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 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 , The Estate of n 
 Irs. Charles Beaumont 
 
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 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 924 050 871 
 
 874 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924050871874 
 
MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
MEMORIES ofCHILDHOOD 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 A. T. BARNES 
 
 BELLONA, N. Y.: 
 
 PUBWSHED BY THE AUTHOR. 
 1888. 
 
Press of W. F. Humphrey, 
 Geneva, N. Y, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The following poems were nearly all writ- 
 ten at the request of friends, and without any- 
 thought of presenting them to the public. Yield- 
 ing to the solicitation of a number of my friends 
 who have urged me to put them in book form I 
 have decided to do so. In doing this I am well 
 aware they are open to criticism. Conscious as 
 I am of their faults, yet I trust the Public will 
 be lenient in its judgment and accept them in a 
 spirit of generosity, which is the wish of the 
 Author. A. T. Barnes. 
 
 Bellona, N. V., October, '8S. 
 
TO MY WIFE, 
 
 Faithful in trials^ devoted irt 
 affliSlion, 
 
 This little volume is 
 inscribed. 
 
MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 1832-1837. 
 
 m 
 
 TO MY SISTER, MRS. W. T. BEATTIE. 
 
 To-night I'm sitting here and musing, 
 By the fire-light's fitful glow ; 
 Memory is painting pictures 
 Of my childhood long ago. 
 
 In all my varied wanderings, 
 And I have had my share, 
 The memory of those happy days 
 Have been with me everywhere. 
 
 Pleasant thoughts of thee, Eliza, 
 Now come crowding in my brain ; 
 By those bright and vivid pidlures 
 I'm a child with thee again. 
 
 O'er the hill again we wander. 
 Together paddle in the brook. 
 Frighten all the little minnows 
 Till they seek some sheltered nook ; 
 
 Chase the gaudy butterfly, 
 As it flits from leaf to flower. 
 Sometimes catch, but oftener miss. 
 While we pass the happy hour. 
 
We watched in early spring-time, 
 Tiie blue birds 'neath the eaves, 
 And later on the orioles 
 Among the apple leaves. 
 
 To the robins, wrens and phebes, 
 And the yellow-birds so bright, 
 And all the little songsters 
 We listened with delight. 
 
 Day after day in wonder, 
 We saw the pigeons, flight, 
 The flocks in such vast numbers ' 
 Almost obscured the light. 
 
 The sweet-brier and the lilacs, 
 In luxuriant beauty grew, 
 As the hollyhocks and rockets ; 
 So did the woodbine too. 
 
 The fragrance that floated. 
 Upon the summer air, 
 Was to our childish fancy 
 Known only then and there. 
 
 * Vast flocks of wild pigeons flew nortliward in the spring of 
 1832. I distinctly remember watching them by the hour with my 
 little sister. 
 
 (6) 
 
And the geese were ours to gather, 
 When our mother in her chair, 
 Plucked them of their downy feathers 
 With her skilled and patient care. 
 
 When Mary milked " Old Brindle," 
 
 We looked on from afar ; 
 
 Fear kept us at a distance 
 
 For sometimes 't\Vas decisive war. 
 
 When " Old Brindle " was the vidlor, 
 Then with cries of fear and pain, 
 Mary, stool and pail together, 
 All went rolling o'er the plain. 
 
 When the shades of evening gathered. 
 Then at our father'^s knee. 
 We listened to his stories 
 Of lands beyond the sea. 
 
 How eagerly we listened. 
 To his stories so well told. 
 Some gathered from historic lore 
 Some of legends quaint and old. 
 
 On Sabbath days in summer, 
 When all was hushed and still, 
 Our way with mother wended 
 To " the old church on the hill." 
 
 (7) 
 
The lake lay in the distance, 
 While the boats did glide along, 
 "Was a pidlure of rare beauty- 
 Worthy of a poet's song. 
 
 The singing, so quaint and simple, 
 Where all who could took part, 
 Stirring, often deeply stirring, 
 Deep emotions of the heart. 
 
 No organs then were needed. 
 As aids to help them raise 
 Their hearts in pure devotion 
 In hymns and songs of praise. 
 
 Those lessons from the pulpit. 
 Clad in plainest garb of speech, 
 Were given with such fervor 
 That the coldest heart would reach. 
 
 In those sermons was free grace. 
 With free will ; and often turning 
 From the do6lrine of Atonement 
 To a certain lake of burning. 
 
 But those laborers of the vineyard. 
 To their Master's work were true — 
 Long since gone, yet now we see 
 "" They builded better than they knew." 
 
 (8) 
 
As we listened to those" sermons, 
 Little cared we indeed, 
 For the difference 'tween Armenian 
 Or the Calvinistic creed. 
 
 For our mother was our teacher. 
 And to her the trust was given, 
 To guide our wayward feet 
 In the path that leads to Heaven. 
 
 From her lips we learned the story, 
 Of our Saviour's wondrous birth, 
 How He left the world of Glory 
 Came and dwelt upon the earth. 
 
 In His arms the children gathered. 
 And His blessing to them gave • 
 Told of His life so spotless 
 From the manger to the grave. 
 
 How far we may have w^andered, 
 From that pathway of our youth, 
 Parted with our childhood's faith 
 And our innocence and truth. 
 
 God forgive us all our wanderings,. 
 Out on the mountain's cold. 
 May we our few remaining years 
 Be safely kept within the fold. 
 
 (9) 
 
Oh ! what happiness was ours, 
 When round our grandsire's hearth, 
 We gathered with our cousins 
 And joined in childish mirth. 
 
 Few and simple were our pleasures. 
 Then all was peace and harmony. 
 Modern style had not crept in 
 And with it discord, jealousy. 
 
 But some by the wayside perished. 
 In the early morn of life, 
 And others ere the noontide 
 Sank wearied with the strife. 
 
 The rest are widely scattered. 
 Some on a western plain. 
 While one by one are passing 
 Till now very few remain. 
 
 And those sacred hearth stones. 
 By other feet are pressed, 
 And those well remembered forms 
 Have long since gone to rest. 
 
 Let us, the few who linger. 
 Near those scenes of early youth, 
 Within our heart's keep burning 
 The fires of Friendship, Love and Truth. 
 
 (lo) 
 
When we reach that Golden City, 
 Where those " many mansions " are, 
 And mingle with those loved ones 
 We shall know each other there ! 
 
 March, 'S8. 
 
 TO MY CANE. 
 
 Upon a mountain's rocky crest 
 Where the eagle builds her nest, 
 Where winter winds blow wild and strong. 
 Where summer sunsets linger long, 
 Where cruel birds and beasts of prey 
 Hold an undisputed sway — 
 
 Here, in primeval grandeur, stood 
 Mighty monarchs of the wood. 
 'Neath their sheltering arms I found 
 Thee firmly rooted in the ground. 
 I took thee from thy native home 
 With me thro' distant lands to roam. 
 
 When over western plains we'd tramp 
 Thro' herbage rank and often damp, 
 With such a slow and devious course 
 You was not like "John Gilpin's horse," 
 When walking out to take the air; 
 You was not like " O'Shanter's mare," 
 
 (II) 
 
But like a true and faithful friend 
 On whom I always could depend. 
 It is our patriotic boast 
 From Atlantic to Pacific's coast, 
 From northern lakes to southern shore,. 
 Slaves are bought and sold no more. 
 
 That all who breathe our native air 
 Now are free ! and no one dare, 
 With fetters or with slavish chain, 
 To bind his brother man again. 
 Thou art a slave to me, and still 
 Obedient to my slightest will. 
 
 Uncomplaining when together 
 Exposed to various kinds of weather,. 
 In all our trials, not a word 
 Of fault from thee was ever heard. 
 On thy support I could depend, 
 Who'd sooner break than even bend. 
 
 You've been broken and tho' mended 
 I fear your usefulness is ended. 
 And when your service is all o'er 
 We'll walk together never more. 
 Your epitaph I here have penned 
 " In mem'ry of a faithful friend." 
 
 May 22, '88. 
 
 (12) 
 
THE RIDE. 
 
 The following incident was told the writer by a 
 lady at Gettysburg in 1885, who was an eye-witness to 
 the scene : 
 
 'Twas in the grand " Old Keystone State " 
 Where men and mountains both are great; 
 Plenty are found around their fires 
 •Of patriotic sons and sires. 
 
 Where duty is no idle dream 
 But love of country reigns supreme, 
 The clouds of war were gathering fast, 
 "The sky with gloom was overcast. 
 
 IPor soon to meet in dread array 
 At Gettysburg, the Blue and Gray, 
 And there mid carnage and the roar 
 Those fields to soak with human gore. 
 
 The harvest there that Death did reap 
 Was enough^ to make the Angels weep. 
 Just east of town, few miles away, 
 On the road a hamlet lay. 
 
 'Twas on a pleasant day in June; 
 The sun had passed the hour of noon. 
 Beauty bathed both hill and plain. 
 The waving grass and ripening grain. 
 
 (13) 
 
Quartered there some Rebels lay- 
 Resting tlie noontide hour away. 
 The officers, a little group, 
 Were smoking on the hotel stoop. 
 
 Coming down the street, in full view, 
 A horseman clad in garb of blue. 
 As he that group went dashing by 
 Of course at once he caught their eye. 
 
 Above his head his cap he swung. 
 Quick to their feet the " Johnnie's " sprung. 
 The volleys flew around his head 
 Of oaths and shot as on he sped. 
 
 The horse and rider both seemed charmed 
 As they sped on and both unharmed. 
 No need had he that horse to urge 
 While dashing on towards Gettysburg. 
 
 His voice rang out both loud and clear,, 
 Without the slightest sign of fear, 
 " Good bye, boys ; there's more to come,, 
 Enough to drive you all back home." 
 
 The moments few, his rapid flight 
 Bore him soon beyond their sight. 
 Just out of town with rapid pace 
 Came on some Rebels face to face. 
 
 (14) 
 
On the neck tTie reins were flung 
 Lightly to the ground he sprung, 
 Canteen in hand he spoke a word 
 Their inmost hearts it deeply stirred. 
 
 " Boys, let us drink ;" a welcome sound,. 
 
 As quick the canteen passed around. 
 " Boys, help yourselves ;" and then again,, 
 
 Until the bottom they did drain. 
 
 At length upon the ground they lay 
 Regardless of the Blue or Gray. 
 Adiing then upon the thought 
 His saddle soon again he sought. 
 
 His horse was turned towards the north: 
 And leisurely he sallied forth. 
 When out of sight he onward flew 
 Until he met some boys in Blue. 
 
 With him they rode, he as their guide> 
 Back o'er the track they fast did ride ; 
 Soon reached the Rebs ; ere set of sun 
 They captured " every mother's son." 
 
 My tale is told ! had I his name 
 I'd place it on the roll of fame. 
 And on that roll I write it^high 
 For deeds like his should never die.'* 
 
 June, '88. 
 
 (15) 
 
THE OLD FIRE-PLACE. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR MRS. S. L. P. 
 
 I'm sitting in the twilight, 
 The dew is falling fast, 
 The bee is homeward bound, 
 The day will soon be past. 
 
 High up I hear the night-hawks whirr. 
 In the grass the crickets sing. 
 Soon the owl will venture forth. 
 The bat be on the wing. 
 
 The cat-bird in the thicket. 
 Its notes so loud and shrill. 
 Now mingles with the music. 
 Of the mournful Whippoorwill. 
 
 While in the gloaming, Josie, 
 Will you come and sit by me ; 
 I'll talk to you of other days, 
 Living in my memory. 
 
 We'll talk of those distant years, 
 That I've lived o'er and o'er ; 
 And now as I number them. 
 They count a full threescore. 
 
 (i6) 
 
I'll tell you of the fire-place, 
 That in the -kitchen stood, 
 Which in the cold and wintry days^ 
 Was well supplied with wood. 
 
 Above the fire was swung the crane^ 
 On which the vessels hung, 
 Where our frugal fare was cooked, 
 And where the kettles sung. 
 
 The andirons in the fire-place, 
 On which was piled the wood, 
 The shovel and the tongs, 
 There in each corner stood. 
 
 On the right side of the fire-place, 
 The " old brick oven " stood ; 
 On baking days W5.s well supplied, 
 With " good dry oven wood." 
 
 The old clock in the corner. 
 Kept ticking day and night, 
 The hands, those silent monitors^ 
 Were always pointing right. 
 
 On one side hung the little glass ; 
 The brush and combs were there. 
 Each morning, noon and evening, 
 To brush and comb our hair. 
 
 (17) 
 
And when the winter holidays, 
 Yearly came around, 
 The tongs were used to make the mark. 
 Where " Santa Claus " came down. 
 
 Our stockings on the chimney jamb, 
 Were filled unto their brim ; 
 When in the morn we emptied them, 
 We always thought of him. 
 
 Oh ! childish faith, so beautiful, 
 That gilds life's early morn. 
 Why should so much of brightness, 
 Be rudely from us torn ? 
 
 ' The old kitchen " now is gone, 
 The fire-place and the hearth ; 
 We'll see no more those happy days, 
 Those scenes of childish mirth. 
 
 August, 
 
 LINES TO JAMES SCOON. 
 
 'Tis well in life's journey, 
 'Mid the toil and the strife, 
 To pause, and look backward. 
 O'er our pathway of life. 
 
 (18) 
 
Just as the tired traveller, 
 So weary and foot sore, 
 By the wayside sits him down. 
 And looks his journey o'er. 
 
 As he along that pathway 
 Casts his anxious gaze. 
 There amid the misty past, 
 And clouded by the haze. 
 
 He sees here a pleasant word, 
 And there a kindly deed, 
 That's often healed a wounded heart. 
 That other's caused to bleed. 
 
 He sees here a helping hand. 
 He's given to one in need. 
 Raised him from despondency. 
 And proved a friend indeed. 
 
 He sees, too, where he stumbled. 
 O'er rough places on his way, 
 And showed his moral weakness, 
 In no uncertain way. 
 
 He sees, too, a little word. 
 He's dropped without a thought, 
 And now can- see with sorrow. 
 What mischief it hath wrought. 
 
 (19) 
 
Sees, too, the seeds of friendship. 
 He's sown in sunny hours. 
 That all along his pathway, 
 Hath ripened into flowers. 
 
 And to his grateful senses, 
 Is wafted sweet perfume ; 
 Like strains of sweetest music, 
 Dispels the deepest gloom. 
 
 Again with steadfast eye, 
 
 He looks his future o'er; 
 
 Though hard and rugged it may seem,. 
 
 Yet looks with dread no more. 
 
 f 
 
 For he sees the distant hill tops, 
 Tinged by the setting sun, 
 And feels the day not distant. 
 When his journey will be done. 
 
 Here, my friend, we stand together. 
 Bound by friendships closest ties'; 
 Look forward to the future. 
 With a faith that never dies. 
 
 As we bring the past before us. 
 
 Oh ! how varied is the view ; 
 
 Like lights and shades they pass before us,. 
 
 Ever changing, ever new. 
 
 (20) 
 
"Thro' the furnace of affliction, 
 We have both been often led, 
 So the brightness and the sunshine. 
 Often from our paths have fled. 
 
 As we gather up the fragments, 
 Of our past and look them o'er, 
 We can see His hand hath led us, 
 Thro' years that reach beyond three score. 
 
 And tho' darkness* now enshrouds thee, 
 Still in Him thy trust repose. 
 Best assured He will be with thee, 
 Even until life shall close. 
 
 In that bright and glorious morning, 
 That shall dawn on yonder shore. 
 There all mists of earth shall vanish. 
 There all darkness will be o'er. 
 
 July 
 
 SENECA LAKE. 
 
 Fair Seneca ! again I meet thee, 
 Again I walk thy pebbly shore. 
 Again I see thy wondrous beauty. 
 As I have in days of 5'^ore. 
 
 'Totally blind. 
 
 (21) 
 
Still ttou art a gem of beauty, 
 Thy waters sparkling, ever clear, 
 And among that band of sisters, 
 Thou art still without a peer. 
 
 I would ask thee, but how vainly. 
 All thy secrets me to tell. 
 They are hidden too securely. 
 Thou dost keep thy secrets well. 
 
 But again I see that phantom, * 
 As it often came in view, 
 Gazed upon by the red man, 
 As an evil Manitou. 
 
 Again at evening see the moonbeams, 
 Glisten o'er thy waters blue. 
 See the dusky Indian maiden. 
 In her airy bark canoe. 
 
 Where she paddles o'er thy bosom. 
 With her Indian lover true, 
 Listening to " that same old story," 
 Old as Eden, yet ever new. 
 
 * An object frequently seen on the lake, and called the ' ' Wan- 
 dering Jew." A tree that had been uprooted, and had kept a 
 perpendicular position and was moved in the water as driven by 
 the wind. 
 
 (22) 
 
And that story oft repeated, 
 Thro' the intervening years, 
 By the ardent pale faced lover. 
 Into not unwilling ears. 
 
 As they glided o'er thy bosom, 
 Beating with responsive swell, 
 Thou didst listen to that story, 
 But hast kept their secrets well. 
 
 Long since has gone that phantom. 
 Long has gone the red man too. 
 No more will the Indian maiden, 
 Paddle in her light canoe. 
 
 Here I muse on days that are vanished, 
 Of happy days, forever fled. 
 Of those dear and much loved ones. 
 Who are numbered with the dead. 
 
 Loved Seneca ! thy wavelets 
 Still will kiss thy pebbly shore ; 
 Other bards will sing thy praises. 
 When the writer is no more. 
 
 August, '88. 
 
 (23) 
 
TO CARRIE S- 
 
 I had huug my harp on the willow, 
 For I feared it was utterly vain, 
 From its chords once so responsive. 
 To waken sweet music again. 
 
 Be an instrument never so perfedl. 
 If the hand of the master is gone, 
 'Twill give no response to our pleading. 
 But linger in silence alone. 
 
 If there was aught its silence could break, 
 And over it bring inspiration, 
 It surely was a magical word, 
 And that was thy kind invitation. 
 
 Kind friend, for thy smile of welcome, 
 I can only repay thee in part, 
 'Twill ever bring sweet satisfaction. 
 And always find place in my heart. 
 
 At thy magical touch, sweet flowers 
 Seem to spring into beauty and life, 
 Bring delight to all their beholders, 
 With beauty and fragrance they're rife. 
 
 Thy kindness of heart ever prompts thee. 
 To deeds so gentle and pure. 
 Followed by blessings as lasting. 
 As long as thy life shall endure. 
 
 (24) 
 
At the bedside of the afflidled, 
 There Carrie could always be seen, 
 To the aid of the sick and the needy, 
 Like an angel thou ever hast been. 
 
 If the world was filled with such spirits, 
 'Twould lighten our burdens to carry ; 
 The desire in our hearts would be strengthened, 
 On earth much longer to tarry. 
 
 Why one whose life is so useful. 
 Whose mission seems onl\' to bless. 
 To her lips the cup of affliAion, 
 So often be called on to press — 
 
 Our vision here is so clouded. 
 And often so darkened our sight. 
 Much that seems so entirely wrong, 
 In the end will be found to be right. 
 
 Sept., '88. 
 
 TO MY BROTHER, H. S. BARNES. 
 
 My shadows are lengthening. 
 My twilight has begun, 
 My journey's well nigh ended. 
 My life work almost done. 
 
 (25) 
 
Thro' weeks and'months I've battled, 
 And struggled for my life ; 
 'Till wearied with the contest, 
 Exhausted with the strife. 
 
 My hands are like the aspen, 
 As it trembles in the breeze. 
 My body like the bruised reed, 
 So feeble from disease. 
 
 The clouds have gathered darkly, 
 Around my aching head, 
 My earthly prospedls blighted. 
 And all but hope has fled. 
 
 As those clouds gathered darkness. 
 Like the darkness of despair; 
 Faith pointed with her finger. 
 Showed a silver lining there. 
 
 And further she taught me. 
 The righteous will.be fed, ■ 
 And ne'er will be forsaken. 
 Or his seed go begging bread. 
 
 While memory now wanders, 
 Along the stream of time ; 
 Our threads of life I'll gather up. 
 And weave them into rhyme. 
 
 (26) 
 
I'll tell how hard we struggled, 
 E're our manhood was begun, 
 Tell of our daily toiling. 
 From morn till set of sun. 
 
 As years were creeping onward. 
 And we to manhood grew. 
 We were lavish of our labor, 
 And to our duty true. 
 
 Those years to us brought changes, 
 And they were often great, 
 They gave to each a fireside, 
 And path that were separate. 
 
 Prosperity shone brightly. 
 All along thy way ; 
 If clouds e'er intervened, 
 They came not long to stay. 
 
 And now from out your doorway. 
 You can gaze upon your lands. 
 And say with exultation. 
 See the labor of my hands. 
 
 Misfortune hath followed me. 
 
 With broken hours and beds of pain, 
 
 And like an arrow's flight. 
 
 The steel was driven to my brain ! * 
 
 * An accident, a pitchfork tine driven thro' an eye to my 
 brain ! Aug. 31st, 1853. 
 
 (27) 
 
In my eager thirst for winning, 
 When about to gain the prize, 
 E're I conld grasp and hold it, 
 'Twould vanish from my eyes. 
 
 Just like the Ignis Fatus, 
 That with alluring light, 
 It led me into darkness. 
 Then vanished from my sight. 
 
 Here where I'd fought so bravely, f 
 And when I'd gained the day, ' 
 Affliction like a whirlwind. 
 Came and swept it all away. 
 
 Just like a stranded vessel. 
 Whose long career now ends ; 
 And little else is left me. 
 But life and hope and friends. 
 
 But if my blessings I'd gather. 
 How high they would mount. 
 And be by far too many, 
 For me to try and count. 
 
 The richest earthly blessing, 
 " Heaven's last best gift to man," 
 A true devoted wife. 
 First on the list would stand. 
 
 t Middletown, N. Y. 
 
 (28) 
 
My children, oh ! how closely, 
 In my heart they're enshrined. 
 And with its tenderest fibres, 
 Are closely intertwined. 
 
 And all my friends, how many, 
 I've gathered on my way. 
 Their memory is precious. 
 And will be while I stay. 
 
 But brother, on our brows. 
 That once were smooth and fair. 
 Time with relentless vigor, 
 Hath plowed deep furrows there. 
 
 The day is swiftly coming. 
 And soon 'twill be at hand, 
 When on that silent river's bank. 
 We both will have to stand. 
 
 The boatman there is waiting. 
 And with his well-worn oar ; 
 Will waft us o'er the river, 
 Unto that distant shore. 
 
 'Twill be of little moment. 
 How much we leave behind. 
 For in that " Golden City;" 
 Our treasures there we'll find. 
 
 (29) 
 
Those treasures we've been laying up, 
 Thro' all our toilsome years, 
 Embalmed with Christian faith and hope, 
 And penitential tears. 
 
 Then freed from care and sorrow. 
 We'll be among the blest ; 
 And thro' a long eternity. 
 Forever, be- at rest, 
 
 March, '88. 
 
 LINES TO MARY F- 
 
 I've a book among my treasures, 
 'Tis a volume dear and old. 
 And upon its well worn pages. 
 Is this story briefly told. 
 
 Once a brother, loved so dearly, 
 In a tomb was placed alone. 
 And affedlion closed the portals, 
 With a huge and massive stone. 
 
 But He stood there whose power is ample. 
 The universe of worlds to sway, 
 And while weeping, at His bidding. 
 An angel rolled the stone away. 
 
 (30) 
 
At His word forth, came that brother, 
 Wakened into life again, , 
 Restored to friends, and there broken. 
 Was that dreamless slumber's chain. 
 
 In our hearts we all have treasures, 
 Buried deep from light of day ; 
 Memory is the blessed angel 
 That can roll the stone away. 
 
 Here alone the evening shadows, 
 Are shutting out the light of daj-, 
 And now almost unbidden,- 
 Memory rolls the stone away. 
 
 All those forms so well remembered, 
 Are now waked to life again. 
 From the misty past are coming, 
 In a long and voiceless train. ' 
 
 As that silent mute procession, 
 
 I can see now pass before me. 
 
 Oh ! how sweet, yet tinged with sadness, 
 
 Are the feelings that come o'er me. 
 
 And my mother sits beside me. 
 As she did in years agone ; 
 To her voice I seem to listen. 
 In its sweet and gentle tone. 
 
 (31) 
 
And my hand she presses gently, 
 Again her words I seem to hear, 
 In mild reproof, or approval, 
 As she made my duty clear. 
 
 But like shadows they are coming, 
 So like shadows they'll depart. 
 To that tomb of buried treasures. 
 Buried deep within my heart. 
 
 August, '88. 
 
 THOUGHTS 
 
 ON THE NEAR APPROACH OF DEATH. 
 
 I have come from a land of silence profound, 
 A land of darkness and gloom, 
 Where musical sounds never are heard. 
 Nor flowers ever yield their perfume. 
 
 All seemed so oppressive, the air 
 Seemed ladened with poisonous breath. 
 No sweet-scented zephyrs ever played there, 
 For it was the dark valley of death ! 
 
 The twilight of earth gave a mystical light, 
 Showing a river gliding silently by, 
 Its waters so deep, so cold, and so dark, 
 Its bounds I failed to descry. 
 
 (32) 
 
While standing tliere vainly trying to see, 
 His presence I felt by my side, 
 The light of the gospel shone forth bright and clear, 
 Revealing the river's dark tide, 
 
 Far away on that distant shore, 
 There bathed in glorious light. 
 An angelic band was hovering there, 
 All robed in beautiful white. 
 
 On this side was darkness and gloom, 
 While beyond by faith could be seen. 
 Visions of glory entrancing the sight. 
 But the river was rolling between. 
 
 His arms encircled my trembling form, 
 His words restored my fast fleeting breath. 
 Saying " I am with thee, I'll never forsake thee," 
 " Even thro' the dark valley of death." 
 
 Though gently withdrawn fromthatperilousbrink , 
 That summons again I shall hear, 
 But borne in his arms of infinite love. 
 That river I'll cross without fear. 
 
 March, '88. 
 
 (33) 
 
TO KITTIE L- 
 
 It was a Sabbath morning, 
 And all was bright and still, 
 A quiet haze was resting. 
 Over plain and hill. 
 
 The peaceful herd had gathered, 
 Beneath the welcome shade, 
 All creatures seemed enjoying. 
 The rest the Sabbath made. 
 
 The lake in quiet beauty. 
 Shone like a precious gem, 
 Becoming well the setting, 
 In nature's diadem. 
 
 The church bell in the village. 
 Rang out both loud and clear, 
 Calling the congregation 
 To come from far and near. 
 
 From farm house and from cottage. 
 Came the tillers of the soil. 
 The parents and children. 
 All wearied with their toil. 
 
 Maids and matrons, boys and men, 
 Seemed pleased again to meet. 
 And with a smile of welcome ; 
 They did each other greet. 
 
 (34) 
 
The pastor, after singing, 
 Devoutly offered prayer. 
 Invoking richest blessings 
 On all who'd gathered there. 
 
 The absent and afflicted, 
 Whate'er might be their lot, 
 In his appeal to heaven, 
 By him was ne'er forgot. 
 
 The reading of the sacred page. 
 Was then in order next. 
 And followed by a sermon, 
 From a well selected text. 
 
 To them in language simple. 
 He did his theme unfold ; 
 Spoke of those promised blessings, 
 Whose value is untold. 
 
 Warned them of the punishment. 
 That always follows doubt ; 
 How the Hebrews from Canaan, 
 Were forty years shut out. 
 
 With humble faith and works. 
 He urged on each and all, 
 To always listen and obey. 
 Bach duty's earnest call. 
 
 (35) 
 
With a fervent benedicftion, 
 The sermon being ended, 
 Then the congregation, 
 Soon homeward they wended. 
 
 Kittie ! we should be grateful. 
 For all such blessings given. 
 Surely they are lifting us, 
 One step nearer heaven! 
 
 September, '8S. 
 
 TO MARY B- 
 
 We can read the old sad story, 
 What devotion Mary gave. 
 With a mother's pure affedlion, 
 " Last at the cross, first at the grave." 
 
 And far down in Scottish story, 
 Read there of that gifted queen. 
 Who more sinned against than sinning. 
 Kindly has remembered been. 
 
 And the name gave inspiration, 
 To the gifted poet Burns ; 
 The lover of the pure and tender. 
 Ever to his " Mary " turns. 
 
 (36) 
 
O'er this rare and glorious pidlure, 
 Nature hath so lavish been, 
 Nestling here thy cosy cottage, 
 Adding beauty to the scene. 
 
 Let contentment like a halo, 
 Round thee cast its magic spell ; 
 Shedding peace o'er all thy treasures. 
 Treasures thou dost love so well. 
 
 In all my various wanderings, 
 I've ever found in homes like this, 
 Where love's the presiding genius ; 
 The highest type of earthly bliss. 
 
 Mary ! along life's rugged pathway, 
 May you gather sweetest flowers, 
 That shall ever bring you fragrance. 
 And cheer thee in thy weary hours. 
 
 Borne on life's resistless billows, 
 Like a bark far out to sea ; 
 Severed from those loved so dearly, 
 Shall I then remembered be ! 
 
 May not then this little tribute. 
 Waken in thy memory. 
 Bring to mind slight remembrance. 
 Of him who pens these lines for thee. 
 
 August, '88. 
 
 (37) 
 
TO CARRIE B- 
 
 The wood dove may forsake its mate, 
 The thrush forget to sing, 
 The quail no longer timid be. 
 Nor from its covert spring. 
 
 The lark may cease to upwards soar. 
 The bobolink no more may fill. 
 The air with joyous melody, 
 And chant no more the Whippoorwill. 
 
 All this will be e'er I forget. 
 Thy kindly words of sympathy, 
 The sunshine of thy gentle deeds, 
 Ever will remembered be. 
 
 August, '88. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON FINDING A LITTLE BIRD THAT HAD BEEN SHOT. 
 
 Poor little bird ! I found thee lying 
 On the ground, and thou wert dying, 
 Thy plumage soiled, I raised thy head. 
 And lo ! thy little life had fled. 
 
 Why should there be a human heart. 
 For sport should ply such murderous art, 
 Let me implore thee here to spare. 
 The feathered songsters of the air. 
 
 (38) 
 
Surely over all the land, 
 There's death enough on every hand ; 
 Bvery breeze with poisonous breath, 
 Is sowing thick the seeds of death. 
 
 Then grudge them not nor destroy. 
 So brief an interval of joy. 
 Undisturbed, oh ! let them be, 
 Joyous and happy, wild and free. 
 
 July, '8S. 
 
 TO C. E. B- 
 
 There's a heavenly visitor stands at your door, 
 Knocking and calling to you within, 
 " Open the door, your guest I will be." 
 Oh ! will you not let Him come in ? 
 
 He's been knocking and pleading there year 
 
 after year. 
 Why will you not let Him come in ? 
 Your house He will brighten and thoroughly 
 
 cleanse. 
 From all the defilements of sin. 
 
 Then listen to His pleading, and let Him come in. 
 And do not longer delay. 
 To your weary worn spirit He will give rest. 
 And peace will give you alway. 
 
 (.39) 
 
But there's a day coming if yon still refuse, 
 He no longer will stand there and wait ; 
 When the end comes your house you will find, 
 Unto you will be left desolate. 
 
 Then open the door and let Him come in ! 
 And obedience give Him with love, 
 An entrance He'll give you never more to go out, 
 In those heavenly mansions above. 
 
 march, '88. 
 
 TO MRS. J. 0- 
 
 A hundred years have passed away, 
 Since Scotia's soil was trod by Burns, 
 Pilgrims now from many lands. 
 Devoutly to his " Cottage " turns. 
 
 If e'er there was a human heart, 
 Inspired by light divine. 
 Thro' coming years to cheer and bless, 
 I'm sure that heart was thine. 
 
 Thou didst touch a human chord. 
 That thro' every land and clime. 
 Where'er there is a heart to feel. 
 Will vibrate thro' all time. 
 
 (40.) 
 
Who that has read thy "Auld Lang Syne," 
 And not felt his heart grown light, 
 All would be better if they'd read, 
 Thy " Cotter's Saturday night." 
 
 To Mary in heaven," ever brings 
 A tender feeling to the heart ; 
 Blest be the genius that to all, 
 Such kind emotions could impart. 
 
 Why should such a glorious sun, 
 Reach its setting e'er 'twas noon. 
 Why should so much true genius 
 Be lost to earth so soon ? 
 
 Sept., '88. 
 
 TO E. A. FISH, OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 I know of a chain, its links are of gold, 
 So polished and bright its worth is untold, 
 'Twas forged the moment you drew your first 
 
 breath, 
 'Twill continue unbroken even thro' death. 
 
 Link after link thro' infantile years. 
 
 Was added with hope and often with tears ; 
 
 Thro' childhood and youth around thee was 
 
 thrown, 
 And even now since to manhood you're grown. 
 
 (41) 
 
'Twill hold thee securely tho' rivers so wide, 
 And mountains so high doth now divide, 
 'Twill bind thee wherever thou choosest to roam, 
 For it always is anchored so firmly at home. 
 
 Each link that is in it is sanctified there, 
 It was molded by faith and welded by prayer. 
 It is fijllowed by heaven's rich blessing above, 
 The name of that chain is parental love. 
 
 Sept., '88. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 In this volume what garlands friendship hath 
 
 wrought. 
 With delicate feeling and beautiful thought. 
 Here memory can wander and gather at will. 
 Sweet flowers whose perfume hangs round them 
 
 still. 
 In this garland of friendship permit me to twine, 
 One little flower and claim it as mine ; 
 And as you are looking in fast coming years, 
 Over these pages with smiles or with tears. 
 Oh ! kindly remember and without regret, 
 Our friendship I trust that we'll never forget. 
 
 May, '88. 
 
 (42) 
 
TO CARRIE B- 
 
 Three words to llie wanderer, 
 When like an outcast driven, 
 Tremble often on his lips : 
 They're mother, home and heaven. 
 
 Home ! what tender recollections 
 Cluster round that magic word ; 
 To one whose lot is 'mong strangers, 
 The sweetest sound he ever heard. 
 
 For it brings the past before him. 
 When a free light-hearted boy, 
 Safely sheltered in that circle ; 
 Knew but little else than joy. 
 
 There he sees his parents sitting, 
 With that group around the hearth. 
 Which to his childish fancy, 
 Was the dearest place on earth. 
 
 Over all that sacred roof tree. 
 Love just like angel's wings, 
 Joy with peace and happiness. 
 Always with contentment brings. 
 
 If there is one spot on earth. 
 Home's that place to mortals given. 
 Where if love reigns supremely, 
 A foretaste can be had of heaven. 
 
 (43) 
 
Thine, dear friend, is like an Eden, 
 All that's sweet seems garnered here ; 
 And thy presence is like sunshine, 
 Blessing all thy friends so dear. 
 
 As I wander from that Eden, 
 The lengthening chain, still unbroken, 
 With memory's aid still will bind me. 
 Till my last farewell is spoken. 
 
 Sept., '88. 
 
 SAVED BY A BIRD. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR ELLA . 
 
 On a bright summer day the air was so mild. 
 The breeze gentl}' kissed the cheek of a child. 
 Sweet little Patty, over whose head. 
 Scarce six summers had quietly sped. 
 
 The pet of the household, one idol alone. 
 In that home circle reigned on her throne ; 
 She'd swung in the hammock watching the bees, 
 Listened to birds overhead in the trees. 
 
 Away in the distance was borne to her ear. 
 The sound of a reaper seeming so near ; 
 In the thoughts that mingled in her little brain, 
 Her papa was with them reaping the grain. 
 
 (44) 
 
Soon all alone down that long grassy lane, 
 She walked till she came 'to a great field of grain, 
 There was the reaper, that ponderous machine, 
 And with it her papa by Patty was seen. 
 
 To catch up with papa, she followed the snath, 
 But the bubbles were sharp, sheaves filled the 
 
 path ; 
 The distance grew longer and tired the feet. 
 She thought she would rest and find her a seat. 
 
 Poor little Patty, quite out of breath. 
 Sat down on a bundle " most tired to death." 
 Out of the grain to her surprise and delight. 
 Fluttered a bird that seemed in great fright. 
 
 To find that bird's nest fully intent, 
 Into the standing grain at once Patty went, 
 Very soon finding a nest on the ground. 
 With little wee birdies all covered with down. 
 
 The reaper came round ; when " whoa " could be 
 
 heard. 
 The farmer was one who'd not harm a bird. 
 Thro' kindness of heart always would spare. 
 The sweet little warblers that float in the air. 
 
 " Here, Tom ! " hold the horses while I look 
 
 around ; 
 I'm sure a lark's nest here can be found ; 
 The old mother bird by her flutter I guess. 
 Was in fear for her birdies and seemed in distress. 
 
 (45) 
 
" I'll hunt till I find them, the little wee things, 
 And save them from danger till they find their 
 
 wings. 
 Then each morning and evening they'll amply 
 
 repay, 
 By their songs, the care we've given this day. 
 
 Soon in the grain, carefully looking around, 
 Not only the bird's nest, but Patty he found. 
 And there in that beautiful forest of gold, 
 In a moment his arms did his darling enfold. 
 
 Tears of emotion each other did chase, 
 Rapidly down his deep furrowed face. 
 In tremulous accents his voice could be heard, 
 " Bless God ! " that my darling was saved by a 
 bird. 
 
 Oct., '88. 
 
 HETTIE BELL. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR MISS NELWE REYNOI.DS, OF DRESDEN, N. V. 
 
 We loved thee so dearly. 
 Our playmate in youth, 
 A pure minded maiden. 
 Whose nature was truth. 
 
 (46) 
 
All tliro' thy girlhood, 
 
 With a magical spell, 
 
 Thy friends were bound to thee, 
 
 Sweet Hettie Bell ! 
 
 Called early in life, 
 Hard trials to share. 
 With patience and sweetness. 
 Those burdens did bear. 
 
 And when he who'd chosen thee, 
 Stood at thy side, 
 There at the altar, 
 Arrayed as a bride — 
 
 The bright bow of promise, 
 With radient light. 
 Seemed over thy future. 
 Giving promises bright. 
 
 How little we thought, 
 In that beautiful home. 
 Aught but delight there 
 Ever should come. 
 
 Oh ! little we thought. 
 That the " angel of death," 
 Would enter that home ; 
 And scorch with his breath 
 
 (47) 
 
Oct., 
 
 That delicate flower, 
 
 We all loved so well. 
 
 Our hearts wring with anguish, 
 
 For dear Hettie Bell. 
 
 We listened with sorrow 
 To the deep tolling bell. 
 As it sounded the dirge 
 Of loved Hettie Bell. 
 
 We'll be forgiven. 
 In fast coming years, 
 If we moisten thy grave 
 With the dew of our tears. 
 
 And often, oh ! often. 
 In twilight's sad hours, 
 We -cove? thy grave. 
 With beautiful flowers. 
 
 On earth we have lost thee, 
 But we know on that shore. 
 Thou art waiting to greet us, 
 To part never more. 
 
 And there with devotion, 
 That no tongue can tell, 
 We'll join in those anthems. 
 With pure Hettie Bell ! 
 
 (48) 
 
"WHO WILL SELL MY PAPERS 
 
 NOW?" 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIE ARDRA, WHO HAD HIS KNEE 
 
 CRUSHED BY THE CARS, IN DRESDEN, YATES CO., N. Y., 
 
 MARCH, '88. 
 
 Thro' summers heat and winters cold, 
 Willie had the papers sold ; 
 Thro' narrow lanes and dusty street, 
 Daily trod those little feet. 
 
 Of parents, home, of all bereft. 
 Worse than an orphan he'd been left ; 
 But He who doth the ravens feed 
 For him had raised up friends indeed. 
 
 There in their neat and lowly cot, 
 Witji him they shared their humble lot. 
 God biess them for the kindly care. 
 That with a friendless boy would share. 
 
 Brave litfele heart ! we ne'er can know, 
 What trials thou didst undergo ; 
 How many from thee coldly turned, 
 And grudged thy penny sorely earned. 
 
 This day, the midday hour had come. 
 He in his haste to reach his home, 
 To cross the track the train did climb, 
 Saving thus a moment's time. 
 
 (49) 
 
A shriek ! hastening there they found, 
 His knee all crushed, and on the ground. 
 Him, tenderly they bore away, 
 And soon upon his cot he lay. 
 
 Was there no skill, that without pay. 
 That life from ebbing there away. 
 Could save ? Were their hearts so cold, 
 All must be measured there with gold ? 
 
 Poor little waif! around thy bed, 
 Were tears of sorrow freely shed ; 
 For aching hearts were gathered there. 
 Breathing many a fervent prayer. 
 
 But as the hours went gliding by. 
 We knew, too well, that he must die ; 
 We knew the summons soon would come, 
 To call him to a better home. 
 
 The lips are moving ! and a word, 
 In faintest whisper now is heard ; 
 " The dew of death "is on his brow : 
 " Who-will-sell-my-papers-now ? " 
 
 The whisper ceased, his life had fled, 
 " Our Willie " lay before Us dead ! 
 The summons then to him had come. 
 And he was in his better home ! 
 
 Oct., '8S. 
 
 (50) 
 
A TRIBUTE 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE I,ATE DOCTOR HENRV BARDEN. OF 
 PENN YAN, N. Y. 
 
 Over the grave of long buried years, 
 Comes memory laden with smiles and with tears; 
 A sad mournful pleasure it brings to my mind : 
 Thy dignified bearing, thy manner's so kind. 
 
 When called to the bedside, thy office to fill, 
 Kind words of comfort were minded with skill. 
 And there, oh ! so often didst gently impart. 
 With thy potions of healing, sweet balm to the 
 heart. 
 
 In labors of love that were worthy of praise. 
 Thy hand was ever ready the fallen to raise. 
 O'er the poor degraded, sunk ever so low, 
 The mantle of charity always would throw. 
 
 On the hard polished marble thy name is en- 
 graved, 
 But deeper in hearts, thro' thee that were saved. 
 From deep degradation, from sorrow and pain, 
 And by thee were raised to life's higher plane. 
 
 How liis life's mission he filled in his day. 
 Will be known when earth's mists are all rolled 
 
 away, 
 Where are assembled "the quick and the dead," 
 When the " Great Book " is opened and life's 
 
 records are read. 
 
 Oct., 'SS. 
 
 (50 
 
BATTLE OF THE BALLOTS. 
 
 Chill November winds are sighing, 
 Thro' the bare and leafless trees ; 
 Tokens of the old year dying, 
 Now are borne on every breeze. 
 
 What is this mighty gathering, 
 To day is seen on every hand. 
 In city, hamlet^ cot and mansion. 
 From every corner of our land? 
 
 'Tis not the march of armies, 
 
 'Tis not their measured tread. 
 Followed by a train of mourners, 
 Weeping, mourning, for the dead; 
 
 'Tis the silent tread of freemen. 
 Armed with ballots now they come ; 
 And the blows they are striking, 
 Are for their country, for their home.. 
 
 Like the falling leaves of autumn. 
 Like the gently falling snow. 
 See those peaceful paper missives, 
 In their steady ceaseless flow. 
 
 Methinks 'tis the grandest scene. 
 That the world ever saw. 
 The upheaval of a nation ; 
 In obedience to their law. 
 
 (52) 
 
Burope's titled heads in wonder, 
 Can now gaze upon the sight, 
 Where three score millions people, 
 Hule themselves and rule aright. 
 
 Change their servants, settle questions, 
 By the ballot, not the sword ; 
 From the voice of the people. 
 No appeal to force is heard. 
 
 On the plains of Saratoga, 
 I/exington, and Yorktown, where 
 Bathed in blood was freedom's altar. 
 Consecrated then, and there. 
 
 Old time darkness now is scattered. 
 By the light of coming day. 
 Old time fetters now are shattered. 
 The world is moving on to day ! 
 
 Courage then, the world is moving. 
 And our nation's in the van, 
 Freedom's light is surely spreading, 
 Giving hope to our brother man. 
 
 They're our servants, not our rulers ; 
 Every man is a sovereign here ; 
 Kvery man, howeyer, humble, 
 Knows no ruler, has no peer. 
 
 (53) 
 
Guard thee well this sacred treasure, 
 Ever jealous of your right, 
 And our nation's real welfare. 
 Never fail to keep in sight. 
 
 Servants ! serve the people truly ; 
 If you fail there's not a doubt. 
 You will hear the old time watch-word> 
 We must turn the rascals out." 
 
 Nov. 6th, 
 
 (54) 
 
L