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Cornell University Library 
 PS 3359.W8W5 
 
 With garlands green / 
 
 3 1924 022 230 415 
 
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/cu31924022230415 
 
WITH GARLANDS GREEN 
 
■ML — 
 
WITH 
 GARLANDS GREEN 
 
 BY 
 
 ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS. CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 
 
 MLCCCCXV 
 
Copyright, 1915, by 
 Abba Gooijj Woolson 
 
TO C. M. F. 
 
 I call to thee, dear comrade, as I pass 
 With garlands green, to deck, as in our youth, 
 The ancient shrines of Honor, Love, and Truth. 
 
 Before their altars, in untrodden grass, 
 
 We kneel together; turning then to greet 
 The flame of Poesy, whose untended fire 
 Still burns, to meet the soul's unquenched desire. 
 
 Nor these the only paths to claim our feet: 
 For thou wilt lead where nature's beauty, hid 
 
 In sylvan solitudes, is known to thee, 
 
 Of tree and fern and sailing cloudlet bom. 
 
 If thou be with me, I go companied 
 
 With Grace and Gaiety, and a spirit free 
 
 And buoyant, as the happy winds of morn. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The New Year . . 
 
 3 
 
 A Summer's Day 
 
 6 
 
 Good Night . 
 
 8 
 
 Maid Marian 
 
 10 
 
 Chestnut Woods 
 
 12 
 
 To a Pansy ... 
 
 14 
 
 Sans Souci . . 
 
 16 
 
 Over the Hills 
 
 18 
 
 Lake Winnepesaukee in October . . . 
 
 20 
 
 The Merrimac at Haverhill . . 
 
 22 
 
 On a Cameo of Ceres 
 
 25 
 
 Sonnet . 
 
 26 
 
 Edith 
 
 27 
 
 Spring Violets 
 
 29 
 
 The Lost Heart 
 
 30 
 
 To a Sensitive Friend 
 
 . . 31 
 
 Violet Eyes . . ... 
 
 35 
 
 Why Love is Blind . . 
 
 38 
 
 In the Fields . 
 
 41 
 
 Carpe Diem . . 
 
 43 
 
 My Ship, the Algalore 
 
 46 
 
 Our Last Croquet 
 
 49 
 
 A Winter Dream of Princeton 
 
 52 
 
 Rest . ... 
 
 54 
 
 The Hero 
 
 56 
 
 Pro Patria . . 
 
 58 
 
 Our Buried Soldier 
 
 59 
 
 Nightfall 
 
 61 
 
 VII 
 
PAGE 
 
 The Home of Charlotte Bronte 62 
 
 All through the Night 64 
 
 Over the Way 66 
 
 Hist, Howling Winds 68 
 
 Falling Leaves 69 
 
 In Ruins . . 71 
 
 To my Bird in the South 73 
 
 My Josie ... .75 
 
 The Mid-Day Moon 78 
 
 Early Autumn 80 
 
 Late Autumn . 82 
 
 Her Home 83 
 
 Mistress Mary 85 
 
 Vanity Fair 87 
 
 Renunciation 89 
 
 To a Venerable Teacher . . 91 
 
 On Leaving the Villa Belvidere 93 
 
 An Answer ... 95 
 
 Remembrance 97 
 
 The Birds and I . 98 
 
 Without and Within . 100 
 
 A Lesson from the Stars 101 
 
 In the Grave . 102 
 
 A Woman's Love . . 103 
 
 Chloris . . 105 
 
 Sonnet . . 107 
 
 Idle Nan 108 
 
 Castanets . . 110 
 
 The Princess . 112 
 
 By Right Divine 113 
 
 Mickie Brown 115 
 
 Prince Jamie . 116 
 
 All for Love 118 
 
 viii 
 
PAGE 
 
 To a Swallow, Flying Seaward 120 
 
 The Harvest of Life 121 
 
 The Departing Year . . 123 
 
 Memories of Northern Spain 125 
 
 Thoughts in a Library . 129 
 
 The Purpose of Life .138 
 
 OCCASIONAL POEMS 
 
 The Centennial Year of Portland, Maine 141 
 
 The City of Concord, New Hampshire 156 
 Dedication of the Fowler Memorial 
 
 Library Building . 169 
 
 The Mission of the Modern Church 182 
 
 Prince Henry, the Navigator, of Portugal 190 
 
WITH GARLANDS GREEN 
 
THE NEW YEAR 
 
 I heae you, blithe New Year, ring out your laughter 
 
 And promises so sweet! 
 I see the circling months that follow after, 
 
 Arm-linked, with waltzing feet. 
 
 Before my door I stand, to give you greeting, 
 
 As swift you speed along, 
 And hear afar the echoes still repeating 
 
 Your thrills of jocund song. 
 
 White are the flying garlands that enwreathe you, 
 
 Wove of the gleaming snow, 
 And white the sloping fields that stretch beneath you, 
 
 Mocking the sunset-glow. 
 
 You shout with glee, like sportive children hinging 
 
 Wild roses in their play; 
 And sweet your laughter sounds, like bells a-ringing 
 
 At bridals far away. 
 
 I sat bemoaning that the year was waning, 
 
 The Old Year, true and tried; 
 But at your voice I hush my sad complaining 
 
 To win you to my side. 
 
 3 
 
Ah! happy cherubs, I must trust your smiling, 
 
 Your innocent, glad eyes! 
 Though well I guess what power of fond beguiling 
 
 In their enticement lies. 
 
 And so I call across the buried clovers, 
 
 Where dance your restless feet, 
 And cry — Good speed, my merry troop of rovers ! 
 
 Your promises are sweet! 
 
 The snow-drifts shine before me in the valleys 
 
 Where you say Spring shall be; 
 And straight I picture blooming orchard-alleys, 
 
 With birds on every tree. 
 
 Though all the night midwinter's moon is beaming, 
 
 In cold, resplendent skies, 
 Beneath full boughs that glimmer in my dreaming 
 
 June's leafy shadow lies; 
 
 And fancy sets the drowsy bees to humming 
 
 Where lilacs flush and sway; 
 Forgetting, none the less, that their swift coming 
 
 Must speed a chiller day. 
 
 O, youngest child of Time, no hint of sorrow 
 
 Clouds your prophetic face ! 
 And yet I know each radiant to-morrow 
 
 Will lack a present grace. 
 
 4 
 
In life, each spring-time grows less fresh and tender, 
 
 Each summer less divine; 
 I reap the harvests, but they fail to render 
 
 The fruits that once were mine. 
 
 Oh, give me back the loves your race have squandered, 
 
 Those giddy, spendthrift years! 
 The sunlit paths wherein my feet have wandered, 
 
 Youth's eagerness and tears; 
 
 And keep the strange, new gifts with which you cheat 
 me, 
 
 Luring my wistful gaze! 
 From out the past you may not bring to greet me, 
 
 The friends of other days! 
 
A SUMMER'S DAY 
 
 Black bees on the clover-heads drowsily clinging, 
 Where tall, feathered grasses and buttercups sway; 
 
 And all through the fields a white sprinkle of daisies, 
 Open-eyed at the setting of day. 
 
 Oh the heaps of sweet roses, sweet cinnamon roses, 
 In great crimson thickets that cover the wall ! 
 
 And flocks of bright butterflies giddy to see them, 
 And a sunny blue sky over all. 
 
 Trailing boughs of the elms drooping over the hedges, 
 Where spiders their glimmering laces have spun; 
 
 And breezes that bend the light tops of the willows 
 And down through the meadow-grass run. 
 
 Silver-brown little birds sitting close in the branches, 
 And yellow wings flashing from hillock to tree, 
 
 And wide-wheeling swallows that dip to the marshes, 
 And bobolinks crazy with glee; — 
 
 So crazy, they soar through the glow of the sunset 
 And warble their merriest notes as they fly, 
 
 Nor heed how the moths hover low in the hollows 
 And the dew gathers soft in the sky. 
 6 
 
Then a round beaming moon o'er the blossomed hill 
 coming, 
 
 Making paler the fields and the shadows more deep; 
 And through the wide meadows a murmurous humming 
 
 Of insects too happy to sleep. 
 
 Enchanted I sit on the bank by the willow 
 And hum the last snatch of a rollicking tune; 
 
 And since all this loveliness cannot be Heaven, 
 I know in my heart it is June. 
 
GOOD NIGHT 
 
 sweet, my Love, the hour is late; 
 The moon goes down in silver state 
 As here alone I watch and wait; 
 
 Though far from thee, my lips repeat 
 
 In whispers low — Good night, my Sweet! 
 
 The house is still; but o'er the gloom 
 Of starlit gardens faint with bloom 
 
 1 lean from out my darkened room; 
 And only hear the roaming breeze 
 Move softly in the lilac trees. 
 
 Somewhere, beneath these i gracious skies, 
 My bonny Love a-dreaming lies, 
 With slumber brooding in her eyes; 
 Go seek her, happy wind so free, 
 And kiss her folded hands for me ! 
 
 Across this dome of silent air 
 
 On tides of floating ether bear, 
 
 To where she sleeps, my whispered prayer: — 
 The day has brought the night forlorn, 
 God keep thee, little Love, till dawn ! 
 8 
 
While life is dear, and love is best, 
 And young moons drop adown the west, 
 My lone heart, turning to its rest, 
 Beneath the stars shall whisper clear — 
 Good night, my Sweet! though none may hear. 
 
MAID MARIAN 
 
 Not she who wore the kirtle green 
 
 In merry England's famous wood, 
 The happy-hearted bandit-queen, 
 
 Maid Marian of Robin Hood. 
 My darling bears her gentle name 
 
 In lands unknown to ballad fame; 
 No bugle winds, nor hunter calls, 
 
 Where tower her father's palace-halls. 
 
 All day she trails her silken skirt 
 
 Of Lincoln green o'er marble floors; 
 And trembles if the breezes flirt 
 
 Rose-petals 'gainst the bolted doors: 
 Where oft her dainty feet must cross 
 
 Lie fleecy carpets, soft as moss; 
 And carven ceilings proudly spread 
 
 Their snowy garlands o'er her head. 
 
 Maid Marian, at ease reclined, 
 
 Cares naught for forest-rangers bold : 
 
 One dream is dearer to her mind 
 Than all the simple Rhymers told. 
 
 For me, I swear, whene'er the shine 
 Of those soft eyes enkindles mine, 
 10 
 
To shield her close, come weal or woe, 
 From every breath the winds may blow. 
 
 My mother, when I bring her home, 
 
 Will ask me what my Love can do; 
 If she can spin the flax alone, 
 
 Or help her maids to bake and brew : 
 And when with idle, lily hands 
 
 The little sprite before her stands, 
 Oh tell me, tell me what to say 
 
 To charm my mother's scorn away! 
 
 To say? What timid words of mine 
 
 Prevail as do the maiden's eyes? 
 What answer could my thought design 
 
 To match her lips, for sweet replies? 
 No heart, though steeled to pretty wiles, 
 
 Can brave the beauty of her smiles; 
 And so, with winning graces drest, 
 
 My Love shall plead her cause the best. 
 
 11 
 
CHESTNUT WOODS 
 
 Daek linden groves are fair to see, 
 And elms that fringe a sunny lea; 
 But chestnut woods are woods for me! 
 
 When suns like these fade bush and fern, 
 To twinkling gold the poplars turn, 
 And naming far the maples burn. 
 
 Along the river's limpid flow 
 Bright leafy margins doubly glow, 
 Reflected in the depths below. 
 
 But braver boughs the frost defy, 
 
 Where chestnut woods swing wide and high 
 
 Their tufted green against the sky. 
 
 At noon beneath their shades I stray, 
 And note the sunbeams glint and play, 
 Forgetful of the year's decay. 
 
 Dry floors of moss my footsteps drown, 
 Where soft the spiky globes drop down 
 And rattle out their nuts so brown. 
 12 
 
Lithe squirrels watch the falling burrs 
 From roadside walls; through clustered firs 
 A. startled partridge slowly whirrs. 
 
 The dells are lit with asters pale; 
 Light, silvery seeds of thistles sail 
 Across the splendors of the vale. 
 
 Though maples there are flushing red, 
 And sumachs all their crimsons spread, 
 I know the summer has not fled. 
 
 For still these woods proclaim her queen, 
 Where chestnut branches, full and green, 
 Lift to the sun their glossy sheen. 
 
 When they put on their russet gold, 
 My heart shall own the year is old, 
 And turn to welcome frost and cold. 
 
 13 
 
TO A PANSY 
 
 Pbessed smoothly in these printed leaves, 
 
 O faded flower of years agone, 
 Thou knowest naught of misty eves 
 
 Or thrilling light of morn! 
 
 The mould where once thy beauty grew 
 Has nourished many a later flower; 
 
 And skies still widen, clear and blue, 
 Above that garden-bower. 
 
 But thou, alone of all thy race, 
 Hast felt no touch of chill decay, 
 
 And wearest an immortal grace 
 While summers glide away. 
 
 Where dew-drops trembled, soft and bright, 
 A tear now falls from saddened eyes; 
 
 And kisses burn where beams of light 
 Smote fierce from noonday skies. 
 
 Not roses red that ope to-day, 
 
 Fresh blowing when the winds are free, 
 Nor tangled lilies, wet with spray, 
 
 Can win my heart from thee! 
 14 
 
For one whose feet no longer tread 
 Through leafy ways in gardens fair 
 
 Once paused, and bent her lovely head 
 Above thy beauty rare; 
 
 And praised thy tissues finely wove, 
 In that dear voice that nevermore 
 
 The winds may bear me, though I rove 
 By plain and sea-girt shore. 
 
 Forever dark with velvet glooms, 
 And golden-hearted as the dawn, 
 
 I still shall love thee when the blooms 
 Of coming years are gone! 
 
 15 
 
SANS SOUCI 
 
 If I and my Laurie had nothing to do, 
 
 If his store were locked up, and his writing were 
 
 through, 
 And the house, from the door to the garret, were clean, 
 And the last ruffle stitched on that sewing machine, 
 If all care could be dropped for a day, do you know 
 Where Laurie and I in a jiffy would go? 
 
 There's a field where the grasses are high as your knees, 
 And whiteweed and buttercups rock in the breeze; 
 And under low branches a wall straggles round, 
 With blackberry vines overlaced to the ground; 
 And there we would sit, by the rivulet's brink, 
 Gazing out over hillocks — to what, do you think? 
 
 To a great bank of roses, so wide and so high 
 That they fill the horizon and toss on the sky; 
 So sweet, they are scented, the still, summer day, 
 By the bees and the humming-birds, meadows away; 
 And over them circles the white-breasted swallow, 
 Peering down at their pride in the green-dented hollow. 
 
 While I pinned a red cluster in Laurie's best coat, 
 And sought me another to wear at my throat, 
 
 16 
 
He should tell me he loved me, — I think he did once — 
 When of course I should blush, like a silly young dunce; 
 And then — for who knows? — he might lift my torn 
 
 fingers 
 And kiss the last bruise where a cruel thorn lingers. 
 
 Anyhow 'twould be rapture, if nothing were said, 
 Sitting there in the bloom, with the clouds overhead, 
 Where the grass runs in billows aslant up the hill, 
 And the blackbirds and bobolinks never are still; 
 Where each swaying tendril a blossom discloses, 
 And butterflies reel o'er an ocean of roses. 
 
 Well-a-day, what's the use? Here he comes for his hat, 
 
 This Laurie, nor dreams what his gudewife is at; 
 
 He is off to his ledgers, and I — well, here goes 
 
 At four pairs of stockings all out at the toes, 
 
 A coat to be mended, and hems to be run 
 
 On a new summer scarf, ere my labors are done. 
 
 17 
 
OVER THE HILLS 
 
 I sit upon Wachuset, and behold 
 
 Far to the north New Hampshire's mountains rise. 
 Nor steepled towns nor forest-lands, unrolled 
 
 In near, encircling vales, can tempt my eyes 
 From those blue peaks that skirt the distant scene, 
 Veiling with softer light their brows serene. 
 
 Withdrawn in misty shadows, grandly dim, 
 Monadnock towers supreme o'er all the view; 
 
 While faint as dreams, upon the horizon's rim, 
 The Unkanoonucs lift their domes of blue; 
 
 And clustered fair, in nearer plains below, 
 
 The hills of Sharon catch the sunset-glow. 
 
 I see no longer town or gleaming pond, 
 
 Bathed in the mellow splendors of the west, 
 
 But gaze away to those cool heights beyond; 
 Where wavy range and solitary crest 
 
 Speak to my heart of scenes I loved of yore 
 
 Beneath their slopes, in days that are no more. 
 
 O lone bird, soaring near this airy peak 
 
 Whereon I sit, stay not for darkening skies ! 
 
 O'er rosy lakes and purpling valleys seek 
 A little city in the north, that lies 
 18 
 
Set low in meadows by a river wide, 
 
 With trees embowered, and fields on either side! 
 
 When there, alit upon some gilded vane 
 That tells its dwellers of the veering wind, 
 
 Your eye shall scan the movements on the plain, 
 The haunts I love, the friends there left behind. 
 
 Look close and long, for I shall question well, 
 
 When home you speed again, your tale to tell! 
 
 happy bird, sweet bird, the shadows grow! 
 
 I sit alone, and watch the sunset pale 
 Behind your flight, while in the woods below 
 
 Shudders the night-wind, rustling from the vale. 
 Yet morn shall see your pinions sweeping down 
 With sunrise carols o'er that river-town ! 
 
 19 
 
LAKE WINNIPESAUKEE IN 
 OCTOBER 
 
 The woods were flushed with every dye 
 That autumn's changing beauty bore; 
 
 From azure lake to azure sky 
 
 Their splendors crowned the sloping shore. 
 
 We sailed beneath a plumy wall 
 
 Of belted forests, tier on tier, 
 Meeting the heavens, that over all 
 
 Poured golden radiance, soft and clear. 
 
 Each lowest tree, a glowing shape, 
 
 Dipped to the wave its branches wide; 
 
 While rounded isle and jutting cape 
 Reversed their glories in the tide. 
 
 Like hosts arrayed the maples stood, 
 With flaming banners lifted high, 
 
 Where, northward, over lake and wood, 
 Pale mountain-summits cleft the sky. 
 
 There Whiteface towered in sullen pride; 
 
 His flinty brow, though seared and rent 
 By wintry tempests, still defied 
 
 The thunderbolts in heaven unspent. 
 20 
 
Dappled with shadows soft and warm, 
 As still the haunt of bird and bee, 
 
 Through mellow distance loomed the form 
 Of hazy, cloud-swept Ossipee. 
 
 With craggy summit sharp and bare 
 Chocorua held his state alone; 
 
 But hailed, through leagues of upper air, 
 Great Belknap on his lofty throne. 
 
 Ere waned the sunset's misty light 
 We turned our shallop, gliding fast, 
 
 And left each dim, receding height 
 To brave the winter's coming blast. 
 
 O friends, no longer at my side, 
 
 In dreams once more I sail with you ! 
 
 Again, above the sunlit tide, 
 We lean to dip the waters blue; 
 
 Each singing low in calm delight, 
 And musing on some scene of yore; 
 
 As here my thought recalls to-night 
 The glancing lake, the burning shore! 
 
 21 
 
THE MERRIMAC AT HAVERHILL 
 
 Flow on, O river, full and fast! 
 
 You near, at length, the engulfing sea; 
 Yet tell me as you hasten past 
 
 If no sweet message comes to me! 
 
 Here on the swaying bridge I lean, 
 
 'Twixt rounded hills and peopled shore; 
 
 And strange is all the varied scene, 
 And strange the faces passing o'er. 
 
 But I have watched you, miles away; 
 
 For I remember well a town 
 Far up your banks, and whence to-day 
 
 Your rippling waves have hurried down. 
 
 How looked it there this breezy morn? 
 
 Saw you the meadows, green and wide? 
 Were swallows heralding the dawn, 
 
 Skimming across your brimming tide? 
 
 Was Palmer's blessed pathway sweet 
 
 With breath of bloom and sun-steeped pine? 
 
 And, roaming there, did none repeat 
 To loving friends a name like mine? 
 
 22 
 
Were I up there, and they below, 
 Fresh garlands, wove to tell my dream, 
 
 Should reach them in a birch canoe; 
 But lambs are always down the stream ! 
 
 I think of each; — the little friend 
 
 Who quarrels with me, right or wrong; 
 
 But unto whom my love would send 
 Its kisses printed in a song. 
 
 Kisses, forsooth! How we should clash 
 In that old war, could we but speak; — 
 
 She raving o'er her Trojan trash, 
 I battling for my glorious Greek! 
 
 And down some lane, with whip and plume, 
 
 I see a bonny lassie go, 
 As swift as when the mountain Flume 
 
 Beheld us shuddering, years ago. 
 
 One, from her window, views the scene 
 Of bowered walks my fancy loves ! 
 
 And marks, alighting on the green, 
 A flock of snow-white, Paphian doves. 
 
 O best of women ! when the long 
 Soft, moonlit evenings make thee glad, 
 
 Look out, for me, above the throng, 
 To dome and tree-top, silver-clad! 
 23 
 
The tenderest thought in vain would know 
 The half my longing eyes would see; 
 
 Yet winds will whisper, stars will glow, 
 And you, dear heart, will think of me! 
 
 I know the robins' noisy call, 
 
 From elm-trees, ere the morning shines; 
 I know the sandy plains where fall 
 
 Dark shadows from the clustered pines. 
 
 And dreams of these return to me, 
 As musing here, at close of day, 
 
 I wait upon the bridge to see 
 The eddying waters roll away. 
 
 Now cold the rushing waves come down, 
 The sunset-glamours fade and go; 
 
 And back, within the alien town, 
 A sober pilgrim paces slow; 
 
 Yet happy-hearted, since her dream 
 Brings blisses that the fates deny: 
 
 She keeps her tryst above the stream, 
 And cares not where the summers fly. 
 
 24 
 
ON A CAMEO OF CERES 
 
 Thy face was carven by Italia's sea, 
 O mother-goddess of the golden hair! 
 And he who wrought thy lineaments so fair 
 Upon this polished shell had dreams of thee 
 As the glad giver; recking not the grief 
 That filled all lands with desolation sore, 
 And taught the seas to moan forevermore, 
 When thou from thy great anguish sought relie 
 No vengeful curse of thine has made thee deaf 
 To prayers of men; but, blessing as of yore, 
 With reaper's sickle lifted from the sheaf, 
 
 Thou smilest 'mid the fields' ungarnered stoi 
 Thus didst thou look ere Enna's blooming mea 
 Shook to the thunder of the coal-black steeds! 
 
 25 
 
SONNET 
 
 Sweet Summer lures me with a thousand wiles : 
 She says: Come forth and hear my billows roar, 
 Foam-capped and blue, along a sultry shore, 
 
 Bearing the chill of sea-washed, northern isles! 
 
 Look skyward to my mountains ! their defiles 
 Are resonant with snow-fed streams that pour 
 Down sunless steeps; and cloudlets wander o'er 
 
 Their shadowed summits when the noon-tide smiles: 
 Lone pasture-lanes that wind by meadow-trees, 
 
 And forest-alleys dim, are spread for thee, 
 
 Where thou with thy Beloved may'st walk at ease! 
 
 Ah! mocking Summer, thy delights abound! 
 
 Yet bring my friend to tread those aisles with me 
 
 And desert-wastes may whirl their sands around! 
 
 26 
 
EDITH 
 
 Flowers white and flowers fair, 
 Bring them for my Edith's hair! 
 Trailing robe of satin sheen, 
 Girdle jewelled for a queen, 
 Misty laces floating wide, 
 Gayly spangled for a bride; 
 Bear them hither, maids, I pray, — 
 Edith is a bride to-day ! 
 
 Clouds, with storm and thunder wroth, 
 Crouch behind the angry north ! 
 Sunshine, freshened in the dew, 
 Sweep along the smiling blue! 
 Breezes from the distant hills 
 Gather coolness from the rills, 
 Through her floating laces play; 
 Edith is a bride to-day! 
 
 Hymen, clad in saffron fair, 
 Hasten through the waiting air! 
 Marriage-bells, ring out, ring out, 
 Burst the welkin with a shout! 
 Smiling maids in snowy frocks 
 Tarry in the churchyard-walks, 
 27 
 
Scatter roses in her way, 
 Edith is a bride to-day! 
 
 Bliss, without the lover's smart, 
 Crown the bridegroom's happy heart! 
 Manly pride his bosom fill, 
 Strong to keep her close from ill ! 
 Silence, let not Edith hear 
 Dropping of a secret tear! 
 Sorrow, leave my aching breast, 
 Breast of him who loves her best! 
 
SPRING VIOLETS 
 
 Lifting the leaves beside a brooklet's bed, 
 
 I caught a glimpse of violets looking through. 
 
 Lo, all the ground beneath was stained with blue, 
 Soft as the azure bending overhead: 
 They lay there dreaming close beneath my tread, 
 
 So deeply hid that scarce the beaded dew 
 
 That damped the hillsides of their covert knew; 
 Only the weedy brook their pulses fed. 
 I had not thought a single bud did grow 
 
 In all the verdure of that grassy field, 
 While they were thick as stars in winter skies; 
 
 But careless feet like mine will never know 
 Where beauty loves to hide, all unrevealed 
 
 Save to the closer search of loving eyes. 
 
 29 
 
THE LOST HEART 
 
 I have lost my heart to-day; — 
 
 Shepherds on the mountain-sides, 
 Have you seen a heart astray? 
 
 Tell me where my treasure hides ! 
 Lady fair, we watch our sheep 
 
 Fearful lest a lamb should roam; 
 Would you thus your treasures keep 
 
 You must guard them close at home. 
 
 Gentles, dreaming on the lawn, 
 
 Pardon me, I humbly pray, 
 But my heart is fled and gone, 
 
 Haply it has passed this way ! 
 Hearts are foolish things, they said, 
 
 Lightly lost and soon forgot; 
 Rest you here, my pretty maid, 
 
 Tis a trifle, — seek it not! 
 
 Straight I met a brown-eyed youth 
 
 Coming onward through a wood; 
 And my blushes spake the truth 
 
 Sooner than my language could. 
 Maiden, said he, looking down 
 
 With his glowing eyes on me, 
 Maiden, I have lost my own; 
 
 Let me seek for it with thee ! 
 30 
 
LINES TO A SENSITIVE FRIEND 
 
 ON HER VISITING PORTLAND, MAINE 
 
 You are off then to-morrow, to sniff the salt breeze, 
 And to take at the seaport your dignified ease 
 In the cool of her fogs and the gloom of her trees. 
 Ah me, when I think of such pleasures as these 
 All my heart is beguiled, and the longing grows wild 
 To roam through the streets that I knew when a child, 
 Julia, my dear! 
 
 For many a time I have watched from her shore 
 The gleam of a sail and the flash of an oar; 
 On her hill I have stood counting ships by the score 
 Through the glass that belonged to her old commodore; 
 But waiting I've been for my ship to come in 
 Till I fear she has sunk with her cargo of tin, 
 Julia, my dear ! 
 
 Now here is a little advice, by your leave, — 
 A thing far more blessed to give than receive; 
 And I trust it may gain you a happy reprieve 
 From ills that might otherwise cause you to grieve; 
 Any one who observes the frail state of your nerves 
 Will allow it no more than their weakness deserves, 
 Julia, my dear! 
 31 
 
Do not walk out at noon if the sun fiercely glows, 
 Lest your cheeks burn as red as the old-fashioned rose 
 That down in my grandmother's garden-bed grows; 
 Or a huge freckle darken the end of that nose; 
 And study the skies; for a wind might arise 
 And throw sandy dust in your violet eyes; 
 Julia, my dear! 
 
 Nor ever, my friend, be enticed to the wharf 
 When a Liverpool packet is just starting off; 
 For men, in a state that would pain Mr. Gough, 
 Will jostle you round; and you're sure of a cough, 
 To say nothing of wheezing and violent sneezing, 
 Till you reach a prime state for a delicate freezing, 
 Julia, my dear! 
 
 And this is not all; for wherever you go 
 A clumsy old rope will lie coiled at your toe; 
 And your gossamer flounces will wickedly blow 
 Just where tar and molasses in rivulets flow; 
 So take special care; and be sure not to wear 
 That apple-green organdie, should you go there, 
 Julia, my dear! 
 
 And there you meet sailors; so shockingly odd, 
 
 With their trousers so wide and their collars so broad; 
 
 They may look well in pictures; but one who has 
 
 trod 
 On their low quarter-decks must feel thankful to God 
 
 32 
 
That a creature so tanned was not made for the land, 
 But to dwell among fishes, sea-serpents, and sand, 
 Julia, my dear! 
 
 And they have on their ships such an unpleasant way 
 Of climbing up ropes, like wild monkeys at play; 
 While ashore, they go pitching about as if they 
 Still thought they were rolling half-over-the-bay; 
 You will own, for the nonce, that he must be a dunce 
 Who can't stand upright on his two feet at once, 
 Julia, my dear! 
 
 Their language is then so outlandish and queer 
 That I beg when you hear them beginning, my dear, 
 You will stand with a finger pressed hard to each ear; 
 Lest you could not forget the strange talk you would 
 
 hear; 
 For they swear you By jingo, and other such lingo, 
 Learned no doubt of the heathen in far San Domingo; 
 Lord help us, my dear ! 
 
 Let no friend persuade you a-sailing to go; 
 
 Since as sure as you do there will come up a blow, 
 
 — For they raise the wind quick in that harbor, you 
 
 know, — 
 And then you may find a free passage below; 
 Or worse, as agree all who sail the blue sea, 
 You begin to be sea-sick, and feel like the D., 
 Julia, my dear! 
 
And steamboats themselves have a terrible trick 
 Of striking a ledge, where the fog hovers thick; 
 When you go rushing down like a thousand of brick, 
 And reach the dark bottom uncommonly quick; 
 Not a moment it spares for your toilet or prayers, 
 And no time to settle your little affairs, 
 Julia, my dear ! 
 
 Once below, the sweet mermaids will alter their tones, 
 And beat you to jelly in spite of your groans; 
 While the mermen will sit on the slippery stones 
 A-smacking their chops, as they crunch your thin 
 
 bones; 
 And gayly declare, with a swaggering air, 
 That you make a good supper when sculpins are rare, 
 Julia, my dear! 
 
 So when you are tempted to leave the safe shore 
 Remember the friend you profess to adore. 
 With a heart beating high to behold you once more 
 She may come some fine morning to call at your door; 
 Then how it would shock her, when they answered the 
 
 knocker, 
 To hear you were fast down in Davy Jones' locker, 
 Julia, my dear! 
 
 34 
 
VIOLET EYES 
 
 J. B. K. 
 
 Two eyes there are that beam for me, 
 
 Violet eyes; 
 Of loveliness so past compare 
 No painter's brush would ever dare 
 To blend a tint so soft and rare 
 
 For violet eyes. 
 
 Not tresses of her rippled hair, 
 
 Silky and brown, 
 Nor yet her voice, when light and clear 
 She trills the songs I love to hear, 
 To me can seem one half so dear 
 
 As violet eyes. 
 
 What blazing lights within them gleam, 
 
 Lustrous as stars! 
 What shifting splendors throb and glow 
 O'er creamy cheeks that pale below, 
 Like lightnings flashing over snow 
 
 In luminous skies! 
 
 As down the curling lashes go, 
 Veiling their light, 
 35 
 
Sly -lurking under fringes fine 
 I see the frolic fancies shine 
 And leap unspoken into mine 
 From violet eyes. 
 
 Their lucent depths reveal a soul 
 
 Earnest and brave; 
 That never hides its eager sense 
 In honeyed language sweet and dense, 
 Lest honest words should give offence 
 
 To timorous ears. 
 
 The subtle charm that culture gives 
 
 Crowns her with grace; 
 A heart that knows no chill eclipse 
 Sits smiling on her parted lips, 
 And thrills me from the finger-tips 
 With welcoming clasp. 
 
 Since youth was ours, my little friend, 
 
 In weal or woe, 
 These liquid eyes have been to me 
 Clear wells of light, wherein I see 
 A heart's unmeasured constancy 
 
 And affluent love. 
 
 May Time, who makes all gifts his own, 
 
 Spare me this love! 
 That still its kindling glow may cheer 
 36 
 
Life's dark decline, when sad and drear 
 I watch bright visions disappear 
 In pitiless night ! 
 
 Through tears I see those lovely eyes 
 
 Sparkling with glee; 
 Yes, happy heart, forever gay, 
 We both will laugh the years away, 
 Until, like children tired of play, 
 
 We slumber at last ! 
 
 37 
 
WHY LOVE IS BLIND 
 
 At noon, across a woody glade, 
 
 I took my silent way, 
 And spied how by an alder-shade, 
 
 Asleep young Cupid lay; 
 His silver bow beside him flung, 
 With arrow spent and cord unstrung. 
 
 The cherub face was pillowed deep 
 
 Within one snowy palm; 
 So strangely still, I knew his sleep 
 
 Was death's eternal calm; 
 That secret pain or hostile blow 
 Had laid the little archer low. 
 
 Alone, unwept, — I sighed aloud, — 
 
 His sportive race is run ! 
 Why does not Venus come to shroud 
 
 Her only, darling son? 
 Or send her team of sparrows here, 
 To bear him to a fitter bier? 
 
 A rose-bush, by the breezes fanned, 
 Was snowing o'er the ground: 
 
 I heaped the petals in my hand 
 And strewed them round and round; 
 
I hid his neck, his body sweet, 
 And drifted them across his feet. 
 
 I could not bear to hide his head, 
 
 His little face so fair, 
 The dimpled lips so firmly wed, 
 
 The chin, the golden hair; 
 So two pink leaves of tiny size 
 I dropped above his lidded eyes. 
 
 I turned and mused, as on I went, — 
 Since thus the gods have willed, 
 
 In mercy is their judgment sent; 
 That men no more be filled 
 
 With grief and woe, and all the smart 
 
 His shafts awaken in the heart ! 
 
 A sunbeam smote the leafy wood 
 And slanted toward the place; 
 
 I turned a moment where I stood 
 To see it light his face, 
 
 And touch the hands so marble-cold, 
 
 That never more a bow would hold. 
 
 When lo, where now the petals lay 
 Two beaming eyes of blue, 
 
 With mirth and mischief held in play, 
 Were slyly peeping through; 
 39 
 
And round the lips so tightly drawn 
 A quick laugh rippled and was gone. 
 
 The sudden rapture that I felt 
 Made all my pulses thrill; 
 
 An instant by the rogue I knelt; 
 And, ere my thought could will, 
 
 I tore him from his rosy sheet, 
 
 And blinded him with kisses sweet. 
 
 40 
 
IN THE FIELDS 
 
 How thick the flowers stud the shining grass 
 
 On hillsides greening in the warm May sun ! 
 
 The branching buttercups have just begun 
 To lift their glossy bowls, and overpass 
 The strawberry blossoms, clustered in a mass 
 
 Of snowy bloom beneath. But violets shun 
 
 These breezy slopes, and hide where brooklets run 
 Through leafy coverts and the wild morass. 
 Broad dandelions spot with tufted gold 
 
 The green of meadows; every hedgerow yields 
 Its budding garlands pearled with morning showers. 
 
 Such fair delights before mine eyes unrolled 
 Bring childhood back; and in these smiling fields 
 
 My soul grows young again amid the flowers. 
 
 ii 
 
 The air is peopled; all the happy day 
 
 Gay bobolinks flash by with liquid notes, 
 
 Or pour sweet melodies from trembling throats, 
 
 The while they rock upon a bending spray; 
 
 With languid wing, upon her devious way, 
 The butterfly in dreamy splendor floats; 
 And countless insect tribes, in spangled coats 
 
 Of gleamy gold, pursue their circling play. 
 
 41 
 
Round every blossomed bough a wild bee hums; 
 
 And dragon-flies dart zig-zag through the air 
 O'er reedy ponds, on whirr of gauzy wings. 
 
 Thus every year a glimpse of Eden comes; 
 And life seems passing in that garden fair, 
 
 When Spring immortal all her beauty brings. 
 
 42 
 
CARPE DIEM 
 
 Ah, Jennie,' dear, 'tis half a year 
 
 Since we sang late and long, my Love ! 
 As home o'er dusky fields we came, 
 While Venus lit her tender flame 
 In silent plains above. 
 
 I scarcely knew if rain or dew 
 
 Had made the grass so fresh and sweet; 
 I only felt the misty gloom 
 Was filled with scent of hidden bloom 
 
 That bent beneath our feet. 
 
 In songs we tried our hearts to hide, 
 And each to crush a voiceless pain. 
 With bitter force my love returned, 
 But dared not hope that passion burned 
 Where once it met disdain. 
 
 Thus singing still we reached the hill, 
 And on it faced a breeze of June; 
 
 White rolled the mist along the lea; 
 
 But eastward flashed a throbbing sea 
 Beneath the rising moon. 
 43 
 
Your lips apart, as if your heart 
 
 Had something it would say to mine, 
 I saw you with your dreamy glance 
 Far sent, in some delicious trance, 
 Beyond the silver shine. 
 
 The hour supreme, that in my dream 
 
 Should bring me bliss for aye, was come; 
 But though my heart was fit to break, 
 The scornful words that once you spake 
 Smote all its pleadings dumb. 
 
 No note or word the silence stirred, 
 
 As we resumed our homeward tread; 
 Below we heard the cattle browse, 
 And wakeful birds within the boughs 
 Move softly overhead. 
 
 The hour was late when at the gate 
 We lingered ere we spake adieu; 
 
 Your white hand plucked from near the door 
 
 A lily's queenly cup, and tore 
 Each waxen leaf in two. 
 
 My hope grew bold, and I had told 
 Anew my love, my fate had known; 
 
 But then a quick Good night I heard, 
 
 A whirring, like a startled bird, 
 And there I stood alone! 
 44 
 
Thus love-bereft my heart was left, 
 
 At swinging of that cruel door; 
 So shut the gates of Paradise 
 On timid fools who dare not twice 
 Ask bliss denied before! 
 
 Yes, Jennie dear, 'tis half a year; 
 
 But all my doubts, my fears are flown; 
 For did I not on yesternight 
 Read once again your love aright, 
 
 And dare proclaim my own? 
 
 45 
 
THE ALGALORE 
 
 No heart can know how long ago 
 
 My ship, the Algalore, 
 In morning breezes sailed away, 
 Beyond the cliff, beyond the bay, 
 Till, veering on the glowing skies, 
 She dipped, and vanished from my eyes. 
 
 Since then I pace along the beach, 
 
 When sunsets flush the sea, 
 Or when the moonlight's silver shine 
 Flings o'er the wave its dancing line; 
 And almost hear, with eager mind, 
 Her busy crew the windlass wind. 
 
 For years November's rattling sleet 
 
 Has frozen to her shrouds; 
 For years the spring's returning gales 
 Have dallied with her sun-lit sails; 
 Yet still I scan the tower in vain, 
 To find her signalled from the main. 
 
 Oh say, good vessels homeward bound, 
 
 Saw you this ship of mine? 
 Spoke you a barque of sturdy build, 
 With colors up and canvas filled? 
 46 
 
And gave she you no word to keep 
 Of how she fared upon the deep? 
 
 A gallant ship ! no billow's rush 
 
 Could whelm her in its tide; 
 No tempest part her solid decks 
 To strew the brine with floating wrecks; 
 But gayly still before the breeze 
 She skims the foam of tossing seas. 
 
 Her sails are snowier than clouds 
 
 That fleece an April sky; 
 And from her prow an angel springs, 
 With lifted brow and sloping wings, 
 Who holds within light finger-tips, 
 A slender trumpet to his lips. 
 
 Blow me a note, O angel mine, 
 Across the boundless waste ! 
 Blow me a note, and I shall hear, 
 And know by that what course you steer, 
 Though leagues of tide-swept waters lean 
 And roll their thunder-tones between! 
 
 Her freight — ah, me! what bore she not? 
 
 What wealth of heart and brain, 
 What faith, and love, and hopes untold 
 Lie stored within her ample hold! 
 My life is bankrupt, if in vain 
 She bear these ventures o'er the main! 
 47 
 
Perchance, around her, breezes float 
 
 From off some blooming isle; 
 And there, begirt by lofty palms, 
 She rocks at ease in tropic calms, 
 And fears to near a craggy shore 
 Where billows leap and breakers roar. 
 
 Ho! laggard ship! Time speeds with me; 
 
 Give wings to every wind! 
 I long to see your crowded sails 
 Come swelling in on fresh spring gales: 
 I long upon the strand once more 
 To board my brave ship Algalore. 
 
 No sooner will she grate the sand 
 
 Than I shall bound beside, 
 To hail her sun-burnt sailors bold, 
 And ask, — What cargo in her hold, 
 What rich return she brings to me, 
 For all I sent across the sea? 
 
 But oh! ye calm, resistless tides, 
 
 Ere she come back to port 
 With empty hull and rigging torn, 
 To dash the hopes my years have borne, 
 Forever on your bosom keep 
 This homeless rover of the deep ! 
 
 48 
 
OUR LAST CROQUET 
 
 Pull up the wickets from the lawn! 
 
 No more croquet we play. 
 Clear, sunny days at length are past, 
 And now the snowflakes gather fast 
 Where yesterday we rolled our last 
 
 In this same little game of croquet. 
 
 The turf must soon be buried deep 
 
 For many a wintry day; 
 That well-worn turf, where, late and soon, 
 By summer sun and harvest moon, 
 Our mallets clicked a merry tune 
 
 In this same little game of croquet. 
 
 Yet oft shall we, with dreaming eye, 
 
 The vanished groups survey; 
 Still see them shifting o'er the ground, 
 Still hear their laughter's silver sound, 
 The sudden shout, the ball's rebound, 
 
 In this same little game of croquet. 
 
 There, golden-haired and tender-eyed, 
 
 Adonis leads the play; 
 While maidens on their mallets lean, 
 49 
 
More fair than Ilium's stolen queen, 
 And view him smite with look serene, 
 In this same little game of croquet. 
 
 Still trail upon the garden-wall 
 
 Bright mantles, flung away 
 An arm's swift vengeance to promote; 
 And still from slender waist and throat 
 The wind-blown ribbons gayly float, 
 
 In this same little game of croquet. 
 
 Again we move with careful stroke 
 
 Amid the eager fray; 
 But when we deem all perils over, 
 And stakeward drive, a lurking rover 
 Still sends us spinning through the clover 
 
 In this same little game of croquet. 
 
 What sparring of contending balls, 
 
 What merciless roquet! 
 What famous shots, what hot disputes, 
 What knockings under tiny boots, 
 While off the luckless exile shoots 
 
 In this same little game of croquet ! 
 
 How lightly round our mallets swing, 
 
 When luck has won the day! 
 How proudly, that the skies may know, 
 We sound our triumph o'er the foe, 
 50 
 
And homeward, under starlight go, 
 From this same little game of croquet! 
 
 Fresh grow the turf whereon we trod, 
 
 When next returns the May ! 
 And yet I can but query whether 
 We all may stand again together, — 
 Brave Golden-stripe and Azure-feather, — 
 And strike once more beneath the leather, 
 
 In this same little game of croquet. 
 
 51 
 
A WINTER DREAM OF 
 PRINCETON, MASSACHUSETTS 
 
 Keen blasts sweep over Princeton hills, 
 And round the fallen snow is whirled; 
 
 In gullies wide the drifts are piled, 
 
 Their feathered crests all scooped and curled 
 
 In eddies of the wind so wild. 
 
 Its upland roads, blown clean and bare, 
 Stretch out beneath the blanching moon; 
 
 Below, the sheeted country lies, 
 With leafless forests darkly strewn, 
 
 Whose branches vein the frosty skies. 
 
 If cruel winter rages there, 
 
 Where hide the little birds that flung 
 From every bush their merry strains? 
 
 Where float the butterflies that swung 
 Alit on thistles in the lanes? 
 
 At morn, across the sunny road, 
 Do shining snakes no longer glide 
 
 And vanish under mossy cones? 
 Are crickets dumb at eventide, 
 
 Housed snugly under pasture-stones? 
 52 
 
Ah me, the nests are brimmed with snow; 
 
 Ice glitters where the leaves were green; 
 At dusk, upon the wayside bars, 
 
 No more the happy farmers lean, 
 To gossip under dewy stars. 
 
 All this I know; and yet to me 
 
 In summer's light the village gleams; 
 
 No stealthy frost that winter yields 
 
 Sends shivers through the purling streams; 
 
 No breath of autumn seres the fields. 
 
 No scarlet leaves from maple boughs 
 Twirl lightly down on faded grass; 
 
 No shadows from a driving cloud 
 O'er plains of scanty stubble pass; 
 
 But buds are bright and birds are loud. 
 
 In shaded brooks the sun-drops play; 
 
 Crows call above the rustling wheat; 
 From hidden nests, on quiet eves, 
 
 Trill happy gurgles, low and sweet, 
 Half -smothered in the circling leaves. 
 
 When winter whirls about me here, 
 I keep this picture in my mind; 
 
 And so, when chilling tempests lower, 
 A summer in the past I find, 
 
 Whose glory floods my dreamy hour. 
 53 
 
REST 
 
 A rose unbloomed for want of light, 
 With petals folded, cool and white; 
 A babe upon his mother's breast; 
 A glad bird dreaming in a nest; 
 Thus do I picture Rest. 
 
 World-weary, I have sought in vain 
 Some peaceful resting place to gain; 
 Now know I it may not be found, 
 Save in a narrow strip of ground, 
 Arched upward to a mound. 
 
 Then welcome, Death! since death alone 
 Can ease the pangs my soul hath known. 
 My heavy eyes, with sorrow wet, 
 In dreamless sleep shall soon forget 
 Life's labor and its fret. 
 
 Then lay me deep beneath a sod 
 Where bleeding feet have never trod; 
 So deep that I may never hear 
 The dropping of a human tear, 
 Or stifled cry of fear. 
 54 
 
Place there a stone above the spot; 
 Of slate or marble care I not, 
 So be it it shall dull the tread 
 Of all sad walkers overhead, 
 Who pace above the dead. 
 
 Three days our Saviour lay at rest, 
 With weak hands folded on his breast, 
 Ere he unclosed his deathless eyes, 
 And, soaring through the upper skies, 
 Re-entered Paradise. 
 
 Thus would I pause a little space 
 To cleanse my soul from every trace 
 Of earth's blind agony and sin, 
 Before I dare to enter in 
 
 Where holiness hath been. 
 
 Three days, apart from care and doubt, 
 With grief not smothered, but sighed out! 
 Three days, that I mine eyes may steep 
 In cooling slumber, still and deep, 
 A soft, untroubled sleep! 
 
 Then with a glad heart speeding on 
 To where our risen Lord hath gone, 
 My bounding feet at length shall press 
 Those golden shores, where happiness 
 Waits, calm and measureless. 
 55 
 
THE HERO 
 
 JOHN BROWN 
 
 Thank God that all the martyr-stuff 
 Hath not yet perished from the earth, 
 
 That still there lingereth enough 
 To give a stalwart hero birth! 
 
 Whence is it that, when ills are rife, 
 There riseth, at the timely hour, 
 
 Some spirit fit to rule the strife, 
 
 And wrest from Sin his vaunted power? 
 
 Men calmly claim for written thought 
 An inspiration from on High, 
 
 And say the ready words were wrought 
 To music sweet — they knew not why. 
 
 Is not a deed a surer gain 
 
 Than thought, in closets brooding still? 
 Will not the Power that fired the brain, 
 
 Direct alike the hand and will? 
 
 God-sent, the hero copes with wrong, 
 God-guided chooseth he his means; 
 
 No words of blame to us belong; 
 
 Let Him condemn on whom he leans! 
 56 
 
While colder natures sit and plan 
 
 A wiser method, surer laws 
 By which to free their fellow-man, 
 
 And wipe away effect and cause; 
 
 Untrammelled by the lore of time, 
 
 Forth steps a soul fresh-made from God, 
 
 And, moving with a trust sublime, 
 It crushes error to the sod. 
 
 Success or loss — who can compute? 
 
 Let praise be still and judgment dumb 
 Till we shall see what hidden fruit 
 
 Will ripen in the years to come! 
 
 May, 1860. 
 
 57 
 
PRO PATRIA 
 
 IN MEMORY OF LIEUT. SAMUEL FESSENDEN 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep! for thee no more 
 The drum shall beat, the sabre shine! 
 
 No more shall flash the moving steel, 
 Close-serried down the line! 
 
 On trampled turf thy young head lay, 
 In stranger arms expired thy breath; 
 
 But find me here one noble heart 
 That envies not thy death! 
 
 Without, the boom of angry guns, 
 The rolling smoke, the battle cry; 
 
 War's bloody footprints in the sod, 
 His banners on the sky. 
 
 Within, the peace that heroes know 
 Who die for honor in their youth, 
 
 Who breathe away their lives in prayer 
 For victory of truth. 
 
 Then sweetly sleep! such heroes make 
 A nation's glory and her pride; 
 
 And dearer is the land for which 
 Thou hast so bravely died ! 
 58 
 
OUR BURIED SOLDIER 
 
 S. F. C. 
 
 Blow, snowy winter wind, 
 
 And heap his new-made grave! 
 
 Drop there a mantle light and warm; 
 
 He long hath shivered in the storm; 
 Now cover well the brave! 
 
 Blow, searching northern blast, 
 And sweep the heavens clear! 
 War's lurid vapors, hot and red, 
 Have rolled in thunder o'er his head; 
 Let azure skies be here ! 
 
 Make soft his pillow, Earth! 
 
 In vain, through lone unrest, 
 He prayed to touch his mother's brow; 
 Be thou a mother to him now, 
 
 And fold him to thy breast ! 
 
 The clear, crisp airs of March 
 
 Hang silent o'er the dead; 
 Let beat of drum and trumpets' ring 
 Their fierce accord no longer bring 
 
 To rouse him from his bed! 
 59 
 
We leave him here to sleep 
 Through wind and rain and snow; 
 
 His heart in endless peace is still; 
 
 Would God that we might calm at will 
 This agony we know! 
 
 The snow shall melt in flowers, 
 The air shall pulse with song, 
 And birdlings come with timid feet 
 To hop among the grasses sweet 
 And chirp there all day long. 
 
 Oh thus may soothing Time 
 
 Transform our grief and pain! 
 Make buds of gladness start and bloom 
 From out the heart of wintry gloom, 
 And bring us hope again! 
 
 60 
 
NIGHTFALL 
 
 The wind has gone down with the set of the sun, 
 And left a lone cloud hanging dusky and still 
 
 Athwart the pale blue, where the tremulous stars 
 Are waiting to shine over meadow and hill. 
 
 They come flocking out on the soft dewy air, 
 
 Till throb the wide heavens with their pulses of light; 
 
 The cloud stirs its folds and is trailing away, 
 Through fringes revealing the glitter of night. 
 
 Against the clear sky the old oak rises grim, 
 
 With black branches crossing the rose-tinted west; 
 
 While high toward the wood wings the late-roaming 
 bird, 
 And drops to his home in some verdurous nest. 
 
 Be still, my soul, in thy bitter despair, 
 
 Nor yearn through thy depths for the love that is 
 not! 
 Peace falls with the dew, but it falleth in vain; 
 
 No balm can it bring to thy desolate lot ! 
 
 Full sadly I know that such twilights must come 
 When youth and her love-dreams in silence are fled, 
 
 To find the old longing still burning unquenched, 
 And still the soul-hunger forever unfed. 
 61 
 
THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE 
 BRONTE 
 
 The airy spring now melts in purple mists 
 Along the hills that girt still Haworth round; 
 And from the vale beneath comes up the sound 
 Of distant beck, with soothing, mellow tone; 
 While, pausing in his song, the linnet lists 
 Its drowsy music, sweeter than his own. 
 The sun lies warm upon the lonely moors; 
 And, springing from the heath, the skylark pours 
 His joyous notes, that thrill the heavens through, 
 Singing and drowning in the dreamy blue. 
 And while around his path the daylight dies, 
 May's slender moon, half-lost in rosy skies, 
 Hastens its coming over fields of dew: 
 Thus, in my dreams, her home serenely lies. 
 
 ii 
 
 The hills of Haworth I may never see; 
 And should I wander there, in coming years, 
 My loving heart would seek, with fruitless tears, 
 For her whose life hath sanctified the place, 
 And made its moorland holy ground to me. 
 In vain I long to gaze upon her face, 
 
To clasp her hand in mine, and tell the fame 
 That we have learned to couple with her name. 
 She sleeps in peace; but many an age shall hear 
 The story of her genius, and revere 
 The soul of might, born ever to aspire, 
 Yet ever curbed at duty's stern desire; 
 The pulsing heart, whose eager hope and fear 
 Have left their throbbings writ in words of fire. 
 
 63 
 
ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT 
 
 All through the night, 
 Dear Father, when bur trembling eyes explore 
 
 In vain Thy heavens, bereft of warmth and light, 
 When birds are mute, and roses glow no more, 
 And this fair world sinks rayless from our sight, 
 Oh, Father, keep us then! 
 
 All through the night, 
 When no lips smile, nor dear eyes answer ours, 
 
 Nor well-known voices through the shadows come; 
 When love and friends seem dreams of vanished hours, 
 And darkness holds us pitiless and dumb, 
 Oh, Father, keep us then! 
 
 All through the night, 
 When lone despairs beset our happy hearts, 
 
 And drear forebodings will not let us sleep; 
 When every smothered sorrow freshly starts, 
 And pleads for pity till we fain would weep, 
 Oh, Father, keep us then! 
 64 
 
All through the night, 
 When slumbers deep our weary senses fold, 
 
 Protect us in the hollow of Thy hand ! 
 And when the morn, with glances bright and bold, 
 Thrills the glad heavens and wakes the smiling land, 
 Oh, Father, keep us then! 
 
 65 
 
OVER THE WAY 
 
 It is Nannie who sits by the drawing-room casement, 
 
 For a fine little lady is she; 
 And she sees not the cook's happy child in the base- 
 ment, 
 
 As she smiles from her window to me. 
 
 Well-a-day, lady mine, with the bows at your shoulder, 
 And the silken snood tied in your hair, 
 
 Have you felt all the woes of the hearts that are older, 
 That you pout ruby lips in despair? 
 
 I query if two sparkling eyes could look sadder, 
 
 Gazing wistfully over the trees; 
 Did I know where to find me a fairy's tall ladder, 
 
 I would fetch the new moon that she sees. 
 
 For plainly she sighs for the lights in the heaven, 
 
 Growing weary of trinkets and toys; 
 It is early to learn, pretty maiden of seven, 
 
 That the world has no permanent joys ! 
 
 Soon she drops the slow curtain, unheeding my glances; 
 
 But still, at the window below, 
 A child sits alone, spinning merriest fancies, 
 
 With her fresh little face all aglow. 
 66 
 
She tosses her curls in a wildering pleasure, 
 
 As she carols some rollicking strain; 
 Though I hear not a word, I can guess the brave 
 measure 
 
 From the tap of her hand on the pane. 
 
 Now she beats a last trill, dancing off like a feather, 
 
 And I smile a Good night, as she flies; 
 Blessed dreams, happy heart, and the finest of weather 
 
 At morn, in your radiant skies! 
 
 Your sleep shall be sweet, and your days shall be sunny, 
 
 Wherever your life may be spent; 
 For you hold what is better than jewels or money, 
 
 The treasure of priceless content ! 
 
 67 
 
SONNET 
 
 Hist, howling winds, and leave me to my dreams ! 
 
 Ye snowflakes, dropping through the sunless hours, 
 
 Full deep enough are buried summer flowers 
 To stay in cloudy heights your crystal streams ! 
 Yet dreams, — what are they? Cheats and triflers 
 all, 
 
 That flee to leave our fates more grim and bare; 
 Better at once to break their witching thrall, 
 
 And face out life with dull, defiant stare. 
 
 Then drift, deep snows, across the greensward there! 
 Smooth from my sight the footprints that recall 
 The friend whose coming filled the air with song ! 
 
 No more my soul shall court a hopeless past; 
 Dear God of pity, hast Thou floods so strong 
 
 To drown remembrance, pour them full and fast ! 
 
 68 
 
FALLING LEAVES 
 
 All night, through the windy darkness 
 
 And gusts of the chilly rain, 
 The shivering leaves come tapping 
 
 So light at my window-pane. 
 
 All day, through the clear, cool sunlight, 
 Where yellowing elms turn brown, 
 
 In many a golden shower 
 
 Their wavering flakes sail down. 
 
 From hills where the sun-steeped woodlands 
 Are strained by the lashing gale 
 
 They pour over frozen meadows, 
 Like radiant storms of hail. 
 
 In ruts of the sodden highways 
 
 At lull of the winds they fall; 
 They lodge in the barberry bushes, 
 
 They drift by the pasture- wall. 
 
 Down paths of deserted graveyards 
 
 They eddy and spin and glide; 
 On coves of the land-locked waters 
 
 Their anchorless shallops ride. 
 69 
 
Alone on the shaven upland 
 I climb till the world is wide, 
 
 And mark how the wailing forests 
 Resound like a surging tide. 
 
 Poor trees, we may grieve together 
 That Summer, the queen, is dead ! 
 
 No years can repeat the splendor 
 She poured on a fair young head. 
 
 No suns, in the pomp of morning, 
 Will kindle the skies like these; 
 
 No moons, with so soft a glory, 
 Shall traverse the pulsing seas. 
 
 Then mourn for the fallen treasures 
 That June will restore to you ! 
 
 I sigh, in my bosom crushing 
 
 Sweet dreams that no Springs renew. 
 
 70 
 
IN RUINS 
 
 All through the summer's rosy light 
 
 I built my castle fine; 
 And not a soul should dwell therein 
 
 Save only mine and thine, 
 My Love, 
 
 In loneliness divine ! 
 
 No cost of make, nor wealth of hue 
 I spared from base to dome; 
 
 Where lordly monarchs choose to bide 
 They rear a kingly home; 
 
 And so 
 This rose like silver foam. 
 
 Stand here upon the sunlit plain, 
 And see how fair it shines! 
 
 Untaught, I reared its airy towers 
 And shaped its perfect lines; 
 
 For love 
 All excellence divines. 
 
 But, while I gaze, a dusky film 
 
 Across its splendor falls; 
 My purples and my gold are dim; — 
 71 
 
What ails the reeling walls? 
 
 What doom 
 Sends terror through its halls? 
 
 The keen air sweeps adown the hill : 
 
 Give me a hand to hold ! 
 I shiver in these breezes chill 
 
 That grows so fierce and bold; 
 Yet hearts 
 
 May laugh at winter's cold. 
 
 That hand of thine, so fair and strong, 
 I thought could clasp me warm; 
 
 It melts within my burning grasp 
 Like touch of ghostly form; 
 
 I hear 
 No heart-beat through the storm. 
 
 Great winds from out the heavens leap; 
 
 No castle-dome appears; 
 Rain dashes on mine upturned face, 
 
 To quench the hope of years: 
 Pour, floods! 
 
 Yet faster flow my tears. 
 
 72 
 
TO MY BIRD IN THE SOUTH 
 
 Come back to me, Robin! the days are so long, 
 
 The nights are so silent and drear! 
 There is never a note like your rapturous song 
 
 In all the wide heavens to hear! 
 
 Oh the rare, sunny mornings, the warm, dewy eves, 
 
 The perfume from gardens of bloom! 
 And high from his bower of tremulous leaves 
 
 My bird's last Good night through the gloom! 
 
 Now blows the dry snow from the drift's wavy peak, 
 
 And fields glitter cold to the moon; 
 In gusts of the night-wind the icy boughs creak 
 
 And moan out a dolorous tune. 
 
 But when the red clovers stand thick in the grass, 
 
 And rose-buds are bursting again, 
 When musical flocks over meadow-lands pass, 
 
 Oh where will my robin be then? 
 
 Pouring wildly at casements, where strangers look 
 through, 
 The notes that once ravished mine ear, 
 And eagerly wooing, as all robins do, 
 New lovers for every new year. 
 73 
 
So sing, pretty warbler, and praise whom you may! 
 
 Only haste with the spring to my tree, 
 And trill me a measure! for long is the day 
 
 Since Robin came singing to me. 
 
 These skies must grow warm ere your greeting be heard, 
 These winds flutter soft to your breast; 
 
 But a heart throbs for you in the north, little bird, 
 While tempests are rocking your nest! 
 
 74 
 
MY JOSIE 
 
 My Josie is a sonsy lass, 
 
 Dressed so fine, so trim, so bonny; 
 The lads all turn to see her pass, 
 
 But she'll not smile to ony. 
 
 How light she lifts her dainty feet, 
 Shaped so fair, and shod so neatly! 
 
 No lady in the Upper Street 
 Can tread a jig so featly. 
 
 Her little hands are silky-fine, 
 
 Soft to hold, and free from soiling; 
 
 They seem a bairn's beside of mine 
 That are but fit for toiling. 
 
 Before my door, where shines the sun, 
 There I sit and mind my spinning; 
 
 At fall of dew my work is done, 
 At daybreak just beginning. 
 
 Yet none can say my house within 
 Fares the worse for other labors; 
 
 No table-top or gleaming tin 
 
 But shames my chatting neighbors. 
 75 
 
The floor is kept, for Josie's feet, 
 Clean and fresh as fields of clover; 
 
 A door-sill cannot be too neat 
 Where floats her skirt-hem over. 
 
 All hearts, they say, grow daft with years, 
 Most of all a foolish mother's; 
 
 Yet I must think my lass appears 
 As winsome unto others. 
 
 She looked within her cradle mean 
 Proudly born to silks and laces; 
 
 I watched my bairn and dreamed a queen 
 And she had shifted places. 
 
 What though she sails the street at noon, 
 Idle while the bees are humming; 
 
 Her days of toil will haste full soon; 
 No need to speed their coming! 
 
 These honest hands are both my own; 
 
 They shall keep my lassie's tender. 
 When called to leave her here alone 
 
 Kind Heaven will sure befriend her! 
 
 A poor old body such as I 
 
 Needs to save with care unsparing; 
 Yet still at fairs my earnings buy 
 
 Brave trinkets for her wearing; — 
 76 
 
Gay ribbons for her pretty throat, 
 Silken sashes, muslin posies, 
 
 And all the things my eyes can note 
 On shapes as fine as Josie's. 
 
 And thus I toil that she may shirk, 
 Lightsome songs her days beguiling; 
 
 'Tis easy for old hands to work, 
 When young lips do the smiling. 
 
 Then faster whirl, O tardy wheel! 
 
 Stay, O sun, your steep declining! 
 This slender yarn must fill the reel 
 
 Before you cease your shining! 
 
 77 
 
THE MID-DAY MOON 
 
 O shadowy moon, with your great hollow eyes 
 Wide-staring at noonday down over the plain, 
 
 What grief can you know in your vacant, blue skies 
 To wear such a semblance of pain? 
 
 Are you sad at beholding our swervings from truth, 
 Fond loves unrequited, and hearts growing cold? 
 
 Or, sadder than all, the brave dreams of our youth 
 Still haunting us when we are old? 
 
 Alone must you traverse the desolate skies; 
 
 But happy the lot where you strive not in vain 
 To reach the warm grasp of a hand that still lies 
 
 Too near, yet too distant to gain! 
 
 Far aloof, on the sun's glowing pathway, you seem 
 Stealing ghostly and wan, like a phantom of light; 
 
 The while, under waves of mid-ocean, we deem 
 You freshen the glories of night. 
 
 Ah, rather, when gloom wraps the verdurous ground, 
 Enshrouding dim gardens, and bloom-laden trees, 
 
 Over low eastern woods swing up lustrous and round, 
 Flooding hillside and glimmering seas ! 
 78 
 
Sail high over alleys where young lovers walk, 
 And brighten the earth to their rapturous view! 
 
 Then silver the boughs where the little birds talk 
 Under leaves, snug and warm from the dew! 
 
 The noon's golden splendor no shadow allows; 
 
 You have your light sorrows, and I may have mine; 
 But turn to the world only radiant brows 
 
 And eyes that with merriment shine! 
 
 79 
 
EARLY AUTUMN 
 
 A yellow elm-leaf flutters on my gown 
 
 From boughs that swing above me full and green. 
 
 Long by the tangled hedges have I seen 
 The asters, purple-pale; and starry crown 
 Of clematis o'er alders weighing down; 
 
 With spikes of golden-rod astir between. 
 
 Bright-winged, the butterflies still haunt the scene, 
 And bees in honeyed bells their murmurs drown; 
 Through hazy heavens the fervid suns delay; 
 And who could dream midsummer glories lost, 
 When autumn's breath such blossoming allows? 
 O faded leaf, first herald of decay, 
 You wake me, prophesying gloom and frost, 
 And sharp airs whistling through the naked boughs! 
 
 Too soon ye vanish, wondrous summer days ! 
 
 Scarce have your roses dropped, your songsters flown; 
 
 And still o'er rain-fed grasses, freshly grown, 
 An airy net of shadow lifts and plays. 
 Unsated with your joys, my fancy strays 
 
 To sunny plots, where hollyhocks full-blown 
 
 Uprear gay minarets by alleys lone, 
 And kingly sunflowers spread their golden rays: 
 
 80 
 
Dark pansies, velvet-lipped, show myriad eyes; 
 And high on rocking stems bright tulips sway, 
 And poppies toss, aflame with fringes fine. 
 Fain would I see, ere this glad season flies, 
 That dear old garden, many miles away, 
 And eyes that make a summer where they shine! 
 
 81 
 
LATE AUTUMN 
 
 How slowly, through dallying hours, 
 Is nature maturing her blight ! 
 
 'Twere better to find the glad summer 
 Transformed in the space of a night: 
 
 On verdure and odorous blossoms 
 To shut drowsy eyes till the dawn, 
 
 And wake to the crystalline splendor 
 And hush of a midwinter morn; 
 
 To find the birds flown from the heavens, 
 The forests all shorn at a blow; 
 
 Ice chilling the hearts of the roses, 
 And butterflies smothered in snow! 
 
 Ah, rather than bear the slow torture 
 Of watching brave visions depart, 
 
 I sigh for a frost that shall curdle 
 The tides of a passionate heart! 
 
 82 
 
HER HOME 
 
 Low she lies, where not a murmur 
 
 Stirs the dreaming air with sound; 
 Save when heavy pine-boughs trailing 
 Make a soft, continuous wailing, 
 As they sweep the ground. 
 
 Scanty gleams and drops of sunshine 
 
 Through the shadows float and play, 
 Where in peacefulness she slumbers, 
 Counting not the weary numbers 
 That make up the day. 
 
 Ghostly whispers from the pine-trees 
 In the moonlight still; — on high, 
 All the night, the lone stars keeping 
 Solemn watch while she is sleeping 
 'Neath the midnight sky. 
 
 On a golden day in autumn 
 
 Sought I first her place of rest; 
 Round me gentle winds were stealing, 
 Tender as the pensive feeling 
 Stirring in my breast. 
 83 
 
Loving hands were there before me 
 Twining garlands o'er the tomb, 
 
 Amaranth and myrtle braided; 
 
 But they now hang loose and faded; 
 Spring has fresher bloom. 
 
 Where the little maids are trooping 
 
 After May-buds in the wood 
 Let me pluck with them the flowers, 
 Dewy-fresh and wet with showers, 
 From the solitude. 
 
 Whilst they tie them into clusters, 
 
 Sprinkling lightsome laugh between, 
 I am wearing sombre fancies, 
 Like unseen, dark-throated pansies, 
 With my sunny green. 
 
 To a wreath for her I bind them, 
 
 Sitting in the shade apart; 
 While my heart among them lingers 
 Slowly move my trembling fingers, 
 Timing with my heart. 
 
 Softly, in the mellow twilight, 
 
 We will hang it o'er her head; 
 Flowers fresh we'll strew above her, 
 Wet with tears of those who love her, 
 Sorrowing for the dead. 
 84 
 
MISTRESS MARY 
 
 Now you think you know me, do you? 
 
 Pretty charmer, looking wise ! 
 Well, it may be; but I warn you 
 
 Trust not those deluded eyes! 
 We shall see their merry sparkle 
 
 Fading into blank surprise. 
 
 When with smothered sighs I languish, 
 Chill as icebergs, pale as snow, 
 
 Then you say, Some bitter anguish 
 Finds in this its overflow! 
 
 Never will you guess the rapture 
 Brooding in my heart below! 
 
 When unending song and laughter 
 Make the hours swiftly glide, 
 
 You will smile to think thereafter 
 Such delights with me abide; 
 
 Ah! dear child, may nothing teach you, 
 What despairs the heart can hide! 
 85 
 
Now you think you read me, do you? 
 
 All by opposites made clear; 
 Have a care! for since I knew you 
 
 I have fits when I'm sincere; 
 As when now I beg you, darling, 
 
 Sit up closer! — there's a dear! 
 
 86 
 
VANITY FAIR 
 
 AT A SUFFRAGE-BAZAAR, IN THE 
 MUSIC HALL, BOSTON 
 
 Clustered banners round the walls 
 Lift their flaming folds on high, 
 
 Where, beneath, in silken halls, 
 Little maids in ambush he. 
 
 Gay pagodas filled with flowers, 
 Pennons floating overhead; — 
 
 Art and nature deck the bowers 
 Where their shining nets are spread. 
 
 Grand Beethoven's dreams are o'er, 
 While the merry throng is nigh: 
 
 Proud Apollo hears no more 
 
 Arrows hurtling through the sky; 
 
 For, encamped beneath their feet, 
 Gypsy girls in pretty booths 
 
 Sit and fleece, with chatter sweet, 
 Troops of glad, bewildered youths. 
 87 
 
Crimps and curls and ribbons fine, 
 Jaunty cap and gay cockades, 
 
 Marshalled thus in gleaming line, 
 Smile these captivating maids. 
 
 Trust them not, they're full of guile! 
 
 In their bright, enticing eyes 
 Mischief lurks, and every smile 
 
 Is a danger in disguise. 
 
 Sirens are they; while you hear 
 
 All their winning voices tell, 
 Dimes and dollars disappear: 
 
 Even hearts obey their spell. 
 
 Would you fatal wreck escape, 
 
 Shun such dazzling coasts as these! 
 
 Sight the stars and clear the cape, 
 Cruising to the open seas ! 
 
 There, beneath the polar star, 
 
 Praying to the Powers divine, 
 Glance not back, to see afar, 
 
 Through the mist, their splendors shine! 
 
 Ah! wise heart, advice is vain! 
 
 Youth and Love will have their way; 
 Since they win what Truth would gain, 
 
 Leave them to their pretty play! 
 88 
 
RENUNCIATION 
 
 Singing, I wove my garland well, 
 
 Nor brushed the dew from leaf or spray; 
 
 But, while I wove, the petals fell, 
 And shattered all their beauty lay. 
 
 These fade, I said, they have no root! 
 
 And straightway planted me a bower; 
 I watched its lusty branches shoot 
 
 And twine and tangle, hour by hour. 
 
 "Now here, at length, is my content; 
 
 These buds shall blossom evermore;" 
 And bending low my head, I went 
 
 To enter through the breezy door: 
 
 But coiled upon a mossy bed, 
 There, in the bower of my desire, 
 
 A serpent reared his angry head, 
 With hissing tongue and eyes of fire. 
 
 From nature driven, I sought a room 
 With rosy splendors warmly lined; 
 
 Its flood of light dispelled the gloom, 
 And music drowned the plaintive wind. 
 89 
 
"Now here I drink to Love and Fame!" 
 And gayly swung my beaker high; 
 
 But Sorrow! and An empty name! 
 Came echoed sadly in reply. 
 
 Have done, mistaken soul! I cried, 
 
 Nor plead, when fortune says thee nay ! 
 
 Go ! welcome whatsoe'er betide, 
 
 And where fate threatens, lead the way! 
 
 Then out upon a desert bleak, 
 
 With trackless sands and wind-swept skies, 
 I wandered, desolate and weak, 
 
 Renouncing Hope's enticing lies. 
 
 But when the sunset flushed across 
 Long, level wastes of sullen lands, 
 
 An angel bent, to soothe my loss, 
 
 And clasped my palms in loving hands. 
 
 We dwell together, since she came — 
 We two, upon that lonely shore; 
 
 And I have learned to bless her name — 
 A name so terrible of yore. 
 
 Yet sometimes, when the soft winds blow, 
 
 I weary of her saintly eyes, 
 And crave the past, and dread to grow, 
 
 From all her teachings, old and wise! 
 90 
 
TO A VENERABLE TEACHER 
 
 The victor's brows, in haughty triumph, wear 
 
 Full, rustling bays, which mortal fingers twine 
 
 For valor's quick reward: but fairer shine 
 The laurels growing in that upper air 
 Where none may wander free, and none may tear 
 
 One leaf for guerdon till the gods design. 
 
 Not every soul shall hear their call divine: 
 They beckon whom they will to enter there, 
 
 Through death's dread portal, from the life below. 
 And he alone is crowned with joy at last 
 
 Who lived for others, seeking no renown. 
 Long may thy laurels ripen, ere thou go, 
 
 Wise teacher of the generations past, 
 To pluck from them thine own appointed crown ! 
 
 And when at length, in that far altitude 
 
 Earth's echoes reach thee from remembered days, 
 In one full chorus shall ascend the praise 
 Of glad hearts, conscious that whate'er of good 
 And brave endeavor blessed their eager youth, 
 Whate'er of steady vision cleared their gaze, 
 91 
 
Came from thy guidance, when, through doubtful 
 ways, 
 Thy voice was wisdom, and thy counsel truth. 
 
 And sweet as words all broken on the gale 
 From lips of friends, in final parting sent, 
 
 While we sail out forever from their shore; 
 So sweet, to thee, in that embowered vale 
 
 Where thou shalt dwell, in endless, calm content, 
 Will float these echoes from the friends of yore ! 
 
ON LEAVING THE VILLA BELVIDERE 
 
 AT CASTELLAMARE, ITALY, 
 
 AFTER A LONG STAY 
 
 You ask the charm of Castellamare; 
 
 Yet seek where fairer mountains rise! 
 Where, under heavens deep and starry, 
 
 So fierce a splendor shames the skies, 
 As that which pales both moon and star, 
 When red Vesuvius flames afar! 
 
 Go seek where bluer violets grow, 
 Clustered beneath the tufted pines ! 
 
 Where richer sunsets melt and glow 
 Along the snow-clad Apennines ! 
 
 Or where the clouds so lightly sweep 
 
 Their misty fringes o'er the steep! 
 
 What roads so fair can lead us down 
 To sister-cities famed of yore, — 
 
 To near Pompeii's silent town, 
 Or bright Sorrento's sunny shore? 
 
 What pathways bathed in softer lights 
 
 Can lure our feet to braver heights? 
 
Shelved under Quisisana's palace, 
 Set proudly on its mountain-wall, 
 
 Above the bay-encircling valleys, 
 With dark Vesuvius crowning all, 
 
 There, shining on its upland crest, 
 
 Our villa fronts the glowing west. 
 
 The ghost that walks its moonlit terrace 
 Must pause to view the sleeping scene, — 
 
 The ruined tower, beloved of fairies, 
 
 The anchored ships, the vineyards green; 
 
 Then stoop to hail, in whispers slow, 
 
 The Stabian ghosts that wait below. 
 
 No charms can hold us, Belvidere, 
 
 Forever in thy happy home! 
 I leave thy converse, bright and merry 
 
 To view the grander scenes of Rome: 
 Yet, leaving thee, I leave behind 
 Sweet leisure and a quiet mind! 
 
 March, 1884. 
 
 94 
 
AN ANSWER 
 
 TO R. E. B. 
 
 Thou leanest on a broken reed, 
 
 heart, that askest aid of mine! 
 The soul that faints from utter need 
 
 Can have no strength to succor thine! 
 
 Is fate to thee so strangely kind, 
 So rich in sympathies sincere, 
 
 That thus thou flingest to the wind 
 The loyal souls that held thee dear? 
 
 Well, be it so, since thou hast willed! 
 
 And time, lone time that is to be 
 And dreary distance, — these shall build 
 
 A wall of stone twixt thee and me! 
 
 And, late or soon, atoning years 
 Shall brim thy life with love divine ! 
 
 And I, — no matter; some few tears 
 Are good for hearts as hard as mine. 
 
 But when my days seem nearly through, 
 
 And all their struggles far and faint, 
 And culled from out my treasures few 
 
 1 take thy dear, melodious plaint; 
 
 95 
 
Friends, knowing naught, will look surprise, 
 And I, perchance, shall marvel more, 
 
 At hot tears raining from my eyes, 
 As when I read it first, of yore. 
 
 For then, as now, forever true 
 
 To words once heard with bated breath, 
 In fancy shall my heart renew 
 
 A friendship plighted unto death! 
 
 96 
 
REMEMBRANCE 
 
 I know a dear place where my heart longs to be, 
 When summer returns, with her halcyon weather; 
 
 I know a dear face it were rapture to see; 
 
 And both I should find in the northland together. 
 
 Winds blow from the east, and they blow from the 
 west, 
 
 But none of them brings me a favoring breeze: 
 So I turn my light barque from the land that is best, 
 
 And sail far away on the limitless seas. 
 
 Full stately and fair are the ships that I greet, 
 And kind the bluff voices that answer me well; 
 
 But I walk, in my dreams, where the meadows are 
 sweet, 
 And listen to hear what no mariners tell. 
 
 O place, never change while I wander and stay! 
 
 O face, never lose the dear look that I prize ! 
 Let me find, when I come, on some happier day, 
 
 The same blooming meadows and welcoming eyes ! 
 
 97 
 
THE BIRDS AND I 
 
 I strolled within the greenwood 
 
 To sigh my grief away; 
 But all the birds upon the trees 
 
 Kept up a roundelay; 
 How could I choose but listen then 
 
 To hear what they should say? 
 
 Their bosoms throbbed for gladness; 
 
 And ere their songs were through 
 The sprays were rocking to their feet, 
 
 As if a storm-gust blew; 
 And when they shook their music out, 
 
 Down rained the drops of dew. 
 
 An apple-tree in blossom 
 
 Blushed through an open glade; 
 
 A bobolink was tilting there; 
 And such a noise he made 
 
 The little woodbirds held their peace, 
 Half crazed and half afraid. 
 
 Then pealed a blackbird's carol, 
 
 As on a bush he swung; 
 His bliss he told, his notes outrolled, 
 98 
 
Till all the meadows rung; 
 And still he moved his trembling wings, 
 Half-flying as he sung. 
 
 So bold a little sparrow 
 
 Came tripping to my side ! 
 So quick he wiped his tiny bill, 
 
 And oped his eyes so wide! 
 Then stayed to chirp the sweetest note 
 
 That ever sparrow tried! 
 
 Aloft the busy swallows 
 
 Sailed singing from the west; 
 
 A robin tweeted to himself, 
 The while he built his nest; 
 
 And e'en the crows that cawed afar 
 Made music with the rest. 
 
 My heart it seemed so wicked 
 
 To sigh on such a day! 
 But still it ached and pained me sore, 
 
 Though all the earth was gay; 
 Oh then I wished I were a bird, 
 
 To sing my grief away! 
 
 99 
 
WITHOUT AND WITHIN 
 
 I walked ankle-deep in the new-fallen snow, 
 
 And stood in amaze on the wold, 
 To hear how a bird from a desolate bough 
 
 Was singing, in spite of the cold : 
 Little thought of the wind or the weather had he, 
 For it seemed that his bosom was bursting with glee. 
 
 No midsummer carol was ever so sweet, 
 
 With swells and with jubilant closes; 
 I thought, while he sung, there was grass at my feet 
 
 And the hedges were crimson with roses; 
 When I had but to turn from my wonder to see 
 White gusts of the tempest sweep over the lea. 
 
 The faster the wind whirled the eddying snow 
 The louder he sang through the storm; 
 
 No touch of the shivering blast did he know, 
 For his rapture was keeping him warm. 
 
 O brave little bird on the desolate tree, 
 
 Did you know that my heart sang a paean with thee? 
 
 100 
 
A LESSON FROM THE STARS 
 
 Annie, walking in the meadow, 
 Asked me, in her childish way, 
 
 What the silver stars were doing, 
 All the live-long day. 
 
 Thoughtfully I made her answer — 
 Little Annie, maiden mine, 
 
 Starlights know no rest from duty; 
 Day and night they shine! 
 
 'Tis not theirs to mark the sunlight, 
 Sweeping gayly through the skies; 
 
 Steadily, in depths of azure, 
 Burn their restless eyes! 
 
 Come and learn a lesson, Annie; — 
 Still to keep your course the same 
 
 In the path that God hath given, 
 Heeding praise nor blame ! 
 
 Conscious that One Eye is watching, 
 Seek from man no swift reward ! 
 
 Satisfied with acting nobly, 
 Leave the rest to God! 
 101 
 
IN THE GRAVE 
 
 The merry month of spring has come, 
 
 Art thou not glad, my Love? 
 Dost feel the timid wind-flower quiver? 
 Dost hear the plashing of the river? 
 
 Dost know May reigns above? 
 
 The skies are full of singing birds; 
 
 I come to seek thee, Love! 
 The grasses stir at my soft tread; 
 Thou'lt feel them thrilling overhead, 
 
 And know I wait above. 
 
 Then hasten forth! thine eyes are blue 
 
 And clearer than the day; 
 The grave suits not a queenly maiden, 
 With cheek aglow and heart love-laden; 
 
 Come out and greet the May! 
 
 Leave hoary hairs to mix with dust! 
 
 Join thou our world above! 
 Spring flowers bloom fast in sunny weather; 
 We'll have a merry time together; 
 
 Why tarry there, my Love? 
 
 102 
 
A WOMAN'S LOVE 
 
 All day I dream — If my Beloved come, 
 These burning eyes their sweet despair must tell, 
 And flash their meaning, though my lips be dumb, 
 I love my Love so well! 
 
 All night I wish the happy morn were near, 
 That I might ease this heart's tumultuous swell, 
 And own the secret that he longs to hear; 
 I love my Love so well ! 
 
 By night, by day, whether I wake or dream, 
 This one fond thought maintains its tyrant spell; 
 All sights and sounds but empty shadows seem; 
 I love my Love so well ! 
 
 Brave in the light, at length he passes by, 
 Smiling to greet me; but my looks rebel; 
 In vain I chide my glances; they deny 
 I love my Love so well. 
 
 Where joy sat beaming, angry flashes rise, 
 
 And hate looks out, where tender yearnings dwell; 
 
 Sharp scorn leaps boldly into cruel eyes 
 
 That love their Love so well. 
 103 
 
Perchance his soul shall gladden when he hears, 
 In after-time, some flippant charmer tell 
 Her shallow passion; while, unguessed for years, 
 I love my Love so well. 
 
 O coward heart, once treacherous and weak, 
 Be strong and proud to bear thy later fate! 
 When his heart fails thee, see thou dost not speak 
 Thy lone despair too late! 
 
 104 
 
CHLORIS 
 
 You will not smile; though all the while, 
 With many a playful art and wile, 
 I seek your glances to beguile. 
 An air-blown kiss my fingers throw 
 Straight to your window; bending low 
 You watch your needle come and go. 
 
 I lift a rose, so silky-cold, 
 
 With petals curving, fold on fold, 
 
 To hide its heart of threaded gold, 
 
 And touch your cheek; you will not turn, 
 
 But all my fond allurements spurn: 
 
 Though deeper still your blushes burn. 
 
 Then, when no answering look I gain, 
 
 Unsolaced for my bosom's pain, 
 
 I trill a parting love-refrain, 
 
 And cease to wing such shafts as these; 
 
 Since, sitting in your bower of ease, 
 
 You flout my every wish to please. 
 
 The years will pass; and you will say, 
 Hereafter, on some empty day, 
 When youth's bright charms have flown away,- 
 105 
 
Oh could those hours return once more, 
 When Colin, idling at my door, 
 Seemed love's sweet favors to implore! 
 
 I shall not pluck the roses then; 
 But sitting in the haunts of men, 
 With secrets hid beyond their ken, 
 And hope's vain longings colder grown, 
 My curling lips shall lightly own 
 That man lives happiest alone. 
 
 They will not see, you will not know 
 How, later, when the heavens glow 
 With stars, abroad I saunter slow; 
 And voicing then my lone despair, 
 Unheard, upon the evening air, 
 I breathe for you my fondest prayer ! 
 
 106 
 
SONNET 
 
 Dearest, when through the paths of life I move, 
 
 And note the ways of men, and hear expressed 
 The aims that tower their little lives above, 
 
 Life seems to me so weakly false at best 
 I'd gladly throw it by, could I but prove 
 
 My soul to pass into a dreamless rest. 
 But when thou homeward bring'st thy deep, strong 
 love, 
 
 Like royal gift, to make my being blest, 
 And show'st how pure a nature, like a dove, 
 
 Doth deeply dwell within thy troubled breast, 
 Then know I, men are nobler than they seem; 
 
 That tender hearts lie underneath the strife, 
 And only need the touch of love's warm beam 
 
 To stir their pulses into joyous life. 
 
 107 
 
IDLE NAN 
 
 Heigh-ho! Summer days are so pleasant and long! 
 
 But no one is idle like me; 
 Where I lie in the grass I can see a whole throng 
 
 Of ants toiling under the tree; 
 And swift through the sky the fleet birds hurry by, 
 
 And the clouds sail out over the sea. 
 
 With wings all awhirr, at the tall hollyhocks 
 Bright humming-birds dart to and fro; 
 
 In her plain suit of black, over trim garden-walks, 
 The cricket makes off, down below; 
 
 For little she heeds that in full mourning weeds 
 She should never a-visiting go. 
 
 The butterfly shows me her gay satin cloak 
 
 Every day, when the weather is fair; 
 With spots and deep bordering trimmed to the yoke, 
 
 As fine as a princess could wear; 
 But for all she is dressed in her holiday-best, 
 
 She finds not a minute to spare. 
 
 She may lift her light wings for a second or more, 
 
 When a thistle is spread in her way, 
 To daintily step o'er its wide, purple floor, — 
 108 
 
But, whisk! she is up from her play, 
 As if she knew^well that the faster she flew 
 The more she could do in a day. 
 
 Over there by the wall goes a big, burly bee, 
 Into trumpets of bloom treading down, 
 
 Till his black velvet breeches are dust to the knee, 
 And he reels like a tipsy young clown; 
 
 While the whole blossom shakes with the pother he 
 makes, 
 As though he were storming a town. 
 
 I wish, when all other small folks are abed, 
 
 And he lingers so late in the bowers, 
 Some gay morning-glory would twist o'er his head, 
 
 Where he drains the last cup of the flowers, 
 And hold him all night, just to give him a fright, 
 
 And teach him to keep early hours. 
 
 Heigh-ho! Summer days are so terribly long! 
 
 I wonder when this will be through! 
 The bobolinks long ago finished their song, 
 
 And the four-o'clocks open anew. 
 If life be like this I shall weary of bliss, 
 
 And wish I had something to do. 
 
 109 
 
CASTANETS 
 
 Where a fountain's pearly shiver 
 Cools a garden-court, I lie; 
 
 And my soul to dreams deliver, 
 Gazing off with drowsy eye. 
 
 Scarcely yet a damsel heeding, 
 Dancing forth in silken robes; 
 
 O'er the checkered pavement speeding, 
 Light as down from thistle-globes. 
 
 Clear above the water's plashing 
 Strike her foot-falls on the ground; 
 
 To and fro her white arms, flashing, 
 Fling on high a rhythmic sound. 
 
 Truce to dreams and idle napping, 
 When she nears the f ountain-jets ! 
 
 O'er her head so wildly clapping 
 Castanets, her castanets. 
 
 All her garment's shifting fringes 
 Slant and shudder, swaying free; 
 
 Clinging, where her skirt impinges 
 Sharp across her flying knee. 
 110 
 
Wrapt her eye in heedful trances, 
 Shaping every bend aright; 
 
 Guiding well the soft advances, 
 Languishing, as lovers might. 
 
 Gliding, floating, downward sweeping, 
 Poised aloft on arching toes, 
 
 Melody with motion keeping, 
 O'er the marble floor she goes. 
 
 Faster beat her throbbing ringers, 
 Faster spin her twinkling feet; 
 
 Held in air the vision lingers 
 When her mazy whirls retreat. 
 
 Vain your lures, your wily dances ! 
 
 Spanish eyes are not for me! 
 Since my true-love's modest glances 
 
 Hold a charm unknown to thee! 
 
 Ill 
 
THE PRINCESS 
 
 He spake no word, though oft I heard 
 
 From other lips impassioned vows; 
 He sang no ballads in my praise; 
 They charmed me all the summer days; 
 
 Yet wintertide 
 Found each home-sheltered with a bride. 
 
 While he, dear heart, stood there apart, 
 
 And turned away adoring looks; 
 When dark-browed suitors swore with tears 
 I heard their plea with pitying ears; 
 
 But eyes of blue 
 Had pledged me vows more deep and true. 
 
 Lovers have flown; and all unknown 
 Is that far region where he stays; 
 Yet this assurance fills my breast, 
 That soon, from out the glowing west, 
 
 My Love shall turn, 
 With lips that speak, when glances burn. 
 
 112 
 
BY RIGHT DIVINE 
 
 I sing of a king 
 Who never yet sat on a throne. 
 
 Who claims no proud line 
 
 For his clear right divine, 
 But rules by a grace of his own. 
 
 The fame of his name 
 Never rang through a court or a camp; 
 
 No neighboring realm 
 
 Do his arms overwhelm, 
 No coins bear his sovereign stamp. 
 
 But few ever drew 
 Such homage and worship as he; 
 
 Yet no servile crowd waits 
 
 At his wide palace-gates, 
 And he sees not a suppliant knee. 
 
 I sing of a king, 
 Though boasting no honors like these; 
 
 Though no heralds proclaim 
 
 Peace or war in his name, 
 And no ships bear his flag on the seas. 
 113 
 
Such state in his gait 
 
 That scarce would you wonder to hear 
 Pealing guns rend the air, 
 And blown trumpets declare 
 
 That an emperor slowly drew near! 
 
 There lies in his eyes 
 So gracious and tender a light! 
 
 Whether gray, black, or blue 
 
 Means but little to you, 
 Since you never will read them aright. 
 
 Alone on his throne 
 
 Would a king ever hunger for love? 
 When it suits him, I ween, 
 Will he choose him a queen, 
 
 And crown her all women above. 
 
 'Tis plain his domain 
 
 Is no province, nor isle of the sea: 
 To tell I'm not bound 
 Where his kingdom is found, 
 
 And no one can know it but me! 
 
 114 
 
MICKIE BROWN 
 
 What roguish little maid are you, 
 
 With fun and laughter brimming over? 
 
 Who stole your eyes from Heaven's blue, 
 And gave you breath of scented clover? 
 
 You may be sprite or soulless elf; 
 
 You surely were not meant for human; 
 This dimpled bit you call yourself 
 
 Can never spoil into a woman. 
 
 You shake at me your mimic fists, 
 
 And arch your brows in pretty scorning; 
 
 Did you learn motion of the mists 
 
 That floated o'er the hills this morning? 
 
 Your feet are soaked with early dews, 
 Your hair is filled with seeds and grasses; 
 
 The little folk should give you shoes, 
 If they will drop you in morasses! 
 
 Come, let me smooth that tangled curl, 
 And stroke your cheek so Ml and downy! 
 
 In vain you call yourself a girl; 
 I know you for a little Brownie ! 
 115 
 
PRINCE JAMIE 
 
 Ah, Jamie, you are brave and true! 
 
 And if I were a queen 
 No prouder little prince than you 
 
 Should in my realms be seen: 
 I'd give you half my gems and gold, 
 And lands and titles manifold. 
 
 Six famous orders you should wear 
 
 Across your velvet coat; 
 A crown, to match your shining hair, 
 
 And laces round your throat; 
 With diamond buckles at your knee, 
 To sparkle when you bent to me. 
 
 The world should see a goodly sight 
 When forth we rode in state! 
 
 For crowds would gather, left and right, 
 Huzzahing at the gate; 
 
 And mounted lords should prance before, 
 
 And gallop by the carriage-door. 
 
 In robes of ermine, white as milk, 
 
 We two would sit in pride; 
 While lovely ladies, all in silk, 
 
 Were ranged on either side, 
 116 
 
And courtiers, bowing from the room, 
 Swept wide the floor with hat and plume. 
 
 But oh, how glad we both should be 
 
 To find ourselves alone! 
 That we might spring, so blithe and free, 
 
 From out the stately throne, 
 And skip and dance, for very joy! 
 As here we go, — Your hand, my boy! 
 
 117 
 
ALL FOR LOVE 
 
 Dreaming, I toiled to gain a dizzy steep, 
 
 And stood, at length, where gleaming battlements 
 
 Towered above, along a sky of pearl. 
 
 My faint hand reached to ope the massive door, 
 
 Exultant that my weary life was done, 
 
 My soul by penance cleansed from every taint. 
 
 Then stood before me one that I had loved, 
 
 With eyes so soft, and hair of sunny gold, 
 
 And warm arms reaching toward me; and he cried 
 
 Oh tarry, Love, a little, little while, 
 
 Ere you go in, and leave me here for aye! 
 
 In your lone heaven the years shall know no end; 
 
 And one brief hour you well might spare to me! 
 
 His dear eyes won me; for I oft had gazed 
 
 Down through their splendors, when aglow with youth. 
 
 And so I turned to stroll beneath the walls. 
 
 All day we wandered, hand in hand, and glad; 
 And when night came, we clung, to keep us warm, 
 Closer together, looking at the stars : 
 And morning found us smiling towards the east. 
 
 And all the while did many enter in, 
 Foot-sore, pale-featured, but with Triumph writ, 
 In flashing halos, o'er their haggard brows. 
 
 118 
 
And now I nevermore approach the door, 
 Nor dare to bid Good-bye to my poor Love, 
 Nor wish a Heaven where he may never come, 
 Nor sigh for bliss beyond those awful gates! 
 O dreadful dream, to seem so sweet to me ! 
 
 119 
 
TO A SWALLOW, FLYING SEAWARD 
 
 Bird of the slanting wing and circling flight, 
 
 Why seek the billows, when the brooklet plays 
 
 In loitering eddies, under willow-sprays, 
 And tender shoots reach toward the blissful light? 
 Hast thou not heard these messengers aright 
 
 That bring us tidings of the April days? 
 
 Beneath damp leaves, along the woodland ways, 
 The violet stirs, and mayflower-buds are bright. 
 
 But the lone bird, soaring amid the gleams 
 From riven clouds, had dreams of daffodils 
 
 In lands remote, where bannered Iris rose 
 Amid her lances, by beleagured streams; 
 
 To his high vision shone far grassy hills, 
 And pallid edelweis on Alpine snows. 
 
 120 
 
THE HARVEST OF LIFE 
 
 Low sweeps the breeze o'er sodden lands, 
 Where grasses shiver in the rain; 
 
 And bare and brown the stubble shows, 
 Where waved the bearded grain. 
 
 The birds that trilled the songs I love 
 Went flying south, one chilly morn; 
 
 The flowers that spread their bloom for me 
 Died, loveless and forlorn. 
 
 Yet still I sing in full content; 
 
 For other, blessed fields are mine; 
 And there, beneath unclouded moons, 
 
 My golden harvests shine. 
 
 Through sun and rain, in lands remote, 
 They ripen all the fervid years; 
 
 And now, in late autumnal dews, 
 They swell their tasselled ears. 
 
 Their leaves like silken pennons float, 
 When lightly skims a passing breeze; 
 
 And o'er their slopes bright billows run, 
 Like waves on sunlit seas. 
 121 
 
Full oft, beneath the hunter's moon, 
 I take my sickle-blade, and stroll 
 
 Through silent lanes to where their ranks 
 Stand crowning hill and knoll. 
 
 So brave they look, so tall they rise, 
 So softly there I hear them grow, 
 
 In pride I bless the rustling land, 
 And home, unladen, go. 
 
 But, late or soon, the word shall come 
 To spare my harvest-fields no more; 
 
 To give to winnowing winds the chaff, 
 And heap the shining store. 
 
 Then white-sleeved reapers, all arow, 
 Shall swing their level scythes in time; 
 
 The grain to music bend and fall: 
 But none shall hear their chime! 
 
 No eye shall watch them bind the sheaves, 
 And bear them in, when daylight pales; 
 
 No villager, on lonely roads, 
 Shall hear their beating flails. 
 
 Guard well my fields, propitious fate, 
 Lest mildew's evil taint may blast! 
 
 From hailstones shield them, that they yield 
 Ripe treasures at the last ! 
 122 
 
THE DEPARTING YEAR 
 
 He came; he brought us meadow-bloom and grasses, 
 And bird-songs carrolling the heavens through; 
 
 Now not a green blade flutters as he passes, 
 Nor stays one thrush to hymn a sweet adieu. 
 
 Dry, rattling stalks and clumps of frozen rushes 
 Are all that tremble to his parting tread; 
 
 From cottage-windows where the home-light flushes 
 No face looks out, no last farewell is said. 
 
 Bare are the walls where blushed his garden-roses, 
 And bare the tree-boughs swaying o'er the lawn; 
 
 The grape-vine lattice not a leaf discloses, 
 And no late watcher sighs that he is gone; — 
 
 Gone with the beauty of the summer morning, 
 The dreamy loveliness of vanished days, 
 
 The sky's soft glory and the earth's adorning, 
 June's rosy light and autumn's mellow haze! 
 
 I begged, when first he shone with lavish splendor, 
 A prince triumphant, come to rule his own, 
 
 That he some token of his grace would render 
 To me, a suppliant, on his bounty thrown ! 
 123 
 
He bent and proffered, without stint or measure, 
 The utmost that my daring words could crave. 
 
 With full arms closing round each hoarded treasure 
 My lips forgot to bless the hand that gave. 
 
 He made the evening glad, the sunrise golden, 
 And all existence richer that he came; 
 
 Yet scarcely finds my spirit, thus beholden, 
 The time to weave this chaplet to his name. 
 
 O kingly giver, old and unattended, 
 
 The world's poor gratitude is not for thee! 
 
 It leaves unsung the reign so nearly ended, 
 And turns to hail the king that is to be! 
 
 124 
 
MEMORIES OF NORTHERN 
 SPAIN 
 
 When Fancy wills, the scenes of old 
 Return, to bless my sight again; 
 
 And then in visions I behold 
 
 The hills, the shores of Northern Spain. 
 
 In lonely valleys, cool and still, 
 
 Beneath the Pyrenees I fare, 
 And feel on lifted brows the chill 
 
 Of snow-wrapped summits high in air. 
 
 The surf rolls white on Biscay's shore; 
 
 Green on her cliffs the forests wave; 
 Guernica's oak I greet once more, 
 
 And Covadonga's sacred cave. 
 
 Asturia, home of liberty! 
 
 Thou ne'er hast worn a tyrant's chain! 
 Thy Gothic sons, redeemed and free, 
 
 First brought deliverance to Spain! 
 
 On stern Galicia's rock-bound shore 
 The beacons flame against the sky; 
 
 Far out, the whitening breakers roar, 
 By reefs where sea-gulls wheel and cry. 
 125 
 
No more within Corolla's bay 
 
 War's gathered fleets at anchor ride; 
 
 Past Vigo, swooping on their prey, 
 No Drake and Raleigh skim the tide. 
 
 The wars are waged; the captains sleep; 
 
 The ships at Cadiz rock at ease: 
 Had we such contests on the deep 
 
 Would souls as valiant sweep the seas? 
 
 Inland, how sweet the sunlit air, 
 
 On slopes where blossom heath and thyme! 
 I turn, with staff and scallop, where 
 
 The bells of Compostella chime. 
 
 And, pilgrim still, I saunter down 
 Past convent-tower and Roman wall, 
 
 To greet, above the crumbling town, 
 Leon's Cathedral, fair and tall; 
 
 Nor heed what scenes are left behind, 
 Though famed in chronicle and song, 
 
 Till learning's cloistered halls I find, 
 Where Salamanca's students throng. 
 
 Toledo, like an aged queen, 
 
 Of love bereft, with glory crowned, 
 
 Forsaken of her court is seen, 
 While embassies her throne surround. 
 126 
 
The lordly Tagus at her feet 
 
 Rolls silent towards an alien sea; 
 
 The Roman and the Goth more meet 
 To walk her ancient streets than we. 
 
 No less than Rome's imperial powers 
 Did thy great aqueduct erect, 
 
 And Moorish thy Alcazar towers, 
 Segovia the Circumspect! 
 
 But Gothic all, and grim and plain, 
 
 The wall that girdles Avila ! 
 For centuries the Hope of Spain 
 
 Has slumbered in his tomb afar; 
 
 Slumbered, the while his sister pined 
 In prisons lone, a sovereign still! 
 
 The while his nephew came to bind 
 Proud freemen to a foreign will! 
 
 His native land, in that long sleep, 
 Drifted to sordid wreck amain. 
 
 Well o'er his tomb might parents weep, 
 And mourn for all they gave to Spain! 
 
 O'er old Castile I journey late; 
 
 The stars look down through frosty air; 
 From Burgos, past her frowning gate, 
 
 The highways lengthen, bleak and bare; 
 127 
 
One to Las Huelgas, where the nuns 
 Their vigils keep, extends its line; 
 
 And one past Miraflores runs, 
 
 On to San Pedro's hallowed shrine. 
 
 Who treads that silent road at night 
 Halts by the thicket's densest shade 
 
 To see, in armor gleaming bright, 
 A horseman pass, in steel arrayed. 
 
 A sword upright he firmly holds; 
 
 Forward and fixed his gaze; no sound, 
 Save from his banner's shifting folds, 
 
 Or hoof -stroke on the flinty ground. 
 
 San Pedro, open wide your gate! 
 
 The master comes, at home to dwell; 
 Far from Valencia's groves, in state. 
 
 Proud Bavieca bears him well. 
 
 Pelayo and the Cid! shall we, 
 
 Of freemen born, our praise withhold 
 
 From men who stood for liberty, 
 And saved their land, in days of old? 
 
 The past, the present — each to each 
 Linked by a never-ending chain; 
 
 Who still would faith and valor teach, 
 And high resolve, must learn of Spain ! 
 128 
 
THOUGHTS IN A LIBRARY 
 
 These laden shelves, with their historic lore, 
 
 Transport you to the empires of the dead. 
 Spread the wide page, and you shall hear no more 
 
 The echoing street without, the hurried tread 
 And throbbing life of this our modern land : 
 
 The rolling centuries are backward whirled; 
 Beneath the gateway of the past you stand, 
 
 And glide into the morning of the world. 
 
 For you the cities of the East again 
 
 Their busy throngs recall; 
 You see their reapers bending o'er the plain, 
 
 Their masons on the wall. 
 And cruel armies issue from the gate 
 
 To smite some trembling land; 
 Or, home-returned, with victory elate, 
 
 They lead a dusty band 
 Of lowing oxen, weary prisoners bound, 
 
 No more to wander free; 
 Sad-faced, while jeering thousands press around, 
 
 Shouting anew to see, 
 'Mid standards thronging high, and banners torn, 
 The gleaming spoil of palaces upborne. 
 129 
 
Whirled onward in the crowd's exultant tide, 
 
 Rushing with eager pride, 
 
 You mount with them the lofty palace-floor; 
 
 To pause, awe-struck, beside the presence-door, 
 
 Where tower, in stony calm, with lifted wings, 
 
 The mighty shapes of dread Assyrian kings: 
 
 Then entering, undismayed, 
 
 While war's strange trophies at his feet are laid, 
 
 And shields are clashed, and piercing trumpets blown, 
 
 You prostrate fall before great Sargon's throne. 
 
 Or, in the river-plain, amid the bloom 
 
 Of Babylon's low gardens, you shall stray; 
 While evening's gathering stillness lulls each sound, 
 
 Save that of dashing waters far away 
 
 And mournful winds that through the willows play. 
 When festal lights no longer break the gloom, 
 
 There, in the hush profound, 
 
 From dungeons underground, 
 As near the palace-walls your footsteps roam, 
 
 You start, surprised to hear, 
 
 Unseen, and yet so near, 
 The sobbing captives, where, in fetters bound, 
 Jerusalem's sad princes dream of home. 
 
 Would you escape to happier scenes than this? 
 You then shall tread where proud Persepolis 
 
 Rears in the vale her lofty pillared halls; 
 
 Walk through her spacious courts, when lightly falls 
 130 
 
And lifts the silken curtain in the breeze, 
 Revealing blooming vistas, where the trees 
 
 Tremble at dusk with song of nightingales; 
 
 Ere from the horizon sails 
 The full-orbed moon, to brighten all the sky, 
 Riding supreme on high. 
 
 There, at the noontide, slumberous with the heat, 
 The charmed beholder sees 
 
 In clustered ranks the roses red and sweet, 
 And diamond-dust from swaying fountains blown 
 O'er glowing turf and rim of sculptured stone. 
 
 And now a sailor, speeding home again 
 To Athens o'er the main, 
 You swiftly pass the shining Cyclades, 
 Set in their foamy seas; 
 
 And standing at the prow, 
 When leaps the bounding skiff to every wave, 
 
 You face the flying spray, and shade your brow, 
 Eager one glimpse to save 
 Which sends assurance to your straining sight 
 That still the snowy temples crown the height : 
 And shout for joy, when o'er the billow's crest, 
 
 First glimmers from afar, 
 — Ere rocky coast-line darkens on the west, — 
 
 The twinkling splendor, like a drowning star, 
 Which shows where mighty Pallas lifts on high 
 Her flashing spear against the azure sky. 
 131 
 
O'er Gibbon's stately page you linger then; 
 
 And pass Rome's prouder day, 
 To mark, recorded by his faithful pen, 
 
 The waning strength of her imperial sway. 
 No victor's hour her glory shall restore; 
 The haughty legions can return no more, 
 Along her highways; but a savage horde, 
 Bearing to southern lands the conqueror's sword, 
 
 In vengeance issue forth 
 
 From forests of the north, 
 And sweep where Caesar's armies trod of yore. 
 Onward they pour defiant, trampling down 
 The waving field, the terror-stricken town, 
 Till art and culture from their shrines are hurled, 
 And havoc wastes the Mistress of the World. 
 
 Long centuries pass: and arts, revived once more, 
 Teach the dark world what they had taught before, 
 Kindling anew on Learning's blackened shrine, 
 From ancient fires, the saving spark divine. 
 Then states and kingdoms, springing side by side, 
 Fan the bright flame; — a brotherhood allied, 
 By sweet civility and Christian laws, 
 To foster Learning as a sacred cause. 
 
 Such tales these volumes tell, — 
 How nations rose and fell, 
 
 What virtues strengthen, and what crimes destroy; 
 And, by such lessons taught, the thoughtful boy 
 132 
 
Will come to see how tyranny and wrong 
 Can rear no firm dominion, mild and strong. 
 Then shall he cherish in a patriot's breast 
 Love for this land, the youngest and the best, 
 Which builds her power on blessings that endure, 
 On freedom, won alike for rich and poor; 
 Seeks peace and plenty; turns from wasting war, 
 Yet grasps the sword to save a righteous law. 
 
 Perchance from elder times you haste away 
 To see what pictures greet the eye to-day. 
 
 Forth with the traveller you lightly pace 
 Through distant realms, on Fancy's flying feet, 
 Scaling all heights, a rover free and bold; 
 
 The while you keep your place, 
 Beside the hearthstone, housed from wind and cold. 
 
 Your eye, intent upon the printed sheet, 
 Shall foreign lands and hidden deeps explore; 
 
 You gaze where billows beat, . 
 Blue as of old, round Psestum's templed shore; 
 And note, twixt crumbling pillars reared on high, 
 The wind-rocked flower, awave against the sky. 
 You climb steep pathways, dark with mountain-gloom; 
 Or tread the moorland, sweet with tangled bloom; 
 Or move with exiled bands, that sadly roam 
 Toward frozen steppes, despoiled of friends and home: 
 Or breast with wheeling birds the welcome breeze 
 
 That sweeps the Afric coast, 
 133 
 
Bringing cool draughts from wide Atlantic seas, 
 
 To shake a rustling host 
 Of drooping boughs, and tufted, verdurous plumes; 
 
 Where in a garden lone, 
 
 Terraced adown the slope, 
 Geranium thickets toss their scarlet blooms, 
 
 And Moorish casements ope 
 Fronting the wave, with every curtain blown; 
 And wind and morning make the spot their own. 
 
 Or, pleasure-led upon a brimming tide, 
 Float where the Danube rolls its flood beside 
 The empty halls of Presburg's ruined pile; 
 See bright Valencia's orange orchards smile; 
 And watch the sunset-glow 
 Fade from Granada's mountain-wall of snow: 
 
 Or scan the shadowed steep 
 Of glad Sorrento, if, engulfed below, 
 Where green the waters glide 
 O'er toppled wall and villa sunken deep, 
 Haply a slanting beam may chance to show 
 The home of Tasso, whelmed within the tide. 
 
 Such journeys swift, such devious flight he tries 
 Who looks at nature through the traveller's eyes. 
 
 Revolving suns to other lands shall bring 
 Decay and darkness to succeed the spring: 
 134 
 
But neither blight nor winter's chill may come 
 Where art and letters have their sheltered home. 
 Here bloom perennial lingers in the vales; 
 The airs are soft, the sunlight never pales. 
 Whatever blasts may sweep the western hill, 
 In Chaucer's verse the dew-drops sparkle still, 
 The turf springs fresh and cool, the daisies glow, 
 Though planted there five hundred years ago. 
 From Herrick's garden fade the daffodils, 
 And, fading, bloom for aye; with fragrance thrills 
 Our wondering sense when we behold once more 
 The lovely rose which Saccharissa wore : 
 Still steps the courtier down the shaded walk 
 Plucking its fairest blossom from the stalk, 
 To add a beauty to the dainty line 
 That tells his lady she is all divine. 
 Grave Wordsworth leads us forth to lonely lakes 
 Whose placid depth/ the mountain-shadow takes; 
 With Keats we tread where summer splendors throng, 
 And Shelley's skylark floods the air with song. 
 
 Though science flout and ignorance deride, 
 
 Imagination shall her sway retain; 
 Here Poesy will sit by Shakespeare's side, 
 
 Spirit and Master, in their own domain, 
 And that great soul who in his wisdom knew, 
 As never man before, how sweetly true, 
 Tender, and loyal womanhood might be, — 
 Most truly gentle when most brave and free, — 
 
 135 
 
This poet's heart, that felt the wondrous power 
 
 Of grace and beauty, wit, and smiling youth, 
 Yet turned from all, in manhood's later hour, 
 
 To greet plain constancy and simple truth, — 
 The bard supreme, to woman's heart endeared, 
 
 Preserves within these walls his sacred shrine, 
 By gratitude and fond allegiance reared, 
 
 A tribute rendered to his gifts divine. 
 
 And o'er the threshold, seeking here to know 
 
 The hidden import of his every phrase, 
 All day, with reverent footsteps, come and go 
 
 The maids and matrons, uttering still his praise; 
 Finding no word that courteous lips may speak, 
 No gallant deed but seemeth cold and weak, 
 Beside the glowing portraits that he drew 
 Of those pure souls his loving fancy knew. 
 
 And when the night has closed these swinging doors, 
 
 And home and revel call the throng away, 
 With silent step, across the vacant floors, 
 
 A troop of shadowy figures seem to stray; 
 Their floating garments brighten in the gloom, 
 
 When sails the rising moon o'er elm and birch, 
 Sending its beams within the darkened room, 
 
 Betwixt the towers of a Norman church, — 
 Built like Matilda's Abbey, far away. 
 136 
 
What wonder that a loving fancy sees 
 In such an hour, such sacred haunts as these, 
 The gentle sisterhood of Shakespeare's line, 
 Stepped from their nooks to bow before his shrine! 
 
 Faithful Cordelia, — honor dwells with her; 
 Portia the wise, and Rosalind's sweet grace, 
 Hiding love's rankling wound with laughing face; 
 
 Gay, sparkling Beatrice, and Perdita, 
 And winsome Imogen, and all the race 
 
 Of noble wives, and most unhappy queens, — 
 Poor Constance, wild with wrongs; and Katherine, 
 
 Whose sturdy pride on simple justice leans; 
 And she who, scoffing, dared her Love to win 
 
 Through crime a kingly crown; and then apart, 
 Sparing his troubled sight what conscience sent 
 To haunt her pillow, paced, with shuddering breath, 
 
 Wringing her snow-white hands. 
 
 And Anjou's Margaret, of lion-heart, 
 Defying fate, till, every arrow spent 
 
 And high hope shattered, in her father's lands 
 She sat, a listless exile, waiting death. 
 
 The world has wept with them since Prospero 
 Summoned their spirits from the vasty deep 
 
 To tell what griefs the human heart can know, 
 What bitter woes in royal tombs may sleep. 
 
 137 
 
THE PURPOSE OF LIFE 
 
 Coubage, brave soul ! the ledgy pathway yonder 
 O'er windy slopes, will lead to meadows sweet; 
 
 Turn not aside, nor let thy glances wander 
 To find a smoother turf age for thy feet! 
 
 True to thine aim, still journey on undaunted, 
 Led by the stars that beckon overhead! 
 
 With mind intent, thy footsteps firmly planted 
 Shall crush to even line the stones they tread. 
 
 The birds that circle o'er the sedgy hollows, 
 
 The coming tides that backward sweep and roll, 
 
 Each has its purpose, and in wisdom follows 
 The devious ways that bring it to its goal. 
 
 Theirs to renew the quest with every morning, 
 But thine to mount serener heights than they; 
 
 To seek the truth, all baser pleasures scorning, 
 Holding thy course where Honor points the way. 
 
 Nor rest thee there! the gain is won for others; 
 
 Thy firmer poise must steady those who fall; 
 To higher levels lift thy weaker brothers! 
 
 God gave thy powers because He needs them all. 
 138 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS 
 
THE CITY OF PORTLAND, MAINE 
 
 Ye bid me wake, with touch unskilled and weak, 
 
 The mighty harp that elder bards have strung; 
 Ye bid my faltering voice essay to speak 
 
 A city's joy, where nobler strains have rung. 
 Nor festal hymn, nor gladsome lay were mine 
 
 Should once her poets to my vision rise, 
 Like those rapt singers that the Florentine 
 
 Beheld with reverent eyes; 
 And mute were I, did venturous thought recall 
 That laurelled name on London's minster-wall. 
 
 Yet leaps my heart to celebrate the fame 
 
 Of that dear city which we proudly boast 
 Oldest and largest that our State can claim 
 
 In all her leagues of bay-indented coast. 
 From east to west, throughout her broad domains, 
 
 Swept by their lordly rivers flowing free, 
 In lake-strewn forests and pine-mantled plains 
 
 No spot so fair to see : 
 Within her far-famed bay she sits serene, 
 Of all Maine's cities the acknowledged queen. 
 
 Written by invitation of the City Government of Portland; and 
 read there, on July 6, 1886, at the Centennial Celebration of the 
 Incorporation of the town as Portland. 
 
 141 
 
Like posted sentinels in outer courts, 
 
 Her guards and watchmen stand on many a steep, 
 That she may dwell secure; three frowning forts 
 
 Train their long guns in menace o'er the deep, 
 With call imperious challenging her foes; 
 
 Scanning that ocean-path by night, by day, 
 The old red tower upon her hill-top knows 
 
 What rovers seek her bay; 
 While headland-lights, like torches o'er the foam 
 Of darkling waters, guide her wanderers home. 
 
 Child of the sea, her eager looks are sent 
 
 Towards distant Europe, o'er the rolling surge; 
 Behind her spreads a teeming continent, 
 
 Herself the mistress of its eastern verge. 
 Yet, linking her with far Pacific lands, 
 
 Speed the great engines, rushing to and fro 
 O'er the straight pathway of their iron bands; 
 
 While swift her white ships go, 
 Like gleaming shuttles, flying o'er the main 
 To English ports, or shores of France and Spain. 
 
 Her roving sailors, from their floating decks, 
 Descry no lands so lovely as her own: 
 
 How bright soe'er the realm, it little recks 
 To them what splendors gild a foreign zone. 
 
 And though her sons may rear their homesteads well 
 On southern plain and many a western farm, 
 
 Where love and fortune weave a potent spell, 
 
 142 
 
She holds a lasting charm: 
 Long years may pass, and wide her children roam, 
 Yet on her hearth-stones burn the fires of home. 
 
 In summer's sunshine every land is fair; 
 
 But fair are her dear coasts in sun or shade. 
 Nor winter's sleet, nor August's sultry air 
 
 Can make her other than fond nature made: 
 Better her ocean-gales, her spray-swept shore, 
 
 Her fog-clouds driven o'er the shivering land, 
 Her wild, tempestuous breakers, and their roar, 
 
 Than alien zephyrs bland. 
 No storms can wreck her beauty; clearer glows 
 Her freshened lustre, like a rain-dashed rose. 
 
 For nature loves her well; a verdurous wood 
 
 Of waving boughs seems sheltering the town; 
 And Vaughan's old oaks, a mighty brotherhood, 
 
 On Bramhall stand; though pines no longer crown 
 Munjoy's broad slopes descending to the sea. 
 
 In swaying elms the wild bird builds her nest; 
 Across these ancient gardens still the bee 
 
 Goes murmuring on her quest; 
 And, searching for lost springs, the dragon-fly, 
 On wings of steely gauze, darts whirring by. 
 
 For man alone has not possessed this spot, 
 
 This strip of land between encircling seas; 
 The tiny races whom we value not 
 143 
 
Have danced their summer revels down the breeze, 
 And lightly slept within their native earth; 
 
 And still their kindred in the sunbeams dwell. 
 We know no story of their nation's birth, 
 
 Of them no records tell; 
 But Nature's self their passing lives may scan 
 As parts essential to her perfect plan. 
 
 Not all the ships that in its haven ride 
 
 Can take one native charm from Casco Bay; 
 Dark, plumy forests swing above the tide 
 
 On island shores, where still, in careless play, 
 The wild duck floats, the lonely plover calls; 
 
 In wave-washed nooks, by human eye unseen, 
 The glistening kelp forever lifts and falls; 
 
 And silvery birches lean, 
 In sunny coves, above the hard, white sand, 
 Where glides no skiff, no rover seeks the land. 
 
 When, home-bound from the deep, a tiny shape 
 
 On dancing waves, the fisher's boat is seen 
 Rounding the eastern shores of that broad cape 
 
 Named at her death for England's mighty queen, 
 How welcome to his gaze each curving line 
 
 From Scarboro's river-Points to Barberry creek! 
 At Spurwink's mouth the long, white beaches shine: 
 
 Beyond, his glances seek 
 Richmond's lone island, on whose farthest edge 
 Breaks the wild surf o'er Watts' fatal ledge. 
 
 144 
 
Its quiet farmhouse has no tale to tell 
 
 Of vanished fleets and storehouses and pier; 
 His fancy hears no pealing chapel-bell, 
 
 Nor sees young Parson Jordan sauntering near, 
 Joining the captains from their busy ships, 
 
 And mistress Sarah in her London gown, 
 And passing in, to pray with fervent lips 
 
 For good King Charles' crown; 
 Nor does his thought that earlier vision hold 
 Of slaughtered trader, and his buried gold. 
 
 Near the Two Lights, where dangerous waters glide, 
 
 He hears Old Anthony's unceasing knell; 
 Through Portland Roads he hurries with the tide 
 
 Past their white tower, and feels the rising swell 
 That rocks the skiffs in Simonton's broad cove; 
 
 From Preble's rampart booms the sunset-gun 
 O'er Cushing's Point, where erst a village throve; 
 
 And now the sunken sun 
 Crimsons the wave, where gleaming silks outblown 
 Once scarfed a sea with priceless wreckage strewn. 
 
 To one who sits upon the cliff afar, 
 
 Noting the waning splendors of the light, 
 
 He moves, a floating speck, behind the bar 
 Of Stanford's ledge, and soon is lost to sight. 
 
 Against the lingering radiance of the west, 
 With dome and slender steeples ranged a-row, 
 
 The tree-embowered city on her crest 
 
 145 
 
Burns in a golden glow; 
 While warmer tints, that through the waters play, 
 Flush the far sails and mantle all the bay. 
 
 Like lovely Venice throned above the tide, 
 
 At such an hour the glimmering city seems; 
 Or some rich caravan, at eve descried 
 
 Nigh to Damascus, — journeying in our dreams. 
 And when the misty branches sway and glance, 
 
 We see an army's glittering legions stand, 
 With blazing standards lifted to advance; 
 
 One signal of command, 
 And the great host shall move forever by, 
 Their floating banners sweeping down the sky! 
 
 A leafy home for whispering dryads made 
 
 Remains their haunt, though murmuring streets 
 are near, 
 Where Deering's Oaks, within their solemn shade, 
 
 Preserve a hush, a spell, that kindles fear; 
 As if the bandits of good Robin Hood, 
 
 Or playful fairies, trooped the paths at night, 
 And only hid within the listening wood 
 
 When wanderers came in sight: 
 Yet rushing trains the sturdy branches shake, 
 And children's laughter all the echoes wake. 
 
 Beyond dividing waters, where a field 
 Slopes to the mansion on its level brow, 
 146 
 
Sweet orchard-glades their stern traditions yield 
 
 Of savage conflict centuries ago. 
 And westward still, with fonder memories blent, 
 
 A furzy pasture tells of strange delights; 
 For there the circus held its tournament, 
 
 And there, on gala nights, 
 The fireworks' magic dazed our childish eyes, 
 Shooting their splendors to the startled skies. 
 
 Our city guards, upon her eastern steep, 
 
 The graveyard of her old, historic dead, 
 Where seven generations came to sleep 
 
 Near the tall pine whose shadows long have fled : 
 The aged parson, shepherding his flock, 
 
 The brave young warriors, slain in reckless pride, 
 Stout captains, fallen in the battle's shock, 
 
 There slumber, side by side; 
 And sailors bold, that cruise the deep no more, 
 Past the known headlands of this winding shore. 
 
 From old Munjoy what glimpses, toward the west, 
 
 Of mighty summits, gleaming in their snows 
 When plains are bare! of Blackstrap's needled 
 crest ! 
 
 From Westbrook's fields beyond how lightly blows 
 The thistle-globe upon the scented breeze, 
 
 Threading the mazes of the wind-swept town 
 To float and ride upon the summer seas ! 
 
 And calmly looking down, 
 147 
 
In faithful vigil, stands the broad, red tower, 
 Waving its flags to hail this happy hour. 
 
 On these glad festal days is toil forgot; 
 
 Merchants and lawyers throng the crowded way; 
 For wind and tide the sailor careth not; 
 
 His little sloop, with all her pennons gay, 
 Waits in the stream, that he may walk in pride 
 
 With Portland's sons; no farmer's scythe is swung; 
 No sportive children seek the country-side; 
 
 But all, the old and young, 
 Together come, their city's name to bless; 
 Happier to share each other's happiness. 
 
 Within her gates no stranger's voice is mute; 
 
 They who have shared her welcome sing her fame; 
 The waiting steamships blow their shrill salute; 
 
 From anchored frigates seamen shout her name; 
 And where, beside the waves, the fortress lowers 
 
 Thunder the booming cannon, keeping time; 
 Even the fog-bells, in their open towers 
 
 On breezy headlands chime; 
 And the swift-coming engines, rushing near, 
 Snort like great steeds, rejoicing to be here. 
 
 The tree-tops swaying o'er the crowded street, 
 The island forests, the resounding main, 
 
 Near fields, awave with grass and rustling wheat, — 
 Midsummer's gentle voices, swell the strain; 
 148 
 
The swallow from the roof -tree sends his note; 
 
 Birds in the garden-branches pipe and sing; 
 The sea-gull, screaming as he rocks afloat 
 
 Or soars on circling wing, — 
 All these of her dominion proudly raise 
 In one full chorus their exultant praise. 
 
 Dreaming she sits, this mother of us all, 
 
 This city that has blessed us from our birth; 
 About her brows a fresh, green coronal, 
 
 Twined by her children in their hour of mirth; 
 Seaward she looks, yet with a tender glance; 
 
 Her mantle backward blown along the hill, 
 Her head down-dropped, as in a thoughtful trance, 
 
 Her fair hands clasped and still; 
 Scarce noting how the fitful breezes sweet 
 And the glad billows run to kiss her feet. 
 
 Across the bay she sees the ships come in, 
 
 Bringing her exiles to their homes once more; 
 Beneath her cliff resounds the passing din 
 
 Of trains that speed their thousands to her 
 shore; 
 Each wanderer to her loving heart is dear; 
 
 No child that she hath known hath she forgot : 
 Their joyous greetings on her hundredth year 
 
 She hears, but answers not; 
 For memory, running back beyond our ken, 
 Recalls the storied past to live again. 
 149 
 
She seems the brooding spirit of the place, 
 
 Before whose gaze, in solemn vision, sweep 
 Long centuries, since first a dusky race 
 
 Came here to dwell on Machigonne's lone steep : 
 Again she listens to their savage speech, 
 
 Hears the swift arrow whistling through the glade, 
 The light canoe drawn on the sandy beach; 
 
 And, 'mid the forests' shade, 
 Sees the great sagamores, with darkling frowns, 
 In haughty council rear their feathered crowns. 
 
 Hither, attended by her royal train, 
 
 Comes Cogawesco's noble-hearted queen, 
 With welcome guiding through her own domain 
 
 A stranger ship to yonder island green. 
 There the first colonists, of Saxon race, 
 
 Fell the dense wood and build a goodly house; 
 Anon a statelier vessel seeks the place; 
 
 While, under drooping boughs, 
 An Oxford scholar builds his Latin lay, — 
 The earliest bard to sing of Casco Bay. 
 
 The ships depart; their men are seen no more: 
 Ten years, and English trading-ships alone 
 
 Come fishing to her bay, from Richmond's shore; 
 Then the first settler, proud to call his own 
 
 The jutting mainland, with its circling strand, 
 Builds a log cabin by her running brook. 
 
 For thirty years he portions out the land 
 
 150 
 
To West-of-England folk, 
 Brave Devon squires, whose fathers, from the main, 
 With Drake and Raleigh, swept the fleets of Spain. 
 
 In final rest, beneath a lofty pine 
 
 Spared by his axe, the pioneer has lain 
 But ten brief years, when forth, a flying line, 
 
 From raided farms, her settlers seek the main. 
 Returning, drawn, at last, by love and hope, 
 
 They build anew, with fort and palisade; 
 Then a day's battle on an orchard-slope, 
 
 A long-besieged stockade, 
 With desperate, vain defence, and wild uproar, 
 And Indian warriors hold the land once more. 
 
 Through flame and death her far-led captives go, 
 
 While empty streets and bleaching bones remain : 
 Long decades pass; the wasted homesteads know 
 
 Their sons once more, their hamlet thrives again. 
 Soon a young parson comes the flock to lead; 
 
 And savage foes are bound by solemn peace; 
 Westward, to sister-towns, the postmen speed; 
 
 While, over cool, bright seas, 
 Their steady course the mighty mast-ships keep, 
 And venturous traders skim a foreign deep. 
 
 But if, above the waves' tumultuous roar 
 
 In Biscay's bay, where the long breaker swells, 
 Her hardy sailors hear, when off Bilboa, 
 
 151 
 
The faint, far ringing of Spain's convent-bells, 
 And note, across dark olives on the height, 
 
 Where the lone belfry cuts the glowing skies, 
 The monk, slow passing in his robe of white, 
 
 What longings then arise 
 To see that log-built meeting-house once more, 
 Amid the pine-trees of a northern shore ! 
 
 Sixty glad years, and Falmouth mourns again; 
 
 Her old protector has become her foe; 
 All day she shrinks before the scorching rain 
 
 Of shot and shell; all night the heavens glow 
 With blazing ships and mansions wrapped in fire. 
 
 From threatening fleets, and battle's dread alarms, 
 To safer fields her stricken sons retire : 
 
 At length, from Gorham farms 
 And distant camps, her wanderers homeward flee, 
 Hailing the Peace that makes a nation free. 
 
 Soon free, herself, a prouder name to know 
 
 Than Falmouth Neck, with years of strength begun, 
 Fair Portland greets, a century ago, 
 
 Christening and independence-day in one. 
 An ocean-mart, she comes to rule the wave, 
 
 To stand its foremost city, wise and great, 
 When Gorges' province, with the name he gave, 
 
 Steps forth, a sovereign State. 
 And still her Devon blood would tempt the breeze 
 And drive her foemen from insulting seas. 
 
 152 
 
What swift advance a hundred years have wrought, 
 
 Despite embargo, war, and raging flame! 
 Great industries her changing needs have brought 
 
 To feed her commerce; where the postman came, 
 Fly train and steamboat to her bridge-bound shore: 
 
 For two good parsons that in sorrow spake, 
 Thirty she hears; for one gazette, a score; 
 
 She quaffs Sebago lake, 
 For Marjory's spring; and for the candle's ray, 
 Electric lights pour radiance clear as day. 
 
 Although her last dread foe, the ruthless flame, 
 
 Has razed her ancient homes, an honored few 
 Preserve some treasures that the past would claim; 
 
 There rest the mugs the Peter Waldo knew, 
 From which old seadogs have been wont to drain, 
 
 In deep carouse, their healths of Admiral rum; 
 Pale Canton silks, that tell in rent and stain 
 
 How the Grank Turk came home; 
 There Mowatt's fiery shot, embedded deep, 
 Have had a century for cooling sleep. 
 
 Such the long memories that her heart has kept; — 
 Loss and disaster, but triumphant gain; 
 
 Four times the tomahawk or the flame has swept 
 Her narrow slopes: yet unto her remain 
 
 A people crowding to the billowy strand 
 
 And o'er the fields: a brave and courtly race; 
 
 With merchant-princes fitted to command 
 
 153 
 
Her fates in war and peace. 
 Nor wealth alone, nor strength; a mightier power 
 She gives her children, — learning's priceless dower. 
 
 Favored are we to greet thy festal year, 
 
 blessed town, which many ne'er behold, 
 And none but once; for all who gather here 
 
 Must find their vigor spent, their brief lives told, 
 Ere thou, still wearing thine immortal grace, 
 
 And throned, as now, beneath resplendent skies, 
 Shalt see another century end its race, 
 
 Another dawn arise 
 When mighty throngs shall tread thine ancient ways, 
 And grateful thousands chant their votive lays. 
 
 And thou wilt sit again among thy dead, 
 
 Happy as now, and grown to prouder state; 
 Roses as fresh shall wreathe thy stately head, 
 
 And worthier verse thy glories celebrate. 
 But fairer than the splendors round thee then, 
 
 More clear than other scenes by memory brought, 
 This one glad summer-tide shall live again 
 
 And brighten in thy thought; 
 This summer-tide, when first before thy feet 
 Thy singing children flung their garlands sweet. 
 
 While yet in breeze and sunshine we rejoice, 
 
 And echoes of our fleeting song remain, 
 Or ere the swelling anthem drowns our voice, 
 
 154 
 
Give ear, great mother, to our parting strain! 
 Hail, dear protectress of our lives and toil! 
 
 A people's homage is the praise we bear; 
 Still bless our homes upon thy sacred soil! 
 
 And Heaven, that made thee fair, 
 And gave thee strength, and kept thee through 
 
 all fears, 
 Shall guard thee still another hundred years! 
 
 155 
 
CONCORD, NEW HAMPSHIRE 
 
 As some late pilgrim, at a shrine 
 He fain would honor, stays his feet. 
 
 Beholding how in splendor shine 
 Rare gems amid the incense sweet; 
 
 Then comes at last with timid love 
 
 To hang his simple garland there, 
 And bends, those richer gifts above, 
 
 To lift his heart's unuttered prayer; — 
 
 So here to-night, when others praise 
 
 With fitting words our city's fame, 
 I bring a poet's modest bays 
 
 To wreathe around her honored name. 
 
 Though eloquence her deeds adorn, 
 And music charm with heavenly art, 
 
 This humbler gift she will not scorn, — 
 The tribute of a loving heart! 
 
 Yon river, coursing to the main, 
 Threads mountain- vale and village-plain, 
 And seaward rolls its lordly tide 
 By chestnut groves and meadows wide, 
 While oft, within its shadowed stream, 
 The lights of stately cities gleam; 
 But ne'er a city proud and fair, 
 
 Written by invitation of the Board of Trade of Concord, 
 and read at the dedication of its new building, October 20, 1873. 
 
 156 
 
Nor pleasant village nestled there, 
 To you and me is half so dear 
 As this old town embowered here. 
 
 To you and me, though I can claim 
 
 No birthright in her blessed name; 
 
 Your childhood knew these grassy plains, 
 
 These river-banks and winding lanes, 
 
 And still you tread the fertile soil 
 
 Your fathers won by manly toil. 
 
 But late I came; and brought with me 
 
 Old memories of a northern sea, 
 
 Of streets whose lengthened vistas gave 
 
 Blue glimpses of the tossing wave; 
 
 Nor can my roving thoughts forget 
 
 Those lost delights; I see them yet, — 
 
 The rocking masts, the shifting tides, 
 
 Great ships that clove with wave-washed sides 
 
 The harbor's rim — their sails unfurled, — 
 
 And dipped below my happy world. 
 
 Oh! city smiling by the sea, 
 Home of my kindred, blame not me 
 If here my later years have found 
 A charm that makes this alien ground, 
 These river-meadows broad and green, 
 And inland fields, a fairer scene 
 Than all your prouder beauty wore, 
 Enthroned upon that sunlit shore! 
 157 
 
For loving well your headlands gray, 
 Where sea-gulls breast the flying spray, 
 And longing still for one salt breeze 
 Blown landward from your stormy seas, 
 I keep a dearer niche apart 
 For this new home, within my heart. 
 
 Come with me, friend, if thou would'st see 
 How fair in dreams it looks to me, 
 When, weary of the restless beat 
 Of some great city's passing feet, 
 I shut my eyes, give Fancy wings, 
 And take whate'er the fairy brings ! 
 
 No more the crowds that come and go 
 Can tire me with their empty show; 
 For in their stir she bids me hear 
 The sway of pine-boughs rustling near, 
 The lapsing floods that swirl and glide 
 Where bridges span a parted tide, 
 And Concord greets my inward sight, 
 Her steeples shining in the light. 
 
 How clear above her brimming stream 
 The swallows chatter in my dream ! 
 How fair the golden lilies stand 
 That bend and bow on either hand, 
 As trailing through her meadow-grass, 
 At summer-tide I seem to pass, 
 158 
 
While winged trains of butterflies 
 Flit round me under sunny skies! 
 
 Yes, come with me! this crowded walk 
 Where traders lounge and gossips talk 
 Is not the town I love so well; 
 Forsake her streets, and mount the swell 
 Of yonder bluff that crowns the stream, — 
 There see the city of my dream ! 
 
 Haste thither ere the splendor dies 
 From late October's glowing skies! 
 
 You know the road, — how soon it yields 
 Wide glimpses of familiar fields 
 And azure heavens, as down we go, 
 O'er nets of rail-tracks bridged below, 
 And on to where the river-side 
 Flings its long bridge across the tide. 
 
 If odors greet us, not the best 
 That waft from Araby the Blest, 
 And country wagons, homeward bound, 
 Drive us to tread the dewy ground 
 Where poison-ivy darkly shines, 
 We hurry on, till stately lines 
 Of willows toss their plumy green 
 O'er marshy thickets spread between, 
 159 
 
Where jewel-weeds so lightly hold 
 Their dainty horns of red and gold. 
 
 There leave the turnpike, cool and still, 
 Through dim glens winding up the hill ! 
 Turn to the left! the bank is steep, 
 But overhanging branches weep 
 Their dews above the beaten sand; 
 And soon upon the bluff you stand, 
 Where runs a pathway straight and high, 
 Hung midway 'twixt the earth and sky. 
 Though close it threads the wind-swept crown, 
 So Steep the front goes shelving down 
 That he who walks there will not know 
 What soaring pine-trees climb below, 
 What poplars twinkle, all unseen, 
 Beneath the cliff, — a belt of green, 
 Whose interlacing branches trace 
 Another pathway at its base. 
 
 If, close behind, a sun-steeped wood 
 Breathes out, from its near solitude, 
 Warm, spicy perfumes, and the bees 
 Sing through its aisles in drowsy ease, 
 He heeds it not; for, pausing there, 
 He fronts blue levels of the air, 
 And sees no nearer land before 
 Than that deep meadow's grassy floor, 
 160 
 
Where swallows wheel, with twitter sweet, 
 Weaving their citcles at his feet. 
 
 Why paint a scene whose beauties lie 
 Revealed before your dreaming eye? 
 There, in these mellow autumn days, 
 October spreads her golden haze, 
 And all the land with glory fills, 
 Kindling her torches on the hills. 
 Along the pathway whence we came 
 The sumach's drooping leaflets flame; 
 In verdant intervales below 
 The scarlet maples burn and glow; 
 And where the elm-trees stand in line 
 Unfading sunlight seems to shine. 
 
 Such splendors fringe thy devious track 
 Across our vales, proud Merrimac ! 
 With ceaseless currents sweeping down 
 Past beetling cliff and steepled town, 
 And turning to the heavenly zone 
 A bluer azure than its own. 
 
 Untamed by years, forever free, 
 Man's title-deeds are naught to thee! 
 No boundaries can stay thy tide, 
 Scooping the mountain's shelving side, 
 And spurning with a new disdain 
 Thine ancient margin on the plain! 
 161 
 
Each spring-time, fed by mountain-snows, 
 Thy flood's resistless torrent flows, 
 Bearing away the work of years, 
 Wrenching great bridges from their piers, 
 And hurling, with defiant hand, 
 Their splintered fragments to the land! 
 Each year beneath thy treacherous tides 
 Some brave young life forever glides ! 
 And still above the smiling grave 
 Remorseless plays thy dimpled wave! 
 
 So smiles it now, with molten dyes 
 Reflected from the sunset-skies. 
 
 What haunts beloved stretch beyond ! 
 The sedgy shores of Horseshoe Pond, 
 And Wattanummun's sluggish brook, — 
 Where once the savage Penacook 
 Took deadly aim at beast and bird, 
 And all the silent valley heard 
 His whizzing arrow, where to-day 
 Whistles the engine on its way. 
 
 How proudly in this woodland shade 
 The wise chief dwelt whom he obeyed, 
 What mirth re-echoed o'er the tide, 
 When here a sachem wed his bride, 
 No later muse shall dare reh arse, — 
 It lives in Whittier's classic verse. 
 162 
 
Not always thus with rousing cheer 
 Of feast and bridal passed the year ! 
 Foes sought the vale of Penacook, 
 And there, within the sheltered nook 
 Of Sugar-Ball, thick arrows sped, 
 And hostile Mohawks scalped their dead. 
 
 No terms of half-forgotten lore 
 Were these soft Indian names of yore 
 To men who built our meadow-town, 
 With dusky faces looking down 
 From wooded heights; to matrons pale 
 Who spied the savage in the vale, 
 And trembled lest the moon should rise 
 On homesteads blazing to the skies. 
 
 If vain their fears, that shaft will tell 
 
 Whose granite shows us where they fell ! 
 
 And yonder isle, that bears the name 
 
 Of her who to its margin came 
 
 A pale-faced captive, nerving there 
 
 Her valiant soul to do and dare 
 
 The utmost, if its fearful cost 
 
 Might give once more her loved and lost! 
 
 There by the stream whose waters flow 
 As when she heard them, long ago, 
 Listening in terror for a sound 
 From startled warriors, while the ground 
 163 
 
Echoed each foot-fall, and her breath 
 Seemed warning them of coming death, — 
 There shall her sculptured statue rise, 
 Bearing its witness to the skies 
 
 That courage knows no narrow ban, 
 But brave endeavors to be free, 
 Strong arms, and stronger will should be 
 
 Honored in woman as in man ! 
 
 These deeds our silent plains have seen, 
 Where now, upon their shaven green, 
 Fringing the river's further side, 
 A city stands in queenly pride. 
 Beyond her roof -trees, tower high, 
 'Twixt flowing stream and arching sky, 
 Long hills, whose verdurous summits bound 
 The heavens and gird the landscape round. 
 Northward, upon its upland crest, 
 East Concord's village fronts the west; 
 And there, beneath the setting sun, 
 The wave-like top of Cardigan, 
 And Ragged Mountain's broken line 
 In shadowy splendors faintly shine; 
 Kearsarge, with outlines grand and dim, 
 Looks proudly o'er the feathered rim 
 Of Rattlesnake, whose forests show, 
 Through gleaming scars, the wealth below 
 Of granite ledges quarried deep, 
 Wherein unbuilded temples sleep. 
 164 
 
Far southward spring, with level crown, 
 The hills of distant Francestown, 
 Bathed in the evening's misty lights, 
 As fair as Beulah's peaceful heights. 
 
 Unseen the mighty peaks that rise 
 To heaven along those northern skies; 
 Unseen the lake, the shining pond, 
 Flashing in nearer lands beyond. 
 But, linked with them, the railroad leads 
 Its iron bands across our meads, 
 And Memory with their grandeur thrills, 
 Here in the gateway of the hills. 
 
 We linger late! the sunlight fades; 
 
 Lone night-hawks call from woodland glades, 
 
 And crickets chirp their harvest-song, 
 
 As homeward now we pass along 
 
 'Twixt dewy fields, while stars look down 
 
 In silence o'er the lighted town, 
 
 And high upon their lofty tower 
 
 Her shining dials tell the hour. 
 
 The builders of our city planned 
 
 For days to come, when o'er their land 
 
 They traced these spacious streets; 
 And planted by the walks they made 
 The giant elms whose welcome shade 
 
 Their children's children greets. 
 165 
 
From Parson Walker's wooden fort, 
 Beyond the State House, where our Court 
 
 Seeks equal laws to frame, 
 Their Main Street met the river's side, 
 Where stands the home of Rumford's bride, 
 
 Enduring, like his fame. 
 
 Above the town, the traveller sees, 
 Embosomed in a grove of trees, 
 
 Steeples and soaring domes; 
 But fairer than its public halls, 
 The thousand roofs and narrow walls 
 
 Of humble, happy homes; — 
 
 Where, standing in its square alone, 
 Each cottage-homestead, overgrown 
 
 With rose-boughs trimmed with care, 
 Shows where her workmen dwell at peace 
 With all the world, in thrifty ease, 
 
 Blessed after Agar's prayer. 
 
 Her people, — well, is this a place 
 To laud my neighbors to their face 
 
 And tell them pleasant things? 
 
 I spare my words, but we'll agree 
 That angels they would surely be, 
 
 If only they had wings! 
 
 Yet, let me say this, to their praise: 
 That still they keep the good old ways 
 166 
 
That made New England strong; 
 Industrious, frugal, well-to-do; — 
 This may I call them here to you, 
 Without a fear of wrong. 
 
 Long may it be ere they shall know 
 How idle pomp and lavish show 
 
 The rich and poor divide! 
 Ere squalid hovels crowd the lanes, 
 With none to care what hidden pains 
 
 Within their walls abide! 
 
 Such Concord is ! but who may see 
 A vision of the town to be, 
 When wealth shall leave its selfish aim 
 To bless the public whence it came, 
 And, leaping o'er each social ban, 
 Her men shall seek the good of man? 
 
 Then parks will spread their breadths of green 
 To add new beauty to the scene; 
 And Art her statued forms shall raise, 
 Teaching our youth to know and praise 
 The names that History enshrines 
 Upon her page in living lines. 
 
 Through vistas of our ancient trees 
 Mine eye, prophetic, clearly sees 
 A noble figure hewn in stone, 
 167 
 
Semblance of him the world hath known, 
 That Yankee Count, whose deathless fame 
 Gives lustre to our elder name. 
 Should we not honor him who there, 
 Where monarchs crowned him, chose to bear 
 The title of this little town, 
 And link it with his great renown? 
 When foreign lands his works revere, 
 Shall Rumford be forgotten here? 
 
 But who would gain a ripened store 
 Of fruitage richer than before 
 Must labor in the present hour, 
 And plant the seed that brings the flower. 
 Guard well your schools with zealous care, 
 And share the work entrusted there! 
 Nor leave to others' words to preach 
 What your examples best can teach! 
 Thus may your children learn to prize 
 A noble life, a temper wise, 
 Serene and generous, more than gains 
 Won for themselves with endless pains, 
 Where self-respect and peace are lost, 
 And honor is the price they cost. 
 
 And thus shall our beloved town 
 Add to its wealth of old renown 
 A name for strength and sterling worth, 
 Borne, like her coaches, round the earth! 
 168 
 
DEDICATION OF THE PUBLIC LIBRARY 
 
 BUILDING OF CONCORD, 
 
 NEW HAMPSHIRE 
 
 A little, brave New England town, 
 
 They built in early days, 
 When they had cut the forest down, 
 
 And cleared the grassy ways. 
 In seemly order, side by side, 
 The buildings rose in modest pride, 
 With drooping garden-boughs between, 
 And trellised vines, and plots of green; 
 Each hearthstone laid for household cheer, 
 And sober feasts throughout the year. 
 
 Outside their homes, in earnest mood, 
 They labored for the common good; 
 
 They made their highways straight and broad, 
 And trees transplanted from the wood, 
 
 To shade the springing sod. 
 
 The building which contains the Public Library of Concord, 
 New Hampshire, was presented to that city as a memorial to two 
 eminent citizens, Hon. Asa Fowler and Mary Knox Fowler, his 
 wife. This poem, written by request of the donors, Mr. William 
 P. and Miss Clara M. Fowler, of Boston, Massachusetts, was read 
 as part of the dedicatory exercises held within the new building, 
 on October 18, 1888. 
 
 169 
 
A council-hall for stern debate 
 On matters that concerned the state, 
 And many schools and churches stood, 
 To make men wise, and keep them good. 
 
 And so, intent on grave affairs, 
 
 With honest toil, 
 They gave themselves to daily cares, 
 
 And turned the stubborn soil. 
 Wealth was not there to flaunt her power, 
 Nor poverty, in dens to cower: 
 But all like helpful brothers dwelt, 
 Together worked, together knelt; 
 With little time to waste in mirth; 
 Mindful of heaven, but more of earth. 
 
 In time there came, to claim a home, 
 A pilgrim-group, of foreign mien, — 
 Like straggling gypsy-bands that roam 
 By village-lanes and meadows green; 
 Born under other skies than ours, — 
 A land of song, and sun, and flowers. 
 In gait and speech and flashing eye, 
 With gracious look, and bearing high, 
 They seemed to speak of far-off climes, 
 Of southern lands, and elder times. 
 
 They gave a greeting, as they came, 
 And told their names with conscious pride, 
 170 
 
As though with noble blood allied, 
 
 And not unknown to fame. 
 Learning, in mantle frayed and brown, 
 Upon an open page looked down, 
 
 Nor raised for once her eyes: 
 Then grave Philosophy, intent, 
 Who scarcely saw which way she went, 
 
 Off -looking to the skies: 
 And Science, young, with sturdy pace, 
 
 Advancing, bold and free, 
 Looked neither off to empty space 
 
 Nor dropped his gaze to see 
 The storied page which Learning read, — 
 So rapt she did not hear his tread. 
 He spoke not with the sauntering band, 
 But kept aloof, the while he scanned 
 — Upheld within his steady hand — 
 The pebble flecked with mosses brown, 
 
 The leaflet from the wayside tree; 
 And bent his brows with haughty frown 
 If they, his elders, crossed his path; 
 Nor strove to hide his scornful wrath 
 
 At sight of Poesy. 
 
 For he, the tricksy, venturous child, 
 With eyes in-looking, deep and wild, 
 Danced here and there, a wayward elf, 
 Humming his carols to himself; 
 But turning back anon, 
 171 
 
Ere far his steps had gone, 
 With sudden start, and hurried stride, 
 To cling his comrades' skirts beside; 
 Nestling his hand within their own, 
 As loath to find himself alone. 
 
 No money had they in their purse; 
 
 Footsore they came. 
 They neither hammered, delved, nor spun, 
 And boasted naught that they had done; 
 Nor seemed to fear a stranger's curse; 
 
 Nor held it cause for shame 
 To beg for shelter, food, and fire, 
 Enough to stay their life's desire. 
 
 The boon was asked with careless grace, 
 As who should say, "Another place 
 Awaits us, but we deign to stay, 
 Since here we halted on the way. 
 Vouchsafe the paltry gifts we need, 
 And you shall find us friends indeed! 
 If forth we go, to wander free, 
 You are the poorer then, not we." 
 
 The citizens, for very shame, 
 
 At mention of each sounding name, 
 
 Forbore the vagrant band to chide: 
 They gave them liberty to take 
 The roof another's needs forsake, 
 172 
 
And there in peace to bide; 
 To grasp whatever fruits might be 
 Unplucked by honest industry; 
 To seek the shade when days were warm, 
 And house themselves from wind and storm. 
 
 And so to any roof they went 
 Which plenty spared and sufferance lent: 
 And each so well his part did bear, 
 Content to claim his meagre share, 
 That soon the town with truth confessed 
 It ne'er had held a worthier guest. 
 
 But Poesy, when others stood 
 Snatching betimes their scanty food, 
 
 Was roaming far and wide, 
 Pulling the wild-rose from the ledge 
 Or asters from the wayside hedge, 
 And lingering in the wood 
 To weave a garland for his head; 
 By every passing fancy led 
 
 To pond and riverside; 
 Watching the sunset's purple state, 
 Till home was reached, alas, too late. 
 
 Oft went he supperless to bed, 
 
 Blowing his finger-tips for cold, — 
 To rise at night, when all was still, 
 173 
 
And play upon his reedy flute 
 — Left all the day unblown and mute, — 
 Such rapturous airs, so sweet, so bold, 
 High-floating over vale and hill, 
 That all who heard them in their sleep 
 Saw visions which the angels keep 
 For weary mortals, who would fain 
 Some glimpse of Paradise obtain. 
 Then back to chilly bed he crept, 
 And soon, with tired eyelids, slept. 
 
 Nor did he deem his lot unblest, 
 Since tender fancies warmed his breast, 
 And music wafted to the wind 
 His woes, and left content behind. 
 But ere he slept, the pitying Muse 
 Fed her dear child with honeyed dews, 
 Gathered where sparkling waters shine, 
 With sweet ambrosia, food divine. 
 
 They held such converse, deep and high, 
 This stranger-band, as years went by, 
 
 That friends they won among the few; 
 Who saw fresh glories in the sky, 
 
 And subtler meanings drew 
 From changing aspects of the field, — 
 The priceless crops their furrows yield; 
 Ungarnered till at length they find 
 A storehouse in the thinker's mind. 
 174 
 
A joy serene was taught to age, 
 Who learned to con the studious page, 
 To ponder with a deeper glance 
 Each passing deed and circumstance: 
 And sometimes to their halls would stray 
 Young men and maids, from idle play. 
 
 In time these wandering pilgrims came 
 To brighten homes of generous aim, 
 
 Responsive to some high behest; 
 And honored thus throughout the year, 
 In days of leisure, hours of cheer, 
 
 There grew in many a youthful breast 
 
 A liking for each gentle guest; 
 Till finer manners, nobler thought, 
 A grace and culture, thus were taught. 
 
 One home whose portals open flew 
 
 Whene'er these pilgrims came, 
 Whose honored seats the master drew 
 
 Beside the hearth's bright flame, 
 Sent forth to other homes the ray 
 Whose light still broadens unto day. 
 There Learning, Truth, Philosophy, 
 
 A cordial greeting found, 
 With converse flowing free; 
 The pulse to quicker life was stirred, 
 Thought flashed, and flew the winged word: 
 
 And deep discourse went round. 
 175 
 
Alas! for us the fires no longer glow 
 Upon that hearthstone; friendship's joy is fled; 
 Swift to salute us comes no welcoming voice, 
 No hastening footsteps, with the well-known 
 tread. 
 At eve no more do favored loiterers sit, 
 
 By love detained, around the shining board, 
 While queenly mistress, 'mid the play of wit, 
 Rules the bright feast, and adds the trenchant 
 
 word. 
 The tones are hushed that bade our hearts rejoice, 
 
 The shafts of wit are sped; 
 And strangers o'er the threshold come and go, 
 Nor heed, nor know 
 
 Where linger mute reminders of the dead. 
 
 Trained in that household, which fond memory 
 
 sees 
 As erst the happy home of lettered ease, 
 Two almoners extend a willing hand 
 To bless for aye the pilgrim-band. 
 They bid their feet no longer roam, 
 But here to find a lasting home : — 
 One free to all; since none may stay 
 The flood where minds their thirst would slake: 
 The power that would exclusion make, 
 
 And raise a bar to keep away 
 The poorest lad from Learning's shelf, — 
 
 To youthful Burns and Shakespeare say, 
 176 
 
"No boys with neither friends nor pelf 
 Have entrance here; the books are ours," 
 Would dwarf a soul's expanding powers, 
 Would rob the world, and rob itself! 
 
 To sire and matron long revered 
 
 This fitting monument is reared; 
 
 And brighter filial love shall shine 
 
 When burning here on Learning's shrine. 
 
 Brother and sister, side by side, 
 
 Have come to ope the portals wide; 
 
 They greet these wanderers, — now no more 
 
 Stray exiles on a friendless shore. 
 
 We see them pass, and give them cheer, 
 
 These pilgrims loved for many a year; 
 
 Who shall not honor them, who sees 
 
 Their stately dwelling 'mid the trees? 
 
 Ah ! Learning, Truth, and Poesy, 
 You now are hosts, the guests are we! 
 Well may you turn to bless the hands 
 
 Which give such largess from their store; 
 His soul, which all your dower expands, 
 
 Can tender you no more, 
 Than when he plans with patient care 
 Your home within this temple fair. 
 
 For her, so loved, — we know her well; 
 The half nor you nor I may tell; 
 To me a pleasure, her, a pain, 
 177 
 
To voice the praise our hearts contain. 
 I sometimes think, when her I find 
 So gay and brave, so true and kind, 
 'T is Rosalind herself again 
 Come back to solace mortal men! 
 
 Full many a sorrow added to its own, 
 And many a joy, the scholar's heart has known, 
 Seeking for wisdom in the world of books. 
 How cold and dead, to outward vision, looks 
 
 The volume known to fame! 
 Yet smouldering fire and blasts of quickening strength 
 Wait in its pages, leaping forth, at length, 
 
 To touch the soul responsive to its flame. 
 
 And if, in future years, some idling youth, 
 For whom the shop, the anvil, and the plough 
 Have no enticing call, — if such as he, 
 
 Startled by words of truth 
 Within these alcoves slumbering even now, 
 Shall find at last his prisoned soul set free, 
 His heart no longer mute, 
 And striking then the poet's quivering lute, 
 Shall waken melodies of wondrous power, 
 Unheard till that glad hour; 
 And, in immortal verse, 
 Which years to come and nations shall rehearse, 
 
 — So sweet the matchless strains, — 
 Picture for aye these level intervales, 
 
 178 
 
The sandy, pine-dark plains, 
 The palisaded bluffs, the impetuous stream, 
 The granite ledges, and the chestnut woods, 
 With charm that never fails: 
 
 Or, in impassioned dream, 
 Which takes no note of nature's solitudes, 
 Reveal the spirit's moods, 
 
 The same in every age and every clime; 
 Voice the keen agony that Sorrow knows 
 When fates, relentless, deal their cruel blows : 
 Sing of Love's flame, and Hope's bright rhapsody, 
 
 And soaring Faith sublime; 
 To minds untaught a quicker life impart, 
 From ignorance set free; 
 
 With trust in heaven sustain the sinking heart; 
 Teach wealth with poverty its goods to share; 
 For scorn, send pity; courage, for despair. 
 Till the brave carol dry the sufferer's tear, 
 The friendless toiler cheer, 
 And, sweeping on with accent deep and strong, 
 Arouse the world to lessen human wrong, — 
 
 If this the poet's mission, this his song, 
 Who will not deem the voice divinely given, — 
 A seraph pleading from the courts of heaven? 
 
 When such a singer, from some humble home 
 In happy years to come, 
 A spell of genius o'er the land shall cast, 
 And crown the city with his splendid fame, 
 179 
 
His townsmen, reckoning sordid gain and loss 
 And hoarded stores of generations past, 
 May prize their wealth, but count it all as dross 
 Matched with the proud possession of his name! 
 
 And if no honor come, nor wealth, nor power, 
 
 The while he lives, 
 He will not lack his life's sufficient dower, 
 
 The cheer which comfort gives. 
 Nature shall solace him with beauty born 
 
 His finer sense to feed; 
 The clouds his chariot, and the wind of morn 
 
 His coursing steed. 
 And when he pines for converse sweet and high. 
 
 Unrecognized, forlorn, 
 Apollo's self, descending from the sky, 
 
 Shall bear him on 
 To join the Muses where they sit and sing, 
 
 A happy band, by Helicon's bright spring. 
 
 But should no kingly bard, from Heaven sent, 
 
 With glimmering beauty deck the common fields, 
 Forever from these walls, with influence unspent, 
 
 Will flow the blessed power which knowledge 
 wields; 
 The sweet humanities can never roam 
 
 To leave your borders; agencies divine, 
 Blessing the farm-house and the city home, 
 
 These books shall prove, to strengthen and refine. 
 180 
 
And loftier purpose shall their pages preach, 
 Luring mankind to live a braver life; 
 
 A true philanthropy these halls will teach, 
 Calling our youth from wealth's ignoble strife, 
 
 And saying, — Fortune is a sacred trust: 
 
 Use it to make men wise, and merciful and just ! 
 
 Then men shall see that all the outward realm, 
 Whose charms material our senses hold, 
 Is but the shadow, lustreless and cold; 
 That thought, and spirit, and the soul's ideal 
 Are life's strong pilots, sitting at the helm, 
 Bearing us on, through Error's passing shows, 
 To what alone is absolute and real, — 
 The final verities which Heaven knows! 
 
 181 
 
MISSION OF THE MODERN CHURCH 
 
 Who walks to-day across the desert lands 
 Of far Baalbec, sees, flashing in the sun, 
 
 Great shafts of marble, set in whirling sands; 
 Whose lofty capitals, when day is done, 
 
 Bear to the light their crowns of sculptured stone, 
 
 Ruins of some proud temple overthrown. 
 
 No dome above them nearer than the sky; 
 
 No walls more solid than the viewless air; 
 Shattered beneath, their gleaming arches lie; 
 
 And where broad steps preserve the polished stair, 
 Once swept by crowds, a few lone pilgrims tread, 
 With echoing feet, the pavements of the dead. 
 
 Some Moslem rage had scathed the pillared plain, 
 Or curse of Heaven entailed a slower doom; 
 
 Till none toiled thither, save the camel-train 
 
 That passed with ventures from the Tyrian loom, 
 
 Or startled Arab, roving from his band; 
 
 Whose wondering eyes their vast proportions scanned. 
 
 What splendid city once was centred there, 
 What race it held, to what protecting god 
 
 Written by invitation of the Unitarian Church of Concord, New 
 Hampshire; and read there October 1, 1879, at a service held within 
 the church, for the dedication of a new chapel attached to its walls. 
 
 182 
 
Rose the grand temple, so supremely fair 
 
 When festal throngs its stately porches trod, 
 And shaming time and fate in its decay, 
 Let vagrant winds and doubtful rumor say! 
 
 Thine, great Apollo, is the sacred name 
 
 These pillars bear, — the Temple of the Sun! 
 
 Thine was the altar and the altar's flame ! 
 And now, of all thy worshippers, not one 
 
 Lives to invoke thine oracle divine, 
 
 No priest adores thee at thy crumbling shrine! 
 
 Yet long as ruined fanes shall crown the steep 
 By eastern shores, the traveller will turn 
 
 To ponder there the problems that still keep 
 Their old significance; for faith will burn, 
 
 And human hearts with love responsive beat 
 
 Where once religion held her honored seat. 
 
 Where grief had come to lay its burden down, 
 
 Where heavenly longing sighed its rapturous breath, 
 
 Where faith, in visions, saw the victor's crown 
 Awaiting chastened spirits after death, — 
 
 There has the spot, where Error lived and died, 
 
 By man's deep reverence been sanctified. 
 
 Who scorns the past knows not its priceless dower; 
 
 Nor what inheritance of deed and thought 
 Hath made the fulness of the present hour, 
 
 183 
 
And all its sweet associations wrought, 
 Till life were beggared and the world forlorn 
 If once the treasures of the past were gone. 
 
 Scholar and poet, Christian though they be, 
 Still worship in the Temple of the Sun; 
 
 Apollo lives, the god of Poesy; 
 Each day on high his shining course is run 
 
 Through flashing skies; and bright Aurora waits 
 
 His glorious coming at her purple gates. 
 
 O'er shadowy peaks at night, when winds are laid, 
 Dian still guides afar the moonlit chase; 
 
 Pan wanders piping down the forest glade 
 
 To troops of listening fauns; with dreadful face 
 
 Jove hurls his thunder where the tempest raves, 
 
 And Neptune calms the tumult of the waves. 
 
 The dead religion peoples with its brood 
 
 Of airy folk the universe we see; 
 It left its sea-nymphs gliding in the flood, 
 
 Hid laughing dryads in the rustling tree, 
 And wrote on starlit spaces of the air 
 Immortal tragedies of love's despair. 
 
 Thus hath it clothed with human interest 
 Th' insensate life of tree and star and flower; 
 
 Given a human soul to bird and beast, 
 And wrought our alien hearts, with such sweet power, 
 184 
 
To sympathy with all the voiceless kind 
 That common ties our kindred natures bind. 
 
 For this, as for that matchless art of thine, 
 That wrought a vision of thy gods in stone, 
 
 Till, by the sculptor's chisel made divine, 
 They bear immortal life on earth alone, 
 
 The poet's heart must reverence thy dust, 
 
 O faith of Greece! — the Christian shall be just. 
 
 This Grecian faith the conquering Roman gave 
 To Syrian cities; and in turn received 
 
 From one small province he had made his slave, 
 Far on the Syrian coast, the faith believed 
 
 By Europe's every race that built its home 
 
 On lands dismembered from barbaric Rome. 
 
 A faith of many creeds, — as prophets saw, 
 Through lapsing virtues of the elder church, 
 
 Some clearer revelations of God's law, 
 And won disciples in their earnest search; 
 
 Till sects unnumbered sought the Christian fold, 
 
 Bringing new dogmas to replace the old. 
 
 Alike in this, — a reverent assent 
 To faith in one Creator, good and wise, 
 
 In Christ, its founder, as divinely sent 
 To lift men's souls to nobler destinies, — 
 
 Till all shall join in one great brotherhood, 
 
 Each life a labor for the common good. 
 185 
 
From these according truths how widely stray 
 All lesser tenets where the mind is free! 
 
 From doctrines preached where papal Rome has sway, 
 To bold dissenter's latest heresy; 
 
 While mild Religion, under every guise, 
 
 Blends cold belief with loving sympathies. 
 
 No ancient system of belief we hold, 
 
 Though truths like ours the early fathers taught; 
 For scarcely yet a hundred years have rolled 
 
 Since Channing's birth; and his the ripened thought 
 That gave New England, from her bondage free, 
 A nobler faith and larger liberty. 
 
 No mighty min sters rise beyond the seas 
 To lift our creed on their emblazoned walls; 
 
 No vestured choirs chant their litanies 
 
 Within the simple courts where Reason calls 
 
 Her clear-eyed children to adore the might 
 
 Of Him whose bounty grants us life and light. 
 
 His name we frame not in our paltry speech; 
 
 No finite thought can comprehend His powers; 
 Nature and man, His own creations, teach 
 
 What laws are His, what obligations ours. 
 We read His greatness in the vaulted skies, 
 The earth reveals Him bounteous and wise. 
 
 A trust in man must follow faith in God, 
 Since nothing human is, but all divine. 
 186 
 
Man's soul from its Creator came endowed 
 
 With love of right; and Heaven will not consign 
 An erring child to woe, with frowning face, 
 Unless appeased by interceding grace. 
 
 The church we honor frees the fettered mind 
 From ancient bonds of ignorance and sin; 
 
 The good it covets is for all mankind; 
 
 It seeks no Heaven which others may not win; 
 
 Content with man its every bliss to share, 
 
 Or with him sink to pitiless despair. 
 
 It says to human thought, — No slave art thou, 
 Vassal of church or state! pursue thy way 
 
 Free as the air that sweeps the mountain's brow! 
 All realms are thine to enter and survey. 
 
 Thou seekest Truth; the Church must bow to her, 
 
 Religion's self her humblest worshipper. 
 
 It says to science, — God's recorded word 
 
 Was not entrusted unto man alone; 
 The story of creation, still unheard, 
 
 Lies writ on tablets of unquarried stone; 
 Thine to decipher earth's embedded scroll, 
 But ours to seek therein th' indwelling soul! 
 
 Such the belief these sacred walls have heard, 
 
 Preached by brave souls for many steadfast years. 
 What tender memories the hour has stirred 
 187 
 
In hearts that listen! what resistless tears 
 Well forth at visions of the loved of yore 
 Whose clasping hands may greet us nevermore! 
 
 The living meet here, but not they alone; 
 
 Up the long aisle, with noiseless footsteps, tread 
 A shadowy throng, from realms to us unknown, — 
 
 Grave, aged men, now numbered with the dead, 
 Fair maids, and smiling children with sweet eyes, 
 Who left these courts for worship in the skies. 
 
 The very air seems dreaming of the past; 
 
 It thrills again to silvery cadences 
 From lips now mute; it feels the organ-blast, 
 
 Bearing aloft sonorous harmonies 
 Forever hushed; and from departed hours 
 Steals the faint breath of blooming altar-flowers. 
 
 Yet look not to the past! the future waits 
 For help of thine; her pleading orphans come 
 
 Soon to confront thee at thy open gates, 
 O mother church! — hast thou for them a home? 
 
 The heavy-laden turn to thee for rest; 
 
 Clasp Sorrow's children to thy pitying breast! 
 
 Maintain thy sacred trust! while others seek 
 The favor of the great, be this thy pride, — 
 
 Against the many, valiant words to speak 
 For truths unpopular and rights denied. 
 188 
 
Boast that the friendless love thy service best, 
 That with thee walk the poor and the opprest! 
 
 Let the dear saints you canonize be they 
 Who for religious freedom lived and died; 
 
 Who sought, by labors for mankind, to stay 
 Grief's bitter flood, and Error's whelming tide; 
 
 In whatsoever church or land or time, 
 
 They held their course with fortitude sublime. 
 
 Thy prophets they who in the darkling east 
 
 Saw freedom's dawn, and led the world to see, - 
 The Greek philosopher and English priest, 
 • Italian friar, and German monk, and he 
 Who trod Judea's fields, — and all who brought 
 A clearer vision to man's struggling thought. 
 
 modern church! to thine own self be true! 
 
 Live not content with thine heroic past, 
 So long as labor waits for thee to do! 
 
 Nor deem thy crown has come to thee at last! 
 Truth still pleads barefoot at the convent gate, 
 While Error sits enthroned amid the great. 
 
 When time shall see thee mumbling o'er a creed, 
 Praying within thy pale for faith, not light, 
 
 Thine eyes averted from thy brother's need, 
 A craven champion of imperilled right, — 
 
 Then, from thy tottering temple Truth shall fly 
 
 To wider limits and a freer sky! 
 189 
 
PRINCE HENRY OF PORTUGAL 
 THE NAVIGATOR 
 
 IN COMMEMORATION OF THE FIVE-HUNDREDTH 
 ANNIVERSARY OF HIS BIRTH 
 
 Five hundred years; and yet on earth 
 We note the day that gave him birth 
 
 In lands afar; 
 The stainless prince, — he lives again, 
 As pure of soul, as brave, as when 
 He moved a leader among men, 
 
 Their guiding star. 
 
 His mother's worth, his father's fame 
 Summon the boy to nobler aim 
 
 Than courts inspire; 
 High thoughts his youthful dreams control; 
 From war's assaults his ardent soul 
 Turns to pursue a loftier goal, 
 
 His life's desire. 
 
 Read in Boston, March 4, 1894, at a public meeting held by the 
 Castilian Club, in honor of this noble and enlightened son of a 
 Portuguese king. 
 
 Prince Henry, born in Oporto, March 4, 1394, was, through his 
 mother, great-grandson of Edward III of England; and it was the 
 widow of one of his captains, and the possessor of some of his 
 maritime charts, who became the wife of Columbus. 
 
 190 
 
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A thirst for wisdom in his heart, 
 A proud resolve to bear his part 
 
 With men renowned, 
 He seeks to benefit his race, 
 To give his land an honored place, — 
 And o'er unfathomed seas to trace 
 
 The horizon's bound. 
 
 No princely revenues he spends 
 On idle pomp, for petty ends, 
 
 Or selfish gain; 
 Of frugal life, his wealth he pours 
 To lift the veil from hidden shores, 
 To round the farthest cape, where roars 
 
 The trackless main. 
 
 His science frames the guiding chart, 
 He trains the captains for their part; 
 
 The ships obey; 
 Onward they sail at his behest, 
 Knowledge and light their only quest, 
 While Heaven he asks, with reverent breast, 
 
 To lead the way. 
 
 He loves the raging winds that sweep 
 His venturous fleets across the deep 
 Toward distant lands ! 
 No music like the smiting oar, 
 The cordage strained, the surges' roar, 
 191 
 
The shout of sailors far from shore, 
 The shrill commands. 
 
 For palace floors, the grating sand; 
 His roof, the cloudy spaces fanned 
 
 By freshening gales; 
 The sun-burnt crew his courtiers all; 
 The stars his counsellors; the call 
 Of boatswain's piping, and the fall 
 
 Of shivering sails, — 
 
 These are his minstrels; his acclaim 
 When savage races speak his name 
 
 And learn his art. 
 With single purpose, high and pure, 
 No failures daunt, nor doubts obscure; 
 To science wed, no loves allure 
 
 His constant heart. 
 
 High on the storm-swept, barren cape, 
 'Mid spray and mist, a gallant shape, 
 
 I see him stand, 
 Shading his eyes, if yet there be 
 Far southward, on the gleaming sea, 
 The speck that tells his argosy 
 
 Returns to land. 
 
 No snowy sails can shine so fair, 
 No laden caravels can bear 
 192 
 
So rich a prize, 
 As when, half -wrecked, with splintered mast, 
 His shattered fleet comes home at last, 
 To tell of limits overpassed 
 
 And widening skies. 
 
 Such the good prince whose science gave 
 To seamen power to cross the wave 
 
 In years to come. 
 Their ships another world shall trace, 
 The while he joins his father's race 
 And makes with them his dwelling place 
 
 His lasting home. 
 
 I stood, a pilgrim by their tomb, 
 Where all the chapel's storied gloom 
 
 Their lives recall : 
 O'er pillared arch and fretted stone 
 The windows' lofty splendors shone, 
 With flecks of molten color thrown 
 
 On floor and wall. 
 
 The victor-king, in martial pride, 
 Dreams still of war, his queen beside, 
 
 And smiles intent; 
 Lord of a realm by valor won, 
 His temple reared, his labors done, 
 The sceptre passing to his son, 
 
 He sleeps content. 
 193 
 
His noble queen, beneath the light 
 Where leopards tell of England's might, 
 
 Forgets her throne, 
 Her native land; for what to her 
 Are thoughts of haughty Lancaster 
 Or Lisbon's state? Her pulses stir 
 
 To clasp her own: 
 
 From battle-field and Moorish plain 
 The five brave sons have come again, 
 
 Her call to heed; 
 King Duarte, weary of his crown; 
 Pedro, his pilgrims' staff laid down; 
 Henry and John; of sad renown, 
 
 Her captive, freed. 
 
 All save the exiled Isabel, 
 
 The only daughter, loved so well, 
 
 Who rests, at last, 
 Where Burgundy's proud lords repose; 
 Herself at peace or ere she knows 
 Her son lies slain amid his foes, 
 
 His triumphs past. 
 
 Batalha, home where heroes sleep, 
 Long may your sheltering bosom keep 
 
 Its priceless dust! 
 There still shall slumber side by side, 
 This royal house, a nation's pride, 
 194 
 
To tell how princes lived and died, 
 High-souled and just. 
 
 Five hundred years are but a day 
 When Honor summons such as they 
 
 To deathless fame. 
 And long as ocean's current pours 
 Past Sagres Cape and Afric's shores, 
 Madeira and the bright Azores, 
 Shall Memory keep amid her stores 
 
 Prince Henry's name. 
 
 195 
 
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