned thing 'ed get up and buck. 
 
 He mined on the bar 
 
 Till he couldn't pay rates; 
 
 He was smashed by a car 
 
 When he tunneled with Bates; 
 And right on the top of his trouble kem his 
 wife and five kids from the States. 
 
 It was rough, — mighty rough; 
 
 But the boys they stood by, 
 And they brought him the stuff 
 
 For a house, on the sly; 
 And the old woman, — well, she did washing, 
 
 and took on when no one was nigh. 
 
 But this yer luck of Dow's 
 
 Was so powerful mean, 
 That the spring near his house 
 
 Di'ied right up on the green; 
 And he sunk forty feet down for water, but 
 
 nary a drop to be seen. 
 
 Then the bar petered out. 
 
 And the boys wouldn't stay; 
 And the chills got about. 
 
 And his wife fell away; 
 But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in his 
 usual ridikilous way. 
 
 One day, — it was June, — 
 
 And a year ago, jest, — 
 This. Dow kem at noon 
 
 To his work like the rest. 
 With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and 
 
 a derringer hid in his breast. 
 
 He goes to the well; 
 
 And he stands on the brink. 
 And stops for a spell 
 
 Jest to listen and think: 
 For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir !) you 
 
 see, kinder made the cuss blink. 
 
 His two ragged gals 
 In the gulch were at play, 
 
 And a gownd that was Sal's 
 Kinder flapped on a bay; 
 Not much for a man to be leaviu', but his 
 all, — as I've heer'd the folks say. 
 
 And — That's a peart hoss 
 
 Thet you've got, — ain't it now? 
 
 What might be her cost? 
 
 Eh? Oh!— Well, then, Dow- 
 Let's see, — well, that forty-foot grave was n't 
 his, sir, that day, anyhow. 
 
 For a blow of his pick 
 
 Sorter caved in the side; 
 And he looked, and turned sick. 
 Then he trembled and cried. 
 For, you see, the dern cuss had struck — 
 "Water?" — Beg your parding, young 
 man, there you lied! 
 
 It was gold, — in the quartz, 
 
 And it ran all alike; 
 And I reckon five oughts 
 
 Was the worth of that strike; 
 And that house with the coopilow's his'n, — 
 which the same is n't bad for a Pike. 
 
594 
 
 THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 Thet's why it's Dow's Flat; 
 
 And the thing of it is, 
 That he kinder got that 
 
 Through sheer contrairiness. 
 For 't was loater tlie denied cuss was seekin', 
 
 and his luck made him certain to miss. 
 
 Thet's so. Thar's your way 
 
 To the left of yon tree; 
 But — a — look h'yur, say? 
 
 "Won't you come up to tea? 
 No ? Well, then the next time you're passin' ; 
 
 and ask after Dow, — and thet's me. 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
 THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR. 
 
 Gusty and raw was the morning, 
 
 A fog hung over the seas, 
 And its gray skirts, rolling inland, 
 
 Were torn by the mountain trees; 
 'So sound was heard but the dashing 
 
 Of waves on the sandy bar, 
 When Pablo of San Diego 
 
 Rode down to the Paso del Mar. 
 
 The pescador, out in his shallop. 
 
 Gathering his harvest so wide, 
 Sees the dim bulk of the headland 
 
 Loom over the waste of the tide; 
 He sees, like a white thread, the pathway 
 
 Wind round on the terrible wall, 
 Where the faint, moving speck of the rider 
 
 Seems hovering close to its fall. 
 
 Stout Pablo of San Diego 
 
 Rode down from the hills behind; 
 With the bells on his gray mule tinkling 
 
 He sang through the fog and wind. 
 Under his thick, misted eyebrows 
 
 Twinkled his eye like a star. 
 And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds 
 
 Drove cold on the Paso del 'Mar. 
 
 Now Bernal, the herdsman of Chino, 
 
 Had traveled the shore since dawn, 
 Leaving the ranches behind him, — 
 
 Good reason had he to be gone! 
 The blood was still red on his dagger. 
 
 The fury was hot in his brain. 
 And the chill, driving scud of the breakers 
 
 Beat thick on his forehead in vain. 
 
 With his poncho wrapped gloomily round him, 
 
 He mounted the dizzying road. 
 And the chasms and steeps of the headland 
 
 Were slippery and wet, as he trod: 
 Wild swept the wind of the ocean. 
 
 Rolling the fog from afar. 
 When near him a mule-bell came tinkling, 
 
 Midway on the Paso del Mar. 
 
 "Back!" shouted Bernal, full fiercely. 
 
 And "Back!" shouted Pablo, in wrath. 
 As his mule halted, startled and shrinking, 
 
 On the perilous line of the path. 
 The roar of devouring surges 
 
 Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; 
 And, "Back, or you perish!" cried Bernal, 
 
 "I turn not on Paso del Mar!" 
 
 The gray mule stood firm as the headland: 
 
 He clutched at the jingling rein. 
 When Pablo rose up in his saddle 
 
 And smote till he dropped it again. 
 A wild oath of passion swore Bernal, 
 
 And brandished his dagger, still red. 
 While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward. 
 
 And fought o'er his trusty mule's head. 
 
 They fought till the black wall below them 
 
 Shone red through the misty blast; 
 Stout Pablo then struck, leaning farther. 
 
 The broad breast of Bernal at last. 
 And, frenzied with pain, the swart herdsman 
 
 Closed on him with terrible strength, 
 And jerked him, despite of his struggles, 
 
 Down from the saddle at length. 
 
THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 mi 
 
 They grappled with desperate madness, 
 On the slippery edge of the wall; 
 
 They swayed on the hriuk, and together 
 Reeled out to the rush of the fall. 
 
 A cry of the wildest death-anguish 
 Rang faint through the mist afar, 
 
 And the riderless mule went homeward 
 From the fight of the Paso del Mar. 
 
 Bayard Taylor 
 
 TWO. 
 
 One sang all day, more merry than the lark 
 
 That mounts the morning skies: 
 One silent sat, and lifted patient eyes. 
 
 One heart kept happy time, from dawn to 
 dark, 
 With all glad things that be: 
 One, listless, throbbed alone to memory. 
 
 To one all bless6d knowledge was revealed, 
 
 And love made clear the way: 
 One thirsted, asked, and still was answered 
 nay. 
 
 To one, a glad, brief day, that slumber sealed 
 
 And kept inviolate: 
 To one, long years, that only knew to wait. 
 
 Ina, D. Coolbriih. 
 
 THE ANGELUS, 
 
 HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868. 
 
 Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten 
 music 
 
 Still fills the wide expanse, 
 Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present 
 
 With colors of romance: 
 
 I hear your call, and see the sun descending 
 On rock and wave and sand, 
 
 As doAvn the coast the Mission voices blend- 
 ing 
 Grirdle the heathen land. 
 
 Within the circle of your incantation 
 E"o blight nor mildew falls; 
 
 ISTor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambi- 
 tion 
 Passes those airy walls. 
 
 Borne on the swell of your long waves re- 
 ceding, 
 
 I touch the farther Past, — 
 I see the dying glow of Spanish glory. 
 
 The sunset dream and last! 
 
 Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission 
 towers. 
 
 The white Presidio; 
 The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, 
 
 The priest in stole of snow. 
 
 Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting 
 
 Above the setting sun; 
 And past the headland, northward, slowly 
 drifting 
 
 The freighted galleon. 
 
 solemn bells! whose consecrated masses 
 
 Recall the faith of old, — 
 tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight 
 music 
 
 The spiritual fold! 
 
 Your voices break and falter in the darkness. 
 
 Break, falter, and are still; 
 And vailed and mystic, like the Host de- 
 scending, 
 
 The sun sinks from the hill! 
 
 Bret Harti 
 
696 
 
 TEE GBEAT WEST. 
 
 LONE MOUI^TAIJSr CEMETERY. 
 
 This is that hill of awe 
 That Persian Sindbad saw, — 
 
 The mount magnetic; 
 And on its seaward face, 
 Scattered along its base, 
 
 The wrecks prophetic. 
 
 Here come the argosies 
 Blown by each idle breeze. 
 
 To and fro shifting; 
 Yet to the hill of Fate 
 All drawing, soon or late, — 
 
 Day by day drifting; — 
 
 Drifting forever here 
 Barks that for many a year 
 
 Braved wind and weather; 
 Shallops but yesteriJay 
 Launched on yon shining bay, — 
 
 Drawn all together. 
 
 This is the end of all: 
 Sun thyself by the wall, 
 
 poorer Hindbad! 
 Envy not Sindbad's fame : 
 Here come alike the same, 
 
 Hindbad and Sindbad. 
 
 Brel Harte. 
 
 THE CITY OF THE GOLDEN GATE. 
 
 Little the goodly fathers. 
 Building their missions rude. 
 
 By the lone, untraversed watei's. 
 In the western solitude, 
 
 Dreamed of the wonderful city 
 That looks on the stately bay, 
 
 Where the bannered ships of the nations 
 Float in their pride to-day; 
 
 Dreamed of the beautiful city. 
 
 Proud on her tawny height, 
 And strange as a flower upspringing 
 
 To bloom in a single night; 
 
 For, lo ! but a moment lifting 
 
 The vail of the years away, 
 We look on a well-known picture 
 
 That seems but as yesterday. 
 
 The mist rolls in at the gateway. 
 Where never a fortress stands, 
 
 O'er the blossoms of Saucelito, 
 And Yerba Buena's sands. 
 
 Swathing the shores, where only 
 The sea-birds come and pass 
 
 And drifts with the drifting waters 
 By desolate Alcatraz. 
 
 We hear, when night drops downward 
 And the bay throbs under the stars, 
 
 The ocean-voices blending 
 With ripple of soft guitars; 
 
 With chiming bells of the Mission; 
 
 With passionate minors sung, 
 Or a quaint Castilian ballad, 
 
 Trilled in the Spanish tongue. 
 
 Fair from thy hills, city. 
 
 Look on the beautiful bay! 
 Prouder far is the vision 
 
 Greeting our eyes to-day; 
 
 Better the thronged waters. 
 
 And the busy streets astir, 
 Purple and silken raiment. 
 
 Balsam and balm and myrrh — 
 
 Gems of the farther Indies, 
 
 Gold of thy own rich mine. 
 And the pride and boast of the peoples, 
 
 beautiful queen, are thine! . . . 
 
THE GBEAT WEST. 
 
 597 
 
 Praise to the goodly fathers, 
 With banners of faith unfurled! 
 
 Praise to the sturdy heroes 
 
 Who have won thee to the world! 
 
 That was a day to dream of — 
 
 That was a life we led; 
 Bleeding the veins of the mountains, 
 
 Draining the torrent's bed; 
 
 Searching the dusky canon. 
 Tracking the pathless glen — 
 
 The shot, the knife, and the struggle. 
 With savage beasts and men! 
 
 But blest in the rest that follows 
 
 Is thought of a labor past; 
 Blessed in the homes we have builded 
 
 Tbe peace and the rest at last. 
 
 And blessed, indeed, the winter 
 That nurses a smiling spring, 
 
 When hands that the seed have scattered 
 May gather the blossoming. 
 
 Ina D. Coolbrith. 
 
 THE GOLDEN GATE. 
 
 The air is chill, and the day grows late. 
 And the clouds come in through the Golden 
 
 Gate: 
 Phantom fleets they seem to me. 
 From a shoreless and unsounded sea; 
 Their shadowy spars and misty sails, 
 Unshattered, have weathered a thousand 
 
 gales : 
 Slow wheeling, lo! in squadrons gray. 
 They part, and hasten along the bay; 
 Each to its anchorage finding way. 
 Where the hills of Saucelito swell. 
 Many in gloom may shelter well; 
 And others — behold — unchallenged pass 
 By the silent guns of Alcatras: 
 No greetings of thunder and flame exchange 
 The armfed isle and the cruisers strange. 
 Their meteor flags, so widely blown. 
 Were blazoned in a land unknown; 
 So, charmed from war or wind or tide. 
 Along the quiet wave they glide. 
 
 What bear these ships? — what news, what 
 
 freight. 
 Do they bring us through the Golden Gate? 
 Sad echoes to words in gladness spoken. 
 And withered hopes to the poor heart- 
 broken : 
 Oh, how many a venture we 
 Have rashly sent to the shoreless sea! 
 
 How many an hour have you and I, 
 Sweet friend, in sadness seen go by. 
 While our eager, longing thoughts were 
 
 roving 
 Over the waste, for something loving, — 
 Something rich and chaste and kind. 
 To brighten and bless a lonely mind; 
 And only waited to behold 
 Ambition's gems, affection's gold. 
 Return as remorse, and a broken vow, 
 In such ships of mist as I see now. 
 
 The air is chill, and the day grows late. 
 And the clouds come in through the Golden 
 
 Gate, 
 Freighted with sorrow, heavy with woe; — 
 But these shapes that cluster, dark and low, 
 To-morrow shall be all aglow! 
 In the blaze of the coming morn these mists,. 
 Whose weight my heart in vain resists. 
 Will brighten and shine, and soar to heaven. 
 In thin white robes, like souls forgiven; 
 For Heaven is kind, and every thing. 
 As well as a winter, has a spring. 
 So, praise to God! who brings the day 
 That shines our regrets and fears away; 
 For the blessed morn I can watch and wait. 
 While the clouds come in through the 
 
 Golden Gate. 
 
 Edward Pollock 
 
598 
 
 THE GREAT WEST. 
 
 WHEN THE aRASS SHALL COVER ME. 
 
 "When the grass shall cover me, 
 Head to foot where I am lying; 
 
 When not any wind that blows, 
 Summer-blooms nor winter-snows. 
 Shall awake me to your sighing: 
 Close above me as you pass. 
 You will say, "How kind she was," 
 You will say, "How true she was," 
 "WTaen the grass grows over me. 
 
 "When the grass shall cover me, 
 Holden close to earth's warm bosom; 
 While I laugh, or weep, or sing, 
 Nevermore, for any thing; 
 You will find in blade and blossom, 
 
 Sweet small voices, odorous, 
 Tender pleaders in my cause. 
 That shall speak me as I was — 
 When the grass grows over me. 
 
 When the grass shall cover me! 
 Ah, beloved, in my sorrow 
 Very patient, I can wait. 
 Knowing that, or soon or late, 
 There will dawn a clearer morrow: 
 
 When your heart will moan: "Alas! 
 Now I know how true she was; 
 Now I know how dear she was" — 
 When the grass grows over me! 
 
 Ina D. Coolbrith. 
 
 ON LEAVING CALIFORNIA. 
 
 FAIR young land, the youngest, fairest far 
 Of which our world can boast, — 
 
 Whose guardian planet. Evening's silver star, 
 Illumes thy golden coast, — 
 
 How art thou conquered, tamed in all the 
 Of savage beauty still! [pride 
 
 How brought, panther of the splendid hide. 
 To know thy master's will! 
 
 No more thou sittest on thy tawny hills 
 
 In indolent repose; 
 Or pourest the crystal of a thousand rills 
 
 Down from thy house of snows. 
 
 But where the wild-oats wrapped thy knees 
 in gold, 
 The plowman drives his share, 
 And where, through canons deep, thy streams 
 are rolled, 
 The miner's arm is bare. 
 
 Yet in thy lap, thus rudely rent and torn, 
 
 A nobler seed shall be: 
 Mother of mighty men, thou shalt not mourn 
 
 Thy lost virginity! 
 
 Thy human children shall restore the grace 
 Gone with thy fallen pines; 
 
 The wild, barbaric beauty of thy face 
 Shall round to classic lines. 
 
 And Order, Justice,' Social Law shall curb 
 
 Thy untamed energies; 
 And Art and Science, with their dreams 
 superb. 
 
 Replace thine ancient ease. 
 
 The marble, sleeping in thy mountains now, 
 Shall live in sculptures rare; 
 
 Thy native oak shall crown the sage's brow, — 
 Thy bay, the poet's hair. 
 
 Thy tawny hills shall bleed their purple 
 wine. 
 
 Thy valleys yield their oil; 
 And Music, with her eloquence divine, 
 
 Persuade thy sons to toil; 
 
 Till Hesper, as he trims his silver beam. 
 No happier laud shall see, 
 
 And Earth shall find her old Arcadian dream 
 Restored again in thee! 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
UPON THE BEACH. 
 
 My life is like a stroll upon the beach, 
 As near the ocean's edge as I can go : 
 
 My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach ; 
 Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. 
 
 My sole employment is, and scrupulous care, 
 To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,— 
 
 Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare. 
 Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. 
 
 (601) 
 
602 
 
 SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 I have but few companions on the shore: 
 They scorn the strand who sail upon the 
 sea; 
 
 Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er 
 Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 
 
 The middle sea contains no crimson dulse; 
 
 Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view : 
 Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 
 
 And I converse with many a shipwrecked 
 
 crew. 
 
 Henry D. Tlwreau. 
 
 GULP WEED 
 
 - *^ 
 
 A WEAKY weed, tossed to and fro, 
 Drearily drenched in the ocean brine. 
 
 Soaring high and sinking low, 
 Lashed along without will of mine; 
 
 Sport of the spoom of the surging sea, 
 Flung on the foam, afar and anear; 
 
 Mark my manifold mystery, — 
 
 Growth and grace in their place appear. 
 
 I bear round berries, gray and red, 
 
 Rootless and rover though I be; 
 My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, 
 
 Arboresce as a trunkless tree; 
 Corals curious coat me o'er, 
 
 White and hard in apt array; 
 Mid the wild waves' rude uproar. 
 
 Gracefully grow I, night and day. 
 
 Hearts there are on the sounding shore — 
 
 Something whispers soft to me — 
 Restless and roaming for evermore. 
 
 Like this weary weed of the sea; 
 Bear they yet, on each beating breast. 
 
 The eternal type of the wondrous whole: 
 Growth unfolding amidst unrest, 
 
 Grace informing with silent soul. 
 
 Cornelius G. Fenner. 
 
 WHEIT THE TIDE COMES IN. 
 
 When the tide comes in. 
 
 At once the shore and sea begin 
 
 Together to be glad. 
 
 What the tide has brought 
 
 'So man has asked, no man has sought: 
 
 What other tides have had 
 
 The deep sand hides away; 
 
 The last bit of the wrecks they wrought 
 
 Was burned up yesterday. 
 
 When the tide goes out, 
 
 The shore looks dark and sad with doubt: 
 
 The landmarks are all lost. 
 
 For the tide to turn 
 
 Men patient wait, men restless yearn. 
 
 Sweet channels they have crossed. 
 
 In boats that rocked with glee. 
 
 Stretch now bare stony roads that burn 
 
 And lead away from sea. 
 
SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 603 
 
 When the tide comes in 
 
 In hearts, at once the hearts begin 
 
 Together to be glad. 
 
 What the tide has brought 
 
 They do not care, they have not sought. 
 
 All joy they ever had 
 
 The new joy multiplies; 
 
 All pain by which it may be bought 
 
 Seems paltry sacrifice. 
 
 When the tide goes out. 
 
 The hearts are wrung with fear and doubt: 
 
 All trace of joy seems lost. 
 
 Will the tide return? 
 
 In restless questioning they yearn, 
 
 With hands unclasped, uncrossed. 
 
 They weep on separate ways. 
 
 Ah ! darling, shall we ever learn 
 
 Love's tidal hours and days? 
 
 H. H. 
 
 PARTED. 
 
 One sails away to sea. 
 
 One stands on the shore and cries; 
 The ship goes down the world, and the light 
 
 On the sullen water dies. 
 
 The whispering shell is mute, 
 And after is evil cheer: 
 
 She shall stand on the shore and cry in vain 
 Many and many a year. 
 
 But the stately wide-winged ship 
 Lies wrecked on the unknown deep; 
 
 Far under, dead in his coral bed. 
 The lover lies asleep. 
 
 William Dean Howells. 
 
604 
 
 SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 ON LYNN TEERACE. 
 
 All day to watch the blue wave curl and 
 break, 
 All night to hear it plunging on the 
 shore, — 
 In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take, 
 I can not ask for more. 
 
 Behind me lie the idle life and vain, 
 
 The task unfinished, and the weary hours; 
 That long wave bears me softly back to Spain 
 And the Alhambra's towers! 
 
 Once more I halt in Andalusiau pass, 
 To list the mule-bells jingling on the 
 height; 
 
 Below, against the dull esparto grass, 
 The almonds glimmer white. 
 
 Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays 
 and browns. 
 Invite my fancy, and I wander through 
 The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns 
 The world's first sailors knew. 
 
 Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-haze 
 
 Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise; 
 Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days, 
 Yenice salutes my eyes. 
 
 Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair; 
 I see, far off", the red-tiled hamlets shine, 
 
 And catch, through slits of windows here 
 and there, 
 Blue glimpses of the Hhine. 
 
 And now I linger in green English lanes, 
 By garden-plots of rose and heliotrope; 
 And now I face the sudden pelting rains 
 On some lone Alpine slope. 
 
 Now at Tangier, among the packed bazaars, 
 I saunter, and the merchants at the doors 
 Smile, and entice me: here are jewels like 
 stars. 
 And curved knives of the Moors; 
 
 Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates; 
 What would Howadji . . . silver, gold, or 
 stone ? 
 Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the 
 gates 
 The camels make their moan. 
 
 All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here, 
 
 High on the windy terrace, day by day; 
 
 And mine the children's laughter, sweet and 
 
 Ringing across the bay. [clear. 
 
 For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me; 
 For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight ; 
 And mine the tender moonrise on the sea. 
 And hollow caves of night! 
 
 Thmnas Bailey Aldrkh. 
 
 HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 
 
 Poor lone Hannah, 
 Sitting at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Faded, wrinkled, 
 Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. 
 Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
 When the bloom was on the tree: 
 Spring and winter, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Not a neighbor 
 Passing nod or answer will refuse 
 
 To her whisper, 
 "Is there from the fishers any news?" 
 Oh, her heart's adrift, with one 
 On an endless voyage gone! 
 Night and morning, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 605 
 
 Fair young Hannah, 
 Ben; the sunhurnt fisher, gayly wooes: 
 
 Hale and clever, 
 For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
 May-day skies are all aglow, 
 And the waves are laughing so ! 
 For her wedding 
 Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 
 
 May is passing: 
 Mid the apple boughs a pigeon cooes. 
 
 Hannah shudders, 
 For the mild south-wester mischief brews, 
 Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
 Outward bound, a schooner sped: 
 Silent, lonesome, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 'Tis November, 
 Fow no tear her wasted cheek bedews. 
 
 From Newfoundland 
 Not a sail returning will she lose. 
 Whispering hoarsely, " Fishermen, 
 Have you, have you heard of Ben?" 
 Old with watching, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Twenty winters 
 Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views. 
 
 \^Ji;i!y-"'^'''^ 
 
 Twenty seasons: — 
 Never one has brought her any news. 
 Still her dim eyes silently 
 Chase the white sails o'er the sea: 
 Hopeless, faithful, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Lucy Larcom. 
 
 THE LOST ANCHOR. 
 
 There lies a rusted anchor 
 Deep in the white sea-sand; 
 
 Where trails the good ship's cable 
 That parted, strand by strand? 
 
 The north-wind roared and thundered, 
 The leaping waves ran high; 
 
 Dartf on the foaming water 
 Shiit down the stormy sky. 
 
 But still the lithe mast quivered 
 Under the flapping sail; 
 
 The cordage shrieked and rattled. 
 And yelled the furious gale. 
 
 One strain — one plunge — one struggle — 
 The mighty strands give way — 
 
 Now far from home and harbor. 
 Away, away, away! 
 
 Beyond the sight of shelter, 
 
 Far out her stern-lights shine. 
 
 Poor ship, to lose thine anchor, — 
 
 Poor broken hope of mine! 
 
 Rose Terry Cooke. 
 
606 
 
 SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 
 And on its outer point, some miles away, 
 
 The lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 
 A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 
 
 Even at this distance I can see the tides. 
 Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 
 
 A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
 In the Avhite lip and tremor of the face. 
 
 And as the evening darkness, lo ! how bright. 
 Through the deep purple of the twilight air. 
 
 Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light, 
 "With strange, unearthly splendor in the 
 glare ! 
 
 Not one alone; from each projecting cape 
 And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, 
 
 Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape. 
 Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. 
 
 Like the great giant Christopher it stands 
 Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, 
 
 "Wading far out among the rocks and sands, 
 The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. 
 
 And the great ships sail outward and return. 
 Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells. 
 
 And ever joyful, as they see it burn. 
 They wave their silent welcomes and fare- 
 wells. 
 
 They come forth from the darkness, and their 
 sails 
 
 Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, 
 And eager faces, as the light unveils, 
 
 Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 
 
 The mariner remembers when a child. 
 On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink ; 
 
 And when, returning from adventures wild, 
 He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 
 
 Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 
 Year after year, through all the silent night 
 
 Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame, 
 Shines on that inextinguishable light! 
 
 It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 
 
 The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of 
 peace; 
 
 It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp. 
 And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 
 
 The startled waves leap over it; the storm 
 Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, 
 
 And steadily against its solid form 
 
 Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 
 
 The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the 
 din 
 
 Of wings and winds and solitary cries. 
 Blinded and maddened by the light within. 
 
 Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 
 
 A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 
 Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 
 
 It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, 
 But hails the mariner with words of love. 
 
 " Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! 
 
 And with your floating bridge the ocean 
 span ; 
 Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse. 
 
 Be yours to bring man nearer unto man ! " 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
SEA AND SEA SHOBE. 
 
 607 
 
 BY THE AUTUMN BEA. 
 
 Fair as the dawn of the fairest day, 
 Sad as the evening's tender gray, 
 By the latest luster of sunset kissed, 
 That wavers and wanes through an amber 
 
 mist, — 
 There cometh a dream of the past to me, 
 On the desert sands, by the autumn sea. 
 
 All heaven is wrapped in a mystic veil, 
 And the face of the ocean is dim and pale, 
 And there rises a wind from the chill north- 
 west, 
 That seemeth the wail of a soul's unrest, 
 And the twilight falls, and the vapors flee 
 Par over the wastes of the autumn sea. 
 
 A single ship through the gloaming glides 
 Upborne on the swell of the seaward tides; 
 And above the gleam of her topmost spar 
 
 Are the virgin eyes of the vesper-star 
 That shine with an angel's ruth on me, — 
 A hopeless waif, by the autumn sea. 
 
 The wings of the ghostly sea-bird's gleam 
 Through the shimmering surf, and the 
 
 curlew^s scream 
 Falls faintly shrill from the darkening height ; 
 The first weird sigh on the lips of Night 
 Breathes low through the sedge and the 
 
 blasted tree, 
 "With a murmur of doom, by the autumn sea. 
 
 Oh, sky-enshadowed and yearning main, 
 Your gloom but deepens this human pain; 
 Those waves seem big with a nameless care. 
 That sky is a type of the heart's despair, 
 As I linger and muse by the somber lea. 
 And the night-shades close on the autumn sea. 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne. 
 
608 
 
 SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 PEESAGE. 
 
 Like a bird of evil presage, 
 
 To the lonely house on the shore, 
 
 Came the wind with a tale of shipwreck, 
 And shrieked at the bolted door; 
 
 And flapped its wings in tbe gables, 
 And shouted the well-known names. 
 
 And buffeted the windows 
 
 Afeard in their shuddering frames. 
 
 It was night, and it is morning, — 
 
 The summer sun is bland. 
 The white-cap waves come rocking, rocking 
 
 In to the summer land. 
 
 The white-cap waves came rocking, rocking, 
 
 In the sun so soft and bright, 
 And toss and play with the dead man 
 
 Drowned in the storm last night. 
 
 WHMam Bean Semens. 
 
 MINOT'S LEDGE 
 
 Like spectral hounds across the sky, 
 The white clouds scud before the storm; 
 And naked in the howling night 
 The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. 
 The waves with slippery fingers clutch 
 The massive tower, and climb and fall. 
 And, muttering, growl with baflled rage 
 Their curses on the sturdy wall. 
 
 Up in the lonely tower he sits, 
 The keeper of the crimson light: 
 Silent and awe-struck does he hear 
 The imprecations of the night. 
 The white spray beats against the panes 
 Like some wet ghost that down the air 
 Is hunted by a troop of fiends. 
 And seeks a shelter anywhere. 
 
 He prays aloud, the lonely man. 
 For every soul that night at sea, 
 But more than all for that brave boy 
 Who used to .gayly climb his knee, — 
 Young Charlie, with his chestnut 'hair 
 And hazel eyes and laughing lip. 
 " May heaven look down," the old man cries, 
 " Upon my son, and on his ship ! " 
 
 While thus with pious heart he prays, 
 Far in the distance sounds a boom: 
 He pauses; and again there rings 
 That sullen thunder through the room. 
 
 A ship upon the shoals to-night! 
 She can not hold for one-half hour; 
 But clear the ropes and grappling-hooks, 
 And trust in the Almighty Power! 
 
 On the drenched gallery he stands. 
 
 Striving to pierce the solid night: 
 
 Across the sea the red eye throws 
 
 A steady crimson wake of light; 
 
 And, where it falls upon the waves. 
 
 He sees a human head float by. 
 
 With long drenched curls of chestnut hair, 
 
 And wild but fearless hazel eye. 
 
 Out with the hooks! One mighty fling! 
 Adown the wind the long rope curls. 
 Oh, will it catch? Ah, dread suspense! 
 While the wild ocean wilder whirls. 
 A steady pull ; it tightens now : 
 Oh! his old heart will burst with joy. 
 As on the slippery rocks he pulls 
 The breathing body of his boy. 
 
 Still sweep the specters through the sky; 
 Still scud the clouds before the storm; 
 Still naked in the howling night 
 The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. 
 Without, the world is wild with rage; 
 Unkenneled demons are abroad; — 
 But with the father and the son 
 Within, there is the peace of God. 
 
 Fitz-James O'Brien. 
 

 V/VSNO^^ 
 
 \- 
 
 OS.WJI. 
 
SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 609 
 
 THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD. 
 
 Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
 Why takest thou its melancholy voice? 
 "Why with that boding cry 
 O'er the waves dost thou fly? 
 0, rather, bird, with me 
 
 Through the fair land rejoice! 
 
 Thy flitting form conies ghostly dim and pale, 
 As driven by a beating storm at sea; 
 Thy cry is weak and scared. 
 As if thy mates had shared 
 The doom ot us. Thy wail — 
 "What does it bring to me? 
 
 Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st 
 the surge, 
 Restless and sad: as if, in strange accord 
 With the motion and the roar 
 
 Of waves that drive to shore, 
 One spirit did ye urge — 
 The Mystery — the Word. 
 
 Of thousands, thou both sepulcher and pall. 
 Old ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the dead, 
 From out thy gloomy cells 
 A tale of mourning tells — 
 Tells of man's wo and fall, 
 His sinless glory fled. 
 
 Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
 Where the complaining sea shall sadness 
 bring 
 Thy spirit never more. 
 Come, quit with me the shore, 
 For gladness and the light 
 Where birds of summer sing. 
 
 Richard H. Dana. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 The twilight is sad and cloudy, 
 The wind blows wild and free. 
 
 And like the wings of sea-birds 
 Flash the white caps of the sea. 
 
 But in the fisherman's cottage 
 There shines a ruddier light, 
 
 And a little face at the window 
 Peers out into the night. 
 
 Close, close it is pressed to the window, 
 
 As if those childish eyes 
 Were looking into the darkness. 
 
 To see some form arise. 
 
610 
 
 SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 And a woman's waving shadow 
 
 Is passing to and fro, 
 Now rising to the ceiling, 
 
 N"ow bowing and bending low. 
 
 "What tale do the roaring ocean, 
 
 And the night-wind, blealv and wild, 
 
 As they beat at the crazy casement, 
 Tell to that little child? 
 
 And why do the roaring ocean, 
 
 And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 
 
 As they beat at the heart of the mother, 
 Drive the color from her cheek? 
 
 Henry Wadswm-th Longfellow. 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 
 
 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. 
 Sails the unshadowed main, — 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled 
 
 wings 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare. 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their 
 streaming hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
 And every chambered cell. 
 Where its dim dreaming life was wont to 
 
 dwell. 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 
 
 Before thee lies revealed, — 
 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt un- 
 sealed ! 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil 
 That spread his lustrous coil; 
 Still, as the spiral grew. 
 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the 
 new. 
 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway 
 
 through. 
 Built up its idle door, 
 Stretched in his last-found home, and knew 
 
 the old no more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought 
 by thee, 
 Child of the wandering sea. 
 Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 
 
 While on mine ear it rings. 
 Through the deep caves of thought I hear 
 a voice that sings: — 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, my soul. 
 As the swift seasons roll! 
 Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 
 vast, 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's un- 
 resting sea! 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 ELOOD-TIDE AND EBB-TIDE. 
 
 The tide came laughing into the bay. 
 Two children were laughing on the sands. 
 
 So busily scooping one round well. 
 With their four dimpled hands. 
 
 The ebb-tide through the rushes crawls. 
 On tiptoes slow it steals away, — 
 
 Bonnets are those the mother sees 
 Ear out on the bay. 
 
 George Houghton. 
 
SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 611 
 
 VOICES OF THE SEA. 
 
 On the lone rocks of Rye, 
 
 "When the day grows dimmer, 
 And the stars from the sky 
 
 Shed a tremulous glimmer, 
 "While the low winds croon. 
 
 And the waves, as they glisten, 
 Complain to the moon, 
 
 I linger and listen. 
 
 All the magical whole 
 
 Of shadow and splendor 
 Steals into my soul. 
 
 Majestic yet tender; 
 And the desolate main. 
 
 Like a sibyl intoning 
 Her mystical strain. 
 
 Keeps ceaselessly moaning. 
 
 I hear it spell-hound. 
 
 All its myriad voices,— 
 Its wandering sound, — 
 
 And my spirit rejoices; 
 For out of the deep 
 
 And the distance it crieth, 
 And, deep unto deep, 
 
 My spirit replieth. Thmms Durfee. 
 
 IN THE SEA. 
 
 The salt wind blows upon my cheek 
 
 As it blew a year ago. 
 When twenty boats were crushed among 
 
 The rocks of Norman's "Woe. 
 'T was dark then; 'tis light now, 
 
 And the sails are leaning low. 
 
 In dreams I pull the sea-weed o'er, 
 
 And find a face not his, 
 And hope another tide will be 
 
 More pitying than this. 
 The wind turns ; the tide turns : 
 
 They take what hope there is. 
 
 My life goes on as thine would go 
 With all its sweetness spilled: 
 
 My God ! why should one heart of two 
 Beat on, when one is stilled? 
 
 Through heart-wreck or home-wreck 
 Thy happy sparrows build. 
 
 Though boats go down, men build anew. 
 
 Whatever winds may blow; 
 If blight be in the wheat one year, 
 
 We trust again, and sow, 
 Though grief comes, and changes 
 
 The sunshine into snow. 
 
 Some have their dead, where, sweet and soon, 
 
 The summers bloom and go. 
 The sea withholds my dead: I walk 
 
 The bar, when tides are low, 
 And wonder the grave-grass 
 
 Can have the heart to grow. 
 
 Flow on, unconsenting sea! 
 
 And keep my dead below: 
 Though night, utter night! my soul. 
 
 Delude thee long, I know, 
 Or Life comes, or Death comes, 
 
 God leads the eternal flow. 
 
 Hiram Rich. 
 
612 
 
 SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 THE SANDPIPER. 
 
 Across the narrow beach we flit, 
 
 One httle sandpiper and I; 
 And fast I gather, bit by bit, 
 
 The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 
 The wild waves reach their hands for it. 
 
 The wild wind raves, the tide runs high. 
 As up and down the beach we flit, — 
 
 One little sandpiper and I. 
 
 I watch him as he skims along. 
 
 Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; 
 He starts not at my fitful song. 
 
 Or flash of fluttering drapery; 
 He has no thought of any wrong, 
 
 He scans me with a fearless eye. 
 Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong. 
 
 The little sandpiper and I. 
 
 Above our heads the sullen clouds 
 
 Scud black and swift across the sky: 
 Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 
 
 Stand out the white light-houses high. 
 Almost as far as eye can reach 
 
 I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
 As fast we flit along the beach, — 
 
 One little sandpiper and I. 
 
 Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 
 When the loosed storm breaks furiously? 
 
 My driftwood-tire will burn so bright! 
 To what warm shelter canst thou fly? 
 
 I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
 The tempest rushes through the sky: 
 
 For are we not God's children both. 
 
 Thou, little sandpiper, and I? 
 
 Celia Thaxter. 
 
 BOAT-SONG. 
 
 Oh, sweet the flight at dead of night. 
 When, up the immeasurable height. 
 The thin cloud wanders with the breeze 
 That shakes the splendor from the star, 
 That stoops and crisps the darkling seas. 
 And drives the daring keel afar. 
 Where solitude and silence are! 
 
 To cleave the crested wave, and mark 
 Drowned in its depths the shattered 
 
 spark. 
 On airy swells to soar and rise, 
 Where nothing but the foam-ball flies. 
 O'er freest tracks of wild delight, — 
 Oh, sweet the flight at dead of night! 
 
 Harriet Prescoit Spofford. 
 
 SHIPS AT SEA. 
 
 I HAVE ships that went to sea 
 
 More than flfty years ago; 
 None have yet come home to me, 
 
 But are sailing to and fro. 
 I have seen them in my sleep. 
 Plunging through the shoreless deep. 
 With tattered sails and battered hulls, 
 While around them screamed the gulls. 
 Flying low, flying low. 
 
 I have wondered why they strayed 
 
 From me, sailing round the world; 
 And I've said, "I'm half afraid 
 
 That their sails will ne'er be furled.' 
 Great the treasures that they hold, 
 Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold; 
 While the spices that they bear 
 Fill with fragrance all the air. 
 As they sail, as they sail. 
 
SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 613 
 
 Ah! each sailor in the port 
 
 Knows that I have ships at sea, 
 Of the waves and winds the sport, 
 
 And the sailors pity me. 
 Oft they come and with me walk, 
 Cheering me with hopeful talk, 
 Till I put my fears aside. 
 And, contented, watch the tide 
 Rise and fall, rise and fall. 
 
 I have waited on the piers, 
 
 Gazing for them down the bay. 
 Days and nights for many years. 
 Till I turned heart-sick away. 
 But the pilots, when they land. 
 Stop and take me by the hand. 
 Saying, "You will live to see 
 Your proud vessels come from sea. 
 One and all, one and all." 
 
 So I never quite despair, 
 
 ^or let hope or courage fail; 
 And some day, when skies are fair. 
 
 Up the bay my ships wih sail. 
 I shall buy then all I need, — 
 Prints to look at, books to read. 
 Horses, wines, and works of art. 
 Every thing — except a heart 
 That is lost, that is lost. 
 
 Once, when I was pure and young. 
 
 Richer, too, than I am now. 
 
 Ere a cloud was o'er me flune. 
 
 Or a wrinkle creased my brow, 
 
 There was one whose heart was mine; 
 
 But she's something now divine, 
 
 And though come my ships from sea, 
 
 They can bring no heart to me 
 
 Evermore, evermore. 
 
 Robert B. Coffin. 
 
 MY SAILOR. 
 
 He lay at my side on that eastern hill. 
 My brave sweet lad with the gold-lit hair : 
 
 And gazed at the vessels which seemed to 
 fill 
 The rippling breadth of the harbor there : 
 
 The black-hulled vessels from over the sea, 
 The white-sailed vessels that came and 
 went ; 
 
 "I am going to sail away!" said he, 
 "To sail some day to my heart's content. 
 
 "I shall see the waving of southland palms, 
 
 The dark fierce fronts of the icebergs tall, 
 
 And gather the grapes in my outstretched 
 
 arms, 
 
 From vines on some Spanish convent's 
 
 wall." 
 
 Then he drew my hand from beneath his 
 chin. 
 And trailed my fingers across his lips, — 
 
 "Yes, we both will sail from this town of 
 Lynn, 
 In one of those staunch old black-prowed 
 
 ships." 
 
 So one summer evening his ship set sail, 
 And fioated oft' in the twilight grim; 
 
 I heaped up the vessel with blossoms pale, 
 And wept that I could not follow him. 
 
 And I can not say that the palms are there, 
 
 Nor icy mountains he longed to see; 
 But I know he sailed into lands more 
 fair, 
 And stronger arms, when he went from 
 me. 
 
 my brave, sweet lad! how his angel 
 eyes 
 "Will gaze out over the ocean dim. 
 That reaches from earth unto Paradise, 
 Till I set my sail and follow him. 
 
 James Berry Bensel. 
 
614 
 
 SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 THE WATCH OF BO 01^ ISLAND. 
 
 They crossed the lonely and lamenting sea; 
 Its moaning seemed but singing. "Wilt 
 thou dare," 
 He asked her, "brave the loneliness with 
 
 me 
 
 ?" 
 
 "What loneliness," she said, "if thou art 
 there?" 
 
 Afar and cold on the horizon's rim 
 
 Loomed the tall light-house, like a ghostly 
 sign; 
 
 They sighed not as the shore behind grew dim, 
 A rose of joy they bore across the brine. 
 
 They gained the barren rock, and made their 
 home 
 Among the wild waves and the sea-birds 
 wild; 
 The wintry winds blew fierce across the foam. 
 But in each other's eyes they looked and 
 smiled. 
 
 Aloft the light-house sent its warnings wide. 
 
 Fed by their faithful hands, and ships in 
 
 sight 
 
 With joy beheld it, and on land men cried, 
 
 " Look, clear and steady burns Boon Island 
 
 light!" 
 
 And, while they trimmed the lamp with busy 
 hands, 
 " Shine far and through the dark, sweet 
 light," they cried; 
 "Bring safely back the sailors from all lands 
 To waiting love, — wife, mother, sister, 
 bride!" 
 
 'So tempest shook their calm, though many 
 
 a storm 
 
 Tore the vexed ocean into fui'iotis spray; 
 
 No chill could find them in their Eden warm. 
 
 And gently Time lapsed onward day by 
 
 day. 
 
 Said I no chill 
 could find_ 
 them? There 
 is one 
 Whose awful 
 footfalls every 
 where are 
 known. 
 With echoing 
 
 sobs, who chills the summer sun. 
 And turns the happy heart of youth to 
 stone; 
 
 Inexorable Death, a silent guest 
 
 At every hearth, before whose footsteps 
 flee 
 All joys, who rules the earth, and, without 
 rest, 
 Eoams the vast shuddering spaces of the 
 sea. 
 
 Death found them ; turned his face and passed 
 her by, 
 But laid a finger on her lover's lips, 
 
SUA AND SEA SHORE. 
 Then the storm ran 
 
 615 
 
 And there was silence 
 high, 
 And tossed and troubled sore the distant 
 ships. 
 
 N"ay, who shall speak the terrors of the night, 
 The speechless sorrow, the supreme de- 
 spair ? 
 Still like a ghost she trimmed the waning 
 light. 
 Dragging her slow weight up the winding 
 stair. 
 
 With more than oil the saving lamp she fed, 
 "While lashed to madness the wild sea she 
 heard ; 
 
 She kept her awful vigil with the dead, 
 And God's sweet pity still she ministered. 
 
 sailors, hailing loud the cheerful beam. 
 Piercing so far the tumult of the dark, 
 
 A radiant star of hope, you could not dream 
 What misery there sat cherishing that- 
 spark ! 
 
 Three times the night, too terrible to bear, 
 Descended, shrouded in the storm. At last 
 
 The sun rose clear and still on her despair. 
 And all her striving to the winds she cast. 
 
 And bowed her head and let the light die out, 
 For the wide sea lay calm as her dead love. 
 
 When evening fell, from the far land, in doubt. 
 Vainly to find that faithful star men strove. 
 
 Sailors and landsmen look, and women's eyes. 
 For pity ready, search in vain the night. 
 
 And wondering neighbor unto neighbor cries, 
 "ISTow what, think you, can ail Boon 
 Island light?" 
 
 Out from the coast toward her high tower 
 they sailed; 
 They found her watching, silent, by her 
 dead, 
 A shadowy woman, who nor wept nor wailed, 
 But answered what they spake, till all was 
 said. 
 
 They bore the dead and living both away. 
 With anguish time seemed powerless to 
 destroy 
 She turned, and backward gazed across the 
 bay,— 
 Lost in the sad sea lay her rose of joy. 
 
 CHia Thaxter. 
 
 WATCHmG. 
 
 In childhood's season fair. 
 On many a balmy, moonless summer night, 
 While wheeled the light-house arms of dark 
 and bright 
 
 Far through the humid air ; 
 
 How patient have I been. 
 Sitting alone, a happy little maid, 
 Waiting to see, careless and unafraid. 
 
 My father's boat come in; 
 
 Close to the water's edge 
 Holding a tiny spark, that he might steer 
 (So dangerous the landing, far and near) 
 
 Safe past the ragged ledge. 
 
 I had no fears — not one; 
 The wild wide waste of water leagues around 
 Washed ceaselessly; there was no human 
 sound. 
 
 And I was all alone. 
 
616 
 
 SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 But Nature was so kind I 
 Like a dear frieud I loved the loneliness; 
 My heart rose glad as at some sweet caress 
 
 "When passed the wandering wind. 
 
 Tet it was joy to hear, [last, 
 
 From out the darkness, sounds grow clear at 
 Of ratthng row-lock, and of creaking mast. 
 
 And voices drawing near! 
 
 "Is't thou, dear father? Say!" 
 What well-known shout resounded in reply, 
 As loomed the tall sail, smitten suddenly 
 
 With the great light-house ray! 
 
 I will be patient now, 
 Dear Heavenly Father, waiting here for Thee : 
 I know the darkness holds thee. Shall I he 
 
 Afraid when it is Thou? 
 
 On Thy eternal shore, 
 In pauses, when life's tide is at its prime, 
 I hear the everlasting rote of Time 
 
 Beating for evermore. 
 
 Shall I not then rejoice? 
 never lost or sad should child of Thine 
 Sit waiting, fearing lest there come no sign, 
 
 No whisper of Thy voice! 
 
 Celia Tkaxter. 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE HURON. 
 
 Rocks and shoals of the sea. 
 
 Tide of the under-waves. 
 Surf of the moaning lee, 
 
 Where the hurricane raves, — 
 Green steeps that are storm-rent and sterile. 
 Wild-sown with the spoils of the shore, — 
 The night has passed on and the peril. 
 And the mariners struggle no more. 
 
 Sing for the brave ship lost: 
 
 Chant for the lives that lie 
 In unknown haven tossed, 
 
 Under a sobbing sky. 
 
 Sing requiem, praise to the valor 
 Unshaken though Fate held the scourge; 
 
 But dawnlight unveils the stern pallor — 
 Of faces swept cold by the surge. 
 
 Wreck on the sullen bar. 
 
 Never in battle a-sea. 
 Iron-girted for war. 
 
 Challenge shall echo from thee: 
 Storm, darkness, and depths are thy foemen, 
 
 And each hero stood to his post; 
 But master and sailor and yeomen. 
 
 Their names shall give fame to the coast. 
 
SI:A Al^D SEA SHORE. 
 
 617 
 
 Gulfs and caves of the deep, 
 Aged seas without pulse, 
 
 Let them sleep well who sleep 
 Lapped in sea-weed and dulse; 
 
 They miss not the legend engraven, 
 The delicate springing of flowers, 
 
 They miss, who, by inland and haven. 
 Sit still through the sorrowful hours! 
 
 Edith 31. Thomas. 
 
 TIDES. 
 
 patient shore, that canst not go to meet 
 Thy love, the restless sea, how comfortest 
 Thou all thy loneliness? Art thou at rest, 
 When, loosing his strong arms from round 
 thy feet, [sweet 
 
 He turns away? Knowest thou, however 
 That other shore may be, that, to thy breast. 
 He must return? And when in sterner test 
 He folds thee to a heart which does not beat, 
 
 Wraps thee in ice, and gives no smile, no kiss. 
 To break long wintry days, still dost thou 
 
 miss 
 Naught from thy trust ? Still wait, unfaltering. 
 The higher, warmer waves which leap in 
 
 spring ? 
 sweet, wise shore, to be so satisfied! 
 heart, learn from the shore! Love has a 
 
 tide ! S. H. 
 
618 
 
 SEA AND SEA SHORE. 
 
 THE SUEVIVORS. 
 
 In this sad hour, so still, so late, 
 
 When flowers are dead and birds are flown, 
 
 Close-sheltered from the blasts of Fate, 
 Our little love burns brightly on. 
 
 Amid the wrecks of dear desire 
 
 That ride the waves of life no more ; 
 
 As stranded voyagers light their Are 
 Upon a lonely island shore. 
 
 And though we deem that, soft and fair. 
 Beyond the tempest and the sea. 
 
 Our hearts' true homes are smiling, where 
 In life we never more shall be, — 
 
 Yet we are saved, and we may rest; 
 
 And, hearing each the other's voice. 
 We can not hold ourselves unblest. 
 
 Although we may not quite rejoice. 
 
 We'll warm our hearts and softly sing 
 Thanks for the shore whereon we're driven ; 
 
 Storm-tossed no more, we'll fold the wing, 
 And dream forgotten dreams of heaven, 
 
 Harriet W. Prescoit. 
 
 UlsTANSWERED PRAYER. 
 
 The headwind to the outward crew 
 Is prosperous to those homeward due; 
 Perhaps your prayer is thus denied 
 
 In answer to some sailor's bride, 
 Who called more fervently than you. 
 Or knelt with more of faith, less pride. 
 
 George Houghton. 
 
 TWO WATCHERS. 
 
 Two ships sail on the ocean, 
 Two watchers walk the shore: 
 
 One wrings wild hands and cries 
 "Farewell for evermore!" 
 
 One sees, with face uplifted, 
 
 (Soft homes of dream her eyes,) 
 
 Her sail beyond the horizon 
 Reflected in the skies! 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
AMEEICA. 
 
 My country, 'tis of thee, 
 Sweet land of liberty. 
 
 Of thee I sing; 
 Laud where my fathers died, 
 Land of the pilgrims' pride. 
 From every mountain side 
 
 Let freedom ring. 
 
 My native country, thee, 
 Land of the nohle free, — 
 
 Thy name I love; 
 I love thy rocks and rills. 
 Thy woods and templed hills; 
 My heart with rapture thrills 
 
 Like that above. 
 
 Let music swell the breeze, 
 And ring from all the trees 
 
 Sweet freedom's song; 
 Let mortal tongues awake, 
 Let all that breathe partake. 
 Let rocks their silence break, 
 
 The sound prolong. 
 
 Our fathers' God, to thee, 
 Author of liberty. 
 
 To thee I sing; 
 Long may our land he bright 
 With freedom's holy light; 
 Protect us by' thy might. 
 
 Great God our King. 
 
 Samuel Francis Smith. 
 
 HAIL COLUMBIA. 
 
 Hail, Columbia! hapjjy land! 
 
 Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band! 
 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause. 
 
 And when the storm of war was gone, 
 
 Enjoyed the peace your valor won! 
 Let independence be our boast. 
 
 Ever mindful what it cost; 
 Ever grateful for the prize. 
 Let its altar reach the skies. 
 Firm — united — let us be, 
 Eallying round our liberty; 
 As a band of brothers joined, 
 Peace and safety we shall iind. 
 
 (621) 
 
622 
 
 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 Immortal patriots! rise once more; 
 
 Defend your rights, defend your shore; 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand. 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand. 
 
 Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
 
 Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
 "WTiile offering peace sincere and just, 
 In heaven we place a manly trust, 
 That truth and justice will prevail. 
 And every scheme of bondage fail. 
 Fii'm — united, etc. 
 
 Sound, sound the trump of Fame! 
 
 Let Washington's great name 
 
 Ring through the world with loud applause, 
 Ring through the world with loud applause : 
 
 Let every clime to Freedom dear 
 
 Listen with a joyful ear. 
 
 With equal skill and godlike power, 
 He governs in the fearful hour 
 Of horrid war; or guides with ease 
 The happier times of honest peace. 
 Firm — united, etc. 
 
 Behold the chief who now commands 
 Once more to serve his country stands — 
 The rock on which the storm will beat. 
 The rock on which the storm will beat: 
 But, armed in virtue firm and true. 
 His hopes are fixed on heaven and you. 
 When Hope was sinking in dismay. 
 And glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
 His steady mind, from changes free, 
 Eesolved on death or liberty, 
 Firm — united, etc. 
 
 Joseph Sopkinson. 
 
 THE OLD CONTmENTALS. 
 
 In their ragged regimentals 
 Stood the old Continentals, 
 
 Yielding not; 
 While the grenadiers were lunging. 
 
 And like hailstones fell the plunging 
 Cannon shot! 
 Where the files 
 Of the Isles, 
 
 
 From the smoky night encampment, 
 Bore the banner of the rampant 
 [Juicorn ; 
 
 And gruuimer, grummer, grummer, 
 Rolled the "roll" of the drummer, 
 
 Through the morn. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 
 
 623 
 
 Then with eyes to the front all, 
 And with guns horizontal, 
 
 Stood our sires; 
 And the balls whistled deadly, 
 And in flames flashing redly, 
 
 Blazed the fires; 
 
 As the swift 
 
 Billows drift, 
 Drove the dark battle breakers 
 O'er the green sodded acres 
 
 Of the plain ; 
 And louder, louder, louder, 
 Cracked the black gunpowder, 
 
 All amain! 
 
 Then like smiths at their forges, 
 Labored the red St. George's 
 
 Cannoneers. 
 And the villainous saltpeter 
 Rung a fierce, discordant meter 
 
 Round our ears; 
 
 Like the roar 
 
 On the shore. 
 Rose the horse-guards' clangor. 
 As they rode in roaring anger 
 
 On our flanks; 
 And higher, higher, higher, 
 Burned the old-fashioned fire 
 
 Through the ranks! 
 
 Then the old-fashioned colonel 
 Galloped through the white infernal 
 
 Powder cloud. 
 And his broadsword was swinging, 
 And his brazen throat was ringing 
 
 Trumpet loud ! 
 
 And the blue 
 
 Bullets flew, 
 And the trooper jackets redden 
 At the touch of the leaden 
 
 Rifle's breath! 
 And rounder, rounder, rounder, 
 Roared the iron six-pounder, 
 
 Hurling death ! 
 
 Quy Humphrey McMaster. 
 
 THE STAR-SPAFGLED BANNER. 
 
 0! SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early 
 
 light, 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's 
 
 last gleaming; 
 "Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through 
 
 the perilous fight. 
 O'er the ramparts we watched, were so 
 
 gallantly streaming? 
 And the rockets' red glare, the bombs burst- 
 ing in air, 
 Gave proof through the night that our fiag 
 
 was still thei'e; 
 0! say, does that star-spangled banner yet 
 
 wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of 
 
 the brave? 
 
 On the shore, dimly seen through the mists 
 of the deep 
 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread 
 
 silence reposes. 
 What is that which the breeze o'er the tower- 
 ing steep 
 As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half 
 
 discloses? 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's 
 
 first beam; 
 Its full glory reflected now shines on the 
 
 stream : 
 'Tis the star-spangled banner, 0! long may 
 
 it wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of 
 
 the brave. 
 
 And where is the band who so vauntingly 
 swore. 
 Mid the havoc of war and the battle's 
 confusion, 
 
624 
 
 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 A home and a countiy they'd leave us no 
 
 more ? 
 Their blood hath washed out their foul 
 
 footsteps' pollution ; 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 From the terror of flight, or the gloom of 
 
 the grave, 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
 
 doth wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of 
 
 the brave. 
 
 O ! thus be it over, when freemen shall stand 
 
 Between our loved home and the war's 
 
 desolation ! 
 Blessed with victory and peace, may the 
 
 heaven-rescued land 
 Praise the power that hath made and 
 
 preserved us a nation I 
 Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 
 And this be our motto, " In God is our 
 
 trust;" 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
 
 shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of 
 
 the brave. 
 
 Francis Scott Key. 
 
 THE AMERICAlsr FLAG. 
 
 "When Freedom, from her mountain height. 
 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 She tore the azure robe of night. 
 
 And set the stars of glory there. 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 The milky baldric of the skies. 
 And striped its pure, celestial white 
 With streakings of the morning light; 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 She called her eagle bearer down. 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud. 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the tempest trumpings loud 
 And see the lightning lances driven. 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
 Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given 
 
 To guai'd the banner of the free, 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle-stroke. 
 And bid its blendings shine afar. 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war. 
 
 The harbingers of victory! 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly. 
 The sign of hope and triumph high. 
 
 When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
 
 And the long line comes gleaming on. 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 
 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 
 Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn; 
 And as his springing steps advance. 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, 
 And gory sabers rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall ; 
 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 
 And cowering foes shall sink beneath 
 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 
 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
 When death, careering on the gale. 
 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack. 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 
 Shall look at once to heaven and 
 thee. 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 
 
 625 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home! 
 
 By angel hands to valor given; 
 The stai's have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 
 Forever float that standard sheet! — 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us 
 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 
 
 Joseph Rodman Drake. 
 
 OLD IRONSIDES. 
 
 [written when it was proposed to break up the frigate constitution, as unfit for service.] 
 
 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 
 
 Long has it waved on high, 
 And many an eye has danced to see 
 
 That banner in the sky; 
 Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 
 
 And burst the cannon's roar; 
 The meteor of the ocean air 
 
 Shall sweep the clouds no more! 
 
 Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 
 Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
 
 When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 
 And waves were white below, 
 
 ISTo more shall feel the victor's tread, 
 
 Or know the conquered knee; 
 The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
 
 The eagle of the sea! 
 
 Oh, better that her shattered hulk 
 
 Should sink beneath the wave; 
 Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
 
 And there should be her grave; 
 ISTail to the mast her holy flag. 
 
 Set every threadbare sail, 
 And give her to the god of storms, — 
 
 The lightning and the gale! 
 
 Oliver WendeU, Holmes. 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 
 
 The mutiled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo; 
 No more on life's parade shall meet 
 
 The brave and daring few. 
 On Fame's eternal camping-ground 
 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 And glory guards with solemn round 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No answer of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind; 
 No ti'oubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind; 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms; 
 No braying horn nor screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust; 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
 Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 
 
 Is now their martial shroud ; 
 And plenteous funeral-tears have washed 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 And their proud forms, in battle gashed, 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 
 The neighing steed, the flashing blade, 
 
 The trumpet's stirring blast. 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 
 
 The din and shout, are past; 
 Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal. 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 
 Those breasts that never more shall feel 
 
 The rapture of the tight. 
 
626 
 
 PATRIOT IG. 
 
 Like the dread northern hurricane 
 
 That sweeps his broad plateau, 
 Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 
 
 Came down the serried foe. 
 Our heroes felt the shock, and leapt 
 
 To meet them on the plain; 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above our gallant slain. 
 
 Sons of our consecrated ground, 
 
 Ye must not slumber there, 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 
 Along the heedless air. 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 
 Shall be your fitter grave: 
 She claims from war his richest spoil — 
 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 So 'neath their parent turf they rest. 
 
 Far from the gory field. 
 Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 
 
 On many a bloody shield. 
 
 The sunshine of their native sky 
 
 Smiles sadly on them here. 
 And kindred hearts and eyes watch by 
 
 The heroes' sepulcher. 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! 
 
 Dear as the blood you gave, — 
 No impious footsteps here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave; 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 
 While Fame her record keeps, 
 Or honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where valor proudly sleeps. 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless tone 
 
 In deathless songs shall tell. 
 When many a vanquished age hath flown. 
 
 The story how ye fell. 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 
 
 Nor time's remorseless doom, 
 Shall dim one ray of holy light 
 
 That gilds your glorious tomb. 
 
 Theodore O'Hara. 
 
 THE VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 The Volunteers! the Volunteers! 
 I dream, as in the by-gone years, 
 I hear again their stirring cheers. 
 
 And see their banners shine. 
 What time the yet unconquered North 
 Poured to the wars her legions forth. 
 For many a wrong to strike a blow 
 With mailed hand at Mexico. 
 
 The Volunteers! ah, where are they 
 Who bade the hostile surges stay. 
 When the black forts of Monterey 
 Frowned on their dauntless line; 
 When undismayed amid the shock 
 Of war, like Cerro Gordo's rock. 
 They stood, or rushed more madly on. 
 Than tropic tempest o'er San Juan? 
 
 On Angostura's crowded field. 
 Their shattered columns scorned to yield, 
 And wildly yet defiance pealed 
 Their flashing batteries' throats; 
 
 And echoed then the rifle's crack. 
 As deadly as Avhen on the track 
 Of flying foe, of yore, its voice 
 Bade Orleans' dark-eyed girls rejoice. 
 
 Blent with the roar of guns and bombs. 
 How grandly from the dim past comes 
 The roll of their victorious drums. 
 
 Their bugles' joyous notes. 
 When over Mexico's proud towers. 
 And the fair valley's storied bowers. 
 Fit recompense of toil and scars. 
 In triumph waved their flag of stars. 
 
 Ah, comrades, of your own ti-ied troop. 
 Whose honor ne'er to shame might stoop. 
 Of lion heart, and eagle swoop. 
 
 But you alone remain; 
 On all the rest has fallen the hush 
 Of death ; the men whose battle rush 
 Was wild as sun-loosed torrents' flow 
 From Orizaba's crest of snow. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 
 
 627 
 
 The Volunteers! the Volunteers! 
 God send us peace, through all our years; 
 But if the cloud of svar appears, 
 We'll see them once again. 
 
 From hroad Ohio's peaceful side, 
 From where the Maumee pours its tide; 
 From storm-lashed Erie's wint'ry shore, 
 Shall spring the Volunteers once more. 
 
 William, H. Lytic. 
 
 HYMN": 
 
 SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836. 
 
 By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
 Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 
 
 Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
 And fired the shot heard round the world. 
 
 The foe long since in silence slept; 
 
 Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
 And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
 
 Down the dark stream which seaward 
 creeps. 
 
 On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
 We set to-day a votive stone; 
 
 That memory may their deed redeem. 
 When, like our sires, our sons are 
 gone. 
 
 Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
 To die, or leave their children free, 
 
 Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
 The shaft we raise to them and thee. 
 
 Balph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 OH, MOTHER OF A MIGHT Y •RACE. 
 
 Oh, mother of a mighty race. 
 Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! 
 The elder dames, thy haughty peers. 
 Admire and hate thy blooming years. 
 
 With words of shame 
 And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 
 
 For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
 That tints thy morning hills with red; 
 Thy step — the wild-deer's rustling feet 
 Within thy woods are not more fleet; 
 
 Thy hopeful eye 
 Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 
 
 Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones,— 
 While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 
 They do not know how loved thou art,- 
 How many a fond and fearless heart 
 
 Would rise to throw 
 Its life between thee and the foe. 
 
 They know not, in their hate and pride, 
 What virtues with thy children bide; 
 How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
 Make bright, like flowers, the valley-shades; 
 
 What generous men 
 Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; — 
 
 What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
 By the lone rivers of the West; 
 How faith is kept, and truth revered. 
 And man is loved, and God is feared. 
 
 In woodland homes, 
 And where the solemn ocean foams! 
 
 There's freedom at thy gates, and rest 
 For earth's down-trodden and opprest, 
 A shelter for the hunted head, 
 For the starved laborer toil and bread. 
 
 Power, at thy bounds, 
 Stops and calls back his baffled hounds. 
 
628 
 
 PATRIOTIC. 
 
 Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow 
 Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
 Deep in the brightness of thy skies 
 The thronging years in gloi-y rise, 
 
 And, as they fleet. 
 Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 
 
 Thine eye, with every coming hour, 
 Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; 
 And when thy sisters, elder born. 
 Would brand thy name with words of scorn. 
 
 Before thine eye. 
 Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 
 
 William CuUen Bryant. 
 
 THE BRAVE AT HOME. 
 
 The maid who binds her wariior's sash 
 
 With smile that well her pain dissembles. 
 The while beneath her drooping lash 
 
 One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,— 
 Though Heaven alone records the tear, 
 
 And Fame shall never know her story, 
 Her heart has shed a diop as dear 
 
 As e'er bedewed the field of glory ! 
 
 The wife who girds her husband's sword. 
 Mid little ones who weep or wonder. 
 
 And bravely speaks the cheering word. 
 What though her heart be rent lasunder, 
 
 Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 
 The bolts of death around him rattle, 
 
 Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er 
 Was poured upon the field of battle! 
 
 The mother who conceals her grief 
 
 While to her breast her son she presses. 
 Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 
 
 Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
 With no one but her secret God 
 
 To know the pain that weighs upon her, 
 Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 
 
 Received on Freedom's field of honor! 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 
 
 Close his eyes; his work is done! 
 
 What to him is friend or foemau. 
 Rise of moon or set of sun, 
 
 Hand of man or kiss of woman? 
 Lay him low, lay him low. 
 In the clover or the snow! 
 What cares he? he can not know; 
 Lay him low! 
 
 As man may, he fought his fight. 
 
 Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
 Let him sleep in solemn night. 
 Sleep forever and forever. 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow! 
 What cares he? he can not know; 
 Lay him low! 
 
 Fold him in his country's stars. 
 
 Roll the drum and fire the volley! 
 What to him are all our wars? — 
 What but death-bemocking folly? 
 Lay him low, lay him low. 
 In the clover or the snow! 
 What cares he? he can not know; 
 Lay him low! 
 
 Leave him to God's watching eye; 
 
 Trust him to the hand that made him. 
 Mortal love weeps idly by; 
 
 God alone has power to aid him. 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow! 
 What cares he? he can not know; 
 Lay him low! 
 
 George H. Baker. 
 
PATRIOTIC. 
 
 629 
 
 >'^-7 
 
 
 BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming 
 
 of the Lord: 
 He is trampling out the vintage where the 
 
 grapes of wrath are stored; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His 
 
 terrible swift sword: 
 His truth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a 
 hundred circling camps; 
 
 They have builded Him an altar in the 
 evening dews and damps; 
 
 I can read His righteous sentence by the 
 dim and flaring lamps: 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel, wi-it in burnished 
 
 rows of steel: 
 "As ye deal with my contemners, so with 
 
 you my grace shall deal; 
 
 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the 
 serpent with his heel. 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall 
 
 never call retreat; 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before 
 
 His judgment-seat: 
 Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be 
 
 jubilant, my feet! 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 Lr the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 
 
 across the sea, 
 "With a glory in his bosom that transfigures 
 
 you and me: 
 As he died to make men holy, let us die 
 
 to make men free, 
 "While God is marching on. 
 
 Jvlia Wari Howe. 
 
 THE OLD SERGEANT. 
 
 The Carrier can not sing to-day the ballads 
 
 "With which he used to go. 
 Rhyming the glad rounds of the happy New 
 Years 
 
 That are now beneath the snow: 
 
 For the same awful and portentous Shadow 
 
 That overcast the earth, 
 And smote the land last year with desolation, 
 
 Still darkens every hearth. 
 
 And the Carrier hears Beethoven's mighty 
 death-march 
 Come up from every mart; 
 And he hears and feels it breathing in his 
 bosom. 
 And beating in his heart. 
 
 And to-day, a scarred and weather-beaten 
 veteran. 
 Again he comes along, 
 
630 
 
 PATRIOTIO. 
 
 To tell the story of the Old Year's struggles 
 In another ITew Year's song. 
 
 And the song is his, hut not so with the story; 
 
 For the story, you must know, 
 Was told in prose to Assistant-Surgeon 
 Austin, 
 
 By a soldier of Shiloh: 
 
 By E-ohert Burton, who was brought up on 
 the Adams, 
 With his death-wound in his side; 
 And who told the story to the Assistant- 
 Surgeon, 
 On the same night that he died. 
 
 But the singer feels it will better suit the 
 ballad, 
 
 If all should deem it right, 
 To tell the story as if what it speaks of 
 
 Had happened but last night. 
 
 "Come a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you, 
 
 — let me take the cup: 
 Draw your chair up, — draw it closer, — just 
 
 another little sup! 
 May-be you may think I'm better; but I'm 
 
 pretty well used up, — 
 Doctor, you've done all you could do, but 
 
 I'm just a going up! 
 
 "Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it 
 
 ain't much use to try" — 
 "ITever say that," said the Surgeon, as he 
 
 smothered down a sigh; 
 " It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier 
 
 to say die ! " 
 "What you say will make no difference, 
 
 Doctor, when you come to die. 
 
 "Doctor, what has been the matter?" " You 
 were very faint, they say; 
 
 You must try to get to sleep now." " Doctor, 
 have I been away?" 
 
 "Not that any body knows of!" "Doctor — 
 Doctor, please to stay! 
 There is something I must tell you, and 
 you won't have long to stay! 
 
 "I have got my marching orders, and I'm 
 
 ready now to go; 
 Doctor, did you say I fainted? — but it 
 
 couldn't ha' been so, — 
 For as sure as I'm a Sergeant, and was 
 
 wounded at Shiloh, 
 I've this vei-y night been back there, on 
 
 the old field of Shiloh ! 
 
PATE TO TIC 
 
 631 
 
 "This is all that I remember: The last time 
 
 the Lighter came, 
 And the lights had all been lowered, and 
 
 the noises much the same. 
 He had not been gone five minutes before 
 
 something called my name: 
 ' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' 
 
 — just that way it called my name. 
 
 "And I wondered who could call me so 
 
 distinctly and so slow. 
 Knew it couldn't be the Lighter, — he could 
 
 not have spoken so — 
 And I tried to answer, 'Here, sir!' but I 
 
 could n't make it go ; 
 For I couldn't move a muscle, and I 
 
 could n't make it go ! 
 
 "Then I thought: It's all a nightmare, all 
 
 a humbug and a bore; 
 Just another foolish grape-vine^ — and it 
 
 won't come any more; 
 But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the 
 
 same way as before : 
 ' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' 
 
 — even plainer than before. 
 
 " That is all that I remember, till a sudden 
 
 burst of light. 
 And I stood beside the River, where we 
 
 stood that Sunday night, 
 "Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs 
 
 opposite. 
 When the river was perdition and all hell 
 
 was opposite! — 
 
 "And the same old palpitation came again 
 
 in all its power, 
 And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from 
 
 some celestial Tower; 
 And the same mysterious voice said: 'It is 
 
 THE eleventh HOUR! 
 
 Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton— it 
 IS THE eleventh hour!' 
 
 "Doctor Austin! — what day is this?" "It 
 
 is Wednesday night, you know." 
 "Yes, — to-morrow will be New Year's, and 
 
 a right good time below! 
 What time is it. Doctor Austin?" "Nearly 
 
 twelve." " Then do n't you go ! 
 Can it be that all this happened — all 
 
 this — not an hour ago! 
 
 "There was where the gunboats opened on 
 
 the dark rebellious host; 
 And where Webster semicircled his last guns 
 
 upon the coast; 
 There were still the two log-houses, just the 
 
 same, or else their ghost, — 
 And the same old transport came and took 
 
 me over — or its ghost! 
 
 "And the old field lay before me all de- 
 serted far and wide; 
 
 There was where they fell on Prentiss, — 
 there McClernand met the tide; 
 
 There was where stern Sherman rallied, and 
 where Hurlbut's heroes died, — 
 Lower down, where Wallace charged them, 
 and kept charging till he died. 
 
 "There was where Lew Wallace showed. 
 
 them he was of the canny kin; 
 There was where old Nelson thundered, and 
 
 where Rousseau waded in; 
 There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and 
 
 we all began to win — 
 There was where the grape-shot took me, 
 
 just as we began to win. 
 
 "ISTow, a shroud of snow and silence over 
 
 every thing was spread; 
 And but for this old blue mantle and the 
 
 old hat on my head 
 I should not have even doubted, to this 
 
 moment, I was dead, 
 For my footsteps were as silent as the 
 
 snow upon the dead! 
 
 ■* Omard.